TWELVE «:::.:. TUB IHS
■ •■ .• C!:ji:il'.A2^D PROSl-
MCWCi. .' .:: ANDREWS
Prof. John 3. Tatlock
^/Xx^^^-^r^^
TWELVE CENTURIES
OF
ENGLISH POETEY AISTD PROSE
SELECTED AND EDITED
BY
ALPHONSO GERALD NEWCOMER
PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN THE LELAND STANFORD JUNIOR UNIVERSITY
AND
ALICE E. ANDREWS
TEACHER OF ENGLISH IN THE CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL, ST. PAUL
CHICAGO
SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY
^/7
COPYKIGHT 1910
BY
SCOTT, FORESMAN & CO,
■^?^s^
J^"7Xbi*v6
p. F. Pkttibosk & Co.
Frlntem and Binders
Chicago
INTRODUCTION
This book was undertaken in response to the desire, expressed by many teachers,
for a large body of standard English literature in an accessible, compact form, to
accompany and supplement the manuals of literary history in use. As the project
gradually shaped itself in the editors' hands, it took on something like the following
threefold purpose:
First, to include, as far as possible, those classics of our literature — the ballads,
elegies, and odes, the U Allegros and Deserted Villages — which afford the staple of
school instruction and with which classes in English must be supplied.
Second, to supplement these with a sufficient number of selections from every
period of our literature to provide a perspective and make the volume fairly repre-
sentative from a historical point of view.
. Third, to go somewhat outside of the beaten track, though keeping still to
standard literature, and make a liberal addition of selections, especially from the
drama and prose, to enliven the collection and widen its human interest.
This comprehensive character is indicated by the title of the volume. A some-
what unusual feature is the inclusion of both poetry and prose. The two forms
have not been indiscriminately mingled, but they have been deliberately set side by
side in the belief that both will gain by their conjunction. It is scarcely to be
denied that at the present time a volume made up wholl}' of verse gives the impres-
sion of a collection of enshrined "classics," meant either to be admired from a
distance or studied with tedious minuteness. On the other hand, a miscellaneous
collection of unrelieved prose lacks attractiveness by seeming to lack emotional appeal.
Putting them together will not only afford the relief of variety, but should lead to a
better understanding of both by showing that the difference between them is often
more formal than real — that poetry, with all its concern for form, is primarily the
medium of the simplest truth and feeling, and that prose, though by preference
pedestrian, may at times both soar and sing.
In making the selections, it was considered best to exclude the modern novel,
a form of literature that scarcely lends itself to selection at all. With this exception,
pretty much the whole field has been covered, though it is not maintained that every
important man or movement has been represented. The Restoration drama can,
for obvious reasons, have no place in these pages : nor should the omissions be
regarded with surprise if a volume of confessedly rather elementary purpose fails to
include such men as Burton, Browne, Locke, and Xe\\i;on, voyagers "on strange
seas of thought, alone.'' The endeavor was simply to secure the widest repre-
sentation consistent with the intended service of the book and compatible with
a due regard for both amount and proportion. Inconclusive fragments have been
studiously avoided. Here and there, where a specimen of form only was desired —
of Surrey's blank verse, for example, or of Thomson's Spenserian manner — this
principle has not been adhered to. But apart from such exceptional cases, even
ill
iwsoos'rs
jy INTRODUCTION
where wholes could not be given, enough has still been given, not only to set the
reader going, but to take him somewhere.
The order is chronological, and the division into periods corresponds in general
to the division adopted by the senior editor in his history of English Literature.
The adherence to chronology, however, has not been rigid, either in the order of
names or in the order of selections under the names. Prose has usually been sepa-
rated from verse, and minor poems have often been placed together. In fact,
wherever an unpleasant juxtaposition could be avoided, or a more effective grouping
secured, there has been no hesitation to exercise some freedom. The dates of the
various selections will in most instances be found in the table of contents.
Selections from Old English, from Latin, and from Middle English down to
Chaucer, are given in translation. After Chaucer, the original text is followed, but
fcpelling and punctuation are modernized — a course which is almost necessary if a
writer like Mandeville is to be read with any ease, and which has every reason to
support it in writers of a much later date. To this rule the customary exceptions
in poetry are made: Chaucer, Langland, the Ballads, Everyman, and Spenser's
artificially archaic Faerie Queene, are kept in the original form. Much care has
been bestowed upon the text. It is really a matter of somewhat more than curiosity
whether, in the poet's fancy, the lowing herd ivind over the lea, or winds over the
lea, and he ought by all means to be reported faithfully. At the same time it has
seemed equally important in a few instances to correct a manifest and misleading
error or to remove an extremely offensive epithet. The instances of such changes
are perhaps not a dozen in all.
The notes have been placed at the bottom of the page, primarily for convenience,
but also to insure brevity. It will be observed that they serve other purposes than
those of a mere glossary. Every care has been taken to make them pertinent and
really explanatory, and to avoid unduly distracting the reader's attention or
affronting his intelligence. It seemed fair to assume, on the reader's part, the
possession of a dictionary and a Bible, and some elementary knowledge of classical
mythology. It is altogether too common an editorial mistake to regard every
capital letter as a signal for a note. Allusions to matters of very slight rele-
vancy are purposely left unexplained. For example, in such an isolated poem as
Dear's Lament, it seemed more to the purpose, at least of the present volume, to
give a bit of literary comment than to weight down the poem with notes on events
in remote Germanic tradition. On the other hand, wherever a note, of whatever
nature, seemed absolutely demanded, no pains have been spared to provide it. In
the case of selections hitherto not specially edited, this frequently involved great
labor, and the editors learned how much easier it is to make an anthology than to
equip it for intelligent use.* Details of biography, as well as the larger matters of
literary history and criticism, have necessarily been left to the manuals of literary
history. For the convenience of those who use the English Literature referred to
above, exact page references to that volume have sometimes been added. Finally,
there are frequent cross-references within the present volume, and these may be
^ • For instance, one note is still fresh in mind — the next to the last in the book — which
required the reading of nearly two volumes of Stevenson, to say nothing of the labor spent in
searching on the wrong track. Even in such a classic as Everyman, there remained obscuri-
ties to be cleared up, and apparently no editor had yet hit upon the explanation of so simple
a matter as to "take my tappe in my lappe" (page 93, line 801), the meaning of which the
editors guessed and subsequently verified by Jamieson's Scottish Dictionary. The word
"kenns. " as used by Scott in Old Mortality (see page 504), is not recorded in any of the
standard dictionaries, including Jamieson. These examples, which are typical of many
others, will serve to show that the preparation of the notes, slight as they may seem, has been
no perfunctory or uncritical task.
INTBODUCTION ^
further extended by the use of the index to the notes. It is believed that this index
will be found extremely useful.
Manifestly many advantages are to be derived from having so much material
in a single volume. The book may even be used as a source-book for the study of
English history, in a liberal interpretation of that subject. From the Anglo-Saxon
period, for example, a sufficient diversity of literature is presented to give body
and reality to that far-away time. In a later period, the constantly recurring
terms and manners of feudalism and chivalrv- make that age also historically
real, and the archaism of Spenser, as the age passes away, does not appear such
a detached, unintelligible phenomenon. The concentric "spheres" of the old
Ptolemaic astronomy may be seen revolving about this earth as a centre through all
the poetry down to Milton, when science steps in with its inexorable logic and man
is constrained to take a humbler view of his station in the universe. On the other
hand, Utopia may change to Arcadia, and Arcadia to El Dorado, but the dream
itself refuses to die. A juster conception of the writers themselves is likewise made
possible. Shakespeare is removed from his position of lonely grandeur. Milton, so
fallen on evil days, finds ample justification for his poetic complaint in the graphic
prose descriptions of Pepys and Evelyn. Johnson is humanized by being presented
as the friend of Boswell.
Again, in the detailed study of the literature there is the immense advantage
of often having at hand, where each student can see it for himself, the source of an
allusion, the echo of a sentiment, or the different play of diverse imaginations
about the same theme. One passage of Milton can be set by the side of a similar
passage in Caedmon, another can be paralleled in Marlowe, a third in
Spenser. The story of the last fight of The Revenge can be read first in Ealeigh's
circumstantial narrative and then in Tennyson's martial ode. Malory's Arthur
reappears in Tennyson, Scott's Bonny Dundee in Macaulajr's account of the
battle of Killiecrankie. If the line in Browning's Saul about the *1ocust-flesh
steeped in the pitcher" reminds us of an incident in the life of John the Baptist,
we turn with interest to Wyclif's curious version of that story. An unusual word,
**T3rede," occurring in one of Keats's odes, is found to have been used in an ode by
Collins, and its literary genealogy can scarcely be doubted. The paths of Addison
and Carlyle lie far apart, and yet both appear to have been indebted, the one for a
quaint fancy, the other for a striking figure, to the same record of a shipwreck on
the frozen shores of Xova Zembla more than three centuries ago. By the discerning
teacher these cross-references can be multiplied indefinitely, and for nearly every
cross-reference there will be a decided gain in understanding and appreciation. The
student will see what a network a national literature is, and get some conception of
the ever increasing enjoA'ment that attends upon an increasing familiarity with it.
Indeed, it has been one of the chief pleasures in making this compilation to feel
that along with the so-called English classics, of finished form and universal content,
so much was being gathered which, though less familiar, is scarcely less worthy, and
frequently of a more intimate human appeal. It may not be desirable to teach all
this matter, nor would it be possible at any one time or place. The important
thing is to have it in hand. The teacher is thus given a real freedom of choice and
enabled to teach literature, as it should be taught, with the personal touch. For
the student, too, there will always remain some tracts of terra incognita, with the
delight of wandering, of his own free will, along unfrequented paths. To share, for
example, in the early Northmen's vague terror of nickers and jotuns, to listen to
the words of Alfred the Great, to observe the concern of the good bishop of Tarente
for the spiritual welfare of the nuns under his charge, to stand by at the birth of
the first printed English b6ok and note the aged Caxton's enthusiasm in spite of
Vi INTRODUCTION
worn fingers and weary eyes, to join with Jonson in mourning and praising the
great fellow-craftsman whom he knew, to watch with Pepys the coronation of the
king or hear him piously thank God for the money won at gaming — these are
things, it should seem, to arouse the most torpid imagination. If, from excursions
of this nature, the student learns that good literature and interesting reading
matter meet, that the one is not confined to exalted odes nor the other to current
magazine fiction, a very real service will have been done by widening the scope ol
this volume.
It is obvious that in pursuing the study of such diverse material, no single
method will suffice. Sometimes, as has already been hinted, reading is all that is
necessary. But when a writer like Bacon, let us say, or Pope, writes with the
deliberate purpose of instruction, his work must be studied with close application
and may be analyzed until it yields its last shade of meaning. On the other hand,
when Keats sings pathetically of the enduring beauty of art and the transient life of
man, or when Browning chants some message of faith and cheer, a minutely
analytical or skeptical attitude would be not only futile but fatal. And when the
various purposes of instruction, inspiration, and aesthetic delight are combined in
one work, as in the supreme example of Paradise Lost, the student who hopes to
attain to anything like full comprehension must return to it with various methods
and in various moods. It is from considerations like these that the teacher must
determine his course. One thing, however, cannot be too often repeated. The most
successful teacher of literature is he who brings to it a lively sympathy springing
from intimate knowledge, assured that method is of minor moment so long as there
is the responsive spirit that evokes response.
For ourselves, we would say that while we have divided the labor of preparing
both copy and notes, there has been close cooperation at every stage of the work.
We owe thanks for suggestions and encouragement to more friends than we may
undertake to name. To Dr. Frederick Klaeber, in particular, of the University of
Minnesota, we are indebted for advice upon the rendering of certain passages in
Beowulf, and to Professor Lindsay Todd Damon, of Brown University, for a
critical vigilance that has worked to the improvement of almost every page. By
courtesy of The Macmillan Company the translations which represent Cynewulf have
been reprinted from Mr. Stopford A. Brooke's History of Early English Literature;
and by a similar courtesy on the part of Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, who hold
copyrights in the works of Stevenson, we have been able to include the selections
which close the volume.
A. G. N.
A. E. A.
CONTENTS
Introduction Hi
AXGLO-SAXOX PERIOD
i/Beowclf (c. 700) 1
Deob's Lament 18
Caedmox (fl. 670)
Paraphrase of the Scriptures
From Genesis : The Garden of Eden ;
The Fall of Satan 18, 19
From Exodus : The Cloud by Day ;
The Drowning of Pharaoh 19
Bede (673-735)
From the Ecclesiastical History (finished
731) :
The Britons Seek Succor from the
Romans. The Roman Wall 20
A Parable of Man's Life 21
The Storv of Csedmon 21
Cyxewclf (fl. 670)
Riddles II. VI. XV 23
From the Christ 24
From the Elene 24
Axglo-Saxon Chronicle (begun about 850)
Extracts 2.5
The Battle of Brunanburh 26
Alfred the Gkeat (849-901)
Ohthere's Narrative 27
AXGLO-XORMAX PERIOD
Geoffbey of MoxMorTH (c. 1100-1154)
From the Ilistoria Britonum Regum (c.
1135) :
The Story of King Leir 29
Arthur Makes the Saxons His Tribu-
taries 31
Axcbex Riwle, From the (c. 1225) 32
Pbovebbs of Kin'g Alfred, From the 35
Cuckoo Song (c. 1250) 36
FOURTEENTH CENTURY— AGE OF CHAUCER
Pearl, From the (c. 1350) 37
William Laxglaxu (1332?-1400?)
From The Vision of Piers the Plowman
(1362 onward) :
The Prologue (B text, 1377) 39
From Passus I 40
The WrcLiF Bible (c. 1380). The Kino
James Bible (1611) 41
Geo.-frey Chacceb ( 1.340 'M400)
From The Canterbury Tales (c. 1386 on-
ward) :
The Prologue 43
The Xonne Preestes Tale 53
From the Legend of Good Women (e.
1385) : The Story of Thlsbe of
Babylon, Martyr 60
The Compleyut of Chaucer to His Purse
(1399) 62
Travels of Sir John Maxdeville, From the
(written c. 1356: English trans-
lation after 1400) 63
THE FIFTEEXTH AXD EARLY SIXTEENTH
CEXTURIES
Ballads
Robin Hood and the Monk (MS. c. 1450). 69
The Hunting of the Cheviot 73
Sir Patrick Spens 77
^< Johnie Cock 77
Bonnie George Campbell 79
The Wife of Ushers Well 79
Katharine Jaffray 79
The Xutbrown Mayde 80
Everyman- (before 1525) 84
William Caxtox (1422 7-1491)
The Recuyell of the Histories of Troy (c.
1474) : Prologue, and Epilogue
to Book III 95
Sir Thomas Maloky (died 1471)
From Le Morte Darthur (finished 1470 ;
printed 1485) 96
Sir Thomas More (1478-1535)
From Utopia (in Latin, 1516; English
translation, 1551, 1556) 110
Roger Ascham (1515-1568)
Toxophilus (1545)
From the Foreword 119
The Ways of the Wind 121
The Schoolmaster (1570)
From A Preface to the Reader 122''
A Gentle Teacher and Pupil 124
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE— POETRY
Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542; poems pub-
lished 1557)
The Lover Having Dreamed, etc. (Son-
net) 125
Of His Love that Pricked Her Finger
with a Needle 125
The Lover Complaineth the Unkindness
of His Love 125
Hexry Howard. Earl of Surrey (1517?-
1547 ; poems published 1557)
Description of Spring, etc. (Sonnet).... 126
A Praise of His Love, etc 126
Departure of iBneas from Dido 126
Edmuxd Spenser (1552-1599)
The Faerie Queene. Dedication, and
parts of Book I (1590) 127
Prothalamion (1596) 139
Elizabethan Sonnets
Edmund Spenser : Amoretti XV, XXXVII,
LXI (1595) 142
Sir Philip Sidney : Astrophel and Stella
I, XXXI (1591) 142>^
Samuel Daniel: To Delia LI (1592) 142
Michael Drayton: Idea LXI (1619) 143
William Shakespeare: Sonnets XXIX,
XXX. LXIV. LXV, LXXIII,
LXXIV (1609) 143
Elizabethax Lyrics
Sir Philip Sidney : Astrophel and Stella,
First Song ( 1591 ) 144
George Peele : Fair and Fair (c. 1581).. 144
Thomas Lodge : Rosalind's Madrigal
(1590) 145
Robert Southwell : The Burning Babe
(1595) 145
Christopher Marlowe : The Passionate
Shepherd to His Love (1590) . . . 146
Sir Walter Raleigh ( ?) : The Xymph's
Reply to the Shepherd (1590).. 146
Pilgrim to Pilgrim 14«
William Shakespeare : Under the Green-
wood Tree (c. 1599) 147v'
Blow. Blow, Thou Winter Wind (c.
1599) 147
Take. O, Take Those Lips Away
(1604) 147
Come Away, Come Away, Death (c.
1600) 147
CONTENTS
How Should I Your True Love Kncv
(1602) 147
Hark. Hark ! the Lark at Heaven's
Gate Sings (c. 1610) 148
Thomas Dekker : Art Thou Poor (1599) 148
Thomas Campion: Clierry-Ripe (c. 1617) 148
Michael Drayton: Agincourt (1606) 148
Ben Jonson : To Celia (1616; written
1605) 149
The Triumph of Charis (1616) 150
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE— DRAMA
o Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593)
From The Tragical History of Doctor
Faustus (1604, 1616) 151
William Shakespeare (1564-lbl6)
The Tempest (c. 1610) 164
Ben Jonson (1573 7-1637)
To the Memory of Shakespeare (1616) . . 191
From Volpone ; or. The Fox (1605) 192
Beaumont (1584-1616) and Fletcher (1579-
1625)
From The Knight of the Burning Pestle
(c. 1611) 197
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE— PROSE
Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586)
From the Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
(1590) 206
Sir Walter Raleigh (1552?-1618)
The Last Fight of the Revenge (1591).. 208
Francis Bacon (1561-1626)
Essays : Of Studies (1597) 212
Of Discourse (1597) 212
Of Friendship (1612) 213
Of Riches (1612) 216
Of Revenge (1625) 217
Of Gardens (1625) 218
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
Caroline Ltrics
George Herbert: Virtue (1633) 220
Thomas Carew : Ask Me no More Where
Jove Bestows (1640) 220
Sir John Suckling : Why so Pale and
Wan. Fond Lover (1637) 220
Richard Lovelace : To Lucasta. Going to
the Wars (1649) 220
To Althea, from Prison (1649) 221
Robert Herrlck : Corlnna's Going A-May-
Ing (1648) 221
To the Virgins, to Make Much of
Time (1648) 222
To Electra (1648) 222
How Roses Came Red (1648) 222
Edmund Waller: Go, Lovely Rose (1645) 222
On a Girdle (1645) 223
KHenry Vaughan : The Retreat (1650).. 223
John Milton (1608-1674)
On the Morning of Christ's Nativity
(1629) 223
On Shakespeare ( 1630) 226
L'Allegro (16.34) 227
II PenseroHO (1634) 228
Lycldas (1638) 230
Sonnets : When the Assault was In-
tended to the City (1642) 233
On the Late Massacre in Piedmont
(le-W) 233
On His Blindness (after 1(^52) 234
To Cyrlack Skinner (leS.-S?) 234
Paradise Lost : Books I, II, etc. (1667) . 234
On Education (1844) 2.59
From Areopagltica (1644) 202
Izaak Walton (1. "593-1 083)
From The Complete Angler (1653) 204
John Blnyan (1028 1688)
From The Plldrim's Progress 207
Sami-el Pepys (1033-1703)
From niK Diary 271
John Evelyn (1620-1706)
From His Diary 274
John Dryden (1-631-1700)
From Absalom and Achitophel (1681).. 277
Mac Flecknoe (1682) 280
A Song for St. Cecilia's Day (1687) 282
Alexander's Feast : or, The Power of
Music (1697) 283
Lines Printed under the Engraved Por-
trait of Milton (1688) 285
Song from The Indian Emperor (1665). 285 .
Song of Thamesis (1685) 286'^
Song from Cleomenes (1692) 286
The Secular Masque (written for the year
1700) 286
On Chaucer (1700) 288
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
Sir Richard Steele (1672-1729)
Prospectus. The Tatler, No. 1 (April
12, 1709) 290
Memories. The Tatler, No. 181 (June 6,
1710) 291
The Club. The Spectator, No. 2 (March
2, 1711) 292
Joseph Addison (1672-1719)
Sir Roger at Church. The Spectator, No.
112 (July 9, 1711) 295
Ned Softly. The Tatler, No. 163 (April
25, 1710) 296
Frozen Words. The Tatler, No. 254
(Nov. 23, 1710) 298
A Coquette's Heart. The Spectator, No.
281 (Jan. 22, 1712) .300
The Vision of Mirza. The Spectator, No.
159 (Sept. 1, 1711) 3010
Matthew Prior (1664-1721)
To a Child of Quality Five Years Old
(1704) 303
A Simile (1707) 304
An Ode (1709) 304
A Better Answer (1718) 304
John Gay (1685-1732)
The Hound and the Huntsman. Fable
XLIV (1727) 305
The Poet and the Rose. Fable XLV
(1727) 305
Alexander Pope (1688-1744)
Ode on St. Cecilia's Day (written 1708). 805
From An Essay on Criticism (1711;
written 1709) 307
The Rape of the Lock (1712, 1714) 310
An Essay on Man. Epistles I and II
(1733) 319 /
The Universal Praver (1738) 325 »/
Daniel Defoe (16.59-1731)
From Robinson Crusoe (1719) 326
Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)
From Gulliver's Travels : A Voyage to
Lilliput, Chapters I, II, and
III (1726) 330
JAME.S Thom.son (1700-1748)
The Seasons. From Spring (1728) 342
From the Castle of Indolence (1748)... 344
Rule, Britannia (1740) 345
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
William Collins (1721-1759)
A Song from Shakespeare's Cymbeline
(1744) 346
Ode. How Sleep the Brave (1746) 346
Ode to Evening (1747) 346
Thomas Gray (1716-1771)
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
(1751) 347
The Progress of Poesy (1757) 349
James Macpherson ("Ossian") (1736-1796)
Olna-Morul (1762) •• S.'Sl '^
From Carthon : Ossian's Address to the
Sun (1762) 3.52
Thomas Chatterton (17.52-1770)
Epitaph on Robert Canynge 3n2
An Excelente Balade of Charltie 353
From The Buttle of Hastings 354
CONTENTS
Samuel Johxson (1709-1784) . ^ ., ^,
From the Plan of an English Dictionary
(1747) 3oa
Letter to Lord Chesterfield (1755) do7
From the Preface to the English Diction- _
ary (1755) • 3o(
From the Preface to an Edition of
Shakespeare's Plays (1768). — 358
From the Lives of the English Poets :
The Character of Addison
(1779) 360
James Bos well (1740-1795)
From The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D.
(1791) 363
Olivek Goldsmith (1728-1774)
The Citizen of the World. Letters I, II,
. Ill, and IV (1760) 368
^The Deserted Village (1770) 373
The Haunch of Venison (written 1771).. 377
From IJetaliatlon (1774) 379
Edward Gibbon (1734-1794)
The Fall of Constantinople (1788) 381
GiLBKBT White (1720-1793)
From The Natural History of Selborne
(1789) 384
Edmund Bukke (1729-1797)
From the Speech at Bristol (1780) 387
From Reflections on the Revolution in
France (1790) 388
William Cowpeb (1731-1800)
Light Shining out of Darkness, Olney
Hymns, XXXV (1770) 391
On the Loss of the Royal George
(written 1782) 392
The Jackdaw (1782) 392
On the Receipt of Mv Mother's Picture
(written 1785) 392
, To Mrs. Unwin 394
^he Castaway (written 1799) 394
George Crabbe (1754-1832)
The Borough. From Letter I (1810)... 395
William Bl.vke (1757-1827)
Song. How Sweet I Roamed (1783) 397
To the Muses (1783) 398
Introduction to Songs of Innocence
(1789) 398
The Tiger ( 17'.»4) 398
Ah. Sunflower (1794) 398
Scottish Lyrics
Robert Fergusson : Elegy on the Detfth
of Scots Music (c. 1773) 399
Lady Anne Lindsay : Auld Robin Gray
(1771) 399
Isobel Pagan : Ca' the Yowes (c. 1787) . . 400
Lady Xairne : The Land o' the Leal
(1798) 401
Robert Burns (1759-1796)
v'The Cotter's Saturday Night (1785) 401
Address to the Deil (1785) 404
Address to the Unco Guid (1786) 405
To a Mouse (1785) 406
To a Louse (1786) 407
To a Mountain Daisy (1786) 407
Tam OShanter (1791) 408
Green Grow the Rashes (1786) 411
Auld Lang Syne (1788) 411
John Anderson Mv Jo (1789) 411
Whistle o'er the Lave o't (1789) 411
To Mary in Heaven (1789) 412
*^Iy Heart's in the Highlands (1789) 412
The Banks o" Doon (1791 ?) 412
Afton Water (1789?) 412
Highland Marv (1792) 413
Banncckbuin (1793) 413
Contented wi' Little and Cantie wl' Mair
(1794) 413
A Man's a Man for a' That (1795) 414
O, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast (1796) . 414
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
Dear Native Regions (written 1786) .... 415
We Are Seven (1798) 415
xLines Written in Early Spring (1798) . . . 416
Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tin-
tern Abbey (1798) 416
Strange Fits of Passion I Have Known
(1799) 418
She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways
(1799) 418
I Travelled Among Unknown Men (1799) 418
Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower
(1799) 418
A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal (1799).. 419
Lucy Gray (1799) 419
The Prelude ; or. Growth of a Poet's
Mind. From Book I, Childhood
(1799) 420
My Heart Leaps up when I Behold
(1802) 422
The Solitary Reaper (1803) 422
To the Cuckoo (1804) 422i/
She Was a Phantom of Delight (1804).. 423
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud (1804) . . . 423
Ode to Dutv (1805) 423
To a Skvlark (1805) 424
To a Skylark (1825) 424
Ode: Intimations of Immortality (1803-
1806) 424
Sonnets : Composed upon Westminster
Bridge (1802) 426
It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and
Free (1802) 427
On the Extinction of the Venetian
Republic (1802) 427
London, 1802 (1802) 427
The World is Too Much With Us
(1806) 427<<
After-Thought (1820) 427
Samuel Tavlor Coleridge (1772-1834)
Kubla Khan (written c. 1798; printed
1816) 428
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (1798) 428
Christabel. Part the First (written 1797;
printed 1816) 436
France: An Ode (1798) 440
Hymn Before Sunrise in the Vale of Cha-
mounl (1802) 441
The Knight's Tomb (1817?) 442
Song from Zapolya (1817) 442
Youth and Age (1823-1832) 442
Work Without Hope (1827) 443
Sib Walter Scott (1771-1832)
Lochinvar. From Marmion (1808) 443
Soldier, Rest ! From The Lady of the
Lake (1810) 444vr
Coronach. From The Lady of the Lake
(1810) 444
The Battle of Beal an' Duine. From The
Lady of the Lake (1810) 445
Jock of Hazeldean (1816) 447
Proud Maisie. From The Heart of Mid-
lothian (1818) 448
County Guy. From Quentin Durward
(1823) 448
Bonny Dundee (written 1825) 448
Here's a Health to King Charles. From
Woodstock (1826) 449
Lord Bteon (1788-1824)
From English Bards and Scotch Re-
viewers (1809) 449
Maid of Athens. Ere We Part (1812)... 451
She Walks In Beautv (1815) 452 O
The Destruction of Sennacherib (1815).. 452
So We'll Go No More A-Roving (1817).. 452
Stanzas Written on the Road between
Florence and Pisa (1821) 453
To Thomas Moore (1S17) 453
Sonnet on Chillon (1816) 453
The Prisoner of Chillon (1816) 453
From Childe Harold, Canto III (1816) :
Waterloo 457
Night on Lake Leman 458
From (Thilde Harold, Canto IV (1818) :
Venice 460
Rome 461
The Coliseum 462 o
The Ocean 463
From Don Juan. Canto II (1819) :
The Shipwreck 464
CONTENTS
Prom Don Juan, Canto III (1821) :
The Isles o£ Greece
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
Alastor, or The Spirit of Solitude (1816).
Ozymandias (Sonnet) (1819)
Ode to the West Wind (1820)
The Indian Serenade (written 1819).....
From Prometheus Unbound (1820) :
Song ;
Asia's Response
The Cloud (1820)
Hto a Skylark (1820)
From Adonais (1821) : The Grave of
Keats
Chorus from Hellas (1822)
To . Music, when Soft Voices Die
(written 1821)
To . One Word Is Too .Often Pro-
faned (written 1821)
A Lament (written 1821)
When the Lamp Is Shattered (written
1822)
A Dirge (written 1822)
John Keats (1795-1821)
From Endymlon, Book I: Proem (1818).
The Eve of St. Agnes (1820)
Ode to a Nightingale (1820)
Ode on a Grecian Urn (1820)
i4)de on Melancholy (1820)
To Autumn (1820)
Lines on the Mermaid Tavern (1820) . . .
In a Drear-Xlghted December (c. 1818) .
La Belle Dame Sans Mercl (1819)
Sonnets : On First Looking into Chap-
man's Homer (1817)
On the Grasshopper and Cricket (De-
cember, 181«;)
On Seeing the Elgin Marbles (1817).
On the Sea (1817)
When I have Fears that I may Cease
to be (1817)
Bright Star ! Would I were Stedfast
as Thou art (1820)
IjATE Georgian Ballads and Lyrics
Kllobert Southey : The Battle of Blen-
heim (1798)
Thomas Campbell : Ye Mariners of Eng-
land (1800, 1809).
Hohenlinden (1802)
Charles Wolfe: The Burial of Sir John
Moore (1817)
Thomas Moore : The Harp that Once
through Tara's Halls (1808)...
The Minstrel Boy (1813)
Oft, in the Stilly Night (1815)
Charles Lan'b : The Old Familiar Faces
(1798)
Walter Savage Landor : Rose Aylmer
(1806)
Leigh Hunt : To the Grasshopper and
the Cricket (December, 1816) . .
Rondeau (1838)
Abou Ben Adhem (1844)
Wlnthrop Mackworth Praed : Letters
from Telgnmouth. I — Our Ball
(1820)
Thomas Lovell Beddoes : Dream-Pedlary
(c. 182.') : printed 18.51 )
ThomaBlIood: The Death-Bed (1831)..
The Song of the Shirt (1843)
Robert Stephen Hawker : The Song of
the Western Men (182.5)
The Silent Tower of Bottreau (1831)
Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)
From Old Mortality. Chapter I, Pre-
liminary (i816)
Charles Lamb (177.5-1834)
From Ella (1822-24): Dream-Children:
A Reverie
A Dissertation T^pon Roast Pig
From The Last EssayB of Ella (1833) :
Old China
465
468
476
476
477
478
478
478
479
480
481
482
482
482
482
483
483
483
488
48!)
400
490
490
491
491
492
492
492
492
492
493
493
494
494
494
495
495
495
495
496
496
496
496
497
498
498
498
499
500
500
504
506
509
Walter Ravaoe Landor (1775-1864)
From Imaglnnrv Conversations ;
luH and MarluR (1829) .
Leofrlc and Godlva (1820) . .
Metel-
512
614
Thomas db Quincey (1785-1859)
From Confessions of an English Opium-
Eater (1821-1822) 516
From Susplrla De Profundis (1845) :
Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow. . 519
Savannah-la-Mar 522
From Joan of Arc (1847) 523
THE VICTORIAN AGE
Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881)
From Sartor Resartus (1833-1834) :
The Everlasting Yea 526
Natural Supernaturalism 529
From the French Revolution (1837) :
Storming of the Bastlle 532
Thomas BabingtoNj Lord Macaulay (1800-
1859)
From The History of England (1848-
1860) : London in 1685 539
The London Coffee Houses 541
The Battle of Killiecrankie 543
John Henry, Cardinal Newman (1801-1890)
Site of a University (1854) 548^
Charles Dickens (1812-1870)
A Christmas Tree (18.50) .551
William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863)
From The English Humourists of the
Eighteenth Century (1851) :
Goldsmith 559
From Roundabout Papers (1860-63) : De
Juventute 564
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)
The Lady of Shalott (1833) 567
CEnone (1833) 569
The Lotos-Eaters (1833) 572
Saint Agnes' Eve (1837) 572
Sir Galahad (1842) 573
The Beggar Maid (1842) 574
You Ask Me Why, Tho' 111 at Ease (1842) 574
Of Old Sat Freedom on the Heights
(1842) .574V-"
Morte D' Arthur (1842) 574
Ulysses (1842) 577
Locksley Hall (1842) 578
A Farewell (1842) 583
Break, Break, Break (1842) 583
Songs from the Princess (1847, 1850) :
Sweet and Low 583
The Splendour Falls 583
Tears, Idle Tears 584
From In Memoriam (1850) 584
In the Valley of Cauteretz (1861) 587
In the Garden at Swainston (written
1870) 588 ,
Song from Maud (1855) 588*^
The Charge of the Light Brigade (1854). 589
The Captain (1865) 589
The Revenge (1878) 590
Northern Farmer, Old Style (1864) 592
Rizpah (1880) 594
Milton (1863) 596
To Dante (1865) 596
To Virgil (1882) .596
Frater Ave atque Vale (1883) 596
Flower In the Crannied Wall (1870) 597 ,
Wages (1868) 597*/
By an Evolutionist (1889) 597
Vastness (1885) 597
Crossing the Bar (1889) 598
Robert Browning (1812-1889)
From Plppa Passes (1841) : New Year's
Hvmn : Song 598
Cavalier Tunes (1842) 599
Incident of The French Camp (1842)... 600
My Last Duchess (1842) 600
In a Gondola (1842> 601
The Pled Piper of Hamelln (1842) 603
How Thev Brought the Good News from
Ghent to Alx (1845) 606 ,
The Lost Leader (1845) 607j
Home-Thoughts, From Abroad (1845)... 608
Home-Thoughts, From the Sea (1845)... 608
The Bov and the Angel (1845) 608
Saul ( r845-.55) 609
CONTENTS
Evelyn Hope (1855) .^.. 616
Pra Lippo Llppi (18oo) «lb
Up at a Villa— Down in the City (1855). 621
Memorabilia (1855) 62J
Popularity (1855) b^g
The Patriot (1855) %:•••.•. ^■^^
'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came
(1855) 624
v^abbi Ben Ezra (1864) ■■■■■■■■■■x-:- ^^6
Prospice (written 1861, printed 1864) . . 620
Herve Kiel (1871) 629
Wanting Is— What? (1883> 631
Whv I Am a Liberal (1885) 631
Epilogue (1889) 631
Elizabeth Barrett Browxiko (1809-1861)
Sonnets from the Portuguese (ISoO) : I,
III, IV, XIV, XXII, XLIII 632
Edward Fitzgerald (1809-1883)
Rubaivilt of Omar Khayyam (18a9,
■ 1873) 633
Abthcr HrGH Clocgh (1819-1861)
In a Lecture-Room (1849) 639
Qua Cursum Ventus (1849) 630
Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth
(1862) 640
Ite Domum Saturae, Venit Hesperus
(1862) 640
, All Is WeU (1869) 640
Matthew Arxold (1822-1888)
The Forsaken Merman ( 1849) 641
Sonnets : To a Friend (1849) 642
Shakespeare tl849) 642
Austerity of Poetry 643
Memorial VeVses (1850) 643
Self-Dependence (1852) 643
Lines Written in Kensington Gardens
(1852) 644
Requiescat (1853) 644
Sohrab and Rustum (1853) 64..
Philomela (1853) 6.j4
y^aiser Dead (1887) 6oo
Dover Beach ( 1867) 6o6
The Last Word (1867) 656
Culture and Human Perfection (1867) . . . 6o6
Natural Magic in Celtic Literature (1866) 059
Wordsworth (1879) 660
James Axthony Frocde (1818-1894)
The Sailing of the Spanish Armada.
From History of England (1856-
1870) 662
Defeat of the Armada (1895) 663
Thomas Hexrt Huxley (182.5-1895)
On a Piece of Chalk (1868) 669
John Ruskix (1819-1900)
From The Seven Lamps of Architecture
(1849) : The Lamp of Memory. 674
From The Stones of Venice (1851-53) :
The Throne. Vol. II. Chapter 1 677
The Mediaeval and the Modern Work-
man. From Vol. II. Chapter VI. 681
^Prom Modern Painters, Part IV, Chap-
ter VI (1856) : Of the True Ideal 683
Daxte Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882)
The Blessed Damozel (1850) 686
Sister Helen ( 1853) 688
La Bella Donna (1870) 691
The Woodspurge (1870) 692
The Song of the Bower (1870) 692
The Cloud Confines (1872) 692
From The House of Life (1870, 1881) :
The Sonnet 693
IV. Lovesight 693
XIX. Silent Noon 693
XLIX-LII. Willowwood 693 ^
LXV. Known in Vain 694<
LXVL The Heart of the Night 694
LX VII. The Landmark 694
LXX. The Hill Summit 695
LXXIX. The Monochord 695
Chbistixa Rossetti (1830-1894)
Goblin Market (1862) 695
The Three Enemies (written 1851) 701
An Apple Gathering (written 1857) 701
Monna Innominata (1896) : Sonnets I,
II. and XI 701
Up-HiU (1861) 702
William Morris (1834-1896)
The Gilliflower of Gold (1858) 702^
The Sailing of the Sword (1858) 703*^
The Blue Closet (1858) 704
From The Earthly Paradise : An Apology
(1868) 705
From Love is Enough : Song for Music
(1872) 705
From Sigurd the Volsung : Of the Pass-
ing Away of Brynhild (1876).. 705
The Voice of Toil (1885) 710
Algerxox Charles Swixburxe (1837-1909)
Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon (1865) 710
A Leave-Taking (1866) 711
Hymn to Proserpine (1866) 711
Prelude to Songs Before Sunrise (1871). 713
Lines on the Monument of Giuseppe Maz-
zini (1884) 715K
The Pilgrims (1871) 716
A Forsaken Garden (1876) 717
A Ballad of Dreamland (187C) 718
Upon a Child (1882) 719
A Child's Laughter (1882) 719
A Baby's Death (1883) 719
From Tristram of Lyonesse : Prelude
(1882) 720
Walter Pater (1839-1894)
The Child in the House (1878) 723
Robert Lons Stevf.xson (1850-1894)
El Dorado (1881) 730
The Maroon (1891) 731 /
The Vagabond (c. 1888) 734^
The Morning Drum-Call on My Eager Ear
(c. 1888) 735
Evensong (after 1890) 735
Requiem (1887) 735
IxDEX to Notes, axd Glossary 737
IXDEX to Titles a.hd First Lines 746
Index to Authors 755
TWELVE CENTURIES OF ENGLISH
POETRY AND PROSE
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD
BEOWULF (c 700)*
I. The Passing of Scyld
Lo, we have heard of the fame in old time
of the great kings of the Spear-Danes,
how these princes valor displayed.
Oft Scyld, Scef 's son, from robber-bands,
from many tribes, their mead-seats took,
filled earls with fear, since first he was
found aU forlorn. Howe 'er, he won comfort,
waxed great 'neath the welkin, in dignities
throve,
until every one of those dwelling near 9
over the whale-road, was bound to obey him
and pay him tribute: that was a good king.
To him a son was afterward bom,
a child in his courts whom God sent
to comfort the i)eople ; He felt the dire need
they erst had suffered, how they had princeless
been a long while. Therefore the Lord of Life,
Glory-prince, gave to him worldly honor.
Benowned was Beowulf, widely the glory
spread
of Scyld 's offspring in the Scanian lands.
So shall a prudent man do good works 20
with bountiful gifts in his father's haJl,
that in his old age still may surround him
willing companions, and when war comes
the people may follow him. By praiseworthy
deeds
• Of the three large sections into which the story
of Beowulf falls — the fight with Grendel in
Denmark, the fight with Grendel's mother, and
the subsequent deeds of Beowulf in Geatland
(Sweden) — the first is here given practically
entire, and the second in part. It should be
noted that the Beowulf mentioned in the open-
ing canto is a Scylding. or Dane ; Beowulf the
Geat, or Weder-Geat. for whom the poem is
named, is not introduced until the fourth
canto. The translation is virtually the literal
one of Benjamin Thorpe (1855), relieved of
some of its harsher inversions and obscurities
and made more consistently rhythmical, also
occasionally altered to conform to a more
40
man shall flourish in every tribe.
Scyld then departed at his fated time,
the very bold one, to the Lord 's keeping.
Away to the sea-shore then they bore him,
his dear companions, as himself had bid,
while his words had sway, the Scylding 's
friend, 30
the land's loved chief tiiat long had pos-
sessed it.
There at the hithe stood the ring-prowed ship,
icy and eager, the prince's vessel.
Then they laid down the beloved chief,
the dispenser of rings, on the ship's bosom, —
by the mast laid him. There were treasures
many
from far ways, ornaments brought.
I have heard of no comeUer keel adorned
with weapons of war and martial weeds,
with glaves and bymies. On his bosom lay
many treasures which were to go with him,
far depart into the flood's possession.
Not less with gifts, with lordly treasures,
did they provide him, than did those others
who at the beginning sent him forth
alone o'er the wave, a little child.
They set moreover a golden ensign
high o'er his head; let the sea bear him,
gave him to ocean. Their mind was sad,
mournful their mood. No man of men,
counsellors in hall, heroes 'neath heaven,
can say for sooth who that lading received.
probable interpretation. No attempt is made to
preserve the original alliteration. For thlz
feature, as well as for the continual repetition
or "parallelism" of phrase, and the poetic
synonyms or "kennings." like whale-road for
ocean, see Newcomer's English Literature, p.
20. Certain recurring archaic words are :
atheling, prince nicker, orken, sea-
monster
»ark, cnirass
»c6p, poet (Eng. Lit., p.
18)
thane, war-companion,
retainer.
tcyrd, fate
50
brand, sword
bymie, corslet
hithe, harbor
jotun, giant
mere, sea. lake
n€9», headland
ANGLO-SAXON PEBIOD
II. The Building of Heoeot
Then in the towns was Beowulf, the
Scyldings '
beloved sovereign, for a long time
famed among nations (his father had passed
away,
the prince from his dwelling), till from him in
turn sprang
the lofty Healfdene. He ruled while he lived,
old and war-fierce, the glad Scyldings.
From him four children, numbered forth,
sprang in tlie world, from the head of hosts : 60
Heorogar and Hrothgar and Halga the
good;
and I have heard that Elani was wife
of Ongentheow the Heathoscylfing.
Then was to Hrothgar war-prowess given,
martial glory, that2 his dear kinsmen
gladly obeyed him, till his young warriors grew,
a great train of kinsfolk. It ran thro ' his mind
that he would give orders for men to make
a hall-building, a mighty mead-house,
which the sons of men should ever hear of;
and therewithin to deal out freely 71
to young and to old, whatever God gave him,
save the freeman's share and the lives of men.
Then heard I that widely the work was pro-
claimed
_to many a tribe thro' this mid-earth
that a folk-stead was building, Befel him in
time,
soon among men, that it was all ready,
of hall-houses greatest ; and he, whose word was
law far and wide, named it Heorot.*
He belied not his promise, bracelets distri
buted, 80
treasures at the feast. The hall arose
high and horn-curved; awaited fierce heat
of hostile flame. Nor was it yet long
when Bword-hate 'twixt son- and father-in-law,
after deadly enmity, was to be wakened.f
Then the potent guest who in darkness dwelt
with difficulty for a time endured
that he each day heard merriment
loud in the hall. There was sound of the
harp,
loud song of the gleeman. The scop, who
could 90
the origin of men from far back relate,
told how the Almighty wrought the earth.
1 Perhaps the fourth child.
2 HO that
• "The Hart"— probably so named from gable
decorations resemblinK a deer's boms.
t HrotbKar'R son-in-law. TnKdd. tried to avonge
upon him the death of his father, and It may
have been he who gave the ball to "hostile
flame."
the plain of bright beauty which water em-
braces ;
in victory exulting set sun and moon,
beams for light to the dwellers on land;
adorned moreover the regions of earth
with boughs and leaves; life eke created
for every kind that liveth and moveth.
Thus the retainers lived in delights,
in blessedness; till one began 100
to perpetrate crime, a fiend in hell.
Grendel was the grim guest called,
great mark-steppers that held the moors,
the fen and fastness. The sea-monsters' dwell-
ing
the unblest man abode in awhile,
after the Creator had proscribed him.*
On Cain's race the eternal Lord
that death avenged, the slaying of Abel;
the Creator joyed not in that feud,
but banished him far from men for his
crime. 110
Thence monstrous births all woke into being,
jotuns, and elves, and orken-creatures,
likewise the giants who for a long space
warred against God: He gave them requital.
III. The Grim Guest of Heoeot
When night had come he went to visit
the lofty house, to see how the Ring-Danes
after their beer-feast might be faring.
He found therein a band of nobles
asleep after feasting; sorrow they knew not,
misery of men, aught of unhappiness. 120
Grim and greedy, he was soon ready,
rugged and fierce, and in their rest
took thirty thanes; and thence departed,
in his prey exulting, to his home to go,
with the slaughtered corpses, his quarters to
visit.
Then in the morning, at early day,
was Grendel 's war-craft manifest:
after that repast was a wail upraised,
a great morning cry. The mighty prince,
the excellent noble, unblithe sat; 130
the strong thane sufferetl. sorrow endured,
when they beheld the foeman's traces,
the accursed sprite's. That strife was too
strong,
loathsome and tedious. It was no longer
than after one night, again he perpetrated
greater mischief, and scrupled not
at feud and crime; he was too set on them.
Then were those easily found who elsewhere
sought their rest in places of safety,
3 roamer of the marches, or land-bounds
• That is, Orendel Is of the monstrous brood ol
Cain. The passage is one of the Christian ad-
ditions to a legend wholly pagan in origin.
BEOWULF
on beds in the bowers,i when it was shown
them, 140
truly declared by a manifest token,
the hall-thane's hate; held themselves after
farther and faster who the fiend escaped.
So Grendel ruled, and warred against right,
alone against all, until empty stood
that best of houses. Great was the while,
twelve winters' tide, the Seyldings' friend
endured his rage, every woe.
ample sorrow. Whence it became
openly known to the children of men, 150
sadly in songs, that Grendel warred
awhile against Hrothgar, enmity waged,
crime and feud for many years,
strife incessant; peace would not have
with any man of the Danish power,
nor remit for a fee the baleful levy;
nor any wight might hold a hope
for a glorious satisfaction at the murderer's
hands.
The fell wretch kept persecuting — 159
the dark death-shade — the noble and youthful,
oppressed and snared them. All the night
he roamed the mist-moors. Men know not
whither hell-sorcerers wander at times.
Thus many crimes the foe of mankind,
the fell lone-roamer, often accomplished,
cruel injuries. Heorot he held,
seat richly adorned, in the dark nights;
yet might not the gift-throne touch, that treas-
ure,
because of the Lord, nor knew His design.
'Twas great distress to the Seyldings' friend,
grief of spirit; often the wise men 171
sat in assembly; counsel devised they
what for strong-souled men it were best
to do against the perilous horrors.
Sometimes they promised idolatrous honors
at the temples, prayed in words
that the spirit-slayer aid would aflford
against their affictions.
Such was their custom,
the heathen's hope; hell they remembered,
but the Creator, the Judge of deeds, 180
they knew not— knew not the Lord God, knew
not
how to praise the heavens' Protector,
Glory's Buler. Woe to him who
thro' cruel malice shall thrust his soul
in the fire's embrace; let him expect not
comfort to find. Well unto him who
after his death-day may seek the Lord,
and win to peace in his Father 's bosom'.
IV. Beowulf's Besolve
1 Apartments used mainly by the women.
So Healf dene's son on sorrow brooded;
for all his wisdom the hero could not 190
avert the evil; that strife was too strong,
loathsome and tedious, that eame on the people,
malice-brought misery, greatest of night-woes.
Then Hygelac's thane,* a Geatman good,
heard from his home of Grendel's deeds;
he of mankind was strongest in power
in that day of this life, noble and vigorous.
He bade for himself a good wave-rider
to be prepared; said he would go
over the swan-road to seek the war -king, 200
the prince renowned, since men he had need of.
Dear though he was, his prudent liegemen
little blamed him for that voyage,
whetted him rather, and notetl the omen.
Then the good chief chose him champions
of the Geat-folk, whomso bravest
he could find, and, fourteen with him,
sought the vessel. Then the hero, 208
the sea-crafty man, led the way to the shore.
Time passed; the floater was on the waves,
the boat 'neatli the hill; the ready warriors
stepped on the prow; the streams surged
the sea 'gainst the sand ; the warriors bare
into the bark's bosom bright arms,
a rich war-array. The men shoved out
on the welcome voyage the wooden bark.
Most like to a bird the foamy-necked floater,
impelled by the wind, then flew o 'er the waves
till about the same time on the second day
the twisted prow had sailed so far 220
that the voyagers land descried,
shining ocean-shores, mountains steep,
spacious sea-nesses. Then was the floater
at the end of its voyage. Up thence quickly
the Weders' peonle stept on the plain;
the sea-wood tied; their mail-shirts shook,
their martial weeds; thanked God that to them
the paths of the waves had been made easy.
When from the wall the Seyldings' warder,
who the sea-shores had to keep, 230
saw bright shields borne" over the gunwale,
war-gear ready, wonder arose
within his mind what those men were.
Hrothgar 's thane then went to the shore,
on his horse riding, stoutly shook
the stave in his hands, and formally asked
them:
' ' What are ye of arm-bearing men,
with byrnies protected, who thus come leading
a surgy keel over the water-street,
here o'er the seas? I for this, 240
placed at the land 's end, have kept sea-ward,
• Beownlf. Hygelac was his uncle, and king of the
Geats, or Weder-Geatg, who lived in Sweden.
ANGLO-SAXON PEBIOD
that no enemies on the Danes' land
with a ship-force might do injury.
Never more openly hither to come
have shiehl-men attempted; nay, and ye knew
not
surely the pass-word ready of warriors,
permission of kinsmen. Yet ne'er have I seen
earl upon earth more great than is one of you,
or warrior in arms: 'tis no mere retainer
honored in arms, unless his face belies him,
his aspect distinguished. Now your origin
must I know, ere ye farther, 252
as false spies, into the Danes' land
hence proceed. Now ye dwellers
afar, sea-farers, give ye heed to
my simple thought: best is it quickly
to make known whence your coming is. ' '
v. The Mission op the Geats
Him the chief of them answered then,
the band's war-leader his word-hoard unlocked:
"We are of race of the Geats' nation, 260
and hearth-enjoyers of Hygelac.
Well known to nations was my father,
a noble chieftain, Ecgtheow named;
abode many winters ere he departed
old from his courts; nigh every sage
thro' the wide earth remembers him well.
We in kindness of feeling have come
to seek thy lord, the son of Healfdene,
the folk-defender. Be a kind informant.
We have a great errand to the illustrious 270
lord of the Danes. Naught shall be secret
whereof my thought is. Thou knowest whether
it be in sooth as we have heard say,
that with the Scyldings 1 know not what
wretch,
a secret ill-doer, in the dark nights
displays thro' terror unheard-of malice,
havoc and slaughter. For this may I teach,
thro ' my large mind, counsel to Hrothgar,
how he, wise and good, shall o'ercome the foe,
if ever a change is to befal, 280
if relief from evil should ever come
and that care-welling calmer grow.
Else he ever after oppression will suffer,
a time of trouble, while standeth there
in its high place the noblest of houses."
Then spake the warder, astride of his horse,
the officer fearless: "Between these two
should a sharp shield-warrior who thinketh well
the difference know — 'tween words and works.
This band, I hear, is a friendly one 290
to the Scyldings' lord. Pass ye on
with weapons and weeds, I will direct you.
Likewise will I give to my fellow-
liegcmeii orders in honor to keep,
'gainst every foe, your new-tarred ship,
your bark on the sand, till back o'er the water
the vessel with twisted neck shall bear
to the Weder-march the man beloved.
To such a warrior shall it surely be given
the rush of war to escape from whole. 300
Then they set forth ; the vessel still bode
firm in her berth, the wide-bosomed ship,
at anchor fast. A boar 's likeness sheen
'bove their cheeks they bore, adorned with
gold;
stained and fire-hardened, it held life in ward.*
In warlike mood the men hastened on,
descended together, until the well-timbered
hall they might see, adorned all with gold.
Unto earth's dwellers that was the grandest
of houses 'neath heav'n, where the ruler
abode; 310
the light of it shone over many lands.
To them then the warrior pointed out clearly
the proud one's court, that they might thither
take their way; then did the warrior
turn his steed and speak these words:
" 'Tis time for me to go on my way.
May the all-ruling Father with honor hold you
safe in your fortunes. I will back to the sea,
ward to keep against hostile bands."
VI. The Arrival at Heorot
The street was stone-paved, the path gave
guidance 320
to the men in a body; the war-byrnie shone,
hard, hand-locked; the ringed iron bright
sang in their gear, as they to the hall
in their arms terrific came striding on.
Their ample shields, their flint-hard bucklers,
the sea-weary set 'gainst the mansion's wall,
then stooped to the benches; their byrnies rang,
the war-gear of men. In a sheaf together
the javelins stood, the seamen's arms, 329
ash-wood, grey-tipped. These ironclad men
were weaponed well.
Then a proud chief asked
these sons of conflict concerning their lineage:
"Whence do ye bear your plated shields
and grey sarks hither, your visor-helms
and heap of war-shafts? I am Hrothgar 's
servant and messenger. Never saw I
strangers so many and proud. I ween
that ye out of pride, of greatness of soul,
and not for exile, have sought Hrothgar. ' '
Him then answered the famed for valor ; 340
the Weders' proud lord, bold 'neath his helmet,
spake words afterward: "We are Hygelac 's
table-enjoyers — my name, Beowulf.
I my errand will relate
* Boar-Images surmounted the helmets.
BEOWULF
to the great lord, son of Healfdene,
to thy prince, if he will grant us
graciously to greet him here."
Wulfgar spake (he was lord of the Wendels;
known to many was his spirit, 348
his valor and wisdom): "I will therefore
ask the Danes' friend, lord of the Scyldings,
mighty prince and ring-distributor,
about thy voyage, as thou requestest,
and make quickly known the answer
that the prince thinks fit to give me."
He then vent quickly where Hrothgar sat,
old and gray, among his earls;
the brave chief stood before the shoulders
of the Danes' lord — he knew court-usage.
Wulfgar spake to his friendly lord: 360
"Hither are borne, come from afar
o'er ocean's course, people of the Geats.
Beowulf these sons of conflict
name their chief. They make petition
that they may hold with thee, my lord,
words of converse. Decree not, Hrothgar,
denial of the boon of answer.
Worthy seem they, in their war-gear,
of earls' esteem — at least the chieftain
who has led the warriors hither." 370
VII. Hrothgab's Welcome
Hrothgar spake, the Scyldings' shield:
"Lo, I knew him when he was a boy.
His old father was named Ecgtheow,
to whom in his home gave Hrethel the Geat
his only daughter. Now his offspring
bold comes hither, has sought a kind friend.
For sea-farers — they who bore gift-treasures
unto the Geats gratuitously —
were wont to say of him, the war-famed,
that he the might of thirty men 380
has in his hand-grip. Holy God
hath in his mercies sent him to us,
to the West Danes, as I hope,
'gainst Grendel's horror. For his daring,
to the good chief gifts I '11 offer.
Be thou speedy, bid these kinsmen,
assembled together, come in to see me.
Say moreover they are welcome
guests to the Danes. [Then to the hall-door
W^ulfgar went.] He announced the words: 390
' ' My victor-lord, O prince of the East Danes,
bids me tell you he knows your nobleness ;
that, boldly striving over the sea-billows,
ye come to him hither welcome guests.
Now ye may go in your war-accoutrements,
'neath martial helm, Hrothgar to see.
Let your battle-boards, spears, and shafts,
here await the council of words."
Arose then the chief, his many men around
him,
a brave band of thanes. Some remained
there, 400
held the war-weeds, as the bold one bade them.
They hastened together where the warrior di-
rected,
under Heorot's roof; the valiant one went,
bold 'neath his helmet, till he stood on the dais.
Beowulf spake; his byrnie shone on him,
his war-net sewed by the smith's devices:
"Hail to thee, Hrothgar; I am Hygelac's
kinsman and war-fellow; many great deeds
in my youth have I ventured. To me on my
native turf
Grendel's doings became clearly known. 410
Seafarers say that this most excellent
house doth stand, for every warrior,
useless and void when the evening light
under heaven's serenity is concealed.
Then, prince Hrothgar, did my people,
the most excellent men, sagacious,
counsel me that I should seek thee,
because they knew the might of my craft.
Themselves beheld — when I came from their
snares,
blood-stained from the foes — where five I
bound, 420
the jotun-race ravaged, and slew on the billows
nickers by night; distress I suffered,
avenged the Weders (they had had misery),
crushed the fell foe. And now against Grendel,
that miserable being, will I hold council,
alone with the giant.
"Of thee now, therefore,
lord of the bright Danes, Scyldings' protector,
will I make this one petition:
now that I come so far, deny not,
patron of warriors, friend of people, 430
that I alone with my band of earls,
with this bold company, may purge Heorot.
1 have learned this, that the demon-like being
in his heedlessness recketh not of weapons.
I then will disdain (so may Hygelac,
my liege lord, be to me gracious of mood)
to bear a sword or round yellow shield
into the battle; but shall with the enemy
grip and grapple, and for life contend,
foe against foe. And he whom death taketh
there shall trust in the doom of the Lord. 441
' ' I ween that he, if he may prevail,
will fearlessly eat, in the martial hall,
the Geat's people, as oft he has done
the Hrethmen'si forces. Thou wilt not need
to shroud my head, for he will have me,
stained with gore, if death shall take me;
1 the Danes
6
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD
irill bear off my bloody corse to feast on it;
lonely, will eat it without compunction;
will mark out my moor-mound. Thou wilt not
need 450
care to take for my body's disposal.
If the conflict take me, send to Hygelac
this best of battle-coats shielding my breast,
of vests most excellent; 'tis Hrsedla's legacy,
Weland '32 work. Fate goes aye as it must. ' '
VIII. Heothgae's Lament
Hrothgar spake, the Scyldings' shield:
"For battles thou, my friend Beowulf,
and for honor, us hast sought.
Thy father fought in the greatest feud:
he was of Heatholaf the slayer, 460
with the Wylfings, when the Weder-Geats
for fear of war-feud might not harbor him.
Thence he sought, o'er the rolling waves,
the South Danes' folk, the noble Scyldings,
when first I ruled the Danish people
and in my youth held spacious realms,
the hoard-burg of heroes. Dead was Heregar,
my elder brother, son of Healfdene, —
passed from the living; he was better than I.
Later, that quarrel I settled with money; 470
over the water's back old treasures
I sent to the Wylfings: he swore to me oaths.
"Sorry am I in my mind to say
to any man what Grendel has wrought me
in Heorot with his hostile designs,
what swift mischiefs done. My courtiers are
minished,
my martial band; them fate has off -swept
to the horrors of Grendel. Yet God may easily
turn from his deeds the frenzied spoiler.
Oft have promised the sons of conflict, 480
with beer drunken, over the ale-cup,
that they in the beer-haJl would await
with sharp sword-edges Grendel 's warfare.
Then at morning, when the day dawned,
this princely mead-hall was stained with gore,
all the bench-floor with blood besteamed,
the hall with sword-blood: I owned the fewer
of dear, faithful nobles, whom death destroyed.
Sit now to the feast, and joyfully think
of victory for men, as thy mind may incite. ' ' 490
For the sons of the Oeats then, all together,
in the beer-hall a bench was cleared.
There the strong-souled went to sit,
proudly rejoicing; a thane did duty,
who bare in bis hand the ale-cup bedecked,
poured the bright liquor. Clear rose the glee-
man 's
song in Heorot. There was joy of warriors,
a Doble band of Danes and Weders.
3 The divine smith, or Vulcan, of northern legend.
IX. Hunferth's Taunt. The Eeply
Hunferth spake, the son of Ecglaf, 499
who sat at the feet of the Scyldings ' lord,
unloosed his malice. To him was the voyage
of the bold sailor, Beowulf, a great displeasure,
because he grudged that another man
should ever 'neath heaven more glories hold
of this middle-earth, than he himself.
"Art thou the Beowulf who strove with
Breca
on the wide sea, in a swimming-strife,
where ye from pride tempted the floods,
and, for foolish vaunt, in the deep water
ventured your lives? Nor might any man,
either friend or foe, restrain you from 511
the perilous voyage, when seaward ye swam
with arms outspread o'er the ocean-stream,
measured the sea-ways, smote with your hands,
o'er the main glided. With winter's fury
the ocean-waves boiled ; for a sennight ye toiled
on the water's domain. He conquered thee
swimming ;
he had more strength. At morningtide then
the sea bore him up to the Heathoraemas,
whence he sought, beloved of his people, 520
his country dear, the Brondings' land,
his fair, peaceful burgh, where a people he
owned,
a burgh and treasures. All his boast to thee
the son of Beanstan truly fulfilled.
Worse of thee, therefore, now I expect —
though everywhere thou hast excelled in grim
war,
in martial exploits — if thou to Grendel
darest near abide for a night-long space."
Beowulf spake, Ecgtheow 's son:
"Well, my friend Hunferth, drunken with
beer, 530
a deal hast thou spoken here about Breca,
about his adventure. The sooth I tell,
that I possessed greater endurance at sea,
strength on the waves, than any other.
We two agreed when we were striplings,
and made our boast (we were both as yet
in youthful life), that we on the ocean
would venture our lives; and thus we did.
A naked sword we held in hand
when we swam on the deep, as we meant to
defend us 540
against the whales. Far on the flood-waves
away from me he could not float,
in the sea more swiftly, and from him I would
not.
Then we together were in the sea
a five night's space, till it drove us asunder.
Weltering waves, coldest of tempests,
cloudy night, and the fierce north wind
BEOWULF
560
grimly assaulted us; rough were the billows.
The rage of the sea-fishes was aroused.
Then my body-sark, hard and hand-locked,
afforded me help against my foes; 551
my braided war-shirt lay on my breast,
with gold adorned. A speckled monster
drew me to bottom, a grim one held me
fast in his grasp. Yet was it granted
that with the point I reached the creature,
with my war-falchion. A deadly blow,
dealt by my hand, destroyed the sea-beast.
X. The Queen 's Greeting. Glee in Heorot
"Thus frequently me my hated foes
fiercely threatened; but I served them
with my dear sword as it was fitting.
Not of that gluttony had they joy,
foul destroyers, to sit round the feast
near the sea-bottom and eat my body;
but in the morning, with falchions wounded,
up they lay among the shore-drift,
put to sleep by the sword; so that ne'er after
stopt they the way for ocean-sailers
over the surge. Light came from the east,
God 's bright beacon, the seas grew calm, 570
so that the sea-nesses I might see,
windy walls. Fate often saves
an undoomeu man when his valor avails.
"Yes, 'twas my lot with sword to slay
nickers nine. 1 have heard of no harder
struggle by night 'neath heaven's vault,
nor of man more harried in ocean-streams.
Yet with life I escaped from the grasp of
dangers,
aweary of toil. Then the sea bore me,
the flood with its current, the boiling fiords,
to the Finns' land.
"Now never of thee 581
have I heard tell such feats of daring,
such falchion-terrors. Ne 'er yet Breca
at game of war, nor either of you,
so valiantly performed a deed
with shining swords (thereof I boast not),
tho ' thou of thy brothers wast murderer,
of thy chief kinsmen, wherefore in hell
shalt thou suffer damnation, keen tho' thy wit
be.
In sooth I say to thee, son of Ecglaf, 590
that never had Grendel, the fiendish wretch,
such horrors committed against thy prince,
such harm in Heorot, were thy spirit,
thy mind, as war-fierce as thou supposest.
But he has found that he need not greatly
care for the hatred of your people,
the fell sword-strength of the victor-Scyldings.*
• The epithet appears to be ironical. It is note-
wortliy that Hrothgar takes It all in good
part.
He takes a forced pledge, has mercy on none
of the Danish people, but wars at pleasure,
slays and shends you, nor strife expects 600
from the Spear-Danes. But now of the Geats
the strength and valor shall I unexpectedly
show him in battle. Thereafter may all go
elate to the mead, after the light
of the ether-robed sun on the second day
shines from the south o'er the children of
men. ' 'f
Then was rejoiced the treasure-distributor ;
hoary-locked, war- famed, the bright Danes' lord
trusted in succor; the people's shepherd
from Beowulf heard his steadfast resolve. 610
There was laughter of men, the din resounded,
words were winsome. Wealhtheow came forth,
Hrothgar 's queen ; mindful of courtesy,
the gold-adorned greeteil the men in the hall.
First then the woman, high-born, handed the
cup to the East- Danes' country's guardian,
bade him be blithe at the beer-drinking,
dear to his people. He gladly partook of
the feast, and the hall-cup, battle-famed king.
Round then . went the dame of the Helm-
ingsi 620
on every side, among old and young,
costly cups proffered, till came occasion
that she, the high-minded, ring-adorned queen
the mead-cup bore unto Beowulf.
She greeted the lord of the Geats, thanked
God,
sagacious in words, that her wish had befallen,
that she in any warrior might trust
for comfort 'gainst crimes. He took the cup,
the warrior fierce, from Wealhtheow 's hand,
and then made speech, eager for battle, —
Beowulf spake, the son of Ecgtheow: 631
"I resolved, when I went on the main
with my warrior-band and sat in the seaboat,
that I would wholly accomplish the will
of your people in this, or bow in death,
fast in the foe 's grasp. I shall perform
deeds of valor, or look to find
here in this mead-hall my last day."
The Geat's proud speech the woman liked
well;
the high-born queen of the people went, 640
adorned with gold, to sit by her lord.
Within the hall then again as before
were bold words spoken — the people 's joy
the victor folk's clamor — up to the moment
1 Name of the queen's family.
t "In this speech," says Dr. J. R. C. Hall, "in
less than fourscore passionate lines, we have
rude and outspoken repartee, proud and un-
blushing boast, a rapid narrative, Munchausen
episodes, flashes of nature, a pagan proverb,
a bitter taunt, a reckless insult to the Dan-
ish race, a picture of a peaceful time to
come."
8
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD
when Healf dene's son was fain to go to
his evening rest. He knew that conflict
awaited the monster in the high hall
80 soon as they might no longer see
the sun's light, and o'er all murk night,
the shadow-helm of men, came creeping, 650
dusk under heaven. The company rose.
Hrothgar then paid Beowulf reverence —
one hero the other — and bade him hail,
gave him command of the wine-hall and said:
' ' Never since hand and shield I could raise,
have I before entrusted to any
the hall of the Danes, save new to thee.
Have now and hold this best of houses;
be mindful of glory, show mighty valor,
keep watch for the foe. No vdsh shall be lack-
ing 660
if thou from this venture escape with thy life. ' '
XI. Beowulf's Vigil
Then Hrothgar departed, the Scyldings' pro-
tector,
out of the hall with his band of warriors ;
the martial leader would seek his consort,
Wealhtheow the queen. The glory of kings
had set against Grendel, as men have heard tell,
a hall-ward; he held a special oflSce
about the Dane-prince, kept guard 'gainst the
giant.
But the chief of the Geats well trusted in 669
his own proud might and the Creator's favor.
He doffed from him then his iron byrnie,
the helm from his head, and gave to a hench-
man
his sword enchased, choicest of irons,
bade him take charge of the gear of war.
Some wori'.s of pride then spake the good
chief,
Beowulf the Geat, ere he mounted his bed:
' ' I count me no feebler in martial vigor
of warlike works than Grendel himself.
Therefore I will not, tho' easy it were, 679
with sword destroy him or lull him to rest.
'Tis a warfare ne knows not — to strike against
me
and hew my shield, renowned tho' he be
for hostile works; but we two to-night
shall do without sword, if he dare seek
war without weapon. And afterward God,
the wise, the holy, shall glory doom
to whichever hand it moot to him seemcth. "
Then lay down the brave man, — the bolster
received
the warrior's cheek; and around him many
a Beaman keen reclined on his hall-couch. 690
No^ one of them thought that he should thence
0eek ever again the home he loved,
the folk or free burg where he was nurtured:
since erst they had heard how far too many
folk of the Danes a bloody death
o'ertook in that wine-hall. But to them the
Lord
gave woven victory,* to the Weders' people
comfort and succor, so that they all
by the might of one, by his single powers,
their foe overcame. Shown is it truly 700
that mighty God ruleth the race of men.
Now in the murky night came stalking
the shadow-walker. All the warriors
who should defend that pinnacled mansion
slept, save one. To men it was known
that the sinful spoiler, when God willed not,
might not drag them beneath the shade.
Natheless, he, watching in hate for the foe,
in angry mood waited the battle-meeting.
XII. Geendel's Onslaught
Then came from the moor, under the mist-
hills, 710
Grendel stalking; he bare God's anger.
The wicked spoiler thought to ensnare
many a man in the lofty hall.
He strode 'neath the clouds until the wine-
house,
the gold-hall of men, he readily saw,
richly adorned. Nor was that time
the first that Hrothgar 's home he had sought:
but ne'er in his life, before nor since,
found he a bolder man or hall-thanes.
So then to the mansion the man bereft 720
of joys came journeying; soon with his hands
undid the door, tho' with forged bands fast;
the baleful-minded, angry, burst open
the mansion 's mouth. Soon thereafter
the fiend was treading the glittering floor,
paced wroth of mood ; from his eyes started
a horrid light, most like to flame.
He in the mansion saw warriors many,
a kindred band, together sleeping,
fellow-warriors. His spirit exulted. 730
The fell wretch expected that ere day came
he would dissever the life from the body
of each, for in him the hope had risen
of a gluttonous feast. Yet 'twas not his fate
that he might more of the race of men
oat after that night. The mighty kinsman
of Hygelac watched how the wicke<l spoiler
would proceed with his sudden grasping.
Nor did the monster mean to delay;
for he at the first stroke quickly seized 740
• This la a characteristic Northern fluuro, as well
as Groek : but It is not Clirlstlnn. .^n In-
tcrpstlnK expansion of It may be found In
Gray's poem of The Fatal SUitcrs.
BEOWULF
9
a sleeping warrior, tore him unawares,
bit his bone-casings, drank his veins' blood,
in great morsels swallowed him. Soon had he
devoured all of the lifeless one,
feet and hands. He stepped up nearer,
took then with his hand the doughty-minded
warrior at rest; with his hand the foe
reached towards him. He instantly grappled
with the evil-minded, and on his arm rested.
Soon as the criminal realized 750
that in no other man of middle-earth,
of the world 's regions, had he found
a stronger hand-grip, his mind grew fearful.
Yet not for that could he sooner escape.
He was bent on flight, would flee to his cavern,
the devil-pack seek; such case had never
in all his life-days befallen before.
Then Hygelac 's good kinsman remembered
his evening speech; upright he stood, 759
and firmly grasped him; his fingers yielded.
The jotun was fleeing; the earl stept further.
The famed one considered whether he might
more widely wheel and thence away
flee to his fen-mound; he knew his fingers'
power
in the fierce one 's grasp. 'Twas a dire journey
the baleful spoiler made to Heorot.
The princely hall thundered ; terror was
on all the Danes, the city-dwellers,
each valiant one, while both the fierce 769
strong warriors raged; the mansion resounded.
Then was it wonder great that the wine-hall
withstood the war-beasts, nor fell to the ground,
the fair earthly dwelling; yet was it too fast,
within and without, with iron bands,
cunningly forged, though where the fierce ones
fought, I have heard, many a mead-bench,
with gold adorned, from its siU started.
Before that, weened not the Scyldings' sages
that any man ever, in any wise,
in pieces could break it, goodly and bone-
decked, 780
or craftily rive — only the flame's clutch
in smoke could devour it. Startling enough
the noise uprose. Over the North Danes
stood dire terror, on every one
of those who heard from the wall the whoop,
the dread lay sung by God's denier,
the triumphless song of the thrall of hell,
his pain bewailing. He held him fast, —
he who of men was strongest of might,
of them who in that day lived this life. 790
XIII. The Moxster Eepulsed
Not for aught would the refuge of earls
leave alive the deadly guest;
the davs of his life he counted not useful
to any folk. There many a warrior
of Beowulf's drew his ancient sword;
they would defend the life of their lord,
of the great prince, if so they might.
They knew not, when they entered the strife,
the bold and eager sons of battle,
and thought to hew him on every side 800
his life to seek, that not the choicest
of irons on earth, no battle-falchion,
could ever touch the wicked scather,
since martial weapons he had forsworn,
every edge whatever. Yet on that day
of this life was his life-parting
wretched to be, and the alien spirit
to travel far into power of fiends.
Then he who before in mirth of mood
(he was God's foe) had perpetrated 810
many crimes 'gainst the race of men,
found that his body would not avail him,
for him the proud kinsman of Hygelac
had in hand; each was to the other
hateful alive. The fell wretch suffered
bodily pain; a deadly wound
appeared on his shoulder, his sinews started;
his bone-casings burst. To Beowulf was
the war-glory given; Grendel must thence,
death-sick, under his fen-shelters flee, 820
seek a joyless dwelling; well he knew
that the end of his life was come, his appointed
number of days. For all the Danes,
that fierce fight done, was their wish accom-
plished.
So he then, the far-come, the wise and strong
of soul, had purified Hrothgar's haU,
saved it from malice; his night's work rejoiced
him,
his valor-glories. The Geatish chieftain
had to the East-Danes his boast fulfilled,
had healed, to-wit, the preying sorrow 830
that they in that country before had suffered
and had to endure for hard necessity,
no small aflUction. A manifest token
it was when the warrior laid down the hand —
arm and shoulder, Grendel 's whole grappler
together there — 'neath the vaulted roof.
XIV. Joy at Heorot
Then in the morning, as I have heard tell,
there was many a warrior around the gift hall:
folk-chiefs came, from far and near,
o'er distant ways, the wonder to see, 840
the tracks of the foe. His taking from life
seemed not grievous to any warrior
who the inglorious one's trail beheld, —
how, weary in spirit, o'ercome in the conflict,
death-doomed and fleeing, he bare death-traces
thence awav to the nickers' mere.
10
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD
There was the surge boiling with blood,
the dire swing of waves all commingled j
with clotted blood hot, with sword-gore it
welled ;
the death-doomed dyed it, when he joyless
laid down his life in his fen-asylum, 851
his heathen soul. There hell received him.
Thence again turned they, comrades old,
from the joyous journey, and many a younger,
proud from the mere, riding on horses,
warriors on steeds. Then was Beowulf's
glory celebrated. Many oft said
that south or north, between the seas
the wide world over, there was no other
'neath heaven's course who was a better 860
shield-bearer, or one more worthy of power.
Yet found they no fault with their lord beloved,
the joyful Hrothgar: he was their good king.
Then was morning light
sent forth and quickened. Many a retainer,
strong in spirit, to the high hall went, 919
to see the rare wonder. The king himself also
from his nuptial bower, guardian of ring-
treasures,
with a large troop stept forth, rich in glory,
for virtues famed; and his queen with him
the meadow-path measured with train of
maidens.
XV. Heothgar's Gratitude
Hrothgar spake (he to the hall went,
stood near the threshold, saw the steep roof
shining with gold, and Grendel's hand):
"Now for this sight, to the Almighty thanks!
May it quickly be given ! Much ill have I borne,
Grendel's snares; ever can God work 930
wonder on wonder, the King of Glory.
Not long was it since, that I little weened
for woes of mine through all my life,
reparation to know, when, stained with blood,
the best of houses all gory stood;
woe was wide-spread for each of my counsellors,
who did not ween that they evermore
from foes could defend the people's landwork,i
from devils and phantoms. Now this warrior,
through the might of the Lord, has done a deed
which we all together before could not 941
with cunning accomplish. Lo, this may say
whatever woman brought forth this son
among the nations, if yet she lives,
that the ancient Creator was gracious to her
at the birth of her son. Now will I, O Beowulf,
best of warriors, even as a son,
love thee in my heart. Keep henceforth well
our kinship now; no lack shalt thou have
1 Heorot
of worldly desires, wherein I have power.
Full often for less have I dealt a reward,
an honor-gift, to a feebler warrior, 952
weaker in conflict. Thou for thyself
hast wrought so well, that thy glory shall live
through every age. May the AU-wielder
with good reward thee, as now He has done."
Beowulf spake, Ecgtheow's son:
"We with great good will, that arduous work,
that fight, have achieved; we boldly ventured
in war with the monster. The more do I wish
that thou himself mightest have seen, 961
the foe in his trappings, full weary enough.
Him I quickly, with hard and fast fetters,
on his death-bed thought to have bound,
that through my hand-grips low he should lie,
struggling for life, but his body escaped.
I was not able, the Lord did not will it,
to keep him from going; I held him not firm
enough,
the deadly foe: too strong on his feet
the enemy was. Yet his hand he left, 970
for his life's safety, to guard his track,
his arm and shoulder; yet not thereby
did the wretched creature comfort obtain;
nor will he, crime-doer, the longer live
with sins oppressed. For pain has him
in its grip compelling straitly clasped,
in its deadly bonds; there shall he await,
the crime-stained wretch, the Final Doom,
as the Lord of Splendor shall mete it to him."
Then less noisy was Ecglaf 's son 980
in vaunting speech of words of w-ar,
after the nobles, thro ' might of the hero,
over the high roof had gazed on the hand,
the fingers of the foe, each for himself.*
Each finger-nail was firm as steel —
a heathen's hand-spurs and a warrior's, —
hideously monstrous. Every one said
that no excellent iron of the bold ones
would be able to touch the demon's hand,
would ever sever the bloody limb. 990
XVI. Feasting and Song
Then quickly 'twas ordered, that Heorot
within
by hand be adorned; many were they,
of men and women, who the wine-house,
the guest-hall, prepared ; gold-shimmering shone
the webs on the walls, wondrous sights many
to each and all that gaze upon such.
• Beowulf, says Dr. Klneber, "had plncod Oron-
dol's hand (on some projection perhaps)
above the door (outside) as high as he could
reach." where the nobles, lookhiK from out-
side "In the direction of the hlRii roof," be-
hold It. Others think that it was hung up
within the hall.
BEOWULF
11
That splendid dwelling much shattered was,
though bound within with bands of iron;
the hinges asunder were rent, the roof
alone was saved all sound, when the monster,
stained with foul deeds, turned him to flight,
hopeless of life 1002
[The feast is held, gifts are bestowed on the
hero, and Hrothgar's minstrel sings a song of
a hundred lines about Finn, the king of the
Frisians.]
XVIII. The Queen's Speech
. . . . The lay was sung, 1159
the gleeman's song. Pastime was resumed,
noise rose from the benches, the cup-boys served
wine
from wondrous vessels. Then Wealhtheow came
forth
'neath a gold diadem, to where the two good
eousinst sat; at peace were they still,
each true to the other; there Hunferth too sat
at the Scylding lord 's feet, — all had faith in his
spirit,
his courage, altho ' to his kinsmen he had not
in sword-play been true.J Then the Scyldings'
queen spake:
' * Accept this beaker, my beloved lord,i
dispenser of treasure; may'st be joyful, 1170
gold-friend of men! And speak to the Geats
with gentle words! So man shall do.
Be kind toward the Geats, mindful of gifts;
near and far thou now hast safety.
Men have said that thou this warrior
wouldst have for a son. Heorot is purged,
the bright hall of rings: enjoy while thou may-
est
the rewards of the many, and to thy sons leave
folk and realm, when thou shalt go forth
to see thy Creator. Well I know that 1180
my gracious Hrothulf will the youth
in honor maintain if thou sooner than he,
oh friend of the Scyldings, leavest the world.
I ween that he with good will repay
our offspring dear, if he remembers
aU the favors that we for his pleasure
and honor performed when he was a child."
Then she turned to the seat where were her
sons,
Hrethric and Hrothmund, and the sons of the
heroes, 1189
the youths all together ; there sat the noble
Beowulf the Geat, beside the two brothers.
1 Hrothgar
t Hrothgar, and his nephew, Hrothulf, who must
have been older than the king's children (cp.
lines 1180 ff), but who evidently did not re-
main "true."
t He was said to have killed his brothers.
XIX. Beowulf Rewaeded, Eventidk
The cup was brought him, and friendly greet-
ing
in words was given and twisted gold
kindly proffered — bracelets two,
armor and rings, a collar the largest
of those that on earth I have heard tell of.
Never 'neath heaven have I heard of a better
treasure-hoard of men, since Hama bore off
to the glittering burg the Brosings' necklace,!
the jewel and casket (he fled the guileful 1200
hate of Eormenric, chose gain etemaU).
Hygelac the Geat wore this collar,
the grandson of Swerting, on his last raid,
when he 'neath his banner the treasure de-
fended,
the slaughter-spoil guarded; fate took him off
when he out of pride sought his own woe,
war with the Frisians; he the jewels conveyed,
the precious stones, over the wave-bowl,
the powerful king; he fell 'neath his shield.
Then into the power of the Franks the king's
life
went, and his breast -weeds, went too the collar ;
warriors inferior plundered the fallen 1212
after the war-lot; the Geat-folk held
the abode of the slain.
The haU resounded.
Wealhtheow spake, before the warrior-band
said:
"Use this collar, Beowulf dear,
oh youth, with joy, and use this mantle,
these lordly treasures, and thrive thou well;
prove thyself mighty, and be to these boys
gentle in counsels. I will reward thee. 1220
This hast thou achieved, that, far and near,
throughout aU time, men will esteem thee,
even so widely as the sea encircles
the windy land-walls. Be while thou livest
a prosperous noble. I grant you well
precious treasures; be thou to my sons
gentle in deeds, thou who hast joy.
Here is each earl to the other true,
mild of mood, to his liege lord faithful;
the thanes are united, the people all ready. 1230
Warriors who have drunken, do as I bid."
To her seat then she went. There was choic-
est of feasts,
the warriors drank wine; Wyrd they knew not,
calamity grim, as it turned out
for many a man after evening had come
and Hrothgar had to his lodging departed,
the ruler to rest. There guarded the hall
1 Perhaps entered a monastery (S. Bugge).
§ The famous necklace of Freyja, which Hama
stole from Eormenric, the cruel king of the
Goths.
12
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD
countless warriors, as oft they had done. I
They cleared the bench-floor; it soon was o'er-
spread
with bods and bolsters. A certain beer-bearer,
ready and fated, bent to his rest. 1241
They set at their heads their disks of war,
their shield- wood bright; there on the bench,
over each noble, easy to see,
was his high martial helm, his ringed byrnie
and war-wood stout. It was their custom
that they were ever for war prepared,
at home, in the field, in both alike,
at whatever time to their liege lord
the need befel. 'Twas a ready people. 1250
XX. Geendel's Mother
They sank then to sleep. One sorely paid
for his evening rest, as full oft had happened
since the gold-hall Grendel occupied,
unrighteousness did, until the end came,
death after sins. Then it was seen,
wide-known among men, that still an avenger
lived after the foe, for a long time
after the battle-care, — Grendel 's mother.
The woman-demon remembered her misery,
she that the watery horrors, the cold streams,
had to inhabit, when Cain became 1261
slayer by sword of his only brother,
his father's son. Then he went forth blood-
stained,
by murder marked, fleeing man's joy,
dwelt in the wilderness. Thence awoke many
fated demons; Grendel was one,
the hated fell wolf who at Heorot found
a watchful warrior awaiting the conflict;
and there the monster laid hold of him.
Yet was he mindful of his great strength, 1270
the generous gift that God had given him,
and trusted for help in him the All-wielder,
for comfort and aid; so slew he the fiend,
dtruck down the hell-spirit. Then humble he
made off,
the foe of mankind, to seek his death-home,
of joy deprived. Natheless his mother,
greedy and gloomy, was bent on going
the sorrowful journey, her son's death to
avenge.
So came she to Heorot, to where the Eing-
Danes 1279
throughout the hall slept. Forthwith there came
to the warriors a change, when in on them
rushe<l
Grendel 'b mother ; the terror was less
by just so much as the force of women is,
the war-dread from woman, than that from a
man
when the hilt-bound sword, hammer-beaten,
stained with gore, and doughty of edges,
hews off the head of the boar on the helm.
Then in the hall the hard edge was drawn,
the sword o 'er the seats, many a broad shield
raised firm in hand; helms they forgot
and byrnies broad, when the terror seized them.
She was in haste, — would out from thence 1292
to save her life, since she was discovered.
One of the nobles she quickly had
with grip fast seized, as she went to fen;
he was to Hrothgar of heroes the deareat
in comradeship beside the two seas,
a mighty shield-warrior, whom she killed,
a hero renowned. (Beowulf was absent,
for another apartment had before been as-
signed, J 300
after giving of treasures, to the great Geat.)
A cry was in Heorot. She took with its gore
the well known hand;i grief had become
renewed in the dwellings. 'Twas no good ex-
change,
that those on both sides payment must make
with lives of their friends.
Then was the old king,
the hoary war-hero, in stormy mood
when his highest thane, no longer living,
his dearest friend, he knew to be dead.
Quickly to his chamber was Beowulf summoned,
the victor-rich warrior. Together ere day 1311
he went with his earls, the noble champion
with his comrades went where the wise king
awaited
whether for him the All-wielder would
after the woe-time a change bring about.
Then along the floor went the warlike man
with his body guard (the hall-wood resounded)
till he the wise prince greeted with words,
the lord of the Ingwins;2 asked if he had had
according to his wish, an easy night. 1320
XXI. Sorrow for ^Eschere.
Mere
The Monster's
Hrothgar spake, the Scyldings' protector:
"Ask not after happiness! Grief is renewed
to the folk of the Danes. Dead is ^schere,
of Yrmenlaf the elder brother,
my confidant and my counsellor,
my near attendant when we in war
defended our heads, when hosts contended,
and boar-crests crashed ; such should an earl be,
preeminently good, as .^Eschere was.
He in Heorot has had for murderer 1330
a ghost-like death-spirit; I know not whether
1 Orondel's (see 1. 834 )
2 the Danes
BEOWULF
18
the fell carrion-gloater her steps back has
traceil,
made known by her meal. She the feud has
avenged,
that thou yester-night didst Grendel slay,
through thy fierce nature, with fetter-like
grasps,
for that he too long my people diminished
and wrought destruction. He in battle suc-
cumbed,
forfeiting life. And now comes another
mighty man-scather to avenge her son, —
has from afar warfare established, 1340
as it may seem to many a thane
who mourns in spirit his treasure-giver,
in hard heart-affliction. Now low lies the hand
which once availed you for every desire.
"I have heard it said by the land-dwellers,
by my own subjects, my hall-counsellors,
that they have seen a pair of such
mighty march-stalkers holding the moors,
stranger-spirits, whereof the one,
80 far as they could certainly know, 1350
was in form of a woman; the other, accurst,
trod an exile 's steps in the figure of man
(save that he huger than other men was),
whom in days of yore the dwellers on earth
Grendel named. They know not a father,
whether any was afore-time born
of the dark ghosts. That secret land
they dwell in, wolf-dens, windy nesses,
the perilous fen-path, where the mountain
stream
downward flows 'neath the mists of the nesses,
the flood under earth. 'Tis not far thence, 1361
a mile in measure, that the mere stands,
over which hang rustling groves;
a wood fast rooted the water o'ershadows.
"There every night may be seen a dire won-
der,
fire in the flood. None so wise lives
of the children of men, who knows the bottom.
Although the heath-stepper, wearied by hounds,
the stag strong of horns, seek that holtwood,
driven from far, he will give up his life, 1370
his breath, on the shore, ere he will venture
his head upon it. That is no pleasant place.
Thence surging of waters upwards ascends
wan to the welkin, when the wind stirs up
the hateful tempests, till air grows gloomy
and skies shed tears. Again now is counsel
in thee alone! The spot thou yet ken'st not,
the perilous place where thou may'st find
this sinful being. Seek if thou dare.
"With riches will I for the strife reward thee,
with ancient treasures, as I before did, 1381
with twisted gold, if thou eomest off safe."
XXTI. The Pubsuit
Beowulf spake, Ecgtheow's son:
* * Sorrow not, sage man, 'tis better for each
to avenge his friend than greatly to mourn.
Each of us must an end await
of this world's life; let him work who can
high deeds ere death ; that will be for the war-
rior,
when he is lifeless, afterwards best.
Bise, lord of the realm, let us quickly go
to see the course of Grendel 's parent. 1391
I promise thee, not to the sea shall she 'scape,
nor to earth 's embrace, nor to mountain-wood,
nor to ocean 's ground, go whither she will.
This day do thou endurance have
in every woe, as I expect of thee ! ' '
Up leapt the old man then, thanked God,
the mighty Lord, for what the man said.
For Hrothgar then a horse was bridled,
a steed with curled mane. The ruler wise
in state went forth; a troop strode on, 1401
bearing their shields. Tracks there were
along the forest paths widely seen,
her course o'er the ground; she had thither
gone
o 'er the murky moor. Of their fellow thanes
she bore the best one, soul-bereft,
of those that with Hrothgar defended thar
home.
Then overpassed these sons of nobles
deep rocky gorges, a narrow road,
strait lonely paths, an unknown way, 1410
precipitous nesses, monster-dens many.
He went in advance, he and a few
of the wary men, to view the plain,
till suddenly he found mountain-trees
overhanging a hoary rock,
a joyless wood; there was water beneath,
gory and troubled. To all the Danes,
friends of the Scyldings, 'twas grievous in
mind,
a source of sorrow to many a thane,
pain to each earl, when of ^schere, 1420
on the sea-shore, the head they found.
The flood boiled with blood, the people looked
on
at the hot glowing gore. The horn at times
sang
a ready war-song. The band all sat.
They saw in the water a host of the worm-kind,
strange sea dragons sounding the deep;
in the headland-clefts also, nickers lying,
which in the morning oft-times keep
their sorrowful course upon the sail-road,
worms and wild beasts; — they sped away,
bitter and rage-swollen; they heard the sound,
14
ANGLO-SAXON PEBIOD
the war-born singing. The lord of the Geats
with a bolt from bis bow took one from life,
from his wave-strife, and left in his vitals 1434
the hard war-shaft; he in the sea was
the slower in swimming, when death took him
off.
Quickly on the waves, with hunting-spears
sharply hooked, he was strongly pressed,
felled by force, and drawn up on the headland,
the wonderful swimmer. The men there gazed
on the grisly guest.
Beowulf girt himself 1441
in war-like weeds; for life he feared not;
his warrior-byrnie, woven by hands,
ample and inlaid, must tempt the deep;
it could well his body protect
that battle-grip might not scathe his breast,
the fierce one's wily grasp injure his life.
But the flashing helm guarded his head,
(which with the sea-bottom was to mingle, 1449
and seek the sea-surge) with jewels adorned,
encircled with chains, as in days of yore
the weapon-smith wrought it, wondrously
framed,
set with swine-figures, so that thereafter
no brand nor war-sword ever could bite it.
Nor then was that least of powerful aids
which Hrothgar's oratori lent him at need:
Hrunting was named the hafted falchion.
'Twas among the foremost of olden treasures;
its edge was iron, tainted with poison, 1459
harden 'd with warrior-blood; ne'er in battle
had it failed any of those that brandished it,
who durst to travel the ways of terror,
the perilous trysts. 'Twas not the first time
that it a valorous deed should perform.
Surely Ecglaf 's son remembered not,
the mighty in power, what erst he had said,
drunken with wine, when the weapon he lent
to a better sword-warrior. He durst not himself
'mid the strife of the waves adventure his life,
a great deed perform ; there lost he his credit
for valorous doing. Not so with the other 1471
when he had prepared himself for battle!
XXIIT. The Fight Beneath the Waves
Beowulf spake, Ecgtheow 's son:
* ' Remember thou now, great son of Healfdene,
sagacious prince, now I am ready to go,
gold-friend of men, the things we have
spoken:
If I should lose my life for thy need,
that thou wouldst ever be to me,
when I am gone, in a father's stead. 1479
Be a guardian thou to my fellow thanes,
1 Hunferth {cf. I. 490)
to my near comrades, if war take me off.
Also the treasures which thou hast given me,
beloved Hrothgar, to Hygelac send.
By that gold then may the lord of the Geats
know,
may Hrethol's son see, when he looks on that
treasure,
that I in man's virtue have found one pre-
eminent,
a giver of rings, and rejoiced while I might.
And let Hunferth have the ancient relic,
the wondrous war-sword, let the far-famed man
the hard-of-edge have. I with Hrunting 1490
will work me renown, or death shall take me."
After these words the Weder-Geats' lord
with ardor liastened, nor any answer
would he await. The sea-wave received
the warrior-hero. It was a day's space
ere he the bottom could perceive.
Forthwith she found — she who the flood's
course
had blood-thirsty held a hundred years,
grim and greedy — that a man from above
was there exploring the realm of strange crea-
tures. 1500
Then at him she grasped, the warrior seized
in her horrible claws. Nathless she crushed not
his unhurt body; the ring-mail guarded him,
so that she might not pierce that war-dress,
the lock-linked sark, with her hostile fingers.
Then when the sea-wolf reached the bottom,
she bore to her dwelling the prince of rings
so that he might not, brave as he was,
his weapons wield; for many strange beings
in the deep oppressed him, many a sea-beast
with its battle tusks his war-sark broke; 1511
the wretches pursued him. Then the earl found
he was in he knew not what dread hall,
where him no water in aught could scathe,
nor because of the roof could the sudden grip
of the flood reach him ; he saw a fire-light,
a brilliant beam brightly shining.
The hero perceived then the wolf of the deeps,
the mighty mere-wife; a powerful onslaught
he made with his falchion, the sword-blow with-
held not, 1520
so on her head the ringed brand sang
a horrid war-song. The guest then discovered
how that the battle-beam would not bite,
would not scathe life, but that the edge failed
its lord at his need; erst had it endured
hand-conflicts many, slashed often the helm,
war-garb of the doomed ; then was the first time
for the precious gift that its power failed.
Still was he resolute, slacked not his ardor,
of great deeds mindful was Hygelac 's kinsman.
Flung he the twisted brand, curiously bound,
BEOWULF
15
the angry champion, that stiff and steel-edged
it lay on the earth; in his strength he trusted,
his powerful hand-grip. So shall man do, 1534
when he in battle thinks of gaining
lasting praise, nor cares for his life.
By the shoulder then seized he (recked not of
her malice),
the lord of the war-Geats, Grendel's mother;
the fierce fighter hurled, incensed as he was,
the mortal foe, that she fell to the ground.
She quickly repaid him again in full 1541
with her fierce grasps, and at him caught ;
then stumbled he weary, of warriors the strong-
est,
the active champion, so that he fell.
She pressed down the hall-guest, and drew her
dagger,
the broad gleaming blade, — would avenge her
son,
her only child. On his shoulder lay
the braided breast-net which shielded his life
'gainst point, 'gainst edge, all entrance with-
stood.
Then would have perished Ecgtheow's son
'neath the wide earth, champion of the Geats,
had not his war-bymie help afforded, 1552
his battle-net hard, and holy God
awarded the victory. The wise Lord,
Buler of Heaven, with justice decided it
easily, when he again stood up.
XXIV. ViCTOKY
Then he saw 'mongst the arms a victorious
falchion,
an old jotun-sword, of edges doughty,
the glory of warriors; of weapons 'twas choic-
est, 1559
save it was greater than any man else
to the game of war could carry forth,
good and gorgeous, the work of giants.
The knotted hilt seized he, the Scyldings'
warrior, —
fierce and deadly grim, the ringed sword swung ;
despairing of life, he angrily struck,
that 'gainst her neck it griped her hard,
her bone-ringsi brake. Thre' her fated carcass
the falchion passed; on the ground she sank.
The blade was gory, the man joy'd in his work.
The sword-beam shone bright, light rayed
within. 1570
even as from heaven serenely shines
the candle of the firmament. He looked down
the chamber,
then turned by the wall ; his weapon upraised
firm by the hilt Hygelac 's thane,
1 vertebraa
angry and resolute. Nor was the edge
to the war-prince useless; for he would forth-
with
Grendel requite for the many raids
that he had made upon the West Danes,
and not on one occasion only,
when he Hrothgar 's hearth- companions 1580
slew in their rest, sleeping devoured
fifteen men of the folk of the Danes,
and as many others conveyed away,
hateful offerings. He had so repaid him
for that, the fierce champion, that at rest he
saw,
weary of contest, Grendel lying
deprived of his life, as he had been scathed by
the conflict at Heorot; the corpse bounded far
when after death he suffered the stroke,. 1589
the hard sword-blow, and his head it severed.
Forthwith they saw, the sagacious men,
those who with Hrothgar kept watch on the
water,
that the surge of the waves was all commingled,
the deep stained with blood. The grizzly-haired
old men together spake of the hero,
how they of the atheling hoped no more
that, victory-flush 'd, he would come to seek
their famous king, since this seemed a sign
that him the sea-wolf had quite destroyed.
The noon-tide* came, they left the nesses,
the Scyldings bold; departed home thence
the gold-friend of men. The strangers sat,
sick of mood, and gazed on the mere, 1603
wished but weened not that they their dear lord
himself should see.
Then that sword, the war-blade,
with its battle-gore like bloody icicles,
began to fade. A marvel it was,
how it all melted, most like to ice
when the Father relaxes the bands of the frost,
unwinds the flood-fetters. He who has power
over seasons and times; true Creator is that!
More treasures he took not, the Weder-Geats'
lord, 1612
within those dwellings (though many he saw
there)
except the head, and the hilt also,
with jewels shining; — the blade had all melted,
the drawn brand was burnt, so hot was the
blood,
so venomous the demon, who down there had
perished.
Afloat soon was he that at strife had awaited
the slaughter of foes; he swam up through the
water.
* An apparent admission of the exaggeration In
1. 1495, though noon meant formerly the
ninth hour of the day, which wonid bring it
near evening.
16
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD
The ocean surges all were cleansed, 1620
the dwellings vast, when the stranger guest
her life-days left and this fleeting existence.
Then came to land the sailor's protector
stoutly swimming, rejoiced in his sea-spoil,
the mighty burden of what he brought with
him.
Then toward him they went, with thanks to
God,
the stout band of thanes, rejoiced in their lord,
because they beheld him safe and sound.
From the vigorous chief both helm and byrnie
were then soon loosed. The sea subsided —
the cloud-shadowed water with death-gore dap-
pled. 1631
Thence forth they went retracing their steps
happy at heart, the high-way measured,
the well-known road. The nobly bold men
up from the sea-shore bore the head,
not without labor for each of them,
the mightily daring. Four undertook
with toil to bear on the battle-spear,
up to the gold-hall, the head of Grendel ;
until straightway to the hall they came, 1640
resolute, warlike, four and ten of them,
Geats all marching with their lord.
Proud amid the throng, he trod the meadows.
Then entering came the prince of thanes,
the deed-strong man with glory honored,
the man bold in battle, Hrothgar to greet.
And into the hall, where men were drinking,
Grendel 's head by the hair was borne,
a thing of terror to nobles and lady.
'Twas a wonderful sight men looked upon.
XXV. Hrothgae's Gratitude and Counsel
Beowulf spake, Eegtheow's son: 165]
"Lo, these sea-offerings, son of Healfdene,
lord of the Scyldings, we have joyfully brought,
in token of glory: thou seest them here.
Not easily did I escape with my life,
ventured with pain on the war under water.
Indeed the struggle would have been ended
outright, had not God me shielded.
Not able was I, in the conflict, with Hrunting
aught to accomplish, though that weapon was
good; 1660
but the Ruler of men granted to me,
that T saw on the wall, all beautiful hanging.
an old heavy sword, (He has often directed
the friendless man,) and that weapon I drew.
Then T slew in that strife, as occasion afforded,
the wards of the house. That war-falchion then,
that drawn brand, was burnt, as the blood
burst forth,
of Btrife-blood the hottest. Thence T the hilt
from the foes bore away, avenged the crimes,
the Danes' death-plague, as it was fitting. 1670
"I promise theo now that thou in Heorot
mayest sleep secure with thy warrior-band,
and thy thanes, each one, thanes of thy people,
the tried and the youthful; that thou needest
not,
oh prince of the Scyldings, fear from that side
life's bane to thy warriors as erst thou didst."
Then the golden hilt, to the aged hero,
the hoar war-leader, in hand was given,
giant-work old; it passed to the keeping
(those devils once fallen) of the lord of the
Danes, 1680
wonderful smith-work; when quitted this world
the fierce-hearted creature, God's adversary,
of murder guilty, and his mother also,
it passed to the keeping of the best
of the world-kings that by the two seas,
in Scania-land, treasures dealt.
Then Hrothgar spake; he gazed on the hilt,
old relic whereon was the origin written
of an ancient war, when the flood had slain —
the flowing ocean — the race of the giants; —
they had borne them boldly. That was a people
alien from God ; them a final reward, 1692
through the rage of the water, the All-wielder
gave.
On the mounting too, of shining gold,
in runic letters, was rightly marked,
was set and said, for whom first was wrought
that choicest of swords, with hilt bound round
and serpentine. Then spake the wise man,
the son of Healfdene, (all were silent):
"Lo this may he say who practises truth
and right 'mong the people, far back all re-
members, 1701
a land-warden old, that this earl was
nobly born. Thy fame is exalted,
through far and wide ways, Beowulf, my friend,
over every nation. Thou wearest with patience
thy might, and with prudence. I shall show
thee my love,
e'en as we two have said: thou shalt be for a
comfort
a very long time to thine own people,
a help unto warriors. Not so was Heremodi
to Ecgwela's children, the noble Scyldings;
he throve not for their weal, but for their
slaughter, 1711
and for a death-plague to the folk of the Danes.
In angry mood slew he his table-sharers,
his nearest friends, till he lonely departed,
the very great prince, from the joys of men.
Though him Mighty God, with delights of
power,
with strength had exalted, above all men
1 A Danish King, banished for cruelty.
BEOWULF
17
had advanced him, yet there grew in his heart
a bloodthirsty spirit; he gave no rings
to the Danes, as was custom; joyless continued
he, 1720
BO that of war he the misery suffered,
long bale to the people. Learn thou from him;
lay hold of man 's virtue ! For thee have I told
this,
wise in winters. 'Tis wondrous to say,
how mighty God, to the race of men,
through his ample mind, dispenses wisdom,
lands and valor: He has power over all.
Sometimes He lets wander at their own will
the thoughts of a man of race renowned,
in his country gives him the joy of earth, 1730
a shelter-city of men to possess ;
thus makes to him subject parts of the world,
ample kingdoms, that he himself may not,
because of his folly, think of his end.
He lives in plenty; no whit deters him
disease or old age, no uneasy care
darkens his soul, nor anywhere strife
breeds hostile hate; but for him the whole
world
turns at his will; he the worse knows not, —
XXVI. Hkothgab's Couxsel Concluded
until within him a great deal of arrogance
grows and buds, when the guardian sleeps, 1741
the keeper of the soul. Too fast is the sleep,
bound down by cares; very near is the slayer,
who from his arrow-bow wickedly shoots.
Then he in the breast, 'neath the helm, will be
stricken
with the bitter shaft ; he cannot guard him
from strange evil orders of the Spirit accursed.
Too small seems to him what long he has held;
fierce minded he covets, gives not in his pride
many rich rings; and the future life 1'50
he forgets and neglects, because God to him
gave,
Euler of glory, many great dignities.
In the final close at length it chances
that the body-home, inconstant, sinks,
fated falls. Another succeeds,
who without reluctance treasure dispenses,
old wealth of the warrior, terror heeds not.
"From that evil keep thee, Beowulf dear,
best among warriors, and choose thee the better,
counsels eternal. Heed not arrogance, 1760
famous champion! Now is thy might
in flower for awhile; eftsoons will it be
that disease or the sword shall deprive thee of
strength,
or the clutch of fire, or rage of flood,
or falchion 's grip, or arrows ' flight,
or cruel age; or brightness of eyes
shall fail and darken; sudden 'twill be,
that thee, noble warrior, death shall o'erpower.
* ' Thus I the King-Danes half a hundred years
had ruled 'neath tha welkin, and saved them in
war 1770
from many tribes through this mid-earth,
with spears and swords, so that I counted
that under Heaven I had no foe.
Lo to me then came a reverse in my realm,
after merriment sadness, since Grendel became
my enemy old, and my assailant.
From that persecution have I constantly borne
great grief of mind. So thanks be to God
the Lord Eternal, that I have lived
till I on that head all clotted with gore, 1780
old conflict ended, might gaze with my eyes.
Go now to thy seat, the banquet enjoy,
O honored in battle; for us two shall be
many treasures in common, when morning shall
come. ' '
Glad was the Geat and straightway went
to take his seat, as the sage commanded.
Then as before were the famed for valor,
the sitters at court right handsomely
set feasting afresh. The night-helm grew
murky, 1789
dark o'er the vassals; the courtiers all rose;
the grizzly-haired prince would go to his bed,
the aged Scylding; the Geat, exceedingly
famed shield-warrior, desired to rest.
Him, journey-weary, come from afar,
a hall-thane promptly guided forth
who in respect had all things provided
for a thane 's need, such as in that day
farers over the sea should have.
The great-hearted rested. High rose the hall
vaulted and gold-hued ; therein slept the guest,
until the black raven, blithe-hearted, announced
the joy of heaven. Then came the bright sun
o'er the fields gliding 1803
[Beowulf returns the sword Hnmting to
Hunferth, then goes to the king and announces
his intention of returning to his fatherland.
The king repeats his thanks and praises.]
XXVn. The Parting
Then to him gave the warrior's protector,
the son of Healfdene, treasures twelve;
with those gifts bade him his own dear people
in safety to seek, and quickly return. 1869
The king, in birth noble, then kissed the prince,
the lord of the Scyldings the best of thanes; —
and round the neck clasped him; tears he shed,
the hoary headed; chances two
there were to the aged, the second stronger,
whether, (or not) they should see each other
again in conference. So dear was the man
18
ANGLO-SAXON PEEIOD
that his breast's heaving he could not restrain,
but in his bosom, in heart-bands fast,
for the man beloved his secret longing
burned in his blood. Beowulf thence, 1880
a gold-proud warrior, trod the greensward,
in treasure exulting. The sea-ganger awaited,
at anchor riding, its owner and lord.*
DEOR'S LAMENTt
Weland for a woman learned to know exile,
that haughty earl bowed unto hardship,
had for companions sorrow and longing,
the winter's cold sting, woe upon woe,
what time Nithhad laid sore need on him.
"Withering sinew-wounds! Ill-starred man! 6
That was overpassed; this may pass also.
On Beadohilde bore not so heavily
her brother's death as the dule in her own
heart 9
when she perceived, past shadow of doubt,
• Is the poem of Beowulf In any sense mytholog-
ical? Perhaps the latest and best opinion
on the subject is that it is not.
"Undoubtedly one is here on the border-
land of myth. But in the actual poem the
border is not crossed. Whatever the remote
connection of Beowulf the hero with Beowa
the god, ... to the poet of the epic its
hero is a man, and the monsters are such
as folk then believed to haunt sea and lake
and moor." — Francis B. Gummere : The Old-
est English Epic.
"The poem loses nothing of its picturesque-
ness in being denied its mythology. The flre-
drake and Grendel and the she-demon are
more terrible when conceived as uncanny and
abominable beings whose activities In the
world can only be dimly imagined by men
than they are when made mere personifica-
tions of the forces of nature. Beowulf is no
less heroic as a mortal facing with undaunted
courage these grisly phantoms of the moor
and mere, than as a god subduing the sea
or the darkness. And the proud words that
he utters In his dying hour are more impres-
sive from the lips of a man than from those
of s being who still retains some of the glory
of a god about him, — 'In my home I awaited
what time might bring me, held well my own,
sought no treacherous feuds, swore no false
oaths. In all this I can rejoice, though sick
unto death with my wounds.' " — William W.
Lawrenre : Pub. Mod. Lang. Association,
June, 1909.
t Dear's Lament is one of the poems that may
have been brought from the continent by the
Angles in their early migrations. "Its form,"
says Stopford Brooke, "Is remarkable. It has
a refrain, and there is no other early Eng-
lish instance of this known to us. It Is
written In strophes, and one motive, constant
throughout. Is expressed In the refrain. This
dominant cry of passion makes the poem a
true lyric, ... the Father of all English
lyrics. , . . Deor has been deprived of
his rpwnrds and lands, and has seen a rival
set above his head. It Is this whirling down
of Fortune's wheel that he mourns In bis
song, and he compares his fate to that of
others who have suffered, so that he may
have some comfort. B»it the comfort is stern
like that the Northmen take."
her maidhood departed, and yet could nowise
clearly divine how it might be. 12
That was o'erpassed; this may pass also.
Of Hild 's fate we have heard from many.
Land-bereaved were the Geatish chieftains,
so that sorrow left them sleepless.
That was o'erpassed; this may pass also.
Theodoric kept for thirty winters 18
in the burg of the Maerings; 'twas known of
many.
That was o'erpassed; this may pass also.
Heard have we likewise of Eormanric's mind,
wolfishly tempered; widely enthralled he
the folk of the Goth-realm ; he was a grim king.
Many a warrior sat locked in his sorrow, 24
waiting on woe; wished, how earnestly!
the reign of that king might come to an end.
That was o 'erpassed; this may pass also.
Now of myself this will I say: 35
Erewhile I was Scop of the Heodenings,
dear to my lord. Deor my name was.
A many winters I knew good service;
gracious was my lord. But now Heorrenda,
by craft of his singing, succeeds to the land-
right
that Guardian of Men erst gave unto me.
That was o'erpassed; this may pass also.
CAEDMON (fl. 670)
From the PAKAPHRASE OF THE
SCRIPTURES*
The Garden of Eden
Then beheld our Creator
the beauty of his works and the excellence of
his productions,
of the new creatures. Paradise stood
good and spiritual, filled with gifts,
with forward benefits. Fair washed 210
the genial land the running water,
the well-brook: no clouds as yet
over the ample ground bore rains
lowering with wind ; yet with fruits stood
earth adorn 'd. Held their onward course
river-streams, four noble ones,
from the new Paradise.
These were parted, by the Lord's might,
all from one (when he this earth created)
•These paraphrases of the Scriptures are com-
monly spoken of as Ciedmon's, though as-
cribed to him on very uncertain grounds.
Apart from their intrinsic worth they are
Interesting for their possible relation to Para-
dise Lost. See Eng. Lit., p. 23. The transla-
tion is the literal one of Benjamin Thorpe.
C^DMON
19
water with beauty bright, and sent into the
world. 220
The Fall of Satan
The All-powerful had angel tribes,
through might of hand, the holy Lord,
ten established, in whom he trusted well
that they his service would follow,
work his will ; therefore gave he them wit, 250
and shaped them with his hands ; the holy Lord.
He had placed them so happily, one he had
made so powerful,
so mighty in his mind's thought, he let him
sway over so much,
highest after himself in heaven 's kingdom. He
had made him so fair,
so beauteous was his form in heaven, that came
to him from the Lord of hosts,
he was like to the light stars. It was his to
work the praise of the Lord,
it was his to hold dear his joys in heaven, and
to thank his Lord
for the reward that he had bestow 'd on him in
that light; then had he let him long pos-
sess it;
but he turned it for himself to a worse thing,
began to raise war upon him,
against the highest Euler of heaven, who sitteth
in the holy seat, 260
The fiend with all his comrades fell then from
heaven above,
through as long as three nights and days,
the angels from heaven into hell, and them all
the Lord
transformed to devils, because they his deed
and word
would not revere; therefore them in a worse
light, 310
under the earth beneath. Almighty God
had placed triumphless in the swart hell;
there they ba\e at even, immeasurably long,
each of all the fiends, a renewal of fire;
then cometh ere dawn the eastern wind,
frost bitter-cold; ever fire or dart,
some hard torment they must have;
it was wrought for them in punishment.
Then spake the haughty king
who of angels erst was brightest, 338
fairest in heaven: . . .
"This narrow place is most unlike
that other that we ere knew,
high in heaven's kingdom, which my master
bestow 'd on me,
though we it, for the All-powerful, may not
possess,
must cede our realm; yet hath he not done
rightly 360
that he hath struck us down to the fiery abyss
of the hot hell, bereft us of heaven's kingdom,
hath it decreed with mankind
to people. That of sorrows is to me the
greatest,
that Adam shall, who of earth was wrought,
my strong seat possess,
be to him in delight, and we endure this tor-
ment,
misery in this hell. Oh had I power of my
hands,
and might one season be ^^-ithout,
be one winter 's space, then with this host I — 370
But around me lie iron bonds,
presseth this cord of chain: I am powerless!
me have so hard the clasps of hell,
so firmly grasped! Here is a vast fire
above and underneath, never did I see
a loathlier landskip; the flame abateth not,
hot over hell. Me hath the clasping of these
rings,
this hard-polish 'd band, impeded in my course,
debarr 'd me from my way ; my feet are bound,
my hands manacled, of these hell-doors are 380
the ways obstructed, so that with aught I cannot
from these limb-bonds escape. ' ' — From Genesis.
The Cloud by Day
Had the cloud, in its wide embrace,
the earth and firmament above alike divided:
it led the nation-host; quenched was the flame-
fire,
with heat heaven-bright. The people were
amazed,
of multitudes most joyous, their day-shield 's
shade
rolled over the clouds. The wise God had 80
the sun 's course with a sail shrouded ;
though the mast-ropes men knew not,
nor the sail-cross might they see,
the inhabitants of earth, all the enginery;
how was fastened that greatest of field-houses.
The Drowning of Pharaoh and His Army
The folk was affrighted, the flood-dread seized
on
their sad souls; ocean wailed with death,
the mountain heights were with blood be-
steamed,
the sea foamed gore, crying was in the waves,
the water full of weapons, a death-mist
rose ; *50
the Egyptians were turned back;
trembling they fled, they felt fear:
would that host gladly find their homes;
20
ANGLO-SAXON PEBIOD
their vaunt grew sadder; against them as a
cloud, rose
the fell rolling of the waves; there came not
any
of that host to home, biit from behind inclosed
them
fate with the wave. Where ways ere lay,
sea raged. Their might was merged,
the streams stood, the storm rose
high to heaven; the loudest army-cry 460
the hostile uttered ; the air above was thickened
with dying voices; blood pervaded the flood,
the shield-walls were riven, shook the firmament
that greatest of sea-deaths: the proud died,
kings in a body; the return prevailed
of the sea at length; their bucklers shone
high over the soldiers; the sea-wall rose,
the proud-ocean-stream, their might in d3ath
was
fastly fettered. — From Exodus.
BEDE (673-735)
Peom the ecclesiastical histoky.*
The Britons Seek Succor from the Romans
The Eoman Wall
From that time,i the south part of Britain,
destitute of armed soldiers, of martial stores,
and of all its active youth, which had been led
away by the rashness of the tyrants, never to
return, was wholly exposed to rapine, as being
totally ignorant of the use of weapons. Where-
upon they suffered many years under two very
savage foreign nations, the Scots from the west,
and the Picts from the north. We call these
foreign nations, not on account of their being
seated out of Britain, but because they were
remote from that part of it which was pos-
sessed by the Britons; two inlets of the sea
lying between them, one of which runs in far
and broad into the land of Britain, from the
Eastern Ocean, and the other from the West-
ern, though they do not reach so as to touch
one another.
On account of the irruption of these nations,
the Britons sent messengers to Rome with let-
ters in mournful manner, prayinjj for succours,
and promising perpetual subjection, provided
that the impending enemy should be driven
away. An armed legion was immediately sent
them, which, arriving in the island, and en-
gaging the enemy, slew a great multitude of
them, drove the rest out of the territories of
1 About 400 onwnrd.
• Sw Eny. Lit., p. 23.
their allies, and having delivered them from
their cruel oppressors, advised them to build a
wall between the two seas across the island,
that it might secure them, and keep off the
enemy ; and thus they returned home with great
triumph. The islanders raising the wall, as
they had been directed, not of stone, as having
no artist capable of such a work, but of sods,
made it of no use. However, they drew it for
many miles between the two bays or inlets of
the seas, which we have spoken of; to the end
that where the defense of the water was want-
ing, they might use the rampart to defend their
borders from the irruptions of the enemies.
Of which work there erected, that is, of a ram-
part of extraordinary breadth and height, there
are evident remains to be seen at this day. It
begins at about two miles' distance from the
monastery of Abercurnig,2 and running west-
ward, ends near the city Alcluith.3
But the former enemies, when they perceived
that the Roman soldiers were gone, immedi-
ately coming by sea, broke into the borders,
trampled and overran all places, and like men
mowing ripe corn, bore down all before them.
Hereupon messengers are again sent to Rome,
imploring aid, lest their wretched country
should be utterly extirpated, and the name of
the Roman province, so long renowned among
them, overthrown by the cruelties of barbarous
foreigners, might become utterly contemptible.
A legion is accordingly sent again, and, arriv-
ing unexpectedly in autumn, made great slaugh-
ter of the enemy, obliging all those that could
escape, to flee beyond the sea; whereas before,
they were wont yearly to carry off their booty
without any opposition. Then the Romans de-
clared to the Britons that they could not for
the future undertake such troublesome expedi-
tions for their sake, advising them rather to
handle their weapons like men, and undertake
themselves tlie charge of engaging their ene-
mies, who would not prove too powerful for
them, unless they were deterred by cowardice;
and, thinking that it might be some help to the
allies, whom they were forced to abandon, they
built a strong stone wall from sea to sea, in a
straight line between the towns that had been
there built for fear of the enemy, and not far
from the trench of SeveruR. This famous wall,
which is still to be seen, was built at the public
and private expense, the Britons also lending
their assistance. It is eight feet in breadth,
and twelve in height, in a straight line from
2 Aborcorn, a village on the south bank of the
Firth of Forth.
8 Dumbarton.
BEDE
21
east to west, as is still visible to beholders.
This being finished, they gave that dispirited
people good advice, with patterns to furnish
them with arms. Besides, they built towers on
the sea-coast to the southward, at proper dis-
tances, where their ships were, because there
also the irruptions of the barbarians were ap-
prehended, and so took leave of their friends,
never to return again. — Book I, Chapter 12.
(Translation from the Latin, eilited by J. A.
Giles.)
A Parable of Man 's Life t
The king, hearing these words, answered,
that he was both willing and bound to receive
the faith which he taught; but that he would
confer about it with his principal friends and
counsellors, to the end that if they also were
of his opinion, they might all together be
cleansed in Christ the Fountain of life. Paul-
inus consenting, the king did as he said; for,
holding a council with the wise men, he asked
of everyone in particular what he thought of
the new doctrine, and the new worship that was
preached? To which the chief of his own
priests, Coifi, immediately answered, "O king,
consider what this is which is now preached to
us; for I verily declare to you, that the religion
which we have hitherto professed has, as far as
I can learn, no virtue in it. For none of your
people has applied himself more diligently to
the worship of our gods than I; and yet there
are many who receive greater favours from
you, and are more preferred than I, and are
more prosperous in all their undertakings. Now
if the gods were good for anything, they would
rather forward me, who have been more careful
to serve them. It remains, therefore, that if
upon examination you find those new doctrines,
which are now preached to us, better and more
efiicacious, we immediately receive them with-
out any delay."
Another of the king's chief men, approving
of his words and exhortations, presently added:
"The present life of man, O king, seems to
me, in comparison of that time which is un-
known to us, like to the swift flight of a spar-
row through the room wherein you sit at sup-
per in winter, with your commanders and min-
isters, and a good fire in the midst, whilst the
storms of rain and snow prevail abroad; the
sparrow I say, flying in at one door, and imme-
diately out at another, whilst he is within, is
t This is an incident of the visit of Paullnus, who.
In the year 625. during the reign of King
Edwin (Eadwine) of Northumbria, came to
England as a missionary from Pope Gregory.
safe from the wintry storm; but after a short
space of fair weather, he immediately vanishes
out of your sight, into the dark winter from
which he had emerged. So this life of man
appears for a short space, but of what went
before, or what is to follow, we are utterly
ignorant. If, therefore, this new doctrine con-
tains something more certain, it seems justly
to desene to be followed." The other elders
and king's counsellors by Divine inspiration,
spoke to the same effect. — Book II, Chapter 13.
(Translation from the Latin, edited by J.
A. Giles.)
The Stoey op Cjedmon %
In this Abbess 's Minster was a certain brother
extraordinarily magnified and honoured with a
divine gift; for he was wont to make fitting
songs which conduced to religion and piety; so
that whatever he learned through clerks of the
holy writings, that he, after a little space,
would usually adorn with the greatest sweetness
and feeling, and bring forth in the English
tongue; and by his songs the minds of many
men were often inflamed with contempt for the
world, and with desire of heavenly life. And
moreover, many others after him, in the Eng-
lish nation, sought to make pious songs; but
yet none could do like him, for he had not been
taught from men, nor through man, to learn the
poetic art; but he was divinely aided, and
through God's grace received the art of song.
And he therefore never might make aught of
leasing* or of idle poems, but just those only
which conduced to religion, and which it be-
came his pious tongue to sing. The man was
placed in worldly life until the time that he
was of mature age, and had never learned any
poem; and he therefore often in convivial so-
ciety, when, for the sake of mirth, it was re-
solved that they all in turn should sing to the
harp, when he saw the harp approaching him,
then for shame he would rise from the assem-
bly and go home to his house.
When he so on a certain time did, that he left
the house of the convivial meeting, and was
gone out to the stall of the cattle, the care
of which that night had been committed to
him — when he there, at proper time, placed his
limbs on the bed and slept, then stood some
man by him, in a dream, and hailed and greeted
him, and named him by his name, saying
' ' Caedmon, sing me something. ' ' Then he an-
4 lying
t See Eng. Lit., p. 22. The "Minster" referred to
was the monasterv at Whitby, founded by the
Abboss Hilda in 658,
n
ANGLO-SAXON PEKIOD
Bwered and said, * ' I cannot sing anything, and
therefore I went out from this convivial meet-
ing, and retired hither, because I could not."
Again he who was speaking with him said,
♦ ' Yet thou must sing to me. ' ' Said he, ' ' What
shall I sing?" Said he, "Sing me the origin
of things. ' ' When he received this answer, then
he began forthwith to sing, in praise of God
the creator, the verses and the words which he
had never heard, the order of which is this:
"Now must we praise
the Guardian of heaven's kingdom,
the Creator's might,
and his mind's thought;
glorious Father of men!
as of every wonder he,
Lord eternal,
formed the beginning.
He first framed
for the children of earth
the heaven as a roof;
holy Creator!
then mid-earth,
the Guardian of mankind,
the eternal Lord,
afterwards produced;
the earth for men,
Lord Almighty!"
Then he arose from sleep, and had fast in
mind all that he sleeping had sung, and to
those words forthwith joined many words of
song worthy of God in the same measure.
Then came he in the morning to the town-
reeve, who was his superior, and said to him
what gift he had received; and he forthwith
led him to the abbess, and told, and made that
known to her. Then she bade all the most
learned men and the learners to assemble, and
in their presence bade him tell the dream, and
sing the poem; that, by the judgment of them
all, it might be determined why or whence that
was come. Then it seemed to them all, so as
it was, that to him, from the Lord himself, a
heavenly gift had been given. Then they ex-
pounded to him and said some holy history,
and words of godly lore; then bade him, if he
could, to sing some of them, and turn them into
the melody of song. When he had undertaken
the thing, then went he home to his house,
and came again in the morning, and sang and
gave to them, adorned with the best poetry,
what had been entrusted to him.
Then began the abbess to make much of and
love the grace of God in the man; and she
then exhorted and instructed him to forsake
worldly life and take to monkhood: and he that
well approved. And she received him into the
minster with his goods, and associated him
with the congregation of those servants of God,
and caused him to be taught the series of the
Holy History and Gospel; and he, all that he
could learn by hearing, meditated with him-
self, and, as a cleans animal, ruminating, turned
into the sweetest verse: and his song and his
verse were so winsome to hear, that his teach-
ers themselves wrote and learned from his
mouth. He first sang of earth's creation, and
of the origin of mankind, and all the history
of Genesis, which is the first book of Moses,
and then of the departure of the people of
Israel from the Egyptians' land, and of the
entrance of the land of promise, and of many
other histories of the canonical books of Holy
Writ; and of Christ's incarnation, and of his
passion, and of his ascension into heaven; and
of the coming of the Holy Ghost, and the doc-
trine of the Apostles. And also of the terror
of the doom to come, and the fear of hell
torment, and the sweetness of the heavenly
kingdom, he made many poems; and, in like
manner, many others of the divine benefits and
judgments he made; in all which he earnestly
took care to draw men from the love of sins
and wicked deeds, and to excite to a love and
desire of good deeds; for he was a very pious
man, and to regular discipliness humbly sub-
jected; and against those who in otherwise
would act, he was inflamed with the heat of
great zeal. And he therefore with a fair end
his life closed and ended.
For when the time approached of his decease
and departure, then was he for fourteen days
ere that oppressed and troubled with bodily in-
firmity; yet so moderately that, during all that
time, he could both speak and walk. There was
in the neighbourhood a house for infirm men, in
which it was their custom to bring the infirm,
and those who were on the point of departure,
and there attend to them together. Then bade
he his servant, on the eve of the night that he
was going from the world, to prepare him a
place in that house, that he might rest ; where-
upon the servant wondered why he this bade,
for it seemed to him that his departure was
not so near; yet he did as he said and com-
manded. And when he there went to bed, and
in joyful mood was speaking some things, and
joking together with those who were therein
previously, then it was over midnight that he
asked, whether they had the eucharist' within t
5 In thp ceremonial sense (see Levlticun. xi).
« penances 7 host, or consoo rated broad
CYNEWULF
23
They answered, "What need is to thee of the
eucharist? Thy departure is not so near, now
thou thus cheerfully and thus gladly art speak-
ing to us." Again he said, "Bring me never-
theless the eucharist."
When he had it in his hands, he asked,
Wliether they had all a placid mind and kind,
and without any iU-wiU towards himf Then
they all answered, and said, that they knew
of no ill-will towards him, but they all were
very kindly disposed and they besought him in
turn that he would be kindly disposed to them
all. Then he answered and said, "My beloved
brethren, I am very kindly disposed to you and
all God's men." And he thus was strengthen-
ing himself with the heavenly viaticum,* and
preparing himself an entrance into another
life. Again he asked, ' * How near it was to the
hour that the brethren must rise and teach the
people of God, and sing their nocturnsf"^
They answered, "It is not far to that." He
said, "It is well, let us await the hour. ' ' And
then he prayed, and signed himself with
Christ 's cross, and reclined his head on the bol-
ster, and slept for a little space; and so with
stillness ended his life. And thus it was, that
as he with pure and calm mind and tranquil
devotion had served God, that he, in like man-
ner, left the world with as calm a death, and
went to His presence; and the tongue that had
composed so many holy words in the Creator's
praise, he then in like manner its last words
closed in His praise, crossing himself, and com-
mitting his soul into His hands. Thus it is
seen that he was conscious of his own depart-
ure, from what Me have now heard say. — Book
IV., Chapter 24. (Translated from Latin into
Anglo-Saxon by Alfred the Great. Modern
English translation by Benjamin Thorpe.)
CYNEWULF (fl. 750)*
BIDDLE II.
Who so wary and so wise of the warriors lives,
That he dare declare who doth drive me on my
way,
When I start up in my strength ! Oft in stormy
wrath,
Hugely then I thimder, tear along in gusts,
sprovlsioDs for a journey (in this case the eu-
charist)
9 service before daybreak
* These extracts from Cynewulf s writings are
translations by Mr. Stopford Brooke, and
have l)een taken from Mr. Brooke's History of
Early English Literature by permission of the
publishers, Messrs. Macmillan & Co.
Fare above the floor of earth, bum the folk-
halls down, 5
Ravage aU the rooms ! There the reek ariseth
Gray above the gables. Great on earth the din,
And the slaughter-qualm of men. Then I shake
the woodland,
Forests rich in fruits ; then I fell the trees ; —
I with water over-vaulted — by the wondrous
Powers 10
Sent upon my way, far and wide to drive along !
On my back I carry that which covered once
AU the tribes of Earth's indweUers, spirits and
all flesh.
In the sand together! Say who shuts me in,
Or what is my name — I who bear this burden!
Answer: A Storm on Land.
KIDDLE VI.
I am all alone, with the iron wounded,
With the sword slashed into, sick of work of
battle,
Of the edges weary. Oft I see the slaughter.
Oft the fiercest fighting. Of no comfort
ween I,—
So that, in the battle-brattling,i help may bring
itself to me; 5
Ere I, with the warriors, have been utterly for-
done.
But the heritage of hammers- hews adown at
me,
Stark of edges, sworded-sharp, of the smiths
the handiwork,
On me biting in the burgs! Worse the bat-
tle is
I must bear for ever! Not one of the Leech-
kin,3 10
In the fold-stead, could I find out,
Who, with herbs he has, then should heal me of
my wound !
But the notching of my edges more and more
becomes
Through the deadly strokes of swords, in the
daylight, in the night.
Of the Shield.
RIDDLE XV.
I a weaponed warrior was! Now in pride
bedecks me
A young serving-man all with silver and fine
gold,
With the work of waving gyres!* Warriors
sometimes kiss me;
Sometimes I to strife of battle summon with
my calling
Willing war-companions! Whiles, the horse
doth carry 5
1 battle uproar
2 swords
3 physicians
4 circles
24
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD
Me the march-paths over, or the ocean-stallion
Fares the floods with me, flashing in my jew-
els — •
Often times a bower-maiden, all bedecked with
armlets,
Filleth up my bosom; whiles, bereft or covers,
I must, hard and heedless, (in the houses)
lie! 10
Then, again, hang I, with adornments fretted,
Winsome on the wall where the warriors drink.
Sometimes the folk-fighters, as a fair thing on
warfaring.
On the back of horses bear nie; then bedecked
with jewels
Shall I puflf with wind from a warrior's
breast. 15
Then, again, to glee-feasts I the guests invite
fiaughty heroes to the wine — other whiles
shall I
With my shouting save from foes what is stolen
away.
Make the plundering seather flee. Ask what is
my name!
Of the Horn,
From the CHRIST.f
Then the Courage-hearted quakes, when the
King he hears 797
Speak the words of wrath — Him the wielder of
the Heavens —
t The Christ is a poem dealing with the Nativity
and Ascension of Christ, and the Day of
Judgment. Our extracts are from the bymn-
llke passage which presages the Judgment
and the poet's dread upon that day, and which
closes with a vision of the stormy voyage
of life ending in serenity. Cynewulf signed
some of his poems acrostically by inserting
runes which spelt his name. Runes were
characters which represented words as well
as letters, just as our letter "B" might stand
for the words he or bee. Those used in this
passage of which we give a portion are :
O ~ C = cene = keen, bold one
1*^ = Y = yfel = wretched
^ = N = nyd = need
^
«= E = eh = horse
= W = wyn = joy
= U = ur = our
= L = lagu = water
— F — feoh — wealth
Speak to those who once on earth but obeyed
him weakly,
While as yet their Yearning pain and their
Need most easily
Comfort might discover. . . .
Gone is then the Winsomeness
Of the Earth's adornments! What to TJs as
men belonged 806
Of the joys of life was locked, long ago, in
Lake-Flood,^
All the Feel on Earth. . . .
Mickle is our need
That in. this unfruitful time, ere that fearful
Dread,
On our spirit's fairness we should studiously
bethink us! 850
Now most like it is as if we on lake of ocean,
O 'er the water cold in our keels are sailing,
And through spacious sea, with our stallions
of the Sound,8
Forward drive the flood-wood. Fearful is the
stream
Of immeasurable surges that we sail on here.
Through this wavering world, through these
windy oceans,
O 'er the path profound. Perilous our state of
life
E'er that we had sailed (our ship) to the shore
(at last).
O'er the rough sea-ridges. Then there reached
us help.
That to hitheo of Healing homeward led us
on — 860
He the Spirit-Son of God ! And he dealt us
grace,
So that we should be aware, from the vessel 'a
deck,
Where our stallions of the sea we might stay
with ropes,
Fast a-riding by their anchors — ancient horses
of the waves!
Let us in that haven then all our hope estab-
lish.
Which the ruler of the ^ther there has roomed
for us,
When He climbed to Heaven — Holy in the
Highest !
From the ELENE.J
Forth then fared the folk-troop, and a fighting-
lay 27
n The Deluge 7 property R ships 8 harbor
t The Elenc la the story of St. Ilclona, the mother
of Constantlne the Great, who made a pil-
grimage to Jerusalem in search of the Holy
Cross. The lines quoted describe the battle In
which Constantino Is victorious over the
Huns. See Brooke's Early English Literature,
pp. 405-40Q.
ANGEO-SAXOX CHfiONICLE
25
Sang the Wolf in woodland, wailed a slaughter-
rune !
Dewy-feathered, on the foes' track,
Eaised the Earnio his song. , . .
Loud upsang the Raven
Swart, and slaughter-fell. Strode along the
war-host; 53
Blew on high the horn-bearers; heralds of the
battle shouted;
Stamped the earth the stallion; and the host
assembled
Quickly to the quarrel!
Sang the trumpets
Loud before the war-hosts; loved the work the
raven: 110
Dewy-plumed, the earn looked upon the march ;
Song the wolf uplifted,
Banger of the holtl^i Eose the Terror of the
battle !
There was rush of shields together, crush of
men together.
Hard hand-swinging there, and of hosts down-
dinging.
After that they first encountered flying of the
arrows !
On that fated folk, full of hate the hostersi2
grim
Sent the showers of arrows, spears above the
yellow shields;
Forth they shot then snakes of battleis
Through the surge of furious foes, by the
strength of fingers! 120
Strode the starki* in spirit, stroke on stroke
they pressed along;
Broke into the wall of boardsis, plunged the
billis therein:
Thronged the bold in battle! There the banner
was uplifted;
(Shone) the ensign 'fore the host; victory's
song was sung.
Glittered there his javelins, and his golden
helm
On the field of fight ! Till in death the heathen,
Jovless fell!
From the ANGLO-SAXON
CHRONICLE*
Anno 409. This year the Goths took the city
of Rome by storm, and after this the Romans
never ruled in Britain; and this was about
eleven hundred and ten years after it had been
10 eagle
11 wood
12 soldiers, host
13 darts
14 firm
15 shields
16 sword
• See Eng. Lit., p. 28.
built. Altogether they ruled in Britain four
hundred and seventy years since Gains Julius
first sought the land.
Anno 418. This year the Romans collected
all the treasures that were in Britain, and some
they hid in the earth, so that no one has since
been able to find them ; and some .they carried
with them into Gaul.
Anno 443. This year the Britons sent over
sea to Rome, and begged for help against the
Picts; but they had none, because they were
themselves warring against Attila, king of the
Huns. And then they sent to the Angles, and
entreated the like of the athelingsi of the
Angles.
Anno 449. This year Martianus and Valen-
tinus suceeedetl to the empire, and reigned
seven years. And in their days Hengist and
Horsa, invited by Vortigern, king of the Brit-
ons, landed in Britain, on the shore which is
called Wippidsfleet; at first in aid of the Brit-
ons, but afterwards they fought against them.
King Vortigern gave them land in the south-
east of this country, on condition that they
should fight against the Picts. Then they fought
against the Picts, and had the victory whereso-
ever they came. They then sent to the Angles ;
desired a larger force to be sent, and caused
them to be told the worthlessness of the Brit-
ons, and the excellencies of the land. Then
they soon sent thither a larger force in aid of
the others. At that time there came men from
three tribes in Germany; from the Old-Saxons,
from the Angles, from the Jutes. From the
Jutes came the Kentish-men and the Wight-
warians, that is, the tribe which now dwells in
Wight, and that race among the West-Saxons
which is still called the race of Jutes. From
the Old-Saxons came the men of Essex and
Sussex and Wessex. From Anglia, which has
ever since remained waste betwixt the Jutes
and Saxons, came the men of East Anglia, Mid-
dle Anglia, Mercia, and all North-humbria.
Their leaders were two brothers, Hengist and
Horsa: they were the sons of Wihtgils; Wiht-
gils son of Witta, Witta of Wecta, Wecta of
Woden: from this Woden sprang all our royal
families, and those of the South-humbrians
also.t
Anno 455, This year Hengist and Horsa
fought against King Vortigern at the place
which is called .^gels-threp2 and his brother
1 princes 2 Aylesford
f The language here appears to be that of a north-
ern chronicler. The MS. of this portion has
been traced to Peterborough.
26
ANGLO-SAXON PEEIOD
Uorsa was there slain, and after that Hengist
obtained the kingdom, and ^sc his son.
Anno 565. This year Ethelbert succeeded
to the kingdom of the Kentish-men, and held
it fifty-three years. In his days the holy pope
Gregory sent us baptism, that was in the two
and thirtieth year of his reign: and Columba,
a mass-priest, came to the Picts, and converted
them to the faith of Christ: they are dwellers
by the northern mountains. And their king
gave him the island which is called Ii3: therein
are five hidest of land, as men say. There
Columba built a monastery, and he was abbot
there thirty-seven years, and there he died
when he was seventy-two years old. His suc-
cessors still have the place. The Southern Picts
had been baptized long before: Bishop Ninia,
who had been instructed at Eome, had preached
baptism to them, whose church and his mon-
astery is at Whitherne, consecrated in the name
of St. Martin: there he resteth, with many holy
men. Now in li there must ever be an abbot,
and not a bishop; and all the Scottish bishops
ought to be subject to him because Columba
was an abbot and not a bishop.
Anno. 596. This year Pope Gregory sent Au-
gustine to Britain, with a great many monks,
who preached the word of God to the nation of
the Angles.
Anno 871. . . . And about fourteen
days after this, King Ethelred and Alfred his
brother fought against the army* at Basing,
and there the Danes obtained the victory. And
about two months after this. King Ethelred
and Alfred his brother fought against the
army at Marden ; and they* were in two bodies,
and theys put both to flight, and during a
great part of the day were victorious ; and there
was great slaughter on either hand; but the
Danes had possession of the place of carnage:
and there Bishop Heahmund was slain, and
many good men: and after this battle there
came a great army in the summer to Beading.
And after this, over Easter, king Ethelred
died; and he reigned five years and his body
lies at Winburn-minster.
Then Alfred the son of Ethelwulf, his
brother, succeeded to the kingdom of the West-
Saxons. And about one month after this, king
Alfred with a small band fought against the
whole army at Wilton, and put them to flight
for a good part of the day; but the Danes had
B lona 4 the Danes s Etholred and Alfred
t Varioufily estimated at from 00 to 120 a<-roH.
possession of the place of carnage. And this
year nine general battles were fought against
the army in the kingdom south of the Thames,
besides which Alfred the king's brother, and
single ealdormen.t and king's thanes, often
times made incursions on them, which were not
counted: and within the year nine earls and one
king were slain. And that year the West-
Saxons made peace with the army. — (From the
translation edited by J. A. Giles.)
The Battle of Brunanburh *
Anno 937. Here Athelstan the King, ruler of
earls,
ring-giver to chieftains, and his brother eke,
Edmund Atheling,i lifelong honor
struck out with the edges of swords in battle
at Brunanburh: they cleft the shield-wall,2
hewed the war-lindenss with the leavings of
hammers,*
these heirs of Edward; for fitting it was
to their noble descent that oft in the battle
'gainst foes one and all the land they should
fend,
the hoards and the homes. The enemy fell,
Scot-folk and seamen,5 H
.death-doomed they fell; slippery the field
with the blood of men, from sunrise
when at dawn the great star
stole o'er the earth, the bright candle of God
the Eternal Lord, till the noble creation
sank to its seat. There lay many a one
slain by a spear, many a Norseman
shot o'er his shield, many a Scotsman
weary and sated with strife. The men of
Wessex 20
in troops the live-long day
followed on the footsteps of the hostile folk.
From the rear they fiercely struck the fleeing
with the sharp-ground swords. The Mercians
did not stint
hard hand-play to any of the heroes
who with Anlaf o 'er the wave-weltero
in the bosom of boats sought the land,
doomed to fall in the fight. On the field
t nobles
1 prince
2 The Germanic phalanx, In which the shields were
overlapped.
3 shields made of linden wood
4 swords, hammered out
5 the Danes
8 ocean
♦ This poem is, says Professor Bright, "the most
Important of the poetic insertions in the An-
glo-Saxon Chronicles." It records the victory
of Athelstan, son of Edward, grandson of Al-
fred the Great and king of the West Saxons
and the Mercians, over a combination Includ-
ing Danes from Northumbrla and Ireland.
Scots, and Welsh. The Danes were headed by
Anlaf (or Olaf), the Scots by Constantino.
ALFRED THE GBEAT
27
five young kings lay killed,
put to sleep by swords; and seven too 30
of the earls of Anlaf, and countless warriors
of the seamen and the Scotch: routed was
the Norsemen 's king, forced by need
with a little band to the boat's bow.
The galley gUded on the waves; the king fled
forth
on the fallow flood; so he saved his life.
And so by flight to his northern kinsfolk
came that wise one, Constantine,
gray battle man; boast he durst not
of the strife of swords; shorn of kinsfolk was
he, *0
fallen on the battle-field his friends,
slain were they in strife; and his son, young
for war,
left he on the slaughter-spot sore wounded.
Gray-haired hero, hoary traitor,
boast he durst not of the brand-clash ; ^
nor could Anlaf with their armies shattered
laugh that they the better were in battle- work,
in the fight of banners on the battle-field,
in the meeting of the spears, in the mingling of
the men,
in the strife of weapons on the slaughter-field 50
which they played with Edward 's heirs.
Departed then the Northmen in the nailed
ships,
a dreary leaving of dartss on the dashing sea.
O'er the deep water Dublin they sought,
Ireland again, abashed.
So the brethren both together.
King and Atheling, sought their kinsfolk
and West-Saxon land, from war exultant;
left behind to share the slain
the dusky-coated, the dark raven 60
horny-beaked, and the eagle white bdiind,
gray-coated, the carrion to consume,
the greedy war-hawk, and that gray beast,
the wolf in the weald.s Nor had greater
slaughter
ever yet upon this island
e'er before a folk befallen
by sword-edges, say the books,
those old wise ones,!^ since from Eastward
hither
Angles and Saxons on advanced, 69
o'er the waters wide sought the Britons,
warsmiths proud o 'ercame the Welsh,
Earls honor-hungry got this homeland, n
— (Translated by Lindsay Todd Damon.)
7 clashing of swords
8 The few left alive.
9 forest
10 In apposition with "books."
11 Referring to the Anglo-Saxon conquest of Brit-
ain in the fifth century.
ALFRED THE GREAT (849-901)
Ohthere's Narrative.*
Ohthere told his lord King Alfred, that he
dwelt northmost of all the Northmen. He said
that he dwelt in the land to the northward,
along the West-Sea; he said, however, that that
land is very long north from thence, but it is
all waste except in a few places where the
Finns here and there dwell, for hunting in the
winter, and in the summer for fishing in that
sea. He said that he was desirous to try, once
on a time, how far that country extended due
north, or whether any one lived to the north of
the waste. He then went due north along the
country, leaving all the way the waste land on
the right, and the wide sea on the left, for three
days: he was as far north as the whale-hunters
go at the farthest. Then he proceeded in his
course due north as far as he could sail in
another three days; then the land there in-
clined due east, or the sea into the land, he knew
not which, but he knew that he there waited
for a west wind, or a little north, and sailed
thence eastward along that land as far as he
could sail in four days; then he had to wait for
a due north wind, because the land there in-
clined due south, or the sea in on that land, he
knew not which; he then sailed along the coast
due south, as far as he could sail in five days.
There lay a great river* up in that land; they
then turned up in that river, because they durst
not sail on by that river, on account of hos-
tility, because all that country was inhabited
on the other side of that river; he had not be-
fore met with aay land that was inhabited since
he came from 'his own home; but all the way
he had waste land on his right, except for fish-
ermen, fowlers, and hunters, all of whom were
FinnSj^^ and he had constantly a wide sea to the
left. The Beormasz had well cultivated their
country, but they did not dare to enter it ; and
the Terfinna lands was all waste, except where
hunters, fishers, or fowlers had taken up their
quarters.
The Beormas told him many particulars both
of their own land, and of the other lands lying
about them; but he knew not what was true,
because he did not see it himself; it seemed
1 The Dwina.
2 A people east of the Dwina.
3 The region between the Gulf of Bothnia and the
North Cape.
• From the addition made by King .\lfred to his
translation of Orosius' History of the World;
modern English translation by Benjamin
Thorpe. Ohthere was a Norwegian sailor,
who, straying to Alfred's court, was eagerly
questioned. See Eng. Lit., p. 26.
28
ANGLO-SAXON PEBIOD
to him that the Finns and the Beormas spoke
nearly one language. He went thither chiefly,
in addition to seeing the country, on account
of the walruses, because they have very noble
bones in their teeth; some of those teeth they
brought to the king; and their hides are good
for ship-ropes. This whale is much less than
other whales, it being not longer than seven
ells; but in his own country is the best whale-
hunting, — there they are eight and forty ells
long, and the biggest of them fifty ells long; of
these he said that he and five others had killed
sixty in two days. He was a very wealthy man
in those possessions in which their wealth con-
sists, that is in wild deer. He had at the time
he came to the king, six hundred unsold tame
deer. These deer they call rein-deer, of which
there were six decoy rein-deer, which are very
valuable among the Finns, because they catch
the wild rein-deer with them.
He was one of. the foremost men in that
country, yet he had not more than twenty
horned cattle, and twenty sheep, and twenty
swine, and the little that he ploughed he
ploughed with horses.* But their wealth con-
sists for the most part in the rent paid them
by the Finns. That rent is in skins of animals,
and birds' feathers, and whalebone, and in
ship-ropes made of whales ' hides, and of seals '.
Everyone pays according to his birth ; the best-
born, it is said, pay the skins of fifteen mar-
tens, and five rein-deer 's, and one bear 's skin,
ten ambers* of feathers, a bear's or otter's
skin kirtle, and two ship-ropes, each sixty ells
long, made either of 'whale-hide or of seal 's.
He said that the Northmen's land was very
long and narrow; all that his man could either
pasture or plough lies by the sea, though that
is in some parts very rocky; and to the east are
wild mountains, parallel to the cultivated land.
The Finns inhabit these mountains, send the
cultivated land is broadest to the eastward, and
continually narrower the more north. To the
east it may be sixty miles broad, or a little
broader, and towards the middle thirty, or
broader; and northward, he said, where it is
narrowest, that it might be three miles broad to
* forty bushels
• The Anglo-Saxons plowed with oxen.
the mountain, and the mountain then is in some
parts so broad that a man may pass over in
two weeks, and in some parts so broad that a
man may pass over in six days. Then along
this land southwards, on the other side of the
mountain, is Sweden; to that land northwards,
and along that land northwards, Cwenland.*
The Cwenas sometimes make depredations on
the Northmen over the mountain, and sometimes
the Northmen on them ; there are very large
fresh meres amongst the mountains, and the
Cwenas carry thoir ships over land into the
meres, and thence make depredations on the
Northmen; they have very little ships, and very
light.
Ohthere said that the shire in which he
dwelt is called Halgoland. He said that no one
dwelt to the north of him; there is likewise a
port to the south of that land, which is called
Sciringes-heal;6 thither, he said, no one could
sail in a month, if he landed at night, and
every day had a fair wind ; and all the while he
would sail along the land, and on the starboard
will first be Iraland,^ and then the islands
which are between Iraland and this land.s Then
it is this land until he come to Sciringes-heal,
and all the way on the larboard, Norway. To
the south of Sciringes-heal, a very great sea
runs up into the land, which is broader than
any one can see over; and Jutland is opposite
on the other side, and then Zealand. This sea
runs many miles up in that land. And from
Sciringes-heal, he said that he sailed in five
days to that port wiuch is called ^t-H«ethum,»
which is between the Wends, and Saxons, and
Angles, and belongs to Denmark.
When he sailed thitherward from Sciringes-
heal, Denmark was on his left, and on the right
a wide sea for three days, and two days before
he came to Hsethum he had on the right Jut-
land, Zealand, and many islands. In these
lands the Angles dwelt before they came hither
to this land. And then for two days he had
on his left the islands which belong to Den-
mark.
n Between the Gulf of Bothnia and the White Sea.
6 In the Gulf of Chrlstlnnla.
7 Ireland (meaning Scotland; or possibly an error
for Iceland).
8 England > Sleswlg
ANGLO-NORMAN PERIOD
f{
GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH
(c. 1100-1154)
The Stoey of King Leie*
After this unhappy fate of Bladud, Leir, his
son, was advanced to the throne, and nobly
governed his country sixty years. He built
upon the river Sore a city, called in the British
tongue, Kaerleir, in the Saxon, Leircestre. He
was without male issue, but had three daugh-
ters, whose names were Gonorilla, Kegau, and
Cordeilla, of whom he was dotingly fond, but
especially of his youngest, Cordeilla. When he
began to grow old, he had thoughts of dividing
his kingdom among them, and of bestowing
them on such husbands as were fit to be ad-
vanced to the government with them. But to
make trial who was worthy to have the best
part of his kingdom, he went to each of them
to ask which of them loved him most. The
question being proposed, Gonorilla, the eldest,
made answer, "That she called heaven to wit-
ness, she loved him more than her own soul."
The father replied, "Since you have preferred
my declining age before your own life, I will
marry you, my dearest daughter, to whomso-
ever you shall make choice of, and give with
you the third part of my kingdom." Then
Kegau, the second daughter, willing, after the
example of her sister, to prevail upon her
father's good nature, answered with an oath,
"That she could not otherwise express her
thoughts, but that she loved him above all
creatures." The credulous father upon this
made her the same promise that he did to her
eldest sister, that is, the choice of a husband,
with the third part of his kingdom. But Cor-
deilla, the youngest, understanding how easily
he was satisfied with the flattering expressions
of her sisters, Avas desirous to make trial of his
affection after a different manner. "My
father," said she, "is there any daughter that
can love her father more than duty requires?
• From the Historia Britonum Regum, Book 11,
Chapters XI.-XIV. TransTa!Ioff from the
I>atin edited by J. A. Giles. See Eng. Lit., p.
37.
In my opinion, whoever pretends to it, must
disguise her real sentiments under the veil of
flattery. I have always loved you as a father,
nor do I yet depart from my purposed duty;
and if you insist to have something more ex-
torted from me, hear now the greatness of my
affection, which I always bear you, and take
this for a short answer to all your questions;
look how much you have, so much is your value,
and so much do I love you." The father, sup-
posing that she spoke this out of the abund-
ance of her heart, was highly provoked, and
immediately replied, "Since you have so far
despised my old age as not to think me worthy
the love that your sisters express for me, you
shall have from me the like regard, and shall
be excluded from any share with your sisters
in my kingdom. Notwithstanding, I do not say
but that since you are my daughter, I will
marry you to some foreigner, if fortune offers
you any such husband; but will never, I do
assure you, make it my business to procure so
honourable a match for you as for your sis-
ters; because, though I have hitherto loved you
more than them, you have in requital thought
me less worthy of your affection than they."
And, without further delay, after consultation
with his nobility, he bestowed his two other
daughters upon the dukes of Cornwall and Al-
bania, with half the island at present, but after
his death, the inheritance of the whole mon-
archy of Britain.
It happened after this, that Aganippus, king
of the Franks, having heard of the fame of
Cordeilla 's beauty, forthwith sent his ambassa-
dors to the king to demand her in marriage.
The father, retaining yet his anger towards her,
made answer, "That he was very wilUng to be-
stow his daughter, but without either money
or territories; because he had already given
away his kingdom with all his treasure to hia
eldest daughters, Gonorilla and Kegau." When
this was told Aganippus, he, being very much
in love with the lady, sent again to king Leir,
to tell him, "That he had money and terri-
tories enough, as he possessed the third part of
Gaul, and desired no more than his daughter
only, that he might have heirs by her." At
29
30
ANGLO-NORMAN PERIOD
last the match was concluded; Cordeilla was
sent to Gaul, and married to Aganippus.
A long time after this, when Leir came to be
infirm through old age, the two dukes, on whom
he had bestowed Britain with his two daughters,
fostered an insurrection against him, and de-
prived him of his kingdom, and of all regal au-
thority, which he had hitherto exercised with
great power and glory. At length, by mutual
agreement, Maglaunus, duke of Albania, one of
his sons-in-law, was to allow him a mainte-
nance at his own house, together with sixty sol-
diers, who were to be kept for state. After
two years' stay with his son-in-law, his daugh-
ter Gonorilla grudged the number of his men,
who began to upbraid the ministers of the
court with their scanty allowance; and, having
spoken to her husband about it, she gave orders
that the number of her father 's followers should
be reduced to thirty, and the rest discharged.
The father, resenting this treatment, left Mag-
launus, and went to Henuinus, duke of Corn-
wall, to whom he had married his daughter
Regau. Here he met with an honourable recep-
tion, but before the year was at an end, a
quarrel happened between the two families
which raised Regau's indignation; so that she
commanded her father to discharge all his at-
tendants but five, and to be contented with their
service. This second affliction was insupportable
to him, and made him return again to his former
daughter, with hopes that the misery of his
condition might move in her some sentiments of
filial piety, and that he, with his family, might
find a subsistence with her. But she, not for-
getting her resentment, swore by the gods he
should not stay with her, unless he would dis-
miss his retinue, and be contented with the at-
tendance of one man; and with bitter re-
proaches she told him how ill his desire of vain-
glorious pomp suited his age and poverty.
When he found that she was by no means to be
prevailed upon, he was at last forced to com-
ply, and, dismissing the rest, to take up with
one man only. But by this time he began to
reflect more sensibly with himself upon the
grandeur from which he had fallen, and the
miserable state to which he was now reduced,
and to enter upon thoughts of going beyond
sea to his youngest daughter. Yet he doubted
•whether he should be able to move her commis-
seration, because (as was related above) he
bad treated her so unworthily. However, dis-
daining to bear any longer such base usage, he
took ship for Gaul. In his passage he observed
he bad only the third place given him among
tbe princes that were with bim in the ship, at
which, with deep sighs and tears, he burst forth
into the following complaint: —
"0 irreversible decrees of the Fates, that
never swerve from your stated course! why did
you ever advance me to an unstable felicity,
since the punishment of lost happiness is
greater than the sense of present misery? The
remembrance of the time when vast numbers
of men obsequiously attended me in the taking
the cities and wasting the enemy's countries,
more deeply pierces my heart than the view of
my present calamity, which has exposed me to
the derision of those who were formerly pros-
trate at my feet. Oh! the enmity of fortune!
Shall I ever again see the day when I may be
able to reward those according to their deserts
who have forsaken me in my distress? How
true was thy answer, Cordeilla, when I asked
thee concerning thy love to me, 'As mucli as
you have, so much is your value, and so much
do I love you.' While I had anything to give,
they valued me, being friends, not to me, but
to my gifts: they loved m.e then, but they loved
my gifts much more: when my gifts ceased, my
friends vanished. But with what face shall I
presume to see you, my dearest daughter, since
in my anger I married you upon worse terms
than your sisters, who, after all the mighty
favours they have received from me, suffer me
to be in banishment and poverty?"
As he was lamenting his condition in these
and the like expressions, he arrived at Karitia,i
where his daughter was, and waited before the
city while he sent a messenger to inform her
of the misery he was fallen into, and to desire
her relief for a father who suffered both hunger
and nakedness. Cordeilla was startled at the
news, and wept bitterly, and with tears asked
how many men her father had with him. The
messenger answered, he had none but one man,
who had been his armour-bearer, and was stay-
ing with him without the town. Then she took
what money she thought might be sufficient,
and gave it to the messenger, with orders to
carry her father to another city, and there give
out that he was sick, and to provide for him
bathing, clothes, and all other nourishment. She
likewise gave orders that he should take into
his service forty men, well clothed and ac-
coutred, and that when all things were thus
prepared he should notify his arrival to king
Aganippus and his daughter. The messenger
quickly returning, carried Leir to another city,
and there kept him concealed, till he had done
everything that Cordeilla had commanded.
1 Calais
GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH
31
As soon as he was provided with his royal
apparel, ornaments, and retinue, he sent word
to Aganippus and his daughter, that he was
driven out of his kingdom of Britain by his
sons-in-law, and was come to them to procure
their assistance for recovering his dominions.
Upon which they, attended with their chief
ministers of state and the nobility of the king-
dom, went out to meet him, and received him
honourably, and gave into his management the
whole power of Gaul, till such time as he should
be restored to his former dignity.
In the meantime Aganippus sent officers over
all Gaul to raise an army, to restore his father-
in-law to his kingdom of Britain. Which done,
Leir returned to Britain with his son and
daughter and the forces which they had raised,
where he fought with his sons-in-law and routed
them. Having thus reduced the whole kingdom
to his power, he died the third year after.
Aganippus also died; and Cordeilla, obtaining
the government of the kingdom, buried her
father in a certain vault, which she ordered to
be made for him under the river Sore, in Lei-
cester, and which had been built originally
under the ground to the honour of the god
Janus.2 And here all the workmen of the city,
upon the anniversary solemnity of that festival,
used to begin their yearly labours.
Arthur Mab:es the Saxons His Tributaries
After a few days they went to relieve the
city Kaerliudcoit, that was besieged by the
pagans; which being situated upon a moun-
tain, between two rivers in the province of
Lindisia, is called by another name Lindoco-
linum.i As soon as they arrived there with all
their forces, they fought with the Saxons, and
made a grievous slaughter of them, to the num-
ber of six thousand; part of whom were
drowned in the rivers, part fell by the hands
of the Britons. The rest in a great consterna-
tion quitted the siege and fled, but were closely
pursued by Arthur, till they came to the wood
of Celidon, where they endeavoured to form
themselves into a body again, and make a stand.
And here they again joined battle with the
Britons, and made a brave defence, whilst the
trees that were in the place secured them
against the enemies' arrows. Arthur, seeing
this, commanded the trees that were in that part
of the wood to be cut down, and the trunks to
be placed quite round them, so as to hinder
their getting out ; resolving to keep them pent
up here till he could reduce them by famine.
He then commanded his troops to besiege the
2 During the Roman occupation, t Lincoln
wood, and continued three days in that place.
The Saxons, having now no provisions to sus-
tain them, and being just ready to starve with
hunger, begged for leave to go out; in consid-
eration whereof they offered to leave all their
gold and silver behind them, and return back
to Germany with nothing but their empty ships.
They promised also that they would pay him
tribute from Germany, and leave hostages with
him. Arthur, after consultation about it,
granted their petition ; allowing them only leave
to depart, and retaining all their treasures, as
also hostages for payment of the tribute. But
as they were under sail on their return home,
they repented of their bargain, and tacked
about again towards Britain, and went on shore
at Totness. No sooner were they landed, than
they made an utter devastation of the country
as far as the Severn sea, and put all the peas-
ants to the sword. From thence they pursued
their furious march to the town of Bath, and
laid siege to it. When the king had intelli-
gence of it, he was beyond measure surprised at
their proceedings, and immediately gave orders
for the execution of the hostages. And desist-
ing from an attempt which he had entered
upon to reduce the Scots and Picts, he marched
with the utmost expedition to raise the siege;
but laboured under very great difficulties, be-
cause he had left his nephew Hoel sick at
Alclud.2 At length, having entered the province
of Somerset, and beheld how the siege was car-
ried on, he addressed himself to his followers
in these words: "Since these impious and de-
testable Saxons have disdained to keep faith
with me, I, to keep faith with God, will en-
deavour to revenge the blood of my countrymen
this day upon them. To arms, soldiers, to arms,
and courageously fall upon the perfidious
wretches, over whom we shall, with Christ as-
sisting us, undoubtedly obtain victory."
When he had done speaking, St. Dubricius,
archbishop of Legions,3 going to the top of a
hill, cried out with a loud voice, ' ' You that
have the honour to profess the Christian faith,
keep fixed in your minds the love which you
owe to your country and fellow subjects, whose
sufferings by the treachery of the pagans will
be an everlasting reproach to you, if you do not
courageously defend them. It is your country
which you fight for, and for which you should,
when required, voluntarily suffer death; for
that itself is victory and the cure of the soul.
For he that shall die for his brethren, offers
himself a living sacrifice to God, and has Christ
2 Dumbarton
3 The City of Legions (now Newport) In South
Wales, where the Roman legions wintered.
ANGLO-NORMAN PERIOD
for his example, who condescended to lay down
his life for his brethren. If therefore any of
you shall be killed in this war, that death
itself, which is suffered in so glorious a cause,
shall be to him for penance and absolution of
all his sins. ' ' At these words, all of them en-
couraged with the benediction of the holy pre-
late, instantly armed themselves, and prepared
to obey his orders. Also Arthur himself, hav-
ing put on a coat of mail suitable to the
grandeur of so powerful a king, placed a golden
helmet upon his head, on which was engraven
the figure of a dragon; and on his shoulders his
shield called Priwen ; upon which the picture of
the blessed Mary, mother of God, was painted,
in order to put him frequently in mind of her.
Then girding on his Caliburn,* which was an
excellent sword made in the isle of Avallon, he
graced his right hand with his lance, named
Ron, which was hard, broad, and fit for slaugh-
ter. After this, having placed his men in order,
he boldly attacked the Saxons, who were drawn
out in the shape of a wedge, as their manner
was. And they, notwithstanding that the Brit-
ons fought with great eagerness, made a noble
defence all that day; but at length, towards
sunsetting, climbed up the next mountain, which
served them for a camp: for they desired no
larger extent of ground, since they confided
very much in their numbers. The next morning
Arthur, with his army, went up the mountain,
but lost many of his men in the ascent, by the
advantage which the Saxons had in their station
on the top, from whence they could pour down
upon him with much greater speed than he was
able to advance against them. Notwithstanding,
after a very hard struggle, the Britons gained
the summit of the hill and quickly came to a
close engagement with the enemy, who again
gave them a warm reception, and made a vig-
orous defence. In this manner was a great
part of that day also spent ; whereupon Arthur,
provoked to see the little advantage he had yet
gained and that victory still continued in sus-
pense, drew out his Caliburn, and, calling upon
the name of the blessed Virgin, rushed forward
with great fury into the thickest of the enemy 's
ranks; of whom (such was the merit of his
prayers) not one escaped alive that felt the
fury of his sword; neither did he give over the
fury of his assault until he had, with his Cali-
burn alone, killed four hundred and seventy
men. The Britons, seeing this, followed their
leatler in great multitudes, and made slaughter
on all Bides; so that Colgrin, and Baldulph his
4 The famous Excallbur.
fi I reader of thp Saxona.
brother, and many thousands more fell before
them. But Cheldric,^ in this imminent danger
of his men, betook himself to £ight. — From
the same; Book IX, Ch. Ill, IV.
FROM THE ANCREN RIWLE
(ANCHORESSES' RULE.)*
Do you now ask what rule you anchoresses
should observe? Ye should by all means, with
all your might and all your strength, keep well
the inward rule, and for its sake the outward.
The inward rule is always alike. The outward
is various, because every one ought so to ob-
serve the outward rule as that the body may
therewith best serve the inward. All may and
ought to observe one rule concerning purity of
heart, that is, a clean unstained conscience,
without any reproach of sin that is not reme-
died by confession. This the body rule effects.
This rule is framed not by man's contrivance,
but by the command of God. Wherefore, it
ever is and shall be the same, without mixture
and without change; and all men ought ever
invariably to observe it. But the external rule,
which I called the handmaid, is of man 's con-
trivance; nor is it instituted for any thing else
but to serve the internal law. It ordains fast-
ing, watching, enduring cold, wearing haircloth,
and such other hardships as the flesh of many
can bear and many cannot. Wherefore, this
rule may be changed and varied according to
every one 's state and circumstances. For some
are strong, some are weak, and may very well
be excused, and please God with less; some are
learned, and some are not, and must work the
more, and say their prayers at the stated hours
in a different manner; some are old and ill
favoured, of whom there is less fear; some are
young and lively, and have need to be more
on their guard. Every anchoress must, there-
fore, observe the outward rule according to the
advice of her confessor, and do obediently what-
ever he enjoins and commands her, who knows
• These "Rnlos and Duties of Monastic Life" were
prepared (c. 1210) for the guidance of a little
society of three nuns who dwelt at Tarcnte,
In Dorsetshire — "gentlewomen, sisters, of one
father and of one mother, who had in the
bloom of their youth forsaken all the pleas-
ures of the world and become anchoresses."
The book consists of eight chapters, the first
and last of which deal with the "outward
rule," the others with the "Inward rule." It
is possibly the work of Richard Poor (d.
12.S7), Bishop of Salisbury, who was bene-
factor of the nunnery at Tarente. Very
marked Is the spirit of charity and tolerance
In which it is written. Moreover, It Is
iiinong the best examples of simple, eloquent
prose in English anteclating the Kngllsh Bible.
Our translation is that of James Morton.
THE ANCBEN BIWLE
33
her state and strength. He may modify the
outward rule, as prudence may direct, and as
he sees that the inward rule may thus be best
kept.
When you first arise in the morning bless
yourselves with the sign of the cross and say,
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son,
and of the Holy Ghost, Amen," and begin di-
rectly "Creator Spirit, Come," with your eyes
and your hands raised up toward heaven, bend-
ing forward on your knees upon the bed, and
thus say the whole hymn to the end, with the
versicle, "Send forth Thy Holy Spirit," and
the prayer, "God, who didst teach the hearts
of thy faithful people," etc. After this, put-
ting on your shoes and your clothes, say the
Paternosteri and the Creed,2 and then, ' ' Jesus
Christ, Son of the Living God, have mercy on
us! Thou who didst condescend to be born
of a virgin, have mercy on us! " Continue say-
ing these words until you be quite dressed.
Have these words much in use, and in your
mouth as often as ye may, sitting and standing.
True anchoresses are compared to birds; for
they leave the earth; that is, the love of all
earthly things; and through yearning of heart
after heavenly things, fly upward toward
heaven. And, although they fly high, with high
and holy life, yet they hold the head low.
through meek humility, as a bird flying boweth
down its head, and accounteth all her good
deeds and good works nothing worth, and saith,
as our Lord taught all his followers, "Cum
omnia bene feceritis, dicite quod servi inutiles
estis;" "When ye have done all well," saith
the Lord, "say that ye are unprofitable serv-
ants. ' ' Fly high, and yet hold the head always
low.
The wings that bear them upward are, good
principles, which they must move unto good
works, as a bird, when it would fly, moveth
its wings. Also the true anchoresses, whom we
compare to birds, — yet not we, but God —
spread their wings and make a cross of them-
selves, as a bird doth when it flieth; that is, in
the thoughts of the heart, and the mortification
of the flesh, they bear the Lord 's cross. Those
birds fly well that have little flesh, as the pelican
hath, and many feathers. The ostrich, having
much flesh, maketh a pretense to fly, and flaps
his wings, but his feet always draw to the
earth. In like manner, the carnal anchoress,
1 The Lord's Prayer.
2 The Confession of Faith, beginning, "Credo In
unum Deum."
who loveth carnal pleasures, and seeketh her
ease, the heaviness of her flesh and its desires
deprive her of her power of flying; and though
she makes a pretense and much noise with her
wings; that is, makes it appear as if she flew,
and were a holy anchoress, whoever looks at
her narrowly, laughs her to scorn ; for her feet,
as doth the ostrich's, which are her lusts, draw
her to the earth. Such are not like the meagre
pelican, nor do they fly aloft, but are birds of
the earth, and make their nests on the ground.
But God called the good anchoresses birds of
heaven, as I said before: * ' Fulpes foveas
habent et volucres cccli nidos." "Foxes have
their holes, and birds of heaven their nests. ' '
True anchoresses are indeed birds of heaven,
that fly aloft, and sit on the green boughs sing-
ing merrily; that is, they meditate, enraptured,
upon the blessedness of heaven that never fad-
eth, but is ever green; and sit on this green,
singing right merrily; that is, in such medita-
tion they rest in peace and have gladness of
heart, as those who -sing. A bird, however,
sometimes alighteth down .on the earth to seek
his food for the need of the flesh ; but while he
sits on the ground he is never secure, and is
often turning himself, and always looking cau-
tiously around. Even so, the pious recluse,
though she fly ever so high, must at times alight
down to the earth in respect of her body — and
eat, drink, sleep, work, speak, and hear, when
it is necessary, of earthly things. But then,
as the bird doth, she must look well to herself,
and turn her eyes on every side, lest she be de-
ceived, and be caught in some of the devil's
snares, or hurt in any way, while she sits so
low.
"The birds," saith our Lord, "have nests; "
"volucres crli habent nidos." A nest is hard
on the outside with pricking thorns, and is
delicate and soft \^ithin; even so shall a re-
cluse endure hard and pricking thorns in the
flesh; yet so prudently shall she subdue the
flesh by labour, that she may say with the
Psalmist: " Fortitudinem meam ad te custo-
diam;" that is, "I will keep my strength, O
Lord, to thy behoof; " and therefore the pains
of the flesh are proportioned to every one's
case. The nest shall be hard without and soft
within; and the heart sweet. They who are of
a bitter or hard heart, and indulgent towards
their flesh, make their nest, on the contrary,
soft without and thorny within. These are the
discontented and fastidious anchoresses; bitter
within, when they ought to be sweet; and deli-
cate without, when they ought to be hard.
These, in such a nest, may have hard rest, when
34
ANGLO-NORMAN PERIOD
they consider well. For, from such a nest, they
will too late bring forth young birds, which
are good works, that they may fly toward
heaven. Job calleth a religious house a nest;
and saith, as if he were a recluse: "In nidulo
meo moriar;" that is, "I shall die in my nest,
and be as dead therein ; ' ' for this relates to
anchorites; and, to dwell therein until she die;
that is, I will never cease, while my soul is in
my body, to endure things hard outwardly, as
the nest is, and to be soft within.
Hear now, as I promised, many kinds of com-
fort against all temptations, and, with God's
grace, thereafter the remedies.
Whosoever leadeth a life of exemplary piety
may be certain of being tempted. This is the
first comfort. For the higher the tower is, it
hath always the more wind. Ye yourselves are
the towers, my dear sisters, but fear not while
ye are so truly and firmly cemented all of you
to one another with the lime of sisterly love.
Ye need not fear any devil's blast, except the
lime fail; that is to say, except your love for
each other be impaired through the enemy. As
soon as any of you undoeth her cement, she is
soon swept forth; if the other do not hold her
she is soon cast down, as a loose stone is from
the coping of the tower, down into the deep
pitch of some foul sin.
Here is another encouragement which ought
greatly to comfort you when ye are tempted.
The tower is not attacked, nor the castle, nor
the city, after they are taken; even so the war-
rior of hell attacks, with temptation, none
whom he hath in his hand; but he attacketh
those whom he hath not. Wherefore, dear sis-
ters, she who is not attacked may fear much
lest she be already taken. . .
The sixth comfort is, that our Lord, when He
suffereth us to be tempted, playeth with us,
as the mother with her young darling: she flies
from him, and hides herself, and lets him sit
alone, and look anxiously around, and call
Dame! dame! and weep a while, and then leap-
eth forth laughing, with outspread arms, and
embraceth and kisseth him, and wipeth his
eyes. In like manner, our Lord sometimes leav-
eth us alone, and withdraweth His grace. His
comfort, and His support, so that we feel no
delight in any good that we do, nor any satis-
faction of heart; and yet, at that very time,
our dear Father loveth us never the less, but
does it for the great love that He hath to us.
Ye shall not possess any beast, my dear sis-
ters, except only a cat. An anchoress that hath
cattle appears as Martha was," a better house-
wife than anchoress; nor can she in any wise
be Mary, with peacefulness of heart. For then
she must think of the cow's fodder, and of the
herdsman's hire, flatter the heyward,i defend
herself when her cattle is shut up in the pin-
fold, and moreover pay the damage. Christ
knoweth, it is an odious thing when people in
the town complain of anchoresses' cattle. If,
however, any one must needs have a cow, let
her take care that she neither annoy nor harm
any one, and that her own thoughts be not
fixed thereon. An anchoress ought not to have
any thing that draweth her heart outward.
Carry ye on no traffic. An anchoress that is a
buyer and seller selleth her soul to the chapman
of hell. Do not take charge of other men's
property in your house, nor of their cattle, nor
their clothes, neither receive under your care
the church vestments, nor the chalice, unless
force compel you, or great fear, for oftentimes
much harm has come from such care-taking.
Because no man seeth you, nor do ye see any
man, ye may be well content with your clothes,
be they white, be they black; only see that they
be plain, and warm, and well made — skins well
tawed ; 2 and have as many as you need, for
bed, and also for back. Next your flesh ye shall
wear no flaxen cloth, except it be of hardss and
of coarse canvass. Whoso will may have a
starain,4 and whoso will may be without it. Ye
shall sleep in a garment and girt. Wear no
iron, nor haircloth, nor hedgehog-skins; and do
not beat yourselves therewith, nor with a
scourge of leather thongs, nor leaded; and do
not with holly nor with briars cause yourselves
to bleed without leave of your confessor; and
do not, at one time, use too many flagellations.
Let your shoes be thick and warm. In summer
ye are' at liberty to go and sit barefoot, and to
wear hose without vamps,5 and whoso liketh
may lie in them. A woman may well enough
wear an undersuit of haircloth very well tietl
with the strapples reaching down to her feet,
laced tightly. If ye would dispense with wim-
ples, have warm capes, and over them black
veils. She who wishes to be seen, it is no great
wonder though she adorn herself; but, in the
eyes of God, she is more lovely who is un-
adorned outwardly for his sake. Have neither
ring, nor broach, nor ornamented girdle, nor
gloves, nor any such thing that is not proper
for you to have.
1 A cattle-keeper on a common.
2 Prepared with oil, or without tan-Ilquor.
s The coarser parts of flax or hemp.
* A shirt of linsey-woolsey,
s gaiters
PROVERBS OF KING ALFRED
In this book read every daj, when ye are at
leisure, — every day, less or more; for I hope
that, if ye read it often, it will be very bene-
ficial to you, through the grace of God, or else
I shall have ill employed much of my time.
God knows, it would be more agreeable to me
to set out on a journey to Rome, than to begin
to do it again. And, if ye find that ye do ac-
cording to what ye read, thank God earnestly;
and if ye do not, pray for the grace of God,
and diligently endeavour that ye may keep it
better, in every point, according to your abil-
ity. May the Father, and the Son, and the
Holy Ghost, the one Almighty God, keep you
under his protection! May he give you joy
and comfort, my dear sisters, and for all that
ye endure and suffer for him may he never
give you a less reward than his entire self.
May he be ever exalted from world to world,
for ever and ever, Amen.
As often as ye read any thing in this book,
greet the Lady with an Ave Mary for him that
made this rule, and for him who wrote it, and
took pains about it. Moderate enough I am,
who ask so little.
PROVERBS OF KING ALFRED*
1
Many thanes sat at Seaford,
many bishops, book-learned men,
many proud earls, knights every one.
There was Earl ^Ifric, wise in the law;
Alfred also, England's guardian,
England 's darling, England 's king.
He began, as ye may hear,
to teach them how to lead their lives.
He was king, and he was clerk ;i
well he loved the Lord's work; 10
wise in word and cautious in deed,
he was the wisest man in England.
2
Thus quoth Alfred, England's comfort:
"Would ye, my people, give ear to your lord,
he would direct you wisely in all things,
how ye might win to worldly honour
and also unite your souls with Christ."
3
Wise were the words King Alfred spake.
"Humbly I redes you, my dear friends,
poor and rich, all you my people, 20
that ye all fear Christ the Lord,
1 scholar 2 counsel
• The proverbs here translated from Middle Eng-
lish, some of them plainly Biblical, were popu-
larly ascribed to King Alfred and were sup-
posed to have Jjeen delivered by him to his
Witenagemot at Seaford. See Etig. Lit., p. 38.
love him and please him, the Lord of Life.
He is alone good, above all goodness ;
He is alone wise, above all wisdom;
He is alone blissful, above all bliss;
He is alone man's mildest Master;
He is alone our Father and Comfort " . .
4
Thus quoth Alfred:
' ' The earl and the lord
that heeds the king's word
shall rule o'er his land
with righteous hand;
and the clerk and the knight
shall give judgment aright,
to poor or to rich 80
it skilleths not which.
For whatso men sow,
the same shall they mow,
and every man's doom
to his own door come. " . .
12
Thus quoth Alfred:
"Small trust may be
in the flowing sea.
Though thou hast treasure
enough and to spare,
both gold and silver, 200
to nought it shall wear;
to dust it shall drive,
as God is alive.
Many a man for his gold
God's wrath shall behold,
and shall be for his silver
forgot and forlorn.
It were better for him
he had never been bom." . ,
14
Thus quoth Alfred:
"If thou hast sorrow,
tell it not to thy foe;
tell it to thy saddle-bow
and ride singing forth. 230
So will he think,
who knows not thy stat^
that not unpleasing
to thee is thy fate.
If thou hast a sorrow
and he knoweth it,
before thee" he 11 pity,
behind thee will twit.
Thou mightest betray it
to such a one
as would without pity 240
thou madest more moan.
Hide it deep in thy heart
3 matters
36
ANGLO-NORMAN PERIOD
that it leave no smart;
nor let it be guessed
what is hid in thy breast." .
22
Thus quoth Alfred:
"Boast shouldst thou not,
nor chide with a sot;
nor foolishly chatter
and idle tales scatter
at the freeman 's board.
Be chary of word.
The wise man can store
few words with great lore.
Soon shot's the fool's bolt;
whence I count him a dolt
who saith all his will
when he should keep still.
For oft tongue breaketh bone,
though herself has none."
CUCKOO SONG (c. 1250)*
Summer is y-comen in,
Loudly sing Cuckoo !
Groweth seed and bloweth mead
410
420
And springeth wood anew.
Sing Cuckoo!
Loweth after calf the cow,
Bleateth after lamb the ewe,
Buck doth gambol, bullock amble, —
Merry sing Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, Cuckoo! Well singest thou
Cuckoo! nor cease thou ever now.
(Foot)
Sing Cuckoo now, sing Cuckoo.
Sing Cuckoo, sing Cuckoo now.
• See Eng. Lit., p. 42, for the Middle English, which
is here somewhat modernized. The song was
set to music, and the manuscript which con-
tains the music adds the following directions,
in Latin : "This part-song (rota) may be
sung by four in company. It should not be
sung by fewer than three, or at least two, in
addition to those who sing the Foot. And it
should be sung in this manner : One begins,
accompanied by those who sing the Foot, the
rest keeping silent. Then, when he has
reached the first note after the cross [a mark
on the musical score], another begins; and
so on. The first line of the Foot one singer
repeats as often as necessary, pausing at the
end ; the other line another man sings, paus-
ing in the middle but not at the end, but im-
mediately beginning again."
FOURTEENTH CENTURY-AGE OF CHAUCER
12
From THE PEARL (c 1350)*
O pearl, for princes' pleasure wrought,
In lucent gold deftly to set,
Never from orient realms was brought
Its peer in price, I dare say, yet.
So beautiful, so fresh, so round,
So smooth its sides, so slender shown.
Whatever gems to judge be found
I needs must set it apart, alone.
But it is lost! I let it stray
Down thro' the grass in an arbor-plot.
With love's pain now I pine away,
Lorn of my pearl without a spot.
2
Since in that spot it slipt from my hand,
Oft have I lingered there and yearned
For joy that once my sorrows banned
And all my woes to rapture turned.
Truly my heart with grief is wrung,
And in my breast there dwelleth dole;
Yet never song, methought, was sung
So sweet as through that stillness stole.
tide of fancies I could not stem!
fair hue fouled with stain and blot!
mould, thou marrest a lovely gem.
Mine own, own pearl without a spot. . . 24
i* This anonymous poem is allegorical : possibly the
"pearl" is the poet's daughter (Eng. Lit., 44).
The selection here given is translated, because
the West Midland dialect of the original pre-
sents more difficulties than the East Midland of
Chaucer. The whole is a very interesting
piece of construction, combining the Romance
elements of meter and rhyme, as employed by
Chaucer, with the old Saxon alliteration
which the West Midland poets, like Langland,
affected. Note also the refrain-like effects.
In this translation, the exacting rhyme-
scheme of the original, which permits but
three rhyme sounds in a stanza, has been ad-
hered to in the last three stanzas only. The
first stanza of the original runs thus :
Perle plesaunte to prynces paye.
To clanly clos in golde so clere.
Out of oryent I hardyly saye,
Ne proved I never her precios pere, —
So rounde, so reken in uche a raye.
So smal, so smothe her sydez were, —
Queresoever I jugged gemmez gaye,
I sette hyr sengeley in synglere.
Alias I I leste hyr in on erbere ;
Thurgh gresse to grounde hit fro me yot ;
1 dewyne for-dokked of luf-daungere,
Of that pryvy perle wlthouten spot.
48
Once to that spot I took my way
And passed within the arbor green.
It was mid-August's festal day.
When the corn is cut with sickles keen.
The mound that did my pearl embower
With fair bright herbage was o'erhung.
Ginger and gromwell and gillyflower.
And peonies sprinkled all among.
Yet if that sight was good to see,
Goodlier the fragrance there begot
Where dwells that one so dear to me,
My precious pearl without a spot.
5
Then on that spot my hands I wrung,
For I felt the touch of a deadly chill,
And riotous grief in my bosom sprung,
Tho ' reason would have curbed my will.
I wailed for my pearl there hid away,
While fiercely warred my doubts withal.
But tho' Christ showed where comfort lay,
My will was still my sorrow's thrall.
I flung me down on that flowery mound,
When so on my brain the fragrance wrought
I sank into a sleep profound.
Above that pearl without a spot.
6
Then from that spot my spirit soared.
My senses locked in slumber's spell,
ily soul, by grace of God outpoured.
Went questing where his marvels dwell,
I know not where that place may be,
I know 'twas by high cliffs immured.
And that a forest fronted me
Whose radiant slopes my steps allured.
Such splendor scarce might one believe —
The goodly glory wherewith they shone ;
No web that mortal hands may weave "iil
Has e 'er such wondrous beauty known. . .
9
Yes, beautiful beyond compare,
The vision of that forest-range
Wherein my fortune bade me fare —
No tongue could say how fair, how strange.
I wandered on as one entranced,
No bank so steep as to make me cower;
And the farther I went the brighter danced
The light on grass and tree and flower.
60
37
38
FOURTEENTH CENTUEY
Hedge-rows there were, and paths, and streams
Whose banks were as fine threads of gold.
And 1 stood on the strand and watched the
gleams
Of one mat downward in beauty rolled. 108
10
Dear Lord, the beauty of that fair burn!
Its berylline banks were bright as day,
And singing sweetly at every turn
The murmuring waters took their way.
On the bottom were stones a-shimmer with light
As gleams through glass that waver and leap,
Or as twinkling stars on a winter night
That watch in heaven while tired men sleep.
For every pebble there that laved
Seemed like a rare and radiant gem;
Each pool was as with sapphires paved, 119
So lustrous shone the beauty of them. . .
13
Then longing seized me to explore
The farther margin of that stream,
For fair as was the hither shore
Far fairer did the other seem.
About me earnestly I sought
To find some way to win across,
But all my seeking availed me nought;
There was no ford; 1 stood at loss.
Methought I must not daunted dwell
In sight of such a blissful goal,
When lo, a strange thing there befell 155
That still more deeply stirred my soul.
14
More wonder still my soul to daze!
I saw beyond that lowly stream
A crystal cliff refulgent raise
Its regal height, and, dazzling, gleam.
And at its foot there sat a child,
A gracious maid, and debonair.
All in a white robe undefiled —
Well had I known her otherwhere.
As glistening gold men use to spin,
So shone that glory the cliff before.
Long did I drink her beauty in, 167
And longed to call to her ever more. . .
16
But more than my longing was now my fright;
I stood quite still ; I durst not call ;
With eyes wide open and lips shut tight,
I stood as quiet as hawk in hall.
I weened it was some spectral shape,
I dreaded to think what should ensue
If I should call her and she escape
And leave me only my plight to nic.
When lo, that gracious, spotless may,i
So delicate, so soft, so slight,
1 maid
Uprose in all her queenly array,
A priceless thing in pearls bedight. 192
17
Pearl-dight in royal wise, perdie.
One might by grace have seen her there,
When all as fresh as a fleur-de-lys
Adown the margent stepped that fair.
Her robe was white as gleaming snow,
Unclasped at the sides and closely set
With the loveliest margarites, I trow,
That ever my eyes looked on yet.
Her sleeves were broad and full, I ween,
With double braid of pearls made bright.
Her kirtle shone with as goodly sheen, 203
With pretdous pearls no less bedight. . .
20
Pearl-dight, that nature's masterpiece
Came down the margent, stepping slow;
No gladder man from here to Greece
When by the stream she stood, I trow.
More near of kin than aunt or niece.
She made my gladness overflow;
She proffered me speech — Oh heart's release! —
In womanly fashion bending low;
Caught off her crown of queenly show
Aud welcomed me as a maiden might.
Ah well that I was born to know 239
And greet that sweet one pearl-bedight !
21
"O pearl," quoth I, "all pearl-bedight,
Art thou my Pearl, the Pearl 1 mourn
And long for through the lonely night?
In weariness my days have worn
Since thou in the grass didst slip from sight.
Pensive am I, heart-sick, forlorn, —
While thou hast won to pure delight
In Paradise, of sorrow shorn.
What fate has hither my jewel borne
And left me beggared to moan and cryf
For since we twain asunder were torn,
A joyless jeweler am I." 252
22
That jewel then, with gems o 'erspread.
Upturned her face and her eyes gray.
Replaced the crown upon her head.
And thus my longing did allay:
"Oh, sir, thou hast thy tale misread
To say thy pearl is stolen away,
That is so safely easketed
Here in this garden bright and gay.
Herein forever to dwell and play
Where comes not sin nor sorrow's blight.
Such treasury 2 wouldst thou choose, parfay,
Didst thou thy jewel love aright. " * 264
2 Compare Matthew vl, 21.
* A lonR religions dlssertntion follows and the
dreamer awakes consoled.
WILLIAM LANGLAND
39
WILLIAM LANGLAND ?
(I332M400)
THE VISION OF PIERS THE PLOWMAN.*
From the Prologue.
In a somer seson, whan soft was the Sonne,
I shopei me in shroudesz as I a shepea were,
In habite as an heremite unholy of workes,<
Went wyde5 in this world wondres to here.
Ac6 on a May mornynge, on Malverne hulles,^
Me byfel a ferly,8 of fairy,9 me thoughte;
I was wery forwandredio and went me to reste
Under a brode banke bi a bornesn side, 8
And as I lay and lened and loked in the
wateres,
I slombred in a slepyng, it sweyvedi2 so merye.
Thanne gan I to metenis a merveilouse
swevene,!*
That I was in a wildernesse, wist I never
where ;
As I bihelde into the est an hiegh toi' the
Sonne,
I seighis a tourei^ on a toftis trieliehi»
ymaked ;
A depe dale binethe, a dongeonzo there-inne,
With depe dyches and derke and dredful of
sight. 16
A faire felde ful of folkezi fonde I there
bytwene,
Of alle maner of men, the mene and the riche,
Worchyng and wandryng as the worlde asketh.
Some putten hem22 to the plow, pleyed ful
selde,
In settyng23 and in sowyng swonkenz* ful
harde.
And wonnen that wastours with glotonye de-
struyeth.25 22
1 arrayed i7 The tower of Truth,
a rough garments abode of God the
s shepherd Father.
4 not spiritual is elevated place
6 abroad i9 cunningly
« but 20 The "castel of care,"
I hills abode of Falsehood
• wonder (Lucifer).
» enchantment 21 The world.
10 weary from wandering 22 them (selves)
II brook's 23 planting
12 sounded 24 toiled
18 to dream 25 and won that which
14 dream wasteful men ex-
15 on high toward pend in gluttony.
18 saw
• In this long allegorical poem, the poet with the
daring of a reformer attacks what he thinks
to be the abuses in church, state, and society.
The prologue, of which the first 82 lines are
here given, sets the key-note of the poem by a
description of the suffering, weakness, and
crimes of the world as seen by the poet In a
vision. Then in Passus (Chapter) I, of which
a few lines are given, the poet begins his
narrative interpretation of his vision. Our
text is the B-text as printed by Dr. Skeat.
And some putten hem to pruyde, apparailed
hem there-after,
In contenaunce of elothyng comen disgised.29
In prayers and in penance putten hem
manye,
Al for love of owre lorde lyveden ful streyte,27
In hope forto have herenriche28 blisse;
As ancres29 and heremites that holden hem in
here33 selles,
.\nd coveiten nought in contre to kairen^o
aboute.
For no likerousai liflode32 herss lykam34 to
plese. 30
And somme chosen chaffare;35 they chevense
the bettere,
As it semeth to owre syght that suche men
thrjrveth ;
And somme murthesST to make as mynstralles
conneth,38
And geten gold with heresa glee, giltles, I
leve.39
Ae iapers40 and iangelers,*! ludas chylderen,
Feynen hem42 fantasies and foles hem maketh,
And ban here witte at wille to worche, yif thei
sholde ;
That Poule precheth of hem I nel nought
preve it here;
Qui turpiloquium loquitur is luciferes hyne.4»
Bidders44 and beggeres fast aboute yede,45
With her belies and her bagges of bred ful
ycrammed ; 41
Fayteden46 for here fode, foughten atte ale;47
In glotonye, god it wote,48 gon hij49 to bedde.
And risen with ribaudyeso tho roberdes
knaves; 51
Slepe and sori sleuthe52 seweth53 hem evre.s*
Pilgrymes and palmers^s plighted hem togidere
To seke seynt lamesss and seyntes in Rome.
Thei went forth in here wey with many wise
tales,
And hadden leve to lye al here lyf after.
I seigh somme that seiden thei had ysought
seyntes :
26 came strangely garbed
2T strictly
28 of the kingdom of
heaven
29 anchorites
30 wander
31 delicate
32 livelihood, living
33 their
34 body
35 trade
36 succeed
37 mirth
38 know how
39 believe
40 Jesters
41 chatterers
42 Invent for themselves
43 what Paul preaches
about them I will
not show here, "for
he who speaks
slander is Luci-
fer's servant."
44 beggars
45 went
46 cheated
47 fought at the ale
48 knows
49 they
50 ribaldry
51 those robber villains
52 sloth
53 pursue
54 ever
53 Palmers made it their
regular business to
visit shrines.
56 A shrine at Compos-
tella in Galicia.
40
FOUETEENTH CENTURY
To eche a^^ tale that the! tolde here tonge was
tempred to lye 51
More than to sey sothss it semed bi here speche.
Heremites onso an beep, with hoked staves,
Wenten to Walsyngham,* and here wenches
af ter8o ;
Grete lobyessi and longe,62 that loth were to
8wynke,«3
Clotheden hem in copiss* to ben knowen fram
othere;
And shopen hem^o heremites here ese to have.
I fonde there Freris, alle the foure ordres,e6
Preched the peple for profit of hem-selven,
Glosed«7 the gospel as hem good lyked,68 60
For coveitise69 of copis construed it as thei
wolde.
Many of this maistres Freris^o mowe^i clothen
hem at lykyng,
For here money and marchandise marchen
togideres.
For sith'^z charite hath be chapman'3 and chief
to shryve lordes,t
Many ferlis^* han fallen in a fewe yerisjs
But^s holychirche and hij holde better togideres,
The most myschief on molde^^ is mountyng wel
faste.Ts
There preched a Pardonere^a as he a prest
were,
Broughte forth a bulleso with bishopes seles,
And seide that hym-self myghte assoilensi
hem alle
Of falshed of fastyng,82 of vowes ybroken. 71
Lewed83 men leveds* hym wel and lyked his
wordes,
Comen up knelyng to kissen his bulles;
He bonchedss hem with his brevets^ and blered
here eyes,
fi7 at every
68 truth
69 In
60 in their train
81 lubbers
62 tall
63 toil
64 friars' capes
72 since
73 nedlar
74tponders
75 years
76 unless
77 earth
78 will increase rapidly
78 One commissioned to
68 arrayed themselves as grant pardons.
66 Dominicans, Francis- so a Papal mandate
cans, Carmelites, 8i absolve
Augustines 82 failure in fasting
67 interpreted 83 Ignorant
68 as it pleased tb( m 84 believed
69 covetousness 85 struck
70 these master friars 86 letter of indulgence
71 may
• The shrine of Our Lady of Walslngham (Nor-
folk) was almost more celebrated than that
of Thomas a Becket.
t So worldly were the friars seeking money for
bearing confessions and peddling their wares,
that thoy often quarreled with the priests as
to which should hear the confession.
And raughte87 with his ragman^s rynges and
broches ;
Thus they geven here golde, glotones to
kepe. . . .
Were the bischop yblissedss and worth bothe
his eres,
His seelso shulde nought be sent to deceyve
the peple.
Ac it is naught by^i the bischop that the boyos
precheth, 80
For the parisch prest and the pardonere
parten03 the silver,
That the porailles^ of the parisch sholde have,
yif thei nere.^s . . .
From Passus I.
What this montaigne bymeneth,i and the merke
dale,
And the felde ful of folke, I shal yow faire
schewe.
A loveli ladi of lere,2 in lynnen yclothed,
Come down fram a castel and called me faire,
And seide, 'Sone, slepestow,3 sestow* this
poeple.
How bisi thei ben abouten the mases?
The moste partie of this poeple that passeth on
this erthe,
Have thei worschips in this worlde, thei wilne
no better;
Of other hevene than here holde thei no tale7, '
I was aferd of her face theighs she faire
were, l^
And seide, 'Mercy, Madame, what is this to
mene f *
'The toure up the toft,' quod she, 'Treuthe is
there-inne.
And wolde that ye wroughte as his worde
techeth ;
For he is fader of feith, fourmed yow alle,
Bothe with fel» and with face, and yafi" yow
fyve wittis
Forto worschip hym ther-with the while that ye
ben here.
87 got 82 1. e., the pardoner
«8 bull with bishop's 93 divide
seals 8* poor
80 righteous "^ if they (the pardoner
00 seal and the priest) did
91 not against not exist
1 means
2 face
a sleepest thou
4 seest thou
6 confused throng
8 if they have honor
7 account
8 though
9 skin
10 gave
THE WYCLIF BIBLE
41
THE WYCUF BIBLE (c 1380)
Matthew III. The Cojong or John the
Baptist.
In tho daies Joon Baptist cam and prechid
in the desert of Judee, and seide, Do ve pen-
aunce, for the kyngdom of hevenes scbal nygh.
For this is he of whom it is seid bi Isaie the
profete, seiynge, A vois of a crier in desert,
Make ye redi the weyes of the Lord, make ye
right the pathis of hym. And this Joon hadde
clothing of camels heria, and a girdil of skyn
aboute his leendis, and his mete was bony
sookisi and hony of the wode. Thanne Jeru-
salem wente out to hym, and al Judee, and al
the countre aboute Jordan, and thei werun
waischen of hym in Jordan, and knowlechiden
her sj-nnes.
But he sigh many of Farisies and of Saducea
comynge to his baptem, and seide to hem, Gen-
eraciouns of eddris,2 who schewid to you to
fle fro wrath that is to come? Therfor do ye
worthi fruytis of penaunce. And nyle ye aeies
with ynne you. We han Abraham to fadir: for
I seie to you that God is myghti to reise up of
thes stones the sones of Abraham. And now
the axe is putte to the root of the tre: therfor
every tre that makith not good fruyt schal be
kutte doun, and schal be cast in to the fire.
I waisch you in watyr in to penaunce: but
he that sebal come aftir me is stronger than
I, whos schoon I am not worthi to bere: he
schal baptise you in the Holi Goost, and fier.
Whos wenewynge* clooth is in his hond, and
he schal fulli dense his corn floor, and schal
gadere his whete in to Ms beme; but the chaf
he schal brenne with fier that mai not be
quaichid,
Thanne Jhesus cam fro CfalUee in to Jordan
to Joon, to be baptisid of him. Jon forbede
hym and seide, I owe to be baptisid of thee,
and thou comest to mef But Jhesus answerid
and seide to hym, SufEre now: for thus it faU-
ith to us to fulfille alle rightfulnesse. Then
Joon suffrid hym. And whanne Jhesus was
baptisid, anon he wente up fro the watir: and
lo, hevenes weren opened to hym, and he say
the spirit of God comynge doun as a dowve,
and comynge on him. And lo, a vois fro
hevenes, seiynge, This is my loved sone, in
whiche I have plesid to me. (Punctuation and
capitalization viodemized.)
1 honev-SDckles (Wj-clif, translating from the Vul-
Eite, evidently mistook the meaning of the
atln locusta)
2 adders
3 will not ye to say
« winnowing
THE KING JAMES BIBLE (1611)
Matthew IIL The Coming of John the
Baptist.
In those daies came John the Baptist, preach*
ing in the wildemesse of Judea, and saying,
Bepent yee: for the Mngdome of heaven is at
hand. For this is he that was spoken of by the
Prophet Esaias, saying. The voyee of one cry-
ing in the wildemesse. Prepare ye the way of
the Lord, make his paths straight. And the
same John had his raiment of camels haire,
and a leatheme girdle about his loynes, and his
meate was locusts and wUde honie. Then went
out to him Hierusalem, and all Judea, and all
the region round about Jordane. And were
baptized of him in Jordane, confessing their
sinnes.
But when he saw many of the Pharisees and
Sadducees come to his Baptisme, he said unto
them, O generation of vipers, who hath warned
you to flee from the wrath to comef Bring
forth therefore fruits meete for repentance.
And thinke not to say within yotir selves, Wee
have Abraham to owr father: For I say unto
you, that God is able of these stones to raise
up children unto Abraham. And now also the
axe is layd unto the roote of the trees: There-
fore every tree which bringeth not foorth good
fruite, is hewen downe, and east into the fire.
I indeed baptize you with water unto re-
pentance: but he that commeth after mee, is
mightier than I, whose shooes I am not worthy
to beare, hee shall baptize you with the holy
Ghost, and with fire. Whose fanne is in his
hand, and he will throughly purge his floore,
and gather his wheate into the gamer: but wU
bume up the chaffe with unquenchable fire.
Then commeth Jesus from Galilee to Jordane,
unto John, to be baptized of him: But John
forbade him, saying, I have need to bee bap-
tized of thee, and commest thou to me?
And Jesus answering, said unto him, Suffor
it to be so now: for thus it becommeth us to
fulfill all righteousnesse. Then he suffered him.
And Jesus, wh«i hee was baptized, went up
straightway out of the water: and loe, the
heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the
Spirit of God descending like a dove, and light-
ing upon him. And loe, a voice from heaven,
saying, This is my beloved Soone, in whom I
am well pleased. (Verse numbering omitted.)
42
FOURTEENTH CENTURY
CHAUCER 'S PRONUNCIATION
along = a7i as in father: bathed [bahth-ed].
a ahoTt = ah without prolongation, as in aha:
at [aht].
ai,ay = ah'ee (nearly equal to modern long i) :
day [dah'ee].
au,aw=z ah' 00 (nearly equal to modern ou in
house: straunge [strahwnje].
e long=:ai as in pair: here [beare].
e short = e as in ten: hem [hem].
e final = e (pronounced as a very light sep-
arate syllable, like the final e in the Ger-
man eine. So also is es of the plural.) :
soote [sohtij]. It is regularly elided before
a following vowel, before he, his, him, hire
(her), here (their), hem (them), and occa-
sionally before other words beginning
with h; also in hire, here, oure, etc.
ea,ee = ouT long a; eeJc [ake].
€i,ey=ah' ee (or our long i, aye): ivey [wy].
eu, e«;=: French u: hewe [hii-e].
t long = ce (nearly): shires [sheer-es].
i short = i in pin: with [with].
0, 00 long = oa in oar: roote [nearly rote].
o short ^0 in not: [not],
oi,oy^=oo'ee (near equal to modern oi):
floytinge [floiting].
ou, ow = our 00 in rood in words that in Mod.
Eng. have taken the sound of ou in loud:
hous [hoos].
ou, ow = oh' 00 in words that now have the
o sound: soule, Tcnowe [sole, knowe].
u long = French « (found only in French
words): vertu [vehrtti].
■u short ==« in pull: but [boot].
c = k before a, a, u or any consonant.
==« before e, i, y.
^ = hard in words not of French origin.
= y before e, i in words of French origin.
gh = Ich, like the German ch in nicht.
h initial = omitted in unaccented he, his, him,
hire, hem.
r = trilled.
»=: often sharp when final.
= never ah or eh (vision has therefore three
syllables, condicioun four, etc.).
t = a8 at present; but final •tion = two sylla-
bles (si-oon).
th = th in thin or th in this, as in Mod. Eng.
10 = sometimes oo as in herberw.
The following may serve to illustrate the ap-
proximate pronunciation of a few lines, with-
out attempting Mr. Skeat's finer distinctions,
such as vahyn for veyne, etc. Note that e is a
separate syllable lightly pronounced, that «
equals u in full, and ii is French u.
Whan that Ahpreelle with 'is shoores sohte
The drookht of March hath persed toh the
rohte,
And bahthed evree vyne in swich lecoor
Of which vertii engendred is the floor;
Whan ZephiruB aik with 'is swaite braith
Inspeered hath in evry holt and haitb
The tendre croopes, and the yunge sunne
Hath in the Ram 'is halfe coors irunne,
And smahle fooles niakhen melodeee
That slaipen al the nikht with ohpen eee, —
So priketh 'em nahtur in her corahges, —
Than longen folk toh gohn on pilgrimahges.
And palmerz for toh saiken strahwnge strondes,
Toh feme halwes kooth in sondree londes;
And spesialee, from evree sheeres ende
Of Engelond, toh Cahwnterberee thy wende.
The hohlee blisful marteer for toh saike,
That hem hath holpen whan that thy wair
saike.
CHAUCER'S METRE
A large part of Chaucer's work is written in
heroic couplets: every two consecutive lines
rhyming, and each line containing five iambic
feet, that is, five groups of two syllables each,
with the accent on the second syllable of each
foot; e. g.
And bath'|ed eve'Iry veyn'jin swich' |li cour'|
An extra syllable is often added at the end
of the line: e. g.
Whan that] Apriljle with] his 8hou|res 80o|te "^
Sometimes the first foot is shortened to one
long syllable: e. g.
Twen|ty bo|kes clad] in blak| or reed|
THE TEXT
We have followed, with a few changes, the
text of The Canterbury Tales printed by Dr.
W. W. Skeat in the Clarendon Press Series,
which is based on the Ellesmere MS.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
43
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
(1340?-1400)*
FEOil THE CANTERBURY TALES
The Peolooxje.
Whan thati Aprille with his shoures sootes
The droghtes of Marche hath perced to the
roote,
And bathed every veyne* in swich licours,
Of which vertu6 engendred is the flour^;
Whan Zephiruss eeks with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holtio and heeth
The tendre croppesn, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronneia.
And smale fowlesis maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open yei*, 10
(60 priketh hem i5 nature in hirie coragesiT):
Thanis longen i9 folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmers for to sekenso straunge strondes2i.
To ferne22 halwesss, couthe2i in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The holy blisful martir25 for to seke,
That hem hath holpen, whan that they were
seke28.
Bifel that, in that sesoun on a day.
In Southwerk at the Tabard 27 as I lay 20
Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage28,
At night was come in-to that hostelrye
Wel29 nyne and twenty in a compaignye,
Of sondry folk, by aventureso y-fallesi
plural
"long".
of
14 eyes
15 them
16 their
17 hearts
18 then
19 Indicative
the verb
20 seek
21 shores
22 iJistant
23 shrines
24 known
25 Thomas a Becket
26 sick
27 An inn (a tabard was
a short coat).
28 heart
29 full
30 chance
31 fallen
1 when
2 sweet showers
8 drought
4 vein
5 such sap
« power
7 flower
8 the west-wind
9 also
10 wood
11 shoots
12 when the spring sun
has passed through
the second, or
April, half of his
course in that con-
stellation of the
zodiac called the
Ram. i. e., about
April 11
13 birds
* "I take unceasing delight in Chaucer. How ex-
quisitely tender he is, and yet how perfectly
free from the least touch of sickly melancholy
or morbid drooping ! The sympathy of the
poet with the subjects of his poetry is par-
ticularly remarkable in Shakespeare and
Chaucer ; but what the first effects by a strong
act of imagination and mental metamorphosis,
the last does without any effort, merely by
the inborn kindly Joyousness of his nature.
How well we seem to know Chaucer !
absolutely nothing do we know of Shakes
peare !" — Coleridge. See also Dryden "On
Chaucer" in the present volume.
In felawshipe, and pilgrims were they alle,
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde;
The chambres and the stables weren wyde,
And wel we weren e8ed32 atte beste.
And shortly, whan the sonne was to33 reste, 30
So hadde I spoken with hem everichon34j
That I was of hir felawshipe anon,
And made forwards^ erly for to ryse,
To take our wey, ther asss I yow devyseST.
But natheles, whyl I have tyme and space,
Er that I ferther in this tale pace,
Me thinketh it acordaunt 38 to resoun.
To telle yow al the condicionn
Of ech of hem, so as it semed me, 39
And whiche they weren39, and of what degree;
And eek in what array*" that they were inner
And at a knight than wol I first biginne.
A Knight there was, and that a worthy man.
That fro the tyme that he first bigan
To ryden out, he loved chivalrye,
Trouthe and honour, fredom*i and curteisye.
Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre*2j
And therto hadde he riden (no man ferre<*)
As wel in cristendom as hethenesse.
And evere honoured for his worthinesse. 50
At Alisaundre** he was, whan it was wonne;
Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne^s
Aboven alle naeiouns in Pruce^s.
In Lettow*' hadde he reysed48 and in Ruce<»,
No cristen man so ofte of his degrees".
In Gernadesi at the sege eek hadde he be
Of Algezir52, and riden in Belmaryess.
At Lyeyss* was he, and at Satalye'*
Whan they were wonne; and in the Greto SeeS'
At many a noble armee^e hadde he be. 60
At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene,
And foughten for our feith at TramisseneST
In listesss thryes, and ay slayn his foo.
This ilke59 worthy knight hadde been also
Somtyme Avith the lord of Palatyeso^
Ageynfii another hethen in Turkye:
And everemore he hadde a sovereyn pry8«2.
And though that he were worthy, he was wys,
32 made easy ; i.
commodated
best manner
33 at
34 every one
35 agreement
36 where
37 tell
38 according
39 what sort of
they were
40 dress
41 liberality
42 war
43 further
e., ac- 47 Lithuania (a western
in the province of Russia)
48 forayed
49 Russia
50 rank
51 Granada
52 Algeciras
53 A Moorish kingdom
in Africa,
people 54 A town in Asia Minor.
55 Mediterranean
56 armed expedition
57 In Asia Minor.
5S tournaments
59 same
•"•o In Asia Minor.
How I 44 Alexandria (136."))
45 sat at the head of the ei against
table 62 high praise
46 Prussia
44
FOURTEENTH CENTUEY
70
of
And of his porti as meek as is a mayde.
He nevere yet no vileinye^ ue sayde
In al his lyf, un-to no maner wight.
He was a verray parfit gentil knight.
But for to tellen yow of his array,
His hors3 were goode, but he was nat gay*.
Of fustians he wered a gipoun«
Al bismotered^ with his habergeouns.
For he was late y-come from his viageo,
And wente for to doon his pilgrimageio.
With him ther was his sone, a yong Squyer,
A lovyer, and a lusty bachelerii, 80
With lokkes crullei2^ asis they were leyd in
presse.
Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse.
Of his stature he was of evene lengthei*.
And wonder ly deliverei^^ and greet
strengthe.
And he hadde been somtyme in ehivachyei".
In Flaundres, in Artoysi^, and Pieardyei^,
And born him wel, as of so litel spaeeis,
In hope to stonden in his ladyi^ grace.
Embrouded2o was he, as it were a mede^i
Al ful of fresshe floures, whyte and rede.
Singinge he was, or floytinge^s^ al the day;
He was as fresh as is the month of May.
Short was his goune, with sieves longe
wyde.
Wel eoude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde.
He coude songes make and wel endyte23^
Iuste24 and eek daunce, and wel purtreye25
wryte.
So hote26 he lovede, that by nightertale27
He sleep namore than doth a nightingale.
Curteys he was, lowly, and servisable,
And carf 28 biforn his fader at the table.
A Yeman hadde he29, and servaunts namo^o
At that tyme, for him listesi ryde so;
And he was clad in cote and hood of grene;
A sheef of pecok arwes brighte and kene
Under his belt he bar ful thriftily,
(Wel coude he dresse his takel yemanlysa :
90
and
and
100
1 bearing
2 unbecoming word
■1 horses
■« gaily dressed
s coarse cloth
6 a short tight-fltting
coat
7 gpotted
8 coat of mail
9 voyage
10 In order to give
thanlis for bia safe
return.
11 An aspirant for
knighthood.
12 curijr
18 aa if
14 average height
15 nimble
ismilitnry expeditions
IT An ancient province
of France.
eon s i d e r 1 n g the
shortness of the
time
lady's
' embroidered
meadow
playing the flute
compose
Joust (engage in a
tournament)
' draw
I hotly
' night-time
I carved
> the knight
) no more
I it pleased him
! arrows
I order his tackle
(equipment) i n
yeomiinlike man-
ner
His arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe),
And in his hand he bar a mighty bowe.
A not-heed34 hadde he, with a broun visage.
Of wode-craftss wel coudesu he al the usage. HO
Upon his arm he bar a gay bracerST^
And by his syde a swerd and a bokelerss.
And on that other syde a gay daggere,
Harneised39 wel, and sharp as point of spare;
A Cristofre4o on his brest of silver shene4i.
An horn he bar, the bawdrik^a was of grene;
A forster43 was he, soothly44, as I gesse.
Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse,
That of hir smyling was ful simple and coy ;
Hir gretteste ooth was but by seynt Loy45j 120
And she was cleped46 madame Eglentyne.
Ful wel she song the service divyne,
Entuned in hir nose ful semely;
And Frensh she spak ful faire and fetisly47j
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe*,
For Frensh of Paris was to liir unknowe.
At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle;
She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle,
Ne wette hir fingres in hir sauce depe.
Wel eoude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe, 130
That no drope ne fille48 up-on hir brest.
In curteisye was set ful moche hir lest40j
Hir over lippe wyped she so clene.
That in hir coppeso was no ferthing sene
Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte.
Ful semely after hir mete she raughte^i.
And sikerly-''2 she was of greet disportss^
And ful plesaunt, and amiable of port54,
And peynedss hir to countrefetese cheres^
Of court, and been estatlichss of manere, 140
And to ben holden digne^s of reverence.
But, for to speken of hir conscience,
She was so charitable and so pitous^o,
She wolde wepe, if that she sawe a mous
Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.
Of smale houndes had she, that she fedde
With rosted flesh, or milk and wastel breed^i.
But sore weep she if con of hem were deed,
34 nut-head, a closely
cropped head
3r. wood-craft
.•to knew
.H7 guard for the arm
38 shield
31) equipped
40 image of St. Christo-
pher
41 bright
42 girdle worn over the
shoulder
4 3 forester
44 truly
45 St. Kloy or Loy or
EligiuB, patron
saint of gold-
smiths.
40 named
47 daintily, exactly
48 fell
40 pleasure
50 cup
.ii reached
52 surely
53 good humor
54 bearing
55 took pains
50 Imitate
57 behavior
58 to be dignifled
50 worthy
tio compassionnte
ni bread made of the
best flour — cake-
bread
♦ Stratford le Bow, where there was n Benedic-
tine nunnery, and where Anglo French would
lie spoken, rath>>r than the Farl.siuu kind.
GEOFFREY CHAUCEB
45
Or if men smoot it with a yerdei smertez :
And al was conscience and tendre herte. 150
Ful semely bir wimpels pinched* was;
Hir nose tretysS; hir eyen greye as glas;
Hir mouth ful sraal, and ther-to sof te and reed ;
But sikerly8 she hadde a fair forheed.
It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe;
For, hardily 7, she was nat undergrowe.
Ful fetis^ was hir cloke, as I was war^.
Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar
A peire of bedes^o, gaudedn al with grene; 159
And ther-on heng a broehe of gold ful shene.
On which ther was first write a crowned A,
And after. Amor vincit omnia^^.
Another Nonne with hir hadde she.
That was hir chapeleyne, and Preestes thre.
A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistryei^^
An out-rydere, that lovede veneryei*,
A manly man, to been an abbot able.
Ful many a deynteeis hors hadde he in stable:
And, whan he rood, men mighte his brydel here
Ginglen in a whistling wynd as clere, 170
^d eek as loude as doth the chapel-belle.
There-asiB this lord was keper of the cellei",
The reule of seint Maure or of seint Beneitis,
By-cause that it was old and som-del streiti^.
This like monk leet olde thingesso pacezi,
And held after the newe world the space22.
He yaf nat of that text a pulled23 hen.
That seith, that hunters been nat holy men;
Ne that a monk, whan he is recchelees^*.
Is likned til a fish that is waterlees; 180
This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloistre.
But thilke text held he nat worth an oistre.
And I seyde his opinioun was good.
What25 sholde he studie, and make hun selven
wood26,
Upon a book in cloistre alwey to poure.
Or swinken27 with his handes, and laboure,
As Austin bit28f How shal the world be served?
Lat Austin have his swink2T to him reserved.
1 stick
2 sharply
3 neck covering
4 plaited
5 well proportioned
6 surely
T certainly
8 well made
» aware
10 a set of beads, a
rosary
11 having the gawdies
or large beads
green
12 "Love conquers all."
13 a very fine monk in-
deed
14 bunting
15 fine
18 where
17 A smaller religious
house dependent on
a monastery.
18 The oldest forms of
monastic discipline
were based on the
rules of St. Maur
and of St. Benet
or Benedict.
19 somewhat strict
20 (these rules)
21 pass
22 pace, way
23 plucked (he would
not give a straw
for that text
that—)
24 wandering or va-
grant
25 why
26 crazy
27 work
28 bids
Therefor he was a pricasourzo aright;
Grehoundes he hadde, as swifte as fowel in
flight;
Of priking and of hunting for the hare 191
Was al his lustso^ for no cost wolde he spare.
I seigh3i his sieves purfiled32 at the hond
With grys33, and that the fyneste of a lond;
And, for to festne his hood under his chin.
He hadde of gold y-wroght a curious pin:
A love-knot in the gretter ende ther was.
His heed was balleds*, that shoon as any glas.
And eek his face, as he hadde been anoint.
He was a lord ful fat and in good pointss ; 200
His eyen stepe3Cj and roUinge in his heed.
That stemed as a forneys of a leed37j
His botes souple, his hors in greet estat.
Now certeinly he was a fair prelat;
He was nat pale as a for-pyned goostss.
A fat swan loved he best of any roost.
His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.
A Frere39 there was, a wantown*o and a merye,
A limitour^i, a ful solempne*2 man.
In alle the ordres foure*3 is noon that can**
So moche of daliaunce and fair langage. 211
He hadde maad ful many a mariage
Of yonge wommen, at his owne cost.
Unto his ordre he was a noble post.
Ful wel biloved and famulier was he
With frankeleyns*^ over-al in his contree.
And eek with worthy wommen of the toun:
For he had power of confessioun.
As seyde him-self, more than a curat,
For of his ordre he was licentiat**. 220
Ful swetely herde he confessioun.
And plesaunt was his absolucioun;
He was an esy man to yeve*7 penaunce
Ther-as he wiste to han a good pitaunee*8;
For unto a povre ordre for to yive*^
Is signe that a man is wel y-shrive.
For if heso yaf, he^i dorste make avauntsz^
He wiste that a man was repentaunt.
For many a man so hard is of his herte''3, 229
He may nat wepe al-thogh him sore smerte^*.
Therfore, in stede of weping and preyeres,
29 hard rider
30 pleasure
31 saw
32 bordered
33 grey fur
34 bald
3r> en ton point, fat
36 bright
37 glow like the fire
under a cauldron
38 tormented ghost
39 friar
40 brisk
41 One licensed to beg
within certain
limits.
42 pompous
43 Dominicans (Black
Friars) ; Francis-
cans (Grey Friars) ;
Carmelites (White
Friars) ; Augustin
(or Austin) Friars.
44 knows
45 country gentlemen
46 One licensed to give
absolution.
47 give, assign
48 where he knew he
could get a good
gift
49 give
50 the man
51 the friar
52 boast
53 heart
54 he suffer sorely
46
FOURTEENTH CENTURY
Men raooti yeve silver to the povre freres.
His tipets was ays farsed* ful of knyves
And pinnes, for to yeven faire wyves.
And certainly he hadde a mery note;
Wei coude he singe and pleyen on a rotes.
Of yeddingeso he bar utterly the prys^.
His nekke whyt was as the flour-de-lyss.
Ther-to he strong was as a champioun.
He knew the tavernes wel in every toun, 240
And everich hostiler» and tappestereio
Betii than a lazaris or a beggestereis ;
For un-to swich a worthy man as he
Acorded nat, as by his faculteei*,
To have with sekeis lazars aqueyntaunce.
It is nat honestis, it may nat avauncei^
For to delen with no swich poraillei^^
But al with riche and sellers of vitaille.
And over-all", ther-as2o profit sholde aryse,
Curteys he was, and lowly of servyse. 250
Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous2i.
He was the beste beggere in his hous;
For thogh a widwe hadde noght a sho22j
So plesaunt was his In principio^^,
Yet wolde he have a ferthing24^ er he wente,
His purchas25 was wel bettre than his rentess.
And rage27 he coude as it were right a
whelpe28.
In love-dayes29 ther coude he mochel helpe.
For ther he was nat lyk a cloisterer
With a thredbare cope, as in a povre scoler, 260
But he was lyk a maister or a pope.
Of double worsted was his semi-cope^o,
That rounded as a belle out of the presse.
Somwhat he lipsed, for his wantownessesi.
To make his English swete up-on his tonge;
And in his harping, whan that he had songe,
His eyen twinkled in his heed aright.
As doon the sterres in the frosty night.
This worthy limitour was cleped Huberd.
A Marchant was ther with a forked berd, 270
In motteIee32, and hye on horse he sat,
1 ought to
2 hood, cowl
8 ever
4 stuffed
6 fiddle
e songs
7 he took the prize
silly
» Innkeeper
10 bar maid
11 better
12 leper
18 female beggar
14 it was unsuitable,
considering h 1 s
ability
15 sick
la creditable
17 profit
18 poor people
IB everywhere
30 where
21 energetic
22 shoe
23 S^ John I. 1, "In
the beginning,"
etc. (the opening
of the friar's ad-
dress)
24 half n cent
25 proceeds of bis beg-
ging
26 regular Income
27 piay
2H Just like a puppy
20 arbitration days (for
settling differences
without lawsuit)
so Hhort cape
81 lisped a little out of
whimsical Joliiness
82 dress of variegated
color
Up-on his heed a Flaundrish bever hat;
His botes clasped faire and fetisly.
His resons33 he spak ful solempnelys*,
Sowninge35 alway thencreesse of his winning.
He wolde the see were kept^T for any thingss
Bitwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle^a.
Wel coude^o he in eschaunge sheeldes*i selle.
This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette^2;
Ther wisie no wight that he was in dette, 280
So estatly*3 was he of his governaunce**,
With his bargaynes, and with his chevisaunce*^.
For sothe he was a worthy man with-alle.
But sooth to seyn, I noot^s how men him calle.
A Clerk*7 ther was of Oxenford also,
That unto logik hadde longe y-go^s.
As lene was his hors as is a rake.
And he nas*9 nat right fat, I undertake^o;
But loked holwe^i, and ther-to soberly^^.
Ful thredbar was his overest^a courtepys* 290
For he had geten him yet no beneficess,
Ne was so worldly for to have officers.
For him was levere57 have at his beddes heed
Twenty bokes, clad in blak or reed *
Of Aristotle and his philosophye.
Than robes riche, or fithele^s, or gay sautryeS".
But al be that he was a philosophre^o,
Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre;
But al that he mighte of his f rendes henteai ;
On bokes and on lerninge he it spente, 300
And bisily gan for the soules preye
Of hem that yaf him where-with to scoleye02.
Of studie took he most eureka and most hede.
Noght o word spak he more than was nede,
And that was seyd in forme and reverence,
And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence*''*.
Sowninge65 in moral vertu was his speche.
And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.
A Sergeant of the Laweee, war67 and wys.
That often hadde been at the parvys^s, 310
33 opinions
34 pompously
35 proclaiming, sound-
ing
30 the Increase
37 guarded
38 at any cost, by all
mcnns
39 The first a port In
the Netherlands,
opposite Harwich
in England ; the
second a town near
the mouth of the
river Orwell in
England.
40 knew how to
41 French crowns (ho
was a money-
changer)
42 employed
4:< dignified
44 mnnngcniont
45 agreements
46 ne-f wot (know not)
47 student, scholar
devoted himself
ne+was (was not)
affirm
hollow
solemn
outer
coat
ecclesiastical living
secular office
he had rather
fiddle
psaltery, harp
The word meant both
philosopher and
alchemist,
get
devote himself to
study
care
meaning
tending to
king's lawyer
wary
portico (of St. Paul's,
where lawyers met
for consultation)
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
47
320
Ther was also, ful riehe of excellence.
Discreet he was, and of greet reverence^ :
He semed swich, his wordes weren so wyse,
Justice he was ful often in assyse^,
By patente3 and by pleyn* commissioun ;
For his science, and for his heigh renoun
Of fees and robes hadde he many oon.
So greet a purchasours was nowher noons.
Al was fee simple^ to him in effect,
His purchasing mighte nat been infects.
Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas.
And yet he semed bisier than he was.
In termes hadde he caas and domes alleo.
That from the tyme of king William were
falleio.
Therto he coude endyte, and make a thing,
Ther coude no wight pinehen at his wryting;
And every statut coudei2 he pleyn by rote.
He rood but hoomly in a medlee cote
Girt with a ceinti^ of silk, with barresi* smale;
Of his array telle I no lenger tale. 330
A Frankeleynis was in his compaignye;
Whyt was his berdis, as is the dayesyei".
Of his complexiounis he was sangwynia.
Wei loved he by the morwe^o a sop2i in wyn.
To liven in delyt was evere his wone22,
For he was Epicurus23 owne sone,
That heeld opinioun that pleyn delyt
Was verraily felicitee parfyt.
An housholdere, and that a greet, was he;
Seynt Iulian2* he was in his contree.
His breed, his ale, was alwey after oon25j
A bettre envyned26 man was nevere noon.
With-oute bake mete was nevere his hous.
Of fish and flesh, and that so plentevous,
It snewed27 in his hous of mete and drinke.
Of alle deyntees that men coude thinke.
After the sondry sesons of the yeer.
So chaunged he his mete and his soper.
Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in mewe28,
340
1 exciting much rever-
ence
2 court of assize
3 letters patent
4 full
5 conveyancer
6 none
T unconditional inheri-
tance
8 invalidated (i. e., he
could cunningly
convey property
without entangle-
ments of entail)
» in exact words he had
all cases and de-
cisions
10 had occurred
11 make an agreement
so none could find
fault
12 knew
13 girdle
bars, or ornaments
country gentleman
'■ beard
daisy
i temperament
I lively
> in the morning
A sort of custard
with bread in it.
'■ wont, custom.
t A Greek philosopher,
popularly supposed
to have considered
pleasure the chief
good.
I Patron saint of aos-
pitallty.
i of the same quality
! provided with wines
r snowed ; i. e., abound-
ed
i coop
And many a breem29 and many a luce in
steweso. 350
Wo3i was his cook, but-if32 his sauce were
Poynaunt and sharp, and redy al his gere33.
His table dormant34 in his halle alway
Stood redy covered al the longe day.
At sessiouns35 ther was he lord and sire.
Ful ofte tyme he was knight of the shireso.
An anlas37 and a gipserss al of silk
Heng at his girdel, whyt as morne milk.
A shirreve hadde he been, and a countourss;
Was nowher such a worthy vavasour***. 360
An Haberdassherii and a Carpenter,
A Webbe,*2 a Dyere, and a Tapicer*3j
And they were clothed alle in o liveree.
Of a solempne and greet fraternitee.
Ful fresh and newe hir gere apyked** was;
Hir knyves were y-chaped*5 noght with bras.
But al with silver wroght ful clene and weel,
Hir girdles and hir pouches everydeel.
Wei semed ech of hem a fair burgeys^s^
To sitten in a yeldhalle*^ on a deys^s. 370
Everich*9, for the wisdom that he canso,
Was shaplysi for to been an alderman.
For catel'2 hadde they ynogh and renters,
And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assented* ;
And elles certein were they to blame.
It is ful fair to been y-clept via dame.
And goonss to vigilyesss al bifore.
And have a mantel roialliche y-bores^.
A Cook they hadde with hem for the nonesss.
To boille chiknesss with the mary-bones, 380
And poudre-marehantso tart^i, and galingale62.
Wel coude he knowe^s a draughte of London
ale.
He coude roste, and sethesi, and broille, and
frye,
Maken mortreux65, and wel bake a pye.
But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me.
That on his shine^* a mormal*''^ hadde he;
29 bream (a fish)
30 pond
31 woe unto his cook
32 unless
33 utensils
34 stationary
35 meetings of justices
of the peace
36 member of parlia-
ment
37 knife
38 pouch
39 auditor
40 sub-vassal (landhold-
er)
41 seller of hats
42 weaver
43 upholsterer
44 trimmed
45 capped (tipped)
46 citizen
47 guild-ball
48 dais
49 everyone
50 knew (had)
51 fit
52 property
53 Income
54 be glad of it
55 to go
56 social gatherings in
the church or
churchyard
57 royally carried
58 occasion
59 chickens
60 a seasoning
61 sharp
62 the root of sweet
cyperus
63 well knew he how to
distinguish
64 boil
65 chowders
66 shin
67 sore
48
POTJETEENTH CENTUBY
For blankmangeri, that made he with the
beste.
A Shipman was ther, woning2 fer by weste:
For aught I woot3, he was of Dertemouthe.
He rood up-on a rouncy*, as he couthes, 390
In a gowne of faldingo to the knee.
A daggere hanging on a laas7 hadde he
Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun.
The hote somer had maad his hewe al broun;
And, certeinly, he was a good felawe.
Ful many a draughte of wyn had he y-drawe
From Burdeux-ward, whyl that the ehapmans
sleep.
Of nyces conscience took he no keepio.
If that he faught, and hadde the hyer bond,
By water he sente hem hoom to every londn.
But of his craft 12 to rekene wel his tydes 401
His stremes and his daungers him bisydes,
His herberwei3 and his monei*, his lodemen-
ageis,
Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to Cartage.
Hardy he was, and wys to undertake;
With many a tempest hadde his berd been
shake.
He knew wel alle the havenes, as they were,
From Gootlondi8 to the cape of Finisterei^,
And every cryke in Britayne and in Spayne;
His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne. 410
With us ther was a Doctour of Phisykis,
In al this world ne was ther noon him lyk
To speke of phisik and of surgerye ;
For he was grounded in astronomyei^.
He kepte his pacient a ful greet del
In houres2o^ by his magik naturel.
Wel coude he fortunen2i the ascendent
Of his image822 for his pacient*.
He knew the cause of everieh maladye.
Were it of hoot or cold, or moiste, or dryet, 420
And where engendred, and of what humour;
He was a verrey parfit practisour.
The cause y-knowe, and of his harm the rote23^
Anon he yaf the seke man his bote24.
P'ul retly hadde he his apothecaries,
1 minced capon, cream, i4 moon
sugar and flour i5 pilotage
2 dwelling i« .Jutland, Denmark
3 know 17 On the coast of
4 common hackney Spain.
5 as well as he could is medicine
6 coarse cloth it astrology
7 cord 20 he treated his pa-
« merchant tient at favorable
» over scrupulous astrological times
10 heed 2i forecast
11 made them walk the 22 talismans
rilank 28 the root of the evil
II 24 remedy
13 harbor
• Figures or talismans made when a favorable
star was rising above the horizon, 1. e., was
in the ascendant, could, it was believed, cause
good or evil to a pntlent.
t Diseases were thought fo be caused by an excess
of one or another of these humours.
To sende him drogges, and his letuaries25,
For ech of hem made other for to winne26;
Hir frendschipe nas nat newe to biginne27.
Wel knew he the olde Esculapius*,
And Deiscorides, and eek Eufus; 430
Old Ypoeras, Haly, and Galien;
Serapion, Eazis, and Avicen;
Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn;
Bernard, and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn.
Of his diete mesurablezs was he,
For it was of no superfluitee.
But of greet norissing and digestible.
His studie was but litel on the Bible.
In sangwin29 and in pers3o he clad was al,
Lyned with taffata3i and with sendal3i 440
And yet he was but esy of dispence32 ;
He kepte that he wan in pestilence.
For gold in phisik is a cordial33j
Therfor he lovede gold in special.
A Good Wyf was ther of bisyde Bathe,
But she was som-del deef, and that was
scathe34.
Of cloth-making she hadde swiche an haunt35j
She passed hem of Ypresse and of Gaunt37.
In al the parisshe wyf ne was ther noon
That to the offringss bifore hir sholde goon ; 450
And if ther dide, certeyn, so wrooth was she,
That she was out of alle charitee.
Hir eoverchiefs39 ful fyne were of ground^oj
I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound*i
That on a Sonday were upon hir heed.
Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed,
Ful streite y-teyd, and shoes ful moiste42 and
newe.
Bold was hir face, and fair, and reed of hewe.
She was a worthy womman al hir lyve, 459
Housbondes at chirche-dore^s she hadde fyve,
Withouten** other compaignye in youthe;
But thereof nedeth nat to speke as nouthe".
And thryes hadde she been at lerusalem;
She hadde passed many a straunge streem ;
25 medicines mixed 30 in West Flanders
with confections 37 Ghent
26 the doctor and the 38 The ceremony of of-
druggist each made ferlng gifts to
business for the relics on "Relic-
other Sunday."
27 of recent date so kerchiefs for the
28 moderate head
20 reddish «> texture
30 light blue 41 Because ornamented
31 thin silk with gold and sti-
32 moderate In spend- ver.
Ing 42 soft
33 Gold In medicine was 43 People were married
supposed to render at the church-
It especially efflca- porch,
clous. 44 without counting
34 a pity 4.1 at present
ar, Rkill
• The god of medicine, son of Apollo. The others
named hi lines 430-434 are all famous physi-
cians and scholars of antiquity and medla>val
times. Gatlsden of Oxford was almo.st a con-
temporary of (,'haucer.
GEOFFEEY CHAUCER
49
At Rome she hadde been, and at Boloignei,
In Galice at seint Iame2, and at Coloigne^.
She coude moche of wandring by the weye.
Gat-tothed* was she, soothly for to seye.
Upon an ambleres esily she sat,
Y-wimpled wel, and on hir heed an hat 470
As brood as is a bokelers or a targe;
A foot-manteK aboute hir hipes large,
And on hir feet a paire of spores sharpe.
In f elaweschip wel coude she laughe and carpe^.
Of remedies of loves she knew per-chaunce.
For she coude of that art the olde daunce.
A good man was ther of religioun.
And was a povre Persounio of a toun;
But riche he was of holy thoght and werk.
He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 480
That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche ;
His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche.
Benign e he was, and wonder diligent,
And in adversitee f ul pacient ;
And swich he was y-prevedn ofte sythesiz.
Ful looth were him to cursen for his tythesis,
But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute,
Un-to his povre parisshens aboute
Of his offringi*, and eek of his substaunceis.
He coude in litel thing han suffisaunce. 490
Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer a-sonder.
But he ne lafte natis^ for reyn ne thonder.
In siknes nor in meschiefi'^ to visyte
The ferresteis in his parisshe, moche and lytei^,
Up-on his feet, and in his hand a staf.
This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf,
That first he wroghte, and afterward he
taughte ;
Out of the gospel he tho2o wordes caughte;
And this figure he added eek ther-to,
That if gold ruste, what shal yren2i do? 500
For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste.
No wonder is a lewedss man to ruste;
And shame it .s, if a preest take keep23^
A [spotted] shepherde and a clene sheep.
Wel oghte a preest ensample for to yive,
By his clennesse, how that his sheep shold live.
He sette nat his benefice to hyre24.
And leet his sheep encombred in the myre,
1 Where there was an
image of the Vir-
gin.
2 to the shrine of St.
James in Galicia
in Spain
3 Where according to
legend the bones of
the Three Wise
Men of the East
were kept.
4 gap-toothed : i. e., with
teeth wide apart
5 nag
6 shield
7 riding sltlrt
8 chatter
9 love-charms
10 parson
11 proved
12 times
13 he was loath to ex-
communicate those
who would not pay
their tithes
14 gifts made to him
15 property
16 ceased not
17 trouble
18 farthest
19 rich and poor
20 those
21 iron
22 ignorant
23 notice
24 he did not sub-let bis
parish
And ran to London, unto seynt Ponies,
To seken him a chaunterie25 for soules.
Or with a bretherhed to been withholde26, 510
But dwelte at hoom, and kepte wel his folde,
So that the wolf ne made it nat miscarie;
He was a shepherde and no mercenarie27.
And though he holy were, and vertuous.
He was to sinful man nat despitous28j
Ne of his speche daungerous2» ne digne30,
But in his teching discreet and benigne.
To drawen folk to heven by fairnesse
By good ensample, this was his bisynesse: 520
But it were any persone obstinat.
What so he were, of heigh or lowe estat,
Him wolde he snibbensi sharply for the nones32.
A bettre preest, I trowe that nowher non is.
He wayted after no pompe and reverence,
Ne maked him a spyced33 conscience.
But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve.
He taughte, but first he folwed it him-selve.
With him ther was a Plowman, was his
brother, 629
That hadde y-lad^i of dong ful many a fotherss,
A trewe swinkere36 and a good was he,
Livinge in pees and parfit charitee.
God loved he best with al his hole herte
At alle tymes, thogh him gamed or smerte37,
And thanne his neighebour right as him-selve.
He wolde thresshe, and ther-to dyke38 and
delve,
For Cristes sake, for every povre wight,
Withouten hyress, if it lay in his might.
His tythes payed he ful faire and wel,
Bothe of his propre*o swink and his catel*i. 540
In a tabard he rood upon a mere*2.
Ther was also a Revels and a Millere,
A Somnour** and a Pardoner^s also,
A Maunciple*8, and my-self ; there were namo^^.
The Miller was a stout carles, for the
nones<9,
Ful big he was of braun, and eek of bones ;
That proved wel, for over-al therso he cam,
At wrastling he wolde have alwey the ram^i.
He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke knarre52,
25 a position to sing
mass
26 maintained
27 hireling
28 merciless
29 over-bearing
30 proud
31 reprove
32 on occasion
33 sophisticated
34 led
35 load
36 laborer
37 whether his luck
were good or bad
38 dig ditches
39 pay
40 own
41 property
42 mare (then the hum-
ble man's steed)
43 bailiff
44 A summoner to
eccleslastl cal
courts.
45 One commissioned to
grant pardons.
46 A purchaser of food
for lawyers at inns
of court or for col-
leges.
47 no more
48 churl, fellow
49 for you
50 everywhere
61 The prize.
62 knotted, thick-set fel-
low
60
FOURTEENTH CENTURY
Ther nas no dore that he nolde heve of harrei,
Or breke it, at a renning, with his heed. 551
His herd as any sowe or fox was reed,
And ther-to brood, as though it were a spade.
Upon the cop2 right of his nose he hade
A wertes, and ther-on stood a tuft of heres,
Keed as the bristles of a sowes eres*;
His no8e-thirles5 blake were and wyde.
A swerd and bokeler bar he by his syde;
His mouth as greet was as a greet forneys.
He was a langlere^ and a goliardeys^, 560
And that was most of sinne and harlotryess.
Wei coude he stelen corn, nnd tollen thryesS;
And yet he hadde a thombe of goldio, pardee.
A whyt cote and a blew hood wered he.
A baggepype wel coude he blowe and sownen.
And therwithal he broghte us out of towne.
A gentil Maunciple was ther of a templeia^
Of which achatoursi3 mighte take exemple
For to be wyse in bying of vitaille. 569
For whether that he payde, or took by taillei*,
Algate he waytedis so in his achatis.
That he was ay biforn and in good stat.
Now is nat that of God a ful fair grace,
That swich a lewedi^ mannes wit shal paceis
The wisdom of an heep of lerned men?
Of maistres hadde he mois than thryes ten,
That were of lawe expert and curious;
Of which ther were a doseyn in that hous.
Worthy to been stiwardes of rente and lond
Of any lord that is in Engelond, 580
To make' him live by his propre good,
In honour dettelees, but he were wood20,
Or live as scarslyzi as him list desire;
And able for to helpen al a shire
In any cas that mighte falle or happe;
And yit this maunciple sette hir aller cappe22.
The Reve was a sclendre colerik23 man.
His berd was shave as ny as ever he can.
His heer was by his eres round y-shorn.
His top was dokked24 lyk a preest biforn. 590
Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene,
Y-lyk a staf, ther was no calf y-sene.
Wel coude he kepe a gerner25 and a binne ;
Ther was noon auditour coude on him winne.
Wel wiste he, by the droghte, and by the reyn,
The yeldyng of his seed, and of his greyn.
1 could not heave off its
binges
2 tip
s wart
4 ears
B DOKtrilS
• bold talker
7 buffoon
8 ribaldrloR
take toll three times
(Instead of once)
10 worth gold (because
with it he tested
his flour)
11 play upon
12 lawyers' quarters
18 buyers
14 tally, 1. e., on credit
15 alwayH be was so
careful
16 purchase
17 ignorant
18 surpass
19 more
20 crazy
21 economically
22 cheated them all
23 irascible
24 cut short
25 granary
His lordes sheep, his neet2«, his dayerye,
His swyn, his hors, his stoor27j and his pultrye,
Was hooUy in this reves governing,
And by his covenaunt yaf the rekeningzs 600
Sin29 that his lord was twenty yeer of age;
Ther coude no man bringe him in arrerageso.
Ther nas baillif, ne herdesi, ne other hyne32j
That he ne knew his sleighte and his covyness;
They were adrad of him, as of the deeth.
His woning34 was ful fair up-on an heeth.
With grene trees shadwed was his place.
He coude bettre than his lord purchace.
Ful riche he was astored prively,
His lord wel coude he plesen subtilly, 610
To yeve and lene him of his owne good,
And have a thank, and yet a cote, and hood35.
In youthe he lerned hadde a good mister36;
He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter.
This reve sat upon a ful good stot37j
That was al pomelyss grey, and highte Scot.
A long surcote of perssa up-on he hade.
And by his syde he bar a rusty blade.
Of Northfolk was this reve, of which I telle,
Bisyde a toun men clepen Baldeswelle. 620
Tukked40 he was, as is a frere, aboute.
And evere he rood the hindreste of our route.
A Somnour was ther with us in that place,
That hadde a fyr-reed cherubinnes face,
For sawceflem4i he was, with eyen narwe,
With scalled42 broM'es blake, and piled43 berd;
Of his visage children were aferd.
Ther nas quik-silver, litarge**, ne brimstoon,
Boras45, ceruce**, ne oille of tartre noon, 630
Ne oynement that wolde dense and byte,
That him mighte helpen of his whelkes** whyte,
Ne of the knobbes sittinge on his chekes.
Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek lekes.
And for to drinken strong wyn, reed as blood.
Thanne wolde he speke, and crye as he were
wood*''.
And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn.
Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn.
A fewe termes hadde he, two or thre.
That he had lerned out of som decree; 640
No wonder is, he herde it al the day ;
26 cattle
27 stock
28 rendered account
20 since
30 tind him in arrears
81 herder
82 servant
33 whose craft and de-
ceit he did not
know
34 dwelling
35 lend his lord's own
property to him
and receive grati-
tude and Interest
as well
36 trade
37 stallion
38 spotted, dappled
39 blue
40 his coat was tucked
up by means of a
girdle
41 pimpled
42 scurfy
43 plucked (thin)
44 white lead
45 borax
46 blotches
47 mad
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
61
650
659
And eek ye knowen wel, how that a lay
Can clepen ' Watte, 'i as well as can the pope
But whoso coude in other thing him grope^,
Thanne hadde he spent al his philosophye;
Ay 'Questio quid iuris's wolde he crye.
He was a gentil harlot^ and a kynde;
A bettre f elawe sholde men noght fynde.
He wolde suffre fors a quart of wyn
A good f elawe to have his [wikked sin]
A twelf-month, and excuse him atte fuUe:
And prively a finch eek coude he puUe^.
And if he fond owher^ a good felawe,
He wolde techen him to have non awe,
In swich cas, of the erchedeknes curss,
But-if9 a mannes soule were in his pursioj
For in his purs he sholde y-punisshed be.
'Purs is the erchedeknes helle, ' seyde he.
But wel I woot he lyed right in dede;
Of cursing oghte ech gulty man him dredeii-
For curs wol slee right as assoillingi^ saveth
And also war him of a significavit^s^
In daungerii hadde he at his owne gyseis
The yonge girlesis of the diocyse.
And knew hir counseil, and was al hir reedi^.
A gerland hadde he set up-on his heed,
As greet as it were for an ale-stakeis;
A bokeler hadde he maad him of a cake.
With him ther rood a gentil Pardoner
Of Rouncivalei!', his frend and his compeer, 670
That streight was eomen fro the court of Rome.
Ful loude he song, 'Com hider, love, to me.'
This somnour bar to him a stif burdoun^o^
Was nevere trompesi of half so greet a soun.
This pardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex,
But smothe it heng, as doth a strike of flexes ;
By ounces23 henge his lokkes that he haddez*.
And ther-with he his shuldres overspradde;
But thinne it lay, by colponsss oon and oon;
But hood, for lolitee, ne wered he noon, 680
For it was trussed up in his walet.
Him thoughte26, he rood al of the newe Iet27;
Dischevele, save his cappe, he rood al bare.
Swiche glaringe eyen hadde he as an hare.
1 Walter (then a very
common name in
England)
2 test
3 "The question Is.
What is ttie law?"
4 good fellow
5 in return for
6 pluck a pigeon for
himself
7 anywhere
8 excommunication
9 unless
10 purse
11 (reflexive) fear for
himself
12 absolution
13 writ of excommuni-
cation
14 in his Jurisdiction
control
young people of
either sex
the adviser of them
all
: sign-pole of an inn
(often a bush hung
up in front)
' Possibly the Hospi-
tal of Rouncyvalle
in London.
' accompaniment
trumpet
handful of flax
small portions
such as he had
shreds
> it seemed to him
fashion
A vernicle28 hadde he sowed on his cappe.
His walet lay biforn him in his lappe,
Bret-ful29 of pardoun come from Rome al hoot.
A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot.
No berd hadde he, ne nevere sholde have.
As smothe it was as it were late y-shave ; 690
But of his craft, fro Berwik unto Wareso,
Ne was ther swich another pardoner.
For in his malesi he hadde a pilwe-beer32,
Which that, he seyde, was our lady veylss;
He seyde, he hadde a gobeta* of the seyl35
That seynt Peter hadde, whan that he wente
Up-on the see, til lesu Crist him hente^s.
He hadde a croys37 of latounss^ ful of stones.
And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 700
But with thise relikes, whan that he fond
A povre person dwelling up-on lond39,
Up-on a day he gat him more moneye
Than that the person gat in monthea tweye.
And thus with feyned flaterye and lapes^o^
He made the person and the peple his apes.
But trewely to tellen, atte laste.
He was in chirche a noble ecclesiaste.
W^el coude he tede a lessoun or a storie,
But alderbest*! he song an offertorie; 710
For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe,
He moste preche, and wel affyle42 his tonge,
To winne silver, as he ful wel coude;
Therefore he song so meriely and loude.
Now have I told you shortly, in a clause,
Thestat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the cause
Why that assembled was this compaignye
In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrye.
That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle.
But now is tyme to yow for to telle 720
How that we baren us that ilke night,
Whan we were in that hostelrye alight.
And after wol I telle of our viage.
And al the remenaunt of our pilgrimage.
But first I pray yow of your curteisye,
That ye narette it nat my vileinye^s,
Thogh that I pleynly speke in this materc,
To telle yow hir wordes and hir chere** ;
Ne thogh I speke hir wordes proprely*^
For this ye knowen also wel as I,
Who-so shal telle a tale after a man.
730
28 a St. Veronica (a
cloth bearing a pic-
ture of Christ)
20 brimful
30 from the north to
the south of Eng-
land
31 valise
32 pillow-case
33 the veil of the Vir-
gin
34 piece
35 sail
36 caught, 1. e., con-
verted
37 cross
38 brass
39 in the country
40 tricks
41 best of all
42 file, polish
43 attribute it not to
my ill-breeding
44 appearance
45 exactly
52
FOURTEENTH CENTURY
He moot reherce, as nyi as evere he can,
Everich a2 word, if it be in his charges,
Al* speke he never so rudeliche and largeS;
Or elles he moot telle his tale untrewe,
Or feyne thing, or fynde wordes newe.
He may nat spare, al-thogh he were his brother ;
He moot as wel seye o word as another.
Crist spak him-self ful brode in holy writ,
And wel ye woot, no vileinye is it. 740
Eek Plato seith, who-so that can him rede^,
The wordes mote^ be cosin to the dede.
Also I prey yow to foryeve it me,
Al8 have I nat set folk in hir degree
Here in this tale, as that they sholde stonde;
My wit is short, ye may wel understonde.
Greet cheres made our hoste us everichonio,
And to the soper sette he us anon;
And served us with vitaille at the beste.
Strong was the wyn, and wel to drinke us
leste".
A semely man oar hoste was with-alle 751
For to ban been a marshal in an halle;
A large man he was with eyen stepeiz,
A fairer burgeysis was ther noon in Chepei* :
Bold of his speche, and wys, and wel y-taught,
And of manhod him lakkede right naught.
Eek therto he was right a mery man,
And after soper pleyenis he bigan,
And spak of mirthe amonges othere thinges,
Whan that we hadde maad our rekeningesis ; 760
And seyde thus: 'Now, lordinges, trewely
Ye ben to me right M'elcome hertely:
For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye,
I ne saughi7 this yeer so mery a compaiguye
At ones in this herberweis as is now.
Fayn wolde I doon yow mirthe, wiste I howi».
And of a mirthe I am right now bithoght,
To doon yow esezo^ and it shal coste noght.
Ye goon to Caunterbury ; God yow spede, 769
The blisful martirzi quyte22 yow your mede23.
And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye.
Ye shapen24 yow to talen25 and to pleye;
For trewely, confort ne mirthe is noon
To ryde by the weye doumb as a stoon;
And therefor wol I maken yow disport,
1 nearly
2 every
8 1. e., In thp tale com-
mitted to him
4 aitbougti
8 freeiy
« Chaucer couid not
read Oreek
T muKt
8 although
B entertainment
10 everjr one
11 it pfeaRed
12 t)riKht
13 citizen
14 A market square In
I^ondon (now a
street, Cheapside).
1 5 to play, jest
in paid our bills
17 snw not
iH Inn
18 give you fun if I
knew how
20 give you recreation
21 Thomas ft Kecket
22 requite (give)
28 reward
24 plan
25 to tell tales
As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort.
And if yow lyketh alle, by oon assent,
Now for to stonden at26 my lugement,
And for to werken as I shal yow seye,
To-morwe, whan ye ryden by the weye, 780
Now, by my fader soule, that is deed,
But27 ye be merye, I wol yeve yow myn heed.
Hold up your bond, withoute more speche.'
Our counseil was nat longe for to seche28;
Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it
wys2».
And graunted him with-outen more avysso,
And bad him seye his verdit, as him leste.
'Lordinges,' quod he, 'now herkneth for the
beste ;
But tak it not, I prey yow, in desdeyn ;
This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn,
That ech of yow, to shorte with our weye3i,
In this viage, shal telle tales tweye, 792
To Caunterbury-ward, I mene it so.
And hom-ward he shal tellen othere two.
Of aventures that whylom han bif alle.
And which of yow that bereth him best of alle,
That is to seyn, that telleth in this cas
Tales of best sentence and most solas32,
Shal han a soper at our aller cost
Here in this place, sitting by this post, 800
Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury.
And for to make yow the more mery,
I wol my-selven gladly with yow ryde.
Right at myn owne cost, and be your gyde.
And who-so wol my lugement withseye33
Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye.
And if ye vouche-sauf that it be so,
Tel me anon, with-outen wordes mo.
And I wol erly shape34 me therfore. '
This thing was graunted, and our othes
swore 810
With ful glad herte, and preyden him also
That he wold vouche-sauf for to do so,
And that he wolde been our governour.
And of our tales luge and reportour,
And sette a soper at a certeyn prys ;
And we wold reuled been at his devysss^
In heigh and lowe; and thus, by oon assent.
We been acorded to his lugement.
And ther-up-on the wyn was fet8« anoon;
We dronken, and to reste wente echoon, 820
With-outen any lenger taryinge.
A-morwe, whan thatsT day bigan to springe,
Up roos our host, and was our aller cokas^
2«by
-'7 unless
28 seek
•'» a matter of delibera-
tion
so consideration
81 to shorten our way
with
32 amusement
S3 gainsay
84 prepare
35 decision
36 fetched
87 when
88 cock of us all (who
woke them up)
GEOFFEEY CHAUCEB
53
And gadrede us togidre, alle in a flok,
And forth we riden, a litel more than pasi,
Un-to the watering of seint Thomas^.
And there our host bigan his hors areste,
And seyde; 'Lordinges, herkneth if yow leste.
Ye woot your forwards, and I it yow reeorde*.
If even-song and morwe-song acorde, 830
Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale.
As evere mote I drinke wyn or ale,
Whoso be rebel to my lugement
Shal paye for al that by the weye is spent.
Now draweth cuts, er that we ferrero
twinned ;
He which that hath the shortest shal biginne. '
'Sire knight,' quod he, 'my maister and my
lord,
Now draweth cut, for that is myn acords.
Cometh neer^, ' quod he, ' my lady prioresse ;
And ye, sir clerk, lat be your shamfast-
nesse, 840
Ne studieth noghtio ; ley bond to, every man. '
Anon to drawen every wight bigan.
And shortly for to tellen, as it was.
Were it by averturen, or sorti2, or casia,
The sothei* is this, the cut fil to the knight,
Of which f ul blythe and glad was every wight ;
And telle he moste his tale, as was resoun.
By forward and by composiciounis.
As ye han herd; what nedeth wordes mo?
And whan this goode man saugh it was so.
As he that wys was and obedient 851
To kepe his forward by his free assent,
He seyde: 'Sini« I shal beginne the game,
What, welcome be the cut, ai" Goddes name!
Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I seye. '
And with that word we riden forth our weye ;
And he bigan with right a mery chereis
His tale anon, and seyde in this manere.
The Nonne Preestes Tale*
Here iiginneth the Nonne Preestes Tale of the
Cole and Hen, Chauntecleer and
Pertelote.
A povre widwe somdel stopei^ in age.
Was whylom2o dwelling in a narwe-'i cotage,
Bisyde a grove, stondyng in a dale.
This widwe, of which I telle yow my tale,
1 faster than a walk
2 Two miles on the way
to Canterbury.
3 agreement
4 remind you of it
Slots
« further
7 separate
8 decision
B nearer
10 don't meditate
• In the Ellesmere MS. this is the twentieth tale.
Sir John, the "Nun's Priest," was an escort
of Madame Eglentyne ; see Prologue, 164. His
tal« is an old one, found in various languages.
11 chance
12 fate
13 accident
14 truth
15 contract
16 since
17 in
18 expression
19 advanced
20 once upon a time
21 narrow
Sin thilke22 day that she was last a wyf,
In pacience ladde a ful simple lyf,
For litel was hir catel and Mr rent23;
By housbondrye, of such as God hir sente,
She fond24 hir-self, and eek hir doghtren^s two.
Three large sowes hadde she, and namo, 10
Three kyn, and eek a sheep that highte26
Malle.
Ful sooty was hir bour, and eek hir halle27,
In which she eet ful many a sclendre meel.
Of poynaunt sauce hir neded28 never a deel.
No deyntee morsel passed thurgh hir throte;
Hir dyete was accordant to hir cote.
Eepleceioun29 ne made hir nevere syk;
Attempree dyete was al hir phisyk,
And exercyse, and hertes suflBsaunce.
The goute lette^o hir no-thing for to daunce, 20
Ne poplexye shentesi nat hir heed;
No wyn ne drank she, neither whyt ne reed;
Hir bord was served most with whyt and blak,
Milk and broun breed, in which she fond no
lak,
Seynd32 bacoun, and somtyme an eyS' or
tweye,
For she was as it were a maner deyes*.
A yerd she hadde, enclosed al aboute
With stikkes, and a drye dich with-oute,
In which she hadde a cok, hight Chauntecleer,
In al the land of crowing nasss his peer. 30
His vois was merier than the merye orgonS*
On messe-dayes37 that in the chirche gon;
Wei sikererss ^as his crowing in his logge**,
Than is a clokke, or an abbey orlogge*o.
By nature knew he ech ascensioun^i
Of equinoxial in thilke toun;
For whan degrees fiftene were ascended,
Thanne crew he, that it mighte nat
amended*2.
His comb was redder than the fyn coral,
And batailed^s, as it were a castel-wal.
His bile<* was blak, and as the leet^s it shoon;
Lyk asur were his legges, and his toon^S;
His nayles whytter than the lilie flour.
ben
40
since that
■ her property (chat-
tels) and her in-
come
supported
daughters
i was called
Bower and hall are
terms applicable
to a castle ; used
here humorously
of the probably
one-room cottage.
( (reflexive) she need-
ed
I surfeit
I hindered
hurt
: singed (broiled)
33 egg
34 sort of dairy-woman
35 was not
86 organs
37 mass-days
38 surer
39 lodging
40 horologe
41 he knew the time
every hour of the
day (for 15° of
the equinoctial are
passed each hour
of the twenty-four)
42 so that it couldn't
be improved upon
43 embattled
44 bill
45 Jet
46 toes
54
FOURTEENTH CENTURY
And lyk the burnedi gold was his colour.
This gentil cok hadde in his governaunce
Sevene hennes, for to doon all his plesaunce,
Whiche were his sustres and his paramours,
And wonder lyk to him, as of2 colours.
Of whiche the faireste hewed on hir throte
Was clepeds faire damoysele Pertelote. 50
Curteys she was, discreet, and debonaire^.
And compaignable, and bar hir-self so faire,
Sin thilke day that she was seven night old.
That trewely she hath the herte in hold
Of Chauntecleer loken in every liths,
He loved hir so, that wel him was therwith.
But such a loye was it to here hem singe,
Whan that the brighte sonne gan to springe.
In swete accord, ' my lief is f aren in londe^. '
For thilke^ tyme, as I have understonde, 60
Bestes and briddes coude speke and singe.
And so bifel, that in a dawenynge.
As Chauntecleer among his wyves alle
Sat on his perche, that was in the halle.
And next him sat this faire Pertelote,
This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte.
As man that in his dreem is drecched^ sore.
And whan that Pertelote thus herde him rore,
She was agast, and seyde, 'o herte deere,
What eyieth yow, to grone in this manere? 70
Ye ben a verray sleper, f y for shame ! '
And he answerde and seyde thus, 'raadame,
I pray yow, that ye take it nat agriefo ;
By God, me metteio I was in swich meschief
Right now, that yet myn herte is sore afright.
Now God,' quod he, *my swevenen redei2
aright.
And keep my body out of foul prisoun!
Me mette, how that I romed up and doun
Withinne our yerde, wher as I saugh a beste,
Was lyk an hound, and wolde han maad
aresteia 80
Upon ray body, and wolde han had me deed.
His colour was bitwixe yelwe and reed;
And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eres
With blak, unlyk the remenant of his heres;
His snowte smal, with glowinge even tweye.
Yet of his look for fere almost I deye;
This caused me my groning. doutelea, '
'Avoyi*!' quod she, 'fy on yow, hertelesis!
Alias!' quod she, 'for, by that God above.
Now han ye lost myn herte and al my love; 90
I can nat love a coward, by my feith.
For certes, what so any womman seith.
1 bnrnished
'■i In n'Hpe<'t to
^ named
't eracloiis
B locked In pvory limb
« my bclovod Is gone to
the country, gone
away
T at that
8 troubled
ami.ss
10 I dreamed
11 dream
12 Interpret
13 seizure
14 away
10 heartless one
We alle desyren, if it mighte be,
To han housbondes hardy, wyse, and freei«,
And secreei^^ and no nigard, ne no fool,
Ne him that is agast of every toolis,
Ne noon avauntouris, by that God above!
How dorste ye sayn for shame unto youre love.
That any thing mighte make yow aferd?
Have ye no mannes herte, and han a berd? 100
Alias! and conne ye been agast of swevenis?
No-thing, God wot, but vanitee, in sweven is.
Swevenes engendren of replecciouns,
And ofte of fume, and of complecciouns2o,
Whan humours2i been to22 habundant in a
wight.
Certes this dreem, which ye han met23 to-night,
Cometh of the grete superfluitee
Of youre rede colera^*, pardee.
Which causeth folk to dremen in here25 dremes
Of arwes26, and of fyr with rede lenies27j 110
Of grete bestes, that they wol hem byte.
Of contek28j and of whelpes grete and lyte;
Right as the humour of malencolye2o
Causeth ful many a man, in sleep, to crye,
For fere of blake beres, or boles3o blake,
Or elles, blake develes wole him take.
Of othere humours coude 1 telle also,
That werken many a man in sleep ful wo;
But I wol passe as lightly as I can. 119
Lo Catounsi, which that was so wys a man,
Seyde he nat thus, ne do no fors32 of dremes?
Now, sire,' quod she, 'whan we flee fro the
hemes.
For Goddes love, as33 tak som laxatyf ;
Up peril of my soule, and of my lyf,
I counseille yow the beste, I wol nat lye.
That both of colere, and of malencolye^o
Ye purge yow; and for ye shul nat tarie,
Though in this toun is noon apotecarie,
I shal my-self to herbes techen yow, 129
That shul ben for your hele, and for your
prow84 ;
And in our yerd tho herbes shal I fynde.
The whiche han of here propretee, by kyndess,
To purgen yow bincthe, and eek above.
Forget not this, for Goddes owene love!
Ye been ful colerik of compleccioun.
Ware3« the sonne in his ascencioun
Ne fynde yow nat repleet of humours bote;
28 their
26 arrows
27 glenms
28 contest
20 Due to excess of bile.
:io bulls
81 nionyslus Cato
rii t'lko no notice
3S do now (pleonastic)
34 profit
ss nature
30 beware
16 liberal
17 trusty
18 weapon
HI boaster
20 temperaments
21 The four causes and
classes of disease
(see Proloyui,
420).
22 too
28 dreamed
24 red cholera (caused
by too much bile
and blood)
GEOrFKEY CHAUCER
55
And if it do, I dar wel leye a grotei,
That ye shul have a fevere terciane^,
Or an agu, that may be youre bane. 140
A day or two ye shul have digestyves
Of wormes, er ye take your laxatyves,
Of lauriol, centaure, and fumetere^,
Or elles of ellebor*, that groweth there,
Of eatapucea, or of gaytres* beryis.
Of erbe yve, growing in our yerd, that mery is;
Pekke hem up right as they growe, and ete
hem in.
Be mery, housbond, for your fader kyn!
Dredeth no dreem ; I can say yow namore. '
'Madame,' quod he, ' graunt mercy'! of your
lore.
But natheles, as touching dauns Catoun, 151
That hath of wisdom such a gret renoun.
Though that he bad no dremes for to drede,
By God, men may in olde bokes rede
Of many a man, more of auctoritee
Than evere Catoun was, so moot I thee^,
That al the reversio seyn of this sentence^.
And han wel founden by experience,
That dremes ben significaciouns.
As wel of loye as tribulaciouns 160
That folk enduren in this lyf present.
Ther nedeth make of this noon argument ;
The verray preve^^ sheweth it in dede.
Oon of the gretteste auctours that men redeia
Seith thus, that whylom two felawes wente
On pilgrimage, in a ful good entente;
And happed so, thay come into a toun,
Wher as ther was swich congregacioun
Of peple, and eek so streiti* of herbergageis,
That they ne founde as muche as o cotage, 170
In which they bothe mighte y-logged be.
Wherfor thay mosten, of necessitee.
As for that night, departen compaignye;
And ech of hem goth to his hostelrye,
And took his logging as it wolde falle.
That oon of hem was logged in a stalle,
Feris in a yerd, with oxen of the plough;
That other man was logged wel y-nough.
As was his aventurei^, or his fortune,
That us governeth alle as in communeis. 180
And so bifel, that, long er it were day.
This man mette in his bed, ther as he lay.
How that his felawe gan up-on him calle.
And seyde, 'alias! for in an oxes stalle
1 wager a groat (four
pence)
2 tertian (every third
day)
3 laurel, centaury, fumi-
tory
4 hellebore
5 spurge
« dog-wood
7 great thanks
8 lord, master (Latin
dominua)
9 so may I thrive (a
strong affirmative ;
cp. 1. 246)
10 opposite
11 opinion
12 proof
IS Cicero
14 scant
15 lodging-places
16 afar
17 luck
18 Jn general
This night I shal be mordred theri» I lye.
Now help me, dere brother, or I dye;
In alle haste com to me,' he sayde.
This man out of his sleep for fere abraydeso;
But whan that he was wakned of his sleep.
He turned him, and took of this no keep2i, 190
Him thoughte22 his dreem nas but a vanitee.
Thus twyes in his sloping dremed he.
And atte thridde tyme yet his felawe
Com, as him thoughte, and seide, 'I am now
slawe23 ;
Bihold my bloody woundes, depe and wyde!
Arys up erly in the morwe-tyde24,
And at the west gate of the toun,' quod he,
*A carte ful of donge ther shaltow see.
In which my body is hid ful prively;
Do thilke carte arresten25 boldely. 200
My gold caused my mordre, sooth to sayn ; '
And tolde him every poynt how he was slayn.
With a ful pitous face, pale of hewe.
And truste wel, his dreem he fond ful trewe;
For on the morwe, as sone as it was day,
To his felawes in he took the way;
And whan that he cam to this oxes stalle,
After his felawe he bigan to calle.
The hostiler answerde him anon,
And seyde, 'sire, your felawe is agon, 210
As sone as day he wente out of the toun.'
This man gan fallen in suspecioun,
Kemembring on his dremes that he mette.
And forth he goth, no longer wolde he lette2«,
Unto the west gate of the toun, and fond
A dong-carte, as it were to donge lond.
That was arrayed in that same wyse
As ye han herd the dede man devyseZT;
And with an hardy herte he gan to crye
Vengeaunce and lustiee of this felonye: — 220
'My felawe mordred is this same night,
And in this carte he lyth gapinge upright.
I crye out on the minL5tres28, ' quod he,
'That sholden kepe and reulen this citee;
Harrow ! alias ! her lyth my felawe slayn ! '
What sholde I more unto this tale saynf
The peple out-sterte, and caste the cart to
grounde.
And in the middel of the dong they founde
The dede man, that mordred was al newe. 229
'O blisful God, that art so lust and trewe!
Lo, how that thou biwreyest29 mordre alway!
Mordre wol out, that se we day by day.
Mordre is so wlatsomso and abhominable
To God, that is so lust and resonable,
19 murdered where
20 started up
21 heed
22 it seemed to him
23 slain
24 morning-time
25 have . . stopped
26 delay
27 relate
28 officers
29 makest kaown
30 hateful
56
FOUETEENTH CENTUEY
That he ne wol nat suffre it heledi be ;
Though it abyde a yeer, or two, or three,
Mordre wol out, this2 my conclusioun.
And right anoon, ministres of that toun
Han hent the carter, and so sore him pyneda,
And eek the hostiler so sore engyned*-, 240
That thay biknewes hir wikkednesse anoon,
And were an-hanged by the nekke-boon.
'Here may men seen that dremes been to
drede.
And certes, in the same book I rede,
Bight in the nexte chapitre after this,
(I gabbes nat, so have I loye or blis,)
Two men that wolde han passed over see,
For certeyn cause, into a fer contree,
If that the wind ne hadde been contrarie.
That made hem in a citee for to tarie, 250
That stood ful mery upon an haven-syde.
But on a day, agayn^ the even-tyde,
The wind gan chaunge, and blew right as hem
leste.
lolif and glad they wente un-to hir reste.
And casten hems ful erly for to saille;
But to that ooo man fel a greet mervailleio.
That oon of hem, in sleping as he lay.
Him mette a wonder dreem, agayn^ the day;
Him thoughte a man stood by his beddes syde,
And him comaunded, that he sholde abyden,
And seyde him thus, *if thou to-morwe
wende, 261
Thou shalt be dreynti2; my tale is at an ende. '
He wook, and tolde his felawe what he mette,
And preyde him his viage for to letteiS;
Asi* for that day, he preyde him to abyde.
His felawe, that lay by his beddes syde,
Gan for to laughe, and scorned him ful faste.
'No dreem,' quod he, 'may so myn herte
agasteis,
That I wol letteis for to do my thingesis.
I sette not a straw by thy dreminges, 270
For swevenes been but vanitees and lapesi^.
Men dreme al-dayis of owles or of apes,
And eek of many a maseis therwithal;
Men dreme of thing that nevere was ne shal.
But sithzo I gee that thou wolt heer abyde,
And thus for-8leuthen2i wilfully thy tyde,
God wot it reweth22 me; and have good day.'
And thus he took his leve, and wente his way.
But er that he hadde halfe his cours v-seyled.
1 hidden
2 this is
a tormented
4 racked
R confeHsed
• lie
7 townrd
N planned
» one
10 marvel
11 tarry
12 drowned
18 delay
1* at least
15 frighten
16 business matters
IT Jests
18 all the time
10 wild fancy
20 since
21 lose through sloth
22 grievcth
Noot23 I nat why, ne what mischaunce it
eyled24^
But casuelly25 the shippes botme rente, 281
And ship and man under the water wente
In sighte of othere shippes it byside.
That with hem seyled at the same tyde.
And therfor, faire Pertelote so dere,
By swiche ensamples olde maistow26 lere^i,
That no man sholde been to recchelees28
Of dremes, for I sey thee, doutelees.
That many a dreem ful sore is for to drede.
'Lo, in the lyf of seint Kenelm, I rede, 290
That was Kenulphus sone, the noble king
Of Mercenrike29, how Kenelm mette a thing;
A lyteso er he was mordred, on a day.
His mordre in his avisiounsi he say32.
His norice33 him expouned every del
His swevene, and bad him for to kepe him wel
For34 traisoun; but he nas but seven yeer
old.
And therfore litel taless hath he told3«
Of any dreem, so holy was his herte.
By God, I hadde leveres^ than my sherte 300
That ye had radss his legende, as have I.
Dame Pertelote, I sey yow trewely,
Macrobeus, that writ the avisiounss
In Affrike of the worthy Cipioun,
Affermeth dremes, and seith that they been
Warning of thinges that men after seen.
And forther-more, I pray yow loketh wel
In the olde testament, of Daniel,
If he held dremes any vanitee.
Reed eek of loseph, and ther shul ye see 310
Wher40 dremes ben somtyme (I sey nat alle)
Warning of thinges that shul after falle.
Loke of Egipt the king, daun*i Pharao,
His bakere and his boteler-*2 also,
Wher^o they ne felte noon effect in dremes.
Who so wol seken actes^s of sondry remes**
May rede of dremes many a wonder thing.
'Lo Cresus, whiQh that was of Lyde^s king,
Mette he nat that he sat upon a tree,
Which signified he sholde anhanged bef 320
Lo heer Andromacha, Ectores wyf,
That day that Ector sholde lese^s his lyf,
She dremed on the same night biforn,
How that the lyf of Ector sholde be lorn*'.
23 know not
24 ailed it
26 accidentally
20 mayest thou
27 learn
28 careless
28 Mercla
30 little
31 vision
32 saw
33 nurse
34 for fonr of
86 heed
36 taken
87 rather
88 read
89 Cicero's Dream of
Scipio, annotated
by the grammarian
Macroblus.
40 whether
41 lord
42 butler
48 the history
44 realms
46 Ly d 1 a (In Asia
Minor)
46 lose
47 lost
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
57
If thilke day he wente in-to bataille;
She warned him, but it mighte nat availle;
He wente for to fighte natheles,
But he was slayn anoom of2 Achilles.
But thilke tale is al to long to telle,
And eek it is nys day, I may nat dwelle. 330
Shortly I seye, as for conclusioun,
That I shal han of this avisioun
Adversitee; and I seye forther-more,
That I ne telle of laxatyves no store*.
For they ben venimouss, I woot it wel;
I hem defye, I love hem nevere a del.
'Now let us speke of mirthe, and stinte al
this;
Madame Pertelote, so have I bliss,
Of o thing God hath sent me large grace;
For whan I see the beautee of your face, 340
Ye ben so scarlet-reed about youre yen,
It maketh al my drede for to dyen;
For, also siker^ as In principio,
Mulier est hominis conftisio^;
Madame, the sentence of this Latin is —
Womman is mannes loye and al his blis;
I am so ful of loye and of solas 350
That I defye bothe sweven and dreem. '
And with that word he fley^ doun fro the
beem.
For it was day, and eek his hennea alle;
And with a chuk he gan hem for to calle.
For he had founde a corn, lay in the yerd.
Roial he was, he was namore aferd;
He loketh as it were a grim leoun;
And on his toos he rometh up and doun, 360
Him deynedio not to sette his foot to grounde.
He chukketh, whan he hath a corn y-founde,
And to him rennenii thanne his wyves alle.
Thus roial, as a prince is in his halle,
Leve I this Chauntecleer in his pasture;
And after wol I telle his aventure.
Whan that the month in which the world
bigan.
That highte March, whan God first maked man,
Was complet, and y-passed were also.
Sin March bigan, thritty dayes and two, 370
Bifel that Chauntecleer, in al his pryde.
His seven wyves walking by his syde.
Caste up his eyen to the brighte sonne.
That in the signe of Taurus hadde y-ronne
Twenty degrees and oon, and somwhat more;
And knew by kynde, and by noon other lore.
1 quickly
2by
3 nigh
4 set no value upon
laxatives
5 poisonous
6 as I hope for bliss
7 sure
8 In the beginning wo-
man is man's de-
struction.
9 flew
10 he deigned
11 run
That it was prymeiz, and crew with blisful
steveneis.
' The Sonne, ' he sayde, * is clomben up on
hevene
Fourty degrees and oon, and more, y-wis.
Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, 380
Herkneth thise blisful briddesi* how they singe.
And see the fresshe floures how they springe;
Ful is myn hert of revel and solas.'
But sodeinly him fil a sorweful casis;
For evere the latter ende of loye is wo.
God woot that worldly loye is sone agoi8;
And if a rethori^ coude faire endyteis.
He in a chronique sauflyi^ mighte it write,
As for a sovereyn notabilitee2o. 389
Now every wys man, lat him herkne me;
This storie is also trewe, I undertake2i.
As is the book of Launcelot de Lake^a^
That wommen holde in ful gret reverence.
Now wol I torne agayn to my sentence.
A col23-fox, ful of sly iniquitee.
That in the grove hadde woned yeres three,
By heigh imaginacioun forn-cast24.
The same night thurgh-out the heggesss brast26
Into the yerd, ther Chauntecleer the faire
Was wont, and eek his wyves, to repaire; 400
And in a bed of wortes^^ stille he lay.
Til it was passed undern28 of the day,
Wayting his tyme on Chauntecleer to falle
As gladly doon thise homicydes alle.
That in awayt liggen29 to mordre men.
O false mordrer, lurking in thy den!
O newe Scariotso, newe Genilonsi!
False dissimilour32, O Greek Sinonss,
That broghtest Troye al-outrely3* to sorwe!
O Chauntecleer, acursed be that morwe, 410
That thou into that yerd flough fro the hemes!
Thou were ful wel y-warned by thy dremes,
That thilke day was perilous to thee.
But what that God forwotss mot nedes be,
After the opinioun of certeyn clerkis.
Witnesse onss him, that any perfit clerk is,
That in scole is gret altercacioun
In this matere, and greet disputisoun,
12 nine o'clock
13 voice
14 birds
15 fate
16 gone
17 rhetorician
18 relate
19 safely
20 a thing especially
worthy to be
known
21 affirm
22 A romance of chiv-
a 1 r y, obviously
false.
23 coal black
24 pre-ordained by the
supreme conception
25 hedges
26 burst
27 herbs
28 about eleven a. m.
29 lie
30 Judas I sea riot
31 The traitor that
caused the defeat
of C h a r 1 emagne
and the death of
Roland.
32 deceiver
33 Designer of the
wooden horse by
which Troy was
entered.
34 entirely
35 foreknows
36 by
58
FOURTEENTH CENTURY
And hath ben of an hundred thousand men.
But I ne can not bulte it to the breni, 420
As can the holy doctour Augustynz,
Or Boece3, or the bishop Bradwardyn<,
Whether that Goddes worthy forwiting
Streyneths me nedely for to doon a thing,
(Nedely clepe I simple necessitee) ;
Or elles, if free choys be graunted me
To do that same thing, or do it noght,
Though God forwot it, er that it was wroght;
Or if his witing streyneth nevere a del
But by necessitee condicionels. 430
I wol not han to do of swich matere;
My tale is of a cok, as ye may here,
That took his counseil of his wyf, with sorwe,
To walken in the yerd upon that morwe
That he had met the dreem, that I of tolde.
Wommennes counseils been ful ofte colde^;
Wommannes counseil broghte us first to wo,
And made Adam fro paradys to go,
Ther as he was ful mery, and wel at ese.
But for I noots, to whom it mighte displese.
If I counseU of wommen wolde blame, 441
Passe over, for I seyde it in my game^.
Rede auctours, wher they trete of swich matere,
And what thay seyn of wommen ye may here.
Thise been the cokkes wordes, and nat myne;
I can noon harme of no womman divyne.
Faire in the sond, to bathe hire merily,
Lyth Pertelote, and alle hir sustres by,
Agaynio the sonne; and Chauntecleer so free
Song merier than the mermayde in the
see ; 450
For Phisiologus" seith sikerly.
How that they singen wel and merily.
And so bifel, that as he caste his JB^^,
Among the wortes, on a boterflye.
He was war is of this fox that lay ful lowe.
No-thing ne liste him thanne for to crowe.
But cryde anon, 'cok, cok,' and up he sterte,
As man that was aflfrayed in his herte.
For naturelly a beest desyreth flee
Fro his contraries, if he may it see, 460
Though he never erst had seyn it with his ye.
This Chauntecleer, whan he gan him espyeis,
1 boult it to the bran ;
i. e., thoroughly
sift the question
2 St. Augustine
s Boetbius, a Roman
statesman and
philosopher of the
fifth century A. I).
4 Chancellor at Oxford
in the fourteenth
century.
8 foreknowledge con-
strains
6 except by conditional
(as opposed to sim-
ple or absolute)
necessity (The old
question whether
foreknowledge con-
stitutes foreordina-
tion.)
7 baneful
8 know not
» Jest
10 In
11 Theobaldus" PhyHo-
loauH, or "Natural
History of Twelve
Animals."
1 2 eyes
18 aware
14 opponent, foe
18 to espy
He wolde han fled, but that the fox anon
Seyde, 'Gentil sire, alias! wher wol ye gonf
Be ye aflfrayed of me that am your freendf
Now certes, I were worse than a feend.
If I to yow wolde harm or vileinye.
I am nat come your counseil for tespye;
But trewely, the cause of my cominge
Was only for to herkne how that ye singe. 470
For trewely ye have as mery a stevenei«,
As eny aungel hath, that is in hevene;
Therwith ye han in musik more felinge
Than hadde Boece, or any that can singe.
My lord your fader (God his soule blesse!)
And eek your moder, of hir gentilesse,
Han in myn hous y-been, to my gret esei^;
And certes, sire, ful fayn wolde I yow plese.
But for men speke of singing, I wol saye,
So mote I broukeis wel myn eyen tweye, 480
Save yow, I herde nevere man so singe,
As dide your fader in the morweninge;
Certes, it was of herteis, al that he song.
And for to make his voys the more strong,
He wolde so peyne himzo, that with both his
yen
He moste winkezi, so loude he wolde cryen.
And stonden on his tiptoon therwithal,
And strecche forth his nekke long and smal.
And eek he was of swich discrecioun,
That ther nas no man in no regioun 490
That him in song or wisdom mighte passe.
I have weel rad in daun22 Burnel the Asse,
Among his vers, how that ther was a cok.
For that a prestes sone yaf him a knok
Upon his leg, whyl he was yong and nyce^s,
He made him for to lese his benefyces*.
But certeyn, ther nis no comparisoun
Bitwix the wisdom and discrecioun
Of your fader, and of his subtiltee.
Now singeth, sire, for seinte charitee, 500
Let se, conne ye your fader countref ete f '
This Chauntecleer his winges gan to bete,
As man that coude his tresoun nat espye,
So was he ravisshed with his flaterye.
Alias! ye lordes, many a fals flatourss
Is in your eourtes, and many a lo3engeour2«.
That plesen yow wel more, by my feith.
Than he that soothfastnesse unto yow seith.
Redeth EcclesiastezT of flaterye;
Beth war, ye lordes, of hir trecherye. 510
16 voice
17 to my great pleas-
ure ; 1. e., the fox
had eaten them
18 have the use of
18 from his heart
20 strain himself
21 he must shut both
eyes
22 lord (This was an
old story.)
2.t foolish
24 1. e., by crowiuK so
late that the youth
did not awake in
time
2R flatterer
20 deceiver
27 EccU'8ia8tic»8, xll. 10.
GEOFFBEY CHAUCER
59
This Chauntecleer stood hye upon his toos,
Strecehing bis nekke, and held his eyeu cloos,
And gan to crowe loude for the nonesi ;
And daun Russel^ the foxe sterte up at ones,
And by the gargats hente Chauntecleer,
And on his bak toward the wode him beer*,
For yet ne was ther no man that him sewed^.
O destinee, that mayst nat ben eschewed!
Alias, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the hemes!
Alias, his wyf ne roghte^ nat of dremes! S20
And on a Friday fil al this meschaunce.
O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce,
Sin that thy servant was this Chauntecleer,
Why woldestow suffre him on thy day to dye?
O Gaufred, dere mayster soverayn^,
That, whan thy worthy king Richard was slayn
With shot, compleynedest his deth so sore.
Why ne hadde I now thy sentence^ and thy
lore.
The Friday for to chide, as diden ye I 531
(For on a Friday sooth ly slayn was he.)
Than wolde I sliewe yow how that I coude
pleynefl
For Chauntecleres drede, and for his peyne.
Certes, swich cry ne lamentacioun
Was nevere of ladies maad, whan Ilioun
Was wonne, and Pirrusio with his streiten
swerd.
Whan he hadde hent king Priam by the berd,
And slayn him (as saith us Eneydos)^-,
As maden alle the hennes in the closis^ 540
Whan they had seyn of Chauntecleer the sighte.
But sovereynlyi* dame Pertelote shrightei^^
Ful louder than dide Hasdrubalesis wyf,
Whan that hir housbond hadde lost his lyf,
And that the Romayns hadde brend Cartage,
She was so ful of torment and of rage.
That wilfully into the fyr she stertei^,
And brendeis hir-selven with a stedfast herte.
O woful hennes, right so cryden ye.
As, whan that Nero brende the citee 550
Of Rome, cryden senatoures wyves.
For that hir housbondes losten alle hir lyres;
Withouten gilti9 this Nero hath hem slayn.
Now wol I tome to my tale agayn:
This sely2o widwe, and eek hir doghtres two.
1 occasion
2 As the ass was called
Burnel because he
is brown, so the
fox was called Rus-
sell because he is
red.
3 throat
4 bore
5 followed
6 did not care for
7 Chaucer is making fun
of an old writer,
Geoffrey de Vin-
sauf.
8 power of expression
9 complain
10 Pyrrhus
11 drawn
12 The Aeneid.
13 enclosure
14 surpassingly
15 shrieked
16 A king of Carthage.
17 leaped
18 burned
19 guilt
20 pious
Herden thise hennes crye and maken wo,
And out at dores sterten thay anoon,
And syen the fox toward the grove goon,
And bar upon his bak the cok away;
And cryden, 'Out! harrow! and weylaway! 560
Ha, ha, the fox ! ' and after him they ran,
And eek with staves many another man;
Ran CoUe our dogge, and Talbot2i, and Ger-
land2i,
And Malkin22j with a distaf in hir hand;
Ran cow and calf, and eek the verray hogges
So were they fered for berking of the dogges
And shouting of the men and wimmen eke,
They ronne so, hem thoughte hir herte breke.
They yelleden as feendes doon in helle;
The dokes cryden as men wolde hem quelless;
The gees for fere flowen over the trees; 571
Out of the hyve^ cam the swarm of bees ;
So hidous was the noyse, a ! benedicite !-*
Certes, he lakke Strawss^ and his meyneess^
Ne maden nevere shoutes half so shrille.
Whan that they wolden any Fleming kille.
As thilke day was maad upon the fox.
Of bras thay broghten bemes27 and of box28j
Of horn, of boon, in whiche they blewe and
pouped29^
And therwithal thay shryked and they houpedso ;
It semed as that hevene sholde falle. 581
Now, gode men, I pray yow herkneth alle!
Lo, how fortune turneth sodeinly
The hope and pryde eek of hir enemy!
This cok, that lay upon the foxes bak.
In al his drede, un-to the fox he spak,
And seyde, 'sire, if that I were as ye.
Yet sholde I seyn (as wissi God helpe me),
Turneth agayn, ye proude cherles aUe!
A verray pestilence up-on yow falle! 590
Now am I come un-to this wodes syde,
Maugree32 your heed, the cok shal heer abyde;
I wol him ete in f eith, and that anon. ' —
The fox answerde, 'In feith, it shal be don,' —
And as he spak that word, al sodeinly
This cok brak from his mouth deliverlysa^
And heighe upon a tree he fleigh anon.
And whan the fox saugh that he was y-gon,
' Alias ! ' quod he, ' O Chauntecleer, alias !
I have to yow,' quod he, 'y-doon trespas, 600
Tn-as-muche as I maked yow aferd,
Whan I yow hente, and broghte out of the
yerd;
21 a dog ( ?)
22 a servant girl
23 kill
24 bless ye
25 Jack Straw, leader
with Wat Tyler in
the Peasants' Re-
volt of 1381 : said
t o have killed
"many Flemings,"
c o m p e t i tors in
trade.
26 followers
27 horns
28 wood
2!) made a noise with a
horn
30 whooped
31 certainly
32 in spite of
33 quickly
60
FOURTEENTH CENTURY
610
him
620
But, sire, I dide it in no wikkei entente;
Cora doun, and I shal telle yow what I mente.
I shal seye sooth to yow, God help me so.'
* Nay than, ' quod he, ' I shrewes us bothe two,
And first I shrewe my-self, bothe blood and
bones.
If thou bigyle me ofter than ones.
Thou shalt namore, thurgh thy flaterye
Do3 me to singe and winke with myn ye.
For he that winketh, whan he sholde see,
Al wilfully, God lat him never thee*!
'Nay,' quod the fox, 'but God yive
meschaunce.
That is so undiscreet of governaunce.
That iangleths whan he sholde holde his pees.'
Lo, swich it is for to be recchelees,
And necligent, and truste on flaterye.
But ye that holden this tale a folye,
As of a fox, or of a cok and hen,
Taketh the moralitee therof, good men.
For seint Paul seith, that al that writen is,
To our doctrynes it is y-write, y-wis.
Taketh the fruyt, and lat the chaf be stille.
Now, gode God, if that it be thy wille,
As seith my lord, so make us alle good men;
And bringe us to his heighe blisse. Amen".
From THE LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN.
The Story of Thisbe op Babylon, Martyr
Incipit Legende Tesha Bdbilon, Martiris
At Babiloyne whilom fil it* thus, —
The whiche toun the queene Semyramuss
Leet dichen al about, and walles makeio
Ful hye, of harde tiles wel y-bake: 709
There were dwellynge in this noble toune
Two lordes, which that were of grete renoune,
And wonedenii so neigh upon a grene,
That ther nas but a stoon wal hem betwene,
As ofte in grette tounes is the wone.
And sooth to seyn, that o man had a sone,
Of al that londe oon of the lustieste;
That other had a doghtre, the faireste
That esteward in the worlde was thoi2
dwellynge. 7 IS
The name of everyeheis gan to other spryngei*,
By wommen that were neyghebores aboute;
For in that contre yit, withouten doute.
1 wicked
2 curse
3 cause
4 prosper
5 chatters
6 inRtructioD
7 A sort of tK'nedlctlon :
the "my lord" re-
fers probably to
the Archbishop of
Canterbury.
8 it happened
B Bemiramis, wife of
Xlnus, the myth-
ical king and
founder of Nine-
veh.
10 caused to be sur-
rounded by ditclies
uud walls
11 dwelt (wone In 714
•—custom)
12 then
IS each
14 came to the ears of
the other
Maydens ben y-kept for jelousye
Ful streyteis, leste they diden somme folye.
This yonge man was cleped Piramus,
And Tesbe highte the maide, — Nasoi" seith
thus.
And thus by reporte was hir name y-shovei^.
That as they wex in age, wex hir love.
And certeyn, as by reson of hir age,
Ther myghte have ben betwex hem mariage,
But that hir fadres nokUs it not assente, 730
And both in love y-like score they brenteio,
That noon of al hir frendes myghte it lette-o.
But prevely2i somtyme yit they mette
By sleight, and spoken somme of hir desire,
As wre the glede22 and hotter is the fire;
Forbeede a love, and it is ten so woode23.
This wal, which that bitwixe hem bothe
stoode,
Was cloven a-two, right fro the toppe adoun,
Of olde tyme, of his foundacioun. 739
But yit this clyfte was so narwe and lite24
It was nat seene, deere ynogh a myte^s;
But what is that that love kannat espye?
Ye lovers two, if that I shal nat lye,
Ye founden first this litel narwe clifte,
And with a soune as softe as any shryfte28,
They leete hir wordes thurgh the clifte pace,
And tolden, while they stoden in the place,
Al hire compleynt of love, and al hire wo.
At every tyme whan they dorste so. 749
Upon the o syde of the walle stood he,
And on that other syde stood Tesbe,
The swoote soun of other to receyve.
And thus here27 wardeyn wokle they disceyve,
And every day this walle they wolde threetezs^
And wisshe to God that it were doun y bete.
Thus wolde they seyn: 'Alias, thou wikked
walle !
Thurgh thyn envye thow us lettest29 alle!
Why nyltow cleve3o, or fallen al a-two?
Or at the leeste, but thow wouldest sosi,
Yit woldestow but ones let us meete, 760
Or ones that we myghte kyssen sweete,
Than were we covered^a of oure cares colde.
But natheles, yit be we to thee holdess,
In as muche as thou suffrest for to goon
Our wordes thurgh thy lyme and eke thy stoon;
15 strictly
10 Ovid (Publius Ovid-
lus Naso) in Meta-
morphoses iv 55,
flf., whence this
story is taiipn.
17 their names were
brought forward
(literally pushed)
18 would not
10 burned
•JO prevent
21 secretly
22 cover the glowing
coal
23 ten times as pas-
sionate
24 little
25 scarcely at all
20 confession
27 their
28 threaten
20 hinderest
30 wilt thou not cleave
in two
81 if thou wouldest not
do that
32 recovered
S3 beholden
GEOFFEEY CHAUCER
61
Yet oghte we with the ben wel apayedei.'
And whan these idel wordes weren sayde,
The colde walle they wolden kysse of stoon,
And take hir leve, and forth they wolden goon.
And this was gladly in the evetyde, 770
Or wonder erly, lest men it espyede.
And longe tyme they wroght in this manere,
Til on a day, whan Phebuss gan to cleres —
Aurora with the stremes of hire hete*
Had dried uppe the dewe of herbes wete —
Unto this clyfte, as it was wont to be,
Come Piramus, and after come Tesbe.
And plighten trouthes fully in here faye^,
That ilke same nyght to Steele awaye,
And to begile hire wardeyns everychone, 780
And forth out of the citee for to gone.
And, for the feeldes ben so broode and wide,
For to meete in o place at o tyde
They sette markes, hire metyng sholde bee
TherT kyng Nynus was gravens, under a tree, —
For olde payenss, that ydOles heriedeio,
Useden tho in feeldes to ben beriedeii, —
And faste by his grave was a welle.
And, shortly of this tale for to telle.
This covenaunt was aflfermed wonder faste, 790
And longe hem thoghte that the sonne laste,
That it nere goonis under the see adoun.
This Tesbe hath so greete affeceioun.
And so grete lykynge Piramus to see,
That whan she seigh hire tyme myghte bee,
At nyght she staleis awey ful prevely.
With hire face y-wympled subtilly.
For al hire frendes, for to save hire trouthe.
She hath forsake; alias, and that is routhei*,
That ever woman wolde be so trewe 800
To trusten man, but she the bet hym knewei^ !
And to the tree she goth a ful goode paas^o,
For love made hir so hardy in this caas;
And by the welle adoun she gan hir dresseiT.
Alias! than comith a wilde leonesse
Out of the woode, withouten more arresteis.
With blody mouth, of strangelynge of a beste,
To drynken of the welle ther as she sat.
And whan that Tesbe had espyed that.
She rysti9 hir up, with a ful drery herte, 810
And in a cave with dredful foot she sterte.
For by the moone she saugh it wel withalle.
And as she ranne, hir wympel leet she falle,
And tooke noon hede, so sore she was
awhaped20j
1 pleased
2 Apollo, the sun-god
s shine clearly
4 heat
5 troth
6 faith
7 where
8 burled
» pagans
10 worshipped
11 then used to be
buried in fields
12 were not gone
13 stole
14 pity
15 unless she knew him
better
16 quickly
17 took her station
18 delay
18 riseth
And eke so glade that she was escaped;
And ther she sytte, and darketh^i wonder stille.
Whan that this lyonesse hath dronke hire fille,
Aboute the welle gan she for to wynde22^
And ryght anon the wympil gan she fynde,
And with hir blody mouth it al to-rente. 820
Whan this was don, no lenger she ne stente23,
But to the woode hir wey than hath she nome24.
And at the laste this Piramus is come.
But al to longe, alias, at home was hee!
The moone shone, men myghte wel y-see,
And in his wey, as that he come ful faste,
His eyen to the grounde adoun he caste;
And in the sonde as he behelde adoun2">,
He seigh the steppes broode of a lyoun;
And in his herte he sodeynly agroos^u, 830
And pale he wex, therwith his heer aroos,
And nere he come, and founde the wympel
tome.
'Alias,' quod he, 'the day that I was borne!
This nyght wol us lovers bothe slee!
How shulde I axen mercy of Tesbee,
Whan I am he that have yow slayne, alias?
My byddyng hath i-slayn yow in this caas!
Alias, to bidde a woman goon by nyghte
In place ther as27 peril fallen myghte!
And I so slowe! alias, I ne hadde be28 840
Here in this place, a furlong wey or ye29 !
Now what lyon that be in this foreste.
My body mote he rentenso^ or what beste
That wilde is, gnawen mote he now my herte ! '
And with that worde he to the wympel sterte.
And kiste it ofte, and wepte on it ful sore;
And seyde, 'Wympel, alias! ther nys no moresi.
But thou shalt feele as wel the blode of me.
As thou hast felt the bledynge of Tesbe. '
And with that worde he smot hym to the
herte; 850
The blood out of the wounde as brode sterte
As water, whan the conduyte broken is.
Now Tesbe, which that wyste32 nat of this,
But syttyng in hire drede, she thoghte thus:
'If it so falle that my Piramus
Be comen hider, and may me nat y-fynde,
He may me holden f als, and eke unkynde. '
And oute she comith, and after hym gan espien
Bothe with hire herte and with hire eyen;
And thoghte, *I wol him tellen of my drede,
Bothe of the lyonesse and al my dede. ' 861
And at the laste hire love than hath she founde,
Betynge with his helisss on the grounde,
Al blody; and therwithal abak she sterte,
20 amazed
21 lies hid
22 roam
23 stopped
24 taken
25 looked down
26 shuddered
27 where
28 that I had not been
29 a short time before
you
30 may he rend
31 nothing remains
32 who knew
•13 i. e., still pulsating
FOURTEENTH CENTURY
And lyke the wawesi quappez gan hir herte,
And pale as boxes she wax, and in a throwe*
Avised hirs, and gan him wel to knowe,
That it was Piramus, hire herte dere.
Who koude write which a dedely chere
Hath Tesbe nowf and how hire heere^ she
rente? 870
And how she gan hir-selve to turmentef
And how she lyth and swowneth on the
groundet
And how she wepe of teres f ul his wounde ?
How medleth^ she his blood with hir com-
pleyntet
How with his blood hir-selven gan she peyntel
How clippeths she the dede corps? alias!
How doth this woful Tesbe in this cas?
How kysseth she his frosty mouthe so colde?
Who hath don this? and who hath ben so
bolde 879
To sleen my leefe? O speke, Piramus!
I am thy Tesbe, that thee calleth thus ! '
And therwithal she lyfteth up his heed.
This woful man, that was nat fully deed.
Whan that he herde the name of Tesbe crien»,
On hire he caste his hevy dedely eyen,
And doun agayn, and yeldeth up the goste.
Tesbe rist uppe, withouten noyse or bosteio,
And saugh hir wympel and his empty shethe,
And eke his swerde, that him hath don to
dethe.
Than spake she thus: * Thy woful hande, ' quod
she, 890
'Is strong ynogh in swiche a werke to me;
For love shal me yive strengthe and hardy-
nesse,
To make my wounde large ynogh, I gesse.
I wole then folowen ded, and I wol be
Felawe and cause eke of thy deeth, ' quod she.
'And thogh that nothing save the deth only
Myghte the fro me departed 2 trewely,
Thou shal no more departe now fro me
Than fro the deth, for T wol go with the.
'And now, ye wrecched jelouse fadres oure,
W6, that weren whilome children youre, 901
We prayen yow, withouten more envye.
That in o grave i-fereis we moten lye,
Syn love hath broght us to this pitouse ende.
And ryghtwis God to every lover sende,
That loveth trewely, more prosperite
Than ever hadde Piramus and Tesbe.
And let no gentile woman hire assure.
To putten hire in swiche an fiventure.
But God forbede but a woman kan 910
Ben also trewe and lovynge as a man,
And for my parte I shal anon it kythei* ! '
And with that worde his swerde she took as
switheis,
That warme was of hire loves blood, and hole,
And to the herte she hire-selven smote.
And thus are Tesbe and Piramus agoie.
Of trewe men I fynde but fewe mo
In al my bookes, save this Piramus,
And therfore have I spoken of hym thus
For it is deyntee to us men to fyncie 920
A man that kan in love be trewe and kynde.
Here may ye seen, what lover so he be,
A woman dar and kan as wel as he.
THE COMPLEYNT OF CHAUCER TO HIS
PURSE
To you, my purse, and to noon other wyght
Compleyne I, for ye be my lady dere!
I am so sorry now that ye been light ;
For, eertes, but ye make me hevy cherei^^
Me were as leef be leyd upon my bereis.
For whiche unto your mercy thus I crye, —
Bethi9 hevy ageyn, or elles motzo I dye!
Now voucheth sauf2i this day or hit22 be nyght,
That I of you the blisful soun23 may here24.
Or see your colour lyk the sonne bright, 10
That of yelownesse hadde never peress,
Ye be my lyf ! ye be myn hertes stere26!
Quene of comfort and of good companye!
Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye.
Now, purse, that be to me my lyves light
And saveour, as doun27 in this worlde here.
Out of this toun help me throgh your myght,
Syn28 that ye wole not been my tresorere2C;
For I am shave as nye as is a freres".
But yet I pray unto your curtesye, 20
Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye!
L'Envoye De Chaucer
O conquerour of Brutes AlbiounSi,
Which that by lyne and free eleccioun
Ben verray kyng, this song to you I sende.
And ye that mowenS2 al myn harm amende.
Have mynde upon my supplicacioun !
1 WflTPS
2 flutter
« box-wood
4 moment
• coDildered
« hair
7 mlngleth
8 embracetb
9 spoken
10 outcry
11 thee
12 separate
18 together
14 show
15 quickly
16 gone
17 unless you put on
for me a lieavy
look (with a play
on the word heavy,
which usually in
this connection
means sad)
18 I would as soon he
laid upon my bier
19 be
20 must
21 vouchsafe, grant
22 before it
23 sound
24 hear
26 peer
26 helm, guide
27 down
28 since
29 treasurer
so shaven as close ns a
friar (terribly
hard pinched)
31 Henry IV. had just
been made king.
Brutus was a
legendary klnu <>f
England (Albion).
.12 can
THE TRAVELS OF SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE
63
From THE TRAVELS OF SIR
JOHN MANDEVILLE*
Prologue
Forasmuch as the land beyond the sea, that
is to say the Holy Land, that men call the Land
of Promission or of Behesti, passing all other
lands, is the most worthy land, most excellent,
and lady and sovereign of all other lands, and
is blessed and hallowed of the precious body
and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ; in the
which land it liked him to take flesh and blood
of the Virgin Mary, to environs that holy land
with his blessed feet; . . . and forasmucli
as it is long time passed that there was no
general passage ne voyage over the sea; ami
many men desire for to hear speak of the Holy
Land, and have thereof great solace and com
fort; — I, John Mandeville, Knight, albeit I be
not worthy, that was born in England, in the
town of St, Albans, and passed the sea in the
year of our Lord Jesu Christ, 1322, in the day
of St. Michael; and hitherto have been long
time over the sea, and have seen and gone
through many diverse lands, and many prov-
inces and kingdoms and isles; and have passed
throughout Turkey, Armenia the little and the
great; through Tartary, Persia, Syria, Arabia,
Egypt the high and the low; through Libya,
Chaldea, and a great part of Ethiopia;
through Amazonia, Ind the less and the
moret, a great part; and throughout many
other isles that be about Ind, where dwell many
diverse folks, and of diverse manners and laws,
and of diverse shapes of men; ... I shall
tell the way that they shall hold thither. For
I have oftentimes passed and ridden that way,
with good company of many lords. God be
thanked !
And ye shall understand that^ I have put
this book out of Latin into French, and trans-
lated it again out of French into English, that
every man of my nation may understand it.
But lords and knights and other noble and
worthy men that cons Latin but little, and
1 Land of Promise 3 know
2 go about
• This book, which was extremely popular in its
day, was accepted then and long after In good
faith. We now know it to be mainly a com-
pilation from other books of travel, Ingeniously
passed off as a record of original experience.
"Mandeville" is probably a fictitious name.
The oldest MS. is in French, dated 1371.
The English translation from which our selec-
tions are taken was made after 1400, and
therefore represents the language of the gen-
eration succeeding Chaucer. The spelling is
modernized. See Eng. Lit., p. 44.
t Mandeville here couples the fabulous land of the
Amazons with the actual Lesser and Greater
India.
have been beyond the sea, know and under-
stand if I say truth or no, and if I err in
devising*, for forgetting or else, that they may
redress it and amend it. For things passed
out of long time from a man 's mind or from
his sight, turn soon into forgetting; because
thats the mind of man ne may not be com-
prehended ne withholden, for the frailty of
mankind.J
Of the Ceoss op due Loed Jesu Cheist
At Constantinople is the cross of our Lord
Jesu Christ, and his coat without seams, that
is elept tunica inconsutilis^, and the sponge,
and the reed, of the which the Jews gave our
Lord eisel'' and gall, ins the cross. And there
is one of the nails that Christ was nailed with
on the cross. And some men trow that half
the cross, that Christ was done on, be in
Cyprus, in an abbey of monks, that men call
the Hill of the Holy Cross; but it is not so.
For that cross, that is in Cyprus, is the cross
in the which Dismas the good thief was hanged
on. But all men know not that; and that is
evil y-done9. For for profit of the offering
they say that it is the cross of our Lord Jesu
Christ.
And ye shall understand that the cross of
our Lord was made of four manner of trees,
as it is contained in this verse, — In cruce -fit
pahna, cedrus, cypressus, oliva. For that piece
that went upright from the earth to the head
was of cypress; and the piece that went over-
thwart, to the which his hands were nailed, was
of palm; and the stock, that stood within the
earth, in the which was made the mortise, was
of cedar; and the table above his head, that
was a foot and an half long, on the which the
title was written in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin,
that was of olive. . . .
And the Christian men, that dwell beyond
the sea, in Greece, say that the tree of the
cross, that we call cypress, was of that tree
that Adam ate the apple off; and that find
they written. And they say also that their
scripture saith that Adam was sick, and said
to his son Seth, that he should go to the angel
that kept Paradise, that he would send him oil
of mercy, for to anoint with his members, that
he might have health. And Seth went. But
the angel would not let him come in; but said
4 relating
5 because
6 called "the tunic nn-
sewn"
7 vinegar
t Possibly "Sir John" means to give the reader a
sly hint here that it is also one of the frail-
ties of mankind to tell big stories.
8 on
9 Old past participle ;
y equals German
ge.
64
FOURTEENTH CENTUEY
to him, that he might not have the oil of
mercy. But he took hira three grains of the
same tree that Ids father ate the apple off;
and bade hiin, as soon as his father was dead,
that he should put these three grains under his
tongue, and graved hira so: and so he did. And
of these three grains sprang a tree, as the
angel said that it should, and bare a fruit,
through the which fruit Adam should be saved.
And when Seth came again, he found his father
near dead. And when he was dead, he did with
the grains as the angel bade him; of the which
sprung three trees, of the which the cross was
made, that bare good fruit and blessed, our
Lord Jesu Christ; through whom Adam and all
that come of him should be saved and deliv-
ered from dread of death without end, but2 it
be their own default.
How Roses came first into the World
And a little from Hebron is the mount of
Mamre, of the which the valley taketh his
name. And there is a tree of oak, that the
Saracens clepes Dirpc, that is of Abraham's
time: the which men clepe the Dry Tree, And
they say that it hath been there since the be-
ginning of the world, and was some-time green
and bare leaves, unto the time that our Lord
died on the cross, and then it dried: and so did
all the trees that were then in the world. And
some say, by their prophecies, that a lord, a
prince of the west side of the world, shall win
the Land of Promission, that is the Holy Land,
with help of Christian men, and he shall do
sing* a mass under that dry tree; and then
the tree shall wax green and bear both fruit
and leaves, and through that miracle many
Jews and Saracens shall be turned to Christian
faith: and therefore they do great worship
thereto, and keep it full busily^. And, albeit
so, that it be dry, natheless^ yet he^ beareth
great virtue, for certainly he that hath a little
thereof upon him, it healeth him of the falling
evil, and his horse shall not be afoundered.
And many other virtues it hath; wherefore men
hold it full precious.
From Hebron men go to Bethlehem in half
a day, for it is but five mile; and it is full
fair way, by plains and woods full delectable.
Bethlehem is a little city, long and narrow and
well walled, and in each side enclosed with
good ditches: and it was wont to be clept
Ephrata, as holy writ saith, Ecce, audivimus
eum in Ephrata, that is to say, 'Lo, we heard
1 bury
2 linlPKS
s call
4 cause to be sung
8 very attentively
6 nevertheless
Tit
him in Ephrata.' And toward the east end of
the city is a full fair church and a gracious,
and it hath many towers, pinnacles and cor-
ners, full strong and curiously made; and
within that church be forty-four pillars of
marble, great and fair.
And between the city and the church is the
field Floridus, that is to say, the 'field flour-
isheds. ' Forasmuch as a fair maiden was
blamed with wrong, and slandered; for which
cause she was demned to death, and to be
burnt in that place, to the which she was led.
And as the fire began to burn about her, she
made her prayers to our Lord, that as wisely»
as she was not guilty of that sin, that he would
help her and make it to be known to all men,
of his merciful grace. And when she had thus
said, she entered into the fire, and anon was the
fire quenched and out; and the brands that
were burning became red rose-trees, and the
brands that were not kindled became white
rose-trees, full of roses. And these were the
first rose-trees and roses, both white and red,
that ever any man saw; and thus was this
maiden saved by the grace of God. And there-
fore is that field clept the field of God flour-
ished, for it was full of roses.
How the Earth and Sea be of round Form
AND Shape, by proof of the Star that
IS CLEPT Antarctic, that is
FIXED IN the South*
In that land, ne in many other beyond that,
no man may see the Star Transmontane, that
is clept the Star of the Sea, that is unmovable
and that is toward the north, that we clepe the
Lode-star. But men see another star, the con-
trary to hira, that is toward the south, that is
clept Antarctic. And right as the ship-men
take their advice here and govern them by the
Lode-star, right so do the men beyond those
parts by the star of the south, the which star
appeareth not to us. And this star that is
toward the north, that we clepe the Lode-star,
ne appeareth not to them. For which cause men
may well perceive that the land and the sea
be of round shape and form; for the part of
the firmament showeth in one country that
showeth not in another country. And men may
well prove by experience and subtle compass-
ment of wit, that if a man found passages
by ships that would go to search the world,
men might go by ship all about the world and
above and beneath.
s In flower » certainly
• An example of the speculations that were rire
long before Columbus undertook his voyage.
THE TRAVELS OF SIR JOHN MANDEVHiLE
65
The which thing I prove thus after that I
have seen. For I have been toward the parts
of Brabanti, and beholden the Astrolabe that
the star that is clept the Transmontane is fifty-
three degrees high ; and more further in Al-
mayne2 and Bohemia it hath fifty-eight de-
grees; and more further toward the parts sep-
tentrionals it is sixty- two degrees of height and
certain minutes; for I myself have measured
it by the Astrolabe. Now shall ye know, that
against the Transmontane is the tother star
that is clept Antartie, as I have said before.
And those two stars ne move never, and by them
turneth all the firmament right as doth a wheel
that turneth by his axle-tree. So that those
stars bear the firmament in two equal parts, so
that it hath as much above as it hath beneath.
After this I have gone toward the parts merid-
ional, that is, toward the south, and I have
found that in Libya men see first the star
Antarctic. And so far I have gone more fur-
ther in those countries, that I have found that
star more high; so that toward the High Libya
it is eighteen degrees of height and certain
minutes (of the which sixty minutes make a
degree). After going by sea and by land to-
ward this country of that I have spoken, and
to other isles and lands beyond that country,
I have found the Star Antarctic of thirty-three
degrees of height and more minutes. And if I
had had company and shipping for to go more
beyond, I trow well, in certain, that we should
have seen all the roundness of the firmament
all about. . . .
And wit well, that, after that* I may per-
ceive and comprehend, the lands of Prester
John,* Emperor of Ind, be under us. For in
going from Scotland or from England toward
Jerusalem men go upwards always. For our
land is in the low part of the earth toward the
west, and the land of Prester John is in the
low part of the earth toward the east. And
they have there the day when we have the
night; and also, high to the contrary, they
have the night when we have the day. For the
earth and the sea be of round form and shape,
as I have said before; and that that men go
upward to one coasts, men go downward to
another coast.
Also ye have heard me say that Jerusalem
is in the midst of the world. And that may
men prove, and show there by a spear, that is
1 Holland * And know well that,
2 Germany according to what
3 north 5 and that as men go
upward to one re-
gion
• Prester is "presbyter," an elder or priest. This
fabulous Christian monarch was supposed to
have conquered the Saracens in the East.
pights into the earth, upon the hour of mid-
day, when it is equinox, that showeth no shad-
ow on no side. And that it should be in the
midst of the world, David witnesseth it in the
Psalter, where he saith, Deus operatus est
salutem in medio terraeJ Then, they that
part from those parts of the west for to go
toward Jerusalem, as many joumeys^ as they
go upward for to go thither, in as many jour-
neys may they go from Jerusalem unto other
confines of the superficialty of the earth be-
yond. And when men go beyond those jour-
neys toward Ind and to the foreign isles, all
is environings the roundness of the earth and
of the sea under our countries on this half.
And therefore hath it befallen many times
of one thing that I have heard countedio when
I was young, how a worthy man departed some-
time from our countries for to go search the
world. And so he passed Ind and the isles be-
yond Ind, where be nore than 5000 isles. And
so long he went by sea and land, and so en-
vironed the world by many seasons, that he
found an isle where he heard speak his own
language, calling an oxen in the plough such
words as men speak to beasts in his own coun-
try; whereof he had great marvel, for he knew
not how it might be. But I say that he had
gone so long by land and by sea, that he had
environed all the earth ; that he was come again
environing, that is to say, going about, unto
his own marchesii, and if he would have passed
further, he would have found his country and
his own knowledge. But he turned again from
thence, from whence he was come from. And
so he lost much painful labor, as himself said
a great whUe after that he was come home.
For it befell after, that he went into Norway.
And there tempest of the sea took him, and he
arrived in an isle. And when he was in that
isle, he knew well that it was the isle where he
had heard speak his own language before, and
the calling of oxen at the plow; and that was
possible thing.
But now it seemeth to simple men unlearned,
that men ne may not go under the earth, and
also that men should fall toward the heaven
from under. But that may not be, upon less
thani2 we may fall toward heaven from the
earth where we be. For from what part of the
earth that men dwell, either above or beneath,
it seemeth always to them that dwell that they
6 set
7 The Lord wrought sal-
vation In the midst lO recounted
of the earth. (See n borders
Psalms, 74 :12.) 12 unless
8 days' travel
9 they are all the while
encircling
66
FOURTEENTH CENTURY
go more right than any other folk. And right
as it seemeth to us that they be under us, right
so it seemeth to them that we be under them.
For if a man might fall from the earth unto
the firmament, by greater reason the earth and
the sea that be so great and so heavy should
fall to the firmament: but that may not be,
and therefore saith our Lord God, Non timeas
me, qui suspendi terrain ex nihilo!^^
And albeit that it be possible thing that
men may so environ all the world, natheless, of
a thousand persons, one ne might not happen
to return into his country. For the greatness
of the earth and of the sea, men may go by a
thousand and a thousand other ways, that no
man could ready himi* perfectly toward the
parts that he came from, but if it were by ad-
venture and hap, or by the grace of God. For
the earth is full large and full great, and holds
in roundness and about environis, by above
and by beneath, 20425 miles, after the opinion
of old wise astronomers; and their sayings I
reprove nought. But, after my little wit, it
seemeth me, saving their reverence, that it is
more.
And for to have better understanding I say
thus. Be there- imagined a figure that hath a
great compass. And, about the point of the
great compass that is clept the centre, be made
another little compass. Then after, be the
great compass devised by lines in many parts,
and that all the lines meet at the centre. So,
that in as many parts as the great compass
shall be departedis, in as many shall be de-
parted the little, that is about the centre,
albeit that the space be less. Now then, be
the great compass represented for the firma-
ment, and the little compass represented for
the earth. Now then, the firmament is devised
by astronomers in twelve signs, and every
sign is devised in thirty degrees; that is, 360
degrees that the firmament hath above. Also,
be the earth devised in as many parts as the
firmament, and let every part answer to a de-
gree of the firmament. And wit it well, that,
after the authors of astronomy, 700 furlongs
of earth answer to a degree of the firmament,
and those be eighty-seven miles and four fur-
longs. Now be that here multiplied by 360
Bithes'T, and then they be 31,500 miles everyis
of eight furlongs, afterJ» miles of our country.
So much hath the earth in roundness and of
18 Have no fear of me,
who hanged the
earth upon nothing.
(See Job, 26:7.)
14 direct himself
15 approximately
16 divided
17 timos
i« each
10 according to
height environ, after mine opinion and mine
understanding.
Op the Trees that Bear Meal, Honey, Wine,
AND Venom; and of Other Marvels
After that isle, in going by sea, men find
another isle, good and great, that men clepe
Patheni, that is a great kingdom full of fair
cities and full of towns. In that land grow
trees that grow meal, whereof men make good
bread and white and of good savor; and it
seemeth as it were of wheat, but it is not al-
Iinges2 of such savor. And there be other trees
that bear honey good and sweet, and other trees
that bear venom, against the which there is no
medicine but one; and that is to take their
propers leaves and stamp them and temper
them with water and then drink it, and else he
shall die; for triacle* will not avail, ne none
other medicine. Of this venom the Jews had
let seek ofs one of their friends for to em-
poison all Christianity, as I have heard them
say in their confession before their dying: but
thanked be Almighty God ! they failed of their
purpose ; but always theyo make great mortality
of people. And other trees there be also that
bear wine of noble sentiment^. And if you
like to hear how the meal cometh out of the
trees I shall say you. Men hew the trees with
an hatchet, all about the foot of the tree, till
that the bark be parted in many parts, and
then cometh out thereof a thick liquor, the which
they receive in vessels, and dry it at the heat
of the sun; and then they have it to a mill to
grind and it becometh fair meal and whites.
And the honey and the wine and the venom be
drawn out of other trees in the same manner,
and put in vessels for to keep.
In that isle is a dead sea, that is a lake that
hath no ground^: and if anything fall into that
lake it shall never come up again. In that lake
grow reeds, that be canes, that they clepe
Thabyio, that be thirty fathoms long; and of
these canes men make fair houses. And there
be other canes that be not so long, that grow
near the land and have so long roots that en-
dure well a four quarters" of a furlong or
lelon of the
I<]ast Indies ; the
island described
just before this is
.Tava. But India
and China are
themselves spoken
of as islands.
■i altogether
■5 own
» Or treacle ; a com-
pound in ancient
medicine supposed
to be a universal
antidote.
5 had caused to be
sought by
a i.e., the venomous
trees
7 taste
8 Tapioca is prepared
thus from cassava
roots.
9 bottom
10 bamboos
11 extend quite one-
fourth (?)
THE TRAVELS OF SIB JOHN MANDEVILLE
67
more; and at the knots of those roots men
find precious stones that have great virtues.
And he that beareth any of them upon him,
iron ne steel may not hurt him, ne draw no
blood upon him; and therefore, they that have
those stones upon them fight full hardily both
upon sea and land, for men may not harm them
on no part. And therefore, they that know the
manner, and shall fight with them, they shoot
to them arrows and quarrels without iron or
steel, and so they hurt them and slay them.
And also of those canes they make houses and
ships and other things, as we have here, making
houses and ships of oak or of any other trees.
And deem no man that I say it but for a trifle,
for I have seen of the canes with mine own
eyes, full many times, lying upon the river of
that lake, of the which twenty of our fellows
ne might not lift up ne bear one to the earth.
Or THE Paradise Terbestbial
And beyond the land and the isles and the
deserts of Prester John's lordship, in going
straight toward the east, men find nothing but
mountains and rocks, full great. And there is
the dark region, where no man may see, neither
by day ne by night, as they of the country say.
And that desert and that place of darkness
dure from this coast unto Paradise terrestrial,
where thati Adam, our foremostz father, and
Eve were put, that dwelled there but little
while; and that is towards the east at the be-
ginning of the earth. But that is not that east
that we clepe our east on this half, wh<»re the
sun riseth to us. For when the sun is east in
those parts towards Paradise terrestrial, it is
theti midnight in our part on this half, for the
roundness of the earth, of the which I have
toucheds to you of before. For our Lord God
made the earth all round in the mid place of
the firmament. And there asi mountains and
bills be and valleys, that is not but only of*
Noah's flood, that wasted the soft ground and
the tender, and fell down into valleys, and the
hard earth and the rocks abide' mountains,
Mhen the soft earth and tender waxed nesh«
through the water, and fell and became valleys.
Of Paradise ne can I not speak properly.
For I was not there. It is far beyond. And
that forthinketh me^. And also I was not
worthy. But as I have heard say ofs wise men
beyond, I shall tell you with good wilL
1 where 5 remained
2 first « soft
3 related 7 causes me regret
4 from nothing else than s by
Paradise terrestrial, as wise men say, is the
highest place of earth, that is in all the world.
And it is so high that it toucheth nigh to the
circle of the moon, there as the moon maketh
her turn; for she is so high that the flood of
Xoah ne might not come to her, that would
have covered all the earth of the world all
about and above and beneath, save Paradise
only alone. And this Paradise is enclosed all
about with a wall, and men wit not whereof it
is; for the walls be covered all over with moss,
as it seemeth. And it seemeth not that the
wall is stone of nature, ne of none other thing
that the wall is. And that wall stretcheth from
the south to the north, and it hath not but one
entry that» is closed with fire, burning; so that
no man that is mortal ne dare not enter.
And in the most high place of Paradise, even
in the middle place, is a well that casteth out
the four floods that run by divers lands. Of
the which the first is clept Pison, or Ganges,
that is all one; and it runneth throughout Ind
or Emlak, in the which river be many precious
stones, and much of lignum aloes lo and much
gravel of gold. And that other river is clept
Nilus or Gison, that goeth by Ethiopia and
after by Egypt. And that other is clept Tigris,
that runneth by Assyria and by Armenia the
great. And that other is clept Euphrates, that
runneth also by Media and Armenia and by
Persia. And men there beyond say, that all
the sweet waters of the world, above and be-
neath, take their beginning of the well of Para-
dise, and out of that well all waters come and
go.
The first river is clept Pison, that is to say
in their language, Assembly; for many other
rivers meet them there, and go into that river.
And some men clepe it Ganges, for a king that
was in Ind, that hight" Gangeres, and that it
ran throughout his land. And that water is in
some place clear, and in some place troubled,
in some place hot, and in some place cold.
The second river is clept Nilus or Gison; for
it is always troubleiz; and Gison, in the lan-
guage of Ethiopia, is to say, tronble, and in
the language of Egypt also.
The third river, that is clept Tigris, is as
much for to say as, fast-running; for he run-
neth more fast than any of the tother; and
also there is a beast, that is clept Tigris, that
is fast-running.
The fourth river is clept Euphrates, that is
to say, well-bearing; for here grow many goods
9 which
10 A fragrant oriental wood.
11 was called
12 troabled, murky
6S
FOUKTEENTH CENTUEY
upon that river, as corn, fruits, and other
goods enough plenty.
And ye shall understand that no man that is
mortal ne may not approach to that Paradise.
For by land no man may go for wild beasts
that be in the desert, and for the high moun-
tains and great huge rocks that no man may
pass by, for the dark places that be there, and
that many. And by the rivers may no man go.
For the water runneth so rudely and so sharply,
because that it cometh down so outrageously
from the high places above, that it runneth in
so great waves, that no ship may not row ne
sail against it. And the water roareth so, and
maketh so huge a noise and so great tempest,
that no man may hear other in the ship, though
he cried with all the craft that he could in the
highest voice that he might. Many great lords
have assayed with great will, many times, for
to pass by those rivers towards Paradise, with
full great companies. But they might not
speed on their voyage. And many died for
weariness of rowing against those strong waves.
And many of them became blind, and many
deaf, for the noise of the water. And some
were perished and lost within the waves. So
that no mortal man may approach to that place,
without special grace of God, so that of that
place I can say you no more; and therefore I
shall hold me still, and return to that that I
have seen.
Conclusion
And ye shall understand, if it like you, that
at mine home-coming I came to Rome, and
showed my life to our holy father the pope, and
was assoiledi of all that lay in my conscience,
of many a diverse grievous point; as men must
needs that be in company, dwelling amongst so
many a diverse folk of diverse sect and of be-
lief, as I have been. And amongst all I showed
him this treatise, that I had made after in-
1 absolved
formation of men that knew of things that I
had not seen myself, and also of marvels and
customs that I had seen myself, as far as God
would give me grace; and besought his holy
fatherhood that my book might be examined
and proved by the advice of his said council.
And our holy father, of his special grace, re-
mitted my book to be examined and proved by
the advice of his said counsel. By the which
my book was proved for true, insomuch that
they showed me a book, that my book was ex-
amined by, that comprehended full more, by
an hundred part, by the which the Mappa
Mundi2 was made after. And so my book
(albeit that many men ne list not to give
credence to nothing but to that that they see
with their eye, ne be the author ne the person
never so true) is affirmed and proved by our
holy father, in manner and form as I have said.
And I, John Mandeville, knight, abovesaid
(although I be unworthy), that departed fr<jm
our countries and passed the sea, the year of
grace a thousand three hundred and twenty-two,
that have passed many lands and many isles
and countries, and searched many full strange
places, and have been in many a full good hon-
orable country, and at many a fair deed of
arms (albeit that I did none myself, for mine
unable insufficience), now I am come home,
maugre myself, to rest, for gouts arthritic that
me distrains that define* the end of my labor;
against my will (God knoweth).
And thus, taking solace in my wretched rest,
recording the time past, I have fulfilled these
things, and put them written in this book, as
it would come into my mind, the year of grace
a thousand three hundred and fifty-six, in the
thirty- fourth year that I departed from our
countries. Wherefore I pray to all the readers
and hearers of this book, if it please them, that
they would pray to God for me; and I shall
pray for them.
2 Map of the World.
3 afflict
4 mark
THE FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH
CENTURIES
BALLADS
EOBIN HOOD AND THE MONK.*
1 In somer, when the shawesi be sheyne^,
And leves be large and long,
Hit is full mery in f eyre foreste
To here the foulyss song:
2 To se the dere draw to the dale,
And leve the hilles hee.
And shadow hem in the leves grene,
Under the grene-wode tre.
3 Hit befel on Whitsontide,
Erly in a May momyng,
The son up feyre can* shyne,
And the briddis mery can syng.
4 ' This is a mery momyng, ' seid Litull John,
'Be* hym that dyed on tre;
A more mery man thens I am one
Lyres not in Christiante.
5 *Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,'
Ldtull John can* sey,
And thynk hit is a fuU fayre tymc
In a momyng of May.'
6 ' Ye, onT thyng greves me, ' seid Kobyn,
'And does my hert mych woo;
That I may not no solem day
To mas nor matyns goo.
7 'Hit is a fourtnet and more,' seid he,
'Syn I my savyour see*;
Today wil I to Notyngham,
With the myght of mylde Marye.'
8 Than spake Moche, the mylner sun»,
Ever more wel hym betyde!
1 woods
• than
2 beautlfnl
7 one
3 birds'
8 partook of the sacra-
*dld
ment
5 by
9 miller's son
* From a MS. of aboat 1450. thongh the ballad is
probably macb earlier. See Eng. Lit., p. ^.
'Take twelve of thi wyght yemenio.
Well weppynd, be thi aide.
Such on wolde thi selfe slonn.
That twelve dar not abyde^^.'
9 'Of all my mery men,' seid Bobyn,
'Be mj feith I wil non have.
But Litull John shall beyre my bow.
Til that me listis to drawe.'
10 'Thou shall b^re thin own,' s^d Litull
Jon,
'Maister, and I wyl beyre myne.
And we well shete a penyi*,' seid Litull
Jon,
'Under the grene-wode lyneis.'
11 * I wU not shete a peny, ' seyd Bobyn Hode,
'In feith, Litull John, with the.
But ever for on as^* thou shetis,' seide
Bobyn,
'In feith I holdeiT the thre.'
12 Thus shet thei forth, these yemen tool",
Bothe at buskei» and bromezo,
Til Litull John wan of his maister
Five shillings to^i hose and shone':.
13 A ferlyz* strife fel them betwene.
As they went bi the wey;
Litull John seid he had won five shillings,
And Bobyn Hode seid schortly nay.
14 With that Bobyn Hode lyed" Litul Jon,
And smote hym with his hande;
Litul Jon waxed wroth therwith.
And pulled out his bright bronde.
15 'Were thou not my maister,' seid Litull
John,
10 brave yeomen iT wager
11 slay is two
12 wbo would not dare i> bosh
withstand twelve 20 broom (heather)
13 it pleases me 21 for
14 sboot for a penny 22 shoes
15 linden 2S strange
i« unless for each one ** gave the lie to
that
70
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
'Thou shuldis by25 hit ful sore;
Get the a man wher thou wit,
For thou getis me no more.'
16 Then Robyn goes to Notyngham,
Hym selfe mornyng allone,
And LituU John to mery Scherwode,
The pathes he knew ilkone^^.
17 Whan Eobyn came to Notyngham,
Sertenly withouten layn27,
He prayed to God and myld Mary
To bryng hym out savezs agayn.
18 He gos in to Seynt Mary chirch,
And kneled down before the rode29;
Alle that ever were the church within
Beheld wel Eobyn Hode.
19 Beside hym stod a gret-hedid munke,
I pray to God wooso he be!
Fful sone he knew gode Eobyn,
As sone as he hym se.
20 Out at the durre he ran,
Fful sone and anon;
Alle the gatis of Notyngham
He made to be sparredsi everychon.
21 'Else up,' he seid, 'thou prowde schereff,
Buske''2 the and make the bownesa ;
I have spyed the kynggis felon,
Ffor sothe he is in this town.
22 'I have spyed the false felon.
As he stondis at his masse;
Hit is longs* of the,' seide the munke,
'And35 ever he fro us passe.
23 'This traytur name is Eobyn Hode,
Under the grene-wode lynde;
He robbyt me onysao of a hundred pound,
Hit shalle never out of my mynde. '
24 Up then rose this prowde shereff.
And radlyST made hym yare^s;
Many was the moder son
To the kyrk with hym can fare.
25 In at the durres thei throlys* thrast,
With staves ful gode wones*;
2B aby. atone for
26 pach one
2T lying
28 safe
29 rood, cro88
so unhappy
81 barred
•2 prepare thee
S8 ready
S4 because
86 If
86 once
87 quickly
88 stoutly
8» number
'Alas, alas,' seid Eobyn Hode,
' Now mysse I Litull John. '
26 But Eobyn toke out a too-hond sworde.
That hangit down be his kne;
Ther asi the schereff and his men stode
thyckust,
Thedurwarde wolde he.
27 Thryes thorowout them he ran then
For sothe as I yow sey.
And woundyt mony a moder son,
And twelve he slew that day.
28 His sworde upon the schireff hed
Sertanly he brake in too;
'The smyth that the made,' seid Eobyn,
'I pray God wyrke hym woo.
29 'Ffor now am I weppynlesse, ' seid Eobyn,
'Alasse! agayn my wylle;
But if2 I may fle these traytors fro,
I wot thei wil me kyll. '
30 Eobyn in to the churche ran,
Throout hem everilkon,*
31 Sum3 fel in swonyng as thei were dede,
And lay stil as any stone;
Non of theym were in her mynde
But only Litull Jon.
32 'Let be your rule*,* seid Litull Jon,
'Ffor his luf that dyed on tre.
Ye that shulde be dughty men;
Het is gret shame to se.
33 'Oure maister has bene hard bystodes
And yet scapyd away;
Pluk up your hertis, and leve this mone,
And harkyn what I shal say.
34 'He has servyd Oure Lady many a day,
And yet wil, securlyS;
Therfor I trust in hir speciaJy
No wyckud deth shal he dye.
35 'Therfor be glad,' seid Litul John,
'And let this mournyng be;
And I shal be the munkis gyde,
With the myght of mylde Mary.
4 foUv ? Some would
read dulc grief)
s pressed
6 surely
1 where
2 unless
3 Uobln Hood's men.
who have heard ol
the capture of Rob-
* A leaf is missing, some twelve stanzas
gaps occur later.
Similnr
BALLADS
71
'We •will go but we too;
And I mete hjm, ' seid Litul John,
37 'Loke that ye kepe wel owre tristil-treT,
Under the levys smale,
And spare non of this venyson,
That gose in thys vale.'
38 Fforthe then went these yemen too,
Litul John and Moche on feres,
And lokid on Moch emys hows^,
The hye way lay full nere.
39 Litul John stode at a wyndow in the
mornyng,
And lokid forth at a stageio;
He was war wher the niunke came ridyng,
And with hym a litul page.
40 'Be my feith,' seid Litul John to Moch,
'I can the tel tithyngusn gode;
I se wher the munke cumys rydyng,
I know hym be his wyde hode. '
41 They went in to the way, these yemen
bothe.
As curtes men and hendei2;
Thei spyrredia tithyngus at ^* the munke,
As they hade bene his frendeis.
42 *Ffro whens come ye?' seid Litull Jon,
'Tel us tithyngus, I yow pray,
Oflf a false owtlay, callid Eobyn Hode,
Was takyn yisterday.
43 'He robbyt me and my felowes bothe
Of twenti markers in serten;
If that false owtlay be takyn,
Ffor sothe we wolde be fayni^. '
44 'So did he me,' seid the munke,
Of a hundred pound and more;
I layde furst hande hym apon.
Ye may thonke me therfore.'
45 ' I pray God thanke you, ' seid Litull John,
'And we will when we may;
We will go with you, with your leve,
And bryng yow on your way.
T trystlng-tree
8 In company
9 In on Much's uncle's
house
10 f r o m an (upper)
story
u tidings
12 civil
13 asked
14 of
15 friends
16 A mark was 13s. 4d
17 glad
46 'Ffor Eobyn Hode base many a wilde
felow,
I tell you in certen;
If thei wist ye rode this way,
In feith ye shulde be slayn.'
47 As thei went talking be the way,
The munke and Litull John,
John toke the munkis horse be the hede,
Fful sone and anon.
48 Johne toke the munkis horse be the bed,
Ffor sothe as I yow say;
So did Much the litull page,
Ffor he shulde not scape away.
49 Be the golettis of the hode
John pulled the munke down;
John was nothyng of hym agast.
He lete hym falle on his crown.
50 Litull John was sore agrevyd,
And drew owt his swerde in hye;
This munke saw he shulde be ded,
Lowd mercy can he crye.
51 ' He was my maister, ' seid Litull John,
'That thou hase browght in baleio;
Shalle thou never cum at our kyng,
Ffor to telle hym tale.*
52 John smote of the munkis hed,
No longer wolde he dwell;
So did Moch the litull page,
Ffor ferd lest he wolde tell.
53 Ther thei beryed hem bothe.
In nouther mosse nor lyngso,
And Litull John and Much infere
Bare the letturs to oure kyng.
He knelid down upon his kne:
'God yow save, my lege lorde,
Jhesus yow save and sel
55 ' God yow save, my lege kyng ! '
To speke John was full bolde;
He gaf hym the letturs in his bond,
The kyng did hit unfold.
56 The kyng red the letturs anon,
And seid, 'So mot I the2i,
Ther was never yoman in mery Inglond
I longut so sore to se.
18 throat-band
19 tiarm
20 neither moss
heather
:i may I thrive
n
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
67 'Wher is the munke that these shuld have
brought!'
Oure kyng can say:
'Be my trouth,' seid Litull John,
'He dyed aftersz the way.'
68 The kyng gaf Moch and Litul Jon
Twenti pound in sertan,
And made theim yemen of the crown,
And bade theim go agayn.
69 He gaf John the seel in hand,
The sheref for to bere,
To bryng Kobyn hym to,
And no man do hym dere23,
60 John toke his leve at24 oure kyng,
The sothe as I yow say;
The next way to Notyngham
To take, he yede^s the way.
61 Whan John came to Notyngham
The gatis were sparred ychon;
John callid up the porter,
He answerid sone anon.
62 'What is the cause,' seid Litul Jon,
'Thou sparris the gates so fast?'
' Because of Robyn Hode, ' seid the porter,
'In depe prison is cast.
63 'John and Moch and Wyll Scathlok,
Ffor sothe as I yow say,
Thei slew oure men upon our wallis,
And sawten26 us every day.'
64 Litull John spyrred after the schereff.
And sone he hym fonde;
He oppyned the kyngus prive seell.
And gaf hym in his honde.
65 Whan the scheref saw the kyngus seell,
He did of27 his hode anon:
' Wher is the munke that bare the letturs ? '
He seid to Litull John.
66 'He28 ig so fayn of 28 hym,' seid Litul
John,
'Ffor sothe as I yow say,
He has made hym abot of Westmynster,
A lorde of that abbay. '
67 The scheref made John gode chere.
And gaf hym wyne of the best;
ssapon
28 barm
24 of
2» went
At nyght thei went to her bedde,
And every man to his rest.
68 When the scheref was on slepe,
Dronken of wyne and ale,
Litul John and Moch for sothe
Toke the way unto the jale.
69 Litul John callid up the jayler.
And bade hym rise anon;
He seyd Eobyn Hode had brokyn prison,
And out of hit was go^n.
70 The porter rose anon sertan.
As sone as he herd John calle;
Litul John was redy with a swerd,
And bare hym to the walle.
71 'Now wil I be porter,' seid Litul John,
' And take the keyes in honde ':
He toke the way to Eobyn Hode,
And sone he hym unbonde.
72 He gaf hym a gode swerd in his bond.
His hed therwith for to kepei.
And ther as2 the walle was lowyst
Anon down can thei lepe.
73 Be that the cok began to crow,
The day began to spryng;
The scheref fond the jaylier ded.
The comyns bell made he ryng.
74 He made a crye thoroout al the town,
Wheder he be yoman or knave,
That cowthe bryng hym Eobyn Hode,
His warison* he shuld have.
75 'Ffor I dar never,' said the scheref,
'Cum before oure kyng;
Ffor if I do, I wot serten
Ffor sothe he wil me heng.'
76 The scheref made to seke Notyngham,
Bothe be strete and styeS,
And Eobyn was in mery Scherwode,
As light as lef on lynde*.
77 Then bespake gode Litull John,
To Eobyn Hode can he say,
'I have done the a gode turn for an evyll,
QuyteT the whan thou may.
78 'I have done the a gode turne,' seid Litull
John,
clear the
2« aaunit
I f^iard
5 alley
27 put off
2H 1. c. the king
2 where
6 linden tree
3 public
7 quit (1. C.
2B pleased with
i reward
debt)
BALLADS
73
*Ffor sothe as I yow say;
I have brought the under grene-wode lyne« ;
Ffare wel, and have gode day.'
79 ' Nay, be my trouth, ' seid Bobyn Hode,
'So shall hit never be;
I make the maister,' seid Bobyn Hode,
'0£E alle my men and me.'
80 'Nay, be my trouth,' seid LituU John,
'So shalle hit never be;
But lat me be a felow, ' seid Litull John,
' No noder kepe I bes. '
81 Thus John gate Robyn Hod out of prison;
Sertan withoutyn layns,
Whan his men saw hym hoi and sounde,
Ffor sothe they were full fayne.
82 They filled in wyne, and made hem 'glad,
Under the levys smale,
And geteio pastes of venyson.
That gode was with ale.
83 Than worde came to oure kyng
How Eobyn Hode was gon.
And how the scheref of Notyngham
Durst never loke hym upon.
84 Then bespake oure eumly kyng.
In an angur hye:
'Litull John hase begyled the schereff.
In faith so hase he me.
85 'Litul John has begyled us bothe.
And that full wel I se;
Or ellis the schereff of Notyngham
Hye hongutii shulde he be.
86 *I made hem yemen of the crowne.
And gaf hem feei2 with my hond;
I gaf hem grithis^' seid oure kyng,
'Tborowout all mery Inglond.
87 'I gaf theym grith, ' then seid oure kyng;
* I say, so mot I the,
Ffor sothe soch a yeman as he is oni*
In all Inglond ar not thre.
88 ' He is trew to his maister, ' seid our kyng ;
*I sey, be swete Seynt John,
He lovys better Robyn Hode
Then he dose us ychon.
8 no other care I to be
» lying (i, e., truly) 12 money
10 got 13 Becurlty
11 banged 14 one
89 'Eobyn Hode is ever bond to hym,
Bothe in strete and stalleis;
Speke no more of this mater,' seid oure
kyng,
'But John has begyled us alle.'
90 Thus endys the talkyng of the munke
And Robyn Hode i-wyssei8;
God, that is ever a crowned kyng,
Bryng us all to his blisse.'
THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT*
1 The Persei owtz off Northombarlonde,
and avowe to God mayd he
That he wold hunte in the mowntayns
off Chyviat within days thre,
In the magger ofs doughte Dogles,
and all that ever with him be.
2 The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat
he sayd he wold kyll, and cary them
away:
"Be my feth," sayd the dougheti Doglas
agayn,
"I wyll let* that hontyng yf that I
may. ' '
3 Then the Perse owt off Banborowe cam,
with him a myghtee meanys,
With fifteen hondrith archares bold off
blood and bone;
the8 wear chosen owt of shyars^ thre.
4 This begane on a Monday at morn,
in Cheviat the hUIys so he;
The chylde may rue that ys unborn,
it wos the more pitte.
5 The dryvarss thorowe the woodes went,
for to reas the dear;
Bomen byckarteo uppone the bentio
with ther browd aros cleared.
6 Then the wyldiz thorowe the woodes went,
on every syde shearis;
Greahondes thorowe the grevisi* glentis^
for to kyll thear dear.
13 i. e., abroad and at home
1 6 Indeed
1 The family of Percy was an old one of northern
England.
2 came out
3 maugre, in spite of
4 prevent
5 band
6 they
7 shires
8 stalkers
9 skirmished
10 field
11 bright
12 game
13 sevoral, separate
14 groves
15 darted
•Probably old in 1550. Sidney mentions "the olde
song of Percy and Duglas." There is a later
version which is commonly known as Chevy
Chace.
u
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
7 This begane in Chyviat the hyls abonei«,
yerlyiT on a Monnyn-day;
Be thatis it drewe to the oware off none,
a hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay.
8 The blewe a mortis uppone the bent,
the semblyde on sydis shear;
To the quyrry2o then the Perse went,
to se the bryttlyngezi off the deare.
9 He sayd, "It was the Duglas promys,
this day to met me hear;
But I wyste he wolde f aylle, verament22 ; ' '
a great oth the Perse swear.
10 At the laste a squyar off Northomberlonde
lokyde at his hand full ny;
He was war a the doughetie Doglas
commynge,
with him a myghtte meany.
11 Both with spear, byllezs, and brande,
yt was a myghtti sight to se;
Hardyar men, both off hart nor hande,
wear not in Cristiante.
12 The wear twenti hondrith spear-men good,
withoute any feale24.
The wear borne along be the watter a
Twyde,
yth25 bowndes of Tividale.
13 "Leave of the brytlyng of the dear," he
sayd,
"and to your boys2e lock ye tayk good
hede ;
For never sithe ye wear on your mothars
borne
had ye never27 so mickle nede. "
14 The dougheti Dogglas on a stede,
• >'• he rode alle his men beforne;
His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede28;
a boldar bame2» was never bom.
15 "Tell me whos men ye ar," he says,
"or whos men that ye be:
Who gave youe leave to hunte in this
Chyviat chays,
in the spyt of myn and of me."
16 The first manei that ever him an answear
mayd,
yt was the good lord Perse:
* ' We wyll not tell the2 whoyss men we ar, ' '
he says,
"nor whos men that we be;
But we wyll hounte hear in this chays,
in the spyt of thyne and of the.
17 "The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat
we have kyld, and cast^ to carry them
away.
' ' Be my troth, ' ' sayd the doughete Dogglas
agayn,
"therfor the tons of us shall de« this
day."
18 Then sayd the doughte Doglas
unto the lord Perse:
*"To kyll alle thes giltles men,
alas, it wear great pittel
19 "But, Perse, thowe art a lord of lande,
I am a yerle callyd within my contre;
Let all our men uppone a parti^ stande,
and do8 the battell off the and of me."
20 "Nowe Cristes cors^ on his crowneio,"
sayd the lord Perse,
"who-so-ever ther-to says nay;
Bell my troth, doughtte Doglas," he says,
"thow «halt never se that dayi2.
21 "Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar
France,
nor for no man of a woman bornis.
But, andi* fortune be my chance,
I dar met him, onis man for oni5. "
22 Then bespayke a squyar off Northombar-
londe,
Richard Wytharyngton was his nam:
" It shall never be told in Sothe- Ynglonde, "
he says,
"to Kyng Herry the Fourth for sham.
23 "I wati« youe byni' great lordes twaw,
I am a poor squyar of lande:
I wylle never se my captayne fyght on a
fylde,
and stande my selffe and loocke on,
But whylle I may my weppone welde,
I wylle not f ayle both hart and hande. ' '
lA above
17 early
18 by the time
i» d<-ath-note
20 filauKhtered game
21 cutting up
22 truly
28 Bword
24 fall
25 In the
20 bOW8
27 ever
28 glowing coal
29 man
1 man 7 to one side
2 thee 8 let us do
s whose 8 curse
4 Intend lo head
5 one 11 by
6 die
12 sc, when I say nay
13 sc, will I shrink
14 If
15 cue
lA know
17 be
BALLADS
76
24 That day, that day, that dredfull day!
the first fit 18 here I fynde;
Andi9 youe wyll here any mor a2o the
hountyng a the Chyviat,
yet ys ther mor behynde.
25 The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys
yebent,
ther hartes wer good yenoughe;
The first ofif arros that the2i shote off,
seven skore spear-men the sloughe.
26 Yet byddys22 the yerle Doglas uppon the
bent,
a captayne good yenoughe,
And that was sene verament,
for he wrought hom23 both woo and
wouche2*.
27 The Dogglas partyd his ostzs in thre,
lyk a cheffe chef ten off pryde;
With suar spears off myghtte treze,
the2i cum in on every syde:
28 Thrughe our Yngglyshe archery27
gave many a wounde fulle wyde;
Many a doughetess the2i garde29 to dy,
which ganyde them no pryde.
29 The Ynglyshe men let ther boys be,
and pulde owt brandes that wer brighte;
It was a hevy syght to se
bryght swordes on basnitesso lyght.
30 Thorowe ryche malesi and myneyeple32,
many sterness the2i strocke donea*
streght ;
Many a freykess that was fulle fress,
ther undar foot dyd lyght.
31 At last the Duglas and the Perse met,
lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;
The2i swapte37 togethar tylle the both
swat38,
with swordes that wear of fyn myllan39.
32 Thes worthe freckys for to fyght,
ther-to*o the wear fulle fayne*i,
18 division of the song so helmets
19 If 31 armor
20 of 32 gauntlet
21 they 33 stubborn ones
22 abides 34 down
23 them 35 man
24 harm se noble
25 host 37 smote
26 wood 38 sweat
27 archers 39 Milan 3teel
as doughty man 40 1. e., to fight
20 caused 4i glad
Tylle the bloode owte off thear basnetes
8prente42
as ever dyd heal*3 or rayn.
33 "Yelde the, Perse," sayde the Doglas,
"and i feth** I shalle the brynge
Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis*'
of Jamy our Skottish kynge.
34 "Thou shalte have thy ransom fre,
I hight48 the hear*^ this thinge;
For the manfuUyste man yet art thowe
that ever I conqueryd in filde fight-
tynge. ' '
35 "Nay," sayd the lord Perse,
"I tolde it the befome.
That I wolde never yeldyde be
to no man of a woman born."
36 With that ther cam an arrowe hastely,
forthe off a myghtte wane-tS;
Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas
in at the brest-bane.
37 Thorowe lyvar and longesi bathe2
the sharpe arrowe ys gane.
That never after in all his lyffe-days
he spayke mo wordes but ane:
That was, "Fyghte ye, my myrry men,
whyllys ye may,
for my lyff-days ben gan."
38 The Perse leanyde on his brande,
and sawe the Duglas de;
He tooke the dede mane by the hande,
. and sayd, "Wo ys me for the!
39 "To have savyde thy lyffe, I wolde have
partyde with
my landes for years thre,
For a better man, of hart nare of hande,
was nat in all the north contre. "
40 Off all that se3 a Skottishe knyght,
was callyd Ser Hewe the Monggom-
byrry*;
He sawe the Duglas to the deth was
dyghts,
he spendyd8 a spear, a trusti tre.
41 He rod uppone a corsiare^
throughe a hondrith archery:
42 sprang
43 hall
44 In faith
45 earl's wages
46 promise
47 here
48 multitude ( ? Skeat)
1 lungs
2 both
3 saw
4 Montgomery
5 doomed
6 spanned, seized
7 courser
w
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
He never stynttyde*, nar never bkine»,
tylle he earn to the good lord Perse.
42 He set uppone the lorde Perse
a dynte that was full scare;
"With a suar spear of a myghtte tre
clean thorow the body he the Perse berio,
43 All the tothar syde that a man myght se
a large cloth-yard and mare:
Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cris-
tiante
then that day slan wear ther.
44 An archar off Northomberlonde
8ayi2 slean was the lord Perse;
He bar a bende bowe in his hand,
was made off trusti tre.
45 An arow, that a cloth-yarde was lang,
to the harde stele halydeia he;
A dynt that was both sad and soar
he sati* on Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry.
46 The dynt yt was both sad and sar,
that he of Monggomberry sete;
The swane-fethars that his arrowe bar
with his hart-blood the wear wete.
47 Ther was never a freakei' wone foot wolde
fle,
but still in stouri* dyd stand,
Heawyng on yche othar, whylle the myghte
dreiT,
with many a balfull brande.
48 This battell begane in Chyviat
an owar befor the none,
And when even-songe bell was rang,
the battell was nat half done.
49 The tockeis ... on ethar hande
be the lyght off the mone;
Many hade no strenght for to stande,
in Chyviat the hillys abon.
50 Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde
went away but seventi and thre;
Of twenti hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde,
but even five and fifti.
51 But all wear slayne Cheviat within;
the hade no strengthe to stand on hy;
• stopped
• ceased M set
10 pl«rced is man
11 on 10 stress of battle
IS saw that i7 endure
Mdrew istbey took (count?)
The chylde may rue that ys unborne,
it was the mor pitte.
52 Thear was slayne, withe the lord Perse,
Sir Johan of Agerstone,
Ser Eogar, the hindei» Hartly,
Ser Wyllyam, the bolde Hearone.
53 Ser Jorg, the worthe Loumle,
a knyghte of great renowen,
Ser Eaff20, the ryche Eugbe,
with dyntes wear beaten dowene.
54 For Wetharryngton my harte was wo,
that ever he slayne shulde be;
For when both his leggis wear hewyne in
to,
yet he knyled and fought on hys kny.
55 Ther was slayne, with the dougheti Duglas.
Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry,
Ser Davy Lwdale, that worthe was,
his sistars son was he.
56 Ser Charls a Murrezi in that place,
that never a foot wolde fle;
Ser Hewe Maxwelle, a lorde he was,
with the Doglas dyd he dey.
57 So on the morrowe the mayde them
byears22
off birch and hasell so gray;
Many wedous, with wepyng tears,
cam to fache ther makys23 away.
58
59
Tivydale may carpe off** care,
Northombarlond may mayk great mon.
For towe such captayns as slayne wear
thear,
on the March-parti26 shall never be non.
Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe,
to J amy the Skottische kynge,
That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the
Marches,
he lay slean Chyviot within.
60 His handdes dyd he weal2« and wryng,
he sayd, "Alas, and woe ys me!
Such an othar captayn Skotland within,"
he sayd, "ye-feth shuld never be."*
iBeentle 2S mates
20 Ralph 24 SlDK of
21 Murray 25 border side
22 biers 28 clench
* This lament, contrasted with King Harry's boast
that follows, may be taken as an amusing in-
dication of English authorship of the ballad.
BALLADS
77
61 Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone,
tiller the fourth Harry our kynge,
That lord Perse, leyff-tenante of the
Marchis,
he lay slayne Chyviat within.
62 "God have merci on his soUe," sayde
Kyng Harry,
"good Lord, yf thy will it be!
I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde, "
he sayd,
"as good as ever was he:
But, Perse, and I brookss my lyffe,
thy deth well quyte2» shall be."
63 As our noble kynge mayd his avowe,
lyke a noble prince of renowen,
For the deth of the lord Perse
he dyde the battell of Hombyll-down ;
64 Wher syx and thritte Skottishe knyghtes
on a day wear beaten down:
Glendale glytteryde onso ther armor bryght,
over castille, towar, and town.
65 This was the hontynge off the Cheviat,
that tears 1 begane this spurns 2,
Old men that knowen the grownde well
yenoughe
call it the battell of Otterburn.
66 At Otterburn begane this sporne
uppone a Monnynday;
Ther was the doughte Doglas slean,
the Perse never went away.
67 Ther was never a tym on the Marche-
partes
senS3 the Doglas and the Perse met.
But yt ys mervele ands* the rede blude
ronne not,
as the reane doysss in the stret.
68 Jhesue Crist our balysse beteST,
and to the blys us bryngel
Thus was the hountynge of the Chivyat:
God send us alle good endyng!
SIR PATRICK SPENS
1 The king sits in Dumferling tounei,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
"O whar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of minet"
27 to 32 trouble
28 if I enjoy 33 since
29 paid for 34 if
30 in, with (Humbleton 35 rain does
is in Glendale dis- se evil
trict) 37 remedy, better
31 that ere, erewhile
1 Dunfermline, northwest of Edinburgh, once a
royal residence.
2 Up and spak an eldern^ knicht,
Sat at the kings richt kne:
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor.
That sails upon the se."
3 The king has written a braids letter,
And signd it wi his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the sand.
4 The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch-t lauched he;
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.
5 "O wha is this has don this deid.
This ill deid don to me,
To send me out this time 0' the yeir.
To sail upon the se!
6 "Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne: ' '
"O say na sae, my master deir.
For I feir a deadlie storme.
7 "Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone,
Wi the auld moone in hir arme.
And I feir, I feir, my deir master.
That we will cum to harme. "
8 O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
To weet their cork-heild schoone;
Bots lang owre^ a' the play wer playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone^.
9 lang, lang may their ladies sit,
Wi thair fans into their hand.
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence
Cum sailing to the land.
10 O lang, lang may the ladies stand,
Wi thair gold kems* in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
For they'll se thame na mair.
11 Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,
It's fiftie fadom deip,
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi the Scots lords at his feit.
JOHNIE COCK.*
1 Up Johnie raise in a May morning,
Calld for water to wash his hands
2 old 8 before
3 broad, open 7 swam in over their
4 laugh hats (so to speak)
5 but 8 combs
• Our text of this vigorous ballad follows the ad
mirable combination made by Professor F. B.
Gummere from various versions.
78
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
And he has calld for his gude gray hunds
That lay bund in iron bands, bands,
That lay bund in iron bands.
2 'Ye'U buski, ye '11 busk my noble dogs,
Ye '11 busk and mak them bounz,
For I'm going to the Braidscaur hill
To dings the dun* deer doun.'
3 Johnie's mother has gotten word o that,
And care-bed she has taen^:
' O Johnie, for my benisons,
I beg you'l stay at hame;
For the wine so red, and the well-baken
bread.
My Johnie shall want nane.
4 'There are seven forsters at Pickeram
Side,
At Pickeram where they dwell.
And for a drop of thy heart 's bluid
They wad ride the fords of hell. '
5 But Johnie has cast off the black velvet,
And put on the Lincoln twine^.
And he is on to gude greenwud
As fast as he could gang. ,
6 Johnie lookit east, and Johnie lookit west,
And he lookit aneath the sun,
And there he spied the dun deer sleeping
Aneath a buss o whuns.
7 Johnie shot, and the dun deer lap».
And she lap wondrous wide,
Until they came to the wan water,
And he stemdio her of her pride.
8 He 'as taen out the little pen-knife,
'Twas full three quarters" long.
And he has taen out of that dun deer
The liver boti2 and the tongue.
9 They eat of the flesh, and they drank of
the blood.
And the blood it was so sweet,
Which caused Johnie and his bloody hounds
To fall in a deep sleep.
10 By then came an old palmer.
And an ill death may he die!
For he's away to Pickram Side
As fast as he can drieis.
1 make ready 7 cloth
2 ready 8 bush of furze
8 Rtrike • leaped
* dark brown lo strlpt
SI. e.. Is sick wltb anx- ii of a yard
iety 12 as well as
• blessing is hold out
11 'What news, what news?' says the Seven
ForstersJ
'What news have ye brought to me! '
'I have noe news,' the palmer said,
'But what I saw with my eye.
12 'As I cam in by Braidisbanks,
And down among the whuns.
The bonniest youngster eer I saw
Lay sleepin amang his hunds.
13 'The shirt that was upon his back
Was o the hollandi* fine;
The doubletis which was over that
Was o the Lincoln twine.*
14 Up bespake the Seven Forsters,
Up bespake they ane and a':
'O that is Johnie o Cockleys Well,
And near him we will draw. '
15 the first stroke that they gae him,
They struck him off by the knee;
Then up bespake his sister's son:
'O the next '11 gar is him die! '
16 'O some they count ye well-wighti^ men.
But I do count ye nane;
For you might well ha wakend me,
And askd gin I wad be taen.
17 ' The wildest wolf in aw this wood
Wad not ha done so by me;
She'd ha wet her foot ith wan water.
And sprinkled it oer my braeis^
And if that wad not ha wakend me,
She wad ha gone and let me be.
18 'O bows of yew, if ye be true,
In London, where ye were bought,
Fingers five, get up beliveis,
Manhuid shall fail me nought.'
19 He has killd the Seven Forsters,
He has killd them all but ane.
And that wan2o scarce to Pickeram Side,
To carry the bode-words2i hame.
20 'Is there never a [bird] in a' this wood
That will tell what I can say;
That will go to Cockleys Well,
Tell my mither to fetch me awayf
21 There was a fbird] into that wood.
That carried the tidings away.
And many ae22 was the well-wight man
At the fetching o Johnie away.
14 linen
15 waistcoat
16 make
IT very brave
1 8 brow
19 quick
20 won, made hla way
21 message
32 a one
BALLADS
79
BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL.
1 High upon Highlands,
and low upon Tay,
Bonnie George Campbell
rade out on a day.
2 Saddled and bridled
and gallant rade he;
Home cam his guid horse,
but never cam he.
3 Out cam his auld mither
greeting fu' sairi,
And out cam his bonnie bride
livings her hair.
4 Saddled and bridled
and booted rade he;
Toom3 hame cam the saddle,
but never cam he.
B 'My meadow lies green,
and my corn is unshorn,
My barn is to build,
and my babe is unborn.'
6 Saddled and bridled
and booted rade he;
Toom hame cam the saddle,
but never cam he.
THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL.
There lived a wife at Usher 's Well,
And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
And sent them oer the sea.
They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely ane.
When word came to the carline* wife
That her three sons were gane.
They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely three,
When word came to the carlin wife
That her sons she'd never see.
' I wish the wind may never cease.
Nor fashess in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
In earthly flesh and blood.'
It fell about the Martinmasss,
When nights are lang and mirk^.
1 weeping full sore
2 tearing
3 empty
«old
5 troubles (storms)
6 November 11
7 dark
The carlin wife's three sons came hame,
And their hats were o the birks.
It neither grew in syke^ nor ditch.
Nor yet in ony sheughio,
But at the gates o Paradise,
That birk grew fair eneugh.
'Blow up the fire, my maidens!
Bring water from the well!
For a' my house shall feast this night.
Since my three sons are well.'
And she has made to them a bed,
She's made it large and wide,
And she's ta'en her mantle her about.
Sat down at the bed-side.
9 Up then crew the red, red cock,
And up and crew the gray;
The eldest to the youngest said,
' 'Tis time we were away.'
10 The cock he hadna craw 'd but once,
And clappd his wings at a'.
When the youngest to the eldest said,
'Brother, we must awa.
11 'The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
The channerinii worm doth chide;
Gini2 y/Q be mist out o our place,
A sair pain we maun bide.
12 'Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
Fareweel to bami3 and byrei*!
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
That kindles my mother's fire! '*
KATHARINE JAFFRAY.f
1 There livd a lass in yonder dale,
And doun in yonder glen, O,
And Kathrine Jaffray was her name,
Well known by many men, O.
2 Out came the Laird of Lauderdale,
Out frae the South Countrie,
All for to court this pretty maid.
Her bridegroom for to be.
8 birch
9 marsh 12 if
10 furrow 18 granary
11 fretting 1 4 stable
* "The beauty of reticence in this last farewell is
as delicate as anything in literature." — F. B.
Gummere.
t Scott's "Lochinvar" is based upon this ballad.
80
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
3 He has teldi her father and mither baith,
And a' the rest o her kin,
And has teld the lass hersell,
And her consent has yiin.
4 Then came the Laird of Lochinton,
Out frae the English border,
All for to court this pretty maid,
Well mounted in good order,
5 He's teld her father and mither baith,
As I hear sindry say,
But he has nae teld the lass her sell.
Till on her wedding day,
6 When day was set, and friends were met.
And married to be.
Lord Lauderdale came to the place.
The bridal for to see,
7 * O are you come for sport, young man ?
Or are you come for play?
Or are you come for a sight o our bride,
Just on her wedding day?'
8 'I'm nouther come for sport,' he says,
'Nor am I come for play;
But if I had one sight o your bride,
I'll mount and ride away,'
9 There was a glass of the red wine
Filld up them atween.
And ay she drank to Lauderdale,
Wha her true-love had been.
10 Then he took her by the milk-white hand.
And by the grass-green sleeve.
And he mounted her high behind him there,
At the bridegroom he askt nae leive,
11 Then the blude run down by the Cowden
Banks,
And down by Cowden Braes,
And ay she^ gards the trumpet sound,
'O this is foul, foul play! '
12 Now a' ye that in England are.
Or are in England born.
Come nere to Scotland to court a lass.
Or else ye'l get the scorn.
13 They haik ye up* and settle ye by5,
Till on your we<l(ling day,
And gie ye frogs instead o fish,*
And play ye foul, foul play,
1 told 8 cansed
2 Perhaps this should bo 4 haul you iip
he, referring to the n set you aside (lead vou
Laird of Lochinton on and deceive you)
• In the ballad of Lord Randal, the lord Is poi-
soned with eels.
THE NUTBEOWN MAYDE.*
Be it right or wronge, thes men amonget
On wymen do complayn,
Affermyng this, how that it is
A laboure spent in vayn
To love them weUe; for never a dele
They love a man agayn.
For late a man do what he can
Ther favoure to attayn,
Yet yf a newe do them pursue,
Ther ferste trew lover than2 lo
Laboureth for nought; for from hers thought
He is a banysshed man.
I say not nay, but that alle day
It is both wreten and said
That woman's feyth is, as who seyth,
Alle utturly decayde;
But neverthelesse right good witnes
In this case myght be layde,
That they love trew, and contenewe, —
Eeeorde the Nutbrown Mayde,
Which, whan her love cam her to prove,
To her to make his mone,
Wolde not departe, for in her hart
She loved but hym alone.
20
30
Than betwen us let us discusse
What was alle the manere
Between them two: we wille also
Telle alle the payn in fere*
That she was in. Now I begyn,
So that ye me answere;
Wherfor alle ye that present be,
I pray you, geve an ere.
I am the knyght ; I com by nyght,
As secrete as I can.
Saying, 'Alas! thus stondith the caas,
I am a banysshed man, '
1 all the while 3 their
2 then 4 i-fere, together
• This poem Is essentially a little drama, of which
the first three stanzas constitute a kind of
prologue and the last stanza an epilogue. In
the first stanza one speaker propounds the
feneral theme of the fickleness of womankind,
n the second stanza, another speaker cites
in refutation the story of the Nutbrown
Mayde. Then the first speaker proposes that
they two enact thai story, and he begins by
assuming the part of the man wlio protended
to be outlawed in order to "prove" the maid's
love. The second speaker takes tlie part of
the maid, and the dialogue continues regularly
in alternate stanzas. It is readily seen that
the poem, though for convenience grouped
here with the ballads. Is of a very different char-
acter from the folk-ballads proper, and a prod-
uct of much more conscious art. Our text
is that of the Balliol MS., with some very
alight changes of spelling and the regular
substitution of Mavue for the more frequent
marginal Puella of the manuscript.
BALLADS
81
Mayde
And I your wille for to fuIfiUe
In this wille not refuse,
Trusty ng to shew in wordis fewe
That men have an ylle uses 40
(To ther own shame) wymen to blame,
And causelesse them accuse.
Therfor to you I answere now,
Alle wymen to excuse, —
Myn own hart dere, with you what cheref
I pray you, telle me anon;
For in my mynd, of alle mankynd
I love but you aJon,
Squyre
It stondith so; a dede is doo
Wherof gret harme shalle grow: BO
My destynye ys for to dye
A shamfulle deth, I trow.
Or ellis to flee; the one muste be;
Non other way I know
But to withdraw as an outlawe,
And take me to my bow.
Wherfor adewe, myn own hart trew!
Non other rede I can^,
For I muste to the grenwode go,
Alon, a banysshed man. 60
Mayde
Lorde, what is this worldis blis
That changith as the mone?
Thes somers day in lusty may
Is darke beffore the none.
1 here you say, Farewelle. Nay, nay,
We departed not so sone.
Why say ye so? Whetherio wille ye go?
Alas, what have ye done?
Alle my welfare to sorrow and care
Shuld chaunge yf ye were gon ; 70
For in my mynde, of alle mankynd
I love but you alon.
Squyre
I can beleve it shalle you greve,
And sumwhat you dystreyne.
But afterward your paynes harde.
Within a day or twayn,
Shalle sone aslake, and ye shalle take
Conforte to you agayn.
Why should you ought for to take thought^?
Your laboure were in vayn. 80
And thus I doo, and pray you to.
As hartely as I can;
For I muste to the grenwode go,
Alon, a banysshed man.
B evil custom
<i one
7 no other counsel I 8 part
know 10 whither
« Variant reading: my. iiat all take anxiety
Mayde
Now sithiz that ye have shewed to me
The secrete of your mynde,
I shalle be playn to you agaynia,
Lyke as ye shalle me fynde.
Sith it is so that ye wille go,
I wille not bide behynde; 90
Shalle it never be said the Nut Brown Mayde
Was to here love unkynde.
Make you redy, for so am I,
Alle though it were anon";
For in my mynd, of alle mankynd
I love but you alon.
Squyre
Yet I you rede to take good hede
What men wille thynke and say:
Of 15 yong, of olde, hit shalle be told
That ye be gon away, 100
Your wanten wille for to fulfiUe,
In grenwode you to play.
And that ye myght for your delite
Ne lengar make delay.
Rather than ye shuld thus for me
Be called a mysseis woman.
Yet wold I to the grenwode go,
Alon, a banysshed man.
Mayde
Though it be songe of olde and yonge
That I shuld be to blame, 110
Thers be the charge that speke so large
In hurtyng of my name;
For I wille prove that feythfuUe love
Hit is devoyed of shame,
In your dislresse and hevynesse,
To partei7 with you the same, —
To shewe all tho that do not so
Trew lovers are they non ;
For in my mynd, of alle mankynd
I love but you alon. 120
Squyre
I counsaille you, remembre how
Hit is no maydyns lawe
Nothyng to doute, but to renne out
To wode with an outlawe.
For ye muste ther in your bond bere
A bo we redy to drawe,
And, as a theff, thus must ye leve
Ever in drede and awe.
Wherby to you gret harm myght grow;
Yet hade I lever than 130
That I had to the grenwod go,
Alon, a banysshed man.
12 since
IS In return
1* at once
16 by
16 Variant :
IT share
V'le.
82
FIFTEENTH AND EAELY SIXTEENTH CENTUEIES
Mayde
I say not nay, but as ye say,
Yt is no maydyns lore;
But love may make me to forsake,
As I have sayd beffore,
To cum on fote, to hunte and shote,
To get us mete in store;
For so that I your company
May have, I aske no more. 140
From which to parte it makyth my harte
As colde as any ston;
For in my mynde, of alle mankynd
I love but you alon.
Squyre
For an outlawe this is the lawe,
That men hym take and bynde,
Without pite, hangid to be,
And waver with the wynde.
Yf I had nede, (as God forbede!)
What soccours could ye fyndef 160
Forsoth, I trow, ye and your bowe
For fere wold draw behynde.
And no mervayle, for littille avayle
Were in your counselle than;
Wherfor I wille to the grenwod go,
Alon, a banysshed man.
Mayde
Bight welle know ye that wymen be
But feeble for to fight;
No womanhede it is indede
To be bolde as a knyght. 160
Yet in such fere yf that ye were.
With ennemyes day or nyght,
I wold withstond, with bow in honde,
To helpe you with my myght.
And you to save, as wymen have
From deth many [an] one;
For in my mynd, of alle mankynd
I love but you alon.
Squyee
Yet take good hede, for ever I drede
That ye could not susteyn 170
The thorny wayes, the depe valeyes.
The snowe, the froste, the rayn,
The colde, the hete; for drye and wete
We muste logge on the playn.
And, us above, non other roffe
But a brake, bushe, or twayn;
Which sone shuld greve you, I beleve,
And ye wold gladly than
That I had to the grenwode goo,
Alon, a banysshed man. 180
Mayde
Sith I have here ben partynere
With you [in] yoye and blisse,
I muste also parte of your woo
Endure, as reason is.
Yet am I sure of on pleasure.
And shortly it is this:
That wher ye be, me semeth, pard6,
I could not fare amysse.
Without more speche I you beseche
That we were shortly gon; 190
For in my mynd, of alle mankynd
I love but you alon.
Squyre
Iff ye go thyder, ye must consider,
Whan ye have luste to dyne,
Ther shalle no mete be for to gete,
Nether bere, ale, ne wyne;
Ne shetes elen, to lay betwen.
Made of threde and twyne;
Non other hous, but levis and boues,
To cover your hede and myne. 200
Loo, myn hart swete, this ille dyett
Shuld make you pale and wan;
Wherfor I wille to the grenwod go,
Alon, a banysshed man.
Mayde
Amonge the wilde dere, suche an archere
As men say that ye be
May not faylle of good vytaylle,
Wher is so gret plente.
And water clere of the rivere
Shalle be fulle swete to me, 210
With which in helei* I shalle right welle
Endure, as ye shalle see.
And, or we go, a bedde or two
I can provide anon;
For in my mynde, of alle mankynd
I love but you alon.
Squyre
Loo! yet beffore, ye must do more,
Yf ye wille goo with me:
As, cute your here up by your ere,
Your kyrtyll by your knee, 220
With bow in honde, for to withstonde
Your enymyes, yf nede be;
And this same nyght, beffore daylight,
To wodewarde wille I flee.
Yff that ye wille alle this fulfille,
Do it as shortly as ye can;
Els wille I to the grenwode go,
Alon, a banysshed man.
Mayde
I shalle as nowi» do more for you
Than longith to womanhede, MO
To shorte myn here, a bowe to bere,
To shote in tyme of nede.
18 health
18 now (redundant at)
BALLADS
83
my swete moder, beffore alle oder
For you I have moste drede;
But now, adewe! I must ensue
Wher fortune doth me lede.
Alle this make ye; now lat us flee,
The day commeth fast upon;
For in my mynd, of alle mankynd
I love but you alon.
Squyre
Nay, nay, not so; ye shalle not go.
And I shalle telle you whye:
Your appetite is to be light
Of love, I welle espye;
For like as ye have said to me,
In likewyse hardelyzo
Ye wolde answere, whosoever it were,
In way of companye.
It is said of olde, Son whot, sone colde.
And so is a woman ; 250
For I muste to the grenwode goo,
Alon, a banysshed man.
Mayde
Yf ye take hede, it is no nede
Such wordis to say to me,
For of te ye prayd, and long assayed.
Or I you loved, parde.
And though that I of auncetrye
A barons doughter be.
Yet have ye proved how I ye loved,
A squyre of lowe degre, 260
And ever shalle, what so befalle.
To dye therefor anon;
For in my mynd, of alle mankynd
I love but you alon.
Squyre
A baron's child to be begiled,
It were a cursed dede.
To be felowe with an outlawe,
Almy^hty God forbede!
Yet better were, the pore squyer
Alon to foreste yedesi, 270
Than ye shuld say, another day.
That by my cursed rede
Ye were betrayde. Wherefor, good mayd,
The best rede that I can,
Ys that I to the grenwod go,
Alon, a banysshed man.
Mayde
Whatever befalle, I never shalle
Of this thyng you outbrayde;
But yf ye go and leve me so,
Than have ye me betrayde. 280
20 assuredly
21 went
Remembre you welle how that ye dele.
For yf ye be as ye said.
Ye were unkynd to leve me behynd,
Your love, the Nutbrown Mayde.
Truste [me] truly, that I shalle dye
Sone after ye be gon;
For in my mynd, of all mankynd
I love but you alon.
Squyre
If that you went, ye shuld repent.
For in the foreste nowe 290
I have purveyde22 me of a mayde
Whom I love more than you, —
Another more fayre than ever ye were,
I dare it welle avowe;
And of you both, eehe wille be wroth
With other, as I trowe.
It were myn eas to leve23 in peas,
So wille I, yf I can;
Wherefor I wille to the grenwod goo,
Alon, a banysshed man. 300
Mayde
Though in the wode I understode
Ye had a paramoure,
Alle this may nought remeve my thought.
But that I wille be your;
And she shalle fynd me sof te and kynd,
And curteys every oure.
Glad to fulfille alle that she wille
Comaund me to my powere.
For had ye, loo! an hundredth mo.
Yet wolde I be that on; 310
For in my mynd, of alle mankynd
I love but you alon.
Squyre
Myn own der love, I se thee prove
That ye be kynde and trewe;
Of mayde and wyf, in alle my lyff,
The best that ever I knew.
Be mery and glade, be no more sade.
The case is chaunged newe,
For it were rewth that for your trewth
Ye shuld have cause to rewe. 320
Be not dysmayde, whatsoever I said
To you whan I began;
I wille not to the grenwode go;
I am no banysshed man.
Mayde
Thes tydingis be more gladder to me
Than to be made a queue,
Yf I were sure they shuld endure;
But it is often seen.
When men willez* breke proniyse, they speke
The wordis on the splene^s. 330
22 provided
23 live
24 mean to
25 capriciously
84
FIFTEENTH AND EAELY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
Ye shape som wyle me to begile,
And stele from me, I wene;
Than were the caas wors than it was,
And I more woo-begon;
For in my mynd, of alle mankynd
I love but you alon.
Squyke
Ye shalle not nede further to drede;
I wille not disparage
You, God defende, sith ye descende
Of so gret a lynage.
Now understond; to Westmorelond,
Which is myn herytage,
I wille you bryng, and with a rynge
By way of maryage
I wille you take, and lady make,
As shortly as I can;
Than have ye wonne an erles Sonne,
And not a banysshed man.
340
Here may ye see that women be,
In love, meke, kynd, and stable; 350
Latt never man repreve them than
Or calle them variable.
But rather pray God that we may
To them be confortable.
God sumtyme provith such as he lovith,
Yf they be charytable;
For sith men wold that women shuld
Be meke to them echone,
Moche more aught they to God obey.
And serve but hym alon. 360
EVERYMAN
Here hegynneth a treaty se how the hye Fader
of Heven sendeth Dethe to somon every
creature to come and gyve a counte of
theyr lyves in this worlde, and is
in maner of a moral playe.*
Messenger.
I pray you all gyve your audyence.
And herei this materz with reverence.
By fygures a morall* playe;
The somonynge of Everyman called it is,
That of our lyves and endynge shewes
1 hear 8 in form
2 matter * A Morality
• This play exists also In Dutch, entitled "Elcker-
lijk," printed about 1495, and attributed to
I'etrus Dorlandus. The earliest Icnown Eng-
lish editions dnte about 1525. From the dates
and the almost entire lack of humor In the
play, it is most probable that the English
form is a free translation from the Dutch.
We follow the text of the Skot copy in the
Britwell Library, as reprinted by W. W. Greg,
with capitals and punctuation added. On
Moralities and Miracle riays, see Bng. Lit..
64-67.
How transytory we be all dayes.
This mater is wonders' precyous.
But the entente of it is more gracyous,
And swete to bere awaye. 9
The story sayth: — Man, in the begynnynge
Loke well, and take good heed to the endynge,
Be you never so gay;
Ye thynke synneia, the begynnynge full swete,
Whiche in the ende canseth the soule to wepe.
Whan the body lyeth in claye.
Here shall you se how Felawshyp and Jolyte,
Bothe Strengthe, Pleasure and Beaute,
Wyll fade from thes as floure in Maye. 18
For ye shall here, how our heven kynge
Calleth Everyman to a generall rekenynge.
Gyve audyence, and here what he doth saye.
God speketh.
I perceyve here in my majeste
How that all creatures be to me unkynde,
Lyvynge without drede in worldely prosperyte;
Of ghostlyo syght the people be so blynde,
Drowned in synne they know me not for theyr
God;
In worldely ryches is all theyr mynde.
They fere not my ryghtwysnes, the sharpe
rood;
My lawe that I shewed whan I for them dyed
They forgete clene, and shedynge of my blode
rede ; 30
I hanged bytwene two, it can not be denyed;
To gete them lyfe I suffred to be deed.
I heled theyr fete; with thornes hurt was my
heed;
I coude do no more than I dyde truely.
And nowe I se the people do clene for sake me:
They useio the seven deedly synnes dampnable,
As pryde, coveytyse, wrathe and lechery.
Now in the worlde be made commendable.
And thus they leve of aungelles the hevenly
company.
39
Every man lyveth so after his owne pleasure;
And yet of theyr lyfe they be nothinge sure.
I se, the more that I them forbere,
The worse they be fro yere to yere;
All that lyveth appayreth" faste.
Therefore I wyll in all the haste
Have a rekenynge of every mannes persone.
For, and 12 I leve the people thus alone
In theyr lyfe and wycked tempestes,
Veryly they wyll become moche worse than
beestes:
For now one wolde by envy another up ete;
Charyte they do all clene forgete. 51
B always
6 wondrously
T purpose
»tbee
spiritual
10 practise
11 degenerates
12 If
EVERYMAN
85
I hoped well that every man ^
In my glory shulde make his mansyon,
And thereto 1 had them all electe;
But now I se, like traytours dejecte,
They thanke me not for the pleasure that 1 to
them nient,
Nor yet for theyr beynge that I them have lent.
I profered the people grete multytude of mercy,
And fewe there be that asketh it hertlyi3j
They be so combred with worldly ryches 60
That nedes on them I must do justyce,
On every man lyvynge without fere. —
Where arte thou, Deth, thou myghty messen-
gere?
Dethe. Almyghty God, I am here at your
wyll,
Yonr commaundement to fulfyll.
God. Go thou to Everyman,
And shewe hym in my name
A pylgrymage he must on hym take,
Which he in no wyse may escape, 69
And that he brynge with hym a sure rekenynge,
Without delay or ony taryenge.
Dethe. Lorde, I wyll in the worlde go
rennei* over all.
And cruelly out serche bothe grete and small.
Every man wyll I beset that lyveth beestly
Out of Goddes lawes and dredeth not foly.
He that loveth rychesse 1 wyll stryke with my
darte,
His syght to blynde, and fro heven to departeis,
Excepte that almes be his good frende.
In hell for to dwell, worlde without ende.
Loo, yonder I se Everyman walkynge, 80
Full lytell he thynketh on my comynge!
His mynde is on flesshely lustes, and his treas-
ure;
And grete payne it shall cause hym to endure
Before the Lorde, heven kynge. —
[Everyman enters.]
Everyman, stande styll. Whyder arte thou
goynge,
Thus gayly? hast thou thy Maker forgete!
Everyman. Why askest thou?
Woldest thou wetefis
Dethe. Ye, syr, I wyll shewe you:
In grete hast I am sende to the , 90
Fro God, out of his mageste.
Everyman. What, sente to mef
Dethe. Ye, certaynly.
Thoughe thou have forgete hym here.
He thynketh on the in the hevenly sperc.
As, or 17 we departe, thou shalte knowe.
Everyman. What desyreth God of me I
13 heartily
14 run
15 separate
i« know
1 7 before
Dethe. That shall I shewe thee:
A rekenynge he wyll nedes have,
Without ony lenger respyte.
Everyman. To gyve a rekenynge longer lay-
seris I crave;
This blynde mater troubleth my wytte.
Dethe. On the thou must take a longe
journey,
Therfore thy boke of eounte with the thou
brynge.
For turne agayne thou can not by no waye;
And loke thou be sure of thy rekenynge.
For before God thou shalte answere and shewe
Thy many badde dedes and good but a fewe,
How thou hast spentc thy lyfe, and in what
■wyse.
Before the chefe lorde of ]>arady8e. HO
Have I doi9 we were in that waye,
For, wete thou well, thou shalte make none
attournay20.
Everyman. Full unredy I am suche reken-
ynge to gyve.
I knowe the not. What messenger arte thout
Dethe. I am Dethe, that no man dredeth.
For every man I rest^i, and no man spareth,
For it is Goddes commaundement
That all to me sholde be obedyent.
Everyman. O Dethe, thou comcst whan I
had thee leest in mynde!
In thy power it lyeth me to save ; 120
Yet of my good wyl I gyve the, if thou wyl
be kynde.
Ye, a thousande pounde shalte thou have.
And dyfferre-2 this mater tyll an other daye.
Dethe. Everyman, it may not be by no waye.
I set not by-'3 golde, sylver, nor rychesse,
Ne by pope, emperour, kynge, duke ne prynees;
For, and I wolde receyve gj-ftes grete,
All the worlde I myght gete;
But my custome is clene contrary. 129
I gyve the no respyte, come hens and not tary.
Everyman. Alas! shall I have no lenger
respyte ?
I may saye Deth geveth no wamynge!
To thynke on the it maketh my herte seke;
For all unredy is my boke of rekenynge.
But, xii yere and I myght have abydynge.
My countynge boke I wolde make so elere.
That my rekenynge I sholde not nede to fere.
Wherfore, Deth, I praye the, for Goddes mercy,
Spare me tyll I be provyded of remedy.
Dethe. The avayleth not to crye, wcpe and
praye.
140
18 leisure -o find no intercessor
19 For "have ado" : have 21 arrest
done with, that we 22 defer
may be on our way 23 care not for
86
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
But hasti the lyghtly that thou were^ gone that
journaye.
And preve3 thy frendet, yf thou can.
For, wete thou well, the tyde abydeth no man,
And in the worlde eche lyvynge creature
For Adams synne must dye of nature.
Everyman, Dethe, yf I sholde this pylgryni-
age take,
And my rekenynge suerly make,
Shewe me, for savnt Charyte,
Sholde I not come agayne shortly?
Dethe. No, Everyman, and thou be ones
there.
Thou mayst never more come here, 151
Trust me veryly.
Everyman. O graeyous God, in the hye sete
celestyall.
Have mercy on me in this nioost nedc. —
Shall I have no company fro this vale teres-
tryall
Of myne acqueynce* that way me to lede?
Dethe. Ye, yf ony be so hardy
That wolde go with the and bere the company.
Hye the, that thou were gone to Goddes mag-
nyfycence,
Thy rekenynge to gyve before His presence. 160
What, wenest thou thy lyve is gyven the
And thy worldely gooddes also?
Everyman. I had wende so veryle.
Dethe. Nay, nay, it was but lende the,
For as soone as thou arte go.
Another a whyle shall have it and than go ther
fro.
Even as thou hast done.
Everyman, thou arte made^! Thou hast thy
wyttes fyve.
And here on erthe wyll not amende thy lyve !
For sodeynly I do come, 170
Everyman. O wretched caytyfes, wheder
shall I flee,
That I myght scape this endles sorowe?
Now; gentyll Deth, spare me tyll to morowc,
That I may amende me
With good advysement.
Dethe, Naye, thereto I wyll not consent,
Nor no man wyll I respyte;
But to the herte sodeynly I shall smyte
Without ony advysement.
And now out of thy syght I wyll mc hy. 180
Se thou make the redy shortely,
For thou mayst save this is the dayc
That no man lyvynge may scape awaye.
Everyman, Alas! I may well wepe with
syghea depe;
Now have I no maner of company
1 haste
2 may be
a prove
4 acqiiaintanco
r> mad
captive, wretch
To helpe me in my journey, and me to kepe;
And also my wrytynge^ is full uuredy.
How shall I do now for to excuse me?
I wolde to God I had never begetes! 189
To my soule a full grete profyte it had be,
For now I fere paynes huge and grete.
The tyme passeth, Lorde, helpe, that all
wrought !
For though I mourne it avayleth nought.
The day passeth, and is almoost ago»,
I wote not well what for to do.
To whome were I best my complaynt to make ?
What and I to Felawshyp therof spake.
And shewed hym of this sodeyne chauuceJ
For in hym is all myne affyauncei^*. 199
We have in the worlde so many a daye
Be good frendes in sporte and playe.
I se hym yonder ccrtaynely;
I trust that he wyll bere me company,
Therfore to hym wyll I speke to ese my sorowo.
Well mette, good Felawshyp, and good morowe.
FeIjAWSHyf speketh: Everyman, good moro we I
By this day,
Syr, why lokest thou so pyteously?
If ony thynge be a mysse I praye the me save.
That I may helpe to remedy.
Everyman. Ye, good Felawshyp, ye, -lO
I am in greate jeoparde.
Fela'wshyp. My true frende. shewe to nic
your mynde;
I wyll not forsake the to my lyves ende,
In the waye of good company.
Everyman, That was well spoken, and
lovyngly,
Felawshyp, Syr, I must nedos knowe your
hevynesse,
I have pyteii to se you in ony dystresse.
If ony have you wronged ye sliall revenged be,
Thoughe I on the grounde be slayne for the,
Though that I knowe before that I sholde
dye, 220
Everyman, Veryly, Felawshyp, gramercy'^.
Felawshyp. Tusshe! by thy thankes I set
not a strawe,
Shewe me your grefe and save no more,
Everyman, If I my herte sholde to you
breke,
And than you to tourne your mynde fro me.
And wolde not me coraforte whan ye here me
speke,
Than sholde I ten tymes soryer be.
Felawshyp, Syr, I sayc as I wyll do in dede.
Everyman. Than be you a good frende at
nede,
I have founde you true here before, 230
7 (his account)
■s been born
gone
10 trust
11 pity
12 great thanks
EVERYMAN
87
Felawshyp. And so ye shall evermore,
For, in fayth, and thou go to hell
I wyll not forsake the by the waye.
Everyman. Ye speke lyke a good frende, I
byleve you well,
I shall deserve it, and I may.
Felawshyp. I speke of no deservynge, by
this daye,
For he that wyll saye and nothynge do
Is not worthy with good company to go.
Therfore shewe me the grefe of your mynde
As to your frende mooste lovynge and
kynde. 240
EvEKYMAN. I shall shewe you how it is :
Commaunded I am to go a journaye,
A long waye, harde and daungerous.
And gyve a strayte counte, without delaye,
Before the hye Juge Adonays.
Wherfore, I pray you, bere me company,
As ye have promysed, in this journaye.
Felawshyp. That is mater in dede ! Promyse
is duty.
But and I sholde take suche a vyage on me,
I knowe it well, it shulde be to my payne; 250
Also it make me aferde, certayne.
But let us take counsell here as well as we can,
For your wordes wolde fere* a stronge man.
Everyman. Why, ye sayd, yf I had nede,
Ye wolde me never forsake, quycke^ ne deed,
Thoughe it were to hell, truely.
Felawshyp. So I sayd certaynely.
But such pleasures bes set a syde the sothe^
to saye.
And also, yf we toke suche a journaye,
Whan sholde we come agayne? 260
Everyman. Naye, never agayne, tyll the
daye of domes.
Felawshyp. In fayth, than wyll not I come
there.
Who hath you these tydynges brought!
Everyman. In dede, Deth was with me here.
Felawshyp. Now, by God that all hathe
bought.
If Deth were the messenger,
For no man that is lyvynge to daye
I wyll not go that lothe^ journaye.
Not for the fader that bygate me. 269
Everyman. Ye promysed other wyse, pardeio.
Felawshyp. I wote well I sayn so. truely,
And yet yf thou wylte ete, drynke and make
good chere
Or haunt to women the lusty company,
I wolde not forsake you, whyle the daye is
clere,
3 God
8 judgment
4 frighten
9 loathsome
5 alive
10 One of the many forms
8 are (now)
of the oath pardieu
7 truth
11 said
Truste me veryly.
Everyman. Ye, therto ye wolde be redy :
To go to myrthe, solas, and playe,
Your mynde wyll soner apply.
Than to bere me company in my longe jour-
naye.
Felawshyp. Now, in good fayth, I wyll not
that waye; 280
But, and thou wyll murder, or ony man kyll.
In that I wyll helpe the with a good wyll.
Everyman. O that is a sympleis advyse in
dede!
Gentyll felawe, help me in my necessyte;
We have loved longe, and now I nede!
And now, gentyll Felawshyp, remembre me.
Felawshyp. Wheder ye have loved me or no.
By saynt John, I wyll not with the go.
Everyman. Yet I pray the, take the labour
and do so moche for me,
To brynge me forwarde, for saynt Charyte, 290
And comforte me tyll I come without the
towne.
Felawshyp. Nay, and thou wolde gyve me
a newe gowne,
I wyll not a fote with the go;
But and thou had taryed, I wolde not have
lefte the so:
And as now, God spede the in thy journaye !
For from the I wyll departe as fast as I maye.
Everyman. Wheder a waye, Felawshyp?
wyll thou forsake me?
Felawshyp. Ye, by my fayeis! To God I
betakei* the.
Everyman. Farewell, good Fellawshyp! For
the my herte is sore!
A dewe for ever, I shall se the no more. 300
Felaavshyp. In fayth, Everyman, fare well
now at the ende.
For you I wyll remembre that partynge is
mournynge.
Everyman. A lacke! shall we thus departeds
in dede?
A! Lady, helpe! without ony more comforte,
Lo, Felawshyp forsaketh me in my moost nede.
For helpe in this worlde wheder shall I re-
sorte?
Felawshyp here before with me wolde mery
make.
And now lytell sorowe for me dooth he take.
It is sayd, in prosperyte men frendes may
fynde
Whiche in adversyte be full unkynde. 310
Now wheder for socoure shall I flee,
Syth that Felawshyp hath forsaken me?
To my kynnesmen I wyll truely,
Prayenge them to helpe me in my necessyte.
12 foolish
13 faith
14 commend
15 separate
88
I'lFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTUKIES
I byleve that they wyll do so,
For kynde2 wyll crepe where it may not go3.
I wyll go saye; for yonder I se them go: —
Where be ye now, my frendes and kynnesmen?
Kynrede. Here be we now at your coni-
maundement.
Cosyn, I praye you, shewe us your entent 320
In ony wyse, and not spare.
Cosyn. Ye, Everyman, and to us declare
If ye be dysposed to go ony whyder;
For, wete you well, wyll lyve and dye to gyder.
Kynrede. In welth and wo we wyll with
you holde;
For over his kynne a man may be bolde.
Everyman. Gramercy, my frendes and kynnes-
men kynde !
Now shall I shewe you the grcfe of my mynde.
I was commaunded by a messenger.
That is a hye kynges chefe oifycer; 330
He bad me go a pylgrymage to my payne.
And, I kno\\e well, I shall never come agayne.
Also I must gyve a rekenynge strayte;
For I have a grete enemy that hath me in
wayte*,
Whiche entendeth me for to hynder.
Kynrede. What a counte is that whiche ye
must render?
That wolde I knowe.
Everyman. Of all my workes I must shewe,
How I have lyved, and my dayes spent;
Also of yll dedes that I have used 340
In my tyme, syth lyfe was me lent.
And of all vertues that I have refused.
Therefore, I praye you, go thyder with me
To helpe to make rayn accounte, for saynt
Charyte.
Cosyn. What, to go thyder! Is that the
mater f
Nay, Everyman, I had levers fast^ brede and
water,
All this fyve yere and more.
Everyman. Alas, that ever I was bore^.
For now shall I never be mery.
If that you forsake me. 350
Kynrede. A ! syr, what, ye be a mery man !
Take good herte to you, and make no mone.
But one thynge I warne you, by saynt Anne,
As for me ye shall go alone.
Everyman. My Cosyn, wyll you not with
me go?
Co.syn. No, by our Lady! I have the crampe
in my to:
Trust not to me; for, so God me spede,
2 natiir<>, kinnhip
8 walk (1. (>., will do all a rather
In ItH power) « fast on
4 is lying in wait for mc 7 born
I wyll deceyve you in your moost nede.
Kynrede. It avayleth not us to tyse^: 359
Ye shall have my mayde, with all my herte;
She loveth to go to feestes there to be nyse»,
And to daunce, and a brode to stertei",
I wyll gyve her leve to helpe you in that
journey.
If that you and she may a gree.
Everyman. Now shewe me the very effecte
of your mynde;
Wyll you go with me, or abyde be hynde?
Kynrede. Abyde behynde! ye", that wyll
I and I maye;
Therfore farewell tyll another daye.
Everyman. Howe sholde I be mery or gladde ?
For fayre promyses men to me make, 370
But, whan I have moost nede, they me for-
sake;
I am deeeyved, that maketh me sadde.
Cosyn. Cosyn Everyman, farewell now,
For, veryly, I wyll not go with you.
Also of myne owne an unredy rekenynge
I have to accounte, therfore . I make taryenge;
Now God kepe the, for now I go.
Everyman. A! Jesus, is all come here to?
Lo, fayre wordes maketh fooles fayne; 379
They promyse, and nothynge wyll do certayne.
My kynnesmen promysed me faythfully
For to a byde with me stedfastly;
And now fast a waye do they flee;
Even so Felawshyp promysed me.
What frende were best me of to provyde?
I lose my tyme here longer to abyde;
Yet in my mynde a thynge there is, —
All my lyfe I have loved ryches;
Yf that my Good now helpe me myght,
He wolde make my herte full lyght; 390
I wyll speke to hym in this dystresse, —
Where arte thou, my Gooddes and Ryches?
Goodes. Who callcth me? Everyman? What
hast thou haste?
I lye here in corners, trussed and pyled so hye.
And in chestes I am locked so fast.
Also sacked in bagges, thou mayst se with thyn
eye,
I can not styre; in packes lowe I lye.
What wolde ye have? Lyghtly me saye.
J]vERYMAN. Conic liyder. Good, in al the hast
thou may,
For of counseyll I must desyre the. 4(iO
Goodes. Syr, and ye in the worldo have
sorowe or adversyte,
That can I helpe yoti to remedy shortly.
Everyman. It is another dj-sease that greveth
8 entire
9 wanton
10 abroad to run
11 yea
EVERYMAN
89
In this worlde it is not, I tell the so,
I am sent for an other way to go,
To gyve a strayte counte generall
Before the hyest Jupyter of all.
And all my lyfe I have had joye and pleasure
in the,
Therfore I pray the go with me;
For, paraventure, thou mayst before God al-
myghty 41
My rekenynge helpe to clene, and puryfye,
For it is sayd ever amongei
That money maketh all ryght that is wronge.
GooDES. Nay, Everyman, I synge an other
soiige ;
I folowe no man in suche vyages,
For, and I wente with the,
Thou shokles fare moche the worse for me:
For bycause on me thou dyd set thy mynde.
Thy rekenynge I have made blotted and blynde.
That thyne aecounte thou can not make truly;
And that hast thou for the love of me. 421
Everyman. That wolde greve me full sore,
Whan I sholde come to that ferefull answere.
Up! let us go thyther to gyder.
GooDES. Nay, not so: I am to brytell2, I
may not endure:
I wyll folowe [no] man one fote be ye sure.
EvEKYMAN. Alas, I have the loved, and had
grete pleasure
All my lyfe dayes on good and treasure.
GooDES. That is to thy dampnacyon without
lesynges, 429
For my love is contrary to the love ever-
lastynge ;
But yf thou had me loved moderately durynge*
As to the poore gyve parte of me,
Than sholdest thou not in this dolour be,
Nor in this grete sorowe and care.
Everyman. Lo, now was I deeeyvod or I
was ware,
And all I may wytes my spendynge of tyme.
GoODEs. What, wenest thou that I am thyne ?
Everyman. I had went« so.
GooDEs. Naye, Everyman, I saye no:
As for a wh3'le I was lente the; 440
A season thou hast had me in prosperyte;
My eondycyon is mannes soule to kyll.
If I save one a thousande I do spyll^.
Wenest thou that I wyll folowe thef
Nay, fro this worlde not veryle.
Everyman. I had wende otherwyse.
GooDES. Therfore to thy soule Good is a
thefe,
For whan thou arte deed, this is my gyse^:
1 everywhere
2 brittle
3 without lying, I. e.,
truly
4 the while
5 blame to
6 thought
7 destroy
Another to deeeyve in this same wyse
As I have done the, and all to his soules
reprefe». 450
Everyman. O false Good, cursed thou be.
Thou traytour to God, that hast deceyved me
And caught me in thy snare.
GooDES. Maryio, thou brought thy self in care,
Wherof I am gladde;
I must nedes laugh, I can not be sadde.
Everyman. A! Good, thou hast had Innge
my hertely love;
I gave the that whiche sholde be the Lordes
above:
But wylte thou not go with me in dede?
I praye the trouth to saye. 460
GooDES. No, so God me spede;
Therfore fare well, and have good daye.
Everyman. O to whome shall I make my
mone
For to go with me in that hevy journaye?
Fyrst Felawshyp sayd he wolde with me gone;
His wordes were very pleasaunte and gaye,
But afterwarde he lefte me alone.
Than spake I to my kynnesmen all in despayre,
And also they gave me wordes fayre, —
They lacked no fayre spekynge; 470
But all forsake me in the endynge.
Than wente I to my Goodes, that I loved best.
In hope to have comforte, but there had I
leest ;
For my Goodes sharpely dyd me tell
That he bryngeth many in to hell.
Than of my selfe I was ashamed,
And so I am worthy to be blamed.
Thus may I well my selfe hate.
Of whome shall I now eounseyll takef
I thynke that I shall never spede
Tyll that I go to my Good-dede.
But, alas, she is so weke
That she can nother gon nor speke.
Yet wyll I venter on her now. —
My Good-dedes, where be you?
GooD-DEDES. Here I lye, eolde in the grounde ;
Thy synnes hath me sore bounde
That I can not sterei2,
Everyman. O Good-dedes, I stande in fere;
I must you pray of eounseyll, 490
For helpe now sholde come ryght well.
Good-dedes. Everyman, Ihaveunderstandynge
That ye be somoned a counte to make
Before Myssyasia of Jherusalem kynge,
And you do by meK that journay with you wyli
i take.
8 custom 13 Messiah
9 reproof i* if you will art by my
10 An oath by the ViJgin advice (Pollard. Or
Mary. possibly bi/ = buy,
II neither walk ransom : if yon de-
ls stir liver me.)
90
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
Everyman. Therefore I come to you my
moone to make.
I pray you that ye wyll go with me.
GiOOD-DEDEs. I wolde full fayne, but I can
not stande veryly.
Everyman. Why, is there ony tliynge on
you fall?
GooD-DEDES. Ye, syr, I may thanke you of
all. 500
If ye had parfytely cheredi me,
Your boke of counte full redy had be.
Loke, the bokes of your workes and dedes eke
A! se how they lye under the fete,
To your soules hevynes.
Everyman. Our Lord Jesus, helpe me,
For one letter here I can not se.
Good-dedes. There is a blynde rekenynge in
tyme of dystress.
Everyman. Good-dedes, I praye you helpe
me in this nede,
Or elles I am for ever dampned in dede; 510
Therfore helpe me to make rekenynge
Before the Redemer of all thynge,
That kynge is, and was, and ever shall.
Good-dedes. Everyman, I am sory of your
fall,
And fayne wolde I helpe you, and I were
able.
Everyman. Good-dedes, your counseyll I
pray you gyve me.
Good-dedes. That shall I do veryly,
Thoughe that on my fete I may not go.
I have a syster that shall with you also, 519
Called Knowledge, whiche shall with you abyde.
To help you to make that drcdefull rekenynge.
Knowledge. Everyman, I wyll go with the,
and be thy gyde.
In thy moost nede to go by thy ayde.
Everyman. In good condycyon I am now in
every thynge.
And am hole content with this good thynge,
Thanked by2 God my creature''.
Good-dedes. And whan he hath brought you
there.
Where thou shalte hele the of thy smarte.
Than go you with your rekenynge and your
good dedes togyder,
For to make you joyful! at herte 530
Before the blessyd Trynyte.
Everyman. My Good-dedes, graniercy;
I am well content certaynly
With your wordes swete.
Knowledge. Now go we togyder lovyngly
To Confessyon, that clensynge ryvere,
Everyman. For joy I wepe: I wolde we
were there;
1 entertained
•-■ be
8 creator
But, I pray you, gyve me cognycyon*
Where dwelleth that holy man Confessyon?
Knowledge. In the hous of salvacyon ; 540
We shall fynde hym in that place,
That shall us comforte by Goddes grace. —
Lo, this is Confessyon; knele downe, & aske
mercy.
For he is in good conceytes with God alniyghty.
Everyman. O gloryous fountayne that all
unclennes doth claryfy,
Wasshe fro me the spottes of vyee unclene.
That on me no synne may be sene;
1 come with Knowlege for my redempcyon,
Redempte with herte and full contrycyon, 549
For I am commaunded a pylgrymage to take,
And grete accountes before God to make.
Now I praye you, Shryfteo, moder of sal-
vacyon,
Helpe my good dedes for my pyteous ex-
clamacyon.
Confessyon. I knowe your sorowe well,
Everyman:
Bycause with Knowlege ye come to me,
I wyll you comforte as well as I can;
And a preeyous jowell I wyll gyve the,
Called penaunce, [voyce] voyder^ of adversyte;
Therwith shall your body chastysed be
With abstynence and perseveraunce in Goddes
sprvyc-o: 560
Here shall you receyve that scourge of me
Whiche is penaunce stron'ge that ye must en-
dure,
To remembre thy Savyour was scourged for the
With sharpe scourges, and suffred it pacyently;
So must thou, or thou scape that paynful
pylgrymage. —
Knowledge, kepe hym in this vyage.
And by that tyme Good-dedes wyll be with
the;
But in ony wyse be seker of mercy,
For your tyme draweth fast; and ye wyll saved
be,
Aske God mercy, and he wyll graunte truely:
Whan with the scourge of penaunce man doth
hym bynde, 571
The oyle of forgyvenes than shall he fynde.
Everyman. Thanked be God for his gracyous
werke.
For now I wyll my penaunce begyn;
This hath rejoysed and lyghted my herte,
Though the knottes be paynfull and harde
within.
Knowledge. Everyman, loke your penaunce
that ye fulfyll.
What payne that ever it to you be;
4 Informnlion
.'• favor
absolution
r expeller ( vopcr is prob-
ably an error)
EVERYMAN
91
And Knowledge shall gyre you counseyll at
wyU,
How your accounte ye shall make clerely. 580
Everyman. O eternall God, O hevenly fygure,
O way of ryghtwysnes, O goodly vysyon,
Whiehe descended downe in a vyrgyn pure
Because he wolde Everyman redeme,
Whiehe Adam forfayted by his dysobedyence,
O blessyd Godheed, electe and hye devyne,
Forgyve my grevous offence;
Here 1 erye the mercy in this presence;
O ghostly treasure, O raunsomer and redemer!
Of all the worlde, hope and conduyteri, 590
Myrrour of joye, foundatours of mercy,
Whiehe enlumyneth heven and erth therby,
Here my clamorous complaynt, though it late
be!
Receyve my prayers; unworthy in this hevy
lyfe
Though I be, a synner moost abhomynable.
Yet let my name be wryten in Moyses table.s
Mary, praye to the maker of all thynge
Me for to helpe at my endynge,
And save me fro the power of my enemy;
For Deth assayleth me strongly: 600
And, Lady, that I may by meane of thy prayer
Of your sones glory to be partynere,
By the meanes of his passyon*, I it crave;
1 beseehe you, helpe mj' soule to save! —
Knowledge, gyve me the scourge of penaunce,
My flesshe therwith shall gyve acqueyntaunce;
I wyll now begyn, yf God gyve me grace.
Knowledge. Everyman, God gyve you tyme
and space;
Thus I bequeth you in the handes of our
Savyour ;
Now may you make your rekenynge sure. 610
EVEBYMAN. In the name of the holy Trynyte
My body sore punysshyd shall be.
Take this, body, for the synne of the flesshe ;
Also thou delytest to go gay and fresshe;
And in the way of dampnacyon thou dyd me
brynge ;
Therfore suffre now strokes of punysshynge;
Now of penaunce I wyll wade the water clere,
To save me from purgatory, that sharpe fyre.
GooD-DEDES. I thanke God, now I can walke
and go, 619
And am delyvered of my sykenesse and wo;
Therfore with Everyman I wyll go, and not
spare.
His good workes T wyll helpe hym to declare.
Knowledge. Now, Everyman, be mery and
glad;
1 leader
2 founder
3 Apparently m e a nlng
tte Book of Life
4 death on the cross
Your Good-dedes cometh now, ye may not be
sad;
Now is your Good-dedes hole and sounde,
Goynge upryght upon the grounde.
Everyman. My herte is lyght, and shalbe
evermore ;
Now wyll I smyte faster than I dyde before.
Good-dedes. Everyman, pylgryme, my spe-
cyall frende,
Blessyd be thou without ende; 630
For the is preparate the eternall glory.
Ye have me made hole and sounde,
Therfore I will byde by the in every stoundes.
Everyman. Welcome, my Good-dedes! Now
I here thy voyce
I wepe for very sweteness of love.
Knowledge. Be no more sad, but ever rejoyce.
God seeth thy lyvynge in his trone above;
Put on this garment to thy behove^,
Whiehe is wette with your teres,
Or elles before God you may it mysse, 640
Whan ye to your journeys ende come shall.
Everyman. Gentyll Knowledge, what do ye
it call?
Knowledge. It is a garmente of sorowe,
Fro payne it wyll you borowe'^;
Contrycyon it is.
That getteth forgyvenes.
He pleasyth God passynge well.
Good-dedes. Everyman, wyll you were it for
your helesf
Everyman. Now blessyd be Jesu, Maryes
sone,
For now have I oh true contrycyon, 650
And lette us go now without taryenge. —
Good-dedes, have we clere our rekenynge!
Good-dedes. Ye, in dede, I have here.
Everyman. Than I trust we nede not fere.
Now, frendes, let us not parte in twa/ne.
Kynrede.9 Nay, Everyman, that wyll we not
certayne.
Good-dedes. Yet must thou ledio with t
Thre persones of grete myght.
Everyman. Who sholde they be?
Good-dedes. Dyscrecyon and Strength they
hyghtii, 660
And thy Beaute may not abyde behynde.
Knowledge. Also ye must call to mynde
Your Fyve-wyttesi2, as for your counseylours.
Good-dedes. You must have them redy at
all houres.
Everyman. Howe shall I gette them hyderf
5 hour 9 Probably error for
6 profit Knowledge
7 redeem lo lead
s wear It for your heal- n are called
ing I- The five senses
82
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
Kynbeoe. You must call them all togyder,
And they wyll here you in contynenti.
Everyman. My frendes, eome hyder, and be
present,
Dyscrecyou, Strengthe, my Fyve-wyttes and
Beaute.
Beaute. Here at your wyll we be all redy.
What wyll ye that we sholde do? 671
GooD-DEDEs. That ye wolde with Everyman go,
And helpe hym in his pylgrymage.
Advyse you, wyll ye with him or not in that
vyage?
Strengthe. We wyll brynge hym all thydor
To his helpe and oomforte, ye may beleve me.
Dyscrecyon. So wyll we go with hym all
togyder.
Everyman. Almyghty God, loved myght
thou be;
I gyve the laude2 that I have hyder brought
Strength, Dyscrecyon, Beaute, & Fyve-wyttes,
lacke I nought: 680
And my Good-dedes, with Knowledge clere,
All be in my company at my wyll here;
I desyre no more to my besynes.
Strengths. And I, Strength, wyll by you
stande in dystres,
Though thou wolde in batayle fyght on the
ground.
Fyve-wyttss. And though it were thrugh
the worlde rounde,
We wyll not departe for swete ne soure,
Beaute. No more wyll I unto dethes houre.
What so ever therof befall.
Dyscrecyon. Everyman, advyse you fvrst of
all, ' " 690
Go with a good advysement and delyberacyon.
We all gyve you vertuous monycyons
That all shall be well.
Everyman. My frondes, harken what I wyll
tell;
I praye Go<l rewarde you in his heven spere.
Now herken all that be here.
For I wyll make my testament
Here before you all present;
In almes. halfe my good I wyll gyve with my
handes twayne
In the way of charyte with good entent, 700
And the other halfe styll shall remayne
In queth* to be retourned there-i it ought
to be.
This T do in deepyte of the fende of hell,
To go qnyte out of his perell"
Ever after and this daye.
Knowledge. Everyman, herken what T saye;
Go to presthode I you advyse,
1 without dpiny
•-' prniw
3 admonitloti
4 undor prnmlRO
!> where
•I out of IiIh power
And receyve of him in ony wyse
The holy sacrament and oyntement togyder,
Than shortly se ye tourne agayue hyder, 7]0
We wyll all abyde you here.
Fyve-wyttes. Ye, Everyman, hye you that
ye redy were^.
There is no Emperour, King, Duke, ne Baron
That of God hath commycyon
As hath the leest preest in the worlde beyngC*;
For of the blessyd sacramentes pure and
benynge
He bereth the keyes, and thereof hath the cure».
For mannes retlempcyon it is ever sure
Whiche God for our soules medycyne 719
Gave us out of his herte with grete payne.
Here in this transytory lyfe, for the and me
The blessyd sacramentes vii. there be :
Baptym, confyrmacyon, with preesthode good,
And the sacrament of Goddes preeyous flesshe
and blod,
Maryage, the holy extreme unccyonio and pen-
aunce:
These seven be good to have in remembraunce,
Gracyous sacramentes of hye devynyte.
Evkryman. Fayne wolde I receyve that holy
body
And mekely to my ghostly fader I wyll go.
Fyve-wyttes. Everyman, that is the best that
ye can do; 730
God wyll you to salvacyon brynge,
For preesthode excedeth all other tiiyng
To us holy scrypture they do teche,
And converteth man fro synne, heven to reehe;
God hath to them more power gyven
Than to ony aungell that is in heven.
With V. wordes he may consecrate
Goddes body in flesshe and blode to make,
And handeleth his Maker bytwene his handes.
The preest byndeth and unbyndeth all bandes
Both in erthe and in heven. 741
Thou mynystres'i all the sacramentes seven.
Though we kysse thy fete thou were worthy.
Thou arte surgyon that cureth synne deedly.
No remedy we fynde under God
Bute all onely preesthode.
Every man, God gave preest that dygnyte
And setteth them in his stede amonge us to
be.
Thus be they above aungelles in degree.
Knowledge. If preest es be good, it is so
suerly, "^^0
But whan .Te.su hanged on the crosse with grete
smarte,
There he gave out of his blessyd herte
The same sacrament in grete tourment;
7 hasto that vo may be 8 care
ready m inst nnointing
s IIvIhr II nilinlnisterpst
EVERYMAN
93
He solde them not to us, that Lorde omnyp-
otent ;
Therfore saynt Peter the apostell dothe save
That Jesus curse hath all they
Whiche God theyr Savyour do byi or sell,
Or they fors ony money do take or tell^.
Synfull preestes gyveth the synners example
bad; . . .
These be with synne made blynde. 763
Fyve-wyttes. I trust to God, no suche may
we fyude ;
Therfore let us preesthode honour,
And folowe theyr doctryne for our soules
sccoure.
We be theyr shepe, and they shepeherdes be.
By whome we all be kepte in suerte. —
Peas! for yonder I se Everyman come.
Which hath made true satysfaccyon. 770
GooD-DEDES. Me thynke, it is he in dede.
Everyman. Now Jesu be your alder spede-*!
1 have receyved the sacrament for my re-
dempcyon,
And than myne extreme unccyon.
Blessyd be all thev that counseyled me to take
it!
And now frendes, let us go without longer
respyte.
I thanke God, that ye have taryed so longe.
Now set eche of you on this rodde^ your
honde.
And shortely fclowe me.
I go before there I wolde be. God be your
gyde. " 780
Strength. Everyman, we wyll not fro you go
Tyll we have done this vyage longe.
DvscRECYON. I, Dyscrecyon, wyll byde by
you also.
Knowledge. And though this pylgrymage be
never so stronge«
I wyll never parte you fro.
Everyman, I wyll be as sure by the
As ever I dyde by Judas Machabee^.
Everyman. Alas! I am so faynt I may not
stande,
My lymmes under me doth folde.
Prendes, let us not tourne agayne to this lande.
Not for all the worldes golde, 791
For in to this cave must I crepe.
And tourne to erth and there to slepe.
Beaute. What, in to this grave, alas!
Everyman. Ye, there shall ye consume, more
and lesse.8
1 buy 7 Leader of the Jews
2 Tossibly fhri) for should against the Syrians
be therfor. iu the recovery of
3 count Jerusalem, 164 B. C.
4 tlie help of you all See I. Maccahees,
5 rood, cross 111.
6 difficult
8 high and low alike
Beaute. And what, sholde I smoder here?
Everyman. Ye, by my fayth, and never more
appere!
In this worlde lyve no more we shall,
But in heven before the hyest Lorde of all.
Beaute. I crosse out all this! adewe, by
saynt Johan! 800
I take my tappe» in my lappe, and am gone.
Everyman. What, Beaute, whyder wyll yo?
Beaute. Peas! I am defe, I loke not be-
hynde me,
Not and thou woldest gyve me all the golde
in thy chest.
Everyman. Alas! whereto may I truste?
Beaute gothe fast awaye fro me.
She promysed with me to lyve and dye.
Strengthe. Everyman, I wyll the also for-
sake and denye,
Thy game lykethio me not at all.
Everyman. Why than ye wyll forsake me
all! ' 810
Swete Strength, tary a lytell space.
Strengthe. Nay, syr, by the rode of grace,
I wyll hye me from the fast.
Though thou wepe to" thy herte to brasti^.
Everyman. Ye wolde ever byde by me, ye
sayd.
Strengthe. Ye, I have you ferreis ynoughe
conveyde.
Ye be olde ynoughe, I understande.
Your pylgrymage to take on hande.
I repent me, that I hyder came.
Everyman. Strength, you to dysplease I am
to blame ; 820
Wyll ye breke promyse that is dettei*?
Strengths. In fayth, I care not!
Thou arte but a foole to eomplayne;
\ou spende your speche, and wast your brayne;
Go, thrystis the into the grounde!
Everyman. I had wendeis surer I shulde
you have founder
He that trusteth in his Strength,
She hym deceyveth at the length;
Bothe Strength and Beaute forsaketh me,
Yet they promysed me f ayre and lovyngly. 830
Dyscrecion. Everyman, I wyll after Strength
be gone;
As for me I wyll leve you alone.
Everyman. Why, Dyscrecyon, wyll ye for-
sake me? =
Dyscrecion. Ye. in fayth, I wyll go fro the ;
For whan Strength goth before,
I folowe after ever more.
!• bunch of tow (for 12 break to pieces
spinning : an old i3 far
wives' saying) i* See 1. 248.
10 pleases is thrust
11 until i« weened, thought
94
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
Everyman. Yet, I pray the, for the love of
the Trynyte,
Loke in my grave ones pyteously.
Dyscrecion. Nay, so nye wyll I not come!
Fare well, everychone.i 840
Everyman. O all thynge fayleth, save God
alone,
Beaute, Strength, and Dyscrecyon;
For, whan Detli bloweth his blast.
They all renne fro me full fast.
Fyve-wyttes. Everyman, my leve now of
the I take;
I wyll folowe the other, for here I the for-
sake.
Everyman. Alas, than may I wayle and
wepe,
For I toke you for my best frende.
Fyve-wyttes. I wyll no lenger the kepe;
Now farewell, and there an ende. 850
Everyman. Jesu, helpe! all hath forsaken
me.
GooD-DEDES. Nay, Everyman, I wyll byde
with the,
I wyll not forsake the in dede;
Thou shalte fynde me a good frende at nede.
Everyman. Gramercy, Good-dedes, now may
I true frendes se;
They have forsaken me everyehone,
I loved them better than my Good-dedes alone.
Kuowlege, wyll ye forsake me also?
Knowledge. Ye, Everyman, whan ye to deth
shall go ;
But not yet for no maner of daunger. 860
Everyman. Grameroy, Knowledge, with all
my herte.
Knowledge. Nay, yet I wyll not from hens2
departe,
Tyll I se where ye shall be fonie.
Everyman. Me thynko, alas, that I must
be gone
To make my rekenynge and my dettes paye ;
For I se my tyme is nye spent awaye. —
Take example, all ye that this do here or se.
How they that I love best do forsake me,
Excepte my Good-dedes, that bydeth truely.
Good-dedes. All erthly thynges is but
vanyte, 870
Beaute, Strength, and Dyscrecyon, do man for-
sake,
Folysshe frendes, and kynnesmen that fayro
spake,
All fleeth save Good-dedes and that am T.
Everyman. Have mercy on me, God moost
myghty,—
And stande by me, thou moder & mayde, holy
Mary.
1 pvory one
honoe
Good-dedes. Fere not, I wyll speke for the.
Everyman. Here I crye, God mercy.
Good-dedes. Shorted our ende and myn-
ysshe* our payne;
Let us go and never come agayne.
Everyman. Into thy handes, Lorde, my soule
I commende, 880
Receyve it, Lorde, that it be not lost!
As thou me boughtest, so me defende.
And save me from the fendes boosts.
That I may appere with that blessyd boost
That shall be saved at the Jay of dome.
In manus tuas^, of myghtes moost.
For ever commendo spiritum meum^.
Knowledge. Now hath he suffred that** we
all shall endure,
The Good-dedes shall make all sure.
Now hath he made endynge, 890
Me thynketh that I here aungelles synge,
And make grete joy and melody.
Where every mannes soule receyved shall be.
The Aungell. Come excellente electe spouse
to Jesu!
Here above thou shalt go,
Bycause of thy synguler vertue.
Now the soule is taken the body fro
Thy rekenynge is crystall clere;
Now shalte thou in to the hevenly spere.
Unto the whiche all ye shall come 900
That lyveth well before the daye of dome.
DocTOUR.* This morall, men may have in
mynde;
Ye herers, take it of worth, olde and yonge.
And forsake Pryde, for he deceyveth you in
the ende,
And remembre Beaute, Fyve-wyttes, Strength,
and Dyscrecyon,
They all at the last do Everyman forsake,
Save" his Good-dede» there doth he take.
But be ware, andio they be small.
Before God he hath no helpe at all.
None excuse may be there for Everyman! 910
Alas! how shall he do than?
For after dethe amendes may no man make.
For than mercy and pyte doth hym forsake;
If his rekenynge be not clere whan he doth
come,
God wyll saye — Ite maledicti, in ignem aeter-
numii.
And he that hath his accounte hole and sounde
Hye in heven he shall be crounde;
8 shorten 8 what
4 diminish » only
5 fiend's boast lofor If
« Into Thy hands u Ko, ye ncoursed. Into
7 I commend my spirit everlasting flre
•To the Doctour (1. c.. learned man, or teacher)
Is assigned the epilogue, which emphasizes the
moral of the play.
WILLIAM CAXTON
95
Unto whiche place God brynge us all thyder,
That we may lyve body and soule togyder!
Therto helpe the Trynyte ! 920
Amen, saye ye, for saynt Charyte!
Finis
Thus endeth this morall playe of Evevyman.
WILLIAM CAXTON (1422?- 149 1)
THE RECUYELL OF THE HISTORIES
OF TROY.*
Peologue
When I remember that every man is bounden
by the commandment and counsel of the wise
man to eschew sloth and idleness, which is
mother and nourisher of vices, and ought to
put myself unto virtuous occupation and busi-
ness, then I, having no great change of occu-
pation, following the said counsel took a French
book, and read therein many strange and mar-
vellous historiesi, wherein I had great pleasure
and delight, as well for the novelty of the
same, as for the fair language of the French,
which was in prose so well and compendiously
set and written, which methought I understood
the sentences and substance of every matter.
And for so much of this book was new and
late made and drawn into French, and never
had seen it in our English tongue, I thought
in myself it should be a good business to
translate it into our English, to the end that
it might be had as well in the royaumes of
England as in other lands, and also for to pass
therewith the time, and thus concluded in my-
self to begin this said work. And forthwith
took pen and ink, and began boldly to run
forth as blind Bayardf in this present work,
which is named * ' The Recuyell of the Trojan
Histories. ' ' And afterward when I remem-
bered myself of my simpleness and unperfect-
ness that I had in both languages, that is to wit
in French and in English, for in France was
I never, and was born and learned my Eng-
lish in Kent, in the Weald, where I doubt not
is spoken as broad and rude English as in any
place of England; and have continued by the
space of thirty years for the most part in the
1 stories
2 sense 3 realm
• "The collection of the stories of Troy." This
book, printed at Bruges in Flanders about
1474, was tlie first book printed in English.
See Eng. Lit., p. 68. The spelling is here
modernized.
t A legendary horse in the Charlemagne romances.
"As bold as l>lind Bayard" was an old proverb
for recklessness.
countries of Brabant, Flanders, Holland, and
Zealand; and thus when all these things came
before me, after that* I had made and written
five or six quires, I fell in despair of this work,
and purposed no more to have continued there-
in, and those laid apart, and in two years after
labored no more in this work, and was fully
in will to have left it, till on a time it for-
tuned that the right high, excellent, and right
virtuous princess, my right redoubted Lady,
my Lady Margaret, by the grace of God sister
unto the King of England and of France, my
sovereign lord. Duchess of Burgundy, of
Lotryk, of Brabant, of Limburg, and of Lux-
embourg, Countess of Flanders, of Artois, and
of Burgundy, Palatine of Hainault, of Hol-
land, of Zealand, and of Namur, Marquesse of
the Holy Empire, Lady of Frisia, of Salins,
and of Mechlin, sent for me to speak with
her good Grace of divers matters, among the
which I let her Highness have knowledge of
the foresaid beginning of this work, whichs
anon commanded me to show the said five or
six quires to her said Grace ; and when she had
seen them, anon she found a default in my
English, which she commanded me to amend,
and moreover cominanded me straitlys to con-
tinue and make an end of the residue then not
translated; whose dreadful^ commandment I
durst in no wise disobey, because I am a serv-
ant unto her said Grace and receive of her
yearly fee and other many good and great
benefits, (and also hope many more to receive
of her Highness), but forthwith went and la-
bored in the said translation after my simple
and poor cunning, alsos nigh as I can follow
my author, meekly beseeching the bounteous
Highness of my said Lady that of her benev-
olence lists to accept and take in greeio this
simple and rude work here following; and if
there be anything written or said to her pleas-
ure, I shall think my labor well employed, and
whereasii there is default, that she arettei2 it
to the simpleness of my cunning, which is full
small in this behalf; and require and pray all
them that shall read this said work to correct
it, and to hold me excused of the rude and
simple translation.
And thus I end my prologue.
Epilogue to Book III.
Thus end I this book, which I have trans-
lated after mine Author as nigh as God hath
4 after
5 who
strictly
7 revered
» Just as
9 she please
10 graciously
11 whore
12 may she attribute
9o
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
given me cunning, to. whom be given the laud
and praising. And for as much as in the writ-
ing of the same my pen is worn, my hand
weary and not steadfast, mine eyne dimmed
with overmuch looking on the white paper, and
my courage not so prone and ready to labor
as it hath been, and that age creepeth on me
daily and f eebleth all the body, and also be-
cause I have promised to divers gentlemen
and to my friends to addressis to them as hastily
as I might this said book, therefore I have
practised and learned at my great charge and
dispense to ordaini* this said book in print,
after the manner and form as ye may here
see, and is not written with pen and ink as
other books be; to the end that every man
may have them at once. For all the books of
this story, named "The Recule of the His-
tories of Troy" thus imprinted as ye here see,
were begun in one day and also finished in one
day, which book I have presented to my said
redoubted Lady, as afore is said. And she
hath well accepted it, and largely rewarded
me, wherefore I beseech Almighty God to re-
ward her everlasting bliss after this life, pray-
ing her said Grace and all them that shall read
this book not to ilisdain the simple and rude
work, neither to reply against the saying of
the matters touched in this book, though it
accord not unto the translation of others which
have written it. For divers men have made
divers books which in all points accord not, as
Dictes, Dares,! 5 and Homer. For Dictes and
Homer, as Greeks, say and write favorably
for the Greeks, and give them more worship
than to the Trojans; and Dares writeth other-
wise than they do. And also as for the proper
names, it is no wonder that they accord not,
for some one name in these days have divers
equivocations after the countries that they
dwell in; but all accord in conclusion the gen-
eral destruction of that noble city of Troy, and
the death of so many noble princes, as kings,
dukes, earls, barons, knights, and common peo-
ple, and the ruin irreparable of that city that
never since was re-edified; which may be ex-
ample to all men during the world how dread-
ful and jeopardous it is to begin a war, and
what harms, losses, and death followeth.
Therefore the Apostle saith: "All that is
written is written to our doetrine><>," which
doctrine for the common weal I beseech God
may be taken in such place and time as shall
Mpr»pare which, though pop-
Ki Ucpiilod authofR of ular in tlio MIddic
Trojan taieH which AgcH, havo Hiinic
are found only In Into oiwcurlty.
late Latin, and in for our InHtructlon
be most needful in increasing of peace, love,
and charity; which grant us He that suffered
for the same to be crucified on the rood tree.
And say we all Amen for charity!
SIR THOMAS MALORY (d. 1471)
From LE MORTE DARTHUR.*
How Arthur Was Chosen King. Book I.
Chapters IY-VII
And then King Uther fell passingi sore sick,
so that three days and three nights he was
speechless: wherefore all the barons made great
sorrow, and asked Merlin2 what counsel were
best. There is none other remedy, said Merlin,
but God will have his will. But look ye all
barons be before King Uther to-morn, and
God and I shall make him to speak. So on
the morn all the barons with Merlin came be-
fore the king; then Merlin said aloud unto
King Uther, Sir, shall your son Arthur be king
after your days, of this realm with all the ap-
purtenance? Then Uther Pendragon turned
him, and said in hearing of them all, I give
but God will have his will. But look ye all
barons be before King Uther to-morn, and
that he claim the crown upon forfeiture of my
blessing ; and therewith he yielded up the ghost,
and then was he interred as longed to a king.
Wherefore the queen, fair Igraine, made great
sorrow, and all the barons.
Then stood the realm in great jeopardy long
while, for every lord that was mighty of men
made him strong, and many weened to have
been king. Then Merlin went to the Arch-
bishop of Canterbury, and counselled him for
to send for all the lords of the realm, and all
the gentlemen of arms, that they should to
London come by Christmas, upon pain of curs
ing; and for this cause, that Jesus, that was
born on that night, that he would of his great
mercy show some miracle, as he was come to be
1 exceeding (surpassing)
2 A nmu'Ulan, Arthur's advisor.
• Of the hundred books printed by Caxton, this
was In every way one of the most important
— In size. In Intrinsic literary value, and in
the influence It was destined to have upon
succeeding literature. Its author compiled it
out of the enormous amount of material
which had grown up In Western Kurope
about the legends of King Arthur and of the
Holy Grall. drawing mainly from French
sources, but bringing to It original construc-
tive and Imaginative elements and In particu-
lar an admirable narrative style. See KHf/.
Ijit., p. (5S. The spelling of our text, as in
all the succeeding prose of this volume, is
modernized.
SIR THOMAS MALORY
97
king of mankind, for to show some miracle who
should be rightwise king of this realm. So
the Archbishop, by the advice of Merlin, sent
for all the lords and gentlemen of arms that
they should come by Christmas even unto Lon-
don. And many of them made them clean of
their life^, that their prayer might be the more
acceptable unto God.
So in the greatest church of London, whether
it were Paul's* or not the French book maketh
no mention, all the estates* were long ors day
in the church for to pray. And when matins
and the first mass was done, there was seen in
the churchyard, against the high altar, a great
stone four square, like unto a marble stone, and
in midst thereof was like ans anvil of steel a
foot on high, and therein stuck a fair sword,
naked, by the point, and letters there were
written in gold about the sword that said thus:
— Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone
and anvil, is rightwise king born of all Eng-
land. Then the people marvelled, and told it to
the Archbishop. T command, said the Arch-
bishop, that ye keep you within your church,
and pray unto God still ; that no man touch the
sword till the high mass be all done. So when
all masses were done all the lords went to be-
hold the stone and the sword. And when they
saw the scripture, some assayed^ ; such as would
have been king. But none might stir the sword
nor move it. He is not here, said the Arch-
bishop, that shall achieve^ the sword, but doubt
not God will make him known. But this is my
counsel, said the Archbishop, that we let pur-
vey9 ten knights, men of good fame, and they
to keep this sword. So it was ordained, and
then there was made a cry, that every man
should assay that would, for to win the sword.
And upon New Year 's Day the barons let
make a jousts' <> and a tournament, that all
knights that would joust or tourney there might
play, and all this was ordained for to keep
the lords together and the commons, for the
Archbishop trusted that God would make him
3 wero shriven of their 7 tried
sins 8 attain
4 The tlirw estates, cler- 8 cause to be provided
fry. lords, and com- lo tiltlng-matth (usually
nions. single combat, as
5 bcfoH' distinct from a tour-
6a kind of ney or tournament).
♦ The present site of St. raul's has been occupied
by various churclies ; there is even a tradition
that before the introduction of Christianity a
temple of Diana stood on the spot. King
Ethelbert erected a cathedral there in 607
and dedicated it to St. Paul. It was burned
in 1086. Then was built the old St. Paul's
which Malory knew, and which lasted until
the great fire of 1666, to be followed by the
present structure designed by Sir Christopher
vVren.
known that should win the sword. So upon
New Year's Uay, when the service was done,
the barons rode unto the field, some to joust
and some to tourney, and so it happened that
Sir Ector, that had great livelihood about
London, rode unto the jousts, and with him
rode Sir Kay his son, and young Arthur that
was his nourished' 1 brother; and Sir Kay
wasi2 made knight at All Hallowmass afore.
So as they rode to the jousts-ward, Sir Kay
lost his sword, for he had left it at his
father 's lodging, and so he prayed young Ar-
thur for to ride for his sword. I will well, said
Arthur, and rode fast after the sword, and
when he came home, the lady and all were out
to see the jousting. Then was Arthur wroth,
and said to himself, I will ride to the church-
yard, and take the sword with me that sticketh
in the stone, for my brother Sir Kay shall not
be without a sword this day. So when he came
to the churchyard, Sir Arthur alit and tied his
horse to the stile, and so he went to the tent,
and found no knights there, for they were at the
jousting; and so he handled the sword by the
handles, and lightly and fiercely pulled it out
of the stone, and took his horse and rode his
way until he came to his brother Sir Kay, and
delivered him the sword.
And as soon as Sir Kay saw the sword, he
wistis well it was the sword of the stone, and
so he rode to his father Sir Ector, and said:
Sir, lo here is the sword of the stone, where-
fore I must be king of this land. When Sir
Ector beheld the sword, he returned again and
came to the church, and there they alit all
three, and went into the church. And anon he
made Sir Kay to swear upon a book how he
came to that sword. Sir, said Sir Kay, by my
brother Arthur, for he brought it to me. How
gat ye this sword? said Sir Ector to Arthur.
Sir, I will tell you. When I came home for my
brother's sword, I found nobody at home to
deliver me his sword, and so I thought my
brother Sir Kay should not be swordless, and
so I came hither eagerly and pulled it out of
the stone without any pain. Found ye any
knights about this sword? said Sir Ector. Nay,
said Arthur. Now, said Sir Ector to Arthur,
I understand ye must be king of this land.
Wherefore I, said Arthur, and for what cause?
Sir, said Ector, for God will have it so, for
there shoukU* never man have drawn out this
sword, but he that shall be rightwise king of
this land. Now let me see whether ye can put
the sword there as it was, and pull it out again.
11 foster
12 had been
13 knew
14 could (was fated)
98
FIFTEENTH AND EAKLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
That is no masteryi', said Arthur, and so he
put it in the stone, wherewithal Sir Ector as-
sayed to pull out the sword and failed. Now
assay, said Sir Ector unto Sir Kay. And anon
he pulled at the sword with all his might, but
it would not be.
Now shall ye assay, said Sir Ector to Arthur.
I will well, said Arthur, and pulled it out
easily. And therewithal Sir Ector knelt down
to the earth, and Sir Kay. Alas, said Arthur,
my own dear father and brother, why kneel ye
to me? Nay, nay, my lord Arthur, it is not
so; I was never your father nor of your blood,
but I wot well ye are of an higher blood than
I weened ye were. And then Sir Ector told
him all, how he was betakenie him for to nourish
him, and by whose commandment, and by Mer-
lin 's deliverance. Then Arthur made great
dole when he understood that Sir Ector was
not his father. Sir, said Ector unto Arthur,
will ye be my good and gracious lord when ye
are king? Else were I to blame, said Arthur,
for ye are the man in the world that I am most
beholden to, and my good lady and mother your
wife, that as well as her own hath fostered
me and kept. And if ever it be God 's will that
1 be king as ye say, ye shall desire of me what
I may do, and I shall not fail you, God forbid
I should fail you. Sir, said Sir Ector, I will
ask no more of you, but that ye will make my
son, your foster brother. Sir Kay, seneschal
of all your lands. That shall be done, said
Arthur, and more, by the faith of my body,
that never man shall have that office but he,
while he and I live.
Therewithal they went unto the Archbishop,
and told him how the sword was achieved, and
by whom; and on Twelfth-dayi7 all the barons
came thither, and to assay to take the sword,
who that would assay. But there afore them
all, there might none take it out but Ar-
thur; wherefore there were many lords wroth,
and said it was a great shame unto them all
and the realm, to be overgoverned with a boy
of no high blood born, and so they fell outis
at that time that it was put off till Candle-
masi», and then all the barons should meet
there again; but always the ten knights were
ordained to watch the sword day and night,
and so they set a pavilion over the stone and
the sword, and five always watched.
So at Candlemas many more great lords came
thither for to have won the sword, but there
might none prevail. And right as Arthur did
*6 '("at «lay after Chrlst-
i« ••nlniKtcd io msH.
17 The ^'stival <if the is were ho diMHatisfled
Epiphany, twelfth lo Feb. 2.
at Christmas, he did at Candlemas, and pulled
out the sword easily, whereof the barons were
core aggrieved and put it off in delay till the
high feast of Easter. And as Arthur sped2o
before, so did he at Easter, yet there were some
of the great lords had indignation that Arthur
should be king, and put it off in a delay till the
feast of Pentecost. Then the Archbishop of
Canterbury by Merlin's providence^i let purvey
then of the best knights that they might get,
and such knights as Uther Pendragon loved
best and most trusted in his days. And such
knights were put about Arthur as Sir Baudwin
of Britain, Sir Kay, Sir Ulfius, Sir Brastias.
All these with many other were always about
Arthur, day and night, till the feast of Pente-
cost.
And at the feast of Pentecost all manner
of men assayed to pull at the sword that Avould
assay, but none might prevail but Arthur, and
pulled it out afore all the lords and com-
mons that were there, wherefore all the com-
mons cried at once. We will have Arthur unto
our king, we will put him no more in delay, for
we all see that it is God's Avill that he shall
be our king, and who that22 holdeth against it,
we will slay him. And therewith all they
kneeled at once, both rich and poor, and cried
Arthur mercy because they had delayed him so
long, and Arthur forgave them, and took the
sword between both his hands, and offered it
upon the altar, where the Archbishop was, and
so was he made knight of23 the best man that
was there. And so anon was the coronation
made. And there was he sworn unto his lords
and the commons for to be a true king, to
stand with true justice from thenceforth the
days of this life.
How Arthur by the Mean of Merlin Gat
ExcALiBUR His Sword of the Lady of the
Lake. Book I, Chapter XXV.
Eight so the king and he departed, and went
unto an hermit that was a good man and a
great leech24. So the hermit searched all his
wounds and gave him good salves; so the king
was there three days, and then were his
wounds well amended that he might ride and
go-i*, and so departed. And as they rode, Ar-
thur said, I have no sword. No foree'-«, said
Merlin, hereby is a sword that shall be yours,
an I may27. So they rode till they came to a
lake, the which was a fair water and broad,
20 succeeded
21 prudence
22 whoever
28 by (viz.,
bishop)
the
24 physician
2R walk
20 no matter
Arch- 27 if I have power
SIB THOMAS MALORY
99
and in the midst of the lake Arthur was ware
of an arm clothed in white samitezs, that held
a fair sword in that hand. Lo! said Merlin,
yonder is that sword that I spake of. With
that they saw a damosel going29 upon the lake.
What damosel is that? said Arthur. That is
the Lady of the Lake, said Merlin; and within
that lake is a rock, and therein is as fair a
place as any on earth, and richly beseenso; and
this damosel will come to you anon, and
then speak ye fair to her that she will give you
that sword. Anon withal came the damosel
unto Arthur, and saluted him, and he her again.
Damosel, said Arthur, what sword is that, that
yonder the arm holdeth above the water? I
would it were mine, for I have no sword. Sir
Arthur, king, said the damosel, that sword is
mine, and if ye will give me a gift when I ask
it you, ye shall have it. By my faith, said Ar-
thur, I will give you what gift ye will ask.
Well! said the damosel, go ye into yonder
barge, and row yourself to the sword, and take
it and the scabbard with you, and I will ask
my gift when I see my time. So Sir Arthur
and Merlin alit and tied their horses to two
trees, and so they went into the ship, and when
they came to the sword that the hand held. Sir
Arthur took it up by the handles, and took it
with him, and the arm and the hand went
under the water.
And so they came unto the land and rode
forth, and then Sir Arthur saw a rich pavilion.
What signifieth yonder pavilion? It is the
knight's pavilion, said Merlin, that ye fought
with last. Sir Pellinore; but he is out, he is
not there. He hath ado with a knight of yours
that hightai Egglame, and they have foughten
together, but at the last Egglame fled, and else
he had been dead, and he hath chased him
even to Carlionss, and we shall meet with him
anon in the highway. That is well said, said
Arthur, now have I a sword, now will I wage
battle with him, and be avenged on him. Sir,
you shall not so, said Merlin, for the knight is
weary of fighting and chasing, so that ye shall
have no worships^ to have ado with him; also
he will not be lightly matched of ones* knight
living, and therefore it is my counsel, let him
pass, for he shall do you good service in short
time, and his sons after his days. Also ye
shall see that day in short space, you shall be
right glad to give him your sister to wed.
When I see him, I will do as ye advise, said
Arthur.
2S A rich silk fabric.
29 wallving
30 appointed
31 is called
32 Carleon-upon-Usk in
Wales, one of Ar-
thur's courts.
33 honor
34 by any
Then Sir Arthur looked on the sword, and
liked it passing well. Whether liketh35 you bet-
ter, said Merlin, the sword or the scabbard?
Me liketh better the sword, said Arthur. Ye
are more unwise, said Merlin, for the scabbard
is worth ten of the swerds, for whiles ye have
the scabbard upon you, ye shall never lose no
blood be ye never so sore wounded, therefore
keep well the scabbard always with you. So
they rode unto Carlion, and by the way they
met with Sir Pellinore; but Merlin had done
such a craft36, that Pellinore saw not Arthur,
and he passed by without any words. I marvel,
said Arthur, that the knight would not speak.
Sir, said Merlin, he saw you not, for an37 he
had seen you, ye had not lightly departed. So
they came unto Carlion, whereof his knights
were passing glad. And when they heard of
his adventures, they marvelled that he would
jeopard his person so, alone. But all men of
worship said it was merry to be under such a
chieftain, that would put his person in adven-
ture as other poor knights did.
How King Arthur Took a Wipe, and Wedded
GuEN'EVER, Daughter to Leodegraxce, King
OP the Land op Cameliard, with Whom
He Had the Round Table. Book III,
Chapter I
In the beginning of Arthur, after he was
chosen king by adventure and by grace, for
the most part of the barons knew not that he
was Uther Pendragon's son, but as Merlin
made it openly known, but yet many kings and
lords held great war against him for that cause.
But well Arthur overcame them all, fori the
most part the days of his life he was ruled
much by the counsel of Merlin. So it fell on a
time King Arthur said unto Merlin, My barons
will let me have no rest, but needs I must take
a wife, and I will none take but by thy coun-
sel and by thine advice. It is well done, said
Merlin, that ye take a wife, for a man of your
bounty2 and noblesse should not be without a
wife. Now is there any that ye love more than
another? Yea, said King Arthur, I love
Guenever the king's daughter, Leodegrance of
the land of Cameliard, the which holdeth in his
house the Table Round that ye told he had of
my father Uther. And this damosel is the most
valiant and fairest lady that I know living, or
yet that ever I could find. Sir, said Merlin,
as of3 her beauty and fairness she is one of
the fairest on live*, but, an ye loved her not so
3."; which pleaseth 37 if
3(i worked such magic
1 because 3 as for
' - prowess * alive
100
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
well as ye do, I should find you a damosel of
beauty and of goodness that should likes you
and please you, an your heart were not set;
but there as a man 's heart is set, he will be loth
to return. That is truth, said King Arthur.
But Merlin warned the king covertly that
Guenever was not wholesome for him to take
to wife, for he warned him that Launcelot
should love her, and she him againS; and so he
turned his tale to the adventures of the San-
greal.
Then Merlin desired of the king for to have
men with him that should enquire of Guenever,
and so the king granted him, and Merlin went
forth unto King Leodegrance of Cameliard,
and told him of the desire of the king that he
would have unto his wife Guenever his daugh-
ter. That is to me, said King Leodegrance, the
best tidings that ever I heard, that so worthy
a king of prowess and noblesse will wed my
daughter. And as for my lands, I will give
him, wist I it might please him, but he hath
lands enow, him needeth none, but I shall send
him a gift shall please him much more, for I
shall give him the Table Round, the which
Uther Pendragon gave me, and when it is full
complete, there is an hundred knights and fifty.
And as for an hundred good knights I have
myself, but I fawte^ fifty, for so many have
been slain in my days. And so Leodegrance de-
livered his daughter Guenever unto Merlin, and
the Table Round with the hundred knights, and
so they rode freshlys, with great royalty, what
by water and what by land, till that they came
nigh unto London.
When King Arthur heard of the coming of
Guenever and the hundred knights with the
Table Round, then King Arthur made great
joy for her coming, and that rich present, and
said openly, This fair lady is passing welcome
unto me, for I have loved her long, and there-
fore there is nothing so liefo to mc. And these
knights with the Round Table please me more
than right great riches. And in all haste the
king let ordain lo for the marriage and the
coronation in the most honourable wise that
could be devised.
How AN Old Man Brought Gai-ahad to the
Siege PERnx)us and Set Him Therein.
Book XIII, Chapters I-IV
At the vigil of Pentccosti, when all the fel-
lowship of the Round Table were come unto
« Rally
» dear
10 ordered preparation
S Hllit
« In return
7 lack (fault)
1 Whitsunday (the Reventti Sunday after Raster).
(■omnii'moiHtinK the descent of the Holy Kplrlt
upon the Apostlca.
Camelot2 and there heard their service, and the
tables were set ready tos the meat, right so
entered into the hall a full fair gentlewoman
on horseback, that had ridden full fast, for
her horse was all besweated. Then she there
alit, and came before the king and saluted
him; and he said: Damosel, God thee bless.
Sir, said she, for God's sake say me where Sir
Launcelot is. Yonder ye may see him, said
the king. Then she went unto Launcelot and
said: Sir Launcelot, I salute you on King
Pelles' behalf, and I require you to come on
with me hereby into a forest. Then Sir
Launcelot asked her with whom she dwelled.
I dwell, said she, with King Pelles*. What will
ye with me? said Launcelot. Ye shall know,
said she, when ye come thither. Well, said he,
I will gladly . go with you. So Sir Launcelot
bad his squire saddle his horse and bring his
arms; and in all haste he did his command-
ment. Then came the queen unto Launcelot,
and said: Will ye leave us at this high feast?
Madam, said the gentlewoman, wits ye well he
shall.be with you tomorns by dinner time. If
I wist, said the queen, that he should not be
with us here tomorn he should not go with you
by my good will.
Right so departed Sir Launcelot with the
gentlewoman, and rode until that he came into
a forest and into a great valley, where they
saw an abbey of nuns; and there was a squire
ready and opened the gates, and so they en-
tered and descended off their horses; and there
came a fair fellowship about Sir Launcelot,
and welcomed him, and were passing glad of
his coming. And then they led him unto the
Abbess's chamber and unarmed him; and right
so he was ware upon a bed lying two of his
cousins. Sir Bors and Sir Lionel, and then he
waked them; and when they saw him they
made great joy. Sir, said Sir Bors unto Sir
Launcelot, what adventure hath brought you
hither, for we weened tomorn to have found
you at CamelotI As God me help, said Sir
Launcelot, a gentlewoman brought me hither,
but I know not the cause.
In the meanwhile that they thus stood talk-
ing together, therein came twelve nuns that
brought with them Galahad,^ the which was
passing fair and well made, that unnothes in
the world men might not find his match: and
all those ladies wept. Sir, said they all, we
bring you here this child the which we have
-' The legendary seat of
Arthur's court.
8 for
4 "KlnB of the foreign
coil n try and cousin
nigh unto Joseph b scarcely
o f Arlmntha;a."
(Malory.)
6 know
rt to-morrow morning
7 The son of Launcelot
SIR THOMAS MALORY
iOl
nourislied, and we pray you to make him a
knight, for of a more worthier man's hand may
he not receive the order of knighthood. Sir
Launcelot beheld the young squire and saw him
seemly and demure as a dove, with all manner
of good features, that he weened of his age
never to have seen so fair a man of form.
Then said Sir Launcelot: Cometh this desire of
himself? He and all they said yea. Then
shall he, said Sir Launcelot, receive the high
order of knighthood asu tomorn at the rever-
ence© of the high feast. That night Sir
Launcelot had passing good cheer; and on the
morn at the hour of prime,io at Galahad's de-
sire, he made him knight and said: God make
him a good man, for of beauty faileth you not
as any that liveth.
Now fair sir, said Sir Launcelot, mil ye
come with me unto the court of King Arthur?
Nay, said he, I will not go with you asu at
this time. Then he departed from them and
took his two cousins with him, and so they
came unto Camelot by the hour of undernei- on
Whitsunday. By that time the king and the
queen were gone to the minster to hear their
service. Then the king and the queen were
passing glad of Sir Bors and Sir Lionel, and
so was all the fellowship.
So when the king and all the knights were
come from service, the barons espied in the
sieges'S of the Round Table all about, written
with golden letters: Here ought to sit he,i*
and hei* ought to sit here. And thus they went
so long till that they came to the Siege Peril-
ous,! ^ where they found letters newly written
of gold Avhich said: Four hundred winters and
four and fifty accomplished after the passionie
of our Lord Jesu Christ ought this siege to be
fulfilled. 17 Then all they said: This is a mar-
vellous thing and'an adventurous. In the name
of God, said Sir Launcelot ; and then accounted
the term of the writingis from the birth of
our L<jrd unto that day. It seemeth me, said
Sir Launcelot, this siege ought to be fulfilled
this same day, for this is the feast of Pentecost
after the four hundred and four and fifty
year ; and if it would please all parties, I
would none of these letters were seen this day,
till he be come that ought to achieve this ad-
venture. Then made they to ordain a cloth of
silk, for to cover these letters in the Siege
Perilous.
Then the king bad haste unto dinner. Sir,
» observance
10 at the tirst hour i5 Seat of Peril
11 The word is redun- i« suffering, crucitixioD
dant. IT occupied
12 late forenoon 18 calculated the time
13 seats set down in the
14 So-and-so writing
saiti Sir Kay the Steward, if ye go now unto
your meat ye shall break your old custom of
your court, for ye have not used on this day to
sit at your meat or that i9 ye have seen some
adventure. Ye say sooth, said the king, but
I had so great joy of Sir Launcelot and of his
cousins, which be come to the court wholeso and
sound, so that I bethought me not of mine
old custom. So, as they stood speaking, in
came a squire and said unto the king: Sir, I
bring unto you marvellous tidings. What be
they? said the king. Sir, there is here beneath
at the river a great stone which I saw fleet2i
above the water, and therein I saw sticking a
sword. The king said: I will see that marvel.
So all the knights went with him, and when
they came to the river they found there a
stone fleeting, as it were of red marble, and
therein stuck a fair rich sword, and in the
pommel thereof were precious stones wrought
with subtil2i! letters of gold. Then the barons
read the letters which said in this wise: Never
shall man take me hence, but only he by whose
side I ought to hang, and he shall be the beat
knight of the world. When the king had seen
the letters, he said unto Sir Launcelot: Fair
sir, this sword ought to be yours, for I am sure
ye be the best knight of the world. Then Sir
Launcelot answered full soberly: Certes, sir. it
is not my sword ; also, Sir, wit ye well I have
no hardiness to set my hand to it, for it
longed^s not to hang by my side. Also, who
that assayeth to take the sword and faileth of
it, he shall receive a wound by that sword that
he shall not be whole^o long after. And I will
that ye wit that this same day shall the ad-
ventures of the Sangreal, that is called the Holy
Vessel, begin.*
19 before 20 hale, well 21 float 22 cunning
23 Probably for longeth, belongs.
• "Though the earliest French accounts of the Holy
Grail differ in many details, from them all we
can make up a story somewhat as follows :
Joseph of Arimathsea, after taking Christ's
body from the cross, collected his blood in the
Grail, a dish or cup which our Lord had used
at the Last Supper. Then, because Joseph
had buried Christ reverently, he was thrown
into prison by the angry Jews, who tried to
starve him : but Joseph was solaced and fed
by the Grail, miraculously presented to him
by Christ in person. Released after forty
years, Josepli set out from Jerusalem with his
wife and kindred, who, having accepted his
faith, were ready to follow him and his sacred
vessel to far-off lands. He went through
various adventures, principally conversions of
heathen, the most important being of the King
of Sarras and his -.people." ( Howard Mayna-
dier : The Arthur of the Enfflish Poets.) After
the disappearance of the holy relic (which
was reported to he of emerald », the quest of
it was a visionary search often imdertaken,
according to the legends, as a test of purity.
It was a wave of fanaticism prompting this
[ search that broke up Arthur's goodly fellow-
> ship of knights.
im
' •i*IFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
Now, fair nephew, said the king unto Sir j
Gawaine, assay ye, for my love. Sir, he said,
save your good grace-* I shall not do that.
Sir, said the king, assay to take the sword and
at my commandment. Sir, said Gawaine, your
commandment I will obey. And therewith he
took up the sword by the handles, but he might
not stir it. I thank you, said the king to Sir
Gawaine. My lord Sir Gawaine, said Sir
Launcelot, now wit ye well this sword shall
touch you so sore that ye shall will ye had
never set your hand thereto for the best castle
of this realm. Sir, he said, I might not with-
say mine uncle's will and commandment. But
when the king heard this he repented it much,
and said unto Sir Percivale that he should as-
say, for his love. And he said: Gladly, for to
bear Sir Gawaine fellowship. And therewith
he set his hand on the sword and drew it
strongly, but he might not move it. Then were
there [nosc] more that durst be so hardy to set
their hands thereto. Now may ye go to your
dinner, said Sir Kay unto the king, for a
marvellous adventure have ye seen.
So the king and all went unto the court, and
every knight knew his own place, and set him
therein, and young men that were knights
served them. So when they were served, and
all sieges fulfilled save only the Siege Perilous,
anon there befell a marvellous adventure, that^c
all the doors and windows of the palace shut
by themself. Not for then 27 the hall was not
greatly darked; and therewith they [were all25j
abashed both one and other. Then King Arthur
spake first and said: By God, fair fellows and
lords, we have seen this day marvels, but or28
night I suppose we shall see greater marvels.
In the mfanwhile came in a good old man,
and an ancient, clothed all in white, and there
was no knight knew from whence he came.
And with him he brought a young knight, both
on foot, in red arms, without sword or shield,
save a scabbard hanging by his side. And
these words he said: Peace be with you, fair
lords. Then the old man said unto Arthur:
Sir, I bring hero a young knight, the which
is of king's lineage, and of the kindretl of
Joseph of Aramathie, whereby the marvels of
this court, and of strange realms, shall be
fully accomplished. The king was right, glad
of his words, and said unto the good man: Sir,
ye be right welcome, and the young knight with
you.
24 A depreratory phraHc.
25 InHt'rtod In the sec-
ond edition by Cax-
ton'H H II (■ (■ i> K H n r.
Wynkyn do Wordc.
20 In that
27 nevertheless
28 ere
Then the old man made the young man to
unarm him, and he was in a coat of red sen-
dal,2» and bare a mantle upon liis shoulder that
was furred with ermine, and put that upon him.
And the old knight said unto the young knight:
Sir, follow me. And anon he led him unto the
Siege Perilous, where beside sat Sir Launcelot;
and the good man lift up the cloth, and found
there letters that said thus: This is the siege of
Galahad, the hautao prince. Sir, said the old
knight, wit ye well that place is yours. And
then he set him down surely in that siege. And
then he said to the old man: Sir, ye may now
go your way, for well have ye done that ye
were commanded to do; and recommend nie
unto my grandsire. King Pelles, and unto my
lord Petchere, and say them on my behalf, I
shall come and see them as soon as ever I may.
So the good man departed; and there met him
twenty noble squires, and so took their horses
and went their way. Then all the knights of
the Table Round marvelled greatly of Sir Gala-
had, that he durst sit there in that Siege Peril-
ous, and was so tender of age; and wist not
from Avhence he came but all onlysi by God ;
and said: This is he by whom the Sangreal
shall be achieved, for there sat never none but
he, but he were mischieved.32
Then Sir Launcelot beheld his son and had
great joy of him. Then Bors told his fellows:
Upon pain of my life this young knight shall
come unto great worship.33 This noise was
great in all the caurt, so that it came to the
queen. Then she ha ] marvel what knight it
might be that durst adventure him to sit in
the Siege Perilous. Many said unto the queen
he resembled much unto Sir Launcelot. I may
well suppose, said the queen, that Sir Launce
lot, being won by enchantment, had him of
King Pelles' daughter, and his name is Gala-
had. I would fain see him, said the queen, for
he must needs be a noble man, for so is his
father, I report me untosi all the Table Round.
So when the meat was done that the king and
all were risen, the king yedess unto the Siege
Perilous and lift up the cloth, and found there
the name of Galahad; and then he shewed it
unto Sir Gawaine, and said: Fair nephew, now
have we among us Sir Galahad, the good knight
that shall worshipss us all; and upon pain of
my life he shall achieve the Sangreal, right as
Sir Launcelot had doners us to understand.
Then came King Arthur unto Galahad and
said: Sir, ye be welcome, for ye shall move
2» thin silk
80 high
31 iinlesH It were
32 harmed
It honor
84 call to witness
.tfi went
3« caused
SIR THOMAS MALOKY
103
many good knights to the quest of the San-
grcal, and ye shall achieve that never knights
might bring to an end. Then the king took
him by the hand, and went down from the
palace to shew Galahad the adventures of the
stone.
How Sib Launcelot Was Tofore the Door of
THE Chamber Wherein the Holy Sangreal
Was. Book XVII. Chapters Xni-XV.
Now saith the history, that when Launcelot
was come to the water of Mortoise, as it is
rehearsed before, he was in great peril, and so
he laid him down and slept, and took the ad-
venture that God would send him. So when he
was asleep there came a vision unto him and
said: Launcelot, arise up and take thine ar-
mour, and enter into the first ship that thou
shalt find. And Avhen he heard these words he
start up and saw great clearness about him.
And then he lift up his hand and blessed him,i
and so took his arms and made him ready; and
so by adventure he came by a strand, and
found a ship the which was without sail or oar.
And as soon as he was within the ship there
he felt the most sweetness that ever he felt,
and he was fulfilled with all thing that he
thought on or desired. Then he said: Fair
sweet Father, .Jesu Christ, I wot not in what
joy I am, for this joy passeth all earthly joys
that ever I was in. And so in this joy he laid
him down to the ship 's board, and slept till
day.
And when he awoke he found there a fair
bed, and therein lying a gentlewoman dead,
the which was Sir Percivale's sister.* And as
Launcelot devisedz her, he espied in her right
hand a writ, the which he read, the which told
him all the adventures that ye have heard to-
fore, and of what lineage she was come. So
with this gentlewoman Sir Launcelot was a
month and more. If ye would ask how he
lived, He that fed the people of Israel with
manna in the desert, so was he fed; for every
day when he had said his prayers he was sus-
tained with the grace of the Holy Ghost.
So on a night he went to play him by the
water side, for he was somewhat weary of the
1 crossed himself 3 where
2 gazed upon
•She had given her blood to heal a lady and had
made this dying request of her brother : "As
soon as I am dead, put me in a boat at the
next haven, and let me ro as adventure will
lead me ; and as soon as ye three come to
the city of Sarras, there to achieve the Holy
Grail, ye shall find me under a tower arrived,
and there bury me in the spiritual place."
ship. And then he listened and heard an horse
come, and one riding upon him. And when he
came nigh he seemed a knight. And so he let
him pass, and went thereas3 the ship was; and
there he alit, and took the saddle and the
bridle and put the horse from him, and went
into the ship. And then Launcelot dressed*
unto him, and said: Ye be welcome. And he
answered and saluted him again,^ and asked
him: What is your name? for much my heart
giveth« unto you. Truly, said he, my name is
Launcelot du Lake. Sir, said he, then be ye
welcome, for ye were the beginner of me in
this world. Ah, said he, are ye Galahad? Yea,
forsooth, said he; and so he kneeled down and
asked him his blessing, and after took off his
helm and kissed him.
And there was great joy between them, for
there is no tongue can tell the joy that they
made either of other, and many a friendly
word spoken between, as kin would, the which
is no need here to be rehearsed. And there
every each' told other of their adventures and
marvels that were befallen to them in many
journeys siths that they departed from the
court. Anon, as Galahad saw the gentlewoman
dead in the bed, he knew her well enough, and
told great worship of her, that she was the best
maid living, and it was great pity of her death.
But when Launcelot heard how the marvellous
sword was gotten, and who made it, and all the
marvels rehearsed afore, then he prayed Gala-
had, his son, that he would show him the
swordt, and so he did; and anon he kissed the
pommel, and the hilt, and the scabbard. Truly,
said Launcelot, never erst knew I of so high
adventures done, and so marvellous and
strange.
So dwelt 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 re-
paired none but wild beasts, and there they
found many strange adventures and perilous,
which they brought to an end ; but f ors those
adventures were with wild beasts, and not in
the quest of the Sangreal, 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 ar-
rived in the edge of a forest tofore a cross;
4 addressed himself (or 7 each one
simply "went") ■ since
5 in return » because
6 goeth out
t The sword of King David, which had been put
by Solomon Into this miraculous ship, and
which maimed or slow all who attempted to
^raw it, until Galahad came.
104
FIFTEENTH AND EAKLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
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 adventures shall lead thee in the
quest of the Sangreal. Then he went to his
father and kissed him sweetly, and said: Fair
sweet father, I wot not when I shall see you
more till I see the body of Jesu Christ. I
pray you, said Launcelot, pray ye to the High
Father that He hold me in His service. And
so he took his horse, and there they heard a
voice that said: Think for to do well, for the
one shall never see the other before the dread-
ful day of doom. Now, son Galahad, said
Launcelot, syneio we shall depart, and never
see other, I pray to the High Father to con-
serve me and you both. Sir, said Galahad, no
prayer availeth so much as yours. And there-
with Galahad entered into the forest.
And the wind arose, and drove Launcelot
more than a month throughout the sea, where
he slept but little, but prayed to God that he
might see some tidings of the Sangreal. So it
befell on a night, at midnight, he arrived afore
a castle, on the back side, which was rich and
fair, and there was a postern opened toward
the sea, and was open without any keeping,
save two lions kept the entry; and the moon
shone clear. Anon Sir Launcelot heard a voice
that said: Launcelot, go out of this ship and
enter into the castle, where thou shalt see a
great part of thy desire.
Then he ran to his arms, and so armed him,
and so 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: O
man of evil faith and poor belief, wherefore
trowestii thou more on thy harness than in thy
Maker, for He might more avail thee than
thine armour, in whose service that thou art
set. Then said 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 servant. 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 semblantiz
to do him harm. Notwithstanding he passed
oj 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 mickleis 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. Then Launcelot
kneeled down tofore the chamber, for well wist
he that there was the Sangreal within that
chamber. Then said he: Fair sweet Father,
Jesu Christ, if ever I did thing that pleased
Thee, Lord for Thy pity never have me not in
despite for my sins done aforetime, and that
thou show 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 asi* 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 forthinkis it. Then he with-
drew him aback right heavy.ia
Then looked he up in the middes of the
chamber, and saw a table of silver, and the
holy vessel, covered with red samite, 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.i7 And it seemed to
Launcelot that above the priest's hands were
three 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 Launcelot mar-
velled not a little, for him thought the priest
was so greatly charged of is the figure that him
seemed that he should fall to the earth. And
when he saw none about him that would help
him, then cfime he to the door a great pace,io
and said: Fair Father Jesu Christ, ne take it
for no sin though I help the good man which
hath great nee<J 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 intermcdrlledzo
10 since
11 tniBtfst
12 semMance (made as
if)
IS tried bard
14 as if
i"' rppont
10 t^ad
17 the ('oiiiiuiinioii
Ice
18 burdened with
19 qnirkly
20 int<'riiiinBlod
SIR THOMAS MALORY
105
with fire, which smote him so sore in the visage
that him thought it brent^i his visage; and
therewith he fell to the earth, and had no
power to arise, as he that was so araged,22 that
had lost the power of his body, and his hear-
ing, and his seeing. Then felt he many hands
iibout him, which took him up and bare him out
of the chamber door, without any amending of
his swoon, asd left him there, seeming dead
to all people.
So upon the morrow when it was fair day
they within were arisen, and found Launcelot
lying afore the chamber door. All they mar-
velled 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 not 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 was 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 again.
How Galahad axd His Fellows Were Fed of
THE Holy Sangreal, and how Galahad
Was Made Kixg. Book XVII. Chapters
XIX-XXII
So departed Galahad from thence, and rode
five days till that he came to the maimed king.-^
And ever followed Percivale the five days, ask-
ing where he had been; and so one told him
how the adventures of Logris were achieved.
So on a day it befell that they came out of a
great forest, and there they met at traverse^^
with Sir Bors, the which rode alone. It is none
need to tell if they were glad; and them he
saluted, and they yielded him honour and good
adventure,25 and every each told other. Then
said Bors: It is more than a year and a half
that I ne lay ten times where men dwelled,
but in wild forests and in mountains, but God
was ever my comfort. Then rode they a great
while till that they came to the castle of Car-
bonek. And when they were entered within the
castle King Pelles knew them ; then there was
great joy, for they wist well by their coming
that they had fulfilled the quest of the San-
greal.
21 bnrnt
22 like one so angrv
23 I'elles. who had at-
tempted to draw
t h (• miraculous
sword.
24 crossed paths
■i'' A s'alutation, huona
rentitra, ''good
luck."
Then EUazar, King Pelles' son, brought to-
fore them the broken sword wherewith Joseph
was stricken through the thigh. Then Bors
set his hand thereto, if that he might have sol-
dered it again; but it would not be. Then he
took it to Percivale, but he had no more power
thereto than he. Now have ye it again, said
Percivale to Galahad, for an it be ever achieved
by any bodily man ye must do it. And then he
took the pieces and set them together, and they
seemed that they had never been broken, and
as well as it had been first forged. And when
they within espied that the adventure of the
sword was achieved, then they gave the sword
to Bors, for it might not be better setze; for
he was a good knight and a worthy man.
And a little afore even, the sword arose
great and marvellous, and was full of great
heat that many men fell for dread. And anon
alit a voice among them, and said: They that
ought not to sit at the table of Jesu Christ
arise, for now shall very27 knights be fed. So
they went thence, all save King Pelles and
Eliazar, his son, the which were holy men, and
a maid which was his niece; aud so these three
fellows and they three were there, no more.
Anon they saw knights all armed come in
at the hall door, and did off their helms and
their arms, and said unto Galahad: Sir, we
have hied right much for to be with you at this
table where the holy meat shall be departed.28
Then said he: Ye be welcome, but of whence
be ye? So three of them said they were of
Gaul, and other three said they were of Ireland,
and the other three said they were of Denmark.
So as they sat thus there came out a bed of
tree,29 ofso a chamber, the which four gentle-
women brought; and in the bed lay a good
man sick, and a crown of gold upon his head;
and there in the middes of the place they set
him down, and went again their way. Then he
lift up his head, and said: Galahad, Knight, ye
be welcome, for much have I desired your com-
ing, for in 3uch pain and in such anguish I
have been long. But now I trust to God the
term is come that my pain shall be allayed, that
I shall pass out of this world so as it was
promised me long ago.
Therewith a voice said: There be two among
you that be not in the quest of the Sangreal,
and therefore depart ye. Then King Pelles and
his son departed. And therewithal beseemed
them that there came a man. and four angels
from heaven, clothed in likeness of a bishop,
and had a cross in his hand; and these four
2n placed 29 wood
27 true 30 from
28 divided, distributed
106
FIITEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
angels bare him up in a chair, and set him down
before the table of silver whereupon the
Sangreal was; and it seemed that he had in
middes of his forehead letters the which said:
See ye here Joseph, the first bishop of Chris-
tendom, the same which Our Lord succoured in
the city of Sarras in the spiritual place. Then
the knights marvelled, for that bishop was dead
more than three hundred year tofore. O
knights, said he, marvel not, for I was some-
time3i an earthly man.
With that they heard the chamber door open,
and there they saw angels; and two bare can-
dles of wax, and the third a towel, and the
fourth a spear which bled marvellously, and
three drops fell within a box which he held
with his other hand. And they set the candles
upon the table, and the third the towel upon the
vessel, and the fourth the holy spear even up-
right upon the vessel. And then the bishop
made semblant as though he would have gone
to the sacring of the mass. And then he took
an ubbly32 which was made in likeness of
bread. And at the lifting up there came a
figure in likeness of a child, and the visage was
as red and as bright as any fire, and smote
himself into the bread, so that they all saw it
that the bread was formed of a fleshly man;
and then he put it into the holy vessel again,
and then he did that longedss to a priest to do
to a mass. And then he went to Galahad and
kissed him, and bad him go and kiss his fel-
lows: and so he did anon. Now, said he,
servants of Jesu Christ, ye shall be fed afore
this table with sweetmeats that never knights
tasted. And when he had said, he vanished
away. And they set them at the table in great
dread, and made their prayers.
Then looked they and saw a man come out
of the holy vessel, that had all the signs of the
passions^ of Jesu Christ, bleeding all openly,
and said: My knights, and my servants, and
my true children, which be come out of deadly
life into spiritual life, I will now no longer
hide me from you, but ye shall see now a part
of my secrets and of my hidden things: now
hold and receive the high meat which ye have
so much desired. Then took he himself the
holy vessel and came to Galahad; and he
kneeled down, and there he received his
Saviour, and after him so received all his fel-
lows; and they thought it so sweet that it was
marvellous to tell.
Then said he to Galahad: Son, wotest thou
what I hold betwixt my hands f Nay, said he,
SI once
tz wafer
sa what bolong^d
M ci uclflxion
but if35 ye will tell me. This is, said he, the
holy dish wherein I ate the lamb on Sher-
Thursdayse. And now hast thou seen that thou
most desired to see, but yet hast thou not seen
it so openly as thou shalt see it in the city of
Sarras in the spiritual place. Therefore thou
must go hence and bear with thee this holy ves-
sel; for this night it shall depart from the
realm of Logris, that it shall never be seen
more here. And wotest thou wherefore? For
he is not served nor worshipped to his right by
them of this land, for they be turned to evil
living; therefore I shall disherit them of the
honour which I have done them. And there-
fore go ye three to-morrow unto the sea, where
ye shall find your ship ready, and with you take
the sword with the strange girdles, and no
more with you but Sir Percivale and Sir Bors.
Also I will that ye take with you of the blood
of this spear for to anoint the maimed king,
both his legs and all his body, and he shall have
his health.
Sir, said Galahad, why shall not these other
fellows go with us? For this cause: for right
as I departeds' my apostles one here and an-
other there, so I will that ye depart; and two
of you shall die in my service, but one of you
shall come again and tell tidings. Then gave
he them his blessing and vanished away. And
Galahad went anon to the spear which lay upon
the table, and touched the blood with his fin-
gers, and came after to the maimed king and
anointed his legs. And therewith he clothed
him38 anon, and start upon his feet out of his
bed as an whole man, and thanked Our Lord
that He had healed him. . . .
Right so departed Galahad, Percivale and
Bors with him; and so they rode three days,
and then they came to a rivage,39 and found
the ship whereof the tale speaketh of tofore.
And when they came to the board*o they found
in the middes the table of silver which they
had left with the maimed king, and the San-
greal which was covered with red samite. Then
were they glad to have such things in their
fellowship; and so they entered and made
great reverence thereto; and Galahad fell in
his prayer long time to Our Lord, that at what
time he asked, that he should pass out of this
world. So much he prayed till a voice said to
him: Galahad, thou shalt have thy request ; and
when thou askest the death of thy body thou
shalt have it, and then shalt thou find the life
of the soul.
•5 unless 88 himself
3fl the day before flood 3» shore
Ki-iday *o aboard
87 parted
SIR THOMAS MALORY
107
Percivale heard this, and prayed him, of^i
fellowship that was between them, to tell him
wherefore he asked such things. That shall I
tell you, said Galahad; the other day when we
saw a part of the adventures of the Sangreal
I was in such a joy of heart, that I trow never
man was that was earthly. And therefore 1
wot well, when my body is dead my soul shall
be in great joy to see the blessed Trinity every
day, and the Majesty of Our Lord, Jesu Christ.
So long were they in the ship that they said
to Galahad: Sir, in this bed ought ye to lie,
for so saith the scripture. And so he laid him
down and slept a great while; and when he
awaked he looked afore him and saw the city
of Sarras.
And as they would have landed they saw the
ship wherein Percivale had put his sister in.
Truly, said Percivale, in the name of God, well
hath my sister holden us covenant. Then took
they out of the ship the table of silver, and he
took it to Percivale and to Bors, to go tofore,
an<l. Galahad came behind. And right so they
went to the city, and at the gate of the city
they saw an old man crooked. Then Galahad
called him and bad him help to bear this heavy
thing. Truly, said the old man, it is ten year
ago that I might not go but with crutches.
Care thou not, said Galahad, and arise up and
fehew thy good will. And so he assayed, and
found himself as whole as ever he was. Then
ran he to the table, and took one part against*2
Galahad. And anon arose there great noise in
the city, that a cripple was made whole by
knights marvellous that entered into the city.
Then anon after, the three knights went to the
water, and brought up into the palace Perci-
vale 's sister, and buried her as richly as a
king 's daughter ought to be.
And when the king of the city, which was
cleped<3 Estorause, saw the fellowship, he
asked them of whence they were, and what
thing it was that they had brought upon the
table of silver. And they told him the truth
of the Sangreal, and the power which that God
had set there. Then the king was a tyrant,
and was come of the line of paynims, and took
them and put them in prison in a deep hole.
But as soon as they were there Our Lord sent
them the Sangreal, through whose grace they
were alway fulfilled while that they were in
prison.
So at the year's end it befel that this King
Estorause lay sick, and felt that he should die.
Then he sent for the three knights, and they
came afore him; and he cried them mercy of
41 by the
<2 tne part opposite
43 who wa>< called
that he had done to them, and they forgave it
him goodly; and he died anon. When the king
was dead all the city was dismayed, and wist
not who might be their king. Eight so as they
were in counsel there came a voice among them,
and bad them choose the youngest knight of
them three to be their king: For he shall well
maintain you and all yours. So they made
Galahad king by all the assent of the holy city,
and else they would have slain him. And when
he was come to behold the land, he let make
above the table of silver a chest of gold and
of precious stones, that hylled** the holy ves-
sel. And every day early the three fellowa
would come afore it, and make their prayers.
Now at the year 's end, and the self day after
Galahad had borne the crown of gold, he
arose up early and his fellows, and came to
the palace, and saw tofore them the holy ves-
sel, and a man kneeling on his knees in likeness
of a bishop, that had about him a great fel-
lowship of angels as it had been Jesu Christ
himself; and then he arose and began a mass
of Our Lady. And when he came to the sacra-
ment of the mass, and had done, anon he called
Galahad, and said to him: Come forth, the
servant of Jesu Christ, and thou shalt see that^s
thou hast much desired to see. And then he
began to tremble right hard when the deadly**
flesh began to behold the spiritual things. Then
he held up his hands toward heaven and said:
Lord, I thank thee, for now I see that that
hath been my desire many a day. Now, blessed
Lord, would I not longer live, if it might
please thee. Lord.
And therewith the good man took Our Lord 's
body betwixt his hands, and proffered it to
Galahad, and he received it right gladly and
meekly. Now wotest thou what I am? said the
good man. Nay, said Galahad. I am Joseph
of Aramathie, the which Our Lord hath sent
here to thee to bear thee fellowship; and wot-
est thou wherefore that he hath sent me more
than any other? For thou hast resembled me
in two things; in that thou hast seen the mar-
vels of the Sangreal, and in that thou hast been
a clean maiden,*^ as I have been and am. And
when he had said these words Galahad went to
Percivale and kissed him, and commended him
to God ; and so he went to Sir Bors and kissed
him, and commended him to God, and said:
Fair lord, salute me to my lord, Sir Launcelot,
my father, and as soon as ye see him, bid him
remember of this unstable world.<8. And
therewith he kneeled down tofore the table and
*4 covered *« mortal
45 that which 47 pure yonth
48 remember the insta-
bility of life
108
FIFTEENTH AND EARLi SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
made bis prayers, ^nd then suddenly his soul
departed to Jesu Christ, and a great multitude
of angels bare his soul up to heaven, that the
two fellows might well behold it. Also the
two fellows saw come from heaven an hand,
but they saw not the body. And then it came
right to the Vessel, and took it and the spear,
and so bare it up to heaven. Sithen was
there never man so hardy to say that he had
seen the Sangreal.
How MoRDRKD Was Slain and Arthur Hurt
TO THE Death, Book XXI. Chapters
IV-VII
Then were they condeseendedi that King
Arthur and Sir Mordred* should meet betwixt
both their hosts, and every each of them should
bring fourteen persons; and they came with
this word unto Arthur. Then said he: I am
glad that this is done, and so he went into the
field. And when Arthur should depart, he
warned all his host that an they see any sword
drawn: Look ye come on fiercely, and slay that
traitor, Sir Mordred, for I in no wise trust
him. In likewise Sir Mordred warned his host
that: An ye see any sword drawn, look that ye
come on fiercely, and so slay all that ever be-
fore you standeth; for in no wise I will not
trust for this treaty, for I know well my father
will be avenged on me. And so they met as
their appointment was, and so they were agreed
and accorded thoroughly; and wine was
fetched, and they drank.
Eight soon came an adder out of a little
heath bush, and it stung a knight on the foot.
And when the knight felt him stung, he looked
down and saw the adder, and then he drew his
sword to slay the adder, and thought of none
other harm. And when the host on both par-
ties saw that sword drawn, then they blew
beamous,2 trumpets, and horns, and shouted
grimly. And so both hosts dressed theras to-
gether. And King Arthur took his horse, and
said: Alas this unhappy day! and so rode to
his party. And Sir Mordred in likewise.
And never was there seen a more dolefuller
battle in no Christian land; for there was but
rushing and riding, foining* and striking, and
many a grim word was there spoken cither to
other, and many a deadly stroke. But ever
1 ajfrood 3 rushed
L' ItcniimoK (a kind of * thruntlng
trumpet)
• IMirlng Arfhnr'H absonco IiIh nophow Mordred
tor M(in. an lie Ih sometimes called) usurped
IiIh tlirono and gave battle to Arthur upon hU
return.
King Arthur rode throughout the battle^ of
Sir Mordred many times, and did full nobly
as a noble king should, and at all times he
fainted never; and Sir Mordred that day put
him in devoir,« and in great peril. And thus
they fought all the long day, and never stinted
till the noble knights were laid to the cold
earth; and ever they fought still till it was
near night, and by that time was there an hun-
dred thousand laid dead upon the down.^
Then was Arthur woods wroth out of meas-
ure, when he saw his people so slain from him.
Then the king looked about him, and then was
he waxe, of all his host and of all his good
knights, were left no more on live but two
knights; that one was Sir Lucan the Butler,
and his brother Sir Bedivere, and they were
full sore wounded. Jesu mercy, said the king,
where are all my noble knights become? Alas
that ever I should see this doleful day, for
now, said Arthur, I am come to mine end. But
would to God that I wist where were that
traitor Sir Mordred, that hath caused all this
mischief.
Then was King Arthur ware where Sir Mor-
dred leaned upon his sword amongst a great
heap of dead men. Now give me my spear,
said Arthur unto Sir Lucan, for yonder I have
espied the traitor that all this woe hath
wrought. Sir, let him be, said Sir Lucan, for
he is unhappy ;0 and if ye pass this unhappy
day ye shall be right well revenged upon him.
Good lord, remember ye of your night 's <lream,
and what the spirit of Sir Gawaine told you
this night, yet God of his great goodness hath
preserved you hitherto. Therefore, for God 's
sake, my lord, leave off by this, for blessed be
God ye have won the field, for here we be three
on live, and with Sir jMordred is none on live;
and if ye leave off now this wicked day of
destiny is past. Tideio me death, betide me
life, saith the king, now 1 see him yonder alone
he shall never escape mine hands, for at a bet-
ter avail shall I never have him. God speed
you well, said Sir Bedivere.
Then the king gat his spear in both his
hands, and ran toward Sir Mordred, crying:
Traitor, now is thy death day come. And when
Sir Mordred heard Sir Arthur, he ran until
him with his sword drawn in his hand. And
there King Arthur smote Sir Mordred under
the shield, with a foin of his spear, throughout
the body, more than a fathom. And when Sir
Mordred felt that he had his death wound he
B rankfi
•I did his bo.st (his utmost endeavor)
7 high plain 8 of evil omen
h madly lo befall
SIR THOMAS MALORY
100
thrust himself with tlio might that he had up
to the bur of King Arthur's spear. And right
so he smote his father Arthnr, with his -word
holden in both his hands, on the side of the
head, that tlie sword pierced the helmet and the
brain pan, and therewithal Sir Mordred fell
stark dead to the earth.
And the noble Arthur fell in a swoon to the
earth, and there he swooned ofttimes. And Sir
Luean the Butler and Sir Bedivere ofttimes
heaved him up. And so weakly they le<l him
betwixt them both, to a little chapel not far
from the seaside. And when the king was
there he thought him well eased. Then heard
they people cry in the field. Now go thou,
Sir Lucan, said the king, and do me to witu
what betokens that noise in the field. So Sir
Lucan departed, for he was grievously wounded
in many places. And so as he yede,i2 he saw
and liearkeued by the moonlight, how that
pillersis and robbers were come into the field,
to pill and to rob many a full noble knight of
hrooi'hes, and beads, of many a good ring, and
of many a rich jewel; and who that were not
dead all out,i* there they slow them for their
harness and their riches. When Sir Lucan un-
derstood this work, he came to the king as soon
as he might, and told him all what he had
heard and seen. Therefore by my rede.is said
Sir Lucan, it is best that we bring you to some
town. I would it were so, said the king, but
I may not stand, mine head works so. Ah Sir
Launcelot, said King Arthur, this day have I
sore missed thee: alas, that ever I was against
thee, for now have I my death, whereof Sir
Gawaine nie warned in my dream.
Then Sir Lucan took up the king the one
part, and Sir Bedivere the other part, and in
the lifting the king swooned; and Sir Lucan
fell in a swoon with the lift, that the part of
his bowels fell out of his body, and therewith
the noble knight's heart brast.i« And when
the king awoke, he beheld Sir Lucan, how he
lay foaming at the mouth, and part of his
bowels lay at his feet. Alas, said the king,
this is to me a full heavy sight, to see this
noble duke so die for my sake, for he would
have holpen me, that had more need of help
than I. Alas, he would not complain him, his
heart was so set to help me: now Jesu have
mercy upon his soul!
Then Sir Bedivere wept for the death of his
brother. Leave this mourning and weeping,
said the king, for all this will not avail me, for
wit thou well an I might live myself, the death
11 let me know
12 went
18 pillagers
14 outright
15 advice
16 burst
of Sir Lut-an would grieve me evermore; but
my time hieth fast, said the king. Therefore,
said Arthur unto Sir Bedivere, take thou Exca-
libur, my good sword, and go with it to yonder
water side, and when thou coniest there I
charge thee throw my sword in that water, and
come again and tell me what thou there seest.
My lord, said Bedivere, your commandment
shall be done, and lightly bring you word
again.
So Sir Bedivere departed, and by the way he
beheld that noble sword, that the pommel and
the haft was all of precious stones; and then
he said to himself: If I throw this rich sword
in the water, thereof shall never come good,
but harm and loss. And then Sir Bedivere hid
Excalibur under a tree. And so, as soon as he
might, he came again unto the king, and said
he had been at the water, and had thrown the
sword in the water. What saw thou there?
said the king. Sir, he said, I saw nothing but
waves and winds. That is untruly said of thee,
said the kiug, therefore go thou lightly again,
and do my commandment; as thou art to me
lief and dear, spare not, but throw it in.
Then Sir Bevidere returned again, and took
the sword in his hand; and then him thought
sin and shame to throw away that noble sword,
and so eft^^ he hid the sword, and returned
again, and told to the king that he had been
at the water, and done his commandment.
What saw thou there? said the king. Sir, he
said, I saw nothing but the waters wappe and
waves wanne.18 Ah, traitor untrue, said King
Arthur, now hast thou betraj'ed me twice. Wlio
would have weened that, thou that hast been to
me so lief and dear? and thou art named a
noble knight, and would betray me for the
richness of the sword. But now go again
lightly, for thy long tarrying putteth me in
great jeopardy of my life, for I have taken
cold. And but if'" thou do now as I bid thee,
if ever I may see thee I shall slay thee with
mine own hands; for thou wouldst for my rich
sword see me dead.
Then Sir Bedivere departed, and went to the
sword, and lightly took it up, and went to the
water side; and there he bound the girdle
about the hilts, and then he threw the sword
as far into the water as he might; and there
came an arm and an hand above the water and
met it, and caught it, and so shook it thrice
and brandished, and then vanished away the
hand with the sword in the water. So Sir
Bedivere came again to the king, and told him
17 again
IS lap and ebb (ebb and flow)
19 unless
110
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
what he saw. Alas, said the king, help me
hence, for 1 dread me I have tarried over long.
Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his
back, and so went with him to that water side.
And when they were at the water side, even
fast by the bank hoved a little barge with
many fair ladies in it, and among them all was
a queen, and all they had black hoods, and all
they wept and shrieked when they saw King
Arthur. Now put me into the barge, said the
king. And so he did softly; and there received
him three queens with great mourning; and so
they set them down, and in one of their laps
King Arthur laid his head. And then that
queen said: Ah, dear brother, why have ye tar-
ried so long from me? alas, this wound on
your head hath caught over-much cold. And
BO then they rowed from the land, and Sir
Bedivere beheld all those ladies go from him.
Then Sir Bedivere cried: Ah my lord Arthur,
what shall become of me, now ye go from me
and leave me here alone among mine enemies?
Comfort thyself, said the king, and do as well
as thou mayest, for in me is no trust for to
trust in ; for I will into the vale of Avilionso to
heal me of my grievous wound: and if thou
hear never more of me, pray for my soul. But
ever the queens and ladies wept and* shrieked,
that it was pity to hear.
And as soon as Sir Bedivere had lost the
sight of the barge, he wept and wailed, and so
took the forest; and so he went all that night,
and in the morning he was ware, betwixt two
holts hoar,2i of a chapel and an hermitage.
Then was Sir Bedivere glad, and thither he
went; and when he came into the chapel, he
saw where lay an hermit grovelling on all
four, there fast by a tomb was new graven.
When the hermit saw Sir Bedivere he knew
him well, for he was but little tofore Bishop of
Canterbury, that Sir Mordred flemed.22 Sir,
said Bedivere, what man is there interred that
ye pray so fast for? Fair son, said the hermit,
I wot not verily, but by deeming.23 But this
night, at midnight, here came a number of
ladies, and brought hither a dead corpse, and
prayed me to bury him; and here they offered
an hundred tapers, and they gave me an hun-
dred besant8.24 Alas, said Sir Bedivere, that
was my lord King Arthur, that here lieth bur-
ied in this chapel.
Then Sir Bedivere swooned; and when he
awoke he prayed the hermit he might abide
with him still there, to live with fasting and
so Or Avalon. the Celtic Land of the Blessed, or
Karthly Paradise.
21 two gray woodfd billH
22 put to nlKht 24 a gold coin (named
23 1 can only conjecture from Ryzantium)
prayers. For from hence will I never go, said
Sir Bedivere, by my will, but all the days of
my life here to pray for my lord Arthur. Ye
are welcome to me, said the hermit, for I know
you better than ye ween that I do. Ye are the
bold Bedivere, and the full noble duke, Sir
Lucan the Butler, was your brother. Then Sir
Bedivere told the hermit all as ye have heard
tofore. So there bode Sir Bedivere with the
hermit that was tofore Bishop of Canterbury,
and there Sir Bedivere put upon him poor
clothes, and served the hermit full lowly in
fasting and in prayers.
Yet some men say in many parts of Eng-
land that King Arthur is not dead, but had25
by the will of our Lord Jesu into another place ;
and men say that he shall come again, and he
shall win the holy cross. I will not say it shall
be so, but rather I will say, here in this world
he changed his life. But many men say that
there is written upon his tomb this verse: Hie
jacet Arthurus, Bex quondam, Eexque futurus.-^
Thus leave I here Sir Bedivere with the hermit,
that dwelled that time in a chapel beside Glas-
tonbury, and there was his hermitage. And so
they lived in their prayers, and fastings, and
great abstinence.
SIR THOMAS MORE (1478-1535)
From UTOPIA.*
The Epistle
Thomas More to Peter Giles,-f sendeth greeting:
I am almost ashamed, right well-beloved
Peter Giles, to send unto you this book of the
Utopian commonwealth, well nigh after a
year's space, which I am sure you looked for
within a month and a half. And no marvel.
For you knew well enough that I was already
disburdened of all the labor and study belong-
ing to the invention in this work, and that I
had no need at all to trouble my brains about
the disposition or conveyance of the mat-
25 taken , ^
26 Here lies Arthur, king that wan and shall be.
• This book was written and published in Latin
In 1516. It was translated by Ralph Robin-
son in l.'iSl. The extracts here given are
from the second edition of Robinson's trans-
lation, 1556. "Utopia" Is a word made from
the Greek, meaning "nowhere." As the Imag-
inary commonwealth is pictured In such at-
tractive colors, it is easy to regard the first
syllable of the name ns representing the
Greek cm. "well," instead of ou, "not," and
"Utopian" has come to mean "perfect," as
well as "visionary."
T A friend of More who lived at Antwerp.
SIB THOMAS MORE
111
ter, and therefore had herein nothiug else to
do but only to rehearse those things which you
and I together heard master Baphaelt tell and
declare. Wherefore there was no cause why I
should study to set forth the matter with elo-
quence: forasmuch as his talk could not be
fine and eloquent, being first not studied for,
but sudden and unpremetlitate, and then, as
you know, of a man better seeni in the Greek
language than in the Latin tongue. And my
writing, the nigher it should approach to his
homely, plain, and simple^ speech, so much the
nigher should it go to the truth, which is the
only mark whereunto I do and ought to direct
all my travail and study herein.
I grant and confess, friend Peter, myself dis-
charged of so much labor, having all these
thinfs ready done to my hand, that almost
there was nothing left for me to do. Else
either the invention or the disposition of this
matter might have required of a wit neither
base, neither at all unlearned, both some time
and leisure, and also some study. But if it
were requisite and necessary that the matter
should also have been written eloquently, and
not alone truly, of a surety that thing could I
have performed by no time nor study. But
now seeing all these eares, stays, and lets2 were
taken away, wherein else so much labor and
study should have been employed, and that
there remained no other thing for me to do
but only to write plainly the matter as I heard
it spoken, that indeed was a thing light and
easy to be done.
Howbeit, to the dispatching of this so little
business my other cares and troubles did leave
almost less than no leisure. Whiles I do daily
bestow my time about law matters, some to
plead, some to hear, some as an arbitrator with
mine award to determine, some as an umpire
or a judge, with my sentence finally to discuss;
whiles I go one way to see and visit my friend,
another way about mine own private affairs;
whiles I spend almost all the day abroad
amongst other, and the residue at home among
mine own: I leave to myself, I mean to my
book, no time. For when I am come home, I
must commens with my wife, chat with my
1 versed
2 hindrances s commune
t Raphaol Hythloday. the imasinary narrator,
whom More professes to have met in Ant-
werp. His name means "teller of idle tales."
§ To use two or three words thus for the same
idea was a common practice of writers of the
time, and especially of translators, who often
took this means of giving both the Latin
derivative and its Saxon equivalent. Mere's
I^tin is much terser than bis translator's
English.
children, and talk with my servants. All the
which things I reckon and account among busi-
ness, forasmuch as they must of necessity be
done: and done must they needs be, unless a
man will be a stranger in his own house. And
in any wise a man must so fashion and order
his conditions, and so appoint and disix)se him-
self, that he be merry, jocund, and pleasant
among them whom either nature hath provided,
or chance hath made, or he himself hath chosen,
to be the fellows and companions of his life,
so that with too much gentle behavior and
familiarity he do not mar them, and by too
much sufferance of his servants make them bis
masters.
Among these things now rehearsed stealeth
away the day, the month, the year. When do
I write then? And all this while have I spoken
no word of sleep, neither yet of meat, which
among a great number doth waste no less time
than doth sleep, wherein almost half the life-
time of man creepeth away. I therefore do
win and get only that time which I steal from
sleep and meat. Which time because it is very
little, and yet somewhat it is, therefore have I
once at the last, though it be long first, fin-
ished Utopia, and have sent it to you, friend
Peter, to read and peruse, to the intent that
if anything have escaped me, you might put
me in remembrance of it. For though in this
behalf I do not greatly mistrust myself (which
would God I were somewhat in wit and learn-
ing as I am not all of the worst and dullest
memory) yet have I not so great trust and con-
fidence in it that I think nothing could fall
out of my mind.
For John Clement, my boy,* who as yon
know was there present with us, whom I suffer
to be away from no talk wherein may be any
profit or goodness (for out of this young
bladed and new shot up corn, which hath al-
ready begun to spring up both in Latin and
Greek learning, I look for plentiful increase at
length of goodly ripe grain), — he, I say, hath
brought me into a great doubt. For whereas
Hythloday (unless my memory fail me) said
that the bridge of Amaurote, which goeth over
the river of Anyder, is five hundred paces, that
is to say, half a mile in length, my John sayeth
that two hundred of those paces must be
plucked away, for that the river containeth
there not above three hundred paces in breadth.
I pray you heartily, call the matter to your
remembrance. For if you agree with him, I
also will say as you say, and confess myself de-
ceived. But if you cannot remember the thing,
• He was a tutor In More's household.
112
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH (JENTUlUES
theu surely I will write as I have done ajid
as mine own remembrance serveth me. For as
I will take good heed that there be in my book
nothing false, so if there be anything doubtful,
I will rather tell a lie than make a lie; because
1 had rather be good, than wily.
Howbeit, this matter may easily be remedied
if you will take the pains to ask the question of
Eaphael himself by word of mouth, if he be
now with you, or else by your letters. Which
you must needs do for another doubt also that
hath chanced, — through whose fault I cannot
tell, whether through mine, or yours, or Ra-
phael's. For neither we remembered to inquire
of him, nor he to tell us, in what part of the
new world Utopia is situate. The which thing,
I had rather have spent no small sum of money
than that it should thus have escaped us: as
well for that I am ashamed to be ignorant in
what sea that island standeth, whereof I write
so long a treatise, as also because there be with
us certain men, and especially one virtuous
and godly man, and a professor of divinity,
who is exceeding desirous to go unto Utopia;
not for a vain and curious desire to see news,*
but to the intent he may further and increase
our religion, which is there already luckily be-
gun. And that he may the better accomplish
and perform this his good intent, he is minded
to procure that he may be sent thither by the
high Bishop; yea, and that he himself may be
made Bishop of Utopia: being nothing scrupu-
lous herein, that he must obtain this Bishopric
Mith suit.5 For he counteth that a godly suit
which proeeedeth not of the desire of honor or
lucre, but only of a godly zeal.
Wherefore I most earnestly desire you,
friend Peter, to talk with Hythloday, if you
can, face to face, or else to write your letters
to him, and so to work in this matter that in
this my book there may neither anything be
found which is untrue, neither anything be
lacking which is true.
And I think verily it shall be well done that
you show unto him the book itself. For if I have
missed or failed in any point, or if any fault
have escaped me, no man can so well correct
and amend it as he can: and yet that can he
not do unless he peruse and read over my book
written. Moreover, by this means shall you
perceive whether he be well willing and con-
tent that I should undertake to put this work
in writing. For if he be minded to publish
and put forth his own labors and travails him-
self, perchance be would be loth, and so would
4 now thln^M
6 not HcrupliDK nt all to ask for it
I also, that in publishing the Utopian weal pub-
lic,'' I should prevent^ him, and take from him
the flower and grace of the novelty of this his
history.
Howbeit, to say the very truth, I am not
yet fully determined with myself whether 1
will put forth my book or no. For the natures
of men be so diverse, the fantasies of some so
wayward, their minds so unkind, their judg-
ments so corrupt, that they which lead a merry
and a jocund life, following their own sensual
pleasures and carnal lusts, may seem to be in
a much better state or case than they that vex
and unquiet themselves with cares and study
for the putting forth and publishing of some
thing that may be either profit or pleasure to
others: which others nevertheless will disdain-
fully, scornfully, and unkindly accept the same.
The most part of all be unlearned. And a
great number hath learning in contempt. The
rude and barbarous alloweth nothing but that
which is very barbarous indeed. If it be one
that hath a little smack of learning, he re-
jecteth as homely gear and common ware what-
soever is not stuflPed full of old moth-eaten
terms, and that be worn out of use. Some
there be that have pleasure only in old rustic
antiquities; and some only in their own doings.
One is so sour, so crabbed, and so unpleasant,
that he can away with* no mirth nor sport.
Another is so narrow between the shoulders
that he can bear no jests nor taunts. Some
silly poor souls be so afeard that at every snap-
pish word their nose shall be bitten off, that
they stand in no less dread of every quick and
sharp word than he that is bitten of a mad dog
feareth water. Some be so mutable and waver-
ing that every hour they be in a new mind, say-
ing one thing sitting and another thing stand-
ing. Another sort sitteth upon their ale-
benches, and there among their cups they give
judgment of the wits of writers, and with
great authority they condemn, even as pleaseth
them, every writer according to his writing,
in most spiteful manner mocking, louting, and
flouting them; being themselves in the meen
season safe, and, as sayeth the proverb, out of
all danger of gun-shot. For why,» they be so
smug and smooth that they have not so much
as one hair of an honest man whereby one may
take hold of them. There be, moreover, some
so unkind and ungentle that though they take
great pleasure and delectation in the work, yet,
for all that, they cannot find in their hearts to
love the author thereof, nor to afford him a
6 commonwealth
7 anticipate
R endure
9 because
SIB THOMAS MORE
113
good word: being much like uncourteous, un-
thankful, and churlish guests, which, when they
have with good aud dainty meats well filled
their bellies, depart home, giving no thanks to
the feast-maker. Go your ways now, and make
a costly feast at your own charges for guests
so dainty-mouthed, so divers in taste, and be-
sides that of so unkind and unthankful natures.
But nevertheless, friend Peter, do, I pray
you, with Hythloday as I willed you before.
And as for this matter, I shall be at my liberty
afterwards to take new advisement. Howbeit,
seeing 1 have taken great pains and labor in
writing the matter, if it may stand with his
mind and pleasure, I will, as touching the edi-
tion or publishing of the book, follow the
counsel and advice of my friends, and specially
yours. Thus fare you well, right heartily be-
loved friend Peter, with your gentle wife: and
love me as you have ever done, for I love you
better than ever I did.
Of the Cities, and Namely op Amaurote.io
Book II. Chapter II
As for their cities, whoso knoweth one of
them, knoweth them all: they be all so like
one to another, as farforth as the nature of the
place permitteth. I will describe therefore to
you one or other of them, for it skillethn not
greatly which; but which rather than Amau-
rote? Of them all this is the worthiest and of
most dignity. For the residue 'knowledge it
for the head city, because there is the Council-
house. Nor to me any of them all is better
beloved, as wherein I lived five whole years
together.
The city of Amaurote standeth upon the
side of a low hill, in fashion almost four
square. For the breadth of it beginneth a lit-
tle beneath the top of the hill, and still con-
tinueth by the space of two miles, until it
come to the river of Anyder.12 The length of
it, which lieth by the river's side, is somewhat
more.
The river of Anyder riseth four and twenty
miles above Amaurote out of a little spring.
But being increased by other small rivers and
brooks that run into it, and, among otlier, two
somewhat big ones, before the city it is half a
mile broad, and farther, broader. And forty
miles beyond the city it falleth into the ocean
sea. By all that space that lieth between the sea
and the city, and certain miles also above the
city, the water ebbeth and floAveth six hours to-
10 The name means "dark, unknown."
11 matters 12 i. c., waterless
gether with a swift tide. When the sea flow-
eth in, for the length of thirty miles it filleth
all the Anyder with salt water, and driveth
back the fresh water of the river. And
somewhat further it changeth the sweetness of
the fresh water with saltness. But a little
beyond that the river waxeth sweet, and run-
neth forbyis the city fresh and pleasant. And
when the sea ebbeth and goeth back again, the
fresh water followeth it almost even to the
very fall into the sea. There goeth a bridge
over the river made not of piles or of timber,
but of stonework, with gorgeous and substan-
tial arches at that part of the city that is
farthest from the sea; to the intent that ships
may pass along forby all the side of the city
without let.
They have also another river, which indeed is
not very great. But it runneth gently and
pleasantly. For it riseth even out of the same
hill that the city standeth upon, and runneth
down a slope through the midst of the city into
Anyder. And because it riseth a little without
the city, the Amaurotians have enclosed the
head spring of it with strong fences and bul-
warks, and so have joined it to the city. This
is done to the intent that the water should not
be stopped, nor turned away, or poisoned, if
their enemies should chance to come upon them.
From thence the water is derived and conveyed
down in canals of brick divers ways into the
lower parts of the city. Where that cannot be
done, by reason that the place will not suffer
it, there they gather the rain-water in great
cisterns, which doth them as good service.
The city is compassed about with a high and
thick stone wall full of turrets and bulwarks.
A dry ditch, but deep, and broad, and over-
grown with bushes, briers, and thorns, goeth
about three sides or quarters of the city. To
the fourth side the river itself serveth for a
ditch.
The streets be appointedi* and set forth
very commodious and handsome, both for car-
riage,i5 and also against the winds. The
houses be of fair and gorgeous building, and
on the street side they stand joined together
in a long row through the whole street without
any partition or separation. The streets be
twenty foot broad.* On the back side of the
houses, through the whole length of the street,
lie large gardens, inclosed round about with
the back part of the streets. Every house hath
13 pa.st (<iern)an vorbci) i5 transportation
1 » arranged
• To More this width seemed generous. Some of
the busiest streets of London were, until a
recent date, scarcely wider.
114
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
two doors, one into the street, and a postern
door on the back side into the garden. These
doors be made with two leaves, never
locked nor bolted, so easy to be opened that
they will follow the least drawing of a finger,
and shut again alone. Whoso will, may go in,
for there is nothing within the houses that is
private, or any man's cnvn. And every tenth
year they change their houses by lot.
They set great store by their gardens. In
them they have vineyards, all manner of fruit,
herbs, and flowers, so pleasant, so well fur-
nished, and so finely kept, that I never saw
thing more fruitful, nor better trimmed in any
place. Their study and diligence herein com-
eth not only of pleasure, but also of a certain
strife and contention that is between street and
street, concerning the trimming, husbanding,
and furnishing of their gardens — every man
for his own part. And verily you shall not
lightly find in all the city anything that is more
commodious, either for the profit of the citi-
zens, or for pleasure. And therefore it may
seem that the first founder of the city minded
nothing so much as these gardens.
For they say that king Utopus himself, even
at the first beginning, appointed and drew
forth the platformis of the city into this fash-
ion and figure that it hath now, but the gallant
garnishing, and the beautiful setting forth of
it, whereunto he saw that one man's age would
not suffice, that he left to his posterity. For
their chronicles, which tliey keep written with
all diligent circumspection, containing the his-
tory of one thousand seven hundred and sixty
years, even from the first conquest of the
island, record and witness that the houses in
the beginning were very low, and, like homely
cottages or poor shepherd houses, made at all
adventures!' of every rude piece of timber
that came first to hand, with mud walls, and
ridged roofs, thatched over with straw. But
now the houses be curiously builded after a
gorgeous and gallant sort, with three stories
one over another. The outsides of the walls
be made either of hard flint, or of plaster, or
else of brick, and the inner sides be well
strengthened with timber-work. The roofs be
plain and flat, covered with a certain kind of
plaster that is of no cost, and yet so tempered
that no fire can hurt or perish it, and with-
standeth the violence of the weather better
than any lead. They keep the wind out of
their windows with glass, for it is there much
used, and somewhere also with fine linen cloth
dippetl in oil or amber, and that for two com-
i* ground-plao
17 haphazard
modities. For by this means more light com-
eth in, and the wind is better kept out.t
Of Sciences, Crafts and Occupations. Book
II. Chapter IV
Husbandry is a science common to them all
in general, both men and women, wherein they
be all expert and cunning. In this they be all
instructed even from their youth, partly in
their schools with traditions and precepts, and
partly in the country nigh the city, brought
upi8 as it were in playing, not only beholding
the use of it, but, by occasion of exercising
their bodies, practicing it also. Besides hus-
bandry, which (as I said) is common to them
all, every one of them learneth one or other
severali» and particular science as his own
proper craft. That is most commonly either
cloth-working in wool or flax, or masonry, or
the smith's craft, or the carpenter's science.
For there is none other occupation that any
number to speak of doth use there.
For20 their garments, which throughout all
the island be of one fashion (saving that there
is a difference between the man's garment and
the woman 's, between the married and the un-
married), and this one continueth for ever
more unchanged, seemly and comely to the eye,
no let to the moving and wielding of the body,
also fit both for winter and summer, — as for
these garments (I say), every family maketh
their own. But of the other aforesaid crafts
every man learneth one. And not only the
men, but also the women. But the women, as
the weaker sort, be put to the easier crafts, as
to work wool and flax. The more laborsome
sciences be committed to the men. For the
most part every man is brought up in his
father's craft. For most commonly they be
naturally thereto bent and inclined. But if a
man's mind stand to any other, he is by adop-
tion put into a family of that occupation which
he doth most fantasy. Whom not only his
father, but also the magistrates do diligently
look to, that he be put to a discreet and an
honest householder. Yea, and if any person,
when he hath learned one craft, be desirous to
learn also another, he is likewise suffered and
permrtted. When he hath learned both, he
occupieth whether he will,2i unless the city
have more need of the one than of the other.
18 The I^tln reads educti and should have been
translated "led out."
20 as'' for ** 21 practises whichever he wishos
t Glass windows were introduced Into tJio wealtli-
ler houses In EnKland probably In Mon'S
time Other houses continued to use slat ana
wicker lattices and panels of horq.
SIK THOMAS MOBE
115
The chief and almost the only office of the
Syphograntst is to see and take heed that no
man sit idle, but that every one apply his own
craft with earnest diligence; and yet for all
that, not to be wearied from early in the morn-
ing to late in the evening with continual work,
like laboring and toiling beasts. For this is
worse than the miserable and wretched condi-
tion of bondmen. Which nevertheless is almost
everywhere Ihe life of workmen and artificers,
saving in Utopia. For they, dividing the day
and the night into twenty-four just hours, ap-
point and assign only six of those hours to
work, three before noon, upon the which they
go straight to dinner; and after dinner, when
they have rested two hours, then they work
three hours, and upon that they go to supper.^
About eight of the clock in the evening (count-
ing one of the clock at the first hour after
noon), they go to bed: eight hours they give
to sleep. All the void time that is between the
hours of work, sleep, and meat, that they be
suffered to bestow, every man as he liketh best
himself. Not to th' intent that they should
misspend this time in riot or slothfulness, but,
being then licensed22 from the labor of their
own occupations, to bestow the time well and
thriftily upon some other science, as shall please
them. For it is a solemn custom there to have
lectures daily early in the morning, where to
be present they only be constrained that be
namely chosen and appointed to learning. How-
beit, a great multitude of every sort of people,
both men and women, go to hear lectures, some
one, and some another, as every man's nature
is inclined. Yet, this notwithstanding, if any
man had rather bestow this time upon his own
occupation (as it chanceth in many whose
minds rise not in the contemplation of any
science liberal), he is not letted nor prohibited,
but is also23 praised and commended, as profit-
able to the commonwealth.
After supper they bestow one hour in play,
in summer in their gardens, in winter in their
common halls, where they dine and sup. There
they exercise themselves in music, or else in
honest and wholesome communication. Dice-
play, and such other foolish and pernicious
games, they know not. But they use two
games not much unlike the chess. The one is
the Battle of Numbers, wherein one number
22 freed 23 even
t Officers, two hundred in number, each elected
by and ruling over thirty families. The word.
like Tranibore and other supposed words of
the old Utopian tongue, is meaningless.
S In England. In Mere's time summer working
hours were from 5 a. m. to 7 p. m.
stealeth away another. The other is wherein
Vices fight with Virtues, as it were in battle
array, or a set field. In the which game is
very properly showed, both the strife and dis-
cord that vices have among themselves, and
again their unity and concord against virtues;
and also what vices be repugnant to what vir-
tues — with what power and strength they as-
sail them openly, by what wiles and subtlety
they assault them secretly; with what help and
aid the virtues resist and overcome the puis-
sance of the vices; by what craft they frus-
trate their purposes; and finally by what
sleight or means the one getteth the victory.
But here, lest you be deceived, one thing
you must look more narrowly24 upon. For see-
ing they bestow but six hours in work, per-
chance you may think that the lack of some
necessary things hereof may ensue. But this
is nothing so. For that small time is not only
enough, but also too much, for the store and
abundance of all things that be requisite either
for the necessity or commodity of life. The
which thing you also shall perceive if you
weigh and consider with yourselves how great
a part of the people in other countries liveth
idle. First, almost all women, which be the
half of the whole number: or else if the women
be somewhere occupied, there most commonly
in their stead the men be idle. Besides this,
how great and how idle a company is there of
priests, and religious men25^ as they call them.
Put thereto all rich men, specially all landed
men, which commonly be called gentlemen and
noblemen. Take into this number also their
servants; I mean all that flock of stout, brag-
ging rush-bucklers.26 Join to them also sturdy
and valiant beggars, cloaking their idle life
under the color of some disease or sickness.
And truly you shall find them27 much fewer
than you thought, by whose labor all these
things are wrought that in men's affairs are
now daily used and frequented.
Now consider with yourself, of these few
that do work, how few be occupied in neces-
sary works. For where money beareth all the
swing, there many vain and superfluous occupa-
tions must needs be used to serve only for
riotous superfluity and unhonest pleasure. For
the same multitude that now is occupied in
work, if they were divided into so few occupa-
tions as the necessary use of nature requireth,
in 80 great plenty of things as then of neces-
sity would ensue, doubtless the prices would be
24 closely 2« swashbucklers
25 men attached to some 27 those
religious order;
monks, etc.
116
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
too little for the artificers to maintain their
livings. But if all these that be now busied
about unprofitable occupations, with all the
whole flock of them that live idly and sloth-
fully, which consume and waste every one of
them more of these things that come by other
men 's labor than two of the workmen them-
selves do; if all these (I say) were set to
profitable occupations, you easily perceive how
little time would be enough, yea and too much,
to store us with all things that may be requi-
site either for necessity or for commotUty, yea
or for pleasure, so that the same pleasure be
true and natural.
And this in Utopia the thing itself maketh
manifest and plain. For there, in all the city,
with the whole country or shire adjoining to it,
scarcely five hundred persons of all the whole
number of men and women, that be neither too
old nor too weak to work, be licensed and dis-
charged from labor. Among them be the
Syphogrants, who, though they be by the laws
exempt and privileged from labor, yet they
exempt not themselves; to the intent that they
may the rather by their example provoke others
to work. The same vacation from labor do
they27 also enjoy to whom the people, persuad-
ed by the commendation of the priests and se-
cret election of the Syphogrants, have given a ■
])erpetual licence from labor to learning. But
if any one of them prove not according to the
ex{)cctation and hope of him conceived, he is
forthwith plucked back to the company of arti-
ficers. And, contrariwise, often it chancctli
that a handicraftsman doth so earnestly bestow
his vacant and spare hours in learning, and
through diligence so profiteth therein, that he
is taken from his handyss occupation and pro-
moted to the company of the learned. Out of
this order of the learned be chosen ambassa-
dors, priests, Tranibores,* and finally the
prince himself, whom they in their old tongue
call Barzanes, and by a newer name, Adamus.2»
The residue of the people being neither idle,
nor yet occupied about unprofitable exercises,
it may be easily judged in how few hours how
much good work by them may be done and dis-
patched towards those things that I have
spoken of.
Thin (U'nimodity they have also above others,
that in the most part of necessary occupations
they need not so much work as other nations
do. For first of all the building or repairing
of houses askctb everywhere so many men's
?* manual 20 Or Ademus, "folklesB"
♦ MatjistratPH. twenty in oumber, superior to th<
SyphoKraotK,
continual labor, because that the unthrifty heir
suffereth the houses that his father builded in
continuance of time to fall in decay. So, that
which he might have upholden with little cost,
his successor is constrained to build it again
anew, to his great charge. Yea, many times
also the house that stood one man inso much
money, another is of so nice and so delicate a
mind that he setteth nothing by it. And it be-
ing neglected, and therefore shortly falling
into ruin, he buildeth up another in another
place with no less cost and charge. But among
the Uto|)ians, where all things be set in a good
order, and the commonwealth in a good stay.si
it very seldom chanceth that they choose a new
plot to build an house upon. And they do not
only find speedy and quick remedies for present
faults, but also prevent them that be like to
fall. And by this means their houses continue
and last very long with little labor and small
reparations, in so much that this kind of work-
men sometimes have almost nothing to do, but
that they be commanded to hew timber at
home, and to square and trim up stones, to the
intent that if any work chance, it may the
8pee<llier rise.
Now, sir, in their apparel, mark (I pray
you) how few workmen they need. First of
all, whiles they be at work, they be covered
homely with leather or skins that will last
seven years. When they go forth abroad, they
cast upon them a cloak, which hideth the other
homely apparel. These cloaks throughout the
whole island be all of one color, and that is
the natural color of the wool. They therefore
do not only spend much less woolen cloth than
is spent in other countries, but also the same
standeth them in much less cost. But linen
cloth is made with less labor, and is therefore
had more in use. But in linen cloth only white-
ness, in woolen only cleanliness, is regarded.
As for the smallness or fineness of tlie thread,
that is nothing passed for.32 And this is the
cause wherefore in other places four or five
cloth gowns of divers colors, and as many silk
coats, be not enough for one man. Yea, and if
he be of the delicate and nice sort, ten be too
few; whereas there one garment will serve a
man most commonly two years. For why should
he desire morel Seeing if ho had them, he
should not be the better haptss or covered from
<-ol«l, neither in his apparel any whit the come-
lier.
Wherefore, seeing they be all exercised in
profitable occupations, and that few artificers
so cost
31 state
32 not at all heeded
33 wrapt
SIR THOMAS MORE
117
in the same crafts be suflScient, this is the
cause that, plenty of all things being among
them, they do sometimes bring forth an innu-
merable company of people to amend the high-
ways, if any be broken. Many times also,
when they have no such work to be occupied
about, an open proclamation is made that they
shall bestow fewer hours in work. For the
magistrates do not exercise their citizens
against their wills in unneedful labors. For
why, in the institution of that weal public this
end is only and chiefly pretended^* and minded.
that what time may possibly be spared from
the necessary occupations and affairs of tlic
commonwealth, all that the citizens should
withdraw from the bodily service to the free
liberty of the mind and garnishing of the
same. For herein they suppose the felicity of
this life to consist.
Of Theie Joubneyings or Travelling Abroad,
WITH Divers Other Matters. Book II.
Chapter VI
But if any be desirous to visit either their
friends dwelling in another city, or to see the
j)lace itself, they easily obtain licence of their
Syphogrants and Tranibores, unless there be
some profitable let.35 No man goeth out alone ;
but a company is sent forth together with their
prince 's letters, which do testify that they have
licence to go that journey, and prescribeth also
the day of their return. They have a wagon
given them, with a common bondman,* which
driveth the oxen, and taketh charge of them.
But unless they have women in their company,
they send home the wagon again, as an im-
pediment and a let. And though they carry
nothing forth with them, jet in all their jour-
ney they lack nothing. For wheresoever they
come, they be at home. If they tarry in a
place longer than one day, then there every one
of them falleth to his own occupation, and be
very genteelly entertained of^s the workmen
and companies of the same crafts. If any man
of his own head and without leave walk out
of his precinct and bounds, taken without the
prince's letters, he is brought again for a
fugitive or a runaway with great shame and
rebuke, and is sharply punishc<l. If he be
taken in that fault again, he is punished with
bondage.
If any be desirous to walk abroad into the
fields, or into the country that belongeth to
84 aimed at 36 by
35 l)usiDPSs hindranco
* Transsrressors of the law in Utopia wero made
slaves and attached to the soil. Each farm
had at least two bondmen.
the same city that he dwelleth in, obtaining the
good will of his father, and the consent of his
wife, he is not prohibited. But into what part
of the country soever he cometh he hath no
meat given him until he have wrought out his
forenoon's task, or dispatched so much work as
there is wont to be wrought before supper.
Observing this law and condition, he may go
whither he will within the bound of his own
city. For he shall be no less profitable to the
city than if he were within it.
Now you see how little liberty they have
to loiter; how they can have no cloak or pre-
tence to idleness. There be neither wine-tav-
erns, nor ale-houses, nor stews,3T nor any occa-
sion of vice or wickedness, no lurking corners,
no places of wicked counsels or unlawful assem-
blies. But they be in the present sight and
under the eyes of every man. So that of neces-
sity they must either apply^s their accustomed
labors, or else recreate themselves with honest
and laudable pastimes. This fashion and trade
of life being used among the people, it cannot
be chosen but that they must of necessity have
store and plenty of all things. . .
They keep at home all the treasure which
they have, to be holpen and succored by it
either in extreme jeopardies, or in sudden dan-
gers; but especially and chiefly to hire there-
with, and that for unreasonable great wages,
strange soldiers. For they had rather put
strangers in jeopardy than their own country-
men; knowing that for money enough their
enemies themselves many times may be bought
or sold, or else through treason be set together
by the ears among themselves. For this cause
they keep an inestimable treasure; but yet not
as a treasure; but so they have it, and use it,
as in good faith I am ashamed to show, fear-
ing that my words shall not be believed. And
this I have more cause to fear, for that I know
how difiicultly and hardly I myself would have
believed another man telling the same if I had
not presently seen it with mine own eyes. For
it must needs be that how far a thing is dis-
sonant and disagreeing from the guise and
trade30 of the hearers, so far shall it be out
of their belief. Howbeit, a wise and indiPFer-
ent esteemer*o of things will not greatly mar-
vel, perchance, seeing all their other laws and
customs do so much differ from ours, if the use
also of gold and silver among them be applied
rather to their own fashions than to ours. T
mean in that they occupy <i not money them-
37 low resorts
38 1)1 v
39 manners and practice
40 impartial judge
41 use
118
FIFTEENTH AND EABLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
selves, but keep it for that chance; which as it
may happen, so it may be that it shall never
come to pass.
In the meantime gold and silver, whereof
money is made, they do so use, as none of them
doth more esteem it than the very nature of
the thing deserveth. And then who doth not
plainly see how far it is under iron? as without
the which men can no better live than without
fire and water. Whereas to gold and silver na-
ture hath given no use that we may not well
lack if that52 the folly of men had not set it
in higher estimation for the rareness' sake.
But of*3 the contrary part, nature, as a most
tender and loving mother, hath placed the best
and most necessary things open abroad: as the
air, the water, and the earth itself; and hath
removed and hid farthest from us vain and un-
profitable things. Therefore if these metals
among them should be fast locked up in some
tower, it might be suspected that the prince
and the Council (as the people is ever foolishly
imagining) intended by some subtlety to de-
ceive the commons, and to take some profit of
it to themselves. Furthermore, if they should
make thereof plate and such other finely and
cunningly wrought stuff; if at any time they
should have occasion to break it, and melt it
again, therewith to pay their soldiers wages,
they see and perceive very well that men would
be loth to part from those things that they
once began to have pleasure and delight in.
To remedy all this they have found out a
means, which, as it is agreeable to all their
other laws and customs, so it is from ours
(where gold is so much set by, and so dili-
gently kept) very far discrepant and repug-
nant; and therefore uncredible, but only to
them that be wise. For whereas they eat and
drink in earthen and glass vessels, which in-
deed be curiously and properly made, and yet
be of very small value; of gold and silver they
make commonly other vessels that serve for
vile uses, not only in their common halls, but
in every man's private house. Furthermore,
of the same metals they make great chains,
fetters, and gyves, wherein they tie their bond-
men. Finally, whosoever for any offense be
infamed,<* by their ears hang rings of gold;
upon their fingers they wear rings of gold, and
about their necks chains of gold; and, in con-
clusion, their heads be tied about with gold.
Thus by all means possible they procure to
have gold and silver among them in reproach
and infamy. And these metals which other
42 if
48 on
44 disgraced
nations do so grievously and sorrowfully forego
as in a manner their own lives, if they should
altogether at once be taken from the Utopians,
no man there would think that he had lost the
worth of one f j^rthing.
They gather also pearls by the seaside, and
diamonds and carbuncles upon certain rocks,
and yet they seek not for them ; but by chance
finding them, they cut and polish them. And
therewith they deck their young infants.
Which, like as in the first years of their child-
hood they make much and be fond and proud
of such ornaments, so when they be a little
more grown in years and discretion, perceiving
that none but children do wear such toys and
trifles, they lay them away even of their own
shamefastness, without any bidding of their
parents; even as our children, when they wax
big, do cast away nuts, brooches, and puppets.
Therefore these laws and customs, which be
so far different from all other nations, how
divers fantasies also and minds they do cause,
did I never so plainly perceive, as in the am-
bassadors of the Anemolians.
These ambassadors came to Amaurote whilst
I was there. And because they came to entreat
of great and weighty matters, those three citi-
zens apiece out of every city* were comen
thither before them. But all the ambassadors
of the next countries which had been there
before and knew the fashions and manners of
the Utopians, among whom they perceived no
honor given to sumptuous apparel, silks to be
contemned, gold also to be infamed and re-
proachful, were wont to come thither in very
homely and simple array. But the Anemolians,
because they dwell far thence and had very lit-
tle acquaintance with them, hearing that they
were all apparelled alike, and that very rudely
and homely, thinking them not to have the
things which they did not wear, being therefore
more proud than wise, determined in the gor-
geousness of their apparel to represent very
gods, and with the bright shining and glister-
ing of their gay clothing to dazzle the eyes of
the silly^s poor Utopians.
So there came in three ambassadors with one
hundred servants all apparelled in changeable
colors, the most of them in silks, the ambas-
sadors themselves (for at home in their own
country they were noblemen) in cloth of gold,
with great chains of gold, with gold hanging
at their ears, with gold rings upon their fin-
gers, with brooches and aiglets of gold upon
46 simple
• Utopian delegates mentioned In a prevloua
chapter.
ROGER ASCHAM
119
their caps, which glistered full of pearls and
precious stones; to be short, trimmed and
adorned with all those things which among the
Utopians were either the punishment of bond-
men, or the reproach of infamed persons, or
else trifles for young children to play withal.*6
Therefore it would have done a man good at
his heart to have seen how proudly they dis-
played their peacocks' feathers, how much they
made of their painted sheaths,*^ and how loft-
ily they set forth and advanced themselves when
they compared their gallant apparel with the
poor raiment of the Utopians. For all the peo-
ple were swarmed forth into the streets.
And on the other side it was no less pleasure
to consider how much they were deceived, and
how far they missed of their purpose, being
contrariwise taken than they thought they
should have been. For to the eyes of
all the Utopians, except very few which had
been in other countries for some reasonable
cause, all that gorgeousness of apparel seemed
shameful and reproachful. In so much that
they most reverently saluted the vilest and
most abject of them for lords; passing over
the ambassadors themselves without any honor,
judging them by their wearing of gold chains
to be bondmen. Yea, you should have seen
children also, that had cast away their pearls
and precious stones, when they saw the like
sticking on the ambassadors ' caps, dig and push
their mothers under the sides, saying thus to
them: ' * Look, mother, how great a lubber doth
yet wear pearls and precious stones, as though
he were a little child still." But the mother,
yea and that also in good earnest: "Peace,
son," saith she, "I think he be some of the
ambassadors' fools." Some found fault at
their golden chains, as to no use nor purpose,
being so small and weak that a bondman might
easily break them, and again so wide and large
that, when it pleased him, he might cast them
off and run away at liberty whither he would.
But when the ambassadors had been there a
day or two and saw so great abundance of
gold so lightly esteemed, yea in no less re-
proach than it was with them in honor; and
besides that, more gold in the chains and gyves
of one fugitive bondman than all the costly
ornaments of them three was worth; they be-
gan to abate their courage, and for very shame
laid away all that gorgeous array whereof they
were so proud; and specially when they had
talked familiarly with the Utopians, and had
learned all their fashions and opinions. For
they marvel that any men be so foolish as to
4« with
47 coverings
have delight and pleasure in the doubtful glis-
tering of a little trifling stone, which*8 may
behold any of the stars, or else the sun itself;
or that any man is so mad as to count him-
self the nobler for the smaller or finer thread
of wool, which self-same wool (be it now in
never so fine a spun thread) a sheep did once
wear; and yet was she all that time no other
thing than a sheep. . . .
These and such like opinions have they con-
ceived, partly by education, being brought up
in that commonwealth whose laws and customs
be far different from these kinds of folly, and
partly by good literature and learning. For
though there be not many in every city which
be exempt and discharged from all other labors
and appointed only to learning, that is to say,
such in whom even from their very childhood
they have perceived a singular towardness, a
fine wit, and a mind apt to good learning; yet
all in their childhood be instruct in learning.
And the better part of the people, both men
and women, throughout all their whole life do
bestow in learning those spare hours which we
said they have vacant from bodily labors.*
ROGER ASCHAM (1515-1568)
TOXOPHILUSt
From the Foreword
To all Gentlemen and Yeomen of England:
Bias, the wise man, came to Croesus, the rich
king, on a time when he was making new ships,
purposing to have subdued by water the out
isles lying betwixt Greece and Asia Minor.
"What news now in Greece!" saith the king
48 who
* It may be worth noting that our word "school"
is derived from schola, "leisure."
t "Toxophilus" means "a lover of the bow," and
the book is in the form of a dialogue between
Toxophilus, an archer, and Philologus, a
scholar. Two centuries before, at the battle
of Crecy, the British yeomen had shown the
superiority of the long bow in battle to the
equipment of the armed knight, and archery
had been assiduously cultivated, though when
Ascham wrote this (1545) it was, for purposes
of war, gradually giving way to fire-arms. If
Ascham was conservative in clinging to this
old-time weapon, in another respect he was
courageously radical. That Is in his employ-
ment of the English vernacular for a learned
prose treatise. That he was conscious of
making a literary departure is manifest in
this Preface, and also in the dedication to
King Henry which preceded It, where he de-
fended himself for having "written this Eng-
lish matter In the English tongue for English
men." although to have written it "either In
Latin or Greek had been more easier." See
Eng. Lit., p. 81.
120
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
to Bias. ' ' None other news but these, ' ' saith
Bias, ' ' that the isles of Greece have prepared
a wonderful company of horsemen to overrun
Lydia withal. " " There is notliing under
heaven, ' ' saith the king, * * that I would so soon
wish, as that they durst be so bold toi meet
us on the land with horse. " " And think
you, ' ' saith Bias, * ' that there is anything
which they would sooner wish than that you
should be so fond2 to meet them on the water
with ships!" And so Croesus, hearing not the
true news, but perceiving the wise man's mind
and counsel, both gave then over making of his
ships, and left also behind him a wonderful
example for all commonwealths to follow: that
is, evermore to regard and set most by that
thing whereunto nature hath made them most
apt and use hath mad« them most fit.
By this matter I mean the shooting in the long
bow, for English men. Which thing with all my
heart I do wish, and if I were of authority I
would counsel, all the gentlemen and yeomen of
England not to change it with any other thing,
how good soever it seem to be, but that still,
according to the old wont of England, youth
should use it for the most honest pastime in
peace, that men might handle it as a most sure
weapon in war. Other strong weapons which
both experience doth prove to be good, and the
wisdom of the King's Majesty and his Council
provides to be had, are not ordained to take
away shooting; but that both, not compared
together whethers should be better than the
other, but so joined together that the one should
be always an aid and help for the other, might
so strengthen the realm on all sides that no kind
of enemy, in any kind of weapon, might pass
and go beyond us.
For this purpose, I, partly provoked by the
counsel of some gentlemen, partly moved by the
love which I have always borne toward shoot-
ing, have written this little treatise, wherein if
I have not satisfied any man, I trust he will
the rather be content with my doing, because I
am, 1 suppose, the first which hath said any-
thing in this matter; and few beginnings be
perfect, saith wise men. And also because, if
I have said amiss, I am content that any man
amend it, or if I have said too little, any man
that will to add what him pleaseth to it.
My mind is, in profiting and pleasing every
man, to hurt or displease no man, intending
none other purpose but that youth might be
stirred to labor, honest pastime, and virtue,
and, as much as lay in me, plucked from idle-
ness, unthrifty games, and vice. Which thing
las to
2 fool i Mb
8 which
I have labored only in this book, showing how
fit shooting is for all kinds of men, how hon
est a pastime for the mind, how wholesome an
exercise for the body, not vile for great men
to use, not costly for poor men to sustain, not
lurking in holes and corners for ill men at
their pleasure to misuse it, but abiding in the
open sight and face of the world for good men,
if it fault, bv their wisdom to correct it. And
here I would desire all gentlemen and yeomen
to use this pastime in such a mean that the
outrageousness of gaming should not hurt the
honesty* of shooting, which of Ms own nature
is always joined with honesty, yet for men 's
faults oftentimes blamed unworthily, as all
good things have been and evermore shall be.
If any man would blame me, either for tak-
ing such a matter in hand, or else for writing
it in the English tongue, this answer 1 may
make him, that what the best of the realm
think it honest^ for them to use, I, one of the
meanestB sort, ought not to suppose it vile for
me to write. And though to have written it
in another tongue had been both more profit-
able for my study and also more honest^ for
my name, yet 1 can think my labor well be
stowed if, with a little hindrance of my profit
and name, may come any furtherance to the
pleasure or commodity of the gentlemen and
yeomen of Engiand, for whose sake 1 took this
matter in hand. And as for the Latin or (Jreek
tongue, everything is so excellently done in
them that none can do bettor; in the English
tongue, contrary, everything in a manner so
meanly, both for the matter and handling, that
no man can do worse. For therein the least
learned for the most part have been always
most ready to write, and they which had least
hope in Latin have boon most bold in English;
when surely every man that is most ready to
talk is not most able to write. He that will
write well in any tongue must follow this coun-
sel of Aristotle: — to speak as the common peo-
ple do, to think as wise men do; and so should
every man understand him, and the judgmonl
of wise men allow" him.
^lany English writers have not done so, but
using strange words, as T>atin, French, ainl
Italian, do make all things dark and hard.
Once I communed with a man which reasoned
the English tongue to be enriched and in-
creased thereby, saying: Who will not praise
that feast where a man shall drink at a dinner
both wine, ale, and beer? Truly, quoth I, they
ho all good, every one taken by himself alone,
but if you put malmsey and sack, red wine ami
i Rood repute
s honorable
fl humblest
7 approve
SOGER ASCHAM
121
white, ale and beer, and all in one pot, you
shall make a drink neither easy to be known
nor yet wholesome for the body. Cicero, in
following Isocrates, Plato, and Demosthenes,
increased the Latin tongue after another sort.
This ways because divers men that write do
not know, they can neither follow it, because of
their ignorancy, nor yet will praise it, for very
arrogancy — two faults, seldom the one out of
the other's company.
English writers, by diversity of time, have
taken diverse matters in hand. In our fathers'
time nothing was read but books of feigned
chivalry, wherein a man by reading should be
led to none other end but only to manslaughter
and bawdry. If any man suppose they were
good enough to pass the time withal, he is de-
ceived. For surely vain words do work no
small thing thereunto of their own nature.
These books, as I have heard say, were made
the most part in abbeys and monasteries, a
very likely and fit fruit of such an idle and
blind kind of living.*
In our time now, when every man is given to
know much rather than to live well, very many
do write, but after such a fashion as very many
do shoot. Some shooters take in hand stronger
bows than they be able to maintain. This
thing maketh them sometime to outshoot the
mark, sometime to shoot far wide, and per-
chance hurt some that look on. Other that
never learned to shoot, nor yet knoweth good
shaft nor bow, will be as busy as the best, but
such one commonly plucketh down" a side, and
crafty archers which be against him will be
both glad of him, and also ever ready to layio
and bt^t with him ; it were better for such one
to sit down than shoot. Other there be which
have very good bow and shafts and good knowl-
edge in shotting, but they have been brought
up in such evil-favored shooting that they can
neither shoot fair nor yet near. If any man
will apply these thinirs together, he shall not
see the one far differ from the other.
And I also, among all other, in writing this
little treatise, have followed some young shoot-
ers, which both will begin to shoot for a little
money, and also will use to shoot once or twice
about the mark for nought afore they begin a-
good. And therefore did I take this little
matter in hand to assay' i myself, and here-
after, by the grace of God, if the judgment of
wise men that look on think that I can do any
8> Construe after "know." lo wager
9 lowers the score of ii try '
• Ascham is manifestly condemning sucli romances
as Malory's Le Morte Darthur. Knglanrt was
at tills time I'rotestuni. and the dissoliiti»n of
the monasteries a recent event.
good, I may perhaps cast my shaft among
other f»r better game.
The Ways of the Wind. From Book II .
The wind is sometimes plain up and down,
which is commonly most certain, and requireth
least knowledge, wherein a mean shooter with
mean gear.i if he can shoot home, may make
best shift. A side wind tryeth an archer and
good gear very much. Sometime it bloweth
aloft, sometime hard by the ground; sometime
it bloweth by blasts, and sometime it continu-
eth all in one; sometime full side wind, some-
time quarter with him and more, and likelvise
against him, as a man with easting up light
grass, or else if he take good heed, shall sensi-
bly learn by experience.
To see the wind with a man his2 eyes, it is
impossible, the nature of it is so fine and sub-
tle; yet this experience of the wind had I once
myself, and that was in the great snow that
fell four years ago. I rode in the highway be-
twixt Topcliffe-upon-Swale and Boroughbridge,
the way being somewhat trodden before by
wayfaring men. The fields on both sides were
plain and lay almost yard deep with snow; the
night afore had been a little frost, so that the
snow was hard and crusted above. That morn-
ing the sun shone bright and clear, the wind
was whistling aloft, and sharp, according to the
time of the year. The snow in the highway
lay loose and trodden with horse' feet: so as
the wind blew, it took the loose snow with it,
and made it so slide upon the snow in the field,
which was hard and crusted by reason of the
frost over night, that thereby I might see very
well the whole nature of the wind as it blew
that day. And I had a great delight and pleas-
ure to mark it, which maketh me now far bet-
ter to remember it.
Sometime the wind would be not past two
yards broad, and so it would carry the snow
as far as I could see. Another time the snow
would blow over half the field at once. Some-
time the snow would tumble softly, by and by
it would fly wonderful fast. And this I per-
ceived also, that the wind goeth by streams and
not whole together. For I should see one
stream within a scores of me, then the space of
two score no snow would stir, but after so
much quantity of ground another stream of
snow at the same very time should be carried
likewise, but not equally; for the one would
1 ordinary equipment
2 man's (a pedantic form, due to the erroneous
idea that the possessive x was a contraction
of hix).
3 twenty yards
122
FIFTEENTH AND EABLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
stand still when the other flew apace, and so
continue, sometime swiftlier, sometime slowlier,
sometime broader, sometime narrower, as far
as I could see. Nor it flew not straight, but
sometime it crooked this way, sometime that
way, and sometime it ran round about in a
compass. And some time the snow would be
lifted clean from the ground up in the air ; and
by and by it would be all clapped to the
ground as though there had been no wind at
all; straightway it would rise and fly again.
And — that wiiich was the most marvelous of
all — at one time two drifts of snow flew, the
one out of the west into the east, the other out
of the north into the east. And I saw two
winds by reason of the snow, the one cross
over the other, as it had been two highways.
And again I should hear the wind blow in the
air when nothing was stirred at the ground.
And when all was still where I rode, not very
far from me the snow should be lifted wonder-
fully. This experience made me more marvel
at the nature of the wind, than it made me
cunning in the knowledge of the wind ; but yet
thereby I learned perfectly that it is no marvel
at all, although men in a wind lease* their
lengths ia shooting, seeing so many ways the
wind is so variable in blowing.
THE SCHOOLMASTER*
Feom a Preface to the Reader
V^hen the great plague was at London, the
year 1563, the Queen's Majesty, Queen Eliza-
beth, lay at her castle of "Windsor ; where, upon
the tenth day of December, it fortuned that in
Sir William Cecil's chamber (her Highness'
Principal Secretary), there dined together
these personages: Mr. Secretary himself. Sir
William Peter, Sir J. Mason, D. Wotton, Sir
Richard Sackville, Treasurer of the Exchequer,
Sir Walter Mildmay, Chancellor of the Exche-
quer, Mr. Haddon, Master of Requests, Mr.
John Astley, Master of the Jewel House, Mr.
Bernard Hampton, Mr. Nicasius, and I. Of
which number the most part were of her
Majesty's most honorable Privy Council, and
the rest serving her in very good place. I was
4 lose
6 diHtance between the archer and the target
• While AHcham bplongs to tho generation procod-
Ing the Elizabethans, this last work of his
was written and published (posthumously,
1570) well within the Virgin Queen's reign,
and the little glininsp behind the curtain
which Its preface affords may serve both to
Introduce and to exemplify what Tennyson
has Ko happily called "the spacious times of
erreat Elizabeth."
glad then, and do rejoice yet to remember, that
my chance was so happy to be there that day,
in the company of so many wise and good men
together as hardly then could have been picked
out again out of all England beside.
Mr. Secretary hath this accustomed manner:
though his head be never so full of most
weighty affairs of the realm, yet at dinner time
he doth seem to lay them always aside, and
findeth ever fit occasion to talk pleasantly of
other matters, but most gladly of some matter
of learning; wherein he will courteously hear
the mind of the meanesti at his table.
Not long after our sitting down, "I have
strange news brought me," saith Mr. Secre-
tary, "this morning, that divers scholars of
Eton be run away from the school for fear of
beating." Whereupon Mr. Secretary took oc-
casion to wish that some more discretion were
in many schoolmasters, in using correction,
than commonly there is; who many times pun-
ish rather the weakness of nature than the
fault of the scholar; whereby many scholars,
that might else prove well, be driven to hate
learning before they know what learning mean-
eth, and so are made willing to forsake their
book and be glad to be put to any other kind
of living.
Mr. Peter, as one somewhat severe of nature,
said plainly that the rod onlyz was the sword
that must keep the school in obedience and the
scholar in good order. Mr. Wotton, a man
mild of nature, with soft voice and few words,
inclined to Mr. Secretary's judgment, and said:
"In mine opinion, the schoolhouse should be
indeed, as it is called by name,3 the house of
play and pleasure, and not of fear and bondage.
And as I do remember, so saith Socrates in one
place of Plato.* And therefore, if a rod carry
the fear of a sword, it is no marvel if those
that be fearful of nature choose rather to for-
sake the play, than to stand always within the
fear of a sword in a fonds man's handling.
Mr. Mason, after his manner, was very merry
with both parties, pleasantly playing both with
the shrewd touches^ of many curst^ boys, and
with the small discretion of many lewds school-
masters. Mr. Haddon was fully of Mr. Peter 's
opinion, and said that the best schoolmaster of
our time was the greatest beater; and named
the person. "Though," quoth I, "it was his
good fortune to send from his school unto the
university one of the best scholars indeed of all
our time, yet wise men do think that that came
1 humblest s foolish
2 alone o mischlovons traits
3 See note on "school," i perverse
page 110. 8 ignorant
* 1. e., of Plato's works
ROGER ASCHAM
123
so to pass rather by the great towardness of
the scholar than by the great beating of the
master; and whether this be true or no, you
yourself are best witness." I said somewhat
farther in the matter how and why young chil-
dren were sooner allured by love, than driven
by beating, to attain good learning; wherein I
was the bolder to say my mind because Mr.
Secretary courteously provoked me thereunto,
or else in such a company, and namely in his
presence, my wont is to be more willing to use
mine ears than to occupy my tongue. Sir Wal-
ter ^lildmay, Mr. Astley, and the rest, said
very little; only Sir Richard Sackville said
nothing at all.
After dinner I went up to read with the
Queen's Majesty. We read then together in
the Greek tongue, as I well remember, that
noble oration of Demosthenes against Aes-
chines for his false dealing in his embassage
to King Pliilip of Macedonia. Sir Richard
Sackville came up soon after, and finding me
in her Majesty 's privy chamber, he took me by
the hand, and carrying me to a window said:
"Mr. Ascham, 1 would not for a good deal of
money have been this day absent from dinner,
where though I said nothing, yet I gave as
good ear, and do consider as well the talk that
passed, as any one did there. Mr. Secretary
said very wisely, and most truly, that many
young wits be driven to hate learning before
they know what learning is. I can be good
witness to this myself. For a fond schoolmas-
ter, before I was fully fourteen years old,
drave me so, with fear of beating, from all love
of learning, as^ now — when I know what differ-
ence it is to have learning, and to have little
or none at all — I feel it my greatest grief, and
find it my greatest hurt that ever came to me,
that it was my so ill chance to light upon so
lewd a schoolmaster. But seeing it is but in
vain to lament things past, and also wisdom to
look to things to come, surely, God willing, if
God lend me life, I will make this my mishap
some occasion of good hap to little Robert
Sackville, my son's son. For whose bringing
up I would gladly, if it so please you, use spe-
cially your good advice. I hear say you have
a son much of his age. We will deal thus to-
gether. Point you out a schoolmaster who by
your order shall teach my son and yours, and
for all the rest I will provide; yea, though
they three do cost me a couple of hundred
pounds by year. And beside, you shall find me
as fast a friend to you and yours as perchance
any you have." Which promise the worthy
• that
gentleman surely kept with me until his dying
day.
We had then further talk together of bring-
ing up of children; of the nature of quick and
hard wits;i" of the right choice of a good wit;
of fear and love in teaching children. We
passed from children and came to young men,
namely Gentlemen. We talked of their too
much liberty to live as they lust"; of their let-
ting loose too soon to overmuch experience of
ill, contrary to the good order of many good old
commonwealths of the Persians and Greeks; of
witi2 gathered and good fortune gotten by some
only by experience, without learning. And
lastly, he required of me very earnestly to show
what I thought of the common going of Eng-
lish men into Italy.
"But," saith he, "because this place and
this time will not suffer so long talk as these
good matters require, therefore I pray you, at
my request, and at your leisure, put in some
order of writing the chief points of this our
talk concerning the right order of teaching and
honesty of living, for the good bringing up of
children and young men. And surely, beside
contenting me, you shall both please and profit
very many others." I made some excuse by
lack of ability and weakness of body. ' ' Well, ' '
saith he, "I am not now to learn what you
can do. Our dear friend, Mr. Goodrick, whose
judgment I could well believe, did once for
all satisfy me fully therein. Again, I heard
you say not long ago that you may thank Sir
John Cheke* for all the learning you have. And
I know very well myself that you did teach
the Queen. And therefore seeing God did so
bless you, to make you the scholar of the best
master, and also the schoolmaster of the best
scholar, that ever were in our time, surely you
should please God, benefit your country, and
honestis your own name, if you would take the
pains to impart to others what you learned of
such a master, and how ye taught such a
scholar. And in uttering the stuff ye received
of the one, in declaring the order ye took with
the other, ye shall never lack neither matter
nor manner, what to write nor how to write, in
this kind of argument." I, beginning some
farther excuse, suddenly was called to come
to the Queen.
The night following I slept little, my head
was so full of this our former talk, and I so
mindful somewhat to satisfy the honest re-
quest of so dear a friend. I thought to pre-
pare some little treatise for a New Year 's gift
10 Intellects 12 knowledge
II like 13 honor
• A famous teacher at St. John's, Cambridge, who
gave a great impulse to classical learning.
124
FIFTEENTH AND EARLY SIXTEENTH CENTURIES
that Christmas. But, as it chaneeth to busy
builders, so, in building this my poor school-
bouse (the rather because the form of it is
somewhat new, and differing from others), the
work rose daily higher and wider than 1
thought it would in the beginning. And though
it appear now, and be in vei'y deed, but a small
cottage, poor for the stuff and rude for the
workmanshij), yet in going forward I found the
site so good as I was loth to give it over, but
the making so costly, outreaching my ability,
as many times I wished that some one of those
three my dear friends with full purses, Sir
Thomas Smith, Mr. Haddon, or Mr. Watson,
had had the doing of it. Yet nevertheless I
myself, spending gladly that little that I gat
at home by good Sir John Cheke, and that
that I borrowed abroad of my friend Stur-
mius, beside somewhat that was left me in re-
version by my old masters Plato, Aristotle, and
Cicero, I have at last patched it up as I could,
and as you see.
A Gentle Teacher and Pupil. From Book I.
And one example whether love or fear doth
work more in a child for virtue and learning, I
will gladly report; which may be heard with
some pleasure, and followed with more profit.
Before I went into Germany I came to Broad-
gate in Leicestershire, to take my leave of that
noble Lady Jane Grey, to whom I was exceed-
ing much beholaen. Her parents, the duke and
duchess, with all the household, gentlemen and
gentlewomen, were hunting in the park. I
found her in her chamber reading "Phaedon
Platonis"! in Greek, and that with as much
delight as some gentlemen would read a merry
tale in Bocase.2 After salutation and duty
done, with some other talk, I asked her why
she would lose such pastime in the park?
Smiling she answered me, "I wis,3 all their
sport in the park is but a shadow to that pleas-
ure that I find in Plato. Alas! good folk, they
never felt what true pleasure meant." "And
how came you, madam, ' ' quoth I, "to this
deep knowledge of pleasure, and what did
chiefly allure you unto it, seeing, not many
women, but very few men, have attained there-
unto ? " "1 will tell you, ' ' quoth she ; ' ' and
tell you a truth which, perchance, ye will mar-
vel at. One of the greatest benefits that ever
God gave me is that he sent me so sharp and
severe parents and so gentle a schoolmaster.
For when I am in presence of either father or
mother, whether I speak, keep silence, sit,
stand, or go, cat, drink, be merry or sad, be
sewing, playing, dancing, or doing anything
else, I must do it, as it were, in such weight,
measure, and number, even so perfectly as God
made the workl, or else I am so sharply taunt-
ed, so cruelly threatened, yea presently some-
times with pinches, nips, and bobs,* and other
ways which I will not name for the honor I
bear them, so without measure misordered,^
that I think myself in hell till time come that
I must go to Mr. Elmer, who teaeheth me so
gently, so oleasantly, with such fair allure-
ments to learning, that I think all the time
nothing whilst I am with him. And when I am
called from him I fall ons weeping, because
whatsoever I do else but learning, is full of
grief, trouble, fear, and whole misliking unto
me. And thus my book hath been so much my
pleasure, and bringeth daily to me more pleas
ure and more, that in respect of it all other
pleasures, in very deed, be but trifles and
troubles unto me."
I remember this talk gladly, both because
it is so worthy of memory, and because also
it was the last talk that ever I had and the last
time that ever I saw that noble and worthy
lady.
1 Plato's Phaedo, on the Immortality of the Soul. 4 raps
2 Boccaccio. a j-wis, certainly I ^ ill dlscipUnea
c to (a-weeping)
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE-POETRY
SIR THOMAS WYATT
(1503-1542)*
The Lover Having Dreamed of Enjoyment
OF His Love, Complaineth that the Dream
Is not Either Longer or Truer
Unstable dream, according to the place,t
Be steadfast once, or else at least be true.
By tasted sweetness make me not to rue
The sudden loss of thy false feigned grace.
By good respect in such a dangerous case
Thou broughtst not her into these tossing seas.
But madest my spirit to live, my care t 'en-
crease.
My body in tempest her delight t 'embrace.
The body dead, the spirit had his desire;
Painless was the one, the other in delight.
Why then, alas! did it not keep it right,
But thus return to leap into the fire.
And where it was at wish, could not remain!
Such mocks of dreams do turn to deadly pain.
Of His Love That Pricked Her Finger With
a Needle
She sat and sewed, that hath done me the
wrong
Whereof I plain, and have done many a day ;
And whilst she heard my plaint in piteous
song,
She wished my heart the sampler i, thats it
lay.
The blind master whom I have served so long,
Grudging to hear thats he did hear her say,
Made her own weapon do* her finger bleed,
To feel if pricking were so good indeed!
1 needle-work pattern 3 that which
2 as 4 make
* Though Wyatt and Surrey were, in strictness,
pre-Elizabethans, their poems, first published
In 1557, were manifest harbingers of the
creative impulse we associate with Elizabeth's
reign. Thirty years later Sidney called th^se
poets "the two chief lanterns of light to all
others that have since employed their pens
upon English poesy." Wyatt introduced the
Petrarchian sonnet form into England ; Sur-
rey devised the variation used later by Shake-
speare : and Surrey was the first to employ
heroic blank verse. See Eng. Lit., p. 84.
t This phrase appears to have more rhyme than
reason. Pfissihly place = text, referring to
1 Cor., XV, 58.
The Lover Complaineth the Unkindness op
His Love
My lute, awake, perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And end thati I have now begun.
And when this song is sung and past,
My lute, be still, for I have done.
As to be heard where ear is none,
As lead to grave2 in marble stone,
My song may pierce her heart as soon.
Should we then sigh or sing or moanf
No, no, my lute, for I have done.
The rocks do not so cruelly
Bepulse the waves continually.
As she my suit and affection;
So that I am past remedy.
Whereby my lute and I have done.
Proud of the spoil that thou hast got
Of simple hearts through Loves shot,
By whom unkind thou hast them won.
Think not he hath his bow forgot.
Although my lute and 1 have done.
Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain
That makest but game on earnest pain.
Think not alone under the sun
Unquit* to cause thy lovers plain*,
Although my lute and I have done.
May chance thee lie withered and old
In winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon;
Thy wishes then dare not be told.
Care then who list, for I have done.
And then may chance thee to repent
The time that thou hast lost and spent
To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon;
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,
And wish and want, as I have done.
Now cease, my lute, this is the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And ended is that we begun.
Now is this song both sung and past.
My lute, be still, for I have done.
1 that which
2 cii*, engrave
3 unrepald
* to ( omplain
125
126
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
HENRY HOWARD. EARL OF SUR-
REY (I517?-1547)*
Description of Spring, Wherein Each Thing
Benews, Save Only the Lover
Th6 sootei season that bud and bloom forth
brings
With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale ;
The nightingale with feathers new she sings;
The turtle to her make2 hath told her tale:
Summer is come, for every spray now springs;
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ;
The buck in brake his winter cote he flings;
The fishes flete with new repaired scale;
The adder all her slough away she slings;
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale;
The busy bee her honey now she mingss.
Winter is worn, that was the flowers' bale:
And thus I see among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.
A Praise op His Love, Wherein He
Reproveth Them That Compare Their
Ladies With His
Give place, ye lovers, here before.
That spent your boasts and brags in vain;
My Lady's beauty passeth more
The best of yours, I dare well sayen,
Than doth the sun the candle light,
Or brightest day the darkest night.
And thereto hath a troth as just
As had Penelope the fair;
For what she saith, ye may it trust
As it by writing sealed were.
And virtues hath she many moe
Than I with pen have skill to show.
I could rehearse, if that I would.
The whole effect* of Nature's plaint
When she had lost the perfect mold,
The like to whom she could not paint.
With wringing hands how she did cry,
And what she said, I know it, I.
I know she swore with raging mind.
Her kingdom only set apart,
There was no loss, by law of kind",
That could have gone so near her heart.
And this was chiefly all her pain:
She could not make the like again.
Sith« nature thus gave her the praise
To be the chiefest work she wrought,
1 vweet 4 tenor
2 turtle-dove to her mate s nature
s mixes « Bince
* See note on preceding page.
In faith, methink, some better ways
On your behalf might well be sought.
Than to compare, as ye have done.
To match the candle with the sun.
Departure op Aeneas from Dido
Such great complaints brake forth out of
her breast;
Whiles Aeneas full minded to depart,
All things prepared, slept in the poop on high.
To whom in sleep the wonted godhead's form
'Gan aye appear, returning in like shapei
As seemed him, and 'gan him thus advise,
Like unto Mercury in voice and hue.
With yellow bush2, and comely limbs of youth:
"O goddess' son, in such case canst thou
sleep,
Ne yet, bestraughts, the dangers dost foresee
That compass thee, nor hear'st the fair winds
blow?
Dido in mind rolls vengeance and deceit;
Determ'd to die, swells with unstable ire.
Wilt thou not flee whiles thou hast time of
flight?
Straight shalt thou see the seas covered with
sails.
The blazing brands the shore all spread with
flame,
And if* the morrow steal upon thee here.
Come off, have done, set all delay aside;
For full of change these women be alway. ' '
This said, in the dark night he 'gan him hide.
Aeneas, of this sudden vision
Adread, starts up out of his sleep in haste,
Calls up his feres^: "Awake, get up, my
men!
Aboard your ships, and hoise up sail with
speed.
A god me wills, sent from above again.
To haste my flight and wreathen cables cut.
O holy god, whatso thou art, we shall
Follow thee; and all blithe obey thy will.
Be at our hand and friendly us assist;
Address^ the stars with prosperous influence."
And with that word his gUstering sword un-
sheaths,
With which drawn he the cables cut in twain.
The like desire the rest embraced all.
All things in haste they cast, and forth they
whirl ;
The shores they leave; with ships the seas are
spread:
Cutting the foam by the blue seas thay sweep.
(From the Translation of the Fourth
Book of Virgil's Aeneid.)
1 (as before)
2 locks
3 nor yet, distracted
4 an if, if
B comrades
• endue
EDMUND SPENSER
127
EDMUND SPENSER (1552-1599)*
THE FAEBIE QUEENE
The Dedication
to the most high,
mightie, and magnificent empresse
renowmed for pietie, vertue,
and all gratious government
ELIZABETH
BY THE GRACE OF GOD
QUEENE OF ENGLAND, FRAUNCE, AND IRELAND,
AND OF VIRGINIA,
DEFENDOUR OF THE FAITH, &C.
HER MOST HUMBLE SERVAUNT
EDMUND SPENSEE
DOTH IN ALL HUMILITIE
DEDICATE, PRESENT, AND CONSECRATE
THESE HIS LABOURS
TO LIVE WITH THE ETERNITIE
OF HER FAME.
Lo I the man, whose Muse whilomei did maske,
As time her taught, in lowly Shepheards
weeds2,
Am now enforst a far unfitter taske,
1 formerly
2 Referring to the Shepheardes Calender, a pastoral
poem. See Eng. Lit., 89-90.
• The Faerie Queene is an allegory designed to set
forth "a gentleman or noble person in virtuous
and gentle discipline." The central characters
are Gloriana, the queen of an imaginary
("faerie") court, who symbolizes Glory, and
her suitor Prince Arthur, who stands for
Magnificence (Munificence), "which virtue is
the perfection of all the rest." Besides these,
the twelve moral virtues were to have been
separately represented by twelve knights,
each performing deeds and overcoming tempta-
tions according to his character. But as the
poet's design was never finished, only half
these virtues get representation, and the cen-
tral characters receive rather less prominence
than the six several virtues which are set
forth in the six completed books. Each of
these books, consisting of twelve cantos, is
practically a complete story in Itself. The
first deals with the Knight of the Red Cross,
or Holiness, who, clad in the armor of the
Christian faith, is sent forth by his Queen as
the champion of Una (Truth) "to deliver her
parents, "who had been by an huge dragon
many years shut up in a brasen castle." Be-
neath the moral allegory may be read also a
political one, according to which Gloriana is
Queen Elizabeth, Prince Arthur is Lord
Leicester, Duessa is Mary Queen of Scots, etc.
But after all, the poetry of the poem is
worth far more than the elaborate allegory.
The language and spelling are deliberately
and sometimes falsf Iv archaic. See Eng. Lit.,
po. 91-94.
For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten
reeds,
A.nd sing of Knights and Ladies gentles deeds;
Whose prayses having slept in silence long,
Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds*
To blazon broad emongst her learned throng:
Fierce warres and faithfull loves shall moral-
ize my song.
Helpe then, holy Virgin ehiefe of nine',
Thy weaker Novice to performe thy will;
Lay forth cut of thine everlasting scryne*
The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still,
Of Faerie knights and fairest Tanaquill^,
Whom that most noble Briton Prince* so long
Sought through the world, and suffered so
much ill,
That I must rue his undeserved wrong:
O helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my
dull tong.
And thou most dreaded impe» of highest Jove,
Faire Venus sonne, that with thy cruell dart
At that good knight so cunningly didst rove,
That glorious fire it kindled in his hart,
Lay now thy deadly Hebenio bow apart.
And with thy mother milde come to mine ayde;
Come both, and with you bring triumphant
Martii,
In loves and gentle jollities arrayd.
After his murdrous spoiles and bloudy rage
allayd.
And with them eke, O Goddesse heavenly
bright,
Mirrour of grace and Majestie divine,
Great Lady of the greatest Isle, whose light
Like Phoebus lampei2 throughout the world
doth shine,
Shed thy faire beames into my feeble eyne,
And raise my thoughts, too humble and too
vile,
To thinke of that true glorious type of thine,
The argument of mine afllicted stilei':
The which to heare, vouchsafe, O dearest
dredi*, a-while.
3 noble (as distinguished
from rustic)
4 urges
6 Clio, Muse of History.
6 shrine, chest
7 The daughter of Obe-
ron ; here another
name for Gloriana.
8 Prince Arthur
9 child
10 ebony
11 Mars
12 the sun
13 subject of my lowly
pen
14 object of reverence
l-?8
THE ELIZABETHAX AriK
The Kxight of the Red Cross axd his Fight
WITH THE Monster Error. The Wiles
OF Archimago. From Book I, Canto 1.
A gentle Knight was priekingi on the plaine,
Ycladd in niightie armes and silver shielde,
Wherein old dints of deepe wounds did re-
nt aine,
The eruell markes of many a bloudy fielde;
Yet armes till that time did he never wield:
His angry steede did chide his foming bitt.
As much disdayning to the curbe to yield:
Full jollyz knight he seemd, and faire did sitt,
As one for knightly giusts"* and fierce en-
counters fitt.
But on his brest a bloudie Crosse he bore,
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he
wore,
And dead as living ever him ador'd:
Upon his shield the like was also seor'd,
For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he had:
Right faithful! true he was in deede and word,
But of his cheere* did seeme too solemne sad;
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was
ydrads.
3
Upon a great adventure he was bond.
That greatest Gloriana to him gave.
That greatest Glorious Queene of Faerie lond,
To winne him worship*, and her grace to have,
Which of all earthly things he most did crave;
And ever as he rode, his hart did earne"
To prove his puissance in battell brave
Upon his foe, and his new force to learne;
Upon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stearne.
A lovely Ladie" rode him faire beside.
Upon a lowly Ass* more white then snow,
Yet she much whiter, but the same did hide
Under a vele, that wimpled was full low.
And over all a blacke rtole she ilifl throw.
As one that inly mournd: so was she snd.
And heavie sat upon her palfrey slow;
1 ridlDK. 8piirrInK
>' handHomc
.'I JoilStK
4 .'oiinlcnance
• dreaded
honor
T yearn
X I'na, personiflrntion of
Truth.
Seemed in heart some hidden care she had,
And by her in a line a milkp white I^rabe
she lad.*
So pure and innocent, as that same lambe,
She was in life and every vertuous lore.
And by descent from Royall lynage came
Of ancient Kings and Queenes, that had of
yore
Their scepters stretcht from East to Westerne
shore,
And all the world in their subjection held;
Till that infernall feend with foule uprore
Forwasted all their land, and them expeld:
Whom to avenge, she had this Knight from
far compeld^.
6
Behind her farre away a Dwarfe did lag.
That lasie seemd in being ever last,
Or weariedio with bearing of her bag
Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past.
The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast.
And angry Jove an hideous storme of raine
Did poure into his Lemansn lap so fast,
That every \vight12 to shrowdis it did constrain,
And this faire couple eke to shroud them-
selves were fain.
Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand.
A shadie grove not far away they spide,
That promist ayde the tempest to withstand:
Whose loftie trees yclad with sommers pride
Did spred so broad, that heavens liglit did
hide.
Not perceable with power of any starre;
And all within were pathes and alleles wide.
With footing worne, and leading inward farre:
Faire harbour that them seemes; so in they
entred arre.
8
And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward
led,
•Joying to heare the birdes sweete harmony.
Which therein shrouded from the tempest dre<l,
» summoned 12 person
10 Pronounce "wea-rl-ed." I'l shelter
1 1 beloved one (the
earfh).
• •That lamb we never see again I It was a
tbou);ht that rose and passed awny from the
poet's soul ; but the imaKe had shown us the
character of Una In her simplicity, as if it
had l>een a dove that hung for a moment over
her head, and while a voice spolte. disap-
peared — This is my l)eloved daufihtrt; In
whom I am well pleas*^!." — I'hrlstopher
North.
EDMUND SPENSER
129
Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky. j
Much canii they prayse the trees so straight
and hy, I
The sayling Pinei^, the Cedar proud and tall, j
The vine-prop Elme, the Poplar never dry.
The builder Oake, sole king of forrests all, j
The Aspine good for staves, the Cypresse ,
funerall. |
9
The Laurell, meed of mightie Conquerours
And Poets sage, the firre that weepeth still,
The Willow worne of forlorne Paramours,
The Eughi« obedient to the benders will.
The Birch for shaftes, the Sallow for the mill,
The Mirrhe sweete bleeding in the bitter
wound.
The warlike Beech, the Ash for nothing ill,
The fruitful Olive, and the Platane round.
The carver Holme, the Maple seeldom inward
sound.*
10
Led with delight, they thus beguile the way,
Untill the blustring storme is overblowne;
When weening to returne, whence they did
stray.
They cannot finde that path, which first was
showne.
But wander too and fro in wayes unknowne,
Furthest from end then, when they jieerest
weene.
That makes them doubt their wits be not their
owne:
So many pathes, so many turnings seene.
That which of them to take, in diverse doubt
they been.
11
At last resolving forward still to fare.
Till that some end they finde or in or out,
That path they take, that beaten seemd most
bare,
And like to lead the labyrinth about;
Which when by tracti^ they hunted had
throughout,
At length it brought them to a hollow cave
Amid the thickest woods. The Champion stout
Eftsoonesi" dismounted from his courser brave.
And to the Dwarfe awhile his needlesse spere
he gave.
12
Be well aware, quoth then that Ladie railde.
Least suddaine mischiefe ye too rash provoke:
The danger hid, the place unknowne and wilde,
14 did
15 Cp. Paradise Lost, I. 292-294. it trace
IS yew ^^ forthwith
• Perhaps such a diversity of trees may be allow^ed
in the Wood of Error. Spenser Is nothing If
not imaginative.
Breedes dreadful! doubts: Oft fire is without
smoke,
And peril without show: therefore your stroke.
Sir Knight, with-hold, till further triall made.
Ah Ladie, (said he) shame were to revoke
The forward footing for an hidden shade:
Vertue gives her selfe light, through darke-
nesse for to wadei».
13
Yea but (quoth she) the perill of this place
I better wot then you, though now too late
To wish you backe returne with foule disgrace,
Yet wisdome warnes, whilest foot is in the
gate2o,
To stay the steppe, ere forced to retrate.
This is the wandring wood^i, this Errours den,
A monster vile, whom God and man does hate:
Therefore I readss beware. Fly, fly (quoth then
The fearcfull Dwarle) this is no place for
living men.
14
But full of fire and greedy hardiment,
The youthfull knight could not for ought be
staide.
But forth unto the darksome hole he went.
And looked in: his glistring armor made
A litle glooming light, much like a shade.
By which he saw the ugly monster plaine,
Halfe like a serpent horribly displaide,
But th 'other halfe did womans shape retaine.
Most lothsom. filthie, foule, and full of vile
di8daine23.
15
And as she lay upon the durtie ground,
Her huge long taile her den all overspred,
Yet was in knots and many boughtes24 up-
wound.
Pointed with mortall sting. Of her there
bred
A thousand yong ones^s, which she dayly fed,
Sucking upon her poisnous dugs, eachone
Of sundry shapes, yet all ill favored:
Soone as that uncouth light upon them shone.
Into her mouth they crept, and suddain all
were gone.
16
Their dam upstart, out of her den effraide,
And rushed forth, hurling her hideous taile
\bout her cursed head, whose folds displaid
Were stretcht now forth at length without
entraile24.
19 Cp. Comus, 373.
i 20 way
I 21 wood of wandering
' 22 counsel
23 disgusting vlleness
24 coils , .
23 Lies, the children of
Error.
130
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
She lookt about, and seeing one in mayle
Armed to point2«, sought backe to turne
againe ;
For light she hated as the deadly bale,
Ay wont in desert darknesse to remaine,
Where plain none might her see, nor she see
any plaine.
17
Which when the valiant Elfe perceiv'd, he lept
As Lyon fierce upon the flying pray,
And with his trenchand blade her boldly kept
From turning backe, and forced her to stay:
Therewith enrag'd she loudly gan to bray,
And turning fierce, her speckled taile advaunst,
Threatning her angry sting, him to dismay:
Who nought aghast his mightie hand en-
haunst-T:
The stroke down from her head unto her
shoulder glaunst.
18
Much daunted with that dint28, her sence was
dazd.
Yet kindling rage, her selfe she gathered round.
And all attonce her beastly body raizd
With doubled forces high above the ground:
Tho2» wrapping up her wrethed sterne arownd,
Lept fierce upon his shield, and her huge traine
All suddenly about his body wound,
That hand or foot to stirre he strove in vaine:
God helpe the man so wrapt in Errours end-
lesse traine.
19
His Lady sad to see his sore constraint,
Cride out. Now now Sir knight, shew what ye
bee.
Add faith unto your force, and be not faint:
Strangle her, else she sure will strangle thee.
That when he heard, in great perplexitie,
His gall did grate for griefso and high dis-
daine.
And knitting all his force got one hand free,
Wherewith he grypt her gorge with so great
painesi,
That BOone to loose her wicked bands did
her constraine.*
30 his anger was stirred
through pain
81 effort
2« completely
37 raised
28 blow
29 then
• Stanzas 20-26 describe, In lan>ruage made pur-
posely coarse for the sake of the allegory, the
monster's foul tactics in self-defense, until
from her body the knight "raft her hatefull
heade withotit remorse," and the yuung ones
gorged themselves to death upon bcr blood.
27
His Ladie seeing all that chaunst, from farre
Approcht in hast to greet his victorie.
And said, Faire knight, borne under happy
starre.
Who see your vanquisht foes before you lye:'
Well worthie be you of that Armorie^a,
Wherein ye have great glory wonne this day,
And proov'd your strength on a strong enimie,
Your first adventure: many such I pray,
And henceforth ever wish that like succeed it
may.
28
Then mounted he upon his Steede againe.
And with the Lady backward sought to wend ;
That path he kept which beaten was most
plaine,
Ne33 ever would to any by-way bend.
But still did follow one unto the end,
The which at last out of the wood them
brought.
So forward on his way (with God to frend)
He passed forth, and new adventure sought ;
Long way he travelled, before he heard of
ought.
29
At length they chaunst to meet upon the way
An aged Sire34, in long blacke weedes yclad.
His feete all bare, his beard all hoarie gray,
And by his belt his booke he hanging had;
Sober he seemde, and very sagely sad.
And to the ground his eyes were lowly bent.
Simple in shew, and voyde of malice bad,
And all the way he prayed, as he went,
And often knockt his brest, as one that did
repent.
30
He faire the knight saluted, loutingss low,
Who faire him quitedse, as that courteous was:
And after asked him, if he did know
Of straunge adventures, which abroad did pas.
Ah my deare Sonne (quoth he) how should,
alas,
Silly37 old man, that lives in hidden cell.
Bidding his beades^s all day for his trespas,
Tydings of warre and worldly trouble tell?
With holy father sitss" not with such things
to mell<o.
81
But if of daunger which hereby doth dwell,
And homebred evil ye desire to heare,
Of a straunge man I can you tidings tell,
82 armor 88 bowing
33 nor •■'« requited
84 The enchanter ArchI- 37 simple
mago, or Hypoc- as praying his prayers
risy. who stands 30 befits
for false religion. *o meddle
EDMUND SPENSER
131
That wasteth all this countrey farre and neare.
Of such (said he) I chiefly do inquere,
And shall you well reward to shew the place,
In which that wicked wight his dayes doth
weare:
For to all knighthood it is foule disgrace,
That such a cursed creature lives so long a
space.
32
Far hence (quoth he) in wastfuU wildernesse
His dwelling is, by which no living wight
May ever passe, but thorough*i great distresse.
Now (sayd the Lady) draweth toward night,
And well I wote, that of your later fight
Ye all forwearied be: for what so strong,
But wanting rest will also want of might?
The Sunne that measures heaven all day long,
At night doth baiters his steedes the Ocean
waves emong.
33
Then with the Sunne take Sir, your timely
rest,
And with new day new worke at once begin:
Untroubled night they say gives counsell best.
Eight well Sir knight ye have advised bin,
(Quoth then that aged man;) the way to win
Is wisely to advisees; now day is spent;
Therefore with me ye may take up your In
For this same night. The knight was well con-
tent:
So with that godly father to his home they
went.
34
A little lowly Hermitage it was,
Downe in a dale, hard by a forests side,
Far from resort of people, that did pas
In travell to and froe: a little wyde**
There was an holy Chappell edifyde*5,
Wherein the Hermite dewly wont to say
His holy things each morne and eventyde:
Thereby a Christall streame did gently play,
"Which from a sacred fountaine welled forth
alway.
35
Arrived there, the little house they fill,
Ne looke for entertainement, where none was:
Rest is their feast, and all things at their will:
The noblest mind the best contentment has.
With faire discourse the evening so they pas:
For that old man of pleasing wordes had^ store,
And well could file his tongue as smooth as
glas,
He told of Saintes and Popes, and evermore
He strowd an Ave-Mary after and before.
41 except through
42 feed
43 consider
44 distant
45 built
S«
The drouping Night thus creepeth on them
fast.
And the sad humour*" loading their eye liddes,
As messenger of Morpheus on them cast
Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleepe
them biddes.
Unto their lodgings then his guestes he
riddes47:
Where when all drownd in deadly sleepe he
findes.
He to this study goes, and there amiddes
His Magick bookes and artes of sundry kindes.
He seekes out mighty charmes, to trouble
sleepy mindes.
37
Then choosing out few words most horrible,
(Let none them read) thereof did verses
frame,
With which and other spelles like terrible,
He bad awake blacke Plutoes griesly Dame48,
And cursed heaven and spake reprochfull shame
Of highest God, the Lord of life and light;
A bold bad man, that dar'd to call by name
Great Gorgon49, Prince of darknesse and dead
night,
At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is put to
flight.
38
And forth he cald out of deepe darknesse dred
Legions of Sprights^o, the which like little
flyes
Fluttring about his ever damned hed,
Awaite whereto their service he applyes.
To aide his friends, or fraysi his enimies:
Of those he chose out two, the falsest twoo,
And fittest for to forge true-seeming lyes;
The one of them he gave a message too.
The other by him selfe staide other worke to
doo.
39
He making speedy way through spersed^^ ayre.
And through the world of waters wide and
deepe.
To Morpheus house doth hastily repaire.
Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe.
And low, where dawning day doth never peepe,
His dwelling is; there Tethysss his wet bed
Doth ever wash, and Cynthias* still doth steepe
In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed.
Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black
doth spred.
46 dew of sleep
47 dismisses
48 Proserpine, or Hecate.
49 Cp. Paradine Lost,
II, 965.
50 sprites, spirits
51 affright
52 widespread
53 the ocean
54 the moon
132
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
40
Whose double gatesss he findeth locked faat,
The one faire Irani 'd of burnisht Yvory,
The other all witli silver overcast ;
And wakeful dogges before them farre do lye,
Watching to banish Care their enimy,
Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleepe.
By them the Sprite doth passe in quietly,
And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned
deepe
In drowsie fit he findes: of nothing he takes
keepers.
41
Anil more, to lulle him in his slumber soft,
A trickling streame from high rock tumbling
downe.
And ever-drizzling raine upon the loft.
Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the
sowno
Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowno:
iS'o other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes,
As still are wont t 'annoy the walled towne.
Might there be heard: but carelesse Quiet lyes.
Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enemyes.*
42
The messenger approching to him spake.
But his wast wordes returnd to him in vaine:
So sound he slept, that nought mought him
awake.
Then rudely he him thrust, and pusht with
paine
Whereat he gan to stretch: but he againe
Shooke him so hard, that forced him to speako.
As one then in a dreame, whose dryer^T braino
Is tost with troubled sights and fancies weake.
He mumbled soft, but would not all his
silence breake.
43
The Sprite then gan more Iwldly him to wake.
And threatned unto him the dreaded name
Of Hecate: whereat he gan to quake,
And lifting up his lumpish head, with blame
Halfe angry aske*! him, for what he came.
Hither (quoth he) me Archimago sent,
He that the stubborne Sprites can wisely tame.
He bids thee to him send for his intent
A fit falne dreame, that can delude the
sleepers scnto*.
BR of false and truo dreuius 57 feverish
r>« care 68 sense
•A stanza not ensll.v inntrhed In literature for
adaptation of souud to nense. It has heen
much admired and Imitated. See Thomson's
Cantlr of Indolence, I. :$-« ; also Tennyson's
The LotoH-Katers.
44
The God obayde, and, calling forth straight-
way
A diverse dreame out of his prison darke.
Delivered it to him, anci downe did lay
His heavie head, devoide of carefull carke^®,
Whose sences all were straight benumbed and
Starke.
He backe returning by the Yvorie dore.
Remounted up as light as chearefull Larke,
And on his litle Winges the dreame he bore
In hast unto his Lord, where he him left
afore.
45
Who all this while with charmes and hidden
artes.
Had made a Lady of that other Spright,
And fram 'd of liquid ayre her tender partes
So livolys", and so like in all mens sight.
That weaker senee it I'ould have ravisht quight:
The maker sclfe. for all his wondrous witt.
Was nigh beguiled with so goodly sight:
Her all in white he clad, and over it
Cast a black stole, most like to seeme for
Una fit.
46
Now when that ydle dreame was to him
brought.
Unto that Elfin knight he bad him fly,
Where he slept soundly void of evill thought,
And with false shewes abuse his fantasy.
In sort as he him schooled privily:
And that new creature, borne without her
dew-ei,
Full of the makers guile, with usage siy
He taught to imitate that Lady trew,
Whose semblance she did carrie under
feigned hew.
[The knight, deceived by the dream into
thinking his lady Una false, flees with the
Dwarf, until meeting on the way a Sarazin
(Saracen, Pagan), named Sansfoy (Faithless),
he slays him. and proceeds in the company of
Sansfoy 's lady. Dnessa (Falsehood), wiio
passes herself off as Fidessa (Faith).]
Uka and the Lion. From Book I, Canto III.
]
Nought is there under hoav'ns wide htdlow-
nesse,
That moves more fleare compassion of mimi.
Then beautie brought t' unworthy wretched-
nesse
.-.» anxious care (with characteristic Spenserian
tautology)
«u lifelike "> unnaturally
EDMUND SPENSER
133
Through envies snares, or fortunes freakes un ,
kind.
]. whether lately through her brightnesse blind,
Or through alleageance and fast fealtie,
Which I do owe unto all woman kind.
Feele my heart perst with so great agonie,
When such I see, that all for pittie 1 could
die.
2
And now it is empassioned so deepe,
For fairest Unaes sake, of whom 1 sing,
That my fraile eyes these lines with teares do
steepe.
To thiuke how she through guilefull handeling,
Though true as touchi, though daughter of a
kiug,
Though faire as ever living wight was faire,
Though nor in word nor deede ill meriting,
Is from her knight divorced in despaire,
And her due loves deriv'ds to that vile
witches share.
3
Yet she most faithfull Ladle all this while
Forsaken, wofull, solitarie mayd
Far from all peoples preases, as in exile,
In wildernesse and wastfuU deserts strayd,
To seeke her knight; who subtilly betrayd
Through that late vision, which th' Enchaunter
wrought,
Had her abandond. She of nought affrayd.
Through woods and wastnesse wide him daily
sought ;
Yet wished tydings none of him unto her
brought.
4
One day nigh wearie of the yrkesome way.
From her unhastie beast she did alight.
And on the grasse her daintie limbes did lay
In secret shadow, farre from all mens sight:
From her faire head her fillet she undight,
And laid her stole aside. Her angels face
As the great eye of heaven shyned bright,
And made a sunshine in the shadie place;
Did never mortall eye behold such heavenly
grace.
5
It fortuned out of the thickest wood
A ramping Lyon rushed suddainly,
Hunting full greedy after salvage blood;
Soone as the royall virgin he did spy.
With gaping mouth at her ran greedily,
To have attonce devourd her tender corse:
But to the pray when as he drew more ny,
1 as if tested by the touchstone
2 the love which is her due diverted
3 press, crowd
His bloody rage asswaged with remorse.
And with the sight amazd, forgat his furious
forse.
6
In stead thereof he kist her wearie feet,
And lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong,
As he her wronged innocence did weet*.
O how can beautie maister the most strong,
And simple truth subdue avenging wrong?
Whose yeelded pride and proud submission.
Still dreading death, when she had marked
long.
Her hart gan melt in great compassion.
And drizling teares did shed for pure affec-
tion.
7
The Lyon Lord of every beast in field,
Quoth she, I'.is princely puissance doth abate.
And mightie proud to humble weake does yield,
Forgetfull of the hungry rage, which late
Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate:
But he my Lyon, and my noble Lord,
How does he find in cruell hart to hate,
Her that him lov'd, and ever most adord,
As the God of my life? why hath he me
abhordf
8
Redounding^ teares did choke th' end of her
plaint,
Which softly ecchoed from the neighbour wood ;
And sad to see her sorrowfull constraint
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood;
W^ith pittie calmd, downe fell his angry mood.
At last in close hart shutting up her paine,
Arose the virgin borne of heavenly brood,
And to her snowy Palfrey got againe.
To seeke her strayed Champion, if she might
attaine.
9
The Lyon would not leave her desolate.
But with her went along, as a strong gard
Of her chast person, and a faithfull mate
Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard:
Still when she slept, be kept both watch and
ward.
And when she wakt, he waited diligent,
With humble sen-ice to her will prepard:
From her faire eyes he tooke commaundement.
And ever by her lookes conceived her in-
tent.
[L^na is overtaken by Archimago, disguised
as the Redcross Knight, and accompanies him
therefore trustingly. But they are met by
Sansloy (Lawless, a brother of Sansfoy), who
overcomes both Archimago and the Lion and
takes Una as his prey.]
i wit, know
5 overflowing
134
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
The Knight of the Red Cross at the House
or Pride. From Book I, Canto IV.
Young knight whatever that dost armes pro-
fesse,
And through long labours huntest after fame,
Beware of fraud, beware of ficklenesse,
In choice, and change of thy deare loved Daine,
Least thou of her beleeve too lightly blame.
And rash misweening doe thy hart remove:
For unto knight there is no greater shame.
Then lightnesse and inconstancie in love;
That doth this Redcrosse knights ensample
plainly prove.
2
Who after that he had faire Una lorne,
Through light misdeeming of her loialtie,
And false Duessa in her sted had borne.
Called Fidess', and so supposed to bee;
Long with her traveild, till at last they see
A goodly building, bravely garnished.
The house of mightie Prince it seemd to bee:
And towards it a broad high way that led,
All bare through peoples feet, which thither
travelled.
3
Great troupes of people traveild thitherward
Both day and night, of each degree and place.
But few returned, having scaped hard.
With balefull beggerie, or foule disgrace;
Which ever after in most wretched case.
Like loathsome lazars,i by the hedges lay.
Thither Duessa bad him bend his pace:
For she is wearie of the toilesome way,
And also nigh consumed is the lingring day.
A stately Pallace built of squared bricke.
Which cunningly was without morter laid,
Whose wals were high, but nothing strong, nor
thick.
And golden foile all over them displaid,
That purest skye with brightnesse they disraaid :
High lifted up were many loftie towres.
And goodly galleries farre over laid,
Full of faire windowes and delightful bowres;
And on the top a Diall told the timely
howres.
5
It was a goodly heape for to behould,
And spake the praises of the workmans wit;
But full great pittie, that so faire a mould
Did on so weake foundation ever sit:
For on a sandie hill, that still did flit
And fall away, it mounted was full hie,
1 lepers
That every breath of heaven shaked it:
And all the hinder parts, that few could spie,
Were ruinous and old, but painted cunningly.
6
Arrived there, they passed in forth right;
For still to all the gates stood open wide:
Yet charge of them was to a Porter hight^
Cald Malvenil,* who entrance none denide:
Thence to the hall, which was on every side
With rich array and costly arras dight:
Infinite 8orts2 of people did abide
There waiting long, to win the wished sight
Of her that was the Lady of that Pallace
bright.
7
By them they passe, all gazing on them round,
And to the Presence mount; whose glorious
vew3
Their frayle amazed senses did confound:
In living Princes court none ever knew
Such endlesse richesse, and so sumptuous shew;
Ne Persia selfe, the nourse of pompous pride
Like ever saw. And there a nobel crew
Of Lordes and Ladies stood on every side,
Which with their presence faire the place
much beautifide.
8
High above all a cloth of State was spred,
And a rich throne, as bright as sunny day.
On which there sate most brave embellished
With royall robes and gorgeous array,
A mayden Queene, that shone as Titans ray.
In glistring gold, and peerelesse pretious stone:
Yet her bright blazing beautie did assay
To dim the brightnesse of her glorious throne.
As envying her selfe, that too exceeding
shone.
9
Exceeding shone, like Phoebus fairest childe,*
That did presume his fathers firie wayne.
And flaming mouthes of steedes unwonted wilde
Through highest heaven with weaker hand to
rayne ;
Proud of such glory and advancement vaine,
While flashing beames do daze his feeble eyen.
He leaves the welkin way most beaten plaine,
And rapt with whirling wheeles, inflames the
skyen,
With fire not made to burne, but fairely for
to shyne.
10
So proud she shyned in her Princely state,
Looking to heaven; for earth she did disdayne:
1 asRlgned s the vision of whose
s throngs Riory
4 PbaPthun
• I. v.. Ill-come, the opposite of Welcome.
EDMUND SPENSER
135
And sitting high; for lowly she did hate:
Lo underneath her scornefull feete was layne
A dreadful] Dragon with an hideous trayne,
And in her hand she held a mirrhour bright,*
Wherein her face she often vewed fayne,
And in her selfe-lov'd semblance tooke de-
light;
For she was wondrous faire, as any living
wight.
11
Of griesly Pluto she the daughter was,
And sad Proserpina the Queene of hell;
Yet did she thinke her pearlesse worth to pas
That parentage, with pride so did she swell;
And thundring Jove, that high in heaven doth
dwell,
And wield the world, she claymed for her syre,
Or if that any else did Jove excell:
Tor to the highest she did still aspyre,
Or if ought higher were then that, did it
desyre.
12
And proud Lucifera men did her call.
That made her selfe a Queene, and crowned to
be.
Yet rightfuU kingdome she had none at all,
Ne heritage of native soveraintie.
But did usurpe with wrong and tyrannic
Upon the scepter, which she now did hold:
Ne ruld her Eealmes with lawes, but pollicie,
And strong advizement of six wizards old,t
That with their counsels bad her kingdome
did uphold.
13
Soone as the Elfin knight in presence came,
And false Duessa seeming Lady faire,
A gentle Husher, Vanitie by name
Made rowme, and passage for them did pre-
paire:
So goodly brought them to the lowest staire
Of her high throne, where they on humble
knee
Making obeyssance, did the cause declare,
Why they were come, her royall state to see,
To prove the wide report of her great
Majestee.
14
With loftie eyes, halfe loth to looke so low.
She thanked them in her disdainefull wise;
Ne other grace vouchsafed them to show
Of Princesse worthy, scarse them bad arise.
Her Lordes and Ladies all this while devise
Themselves to setten forth to straungers sight:
• Court ladies used to carry mirrors.
t Pride and her six counsellors, Idleness, Gluttony,
Lechery, Avarice, Envy, and Wrath, constitute
the "seven deadly sins."
Some frounce their curled haire in courtly
guise,
Some prancke their ruffes, and others trimly
dight
Their gay attire: each others greater pride
does spight.
15
Goodly they all that knight do entertaine,
itight glad with him to have increast their
crew:
But to Duess' each one himself e did paine
All kindnesse and faire courtesie to shew;
For in that court whylome her well they knew:
Yet the stout Faerie mongst the middest crowd
Thought all their glorie vaine in knightly vew,
And that great Princesse too exceeding prowd,
That to strange knight no better counte-
nance allowd.
[Sansjoy (Joyless, third of the pagan broth-
erhood) appears, seeking vengeance for the
death of Sansfoy, and, secretly encouraged by
Duessa, challenges the Knight to combat.]
The Combat Between the Knight of the
Eed Cross and Sansjoy. Feom Book I,
Canto V.
1
The noble hart, that harbours vertuous thought,
And is with child of glorious great intent,
Can never rest, untill it forth have brought
Th' eternall brood of glorie excellent.
Such restlcsse passion did all night torment
The flaming coragei of that Faery knight.
Devizing, how that doughtie turnament
With greatest honour he atchieven might;
Still did he wake, and still did watch for
dawning light.
2
At last the golden Orientall gate,
Of greatest heaven gan to open faire,
And Phoebus fresh, as bridegrome to his mate,
Came dauncing forth, shaking his deawie haire:
And hurls his glistring beams through gloomy
aire.
Which when the wakeful Elfe perceiv'd,
streightway
He started up, and did him selfe prepaire,
In sunbright armes, and battailous array:
For with that Pagan proud he combat will
that day.
3
And forth he comes into the commune hall,
Where earely waite him many a gazing eye.
To weet what end to straunger knights may
fall.
There many Minstrales maken melody,
1 heart
136
THE ELlZABETHAiSi AGE
To drive away the dull melancholy,
And many Bardes, that to the trembling chord
Can tune their timely voyces cunningly,
And many Chroniclers that can record
Old loves, and warres for Ladies doen by
many a Lord.
4
Soon after comes the cruell Sarazin,
In woven maile all armed warily,
And sternly lookes at him, who not a pin
Does care for looke of living creatures eye.
They bring them wines of Greece and Araby,
And daintie spices fecht from furthest Ynd,
To kindle heat of corage privily:
And in the wine a solemne oth they bynd
T' observe the sacred lawes of armes, that
are assynd.
5
At last forth comes that far renowned Queene,
With royall pomp and Princely majestie;
She is ybrought unto a paled greene,-
And placed under stately canapee.
The warlike feates of both those knights to
see.
On th ' other side in all mens open vew
Duessa placed is, and on a tree
Sans-foy hiss shield is hangd with bloody hew:
Both those the lawrell girlonds* to the vic-
tor dew.
6
A shrilling trompet sownded from on hye.
And unto battaill bad them selves addresse:
Their shining shieldes about their wrestes they
tye,
And burning blades about their heads do
blesse,5
The instruments of wrath and heavinesse:
With greedy force each other doth assayle.
And strike so fiercely, that they do impresse
Deepe dinted furrowes in the battred mayle;
The yron walles to ward their blowes are
weak and fraile.
The Sarazin was stout, and wondrous strong,
And heaped blowes like yron hammers great ;
For after bloud and vengeance he did long.
The knight was fiers, and full of youthly heat,
And doubled strokes, like dreaded thunders
threat:
For all for prayse and honour he did fight.
Both stricken strike, and beaten both do beat.
That from their shields forth flyeth firie light.
And helmets hewen decpe show marks of
eithors might.
So th' one for wrong, the other strives for
right ;
As when a Gryfon seized of"' his pray,
A Dragon fiers encountreth in his flight.
Through widest ayre making his ydle way,
That would his rightfull ravine rend away;
With hideous horror botli together smight,
And souce« so sore that they the heavens aflfray:
The wise Soothsayer seeing so sad sight,
Th' amazed vulgar tels" of warres and mor-
tall fight.
9
So th ' one for wrong, the other strives for
right.
And each to deadly shame would drive his foe:
The cruell Steele so greedily doth bight
In tender flesh that streames of bloud down
flow.
With which the armes, that earst so bright
did show.
Into a pure vermillion now are dyde:
Great ruth in all the gazers liarts did grow.
Seeing the gored woundes to gape so wyde.
That victory they dare not wish to either
side.
10
At last the Paynim chaunst to cast his eye,
His suddein eye, flaming with wrathful fyre,
Upon his bi others shield, which hong thereby:
Therewith redoubled was his raging yre.
And said. Ah wretched sonne* of wofuH syre,
Doest thou sit wayling by blacke Stygian lake,
Whilest here thy shield is hangd for victors
hyre.
And sluggish german^ doest thy forces slake
To after-send his foe, that him may over-
take!
11
Goe captive Elfe, him quickly overtake.
And soone redeeme from his long wandring
woe;
Goe guiltie ghost, to him my message make,
That I his shield have quit'" from dying foe.
Therewith upon his crest he stroke him so,
That twise he reeled, readie twise to fall;
End of the doubtful battell deemeil tho"
The lookers on, and lowd to him gan call
The false Duessa, Thine the shield, and F,
and all.
8 iDclosed field
3 Sannfoy's
4 Both Duessa and the
K h I 1 d arc the
prizes of victory.
& brandlMh
n possessed of
I KW(><i|) ( term from fal-
conry)
I 7 proplu'sles to the
I amazed people.
I « Addressed to his
I brother.
» Addressed to himself
{(ivriiHiii means
hrutlH'i).
10 redepmt'd
11 then
EDMUND SPENSER
137
12
Soone as the Faerie heard his Ladie speake,
Out of his swowning dreaine he gan awake,
And quickning faith, that earst was woxen
weake,
The creeping deadly cold away did shake:
Tlio niov'd with wrath, and shame, and Ladies
sake,
Of all attouce he cast>o avengd to bee,
And with so ' exceeding furie at him strake,
'J'hat forced him to stoupe upon his knee ;
Had he not stouped so, he should have
cloven bee.
13
And to him said, Goe now proud Miscreant,
Thy selfe thy message doe to german deare;
Alone he wandring thee too long doth want:
Goe say, his foe thy shield with his doth beare.
Therewith his heavie hand he high gan reare,
Him to have slaine; when loe a darkesome
clowd
Upon him fell: he no where doth appeare,
But vanisht is. The Eife him calls alowd,
But answer none receives: the darkness him
does shrowd.
14
In haste Duessa from her place arose.
And to him running said. O prowest knight.
That ever Ladie to her love did chose,
Let now abate the terror of your might,
And quench the fiame of furious despight.
And bloudie vengeance; lo th' infernall
powres,
Covering your foe with cloud of deadly night,
Have borne him hence to Plutoes balefull
bowres.
The conquest yours, T yours, tlie shield, the
glory yours.
13
Not all so satisfide, with greedie eye
He sought all round about, his thristie^ blade
To bath in bloud of faithlesse enemy;
Who all that while lay hid in secret shade:
He standes amazed, how he thence should fade.
At last the trumpets Triumph sound on hie.
And running Heralds humble homage nia<le.
Greeting him goodly with new victorie.
And to him brought the shield, the cause of
cnmitie.
16
Wherewith he goeth to that soveraine Queene.
And falling her before on lowly knee.
To her makes present of his service seene:
Which she accepts, with thankes, and goodly
gree,J2
Greatly advauncing's his gay chevalree.
10 resolved
11 thirsty
12 g;ood will
13 lauding
So marcheth home, and by her takes the knight,
Whom all the people follow with great glee,
Shouting, and clapping all their hands on
hight,
That all the aire it fils, and flyes to heaven
bright.
Home is he brought, and laid in sumptuous
bed:
Where many skilfull leaches him abide,
To salve his hurts, that yet still freshly bled.
In wine and oyle they wash his woundes wide.
And softly cani* embalme on every side.
And all the while, most heavenly melody
About the bed sweet musicke did divide,!^
Him to beguile of griefe and agony:
And all the while Duessa wept full bitterly.
[The Knight and the Dwarf escape from the
house of Pride, but the Knight is captured by
the giant Orgoglio (another impersonator of
Pride) and thrown into a dungeon. Meanwhile
Una, having escaped from Sansloy, meets the
Dwarf, who tells her what has befallen. Just
then appears Prince Arthur, seeking the court
of the Faerie Queene. He hears their story,
fights with Orgoglio, and frees his prisoner. Re-
united, the Knight and Una proceed on their
way. After further trial in the Cave of De-
spair, and wholesome discipline at the House of
Holiness, they reach the goal of their journey —
the wasted kingdom, and the brazen tower where
Una 's parents are imprisoned by the Dragon.
The Knight engages in a desperate conflict with
the Dragon, and only on the third day succeeds
in conquering him.]
The Dragox Slain. The Betrothal of Una.
From Book I, Canto XII.
Behold I see the haven nigh at hand,
To which I meane my wearie course to bend ;
Vere the maine shete, and beare up withi the
land,
The which afore is fairely to be keiid,
And seemeth safe from storms that may of-
fend ;
There this faire virgin wearie of her way
Must landed be, now at her journeyes end:
There eke my feeble barke a while may stay
Till merry wind and weather call her thence
away.
14 did
15 descant, perform in
musical "divisions"
1 make for
138
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
Scarsely had PhcEbus in the glooming East
Yet harnessed his firie-footed teeme,
Ne reard above the earth his flaming creast;
When the last deadly smoke aloft did steeme
That signe of last outbreathed life did seeme
Unto the watchman on the castle wall,
Who thereby dead that balefull Beast did
deeme,
And to his Lord and Ladie lowd gan call,
To tell how he had seene the Dragons fatall
fall.
3
Uprose with hastie joy, and feeble speed
That aged Sire, the Lord of all that land.
And looked forth, to weet if true indeede
Those tydings were, as he did understand,
Which whenas true by tryall he out found.
He bad to open wyde his brazen gate,
Which long time had been shut, and out of
hond
Proclaymed joy and peace through all his
state;
For dead now was their foe which them for-
rayed late.
4
Then gan triumphant Trompets sound on hie.
That sent to heaven the ecchoed report
Of their new joy, and happie vietorie
Gainst him, that had them long opprest with
tort,2
And fast imprisoned in sieged fort.
Then all the people, as in solemne feast,
To him assembled with one full consort,
Bejoycing at the fall of that great beast,
Erom whose eternall bondage now they were
releast.
5
Forth came that auncient Lord and aged
Queene,
Arayd in antique robes downe to the ground,
And sad habiliments right well beseeneS;
A noble crew about them waited round
Of sage and sober Peres*, all gravely gownd ;
Whom farre before did march a goodly bard
Of tall young men, all hable armes to sownds,
But now they laurell braunches bore in hand;
Glad signe of vietorie and peace in all their
land.
6
Unto that doughtie Conqueror they came,
And him before themselves prostrating low,
Their Lord and Patrone loud did him proclame.
And at his feet their laurell boughes did throw.
Boone after them all dauncing on a row
The comely virgins came, with girlands dlght,
2 wrong
3 arrayed
4 peorB, princps
B clash, wield
As fresh as flowres in medow greene do grow,
When morning deaw upon their leaves doth
light:
And in their hands sweet Timbrels all up-
held on hight.
17
Then sayd the royall Pere in sober wise;
Deare Sonne, great beene the evils which ye
bore
From first to last in your late enterprise,
That I notes whether prayse, or pitty more;
For never living man, I weene, so sore
In sea of deadly daungers was distrest;
But since now safe ye seised have the shore,
And well arrived are, (high God be blest)
Let us devize of ease and everlasting rest.
18
Ah, dearest Lord, said then that doughty
knight.
Of ease or rest I may not yet devize,
For by the faith, which I to armes have plight,
I bounden am streight after this emprize.
As that your daughter can ye well advize,
Backe to returne to that great Faerie Queene,
And her to serve six yeares in warlike wize,
Gainst that proud Paynim king that workes her
teene^ : "
Therefore I ought crave pardon, till I there
have beene.
19
Unhappie falles that hard necessitie,
(Quoth he) the troubler of my happie peace,
And vowed foe of my felicitie;
Ne I against the same can justly preace:*
But since that band ye cannot now release.
Nor doen undo;9 (for vowes may not be vaine),
Soone as the terms of those six yeares shall
cease.
Ye then shall hither backe returne againe.
The marriage to accomplish vowd betwixt
you twain.
20
Which for my part I covet to performe,
In sort as through the world I did proclame,
That whoso kild that monster most deforme,
And him in hardy battaile overcame.
Should have mine onely daughter to his Dame,
And of my kingdome heyre apparaunt bee:
Therefore since now to thee perteines the same,
By dew desert of noble chevalree.
Both daughter and eke kingdome, lo, I yield
to thee.
ne wot. know not
7 cauHOR her grief
R press
cause to bo undone
EDMUND SPEXSER
139
[Archimago, in a last spiteful efifort, comes
disguised as a messenger and attempts to pre-
vent the betrothal by producing a letter from
Duessa in which she asserts that the Knight is
plighted to her. His ruse, however, is exposed.]
36
But they him layd full low in dungeon deepe,
And bound him hand and foote with yron
chains
And with continual watch did warely keeper
Who then would thinke, that by his subtile
trains
He could escape fowle death or deadly paines?
Thus when that princes wrath was pacifide,
He gan renew the late forbidden banesio,
And to the knight his daughter dear he tyde,
With sacred rites and vowes for ever to
abyde.
37
His owne two hands the holy knots did knit.
That none but death for ever can devide;
His owne two hands, for such a turne most fit,
The housUngii fire did kindle and provide,
And holy water thereon sprinckled wide;
At which the bushy Teadei2 a groome did light,
And sacred lamp in secret chamber hide,
Where it should not be quenched day nor night,
For feare of evill fates, but burnen ever
bright.
38
Then gan they sprinckle all the posts with
wine.
And made great feast to solemnize that day;
They all perfumde with frankencense divine.
And precious odours fetcht from far away,
That all the house did sweat with great aray:
And all the while sweete Musicke did apply
Her curious skill, the warbling notes to play.
To drive away the dull Melancholy;
The whiles one sung a song of love and
jollity.
39
During the which there was an heavenly noise
Heard sound through all the Pallace pleasantly.
Like as it had bene many an Angels voice
Singing before th' eternall Majesty,
In their trinall triplicitiesia on hye;
Yet wist no creature whence that heavenly
sweet
Proceeded, yet eachone felt secretly
Himselfe thereby reft of his sences meet.
And ravished with rare impression in his
sprite.
10 banns ii sacramental 12 torch
13 The thrice three orders of the celestial hler-
aroliy : Seraphim. Cherubim, Thrones, Domin-
ions, Virtues, Powers, Princedoms, Aroh-
angeis. Angels.
40
Great joy was made that day of young and
old,
And solemne feast proclaimd throughout the
land,
That their exceeding merth may not be told:
Suffice it heare by signes to understand
The usuall joyes at knitting of loves band.
Thrise happv man the knight himselfe did
hold, "
Possessed of his Ladies hart and hand,
And ever, when his eye did her behold,
His heart did seeme to melt in pleasures
manifold.
41
Her joyous presence, and sweet company
In full content he there did long enjoy;
Ne wicked envie, ne vile gealosy,
His deare delights were able to annoy:
Yet swimming in that sea of blissfull joy.
He nought forgot how he whilome had sworne,
In case he could that monstrous beast destroy,
Unto his Faerie Queene backe to returne;
The which he shortly did, and Una left to
mourne,
42
Now strike your sailes ye jolly Mariners,
For we be come unto a quiet rode.
Where we must land some of our passengers,
And light this wearie vessell of her lode.
Here she a while may make her safe abode,
Till she repaired have her tackles spent,
And wants supplide. And then againe abroad
On the long voyage whereto she is bent:
Well may she speede and fairely finish her
intent.
PEOTHALAMION*
Calm was the day, and through the trembling
air
Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play —
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister
fair;
When I, (whom sullen care,
Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
In princes ' court, and expectation vain
Of idle hopes, which still do fly away
Like empty shadows, diu afflict my brain)
* A "Spousall Verse" made in honor of the ap-
proaching double marriage of the Ladies
Elizabeth and Katherine Somerset in 1596,
and apparently celebrating some visit of
theirs to Essex House. F. T. Palgrave says
of this poem : "Nowhere has Spenser more
emphatically displayed himself as the very
poet of Beauty : The Renaissance impulse in
England is here seen at its highest and
purest."
140
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
Walk'd forth to ease my pain 10
Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames;
Whose rutty 1 bank, the which his river hems,
Was painted all with variable flowers.
And all the meads adorn M with dainty gems
Fit to deck maidens' bowers,
And crown their paramours
Against the bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my
song.
There in a meadow by the river's side
A flock of nymphs 1 chanced to espy, 20
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
With goodly greenish locks all loose untied
As each had been a bride;
And each one had a little wicker basket
Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously.
In which they gather 'd flowers to fill their
flasket.
And with fine fingers cropt full feateouslys
The tender stalks on high.
Of every sort which in that meadow grew
They gather 'd some; the violet, pallid blue, 30
The little daisy that at evening closes.
The virgin lily and the primrose true,
With store of vermeil roses,
To deck their bridegrooms' posies
Against the bridal day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my
song.
With that I saw two swansf of goodly hue
Come softly swimming down along the Ijee"*;
Two fairer birds I yet did never see;
The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow
Did never whiter show, 41
Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be
For love of Leda, whiter did appear;
Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
Yet not 80 white as these, nor nothing near;
So purely white they were
That even the gentle stream, the which them
bare,
Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows
spare
To wet their silken feathers, lest they might
Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair. 50
And mar their beauties bright
That shone as Heaven's light
1 rooty
2 pluckod very dexterously
.T stream
t "The rrltlcH blame him becauBo In hlfl
I'rothalamion the subjects of It enter on the
Tbam"8 as swans and leave It at Temple
Tfardens as noble damsels ; but to those who
are grown familiar with his imaginary world
such a transformation seems as natural as In
the old legend of the Knight of the Swan "-
Lowell.
Against their bridal day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till 1 end my
song.
Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers
their fill,
Ran all in haste to see that silver brood
As they came floating on the crystal flood;
Whom when they saw, they stood amazed still
Their wondering eyes to fill; 59
Thiem seem 'd they never saw a sight so fair
Of fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deem
Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair
Which through the sky draw Venus' silver
team ;
For sure they did not seem
To be begot of any earthly seed,
But rather Angels, or of Angels' breed;
Yet were they bred of summer's heat*, they
say,
In sweetest season, when each flower and weed
The earth did fresh array;
So fresh they seem 'd as day, 70
Ev 'n as their bridal day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my
" song.
Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
Great store of flowers, the honour of the field.
That to the sense did fragrant odours yield.
All which upon those goodly birds they threw
And all the waves did strew.
That like old Peneus' waters they did seem
When down along by pleasant Tempe 's sliore
Scatter 'd with flowers, through Thessaly they
stream, 80
That they appear, through lilies' plenteous
store,
Like a bride's chamber-floor.
Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands
bound
Of freshest flowers which in that mead they
found,
The which presenting all in trim array.
Their snowy foreheads therewithal they
crown 'd ;
Whilst one did sing this lay
Prepared against that day,
Against their bridal day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my
song. ^
'Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament,
And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hour
Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower,
4 Spenser spelled It Somer's hent (Somerset) and
the pun was no doubt regarded as an orna-
ijint.
EDMUND SPENSER
141
Joy may you have, and gentle hearts ' content
Of your love 's couplement ;
And let fair Venus, that is queen of love,
With her heart-quelling son upon you smile,
"Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove
All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile
For ever to assoil. 100
Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord,
And blessed plenty wait upon your board ;
And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,
That fruitful issue may to you afford
Which may your foes confound,
And make your joys redound
Upon your bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till 1 end my
song. '
So ended she; and all the rest around
To her redoubled that her undersong, HO
Which said their bridal day should not be long:
And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground
Their accents did resound.
So forth those joyous birds did pass along
Adown the Lee that to them murmur 'd low.
As he would speak but that he lack 'd a tongue ;
Yet did by signs his glad affection show,
Making his stream run slow.
And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell
'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shends 121
The lesser stars. So they, enranged well,
Did on those two attend.
And their best service lend
Against their wedding day, which was not long !
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song.
At length they all to merry London came.
To merry London, my most kindly nurse.
That to me gave this life's first native source,
Though from another place I take my name, 130
An house of ancient fame:
There when she came whereass those bricky
towers
The which on Thames' broad ag6d back do
ride,
Where now the studious lawyers have their
bowers.
There whilome wont the Templar-knights to
bide.
Till they decay 'd through pride;
Next whereunto there stands a stately place.
Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace
Of that great lord^, which therein wont to
dwell,
5 the moon doth shame
« where
7 Lord Leicester, Spen-
ser's patron, whose
death left him in
"friendless case."
Whose want too well now feels my friendless
case;
But ah! here fits not well m
Old woes, but joys to tell
Against the bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,*
Great England 's glory and the world 's wide
wonder.
Whose dreadful name late through all Spain
did thunder.
And Hercules' two pillars standing near
Did make to quake and fear:
Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry! 150
That fiUest England with thy triumphs ' fame
Joy have thou of thy noble victory ,»
And endless happiness of thine own nameio
That promiseth the same;
That through thy prowess and victorious arms
Thy country may be freed from foreign harms,
And great Elisa 's glorious name may ring
Through all the world, fill 'd with thy wide
alarms,
Which some brave Muse may sing
To ages following: 160
Upon the bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song?
From those high towers this noble lord issuing
Like Radiant Hesper, when his golden hair
In th' ocean billows he hath bathed fair,
Descendetl to the river's open viewing
With a great train ensuing.
Above the rest were goodly to be seen
Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature.
Beseeming well the bower of any queen, 170
With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature.
Fit for so goodly stature.
That like the twins of Joven they seem'd in
sight
Which deck the baldric of the Heavens bright;
They two, forth pacing to the river's side.
Received those two fair brides, their love 's
delight ;
Which, at th ' appointed tide,
Each one did make his bride
Against their bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
8 Robert Devereux, second Earl of Essex
9 At Cadiz, 1596.
10 Apparently an allusion to the fact that the
words ever and heureux (Fr., "happy") can
be seen in the name Devereux.
n Castor and Pollux, who were placed amongr the
stars as the constellation Gemini.
142
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
ELIZABETHAN SONNETS*
EDMUND SPENSEB (1552-1599)
Amoretti XV.
Ye tradeful merchants that with weary toil
Do seek most precious things to make your gain,
And both the Indias of their treasures spoil,
What needeth you to seek so far in vain?
For lo, my love doth in herself contain
All this world's riches that may far be found:
If sapphires, lo, her eyes be sapphires plain;
If rubies, lo, her lips be rubies sound;
If pearls, her teeth be pearls, both pure and
round ;
If ivory, her forehead ivory ween;
If gold, her locks are finest gold on ground;
If silver, her fair hands are silver sheen.
But that which fairest is, but few behold —
Her mind adorned with virtues manifold.
Amoeetti XXXVII.
What guile is this, that those her golden
tresses
She doth attire under a net of gold,
And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses
That which is gold or hair may scarce be told?
Is it that men 's frail eyes, which gaze too bold,
She may entangle in that golden snare.
And, being caught, may craftily enfold
Their weaker hearts, which are not well aware?
Take heed, therefore, mine eyes, how ye do stare
Henceforth too rashly on that guileful net,
In which if ever ye entrapped are.
Out of her bands ye by no means shall get.
Fondnessi it were /or any, being free,
To covet fetters, though they golden be!
Amoretti LXL
The glorious image of the Maker's beauty,
My sovereign saint, the idol of my thought.
Dare not henceforth, above the bounds of duty,
T' accuse of pride, or rashly blame for ought.
For being, as she is, divinely wrought,
And of the brood of angels heavenly born,
And with the crew of blessed saints upbrought.
Each of which did her with their gifts adorn —
The bud of joy, the blossom of the morn.
The beam of light, whom mortal eyes admire;
What reason is it then but she should scorn
1 folly
* Sonnet groups or sequences were a marked
feature of Elizabethan verse. The Amoretti
are a series of eighty-eight, recording Spenser's
courtship of Elizabeth Boyle, his marriage to
whom In 1594 was the occasion of his
Kpithalamion. The Aatrophel and Stella
series, of one hundred and ten, chronicles Sid-
ney's love for Penelope Devereux. The In-
splrers of most of the other series seem more
or less ImaKlnary. See Eng, Lit., pp. 95, 107.
Base things that to her love too bold aspire!
Such heavenly forms ought rather worshipt be
Than dare be loved by men of mean degree.
SIE PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586)
ASTROPHEL AND StELLA I.f
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to
show,
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure
of my pain, —
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might
make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace
obtain, —
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face
of woe;
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain.
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence
would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-
burn 'd brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Inven-
tion's stay2;
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame
Study's blows;
And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in
my way.
Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless
in my throes.
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite;
Fool, said my Muse to me, look in thy heart
and write.
Astrophel and Stella XXXI.
With how sad steps, Moon, thou climb 'st the
skies !
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What, may it be that e 'en in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries!
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can ;^dge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case,
I read it in thy looks; thy languish 'd grace,
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, e 'en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue, there, ungratefulness?
SAMUEL DANIEL (1562-1619)
To Deua LI.
Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,
t See last note. "After Shakespeare's sonnets, Sid-
ney's Astrophel and IStclla offers the most In-
tense and powerful picture of the passion of
love In the whole range of our poetry." — F. T.
Palgrave. 2 support
EUZABETHAN SONNETS
143
Relieve my languish, and restore the light;
With dark forgetting of my care return.
And let the day be time enough to mourn
The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth:
Let waking eyes suflSce to wail their scorn,
Without the torment of the night 's untruth.
Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,
To model forth the passions of the morrow ;
Never let rising Sun approve you liars,
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain.
And never wake to feel the day's disdain.
MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631)
Idea LXI.
Since there 's no help, come let us kiss and
part,—
Nay I have done, you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart.
That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath.
When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies.
When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And innocence is closing up his eyes,
— Now if thou would 'st, when all have given
him over.
From death to life thou might 'st him yet
recover !
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616)
Sonnet XXIX.
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless
cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate;
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possest,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope.
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising.
Haply I think on thee; — and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's
gate;
For thy sweet love remember 'd, such wealth
brings
That then I scorn to change my state with
kings.
Sonnet XXX.
WTien to the sessionss of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's
waste;
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless
night,
And weep afresh love 's long-since-eancell 'd woe,.
And moan the expense* of many a vanished
sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o 'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan.
Which I new pay as if not paid before:
— But if the while I think on thee, dear
Friend,
All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
Sonnet LXIV.
When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of out-worn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed.
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state.
Or state itself confounded to decay,
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate —
That Time will come and take my Love away:
— This thought is a« a death, which cannot
choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
Sonnet LXV.
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless
sea.
But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower I
O how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days.
When rocks impregnable are not so stout
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays T
O fearful meditation! where, alack!
Shall Time's best jewels from Time's chest lie
hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back.
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O! none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine
bright.
3 Legal phraseology
4 the cost ( in grief)
5 1. e., the poet's friend.
144
THE PZLIZABETHAN AGE
Sonnet LXXIII.
That time of year thou niay'st in me behol<l
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds
sang:
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west.
Which by and by black night doth take away.
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest:
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish 'd by:
— This thou perceiv 'st, which makes thy love
more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere
long.
Sonnet LXXIV.
But- be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bails shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee:
The earth can have but earth, which is his due ;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life.
The prey of worms, my body being dead,
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife.
Too base of thee to be remembered.
The worth of that is that which it contains.
And that is this, and this with thee remains.
ELIZABETHAN LYRICS
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586)
ASTROPHEL AND STELLA, FiRST SONG
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes
intendeth,
Which now my breast surcharged to music
lendeth ?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due.
Only in you my song begins and endeth.
Who hath the eyes which marry state with
pleasure?
Who keeps the keys of Nature's chiefest
treasure?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due.
Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.! S
•s rofuHluK bail
■ was Immeasurably lavlKh
Who hath the lips where wit in fairness^
reigneth ?
Who womankind at once both decks and
staineth-l
To you, to you, all song of praise is due.
Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.
Who hath the feet whose step all sweetness
planteth ?
Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets
wanteth ?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due,
Only to you her scepter Venus granteth. 16
Who hath the breast whose milk doth patience
nourish?
Whose grace is such that when it chides doth
cherish?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due.
Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.
Who hath the hand which without stroke
subdueth ?
Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due.
Only at you all envy hopeless rueth.3 24
Who hath the hair which, loosest, fastest tietht
Who makes a man live then glad when he
dieth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due.
Only of you the flatterer never lieth.
Who hath the voice which soul from senses
sunders ?
Whose force but yours the bolts of beauty
thunders?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due.
Only with you not miracles are wonders.'* 32
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes
intendeth ?
Which now my breast o'ercharged to music
lendeth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due,
Only in you my song begins and endeth.
OEOBGE PEELE (1558?-1597?)
From the Arraignment of Paris
(Enone
Fair and fair, and twice so fair,
As fair as any may be.
The fairest shepher<l on our green,
A love for any lady.
si. c, by comparison
s Morrowii
4 mlrnoles are not wondera
ELIZABETHAN LYKICS
145
Paris
Fair and fair, and twice so fair,
As fair as any may be;
Thy love is fair for thee alone,
And for no other lady.
(Enone
My love is fair, my love is gay.
And fresh as bin the flowers in May,
And of my love my roundelay.
My merry, merry roundelay,
Concludes with Cupid's curse. —
"They that do change old love for new,
Pray gods they change for worse!"
Ambo Simul''
They that do change old love for new,
Pray gods they change for worse!
(Enone
Fair and fair, and twice so fair,
As fair as any may be.
The fairest shepherd on our green,
A love for any lady.
Paris
Fair and fair, and twice so fair,
As fair as any may be;
Thy love is fair for thee alone,
And for no other lady.
(Enone
My love can pipe, my love can sing.
My love can many a pretty thing,
And of his lovely praises ring
My merry, merry roundelay.
Amen to Cupid's curse, —
"They that do change old love for new.
Pray gods they change for worse I ' '
Part*
They that do change old love for new,
Pray gods they change for worse I
Ambo Simul
Fair and fair, and twice so fair.
As fair as any may be;
Thy love is fair for thee alone,
And for no other lady.
THOMAS LODGE (15o8M625)
Rosalind's Madrigal
Love in my bosom, like a bee,
Doth suck- his sweet ;
Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.
> Both together
Within mine eyes he makes his nest.
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah! wanton, will ye? 9
And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing.
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting.
WTiist, wanton, still ye! 18
Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence.
And bind you, when you long to play,
For your offense;
I '11 shut my eyes to keep you in ;
1 '11 make you fast it for your sin ;
I '11 count your power not worth a pin ;
— Alas! what hereby shall I win,
If he gainsay me? 27
WTiat if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod?
He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee.
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of« thee;
O Cupid, so thou pity me,
Spare not, but play thee I
36
HUBERT SOUTHWELL (1561? 1595)
TiiE Bltsnixg Babe
As I in hoary winter's night
Stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat
Which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye
To view what fire was near,
A pretty Babe all burning bright
Did in the air appear.
Who, scorched with excessive heat.
Such floods of tears did shed, l'^
As tho' His floods should quench His flames
Which with His tears were fed.
' • Alas ! ' ' quoth He, ' ' but newly born
In fiery heats I fry.
Yet none approach to warm their hearts
Or feel my fire but I !
My faultless breast the furnace i..
The fuel, wounding thorns;
•Jam pleased with
146
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
Love is the fire and sighs the smoke,
The ashes, shame and scorns; 20
The fuel Justice layeth on,
And Mercy blows the coals;
The metal in this furnace wrought
Are men's defiled souls;
For which, as now on fire I am
To work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath
To wash th3m in my blood."
With this He vanish 'd out of sight,
And swiftly shrunk away, 30
And straight I called unto mind
That it was Christmas-day.
CHEISTOPHER MARLOWE (1564-1593)
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
Come live with me and be my love.
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills and fields.
Woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks.
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals, 8
And I will make thee beds of roses.
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider 'd all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool.
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold; 16
A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love. 24
SIR WALTER RALEIGH (1552M618)*
The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd
If .all the world and love were young.
And truth in every shepherd's tongue.
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.
• Neither of the two poems here given as Raleigh's
can he ascribed to him with much confldence.
The first appeared in England's Helicon over
the name "Ignoto." The MS. of the second
bears the Initials "Sr. W. R."
Time drives the flocks from field to fold.
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come. 8
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall.
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies.
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten.
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 16
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds.
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date^, nor age no need.
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love. 24
Pilgrim to Pilgrim
As you came from the holy land
Of Walsinghame,t
Met you not with my true love
By the way as you camel
How shall I know your true love,
That have met many one.
As I went to the holy land.
That have come, that have gonet 8
She is neither white nor brown.
But as the heavens fair;
There is none hath a form so divine
In the earth or the air.
Such a one did I meet, good sir.
Such an angel-like face,
Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear.
By her gait, by her grace. 16
She hath left me here all alone.
All alone, as unknown.
Who sometimes did nie lead with herself.
And me loved as her own.
7 pnd
t An ancient Triory in Norfollt, with a famous
shrine of Our Lady, the object of many pil-
grimages until its dissolution In 15:58 (Eng.
Lit., p. 70). "A lover growing or grown old, it
would seem, has been left In the lurch by the
object of his afflictions. As all the world
thronged to Walsingham the lover supposes
that she too must have gone that way ; and
meeting a pilgrim returning from that Eng-
lish Holy Land, asks him If he has seen any-
thing of her runaway ladyship." — J. W. Hales.
ELIZABETHAN LYRICS
147
What's the cause that she leaves you alone,
And a new way doth take.
Who lovetl you once as her own,
And her joy did you makef 24
I have loved her all my youth,
But now old, as you see,
Love likes not the falling fruit
From the withered tree.
Know that Love is a careless child,
And forgets promise past;
He is blind, he is deaf when he list,
And in faith never fast. 32
His desire is a durelessi content,
And a trustless joy;
He is won with a world of despair
And is lost with a toy.-
Of womankind such indeed is the love,
Or the word love abused.
Under which many childish desires
And conceits are excused. 40
But true love is a durable fire.
In the mind ever burning,
Never sick, never old, never dead.
From itself never turning.
W^ILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616)
From As You Like It
Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me.
And turns his merry note
Unto the sweet bird 's throat —
Come hither, come hither, come hither !
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i ' the sun.
Seeking the food he eats
And pleased with what he gets —
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
From As You Like It
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.
I unendurlng 2 trifle 3 modulate
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere
folly:
Then, heigh ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp.
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember 'd not.
Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere
folly:
Then, heigh ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Fkom Measure for Measure
Take, O, take those lips away.
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day.
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But thy kisses bring again,
Bring again.
Seals of love, but sealed in vain,
Sealed in vain!
From Twelfth Night
Come away, come away. Death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be
thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save.
Lay me, O where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.
From Hamlet
How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff.
And his sandal shoon.*
4 Pilgrims wore cockle shells in their hats in sign
of their baving crossed tlie sea to tlie Holy
Land, and lovers not infrequently assumed
this disguise.
148
THE ELlZABETHAiN AGE
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is <iead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a slone.
White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded'' with sweet flowers.
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.
From Cymbeline
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate siugs,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies ;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise!
Arise, arise!
THOMAS DEKKER (1570M641?)
From Patient Grissell
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers!
O sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
O punishment!
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers golden numbers?
O sweet content, O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace! apace! apace! apace!
Honest labour bears a lovely face.
Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney!
Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring?
O sweet content!
Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thino
own tears?
O punishment!
Then he that patiently want 's burden bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king,
O sweet content, O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace! apace! apace! apace!
Honest labour bears a lovely face.
Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney!
THOMAS CAMPION (d. 1619)
Cherry-Ripe
There is a garden in her face
Where roses and wiiite lilies grow ;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow ;
thickly «trewn
There cherries grow that none may buy.
Till "Cherry-Ripe" themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
AVhich when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill 'd with snow :
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy.
Till "Cherry-Ripe" themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still ;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat 'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till "Cherry-Ripe" themselves do cry!
MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631)
Agincourt*
Fair stood the wind" for France,
When we our sails atlvance;
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry ;
But' putting to the main.
At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train
Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort, -»
Furnished in warlike sort,
March.^th towards Agincourt
In happy hour;
Skirmishing, day by day.
With those that stopped his way.
Where the French general lay
With all his power..
Whichs, in his height of pride.
King Henry to deride.
His ransom to provide
To the King sending^;
Which he neglects the while.
As from a nation vile.
Yet with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.
c who (the French Koneral)
7 1. c. Ncuding an order-
* In the courso of tlic Hundred Years \\ar tlie
Kn«Iish won throe jjreat victories over th<'
French in the face of enormous odds — Crecy
In 1346. Poitiers in 13.")«. and Aslncourt in
141.">. The lust was won hy Henry the Fifth,
and so well was the glory of it rememhered
that after nearly two hundred years Drayton
could celebrate "it in this ballad, which bids
fair to stand as the supreme national ballad
of England. Breathless from the flrst word
to the last, rude and rhythmic as the tread
of an armv, It arouses the martial spirit as
few things but its Imitators can.
16
24
ELIZABETHAN LYRICS
149
And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then:
"Though they to one be ten
Be not aniaz&d!
Yet have we well begun:
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By Fame been raised! 32
"And for myself," quoth he,
' ' This my full rests shall be :
England ne 'er mourn for me.
Nor more esteem me!
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain;
Never shall She sustain
Loss to redeem me! 40
* ' Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most thoir pride did swell, *
Under cur swords they fell.
No less our skill is,
Than when our Grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat
Lopped the French lilies. " . 48
The Duke :>f York so dread
The eager vanward led;
With the main, Henry sped
Amongst his henchmen:
Exeter had the rear,
A braver man not there!
O Lord, how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen! 56
They now to fight are gone;
Armour on armour shone;
Drum now to drum did groan:
To hear, was wonder;
That, with the cries they make,
The very earth did shake;
Trumpet to trumpet spake;
Thunder to thunder. 64
Well it thine ago became,
noble Erpingnam,
Which didst the signal aim
To our hid forces!
When, from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery
Stuck the French horses. 72
W'ith Spanish yew so strong;
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
8 resolution
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather.
None from his fellow starts;
But, playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,
Stuck close together. 80
When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilboess drew,
And on the French they flew:
Not one was tardy.
Arms were from shoulders sent.
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went:
Our men were hardy. 88
This while our noble King,
His broad sword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding.
As to o 'erwhelm it ;
And many a deep wound lent ;
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruised Ms helmet. 96
Gloucester, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood
With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight.
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another! 104
Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford, the foe invade.
And cruel slaughter made.
Still as they ran up.
Suffolk his axe did ply;
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily;
Ferrers and Fanhope. 112
Upon Saint Crispin 's Day
Fought was this noble Fray;
Which Fame did not delay
To England to carry.
O when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen?
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry? 120
BEN JONSON (1573?-1637)
To Celia
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I '11 not look for wine.
8 swords
150
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not wither 'd be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe
And seut'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee!
The Triumph of Charis
See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth !
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;
And enamour 'd, do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side.
Through swords, through seas, whither she
would ride. 10
Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love 's world compriseth !
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it risethi
Do but mark, her forehead smoother
Than words that soothe her;
And from her arched brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all tli.? good, of the elements'
strife. 20
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of the snow ,
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver?
Or swan 's down ever ?
Or have smelt o ' the bud of the briar ?
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the beef
Oh so white! Oh so soft! Oh so sweet is she!
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE— DRAMA
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
(1564-1593)
FROM
THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF DOCTOR
FAUSTUS.*
Enter Chorus.
Chorus. Not marching in the fields of Thrasy-
meue,i
Where Mars did mate"- the warlike Car-
thagens ;
Nor sporting in the dalliance of love,
In courts of kings where stated is over-
tuKu 'd ;
Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds,
Intends our Muse to vaunt her heavenly
verse :
Only this, gentles, — we must now perform
The form of Faustus ' fortunes, good or bad :
And now to patient judgments we appeal,
And speak for Faustus in his infancy. 10
Now is he born of parents base of stock.
In Germany, within a town call'd Rhodes:*
At riper years, to Wittenberg he went,
Whereas^ his kinsmen chiefly brought him up.
So much he profits in divinity,
1 The scene of Hannibal's defeat of the Romans,
217 B. C. Marlowe means that hi.s drama is
not to deal, like others, with wars and in-
trigues.
2 cope with 4 Roda. near Weimar.
3 statehood, majesty 5 whore
• The P'aust legend, which embodies the old fancy
of a compact with the K\i\ One, had its origin
in the life of a certain German doctor
(i. e. learned man) of evil character, .Tohann
Faustus, who, dying about 1538, was reputel
to have been carried off by the devil. The
tales that grew up about his memory wen-
collected in "The History of Dr. Faustus. the
Notorious Magician and Master of the Black
Art." published at Frankfort-on-the-Main In
1587. A translation was printed in England
and Marlowe immediately dramatized it
(1588) : since then the story has appeared in
many forms. Marlowe's drama was probably
not printed in his lifetime. The editions
dated 1604 and 1616 differ in many particu-
lars and certainly neither of them gives us
the text as he left it. It is possible that none
of the comic scenes, the mingling of which
with tragedy came to be one of the charac-
teristics of Elizabethan drama, were from his
pen. The extracts given above present only
the central tragic theme. The 1616 text Is
followed, with scene numbers inserted to cor-
respond with A. W. Ward's divisions of the
1604 text.
That shortly he was grac'd with doctor's
name,
Excelling all, and sweetly can dispute
In th' heavenly matters of theology;
Till swoln with cunning,^ of a self-conceit,
His waxen wings did mount above his
reach, 7 20
And, melting, heavens conspir'd his over-
throw ;
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 chief est bliss:
And this the man that in his study sits.
[Exit.
[Scene I.]
Faustus discovered in his study.
Faustus. Settle* thy studies, Faustus, and be-
gin
To sound the depth of that thou wilt pro-
fess : 9
Having commenc'd,io be a divine in show.
Yet level at the endu of every art,
And live and die in Aristotle's works.
Sweet Analytics, 'tis thou hast ravish 'd me!
Bene disserere est finis logices.^-
Is, to dispute well, logic 's chiefest end ?
Affords this art no greater miracle?
Then read no more; thou hast attain 'd that
end: 10
A greater subject fitteth Faustus ' wit :
Bid Economy farewell, and Galenis come:
Be a physician, Faustus; heap up gold.
And be eterniz 'd for some wondrous cure :
Summnm bonum medicince sanitas.
The end of physic is our body's health.
Why, Faustus, hast thou not attain 'd that
end?
Are not thy bills'* hung up as monuments.
Whereby whole cities have escap'd the plague.
6 knowledge
7 Alluding to the story
of Icarus.
8 fix upon
9 choose for a profes-
sion
10 taken the doctor's
degree
11 aim at the goal (viz.,
metaphysics)
12 "To dispute well is
the end of logic."
13 .V famous physician
of the second cen-
tury.
14 prescriptions
151
152
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
And thousand desperate maladies been
cur'd? 20
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! Where is Justinian fi''
[Eeads.
Si una eademque res legatur diiohus, alter
rem, alter valorem rei, 4'C-^^
A petty case of paltry legacies! [Eeads.
Exhcereditare filiuw non potest pater, iiisi.
Such is the subject of the institute,
And universal body of the law: 30
This study fits a mercenary drudge.
Who aims at nothing but external trash;
Too servile and illiberal for me.
When all is done, divinity is best:
Jerome's Bible,i8 Faustus; view it well.
[Eeads.
Stipendium peccati mors est. Ha! Stipen-
diiim, 4'C. The reward of sin is death; that's
hard. [Beads.
Si peccasse negamus, fallimur, et nulla est
in nobis Veritas; If we say that we have
no sin, we deceive ourselves, and there is
no truth in us. Why, then, belike we must
sin, and so consequently die : 42
Ay, we must die an everlasting death.
What doctrine call you this, Che sera, sera,
What will be, shall be? Divinity, adieu li"
These metaphysics of magicians,
And necromantic books are heavenly;
Lines, circles, scenes, letters, and characters;
Ay, these are those that Faustus most desires.
O, what a world of profit and delight, 50
Of power, of honour, and omnipotence,
Is promis'd to the studious artizan!
All things that move between the quiet poles
Shall be at my command: emperors and
kings
Are but obeyed in their several provinces;
But his dominion that exceeds in this,
Stretcheth as far as doth the mind of man;
A sound magician is a demigod:
Here tire, my brains, to gain a deity.
Enter Wagner.
Wagner, commend mo to my dearest friends, 60
The German Valdos and (Jornolius;
Request them earnestly to visit me.
15 A Roman omperor and law-glver.
16 "If one nnd tho same thlnj; bf boniipathod to
two, one (shall have] the thing, the other Its
value, etc."
17 "A father may not disinherit his son. unless,
etc."
11 The Vul;:ate.
19 Here F.nuHtus turns to his hooi<K of magic.
Wag. I will, sir. [Exit.
Faust. Their conferenceio will be a greater
help to me
Than all my labours, plod I ne'er so fast.
Enter Good Angel and Evil Angel.
G. AXG. O, Faustus, lay that damned book
aside,
And gaze not on it, lest it tempt thy soul.
And heap God's heavy wrath upon thy head!
Read, read the Scriptures: — that is blas-
phemy.
E. Ang. Go forward, Faustus, in that famous
art2i 70
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 spirits fetch me what I please.
Resolve me of-- all ambiguities,
Perform what desperate enterprise I will ?
I '11 have them fly to India for gold.
Ransack the ocean for orient pearl,
And search all corners of the new-found
world23 80
For pleasant fruits and princely delicates;-*
1 '11 have them read me strange philosophy,
And tell the secrets of all foreign kings;
I '11 have them wall all Germany with brass,
And make swift Rhine circle fair Witten-
berg;
I '11 have them fill the public schools with silk,
Wherewith the students shall be bravely clad ;
I '11 levy soldiers with the coin they bring,
And chase the Prince of Parma* from our
land.
And reign sole king of all the provinces; 90
Yea, stranger engines for the brunt of Avar,
Than was the fiery keel at Antwerp-bridge,t
I '11 make my servile spirits to invent.
Enter Valdes and Cornelius.
Come, German Valdes, and Cornelius,
And make me blest with your sage conference.
Valdes, sweet Valdes, and Cornelius,
Know that your words have won me at the
last
To practise magic and concealed arts.
Piiilosophy is odious and obscure;
Both law nnd ])hysic are for petty wits: 1"'*
'Tis magic, magic that hath ravish 'd mo.
20 conversation 23 America
21 black art, 1. e.. magic 24 delicacies
22 interpret for me
• Alexander Farnese. the famous Governor of the
Netherlands, who suhdnefl Antwerp In ^'^X•>
and later planned at Philip ITs orders to in-
vade lOngland.
t Ships set on tire and driven niialnst the Antwerp
bridge to burn It down.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
153
Theu, gentle friends, aid me in this attempt;
And I, that have with subtle syllogisms
Gruvell 'd--* the pastors ol" the German church,
And made the flowering pride of Wittenberg
Swarm to my problems, as th' infernal spirits
On sweet .Musa'us when he came to hell,-«
Will be as cunning as Agrippa-^ was,
Whose shadow made all Europe honour him.
V'ald. Faustus, these books, thy wit, and our
experience, 110
Shall make all nations to canonize us.
As Indian Moorsss obey their Spanish Icrds,
So shall the spirits of every elemeat
Be always serviceable to us three;
Like lions shall they guard us when we
please;
Like Alniain rutters^o with their horsemen 's
staves,
Or Lapland giants, trotting by our sides;
Sometimes like women, or unwedded maids,
Shadowing more beauty inso their airy brows
Than have the white breasts of the queen of
love: 120
From Venice shall they drag huge argosies.
And from America the golden fleece
That yearly stufl's old Philip's treasury;
If learned Faustus will be resolute.
Faust. Valdes, as resolute am I in this
As thou to live : therefore object it not.i
Corn. The miracles that magic will perform
Will make thee vow to study nothing else.
He that is grounded in astrology.
Enrich 'd with tongues, well seen^ in min-
erals, 130
Hath all 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 tell me they can dry the sea.
And fetch the treasure of all foreign wrecks,
Yea, all the wealth that our forefathers hid
Within the massy entrails of the earth;
Then tell me, Faustus, what shall we three
want?
Faust. Nothing, Cornelius. O, this cheers my
soul! 140
Come^ show me some demonstrations magical.
That I may conjure in some bushy grove,
And have these joys in full possession.
Vald. Then haste thee to some solitary grove,
And bear wise Bacon's and Albertus's works.
25 puzzled
26 See .Enriil VI., 666.
27 A magician at the
time of Johann
Faustus.
2S American Indians
20 German horsemen
30 Perhaps iw = under
1 make it no objeotlon 2 skilled
3 Roger Bacon and Albertiis Magnus, mediaeval
scholars popularly reputed to have practiced
magic.
The Hebrew Psalter, and New Testament;
And whatsoever else is requisite
We will inform thee ere our conference cease.
Corn, Valdes, first let him know the words of
art;
And then, all other ceremonies learn 'd, 130
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 every quiddity^ thereof;
For, ere I sleep, I '11 try what I can do ;
This night I'll conjure, though I die there-
fore. [Exeunt.
[Scene II.]
Enter two Scholars.
First Schol. I wonder what "s become or' Faus-
tus, that was wont to make our sciiools
ring with sic probo.^
Sec. Schol. That shall we presently know;
here comes his boy.
Enter Wagner.
First Schol, How now, sirrah! where 's thy
master ?
Wag. God in heaven knows.
Sec. Schol. Why, dost not thou know, then!
Wag. Yes, I know; but that follows not.
First Schol. Go to, sirrah ! leave your jesting,
and tell us where he is. , . . 10
Wag. 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 breth-
ren ! [Exit.
First Schol. O Faustus! 33
Then I fear that which I have long suspected.
That thou art fall'n into that damned art
For which they two are infamous through the
world.
Sec. Schol. Were he a stranger, not allied
to me,
The danger of his soul would make me
mourn.
But, come, let us go and inform the Rector;
It may be his grave counsel may reclaim
him. 40
First Schol. I fear me nothing will reclaim
him now.
Sec. Schol. Yet let us see what we can do.
[Exeunt.
* matter
s "Thus I prove" (a formula in logical demon-
stration.
154
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
[Scene III.]
Enter Faustus.
Faust. Now that the gloomy shadow of the
night,
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 devils will obey thy hest,
Seeing thou hast pray'd and sacriflc'd to
them.
Within this circle is Jehovah's name.
Forward and backward anagrammatiz 'd,8
Th' abbreviated names of holy saints, 10
Figures 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, to be resolute.
And try the utmost magic can perform.
[Thunder.
Sint mihi dii Acherontis propitii! Valeat
numen triplex Jehova! Ignei, derii, aquatani
spiritus, salvete! Orientis princeps Belzebub,
inferni ardentis monarcha, et Demogorgon,
propitiamns vos, ut appareat et surgat Meph-
istophilis Dragon, quod ttimeraris: per Je-
hovam, Gehennam, et consecratam aquam
quam nunc spargo, signunique cruets quod
nunc facio, et per vota nostra, ipse nunc sur-
gat nobis dicatus Mephistophilis !^ 23
Enter Mephistophilis.
I charge thee to return, and change thy
shape;
Thou art too ugly to attend on me:
Go, and return an old Franciscan friar;
That holy shape becomes a devil best.**
[Exit Mephistophilis.
I see there's virtue in my heavenly words.
Who would not be proficient in this art?
How pliant is this Mephistophilis, 30
8 written as an anagram
7 wandering (1. e.. planets)
8 A Protestant fling at monasticism.
♦ The rising and setting of the constellation of
Orion was said to be accompanied by rain.
t "May the gods of Acheron [river of pain, in
Hades], be propitious to me! May the triple
name of .lenovah avail ! Hail, spirits of fire,
air, and water ! Beolzel)ub, prince of the east,
monarch of burning hell, and Demogorgon,
we propitiate you, that Mephistophilis the
Dragon, quod iumeiariH [text corrupt and un-
translatable), may appear and arise: In the
name of Jehovah, Oehenna and the holy water
which I now nprinlcle, and the sign "of the
cross which I now make and in the name of
our vows, let Mephistophilis himself at our
command, now arise." Beelzebub, etc., were
memliers of the infernal hierarchy, of whicli
Lucifer (Satan) was commonly "regarded as
chief. Marlowe makes Meph'l»<tophlliR the
servant of Lucifer, to whom he later gives
the title of pritiie of the east, liere given to
Beelzebub.
Full of obedience and humility!
Such is the force of magic and my spells.
Re-enter Mephistophilis ?iAc a Franciscan friar.
Meph. Now, Faustus, what wouldst thou have
me <lo ?
Faust. 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 per-
form. 40
Faust. Did not he charge thee to appear to
me?
Meph. No, I came hither of mine own accord.
Faust. Did not my conjuring speeches raise
thee? speak!
Meph. That was the cause, but yet per acci-
dens;o
For, when we hear one rackio the name of
God,
Abjure the Scriptures and his Saviour Christ,
We fl^', in hope to get his glorious soul ;
Nor will we come, unless he use such means
Whereby he is in danger to be damn 'd.
Therefore the shortest cut for conjuring 50
Is stoutly to abjure all godliness.
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 mo,
For I confound hell in Elysium: n
My ghost be with the old philosophers! 59
But, leaving these vain trifles of men 's souls,
Tell me what is tliat Lucifer thy Lord?
Meph. Arch-regent and commander of all
spirits.
Faust. Was not that Lucifer an angel once?
Meph. Yes, Faustus, and most dearly lov'd of
God.
Fau.st. How comes it, then, that he is prince
of devils?
Meph. O, by aspiring pride and insolence ;
For which God threw him from the face of
heaven.
FAU.«iT. And what are you that live with Luci-
fer?
Meph. Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer,
Conspired against our God with Lucifer, 70
And are for ever <lamn 'd with Lucifer.
Faust. WTiere are you damn'd?
• by accident lo torture (In anagrams)
11 count hell and Elysium the same
CHKISTOPHER MARLOWE
155
Meph. In hell.
Faust. How comes it, then, that thou art out
of hell ?
Mepu. Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it: 12
Think 'st thou that 1, that saw the face of
G0.I.
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven.
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells,
In being depriv 'd of everlasting bliss?
O, Faustus, leave these frivolous demands, 80
Which strike a terror to my fainting soul!
Faust. What, is great Mephistophilis so pas-
sionate
For being deprived of the joys of heaven ?
Learn thou of Faustus manly fortitude,
And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess.
Go bear these tidings to great Lucifer:
Seeing Faustus hath incurr M 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 years, 90
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 to aid my friends.
And always be obedient to my will.
Go, and return to mighty Lucifer,
And meet me in my study at midnight.
And then resolve me of thy master 's mind.
ilEPH. I will, Faustus. [Exit. lOO
Faust. Ha'd I as many souls as there be stars,
I 'd give them all for Mephistophilis.
By him I '11 be great emperor of the world,
And make a bridge thorough the moving air,
To pass the ocean with a band of men;
I '11 join the hills that bind the Afric shore,
And make that country continentis to Spain,
And both contributary to my crown:
The Hmperor shall not live but by my leave,
Nor any potentate of Germany. HO
Now that I have obtain 'd what I desir'd,
I'll live in speculation of this art.
Till Mephistophilis return again. \Exit.
[Scene Y.]
Faustus discovered in Ids study.
Faust. Now, Faustus,
Must thou needs be danin'd, canst thou not
be sav'd.
What boots it, then, to think on God or
heaven *
Away with such vain fancies, and despair;
Despair in God. and trust in Belzebub:
12 Compare Paradise Lost, I. 2.")4.
13 connected
Now, go not backward, Faustus, be resolute:
Why waver 'st thou.' O, something soundeth
in mine ear,
' ' Abjure this magic, turn to God again ! ' '
Why, he loves thee not ;
The god thou serv 'st is thine own appetite, 10
Wherein is fix'd the love of Belzebub:
To him I '11 build an altar and a church.
And offer lukewarm blood of new-born babes.
Enter Good Angel and Evil Angel.
E. AxG. Go forward, Faustus. in that famous
art.
G. AxG. Sweet Faustus, leave that execrable
art.
Faust. Contrition, prayer, repentance — what
of these?
G. AxG. O, they are means to bring thee unto
heaven.
E. Ang. Rather illusions, fruits of lunacy,
That make men foolish that do use them
most.
G. AxG. Sweet Faustus, think of heaven and
heavealy things. 20
E. Ang. No, Faustus; think of honour and of
wealth. \ Exeunt Angels.
Faust. Wealth!
Why, the signioryu of Embdenis shall be
mine.
When Mephistophilis shall stand by me,
Wh.it power can hurt me ? Faustus, thou art
safe.
Cast no more doubts. — Mephistophilis, come,
And bring glad tidings from great Luci-
fer ; —
Is't not midnight? — come Mephistophilis,
7'e/it,i« veni, MephistophUe !
Enter Mephistophilis.
Now tell me what saith Lucifer, thy lord? 30
Meph. That I shall wait on Faustus whilst he
lives,
So he will buy my service with his soul.
Faust. Already Faustus hath hazarded that
for thee.
Meph. But now thou must bequeath it sol-
emnly.
And write a deed of gift with thine own
blood ;
For that security craves Lucifer.
If thou deny it, I must back to hell.
Faust. Stay, Mephistophilis, and tell me, what
good will my soul do thy lord?
Meph. Enlarge his kingdom. 40
Faust. Is that the reason why he tempts us
thus?
n dominion
15 A town of Hanover, Germany, formerly very
prosperous.
18 come
156
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
Meph. Solamen miseris socios habuisse do
lorisA'!
Faust. Why, 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?
And 1 will be thy slave, and wait on thee.
And give thee more than thou hast wit to ask.
Faust. Ay, Mephistophilis, I'll give it thee.
Meph. Then, Faustus, stab thine arm cour-
ageously,
And bind thy soul, that at some certain day
Great Lucifer may claim it as his own; r.l
And then be thou as great as Lucifer.
Faust. [Stabbing his anii \ Lo, MephistophilLs,
for love of thee,
Faustus hath cut his arm, and with his
proper blood
Assures his soul to he great Lucifer's,
Chief lord and regent of perpetual night!
View here this blood that trickles from mine
arm.
And let it be propitious for my wish.
Meph. But, Faustus,
Write it in manner of a deed of gift. CO
Faust. [Writing^ Ay, so I do. But, Mephis
tophilis,
-My blood congeals, and T can write no more.
Meph. I'll fetch thee fire to dissolve it
straight. [Exit.
Faust. What might the staying of my blood
portend?
Is it unwilling I should write tliis bill?
Why streams it not, that I may write afresh?
Faufttiis (jives to thee his soul: O, there it
stay 'd !
Why shouldst thou not? is not thy soul thine
own?
Then write again, Faitstvs {lives to thee his
soul.
Ee-enter 'Siephistoph'iViH with the chafcr^^ of fire.
Meph. See, Faustus, here is fire; set it on. 70
Faust. So, now the blood begins to clear
again ;
Now will I make an end immediately. [ Writes.
Meph. What will not I do to obtain his soul F
[Asiiie.
Faust. Consummatum e.<<t ;^^ this bill is ended.
And Faustus hath bequeath M his soul to
Lucifer.
But what is this inscription on mine arm?
Homo, fu(/e:2o whither should I fly?
17 "It is a comfort to the mlaerahlo to have asso-
fiafcM in tholr paiu."
18 verael
!» "It !■ done." 20 "Man, flee!"
If unto God, he'll throw me down to hell.
My senses are deceiv'd; here's nothing
writ: —
O, yes, I see it plain ; even here is writ, 80
Homo, fuge: yet shall not Faustus fly.
Meph. I '11 fetch him somewhat to delight his
mind. [Aside, and then exit.
Enter Devils, giving crotrns and rich apparel to
Faustus. They dance, and then depart.
He-enter Mephistophilis.
Faust. What means this show? speak, Mephis-
tophilis.
Meph. Nothing, Faustus, hut to delight thy
mind.
And let thee see what magic can perform.
Faust. But may I raise such spirits when I
please?
Meph. Ay, Faustus, and do greater things
than these.
Faust. Then, Mephistophilis, receive this scroll,
A deed of gift of body and of soul:
But yet conditionally that thou perform 90
All covenants and articles between us both!
Meph. Faustus, I swear by hell and Lucifer
To effect all promises between us both!
Faust. Then hear me read it, Mephistophilis.
[Beads.
On these conditions follomng. First, that
Faustus inaij be a spirit in form and s^ib-
stance. Secondly, that Mephistophilis shall be
his servant, and be by Jiim commanded.
Thirdly, that Mephistophilis shall do for him,
and bring him whatsoever he desires.
Fourthly, that he shall be in his chamber or
honse invisible. La.'ttly, that he shall appear
to the said John Fa.islus, at all times, in
what .thapc and form soever he please. I,
John Faiistus, of Wittenberg, Doctor, by
these presents, do give both body and soul to
Lucifer prince of the east, and his minister
Mephistophilis; and furthermore grant unto
them, thai, four-andtuenty years being ex-
pired, and these articles aboue-toritten being
inviolate, full power to fetch or carry the
said John Faustus, body and soul, flesh and
blood, into their habitation wheresoever. By
me, John Faustus.
Meph. Speak, Faustus, do you deliver this as
your deed? 110
Faust. Ay, take it. and the devil give thee
good of it!
Meph. So, now, Faustus, ask me what tiiou
wilt,
Faust. First I will question with thee about
hell.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
157
Tell me, where is the place that men eall
hell?
Meph. Under the heavens.
Faust. Ay, so are all things else; but where-
abouts *
Meph. Within the bowels of these elements,
Where we are tortur'd and remain for ever:
Hell hath no limits, nor is eircumsorib 'd
In one self -place; but where we are is hell,
And where hell is, there must we ever be: 121
And, to be short, when all the world dissolves,
And every creature shall be purified.
All places shall be hell that are not heaven.
Faust. I think hell's a fable.
Meph. Ay, think so still, till experience change
thy mind.
Faust. Why, dost thou think that Faustus
shall be damn'df
Meph. Ay, of necessity, for here's the scroll
In which thou hast given thy soul to Lucifer.
Faust. Ay, and body too; and what of that?
Think 'st thou that Faustus is so fond to
imagine 131
That, after this life, there is any pain?
No, these are trifles and mere old wives '
tales.
Meph. But I am an instance to prove the con
trary,
For I tell thee I am damn 'd and now in hell.
Here, take this book, peruse it well:
The iterating of these lines brings gold; 160
The framing of this circle on the ground
Brings thunder, whirlwinds, storm, and light-
ning;
Pronounce this thrice devoutly to thyself,
And men in harness^i shall appear to thee.
Ready to execute what thou command 'st.
Fau.st. Thanks, Mephistophilis, for this sweet
book:
This will I keep as chary as my life. [Exeunt.
[Scene YL]
Enter Faustus, in his stiuh/, and Mephistophilis.
Faust. When I behold the heavens, then I
repent.
And curse thee, wicked Mephistophilis.
Because thou hast depriv 'd me of those joys.
Meph. 'Twas thine own seeking, Faustus;
thank thyself.
But think 'st thou heaven is such a glorious
thing?
I tell thee, Faustus, it is not half so fair
As thou, or any man that breathes on earth.
Faust. How prov'st thou that!
21 armor
Meph. 'Twaa made for man; then he's more
excellent.
Faust. If heaven was made for man, 'twas
made for me: 10
I will renounce this magic and repent.
Enter Good Angel and Evil Angel.
G. Ang. Faustus, repent; yet God will pity
thee.
E. Ang. Thou art a spirit; God cannot pity
thee.
Faust. Who buzzeth in mine ears I am a
spirit ?
Be I a devil, yet God may pity me;
Yea, God will pity me, if I repent.
E. Ang. Ay, but Faustus never shall repent.
[Exeunt Angels.
Faust. My heart is harden 'd, I cannot repent ;
Scarce can I name salvation, faith, or heaven:
Swords, poisons, halters, and envenom 'd steel
Are laid before me to despatch myself; 21
And long ere this I should have done the
deed,
Had not sweet pleasure conquer 'd deep
despair.
Have not 1 made blind Homer sing to me
Of Alexander 's22 love and (Enon 's-^ death ?
And hath not he, that buUt the walls of
Thebes24
With ravishing sound of his melodious harp,
Made music with my Mephistophilis?
Why should I die, then, or basely despair?
I am resolv'd; Faustus shall not repent. —
Come Mephistophilis, let us dispute again.
And reason of divine astrology. 32
Speak, are there many spheres above the
moon?
Are all celestial bodies but one globe,
As is the substance of this centric25 earth?
Meph. As are the elements, such are the heav-
ens,
Even from the moon unto th ' empyreal orb,2«
Mutually folded in each other's spheres.
And jointly move upon one axletroe,
Whose termine27 is term'd the world's wide
pole; 40
Nor are the names of Saturn, Mars, or
Jupiter
Feign 'd, but are erring2s stars.
Faust. But have they all one motion, both
situ et tempore?-^
Meph. All move from east to west in four-
and-twenty hours upon the poles of the
22 Another name for Paris, whose love for Helen
caused the Trojan war.
23 Wife of Paris, who took her own life.
24 Amphion. 27 terminal
25 central 28 See note. p. 154
28 the sun 29 in place and time
158
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
world; but differ in their motions upon the
poles of the zodiac.
Faust. These slender questions "Wagner can
decide:
Hath Mephistophilis no greater skill?
Who knows not the double motion of the
planets! »0
That the first is finish 'd in a natural day;
The second thus: Saturn in thirty years;
Jupiter in twelve; Mars in four; the Sun,
Venus, and Mercury in a year; the Moon in
twenty-eight days. These are freshmen's
questions. But tell me, hath every sphere a
dominion or intelligentia?^^
Meph. Ay.
Faust. How many heavens or spheres are
there?
Meph. Nine; the seven planets, the firmament,
and the empyreal heaven.* •»<>
Faust. But is there not caelum igneum et crya-
tallinum?
Meph. No, Faustus, they be but fables.
Faust. Resolve3i me, then, in this one ques-
tion; why are not conjunctions, oppositions,
aspects, eclipses, all at one time, but in some
years we have more, in some less?
Meph. Fer inwqualem motum respectu totius.^-
Faust. Well, T am answered. Now tell me who
made the world! '^
Meph. I will not.
Faust. Sweet Mephistophilis, tell me.
Meph. Move me not, Faustus.
Faust. Villain, have not I bound thee to tell
me anything?
Meph. Ay, that is not against our kingdom;
this is.
Thou art damned ; think thou of hell.
Faust. Think, Faustus, upon God that made
the world.
Meph. Remember this. [Exit,
Faust. Ay, go, accursed spirit, to ugly hell! 80
'Tis thou hast damn'd distress^d Faustus'
soul.
Is't not too late?
Beenter Good Angel and Evil Angel.
E. Ang. Too late.
G. AxG. Never too late, if Faustus will repent.
E. Ang. If thou repent, devils will tear thee
in pieces.
G. AxG. Repent, and they shall never raze thy
skin. [Exeunt Angels.
80 fiOvcrelRn authorHy and Intellect
31 fit'o nif from doubt
32 "He<aMKp of their unequal motion with respect
to the whole."
• Actordlnjf to the Ttolomalc syHtom, these were
Dlno concentric spheres, with thi' earth at the
ccntr<'. A tenth sphere, the "flory and crys-
talllno honvon" mentioned In the next ques-
tion, was ttometimes added.
Faust. O Christ, my Saviour, my Saviour,
Help to save distressed Faustus' soul!
Enter Lucifer, Belzebub, and Mephistophilis,
Luc. Christ cannot save thy soul, for lie ia
just:
There 's none but I have interest in the same.
Faust. O, what art thou that look'st so
terribly? ^^
Luc. I am Lucifer.
And this is my companion-prince in hell.
Faust. O Faustus, they are come to fetch thy
soul !
Belz. We are come to tell thee thou dost
injure us.
Thou call'st on Christ, contrary to thy
ll
Luc.
Belz.
Luc.
Belz.
Faust.
promise.
Thou shouldst not think on God.
Think on the devil.
And his dam too.
pardon
100
110
but
Nor will Faustus henceforth:
him for this.
And Faustus vows never to look to heaven.
Luc. So shalt thou show thyself an obedient
servant,
And we will highly gratify thee for it.
Belz. Faustus, we are eoiiie from hell in person
to show thee some pastime: sit down, and
thou shalt behold the Seven Deadly Sins
appear to thee in their own proper shajies
and likeness.
Faust. That sight will be as pleasant unto me,
As Paradise was to Adam the first day
Of his creation.
Luc. Talk not of Paradise or creation;
mark the show. —
Go, Mephistophilis, and fetch them in.
Mephistophilis brings in the Seven Deadly Sins.
Belz. Now, Faustus, question them of tiioir
names and dispositions.
Faust. That shall I soon. — What art thou, the
first? ^'^
Pride. I am Pride. I disdain to have any
parents. . . . But, fie, what a smell is
here? I'll not speak a word more for a
king's ransom, unless the ground be per-
fumed, and covered with cloth of arras.
Faust. Thou art a proud knave, indeed.— What
art thou, the second? '-^
Covet. I am Covetousness, begotten of an old
churl, in a leather bag: and, might I now
obtain my wish, this house, you, and all,
should turn to gold, that I might lock you
safe into my chest: O my sweet gold!
Faust. And what art thou, the third? 1-'"
Envy. I am Envy, begotten of a chimney
sweeper and an oyster-wife. I cannot read.
and therefore wish all books burned.
I am
CHKJSTOPIIER MAKLOWE
159
leau with seeing others eat. O, that there
would come a famine over all the world, that
all might die, and I live alone! then thou
shouldst see how fat I'd be. But must thou
sit, and I stand? come down with a
vengeance !
l'\\UST. Out, envious wretch! — But what art
thou, the fourth? 145
Wrath. I am Wrath. I had neither father
nor mother: I leapt out of a lion's mouth
when I was scarce an hour old; and ever
since have run up and down the world with
this ease of rapiers, wounding myself when
I could get none to fight withal. I was born
in hell; and look to it, for some of you shall
be33 my father.
Faust.. And what art thou, the fifth? 153
Glut. I am Gluttony. My parents are all dead,
and the devil a penny have they left me, but
a small pension, and that buys me thirty
meals a day and ten bevers,3* — a small trifle
to suffice nature. I come of a royal pedigree :
my father was a Gammon of Bacon, and my
mother was a Hogshead of Claret-wine; my
godfathers were these, Peter Pickled-herring
and Martin Martlemas-beef ;35 and my god-
mother, O, she was an ancient gentlewoman;
her name was Margery March-beer.36 Now,
Faustus, thou hast heard all my progeny;
wilt thou bid me to supper? 165
Faust. Not I.
Glut. Then the devil choke thee!
Faust. Choke thyself, glutton! — What art
thou, the sixth?
Sloth. Heigho! I am Sloth. I was begotten
on a sunny bank. Heigho! I'll not speak
a word more for a king's ransom. . . .
Luc. Away to hell, away ! On, piper !
[Exeunt the Sins.
Faust. O, how this sight doth delight my
soul ! 180
Luc. Tut, Faustus, in hell is all manner of
delight.
Faust. O, might I see hell, and return again
safe.
How happy were I then!
Luc. Faustus, thou shalt; at midnight I will
send for thee.
Meanwhile peruse this book and view it thor-
oughly,
And thou shalt turn thyself into what shape
thou wilt.
Faust. Thanks, mighty Lucifer!
This will I keep as charyST as my life.
33 must be 34 luncheons
35 beef cured at Martlemas (Nov. 11)
36 cholf-e beer brewed in March
37 carefully
Luc. Now Faustus, farewell.
Faust. Farewell, great Lucifer.
[Exeunt Lucifer and Belzebub,
Come. Mophistophilis. . [Exeunt.*
[Scene XIIL]
Thunder and lightning. Enter Devils icith
covered dishes; Mephistophilis leads them
into Faustus' study, then enter Wagner.
Wag. I think my master means to die shortly;'
he has made his will, and given me his wealth,
his house, his goods, and store of golden
plate, besides two thousand ducats ready-
coined. I wonder what he means: if death
were nigh, he would not frolic thus. He's
now at supper with the scholars, where there 'a
Buc'h belly-cheer as Wagner in his life ne'er
saw the like: and, see where they come! be-
like the feast is ended.f [Exit.
Enter Faustus, Mephistophilis, and two or
three Scholars.
First Schol. Master Doctor Faustus, since our
conference about fair ladies, which's was the
ieautifulest in all the world, we have deter-
mined with ourselves that Helen of Greece
was the admirablest lady that ever lived:
therefore. Master Doctor, if you will do us
so much favour as to let us see that peerle.ss
dame of Greece, whom all the world admires
for majesty, we should think ourselves much
beholding unto you.
Faust. Gentlemen,
For that39 I know your friendship is un-
f eign 'd, 20
It is not Faustus' custom to deny
The just request of those that wi.sh him well:
You shall behold that peerless dame of
Greece,
No otherwise for pomp or 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.
Music sounds. Mephistophilis brings in Helen;
she passeth over the stage.
Sec. Schol. Was this fair Helen, whose ad-
mired worth
3S as to which 30 because
* In the succeeding scenes are given, partly in
relation by the Chorus, partly in action.
FaustiTs' further adventures in the enjoyment
of his new power, including a chariot-journey
through the stellar heavens, and a ride on the
back of a dragon to Rome, where, in disguise,
or altogether invisible, he takes huge delight
in playing pranks on the Pope and his
Cardinals. But at length the twenty-four
years of the compact draw to an end.
t This speech is almost regular blank verse and
was probably written as such.
160
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
Made Greece with teu years' war aflSict poor
Troy?
Thikd Schol. Too simple is my wit to tell
her worth, ao
Whom all the world admires for majesty.
First Schol. Now we have seen the jirido of
Nature's work,
We'll take our leaves: and, for this blessed
sight,
Happy and blest be Faustus evermore!
' Faust. Gentlemen, farewell: the same wish I
to you. [Exeunt Scholars.
Enter an Old Man.
Old Man. O gentle Faustus, leave this damned
art,
This magic, that will charm thy soul to hell.
And quite bereave thee of salvation!
Though thou hast now offended like a man,
Do not persever in it like a devil: 40
Yet, yet thou hast an amiable soul,
If sin by custom grow not into nature;
Then, Faustus, will repentance come too late ;
Then thou art banish 'd from the sight of
heaven:
No mortal can express the pains of hell.
It may be, this my exhortation
Seems harsh and all unpleasant: let it not ;
For, gentle son, I sp^ak it not in wrath,
Or envy of thee, but in tender love,
And pity of thy future misery; 50
And so have hope that this my kind rebuke,
Checking thy body, may amend thy soul.
Faust. Where art thou, Faustus? wretch, what
hast thou done?
Hell claims his 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. O stay, good Faustus, stay thy des-
perate steps! j
I see an angel hover o'er thy head, I
And, with a vial full of precious grace.
Offers to pour the same into thy soul: 60
Then call for mercy, and avoid despair.
Faust. O friend, I feel
Th/ words to comfort my distressed soul!
Leave me a while to ponder on my sins.
Old Man. Faustus, I leave thee; but with
grief of heart,
Fearing the enemy of thy hapless soul. [Exit.
Paust. Accursed Faustus, wretch, what hast
thou done?
I do repent; and yet I do despair:
Hell strives with grace for conquest in my
breast : C9
What shall I do to shun the snares of death t
Meph. Thou trkitor, Faustus, I arrest thy sot
For disobedience to my sovereij^n lord:
Kevolt, or I'll in piece-meal tear thy flesh.
Falst. I do repent I e'er offended him.
Sweet Mephistophilis, entreat thy lord
To pardon my unjust presumption.
And with my blood again 1 will confirm
The former vow I made to Lucifer.
Meph. Do it, then, Faustus, with unfeigned
heart.
Lest greater dangers do attend thy drift. 80
Faust. Torment, sweet friend, that base and
aged man.
That durst dissuade me from thy Lucifer,
With greatest torments that our 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 sers'ant, let me crave
of thee,
To glut the longing of my heart's desire, —
That I may have unto my paramour
That heavenly Helen which 1 saw of late, 90
AVhose sweet embraces may extinguish clean
Those thoughts that do dissuade me from my
vow,
And keep my oath I made to Lucifer.
Meph. This, or what else my Faustus shall
desire,
Shall be perform 'd in twinkling of an eye.
Reenter Helen, passing over the stage between
two Cupids.
Faust. Was this the face that launch 'd a
thousand ships.
And burnt the topless towers of Iliumi? —
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a
kiss. — [Kisses her.
Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it
flies.
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. 100
Here will 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 Wittenberg 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.
O, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars; no
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter
When he appear 'd to hapless Semele;
More lovely than the monarch of the sky
In wanton Arethusa's azur'd arms;
I 1 unRurpassable towers of Troy
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
161
And none but thou shalt be my paramour!
[Exeunt.
[Scene XIV.]
Thunder. Enter Lucifer, Belzebub and
Mephistophilis.
Luc. Thus from infernal Dis^ do we ascend
To view the subjects of our monarchy,
Those souls which sin seals the black sons of
hell;
'Mong which, as chief, Faustus, we come to
thee,
Bringing with us lasting damnation
To wait upon thy soul: the time is come
Which makes it forfeit.
Meph. And, this gloomy night,
Here, in this room, will wretched Faustus be.
Belz. And here we'll stay, 10
To mark him how he doth demean himself.
Meph. How should he but in desperate lunacy f
Fond worldling, now his heart-blood dries
with grief;
His conscience kills it; and his labouring
brain
Begets a world of idle fantasies
To over-reach the devil; but all in vain;
His store of pleasures must be sauc 'd with
pain.
He and his servant W^agner are at hand;
Both come from drawing Faustus' latest will.
See, where they come! 20
Enter Faustus and Wagner.
Faust. Say, Wagner, — thou hast perus'd my
will,
How dost thou like it?
Wag. Sir, so wondrous well.
As in all humble duty I do yield
My life and lasting service for your love.
Faust. Gramercy,3 Wagner.
Enter Scholars.
Welcome, gentlemen.
[Exit Wagner.
First Schol. Now, worthy Faustus, methinks
your looks are chang'd.
Faust. O gentlemen!
Sec. Schol. What ails Faustus?
Faust. Ah, my sweet chamber- fellow, had I
lived with thee, then had I lived still! but
now must die eternally. Look, sirs, comes he
notf comes he not? 31
First Schol. O my dear Faustus, what imports
this fear?
Sec. Schol. Is all our pleasure turn'd to
melancholy?
2 Another name for Pluto and bis kingdom.
3 great thanks
Third Schol. He is not well with being over-
solitary.
Sec. Schol. If it be so, we'll have physicians,
And Faustus shall be cur'd.
Third Schol. 'Tis but a surfeit, sir; fear
nothing.
Faust. A surfeit of deadly sin, that hath
damned both body and soul.
Sec. Schol. Yet, Faustus, look up to heaven,
and remember mercy is infinite. 41
Faust. But Faustus ' offense can ne 'er be par-
doned: the serpent that tempted Eve may be
saved, but not Faustus. O gentlemen, hear
me with patience, and tremble not at my
speeches! Though my heart pant and quiver
to remember that I have been a student here
these thirty years, O, would I had never seen
Wittenberg, never read book! and what won-
ders 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, hell, O hell, for ever!
Sweet friends, what shall become of Faustus,
being in hell for ever?
Sec. Schol. Yet, Faustus, call on God. 58
Faust. On God, whom Faustus hath abjured!
on God, whom Faustus hath blasphemed! O
my God, I would weep! but the devil draws
in my tears. Gush forth blood, instead of
tears! yea, life and soul! O, he stays my
tongue! I would lift up my hands; but see,
they hold 'em, they hold 'emf
All. Who, Faustus?
Faust. Why, Lucifer and Mephistophilis. O
gentlemen, i gave them my soul for my cun-
ning! 70
All. O, God forbid!
Faust. God forbade it, indeed; but Faustus
hath done it: for the vain pleasure of four-
and-twenty years hath Faustus lost eternal
joy and felicity. I writ them a bill* with
mine own blood: the date is expired; this is
the time, and he will fetch me.
First Schol. W^hy did not Faustus tell us of
this before, that divines might have prayed
for thee? • 81
Faust. Oft have I thought to have done so;
but the devil threatened to tear me in pieces,
if I named God. to fetch me body and soul,
if I once gave ear to divinity: and now 'tis
too late. Gentlemen, away, lest you perish
with me.
Sec. Schol. O, what may we do to save Faus-
tus?
4 bond
163
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
Faust. Talk uot of me, but save yourselves,
and depart. 90
Thikd Schou God will strengthen me; I will
stay with Faustus.
First Schol. Tempt uot God, sweet friend;
but let us iuto the next room, and pray for
him.
Faust. Ay, pray for me, pray for me; and
what noise soever you hear, come not unto
me, for nothing can rescue me.
8ec. Schol. Pray thou, and we will pray that
God may have mercy upon thee. 100
Faust. Gentlemen, farewell: if I live till morn-
ing, I'll visit you; if not, Faustus is gone
to bell.
All. Faustus, farewell. [ExciDtt Scholars.
Meph. Ay, Faustus, now thou hast no hope of
heaven ;
Therefore despair; think only u]n)n hell,
For that must be thy nuinsion, there to
dwell.
Faust. Oh thou bewitching iieutl, 'twas thy
temptation
Hath robb'd me of eternal happiness I
Meph. I do confess it. Faustus. and re-
joice:
110
'Twas 1 that, w hen thou w ert i ' the way to
heaven,
DammVl up thy passage; when thou took'st
the book
To view the Scriptures, then I turn 'd the
leaves,
And led thine eye.
What, weop'st thou? 'tis too late; despair!
Farewell:
Fools that will laugh on earth must weep in
hell. [Exit.
Enter Good Angel and Evil Angel
at several doors.
G. Ang. O Faustus, if thou hadst given ear
to me.
Innumerable joys had follow^ 'd thee!
But thou didst love the world.
E. Ang. Gave ear to me, 119
And now must taste hell-pains perpetually.
G. Ang. O, what will all thy riches, pleasures,
pomps.
Avail thre now?
E. Ang. Nothing, but vex thee more.
To want in hell, that had on earth such store.
G. Ang. O, thou hast lost celestial happiness.
Pleasures unspeakable, bliss without end.
Hadst thou affected^ sweet divinity.
Hell or the devil had had no power on thee:
Hadst thou kept on that way, Fausttis. be
hold,
[Mttsir, while a throne descends.
Ju what resplentlent glory thou hadst sit
lu yonder throne, like those bright-shining
saints, 130
And triumph 'd over hell! That hast thou
lost ;
And now, poor soul, must thy good angel
leave thee:
The jaws of hell are open to receive thee.
[Exit. The throne ascends.
E. Ang. Now, Faustus, let thine eyes with
horror stare [Hell is discovered.
Into that vast perpetual torture-house:
There are the Furies tossing damned souls
On burning forks ; there bodies boil in lead ;
There are live quarters broiling on the coals,
That ne 'er can <lie ; this ever-burning chair
Is for o 'er-tortur 'd souls to rest them in ; 140
These that are fed with sops'* of flaming fire,
Were gluttons, and lov 'd only delicates,
i And laugh 'd to see the poor starve at their
I gates:
But yet all these are nothing; thou shalt see
Ten thousand tortures that more horrid be.
Faust. O, I have seen enough to torture me I
E. Ang. Nay, thou must feel them, taste the
smart of all:
He that loves pleasure must for pleasure fall:
And so I leave thee, Faustus, till anon;
Then wilt thou tumble in confusion. 150
[Exit. Hell disappears. — The clock
strikes eleven.
Faust. O Faustus!
Now hast thou but one bare hour 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 Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make
Periietual day; or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repent and save his soul!
lente, lente currite, noctis eqtii!'' 160
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will
strike,
The devil will come, and Faustus nuist be
damn 'd.
O, I'll leap up to heaven! — Who pulls me
dow n ? —
See, where Christ's blood streams in the
firmament !
One drop of blood will save me; my
Christ! —
Bend not my heart for naming of my Christ;
Yet will I call on him: O spare me, Lucifer! —
ri applied .yourself to
« morsels
7 ••() slowly, slowly run.
yp steods of nifcbt.'
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
163
Where is it now! 'tis gone:
And see, a threatening arm, an angry bro\> I
Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall
on me, 170
And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven !
No!
Then will I headlong run into the earth:
Gape, earth! O, no, it will not harbour me!
You stars that reign 'd at my nativity.
Whose influence hath allotted death and hell.
Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist,
Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud,
That, when you vomit forth into the air.
My limbs may issue from your smoky
mouths; ISO
But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven!
[The clock strikes the half-hour.
O, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past
anon.
O, if my soul must suffer for my sin,
Impose some end to my incessant pain;
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years,
A hundred thousand, and at last be sav'dl
No end is limited to damned souls.
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul?
Or why is this immortal that thou hast?
O, Pythagoras' metempsychosis,** Avere that
true, 190
This soul should fly from me, and I be
chang 'd
Into some brutish beast! 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 engendered me!
No. Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer
That hath depriv 'd thee of the joys of
heaven.
[The clock strikes twelve.
It strikes, it strikes! Now. body, turn to air.
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell! 200
O soul, be chang 'd into small water-drops.
And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found!
Thunder. Enter Devils.
0. mercy, heaven! look not so fierce on me!
Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while!
Fgly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer!
I'll burn my books! — O Mephistophilis!
[Ej-eidit Devils icifh Faustus.
f Thp theory hold by Pythagoras, the Greek philos-
opher, that the soul, at death, passes into
another body.
[Scene XV.]
Enter Scholars.
First Schol. Come, gentlemen, let us go visit
Faustus,
For such a dreadful night was never seen;
Since first the world's creation did begin.
Such fearful shrieks and cries were never
heard:
Pray heaven the doctor have escap'd the
danger.
Sec. Schol. O, help us, heaven! see, here are
Faustus' limbs.
All torn asunder by the hand of death!
Third Schol. The devils whom Faustus serv 'd
have torn him thus;
For, twixt the hours of twelve and one, me-
thought
I heard him shriek and call aloud for help;
At which self time the house seem'd all on
fire 11
With dreadful horror of these damned fiends.
Sec. Schol. W^ell, gentlemen, though Faustus'
end be such
As every Christian heart laments to think on,
Yet, for he was a scholar once admir 'd
For wondrous knowledge in our German
schools.
We '11 give his mangled limbs due burial ;
And all the students, cloth 'd in mourning
black.
Shall wait upon his heavy9 funeral.
[Exeunt.
Enter Chorus.
Chor. Cut is the branch that might "have
grown full straight, 20
And burn&d is Apollo's laurel-bough,io
That sometime grew within this learned man.
Faustus is gone: regard his hellish fall,
Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise
Only to wonder at unlawful things.
Whose deepness doth entice such forward
wits
To practise more than heavenly power
permits. [Exeunt.
Tcrininat hora diem; terminat auctor opus.^^
9 sad
10 The lautfl was sacred to Apollo. Symbolic here
for distinction in science or poetry.
11 "The hour ends the day, the author ends the
work."
164
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
Lords.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
(1564-1616)
THE TEMPEST*
Dramatis Persons.
Alonso, King of Naples.
Sebastian, his brother.
Prospero, the right Duke of INIilan,
Antonio, his brother, the usurping Duke of
Milan.
Ferdinand, son to the King of Naples.
GONZALO, an honest old Counsellor.
Adrian, )
Francisco, )
Caliban, a savage and deformed Slave.
Trinculo, a Jester.
Stephano, a drunken Butler.
Master of a Ship. Boatswain. Mariners.
* The Tempest is one of Shakespearo's matureet
productions, and is tommonly assigned to the
year 1610 or 1611. It may have had its
origin in the spur given to the imagination by
the widespread interest in the newly discovered
Bermudas, where in the year 1609 the vessei
of Sir George Somers was wrecked. A ro-
mantic play, with elements of both tragedy
and comedy, and an included masque (if that
be Shakespeare's),* and with characters rang-
ing from a brutish monster through the low-
est and highest ranks of men to a creature
of the spirit world, it contains perhaps in
itself the best epitome of its creator's varied
powers.
"The persons in this play," writes Edward
Dowden, "while remaining real and living,
are conceived in a more abstract way, more
as types, than those in any other work of
Shakespeare. Prospero is the highest wisdom
and moral attainment ; Gonzalo is humorous
common-sense incarnated ; all that is meanest
and most despicable appears In the wretched
conspirators ; Miranda, whose name seems to
suggest wonder, is almost an elemental being,
framed In the purest and simplest type of
womanhood, yet made substantial by contrast
with Ariel, who is an unbodied joy, too much
a creature of light and air to know human
affection or human sorrow : Caliban (the name
formed from cannibal) stands at the other
extreme, with all the elements in him— appe-
• tites. Intellect, even imagination — out of which
man emerges into early civilization, but with
a moral nature that is still gross and ma-
lignant. Over all presides Prospero like a
providence. And the spirit of reconciliation,
of forgiveness, harmonizing the contentions
of men, appears in The Tempest in the same
noble manner that it appears in The Winter's
Tale, CtmbcHne, and Henry VTII."
"Nowhere." says Sidney Lee. "did Shake-
speare give rein to his imagination with more
Imposing effect than In The Tempest. As in
A Ml(tsumm,er Nipht's Dream, magical or
Riinrrnatural agencies are the mainspring? of
ihc |)Io(. Itiit the tone is marked at all points
by n solemnity and profundity of thought and
sentiment which are lacking In the early
comedy. ... In Prospero, the guiding
providence of the romance, who resigns his
magic power In the closing scene, traces have
l>een sought of the lineaments of the dramatist
himself, who In this play probably bade fare-
well to the enchanted work of his life."
Miranda, daughter to Prospero.
Ariel, an airy Spirit.
Iris,
Ceres,
Juno, ^ presented by Spirits.
Nymphs,
Eeapers,
Other Spirits attending on Prospero.
ACT I.
Scene I.
On a ship at sea: a tempestuous noise of thun-
der and lightning heard.
Enter a Ship-Master and a Boatswain.
Mast. Boats%vain !
Boats. Here, master: what cheer?
Mast. Good,i speak to the mariners: fall
to 't, yarely,- or we run ourselves aground:
bestir, bestir. [Exit.
Enter Mariners.
Boats. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly,
my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the topsail.
Tends to the master's whistle. Blow, till thou
burst thy wind,* if room enough !5
Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdi-
nand, Gonzalo, and others.
Alox. Good boatswain, have care. Where's
the master? Play the men. 11
Boats. I pray now, keep below.
Ant. Where is the master, boatswain?
Boats. Do you not hear him? You mar our
labour: keep your cabins: you do assist the
storm.
GoN. Nay, good, be patient.
Boats. When the sea is. Hence! What
carest these roarers for the name of king? To
cabin: silence! trouble us not. 19
GoN. Good, yet remember whom thou hast
aboard.
Boats. None that I more love than myself.
You are a counsellor; if you can command
these elements to silence, and work the peace of
the present," we Avill not hand^ a rope more;
use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks
you have lived so long, and make yourself
ready in your cabin for the mischance of the
5 so long as we have
sea-room
« Supply "moment."
7 touch
1 Good fellow
2 smartly
8 attend
4Cp. Lear. III. II. 1 :
Perifles. 111. i. 14.
t Such grammatical freedom Is not unusual in
Shakespeare and other writers of his time ;
compare the second line of Ariel's song. I. ii.
.'597, and Ihe fourth line of "Hark, hark!"
CumbcUne, II. ill. 24. The "roarers" here are
of course the waves, but as the term was also
applied to "bullies" we get a lively picture of
their rudeness as well as their noise.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEAKE
165
hour, if it so hap. Cheerly, good hearts! Out
of our way, I say, [Exit. 29
tJoN. I have great comfort from this fel-
low : methinks he hath no drowning mark upon
him ; his complexion is perfect gallows. Stand
fast, good Fate, to his hanging: make the
rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth
little advantage.8 If ho be not born to be
hanged, our case is miserable. [Exeunt.
Be-e liter Boatswain.
Boats. Down with the topmast! yare! lower,
lower! Bring her to try» with main-course.i"
[A cry within.] A plague upon this howling!
they are louder than the weather or our
office. 40
Re-enter Sebastian, Antonio, and Gonzalo.
Yet again! what ilo you here? Shall we
give o'er, and drown? Have you a mind to
sink?
Seb. a pox o' your throat, you bawling,
blasphemous, incharitable dog!
Boats. Work you, then.
Axt. Hang, cur! hang, you iusoleut uoisc-
niakcr. We are less afraid to be drown 'd than
thou art.
Gox. I'll warrant him forn drowning;
though the ship were no stronger than a nut-
shell. 50
Boats. Lay her a-hold,9 ahold! set her two
courses off to sea again; lay her off.
Enter Mariners, wet.
Mariners. All lost! to prayers, to prayers!
all lost!
Boats. What, must our mouths be cold?
(•ON. The king and prince at prayers! let's
assist them,
For our case is as theirs.
Seb. I'm out of patience.
Ant. We are merelyi2 cheated of our lives
by drunkards:
This wide-chapped rascal, — would thou mightst
lie drowning 60
The washing of ten tides !$
GoN. He '11 be hang 'd yet.
Though every drop of water swear against it,
And gape at widest to glut him.
[A confused noise within: 'Mercy on us!'
'We split, we split! ' 'Farewell my wife and
children! '
'Farewell, brother!' 'We split, we split, we
split!']
Ant. Let's all sink with the king.
Seb. Let's take leave of him. '3
8 help (verb) ii against
• close to the wind 12 simply, absolutely
JO main-sail 13 bid him farewell
f Pirates were hanged at low water mark and left
during the washing of three tides.
[Exeunt Ant. and Seb.
Gox. Now would I give a thousand fur-
longs of sea for an acre of barren ground, long
heath, brown furze, any thing. The wills above
be done! but I would fain die a dry death.
[Exeunt.
Scene II.
The island. Before Prospero's cell.
Enter Prospero and Miranda.
Mir. If by your art,i* my dearest father,
you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking
pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's
cheek,
Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffer 'd
With those that I saw suffer! a braveis vessel.
Who had, no doubt, some noble creature is in
her.
Dash 'd all to pieces. O, the cry did' knock
Againgt ray very heart! Poor souls, they
perish '<l !
Had I been any god of power, I would 10
Have sunk the sea within the earth, or erei^
It should the good ship so have swallowed and
The fraughtingis souls within her.
Pros. . Be collected :
No more amazement: tell your piteous heart
There's no harm done.
Mir. O, woe the day!
Pros. No harm.
I have done nothing but in care of thee.
Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who
Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing
Of whence I am, nor that I am more better
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell 20
And thy no greater father.
Mir. More to know
Did never meddleis with my thoughts.
Pros. 'Tis time
I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand,
And pluck my magic garment from me. — So:
[Tm}/s down his mantle.*
Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have
comfort.
The direful spectacle of the wreck, which
touch 'd
The very virtue of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision-o in mine art
14 magic (Note the re-
spectful ••you" in
her address, the fa-
miliar "thou" in
her father's.)
15 splendid
16 CoIIet'tive for "crea-
tures."
17 sooner than
18 freight-composing
19 mingle
20 foresight
* rrospero wears the mantle <Mily in his capacity
as magician.
166
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
So safely ordere«J, that there is no soul,
No, not so much perdition as an hair 30
Betitl to any creature in the vessel
Which thou heard 'st cry, which thou saw 'st
sink. Sit down;
For thou must now know farther.
Mir. You have often
Begun to tell me what I am; but stopp'd,
And left me to a bootless inquisition,^!
Concluding ' Stay : not yet. '
Pros. The hour 's now come ;
The very minute bids thee ope thine ear ;
Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember
A time before we came unto this cellf
1 do not think thou canst, for then thou wast
not 40
Out2-' three years old.
Mir. Certainly, sir, I can.
Pros. By what? by any other house or
person ?
Of any thing the image tell me, that
Hath kept with thy remembrance.
Mir. 'Tis far off,
And rather like a dream than an assurance
That my remembrance warrants. Had 1 not
Four or five women once that tended me?
Pros. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But
how is it
That this lives in thy mind ? What seest thou
else
1 n the dark backward and abysm of time .' 5U
If thou remember 'st aught ere thou camest
here,
How thou camest here thou mayst.
Mir. But that I do not.
Pros. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve
year since,
Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and
A prince of power.
Mir. Sir, are not you my father ?
Pros. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and
She said thou wast my daughter; and thy
father
Was Duke of ^lilan; and his only heir
A princess, no worse issued. -3
Mir. O the heavens!
What foul play had we, that we came from
thence!
Or blessed was't we did!
Pros. Both, both, my girl : Gl
By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved
thence ;
But blessedly holp thither.
Mir. O. my heart bleeds
To think o' the fpen-* that I have turn'd von to.
21 vain iii<|iiirv
22 fully
2.T flr>scf>ndp(l
24 grief
Which is from-'- my remembrance! Please you,
farther.
Pros. My brotlier, and thy undo, call "d
Antonio. —
I pray thee, mark me, — that a brother sliould
Be so perfidious! — he whom, next thyself.
Of all the world I Joved, and to him put
The manage of my state; as at that time 70
Through all tlie signories-'o it was the first,
And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed
In dignity, and for the liberal arts
Without a parallel; those being all my study.
The government 1 cast upon my brother.
And to my state grew stranger, being trans-
ported
And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle —
Dost thou attend me?
Mir. Sir, most heedfuUy.
Pros. Being once perfected how to grant
suits,
H j\v to deny them, who to advance. an<l who SO
To trash-7 for over-topping,28 new created
The creatures29 that were mine, I say, or
changed 'em,
Or else new form 'd 'em; having both the key
Of officer and office, set all hearts i ' the state
To what tune jileased his ear ; that now he was
The ivy which had hid my princely trunk.
And suck'd my verdure out on't.:*" Thou
attend 'st not.
yiui. O, good sir, I do.
Pros. I pray thee, mark me.
I, tiuis neglecting worldly ends, all dedicate<l
To closeness-'-i and the bettering of my mind 1*0
With tliat which, but^s^ my being so retired.
O 'er-pri/ed all popular rate,;'-'' in my false
brotlier
Awaked an evil nature; and my trust.
Like a good j)arent, di<l beget of him
A falsehood in its contrary, as great
As my trust was; which had indeed no limit,
A confidence sans"* bound. He being thus
lorded,
>.'ot only with what my revenue-'"- yielded,
But what my power might else exact, like one
Who having into truth, by telling of it, 100
Made such a sinner of his nu^mory.
To credit his own lie,30 he did believe
2B out of
SI
sncliisloii
26 selgnorics. lordships
32
except
27 chock (said
of
;i;t
out-valued all popu-
hounds : or It
may
lar esteem (was
he ii Hkih-c
from
hotter than any
j; a r d i- n In;; -
— to
popularity, except
"top," lop)
that It enforced
I'K outrunning
20 followers, lords
seclusion)
3«
without
30 out of It
.■}.->
Pronounce tnvii'iiv.
like one who has told an untruth tmtil Ills false
memory makes it seem truth (perhaps into
should he unto.)
WILLIAM SHAKESPEABB
167
He was indeed the duke; out o' tliest substitu-
tion.
And executing tlie outward face of royalty,
With all prerogative — hence his ambition
growing,—
Dost thou hear?
^IiK. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
Pros. To have no screen between this part
he play'd
And him he play'd it for, he needs will be
Absolute Milan.38 Me, poor man, my library
Was dukedom large enough : of temporal
royalties
He thinks me now incapable ; confederates. 111
So dry he was for sway, wl ' the King of Naples
To give him annual tribute, ilo him homage,
Subject liis coronet to his crown, and bend
The dukedom, yet unbow 'd, — alas, poor Milan I —
To most ignoble stooping.
Mil!. O the heavens!
Pros. Mark his condition.^y and the event;*"
then tell me
If this might be a brother.
Mir. I should sin
To think but^i nobly of my grandmother:
Good wombs have borne bad sons.
Pros. Now the condition. 120
This King of Naples, being an enemy
To nie inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit;
Which was, that he, in lieu o' the premises*-
Of homage and I know not how much tribute.
Should present]y*3 extirpate me and mine
Out of the tlukedom, and confer fair Milan,
With all tlie honours, on my brother: whereon,
A treacherous army levied, one midnight
Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open
The gates of Milan; and, i' the dead of
darkness, 130
The ministers for the purpose hurried thence
Me and thy crying self.
iliR. Alack, for pity!
I, not remembering how I cried out then,
W' ill cry it o 'er again : it is a hint
That wrings mine eyes to 't.
Pros. Hear a little further.
And then I'll bring thee to the present business
Which now 's upon 's ; w ithout the which, this
story
Were most impertinent.**
Mir. Wherefore did they not
That hour destroy us?
Pros. Well demanded, wench :*j
37 in ronsequpncp of tho
38l)ukf of Milan. (So
Cleopatra is calleil
Egypt, etc.)
39 terms of confedera-
tion
40 outcome
41 otherwise than
4-' in return for the
guarantees
43 at once
44 not pertinent
43 girl (with none of
the modern con-
tomptnous sens<')
My tale provokes that question. Dear, they
durst not.
So dear the love my people bore me ; nor set 141
A mark so bloody on the business; but
With colours fairer painted their foul ends.
In few,4c they hurried us aboard a bark.
Bore us some leagues to sea; where they
prepared
A rotten carcass of a butt, not rigg'd,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively have quit it: there they hoist us,
To cry to the sea that roar'd to us; to sigh
To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again, 150
Did us but loving wrong.
iliR. Alack, what trouble
Was I then to you!
Pros. O, a cherubin
Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou tlidst
smile.
Infused with a fortitude from heaven,
When I have deck'd*^ the sea with drops full
salt.
Under my burthen groan 'd ; which raised in me
An undergoing stomach,48 to bear up
Against what should ensue.
Mir. How came we ashore?
Pros. By Providence divine.
Some food we had, and some fresh water, that
A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, 161
Out of his charity, who being then appointed
Master of this design, did give us, with
Rich garments, linens, stuffs and necessaries.
Which since have steaded much; so, of his
gentleness,
Knowing I loved my books, he furnish 'd me
From mine own library with volumes that
I prize above my dukedom.
:Mir. Would I might
But ever see that man !
Pros. Now I arise: [Eesumes his mantle.
Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.
Here in this island we arrived; and here 171
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit
Than other princess '**» can, that have more time
For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful.
I MlH. Heavens thank you for't! And now,
I pray you, sir.
For still 'tis beating in my mind, your reason
For raising this sea-storm?
Pros. Know thus far forth.
By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune,
Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore ; and by my prescience 180
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star, whose influence
If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes
46 in brief
4 7 covered
48 an enduring courage
49 princesses
168
THE ELIZABETHAN' AGE
Will ever after droop. Here cease more ques-
tions:
Thou art inclined to sleep; 'tis a good dulness,
And give it way: I know thou canst not choose.
[Miranda sleeps.
Come away, servant, come. I am ready now.
Approach, my Ariel, come.
Enter Ariel.
Ari. All hail, great master! grave sir, hail!
I come
To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly, 190
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride
On the curl 'd clouds, to thy strong bidding task
Ariel and all his quality.so
Pros. Hast thou, spirit,
Perform 'd to point the tempest that I bade
thee?
Ari. To every article,
I boarded the king's ship; now on the beak.
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
I flamed amazement: sometime I 'Id divide,
And burn in many places; on the topmast,
The yards and bowsprit, would I flame dis-
tinctly,5i 200
Then meet and join. Jove's lightnings, the
precursors
O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary
And sight-outrunning were not: the fire and
cracks
Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune
Seem to besiege, and make his bold waves
tremble,
Yea, his dread trident shake.
Pros. My brave spirit!
^Vho was so firm, so constant, that this coil^'Z
Would not infect his reason?
Ari. Not a soul
But felt a fever of the mad, and play'd
Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners 210
Plunged in the foaming brine, and quit the
vessel,
Then all afire with me: the king's son,
Ferdinand,
With hair up-staring, — then like reeds, not
hair, —
Was the first man that leap'd; cried, 'Hel! is
empty,
And all the devils are here. '
I'ros. Why, that 's my spirit !
But was not this nigh shore?
Ari. ("lose by, my master.
Pros. But are they, Ariel, safe?
Art. Not a hair perish 'd ;
On their sustaining garments not a bleniish,
But fresher than before: and, as thou badest
me,
in troops I have dispersed them 'bout the isle.
The king's son have I landed by himself; 221
Wiiom I left cooling of the air with sighs
In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting,
His arms in this sad knot.
Pros. Of the king's ship,
The mariners, say how thou hast disposed,
And all the rest o ' the fleet.
Ari. Safely in harbour
Is the king 's ship ; in the deep nook, where once
Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew
From the still-vex 'd Bermoothes,53 there she's
hid :
The mariners all under hatches stow 'd ; 230
Who, with a charm join 'd to their suffer 'd
labour,
I have left asleep : and for the rest o ' the fleet,
Which I dispersed, they all have met again.
And are upon the Mediterranean flote,54
Bound sadly home for Naples;
Supposing that they saw the king 's shij)
wreck 'd,
And his great person perish.
Pros. Ariel, thy charge
Exactly is perform 'd: but there's more work.
What is the time o' the day?
Ari. Past the mid season.
Pros. At least two glasses. The time 'twixt
six and now 240
Must by us both be spent most preciously.
Ari. Is there more toil? Since thou dost
give 1110 pains,
Let me remember thee what thou hast promised,
Which is not yet perform 'd me.
Pros. How now ? moody ?
What is't thou canst demand?
Ari. My liberty.
Pros. Before the time be out? no more!
Ari. I prithee,
Remember I have done thee worthy service;
Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings.
served
Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst
promise
To bate me a full year.
Pros. Dost thou forget 2.")i)
From what a torment I did free thee?
Ari. No.
Pros. Thou dost, and think 'st it much to
treail the ooze
Of the salt <leop,
To run upon the sharp wind of the north.
To do me business in llic veins o' the earth
Whc'ii it is baked with frost.
Aim. I do not, sir.
BO aHftociatcB
Bi separately
■OS turmoil
53 the ov<>r tomppstuous
Hornmdns (see In-
troductor.v notr)
54 flood, sea
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
169
Pros. Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast
thou forgot
The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy
Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her?
Ari. Xo, sir.
Pros. Thou hast. Where was she born ?
speak; tell me. 260
Aki. Sir, in Argier.^s
Pros. O, was she so! I must
Once in a month recount what thou hast been,
Which thou forget 'st. This damn'd witch
Sycorax,
For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible
To enter human hearing, from Argier,
Tbou know 'st, was banish 'd : for one thing she
did
They would not take her life. Is not this true!
Ari. Ay, sir.
Pros. This blue-eyed^c hag was hither
brought with child, 269
And here was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave.
As thou report 'st thyself, wast then her servant ;
And. for^" thou wast a spirit too delicate
To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands.
Refusing her grand bests, she did confine thee.
By help of her more potent ministers,
And in her most unmitigable rage,
Into a cloven pine; within which rift
Imprison 'd thou didst painfully remain
A dozen years; within which space she died, 279
And left thee there; where thou didst vent thy
groans
A.S fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this
island —
Save for the son that she did litter here,
A freckled whelp hag-born — not honour 'd with
A human shape.
Aki. Yes, Caliban, her son.
Pros. Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban.
Whom now I keep in service. Thou best
know 'st
What torment I did find thee in; thy groans
Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the
breasts
Of ever-angry bears: it was a torment
To lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax 290
Could not again undo: it was mine art.
When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape
The pine, and let thee out.
Ari, I thank thee, master.
Pros. If thou more murmur 'st, I will rend
an oak.
And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till
Thou hast howl 'd away twelve winters.
Ari. Pardon, master :
I will be correspondent to command,
55 Algiers 57 because
6« with biue-clrcled eyes
And do my spiriting gently.
Pros. Do so ; and after two days
I will discharge thee.
Ari. That 's my noble master !
What shall I do? say what; what shall I dot
Pros. Go make thyself like a nymph o' the
sea: be subject 301
To no sight but thine and mine; invisible
To every eyeball else. Go take this shape.
And hither come in't: go hence with diligence!
[Exit Ariel.
Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well;
Awake !
;Mir. The strangeness of your story put
Heaviness in me.
Pros. Shake it off. Come on;
We'll visit Caliban my slave, who never
Yields us kind answer.
Mir. 'Tis a villain, sir,
I do not love to look on.
Pros. But, as 'tis, 310
We cannot misses him: he does make our fire,
Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices
That profit us. What, hoi slave! Caliban!
Thou earth, thou ! speak.
Cal. [Withini There 's wood enough within.
Pros. Come forth, I say! there's other
business for thee:
Come, thou tortoise! whent
'Re-enter Ariel like a water-nymph.
Fine apparition! My quaint^^ Ariel,
Hark in thine ear.
Ari. My lord, it shall be done. [Exit.
Pros. Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil
himself
L^pon thy wicked dam, come forth! 320
Enter Calibax.
Cal- As wicked dew as e'er my mother
brush 'd
With raven 's feather from unwholesome fen
Drop on you both! a south-west blow on ye
And blister you all o'er!
Pros. For this, be sure, to-night thoa shalt
have cramps.
Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up;
urchins*"
Shall, for that vast of night that«i they may
work.
All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch 'd
As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more
stinging
Than bees that made 'em.
Cal. I must eat my dinner. 330
This island *s mine, by Sycorax my mother.
58 do without
59 dainty
CO gobiins
61 that waste and void
of night wherein
170
THE ELIZAliHTllAX A(iK
Which thou takest from me. When thou earnest
first,
Thou strokedst me, and madest much of me;
wouldst give me
Water with berries in 't;* and teach me how
To name the bigger light, and how the less,
That burn by day and night: and then I loved
thee.
And show'd thee all the qualities o' th' isle.
The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren places and
fertile :
Cursed be I that did so! All the charms
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!
For I am all the subjects thct you have, 341
Which62 first was mine own king: and here
you sty me
In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me
The rest o ' th ' island.
Pros. Thou most lying slave,
Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have
used thee.
Filth as thou art, with human care; and lodged
thee
In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate
The honour of my child.
Cal. O ho, O ho ! would 't had been done !
Thou didst prevent me ; I had peopled else 350
This isle with Calibans.
Pros. Abhorred slave,
Which any print of goodness wilt not take,
Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee.
Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee
each hour
One thing or other: when thou didst not,
savage,
Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble
Uke
A thing most brutish, I endow 'd thy purposes
With words that made them known. But thy
vile race,63
Though thou didst learn, had that in't which
good natures
Could not abide to be with; therefore wast
thou 360
Deservedly confined into this rock,
Who hadst deserved more than a prison.
Cal, You taught me language; and my
profit on't
Is, 1 know how to curse. The red plague rid«*
you
For learning me your language !
Pros. Hag-seed, hence !
«2 who (antecedent/) 64 destroy
08 nature
•Coffee was at this time hardly known In Eng-
land. In William Strachey s account of tho
shipwreck of Sir OeorKe SomerH, the men are
Bald to have made a plpanant drink of an In-
fusion of berries of the cedar.
Fetch us in fuel; and be quicV, thourt best,
To answeros other business. Shrug 'st thou,
malice?
If thou neglect 'st, or dost unwillingly
What I command, I'll rack thee with old
cramps,
Fill all thy bones with aches,t make thee roar.
That beasts shall tremble at thy din, 371
Cal. No, pray thoe,
[Aside] I must obey: his art is of such power,
It would control my dam 's god, Setebos,8«
And make a vassal of him.
Pros. So, slave, hence ! [Exit Caliban.
Be-enter Arikl, invisible, playing and singing;
Ferdinand following.
Ariel's song.
Come unto these yellow sands.
And then take hands:
Courtsied when you have and kiss'd
The wild waves whist: 67
Foot it featly here and there; 380
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.es
Hark, hark!
Burthen [dispersedly]. Bow-wow.
Ari. The watch dogs bark:
Burthen [dispersedly']. Bow-wow.
Am. Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.
Fer. Where should this music be? i' th' air
or th' earth?
It sounds no more: and, sure, it waits upon
Some god o' th' island. Sitting on a bank,
Weeping again the king my father 's wreck, 390
This music crept by me upon the waters.
Allaying both their fury and my passioneo
With its sweet air: thence I have follow 'd it,
Or it hath drawn me rather. But 'tis gone.
No, it begins again.
Ariel sings.
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral'o made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change 400
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Burthen. Ding-dong,
60 sufferInK (from Latin
potior)
70 Perhaps used coUeo-
tlvoly (l>«t see note
on I. I. 17).
t Pronounced aiichea or atchcs. The ch was pro-
nounced like k only In the verb ; compare
bake, batch, break, breach.
65 perform
66 A Patagonian doltj
67 Into silence
68 take up the refrain
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
171
Ari. Hark ! now I hear them, — Ding-dong,
bell.
Fer. The ditty does remember" i my drown 'd
father.
Tliis is no mortal business, nor no sound
That the earth owes:''^ — I hear it now above me,
Pros. The fringed curtains of thine eye
advance,^3
And say what thou seest yond.
Miu. What is 't? a spirit?
Lord, how it looks about I Believe me, sir, 410
It carries a brave'* form. But 'tis a spirit.
Pros. Xo, wench ; it eats and sleeps and
hath such senses
•As we have, such. This gallant which thou
seest
Was in the wreck; and, but he's something
stain 'd
With grief, that's beauty's canker, thou
mightst call him
A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows,
And strays about to find 'em.
Min, I might call him
A thing divine; for nothing natural
I ever saw so noble.
Pros. [Aside] It goes on, I see, 419
As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I'll
free thee
Within two days for this.
Fer. Most sure the goddess
Oil whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe my
prayer
!\Iay know if you remain upon this island ;
And that you will some good instruction give
How I may bear me here ; my prime request,
Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder!
If you be maid or no?
Mir. No wonder, sir;
But certainly a maid.
Fer. ^ly language! heavens!
I am the best of them that speak this speech,
\Vere I but where 'tis spoken.
Pros. How? the best? 430
What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard
thee?
Fer. A single^'- thing, as I am now, that
wonders
To hear thee speak of Naples."" He does hear
me;
And that he does T weep: myself am Naples,
Who with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld
The king my father wreck 'd.
Mir. Alack, for menv!
"1 commemorate
72 owns
73 raise
74 fine
solitary ; also, miser-
able
See note 38.
Fer. Yes, faith, and all his lords; the Duke
of Milan
And his brave son* being twain.
Pros. [Asidr] The Duke of Milan
And his more braver daughter could control77
thee,
If now 'twere fit to do it. At the first sight 440
They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel,
I'll set thee free for this. [To Fer.] A word,
good sir;
I fear you have done yourself some wrong :"«
a word.
MiR. Why speaks my father so ungentlyl
This
Is the third man that e 'er I saw ; the first
That e 'er I sigh 'd for : pity move my father
To be inclined my way!
Fer. O, if a virgin,
.\n<l your affection not gone forth, I '11 make
you
The queen of Naples.
Pros. Soft, sir! one word more.
[Aside] They are both in cither's powers: but
this swift business 450
I must uneasy"9 make, lest too light winning
^lake the prize light. [To Fer. J One word
more; I charge thee
That thou attend me: thou dost here usurp
The name thou owest^" not; and hast put
thyself
Upon this island as a spy, to win it
From me, the lord on 't.
Fer. No, as I am a man.
Mir. There's nothing ill can dwell in su<-h
a temple:
If the ill spirit have so fair a house,
Good things will strive to dwell with 't.
Pros. Follow me.
Speak not you for him ; he 's a traitor. Come ;
1 '11 manacle thy neck and feet together : 461
Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be
The fresh-brook muscles, wither 'd roots, and
husks
Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow.
Fer. No ;
I will resist such entertainment till
Mine enemy has more power.
[Draws, and is charmed from moving.
Mir. O dear father,
Make not too rash a trial of him, for
He's gentle, and not fearful.si
Pros. What! I say,
'7 confute 81 mild and harmless
"s made a mistake (or possibly, high-
■0 difficult spirited and not
80 ownest afraid)
* Possibly an oversight, for no such character
appears.
172
THE ELIZj^BETHAN AGE
My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor;
Who makest a sh nv, but <larest not strike, thy
conscience
Is so possess M with guilt: come from tliy
ward; 82 471
For I can here disarm thee with this stick
And make thy weapon drop.
;\liR, Beseech you, father.
Pros. Hence! hang not on my garments.
MiR. Sir, have pity ;
I '11 be his surety.
Pros. Silence! one word more
Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee.
What!
An advocate for an impostor! hush!
Thou think 'st there is no more such shapes
as he,
Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish
wench !
To83 the most of men this is a Caliban, 480
And they to him are angels.
MiR_ My affections
Are, then, most humble; 1 have no ambition
To see a goodlier man.
Pros. Come on; obey:
Thy nerves^* are in their infancy again,
And have no vigour in them.
Fer. So they are:
My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up.
My father's loss, the weakness which I feel.
The wreck of all my friends, nors'' this man's
threats,
To whom I am subdued, are but light to me.
Might 1 but through my prison once a day 490
Behold this maid: all corners else o' th' earth
Let liberty make use of ; space enough
Have I in such a prison.
Pros. [Aside] It works. [To Fer.] Come
on.
Thou hast done well, fine Ariel! [To Fer.]
Follow me.
[To Ari.1 Hark what thou else shalt do me.
Mir, Be of comfort;
My father's of a better nature, sir,
Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted
Which now came from him.
Pros. Thou shalt be as free
As mountain winds: but then exactly do
All points of my command.
Ari. To the syllable. 500
Pkos. Come, follow. Speak not for him.
[Exeunt.
Act II.
Scene I.
Another part of the island.
Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo,
Adrian, Francisco, and others.
GoN. Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have
cause.
So have we all, of joy; for our escape
Is much beyond our loss. Our hinti of woe
Is common; every day, some sailor's wife,
The masters of some merchant,2 and the mer-:
chant.
Have just our theme of woe; but for th<
miracle,
I mean our preservation, few in millions
Can speak like us : then wisely, good sir, weigl
Our sorrow with our comfort.
Alon. Prithee, peace.
Seb.* He receives comfort like cold porridge
Ant. The visitors will not give him o'er.soj
Seb. Look, he's winding up the watch of hjf
wit ; by and by it will strike.
GON. Sir, —
Skb. One: tell.*
GON. When every grief is entertain 'd that'^
offer 'd,
Comes to the entertainer —
Seb. a dollar.
GoN. Dolour comes to him, indeed : you ha^
spoken truer than you purposed.
Seb. You have taken it wiselier than I meal
you should.
GoN. Therefore, my lord, —
Fie, what a spendthrift is he of hilf
82 posture of defence
H.i compared to
8« KinewH
8R TTsed, by confuRlon of
tonsrnutlon, for
••and."
Ant.
tongue !
Alon
GON.
Seb.
Ant
wager,
Sm.
Ant.
Seb.
Ant.
Seb.
Adr.
Seb.
Adr.
sible. —
Seb.
Adr.
good
30
I prithee, spare.
Well, I have done: but yet, —
He will be talking.
Which, of he or Adrian, for
first begins to crow I
The old cock.
The cockerel.
Done. The wager?
A laughter.
A match!
Though this island seem to be desert,—
Ha, ha, ha!— So, you're paid.
Uninhabitable, and almost inacces-
Yet,—
Yet,—
1 occasion
I comforter (Gonzalo : the word was used of parish
visitors of the sick)
• Th»i .•onversatlon of Sebastian and Antonio takes
placp usldc.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
173
Ant. He could not miss 't.'- 40
Adr. It must needs be of siil)tle, tentier and
delicate temperance."
Ant. Temperanee^ was a delicate wench.
Seb. Ay, and a subtle; aa he most learnedly
delivered.
Adr. The air breathes upon us here most
sweetly.
Seb. As if it had lungs, and rotten ones,
Akt. Or as 'twere perfumed by a fen.
(»ox. Here is everything advantageous to
life.
Ant. True ; save means to live. 50
Seb. Of that there's none, or little.
GON. How lush and lusty the grass looks!
how green!
Ant. The ground, indeed, is tawny.
Seb. With an eyes of green in 't.
Ant. He misses not much.
Seb. No; he doth but mistake the truth
totally.
GON. But the rarity of it is, — which is in-
deed almost beyond credit, —
Seb. As many vouched rarities are. GO
GoN. That our garments, being, as they
were, drenched in the sea, hold, notwithstand-
ing, their freshness and glosses, being rather
new-dyed than stained with salt water.
Ant. If but one of his pockets could speak,
would it not say he lies?
Seb. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his
report.
GoN. Methinks our garments are now as
fresh as when we put them on first in Afric,
at the marriage of the king's fair daughter
Claribel to the King of Tunis. 71
Seb. 'Twas a sweet marriage, and we pros-
per well in our return.
Adr. Tunis was never graced before with
such a paragon to^ their queen.
GON. Not since widow Dido's time.
Ant. Widow! a pox o' that! How came
that widow in? widow Dido!
Seb. What if he had said 'widower .Eneas'
too? Good Lord, how you take it! 80
Adr. 'Widow Dido' said you! you make me
study of that: she was of Carthage, not of
Tunis.
GoN, This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.
Adr. Carthage?
GoN. I assure you, Carthage.
Ant. His word is more than the miraculous
harp.io
5 1. e., could not fail to
say just what you
anticipated
« temperature
T A proper name among
the Puritans.
8 tinge
n for
10 Amp h i o n ' s harp,
which raised the
walls of Thebes
Seb. He hath raised the wall, and houses too.
Ant. What impossible matter will he make
I easy next ? 89
Seb. 1 think he will carry this island home
in his pocket, and give it his son for an apple.
Ant. And, sowing the kernels of it in the
sea, bring forth more islands.
GON. Ay.
Ant. Why, in good time.
GON. Sir, we were talking that our garments
seem now as fresh as 'when we were at Tunis
at the marriage of your daughter, who is now
queen.
Ant. And the rarest that e'er came there.
See. Bate,ii I beseech you, widow Dido. 100
Ant. O, widow Dido! ay, widow Dido.
GON. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the
first day I wore it? I mean, in a sort.
Ant. That sort was well fished for.
GoN. When I wore it at your daughter's
marriage ?
Alon. You cram these words into mine ears
against
The stomach of my sense. Would I had never
Married my daughter there! for, coming thence,
My son is lost, and, in my rate,i2 she too.
Who is so far from Italy removed 110
I ne'er again shall see her. thou mine heir
Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish
Hath made his meal on thee?
Fran. Sir, he may live:
I saw him beat the surges under him,
And ride upon their backs; he trod the water.
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swoln that met him; his bold
head
'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd
Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke
To the shore, that o'er hisis wave-worn basis
bow'd, 120
As stooping to relieve him: I not doubt
He came alive to land :
Alon. No, no, he 's gone.
Seb. Sir, you may thank yourself for this
great loss,
That would not bless our Europe with your
daughter,
But rather lose her to an African;
Where she, at least, is banish 'd from your eye,
Whoi* hath cause to wet the grief on 't.is
Alon. Prithee, peace.
Seb. You were kneel 'd to, and importuned
otherwise,
By all of us; and the fair soul herself
Weigh 'd 16 between loathness and obedience, at
11 except
1 2 opinion
13 its
14 which
15 to weep over It
16 balanced
174
THE ELIZAHHTUAX A(JE
Which end o' the beam should »7 bow. We have
lost your son, 131
I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have
Mo widows in them of this business' making
Than we bring men to comfort them :
The fault 's your own.
Alon. So is the dear 'stis o ' the loss.
GoN. My lord Sebastian,
The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness,
And time'9 to speak it in: you rub the sore,
When you should bring Hie plaster.
Seb. Very well.
Ant. And most chirurgeonly.20 140
GON. It is foul weather in us all, good sir.
When you are cloudy.
Seb. Foul weather?
Ant. Very foul.
GoN. Had I plantationsi of this isle, my
lord, —
Ant. He 'Id sow't with nettle-seed.
Seb. Or docks, or mallows.
GON. And were the king on't, what would
I do?
Seb. 'Scape being drunk for want of wine.
GoN. I' the commonwealth I would by con-
traries
Execute all things; for no kind of traffic
Would I admit; no name of magistrate;
Letter822 should not be known ; riches, poverty,
And use of service,23 none; contract, suc-
cession, 151
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none;
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil;
No occupation; all men idle, all;
And women too, but innocent and pure;
No sovereignty; —
Seb. Yet he would be king on 't.
Ant. The latter end of his commonwealth
forgets the beginning.
GoN. All things in common nature should
produce l-'jO
Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony,
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any en-
gine,24
Would 1 not have; but nature should bring
forth.
Of it own kind, 2' all foi8on,20 all abundance.
To feed my innocent people.
I would with such perfection govern, sir,
To excel the golden age.
Seb. 'Save his majesty!
Ant. Long live Gonzalo!
17 Supply "she."
18 heaviext
i» Supply "proper."
20 HurRoon-likp
21 colonlzntlon
32 literature
28 practice of servitude
24 of war
2n RDontanoou^ly
28 plenty
GoN. And, — do you mark me, sir?
Alon, Prithee, no more: thou dost talk
nothing to me. 171
GON. I do well believe your highness ; ami
did it to minister occasion to these gentlemen,
who are of such sensible-^ and nimble lungs
that they always use to laugh at nothing.
Ant. 'Twas you we laughed at.
GON. Who in this kind of merry fooling am
nothing to you: so you may continue, and laugh
at nothing still.
Ant. What a blow was there given! 180
Seb. An28 it had not fallen flat-long.2!»
GON. You are gentlemen of brave mettle;
you would lift the moon out of her sphere, if
she would continue in it five weeks without
changing.
Enter Ariel (invisible), plai/ing solemn music.
Seb. We would so, and then go a bat-fowl-
ing.30
Ant. Nay, good my lord, be not angry.
GoN. No, I warrant you ; I will not adven-
ture my iliscretion so weakly. Will you laugh
me asleep, for I am very heavy?
Ant. Go sleep, and hear us.* 190
[All sleep except Alon., Seb., and Ant.
Alon. What, all so soon asleep! I wish
mine eyes
WouM, with themselves, shut up my thoughts:
I find
They are inclined to do so.
Seb. Please you, sir,
Do not omitsi the heavy offer of it:
It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth,
it is a comforter.
Ant. We two, my lord,
Will guard your person while you take your
rest,
.\nd watch your safety.
Alon. Thank you. — Wondrous heavy.
[Alonso sleeps. Exit Ariel.
Seb. What a strange drowsiness possesses
them !
Ant. It is the quality o' the climate.
Seb. " Why 200
Doth it not then our eyelids sink! I find not
Myself disposed to sleep.
Ant. Nor I ; my spirits are nimble.
They fell together all, as by consent ;
They dropp'd, as by a thunder-stroke. What
might,
27 sensitive s" catchlnR birds at
28 if niKht l)y beating
20 flatwise the bushes
31 let pass
♦ This passage is obscure. Perhaps it is a eoilo-
qulal invprsion for "Flenr us, nnd go to
sleep."
WILLTAM SHAKESPEARE
176
Worthy Sebastian?— 0, what might? — No
more: —
And yet methinks I see it in thy face,
What thou shouldst be: the occasion 8peaks32
thee; and
My strong imagination sees a crown
Dropjung upon thy head.
Seb. What, art thou waking?
AxT. Do you not hear me speak?
Skb. I do; and surely 210
It is a sleepy language, and thou speak 'st
Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say?
This is a strange repose, to be asleep
With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, mov-
ing,
And yet so fast asleep.
Ant. Noble Sebastian,
Thou let'st thy fortune sleep — die, rather;
wink 'st
Whiles thou art waking.
Seb. Thou dost snore distinctly ;33
There's meaning in thy snores.
Ant. I am more serious than my custom:
you
Must be so too, if heed me; which to do 220
Trebles thee o 'er.34
Seb. Well, I am standing water.
Ant. I '11 teach you how to flow.
See. Do so: to ebb
Hereditary sloth instructs me.
Ant. O,
If you but knew how you the purpose cherish
Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it.
You more invest itl'^-'' Ebbing men, indeed.
Most often do so near the bottom run
By their own fear or sloth.
Seb. Prithee, say on:
The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim
A matter from thee; and a birth, indeed, 230
Which throes 36 thee much to yield.37
Ant. Thus, sir:
Although this lord of weak remembrance, this,
Who shall be of as little memory
When he is earth 'd, hath here almost per-
suaded, —
For he's a spirit of persuasion, only
Prof esses38 to persuade, — the king his son 's
alive,
'Tis as impossible that he 's undrown 'd
As he that sleeps here swims.
Seb. I have no hope
That he's undrown 'd.
Ant. O, out of that ' no hope '
32 invites
•"■" sisniticantly
34 will treble thy for-
tunes
3r> more alluringly clothe
it
se pains
S7 bring forth
3x his sole profession is
What great hope have you! no hope that
way is 240
Another way so high a hope that even
Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond,
But doubt39 discovery there. Will you grant
with me
That Ferdinand is drown 'd?
Seb. He's gone.
Ant. Then, tell me,
Who's the next heir of Naples?
Seb. Claribel.
Ant. She that is queen of Tunis; she that
dwells
Ten leagues beyond man's life; she that from
Naples
Can have no note, unless the sun were post, —
The man i' the moon's too slow, — till new-born
chins 249
Be rough and razorable; she that from whom^o
We all were sea-swallow 'd, though some cast
again.
And by that destiny, to perform an act
Whereof what's past is prologue; what to
come,
In yours and my discharge.
Seb. What stuff is this! how say you?
'Tis true, my brother's daughter's queen of
Tunis ;
So is she heir of Naples; 'twixt which regions
There is some space.
Ant. a space whose every cubit
Seems to cry out. ' How shall that Claribel
Measure us^i back to Naples? Keep in Tunis,
And let Sebastian wake.' Say, this were
death 260
That now hath seized them ; why, they were no
worse
Than now they are. There be that can rule
Naples
As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate
As amply and unnecessarily
As this Gonzalo ; I myself could make
A chough of as deep chat.*2 O, that you bore
The mind that I do! what a sleep were this
i-'or your advancement! Do you understand me?
Seb. Methinks I do.
Ant. And how does your content
Tender^s your own good fortune?
Seb. I remember 270
You did supplant your brother Prospero.
Ant. True :
And look how well my garments sit upon me;
Much f eater than before : my brother 's servants
3!) but must doubt (the
possibility of)
*o Supply "coming."
41 traverse us (the cu-
bits)
42 a jackdaw
deeply
43 regard
talk as
176
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
Were then my fellows: now they axe my men.
Seb. But, for your conscience!
Ant. Ay, sir; where lies that? if 'twere a
Mhe,**
'Twould put me to my slipper: but I feel not
This deity in my bosom : twenty consciences,
That stand 'twixt me and Milan, candied be
they,
And melt, ere they molest! Here lies your
brother, 280
No better than the earth he lies upon,
If he were that which now he's like, that's
dead;
Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches
of it.
Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing
thus,
To the perpetual wink for aye might put
This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who
Should not upbraid our course. For all the
rest.
They'll take suggestion as a cat laps milk;
They '11 tell the clock^s to any business that
We say befits the hour.
Seb, Thy case, dear friend, 290
Shall be my precedent; as thou got 'st Milan,
I '11 come by Naples. Draw thy sword : one
stroke
Shall free thee from the tribute which thou
pay est ;
And I the king shall love thee.
Ant. Draw together;
And when I rear my hand, do you the like.
To fall it on Gonzalo.
Seb. O, but one word.
[They talk apart.
He-enter Ariel (invisible).
Ari, My master through his art foresees the
danger
That you, his friend, are in; and sends me
forth, —
For else his project dies, — to keep them living.
[Sings in Gonzalo 's ear.
While you here do snoring lie.
Open-eyed conspiracy
His time doth take.
If of life you keep a care,
Shake oflf slumber, and beware:
Awake, awake!
Ant. Then let us both be sudden.
GoN. Now, good angels
Preserve the king! [They awake.
Alon. Why, how now? ho, awake! — Why
are you drawn!
Wherefore this ghastly looking?
44 hofl-sorp
4S count time (make the
hotir fit)
Gon. What's the mattei^
See. Whiles we stood here securing yotiB
repose, ^\
Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowit.^^
Like bulls, or rather lions : did 't not wake yoiwl
It struck mine ear most terribly.
Alon. I heard nothing
Ant. O, 'twas a din to fright a iiionstcr|
ear,
To make an earthquake! sure, it was the rofl
Of a whole herd of lions.
Alon. Heard you this, Gonzalo
Gon. Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a hun
ming.
And that a strange one too, which did awal
me:
T shaked you, sir, and cried: as mine, cy^
open 'd, 3]
I saw their weapons drawn: — there was a noisj
That's verily. 'Tis best we stand upon ot
guard,
Or that we quit this place: let's draw o^
weapons.
Alon. Lead off this ground; and let|
make further search
For my poor son.
Gon. Heavens keep him from these beasts!
For he is, sure, i' th' island.
Alon. Lead away.
Ari. Prospero my lord shall know what I
have done:
So, king, go safely on to seek thy son. [Exeunt.
Scene II.
Another part of the island.
Enter Caliban with a hurden of wood. A noise
of thunder heard.
Cal. All the infections that the sun sucks up
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and
make him
By inch-meal4« a disease! His spirits hear me.
And yet I needs must curse. But they'll nor
pinch.
Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i' the
mire,
Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark
Out of my way, unless he bid 'em: but
For every trifle are they set upon me;
Sometime like apes, that mow and chatter :if
me,
And after bite me; then like hedgehogs, which
Lie tumbling in my barefoot way. and mount 1 1
Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I
All wound with adders, who with cloven tongii. -;
Do hiss me into madness.
4« piece-meal
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
177
Enter Trixculo.
Lo, now, lo!
Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me
For bringing wood in slowly. I '11 fall flat ;
Perchance he will not mind me. 17
Trin. Here 's neither bush nor shrub, to bear
oflf any weather at all, and anotlier storm brew-
ing; I hear it sing i' the wind: yond same
black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul
bombard*^ that would shed his liquor. If it
should thunder as it did before, I know not
where to hitle my head: yond same cloud can-
not choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we
here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish:
he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish-
like smell; a kind of not of the newest Poor-
John.*8 A strange fish! Were I in England
now, as once I was, and had but this fish
painted, not a holiday fool there but would give
a piece of silver: there would this monster
makers a man; any strange beast there makes
a man: when they will not give a doit^o to re-
lieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to
see a dead Indian. Legged like a man! and
his fins like arms! Warm o' my troth! I do
now let loose my opinion; hold it no longer:
this is no fish, but an islander, that hath lately
suffered by a thunderbolt. [^Ihunder.^ Alas,
the storm is come again! my best way is to
creep under his gaberdine ;i>i there is no other
shelter hereabout : misery acquaints a man with
strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the
dregs of the storm be past. 43
Enter Stephako, singing: a bottle in his hand.
Ste. 1 shall no more to sea. to sea.
Here shall I die ashore —
This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man 's
funeral: well, here's my comfort. [Drinks.
[Sings.
The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,
The gunner, and his mate,
Loved Moll, Meg, and Marian, and Margery, 50
But none of us cared for Kate :
For she had a tongue with a tang.
Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!
She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch ; —
Then, to sea, boys, and let her go hang!
This is a scurvy tune too: but here's ray com-
fort. [Drinks.
Cal. Do not torment me: — O! 58
Ste. What's the matter? Have we devils
here? Do you put tricks upon 's with salvages
47 large leathern liquor-
vessel
48 salted hake
40 Used pimnlngly, "to
make the fortune
of."
50 A small Dutch coin.
51 long cloali
and men of Ind, ha? I have not escaped drown-
ing, to be afeard now of your four legs ; for it
hath been said, As proper a man as ever went
on four legs cannot make him give ground;
and it shall be said so again, while Stephano
breathes at nostrils.
Cal. The spirit torments me: — O!
Ste. This is some monster of the isle with
four legs, who hath got, as I take it, an ague.
Where the devil should he learn''^ our language?
I will give him some relief, if it be but for
that. If I can recover him, and keep him tame,
and get to Naples with him, he's a present for
any emperor that ever trod on neat 's-leather.
Cal. Do not torment me. prithee; I'll bring
my wood home faster. 75
Ste. He's in his fit now, and does not talk
after the wisest. He shall taste of my bottle:
if he have never drunk wine afore, it will go
near to remove his fit. If I can recover him,
and keep him tame, I will not takers too much
for him; he shall pay for him that hath him,
and that soundly.
Cal. Thou dost me yet but little hurt ; thou
wilt anon, I know it by thy trembling: now
Prosper works upon thee. 84
Ste. Come on your ways : open your mouth ;
here is that which will give language to you,
cat: 54 open your mouth; this will shake your
shaking, I can tell you, and that soundly: you
cannot tell who 's your friend : open your chaps
again.
Trin, I should know that voice: it should
be — but he is drowned; and these are devils: —
O defend me! 92
Ste. Four legs and two voices, — a most deli-
cate monster! His forward voice, now, is to
speak well of his friend; his backward voice
is to utter foul speeches and to detract. If all
the wine in my bottle will recover him, I will
help his ague. Come: — Amen! I will pour
some in thy other mouth.
Trin. Stephano! 100
Ste. Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy,
mercy! This is a devil, and no monster: 1
will leave him ; I have no long spoon. ^j
Trin. Stephano! If thou beest Stephano,
touch me, and speak to me; for I am Trinculo,
— be not afeard, — thy good friend Trinculo.
Ste. If thou beest Trinculo, come forth:
I'll pull thee by the lesser legs: if any be
Trinculo 's legs, these are they. Thou art very
Trinculo indeed! How camest thou to be the
52 can he have learned
53 cannot asls
54 Proverb : "Good liq-
uor will make a cat
speak."
55 Proverb : "He must
have a long .spoon
that would eat with
the devil."
178
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
siege of this moon-calf 561 can he vent'^ Trin-
culos? Ill
Trix. I took him to be killed with a thun-
der-stroke. But art thou not drowned, Ste-
phano? I hope, now, thou art not drowned.
Is the storm overblown? 1 hid me under the
dead moon-calf's gaberdine for fear of the
storm. And art thou living, Stephano? Ste-
phano, two Neapolitans scaped!
Ste. Prithee, do not turn me about; my
stomach is not constant.
Cal. [Aside] These be fine things, an if they
be not sprites. 121
That's a brave god, and bears celestial liquor:
I will kneel to him.
Ste. How didst thou scape? How camest
thou hither? swear, by this bottle, how thou
camest hither. I escaped upon a butt of sack,
w hich the sailors heaved o 'erboard, by this bot-
tle! which I made of the bark of a tree with
mine own hands, since I was cast ashore.
Cal. I '11 swear, upon that bottle, to be thy
true subject; for the liquor is not earthly. 130
Ste. Here; swear, then, how thou escapedst.
Trin. Swum ashore, man, like a duck: 1
can swim like a duck, I'll be sworn.
Ste. Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst
swim like a duck, thou art made like a goose.
Trin. O Stephano, hast any more of this?
Ste. The whole butt, man: my cellar is in
a rock by the sea-side, where my wine is hid.
How now, moon-calf! how does thine ague?
Cal. Hast thou not dropp'd from heaven?
Ste. Out o' the moon, I do assure thee: 1
was the man i' the moon when time was. 142
Cal. I have seen thee in her, and I do adore
thee : my mistress show 'd me thee, and thy dog.
and thy bush.
Ste. Come, swear to that; kiss the book: I
will furnish it anon with new contents: swear.
Trix. By this good light, this is a very shal-
low monster ! I af eard of him ! A very weak
monster! The man i' the moon! A most poor
credulous monster! Well drawn,>'>8 monster, in
good sooth! 151
Cal. I will show thee every fertile inch o'
th' island; and I will kiss thy foot: I prithee,
be my god.
Trin. By this light, a most perfidious and
drunken monster! when's god's asleep, he'll
rob his bottle.
Cal. I'll kiss thy foot; I'll swear myself
thy subject.
Stk. Come on, then; down, and swear.
Trin. I shall laugh myself to death at this
B« the offRonm of this 57 spawn
muDMtrosltjr 5N wpII (Inink. well
drained
puppy-headed monster. A most scurvy monster
I could find it in my heart to beat him, — 16l
Ste. Come, kiss.
Trin. But that the poor monster's in drink
An abominable monster!
Cal. I'll show thee the best springs; I'l
pluck thee berries;
I'll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough.
A plague upon the tyrant that I serve!
I '11 bear him no more sticks, but follow thee,
Thou wondrous man.
Trin. A most ridiculous monster, to make
wonder of a poor drunkard! 17(
Cal. I prithee, let me bring thee when
crabs'o grow;
And I with my long nails will dig thee pij
nuts;«o
Show thee a jay 's nest, and instruct thee how
To snare the nimble marmoset ; I '11 bring thep^
To clustering filberts, and sometimes I '11 get
thee
Young scamelsoi from the rock. Wilt thou go
with me?
Ste. I prithee now, lead the way, without
any more talking. Trinculo, the king and all
our company else being drowned, we will in-
herit here: here; bear my bottle: fellow Trin-
culo, we '11 fill him by and by again. 181
Cal. [sings drunletily]
Farewell, master; farewell, farewell!
Trin. A howling monster; a drunken mon-
ster.
Cal. No more dams I '11 make for fish ;
Nor fetch in firing
At requiring;
Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish:
'Ban, 'Ban, Cacaliban
Has a new master: — get a new man.
Freedom, hey-day! hey-day, freedom! free-
dom, hey-day, freedom! 191
Ste. O brave monster! Lead the way.
[Exeunt.
ACT IIL
Scene I.
Before Prosperous cell.
Enter Ferdinand, hearing a log.
Feu. There be some sports are painful, and
their labour
Delight in them sets off:* some kinds of base-
nessi
.to crab apples 6i Moanintc unkn own
II" «'<lll)l«' roots ( possibly for soa-
mell, sea-mpw).
1 menial work
• ThiH sentence yields various meanings, accordine
as "labour" is subject or objoot, and arcord-
Ihr as "sots off" moans "liclghtons" or "off-
sets."
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
179
Are nobly undergone, and most poor matters
Point to rii'h ends. This my mean task
Would be as heavy to me as odious, but
The mistress which I serve quickens what's
dead.
And makes my labours pleasures: O, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father's
crabbed,
And he 's composed of harshness. I must remove
Some thousands of these logs, and pile them
up, 10
Upon a sore injunction:- my sweet mistress
Weeps when she sees me work, and says, such
baseness
Had never like executor. I forget :
But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my
labours.
Most busy lest,t when I do it.
Enter ^Iiraxda; and Pkospero, at a distance,
unseen.
MiPw Alas, now, pray you.
Work not so hard: I would the lightning had
Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin "d to
pile!
Pray, set it down, and rest you : when this
burns,
'Twill weep for having wearied you. My father
Is hard at study; pray, now, rest yourself; 20
He's safe for these three hours.
Fer. O most dear mistress,
The sun will set before I shall discharge
What 1 must strive to do.
Mir. If you'll sit down.
1 '11 bear your logs the while : pray, give me
that;
1 '11 carry it to the pile.
Fer. No, precious creature ;
1 had rather crack my sinews, break my back,
Than you should such dishonour undergo,
While 1 sit lazy by.
Mir. It would become me
As well as it does you: and I should do it
With much more ease; for my good will is
to it, 30
And yours it is against.
Pros. Poor worm, thou art infected!
This visitations shows it.
Mir. You look wearily.
Fer. No, noble mistress; 'tis fresh morn-
ing with me
When you are by at night. I do beseech you, —
Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers. —
What is your name?
Mir. :Mirand:i.— O my fathoj,
2 liehest 3 visit
-'■ Another very obscure passage. The later Folios
r -ad hast. Theobald oonjoctures bustfless. Holt
hiishgt.
have broke your best to say so!
Fer. Admired Miranda!
I Indeed the top of admiration ! worth
What's dearest to the world! Full many a lady
I have eyed with best regard, and many a
time 40
The harmony of their tongues hath into bond-
age
Brought my too diligent ear: for several vir-
tues
Have 1 liked several women; never any
With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,
And put it to the foil:* but you, O you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every ceature 's best !
Mir. I do not know
One of my sex ; no woman 's face remember.
Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I
seen 50
More that I may call men than you, good
friend,
And my dear father: how features are abroad,
I am skilless^ of; but, by my modesty.
The jewel in my dower. I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you;
Nor can imagination form a shape.
Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle
Something too wildly, and my father 's precepts
1 therein do forget.
Fer. I am, in my condition,
A prince, Miranda ; I do think, a king ; 60
I would, not so! — and would no more endure
This wooden slavery than to suffer
The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul
speak :
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service; there resides.
To make me slave to it ; and for your sake
Am I this patient log-man.
Mir. Do you love mef
Fer. O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this
sound.
And crown what I profess with kind event,«
If I speak true! if hollowly, invert 70
What best is boded me to mischief! I,
Beyond all limit of what else i' the world,
Do love, prize, honour you.
Mir. T am a fool
To weep at what I am glad of.
Pros. Fair encounter
Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain
grace
On that which breeds between 'cm!
Fer.
Wherefore weep you?
4 disadvantage
'• ignoriint
6 outcome
180
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
Mir. At iiiiue iiu«orthiiio>s, tliat dare not
offer
What I desire to give; and iiiiK-h less take
What 1 shall die to want J But this is trifling;
And all the more it seeks to hide itself, 80
The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cun-
ning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!
I am your wife, if you will marry me;
If not, I'll die your maid: to be your fellow
You may deny me ; but 1 '11 be your servant,
Whetlier you Avill or no.
Fer. My mistress, dearest;
And I thus humble ever.
Mir. ;\ly husband, then?
Fer. Ay, with a heart as willing
As bondage e'er of freedom: here's my hand.
Mir. And mine, with my heart in 't: and
now farewell
Till half an hour hence.
Fer. a thousand thousand! 91
[Exeunt Fer. and Mik. severally.
Pros. So glad of this as they I cannot be,
Who are surprised withal; but my rejoicing
At nothing can be more. I '11 to my book ;
For yet, ere supper-time, must I perform
Much business appertaining. [Exit.
Scene II.
Another part of the Island.
Enter Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo.
Ste. Tell not me ; — when the butt is out, we
will drink water; not a drop before: therefore
bear up, and board 'em.** Servant-monster,
drink to me.
Trin. Servant-monster! the folly of this
island! They say there's but five upon this
isle: we are three of them; if th' other two
be brained like us, the state totters.
Ste. Drink, servant-monster, when I bid
thee: thy eyes are almost seto in thy head. 10
Trin. Where should they be set else? he
were a brave monster indeed, if they were set
in his tail.
Ste. My man-monster hath drowned hia
tongue in sack : for my part, the sea cannot
drown me; I swam, ere I could recover the
shore, five-and-thirty leagues ofif and on. By
this light, thou shalt be my lieutenant, monster,
or my standard.io
Trin. Your lieutenant, if you list; he's no
standard. . 20
Ste. We'll nol^ run. Monsieur Monster.
7 lack
8 fixed
8 sail up
and attack
10 standard-bearer
lllCIII
Mil' cnpH)
Trin. Nor go neither; but you'll lie, like
dogs, and yet say nothing neither.
Ste. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if
thou beest a good moon-calf.
Cal. How does thy honour? Let me lick thy
shoe. I 'II not serve him, he is not valiant.
Tkix. Thou liest, most ignorant monster: J
am in case to justlen a constable. Why, thou
deboshed'- fish, thou, was there ev(;r man a
coward that hath drunk so much sack as I
to-day? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being
but half a fish and half a monster? 33
Cal. Lo, how ho mocks me! wilt thou let
him, my lord?
Trin. 'Lord,' quoth he! That a nioust< r
should be such a natural !i'i
Cal. Lo, lo, again! bite him to death, I
prithee.
Ste. Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your
head: if you prove a mutineer, — the next tree!
The poor monster's my subject, and he shall
not suffer indignity. 42
Cal. I thank my noble lord. AVilt thou be
pleased to hearken once again to the suit I
made to thee?
Ste. ]Marry, will 1 : kneel and rei)eat it ; I
will stand, and so shall Trinculo.
Enter Ariel (invisible)
Cal. As I told thee before, 1 am subject to
a tyrant, a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath
cheated me of the island.
Ari. Thou liest. 50
Cal. Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou:
I would my valiant master would destroy thee!
I do not lie.
Ste. Trinculo, if you trouble him any more
in 's tale, by this hantl, I will supplant some of
your teeth.
Trin. Why, I said nothing.
Ste. Mum, then, and no m»re. Proceed.
Cal. I say, by sorcery he got this isle; 60
From me he got it. If thy greatness will
Kevenge it on him, — for I know thou darest.
But this thing dare not, —
Ste. That's most certain.
Cal. Thou shalt be lord of it, and I'll serve
thee.
Ste. How now shall this be compassed f
Canst thou bring me to the party?
Cal. Yea, yea, my lord: I'll yield him thee
asleep,
Where thou mayst knock a nail into his head.
Ari. Thou Uest; thon canst not. 70
Cal. What a pied ninny 's'^ this! Thru
scurvy patch !••'•
11 in trim to Joetle
12 debaiichod
13 simpleton
I* motlev-coated fool
15 fool
WILLIAM SHAKESFEABE
181
1 do beseech thy greatness, give him blows.
And take his bottle from him: when that's
gone,
He shall drink nought but brine ; for 1 '11 not
show him
Where the quick freshes are.
8te. Trinculo, run into no further danger:
interrupt the monster one word further, and,
by this hand, I'll turn my mercy out o' doors,
and make a stock-fishie of thee.
Trix. Why, what did If I did nothing. I'll
go farther off. 81
Ste. Didst thou not say he liedt
Ari. Thou liest.
Ste. Do I so? take thou that. [Beats hiin.]
As you like this, give me the lie another time.
Trix. 1 did not give the lie. Out o' your
wits, and hearing tool A pox o' your bottle!
this can sack and drinking do. A murrain on
your monster, and the devil take your fingers!
Cal, Ha, ha, ha! 90
Ste. Now. forward with your tale. — Prithee,
^tand farther off.
Cal. Beat him enough: after a little time,
1 '11 beat him too.
Ste. Stand farther. — Come, proceed.
Cal. Why, as I told thee, 'tis a custom with
him
I ' th ' afternoon to sleep : there thou mayst
brain him,
Having first seized his books; or with a log
Matter his skuU, or paunch him with a stake.
Or cut his wezandi^ with thy knife. Remember
First to possess his books; for without them
He's but a sot, as I jim, nor hath not 101
One spirit to command: they all do hate him
As rootedly as I. Bum but his books.
He has brave utensils, — for so he calls them. —
Which, when he has a house, he'll deck withal.
.\nd thatis most deeply to consider is
The beauty of his daughter; he himself
falls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman.
But only Sycorax my dam and she;
But she as far surpasseth Sycorax 110
As great 'st does least.
Ste. Is it so brave a lass?
Cal. Ay, lord; she will become thy bed, 1
warrant,
And bring thee forth brave brood.
Ste. Monster. I will kill this man : his
daughter and I will be king and queen, — save
our graces! — and Trinculo and thyself shall be
viceroys. Dost thou like the plot, Trinculo?
Trix. Excellent.
Ste. Give me thy hand: I am sorry I
16 dried cod (which is
beaten bef ore
boiled)
17 wind-pioe
18 that which
•jeat thee; but. while thou livcst, keep a good
tongue in thy head. 121
Cal. Within this half hour will he be
asleep :
Wilt thou destroy him thenf
Ste. Ay, on mine honour.
Ari. This will I tell my master.
Cal. Thou makest me merry; I am full of
pleasure:
Let us be jocund; will you troll the catchi^
You taught me but while-ere?
Ste. At thy request, monster, I will do rea-
son, any reason.— Come on, Trinculo, let us
sing. [ISings.
Flout 'em and scout 'em. 130
And scout 'em and flout 'em ;
Thought is free.
Cal. That's not the tune.
[Ariel plays the lune on a tabor and pipe.
Stb. What is this same?
Trix. This is the tune of our catch, played
by the picture of Xubody.""
Ste. If thou beest a man, show thyself in
thy likeness: if thou beest a devil, take 't as
thou list.
Trix. O. forgive me my sins!
Ste. He that dies pays all debts: I defy
thee. Mercy upon us! 141
Cal. Art thou afeard?
Ste. Xo, monster, not I.
Cal. Be not afeard; the isle is full of
noises.
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and
hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears ; and sometime voices.
That, if I then had waked after long sleep.
Will make me sleep again : and then, in dream-
ing,
The clouds methought would oj>en, and show
riches
Ready to drop upon me; that, when I wakeil.
I cried to dream again. 152
Ste. This will prove a brave kingdom to
me. where
I shall have my music for nothing.
Cal. When Prospero is destroyed.
Ste. That shall be by and by: I remember
the story.
Tbix. The sound is going away ; let 's fol-
low it, and after do our work.
Ste. Lead, monster; we'll follow. I woul<l
I could see this taborer: he lays it on. 160
Trin. Wilt comet 1 11 follow, Stephano.
[Exeunt.
19 part-song
; 20 Alluding to a print
' (of merely head.
less, and arms)
prefixed to an old
comedy.
183
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
Scene III.
Another part of the island.
Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo,
Adrian, Francisco, and others.
GON. By 'r lakin,2i i can go no further, sir ;
My old bones ache: here's a maze trod, indeed,
Through forth-rights and meanders! By your
patience,
I needs must rest me.
Alon. Old lord, I cannot blame thee,
Who am myself attach 'd-2 with weariness.
To the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and
rest.
Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it
No longer for-'s my flatterer: he is drown 'd
Whom thus we stray to find; and the sea
mocks 9
Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.
Ant. [Aside to Seb.] I am right glad that
he's so out of hope.
Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose
That you resolved to effect.
Seb. [Aside to Ant.] The next advantage
Will we take thoroughly.
Ant. [Aside to Seb.] Let it be to-night;
For, now they are oppress 'd with travel, they
Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance
As when they are fresh.
Seb. [Aside to Ant.] I say, to-night: no
more. [Solemn and strange music.
Alon. What harmony is this? — My good
friends, hark!
GoN. Marvellous sweet music!
Enter Prospero ahove (invisible). Enter sev-
eral strange Shapes, bringing in a ban-
quet: they dance about it with gentle ac-
tions of salutations; and, inviting the
King, etc., to eat, they depart.
Alon. Give us kind keepers, heavens! —
What were these?
Seb. a living drollery.24 Now I will be-
lieve 21
That there are unicorns; that in Arabia
There is one tree, the phcenix' throne; one
phoenix
At this hour reigning there.
Ant. 1 '11 believe both ;
And what does else want credit,'-."> come to me.
And I'll be sworn 'tis true: travellers ne'er
did lie,
Though fools at home condemn 'em.
21 ladvkin (little lady.
the Virgin Mary)
'J2 attacked
28 88
24 puppet show
23 whatever else is in-
credible
GON. If in Naples
I should report this now, would they believe
me?
If I should say, I saw such islanders, —
For, certes, these are people of the island, — 30
Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet,
note,
Their manners are more gentle-kind than of
Our human generation you shall find
Many, nay, almost any.
Pros. [Aside] Honest lord,
Thou has said well; for some of you there
present
Are worse than devils.
Alon. I cannot too much muse28
Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, ex-
pressing —
Although they want the use of tongue — a kind
Of excellent dumb discourse.
Pros. [Aside.^ Praise in departing.27
Fran. They vanish 'd strangely.
Seb. No matter, since 40
They have left their viands behind ; for we have
stomachs. —
Will 't please you taste of what is here?
Alon. Not I.
GON. Faith, sir, you need not fear. When
we were boys,
Who would believe that there were mountain-
eers
Dew-lapp 'd like bulls, whose throats had hang-
ing at 'em
Wallets of flesh? or that there were such men
Whose heads stood in their breasts? which
now we find
Each putter-out of five for one* will bring us
Good warrant of.
Alon. I will stand to, and feed,
Although my last: no matter, since I feel 50
The best is past. Brother, my lord the duke.
Stand to, and do as we.
Thunder and lightning. Enter Ariel, like a
harpy; claps his wings upon the tabic;
and, with a quaint device, the banquet van-
ishes.
Ari, You are three men of sin, whom Des-
tiny,—
That hath to28 instrument this lower world
And what is in 't, — the never-surfeited sea
Ilath caused to belch up you; and on this
island.
Where man doth not inhabit, — you 'mongst men
26 wonder at
27 Proverb : "Save your praises till you go."
38 for
• Referring to travellers going on a perilous jour-
ney, who sometimos made over their property
on condition that If they returned safe it
should be restored to them two, three, or
even five fold.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
183
Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad ;
Aud even with sut-h-like valour men hang and
drown
Their proper selves.
[Alox.. Seb., etc., draw their swards.
You fools! I and my fellows 60
Are ministers of Fate: the elements,
Of whom your swords are temper 'd, may as
well
Wound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at
stabs
Kill the stiJl-closing waters, as diminish
One dowle29 that's in my plume: my fellow-
ministers
Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt,
Your swords are now too massy for your
strengths,
And will not be uplifted. But remember, —
For that 's my business to you, — that you three
From Milan did supplant good Prospero ; . 70
Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it.
Him and his innocent child: for which foul
deed
The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have
Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the crea-
tures,
Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso,
They have bereft ; and do pronounce by me :
Lingering perdition — worse than any death
Can be at once — shall step by step attend
You and your ways; whose wraths to guard
you from, —
Which here, in this most desolate isle, else
falls 80
Upon your heads, — is nothing but30 heart-sor-
row
And a clear life ensuing.
He vanishes in thunder; then, to soft music,
enter the Sh.vpes again and dance, uith
mods and motes, and carrying out the
table.
Pros. Bravely the figure of this harpy hast
thou
Perform 'd, my Ariel; a grace it had, devour-
ing:
Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated
In what thou hadst to say : so, with good life
And observation 8trange,3i my meaner minis-
ters
Their several kinds32 have done. My high
charms work,
And these mine enemies are all knit up
In their distractions: they now are in my
power; 90
And in these fits I leave them, while I visit
Young Ferdinand, — whomaa they suppose is
drown 'd, —
And his and mine loved darling. [Exit above.
GON. I ' the name of something holy, sir,
why stand you
In this strange stare?
Alox. O, it is monstrous, monstrous!
Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it ;
The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder.
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced
The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.
Therefore my son i ' th ' ooze is bedded ; and 100
1 '11 seek him deeper than e 'er plummet sounded.
And with him there lie mudded. [Exit.
Seb. But one fiend at a time,
1*11 fight their legions o'er.
AxT. ni be thy second.
[Exeunt Seb. and Axt.
Gox. All three of them are desperate: their
great guilt,
Like poison given to work a great time after,
Now 'gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you,
That are of suppler joints. foUow them swiftly.
And hinder them from what this ecstasy^*
May now provoke them to.
Adk. Follow, I pray you. [Exeunt.
ACT IV.
Scexe I.
Before Prosperous cell.
Enter Pkospero, Ferdixaxd and Miraxda.
Pros. If I have too austerely punish 'd you,
Y'our compensation makes amends; for I
Have given you here a thirds of mine own life,
Or that for which I live; who once again
I tender to thy hand: aU thy vexations
Were but my trials of thy love, and thou
Hast strangely stood the test: here, afore
Heaven,
I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand,
Do not smile at me that I boast her off.
For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise 10
And make it halt behind her.
Fer. I do believe its
Against an oracle.
Pros. Then, as my gift, and thine own ac-
quisition
W^orthily purchased, take my daughter: but
If thou dost break her virgin-knot3 before
33 FV)r "who."
34 madness
29 eiament of down
30 nothing will avail but
31 rare observance
32 appropriate functions
1 Commonly taken to mean that he himself and
his dukedom (or his wife) are the two other
thirds : but some editors read tkread.
2 Supply "and should." 3 girdle worn as mark
of maidenhood
184
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
All sanctimonious ceremonies may ^
With full and holy rite be minister 'd.
No sweet aspersion^ shall the heavens let fall
To make this contract grow; but barren hate.
Sour-eyed disdain and discord shall bestrew 20
The union of your bed with weeds so loathly
That you shall hate it both: therefore take
heed,
As Hymen's lani{»s sliall light you.*
Fer. As I hope
For quiet days, fair issue and long life,
With such love as 'tis now, the murkiest den.
The most opportune j)lace, the strong 'st sug-
gestion
Our worser genius can, shall never melt
Mine honour into lust, to take away
The edge of that day 's celebration
When I shall think, or"' Phoebus' steeds are
founder 'd,
Or Night kept chain 'd below.
Pros. Fairly spoke. 31
Sit, then, and talk with her; she is thine own.
What, Ariel! my industrious servant, Ariel I
Enter Ariel.
Ari. What would my potent master f here
I am.
Pros. Thou and thy meaner fellows your
last service
Did worthily perform ; and 1 must use you
In such another trick. Go bring the rabble.
O 'er whom I give thee power, here to this
place :
Incite them to quick motion; for I must
Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple 40
Some vanity" of mine art: it is my promise.
And they expect it from me.
Ari. Presently ?7
Pros. Ay, with a twink.
Ari. Before you can say 'come.' and 'go,'
And breathe twice, and cry, 'so, so,'
Each one, tripping on his toe,
Will be here with mops and mow.
Do you love me, master? no?
Pros. Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not
approach
Till thou dost hear me call.
Ari. Well, I conceive. [Exit. 50
Pros. Look thou be true ; do not give dal-
liance
Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are
straw
To the fire i ' the blood : be more abstemious.
Or else, good night your vow !
3 Kprlnkling
4 as you hope to be
l)l(!88ed by the god
of marriage
c either
•! illuHion
7 at once
8 grimace (about the
same as "mow")
Fer. I warrant you, sir ;
The white cold virgin snow upon my heart
Abates the ardour of my liver."
Pros. Well.
Now come, my Ariel ! bring a corollary, lo
Rather than want a spirit* appear, and
pertly 111
No tongue! all eyes! be silent. [Soft music.
Enter Iris.
Iris, teres, most bounteous lady, thy rich
leas 60
Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and pease;
Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep.
And flat meads thatch 'd with stover,i- them to
keep ;
Thy banks with pioned and twilledi'! brims.
Which spongy April at thy best betrims.
To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy
broom -groves,
Whose sliadow the dismissed bachelor loves,
Being lass-lorn; thy pole-clipti* vineyard;
And ti)y sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard,
Where thou thyself dost air; — the queen o'
the sky.i-'
Whose watery arch and messenger am I, 71
Bids thee leave these; and with her sovereign
grace.
Here, on this grass-plot, in this very pUu-e.
To come and sport: — her peacocks tiy amain:
Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.
Enter Ceres.
Ceu. Hail, many-colour 'd messenger, that
ne 'er
Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter;
Who, with thy saffron wings, upon my flowers
Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers; 7ii
And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown
My boskyi" acres and my unshrubb'd down.'^
Eich scarf to my proud earth; — why hath tin-
queen
Summon 'd me hither, to this short-grass 'd
gieen ?
Iris. A contract of true love to celebrate;
And some donation freely to estatei*
On the blest lovers.
Cer. Tell me. heavenly Ik)w.
If Venus or her son, as thou <lost know.
Do now attend the queen! Since they did plot
The means that dusky Disi" niy daughter got.
Her and her blind boy's scandal 'd company 90
I have forsworn.
Iris. Of her society
» Then regarded as tbc
soat of passion.
io surphisage
1 1 nlm!)ly
1 1' coarse hay
1.3 pconlod and reedy ( V)
14 polc-cntwIned
1 ' .Tiino
Ml woody
17 cleared slopes
1 s bestow
ii> riuto (who carried
off Proserpina)
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
185
Be not afraid: 1 met her deity
(Jutting the clouds towards Paphos, and her son
Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to
have done
Some wanton charm upon this man and mai<l.
Whose vows are, that no bed-right shall be paid
Till Hymen 's torch be lighted : but in vain ;
Mar 's hot minionso is return 'd again ;
Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows. 99
Swears he will shoot no more, but play with
sparrows,
And be a boy right out.
Cer. High'st queen of state.
Great Juno, comes; I know her by her gait.
Enter Juxo.
Juno. How does my bounteous sister? Go
with me
T>( bless this twain, that they may prosperous be.
And honour 'd in their issue. [They sing:
Jrxo. Honour, riches, marriage-blessing.
Long continuance, and increasing,
Hourly joys be still upon you!
.funo sings her blessings on you.
Cer. Earth's increase, foison^i plenty, 110
Barns and garners never empty ;
Amines with clustering bunches growing;
Plants with goodly burthen bowing;
Spring come to you at the farthest
In the very end of harvest!
Scarcity and want shall shun you ;
Ceres' blessing so is on you.
Fer. This is a most majestic vision, and
Harmonious charmingly. May I be boM
To think these spirits?
Pros. Spirits, which by mine art 120
1 have from their confines call'd to enact
-My present fancies.
Fer. Let me live here ever;
So rare a wonder 'd father and a wise
.Makes this place Paradise.
[Juno and Ceres whisper, and send
Iris on employment.
Pros. Sweet, now, silence!
Juno and Ceres whisper seriously;
There's something else to do: hush, and be
mute.
Or else our spell is marr'd.
Iris. You nymphs, call 'd Naiads, of the
winding brooks,
With your sedged crowns and ever-harmless
looks,
I^ave your crisp22 channels, and on this green
land 130
Answer your summons ; Juno does command :
Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate
A contract of true love; be not too late.
Enter certain Nymphs.
You sunburn 'd sicklemen, of August weary.
Come hither from the furrow, and be merry:
Make holiday; your rye-straw hats put on,
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one
In country footing.23
Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they
join with the Nymphs in a graceful dance;
towards the end whereof Prosper© starts
suddenly, and speaks; after which, to a
strange, hollow, and confused noise, they
heavily vanish.
Pros. [Aside] I had forgot that foul con-
spiracy
Of the beast Caliban and liis confederates 140
Against my life: the minute of their plot
Is almost come. [To the Spirits.] Well done!
avoid; 2* no more!
Fer. This is strange: your father's in some
passion
That works him strongly.
MiR. Never till this day
Saw I hira touch 'd with anger so distemper 'd.
Pros. You do look, my son, in a moved sort.
As if you were dismay 'd: be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors.
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
-Are melted into air, into thin air: 150
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces.
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve.
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded.
Leave not a rack^s behind. We are such stuff
.\s dreams are made on; 26 and our little life
Is roundetl with a sleep. Sir, I am vex 'd ;
Bear with my weakness; my old brain is
troubled :
Be not disturbed with my infirmity: 100
If you be pleased, retire into my cell.
And there repose: a turn or two I '11 walk.
To still my beating mind.
Fer. Mir. We wish you peace. [Exeunt.
Pros. Come with a thought.2< I thank thee,
Ariel : come.
Enter Ariel.
Ari. Thy thoughts I cleave to. What 's thy
pleasure ?
Pros. Spirit,
We must prepare to meet withzs Caliban,
Ari. Ay, my commander: when I presented
Ceres,
20 darling (Venus)
21 abundance
22 waveleted
23 dancing
24 depart
25 shred of vapor
26 of
27 quick as thought
28 meet, frustrate
186
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
1 thought to have told thee of it ; but I fear 'd
Lest I might anger thee.
Pros. Say again, where didst thou leave
these varlets? 170
Ari. 1 told you, sir, they were red-hot with
drinking;
So full of valour that they smote the air
For breathing in their faces; beat the ground
For kissing of their feet; yet always bending
Towards their project. Then I boat my tabor;
At which, like unbaek'd29 colts, they prick 'd
their ears,
Advanced their eyelids, lifted up their noses
As they smelt music: so I charm 'd their ears,
That, calf -like, they my lowing follow 'd
through
Tooth 'd briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss,3o
and thorns, 180
Which enter 'd their frail shins: at last I left
them
I' the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell,
There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake
'erstunk their feet.
Pros. This was well done, my bird.
Thy shape invisible retain thou still:
The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither,
For stales 1 to catch these thieves.
Ari. I go, I go. [Exit.
Pros. A devil, a born devil, on whose nature
Nurture can never stick ; on whom my pains.
Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost; 190
And as with age his body uglier grows,
So his mind cankers. I will plague them all,
Even to roaring.
Be-enter Ariel, loadcn with glistering
apparel, etc.
Come, hang them on this line.32
Prospero and Ariel remain, invisible.
Enter Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo, aU
wet.
Cal. Pray you, tread softly, that the blind
mole may not hear a foot fall : we now are near
his cell.
Ste. Monster, your fairy, which you say is a
harmless fairy, has done little better than
played the Jack with us.
Trin. Monster, my nose is in great indigna-
tion. 200
Ste. So is mine. Do you hear, monster? If
1 should take a displeasure against you, look
you,—
Trin. Thou wert but a lost monster.
Cal. Good my lord, give me thy favour still.
Be patient, for the prize I'll bring thee to
2» nnrldden
80 fforse
81 decoy
S2 lime-tree, linden
Shall hoodwinkss this mischance: therefore
speak softly.
All's hush'd as midnight yet.
Trin. Ay, but to lose our bottles in the
pool, —
Ste. There is not only disgrace and dis-
honour in that, monster, but an infinite loss. 210
Trin. That's more to me than my wetting:
yet this is your harmless fairy, monster.
Ste. I will fetch oif my bottle, though I be
o'er ears for my labour.
Cal. Prithee, my king, be quiet. See 'st thou
here,
This is the mouth o' the cell: no noise, and
enter.
Do that good mischief which may make this
island
Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban,
For aye thy foot-licker.
Ste. Give me thy hand. I do begin to have
bloody thoughts. 220
Trin. O King Stephano ! O peer ! O worthy
Stephano! look what a wardrobe here is for
thee!
Cal. Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.
Trin. O, ho, monster! we know what be-
longs to a frippery.34 o King Stephano!
Ste. Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this
hand, I'll have that gown.
Trin. Thy grace shall have it.
Cal. The dropsy drown this fool! what do
you mean 230
To dote thus on such luggage? Let's alone,35
And do the murder first: if he awake,
From toe to crown he'll fill our skins with
pinches.
Make us strange stuif.
Ste. Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line,
is not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin
under the line: now, jerkin, you are like to
lose your hair, and prove a bald jerkin.*
Trin. Do, do: we steal by line and level,3fl
an 't like your grace. 240
Ste. I thank thee for that jest; here's a
garment for 't: wit shall not go unrewarded
while I am king of this country. 'Steal by
line and level' is an excellent pass of pate;37
there's another garment for 't.
Trin. IMonster, come, put some limeys upon
your fingers, and away with the rest.
33 111 Ind you to editors, "left
84 dd-clothos shop nlone.")
85 Supply "go;" (alone ae by rule
inny bo un orror for .^" thiMist of wit
along ; or read, with 88 blrd-llmt!
Rowe nnd otlier
* rerliaps nlluding to the frequent loss of hair
from fevers contrnoted in crossing the line,
or equator.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
187
Gal. I will have none on 't: we shall lose
our time,
And all be turnM to barnacles, or to aj>es
With foreheads villanous low. 250
Ste. Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to
bear this away where ray hogshead of wine is,
or I '11 turn you out of my kingdom : go to,
carry this.
Trin. And this.
Ste. Ay, and this.
A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits,
in shape of dogs and hounds, hunting them
about; Prospero and Ariel setting them
on.
Pros. Hey, Mountain, hey!
Ar. Silver! there it goes, Silver!
Pros. Fury, Fury! there, Tyrant, there!
hark, hark!
[Cal., Ste., and Trin. are driven out.
Go' charge my goblins that they grind their
joints
With dry convulsions; shorten up their sinews
With aged cramps; and more pinch-spotted
make them 261
Than pard or eat o ' mountain.
Ari. Hark, they roar !
Pros. Let them be hunted soundly. At this
hour
Lie at my mercy all mine enemies:
Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou
Shalt have the air at freedom: for a little
Follow, and do me service. [Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCEXE I.
Before the cell of Prospero.
Enter Prospero in his magic robes, and Ariel.
Pros. Now does my project gather to a head :
My charms craeki not; my spirits obey; and
time
Goes upright with his carriage.s How's the
day?
Ari. On the sixth hour; at which time, my
lord,
You said our work should cease.
Pros. I did say so,
When first I raised the tempest. Say, my
spirit.
How fares the king and *s followers?
Ari. Confined together
In the same fashion as you gave in charge.
Just as you left them ; all prisoners, sir,
In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell ;
They cannot budge till your release. The king, 1 1
1 break, fall
2 carries all tbrougb
well
His brother, and yours, abide all three dis-
tracted,
Antl the remainder mourning over them,
Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly
Him that you term 'd, sir, * The good old lord,
Gonzalo ' ;
His tears run down his beard, like winter's
drops
From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly
works 'em.
That if you now beheld them, your affections
Would become tender.
Pros. Dost thou think so, spirit ?
Ari. Mine would, sir, were I human.
Pros. And mine shall. 20
Hast thou, which art but air. a touch, a feeling
Of their afflictions, and shall not myself,
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,^
Passion* as they, be kindlier moved than thou
art?
Though with their high wrongs"' I am struck to
the quick.
Yet with my nobler reason 'gainst my fury
Do I take part : the rarer action is
In virtue than in vengeance: they being peni-
tent.
The sole drift of my purpose doth extend
Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel : 30
My charms 1 11 break, their senses I '11 restore,
And they shall be themselves.
Ari. I 'II fetch them, sir, [Exit.
Pros. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing
lakes, and groves;
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringletss make.
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose
pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew ; by whose aid — 40
Weak masters though ye be — I have bedimm 'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous
winds.
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have T given fire, and rifted Jove 's stout oak
W^ith his own bolt; the strong-based promon-
tory
Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck 'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, ami let 'em
forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic 50
I here abjure; and, when I have require<l
3 feel quite as keenly
4 have passions
"i crimes
6 of grass
rings")
("fairy
188
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
Some heavenly music. — whieh even now I do, —
To work mine end upon their senses, that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth.
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book. [Solemn music.
He enter Ariel hefore: Ihen Alonso, viih o
frantic gesture, attended hy CiONZAt.o;
Sebastian and Axtonio in like manner,
attended by Adrian and Francisco: the>i
all enter the circle which Prospero had
made, and there stand charmed; which
Prospero observing, speaks:
A solemn air, and the best comforter
To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains,
Now useless, boil'd within thy skull! There
stand,
For you are spell-stopp 'd. 61
Holy Gonzalo, honourable man,
I\line eyes, even sociable to^ the show of thine,
Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves
apace ;
And as the morning steals upon the night
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle
Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo,
My true preserver, and a loyal sir 69
To him thou follow 'st! I will pay thy graces
Home* both in word and deed. Most cruelly
Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter:
Thy brother was a furtherer in the act.
Thou art pinch 'd for 't now, Sebastian. Flesh
and blood,
You, brother mine, that entertain 'd ambition,
Expell'd remorse and nature; who, with
Sebastian, —
Whose inward pinches therefore are most
strong, —
Would here have kill 'd your king ; I do forgive
theo.
Unnatural though thou art. Their understanding
Begins to swell; and the approaching tide 80
Will shortly fill the reasonable shore,"
That now lies foul and muddy. Not one of
them
That yet looks on me, or would know me:
Ariel,
Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell :
T will disease me, and myself present
As 1 was sometime Milan: quickly, spirit;
Thou shalt ere long be free.
Ariel sings and helps to attire him.
Where the bee sucks, there suck T :
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
T «ympnthotlf' with ;• shore of reason
H fiillv
There I couch when owls do cry. 90
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
Pros. Why, that's my dainty Ariel! I shall
miss thee;
But yet thou shalt have freedom: so, so, so.
To the king's ship, invisible as thou art:
There shalt thou find the mariners asleep
Under the hatches; the master and tlic
boatswain
Being awake, enforce them to this place, 100
And presently, I prithee.
Ari. I drink the air before me, and return
Or ere your pulse twice beat. [Exit.
GON. All torment, trouble, wonder and
amazement
Inhabits here: some heavenly power guide us
Out of this fearful country !
Pros. Behold, sir king.
The wronged Duke of ^lilan, Prospero:
For more assurance that a living prince
Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body;
And to thee and thy company I bid 110
A hearty welcome.
Alon. Whether thou be 'st he or no,
Or some enchanted trifle to abusei" me,
As late I have been, I not know: thy pulse
Beats, as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw
thee,
The affliction of my mind amends, with which,
1 fear, a madness held me: this must crave —
An if this be at all — a most strange story.
Thy dukedom I resign, and do entreat
Thou pardon me my wrongs. — But how should
Prospero
Be living and be here?
Pros. First, noble friend, 120
Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot
Be measured or confined,
Gon. Whether this be
Or be not, I '11 not swear.
Pros. You do yet taste
Some subtiltiesii o' the isle, that will not let
you
Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends all !
[Aside to Seb. and Ant.] But you, my brace
of lords, were I so minded,
I here could pluck his highness' frown upon
you,
And ju8tifyi2 you traitors: at this time
I will tell no tales.
See. [Aside] The devil speaks in him.
Pros. No.
lO decPlve
iiBtranKf concootlnns
1 2 i)rovc
WILLIAM SHAKESFEABE
189
For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother j
Would even infect ray mouth, I do forgive 131 i
Thy rankest fault, — all of them; and require j
My dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know,
Thou must restore.
Alon. If thou be'st Prospero,
Give us particulars of thy preservation;
How thou hast met us here, who three hours
since
Were wreck 'd upon this shore; where I have
lost-
How sharp the {joint of this remembrance is! —
My dear son Ferdinand.
Pkos. I am woe for 't, sir.
Alox. Irreparable is the loss, and patience
Says it is past her cure.
Pkos. I rather think 141
You have not sought her help, of whose soft
grace
For the like loss I have her sovereign aid.
And rest myself content.
Alon. You the like loss!
Pros. As great to me as late; and, sup-
portable
To make the dear loss, have I means much
weaker
Than you may call to comfort you, for I
Have lost my daughter.
Alon. a daughter?
O heavens, that they were living both in Naples,
The king and queen there! that they were, I
wish
Myself were mudded in that oozy bed 151
Where my son lies. When did yon lose your
daughter?
Pros. In this last tempest. T perceive, these
lords
At this encounter do so much admire,i3
That they devour their reason, and scarce think
Their eyes do offices of truth, their words
Are natural breath: but, howsoe'er you have
Been justled from your senses, know for certain
That I am Prospero, and that very duke
Which was thrust forth of Milan; who most
strangely 160
Upon this shore, where you were wreck 'd, was
landed.
To be the lord on 't. No more yet of this ;
For 'tis a chronicle of day by day,
Not a relation for a breakfast, nor
Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir;
This cell's my court: here have I few
attendants,
And subjects none abroad : pray you, look in.
My dukedom since you have given me again,
I will requite you with as good a thing;
13 wonder
At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye 170
As much as me my dukedom.
Here Prospero discovers Ferdinand and
Miranda playing at chess.
MiK. "Sweet lord, you play me false.
Feb. No, my dear 'st love,
I would not for the world.
MiK. Yes,i* for a score of kingdoms you
shouldij wrangle,
And I would call it fair play.
Alon. If this prove
A vision of the island, one dear son
Shall I twice lose.
Seb. a most high miracle!
Fer. Though the seas threaten, they are
merciful ;
I have cursed them without cause. [Kneels.
Alon. Now all the blessings
Of a glad father compass thee about! 180
Arise, and say how thou camest here.
MiK. O, wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new
world.
That has such people in 't!
Pros. 'Tis new to thee.
Alon. What is this maid with whom thou
wast at play?
Your eld 'st acquaintance cannot be three hours :
Is she the goddess that hath sever 'd us,
And brought us thus together ?
Fer. Sir, she is mortal;
But by immortal Providence she 's mine :
I chose her when 1 could not ask my father 100
For his advice, nor thought I had one. She
Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan,
Of whom so often I have heard renown.
But never saw before; of whom I have
Eeceived a second life; and second father
This lady makes him to me.
Alon. I am hers:
But. O, how oddly will it sound that I
Must ask my child forgiveness !
Pros. There, sir, stop:
Let us not burthen our remembrances with
A heaviness that's gone.
GON. I have inly wept, 200
Or should have spoke ere this. Look down,
you gods,
And on this couple drop a blessed crown!
For it is you that have chalk 'd forth the way
Which brought us hither.
Alon. I say. Amen, Gonzalo!
GON. Was MUan thrust from Milan, that his
issue
14 Supply
then ?■
"but what
15 might
190
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
Should become kings of Naples? O, rejoice
Beyond a common joy! and set it down
With gold on lasting pillars: In one voyage
Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis,
And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife 210
Whore he himself was lost, Prospero his duke-
dom
In a poor isle, and all of us ourselves
When no man was his own.
Alon. [To Fer. and Mir.] Give me your
han Is:
Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart
That doth not wish you joy!
GON. Be it so! Amen!
Be-enter Ariel with the Master and
Boatswain amazedly following.
O, look, sir, look, sir ! here is more of us :
I prophesied, if a gallows were on land.
This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy,
That swear 'st grace o 'erboard, not an oath on
shore ?
Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the
news ?
Boats. The best news is, that we liavo
safely found 221
Our king and company; the next, our ship —
Which, but three glasses since, we gave out
split — 18
Is tight and yare and bravely rigged, as when
We first put out to sea.
Ari. [Aside to Pros.] Sir, all this service
Have I done since I went.
Pros. [Aside to Ari.] My tricksy spirit!
Ai.ON. These are not natural events; they
strengthen
From strange to stranger. Say, how came you
hither?
Boats. If I did think, sir, I were well
awake,
I 'Id strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep,
And — how we know not — all clapp'd under
hatches ; 231
Where, but even now, with strange and several
noises
Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains,
And mo diversity of sounds, all horrible,
We were awaked ; straightway, at liberty ;
Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld
Our royal, good, and gallant ship; our master
Capering to eye her: — on a trice, so please you,
Even in a dream, were we divided from them.
And were brought moping hither. 239
Ari. [Aside to Pros.] Was 't well done?
Pros. [Aside to Ari.] Bravely, my diligence.
Thou shalt be free.
i« declared wrecked
Axon. This is as strange a maze as e'er
men trod;
And there is in this liusiuess more than nature
Was ever conduct'- of: some oracle
Must rectify our knowledge.
Pros. Sir, my liege.
Do not infestis your mind with beating on
The strangeness of this business; at pick'd
leisure
Which shall be shortly, single I'll resolve you,'"
Wliich to you shall seem probable, of every
These hajipen'd accidents; till when, be
cheerful,
And think of each thing well. [Aside to Ari.]
Come hither, spirit: 251
Set Caliban and his companions free;
Untie the spell. [Exit Ariel.] How fares my
gracious sir?
There are yet missing of your company
Some few odd lads that you remember not.
Rr-enter Ariel, driving in Caliban, Stephano,
and Trixculo, in their stolen apparel.
Ste. Every man shift for all the rest, and
let no man take care for himself ; 20 for all is but
fortune. — Coragio, bully-monster, coragio!
Trin. If tlioso be true spies which I wear in
my head, here's a goodly sight. 260
Cal. O Setebos, these be brave spirits
indeed !
How fine my master is! I am afraid
He will chastise me.
See. Ha, ha!
What things are these, my lord Antonio?
Will money buy 'em?
Ant. Very like; one of them
Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable.
Pros. Mark but the badges-i of these men,
my lords,
Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen
knave,
His mother was a witch ; and one so strong
That could control the moon, make flows and
ebbs, 270
And deal in her command, without^-' her power.
These three have robb'd me; and this demi-
devil —
For he's a bastard one — had plotted with them
To take my life. Two of these fellows you
Must know and own; this thing of darkness I
Acknowledge mine.
Cal. I shall be i)inch'd to death.
Alon. Is not this Stephano, ray drunken
butler?
17 conductor
18 trouble
18 give you explanation
20 A drunkenly d 1 s •
torted spopch.
21 1. 0.. the stolen ap-
parel
22 art in her place, be-
yond
BEN JONSON
191
Seb. He is (hunk now: where had he winef
Alox. And Trinculo is reeling ripe: where
should they
Find this grand liquor that hath gilded 'em? —
How earnest thou in this piekle? :iSl
Trix. I have been in such a pickle since 1
saw you last, that, I fear me, will never out
of my bones: I shall not fear fly-blowing.
Seb. Why. how now, Stephano!
Ste. O, touch me not; — I am not Stephano,
but a cramp.
Pros. You 'Id be king o' the isle, sirrah?
Ste. 1 should have been a sore one, then.
Alox. This is a strange thing as o'er 1
lookM on. [Pointing to Calibax.
Pros. He is as disproportion 'd in his man-
ners. 290
As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell;
Take with you your companions; as you look
To have my pardon, trim it handsomely.
Cal. Ay, that I will; and I'll be wise
hereafter.
And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass
Was I, to take this druukard for a god.
And worship this dull fooil
Pros. Go to; away!
Alox. Hence, and bestow your luggage
where you found it.
Seb. Or stole it, rather.
[Exeunt Cal., Ste., and Trix.
Pros. Sir, I invite your Highness and your
train ' 300
To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest
For this one night; which, part of it, I'll
waste
With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall
make it
Go quick away: the story of my life,
And the particular accidents gone by
Since I came to this isle: and in the mom
I'll bring you to your ship, and so to Naples,
Where 1 have hope to see the nuptial
Of these our dear-beloved solemnized;
And thence retire me to my Milan, where 310
Every third thought shall be my grave.
Alox. I long
To hear the story of your life, which must
Takers the ear strangely.
Pros. ni deliver all;
And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales.
And sail so expeditious, that shall catch
Your royal fleet far off. [Aside to Abi.] My
Ariel, chick,
That is thy charge: then to the elements
B« free, and fare thou weU! Please you, draw
near. [Exeunt
23 captivate
EPILOGUE.*
Spolen by Prospero.
Now my charms are all o'erthrown.
And what strength I. have's mine own.
Which is most faint: now, 'tis true,
I must be here confined by you.
Or sent to Naples. Let me not,
Since I have my dukedom got,
And pardon 'd the deceiver, dwell
In this bare island by your spell;
But release me from my bands
With the help of your good hands: 10
Gentle breath of yours my sails
. ifust fill, or else my project fails,
Which was to please. Now I want**
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant;
And my ending is despair,
Unless I be relieved by prayer,
"Which pierces so. that it assaults
ilerey itself, and frees all faults.
As you from crimes would pardon 'd be,
Let your indulgence set me free. 20
BEN JONSON (I573?-1637)
TO THE MEMOBY OF MY BELOVED
MASTEE WILLIAM SHAKESPEABE
AND WHAT HE HATH
LEFT US.t
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,
Am I thus amplei to thy book and fame;
24 lack
• ProbaWy not writtpn by Shakespeare.
1 liberal
t Written after Shakespeare's death, which took
place in April. 1616. Dpaumont died in March
and was buried in Westminster Abbey by the
side of Chaucer and Spenser, where twenty-one
years later Jonson himself was to lie. Shake-
speare, however, was buried at Stratford.
(Eng. Lit., p. 411.) Lines 19-21 refer to the
following "Epitaph on Shakespeare" which
was written by William Basse :
'•Renowned Spenser, lie a thought more nigh
To learned Chaucer ; and. rare Beaumont, lie
A little nearer Spenser, to make room
For Shakespeare in your threefold, fourfold
tomb.
To lodge all four In one bed make a shift.
For until doomsday hardly will a fifth.
Betwixt this day and that, by fates be slain.
For whom your curtains need be drawn again.
But if precedency in death doth bar
A fourth place in your sacred sepulchre,
Under this sable marble of thine own.
Sleep, rare tragedian, Shakespeare, sleep
alone :
Thy unmolested peace, in an unshared cave.
Possess as lord, not tenant, of thy grave :
That unto us. and others, it may be
Honour hereafter to be laid by thee."
The tenor of Jonson's praise appears to be that
other English pof-ts. though great, are "dis-
proportioned." that is. inferior to Shake-
speare ; his peers are to be found only among
the ancient-s. though be himself knew little
about them.
192
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
While T confess thy writings to be such,
As neither man, nor Muse, can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage.^ But these
ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ;
For silliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes
right ;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by
chance; 10
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise.
But thou art proof against them, and, indeed,
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin: Soul of the age!
The applause! delight! the wonder of our
stage !
My Shakespeare rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 20
A little further off, to make thee room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still, while thy book doth live.
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,
1 mean with great, but disproportion 'd Muses:
For if I thought my judgment were of years,3
1 should commit thee surely with thy peers.
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine.
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe 's mighty line. 30
And though thou hadst small Latin and less
Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I will not seek<
For names : but call forth thund 'ring .^schylus.
Euripi<les, and Sophocles to us,
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,5
To live again, to hear thy buskino tread.
And shake a stage : or when thy socks^ were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison
Of all, that insolent Greece, or haughty Eome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, 41
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And .joyed to wear the dressing of his lines!
Which wore so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. 50
2 verdict
3 mature
4 will not be at a loss
5 Three Roman tragic
poets ( the Cordo-
van 1« Seneon •
• A high N>ot worn by
ancient tragic act-
ors : flgurativp for
"tragedy." I
T A low shoe worn by i
ancient comedians ;
hence "comedy."
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of nature's family.
Yet must I not give nature all ; thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be.
His art doth give the fashion: and, that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat.
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same, 61
And himself with it, that he thinks to frame ;
Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn ;
For a good poet's made as well as born.
And such wert thou! Look how the father's
face
Lives in his issue, even so the race
Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly
shines
In his well turned, and true fil&d lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance.
As brandish 'd at the eyes of ignorance. 70
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
To see thee in our water yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of
Thames,
That so did take Eliza,8 and our James!
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanced, and made a constellation there!
Shine forth, thou Star of poets, and with rage,
Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage.
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath
mourn 'd like night, 79
And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.
From VOLPONE; OR, THE FOX
The Argument*
Volpone, childless, rich, feigns sick, despairs.
Offers his state to hopes of several heirs,
Lies languishing: his parasite receives
Presents of all, assures, deludes; then weaves
Other cross plots, which ope themselves, are
told.
New tricks for safety are sought; they thrive:
when bold.
Each tempts the other again, and all are sold.
8 captivate Queen Elizabeth
* This .Vrgument — which is In the form of an
acrostic, the initial letters of the seven lines
spelling the title — gives in condensed form the
plot of the play. The purpose is to present
instructively some of the worst passions of
men. especially avarice. Volpo'ne, the rich,
hvpocritlcal old "fox." assisted by his parasite.
.Mosca ("fly"), amuses himself with di-lnding
those who "hope to become his heirs, namely.
the advocate Voltore ("vulture"), rorbaccio
("old raven"), etc: but all come to grief in
the end. The selection here printed consti-
tutes the major portion of Act I. On .lonson's
use of "humours." see Rnp. Lit., p. 122.
BEN JONSON
193
10
Act L
Scene I. — A Boom in Volpone's House.
Enter Volpone and Mosca.
Folpone. Good mcrning to the day; and
next, my gold!
Open tbe shrine, that I may see my sfunt.
[Mosca Kithdraws the curtain, and
discovers piles of gold, plate,
jewels, etc.
Hail the world 's soul, and mine ! more glad
than is
The teeming earth to see the longed-for sun
Peep through the horns of the celestial Bami
Am I, to view thy splendour darkening his;
That lying here, amongst my other hoards,
Show'st like a flame by night, or like the day
Struck out of chaos, when all darkness fled
Unto the centre. O thou son of Sol,
But brighter than thy father, let me kiss.
With adoration, thee, and every relic
Of sacred treasure in this blessed room. 20
Well did wise poets, by thy glorious name,
Title that age which they would have the best ;
Thou being the best of things; and far tran-
scending
All style of joy, in children, parents, friends,
Or any other waking dream on earth:
Thy looks when they to Venus did ascribe.
They should have given her twenty thousand
Cupids ;
Such are thy beauties and our loves! Dear saint.
Riches, the dumb god, that giv'st all men
tongues,
That canst do nought, and yet mak'st men do
all things; 30
The price of souls; even hell, with thee to boot.
Is made worth heaven. Thou art virtue, fame.
Honour, and all things else. Who can get thee,
He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise
Mos. And what he will, sir. Eiches are in
fortune
A greater good than wisdom is in nature.
Volp. True, my beloved Mosca. Yet I glory
More in the cunning purchase of my wealth.
Than in the glad possession, since I gain
No common way ; I use no trade, no venture ; -10
I wound no earth with ploughshares, fat no
beasts
To feed the shambles; have no mills for iron.
Oil, corn, or men, to grind them into powder:
I blow no subtle glass, expose no ships
To threat 'nings of the furrow-faced sea;
I turn no monies in the public bank.
Nor usure private.2 ....
1 The first sign of the 2 practicp no private
zodiac, ascendant at usarj
the vernal equinox.
50
What should 'I do.
But cocker up^ my genius, and live free
To all delights my fortune caUs me tot
I have no wife, no parent, child, ally,
To give my substance to ; but whom I make
Must be my heir; and this makes men observe
me:
This draws new clients daily to my house.
Women and men of every sex and age,
That bring me presents^ send me plate, coin,
jewels.
With hope that when I die (which they expect
Each greedy minute) it shall then return
Tenfold upon them; whilst some, covetous
Above the rest, seek to engross me whole, 60
And counter-work the one unto the other.
Contend in gifts, as they would seem in love:
All which I suffer, playing with their hopes.
And am content to coin them into profit,
And look upon their kindness, and take more.
And look on that; still bearing them in hand,*
Letting the cherry knock against their lips.
And draw it by their mouths, and back again. — •
How now! ....
[Knoching tcitliout.
Who's that? . . Look, Mosca. . . ^0
Mos. Tis Signior Voltore, the advocate;
I know him by his knock.
Volp. Fetch me my gown,
My furs, and night-caps; say my couch is
changing.
And let him entertain himself awhile
Without i' the gallery. [Exit Mosca.] Now,
now my clients
Begin their visitation! Vulture, kite,
Raven, and gorcrow, all my birds of prey,
That think me turning carcase, now they come:
I am not for them yet.
Be-enter Mosca, with the gown, etc.
How now! the news? 80
Mos. A piece of plate, sir.
Volp. Of what bigness?
Mos. Huge,
Massy, and antique, with yoor name inscribed,
And arms engraven.
Volp. Good! and not a fox
Stretched on the earth, with fine delusive
sleights.
Mocking a gaping crow? ha, Mosca!
Mos. Sharp, sir.
Volp. Give me my furs. 90
[Puts on his sick dress.
Why dost thou laugh so, man?
Mos. I cannot choose, sir. when I apprehend
Wbat thoughts he has without now, as he walks:
3 pamper
4 leading them on
194
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
That this might be the last gift he should give;
That this would fetch you; if you died to-day,
And gave him all, what he should be to-morrow ;
"What large return would come of all his
ventures ;
How he should worshipped be, and reverenced;
Ride with his furs, and foot-cloths; waited on
By herds of fools and clients ; have clear Avay 100
Made for his mule, as lettered as himself;
Be called the great and learned advocate:
And then concludes, there's nought impossible,
Volp. Yes, to be learned, Mosca.
Mos. O, no: rich
Implies it. Hood an ass with reverend purple,
So you can hide his two ambitious ears,
And he shall pass for a cathedral doctor.s
Volp. My caps, my caps, good Mosca. Fetch
him in.
Mos. Stay, sir; your ointment for your
eyes. no
Volp. That's true;
Dispatch, dispatch: I long to have possession
Of my new present.
Mos. That, and thousands more,
I hope to see you lord of.
Volp. Thanks, kind Mosca.
Mos. And that, when I am lost in blended
dust.
And hundreds such as I am, in succession —
Volp. Nay, that were too much, Mosca.
Mos. You shall live 120
Still to delude these harpies.
Volp. Loving Mosca !
'Tis well: my pillow now, and let him enter.
[Exit Mosca.
Now, my feigned cough, my phthisic, and my
gout.
My apoplexy, palsy, and catarrhs,
Help, with your forced functions, this my pos-
ture.
Wherein, this three year, I have milked their
hopes.
He comes; I hear him — Uh! [coughing.] uh!
uh! uh! O
Be-enter Mosca, introducing Voltore with a
piece of Plate.
Mos. You still are what you were, sir. Only
you.
Of all the rest, are he" commands his love, 130
And you do wisely to preserve it thus,
With early visitation, and kind notes^
Of your good meaning to him. which, T knitw,
f'annot but come most grateful. Patron! sir!
Here 's Signior Voltore is come
learned man worthy 6 he that
to occupy the seat ^ tokens
(cathedra) of au-
thority
[Aside.
Volp. [faintly] What say you?
Mos. Sir, Signior Voltore is come this
morning
To visit you.
Volp. I thank him.
Mos. And hath brought 140
A piece of antique plate, bought of St. Mark,*
With which he here presents you.
Volp. He is welcome.
Pray him to come more often.
Mos. Yes.
Volt. What says he?
Mos. He thanks you, and desires you to see
him often.
Volp. Mosca.
Mos. My patron!
Volp. Bring him near, where is he? 150
I long to feel his hand.
Mos. The plate is here, sir.
Volt. How fare you, sir?
Volp. 1 thank you, Signior Voltore;
Where is the plate? mine eyes are bad.
Volt, [putting it into his hands.] I'm sorry
To see you still thus weak.
Mos. That he's not weaker.
Volp. You; are too munificent.
Volt. No, sir; would to heaven, 160
I could as well give health to you, as that
plate !
Volp. You give, sir, what you can; T thank
you. Your love
Hath taste in this, and shall not be unan-
swered:
I pray you see me often.
Volt. Yes, I shall, sir.
Volp. Be not far from me.
Mos. Do you observe that, sir?
Volp. Hearken unto me still; it will con-
cern you.
Mos. You are a happy man, sir; know your
good. 170
Volp, I cannot now last long
Mos. You are his heir, sir.
Volt. Am I?
Volp. I feel me going: Uh! uh! uh! uh!
I 'm sailing to my port, Uh ! uh ! uh ! uh !
And I am glad I am so near my haven.
Mos. Alas, kind gentleman! Well, we must
all go
Volt. But, Mosca
Mos. Age will conquer.
Volt. Pray thee, hear me;
Am I inscribed his heir for certain?
Mos. Are you!
I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe
8 The great square and mart of Venice.
180
BEN JONSON
195
200
To write me in your faimly.» All my hopes
Depend upon your worship: I am lost
Except the rising sun do shine on me.
Volt. It shall both shine, and warm thee,
Mosca.
Mos. Sir.
I am a man that hath not done your love
All the worst oflBces : here I wear your keys, 190
See all your coffers and your caskets locked,
Keep the poor inventory of your jewels,
Your plate, and monies; am your steward, sir,
Husband your goods here.
Volt. But am I sole heir?
Mos. "Without a partner, sir: confirmed this
morning:
The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry
Upon the parchment.
Volt. Happy, happy me!
By what good chance, sweet Mosca?
Mos. Your desert, sir;
I know no second cause.
Volt. Thy modesty
Is not to know itio; well, we shall requite it.
Mos. He ever liked your course, sir; that
first took him.
I oft have heard him say how he admired
Men of your large profession, that could speak
To every cause, and things mere contraries,
Till they were hoarse again, yet all be law;
That, with most quick agility, could turn, • 210
And return ; make knots, and undo them ; |
Give forked counsel; take provoking^ gold
On either hand, and put it upi^; these men,
He knew, would thrive with their humility.
And. for his part, he thought he should be blest
To have his heir of such a suffering spirit,
So wise, 80 grave, of so perplexed a tongue,
And loud withal, that would not wag, nor
scarce
Lie still, Avithout a fee; when every word
Your worship but lets fall, is a chequinis! 220
[Knocking withaut.
"Who 's that ? one knocks ; I would not have you
seen. sir.
And yet — pretend you came, and went in haste;
I'll fashion an excuse — and, gentle sir,
"VN'hen you do come to swim in golden lard,
Up to the arms in honey, that your chin
Is borne up stiff with fatness of the flood,
Think on your vassal; but remember me:
I have not been your worst of clients.
Volt. Mosca! —
Mos. "When will you have your inventory
brought, sir! 230
» engage me as your ii alluring
servant 12 pouch it
le it is vour modesty 1 3 sequin : an Italian
that speaks thus coin worth about 9s
Or see a copy of the Will? — Anom*! —
I'll bring them to you, sir. Away, begone.
Put business in your face. [Exit "Voltore.
Volp.[springing up.] Excellent Mosca!
Come hither, let me kiss thee.
Mos. Keep you still, sir.
Here is Corbaccio.
Volp. Set the plate away:
The vulture's gone, and the old raven's come.
Mos. Betake you to your silence, and your
sleep. 240
Stand there and multiply. [Putting the plate
to the rest.] Now we shall see
A wretch who is indeed more impotent
Than tliis can feign to be; yet hopes to hop
Over his grave.
Enter Corbaccio.
Signior Corbaccio!
You're very welcome, sir.
Corb. How does your patron?
Mos. Troth, as he did, sir, no amends.
Corb. "What! mends he?
Mos. No, sir: he's rather worse.
Corb. That's well. Where is he? 250
If OS. Upon his couch, sir, newly fall'n
asleep.
Corb. Does he sleep well?
Mos. No wink, sir, all this night,
Nor yesterday; but slumbers.
Corb. Good! he should take
Some counsel of physicians: I have brought
him
An opiate here, from mine own doctor.
Mos. He will not hear of drugs.
Corb. "Why? I myself
Stood by while it was made, saw all the in-
gredients ; 260
And know it cannot but most gently work:
My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep.
Volp. Ay, his last sleep, if he would take it.
Mos. Sir, t^*'*^^-
He has no faith in physic.
Corb. Say you, say you?
Mos. He has no faith in physic: he does
think
Most of your doctors are the greater danger.
And worse disease, to escape. I often have
Heard him protest that youris physician 270
Should never be his heir.
Corb. Not I his heir?
Mos. Not your physician, sir.
Cor6. O, no, no, no.
I do not mean it.
Mos. No, sir, nor their fees
He cannot brook: he says they flay a man
14 at once (addressed to the one knocking)
15 a
196
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
Before they kill him.
Corb. Eight, I do conceive you.
Mos. And then they do it by experiment ; 280
For which the law not only doth absolve them,
But gives them great reward: and he is loth
To hire his death so.
Corb. It is true, they kill
With as much licence as a judge.
Mos. Nay, more ;
For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns,
And these can kill him too.
Corb. Ay, or me;
Or any man. How does his apoplex? 290
Is that strong on him still?
Mos. Most violent.
His speech is broken, and his eyes are set,
His face drawn longer than 'twas wont
Corb. How! how!
Stronger than he was wont?
Mos. No, sir; his face
Drawn longer than 'twas wont.
Corb. O, good!
Mos. His mouth 300
Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang.
Corb. Good.
Mos. A freezing numbness stiffens all his
joints.
And makes the colour of his flesh like lead.
Corb. 'Tis good.
Mos. His pulse beats slow, and dull.
Corb. Good symptoms still.
Mos. And from his brain
Corb. I conceive you; good.
Mos. Flows a cold sweat, with a continual
rheum, 310
Forth the resolved ic corners of his eyes.
Corb. Is't possible? Yet I am better, ha!
How does he with the swimming of his head?
Mos. O, sir, 'tis past the scotomy;i7 he now
Hath lost his feeling, and hath leftis to snort :
You hardly can perceive him, that he breathes.
Corb. Excellent, excellent! sure I shall out-
last him:
This makes me young again, a score of years.
Mos. I was a-coming for you, sir.
Corb. Has he made his Will? 320
What has he given me?
Mos. No, sir.
Corb. Nothing ! ha ?
Mos. He has not made his Will, sir.
Corb. Oh, oh, oh!
What then did Voltore, the lawyer, here!
Mo8. He smelt a carcase, sir, when he but
heard
My master was about his testament;
i« relaxed
17 dizziness
1 *< ceased
As I did urge him to it for your good
Corb. He came unto him, did he? I thought
so. 330
Mos, Yes, and presented him this piece of
plate.
Corb. To be his heir?
Mos. I do not know, sir.
Corb. True:
I know it too.
Mos. By your own scale,i9 sir. [Aside.
Corb. Well,
I shall prevent him yet. See, MoSca, look.
Here I have brought a bag Of bright chequines,
Will quite weigh down his plate. 340
Mos. [taking the bag.] Yea, marry, sir.
This is true physic, this your sacred medicine;
No talk of opiates to^o this great elixir!
Corb. 'Tis aurum palpabile, if not pot-
abile.2i
Mos. It shall be ministered to him in his
bowl.
Corb. Ay, do, do, do
Mos. Most blessed cordial!
This will recover him.
Corb. Yes, do, do, do.
Mos. I think it were not best, sir. 350
Corb. What?
Mos. To recover him.
Corb. O, no, no, no; by no means.
Mos. Why, sir, this
Will work some strange effect, if he but feel it.
Corb. 'Tis true, therefore forbear; I'll take
my venture:
Give me it again.
Mos. At no hand: 22 pardon me:
You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I
Will so advise you, you shall have it all. 360
Corb. How?
Mos. All, sir; 'tis your right, your own; no
man
Can claim a part: 'tis yours without a rival,
Decreed by destiny.
Corb. How, how, good Mosca f
Mos. I'll tell you, sir. This fit he shall
recover.
Corb. I do conceive you.
Mos. And on first advantage
Of his gained sense, will I rciuiportuno him
Unto the making of his testament: 370
And show him this. [Pointing to the money.
Corb. Good, good.
Mos. 'Tis better yet,
If you will hear, sir.
i» Judging him by yourself
20 coinnarod to
21 (iold tliat cnn )>•> felt, (hough not drunlc (potable
gold was believed to havo mrdicinal value).
32 by DO means
BEAUMO^•r AND FLETCHEE.
197
Corb. Yes, with all my heart.
Mos. Now would I counsel you, make home
with speed;
There, frame a Will ; whereto you shall inscribe
My master your sole heir.
Corb. And disinherit
My son! 380
Mos. O, sir, the better: for that colour^s
Shall make it much more taking.
Corb. O, but colour!
Mos. This Will, sir, you shall send it unto
me.
Now, when I come to inforce, as I will do,
Your cares, your watchings, and your many
prayers.
Your more than many gifts, your this day's
present,
And last, produce your Will; where, without
thought.
Or least regard, unto your proper issue,
A son so brave, and highly meriting. 390
The stream of your diverted love hath thrown
you
Upon my master, and made him your heir:
He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead.
But out of conscience and mere gratitude
Corb. He must pronounce me his?
Mos. 'Tis true.
Corb. This plot
Did I think on before.
Mos. I do believe it.
Corb. Do you not believe it?
Y''es, sir.
Mine own project.
Which, when he hath done, sir-
Published me his heir?
400
Mos,
Corb.
Mos.
Corb.
Mos.
Corb.
Mos.
Corb.
Mos.
Corb.
And you so certain to survive him
Ay.
Being so lusty a man
Tis true.
Y^es, sir
I thought on that too. See, how he
should be 410
The very organ to express my thoughts!
Mos. You have not only done yourself a
good
Corb. But multiplied it on my son.
Mos. 'Tis right, sir.
' Corb. Still, my invention.
Mos. 'Las, sir! heaven knows,
It hath been all my study, all my care.
(I e'en grow gray withal,) how to work
things
Corb. I do conceive, sweet Mosca.
Mos. You are he 420
For whom I labour here.
23 pretence
Corb. Ay, do, do, do:
I'll straight about it. [Going.
Mos. Kook go with you, raven 12* [Aside.
Corb. I know thee honest.
Mos. Y'ou do lie, sir!
Cor6. And
Mos. Y'our knowledge is no better than your
ears, sir.
Corb, I do not doubt to be a father to thee.
Mos. Nor I to guJl my brother of his bless-
ing. 430
Cor6. I may have my youth restored to me,
why not?
Mos. Your worship is a precious ass!
Corb. What sayest thou?
Mos. I do desire your worship to make haste,
sir.
Corb. 'Tis done, 'tis done; I go. [Exit.
Volp. [leaping from his couch.] O, I shall
burst !
Let out my sides, let out my sides
Mos. Contain
Your flux25 of laughter, sir: you know this
hope
Is such a bait, it covers any hook. 440
Volp. O, but thy working, and thy placing it!
I cannot hold; good rascal, let me kiss thee:
I never knew thee in so rare a humour.
Mos. Alas, sir, I but do as I am taught;
Follow your grave instructions; give them
words ;
Pour oil into their ears, and send them hence.
Volp. 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare
punishment
Is avarice to itself!
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER
(1584-1616) (1579-1625)
From THE KNIGHT OF THE BURNING
PESTLE.*
IXDUCTION.
Several Gentlemen sitting on Stooh upon the
Stage. The Citizen, his Wife, and Kalph
sitting below among the audience.
Enter Speaker of the Prologue.
S. of Prol. ' ' From all that 's near the court,
from all that 's great,
24 may cheat pursue you,
cheat !
25 flow
• This play was written and acted about 1611.
Like Shakespeare's A ilidaummer Xight'a
Dream, It is made up of diverse elements — a
romantic comedy and a burlesque. Herein are
given a few scenes of the latter, which can
easily be detached from the main plot. It
15)8
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
Within the compass of the city-walls,
We now have brought our scene "
Citizen leaps on the Stage.
at. Hold your peace, goodman boy!
S. of Prol. What do you mean, sir?
at. That you have no good meaning: this
seven yearsi there hath been plays at this
house, I have observed it, you have stills girds
at citizens ; and now you call your play * ' The
London Merchant." Down with your title,
boy! down with your title!
S. of Prol. Are you a member of the noble
city?
at. I am.
S. of Prol. And a freeman ?3
at. Yea, and a grocer.
S. of Prol. So, grocer, then, by your sweet
favour, we intend no abuse to the city.
at. No, sir! yes, sir: if you were not re-
solved to play the Jacks,* Mhat need you study
for new subjects, purposely to abuse your bet-
ters? why could not you be contented, as well
as others, with ' ' The Legend of Whittington, ' '
or "The Life and Death of Sir Thomas Gres-
ham, with the building of the Koyal Ex-
change," or "The story of Queen Eleanor,
with the rearing of London Bridge upon wool-
sacks?"!
JS. of Prol. You seem to be an understand-
ing man: what would you have us do, sir?
Cit. Why, present something notably in
honour of the commons^ of the city.
S. of Prol. Why, what do you say to "The
Life and Death of fat Drake, or the Repairing
of Fleet Sewers?"
at. I do not like that; but I will have a
citizen, and he shall be of my own trade.
S. of Prol. Oh, you should have told us
your mind a month since; our play is ready
to begin now.
at. 'Tis all one for that; I will have a
must be understood that It was the custom
at theaters to admit gallants and others who
liked to be conspicuous, and who were willing
to pay an extra sixpence, to seats on the
stage, where they often abused their privilege
by Indulging in audible criticism of the play
and players. The authors of the present drama
ingeniously staged that custom as a part of
their own play and took the opportunity to
satirize both the taste and understanding of
their dun(!e-critlcs. Furthermore, they wove
In a burlcHque upon the romantic extrava-
gance of knight-errantry, present ing In Ualph,
the grocer's apprentice, anotlier Don Quixote,
like him whose Immortal deedH had been given
to the world's laughter but a few years before.
1 Supply "that." * play the knave (cp.
2 always The Tempest, IV.,
8 one Invested with full 1., 918)
citizen's rights r, ordinary cltlzena
t These are titles of old plays, more or less dis-
torted ; the reference to London Bridge Is a
lesting addition. The title proposed five lines
farther down Is of course a jest.
grocer, and he shall do admirable things.
S. of Prol. What will you have him do?
at. Marry, I will have him
Wife. \helo'w.'\ Husband, husband!
Falph. [below.] Peace, mistress.
Wife, [below.] Hold thy peace, Ealph; I
know what I do, I warrant ye. — Husband, hus-
band!
at. What sayest thou, cony?6
Wife [below.] Let him kill a lion with a
pestle, husband! let him kill a lion with a
pestle !
Cit. So he shall. — I '11 have liim kill a lion
with a pestle.
Wife, [below.] Husband! shall I come up,
husband?
at. Ay, cony. — Ralph, help your mistress
this way. — Pray, gentlemen, make her a little
room. — I pray you, sir, lend me your hand to
help up my wife: I thank you, sir. — So.
[Wife comes on the Stage.
Wife. By your leave, gentlemen all; I'm
something troublesome: I'm a stranger here;
I was ne'er at one of these plays, as they say,
before; but I should have seen "Jane Shore"
once; and my husband hath promised me, any
time this twelvemonth, to carry me to "The
Bold Beauchamps, " but in truth he did not.
I pray you, bear Mith me.
at. Boy, let my wife and I have a couple of
stools, and then begin; and let the grocer do
rare things. [Stools are brought
S. of Prol. But, sir, we have never a boy
to play him: every one hath a part already.
Wife. Husband, husband, for God's sake, let
Ralph play him! bcshrew me, if I do not think
he will go beyond them all.
Cit. Well remembered, wife. — Come up,
Ralph. — I'll tell you, gentlemen; let them but
lend him a suit of reparel and necessaries,^ and,
by gad, if any of them all put him to shame,
I'll be hanged.
[Balph comes on the Stage.
Wife. I pray you, youth, let him have a
suit of reparel! — I'll be sworn, gentlemen, my
husband tells you true: he will act you some-
times at our house, that all the neighbours cry
out on him ; he will fetch you up a couraging*
part so in the garret, that we are all as feared,
I warrant you, that wc quake again: we'll fear»
our children with him; if they be never so
unruly, do but cry, "Ralph comes, Ralph
conies!" to them, and they'll be as quiet as
lambs.— Hold up Ihy head, Ralph; slimv the
rabbit (a term of en- say "apparel and
dearnient) accessories.
7 The grocer means to s valiant
scare
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
199
geutlemen what thou canst do; speak a huff-
ingio part; I warrant you, the gentlemen will
accept of it.
at. Do, Balph, do.
Balph. "By Heaven, methinks, it were an
easy leap
To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced
moon;
Or dive into the bottom of the sea,
Where never fathom-line touched any ground,
And pluck up drowned honour from the lake
of hell. "11
at. How say you, gentlemen, is it not as
I told youf
Wife. Nay, gentlemen, he hath played be-
fore, my husband says, Mucedorus,i2 before
the wardens of our company.
at. Ay, and he should have played Jero-
nimoi2 with a shoemaker for a wager.
S. of Prol. He shall have a suit of apparel,
if he will go in.
at. In, Ealph, in Ealph; and set out the
grocery in their kind,i3 if thou lovest me.
[Exit Ealph.
Wife. I warrant, our Ralph will look finely
when he 's dressed.
S. of Prol. But what will you have it called ?
at. "The Grocer's Honour."
S. of Prol. Methinks "The Knight of the
Burning Pestle" were better.
Wife. I '11 be sworn, husband, that 's as good
a name as can be.
at. Let it be so. — ^Begin, begin; my wife
and I will sit down.
S. of Prol. I pray you, do.
at. What stately music have you? you
have shawms?
S. of Prol. Shawms! no.
at. No! I'm a thief, if my mind did not
givei* me so. Ralph plays a stately part, and
he must needs have shawms: I '11 be at the
charge of them myself, rather than we'll be
without them.
S. of Prol. So you are like to be.
at. VThj, and so I will be: there's two
shillings; — [Gives mo)i€i/.'\ — let '^ have the
waitsis of Southwark; they are as rare fellows
as any are in England; and that will fetch
them all o 'er the wateris with a vengeance, as
if they were mad.
S. of Prol. You shall have them. Will you
^^it down, then ?
10 swaggering ElIzabethaL com-
11 Hotspur's Bpeech in 1 edy.
Henry TV., I, ill., i3 proper garb
somewhat dis- i4 tell
torted. 15 professional carolers
12 A character in an 16 The Thames.
. at. Ay. — Come, wife.
I Wife. Sit you merry all, gentlemen ; I 'm
j bold to sit amongst you for my ease.
[atizcn and wife sit down.
S. of Prol. ' ' From all that 's near the court,
from all that's great,
Within the compass of the city-walls.
We now ha\-e brought our scene. Fly far from
hence
All private taxes,i7 immodest phrases,
W^hatever may but show like vicious!
For wicked mirth never true pleasure brings,
But honest minds are pleased with honest
things. ' ' —
Thus much for that we do; but for Ralph's
part you must answer for yourself.
at. Take you no care for Ralph; he'll dis-
charge himself, I warrant you.
[Exit Speaker of Prologue.
Wife. I 'faith, gentlemen, I '11 give my word
for Ralph.
Act I, Scene III.
A Grocer's Shop.
Enter Balph, as a Grocer, reading Palmerin of
England,!^ with Tim and George.
[Wife. Oh, husband, husband, now, now!
there's Ralph, there's Ralph.
at. Peace, fool! let Ralph alone. — Hark
you, Ralph; do not strain yourself too much at
the first. — Peace! — ^Begin, Ralph.]
Ealph. [Eeads.] Then Palmerin and Trin-
eu3, snatching their lances from their dwarfs,
and clasping their helmets, galloped amain after
the giant; and Palmerin, having gotten a sight
of him, came posting amain, saying, "Stay,
traitorous thief! for thou mayst not so carry
away her, that is worth the greatest lord in the
world ; ' ' and, with these words, gave him a
blow on the shoulder, that he struck him be-
sidesi9 his elephant. And Trineus, coming to
the knight that had Agricola behind him, set
him soon besides his horse, with his neck broken
in the fall; so that the princess, getting out of
the throng, between joy and grief, said, "All
happy knight, the mirror of all such as follow
arms, now may I be well assured of the love
thou bearest me." — I wonder why the kings do
not raise an army of fourteen or fifteen hun-
dreil thousand men, as big as the army that
the Prince of Portigo brouglit against Rosi-
cleer,2o and destroy these giants; they do much
1 7 personal hits is by the side of
ISA Spanish romance, 20 A character in an-
then lately trans- other Spanish ro-
tated, mance.
200
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
hurt to wandering damsels, that go in quest of
their knights.
[ Wife. Faith, husband, and Balph says triue ;
for they say the King of Portugal cannot sit
at his meat, but the giants and the ettins-'i
will come and snatch it from him.
at. Hold thy tongue.— On, Ralph!]
Ralph. And certainly those knights are much
to be commended, who, neglecting their posses-
sions, wander with a squire and a dwarf
through the deserts to relieve poor ladies.
[Wife. Ay, by my faith, are they, Ealph;
let 'em say what they will, they are indeed.
Our knights neglect their possessions well
enough, but they do not the rest.] . .
Ealph. But what brave spirit could be con-
tent to sit in his shop, with a flappet^s of wood,
and a blue apron before him, selling mithri-
datum and dragon 's-water^a to visited-* houses,
that might pursue feats of arms, and, through
his noble achievements, procure such a famous
history to be written of his heroic prowess?
[Cit. Well said, Ealph; some more of those
words, Ralph.
Wife. They go finely, by my troth.]
Ealph. Why should not I, then, pursue this
course, both for the credit of myself and our
company? for amongst all the worthy books of
achievements, I do not call to mind that I yet
read of a grocer-errant: I will be the said
knight. — Have you heard of any that hath wan-
dered unfurnished of his squire and dwarf?
My elder prentice Tim shall be my trusty
squire, and little George my dwarf. Hence, my
blue apron! Yet, in remembrance of my for-
mer trade,, upon my shield shall be portrayed
a Burning Pestle, and I will be called the
Knight of the Burning Pestle.
[Wife. Nay, I dare swear thou wilt not for-
get thy old trade; thou wert ever meek.]
Ealph. Tim !
Tim. Anon.
Ealph. My beloved squire, and George my
dwarf, I charge you that from henceforth you
never call me by any other name but * ' the
right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burn-
ing Pestle ; ' ' and that you never call any
female by tiie name of a woman or wench, but
' ' fair lady, ' ' if she have her desires, if not,
"distressed damsel;" that you call all forests
and heaths "deserts," and all horses "pal-
freys. ' '
[Wife. This is very fine, faith. — Do the gen-
tlemen like Ralph, think you, husband?
Cit. Ay, I warrant thee ; the players would
21 giants
22 small piece (here
pestle)
2a popular medicines of |
tlio time
24 plagnc-strlrkm
give all the shoes in their shop for him.]
Ealph. My beloved squire Tim, stand out.
Admit this were a desert, and over it a knight-
errant pricking,25 and 1 should bid you inquire
of his intents, what would you say?
Tim. Sir, my master sent me to knovf
whither you are riding?
Ealph. No, thus: "Fair sir, the right
courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning
Pestle commanded me to inquire upon what ad-
venture you are bound, whether to relieve some
distressed damsel, or otherwise. ' '
[Cit. Scurvy blockhead, cannot remember!
Wife. I 'faith, and Ralph told him on't b'>
fore: all the gentlemen heard him. — Did he
not, gentlemen ? did not Ralph tell him on 't '•]
George. Right courteous and valiant Knight
of the Burning Pestle, here is a distressed dart-
sel to have a halfpenny-worth of pepper.
[Wife. That's a good boy! see, the little
boy can hit it; by my troth, it's a fine child.]
Ealph. Relieve her, with all courteous lan-
guage. Now shut up shop; no more my pren-
tices, but my trusty squire and dwarf. I must
bespeak26 my shield and arming pestle.
[Exeunt Tim and George.
[Cit. Go thy ways, Ralph! As I 'm a true
man, thou art the best on 'em all.
Wife. Ralph, Ralph!
Ealph. What say you, mistress?
Wife. I prithee, come again quickly, sweet
Ralph.
EalpJu By and by.] [Kxit.
[Tn the main plot, Jasper Merrythought has
been dismissed by his employer for falling in
love with his employer's daughter. His father
takes his part, but his mother is incensed, and
taking her younger son, Michael, and her money
and jewels, she leaves her home, and the two
are wandering in Waltham Forest, when Ralph
comes on the scene.]
Act II, Scene TI.
Waltham Forest.
Enter Mistress Merrythought and Michael.
Mist. Mer. Come, Michael ; art thou not
weary, boy?
Mich. No, forsooth, mother, not I.
Mist. Mer. Where be we now, child?
Mich. Indeed, forsooth, mother, I cannot
tell, unless we be :it Mile-End: Is not all the
world Mile-End, mother?
yiist. Mer. No. Michael, not all the world,
boy; but I can assure tliee. Michael. Mile-Knd
25 riding
2« ©rder
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
201
is a goodly matter : there has been a pitch- j
field,2' my child, between the naughty Spaniels
and the Englishmen; and the Spaniels ran
away, Michael, and the Englishmen followed:
my neighbour Coxstone was there, boy, and
killed them all with a birding-piece.
Mich. Mother, forsooth —
Mist. Mer. "What says my white boyss?
Mich. Shall not my father go with us too!
Mi^t. Mer. No. Michael, let thy father go
snick-up ; -'•> . . let him stay at home, and
sing for his supper, boy. Come, child, sit down,
and I '11 show my boy fine knacks, indeed.
[They sit down: and she tales out a casket.}
Look here, Michael: here'i a ring, and here's
a brooch, and here'« a bracelet, and here's two
rings more, and here's money and gold by th'
eye,3*> my boy.
Mich. Shall I have all this, mother!
Mist. Mer. Ay. Michael, thou shalt have all,
MichaeL
[Cit. How likest thou this, wench?
Wife. I cannot tell; I would have Ralph,
George; I'll see no more else, indeed, la; and
1 pray you, let the youths understand so much
by word of mouth ; for, I tell you truly, I 'm
afraid o' my boy. Come, come, George, let's
be merry and wise : the child 's a fatherless
child; and say they should put him into a
strait pair of gaskins,3i 'twere worse than knot-
grass ;32 he would never grow after it.]
Enter Balph, Tim, and George.
[Cit. Here's Ralph, here's Ralph!
Wife. How do you do, Ralph? you are wel-
come, Ralph, as I may say; it's a good boy,
hold up thy head, and be not afraid ; we are
thy friends, Ralph; the gentlemen will praise
thee, Ralph, if thou playest thy part with
audacity. Begin, Ralph, a' God's name!]
Baiph. My trusty squire, unlace my helm;
give me my hat. Where are we, or what desert
may this be?
George. Mirror of knighthood, this is, as I
take it, the perilous Waltham-down ; in whose
bottom stands the enchanted valley.
Mist. Mer. Oh, Michael, we are betrayed,
we are betrayed! here be giants! Fly, boy!
fly, boy, fly!
[Exit with Michael, leaving the caslet.
Balph. Lace on my helm again. What noise
is this?
A gentle lady, flying the embrace
Of some uncourteous knight ! I will relieve her.
27 pitched battle (probably only a mock battle,
for the Spanish never fought the English
there)
28 dear boy 32 Supposed, when tak-
29 go hang en as an infusion.
30 galore to retard growth.
81 breeches
Go, squire, and say, the Knight, that wears
this Pestle
In honour of all ladies, swears revenge
Upon that recreant coward that pursues her;
Go, comfort her, and that same gentle squire
That bears her company.
Tim. I go, brave knight. [Exit.
Balph. My trusty dwarf and friend, reach
me my shield;
And hold it while I swear. First, by my
knighthood ;
Then by the soul of Amadis de Gaul,33
My famous ancestor; then by my sword
The beauteous Brionella girt about me;
By this bright burning Pestle, of mine honour
The liA-ing trophy; and by all respect
Due to distressed damsels; here I vow
Never to end the quest of this fair lady
And that forsaken squire till by my valour
I gain their liberty!
George. Heaven bless the knight
That thus relieves poor errant gentlewomen!
[Exeunt.
[Wife. Ay, marry, Ralph, this has some
savour in 't; I would see the proudest of them
all offer to carry his books after him. But,
George, I will not have him go away so soon:
I shall be sick if he go away, that I shall: call
Ralph again, George, call Ralph again; I
prithee, sweetheart, let him come fight before
me, and let's ha' some drums and some trum-
pets, and let him kill all that comes near him,
an3* thou lov'st me, George!
Cit. Peace a little, bird: he shall kill them
all, an they were twenty more on 'em than there
are.]
[Jasper enters and, finding the casket, carries
it off.]
Act it, Scene III.
Another part of the Forest.
Enter Balph and George.
[Wife. But here comes Ralph, George; thou
■halt hear him speak as he were an emperal.]
Balph. Comes not sir squire again?
George. Right courteous knight.
Your squire doth come, and with him comes the
lady.
And the Squire of Damsels, as I take it.
Enter Tim, Mistress Merrythought, and
Michael.
Balph. Madam, if any service or devoirs'-
Of a poor errant knight may right your wrongs.
; 33 A hero of medieval
romance, "Knight
; of the Burning
' Sword."
34 if
35 duty
802
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
Command it ; I am prestse to give you succour ;
For to that holy end 1 bear my armour.
Mist. Mer. Alas, sir, I am a poor gentle-
woman, and I have lost my money in this forest.
Ralph. Desert, you would say, lady; and
not lost
Whilst I have sword and lance. Dry up your
tears,
Which ill befit the beauty of that face.
And tell the story, if I may request it.
Of your disastrous fortune.
Mist. Mer. Out, alas! I left a thousand
pound, a thousand pound, e'en all the money I
had laid up for this youth, upon the sight of
your mastership, you looked so grim, and, as I
may say it, saving your presence, more like a
giant than a mortal man.
Ralph. I am as you are, lady; so are they;
All mortal. But why weeps this gentle squire?
Mist. Mer. Has he not cause to weep, do you
think, when he hath lost his inheritance?
Ralph. Young hope of valour, weep not; I
am here
That will confound thy foe, and pay it dear
Upon his coward head, that dares deny
Distressed squires and ladies equity.
I have but one horse, on which shall ride
The fair lady behind me, and before
This courteous squire: fortune will give us
more
Upon our next adventure. Fairly speed
Beside us, squire and dwarf, to do us need!
[^Exeunt.
[Cit. Did not I tell you, Nell, what your
man would do ? by the faith of my body, wench,
for clean action and good delivery, they may all
cast their caps at him.
Wife. And so they may, i' faith; for^ I
dare speak it boldly, the twelve companies^T of
London cannot match him, timber for timber.
Well, George, an he be not inveigled by some
of these paltry players, I ha' much marvel:
but, George, we ha' done our parts, if the boy
have any grace to be thankful.
Cit. Yes, I warrant thee, duckling.]
[Balph encounters Jasper, who knocks him
down with his own pestle, whereupon Ralph and
his party seek shelter at the Bell Inn.]
Act it, Scene VI.
Before the Bell-Inn, Waltham.
Enter Ralph, Mistress Merrythought,
Michael, Tim aiid George.
[Wife. Oh, husband, here's Ralph again! —
8« ready st licenced companies of
players
Stay, Ralph, let me speak with thee. How
dost thou, Ralph? art thou not shrewdly hurt?
the foul great lungiesi laid unmercifully on
thee: there's some sugar-candy for thee. Pro-
ceed; thou shalt have another bout with him.
Cit. If Ralph had him at the fencing-school,
if he did not make a puppy of him, and drive
him up and down the school, he should ne'er
come in my shop more.]
Mist. Mer. Truly, Master Knight of the
Burning Pestle, I am weary.
Mich. Indeed, la, mother, and I am very
hungry.
Ralph. Take comfort, gentle dame, and your
fair squire;
For in this desert there must needs be placed
Many strong castles held by courteous knights;
And till I bring you safe to one of those,
I swear by this my order ne 'er to leave you. . .
George. I would we had a mess of pottage
and a pot of drink, squire, and were going to
bed!
Tim. Why, we are at Waltham-town 's end,
and that's the Bell-Inn.
George. Take courage, valiant knight, dam-
sel, and squire!
I have discovered, not a stone's cast off,
An ancient castle, held by the old knight
Of the most holy order of the Bell,
Wlio gives to all knights-errant entertain:
There plenty is of food, and all prepared
By the white hands of his own lady dear.
He hath three squires that welcome all his
guests ;
The first, hights Chamberlino, who will see
Our beds prepared, and bring us snowy sheets,
Wliere never footman stretched his buttered
hams; 3
The second, hight Tapstero, who will see
Our pots full filled, and no froth therein ;
The third, a gentle squire, Ostlero hight,
Who will our palfreys slick with wisps of
straw.
And in the manger put them oats enough.
And never grease their teeth with candle-
snuff.**
[Wife. That same dwarf's a pretty boy, but
the squire's a groutnol."]
Ralph. Knock at the gates, my squire, with
stately lance.
[Tim kneels at the door.
Enter Tapster.
Tap. Who's there!— You 're welcome, gen-
tlemen: will you see a room?
1 lubber
2 called
8 Footmen anointed their
cnlvos with cronse.
4 A trick to prevent
horses from eating.
5 l)lookhead
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHEB.
203
George, fiight courteous and valiant Knight
of the Burning Pestle, this is the Squire Tap-
Btero.
Ralph. Fair Squire Tapstero, I a wandering
knight,
Hight of the Burning Pestle, in the quest
Of this fair lady 's casket and wrought purse,
Losing myself in this vast wilderness.
Am to this castle well by fortune brought;
Where, hearing of the goodly entertain
Your knight of holy order of the Bell
Gives to all damsels and all errant knights,
I thought to knock, and now am bold to enter.
Tap. An't please you see a chamber, you
are very welcome. [Exeunt.
[Wife. George, I would have something
done, and I cannot tell what it is.
C%t. What is it, NeUf
Wife. Why, George, shall Balph beat no-
body again? prithee, sweetheart, let him.
at. So he shall, Nell; and if I join with
him, we'U knock them alL]
Act m, Scene II.
A Boom in the Bell-Inn, Waltham.
Enter Mistress Merrythought, Balph, Michael,
Tim, George, Host and Tapster.
[Wife. Oh, Balph! how dost thou, Balph?
How hast thou slept to-night! has the knight
used thee wellf
at. Peace, Nell; let Balph alone.]
Tap. Master, the reckoning is not paid.
Ealph. Bight courteous knight, who, for the
order's sake
Which thou hast ta'en, hang'st out the holy
Bell,
As I this flaming Pestle bear about,
We render thanks to your puissant self.
Your beauteous lady, and your gentle squires.
For thus refreshing of our wearied limbs.
Stiffened with hard achievements in wild de-
sert.
Tap. Sir, there is twelve shillings to pay.
Balph. Thou merry Squire Tapstero, thanks
to thee
For comforting our souls with double jug:
And, if adventurous fortune prick thee forth,
Thou jovial squire, to follow feats of arms.
Take heed thou tender« every lady's cause,
Every true knight, and every damsel fair;
But spill the blood of treacherous Saracens,
And false enchanters that with magic spells
Have done to death full many a noble knight.
Host. Thou valiant Knight of the Burning
« cherish
Pestle, give ear to me; there is twelve shillings
to pay, and, as I am a true knight, I will not
bate a penny.
[Wife. George, I prithee, tell me, must
Balph pay twelve shillings now?
at. No, Nell, no; nothing but the old
knight is merry with Balph.
Wife. Oh, is't nothing else? Balph will be
as merry as he.]
Balph, Sir Knight, this mirth of yours be-
comes you well;
But, to requite this liberal courtesy,
If any of your squires will follow arms,
He shall receive from my heroic hand
A knighthood, by the virtue of this Pestle.
Host. Fair knight, I thank you for your
noble offer:
Therefore, gentle knight.
Twelve shillings you must pay, or I must cap^
you.
[Wife. Look, George! did not I teU thee as
much? the knight of the Bell is in earnest.
Balph shall not be beholding to him: give uim
his money, George, and let him go snick up.s
at. Cap Balph! no. — Hold your hand. Sir
Knight of the Bell; there's your money [gives
money]: have you any thing to say to Balph
now? Cap Balph!
Wife. I would you should know it, Balph
has friends that will not suffer him to be capt
for ten times so much, and ten times to the
end of that. — Now take thy course, Ralph.]
Mist. Mer. Come, Michael; thou and I will
go home to thy father; he hath enough left to
keep us a day or two, and we'll set our fellows
abroad to cry our purse and our casket: shall
we, Michael?
Mich. Ay, I pray, mother; in truth my feet
are full of chilblains with travelling.
[Wife. Faith, and those chilblains are a
foul trouble. Mistress Merrythought, when
your youth comes home, let him rub all the
soles of his feet, and his heels, and his ankles,
with a mouse-skin; or, if none of your people
can catch a mouse, when he goes to bed let him
roll his feet in the warm embers, and, I war-
rant you, he shall be weU. . .]
Mist. Mer. Master Knight of the Burning
Pestle, my son Michael and I bid you farewell:
I thank your worship heartily for your kindness.
Balph. Farewell, fair lady, and your tender
squire.
If pricking through these deserts I do hear
Of any traitorous knight, who through his guile
Hath light upon your casket and your purse.
I will despoil him of them, and restore them.
7 arrest
8 go bang
204
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
" . Mist. Mer. I thank your worship.
[Exit with Michael.
Ralph. Dwarf, bear my shield; squire, ele-
vate my lance: —
And now farewell, you Knight of holy Bell.
[Cit. Ay, ay, Balph, all is paid.]
Jialph. But yet, before I go, speak, worthy
knight.
If aught you do of sad adventures know,
Where errant knight may through his prowess
win
Eternal fame, and free some gentle souls
From endless bonds of steel and lingering pain.
Host. Sirrah, go to Nick the barber, and bid
him prepare himself, as I told you before,
quickly.
Tap. I am gone, sir. [Exit.
Host. Sir Knight, this wilderness aflfordeth
none
But the great venture, where full many a
knight
Hath tried his prowess, and come off with
shame;
And where I would not have youi lose your life
Against no man, but furious fiend of hell.
Balph. Speak on, Sir Knight; tell what he
is and where:
For here I vow, upon my blazing badge,
Never to blaze^ a day in quietness.
But bread and water will I only eat,
And the green herb and rock shall be my couch,
Till I have quelled that man, or beast, or fiend,
That works such damage to all errant knights.
Host. Not far from hence, near to a craggy
cliff.
At the north end of this distressed town,
There doth stand a lowly house,
Buggedly builded, and in it a cave
In which an ugly giant now doth won,io
Yelepedii Barbarossa: in his hand
He shakes a naked lance of purest steel.
With sleeves turned up; and him before he
wears
A motley garment, to preserve his clothes
From blood of those knights which he massa-
cres
And ladies gent: 12 without his door doth hang
A copper basin on a prickantia spear;
At which no sooner gentle knights can knock.
But the shrill sound fierce Barbarossa hears,
And rushing forth, brings in the errant knight,
And sets him down in an enchanted chair;
Then with an engine'*, which he hath prepared.
With forty teeth, he claws his courtly crown;
shine
10 dwell
11 called
i2Kentle, courteous
18 pointiDK upward
14 Instrument
Next makes him wink, and underneath his chin
He plants a brazen piece of mighty bordi'"'.
And knocks his bullets^" round about his cheeks;
Whilst with his fingers, and au instrument
With which he snaps his hair off, he doth fill
The wretch's ears with a most hideous noise:
Thus every knight-adventurer he doth trim,
And now no creature dares encounter him.
Balph. In God's name, I will fight with him.
Kind sir,
Go but before me to this dismal cave.
Where this huge giant Barbarossa dwells.
And, by that virtue that brave Eosicleer
That damned brood of ugly giants slew.
And Palmerin Frannarco overthrew,
I doubt not but to curb this traitor foul.
And to the devil send his guilty soul.
Host. Brave-sprighted knight, thus far I will
perform
This your request ; I '11 bring you within sight
Of this most loathsome place, inhabited
By a more loathsome man; but dare not stay.
For his main force swoops all he sees away.
Balph. Saint George, set on before! march
squire and page. [Exeunt.
[Wife. George, dost think Balph will con-
found the giant?
Cit. I hold ray cap to a farthing he does:
why, Nell, I saw him wrestle with the great
Dutchman, and hurl him.
Wife. Faith, and that Dutchman was a
goodly man, if all things were answerablei^ to
his bigness. And yet they say there was a
Scotchman higher than he, and that they two
and a knight met, and saw one another for
nothing. . . .]
Act TIT, Scene IV.
Before a Barber's Shop, Waltham.
Enter Balph, Host, Tim, and George.
[Wife. Oh, Ralph's here, George! — God
send thee good luck, Ralph!]
Host. Puissant knight, yonder his mansion is.
Lo, where the spear and copper basin are!
Behold that string, on which hangs many a
tooth,
Drawn from the gentle jaw of wandering
knights! 18
r dare not stay to sound; he will appear. [Exit.
Balph. Oh, faint not, heart! Susan, my lady
dear.
The cobbler's maid in Milk-street, for whose
sake
15 broad rim (I. p., a
Imrhcr's liasin)
16 sonp-balls
17 In proportion
IS Barbers were also
surRoons and den-
tists.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
205
I take these arms, oh, let the thought of thoe
Carry thy knight through all adventurous
deeds ;
And, in the lionour of thy beauteous self.
May I destroy this monster Barbarossa! —
Knock, squire, upon the basin, till it break
With the shrill strokes, or till the giant speak.
[Tim Jcnoclcs upon the hasin.
Enter Barber.
[Wife. Oh, George, the giant, the giant! —
Now, Ralph, for thy life ! ]
Bar. "What fondio unknowing wight is this,
that dares
So rudely knock at Barbarossa 's cell,
Where no man comes but leaves his fleece be-
hind 1
Ralph. I, traitorous caitiff, who am sent by
fate
To punish all the sad enormities
Thou hast committed against ladies gent
And errant knights. Traitor to God and men,
Prepare thyself; this is the dismal hour
Appointed for thee to give strict account
Of all thy beastly treacherous villanies.
Bar. Fool-hardy knight, full soon thou shalt
aby2o
This fond reproach: thy body will I bang;
[Tales down Ms pole
And lOy upon that string thy teeth shall hang!
Prepare thyself, for dead soon shalt thou be.
Ralph. Saint George for me! [They fight.
Bar. Gargantua2i for me!
[Wife. To him, Ralph, to him! hold up the
giant; set out thy leg before, Ralph!
at. Falsify a blow, Ralph, falsify a blow!
the giant lies open on the left side.
Wife. Bear't off, bear't off still! there,
boy! — Oil, Ralph's almost down, Ralph's almost
down ! ]
Ralph. Su.san, inspire me! now have up again.
Wife. Up, up, up, up, up! so, Ralph! down
with him, down with him, Ralph!
at. Fetch him o'er the hip, boy!
[Ralph TcnocTcs down the Barher.
Wife. There, boy! kill, kill, kill, kill, kill,
Ralph !
19 fooHsh 21 A giant in Rabelais'
20 pay for satire.
at. No, Ralph; get all out of him first.]
Ralph. Presumptuous man, see to what des-
perate end
Thy treachery hath brought thee! The just
gods.
Who never prosper those that do despise them,
For all the villanies which thou hast done
To knights and ladies, now have paid thee
home
By my stiff arm, a knight adventurous.
But say, vile wretch, before I send thy soul
To sad Avernus, (whither it must go)
What captives holdst thou in thy sable cave?
Bar. Go in, and free them all; thou hast the
day.
Ralph. Go, squire and dwarf, search in this
dreadful cave,
And free the wretched prisoners from their
bonds.
[Exeunt Tim and George, who presently
re-enter,
[at. Cony, I can tell thee, the gentlemen
like Ralph.
Wife. Ay, George, I see it well enough. —
Gentlemen, I thank you all heartily for gracing
my man Ralph; and I promise you, you shall
see him oftener.]
Bar. Mercy, great knight! I do recant my
ill,
And henceforth never gentle blood will spill.
Ralph. I give thee mercy; but yet shalt
thou swear
Upon my Burning Pestle, to perform
Thy promise uttered.
Bar. I swear and kiss. [Kisses the Pestle.
Ralph. Depart, then, and amend.
[Exit Barber.
Come, squire and dwarf; the sun grows toward
his set.
And we have many more adventures yet.
[Exeunt,
[at. Now Ralph is in this humour, I know
he would ha' beaten all the boys in the house,
if they had been set on him.
Wife. Ay, George, but it is well as it is: I
warrant you, the gentlemen do consider what
it is to overthrow a giant.]
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE— PROSE
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1566)
FROM THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S
ARCADIA*
To My Dear Lady and Sister, the Countess of
Pembroke:
Here now have yoin, most dear, and most
worthy to be most dear, Lady, this idle work of
mine, which, I fear, like the spider's web, will
be thought fitter to be swept away than worn
to any other purpose. For my part, in very
truth, as the cruel fathers among the Greeks
were wont to do to the babes they would not
foster, I could well find in my heart to cast
out in some desert of forgetfulness this child,
which I am loath to father. But you desired
me to do it; and your desire, to my heart, is
an absolute commandment. Now it is done
only for you, only to you. If you keep it to
yourself, or to such friends as will weigh errors
in the balance of goodwill, I hope, for the
father's sake, it will be pardoned, perchance
made much of, though in itself it have de-
formities; for, indeed, for severer eyes it is
not, being but a trifle, and that triflingly han-
dled. Your dear self can best witness the man-
ner, being done in loose sheets of paper, most
of it in your presence, the rest by sheets sent
unto you as fast as they were done. In sum,
a young head, not so well stayed! as I would it
were, and shall be when God will, having
many, many fancies begotten in it, if it had
not been in some way delivered, would have
1 steadied
♦ Sidney did not moan to "walk al)road" into print
with ills book. This wili partly explain the
loose style in which it is written. But Eliza-
betiian prose in general was much inferior to
Elizabethan poetry. Scholars— the writer
class — still clung to Latin, and even Bacon's
vigorous Enclisb is marred l)y Latinisms ;
men of action, like Raleigh, wrote in Eng-
lish, but naturally were little concerned for
style ; while the work of conscious stylists,
like Lyiy and Sidney, suffered from "Euphu-
ism," that fashion of affectation and conceits
that 80 weakened the prose of the age. (Knif.
Lit., p. 128.) The brief selection given here
lacks narrative interest, but will exemplify
this curious style and also give a glimpse of
that Arcadia which has been idealized In
poetry and romance into an Imaginary para-
dise of the simple, natural life.
grown a monster, and more sorry I might
that they came in than that they gat out. Bui
his chief safety shall be the not walkinj
abroad, and his chief protection the bearing
the livery of your name, which, if my goodwil
do not deceive me, is worthy to be a sanctuarj
for a greater offender. This say I because I
know thy virtue so; and this say I because I
know it may be ever so, or, to say better, be-
cause it will be ever so. Read it then, at your
idle times, and the follies your good judgment
will find in it blame not, but laugh at; and so,
looking for no better stuff than, as in a haber-
dasher 's shop, glasses or feathers, you will
continue to love the writer, who doth exceed-
ingly love you, and most, most heartily prays
you may long live to be a principal ornament
to the family of the Sidneys.
Your loving Brother,
Philip Sidney.
From Book I
It was in the time that the earth begins to
put on her new apparel against the approach of
her lover, and that the sun running a most
even course becomes an indifferent arbiter be-
tween the night and the day, when the hope-
less shepherd Strephon was come to the sands
which lie against the island of Cithera,t where,
viewing the place with a heavy kind of de-
light, and sometimes casting his eyes to the
isleward, he called his friendly rival the pastorz
Claius unto him; and, setting first down in his
darkened countenance a doleful copy of what
lie would 8peak,t
"O my Claius," said he, "hither we are
now come to pay the rent for which we are so
called unto by overbusy remembrance; remem-
brance, restless remembrance, which claims not
only this duty of us, but for it will have us
2 shepherd
t As the native Isle of Aphrodite, this is a fitting
place for Urania, the "heavenly," to depart
to. It lies south of Greece, and Arcadia Is a
country of Greece ; but in Arcadian romances
geography matters little.
X A good example of the "conceits" which marked
the prose and often the poetry of this period.
See Kn<i. Lit., p. 129.
206
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
207
forget ourselves. I pray you, when we were
amid our flock, and that,3 of other shepherds,
some were running after their slieep, strayed
beyond their bounds, some delighting their
eyes with seeing them nibble upon the short
and sweet grass, some medicining their sick
ewes, some setting a bell for an ensign of a
sheepish squadron, some with more leisure in-
venting new games for exercising their bodies,
and sporting their wits, — did remembrance
grant us an holiday, either for pastime or de-
votion, nay, either for necessary food or
natural rest, but that still it forced our
thoughts to work upon this place, where we
last — alas, that the word 'last' should so long
last — did grace our eyes upon her ever-flour-
ishing beauty; did it not still cry within us:
'Ah, you base-minded wretches! are your
thoughts so deeply bemired in the trade of
ordinary worldlings, as, for respect of gain
some paltry wool may yield you, to let so much
time pass without knowing perfectly her es-
tate, especially in so troublesome a season; to
leave that shore unsaluted from whence you
may see to the island where she dwelleth; to
leave those steps unkissed wherein Urania
printed the farewell of all beauty?'
* ' Well, then, remembrance commanded, we
obeyed, and here we find that as our remem-
brance came ever clothed unto us in the form
of this place, so this place gives new heat to
the fever of our languishing remembrance.
Yonder, my Claius, Urania alighted; the very
horse methought bewailed to be so disbur-
dened; and as for thee, poor Claius, when thou
wentest to help her down, I saw reverence and
desire so divide thee that thou didst at one
instant both blush and quake, and instead of
bearing her wert ready to fall down thyself.
There she sate, vouchsafing* my cloak (then
most gorgeous) under her; at yonder rising of
the ground she turned herself, looking back
toward her wonted abode, and because of her
parting, bearing much sorrow in her eyes, the
lightsomeness whereof had yet so natural a
cheerfulness as it made even sorrow seem to
smile; at the turning she spake to us all, open-
ing the cherry of her lips, and, Lord! how
greedily mine ears did feed upon the sweet
v.ords she uttered! And here she laid her
hand over thine eyes, when she saw the tears
springing in them, as if she would conceal them
from others and yet herself feel some of thy
sorrow. But woe is me! yonder, yonder did
she put her foot into the boat, at that instant.
s when
4 allowinx
others
as it were, t'.ividing her heavenly beauty be-
tween the earth and the sea. But when she
was embarked did you not mark how the winds
whistled, and the seas danced for joy, how the
sails did swell with pride, and all because they
had Urania? O Urania, blessed be thou,
Urania, the sweetest fairness and fairest
sweetness ! ' '
With that word his voice brake so with sob-
bing that he could say no farther; and Claius
thus answered, "Alas, my Strephon," said he,
"what needs this score to reckon up only our
losses? What doubt is there but that the
sight of this place doth call our thoughts to
appear at the court of affection, held by that
racking steward Remembrance? As well may
sheep forget to fear when they spy wolves, as
we can miss such fancies, when we see any
place made happy by her treading. Who can
choose that saw her but think where she stayed,
where she walked, where she turned, where she
spoke? But what is all this? Truly no more
but, as this place served us to think of those
things, so those things serve as places to call
to memory more excellent matters. No, no,
let us think with consideration, and consider
with acknowledging, and acknowledge with
admiration, and admire with love, and love
with joy in the midst of all woes; let us in
such sort think, I say, that our poor eyes were
so enriched as to behold, and our low hearts so
exalted as to love, a maid who is such, that as
the greatest thing the world can show is her
beauty, so the least thing that may be praised
in her is her beauty. Certainly, as her eye-
lids are more pleasant to behold than two
white kids climbing up a fair tree, and browsing
on his tenderest branches, and yet are nothing
compared to the day-shining stars contained in
them; and as her breath is more sweet than a
gentle southwest wind, which comes creeping
over flowery fields and shadowed waters in the
extreme heat of summer, and yet is nothing
compared to the honey-flowing speech that
breath doth carry, — no more all that our eyes
can see of her — though when they have seen
her, what else they shall ever see is but dry
stubble after clover-grass — is to be matched
with the flock of unspeakable virtues laid up
delightfully in that best builded fold.
"But, indeed, as we can better consider the
sun's beauty by marking how he gilds these
waters and mountains than by looking upon
his own face, too glorious for our weak eyes;
so it may be our conceits — not able to bear her
sun-staining excellency — will better weigh it
by her works upon some meaner subject em-
ployed. And, alas, who can better witness
208
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
that than we, whose experience is grounded
upon feeling! Hath not the onlyo love of her
made us, being silly ignorant shepherds, raise
up our thoughts above the ordinary level of
the world, so as great clerks^ do not disdain
our conference ?8 Hath not the desire to seem
worthy in her eyes made us, when others were
sleeping, to sit viewing the course of the
heavens; when others were running at base,9 to
run over learned writings; when others mark
their sheep, we to mark our selves? Hath not
she thrown reason upon our desires, and, as it
were, given eyes unto Cupid? Hath in any,
but in her, love-fellowship maintained friend-
ship between rivals, and beauty taught the
beholders chastity?" . . .
[The shepherds rescue the shipwrecked Musi-
dorus and undertake to lead him to the home
of a hospitable man in their native country of
Arcadia.]
So that the third day after, in the time that
the morning did strow roses and violets in the
heavenly floor against the coming of the sun,
the nightingales, striving one with the other
which could in most dainty variety recount
their wrong-caused sorrow, made them put ofl:
their sleep; and, rising from under a tree,
which that night had been their pavilion, they
went on their journey, which by-and-by wel-
comed Musidorus' eyes with delightful pros-
pects. There were hills which garnished their
proud heights with stately ttees; humble val-
leys whose base estate seemed comforted with
the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows enam-
elled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers;
thickets which, being lined with most pleasant
shade, were witnessed so to, by the cheerful
disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pas-
ture stored with sheep, feeding with sober se-
curity, while the pretty lambs, with bleating
oratory, craved the dam's comfort; here a
shepherd's boy piping, as though he should
never be old; there a young shepherdess knit-
ting, and withal singing: and it seemed that
her voice comforted her hands to work, and
her hands kept time to her voice- music.
As for the houses of the country — for many
houses cam« under their eye — they were all
scattered, no two being one by the other, and
yet not so far oflf as that it barred mutual
succor; a show, as it were, of an accompan-
able'" solitariness, and of a civil wildness.
"1 pray you," said Musidorus, then first un-
sealing his long-silont lips, "what countries be
7 Hcholarn
H convt'rsntion
n prlflonfir's base
i<> compftnionable
these we pass through, which are so diverse in
show, the one wanting no store, the other hav-
ing no store but of want?"
"The country," answered Claius, "where
you were cast ashore, and now are passed
through, is Laconia, not so poor by the bar-
renness of the soil — though in itself not pass-
ing fertile — as by a civil war, which being
these two years within the bowels of that es-
tate, between the gentlemen and the peasants — •
by them named Helots — hath in this sort, as it
were, disfigured the face of nature and made
it so unhospitable as now you have found it;
the towns neither of the one side nor the other
willingly opening their gates to strangers, nor
strangers willingly entering, for fear of being
mistaken. But this country where now you set
your foot, is Arcadia; and even hard by is
the house of Kalander, whither we lead you.
This country being thus decked with peace, and
the child of peace, good husbandry, these
houses you see so scattered are of men, as we
two are, that live upon the commodity of their
sheep, and therefore, in the division of the Ar-
cadian estate, are termed shepherds — a happy
people, wanting little because they desire not
much. ' '
SIR WALTER RALEIGH
(1552?-1618)
THE LAST FIGHT OF THE EEVENGE.*
The Lord Thomas Howard, with six of her
Majesty's ships, six victuallers of London, the
bark Raleigh, and two or three pinnaces, rid-
ing at anchor near unto Flores, one of the
westerly islands of the Azores, the last of
August in the afternoon, had intelligence by
one Captain Middleton, of the approach of tlu-
Spanish Armada.i Which Middleton, being in
a very good sailer, had kept them company
three days before, of good purpose both to dis-
1 Armada = fleet ; armado = 8ingle warship.
» In the fall of l.")91 a small fleet of Kuglish ves-
sels lay at the Azores to intercept the Spanish
treasure-ships from the Indies. On the ap-
pearance of the Spanish war-vessels sent to
convoy the treasure-sliips, the English vessels
took to flight, with the exception of the
Revenue, the Vice Admiral of the fleet, com-
manded by Sir Richard Grenvllle. The story
of the fight of the Kcnnye was written by
Raleigh, a cousin of (Jrenville's, and pul)-
lished anonymously In l.'i!)! ; it was included,
eight years later. In Ilakhiyt's Voyaa^x- Kn-
con also celebrated the fight as "a defeat
exceeding a victory." "memorable even be-
yond credit and to the hight of some heroical
fable," In which "the ship for the swan of
fifteen hours sat like a stag amongst hounds
at the bay. and was sieged and fought with in
turn by fifteen great ships of Spain." See
also Fronde's essay on KiipUiiifl's l-'nrfloUrn
Worthien. and Tennyson's bnllnd. Ttir Rerengr.
SIK WALTEK RALEIGH
209
cover their forces the more, as also to give ad-
vice to my Lord Thomas of their approach.
He had no sooner delivered the news but the
Heet was in sight. Many of our ships' com-
panies were on shore in the island, some provid-
ing ballast for their ships, others filling of
water and refreshing themselves from the land
with such things as they could either for money
or by force recover.- By reason whereof our
ships being all pestered, and rummaging every
thing out of order.t very light for want of bal-
last, and that which was most to our disad-
vantage, the one half of the men of every ship
sick and utterly unserviceable. For in the
Beienye there were ninety diseased; in the
Bonaventurc, not so many in health as could
handle her mainsail — for had not twenty men
been taken out of a bark of Sir George Gary 's,
his being commanded to be sunk, and those
appointed to her, she had hardly ever recov-
ered3 England. The rest, for the most part,
were in little better state.
The names of her Majesty's ships were
these, as followeth: the Defiance, which was
Admiral, the Bevenge, Vice Admiral, the Bona-
venture, commanded by Captain Crosse, the
Lion, by George Fenner, the Foresight, by
Thomas Vavisour, and the Crane, by DuflSeld;
the Foresight and the Crane being but small
ships only — the other were of middle size. The
rest, besides the bark Ealeigh, commanded by
Captain Thin, were victuallers, and of small
force or none.
The Spanish fleet, having shrouded their ap-
proach by reason of the island, were now so
soon at hand as* our ships had scarce time to
weigh their anchors, but some of them were
driven to let slip their cables and set sail. Sir
Richard Grenville was the last weighed, to
recover the men that were upon the island,
which otherwise had been lost. The Lord
Thomas with the rest very hardly recovered the
wind, which Sir Richard Grenville not being
able to do, was persuadeds by the master and
others to cut« his mainsail and east^ about, and
to trust to the sailing of his ship: for the
squadron of Seville were on his weather bow.
But Sir Richard utterly refused to turn fron\
the enemy, alleging that he would rather choose
to die, than to dishonor himself, his country,
and her Majesty's ship, persuading his com-
pany that he would pass through the two
2 obtain 5 advised
^ rpg.iined e spread
* that 7 turn
t I. e., were all cumbered, and badly stowed. The
syntax of this sentence, as of others that fol-
low, is very faulty. Cp. note on the stvle of
the preceding selection.
squadrons in despite pi them, and enforce those
of Seville to give him way. Which he per-
formed upon divers of the foremost, who, as
the mariners term it, sprang their luff,^ and
fell under the lee of the Bevenge. But the
other course had been the better, and might
right well have been answered in so great an
impossibility of prevailing. Notwithstanding
out of the greatness of his mind he could not
be persuaded.J
In the meanwhile, as he attended those
which were nearest him, the great San Philip,
being in the wind of him, and coming towards
him, becalmed his sails in such sort as the ship
could neither weigh nor feel the helm: so huge
and high carged" was the Spanish ship, being
of a thousand and five hundred tons; who
afterlaid the Bevenge aboard.io When he was
thus bereft of his sails, the ships that were un-
der his lee, luffing up, also laid him aboard ;
of which the next was the admiral of the Bis-
cayans, a very mighty and puissant ship com-
manded by Brittan Dona. The said Philip
carried three tier of ordinance on a side, and
eleven pieces in every tier. She shotn eight
forthright out of her chase,i2 besides those of
her stern ports.
After the Bevenge was entangled with this
Philip, four other boarded her, two on her lar-
board, and two on her starboard. The fight
thus beginning at three of the clock in the
afternoon continued very terrible all that even-
ing. But the great San Philip, having re-
ceived the lower tier of the Bevenge, dis-
charged with crossbarshot, shifted herself with
all diligence from her sides, utterly misliking
her first entertainment. Some say that the
ship foundered, but we cannot report it for
truth, unlesa we were assured.
The Spanish ships were filled with companies
of soldiers, in some two hundred besides the
mariners, in some five, in others eight hundred.
In ours there were none at all besides the
mariners, but the servants of the commanders
and some few voluntary gentlemen only.
After many interchanged volleys of great
ordinance and small shot, the Spaniards delib-
I erated to enter the Bevenge, and made divers
I attempts, hoping to force her by the multitudes
j of their armed soldiers and musketeers, but
I were still repulsed again and again, and at all
8 kept close to the wind
by means o f t h e
helm
9 Or cargued (a nautic-
al term pf uncer-
tain meaning, pos-
t He was a fierce man.
slblv high-carved or
built)
10 came alongside of
(from behind)
11 could shoot
12 a joint in the stern
of nature very severe."
who in his day had the reputation of eating
the wine-glasses after he drank the wine.
210
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
times beaten back into their o^Yn sliips or into
the seas. In the beginning of the fight, the
George Noble of London, having received some
shot through her by the armados, fell under
the lee of the Revenge, and asked Sir Eichard
what he would command him, being but one of
the victuallers and of small force. Sir Richard
bade him save himself, and leave him to his
fortune.
After tlie fight had thus without intermission
continued while the day lasted and some hours
of the night, many of our men were slain and
hurt, and one of the great galleons of the Ar-
mada and the admiral of the Hulksis both
sunk, and in many other of the Spanish ships
great slaughter was made. Some write that
Sir Eichard was very dangerously hurt almost
in the beginning of the fight, and lay speech-
less for a time ere he recovered. But two of
the Revenge's owti company brought home in a
ship of lime from the islands, examined by
some of the Lords and others, affirmed that he
was never so wounded as that he forsook the
upper deck, till an hour before midnight; and
then being shot into the body with a musket, as
he was a-dressingi* was again shot into the
head, and withal his chirurgeoni5 wounded to
death. This agreeth also with an examination,
taken by Sir Francis Godolphin, of four other
mariners of the same ship being returned,
which examination the said Sir Francis sent
unto master William Killigrew, of her Ma-
jesty's Privy Chamber.
But to return to the fight, the Spanish ships
which attempted to board the Jlevenge, as they
were wounded and beaten off, so always others
came in their places, she having never less than
two mighty galleons by her sides and aboard
her. So that ere the morning frftn three of
the clock the day before, there had fifteen sev-
eral armados assailed her; and all so ill ap-
proved their entertainment, as they were by the
break of day far more willing to hearken to
a composition!" than hastily to make any more
assaults or entries. But as the day increased,
so our men decreased ; and as the light grew
more and more, by so much more grew our dis-
comforts. For none apjieared in sight but ene-
mies, saving one small ship called the Pilgrim,
commanded by Jacob Whiddon, who hovered all
night to see the success; it but in the morning,
bearing with the Hcvrvge, was hunted like a
hare among many ravenous hounds, but escaped.
AH the powder of the Revenue to the last
barrel was now spent, all her pikes broken,
18 hfavy Bhips
I* havInT th*> wound
drcHsocI
IB also his flurgeoD
i« astrfenipnt, trrms
IT otitcomo
forty of her best men slain, and the most part
of the rest hurt. In the beginning of the fight
she had but one hundred free from sickness,
and fourscore and ten sick, laid in hold upon
the ballast. A small troop to man such a ship,
and a weak garrison to resist so mighty an
army! By those hundred all Avas sustained,
the volleys, boardings, and enterings of fifteen
ships of war, besides those which beat her at
large. On the contrary the Spanish were al-
ways supplied with soldiers brought from every
squadron, all manner of arms and powder at
will. Unto ours there remained no comfort
at all, no hope, no supply either of ships, men,
or weapons; the masts all beaten overboard,
all her tackle cut asunder, her upper Avork alto-
gether razed; and, in effect, evened she was
with the water, butis the very foundation or
bottom of a ship, nothing being left overhead
either for flight or defence.
Sir Richard finding himself in this distress,
and unable any longer to make resistance, hav-
ing endured in this fifteen hours' fight the as-
sault of fifteen several armados, all by turns
aboard him, and by estimation eight hundred
shot of great artillery, besides many assaults
and entries, and that himself and the ship must
needs be possessed by the enemy, who were now
cast in a ring round about him, the Rcvciu/c
not able to move one way or otlier but as she
was moved by the waves and billows of tlie
sea, — commanded the master gunner, whom he
knew to be a most resolute man, to s})lit and
sink the ship, that thereby nothing might re-
main of glory or victory to the Spaniards, see-
ing in so many hours' fight, and with so great
a navy, they were not able to take her^ liaving
had fifteen hours' time, fifteen thousand men,
and fifty and three sail of men-of-war to j>er-
form it withal; and persuaded the company, or
as many as he could induce, to yield themselves
unto God, and to the mercy of none else, but,
as they had, like valiant resolute men, rej)ulsed
so nmny enemies, they should not now shorten
tlie honor of their nation by prolonging their
own lives for a few hours or a few days.
The master gunner readily condescended, i»
and divers others. But the Cajitain and the
Master were of another opinion and besought
Sir Eichard to have care of them, alleging tiiat
the Spaniard would be as ready to entertain a
composition as they were willing to offer the
same, and that there being divers suflicient and
valiant men yet living, and whose wounds were
not mortal, they might do their country and
prince acceptable service hereafter. And (that
18 nothing but
JO r greed
iSlE WALTER EALEIGH
211
where Sir Kicharcl had alleged that the Span-
iards should never glory to have taken one ship
of her Majesty's, seeing that they had so long
and so notably defended themselves) they an-
swered that the ship had six foot of water in
hold, three shot under water which were so
weakly stopped as, with the first working of
the sea, she must needs sink, and was besides
so crushed and bruised as she could never be
removed out of the place.
And as the matter was thus in dispute, and
Sir Eichard refusing to hearken to any of those
reasons, the Master of the Kcvenge (while the
Captain won unto him the greater party) was
convoyed aboard the General Don Alfonso Bas-
san. Who finding none over hasty to enter the
Bevenge again, doubting lest Sir Eichard would
have blown them up and himself, and perceiv-
ing by the report of the Master of the Bevenge
his dangerous disposition, yielded that all their
lives should be saved, the company sent for
England, and the better sort to pay such rea-
sonable ransom as their estate would bear, and
in the mean season to be free from galley or
imprisonment. To this he so much the rather
condescended, as well, as I have said, for fear
of further loss and mischief to themselves, as
also for the desire he had to recover Sir Eich-
ard Grenville; whom for his notable valor he
seemed greatly to honor and admire.
When this answer was returned, and that
safety of life was promised, the common sort
being now at the end of their peril, the most
drew back from Sir Eichard and the gunner,
being no hard matter to dissuade men from
death to life. The master gu/uner finding him-
self and Sir Eichard thus prevented and mas-
tered by the greater number, would have slain
himself with a sword had he not been by force
withheld and locked into his cabin. Then the
General sent many boats aboard the Bevenge,
and divers of our men, fearing Sir Eichard 's
disposition, stole away aboard the General and
other ships. Sir Eichard, thus overmatched,
was sent unto by Alfonso Bassan to remove out
of the Bevenge, the ship being marvellous un-
savory, filled with blood and bodies of dead
and wounded men ILke a slaughter-house. Sir
Richard answered that he might do with his
body what he list,"o for he esteemed it not ; and
as he was carried out of the ship he
swoonded,2i and reviving again desired the
company to pray for him. The General used
Sir Richard with all humanity, and left noth-
ing unattempted that tended to his recovery,
highly commending his valor and worthiness,
and greatly bewailed the danger wherein he
was, being unto them a rare spectacle, and a
resolution seldom approved,22 to see one ship
turn toward so many enemies, to endure the
charge and boarding of so many huge armados,
and to resist and repel the assaults and entries
of so many soldiers. All which, and more, is
confirmed by a Spanish captain of the same
Armada, and a present actor in the fight, who,
being severed from the rest in a storm, was by
the Lion of London, a small ship, taken, and
is now prisoner in London.
The General Commander of the Armada was
Don Alfonso Bassan, brother to the Marquis
of Santa Cruce. The Admiral of the Biscayan
squadron was Britan Dona; of the squadron
of Seville, Marquis of Arumburch. The Hulks
and Fly-boats23 were commanded by Luis
Cutino. There were slain and drowned in this
fight well near two thousand of the enemies,
and two especial Commanders, Don Luis de
Sant John, and Don George de Prunaria. de
Malaga, as the Spanish Captain confesseth, be-
sides divers others, of special account, whereof
as yet report is not made.
The admiral of the Hulks and the Ascension
of Seville were both sunk by the side of the
Bevenge ; one other recovered the road of Saint
Michaels, and sunk also there; a fourth ran
herself with the shore to save her men. Sir
Eichard died, as it is said, the second or third
day aboard the General, and was by them
greatly bewailed. W^hat became of his body,
whether it was buried in the- sea or on the land
we know not: the comfort that remaineth to his
friends is, that he hath ended his life honor-
ably in respect of the reputation won to his
nation and country, and of the same to his
posterity, and that, being dead, he hath not
outlived his own honor.l
22 experienced
23 Dutch boats that had
20 pleased
21 swooned
been impressed into
the Spanish service.
§ The account of his death by another contempo-
rary, Jan Huyghen van Linschoten. runs thus :
"He was borne into the ship calh-d tlie Saint
Paul, wherein was the Admirai of the Fleet,
Don Alonso de Barsan. There his wounds
were dressed by the Spanish surgeons, but
Don Alonso himself would neither see him
nor speak with him. All the rest of the
captains and gentlemen went to visit him
and to comfort him in his hard fortune, won-
dering at his courage and stout heart, for
that he shewed not any sign of faintness nor
changing of color. P.ut feeling the hour of
death to approach, he spake these words in
Spanish, and said : 'Here die I. Richard
Orenville. with a Joyful and quiet mind, for
that I have ended my life as a true soldier
ought to do that hath fought for his country,
queen, religion, and honor, whereby my soul
most jovful departeth out of this body, and
shall always leave behind it an eTerlasting
fame of a valiant and true soldier that hath
done his duty as he was bound to do.' "
212
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
FRANCIS BACON (1561-1626)
ESSAYS*
Of Studies
Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and
for ability. Their chief use for delight is in
privateness and retiring; for ornament, is in
discourse; and for ability, is in the judgment
and disposition of business. For expert men
can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars,
one by one; but the general counsels, and the
plots and marshalling of affairs, come best
from those that are learned. To spend too
much time in studies is sloth; to use them too
much for ornament, is affectation; to make
judgment wholly by their rules, is the humour
of a scholar. They perfect nature, and are
perfected by experience: for natural abilities
are like natural plants, that need pruning by
study; and studies themselves do give forth
directions too much at large, except they be
bounded ini by experience. Crafty mon^ con-
temn studies, simple men admire' them, and
wise men use them; for they teach not their
own use; but that is a wisdom without* them,
and above them, won by observation. Bead not
to contradict and confute; nor to believe and
take for granted; nor to find talk and dis-
course; but to weigh and consider. Some
books are to be tasted,t others to be swallowed,
and some few to be chewed and digested; that
is, some books are to be read only in parts;
others to be read, but not curiously; and some
few to be read wholly, and with diligence and
attention. Some books also may be read by
deputy, and extracts made of them by others;
but that would \>e only in the less important
arguments, and the meaner sort of books; else
distilled books are like common distilled wa-
ters, flashy' things. Reading maketh a full
man; conference^ a ready man; and writing an
exact man. And therefore, if a man write lit-
tle, he had need have a great memory; if he
1 checked n wonder at
2 craftHmen. men of prac- 4 outside of
tieal Hkill (much r> insipid
like "expert men" « conversation
above)
♦The flrnt edition of Hacon's Khhuhk ((en in
numlier) was printed in 1.507; revised an<i
enlarged editions appeared in 1G12 and 10-r>.
The first two essays ^iven here were in tlie
first edition, the next two in the second, tlie
last two in the third ; l)ut aii follow tlie texf
of the third. The spelllnR is modernized, the
paragraphing not; as the essays consist often |
of detached thoughts, a change of thought i
may be expected at any point.
t Of the six sentences beginning here Macaulay
said ; "We do not believe Tnucydldes himself
has anywhere compressed so much thought in
•o small a space." !
confer little, he had need have a present wit:
and if he read little, he had need have mucli
cunning, to seem to know that^ he doth not.
Histories make men wise; poets witty ;» the
mathematics subtile; natural philosophy deep;
moral grave; logic and rhetoric able to con-
tend. Abeunt studia in mores fi. Nay, there
is no stondio or impediment in the wit but may
be wrought outu by fit studies; like as dis-
eases of the body may have appropriate exer-
cises. Bowling is good for the stoneis and
reins; shootingi-t for the lungs and breast; gen-
tle walking for the stomach; riding for the
head ; and the like. So if a man 's wit be wan-
dering, let him study the mathematics; for in
demonstrations, if his wit be called away never
so little, he must begin again. If his Avit be
not apt to distinguish or find differences, let
him study the Schoolmen ;i* for they are ci/miiii
scctores. If he be not apt to beat over matters,
and to call up one thing to prove and illustrate
another, let him study the lawyers' cases. So
every defect of the mind may have a special
receipt.
Of Discourse
Some in their discoursei desire rather com-
mendation of wit, in being able to hold all
arguments, than of judgment, in discerning
what is true; as if it were a praise to know
M'hat might be said, and not what should be
thought. Some have certain common places
and themes wherein they are good, and want
variety; which kind of poverty is for the most
part tedious, and when it is once perceived,
ridiculous. The honorablest part of talk is to
give the occasion; and again to moderate and
pass to somewhat else; for then a man leads
the dance. It is good, in discourse and speech
of conversation, to vary and intermingle speech
of the present occasion Avith arguments, tales
with reasons, asking of questions with telling
of opinions, and jest with earnest: for it is a
dull thing to tire, and, as Ave say now, to jade
any thing too far. As for jest, there be cer-
tain things Avhich ouglit to be privilegcil from
it; namely, religion, matters of state, great per-
sons, any man's i)re,sent business of importance,
and any case that deserveth pity. Yet there be
some that think their Avits have been asleep,
7 that which
s Imaginative
"Studies are transmu-
ted into character."
10 stand, ob.slacle
11 removed
12 gravel (a disease of
I conversation
the kidneys, or
reins)
1.1 archery
14 medieval theologians,
who were "splitter?
o f cumin - seeds,'
halr-splltters
FRANCIS BACON
213
except they dart out somewhat that is piquant,
and to the quick. That is a vein which would2
be bridled;
Farce, puer, stimviis, et fortius uiere lorxs.^
And generally, men ought to find the diflfer-
ence between saltness and bitterness. Cer-
tainly, be that hath a satirical vein, as he mak-
eth others afraid of his wit, so he had need be
afraid of others' memory. He that question-
eth much shall learn much, and content much;
but especially if he apply* his questions to the
skill of the persons whom he asketh; for he
shall give them occasion to please themselves
in speaking, and himself shall continually
gather knowledge. But let his questions not be
troublesome; for that is fit for a poser.3 And
let him be sure to leave other men their turns
to speak. Nay, if there be any that would
reign and take up all the time, let him find
means to take them off, and to bring others on;
as musicians use to do with those that dance
too long galliards.s If you dissemble some-
times youT knowledge of that you are thought
to know, you shall be thought another time to
know that you know not. Speech of a man's
self ought to be seldom, and well chosen. I
knew one was wont to say in scorn, Ke must
needs be a wise man, he speaks so much of him-
self: and there is but one case wherein a man
may commend himself with good grace; and
that is in commending virtue in another; espe-
cially if it be such a virtue whereunto himself
pretendeth. Speech of touch towards others
should be sparingly used; for discourse ought
to be as a field, without coming home to any
man. I knew two noblemen, of the west part
of England, whereof the one was given to
scoflF, but kept ever royal cheer in his house;
the other would ask of those that had been at
the other's table. Tell truly, was there never a
flout or dr\f blow given? To which the guest
would answer. Such and such a thing passed.
The lord would say, I thought he would mar a
good dinner. Discretion of speech is more than
eloquence; and to speak agreeably to him with
whom we deal, is more than to speak in good
words or in good order. A good continued
speech, without a good speech of interlocution,
shows slowness: and a good reply or second
speech, without a good settled speech, showeth
shallowness and weakness. As we see in beasts,
that those that are weakest in the coarse are
2 should
3 "Spare the whip, boy.
and hold more flrm-
ly the reins." Ovid,
Met. ii, 127.
* adapt
5 examiner
6 A lively French dance
for two,
7 hard
yet nimblest in the turn; as it is betwixt the
greyhound and the hare. To use too many cir-
cumstances ere one come to the matter, is
wearisome; to use none at all, is blunt.
Of Friendship
It had been hard for himi that spake it to
have put more truth and untruth together in
few words, than in that speech. Whosoever is
delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or
a god. For it is most true that a natural and
secret hatred and aversation towardsz society
in any man, hath somewhat of the savage
beast ; but it is most untrue that it should have
any character at all of the divine nature; ex-
cept it proceed, not out of a pleasure in soli-
tude, but out of a love and desire to sequester
a man's self for higher conversation: such as
is found to have been falsely and feignedly in
some of the heathen; as Epimenides the Can-
dian, Numa the Eoman, Empedocles the Sicil-
ian, and Apollonius of Tyana;* and truly and
really in divers of the ancient hermits and holy
fathers of the chnreh. But little do men per-
ceive what solitude is, and how far it extend-
eth. CFor a crowd is not company; and faces
are but a gallery of pictures; and talk>hut a
tinkling cymbal, where there is no love. ) The
Latin adage meeteths with it a little: Magna
civitas, magna solitudo;* because in a great
town friends are scattered ; so that there is not
that fellowship, for the most part, which is in
less neighborhoods. But we may go further,
and affirm most truly that it is a meres and
miserable solitude to want true friends; with-
out which the world is but a wilderness; and
even in this sense also of solitude, whosoever
in the frame of his nature and aflfections is
unfit for friendship, he taketh it of the beast,
and not from humanity.
A principal fruit of friendship is the ease
and discharge of the fulness and swellings of
the heart, which passions of all kinds do cause
and induce. We know diseases of stoppings
and suffocations are the most dangerous in the
body; and it is not much otherwise in the
mind; you may take sarza« to open the liver,
steel to open the spleen, flowers^ of sulphur for
the lungs, castoreum for the brain; but no re-
ceipt openeth the heart, but a true friend; to
1 Aristotle, Politics, i. 2. s pure, complete
2 aversion for o sarsaparilla
s agrees 7 flower (i. e., flour, ed.
4 "A great town is a 1639}
great solitude."
• Epimenides, the Cretan poet, was said to have
slept in a cave for fifty-seven years ; Xuma
was instructed by the Miise Egeria in a sacred
grove ; Empedocles surrounded himself with
mystery ; Apollcmius was an ascetic.
214:
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
whom you may impart griefs, joys, fears,
hopes, suspicions, counsels, and whatsoever
lieth upon the heart to oppress it, in a kind of
civil shrift or confession.
It is a strange thing to observe how high a
rate great kings and monarchs do set upon this
fruit of friendship whereof we speak: so great,
as8 they purchase it many times at the hazard
of their own safety and greatness. For princes,
in regard of the distance of their fortune from
that of their subjects and servants, cannot
gather this fruit, except (to make themselves
capable thereof) they raise some persons to be
as it were companions and almost equals to
themselves, which many times sorteth too incon-
venience. The modern languages give unto
such persons the name of favorites, or priva-
does; as if it were matter of grace, or con-
versation. But the Eoman name attaineth the
true use and cause thereof, naming them par-
ticipes curarumjio for it is that which tieth
the knot. And we see plainly that this hath
been done, not by weak and passionate princes
only, but by the wisest and most politic that
ever reigned; who have oftentimes joined to
themselves some of their servants; whom both
themselves have called friends, and allowed
others likewise to call them in the same man-
ner; using the word which is received between
private men.
L. Sylla, when he commanded Rome, raised
Pompey (after surnamed the Great) to that
height, that Pompey vaunted himself for Syl-
la 's over-match. For when he had carried the
consulship for a friend of his,ii against the
pursuit of Sylla, and that Sylla did a little
resent thereat, and began to speak great, Pom-
pey turned upon him again, and in effect bade
him be quiet; for that more vien adored the
sun rising than the sun setting. "With Julius
Caesar, Decimus Brutus had obtained that in-
terest, asi2 he set him down in his testament
for heir in remainder after his nephew. And
this was the man that had power with him to
draw him forth to his death. For when Caesar
would have discharged the senate, in regard of
some ill presages, and specially a dream of
Calpurnia; this man lifted him gently by the
arm out of his chair, telling him he hoped he
would not dismiss the senate till his wife had
dreamt a better dream. And it seemeth his
favor was so great, as Antonius, in a letter
which is recited verbatim in one of Cicero's
Philippics, calleth him venefica, witch; as if he
8 that
• results In
10 "partnors of cares"
11 Lepldus
iiHuch Interest that
had enchanted Caesar. Augustus raised Agrippa
(though of mean birth) to that height, as when
he consulted with Maecenas about the mar-
riage of his daughter Julia, Msecenas took the
liberty to tell him, that he must either marry
his daughter to Agrippa, or take atvay his life;
there was no third way, he had made him so
great. With Tiberius Caesar, Sejanus had as-
cended to that height, as they two were termed
and reckoned as a pair of friends. Tiberius
in a letter to him saith. Ewe pro amicitid
nostra non occultavi;^^ and the whole senate
dedicated an altar to Friendship, as to a god-
dess, in respect of the great dearness of friend-
ship between them two. The like or more was
between Septimius Severus and Plautianus.
For he forced his eldest son to marry the
daughter of Plautianus ; and would often main-
tain Plautianus in doing affronts to his son;
and did write also in a letter to the senate, by
these words: I love the man so well, as I wish
he may over-live me. Now if these princes had
been as a Trajan or a Marcus Aurelius, a man
might have thought that this had proceeded of
an abundant goodness of nature; but being
men so wise, of such strength and severity of
mind, and so extreme lovers of themselves, as
all these were, it proveth most plainly that
they found their own felicity (though as great
as ever happened to mortaJ men) but as an
half piece,!* except they mought have a friend
to make it entire; and yet, which is more, they
were princes that had wives, sons, nephews;
and yet all these could not supply the comfort
of friendship.
It is not to be forgotten what Comineus ob-
serveth of his first master, Duke Charles the
Hardy; namely, that he would communicate his
secrets Mith none ; and least of all, those secrets
which troubled him most. Whereupon he goeth
on and saith that towards his latter time that
closeness did impair and a little perish his un-
derstanding. Surely Comineus mought have
made the same judgment also, if it had pleased
him, of his second master, Louis the Eleventh,
whose closeness was indeed his tormentor. The
parable of Pythagoras is dark, but true; Cor
ne edito: Eat not the heart. Certainly, if a
man would give it a hard phrase, those that
want friends to open themselves unto are can-
nibals of their own hearts. But one thing is
most admirableis (wherewith I will conclude
this first fruit of friendship), which is, that
this communicating of a man 's self to his
18 "Because of our
friendship I have
not concealed this."
14a half-coin (which
sometimes clrcnlft*
ted)
15 wonderful
FRANCIS BACON
215
friend works two contrary effects; for it re-
doubleth joys, and cutteth griefs in halves.
For there is no man that imparteth his joys
to his friend, but he joyeth the mote; and
no man that imparteth his griefs to his friend,
biit he grieveth the less. So that it is, in truth,
of 18 dpet-atioh tlpOfl a man's mind, of like
virtue as the alchemists ttsei* to attribute to
their stoneis for mah*8 body; that It worketh
allis contrary effects, biit still to the good and
benefit of nature. But yet without praying in
aid of2o alchemists, there is a manifest Image
of this in the ordinary course of nature. For
in bodies, union strengtheneth and cherisheth
any natural action; and on the other side
weakeneth and dulleth any violent impression:
and even so is it of minds.
The second fruit of friendship is healthful
and sovereign for the understanding, as the first
is for the affeetions.21 For friendship maketh
indeed a fair day in the affections, from storm
and tempests; but it maketh daylight in the
understanding, out of darkness and confusion
of thoughts. Neither is this to be understood
only of faithful counsel, which a man receiveth
from his friend; but before you come to that,
certain it is that whosoever hath his mind
fraught with many thoughts, his wits and un-
derstanding do clarify and break up, in the
communicating and discoursing with another;
he tosseth his thoughts more easily; he mar-
shalleth them more orderly; he seeth how they
look when they are turned into words: finally,
he waxeth wiser than himself; and that more
by an hour's discourse than by a day's medi-
tation. It was well said of Themistocles to
the king of Persia, That speech teas like cloth
of Arras opened and put abroad, whereby
the imagery doth appear in figure; whereas in
thoughts they lie but as in packs. Neither is
this second fruit of friendship, in opening the
understanding, restrained only to such friends
as are able to give a man counsel; (they in-
deed are best;) but even without that, a man
learneth of himself, and bringeth his own
thoughts to light, and whetteth his wits as
against a stone, which itself cuts not. In a
word, a man were better relate22 himself to a
statue or picture, than to suffer his thoughts
to pass in smother.
Add now, to make this second fruit of friend-
ship complete, that other point which lieth more
open and faUeth within vulgar 23 observation;
ifi in ita
1' are wont
18 T h c "philosopher's
stono."
19 wholly
20 calling upon (a legal
term)
21 feelings
22 unbosom
23 common
which is faithful counsel from a friend. Her-
aclitus saith well in one of his enigmas, Dry
light is ever the best. And certain it is, that
the light that a man receiveth by counsel from
another is drier and purer than that which
conieth from his own understanding and judg-
ment; which is ever infused and drenched in
his affections and customs. 80 aB24 there is as
much difference between the counsel that a
friend giveth, and that a man giveth himself,
as there is between the counsel of a friend
and of a flatterer. For there is no such flat-
terer as is a man's self; and there is no such
remedy against flattery of a man's self as the
liberty of a friend. Counsel is of two sorts:
the one concerning manners, the other concern-
ing business. For the first, the best preserva-
tive to keep the mind in health is the faithful
admonition of a friend. The caUing of a
man's self to a strict account is a medicine,
sometime too piercing and corrosive. Beading
good books of morality is a little flat and dead.
Observing our faults in others is sometimes
improper for our case. But the best recipe
(best, I say, to work, and best to take) is the
admonition of a friend. It is a strange thing
to behold what gross errors and extreme ab-
surdities many (especially of the greater sort)
do commit, for want of a friend to tell them
of them; to the great damage both of their
fame and fortune: for, as St. James saith,25
they are as men that look sometimes into a
glass, and presently forget their own shape
and favor 26 As for business, a man may
think, if he will, that two eyes see no more
than one; or that a gamester seeth always
more than a looker-on; or that a man in anger
is as wise as he that hath said over the four
and twenty letters;* or that a musket may
be shot off as well upon the arm as upon a
rest; and such other fond and high imagina-
tions, to think himself all in all. But when all
is done, the help of good counsel is that which
setteth business straight. And if any man
think that he will take counsel, but it shall be
by pieces; asking counsel in one business of
one man, and in another business of another
man; it is well (that is to say, better perhaps
than if he asked none at all) ; but he runneth
two dangers: one, that he shall not be faith-
fully counselled; for it is a rare thing, except
it be from a perfect and entire friend, to have
counsel given, but such as shall be bowed and
24 so that 26 features
25Epigtt€ I, 23
* The number in the Greek alphabet, as also m
the English when J and V were not differen-
tiated from I and V.
216
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
^
crooked to some ends which he hath that giveth
it. The other, that he shall have counsel
given, hurtful and unsafe (though with good
meaning), and mixed partly of mischief and
partly of remedy; even as if you would call a
physician that is thought good for the cure of
the disease you complain of, but is unac-
quainted with your body; and therefore may
put you in way for a present cure, but over-
throweth your health in some other kind; ami
so cure the disease and kill the patient. But a
friend that is wholly acquainted with a man's
estate will beware, by furthering any present
business, how he dasheth upon other incon-
venience. And therefore rest not upon scat-
tered counsels; they will rather distract and
mislead, than settle and direct.
After these two noble fruits of friendship
(peace in the affections, and support of the
judgment), followeth the last fruit; which is
like the pomegranate, full of many kernels;
I mean aid and bearing a part in all actions
and occasions. Here the best way to represent
to life the manifold use of friendship is to
cast27 and see how many things there are which
a man cannot do himself; and then it will ap-
pear that it was a sparing speech of the an-
cients, to say, that a friend is another himself;
for that a friend is far more than himself.
Men have their time,-i8 and die many times in
desire of2» some things which they principally
take to heart; the bestowing of a child,3o the
finishing of a work, or the like. If a man
have a true friend, he may rest almost secure
that the care of those things will continue after
him. So that a man hath, as it were, two
lives in his desires. A man hath a body, and
that body is confined to a place; but where
friendship is, all offices of life are as it were
granted to him and his deputy. For he may
exercise them by his friend. How many things
are there which a man cannot, with any face
or comeliness, say or do himself? A man can
scarce allege his own merits with modesty,
much less extol them; a man cannot sometimes
brook to supplicate or beg; and a number of
the like. But all these things are graceful in a
friend's mouth, which are blushing in a man's
own. So again, a man's person hath many
proper relations which he cannot put off. A
man cannot speak to his son but as a father ; to
his wife but as a husband; to his enemy but
upon terms : whereas a friend may speak as the
case requires, and not as it sorteth with the
person. But to enumerate these things were
PboDsider
'appointed time
20 often die while still
desiring
30 in marriage
endless; I have given the rule, where a man
cannot fitly play his own part ; if he have not
a friend, he may quit the stage.
Of Eiches
I cannot call riches better than the baggage
of virtue. The Roman word is better, impedi-
menta. For as the baggage is to an army, so
is riches to virtue. It cannot be spared nor left
behind, but it hindereth the march; yea, and
the care of it sometimes loseth or disturbeth
the victory. Of great riches there is no real
use, except it be in the distribution; the rest
is but conceit.i So saith Solomon, Where much
is, there are many to consume it; and what
hath the owner hut the sight of it with his
eyes? The personal fruition- in any man
cannot reach to feel great riches: there is a
custody of them; or a power of dole and do-
natives of them; or a fame of them; but no
solid use to the owner. Do you not see what
feigned prices are set upon little stones^ and
rarities? and what works of ostentation are
undertaken, because there might seem to be
some use of great riches?/ But then you will
say, they may be of u«re to buy men out of
dangers or troubles. As Solomon saith, Eiches
are as a strong hold, in the imagination of the
rich man. But this is excellently expressed,
that it is in imagination, and not always in
fact. For certainly great riches have sold
more men than they have bought out. Seek
not proud riches, but such as thou mayest get
justly, use soberly, distribute cheerfully, and
leave contentedly. Yet have no abstract nor
friarly contempt of them. But distinguish, as
Cicero saith well of Eabirius Posthumus, In
studio rei amplificandoe apparebat, non avaritiw
procdam, sed instrumentum ionitati quoeri.^
Harken also to Solomon, and beware of hasty
gathering of riches: Qui festinat ad divitias,
non erit insoiis.^ The poets feign that when
Plutus (which is Eiches) is sent from Jupiter,
he limps and goes slowly; but when he is sent
from Pluto, he runs and is swift of foot. Mean-
ing that riches gotten by good means and
just labor pace slowly; but when they come
by the death of others (as by the course of
inheritance, testaments, and the like), they
come tumbling upon a man. But it mought
1 fancy s distribution and gift
2 enjoyment * Cp Utopia p 118.
5 "In his endeavor to incroaso his wealth, it was
evident that he sought not what should l)e n
mere prey for avarice, but nn Instrument of
"VVho liastens to become rich shall not be inno-
cent."
FRANCIS BACON
217
be applied likewise to Pluto, taking him for
the devil. For when riches come from the
devil (as bj fraud and oppression and unjust
means), they come upon'' speed. The ways
to enrich are many, and most of them foul.
Parsimony is one of the best, and yet is not
innocent; for it withholdeth men from works
of liberality and charity. The improvement of
the ground is the most natural obtaining of
riches; for it is our great mother's blessing,
the earth 's ; but it is slow. And yet where
men of great wealth do stoop to husbandry, it
multiplieth riches exceedingly. I knew a no-
bleman in England, that had the greatest audits
of any man in my time; a great grazier, a
great sheepmaster, a great timber man, a great
collier, a great corn-master, a great lead-man,
and so of iron, and a number of the like points /
of husbandry. So ass the earth seemed a sea
to hira, in respect of the perpetual importation.
It was truly observed by one, that himself came
very hardly to a little riches, and very easily
to great riches. For when a man's stock is
come to that, that he can expect^ the prime
of markets, and overcomeio those bargains
which for their greatness are few men's money,
and be partner in the industries of younger
men, he cannot but increase mainly.n The
gains of ordinary trades and vocations
are honest; and furthered by two things
chiefly: by diligence, and by a good name for
good and fair dealing. But the gains of bar-
gains are of a more doubtful nature, when men
shall wait upon' 2 others' necessity, brokeis by
servants and instruments to draw them on, put
off others cunningly that would be better chap-
men,!* and the like practices, which are crafty
and naught.15 As for the choppingis of bar-
gains, when a man buys not to hold but to sell
over again, that commonly grindeth double,
both upon the seller and ypon the buyer. Shar-
ings do greatly enrich, if the hands be well
chosen that are trusted. Usury is the certain-
est means of gain, though one of the worst;
as that whereby a man doth eat his bread in
sudore vultus aUeni;^"! and besides, doth plough
upon Sundays. But yet certain though it be,
it hath flaws; for thatis the scriveners and
brokers do valuers unsound men to serve their
own turn. The fortune in being the first in an
invention or in a privilege doth cause some-
Twith
8 so that
« wait for
10 command
11 greatly
12 must watch for
13 negotiate
1* hnvers
IS bad
16 bartering, dealing In
17 "in the sweat of an-
other man's face"
18 because
19 represent them to be
financially sound
(for the sake of
getting a commis-
sion on the loan)
times a wonderful overgrowth in riches; as it
was with the first sugar man in the Canaries.
Therefore if a man can play the true logician,
to have as well judgment as invention, he may
do great matters; especially if the times be fit.
He that resteth upon gains certain shall
hardly2o grow to great riches; and he that
puts all upon adventures doth oftentimes break
and come to poverty: it is good therefore to
guard adventures with certainties, that may
uphold losses. Monopolies, and coemptionsi of
wares for re-sale, where they are not re-
strained,22 are great means to enrich; espe-
cially if the party have intelligence what
things are like to come into request, and so
stfli^e himself beforehand. Biches gotten by
^rviee, though it be of the best rise,23 yet
when they are gotten by flattery, feeding
humours,24 and other servile conditions, they
may be placed amongst the worst. As for fish-
ing for testaments and executorships (as Tac-
itus saith of Seneca, testamenta et orbos tani'
qiiam indagine capi-^), it is yet worse, by how
much men submit themselves to meaner per-
sons than in service. Believe not much them
that seem to despise riches; for they despise
them that2C despair of th^n; and none worse
when they come to them. Be not penny- wise;
riches have wings, and sometimes they fly away
of themselves, sometimes they must be set fly-
ing to bring in more. Men leave their riches
either to their kindred, or to the public; and
moderate portions prosper best in both. A
great state left to an heir, is as a lure to all
the birds of prey round about to seize on him,
if he be not the better stablished in years and
judgment. Likewise glorious2T gifts and foun-
dations are like sacrifices without salt; and but
the painted sepulchres of alms, which soon will
putrefy and corrupt inwardly.28 Therefore
measure not thine advancements by quantity,
but frame them by measure: and defer not
charities till death; for, certainly, if a man
weigh it rightly, he that doth so is rather lib-
eral of another man's than of his own.
Ot Revenge
Revenge is a kind of wild justice; which the
more man 's nature runs to, the more ought law
to weed it cut. For as for the first wrong, it
doth but offend the law; but the revenge of
that wrong putteth the law out of oflSce.29 Cer-
20 with difficulty
21 cornering
22 i. e.. by law
23 source
24 catering to whims
25 -He took wills and
wardships as with a
net."
26 who (antecedent is
they)
27 valn-glorious
28 See Mark ix, 40 ;
Matthew xxili. 27.
29 i. e., by assuming its
fnnction
218
THE ELIZABETHAN AGE
tainly, in taking revenge, a man is but even
with liis enemy; but in passing it over, he is
superior; for it is a prince's part to pardon.
And Solomon, I am sure, saith, /* is the glory
of a man to pass by an offense. That which
is past is gone, and irrevocable; and wise men
have enough to do with things present and to
come; therefore they do but trifle with them-
selves, that labor in past matters. There is
no man doth a wrong for the wrong's sake;
but thereby to purchase himself profit, or pleas-
ure, or honor, or the like. Therefore why
should 1 be angry with a man for loving him-
self better than me? And if any man should
do wrong merely out of ill-nature, why, yet it is
but like the thorn or briar, which prick and
scratch, because they can do no other^^ The
most tolerable sort of revenge is for those
wrongs which there is no law to remedy; but
then let a man take heed the revenge be such
as there is no law to punish; else a man's
enemy is still before hand, and it is two for
one. Some, when they take revenge, are desir-
ous the party should know whence it cometh.
This is the more generous. For the delight
seemeth to be not so much in doing the hurt as
in making the party repent. But base and
crafty cowards are like the arrow that flieth
in the dark. Cosmus, duke of Florence, had a
desperate saying against perfidious or neglect-
ing friends, as if those wrongs were unpardon-
able; You shall read (saith he) that we are
commanded to forgive our enemies; hut you
never read that we are commanded to forgive
our friends. But yet the spirit of Job was
in a better tune: Shall we (saith he) take
good at God 's hands, and not he content to take
evil also? And so of friends in a proportion.
This is certain, that a man that studieth re-
venge, keeps his own wounds green, which oth-
erwise would heal and do well. Public revenges
are for the most part fortunate ;3o as that for
the death of Ca!sar; for the death of Pertinax;
for the death of Henry the Third of France;
and many more. But in private revenges it is
not so. Nay rather, vindictive persons live the
life of witches; who, as they are michievoHS, so
end they in fortunate.
Of Gardens
God Almighty first planted a garden. And
indeed it is the purest of human pleasures, it
is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of
man ; without which buildings and palaces are
but gross handiworks: and a man shall ever si^e
that when ages grow to civility and elegancy,
30 of (jood result
men come to build stately sooner than to gar-
den finely; as if gardening were the greater
perfection. I do hold it,i in the royal ordering
of gardens, there ought to be gardens for all
the months in the year; in which severally
things of beauty may be then in season.2 For
December, and January, and the latter part of
November, you must take such things as are
green all winter: holly; ivy; bays; juniper;
cypress-trees; yew; pine-apple-trees; 3 fir-trees;
rosemary; lavender; periwinkle, the white, the
purple, and the blue; germander; flags; or-
ango-trees; lemon-trees; and myrtles, if they
be stoved;4 and sweet marjoram, warm set.''
There followeth, for the latter part of January
and February, the mezereon-tree,^ wluch then
blossoms; crocus vernus,7 both the yellow and
the grey; primroses; anemones; the early tu-
lippa; hyacinthus orientalis; chamaTris;^ fri-
tellaria. For March, there come violets, spe-
cially the single blue, which are the earliest;
the yellow dafl:"odil; the daisy; the almond-
tree in blossom; the peach-tree in blossom; the
cornelian-tree in blossom; sweet-briar. In April
follow the double white violet; the wall-flower;
the stock-gilliflower; the cowslip; flower-de-
liceSjO and lilies of all natures; rosemary-flow-
ers; the tulippa; the double peony; the pale
daffodil; the French honeysuckle; the cherry-
tree in blossom; the damson and plum-trees in
blossom ; the white thorn in leaf ; the lilac-tree.
In May and June come pinks of all sorts, spe-
cially the blush-pink; roses of all kinds, except
the musk, which comes later; honeysuckles;
strawberries; bugloss; columbine; the French
marigold; flos Africanus;io cherry-tree in
fruit; ribes;ii figs in fruit; rasps ;i2 vine-flow-
ers; lavender in flowers; the sweet satyrian,i3
with the white flower; herba muscaria;!* lilium
convallium; the apple-tree in blossom. In July
come gilliflowers of all varieties; musk-roses;
the lime-tree in blossom; early pears and plums
in fruit; jennetings ;i'> codlins. In August come
plums of all sorts in fruit; pears; apricocks;
berberries; filberds; musk-melons; monks-hoods,
of all colors. In September come grapes; ap-
ples; poppies of all colors; peaches; meloco-
tones;i« nectarines; cornelians; wardens; it
quinces. In October and the beginning of No-
1 maintain
2 Cn. M'inicr'K Talc, iv.
4, 72 ff.
3 pines (conos b e 1 n ff
cailod pino-apples)
4 Itopt in a hot-houRc
(i warmly placed
a shruli-laurel
7 spring crocus
8 dwarf iris
9 flenr-de-lis
10 African marigold
1 1 currants
12 raspl)errios
13 orchis
14 grape hyacinth
ir. early apples
IB a variety of peach
IT late pears
FRANCIS BACON
219
vember come services ;i8 medlars; bullaees;>»
roses cut or removed to come late; holly-hocks;
and such like. These particulars are for the
climate of London; but my meaning is per-
ceived, that you may have ver peTp€tuum,2o as
the place affords.
And because the breath of flowers is far
sweeter in the air (where it comes and goes
like the warbling of music) than in the hand,
therefore nothing is more fit for that delight,
than to know what be the flowers and plants
that do best perfume the air, Roses, damask
and red, are fast2i flowers of their smells; so
that you may walk by a whole row of them,
and find nothing of their sweetness; yea though
it be in a morning's dew. Bays likewise yield
no smell as they grow. Bosemary little; nor
sweet marjoram. That which above all others
yields the sweetest snj^l in the air is the violet,
specially the white double violet, which comes
18 s o r b, mountain-ash,
rowan
It a plum
20 "perpetual spring"
21 frugal
twice a year; about the middle of April, and
about Bartholomew-tide.22 Next to that is the
muskrose. Then the strawberry-leaves dying,
which [yield] a most excellent cordial smell.
Then the flower of the vines; it is a little dustj
like the dust of a bent,23 which grows upon
the cluster in the first coming forth. Then
sweet-briar. Then wall-flowers, which are very
delightful to be set under a parlor or lower
chamber window. Then pinks and gilliflowers,
specially the matted pink and clove gilliflower.
Then the flowers of the lime-tree. Then the
honeysuckles, so they be somewhat afar off.
Of bean-flowers I speak not, because they are
field flowers. But those which perfume the air
most delightfully, not passed by as the rest,
but being trodden, upon and crushed, are three ;
that is, burnet, wild-thyme, and watermints.
Therefore you are to set whole alleyss* of them,
to have the pleasure when you walk or tread.
22 August 24
23 grass-Stalk or rush
24 paths
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
CAROLINE LYRICS
GEORGE HEEBEBT (1593-1633)
Virtue
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue, angry 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,
My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul.
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.
THOMAS CAEEW (1598?-1639?)
Song*
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose.
For in your beauty's orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day.
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
* In Rtanza 3, "dividinK" meaoH riinnlnR musical
divlBions ; for "sphere," st. 4, see note on Par.
Lost. II, 1030.
Ask we no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past.
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters and keeps warm her note.
4
Ask me no more where those stars light
That downwards fall in dead of night.
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become as in their sphere.
6
Ask me no more if east or west
The phoenix builds her spicy nest.
For unto you at last she flies.
And in your fragrant bosom dies.
SIR JOHN SUCKLING (1609-1642)
Song from Aglaura
1
Why so pale and wan, fond lover 1
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?
2
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?
Prithee, wky so mute?
3
Quit, quit for shame! This will not move;
This cannot take her.
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take herl
RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658)
To LucASTA. Going to the Wars
1
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
220
CAROLINE LYKICS
221
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
3
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore;
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.
To Althea, fbom Prison*
1
When Love with unconfinM wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fettered to her eye.
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep.
When healths and draughts go free —
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.
When, like committed linnets, I
With shriUer throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty.
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarg&d winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love
And in my soul am free,
• Lovelace, the gallant cavalier and poet, was. for
his devotion to King Charles, twice behind i
bars — a "committed" song-bird. In line 7. the i
original reading is "gods," but the emenda- \
tion '"birds" is too plausible to be dlsmis.sed, i
especially in view of the sequence — birds. |
fishes, winds, angels. In stanza 2, "allaying"
means diluting. I
Angels alone, that soar above.
Enjoy such liberty.
BOBEBT HEBBICK (1591-1674)
CowxNA's Going A-MayingI
Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the airj
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew bespangling herb and tree.
Each flower has wept and bowed toward the
east
Above an hour since : yet you not dress 'd ;
Nay! not so much as out of bed!
When all the birds have matins said 10
And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in,
Whenas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.
Bise and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and
green.
And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown or hair:
Fear not; the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you: 20
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept.
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept;
Come and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
And Titan on the eastern hill
Betires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in
praying:
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a
park 30
Made green and trimmed with trees; see hon
Devotion gives each house a bough
Or branch: each porch, each door ere this
An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street
And open fields and we not see't?
Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey
The proclamation made for May: 40
t The "god unshorn" of line 2 is Titan with all
his beams: "May" (14) is hawthorne and
other May blossoms ; "beads" (28) are prayers ;
"green-gown" (51) is a tumble on the
grass.
222
THE SETENTEENTU CENTURY
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.
There's not a budding boy or girl this day
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
Some have despatched their cakes and cream
Before that we have left to dream:
And some have wept, and woo 'd, and plighted
troth.
And chose their priest, ere we can cast ofl'
sloth: 50
Many a green-gown has been given;
Many a kiss, both odd and even:
Many a glance, too, has been sent
From out the eye, love's firmament;
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks picked, yet we're not
a-Maying.
Come, let us go while we are in our prime;
And take the harmless folly of the time.
We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty. 60
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun;
And, as a vapour or a drop of rain.
Once lost, can ne'er be found again,
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade.
All love, all liking, all delight
Lies drowned with us in endless night.
Then while time serves, and we are but de-
caying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. 70
To THE ViEGINS, TO MAKE MuCH OF TiME
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.
Old time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun.
The higher he's a-getting.
The sooner will his race bo run,
And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For, having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.
To Electra
I dare not ask a kiss,
1 dare not beg a smile.
Lest having that or this,
1 might grow proud the while.
2
No, no, the utmost share
Of my desire shall be
Only to kiss that air
That lately kissed thee.
How Roses Came Red
Roses at first were white,
Till they could not agree.
Whether my Sapho's breast
Or they more white should be.
2
But being vanquished quite,
A blush their cheeks bespread;
Since which, believe the rest,
The roses first came red.
EDMUND WALLER (1606-1687)
Go, Lovely Rose
1
Go, lovely Rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me.
That now she knows.
When I resemble her to thee.
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young.
And shuns to have her graces spied.
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide.
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bi<l her come forth,
Suflfer herself to be desired.
And not blush so to be admired.
JOHN MILTON
223
Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.
On a Girdle
1
That which her slender waist confined,
Shall now my joyful temples bind;
Xo monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this has done.
It was my heaven 's extr«nest sphere.
The pale which held that lovely deer.
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move.
A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair ;
C'live me but what this ribband bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round.
HENBY VAUGHAN (1622-1695)
The Ketreat
Happy those early days, when I
Shined in my angel infancy!
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race.
Or taught my soul to fancy ought
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;
When on some gilded cloud or flower
My gazing soul would dwell an hour.
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity;
Before I taught my tongue to wound
My conscience with a sinful sound.
Or had the black art to dispense,
A several sin to every sense,
But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness.
O how I long to travel back,
And tread again that ancient track 1
That I might once more reach that plain,
Where first I left my glorious train;
Prom whence the enlightened spirit sees
11
20
That shady city of palm trees.
But ah! my soul with too much stay
Is dirunk, and staggers in the way!
Some men a forward motion love,
But I by backward steps would move; 30
And when this dust falls to the um.
In that state I came, return.
JOHN MILTON (1608-1674)
ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S
NATIVITY
Composed 16S9.
This is the month, and this the happy morn.
Wherein the Son of Heaven 's eternal King,
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
Our great retlemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sagesi once did sing.
That he our deadly forfeit^ should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.
That glorious form, that light unsufferable,
And that far -beaming blaze of majesty.
Wherewith he wonts at Heaven's high council-
table
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 11
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 Godf
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,
To welcome him to this his new abode.
Now while the heaven, by the sun's team un-
trod.
Hath took no print of the approaching
light, 20
And all the spangled host keep watch in
squadrons bright?
See how from far upon the eastern road
The star-led wizards* haste with odours sweet!
O run, prevents 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 hal-
lowed fire.
1 The O I d Testament 4 Wise Men from the
prophets. East
2 penalty for sin 5 anticipate
3 was wont
224
THE SEVKNTEENTH CENTURY
The Hymn
It was the winter wild,
While the heaven-born child 30
All meanly wrapt iu the rude manger lies ;
Nature, in awe to him.
Had doffed her gaudy trim,
With her great Master so to sympathize:
It was no season then for her
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, *^
Pollute with sinful blame,
The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes
Should look 80 near upon her foul deformities.
But he, her fears to cease,
Sent down the meek-eyed Peace:
She, crowned with olive green, came softly
sliding
Down through the turning sphere,«
His ready harbinger^
With turtles wing the amorous clouds divid-
ing;
And waving wide her myrtle wand, 51
She strikes a universal peace through sea and
land.
No war, or battle 's sound.
Was heard the world around;
The idle spear and shield were high uphung;
The hookfeda chariot stood
Unstained with hostile blood;
The trumpet spake not to the armfed throng;
And kings sat still with awfuUo 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, '<>
Bending one way their precious influence,
6 See note to Par. Lont, o The axles of ancient
II, 1030, p. 265. war-charlot8 were
7 foreriinnor armed with scythes.
8 turtle-dove lo full of awe
11 stilled
And will not take their flight,
For all the morning light.
Or Luciferi2 that often warned them thence;
But in their glimmering orbs did glow,
Until their Lord himself bespake 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
Asi3 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,i*
Or ere the point of dawn.
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;
Full little thought they thani-
That the mighty Panio
Was kindly come to live with them below : 90
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep.
Was all that did their sillyi^ thoughts so busy
keep.
When such music sweet
Their hearts and ears did greet
As never was by mortal finger 8trook,i8
Divinely-warbled voice
Answering the stringed noise.
As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
The air, such pleasure loath to lose.
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heav-
enly close. ^^^
Nature, that heard such sound
Beneath the hollow round
Of Cynthia's seatis 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 all heaven and earth in happier
union.
At last surrounds their sight
A globe of circular light, H**
That with long beams the shamefaced night
arrayed ;
12 The morning star.
13 as If
14 untitled ground
15 then
16 The Rod of shepherds ;
here Christ, as the
Good Shepherd.
17 Prom the same root
as the German iicUg,
holy ; here, Inno-
cent.
iR struck »
10 The moon's sphere.
JOHN MILTON
225
The helmed cherubim
And sworded seraphim
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings dis-
played,
Harping in loud and solemn quire,
With unexpressive^o notes, to Heaven's new-
born heir.
Such music (as 'tis said)
Before was never made.
But when of old the sons of morning sung,2i
While the Creator great 120
His constellations set,
And the well-balanced world on hinges hung.
And cast the dark foundations deep,
And bid the weltering waves their oozy chan-
nel keep.
King out, ye crystal 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 bass of heaven's deep organ
blow ;
And with your ninefold^a harmony 131
Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.
For if such holy song
Enwrap our fancy long.
Time will run back and fetch the age of
gold;
And speckled Vanity
Will sicken soon and die.
And leprous Sin will melt from earthly
mould ;
And Hell itself will pass away.
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peer-
ing day. 1*0
Yea, Truth and Justice then
Will down return to men.
Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories
wearing,
^lercy will sit between.
Throned in celestial sheen,
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down
steering ;
And heaven, as at some festival.
Will open wide the gates of her high palace-
hall.
The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy
That on the bitter cross
Must redeem our loss,
So both himself and us to glorify:
Yet first, to those ychained in sleep.
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder
through the deep,-3
With such a horrid clang
As on Mount Sinai rang,24
While the red fire and smouldering clouds
out brake :
The aged earth, aghast 160
With terror of that blast,25
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,26
But now begins; for from this happy day
The old Dragon under ground,
In straiter limits bound.
Not half so far casts his usurped sway; ITO
And wroth to see his kingdom fail,
Swinges27 the scaly horror of his folded tail.
The oracles are dumb; 28
Xo voice or hideous hum
Buns through the arched roof in words de-
ceiving.
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more divine.
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leav-
ing.
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 haunted spring, and dale
Edged with poplar pale,
The parting Genius-9 is with sighing sent;
With flower-inwoven tresses torn,
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled
thickets mourn.
But wisest Fate says no,
This must not yet be so;
20 Inexpressible
21 "When the morning
stars sang togeth-
er." Job, iixviii, 7.
150 ^
22 See note on p. 255. ;
The spheres Wrre I
sometimes held to |
be only nine in ■
number.
In consecrated earth.
And on the holy hearth,
23 ?the air
24 When God gave Moses
the ten command-
ments.
25 Cp. 1. 156.
26 will be
27 lashes
190
28 Christ's coming is
conceived as put-
ting to naught the
heathen divinities.
29 singular of genii —
spirits
226
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
The Lars and Lemuresao luoau with midnight
plaint ;
In urns and altars round,
A drear and dying sound
Affrights the flamenssi at their service
quaint ;
And the chill marble seems to sweat,
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted
seat.
Peor32 and Baiilimss
Forsake their temples dim,
With that twice-battered god of Palestine ;33
And moonM Ashtaroth,34 200
Heaven's queen and mother both,
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;
The Libyc Hammonss shrinks his horn;
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thaui-
muz38 mourn.
And sullen Moloch,37 fled.
Hath left in shadows dread
His burning idol all of blackest hue;
In vain with cymbals' ring
They call the grisly king,
In dismal dance about the furnace blue; 210
The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
Isis38 and Orus3» and the dog Anubis,io haste.
Nor is Osiris seen
In Memphian grove or green.
Trampling the unshowered grass with low-
ings loud;
Nor can he be at rest
Within his sacred chest ;<i
Naught but profoundest Hell can be his
shroud ;
In vain, with timbreled anthems dark,
The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshiped
ark.
He feels from Juda's land
The dreaded Infant's hand;
221
80 spirltB of the depart- 38 Wife of Osiris, the
ed (to whom sacri- god of the Nile,
flees w o n Id no who is below con-
longer be made) fused with the buH-
31 Roman priests god Apis.
32 Phopniclan divinities. no Their son.
3a Dagon (/ Hamuel, v, 40 An Kgjptian divin-
o.t.u^"*-.^ ^. . **y *° ^^^ for"! o'
34 Phoenician goddess of a dog.
the moon. 4i He was captured by
35 The Lgyptian horned being lured to en-
god Ammon. ter a chest.
36 Adonis, a god of the Syrians, who having been
slain by a wild boar, was said to die every
year and revive again.
37 Chief god of the Phcenicians ; his Image was of
nrass and filled with fire and Into his arms
children were thrown to be sacriliced.
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyu;
Nor all the gods beside
Longer dare abide.
Not Typhon^2 huge ending in snaky twine:
Our Babe, to show 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! the Virgin blest
Hath laid her Babe to rest.
Time is our tedious song should here have
ending :
Heaven's youngest-teemfed*3 star 240
Hath fixed her polished car,
Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp at-
tending;
And all about the courtly stable
Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable,
ON SHAKESPEARE. 1630
What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured
bones
The labour of an age in pilfed stones I
Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid
Under a star-ypointing*^ pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What necd'st thou such weak witness of thy
name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a livelong monument.
For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavouring
art,
Thy ersy numbers flow, and that each heart 10
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued** book
Those Delphic*^ lines witli deep impression took;
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiv-
ing;"
And so sepulchred in such {X)mp dost Ho,
That kings for such a tomb wouhl wish to die.
42 A mythological snake-
like monster.
43 born (the Star of
Bethlehem)
44 The form has no war-
rant, but the mean-
ing is clear.
45 Invaluable
40 oracular, wise
47 The thought Is not
very clear, but «p.
lines 7, 8. and H
Penscroso, 42.
JOHN MILTON
227
L'ALLEGROi
Hence, loathM Melancholy,
Of Cerberus^ and blackest Midnight born
In Stygian cave forlorn,
'Mongst horrid shapes and shrieks and sights
unholy !
Find out some uncouth' cell,
"Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous
wings.
And the night-raven sings;
There under ebon shades and low-browed
rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian* desert ever dwell. 10
But come, thou Goddess fair and free.
In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
And by men heart-easing Mirth;
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,
With two sister Graces5 more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as some sagers sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring,
Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a-Maying, 20
There on beds of violets blue
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew,
Filled her with thee, a daughter fair,
8o buxom,7 blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful Jollity,
Quips and crankss and wanton wiles,
Nods and becks^ and wreathed smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's^o cheek.
And love to live in dimple sleek; 30
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it as you go.
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honour due.
Mirth, admit me of thy crew.
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreprovfed pleasures free: *^
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And singing, startle the dull night.
From his watch-tower in the skies.
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
1 The Cheerful Man.
2 The three-headed dog
that guarded the
entrance to Hades.
3 unknown
4 The Cimmerians of fa-
ble lived beyond the
ocean streams, out
of reach of the
sun.
6 Aglaia and Thalia,
goddesses of festive
joy.
6 more sagely (The
mythology that fol-
lows Is M i 1 t o n's
own Invention).
7 lithe, lively
8 odd turns of speech
9 beckon ings
10 Daughter of Jupiter
and Juno ; goddess
of youth.
Then to coiae" in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow.
Through the sweet-briar or the vine.
Or the twisted eglantine; 12
While the cock, with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin;
And to the stack, or the barn-door.
Stoutly struts his dames before:
Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn.
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill:
Sometime walking, not unseen,
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green.
Bight against the eastern gate
Where the great sun begins his state,
Eobed in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight;i3
While the ploughman, near at hand.
Whistles o'er the furrowed land.
And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe.
And every shepherd tells his talei*
Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleas-
ures.
Whilst the landskip round it measures:
Russet lawns and fallowsis grey,
^\^lere the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains on whose barren breast
The labouring clouds do often rest;
Meadows trim, with daisies pied.
Shallow brooks and rivers wide;
Towers and battlements it sees
Bosomed high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The cynosureis of neighbouring eyes.
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes
From betwixt two aged oaks.
Where Corydon and Thyrsis^^ met
Are at their savoury dinner set
Of herbs and other country messes.
Which the neat-handed Phillisi^ dresses;
And then in haste her bower she leaves,
With ThestylisiT to bind the sheaves;
Or, if the earlier season lead.
To the tanned haycock in the mead.
Sometimes, with secure delight,
The upland hamlets will invite,
When the merry bells ring round.
And the jocund rebecksis sound
To many a youth and many a maid
SO
60
70
SO
90
11 i. e.. arise and go (to
the window)
12 honeysuckle
13 decked
14 counts his sheep
15 untilled land
16 center of observati'^i
17 Common names of
rustics in pastoral
poetry.
18 Instruments liki- vio-
lins.
228
THE SEVENTEEJ^TH CENTURY
Dancing in the chequered shade;
And young and old come forth to play
On a sunshine holiday,
Till the livelong daylight fail:
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How Faery Mab the junkets eat.
Shei9 was pinched and pulled, she said;
And he, by Friar Vo lantern led,
Tells how the drudging goblins i sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set.
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn
That ten day-labourers could not end;
Then lies him down, the lubber fiend.
And, stretched out all the chimney's
length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength.
And crop-full out of doors he flings.
Ere the first cock his matin rings.
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep.
By whispering winds soon lulled asleep.
Towered cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men,
Where throngs of knights and barons bold.
In weeds22 of peace high triumphszs hold,
AVith store of ladies, whose bright eyes
Bain influence, and judge the prize
Of wit or arms, while both contend
To win her grace whom all commend.
There let Hymenz* oft appear
In saffron robe, with taper clear,
And pomp and feast and revelry,
With mask25 and antique pageantry;
Such sights as youthful poets dream
On summer eves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson's learned sockzs be on,
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child.
Warble his native wood-notes wild.
And ever, against eating cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian27 airs.
Married to immortal verse.
Such as the meeting soul may pierce.
In notes with many a winding bout28
Of linked sweetness long drawn out.
With wanton heed2» and giddy cunning.
100
110
121
130
140
19 One of the story-tel-
lers. For the pranks
of Faery Mab, see
Romeo and Juliet,
I. iv, 53. rr.
20 ? Will o' the wisp.
21 It o b i n Good fellow,
the mlschipvous
fairy. People placed
a bowl of cream at
the door to Insure
his help, and to
prevent bis mis-
chief.
22 dress
23 processions, shows,
revels
24 The god of marriage.
25 A form of entortuln-
ment.
26 low-hecIed shoe, sym-
bol of comedy
27 One of the three
moods of Grecian
music.
2s turn
20 freedom and care
combined
The melting voice through mazes running,
Untwisting all the chains that tie
The hidden soul of harmony;
That Orpheus' self so may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed
Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear
Such strains as would have won the ear
Of Pluto to have quite set free
His half-regained Eurydice. 150
These delights if thou canst give,
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
IL PENSEROSO.i
Hknce, vain deluding Joys,
The brood of Folly without father bred!
How little you bested,2
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys!
Dwell in some idle brain.
And fancies fonds with gaudy shapes pos-
sess,*
As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the sun-beams,
Or likest hovering dreams.
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.'' 10
But hail, thou Goddess sage and holy,
Hail, divinest Melancholy!
Whose saintly visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight,
And therefore to our weaker view
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;
Black, but such as in esteem
Prince Memnon's sister^ might beseem,
Or that starred Ethiop queen^ that strove
To set her beauty 's praise above 20
The sea nymphs, and their powers offended.
Yet thou art higher far descended:
Thee bright-haired Vesta* long of yore
To solitary Saturn bore;
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign
Such mixture was not held a stain).
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida'so inmost grove,
30 Stones and trees and beasts followed his music
and by It he even drew his wife Eurydice
forth from Hades, but lost her because he
looked back to see whether she were coming.
1 The Thoughtful Man.
2 bestead (profit)
3 foolish
4 captivate
5 followers of the god
of dreams
e Memnon was king of
the Ethiopians at
the time of the Tro-
jan wars.
7 Cassiopea was carried
t by Perseus to heav-
en, where she be-
came a constella-
tion.
8 Goddess of the hearth
or of fire, possibly
signifying genius.
The genealogy Is
Milton's Invention.
» Mt. Ida in Crete, the
ancient kingdom of
Saturn, from which
he was driven by
bis son .Tuplter.
JOHN MILTON
229
Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 30
Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stoleio of cypress lawnii
Over thy decenti2 shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gait.
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 40
There, held in holy passion still.
Forget thyself to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast
Thou fix them on the earth as fast.
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring
Aye round about Jove's altar sing;
And add to these retired Leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; 50
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheelM throne,
The cherub Contemplation ; is
And the mute Silence histi* along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yokeis
Gently o 'er the accustomedis oak : 60
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly.
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among,
I woo to hear thy even-song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green.
To behold the wandering moon.
Riding near her highest noon.
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heaven's wide pathless way, 70
And oft, as if her head she bowed.
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfewi^ sound,
Over some wide-watered shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar;
Or if the air will not permit.
Some still removfed place will fit,
10 robe 13 The name is Milton's,
II A thin texture. but cp. Esekiel x.
12 seemly, modest i* lead hushed
ij Cynthia (Diana, goddess of the moon) was not
drawn by dragons ; Ceres, goddess of har-
vests, wa.'s.
i« frequented (by Philomel, the nightingale)
IT A bell rung in olden times at eight o'clock as
a signal that fires were to be covered and
lights put out.
100
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, 80
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy charmis
To bless the doors from nightly harm.
Or let my lamp at midnight hour
Be seen in some high lonely tower.
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,i»
With thrice-great Hermes; 20 or unsphere
The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds or what vast regions hold 90
The immortal mind that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshy nook;
And2i of those demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or underground.
Whose power hath a true consent22
With planet or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In sceptred pall^s come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes,2* or Pelops'25 line.
Or the tale of Troy divine,26
Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskined stage.27
But, O sad Virgin! that thy power
Might raise Musaeusss from his bower;
Or bid the soul of Orpheus29 sing
Such notes as, warbled to the string.
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek.
And made Hell grant what love did seek;
Or call up him that left half-told
The story of Cambuscan bold,3o lie
Of CambaU, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife.
That owned the ^•irtuous3l ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass
On which the Tartar king did ride!
And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung.
Of turneys, and of trophies hung.
Of forests, and enchantments drear.
Where more is meant than meets the ear.32 120
Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
Till eivil-suited Morn appear,
22 con-sentio, agreement
23 mantle of state
2* Aeschy lus's "Seven
Against Thebes."
25 Sophocles' "Electra."
26 Homer's "Iliad."
27 Shakespeare? The
buskin was the high-
heeled shoe symbol-
ical of tragedy.
28 son of Orpheus
29 See note 30, p. 228.
30 References in 11. 110-
115 are all to
Chaucer's "Squiere's
Tale."
31 powerful
32 Spenser?
i The night watch-
man's hourly cry
often ended with a
benediction.
1 The constellation of
the Great Dipper
which remains in
the heavens all
night.
) I. e., read the works
of Hermes Trisme-
glstus (thrice
great), a mythical
learned king of
Egypt.
L Supply "to tell" in
the same construc-
tion with "to un-
fold."
230
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTUEY
Not tricked and frouncedss as she was wont
With the Attic boys* to hunt,
But kerchieft in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or ushered with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill.
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute-drops from off the eaves. 130
And when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that Sylvan35 loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak.
Where the rude axe with heaved stroke
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.
There in close covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look, 140
Hide me from day's garish eye.
While the bee with honeyed thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing.
And the waters murmuring,
With such consort as they keep.
Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at hisss wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture displayed.
Softly on my eyelids laidsT ; 150
And as I wake,38 sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good.
Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,39
And love the high embowed*o roof.
With antique pillars massy proof,4i
And storied*2 windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light. 1^0
There let the pealing organ blow.
To the full-voiced quire below.
In service high and anthems clear.
As may with sweetness, through mine ear.
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage.
The hairy gown, and mossy cell.
Where I may sit and rightly spell" 170
Of every star that heaven doth shew.
And every herb that sips the dew.
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give.
And I with thee will choose to live.
LYCIDAS.*
Yet once more,i O ye laurels,2 and once morej
Ye myrtles2 brown, with ivys never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crrid<
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year^
Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear
Compels me to disturb your season due;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime.
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter3 to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well*
That from beneath the seat of Jove doi
spring;
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destined urn, 20
And as he passes turn.
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,''
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and
rill;
Together both, ere the high lawnss appeared
Under the opening eyelids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly'' winds her sultry horn,
Battenings our flocks with the fresh dews of
night,
Oft till the star that rose at evening, bright, 30
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his wes-
tering wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Tempered to the oaten flute;
88 curled
84 CephalUB, beloved by
Aurora.
35 Sylvanus, a foroHt
god.
86 8loop'8.
87 Modifies "dream."
88 Supply "let."
30 limits
40 vaulted
41 ? massively proof
42 painted lo represent
stories
43 construe, study
1 Milton apparently had
written nothing for
three years.
2 Symbols of the poet's
rewards.
3 toss, roll
4 The Pierian spring at
the foot of Mt.
seat ; the birthplace
of the nine inusos.
5 1. e., at the same col-
lege
6 pastures
7 The trumpet fly that
makes a sharp hiss-
ing sound at noon.
Olympus, J o v e's 8 fattening
* This elegy was written in memory of Edward
King, a fellow student of Milton's at Ciun-
bridge who was drowned off the Welsh coast.
August. 16.S7. The sad event and the poet's
sorrow are poetically set forth in the pastoral
guise of one shepherd mourning for another.
The fact, moreover, that King was dost inert
for the Church enabled Milton to Introduce
St. Peter and voice, through him, a Puritanic
denunciation of the corrnptlon among the
clergy. See Eng. Lit., p. 140.
JOHN MILTON
231
Bough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven '
heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long ;
And old Damoetaso loved to hear our song.
But O the heavy change, now thou art gone.
Now thou art gone, and never must return!
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert
caves,
With wild thyme and the gadding vine
o 'ergrown.
And all their echoes, mourn. 41
The willows and the hazel copses green
Shall now no more be seen.
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose.
Or taint-worm to the weanlingio herds that
graze,
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe
wear.
When first the white-thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorse-
less deep 50
Closed o 'er the head of your loved Lycidas f
For neither were ye playing on the steep
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Monaii high.
Nor yet where Devai2 spreads her wizard
stream.
Ay me, I fondly dream!
Had ye been there — for what could that have
done?
What could the Museis herself that Orpheus
bore.
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son.
Whom universal nature did lament, 60
When by the rout that made the hideous roar.
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shoreli*
Alas! what boots it with uncessant care
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's
trade,i5
And strictly meditate the thankless Alusef
Were it not better done, as others use.
To sj)ort with Amaryllis in the shade.
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?>«
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth
raise 70
(That last infirmity of noble mind)
To scorn deUghts and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon i^ when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Furyis with the abhorred
shears.
And slits the thin-spun life. 'But not the
praise,'
Ph(pbusi» replied, and touched my trembling
ears:
'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil 79
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies;
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
And perfect witness of all- judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed.
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.'
O fountain Arethuse,^® and thou honoured
flood.
Smooth-sliding Mincius,2i crowned with vocal
reeds.
That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my oat proceeds.
And listens to the herald^s of the sea.
That came in Neptune 's plea.=3 90
He asked the waves, and asked the felon ninds.
What hard mishap hath doomed this graitle
swain?
And questioned every gust of rugged wings
That blows from off each beaketl promontory:
They knew not of his story;
And sage Hippotadesz* their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon
strayed ;
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope25 with all her sisters played.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 100
Built in the eclipse,* and rigged with curses
dark.
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
Next Camus,26 reverend sire, went footing
slow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,-'
• A pastoral disguise,
doubtless, for some
friend or tutor.
10 young
11 -Anglesey, an island
county of N. Wales,
which was also a
seat of the Druids.
12 The River Dee, of
legendary associa-
tions.
13 Calliope.
1* Orpheus having an-
fered the Thracian
bacchantes. was
torn into pieces by
them.
15 poetry
16 i. e.. live for pleasure
(the names are
imaginary)
IT reward :
18 Atropos, the third
Fate, cuts the ;
thread of life but
(line 76) cannot
cut off the praise. '.
i» Apollo, god of wis-
dom, music, and
poetry. :
20 Sung of by Theocri-
tus, a pastoral :
poet of Sicily ; In-
voked here because
of this association. :
21 A river near Man-
tua, the home of
Virgil, and of
which he sang.
• For this superstition, Cp.
2 Triton, son of Nep-
tune.
3 To inquire in the
name of Neptune,
god of ocean.
* -^olus. god of the
winds, son of Hip-
potas.
5 One of the Nereids,
or sea-nymphs.
6 The river Cam, that
flows past Cam-
bridge.
7 A rush-like reed
which has on the
edges of its leaf
peculiar letter-like
characters.
Macbeth, IV, I, 28.
232
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTUEY
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge !
Like to that sanguine flower^* inscribed with |
woe.
'Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, *my dearest
pledge? '20
Last came, and last did go,
The pilotso of the Galilean lake;
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain HO
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).
He shook his mitredsi locks, and stern
bespake:32
'How well could I have spared for thee, young
swain,
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake,
Creep and intrude and climb into the fold!
Of other care they little reckoning make
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest.
Blind mouths! t that scarce themselves know
how to hold
A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the
least 120
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
What recks33 it them? What need they? They
are sped; 3*
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannelss pipes of wretched
straw ;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed.
But swoln with wind and the rank mistse they
draw,
Kot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ;
Besides what the grim wolfs^ with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing said.
But that two-handed enginess at the door 130
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. '
Return, Alpheu8;39 the dread voice is past
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian
Muse,*o
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
Their bells and flowrets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers U8e*i
Of shades and wanton winds and gushing
brooks.
28 The hyacinth which
was said to have
the Greek words
al ai (alas) on its
j)etal8.
29 ofrKpring
30 IN'ter.
31 Wearing the bishop's
head-dress.
82 spoke out
33 concerns
84 cared for
8.'. loan, thin, therefore
harsh (flashy
means tasteless,
worthless)
t See KuKkln's comment
Seiiamv and Lilies.
86 false teachings
37 Milton's hostile char-
acterization of the
Church of Rome.
88 Terhaps the two
Houses of Parlia-
ment.
30 The river god who
pursued Arothusa
and was made one
with her In the
fountain of Aro-
thusa. Cp. 1. 8.^.
40 The muse of pastoral
poetry.
41 dwell
on this passage In his
On whose fresh lap the swart star^2 sparely*'
looks.
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes.
That on the green turf suck the honeyed show-
ers, 140
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe** primrose that forsaken dies.
The tufted crow-toe,*^ and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with
jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears;
Bid amaranthus*8 all his beauty shed.
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, 150
To strew the laureate hearse*^ where Lycid lies.
For so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding
seas
Wash far away, where 'er thy bones are hurled ;
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,*8
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit 'st the bottom of the monstrous world ;*»
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied.
Sleep 'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 160
Where the great vision of the guarded mount^o
Looks toward Namancossi and Bayona 's52 hold.
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with
ruth;
And O ye dolphins,53 waft the hapless youth.
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no
more.
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead.
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;
So sinks the day-star in the ocean -bed.
And yet anon repairs his drooping head.
And tricks54 his beams, and with new-spangled
ore 170
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of him that walked the
waves.
42 dog-star "i In Spain.
43 sparingly 62 Near ^amancos ; both
44 early found on ancient
45 purple hyacinth , maps.
46 An imaginary flower 53 Dolphins rescued
that never fades. Arion the Greek
47 garlanded bier Poet when jealous
48 Islands north of sailors, coveting
Scotland. his treasures,
49 world of monsters threw him over-
(the sea) board.
54 arranges
.10 fable of Bellerus = fabled Bellerus. lie is some-
tlmes said to have boon a Cornish giant. At
the western end of Cornwall is a rock called
the Giant's Chair : and near Land's End is
a rock called St. Mlohaol's Mount, said to be
guarded by the archangel himself.
JOHN MILTON
233
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the uuexpressive^^ nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above.
In solemn troops and sweet societies.
That sing, and singing in their glory move, 180
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense,58 and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth^" swain to the oaks
and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals
gray;
He touched the tender stops of various quills.
With eager thought warbling his Doric^s lay:
And now the sun had stretched out all the
hills, 190
And now was dropt into the western bay.
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
SONNETS
When the Assault Was Intended to the
City*
Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in arms.
Whose chance on these defenceless doorsi may
seize.
If ever deed of honour did thee please.
Guard them, and him within protect from
harms.
He can requite thee; for he knows the charms
That call2 fame on such gentle acts as these.
And he can spread thy name o'er lands and
seas,
Whatever clime the sun's bright circle
warms.
Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:
The great Emathian conqueror^ bid spare 10
The house of Pindarus,* when temple and
tower
Went to the ground; and the repeated airS
Of sad Electra's poet had the power
To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.
55 inexpressible
56 as thy great reward
57 unknown
58 pastoral
1 of Milton's home 2 call forth
3 Alexander the Great ; Emathia was a part of
Macedonia.
* The home of Pindar, the great Grecian lyric
poet, was ordered saved when Thebes was de-
stroyed. B. C. 3.*?.S. I
5 After the taking of Athens by the Lacedemo- I
nlans in B. C. 404. the singing of part of :
Euripides' drama Electro so influenced the i
conquerors that the city was saved. }
• When Charles I advanced upon London, which |
was largely Puritan. I
To the Lord General Cromwell, May, 1652
Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a
cloud
Not of war only, but detractionss rude.
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude.
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast
ploughed.
And on the neck of crownfed Fortune proud
Hast rearetl God 's trophies, and his work
pursued.
While Darwen stream,7 with blood of Scots
imbrued,
And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcester's laureate wreath: yet much
remains
To conquer still; peace hath her victories 10
No less renowned than war: new foes arise,
Threatening to bind our souls with secular
chains.8
Help us to save free conscience from the paw
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their
maw.
On the Late Massacre in Piedmont*
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose
bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of
old,
When all our fathers worshiped stocks and
stones.
Forget not : in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient
fold
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their
moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes
sow 10
O'er all the Italian fields, where stiU doth
sway
The triple tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
« Proceeding from Presbyterian opponents.
7 At the Darwen Cromwell defeated the Scotch in
1648. at Dunbar in 1650 : at Worcester he
defeated Charles I. in 16.51.
8 i. e. state control of religion
* The Protestant Vaudols or Waldenses in south-
ern France were practically crushed out in
1600 because of their refusal to accept the
state religion. They were an ancient sect,
originating In 1170; see line .S. In line 12.
there is an allus^ion to the triple tiara of the
Pooe; in line 14. to the doom of the mystical
Babylon. of Rerelation xvii and xvlil.
234
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTUKY
On His Blindness
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark, world and
wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul
more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?'
I fondlys ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, *God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who
best 10
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His
state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'
To Cyeiack Skinner
Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes,
though clear
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun or moon or star throughout the year.
Or man or woman. Yet I argue not
Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer
Bight onward. What supports me, dost thou
ask?
The conscience,io friend, to have lost them
overplied 10
In liberty's defence,t my noble task,
Of which all Europe talks from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the
world's vain mask
Content, though blind, had I no better guide.
Feom PABADTSE LOST
Book I
THE ARGUMENT
This First Book proposes, first in brief, the
whole subject: Man's disobedience, and the
loss thereupon of Paradise, wherein he was
placed : then touches the prime cause of his fall
— the Serpent, or rather Satan in the Serpent;
who, revolting from God, and drawing to his
side many legions of Angels, was by the com-
mand of God driven out of Heaven with all his
foolishly 10 consciousness
tilt' wrote the answer to SalmaHius (the Dcfenitio
pro Populo Aiif/licano) In the face of warning
from physicians that he would become blind
unlcHs be gave up work.
crew into the great Deep. Which action passed
over, the Poem hastens into the midst of
things; presenting Satan with his Angels now
fallen into Hell — described here, not in the
Centrei (for heaven and earth may be supposed
as yet not made, certainly not yet accursed),
but in a place of utter darkness, fitliest called
Chaos. Here Satan with his Angels lying on
the burning lake, thunderstruck and astonished,
after a certain space recovers, as from con-
fusion; calls up him who, next in order and
dignity, lay by him: they confer of their mis-
erable fall. Satan awakens all his legions, who
lay till then in the same manner confounded.
They rise: their numbers; array of battle;
their chief leaders named, according to the
idols known afterwards in Canaan and the
countries adjoining. To these Satan directs
his speech; comforts them with hope yet of
regaining Heaven; but tells them lastly of a
new world and new kind of creature to be
created, according to an ancient prophecy or
report in Heaven; for that Angels were long
before this visible creation was the opinion of
many ancient Fathers. To find out the truth
of this prophecy, and what to determine there-
on, he refers to a full council. What his as-
sociates thence attempt. Pandemonium, the
palace of Satan, rises, suddenly built out of
the Deep: the infernal Peers there sit in
council.
Op Man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe.
With loss of Eden,* till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,
Sing, Heavenly Muse,2 that on the secrets top
Of Oreb,* or of Sinai, didst inspire
That shepherd who first taught the chosen seeds
In the beginnings how the Heavens and Earth
Rose out of Chaos: or, if Sion^ hill 10
Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that
flowed
Fasts by the oracle of God, I thence
Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song.
That with no middle flight intends to soar
Above the Aonian mount,o while it pursues
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.
1 Earth : see note on to Moses from the
1. 74. DurninK I)U8h.
2 See VII, 1-12, p. 258. 6 Deut. x, 15.
3 hidden (Cowper). re- 6 Modifies "rose."
tired (Landor) 7 Zion, In .Terusalem.
4 Horeb, or Sinai, 8 close (by the Temple)
whereon God spoke » Helicon (tig. for Gre-
clan poetry).
♦ "And the Lord God planted a Rarden eastward
In Eden."— Gen. ft, 8. Strictly, therefore,
Eden Is the region, Paradise the garden.
JOHN MILTON
235
And chiefly Thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer
Before all temples the upright heart and pure,
Instruct me, for Thou know'st; Thou from the
first
Wast present, and, with^ mighty wings out-
spread, 20
Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast Abyss,
And mad'st it pregnant: what in me is dark
Illumine, what is low raise and support;
That to the highth of this great argument^o
1 may assert Eternal Providence,
And justify the ways of God to men.
Say first — for Heaven hides nothing from
Thy view,
Nor the deep tract of Hell — say first what
cause
Moved our grand parents, in that happy state.
Favored of Heaven so highly, to fall off 30
From their Creator, and transgress his will
For one restraint, lords of the world besides.
'\iMio first seduced them to that foul revolt!
The infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile,
Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived
The mother of mankind, what time his pride
Had cast him out from Heaven," with all his
host
Of rebel Angels, by whose aid, aspiring
To set himself in glory above his peers,
He trusted to have equalled the Most High, 40
If he opposed; and with ambitious aim
Against the throne and monarchyis of God
Raised impious war in Heaven, and battle
proud.
With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power
Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky.
With hideous ruin and combustion, down
To bottomless perdition; there to dweU
In adamantine chains and penal fire,
Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms.
Nine times the space that measures day and
night 50
To mortal men, he with his horrid crew
Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf.
Confounded, though immortal. But his doom
Reserved him to more wrath; for now the
thought
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain
Torments him; round he throws his baleful
eyes,
That witnessedi3 huge affliction and dismay.
Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate.
At once, as far as Angels ken, he views
The dismal situation waste and wild: 60
A dungeon horrible on all sides round
10 theme
11 Cp. Caedmon's
count, p. 19.
12 single rule
13 bore witness to
(within himself)
As one great furnace flamed; yet from those
flames
No ligh^; but rather darkness visible
Served only to discover i* sights of woe.
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end
Still urges,i5 and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed.
Such place Eternal Justice had prepared 70
For those rebellious; here their prison ordained
In utteri« darkness, and their portion set.
As far removed from God and light of Heaven
As from the centre thrice to the utmost pole.*
Oh how unlike the place from whence they fell!
There the companions of his fall, o 'erwhelmed
With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire.
He soon discerns; and, weltering by his side,
One next himself in power, and next in crime,
Long after known in Palestine, and named 80
Beelzebub. To whom the Arch-Enemy,
And thence in Heaven called Satan,i7 with bold
words
Breaking the horrid silence, thus began: —
'If thou beest he — but Oh how fallen! how
changed
From him, who in the happy realms of light.
Clothed with transcendent brightness, didst out-
shine
Myriads, though bright! — if he whom mutual
league,
L^nited thoughts and counsels, equal hope
And hazard in the glorious enterprise.
Joined with me once, now misery hath joined
In equal ruin — into what pit thou seest 91
From what highth fallen: is go much the
stronger proved
He with his thunder : and till then who knew
The force of those dire arms? Yet not for
those.
Nor what the potent Victor in his rage
Can else inflict, do I repent, or change,
Though changed in outward lustre, that fixed
mind.
And high disdain from sense of injured merit,
That with the flightiest raised me to contend,
And to the fierce contention brought along 100
Innumerable force of Spirits armed,
That durst dislike his reign, and, me pre-
ferring,
14 reveal 18 An exclamatory sen*
15 presses (a Latinism) tence without reg-
ie outer ular construction.
17 I. e.. Adversary
• According to the Ptolemaic system, the earth is
• the center of the physical universe. The ut-r
most or outmost, pole would be the outer
boundary, the firmament. Milton, while dis-
posed to accept the new Copemican theory,
' clung to the old system for poetic purposes.
236
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
His utmost power with adverse power opposed
In dubious battle on the plains of Heaven,
And shook his throne. What though the field
be lost?
All is not lost: the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield,
And what is else not to be overcome;
That glory never shall his wrath or might HO
Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace
With suppliant knee, and deify his power
Who, from the terror of this arm, so late
Doubted his empireio — that were low indeed;
That were an ignominy and shame beneath
This downfall; since by fate the strength of
gods
And this empyreal substance cannot fail;
Since, through experience of this great event,
In arms not worse, in foresight much advanced,
We may with more successful hope resolve 120
To wage by force or guile eternal war.
Irreconcilable to our grand Foe,
Who now triumphs, and in the excess of joy
Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heaven.'
So spake the apostate Angel, though in pain,
Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep despair;
And him thus answered soon his bold com-
peer: —
'O Prince! O Chief of many throned powers
That led the embattled Seraphimso to war
Under thy conduct, and, in dreadful deeds 130
Fearless, endangered Heaven's perpetual King,
And put to proof his high supremacy.
Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or
fate!
Too well I see and rue the dire event
That with sad overthrow and foul defeat
Hath lost us Heaven, and all this mighty host
In horrible destruction laid thus low,
As far as gods and heavenly essences
Can perish : for the mind and spirit remains
Invincible, and vigor soon returns, KO
Though all our glory extinct, and happy state
Here swallowed up in endless misery.
But what if he our Conqueror (whom I now
Of force2i believe almighty, since no less
Than such could have o'erpowered such force
as ours)
Have left us this our spirit and strength entire.
Strongly to suffer and support our pains.
That we may so suffice his vengeful ire,
Or do him mightier service as his thralls
By right of war, whate 'er his business be, 150
Here in the heart of Hell to work in fire,
Or do his errands in the gloomy Deep!
19 Bovprolgnty
10 See p. 139, note 13.
21 perforce
What can it then avail, though yet we feel
Strength undiminished, or eternal being
To undergo eternal punishment?'
Whereto with speedy words the Arch-Fiend
replied: —
'Fallen Cherub, to be weak is miserable,
Doing or suffering: but of this be sure —
To do aught good never will be our task.
But ever to do ill our sole delight, 160 ;
As being the contrary to his high will
Whom we resist. If then his providence
Out of our evil seek to bring forth good.
Our labor must be to pervert that end.
And out of good still to find means of evil;
Which ofttimes may succeed so as perhaps
Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb
His inmost counsels from their destined aim.
But see! the angry Victor hath recalled
His ministers of vengeance and pursuit 170
Back to the gates of Heaven; the sulphurous
hail.
Shot after us in storm, o'erblown hath laid
The fiery surge that from the precipice
Of Heaven received us falling; and the
thunder,
Winged with red lightning and impetuous rage.
Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases now
To bellow through the vast and boundless
Deep.*
Let us not slip the occasion, whether scorn
Or satiate fury yield it from our Foe.
Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild,
The seat of desolation, void of light, 181
Save what the glimmering of these Uvid flames
Casts pale and dreadful? Thither let us tendsz
From off the tossing of these fiery waves;
There rest, if any rest can harbor there;
And, reassembling our aflBicted23 powers.
Consult how we may henceforth most offend
Our Enemy, our own loss how repair,
How overcome this dire calamity.
What reinforcement we may gain from hope,
If not what resolution from despair.' 191
Thus Satan, talking to his nearest mate.
With head uplift above the wave, and eyes
That sparkling blazed; his other parts besides.
Prone on the flood, extended long and large,
Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge
As whom the fables name of monstrous size,t
22 make our way (a 2S beaten down (a
Latlnlsm) Latlnlsm)
♦ Even above the resonance to be felt everywhere
through Milton's verse this line rises with a
resonance of Its own.
t The Titans were the children of Uranus and
Gaea (Heaven and Earth). Brlareos and Ty-
phon were GIgantes, sometimes said to have
been Imprisoned beneath mountnlns, thus rep-
resenting the forces of earthquake and vol-
cano.
JOHN MILTON
237
Titanian, or Earth-born, that warred ou Jove^
Briareos or Typhon, whom the den
By ancient Tarsus held, ot that sea-beast 200
Leviathan,2* which God of all his works
Created hugest that swim the ocean-stream.
Him, haply slumbering on the Norway foam.
The pilot of some small night-foundered skiff
Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell.
With fixed anchor in his scaly rind,
Moors by his side under the lee, while night
Invests the sea, and wished morn delays.
So stretched out huge in length the Arch-Fiend
lay, 209
Chained25 on the burning lake ; nor ever thence
Had26 risen or heaved his head, but that the
will
And high permission of all-ruling Heaven
Left him at large to his own dark designs,
That with reiterated crimes he might
Heap on himself damnation, while he sought
Evil to others, and enraged might see
How all his malice served but to bring forth
Infinite goodness, grace, and mercy, shewn
On ilan by him seduced; but on himself 219
Treble confusion, wrath, and vengeance poured.
Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool
His mighty stature; on each hand the flames
Driven backward slope their pointing spires,
and, rolled
In billows, leave i ' the midst a horrid vale.
Then with expanded wings he steers his flight
Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air,
That felt unusual weight; till on dry land
He lights — if it were land that ever burned
With solid, as the lake with liquid fire.
And such appeared in hue, as when the force
Of subterranean wind transports a hill 231
Torn from Pelorus,27 or the shattered side
Of thundering ^tna, whose combustible
And fuelled entrails thence conceiving fire,
Sublimed28 whh mineral fury, aid the winds.
And leave a singed bottom all involved
With stench and smoke : such resting found the
sole
Of unblest feet. Him followed his next mate,
Both glorying to have scaped the Stygian flood
As gods, and by their own recovered strength,
Not by the sufferance of supernal power. 241
'Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,'
Said then the lost Archangel, 'this the seat
That we must change for Heaven t this mourn-
ful gloom
For that celestial light? Be it so, since he
Who now is sovran can dispose and bid
n Psalms civ. 26.
25 2 Peter ii, 4.
26 would have
27 A Sicilian cape, now
Faro.
28 sublimated
What shall be right : farthest from him is best,
Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made
supreme
Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields,
Wbere joy forever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail.
Infernal world ! and thou, prof oundest Hell, 251
Beceive thy new possessor, one who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.28
What matter where, if I be still the same.
And what I should be, all but29 less than he
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at
least
We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: 260
Here we may reign secure, and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.
But wherefore let we then our faithful friends.
The associates and co-partners of our loss.
Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool,
And call them not to share with us their part
In this unhappy mansion, or once more
With rallied arms to try what may be yet
Begained in Heaven, or what more lost in
Hell?' 270
So Satan spake; and him Beelzebub
Thus answered: — 'Leader of those armies
bright
Which but the Omnipotent none could have
foiled,
If once they hear that voice, their liveliest
pledge
Of hope in fears and dangers — ^heard so oft
In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge
Of battle when it raged, in all assaults
Their surest signal — they will soon resume
New courage and revive, though now they lie
Grovelling and prostrate on yon lake of fire, 280
As we erewhile, astounded and amazed:
No wonder, fallen such a pernicious highth ! *
He scarce had ceased when the superior
Fiend
Was moving toward the shore; his ponderous
shield,
Ethereal temper,3o massy, large, and round,
Bdiind him cast. The broad circumference
Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist'i \-iew8
At evening from the top of Fe8ole,32
Or in Valdarno,33 to descry new lands, 290
Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe.
28 Cp. p. 155, I. 75.
29 only
30 of ethereal temper
31 scientist ( though pos-
sibly referring to
Galileo as a maker
of telescopes)
32 Flesole, a hill above
Florence.
33 Valley of the Amo.
238
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
His spear — to equal which the tallest pine
Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast
Of some great ammiral,3* were but a wand —
He walked with, to support uneasy steps
Over the burning marie, not like those steps
On Heaven's azure; and the torrid cUme
Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire.
Nathless he so endured, till on the beach
Of that inflamed sea he stood, and called 300
His legions, Angel forms, who lay entranced.
Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks
In Vallombrosa,35 where the Etrurian shades
High over-arched embower; or scattered sedge
Afloat, when with fierce winds Orionso armed
Hath vexed the Red-Sea coast, whose waves
'erthrew
BusirisST and his Memphian chivalry,
While with perfidious hatred they pursued
The sojourners of Goshen,38 who beheld
From the safe shore their floating carcases 310
And broken chariot-wheels: so thick bestrewn,
Abject and lost, lay these, covering the flood,
Under amazement of their hideous change.
He called so loud that all the hollow deep
Of Hell resounded: — 'Princes, Potentates,
Warriors, the Flower of Heaven — once yours,
now lost.
If such astonishment as this can seize
Eternal Spirits ! Or have ye chosen this place
After the toil of battle to repose
Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find 320
To slumber here, as in the vales of Heaven?
Or in this abject posture have ye sworn
To adore the Conqueror, who now beholds
Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood
With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon
His swift pursuers from Heaven-gates discern
The advantage, and descending tread us down
Thus drooping, or with linked thunderbolts
Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf?
Awake, arise, or be forever fallen!' 330
They heard, and were abashed, and up they
sprung
Upon the wing, as when men wont to watch.
On duty sleeping found by whom they dread.
Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake.
Nor did they not perceive the evil plight
In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel ;
Yet to their General's voice they soon obeyed
Innumerable. As when the potent rod
Of Amram's 8on,88 in Egypt's evil day,
84 admiral's flag-nhlp
so N c a r Florence, 1 n
Tuscany (Etrurla).
89 A Greek hunter ;
then a conBtellation
Hupposed to bring
tempeslB.
87 One of the Pharaohs ;
used here for the
Pharaoh of the
time of the Kxodus.
aeEirod. xU, 26, xlv,
22-28.
89 Moses.
Waved round the coast, up called a pitchy
cloud 340
Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind.
That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh hung
Like night, and darkened all the land of Nile:
So numberless were those bad Angels seen
Hovering on wing under the cope of Hell,
'Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires;
Till, as a signal given, the uplifted spear
Of their great Sultan waving to direct
Their course, in even balance down they light
On the firm brimstone, and fill all the plain : 350
A multitude like which the populous North
Poured never from her frozen loins, to pass
Ehene or the Danaw, when her barbarous sons-»o
Came like a deluge on the South, and spread
Beneath Gibraltar to the Libyan sands.
Forthwith, from every squadron and each band.
The heads and leaders thither haste where stood
Their great Commander; godlike shapes, and
forms
Excelling human, princely Dignities,
And Powers that erst in Heaven sat on
thrones ; 360
Though of their names in Heavenly records
now
Be no memorial, blotted out and rased
By their rebellion from the Books of Life.*
Nor had they yet among the sons of Eve
Got them new names, till, wandering o'er the
Earth,
Through God's high sufferance for the trial of
man,
By falsities and lies the greatest part
Of mankind they corrupted to forsake
God their Creator, and the invisible
Glory of him that made them, to transform 370
Oft to the image of a brute, adorned
With gay religions*i full of pomp and gold,
And devils to adore for deities:
Then were they known to men by various names,
And various idols through the heathen world.
Say, Muse, their names then known, who
first, who last.
Roused from the slumber on that fiery couch,
At their great Emperor 's call, as next in worth
Came singly where he stood on the bare strand,
While the promiscuous crowd stood yet
aloof. 380
The chief were those who, from the pit of
Hell
Roaming to seek their prey on Earth, durst fix
40 Vandals from the Rhine and Danube, 420 A. D.
41 rites
• Three lines of Infinite sadness. Conversely,
Dan to does not allow the name of Christ to be
spoken la bis Inferno.
JOHN MILTON
239
Their seats, long after, next the seat of God,
Their altars by his altar, gotls adored
Among the nations round, and durst abide
Jehovah thundering out of Sion, throned
Between the Cherubim; yea, often placed
Within his sanctuary itself their shrines,
Abominations; and with cursed things
His holy rites and solemn feasts profaned, 390
And with their darkness durst affront*2 bis
light.
First Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with
blood
Of human sacrifice, and parents' tears,
Though, for the noise of drums and timbrels
loud.
Their children's cries unheard that passed
through fire-ts
To his grim idol. Him the Ammonite
Worshiped in Kabba and her watery plain.
In Argob and in Basan, to the stream
Of utmost Arnon. Nor content with such
Audacious neighborhood, the wisest** heart 400
Of Solomon he led by fraud to build
His temple right against the temple of God
On that opprobrious hill,45 and made his grove
The pleasant valley of Hinnom,*^ Tophet thence
And black Gehenna called, the type of Hell.
Next Chemos, the obscene dread of Moab's
sons.
From Aroar to Nebo and the wild
Of southmost Abarim; in Hesebon
And Horonaim, Seon's realm, beyond
The flowery dale of Sibma clad with vines, 410
And Eleale to the Asphaltic pool.*^
Peor his other name, when he enticed
Israel in Sittim, on their march from Nile,
To do him wanton rites, which cost them woe.^s
Yet thence his lustful orgies he enlarged
Even to that hill of scandal, by the grove
Of Moloch homicide, lust hard by hate.
Till good Josiah drove them thence to Hell.^s
With these came they who, from the bordering
flood
Of old Euphrates to the brook that parts 420
Egypt from Syrian ground, had general names
Of Baalim and Ashtarothso — those male.
These feminine. For Spirits, when they please,
Can either sex assume, or both ; so soft
And uncompounded is their essence pure,
Not tied or manacled with joint or limb.
Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones,
Like cumbrous flesh; but, in what shape they
choose,
Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure,
Can execute their aery purposes, 430
And works of love or enmity fulfil.
For those the race of Israel oft forsook
Their living Strength, and unfrequented left
His righteous altar, bowing lowly down
To bestial gods; for which their heads as low
Bowed down in battle, sunk before the spear
Of despicable foes. With these in troop
Came Astoreth, whom the Phoenicians called
Astarte, Queen of Heaven, with crescent horns;
To whose bright image nightly by the moon 440
Sidonian virgins paid their vows and songs;
In Sion also not unsung, where stood
Her temple on the offensive mountain, built
By that uxorious king whose heart, though
large,
Beguiled by fair idolatresses, fellsi
To idols foul. Thammuz52 came next behind,
Whose annual wound in Lebanon allured
The Syrian damsels to lament his fate
In amorous ditties all a summer's day.
While smooth Adonises from his native rock 450
Ean purple to the sea, supposed with blood
Of Thammuz yearly wounded: the love-tale
Infected Sion's daughters with like heat.
Whose wanton passions in the sacred porch
Ezekiel saw, when, by the vision led.
His eye surveyed the dark idolatries
Of alienated Judah. Next came one
Who mourned in earnest, when the captive ark
Maimed his brute image, head and hands lopt
off
In his own temple, on the grun3el-edge,54 460
"Where he fell flat, and shamed his worshipers:
Dagon^s his name, sea-monster, upward man
And downward fish; yet had his temple high
Beared in Azotus, dreaded through the coast
Of Palestine, in Gath and Ascalon,
And Accaron and Gaza's frontier bounds.
Him followed Eimmon, whose delightful seat
Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks
Of Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams.
He also against the house of God was bold : 470
A leper once he lost, and gained a king,56
Ahaz, his sottish conqueror, whom he drew
God's altar to disparage and displace
For one of Syrian mode, whereon to burn
His odious offerings, and adore the gods
W^hom he had vanquished. After these ap-
peared
A crew who, under names of old renown,
42 confront
43 Jer. xxxli, 35.
44 most wise
45 2 Kings xxlii, 13.
46 Jer. vli, 31.
47 Dead Sea.
48 Numh. XXV, 9.
49 2 Kittys xxlil.
50 Singular : Baal, As-
toreth, Phoenician
deities.
51 1 Kin<js xi, 4.
52 Identified with the
Greek Adonis.
53 A Phoenician stream,
tinged red by soil
from the Llbanus
mountains.
54 ground-slU
55 God of the Philis-
tines. 1 Sam. V, 4.
56 2 Kings v.
240
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their train,
With monstrous shapes and sorceries abused
Fanatic Egypt and her priests, to seek 480
Their wandering gods disguised in brutish
forms
Eather than human. Nor did Israel scape
The infection, when their borrowed gold com-
posed
The calf in Oreb,B7 and the robel kingss
Doubled that sin in Bethel and in Dan,
Likening his Maker to the grazed ox —
Jehovah, who, in one night, when he passed
From Egypt marching, equalled with one stroke
Both her first-born and all her bleating gods.ss
Belialso came last, than whom a Spirit more
lewd 490
Fell not from Heaven, or more gross to love
Vice for itself. To him no temple stood
Or altar smoked ; yet who more oft than he
In temples and at altars, when the priest
Turns atheist, as did Eli's sons,6i who filled
With lust and violence the house of God?
In courts and palaces he also reigns,*
And in luxurious cities, where the noise
Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers.
And injury and outrage; and when night 500
Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons
Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.
Witness the streets of Sodom, and that night
In Gibeah, when the hospitable door
Exposed a matron, to avoid worse rape.
These were the prime in order and in might;
The rest were long to tell, though far renowned
The Ionian62 gods — of 63 Javan's issue held
Gods, yet confessed latere* than Heaven and
Earth,
Their boasted parents; — Titan, Heaven's first-
born, 510
With his enormous brood, and birthright seized
By younger Saturn; he from mightier Jove,
His own and Rhea's son, like measure found;
So Jove usurping reigned. These, first in Crete
And Ida known, thence on the snowy top
Of cold Olympus ruled the middle air,
Their highest Heaven; or on the Delphian cliff,
Or in Dodona, and through all the bounds
Of Doric land; or who with Saturn old
Fled over Adria to the Hesperianos fields, 520
And o 'er the Celtic roamed the utmost isles.
All these and more came flocking; but with
looks
67 Exod. zii, 35, zxxii, 4. 62 Grecian (a name
S8 1 Kings xii, 28. traceable to .Tavan,
69 Exod. xll, 29. Noah's grandson).
60 "wickedness" (2 Cor. 63 by
vi, 15 ; personified 64 Referring to the suc-
l)y Milton) cesRive dynastien.
61 1 8am. il, 12. 6S western. Italian
* Perhaps alluding to conditions in England under
Charles II. Cp. VII, 32, p. 268.
Downcast and damp, yet such wherein appeared
Obscure some glimpse of joy, to have found
their Chief
Not in despair, to have found themselves not
lost
In loss itself; which on his countenance cast
Like doubtful hue. But he, his wonted pride
Soon recollecting, with high words that bore
Semblance of worth, not substance, gently
raised
Their fainting courage, and disijelled their
fears : 530
Then straight commands that at the warlike
sound
Of trumpets loud and clarions, be upreared
His mighty standard. That proud honor
claimed
Azazel as his right, a Cherub tall:
Who forthwith from the glittering staff un-
furled
The imperial ensign, which, full high advanced,
Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind,
With gems and golden lustre rich emblazed,
Seraphic arms and trophies; all the while
Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds: 540
At which the universal host up-sent
A shout that tore Hell's concave, and beyond
Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.
All in a moment through the gloom were seen
Ten thousand banners rise into the air.
With orient colors waving; with them rose
A forest huge of spears; and thronging helms
Appeared, and serried shields in thick array
Of depth immeasurable. Anon they move
In perfect phalanx to the Dorian moodca 550
Of flutes and soft recorderss^ — such as raised
To highth of noblest temper heroes old
Arming to battle, and instead of rage
Deliberate valor breathed, firm and unmoveil
With dread of death to flight or foul retreat;
Nor wanting power to mitigate and swage,«8
With solemn touches, troubled thoughts, and
chase
Anguish and doubt and fear and sorrow and
pain
From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they.
Breathing united force with fixed thought, 560
Moved on in silence to soft pipes that charmed
Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil; and
now
Advanced in view they stand, a horrid front
Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guise
Of warriors old, with ordered spear and shield,
Awaiting what command their mighty Chief
66 A grave harmony,
employed by the
Spartans.
67 flageolets
68 assuage
JOHN MILTON
241
Had to impose. He through the armed files
Darts his experienced eye, and soon traverse
The whole battalion views — their order due,
Their visages and stature as of gods; 570
Their number last he sums. And now liis heart
Distends with pride, and hardening in his
strength
Glories; for never, since created man,*^
Met such embodied force as, named with these,
Could merit more than that small infantry'o
Warred on by cranes: though all the giant
brood
Of Phlegra'i with the heroic race were joined
That fought at Thebes and Ilium, on each side
Mixed with auxiliar gods; and what resounds
In fable or romance of Uther's son,''2 580
Begirt with British and Armoric knights;
And all who since,73 baptized or infidel,
Jousted in Aspramont, or Montalban,
Damasco, or Marocco, or Trebisond;
Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore
When Charlemain with all his peerage fell
By Fontarabbia.7* Thus far these beyond
Compare of mortal prowess, yet observed^s
Their dread commander. He, above the rest
In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 590
Stood like a tower; his form had yet not lost
All her original brightness, nor appeared
Less than Archangel ruined, and the excess
I Their glory withered : as, when Heaven 's fire
Hath scathed the forest oaks or mountain pines.
With singed top their stately growth, though
bare,
Stands on the blasted heath. He now prepared
To speak; whereat their doubled ranks they
bend
From wing to wing, and half enclose him round
With all his peers: attention held them mute.
Thrice he assayed, and thrice, in spite of scorn,
Tears, such as Angels weep, burst forth: at
last 620
Words interwove with sighs found out their
way: —
*0 myriads of immortal Spirits! O Powers
Matchless, but with the Almighty! — and that
strife
Was not inglorious, though the event's was
dire,
As this place testifies, and this dire change.
Hateful to utter. But what power of mind,
Foreseeing or presaging, from the depth
Of knowledge past or present, could have
feared
How such united force of gods, how such
As stood like these, coidd ever know repulse?
For who can yet believe, though after loss, 631
That all these puissant legions, whose exile
Hath emptied Heaven, shall fail to reascend,
Of glory obscured: as when the sun new -risen I Self -raised, and repossess their native seat?
Looks through the horizontal misty air i For me, be witness all the host of Heaven,
Shorn of his beams, or from behind the moon, If counsels different, or danger shunned
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet shone
Above them all the Archangel; but his face 600
Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and care
Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows
Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride
Waiting revenge. Cruel his eye, but cast
Signs of remorse and passion, to behold
The fellows of his crime, the followers rather
(Far other once beheld in bliss), condemned
Forever now to have their lot in pain;
Millions of Spirits for his fault amerced'^
Of Heaven, and from eternal splendors flung 610
For his revolt; yet faithful how^r they stood,
C9 since the creation of
man (a Latinism)
TO The pigmies. Iliad
III. 6.
71 In Thrace.
72 King Arthur.
73 As described In
French and Italian
mediaeval
romances.
'* Fontarabbia, in northern
posely substituted for the pass of Roncesvalles.
where, according to tradition. Charlemagne's
roar guard was cut to pieces, though Charle-
magne did not fall).
75 These (though) thus
far beyond compare
of mortal prowess,
yet observed (rev-
erenced).
76 deprived
77 Follows "behold," 1.
605.
Spain (perhaps pur-
111
By me, have lost our hopes. But he who reigns
Monarch in Heaven, till then as one secure
Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute.
Consent or custom, and his regal state 640
Put forth at full, but still his strength con-
cealed ;
Which tempted our attempt,* and wrought our
fall.
Henceforth his might we know, and know our
own
So as not either to provoke, or dread
New war provoked. Our better part remains
To work in close design, by fraud or guUe,
What force effected not; that he no less
At length from us may find, who overcomes
By force hath overcome but half his foe.
Space may produce new worlds; whereof so
rife 650
There went a fame in Heaven that he ere long
Intended to create, and therein plant
A generation whom his choice regard
Should favor equal to the Sons of Heaven.
78 issue
• This word-play was severely condemned by Lan-
der. Compare 11. 606, 666-667.
242
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTUEY
Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps
Our first eruption: thither or elsewhere;
For this infernal pit shall never hold
Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor the Abyss
Long under darkness cover. But these
thoughts,
Full counsel must mature. Peace is des-
paired, 660
For who can think submission? War, then,
war
Open or understood, must be resolved.'
He spake; and, to co-ifirm his words, out -flew
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the
thighs
Of mighty Cherubim ; the sudden blaze
Far round illumined Hell. Highly they raged
Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped
arms
Clashed on their sounding shields the din of
war,
Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven.
There stood a hill not far, whose grisly^a
top 670
Belched fire and rolling smoke; the rest entire
Shone with a glossy scurf, undoubted sign
That in his womb was hid metallic ore.
The work of sulphur.so Thither, winged with
speed,
A numerous brigad hastened: as when bands
Of pioneers, with spade and pickaxe armed,
Forerun the royal camp, to trench a field,
Or cast a rampart. Mammon led them on,
Mammon, the least erected Spirit that fell
From Heaven, for even in Heaven his looks
and thoughts 680
Were always downward bent, admiring more
The riches of Heaven 's pavement, trodden gold,
Than aught divine or holy else enjoyed
In vision beatific. By him first
Men also, and by his suggestion taught.
Ransacked the Centre,8i and with impious
hands
Eifled the bowels of their mother Earth
For treasures better hid. Soon had his crew
Opened into the hill a spacious wound,
And digged out ribs of gold. Let none
admire82 690
That riches grow in Hell; that soil may best
Deserve the precious bane. And here let those
Who boast in mortal things, and wondering tell
Of Babel, and the works of Memphian kings,
Learn how their greatest monuments of fame,
And strength, and art, are easily outdone
By Spirits reprobate, and in an hour
7» Krl<'Hly. terrifying
80 An early cnemlcal
theory.
81 Cf. 1. 74.
82 wonder
What in an age they, with incessant toil
And hands innumerable, scarce perform.
Nigh on the plain, in many cells prepared, 700
That underneath had veins of liquid fire
Sluiced "from the lake, a second multitude
With wondrous art foundedsa the massy ore.
Severing each kind, and scummed the bullions*
dross.
A third as soon had formed within the ground
A various mould, and from the boiling cells
By strange conveyance filled each hollow nook:
As in an organ, from one blast of wind,
To many a row of pipes the sound-board
breathes.
Anon out of the earth a fabric huge 710
Eose like an exhalation, with the sound
Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet —
Built like a temple, where pilasters round
Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid
With golden architrave; nor did there want
Cornice or frieze, with bossyss sculptures
graven :
The roof was fretted gold. Not Babylon,
Nor great A]cairo,88 such magnificence
Equalled in all their glories, to enshrine
Belus or Serapis their gods, or seat 720
Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria strove
In wealth and luxury. The ascending pile
Stood fixed her stately highth, and straight the
doors.
Opening their brazen folds, discover, wide
Within, her ample spaces o'er the smooth
And level pavement: from the arched roof,
Pendent by subtle magic, many a row
Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed
With naphtha and asphaltus, yielded light
As from a sky. The hasty multitude 730
Admiring entered, and the work some praise.
And some the architect. His hand was known
In Heaven by many a towered structure high,
Where sceptred Angels held their residence.
And sat as Princes, whom the supreme King
Exalted to such power, and gave to rule,
Each in his liierarchy, the Orders bright.
Nor was his name unheard or unadored
In ancient Greece; and in Ausonian^T land
Men called him Mulciber;*^ and how he fell 740
From Heaven they fabled, thrown by angry
Jove
Sheer o 'er the crystal battlements : from morn
To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,
A summer's day; and with the setting sun
Dropt from the zenith, like a falling star,
On Lemnos, th6 .(Egajan isle. Thus they relate,
88 melted
84 haHc ore (used
jectlvely)
8(lo blgb relief
ad-
R« Cairo.
07 Italian.
W8 Vnlcan,
JOHN MILTON
243
Erring; for he with this rebdlious rout
Fell long before ; nor aught availed him now
To have built in Heaven high towers; nor did
he scape
By all his engines,** but was headlong sent 750
With his industrious crew to build in Hell.
Meanwhile the winged heralds, by command
Of sovran power, with awful ceremony
And trumpet's sound, throughout the host pro-
claim
A solemn council forthwith to be held
At Pandemonium,^® the high capital
Of Satan and his peers. Their summons called
From every band and squared regiment
By place or choice the worthiest ; they anon
With hundreds and with thousands trooping
came 760
Attended. All access was thronged; the gates
And porches wide, but chief the spacious hall
(Though like a covered field, where champions
bold
Wontsi ride in armed, and at the Soldan's^s
chair
Defied the best of Panim chivalry
To mortal combat, or career with lance)
Thick swarmed, both on the ground and in the
air.
Brushed with the hiss of rustling wings. As
bees
In spring-time, when the Sun with Taurus rides.
Pour forth their populous youth about the
hive 770
In clusters; they among fresh dews and flowers
Fly to and fro, or on the smoothed plank,
The suburb of their straw-built citadel.
New rubbed with balm, expatiate and confer»3
Their state-affairs. So thick the aery crowd
Swarmed and were straitened ;»* till, the signal
given,
Behold a wonder; they but now who seemed
In bigness to surpass Earth's giant sons.
Now less than smallest dwarfs, in narrow room
Throng numberless, like that pygmean racers
Beyond the Indian mount; or faery elves, 781
Whose midnight revels^ by a forest-side
Or fountain, some belated peasant sees.
Or dreams he sees, while overhead the Moon
Sits arbitress, and nearer to the Earth
Wheels her pale course; they, on their mirth
and dance
Intent, with jocund music charm his ear;
At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds.
Thus incorporeal Spirits to smallest forms
Beduced their shapes immense, and were at
large, 790
Though without number still, amidst the hall
Of that infernal court. But far within.
And in their own dimensions Uke themselves.
The great Seraphic Lords and Cherubim
In close recess and secret conclave sat,
A thousand demi-gods on golden seats,
Frequent and fuILas After short silence then,
And summons read, the great consults^ began.
Book U
thk aboukent
The consultation begun, Satan debates
whether another battle is to be hazarded for
the recovery of Heaven: some advise it, others
dissuade. A third proposal is preferred, men-
tioned before by Satan, to search the truth of
that prophecy or tradition in Heaven concern-
ing another world, and another kind of
creature, equal, or not much inferior, to them-
selves, about this time to be created. Their
doubt who shaU be sent on this difficult search :
Satan, their chief, undertakes alone the voyage;
is honored and applauded. The council thus
ended, the rest betake them several ways and
to several employments, as their inclinations
lead them, to entertain the time till Satan
return. He passes on his journey to Hell-
gates, finds them shut, and who sat there to
guard them; by whom at length they are
opened, and discover to him the great gulf be-
tween Hell and Heaven; with what difficulty
he passes through, directed by Chaos, the
Power of that place, to the sight of this new
World which he sought.
High on a throne of royal state, which far
Outshone the wealth of Ormusi and of Ind,
Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,
Satan exalted sat,* by merit raised
To that bad eminence; and, from despair
Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires
Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue
Vain war with Heaven; and, by successs un-
taught.
His proud imaginations thus displayed: — 10
'Powers and Dominions, Deities of Heaven!
98 close and all occupied
•7 A noun, like
pare," 1. 588.
89 contrivances
00 "Hall of all Demons"
(word coined by
Milton after model
of Pantheon).
•1 used to
»2 Sultan's.
93 walk about and dis-
cuss
9* contracted
95 Cf. 1. 575.
island,
diamond
2 result
1 An eastern
once a
mart.
• The imagerv and language of this famous peri-
odic opening evidently owes something to The
Faerie Queene. I. iv. st. 8. The "barbaric
gold" is from Xneid II. 504.
244
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTUEY
For since no deep within her gulf can hold
Immortal vigor, though oppressed and fallen,
I give not Heaven for lost: from this descent
Celestial Virtues rising will appear
More glorious and more dread than from no
fall,
And trust themselves to fear no second fate.
Me though just right, and the fixed laws of
Heaven,
Did first create your leader, next, free choice,
With what besides, in council or in fight, 20
Hath been achieved of merit, yet this loss,
Thus far at least recovered, hath much more
Established in a safe, unenvied throne.
Yielded with full consent. The happier state
In Heaven, which follows dignity, might draw
Envy from each inferior; but who here
Will envy whom the highest place exposes
Foremost to stand against the Thunderer's aim
Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share
Of endless pain ? Where there is then no good 30
For which to strive, no strife can grow up
there
From faction; for none sure will claim in Hell
Precedence, none whose portion is so small
Of present pain that with ambitious mind
Will covet more. With this advantage then
To union, and firm faith, and firm accord,
More than can be in Heaven, we now return
To claim our just inheritance of old,
Surer to prosper than prosperity
Could have assured us; and by what best
way, 40
Whether of open war or covert guile.
We now debate; who can advise may speak.'
He ceased; and next him Moloch, sceptred
king,
Stood up, the strongest and the fiercest Spirit
That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair.
His trust was with the Eternal to be deemed
Equal in strength, and rather than be less
Cared not to be at all; with that care lost
Went all his fear: of God, or Hell, or worse.
He recked not, and these words thereafter
spake: — 50
* My sentences is for open war. Of wiles,
More unexpert, I boast not: them let those
Contrive who need, or when they need ; not now.
For while they sit contriving, shall the rest —
Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait
The signal to ascend — sit lingering here.
Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-
place
Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame,
The prison of his tyranny who reigns
By our delay! No! let us rather choose, 60
8 Judgment
Armed with Hell-flames and fury, all at once
O'er Heaven's high towers to force resistless
way.
Turning our tortures into horrid arms
Against the Torturer; when to meet the noise
Of his almighty engine he shall hear
Infernal thunder, and for lightning see
Black fire and horror shot with equal rage
Among his Angels, and his throne itself
Mixed with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire.
His own invented torments. But perhaps 70
The way seems difficult and steep to scale
With upright wing against a higher foe.
Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench
Of that forgetful lake benumb not still.
That in our proper motion* we ascend
Up to our native seat; descent and fall
To us is adverse. Who but felt of late.
When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear
Insulting, and pursued us through the deep,
With what compulsion and laborious flight 80
We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy then;
The event is feared! Should we again provoke
Our stronger,5 some worse way his wrath may
find
To our destruction — ^if there be in Hell
Fear to be worse destroyed! What can be
worse
Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, con-
demned
In this abhorred deep to utter woe;
Where pain of unextinguishable fire
Must exercise us, without hope of end,
The vassals of his anger, when the scourge 90
Inexorably, and the torturing hour,
Calls us to penance? More destroyed than
thus.
We should be quite abolished, and expire.
What fear we then? what doubt we to incense
His utmost ire? which, to the highth enraged,
Will either quite consume us, and reduce
To nothing this essentials — happier far
Than miserable to have eternal being! —
Or if our substance be indeed divine.
And cannot cease to be, we are at worst 100
On this side nothing; and by proof we feel
Our power sufficient to disturb his Heaven,
And with perpetual inroads to alarm,
Though inaccessible, his fatal throne:
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge. '
He ended frowning, and his look denounced
Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous
To less than gods. On the other side up rose
Belial, in act more graceful and humane;
4 BcinK of othpreal na-
ture thoy would
naturally rise.
6 superior (put as an
imaKinary argu-
ment)
9 essence
JOHN MILTON
245
A fairer person lost not Heaven ; he seemed HO
For dignity composed, and high exploit.
But all was false and hollow; though his
tongue
Dropt manna," and could make the worse ap-
pear
The better reason, to perplex and dash
Maturest counsels: for his thoughts were low;
To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds
Timorous and slothful; yet he pleased the ear:
And with persuasive accent thus began: —
' I should be much for open war, O Peers,
As not behind in hate, if what was urged 120
Main reason to persuade immediate war
Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast
Ominous conjecture on the whole success;
When he who most excels in fact* of arms,
In what he counsels and in what excels
Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair
And utter dissolution, as the scope
Of all his aim, after some dire revenge.
First, what revenge! The towers of Heaven
are filled
With armed watch, that render all access 130
Impregnable: oft on the bordering deep
Encamp their legions, or with obscure wirg
Scout far and wide into the realm of Night,
Scorning surprise. Or could we break our way
By force, and at our heels all Hell should rise
With blackest insurrection, to confound
Heaven's purest Ught, yet our great Enemy,
All incorruptible, would on his throne
Sit unpolluted, and the ethereal mould,
, Incapable of stain, would soon expel 140
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire,
"Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope
Is flat despair: we must exasperate
The Almighty Victor to spend all his rage;
And that must end us, that must be our cure —
To be no more. Sad cure! for who would lose,
Though full of pain, this intellectual being.
Those thoughts that wander through eternity,
To perish rather, swallowed up and lost
In the wide womb of uncreated Night, 150
Devoid of sense and motion? And who knows,
Let this be good,^ whether our angry foe
Can give it, or will everf How he can
Is doubtful; that he never will is sure.
Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire.
Belike through impotence, or unaware,
To give his enemies their wish, and end
Them in his anger, whom his anger saves
To punish endless! "Wherefore cease we
then!"
T A sweet gum, exuding
from shrubs (not
the Biblical
manna).
8 feat
9 supposing annihilation
good
J Say they who counsel war ; " we are decreed,
( Reserved, and destined to eternal woe: 161
j Whatever doing, what can we suffer more,
What can we suffer worse ? " Is this then worst,
Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in armsf
What when we fled amain, pursued and struck
With Heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought
The Deep to shelter us! this Hell then seemed
A refuge from those wounds. Or when we lay
Chained on the burning lake! That sure was
worse.
What if the breath that kindled those grim
fires, 170
Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage.
And plunge us in the flames; or from above
Should intermitted vengeance arm again
His red right hand to plague usf What if all
Her stores were opened, and this firmament
Of Hell should spout her cataracts of fire.
Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall
One day upon our heads; while we perhaps
Designing or exhorting glorious war.
Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled, 180
Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey
Of racking whirlwinds, or forever sunk
Under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains;
There to converse with everlasting groans,
Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved.
Ages of hopeless end! This would be worse.
War therefore, open or concealed, alike
My voice dissuades: for what can^o force or
guile
With him, or who deceive his mind, whose eye
Views all things at one view? He from
Heaven's highth 190
All these our motions vain sees and derides;
Not more almighty to resist our might
Than wise to frustrate all our plots and wiles.
Shall we then live thus vile, the race of
Heaven
Thus trampled, thus expelled to suffer here
Chains and these torments? Better these than
worse.
By my advice; since fate inevitable
Subdues us, and omnipotent decree.
The Victor's will. To suffer, as to do.
Our strength is equal, nor the law unjust 200
That so ordains: thisn was at first resolved,
If we were wise, against so great a foe
Contending, and so doubtful what might fall.
I laugh, when those who at the spear are bold
And venturous, if that fail them, shrink, and
fear
i What yet they know must follow — to endure
Exile, or ignominy, or bonds, or pain.
10 avails
11 viz., to abide the
issue
246
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTUKY
The sentence of their conqueror. This is now
Our doom; which if we can sustain and bear,
Our Supreme Foe in time may much remit -10
His anger, and perhaps, thus far removed,
Not mind us not offending, satisfied
With what is punished; whence these raging
fires
Will slacken, if his breath stir not their flames.
Our purer essence then will overcome
Their noxious vapor, or, inured, not feel;
Or, changed at length, and to the place con-
formed
In temper and in nature, will receive
Familiar the fierce heat; and, void of pain,
This horror will grow mild, this darkness
light; 220
Besides what hope the never-ending flight
Of future days may bring, what chance, what
change
Worth waiting, — since our present lot appears
For happy 12 though but ill, for ill not worst,
If we procure not to ourselves more woe.'
Thus Belial, with words clothed in reason's
garb,
Counselled ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth,
Not peace; and after him thus Mammon
spake: —
' Either to disenthrone the King of Heaven
We war, if war be best, or to regain 230
Our own right lost. Him to unthrone we then
May hope, when everlasting Fate shall yield
To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife.
The former, vain to hope, argues as vain
The latter; for what place can be for us
Within Heaven 's bound, unless Heaven 's Lord
Supreme
We overpower? Suppose he should relent.
And publish grace to all, on promise made
Of new subjection; with what eyes could we
Stand in his presence, humble, and receive 240
Strict laws imposed, to celebrate his throne
With warbled hymns, and to his Godhead sing
Forced Halleluiahs; while he lordly sits
Our envied sovran, and his altar breathes
Ambrosial odors and ambrosial flowers,
Our servile offerings? This must be our task
In Heaven, this our delight. How wearisome
Eternity so spent in worship paid
To whom we hate! Let us not then pursue —
By force impossible, by leave obtained 250
Unacceptableia — though in Heaven, our state
Of splendid vassalage; but rather seek
Our own good from ourselves, and from our
own»«
Live to ourselves, though in this vast recess,
12 In rewpoct to happi-
ness
i:< unac'<'pptal)le
H ro8ourct^s
Free, and to none accountable, preferring
Hard liberty before the easy yoke
Of servile j)omp. Our greatness will appear
Then most conspicuous, when great things of
small.
Useful of hurtful, prosperous of adverse,
We can create, and in what place soe 'er 260
Thrive under evil, and work ease out of pain
Through labor and endurance. This deep
world
Of darkness do we dread? How oft amidst
Thick clouds and dark doth Heaven's all-
ruling Sire
Choose to reside, his glory unobscured,
And with the majesty of darkness round
Covers his throne, from whence deep thunders
roar.
Mustering their rage, and Heaven resembles
Hell!
As he our darkness, cannot we his light
Imitate when we please? This desert soil 270
Wants not her hidden lustre, gems and gold;
Nor want we skill or art, from whence to raise
Magnificence; and what can Heaven show
more?
Our torments also may in length of time
Become our elements, these piercing fires
As soft as now severe, our temper changed
Into their temper; which must needs remove
The sensibleis of pain. All things invite
To peaceful counsels, and the settled state
Of order, how in safety best we may 280
Compose our present evils, with regard
Of what we are and where, dismissing quite
All thoughts of war. Ye have what I advise.'
He scarce had finished, when such murmur
filled
The assembly, as when hollow rocks retain
The sound of blustering winds, which all night
long
Had roused the sea, now with hoarse cadence
lull
Seafaring men o 'ervvatched, whose bark by
chance.
Or pinnace, anchors in a craggy bay
After the tempest: such applause was heard 290
As Mammon ended, and his sentence pleased,
Advising peace; for such another field
They dreaded worse than Hell; so much the
fear
Of thunder and the sword of Michaol
Wrought still within them ; and no le.ss desire
To found this nether empire, which might rise,
By policy, and long processi« of time,
In emulation opposite to Heaven.
Which when Beelzebub perceive;?, than whom,
15 sense lo process'
JOHN MILTON
247
Satan except, none higher sat, with grave 300
Aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed
A pillar of state; deep on his front engraven
Deliberation sat and public care;
And princely counsel in his face yet shone,
Majestic, though in ruin. Sage he stood,
With Atlanteani7 shoulders fit to bear
The weight of mightiest monarchies; his look
Drew audience and attention still as night
Or summer's noontide air, while thus he
spake : —
'Thrones and Imperial Powers, Offspring of
Heaven, 310
Ethereal Virtues! or these titles now
Must we renounce, and, changing 8tyle,i8 be
called
Princes of Hell? for so the popular vote
Inclines — here to continue, and build up here
A growing empire; doubtless! while we dream,
m. And know not that the King of Heaven hath
doomed
This place our dungeon — not our safe retreat
Beyond his potent arm, to live exempt
From Heaven 's high jurisdiction, in new league
Banded against his throne, but to remain 320
In strictest bondage, though thus far removed,
Under the inevitable curb, reservedi^
His captive multitude. For he, be sure.
In highth or depth, still first and last will
reign
Sole king, and of his kingdom lose no part
By our revolt, but over Hell extend
His empire, and with iron sceptre rule
Us here, as with his golden those in Heaven.
What2o sit we then projecting peace and war?
War hath determined us, and foiled with loss
Irreparable; terms of peace yet none 331
Vouchsafed or sought; for what peace will be
given
To us enslaved, but custody severe,
And stripes, and arbitrary punishment
Inflicted? and what peace can we return.
But, to2i our power, hostility and hate.
Untamed reluctance, and revenge, though slow,
Yet ever plotting how the Conqueror least
May reap his conquest, and may least rejoice
In doing what we most in suffering feel? 340
Nor will occasion want, nor shall we need
With dangerous expedition to invade
Heaven, whose high walls fear no assault or
siege,
Or ambush from the Deep. What if we find
Some easier enterprise? There is a place
(If ancient and prophetic fame in Heaven
17 Atlas-like
18 appellation
10 reserved for (a Lat-
inism ; cf. arrive,
409)
20 why
n to the extent of
Err not), another World, the happy seat
Of some new race called Man, about this time
To be created like to us, though less
In power and excellence, but favored more 350
Of him who rules above; so was his will
Pronounced among the gods, and by an oath
That shook Heaven's whole circumference,
confirmed.
Thither let us bend all our thoughts, to learn
What creatures there inhabit, of what mould
Or substance, how endued, and what their
power,
And where their weakness: how attempted22
best,
By force or subtlety. Though Heaven be shut.
And Heaven's high Arbitrator sit secure
In his own strength, this place may lie ex-
posed, 360
The utmost border of his kingdom, left
To their defence who hold it; here, perhaps,
Some advantageous act may be achieved
By sudden onset: either with Hell-fire
To waste his whole creation, or possess
All as our own, and drive, as we were driven.
The puny23 habitants; or if not drive,
Seduce them to our party,24 that their God
May prove their foe, and with repenting hand
Abolish his own works. This would surpass 370
Common revenge, and interrupt his joy
In our confusion, and our joy upraise
In his disturbance; when his darling sons.
Hurled headlong to partake with us, shall curse
Their frail original, and faded bliss —
Faded so soon! Advise if this be worth
Attempting, or to sit in darkness here
Hatching vain empires.' Thus Beelzebub
Pleaded his devilish counsel, first devised
By Satan, and in part proposed; for whence.
But from the author of all ill, could spring 381
So deep a malice, to confound the race
Of Mankind in one root, and Earth with Hell
To mingle and involve, done all to spite
The great Creator? But their spite still serves
His glory to augment. The bold design
Pleased highly those Infernal States,25 and joy
Sparkled in all their eyes; with full assent
They vote: whereat his speech he tLus re-
news: —
*WeH 'ba.ye ye judged, well ended long de-
* bate, 390
Synod of gods! and, like to what ye are,
Great things resolved; which from the lowest
deep
Will once more lift us up, in spite of fate,
22 assailed 24 side
23 From French puis ne, 25 lords
later born.
248
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTUEY
Nearer our ancient seat — perhaps in view
Of those bright confines, whence, with neigh
boring arms
And opportune excursion, we may chance
Be-enter Heaven; or else in some mild zone
Dwell not unvisited of Heaven 's fair light,
Secure, and at the brightening orient beam
Purge off this gloom ; the soft delicious air, 400
To heal the scar of these corrosive fires,
Shall breathe her balm. But first, whom shall
we send
In search of this new world? whom shall we
find
Sufficient? who shall tempt with wandering
feet
The dark, unbottomed, infinite Abyss,
And through the palpable obscure^e find out
His uncouth way, or spread his aery flight.
Upborne with indefatigable wings
Over the vast abrupt, 26 ere he arrive^^
The happy isle? What strength, what art,
can then 410
Suffice, or what evasion bear him safe
Through the strict senteries and stations thick
Of Angels watching round? Here he had
need28
All circumspection, and we now no less^o
Choice in our suffrage; for on whom we send,
The weight of all, and our last hope, relies.'
This said, he sat; and expectation held
His look suspense, awaiting who appeared
To second, or oppose, or undertake
The perilous attempt; but all sat mute, 420
Pondering the danger with deep thoughts; and
each
In other's countenance read his own dismay,
Astonished. None among the choice and prime
Of those Heaven-warring champions could be
found
So hardy as to proffer or accept,
Alone, the dreadful voyage; till at last
Satan, whom now transcendent glory raised
Above his fellows, with monarchal pride
Conscious of highest worth, unmoved thus
spake: —
*0 Progeny of Heaven! Empyreal Thrones!
With reason hath deep silence and demur 431
Seized us, though undismayed. Long is the
way
And hard, that out of Hell leads up to Light;
Our prison strong, this huge convex of fire,
Outrageous to devour, immures us round
Ninefold; and gates of burning adamant,
26 Adjpctlve
noun.
27 arrive at
used as
28 would have nerd of
29 Supply "need."
Barretl over us, prohibit all egress.
These passed, if any pass, the void profound
Of unessentialso Night receives him next.
Wide-gaping, and with utter loss of being 440
Threatens him, plunged in that abortive^i gulf.
If thence he scape into whatever world.
Or unknown region, what remains him less
Than unknown dangers and as hard escape?
But I should ill become this throne, O Peers,
And this imperial sovranty, adorned
With splendor, armed with power, if aught
proposed
And judged of public moment, in the shape
Of difficulty or danger, could deter
Me from attempting. Wherefore do I assume
These royalties, and not refuse to reign, 451
Eefusing32 to accept as great a share
Of hazard as of honor, due alike
To him who reigns, and so much to him due
Of hazard more, as he above the rest
High honored sits? Go therefore, mighty
Powers,
Terror of Heaven, though fallen; intendas at
home,
While here shall be our home, what best may
ease
The present misery, and render Hell
More tolerable; if there be cure or charm 460
To respite, or deceive, or slack the pain
Of this ill mansion; intermit no watch
Against a wakeful foe, while I abroad
Through all the coasts of dark destruction seek
Deliverance for us all: this enterprise
None shall partake with me.' Thus saying,
rose
The Monarch, and prevented all reply;
Prudent, lest, from his resolution raised,8*
Others among the chief might offer now
(Certain to be refused) what erst they feared,
And, so refused, might in opinion stand 471
His rivals, winning cheap the high repute
Which he through hazard huge must earn. But
they
Dreaded not more the adventure than his voice
Forbidding; and at once with him they rose.
Their rising all at once was as the sound
Of thunder her.rd remote. Towards him they
bend
With awful reverence prone; and as a god
Extol him equal to the Highest in Heaven.
Nor failed they to express how much they
praised 480
That for the general safety he despised
His own ; for neither do the Spirits damned
so without substance
:<t brlnKlns; to naught
82 if I refuse
."»3 consider
34 taking courage
JOHN MILTON
249
Lose all their virtue, — lest bad men shouldss
boast
Their specious deeds on Earth, which glory
excites.
Or close ambition varnished o'er with zeal.
Thus they their doubtful consultations dark
Ended, rejoicing in their matchless Chief;
As when from mountain-tops the dusky clouds
Ascending, while the North-wind sleeps, o'er-
spread
Heaven's cheerful face, the louring element 490
Scowls o 'er the darkened landskip snow or
shower ;
If chance the radiant sun with farewell sweet
Extend his evening beam, the fields revive,
The birds their notes renew, and bleating herds
Attest their joy, that hill and valley rings.
shame to men! Devil with devil damned
Firm concord holds; men only disagree
Of creatures rational, though under hope
Of heavenly grace ; and, God proclaiming peace,
Yet live in hatred, enmity, and strife 500
Among themselves, and levy cruel wars.
Wasting the Earth, each other to destroy:
As if (which might induce us to accord)
Man had not hellish foes enow besides.
That day and night for his destruction wait!
The Stygian council thus dissolved ; and forth
In order came the grand Infernal Peers;
Midst came their mighty Paramount, and
seemed
Alone36 the antagonist of Heaven, nor less
Than Hell's dread Emperor, with pomp su-
preme, 510
And god-like imitated state; him round
A globe of fiery Seraphim enclosed
With bright emblazonry, and horrent37 arms.
Then of their session ended they bid cry
With trumpet's regal sound the great result:
Toward the four winds four speedy Cherubim
Put to their mouths the sounding alchymy,38
By herald's voice explained; the hollow Abyss
Heard far and wide, and all the host of Hell
With deafening shout returned them loud ac-
claim. 520
Thence more at ease their minds, and somewhat
raised
By false presumptuous hope, the ranged powers
Disband; and, wandering, each his several way
Pursues, as inclination or sad choice
Leads him perplexed, where he may likeliest
find
Truce to his restless thoughts, and entertain
35 as a warning lest bad
men should (They
are in the same
class !)
30 in himself
37 bristling
38 metallic compound
The irksome hours, tiU his great Chief return.
Part on the plain, or in the air sublime,39
Upon the wing or in swift race contend, 529
As at the Olympian games or Pythian fields;
Part curb their fiery steeds, or shun the goal«>
With rapid wheels, or fronted* i brigads form:
As when, to warn proud cities, war appears
Waged in the troubled sky, and armies rush
To battle in the clouds; before each van
Prick forth the aery knights, and couch their
spears.
Till thickest legions close; with feats of arms
From either end of Heaven the welkin burns.
Others, with vast Typhoean<2 rage more fell, 539
Rend up both rocks and hills, and ride the air
In whirlwind; Hell scarce holds the wild up-
roar:
As when Alcides,*3 from CEchalia crowned
With conquest, felt the envenomed robe, and
tore
Through pain up by the roots Thessalian pines,
And Lichas from the top of CEta threw
Into the Euboic sea. Others, more mild,
Betreated in a silent valley, sing
With notes angelical to many a harp
Their own heroic deeds and hapless fall
By doom of battle; and complain that Fate 550
Free Virtue should enthrall to Force or Chance.
Their song was partial, but the harmony
(What could it less when Spirits immortal
sing?)
Suspended Hell, and took with ravishment
The thronging audience. In discourse more
sweet
(For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense)
Others apart sat on a hill retired.
In thoughts more elevate, and reasoned high
Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,
Fixed fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute;
And found no end, in wandering mazes lost. 561
Of good and evil much they argued then.
Of happiness and final misery.
Passion and apathy, and glory and shame.
Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy! —
Yet with a pleasing sorcery could charm
Pain for a whUe or anguish, and excite
Fallacious hope, or arm the obdured breast
With stubborn patience as with triple steel.
Another part, in squadrons and gross bands,
On bold adventure to discover wide 571
39 uplifted . ^
40 avoid striking the column that marks the turn-
ing point (Description taken from the ancient
Grecian national games, the Olympian, Pyth-
ian, etc.)
41 confronting ^3 Hercules (referring
42 See Book I. 199. to the story of the
revenge of Nessus)
260
THE SEVENTEENTH CTENTUEY
That dismal worW, if any clime perhaps
Might yield them easier habitation, bend
Four ways their flying inarch, along the banks
Of four infernal rivers that disgorge
Into the burning lake their baleful streams:
Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate;
Sad Acheron of sorrow, black and deep;
Cocytus, named of lamentation loud 579
Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegethon,
Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage.
Far off from these a slow and silent stream,
Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls
Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks
Forthwith his former state and being forgets,
Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.
Beyond this flood a frozen continent
Lies dark and wild, beat with perpetual storms
Of whirlwind and dire hail, which on firm land
Thaws not, but gathers heap, and ruin seems
Of ancient pile;** all else deep snow and ice, 591
A gulf profound as that Serbonian bog*^
Betwixt Damiata and Mount Casius old,
Where armies whole have sunk: the parching
air
Burns frore,*8 and cold performs the effect of
fire.
Thither, by harpy-footed Furies haled,
At certain revolutions all the damned
Are brought; and feel by turns the bitter
change
Of fierce extremes, extremes by change more
fierce.
From beds of raging fire to starve*'' in ice 600
Their soft ethereal warmth, and there to pine
Immovable, infixed, and frozen round
Periods of time; thence hurried back to fire.
They ferry over this Lethean sound
Both to and fro, their sorrow to augment.
And wish and struggle, as they pass to reach
The tempting stream, with one small drop to
lose
In sweet forgetfulness all pain and woe,
All in one moment, and so near the brink;
But Fate withstands, and, to oppose the at-
tempt 610
Medusa with Gorgonian terror guards
The ford, and of itself the water flies
All taste of living wight, as once it fled
The lip of Tantalus. Thus roving on
In confused march forlorn, the adventurous
bands.
With shuddering horror pale, and eyes aghast,
Viewed first their lamentable lot, and found
No rest. Through many a dark and dreary vale
44 masonry *« frosty
46 Herodotus II. 6, III. 47 freeze
5.
They passed, and many a region dolorous.
O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp,*8 620
Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and
shades of death —
A universe of death, which God by curse
fireated evil, for evil only good;
Where all life dies, death lives, and Nature
breeds.
Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things,
Abominable, inutterable, and worse
Than fables yet have feigned, or fear con-
ceived,
Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimaeras dire.
Meanwhile the Adversary of God and Man,
Satan, with thoughts inflamed of highest de-
sign, i30
Puts on swift wings, and toward the gaten of
Hell
Explores his solitary flight; sometimes
He scours the right hand coast, sometimes the
left;
Now shaves with level wing the deep, then soars
Up to the fiery concave towering high.
As when far off at sea a fleet descried
Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial winds
Close sailing from Bengala, or the isles
Of Ternate and Tidore,*^ whence merchants
bring
Their spicy drugs; they on the trading flood.
Through the wide Ethiopianso to the Cape, 641
Ply stemming nightly toward the pole: so
seemed
Far off the flying Fiend. At last appear
Hell-bounds, high reaching to the horrid roof,
And thrice threefold the gates; three folds
were brass.
Three iron, three of adamantine rock
Impenetrable, impaled with circling fire.
Yet unconsumed. Before the gates there sat
On either side a formidable Shape.
The one seemed woman to the waist, and fair, 650
But ended foul in many a scaly fold
Voluminous and vast, a serpent armed
With mortal sting. About her middle round
A cry of Hell-hounds never-ceasing barked
With wide (-erberean!"! mouths full loud, and
rung
A hideous peal; yet, when they list, would
creep
If aught disturbed their noise, into her womb,
And kennel there, yet there still barked and
howled
Within unseen. Far less abhorred than these
48 mount
4i» Two of the Molucca
islands.
80 Indian Ocean.
r.i Like Ihose of Cer-
berua, the three-
headed monster
that Koarded
Hades.
JOHN MILTON
251
Vexed Scylla, bathing in the sea that parts 660
Calabria from the hoarse Trinacrian shore;*
Nor uglier follow tne night hag, when, called
In secret, riding through the air she comes.
Lured with the smell of infant blood, to dance
With Lapland witches, while the laboring moon
Eclipses at their charms. The other Shape —
If shape it might be called that shape had none
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb;
Or substance might be called that shadow
seemed,
For each seemed either — black it stood as
Night, 670
Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell,
And shook a dreadful dart; what seemed his
head
The likeness of a kingly crown had on.
Satan was now at hand, and from his seat
The monster moving onward came as fast.
With horrid strides ; Hell trembled as he strode.
The undaunted Fiend what this might be
admired — 52
Admired, not feared — God and his Son except,
Created thing naught valued he nor shunne<l —
And with disdainful look thus first began : — 680
'Whence and what art thou, execrable Shape,
That dar'st, though grim and terrible, advance
Thy miscreated front athwart my way
To yonder gates? Through them I mean to
pass,
That be assured, without leave asked of thee.
Retire; or taste thy folly, and learn by proof.
Hell-born, not to contend with Spirits of
Heaven, *
To whom the Goblin, full of wrath, replied: —
'Art thou that Traitor-Angel, art thou he
Who first broke peace in Heaven and faith, till
then 690
Unbroken, and in proud rebellious arms
Drew after him the third part of Heaven's
sons,
Conjured against the Highest, for which both
thou
And they, outcast from God, are here condemned
To waste eternal days in woe and pain?
And reckon 'st thou thyself with Spirits of
Heaven,
Hell-doomed, and breath 'st defiance here and
scorn.
Where I reign king, and, to enrage thee more,
Thy king and lord? Back to thy punishment,
52 wondered
* Through Circe's jealousy, says Ovid, the lower
part of Scylla's body was transformed into
barking dogs ; whereupon, throwing herself
into the sea. she was changed Into a rock.
The next simile is drawn from Scandinavian
superstition.
False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings, 700
Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue
Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart
Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt
before. '
So spake the grisly Terror, and in shape,
So speaking and so threatening, grew tenfold
More dreadful and deform. On the other side,
Incensed with indignation, Satan stood
Unterrified, and like a comet burned,
That fires the length of Ophiuchus hugess
In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair 710
Shakes pestilence and war. Each at the head
Levelled his deadly aim; their fatal hands
No second stroke intend; and such a frown
Each cast at the other, as when two black
clouds.
With Heaven's artillery fraught, come rat-
tling on
Over the Caspian, then stand front to front
Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow
To join their dark encounter in mid-air: —
So frowned the mighty combatants, that Hell
Grew darker at their frown; so matched they
stood; 720
For never but once more was either like
To meet so great a foe. And now great deeds
Had been achieved, whereof all Hell had rung,
Had not the snaky Sorceress that sat
Fast by Hell-gate and kept the fatal key,
Risen, and with hideous outcry rushed between.
'O father, what intends thy hand,' she cried,
' Against thy only son t What fury, O son,
Possesses thee to bend that mortal dart
Against thy father's headf and know'st for
whom? 730
For him who sits above, and laughs the while
At thee ordained his drudge, to execute
Whate'er his wrath, which he calls justice,
bids —
His wrath, which one day will destroy ye both ! '
She spake, and at her words the hellish Pest
Forbore: then these to her Satan returned: —
'So strange thy outcry, and thy words so
strange
Thou interposest, that my sudden hand.
Prevented, spares to tell thee yet by deeds
What it intends, till first I know of thee 740
What thing thou art, thus double-formed, and
why.
In this infernal vale first met, thou caU'st
Me father, and that phantasm call'st my son.
I know thee not, nor ever saw tUl now
Sight more detestable than him and thee.'
To whom thus the Portress of Hell-gate
j replied: —
' 53 A northern constellation.
252
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
'Hast thou forgot me then, and do I seem
Now in thine eye so foul? once deemed so fair
In Heaven, when at the assembly, and in sight
Of all the Seraphim with thee combined 750
In bold conspiracy against Heaven's King,
All on a sudden miserable pain
Surprised thee; dim thine eyes, and dizzy swum
In darkness, while thy head flames thick and
fast
Threw forth, till on the left side opening wide,
Likest to thee in shape and countenance bright,
Then shining heavenly fair, a goddess armed.
Out of thy head I sprung.* Amazement seized
All the host of Heaven: back they recoiled
afraid
At first, and called me Sin, and for a sign 760
Portentous held me; but, familiar grown,
I pleased, and with attractive graces won
The most averse; thee chiefly, who full oft
Thyself in me thy perfect image viewing
Becam'st enamoured; and such joy thou took'st
With me in secret, that my womb conceived
A growing burden. Meanwhile war arose,
And fields were fought in Heaven; wherein
remained
(For what could else?) to our Almighty Foe
Clear victory, to our part loss and rout 770
Through all the Empyrean. Down they fell.
Driven headlong from the pitch of Heaven, •
down
Into this deep; and in the general fall
I also: at which time this powerful key
Into my hands was given, with charge to keep
These gates forever shut, which none can pass
Without my opening. Pensive here I sat
Alone; but long I sat not, till my womb,
Pregnant by thee, and now excessive grown,
Prodigious motion felt and rueful throes. 780
At last this odious offspring whom thou seest.
Thine own begotten, breaking violent way.
Tore through my entrails, that, with fear antl
pain
Distorted, all my nether shape thus grew
Transformed; but he, my inbred enemy.
Forth issued, brandishing his fatal dart,
Made to destroy. I fled, and cried out Death.'
Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sighed
From all her caves, and back resounded Death '
I fled; but he pursued (though more, it
seems, 790
Inflame<l with lust than rage) and, swifter far.
Me overtook, his mother, all dismayed.
And, in embraces forcible and foul
Engendering with me, of that rape begot
• Milton drawn from pagan myths with especial
freedom in describinK bis evil cbaracters and
scenes.
These yelling monsters, that with ceaseless cry
Surround me, as thou saw 'st, hourly conceived
And hourly born, with sorrow infinite
To me; for, when they list, into the womb
That bred them they return, and howl, and
gnaw
My bowels, their repast; then, bursting
forth 800
Afresh, with conscious terrors vex me round,
That rest or intermission none I find.
Before mine eyes in opposition sits
Grim Death, my son and foe, who sets them on.
And me, his parent, would full soon devour
For want of other prey, but that he knows
His end with mine involved, and knows that 1
Should prove a bitter morsel, and his bane,
Whenever that shall be: so Fate pronounced.
But thou, O father, I forewarn thee, shun 810
His deadly arrow; neither vainly hope
To be invulnerable in those bright arms.
Though tempered heavenly; for that mortal
dint.
Save he who reigns above, none can resist.'
She finished; and the subtle Fiend his lore
Soon learned, now milder, and thus answered
smooth: —
'Dear daughter — since thou claim 'st me for
thy sire,
And my fair son here show'st me, the dear
pledge
Of. dalliance had with thee in Heaven, and joys
Then sweet, now sad to mention, through dire
change 820
Befallen us unforeseen, unthought of — know,
I come no enemy, but to set free
From out this dark and dismal house of pain
Both him and thee, and all the Heavenly host
Of Spirits that, in our just pretences^* armed.
Fell with us from on high. From them I go
This uncouth errand sole, and one for all
Myself expose, with lonely steps to tread
The unfounded Deep, and through the void
immense
To search with wandering quest a place fore-
told 830
Should be — and by concurring signs, ere now
Created vast and round — a place of bliss
In the purlieus of Heaven; and therein placed
A race of upstart creatures, to supply
Perhaps our vacant room, though more
removed,
Lest Heaven, surcharged with potent multitude,
Might hap to move new broils. Be this, or
aught
Than this more secret, now designed, I haste
S4 claims
JOHN MILTON
253
To know; and, this once known, shall soon
return,
And bring ye to the place where thou and
Death 840
Shall dwell at ease, and up and down unseen
Wing silently the buxom^s air, embalmed
With odors: there ye shall be fed and filled
Immeasurably; all things shall be your prey.'
He ceased; for both seemed highly pleased,
and Death
Grinned horrible a ghastly smile, to hear
His famine should be filled, and blessed his
maw
Destined to that good hour. No less rejoiced
His mother bad, and thus bespake her sire: —
' The key of this infernal pit, by due 850
And by command of Heaven's all-powerful
King,
I keep, by him forbidden to unlock
These adamantine gates; against all force
Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
Fearless to be o'ermatched by living might.
But what owe I to his commands above,
WTio hates me, and hath hither thrust me down
Into this gloom of Tartarus profound.
To sit in hateful office here c-onfined.
Inhabitant of Heaven and Heavenly-born, 860
Here in perpetual agony and pain.
With terrors and with clamors compassed round
Of mine own brood, that on my bowels feed?
Thou art my father, thou my author, thou
My being gav 'st me ; whom should I obey
But thee? whom follow! Thou wilt bring me
soon
To that new world of light and bliss, among
The gods who live at ease, where I shall reign
At thy right hand voluptuous, as beseems
Thy daughter and thy darling, without end. ' 870
Thus saying, from her side the fatal key.
Sad instrument of all our woe, she took;
And, towards the gate rolling her bestial train,
Forthwith the huge portcullis high up-drew.
Which but herself not all the Stygian Powers
Could once have moved; then in the key-hole
turns
The intricate wards, and every bolt and bar
Of massy iron or solid rock with ease
Unfastens. On a sudden open fly,
With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, 880
The infernal doors, and on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook
Of Erebus.56 She opened; but to shut
Excelled her power: the gates wide open stood.
That with extended wings a bannered host,
55 yielding
5<s •"Darkness,"
the Virgilian name for hell.
Under spread ensigns marching, might pass
through
With horse and chariots ranked in loose array;
So wide they stood, and like a furnace-mouth
Cast forth redounding smoke and ruddy flame.
Before their eyes in sudden view appear 890
The secrets of the hoary Deep, a dark
Illimitable ocean, without bound.
Without dimension; where length, breadth, and
highth,
And time, and place, are lost; where eldest
Night
And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold
Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise
Of endless wars, and by confusion stand.
For Hot, Cold, Moist, and Dry, four champions
fierce.
Strive here for mastery, and to battle bring
Their embryon^" atoms; they around the flag
Of each his faction, in their several clans, 901
Light-armed or heavy, sharp, smooth, swift,
or slow.
Swarm populous, unnumbered as the sands
Of Barca or Cyrene's torrid soil,
Levietl to side with warring winds, and poise
Their lighter wings. To whom these most
adhere.
He rules a moment; Chaos umpire sits,
And by decision more embroils the fray
By which he reigns; next him, high arbiter.
Chance governs ail. Into this wild Abyss, 910
The womb of Nature, and perhaps her grave.
Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire.
But all these in their pregnant causes mixed
Confusedly, and which thus must ever fight,
L'^nless the Almighty Maker them ordain
His dark materials to create more worlds —
Into this wild Abyss the wary Fiend
Stood on the brink of Hell and looked awhile,
Pondering his voyage; for no narrow frith
He had to cross. Nor was his ear less pealed 920
With noises loud and ruinous (to compare
Great things with small) than when Bellonass
storms
With all her battering engines, bent to rase
Some capital city; or less than if this frame
Of Heaven were falling, and these elements
In mutiny had from her axle torn
The steadfast Earth. At last his sail-broad
vans
He spreads for flight, and in the surging smoke
Uplifted spurns the ground; thence many a
league.
As in a cloudy chair, ascending rides 930
Audacious; but, that seat soon failing, meets
57 rudimentary
58 Roman goddess of war.
254
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
A vast vacuity; all unawares,
Fluttering his pennons vain, plumb-down he
drops
Ten thousand fathom deep, and to this hour
Down had been falling, had not by ill chance
The strong rebuff of some tumultuous cloud,
Instinct with fire and nitre, hurried him
As many miles aloft. That fury stayed —
Quenched in a boggy Syrtis,5» neither sea,
Nor good dry land — nigh foundered, on he
fares, 940
Treading the crude consistence, half on foot,
Half flying; behoves himso now both oar and
sail.
As when a gryphon through the wilderness
With winged course, o'er hill or moory dale.
Pursues the Arimaspian,6i who by stealth
Had from his wakeful custody purloined
The guarded gold: so eagerly the Fiend
O 'er bog or steep, through strait, rough, dense,
or rare.
With head, hands, wings, or feet, pursues his
way,
And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or
flies. 950
At length a universal hubbub wild
Of stunning sounds and voices all confused.
Borne through the hollow dark, assaults his
ear
With loudest vehemence. Thither he plies
Undaunted, to meet there whatever Power
Or Spirit of the nethermost Abyss
Might in that noise reside, of whom to ask
Which way the nearest coast of darkness lies
Bordering on light; when straight behold the
throne
Of Chaos, and his dark pavilion spread 960
Wide on the wasteful Deep! With him
enthroned
Sat sable-vested Night, eldest of things,
The consort of his reign; and by them stood
Orcus and Ades, and the dreaded name
Of Demogorgon ;«2 Eumor next, and Chance,
And Tumult, and Confusion, all embroiled,
And Discord with a thousand various mouths.
To whom Satan, turning boldly, thus: — *Ye
Powers
And Spirits of this nethermost Abyss,
Chaos and ancient Night, I come no spy, 970
With purpose to explore or to disturb
SB quIckHand
«t ''It Ih Hal«]
00 needR he
lid tho ArlmasplanH, a one-eyed people,
sttal Kold from the grlfBns." — IlerodotiiH III.
einNamen of rather VERue Rignlflcance, Hufliciently
defined In »«0. It Is said that the name of
DemojforKon was never uttered until a Chris-
tian writer of the fourth century broke the
spell.
The secrets of your realm; but, by constraint
Wandering this darksome desert, as my way
Ues through your spacious empire up to light,
Alone aud without guide, half lost, 1 seek
What readiest path leads where your gloomy
bounds
Confine with«3 Heaven; or if some other place,
From your dominion won, the Ethereal King
Possesses lately, thither to arrive
1 travel this profound. Direct my course: 980
Directed, no mean recompense it brings
To your behoof, if I that region lost.
All usurpation thence expelled, reduce
To her original darkness and your sway
(Which is my present journey), and once more
Erect the standard there of ancient Night.
Yours be the advantage all, mine the revenge ! *
Thus Satan; and him thus the Anarcho* old.
With faltering speech and visage incomposed.
Answered: — *I know thee, stranger, who thou
art : 990
That mighty leading Angel, who of late
Made head against Heaven's King, though
overthrown.
I saw and heard; for such a numerous host
Fled not in silence through the frighted deep.
With ruin upon ruin, rout -on rout.
Confusion worse confounded; and Heaven-gates
Poured out by millions her victorious bands.
Pursuing. I upon my frontiers here
Keep residence; if all I can will serve
That little which is left so to defend, 1000
Encroached on still through our intestine broils
Weakening the sceptre of old Night : first Hell,
Your dungeon, stretching far and wide
beneath ;
Now lately Heaven and Earth, another world
Hung o'er my realm, linked in a golden chain
To that side Heaven from whence your legions
fell.
If that way be your walk, you have not far ;
So much the nearer danger. Go, and speed!
Havoc, and spoil, and ruin, are my gain.'
He ceased; and Satan stayed not to
reply, 1010
But, glad that now his sea should find a shore,
With fresh alacrity and force renewed
Springs upward, like a pyramid of fire,
Into the wild expanse, and through the shock
Of fighting elements, on all sides round
Environed, wins his way; harder beset
And more endangered, than when Argo passed
Througlf Bosporus betwixt the justling rocks;
Or when Ulysses on the larboard shunned
68 border on
••4 Word first UHPd by Milton.
JOHN MILTON
265
Charybdis, and by the other whirlpool steered:
So he with difSculty and labor hard 1021
Moved on: with diflSeulty and labor he;
But, he once passed, soon after, when Man fell,
Strange alteration! Sin and Death amain,
Following his track (such was the will of
Heaven)
Paved after him a broad and beaten way
Over the dark Abyss, whose boiling gulf
Tamely endureil a bridge of wondrous length,
From Hell continued, reaching the utmost orb
Of this frail World;* by which the Spirits
perverse 1030
With easy intercourse pass to and fro
To tempt or punish mortals, except whom
God and good Angels guard by special grace.
But now at last the sacred influence's
Of light appears, and from the walls of Heaven
Shoots far into the bosom of dim Night
A glimmering dawn. Here Nature first begins
Her farthest verge, and Chaos to retire,
As from her outmost works, a broken foe.
With tumult less and with less hostile din; 1040
Thatfi* Satan with less toil, and now with ease.
Wafts on the calmer wave by dubious light,
And, like a weather-beaten vessel, holds
Gladly the port, though shrouds aad tackle
torn;
Or in the emptier waste, resembling air,
Weighs his spread wings, at leisure to behold
Far off the empyreal Heaven, extended wide
In circuit, undetermined square or round,
With opal towers, and battlements adorned
Of living sapphire, once his native seat; 1050
And, fast by, hanging in a golden chain,
This pendent World, in bigness as a star
Of smallest magnitude close by the moon.
Thither, full fraught with mischievous revenge,
Accurst, and in a cursed hour, he hies.
Fbom Book TIL Ikvocation to LicHrt
Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-
bom!
Or of the Eternal coeternal beam
May I express thee unblamed? since God is
light,
«s Perhaps literally "in- 66 so that
flow."
• By world is meant the starry universe with the
earth at the center. The Ptolemaic theory
held the universe to consist of ten concentric,
transparent, revolving spheres, each carrying
with it its own body — Moon. Mercury, Venus.
Snn, Mars. .Tupiter, Saturn, Fixed Stars, with
finally the Crystalline Sphere, and the Primum
Mobile ("first movable." primary source of
motion). From their revolutions came, accord-
ing to Pythagoras, the "music of the spheres."
t Milton speaks here in his own person ; it is to be
remembered that he was blind (Cf. line 23).
And never but in unapproached light
Dwelt from eternity — dwelt then in thee,
Bright effluence of bright essence increatel'
Or hear'st thou rathers pure Ethereal stream,
Whose fountain who shall tellf Before the
Sun,
Before the Heavens, thou wert, and at the voice
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 10
The rising World of waters dark and deep,
Won from the void and formless Infinite!
Thee I revisit now with bolder wing,
Escaped the Stygian Pool, though long detained
In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight,
Through utter and through middle Darkness
borne.
With other notes than to the Orphean lyre
I sung of Chaos and eternal Night,
Taught by the Heavenly Muse to venture down
The dark descent, and up to re-ascend, 20
Though hard and rare. Thee I revisit safe.
And feel thy sovran vital lamp; but thou
Kevisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;
So thick a drop serenes hath quenched their
orbs.
Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more
Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt
Cl«ar spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,
Smit with the love of sacred song ; but chief
Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath, 30
That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling
flow.
Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget
Those other two equalled with me in fate.
So were I* equalled with them in renown.
Blind Thamyris and blind Mfieonides,^
And TLresias and Phineus, prophets old:
Then feed on thoughts that voluntary move
Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird
Sings darkling, and, in shadiest covert hid.
Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the
year 40
Seasons return; but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's ros^
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud instead and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men
Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair,
Presented with a universal blank
Of Nature's works, to me expunged and rased,
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. 50
1 uncreated
2 wouldst rather be
called
3 T h e gutta aerena,
supposed cause of
blindness.
4 would I were so
5 Homer, who mentions
Thamyris as an
other blind bard.
256
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTUBY
So much the rather thou, Celestial light,
Shine inward, and the mind through all her
powers
Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mist from
thence
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell
Of things invisible to mortal sight.
Feom Book IV. Satan in Sight of Eden
Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his
view
Lay pleasant, his grieved look he fixes sad;
Sometimes towards Heaven and the full-blazing
Sun,
Which now sat high in his meridian tower: 30
Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began: —
' ' O thou that, with surpassing glory crowned,
Look'st from thy sole dominion like the god
Of this new World — at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminished heads — to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams.
That bring to my remembrance from what
state
1 fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
Till pride and worse ambition threw me
down, 40
Warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless
King!
Ah, wherefore? He deserved no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.
What could be less than to afford him praise,
The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks.
How due? Yet all his good proved ill in mc.
And wrought but malice. Lifted up so high,
I sdaineds subjection, and thought one step
higher 50
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude.
So burdensome, still paying, still to owe;
Forgetful what from him I still received;
And understood not that a grateful mind
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
Indebted and discharged — what burden then?
Oh, had his powerful destiny ordained
Me some inferior Angel, I had stood
Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised GO
Ambition. Yet why not? Some other Power
As great might have aspired, and me, though
mean,
Drawn to his part. But other Powers as great
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within
e disdained
Or from without to all temptations armed!
Hadst thou the same free will and power to
stand?
Thou hadst. Whom hast thou then, or what,
to accuse.
But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all?
Be then his love accursed, since, love or hate.
To me alike it deals eternal woe. 70
Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide.
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.
O, then, at last relent ! Is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left? 80
None left but by submission ; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduced
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
The Omnipotent. Ay me ! they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain.
Under what torments inwardly I groan.
While they adore me on the throne of Hell,
With diadem and sceptre high advanced, 90
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery: such joy ambition finds!
But say I could repent, and could obtain,
By act of grace, my former state; how soon
Would highth recall high thoughts, how soon
unsay
What feigned submission swore! Ease would
recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void
(For never can true reconcilement grow
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so
deep) ;
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse 100
And heavier fall: so should I purchase dear
Short intermission, bought with double smart.
This knows my Punisher; therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging, peace.
All hope excluded thus, behold, instead
Of us, outcast, exiled, his new delight,
Mankind, created, and for him this World!
So farewell hope, and, with hope, farewell fear.
Farewell remorse! All good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my Good : by thee at least HO
Divided empire with Heaven 's King I hold,
By thee, and more than half perhaps will
reign ;
As Man ere long, and this new World, shall
know. ' '
JOHN MILTON
257
Fkom Book IV. Evening in Paradise
Now came still Evening on, and Twilight
gray
Had in her sober livery all things clad;
Silence accompanied; for beast and bird, 600
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests
Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale.
She all night long her amorous descant sung :
Silence was pleased. Now glowed the firma
ment
With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led
The starry host, rode brightest, till the Moon,
Rising in clouded majesty, at length
Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light,
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw;
When Adam thus to Eve:— "Fair consort, the
hour «10
Of night, and all things now retired to rest,
Mind us of like repose; since God hath set
Labor and rest, as day and night, to men
Successive, and the timely dew of sleep,
Now falling with soft slumberous weight,
inclines
Our eye-lids. Other creatures all day long
Bove idle, unemployed, and less need rest ;
Man hath his daily work of body or mind
Appointed, which declares his dignity.
And the regard of Heaven on all his ways; 620
While other animals unactive range.
And of their doings God takes no account.
To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east
With first approach of light, we must be risen.
And at our pleasant labor, to reform
Yon flowery arbors, yonder alleys green.
Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown.
That mock our scant manuring, and require
More hands than ours to lop their wanton
growth.
Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums.
That lie bestrewn, unsightly and unsmooth, 631
Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease.
Meanwhile, as Nature wills, Night bids us
rest."
Fbom Book V. The Morning Hymn of
Adam and Eve
"These are thy glorious works. Parent of
good,
Almighty! thine this universal frame.
Thus wondrous fair: thyself how wondrous
then!
Unspeakable! who sitt'st above these heavens
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power
divine.
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye Sons of Light,
Angels — for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing — ye in Heaven;
On Earth join, all ye creatures, to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of Stars, last in the train of Night,
If better thou belong not to the Dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown 'st the smiling
morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 170
Thou Sun, of this great World both eye and
soul.
Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb 'st,
And when high noon hast gained, and when
thou fall'st.
Moon, that now meet'st the orient Sun, now _
fliest,
With the fixed Stars, fixed in their orb that
flies;!
And ye five other wandering Fires, that move
In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise who out of Darkness called up
Light.
Air, and ye Elements, the eldest birth 180
Of Nature's womb, that in quaternionz run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix
And nourish all things, let your ceaseless
change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye Mists and Exhalations, that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray.
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honor to the World 's great Author rise ;
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky.
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling, still advance his praise. 191
His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters
blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye
Pines,
With every Plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye, that warble, as ye flow.
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye li\-ing Souls. Ye Birds,
That, singing, up to Heaven-gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his
praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 200
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep.
Witness if / be silent, mom or even,
To hill or valley, fountain, or fresh shade,
iSee note on II. 1030. , „ ,k «- ♦«, *i-
2 In their fonrfold character of HIartn. v> ater, Air,
and Fire. See II, 898. •• it-
258
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTUEY
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord! Be bounteous still
To give us only good; and, if the night
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed.
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark."
From Book VII. Invocation to Urania
Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name
If rightly thou art called,* whose voice divine
Following, above the Olympian hill I soar,
Above the flight of Pegasean wing!
The meaning, not the name, I call; for thou
Nor of the Muses nine, nor on the top
Of old Olympus dwell 'st; but, heavenly-born.
Before the hills appeared or fountain flowed.
Thou with Eternal Wisdom didst converse,
Wisdom thy sister, and with her didst play 10
In presence of the Almighty Father, pleased
With thy celestial song. Up led by thee.
Into the Heaven of Heavens I have presumed,
An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air.
Thy tempering. With like safety guided down,
Eeturn me to my native element;
Lest, from this flying steed unreined (as once
Bellerophon,t though from a lower clime)
Dismounted, on the Aleian field I fall.
Erroneous there to wander and forlorn. 20
Half yet remains unsung, but narrower bound
Within the visible Diurnal Sphere.
Standing on Earth, not rapt above the pole.
More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchanged
To hoarse or mute, though fallen on evil days.
On evil days though fallen, and evil tongues.
In darkness, and with dangers compassed
round.
And solitude ; yet not alone, while thou
Visit 'st my slumbers nightly, or when Morn
Purples the East. Still govern thou my song, 30
Urania, and fit audience find, though few.
But <lrive far off the barbarous dissonance
Of Bacchus and his revellers, the race
Of that wild route that tore the Thracian bardt
In Khodope, where woods and rocks had ears
To rapture, till the savage clamor drowned
Both harp and voice ; nor could the Muse defend
Her son. So fail not thou who thee implores;
For thou art heavenly, she an empty dream.
♦ Milton doclaros that tho Urania whom he in-
vokeH Ih not the paean Muse of that name,
hut a loftier Christian Muse, the "heavenly
t Bollerophon. the fabled rider of Tegasus. tried
to mount to heaven npon him, but was thrown
for his presumption and doomed to wander
in the Aleian (''wanderlnR") field.
t OrpheuB offended the Thracian Bacchantes and
waH torn to pieces by them. Milton, blind,
and, since the Restoration, reviled as a Purl-
tan, bad "fallen on evil days" and might even
fear from the disMolute courtiers of Charles
a fate not unlike that of Orpheus.
From Book XII. The Expulsion from
Paradise
Hei ended, and they both descend the hill.
Descended, Adam to the bower where Eve
Lay sleeping ran before, but found her waked;
And thus with words not sad she him
received: —
' ' Whence thou return 'st and whither went 'st
I know; 610
For God is also in sleep, and dreams advise.
Which he hath sent propitious, some great good
Presaging, since, with sorrow and heart's
distress
Wearied, I fell asleep. But now lead on;
In me is no delay; with thee to go
Is to stay here; without thee here to stay
Is to go hence unwilling; thou to me
Art all things under Heaven, all places thou,
Who for my wilful crime art banished hence.
This further consolation yet secure 620
I carry hence: though all by me is lost.
Such favor I unworthy am vouchsafed.
By me the Promised Seed shall all restore. ' '
So spake our mother Eve; and Adam heard
Well pleased, but answered not; for now too
nigh
The Archangel stood, and from the other hill
To their fixed station, all in bright array.
The Cherubim descended, on the ground
Gliding, meteorous, as evening mist
Bisen from a river o 'er the marish glides, 630
And gathers ground fast at the laborer's heel
Homeward returning. High in front advanced,
The brandished sword of God before them
blazed,
Fierce as a comet; which with torrid heat.
And vapor as the Libyan air adust,"
Began to parch that temperate clime; whereat
In either hand the hastening Angel caught
Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate
Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast
To the subjecteds plain — then disappeared. 640
They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld
Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,
Waved over by that flaming brand; the gate
With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms.
Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped
them soon;
The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.
They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and
slow,
Through Eden* took their solitary way.
1 Michael, the angel
delegated to lead
them forth.
^ scorched
8 underlying
4 8ee note on I, i.
JOHN MILTON
259
ON EDUCATION
To Master Samuel Habtlib:*
I AM long since persuaded, Master Hartlib,
that to say or do aught worth memory and imita-
tion, no purpose or respect should sooner move us
thansimply the love of God and of mankind. . . .
I will not resist, therefore, whatever it is either
of divine or human obligement that you lay
upon me; but will forthwith set down in writ-
ing, as you request me, that voluntary idea,
which hath long in silence presented itself to
me, of a better education, in extent and com-
prehension far more large, and yet of time far
shorter and of attainment far more certain,
than hath been yet in practice. Brief I shall
endeavour to be; for that which I have to say
assuredly this nation hath extreme need should
be done sooner than spoken. ...
The end, then, of learning is, to repair the
ruins of our first parents by regaining to know
God aright, and out of that knowledge to love
him, to imitate him, to be like him, as we may
the nearest by possessing our souls of true
virtue.i which, being united to the heavenly
grace of faith, makes up the highest perfection.
But because our understanding cannot in this
body found itself but on sensible things,^ nor
arrive so clearly to the knowledge of God and
things invisible as by orderly conning over thi;
visible and inferior creature, the same method
is necessarily to be followed in all discreet
teaching. And seeing every nation affords not
experience and tradition enough for all kinds
of learning, therefore we are chiefly taught the
languages of those people who have at any
time been most industrious after wisdom; so
that language is but the instrument conveying
to us things useful to be known. And though
a linguist should pride himself to have all the
tongues that Babel cleft the world into, yet if
he have not studied the solid things in them as
well as the words and lexicons, he were nothing
so much to be esteemed a learned man as any
yeoman or tradesman competently wise in his
mother-dialect only. Hence appear the many
mistakes which have made learning generally
so unpleasing and so unsuccessful. First, we
lo amiss to spend seven or eight years merely
in scraping together so much miserable Latin
1 Which we may most readilv do bv putting our
souls m possession of true virtue.
- rbiDgs perceived by the senses.
• Hartlib was a Pole, settled in England, who had
had some discussions with Milton on the sub-
ject of education. The slight omissions made
here from the beginning of the tractate are
made with the purpose of enabling the reader
to get moie rapidly into the subject.
and Greek as might be learned otherwise easily
and delightfully in one year. And that which
casts our proficiency therein so much behind is
our time lost partly in too oft idle vacancies
given both to schools and universities; partly in
a preposterous exaction, forcing the empty wits
of children to compose themes, verses, and ora-
tions, which are the acts of ripest judgment,
and the final work of a head filled by long
reading and observing with elegant maxims and
copious invention. These are not matters to
be wrung from poor striplings, like blood oat
of the nose, or the plucking of untimely fruit;
besides the ill habit which they get of wretched
barbarising against the Latin and Greek idiom
with their untutored Anglicisms, odious to be
read, yet not to be avoided without a well-
continued and judicious conversing among pure
authors, digested, which they scarce taste.
Whereas, if after some preparatory grounds of
speech by their certain forms got into memory
they were letl to the praxiss thereof in some
chosen short book lessoned thoroughly to them,
they might then forthwith proceed to learn the
substance of good things and arts in due order,
which would bring the whole language quickly
into their power. . . .
I shall detain you now no longer in the demon-
stration of what we should not do, but straight
conduct you to a hillside, where I will point you
out the right path of a virtuous and noble edu-
cation; laborious indeed at the first ascent, but
else so smooth, so green, so full of goodly
prospect and melodious sounds on every side,
that the harp of Orpheus was not more charm-
ing. I doubt not but ye shall have more ado
to drive our dullest and laziest youth, our
stocks and stubs, from the infinite desire of
such a happy nurture, than we have now to hale
and drag our choicest and hopefuUest wits to
that asinine feast of sow-thistles and brambles
which is commonly set before them as all the
food and entertainment of their tenderest and
most docile age. I caU, therefore, a complete
and generous education, that which fits a man
to perform justly, skilfuUy, and magnanimously
all the offices, both private and public, of peace
and war. And how aU this may be done be-
tween twelve and one-and-twenty, less time than
is now bestowed in pure trifling at grammar
and sophistry, is to be thus ordered: —
First, to find out a spacious house and
ground abont it fit for an academy, and big
enough to lodge a hundred and fifty persons,
whereof tw«ity or thereabout may be attend-
3 practical exercises
260
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
ants, all under the government of one who shall
be thought of desert sufficient, and ability
either to do all, or wisely to direct and oversee
it done. This place should be at once both
school and university, not needing a remove to
any other house of scholarship, except it be
some peculiar college of law or physic where*
they mean to be practitioners ; but as for those
general studies which take up all our time from
Lilly* to the commencing, as they term it, mas-
ter of art, it should be absolute.^ After this
pattern as many edifices may be converted to
this use as shall be needful in every city
throughout this land, which would tend much
to the increase of learning and civility^ every-
where. This number, less or more, thus col-
lected, to the convenience^ of a foot-company
or interchangeably two troops of cavalry, should
divide their day's work into three parts as it
lies orderly — their studies, their exercise, and
their diet.
For their studies: first, they should begin
with the chief and necessary rules of some
good grammar, either that now used, or any
better; and while this is doing, their speech is
to be fashioned to a distinct and clear pro-
nunciation, as near as may be to the Italian,
especially in the vowels. For we Englishmen,
being far northerly, do not open our mouths
in the cold air wide enough to grace a south-
ern tongue, but are observed by all other
nations to speak exceeding close and inward;
so that to smatter Latin with an English mouth
is as ill a hearing as law French. Next, to
make them expert in the usefullest points of
grammar, and withal to season them and win
them early to the love of virtue and true labour,
ere any flattering seducement or vain principle
seize them wandering, some easy and delight-
ful book of education should be read to them,
whereof the Greeks have store, as Cebes,
Plutarch, and other Socratic discourses; but
in Latin we have none of classic authority
extant, except the two or three first books of
Quintilian and some select pieces elsewhere.
But here the main skill and groundwork will be
to tempers them such lectures and explanations
upon every opportunity as may lead and draw
them in willing obedience, inflamed with the
study of learning and the admiration of virtue,
stirred up with high hopes of living to be brave
men and worthy patriots, dear to God and
famous to all ages: that they may despise and
* some special college 6 civilization
... In case that 7 collective number
8 completo In Itself 8 InterinlnRle
• Thp nulhor of a Latin grammar which was
once a Htandard text-book.
scorn all their childish and ill-taught qualities,
to delight in manly and liberal exercises; which
he who hath the art and proper eloquence to
catch them with, what with mild and effectual
persuasions, and what with the intimation of
some fear, if need be,* but chiefly by his own
example, might in a short space gain them to
an incredible diligence and courage, infusing
into their young breasts such an ingenuous and
noble ardour as would not fail to make many
of them renowned and matchless men. At the
same time, some other hour of the day might
be taught them the rules of arithmetic, and,
soon after, the elements of geometry, even play-
ing, as the old manner was. After evening
repast till bed-time their thoughts would be
best taken up in the easy grounds of religion
and the story of Scripture. The next step
would be to the authors of agriculture, Cato,
Varro, and Columella, for the matter is most
easy; and if the language is difficult, so much
the better; it is not a difficulty above their
years. And here will be an occasion of in-
citing and enabling them hereafter to improve
the tillage of their country, to recover the bad
soil, and to remedy the waste that is made of
good; for this was one of Hercules' praises.
Ere half these authors be read (which will
soon be with plying hard and daily) they cannot
choose but be masters of any ordinary prose:
so that it will be then seasonable for them
to learn in any modern author the use of the
globes and all the maps, first with the old
names and then with the new; or they might
be then capable to read any compendious
method of natural philosophy; and, at the same
time, might be entering into the Greek tongue,
after the same manner as was before pre-
scribed in the Latin; whereby the difficulties
of grammar being soon overcome, all the his-
torical physiology of Aristotle and Theophrastus
are open before them, and, as I may say, under
contribution. The like access will be to Vitru-
vius, to Seneca 's * ' Natural Questions," to Mela,
Cclsus, Pliny, or Solinus. And having thus past
the principles of arithmetic, geometry, astron-
omy, and geography, with a general compact of
physics, they may descend in mathematics to
the instrumental science of trigonometry, and
from thence to fortification, architecture, en-
ginery, or navigation. And in natural philoso-
phy they may proceed leisurely from the his-
tory of meteors, minerals, plants, and living
creatures, as far as anatomy. Then also in
course might be read to them out of some not
• Compare this with Ascham's Schoolmaster, p. 122.
JOHN MILTON
261
tedious writer the institution of physic ;9 that
they may know the tempers, the humours, the
seasons, and how to manage a crudity,io which
he who can wisely and timely do is not only a
great physician to himself and to his friends,
but also may at some time or other save an army
by this frugal and expenseless means only, and
not let the healthy and stout bodies of young
men rot away under him for want of this dis-
cipline, <\-hich is a great pity, and no less a
shame to the commander. To set forward all
these proceedings in nature and mathematics,
what hinders but that they may procure, as oft
as shall be needful, the helpful experiences of
hunters, fowlers, fishermen, shepherds, garden-
ers, apothecaries; and in the other sciences, ar-
chitects, engineers, mariners, anatomists, who,
doubtless, would be ready, some for reward and
some to favour such a hopeful seminary. And
this will give them such a real tincture of
natural knowledge as they shall never forget,
but daily augment with delight.*
These are the studies wherein our noble and
our gentle youth ought to bestow their time in
a disciplinary way from twelve to one-and-
twenty, unless they rely more upon their
ancestors dead than upon themselves living.
In which methodical course it is so supposed
they must proceed by the steady pace of learn-
ing onward, as at convenient times for
memory's sake to retire back into the middle-
ward, and sometimes into the rear of what they
have been taught, until they have confirmed and
solidly united the whole body of their perfected
knowledge, like the last embattling of a Boman
legion. Now will be worth the seeing what
exercises and recreations may best agree and
become these studies.
The course of study hitherto briefly de-
scribed is, what" I can guess by reading, likest
to those ancient and famous schools of Pythag-
oras, Plato, Isocrates, Aristotle, and such
others, out of which were bred such a number
of renowned philosophers, orators, historians,
poets, and princes all over Greece, Italy, and
Asia, besides the flourishing studies of Cyrene
and Alexandria. But herein it shall exceed
them, and supply a defect as great as that
which Plato noted in the commonwealth of
Sparta. "Whereas that city trained up their
youth most for war, and these in their acade-
9 the elements of physl- lo indigestion
ology and medicine ii so far as
* At this point Milton takes up, in rapid succession,
ethics, politics, theology, history, logic, and
poetry.
; mies and Lycaeumiz all for the gown,i3 this
institution of breeding which I here delineate
shall be equally good both for peace and war.
Therefore, about an hour and a half ere they
eat at noon should be allowed them for exer-
cise, and due rest afterwards; but the time for
this may be enlarged at pleasure, according as
their rising in the morning shall be early.
The exercise which I commend first is the
exact use of their weapon, to guard, and to strike
safely with edge or point ; this will keep them
healthy, nimble, strong, and well in breath; is
also the likeliest means to make them grow
large and tall, and to inspire them with a gal-
lant and fearless courage, which being tempered
with seasonable lectures and precepts to make
them of true fortitude and patience, will turn
into a native and heroic valour, and make them
hate the cowardice of doing wrong. They must
be also practised in all the locks and gripes of
wrestling, wherein Englishmen were wont to
excel, as need may often be in fight to tug, to
grapple, and to close. And this, perhaps, will
be enough wherein to prove and heat their
single strength. The interim of unsweating
themselves regularly, and convenient rest before
meat, may both with profit and delight be
taken up in recreating and composing their
travailed spirits with the solemn and divine
harmonies of music heard or learned, either
whilst the skilful organist plies his grave and
fancied descant in lofty fugues, or the whole
symphony with artful and unimaginable touches
adorn and grace the well-studied chords of
some choice composer; sometimes the lute or
soft organ-stop, waiting oni* elegant voices
either to religious, martial, or civil ditties,
which, if wise men and prophets be not ex-
tremely out,i5 have a great power over dis-
positions and manners to smooth and make
them gentle from rustic harshness and dis-
tempered passions. The like also would not
be unexpedient after meat, to assist and cherish
nature in her first concoction,i6 and send their
minds back to study in good tune and satis-
faction. AYhere having followed it close under
vigilant eyes tiU about two hours before sup-
per, they are, by a sudden alarum or watch-
word, to be called out to their military motions,
under sky or covert, according to the season, as
was the Eoman wont ; first on foot, then, as
fheir age permits, on horseback to all the art of
cavalry; that having in sport, but with much
12 The exercise ground
and grove of
Athens, where Ar-
istotle taught.
13 philosophy
14 accompanying
15 mistaken
16 digestioQ
262
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
exactness and daily muster, served out the
rudiments of their soldiership in all the skill
of embattling, marching, encamping, fortify-
ing, besieging, and battering, with all the helps
of ancient and modern stratagems, tactics, and
warlike maxims, they may, as it were out of a
long war, come forth renowned and perfect
commanders in the service of their country.
They would not then, if they were trusted with
fair and hopeful armies, suffer them for want
of just and wise discipline to shed away from
about them like sick feathers, though they be
never so oft supplied; they would not suffer
their empty and unrecruitablei^ colonels of
twenty men in a company to quaff out or con-
vey into secret hoards the wages of a delusive
listis and miserable remnant; yet in the mean-
while to be overmastered with a score or two
of drunkards, the only soldiery left about them,
or else to comply with all rapines and violences.
No, certainly, if they knew aught of that
knowledge that belongs to good men or good
governors they would not suffer these things.
But to return to our own institute: besides
these constant exercises at home, there is
another opportunity of gaining experience to
be won from pleasure itself abroad: in those
vernal seasons of the year, when the air is
calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullen-
ness against nature not to go out and see her
riches and partake in her rejoicing with heaven
and earth. I should not, therefore, be a per-
suader to them of studying much then, after
two or three years that they have well laid
their grounds, but to ride out in companies with
prudent and staid guides to all the quarters of
the land, learning and observing all places of
strength, all commodities of building and of
soil for towns and tillage, harbours, and ports
for trade; sometimes taking sea as far as to
our navy, to learn there also what they can
in the practical knowledge of sailing and of
sea-fight. These ways would try all their
peculiar gifts of nature, and if there were any
secret excellence among them, would fetch it
out and give it fair opportunities to advance
itself by, which could not but mightily redound
to the good of this nation, and bring into fash-
ion again those old admired virtues and excel-
lencies, with far more advantage now in this
purity of Christian knowledge. Nor shall we
then need the monsieurs of Paris to take our
hopeful youth into their slight and prodigal
custodies, and send them over back again trans-
17 incapab1«> of recruiting their forces ("quaff
out" In the next line appears to mean "spend
for drink")
18 "stuffed pay-roll"
formed into mimics, apes, and kickshaws.i» But
if they desire to see other countries at three or
four and twenty years of age, not to learn
principles, but to enlarge experience and make
wise observation, they will by that time be
such as shall deserve the regard and honour of
all men where they pass, and the society and
friendship of those in all places who are best
and most eminent. And perhaps then other
nations will be glad to visit us for their breed-
ing, or else to imitate us in their own country.
Now, lastly, for their diet there cannot be
much to say, save only that it would be best in
the same house; for much time else would be
lost abroad, and many ill habits got; and that
it should be plain, healthful, and moderate 1
suppose is out of controversy.
Thus, Mr. Hartlib, you have a general view
in writing, as your desire was, of that which
at several times 1 had discoursed with you con-
cerning the best and noblest way of education;
not beginning, as some have done, from the
cradle, which yet might be worth many con-
siderations, if brevity had not been my scope.
Many other circumstances also 1 could have
mentioned, but this, to such as have the worth
in them to make trial, for light and direction
may be enough. Only I believe that this is
not a bow for every man to shoot in that counts
himself a teacher, but will require sinews almost
equal to those whidi Homer gave Ulysses;*
yet I am withal persuaded that it may prove
much more easy in the assay-" than it now
seems at distance, and much more illustrious:
howbeit not more difficult than I imagine, and
that imagination presents me with nothing but
very happy and very possible according to best
wishes, if God have so decreed, and this age
have spirit and capacity enough to apprehend.t
From AREOPAGlTICA.t
A SPEECH FOR THE LIBERTY OF UNLICENSED
PRINTING, TO THE PABL1A.MENT OF ENGLAND.
If ye be thus resolved, as it were injury to
think ye were not, I know not what should
10 trlflers 20 trial
♦ Referring to the bow which none of the suitors
could driiw, but which Ulysses slew them with
on his return.
t This sentence Is a good example of Milton's J
awkwardness In prose, in which he said he
had but the use of his "left hand." See
Eng. Lit., p. 147.
t The title Is taken from that of a speech by
the Greek orator, Isocratcs. addressed to the
Great Council of Athens, which was called the
JOHN MILTON
263
withhold me from presenting ye with a fit in-
stance wherein to show both that love of truth
wliich ye eminently profess, and that upright-
ness of your judgment which is not wont to
be partial to yourselves ; by judging over again
that Order which ye have ordained to regulate
Printiiig : That «o book, pamphlet, or paper
shall be henceforth printed, unless the same be
■first approved and licensed by such, or at least
one of such as shall be thereto appointed. For
that part which preserves justly every man's
copyi to himself, or provides for the poor, I
touch not, only wish they be not made pretences
to abuse and persecute honest and painful^
men, who offend not in either of these particu-
lars. But that other clause of Licensing Books,
which we thought had died with his brother
quadragesimal and matrimonial* when the pre-
lates expired, I shall now attend with such a
homily, as shall lay before ye, first the in-
ventors of it to be those whom ye will be loth
to own ; next what is to be thought in general
of reading, whatever sort the books be; and
that this Order avails nothing to the suppress-
ing of scandalous, seditious, and libellous
books, which were mainly intended to be sup-
pressed. Last, that it will be primely to the
discouragement of all learning, and the stop of
Truth, not only by disexercising and blunting
our abilities in what we know already, but by
hindering and cropping the discjovery that
might be yet further made both in religious
and civil Wisdom.
I deny not, but that it is of greatest con-
cernment in the Church and Commonwealth, to
have a vigilant eye how books demean them-
selves as well as men; and thereafter to con-
fine, imprison, and do sharpest justice on them
as malefactors: For books are not absolutely
dead things, but do contain a potency of life in
them to be as active as that soul was whose
progeny they are; nay, they do preserve as in
a vial the purest eflScacy and extraction of that
living intellect that bred them. I know they
are as lively, and as vigorously productive, as
Areopagus because it held Its meetings on
the Areopagus, or "Hill of Ares" ("Mars'
Hill," where Paul preached: Acts xvil. 22).
The tract was written late in 1644. Parlia-
ment, In Its long struggle with Charles, had
brought about many changes, the Westminster
Assembly even going so far as practically to
abolish prelacy, or episcopacy, and establish
Presbyterianism. But an ordinance had been
enacted In 1643 re-establishing the censorship
of the press. Milton pleads to have this re-
voked ; and his opening words (here omitted)
praise Parliament for its professed willing-
ness to "obey the voice of reason."
1 copyright keeping of Lent
2 painstaking and marriage.
3 Orders concerning the
those fabulous dragon's teeth ;< and being sown
up and down, may chance to spring up armed
men. And yet, on the other hand, unless
wariness be used, as good almost kill a man as
kill a good book: who kills a man kills a
reasonable creature, God's image; but he who
destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills
the image of God, as it were in the eye.* Many
a man lives a burden to the earth; but a good
book is the precious life-blood of a master
spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose
to a life beyond life. 'Tis true, no age can
restore a life, whereof perhaps there is no great
loss; and revolutions of ages do not oft recover
the loss of a rejected truth, for the want of
which whole nations fare the worse. We should
be wary therefore what persecution we raise
against the living labours of public men, how we
spill that seasoned life of man, preserved and
stored up in books; since we see a kind of
homicide may be thus committed, sometimes
a martyrdom, and if it extend to the whole
impression,5 a kind of massacre, whereof the
execution ends not in the slaying of an ele-
mental life, but strikes at that ethereal and
fifth essence,t the breath of reason itself, slays
an immortality rather than a life. But lest 1
should be condemned of introducing license,
while I oppose licensing, I refuse not the pains
to be so much historical, as will serve to show
what hath been done by ancient and famous
commonwealths against this disorder, till the
very time that this project of licensing crept
out of the inquisition, was catched up by our
prelates, and hath caught some of our presby-
ters.
I conceive, therefore, that when God did
enlarge the universal diet of man's body, sav-
ing ever the rules of temperance. He then also,
as before, left arbitrary the dieting and repast-
ing of our minds ; as wherein every mature man
might have to exercise his own leading capacity.
How great a virtue is temperance, how much of
moment through the whole life of man! Yet
God commits the managing so great a trust,
without particular law or prescription, wholly
to the demeanour of every grown man. And
therefore when He Himself tabled^ the Jews
from heaven, that omer, which was every man 's
daily portion of manna, is computed to have
been more than might have well sufficed the
4 Sown by Cadmus of 5 edition
Thebes. « fed (Exodus xvi, 16)
* The reason of man is, as It were, the eye of his
divine nature,
t Aristotle's fifth element ; "quintessence," etber,
or spirit.
264
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
heartiest feeder thrice as many meals. For
those actions which enter into a man, rather
than issue out of him, and therefore defile not,
God uses not to captivate under a perpetual
childhood of prescription, but trusts him with
the gift of reason to be his own chooser; there
were but little work left for preaching, if law
and compulsion should grow so fast upon those
things which heretofore were governed only by
exhortation. Solomon informs us, that much
reading is a weariness to the flesh; but neither
he nor other inspired author tells us that such,
or such, reading is unlawful: yet certainly, had
God thought good to limit us herein, it had been
much more expedient to have told us what was
unlawful, than what was wearisome. As for
the burning of those Ephesian books^ by St.
Paul's converts; 'tis replied the books were
magic, the Syriae so renders them. It was a
private act, a voluntary act, and leaves us to a
voluntary imitation: the men in remorse burnt
those books which were their own; the magis-
trate by this example is not appointed: these
men practised the books, another might perhaps
have read them in some sort usefully. Good
and evil we know in the field of this world grow
up together almost inseparably; and the knowl-
edge of good is so involved and interwoven with
the knowledge of evil, and in so many cunning
resemblances hardly to be discerned, that those
confused seeds which were imposed upon Psyche
as an incessant labour to cull out, and sort
asunder, were not more intermixed. It was
from out the rind of one apple tasted, that the
knowledge of good and evil, as two twins cleav-
ing together, leaped forth into the world. And
perhaps this is that doom which Adam fell into
of knowing good and evil, that is to say of
knowing good by evil. As therefore the state
of man now is, what wisdom can there be to
choose, what continence to forbear without the
knowledge of evil I He that can apprehend and
consider vice with all her baits and seeming
pleasures, and yet abstain, and yet distinguish,
and yet prefer that which is truly better, he is
the true warfaring Christian. I cannot praise
a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and
unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her
adversary, but slinks out of the race, where that
immortal garland is to be run for, not without
dust and heat.t Assuredly we bring not inno-
cence into the world, we bring impurity much
rather ; that which purifies us is trial, and trial
7 Act$ xix, 19.
t This is one — but only one — of the noble senti-
ments 80 nobly exprcHScd, which make the
Areopaffitica one of the most prized docu-
vaeutB in our literature.
is by what is contrary. That virtue therefore
which is but a youngling in the contemplation
of evil, and knows not the utmost that vice
promises to her followers, and rejects it, is but
a blank virtue, not a pure; her whiteness is but
an excremental8 whiteness; which was the
reason why our sage and serious poet Spenser,
whom I dare be known to think a better teacher
than Scotus or Aquinas,^ describing true tem-
perance under the person of Guion,io brings
him in with his palmer through the cave of
Mammon, and the bower of earthly bliss, that
he might see and know, and yet abstain. Since
therefore the knowledge and survey of vice is
in this world so necessary to the constituting
of human virtue, and the scanning of error to
the confirmation of truth, how can we more
safely, and with less danger scout into the
regions of sin and falsity than by reading all
manner of tractates and hearing all manner of
reason? And this is the benefit which may be
had of books promiscuously read.
IZAAK WALTON (1593-1683)
THE COMPLETE ANGLER
From Chapter IV. Of the Trout, and How
TO Fish for Him. And of the
Milkmaid's Song
Venator.* Trust me, master, I see now it is
a harder matter to catch a trout than a chub;
for I have put on patience, and followed you
these two hours, and not seen a fish stir, neither
at your minnow nor your worm.
Piscator. "Well, scholar, you must endure
worse luck some time, or you will never make
a good angler. But what say you now? There
is a trout now, and a good one too, if I can
but hold him, and two or three turns more
will tire him. Now you see he lies still, and
the sleight is to land him. Reach me that land-
ing-net; so. Sir, now he is mine own. "What
say you now? is not this worth all my labour
and your patience?
Ten. On my word, master, this is a gallant
trout: what shall we do with him?
Pise. Marry, e'en eat him to supper: we'll
go to my hostess, from whence we came; she
told me, as I was going out of door, that my
8 surface lo Faerie Queene, Bk. IL ;
9 Scholastic p h 1 1 s •
phers.
* The Complete Angler is in the form of a dia«
loRue, chiefly between a fisherman, Piscator,
and a scholar-hunter, Venator.
IZAAK WALTON
265
brother Peter, a good angler and a cheerful
companion, had sent word that he would lodge
there to-night, and bring a friend with him.
My hostess has two beds, and I know you and
I may have the best: we'll rejoice with my
brother Peter and his friend, tell tales, or sing
ballads, or make a catch,i or find some harmless
sport to content us and pass away a little time,
without offence to God or man.
Ven. A match,2 good master, let's go to
that house; for the linen looks white and smells
of lavender, and I long to lie in a pair of sheets
that smell so. Let's be going, good master,
for I am hungry again with fishing.
Pise. Nay, stay a little, good scholar. I
caught my last trout with a worm; now I will
put on a minnow, and try a quarter of an hour
about yonder trees for another; and so walk
towards our lodging. Look you, scholar, there-
about we shall have a bite presently or not at
all. Have with you. Sir! o' my word I have
hold of him. Oh! it is a great logger-headed
chub; come hang him upon that willow twig,
and let 's be going. But turn out of the way
a little, good scholar, towards yonder high
honeysuckle hedge; there we'll sit and sing,
whilst this shower falls so gently upon the
teeming earth, and gives yet a sweeter smell to
the lovely flowers that adorn these verdant
meadows.
Look! under that broad beech-tree I sat
down, when 1 was last this way a-fishing. And
the birds in the adjoining grove seemed to have
a friendly contention with an echo, whose dead
voice seemed to live in a hollow tree, near to
the brow of that primrose hill. There I sat
viewing the silver streams glide silently towards
their centre, the tempestuous sea; yet some-
times opposed by rugged roots and pebble-
stones, which broke their waves, and turned
them into foam. And sometimes I beguiled
time by viewing the harmless lambs; some leap-
ing securely in the cool shade, whilst others
sported themselves in the cheerful sun; and
saw others craving comfort from the swollen
udders of their bleating dams. As I thus sat,
these and other sights had so fully possessed
my soul with content, that I thought, as the
poet hath happily expressed it,
"I was for that time lifted above earth.
And possessed joys not promised In my birth,"
As I left this place, and entered into the
next field, a second pleasure entertained me;
'twas a handsome milkmaid, that had not yet
attained so much age and wisdom as to load
1 a singing "round"
2 a bargain
her mind with any fears of many things that
will never be, as too many men too often do;
but she cast away all care, and sang like a
nightingale: her voice was good, and the ditty
fitted for it: it was that smooth song which
was made by Kit Marlow, now at least fifty
years ago; and the milkmaid's mother sang
an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter
Kaleigh in his younger days.
They were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely
good, I think much better than the strong lines
that are now in fashion in this critical age.
Look yonder! on my word, yonder they both be
a-milking again. I will give her the chub, and
persuade them to sing those two songs to us.
God speed you, good woman! I have been
a-fishing, and am going to Bleak Hall to my
bed, and having caught more fish than will sup
myself and my friend, I will bestow this upon
you and your daughter, for I use to sell none.
Milk-W. Marry, God requite you. Sir, and
we'll eat it cheerfully; and if you come this
way a-fishing two months hence, a2 grace of
God, I'll give you a syllabub of new ver-
juice,3 in a new-made hay-cock, for it, and my
Maudlin shall sing you one of her best ballads;
for she and I both love all anglers, they be
such honest, civil, quiet men: in the meantime
will you drink a draught of red cow's milkt
you shall have it freely.
Pise. No, I thank you; but, I pray, do us
a courtesy that shall stand* you and your
daughter in nothing, and yet we will think
ourselves still something in your debt; it is
but to sing us a song that was sung by your
daughter when I last passed over this meadow,
about eight or nine days since.
MiR-W. What song was it, I prayf Was
it "Come, Shepherds, deck your heads"? or,
"As at noon Dulcina rested"! or, "Phillida
flouts me"? or "Chevy Chace"! or, "Johnny
Armstrong"! or, "Troy Town"!
Pise. No, it is none of those; it is a song
that your daughter sang the first part, and
you sang the answer to it.
Milk-W. Oh, I know it now. I learned the
first part in my golden age, when I was about
the age of my poor daughter; and the latter
part, which indeed fits me best now, but two
or three years ago, when the cares of the world
began to take hold of me: but you shall, God
willing, hear them both, and sung as well as
we can, for we both love anglers. Come,
Maudlin, sing the first part to the gentlemen
2 by the
3 whipped cream and grape-Juice
4 cost
066
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
with a merry heart, and I'll sing the second,
when you have done.
THE milkmaid's SONG
Come, live with me, and be my love, etct
Ven. Trust me, master, it is a choice song,
and sweetly sung by honest Maudlin. I now
see it was not without cause that our good
Queen Elizabeth did so often wish herself a
milkmaid all the month of May, because they
are not troubled with fears and cares, but
sing sweetly all the day, and sleep securely all
the night; and without doubt, honest, innocent,
pretty Maudlin does so. I'll bestow Sir
Thomas Overbury's milkmaid's wish upon her,
"That she may die in the spring, and being
dead, may have good store of flowers stuck
round about her winding-sheet. ' '$
From Chapter XXI. A Seemon on Content
Piscator. Let me tell you, scholar, that
Diogenes walked on a day, with his friend, to
see a country fair; where he saw ribbons and
looking-glasses, and nut-crackers, and fiddles,
and hobby-horses, and many other gimcracks;
and, having observed them, and all the other
finnimbrunsi that make a complete country fair,
he said to his friend, "Lord, how many things
are there in this world of which Diogenes hath
no need ! ' ' And truly it is so, or might be
so, with very many who vex and toil them-
selves to get what they have no need of.
Can any man charge God that He hath not
given him enough to make his life happy? No,
doubtless; for nature is content with , a little.
And yet you shall hardly meet with a man
that complains not of some want; though he,
indeed, wants nothing but his will; it may be,
nothing but his will of his poor neighbour, for
not worshipping or not flattering him: and
thus, when we might be happy and quiet, we
create trouble to ourselves. I have heard of
a man that was angry with himself because
he was no taller; and of a woman that broke
her looking-glass becau8'> it would not show her
face to be as young and handsome as her next
neighbour 's was. And I knew another to whom
God had given health and plenty, but a wife
that nature had made peevish, and her hus-
band 's riches had made purse-proud ; and must,
t For this Bong. see p. 146. ^. ^
1 The mother then fllnsrs the answer, which may
be found on p. 146. Overbury'R milk-maid is
one of the moat famous of his "Characters ;
see Ena. Ut., p. 193. note.
i Walton appears to have coined this word. It Is
found only here.
because she was rich, and for no other virtue,
sit in the highest pew in the church; which
being denied her, she engaged her husband into
a contention for it, and at last into a law-
suit with a dogged neighbour who was as rich
as he, and had a wife as peevish and purse-
proud as the other; and this law-suit begot
higher oppositions, and actionablei words, and
more vexations and law-suits; for you must
remember that both were rich, and must there-
fore have their wills. Well, this wilful, purse-
proud law-suit lasted during the life of the
first husband; after which his wife vext and
chid, and chid and vext till she also chid and
vext herself into her grave; and so the wealth
of these poor rich people was curst into a
punishment, because they wanted meek and
thankful hearts; for those only can make us
happy. I knew a man that had health and
riches, and several houses, all beautiful, and
ready furnished, and, would often trouble him-
self and family to be removing from one house
to another; and being asked by a friend why
he removed so often from one house to an-
other, replied, "It was to find content in some
one of them." But his friend, knowing his
temper, told him, if he would find content in
any of his houses, he must leave himself be-
hind him; for content will uever dwell but
in a meek and quiet soul. And this may ap-
pear, if we read and consider what our Saviour
says in St. Matthew's Gospel; for He there
says: "Blessed be the merciful, for they shall
obtain mercy. — Blessed be the pure in heart,
for they shall see God. — Blessed be the poor
in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. ' '
And, "Blessed be the meek, for they shall
possess the earth." Not that the meek shall
not also obtain mercy, and see God, and be
comforted, and at last come to the kingdom
of heaven; but in the meantime he, and he
only, possesses the earth as he goes towards
that kingdom of heaven, by being humble and
cheerful, and content with what his good God
has allotted him. He has no turbulent, repin-
ing, vexatious thoughts that he deserves better ;
nor is vext when he sees others possest of more
honour or more riches than his wise God has
allotted for his share; but he possesses what
he has with a meek and contented quietness,
such a quietness as makes his very dreams
pleasing, both to God and himself.
My honest scholar, all this is told to incline
you to thankfulness; and to incline you the
more, let me tell you, that though the prophet
• 1 affording cause for legal action
JOHN BUNYAN
267
David was guilty of murder antl, indeed, of
many other of tlie most deadly sina, yet he
was said to be a man after God's own heart,
because he abounded more with thankfulness
than any other that is mentioned in holy
Scripture, as may appear in his book of
Psalms; where there is such a commixture of
his confessing of his sins and unworthiness,
and such thankfulness for God's pardon and
mercies, as did make him to be accounted, even
by God Himself, to be a man after His own
heart. And let us, in that, labour to be as like
him as we can; let not the blessings we receive
daily from God make us not to value or not
praise Him because they be common; let us
not forget to praise Him for the innocent
mirth and pleasure we have met with since we
met together. What would a blind man give to
see the pleasant rivers, and meadows, and
flowers, and fountains, that we have met with
since we met together? I have been told, that
if a man that was born blind could obtain to
have his sight for but only one hour during his
whole life, and should, at the first opening
of his eyes, fix his sight upon the sun when
it was in its full glory, either at the rising or
setting of it, he would be so transported and
amazed, and so admire the glory of it, that he
would not willingly turn his eyes from that
first ravishing object, to behold all the other
various beauties this world could present to
him. And this, and many other like blessings,
we enjoy daily. And for most of them, because
they be so common, most men forget to pay
their praises; but let not us, because it is a
sacrifice so pleasing to Him that made that
sun and us, and still protects us, and gives us
flowers and showers, and stomachs and meat,
and content and leisure to go a-fishing.
JOHN BUNYAN (1628-1688)
Feom the PILGRIM'S PKOGRESS*
Christian Flees from the City of
Destruction
As I walked through the wilderness of this
world, I lighted on a certain place where was
a den,i and I laid me down in that place to
sleep; and as I slept I dreamed a dream. 1
1 Bedford JaU (See Eng. Lit., p. 159).
* "The Pilgrim's Progress from This World to That
which is to come : Delivered under the Simil-
itude of a Dream, wherein Is Discovered the
manner of his setting out. his Dangerous Jour-
nev. and safe Arrival at the Desired Country."
Title of the first edition, 1678, whence our
text is taken.
dreamed, and behold, I saw a man clothed with
rags standing in a certain place, with his face
from his own house, a book in bis 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, saying, "What shall
I do?"
I saw also that he looked this way, and that
way, as if he would run; yet he stood still,
because, as I perceived, he could not tell which
way to go. 1 looked then, and saw a man
named Evangelist coming to him, and [he]
asked, "Wherefore dost thou cry?"
He answered, "Sir, I perceive, by the book
in my hand, that I am condemned to die, and
after that to come to judgment; and I find
that I am not willing to do the first, nor able
to do the second."
Then said Evangelist, "Why not willing to
die, since this life is attended with so many
evils?" The man answered, "Because I fear
that this burden that is upon my back will
sink me lower than the grave, and I shall fall
into Tophet.2 And Sir, if I be not fit to go
to prison, I am not fit (I am sure) to go to
judgment, and from thence to execution; and
the thoughts of these things make me cry."
Then said Evangelist, "If this be thy con-
dition, why standest thou still?" He an-
swered, ' ' Because I know not whither to go. ' '
Then he gave him a parchment roll, and there
was written within, "Fly from the wrath to
come."
The man therefore read it, and, looking upon
Evangelist very carefully, said, ' ' Whither must
I fly ? " Then said Evangelist, pointing with
his finger over a very wide field, "Do you see
yonder wicket gate?" The man said, "No."
Then said the other, "Do you see yonder shin-
ing light?" He said, "I think I do." Then
said Evangelist, "Keep that light in your
eye, and go up directly thereto, so shalt thou
see the gate; at which when thou knockest,
it shall be told thee what thou shalt do."
So I saw in my dream that the man began
to run. Now he had not run far from his own
door, but his wife and children, perceiving it,
began to cry after him to return; but the man
2 hell
"The Pilgrim's Progress is composed in the
lowest style of English without slang or false
grammar. If you were to polish it, you would
at once destroy the reality of the vision. For
works of imagination should be written in very
plain language ; the more purely imaginative
they are the more necessary it is to be plain."
— Coleridge.
268
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
put his fingers in his ears and ran on, crying, ]
* * Life ! life ! eternal life ! " So he looked not
behind him, but fled towards the middle of the
plain.
The neighbors also came out to see him run;
and as he ran, some mocked, others threatened,
and some cried after him to return. Now
among those that did so, there were two that
were resolved to fetch him back by force. The
name of the one was Obstinate, and the name
of the other Pliable. Now by this time the
man was got a good distance from them; but,
however, they were resolved to pursue him,
which they did, and in a little time overtook
him. Then said the man, ' * Neighbors, where-
fore are you come?" They said, "To per-
suade you to go back with us." But he said,
"That can by no means be. You dwell,"
said he, "in the City of Destruction (the
place also where I was born) : I see it to be
80; and dying there, sooner or later, you will
sink lower than the grave, into a place that
burns with fire and brimstone: be content,
good neighbors, and go along with me."
What, said Obstinate, and leave our friends
and our comforts behind us!
Yes, said Christian (for that was his name),
because that all is not worthy to be com-
pared with a little of that that I am seeking
to enjoy; and if you will go along with me,
you shall fare as I myself; for there, where
I go, is enough and to spare. Come away, and
prove my words.
Obst. What are the things you seek, since
you leave all the world to find them?
Chr. I seek an inheritance, incorruptible,
undefiled, and that fadeth not away; and it is
laid up in heaven, and fast there, to be be-
stowed, at the time appointed, on them that
diligently seek it. Read it so, if you will, in
my book.
Obst. Tush, said Obstinate, away with your
book: will you go back with us or no?
Chr. No, not I, said the other, because 1
have laid my hand to the plough.
Obst. Come then, neighbor Pliable, let us
turn again, and go home without him : there
is a company of these craz 'd-headed coxcombs,
that when they take a fancy by the end, are
wiser in their own eyes than seven men that
can render a reason.
Then said Pliable, Don't revile; if what
the good Christian says is true, the things he
looks after are better than ours: my heart
inclines to go with my neighbor.
Obst. What, more fools still! Be ruled by
me, and go back; who knows whither such a
brain-sick fellow will lead you I Go back,
back, and be wise.
Chr. Come with me, neighbor Pliable;
there are such things to be had which I spoke
of, and many more glories besides. If you
believe not me, read here in this book; and
for the truth of what is expressed therein, be-
hold, all is confirmed by the blood of Hin»
that made it.
Fli. Well, neighbor Obstinate, said Pliable,
I begin to come to a point; I intend to ga
along with tliis good man, and to cast in my
lot with him ; but, my good companion, do yoa
know the way to this desired place?
Chr. I am directed by a man, whose name
is Evangelist, to speed me to a little gate
that is before us, where we shall receive in-
struction about the way.
Pli. Come then, good neighbor, let us be
going. Then they went both together.
Obst. And I will go back to my place, said
Obstinate: I will be no companion of such
misled, fantastical fellows.
Now I saw in ray dream, that when Obsti-
nate was gone back, Christian and Pliable went
talking over the plain; and thus they began
their discourse.
Chr. Come, neighbor Pliable, how do you
do? I am glad you are persuaded to go along
with me; and had even Obstinate himself bu^
felt what I have felt of the powers and terrors
of what is yet unseen, he would not thus
lightly have given us the back.
Pli. Come, neighbor Christian, since there
is none but us two here, tell me now further,
what the things are, and how to be enjoyed,
whither we are going.
Chr. I can better conceive of them with m;
mind, than speak of them with my tongue:
but yet, since you are desirous to know, I will
read of them in my book.
Pli. And do you think that the words of
your book are certainly true?
Chr. Yes, verily; for it was made by him
that cannot lie.
Pli. Well said; what things are theyt
Chr. There is an endless kingdom to be
inhabited, and everlasting life to be given us,
that we may inhabit that kingdom forever.
Pli. Well said; and what else?
Chr. There are crowns of glory to be given
us; and garments that will make us shine
like the sun in the firmament of heaven.
Pli. This is excellent ; and what else!
Chr. There shall be no more crying, r.or
sorrow; for he that is owner of the place will
wipe all tears from our eyes.
JOHN BUNYAN
269
Pit. And what company shall we have there?
Chr. There we shall be with seraphims and
eherubims: creatures that will dazzle your eyes
to look on them. There also you shall meet
with thousands and ten thousands that have
gone before us to that place; none of them are
hurtful, but lo\-ing and holy; every one walking
in the sight of God, and standing in his pres-
ence with acceptance forever. In a word, there
we shall see the elders with their golden
crowns; there we shall see the holy virgins
with their golden harps; there we shall see
men, that by the world were cut in pieces,
burned in flames, eaten of beasts, drowned in
the seas, for the love that they bare to the
Lord of the place; all well, and clothed with
immortality as with a garment.
Pit. The hearing of this is enough to ravish
one's heart. But are these things to be en-
joyed! How shall we get to be sharers hereof?
Chr. The Lord, the governor of that coun-
try, hath recorded that in this book; the sub-
stance of which is, If we be truly willing to
have it, he will bestow it upon us freely.
Pli. Well, my good companion, glad am
I to hear of these things: come on, let us
mend our pace.
Chr. I cannot go so fast as I would, by
reason of this burden that is upon my back.
Now I saw in my dream, that just as they
had ended this talk, they drew near to a very
miry slough that was in the midst of the plain :
and they being heedless, did both fall sudden-
ly into the bog. The name of the slough was
Despond. Here, therefore, they wallowed for
a time, being grievously bedaubed with the
dirt; and Christian, because of the burden that
was on his back, began to sink in the mire.
Pli. Then said Pliable, Ah, neighbor Chris-
tian, where are you nowf
Chr. Truly, said Christian, I do not know.
Pli. At that Pliable began to be offended,
and angerly said to his fellow, Is this the
happiness you have told me all this while off
If we have such ill speed at our first setting
out, what may we expect 'twixt this and our
journey's endf May I get out again with my
life, you shaU possess the brave 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 Christian
saw him no more.
Wherefore Christian was left to tumble in
the Slough of Despond akme; but still he en-
deavored 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.
Chr. Sir, said Christian, I was directed 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 t
Chr. Fear followed me so hard that I fled
the next3 way, and fell in.
Help. 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.*
The Hill of Difficulty axd the Sixful
Sleep
I beheld then, that they all went on tUl
they came to the foot of an hill, at the bottom
of which was a spring. There was also in the
same place two other ways besides that which
came straight from the gate: one turned to the
left hand, and the other to the right, at the
bottom of the hill; but the narrow way lay
right up the hill, and the name of the going up
the side of the hill is called Difficulty. Chris-
tian now went to the spring and drank thereof
to refresh himself, and then began to go up
the hill, saying.
This hill, though high, I covet to ascend ;
The difiBcuIty will not me offend ;
For I perceive the way to life lies here :
Come, pluck up. Heart, let's neither faint nor fear ;
Better, though difficult, the right way to go.
Than wrong, though easy, where the end Is wo.
The other two also came to the foot of the
hill. But when they saw that the hill was
steep and high, and that there was two other
ways to go; and supposing also that these two
ways might meet again with that up which
Christian went, on the other side of the hill;
therefore they were resolved to go in those
ways. Now the name of one of those ways
was Danger, and the name of the other De-
struction. So the one took the way which is
called Danger, which led him into a great
• Christian passes through the gate, where he gets
instructions for his Journey ; visits the House
of the Interpreter : loses his burden at the
foot of the Cross ; receives a Roll from three
Shining Ones; and after falling in with For-
malist and Hypocrisy, comes to the Hill of
Difficulty.
270
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTUKY
wood; and the other took directly up the way
to Destruction, which led him into a wide field,
full of dark mountains, where he stumbled and
fell, and rose no more.
I looked then after Christian, to see him go
up the hill, where I perceived he fell from
running to going,i and from going to clamber-
ing upon his hands and his knees, because of
the steepness of the place. Now about the
midway to the top of the hill was a pleasant
arbor, made by the Lord of the hill for the
refreshment of weary travellers. Thither,
therefore. Christian got, where also he sat
down to rest him. Then he pulled his Boll
out of his bosom, and read therein to his com-
fort; he also now began afresh to take a review
of the coat or garment that was given him as
he stood by the cross. Thus pleasing himself
awhile, he at last fell into a slumber, and
thence into a fast sleep, which detained him
in that place until it was almost night; and
in his sleep his Boll fell out of his hand. Now,
as he was sleeping, there came one to him,
and awaked him, saying, "Go to the ant, thou
sluggard ; consider her ways, and be wise. ' '
And with that. Christian suddenly started up,
and sped him on his way, and went apace till
he came to the top of the hill.
Now when he was got up to the top of the
hill, there came two men running against him
amain; the name of the one was Timorous,
and the name of the other Mistrust: to whom
Christian said. Sirs, what's the matter? you
run the wrong way. Timorous answered, that
they were going to the City of Zion, and had
got up that difficult place: but, said he, the
further we go, the more danger we meet with;
wherefore we turned, and are going back again.
Yes, said Mistrust, for just before us lie a
couple of lions in the way, whether sleeping
or waking we know not; and we could not
think, if we came within reach, but they would
presently pull us in pieces.
Chr. Then said Christian, You make me
afraid; but whither shall I fly to be safe? If
I go back to mine own country, that is pre-
pared for fire and brimstone; and I shall cer-
tainly perish there. If I can get to the
Celestial City, I am sure to be in safety there.
I must venture. To go back is nothing but
death: to go forward is fear of death, and
life everlasting beyond it: I will yet go for-
ward. So Mistrust and Timorous ran down
the hill, and Christian went on his way. But
thinking again of what he had heard from the
men, he felt in bis bosom for his Boll, that he
1 walking
might read therein and be comforted; but he
felt, and found it not.
Then was Christian in great distress, and
knew not what to do; for he wanted that
which used to relieve him, and that which
should have been his pass into the Celestial
City. Here, therefore, he began to be much
perplexed, and knew not what to do. At last
he bethought himself that he had slept in the
arbor that is on the side of the hill; and fall-
ing down upon his knees, he asked God for-
giveness for that his foolish fact,2 and then
went back to look for his roll. But all tlie
way he went back, who can sufficiently set
forth the sorrow of Christian's heart? Some-
times he sighed, sometimes he wept, and often-
times he chid himself for being so foolish to
fall asleep in that place, which was erected
only for a little refreshment from his weari-
ness. Thus therefore, he went back, carefully
looking on this side and on that, all the way
as he went, if happily he might find his Boll,
that had been his comfort so many times in
his journey. He went thus till he came again
within sight of the arbor where he sat and
slept; but that sight renewed his sorrow the
more, by bringing again, even afresh, his evil
of sleeping into his mind. Thus, therefore, he
now went on bewailing his sinful sleep, saying,
Oh, wretched man that I am, that I should
sleep in the daytime! that I should sleep in
the midst of difficulty! that I should so in-
dulge the flesh as to use that rest for ease to
my flesh which the Lord of the hill hath erected
only for the relief of the spirits of pilgrims!
How many steps have I taken in vain! Thus
it happened to Israel; for their sin they were
sent back again by the way of the Bed Sea ;
and I am made to tread those steps with sor-
row, which I might have trod with delight, had
it not been for this sinful sleep. How far
might I have been on my way by this time!
T am made to tread those steps thrice over,
which I needed not to have trod but once: yea,
now also T am like to be benighted, for the
day is almost spent. Oh, that I had not slept!
Now by this time he was come to the arbor
again, where for a while he sat down and wept ;
but at last (as Providence would have it), look-
ing sorrowfully down under the settle, there he
espied his Boll, the which he with trembling
and haste catched up, and put it into his bosom.
But who can tell how joyful this man was
when he had gotten his Boll again? For this
Boll was the assurance of his life, and accept-
ance at the desired haven. Therefore he laid
2 deed
SAMUEL PEPYS
271
it up in his bosom, gave thanks to God for j
directing his eye to the place where it lay, {
and with joy and tears betook himself again
to his journey. But oh, how nimbly now did
he go up the rest of the hill! Yet before he
got up, the sun went down upon Christian;
and this made him again recall the vanity of
his sleeping to his remembrance; and thus he
again began to condole with himself: Ah,
thou sinful sleep! how for thy sake am I like
to be benighted in my journey! I must walk
without the sun, darkness must cover the path
of my feet, and I must hear the noise of dole-
ful creatures, because of my sinful sleep!
Now also he remembered the story that Mis-
trust and Timorous told him of, how they were
frighted with the sight of the lions. Then
said Christian to himself again, These beasts
range in the night for their prey; and if they
should meet with me in the dark, how should
I shift themf how should I escape being by
them torn in pieces? Thus he went on his
way. But whUe he was thus bewailing his
unhappy miscarriage, he lift up his eyes, and
behold, there was a very stately Palace before
him, the name whereof was Beautiful, and it
stood just by the highway-side.
SAMUEL PEPYS (1633-1703)
Feom His diary*
Pepys Appointed Secretary to the Generals
OF THE Fleet. The Return op
King Charles
Jan. 1. 1660 (Lord's day). This morning
(we living lately in the garret) I rose, put on
my suit with great skirts, having not lately
worn any other clothes but them. Went to
Mr. Gunning's chapel at Exeter House, where
he made a very good sermon. Dined at home
in the garret, where my wife dressed the re-
mains of a turkey, and in the doing of it she
burned her hand. I stayed at home all the
afternoon, looking over my accounts ; then went
with my wife to my father's and in going
observed the great posts which the City have
set up at the Conduit in Fleet Street.
Mar. 5th. To Westminster by water, only
seeing Mr. Pinkney at his own house, where he
* Pepys's Diary belongs to what may be called
unconscious literature. It was not intended
for publication, is reckless in grammar, un-
concerned for style, ignorant of any sort of
propriety, yet famous for its portrayal of
an interesting man in an interesting period.
See Eng. Lit., p. 156.
showed me how he had always kepc the lion
and unicorn, in the back of his chimney,
bright, in expectation of the King's coming
again. At home I found Mr. Hunt, who told me
how the Parliament had voted that the Covenantt
be printed and hung in churches again. Great
hopes of the King's coming again.
6th. Everybody now drinks the King 's health
without any fear, whereas before it was very
private that a man dare do it.
22nd. To Westminster, and received my war-
rant of Mr. Blaekbume to be secretary to the
two Generals of the Fleet.
23rd. My Lord,t Captain Isham, Mr. Thomas,
John Crewe, W. Howe, and I to the Tower, where
the barges stayed for us; my Lord and the Cap-
tain in one, and W. Howe and I, &c., in the other,
to the Long Reach, where the Swiftswre lay at
anchor; (in our way we saw the great breach
which the late high water had made, to the loss of
many £1,000 to the people about Limehouse).
Soon as my Lord on board, the guns went off
bravely from the ships. And a little while after
comes the Vice-Admiral Lawson, and seemed
very respectful to my Lord, and so did the
rest of the commanders of the frigates that
were thereabouts. I to the cabin allotted for
me, which was the best that any had that be-
longed to my Lord. We were late writing of
orders, for the getting of ships ready, &e.
May 1. To-day I hear they were very merry
at Deal,i setting up the King's flag upon one
of their maypoles, and drinking his health upon
their knees in the streets, and firing the guns,
which the soldiers of the castle threatened, but
durst not oppose.
2nd. In the morning at a breakfast of
radishes in the Purser's cabin. After that,
to writing till dinner. At which time comes
Dunne from London, with letters that tell us
the welcome news of the Parliament's votes
yesterday, which will be remembered for the
happiest May-day that hath been many a year
to England. The King's letter was read in
the House, wherein he submits himself and all
things to them, as to an Act of Oblivion to
all, unless they shall please to except any.
May 29th. Abroad to shore with my Lord
(which he offered me of himself, saying that
I had a great deal of work to do this month,
which was very true) . On shore we took horses,
1 A port near Dover.
t The Scottish "Covenant with God," a declaration
of resistance to the Roman Church. The next
year it was ordered to be publicly burnt.
t Sir Edward Montagu, whose service Pepys had
entered, and who, as admiral and general.
was appointed to convey Charles 11. from
Holland to England.
272
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTUEY
my Lord and Mr. Edward, Mr. Hetly and I,
and three or four servants, and had a great
deal of pleasure in riding. . . At last we came
upon a very high cliff by the sea-side, and
rode under it, we having laid great wagers, I
and Dr. Mathews, that it was not so high as
Paul's,2 my Lord and Mr. Hetly, that it was.
But we riding under it, my Lord made a pretty
good measure of it with two sticks, and found it
to be not above thirty-five yards high, and Paul 's
is reckoned to be about ninety. From thence
toward the barge again, and in our way found
the people of Deal going to make a bonfire
for joy of the day, it being the King's birth-
day, and had some guns which they did fire at
my Lord 's coming by. For which I did give
twenty shillings among them to drink. While
we were on the top of the cliff, we saw and
heard our guns in the fleet go off for the same
joy. And it being a pretty fair day, we could
see above twenty miles into France. Being
returned on board, my Lord called for Mr.
Sheply's book of Paul's, by which we were
confirmed in our wager. . . . This day, it is
thought, the King do enter the City of London.
30th. All this morning making up my ac-
counts, in which I counted that I had made
myself now worth about £80, at which my
heart was glad, and blessed God.
Matters Personal and Domestic
Oct. 13th. I went out to Charing Cross, to
see Major-General Harrison* hanged, drawn,
and quartered ; which was done there, he look-
ing as cheerful as any man could do in that
condition. He was presently cut down, and
his head and heart shown to the people, at
which there was great shouts of joy. It is
said that he said that he was sure to come
shortly at the right hand of Christ to judge
them that now had judged him; and that his
wife do expect his coming again. Thus it
was my chance to see the King beheaded at
Whitehall, and to see the first blood shed in
revenge for the blood of the King at Charing
Cross. From thence to my Lord's, and took
Captain Cuttance and Mr. Sheply to the Sun
Tavern, and did give them some oysters. After
that I went by water home, where I was angry
with my wife for her things lying about, and
in my passion kicked the little fine basket,
which I bought her in Holland, and broke it,
which troubled me after I had done it. With-
2 Ht. Paul's Cathedral, London.
* He bad served under Cromwell, and had Rigncd
the warrant for the executlou ot Charles I.
in all the afternoon setting up shelves in mj
study. At night to bed.
Nov. 22nd. This morning come the aai
penters to make me a door at the other sidcT
of my house, going into the entry, which I was
much pleased with. At noon, my wife and 1
walked to the Old Exchange, and there she
bought her a white whiski and put it on, and
I a pair of gloves, and so we took coach for
Whitehall to Mr. Fox's, where we found Mrs.
Fox within, and an alderman of London paying
£1,000 or £1,400 in gold upon the table for
the King, which was the most gold that ever
I saw together in my life. Mr. Fox come in
presently and did receive us with a great deal
of respect; and then did take my wife and I to
the Queen's presence-chamber, where he got my
wife placed behind the Queen 's chair, and I got
into the crowd, and by and by the Queen and
the two Princesses come to dinner. The Queen a
very little plain old woman,* and nothing more
in her presence in any respect nor garb than
any ordinary woman. The Princess of Orange I
had often seen before. The Princess Henri-
etta is very pretty, but much below my expecta-
tion: and her dressing of herself with her hair
frizzed short up to her ears, did make her
seem so much the less to me. But my wife
standing near her with two or three black
patches on, and well dressed, did seem to me
much handsomer than she.
Feb. 27th, 1661. I called for a dish of fish,
which we had for dinner, this being the first
day of Lent; and I do intend to try whether
I can keep it or no.
28th. I took boat at Whitehall for Bedriffe,
but in my way overtook Captain Cuttance and
Tiddiman in a boat and so ashore with them
at Queenhithe, and so to a tavern with them
to a barrel of oysters, and so away. Capt.
Cuttance and I walked from Eedriffe to Dept-
ford, and there we dined, and notwithstanding
my resolution, yet for want of other victuals,
I did eat flesh this Lent, but am resolved to
eat as little as I can.
The Coronation of Charles II
Apr. 23rd. Coronation Day. About four I
rose and got to the Abbey, where I followed
Sir J. Denham, the Surveyor, with some com-
pany that he was leading in. And with much
ado, by the favour of Mr. Cooper, his man,
did get up into a great scaffold across the
north end of the Abbey, where with a great
deal of patience I sat from past four till
1 neckerchief
• Henrietta Maria, mother of Charles. The prin-
cesses montioned were two of her daughters.
SAMUEL PEPYS
273
eleven before the King come in. And a great
pleasure it was to see the Abbey raised in the
middle, all covered with red, and a throne
(that is a chair) and foot-stool on the top of
it; and all the officers of all kinds, so much
as the very fiddlers, in red vests.
At last comes in the Dean and Prebends of
Westminster, with the Bishops (many of them
in cloth-of-gold copes), and after them the
Nobility, all in their Parliament robes, which
was a most magnificent sight. Then the Duke
and the King with a sceptre (carried by my
Lord Sandwich) and sword and wand before
him, and the crown too. The King in his
robes, bare-headed, which was very fine. And
after all had placed themselves, there was a
sermon and the service; and then in the Choir
at the high altar, the King passed through
all the ceremonies of the Coronation, which
to my great grief I and most in the Abbey
could not see. The crown being put upon his
head, a great shout began, and he come forth
to the throne, and there passed more ceremo-
nies: as taking the oath, and having things
read to him by the Bishop; and his Lords
(who put on their caps as soon as the King
put on his crown) and bishops come, and
kneeled before him. And three times the King
at Arms2 went to the three open places on the
scaflfold, and proclaimed, that if any one could
show any reason why Charles Stewart should
not be King of England, that now he should
come and speak. And a General Pardon also
was read by the Lord Chancellor, and medals
flung up and down by my Lord Cornwallis, of
silver, but I could not come by any. But so
great a noise that I could make but little of
the music; and indeed, it was lost to every-
body.
I went out a little while before the King
had done all his ceremonies, and went round
the Abbey to Westminster Hall, all the way
within rails, and 10,000 people, with the ground
covered with blue cloth; and scaffolds all the
way. Into the Hall I got, where it was very
fine with hangings and scaffolds one upon an-
other full of brave ladies; and my wife in one
little one, on the right hand. Here I stayed
walking up and down, and at last, upon one
of the side stalls I stood and saw the King come
in with all the persons (but the soldiers) that
were yesterday in the cavalcade; and a most
pleasant sight it was to see them in their sev-
eral robes. And the King come in with his
crown on, and his sceptre in his hand, under a
aThe Gftrter King-at-Arms, head of the heralds.
canopy borne up by six silver staves, carried
by Barons of the Cinque Ports,3 and little bells
at every end.
And after a long time, he got up to the
farther end, and all set themselves down at
their several tables; and that was also a brave
sight: and the King's first course carried up
by the Knights of the Bath. And many fine
ceremonies there was of the herald's leading
up people before him, and bowing; and my
Lord of Albemarle's going to the kitchen and
eat a bit of the first dish that was to go to
the King's table. But, above all, was these
three Lords, Northumberland, and Suffolk, and
the Duke of Ormond, coming before the courses
on horseback, and staying so all dinner-time,
and at last to bring up* [Dymock] the King's
champion, all in armour on horseback, with his
spear and target carried before him. And a
herald proclaims, "That if any dare deny
Charles Stewart to be lawful King of England,
here was a champion that would fight with
him ; ' ' and with these words, the champion
flings down Ms gauntlet, and all this he do
three times in his going up towards the King's
table. At last when he is come, the King
drinks to him, and then sends him the cup,
which is of gold, and he drinks it off, and then
rides back again with the cup in his hand. I
went from table to table to see the bishops and
all others at their dinner, and was infinitely
pleased with it. And at the Lord 's table, 1
met with William Howe, and he spoke to my
Lord for me, and he did give me four rabbits
and a pullet, and so I got it and Mr. Creed and
I got Mr. Minshell to give us some bread, and so
we at a stall eat it, as everybody else did what
they could get. I took a great deal of pleasure to
go up and down, and look upon the ladies, and
to hear the music of all sorts, but above all, the
twenty-four violins.
About six at night they had dined, and 1
went up to my wife. And strange it is to
think, that these two days have held up fair
till now that all is done, and the King gone
out of the Hall; and then it fell a-raining
and thundering and lightening as I have not
seen it do for some years; which people did
take great notice of; God's blessing of the
work of these two days, which is a foolery to
take too much notice of such things. I ob-
served little disorder in all this, only the King's
footmen had got hold of the canopy, and
would keep it from the Barons of the Cinque
3 The five English Channel ports, Hastings, Sand-
wich, Dover, Romney, Hythe.
4 This ceremony is no longer observed.
274
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTUEY
Ports, which they endeavoured to force from
them again, but could not do it till my Lord
Duke of Albemarle caused it to be put into
Sir B. Pye's hand till to-morrow to be decided.
At Mr. Bowyer's; a great deal of company,
some I knew, other I did not. Here we stayed
upon the leads" and below till it was late, ex-
pecting to see the fireworks, but they were not
performed to-night: only the City had a light
like a glory round about it with bonfires. At
last I went to King Street, and there sent
Crockford to my father's and my house, to
tell them I could not come home to-night, be-
cause of the dirt, and a coach could not be had.
And so I took my wife and Mrs. Frankleyn
(who I proffered the civility of lying with my
wife at Mrs. Hunt's to-night) to Axe Yard,
in which at the farther end there were three
great bonfires, and a great many great gallants,
men and women; and they laid hold of us,
and would have us drink the King's health
upon our knees, kneeling upon a faggot, which
we all did, they drinking to us one after an-
other: which we thought a strange frolic; but
these gallants continued thus a great while,
and I wondered to see how the ladies did tip-
ple. At last I sent my wife and her bedfellow
to bed, and Mr. Hunt and I went in with Mr.
Thornbury (who did give the company all their
wine, he being yeoman of the winecellar to the
King) to his home; and there, with his wife and
two of his sisters, and some gallant sparks that
were there, we drank the King's health, and
nothing else, till one of the gentlemen fell down
stark drunk, and there lay; and I went to my
Lord's pretty well.
Thus did the day end with joy everywhere;
and blessed be God, I have not heard of any
mischance to anybody through it all, but only
to Serjt. Glynne, whose horse fell upon him
yesterday, and is like to kill him, which people
do please themselves to see how just God is to
punish the rogue at such a time as this: he
being now one of the King's Serjeants, and
rode in the cavalcade with Maynard, to whom
people wish the same fortune. § There was also
this night in King Street, a woman had her
eye put out by a boy's flinging a firebrand
into the coach. Now, after all this, I can say
that, besides the pleasure of the sight of these
glorious things, I may now shut my eyes
against any other objects, nor for the future
trouble myself to see things of state and show
r. roof (of sheets of load)
I Both these men had served Cromwell during the
Protectorate, but unBcrnpuloiisIy transferred
their allegiance to Charles at the time of the
Restoration.
as being sure never to see the like again in
this world.
24th. At night, set myself to write down
these three days' diary, and while I am about
it, I hear the noise of the chambers, and other
things of the fireworks, which are now playing
upon the Thames before the King; and I wish
myself with them, being sorry not to see them.
JOHN EVELYN (1620-1706)
From His DIAEY*
The Restoration of Charles II
May 29, 1660. This day his Majesty Charles II
came to London after a sad and long exile
and calamitous suffering both of the King and
Church, being 17 years. This was also his
birth-day, and with a triumph of above 20,000
horse and foot, brandishing their swords and
shouting with inexpressible joy; the ways
strewed with flowers, the bells ringing, the
streets hung with tapestry, fountains running
with wine; the Mayor, Aldermen, and all the
Companiesf in their liveries, chains of gold
and banners; Lords and Nobles clad in cloth
of silver, gold, and velvet; the windows and
balconies all set with ladies; trumpets, music,
and myriads of people flocking, even so far as
from Eochester, so as they were seven hours
in passing the City, even from 2 in the after-
noon till 9 at night.
I stood in the Strand and beheld it, and
blessed God. And all this was done without
one drop of blood shed, and by that very army
which rebelled against him; but it was the
Lord's doing, for such a Eestoration. was never
mentioned in any history, ancient or modern,
since the return of the Jews from the Babylon-
ish captivity; nor so joyful a day and so bright
ever seen in this nation, this happening when
to expect or effect it was past all human policy.
July 6, His Majesty began first to touch for
the evil,% according to custom, thus : his Majesty
* .John Evelyn, "a good man in dIflScult times."
a favorite of Charles II., traveler, and mem-
ber of the Royal Society of London, was a
man of real culture and wide intellectual in-
terests. His Diary extends from 1640 to 1706,
covering a much longer period than that of
Pepys. Austin Dobson says of it : "If it does
not, like the Diary of Pepys, disclose the
inner character of the writer, it nevertheless
possesses a distinctive Interest. Its entries
have the precise value of veracious statements ;
It Is a magazine — a mine, Scott called it—
of contemporary memories of a definite kind."
t The Livery Companies, or Guilds, established as
a part of the city government to protect the
members of the various crafts.
% The scrofula was familiarly known as "the king's
evil," from the superstition that it could oe
healed by the royal touch.
JOHN EVELYN
275
sitting under his Statei in the Banqueting-
Hoiise, the chirurgeons cause the sick to be
brought or led to the throne, where they kneel-
ing, the King strokes their faces or cheeks with
both his hands at once, at which instant a chap-
lain in his formalities says, ' He put his hands
upon them and he healed them.' This is said
to every one in particular. When they have
been all touched they come up again in the
same order, and the other chaplain kneeling,
and having angel gold- strung on white ribbon
on his arm, delivers them one by one to his
Majesty, who puts them about the necks of the
touched as they pass, whilst the first chaplain
repeats, 'That is the true light who came into
the world.' Then follows an epistle (as at first
a gospel) with the liturgy, prayers for the sick,
with some alteration, lastly the blessing; and
then the Lord Chamberlain and Comptroller of
the Household bring a basin, ewer, and towel,
for his Majesty to wash.
Jan. 30, 1661. Was the first solemn fast and
day of humiliation to deplore the sins Avhich so
long had provoked God against this afflicted
church and people, ordered by Parliament to be
annually celebrated to expiate the guilt of the
execrable murder of the late King.
This day (O the stupendous and inscrutable
judgments of God!) were the carcasses of those
arch rebels, Cromwell, Bradshaw, the Judge
who condemned his Majesty, and Ireton, son-in-
law to the Usurper, dragged out of their superb
tombs in Westminster among the Kings, to
Tyburn, and hanged on the gallows there from
9 in the morning till 6 at night, and then buried
under that fatal and ignominious monument in
a deep pit; thousands of people who had seen
them in all their pride being spectators. Look
back at October 22, 1658, [Oliver's funeral,]
and be astonished! and fear God and honour
the King; but meddle not with them who are
given to change!
Nov. 11. I was so idle as to go see a play
called Love and Honour. — Dined at Arundel
House ; and that evening discoursed with his
Majesty about shipping, in which he was ex-
ceeding skilful.
26. I saw Hamlet, Prince of BenmarTc, played,
but now the old plays began to disgust this
refined age, since his Majesty's being so long
abroad.
Dec. 14. I saw otter lumting with the King,
and killed one.
23. I heard an Italian play and sing to the
guitar with extraordinary skill before the Duke.
Jan. 6, 1662. This evening, according to
1 canopy of state
2 standard, or "guinea" gold (bearing the figure of
an angel)
custom, his Majesty opened the revels of that
night by throwing the dice himself in the privy
chamber, where was a table set on purpose, and
lost his £100. (The year before he won £1,500.)
The ladies also played very deep. I came away
when the Duke of Ormond had won about £1,000,
and left them still at pa^sage,^ cards, etc. At
other tables, both there and at the Groom-
porter's,* observing the wicked folly and mon-
strous excess of passion amongst some losers;
sorry I am that such a wretched custom as play
to that excess should be countenanced in a Court
which ought to be an example of virtue to the
rest of the kingdom.
The Great Plague
Aug. 2, 1665. A solemn fast thro' England
to deprecate God's displeasure against the land
by pestilence and war; our Doctor preaching
on 26 Levit, 41, 42, that the means to obtain
remission of punishment was not to repine at it,
but humbly submit to it.
28. The contagion still increasing and grow-
ing now all about us, I sent my wife and whole
family (two or three necessary servants ex-
cepted) to my brother's at Wotton, being re-
solved to stay at my house myself and to look
after my charge, trusting in the providence and
goodness of God.
Hept. 7. Came home, there perishing near
10,000 poor creatures weekly; however, I went
all along the City and suburbs from Kent Street
to St. James's, a dismal passage, and dangerous
to see so many coffins exposed in the streets,
now thin of people; the shops shut up, and all
in mournful silence, as not knowing whose turn
might be next. I went to the Duke of Albe-
marle for a pest-ship, to wait on our infected
men, who were not a few.
Dec. 31. Now blessed be God for his extraordi-
nary mercies and preservation of me this year,
when thousands and ten thousands perished and
were swept away on each side of me, there dying
in our parish this year 406 of the pestilence!
The Great Fire
Sept. 2, 1666. This fatal night about ten,
began that deplorable fire near Fish Street in
London.
3. I had public prayers at home. The fire
continuing, after dinner I took coach with my
wife and son, and went to the Bankside in
Southwark, where we beheld the dismal spec-
tacle, the whole City in dreadful flames near
the water side; all the houses from the Bridge,
all Thames Street, and upwards towards Cheap-
side, down to the Three Cranes, Avere now con-
3 A game of dice.
4 The royal director of games.
276
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
sumed: and so returned exceeding astonished
what would become of the rest.
The fire having continued all this night (if
I may call that night which was light as day for
ten miles round about, after a dreadful manner)
when conspiring with a fierce Eastern wind in a
very dry season; I went on foot to the same
place, and saw the whole South part of the City
burning from Cheapside to the Thames, and all
along Cornhill (for it likewise kindled back
against the wind as well as forward). Tower
Street, Fenchurch Street, Gracious Street, and
so along to Baynard's Castle, and was now
taking hold of St. Paul's Church, to which the
scaffolds contributed exceedingly. The confla-
gration was so universal, and the people so
astonished, that from the beginning, I know not
by what despondency or fate, they hardly stirred
to quench it, so that there was nothing heard or
seen but crying out and lamentation, running
about like distracted creatures, without at all
attempting to save even their goods; such a
strange consternation there was upon them, so
as it burned both in breadth and length, the
Churches, Public Halls, Exchange, Hospitals,
Monuments, and ornaments, leaping after a pro-
digious manner from house to house and street
to street, at great distances one from the other ;
for the heat with a long set of fair and warm
weather had even ignited the air and prepared
the materials to conceive the fire, which de-
voured after an incredible manner houses, furni-
ture, and everything. Here we saw the Thames
covered with goods floating, all the barges and
boats laden with what some had time and cour-
age to save, as, on the other side, the carts, etc.,
carrying out to the fields, which for many miles
were strewed with movables of all sorts, and
tents erecting to shelter both people and what
goods they could get away. Oh, the miserable
and calamitous spectacle! such as haply the
world had not seen the like since the founda-
tion of it, nor be outdone, till the universal
conflagration of it. All the sky was of a fiery
aspect, like the top of a burning oven, and the
light seen above 40 miles round about for many
nights. God grant mine eyes may never behold
the like, who now saw above 10,000 houses all in
one flame ; the noise and cracking and thunder of
the impetuous flames, and shrieking of women
and children, the hurry of people, the fall of
towers, houses and churches, was like an hideous
storm, and the air all about so hot and inflamed
that at the last one was not able to approach it,
so that they were forced to stand still and let
the flames burn on, which they did for near two
miles in length and one in breadth. The clouds,
also, of smoke were dismal, and reached, upon
computation, near 50 miles in length. Thus I
left it this afternoon burning, a resemblance of
Sodom, or the last day. It forcibly called to my
mind that passage — non enim hie habemus sta-
bilem civitatevi:^ the ruins resembling the pic-
ture of Troy. London was, but is no more.
Thus I returned home.
The Death of Cowley
Aug. 1, 1667. I received the sad news of
Abraham Cowley's death, that incomparable
poet and virtuous man, my very dear friend,
and was greatly deplored.
3. Went to Mr. Cowley 's funeral, whose corpse
lay at Wallingford House, and was thence con-
veyed to Westminster Abbey in a hearse with
six horses and all funeral decency, near an hun-
dred coaches of noblemen and persons of quality
following; among these all the wits2 of the
town, divers bishops and clergymen. He was
interred next Geoffrey Chaucer and near to
Spenser. A goodly monument has been since
erected to his memory.
Popular Pastimes
June 16, 1670. I went with some friends to
the Bear Garden, where was cock-fighting, dog-
fighting, bear and bull baiting, it being a famous
day for all these butcherly sports, or rather bar-
barous cruelties. The bulls did exceeding well,
but the Irish wolf-dog exceeded, which was a
tall greyhound, a stately creature indeed, who
beat a cruel mastiff. One of the bulls tossed a
dog full into a lady's lap, as she sate in one of
the boxes at a considerable height from the
arena. Two poor dogs were killed, and so all
ended with the ape on horseback, and I most
heartily weary of the rude and dirty pastime,
which I had not seen, I think, in twenty years
before.
The Death of Chaeles II
Feb. 4, 1685. I went to London, hearing his
Majesty had been the Monday before (2 Feb.)
surprised in his bed-chamber with an apoplectic
fit. On Thursday hopes of recovery were signi-
fied in the public Gazette, but that day, about
noon, the physicians thought him feverish. He
passed Thursday night with great difficulty,
when complaining of a pain in his side, thoy
drew two ounces more of blood from him; this
was by 6 in the morning on Friday, and it gave
him relief, but it did not continue, for being
now in much pain, and struggling for breath, he
lay dozing, and after some conflicts, the physi-
cians despairing of him, he gave up the ghost
at half an hour after eleven in the morning,
1 "For wp have no abiding city."
2 men of culture
JOHN DRYDEN
277
being 6 Feb. IG80, in the 36tli year of his reign,
and 54th of his age.
Thus died King Charles II, of a vigorous a«d
robust constitution, and in all ap{>earance prom-
ising a long life. He was a Prince of many
virtues, and many great imperfections; debo-
nair, easy of access, not bloody nor cruel; his
countenance fierce, his voice great, proj)er of
person, every motion became him ; a lover of the
sea, and skilful in shipping; not affecting other
studies, yet he had a laboratory and knew of
many empiricals medicines, and the easier nie-
clianical mathematics; he loved planting and
building, and brought in a politer way of living,
which passed to luxury and intolerable expense.
He had a particular talent in telling a story,
and facetious passages, of which he had in-
numerable; this made some buffoons and vicious
wretches too presumptuous and familiar, not
worthy the favour they abused. He took delight
in ha\ing a number of little spaniels follow him
and lie in his bed-chamber. . . .
Certainly never had King more glorious oppor-
tunities to have made himself, his people, and
all Europe happy, and prevented innumerable
mischiefs, had not his too easy nature resigned
him to be managed by crafty men, and some
abandoned and profane wretches who corrupted
his otherwise sufficient parts, disciplined as he
had been by many afflictions during his banish-
ment, which gave him much experience and
knowledge of men and things ; but those wicked
creatures took him off from all application be-
coming so great a King. The history of his
reign will certainly be the most wonderful for
the variety of matter and accidents, above any
extant in former ages: the sad tragical death
of his father, his banishment and hardships, his
miraculous restoration, conspiracies against him,
parliaments, wars, plagues, fires, comets, revolu-
tions abroad happening in his time, with a thou-
sand other particulars. He was ever kind to me.
and very gracious upon all occasions, and there-
fore I cannot, without ingratitude, but deplore
his loss, which for many respects, as well as
duty. T do with all my soul. . . .
I can never forget the inexpressible luxury
and profaneness, gaming and all dissoluteness,
and as it were total forgetfulness of God (it
being Sunday evening) which this day se 'nnight
I was witness of, the King sitting and toying
with his concubines, Portsmouth, Cleaveland, and
Mazarine, etc., a French boy singing love songs,
in that glorious gallery, whilst about twenty of
the great courtiers and other dissolute persons
were at Basset* round a large table, a bank of
3 Approved by unscientific observation.
* A game at cards.
at least 2,000 in gold before them; upon wJiich
two gentlemen who were with me made reflec-
tions with astonishment. Six days after was all
in the dust !
JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700)
From ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL*
The inhabitants of old Jerusalem^
Were Jebusites;- the town so called from
them,
And theirs the native right.
But when the chosen people^ grew more strong,
The rightful cause at length became the wrong;
And every loss the men of Jebus bore, 90
They still were thought God's enemies the
more.
Thus worn and weakened, well or ill content,
Submit they must to David's* government:
Impoverished and deprived of all connnand,
Their taxes doubled as they lost their land;
And, what was harder yet to flesh and blood.
Their gods disgraced, and burnt like common
wood.
This set the heathen priesthood in a flame,
For priests of all religions are the same.
Of whatso'er descent their godhead be, 100
Stock, stone, or other homely pedigree.
In his defence his servants are as bold,
As if he had been born of beaten gold.
The Jewish Kabbins,^ though their enemies,
In this conclude them honest men and wise:
For 'twas their duty, all the learned think.
To espouse his cause by whom they eat and
drink.
From hence began that Plot,« the nation's
curse.
Bad in itself, but represented worse, 109
Baised in extremes, and in extremes decried,
With oaths aflBrmed, with dying vows denied,
1 London. * Charles II.
2 Roman Catliolics. o Uignitarics of the
3 Used ironically of the Church of England.
Puritans. 6 The Popish IMot.
♦ This, the first of Dryden's satires, was directed
against the Earl of Shaftesbury (Aehitophel)
and the opponents of the court. The strong
excitement aroused by the "Popish Plot," an
alleged attempt to strengthen Roman Catholic
power in England by the murder of Charles
II., had impelled Shaftesbury, a Whig, to en-
deavor to secure the succession to the Prot-
estant Duke of Monmouth (Absalom), thus
preventing the Catholic Dnlte of York from
ascending the throne. Charles II.. who was
secretiv a Catholic, and was receiving aid
from France, waited a favorable moment ;
then, aided by the Tories, lie recalled his
brother, the Duke of York, and threw
Shaftesbury into prison on the charge of high
treason. The poem appeared November 17.
1681. Shaftesbury's case was to come up
November 24.
278
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
Not weighed or winnowed by the multitude,
But swallowed in the mass, unchewed and
crude.
Some truth there was, but dashed and brewed
with lies
To please the fools and puzzle all the wise:
Succeeding times did equal folly call
Believing nothing or believing all.
The Egyptian^ rites the Jebusites embraced,
Where gods were recommended by their taste;
Such savoury deities must needs be good l-O
As served at once for worship and for food.*
By force they could not introduce these gods.
For ten to one in former days was odds:
So fraud was used, the sacrificer's trade;
Fools are more hard to conquer than persuade.
Their busy teachers mingled with the Jews
And raked for converts even the court and
stews :
Which Hebrew priests the more unkindly took.
Because the fleece accompanies the flock.
Some thought they God's anointed meant to
slay 130
By guns, invented since full many a day:
Our author swears it not; but who can know
How far the Devil and Jebusites may go?
This plot, which failed for want of common
sense,
Had yet a deep and dangerous consequence;
I'or as, when raging fevers boil the blood,
The standing lake soon floats into a flood,
And every hostile humour which before
Slept quiet in its channels bubbles o'er;
So several factions from this first ferment HO
Work up to foam and threat the government.
Some by their friends, more by themselves
thought wise,
Opposed the power to which they could not rise.
Some had in courts been great and, thrown
from thence,
Like fiends were hardened in impenitence.
Some by their Monarch's fatal mercy grown
From pardoned rebels kinsmen to the throne
Were raised in power and public office high ;
Strong bands, if bands ungrateful men could
tie.
Of these the false Achitophel was first, 150
A name to all succeeding ages curst:
For close designs and crooked counsels fit.
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit,
Restless, unfixed in principles and place,
In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace;
A fiery soul, which working out its way,
Fretted the pigmy body to decay
7 Frencb.
8 A reference to the doctrine of transubstantlatlon.
And 'er-informedo the tenement of clay. *
A daring pilot in extremity.
Pleased with the danger, when the waves went
high, 160
He sought the storms; but, for a calm unfit.
Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit.
Great wits are sure to madness near allied
And thin partitions do their bounds divide;
Else, why should he, with wealth and honour
blest,
Refuse his age the needful hours of rest?
Punish a body which he could not please.
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease?
And all to leave what with his toil he won
To that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son.
Got while his soul did huddled notions try, 171
And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy.io
In friendship false, implacable in hate.
Resolved to ruin or to rule the state;
To compass this the triple bondu he broke,
The pillars of the public safety shook.
And fitted Israelis for a foreign yoke;i3
Then, seized with fear, yet still affecting fame.
Usurped a patriot's all-atoning name.
So easy still it proves in factious times 180
AVith public zeal to cancel private crimes.
How safe is treason and how sacred ill,
Where none can sin against the people 's will,
Where crowds can wink and no offence be
known.
Since in another's guilt they find their own!
Yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge;
The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge.
In Israel's court ne'er sat an Abbethdini*
With more discerning eyes or hands more clean,
Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to redress,
Swift of despatch and easy of access. 191
Oh! had he been content to ser\-e the crown
With virtues only proper to the gown.
Or had the rankness of the soil been freed
From cockle that oppressed the noble seed,
David for him his tuneful harp had strung
And Heaven had wantedis one immortal song.
But wild ambition loves to slide, not stand,
And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land.
Achitophel, grown weary to possess 200
A lawful fame and lazy happiness.
Disdained the golden fruit to gather free
And lent the crowd his arm to shake the tree.
9 filled to excess
10 Shaftesbury's son wa-j a weakling.
11 The alliance of England, Holland, and Swoden.
broken by the alliance in 1670 of England and
France against Holland.
12 England.
13 That of France. „. ^ .
14 Chief Judge of the .Tewish court (Shaftesbury
had been Lord Chancellor in 1672-3).
15 lacked (Diyden is referring to his own poem)
JOHN DRYDEN
279
Now, manifest of crimes contrived long since,
He stood at bold defiance with his Prince,
Held up the buckler of the people's cause
Against the crown, and skulked behind the laws.
The wished occasion of the Plot he takes;
Some circumstances finds, but more he makes;
By buzzing emissaries fills the ears 210
Of listening crowds with jealousies and fears
Of arbitrary counsels brought to light,
And proves the King himself a Jebusite.
Weak arguments! which yet he knew full well
Were strong with people easy to rebel.
For governed by the moon, the giddy Jews
Tread the same track when she the prime re-
news :
And once in twenty years, their scribes record,
By natural instinct they change their lord.
Achitophel still wants a chief, and none 220
Was found so fit as warlike Absalon.
Not that he wished his greatness to create,
For politicians neither love nor hate:
But, for he knew his title not allowed
Would keep him still depending on the crowd,
That kingly power, thus ebbing out, might be
Drawn to the dregs of a democracy.
Him he attempts with studied arts to please
And sheds his venom in such -words as these:
He said, and this adviceis above the rest
With Absalom 's mild nature suited best ;
Unblamed of life (ambition set aside),
Not stained with cruelty nor puflfed with
pride, *80
How happy had he been, if Destiny
Had higher placed his birth or not so high!
His kingly virtues might have claimed a throne
And blessed all other countries but his own;
But charming greatness since so few refuse,
'Tis juster to lament him than accuse.
Strong were his hopes a rival to remove.
With blandishments to gain the public love,
To head the faction while their zeal was hot,
And popularly prosecute the plot. •ISO
To further this, Achitophel unites
The malcontents of all the Israelites,
Whose differing parties he could wisely join
For several ends to serve the same design;
The best, (and of the princes some were such,)
Who thought the power of monarchy too much ;
Mistaken men and patriots in their hearts.
Not wicked, but seduced by impious arts;
By these the springs of property were bent
And wound so high they cracked the govern-
ment. •'500
16 Achitophel has been urging Absalom to advance
his cause by securing possession of the person
of the king.
The next for interest sought to embroil the
state
To sell their duty at a dearer rate,
And make their Jewish markets of the throne;
Pretending public good to serve their own.
Others thought kings an useless heavy load,
Who cost too much and did too little good.
These were for laying honest David by
On principles of pure good husbandry.
With them joined all the haranguers of the
throng
That thought to get preferment by the tongue.
Who follow next a double danger bring, 511
Not only hating David, but the King;
The Solymsean rout,i'^ well versed of old
In godly faction and in treason bold.
Cowering and quaking at a conqueror's sword,
But lofty to a lawful prince restored.
Saw with disdain an Ethnici^ plot begun
And scorned by Jebusites to be outdone.
Hot Levitesi9 headed these; who pulled before
From the ark, which in the Judges' days-c
they bore, 520
Resumed their cantj and with a zealous cry
Pursued their old beloved theocracy,
Where Sanhedrin and priest enslaved the
nation
And justified their spoils by inspiration;
For who so fit for reign as Aaron's race.
If once dominion they could found in grace?
These led the pack; though not of surest scent,
Yet deepest mouthed against the government.
A numerous host of dreaming saints succeed
Of the true old enthusiastic breed: 530
'Gainst form and order they their power em-
ploy.
Nothing to build and all things to destroy.
But far more numerous was the herd of such
Who think too little and who talk too much.
These out of mere instinct, they knew not why,
Adored their fathers' God and property,
And by the same blind benefit of Fate
The Devil and the Jebusite did hate:
Born to be saved even in their own despite,
Because they could not help believing right. 540
Such were the tools; but a whole Hydra more
Remains of sprouting heads too long to score.
Some of their chiefs were princes of the land;
I In the first rank of these did Zimri2i stand,
populace (Jerusalem = Hieroso-
17 The London
lyma).
18 Gentile (i. e., the Popish Plot).
19 Presbyterian ministers deprived of their oflSce
by the act of Uniformity.
20 The days of the Commonwealth, when (1. .">23)
the clergy were unusually prominent in affairs
of state.
21 The Duke of Buckingham, favorite, and former
minister, of Charles II. He had ridiculed
Dryden.
280
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
A man so various that be seemed to be
Not one, but all mankind 's epitome :
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong,
Was everything by starts and nothing long;
But in the course of one revolving moon
Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon ;
Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drink-
ing, 551
Besides ten thousand freaks that died in think-
ing.
Blest madman, who could every hour employ
With something new to wish or to enjoy!
Eailing and jjraising were his usual themes.
And both, to show his judgment, in extremes:
So over violent or over civil
That every man with him was God or Devil,
In squandering wealth was his peculiar art;
Nothing went unrewarded but desert. 560
Beggared by fools whom still he found too
late.
He had his jest, and they had his estate.
He laughed himself from Court; then sought
relief
By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief:
For spite of him, the weight of business fell
On Absalom and wise Achitophel;
Thus wicked but in Avill, of means bereft.
He left not faction, but of that was left.
MAC FLECKNOE.*
All human things are subject to decay
And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey.
This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus,i
young
Was called to empire and had governed long.
In prose and verse was owned without dispute
Through all the realms of Nonsense absolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace
And blest witli issue of a large increase,
Worn out with business, did at length debate
To settle the succession of the state; 10
And pondering which of all his sons was fit
To reign and wage immortal war with wit.
Cried, " 'Tis resolved, for Nature pleads that
he
Should only rule who most resembles me.
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulncss from his tender years;
Sliadwell alone of all my sons is he
Who stands confirmed in full stupidity.
1 Siicrr88or of Caosar iit Mic jitri- <»f ol^'lilocn, ami
virtual I'lnpiTor al thirly-two.
• "Son of Flecknoe." Mr.vrlen Is sallrl/.lnj; 'riioinas
Shadwell. a rival drama! is) and jtersonnl
eneniv. I>v making him tlio son of a very dull
poet. "I'leeknoe, who had died several years be-
fore tlie date of this poem (1«8'2) at an ad-
vanced age.
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into sense. 20
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,
Strike through and make a lucid interval;
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,
His rising fogs prevail upon the day.
Besides, his goodly fabric- fills the eye
And seems designed for thoughtless majesty,
Thoughtless as monarch oaks tliat shade the
plain
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirleys were but types of thee.
Thou last great prophet of tautology. 30
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was sent before but to prepare thy way.
And coarsely clad in Norwich drugget* came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, tlie lute I whilom strung,
When to King John of Portugal^ I sung.
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,
With well-timed oars before the royal barge,
Swelled with the pride of thy celestial charge,«
And, big Avith hymn, commander of an host; 41
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost.^
Methinks I see the new Arions sail.
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well-sharpened thumb from shore to
shore
The treble squeaks for fear, the basses roar;
Echoes from Private-alley Shadwell call.
And Shadwell they resound from Aston-hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast that floats along. r.O
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band.
Thou wieldst thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's" feet ne'er kept more equal time, !
Not even the feet of thy own " Psyche 's "i>* !
rhyme :
Though they in number as in sense excel, |
So just, so like tautology, they fell, |
That, pale with envy, Singleton^ forswore \
The lute and sword which he in triumph bore,
And vowed he ne'er would act Villeriu8>^
2 Shadwell was a corpu-
lent man.
3 Two 17th century
dramatists.
4 rough woollen cloth
5 Klecknoe had visited
the court of l.lsUon.
6 The precise weaslon
of this has not
heen traced, hut
Shadwell Is known
to have heen pro-
ficient In music.
7 A familiar form of
punishment, with
an allusion to the
title of Shadwell's
play Ki)Kom Wcllx.
8 A (irccian musician
who, when thrown i
Into the s(>a, was
saved by the dol-
phins. .
A French d a n c 1 n j: i
nuister.
HI An opera I>y Shad i
well.
1 1 .\ shm<r.
I -■The principal char
acter In one of
Davenant's plays.
JOHN DRYDEX
281
Here stopped the good old sire and wept for
joy,
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, persuade
That for anointed dulness he was made.
Close to the walls which fair Augusta' '^ bind,
(The fair Augusta much to fearsn inclined,)
An ancient fabric raise<l to inform the sight
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight ;
A watch-tower once, but now, so fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains;
Near these a Nursery i^ erects its head "H
Where queens are formed and future heroes
bred,
Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and cry.
Where infant trulls their tender voices try.
And little Maximingis the gods defy.
Great Fletcheri^ never treads in buskinsis here.
Nor greater Jonson dares in socksis appear; 80
But gentle Simkin just reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanished minds;
Pure clinches20 the suburbian muse affords
And Panton waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's throne.
For ancient Dekker prophesied long since
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,
Born for a scourge of wit and flail of sense.
To whom true dulness should some " Psy-
ches "lo owe, 90
But worlds of "Misers "21 from his pen
should flow;
" Humorists "21 and Hypocrites it should pro-
duce.
Whole Raymond families and tribes of Bruce.22
Now empress Fame had published the re-
nown
Of Shadwell 's coronation through the town.
Roused by report of fame, the nations meet
From near Bunhill and distant Watling-street.
No Persian carpets spread the imperial way.
But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay;
From dusty shops neglected authors come, 100
13 London. is High-heeled shoes
14 Of Popish and other worn by tragic act-
plots, ors, hence "trag-
15 A school for training edy."
boys and girls to i9 Low shoes worn by
the stage. comic actors, hence
10 A character, in one "comedy"
of Dryden's o w n 20 puns
early " plays, who 21 A play by Shadwell.
defies the gods. 22 Characters in his
plays.
17 Fletcher. .Tonson. and Dekker were prominent
dramatists contpmporary with and lator than
Shakospeare. Simkin was "a stupid clown"
in a farcp (see Cambridge Drfidrn) and Pan-
ton a punster.
Much Heywood, Shirley,23 Ogleby-'» there lay.
But loads of Shadwell almost choked the way.
Bilked stationers for yeomen2j stood prepared
And Herringman26 T;\as captain of the guard.
The hoary prince27 in majesty apf>eared,
High on a throne of his own labours reared.
At his right hand our young Ascaniiis^x sate,
Rome's other hope and pillar of the state. 109
His brows thick fogs instead of glories grace,
And lambent dulness played around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come.
Sworn by his sire a mortal foe to Rome; 29
So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain,
That he till death true dulness would maintain ;
And, in his father's right and realm's defence.
Ne'er to have peace with wit nor truce with
sense.
The king himself the sacred unction made.
As king by office and as priest by trade.
In his sinisterso hand, instead of ball, 120
He placed a mighty mug of potent ale;
"Love's Kingdom "31 to his right he did con-
vey,
At once his sceptre and his rule of sway ;
Whose righteous lore the prince had practised
young
And from whose loins recorded ' ' Psyche ' '
sprung.
His temples, last, with poppies32 were o 'er-
spread,
That noilding seemed to consecrate his head.
Just at that point of time, if fame not lie.
On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly.
So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tiber's brook, 130
Presage of sway from twice six vultures took.
The admiring throng loud acclamations make
And omens of his future empire take.
The sire then shook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Full on the filial dulness: long he stood,
Repelling from his breast the raging god;
At length burst out in this prophetic mood:
"Heavens bless my son! from Ireland let him
reign
To far Barbadoes on the western main; 140
Of his dominion may no end be known
And greater than his father's be his throne;
Beyond 'Love's Kingdom' let him stretch his
pen ! ' '
23 Seventeenth century 28 Shadwell (Ascanius
dramatists. was the son of
24 An inferior poet, Aeneas, the myth-
25 defrauded booksellers leal founder o f
as guardsmen Rome).
26 Shadwell's publisher. 29 Livy, Book xxi.
27 Flecknoe. 30 left
31 A play by Flecknoe.
32 "Perhaps in allusion to Shadwell's frequent use
of opium, as well as to his dulness." (Scott).
Poppies are symbolic of sleep.
282
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
He paused, and all the people cried "Amen."
Then thus continued he: "My son, advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Success let others teach, learn thou from me
Pangs without birth and fruitless industry.
Let * Virtuosos '33 in five years be writ,
Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. 150
Let gentle Georges* in triumph tread the stage.
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage ;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And in their folly show the writer's wit.
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence
And justify their author 's want of sense.
Let them be all by thy own model made
Of dulness and desire no foreign aid,
That they to future ages may be known.
Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own. Kxi
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same,
All full of thee and differing but in name.
But let no alien Sedleyss interpose
To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.
And when false flowers of rhetoric thou
wouldst cull.
Trust nature, do not labour to be dull;
But write thy best and top,36 and in each line
Sir Formal 's37 oratory will be thine.
Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill
And does thy northern dedications fill.^s 170
Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame
By arrogating Jonson 's hostile name;39
Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise
And uncle Oglebys* thy envy raise.
Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part:
What share have we in nature or in art?
"Where did his wit on learning fix a brand
And rail at arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in Prince Nicander 's'"
vein
Or s\Vept the dust in Psyche's humble
strain? 180
Promised a play and dwindled to a farce?
When did his Muse from Fletcher'" scenes
purloin.
As thou whole Ethereges* dost transfuse to
thine?
But so transfused as oil on waters flow,
His always floats above, thine sinks below.
83 .\ play by Shad well.
34 lOtncroge, a comic
dramatist ; Dori-
mant, etc.. are
characters in bis
plays.
sfi Writer of tho pro-
ioKUP to Shad well's
Kpnom Wellit.
38 OXC*'\
37 A character in Rhad-
well'H MrtunMO.
3s Shadwoll dedicated
much of blH work
to tbe Duke of
Newcastle.
Sit I. e., by comparing
him with .TonHon,
who was quite bis
contrary (see also
I. 19;5)
40 A character In Shad-
well's PHyche.
)U
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
New humours to invent for each new play:
Tliis is that boasted bias of thy mind.
By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined, 190
Which makes thy writings lean on one side
still.
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence
Of likeness; thine 's a tympany*i of sense.
A tun of man*2 in thy large bulk is writ.
But sure thou 'rt but a kilderkin*^ of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep ;
Thy tragic Muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep.
With whate'er gall thou setst thyself to write.
Thy inoffensive satires never bite ; 200
In thy felonious heart though venom lies.
It does but touch thy Irish** pen, and dies,
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen Iambics,*'' but mild Anagram.
Leave writing plays, and choose for thy com
mand
Some peaceful province in Acrostic land
There thou mayest wings display and altairt
raise.
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways
Or, if thou wouldst thy different talents suit,
Set thy own songs, and sing them to th]
lute." 21!
He said, but his last words were scarcely heard
For Bruce and Longville^s had a trap pre
pared.
And down they sent the yet declaiming bard
Sinking he left his drugget robe behind,
Borne upwards by a subterranean wind.
The mantle fell to the young proi)het 's part
With double portion of his father 's art.
A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY.*
November 22, 1687.
1
From harmony, from heavenly harmonj'
This universal frame began ;
When Nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,
And could not heave her head,
41 dropsy
42 Cp. / Hcnni IV., II. iv. 403.
43 small barrel
4* Shadwell was not Irish and insisted that he
had never been in Ireland more than a few
hO(H"S.
40 Iambics were the standard verse-form of satire
in classical poetry.
* St. Cecilia, as patroness of music. Is commonly
represented In paintinRs with a harp or
organ, and Dryden makes her the Inventor of
the latter. rul)lic festivals In her honor were
held annually at London at this pi-riod. Com-
pare the following Ode, and also Pope's, p.
.TOTIX DRYDEX
283
The tuneful voice was heard from high,
Arise, ye more than dead.
Then cold and hot and moist and dry
In order to their stations leap.
And Music's power obey. 10
From harmony, from heavenly harmony
This universal frame began:
From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran.
The diapasoni closing full in Man.
What passion cannot ^lusic raise and quell?
When Jubal- struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood around.
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound: 20
Less than a god they thought there could not
dwell
Within the hollow of that shell.
That spoke so sweetly, and so well.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
3
The trumpet 's loud clangor
Excites us to arms
With shrill notes of anger
And mortal alarms.
The double, double, double beat
Of the thundering drum 30
Cries, hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat.
The soft complaining flute
In dying notes discovers
The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.
Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs and desperation.
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains and height of passion, 40
For the fair, disdainful dame.
6
But oh! what art can teach.
What human voice can reach
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love.
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.
1 A chord including all tones.
2 "The father of all such, as handle the harp or
organ." Gen. 4 :21.
Orpheus could lead the savage race.
And trees unrooted left their place,
Sequacious of 3 the lyre;
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appeared
Mistaking earth for heaven.
GRAND CHORUS.
As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blessed above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour, 60
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die.
And Music shall tintune the sky.
ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER
OF MUSIC.
A Song in Honour of St. Cecilia 's Day : 1697.
Twas at the royal feast for Persia won
By Philip 's warlike son : i
Aloft in avi'ful state
The godlike hero sate
On his imperial throne.
His valiant peers were placed around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound
(So should desert in arms be crowned.)
The lovely Thais, by his side.
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride.
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave.
None but the brave deserves the fair.
10
CHORUS.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave.
None but the brave.
None but the brave deserves the fair.
Timotheu82 placed on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touched the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
3 following
20
1 Alexander the Great conquered Persia In
B. C.
2 Musician to Alexander.
331
284
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began froms Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the power of mighty love.)
A dragon's fiery form belied the god:
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia* pressetl: 30
And while he sought her snowy breast.
Then round her slender waist he curled.
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign
of the world.
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound,
A present deity, they shout around ;
A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravished ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod, 40
And seems to shake the spheres.
CHORUS.
With ravished ears
The monarch hears.
Assumes the god.
Affects to nod,
And seems to shale the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician
sung,
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young.
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums; 50
Flushed Avith a purple grace
He shows his honest face:
Now give the hautboys'* breath; he comes, he
comes.
Bacchus ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain ;
Bacchus ' blessings are a treasure.
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;
Rich the treasure.
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 60
CHORUS.
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure.
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;
Rich the treasure.
Sweet the pleasure.
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Soothed with the sound the king grew vain;
Fought all his battles o'er again;
3 nang flrnt of
* Aloxandor'M mothor.
obooH
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice
he slew the slain.
The master saw the madness rise,
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; 70
And while he heaven and earth defied.
Changed his hand, and checked his pride.
He chose a mournful Muse,
Soft pity to infuse;
He sung Darius" great and good,
By too severe a fate.
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen.
Fallen from his iiigh estate,
And weltering in his blood;
Deserted at his utmost need 80
By those his former bounty fed;
On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate.
Revolving in his altered soul
The various turns of chance below;
And, now and then, a sigh he stole.
And tears began to flow.
CHORUS.
Revolving in his altered soul
The various turns of chance below; 90
And, now and then, a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smiled to see
That love was in the next degree;
'Twas but a kindred-soun*! to move.
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian" measures.
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures,
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honour but an empty bubble; 100
Never ending, still beginning.
Fighting still, and still destroying:
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think it worth enjoying:
Lovely Thais sits beside thee.
Take the good the gods provide thee.
Tlie many rend the skies with loud applause;
So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain.
Gazed on the fair llO
Who caused his care.
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,
Sighed and looked, and sighe<l again;
« King of thp Persians.
" A soft, natli(>tic mode of Orocinn music.
JOHN DRYDEX
285
At length, with love and wine at ome op-
pressed,
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.
CHOEUS.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair
Who caused his care,
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked.
Sighed and looked, and sighed again; 120
At length, with love and wine at once op-
pressed,
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.
6
Now strike the golden lyre again;
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of
thunder.
Hark, hark, the horrid sound
Has raised up his head;
As awaked from the dead,
And amazed, he stares around. 130
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
See the Furies^ arise;
See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair,
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
Behold a ghastly band.
Each a torch in his hand!
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were
slain.
And unburied remain
Inglorious on the plain: 1-10
Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew.
Behold how they toss their torches on high.
How they point to the Persian abodes.
And glittering temples of their hostile gods.
The princes applaud with a furious joy;
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to
destroy ;
Thais led the way.
To light him to his prey, 149
And. like another Helen, fired another Troy.
CHORUS.
And the king seized a flambeau with seal to
destroy;
Thais led the tvay,
To light him to his prey,
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.
7
Thus long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,
STho Enmonides. avouRinz spirits.
While organs yet were mute,
Timotheus, to his breathiBg flute
And sounding lyre,
<'ould swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft
desire. 160
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds.
And added length to solemn sounds.
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown
before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize.
Or both divide the crown:
He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.
GRAND CHORUS.
170
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store.
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn .rounds.
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown
before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prise.
Or both divide the crown:
He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel doicn.
LINES PRINTED UNDER THE EN-
GRAVED PORTRAIT OF MILTON.
Three poets," in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and Englan<l did adorn.
The first in loftiness of thought surpassed.
The next in majesty, in both the last ;
The force of nature could no farther go;
To make a third she joined the former two.
SONG FROM THE INDIAN EMPEROR.
Ah fading joy! how quickly art thou past!
Yet we thy ruin haste.
As if the cares of human life were few,
We seek out new:
And follow fate, that does too fast pursue.
See, how on every bough the birds express,
In their sweet notes, their happiness.
They all enjoy, and nothing spare; 8
But on their mother nature lay their care:
Why then should man, the lord of all below,
Such troubles choose to know.
As none of all his subjects undergo?
ft Homor. VirRil. Milton.
286
THE SEVEXTEENTH CENTURY
Hark, hark, the waters— fall, fall, fall,
And with a murmuring sound
Dash, dash, upon the ground.
To gentle slumbers call. 16
SONG OF THAMESIS.*
Old father Ocean calls my tide;
Come away, come away;
The barks upon the billows ride.
The master will not stay;
The merry boatswain from his side
His whistle takes, to check and chide
The lingering lads' delay.
And all the crew aloud has cried, 8
Come away, come away.
See, the god of seas attends thee,
Xymphs divine, a beauteous train;
All the calmer gales befriend thee.
In thy passage o'er the main;
Every maid her locks is binding,
Every Triton's horn is winding;
Welcome to the wat 'ry plain ! 16
SONG FROM CLEOMENES.
No, no, poor suff'ring heart, no change en-
deavour ;
Choose to sustain the smart, rather than leave
her:
My ravished eyes behold such charms about
her,
I can die with her, but not live without her;
One tender sigh of hers to see me languish.
Will more than pay the price of my past
anguish.
Beware, O cruel fair, how you smile on me;
'Twas a kind look of yours that has undone
me. S
Love has in store for me one bappy minute,
And she will end my pain who did begin it :
Then, no <lay void of bliss or pleasure leaving.
Ages shall slide away without perceiving;
Cupid shall guard the door, the more to please
us,
• Prom the opera Alblou atnl AlbaiitiiK. 108.'i.
ThamPHlf Is tho River Ood Thames, addressing
Albaniii8. who represents the Duke of Vork
(afterward James 11.) The latter. In 1070,
had been compelled to retire to Brussels, in
temporar.v exile, \intll the excitement axainst
the Koman Cathollos. created by the "Popish
filot," should die awa.v. The tlattery of .Tames
H evident : but the rouk has n lianntinK
beauty which sets It apart from mere eulogy.
And keep out Time and Death, when they
would seize us;
Time and Death shall depart, and say in flying,
Love has found out a way to live by dying. 16
THE SECULAR MASQUE.
Enter Janus. i
JAXUS.
Chronos, Chronos,2 m.end thy pace:
An hundred times the rolling sun
Around the radiant belt has run
In his revolving race.
Behold, behold, the goal in sight;
Spread thy fans, and wing thy flight.
Enler Chronos, u-ith a scythe in his hand
and a globe on his back, which he sets
down at his entrance,
CHRONOS.
Weary, weary of my weight.
Let me, let me drop my freight.
And leave the world behind.
I could not bear, 10
Another year.
The load of humankin«l.
Enter MoMus,3 laughing.
MOMUS.
Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! well hast thou done
To lay down thy pack.
And lighten thy back.
The world was a fool, e'er since it begun;
And since neither Janus, nor Chronos, nor 1
Can hinder the crimes
Or mend the bad times,
'Tis better to laugh than to cry. 20
Chorus of all three,
'Tis better to laugh than to cry.
JANUS.
Since Momus comes to laugh below,
Old Time, begin the show,
That he may see, in every scene,
What changes in this age have been.
CHRONOS.
Then, goddess of the silver bow, begin.
{Horns, or hunting music within.
1 Anciently the higlieHt divinity, who presided over
the be^innlnKs of things.
2 The jfod of time : ruler of the world hetoro Zeus.
3 The peiHonlfhatlon of mockery.
JOHN DRYDEX
287
Enter Diana.
UIANA.
With horns and with hounds I waken the day,
And hie to my woodland-walks away;
J tuck up my robe, and am buskined* soon,
And tie to my forehead a wexing moon. 30
I course the fleet stag, unkennel the fox,
And chase the wild goats o'er summits of
rocks,
With shouting and hooting we pierce through
the sky.
And Echo turns hunter, and doubles the cry.
Chorus of all.
With shouting and hooting we pierce through
the sky,
And Echo turns hunter, and doubles the cry.
JAXUS.
Then our age was in its prime:
Free from rage:
DIANA.
And free from crime.
A very merry, dancing, drinking.
Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time. 40
Chorus of (HI.
Then our age was in its prime,
Free from rage, and free from crime,
A very merry, dancing, drinking,
Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time.
Dance of Diana's attendants.
Enter Mars.
MARS.
Inspires the vocal brass, inspire;
Tlie world is past its infant age:
Arms and honour.
Arms and honour,
Set the martial mind on fire,
And kindle manly rage. 50
Mars has looked the sky to red;
And Peace, the lazy good, is fled.
Plenty, peace, and pleasure fly;
The sprightly green
In woodland- walks no more is seen;
The sprightly green has drunk the Tynan" dye.
4 l)O0tPd
5 breathe into, blow
8 purple
Chorus of all.
Plenty, peace, and pleasure fly;
The sprightly green
In woodland- walks no more is seen;
The sprightly green has drunk the Tyrian
dye. 60
MARS.
Sound the trumpet, beat the drum;
Through all the world around,
Sound a reveille," sound, sound,
The warrior god is come.
Chorus of all.
Sound the trumpet, beat the drum;
Through all the world around,
Sound a reveille, sound, sound,
The warrior god is come.
MOMUS.
Thy sword within the scabbard keep,
And let mankind agree; 70
Better the world were fast asleep,
Than kept awake by thee.
The fools are only thinner,
With all our cost and care;
But neither side a winner.
For things are as they were.
Chorus of all.
The fools are only thinner.
With all our cost and care;
■But neither side a winner.
For things are as they were. 80
Enter Venus.
Calms appear when storms are past;
Love will have his hour at last;
Nature is my kindly care;
Mars destroys, and I repair;
Take me, take me, while you may,
Venus comes not every day.
Chorus of all.
Take her, take her, while you may,
Venus comes not every day.
CHRONOS.
The world was then so light,
I scarcely felt the weight; 90
.Toy ruled the day, and Love the night.
But, since the Queen of Pleasure left the
ground,
I faint, I lag,
And feebly drag
The ponderous orb around.
7 morning call
288
THE SEVENTEEN'ni CE^'TUKY
MOMUS.
All, all, of a piece throughout:
{Painting ta Diana.
Thy chase had a beast in view;
{To Mars.
Thy wars brought nothing about;
{To Venus.
Thy lovers were all untrue.
JANUS.
'Tis well an old age is out. 100
CHRONOS.
And time to begin a new.
Chorus of all.
All, all of a piece throughout:
Thy chase had a beast in view;
Thy wars brought nothing about;
Thy lovers were all untrue.
'Tis well an old age is out,
And time to begin a new.
{Dance of huntsmen, nymphs, warriors, and
lovers. )
ON CHAUCEE.
From the Preface to the Fables.*
It remains that I say somewhat of Chaucer
in particular.
In the first place, as he is the father of Eng-
lish poetry, so I hold him in the same degree
of veneration as the Grecians held Homer or
the Komans Virgil. He is a perpetual foun-*
tain of good sense, learned in all sciences,
and therefore speaks properly on all subjects.
As he knew what to say, so he knows also when
to leave off; a continence which is practised by
few writers, and scarcely by any of the
ancients, excepting Virgil and Horace. One
of our late great poetsi is sunk in his reputa-
tion because he could never forgive any conceit
which came in his way, but swept, like a drag-
net, great and small. There was plenty enough,
but the dishes were ill sorted; whole pyramids
of sweetmeats for boys and women, but little
of solid meat for men. All this proceeded,
not from any want of knowledge, but of judg-
ment. Neither did he want that in discerning
• The Fables, published in 1700, the last year of
Drjdon's life, were metrical tranHlatiouK, or
rather paraphruHeH, of Htories from Homer,
Ovid, Boccacflo, and Chaucer. The Preface, In
addition to t)elnK excellent criticism, is a
Kood example of Uryden's style In prose — the
modern English prose which he din so much
toward reRuiatlng (Una. Lit., 106-167). This
particular example Ih characterized by Mr.
Oeorge Haintsbury as "forcible without the
itliKhtest effort, eloquent without declamation,
Kraci-fiil yet thoroughly manly."
the beauties and faults of other poets, but only
indulged himself in the luxury of writing; and
perhaps knew it was :i fault but hoped the
reader would not find it. For this reason,
though he must always be thought a great poet,
he is no longer esteemed a good writer; and
for ten impressions,-' which his works have had
in so many successive years, yet at present a
hundred books are scarcely purchased once a
twelvemonth; for, as my last Lord Kochester
said, though somewhat profanely, ' ' Not being
of God, he could not stand."
Chaucer followed nature everywhere, but was
never so bold to go beyond her, and there is a
great difference of being poeta and nimis
poeta,^ if we believe Catullus, as much as be-
twixt a modest behaviour and affectation. The
verse of Chaucer, I confess, is not harmonious
to us; but 'tis like the eloquence of one whom
Tacitus commends, it was auribus istius tern-
poris accommodata :* they who lived with him,
and some time after him, thought it musical;
and it continues so even in our judgment, if
compared with the numbers of Lydgate and
Gower, his contemporaries; there is the rude
sweetness of a Scotch tune in it, which is
natural and pleasing though not perfect. 'Tis
true I cannot go so far as he who published
the last e<lition of him,5 for he would make us
believe the fault is in our ears, and that there
were really ten syllables in a verse where we
find but nine; but this opinion is not worth
confuting; 'tis so gross and obvious an error
that common sense (which is a rule in every-
thing but matters of faith and revelation)
must convince the reader that equality of num-
ber8« in every verse which we call heroic'
was either not known or not always practised
in Chaucer 's age. It were an easy matter to
produce some tliousands of his verses which
are lame for want of half a foot and some-
times a whole one, and which no pronunciation
can make otherwise.! We can only say that
he lived in the infancy of our poetry, and that
nothing is brought to perfection at the first.
We must be children before we grow men.
There was an Ennius, and in process of time
1 Abraham Cowley, who could not "forgive" (1. e.
give up, forego) strained fancies and distorted
forms of expression.
2 New |>rinting8.
3 "Overmuch a poot" (said by Martial, not ("atul-
lUH).
4 "Suited to the ears of that time."
r. That of Thomas Speght, 1.'>!»7-1«02.
6 Measures.
7 The iambic pentameter couplet (see Enij. Lit.,
r.8, 165, 187).
t Dryden did not understand Chaucer's pronuncia-
tion nor sufficiently allow for imperfections in
the manuscripts.
JOILN DBYDKN
289
a Lucilius and a Lucretius, before Virgil and
Horace; even after Chaucer there was a Spen-
ser, a Harrington, a Fairfax, before Waller
and Denham were in being, and our numbers
were in their nonage till these last appeared.J
He must have been a man of a most won-
derful comprehensive nature, because, as it has
been truly observed of him, he has taken into
the compass of his Canterbury Tales the vari-
ous manners and humours (as we now call
them) of the whole English nation in his age.
Not a single character has escaped him. All
his pilgrims are severally distinguished from
each other, and not only in their inclinations
but m their very physiognomies and persons.
Baptista Porta* could not have describeil their
natures better than by the marks which the
poet gives them.
The matter and manner of their tales and of
their telling are so suited to their different
educations, humours, and callings that each of
them would be improper in any other mouth.
s A Neapolitan physiognomist.
J Posterity has not sustained this verdict. But see
Eng. Lit., pp. 141, 1(>5.
Even the grave and serious characters are dis-
tinguished by their several sorts of gra^ity;
their discourses are such as belong to their
age, their calling, and their breeding, such aa
are becoming of them and of them only. Some
of his persons are vicious and some virtuous;
some are unlearned, or (as Chaucer calls them)
lewd, and some are learned. Even the ribaldry
of the low characters is different: the Beeve,
the Miller, and the Cook are several men, and
distinguished from each other as much as the
mincing Lady Prioress and the broad-speaking,
gap-toothed Wife of Bath. But enough of
this: there is such a variety of game springing
up before me that I am distracted in my
choice and know not which to follow. It is
sufficient to say, according to the proverb, that
here is God's plenty. We have our fore-
fathers and great-grand-dames all before us
as they were in Chaucer's days: their general
characters are still remaining in mankind, and
even in England, though they are called by
other names than those of monks and friars
and canons and lady abbesses and nuns; for
mankind is ever the same, and nothing lost out
of nature though everything is altered.
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
SIR RICHARD STEELE
(1672-1729)
PROSPECTUS.
The Taller, No. 1. Tuesday, April 12, 1709.
Quicquid agunt homines
Dostri est farrago libelli.
Juv. Sat. i. 85, 86.
Whate'er men do, or say, or think, or dream.
Our motley Paper seizes for its theme.
Though the other papers, which are pub-
lished for the use of the good people of Eng-
land,* have certainly very wholesome eflfects,
and are laudable in their particular kinds, they
do not seem to come up to the main design of
such narrations, which, I humbly presume,
should be principally intended for the use of
politic persons, who are so public-spirited as
to neglect their own affairs to look into trans-
actions of state. Now these gentlemen, for
the most part, being persons of strong zeal,
and weak intellects, it is both a charitable and
necessary work to offer something, whereby
such worthy and well-affected members of the
commonwealth may be instructed, after their
reading, what to think; which shall be the end
and purpose of this my paper, wherein I shall,
from time to time, report and consider all
matters of what kind soever that shall occur
to me, and publish such my advices and reflec-
tions every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday
in the week, for the convenience of the post.
I resolve to have something which may be of
entertainment to the fair sex, in honour of
whom I have invented the title of this paper.
I therefore earnestly desire all persons, with-
out distinction, to take it in for the present
gratis, and hereafter at the price of one penny,
forbidding all hawkers to take more for it at
their peril. And I desire all persons to con-
• Newspapers had been published for nearly a cen-
tury. Steele proposed In The Tatler to pub-
lish periodical essays, stories, etc.. which
should serve something more than a merely
practical purpose. See Bug. Lit., p. 176.
sider, that T am at a very great charge for
proper materials for this work, as well as that,
before I resolved upon it, I had settled a
correspondence in all parts of the known and
knowing world. And forasmuch as this globe
is not trodden upon by mere drudges of busi-
ness only, but that men of spirit and genius
are justly to be esteemed as considerable
agents in it, we shall not, upon a dearth of
news, present you with musty foreign edicts,
and dull proclamations, but shall divide our
relation of the passages which occur in action
or discourse throughout this town, as well as
elsewhere, under such dates of places as may
prepare you for the matter you are to expect
in the following manner.
All accounts of gallantry, pleasure, and en-
tertainment, shall be under the article of
White's Chocolate-house ;t poetry under that
of Will's Coffee-house; Learning, under the
title of Grecian; foreign and domestic news,
you will have from St. James's Coffee-house;
and what else I have to offer on any other
subject shall be dated from my own Apartment.
I once more desire my reader to consider,
that as I cannot keep an ingenious man to go
daily to Will's under two-pence each day,
merely for his charges; to White's under six-
pence; nor to the Grecian, without allowing
him some plain Spanish, i to be as able as
others at the learned table; and that a good
observer cannot speak with even Kidneyz at
St. James's without clean linen; I say, these
considerations will, I hope, make all persons
willing to comply with my humble request
(when my gratis stock is exhausted) of a
penny apiece; especially since they are sure of
some proper amusement, and that it is impos-
sible for me to want means to entertain them,
having, besides the force of my own parts, the
1 Probably wine (which according to The Tatler,
No. 252, "heightens conversation").
■2 A waiter. . . , .
t The public coffee and chocolate houses of London
were used as headquarters for the meetings of
clubs. White's and St. .Tames's were fre-
quented by statesmen and men of fashion ;
will's was a rendezvous for men of letters,
and The Grecian for lawyers and scholars.
290
SIR BICHARD STEELE
391
power of di\-ination, and that I can, by cast-
ing a figure,3 tell you all that will happen
before it conies to pass.
But this last faculty I shall use very spar-
ingly, and speak but of few things until they
are passed, for fear of divulging matters which
may oflfcnd our superiors.
MEMORIES
The Toiler, No. 181. Tuesday, June 6, 1710.
Dies, ni fallor, adest, quem semper acer-
buni,
Semper honoratuni, sic dii Toluistis habebo.
Virg. ^n. V. 49.
And now the rising day renews the year,
A day for ever sad, for ever dear.
There are those among mankind, who can
enjoy no relish of their being, except the world
is made acquainted with all that relates to
them, and think every thing lost that passes
unobserved; but others find a solid delight in
stealing by the crowd, and modelling their life
after such a manner, as is as much above the
approbation as the practice of the vulgar. Life
being too short to give instances great enough
of true friendship or good will, some sages
have thought it pious to preserve a certain
reverence for the Manes* of their deceased
friends; and have withdrawn themselves from
the rest of the world at certain seasons, to com-
memorate in their own thoughts such of their
acquaintance who have gone before them out
of this life. And indeed, when we are ad-
vanced in years, there is not a more pleasing
entertainment, than to recollect in a gloomy
moment the many we have parted with, that
have been dear and agreeable to us, and to
cast a melancholy thought or two after those,
with whom, perhaps, we have indulged our-
selves in whole nights of mirth and jollity.
With such inclinations in my heart I went to
my closets yesterday in the evening, and re-
solved to be sorrowful; upon which occasion I
could not but look with disdain upon myself,
that though all the reasons which I had to
lament the loss of many of my friends are
now as forcible as at the moment of their de-
parture, yet did not my heart swell with the
same sorrow which I felt at that time; but I
could, without tears, reflect upon many pleas-
3 horoscope
* spirits
5 private room
ing adventures I have had with some, who
have long been blended with common earth.
Though it is by the benefit of nature, that
length of time thus blots out the violence of
afflictions; yet with tempers too much given to
pleasure, it is almost necessary to revive the
old places of grief in our memory; and ponder
step by step on past life, to lead the mind into
that sobriety of thought which poises the heart,
and makes it beat with due time, without being
quickened with desire, or retarded with despair,
from its proper and equal motion. When we
wind up a clock that is out of order, to make
it go well for the future, we do not immediately
set the hand to the present instant, but we
make it strike the round of all its hours, before
it can recover the regularity of its time. Such,
thought I, shall be my method this evening;
and since it is that day of the year which I
dedicate to the memory of such in another life
as I much delighted in when living, an hour
or two shall be sacred to sorrow and their
memory, while I run over all the melancholy
circumstances of this kind which have oc-
curred to me in my whole life. The first sense
of sorrow I ever knew was upon the death of
my father, at which time I was not quite five
years of age; but was rather amazed at what
all the house meant, than possessed with a real
understanding why nobody was willing to play
with me. I remember I went into the room
where his body lay, and my mother sat weeping
alone by it. I had my battledore in my hand,
and fell a-beating the coffin, and calling papa;
for, I know not how, I had some slight idea
that he was locked up there. My mother
catched me in her arms, and, transported be-
yond all patience^ of the silent grief she was
before in, she almost smothered me in her
embraces; and told me, in a flood of tears,
"Papa could not hear me, and would play
with me no more, for they were going to put
him under ground, whence he could never come
to us again." She was a very beautiful
woman, of a noble spirit, and there was a dig-
nity in her grief amidst all the wildness of her
transport, which, methought, struck me with
an instinct of sorrow, that, before I was sensi-
ble of what it was to grieve, seized my very
soul, and has made pity the weakness of my
heart ever since. The mind in infancy is, me-
thinks, like the body in embryo, and receives
impressions so forcible, that they are as hard
to be removed by reason, as any mark, with
which a child is born, is to be taken away by
6 endurance
292
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
any future application. Hence it is, that good-
nature in me is no merit; but having been so
frequently overwhelmed with her tears before
I knew the cause of any aMction, or could
draw defences from my own judgment, I
imbibed commiseration, remorse, and an un-
manly gentleness of mind, which has since in-
snared me into ten thousand calamities; from
whence I can reap no advantage, except it be,
that, in such a humour as I am now in, I can
the better indulge myself in the softnesses of
humanity, and enjoy that sweet anxiety which
arises from the memory of past afflictions.
"We, that are very old, are better able to re-
member things which befel us in our distant
youth, than the passages of later days. For
this reason it is, that the companions of my
strong and vigorous years present themselves
more immediately to me in this office of sor-
row. Untimely and unhappy deaths are what
we are most apt to lament ; so little are we able
to make it indifferent Avhen a thing happens,
though we know it must happen. Thus we
groan under life, and bcAvail those who are
relieved from it. Every object that returns to
our imagination raises different passions, ac-
cording to the circumstances of their departure.
Who can have lived in an army, and in a
serious hour reflect upon the many gay and
agreeable men that might long have flourished
in the arts of peace, and not join with the im-
precations of the fatherless and widow on the
tyrant to whose ambition they fell sacrifices?
But gallant men, who are cut off by the sword,
move rather our veneration than our pity; and
we gather relief enough from their own con-
tempt of death, to make that no evil, which was
approached with so much cheerfulness, and at-
tended with so much honour. But when we
turn our thoughts from the great parts of life
on such occasions, and instead of lamenting
those who stood ready to give death to those
from whom they had the fortune to receive it;
1 say, when we let our thoughts wander from
such noble objects, and consider the havoc
which is made among the tender and the inno-
cent, pity enters with an unmixed softness, and
possesses all our souls at once.
Here (were there words to express such sen-
timents with proper tenderness) I should
record the beauty, innocence and untimely
death, of the first object my eyes ever beheld
with love. The beauteous virgin! how
ignorantly did she charm, how carelessly excel!
Ob, Death! thou hast right to the bold, to the
ambitious, to the high, and to the haughty;
but why this cruelty to the humble, to the
meek, to the undiscerning, to the thoughtlesry
Nor age, nor business, nor distress, can
the dear image from my imagination. In thil
same week, I saw her dressed for a ball, and
in a shroud. How ill did the habit of death
become the pretty trifler? I still behold the
smiling earth A large train of disasters
were coming on to my memory, when my ser-
vant knocked at my closet-door, and inter-
rupted me with a letter, attended with a ham-
per of wine, of the same sort with that which
is to be put to sale, on Thursday next, at
Garraway's coffee-house.* Upon the receipt
of it, I sent for three of my friends. "We are
so intimate, that we can be company in what-
ever state of mind we meet, and can entertain
each other without expecting always to re-
joice. The wine we found to be generous and
warming, but with such an heat as moved us
rather to be cheerful than frolicsome. It re-
vived the spirits, without firing the blood. We
commended it until two of the clock this morn-
ing; and having to-day met a little before din-
ner,t we found, that though we drank two bot-
tles a man, we had much more reason to recol-
lect than forget what had passed the night
before.
THE CLUB.
The Spectator, No. 2, Friday, March 2, 1711.
Ast alii sex
Et plures uno conclamant ore —
Juv. Sat. vii. 167.
Six more at least join their consenting voice.
The first of our society is a gentleman of
Worcestershire, of ancient descent, a baronet,
his name Sir Roger de Coverley. His great
grandfather was inventor of that famous
country-dance which is called after him. All
who know that shire are very well acquainted
with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. He is
a gentleman that is very singular in his be-
haviour, but his singularities proceed from his
good sense, and are contradictions to the man-
ners of the world, only as he thinks the world is
in the wrong. However, this humour creates
him no enemies, for he does nothing with sour-
ness or obstinacy; and his being unconfined to
modes and forms, makes him but the readier
and more capable to please and oblige all who
know him. When he is in town, he lives in
• This was a place where periodical auctions were
held, and lotteries conducted.
t Thp fashionable dinner hour was four o'clock.
SIR RICHARD STEELE
293
Soho Square.^ It is said, he keeps himself a
bachelor by reason he was crossed in love by a
perverse beautiful widow of the next county
to him. Before this disappointment, Sir Roger
was what you call a tine gentleman, had often
supped with my Lord Rochesters and Sir
George Etherege,^ fought a duel upon his first
coming to town, and kicked bully Dawson' •> in
a public coffee-house for calling him youngster.
But being ill-used by the above-mentioned
widow, he was very serious for a year and a
half; and though, his temper being naturally
jovial, he at last got over it, he grew careless
of himself, and never dressed afterwards. He
continues to wear a coat and doublet of the
same cut that were in fashion at the time of
his repulse, which, in his merry humours, he
tells us, has been in and out twelve times since
he first wore it. . . . He is now in his fifty-
sixth year, cheerful, gay, and hearty; keeps a
good house both in town and country; a great
lover of mankind; but there is such a mirthful
cast in his behaviour, that he is rather beloved
than esteemed.
His tenants grow rich, his servants look satis-
fied, all the young women profess love to him,
and the young men are glad of his company.
When he comes into a house, he calls the ser-
vants by their names, and talks all the way
upstairs to a visit. I must not omit, that Sir
Roger is a justice of the quorum;* that he fills
the chair at a quarter-session with great abili-
ties, and, three months ago, gained universal
applause by explaining a passage in the game
act.
The gentleman next in esteem and authority
among us is another bachelor, who is a member
of the Inner Temple ;ii a man of great probity,
wit, and understanding; but he has chosen his
place of residence rather to obey the direction
of an old humoursome father, than in pursuit
of his own inclinations. He was placed there
to study the laws of the land, and is the most
learned of any of the house in tliose of the
stage. Aristotle and Longinusi^ are much bet-
ter understood by him than Littleton or Coke.' 3
The father sends up every post questions relat-
ing to marriage-articles, leases, and tenures, in
7 TfapH a fasliionaMe part of London.
8 A favorite of Charles TI.
n A Kestoration dramatist.
10 A notorious diaracter of tin- lime.
11 One of the four creat collejres of law in London.
12 Ancient Greek philosophers and critics.
13 Great English lawyers of the l.jth and ll>th cen-
turies respectively.
* Justices of the peace presided over the criminal
courts or quarter sessions. Those chosen to
sit with the higher court which met twice a
year were called "justices of the quorum."
the neighborhood; all which questions he agrees
withi* an attorney to answer and take care
of in the lump. He is studying the passions
themselves, when he should be inquiring into
the debates among men which arise from them.
He knows the argument of each of the orations
of Demosthenes and Tully,!^ but not one case
in the reports of our own courts. No one ever
took him for a fool; but none, except his in-
timate friends, know he has a great deal of
wit. This turn makes him at once both disin-
terested and agreeable. As few of his thoughts
are drawn from business, they are most of
them fit for conversation. His taste of books
is a little too just for the age he lives in; he
has read all, but approves of very few. His
familiarity with the customs, manners, actions,
and writings of the ancients, makes him a very
delicate observer of what occurs to him in the
present world. He is an excellent critic, and
the time of the play is his hour of business:
exactly at five he passes through Xew-Inn,i<»
crosses through Russel-court, and takes a turn
at Will 's till the play begins ; he has his shoes
rubbe<l and his periwig powdered at the bar-
ber's as you go into the Rose.i^ It is for the
good of the audience when he is at the play,
for the actors have an ambition to please him.
The person of next consideration is Sir
Andrew Freeport, a merchant of great eminence
in the city of London: a person of indefatiga-
ble industry, strong reason, and great ex-
perience. His notions of trade are noble and
generous, and (as every rich man has usually
some sly way of jesting, which would make no
great figure were he not a rich man) he calls
the sea the British Common. He is acquainted
with commerce in all its parts; and will tell
you that it is a stupid and barbarous way to
extend dominion by arms; for true power is
to be got by arts and industry. He will often
argue that, if this part of our trade were well
cultivated, we should gain from one nation;
and if another, from another. I have heard
him prove, that diligence makes more lasting
acquisitions than valour, and that sloth has
ruined more nations than the sword. He
abounds in several frugal maxims, among which
the greatest favourite is, "A penny saved is a
penny got. ' ' A general trader of good sense
is pleasanter company than a general scholar;
and Sir Andrew having a natural unaffected
eloquence, the perspicuity of his discourse gives
11 engages
15 Cicero.
16 Part of one of the law colleges.
17 A dissolute tavern-resort.
294
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CEMTURY
the same pleasure that \^'it would in another
man. He has made his fortune himself; and
says, that England may be richer than other
kingdoms, by as plain methods as he himself
is richer than other men; though at the same
time I can say this of him, that there is not a
point in the compass but blows home a ship in
which he is an owner.
Next to Sir Andrew in the club-room sits
Captain Sentry, a gentleman of great courage,
good understanding, but invincible modesty. He
is one of those that deserve very well, but are
very awkward at putting their talents within
the observation of such as should take notice
of them. He was some years a captain, and
behaved himself with great gallantry in sev-
eral engagements and at several sieges; but
having a small estate of his own, and being
next heir to Sir Roger, he has quitted a way of
life in which no man can rise suitably to his
merit who is not something of a courtier as
well as a soldier. I have heard him often
lament, that in a profession, where merit is
placed in so conspicuous a view, impudence
should get the better of modesty. When he
has talked to this purpose, I never heard him
make a sour expression, but frankly confess
that he left the world because he was not fit
for it. A strict honesty and an even regular
behaviour are in themselves obstacles to him
that must press through crowds, who endeavour
at the same end with himself, the favour of a
commander. He will, however, in his way of
talk, excuse generals for not disposing accord-
ing to men's desert, or inquiring into it; for,
says he, that great man who has a mind to
help me has as many to break through to come
at me, as I have to come at him: therefore, he
will conclude, that a man who would make a
figure, especially in a military way, must get
over all false modesty, and assist his patron
against the importunity of other pretenders, by
a proper assurance in his own vindication. He
says it is a civil cowardice to be backward in
asserting what you ought to expect, as it is a
military fear to be slow in attacking when it
is your duty. With this candour does the gen-
tleman speak of himself and others. The same
frankness runs through all his conversation.
The military part of his life has furnished
him with many adventures, in the relation of
which he is very agreeable to the company ; for
he is never overbearing, though accustomed
to command men in the utmost degree below
him; nor ever too obsequious, from an habit
of obeying men highly above bim. [
But that our society may not appear a set
of humourists,i8 unacquainted with the gal-
lantries and pleasures of the age, we have
among us the gallant Will Honeycomb, a gen-
tleman, who, according to his years, should be
in the decline of his life; but having ever been
very careful of his person, and always had
a very easy fortune, time has made but very
little impression, either by wrinkles on his
forehead, or traces in his brain. His person
is well turned, and of a good height. He is
very ready at that sort of discourse with which
men usually entertain women. He has all his
life dressed very well; and remembers habits,i«
as others do men. He can smile when one
speaks to him, and laughs easily. He knows
the history of every mode, and can inform you
from which of the French king's wenches our
wives and daughters had this manner of curling
their hair, that May of placing their hoods;
whose frailty was covered by such a sort of
petticoat; and whose vanity to show her foot
made that part of the dress so short in such
a year. In a word, all his conversation and
knowledge has been in the female world. As
other men of his age will take notice to you
what such a minister said upon such and such
an occasion, he will tell you, when the Duke
of Monmouth danced at court, such a woman
was then smitten, another was taken with him
at the head of his troop in the park. In all
these important relations, he has ever about
the same time received a kind glance, or a
blow of a fan, from some celebrated beaut}',
mother of the present Lord Such-a-one. If you
speak of a young commoner that said a lively
thing in the house, he starts up, "He has good
blood in his veins; Tom Mirabel begot him;
the rogue cheated me in that affair: that young
fellow's mother used me more like a dog than
any woman I ever made advances to. ' ' This
way of talking of his very much enlivens the
conversation among us of a more sedate turn ;
and I find there is not one of the company,
but myself, who rarely speak at all, but speaks
of him as of that sort of man who is usually
called a well-bred fine gentleman. To conclude
his character, where women are not concerned,
he is an honest worthy man.
1 cannot tell whether 1 am to account him
whom 1 am next to speak of as one of our
company, for he visits us but seldom; but
when he does, it adds to every man else a new
enjoyment of himself. He is a clergyman, a
very philosophic man, of general learning,
18 queer fellows »» costumes
JOSEPH ADDrSON
295
great sanctity of life, and the most exact good
breeding. He has had the misfortune to be of
a very weak constitution, and, consequently,
cannot accept of such cares and business as
I preferments in his function would oblige him
to ; he is therefore among divines, what a
chamber-counsellor is among lawyers. The
probity of his mind and the integrity of his
life create him followers, as being eloquent or
loud advances others. He seldom introduces
the subject he speaks upon; but we are so far
gone in years, that he observes, when he is
among us, an earnestness to have him fall on
some divine topic, which he always treats with
much authority, as one who has no interest in
this world, as one who is hastening to the
object of all his wishes, and conceives hope
from his decays and infirmities. These are my
ordinary companion*.
JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719)
SIR ROGER AT CHURCH.
The Spectator, Xo. 112. Monday, July 9, 1711.
Adavdrovi /tkv irpwTa Oeoxk, vofiw a»s StoxciTeu,
T(/ia. Pythag.
First, in obedience to thy country 's rites,
Worship th ' immortal gods.
I am always very well pleased with a country
Sunday, and think, if keeping holy the sev-
enth day were only a human institution, it
would be the best method that could have been
thought of for the polishing and ci\ilizing of
mankind. It is certain the country people
would soon degenerate into a kind of savages
and barbarians, were there not such frequent
returns of a stated time, in which the whole
village meet together with their best faces, and
in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one
another upon indifferent subjects, hear their
duties explained to them, and join together in
adoration of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears
away the rust of the whole week, not only as it
refreshes in their minds the notions of religion,
but as it puts both the sexes upon appearing
in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all
such qualities as are apt to give them a figure
in the eye of the village. A country fellow
distinguishes himself as much in the church-
yard, as a citizen does upon the 'Change, the
whole parish-polities being generally diseussed
in that place either after sermon or before the
bell rings..
1 My friend Sir Roger, being a good church-
I jnan, has beautified the inside of his church
with several texts of his own choosing. He has
I likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and
railed in' the communion-table at his own ex-
pense. He has often told me, that at his com-
ing to his estate he found his parishioners very
irregular; and that in order to make them
kneel and join in the responses, he gave every
one of them a hassock and a common prayer-
book; and at the same time employed an itin-
erant singing-master, who goes about the coun-
try for that purpose, to instruct them rightly
in the tunes of the psalms: upon which they
now very much value themselves, and indeed
outdo most of the country churches that I have
ever heard.
As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole con-
gregation, he keeps th«n in very good order,
and will suffer nobody to sleep in it besides
himself; for if by chance he has been surprised
into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out
of it he stands up and looks about him, and if
he sees anybody else nodding, either wakes
them himself, or sends his servant to them.
Several other of the old knight's peculiarities
break out upon these occasions. Sometimes he
will be lengthening out a verse in the singing
psalms, half a minute after the rest of the con-
gregation have done with it ; sometimes when
he is pleased with the matter of his devotion,
he pronounces Amen three or four times to the
same prayer: and sometimes stands up when
everybody else is upon their knees, to count
the congregation, or see if any of his tenants
are missing.
I was yesterday very much surprised to hear
my old friend in the midst of the service call-
ing out to one John Matthews to mind what he
was about, and not disturb the congregation.
This John Matthews it seems is remarkable for
being an idle fellow, and at that time was kick-
ing his heels for his diversion. This authority
of the knight, though exerted in that odd man-
ner which accompanies him in all circumstances
of life, has a very good effect upon the parish,
who are not politei enough to see anything
ridiculous in his behaviour; besides that the
general good sense and worthiness of his char-
acter make his friends observe these little
singularities as foils that rather set off than
blemish his good qualities.
As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody
presumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of
the church. The knight walks down from his
1 polished
2U6
EAKLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
seat in the chancel between a double row of his !
tenants, that stand bowing to him on each '
side: and every now and then inquires how ]
such an one's wife, or mother, or son, or father
do, whom he does not see at church; which is
understood as a secret reprimand to the person
that is absent.
The chaplain has often told me, that upon a
catechising day, when Sir Roger has been
pleased with a boy that answers well, he has
ordered a Bible to be given him next day for
his encouragement; and sometimes accompanies
it with a flitch of bacon to his mother. Sir
Roger has likewise added five pounds a-year to
the clerk's place; and, that he may encourage
the young fclloAvs to make themselves perfect
in the church service, has promised upon the
death of the present incumbent, who is very
old, to bestow it according to merit.
The fair understanding between Sir Roger
and his chaplain, and their mutual concurrence
in doing good, is the more remarkable, because
the very next village is famous for the differ-
ences and contentions that rise between the
parson and the squire, who live in a perpetual
state of war. The parson is always preaching
at the squire; and the squire, to be revenged
on the parson, never conies to church. The
squire has made all his tenants atheists and
tithe-stealers;2 while the parson instructs them
every Sunday in the dignity of his order, and
insinuates to them almost in every sermon that
he is a better man than his patron. In short,
matters are come to such an extremity, that the
squire has not said his prayers either in pub-
lic or private this half year; and that the par-
son threatens him, if he does not mend his man-
ners, to pray for him in the face of the whole
congregation.
Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in
the country, are very fatal to the ordinary
people; who are so used to be dazzled with
riches, that they pay as much deference to
the understanding of a man of an estate, as of
a man of learning; and are very hardly brought
to regard any truth, how important soever it
may be, that is preached to them, when they
know there :»rc several men of five hundretl
a-year who do nut believe it.
NED SOFTLY.
The Tatlrr, No. 163. Tuesday, April So, 1710.
Idem inficeto est inficetior rurc,
Bimul poemata jtttigit ; neqne idem uii((u;nn
?ThoHC who do not pay tli<ir rhiircli tax.
><Eque est beatus, ac poema cum scribit:
Tam gaudet in se, tamque se ipse miratur.
Nimirum idem omnes fallimur; neque est quis-
quara
Quom non in aliqua re videre Suffenum
Possis
Catul. de Suffeuo, xx. 14.
Suffeuus has no more wit than a mere clown
when he attempts to write verses, and yet he is
never happier than when he is scribbling; so
much does he admire himself and his composi-
tions. And, indeed, this is the foible of every
one of us, for there is no man living who is
not a Suffenus in one thing or other.
I yesterday came hithers about two hours
before the company generally make their ap-
pearance, with a design to read over all the
newspapers; but, upon my sitting down, I was
accosted by Ned Softly, who saw me from a
corner in the other end of the room, where I
found he had been writing something. "Mr.
Bickerstaff, "* says he, "I observe by a late
Paper of yours, that you and I are just of a
humour; for you must know, of all im-
pertinences, there is nothing which I so much
hate as news. I never read a Gazette^ in my
life; and never trouble my head about our
armies, whether they win or lose, or in what
part of the world they lie encamped." With-
out giving me time to reply, he drew a pajier
of verses out of his pocket, telling me, ' ' that
he had something which would entertain me
more agreeably ; and that he would desire my
judgment upon every line, for that we had
time enough before us until the company
came in."
Ned Softly is a very pretty poet, and a great
admirer of easy lines. Wallers is his favourite:
and as that admirable writer has the best and
worst verses of any among our great English
poets, Ned Softly, has got all the bad ones
without book; which he repeats upon occasion,
to show his reading, and garnish his conversa-
tion. Ned is indeed a true English reader, in-
capable of relishing the great and masterly
strokes of this art ; but wonderfully pleased
with the little Gothic^ ornatnents of epigram-
matical conceits, turns, })oints, and quibbles,
which are so frequent in the most admired of
3 will's Coffee House.
• Th<* nssiimort name of
tlic editor f>r 77k-
Tatter. Steele had
chosen It. See Eni/.
Lit., n. 177.
5 The offlclal court news-
paper.
.V very popular poet
of the 17111 e.Mi
(iiry.
■<■ rued contemptuoii^lv
as equivalent tu
quaint or In bad
taste.
JOSEPH ADDISOX
297
our Eiiglislt poets, and practised by those who j the former. " " 1 am very glad to hear you
want genius and strength to represent, after j say so, ' ' says he ; " but mind the next.
the manner of the ancients, simplicity in its j
natural beauty and perfection.
You seem a sister of the Nine.
Finding myself unavoidably engaged in such
a conversation, I was resolved to turn my pain
into a pleasure, and to divert myself as well as
1 could witli so very odd a fellow. ' * You
must understand," says Ned, "that the sonnet
I am going to read to you was written upon a
lady, who showed me some verses of her own
making, and is, perhaps, the best poet of our
age. But you shall hear it."
Upon which he began to read as follows:
To iliRA ox Her Ixcojiparable Poems.
When dress 'd in laurel wreaths you shine,
And tune your soft melodious notes,
You seem a sister of the Nine,
Or Phcebus' self in petticoats.
I fancy, when your song you sing,
(Your song you sing with so much art)
Your pen was plucked from Cupid 's wing ;
For, ah ! it wounds me like his dart.
"Why," says I, "this is a little nosegay of
conceits, a very lump of salt : every verse has
something in it that piques; and then the dart \
in the last line is certainly as pretty a sting
in the tail of an epigram, for so I think you
critics call it, as ever entered into the thought
of a poet." "Dear Mr. Bickerstaff, " says he,
shaking me by the hand, "everybody knows
you to be a judge of these things; and to tell
you truly, 1 read over Eoscommon's transla-
tion of 'Horace's Art of Poetry' three sev-
eral times, before I sat down to write the son-
net which I have shown you. But you shall hear
it again, and pray observe^very line of it; for
not one of them shall pass without your ap-
probation.
When dress 'd in laurel wreaths you shine,
"That is," says he, "when you have your
garland on ; when you are writing verses. ' '
To which I replied, "I know your meaning: a
metaphor!" "The same," said he, and
went on.
And tune your soft melodious notes.
Pray observe the gliding of that verse; there
is scarce a consonant in it: I took care to make
it run upon liquids. Give me your opinion of
it." "Tndy. " said T, " I think it as good as
"That is," says he, "you seem a sister of
the ;Muses; for, if you look into ancient
authors, you will find it was their opinion that
there were nine of them." "I remember it
very well," said I; "but pray proceed."
"Or Phcebus' self in petticoats."
* ' Phoebus, ' ' says he, ' ' was the god of poetry.
These little instances, Mr. Bickerstaff, show a
gentleman's reading. Then, to take off from
the air of learning, which Pha?bus and the
Muses had given to this first stanza, you may
observe, how it falls all of a sudden into the
familiar; *in Petticoats'!
Or Phcebus' self in petticoats."
"Let us now," says I, "enter upon the sec-
ond stanza; I find the first line is still a con-
tinuation of the metaphor,
I fancy, when your song you sing."
"It is very right, ^' says he, "but pray ob-
serve the turn of words in those two lines. 1
was a whole hour in adjusting of them, and
have still a doubt upon me, whether in the sec-
ond line it should be 'Your song you sing;'
or, ' You sing your song. ' You shall hear them
both:
I fancy, when your song you sing,
(Your song you sing with so much art)
or
I fancy, when your song you sing,
(You sing your song with so much art.) "
"Truly," said I, "the turn is so natural
either way, that you have made me almost
giddy with it. " " Dear sir, ' ' said he, grasp^
ing me by the hand, "you have a great deal of
patience; but pray what do you think of the
next verse t
Your pen was pluck 'd from Cupid 's wing. ' '
"Think!" says T; "I think you have made
Cupid look like a little goose. " " That was
my meaning," says he: " I think the ridicule
is well enough hit off. But we come now to
the last, which sums up the whole matter.
For, ah! it wounds me like his dart.
"Pray how do you like that Ah! doth it niof
make a pretty figure in that place! Ah! it
298
J?AELY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
looks as if I felt the dart, and cried out as
being pricked with it.
For, ah! it wounds me like his dart.
"My friend Dick Easy," continued he, "as-
sured me, he would rather have written that
Ah! than to have been the author of the
iEneid. He indeed objected, that I made
Mira's pen like a quill in one of the lines, and
like a dart in the other. But as to that "
" Oh ! as to that, ' ' says I, "it is but supposing
Cupid to be like a porcupine, and his quills and
darts will be the same thing." He was going
to embrace me for the hint; but half a dozen
critics coming into the room, whose faces he
did not like, he conveyed the sonnet into his
pocket, and whispered me in the ear, "he
would show it me again as soon as his man had
written it over fair."
FROZEN WORDS.
The Tatler, No. 254. Thursday, November 23,
1710.
Splendid^ mendaz-
Hor.
Gloriously false —
2 Od. iii. 35.
There are no books which I more delight in
than in travels, especially those that describe
remote countries, and give the writer an oppor-
tunity of showing his parts without incurring
any danger of being examined or contradicted.
Among all the authors of this kind, our re-
nowned countryman, Sir John Alandevillei has
distinguished himself, by the copiousness of his
invention, and the greatness of his genius. The
second to Sir John I take to have been, Ferdi-
nand Mendez Pinto,2 a person of infinite ad-
venture, and unbounded imagination. One
reads the voyages of these two great wits, with
as much astonishment as the travels of Ulysses
in Homer, or of the Red-Cross Knight in
Spenser. All is enchanted ground, and fairy-
land.
I hare got into my hands, by great chance,
several manuscripts of these two eminent
authors, which are filled with greater wonders
than any of those they have communicated to
the public; and indeed, were they not so well
attested, they would appear altogether improba-
1 Soe p. 63.
2 A I'ortugueRe Rdventurer and writer of the six-
teenth century, now generally believed to have
be«'n veraclouH.
ble. I am apt to think the ingenious authors
did not publish them with the rest of their
works, lest they should pass for fictions and
fables: a caution not unnecessary, when the
reputation of their veracity was not yet estab-
lished in the world. But as this reason has
now no farther weight, I shall make the public
a present of these curious pieces, at such times
as I shall find myself unprovided with other
subjects.
The present paper I intend to fill with an
extract from Sir John 's Journal, in which that
learned and worthy knight gives an account
of the freezing and thawing of several short
speeches, which he made in the territories of
Nova Zembla.3 I need not inform my reader,
that the author of ' ' Hudibras ' '* alludes to this
strange quality in that cold climate, when,
speaking of abstracted notions clothed in a
visible shape, he adds that apt simile,
"Like words congeal 'd in northern air."
Not to keep my reader any longer in suspense,
the relation put into modern language, is as
follows :
"We were separated by a storm in the lati-
tude of seventy-three, insomuch, that only the
ship which I was in, with a Dutch and French
vessel, got safe into a creek of Nova Zembla.
We landed, in order to refit our ressels, and
store ourselves with provisions. The crew of
each vessel made themselves a cabin of turf
and wood, at some distance from each other,
to fence themselves against the inclemencies
of the weather, which was severe beyond
imagination. We soon observed, that in talk-
ing to one another we lost several of our words,
and could not hear one another at above two
yards distance, and that too when we sat very
near the fire. Aft#r much perplexity, 1 found
that our words froze in the air, before they
could reach the ears of the persons to whom
they were spoken. I was soon confirmed in this
conjecture, when, upon the increase of the cold,
the whole company grew dumb, or rather deaf;
for every man was sensible, as we afterwards
found, that he spoke as well as ever; but the
sounds no sooner took air than they were con-
densed and lost. It was now a miserable
spectacle to see us nodding and gaping at one
another, every man talking, and no man heard.
One might observe a seaman that could hail
3 An Island in the Arctic ocean. The Journal of
William Barentz, a Dutch navigator who was
shipwrecked there In ir»00, may have aflforded
Addison a hint for thia fancy.
4 A poem satirizing the Turltans, by Samuel Hutler.
JOSEPH ADDISON
299
a ship at a league's distance, beckoning with
his hand, straining his lungs, and tearing his
throat; but all in vain:
' ' Nee vox nee verba sequuntur.
"Nor voice, nor words ensued.
"We continued here three weeks in this dis-
mal plight. At length, upon a turn of wind,
the air about us began to thaw. Our cabin
was immediately filled with a dry clattering
sound, which I afterwards found to be the
crackling of consonants that broke above our
heads, and were often mixed with a gentle hiss-
ing, which I imputed to the letter s, that oc-
curs so frequently in the English tongue. I
soon after felt a breeze of whispers rushing by
my ear; for those, being of a soft and gentle
substance, immediately liquefied in the warm
wind that blew across our cabin. These were
soon followed by syllables and short words,
and at length by entire sentences, that melted
sooner or later, as they were more or less
congealed; so that we now heard every thing
that had been spoken during the whole three
weeks that we had been silent, if I may use
that expression. It was now very early in the
morning, and yet, to my surprise, I heard some-
body say, ' Sir John, it is midnight, and time
for the ship 's crew to go to-bed. ' This I knew
to be the pilot 's voice ; and, upon recollecting
myself, I concluded that he had spoken these
words to me some days before, though I could
not hear them until the present thaw. My
reader will easily imagine how the whole crew
was amazed to hear every man talking, and see
no man opening his mouth. In the midst of this
great surprise we were all in, we heard a volley
of oaths and curses, lasting for a long while,
and uttered in a very hoarse voice, which 1
knew belonged to the boatswain, who was a
very choleric fellow, and had taken his oppor-
tunity of cursing and swearing at me, when
he thought I could not hear him ; for I had sev-
eral times given him the strappados on that ac-
count, as I did not fail to repeat it for these
his pious soliloquies, when I got him on ship-
board.
"I must not omit the names of several
beauties in Wapping,* which were heard every
now and then, in the midst of a long sigh that
accompanied them ; as, ' Dear Kate ! ' * Pretty
Mrs. Peggy ! ' ' When shall I see my Sue
6 A severe form of mili-
t a r y punishment
which usually dis-
located the arms.
6 A quarter of London
alon? the Thames
frequented by sea-
men.
again I ' This betrayed several amours which
had been concealed until that time, and fur-
nisheil us with a great deal of mirth in our
return to England.
"When this confusion of voices was pretty
well over, though I was afraid to offer at
speaking, as fearing I should not be heard, I
proposed a \-isit to the Dutch cabin, which lay
about a mile farther up in the country. My
crew were extremely rejoiced to find they had
again recovered their hearing; though every
man uttered his voice with the same apprehen-
sions that I had done,
' ' Et timidd verba intermissa retentat.
* * And try 'd his tongue, his silence softly broke.
"At about half -a-mile 's distance from our
cabin we heard the groanings of a bear, which
at first startled us; but, upon enquiry, we were
informed by some of our company, that he
was dead, and now lay in salt, having been
killed upon that very spot about a fortnight
before, in the time of the frost. Not far from
the same place, we were likewise entertained
with some posthumous snarls, and barkings of
a fox.
"We at length arrived at the little Dutch
settlement ; and, upon entering the room, found
it filled with sighs that smelt of brandy, and
several other unsavoury sounds, that were alto-
gether inarticulate. My valet, who was an
Irishman, fell into so great a rage at what
he heard, that he drew his sword; but not
knowing where to lay the blame, he put it up
again. We were stunned with these confused
noises, but did not hear a single word until
about half-an-hour after; which I ascribed to
the harsh and obdurate sounds of that lan-
guage, which wanted more time than ours to
melt, and become audible,
"After having here met with a very hearty
welcome, we went to the cabin of the French,
who, to make amends for their three weeks'
silence, were talking and disputing with greater
rapidity and confusion than I ever heard in an
assembly, even of that nation. Their language,
as I found, upon the first giving of the weather,
fell asunder and dissolved. I was here con-
vinced of an error, into which I had before
fallen; for I fancied, that for the freezing of
the sound, it was necessary for it to be wrapped
up, and, as it were, preserved in breath: but
I found my mistake when I heard the sound
of a kitT playing a minuet over our heads. I
- X small fiddle.
300
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
UHked the occasion of it ; upon which one of the
••onipany told me that it would play there
alwve a week longer; 'for,' says he, 'finding
ourselves bereft of speech, we prevailed upon
one of the company, who had his musical in-
strument about him, to play to us from morn-
ing to night; all which time was employed in
dancing in order to dissipate our chagrin, and
tu-er le temps. "^
Here Sir John gives very good philosophical
reason, why the kit could not be heard during
the frost; but, as they are something prolix,
1 pass them over in silence, and shall only ob-
serve, that the honourable author seems, by
his quotations, to have been well versed in the
ancient poets, which perhaps raised his fancy
above the ordinary pitch of historians, and
very much contributed to the embellishment of
his writings.
A COQUETTE'S HEART.
The Spectator, No. 281. Tuesday, Januarii 23,
1712.
Peetoribus inhians spirantia consulit exta.
Virg. ^n. iv. 64.
Anxious the reeking entrails he consults.
Having already given an account of the dis-
section of a beau's head, with the several dis-
coveries made on that occasion; I shall here,
according to my promise, enter upon the dis-
section of a coquette's heart, and communicate
to the public such particularities as we observe»l
in that curious piece of anatomy.
I should perhaps^ have waived this undertak-
ing, had not I been put in mind of my promise
by several of my unknown correspondents, who
are very importunate with me to make an ex-
ample of the coquette, as I have already done
of the beau. It is therefore, in compliance
with the request of friends, that I have looked
over the minutes of my former dream, in order
to give the public an exact relation of it, which
1 nhall enter upon without farther preface.
Our ojierator, before he engaged in this
visionary dissection, told us that there was
nothing in his art more difficult than to lay
open the heart of a coquette, by reason of the
many labyrintlis and recesses which are to be
found in it, and which do not appear in the
heart of any other animal.
Ho desired us first of all to observe the
pericnnlium, or outward case of the heart,
Hklll time
I which we did very attentively; and by the help
j of our glasses discerned in it millions of little
scars, whiih seemed to have been occasioned
by the points of innunieral)le darts and arrows,
that from time to time had glanced upon the
outward coat ; though we could not discover
tiie smallest orifice by which any of them
had entered and pierced the inward substance.
Every smatterer in anatomy knows that this
pericardium, or case of the heart, contains in
it a thin reddish liquor, supposed to be bred
from the vapours which exhale out of the heart,
and being stopped here, are condense<l into
this watery substance. Upon examining this
liquor, we found that it had in it all the quali-
ties of that spirit which is made use of in the
thermometer to show the change of weather.
Nor must I here omit an experiment one of
the company assured us he himself had made
with this liquor, which he found in great quan-
tity about the heart of a coquette whom he
had formerly dissected. He affirmed to us,
that he had actually inclosed it in a small tube
made after the manner of a weather-glass; but
that, instead of acquainting him with the varia-
tions of the atmosphere, it showed him the
qualities of those persons who entered the room
where it stood. He affirmed also, that it rose
at the approach of a plume of feathers, an
embroidered coat, or a pair of fringed gloves;
! antl that it fell as soon as an ill-shaped peri-
wig, a clumsy pair of shoes, or an unfashiona-
ble coat came into his house. Nay, he pro-
ceeded so far as to assure us, that upon his
laughing aloud when he stood by it, the liquor
mounted very sensibly, and immediately sunk
again upon his looking serious. In short, he
told us that he knew very well by this inven-
tion, whenever he had a man of sense or a
coxcomb in his room.
Having cleared away the pericardium, or the
case, and liquor above-mentioned, we came to
the heart itself. The outward surface of it
was extremely slippery, and the mucro, or
point, so very cold withal, that upon endeavour-
ing to take hold of it, it glided through the
fingers like a smooth piece of ice.
The fibres were turned and twisted in a more
intricate and perplexed manner than they are
usually found in other hearts; insomuch that
the whole heart was wound up together like a
Cordian knot, and must have had very irregular
and unequal motions, while it was employed
in its vital function.
One thing we thought very observable, name-
ly, that upon examining all the vessels which
JOSEPH ADDISOX
301
1 :une into it, or issued out of it, we eould not j
.lisi'over any i-ommunieatioii that it had with
I lie tongue. |
We could not but take uotii-e likewise that j
several of those little nerves in the heart which
are afifected by the sentiments of love, hatred,
and other passions, did not descend to this
before us from the brain, but from the muscles
which lie about the eye.
Upon weighing the heart in my hand, I
found it to be extremely light, and consequently
very hollow, which I did not wonder at, when,
u{>on looking into the inside of it, I saw multi-
tudes of cells and ca\-ities running one within
another, as our historians describe the apart-
ments of Bosamond's bower.* Several of these
little hollows were stuffed with innumerable
sorts of trifles, which I shall forbear giving
any particular account of, and shall, therefore,
only take notice of what lay first and upper-
most, which, upon our unfolding it, and apply-
ing our microscopes to it, appearetl to be a
flame-coloured hood.
We are informed that the lady of this heart,
when living, received the addresses of several
who made love to her, and did not only give
each of them encouragement, but made every-
one she conversed with believe that she re-
garded him with an eye of kindness; for which
reason we expected to have seen the impression
>.t' multitudes of faces among the several plaits
and fohlings of the heart; but to our great sur-
prise not a single print of this nature discov-
ere«l itself till we came into the very core and
centre of it. We there observed a little figure,
which, upon applying our glasses to it, ap-
peared dressed in a very fantastic manner. The
more I looked upon it, the more I thought I
had seen the face before, but could not possi-
bly recollect either the place or time; when
at length one of the company, who had ex-
amined this figure more nicely than the rest,
showed us plainly by the make of its face, and
the several turns of its features, that the little
i.lol which was thus lodged in the very middle
of the heart was the deceased beau, whose head
I gave some account of in my last Tuesday's
paper.
As soon as we had finished our dissection, we
resolveil to make an experiment of the heart,
not being able to determine among ourselves
the nature of its substance, which differed in
so many particulars from that in the heart of
other females. Accordingly, we laid it into a
* Henry II.. it was ssaid. built a labyrinth to con-
ceal the abode of "Fair Rosamond."
pan of burning coals, when we observed in it
a certain salamandrine quality, that made it
capable of living in the midst of fire and flame,
without being consumed or so much as singe<J.
As we were admiring this strange phenome-
non, and standing round the heart in a circle,
it gave a most protligious sigh, or rather crack,
and dispersed all at once in smoke and vapour.
This imaginary noise, which methought was
louder than the burst of a cannon, produced
such a violent shake in my brain, that it dis-
sipated the fumes of sleep, and left me in an
instant broad awake.
THE VISION OF MIRZA.
The Spectator, Xo. 159. Saturday, September
1, 1711.
— Omnem. qua* nunc obducta tuenti
Mortales heljetat visus tihi. et humida circum
Caligat, nubem eripiam —
Virg. Mn. ii. 604.
The cloud, which, intercepting the clear light.
Hangs o *er thy eyes, and blunts thy mortal
sight,
I will remove —
When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up sev-
eral Oriental manuscripts, which I have still
by me. Among others I met with one entitled
The A'isions of Mirza, which I have read over
with great pleasure. I intend to give it to the
public when I have no other entertainment for
them; and shall begin with the first vision,
which I have translated word for word as fol-
lows: —
"On the fifth day of the moon, which ac-
cording to the custom of my forefathers I
always keep holy, after having washed my-
self, and offered up my morning devotions, 1
ascended the high hills of Bagdad, in order txi
pass the rest of the day in meditation and
prayer. As I was here airing myself on the
tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound
contemplation on the vanity of human life;
and pas-sing from one thought to another,
'Surely,' said I, 'man is but a shadow, and
life a dream.' Whilst I was thus musing. I
cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock
that was not far from me, where I lUscovered
one in the habit of a shepherd, with a musical
instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him
he applied it to his lips, and began to play
upon it. The sound of it was exceedingly
sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that
302
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether
different from anything I had ever heard.
They put me in mind of those heavenly airs
that are played to the departed souls of good
men upon their first arrival in Paradise, to
wear out the impressions of their last agonies,
and qualify them for the pleasures of that
happy place. My heart melted away in secret
raptures.
' ' I had been often told that the rock before
me was the haunt of a Genius;! and that sev-
eral had been entertained with music who had
passed by it, but never heard that the musician
had before made himself visible. When he had
raised my thoughts by those transporting airs
which he played to taste the pleasures of his
conversation, as I looked upon him like one
astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the
waving of his hand directed me to approach
the place where he sat. I drew near with that
reverence which is due to a superior nature;
and as my heart was entirely subdued by the
captivating strains I had heard, I fell down
at his feet and wept. The Genius smiled upon
me with a look of compassion and affability
that familiarized him to my imagination, and
at once dispelled all the fears and apprehen-
sions with which I approached him. He lifted
me from the ground, and taking me by the
hand, 'Mirza,' said he, 'I have heard thee in
thy soliloquies; follow me.*
"He then led me to the highest pinnacle of
ithe rock, and placing me on the top of it, * Cast
,thy eyes eastward,' said he, 'and tell me what
thou seest.' 'I see,' said I, 'a huge valley,
;and a prodigious tide of water rolling through
it.' 'The valley that thou seest,' said he, 'is
.the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that
thou seest is part of the great Tide of
Eternity.' 'What is the reason,' said I, 'that
the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one
end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at
the other? ' ' What thou seest, ' said he, ' is that
portion of eternity which is called time, meas-
ured out by the sun, and reaching from the be-
ginning of the world to its consummation.
Examine now, ' said he, ' this sea that is bounded
with darkness at both ends, and tell me what
thou discoverest in it.' 'I see a bridge,' said
I, 'standing in the midst of the tide.' 'The
bridge thou seest,' said he, 'is Human Life:
consider it attentively.' Upon a more leisurely
survey of it, I found that it consisted of three-
score and ten entire arches, with several broken
arches, which added to those that were entire,
1 spirit
made up the number about a hundred. As
was counting the arches, the Genius told me
that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand
arches; but that a great flood swept away the
rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condi-
tion I now beheld it. 'But tell me farther,'
said he, ' what thou discoverest on it. ' ' I see
multitudes of people passing over it,' saiti I,
'and a black cloud hanging on each end of it.'
As I looked more attentively, I saw several of
the passengers dropping through the bridge
into the great tide that flowed underneath it;
and upon farther examination, perceived there
were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed
in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner
trod upon, but they fell through them into the
tide, and immediately disappeared. Tliese hid-
den pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance
of the bridge, so that throngs of people no
sooner broke through the cloud, but many of
them fell into them. They grew thinner
towards the middle, but multiplied and lay
closer together towards the end of the arches
that were entire.
"There were indeed some persons, but their
number was very small, that continued a kind
of hobbling march on the broken arches, but
fell through one after another, being quite
tired and spent with so long a walk.
"I passed some time in the contemplation of
this wonderful structure, and the great variety
of objects which it presented. My heart was
filled with a deep melancholy to see several
dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth
and jollity, and catching at everything that
stood by them to save themselves. Some were
looking up towards the heavens in a thoughtful
posture, and in the midst of a speculation stum-
bled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were
very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glit-
tered in their eyes and danced before them;
but often when they thought themselves within
the reach of them, their footing failed and
down they sunk. In this confusion of objects,
I observed some who ran to and fro upon the
bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors
which did not seem to lie in their way, and
which they might have escaped had they not
been thus forced upon them.
"The Genius seeing me indulge myself on
this melancholy prosjiect, told me I had dwelt
long enough upon it. ' Take thine eyes off the
bridge,' said he, 'and tell me if thou yet seest
anything thou dost not comprehend.' Upon
looking up, 'What mean,' said I, 'those great
flights of birds that are perpetually hovering
MATTHEW PRIOR
303
about the bridge, and settling upon it from
time to time I I see Tultures, harpies, ravens,
cormorants, and among many other feathered
creatures several little winged boys, that perch
in great numbers upon the middle arches.
* These, ' said the Genius, ' are Envy, Avarice,
Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like cares
and passions that infest human life. '
"1 here fetched a deep sigh, 'Alas,' said
I, 'Man was made in vain! how is he given
away to misery and mortality! tortured in life,
and swallowed up in death! ' The Genius being
moved with compassion towards me, bid me
quit so uncomfortable a prospect. 'Look no
more, ' said he, ' on man in the first stage of
his existence, in his setting out for eternity;
but cast thine eye on that thick mist into which
the tide bears the several generations of mor-
tals that fall into it. I directed my sight as
I was ordered, and (whether or no the good
Genius strengthened it with any supernatural
force, or dissipated part of the mist that was
before too thick for the eye to j)enetrate) I
saw the valley opening at the farther end, and
spreading forth into an immense ocean, that
had a huge rock of adamant running through
the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal
parts. The clouds still rested on one half of
it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in
it; but the other appeared to me a vast ocean
planted with innumerable islands, that were
covere<l with fruits and flowers, and interwoven
with a thousand little shining seas that ran
among them. I could see persons dressed in
glorious habits with garlands upon their heads,
passing among the trees, lying down by the
sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flow-
ers; and could hear a confused harmony of
singing birds, falling waters, human voices,
and musical instruments. Gladness grew in me
upon the discovery of so delightful a scene. J
wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might
fly away to those happy seats; but the Genius
told me there was no passage to them, except
through the gates of death that I saw opening
every moment upon the bridge. 'The islands,'
said he, 'that lie so fresh and green before
thee, and with which the whole face of the
ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst
see, are more in number than the sands on the
sea-shore: there are myriads of islands behind
those which thou here discoverest, reaching
farther than thine eye, or even thine imagina-
tion can extend itself. These are the mansions
of good men after death, who, according to
the degree and kinds of virtue in which they
excelled, are distributed among these several
islands, which abound with pleasures of differ-
ent kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes
and perfections of those who are settled in
them: every island is a paradise accommodated
to its respective inhabitants. Are not these, O
Mirza, habitations worth contending for! Does
life appear miserable that gives thee oppor-
tunities of earning such a reward! Is death
to be feared that will convey thee to so happy
an existence? Think not man was made in
vain, who has such an eternity reserved for
him. ' I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on
these happy islands. At length, said I, 'Show
me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid
under those dark clouds which cover the ocean
on the other side of the rock of adamant. ' The
Genius making me no answer, I turned me
about to address myself to him a second time,
but I found that he had left me; I then turned
again to the vision which I had been so long
contemplating; but instead of the rolling tide,
the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw
nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdad,
with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon the
sides of it."
MATTHEW PRIOR ( 1 664- 1 72 1 )
TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS
OLD
Lords, knights, and 'squires, the numerous
band,
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters.
Were summoned by her high command.
To show their passions by their letters.
My pen among the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes that cannot read
Should dart their kindling fires, and look
The power they have to be obeyed. *
Nor quality, nor reputation.
Forbid me yet my flame to tell,
I Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.
For, while she makes her silk-worms beds
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads
In papers round her baby's hair; H
She may receive and own my flame.
For, though the strictest prudes should know
it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame
And I for an unhappy poet.
304
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CK.NTURY
Then too, alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends,
She'll give me leave to write, I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.
24
For, as our different ages move,
'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it!)
That T sliall be past making love,
When she begins to comprehend it.
A SIMILE
Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tinman's shop?
There, Thomas, didst thou never see
( 'Tis but by way of simile)
A squirrel spend his little rage
In jumping round a rolling cage?
The cage, as either side turned up.
Striking a ring of bells a-top?
Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes
The foolish creature thinks he climbs: 10
But here or there, turn wood or wire.
He never gets two inches higher.
So fares it with those merry blades,
That frisk it under Pindus'i shades.
In noble songs, and lofty odes,
They tread on stars, and talk with gods;
Still dancing in an airy round.
Still pleased with their own verses' sound;
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go.
Always aspiring, always low.
AN ODE
The merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
But €loe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia 's toilet lay;
When Cloe noteds her desire
That I should sing, that I should play. 8
My lyre I tune, my voice T raise;
But with my numbers^ mix my sighs:
And whilst I sing Euphelia 's praise,
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.
Fair Cloe blushed: Euphelia frowned:
I sung and gazed: I played and trembled:
And Venus to the Loves around
Remarke<1, how ill we all dissembled. 1«
1 A mountain In Orepce
sacrod to tho Muhoh.
2 denoted, expressed
a versen
A BETTER ANSWER*
Dear Cloe, how blubbered is that pretty face!
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair ail un-
curled :
Prythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff
8ays<)
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this
world.
How canst thou presume thou hast leave to
destroy
The beauties which Venus but lent to thy
keeping ?
Those looks were designed to inspire love and
joy:
More ord'nary eyes may serve people for
weeping. 8
To be vext at a trifle or two that I Mrit,
Your judgment at once and my passion you
wrong :
You take that for fact which will scarce be
found wit:
Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a
song?
What I speak, my fair Cloe, and what I write,
shows
The difference there is betwixt Nature and
Art:
T court others in verse; but I love thee in
prose :
And they have my whimsies; but thou hast
my heart. 16
The god of us verse-men (you know. Child),
the sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest:
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run.
At night he declines on his Thetis 's breast.
So when I am wearied with wandering all day.
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come:
No matter what beauties I saw in my way;
They were but my visits, but thou art my
home. 24
Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war;
And let us, like Horace and Lydia,-'"' agree:
For thou art a girl so much brighter than her,
As he was a poet sublimer than me.
4 See 2 Henry IT., V, 6 Florace addressed man v
Hi, 101. of his odes to
"Lydia."
• This poem was preceded hy one called An Anxwrr
In Cine JenlouK. (Prior's "Cloe," perhaps for
distinction, has no h in her name,
me.)
JOHN GAY
305
JOHN GAY (1685-1732)
Feom fables
XLIV. The Hound and the Huntsman
Impertineuce at first is borne
With heedless slight, or smiles of scorn;
Teased into wrath, what patience bears
The noisy fool who perseveres?
The morning wakes, the Huntsman sounds,
At once rush forth the joyful hounds.
They seek the wood with eager pace.
Through bush, through brier, explore the chase.
Now scattered wide, they try the plain,
And snuff the dewy turf in vain. 10
What care, what industry, what pains I
Wliat universal silence reigns I
Ringwood, a Dog of little fame.
Young, pert, and ignorant of game,
At once displays his babbling throat;
The pack, regardless of the note.
Pursue the scent ; with louder strain
He still persists to vex the train.
The Huntsman to the clamour flies;
The smacking la.sh he smartly plies. 20
His ribs all welked,^ with howling tone
The puppy thus expressed his moan:
' ' I know the music of my tongue
Long since the pack with envy stung.
What will not spite ?•■ These bitter smarts
I owe to my superior parts. ' '
* ' When puppies prate, ' ' the Huntsman cried,
"They show both ignorance and pride:
Fools may our scorn, not envy, raise.
For envy is a kind of praise. 30
Had not thy forward noisy tongue
Proclaimed thee always in the wrong.
Thou mijjht 'st have mingled with the rest,
And ne 'er thy foolish nose confest.
But fools, to talking ever prone.
Are sure to make their follies known. ' '
XLV. The Poet and the Rose
I hate the man who builds his name
On ruins of another's fame.
Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown,
Imagine that they raise their own.
Thus f:cril)blers, covetous of praise,
Tliink slander can transplant the bays.
Beauties and bards have equal pride,
With both all rivals are decried.
Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature,
Must call her sister awkward creature; 10
For the kind flattery's sure to charm, _^
When we some other nymph disarm,
6 covored with ridges
7 Understand "do."
As in the cool of early day
A Poet sought the sweets of May,
The garden's fragrant breath ascends.
And every stalk with odour bends.
A rose he plucked, he gazed, admired,
Thus singing as the Muse inspired:
"Go Rose, my Chloe's bosom grace;
How happy should I prove, 20
Might I supply that envied place
With never-fading love!
There, Phcenix-like, beneath her eye,
Involved in fragrance, burn and die!
"Know, hapless flower, that thou shall find
More fragrant roses there;
I see thy withering head reclined
With envy and despair!
One common fate we both must prove;
You die with en\j, I with love." 30
"Spare your comparisons," replied
An angry Rose who grew beside.
"Of all mankind you should not flout us;
What can a Poet do without usf
In every iove-song roses bloom;
We lend you colour and perfume.
Does it to Chloe's charms conduce,
To found her praise on our abuse?
Must we, to flatter her, be made
To wither, emy, pine, and fade?" 40
ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744)
ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.*
Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing:
The breathing instnmients inspire;
Wake into voice each silent string.
And sweep the sounding lyre!
In a sadly-pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain:
Let the loud trumpet sound,
• This ode. composed in 1708, when Pope was but
twenty years of age. is interesting chiefly
for comparison with the odes written by Dry-
den for similar occasions. l'o|ie has "drawn
fr«>ely upon classical mythology — the nine
Mnsps. Morpheus, god of dreams, the voyage
of thp Argonauts with Orphens drawing" the
trees of Mt. Pelion down to the sea by the
sweetness of his strain, and especially the
sad story of Orpheus' descent into Hades to
win ba<k his lost Eurydice only lo lose her
a;:alD and wandej forlorn until (be jealous
and enrased Bacchantes stoned hira to death
and threw his limbs into the Hebrus. It is
pointed out by Mr. W. ,1. Courthope that Dry-
den, by weaving in history instead of legend,
secured greater human interest.
306
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
Till the roofs all around
The shrill echoes rebound:
While in more lengthened notes and slow, 10
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers soft and clear,
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise
And fill with spreading sounds the skies;
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;
Till, by degrees, remote and small,
The strains decay,
And melt away, 20
In a dying, dying fall.
By music, minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.
If in the breast tumultuous joys arise.
Music her soft, assuasive voice applies;
Or, when the soul is pressed with cares.
Exalts her in enlivening airs.
Warriors she fires with animated sounds;
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds;
Melancholy lifts her head, 30
Morpheus rouses from hjs bed,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
Listening Envy drops her snakes ;
Intestine war no more our passions wage.
And giddy factions hear away their rage.
But when our country's cause provokes to arms.
How martial music every bosom warms!
So when the first bold vessel dared the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian raised his
strain,
While Argo saw her kindred trees ■lo
Descend from Pelion to the main.
Transported demi-gods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound,
Inflamed with glory's charms:
Each chief his sevenfold shield displayed,
And half unsheathed the shining blade
And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound,
To arms, to arms, to arms!
But when through all th ' infernal bounds.
Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds, 50
Love, strong as Death, the poet led
To the pale nations of the dead,
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appeared,
O'er all the dreary coasts!
Dreadful gleams
Dismal screams.
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,
Sullen moans, 60
Hollow groans,
And cries of tortured ghosts!
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
And see! the tortured ghosts respire,
See, shady forms advance!
Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,
And the pale spectres dance!
The Furies sink upon their iron beds,
And snakes uncurled hang listening round their
heads.
71
SO
By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er th' Elysian flowers;
By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow meads of asphodel,
Or amaranthine bowers;
By the hero's armed shades,
Glittering through the gloomy glades,
By the youths that died for love,
Wandering in the myrtle grove.
Restore, restore Eurydice to life:
Oh take the husband, or return the wife!
He sung, and hell consented
To hear the poet 's prayer :
Stern Proserpine relented.
And gave him back the fair.
Thus song could prevail
O'er death, and o'er hell,
A conquest how hard and how glorious!
Tliough fate had fast bound her
With Styx nine times round her.
Yet music and love were victorious.
6
But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes;
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!
How Avilt thou now the fatal sistersi move!
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.
Now under hanging mountains,
Beside the fall of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders.
Rolling in meanders, 100
All alone,
Unlnmrd, unknown.
He makes his moan;
1 The three fates.
90
ALEXANDER POPE
307
And calls her ghost.
For ever, ever, ever lost!
Now with Furies surrounded,
Despairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows,
Amidst Khodope's2 snows;
See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies;
Hark! Ha?mus2 resounds with the Bacchanals'
cries —
Ah see, he dies I 112
Yet even in death Eurydice he sung.
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue,
Eurydice the woods,
Eurydice the floods,
Eurydice the rocks, and hollow mountains rung.
Music the fiercest grief can charm.
And fate's severest rage disarm:
Music can soften pain to ease, 120
And make despair and madness please:
Our joys below it can improve,
And antedate the bliss above.
This the divine Cecilia found.
And to her Maker 's praise confined the sound.
When the full organ joins the tuneful choir,
Th' immortal powers incline their ear,
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire.
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire;
And angels lean from heaven to hear. 130
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell,
To bright CecUia greater power is givem;
His numbers raised a shade from hell.
Hers lift the soul to heaven.
From AX ESSAY ON CRITICISM.
'Tis hard to sa\, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But, of the two, less dangerous is th ' offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.
Some few in that, but numbers err in this.
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose,
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.
Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 10
In poets as true genius is but rare,
True taste as seldom is the critic 'a share ;
Both must alike from Heaven derive their light.
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others, who themselves excel.
And censure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not critics to their judgment toot
2 A monntain of Thrace.
Yet if we look more closely we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their
mind : 20
Nature affords at least a glimmering light ;
The Hues, though touched but faintly, are
drawn right.
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
Is by ill-colouring but the more disgraced.
So by false learning is good sense defaced.
First follow Nature and your judgment
frame
By her just standard, which is still the same:
Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, 'O
One clear, unchanged, and universal light.
Life, force, and beauty, must to aU impart.
At once the source, and end, and test of Art.
Art from that fund each just supply pro\ides,
Works without show, and without pomp pre-
sides;
In some fair body thus th' informing^ soul
With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,
Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains;
Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains.
Some, to whom Heaven in wit* has been pro-
fuse,
Want as much more to turn it to its use ; 81
For wit and judgment often are at strife;
Though meant each other's aid, like man and
wife.
'Tis more to guide, than spur the Muse's
steed ;
Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed;
The winged courser, like a generous horse,
Shows most true mettle when you check his
course.
Those rules of old discovered, not devised,
Are nature still, but nature methodized;
Nature, like liberty, is but restrained 90
By the same laws which first herself ordained.
Hear how learn 'd Greece her useful rules
indites,
When to repress and when indulge our flights;
High on Parnassus' top2 her sons she showed.
And pointed out those arduous paths they
trod;
Held from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize.
And urged the rest by equal steps to rise.
Just precepts thus from great examples given.
She drew from them what they derived from
Heaven.
The generous critic fanned the poet's fire, 100
1 animating
2 Tbe abode of Apollo and the Muses : figurative
for the bpights of poetic fame.
♦ This word has here the rather special 18th cen-
tury meaning of brilliancy of intellect, talent.
308
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
And taught the world with reason to admire.
Then Criticism the Muse's handmaid proved,
To dress her charms and make her more be-
loved :
But following wits from that intention strayed,
Who could not win the mistress, wooed the
maid ;
Against the poets their own arms they turned.
Sure to liate most the men from whom they
learneil.
So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art
By doctor's billss to play the doctor's part,
Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, HO
Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey,
Nor time nor motlis e'er spoiled so much as
they.
Some drily plain without invention 's aid,
Write dull receipts how poems may be made;
These leave the sense, their learning to display.
And those explain the meaning quite away.
You then whose judgment the right course
would steer.
Know Avell each ancient's proper character;
His fable,* subject, scope in every page ; 120
Religion, country, genius of his age;
Without all these at once before your eyes,
Cavil you may, but never criticise.
Be Homer's works your study and delight.
Read them by day, and meditate by night;
Thence form your judgment, thence your max-
ims bring.
And trace the Muses upward to their spring.
Still with itself compared, his text peruse;
And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.5
When first young Maro^ in his boundless
mind
A work t' outlast immortal Rome designed, 131
Perhaps lie seemed above the critic 's law.
And but from nature's fountains scorned to
draw ;
But when t' examine every part he came,
Nature and Homer were, he found, tlie same.
Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design;
Antl rules as strict his labouretl Avork confine,
As if the Stagiriteo o 'erlooked each line.
Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem;
To copy nature is to copy them. 140
Some beauties yet no precepts can declare,
For there's a happiness as well as care.
Music resembles poetry, in each
Are nameless graces which no methods teach,
,\nd which a masterhan<l alone can reach.
ff, where the rules not far enough extend,
8 proKcriptlonR
4 Htory. plot
6 Virgil.
6 Aristotle, the foremost
critic of ancient
timeH.
(Since rules were made but to promote their
end)
Some lucky licence answer to the full
Th' intent proposed, that licence is a rule.
Thus Pegasus,'' a nearer way to take, IjO
May boldly deviate from the common track.
Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend.
And rise to faults true critics dare not mend ;
From vulgar bounds with brave disorder ))art,
And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.
Which, without passing through the ju<lgmeut,
gains
The heart, and all its end at once attains.
In prospects thus, some objects please our eyes,
Which out of nature's common order rise,
The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice. 160
But though the ancients thus their ndes inva<le;
(As kings ilispense with laws themselves have
made)
Moderns beware! or if you must oliend
Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end;
Let it be seldom, and compelled by nee<l ;
And have, at least, their precedent to plead.
The critic else proceeds without remorse.
Seizes your fame and puts his laws in force.
I know there are to whose presumptuous
thoughts
Those freer beauties, e\eu in them, seem
faults. 170
Some figures monstrous and mis-shaped appear,
Consi(iere<l singly, or beheld too near.
Which, but proportioned to their light or ])lace,
Due distance reconciles to form and grace.
A prudent chief not always nuist display
His powers in equal ranks, and fair array.
But with th' occasion and the place comply.
Conceal his force, nay, seem sometimes to fly.
Those oft are stratagems which errors seem.
Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. ISO
Of all the causes which conspire to blind -01
Man's erring judgment, and misgiiide tlie mind,
Wliat the weak head with strongest bias rules,
Is pride, the never- failing vice of fools.
Wliatever nature has in worth denied,
yiie gives in large recruits of neetiful pride;
For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find
What wants in blood and spirits, swelle<l with
wind :
Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence.
And fills up all the mighty void of sense. 210
If once right reason drives that cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with resistless day.
Trust not yourself; but your defects to know,
Make use of every friend — and every foe.
■ The winged horse of the Muses.
ALEXANDER POPE
309
A little learning is a dangerous thing;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:* ■
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again. ;
Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts, ',
In fearless youth we tempt» the heights of i
arts, ' 220;
While from the bounded level of our mind
Short views we take, nor see the lengths be- '
hind; I
But more advanced, behold with strange sur- i
prise j
New distant scenes of endless science rise! \
So pleased at first the towering Alps we try ,
Mount o 'er the vales, and seem to tread the j
sky.
Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.
As men ot breeding, sometimes men of wit,
T ' avoid great errors, must the less commit :
Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, 261
For not tc know some trifles, is a praise.
Most critics, fond of some subser\-ient art.
Still make the whole depend upon a part :
They talk of principles, but notions prize.
And all to one loved folly sacrifice.
Once on a time, La Mancha 's knight,io they
say,
A certain bard encountering on the way,
Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage,
As e'er could Dennis," of the Grecian
stage; 271
Concluding all were desperate sots and fools.
Who durs^t depart from Aristotle's rules.
Th ' eternal snows appear already past.
And the first clouds and mountains seem the [ Our author, happy in a judge so nice,
last; j Produced his play, and Ijegged the knight's
Hut, those attaineil. we tremble to survey advice;
The growing labours of the lengthened way, -<>o Made him observe the subject, and the plot,
Th' increasing prospect tires our wandering The manners, passions, unities; 12 what not?
eyes, 1 All which, exact to rule, were brought about.
Hills peep o 'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise !
A ]>erfect judge will read each work of wit
With the same spirit that its author writ :
Were but a combat in the lists left out.
What I leave the combat out i ' ' exclaims the
knight ;
E Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite.s
moves, and rapture warms the
Where nature
mind;
tor lose, for that malignant dull delight.
The generous pleasure to be charmed with wit.
But in such lays as neither ebb nor flow.
Correctly cold, and regularly low, 240
That shunning faults, one quiet tenor keep,
We cannot blame indeed — but we may sleep.
In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts
Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts;
"Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call.
But the joint force and full result of all.
Thus when we view some well-proportioned
dome,
(Tlie world's just wonder, and even thine, O
Rome ! )
No single parts unequally surprise,
All comes united to th' admiring eyes; 250
No monstrous height, or breadth, or length
appear;
The whole at once is bold, and regular.
Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
[Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall
be.
[n every work regard the writer's end,
ISince none can compass more than they intend ;
LAnd if the means be just, the conduct true,
!• At the foot of Mt. Oljmpus. reputed birthplace
of the Muses.
• attempt
280
"Not so, by Heaven" (he answers in a rage),
"Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on
I the stage."
I So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain.
j ' ' Then build a new, or act it in a plain. ' '
Thus critics, of less judgment than caprice,
j Curious not knowing, not exact but nice,
1 Form short ideas; and offend in arts,
! (As most in manners) by a love to parts.
Some to conceit 13 alone their taste confine,
i And glittering thoughts struck out at every
! Une; 290
I Pleaseil with a work where nothing's just or
'■ fit;
I One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
{ Poets like painters, thus unskilled to trace
The naked nature and the living grace,
; With gold and jewels cover every part.
And hide with ornaments their want of art.
! True wit is nature to advantage dressetl,
WTiat oft was thought, but ne'er so well ex-
pressed;
Something, whose trulli convinced at sight wo
find.
10 Don Quixote (in a
spurious addition to
Cervantes' work).
1 1 John Dennis, a critic
of thi- lime, tho au-
thor of unsuccess-
ful tragedies.
Aristotle's three "unl
ties" of time, place,
and action. (See
Enfi. Lit., p. 99.)
•■xtrava rant fancy
310
EAKLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
That gives us back the image of our mind. 300
As shades more sweetly recommend the light,
So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.
For works may have more wit than does them
good,
As bodies perish through excess of blood.
Others for language all their care express,
And value books, as women men, for dress:
Their praise is still, — the style is excellent:
The sense they humbly take upon content.^*
Words are like leaves; and where they most
abound,
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found:
False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, 311
Its gaudy colours spreads on every place;
The face of nature we no more survey.
All glares alike, without distinction gay:
But true expression, like th' unchanging sun.
Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon.
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.
Expression is the dress of thought, and still
Appears more decent, as more suitable;
A vile conceit in pompous words expressed, 320
Is like a clown in regal purple dressed:
For different styles with different subjects
sort,
As several garbs with country, town, and court.
Some by old words to fame have made pre-
tence.
Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their
Such laboured nothings, in so strange a style.
Amaze th' unlearn 'd, and make the learned
smile.
Unlucky, as Fungosois in the play,
These sparks with awkward vanity display
What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; 330
And but so mimic ancient wits at best,
As apes our grandsires in their doublets drest.
In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold;
Alike fantastic, if too new, or old:
Be not the first by whom the new are tried.
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.
THE BAPE OF THE LOCK.*
Canto I
What dire offence from amorous causes springs,
What mighty contests rise from trivial things,
I sing. — This verse to Caryll, Muse! is due;
14 on trust
16 A character in Jonson's Et.ery Man Out of His
Humour who vainly tries to keep up with
court fashions.
• This mock-heroic, or. as Pope styled it, "berol-
comlcal poem," was publiBbed first in 1712
This, e'en Belinda may vouchsafe to view.
Slight is the subject, but not so the praise.
If she inspire, and he approve my lays.
Say what strange motive, Goddess! could
compel
A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle?
Oh, say what stranger cause, yet unexplored,
Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? 10
In tasks so bold, can little men engage.
And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage?
Sol through white curtains shot a timorous
ray,
And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day.
Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing
shake.
And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake.
Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the
ground,!
And the pressed watch2 returned a silver sound.
Belinda still her downy pillow pressed,
Her guardian sylph prolonged the balmy rest;
'Twas he had summoned to her silent bed 21
The morning dream that hovered o 'cr her head ;
A youth more glittering than a birth-night
beau,3
(That e'en in slumber caused her cheek to
glow)
Seemed to her ear his winning lips to lay,
And thus in whispers said, or seemed to say:
"Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished care
Of thousand bright inhabitants of air!
If e'er one vision touched thy infant thought.
Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught,
Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, 31
The silver token,* and the circled green,
Or virgins visited by angel powers.
With golden crowns and wreaths of heavenly
flowers ;
Hear and believe! thy own importance know,
Nor bound thy narrow views to things below.
and in the present enlarged form in 1714. Tlie
subject, proposed to I'ope by one Mr. Caryll,
was suggested by a trifling feud tliat had
arisen between two families because I>ord
Petre, a dapper little baron, bad cut a lock
from the head of Miss Arabella Kermor
("Belinda"). The opening is in Imitation of
classic epics, more especially of V'lrgils Aincid.
The chief addition in the later form is the
machinery of sylphs, gnomes, nymphs, and
salamanders, spirits inhabiting air, earth,
water, and flre, respectively. Dr. Johnson pro-
nounced the poem "the most airy, the most
ingenious, and the most delightful" of all the
author's compositions, and De Quincey went so
far as to declare it "the most exquisite monu-
ment of playful fancy that universal literature
offers."
1 Summoning the lady's- < Silver pieces dropped
maid. by fairies Into the
2 A striking-watch. shoes of tidy maids.
3 One befitting the royal
birthday ball.
ALEXANDER POPE
311
Some secret truths, from learned pride con- j
cealed, j
To maids alone and children are revealed
What though no credit doubting wits may give ?
The fair and innocent shall still believe. -10
Know, then, unnumbered spirits round thee fly,
The light militia of the lower sky.
These, though unseen, are ever on the wing.
Hang o 'er the box,5 and hover round the Ring.s
Think what an equipage thou hast in air,
And view with scorn two pages and a chair.^
As now your own, our beings were of old.
And once enclosed in woman's beauteous
mould;
Thence, by a soft transition, we repair
From earthly vehicles to these of air, 50
Think not, when Avoman's transient breath is
fled,
That all her vanities at once are dead;
Succeeding vanities she still regards,
And though she plays no more, o 'erlooks the
cards.
Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive.
And love of ombre,* after death survive.
For when the fair in all their pride expire,
To their first elements their souls retire:
The sprites of fiery termagants in flame
Mount up, and take a salamander's name. 60
Soft yielding minds to water glide away,
And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea.
The graver prude sinks downward to a gnome,
In search of mischief still on earth to roam.
The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair.
And sport and flutter in the fields of air.
"Know further yet: whoever fair and
chaste
Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embraced;
For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease
Assume what sexes and what shapes they
please.
What guards the purity of melting maids, "1
In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades,
Safe from the treacherous friend, the daring
spark,»
The glance by day, the whisper in the dark.
When kind occasion prompts their warm de-
sires,
When music softens, and when dancing fires?
'Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials kno«,
Though honour is the word with men below.
Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their
face.
For life predestined to the gnomes' embrace. 80
5 At the theater.
6 A fashionable prome-
nade In Hyde Park.
' sedan-chair
X A game at cards.
<• gallant
These swell their prospects and exalt their
pride.
When offers are disdained, and love denied:
Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain,
While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping
train.
And garters, stars, and coronets appear,
And in soft sounds 'Your Grace' salutes their
ear.
'Tis these that early taint the female soul.
Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll.
Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know.
And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 90
"Oft when the world imagine women stray.
The sylphs through mystic mazes guide their
way.
Through all the giddy circle they pursue.
And old impertinence expel by new.
What tender maid but must a victim fall
To one man's treat, but for another's ball?
When Florio speaks, what virgin could with-
stand.
If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand F
With varying vanities, from every part.
They shift the moving toyshop of their heart;
Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-
knots strive, 101
Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive.
This erring mortals levity may call;
Oh, blind to truth! the sylphs contrive it all.
"Of these am I, who thy protection claim,
A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name.
Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air,
In the clear mirror of thy ruling star
I saw, alas! some dread event impend.
Ere to the mainio this morning sun descend, HO
But Heaven reveals not what, or how, or where.
Warned by the sylph, O pious- maid, beware I
This to disclose is all thy guardian can:
Beware of all, but most beware of man ! ' '
He said; when Shock, who thought she slept
too long.
Leaped up, and waked his mistress with his
tongue.
'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true.
Thy eyes first opened on a billet-doux;
Wounds, charms, and ardours were no sooner
read.
But all the vision vanished from thy head. 120
And now, unveiled, the toilet stands dis-
played.
Each silver vase in mystic order laid.
First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores.
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers.
A heavenly image in the glass appears.
312
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears ;
Th ■ inferior priestess, at her altar 's side.
Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride.
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here
The various oiferings of the world appear; loO
From eat'li she nicely culls with curious toil.
And decks the goddess with the glittering;
spoil.
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks,
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box.
The tortoise here and elephant unite,
Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the
white.
Here files of pins extend their shining rows.
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billets-doux.
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; 139
The fair each moment rises in her charms.
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace,
And calls forth all the wonders of her face;
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise,
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.
The busy sylphs surround their darling care,
These set the head," and those divide the hair,
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the
gown;
And Betty's praised for labours not her own.
Can TO II
Not with more glories, in th ' ethereal |)Iain,
The sun first rises o'er the purpled main.
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams
Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames.
Fair nymphs, and well-dressed youths around
her shone.
But every eye was fixed on her alone.
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those; 10
Favours to none, to all she smiles extends;
Oft she rejects, but never once offends.
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike.
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of prido,
Might hide her faults, if belles had fatilts lo
hide ;
If lo her share some female errors fall,
I^ok on her face, and you '11 forget 'em all.
This nymph, to the destruction of mankind.
Nourished two locks, which graceful hung be-
hind
In equal curls, and well conspired to deck 21
With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck.
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,
n hpad-dress
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains.
With hairy springes, we the birds betray.
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey,
Fair tresses man 's imperial race ensnare,
And beauty draws us with a single hair.
Th' adventurous baron the bright locks ad-
mired ;
He saw, he wished, and to the jirize aspired. 30
Resolved to win, he meditates the way,
By force to ravish, or by f rau<l betray ;
Kor when success a lover 's toil attends,
I'ew ask, if fraud or force attained liis ends.
For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored
Propitious Heaven, and every power adored.
But chiefly I^ove; to Love an altar l)uilt,
Of twelve vast French romances,! neatly gilt.
There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves.
And all the trophies of his former loves; 40
With tender billets-doux he lights the pyre.
And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the
fire.
Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize.
The powers gave ear, and granted lialf liis
prayer;
The rest the winds dispersed in empty air.
But now secure the painted vessel glides,
The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides;
While melting music steals upon the sky,
And softened sounds along the waters die; •'>0
Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play,
Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay.
.\11 but the sylph — with careful thoughts op-
pressed,
Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast.
He summons straight his denizens of air;
The lucid squadrons round the siils repair;
Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whisi)ors Ineathe,
That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath.
Some to the sun their insect wings unfold.
Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold ;
Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, Ol
Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light.
Loose to the wind their airy garments flew,
Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew.-'
Dipt in the richest tincture of the skies.
Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes.
While every beam new transient colours fling>,
Colours that change whene'er they wave their
wings.
Amid the circle, on the gilded mast
Superior by the head, was Ariel placed ; T*'
1 Ponderous romnnoes.
like Mile, de Scn-
dcry's Lr Grand
f'l/ruH and CUlie,
fhon In voguo.
•-' ^lossamer tonce sup-
posed to be a prod-
uct of dew)
ALEXANDER POPE
313
\ His purple pinions opening to the sun,
He raised his azure wand, and thus begun:
"Ye sylphs and srlphids, to your chief give
ear!
Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons, hear!
Ye know the spheres, and various tasks as-
signed
: By laws eternal to th' aerial kind.
Some in the fields of purest sether play,
And bask and whiten in the blaze of day.
Some guide the course of wandering orbs on
high,
Or roll the planets through the boundless sky.
Some less refined, beneath the moon's pale
light 81
Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night.
Or suck the mists in grosser air below,
Or dip their pinions in the painted bow.
Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry maiu.
Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain;
Others on earth o'er human race preside,
Watch all their ways, and all their actions
guide:
Of these the chief the care of nations own.
And guard with arms divine the British throne.
' * Our humbler province is to tend the fair. 91
Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care;
To save the powder from too rude a gale.
Nor let th' imprisoned essences exhale;
To draw fresh colours from the vernal flowers;
To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in
showers,
A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs.
Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs;
\ay, oft in dreams, invention we bestow.
To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. lOO
•'This day, black omens threat the brightest
fair
That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care;
Some dire disaster, or by force, or sleight;
But what, or where, the fates have wrapped in
night.
Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law.
Or some frail china jar receive a flaw;
Or stain her honour, or her new brocade;
Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade;
Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball;
Or whether Heaven has doomed that Shock
must falL HO
Haste, then, ye spirits I to your charge repair;
The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care;
The drops" to thee. Brillante, we consign;
And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine;
Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favourite lock;
Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock.
3 ear-rings
* ' Whatever spirit, careless of his charge,
His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large.
Shall feel sharp vengeance soon overtake his
sins.
Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins;
Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie,
Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye;
Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain.
While clogged he beats his silken wings in
vain;
Or alum styptics with contracting power 131
Shrink his thin essence like a rivelled^ flower;
Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shall feel
The giddy motion of the whirling mill,^
In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow.
And tremble at the sea that froths below ! ' '
He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend ;
Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend;
Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair;
Some hang upon the pendants of her ear; HO
With beating hearts the dire event they wait,
Anxiou and trembling for the birth of fate.
Canto III
Close by those meads, forever crowned with
flowers.
Where Thames with pride surveys his rising
towers.
There stands a structure of majestic frame, >
Which from the neighbouring Hampton takes
its name.
Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom
Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home;
Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms
obey.
Dost somerimes counsel take — and sometimes
tea.
Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort,
To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; 10
In various talk th' instructive hours they
passed.
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last;
One speaks the glory of the British Queen,
And one describes a charming Indian screen ;
.\ third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;
At every word a reputation dies.
SnuflF, or the fan, supply each pause of chat.
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that.
Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day.
The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray; 20
The hungry judges soon the sentence sign,
4 shriveled
5 chocolate-mill
I Hampton Court, at times a royal residence.
314
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
And wretches hang that jurymen may dine;
The merchant from th' Exchange returns in
peace,
And the long labours of the toilet cease.
Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites,
Burns to encounter two adventurous knights,
At ombre singly to decide their doom;
And swells her breast with conquests yet to
come. I
Straight the three bands prepare in arms to |
join.
Each band the number of the sacred nine.2 30
Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial guard
Descend, and sit on each important card:
First, Ariel perched upon a Matadore,^
Then each, according to the rank they bore;
For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race,
Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place.
Behold, four kings in majesty revered.
With hoary whiskers and a forky beard;
And four fair queens whose hands sustain a
flower.
The expressive emblem of their softer power;
Four knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band, 41
Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand;
And parti-coloured troops, a shining train.
Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain.
The skilful nymph reviews her force with
care :
Let spades be trumps! she said, and trumps
they were.
Now move to war her sable Matadores,
In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors.
Spadillio first, unconquerable lord!
Led off two captive trumps and swept the
board. ^^
As many more Manillio forced to yield
And marched a victor from the verdant field.
Him Basto followed, but his fate more hard
Gained but one trump and one plebeian card.
With his broad sabre next, a chief in years.
The hoary majesty of spades appears.
Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed.
The rest his many-coloured robe concealed.
The rebel knave, who dares his prince engage.
Proves the just victim of his royal rage.
E 'en mighty Pam,< that kings and queens o 'er-
threw,
And mowed down armies in the fights of Loo,
Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid,
2 Each playor holds nino cards.
:t Tlif thrrt' host cardH — Spadillio. aop of spados ;
Manillio, a trump ; and Basto, ace of clubs —
were ouch called a Matadorc (Spanish for the
slaver In a hull-flKht ).
4 Knave of chihs, the lil{j;heHt card in the game of
I AM.
Falls undistinguished by the victor spade!
Thus far both armies to Belinda yield;
Now to the baron fate inclines the field.
His warlike Amazon her host invades.
The imperial consort of the crown of spades;
The club's black tyrant first her victim died,
Spite of his haughty mien, and barbarous pride.
What boots the regal circle on his head, "1
His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread;
That long behind he trails his pompous robe,
And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe?
The baron now his diamonds pours apace;
Th' embroidered king who shows but half his
face,
And his refulgent queen, with powers combined.
Of broken troops an easy conquest find.
Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen,
With throngs promiscuous strew the level
gi'een.
Thus when dispersed a routed army runs, 81
Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons,
With like confusion different nations fly,
Of various habit, and of various dye.
The pierced battalions disunited fall,
In heaps on heaps ; one fate o 'erwhelms them
all.
The knave of diamonds tries his wily arts.
And wins (oh shameful chance!) the queen of
hearts.
At this the blood the virgin 's cheek forsook,
A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look; 90
She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill,
Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille.s
And now (as oft in some distempered state)
On one nice trick depends the general fate.
An ace of hearts steps forth; the king unseen
Lurked in her hand, and mourned his captive
queen :
He springs to vengeance with an eager pace.
And falls like thunder on the prostrate ace.
The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky;
The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. 100
Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate,
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate.
Sudden, these honours shall be snatched away,
And cursed forever this victorious day.
For lo! the board with cups and spoons is
crownetl.
The berries" crackle, and the mill turns round;
On shining altars of Japan^ they raise
The silver lamp; the fiery spirits bla7.e;
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,
While China's earth receives the smoking tide;
A term siRnlfylnB de-
feat of the lone
hand, who loses the
pool.
fl coffee berries
T Japanned tables
ALEXANDER POPE
315
At once they gratify their scent and taste, m
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.
Straight hover round the fair her airy band;
Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned,
Some o 'er her lap their careful plumes dis-
played,
Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade,
t'oflfee (which makes the politician wise.
And see through all things with his half -shut
eyes)
Sent up in vapours to the baron's brain
New stratagems the radiant lock to gain. 120
Ah, cease, rash youth! desist ere 'tis too late.
Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's* fate!
Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air.
She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair!
But when to mischief mortals bend their will.
How soon they find fit instruments of ill!
Just then Clarissa drew with tempting grace
A two-eilged weapon from her shining case:
So ladies in romance assist their knight, 129
Present the spear, and arm him for the fight.
He takes the gift with reverence, and extends
The little engine on his fingers' ends;
This just behind Belinda's neck he spread.
As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her
head.
Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair,
A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the
hair;
And thrice they twitched the diamond in her
ear;
Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe drew
near.
Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought
The close recesses of the virgin 's thought ; 140
As on the nosegay in her breast reclined,
He watched th' ideas rising in her mind.
Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art,
.\n earthly lover lurking at her heart.
Amazed, confused, he found his power expired,
Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired.
The peer now spreads the glittering forfex»
wide,
T ' inclose the lock ; now joins it, to divide.
E'en then, before the fatal engine closed,
A wretched sylph too fondly interposed; 150
Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in
twain,
(But airy substance soon unites again).*®
The meeting points the sacred hair dissever
From the fair head, forever, and forever!
8 King Xisus' daughter. 9 shears (Latin)
who betrayed her i"A parody of Paradise
father by sending Lo«t, vi., 330.
the enemy one of
bis hairs.
Then flashed the living lightning from her
eyes.
And screams of horror rend th' affrighted
skies.
Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are cast.
When husbands, or when lap-dogs breathe their
last;
Or when rich China vessels, fallen from high.
In glittering dust and painted fragments lie!
"Let wreaths of triumph now my temples
twine," l«l
The victor cried; "the glorious prize is mine!
While fish in streams, or birds delight in air,
Or in a coach and six the British fair.
As long as Atalantis" shall be read,
Or the small pillow grace a lady's betl.
While visits shall be paid on solemn days,
When numerous wax-lights in bright order
blaze.
While nymphs take treats, or assignations give,
So long my honour, name, and praise shall live!
What Time would spare, from steel receives its
date,i2 IJI
And monuments, like men, submit to fate!
Steel could the labour of the gods destroy,
And strike to dust th' imperial towers of
Troy;
Steel could the works of mortal pride confound.
And hew triumphal arches to the ground.
What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs
should feel.
The conquering force of unresisted steel t"
Canto IV
But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppressed,
And secret passions laboured in her breast.
Not youthful kings in battle seized alive,
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,
Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss.
Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss.
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die.
Not Cynthiai when her manteau 's pinned awry.
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair.
As thou, sad virgin, for thy ravished hair. 10
For, that sad moment, when the sylphs with-
drew
And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew,
Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite,
As ever sullied the fair face of light,
Down to the central earth, his proper scene,
11 A .scandalous novel of the time by Mrs. Manley.
12 fatal day
1 Any frivoloQs society woman.
31(5
EARLY EKJHTEEA'TH CENTURY
Repaired to seanh tlie j;looiuy eave of Spleeu.2
Swift on his sooty pinious flits the guoine,
And in a vapour reached the dismal dome.
No cheerful breeze this sullen region kuows,
The dreaded east is all the wind that blows. 20
Here in a grotto, sheltered close from air,
And screened in shades from day's detested
glare,
She sighs forever on her pensive bed.
Pain at her side, and Megrim^ at her head.
Two handmaids wait-* the throne, alike in
place,
But differing far in figure and in face.
Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid.
Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed ;
With store of prayers, for mornings, nights,
and noons
Her hand is filled; her bosom with lampoons. 30
There Aflfectation, with a sickly mien.
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen,
Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside.
Faints into airs, and languishes with pride.
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe,
Wrapped in a gown, for sickness, and for show.
The fair ones feel such maladies as these.
When each new night-dress gives a new disease.
' A constant vapour o 'er the palace flies ;
Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise; 40
Dreadful, as hermit's dreams in haunted
shades,
Or bright, as visions of expiring maids.
Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling
spires,
Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires;
Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes.
And crystal domes, and angels in machines.''
Unnumbered throngs on every side are seen,
Of bodies changed to various forros by Spleen.
Here living tea-pots stand, one arm held out.
One bent; the handle this, and that the spout.
A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod, walks;" ;'.!
Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks.
Safe past the gnome through this fantastic
band,
A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand.
Then thus addressed the power: "Hail, way-
ward queen!
Who rule the sex. to fifty from fifteen:
Parent of vapours and of female wit;
Who give th ' hysteric, or poetic fit ; 60
On various tempers act by various ways,
Make some take physic, others scribble plays;
Who cause the proud their visits to delay,
2 III humor
s low «i>lrlt«
» Miipply "at."
r. statio rtc vices
« I Unit, xvlll., .*!7.'l.
And send the godly in a pet to pray.
A nymph there is, that all thy power disdains.
And thousands more in equal mirth maintains.
But oh! if e'er thy gnome could s])oil a grace,
Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face.
Like citron-waters matrons' cheeks inflame,
Or change complexions at a losing game. TO
Hear, me, and touch Belinda with chagrin,
That single act gives half the world the
spleen. ' '
The goddess with a discontented air "!'
Seems to reject him, though she grants his
prayer.
A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds.
Like that where once Ulysses held the winds;"
There she collects the force of female lungs.
Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of
tongues.
A vial next she fills with fainting fears,
Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears.
The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away,
Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts
to day.
Sunk in Thalestris's arms the nymph he
found.
Her eyes dejected and her hair unbound. 90
Full 'er their heads the swelling bag he rent,
And all the furies issued at the vent.
Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,
Antl fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire.
"O wretched mai<l!" she spread her hands
and cried,
(While Hampton's echoes, "W' retched maid! "
replied)
"Was it for this you took such constant care
The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare?
i'or this your locks in paper durance bound, !>!*
I'or this with torturing irons wreathed around .'
For this with fillets strained your tender head,
And bravely bore the double loads of lead?"
Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair,
While the fops envy, and the ladies stare!
Honour forbid! at whose unrivalled shrine
Kase, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign.
Methinks already I your tears survey,
Already hear the horrid things they say,
Already see you a degraded toast,
And all your honour in a whisper lost! I'f*
How shall 1, then, your helpless fame defend .'
'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend!
And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize.
Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes,
7 Odysttey x., 20.
s For Mrs. Morley, a sister of Sir (icorjio Brown.
the '"Sir riiime" of line llil.
!' leaded curl-pupors
ALEX AN DEB POPE
1 17
And heightened by the diamond 's circling rays,
Uu that rapacious hand forever blaze?
Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus»«> grow,
And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow ; 1 1
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, 119
Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, i>eri8h all!"
She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs.
And bids her beau demand the precious hairs
tSir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain,
And the nice conduct of a clouded 12 cane).
With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face.
He first the snuff-box opene<l, then the case.
And thus broke out — ' ' A[y lord, why, what the
devil f
Zounds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you must
be civil I
Plague on'tl 'tis past a jest — nay prithee, pox!
Give her the hair," he spoke, and rapped his
box. 130
* ' It grieves me much, ' ' replied the peer again,
' ' Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain.
But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear,
(Which never more shall join its parted hair;
Which never more its honours shall renew,
Clipped from the lovely head where late it
grew)
That while my nostrils draw the vital air.
This hand, which won it, shall forever wear. ' '
He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph
spread
The long-contended honours of her head. HO
But I'mbriel, hateful gnome! forbears not
so;
He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow.
Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief ap-
pears,
Her eyes half languishing, half drowned in
tears ;
On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head.
Which, with a sigh, she raised; and thus she
said:
' * Forever curs 'd be this detested day,
Which snatched my best, my favourite curl
away!
Happy! ah, ten times happy had I been,
If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen!
Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, 151
By love of courts to numerous ills betrayed.
Oh. had I rather unadmired remained
In some lone isle or distant northern land;
Where the gilt chariot never marks the way.
Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste
bohea!i3
10 The "Ring" mentioned in I..
11 Bow bolls, tho Ijolls of St.
coi'knoy confer of London.
12 mottled
.V kind of black tea.
44
There kept my charms concealed from mortal
eye,
Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die.
What moved my mind with youthful lords to
roam? 159
Oh, had I stayed, and said my prayers at home I
'Twas this, the morning omens seeme<l to tell :
Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-
box 1* fell;
The tottering china shook witliout a wind;
Xay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most un-
kind!
A sylph, too, warned me of the threats of fate.
In mystic visions, now believed too late!
See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs!
My hamis shall rend what e'en thy rapine
spares;
These in two sable ringlets taught to break.
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck; 170
The sister lock now sits uncouth, alone.
And in its fellow 's fate foresees its own ;
Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands.
And tempts once more, thy sacrilegious hands.
Oh, hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize
Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!"
Canto V
She said: the pitying audience melt in tears.
But Fate and Jove had stopped the baron's
ears.
In vain Tbalestris with reproach assails.
For who can move when fair Belin<la fails?
Xot half so fixed the Trojan" could remain.
While Anna begged and Dido raged in vain.
Then gr:ive Clarissa graceful waved her fan ;
Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began:
"Say, why are beauties praised and honoured
most,
The wise man 's passion, and the vain man 's
toast? 10
Why de<-ked with all that land and sea afford.
Why angels called, and angel-like adored ?
Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved
beaux.
Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows?
How vain are all these glories, all our pains,
Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains;
That men may say, when we the front -box
grace,
'Behold the first in virtue as in face! '
Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day,
Charmed the small-pox, or chased old age away,
Mary-lo-bow in the | 1* For face-patches.
.lilneas wben ropolling Dido's lovo and tlie en-
treaties of her sistor Anna, i.^nritl iv.. 440.)
318
EAKLY ETGHTEENTH CENTURY
Who would not scorn what housewife's cares
produce, 21
Or wlio would learn oue earthly thing of use?
To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint,
Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
But since, alas! frail beauty must decay;
Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn to
grey;
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade.
And she who scorns a man must die a maid;
What then remains but well our power to use.
And keep good humour still whate 'er we
lose? 30
And trust me, dear! good humour can prevail,
When airs, and flights, and screams, and scold-
ing fail.
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll ;
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the
soul. ' '
So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued;
Belinda frowned, Thalestris called her prude.
' ' To arms, to arms ! ' ' the fierce virago cries,
And swift as lightning to the combat flies.
All side in parties, and begin th' attack;
Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones
crack ; 40
Heroes' and heroines' shouts confus'dly rise.
And bass and treble voices strike the skies.
No common weapons in their hands are found,
Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound.
So when bold Homer makes the gods engage,
And heavenly breasts with human passions
rage;
'Gainst Pallas,2 Mars,3 Latona,3 Hermess arms;
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms:
Jove's thunder roars, Heaven trembles all
around.
Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps re-
sound : 50
Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground
gives way.
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!
Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's* height
Clapped his glad wings, and sat to view the
fight;
Proppe<l on their bodkin spears, the sprites
survey
The growing combat, or assist the fray.
While through the press enraged Thalestris
flies.
And scatters death around from both her eyes,
A beau and witling perished in the throng.
One died in metaphor, and one in song. «'•
' ' O cruel nymph ! a living death I bear, ' '
2 Alder of the OreokB.
a Aider of the TrnJanH.
4 chandelier's
Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair.
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,
"Those eyes are made so killing" — was his
last.
Thus on Mseander's flowery margin lies
Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies.''
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa
down,
Chloe stepped in and killed him with a frown;
She smiled to see the doughty hero slain,
But, at her smile, the beau revived again. 70
Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air.
Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair;
The doubtful beam long nods from side to
side;
At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.
See, fierce Belinda on the Baron flies,
With more than usual lightning in her eyes;
Nor feared the chief th' unequal fight to try,
Who sought no more than on his foe to die.
But this bold lord with manly strength endued,
She with one finger and a thumb subdue<l: 80
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,
A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw;
The gnomes direct, to every atom just,
The pungent grains of titillating dust.
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows.
And the high dome re-echoes to his nose.
"Now meet thy fate," incensed Belinda
cried,
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side.
(The same, his ancient personage to deck.
Her great great grandsire wore about his neck,
In three seal-rings; which after, melted
down, 91
Formed a vast buckle for his widow 's gown ;
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew.
The bells she jingled, and the whistle l)lew ;
Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs,
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)
"Boast not my fall," he cried, "insulting
foe!
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low ;
Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind:
All that I dread is leaving you behind! 100
Rather than so, ah, let me still survive,
And burn in Cupid's flames — but burn alive,"
"Restore the lock!" she cries; and all
around
"Restore the lock! " the vaulted roofs rebound.
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain
Roared for the handkerchief tliat caused Ida
pain.
But see how oft ambitious aims are crossed,
And chiefs contend lill nil tlio i)ri7.e is lost!
r. OvId'H RpMlm. vli.. 1. 2.
ALEXANDER POPE
319
The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with
paiu, 109
lu every place is sought, but sought in vain :
With such a prize no mortal must be blessed,
So Heaven decrees! with Heaven who can con-
test!
Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere,
Since all things lost on earth are treasured
there.
There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases.
And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer cases;
There broken vows and death-bed alms are
found,
And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound.
The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray-
ers, 119
The smiles of harlots, and the teara of heirs.
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea.
Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.
But trust the Muse — she saw it upward rise.
Though marked by none but quick, poetic eyes :
(So Rome's great founder* to the heavens
withdrew,
To Proculus alone confessed in view)
A sadden star, it shot through liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
Not Berenice's locks" first rose so bright.
The heavens bespangling with dishevelled light.
The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, 131
Anil pleased pursue its progress through the
skies
This the beau monde shall from the Malls
sur\-ey,
And hail with music its propitious ray.
This the blest lover shall for Venus take,
And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake.o
This Partridgeio soon shall view in cloudless
skies.
When next he looks through Galileo's eyes;
And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom
The fate of Louis and the fall of Rome. HO
Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy
ravished hair.
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere!
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast,
Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost.
For, after all the murders of your eye.
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die;
When those fair suns shall set, as set they
must,
B Romulus, carried to heaven by Mars, afterw.ards
appeared to Proculus in great glory.
~ '•ISerenlce's Hair." a group of seven stars in the
constellation Leo.
s A fashionable walk in St. James* Park.
» In St. .Tames' Park.
10 An almanac-maker of the time who yearly
prophesied disaster.
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust :
This lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame,
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's
name. 150
From AX ESSAY OX MAX.
Epistle I
Awake, my St. Johnii leave all meaner things
To low ambition, and the pride of kings.
Let us, since life can little more supply
Than just to look about us and to die.
Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man;
A mighty maze! but not without a plan;
A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous
shoot ;
Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit.
Together let us beat this ample field.
Try what the open, what the covert yield; 10
The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore
Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar;
Eye nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies.
And catch the manners living as they rise;
Laugh where we must, be candid where we can ;
But vindicate the ways of God to man.
I. Say first, of God above, or man below.
What can we reason, but from what we know?
Of man, what see we but his station here
From which to reason or to which refer? 20
Through worlds unnumbered though the God
be known,
'Tis ours to trace him only in our own.
He, who through vast immensity can pierce.
See worlds on worlds compose one universe.
Observe how system into system runs.
What other planets circle other suns,
What varied being peoples every star.
May tell why Heaven has made us as we are.
But of this frame the bearings, and the ties,
The strong connections, nice dependencies, 30
Gradations just, has thy pervading soul
Looked through? or can a part contain the
whole ?
Is the great chain, that draws all to agree.
And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee?
II. Presumptuous man! the reason wouldst
thou find.
Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind?
First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,
Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less?
Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made
Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade?
1 Henry St. .Tohn. Lord Bolinghroke, a politician
and philosopher to whom Pope was indebted
for the substance of this poem. The name is
usually pronounced Hin jun.
320
KARLY P:IGHTEENTH CENTURY
Or ask of yonder argent fiekls above, 41
Wliy Jove's satellites are less than Jove.
Ot systems possible, if 'tis confessed
That wisdom infinite must form the best.
Where all must full or not coherent be,
And all that rises, rise in due degree;
Then, in the scale of reasoning life, 'tis plain,
There must be, somewhere, such a rank as
man:
And all the question (wrangle e'er so long)
Is only this, if God has placed him wrong? 50
Respecting man, whatever wrong we call,
May, must be right, as relative to all.
In human works, though laboured on with pain,
A thousand movements scarce one purpose
gain;
In God's, one single can its end produce;
Yet serves to second too some other use.
So man, who here seems principal alone.
Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown.
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal;
'Tis hut a part we see, and not a whole. 60
When the proud steed shall know why man
restrains
His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains;
When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod,
Is now a victim, and now Egypt 's god : -
Then shall man's pride and dullness compre-
hend
His actions', passions', being's, use and end;
Why doing, suffering, checked, impelled; and
why
This hour a slave, the next a deity.
Then say not man's imperfect. Heaven in
fault ;
Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought: 70
His knowledge measured to his state and place.
His time a moment, and a point his space.
If to be perfect in a certain sphere.
What matter, soon or late, or here or there I
The blest to-day is as completely so.
As who began a thousand years ago.
III. Heaven from all creatures hiiles the
book of fate.
All but the page prescribed, their present state:
From brutess what men, from men what
spirits know :
Or who could suffer being here below? 80
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day.
Had he thy reason, would lie skip and play?
Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food,
.\nd licks the hand just raised to shed his
blood.
Oh, blindness to the future! kindly given,
2 Apl«. the Racrod hull 8 Supply "hoavon hides."
Prtp«''s VPFse Is lull
of i:-ypt.
of surh ellipHes.
That each may fill the circle marked by
Heaven :
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms or systems into ruin hurled,
Xnd now a bubble burst, and now a world. 90
Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions
soar;
Wait the great teacher Death ; and God adore.
W'hat future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always to be blest.
The soul, uneasy and confined from home.
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ;
ITis soul, proud science never taught to
stray 101
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple nature to his hope has given.
Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler
Heaven ;
Some safer world in depths of woods embraced.
Some happier island in the watery waste.
Where slaves once more their native land be-
hold
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for
gold.
To be, contents his natural desire.
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; HO
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky.
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
IV. Go, wiser thou! and, in thy scale of
sense
Weigh thy opinion against Providence;
Call imperfection what thou fanciest such.
Say, "Here he gives too little, there too
much ; ' '
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,*
Yet cry, "If man's unhappy, God's unjust; "
If man alone engross not Heaven 's high care.
Alone made perfect here, immortal there, 120
Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,
Re-judge his justice, be the god of God.
In ])ride, in reasoning pride, our error lies;
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes,
Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell,
Aspiring to be angels, men rebel :
And who but wishes to invert the laws
Of order, sins against the Eternal Cause. I'lO
V. Ask for what end the heavenly bodies
shine,
4 delight
ALEXANDER POPE
3<J1
Earth for whose u«ef Pride answers, " 'Tis
for mine:
Eor me kind nature wakes her genial power,
Suckles each herb, and spreads out every
flower ;
Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew
The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew;
For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings;
For me, health gushes from a thousand springs;
Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise;
y\y footstool earth, my canopy the skies." 140
But errs not Nature from this gracious end.
From burning suns when livid deaths descend,
When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests
sweep
Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep?
Xo ('tis replied), the first Almighty Cause
Acts not by partial, but by general laws;
Th ' exceptions few ; some change, since all
began:
And what created perfect? — Why then man?
If the great end be human happiness, 149
Then nature deviates; and can mau do less?
As much that end a constant course requires
Of showers and sunshine, as of man's desires;
As much eternal springs and cloudless skies.
As men forever temperate, calm, and wise.
If plagues or earthquakes break not Heaven's
design,
Why then a Borgia,^ or a Catiline ?«
Who knows but He, whose hand the lightning
forms.
Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the
storms ;
Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind,
Or turns young Ammon^ loose to scourge man-
kind? 160
From pride, from pride, our very reasoning
springs.
Account for moral, as for natural things:
Why charge we Heaven in those, in these
acquit ?
In both, to reason right is to submit,
Better for us, perhaps, it might appear.
Were there all harmony, all virtue here;
That never air or ocean felt the wind;
That never passion discomposed the mind.
But all subsists by elemental strife:
And passions are the elements of life.
The general order, since the whole began,
Is kept in nature, and is kept in man.
VI. What would this man? Now upward
will he soar.
170
5 Cesare Borgia, son of
Tope .VlexanderVI..
a notorious criminal
and tyrant.
6 Roman conspirator.
7 Alexander the Great.
who was flattering-
ly styled the son of
Jupiter .4mmon.
And little less than angel, would be more;
Xow looking downwards, just as grieved ap-
pears
To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears.
Made for his use all creatures if he call,
Say what their use, had he the powers of all?
Nature to these, without profusion, kind.
The proper organs, proper powers assigned ; IsiO
Each seeming want compensated of course,
Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force;
All in exact proportion to the state;
Nothing to add, and nothing to abate.
Each beast, each insect, happy in its own :
Is Heaven unkind to man, and man alone?
Shall he alone, whom rational we call.
Be pleased with nothing, if not blessed with
all?
The bliss of man (could ju-ide that blessing
find)
Is not to act or think beyond mankind; I'J'^
No powers of body or of t-oul to share,
But what his nature and his state can bear.
^^ hy has not man a microscopic eye?
For this plain '•eason, man is not a fly.
Say what the use, were, finer optics given.
T ' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heaven I
Or touch, if tremblinglj- alive all o'er.
To smart and agoniae at every pore?
Or, quick effluvia darting through the brain.
Die of a rose in aromatic painf 200
If nature thundered in his opening ears.
And stunned him with the music of tiio
spheres,*
How would he wish that Heaven had left him
still
The whispering zephyr and the purling rill!
Who finds not Providence all good and wise.
Alike in what it gives, and what denies?
VII. Far as creation 's ample range extends.
The scale of sensual, mental powers ascemls.
Mark how it mounts, to man 's imperial race.
From the green myriads in the peopled grass:
What modes of sight betwixt each wide ex-
treme, 210
The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam:
Of smell, the headlong lioness between
And hound sagacious on the tainted greeu:
Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood,
To that which warbles through the vernal
wood :
The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine!
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line:
In the nice bee, what sense so subtly troe
8 Music, too fine or too mighty for mortal ears,
supposed to be made by the revolution of the
concentric spheres which, according to the old
Ptolemaic system, composed the universe. (See
note on Doctor Faustwi, p. 1.58.)
322
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew ?
How instinct varies in the groveling swine, 221
Compared, half -reasoning elephant, with thine I
'Twixt that and reason, what a nice barrier,
Forever separate, yet forever near!
Remembrance and reflection how allied;
What thin partitions sense from thought di-
vide :
And middle natures, how they long to join.
Yet never pass th' insuperable line!
Without this just gradation, could they be
Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? 230
The powers of all subdued by thee alone.
Is not thy reason all these powers in one I
VIII. See, through this air, this ocean, and
this earth
All matter quick,8 and bursting into birth.
Above, how high, progressive life may go!
Around, how wide! how deep extend below!
Vast chain of being! which from God began.
Natures ethereal, human, angel, man,
Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see.
No glass can reach ; from infinite to thee, 240
From thee to nothing. — On superior powers
Were we to press, inferior mightio on ours;
Or in the full creation leave a void.
Where, one step broken, the great scale's de-
stroyed :
From nature 's chain w hatever link you strike.
Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain
alike.
And if each system in gradation roll
Alike essential to th' amazing whole.
The least confusion but in one, not all
That system only but the whole must fall. 250
Let earth unbalanced from her orbit fly,
Planets and suns run lawless through the sky;
Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurled.
Being on being wrecked, and world on world;
Heaven's whole foundations to their centre
nod,
And nature tremble to the throne of God.
All this dread order break — for whom? for
thee?
Vile worm! — Oh, madness! pride! impiety!
IX. What if the foot, ordained the dust
to tread.
Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the head? 260
What if the head, the eye, or ear repined
To serve mere engines to the ruling mind?
.lust as absurd for any part to claim
To be another, in this general frame;"
Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains,
The great directing Mind of all ordains.
B alive
10 Supply "preBS."
11 universe
All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body nature is, and God the soul;
That, changed through all, and yet in all the
same;
Great in the earth, as in th ' ethereal frame ; 270
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees,
Lives through all life, extends through all ex-
tent.
Spreads undivided,^ operates unspent;
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part.
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart;
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns,
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns:
To him no high, no low, no great, no small;
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals
all. 280
X. Cease then, nor order imperfection name:
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree
Of blindness, weakness. Heaven bestows on
thee.
Submit. — In this, or any other sphere,
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear:
Safe in the hand of one disposing Power,
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.
All nature is but art, unknown to thee;
All chance, direction, which thou canst not see;
All discord, harmony not understood; 291
All partial evil, universal good:
And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite.
One truth is clear, whatever is, is right.
Epistle II
I. Know then thyself, presume not God to
scan:
The proper study of mankind is man.
Placed on this istlinius of a middle state,
A being darkly wise and rudely great:
With too much knowledge for the sceptic side,
With too much w eakness for the stoic 's pride.
He hangs between ; in doubt to act, or rest ;
In doubt to deem himself a god or beast;
In doubt his mind or body to prefer;
Born but to die, and reasoning but to err; 10
Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
Whether he thinks too little or too much :
Chaos of thought and passion, all coiifus'd;
Still by himself abused, or disabused;
Created half to rise, and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled;
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!
Go, wondrous creature; mount where science
guides.
ALEXANDER POPE
323
Go, measure earth, weigh air, ami state the
tides; 2«
Instruct the planets in what orbs to run,
Correct old Time, and regulate the sun;i
Go. soar with Plato to th' empyreal spherc,2
To the first good, first perfect, and first fair;
Or tread the mazy round his followers trod,
And quitting sense call imitating God;
As eastern priests in giddy circles run,3
And turn their heads to imitate the sun.
Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule —
Then drop into thyself, and be a fool I 30
Superior beings, when of late they saw
A mortal man unfold all nature's law.
Admired such wisdom in an earthly shape.
And showed a Newton, as we show an ape.
Could he, whose rules the rapid comet bind,
Describe or fix one movement of his mindf
Who saw its fires here rise, and there descend,
Explain his own beginning or his end?
Alas! what wonder! Man's superior part
Unchecked may rise, and climb from art to
art;
But when hii own great work is but begun, 41
What reason weaves, by passion is undone.
Trace science, then, with modesty thy guide;
First strip off all her equipage of pride;
Deduct what is but vanity or dress,
Or learning's luxury, or idleness.
Or tricks to show the stretch of human brain.
Mere curious pleasure, or ingenious pain;
Expunge the whole, or lop th ' excrescent parts
Of all our vices have created arts; 50
Then see how little the remaining sum.
Which served the past, and must the times to
come!
II. Two principles in human nature reign;
Self-love to urge, and reason to restrain;
Nor this a good, nor that a bad we call.
Each works its end to move or govern all:
And to their proper operation still
Ascribe all good; to their improper, ill.
Self-love, the spring of motion, acts* the
soul;
Reason 's comparing balance rules the whole. 60
Man, but for that, no action could attend,
And, but for this, were active to no end:
Fixed like a plant on his peculiar spot,
To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot ;
Or, meteor-like, flame lawless thro' the void,
1 Alluding to the reformation of the calendar,
wiiich liad fallen some twelve da.Vfi behind
the sun — a reformation then already generally
adopted in Europe, though not in England till
1751.
2 Compare note on I. 202. (Bolingbroke held Plato
in contempt.)
•"• The dancing dervishes.
4 actuates, moves
Destroying others, by himself destroyed.
Most strength the moving principle requires;
Active its task, it prompts, impels, inspires:
Sedate and quiet, the comparing^ lies.
Formed but to check, deliberate, and advise. 70
Self-love still stronger, as its objects nigh;
Reason's at distance and in prospyect lie:
That sees immediate good by present sense;
Reason, the future and the consequence.
Thicker than arguments, temptations throng.
At best more watchful this, but that more
strong.
The action of the stronger to suspend.
Reason still use, to reason still attend.
Attention, habit and experience gains: 79
Each strengthens reason, and self-love restrains.
Let subtle schoolmen teach these friends to
fight,
More studious to divide than to unite;
And grace and virtue, sense and reason split,
With all the rash dexterity of wit.
Wits, just like fools, at war about a name.
Have full as oft no meaning, or the same.
Self-love and reason to one end aspire,
Pain their aversion, pleasure their desire;
But greedy that, its object would devour.
This taste the honey, and not wound the
flower : 90
Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood.
Our greatest evil, or our greatest good.
III. Modes of self-love the passions we
may call;
'T is real good, or seeming, moves them all:
But since not every good we can divide.
And reason bids us for our own provide,
Passions, though selfish, if their means be fair.
List under reason, and deserve her care;
Those that imparted, court a nobler aim.
Exalt their kind, and take some virtue's name.
In lazy apathy let stoics boast 101
Their virtue fixed: 't is fixed as in a frost;
Contracted all, retiring to the breast;
But strength of mind is exercise, not rest:
The rising tempest puts in act the soul.
Parts it may ravage, but preserves the whole.
On life 's vast ocean diversely we sail.
Reason the card,8 but passion is the gale;
Nor God alone in the still calm we find, 109
He mounts the storm, and walks upon the
wind.
Passions, like elements, though born to fight,
Yet, mixed and softened, in his work unite:
I These 'tis enough to temper and employ ;
I But what composes man. can man destroy?
SuflBce that reason keep to nature's road,
5 Sapply "principle." 6 compass
3U
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
Subject, compound thorn, follow her and God.
Love, hope, aud joy, fair pleasure's smiling
train,
Hate, fear, and grief, the faiiuly of puiu.
These, mixed with art, and to due bounds con-
fined, 119
Make aud maintain the balance of the mind:
The lights and shades, whose well-accordetl
strife
Gives all the strength and colour of our life.
Pleasures are ever in our hands or eyes;
And when in act they cease, in prospect rise:
Present to grasp, and future still to find,
The whole employ of boily and of mind.
All spread their charms, but charm not all
alike;
On diflercnt senses different objects strike;
Hence different passions more or less inflame.
As strong or weak the organs of the frame; 3 3u
And hence one nmster-passion in the breast,
Like Aaron 's serj>ent, swallows up the rest.
As man, perhaps, the moment of his breath,
Receives the lurking principle of death;
The young ilisease, that must subdue at length.
Grows with his growth, and strengthens witli
his strength :
So. cast and mingled with his very frame.
The mind's disease, its ruling passion, came;
Each vital humour which should feed the
whole.
Soon flows to this, in body and in soul: 140.
Whatever warms the heart, or fills the head,
As the mind opens, and its functions spread,
Imagination ])lies her dangerous art,
And pours it all upon the peccant part.
Nature its mother, habit is its nurse;
Wit, spirit, faculties, but make it worse;
Reason itself but gives it edge and pow 'r;
As Heaven 's blest beam turns vinegar more
sour.
We. wretched subjects, though to lawful
sway.
In this weak queen some favorite still obey;
Ah! if she lend not arms as well as rules, 151
What can she more than tell us we are fools?
Teach us to mourn our nature, not to mend;
A sharp accuser, but a helpless friend!
Or from a judge turn pleader, to persuade
The choice we make, or justify it made;
Proud of an easy conquest all along,
She but removes weak passions for the strong.
So, when small humours gather to a gout,
The doctor fancies he has driven them out. 160
Yes, nature's road must ever be preferred;
litMSon is here no guide, but still a guard;
'T is licrs to rectify, not overthrow,
Aud treat this passion more as friend than foe:
A mightier power the strong direction sends,
And several men impels to several ends:
Like varying winds by other passions tossed.
This drivej them constant to a certain coast.
Let power or knowledge, gold or glory, please.
Or (oft more strong than all) the love of
ease; 170
Through life 't is followed, even at life's ex-
pense ;
The merchant's toil, the sage's indolence,
Tlie monk 's humility, the hero 's pride.
All, all alike find reason on their side.
Th' Eternal Art, educing good from ill,
(irafts on this passion our best ])rinciple:
'T is thus the mercury of man is fixed.
Strong grows the virtue with his nature mixed;
The dross cements what else were too refined.
And in one interest body acts with mind. l!>"
As fruits, ungrateful to the planter's care,
On savage stocks inserted, learn to bear,
Tiie surest virtues thus from passions shoot.
Wild nature's vigour working at the root.
What croi)s of wit and honesty appear
From spleen, from obstinacy, hate, or fear!
See anger, zeal and fortitude supply;
Even avarice, prudence; sloth, philosophy;
T.,ust, through some certain strainers well re-
fined,
Is gentle love, and charms all womankind; li^O
Knvy, to which th' ignoble lujnd 's a slave.
Is enmlation in the learned or brave;
Xor virtvu', male or female, can we name,
But what will grow on pride, or grow on shame.
Tlius nature gives us (let it check our pride)
The virtue nearest to, our vice allied;
Reason the bias turns to good from ill.
And Nero reigns a Titus, if he will.^
The fiery soul abhorred in Catiline,
In Decius charms, in (urtius is divine:* *00
The same ambition can destroy or save,
And makes a patriot as it makes a knave.
IV. This light and darkness in our chaos
joined.
What shall divide? The God within the mind.
Kxtremes in nature equal emls produce,
In man they join to some mysterious use;
Though each by turns the ofiier's bound in
vade,
As, in some well-wrought picture, light ami
shade,
7 1. c, the t.vrant turns benefactor.
• l.>ecliis voluntarily rushed Into death because of
a vision ussurlnK victory to the side whose
ffcnoral should fall. Curtiiis Is allepod to have
made a similar self-sacrifice, leaping Into a
cbasm in the Roman forum.
ALEXAKDEB POPE
325
And uft so mix, the difference is too nice
Where ends the virtue, or begins the vice. 210
Fools I who from hence into the notion fall.
That Wee or virtue there is none at all.
If white and black blend, soften, and unite
A thousand ways, is there no black or white!
Ask your own heart, and nothing is so plain;
'T is to mistake them costs the time and
pain.
\. Vice is a monster of so frightful mien.
As to be hated needs but to be seen ;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace. 220
But where th' extreme of vice, was ne'er
agreed :
Ask where 's the north! at York, 't is on the
Tweed;
In Scotland, at the Ort-ades; and there.
At Greenland, Zembla, or the Lord knows
where.
No creature owns it in the first degree,
But thinks his neighbour further gone than he;
Even those who dwell beneath its very zone,
Or never feel the rage, or never own;
What happier natures shrink at with affright
The hard inhabitant contends is right. 230
Vi. Virtuous and vicious every man must
be;
Few in th' extreme, but all in the degree:
The rogue and fool by fits is fair and wise;
And even the best, by fits, what they despise.
'T is but by parts we follow good or ill;
For, vice or virtue, self directs it still;
Each individual seeks a several goal;
But Heaven 's great view is one, and that the
whole.
That counterworks each folly and caprice;
That disappoints th' effect of every vice; 240
That, happy frailties to all ranks applied,
Shame to the virgin, to the matron pride,
Fear to the statesman, rashness to the chief.
To kings presumption, and to crowds belief:
That, virtue's ends from vanity can raise.
Which seeks no interest, no reward but praise;
And build on wants, and on defects of mind,
The joy. the peace, the glory of mankind.
Heaven, forming each on other to depend.
A master, or a servant, or a friend, -50
Bids eaeli on other for assistance call.
Till one man's weakness grows the strength of
all.
Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally
The common interest, or endear the tie.
I'u these we owe true friendship, love sincere,
F.ach home-felt joy that life inherits here;
Yet from the same we learn, in its decline,
Those joys, those loves, those interests to re-
sign:
Taught half by reason, half by mere decay.
To welcome death, and calmly pass away. 260
Whate'er the passion, — knowledge, fame, or
pelf,—
Xot one will change his neighbour with himself.
The learned is happy nature to explore,
The fool is happy that he knows no more;
The rich is happy in the plenty given,
The poor contents him with the care of Heaven.
See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing.
The sot a hero, lunatic a king;
The starving chemist* in his golden views
Supremely blest, the poet in his Muse. 270
See some strange comfort every state attend.
And pride bestowed on all, a common friend:
See some fit passion every age supply,
Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.
Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law.
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw;
Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight,
A little louder, but as empty quite;
Scarfs, garters,9 gold, amuse his riper stage, 279
And beads and prayer-books are the toys of
age:
Pleased with this bauble still, as that before:
Till tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is
o'er.
ileanwhile Opinion gilds, with Tarying rays.
Those painted clouds that beautify our days;
Each want of happiness by hope supplied.
And each vacuity of sense by pride:
These build as fast as knowledge can destroy;
In Folly's cup still laughs the bubble joy;
One prospect lost, another still we gain;
And not a vanity is given in vain; 290
Even mean self-love becomes, by force divine.
The scale to measure others' wants by thine.
See, and confess, one comfort still must rise;
'T is this. Though man's a fool, yet God is
wise!
THE UXIVEKSAL PRAYER.
Father of aU! in every age.
In every clime adored.
By saint, by savage, and by stigc,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord I
Thou Great First Cause, least understootl:
Who all my sense confined
To know but this, that Thou art good.
And that myself am blind; 8
8 alchemist
a The badge of the hishfst order of Eni^Ilsh knight-
hood. '.-r-Ji.
326
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
Yet gave me, in this dark estate,
To see the good from ill;
And binding nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will.
What conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do,
This, teach me more than hell to shun.
That, more than heaven pursue.
What blessings Thy free bounty gives,
Let me not cast away ;
For God is paid when man receives:
T' enjoy is to obey.
Yet not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound.
Or think Thee Lord alone of man.
When thousand worlds are round.
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,
Still 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 T am, not wholly so.
Since quickened by Thy breath;
Oh, lead me wheresoe'er I go.
Through this day 's life or death.
This day, be bread and peace my lot:
All else beneath the sun,
Thou know'st if best bestowed or not.
And let Thy will be done.
To Thee, whose temple is all spaoe.
Whose altar earth, sea, skies,
One chorus let all being raise.
All nature's incense rise!
16
24
32
40
48
DANIEL DEFOE (1659-1731)
From ROBINSON CRUSOE
The Castaway*
Had I continued in the station I was now
in, I had room for all the happy things to have
yet befallen me for which my father so
earnestly recommended a quiet, retired life,
and of which he had so sensibly described the
middle station of life to be full. But other
things attended! me, and I was still to be the
wilful agent of all my own miseries, and par-
ticularly to increase my fault and double the
reflections upon myself, which in my future
sorrows I should have leisure to make. All
these miscarriages were procured by my ap-
parent obstinate adherence to my foolish in-
clinations of wandering abroad, and pursuing
that inclination in contradiction to the clearest
views of doing myself good in a fair and plain
pursuit of those prospects and those measures
of life which Nature and Providence concurred
to present me with and to make my duty.
As I had once done thus in my breaking
away from my parents, so I could not be con-
tent now, but I must go and leave the happy
view'Z I had of being a rich and thriving man
in my new plantation, only to pursue a rash
and immoderate desire of rising faster than
the nature of the thing admitted; and thus I
cast myself down again into the deepest gulf
of human misery that ever man fell into, or
perhaps could be consistent with life and a
state of health in the world.
To come, then, by the just degrees to the
particulars of this part of my story. You may
suppose that having now lived almost four
years in the Brazils, and beginning to thrive
and prosper very well upon my plantation, 1
had not only learned the language, but had
contracted acquaintance and friendship among
my fellow-planters, as well as among the mer-
chants at St. Salvador, which was our port,
and that in my discourses among them I had
frequently given them an account of my two
voyages to the coast of Guinea, the manner of
1 awaltpd = prospoct
• Crusoe, having run away to sea at the ago or
nineteen and bf-en wrecked on the KnKlish
coast, had next embarked on a trading vessel
to the coast of Guinea. Upon a second voy-
age he was captured by the Moors. Kscaping
after two years of slavery, he was picked up
by a Portusfuese vessel and taken to the
Brazils. There he set up as a planter and
sent back to England tor half of the two
hundred pounds he had saved from his first
venture.
DANIEL DEFOE
327
trading with the negroes there, and how easy
it was to purchase upon the coast for trifles —
such as beads, toys, knives, scissors, hatchets,
bits of glass, and the like — not only gold-dust,
Guinea grains,3 elephants' teeth, etc., but
negroes, for the service of the BrazUs, in great
numbers.
They listened always very attentively to my
discourses on these heads, but especially to that
part which related to the buying negroes;
which was a trade, at that time, not only not
far entered into, but, as far as it was, had been
carried on by the assiento, or permission, of the
kings of Spain and Portugal, and engrossed in
the public,* so that few negroes were brought,
and those excessive dear.
It happened, being in company with some
merchants and planters of my acquaintance,
and talking of those things very earnestly,
three of them came to me the next morning,
and told me they had been musing very much
upon what I had discoursed with them of, the
last night, and they came to make a secret pro-
posal to me. And after enjoining me secrecy,
they told me that they had a mind to fit out a
ship to go to Guinea; that they had all planta-
tions as well as I, and were straitened for noth-
ing so much as servants ; that as it was a trade
that could not be carried on because they could
not publicly sell the negroes when they came
home, so they desired to make but one voyage,
to bring the negroes on shore privately, and
divide them among their own plantations; and,
in a word, the question was, whether I would
go their supercargo in the ship, to manage the
trading part upon the coast of Guinea. And
they offered me that I should have my equal
share of the negroes without providing any
part of the stock.
This was a fair proposal, it must be con-
fessed, had it been made to any one that had
not had a settlement and plantation of his own
to look after, which was in a fair way of com-
ing to be very considerable, and with a good
stock upon it. But for me, that was thus en-
tered and established, and had nothing to do
but go on as I had begun, for three or four
years more, and to have sent for the other
hundred pounds from England; and who, in
that time, and with that little addition, could
scarce have failed of being worth three or
four thousand pounds sterling, and that in-
creasing too — for me to think of such a voyage,
3 aromatic seeds (used for spicing liqaor)
* held as a state monopoly • Possibly some word
like "stock" has been omitted.)
was the most preposterous thing that ever man,
in such circumstances, could be guilty of.
But I, that was born to be my own destroyer,
could no more resist the offer than I could re-
strain my first rambling designs, when my
father's good eounselwas lost upon me. In a
word, I told them I would go with all my
heart, if they would undertake to look after
my plantation in my absence, and would dis-
pose of it to such as I should direct if I mis-
carried. This they all engaged to do, and en-
tered into writings or covenants to do so ; and
I made a formal will, disposing of my planta-
tion and effects, in case of my death; making
the captain of the ship that had saved my
life, as before, my universal heir, but obliging
him to dispose of my effects as I had directed
in my will, one half of the produce being to
himself, and the other to be shipped to Eng-
land.
In short, I took all possible caution to pre-
serve my effects, and keep up my plantation.
Had I used half as much prudence to have
looked into my own interest, and have made a
judgment of what I ought to have done and
not to have done, I had certainly never gone
away from so prosperous an undertaking, leav-
ing all the probable views of a thriving circum-
stance, and gone upon a voyage to sea, attended
with all its conmion hazards, to say nothing
of the reasons I had to expect particular mis-
fortune to myself.
But I was hurried on, and obeyed blindly the
dictates of my fancy rather than my reason.
And accordingly, the ship being fitted out, and
the cargo furnished, and all things done as by
agreement by my partners in the voyage, I
went on board in an evil hour, the [first] of
[September 1659], being the same day eight
year that I went from my father and mother at
HuU, in order to act the rebel to their author-
ity, and the fool to my own interest.
Our ship was about 120 tons burthen; car-
ried six guns and fourteen men, besides the
master, his boy, and myself. We had on board
no large cargo of goods, except of such toys at
were tit for our trade with the negroes — such
as beads, bits of glass, shells, and odd trifles,
especially little looking-glasses, knives, scissors,
hatchets, and the like.
The same day I went on board we set sail,
standing away to the northward upon our own
coast, with design to stretch over for the
African coast, when they* came about ten or
* This chanire of subject need not surprise. De-
foe's syntax is often very loose.
328
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
twelve degrees of northern latitude; which, it
seems, was the manner of their course in those
days. We had very good weather, only ex-
cessive hot, all the way upon our own coast,
till we came the height ofs Cape St. Augus-
tino;o from whence, keeping farther off at sea,
we lost sight of land, and steered as if we were
bound for the isle Fernando de Noronha, hold-
ing our course N.E. by N., and leaving those
isles on the east. In this course we passed the
line in about twelve days' time, and were, by
our last observation, in 7° 22' northern lati-
tude, when a violent tornado, or hurricane, took
us quite out of our knowledge. It began from
the south-east, came about to the north-west,
and then settled into the north-east, from
whence it blew in such a terrible manner, that
for twelve days together we could do nothing
but drive, and, scudding away before it, let
it carry us wherever fate and the fury of the
winds directed ; and during these twelve days,
1 neetl not say that I expected every day to be
swallowed up; nor, indeed, did any in the ship
expect to save their lives.
In this distress we had, besides the terror of
the storm, one of our men died of the calen-
ture,7 and one man and the boy washed over-
board. About the twelfth day, the weather
abating a little, the master made an observa-
tion as well as he could, and found that he
was in about 1 1 degrees north latitude, but that
he was 22 degrees of longitude difference west
from Cape St. Augustino; so that he found
he was gotten upon the coast of Guiana, or the
north part of Brazil, beyond the river Amazon,
toward that of the river Orinoco, commonly
called the Great River, and began to consult
with me what course he should take, for the
ship was leaky and very much disabled, and he
was going directly back to the coast of Brazil.
I was positively against that; and looking
over the charts of the sea-coast of America with
him, we concluded there was no inhabited coun-
try for us to have recourse to till we came
within the circle of the Caribbee Islands, and
therefore resolved to stand away for Bar-
badoes; which by keeping off at sea, to avoid
the indraft of the Bay or Gulf of Mexico, we
might easily perform, as we hoped, in about
fifteen days' sail; whereas we could not pos-
sibly make our voyage to the coast of Africa
without some assistance, both to our ship and
to ourselves.
'• reached the latitude of
« Cape Sao Afrostlnhos. alwnt four degrees north
ut Hno Halvudor (Itahiai.
v A dellriuiiN fever.
"With this design we changed our course, and
steered away N.\\. by W. in order to reach
some of our English islands, where I hoped for
relief; but our voyage was otherwise de-
termined; for being in the latitude of 12 de-
grees 18 minutes a second storm came upon us,
which carried us away with the same im-
petuosity westward, and drove us so out of the
very way of all human commerce, that had all
our lives been saved, as to the sea, we were
rather in danger of being devoured by savages
than ever returning to our own country.
In this distress, the wind still blowing very
hard, one of our men early in the morning
cried out, "Land! " and we had no sooner ran
out of the cabin to look out, in hopes of see-
ing whereabouts in the world we were, but the
ship struck upon a sand, and in a moment, her
motion being so stopped, the sea broke over her
in such a manner, that we expected we should
all have perished immediately ; and we w ere
immediately driven into our cl(»se quarters, to
shelter us from the very foam and spray of the
sea.
It is not easy for any one, who has not been
in the like condition, to describe or conceive
the consternation of men in such circumstances.
We knew nothing where we were, or upon what
land it was we were driven, whether an island
or the main, whether inhabited or not in-
iiabited; and as the rage of the wind was still
great, though rather less than at first, we could
not so much as hope to have the ship hold many
minutes without breaking in pieces, unless the
winds, by a kind of miracle, should turn im-
mediately about. In a word, we sat looking
one upon another, and expecting death every
moment, and every man acting accordingly, as
preparing for another world ; for there was
little or nothing more for us to do in this. That
which was our present comfort, and all the
comfort we had, was that, contrary to our ex-
pectation, the ship did not break yet, and that
the master said the wind began to abate.
Now, though we thought that the wind did a
little abate, yet the ship having thus struck
upon the sand, and sticking too fast for us to
expect her getting off. wo were in a dreadful
condition indeed, and had notliing to do but
to tliink of saving our lives as well as we could.
We ha<l a boat at our stern just before the
storm, but she was first staved by dashing
against the ship's rudder, and in the next
place, she broke away, and either sunk, or was
driven off to sea, so there was no hope from
her. We had another boat on board, but how
DANIEL DEFOE
329
to get off into the sea was a doubtful thiug.
However, there was no room to debate, for we
fancied the ship would break in pieces every
minute, and some told us she was actually
broken already.
In this distress, the mate of our vessel lays
hold of the boat, and with the help of the rest
of the men they got her slung over the ship 's
side; and getting all into her, let go, and com-
mitted ourselves, being eleven in number, to
God's mercy, and the wild sea; for though the
storm was abated considerably, yet the sea
went dreadful high upon the shore, and might
well be called den wild see, as the Dutch call
the sea in a ttorm.
And now our case was very dismal indeed,
for we all saw plainly that the sea went so
high, that the boat could not live, and that we
should be ine\-itably drowned. As to making
sail, we had none; nor, if we had, could we
have done anything with it: so we worked at
the oar towards the land, though with heavy
hearts, like men going to execution; for we all
knew that when the boat came nearer the shore
she would be dashed in a thousand pieces by
the breach of the sea. However, we committed
our souls to God in the most earnest manner;
and the wind driving us towards the shore, we
hastened our destruction with our own bands,
pulling as well as we could towards land.
What the shore was, whether rock or sand,
whether steep or shoal, we knew not; the only
hope that could rationally give us the least
shadow of expectation was, if we might hap-
pen into some bay or gulf, or the mouth of
some river, where by great chance we might
have run our boat in, or got under the lee of
the land, and perhaps made smooth water. But
there was nothing of this appeared; but as we
made nearer and nearer the shore, the land
looked more frightful than the sea.
After we had rowed, or rather driven, about
a league and a half, as we reckoned it, a raging
wave, mountain-like, came rolling astern of us,
and plainly bade us expect the coup de grdce.^
In a word, it took us with such a fury, that it
overset the boat at once; and separating us, as
well from the boat as from one another, gave
us not time hardly to say, "O GodI " for we
were all swallowed up in a moment.
Nothing can describe the confusion of
thought which I felt when I sunk into the
water; for though I swam very well, yet I
could not deliver myself from the waves so as
to draw breath, till that wave having driven
8 finishing stroke
me, or rather carried me, a vast way on towards
the shore, and having spent itself, went back,
and left me upon the land almost dry, but half
dead with the water I took in. I had so much
presence of nund, as well as breath left, that
seeing myself nearer the mainland than I ex-
pected, I got upon my feet, and endeavoured
to make on towards the land as fast as I could,
before another wave should return and take
me up again. But I soon found it was impos-
sible to avoid it; for I saw the sea come after
me as high as a great hill, and as furious as
an enemy, which I had no means or strength to
contend with. My business was to hold my
breath, and raise myself upon the water, if I
could; and so by swimming, to preserve my
breathing', and pilot myself towards the shore,
if possible; my greatest concern now being,
that the sea, as it would carry me a great way
towards the shore when it came on, might not
carry me back again with it when it gave
back towards the sea.
The wave that came upon me again, buried
me at once 20 or 30 feet deep in its own body,
and I could feel myself carried with a mighty
force and swiftness towards the shore a very
great way; but I held my breath, and assisted
myself to swim still forward with all my might.
I was ready to burst with holding my breath,
when, as I felt myself rising up, so, to my
immediate relief, I found my head and hands
shoot out above the surface of the water; and
though it was not two seconds of time that I
could keep myself so, yet it relieved me greatly,
gave me breath and new courage. I was cov-
ered again with water a good while, but not so
long but I held it out ; and finding the water
had spent itself, and began to return, I struck
forward against the return of the waves, and
felt ground again with my feet. I stood still
a few moments to recover breath, and till the
water went from me, and then took to my heels
and ran with what strength I had farther to-
wards the shore. But neither would this de-
liver me from the fury of the sea, which came
pouring in after me again, and twice more I
was lifted up by the waves and carried for-
wards as before, the shore being very flat.
The last time of these two had well near
been fatal to me; for the sea, having hurried
me along as before, landed me, or rather
dasheil me, against a piece of a rock, and that
with such force, as it left me senseless, and
indeed helpless, as to my own deliverance; for
the blow taking my side and breast, beat the
breath as it were quite out of my body: and
330
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
hail it returned again immediately, I must have
been strangled in the water. But I recovered
a little before the return of the waves, and
seeing I should be covered again with the
water, I resolved to hold fast by a piece of the
rock, and so to hold my breath, if possible, till
the wave went back. Now as the waves were
not so high as at first, being near land, I held
my hold till the wave abated, and then fetched
another run, which brought me so near the
shore, that the next wave, though it went over
me, yet did not so swallow me up as to carry
me away, and the next run I took I got to the
mainland, where, to my great comfort, I clam-
bered up the cliffs of the shore, and sat me
down upon the grass, free from danger, and
quite out of the reach of the water.
I was now landed, and safe on shore, and
began to look up and thank God that my life
was saved in a ease wherein there was some
minutes before scarce any room to hope. I
believe it is impossible to express to the life
what the ecstasies and transports of the soul
are when it is so saved, as I may say, out of
the very grave; and I do not wonder now at
that custom, namely, that when a malefactor,
who has the halter about his neck, is tied up,
and just going to be turned off, and has a
reprieve brought to him, — I say, I do not won-
der that they bring a surgeon with it, to let
him bloodo that very moment they tell him
of it, that the surprise may not drive the ani-
mal spirits from the heart and overwhelm him:
' ' For sudden joys, like griefs, confound at
first."
I walked about on the shore, lifting up my
hands, and my whole being, as I may say,
wrapt up in the contemplation of my deliver-
ance, making a thousand gestures and motions
which I cannot describe, reflecting upon all my
comrades that were drowned, and that there
should not be one soul saved but myself; for,
as for them, I never saw them afterwards, or
any sign of them, except three of their hats,
one cap, and two shoes that were not fellows.
I cast my eyes to the stranded vessel, when
the brearli and froth of the sea being so big. I
could hardly see it, it lay so far off, and con-
sidered, T>ord! how was it possible I could get
on shore?
After I had solaced my mind with the com-
fortable part of my condition, I began to look
round me to see what kind of place I was in,
and what w:«s next to be done, and I soon
» 1. e., bleed him
found my comforts abate, and that, in a word,
I had a dreadful deliverance; for I was wet,
had no clothes to shift me, nor anything either
to eat or drink to comfort me, neither did I see
any prospect before me but that of perishing
with hunger, or being devoured by wild beasts;
and that which was particularly afflicting to
me was, that I had no weapon either to hunt
and kill any creature for my sustenance, or to
defend myself against any other creature that
might desire to kill me for theirs. In a word,
I had nothing about me but a knife, a tobacco-
pipe, and a little tobacco in a box. This was
all my provision; and this threw me into ter-
rible agonies of mind, that for a while I ran
about like a madman. Night coming upon me,
I began, with a heavy heart, to consider what
would be my lot if there were any ravenous
beasts in that country, seeing at night they
always come abroad for their prey.
All the remedy that offered to my thoughts
at that time was, to get up into a thick bushy
tree like a fir, but thorny, which grew near me,
and where I resolved to sit all night, and con-
sider the next day what death I should die, for
as yet I saw no prospect of life. I walked
about a furlong from the shore, to see if I
could find any fresh water to drink, which I
did, to my great joy; and having drank, and
put a little tobacco in my mouth to prevent
hunger, I went to the tree, and getting up
into it, endeavoured to place myself so, as
that if I should sleep I might not fall; and
having cut me a short stick, like a truncheon,
for my defence, I took up my lodging, and hav-
ing been excessively fatigued, I fell fast asleep,
and slept as comfortably as, I believe, few
could have done in my condition, and found
myself the most refreshed with it that I think
1 ever was on such an occasion.
JONATHAN SWIFT (1667-1745)
GULLIVER'S TRAVELS.*
From Part I. A Voyage to Liluput.
Chapter I.
My father had a small estate in Nottingham-
shire; I was the third of fivo sons. He sent
me to Emmanuel College in Cambridge at four-
teen years old, where I resided three years, and
•This apparently simple tale I« In reality a con-
tinuouH and sweeping satire. Says Sir Wal-
ter Scott : "No word drops from (iulliver's pen
JONATHAN SWIFT
331
applied myself close to my studies; but the
charge of maintaining me, although I had a
very scanty allowance, being too great for a
narrow fortune, I was bound apprentice to Mr.
James Bates, an eminent surgeon in London,
with whom I continued four years; and my
father now and then sending me small sums
of money, I laid them out in learning naviga-
tion, and other parts of the mathematics use-
ful to those who intend to travel, as I always
believed it would be, some time or other, my
fortune to do. When I left Mr. Bates, I went
down to my father; where, by the assistance
of him, and my uncle John and some other
relations, I got forty pounds, and a promise
of thirty pounds a year, to maintain me at
Leyden. There I studied physic two years and
seven months, knowing it would be useful in
long voyages.
Soon after my return from Leyden, I was
recommended by my good master, Mr. Bates,
to be surgeon to 2he Stcallow, Captain Abra-
ham Pannell, commander; with whom I con-
tinued three years and a half, making a voyage
or two into the Levant,i and some other parts.
When I came back I resolved to settle in Lou-
don; to which Mr. Bates, my master, en-
couraged me, and by him I was recommended
to several patients. I took part of a small
house in the Old Jewry; 2 and being advised to
alter my condition, I married Mrs.3 Mary
Burton, second daughter to Mr. Edmund Bur-
ton, hosier in Newgate Street, with whom I
received four hundred pounds for a portion.
But my good master, Bates, dying in two
years after, and I having few friends, my busi-
ness began to fail; for my conscience would
not suffer me to imitate the bad practice of
too many among my brethren. Having, there-
1 The Orient, especially 3 Mistress, a title then
the east coast of given to both mar-
tlie Mediterranean. ried and unmarried
2 A street in the heart women.
of London.
in vain. Where his work ceases for a moment
to satirize the vices of mankind in general, it
becomes a stricture upon the parties, politics,
and court of Britain : where it abandons that
subject of censure, it presents a lively picture
of the vices and follies of the fashionable
world, or of the vain pursuits of philosophy,
while the parts of the narrative which refer to
the traveller's own adventures form a humor-
ous and striking parody of the manner of old
voyagers." Of Part I., the Voyage to Lilliput.
the same writer says : "The satire is here
levelled against the court and ministry of
George I. In some points the parallel is very
closely drawn, as where the parties in the
church and state are described, and the mode
in which offices and marks of distinction are
conferred in the Lilliputian court." See also
Eng. Lit., pp. 174-175.
fore, consulted with my wife, and some of my
acquaintance, I determined to go again to sea.
I was surgeon successively in two ships, and
made several voyages, for six years, to the f^ast
and West Indies, by which I got some addition
to my fortune. My hours of leisure I spent in
reading the best authors, ancient and modern,
being always provided with a good number
of books; and, when I was ashore, in observing
the manners and dispositions of the people, as
well as learning their language, wherein I had
a great facility, by the strength of my
memory.
The last of these voyages not pro\ing very
fortunate, I grew weary of the sea, and in-
tended to stay at home with my wife and fam-
ily. I removed from the Old Jewry to Fetter
Lane, and from thence to Wapping, hoping to
get business among the sailors; but it would
not turn to account. After three years' ex-
pectation that things would mend, I accepted
an advantageous offer from Captain William
Frichard, master of The Antelope, who was
making a voyage to the South Sea. We set
sail from Bristol, May 4, 1699; and our voy-
age at first was very prosperous.
It would not be proper, for some reasons, to
trouble the reader with the particulars of our
adventures in those seas. Let it suflBce to in-
form him, that, in our passage from thence to
the East Indies, we were driven by a violent
storm to the northwest of Van Diemen's Land.
By an observation, we found ourselves in the
latitude of 30 degrees 2 minutes south. Twelve
of our crew were dead by immoderate labour
and ill food ; the rest were in a very weak con-
dition.
On the fifth of November, which was the be-
ginning of summer in those parts, the weather
being very hazy, the seamen spied a rock within
half a cable's length of the ship; but the wind
was so strong, that we were driven directly
upon it, and immediately split. Six of the
crew, of whom I was one, having let down the
boat into the sea, made a shift to get clear of
the ship and the rock. We rowed, by my com-
putation, about three leagues, till we were able
to work no longer, being already spent with
labour, while we were in the ship. We, there-
fore, trusted ourselves to the mercy of the
waves; and, in about half an hour, the boat
was overset by a sudden flurry from the north.
What became of my companions in the boat,
as well as of those who escaped on the rock, or
were left in the vessel, I cannot tdl, but con-
clude they were all lost.
332
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTUKV
•/..For my owu part, 1 swam as fortune directed
me, and was pushod forward by wind and tide.
1 often h't my logs drop, and could feel no
bottom ; but, when I was almost gone, and
able to struggle no longer, I found myself
within my depth; and, by this time, the storm
was much abated.
The declivity was so small that I walked near
a mile before I got to the shore, which I con-
jectured was about eight o'clock in the even-
ing. I then advanced forward near half a
mile, but could not discover any sign of houses
or inhabitants; at least, I was in so weak a
condition, that I did not observe them. I was
extremely tired, and with that, and the heat
of the weather, and about half a pint of
brandy that I drank as I left the ship, I found
myself much inclined to sleep. I lay down on
.the grass, which was very short and soft, where
I slept sounder than ever I remembered to
have done in my life, and, as I reckoned, above
nine hours; for, when I awaked, it was just
daylight. I attempted to rise, but was not able
to stir: for as I happened to lie on my back,
I found my arms and legs were strongly fas-
tened on each side to the ground; and my hair,
which was long and thick, tied down in the
same manner. I likewise felt several slender
ligatures across my body, from my armpits to
my thighs. I could only look upwards; the
sun began to grow hot, and the light offended
my eyes.
I beard a confused noise about me; but, in
the posture I lay, could see nothing except the
sky. In a little time I felt something alive on
my left leg, which, advancing gently forward
over my breast, came almost up to my chin;
when, bending my eyes downward as much as I
could, I perceived it to be a human creature,
not six inches high, with a bow and arrow in
his hands, and a quiver at his back. In the
meantime I felt at least forty more of the same
kind (as I conjectured) following the first.
I was in the utmost astonishment, and roared
.80 loud that they all ran back in a fright ; and
some of them, as I was afterwards told, were
hurt with the falls they got by leaping from
my sides upon the ground. However, they soon
returned, and one of them, who Tentured so
far as to get a full sight of my face, lifting
up his hands and eyes by way of admiration,
cried out in a shrill but distinct voice — Helinah
degul! The others repeated the same words
several times, but I then knew not what they
meant.
I lay all this while, as the reader may believe.
in great uneasiness. At length, struggling to
get loose, I had the fortune to break the
strings, and wrench out the pegs, that fastened
my left arm to the ground; for by lifting it
up to my face, I discovered the methods they
had taken to bind me, and, at the same time,
with a violent pull, which gave me excessive
pain, I a little loosened the strings that tied
down my hair on the left side, so that I was
just able to turn my head about two inches.
But the creatures ran off a second time, be-
fore I could seize them ; whereupon there was
a great shout in a very shrill accent, and after
it ceased, I heard one of them cry aloud, Tolgo
plionac; when, in an instant, I felt above an
hundred arrows discharged on my left hand,
which pricked me like so many needles; and,
besides, they shot another flight into the air,
as we do bombs in Europe, whereof many, I
suppose, fell on my body (though I felt them
not), and some on my face, which I im-
mediately covered with my left hand.
When this shower of arrows was over, I fell
a-groaning with grief and pain, and then striv-
ing again to get loose, they discharged another
volley larger than the first, and some of them
attempted with spears to stick me in the sides;
but by good luck I had on me a buff jerkin,*
which they could not pierce. I thought it the
most prudent method to lie still, and my design
was to continue so till night, when, my left
hand being already loose, I could easily free
myself; and as for the inhabitants, I had
reason to believe I might be a match for the
greatest armies thev could bring against me, if
they were all of the same size with him that
I saw.
But fortune disposed otherwise of me. When
the people observed I was quiet, they dis-
charged no more arrows: but, by the noise I
heard, I knew their numbers increased; and
about four yards from me, over against my
right ear, I heard a knocking for above an
hour, like that of people at work; when, turn-
ing my head that way, as well as the pegs and
strings would permit me, I saw a stage erected,
about a foot and a half from the ground, capa-
ble of holding four of the inhabitants, with
two or three ladders to mount it ; from whence
one of them, who seemed to be a person of
quality, made me a long speech whereof I un-
derstood not one syllable.
But I should have mentioned, that, before
the principal person began his oration, lie i rie<l
* leather waistcoat
JONATHAN SWIFT
333
out three times, Laiiyro dehul sua (these words,
aud the former, were afterwards repeated, and
explained to me). Whereupon immediately
alx>ut fifty of the inhabitants came and cut
the strings that fastened the left side of my
head, which gave me the liberty of turning it
to the right, and of observing the person and
gesture of him that was to speak. He appeared
to be of a middle age, and taller than any of
the other three who attended him, whereof one
was a page that held up his train, and seemed
to be somewhat longer than my middle finger;
the other two stood one on each side, to sup-
port him. He acted every part of an orator,
and I could observe many periods^ of threaten-
ings, and others of promises, pity, and kindness.
1 answered in a few words, but in the most
submissive manner, lifting up my left hand
and both my eyes to the sun, as calling him for
a witness: and, being almost famished with
hunger, having not eaten a morsel for some
hours before I left the ship, I found the de-
mands of nature so- strong upon me, that I
could not forbear showing my impatience (per-
haps against the strict rules of decency) by
putting my finger frequently to my mouth, to
signify that I wanted food. The hurgo (for
so they call a great lord, as I afterwards
learned) understood me very welL He de-
scended from the stage, and commanded that
several ladders should be applied to my sides;
on which above an hundred of the inhabitants
mounted, and walked towards my mouth, laden
with baskets full of meat, which had been pro-
vided and sent thither by the king's orders,
upon the first intelligence he received of me.
I observed there was the flesh of several ani-
mals, but could not distinguish them by the
taste. There were shoulders, legs, and loins,
shaped like those of mutton, and very well
dressed, but smaller than the wings of a lark.
I ate them by two or three at a mouthful, and
took three loaves at a time, about the bigness
of musket buUets. They supplied me as they
could, showing a thousand marks of wonder
and astonishment at my bulk and appetite. 1
then made another sign that I wanted drink.
They found by my eating that a small quan-
tity would not suffice me; and being a most
ingenious people, they slung up, with great
dexterity, one of their largest hogsheads, then
rolled it towards my hand, and beat out the
top: I drank it off at a draught; which I
might well do, for it did not hold half a pint,
and tasted like a small« wine of Burgundy, but
5 sentences 6 weak
much more delicious. They brought me a sec-
ond hogshead, which I drank in the same man-
ner, and made signs for more; but they had
none to give me.
When I had performed these wonders, they
shouted for joy, and danced upon my breast,
repeating, several times, as they did at first,
Hekinah degul. They made me a sign that 1
should throw down the two hogsheads, but first
warning the people below to stand out of the
way, crying aloud, Borach mivola; and, when
they saw the vessels in the air, there was an
universal shout of Hekinah degul.
I confess, I was often tempted, while they
were passing backwards and forwards on my
body, to seize forty or fifty of the first that
came in my reach, and dash them against the
ground. But the remembrance of what I had
felt, which probably might not be the worst
they could do, and the promise of honour I
made them — for so I interpreted my submiisive
behaviour — soon drove out these imaginations.
Besides, I now considered myself as bound, by
the laws of hospitality, to a people who had
treated me with so much expense and magnifi-
cence. However, in my thoughts I could not
sufficiently wonder at the intrepidity of these
diminutive mortals, who durst venture to mount
and walk upon my body, while one of my hands
was at liberty, without trembling«at the very
sight of so prodigious a creature as I must
appear to them.
After some time, when they observed that I
made no more demands for meat, there ap-
peared before me a person of high rank from
his imperial majesty. His excellency, having
mounted on the small of my right leg, advanced
forwards up to my face, with about a dozen of
his retinue: and, pro<lucing his credentials
under the signet-royal, which he applied close
to my eyes, spoke about ten minutes, without
any signs of anger, but with a kind of de-
terminate resolution, often pointing forwards,
which, as I afterwards found, was towards the
capital city, about half a mile distant, whither
it was agreed by his majesty in council that I
must be conveyed. I answered in a few words,
but to no purpose, and made a sign with my
hand that was loose, putting it to the other
(but over his excellency's head, for fear of
hurting him or his train) and then to my own
head and body, to signify that I desired my
liberty.
It appeared that he understood me well
enough, for he shook his head by way of dis-
approbation, and held his hands in a posture
334
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
to show that I must be carried as a prisoner.
However, lie made other signs, to let me under-
stand that I should have meat and drink
enough, and very good treatment. Whereupon
I once more thought of attempting to break
my bonds; but again, when I felt the smart of
their arrows upon my face and hands, which
were all in blisters, and many of the darts still
sticking in them, and observing, likewise, that
the number of my enemies increased, I gave
tokens to let them know that they might do
with me what they pleased. Upon this the
hurgo and his train withdrew, with much civ-
ility, and cheerful countenances.
Soon after, I heard a general shout, with
frequent repetitions of the words, Peplom
sehni, and I felt great numbers of people on
my left side, relaxing the cords to such a de-
gree, that I was able to turn upon my right,
and so get a little ease. But, before this, they
had daubed my face and both my hands with
a sort of ointment very pleasant to the smell,
which, in a few minutes, removed all the smart
of their arrows. These circumstances, added
to the refreshment I had received by their
victuals and drink, which were very nourish-
ing, disposed me to sleep. I slept about eight
hours, as I was afterwards assured; and it
was no wonder, for the physicians, by the em-
peror's ord^, had mingled a sleepy potion in
the hogsheads of wine.
It seems that, upon the first moment I was
discovered sleeping on the ground, after my
landing, the emperor had early notice of it by
an exi)ress; and determined in council, that
I should be tied in the manner I have related
(which was done in the night, while I slept),
that plenty of meat and drink should be sent
to me, and a machine prepared to carry me to
the capital city.
This resolution, perhaps, may appear very
bold and dangerous, and I am confident would
not be imitated by any prince in Europe on the
like occasion. However, in my opinion, it was
extremely prudent, as well as generous; for,
supposing these people had endeavoured to
kill me with their spears and arrows, while I
was asleep, I should certainly have awaked
with the first sense of smart, which might so
far have roused my rage and strength, as to
have enabled me to break the strings where-
with I was tied; after which, as they were not
able to make resistance, so they could expect
no mercy.
These people are most excellent mathemati-
ciano, and arrived to n great perfection in
mechanics, by the countenance and encourage-
ment of the emperor, who is a renowned patron
of learning. This prince hath several ma-
chines fixed on wheels for the carriage of trees
and other great weights. He often builds his
largest men-of-war, whereof some are nine foot
long, in the woods where the timber grows, and
has them carried on these engines three or four
hundred yards to the sea.* Five hundred car-
penters and engineers were immediately set at
work to prepare the greatest engine they had.
It was a frame of wood, raised three inches
from the ground, about seven feet long and
four wide, moving upon twenty-two wheels.
The shout I heard was upon the arrival of this
engine, which, it seems, set out in four hours
after my landing. It was brought parallel to
me as I lay. But the principal diflSculty was
to raise and place me in this vehicle.
Eighty poles, each of one foot high, were
erected for this purpose, and very strong cords,
of the bigness of packthread, were fastened by
hooks to many bandages, which the workmen
had girt round my neck, my hands, my body,
and my legs. Nine hundred of the strongest
men were employed to draw up these cords by
many pulleys fastened on the poles; and thus
in less than three hours I was raised and slung
into the engine, and there tied fast.
All this I was told; for, while the whole
operation was performing, I lay in a profound
sleep, by the force of that soporiferous medi-
cine infused into my liquor. Fifteen hundred
of the emperor's largest horses, each about four
inches and a half high, were employed to draw
me towards the metropolis, which, as I said,
was half a mile distant.
About four hours after we began our jour-
ney, I awaked, by a very ridiculous accident ;
for the carriage being stopped a while, to
adjust something that was out of order, two or
three of the young natives had the curiosity to
see how I looked, when I was asleep. They
climbed up into the engine, and advancing very
softly to my face, one of them, an officer in the
guards, put the sharp end of his half-pike a
good way up into my left nostril, which tickled
my nose like a straw, and made me sneeze vio-
lently; whereupon they stole off, unpereeived,
and it was three weeks before I knew the cause
of my awaking so suddenly.
We made a long march the remaining part
* Swift has l)con ndmlrod for the oorroctness of
his JlRures. Compart' tlu' ien^th of these men-
of-war with the height of the Lilliputians.
JONATHAN SWIFT
535
of that day, and rested at night with five hun-
dred guards on each side of me, half with
torches, and half with bows and arrows, ready
to shoot nie, if I should offer to stir. The
next morning, at sunrise, we continued our
march, and arrived within two hundred yards
of the city gates about noon. The emperor,
and all his court, came out to meet us; but
his great officers would by no means suffer his
majesty to endanger his person by mounting
on my body.
At the place where the carriage stopped there
stood an ancient temple, esteemed to be the
largest in the whole kingdom; which, having
been polluted some years before by an un-
natural murder, was, according to the zeal of
those people, looked upon as profane, and there-
fore had been applied to common use,, and all
the ornaments and furniture carried away. In
this edifice it was determined I should lodge.
The great gate, fronting to the north, was
about four feet high, and almost two feet
wide, through which I could easily creep. On
each side of the gate was a small window, not
above six inches from the ground; into that
on the left side the king 's smith conveyed four
score and eleven chains, like those that hang
to a lady's watch in Europe, and almost as
large, wliich were locked to my left leg with
six-and-thirty padlocks.
Over against this temple, on the other side
of the great highway, at twenty feet distance,
there was a turret at least five feet high. Here
the emperor ascended, with many principal
lords of his court, to have an opportunity of
viewing me, as I was told, for I could not see
them. It was reckoned that above an hundreil
thousand inhabitants came out of the town
upon the same errand; and, in spite of my
guards, I believe there could not be fewer than
ten thousand, at several times, who mounted
my body, by the help of ladders. But a proc-
lamation was soon issued, to forbid it, upon
pain of death.
When the workmen found it was impossible
for me to break loose, they cut all the strings
that bound me; whereupon I rose up, with as
melancholy a disposition as ever I had in my
life. But the noise and astonishment of the
people, at seeing me rise and walk, are not to
be expressed. The chains that held my left leg
were about two yards long, and gave me not
only the liberty of walking backwards and for-
wards in a semicircle, but. being fixed within
four inches of the gate, allowed me to creep in.
and lie at my full length in the temple.
Chapter II;
When I found myself on my feet I looked
about me, and must confess I never beheld a
more entertaining prospect. The country
around appeared like a continued garden, anil
the enclosed fields, which were generally forty
foot square, resembled so many betls of flow-
ers. These fields were intermingled with wooils
of half a stang.i and the tallest trees, as I
could judge, appeared to be seven foot high.
I viewed the town on my left hand, which
looked like the paintetl scene of a city in a
theatre. ...
The emperor was already descended from the
tower, and advancing on horseback towards
me, which had like to have cost him dear; for
the beast, though very well trained, yet wholly
unused to such a sight, which appearetl as if
a mountain moved before him, reared up on his
hinder feet. But that prince, who is an ex-
cellent horseman, kept his seat, till his attend-
ants ran in and held the bridle, while his
majesty had time to dismount.
When he alighted, he surveyed me round with
great admiration, but kept without the length
of my chain. He ordered his cooks and but-
lers, who were already prepared, to give me
victuals and drink, which they pushed forward
in a sort of vehicles upon wheels, till I could
reach them. I took these vehicles, and soon
emptied them all; twenty of them were filled
with meat, and ten with liquor; each of the
former afforded me two or three good mouth-
fuls; and I emptied the liquor of ten vessels,
which was contained in earthen vials, into one
vehicle, drinking it off at a draught; and so
I did with the rest. The empress and young
princes of the blood of both sexes, attended
by many ladies, sat at some tlistanee in their
chairs; 2 but upon the accident that happened
to the emperor 's horse, they alighted, and came
near his person, which I am now going to de-
scribe. He is taller, by almost the breadth
of my nail, than any of his court, which alone
is- enough to strike an awe into the beholders.
His features are strong and masculine, with an
Austrian lip and arched nose, his complexion
olive, his countenance erect, his body and limbs
well proportioned, all his motions graceful, and
his deportment majestic. He was then past his
prime, being twenty-eight years and three-
quarters old, of which he had reigned about
seven in great felicity, and generally victorious.
1 half a rood (one-eighth of an acre)
2 sedan-chairs
336
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CEXTrRY
For the better conveuience of beholding him,
1 lay ou my side, so that my face was parallel i
to his, and he stood but three yards off. How-
ever, I have had him since many times in my
hand, and therefore cannot be deceived in the
description.
His dress was very plain and simple, and the
fashion of it between the Asiatic and the
European; but he had on his head a light hel-
met of gold, adorned with jewels, and a plume
on the crest. He held his sword drawn in
his hand, to defend himself, if I should hap-
pen to break loose; it was almost three inches
long; the hilt and scabbard were gold, en-
riched with diamonds. His voice was shrill,
but very clear and articulate, and I could dis-
tinctly hear it, when I stood up.
The ladies and courtiers were all most mag-
nificently clad; so that the spot they stood
upon seemed to resemble a petticoat spread
on the ground, embroidered with figures of gold
and silver. His imperial majesty spoke often
to me, and I returned answers, but neither of
us could understand a syllable. There were
several of his priests and lawyers present (as
I conjectured by their habits-), who were com-
manded to address themselves to me; and 1
spoke to them in as many languages as I had
the least smattering of, which were. High and
Low Dutch, Latin, French, Spanish, Italian,
and Lingua Franca;* but all to no purpose.
After about two hours the court retired, and
1 was left with a strong guard, to prevent the
impertinence, and probably the malice of the
rabble, who were very impatient to crowd about
me as near as they durst; and some of them
had the impudence to shoot their arrows at me,
as I sat on the ground by the door of my
house, whereof one very narrowly missed my
left eye. But the colonel ordered six of the
ring-leaders to be seized, and thought no pun-
ishment so proper as to deliver them bound
into my hands; which some of his soldiers ac-
cordingly did, pushing them forwards with the
butt-ends of their pikes into my reach. I took
them all in my right hand, put five of them
into my coat-pocket; and as to the sixth, 1
made a countenance as if I would eat him
alive. The poor man sfpialled terribly, and the
colonel and his oflicers were in much pain, espe-
cially when they saw me take out my penknife;
but I soon put them out of fear, for, looking
mildly, and immediately cutting the strings ho
was bound with, 1 set him gently on the
3 (■OKtiItnOR
4 A rommorclal Jargon oompoimdod thon chiefly
of Italian and Orlrnlnl lanKiinKPB.
ground, and away he ran. I treated the rest
in the same manner, taking them one by one
out of my pocket; and 1 observed both the
soldiers and people were highly obliged at this
mark of my clemency, wliich was represeute<i
very much to my advantage at court.
Towards night, 1 got with some dif3dculty
into my house, where I lay on the ground, and
continued to do so about a fortnight, during
which time the emperor gave orders to have
a bed prepared for me. Six hundred beds, of
the common measure, were brought in carriages
and worked up in my house; an hundreil and
fifty of their beds, sewn together, made up tlie
breadth and length; and these were four
ilouble, which, however, kept me but very in-
differently from the hardness of the floor, that
was of smooth stone. By the same computa-
tion, they provided me with sheets, blankets,
and coverlets, tolerable enough for one who
had been so long inured to hardships as I.
As the news of my arrival spread through
the kingdom, it brought prodigious numbers of
rich, idle, and curious people to see me; so
that the villages were almost emptied ; and
great neglect of tillage and household affairs
must have ensued, if his imperial majesty had
not i^rovided, by several proclamatious and
orders of state, against this inconveniency. He
directed that those who had already beheld
me should return home, and not presume to
come within fifty yards of my house without
license from court; whereby the secretaries of
state got considerable fees.
In the meantime, the emperor held frequent
councils, to debate what course should be taken
with me; and I was afterwards assured by a
|)articular friend, a person of great quality,
who was looked upon to be as much in the
secret as any, that the court was untler many
difficulties concerning me. They ap|)rehended
my breaking loose; that my diet would be very
expensive, and might cause a famine. Some-
times they determined to starve me, or at least
to shoot me in the face and hands with poisoned
arrows, which would soon dispatch me: but
again they considered that the stench of so
large a carcase might produce a plague in the
metropolis, and probably spread through the
whole kingdom.
In the midst of these consultations, several
officers of the army went to the door of the
great council-chamber, and two of them being
admitted, gave an account of my behaviour to
the six criminals above-mentioned, which made
so favourable an impression in the breast of
JONATHAN SWIFT
337
his majesty and the whole board in my bdialf,
that an imperial commission was issued out,
obliging all the viUages nine hunilred yards
round the city to deliver in, every morning, six
beeves, forty sheep, and other victuals, for my
sustenance; together with a proportionable
ijuantity ot bread and wine, and other liquors;
for the due payment of which his majesty gave
assignments upon his treasury. For this prince
Jives chiefly upon his own demesnes, seldom,
except upon great occasions, raising any sub-
sidies upon his subjects, who are bound to at-
tend him in his wars at their own expense. An
establishment was also made of six hundred
persons, to be my domestics, who had board-
wages allowed for their maintenance, and tents
built for them very conveniently on each side
of my door.
It was likewise ordered that three hundred
tailors should make me a suit of clothes, after
the fashion of the country; that six of Ms
majesty "s greatest scholars should be employed
to instruct me in their language; and lastly,
that the emperor's horses, and those of the
nobility and troops of guards, should be fre-
quently exerciseil in my sight, to accustom
themselves to me.
All these orders were duly put in execution,
and in about three weeks I made a great
progress in learning their language: during
which time the emperor frequently honoured
me with his visits, and was pleased to assist
my masters in teaching me. AVe began already
to converse together in some sort; and the
first words I learnt were to express my desire
that he would please to give me liberty, which
I every day repeated on my knees. His answer,
as I could apprehend it, was. that this must
be a work of time, not to be thought on with-
out the advice of his council, and that first I
must Juntos lelmin pesso deKinar Ion emitoso;
that is, swear a peace with him and his king-
dom; however, that I should be used with all
kindness; and he advised me to acquire, by my
patience and discreet behaviour, the good
opinion of himself and his subjects.
He desiretl I would not take it ill if he gave
orders to certain proper oflScers to search me;
for probably I might carry about me several
■weapons which must neetls be dangerous things,
if they answered the bulk of so prodigious a
person. I said his majesty should be satisfied,
for I was ready to strip myself an<l turn up my
pockets before him. This I delivere<l, part in
words, and part in signs.
He replied, that by the laws of the kingdom
I must be searched by two of his oflScers; that
he knew this could not be done without my
consent and assistance; that he had so good an
opinion of my generosity and justice, as to
trust their persons in my hands; that what-
ever they took from me should be returned
when I left the country, or paid for at the rate
which I should set upon them. I took up the
two oflficers in my hands, put them first into
my coat-pockets, and then into every other
pocket about me, except my two fobs and
another secret pocket I had no mind should be
searched, wherein I had some little necessaries
that were of no consequence to any but myself.
In one of my fobs there was a silver watch,
and in the other a small quantity of gold in
a purse.
These gentlemen having pen, ink, and paper
about them, made an exact inventory of every-
thing they saw; and, when they had done, de-
sired I would set them down, that they might
deliver it to the emperor. This inventory I
afterwards translated into English, and is
word for word as follows: *
Imprimis,^ In the right coat-pocket of the
great man-mountain (for so I interpret the
words quinhus festrin), after the strictest
search, we found only one great piece of
coarse cloth, large enough to be a foot-cloth
for your majesty's chief room of state. In the
left pocket we saw a huge silver chest, with a
cover of the same metal, which we the search-
ers were not able to lift. We desiretl it should
J>e opened, and one of us stepping into it,
found himself up to the mid-leg in a sort of
dust, some part whereof flying up to our faces,
set us both a sneezing for several times to-
gether. In his right waistcoat pocket we found
a prodigious bundle of white thin substances
folded one over another, about the bigness of
three men, tied with a strong cable, and marketl
with black figures; which we humbly conceive
to be writings, every letter almost half as large
as the palm of our hands. In the left, there
was a sort of engine, from the back of which
were extended twenty long poles, resembling
the palisadoes before your majesty's court;
wherewith we conjecture the man-mountain
combs his head, for we did not always trouble
him with questions, because we found it a great
i diflfifultv to make him understand us. In the
-. first
' This report mav possibly satirize the reports of
the committees of secrecy on the Jacobite
plots. - - ■ -
338
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
large pocket on the right side of his middle
cover (so I translate the word ranfii-lo, by
which they meant my breeches), we saw a hol-
low pillar of iron, about the length of a man,
fastened to a strong piece of timber, larger
than the pillar; and upon one side of the pillar
were huge pieces of iron sticking out, cut into
strange figures, which we know not what to
make of. In the left pocket, another engine of
the same kind. In the smaller pocket on the
right side were several round flat pieces of
white and red metal, of different bulk; some
of the white, which seemed to be silver, were
so large and heavy that my comrade and I
could hardly lift them. In the left pocket were
two black pillars irregularly shaped; we could
not without difficulty reach the top of them,
as we stood at the bottom of his pocket. One
of them was covered, and seemed all of a
piece; but at the upper end of the other there
appeared a white round substance, about twice
the bigness of our heads. Within each of these
was enclosed a prodigious plate of steel, which,
by our orders, we obliged him to show us, be-
cause we apprehended they might be dangerous
engines. He took them out of their cases, and
told us that in his own country his practice
was to shave his beard with one of these, and
to cut his meat with the other. There were
two pockets which we could not enter: these
he called his fobs. Out of the right fob hung
a great silver chain, with a wonderful kind of
engine at the bottom. We directed him to
draw out whatever was fastened to that chain,
which appeared to be a globe, half silver, and
half of some transparent metal; for on the
transparent side we saw certain strange figures,
circularly drawn, and thought we could touch
them till we found our fingers stopped by that
lucid substance. He put this engine to our
cars, which made an incessant noise, like that
of a water-mill; and we conjecture it is either
some unknown animal, or the god that he wor-
ships; but we are more inclined to the latter
opinion, because he assured us (if we under-
stood him right, for he expressed himself verj'
imperfectly), that he seldom did anything with-
out consulting it. He called it his oracle, and
said it pointed out the time for every action
of his life. From the left fob he took out a
net almost large enough for a fisherman, but
contrived to open and shut like a purse, and
served him for the same use; we found therein
several massy pieces of yellow metal, which,
if they be real gold, must be of immense value.
Having thus, in obedience to your majesty's
commands, diligently searched all his pockets,
we observed a girdle about his waist, made of
the hide of some prodigious animal, from
which, on the left side, hung a sword of the
length of five men; and on the right, a bag
or pouch, divided into two cells, each cell capa-
ble of holding three of your majesty's sub-
jects. In one of these cells were several globes,
or balls, of a most ponderous metal, about the
bigness of our heads, and required a strong
hand to lift them; the other cell contained a
heap of certain black grains, but of no great
bulk or weight, for we could hold about fifty
of them in the palms of our hands.
This is an exact inventory of what we found
about the body of the man-mountain, who used
us with great civility and due respect to your
majesty's commission. Signed and sealed, on
the fourth day of the eighty-ninth moon of your
majesty's auspicious reign.
Clefrex Freloc,
Mars I Freloc.
When this inventory was read over to the
emperor, he directed me, although in very gen-
tle terms, to deliver up the several particulars.
He first called for my scimitar, which I took
out, scabbard and all. In the meantime, he
ordered three thousand of his choicest troops
(who then attended him) to surround me at a
distance, with their bows and arrows just
ready to discharge; but I did not observe it,
for mine eyes were wholly fixed upon his
majesty. He then desired me to draw my
scimitar, which, although it had got some rust
by the sea-water, was in most parts exceeding
bright. I did so, and immediately all the troops
gave a shout between terror and surprise; for
the sun shone clear, and the reflection dazzled
their eyes, as I waved the scimitar to and fro
in my hand. His majesty, who is a most mag-
nanimous prince, was less daunted than I could
expect; he ordered me to return it into the
scabbard and east it on the ground as gently
as I could, about six foot from the end of
my chain.
The next tiling he demanded was one of the
hollow iron pillars, by which he meant ray
pocket-pistols. I drew it out, and at his de-
sire, as well as I could, expressed to him the
use of it; and charging it only with powder,
which, by the closeness of my pouch, happened
to escape wetting in the sea (an inconvenience
against which all prudent mariners take special
care to provide), I first cautioned the em-
JONATHAN SWIFT
339
peror not to be afraid, and then I let it off in
the air.
The astonishment here was much greater
than at the sight of my scimitar. Hundreds
fell down as if they had been struck dead; and
even the emperor, although he stood his
ground, could not recover himself in some
time.
I delivered up both my pistols, in the same
manner as I had done my scimitar, and then my
pouch of powder and bullets, begging him that
the former might be kept from the fire, for it
would kindle with the smallest spark, and blow
up his imperial palace into the air.
1 likewise delivered up my watch, which the
emperor was very curious to see, and com-
manded two of his tallest yeomen of the guards
to bear it on a pole upon their shoulders, as
draymen in England do a barrel of ale. He
was amazed at the continual noise it made and
the motion of the minute-hand, which he could
easily discern (for their sight is much more
acute than ours), and asked the opinions of his
learned men about it, which were various and
remote, as the reader may well imagine without
my repeating; although, indeed, I could not
very perfectly understand them.
I then gave up my silver and copper money,
my purse, with nine large pieces of gold, and
some smaller ones; my knife and razor, my
comb and silver snuff-box, my handkerchief
and journal-book. My scimitar, pistols, and
pouch were conveyed in carriages to his
majesty's stores; but the rest of my goods
were returned to me.
I had, as I before observed, one private
pocket, which escaped their search, wherein
there was a pair of spectacles (which I some-
times use for the weakness of mine eyes), a
pocket perspective,^ and several other little con-
veniences; which, being of no consequence to
the emperor, I did not think myself bound in
honour to discover; and I apprehended they
might be lost or spoiled if I ventured them out
of my possession.
Chapter III
My gentleness and good behaviour had gainetl
so far on the emperor and his court, and indeed
upon the army and people in. general, that I
began to conceive hopes of getting my liberty
in a short time. I took all possible methods
to cultivate this favourable disposition. The
natives came by degrees to be less apprehensive
6 telescope
of any danger from me. I would sometimes lie
down, and let five or six of them dance on my
hand; and at last the boys and girls would
venture to come and play at hide-and-seek in
my hair. I had now made a good progress in
understanding and speaking their language.
The emperor had a mind, one day, to enter-
tain me with several of the country shows,
wherein they exceed all nations I have known,
both for dexterity and magnificence. I was
diverted with none so much as that of the rope-
dancers, performed upon a slender white
thread, extended about two feet, and twelve
inches from the ground. Upon which I shall
desire liberty, with the reader's patience, to
enlarge a little.
This diversion is only practised by those per-
sons who are candidates for great employments
and high favour at court. They are trained in
this art from their youth, and are not always of
noble birth or liberal education. When a great
office is vacant, either by death or disgrace
(which often happens), five or six of those
candidates petition the emperor to entertain his
majesty and the court with a dance on the
rope; and whoever jumps the highest, without
falling, succeeds in the office. Very often the
chief ministers themselves are commanded to
show their skill, and to convince the emperor
that they have not lost their faculty. Flim-
nap,* the treasurer, is allowed to cut a caper
on the strait rope, at least an inch higher than
any other lord in the whole empire. I have
seen him do the summerset several times to-
gether upon a trencher, fixed on a rope, which
is no thicker than a common packthread in
England. My friend Keldresal, principal sec-
retary for private affairs, is, in my opinion, if
I am not partial, the second after the treas-
urer; the rest of the great officers are much
upon a par.
These diversions are often attended with
fatal accidents, whereof great numbers are on
record. I myself have seen two or three can-
didates break a limb. But the danger is much
greater when the ministers themselves are com-
manded to show their dexterity! for, by con-
tending to excel themselves and their fellows,
they strain so far that there is hardly one of
them who hath not received a fall, and some of
them two or three. I was assured that a year
or two before my arrival, Flimnap would have
* Flimnap stands for Sir Robert Walpolc, at that
time Lord of the Treasury, who, when Swift
was a Whig — before 1710 — had failed to aid
Swift to gain promotion.
340
EAKLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
infallibly brokef his neck if one of the king's
cughions, that accidontally lay on the ground,
had not weakened the force of his fall.t
There is likewise another diversion, which
is only shown before the emperor and empress
and first minister, upon particular occasions.
The emperor lays on the table three fine silken
tlireads, of six inches long; one is purple, the
other yellow, and the third Avhite.§ Tliese
threads are proposed as prizes for those per-
sons whom the emperor hath a mind to dis-
tinguish by a peculiar mark of his favour. The
ceremony is performed in his majesty's great
chamber of state, Avhore the candidates are to
undergo a trial of dexterity very different from
the former, and such as 1 have not observed the
least resemblance of in any other country of
the old or the new world.
The emperor holds a stick in his hands, both
ends parallel to the horizon, while the candi-
dates, advancing one by one, sometimes leap
over the stick, sometimes creep under it back-
wards and forwards several times, according as
the stick is advanced or depressed. Sometimes
the emperor holds one end of the stick, and his
first minister the other; sometimes the minister
has it entirely to himself. Whoever performs
his part with most agility, and holds out the
longest in leaping and creeping, is rewarded
with the purple coloured silk; the yellow is
given to the next, and the white to the third,
which they all wear girt twice round about the
middle; and you see few great persons about
this court who are not adorned with one of
these girdles.
The horses of the army, and those of the
royal stables, having been daily led before me,
were no longer shy, but would come up to my
very feet without starting. The riders would
leap them over my hand as I held it on the
ground; and one of the emperor's huntsmen,
upon a large courser, took my foot, shoe and
all, which was indeed a prodigious leap.
I had the good fortune to divert the em-
peror one day after a very extraordinary man-
ner. I desired he would order several sticks of
t The preterit form for Jlio participle was freely
used In the clKliteentli centurj. Nole also
Iwlow "these kind of feal«."
i In 1717 Walpoie was dismissed from office, l)ut
was probably saved from disastrous conse-
quences through the influence of the Duchess
of Kendal, favorite of <;eorKe I.
X In some editions these eolors are given as blue,
red, and green, the colors of the badges of the
Orders of the Oarter. Bath, and Thistle. The
second named order, says Walpole's biographer.
William Coxe, was revived by Walpoie as "a
cheap means of gratifying his political ad-
herents."
two feet high, and the thickness of an ordinary
cane, to be brought me; whereupon his majesty
commanded the master of his woods to give
directions accordingly; and the next morning
six woodmen arrived with as many carriages,
drawn by eight horses to each.
I took nine of these sticks, and fixing them
firmly in the ground in a quadrangular figure,
two foot and a half square, I took four other
sticks and tied them parallel at each corner,
about two foot from the ground; then I
fastened my handkerchief to the nine sticks
that stood erect, and extended it on all sides,
till it was as tight as the top of a drum ; and
the four parallel sticks, rising about five inches
higher than the handkerchief, served as ledges
on each side.
When I had finished my work, I desired the
emperor to let a troop of his best horse,
twenty-four in number, come and exercise upon
this plain. His majesty approved of the pro-
posal, and 1 took them up one by one in my
hands, ready mounted and armed, with the
proper oflBcers to exercise them. As soon as
they got into order, they divided into two par-
ties, performed mock skirmishes, discharged
blunt arrows, drew their swords, fled and pur-
sued, attacked and retired, and, in short, dis-
covered the best military discipline I ever be-
held. The parallel sticks secured them and
their horses from falling over the stage: and
the emperor was so much delighted that he
ordered this entertainment to be repeated sev-
eral days, and once was pleased to be lifted up
and give the word of command ; and, with
great difficulty, persuaded even the empress her-
self to let me hold her in her close chair within
two yards of the stage, from whence she was
able to take a full view of the whole perform-
ance.
It was my good fortune that no ill accident
happened in these entertainments; only once
a fiery horse, that belonged to one of the cap-
tains, pawing with his hoof, struck a hole in
my handkerchief, and his foot slipping, he
overthrew his rider and himself; but I im-
mediately relieved them both, and covering the
hole with one hand, 1 set down the troop witli
the other, in the same manner as I took them
up. The horse that fell was strained in the
left shouMer, but the rider got no hurt, and
I repaired my handkerchief as well as I could;
however, 1 would not trust to the strength of
it any more in such dangerous enterprises.
About two or three days before I was set at
liberty, as I was entertaining the court with
JONATHAN SWIFT
Ul
Uiese kiud of feats, there arrived an express
to inform his majesty that some of his sub-
jects riding near the place where I was iirst
taken up, had seen a great black substance
lying on the ground, very oddly shaped, extend-
ing its edges round as wide as his majesty's
bedchamber, and rising up in the middle as
high as a man; that it was no living creature,
as they at first apprehended, for it lay on the
grass without motion ; and some of them had
walked round it several times; that, by mount-
ing upon each other's shoulders, they had got
to the top, which was Hat and even, and, stamp-
ing upon it, they found it was hollow Avithin;
that they humbly conceived it might be some-
thing belonging to the man-mountain; and if
his majesty pleased, they would undertake to
bring it with only jve horses.
1 presently knew what they meant, and was
glad at heart to receive this intelligence. It
seems, upon my first reaching the shore after
our shipwreck, I was in such confusion that,
before I came to the place where I went to
sleep, my hat, which I had fastened with a
string to my head while I was rowing, and
had stuck on all the time I was swimming,
fell off after I came to land; the string, as
I conjecture, breaking by some accident which
I never observed, but thought my hat had been
lost at sea. I entreated his imperial majesty
to give orders it might be brought to me as
soon as possible, describing to him the use
and nature of it ; and the next day the
wagoners arrived with it, but not in a very
good condition; they had bored two holes in
the brim, within an inch and a half of the
edge, and fastened two hooks in the holes;
these hooks were tied by a long cord to the
harness, and thus my hat was dragged along
for above half an English mile; but the ground
in that country being extremely smooth and
level, it received less damage than I expected.
Two days after this adventure, the emperor,
having ordered that part of the army which
quarters in and about his metropolis to be in
readiness, took a fancy of diverting himself
in a very singular manner.* He desired I
would stand like a colossus, with my legs as
far asunder as I conveniently could. He then
commanded his general (who was an old, ex-
perienced leader and a great patron of mine)
to draw up the troops in close order and march
them under me; the foot by twenty-four in a
breast and the horse by sixteen, with drums
beating, colours flying, and pikes advanced.
• George I. was espcclallj- fond of reviews.
This body consisted of three thousand foot and
a thousand horse
I had sent so many memorials and petitions
for my liberty, that his majesty at length men-
tioned the matter, first in the cabinet, and
then in a full council ; where it was opposed
by none, except Skyresh Bolgolam who was
pleased, without any provocation, to be my
mortal enemy. But it was carried against him
by the Avhole board, and confirmed by the em-
peror. That minister was galbet, or admiral
of the realm, very much in his master's confi-
dence, and a person well versed in affairs, but
of a morose and sour complexion. However,
he was at length persuaded to comply; but
prevailed that the articles and conditions upon
which I should be set free, and to which I must
swear, should be drawn up by himself.
These articles were brought to . me by
Skyresh Bolgolam in person, attended by two
under-secretaries, and several persons of dis-
tinction. After they were read, I was de-
manded to swear to the performance of them,
first in the manner of my own country, and
afterwards in the method prescribed by their
laws ; which was, to hold my right foot in my
left hand, and to place the middle finger of my
right hand on the crown of my head, and ray
thumb on the tip of my right ear.
But because the reader may be curious to
have some idea of the style and manner of
expression peculiar to that people, as well as
to know the articles upon which I recovered
my liberty, I have made a translation of the
whole instrument, word for word, as near as
I was able, which I here offer to the public.
Golbasto Momaren Evlaine Gurdilo She fin
Mully Ully Gue, most mighty Emperor of
Lilliput, delight and terror of the universe,
whose dominions extend five thousand blustrugs
(about twelve miles in circumference) to the
extremities of the globe; monarch of all mon-
archs, taller than the sons of men ; whose feet
press down to the center, and whose head
strikes against the sun; at whose nod the
princes of the earth shake their knees ; pleasant
as the spring, comfortable as the summer,
fruitful as autumn, dreadful as winter. His
most sublime Majesty proposeth to the ilan-
mountain, lately arrived to our celestial do-
minions, the following articles, which by a
solemn oath he shall be obliged to perform.
! First. The Man-mountain shall not depart
from our dominions without our license under
our great seal.
2d. He shall not presume to come into our
343
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
metropolis without our express order; at which
time the inhabitants shall have two hours'
warning to keep within their doors.
3d. The said Man-mountain shall confine his
walks to our principal high roads, and not offer
to walk or lie down in a meadow or field of
corn.
4th. As he walks the said roads, he shall
take the utmost care not to trample upon the
bodies of any of our loving subjects, their
horses or carriages, nor take any of our said
subjects into his hands without their own con-
sent.
5th. If an express requires extraordinary
dispatch, the Man-mountain shall be obliged
to carry in his pocket the messenger and horse
a six-days' journey once in every moon, and
return the said messenger back (if so required)
safe to our imperial presence.
6th. He shall be our ally against our enemies
in the island of Blefuscu, and do his utmost
to destroy their fleet, which is now preparing
to invade us.
7th. That the said Man-mountain shall at
his times of leisure be aiding and assisting to
our workmen, in helping to raise certain great
stones towards covering the wall of the prin-
cipal park, and other our royal buildings.
8th. That the said Man-mountain shall, in
two moons' time, deliver in an exact survey
of the circumference of our dominions, by a
computation of his own paces round the coast.
Lastly. That upon his solemn oath to ob-
serve all the above articles, the said Man-
mountain shall have a daily allowance of meat
and drink suflScient for the support of 1724
of our subjects, with free access to our royal
person, and other marks of our favour. Given
at our palace at Belfalorac the twelfth day of
the ninety-first moon of our reign.
I swore and subscribed to these articles with
great cheerfulnesi and content, although some
of them were not as honourable as I could have
wished; which proceeded wholly from the
malice of Skyresh Bolgolam the high admiral:
whereupon my chains were immediately un-
locked, and I was at full liberty; the Emperor
himself in person did me the honour to be by at
the whole ceremony. I made my acknowledge-
ments by prostrating myself at his majesty's
feet: but he commanded me to rise; and after
many gracious expressions, which to avoid the
censure of vanity, I shall not repeat, he added,
that he hoped I should prove a useful servant,
and well deserve all the favours he had already
conferred upon me, or might do for the future.
The reader may please to observe, that in
the last article for the recovery of my liberty
the emperor stipulates to allow me a quantity
of meat and drink suflScient for the support of
1724 Lilliputiani. Some time after, asking a
friend at court how they came to fix on that de-
termined number, he told me that his majesty's
mathematicians having taken the height of my
body by the help of a quadrant, and finding it
to exceed theirs in the proportion of twelve to
one, they concluded, from the similarity of their
bodies, that mine must contain at least 1724
of theirs, and consequently would require as
much food as was necessary to support that
number of Lilliputians. By which the reader
may conceive an idea of the ingenuity of that
people, as well as the prudent and exact econ-
omy of so great a prince.
JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748)
From THE SEASONS
Spring
Come, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come;
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veiled in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.
O Hertford, fitted or to shine in courts* 5
With unaffected grace, or walk the plain
With innocence and meditation joined
In soft assemblage, listen to my song.
Which thy own season paints; when nature all
Is blooming, and benevolent, like thee. 10
And see where surly Winter passes off,
Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts:
His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill,
The shattered forest, and the ravaged vale;
While softer gales succeed, at whose kind
touch, 15
Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost,
The mountains lift their green heads to the
sky.
As yet the trembling year is unconfirmed,
And winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
* The freshness of Thomson's poetry, derived from
direct contact with nature, was recojinlzcd as
early as 1756 by Joseph Warton, who wrote :
"His descriptions have a distinctness and
truth which are utterly wanting to those of
poets who have only copied from each other
and have never looked abroad on the objects
themselves." Of the four sections of this
poem, Spring was published last. In 1728; the
Countess of Hertford, to whom It Is dedicated,
was a patroness of poetry whose Interest In
the author bad been aroused by the publica-
tion of the preceding parts.
JAMES THOMSON
343
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving
sleets 20
Deform the day delightless: so that scarce
The bittern knows his time, with bill ingulfed,
To shake the sounding marsh; or from the
shore
The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath.
And sing their wild notes to the listening
waste. 25
At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun,i
And the bright Bull receives him. Then no
more
The expansive atmosphere is cramped with
cold ;
But, full of life and vivifying soul.
Lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads
them thin, 30
Fleecy, and white, o 'er all-surrounding Heaven.
Forth fly the tepid airs: and unconfined,
Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays.
Joyous the impatient husbandman perceives
Kelenting Nature, and his lusty steers 35
Drives from their stalls, to where the well used
plough
Lies in the furrow, loosened from the frost.
There, unrefusing, to the harnessed yoke
They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil,
Cheered by the simple song and soaring lark. 40
Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share2
The Master leans, removes the obstructing clay,
Windss the whole work, and sidelong lays the
glebe.
White, through the neighbouring fields the
sower stalks,
"With measured step; and, liberal, throws the
grain 45
Into the faithful bosom of the ground ;
The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the s-^ene.
Be gracious. Heaven I for now laborious man
Has done his part. Ye fostering breezes, blow!
Ye softening dews, ye tender showers, de-
scend ! 50
And temper all, thou world-reviving sun.
Into the perfect year! Nor ye who live
In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride.
Think these last themes unworthy of your ear:
Such themes as these the rural Maro* sung 55
To wide-imperial Kome, in the full height
Of elegance and taste, by Greece refined.
In ancient times the sacred plough employed
The kings and awful fathers of mankind:
And some,5 with whom compared your insect
tribes 60
1 Passing from Aries,
the first sign of ttie
zodiac, to Taurus,
the second (April
20).
2 plowshare
3 directs
4 Virgil, in his Oeorgica.
5 e. g., Cincinnatus.
Are but the beings of a summer's day,
Have held the scale of empire, ruled the storm
Of mighty war; then, with victorious hand,
Disdaining little delicacies, seized
The plough, and, greatly independent, scorned
All the vile stores corruption can bestow. 66
As rising from the vegetable world 570
My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend.
My panting Muse; and hark, how loud the
woods
Invite you forth in all your gayest trim.
Lend me your song, ye nightingales! oh pour
The mazy-running soul of melody 575
Into my varied verse! while I deduce.
From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings.
The symphony of spring, and touch a theme
Unknown to fame — the passion of the groves.
When first the soul of Love is sent abroad, 580
Warm through the vital air, and on the heart
Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin.
In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing;
And try again the long-forgotten strain.
At first faint-warbled. But so sooner grows 585
The soft infusion prevalent and wide.
Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows
In music unconfined. Up-springs the lark.
Shrill-voiced and loud, the messenger of morn:
Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings 590
Amid the dawning clouds, and from their
haunts
Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse
Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush
Bending with dewy moisture, o 'er the heads
Of the coy quiristerss that lodge within, 595
Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush
And wood-lark, o 'er the kind-contending throng
Superior heard, run through the sweetest
length
Of notes; when listening Philomela^ deigns
To let them joy, and purposes, in thought 600
Elate, to make her night excel their day.
The black-bird whistles from the thorny brake;
The mellow bull-finch answers from the grove:
Nor are the linnets, o 'er the flowering furze 604
Poured outs profusely, silent. Joined to these,
Innumerouss songsters, in the freshening shade
Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix
Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw.
And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone.
Aid the full concert: while the stock-dove
breathes 610
A melancholy murmur through the whole.
'Tis Love creates their melody, and all
This waste of music is the voice of Love.
6 choristers
7 the nightingale
8 spread about
9 innumerable
344
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
Ebom THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE*
1
O mortal man, who livest here by toil,
Do not complain of this thy hard estate;
That like an emmet thou must ever moiU
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date; 2
And, certes, there is for it reason great;
Eor, though sometimes it makes thee weep
and wail,
And curse thy star, and early drudge and late;
Withouten that would come a heavier bale.
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale.
In lowly dale, fast by a river's side
With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,
Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found.
It was, 1 ween, a lovely spot of ground;
And there a season atween June and May,
Half prankts with spring, with summer half
imbrowned,
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say,
No living wight could work, ne cared eveu for
play.
3
Was nought around but images of rest:
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns be-
tween ;
And flowery beds, that slumbrous influence
kest,*
From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant
green.
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets
played.
And hurled everywhere their waters sheen;
That, as they bickered through the sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling
murmur made.
4
Joined to the prattle of the purling rills,
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills.
And vacant j shepherds piping in the dale:
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain« amid the forest deep.
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;
1 labor * cast
2 Oeneais 111., 10. b carp-free
a adorned " mourn
• "This poem being writ In the uiunner of Spenser,
the obsolete words, and the simplicity of dic-
tion In some of the lines, which Iwrders on
the ludicrous, were necessary to make the Imi-
tation more perfect." (Thomson's note.) The
Influence of the poem in turn upon Tennyson's
The Lotot-Eatera Is also to be obBcrved.
And still a coil^ the grasshopper did keep:
Y'et all the sounds yblent^ inclinfed all to
sleep.
5
Full in the passage of the vale, above,
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood;
Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to
move.
As Idless9 fancied in her dreaming mood:
And up the hills, on either side, a wood
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro.
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood ;
And where this valley winded out below.
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely
heard, to flow.
A pleasing land of drowsy -hedio it was:
Of dreams that wave before the half -shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
Forever flushing round a summer-sky.
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast.
And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh;
But whate'er smackt of noyance, or unrest,
Was far, far off expelled from this delicious
nest.
7
The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease,
Where Indolence (for so the wizard hightu)
Close-hid his castle mid embowering trees.
That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright,
xVnd made a kind of checkered day and night.
Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate,
Beneath .a spacious palm, the wicked wight
Was placed; and to his lute, of cruel fate
And labour harsh, complained, lamenting
man's estate.
8
Thither continual pilgrims crowded still,
I>om all the roads of earth that pass there by :
For, as they chanced to breathe on neighbour-
ing hill.
The freshness of this valley smote their eye,
And drew them ever and anon more nigh ;
Till clustering round the enchanter false they
hung,
Ymolteni2 with his syren melody;
While o'er the enfeebling lute his hand he
flung,
And to the trembling chords these temptin-?
Terses sung:
' u noise.
8 blended
B idleness
a etir
10 drowsiness
11 was niiiiiirt
!•-• nu>lt»'(l
JAMES THOMSON
345
"Beholil! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold!
See all but man with unearned pleasure gay :
See her bright robes the butterfly unfold,
Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May!
What youthful bride can equal her array?
"Who can with her for easy pleasure vie I
From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray,
I->om flower to flower on balmy gales to fly,
Is all slie has to do l)eneath the radiant sky.
10
"Behold the merry minstrels of the morn.
The swarming songsters of the careless grove;
Ten thousand throats that, from the flowering
thorn,
Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love.
Such grateful kindly raptures them emove!
They neither plough, nor sow; ne, fit for flail,
E'er to the barn the nodding sheaves they
drove ;
Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale,
Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the
vale.
11
"Outcast of Nature, man! the wretched thrall
Of bitter-dropping sweat, of sweltryis pain.
Of cares that eat away thy heart with gall,
And of the vices, an inhuman train.
That all proceed from savage thirst of gain :
For when hard-hearted Interest first began
To poison earth, Astrseai* left the plain;
Guile, Violence, and Murder, seized on man,
And, for soft milky streams, with blood the
rivers ran.
12
"Come, ye who still the cumbrous load of life
. Push hard up-hill; but as the farthest steep
You trust to gain, and put an end to strife,
Down thunders back the stone with mighty
sweep.
And hurls your labours to the valley deep.
Forever vain: come, and, withouten fee,
I in oblivion will your sorrows steep,
Your cares, your toils; will steep you in a sea
Of full delight: O come, ye weary wights,
to me ! "
13 sultry . .. , .. ,j
14 The goddess of justice, who in the golden age
lived among men.
BULE, BEIT ANN I A
Fko^i the Masque of "Alfred."
1
When Britain first, at Heaven 's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land.
And guardian angels sang this strain:
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves.
The nations not so blest as thee,
Must in their turns to tyrants fall,
Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves.
Still more majestic shalt thou rise.
More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blast that tears the skies
Serves but to root thy native oak.
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame.
But work their woe and thy renown.
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves.
To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine.
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves.
6
The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair!
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves.
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759)
A SONG FROM SHAKESPEARE'S
CYMBELINE*
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hindsi shall bring
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
. And rifle all the breathing spring.
2
No wailing ghost shall dare appear,
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads aasemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
3
No withered witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green.
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
4
The redbreast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers.
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
5
"When howling winds, and beating rain.
In tempests shake the sylvan cell,
1 rustics, peasants
« This song, which flows almost like an Improvi-
sation, Collins constructed from the scene in
Ci/mbeliiie IV. ii. 215-229, in which Gulderiiis
and Arviragus speak over the body of tlieir
sister Imogen, wlio is disguised as Fldele and
whom they suppose to be dead :
Gut. Why, he but sleeps :
If he be gone, he"ll make his grave a bed :
With female fairies will his tomb be haunted,
And worms will not come to thee.
Arv. With fairest flowers
Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fldele,
I'll sweeten thy sad grave : thou shalt not
lack
The flower that's like thy face, pale prim-
rose, nor
The azured harebell, like thy veins, no, nor
Tlie leaf of egliintlne, wliom not to slander.
Out-sweetened not thy breath: the ruddtu-k
would.
With charitable bill, . . . bring thee all
this:
Yea, and fnrr'd moss besides, when flowers
are none.
To winter-ground thy corse.
Or midst the chase on every plain.
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.
6
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed:
Beloved, till life could charm no more;
And mourned, till Pity's self be dead.
ODEt
1
How sleep the brave who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold.
Returns to deck their hallowed mold.
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
2
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!
ODE TO EVENING J
1
If ought of oaten stop,2 or pastoral song,
May hope, diaste Eve, to sootlie thy modest ear.
Like thy own solemn springs.
Thy springs and dying gales,
2
O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired
sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede^ ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:
2 musical pipe a embroidery
t "Written." says Collins. "In the beginning of Ihe
year 1740." The British troops had lately
suffered losses in the War of the Austrian
Succession, e. g., at Fontenoy In 174r>, and
Falkirk, .lanuary, 1740.
X "Although less popular than The Denertnl Vil-
laf/r and (Jray's Elviifi. the Ode itt Kvenhui Is
yet like them in eml)odying in exquisite form
sights, sounds, and feelings of such permanent
beauty that age cannot wither them nor cus-
tom stale." — W. C. Itronson. See also Eitfi.
Lit., 21S)-220.
346
THOMAS GRAY
347
Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed
bat,
With short shrill shriek, flits by on leathern
wing.
Or where the beetle win<ls
His small but sullen horn,
4
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path.
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid composed.
To breathe some softened strain,
5
Whose numbers, stealing thro' thy darkening
vale
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!
6
For when thy folding-star* arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and elves
Who slept in flowers the day,
7
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows
with sedge.
And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier
still.
The pensive Pleasures sweet.
Prepare thy shadowy car.
8
Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety
lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed
pile
Or upland fallows grey
Reflect its last cool gleam.
9
But when chill blustering winds, or driving
rain.
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut
That from the mountain's side
Views wilds, and swelling floods,
10
And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires.
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The grailual dusky veil.
11
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he
wont,
i Marking the time for folding the flocks.
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve;
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light ;
12
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or Winter, yelling thro' the troublous air,
Aflfrights thy shrinking train.
And rudely rends thy robes;
13
So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipped
Health,
Thy gentlest influence own,
And hymn thy favourite name!
THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771)
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
CHURCHYARD
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the
sight.
And all the air a solemn stillness holds.
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
3
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's
shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering
heap.
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid.
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
5
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn.
The swallow twittering from the straw-built
shed.
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly
bed.
6
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
3 IS
LATER ETC.HTEENTH CEXTUBY
No children run to lisp their sire 's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has
broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy
stroke!
8
Eet not ambition mock their useful toil.
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power.
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.i
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
10
Xor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o 'er their tomb no trophies raise,
"Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted
vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
11
Can storied urn^ or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
(an honour's voice provoke" the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?
12
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have
swayed.
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre,
13
But knowleilge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
(,'hill penury repressed their noble rage.
And froze the geniaH current of the soul.
14
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.
And waste its sweetness on the desert air,
1.5
Some village Hampden.' that with dauntless
l)rea.st
1 Subject of "awaits."
a .\ iMirlal urn. pldorl-
ally (Iccoratf'd.
» call forth
4 natural
- A Puritan leader who
resisted ChurleH I,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country 'a
blood,*
IG
Th' applause of listening senates to command.
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation '.s eyes.
17
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes eon-
fined ;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
18
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide.
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame.
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flarae.«
19
Far' from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
20
Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh.
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture
decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
21
Their name, their years, spelt by th ' unlettered
Muse,8
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e 'er. resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Xor cast one longing lingering look behind?
2.".
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Even from Ihe tomb the voice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.
1. 0.. wrlt-> fnltorlui? t i.e.. belnj? far
versos to win lavor « untaught pot-t
* lutll a cumpnratlvol.v recent time Cromwell was
veiv si'nerally rejrarrted as a man who sncrl-
liiecl evervtliing to his own Inordinate uinltl-
lion. In "tlie llrst draft of this sian/.a, Cray
had written Ihe names of Romans — t'ato,
Tuily (Cicero), and ("ai'sar.
THOMAS UHAV
34<)
24
For thee, who mindful of th ' uuhonoured dead
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance," by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
25
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
' ' Oft liave we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
26
' ' There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
27
' ' Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless
love.
28
' ' One morn I missed him on the customed hill,
Along the heath and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Xor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ;
29
"The next with dirges due in sad arraj'
Slow thro ' the church-way path we saw him
borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the
lay,
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. ' '
THE EPITAPH
! 30
Here rests his head upon ihc lap of earth
A youth to fortune and io fame unknown.
Fair science frowned not on )iis humble birth, \
And melancholy marled him for her own.
31
Large was his bounty, and his sotd sincere.
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
77.' gave to misery all he had, a tear.
He gained from Heaven {'twas all he tvished)
a friend.
32
No farther seeTc his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
9 perchance
THE PROGEESS OF POESY
A Pindaric Ode''
I. 1
Awake, .^olian lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
From Helicon's harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
The laughing flowers, that round tliem blow,
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Now tlie rich stream of music wiiuls along
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign:
Now rolling down the steep amain.
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:
The rocks, and nodding groves rebellow to the
roar.
I. 2
Oh! sovereign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing air.';.
Enchanting shell ! i the sullen cares,
And frantic passions hear thy soft control.
On Tracia 's hills the Lord of War2
Has curbed the fury of his car,
/ nd dropped his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the sceptred hand
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathere<l king"*
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie
The terror of his beak, and lightnings of hi.s
eye.
T. 3
Thee the voice, the dance, obey.
Tempered to thy warbled lay.
O 'er Idalia 's velvet-green*
1 The lyre, said to have 2 Mars
been matlc by Her- 3 .[ove's eagle
mes from a tor- 4 In Cyprus, sacred to
toise shell. Venus (Cythcrea).
» The odes of Pindar, the most renowned lyric pot-t
of ancient Greece, were mostly constructed in
symmetrical triads, each triad containing a
strophe, antistrophe. and epode, or turn,
counter-turn, and after-song. Metrically the
strophes and antistrophes all corresponded
exactly throughout, and likewise the epodcs.
Tho livelier odes were written in what was
known as the JOolian mood, in contrast to the
;;raver Dorian mood and the more tender
I.ydian measures. Gray has borrowed freely
from Pindar, even translating a portion of the
tirst I'ythlan Ode. The following is a con-
densation of Gray's notes to his own poem :
I. 1. The various sources of poetry, which
gives life and lustre to all It touches. — I. -.
Power of harmony to calm the turbulent snl-
lies of the soul. — I. 3. Power of harmony to
produce all the graces of motion in the body.
IF. 1. Poetry given to mankind to compensate
the real and imaginary ills of life. — II. 2. Kx
tensive influence of poetic genius over the
remotest and most uncivilized nations. —
II. ?>. Progress of Poetrv from fireece to
Italy, and from Italy to i:ngland. — III. 1. 2. 3.
Shakespeare. Milton, Dryden.
350
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
The rosy-crownecl Loves are seen
On Cytherea's day
With antic Sports, an.l blue-eyed Pleasures,
Frisking light in frolic measures;
Now pursuing, now retreating.
Now in circling troops they meet:
To brisk notes in cadence beating
Glance their many-twinkling feet.
Slow-melting strains their queen's approach
declare :
Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay.
With arms sublime,5 that float upon the air.
In gliding state she wins her easy way:
O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move
The bloom of young desire, and purple light of
love.
XL 1
Plan's feeble race what ills await.
Labour, and penury, the racks of pain,
Disease, and sorrow 's weeping train,
And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate!
The fonds complaint, my song, disprove,
And justify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he given in vain the heavenly iluse?
Night, and all her sickly dews.
Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry.
He gives to range the dreary sky:
Till" down the eastern cliffs afar
Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering
shafts of war.
IL 2
In climes beyond the solar road,
Where shaggy forms o 'er ice-built mountains
roam,
The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom
To cheer the shivering native's dull abode.
And oft, beneath the odorous shade
Of Chili's boundless forests laid.
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat
In loose numbers wildly sweet
Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.
Her track, where'er the goddess roves.
Glory pursue, and generous shame,
Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy
flame.
IT. 3
Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
Isles, that crow n th ' ^]gean deep,
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Mseander's amber waves
In lingering labyrinths creep,
How do your tuneful echoes languish,
Mute, but to the voice of anguish?
Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breathed around:
s uplifted
6 foolish
Every shade and hallowed fountain
Murmured deep a solemn sound:
Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour
Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
Alike they scofn the pomp of tyrant-power.
And coward vice, that revels in her chains.
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost.
They sought, Albion! next thy sea-encircled
coast.
III. 1
Far from the sun and summer-gale,
In thy green lap was nature's darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon strayed.
To him the mighty mother did unveil
Her awful face: the dauntless child
Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled.
This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year:
Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy!
This can unlock the gates of joy;
Of horror that, and thrilling fears.
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.
IIL 2.
Nor second he, that rode sublime
Upon the seraph-wings of ecstacy.
The secrets of th' abyss to spy.
He passed the flaming bounds of place and
time:
The living throne, the sapphire-blaze,^
Where angels tremble, while they gaze.
He saw; but blasted with excess of light.
Closed his eyes in endless night.
Behold, where Dry den's less presumptuous car,
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear
Two coursers of ethereal race,^
With necks in thunder elothed,o and long-
resounding pace.
III. 3
Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o 'er
Scatters from her pictured urn
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But ah! 'tis heard no more
O lyre divine, what daring spirit
Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit
Xor the pride, nor ample pinion.
That the Theban Eagleio bear
Sailing with supreme dominion
Thro' the azure deep of air:
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms, as glitter in the Muse 's ray
Wilh orient hues, unborrowed of the sun:
7 Ezekiel 1. 20
N "Meant to express the stately march and Round.
Ing enerK.v of Dryden's rhymes." (Gray).
Job xxxix, 10
10 rindar
JAMES MACPHERSON
351
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,
Beneath the good how far — but far above the
great.
"OSSIAN"
JAMES MACPHERSON
(1736-1796)
OINA-MORUL.*
As flies the inconstant sun, over Larmon's
grassy hill, so pass the tales of old, along my
soul by night! When bards are removed to
their place: when harps are hung in Selma's
hall;i then conies a voice to Ossian, and
awakes his soul! It is the voice of years that
are gone! they roll before me, with all their
deeds! I seize the tales as they pass, and pour
them forth in song. Nor a troubled stream is
the song of the king, it is like the rising of
music from Lutha of the strings. Lutha of
many strings, not silent are thy streamy rocks,
when the white hands of Malvina move upon
the harp! Light of the shadowy thoughts, that
fly across my soul, daughter of Toscar of hel-
mets, wilt thou not hear the song? We call
back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled
away !
It was in the days of the king, while yet
my locks were young, that I marked Con-
eathlin,2 on high, from ocean 's nightly wave.
My course was towards the isle of Fuarfed,
woody dweller of seas! Fingal had sent me to
the aid of Mal-orchol, king of Fuarfed wild :
for war was around him, and our fathers had
met at the feast.
In Col-coiled, I bound my sails; I sent my
sword to Mal-orchol of shells.3 He knew the
signal of Albion, and his joy arose. He came
from his own high hall, and seized my hand
1 The royal residence of 3 See note 1 to Gray's
Fingal. ode just preceding.
2 A star, perhaps the
pole-star.
• The rhythmical prose pieces published by James
Macpherson In 1760-1763 as translations from
the ancient Gaelic bard Ossian (Oisln), son
of Fingal (Finn), were apparently based upon
genuine Gaelic, though probably not Ossianic,
remains, with liberal additions by Macpherson
himself. See Eng. Lit. 22S. In the poem here
given. Ossian. addressing his daughter-in-law
Malvina, "maid of Lutha.'' relates a generous
deed of his youthful days. Sent by his father
t<) the assistance of the king of Fuarfed. he
defeated the foe, Ton-thormod. and was prom-
ised the king's daughter. Oina-morul. But dis-
covering that she loved Ton-thormod, he
yielded his claim and brought about a recon
ciliation of the foes. The rather excessive
punctuation of the piece is meant to empha-
size its rhythmical character.
in grief. ' ' Why comes the race of heroes to a
falling king? Ton-thormod of many spears is
the chief of wavy Sar-dronlo. He saw and
loved my daughter, white-bosomed Oina-morul.
He sought; I denied the maid! for our fathers
had been foes. He came, with battle, to Fuar-
fed; my people are rolled away. Why comes
the race of heroes to a falling king ? ' '
* ' I come not, ' ' I said, ' ' to look, like a boy,
on the strife. Fingal remembers Mal-orehol,
and his hall for strangers. From his waves,
the warrior descended on thy woody isle. Thou
wert no cloud before him. Thy feast was
spread with songs. For this my sword shall
rise; and thy foes perhaps may fail. Our
friends are not forgot in their danger, though
distant is our land. ' '
"Descendant of the daring Trenmor, thy
words are like the voice of Cruth-loda,* when
he speaks, from his parting cloud, strong
dweller of the sky! Many have rejoiced at my
feast; but they all have forgot Mal-orchol. I
have looked towards all the winds; but no
white sails were seen. But steel resounds in
my hall; and not the joyful shells. Come to
my dwelling, race of heroes! dark-skirted night
is near. Hear the voice of songs, from the
maid of Fuarfed wild."
We went. On the harp arose the white hands
of Oina-morul. She waked her own sad tale,
from every trembling string. I stood in
silence; for bright in her locks was the daugh-
ter of many isles! Her eyes were two stars,
looking forward through a rushing shower. The
mariner marks them on high, and blesses the
lovely beams. With morning we rushed to
battle, to Tormul's resounding stream: the foe
moved to the sound of Ton-thormod 's bossy
shield. From wing to wing the strife was
mixed. I met Ton-thormod in flight. Wide
flew his broken steel. I seized the king in war.
I gave his hand, bound fast with thongs, to
Mal-orchol, the giver of shells. Joy rose at
the feast of Fuarfed, for the foe had failed.
Ton-thormod turned his face away, from Oina-
morul of isles!
' * Son of Fingal, ' ' began ]\Ial-orchol, ' ' not
forgot shalt thou pass from me. A light shall
dwell in thy ship, Oina-morul of slow-rolling
eyes. She shall kindle gladness, along thy
mighty soul. Nor unheeded shall the maid
move in Selma, through the dwelling of
kings! "
In the hall I lay in night, iline eyes were
half-dosed in sleep. Soft music came to mine
ear: it was like the rising breeze, that whirls.
4 Odin.
LATER KIGHTEKXTH CKXTT^EY
first, the thistle's beard; then flies, dark
<ado\vy, over the grass. It was the maid of
^uarfed wild! she raised the nightly song; she
jnew that my soul was a stream, that flowed
at pleasant sounds. "Who looks," she said,
' ' from his rock on ocean 's closing mist ? His
long locks, like the raven's wing, are wander-
ing on the blast. Stately are his steps in grief!
The tears are in his eyes! His manly breast is
heaving over his bursting soul! Eetire, I am
distant far; a wanderer in lands unknown.
Though the race of kings are around me, yet
my soul is dark. Why have our fathers been
foes, Ton-thormod, love of maids?"
"Soft voice of the streamy isle," I said,
* ' why dost thou mourn by night ? The race
of daring Trenmor are not the dark in soul.
Thou shalt not wander, by streams unknown,
blue-eyed Oina-morul! Within this bosom is a
voice; it comes not to other ears: it bids Ossian
hear the hapless, in their hour of woe. Eetire,
soft singer by night! Ton-thormod shall not
mourn on his rock!"
With morning I loosed the king. I gave the
long-haired maid. Mal-orchol heard my words,
in the midst of his echoing halls, "King of
Fuarf ed wild, why should Ton-thormod mourn ?
He is of the race of heroes, and a flame in war.
Your fathers have been foes, but now their
dim ghosts rejoice in death. They stretch
their hands of mist to the same shell in Loda.s
Forget their rage, ye warriors! it was the cloud
of other years. "
Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his
locks Mere young: though loveliness, with a
robe of beams, clothed tlie daughter of many
isles. We call back, maid of Lutha, the years
tli::t have rolled away!
From CABTHON
OssiAX 's Address to the Sun
O thou that rollest above, round as the shield
of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun!
thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth, in
thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in
the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the
western wave. But thou thyself movest alone:
who can be a companion of thy course ? The
oiiks of the mountains fall : the mountains
themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks
and grows again: the moon herself is lost in
heaven; but thou art for ever the same; re-
joicing in the brightness of thy course. When
the world is dark with tempests; when thun<ler
rolls, an<l lightning flies; thou lookest in thy
6 Tho Hall of Odin,
beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the
storm. But to Ossian, thou lookest in vain ;
for he beholds thy beams no more; whetluT
thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or
tliou tremblest at the gates of the west. But
thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season; thy
years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in
thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning.
Exult then, sun! in the strength of thy
youth: Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the
glimmering light of the moon, when it sliines
through broken clouds, and the mist is on the
hills; the bla.st of the north is on the plain, the
traveler shrinks in the midst of his journey.
THOMAS CHATTERTON*
(1752-1770)
EPITAPH ON ROBERT CANYNGE
Thys Morneynge Starre of Raddeves rysynge
Raie,
A True Man, Good of Mynde, and Canynge
hyghte,!
Benetlie thys Stone lies moltrynge ynto Claie,
Untylle the darke Tombe sheene an aeterne
I-,yghte.
Thyrde from hys Loyns the present Canynge
came;t
Houton- are wordes for to telle his doe;3
For aie shall lyve hys Heaven-recorded Name,
Ne shalle ytte die whanne Tyme .shall be ne
moe ; ^
Whan Mychael 's Trompe shall soimde to rize
the Soulle,
1 named 3 deeds
2 hollow * no more
♦ The "Rowley pooms" of Chatterton. ascribed liy
him to a tictitious priest called Uowley. of ih-'
fifteenth century, are written in a spurious
archaic dialect, not a few of the forms bein^'
pure inventions, sometimes merely for eon
venience of rhyme. In the selections here
given (except the Epitaph, which is left uii
altered) the spoiling and some words are mod-
ernized, in accordance with Professor Skeafs
edition, the better to show what genuine
l)owers the youthful poet possessed. Chatter
ton wrote after this fashion :
"In Virgyne the sweltrle sun gan sheene.
And hotte upon the mees did caste his rale :
Tlie apple rodded from its pnlie greene. ' Pt<'.
This Spenserian manner, as in the iwetry of
Thomson a generation earlier, is In marked
contrast to the prevailing classicism of the
age. See Kng. Lit., p. 223. ,„,,,,
t William Canning, an actual mayor of Rristol in
the time of Kdward IV.. who with his grand-
father rebuilt the beautiful church of St.
Marv Redcliffe ("Raddeves rysynge Rnie").
It does not appear that the great-grandfather,
Robert, had any share in it. William Can-
ning was asKi rted by Chatterton to have been
Rowley's patron.
THOMAS CHATTEKTON
353
He 'lie wynge toe heaven with kynne, ami
happie be ther doUe.s
AX EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE
(As Written by the CJood Priest Thomas
BOWLEY, 1464)
In Virgo now the sultry sun did sheene,
And hot upon the meads did cast his ray ;
The apple reddened from its paly green,
And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray;
The pied chelandry" sang the livelong day;
'Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year,
And eke the ground was decked in its most
deft aumereJ
2
The sun was gleaming in the midst of day,
Dead-still the air, and eke the welkin blue.
When from the sea arose in drear array
A heap of clouds of sable sullen hue,
The which full fast unto the woodland drew,
Hiding at once the sunnes festive face,
And the black tempest swelled, and gathered
up apace.
3
Beneath a holm,8 fast by a pathway-side.
Which did unto Saint Godwin 's convent lead,
A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide,
Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed,*
Long brimful of the miseries of need.
Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly ?
He had no houses there, nor any convent
nigh.
4
Look in his gloomed face, his sprite there scan ;
How woebegone, how withered, dwindled, dead!
Haste to thy church-glebe-house, accursed man!
Haste to thy shroud, thy only sleeping bed.
fold as the clay which will grow on thy head
Are Charity and Love among high elves ;
For knights and barons live for pleasure and
themselves.
5
The gathered storm is ripe ; the big drops fall,
The sun-burnt meadows smoke, and drink the
rain;
The coming ghastnessio doth the cattle 'pall.ii
And the full flocks are driving o 'er the plain ;
Dashed from the clouds, the waters fly again ;
The welkin opes; the yellow lightning flies.
And the hot fiery steam in the wide fla.shings
dies.
6
List! now the thunder's rattling noisy sound
.Moves slowly on, and then full-swollen claugs,
Shakes the high spire, and lost, expended,
drowned.
Still on the frighted ear of terror hangs;
The winds are up; the lofty elm tree swangs;
Again the lightning, and the thunder pours,
And the full clouds are burst at once in
stony showers.
7
Spurring his palfrey o 'er the watery plain,
The Abbot of Saint Godwin's convent came;
His ehapournettei2 was drenched with the rain.
His painted girdle met with mickle shame;
He aynewarde told his bederollis at the same;
The storm increases, and he drew aside.
With the poor alms-craver near to the holm
to bide.
8
His cope was all of Lincoln cloth so fine.
With a gold button fastened near his chin.
His autremetei* was edged with golden twine,
And his shoe's peak a noble's might have been;
Full well it shewed he thought cost no sin.
The trammels of his palfrey pleased his sight.
For the horse-milliner his head with roses
dight.15
9
"An alms, sir priest!" the drooping pilgrim
said,
"Oh! let me wait within your convent -door.
Till the sun shineth high above our head,
And the loud tempest of the air is o'er.
Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor.
Xo house, no friend, nor money in my pouch,
All that I call my own is this my silver
crouche. ' 'i^
10
"Varlet!" replied the Abbot, "cease your
din;
Tliis is no season alms and prayers to give,
My porter never lets a beggar in ;
X'one touch my ring who not in honour live. ' '
And now the sun with the black clouds <lid
strive.
And shot upon the ground his glaring ray;
The Abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoous
rode away.
11
Once more the sky was black, the thunder
rolled,
Fast running o'er the plain a priest was seen;
5 their dole (lot)
e goldflndi
7 Misused for "apparel" ;
properly "a purse."
s holm oak
-• rustic In his dress
10 For "ghastllness."
11 appal
12 small round hat
1-! backward told his
beads, i. e.. cursed
fChatterton^
! 4 loose white robe
1 3 arrayed
i« cross
354
LATEE EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY
Not digbt full proud, nor buttoned up in gold,
His cope and japci^ were grey, and eke were
clean ;
A Liniitoris he was of order seen;
And from the pathway-side then turned he,
Where the poor beggar lay beneath the hol-
' man tree.
12
"An alms, sir priest!" the drooping pilgrim
said,
"For sweet Saint Mary and your order's
sake. ' '
The Limitor then loosened his pouch-thread,
And did thereout a groat of silver take;
The needy pilgrim did for gladness shake,
"Here, take this silver, it may ease thy cue.
"We are God 's stewards all, naught of our
own we bear.
13
"But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me.
Scarce any give a rentroll to their lord;
Here, take my semicope,i9 thou 'rt bare, I see,
'Tis thine; the saints will give me my reward."
He left the pilgrim, and his way aborde.-"
Virgin and holy Saints, who sit in gloure,2i
Or give the mighty will, or give the good man
power!
From THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS*
17
And now Duke William mareshall'd his band.
And stretched his army out, a goodly row.
First did a rank of arcublastriesi stand.
Next those on horseback drew th' ascending
flo;2
Brave champions, each well learned in the bow,
Their asenglaves across their horses tied ;
Or* with the loverdso squires behind did go.
Or waited, squire-like, at the horse's side.
When thus Duke William to a monk did say,
"Prepare thyself with speed, to Harold
haste away.
18
"Tell him from me one of these three to take:
That he to me do homage for this land.
Or me his heir, when he deceaseth, make,
Or to the ju<lgment of Christ 's vicar8 stand. ' '
17 A short surplice (?).
18 licenKcd begging friar
ii» short cape
20 For "pursued."
21 For "glory."
1 rross-bowmen •» either
2 arrow f" lords
3lan<eV (Skeat) n the Pope
• There are two versions of this poem, one of
which riiatterton admitted to be his own.
The other, from which the stanzas above are
taken, he declared to l)e Rowley's. There are
seventy-two stanzas in all, but the battle is
not brought to an end.
He said; the monk departed out of hand.
And to King Harold did this message bear.
Who said, ' * Tell thou the duke, at his likand,^
If he can get the crown, he may it wear."
He said, and drove the monk out of his sight,
And with his brothers roused each man to
bloody fight.
19
A standard made of silk and jewels rare.
Wherein all colours, wrought about in bighes,''
An armed knight was seen death-doing there,
Under this motto — ' * He conquers or he dies. ' 'o
This standard rich, endazzling mortal eyes.
Was borne near Harold at the Kenters' hea<l.
Who charged his brothers for the great em-
prise,
That straight the hestio for battle should be
spread.
To every carl and knight the word is given.
And cries "a guerre .'"^^ and slogans shake
the vaulted heaven.
20
As when the earth, 12 torn by convulsions dire.
In realms of darkness hid from human sight ;
The warring force of water, air and fire.
Bursts from the regions of eternal night,
Through the dark caverns seeks the realms of
light;
Some lofty mountain, by its fury torn,
Dreadfully moves, and causes great affright ;
Now here, now there, majestic nods the
bourne,! 3
And awful shakes, moved by th' almighty
force ;
Whole woods and forests nod, and rivers
change their course.
21
So did the men of war at once advance,
Linked man to man, appeared one body light;
Above, a wood, y-formed of bill and lance,
That nodded in the air, most strange to sight ;
Hard as the iron were the men of might.
No need of slogans to enrouse their mind;
Each shooting spear made ready for the fight.
More fierce than falling rocks, more swift thau
wind ; ,
With .solemn step, by echo made more dire.
One single body all, they marched, their eyci
on fire.
22
And now the grey-eyed mom with violets drest,
Shaking the dewdrops on the flowery meads,
7 pleasure
K Jewels
n See i:it(i. Lit..
!'i ( onimand
11 "To bnttle \"
12 Sentenc" j'rnmmalie
nllv I'l'TrtUvc
Ki For •Vll.T."
SAMUEL JOHNSON
355
Fled with her rosy radiance to the west.
Forth from the eastern gate the fiery steeds
Of the bright sun awaiting spirits leads. 12
The sun, in fiery pomp enthroned on high,
Swifter than thought along his journey
gledes,!*
And scatters night 's remains from out the sky.
He saw the armies make for bloody fray,
And stojjped his driving steeds, and hid his
lightsome ray.
23
King Harold high in air majestic raised
His mighty arm, decked with a manchyni^
rare ;
With even hand a mighty javelin peised,i8
Then furious sent it whistling through the air.
It struck the helmet of the Sieur de Beer.
In vain did brass or iron stop its way;
Above his eyes it came, the bones did tear.
Piercing quite through, before it did allay. i7
He tumbled, screeching with his horrid pain.
His hollow cuishesis rang upon the bloody
plain.
24
This William saw, and, sounding Koland 's song,
He bent his iron interwoven bow.
Making both ends to meet with might full
strong;
From out of mortal 's sight shot up the flo.
Then swift as falling stars to earth below,
It slanted down on Alfwold's painted shield.
Quite through the silver-bordured cross did go,
Nor lost its force, but stuck into the field;
The Normans, like their sovereign, did prepare.
And shot ten thousand floes uprising in the
air.
25
As when a flight of cranes that take their way
In household armies through the arched sky,
Alikei» the cause, or company or prey.
If that perchance some boggy fen is nigh,
Soon as the muddy nationso they espy.
In one black cloud they to the earth descend;
Fierce as the falling thunderbolt they fly,
In vain do reeds the speckled folk defend;
So prone to heavy blow the arrows fell,
And pierced through brass, and sent many
to heaven or hell.
26
yElan Adelfred, of the stow-'i of Leigh,
Felt a dire arrow burning in his breast;
Before he died, he sent his spear away,
14 For "glides."
15 sleeve
16 poised
1" For "stop."
18 armour for the thighs
Then sank to glory and eternal rest.
Neville, a Norman of all Normans best,
Through the joint cuishe did the javelin feel,
As he on horseback for the fight addressed.
And saw his blood come smoking o'er the steel;
He sent the avenging flo into the air.
And turned his horse's head, and did to leech
repair.
27
And now the javelins, barbed with deathes
wings,
Hurled from the English hands by force
aderne,22
Whizz drear along, and songs of terror sings.
Such songs as always closed in life eterne.
Hurled by such strength along the air they
burn,
Not to be quenched but in Normans' blood.
Where'er they came, they were of life forlorn,
And always followed by a purple flood.
Like clouds the Norman arrows did descend.
Like clouds of carnage full, in purple drops
did end.
SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784)
From the FLAN OF AN ENGLISH
DICTIONARY*
To the Eight Honourable Philip Dormer, Earl
of Chesterfield, One of His Majesty's
Principal Secretaries of State.
My Lord,
When first I undertook to write an English
Dictionary, I had no expectation of any higher
patronage than that of the proprietors of the
copy, nor prospect of any other advantage than
the price of my labour. I knew that the work
in which I engaged is generally considered as
drudgery for the blind, as the proper toil of
artless indastry; a task that requires neither
the light of learning, nor the activity of genius,
but may be successfully performed without any
higher quality than that of bearing burthens
with dull patience, and beating the track of the
alphabet with sluggish resolution.
Whether this opinion, so long transmitted,
22 cruel
in whatever
20 frogs (a manifest
18th century para-
phrase)
21 place
* Johnson's ponderous diction may have been in
some measure due to his labors in the field
of lexicography, though doubtless much more
to his habit of thinking in general and ab-
stract terms. It was jestingly said in his
time that he used hard words in the Rambler
papers on purpose to make his forthcoming
Dictionary indispensable. Yet the diction
confers a not unpleasing dignity upon the
wisdom it clothes : and it grew more chast-
ened with time, as is shown by the admirabl >
style of his Licea of the Poets. See En<i. Lil.,
208-209.
356
LATEK EIGHTEENTH CENtUEY
and so Widely propagated, had its beginning
ftom truth and nature, or from accident and
prejudice; whether it be decreed by the author-
ity of reason, or the tyranny of ignorance, that
of all the candidates for literary praise, the
unhappy lexicograplier holds the lowest place,
neither vanity nor interest incited me to en-
quire. It appeared that the province allotted
me was, of all the regions of learning, generally
confessed to be the least delightful, that it was
believed to produce neither fruit nor flowers;
and that, after a long and laborious cultivation.
not even the barren laurelf had been found
upon it.
Yet on this province, my Lord, I entere<l,
with the pleasing hope that, as it was low, it
likewise would be safe. I was drawn forward
with the prospect of employment, which,
though not splendid, would be useful ; and
which, though it could not make my life envied,
would keep it innocent; which would awaken
no passion, engage me in no contention, nor
throw in my way any temptation to disturb the
quiet of others by censure, or my own by flat-
tery.
I had read indeed of times in which princes
and statesmen thought it part of their honour
to promote the improvement of their native
tongues; and in which dictionaries were writ-
ten under the protection of greatness. To the
patrons of such undertakings I willingly paid
the homage of believing that they, who were
thus solicitous for the perpetuity of their lan-
guage, had reason to expect that their actions
would be celebrated by posterity, and that
the eloquence which they promoted would
be employed in their praise. But I con-
sider such acts of beneficence as prodigies,
recorded ratlier to raise wonder than expecta-
tion; and content with the terms that I had
stipulated, had not suffered my imagination to
flatter me with any other encouragement, when
I found thi't my design had been thought by
your Lordship of importance sufficient to at-
tract your favour.
How far this unexpected distinction can bo
rated among the hnjipy incidents of life, I am
not yet able to determine. Its first effect has
been to make me anxious lest it should fix the
attention of the public too much upon me, and.
as it once happened to an epic poet of France.t
by raising the reputation of the attempt, ob-
struct the reception of the work. T imagine
what the world will expect from a scheme
I The actual Inun-I is not barren, whatever ho
Ihonjtht of tlie trliuni)hN It xymbolizcs.
t Chapcliilns 1,11 I'lucllr, nernlded for miiny years,
Vu8 coldly recnived aftT publl<ntlon.
prosecuted under your Lordship 's influetlce |
and I know that expectation, when her wings
are once expanded, easily reaches heights which
performance never Avill attain; and when she
has mounted the summit of perfection, derides
her follower, who dies in the pursuit.
Not therefore to raise expectation, but to
repress it, I here lay before your Lordship the
Plan of my undertaking, that more may not
be demanded than I intend ; and that, before it
is too far advanced to be thrown iuto a new
method, I may be advertised of its defects or
superfluities. Such informations I may justly
hope, from the emulation with which those, wlio
desire the praise of elegance or discernment,
must contend in the promotion of a design that
you, mj' Lord, have not thought unworthy tu
share your attention with treaties and witii
wars. . .
[Then follows the plan, with many details
of vocabulary, orthography, pronunciation, etc.]
When I survey the Plan which I have laid
before you, I cannot, my Lord, but confess that
I am frighted at its extent, and, like the sol-
diers of Caesar, look on Britain as a new world,
which it is almost madness to invade. But I
hope that though I should not complete the
conquest, I shall at least discover the coast,
civilize ]iart of the inhabitants, and make it
easy for some other adventurer to proceed
farther, to reduce them wholly to subjection,
and settle them under laws.
We are taught by the great Roman ortftor,
that every man should propose to himself the
highest degree of excellence, but that he may
stop with honour at the second or third : though
therefore my performance should fall below tiie
excellence of other dictionaries, I may obtain,
at least, the praise of having endeavoured well;
nor shall I think it any reproach to my dili-
gence that I have retired, without a triumph,
from a contest with united academies and long
successions of learned compilers. I cannot
hope, in the warmest moments, to preserve so
much caution through so long a Avork, as not
often to sink into negligence, or to obtain so
much knowledge of all its parts as not fre-
quently to fail by ignorance. I expect that
sometimes the desire of accuracy will urge me
to superfluities, and sometimes the fear of
prolixity betray me to omissions: that in the
extent of such variety, I shall be often liewil-
dered; and in the mnzes of such intricacy, 1m>
freqiiently entangled: th:it in one part refine
ment will be subtilized be.vond exactness, and
evidence dilated in another beyond perspicuity.
Yet I ilo not despair of approbation from those
SAMfEL J01iNt?0X
357
who, knowing the uncertainty of conjecture, the
scantiness of knowle«Ige, the fallibility of mem-
ory, and the unsteatliuess oi" attention, can
compare the causes of error with the means of
:i voiding it, and the extent of art with the
capacity of man ; and w hatever lie the event of
my endeavours, I shall not easily regret an
attempt which has procured me the honour of
:i{)pearing thus publicly,
My Lord,
Vour Lordship 's most obedient,
and most humble servant,
Sam. Johnson.
LETTEK TO LORD CHESTERFIELD*
(Feb. 7, 1755)
To the Eight Honourable the Earl of Chester-
field.
Mv Lord:
I have been lately informed by the proprietor
of the World, that two papers, in which my
Dictionary is recommended to the public, were
written by your Lordship. To be so distin-
guished is an honour Avhich, being very little
accustomed to favours from the great, I know-
not well how to receive, or in what terms to
acknowledge.
When, upon some slight encouragement, I
first visited your Lordship, I was overpowered,
like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of
your address, and could not forbear to wish
that I might boast mjself Le vainqueur du
vainqueiir de la terre;^ — that I might obtain
that regard for which I saw the world contend-
ing; but I found my attendance so little en-
couraged that neither pride nor modesty would
suffer me to continue it. When I had once ad-
dressed your Lordship in public, I had ex-
1 "The conqneror of the conqueror of the world"
(Boileau).
y''Johnson told me." !<a.vs Boswell. ''that there
never was any particular incident which pro-
duced a quarrel between Lord Chesterfield
and him : but that his Lordship's continued
neglect was the reason why he resolved to
have no connection with him. When the
Dictionary was upon the eve of publication,
Lord Chesterfield, who. it is said, had flat-
tered himself with expectations that .Johnson
would dedicMte the work to him. attempted
. . . fo conciliate him. by writing two
papers in "The World.' in recommendation of
the work." "Upon which," commented .John-
son, "I wrote him a letter expressed in civil
terms, but such as might show him that I
did not mind what he said or wrote, and
that I had done with him." Boswell later
obtained :i copy of this celebrated letter,
and gave it to" the world. Carlyle. In his
essay on Bostrell's Life of Johnson, speaks of
it as "that far-famed Blast of Doom, pro-
claimin;? into the ear of I..ord Chesterfield,
and, through him. of the listening world, that
patronage should be no more." See Eniy. Lit.,
p. 208.
haustcd all the art of pleasing which a retired
and uucourtly scholar can possess. I had done
all that [ could; and no man is well pleased to
have his all neglected, be it ever so little.
Seven j-ears, my Lord, have now passed since
1 waited in your outward rooms, or was re-
pulsed from your door; during which time I
I'.ave been pushing on my work through diffi-
culties, of which it is useless to complain, and
have brought it, at last, to the verge of publi-
cation without one act of assistance, one word
of encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such
treatment I did not expect, for I never had a
Patron before.
The shepherd in Virgil grew at last ac-
quainted with Love, and found him a native of
the rocks.2
Is not a Patron, my Lord, one who looks with
unconcern on a man struggling for life in the
water, and when he has reached ground, en-
cumbers him with help? The notice which you
have been pleased to take of my labours, had
it been early, had been kind; but it has been
delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy
it ; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it ;
till I am known, and do not want it. I hope
it is no very cynical asperity not to confess
obligations where no benefit has been received,
or to be unwilling that the Public should con-
.sider me as owing that to a Patron, which
Providence has enabled me to do for my.«elf.
Having carried on my work thus far with so
little obligation to any favourer of learning, I
shall not be disappointed though T should con-
clude it, if less be possible, with less; for T
have been long wakened from that dream of
hope, in which I once boasted myself with so
much exultation, '_
"Sly Lord,
Your Lordship 's most humble.
Most obedient servant.
Sam. Johnson.
From the PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH
DICTIONARY, 17.-)5
In hope of giving longevity to that Avhich
its own nature forbids to be immortal, I have
devoted this book, the labour of years, to the
honour of my country, that we may no longer
yield the p.alm of philology, without a contest,
to the nations of the continent. The chief glory
of every people arises from its authors:
whether I shall add anything by my own writ-
ings to the reputation of English literature,
must be left to time: much of my life has
2 Eclogue A'lII, 43.
358
LATEK EIGHTEENTH CEXTURY
been lost under the pressure of disease; much
has been trifled away;* and much has always
been spent in provision for the day that was
passing over me; but I shall not think my em-
ployment useless or ignoble, if by my assistance
foreign nations and distant ages gain access
to the propagators of knowledge, and under-
stand the teachers of truth; if my labours af-
ford light to the repositories of science, and
add celebrity to Bacon, to Hooker, to Milton,
and to Boyle.3
When I am animated by this wish, I look
with pleasure on my book, however defective,
and deliver it to the world with the spirit of
a man that has endeavoured well. That it will
immediately become popular I have not prom-
ised to myself: a few wild blunders and risible
absurdities, from which no work of such multi-
plicity was ever free, may for a time furnish
folly with laughter and harden ignorance into
contempt;! but useful diligence will at last pre-
vail, and there never can be wanting some who
distinguish desert; who will consider that no
dictionary of a living tongue ever can be per-
fect, since, while it is hastening to publication,
some words are budding, and some falling
away; that a whole life cannot be spent upon
syntax and etymology, and that even a whole
life would not be sufficient; that he, whose de-
sign includes whatever language can express,
must often speak of what he does not under-
stand; that a writer will sometimes be hurried
by eagerness to the end, and sometimes faint
with weariness under a task which Scaliger*
compares to the labours of the anvil and the
mine ; that what is obvious is not always known,
and what is known is not always present; that
sudden fits of inadvertency will surprise vigi-
lance, slight avocations will seduce attention,
and casual eclipses of the mind will darken
learning; and that the writer shall often in
vain trace his memory, at the moment of need,
for that which yesterday he knew with intuitive
3 Ro1>ert Boyle, the natural philosopher, 1627-1691.
4 A European scholar of the 16th century.
• Boswell reports Johnson as saying : "I have been
trying to cure my laziness all my life, and
could not do it."
t Johnson spoke prophetically. Among amusing
entries, Home of course intentional, Boswell
has noted the following :
Lexicographer. A writer of dictionaries, a
harmless drudge.
Pension. 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 his country.
Oatn. A grain which In England is generally
given to horses, hiit in Scot land supports
the people.
Network. Anything reticulated or decussated
at eaual distances, with interstices between
tbc interHcctloDs.
readiness, and which will come uncalled into
his thoughts to-morrow.
In this work, when it shall be found that
much is omitted, let it not be forgotten that
nmch likewise is performed; and though no
book was ever spared out of tenderness to the
author, and the world is little solicitous to
know whence proceed the faults of that which
it condemns, yet it may gratify curiosity to in-
form it that the "English Dictionary" was
written with little assistance of the learned,
and without any patronage of the great; not in
the soft obscurities of retirement, or under the
shelter of academic bowers, but amidst incon-
venience and distraction, in sickness and in
sorrow. t It may repress the triumph of malig-
nant criticism to observe, that if our language
is not here fully displayed, I have only failed
in an attempt which no human powers have
hitherto completed. If the lexicons of ancient
tongues, now immutably fixed, and comprised
in a few volumes, be yet, after the toil of suc-
cessive ages, inadequate and delusive; if the
aggregated knowledge and co-operating dili-
gence of the Italian academicians did not se-
cure them from the censure of Beni;§ if the
embodied critics of France, when fifty years
had been spent upon their work, were obliged to
change its economy,^ and give their second edi-
tion another form, I may surely be contented
without the praise of perfection, Avhich, if 1
could obtain, in this gloom of solitude, what
would it avail me? I have protracted my work
till most of those whom I wished to please
have sunk into the grave, and success and mis-
carriage are empty sounds: I therefore dismiss
it with frigid tranquillity, having little to fear
or hope from censure or from praise.
From the PREFACE TO AN EDITION OF
SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS, 1765-1768
The poet, of whose works T have undertaken
the revision, may now begin to assume the dig-
nity of an ancient, and claim the privilege of
established fame and prescriptive veneration.
He has long outlived his century, the term
commonly fixed as the test of literary merit.
Whatever advantages he might once derive
from personal allusions, local customs, or tem-
porary opinions, have for many years been
lost; and every topic of merriment, or motive
of sorrow, which the modes of artificial life
5 system
t Johnson's wif.« died March 17, 17.'2. and the
anniversary of her death he spent "in prayer
and self-examination."
I He objected to their basing their lexicon on
Tuscan usage.
SAMUEL JOHNSON
359
afforded him, now only obscure the scenes
which they once illuminated. The effects of
favour and competition are at an end ; the tra-
dition of his friendships and his enmities has
perished; his works support no opinion with
arguments, nor supply any faction with invec-
tives; they can neither indulge vanity, nor
gratify malignity; but are read without any
other reason than the desire of pleasure, and
are therefore praLsed only as pleasure is ob-
tained; yet, thus unassisted by interest or pas-
sion, they have passed through variations of
taste and changes of manners, and, as they de-
volved from one generation to another, have
received new honours at every transmission.
But because human judgment, though it be
gradually gaining upon certainty, never be-
conres infallible, and approbation, though long
continued, may yet be only the approbation of
prejudice or fashion, it is proper to inquire by
what peculiarities of excellence Shakespeare has
gained and kept the favour of his countrymen.
Nothing can plea.se many, and please long,
but just representations of general nature. Par-
ticular manners can be known to few, and
therefore few only can judge how nearly they
are copied. The irregular combinations of
fanciful invention may delight awhile, by that
novelty of which the common satiety of life
sends us all in quest; but the pleasures of sud-
den wonder are soon exhausted, and the mind
can only repose on the stability of truth.
Shakespeare is, above all writers, at least
above all modern writers, the poet of nature;
the poet that holds up to his readers a faithful
mirror of manners and of life. His characters
are not modified by the customs of particular
places, unpractised by the rest of the world;
by the peculiarities of studies or professions
which can operate but upon small numbers; or
by the accidents of transient fa.shions or tem-
porary opinions: they are the genuine progeny
of common humanity, such as the world will
always supply and observation will always find.
His persons act and speak by the influence of
those general passions and principles by which
all minds are agitated, and the whole system
of life is continued in motion. In the writings
. of other poets a character is too often an indi-
vidual: in those of Shakespeare it is commonly
a species.
It is from this wide extension of design that
so much instruction is derived. It is this
which fills the plays of Shakespeare with prac-
tical axioms and domestic wisdom. It was said
of Euripides that every verse was a precept;
and it may be said of Shakespeare, that from
his works may be collected a system of civil and
economical prudence. Yet his real power is
not shown in the splendour of particular pas-
sages, but by the progress of his fable,^ and the
tenor of his dialogue: and he that tries to
recommend him by select quotations, will suc-
ceed like the pedant in Hierocles,'' who, when
he offered his house to sale, carried a brick in
his pocket as a specimen.
It will not easily be imagined how much
Shakespeare excels in accommodating his senti-
ments to real life, but by comparing him with
other authors. It was observed of the ancient
schools of declamation, that the more diligently
they were frequented, the more was the student
disqualified for the world, because he found
nothing there which he should ever meet in any
other place. The same remark may be applied
to every stage but that of Shakespeare. The
theatre, when it is under any other direction,
is peopled by such characters as were never
seen, conversing in a language which was never
heard, upon topics which will never arise in
the commerce of mankind. But the dialogue of
this author is often so evidently determined
bj' the incident which produces it, and is pur-
sued with so much ease and simplicity, that it
seems scarcely to claim the merit of fiction, but
to have been gleaned by diligent selection out
of common conversation and common occur-
rences.
Upon every other stage the universal agent
is love, by whose power all good and evil is
distributed, and every action quickened or re-
tarded. To bring a lover, a lady, and a rival
into a fable; to entangle them in contradictory
obligations, perplex them with oppositions of
interest, and harass them with violence of de-
sires inconsistent with each other; to make
them meet in rapture, and part in agony; to
fill their mouths with hyperbolical joy and out-
rageous sorrow; to distress them as nothing
human ever was distressed; to deliver them as
nothing human ever was delivered, — is the busi-
ness of a modern dramatist. For this, proba-
bility is violated, life is misrepresented, and
language is depraved. But love is only one of
many passions; and as it has no great influence
upon the sum of life, it has little operation in
the dramas of a poet who caught his ideas from
the living world and exhibited only what he
saw before him. He knew that any other pas-
sion, as it was regular or exorbitant, was a
cause of happiness or calamity.
story, plot
7 An Alexandrian philosopher to whom were attrib-
uted certain jests which Johnson once trans-
lated.
360
LATEB EIGHTEENTH CENTUKY
Characters thus ample and general were not
easily discriminated and preserved, yet perhaps
no poet ever kept his personages more distinct
from each other. I w.ill not say with Pope that
every speech may be assigned to the proper
speaker, because many speeches there are which
have nothing characteristical ; but, perhaps,
liiough some may be equally adapted to every
person, it will be difficult to find that any can
be properly transferred from the present pos-
sessor to any other claimant. The choice is
right, when there is reason for choice.
Other dramatists can only gain attention by
hyperbolical or aggravated characters, by fabu-
lous and unexampled excellence or depravity, as
the writers of barbarous romances invigorated
the reader by a giant and a dwarf; and he that
should form his expectations of human affairs
from the play, or from the tale, would be
equally deceived. Shakespeare has no heroes;
his scenes are occupied only by men, who act
and speak as the reader thinks that he should
himself have spoken or acted on the same occa-
sion : even where the agency is supernatural,
the dialogue is level with life. Other writers
disguise the most natural passions and most
frequent incidents; so that he who contemplates
them in the book will not know them in the
world : Shakespeare approximates the remote,
and familiarizes the wonderful ; the event which
he represents will not happen, but, if it were
possible, its effects would probably be such as
he has assigned; and it may be said that he
has not only shown human nature as it acts in
real exigencies, but as it would be found in
trials to which it cannot be exposed.
This therefore is the praise of Shakespeare,
that his drama is the mirror of life; that he
who has mazed his imagination in following
the phantoms which other writers raise up be-
fore him, may here be cured of his delirious
ecstacies by reading human sentiments in
human language, by scenes from which a her-
mit may estimate the transactions of the world,
and a confessor predict the progress of the
passions.
From the LIVES OF THE EXOLISII POETS
The Character of Addison
The end of this useful life was now ap-
proaching. Addison had for some time been
oppressed by shortness of breath, which was
now aggravated by a dropsy; and, finding his
danger pressing, he prepared to die conform
ably to his own precepts and professions.
Dnrinjj this lingering do<'ay, he sent, as Pope
relates, a message by the Earl >ji Warwick^ to
Mr. Gay,'» desiring to see him. G ly, who had not
visited him for some time bef<.ire, obeyed the
summons, and found himself rece.ved with great
kindness. The purpose for which the interview
had been solicited was then discovered: Addi-
son told him that he had injured him ; but
that, if he recovered, he would recompeiist him.
What the injury was he did not explain, nor
did Gay ever know; but supposed that some
preferment designed for him, had, by Addi-
son's intervention, been withheld.
Lord Warwick was a young man of very
irregular life, and perhaps of loose opinions.
Addison, for whom he did not want respect,
had very diligently endeavoured to reclaim him ;
but his arguments and expostulations had no
effect. One experiment, however, remained to
be tried: when he found his life near its end.
he directed the young lord to be calie<l; and
when he desired, with great tenderness, to hear
his last injunctions, told him, "I have sent for
you that you may see how a Christian can die."
What effect this awful scene had on the carl
I know not; he likewise died himself in a short
time.
In Tickell 'sio excellent elegy on his friend
are these lines:
He taught us how to live ; and. oh I too high
The price of knowledge, taught us how to die.
In which he alludes, as he told Dr. Young,' i
to this moving interview.
Having given directions to Mr. Tickell for
the publication of his works, and dedicated
them on his death-bed to his friend Mr. Craggs,
he died June 17, 1719, at Holland House, leav-
ing no child but a daughter.
Of his virtue it is a sufficient testimony
that the resentment of party has transmitted
no charge of any crime. He was not one of
those who are praised only after death ; for his
merit was so generally acknowledged, that
Swift, having observed that his election ])assoil
without a contest, adds, that if he had proposed
him.sclf for king, he would hardly have been
refused.is
His zeal for his party did not extinguish his
kindness for the merit of his opponents: when
he was Secretary in Ireland he refused to in-
termit his acquaintance with Swift.*
s Addison's step-Bon. n Edwnrd Young, t h »•
w John (iav, the poet port (t'»ij/. Lit.,
(Enu. Lit.. 182). 182).
10 Thomas Tickell, a 12 A(l«lison was elected
contrihiitor to the lo I'urliainent in
Sfiertafor. 1708.
• Addison, a Whig, and Swift, a T<tr.v. took oppo-
ijlte sides in political controversy.
SAMUEL JOHNSON
3G1
Of his habits, or external manners, nothing
is so often mentioned as that timorous or sul-
len taciturnity, which his friends called mod-
esty by too mild a name. Steele mentions with
great tenderness "that remarkable bashfulness,
which is a cloak that hides and muffles merit ; ' '
and tells us, that ' ' his abilities were covered
only by modesty, which doubles the beauties
which are seen, and gives credit and esteem to
all that are concealed. ' ' Chesterfield affirms,
that "Addison was the most timorous and awk-
ward man that he ever saw." And Addison,
speaking of his own deficiency in conversation,
used to say of himself, that, with respect to
intellectual wealth, ' ' he could draw bills for
a thousand pounds, though he had not a guinea
in his pocket."
That he wanted current coin for ready pay-
ment, and by that want was often obstructed
and distressed; that he was oppressed by an
improper and ungraceful timidity, every testi-
mony concurs to prove; but Chesterfield's rep-
resentation is doubtless hyperbolical. That
man cannot be supposed very unexpert in the
arts of conversation and practice of life, who,
without fortune or alliance, by his usefulness
and dexterity, became Secretary of State; and
who died at forty-seven, after having not only
stood long in the highest rank of wit and liter-
ature, but filled one of the most important
offices of State.
The time in which he lived had reason to
lament his obstinacy of silence ; for ' * he was, ' '
says Steele, "above all men in that talent
called humour, and enjoyed it in such perfec-
tion, that I have often reflected, after a night
spent with him apart from all the world, that
I had had the pleasure of conversing with an
intimate acquaintance of Terence and Catullus,
who had all their wit and nature, heightened
with humour more exquisite and delightful than
any other man ever possessed. ' ' This is the
fondness of a friend ; let us hear what is told
us by a rival. "Addison's conversation," says
Pope, "had something in it more charming
than I have found in any other man. But this
was only when familiar: before strangers, or
perhaps a single stranger, he preserved his dig-
nity by a stiff silence. ' '
This modesty wa.s by no means inconsistent
with a very high opinion of his own merit. He
demanded to be the first name in modern wit ; i3
and, with Steele to echo him. used to depre-
ciate Dryden, whom Pope and Congreve de-
fended against them. There is no reason to
doubt that he suffered too much pain from the
13 Used in the ISth century sense of "polite learn-
ing."
prevalence of Pope 's jwetical reputation ; nor
is it without strong reason suspected, that by
some disingenuous acts he endeavoured to ob-
struct it ; Pope was not the only man whom he
insidiously injured, though the only man of
whom he could be afraid.
His own powers were such as might have
satisfied him with conscious excellence. Of very
extensive learning he has indeeil given no
proofs. He seems to have had small acquaint-
ance with the sciences, and to have read little
except Latin and French ; but of the Latin
poets his Dialogue on Medals show that he had
perused the works with great diligence am!
skill. The abundance of his own mind left
him little need of adventitious sentiments; his
wit always could suggest what the occasion de-
manded. He had read witli critical eyes the
important volume of human life, and knew the
heart of man from the depths of stratagem to
the surface of affectation.
What he knew he could easily communicate.
* ' This, ' ' says Steele, ' ' was particular in this
writer, that, when he had taken his resolution,
or made his plan for what he designed to write,
he would walk about a room, and dictate it into
language with as much freedom and ease as
any one could write it down, and attend to the
coherence and grammar of what he tUctated. ' '
j Pope, who can be less suspected of favouring
I his memorj', tleclares that he wrote very
1 fluently, but was slow and scrupulous in cor-
j reeting; that many of his Spectators were writ-
ten very fast, and sent immediately to the
press; and that it seemed to be for his advan-
tage not to have time for much revisal.
"He would alter," says Pope, "anything to
I please his friends, before publication; but
1 would not retouch his pieces afterwards: and
I believe not one word in Cato, to which I made
an objection, was suffered to stand."
The last line of Cato is Pope's, having been
originally written
And. oh I 'twas this that ended Gate's life.
Pope might have made more objections to the
six concluding linos.t In the first couplet the
words from hence are improper; and the sec-
ond line is taken from Dryden 's Virgil. Of
the next couplet, the first verse being incUuled
in the second, is therefore useless; and in the
third Discord is made to produce Strife.
t "From hence let fierce contending nations know
What dire effects from civil discord flow.
'Tls this that shakes our country with alarms.
And gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms,
Produces fraud, and cruelty, and strife.
And robs the guilty world of Cato's life."
The rather trivial verbal criticism is characteris-
tic of the time.
362
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
Of the course of Addison's familiar day,
before his marriage, Pope has given a detail.
He had in the house with liim Budgell, and
perhaps Philips. His chief companions were
Steele, Budgell, Philips, Carey, Davenant, and
Colonel Brett. With one or other of these he
always breakfasted. He studied all morning;
then dined at a tavern, and went afterwards to
Button 's.
Button had been a servant in the Countess
of Warwick 's family, who, under the patronage
of Addison, kept a coffee-house on the south
side of Russell Street, about two doors from
Covent Garden. Here it was that the wits of
that time used to assemble. It is said that when
Addison suffered any vexation from the
countess, he withdrew the company from But-
ton's house.t
From the coffee-house he went again to a
tavern, where he often sat late, and drank too
much wine. In the bottle, discontent seeks for
comfort, cowardice for courage, and bashfulness
for confidence. It is not unlikely that Addison
was first seduced to excess by the manumission
which he obtained from the servile timidity of
his sober hours. He that feels oppression
from the presence of those to whom he knows
himself superior, will desire to set loose his
powers of conversation; and who, that ever
asked succour from Bacchus, was able to pre-
serve himself from being enslaved by his auxil-
iary!
Among those friends it was that Addison dis-
played the elegance of his colloquial accom-
plishments, which may easily be supposed such
as Pope represents them. The remark of Mande-
ville,J* who, when he had passed an evening in
his company, declared that he was a parson in
a tie-wig,i5 can detract little from his charac-
ter; he was always reserved to strangers, and
was not incited to uncommon freedom by a
character like that of Mandeville.
From any minute knowledge of his familiar
manners, the intervention of sixty years has
now debarred us. Steele once promised Con-
greve and the public a complete description of
his character; but the promises of authors are
like the vows of lovers. Steele thought no more
on his design, or thought on it with anxiety
that at last disgusted him, and left his friend
in the han<i8 of Tickell.
One slight lineament of his character Swift
has preserved. It was his practice, when he
14 Bernard ManJevlIlp, n popt and somewhat of a
cynic.
15 I. p.. In the latest <ourt-fa8hion (tle-wlps linvinR
juHt i'ome in : moreover, the learned profes-
Klonn affected the Imwe. flowlnK wIrs)
t Addison married the <<tunteHH in 1716.
found any man invincibly wrong, to flatter his
ojnnions by acquiescence, and sink him yet
deei)er in absurdity. This artifice of mischief
was admired by Stella ;i« and Swift seems to
approve her admiration.
His works will supply some information. It
appears from his various pictures of the world,
that, with all his bashfulness, he had conversed
with many distinct classes of men, had surveyed
their ways with very diligent observation, and
marked with great acuteness the effects of
different modes of life. He was a man in whose
presence nothing reprehensible was out of dan-
ger; quick in discerning whatever was wrong
or ridiculous, and not unwilling to expose it.
There are, says Steele, in his writings many
oblique strokes upon some of the wittiest men
of the age. His delight was more to excite
merriment than detestation, and he detects fol-
lies rather than crimes.
If any judgment be made, from his books, of
his moral character, nothing will be found but
purity and excellence. Knowledge of mankind,
indeed, less extensive than that of Addison,
will show that to write, and to live, are very
different. Many who praise virtue, do no more
than praise it. Yet it is reasonable to believe
that Addison's professions and practice were at
no great variance, since, amidst that storm of
faction in which most of his life was passed,
though his station made him conspicuous, and
his activity made him formidable, the character
given him by his friends was never contradicted
by his enemies: of those with whom interest
or opinion united him, he had not only the
esteem, but the kindness; and of others, whom
the violence of opposition drove against him,
though he might lose the love, he retained the
reverence.
It is justly observed by Tickell that he em-
ployed wit on the side of virtue and religion.
He not only made the proper use of wit him-
self, but taught it to others; and from his time
it has been generally subservient to the cause
of reason and of truth. He has dissipated the
prejudice that had long connected gaiety with
vice, and easiness of manners with laxity of
principles. He has restored virtue to its dig-
nity, and taught innocence not to be ashamed.
This is an elevation of literary character,
above all Greek, above all lioman fame.^'' No
greater felicity can genius attain than that of
having purified intellectual pleasure, separated
mirth from indecency, and wit from licentious-
ness; of having taught a succession of writers
1 A Swift's Inamorata.
IT Quoted from Pope, To Auguatua.
JAMES BOSWELL
363
to bring elegance and gaiety to the aid of
goodness ;. and, if I may use expressions yet
more awful, of having lurncd many to right-
eousness.^s
JAMES BOSWELL (1740-1795)
From THE LIFE OF SA:MUEL JOHNSON,
LL.D.
Johnson at School
He was first taught to read English by Dame
Oliver, a widow, who kept a school for young
children in Ldehfield. He told me she could read
the black letter, and asked him to borrow for
her, from his father, a Bible in that character.
When he was going to Oxford, she came to take
leave of him, brought him, in the simplicity of
her kindness, a present of gingerbread, and said
he was the best scholar she ever had. He de-
lighted in mentioning this early compliment:
adding, with a smile, that "this was as high
a proof of his merit as he could conceive."
His next instructor in English was a master
whom, when he spoke of him to me, he famil-
iarly called Tom Brown, who, said he, "pub-
lished a spelling-book, and dedicated it to the
Universe; but I fear no copy of it can now be
had."
He began to learn Latin with Mr. Hawkins,
usher, or undermaster, of Lichfield school — "a
man" (said he) "very skilful in his little
way." With him he continued two years, and
then rose to be under the care of Mr. Hunter,
the head master, who, according to his account,
"was very severe and wrongheadedly severe.
He used" (said he) "to beat us unmerci-
fully; and he did not distinguish between
ignorance and negligence; for he would beat a
boy equally for not knowing a thing, as for
neglecting to know it. He would ask a boy a
question, and if he did not answer it, he would
beat him, without considering whether he had
an opportunity of knowing how to answer it.
For instance, he would call up a boy and ask
him Latin for a candlestick, which the boy
could not expect to be asked. Now, Sir, if a
boy could answer every question, there would
be no need of a master to teach him."
However, . . . Johnson was very sensible
how much he owed to Mr. Hunter. Mr. Langton
one day asked him how he had acquired so accu-
rate a knowledge of Latin, in which I believe he
was exceeded by no man of his time; he said,
■"My master whipt me very well. Without
that, sir, I should have done nothing." He
i» Daniel, xii, 3.
told Mr. Langton that while Hunter was flog-
ging his boys unmercifully, he used to say,
"And this I do to save you from the gallows."
Johnson, upon all occasions, expressed his ap-
probation of enforcing instruction by means of
the rod. "I would rather" (said he) "have
the rod to be the general terror to all, to make
them learn, than tell a child, if you do thus, or
thus, you will be more esteemed than your
brothers or sisters. The rod produces an effect
which terminates in itself. A child is afraid
of being whipped, and gets his task, and there 's
an end on't: whereas, by exciting emulation
and comparisons of superiority, you lay the
foundation of lasting mischief; you make
brothers and sisters hate each other," . . .
That superiority over his fellows, which he
maintained with so much dignity in his march
through life, was not assumed from vanity and
ostentation, but was the natural and constant
effect of those extraordinary powers of mind,
of which he could not but be conscious by com-
parison; the intellectual difference, which in
other cases of comparison of characters, is
often a matter of undecided contest, being as
clear in his case as the superiority of stature
in some men above others. Johnson did not
strut or stand on tiptoe; he only did not stoop.
From his earliest years, his superiority was
perceived and acknowledged. He was from the
beginning anaa; andron, a king of men. His
schoolfellow, Mr, Hector, has obligingly fur-
nished me with many particulars of his boyish
days; and assured me that he never knew him
corrected at school but for talking and divert-
ing other boys from their business. He seemed
to learn by intuition; for though indolence and
procrastination were inherent in his constitu-
tion, whenever he made an exertion he did more
than any one else. In short, he is a memorable
instance of what has been often observed, that
the boy is the man in miniature; and that the
distinguishing characteristics of each individual
are the same through the whole course of life.
His favourites used to receive very liberal
assistance from him; and such was the sub-
mission and deference with which he was
treated, such the desire to obtain his regard,
that three of the boys, of whom Mr. Hector was
sometimes one, used to come in the morning
as his humble attendants, and carry him to
school. One in the middle stooped while he sat
upon his back, and one on each side supported
him, and thus he was borne triumphant. Such
a proof of the early predominance of intellec-
tual vigour is very remarkable, and does honour
to human nature.
304
LATER KIGHTKKXTII ( KNTURY
Johnson's Friends, 1752-53*
His acquaintance with Bennet Langton, Esq.,
of Langton, iu Lincolnshire, another much val-
ued friend, commenced soon after the conclu-
sion of his Bambler; which that gentleman,
then a youth, had read with so much admira-
tion, that he came to London chiefly with the
view of endeavouring to be introduced to its
author. By a fortunate chance he happened to
take lodgings in a house where Mr. Leveti fre-
quently visited; and having mentioned his w-ish
to his landlady, she introduced him to ^Ir.
Levet, who readily obtained Johnson 's permis-
sion to bring Mr, Langton to him; as, indeed,
Johnson, during the whole course of his life,
had no shyness, real or affected, but was easy
of access to all who were properly recommended,
and even wished to see numbers at his levee, as
his morning circle of company might, with
strict propriety, be called. INIr. Langton was
exceedingly surprised when the sage first ap-
peared. He had not received tlie smallest inti-
mation of his figure, dress, or manner. From
perusing his writings, he fancied he should see
a decent, well-drest, in short, a remarkably
decorous philosopher. Instead of which, down
from his bed-chamber, about noon, came, as
newly risen, a huge uncouth figure, with a little
dark wig which scarcely covered his head, and
his clothes hanging loose about him. But his
conversation was so rich, so animated, and so
forcible, and his religious and political notions
so congenial with those in which Langton had
been educated, that he conceived for him that
veneration and attachment which he ever pre-
served. ...
One night when Beauclerks and Langton had
supped at a tuvern in London, and sat till
about three in the morning, it came into their
heads to go and knock up Johnson, and see if
they could prevail on him to join them in a
ramble. They rapped violently at the door of
his chambers in the Temple, till at last he
appeared in bis sliirt, with his little black wig
on the top of his head, instead of a nightcap,
and a poker in his hand, imagining, probably,
that some ruffians were coming to attack him.
When he di.scovered who they were, and was
told their errand, he smiled, and with great
good humour agreed to their proposal: "What,
is it you, you dogs! I'll have a frisk with
you." He was soon dressed, and they sallied
I A KurReon, andodd 2A Rcntlcnian of pIp-
oharacfpr. inmatp Kant taHtPs 1) u t
of Dr. .JobaKon's rather f r p e mun-
lionsp. nors and opinions.
• Thp«<p ilatPH IndicfltP tho pprlod of .Tohnson'K
llfo undpr which the particular records are
made. See nny edition of Boswell's Johnnnn.
forth together into Covent-Garden, where the
greengrocers and fruiterers were begiuiiiug to
arrange their hampers, just come in from the
country. Johnson made some attempts to help
them; but the honest gardeners stared so at his
figure and manner, and odd interference, that
he soon saw his services were not relished.
They then repaired to one of the neighbouring
taverns, and made a bowl of that liquor called
Bishop,-' which Johnson had always liked :
while, in joyous contempt of sleep, from which
he had been roused, he repeated the festive
lines,
"Short, o short, then be thy reign.
And give us to the world again !"
They did not «tay long, but walked down to
the Thames, took a boat, and rowed to Billings-
gate. Beauclerk and Johnson were so well
pleased with their amusement that they resolved
to persevere in dissipation for the rest of the
day: but Langton deserted them, being engaged
to breakfast with some young ladies. Johnson
scolded him for "leaving his social friends, to
go and sit with a set of wretched un-idea'd
girls." Garrick being told of this ramble, said
to him smartly, "I heard of your frolic t'other
night. You'll be in the Chronicle." Upon
which Johnson afterwards observed, "He durst
not do such a thing. His wife would not let
him!"
He entered upon this year, 1753, with his
usual piety, as appears from the following
prayer, which I transcribetl from that part of
his diary which he burned a few days before
his death:
"Jan. 1, 1753, N. S.,* which I shall use for
the future.
"Almighty God, mIio hast continued my life
to this day, grant that, by the assistance of
thy Holy Spirit, I may im])rove the time which
thou shalt grant me, to my eternal salvation.
Make me to remember, to thy glory, thy judg-
ments and thy mercies. Make me so to consider
the loss of my wife, whom thou hast taken from
me, that it may dispose me by thy grace, to lead
the residue of my life in thy fear. Grant this.
O I>ORi). for .Tesus Christ '.s sake. Amen. ' '
.TOHNSON AND Goi.nsMiTH, 1773
He and Mr. T.augton :ind I went together to
The Cl.rn.^ vhere we found Mr. Burke. Mr.
" Mulled wine, ornni^cs 4 The Literary Cluh. See
and siiRar Knu- Ut.. p. -'07
• New style: rel'erring to the change to the Cri*-
Koriiin ciilfiKliir. which was adopted In Knsr-
ImihI 111 ITTiL'. when the dates hetween Septeiii-
lier I'lid and 14th were omitted.
JAMES BOSXV'ELL
3Gr)
(Janick, aud some other members, ami amongst
thoin our friend Goldsmith, who sat silently
brooding over Johnson 's reprimand to him
after dinner.! Johnson perceived this, and said
aside to some of us, "I'll make Goldsmith
forgive me ; " and then called to him in a loud
voice, ' ' Dr. Goldsmith — something passed to-
day where you and I dined: I ask your
pardon. ' ' Goldsmith answered placidly, * ' It
must be much from you, Sir, that I take ill. ' '
And so at once the difference was over, and
they were on as easy terms as ever, and Gold-
smith rattled away as usual.
In our way to the club to-night, when I
regretted that Goldsmith would, upon every
occasion, endeavour to shine, by which he often
exposed himself, Mr. Langton observed that he
was not like Addison, who was content with the
fame of his writings, and did not aim also at
excellency in conversation, for which he found
hiaiself unfit : and that he said to a lady who
complained of his having talked little in com-
pany, "Madam, I have but nine-pence in ready
money, but I can draw for a thousand pounds. ' '
I observed Ihat Goldsmith had a great deal of
gold in his cabinet, but not content with that,
was always taking out his purse. Johnson.
" Yes, Sir, and that so often an empty purse! "
(ioldsmith's incessant desire of being con-
spicuous in company was the occasion of his
sometimes appearing to such disadvantage as
one should hardly have supposed possible in a
man of his genius. When his literary reputa-
tion had risen deservedly high, and his society
was much courted, he became very jealous of
the extraordinary attention which was every-
where paid to Johnson. One evening, in a
circle of wits, he found fault with me for
talking of Johnson as entitled to the honour
of unquestionable superiority. "Sir, (said he,)
you are for making a monarchy of what should
be a republic."
He was still more mortified, when talking in
a company with fluent vivacity, and, as he
flattered himself, to the admiration of all who
were present; a German who sat next him,
and perceived Johnson rolling himself as if
about to speak, suddenly stopped him, saying,
' ' Stay, stay — Toctor Shonson is going to say
something." This was, no doubt, very pro-
voking, especially to one so irritable as Gold-
smith, who frequently mentioned it with strong
expressions of indignation.
It mav also be observed that Goldsmith was
sometimes content to be treated with an easy
familiarity, but upon occasions would be con-
sequential and important. An instance of this
occurred in a small particular. Johnson had a
way of contracting the names of his friends:
as Beauclerk, Beau; Boswell, Bozzy; Langton,
Lanky; Murphy, Mur; Sheridan,5 Sherry. 1
remember one day, when Tom Daviess was
telling that Dr. Johnson said, "We are all in
labour for a name to Goldy's play," Goldsmith
seemed displeased that such a liberty should
be taken with his name, and said, "I have
often desired him not to call me Goldy." Tom
was remarkably attentive to the most minute
circumstance about Johnson. I recollect his
telling me once, on my arrival in London, ' ' Sir,
our great friend has made an improvement on
his appellation of old Mr. Sheridan. He calls
him now Sherry derry."
Critical Opinions
1775. Johnson was in high spirits tills
evening at the club, and talked with great
animation and success. He attacked Swift, as
he used to do upon all occasions. "The 'Tale
of a Tub' is so much superior to his other
writings, that one can hardly believe he was
the author of it: there is in it such a vigour
of mind, such a swarm of thoughts, so much of
nature, and art, and life." , I wondered to
hear him say of ' ' Gulliver 's Travels, " " When
once you have thought of big men and little
men, it is very easy to do all the rest." I
endeavoured to make a stand for Swift, and
tried to rouse those who were much more able
to defend him; but in vain. Johnson at last,
of his own accord, allowed very great merit to
the inventory of articles found in the pocket of
' ' the Man Mountain, ' ' particularly the descrip-
tion of his watch, which it was conjectured was
his God, as he consulted it upon all occasions.
He ob.served, that "Swift put his name to but
two things (after he had a name to put), 'The
Plan for the Improvement of the English Lan-
guage,' and the last 'Drapier's Letter.' "
1775. Next day I dined Avith Johnson at
Mr. Thrale's. He attacked Gray, calling liim
"a dull fellow." Boswell. "I understand
he was reserved, and might appear dull in com-
pany ; but surely he was not dull in poetry. ' '
Johnson. "Sir, he was dull in company, dull
in his closet, dull everywhere. He was dull in a
new way, and that made many people think him
GRE.vr. He was a mechanical poet. ' ' He then
t Xftoi- one of Tohnscn's lonj? dlscourse.s. Gold- •'• Thomas Sheridan, father of the dramatist.
smith had Ix'^sed that somebodv else might | 6 A bookseller and publisher who published a pir-
hc hoard : whereupon Johnson called him im- 1 ated edition of .Tohnson'.s writings but was
pertinent. I forgiven by him.
366
LATER EIGHTEENTH ( ENTURY
repeated some ludicrous lines, which have
escaped my memory, and said, "Is not that
GREAT, like liis Odes?" Mrs. Thrale maintained
that his Odes were melodious; upon which he
exclaimed,
(t 'Weave the warp, and weave the woof;' "
I added, in a solemn tone,
" 'The winding-sheet of Edward's race.'
There is a good line."— "Ay, (said he,) and
the next line is a good one (pronouncing it
contemptuously),
" 'Give ample verge and room enough.'
No, Sir, there are but two good stanzas in
Gray 's poetry, which are in his ' Elegy in a
Country Churchyard.' " He then repeated the
stanza,
"For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey," &c.,
mistaking one word; for instead of precincts
he said confines. He added, ' ' The other stanza
I forget."
1776. Talking of The Spectator, he said,
"It is wonderful that there is such a propor-
tion of bad papers in the half of the work
which was not written by Addison; for there
was all the world to write that half, yet not a
half of that half is good. ' '
Talk at the Club, 1778
On Friday, April 3, I dined with him in
London, in a company where were present
several eminent men, whom 1 shall not name,
but distinguish their parts in the conversation
by different letters.*
F. "I have been looking at this famous
antique marble dog of Mr. Jenning8,t value<l
at a thousand guineas, said to be Alcibiades's
dog." Johnson. "His tail then must be
• "It appears, by the books of the Club, that the
company ou that oveninR consisted of Dr.
.lohnson. president, Mr. Burke, Mr. Boswell,
Dr. George Fordyce, Mr. Gibbon, Sir Joshua
Reynolds, Lord I'npor Ossorv, and Mr. R. B.
Sheridan. In Mr. Boswell's account the letter K
no doubt stands for Kdinund Burke ; h\, in
allusion to his family name of Fltzpatrick.
probably means Lord Upper Ossory ; but the
appropriation of the other letters Is very
dlfflcnlt."— Croker.
t Henry ('. Jennings, a collector of antiques. The
marble dog was at this date an objeet of gient
curiosity In London. Johnson hiid In mind
the story in Plutarch's Uvea: "Ahlbiades
ui u* *^ "' uncommon size and lK»auty,
which eoHt him seventy minae, and vet h'ls
tall, which was his principal orDament. he
caused to be cut off."
docked. That was the mark of Alcibiades's
dog." E. "A thousand guineas! The repre-
sentation of no animal whatever is worth so
much. At this rate a dead dog would indeed
be better than a living lion. " Johnson. "Sir
it is not the worth of the thing, but of the'
Hkill in forming it, which is so highly esti-
mated. Everything that enlarges the sphere of
liuman powers, that shows man he can do what
he thought he could not do, is valuable. The
first man who balanced a straw upon his nose;
Johnson who rode upon three horses at a time;
in short, all such men deserved the applause of
mankind, not on account of the use of what
they did, but of the dexterity which they exhib-
ited." Boswell. "Yet a misapplication of
time and assiduity is not to be encouraged.
Addison, in one of his Spectators, commends
the judgment of a King, who as a suitable
reward to a man that by long perseverance had
attained to the art of tlirowing a barley-corn
through the eye of a needle, gave him a bushel
of barley." Johnson. "He must have been
a King of Scotland, where barley is scarce."
F. "One of the most remarkable antique
figures of an animal is the boar at Florence.
Johnson. "The first boar that is well made
in marble, should be preserved as a wonder.
When men arrive at a facility of making boars
well, then the workmanship is not of such
value, but they should however be preserved as
examples, and as a greater security for the
restoration of the art, should it be lost." . .
E. "From the experience Avhich I have had
—and I have had a great deal — I have learnt
to think better of mankind." Johnson.
' ' From my experience I have found them worse
in commercial dealings, more disposed to cheat
than T had any notion of; but more disposed to
do one another good than I had conceived."
J. "Less just and more beneficent." John-
son. "And really it is wonderful, considering
how much attention is necessary for men to
take care of themselves, and ward off imme-
diate evils which press upon them, it is wonder-
ful how much they do for others. As it is said
of the greatest liar, that he tells more truth
than falsehood; so it may be said of the worst
man, that he does more good than evil. ' ' Bos-
well. "Perhaps from experience men may be
found happier than we supjioae. ' ' Johnson.
"No, Sir; the more we enquire we shall find
men the less happy." P. "As to thinking
better or worse of mankind from experience,
some cunning people will not be satisfied unless
they have put men to the test, as they think.
There is a very good Rtory told of Sir Godfrey
JAMES BOSWELL
367
Kneller," in his character of a justice of the
peace. A gentlcjuan brought his servant before
liiin, upon an accusation of having stolen some
money from him; but it having come out that
he had laid it purposely in the servant's way
in order to try his honesty, Sir Godfrey sent
the master to prison." Johxson. "To resist
temptation once is not a sufficient proof of
honesty. If a servant, indeed, were to resist
the continued temptation of silver lying in a
window, as some people let it lie, when he is
sure his master does not know how much there
is of it, he would give a strong proof of
honesty. But this is a proof to which you have
no right to put a man. You know, humanly
speaking, there is a certain degree of tempta-
tion which will overcome any virtue. Now, in
BO far as you approach temptation to a man,
you do him an injury; and, if he is overcome,
you share his guilt."
Johnson's Character
The character of Samuel Johnson has, I
trust, been so developed in the course of this
work, that they who have honoured- it with a
perusal may be considered as well acquainted
with him. As, however, it may be expected
that I should collect into one view the capital
and distinguishing features of this extraor-
dinary man, I shall endeavour to acquit myself
of that part of my biographical undertaking,
however difficult it may be to do that which
many of my readers will do better for them-
selves.
His figure was large and well formed, and
his countenance of the cast of an ancient
statue ; yet his appearance was rendered strange
and somewhat uncouth, by convulsive cramps,
by the scars of that distempers which it was
once imagined the royal touch could cure, and
by a slovenly mode of dress. He had the use
only of one eye ; yet so much does mind govern,
and even supply the deficiency of organs, that
his visual perceptions, as far as they extended,
were uncommonly quick and accurate. So mor-
bid was his temperament,^ that he never knew
the natural joy of a free and vigorous use of
his limbs: when he walked, it was like the
struggling gait of one in fetters; when he
rode, he had no command or direction of his
horse, but was carried as if in a balloon. That
with his constitution and habits of life he
should have lived seventy-five years, is a proof
7 rortrnit painter to Charles II. and William III.
8 Scrofula, or King's Evil. On the "royal touch,"
SCO Evelyn's Diani, July 6, 1660 (p. 274).
so slclvlv was Ills constitution
that an inherent vivida visio ig a powerful
preservative of the human frame.
Man is, in general, made up of contradictory
qualities; and these will ever show themselves
in strange succession where a consistency, in
appearance at least, if not in reality, has not
been attained by long habits of philosophical
discipline. In proportion to the native vigour of
the mind, the contradictory qualities will be
the more prominent, and more difficult to be
adjusted; and, therefore, we are not to wonder
that Johnson exhibited an eminent example of
this remark which I have made upon human
nature. At different times he seemed a dif-
ferent man, in some respects; not, however, in
any great or essential article upon which he
had fully employed his mind and settled cer-
tain principles of duty, but only in his manners,
and in the display of argument and fancy in
his talk. He was prone to superstition, but not
to credulity. Though his imagination might
incline him to a belief of the marvellous and
the mysterious, his vigorous reason examined
the evidence with jealousy. He was a sincere
and zealous Christian, of high Church-of-Eng-
land and monarchical principles, which he
would not tamely suffer to be questioned; and
had, perhaps, at an early period, narrowed his
mind somewhat too much, both as to religion
and politics. His being impressed with the
danger of extreme latitude in either, though he
was of a very independent spirit, occasioned his
appearing somewhat unfavourable to the prev-
alence of that noble freedom of sentiment
which is the best possession of man. Nor can
it be denied that he had many prejudices;
which, however, frequently suggested many of
his pointed sayings, that rather show a playful-
ness of fancy than any settled malignity. He
was steady and inflexible in maintaining the
obligations of religion and morality; both from
a regard for the order of society, and from a
veneration for the Great Source of all order;
correct, nay, stern in his taste; hard to please
and easily offended ; impetuous and irritable in
his temper, but of a most humane and benevo-
lent heart, which showed itself not only in a
most liberal charity, as far as his circumstances
would allow, but in a thousand instances of
active benevolence. He was afflicted with a
bodily disease, which made him often restless
and fretful; and with a constitutional melan-
choly, the clouds of which darkened the bright-
ness of his fancy, and gave a gloomy east to
his whole course of thinking: we, therefore,
ought not to wonder at his sallies of impatience
10 living force, spiritual energy
3G8
LATER ElGUTEiuNTlI CEJiTUEY
and passion at any time; especially when pro-t
voked by obtrusive ignorance, or presuming !
petulance; and allowance must be made for his
uttering hasty and satirical sallies even against
his best friends. And, surely, when it is con-
sidered that ' ' amidst sickness and sorrow ' ' he
exerted his faculties in so many works for the
benefit of mankind, and particularly that he
achieved the great and admirable Dictionary
of our language, we must be astonished at his
resolution. The solemn text, ' ' Of him to whom
much is given much will be required," seems to
have been ever present to his mind, in a rigor-
ous sense, and to have made him dissatisfied
with his labours and acts of goodness, however
comparatively great ; so that the unavoidable
consciousness of his superiority was, in that
respect, a cause of disquiet. He suffered so
much from this, and from the gloom which
perpetually haunted him and made solitude
frightful, that it may be said of him, "If in
this life only he had hope, he was of all men
most miserable. ' '
He loved praise, when it was brought to him ;
but was too proud to seek for it. He was some-
what susceptible of flattery. As he was general
and unconfined in his studies, he cannot be con-
sidered as master of any one particular science;
but he had accumulated a vast and various col-
lection of learning and knowledge, which was
so arranged in his mind as to be ever in readi-
ness to be brought forth. But his superiority
over other learned men consisted chiefly in what
may be called the art of thinking, the art of
using his mind; a certain continual power of
seizing the useful substance of all that he knew,
and exhibiting it in a clear and forcible man-
ner; so that knowledge, which we often see to
be no better than lumber in men of dull under-
standing, was, in him, true, evident, and actual
wisdom. His moral precepts are practical ; for
they are drawn from an intimate acquaintance
with human nature. His maxims carry convic-
tion: for they are founded on the basis of com-
mon sense and a very attentive and minute sur-
vey of real life. His mind was so full of
imagery, that he might have been i)erpetually
a poet; yet it is remarkable that however rich
his prose is in this respect, his poetical pieces,
in general, have not much of that splendour,
but are rather distinguished by strong senti-
ment, and acute observation, conveyed in har-
monious and energetic verse, particularly in
heroic couplets.
Though usually grave, and even awful in his
ileportnient, he po88eM8e<l uncommon and pecu-
liar powers of wit ami humour; he frequently
indulged himself in colloquial pleasantry; and
the heartiest merriment was often enjoyed in
his company; with this great advantage, tliat,
as it was entirely free from any poisonous tinc-
ture of vice or impiety, it was salutary to those
who shared in it. He ha<l accustomed himself
to such accuracy in his common conversation,
that he at all times expressed his thoughts with
great force and an elegant choice of language,
the eff"ect of which was aided by his having a
loud voice, and a slow, deliberate utterance.
In him were united a most logical head with a
most fertile imagination, which gave him an
extraordinary advantage in arguing: for he
could reason close or wide, as he saw best for
the moment. Exulting in his intellectual
strength and dexterity, he could, when he
pleased, be the greatest sophist that ever con-
tended in the lists of declamation ; and, from a
spirit of contradiction, and a delight in show-
ing his powers, he would often maintain the
wrong side with equal warmth and ingenuity;
so that, when there was an audience, his real
opinions could seldom be gathered from bis
talk ; though when he was in company w ith a
single friend, he would discuss a subject with
genuine fairness ; but he was too conscientious
to make error permanent and pernicious by
deliberately writing it; and, in all his numerous
works, he earnestly inculcated what appeared
to liim to be the truth ; his piety being constant,
and the ruling principle of all his conduct.
Stich was Sami'el Johxsox, a man whose
talents, acquirements, and virtues were so
extraordinary, that the more his character is
considered, the more he will be regarded by the
present age, and by posterity, with admiration
and reverence.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-1774)
From THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD*
Letter I
To Mr.
-, Merchant in London.
Amsterdam.
Sir, — Yours of the 13th in.stant, covering two
bills, one on Messrs. R. and D., value £478 10s.,
and the other on Mr. — , value £28;), duly came
to hand, the former of which met with honour,
but the other has been trifled with, and I am
afraid will be returned protested.
• These "Chinese Letters," as they were rommonly
called. 123 in number, wen> written lor Tlir
I'ubliv l.edijcf In 17«0 and 1T01. Tho source
of thoir popularity lay In the amusing social
satire obtained by viewhiK the cuslomw of one
countrv throuKh the eyes of n citl/en of
another. Men <'hl .Mtanni U of course llcti
tious. as are the other Chinese characters
mentioned.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
369
The bearer of this is my frietitl, therefore let
him be yours. He is a native of Honan in
China, and one who did me signal services,
when he was a mandarin, and I a factor, at
Canton. By frequently conversing with the
English there, he has learned the language,
though entirely a stranger to their manners and
customs. I am told he is a philosopher; I am
sure he is an honest man : that to you will be
his best recommendation, next to the considera-
tion of his being the friend of, Sir,
Yours, etc.
Letter II
Me reliant in
Frovi Lien Chi Altangi to -
Amsterdam.
London.
Friend ok my Heart,— May the wings of
peace rest upon thy dwelling, and the shield of
conscience preserve thee from vice and misery I
For all thy favours accept my gratitude and
esteem, the only tributes a poor philosophic
wanderer can return. Sure, fortune is resolved
to make me unhappy, when she gives others a
power of testifying their friendship by actions,
and leaves me only words to express the sin-
cerity of mine.
I am perfectly sensible of the delicacy with
Avhich you endeavour to lessen your own merit
and my obligations. By calling your late in-
stances of friendship only a return for former
favours, j'ou would induce me to impute to your
justice what I owe to your generosity.
The services I did you at Canton, justice,
humanity, and my office bade me perform ;
those you have done me since my arrival at
Amsterdam, no laws obliged you to, no justice
required. Even half your favours would have
been greater than my most sanguine expecta-
tions.
The sum of money, therefore, which you pri-
vately conveyed into my baggage when I was
leaving Holland, and which I was ignorant of
till my arrival in London, I must beg leave to
return. You have been bred a merchant, and
T a scholar ; you consequently love money better
than I. You can find pleasure in superfluity;
1 am perfectly content with what is sufficient.
Take therefore Avhat is yours: it may give you
some pleasure, even though you have no occa-
sion to use it ; my happiness it cannot improve,
for I have already all that I want.
My passage by sea from Rotterdam to Eng-
land was more painful to me than all the
journeys I ever made on land. I have traversed
the immeasurable wilds of Mogul Tartary; felt
all the rigours of Siberian skies: I have had
my repose a hundred times disturbed by invad-
ing savages, and have seen, without shrinking,
the desert sands rise like a troubled ocean all
around me. Against these calamities I was
armed with resolution; but in my passage to
England, though nothing occurred that gave
the mariners any uneasiness, to one who was
never at sea before all was a subject of aston-
ishment and terror. To find the land disappear
— to see our ship mount the waves, swift as an
arrow^ from the Tartar bow — to hear the wind
howling through the cordage — to feel a sickness
which depresses even the spirits of the brave, —
these were unexpected distresses, and conse-
quently assaulted me, unprepared to receive
them.
You men of P^urope think nothing of a voy-
age by sea. With us of China a man who has
been from sight of laud is regarded upon his
return with admiration. I have known some
provinces where there is not even a name for
the ocean. What a strange people, therefore,
am I got amongst, who have founded an empire
on this unstable element, who build cities upon
billows that rise higher than the mountains of
Tipartala,! and make the deep more formidable
than the wildest tempest!
Such accounts as these, I must confess, were
my first motives for seeing England. These
induced me to undertake a journey of seven
hundred painful days, in order to examine its
opulence, buildings, sciences, arts, and manu-
factures, on the spot. .Judge, then, my disap-
pointment on entering London, to see no signs
of that opulence so much talked of abroad:
wherever I turn I am presented with a gloomy
solemnity in the houses, the streets, and the
inhabitants; none of that beautiful gilding
which makes a principal ornament in Chinese
anhitecture. The streets of Nankin are some-
times strewed with gold leaf; very different are
those of London: in the midst of their pave-
ment a great lazy puddle moves muddily along;
heavy-laden machines, with wheels of unwieldy
thickness, crowd up every passage: so that a
stranger, instead of finding time for observa-
tion, is often happy if he has time to escape
from being crushed to pieces.
The houses borrow very few ornaments from
architecture; their chief decoration seems to be
a paltry piece of painting hung out at their
doors or windows,2 at once a proof of their
indigence and vanity: their vanity, in each
having one of those pictures exposed to public
view; and their indigence, in being unable to
1 Unidentified.
2 House or door signs wi<re formerly extensively
used in London in place of numbers.
370
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY
get them better painted. In this respect the
fancy of their painters is also deplorable.
Could you believe it? I have seen five black
lions and three blue boars in less than the
circuit of half a mile; and yet you know that
animals of these colours are nowhere to be
found, except in the wild imaginations of
Europe.
From these circumstances in their buildings,
and from the dismal looks of the inhabitants, I
am induced to conclude that the nation is actu-
ally poor; and that, like the Persians, they
make a splendid figure everywhere but at home.
The proverb of Xixofou is, that a man 's riches
may be seen in his eyes: if we judge of the
English by this rule, there is not a poorer
nation under the sun.
I have been here but two days, so will not
be hasty in my decisions. Such letters as 1
shall write to Fipsihi in Moscow I beg you will
endeavor to forward with all diligence; I shall
send them open, in order that you may take
copies or translations, as you are equally versed
in the Dutch and Chinese languages. Dear
friend, think of my absence with regret, as I
sincerely regret yours; even while I write, I
lament our separation. Farewell.
Letter III
From Lien Chi Altangi to the care of Fipsihi,
resident in Moscoiv ; to he forwarded hy the
Russian caravan to Fum Roam, First President
of the Ceremonial Academy at PeJcin, in China.
Think not, O thou guide of my youth, that
absence can impair my respect, or interposing
trackless deserts blot your reverend figure from
my memory. The farther I travel I feel the
pain of separation with stronger force; those
ties that bind me to my native country and you
are still unbroken. By every remove I only
drag a greater length of chain.
Could I find aught worth transmitting from
80 remote a region as this to which I have wan-
dered, I ihould gladly send it; but, instead of
this, you must be contented with a renewal of
my former professions, and an imperfect
account of a people with whom I am as yet but
superficially acquainted. The remarks of a man
who has been but three days in the country can
only be those obvious circumstances which force
themselves upon the imagination. I consider
myself here as a newly created being introduced
into .a new world. Every object strikes with
wonder and surprise. The imagination, still
ungated, seems the only active principle of the
miml. The most trifling occurrences give
pleasure till the gloss of novelty is worn away.
When I have ceased to wonder, I may possibly
grow wise; 1 may then call the reasoning
principle to my aid, and compare those objects
with each other, which were before examined
without reflection.
Behold me, then, in London, gazing at the
strangers, and they at me. It seems they find
somewhat absurd in my figure; and had I never
been from home, it is possible I might find an
infinite fund of ridicule in theirs: but by long
travelling I am taught to laugh at folly alone,
and to find nothing truly ridiculous but villainy
and vice.
When I had just quitted my native country,
and crossed the Chinese wall, I fancied every
deviation from the customs and manners of
China was a departing from nature. I smiled
at the blue lips and red foreheads of the
Tonguese;3 and could hardly contain when I
saw the Daures* dress their heads with horns.
The Ostiacss powdered with red earth, and the
Calmucks beauties, tricked out in all the finery
of sheepskin, appeared highly ridiculous. But
I soon perceived that the ridicule lay not in
them but in me; that I falsely condemned
others for absurdity, because they happened to
differ from a standard originally founded in
prejudice or partiality.
I find no pleasure, therefore, in taxing the
English with departing from nature in their
external appearance, which is all I yet know of
their character: it is possible they only en-
deavour to improve her simple plan, since every
extravagance in dress proceeds from a desire of
becoming more beautiful than nature made us;
and this is so harmless a vanity, that I not only
pardon, but approve it. A desire to be more
excellent than others is what actually makes us
so; and as thousands find a livelihood in society
by such appetites, none but the ignorant inveigh
against them.
You are not insensible, most reverend Fum
Hoam, what numberless trades, even among the
Chinese, subsist by the harmless pride of each
other. Your nose-borers, feet-swathers, teeth-
stainers, eyebrow-pluckers, would all want
bread, should their neighbours want vanity.
These vanities, however, employ much fewer
hands in China than in England; and a fine
gentleman or a fine lady here, dressed up to the
fashion, seems scarcely to have a single limb
that does not suffer some distortions from art.
To make a fine gentleman several trades are
n Thp TnnRiisos. Monffollnns of oastcrn Siberia.
4 The Oaurians, in Manchuria.
.". A trl'x' of wostern Siberia.
Western Mongols.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
371
required, but chiefly a barber. You have un-
doubtedly heard of the Jewish champion^ whose
strength lay in his hair. One would think that
the English were for placing all wisdom there.
To appear wise, nothing more is requisite here
than for a man to borrow hair from the heads
of all his neighbours, and clap it like a bush on
his own. The distributors of law and physic
stick on such quantities, that it is almost impos-
sible, even in idea, to distinguish between the
head and the hair.
Those whom I have now been describing
affect the gravity of the lion; those I am going
to describe more resemble the pert vivacity of
smaller animals. The barber, who is still mas-
ter of the ceremonies, cuts their hair close to
the crown; and then, with a composition of
meal and hog's-lard, plasters the whole in such
a manner as to make it impossible to distin-
guish whether the patient wears a cap or a
])hister; but, to make the picture more perfectly
striking, conceive the tail of some beast, a
greyhound's tail, or a pig's tail, for instance,
appended to the back of the head, and reaching
down to the place where tails in other animals
are generally seen to begin; thus betailed and
bepowdered, the man of taste fancies he im-
proves in beauty, dresses up his hard-featured
face in smiles, and attempts to look hideously
tender. Thus equipped, he is qualified to make
love, and hopes for success more from the
powder on the outside of his head than the
sentiments within.
Yet when I consider what sort of a creature
the fine lady is to whom he is supposed to pay
his addresses, it is not strange to find him thus
equipped in order to please. She is herself
every whit as fond of powder, and tails, and
hog's lard, as he. To speak my secret senti-
ments, most reverend Fum, the ladies here are
horridly ugly; I can hardly endure the sight of
them ; they no way resemble the beauties of
China: the Europeans have a quite different
idea of beauty from us. When I reflect on the
small-footed perfections of an Eastern beauty,
how is it possible I should have eyes for a
woman whose feet are ten inches long? I shall
never forget the beauties of my native city of
Xangfew, How very broad their faces! how
very short their noses! how very little their
eyes! how very thin their lips! how very black
their teeth! the snow on the tops of Baos is
not fairer than their cheeks; and their eyebrows
are small as the line by the pencil of Quamsi.
Here a lady with such perfections would be
frightful. Dutch and Chinese beauties, indeed,
7 Samson {.Judges xvi, 17)
have some resemblance, but English women are
entirely different; red cheeks, big eyes, and
teeth of a most odious whiteness, are not only
seen here, but wished for; and then they have
9uch masculine feet, as actually serve some for
walking!
Yet, uncivil as nature has been, they seem
resolved to outdo her in unkindness: they use
white powder, blue powder, and black powder
for their hair, and a red powder for the face
on some particular occasions.
They like to have the face of various colours,
as among the Tartars of Koreki,* frequently
sticking on, with spittle, little black patches on
every part of it, except on the tij) of the nose,
which I have never seen with a patch. You'll
have a better idea of their manner of placing
these spots when I have finished a map of an
English face patched up to the fashion, which
shall shortly be sent to increase your curious
collection of paintings, medals, and monsters.
But what surprises more than all the rest is
what I have just now been credibly informed
of by one of this country. ' ' Most ladies here,' '
says he, ' ' have two faces ; one face to sleep in,
and another to show in company. The first is
generally reserved for the husband and family
at home; the other put on to please strangers
abroad. The family face is often indifferent
enough, but the out-door one looks something
better; this is always made at the toilet, where
the looking-glass and toad-eater^ sit in council,
and settle the complexion of the day."
I cannot ascertain the truth of this remark:
however, it is actually certain that they wear
more clothes within doors than without ; and I
have seen a lady, who seemed to shudder at a
breeze in her own apartment, appear half naked
in the streets. Farewell.
Letter IV
To the Same
The English seem as silent as the Japanese,
yet vainer than the inhabitants of Siam. Upon
my arrival I attributed that reserve to modesty,
which, I now find, has its origin in pride. Con-
descend to address them first, and you are sure
of their acquaintance; stoop to flattery, and
you conciliate their friendship and esteem.
They bear hunger, cold, fatigue, and all the
miseries of life, without shrinking; danger only
calls forth their fortitude ; they even exult in
calamity: but contempt is what they cannot
bear. An Englishman fears contempt more
s rnidentified : possibly invented.
y flattering attendant
'372
LATEE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
than death; he often flies to death as a refuge
from its pressure, and dies when he fancies the
world has ceased to esteem him.
Pride seems the source not only of their
national vices, but of their national virtues
also. An Englishman is taught to love his king
as his friend, but to acknowledge no other
master than the laws which himself has con-
tributed to enact. He despises those nations
who, that one may be free, are all content to
be slaves; who first lift a tyrant into terror,
and then shrink under his power as if delegated
from Heaven. Liberty is echoed in all then-
assemblies: and thousands might be found
ready to offer up their lives for the sound,
though perhaps not one of all the number
undenstands its meaning. The lowest mechanic,
however, looks upon it as his duty to be a
watchful guardian of his country's freedom,
and often uses a language that might seem
haughty even in the mouth of the great emperor
who traces his ancestry to the Moon.
A few days ago, passing by one of their
prisons, I could not avoid stopping, in order to
listen to a dialogue which I thought might
afford me some entertainment. The conversa-
tion was carried on between a debtor through
the grate of his prison, a porter who had
stopped to rest his burden, and a soldier at the
window. The subject was upon a threatened
invasion from France, and each seemed ex-
tremely anxious to rescue his country from the
impending danger. "For my part," cries the
j)risoner, "the greatest of my apprehensions is
for our freedom ; if the French should conquer,
what would become of English liberty? My
dear friends, liberty is the Englishman's pre-
rogative; we must preserve that at the expense
of our lives; of that the French shall never
deprive us. It is not to be expected that men
who are slaves themselves would preserve our
freedom should they happen to conquer." "Ay.
slaves," cries the porter, "they are all slaves,
fit only to carry burdens, every one of them.
Before I would stoop to slavery may this be my
poison (and he held the goblet in his hand),
may this be my poison — but I would sooner list
for a soldier."
The soldier, taking the goblet from his
friend, with much awe fervently cried out, ' ' It
is not HO much our liberties, as our religion,
that would suffer by such a change: ay, our
religion, my lads. May the devil sink me into
flames (such was the solemnity of his adjura-
tion), if the French should come over, but our
religion would be utterly undone!" So saying,
in'^tcad of a libation, he apjdicd the goblet to
his lips, and confirmed his sentiments Avith a
ceremony of the most persevering devotion.
In short, every man here pretends to be a
politician; even the fair sex are sometimes
found to mix the severity of national alterca-
tion with the blandishments of love, and often
become conquerors by more weapons of destruc-
tion than their eyes.
This universal passion for politics is gratified
by daily gazettes, as with us in China. But as
in ours the emperor endeavours to instruct his
])eople, in theirs the people endeavour to in-
struct the administration. You must not, how-
ever, imagine that they who compile these
pai)ers have any actual knowledge of the poli-
tics or the government of a state; they only
collect their materials from the oracle of sonic
coffee-house, which oracle has himself gathered
them the night before from a beau at a gam-
ing-table, who has pillaged his knowledge from
.1 great man's porter, who has had his informa-
tion from the great man's gentleman,io who has
invented the whole story for his own amusement
the night preceding.
The English, in general, seem fonder of
gaining the esteem than the love of those they
converse with. This gives a formality to their
amusements: their gayest conversations have
something too wise for innocent relaxation:
though in company you are seldom disgusted
with the absurdity of a fool, you are seMom
lifted into rapture by those strokes of vivacity
which give instant though not permanent
pleasure.
What they want, however, in gaiety, they
make up in politeness. You smile at hearing
me praise the English for their politeness; you
who have heard very different accounts from
the missionaries at Pekin, who have seen such
a different behaviour in their merchants and
seamen at home. But I must still repeat it, the
English seem more polite than any of their
neighbours; their great art in this respect lies
in endeavouring, while they oblige, to lessen the
force of the favour. Other countries are fond
of obliging a stranger; but seem desirous that
he should be sen.sible of the obligation. The
Knglish confer their kindness with an appear-
ance of imlifference, and give away benefits
with an air as if they despised them.
Walking, a few days ago, between an English
and a French man, into the suburbs of the city,
we were overtaken by a heavy shower of rain.
I was unprepareil; but they had each large
coats, which defended them from what seemed
10 valet
OUVER GOLDSMITH
373
to me a perfect inuntlation. The Englishman,
seeing me shrink from the weather, accosted me
thus: "Pshaw, man, what dost shrink at?
Here, take this coat; I don't want it; I find it
no way useful to me; I had as lief be without
it. ' ' The Frenchman began to show his polite-
ness in turn. ' ' My dear friend, ' ' cries he,
' ' why won 't you oblige me by making use of
my coat? You see how well it defends me from
the rain ; I should not choose to part with it to
others, but to such a friend as you I could even
})art with my skin to do him service."
From such minute instances as these, most
reverend Fum Hoam, I am sensible your sagac-
ity will collect instruction. The volume of
nature is the book of knowledge; and he be-
comes most wise who makes the most judicious
selection. Farewell.
THP] DESERTED VILLAGE *
Sweet AubckxIi loveliest village of the
plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the labouring
swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid.
And parting summer 's lingering blooms de-
layed :
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease.
Seats of my youth, when every sport could
please,
How often have I loitered o 'er thy green,
AVhere humble happiness endeared each scene!
IIow often have I paused on every charm.
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 10
The never-failing brook, the busy mill.
The decent church that topt the neighbouring
hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the
shade,
I'or talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day,
AVhen toil remitting lent its turn to play.
And all the village train, from labour free.
Led up their sports beneath the .spreading tree,
Wliile many a pastime circled in the shade,
1 I'rcbably I.issoy, where Goldsmith spent his
childhood.
* This poem was inspired by Goldsmith's convic-
tion of the steady depopulation of Ireland.
In the letter in which he inscribed the poem
to Sir Joshua Reynolds, he wrote : "In
regretting the depopulation of the country,
I Inveigh against the Increase of our luxuries ;
and here also I expect a shout of modern
politicians against me. For twenty or thirty
years past, it has been the fashion to consider
luxury as one of the greatest national advan- ]
tages. Still, I must continue to think those i
luxuries prejudicial to states by which so ]
many vices are Introduced, and so many I
kingdoms have been undone." I
The young contending as the old surveyed; 20
And many a gambol frolicked o 'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went
round!
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired.
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face.
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love.
The matron's glance that would those looks
reprove. 30
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports
like these,
A^'ith sweet succession, taught even toil to
please ;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence
shed ;
These were thy charms — but all these charms
are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn.
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with-
drawn ;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant 's2 hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green:
One only master grasps the whole domain.
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 40
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day.
But choked with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all.
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering
wall ;
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's
hand.
Far, far away, thy children leave the land. 50
111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey.
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade —
A breath can make them, as a breath has made:
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England 's griefs
began,
When every rood of ground maintained its
man;
For him light labour spread her wholesome
store.
Just gave what life required, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health, 61
And his best riches ignorance of wealth.
2 A certain English landlord who evicted many
tenants.
374
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTUKY
But times are altered ; trade 's unfeeling train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain:
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose.
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose;
And every want to luxury allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that asked but little room,
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful
scene, 71
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour.
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant 's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn
grew, 80
Kemembrance wakes with all her busy train.
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wand 'rings round this world of
care.
In all my griefs — and God has given my
share —
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown.
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close.
And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned
skill, 90
Around my fire an evening group to draw.
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return — and die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life 's decline,
Eetreats from care, that never must be mine.
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like
these,
A youth of labour with an age of ease; 100
Who quits a world where strong temptations
try.
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ;
Nor surly porter stands, in guilty state.
To spurn imploring famine from the gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end.
Angels around befriending virtue 's friend ;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay.
While resignation gently slopes the way; HO
And, all his prospects brightening to the last.
His heaven commences, ere the world be past!
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening 's
close
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung.
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o 'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school ;
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whisper-
ing wind, 121
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had
made;
But now the sounds of population fail.
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale.
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread.
For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.
All but yon widowed, solitary thing.
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 130
She, wretched matron — forced in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread.
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn —
She only left of all the harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain!
Near yonder copse, where once the garden
smiled.
And still where many a garden flower grows
wild ;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place dis-
close.
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. HO
A man he was to all the country dear,3 ,
And passing* rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e 'er had changed, nor wished to change his
place;
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize.
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train.
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their
pain ; 150
Tlie long-remembered beggar was his guest.
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud.
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims
allowed ;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away.
Wept 'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
3 A description drawn from the poet's father or
brother.
* surpassingly
OUVEK GOLDSMITH
375
Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields
were wou.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned
to glow,
And quite i'orgot their vices in their woe; 160
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e 'en his failings leaned to virtue 's side ;
But in his duty, prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for
all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay.
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170
Beside the bed where parting life was laid.
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood.s At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to
raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man, 181
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
E 'en children followed, with endearing wile.
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's
smile :
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed.
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares
distressed ;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were
given.
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the
storm, 190
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are
spread.
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the
way
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay —
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The village master^ taught his little school;
A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face; 200
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ;
5 A striking metaphor, taken from tho tourney.
6 Probably Thomas Byrne. Goldsmith's teacher.
was the mod.^i for this portrait.
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned;
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught.
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declared how much he knew;
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too:
Lands he could measure, terms and tides pre-
sage, 209
And even the story ran that he could gauge.^
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill.
For e'en though vanquished, he could argue
still;
While words of learned length and thund'ring
sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around.
And still they gazed, and still tlie wonder grew
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. Tlie very spot.
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot.
Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high.
Where once the sign-post caught the passing
eye, 220
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts
inspired.
Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil re-
tired.
Where village statesmen talked with looks pro-
found.
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlour splendours of that festive place;
The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnished clock that clicked behind the
door;
The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 230
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules,8 the royal game of
goose ;
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day,
With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel
gay;
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.
Vain transitory splendours! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour 's importance to the poor man 's heart ;
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 241
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear.
estimate the capacity of casks
■ "Urge no healths." "Pick no quarrels." etc.
Commonlv hung in oublic houses, and attrib-
uted to Charles I. The game mentioned in this
line was played with counters and dice.
376
LATEK EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
Eclax his ponderous strength and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
Nor the coy maid, half -willing to be pressed,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 250
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train,
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art ;
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born
sway :
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade.
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed,
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 261
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;
And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay,
'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand
Between a splendid and a happy land.
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted
ore, 269
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore;
Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around.
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name
That leaves our useful products still the same.
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride
Takes up a place that many poor supplied;
Space for his lake, his park 's extended bounds.
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds;
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth
Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their
growth ; 280
His seat, where solitary sports are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies:
While thus the land, adorned for pleasure, all
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.
As some fair female, unadorned and plain.
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,
Slights every borrowed charm that dress sup-
plies,
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes;
But when those charms are past, for charms are
frail, 291
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of dress;
Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed:
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed,
But %'ergiQg to decline, its splendours rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;
While, scourged by famine, from the smiling
land 299
The mournful peasant leads his humble band;
And while he sinks, without one arm to save.
The country blooms — a garden and a grave.
Where then, ah I where shall poverty reside.
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade.
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
And e'en the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped — what waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share; 310
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined
To pamper luxury and thin mankind;
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know,
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe;
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade.
There, the pale artist^ plies the sickly trade;
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps
display.
There, the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight
reign, 319
Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train ;
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square.
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy;
Sure these denote one universal joy!
Are those thy serious thoughts? — Ah! turn thine
eyes
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blessed,
Has wept at tales of innocence distressed ;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 329
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the tljorn ;
Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled.
Near her betrayer's ctoor she lays her head —
And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the
shower.
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour.
When idly first, ambitious of the town.
She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn! thine the loveliest
train,
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
E 'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 3r,9
At proud men 's doors they ask a little bread.
Ah. no! To distant (dimes, a dreary scene.
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they
go- , .
Where wild Altama'" murmurs to their woe.
n artisan
10 The AltnmabH, a river of Oeorgla.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
377
Far different there from all that charmed be-
fore,
The various terrors of that horrid shore;
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing;
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; 350
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance
crowned,
"Where the ilark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigersn wait their hapless
prey,
And savage men more murderous still than
they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene.
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 360
The breezy covert of the warbling grove.
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love.
(!ood Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that
parting day,
That called them from their native Avalks away;
"When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their
last —
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main —
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep.
Eeturned and wept, and still returned to weep.
The good old sire the first prepared to go 371
To new-found worlds, and wept for others'
woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave.
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms.
And left a lover's for a father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose.
And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a
tear, 381
And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.
O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchanged are things like these for
thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms, by thee to sickly greatness grown.
Boast of a florid vigour not their own: 390
1 1 Ilprp Ooldsnillh's imagination playpd him false.
uuleMs tigers may stand for panthers.
At every draught more large and large they
grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;
Till, sapped their strength, and every part un-
sound,
Down, down they sink, and fspread a ruin round.
Even now the devastation is begun
And half the business of destruction done;
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the
sail
That idly waiting flaps with every gale, •*00
Downward they move, a melancholy band.
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care.
And kind connubial tenderness are there,
And piety with wishes placed above.
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest mai<l,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, 409
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame:
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried.
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ;
Thou found 'st me poor at first, and keep 'st me
Thou found 'st me poor at first, and keep 'st me
so;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell; and oh! where'er thy voice be tried.
On Torno'si2 cliffs, or Pambamarca 'si3 side,
W^hether where equinoctial fervours glow.
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 420
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time.
Redress the rigours of the inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ;
Teach him, that states of native strength pos-
sessed.
Though very poor, may still be very blest ;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift
decay.
As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy.
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 430
THE HAUNCH OF VEXISOX
A Poetical Epistle to Lord Clare
Thanks, my Lord, for your venison, for finer
or fatter
Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a
platter;
ThP Tornea. a river
in Sweden.
13 A mountain peak In
Ecuador,
378
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY
The haunch was a picture for painters to
study, —
The fat was so white, and the lean was so
ruddy ;
Though my stomach was sharp, I could S( arce
help regretting
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating;
I had thoughts in my chambers to place it in
view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtii;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so.
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show; —
But, for eating a rasher of what they take
pride in, H
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is
fried in.
But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you pro-
nounce
This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce ?i
Well, suppose it a bounce; sure a poet may try.
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to
fly.
But, my Lord, it 's no bounce : I protest in my
turn
It's a truth — and your Lordship may ask Mr.
Byrne.2
To go on with my tale: as I gazed on the
haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and
staunch; 21
So I cut it, and sent it to Eeynoldss undrest.
To paint it or eat it, just as he liked best.
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dis-
pose;
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival
Monroe 's : *
But in parting with these I was puzzled again,
With the how, and the who, and the where, and
the when.
There's Howard, and Coley, and H — rth, and
HiflP,
I think they love venison, — I know they love
beef.
There's my countryman Higgins — oh! let him
alone,
For making a blunder, or picking a bone. 30
But hang it! — to poets who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton 's a very good treat ;
Such dainties to them, their health it might
hurt;
It's like sending them ruffles when wanting n
f' shirt.
While thus T debated, in reverie centered.
An acquaintance, n friend a.s he called him-
self, entered;
1 Impudent falsehood
2 TjOt6 Clare's n«»phow.
3 Sir JuKbua Rc.vnoldH.
4 Dorothy Monroe, a
cclebrati'd beauty.
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he.
And he smiled as he looked at the venison and
me.
' ' What have we got here ? — Why this is
good eating!
Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting?" 40
"Why, whose should it be?" cried I with a
flounce;
"I get these things often" — but that was a
bounce:
' ' 8ome lords, my acquaintance, that settle the
nation.
Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostenta-
tion. ' '
' ' If that be the case, then, ' ' cried he, very
gay,
" I 'm glad I have taken this house in my way.
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me;
Xo words — I insist on't — precisely at three;
We'll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits
will be there;
My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord
Clare. 51
And now that I think on't, as I am a sinner!
We wanted this venison to make out the dinner.
What say you — a pasty? It shall, and it must.
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter! this venison with me to Mile-
end; 5
No stirring — I beg — my dear friend — my dear
friend! "
Thus, snatching his hat, he brushed off like
the wind,
And the porter and eatables followed behind.
Left alone to reflect, having emptied my
shelf.
And "nobody with me at sea but myself," 60
Though I could not help tliinking my gentle-
man hasty.
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison
pasty.
Were things that I never disliked in my life.
Though clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty
his wife.
So next day, in due splendour to make my ap-
proach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.
When come to the place where we all were
to dine
(A chair-lumbered closet, just twelve feet by
nine),
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me
quite dumb
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would
not come: 'l
r. In East London, where the poorer classes llvi'd.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
379
"For I knew it," he cried: "both eternally
fail,
The one with his speeches, and t 'other witli
Thrale.6
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the
party
With two full aa clever and ten times as hearty.
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew ;
They're both of them merry, and authors like
you;
The one writes the 'Snarler, ' the other the
' Scourge ; '
Some think he writes ' Cinna ' — he owns to
'Panurge. ' "*
While thus he described them by trade and hy
name,
They entered, an<l dinner was served as they
came. 80
At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen ;
At the bottom was tripe, in a swingeing'
tureen ;
At the sides there was spinach and pudding
made hot;
In the middle a place where the pasty — was
not.
Now my lord, as for tripe, it 's my utter aver-
sion,
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Per-
sian;
So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound,
AVkile the bacon and liver went merrily round :
But what vexed me most was that d — d Scot-
tish rogue.
With his long-winded siieeches, his smiles, and
his brogue, 90
And, "Matlam," quoth he, "may this bit be
my poison,
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ;
Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be
curst.
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to
burst. ' '
"The tripe!" quoth the Jew, with his choco-
late cheek ;
"I could dine on this tripe seven days in a
week:
I like these here dinners so pretty and small ;
But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing
at all."
"Oho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in
a trice;
He's keeping a corner for something that's
nice: 100
e Mrs. Thrale. Dr. .Tohnson's friend.
7 immense
* These were signatures to contemporary letters
addressed to the Public Adrerliner In sup-
port of the government.
There 's a pasty. ' ' — ' ' A pasty ! ' ' repeated the
Jew ;
' * I don 't care if I keep a corner for 't too. ' '
"What the de'il, mon, a pasty! " re-echoed the
Scot;
' ' Though splitting, I '11 still keep a corner for
that."
"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out;
' ' We '11 all keep a corner, ' ' was echoed about.
While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed.
With looks that quite petrified, entered the
maid :
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright.
Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by
night.s 110
But we quickly found out — for who could mis-
take her? —
That she came with some terrible news from
the baker :
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop;
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labour
misplaced
To send such good verses to one of your taste;
You 've got an odd something — a kind of dis-
cerning,
A relish, a taste — sickened over by learning ;»
At least, it's your temper, as very well known.
That you think very slightly of all that's your
own. 122
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss.
You may make a mistake, and think slightly
of this.
From RETALIATION*
Of old, when Scarroni his companions in-
vited.
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was
united;
8 See 2 Henry IV., I,
1. 72.
See Hamlet, III., i.
85.
1 A French burlesque poet.
* Goldsmith, because of his vanity and frequently
empty talk, was the occasion of much diver-
sion among his friends, and sometimes a butt
of ridicule. At a gathering at St. James's
coflfee-house, he desired to try with David Gar-
rick, the actor, his skill at epigram, and
each was to write the other's epitaph. Gar-
rick immediately composed the well-known
couplet :
"Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness
called Noll,
Who wrote like an angel, but talked like poor
roll."
Goldsmith took his time to reply, and the
380
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
Jf our landlord supplies us with beef and with
fish,
Let each guest bring hiniself — and he brings
the best dish.
Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from
the plains;
Our Burke shall be tongue, with the garnish of
brains;
Our Will shall be wild-fowl of excellent flavour,
And Difk with his pepper shall heighten the
savour;
Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall
obtain.
And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain ;
Our Garrick's a salad; for in him we see H
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am
That Kidge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb;
That Hicicey's a capon, and, by the same rule.
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.2
At a dinner so various, at such a repast.
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine! let me sit while I'm
able.
Till all my companions sink under the table; 20
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my
head.
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the
dead.
Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth,
Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom
with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt —
At least, in six weeks I could not find 'em out;
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied
'em.
That sly-boots wag cursedly cunning to hide
'em.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius
was such,
W^e scarcely can praise it, or blame it too
much; 30
Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind.
And to party gave u[) what was meant for
mankind.
Though fraught with all learning, yet strain-
ing his throat
result WHH Retaliation, a poom which he Ipft
unflnisbed. and which was publlshod after his
death. The characters whom he imagines
gathered about the table are Thomas Barnard.
Dean of Deiry : Kdmund lUirke. with William
Burke, a kinsman, and Uiohard, a younger
brother; Richard PumlMM-land. the dramatist:
John DouglaH, a Scotch cHnon ; David Oar-
rlck : John KIdge and Tom lllrkey two Irish
lawyers : Sir Joshua Reynolds, the painter :
and" himself. A kindlier satire — If satire It
may he called has sonreely been written,
2 A dish of crushed gooseberries.
To persuade Tommy Townshenda to lend him
a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went ou
refining,
And thought of convincing while they thought
of dining:
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ;
For a patriot too cool; for a drudge, disobe-
dient,
And too fond of the right to pursue the expe-
dient. 40
In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed or in
place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a
razor.
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts.
The Terence* of England, the mender of
hearts ;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they
are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy queen he has dizened her out.
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.^
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, 71
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their
own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught,
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault ?
Say, was it that, vainly directing his view-
To find out men's virtues, and finding them
few.
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself.
Here lies David Garrick, describe me who
can
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in
man;
.\s an actor, confessed without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first Hue:
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent
heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill- judging beauty, his colours he
spread.
And beplastered with rouge his own natur:il
red. . l""
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
8 An M. P.. afterwards 4 A Roman comic writer.
Lord Sydney. • gay party
EDWARD GI15ROX
381
'Twas only that when he was oflf he was actiug.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turned and he varied full ten times a day:
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly
sick,
If they were not his own by finessing and
trick :
He cast oflf his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle
them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what
came,
And the puflf of a dunce, he mistook it for
fame; HO
'Till his relish grown callous, almost to dis-
ease,
Who peppered the highest was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind :
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kelly s, and Woodfalls -so
i grave,*
What a commerce was yours, while you got and
you gave!
How did Grub Street' re-echo the shouts that
you raised.
While he Mas be-Eosciuseds and you were be-
praised!
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies.
To act as an angel and mix with the skies: 120
Those poets who owe their best fame to his
skill
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will.
Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and
with love.
And Beaumonts and Benss be his Kellys above.
Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my
mind.
He has not left a wiser or better behind;
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and
bland ; 140
Still born to improve us in every part.
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering;
When they judged without skill, he was still
hard of hearing;
When they talked of their Raphaels, Correg-
gios, and stuff.
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.
By flattery unspoiled — *
6 Dramatists and critics s Roscius was the great-
of the time. est Roman comic
7 Ilackwriterdom. actor.
« "Rare Ben" .Tonson.
• Here Death toolc the pen from the poet's hand
before he could write Ills own epitaph.
EDWARD GIBBON (1737-1794)
THE FALL OF CONSTANTINOPLEf
After a siege of forty days, the fate of Con-
stantinople could no longer be averted. The
diminutive garrison was exhausted by a double
attack; the fortifications, which had stood for
ages against hostile violence, were dismantled
on all sides by the Ottoman cannon; many
breaches were opened; and near the gate of
St. Romanus four towers had been leveled with
the ground. For the payment of his feeble
and mutinous troops, Constantine was com-
pelled to despoil the churches, with the promise
of a fourfold restitution; and his sacrilege of-
fered a new reproach to the enemies of the
union. A spirit of discord impaired the rem-
nant of the Christian strength; the Genoese
and Venetian auxiliaries asserted the pre-
eminence of their respective service; and Jus-
tiniani and the great Duke, whose ambition
was not extinguished by the common danger,
accused each other of treachery and cowardice.
During the siege of Constantinople, the words
of peace and capitulation had been sometimes
pronounced; and several embassies had passed
between the camp and the city. The Greek
emperor was humbled by adversity, and would
have yielded to any terms compatible with re-
ligion and royalty. The Turkish sultan was
desirous of sparing the blood of his soldiers;
still more desirous of securing for his own
use the Byzantine treasures; and he accom-
plished a sacred duty in presenting to the
Gabours^ the choice of circumcision, of tribute,
or of death. The avarice of Mahomet might
have been satisfied with an annual sum of one
hundred thousand ducats; but his ambition
grasped the capital of the East; to the prince
he offered a rich equivalent, to the peoj)le a
free toleration or a safe departure; but, after
some fruitless treaty, he declared his resolu-
1 Giaours, "infidels"
t From The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,
chapter LXVIII. Lonp after Rome had fallen
before the incursions of the barbarians, Con-
stantinople, the capital of the Eastern Em-
pire, "the decrepit daughter of ancient Rome,
alone remained standing, and for ten cen-
turies, like a rocky island, defied the fury of
the waves." (Victor Duruy.) The last Chris-
tian emperor was a Greek. Constantine
Palaeol'ogus ; and when the city was finally
besieged, in 14.5". by the Ottoman Turks under
Mahomet II., the defence was conducted by
an alliance of Greeks. A'enetlans, and Geno-
ese, sadly divided by their own religious
difference's. Their foremost general was
Justin ianl. a Genoese nobleman. On the sig-
nificance of this event to western literature,
see Enfi. Lit., p. 77, and on Gibbon, see the
same. p. 213.
383
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTUKY
tion of finding either a throne or a grave un-
der the walls of Constantinople. A sense of
honour and the fear of universal reproach
forbade Palx^ologus to resign the city into the
hands of the Ottomans; and he determined to
abide the last extremities of war. Several
days were employed by the sultan in the
preparations of the assault ; and a respite was
granted by his favourite science of astrology,
which had fixed on the twenty-ninth of May
as the fortunate and fatal hour. On the even-
ing of the twenty-seventh, he issued his final
orders; assembled in his presence the military
chiefs; and dispersed his heralds through the
camp to proclaim the duty and the motives of
the perilous enterprise. Fear is the first prin-
ciple of a despotic government; and his
menaces were expressed in the Oriental style,
that the fugitives and deserters, had they the
wings of a bird, should not escape from his
inexorable justice. The greatest part of his
bashaws2 and Janizaries^ were the offspring of
Christian parents; but the glories of the Turk-
ish name were perpetuated by successive adop-
tion; and, in the gradual change of individ-
uals, the spirit of a legion, a regiment, or an
oda* is kept alive by imitation and discipline.
In this holy warfare, the Moslems were ex-
horted to purify their minds with prayer, their
bodies with seven ablutions; and to abstain
from food till the close of the ensuing day, A
crowd of dervishes visited the tents, to instil
the desire of martyrdom, and the assurance
of spending an immortal youth amidst the
rivers and gardens of paradise and in the
embraces of the black-eyed virgins.!* Yet Ma-
homet principally trusted to the efficacy of
temporal and visible rewards. A double pay
was promised to the victorious troops : ' ' The
city and the buildings," said Mahomet, "are
mine; but I resign to your valour the captives
and the spoil, the treasures of gold and
beauty; be rich and be happy. Many are the
provinces of my empire: the intrepid soldier
who first ascends the walls of Constantinople
shall be rewarded with the government of the
fairest and most wealthy; and my grati-
tude shall accumulate his honours and fortunes
above the measure of his own hopes." Such
various and potent motives diffused among the
Turks a general ardour, regardless of life and
impatient for action; the camp re-echoed with
the Moslem shouts of "God is God, there is
but one God, and Mahomet is the apostle of
2 ministers and eenprals
8 Ottoman Infantry, cspeclnlly the Sultan's iKMly-
Kuard.
4 harem b hourls
God;" and the sea and land, from Galatao to
the seven towers,7 were illuminated by the
blaze of their nocturnal fires.
Far different was the state of the Chris-
tians; who, with loud and impotent complaints,
deplored the guilt, or the punishment, of their
sins. The celestial image of the Virgin had
been exposed in solemn procession; but their
divine patroness was deaf to their entreaties;
they accused the obstinacy of the emperor for
refusing a timely surrender; anticipated the
horrors of their fate; and sighed for the re-
pose and security of Turkish servitude. The
noblest of the Greeks, and the bravest of the
allies, were summoned to the palace, to pre-
pare them, on the evening of the twenty-eighth,
for the duties and dangers of the general as-
sault. The last speech of Palaeologus was the
funeral oration of the Eoman Empire: he
promised, he conjured, and he vainly attempted
to infuse the hope which was extinguished in
his own mind. In this world all was com-
fortless and gloomy; and neither the gos])el
nor the church have proposed any conspicuous
recompense to the heroes who fall in the serv-
ice of their country. But the example of their
prince and the confinement of a siege had
armed these warriors with the courage of de-
spair; and the pathetic scene is described by
the feelings of the historian Phranza,8 who was
himself present at this mournful assembly.
They wept, they embraced; regardless of their
families and fortunes, they devoted their lives;
and each commander, departing to his sta-
tion, maintained all night a vigilant and
anxious watch on the rampart. The emperor,
and some faithful companions, entered the
dome of St. Sophia, which in a few hours was
to be converted into a mosque; and devoutly
received, with tears and prayers, the sacra-
ment of the holy communion. He re]>osed
some moments in the palace, which resounded
with cries and lamentations; solicited the par-
don of all whom he might have injured; and
mounted on horseback to visit the guards and
explore the motions of the enemy. The dis-
tress and fall of the last Constantine are more
glorious than the long prosperity of the By-
zantine CfTsars.B
In the confusion of darkness an assailant
may sometimes succeed; but in this great and
general attack, the military juilgment and
astrological knowledge of Mahomet advised
A nortliorn siiburit of
Constantinople.
1 The southern gate.
R rhnmherlnin of Pnln'-
olOffUS.
I. e., the Kmperorc of
the East.
EDWARD GIBBON
383
him to expect the morning, the memorable
twenty-ninth of May, in the fourteen hundred
and fifty-third year of the Christian era. The
preceding night had been strenuously em-
ployed: the troops, the cannon, and the fas-
oinesio were advanced to the edge of the ditch,
which, in many parts, presented a smooth and
level passage to the breach; and his fourscore
galleys almost touched, with the prows and
their scaling-ladders, the less defensible walls
of the harbour. Under pain of death, silence
was enjoined; but the physical laws of mo-
tion and sound are not obedient to discipline
or fear; each individual might suppress his
voice and measure his footsteps; but the march
aud labour of thousands must inevitably pro-
duce a strange confusion of dissonant clam-
ours, which reached the ears of the watchmen
of the towers. At daybreak, without the cus-
tomary signal of the morning gun, the Turks
assaulted the city by sea and land; and the
similitude of a twined or twisted thread has
been applied to the closeness and continuity of
their line of attack. The foremost ranks con-
sisted of the refuse of the host, a voluntary
crowd, who fought without order or command;
of the feebleness of age or childhood, of peas-
ants and vagrants, and of all who had joined
the camp in the blind hope of plunder and
martyrdom. The common impulse drove them
onward to the wall; the most audacious to
climb were instantly precipitated; and not- a
dart, not a bullet, of the Christians was idly
wasted on the accumulated throng. But their
strength and ammunition were exhausted in
this laborious defense; the ditch was filled
with the bodies of the slain; they supported
the footsteps of their companions; and of
this devoted vanguard the death was more serv-
iceable than the life. Under their respective
bashaws and sanjaks," the troops of Anatolia
and Eomania were successively led to the
charge: their progress was various and doubt-
ful; but, after a conflict of two hours, the
Greeks still maintained and improved their
advantage; and the voice of the emperor was
heard, encouraging his soldiers to achieve, by
a last effort, the deliverance of their country.
In th b fatal moment the Janizaries arose,
fresh, vigorous and invincible. The sultan
himself on horseback, with an iron mace in
liis hand, was the spectator and judge of their
valour; he was surrounded by ten thousand
of his domestic troops, whom he reserved for
the decisive occasion ; and the tide of Tiattle
10 bundles of sticks for fillinf? ditches
11 jirovincial frovcrnors
was directed and impelled by his voice and
eye. His numerous ministers of justice were
posted behind the line, to urge, to restrain, and
to punish ; and, if danger was in the front,
shame and inevitable death were in the rear of
the fugitives. The cries of fear and of pain
were drowned in the martial music of drums,
trumpets, and attaballs;i2 and experience has
proved that the mechanical operation of sounds,
by quickening the circulation of the blood and
spirits, will act on the human machine more
forcibly than the eloquence of reason and
honour. From the lines, the galleys, and the
bridge, the Ottoman artillery thundered on all
sides; and the camp and city, the Greeks and
the Turks, were involved in a cloud of smoke,
which could only be dispelled by the final de-
liverance or destruction of the Roman empire.
The single combats of the heroes of history
or fable amuse our fancy and engage our af-
fections; the skillful evolutions of war may
inform the mind, and improve a necessary
though" pernicious, science. But, in the uniform
and odious pictures of a general assault, all
is blood, and horror, and confusion; nor shall
I strive, at the distance of three centuries and
a thousand miles, to delineate a scene of which
there could be no spectators, and of which the
actors themselves, were incapable of forming
any just or adequate idea.
The immediate loss of Constantinople may be
ascribed to the bullet, or arrow, which pierced
the gauntlet of John Justiniani. The sight of
his blood, and the exquisite pain, appalled the
courage of the chief, whose arms and counsels
were the firmest rampart of the city. As he
withdrew from his station in quest of a sur-
geon, his flight was perceived and stopped by
the indefatigable emperor. "Your wound,"
exclaimed Palaeologus, "is slight; the danger
is pressing; your presence is necessary; and
whither will you retire?" "I will retire,"
said the trembling Genoese, "by the same road
which God has opened to the Turks;" and at
these words he hastily passed through one of
the breaches of the inner wall. By this pusil-
lanimous act he stained the honours of a mili-
tary life; and the few days which he survived
in Galata, or the isle of Chios, were embittered
by his own and the public reproach. His ex-
ample was imitated by the greatest part of the
Latin auxiliaries, and the defence began to
slacken when the attack was pressed with re-
doubled vigour. The number of the Ottomans
was fifty, perhaps a hundred, times superior to
12 kettlo-drums
384
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
that of the Christians; the double walls were
reduced by the cannou to a heap of ruins; in a
circuit of several miles, some places must be
found more easy of access or more feebly
guarded; and, if the besiegers could penetrate
in a single point, the whole city was irrecover-
ably lost. The first who deserved the sultan's
reward was Hassan, the Janizary, of gigantic
stature and strength. With his scimetar in
one hand and his buckler in the other, he as-
cended the outward fortification; of the thirty
Janizaries, who were emulous of his valour,
eighteen perished in the bold adventure. Has-
san and his twelve companions had reached
the summit: the giant was precipitated from
the rampart; he rose on one knee, and was
again oppressed by a shower of darts and
stones. But his .success had proved that the
achievement was possible: the walls and towers
were instantly covered with a swarm of Turks;
and the Greeks, now driven from the vantage
ground, were overwhelmed by increasing multi-
tudes. Amidst these multitudes, the emperor,
who accomplished all the duties of a general
and a soldier, was long seen, and finally lost.
The nobles who fought round his person sus-
tained, till their last breath, the honourable
names of Palajologus and Cantacuzene:'- his
mournful exclamation was heard, ' ' Cannot
there be found a Christian to cut otf my ]
head?" and his last fear was that of falling
alive into the hands of the infidels. The pru-
dent despair of Coustantine cast away the pur-
ple; amidst the tumult, he fell by an unknown
hand, and his body was buried under a moun-
tain of the slain. After his death, resistance
and order were no more; the Greeks fled
towards the city; and many were pressed and
stifled in the narrow pass of the gate of St.
Romanus. The victorious Turks rushed through
the breaches of the inner wall; and, as they
advanced into the streets, they were soon
joined by their brethren, who had forced the
gate Phenar on the side of the harbour. In
the first heat of the pursuit, about two thou-
sand Christians were put to the sword; but
avarice soon jirevaiied over cruelty; and the
victors acknowledged that they should imme-
diately have given quarter, if the valour of
the emperor and his choseiv bands had not pre-
pared them for a similar oj)po8ition in every
jtart of the capital. Tn was thus, after a siege
of fifty-three days, that Constantinople, which
had defied the jtower of Chosroes.i* the Cha-
18 The naracH of scvpral Byzantine pmperors.
14 A PerHlan WIdk. who In th<> Hovcnth contnry
rM'«l«'K('(l Constnntlnoplp for ton yearn.
gan,i5 and the caliphs,i« was irretrievably sub-
dued by the arms of Mahomet the Second. Hot
empire only had been subverted by the Latins;
her religion was trampled in the dust by the
Moslem conquerors.
GILBERT WHITE (1720-1793)
From THE NATURAL HISTORY OF
SELBORNE
Selborne,* Nov. 23, 1773.
To the Honourable Daines Barrington.
Dear Sir,
in obedience to your injunctions I sit down
to give you some account of the house martin
or martlet; and, if my monography of this lit-
tle domestic and familiar bird should happen
to meet with your approbation, I may probably
soon extend my inquiries to the rest of tlie
British Hirundines — the swallow, the swift,
and the bank martin.
A few house martins begin to appear about
the 16th of April; usually some few days later
than the swallow. For some time after they
appear, the Hinmdinfs in general pay no at-
tention to the business of nidification, but play
and sport about either to recruit from the
fatigue of their journey, if they do migrate
at all, or else that their blood may recover its
true tone and texture after it has been so long
I benumbed by the severities of winter. About
the middle of May, if the weather be fine, the
martin begins to think in earnest of providing
a mansion for its family. Tlie crust or shell
of this nest seems to be formed of such dirl
or loam as comes most readily to hand, and i*
tempered and wrought together with little bits,
of broken straws to render it tough and
tenacious. As this bird often builds against a
perpendicular wall without any projecting
ledge under, it requires its utmost eflforts to get
the first foundation firmly fixed, so that it may
safely carry the superstructure. On this occa-
sion the bird not only clings with its claws,
but partly supports itself by strongly inclining
its tail against the wall, making that a ful-
crum ; and thus steadied, it works and plasters
the materials into the face of the brick or
stone. But then, that this work may not, while
it is soft and green, pull itself down by its own
ir. Title of the king of the Avars, ally of Chosroes.
i« Ottoman sovereigns.
• A parish in Hampshire. Kmiiand. where NVhlte
lived and made the oliservntlons In natural
history which were (•ommunlcated to Ills
friends. Thomas I'ennant and Haines Mm
ilnRton.
GILBERT WHITE
385
rt fight, the provident architect has prudence
;ind forbearance enough not to advance her
\\ork too fast; but by building only in the
morning, and by dedicating the rest of the day
i(. food and amusement, gives it sufficient time
to dry and harden. About half an inch seems
to be a sufficient layer for a day. Thus care-
tul workmen when they build mud walls (in-
fcirnied at first perhaps by this little bird)
raise but a moderate layer at a time, and then
desist; lest the work should become top-heavy,
and so be ruined by its own weight. By this
method in about ten or twelve days is formed
an hemispheric nest with a small aperture
towards the top, strong, compact, and warm;
and perfectly fitted for all the purposes for
which it was intended. But then nothing is
more common than for the house sparrow, as
soon as the shell is finished, to seize on it as
its own, to eject the owner, and to line it after
its own manner.
After so much labour is bestowed in erecting
a mansion, as Nature seldom Avorks in vain,
martins will breed on for several years together
in the same nest, where it happens to be well
sheltered and secure from the injuries of
•weather. The shell or crust of the nest is a sort
of rustic-work full of knobs and protuberances
on the outside: nor is the inside of those that I
have examined smoothed with any exactness at j
all ; but is rendered soft and warm, and fit for
incubation, by a lining of small straws, grasses,
and feathers; and sometimes by a bed of nios-s
interwoven with wool. In this nest the hen
lays from three t > five Avhite eggs. . .
As the young of small birds presently ar-
rive at their liclilia, or full growth, they soon
become impatient of confinement, and sit all
day with their heads out at the orifice, Avhere
the dams, by clinging to the nest, supply them
with food from morning to night. For a time
the young are fed on the wing by their parents;
but the feat is done by so quick and almost
imperceptible a sleight, that a person must
have attended very exactly to their motions
before he would be able to perceive it.
As soon as the young are able to shift for
themselves, the dams immediately turn their
thoughts to the business of a second brood:
while the first flight, shaken off and rejected
by their nurses, congregate in great flocks, and
are the birds that are seen clustering and hov-
ering on sunny mornings and evenings round
towers and steeples, and on the roofs of
churches and houses. These eongregatings
usually begin to take place about the first week
in August ; and therefore we may conclude
that by that time the first flight is pretty well
over. The young of this species do not quit
their abodes all together, but the more forward
birds get abroad some days before the rest.
These, approaching the eaves of buildings, and
playing about before them, make people think
that several old ones attend one nest. They
are often capricious in fixing on a nesting-
place, beginning many edifices, and leaving
them unfinished; but when once a nest is com-
pleted in a sheltered i)lace, it serves for sev-
eral seasons. Those which breed in a ready-
finished house get the start, in hatching, of
those that build new, by ten days or a fort-
night. These industrioys artificers are at their
labours in the long days before four in the
morning: when they fix their materials, they
plaster them on with their chins, moving tlieir
heads with a quick vibratory motion. They
dip and wash as they fly sometimes in very hot
weather, but not so frequentl}' as swallows.
It has been observed that martins usually build
to a north-east or north-west aspect, that the
heat of the sun may not crack and destroy
their nests: but instances are also remembered
where they bred for many- years in vast abun-
dance in a hot stifled inn-yard, against a wall
facing to the south.
Birds in general are wise in their choice of
situation: but in this neighbourhood, every
summer, is seen a strong proof to the con-
trary at a house without eaves in an exposed
district where some martins build year by year
in the corners of the windows. But, as tlic
corners of these windows (which face to the
south-east and south-west) are too shallow, the
nests are washed down every hard rain; and
yet these birds drudge on to no purpose from
summer to summer, without changing their
aspect or house. It is a piteous sight to see
them labouring when half their nest is washed
away, and bringing dirt — ''generis lapsi sar-
cire ruinas."^ Thus is instinct a most won-
derful unequal faculty, in some instances so
much above reason, in other respects so far
below it! Martins love to frequent towns,
especially if there are great lakes and rivers
at hand; nay, they even affect the close air
of London. And I have not only seen them
nesting in the Borough. = but even in the Strand
and Fleet Street ; but then it was obvious from
the dinginess of their aspect that their feathers
partook of the filth of that sooty atmosphere.
j ^lartins are by far the least agile of the four
species; their wings and tails are short, and
i"To repair the wreck 2 A street extendlna:
of the fallen north from London
house." Virgil : Bridge.
Georgics, iv. 249.
386
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY
therefore they are not capable of such surpris-
ing turns and quick and glancing evolutions
as the swallow. Accordingly they make use
of a placid easy motion in a middle region of
the air, seldom mounting to any great height,
and never sweeping long together over the
surface of the ground or water. They do not
wander far for food, but affect sheltered dis-
tricts, over some lake, or under some hanging
T^ood, or in some hollow vale, especially in
windy weather. They breed the latest of all
the swallow kind; in 1772 they had nestlings on
to October the 21st, and are never without un-
fledged young as late as Michaelmas.3
As the summer declines, the congregating
flocks increase in numbers daily, by the con-
stant accession of the second broods; till at
last they swarm in myriads upon myriads round
the villages on the Thames, darkening the face
of the sky as they frequent the aits* of that
river where they roost. They retire (the bulk of
them, I mean) in vast flocks together, about the
beginning of October: but have appeared of late
years in a considerable flight in this neighbour-
hood, for one day or two, as late as November
the 3rd and 6th after they were supposed to
have been gone for more than a fortnight.
They therefore withdraw with us the latest of
any species. Unless these birds are very short-
lived indeed, or unless they do not return to
the district where they are bred, they must
undergo vast devastations somehow, and some-
where; for the birds that return yearly bear
no manner of proportion to the birds that
retire.
House martins are distinguished from their
congeners by having their legs covered with
soft downy feathers down to their toes. They
are no songsters; but twitter in a pretty in-
ward soft manner in their nests. During the
time of breeding, they are often greatly
molested with fleas. — Letter XVI (or LV).
Selborne, April 21, 1780.
Dear Sir,
The old Sussex tortoise, that I have men-
tioned to you so often, is become my property.
I dug it out of its winter dormitory in March
last, when it was enough awakened to express
its resentment by hi&sing; and, packing it in
a box with earth, carried it eighty miles in
post chaises. The rattle and hurry of the
journey so perfectly roused it, that, when I
turned it out on a border, it walked twice down
to the bottom of my garden: however, in the
evening, the weather being cold, it buried it-
8 Sept. 20.
4 Islets
self in the loose mould, and continues still con-
cealed.
As it will be under my eye, I shall now have
an opportunity of enlarging my observations
on its mode of life and propensities; and per-
ceive already that, towards the time of coming
forth, it opens a breathing place in the ground
near its head, requiring, I conclude, a freer
respiration as it becomes more alive. This
creature not only goes under the earth from
the middle of November to the middle of April,
but sleeps great part of the summer ; for it
goes to bed in the longest days at four in the
afternoon, and often does not stir in the morn-
ing till late. Besides, it retires to rest for
every shower; and does not move at all in v.ct
days.
When one reflects on the state of this strange
being, it is a matter of wonder to find that
Providence should bestow such a profusion of
days, such a seeming waste of longevity, on a
reptile that appears to relish it so little as to
squander more than two-thirds of its existence
in a joyless stupor, and be lost to all sensation
for months together in the profoundest of
slumbers.
While I was writing this letter, a moist and
warm afternoon, with the thermometer at 50,.
brought forth troops of shell-snails; and, at
the same juncture, the tortoise heaved up the
mould and put out its head ; and the next
morning came forth, as it were raised from the
dead; and walked about till four in the after-
noon. This was a curious coincidence! a very
amusing occurrence! to see such a similarity
of feelings between the two phcreoikoW for so
the Greeks call both the shell-snail and the tor-
toise. — Letter L (or XCII).
More Particulars 'Respecting the Old Family
Tortoise.
Because we call this creature an abject rep-
tile, we are too apt to undervalue his abilities,
and depreciate his powers of instinct. Yet
he is, as Mr. Pope says of his lord,*
* Much too wise to walk into a well : '
and has so much discernment as not to fall
down a haha;5 but to stop and withdraw from
the brink with the readiest precaution.
Though he loves warm weather, he avoids the
hot sun; because his thick shell, when once
heated, would, as the poet says of solid armour,
'scald with safety.' He therefore spends the
more sultry hours under the umbrella of a
.") A \u'6iif In a «lltch.
• Imitations of Horace, II, 11, 191.
EDMUND BURKE
387
large cabbage leaf, or amidst the waving for-
ests of an asparagus bed.
But as he avoids heat in the summer, so, in
the decline of the year, he improves the faint
autumnal beams, by getting within the reflec-
tion of a fruit-wall: and, though he never has
read that planes inclining to the horizon re-
ceive a greater share of warmth, he inclines
his shell by tilting it against the wall, to col-
lect and admit every feeble ray.
Pitiable seems the condition of this poor
embarrassed reptile; to be cased in a suit of
ponderous armour, which he cannot lay aside ;
to be imprisoned, as it were, within his own
shell, must preclude, we should suppose, all
activity and disposition for enterprise. Yet
there is a season of the year (usually the be-
ginning of June) when his exertions are re-
markable. He then walks on tiptoe, and is
stirring by five in the morning ; and, traversing
the garden, examines every wicket and inter-
stice in the fences, through which he will es-
cape if possible; and often has eluded the care
of the gardener, and wandered to some distant
field. — The Antiquities of Selborne.
EDMUND BURKE (1729-1797)
From the SPEECH AT BRISTOL, 1780*
Since you have suffered me to trouble you
so much on this subject, permit me, gentlemen,
to detain you a little longer. I am indeed
most solicitous to give you perfect satisfaction.
I find there are some of a better and softer
nature than the persons with whom I have
supposed myself in debate, who neither think
ill of the Act of Relief, nor by any means de-
sire the repeal; yet who, not accusing but
lamenting what was done, on account of the
consequences, have frequently expressed their
wish that the late Act had never been made.
Some of this description, and persons of worth,
I have met with in this city. They conceive
that the prejudices, whatever they might be,
of a large part of the people ought not to
have been shocked; that their opinions ought
to have been previously taken, and much at-
tended to; and that thereby the late horrid
scenes might have been prevented.
• In 1699 a most tyrannical law against Roman
Catholics had been passed. The abolition of
this law in 1778. by the Act of Relief, aroused
some fanatical opposition expressed in cries
of "No Popery" and in the Lord George
Gordon riots. Burlie is defending before his
constituents his support of the repeal. Sir
Samuel Romilly called the entire speech "per-
haps the first piece of oratory in our lan-
guage."
I confess my notions are widely different,
and I never was less sorry for any action of
my life. I like the bill the better on account
of the events of all kinds that followed it. It
relieved the real sufferers; it strengthened the
state; and, by the disorders that ensued, we had
clear evidence that there lurked a temper some-
where which ought not to be fostered by the
laws. No ill consequences whatever could be
attributed to the Act itself. We knew before-
hand, or we were poorly instructed, that tolera-
tion is odious to the intolerant; freedom to op-
pressors; property to robbers; and all kinds
and degrees of prosperity to the envious. We
knew that all these kinds of men would gladly
gratify their evil dispositions under the sane
tion of law and religion if they could; if they
could not, yet, to make way to their objects,
they would do their utmost to subvert all re-
ligion and all law. This we certainly knew;
but, knowing this, is there any reason, because
thieves break in and steal, and thus bring
detriment to you, and draw ruin on themselves,
that I am to be sorry that you are in the pos-
session of shops, and of warehouses, and of
wholesome laws to protect them I Are you to
build no houses because desperate men may
pull them down upon their own heads? Or,
if a malignant wretch will cut his own throat
because he sees you give alms to the necessi-
tous and deserving, shall his destruction be
attributed to your charity, and not to his own
deplorable madness? If we repent of our good
actions, what, I pray you, is left for our faults
and follies? It is not the beneficence of the
laws, it is the unnatural temper, which benefi-
cence can fret and sour, that is to be lamented.
It is this temper which, by all rational means,
ought to be sweetened and corrected. If fro-
ward men should refuse this cure, can they
vitiate anything but themselves? Does evil so
react upon good as not only to retard its mo-
tion, but to change its nature? If it can so
operate, then good men will always be in the
power of the bad; and virtue, by a dreadful
reverse of order, must lie under perpetual sub-
jection and bondage to vice.
As to the opinion of the people, which some
think, in such cases, is to be implicitly obeyed.
— Nearly two years' tranquillity which fol-
lowed the Act, and its instant imitation in Ire-
land, proved abundantly that the late horrible
spirit was, in a great measure, the effect of
insidious art, and perverse industry, and gross
misrepresentation. But suppose that the dis-
like had been much more deliberate and much
more general than I am persuaded it was.
388
LATEK KlCllTtEMH CEATUKY
When we know that the opinions of even the
greatest multitudes are the standard of recti-
tude, I shall think myself obliged to make
those opinions the masters of my conscience;
but if it may be doubted whether Omnip-
otence itself is competent to alter the essen-
tial constitution of right and wrong, sure I
am that such thinys as they and I are pos-
sessed of no such power. No man carries
further than I do the policy of making govern-
ment i)leasing to the people; but the Avidest
range of this politic complaisance is confined
within the limits of justice. I would not only
consult the interest of the people, but I would
cheerfully gratify their humours. We are all
a sort of children that must be soothed and
managed. I think I am not austere or formal
in my nature. I would bear, I would even my-
self play my part in, any innocent buffooneries
to divert them ; but I never will act the tyrant
for their amusement. If they will mix malice
in their sports, 1 shall never consent to throw
them any living sentient creature whatsoever,
no, not so much as a kitling, to torment.
"But, if I profess all this impolitic stub-
bornness, I may chance never to be elected into
Parliament. " It is certainly not pleasing to
be put out of the public service; but I wish
to be a member of Parliament to have my
share of doing good and resisting evil. It
would therefore be absurd to renounce my ob-
jects in order to obtain my seat. I deceive
myself indeed most grossly if I had not much
rather pass the remainder of my life hidden in
the recesses of the deepest obscurity, feeding
my mind even with the visions and imagina-
tions of such things, than to be placed on the
most splendid throne of the universe, tanta-
lized with a denial of the practice of all which
can make the greatest situation any other than
the greatest curse. Gentlemen, I have had my
day. I can never sufficiently express my grati-
tude to you for having set me in a place where-
in I could lend the slightest help to great and
laudable designs. If I have had my share in
any measure giving quiet to private property
and private conscience; if by my vote I have
aided in securing to families the best posses-
sion, peace; if I have joined in reconciling
kings to their subjects, and subjects to their
prince; if 1 have assisted to loosen the foreign
holdings of the citizen, and taught him to look
for his protection to the laws of his country,
and for his comfort to the good-will of his
countrymen; if I have thus taken my part with
the best of men in the best of their actions, I
can shut the book — I might wish to read a
page or two more, but this is enough for my
measure — I ha\e not lived in vain.
And now, gentlemen, on this serious day,
when I come, as it were, to make up my ac-
count with you, let me take to myself some
degree of honest pride on the nature of the
charges that are against me. I do not here
stand before you accused of venalit}', or of
neglect of duty. It is not said that, in the
long period of my service, I have in a single
instance sacrificed the slightest of your inter-
ests to my ambition, or to my fortune. It is
not alleged that, to gratify any anger or re-
venge of my own or of my party, I have had
a share in wronging or oppressing any de-
scription of men, or any one man ill any de-
scription. No! the charges against me are all
of one kind: that I have pushed the principles
of general justice and benevolence too far,
further than a cautious policy would warrant,
and further than the opinions of many would
go along with me. In every accident which
may happen through life — in pain, in sorrow,
in depression and distress — I will call to mind
this accusation, and be comforted.
From BEFLECTIONS ON THE KEVOLU-
TION IN FRANCE*
Yielding to reasons, at least as forcible as
those which were so delicately urged in the
compliment on the new year,t the king of
France will probably endeavour to forget these
events and that compliment. But history, who
keeps a durable record of all our acts, and
exercises her awful censure over the proceed-
ings of all sorts of sovereigns, will not forget
cither those events, or the era of this liberal
refinement! in the intercourse of mankind.
History will record, that on the morning of the
6th of October, 1789, the king and queen of
France, after a day of confusion, alarm, dis-
may, and slaughter, lay down, under the
pledged security of public faith, to indulge
nature in a few hours of respite, and troubled,
melancholy rejiose. From this sleep the queen
was first startled by the voice of the sentinel
at her door, who cried out to her to save her-
self by flight — that this was the last proof of
1 Spoken saroa.«HcalI.v : see beginning of third
par.igrapb.
• These reflections grew out of a correspondence
which Burke had with "a very young gentle-
niau of Taris." and they retain the tone of a
personal letter. They wore pubiished in 1700.
t An address from the Assembly had l>oen pre-
scnied to the King and Queen Jan. 3. 17!>0,
feilcltatlng them upon the new year and
begging them to forget the past in view of
the good they might do in the f\iture.
EDMUND BURKE
389
fidelity he coulJ give — that they were upon him,
and he was dead. Instantly he was cut down.
A band of cruel ruffians and assassins, reeking
with his blood, rushed into the chamber of the
([ueen, and pierced with a hundred strokes of
bayonets and poniards the bed, from whence
this persecuted woman had but just time to
fly almost naked, and, through ways unknown
to the murderers, had escaped to seek refuge
at the feet of a king and husband, not secure
of his own life for a moment.
This king, to say no more of him, and this
queen, and their infant children, (who once
would have been the pride and hope of a great
and generous people,) were then forced to
abandon the sanctuary of the most splendid
palace in the world, which they left swimming
in blood, polluted by massacre, and strewed
with scattered limbs antl mutilated carcases.
Thence they were conducted into the capital
of their kingdom. Two had been selected
from the unprovoked, unresisted, promiscuous
slaughter, which was made of the gentlemen
of birth and family who composed the king's
body guard. These two gentlemen, with all
the parade of an execution of justice, were
cruelly and publicly dragged to the block, and
beheaded in the great court of the palace.
Their heads were stuck upon spears, and led
the procession; whilst the royal captives who
followed in the train were slowly moved along,
amidst the horrid yells, and shrilling screams,
and frantic dances, and infamous contumelies,
and all the unutterable abominations of the
furies of hell, in the abused shape of the vilest
of women. After they had been made to taste,
drop by drop, more than the bitterness of
death, in the slow torture of a journey of
twelve miles, protracted to six hours, they
were, under a guard, composed of those very
soldiers who had thus conducted them through
this famous triumph, lodged in one of the ok!
palaces of Paris now converted into a bastile
for kings.
Is this a triumph to be consecrated at altars?
to be commemorated with grateful thanksgiv-
ing? to be offered to the divine humanity with
fervent prayer and enthusiastic ejaculation? —
These Theban and Thracian orgies,2 acted in
France, and applauded only in the Old Jewry,3
1 assure you, kindle prophetic enthusiasm in
the minds but of very few people in this king-
dom : although a saint and apostle, who may
have revelations of his own, and who has so
2 Bacchanalian orgies of ancient Greece.
3 A London street, where Dr. Richard Price, of the
Revolution Society, had preached a sermon
In approbation of the Revolution In France.
completely vanquished all the mean supei-sti-
tions of the heart, may incline to think it pious
and decorous to compare it with the entrance
into the world of the Prince of Peace, pro-
claimed in a holy temple by a venerable sage,
and not long before not worse announced by
the voice of angels to the quiet innocence of
shepherds.
At first I was at a loss to account for this
fit of unguarded transport. I knew, indeed,
that the sufferings of monarchs make a de-
licious repast to some sort of palates. There
were reflections which might serve to keep this
appetite within some bounds of temperance.
But when I took one circumstance into my
consideration, I was obliged to confess, that
much allowance ought to be made for the so-
ciety, and that the temptation was too strong
for common discretion; I mean, the circum-
stance of the lo Paian* of the triumph, the
animating cry which called "for all the
BISHOPS to be hanged on the lamp-posts,"
might well have brought forth a burst of en-
thusiasm on the foreseen consequences of this
happy day. I allow to so much enthusiasm
some little deviation from prudence. I allow
this prophet to break forth into hymns of joy
and thanksgiving on an event which appears
like the precursor of the Millennium, and the
projected fifth monarchy,^ in the destruction of
all church establishments. There was, how-
ever, (as in all human affairs there is,) in the
midst of this joy, something to exercise the
patience of these worthy gentlemen, and to try
the long-suffering of their faith. The actual
murder of the king and queen, and their child,
was wanting to the other auspicious circum-
stances of this "beautiful day." The actual
murder of the bishops, though called for by so
many holy ejaculations, was also wanting. A
group of regicide and sacrilegious slaughter,
was indeed boldly sketched, but it was only
sketched. It unhappily was left unfinished, in
this great historj'-piece of the massacre of in-
nocents. What hardy pencil of a great master,
from the school of the rights of men,* will
finish it, is to be seen hereafter. The age has
not yet the complete benefit of that diffusion
of knowledge that has undermined supersti-
tion and error; and the king of France wants
another object or two to consign to oblivion,
in consideration of all the good which is to
4 Ancient shout of victory.
5 The dream of a Puritan sect of Cromwell's
time, to establish a monarchy rivaling ancient
Assyria, Persia, Macedonia and Rome.
* Ironically alluding to the philosophers who up-
held revolutionary doctrines in the name of
humanity. Burke's extreme conservatism on
this subject must not he forgotten.
390
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY
arise from his own sufferings, and the patriotic
crimes of an enlightened age.
Although this work of our new light and
knowledge did not go to the length that in all
probability it was intended it should be car-
ried, yet I must think that such treatment of
any human creatures must be shocking to any
but those who are made for accomplishing
revolutions. But I cannot stop here. In-
fluenced by the inborn feelings of my nature,
and not being illuminated by a single ray of
this new sprung modern light, I confess to
you, Sir, that the exalted rank of the persons
suffering, and particularly the sex, the beauty,
and the amiable qualities of the descendant of
so many kings and emperors, with the tender
age of royal infants, insensible only through
infancy and innocence of the cruel outrages
to which their parents were exposed, instead of
being a subject of exultation, adds not a little
to my sensibility on that most melancholy occa-
sion.
I hear that the august person, who was the
principal object of our preacher's triumph,
though he supported himself, felt much on that
shameful occasion. As a man, it became him
to feel for his wife and his children, and the
faithful guards of his person, that were mas-
sacred in cold blood about him; as a prince, it
became him to feel for the strange and fright-
ful transformation of his civilized subjects,
and to be more grieved for them than solici-
tous for himself. It derogates little from his
fortitude, while it adds infinitely to the honour
of his humanity. I am very sorry to say it,
very sorry indeed, that such personages are in
a situation in which it is not becoming in us
to praise the virtues of the great.
I hear, and I rejoice to hear, that the great
lady, the other object of the triumph, has
borne that day, (one is interested that beings
made for suffering should suffer well,) and
that she bears all the succeeding days, that she
bears the imprisonment of her husband, and
her captivity, and the exile of her friends,
and the insulting adulation of addresses, and
the whole weight of her accumulated wrongs,
with a serene patience, in a manner suited to
her rank and race, and becoming the offspring
of a 8overeign« distinguished for her piety and
her courage; that, like her, she has lofty senti-
ments; that she feels with the dignity of a
Bomnn matron; that in the last extremity
she will save herself from the last disgrace ;7
an<l that, if she must fall, she will fall by no
igiio)ilt> hand.
6 Marltt Theresa
It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I
saw the queen of France, then the dauphiness,
at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this
orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more
delightful vision. I saw her just above the
horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated
sphere she just began to move in, — glittering
like the morning-star, full of life, and splen-
dour, and joy. Oh! what a revolution! and
what a heart must I have to contemplate with-
out emotion that elevation and that fall! Little
did I dream when she added titles of veneration
to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful
love, that she should ever be obliged to carry
the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed
in that bosom; little did I dream that I should
have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her
in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men
of honour, and of cavaliers. I thought ten
thousand swords must have leaped from their
scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened
her with insult. But the age of chivalry is
gone. That of sophisters, economists, and cal-
culators, has succeeded; and the glory of Eu-
rope is extinguished for ever. Never, never
more shall we behold that generous loyalty to
rank and sex, that proud submission, that dig-
nified obedience, that subordination of the
heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself,
the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought
grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the
nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise,
is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of prin-
ciple, that chastity of honour, which felt a
stain like a wound, which inspired courage
whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled
whatever it touched, and under which vice itself
lost half its evil, by losing all its grossness.
This mixed system of opinion and sentiment
had its origin in the ancient chivalry; and the
principle, though varied in its appearance by
the varying state of human affairs, subsisted
and influenced through a long succession of gen-
erations, even to the time we live in. If it
should ever be totally extinguished, the loss I
fear will be great. It is this which has given
its character to modern Europe. It is this
which has distinguished it under all its forms
of government, and distinguished it to its ad-
vantage, from the states of Asia, and possibly
from those states which flourished in the most
brilliant periods of the antique world. It was
this, which, without confounding ranks, had
l)roduced a noble equality, and handed it down
through all the gradations of social life. It
was this oi)iniou which mitigated kings into
7 By poison, self-administered.
J
WILLIAM COWPER
391
companions, and raised private men to be fel-
lows with kings. Without force or opposition,
it subdued the fierceness of pride and power;
it obliged sovereigns to submit to the soft
collar of social esteem, compelled stern authority
to submit to elegance, and gave a dominating
vanquisher cf laws to be subtlued by manners.
But now all is to be changed. All the pleas-
ing illusions, which made power gentle and
obedience liberal, which harmonized the dif-
ferent shades of life and which, by a bland
assimilation, incorporated into politics the sen-
timents which beautify and soften private
society, are to be dissolved by this new con-
quering empire of light and reason. All the
decent drapery of life is to be rudely torn off.
All the superadded ideas, ' furnished from the
wardrobe of a moral imagination, which the
heart owns, and the understanding ratifies, as
necessary to cover the defects of our naked,
shivering nature, and to raise it to dignity in
our own estimation, are to be exploded as a
ridiculous, absurd, and antiquated fashion.
On this scheme of things, a king is but a
man, a queen is but a woman; a woman is but
an animal, and an animal not of the highest
order. All homage paid to the sex in general
as such, and without distinct views, is to be
regarded as romance and folly. Eegicide, and
parricide, and sacrilege, are but fictions of
superstition, corrupting jurisprudence by de-
stroying its simplicity. The murder of a king,
or a queen, or a bishop, or a father, are only
common homicide; and if the people are by
any chance, or in any way, gainers by it, a
sort of homicide much the most pardonable, and
into which we ought not to make too severe a
scrutiny.
On the scheme of this barbarous philosophy,
which is the offspring of cold hearts and muddy
understandings, and which is as void of solid
wisdom as it is destitute of all taste and ele-
gance, laws are to be supported only by their
own terrors, and by the concern which each
individual may find in them from his own pri-
vate speculations, or can spare to them from
his own private interests. In the groves of
their academy,* at the end of every vista, you
see nothing but the gallows. Nothing is left
which engages the affections on the part of the
commonwealth. On the principles of this me-
chanic philosophy, our institutions can never be
embodied, if I may use the expression, in per-
sons; so as to create in us love, veneration.
• The Athenian philosophers conducted their In-
struction walking; in the groves of the
Academe. See Newman, Site of a Unicertityj
in the present Tolumc.
admiration, or attachment. But that sort of
reason which banishes the affections is incap-
able of filling their place. These public affec-
tions, combined with manners, are required
sometimes as supplements, sometimes as cor-
rectives, always as aids to law. The precept
given by a wise man, as well as a great critic,
for the construction of poems, is equally true
as to states: — Non satis est pulchra esse
poemata, dulcia sunto.s There ought to be a
system of manners in every nation, which a
well-formed mind would be disposed to relish.
To make us love our country, our country ought
to be lovely.
WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800)
From OLXEY HYMNS
XXXV. Light Shining Out or Darkness
1
God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea.
And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable 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 mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace :
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
5
His purposes will ripen fast.
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.
Blind unbelief is sure to err.
And scan his work in vain:
God is his own interpreter,
And be will make it plain.
8 "It Is not enough that poems be beautiful, Ihey
must have sweetness." Horace : .Irs Poet tea,
99.
302
LATEK EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE
1
Toll for the brave!
The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore!
2
Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage ■well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,
And laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset:
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.
4
Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempeufelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.
5
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock.
6
His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes:
8
Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again,
Full charged with England's thunder.
And plough the distant main.
9
But Kempenfelt is gone.
His victories are o 'er ;
And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.
• A man-of-wnr which, In 1782. while undergoing
ivpiilrs. turned over, filled, and sank, with
Adiuirui Kempenfelt and over eight hundred
men on board. This poem takes a place
nmong the great poeraH written about the
llrltiHh navy, like Onmpl)ell'H Ye Afariner/i of
Unfflniid and Ti;nnyson'B The Revenge,
THE JACKDAW t
1
There is a bird, who, by his coat,
And by the hoarseness of his note,
Might be supposed a crow;
A great frequenter of the church.
Where bishop-like he finds a perch.
And dormitory too.
2
Above the steeple shines a plate.
That turns and turns to indicate
From what point blows the weather;
Look up — your brains begin to swim,
'Tis in the clouds — that pleases him;
He chooses it. the rather.
3
Fond of the speculative height.
Thither he wings his airy flight.
And thence securely sees
The bustle and the raree-showi
That occupy mankind below,
Secure and at his ease.
4
You think, no doubt, he sits and mases
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall.
No; not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate.
Or troubles it at all.
5
He sees that this great roundabout,
The world, with all its motley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,
Its customs, and its businesses,
Is no concern at all of his.
And says — what says he? — "Caw."
6
Thrice happy bird! I too have seen
Much of the vanities of men;
And, sick of having seen 'em.
Would cheerfully these limbs resign
For such a pair of wings as thine,
And such a head between 'em.
ON THE RECEIPT OF MY aMOTHER'S
PICTURE, OUT OF NORFOLK;
THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN,
ANN BODHAM
TH.\T those lips had hmguagol Life has
passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile 1 pee,
1 A show that can be carried nbont in a box.
t TrnnHlated from flie Latin «>r Towpct's lenclier,
Vincent Rourne,
WILLIAM LUWPKR
393
The same that oft in childhood solaced nie;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears
away ! ' '
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, H
welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidst me honour with an artless song,
Aflfectionate, a mother lost so long,
1 will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream that thou art she. 20
My mother! when I learned that thou wast
dead.
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss:
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss —
Ah, that maternal smile! It answers — Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away.
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 30
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such I — It was. — Where thou art
gone.
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived.
By expectation every day beguiled, 40
Dupe of to-morroic even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went.
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
W'here once we dwelt our name is heard no
more.
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Eobin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way, 50
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped,
'Tis now become a history little known
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair
That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there.
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes les.s deeply traced.
I Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might 'st know me safe and warmly
laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 60
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and
glowed ;
All this, and more endearing still than all.
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall.
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes,
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page.
And still to be 80 to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 70
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed
here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the
hours
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued
flowers.
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
W^ouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and
smile),
Could those few pleasant days again appear, 80
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them
heref
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might —
But no — what here we call our life is such
So little to be loved, and thou so much.
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion 's coast
(The storms all weathered and the ocean
crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, 90
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons
smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! bast reached the
shore,
* * Where tempests never beat nor biUows roar, ' '
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 100
Always from port withheld, always distressed —
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest tost.
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass
lost.
And day by day some current 's thwarting force
394
LATEH EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet oh the thought that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 110
The son of parents passed into the skies!
And now, farewell. Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again j
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine:
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free
And I can view this mimic show of thee.
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 120
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
TO MRS. UNWIN*
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from heaven as some have feigned
they drew,
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true.
And that immortalizes whom it sings.
But thou hast little need. There is a book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And, since thou owu'st that praise, X spare thee
mine.
THE CASTAWAY t
1
Obscurest night involved the sky.
The Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board.
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft.
His floating home forever left.
2
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast
With warmer wishes sent.
He loved them both, but l)oth in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
• The friend and constant companion of Cowpor
for thirty-four yi-ars.
t The Inst poom tlint Cowper wrotf : founded on
an incident in Admiral Anson'H Vouai/es. It
portrays imaKinativeiy hla own melancholy
<'ondition.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay ;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away;
But waged with death a lasting strife.
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted; nor his friends had failed
To check the vessel's course.
But so the furious blast jjrevailed
That, pitiless perforce.
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;
And such as storms allow.
The cask, the coop, the floated cord.
Delayed not to bestow;
But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
6
Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he
Their haste himself condemn.
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self -upheld :
And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repelled;
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried ' ' Adieu ! "
8
At length, his transient respite past.
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more;
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
9
No poet wept him; but the page
Of narrative sincere,
That tells his name, his worth, his age,
Is wet with Anson's tear:
An<l tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalise the dead.
10
I therefore purpose not, or dream.
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
GEORGE CRABBE
395
A more enduring date:
But misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another's case.
11
No voice divine the storm allayed,
No light propitious shone,
When, snatched from all effectual aid.
We perished, each alone;
But I beneath a -rougher sea,
And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.
GEORGE CRABBE (1754-1832)
From THE BOROUGH*
Letter I
"Describe the Borough." — Though our idle
tribe
May love description, can we so describe.
That you shall fairly streets and buildings
trace,
And all that gives distinction to a place*
This cannot be; yet, moved by your request,
A part I paint — let fancy form the rest.
Cities and towns, the various haunts of men.
Require the pencil; they defy the pen.
Could he, who sang so well the Grecian fleet,i
So well have sung of alley, lane, or street? 10
Can measured lines these various buildings show,
The Town-Hall Turning, or the Prospect Row?
Can I the seats of wealth and want explore.
And lengthen out my lays from door to door?
Then, let thy fancy aid me. — I repair
From this tall mansion of our last-year 's mayor,
Till we the outskirts of the Borough reach.
And these half-buried buildings next the beach;
Where hang at open doors the net and cork,
While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy work;
Till comes the hour, when, fishing through the
tide, 21
The weary husband throws his freight aside —
A living mass, which now demands the wife.
The alternate labours of their humble life.
1 Homer, Iliad II.
• This poem was inscribed to the Dulse of Rut-
land, to whom Crabbe bad been chaplain,
and takes the form of Letters from a resi-
dent of a sea-port (Crabbe was a native of
Aldeburgb. Suffolk) to the owner of an
inland country-seat. The date of the poem
is 1810. Crabbe's reputation, however, was
established by The Village in 1783, and his
place is with those later 18th century poets
who clung to the 18th century forms, though
reacting against the artlficia"lity and frigid
conventionalism that had so long reigned.
In homeliness of themes and naked realism
of treatment, the poet of The Tillage and
The Borough stands quite alone. See Eng.
Lit., p. 226.
Can scenes like these withdraw thee from thy
wood.
Thy upland forest or thy valley's flood?
Seek, then, thy garden's shrubby bound, and
look.
As it steals by, upon the bordering brook:
That winding streamlet, limpid, lingering, slow,
Where the reeds whisper when the zephyrs
blow; 30
Where in the midst, upon her throne of green.
Sits the large lily as the water's queen;
And makes the current, forced awhile to stay,
Murmur and bubble as it shoots away;
Draw then the strongest contrast to that stream.
And our broad river will before thee seem.
With ceaseless motion comes and goes the
tide;
Flowing, it fills the channel vast and wide;
Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep
It rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep; 40
Here sampire-banks and salt-wort bound the
flood;
There stakes and sea-weeds, withering on the
mud;
And, higher up, a ridge of all things base.
Which some strong tide has rolled upon the
place.
Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat.
Urged on by pains, half grounded, half afloat;
While at her stern an angler takes his stand,
And marks the fish he purposes to land.
From that clear space, where, in the cheerful
ray
Of the warm sun, the scaly people play. 50
Far other craft our prouder river shows.
Hoys, pinks and sloops; brigs, brigantines and
snows :
Nor angler we on our wide stream descry.
But one poor dredger where his oysters lie:
He, cold and wet, and driving with the tide,
Beats his weak arms against his tarry side.
Then drains the remnant of diluted gin,
To aid the warmth that languishes within;
Renewing oft his poor attempts to beat
His tingling fingers into gathering heat. 60
He shall again be seen when evening comes.
And social parties crowd their favourite rooms;
Where on the table pipes and papers lie,
The steaming bowl or foaming tankard by.
'Tis then, with all these comforts spread
around.
They hear the painful dredger 's welcome sound ;
And few themselves the savoury boon deny.
The food that feeds, the living luxury.
Yon is our quay! those smaller hoys from
town, 6*
Its various wares, for country-use, bring down;
396
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY
Those laden Maggous, in return, impart
The country "iiroduce to the city mart;
Hark to the clamour in that miry road,
Bounded and narrowed by yon vessel's load;
The lumbering wealth she empties round the
place.
Package, and parcel, hogshead, chest, and case;
While the loud seaman and the angry hind.
Mingling in business, bellow to the wind.
Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks.
Rear, for the sea, those castles on the stocks:
See the long keel, which soon the waves must
hide; 81
See the strong ribs which form the roomy side;
Bolts yielding slowly to the sturdiest stroke,
And planks which curve and crackle in the
amoke.
Around the whole rise cloudy wreaths, and far
Bear the warm pungence of o'er-boiling tar.
Dabbling on shore half -naked sea-boys crowd,
Swim round a ship, or swing upon the shroud;
Or, in a boat purloined, with paddles, play.
And grow familiar with the watery way. 90
Young though they be, they feel whose sons
they are;
They know what British seamen do and dare;
Proud of that fame, they raise and they enjoy
The rustic wonder of the village. boy.
Turn to the watery world! — but who to thee
(A wonder yet unviewed) shall paint — the sea?
Various and vast, sublime in all its forms.
When lulled by zephyrs, or when roused by
storms ;
Its colours changing, when from clouds and sun
Shades after shades upon the surface run;
Embrowned and horridz now, and now serene,
In limpid blue, and evanescent green; 170
And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,
Lift the fair sail, and cheat the experienced
eye.
Be it the summer-noon: a sandy space
The ebbing tide has left upon its place;
Then just the hot and stony beach above.
Light twinkling streams in bright confusion
move
(For heated thus, the warmer air ascends,
And with the cooler in its fall contends) ;
Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps
An equal motion, swelling as it sleeps, ISO
Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand.
Faint, lazy waves o'ercreop the ridgy sand.
Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow,
And back return in silence, smooth and slow.
Ships in the calm seem anchored ; for they glide
On the still sea, urged solely by the tide;
Art tliou not present, this calm scene before,
2 rough
Where all beside, is pebbly length of shore,
And far as eye can reach, it can discern no
more?
Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud, to
make 190
The quiet surface of the ocean shake;
As an awakened giant with a frown
Might show his wrath, and then to sleep sink
down.
View now the winter-storm, above, one cloud.
Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud.
The unwieldy porpoise through the day before
Had rolled in view of boding men on shore;
And sometimes hid, and sometimes showed, his
form.
Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm.
All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to
roam, 200
The breaking billows cast the flying foam
Upon the billows rising — all the deep
Is restless change; the waves so swelled and
steep,
Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells,
Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells.
But, nearer land, you may the billows trace.
As if contending in their watery chase;
May watch the mightiest till the shoal they
reach.
Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch;
Curled as they come, they strike with furious
force, 210
And then, re-flowing, take their grating course,
Raking the rounded flints, which ages past
Rolled by their rage, and shall to ages last.
Far off, the petrel in the troubled way
Swims with her brood, or flutter* in the spray;
She rises often, often drops again.
And sports at ease on the tempestuous main.
High o 'er the restless deep, above the reach
Of gunner's hope, vast flights of wild-ducks
stretch ;
Far as the eye can glance on either side, 220
In a broad space and level line they glide;
All in their wedge-like figures from the north.
Day after day, flight after flight, go forth.
In-shore their passage tribes of soa-gulls
urge.
And drop for prey within the sweeping surge;
Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly
Far back, then turn, and all their force apply.
While to the storm they give their weak com-
plaining cry;
Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast,
And in the restless wcean dip for rest. 230
Darkness begins to reign; the louder wind
Appals the' weak and awes the firmer mind;
But frights not him, whom evening nn(l the
spray
WILLIAM BLAKE
397
In part conceal — ^yon prowler on his way.
Lo! he has something seen; he runs apace,
As if he feared companion in the chase;
He sees his prize, and now he turns again,
Slowly and sorrowing — "Was your search in
vainf "
Gruffly he answers, " 'Tis a sorry sight!
A seaman's body; there'll be more to-night!"
Hark to those sounds! they're from distress
at sea; 241
How quick they come! What terrors may there
be!
Yes, 'tis a driven vessel: I discern
Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from the
stern ;
Others behold them too, and from the town
In various parties seamen hurry down;
Their wives pursue, and damsels urged by
dread.
Lest men so dear be into danger led;
Their head the gown has hooded, and their call
In this sad night is piercing like the squall;
They feel their kinds of power, and when they
meet, 251
Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or entreat.
See one poor girl, all terror and alarm.
Has fondly seized upon her lover's arm;
' ' Thou shalt not venture ; ' ' and he answers,
"No!
I will not" — still she cries, "Thou shalt not
go."
No need of this; not here the stoutest boat
Can through such breakers, o'er such billows
float;
Yet may they view these lights upon the beach,
Which yield them hope, whom help can never
reach, 260
From parted clouds the moon her radiance
throws
On the wild waves, and all the danger shows;
But shows them beaming in her shining vest,
Terrific splendour! gloom in glory dressed!
This for a moment, and then clouds again
Hide every beam, and fear and darkness reign.
But hear we now those sounds? Do lights
appear?
I see them not! the storm alone I hear:
And lo! the .sailors homeward take their way;
Man must endure — let us submit and pray. 270
Such are our winter- views ; but night comes
on —
Now business sleeps, and daily cares are gone:
Now parties form, and some their friends assist
To waste the idle hours at sober whist;
The tavern 's pleasure or the concert 's charm
Unnumbered moments of their sting disarm;
Play-bills and open doors a crowd invite.
To pass off one dread portion of the night;
And show and song and luxury combined
Lift off from man this burthen of mankind. 280
Others adventurous walk abroad and meet
Beturning parties pacing through the street;
When various voices, in the dying day.
Hum in our walks, and greet us in our way;
When tavern-lights flit on from room to room,
And guide the tippling sailor, staggering home:
There as we pass, the jingling bells betray
How business rises with the closing day:
Now walking silent, by the river's side.
The ear perceives the rippling of the tide; 290
Or measured cadence of the lads who tow
Some entered hoy, to fix her in her row;
Or hoUow sound, which from the parish-bell
To some departed spirit bids farewell!
Thus shall you something of our Borough
know.
Far as a verse, with Fancy's aid, can show;
Of sea or river, of a quay or street.
The best description must be incomplete;
But when a happier theme succeeds, and when
Men are our subjects and the deeds of men ; 300
Then may we find the Muse in happier style,
And we may sometimes sigh and sometimes
smile.
WILUAM BLAKE (1757-1827)
SONG
How sweet I roamed from field to field.
And tasted all the summer's pride.
Till I the Prince of Love beheld,
Who in the sunny beams did glide.
He showed me lilies for my hair.
And blushing roses for my brow;
And led me through his gardens fair
Where all his golden pleasures grow.
With sweet May-dews my wings were wet.
And Phoebus fired my vocal rage;
He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.
He loves to sit and hear me sing.
Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing.
And mocks my loss of liberty.
398
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
TO THE MUSES
Whether on Ida 'si shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the sun, that now
From ancient melody have ceased;
Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,
Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air
Where the melodious winds have birth;
Whether on crystal rocks ye rove.
Beneath the bosom of the sea
Wandering in many a coral grove.
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry!
How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoyed in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.
INTRODUCTION TO SONGS OF
INNOCENCE
Piping down the valleys wild.
Piping songs of pleasant glee.
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he, laughing, said to me:
"Pipe a song about a Lamb!"
So I piped with merry cheer.
"Piper, pipe that song again:"
So I piped : he wept to hear.
3
*fDrop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer:"
So I sang the same again.
While he wept with joy to hear.
"Piper, sit thee down and write
In a lM)ok, that all may read,"
So he vanished from my sight;
And I plucked a hollow reed.
1 A monntnln of the Trond : nlso ono In Crete.
Helicon, In H«potlii. Is more properly the
mountain of llic .Muses.
And I made a rural pen.
And 1 stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
THE TIGER*
1
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
2
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
When thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand forged thy dread feet?
4
What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dared its deadly terrors clasp?
5
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
AH, SUNFLOWER
1
Ah, Sunflower! weary of time.
Who countest the steps of the Sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller's journey is done;
o
Where the Youth, pined away with desire,
And the pale Virgin, shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sunflower wishes to go!
The Text U that of Malkln, 1806.
SCOTTISH LYRICS
399
SCOTTISH LYRICS
BOBEKT FEKGUSSON (1750-1774)
Elegy ox the Death op Scots Music*
1
On Scotia's plains, in days of yore,
When lads and lasses tartan wore,
Saft music rang on ilkai shore,
In hamely weid;2
But harmony is now no more,
And music dead.
Round her the feathered choir would wing,
Sae bonnily she wont to sing,
And sleely3 wake the sleeping string.
Their sang to lead,
Sweet as the zephyrs o ' the spring ;
But now she's dead.
Mourn, ilka nymph and ilka swain.
Ilk sunny hill and dowie* glen;
Let weeping streams and Naiads drain
Their fountain head;
Let Echo swell the dolefu' strain,
Sin' music's dead.
Whan the saft vernal breezes ea'
The grey-haired winter's fogs awa',
Xaebody than is heard to blaw.
Near hill or mead.
On chaunters or on aiten straw,«
Sin' music's dead.
Nae lasses now, on sinuner days.
Will lilt7 at bleaching o' their elaes;
Nae herds* on Yarrow's bonny braes.s
Or banks o' Tweed,
Delight to chaunt their hameiUo lays,
Sin' music's dead.
6
At glomin now the bagpipe's dumb.
Whan weary owsenn hameward come;
1 every
2 homely garb
3 skillfully
4 gloomy
5 finger-pipe (of a bag-
pipe)
« oaten reed
7 sing cheerily
8 shepherds
9 slopes
10 homely
11 oxen
• Native Scottish mnsic and poetry were for a
long time eclipsed by the popularity of Eng-
lish and foreign modes. But they never died
out completely : and at the verv time when
Fergusson wrote his lament (about 1773)
they were experiencing a revival which
reached its culmination some fifteen years
later in the poems and songs of Bums.
Sae sweetly as it wont to bum,i2
And pibrochsi3 skreed;i*
We never hear its weirlike'^ hum,-
For music 's dead.
Macgibbon'sifi gane: Ah! wae's my heart!
The man in music maist expert,
Wha cou'd sweet melody impart,
And tune the reed,
Wi' sic a slee and pawkyi'' art;
But now he's dead.
8
Ilk carlineis now may grunt and grane.
Ilk bonny lassie make great mane;
Sin' he's awa, I trow there's nane
Can fill his stead;
The blythest sangster on the plain.
Alack, is dead!
9
Now foreign sonnets bear the gree,i9
And crabbit20 queer variety
O' sounds fresh sprung frae Italy,
A bastard breed!
Unlike that saft-tongued melody
Whilk2i now lies dead.
10
Cou'd lav'rocks22 at the dawning day,
Cou'd Unties chirming23 frae the spray,
Or todling burnss* that smoothly play
O'er gowden25 bed.
Compare wi' Birls of Invermay?-^
But now they're dead.
11
O Scotland! that eou'd yenee27 afford
To bang the pith28 o' Roman sword,
Winna your sons, wi' joint accord.
To battle speed.
And fight till Music be restor'd,
Whilk now lies dead!
LADY ANNE LINDSAY (1750-1825)
AuLD RoBix Gray
Wlien the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye
at hame,
And a' the warld to rest are gane,
12 drone
13 martial tnnes
!•« quaver forth
13 warlike
i« \Vm. Macgibbon. a
musician of Edin-
burgh.
17 cunning
18 old woman
19 victory
20 crabbed
21 which
22 sky-larks
-3 linnets chirping
24 loitering brooks
23 golden
26 A popular sohg.
27 once
28 surpass the might
400
LATER EIGHTEE^'TH CENTURY
The waes o ' my heart fa ' in showers f rae my
e'e,
While my gudeman lies sound by me.
2
Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for
his bride;
But saving a eroun he had naething else beside;
To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed
to sea;
And the eroun and the pund were baith for me.
3
He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,
When my father brak his arm, and the cow wa«
stown29 awa';
My mother she fell sick, — and my Jamie at the
sea —
And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.
4
My father couldna work, and my mother
couldna spin;
1 toiled day and night, but their bread 1
couldna win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi '
tears in his e'e
Said, ' ' Jennie, for their sakes, 0, marry me ! "
5
My heart it said nay ; I looked for Jamie back ;
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was
a wrack;
His ship it was a wrack — why didna Jamie dee?
Or why do I live to cry, Wae 's me !
6
^ly father urged me sair: my mother didn.i
speak ;
But she looked in my face till my heart was
like to break:
They gi'ed him my hand, tho* my heart was in
the sea;
Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
7
1 hadna been a wife a week but only four.
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the
door,
r saw my Jamie's wraith, — for I couldna think
it he,
Till he said, * * I 'm come hame to marry thee. ' '
8
O sair, sair did we greet,3<» and micklesi say
of a';
We took but ae kiss, and I bade him gang
awa';
ao Btolen
•ocrjr
81 much (or poRRlbly
"little")
I wish that 1 were dead, but I'm no like to
dee;
And why was I born to say, Wae's me!
9
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I '11 do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.
ISOBEL PAGAN (d. 1821)
Ca ' THE YOWES
As I gaed down the water side,
There I met my shepherd lad,
He rowedi me sweetly in his plaid,
And he ca'd me his dearie.
Ca' the yowes2 to the knowes,^'
Ca' them where the heather grows,
Ca' them where the burnie rows,*
My bonnie dearie.
"Will ye gang down the water side.
And see the waves sae sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading wide?
The moon it shines fu' clearly."
Ca ' the yotves, etc.
"I was bred up at nae sic school,
My shepherd lad, to play the fool;
And a' the day to sit in dool,-''
And naebody to see me. ' '
4
**Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye'se^ lie and sleep,
And ye shall be my dearie. ' '
5
'Ml' ye '11 but stand to what ye've said,
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad;
And ye may row me in your plaid,
And I shall be your dearie."
6
"While waters wimple to the sea.
While day blinks in the lift" sae hie.
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,
Ye aye shall be my dearie."
1 rolled
2 ewes
s knollR
4 brook flows
5 sorrow
6 ye shnll
» «ky
ROBERT BURNS
401
LADY NAIRN E (1766—1845)
The Land o' the Leal
1
I 'm wearin ' awa ', John,
like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,
I 'm wearin ' awa '
To the land o' the leal.s
There's nae sorrow there, John,
There's neither cauld nor care, John,
The day is aye fair
In the land o' the leaL
2
Our bonnie bairn's there, John,
She was baith gude and fair, John;
And oh! we grudged her sair
To the land o' the leal.
But sorrow's sel' wears past, John,
And joy's a-coming fast, John,
The joy that's aye to last
In the land o' the leal.
3
Sae dear that joy was bought, John,
Sae free the battle fought, John,
That sinfu' man e'er brought
To the land o' the leal.
Oh, dry your glistening e'e, John!
My saul langs to be free, John,
And angels beckon me
To the land o' the leaL
4
Oh, haud» ye leal and true, John!
Your day it's wearin' through, John,
And I 'U welcome you
To the land o' the leal.
Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John,
This warld's cares are vain, John,
We'll meet, and weTl be fain,io
In the land o' the leal.
ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796)
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT »
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEX, ESQ.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil.
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile.
The short and simple annals of the poor.
Grai.
1
My lov'd, my honour 'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays:
With honest pride, T scorn each selfish end,
8 loyal, faithful lo happy
!• hold
• Of this poi>m. Gilbert Burns. Robert's brother,
writes : "Robert had frequently remarked to
My dearest meed, a friend 's esteem and praise ;t
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays.
The lowly train in life's sequester 'd scene,
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways,
"VMiat Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier
there, I ween!
2
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;i
The short 'ning winter day is near a close;
The naij beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black 'ning trains o' craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotters frae his labour goes, —
This night his weekly moil^ is at an end, —
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes.
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does
hameward bend.
3
At length his lonely cot api)ear3 in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee-things, toddUn, stacher*
through
To meet their dad, wi* fliehterin^ noise an'
glee.
His wee bit ingle,^ blinkin bonilie.
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie 's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee.
Does a' his weary kiaugh? and care beguile.
An' makes him quite forget his labour an'
his toU.
4
Belyve,* the elder bairns come drappin in.
At service out, amang the farmers roun';
Some ca'9 the pleugh, some herd, some tentieio
rin
1 sough
2 cottager
3 labor
* stagger
3 fluttering
• fire-place or fire
T anxiety
8 by and by
» drive
10 heedful
me that he thought there was something
peculiarly venerable in the phrase, "Let us
worship God,' used by a decent, sober head
of a family, introducing family worship. To
this sentiment of the author, the world is
indebted for The Cotter's Saturday Sight.
The cotter is an exact copy of my father, in
his manners, his family devotion, and ex-
hortations ; yet the other parts of the de-
scription do not apply to our family. None
of us were 'at service out among the farmers
roun'. Instead of our depositing our *sair-
won pennv-fee* with our parents, my father
laboured hard, and lived with the most rigid
economy, that he might be able to keep his
children at home." Mr. J. L. Robertson, com-
menting on the fact that more than half the
poem is in English, says : ".\n unusually ele-
vated or serious train of thought in the mind
of a Scottish peasant seems to demand for
its expression the use of a speech which one
may describe as Sabbath Scotch."
t Aiken was not only a patron, but a genuine
friend, of Burns.
402
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY
A cannieii^ errand to a neibor town:
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame, perhaps to show a brawi2 new
gown,
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hard-
ship be.
5
With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers :i3
The social hours, swift-wing 'd, unnotic'd fleet;
Each tells the uncosi* that he sees or hears.
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers,
Garsis auld claes look amaist as weel's the
new;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.
Their master's an' their mistress's command
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent^o hand.
An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play;
"An' O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night;
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray.
Implore His counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the
Lord aright ! ' '
7
But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same.
Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the moor,
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;
Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his
name.
While Jenny hafflinsi^ is afraid to speak;
Weel pleas 'd the mother hears it's nae wiM
worthless rake.
8
Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben,>8
A strappin youth ; he takes the mother 's eye ;
BIythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill taen;
The father cracks'" of horses, ploughs, and kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,
But blate20 and laithfu',21 scarce can weel
behave ;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy
11 carpful
12 linndsomp
13 nskH
14 xt range things
15 innkcs
10 diligent
17 partly
iR Into lli(> parlor
II) talk8
tio Hhamefaced
21 baubful
What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae
grave,
Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected
like the lave.22
9
O happy love! where love like this is found!
heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
1 've paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare, —
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure
spare.
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the
ev'ning gale."
10
Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd?
Is there no pity, no relenting rnth,
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child;
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis-
traction wild?
11
But now the supper crowns their simple board.
The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food;
The sowpei their only hawkie2 does afford.
That yont^ the hallan* snugly chows her cood:
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood.
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck,5
fell;6
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid:
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i'
the bell.7
12
The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They round the ingle form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace
The big ha's Bible, ance his father's pride:
His bonnet rev 'rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffetso wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide.
He walesio a portion with judicious care;
22 rest
1 8iip. portion (of milk)
2 row
3 b«'yond
4 pint it Ion
.1 well Hiivpd choose
n lilting
7 a twelve-month old,
since flax was in
llowcr
shall (In ancient
usage, the "hall"
was the general as-
sembly room of the
house, as opposed
to the n r i V H t e
"bowers. )
• grey temples
io chooses
KOBEKT BUKNS
403
And "Let us worship God!" he says with
solemn air.
13
Thej chant their artless notes in simple guise,
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps 'Dundee's' wild-warbling measures
rise.
Or plaintive ' Martyrs, ' worthy of the name ;
Or noble 'Elgin' beetsu the heaven-ward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compar'd with these, Italian triUs are tame:
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's
praise.
14
The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal bardi2 did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
15
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heav'n the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head:
How His first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he,i3 who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand.
And heard great Bab 'Ion's doom pronounc'd
by Heav'n 's command.
16
Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope ' ' springs exulting on triumphant wing, ' 'i*
That thus they all shall meet in future days.
There ever bask in uncreated rays.
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear.
Together hymning their Creator's praise.
In such society, yet still more dear.
While circling Time moves round in an eter-
nal sphere.
17
Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride
In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart!
11 adds fuel to, fans
12 David
13 John
14 Pope, Windsor
eat, 112.
For-
The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,
2klay hear, well-pleas 'd, the language of the
soul;
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor
enrol.
18
Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest;
The parent-pair their secret homage pay.
And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request.
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest.
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride.
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best.
For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine
preside.
19
From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur
springs.
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
"An honest man's the noblest work of
God; "15
And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;
What is a lordling's pompf a cumbrous load.
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind.
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin 'dl
. 20
O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent,
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet eon-
tent!
And oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A \-irtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-
lov'd isle.
21
O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide
That stream 'd thro ' Wallace 's undaunted heart,
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride.
Or nobly die, the second glorious part,—
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
O never, never Scotia's realm desert.
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard.
In bright succession raise, her ornament and
guard !
19 Pope, Eaaay on Man, iv, 248.
404
LATEB EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
ADDRESS TO THE DEIL *
"O Prince ! O chiof of many throned pow'rs
That led th* embattled seraphim to war."
Milton.
1
O Thou! whatever title suit thee —
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie^ —
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,
Clos'cl under hatches,
Spairgest about the brunstane^ cootie,
To scauds poor wretches!
Hear n'e, auld Hangie,* for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,
To skelps an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!
Great is thy pow 'r au' great thy famej
Far kenn'd an' noted is thy name;
An' tho' yon lowins heugh's^ thy hame,
Thou travels far;
An' faith! thou's neither lags nor lame,
Nor blates nor scaur.io
Whyles,ii rangin like a roarin lion.
For prey a' holes and corners tryin;
Whyles, on the strong-wing 'd tempest flyin,
Tirlini- the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.
5
I've heard my rev 'rend grannie say.
In lanelyi3 glens ye like to stray;
1 From rioot, one of the 7 pit
divisions of a clo- 8 slow
ven hoof. 9 bashful
2 brimstone lo timid
3 scald 11 sometimes
4 hangman 12 unroofing
5 slap 13 lonely
blazing
• "The humorous satire of the piece is at the
expense of popular Scottish Calvinism." — J L.
Robertson.
t "Spairges is the best Scots word in its place I
ever met with. The deil is not standing
flinging the li<|uid brimstone on his friends
with a ladle, but we see him standing at a
large boiling vat, with something like a golf-
bat, striking the liquid this way and that
way aslant, with all his might, making it fly
through the whole apartment, while the in-
mates are winking and holding up their arms
to defend their faces." (.Tames Hogg.) This
interpretation admirably fits the word
xpairges (Latin, aparoere, to sprinkle; Eng-
lish, aaptrge, anpeme) ; If it is correct, the
word cootie, which properly means a wooden
kitchen dish of any size from a ladle to a
small tub. Is used rather boldly for the con-
tents of the cootie,
Or where auld ruin'd castles gray
Nod to the moon.
Ye fright the nightly wand 'rer 's way
Wi' eldritchi* croon.is
When twilight did my graunie summon
To say her pray'rs, doucei« honest woman!
Aft yonti7 the dyke she's heard you bummin,is
Wi' eeriei* drone;
Or, rustlin, thro' the boortreesi» comin,
Wi' heavy groan.
Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot'down wi' sklentinso light,
Wi' you mysel I gat a fright
AyontiT the lough ;2i
Ye like a rash-buss22 Stood in sight,
Wi' waving sough.
8
The cudgel in my nieve^s did shake,
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake.
When wi ' an eldritch, stoor-'i ' ' Quaick, quaick.
Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter 'dzo like a drake,
On whistlin wings.
Let warlocks2« grim, an' wither 'd hags.
Tell how W'i' you, on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs^" an' dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howket-8 dead.
10
Thence, countra wives wi ' toil and pain
May plunge an' plunge the kirn2» in vain;
For oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en
By witchin skill;
An' dawtet,3o twalai-pint hawkie'ssz gaen
As yell '833 the bill.a*
11
Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse
On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse;*^
14 ghostly
15 moan
16 grave
1 7 beyond
16 buzzing
19 elders
30 slanting
21 lake
22 bush of rnsbes
23 fist
24 harsh
25 fluttered
2« wizards
27 moors
28 dug up
26 churn
80 doted on, dear
81 twelve
82 cow
83 dry as
P4 bull
8!^ spirited
ROBEBT BUENS
405
When the best wark-lume i* the house,
By cantripi wit,
Is instaot made no worth a louse.
Just at the bit.2
12
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An ' float the jinglin icy boord,
Then water-kelpiess haunt the foord,
By your direction,
An' 'nighted trav'lers are allur'd
To their destruction.
13
And aft your moss-traversing spunkies*
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is:
The bleezin,5 curst, mischievous monMes
Delude his eyes.
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.
14
When masons' mystic word an' grip
In storms an' tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest brither ye wad whip
Aff straught to hell.
15
Lang syne,« in Eden's bonie* yard,
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
An' all the soul of love they shar'd,
The raptur'd hour.
Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird,
In shady bow'r;
16
Then you, ye auld snick^ -drawing dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,
An' play'd on man a eursfed brogue,*
(Black be your fa'!9)
An' gied the infant warld a shog,io
'Maist ruin'd a'.
17
D'ye mind that day when, in a bizz,"
Wi' reeket duds, an' reestet gizz,i2
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
'Mang better folk,
1 magic
2 nicK of time
3 spirits
•* will-o'-tiie-wisps
5 blazing
since
T latch
♦ This spelling represents the broad Scotch pro-
nunciation rather better than the spelling
bonny.
8 trick
9 lot
10 shock
11 bustle
12 smoked garments and
singed face
An' sklented on the man of Uzi
Your spitefu' jokef
18
An' how ye gat him i' your thrall.
An' brak him out o' house an hal'.
While scabs and blotches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw;
An' lpws'd2 his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul',3
Was warst aval
19
But a' your doings to rehearse.
Your wily snares an' fechtin* fierce,
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,^
Down to this time,
Wad ding a Lallans tongue, or Erse,^
In prose or rhyme.
20
An' now, auld Cloots,8 I ken ye 're thinkin,
A certain bardie's rantin, drinkin.
Some luckless hour will send him linkins
To your black pit;
But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,io
An' cheat you yet.
21
But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
wad ye tak a thought an' men'!
Ye aiblinsn might — I dinna ken —
Still hae a stake:
1 'm waei2 to think upo ' yon den,
Ev'n for your sake!
ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUIDf
OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS
My Son, these maxims make a rule,
An' lump them aye thegither ;
The Rigid Righteous is a fool.
The Rigid Wise anither :
The cleanest corn that e'er was dightis
May hae some pyles o' caffi* in ;
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight
For random fits o' daffin.is
Solomon. — Eccles. vii, 16.
O ye wha are sae guid yoursel',
Sae pious and sae holy.
1 Job
2 loosed
3 scold
4 fighting
5 Par. Lost vi. 325
6 bafBe a lowland
T Gaelic
8 hoof s (Satan)
t The word unco (for uncouth, "unknown") Is
used both as an adjective, meaning "unusual,
strange." and as an adverb, meaning "extreme-
ly, wonderfully."
tripping
10 dodging
11 perhaps
12 sad
13 dressed, winnowed
14 grains of cbaS
15 merriment
406
LATEK EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
Your neibours' fauts and folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaum mill,
Supplied wi ' store o ' water ;
The heapet happer's ebbing still,
An ' still the claps plays clatter, —
2
Hear me, ye venerable core,3
As counsel for poor mortals
That frequent pass douce* Wisdom 's door
For glaikets Folly's portals:
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes.
Would here propone^ defences —
Their donsie^ tricks, their black mistakes.
Their failings and mischances,
3 !
Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd,
And shudder at the nifferjs
But cast a moment's fair regard.
What makes the mighty differ ?o
Discount what scant occasion gave,
That purity ye pride in;
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)
Your better art o' hidin.
4
Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop.
What ragings must his veins convulse
That still eternal gallop! •
Wi' wind and tide, fair i' your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o' baith to sail,
It makes an unco lee-way.
5
See Social Life and Glee sit down.
All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite tran8mugrified,io they're grown
Debauchery and Drinking:
would they stay to calculate
Th ' eternal consequences ;
Or — ^your more dreaded hell to state —
Damnation of expenses! ....
7
Then gently scan your brother man.
Still gentler sister woman;
Tho' Ihey may gang a kenninn wrang,
To step aside is human;
One point must still be greatly dark, —
The moving Why they do it;
And just as lamely can ye mark,
How far perhaps they rue it.
1 well-golng
2 clapper
» corps, company
4 grave
6 giddy
« propone
7 mischievous
8 exchange
8 difference
10 transformed
11 a little
8
Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly can try us;
He knows each chord, its various tone.
Each spring, its various bias:
Then at the balance let's be mute.
We never can adjust it;
What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.
TO A MOUSE
ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE
PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785
1
Wee, sleekit,! cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi' bickerings brattle !3
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
Wi' murd'rin pattle!*
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union.
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles,5 but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimens icker^ in a thrave^
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,»
An' never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to bigio a new ane,
O* foggage^i green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snelli2 an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste.
An' weary winter comin fast.
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell.
Till crash! the cruel coulter 1 3 past
Out thro' thy cell.
1 sleek 8 twenty-four sheaves.
2 hastening 8 rest
8 scamper lo build
4 plough-staff, or scraper 1 1 herbage
B sometimes 12 sharp
6 occasional 18 plough
7 ear of corn
BOBEET BUENS
407
6
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou 's turn 'd out, for a ' thy trouble,
Buti house or hald,2
To tholes the winter's sleety dribble
An' cranreuch* cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane^
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley,8
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy.
8
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me;
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
TO A LOUSE
ON SEEING OXE ON A LADY 'S BONNET AT CHUKCH
1
Ha! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin^ ferliefs
Your impudence protects you sairly;»
I canna say but ye struntio rarely,
Owre gauze and lace;
Tho', faith! I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastitu wonuer,i2
Detested, shunn 'd by saunt an ' sinner.
How daur ye set your fitis upon her —
Sae fine a lady I
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner
On some poor body.
3
Swith!i* in some beggar's haffeti^ squattle;i«
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle.J"
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle.
In shoals and nations;
Whaur hornis nor baneis ne'er daur unsettle
Your thick plantations.
1 without
2 abode
3 endure
4 hoar-frost
5 alone
« awry
" crawling
s wonder
n irreatl^
10 strut
I
11 blasted, "confounded"
12 marvel
13 foot
1-1 quick
IS temple
Hi sprawl
17 struggle
18 horn-comb
19 poison
Now haud2o you there, ye 're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rels,2i snug and tight;
Xa, faith ye yet! ye '11 no be right
Till ye've got on it —
The vera tapmost, tow'rin height
O' Miss's bonnet.
My sooth! 22 right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump an' grey as ony grozet23
for some rank, mercurial rozet,24
Or fell, red smeddum,25
1 'd gie you sic a hearty dose o 't.
Wad dress your drodduin.2«
I wad na been surpris'd to spy
You on an auld wife's flainen toy; 27
Or aiblins some bit duddie28 boy,
On's wyliecoat;29
But Miss's fine Lunardi!3o fye!
How daur ye do'tf
O Jenny, dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makin!
Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread.
Are notice takin!
8
O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us.
An' foolish notion:
What airs in dress an ' gait wad lea 'e us,
An' ev'n devotion!
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY
ON TURNING ONE DOWN AVITH THE PLOUGH, IN
APRIL, 1786
Wee, modest, crimson-tippfed flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maunsi crush amang the stoure32
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my pow 'r.
Thou bonie gem.
20 hold
21 ribbon-ends
22 truth
2:^ gooseberry
24 rosin
2--. powder
20 back
27 flannel cap
28 ragged
29 flannel vest
30 A bonnet named for
an aeronaut.
31 must
32 flying dust
408
LA TEE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,
The bonie lark, companion meet.
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet
Wi' spreckl'd breast.
When upward-springing, biythe, to greet
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods an' wa'si maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bields
' clod or stane,
Adorns the histies stibble field
Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad.
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread.
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed.
And low thou lies!
6
Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow 'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray 'd.
And guileless trust;
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard.
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card*
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!
8
Such fate to suffering Worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n.
By human pride or cunning driv'n
To mis'ry's brink;
Till wrench 'd of ev 'ry stay but Heav 'n,
He ruin'd sink!
10
Ev'n thou who mourn 'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine — no distant date;
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives elate.
Full on thy bloom.
Till crush 'd beneath the furrow 's weight
Shall be thy doom!
TAM O ' SHANTER
A TALE
"Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke."
— Gawin Douglas.
When chapmani billies2 leave the street.
And drouthys neibors neibors meet.
As market-days are wearing late.
And folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousin* at the nappy,5
An' getting fous and unco-' happy.
We think na on the lang Scots miles.
The mosses, waters, slaps,^ and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fands honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter;
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 15
For honest men and bonie lasses).
Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise.
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,io
A bletherin,ii blusterin, drunken blellum;i2
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melderis wi' the miller.
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd'* a shoe on.
The smith and thee gat roarin fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that, late or soon,
Thou would be found, deep drown 'd
Doon,
Or catch 'd wi' warlocksis in the mirk,i«
By AUoway's auld, haunted kirk.
1 walls
2 shelter
.1 barren
* compaHs-card
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,' ^
To think how mony counsels sweet,
1 pedlar
2 fellows
3 thirsty
4 drinking
s ale
6 full
T very
n gates
9 found
20
25
10 rascal
11 idly-talking
12 babbler
18 e V e r y grinding o f
corn
14 driven
13 wizards
16 dark
17 make me weep
ROBEET BURNS
409
How mony lengthen 'd ', sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
35
But to our tale: — Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezin finely,
Wi' reamin swatsi that drank divinely; 40
And at his elbow, Souter2 Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony:
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter; 45
And ay the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' secret favours, sweet and precious:
The souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus; 50
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown 'd himsel amang the nappy:
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 55
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure;
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow 'r, its bloom is shed ; 60
Or like the snow falls^ in the river,
A moment white — then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race.
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 65
Evanishing amid the storm. — ^
Nae man can tether time or tide:
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 70
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne 'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow 'd; 75
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow 'd:
That night, a child might understand.
The Deil had business on his hand.
Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg, 80
Tam skelpit* on thro' dub'"' and mire.
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet.
Whiles crooning o 'er some auld Scots sonnet,
Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares, 85
1 frothing ales
2 shoemaker
3 Supply "that."
4 hurried
5 puddle
Lest bogles catch him unawares.
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh.
Where ghaists and houletsi nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the ford,
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;2 90
And past the birkss and meikle* stane,
Whare drucken Charlie brak's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins,^ and by the cairn,6
Whare hunters fand the murder 'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 95
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.
Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,
The lightnings flash from pole to pole.
Near and more near the thunders roll; 100
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze,"
Thro' ilka bores the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! 105
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi ' tippenny,9 we fear nae evil ;
Wi ' usquabae,io we '11 face the devil !
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle.
Fair play, he car'd na deUs a boddle," HO
But ilaggie stood, right gair astonish 'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish 'd,
She ventur'd forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco 12 sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance; 115
Nae cotillon brentis new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reelsi*
Put Ufe and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunkeris in the east.
There sat Auld Nick, in shape o' beast; 120
A towzie tyke,i6 black, grim, and large.
To gie them music was his charge;
He screw 'd the pipes and gart them skirl,i7
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.is
Cofiins stood round, like open presses, 126
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish eantraipis sleight
Each in its eauld hand held a light.
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table 130
A murderer's banes in gibbet-aims;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae the rape,2o
1 owls
2 smothered
3 birches
4 great
5 furze
9 heap of stones
" blaze
8 chink
» two-penny ale
10 whiskey
11 a small coin
12 strange
13 bright (new)
14 All Scottish dances.
15 window-seat
16 shaggy cur
IT made them shriek
18 rattle
19 magic
20 rope
410
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY
Wi ' his last gasp his gabi did gape ;
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted: 135
Eive scymitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled:
A knife, a father's throat had mangled.
Whom his ain son o' life bereft.
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft; 140
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'.
As Tammie glowr'd,^ amaz'd, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The piper loud and louder blew, 145
The dancers quick and quicker flew;
They reel'd, they set, they cross 'd, they
cleekit,3
Till ilka carlin* swat^' and reekit,«
And eoosf? her duddies^ to the wark,9
And linketio at it in her sark!" 150
Now, Tam, O Tam; had thae been queans,i2
A' plump and strapping in their teens!
Their sarks, instead o' creeshieis flannen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!*
Thiri-t breeks o' mine, my only pair, 155
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair,
I wad hae gien them aff my hurdles,!''
For ae blink o' the bonie burdieslio
But wither 'd beldams, auld and droll,
EigwoodieiT hags wad speanis a foal, 160
Lowpingi» an' flinging on a crummock,2o
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.
But Tam ken'd what was what fu' brawlie:2i
There was ae winsome wench and walie22
That night enlisted in the eore-'3 165
(Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore:
For mony a beast to dead she shot.
And perish 'd mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,24
And kept the country-side in fear) ; 170
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,25
That while a lassie she had worn.
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.2e
1 mouth
2 Btarod
3 Joined hands
4 old woman
5 sweated
8 steamed
7 cast off
8 rlothes
work
10 tripped
M smm'k
12 Kirls
1 a Kreasy
n tlieHe
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie, 175
That sark she cofti for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scotsf ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r.
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; 180
To sing how Nannie lap and flang
(A souple jade she was and Strang),
And how Tam stood, like one bewitch 'd,
And thought his very een- enrich 'd:
Even Satan glovvr'd, and fidg'd^ fu' fain, 185
And hotch'd* and blew wi' might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne'> anither,
Tam tinto his reason a' thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark: 190
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,7
When plundering herds assail their byke;^
As open pussie's^ mortal foes, 195
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd.
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritchio skriech and hollo. 200
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou '11 get thy fairinlu
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy eomin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 205
And win the key-stane of the brig; 12
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make.
The fienti3 a tail she had to shake! 210
For Nannie, far before the rest.
Hard upon noble Maggie prest.
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;i*
But little wist she Maggie's mettle —
Ae spring brought aff her master hale, 215
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump.
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
IS hips
18 lasses
17 bony
18 that would wean (by
disgust)
10 leaping
20 staff
21 well
22 goodly
23 company
24 barley
2B short shirt, of Paisley
yarn
2(1 proud
• Very fine linen, woven In a reed of 1700 divi-
sions, or 40 to the Inch.
Now, wha this tale 0' truth shall read,
Ilk man, and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd.
Or cutty-sarks nm in your mind,
220
1 bought
2 eyes
3 fidgeted
4 s(|ulrmed
r> then
n lost
7 fnss
Shire
9 the hare's
10 ghostly
11 reward
1 2 bridge
IS devil
14 Intent
t A pound Scots Is one shilling, eight pence —
about forty cents.
ROBEKT BURNS
411
Think, ye may buy the joys owre dear;
Bemember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
GBEEN GBOW THE BASHES
There's nought but care on ev'ry ban*,
In ev'ry hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o' man,
An 'twere na for the lasses, O.
Chor. — Green grow the rashes,! O;
Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend
Are spent among the lasses, O.
The war1y2 race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, 0;
An' the' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
Green grow, &e.
But gie me a eannies hour at e 'en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An' war'ly cares, an' war'ly men.
May a' gae tapsalteerie,* O!
Green grow, &c.
For yoQ sae douce,' ye sneer at this;
Ye 're nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c,
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her prentice han' she try'd on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
ATJLD LANG SYNE
Should auld acquaintance be forgot.
And never brought to min'f
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And auld lang syne!«
Chorus — For auld lang syne, my dear.
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
And surely ye '11 be your pint-stowp!7
And surely I'll be mine!
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet.
For auld lang syne.
For auld, &e.
1 rushes
2 worldly
8 quiet
4 topsy-torvy
5 grave
« old long since (old
times)
r be good for (stand for)
your three - pint
measure
We twa hae run about the braes,i
And pu'd the gowans^ fine;
But we've wander 'd mony a weary fit,3
Sin' auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.
We twa hae paidl'd i' the burn,*
From mornin' sun till dine;'
But seas between us braid« hae roax'd
Sin' auld lang syne.
For auld, &e.
And there's a hand, my trusty fierl^
And gie's a hand o' thine!
And we'U tak a right guid-willie waught,8
For auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.
JOHN ANDEBSON MY JO
John Anderson my jo,» John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonie brow was brent ;i*
But now your brow is beld,ii John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,i2
John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a cantyi3 day, John
We've had wi' ane anither::
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand well go.
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.
WHISTLE O'EB THE LAVE O'T
First when Maggie was my care,
Heav'n, I thought, was in her air.
Now we're married — speiri* nae mair.
But whistle o'er the laveis o't!
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild.
Sweet and harmless as a child —
Wiser men than me's beguil'd;
Whistle o'er the lave o't I
How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love, and how we gree,
1 slopes
2 daisies
3 foot
4 brook
5 dinner-time
G broad
7 comrade
8 hearty draught
8 sweetheart (Joy)
10 smooth
11 bald
12 head
13 merry
14 ask
16 rest
412
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
I care na by how few may see —
Whistle o'er the lave o't!
Wha I wish were maggot's meat,
Dish'd up in her winding-sheet,
I could write — but Meg maun see't —
Whistle o'er the lave o't!
TO MARY IN HEAVEN*
Thou ling 'ring star, with less'ning ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher 'st in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See 'at thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend
breast?
That sacred hour can I forget.
Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met
To live one day of parting love?
Eternity wiU not efface
Those records dear of transports past,
Thy image at our last embrace —
Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
his
8
16
Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thick 'ning green;
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar
'Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene:
The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest.
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon the glowing west
Proclaim 'd the speed of winged day. 24
Still 'er these scenes my mem 'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but th' impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his
breast? 32
MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the
North,
The birth-place of valour, the country of
worth ;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
* Mary Campbell, who died in 1786 ; Bums's
"Hlgbland Mary."
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is
not here;
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the
deer;
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the
roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the mountains, high-cover 'd with
snow ;
Farewell to the strathsi and green valleys be-
low;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods.
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring
floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is
not here;
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the
deer;
A-ehasing the wild deer, and following the
roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
THE BANKS 0' DOON
Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds.
And I sae fu' o' care?
Thou '11 break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o ' the happy days.
When my fause luve was true. 8
Thou '11 break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang.
And wist na o' my fate.
Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o ' its luve,
And sae did I o' mine. 16
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Frae aff its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw2 my rose
But left the thorn wi' me.
AFTON WATER
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green
braes,"
Flow gently, I '11 sing 1|hee a song in thy
praise ;
1 brond vales
2 stole
8 hills, slopes
EOBEBT BURNS
413
My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her
dream.
Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the
glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming
forbear,
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering
fair. 8
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding
rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high.
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys
below.
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses
blow;
There oft, as mild Evening weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birki shades my Mary and
me. 16
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave.
As gathering sweet flow 'rets she stems thy
clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green
braes.
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her
dream. 24
HIGHLAND MAEY
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!2
There simmer first unfald3 her robes.
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary. 8
How sweetly bloom 'd the gay green birk.
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp 'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings.
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life.
Was my sweet Highland Mary. 16
Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But O, fell death's untimely frost.
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary! 24
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mould 'ring now in silent dust.
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom 's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
32
1 birch
2 muddy
3i.
e., may summer un-
fold
BANNOCKBURN
Robert Bruce 's Address to His Abkt
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!
Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's' power —
Chains and slavery!
Wha will be a traitor knave t
Wha can fill a coward's' grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave!
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom 's sword will strongly draw.
Freeman stand, or Freeman fa',
Let him follow me!
By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins.
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow! —
Let us do or die!
16
24
CONTENTED WI' LITTLE AND
CANTIE WI' MAIE
Contented wi' little, and cantiei wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgatherz wi' Sorrow and Care,
I gie them a skelps as they're creeping alang,
1 merry
2 meet
3 slap
iU
LATER EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
Wi' a cogi o' gude swats2 and an auld Scot-
tish sang.
I whiles clawS the elbow o' troublesome
Thought ;
But man is a soger, and life is a f aught;
My mirth and gude humour are coin in my
pouch,
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch
dare touch. 8
A towmond* o ' trouble, should that be my fa '••
A night o' gude fellowship sowtherso it a';
When at the blythe end of our journey at last,
"Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has
past?
Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte^ on
her way;
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade
gae:
Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or
pain.
My warst word is "Welcome, and welcome
again! " 16
A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT
Is there,8 for honest poverty.
That hings his head, an' a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Our toils obscure, an' a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp;
The man's the gowds for a' that. 8
What though on hamely fare we dine.
Wear hodden-grey,io an' a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that.
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that. -6
32
1 cup
2 ale
8 scratch
4 twelve month
slot
6 solders, mends
T stumble and stagger
8 Supply "a man.'^
» gold
10 coarse cloth
Ye see yon birkie,i ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof2 for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that.
His riband, star, an' a' that.
The man o' independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that. 24
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might.
Quid faith, he mauna fa's that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Their dignities, an' a' that.
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth.
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may.
As come it will for a' that.
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree,* an ' a ' that.
For a' that, an' a' that.
It's coming yet for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er.
Shall brothers be for a' that. 40
0, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST
O, wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea.
My plaidie to the angry airt,5
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee.
Or did misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bields should be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a'. 8
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my cro\m
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
itt
1 fellow
2 fool
s may not accomplish
4 prize
5 to the windy quarter
e shelter
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
(1770-1850)
DEAR NATIVE BEGIONS*
Dear native regions, I foretell,
From what I feel at this farewell,
That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend,
And whensoe'er my course shall end.
If in that hour a single tie
Survive of local sympathy,
My soul will cast the backward view,
The longing look alone on you.
Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest
Far in the regions of the west.
Though to the vale no parting beam
Be given, not one memorial gleam,
A lingering light he fondly throws
On the dear hills where first he rose.
WE ABE SEVENt
— A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath.
And feels its life in every Umb,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
♦Wordsworth thought it worth while to print
this "extract from the conclusion of a poem"
which was written, at the age of sixteen,
just before he left his school at Hawkshead.
It both reveals his strong local attachment
and anticipates his reliance upon what be-
came for him a chief source of poetic in-
spiration, namely, "emotion recollected in
tranquillity."
tThis, and the two poems that follow it, were
among those contributed by Wordsworth to
the Joint volume of Lyrical Ballads which
he and Coleridge published in 1798 (see p.
428; also Eng. Lit., pp. 2.S2-235). This poem
was written to show "the obscurity and
perplexity which in childhood attend our
notion of death, or rather our utter in-
ability to admit that notion."
16
24
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
— Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
' ' How many ? Seven in all, ' ' she said
And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell.
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell.
And two are gone to sea.
' * Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
Yet ye are seven! — I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be. ' '
Then did the little Maid reply,
' ' Seven boys and girls are we ;
Two of us in the church-yard lie.
Beneath the church-yard tree."
' ' You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
' ' Twelve steps or more from my mother 's door,
And they are side by side. <0
"My stockings there I often knit.
My kerchief there I hem ;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
"And often after sunset. Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer.
And eat my supper there.
32
48
415
416
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
' * The first that died was sister Jane ;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I. 56
' ' And when the ground was white with snow.
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."
"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid 's reply,
"O Master! we are seven." 64
"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven ! ' '
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will.
And said, "Nay, we are seven! "
LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING*
I heard a thousand blended notes.
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man. 8
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure: —
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 16
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can.
That there was pleasure there.
* ThiR Is one of the earliest and most definite
expreBsions of Wordsworth's faith in the es-
sential oneness of man and nature, and of
his sorrow over man's apostasy from that
faith.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
24
LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE
TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING
THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING
A TOUR. July 13, 1798.t
Five years have past; five summers, with the
length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-
springs
With a soft inland murmur.t — Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-
tufts.
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral
farms.
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
t Note by Wordsworth : "I have not ventured
to call this poem an Ode : but It was writ-
ten with a hope that In the transitions, and
the impassioned music of the versification,
would be found the principal requisites of
that species of composition." Professor
Dowden remarks upon the four stages of
the poet's growth to be found described In
the poem : First, animal enjoyment of
nature in boyhood ; second, passion for
beauty and sublimity ; third, perception of
nature's tranquillizin? and elevating in-
fluence on the spirit ; and fourth, deep com-
munion with a spiritual presence ; stages
which he further describes as the periods of
the blood, of the senses, of the Imagination,
and of the soul.
t For the effect of the tides on the Wye nearer
Its mouth, see Tennyson's In Mcmoriain,
XIX.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
417
With tranquil restoration: — feelings too 30
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life.
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust.
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood
In which the burthen of the mystery.
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world, 40
Is lightened: — that serene and blessed mood.
In which the affections gently lead us on, —
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy.
We see into the life of things.
If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft — 5C
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart —
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished
thought.
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope.
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was
when first
1 came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams.
Wherever nature led: more like a man 70
Flying from something that he dreads, than
one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature
then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all. — I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 80
That had no need of a remoter charm.
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faiut I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
.\bundant recompense. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity, 91
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit, that impels 100
All thinking things, all objects of all thought.
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I
still
A lover of the meadows and the woods.
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create.
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
In nature and the language of the sense.
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
Nor perchance, m
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former -pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once, 120
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make.
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege.
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so informi
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues.
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 130
The dreary intercourse of daily life.
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
•And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
1 give form to, animate
418
THE KOMANTIC REVIVAL
"When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing
thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance —
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these
gleams
Of past existence — wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream 150
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love — oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget.
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs.
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy
sake!
STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE
I KNOWN*
Strange fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell.
But in the Lover's ear alone.
What once to me befell.
When she I loved looked every day
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way
Beneath an evening-moon. S
Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
All over the wide lea ;
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reached the orchard-plot;
And, as we climbed the hill,
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
Came near, and nearer still. 16
In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
• This little group of flvo poemH upon an unknown
and perhaps imaginary Lucy were writlen in
Germany in the year 1700. Williout titles or
notes, or any ornament beyond two or three
of the simplest figures, they convey abso-
lutely their contained emotion, Illustrating
that poetry which, in moments of deepest
feeling, is the natural language of man. The
fifth poem appears to sum »ip the j)recoding
four ; In its two brief stanzas It presents the
two opposing and inscrutable mysteries of
life ann death, and leaves them to the im-
agination, without further comment.
24
And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.
My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopped:
When down behind the cottage roof.
At once, the bright moon dropped.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a Lover's head!
"O mercy! " to myself I cried,
' ' If Lucy should be dead ! ' '
SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN
WAYS
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,i
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
— Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky. •
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh.
The difference to me!
I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN
I travelled among unknown men.
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I boxe to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more. 8
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed
The bowers where Lucy played ;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed. l**
THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND
SHOWER
Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, ' ' A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;
This Child I to myself will take;
1 The name of several streams In England : one
has been made famous by Izaak Walton, the
unglcr.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
419
She shall be mine, and I will make
A Lady of my own. ®
"Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse: and with me
The Girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain. 12
"She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn,
Or up the mountain springs;
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.
18
"The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the Storm
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form
By silent sympathy. 24
"The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round.
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face. 30
"And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell. ' ' 36
Thus Nature spake. — The work was done —
How soon my Lucy's race was run!
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be. 42
A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL
A Slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
LUCY GRAY
OR, SOLITUDE
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the wild,
16
24
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
— The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night —
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow."
"That, Father! will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon —
The minster-clock has just struck two.
And yonder is the moon! "
At this the Father raised his hook.
And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work; — and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb:
But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At daybreak on the hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door. 40
They wept — and, turning homeward, cried,
"In heaven we all shall meet ; ' '
— When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge.
And by the long stone-wall; 48
32
iSO
THE KOMANTIC REVIVAL
And then an open field they crossed:
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were nonel 56
— Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along.
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind. 6<
THE PEELUDE; OR, GROWTH OF A
POET'S MIND
From Book I. Childhood
Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up
Fostered alike by beauty and by fear:
Much favoured in my birth-place, and no less
In that beloved Valei to which erelong
We were transplanted ; — there were we let loose
For sports of wider range. Ere I had told
Ten birth-days, when among the mountain
slopes
Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had
snapped
The last autumnal crocus, 'twas my joy
With store of springes o 'er my shoulder hung 310
To range the open heights where woodcocks run
Along the smooth green turf. Through half the
night,
Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied
That anxious visitation; — moon and stars
Were shining o'er my head. I was alone.
And seemed to be a trouble to the peace
That dwelt among them. Sometimes it befell
In these night wanderings, that a strong desire
O'rpowered my better reason, and the bird
Which was the captive of another's toil 320
Became my prey; and when the deed was done
I heard among the solitary hills
Low breathings coming after me, and sounds
Of undistinguishable motion, steps
Almost as silent as the turf they trod.
Nor less, when spring had warmed the cul-
tured Vale,
t Esthwaltp, Lancashire, where, at the village of
IlawkKhoad, Wordsworth attended school.
Moved we as plunderers where the mother-bird
Had in high places built her lodge; though
mean
Our object and inglorious, yet the end
Was not ignoble. Oh! when I have hung 330
Above the raven 's nest, by knots of grass
And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock
But ill sustained, and almost (so it seemed)
Suspended by the blast that blew amain,
Shouldering the naked crag, oh, at that time
While on the perilous ridge I hung alone,
With what strange utterance did the loud dry
wind
Blow through my ear ! the sky seemed not a sky
Of earth — and with what motion moved the
clouds !
Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows 340
Like harmony in music; there is a dark
Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles
Discordant elements, makes them cling together
In one society. How strange, that all
The terrors, pains, and early miseries.
Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused
Within my mind, should e'er have borne a part.
And that a needful part, in making up
The calm existence that is mine when I
Am worthy of myself! Praise to the end! 350
Thanks to the means which Nature deigned to
employ ;
Whether her fearless visitings, or those
That came with soft alarm, like hurtless light
Opening the peaceful clouds; or she would use
Severer interventions, ministry
More palpable, as best might suit her aim.
One summer evening (led by her) I found
A little boat tied to a willow tree
Within a rocky cave, its usual home. 359
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in
Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;
Leaving behind her still, on either side.
Small circles glittering idly in the moon,
Until they melted all into one track
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, 370
The horizon 's utmost boundary ; far above
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin pinnace ; lustily
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
And, as T rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving through the water like a swan ;
When, from behind that craggy steep till then
WILLIAM WOEDSWORTH
421
The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and
huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct, 379
Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,
And growing still in stature the grim shape
Towered up between me and the stars, and still.
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
And measured motion like a living thing,
Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,
And through the silent water stole my way
Back to the covert of the willow tree ;
There in her mooring-place I left my bark, —
And through the meadows homeward went, in
grave
And serious mood; but after I had seen 390
That spectacle, for many days, my brain
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts
There hung a darkness, call it solitude
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes
Eeraained, no pleasant images of trees.
Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields ;
But huge and mighty forms, that do not lire
Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams. 400
Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!
Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought
That givest to forms and images a breath
And everlasting motion, not in vain
By day or star-light thus from my first dawn
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
The passions that build up our human soul;
Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,
But with high objects, with enduring things —
With life and nature — purifying thus 410
The elements of feeling and of thought,
And sanctifying, by such discipline.
Both pain and fear, until we recognize
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
With stinted kindness. In November days.
When vapours rolling down the valley made
A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods.
At noon and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
When, by the margin of the trembling lake, 420
Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went
In solitude, such intercourse was mine;
Mine was it in the fields both day and night.
And by the waters, all the summer long.
And in the frosty season, when the sun
Was set, and visible for many a mile
The cottage windows blazed through twilight
gloom,
I heeded not their summons: happy time
It was indeed for all of us — for me
It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud 430
The village clock tolled six, — I wheeled about,
Proud and exulting like an untired horse
That cares not for his home. All shod with
steel,
We hissed along the polished ice in games
Confederate, imitative of the chase
And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn,
The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare.
So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
And not a voice was idle; with the din
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; 440
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars
Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west
The orange sky of evening died away.
Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Into a silent bay, or sportively
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng.
To cut across the reflex of a star 450
That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed
Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side
Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning
still
The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my hesls,
Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round! 460
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep.
Ye Presences of Nature in the sky
And on the earth! Ye Visions of the hills!
And Souls of lonely places! can I think
A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed
Such ministry, when ye, through many a year
Haunting me thus among my boyish sports,
On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills, 470
Impressed, upon all forms, the characters
Of danger or desire; and thus did make
The surface of the universal earth.
With triumph and delight, with hope and fear,
Work like a seal
Not uselessly employed,
Might I pursue this theme through every change
Of exercise and play, to which the year
Did summon us in his delightful round.
From Book V
There was a Boy: ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander!2 — many a time
2 Winandermere, now Windermere, a lake in West-
moreland.
422
THE EOMANTIC REVIVAL
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone
Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake, 369
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm, and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument.
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls.
That they might answer him; and they would
shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again.
Responsive to his call, with quivering peals,
And long halloos and screams, and echoes loud.
Redoubled and redoubled, concourse wild
Of jocund din; and, when a lengthened pause
Of silence came and baffled his best skill, 380
Then sometimes, in that silence while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind.
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received
Into the bosom of the steady lake.
This Boy was taken from his mates, and died
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.
Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale 391
Where he was born; the grassy churchyard
hangs
Upon a slope above the village-school.
And through that churchyard when my way has
led
On summer-evenings, I believe that there
A long half hour together I have stood
Mute, looking at the grave in which he lies!
MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.s
THE SOLITARY REAPER
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound. 8
s religious regard for nature
No Nightingale did ever chant
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt.
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides. 16
Will no one tell me what she sings? —
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago :
Or is it some more humble lay.
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain.
That has been, and may be again? 24
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work.
And o'er the sickle bending; —
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore.
Long after it was heard no more. 32
TO THE CUCKOO
blithe New-comer! I have heard,
1 hear thee and rejoice.
Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear.
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near. 8
Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery; 16
The same whom in my school-boy days
1 listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for,' never seen. 24
WILLIAM WOBDSWOETH
433
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee !
32
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT*
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 10
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature 's daily food ;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 20
And now I aee with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will.
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light. 30
I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD
1 wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees.
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 6
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
• Written of Mrs. Wordsworth.
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 12
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed — and gazed — but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought: 18
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills.
And dances with the daffodils. 24
ODE TO DUTY
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe:
From vain temptations dost set free: 7
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them ; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth:
Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot
Who do thy work, and know it not :
Oh! if through confidence misplaced
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power!
around them cast. 16
Serene will be our days and bright.
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light.
And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed;
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their
need. 24
I, loving freedom, and untried,
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust:
And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray ;
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if T
may. 32
424
THE BOMANTIC REVIVAL
Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance-desires:
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 40
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face:
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And fragrance in thy footing treads ;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee,
are fresh and strong, 48
To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour ;
Oh, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise.
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me
live! 56
TO A SKY-LARK
(1805)
Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
For thy song, Lark, is strong;
Up with me, up with me into the clouds!
Singing, singing,
"With clouds and sky about thee ringing.
Lift me, guide me till I find
That spot which seems so to thy mind!
I have walked through wildernesses dreary
And to-day my heart is weary;
Had I now the wings of a Faery, 10
Up to thee would I fly.
There is madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine;
Lift me, guide me high and high
To thy banqueting-place in the sky.
Joyous as morning
Thou art laughing and scorning;
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest.
And, though little troubled with sloth.
Drunken Lark! thou would 'st be loth 20
To be such a traveller as I.
Happy, happy Liver,
With a soul as strong as a mountain river
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both!
Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven.
Through prickly moors or dusty ways must
wind ;
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind.
As full of gladness and as free of heaven,
I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 30
And hope for higher raptures, when life's day
is done.
TO A SKY-LARK
(1825)
Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ?
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will.
Those quivering wings composed, that music
still! G
Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
A privacy of glorious light is thine;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;
True to the kindred points of Heaven and
Home! 12
ODE
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLEC-
TIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD*
There was a time when meadow, grove, and
stream.
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light.
The 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 see no
more.
* "To that dream-like vividness and splendour
which Invest objects of sight in cbiidhood,
every one, I believe, If he would look back,
could bear testimony, and I need not dwell
upon It here ; but having in the poem re-
garded It as presumptive evidence of a prior
state of existence, I think it right to protest
against a conclusion, which has given pain to
some good and i)iou8 p(M-sons, that I meant
to inculcate such n belief. It Is far too
shadowy a notion to be recommended to faith,
as more than an element in our instincts of
immortality ... A pre-existent state has
entered Into the populnr creeds of many na-
tions; and, among all persons acquainted
with classic literature, Is known as an In-
gredient In Platonic phllosopliy." — Extract
from Wordsworth's note. ("ompare Henry
Vaughan's The Retreat, p. 223.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
4^5
n
10
The Rainbow comes and goes,
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 yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the
earth.
m
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 wrong;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep.
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea '*
Give themselves up to jollity.
And with the heart of May
Doth every Beast keep holiday; —
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou
happy Shepherd-boy!
Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make ; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival, 40
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all.
Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While 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 warm.
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:—
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 51
— But there 's a Tree, of many, one,
A single Field which I have looked upon.
Both of them speak of something that is gone :
The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam!
Where 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, 60
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And Cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness.
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows.
He sees it in his joy; '^
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away.
And fade into the light of common day.
VI
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,
And no unworthy aim, *^
The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
vn
Behold the Child among his new-born 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 from 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 will not be long 1^0
Ere this be thrown aside.
And with new joy and pride
The little Actor cons another part ;
Filling from time to time his "humorousi
stage"
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitatior
1 hamorsome
426
THE BOMANTIC REVIVAL
vni
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy Soul's immensity; 110
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep.
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, —
Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest !
On whom those truths do rest,
"Which we are toiling all our lives to find.
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 120
A Presence which is not to be put by ;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom 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!
IX
130
O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What 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 still 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 realized,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised :
But for those first affections.
Those shadowy recollections, 160
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all 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 endeavour.
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all 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 Children 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 170
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!
What though the radiance which was once so
bright
Be now forever taken from my sight.
Though nothing can bring back 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 sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death.
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
XI
And 0, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and
Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight 191
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels
fret.
Even more than when I tripped lightly 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.
(COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER
BRIDGE, September 3, 1802
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
WILLIAM WOBDSWOBTH
427
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare.
Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hiU;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING,
CALM AND FKEE
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free.
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad lun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake.
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder — everlastingly.
Dear Child !i dear Girl! that walkest with me
here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought.
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom2 all the year;
And worship 'st at the Temple 's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE
VENETIAN REPUBLIC*
Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee;
And was the safeguard of the west: the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.
She was a maiden City, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could violate;
And when she took unto herself a Mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea,t
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay;
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reached its final day:
Men are we, and must grieve when even the
Shade
Of that which once was great, is passed away.
1 Wordsworth's sister, Dorothj.
2 See Luke xvi, 22.
• Venice threw off the yoke of the Eastern Em-
pire as early as 809 and remained a republic
or an oligarchy until conquered by Napoleon
In 1797. At one time she had extensive
possessions and colonies in the Levant.
tThe ancient Doges annually, on Ascension Day.
threw a ring into the Adriatic in formal
token of this espousal, or of perpetual do-
minion.
LONDON, 1802*
Milton ! thou should 'st be living at this hoar :
England hath need of thee; she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen.
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the
sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
THE WOELD IS TOO MUCH WITH US
The world is too much with as; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste oar powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves as not.^Jreat God ! I 'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed oatworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
AFTERTHOUGHT!
I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide.
As being past away. — Vain sympathies!
For, backward, Duddon, as I cast my eyes,
I see what was, and is, and will abide;
StiU glides the Stream, and shall forever glide;
The Form remains, the Function never dies;
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise.
We Men, who in our mom of youth defied
The elements, must vanish; — be it so!
Enough, if something from our hands have
power
To live, and act, and serve the future hoar;
And if, as toward the silent tomb we go.
Through love, through hope, and faith's tran-
scendent dower.
We feel that we are greater than we know.
t Written in despondency over the inert attitude
of England toward the hopes and ideals of
the revolutionists and the opponents of
Napoleon.
{The conclusion of a series of sonnet^ to the
river Duddon.
428
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
(1772-1834)
KUBLA KHAN*
In Xanadui did Kubla Khanz
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 10
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which
slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil
seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were
breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 20
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail.
Or chafify grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man.
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war! 30
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played, 40
• Coleridge says this poem was composed when
he had fallen asleep Just after reading from
Marco Polo In Purchas's Pilgrimage how "In
Xandu did Cublai Can build a stately pal-
ace," etc. There were more lines which he failed
to record. Charles Lamb spoke of the poem
as "a vision which he [Coleridge] repeats so
enchantingly that 5t irradiates and brings
heaven and elysian bowers into my parlour
when he sings or says it."
1 A region In Tartary. , 2 Kubla the Cham, or
Emperor.
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me.
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air.
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 50
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread.
For he on honey-dew hath fed.
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MAEINERt
IN SEVEN PAETS
ARGUMENT
How a Ship having passed the Line was driven
by Storms to the cold Country towards the South
Pole ; and how from thence she made her course
to the Tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific
Ocean ; and of the strange things that befell ; and
In what manner the Aneyent Marlnere came back
to his own Country.
Part I.
It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
"By thy long gray beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou met
1-12. An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gal-
lants bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one.
t From the publication, In 1798, of the Lyrical
Ballads, the joint production of Coleridge
and Wordsworth, may be dated very defi-
nitely the recognition of the new spirit in
English literature which Is commonly spoken
of as the Romantic Hevival. See Kng. Lit..
pp. 2.S2-235. Coleridge, In the fourteenth
chapter of his Biographia Literaria, writes of
the occasion of the Lyrical Ballads as follows :
"During the first year that Mr. Wordsworth and
I were neighbours, our conversations turned fre-
quently on the two cardinal points of poetry, the
power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a
faithful adherence to the truth of nature, and
the power of giving the interest of novelty by the
modifying colours of the Imagination. The sud-
den charm, which accidents of light and shade,
which moonlight or sunset, diffused over a known
and familiar landscape, appeared to represent the
practicability of combining both. These are the
poetry of nature. The thought suggested itself
(to which of us I do not recollect) that a series
of poems might he composed of two sorts In
the one, the incidents and agents were to be. in
part at least, supernatural ; and the excellence
aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the
affections bv the dramatic truth of such emotions
as would naturally accompany such situations,
supposing them real. And real In this sense they
have been to every human being who. from what-
ever source of delusion, has at any time believed
SAMUEL TAYLOB COLEEIDGE
The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests :;re met, the feast is set:
May'st hear the merry din."
He holds him with his skinny hand,
"There was a ship," quoth he. 10
"Hold off! unhand me, gray -beard loon!"
Eftsoonsi his hand dropt he.
He holds him with his glittering eye —
The Wedding-Guest stood still.
And listens like a three years' child:
The Mariner hath his will.
The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man.
The bright-eyed Mariner.
20
himself under supernatural agency. For the
second class, subjects were to be chosen from
ordinarv life ; the characters and incidents were
to be such as will be found in every village and
its vicinity where there is a meditative and feel-
ing mind to seek after them, or to notice them
when they present themselves.
"In this idea originated the plan of the Lyrical
Ballads; in which it was agreed that my en-
deavours should be directed to persons and char-
acters supernatural, or at least romantic; yet so
as to transfer from our inward nature a human
interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to
procure for these shadows of imagination that
willing suspension of disbelief for the moment,
which constitutes poetic faith. Mr. Wordsworth,
on the other hand, was to propose to himself as
his object, to give the charm of novelty to things
of every dav. and to excite a feeling analogous to
the supernatural, by awakening the mind's atten-
tion from the lethargy of custom, and directing it
to the loveliness and the wonders of the world
before us ; an inexhaustible treasure, but for
which, in consequence of the film of familiarity
and selfish solicitude, we have eyes, yet see not,
ears that hear not. and hearts that neither feel
nor understand. With this view I wrote The
Ancient Mariner."
The poem is here given in the revised text of 1829.
As first printed in the Lyrical Ballads, the
diction and spelling were considerably more
archaic, as the .Argument, which was not
retained in the later edition, shows. Words-
worth gives the following information :
"Much the greatest part of the story was
Mr. Coleridge's invention, but certain parts
I suggested : for example, some crime was
to be committed which should bring upon
the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterward de-
lighted to call him, the spectral persecution,
as a consequence of that crime and his own
wanderings. I had been reading in Shel-
vocke's Voyages a day or two l)efore, that,
while doubling Cape Horn, they frequently
saw albatrosses in that latitude, the largest
sort of sea-fowl, some extending their
wings twelve or thirteen feet. 'Suppose.' said
I. 'you represent him as having killed one
of these birds on entering the South Sea.
and that the tutelary spirits of these re-
gions take upon them to avenge the crime."
The incident was thought fit for the purpose
and adopted accordingly." Wordsworth also
furnished several lines of the poem, espe-
cially 15-16. 226-227.
1 at once
' ' The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill.
Below the lighthouse top.
The sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the nght
Went down into the sea.
Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon — " 30
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast.
For he heard the loud bassoon.
The bride hath paced into the hall,
Bed as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.
The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast.
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spahe on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner. 40
"And now the Storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o'ertaking wings.
And chased us south along.
With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe.
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast.
And southward aye we fled. 50
And now there came both mist and snow.
And it grew^ wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by.
As green as emerald.
And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken —
The ice was all between.
13-21. The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the
eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained to
hear his tale.
21-30. The Mariner tells how the ship sailed
southward with a good wind and fair weather, till
it reached the line.
Sl-40. The Wedding Guest heareth the bridal
music : but the Mariner continueth his tale.
41-50. The ship driven by a storm toward the
south pole.
51-62. The land of ice. and of fearful sounds,
where no living thing was to be seen.
430
THE KOMANTIC REVIVAL
The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around: 60
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like voices in a 8wound!2
At length did cross an Albatross,
Thorough the fog it came;
As if it had been a Christian soul.
We hailed it in God's name.
It ate the food it ne'er had eat,3
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
The helmsman steered us through! 70
And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow.
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner's hollo!
In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine;*
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmered the white moon-shine."
"God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus! — 80
Why look'st thou sol" — "With my cross-bow
1 shot the Albatross.
Part II.
"The Sun now rose upon the right:
Out of the sea came he,
Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.
And the good south wind still blew behind.
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day for food or play
Came to the mariner's hollo!
And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work 'era woe: '^'-"-'Ki
63-70. Till a great sea bird, called the Alba-
tross, came through the snow-fog, and was received
with great Joy and hospitality.
71-78. And lo ! the Albatross proveth a bird of
good omen, and followeth the ship as It returned
northward through fog and tloating Ice.
79-82. The ancient Mariner Inhospitably kllleth
the pious bird of good omen.
8.1-96. His shipmates cry out against the an-
cient Mariner, for killing the bird of good luck.
07-102. Put when the fog cleared off, they Jus-
tify the same, and thus malte themselves accom-
plices in the crime.
103-106. The fair breeze continues: the ship
enters the Pacific Ocean, and sails northward, even
till it reaches the Line.
2 Bwoon. dream
8 "The marineres gave It biscult-worms" (1798 ed.)
4 nine evenlngrs
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!
Nor dim nor red, like God's own head.
The glorious Sun uprist:-*
Then all averred, I had killed the bird
That brought the fog and mist. 100
'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.
The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.
Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
'Twas sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea! 110
All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon.
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
Water, water, everywhere.
And all the boards did shrink; 120
Water, water, everywhere.
Nor any drop to drink.
The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.
About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night;
The water, like a witch's oils,
Burnt green, and blue and white. 130
And some in dreams assured were
Of the Spirit that plagued us so ;
Nine fathom deep he had followed ua
From the land of mist and snow.
107-118. The ship hath been suddenly becalmed.
119-130. And the Albatross begins to be
avenged.
1. 11 -138. A Spirit had followed them; one of
the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither
departed souls nor angels : concerning whom the
lenrned Jew, .Tosephus. and the Platonic Constan-
Mnopolitan. Michael Psellus. mav be consulted.
They are very numerous, and there Is no climate
or element without one or more.
s Properly a present tense ; cp. p. 61, note 16.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
431
140
And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was withered at the root;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with goot.
Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.
Part HI.
"There passed a weary time. Each throat
Was parched, and glazed each eye.
A weary time! a weary time!
How glazed each weary eye! —
When looking westward, I beheld
A something in the sky.
At first it seemed a little speck,
And then it seemed a mist; 150
It moved and moved, and took at last
A certain shape, I witt.«
A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it neared and neared:
As if it dodged a water-sprite.
It plunged and tacked and veered.
With throats unslaked, with black lips baked.
We could nor laugh, nor wail;
Through utter drought all 'dumb we stood !
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 160
And cried, A sail! a lail!
With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
Agape they heard me call:
Gramercy!^ they for joy did grin.
And all at once their breath drew in.
As they were drinking all.
'See! see!' (I cried) 'she tacks no more!
Hither to work us weal.
Without a breeze, without a tide.
She steadies with upright keel ! ' 170 j
139-142. The shipmates, in their sore distress. [
would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient I
Mariner : In sign whereof they hang the dead sea-
bird round his neck.
143-156. The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign
In the element afar off.
157-163. At its nearer approach, it seemeth him
to be a ship : and at a dear ransom he freeth his
speech from the bonds of thirst.
164-166. A flash of Joy.
167-176. And horror follows. For can it be a
ship that comes onward without wind or tide?
8 1 knew (but apparently confused in form and
meaning with the old participial adverb y-tcis,
"surely").
1 great thanks
The western wave vaa all aflame.
The day was weU-nigh done!
Almost upon the western wave
Rested the broad bright Sun;
When that strange shape drove suddenly
Betwixt us and the Sun.
And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
(Heaven's Mother send us grace!)
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered
With broad and burning face. 180
Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she nears and nears!
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
Like restless gossameresf
Are those her ribs through which the Sun
Did peer, as through a grate?
And is that Woman all her crewt
Is that a Death? and are there two?
Is Death that woman's mate?
Her lips were red, her looks were free, 190
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy.
The Night-mare, Life-in-Death, was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.
The naked hulk alongside came.
And the twain were casting dice;
* The game is done ! I 've won ! I 've won ! '
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.
The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out.
At one stride comes the dark; 200
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,
Oflf shot the speetre-bark.
We listened and looked sideways up!
Fear at my heart, as at a cup.
My life-blood seemed to sip!
The stars were dim, and thick the night.
The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed
white;
From the sails the dew did drip —
Till clomb above the eastern bar
The horned Moon, with one bright star 210
Within the nether tip.
177-186. It seemeth him but the skeleton of a
ship. And Its ribs are seen as bars on the face of
the setting Sun.
187-194. The Spectre-Woman and her Death-
mate, and no other on board the skeleton-ship.
Like vessel, like crew !
195-198. Death and Life-in-Death have diced
for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) wlnneth
the ancient Mariner.
199-202. No twilight within the courts of the
Sun.
203-223. At the rising of the Moon, one after
432
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh.
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang.
And cursed me with his eye.
Four times fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.
The souls did from their bodies fly, — 220
They fled to bliss or woe!
And every soul, it passed me by.
Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! ' ' —
Part IV.
"I fear thee, ancient Mariner!
I fear thy skinny hand
And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
As is the ribbed sea-sand.
I fear thee and thy glittering eye.
And thy skinny hand, so brown." —
"Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!
This body dropt not down. 231
Alone, alone, all, all alone.
Alone on a wide wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.
The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.
I looked upon the rotting sea, 240
And drew my eyes away;
I looked upon the rotting deck.
And there the dead men lay.
I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;
But or ever a prayer had gusht,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.
I closed my lips, and kept them close.
And the balls like pulses beat;
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the
sky 250
another bin shipmatps drop down dead. Bnt Llfe-
ln-I)eath begins her work on tbe ancient Mariner.
224-23.'i. The Wedding-Guest feareth that a
Spirit Is talking to him : but the anelent Mariner
aasnreth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to
relate his horrible penance.
2.30-2.^2 He deflplseth the creatures of the
calm, and envleth that they should live, and so
many lie dead.
Lay like a load on my weary eye,
And the dead were at my feet.
The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
Nor rot nor reek did they:
The look with which they looked on me
Had never passed away.
An orphan's curse would drag to hell
A spirit from on high ;
But oh! more horrible than that
Is a curse in a dead man's eye! 260
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse.
And yet I could not die.
The moving Moon went up the sky,
And nowhere did abide;
Softly she was going up.
And a star or two beside —
Her beams bemocked the sultry main.
Like April hoar-frost spread;
But where the ship's huge shadow lay.
The charmed water burnt alway
A still and awful red.
270
280
Beyond the shadow of the ship,
I watched the water-snakes:
They moved in tracks of shining white,
And when they reared, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.
Within the shadow of the ship
I watched their rich attire:
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black.
They coiled and swam; and every track
Was a flash of golden fire.
O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare:
A spring cf love gushed from my heart,
And I blessed them unaware:
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware.
The selfsame moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
253-262. But the curse llveth for him In the
eye of the dead men.
263-271. In his loneliness and fixedness he
yearneth towards the Journeying Moon, and the
stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward ; and
everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is
their appointed rest, and their native country and
their own natural homes, which they enter un
announced, as lords that are <'ertnlnly expected,
and yet there Is a silent Joy at their arrival.
272-281. By the light of the Moon he beholdeth
(lOd's creatures of the great calm.
282-28.'?. Their beauty and their happiness.
284-287. He blesseth them In his heart.
288-291. The spell begins to break.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEEIDGE
433
290
300
310
The Albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.
Part V.
"Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
That slid into my soul.
The sillys buckets on the deck,
That had so long remained,
I dreamt that they were filled with dew;
And when I awoke, it rained.
My lips were wet, my throat was coid,
My garments all were dank;
Sure I had drunken in my dreams.
And still my body drank.
I moved, and could not feel my limbs:
I was so light — almost
I thought that I had died in sleep,
And was a blessed ghost.
And soon I heard a roaring wind:
It did not come anear:
But with its sound it shook the sails.
That were so thin and sere.
The upper air burst into life!
And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
To and fro they were hurried about!
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between.
And the coming wind did roar more loud.
And the sails did sigh like sedge;
And the rain poured down from one black
cloud; 320
The Moon was at its edge.
The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
The Moon was at its side:
Like waters shot from some high crag,
The lightning fell with never a jag,
A river steep and wide.
202-308. By grace of the holy Mother, the
ancient Mariner is refreshed witli rain.
309-326. He heareth sounds and seeth strange
sights and commotions in the slty and the element.
327-376. The t)odies of the ship's crew are in-
spired, and the ship moves on : but not by the
souls of the men, nor by demons of earth or mid-
dle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits,
sent down by the invocation of the guardian saint.
8 Perhaps "nseless?'* : but the original meaning
"blessed" will fit very well.
The loud wind never reached the ship,
Yet now the ship moved on!
Beneath the lightning and the Moon
The dead men gave a groan. 330
They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
It had been strange, even in a dream.
To have seen those dead men rise.
The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;
Yet never a breeze up blew:
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,
Where they were wont to do;
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools —
We were a ghastly crew. 340
The body of my brother's son
Stood by me, knee to knee:
The body and I pulled at one rope
But he said nought to me." —
' * I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! ' ' —
"Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!
'Twas not those souls that fled in pain.
Which to their corses came again,
But a troop of spirits blest:
dawned — they dropped
their
350
For when it
arms,
And clustered round the mast;
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
And from their bodies passed.
Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
Then darted to the Sun;
Slowly the sounds came back again.
Now mixed, now one by one.
Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the sky-lark sing;
Sometimes all little birds that are, 360
How they seemed to fill the sea and air
With their sweet jargoning!
And now 'twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an angel's song,
That makes the heavens be mute.
It ceased; yet stUl the sails made on
A pleasant noise till noon,
A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June, 370
That to the sleeping woods aU night
Singeth a quiet tune.
Till noon we quietly sailed on,
Yet never a breeze did breathe:
Slowly and smoothly went the ship,
Moved onward from beneath.
434
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
Under the keel nine fathom deep,
From the land of mist and snow,
The spirit slid; and it was he
That made the ship to go. 380
The sails at noon left off their tune,
And the ship stood still also.
The Sun, right up above the mast,
Had fixed her to the ocean:
But in a minute she 'gan stir, nhd M
"With a short uneasy motion —
Backwards and forwards half her length
With a short uneasy motion.
Then like a pawing horse let go,
She made a sudden bound: 390
It flung the blood into my head,
And I fell down in a swound.
How long in that same fit I lay,
I have not to declare;
But ere my living life returned,
I heard and in my soul discerned
Two voices in the air.
'Is it he?' quoth one, *Is this the man?
By him who died on cross,
With his cruel bow he laid full low 400
The harmless Albatross.
The spirit who bideth by himself
In the land of mist and snow,
He loved the bird that loved the man
Who shot him with his bow.'
The other was a softer voice,
As soft as honey-dew:
Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done,
And penance more will do.'
Part VI.
FIEST VOICE
" 'But tell me, tell me! speak again, 410
Thy soft response renewing —
What makes that ship drive on so fast?
What is the ocean doing?'
377-392. The lonesome Spirit from the south-
pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in
obedience to the angelic troop, but still requlreth
vengeance.
393-409. The Polar Spirit's fellow-demons, the
invisible inhabitnnts of the element, take part in
his wrong ; and two of them relate one to the
other, that penance long and heavy for the an-
cient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar
Spirit, who returneth southward.
410-429. The Mariner hath been cast into a
trance ; for the angelic power cniiseth the vessel
to drive northward faster than human life could
endure.
SECOND VOICE
'Still as a slave before his lord.
The ocean hath no blast;
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the Moon is cast —
If he may know which way to go;
For she guides him smooth or grim.
See, brother, see! how graciously
She looketh down on him.'
FIRST VOICE
'But why drives on that ship so fast.
Without or wave or wind?'
SECOND VOICE
'The air is cut away before,
.\nd closes from behind.
Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!
Or we shall be belated:
For slow and slow that ship will go.
When the Mariner's trance is abated.*
420;
430
I woke, and we were sailing on
As in a gentle weather:
'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high,
The dead men stood together.
All stood together on the deck.
For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
All fixed on me their stony eyes,
That in the Moon did glitter.
The pang, the curse, with which they died,
Had never passed away:
I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 440
Nor turn them up to pray.
And now this spell was snapt: once more,
I viewed the ocean green,
And looked far forth, yet little saw
Of what had else been Been —
Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread.
And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend 450
Doth close behind him tread.
But soon there breathed a wind on me.
Nor sound nor motion made:
430-441. The supernatural motion is retarded :
the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.
442-463. The curse Is finally expiated.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEBIDGE
4S5
460
470
Its path was not upon the sea,
In ripple or in shade.
It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
Like a meadow-gale of spring —
It mingled strangely with my fears,
Yet it felt like a "welcoming.
Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet she sailed softly too:
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze —
On me alone it blew.
Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
The light-house top I seef
Is this the hillf is this the kirkf
Is this mine own countreet
We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,
And I with sobs did pray —
'O let me be awake, my Grod!
Or let me sleep alway.'
The harbonr-bay was clear as glass,
So smoothly it was strewn!
And on the bay the moonlight lay,
And the shadow of the Moon.
The rock shone bright, the kirk no less.
That stands above the rock:
The moonlight steeped in silentness
The steady weathercock.
And the bay was white with silent light
Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows were,
In crimson colours came.
A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were:
I turned my eyes upon the deck —
Oh, Christ! what saw I there!
Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
And, by the holy rood!^
•A man all light, a seraph-man.
On every corse there stood.
This aeraph-band, each waved his hand:
It was a heavenly sight!
They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light*
This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
No voice did they impart —
No voice; but oh! the silence sank
Like music on my heart.
464-479. The ancient Mariner beholdeth his na-
tive country.
480-499. The angelic spirits leave the dead
bodies and appear in their own forms of light.
»crow
480
490
But soon I heard the dash of oars, ^00
I heard the Pilot's cheer:
My head was turned perforce away.
And I saw a boat appear.
The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,
I heard them coming fast:
Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast.
I saw a third — I heard his voice:
It is the Hermit good!
He singeth loud his godly hymns BIO
That he makes in the wood.
Hell shrieve my soul, he'll wash away
The Albatross's blood.
Part VIL
"This Hermit good lives in that wood
Which slopes down to the sea.
How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
He loves to talk with marineres
That come from a far countree.
He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve —
He hath a cushion plump: 520
It is the moss that whoUy hides
The rotted old oak stump.
The skiff -boat neared: I heard them talk,
'Why, this is strange, I trow!
Where are those lights so many and fair,
That signal made but nowf
' Strange, by my faith ! ' the Hermit said —
' And they answered not our cheer !
The planks looked warped ! and see those sails.
How thin they are and sere! 530
I never saw anght like to them.
Unless perchance it were
Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
My forest -brook along;
When the ivy-todio is heavy with snow.
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
That eats the she-wolf's young.'
'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look' —
(The Pilot made reply)
' I am a- feared. ' — * Push on, push on ! ' 540
Said the Hermit cheerily.
The boat came closer to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirred;
The boat came close beneath the ship.
And straight a sound was heard.
513-545. The Hermit of the Wood approachetb
the ship with wonder.
10 ivy-busb
436
THE BOMANTIC REVIVAL
Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dread:
It reached the ship, it split the bay;
The ship went down like lead.
550
Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound.
Which sky and ocean smote,
Like one that hath been seven days drowned
My body lay afloat;
But swift as dreams, myself I found
Within the Pilot's boat.
Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
The boat spun round and round;
And all was still, save that the hill
Was telling of the sound.
I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 560
And fell down in a fit;
The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
And prayed where he did sit.
I took the oars: The Pilot's boy,
Who now doth crazy go.
Laughed loud and long, and all the while
His eyes went to and fro.
*Ha! ha! ' quoth he, 'full plain I see,
The Devil knows how to row.'
And now, all in my own countree, 570
I stood on the firm land!
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat.
And scarcely he could stand.
* O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! '
The Hermit crossed his brow.
'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say —
What manner of man art thou?'
Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woful agony.
Which forced me to begin my tale; 580
And then it left me free.
Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns:
And till ray ghastly tale is told.
This heart within me burns.
I pass, like night, from land to land;
I have strange power of speech;
That moment that his face I see.
546-540. The ship suddenly slnketh.
5.50-573. The ancient Mariner is saved in tlie
Pllofg boat.
574-581. The anrlent Mariner earnestly en-
treateth the Hermit to shrieve iiim ; and the pen-
ance of life fnllH on him.
5S2-625. And ever and anon throughout his
future life an agony conHtrnlnetli him lo travel
from land to land and to teach, by his own exam-
ple, love and reverence to all things that God
m«de and lovetb.
I know the man that must hear me:
To him my tale I teach. 590
What loud uproar bursts from that door!
The wedding-guests are there:
But in the garden-bower the bride
And bride-maids singing are:
And hark the little vesper bell,
Which biddeth me to prayer!
O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide Avide sea:
So lonely 'twas, that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be. 600
O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
'Tis sweeter far to me.
To walk together to the kirk,
With a goodly company! —
To walk together to the kirk.
And all together pray.
While each to his great Father bends.
Old men, and babes, and loving friends
And youths and maidens gay!
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 610
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us.
He made and loveth all. ' '
The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone; and now the Wedding-Guest 620
Turned from the bridegroom 's door.
He went like one that hath been stunned.
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser man.
He rose the morrow morn.
CHRISTABEL*
Part the First
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock.
To— whit ! Tu— whoo !
.^nd hark, again! the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew.
• Written In 1797, and published In 1816, when
a second part was added, though "thnn*
parts yet to come" were never written,
'rhe first part circulated in manuscript and
had considerable influence, especially In the
matter of form, on Scott and other poets. See
Eny. Lit., pp. 243, 262,
SAMUEL, TAYLOR COLEBIDGE
437
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff, which
From her keunel beneath the rock
Maketh answer to the clock,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;
Ever and aye, by shine and shower, H
Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.
Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray; 20
'Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the woods so late,
A furlong from the castle gatet
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothed knight;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far away. 30
She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak
But moss and rarest mistletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree.
And in silence prayeth she.
The lady sprang up suddenly.
The lovely lady, Christabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be,
But what it is she cannot tell. — 40
One the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
The night is elull; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak f
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek —
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan.
That dances as often as dance it can, 60
Hanging so light, and hanging so high.
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
Hush, beating heart of Giristabel!
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
She folded hei arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there?
There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone; 60
The neck that made the white robe wan.
Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were.
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair.
I guess, 'twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she —
Beautiful exceedingly!
Mary mother, save me now!
(Said Christabel,) And who art thouf
70
The lady strange made answer meet.
And her voice was faint and sweet: —
Have pity on my sore distress,
I scarce can speak for weariness:
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!
Said Christabel, How camest thou here?
And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet.
Did thus pursue her answer meet:
My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine: 80
Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn:
They choked my cries with force and fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind.
And they rode furiously behind.
They spurred amain, their steeds were white:
And once we crossed the shade of night.
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
I have no thought what men they be; 90
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey's back,
A weary woman, scarce alive.
Some muttered words his comrades spoke:
He placed me underneath this oak;
He swore they would return with haste;
Whither they went I cannot tell —
I thought I heard, some minutes past, 100
Sounds as of a castle bell.
Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she),
And help a wretched maid to flee.
Then Christabel stretched forth her hand,
And comforted fair Geraldine:
O well, bright dame! may you command
The service of Sir Leoline;
And gladly our stout chivalry
Will he send forth and friends withal
To guide and guard you safe and free HO
Home to your noble father's hall.
438
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
She rose: and forth with steps they passeil
That strove to.be, and were not, fast.
Her gracious stars the lady blest,
And thus spake on sweet Christabel:
All our household are at rest,
The hall as silent as the cell;
Sir Leoline is weak in health.
And may not well awakened be,
But we will move as if in stealth, 120
And I beseech your courtesy,
This night, to share your couch with me.
They crossed the moat, and Christabel
Took the key that fitted well;
A little door she opened straight.
All in the middle of the gate;
The gate that was ironed within and without,
Where an army in battle array had marched
out.
The lady sank, belike through pain.
And Christabel with might and main 130
Lifted her up, a weary weight.
Over the threshold of the gate:
Then the lady rose again.
And moved, as she were not in pain.*
So free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court; right glad they were.
And Christabel devoutly cried
To the lady by her side.
Praise we the Virgin all divine
Who hath rescued thee from thy distress! 140
Alas, alas! said Geraldine,
I cannot speak for weariness.
So free from danger, free from fear.
They crossed the court: right glad they were.
Outside her kennel, the mastiff old
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.
The mastiff old did not awake.
Yet she an angry moan did make!
And what can ail the mastiff bitch I
Never till now she uttered yell 160
Beneath the eye of Christabel.
Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch:
For what can ail the mastiff bitch!
They passed the hall, that echoes still,
Pass as lightly as you will!
The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
Amid their own white ashes lying;
But when the lady pa88e<l, there came
A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
And Christabel saw the lady's eye, 160
And nothing else saw she thereby,
• ThrosholdH were often blessed to keep out evil
spirits. The malign character of the super-
natural Geraldine is clearly hinted at here
and in the lines that follow.
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall.
Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.
O softly tread, said Christabel,
My father seldom sleepeth well.
Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,
And jealous of the listening air
They steal their way from stair to stair,
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,
And now they pass the Baron 's room, 17t»
As still as death, with stifled breath!
And now have reached her chamber door;
And now doth Geraldine press down
The rushes of the chamber floor.
The moon shines dim in the open air.
And not a moonbeam enters here.
But they without its light can see
The chamber carved so curiously,
Carved with figures strange and sweet.
All made out of the carver's brain, 180
For a lady's chamber meet;
The lamp with twofold silver chain
Is fastened to an angel's feet.
The silver lamp burns dead and dim;
But Christabel the lamp will trim.
She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright.
And left it swinging to and fro,
While Geraldine, in wretched plight.
Sank down upon the floor below.
weary lady, Geraldine, 190
1 pray you, drink this cordial wine!
It is a wine of virtuous powers;
My mother made it of wild flowers.
And will your mother pity me,
Who am a maiden most forlorn?
Christabel answered — Woe is me!
She died the hour that I was born.
I have heard the gray-haired friar tell
How on her death-bed she did say,
That she should hear the castle-bell 200
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.
mother dear! that thou wert here!
1 would, said Geraldine, she were!
But soon with altered voice, said she —
"Off, wandering mother! Peak and pineli
I have power to bid thee flee."
Alas! what ails poor Gerahlincf
Why stares she with unsettled eye?
Can she the bodiless dead espyf
And why with hollow voice cries she, 210
"Off, woman, off! this hour is mine —
Though thou her guardian spirit be.
Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me."
1 Cp. Macbeth I, Hi, 23.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEBIDGE
439
Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue —
"Alas!" said she, "this ghastly ride —
Dear lady ! it hath wildered you ! ' '
The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
And faintly said, " 'tis over now!"
Again the wild-flower wine she drank:
Her fair large eyes 'gan gUtter bright,
And from the floor whereon she sank.
The lofty lady stood upright:
She was most beautiful to see.
Like a lady of a far countree.
And thus the lofty lady spake —
"All they who live in the upper sky,
Do love you, holy Christabel!
And you love them, and for their sake
And for the good which me befel,
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden, to requite you weU.
But now unrobe yourself; for I
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie."
Quoth Christabel, So let it be!
And as the lady bade, did she.
Her gentle limbs did she undress,
And lay down in her loveliness.
But through her brain of weal and woe
So many thoughts moved to and fro.
That vain it were her lids to close;
So half-way from the bed she rose,
And on her elbow did recline
To look at the lady Geraldine.
Beneath the lamp the lady bowed,
And slowly rolled her eyes around;
Then drawing in her breath aloud,
Like one that shuddered, she unbound
The cincture from beneath her breast:
Her silken robe, and inner vest,
Dropt to her feet, and full in view,
Behold! her bosom and half her side
A sight to dream of, not to tell!
O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!
Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;
Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
Deep from within she seems half-way
To lift some weight with sick assay,
And eyes the maid and seeks delay;
Then suddenly, as one defied,
Collects herself in scorn and pride,
And lay down by the Maiden's side! —
And in her arms the maid she took,
Ah wel-a-day!
And with low voice and doleful look
These words did say:
220
230
240
250
260
"In the touch of this bosom tiiere worketh a
spell,
WTiich is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-mor-
row,
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow ;
But vainly thou warrest, 270
For this is alone in
Thy power to declare,
That in the dim forest
Thou heard 'st a low moaning,
And found 'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair;
And didst bring her home with thee in love
and in charity.
To shield her and shelter her from the damp
Thb Conclusion to Pakt thb First
It was a lovely sight to see
The lady Christabel, when she 280
Was praying at the old oak tree.
Amid the jagged shadows
Of mossy leafless boughs.
Kneeling in the moonlight.
To make her gentle vows;
Her slender palms together prest,
Heaving sometimes on her breast;
Her face resigned to bliss or bale —
Her face, oh call it fair not pale,
And both bine eyes more bright than clear, 290
Each about to have a tear.
With open eyes (ah woe is me!)
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,
Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis.
Dreaming that alone, which is —
O sorrow and shame! Can this be she.
The lady, who knelt at the old oak treet
And lo! the worker of these harms.
That holds the maiden in her arms.
Seems to slumber still and mild, 300
As a mother with her child.
A star hath set, a star hath risen,
O Geraldine! since arms of thine
Have been the lovely lady's prison.
O Geraldine! one hour was thine —
Thou'st had thy will! By tairn and rill,
The night-birds all that hour were still,
But now they are jubilant anew.
From cliff and tower, tu — whoo! tu — whoo!
To — ^whoo! tu — whoo! from wood and fell!
And see! the lady Christabel
Gathers herself from out her trance;
Her limbs relstx, her countenance
Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids
Close o'er her eyes! and tears she sheds-
311
440
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
Large tears that, leave the lashes bright!
And oft the while she seems to smile
As infants at a sudden light!
Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,
Like a youthful hermitess, 320
Beauteous in a wilderness,
Who, praying always, prays in sleep.
And, if she move unquietly.
Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free
Comes back and tingles in her feet.
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.
What if her guardian spirit 'twere.
What if she knew her mother near?
But this she knows, in joys and woes,
That saints will aid if men will call: 330
For the blue sky bends over all!
FRANCE: AN ODE*
Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause,
Whose pathless march no mortal may control!
Ye Ocean Waves ! that, whereso 'er ye roll,
Yield homage only to eternal laws!
Ye Woods! that listen to the night-bird's
singing,
Midway the smooth and perilous slope re-
clined.
Save when your own imperious branches swing-
ing,
Have made a solemn music of the wind!
Where, like a man beloved of God,
Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 10
How oft, pursuing fancies holy.
My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I
wound,
Inspired beyond the guess of folly.
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable
sound !
O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high!
And O ye Clouds that far above me soared!
Thou rising sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky!
Yea, every thing that is and will be free!
Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be.
With what deep worship I have still adored
The spirit of divinest Liberty. 21
When France in wrath her giant-limbs up-
reared.
And with that oath which smote air, earth
and sea.
Stamped her strong foot and said she would
be free,
•Written In 1798; called forth by the French
invasion of Switzerland.
Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared!
With what a joy my lofty gratulation
Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band :
And when to whelm the disenchanted nation.
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand.
The Monarchs marched in evil day, 30
And Britain joined the dire array ;
Though dear her shores and circling ocean.
Though many friendships, many youthful loves
Had swoln the patriot emotion
And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and
groves ;
Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat
To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance.
And shame too long delayed and vain retreat!
For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim 39
I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame;
But blessed the pseans of delivered France,
And hung my head and wept at Britain 's name.
lU
"And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's
loud scream
With that sweet music of deliverance strove!
Though all the fierce and drunken passions
wove
A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's
dream ! i
Ye storms, that round the dawning east as-
sembled.
The Sun2 was rising, though ye hid his light ! ' '
And when to soothe my soul, that hoped and
trembled.
The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm
and bright; 50
When France her front deep-scarred and
gory
Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory;
When, insupportably advancing.
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's
ramp;
While timid looks of fury glancing,
Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal
stamp.
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore;
Then I reproached my fears that would not
flee;
"And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her
lore
In the low huts of them that toil and groan ;
And, conquering by her happiness alone, 61
Shall France compel the nations to be free.
Till Love and Joy look round, and call the
earth their own."
1 Alludln;; to the excesses that attended the
French Revolution.
2 Liberty
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
441
IV
Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams!
1 hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,
From bleak Helvetia 's3 icy caverns sent —
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained
streams!
Heroes, that for your pea(ieful country per-
ished.
And ye, that fleeing, spot your mountain snows
With bleetling wounds; forgive me, that I
cherished ''^
One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes!
To scatter rage and traitorous guilt
Where Peace her jealous home had built;
A patriot-race to disinherit
Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear;
And with inexpiable spirit
To taint the bloodless freedom of the moun-
taineer —
O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous,
blind,
And patriot only in pernicious toils!
Are these thy boasts. Champion of human
kind! ^'^
To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway,
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey;
To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils
From freemen torn ; to tempt and to betray 1
V
The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain,
Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad
game
They burst their manacles and wear the name
Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!
O Liberty! with profitless endeavour
Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; 90
But thou nor swell 'st the victor 's strain nor
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human
power.
Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee,
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee)
Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions,
And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves.
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions.
The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of
the waves!
And there I felt thee! — on that sea-cliff's
verge,
Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze
above, ^^^
Had made one murmur with the distant surge!
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare.
And shot my being through earth, sea and air,
Possessing all things with intensest love,
O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.
3 Switzerland's
HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE
OF CHAMOUNI*
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star
In his steep course! So long he seems to pause
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!
Eisest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black.
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it.
As with a wedge! But when I look again, 10
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!
dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in
prayer
1 worshipped the Invisible alone.
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it.
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my
Thought,
Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret joy:
Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, 21
Into the mighty vision passing — there
As in her natural form, swelled vast to
Heaven !
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears.
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake.
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.
Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the
Vale!
O struggling with the darkness all the night.
And visited all night by troops of stars, 31
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:
Companion of the morning-star at dawn.
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light!
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams!
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who called you forth from night and utter
death, ■*<>
From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks.
For ever shattered and the same for ever!
• This rather Osslanlc poem has been perhaps
iinduly admired. Coleridge never was at
rhamouni : his immediate model was a poem
by the German poetess Frederike Brun.
442
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your
joy.
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
And who commanded (and the silence came),
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?
Ye lee-falls! ye that from the mountain's
brow
Adown eaiormous ravines slope amain — 50
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice.
And stopped at once amid their maddest
plunge !
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious as the Gates of
Heaven
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the
sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, Avith living
flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your
feet?—
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome
voice! 60
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like
sounds !
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow.
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!
Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the element!
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!
Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-point-
ing peaks, 70
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard.
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure
serene
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast —
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with
tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise, 79
Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth!
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills.
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
THE KNIGHT'S TOMB
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?—
By the side of a spring, on the breast of
Helvellyn,!
Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
The oak that in summer Avas sweet to hear.
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year.
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown. —
The Knight's bones are dust.
And his good sword rust; —
His soul is with the saints, I trust.
SONG
From Zapolta, Act II, Scene I
A sunny shaft did I behold,
From sky to earth it slanted:
And poised therein a bird so bold —
Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted!
He sunk, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled
Within that shaft of sunny mist;
His eyes of fire, his beak of gold.
All else of amethyst!
And thus he sang: Adieu! adieu!
Love's dreams prove seldom true.
The blossoms they make no delay;
The sparkling dew-drops will not stay.
Sweet month of May,
We must away;
Far far away!
Today! today!
YOUTH AND AGE*
Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying.
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee —
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young? — Ah, woeful When!
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands.
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, 10
How lightly then it flashed along: —
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore.
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in't together.
1 A mountain in Cumberland.
• A first fouph draft of this poem was callod
"Area Spontanea," and the whole still reads
like a musical Improvisntion.
SIR WALTEB SCOTT
443
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree ;
O! the joys, that came clown shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 21
Ere I was old!
Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth's no longer here^.
Youth! for years so many and sweet,
'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit —
It cannot be that Thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toU'd: —
And thou wert aye a masker bold! 30
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To male believe, that thou art gone?
1 see these locks in silvery slips.
This drooping gait, this altered size:
But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips.
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates stilL
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve! 40
Where no hope is, life 's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
When we are old:
That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest.
That may not rudely be dismist;
Yet hath out-stay 'd his welcome while.
And tells the jest without the smile.
WORK WITHOUT HOPEf
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their
lair —
The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing —
And Winter slumbering in the open air.
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths
blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar
flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye
may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, ri<?h streams.
away!
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I
stroll :
t Written In 1827: the mournful Ay de mi of a
man confronted by age and sickness and
looking back over a life of defeated hopes
and wasted opportunities.
And would you learn the spells that drowse my
soul?
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And Hope without an object cannot live.
SIR WALTER SCOTT
(I771-I832)
LOCHINVAR*
From Marmion, Canto V
Oh! young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the
best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had
none.
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love an<l so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young
Lochinvar. 6
He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for
stone.
He swam the Eske river where ford there was
none.
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 13
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers,
and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his
sword, —
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a
word, —
' Oh ! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war.
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord
Lochinvar?' — 18
'I long wooed your daughter, my suit you
denied ;
Love swells like the Solway.i but ebbs like its
tide—
And now am I come, with this lost love of
mine.
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of
wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by
far.
That would gladly be bride to the young
Lochinvar. ' 24
1 Solway Firth, noted for its swift tides.
• Compare Katharine Jaffra!/. p. 79. upon which
Scott 'in a very slight degree founded" the
present ballad.
444
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
The brifle kissed the goblet: the knight took
it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down
the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to
sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could
bar, —
' Now tread we a measure ! ' said young
Lochinvar. 30
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard2 did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did
fume.
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet^
and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered ' 'Twere bet-
ter by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young
Lochinvar. ' 36
One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the
charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
' She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and
scaur;*
They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth
young Lochinvar. 42
There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the
Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode
and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie
Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they
see.
So daring in love and so dauntless in war.
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young
Lochinvar? 48
SOLDIER, REST!
Fbom The Lady of the Lake, Canto I
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking!
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall.
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, 6
Fairy strains of music fall,
2 A brisk dance.
s cap
4 cliff
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 12
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark 's shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow, 18
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war-steed's neigh and chamj)ing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. 24
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun.
Bugles here shall sound reveille.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying: 30
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun.
For at dawning to assail ye
Here no bugles sound reveille. 36
CORONACHS
From The Lady of the Lake, Canto III
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing.
From the rain-drops shall borrow.
But to us comes no cheering.
To Duncan no morrow! 8
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing.
When blighting was nearest.
16
Fleet foot on the correi.o
Sage counsel in cumber.^
« A Hlfblnnd dirge.
6 A hollow hillside, resort of game.
7 trouble
SIB WALTER SCOTT
445
24
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river.
Like the bubble on the fountain.
Thou art gone, and forever!
THE BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE*
From the Lady of the Lake, Canto VI
The Chieftain reared his form on high.
And fever's fire was in his eye;
But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks 340
Chequered his swarthy brow and cheeks.
— ' ' Hark, Minstrel ! I have heard thee play.
With measure bold, on festal day.
In yon lone isle, — again where ne'er
Shall harper play, or warrior hear! —
That stirring air that peals on high,
O'er Dermid's raeei our victory. —
Strike it! — and then, (for well thou canst,)
Free from thy minstrel spirit glanced,
Fling me the picture of the fight, 350
When met my clan the Saxons might.
I'll listen, till my fancy hears
The clang of swords, the crash of spears!
These grates, these walls, shall vanish then.
For the fair field of fighting men.
And my free spirit burst away.
As if it soared from battle fray."
The trembling Bard with awe obeyed, —
Slow on the harp his hand he laid ;
But soon remembrance of the sight 360
He witnessed from the mountain 's height.
With what old Bertrams told at night.
Awakened the full power of song,
And bore him in career along; —
As shallop launched on river's tide.
That slow and fearful leaves the side,
But, when it feels the middle stream,
Drives downward swift as lightning's beam.
"The Minstrel came once more to view
The eastern ridge of Benvenue, 370
For ere he parted, he would say
Farewell to lovely Loch Achray —
Where shall he find, in foreign land,
So lone a lake, so sweet a strand! —
There is no breeze upon the fern,
No ripple on the lake,
• Ro<1prlok Dhn. a maraudin<» rhlpftain of th«>
Highland Clan-Alpine, having hppn wounded
In combat with the disguised Kine: of Soot-
land, lies dying in prison, while thp Mlnstrpl,
Allan-hanp reritps to him thp storv of the
conflict between bis clan and the forces of
the king. The Minstrel's tale ben-ins at line
369 : he speaks of himself in the third person.
' 'The Campbells. s One of the king's
2 Lowland men.
Upon her eyrie nods the erne,*
The deer has sought the brake;
The small birds will not sing aloud,
The springing trout lies still, 380
So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud,
That swathes, as with a purple shroud,
Benledi's distant hill.
Is it the thunder's solemn sound
That mutters deep and dread.
Or echoes from the groaning ground
The warrior's measured tread?
Is it the lightning's quivering glance
That on the thicket streams,
Or do they flash on spear and lance 390
The sun's retiring beams! —
I see the dagger-crest of Mar,5
I see the Moray 's^ silver star.
Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war.
That up the lake comes winding far!
To hero bounes for battle-strife,
Or bard of martial lay,
'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,
One glance at their array!
' ' Their light-armed archers far and near 400
Surveyed the tangled ground,
Their centre ranks, with pike and spear,
A twilight forest frowned.
Their barded^ horsemen, in the rear,
The stern battalias crowned.
No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang,
Still were the pipe and drum;
Save heavy tread, and armour's clang,
The sullen march was dumb.
There breathed no wind their crests to shake.
Or wave their flags abroad; 410
Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake,
That shadowed o'er their road.
Their vaward^ scouts no tidings bring,
Can rouse no lurking foe,
Nor spy a trace of living thing,
Save when they stirred the roe;
The host moves, like a deep-sea wave.
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave.
High-swelling, dark, and slow. 420
The lake is passed, and now they gain
A narrow and a broken plain.
Before the Trosachs'io rugged jaws:
And here the horse and spearmen pause.
While, to explore the dangerous glen,
Dive through the pass the archer-men.
"At once there rose so wild a yell
Within that dark and narrow dell.
* eag'e
5 A Lowland leader.
6 prenared
7 armed with plate-ar-
mor
8 battle prray
9 vanward
10 The roueh moun-
tains and nass in
the Highland" he-
t w e e n Lochs
Katrine and .Ach-
ray.
446
THE fiOMANTIC REVIVAL
As all the fiends from heaven that fell
Had pealed the banner-cry of hell! 430
Forth from the pass in tumult driven,
Like ehaflf before the wind of heaven,
The archery appear:
For life! for life! their plight they ply —
And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry,
And plaids and bonnets waving high,
And broadswords flashing to the sky.
Are maddening in the rear.
Onward they drive, in dreadful race.
Pursuers and pursued; 440
Before that tide of flight and chase.
How shall it keep its rooted place.
The spearmen's twilight wood? —
'Down, down,' cried Mar, 'your lances down!
Bear back both friend and foe ! ' —
Like reeds before the tempest's frown,
That serried grove of lanees brown
At once lay levelled low;
And closely shouldering side to side.
The bristling ranks the onset bide. — 450
'We'll quell the savage mountaineer.
As their Tinchelii cows the game!
They come as fleet as forest deer.
We'll drive them back as tame.' —
"Bearing before them, in their course.
The relics of the archer force,
Like wave with crest of sparkling foam,
Eight onward did Clan-Alpine come.
Above the tide, each broadsword bright
Was brandishing like beam of light, 460
Each targe was dark below;
And with the ocean's mighty swing,
When heaving to the tempest 's wing,
They hurled them on the foe.
I heard the lance's shivering crash,
As when the whirlwind rends the ash;
I heard the broadsword 's deadly clang,
As if an hundred anvils rang!
But Moray wheeled his rearward rank
Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank, — 470
'My banner-man, advance!
I see,' he cried, 'their column shake.
Now, gallants! for your ladies' sake,
Upon them with the lance ! ' —
The horsemen dashed among the rout.
As deer break through the broom ;
Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,
They soon make lightsome room.
Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne —
Where, where was Roderick then ! 480
One blast upon his bugle-horn
Were worth a thousand men.
And refluent through the pass of fear
The battle 's tide was poured ;
II A circle of huntpr^ surrounding game.
Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear,
Vanished the mountain-sword.
As Braeklinn 's chasm, so black and steep,
Receives her roaring linn,i2
As the dark caverns of the deep
Suck the wild whirlpool in, 490
So did the deep and darksome pa«s
Devour the battle 's mingled mass :
None linger now upon the plain,
Save those who ne'er shall fight again.
' ' Now westward rolls the battle 's din,
That deep and doubling pass within. —
Minstrel, away! the work of fate
Is bearing on : its issue wait.
Where the rude Trosachs' dread defile
Opens on Katrine's lake and isle. — 500
Gray Benvenue I soon repassed,
Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast.
The sun is set ; — the clouds are met,
The lowering scowl of heaven
An inky hue of livid blue
To the deep lake has given;
Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen
Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen.
I heeded not the eddying surge,
Mine eye but saw the Trosachs' gorge, 510
Mine ear but heard the sullen sound,
Which like an earthquake shook the ground,
And spoke the stern and desperate strife
That parts not but with parting life,
Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll
The dirge of m.any a passing soul.
Nearer it comes — the dim-wood glen
The martial flood disgorged agen.
But not in mingled tide;
The plaided warriors of the North 520
High on the mountain thunder forth
And overhang its side;
While by the lake below appears
The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears.
At weary bay each shattered band,
Eying their foemen, sternly stand;
Their banners stream like tattered sail,
That flings its fragments to the gale.
And broken arms and disarray
Marked the fell havoc of the day. 530
"Viewing the mountain's ridge askance,
The Saxon stood in sullen trance,
Till Moray pointed with his lance,
And cried — 'Behold yon isle! —
See! none are left to guard its strand.
But women weak, that wring the hand :
'Tis there of yore the robber band
Their booty wont to pile; —
12 waterfall
SIR WALTER SCOTT
447
My purse, with bonnet-pieces 8tore,i3
To him wilU* swim a bow-shot o 'er, 540
And loose a shallop from the shore.
Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then,
Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.' —
Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung.
On earth his casque and corslet rung,
He plunged him in the wave: —
All saw the deed — the purpose knew,
And to their clamours Benvenue
A mingled echo gave;
The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer, 650
The helpless females scream for fear,
And yells for rage the mountaineer.
'Twas then, as by the outcry riven.
Poured down at once the lowering heaven;
A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast.
Her billows reared their snowy crest.
Well for the swimmer swelled they high,
To mar the Highland marksman's eye;
For round him showered, 'mid rain and hail,
The vengeful arrows of the Gael.i^ — 560
In vain. — He nears the isle — and lo!
His hand is on a shallop 's bow.
Just then a flash of lightning came.
It tinged the waves and strand with flame; —
I marked Duncraggan's widowed dame,i6
Behind an oak I saw her stand,
A naked dirk gleamed in her hand: —
It darkened, — but amid the moan
Of waves, I heard a dying groan ; —
Another flash! — the spearman floats 570
A weltering corse beside the boats.
And the stern matron o 'er him stood.
Her hand and dagger streaming blood.
* ' ' Revenge ! revenge ! ' the Saxons cried,
The Gaels' exulting shout replied.
Despite the elemental rage,
Again they hurried to engage;
But, ere they closed in desperate fight.
Bloody with spurring came a knight.
Sprung from his horse, and from a crag, 580
Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag.
Clarion and trumpet by his side
Rung forth a truce-note high and wide.
While, in the Monarch's name, afar
A herald's voice forbade the war,
For Bothwell 's lord,i7 and Roderick bold,
Were both, he said, in captive hold. ' ' —
But here the lay made sudden stand,
The harp escaped the Minstrel's hand!
13 gold coins (stamped with the king's head) in
plenty.
14 who will
15 Highlander
i« Widow of the Duncan mourned for in the
Coronach on p. 444.
17 Douglas, an exile, to whom Roderick Dhu had
given shelter.
Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy 590
How Roderick brooked his minstrelsy:
At first, the Chieftain, to the chime.
With lifted hand kept feeble time;
That motion ceased, — ^yet feeling strong
Varied his look as changed the song;
At length, no more his deafened ear
The minstrel melody can hear;
His face grows sharp, — his hands are clenched.
As if some pang his heart-strings wrenched ;
Set are his teeth, his fading eye 600
Is sternly fixed on vacancy;
Thus, motionless and moanless, drew
His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu! —
Old Allan-bane looked on aghast.
While grim and still his spirit passed;
But when he saw that life was fled,
He poured his wailing o 'er the dead.
JOCK OF HAZELDEAN
' ' Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ?
Why weep ye by the tide?
I '11 wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sail be his bride :
And ye sail be his bride, ladie,
Sae comely to be seen" —
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
* * Now let this wilf u ' grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington
And lord of Langley-dale ;
His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen" —
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
16
' ' A chain of gold ye tall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair;
Nor mettled hound, nor managedi hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
And you, the foremost o' them a'.
Shall ride our forest queen." —
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
24
The kirk was decked at morning-tide.
The tapers glimmered fair;
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there.
They sought her baith by bower and ha ' ;
The ladie was not seen!
She 's o 'er the Border and awa '
Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 32
1 trained
448
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
PROUD MAISIE
From The Heart of Midlothian
Proud Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
Singing so rarely.
"Tell me, thou bonny bird.
When shall I marry me?"
"When six braw2 gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye. " 8
' ' Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?"
' ' The gray-headed sexton
That delves the grave duly.
' ' The glow-worm o 'er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady;
The owl from the steeple sing
'Welcome, proud lady.' " ;'. 16
COUNTY GUY
From Quentin Durward
Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea.
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who thrilled all day
Sits hushed his partner nigh:
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy? 8
The village maid steals through the shade
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And liigh and low the influence know —
But where is County Guy? 16
BONNY DUNDEE*
To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se
who spoke,
"Ere the King's crown shall fall there are
crowns to be broke ;
So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me,
2 brave, fine ^
• John Graham of Claverhouse. Viscount Dundee,
In support of James II. withstood the Scotch
rovonanters. defied the Convontlon. or Scotch
Parliament. which had accepted KInc
William, and marched out of Kdlnburch with
a few faithful followers in 1680, thus
creatine the "Jacobite" nnrty. He met tl>e
povernraent forces at Kllllocrankle and 'if
fonted them, but was kilb'd In t»ie batl'c
Bee Macaulay's account of that battle in the
present volume.
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle your horses and call up your
men ;
Come open the West Port and let me gang
free,
And it's room for the bonnets of Bonny
Dundee!" 8
Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street,
The bells are rung backward,3 the drums they
are beat;
But the Provost,* douce^ man, said, "Just e'en
let him be,
The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of
Dundee. ' '
Come fill up my cup, etc.
As he rode down the sanctified bends of the
Bow,6
Ilk carline^ was flytings and shaking her pow;»
But the young plants of grace they looked
couthie and slee,io
Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny
Dundee! 16
Come fill up my cup, etc.
With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmarketii
was crammed
As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged ;
There was spite in each look, there was fear in
each e'e.
As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny
Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc. »
These cowls of Kilmarnockiz had spits and had
spears.
And lang-hafted gulUesis to kill Cavaliers;
But they shrunk to close-headsi* and the cause-
way was free.
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 24
Come fill up my cup, etc.
He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle
rock,i5
.And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke;
"Let Mons Megi« and her marrowsi^ speak twa
words or three.
3 reversing the chimes
(as nn alarm)
4 Mayor
T) se<late
II w I n d i n g 8 of Bow
street
T each old woman
8 scolding
10 gracious and sly
1 1 Tlie place of execu-
tion (see Midlo-
thian, chap. II).
12 hoods made at Kil-
marnock (here used
for the wearers,
Presbyterians)
13 knives
14 blind alleys
15 The site of Edin-
burgh Castle, then
held by the Duke
of Gordon.
lA nickname of a can-
non
17 mates
LOED BYRON
449
For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. ' '
Come fill up my cup, etc.
The Gordon demands of him which way he
goes —
"Where'er shall direct me the shade of Mont
rose! 18
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings
of me,
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 32
Come fill up my cup, etc.
"There are hills beyond Pentland and lands
beyond Forth,
If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs
in the North ;
There are wild Duniewassalsio three thousand
times three.
Will cry haigh! for the bonnet of Bonny
Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
"There's brass on the target of barkenedso
bull-hide ;
There's steel in the scabbard that dangles
beside ;
The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash
free.
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 40
Come fill up my cup, etc.
"Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks —
Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the fox;
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your
glee,
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and
me!"
Come fill up my cup, etc.
He waved his proud hand and the trumpets
were blown,
The kettle-drums clashed and the horsemen rode
on,
Till on Ravelston 's cliffs and on Clermiston 's lea
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dun-
dee. 48
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle the horses and call up the men.
Come open your gates and let me gae free,
For its up with the bonnets of Bonny
Dundee !
HERE'S A HEALTH TO KING CHARLES
From Woodstock
Bring the bowl which you boast.
Fill it up to the brim;
18 A royalist
in 1650.
executed
19 gentlemen
degree
20 tanned
of minor
'Tis to him we love most,
And to all who love him.
Brave gallants, stand up.
And avaunt ye, base carles!
Were there death in the cup.
Here 's a health to King Charles.
Though he wanders through dangers,
Unaided, unknown.
Dependent on strangers.
Estranged from his own ;
Though 't is under our breath,
Amidst forfeits and perils.
Here's to honour and faith.
And a health to King Charles 1
Let such honours abound
As the time can afford,
The knee on the ground.
And the hand on the sword;
But the time shall come round
When, 'mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls,
The loud trumpet shall sound.
Here 's a health to King Charles.
LORD BYRON
(1768-1824)
From ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH RE-
VIEWERS*
WTien Vice triumphant holds her sov 'reign
sway.
Obeyed by all who nought beside obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime;
Wlien knaves and fools combined o'er all pre-
vail, 30
And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale;
E 'en then the boldest start from public sneers.
Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears.
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe.
And shrink from Ridicule, though not from
Law.
Such is the force of Wit ! but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand .
Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, 40
• This satire is In part a retort which Byron was
stung Into making by the ridicule with which
the Edinburgh Review in January, 1808, re-
ceived his youthful volume of verses. Hours
of Idleness; though he had before planned a
satirical poem upon contemporary English
poets. In later years he regretted his sever-
ity, and especially his treatment of Francis
.Teffrey, the editor of the .iournal. whom he
had wrongly suspected of writing the offending
article. See Eny. Lit., p. 246.
450
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
And yield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game :
Speed, Pegasus! — ^ye strains of great and small.
Ode! Epic! Elegy! — have at you all!
I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame;
1 printed— older children do the same. 49
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A Book 's a Book, altho ' there 's nothing in 't.
Not that a Title's sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This Lambi must own, since his patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious farce from
shame.
No matter, George continues still to write,
Tho' now the name is veiled from public sight.
Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self -same road, but make my own review :
Not seek great Jeffrey 's, yet like him will be 60
Self -constituted Judge of Poesy.
A man must serve his time to every trade
Save Censure — Critics all are ready made.
Take hackneyed jokes from Miller,- got by rote.
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A mind well skilled to find, or forge a fault;
A turn for punning — call it Attic salt;3
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit; 70
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit;
Care not for feelings— pass your proper jest.
And stand a Critic, hated yet caressed.
And shall we own such judgment! no — as soon
Seek rcscs in December — ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that 's false, before
You trust in Critics, who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled 80
By Jeffrey "s heart, or Lamb 's Boeotian head.*
To these young tyrants, by themselves mis-
placed.
Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste;
To these, when Authors bend in humble awe.
And hail their voice as Truth, their word as
Law;
While these are Censors, 'twould be sin to
spare ;
1 George (wn of Sir Penlston) Lamb, auihor of
an UDHUccessful farce.
2 "Joe" Miller, an 18th century actor and the re-
puted author of a famouH compilation of JcHtM.
3 wit
* The IkcotlauH wore pruverbiul for dulueKS.
While such are Critics, why should I forbear?
Behold! in various throngs the scribbling
crew.
For notice eager, pass in long review :
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace.
And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race;
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode;
And Tales of Terror^ jostle on the road;
Immeasurable measures move along;*
For simpering Folly loves a varied song, 1">0
To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend,
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.
Thus Lays of Minstrels — may they be the
last! —
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the
blast,
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites,
That dames may listen to the sound at nights;
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood,«
Decoy young Border-nobles through the wood.
And skip at every step. Lord knows how high,
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows
why; 160
While high-born ladies in their magic cell,
Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell.
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave,
And fight with honest men to shield a knave.
Next view in state, proud prancing on his
roan,
The golden-crested haughty Marmion,
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight.
Not quite a Felon, yet but half a Knight,
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace —
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 170
And think 'st thou, Scott! by vain conceit per-
chance,
On public taste to foist thy stale romance.
Though Murray with his Miller^ may combine
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line?
No ! when the sons of song descend to trade,
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade;
Let such forego the poet's sacred name.
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame:
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain!
And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain! 180
Such be their meed, such still the just reward
Of prostituted Muse and hireling bard!
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son,*
And bid a long * * good night to Marmion. ' '»
r. By "Monk" Lewis (Enp- T.H., 204).
« Scott's Lay of the Laxt Minstrel (1805) grew
out of a BUKKeHtion for a ballad derived from
an absurd old Border legend of Gilpin Horner.
7 Publishers.
8 1. e.. this bought Orpheus (Scott)
It Marmion. line 860.
* This Is a sneer at the new anapestic metres.
8cc liny. Lit., p. 243.
LOKD BYEON
451
These are the themes that claim our plaudits
now;
These are the Banls to whom the Muse must
bow ;
While Milton, Dryden. Pope, alike forgot,
Resign their hallowed Bays to Walter Scott.
The time has been, when yet the Muse was
young, 1*^
When Homer swept the lyre, and Maroio sung.
An Epicii scarce ten centuries could claim,
While awe-struck nations hailed the magic
name:
The work of each immortal Bard appears
The single wonder of a thousand years.
Empires have mouldered from the face of earth.
Tongues have expired with those who gave them
birth,
Without the glory such a strain can give,
As even in ruin bids the language live.
Not so with us, though minor Bards, content.
On one great work a life of labour spent : 200
With eagle pinion soaring to the skies,
Behold the Ballad-monger Southey rise! -»
To him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield.
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the
field.i2
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance,
The scourge of England and the boast of
France !
Though burnt by wicked Bedfordis for a witch,
Behold her statue placed in Glory's niche;
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison,
A virgin Phoenix from her ashes risen. 210
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,
Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wond'rous son;
Domdaniel'si* dread destroyer, who o'erthrew
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew.
Immortal Hero! all thy foes o'ercome.
For ever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb I^^
Since startled Metre fled before thy face,
Well wert thou doomed the last of all thy race!
Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence,
Illustrious conqueror of common sense! 220
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails,
Caciquei« in Mexico, and Prince in Wales;
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do,
More old than Mandeville's,i" and not so true.
Oh, Southey! Southey! cease thy varied song!
10 Virgil
11 Object of '"claim."
12 Southey's Joan of Arc, 1796 : Thalaba the De-
atrofier, 1801: Madoc (in two parts: Madoc
in Wales, Madoc in Aztlan). 1805.
13 John Plantagenet, the general of the English
forces In France.
1* In Arabian tales, a cavern where magicians
were schooled.
1 •"• The hero of a farce bv Fielding.
16 chieftain
1 7 See p. 63.
A bard may chaunt too often and too long ;
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare!
A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear.
But if, in spite of all the world can say,
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way;
If still in Berkley-Ballads most uncivil, 231
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,i8
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue:
' ' God help thee, ' ' Southey, and thy readers too.
Next comes the duU disciple of thy school,
That mild apostate from poetic rule.
The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay
As soft as evening in his favourite May,
Who warns his friendia "to shake off toil and
trouble, 239
And quit his books, for fear of growing double' ' ;
Who, both by precept^o and example, shows
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose:
Convincing all, by demonstration plain.
Poetic souls delight in prose insane ;
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme
Contain the essence of the true sublime.
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy,
The idiot mother of "an idiot Boy",
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way.
And, like his bard, confounded night with day;
So close on each pathetic part he dwells, 251
And each adventure so sublimely tells.
That all who view the "idiot in his glory'*
Conceive the Bard the hero of the story.
Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here,
To turgid Ode and tumid stanza dear f
Though themes of innocence amuse him best,
Yet still Obscurity 's a welcome guest.
If Inspiration should her aid refuse
To him who takes a Pixy for a mu8e,2i 260
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass
The bard who soars to elegize an ass :
So well the subject suits his noble mind.
He brays, the Laureate of the long-eared kind.
MAID OF ATHENS, EBE WE PART
Zwrj fiov, (Toj o7aTwi
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast.
Keep it now, and take the rest!
18 In Southey's ballad. The Old Woman of Berk-
eleii the old woman is carried off by the
Devil.
19 In The Tables Turned.
20 In his preface to Lyrical Ballads.
21 In Honon of the Pixies, containing "Lines to a
Young Ass."
1 "My life, I love you."
452
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
Hear my vow before I go,
Zonj fiov, aas ayarrw. 6
By those tresses imconfined,
Wooed by each ^-Egean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Zanj /Jiov, (Tttj ayairu. 12
By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
Zwij fiov, (ras ayavw. 18
Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet ! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,2
Athens holds my heart and soul ;
Can I cease to love thee? No!
ZwTj fiov, <raj ayaxw. 24
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 6
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place. 12
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent.
The smiles that win, the tints that glow.
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below, .
A heart whose love is innocent! 18
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB*
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the
fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and
gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on
the sea.
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep
Galilee. 4
2 roo8tantlnopl«
• II Kinpn. xlx, 35.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is
green.
That host with their banners at sunset were
seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath
blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and
strown. 8
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the
blast.
And breathed in the face of the foe as he
passed ;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and
chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever
grew still! 12
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his
pride ;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the
turf.
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating
surf. 16
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his
mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone.
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 20
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the
sword.
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the
Lord! 24
SO WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING
So we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath.
And the soul wears out the breast.
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon.
Yet we '11 go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.
LOBD BYEON
453
STANZAS WKITTEN ON THE ROAD BE-
TWEEN FLOEENCE AND PISA
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our
glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-
twenty
Are worth aU your laurels, though ever so
plenty, 4
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that
is wrinkled f
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew be-
sprinkled.
Then away with all such from the head that is
hoary !
What care I for the wreaths that can anly give
glory ! 8
Oh, Fame! — if I e'er took delight in thy
praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding
phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one
discover.
She thought that I was not unworthy to love
her. 12
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found
thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that sur-
round thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in
my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 16
TO THOMAS MOOBE*
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!
Here 's a sigh to those who love me.
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky 's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate. 8
Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on ;
Though a desert should surround me.
It hath springs that may be won.
Were't the last drop in the well.
As I gasped upon the brink.
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
'Tis to thee that I would drink. 16
• The first stanza of this poem was written In
1816. when Byron left England for the last
time,
With that water, as this wine.
The libation I would pour
Should be — peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore, 20
SONNET ON CHILLON
Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind.! —
Brightest in dungeons. Liberty! thou art,
For there thy habitation is the heart—
The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; ^
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned-^^'*^ '^j^^^j^jno'
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom.
Their country conquers with their martyrdom.
And Freedom 's fame finds wings on every jiind^^^
Chillon ! t thy prison is a holy place, ^~^'^^''-. . ^
And thy sad floor an altar — for 't was trod, 1.5^-/-
Until his very steps have left a trace vt't^rJL^
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a so.d, I ^-*>''<<
By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! "^
For they appeal from tyranny to God. j
THE PBISONEE OF CHILLONt
My hair is gray, but not with years.
Nor grew it white
In a single night.
As men 's have grown from sudden fears ;
My limbs are bowed, though not with toU,
But rusted with a vile repose.
For they have been a dungeon 's spoil.
And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are banned, and barred — forbidden fare; 10
But this was for my father's faith
I suffered chains and courted death;
That father perished at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling-place;
We were seven — who now are one.
Six in youth, and one in age.
Finished as they had begfun,
t This French word has no very marked ac-
cent on either syllable. Byron usually ac-
cents the first.
% Francois de Bonivard was a republican of
Geneva who resisted the domination of the
Duke of Savoy and was imprisoned for six
years (1530-1536) in the castle of Chillon,
on the Lake of Geneva (Leman). When the
castle was captured by his republican
friends, he was released. Byron has greatly
idealized the character and has invented the
circumstance of the Imprisonment and death
of the brothers. The poem was composed In
two days. Of it Dr. F. I. Carpenter writes :
"There is very little action : there Is very
little ornament : the narrative evolves from
within, and is presented with high dramatic
fidelity, and with subtle gradation and pro-
gression. The situation in Itself is bare and
simple : the art with which the poet develops
it is masterly Who else, except Dante per-
haps, as in the Ugolino episode llnfemo 33],
could do so much with so little?"
454
THE EOMANTIC REVIVAL
Proud of Persecution's rage;
One in fire, and two in field
Their belief with blood have sealed,
Dying as their father died,
For the God their foes denied;
Three were in a dungeon cast,
Of whom this wreck is left the last.
There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old,
There are seven columns, massy and gray.
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray,
A sunbeam which hath lost its way
And through the crevice and the cleft
Of the thick wall is fallen and left;
Creeping o 'er the floor so damp.
Like a marsh 's meteor lamp :
And in each pillar there is a ring.
And in each ring there is a chain ;
That iron is a cankering thing.
For in these limbs its teeth remain.
With marks that will not wear away.
Till I have done with this new day,
Which now is painful to these eyes,
Which have not seen the sun so rise
For years — I cannot count them o'er,
I lost their long and heavy score.
When my last brother drooped and died,
And I lay living by his side.
They chained us each to a column stone.
And we were three — yet, each alone;
We could not move a single pace.
We could not see each other's face,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight:
And thus together — yet apart.
Fettered in hand, but joined in heart,
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth.
To hearken to each other's speech.
And each turn comforter to each
With some new hope, or legend old.
Or song heroically bold ;
But even these at length grew cold.
Our voices took a dreary tone,
An echo of the dungeon stone,
A grating sound, not full and free,
As they of yore were wont to be;
It might be fancy, but to me
They never sounded like our own.
I was the eldest of the three,
And to uphold and cheer the rest
I ought to do — and did my best —
And each did well in his degree.
The youngest, whom my father loved,
Because our mother's brow was given
To him, with eyes as blue as heaven —
30
40
50
60
70
For him my soul was sorely moved;
And truly might it be distressed
To see such bird in such a nest;
For he was beautiful as day —
(When day was beautiful to me 80
As to young eagles, being free) —
A polar day, which will not see
A sunset till its summer's gone.
Its sleepless summer of long light.
The snow-clad offspring of the sun :
And thus he was as pure and bright,
And in his natural spirit gay,
With tears for nought but others' ills,
And then they flowed like mountain rills.
Unless he could assuage the woe 90
Which he abhorred to view below.
The other was as pure of mind,
But formed to combat with his kind;
Strong in his frame, and of a mood
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood,
And perished in the foremost rank
With joy: — but not in chains to pine:
His spirit withered with their clank,
I saw it silently decline —
And so perchance in sooth did mine:
But yet I forced it on to cheer
Those relics of a home so dear.
He was a hunter of the hills.
Had followed there the deer and wolf;
To him this dungeon was a gulf,
And fettered feet the worst of ills.
100
Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls:
A thousand feet in depth below
Its massy waters meet and flow;
Thus much the fathom-line was sent HO
From Chillon's snow-white battlement,
Which round about the wave inthrals:
A double dungeon wall and wave
Have made — and like a living grave.
Below the surface of the lake
The dark vault lies wherein we lay :
We heard it ripple night and day ;
Sounding o 'er our heads it knocked ;
And I have felt the winter's spray
Wash through the bars when winds were high
And wanton in the happy sky ;
And then the very rock liath rocked,
And I have felt it shake, unshocked.
Because I could have smiled to see
The death that would have set me free.
I said my nearer brother pined,
I said his mighty heart declined,
He loathed and put away his food ;
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude,
For we were used to hunter 'a fare, 130
121
LOED BYRON
455
And for the like had little care :
The milk drawn from the mountain goat
Was changed for water from the moat,
Our bread was such as captives' tears
Have moistened many a thousand years,
Since man first pent his fellow men
Like brutes within an iron den ;
But what were these to us or himf
These wasted not his heart or limb ;
My brother 's soul was of that mould
Which in a palace had grown cold,
Had his free breathing been denied
The range of the steep mountain's side;
But why delay the truth? — he died.
I saw, and could not hold his head.
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, —
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.
He died, and they unlocked his chain,
And scooped for him a shallow grave
Even from the cold earth of our cave.
I begged them as a boon to lay
His corse in dust whereon the day
Might shine — it was a foolish thought,
But then within my brain it wrought,
That even in death his freeborn breast
In such a dungeon could not rest.
I might have spared my idle prayer —
They coldly laughed, and laid him there:
The flat and turfless earth above
The being we so much did love;
His empty chain above it leant,
Such murder's fitting monument!
But he, the favourite and the flower.
Most cherished since his natal hour,
His mother's image in fair face.
The infant love of all his race.
His martyred father's dearest thought,
My latest care, for whom I sought
To hoard my life, that his might be
Less wretched now, and one day free;
He, too, who yet had held untired
A spirit natural or inspired —
He, too, was stuck, and day by day
Was withered on the stalk away.
Oh, God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood:
I've seen it rushing forth in blood,
I've seen it on the breaking ocean
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion,
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed
Of Sin delirious with its dread:
But these were horrors — this was woe
Unmixed with such — but sure and slow:
He faded, and so calm and meek.
So softly worn, so sweetly weak,
140
150
160
170
180
190
200
So tearless, yet so tender, kind,
And grieved for those he left behind;
With all the while a cheek whose bloom
Was as a mockery of the tomb.
Whose tints as gently sunk away
As a departing rainbow's ray;
An eye of most transparent light,
That almost made the dungeon bright ;
.\nd not a word of murmur, not
A groan o'er his untimely lot, —
A little talk of better days,
A little hope my own to raise,
For I was sunk in silence — lost
In this last loss, of all the most;
And then the sighs he would suppress
Of fainting nature's feebleness,
More slowly drawn, grew less and less:
I listened, but I could not hear ;
I called, for I was wild with fear:
I knew 't was hopeless, but my dread
Would not be thus admonished;
I called, and thought I heard a sound —
I burst my chain with one strong bound, 210
And rushed to him: — I found him not,
I only stirred in this black spot,
I only lived, I only drew
The accursed breath of dungeon-dew;
The last, the sole, the dearest link
Between me and the eternal brink,
Which bound me to my failing race,
Was broken in this fatal place.
One on the earth, and one beneath —
My brothers — both had ceased to breathe:
I took that hand which lay so still,
Alas! my own was full as chill;
I had not strength to stir, or strive,
But felt that I was stiU alive —
A frantic feeling, when we know
That what we love shall ne'er be so.
I know not why
I could not die,
I had no earthly hope — but faith,
And that forbade a selfish death.
220
830
What next befell me then and there
I know not well — I never knew —
First came the loss of light, and air,
And then of darkness too:
I had no thought, no feeling — none —
Among the stones I stood a stone,
And was, scarce conscious what I wist,
ks shrubless crags within the mist;
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray;
It was not night, it was not day;
It was not even the dungeon-light,
So hateful to my heavy sight,
But vacancy absorbing space.
And fixedness without a place;
240
456
THE KOMANTIC REVIVAL
250
260
There were no stars, no earth, no time,
No check, no change, no good, no crime,
But silence, and a stirless breath
"Which neither was of life nor death;
A sea of stagnant idleness.
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless!
A light broke in upon my brain, —
It was the carol of a bird;
It ceased, and then it came again.
The sweetest song ear ever heard.
And mine was thankful till my eyes
Ran over with the glad surprise.
And they that moment could not see
I was the mate of misery;
But then by dull degrees came back
My senses to their wonted track;
I saw the dungeon walls and floor
Close slowly round me as before,
I saw the glimmer of the sun
Creeping as it before had done.
But through the crevice where it came
That bird was perched, as fond and tame,
And tamer than upon the tree;
A lovely bird, with azure wings.
And song that said a thousand things,
And seemed to say them all for me! 270
I never saw its like before,
I ne 'er shall see its likeness more :
It seemed like me to want a mate,
But was not half so desolate.
And it was come to love me when
None lived to love me so again,
And cheering from my dungeon's brink.
Had brought me back to feel and think.
I know not if it late were free.
Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 280
But knowing well captivity.
Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine!
Or if it were, in winged guise,
A visitant from Paradise;
For — Heaven forgive that thought! the while
Which made me both to weep and smile —
I sometimes deemed that it might be
My brother's soul come down to me;
But then at last away it flew.
And then 'twas mortal well I knew, 290
For he would never thus have flown,
And left me twice so doubly lone.
Lone as the corse within its shroud,
Lone as a solitary cloud, —
A single cloud on a sunny day.
While all the rest of heaven is clear,
A frown upon the atmosphere,
That hath no business to appear
When skies are blue, and earth is gay.
A kind of change came in my fate, 300
My keepers grew compassionate;
310
320
I know not what had made them so,
They were inured to sights of woe.
But so it was: — my broken chain
With links unfastened did remain,
And it was liberty to stride
Along my cell from side to side.
And up and down, and then athwart,
And tread it over every part ;
And round the pillars one by one,
Returning where my walk begun,
Avoiding only, as I trod.
My brothers' graves without a sod;
For if I thought with heedless tread
My step profaned their lowly bed,
My breath came gaspingly and thick.
And my crushed heart fell blind and sick.
I made a footing in the wall.
It was not therefrom to escape,
For I had buried one and all
Who loved me in a human shape;
And the whole earth would henceforth be
A wider prison unto me:
No child, no sire, no kin had I,
No partner in my misery;
I thought of this, and I was glad.
For thought of them had made me mad ;
But I was curious to ascend
To my barred windows, and to bend
Once more, upon the mountains high, 330
The quiet of a loving eye.
I saw them, and they were the same.
They were not changed like me in frame;
I saw their thousand years of snow
On high — their wide long lake below.
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;
I heard the torrents leap and gush
O'er channelled rock and broken bush;
T saw the white-walled distant town.
And whiter sails go skimming down; 340
And then there was a little isle.
Which in my very face did smile,
The only one in view;
A small green isle, it seemed no more,
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,
But in it there were three tall trees.
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze,
And by it there were waters flowing.
And on it there were young flowers growing,
Of gentle breath and hue. 350
The fish swam by the castle wall,
.4nd they seemed joyous each and all;
The eagle rode the rising blast,
Mcthought he never flew so fast
As then to me he seemed to fly;
And then new tears came in my eye,
And I felt troubled — and would fain
LOBD BYfiON
457
360
370
380
I had not left my recent chain;
And when I did descend again,
The darkness of my dim abode
Fell on me as a heavy load;
It was as is a new-dug grave,
Closing o 'er one we sought to save, —
And yet my glance, too much opprest,
Had almost need of such a rest.
It might be months, or years, or days,
I kept no count, I took no note,
I had no hope my eyes to raise.
And clear them of their dreary mote;
At last men came to set me free;
I asked not why, and recked not where;
It was at length the same to me,
Fettered or fetterless to be,
I learned to love despair.
And thus when they appeared at last,
And all my bonds aside were cast,
These heavy walls to me had grown
A hermitage — and all my own!
And half I felt as they were come
To tear me from a second home:
With spiders I had friendship made.
And watched them in their sullen trade.
Had seen the mice by moonlight play.
And why should I feel less than they?
We were all inmates of one place.
And I, the monarch of each race.
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell!
In quiet we had learned to dwell;
My very chains and I grew friends.
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are: — even I
Begained my freedom with a sigh.
From CHILDE HAEOLD
Waterloo. From Caxto III*
21
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave
men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a
rising knell!
• Three days before the battle of Waterloo, on
the eve of the battle of Quatre-Bras, the
Duchess of Richmond gave a ball in Brus-
sels, which was attended by Wellington and
other British officers.
390
22
Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure
meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet —
But hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once
more.
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! Arm! it is — it is — the cannon's open-
ing roar!
23 .
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ;i he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival.
And caught its tone with Death 's prophetic ear ;
And when they smiled because he deemed it
near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier.
And roused the vengeance blood alone could
queU;
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fight-
ing, fell.
24
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress.
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking
sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could
guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn
could rise!
25
And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed.
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car.
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; .
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb.
Or whispering, with white lips — "The foe,
they come! they come!"
1 The Duke of Brunswick, nephew of George III.
His father was killed at Auerstadt in 1806.
458
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
26
And wild and high the * * Cameron 's gathering ' '
rose!
The war-note of Lochiel,2 -which Albyn'ss hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon*
foes: —
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which
mis
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
"With the fierce native daring which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each
clansman's ears!
27
And Ardennes!* waves above them her green
leaves.
Dewy with nature's tear-drops as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave, — alas!
Ere evening to be troddeu like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope shall moulder
cold and low.
28
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life.
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day
Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when
rent
The earth is covered thick with other clay.
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and
pent.
Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red
burial blent!
Night on Lake Leman. From Canto III
85
Clear, placid Leman !» thy contrasted lake,
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction; once I loved
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring
Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved,
2 Donald Cameron of Lochlel, chief of the Cam-
eron clan.
3 Scotland'8
4l^wiaBd and EnKlish (Sir Evan Cameron fought
against Cromwell).
A forpst, properly Hoignies.
• The Lake of Geneva (Latin Lemannut).
That I with stern delights should e'er have
been so moved.
86
It is the hush of night, and all between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear.
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen.
Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear
Precipitously steep; and drawing near,
There breathes a living fragrance from the
shore,
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night
carol more;
87
He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil.
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her
hues.
88
Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven.
That in our aspirations to be great.
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create
In us such love and reverence from afar.
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named
themselves a star.
89
All heaven and earth are still — though not in
sleep.
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ;
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: —
All heaven and earth are still: From the high
host
Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain coast,
All is concentered in a life intense.
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost.
But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and defence.
90
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone;
A truth, which through our being then doth
melt.
And purifies from self: it is a tone,
LORD BYRON
45y
The soul and source of music, which makes
known
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,^
Binding all things with beauty: — 'twould dis-
arm
The spectre Death, had he substantial power
to harm,
91
Not vainly did the early Persian make
His altar the high places, and the peak
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take
A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek
The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak,
Upreared of human hands. Come, and compare
Columns and idol-dw^ellings, Goth or Greek,
With Nature 's realms of worship, earth and air.
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy
prayer !
92
The sky is changed! — and such a change! Oh
night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous
strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone
cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue.
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud.
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her
aloud !
93
And this is in the night: — Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, —
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-
mirth,
As if they did rejoice o 'er a young earth-
quake 's birth.
94
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way
between
Heights which appear as lovers who have
parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene.
That they can meet no more, though broken-
hearted ;
Though in their souls, which thus each other
thwarted.
Love was the very root of the fond rage
7 The cestus of Venus, which inspired Love.
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then de-
parted :
Itself expired, but leaving them an age
Of years all winters, — war within themselves
to wage:
95
Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his
way.
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his
stand:
For here, not one, but many, make their play.
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to
hand,
Flashing and cast around ; of all the band.
The brightest through these parted hills hath
forked
His lightnings, — as if he did understand,
That in such gaps as desolation worked.
There the hot shaft should blast whatever
therein lurked.
96
Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings!
ye!
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul
To make these felt and feeling, well may be
Things that have made me watchful; the far
roll
Of your departing voices, is the knoll
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest.
But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal?
Are ye like those within the human breast?
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some
high nest?
97
Could I embody and unbosom now
That which is most within me, — could I wreak
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or
weak.
All that I would have sought, and all I seek,
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one
word.
And that one word were Lightning, I would
speak ;
But as it is I live and die unheard.
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it
as a sword.
98
The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
With breath all incense, and with cheek all
bloom.
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
And living as if earth contained no tomb, —
And glowing into day: we may resume
The march of our existence : and thus I,
460
THE ROMANTIC EEVIVAL
Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room
And food for meditation, nor pass by
Much, that may give us pause, if ponder 'd
fittingly.
Venice. From Canto IV
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ;i
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me,2 and a dying Glory smiles
O'er the far times, when many a subject land
Looked to the winged Lion'ss marble piles.
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her
hundred isles!
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Eising with her tiara of proud towers*
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers;
And such she was; — her daughters had their
dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless
East
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity
increased.
3
In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,'
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore.
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone — but Beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die.
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear.
The pleasant place of all festivity.
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!
But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city's vanished sway;
1 The gallery spanning the canal between the
ducal palace and tne prison,
z See note on Wordsworth's sonnet, p. 427.
8 The Lion of St. Mark, surmounting one of the
two pillars in the square in front of the
palace. The Lion was also the standard of
the republic; see st. 14.
4 In ancient art, the goddess Cybele wore a tur-
reted crown.
8 Stanzas of Tasso's Jerunnlem Delivered were
once sung by the gondoliers.
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Eialto;8 Shylock and the Moor,7
And Pierre,8 cannot be swept or worn away —
The keystones of the arch! though all were
o'er.
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.
The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray
And more beloved existence: that which Fate
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied.
First exiles, then replaces what Ave hate;
Watering the heart whose early flowers have
died.
And with a fresher growth replenishing the
void.
13
Before St. Mark still glow his Steeds of brass,
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun;
But is not Doria's menace come to passfa
Are they not bridled? — Venice, lost and won,
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done.
Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose!
Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun,
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes.
From whom submission wrings an infamous
repose.
14
In youth she was all glory, a new Tyre,
Her very by-word sprung from victory,
The "Planter of the Lion," which through fire
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea;
Though making many slaves, herself still free.
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite; —
Witness Troy's rival, Candia!io Vouch it, ye
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight !"
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can
blight.
15
Statues of glass — all shivered — the long file
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust;
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous
pile
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust;
« Here evidently meaning the Bridge of the Rialto
across the Grand Canal.
7 Othello
8 A character in Otway's Venice Preserved.
This Genoese admiral once threatened to put a
bridle on the bronze steeds that adorn St.
Mark's.
10 Crete, once possessed by Venice, but lost again
to the Turks.
11 The battle of Lepanto. 1571, a victory over the
Turks In which Venice took a leading part.
LORD BYRON
461
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust,
Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls,
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must
Too oft remind her who and what enthralls.
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice'
lovely walls.
16
When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse,
And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war,
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse,i2
Her voice their only ransom from afar;
See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car
Of the o'ermastered victor stops, the reins
Fall from his hands, his idle scimitar
Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's
chains.
And bids him thank the bard for freedom
and his strains.
17
Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine.
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot.
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine,
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot
Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all,
Albion! to thee: the Ocean queen should not
Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall
Of Venice, think of thine, despite thy watery
wall.
18
I loved her from my boyhood; she to me
Was as a fairy city of the heart,
Rising like water-columns from the sea,
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart;
And Otway, Radcliffe,i3 Schiller," Shake-
speare's art.
Had stamped her image in me, and even so.
Although I found her thus, we did not part.
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe.
Than when she was a boast, a marvel and a
show.
Rome. From Canto IV
78
Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee.
Lone mother of dead empires! and control
In their shut breasts their petty misery.
What are our woes and sufferance! Come and
12 It is said that the Athenian prisoners who
could recite Euripides were set free. Cp. page
233, note 5.
13 In The Mysteries of Udolpho.
14 In The Ghoul-Seer.
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye!
Whose agonies are evils of a day —
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay,
79
The Niobe of nations!" there she stands.
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her withered hands,
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago;
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; •
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow.
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her
distress.
80
The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and
Fire,
Have dealt upon the seven-hilled city's pride;
She saw her glories star by star expire.
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride.
Where the car climbed the Capitol; far and
wide
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site:
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,
O 'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light,
And say, "here was, or is," where all is
doubly night?
81
The double night of ages, and of her,
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and
wrap
All round us; we but feel our way to err:
The Ocean hath his chart, the stars their map,
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap;
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer
Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap
Our hands, and cry * ' Eureka ! " "it is clear ' ' —
When but some false mirage of ruin rises
near.
82
Alas! the lofty city! and, alas,
The trebly hundred triumphs; and the day
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass
The Conqueror's sword in bearing fame away!
Alas, for Tully'sis voice, and Virgil's lay,
And Livy's pictured page; — but these shall be
Her resurrection; all beside — decay.
Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see
That brightness in her eye she bore when
Rome was free!
15 The twelve children of Niobe were slain by
Apollo. They are the subject of a famous
ancient group of statuary.
16 Cicero's
462
THE BOMANTIC REVIVAL
96
Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be,
And Freedom find no champion, and no child,
Such as Columbia saw arise when she
Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled?
Or must such minds be nourished in the wild,
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled
On infant Washington? Has earth no more
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no
such shore?
97
But Prance got drunk with blood to vomit
crime ;
And fatal have her Saturnalia been
To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime;
Because the deadly days which we have seen,
And vile Ambition, that built up between
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall.
And the base pageant last upon the scene,*
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall
Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's
worst — his second fall.
98
Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn but flying.
Streams like the thunder-storm against the
wind;
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and
dying.
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind;
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind.
Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little
worth.
But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North;
So shaJl a better spring less bitter fruit
bring forth.
The Couseum. Feom Canto IV
139
And here the buzz of eager nations ran,
In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause.
As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man.
And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but be-
cause
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws.
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not?
What matters where we fall to fill the maws
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot?
Both are but theatres where the chief actors
rot.
• The Congress of Vienna, the "Holy Alliance"
(Into which Wellington would not enter),
and the Second Treaty of Paris. — B. H. Cole-
ridge.
140
I see before me the Gladiator lie:i7
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low —
And through his side the last drops, ebbing
slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now
The arena swims around him — he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed
the wretch who won.
141
He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away:
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay.
There were his young barbarians all at play.
There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday —
All this rushed with his blood — Shall he expire
And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and glut
your ire!
]42 I
But here, where Murder breathed her bloody
steam :
And here, where buzzing nations choked the
ways.
And roared or murmured like a mountain
stream
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays:
Here, where the Roman million's blame or
praise
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd,
My voice sounds much — and fall the stars'
faint rays
On the arena void — seats crushed, walls bowed — |
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes *
strangely loud.
143
A ruin — yet what ruin! from its mass
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared;
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, J
And marvel where the spoil could have ap- |
peared.
Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared?
Alas! developed, opens the decay.
When the colossal fabric's form is neared:
It will not bear the brightness of the day.
Which streams too much on all years, man,
have reft away.
17 SuRgested bv the statue of The Dying Gaul,
once supposed to represent a dying gladiator.
LOBD BYBON
463
144
But when the rising moon begins to climb
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there;
When the stars twinkle through the loops of
time,
And the low night-breeze waves along the air
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear.
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head; is
When the light shines serene but doth not glare,
Then in this magic circle raise the dead:
Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust
ye tread.
145
"While stands the Coliseum, Kome shall stand;
"When falls the Coliseum Rome shall fall;
"And when Bome falls— the World." From
our own land
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call
Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still
On their foundations, and unaltered all;
Bome and her Ruin past Bedemption's skill,
The World, the same wide den — of thieves,
or what ye wiU.
The Ocean. Fbom Canto IV
178
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes.
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before.
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
WTiat I can ne'er express, yet cannot all con-
ceal.
179
Boll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The WTecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain.
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan.
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and
unknown.
180
His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength
he wields
18 Caesar was glad to cover his baldness with the
wreath of laurel which the senate decreed
he shonld wear.
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies.
And send 'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay.
And dashest him again to earth: — there let
him lay.*
181
The armaments which thunderstrike the walk
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war —
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake.
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mai
Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Tra-
falgar.
182
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save
thee —
Assyria, Greece, Bome, Carthage, wliat are theyf
Thy waters washed them power while they
were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou; —
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play.
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow:
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest
now.
183
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's
form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, —
Calm or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving — ^boundless, endless, and sublime,
The image of eternity, the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathom-
less, alone.
184
And I have loved thee. Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward ; from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear.
For I was as it were a child of thee.
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do
here.
• This grammatical error, occurring In so lofty a
passage, Is perhaps the most famous in onr
literature. It is quite characteristic of
Byron's negligence or indiflference.
464
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
From DON JUAN
The Shipwreck. From Canto II*
38
But now there came a flash of hope once more;
Day broke, and the wind lulled: the masts
were gone,
The leak increased; shoals round her, but no
shore,
The vessel swam, yet still she held her own.
They tried the pumps again, and though before
Their desperate efforts seemed all useless
grown,
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale —
The stronger pumped, the weaker thrummed^ a
sail.
39
Under the vessel's keel the sail was past,
And for the moment it had some effect;
But with a leak, and not a stick of mast.
Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect?
But still 't is best to struggle to the last,
'T is never too late to be wholly wrecked :
And though 't is true that man can only die
once,
'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons.
40
There winds and waves had hurled them, and
from thence,
Without their will, they carried them away;
For they were forced with steering to dispense,
And never had as yet a quiet day
On which they might repose, or even commence
A jurymast, or rudder, or could say
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good
luck.
Still swam, — though not exactly like a duck.
41
The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less,
But the ship laboured so, they scarce could
hope
To weather out much longer; the distress
Was also great with which they had to cope
For want of water, and their solid mess
Was scant enough: in vain the telescope
Was used — nor sail nor shore appeared in sight,
Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night.
42
Again the weather threatened, — again blew
A gale, and in the fore and after hold
Water appeared; yet, though the people knew
1 wove In bits of rope-yarn (usually done to pre-
vent chafing)
* Don Juan, with his servants and his tutor
I'edrlllo, meets with shipwreck In the Medi-
terranean.
All this, the most were patient, and some
bold.
Until the chains and leathers were worn
through
Of all our pumps: — a wreck complete she
rolled,
At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are
Like human beings' during civil war.
43
Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears
In his rough eyes, and told the captain he
Could do no more: he was a man in years,
And long had voyaged through many a
stormy sea.
And if he wept at length, they were not fears
That made his eyelids as a woman's be.
But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, —
Two things for dying people quite bewildering.
44
The ship was evidently settling now
Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone,
Some went to prayers again, and made a vow
Of candles to their saints — but there were
none
To pay them with; and some looked o'er the
bow;
Some hoisted out the boats; and there was
one
That begged Pedrillo for an absolution.
Who told him to be damned — in his confusion.
45
Some lashed them in their hammocks; some
put on
Their best clothes, as if going to a fair;
Some cursed the day on which they saw the Sun,
And gnashed their teeth, and, howling, tore
their hair;
And others went on as they had begun.
Getting the boats out, being well aware
That a tight boat will live in a rough sea.
Unless with breakers close beneath her lee.
46
The worst of all was, that in their condition,
Having been several days in great distress,
'T was diflScult to get out such provision
As now might render their long suffering
less:
Men, even when dying, dislike inanition;
Their stock was damaged by the weather's
stress :
Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter ^
Were all that could be thrown into the cutter.
LORD BYEON
465
47
But in the long-boat they contrived to stow
Some pounds of bread, though injured by
the wet;
Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so;
Six flasks of wine ; and they contrived to get
A portion of their beef up from below.
And with a piece of pork, moreover, met.
But scarce enough to serve them for a
luncheon —
Then there was rum, eight gallons in a
puncheon.
48
The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had
Been stove in the beginning of the gale;
And the long-boat's condition was but bad,
As there were but two blankets for a sail,
And one oar for a mast, which a young lad
Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail;
And two boats could not hold, far less be stored.
To save one half the people then on board.
49
'T was twilight, and the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the
frown
Of one whose hate is masked but to assail.
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown.
And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale,
And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had
Fear
Been their familiar, and now Death was here.
50
Some trial had been making at a raft.
With little hope in such a rolling sea,
A sort of thing at which one would have
laughed
If any laughter at such times could be,
Unless with people who too much have quaffed,
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee.
Half epUeptical, and half hysterical: —
Their preservation would have been a miracle.
51
At half -past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops,
spars,
And all things, for a chance, had been cast
loose
That still could keep afloat the struggling tars.
For yet they strove, although of no great use :
There was no light in heaven but a few stars.
The boats put off o'ererowded with their
crews ;
She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port.
And, going down head-foremost — sunk, in short.
52
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell —
Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the
brave —
Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave;
And the sea yawned around her like a hell,
And down she sucked with her the whirling
wave.
Like one who grapples with his enemy.
And strives to strangle him before he die.
53
And first one universal shriek there rushed,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hushed.
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gushed.
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.
The Isles of Greece. From Canto III*
78
And now they were diverted by their suite.
Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a
poet,
Which made their new establishment complete;
The last was of great fame, and Uked to
show it ;
His verses rarely wanted their due feet —
And for his theme — he seldom sung below it,
He being paid to satirize or flatter,
As the psalm says, "inditing a good matter."
79
He praised the present, and abused the past.
Reversing the good custom of old days,
An Eastern anti-jacobini at last
He turned, preferring pudding to no
praise^ —
For some few years his lot had been o'ercast
By his seeming independent in his lays.
But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha
With truth like Southey, and with verse like
Crashaw.3
80
He was a man who had seen many changes.
And always changed as true as any needle ;
His polar star being one which rather ranges,
1 Antl-revolutlonary, antidemocratic.
2 See Pope The Dunciad. 52.
3 Southey, as poet laureate, flattered royalty. The
name of Crashaw serves chiefly for a rhyme.
• Juan and Haldee. the daughter of Lambro. a pi-
rate, and lord of one of the Grecian isles,
hold a feast In Lambro's halls during his
absence.
466
THE EOMANTIC REVIVAL
And not the fixed — ^he knew the way to
wheedle ;
So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges;
And being fluent (save indeed when fee'd
ill),
He lied with such a fervour of intention —
There was no doubt he earned his laureate
pension.
85
Thus, usually, when he was asked to sing,
He gave the different nations something na-
tional ;
'Twas all the same to him — "God save the
Ring,"
Or, ' ' Ca ira, ' '•* according to the fashion all :
His Muse made increment of anything.
From the high lyric down to the low rational ;
If Pindar^ sang horse-races, what should hinder
Himself from being as pliable as Pindar.
86
In France, for instance, he would write a
chanson ;
In England a six canto quarto tale;
In Spain he'd make a ballad or romance on
The last war — much the same in Portugal;
In Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on
Would be old Goethe's (see what says De
Stael«) ;
In Italy he'd ape the " Trecentisti ; "^
In Greece, he'd sing some sort of hymn like
this t' ye:
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace, —
Where Deloss rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set. 6
The Scian and the Teian muse,»
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse:
Their place of birth alone is mute
4 A song of the French
revolutlon-
Ists, "It will suc-
ceed."
6 An ancient Greek
poet who com-
posed songs I n
nonor of the vic-
tors in the na-
tional games, for
which he was
doubtless well re-
munerated.
A Madame de Rta^l bad
Germany.
7 Writers In the Ital-
ian style of the
14th century.
8 T h e birth-place o f
Phoebus Apollo.
8 Homer was some-
times said to
have been born on
the isle of Chios
(Italian name,
8c I o). Anaoreon
was born nt Telos
in Asia Minor,
lately written a book on
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest. "lo 12
The mountains look on Marathon —
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dreamed that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave. 18
A king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below.
And men in nations; — all were his!
He counted them at break of day —
And when the sun set, where were they? 24
And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now —
The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine? 30
'Tis something, in the dearth of fame.
Though linked among a fettered race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
F^or what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 36
Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylse!
42
48
What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah! no; — the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, "Let one living head,
But one arise, — we come, we come! "
'Tis but the living who are dumb.
In vain — in vain: strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call —
How answers each bold Bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance" as yet;
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanxis gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
10 The fabled Western Isles, lying somewhere In
the Atlantic.
11 A war-dance. „.^.*
12 The Greek phalanx as employed by the great
general. Pyrrhus.
64
LORD BYRON
467
78
84
You have the letters Cadmusia gave —
Think ye he meant them for a slave? 60
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
It made Anacreon's song divine;
He served — but served Polycratesi* —
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 66
The tyrant of the Chersonesei^
Was freedom 's best and bravest friend ;
That tyrant was Miltiades!
Oh! that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 72
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, i6
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown.
The HeracleidaniT blood might own.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks —
They have a king who buys and sells;
In native swords and native ranks.
The only hope of courage dwells:
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud.
Would break your shield, however broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade —
I see their glorious black eyes shine ;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves.
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 90
Place me on Sunium'sis marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die:
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine —
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! 96
87
Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have
sung.
The modern Greek, in tolerable verse ;
If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was
young,
Yet in these times he might have done much
worse :
13 Cadmus was said to have introduced the Greek
alphabet from Phoenicia.
14 Tyrant (ruler) of Samos, who gave refuge to
Anacreon.
15 A Thracian peninsula.
16 In western Greece.
17 i. e., ancient Greek
16 The southernmost promontory of Attica.
His strain displayed some feeling — right or
wrong ;
And feeling, in a poet, is the source
Of others' feeling; but they are such liars.
And take all colours — like the hands of dyers.i!>
88
But words are things, and a small drop of ink.
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions,
think ;
'Tis strange, the shortest letter which man
uses
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link
Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces
Frail man when paper — even a rag like this,
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his!
101
T' our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves
gone.
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired :
The Arab lore and poet's song were done,
And every sound of revelry expired;
The lady and her lover, left alone,
The rosy flood of twilight's sky admired;
Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea.
That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest
thee!
102
Ave Maria! blessed be the hour!
The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft
Have felt that moment in its fullest power
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft.
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,
And not a breath crept through the rosy air.
And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with
prayer.
103
Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of prayer !
Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of love !
Ave Maria! may our spirits dare
Look up to thine and to thy Son's above!
Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!
Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty
dove —
What though 't is but a pictured image! — ■
strike —
That painting is no idol, — 't is too like.
104
Some kinder casuists are pleased to say.
In nameless print — that I have no devotion;
But set those persons down with me to pray,
19 Shakespeare : Sonnet 111.
468
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
And you shall see who has the properest
notion
Of getting into heaven the shortest way;
My altars are the mountains and the ocean,
Earth, air, stars, — all that springs from the
great Whole,
Who hath produced, and will receive the soul.
105
Sweet hour of twilight! — in the solitude
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Which bounds Eavenna's immemorial wood,
Eooted where once the Adrianso wave flowed
o'er,
To where the last Csesarean fortress stood.
Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio 's lore
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to
me,2i
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!
106
The shrill cicalas, people of the pine.
Making their summer lives one ceaseless song.
Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and
mine.
And vesper bell 's that rose the boughs along ;
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,
His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair
throng
Which learned from this example not to fly
From a true lover, — shadowed my mind's eye.
107
Oh, Hesperus! thou bringest all good things —
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent 's brooding wings.
The welcome stall to the o'erlaboured steer;
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings,
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear.
Are gathered round us by thy look of rest;
Thou bring 'st the child, too, to the mother's
breast.
108
Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts
the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn
apart ;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns!
Ah! surely, nothing dies but something
mourns!
20 The Adriatic.
81 Dryden's Theodore and Tonoria Is a translation
from Boccaccio of the tale of a spectre hunts-
man who haunted this region. Hyron lived
for some time at Ravenna and frequently rode
la the adjoining forest.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
(1792-1822)
ALASTOR, OR THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE*
Nondum amabam, et amare amabam, quaerebam
quid amarem, amans amare. t — Confes. St. August.
The poem entitled Alastor may be considered as
allegorical of one of the most interesting situations
of the human mind. It represents a youth of un-
corrupted feelings and adventurous genius led forth
by an imagination inflamed and purified through
famUiarity with all that is excellent and majestic,
to the contemplation of the universe. He drinks
deep of the fountains of knowledge, and is still
insatiate. The magnificence and beauty of the
external world sinks profoundly into the frame of
his conceptions, and affords to their modifications
a variety not to be exhausted. So long as It is
possible for his desires to point towards objects
thus infinite and unmeasured, he is joyous, and
tranquil, and self-possessed. But the period arrives
when these objects cease to suffice. His mind is
at length suddenly awakened and thirsts for inter-
course with an intelligence similar to itself. He
images to himself the Being whom he loves. Con-
versant with speculations of the sublimest and
most perfect natures, the vision in which he em-
bodies his own imaginations unites all of wonder-
ful, or wise, or beautiful, which the poet, the
philosopher, or the lover, could depicture. The
intellectual faculties, the imagination, the func-
tions of sense, have their respective requisitions on
the sympathy of corresponding powers in other
human beings. The Poet is represented as uniting
these requisitions, and attaching them to a single
image. He seeks in vain for a prototype of his
conception. Blasted by his disappointment, he
descends to an untimely grave.
The picture is not barren of instruction to
actual men. The Poet's self-centred seclusion was
avenged by the furies of an irresistible passion
pursuing him to speedy ruin. But that Power
which strikes the luminaries of the world with
sudden darkness and extinction, by awakening
them to too exquisite a perception of its influ-
* The word Alastor means "the spirit of solitude,"
which is treated here as a spirit of evil, or
a spirit leading to disaster ; It must not be
mistaken for the name of the hero of the
poem. In the introduction (lines 1-49) Shel-
ley speaks in his own person ; but the I'oet
whose history he then proceeds to relate bears
very markedly his own traits, and the whole
must be considered as largely a spiritual au-
tobiography. It is difficult to resist calling
attention to some of the features of this
impressive poem ; to its quiet mastery of
theme and sustained poetic power ; to its
blank-verse harmonies subtler than rhymes ;
to the graphic descriptions, as In lines 239-
369, whence Bryant, Poe, and Tennyson have
manifestly all drawn Inspiration : to occa-
sional lines of an impelling swiftness (612,
613), or occasional phrases of startling
strength (676. 681) ; to the fervent exalta-
tion of self-sacrifice in the prayer that one
life might answer for all. and the pangs of
death be henceforth banished from the world
(609-624) ; or to the unapproachable beauty
of the description of slow-coming death Itself
— a euthanasia In which life passes away like
a strain of music or like nn "exhalation."
There can be no higher definition of poetry
than Is Implicit In these things.
t "Not yet did I love, yet I yearned to love ; I
sought what I might love, yearning to love."
In this vain pursuit of Ideal loveliness, said
Mrs. Shelley, Is the deeper meaning of
Alastor to be found,
PERCY BY8SHE SHELLEY
469
ences, dooms to a slow and poisonous decay those
meaner spirits that dare to abjure its dominion.
Their destiny is more abject and inglorious as
their delinquency is more contemptible and per-
nicious. They who, deluded by no generous error,
instigated by no sacred thirst of doubtful knowl-
edge, duped by no illustrious superstition, loving
nothing on this earth. :ind cherishing no hopes
l)eyond, vet keep aloof from sympathies with their
kind, rejoicing neither in human joy nor mourning
with human grief ; these, and such as they, have
their apportioned curse. They languish, because
none feel with them their common nature. They
are morally dead. They are neither friends, nor
lovers, nor fathers, nor citizens of the world, nor
benefactors of their country. Among those who
attempt to exist without human sympathy, the
pure and tender-hearted perish through the in-
tensity and passion of their search after Its com-
munities, when the vacancy of their spirit sud-
denly makes itself felt. All else, selfish, blind,
and torpid, are those unforeseelng multitudes who
constitute, together with their own. the lasting
misery and loneliness of the world. Those who
love hot their fellow-beings live unfruitful lives,
and prepare for their old age a miserable grave.
"The good die first,
.\nd those whose hearts are dry as summer dust.
Burn to the .socket !"
December l-i. I8I0.
Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood!
If our great Mother has imbued my soul
With aught of natural pietyi to feel
Your love, and recompense the boon with mine ;
If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even,
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers,
And solemn midnight's tingling silentness;
If autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood,
.\nd winter robing with pure snow and crowns
Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs;
If spring's voluptuous pantings when she
breathes il
Her first sweet kisses, — have been dear to me ;
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast
I consciously have injured, but still loved
.\nd cherished these my kindred; then forgive
This boast, beloved brethren, and withdraw
No portion of your wonted favour now I
Mother of this unfathomable world!
Favour my solemn song, for I have loved
Thee ever, and thee only: I have watched 20
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps.
And my heart ever gazes on the depth
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed
In eharnels and on coffins,^ where black death
Keeps record of the trophies won from thee.
Hoping to still these obstinate questioningss
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost.
Thy messenger, to render up the tale
Of what we are. In lone and silent hours.
When night makes a weird sound of its own
stillness, 30
1 Wordsworth's phrase : see his .l/y Heart Leaps
Up. p. 422.
- According to Hogg. Shellev hail actuallv done
this.
3 Wordsworth's Ode on ImmnrtnJiiy, line 142.
Like an inspired and desperate alchemist
Staking his very life on some dark hope.
Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks
With my most innocent love, until strange
tears
Uniting with those breathless kisses, made
Such magic as compels the charmed night
To render up thy charge: and, though ne'er
yet
Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary.
Enough from incommunicable dream.
And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday
thought, 40
Has shone within me, that serenely now
And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre
Suspended in the solitary dome
Of some mysterious and deserted fane,
I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my
strain
May modulate with murmurs of the air,
.\nd motions of the forests and the sea,
And voice of living beings, aud woven hymns
Of night and day, and the deep heart of man.
There was a Poet whose untimely tomb 50
Xo human hands with pious reverence reared,
But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds
Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid
Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness: —
A lovely youth, — no mourning maiden decked
With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath.
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep: —
Gentle, and brave, and generous, — no lorn bard
Breathed 'er his dark fate one melodious sigh :
He lived, he died, he sung, in solitude. 60
Strangers have wept to hear his passionate
notes,
.\nd virgins, as unknown he passed, have pined
.\nd wasted for fond love of his wild eyes.
The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn.
And Silence, too enamoured of that voice.
Locks its mute music in her rugged cell.
By solemn vision, and bright silver dream.
His infancy was nurtured. Every sight
And sound from the vast earth and ambient air
Sent to his heart its choicest impulses. 70
The fountains of divine philosophy
Fled not his thirsting lips, and all of great.
Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past
In truth or fable consecrates, he felt
And knew. When early youth had passed, he
left
His cold fireside and alienated home
To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands.
Many a wide waste and tangled wilderness
Has lured his fearless steps; and he has bought
170
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage
men, 80
His rest and food. Nature's most secret steps
He like her shadow has pursued, where'er
The red volcano overcanopies
Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice
With burning smoke, or where bitumen lakes
On black bare pointed islets ever beat
With sluggish surge, or where the secret caves
Rugged and dark, winding among the springs
Of fire and poison, inaccessible
To avarice or pride, their starry domes 9^
Of diamond and of gold expand above
Numberless and immeasurable halls.
Frequent with crystal column, and clear shrines
Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chrysolite.
Nor had that scene of ampler majesty
Than gems or gold, the varying roof of heaven
And the green earth, lost in his heart its claims
To love and wonder; he would linger long
In lonesome vales, making the wild his home,
Until the doves and squirrels would partake 100
From his innocuous hand his bloodless food,
Lured by the gentle meaning of his looks,
And the wild antelope, that starts whene 'er
The dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspend
Her timid steps to gaze upon a form
More graceful than her own.
His wandering step.
Obedient to high thoughts, has visited
The awful ruins of the days of old:
Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the waste
Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers HO
Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids.
Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe 'er of strange
Sculptured on alabaster obelisk.
Or jasper tomb, or mutilated sphinx.
Dark ^Ethiopia in her desert hills
Conceals. Among the ruined temples there.
Stupendous columns, and wild images
Of more than man, where marble demons watch
The Zodiac 's brazen mystery,i and dead men
Hang their mute thoughts on the mute walls
around, 120
He lingered, poring on memorials
Of the world 's youth, through the long burning
day
Tiazed on those speechless shapes, nor. when the
moon
Filled the mysterious halls witli floating shades
Suspended he that task, but ever gazed
And gazed, till meaning on his vacant mind
Flashed like strong inspiration, and he saw
The thrilling secrets of the birth of time.
I FlcnrcH on the temple of Dendcrah In Tpper
Ksypt.
Meanwhile an Arab maiden brouglit his food.
Her daily portion, from her father 's tent, 130
And spread her matting for his couch, and stole
From duties and repose to tend his steps: —
Enamoured, yet not daring for deep awe
To speak her love: — and watched his nightly
sleep.
Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lips
Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath
Of innocent dreams arose: then, when red morn
Made paler the jiale moon, to her cold home
Wildered, and wan, and panting, she returned.
The Poet wandering on, through Arable i-*"
And Persia, and the wild Carmanian ■waste,2
And o'er the aerial mountains Avhich pour down
Indus and Oxus from their icy caves,
In joy and exultation held his way;
Till in the vale of Cashmire.s far within
Its loneliest dell, where odorous plants entwine
Beneath the hollow rocks a natural bower.
Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretched
His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep 14!'
There came, a dream of hopes that never yet
Had flusiied his cheek. He dreamed a veiled
maid
Sate near him, talking in low solemn tones.
Her voice Avas like the voice of his own soul
Heard in the calm of thought ; its music long.
Like woven sounds of streams and breezes, hehl
His inmost sense suspended in its web
Of many-coloured woof and shifting hues.
Knowledge and truth and virtue were her theme.
And lofty hopes of divine liberty,
Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy, 160
Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood
Of her pure mind kindled through all her frame
A permeating fire: wild numbers then
She raised, with voice stifled in tremulous sobs
Subdued by its own pathos: her fair hands
Were bare alone, sweeping from some strange
harp
Strange symphony, and in their branching veins
The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale.
The beating of her heart was heard to fill
The pauses of her music, and her breath 1^'*
Tumultuously accorded with those fits
Of intermitted song. Sudden she rose.
As if her heart impatiently endured
Its bursting burthen : at the sound he turned,
.\nd saw by the warm light of their own life
Her glowing limbs beneath the sinuous veil
Of woven wind, her outspread arms now bare,
Her dark locks floating in the breath of night.
Her beamy bending eyes, lier parted lips no
2 Tho desert of Klrman, Persia.
3 In contrnl Asia : poetlcnllj- rppnrded ns an (mrtlily
paradlso.
PERCY BY8SHE SHELLEY
471
Outstretched, and pale, and quivering eagerly.
His strong heart sunk and sickened with excess
Of love. He reared his shuddering limbs and
quelled
His gasping breath, and spread his arms to meet
Her panting bosom: — she drew back a while,
Then, yielding to the irresistible joy,
With frantic gesture and short breathless cry
Folded his frame in her dissolving arms.
Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and night
Involved and swallowed up the vision ; sleep,
Like a dark flood suspended in its course, 190
Rolled back its impulse on his vacant brain.
Roused by the shock he started from his
trance —
The cold white light of morning, the blue moon
Low in the west, the clear and garish hills,
The distinct valley and the vacant woods,
Spread round him where he stood. Whither have
fled
The hues of heaven that canopied his bower
Of yesternight f The sounds that soothed his
sleep.
The mystery and the majesty of Earth,
The joy, the exultation ? His wan eyes 200
Gazed on the empty scene as vacantly
As ocean's moon looks on the moon in heaven.
The spirit of sweet human love has sent
A vision to the sleep of him who spurned
Her choicest gifts. He eagerly pursues
Beyond the realms of dream that fleeting shade ;
He overleaps the bounds. Alas! alas!
Were limbs, and breath, and being intertwined
Thus treacherously? Lost, lost, for ever lost,
In the wide pathless desert of dim sleep. 210
That beautiful shape! Does the dark gate of
death
Conduct to thy mysterious paradise.
O Sleep! Does the bright arch of rainbow
clouds,
And pendent mountains seen in the calm lake,
Lead only to a black and watery depth.
While death 's blue vault, with loathliest vapours
hung.
Where every shade which the foul grave exhales
Hides its dead eye from the detested day.
Conducts, O Sleep, to thy delightful realms!
This doubt with sudden tide flowed on his
heart ; 220
The insatiate hope which it awakened stung
His brain even like despair.
While daylight held
The sky, the Poet kept mute conference
With his still soul. At night the passion came,
Like the fierce fiend of a distempered dream.
And shook him from his rest, and led him forth
Into the darkness. — As an eagle, grasped
In folds of the green serpent, feels her breast
Burn with the poison, and precipitates
Through night and day, tempest, and calm, and
cloud, 230
Frantic with dizzying anguish, her blind flight
'er the wide aery wilderness : thus driven
By the bright shadow of that lovely dream.
Beneath the cold glare of the desolate night.
Through tangled swamps and deep precipitous
dells.
Startling with careless step the moonlight snake.
He fled. Red morning dawned upon his flight,
Sheddiug the mockery of its vital hues
Upon his cheek of death. He wandered on
Till vast Aornosi seen from Petra's steep, 240
Hung o 'er the low horizon like a cloud ;
Through Balk, and where the desolated tombs
Of Parthian kings scatter to every mnd
Their wasting dust, wildly he wandered on,
Day after day, a weary waste of hours.
Bearing within his life the brooding care
That ever fed on its decaying flame.
And now his limbs were lean ; his scattered hair
Seretl by the autumn of strange suflfering
Sung dirges in the wind: his listless hand 250
Hung like dead bone within its withered skin ;
Life, and the lustre that consumed it, shone
As in a furnace burning secretly
From his dark eyes alone. The cottagers.
Who ministered with human charity
His human wants, beheld with wondering awe
Their fleeting visitant. The mountaineer,
Encountering on some dizzy precipice
That spectral form, deemed that the Spirit of
wind 259
With lightning eyes, and eager breath, and feet
Disturbing not the drifted snow, had paused
In its career: the infant would conceal
His troubled visage in his mother's robe
In terror at the glare of those wild eyes.
To remember their strange light in many a
dream
Of after-times; but youthful maidens, taught
By nature, would interpret half the woe
That wasted him, would call him with false
names
Brother, and friend, would press his pallid haml
At parting, and watch, dim through tears, the
path 270
Of his departure from their father's door.
At length upon .the lone Chorasmian shorez
He paused, a wide and melancholy waste
Of putrid marshes. A strong impulse urged
1 Aornos was a city in Ba<Ttrla (Balk).
-• The Aral Sea : apparently meant for the Cas-
pian (Woodberry).
472
THE BOMANTIC REVIVAL
His steps to the sea-shore. A swan was there,
Beside a sluggish stream among the reeds.
It rose as he approached, and with strong wings
Scaling the upward sky, bent its bright course
High over the immeasurable main.
His eyes pursued its flight. — "Thou hast a
home, 280
Beautiful bird; thou voyagest to thine home.
Where thy sweet mate will twine her downy
neck
With thine, and welcome thy return with eyes
Bright in the lustre of their own fond joy.
And what am I that I should linger here,
With voice far sweeter than thy dying notes,
Spirit more vast than thine, frame more attuned
To beauty, wasting these surpassing powers
In the deaf air, to the blind earth, and heaven
That echoes not my thoughts?" A gloomy
smile 290
Of desperate hope wrinkled his quivering lips.
For sleep, he knew, kept most relentlessly
Its precious charge, and silent death exposed,
Faithless perhaps as sleep, a shadowy lure,
W'ith doubtful smile mocking its own strange
charms.
Startled by his own thoughts he looked around.
There was no fair fiend near him, not a sight
Or sound of awe but in his own deep mind.
A little shallop floating near the shore
Caught the impatient wandering of his gaze.
It had been long abandoned, for its sides 301
Oaped wide with many a rift, and its frail joints
Swayed with the undulations of the tide.
A restless impulse urged him to embark
And meet lone Death on the drear ocean's
waste ;
For well he knew that mighty Shadow loves
The slimy caverns of the populous deep.
The day was fair and sunny, sea and sky
Drank its inspiring radiance, and the wind
Swept strongly from the shore, blackening the
waves. 310
Following his eager soul, the wanderer
Leaped in the boat, he spread his cloak aloft
On the bare mast, and took his lonely seat.
And felt the boat speed o'er the tranquil sea
Like a torn cloud before the hurricane.
As one that in a silver vision floats
Obedient to the sweep of odo/ous winds
Upon resplendent clouds, so rapidly
Along the dark and ruffled waters fled
The straining boat. — A whirlwind swept it on.
With fierce gusts and precipitating force, 321
Through the white ridges of the chafM sea.
The waves arose. Higher and higher still
Their fierce necks writhed beneath the tempest 's
scourge
Like serpents struggling in a vulture's grasp.
Calm and rejoicing in the fearful war
Of wave ruining on wave, and blast on blast
Descending, and black flood on whirlpool driven
With dark obliterating course, he sate:
As if their genii were tlie ministers 330
Appointed to conduct him to the light
Of those beloved eyes, the Poet sate
Holding the steady helm. Evening came on,
The beams of sunset hung their rainbow hues
High 'mid the shifting domes of sheeted spray
That canopied his path o 'er the waste deep ;
Twilight, ascending slowly from the east,
P^ntwined in duskier wreaths her braided locks
O'er the fair front and radiant eyes of day;
Night followed, clad with stars. On every side
More horribly the multitudinous streams 341
Of ocean 's mountainous waste to mutual war
Rushed in dark tumult thundering, as to mock
The calm and spangled sky. The little boat
Still fled before the storm; still fled, like foam
Down the steep cataract of a wintry river;
Now pausing on the edge of the riven wave;
Now leaving far behind the bursting mass
That fell, convulsing ocean. Safely fled —
As if that frail and wasted human form, 350
Had been an elemental god.
At midnight
The moon arose : and lo ! the ethereal cliffs
Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone
Among the stars like sunlight, and around
Whose caverned base the whirlpools and the
waves
Bursting and eddying irresistibly
Rage and resound for ever. — Who shall save? —
The boat fled on, — the boiling torrent drove, —
The crags closed round with black and jagged
arms.
The shattereil mountains overhung the sea, 360
-\nd faster still, beyond all human speed.
Suspended on the sweep of the smooth wave.
The little boat was driven. A cavern there
Yawned, and amid its slant and winding depths
Ingulfed the rushing sea. The boat fled on
With unrelaxing speed. — "Vision and Love! ''
The Poet cried aloud, ' ' I have beheld
The path of thy departure. Sleep and death
Shall not divide us long ! ' *
The boat pursued
The windings of the cavern. Daylight shone
At length upon that gloomy river's flow; 371
Now, where the fiercest war among the waves
Is calm, on the unfathomable stream
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY"
473
The boat moved slowly. Where the mountain,
riven,
Exposed those black depths to the azure sky.
Ere yet the flood 's enormous volume fell
Even to the base of Caucasus, with sound
That shook the everlasting rocks, the mass
Filled with one whirlpool all that ample chasm;
Stair above stair the eddying water rose, 380
Circling immeasurably fast, and laved
With alternating dash the gnarled roots
Of mighty trees, that stretched their giant arms
In darkness over it. I ' the midst was left,
Reflecting, yet distorting every cloud,
A jK»ol of treacherous and tremendous calm.
Seizeil by the sway of the ascending stream.
With dizzy swiftness, round, and round, and
round,
Ridge after ridge the straining boat arose.
Till on the verge of the extremest curve, 390
AVhere, through an opening of the rocky bank.
The waters overflow, and a smooth sjxit
Of glassy quiet mid those battling tides
Is left, the boat paused shuddering. — Shall it
sink
Down the abyss? Shall the reverting stress
Of that resistless gulf embosom it ?
Now shall it fall? — A wandering stream of wind.
Breathed from the west, has caught the ex-
panded sail.
And, lo! with gentle motion, between banks
Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream. 400
Beneath a woven grove it sails, and hark!
The ghastly torrent mingles its far roar
With the breeze murmuring in the musical
woods.
Where the embowering trees recede, and leave
A little space of green expanse, the cove
Is close<l by meeting banks, whose yellow flowers
For ever gaze on their own drooping eyes.
Reflected ir the crystal calm. The wave
Of the boat 's motion marred their pensive task.
Which nought but vagrant bird, or wanton
wind, 410
Or falling sj^ear-grass, or their own decay
Had e'er disturbed before. The Poet longed
To deck with their bright hues his withered hair.
But on his heart its solitude returned.
And he forebore. Not the strong impulse hid
In those flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and shadowy
frame
Had yet performed its ministry: it hung
Upon his life, as lightning in a cloud
Gleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the floods
Of night close over it.
The noonday sun 420
Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass
Of mingling shade, whnse brown magnificence
A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge caves.
Scooped in the dark base of their aery rocks.
Mocking its moans, respond and roar for ever.
The meeting boughs and implicated leaves
Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as led
By love, or dream, or god, or mightier Death.
He sought in Nature's dearest haunt some bank.
Her cradle, and his sepulchre. More dark 4.'!0
And dark the shades accumulate. The oak.
Expanding its immense and knotty arms.
Embraces the light beech. The pyramids
Of the tall cedar overarching frame
Most solemn domes within, and far below.
Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky.
The ash and the acacia floating hang
Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents,
clothed
In rainbow and in fire, the parasites.
Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow around
The gray trunks, and, as gamesome infants'
eyes, 441
With gentle meanings, and most innocent wiles.
Fold their beams round the hearts of those that
love.
These twine their tendrils with the wedded
boughs
Uniting their close union; the woven leaves
Make network of the dark blue light of day.
And the night's noontide clearness, mutable
As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy
lawns
Beneath these canopies extend their swells.
Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with
blooms 450
Minute yet beautifuL One darkest glen
Sends from its woods of musk-rose, twined with
jasmine,
A soul-dissolving odour, to invite
To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell,
Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, keep
Their noonday watch, and sail among the shades.
Like vaporous shaj^es half seen; beyond, a well.
Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave,
Images all the woven boughs above.
And each depending leaf, and every speck 460
Of azure sky. darting between their chasms ;
Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves
Its portraiture, but some inconstant star
Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair.
Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon,
Or gorgeous insect floating motionless.
Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings
Have spread their glories to the gaze of noon.
Hither the Poet came. His eyes beheld 469
Their own wan light through the reflected lines
Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth
Of that still fountain: as the human heart.
414
THE KOMANTIO REVIVAL
Gazing in dreaiiis over the gloomy grave,
Sees its own trcacberous likeness there. He
heard
The motion of the leaves, the grass that sprung
Startled and glanced and trembled even to feel
An unaecu8tome<l presence, and the sound
Of the sweet brook that from the secret springs
Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit seemed
To stand beside him — clothed in no bright robes
Of shadowy silver or enshrining light, 4S1
Borrowed from aught the visible world affords
Of grace, or majesty, or mystery; —
But unilulating woods, and silent well,
And leaping rivulet, and evening gloom
Now deepening the dark shades, for speech
assuming,
Held commune with him, as if he and it
Were all that was ; only — when his regard
Was raised by intense pensiveness — two eyes, 489
Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought.
And seemed Avith their serene and azure smiles
To beckon him.
Obedient to the light
That shone within his soul, he went, pursuing
The windings of the dell. — The rivulet
Wanton and wild, through many a green ravine
Beneath the forest flowed. Sometimes it fell
.\mong the moss with hollow harmony
Dark and profound. Now on the polished stones
It danced, like childhood laughing as it went :
Then through the plain in tranquil wanderings
crept, 500
Reflecting every herb and drooping bud
That overhung its quietness. — "O stream!
Whose source is inaccessibly profound.
Whither do thy mysterious waters tend?
Tliou imagest my life. Thy darksome stillness.
Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow gulfs.
Thy searchless fountain, and invisible course
Have each their type in me: and the wide sky.
And measureless ocean may declare as soon
What oozy cavern or what wandering cloud 510
Contains thy waters, as the universe
Tell where these living thoughts reside, when
stretched
Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs shall waste
I ' the passing wind ! ' '
Beside the grassy shore
Of the small stream he went ; he dicl impress
On the green moss his tremulous step, that
caught
Strong shuddering from his burning limbs. As
one
Rouse<l by some joyouH madness from the eonch
(^f fever, he <lid move; yet not like him
Forgetful of the grave, where, when the flame
Of his frail exultation shall be spent, 521
He must descend. With rapid steps he went
Beneath the shade of trees, beside the flow
Of the Mild babbling rivulet; and now
The forest's solemn canoj)ies were changed
For the uniform and lightsome evening sky.
Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, and
stemmed
The struggling brook: tall spires of windlestraei
Threw their thin shadows down the rugged slope.
And nought but gnarled roots of ancient pines
Branchless and blasted, clenched with grasping
roots 531
The unwilling soil. A gradual change was here,
Yet ghastly. For, as fast years flow away.
The smooth brow gathers, and the hair grows
thin
And white, and where irradiate dewy eyes
Had shone, gleam stony orbs: — so from his steps
Bright flowers departed, and the beautiful shade
Of the green groves, with all their odorous win<ls
.\nd musical motions. Calm, he still pursued
The stream, that with a larger volume now 540
Rolled through the labyrinthine dell, and there
Fretted a path through its descending curves
With its wintry speed. On every side now rose
Rocks, which, in unimaginable forms.
Lifted their black and barren pinnacles
In the light of evening, and, its precipice
Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above,
Mid toppling stones, black gulfs and yawning
caves,
Whose windings gave ten thousand various
tongues
To the loud stream. Lo ! where the pass
expands 5r.o
Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks,
.\nd seems, with its accumulated crags.
To overhang the world : for wide expand
Beneath the wan stars and descending moon
Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty streams.
Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous
gloom
Of leaden coloured even, and fiery hills
-Mingling their flames with twilight, on the verge
Of the remote horizon. The near scene,
In naked and severe simplicity, 5«)0
Made contrast with the universe, A pine,
Rock-rooted, stretched athwart the vacancy
Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant blast
Yielding one only response, at each pause
In most familiar cadence, with the howl,
The thunder and the hiss of homeless streams
Mingling its solemn song, whilst the broad river.
Foaming and hurrying o'er its rugged path.
Fell into that immeasurable void
Scattering its waters to the jmssing winds. •'•""
1 withered prmss-stnlks
PEKCY BYSSHE SHEIJ.EY
475
Y'et the gray precipice and solemn pine
Anil torrent were not all ; — one silent nook
Was there. Even on the edge of that vast
mountain,
Upheld by knotty roots and fallen rocks,
It overlooked in its serenity
The dark earth, and the bending vault of stars.
It was a tranquil spot, that seemed to smile
Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped
The fissured stones with its entwining arms.
And did embower with leaves for ever green, 580
And berries dark, the smooth and even space
Of its inviolated floor, and here
The children of the autumnal whirlwind bore.
In wanton sport, those bright leaves, whose
decay.
Red, yellow, or ethereally pale.
Rivals the pride of summer. 'Tis the haunt
Of every gentle wind, whose breath can teach
The wilds to love tranquillity. One step,
One human step alone, has ever broken
The stillness of its solitude: — one voice 590
Alone inspired its echoes; — even that voice
Which hither came, floating among the winds,
.\nd led the loveliest among human forms
To make their wild haunts the depository
Of all the grace and beauty that endued
Its motions, render up its majesty,
Scatter its music on the unfeeling storm,
And to the damp leaves and blue cavern mould.
Nurses of rainbow flowers and branching moss,
Commit the colours of that varying cheek, 600
That snowy breast, those dark and drooping eyes.
The dim and horned moon hung low, and
poured
A sea of lustre on the horizon 's verge
That overflowed its mountains. Y'ellow mist
Filled the unbounded atmosphere, and drank
Wan moonlight even to fulness: not a star
Shone, not a sound was heard ; the very winds.
Danger's grim playmates, on that precipice
Slept, clasped in his embrace. — O, storm of
Death !
Whose sightless speed divides this sullen night :
.\nd thou, colossal Skeleton, that, still 611
Guiding its irresistible career
In thy devastating omniimtence.
Art king of this frail world! from the red field
Of slaughter, from the reeking hospital.
The patriot's sacred conch, the snowy bed
Of innocence, the scaffold and the throne.
A mighty voice invokes thee. Ruin calls
His brother Death. A rare and regal prey
He hath prepared, prowling around the world ;
Glutted with which thou mayst repose, am!
men 621
Go to their graves like flowers or creopin'>
worms.
Nor ever more offer at thy dark shrine
The unheeded tribute of a broken heart.
When on the threshold of the green recess
The wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew that
death
Was on him. Yet a little, ere it fled,
Did he resign his high and holy soul
To images of the majestic past,
That paused within his passive being now, B-SO
Like winds that bear sweet music, when they
breathe
Through some dim latticed chamber. He did
place
His pale lean hand upon the rugged trunk
Of the old pine. Upon an ivied stone
Reclined his languid head, his limbs did rest.
Diffused and motionless, on the smooth brink
Of that obscurest chasm; — and thus he lay.
Surrendering to their final impulses
The hovering powers of life. Hope and despair,
The torturers, slept; no mortal pain or fear 640
Marred his repose, the influxes of sense,
And his own being unalloyed by pain.
Yet feebler and more feeble, calmly fed
The stream of thought, till he lay breathing
there
At peace, and faintly smiling: — his last sight
Was the great moon, which o'er the western line
Of the wide world her mighty horn suspended,
With whose dun beams inwoven darkness seemed
To mingle. Now upon the jagged hills
It rests, and still as the divided frame 650
Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's blood.
That ever beat in mystic sympathy
With nature's ebb and flow, grew feebler still:
And when two lessening points of light alone
Gleamed through the darkness, the alternate
gasp
Of his faint respiration scarce did stir
The stagnate night: — till the minutest ray
Was quenched, the pulse yet lingered in his
Jieart.
It paused — it fluttered. But when heaven re-
mained .
latterly black, the murky shades involved 660
An image, silent, cold, and motionless.
An their own voiceless earth and vacant air.
Even as a vapour fed with golden beams
That ministered on sunlight, ere the west
Eclipses it, was now that wondrous frame —
No sense, no motion, no divinity —
A fragile lute, on whose harmonious strings
The breath of heaven did wander — a bright
stream
Once fed with many-voiced waves — a dream
Of youth, which night and time have quenched
forever, 670
476
THK ROMANTIC REVIVAL
Still, dark, and dry, and iinremenibered now.
O, for Medea 's Avondroiis aichemy,i
Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth gleam
With bright flowers, and the wintry boughs
exhale
From vernal blooms fresh fragrance! O, that
God,
Profuse of poisons, would concede the chalice
Which but one living nian^ has drained, who
now
Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feels
No proud exemption in the blighting curse
F bears, over the world wanders for ever, 680
Lone as incarnate death! O, that the dreamt
Of dark magician in his visioned cave,
Raking the cinders of a crucible
For life and power, even when his feeble hand
Shakes in its last decay, were the true law
Of this so lovely world ! But thou art fled
Like some frail exhalation; which the dawn
Robes in its golden beams, — ah ! thou hast fled !
The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful, 689
The child of grace and genius. Heartless things
Are done and said i' the world, and many worms
And beasts and men live on, and mighty Earth
From sea and mountain, city and wilderness.
In vesper low or joyous orison,
Lifts still its solemn voice: — but thou art fled;
Thou canst no longer know or love the shapes
Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee
Been purest ministers, who are, alas!
Now thou art not. Upon those pallid lips
So sweet even in their silence, on those eyes TOO
That image sleep in death, upon that form
Yet safe from the worm's outrage, let no tear
Be shed — not even in thought. Nor, when those
hues
Are gone, and those divinest lineaments,
Worn by the senseless wind, shall live alone
In the frail pauses of this simple strain,
Let not high verse, mourning the memory
Of that which is no more, or painting's woe
Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery
Their own cold powers. Art and eloquence, 710
And all the shows o' the world are frail and
vain
To weep a loss that turns their lights to shade.
It is a woe too "deep for tears."* when all
Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit,
Whose light adorned the world around it. leaves
Those who remain behind, not sobs or groans,
1 magic docootlon (For oxnmnlc of Modon's witch-
craft, see the story of .Tnsoii »
2 AhaMiPniH. th'' h'jrpntlnry Wnndorlng .Tew. xnld
to have boon rondenined by Christ, for his
Insolence, to wander till Christ's second com- ;
•n>f. I
»l. p.. Immortal yonlh. the rlljrlr riiar
4 Wordsworth's 0//f on ImmnrtnUtfi. last line. 1
The passionate tumult of a dinging hoi>e ;
But pale despair and cold tranquillity,
Nature 's vast frame, the web of human things,
Birth and the grave, that are not as they
were.
720
OZYMANDIAS
T met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: 'Two vast and truukless legs of
stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand.
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold conunand.
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless
things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that
fed.-
And on the pedestal these words appear —
' ' My name is Ozymandias, king of kings :
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair ! ' '
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away. '
ODE TO THE WEST WIND*
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's
being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves
dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter
fleeing.
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red.
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who diariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low.
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
r. That Is, the.v survived both him who imaged
them and him who nursed them.
• Note by Shelley : "This poem was conceived
and chiefly written In a wood that skirts the
Arno. near Florence. . The phenomenon
alluded to at the conclusion of the third
stanza Is well known to naturalists. The
vesetatlou at the bottom of the sea. of rivers,
and of lakes, sympathizes with that of the
land In (he chanKC of seasons, and Is conse-
quently infl\ienced by the winds which an-
nonn<e it."
The noem has something; of the Impetu-
osltv of the wind — a breathless swiftness
which seems almost to scorn rhyme, and
which Is characteristic of many of Shel-
ley's longer poems. Characteristically, too. It
breathes bis Intense "nnsslon for reforming
the world." the combination of which with
lyric delicacy, as here. Is exceedingly rare.
PERCY BYSSHK SHELLEY
177
Her clarion o 'er the dreaming earth, and fill 10
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill;
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver ; hear, Oh hear I
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky "s
commotion.
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are
shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and
Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20
Of some fierce Maenad, i even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height.
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing^ night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre.
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst:
Oh hear!
m
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams.
Beside a pumice isle in Baise 's bay ,3
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 40
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear.
And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear!
If T were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
: A frenzied priestess
of Bacchus.
2 closing in
1 Xear Naples : the site
of many ruins of
ancient luxurv.
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed on
S<-arce seemed a vision; 1 would ne'er have
striven
.\s thus with thee in prayer in my sore nee<l.
Oh lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A hea\"y weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and
proud.
V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, 60
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce.
My spirit ! Be thou me. impetuous one I
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trirmpet of a prophecy! O Wind.
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind I 70
THE INDIAN SEBENADE
I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night.
When the winds are breathing low.
And the stars are shining bright ;
I arise from dreams of thee.
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me — who knows how?
To thy chamber window, sweet! 8
The wandering airs, they faint
On the dark, the silent stream ;
The champakJ odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream ;
The nightingale's complaint.
It dies upon her heart.
As I must die on thine.
Oh, belovM as thou art ! 16
Oh. lift me from the grass!
I die! T faint! I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
1 An Indian tree of the Magnolia fainilv.
4T8
THE ROMANTJC KEVIVAL
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast,
Oh ! i)rcss it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last. 24
From PROMETHEUS UNBOUND
Song*
Life of Life, tliy lips enkindle
With their love the breath between them ;
And thy smiles before they dwindle
Make the cold air fire; then screen them
In those looks, where whoso gazes
Faints, entangled in their mazes. 6
( "hild of Light ! thy limbs are burning
Through the vest which seems to hide them ;
As the radiant lines of morning
Through the clouds, ere they divide them ;
And this atmosphere divinest
Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. i-
Fair are others; none beholds thee,
But thy voice sounds low and tender
Like the fairest, for it folds thee
From the sight, that liquid splendour,
And all feel, yet see thee never,
As I feel now, lost forever. 18
Lamp of Earth! where'er thou niovest
Its dim shapes are clad with brightness.
And the souls of whom thou lovest
Walk upon the winds with lightness.
Till they fail, as I am failing,
Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing! 24
Asi.\'s Response
My soul is an enchanted boat,
Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing;
And thine doth like an angel sit
Beside a helm conducting it,
Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing.
It seems to float ever, forever,
Upon that many-winding river.
Between mountains, woods, abysses,
A paradise of wildernesses! 10
Till, like one in slumber bound,
Borne to the ocean, I float down, around,
Into a sea profound of ever-spreading sound.
Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions
In music's most serene dominions;
<;itching the winds that fan that happy heaven,
* This \h thp sonp of an unsoon spirit to Asia.
who Is the dramatic cmhodimont of the spirit
t<t love working throutih all nature.
And we sail on, away, afar,
Without a course, without a star.
But by the instinct of sweet music driven;
Till through Elysian garden islets 20
By thee, most beautiful of pilots,
Where never mortal pinnace glided.
The boat of my desire is guided ;
Realms where the air we breathe is love,
Which in the winds on the waves doth move.
Harmonizing this earth with what we feel above.
We have passed Age's icy caves.
And Manhood 's dark and tossing waves.
And Youth's smooth ocean, smiling to betray;
Beyond the glassy gulfs we flee 30
Of shadow-peopled Infancy,
Through Death and Birth, to a diviner day;*
A paradise of vaulted bowers
Lit by downward-gazing flowers,
And watery paths that wind between
Wildernesses calm and green.
Peopled by shapes too bright to see,
And rest, having beheld ; somewhat like thee ;
Which walk upon the sea, and chant melodiously !
THE CLOUD
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers.
From the seas and the streams;
1 bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams,
l-'rom my wings are shaken the dews tliat waken
The sweet buds every one.
When rocked to rest on their mother 's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under, 10
And then again I dissolve it in rain.
And laugh as I pass in thunder,
I sift the snow on the mountains below.
And tlieir great pines groan aghast ;
.^nd all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While 1 sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of mj- skyey bowers.
Lightning my pilot sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits; -<^
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
Tliis pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea ;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills.
Over the lakes and the plains.
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
* Tn Imagination reversing the course of naiure.
she parses back through the portals of earthly
Ix'Ing to the spirit's condition of primordial
Immortality.
PERCY liYSSHE SITELLEY
479
Tlie Spirit he loves remains ;
Ami 1 all the while bask in heaven 's lihie smile.
Whilst he is dissolving in rains. "'^
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack.
When the morning star shines dead.
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings.
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea
beneath.
Its ardours of rest and of love, **^
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o 'er my fleece-like floor.
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear, 50
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin
roof.
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee.
Like a swarm of golden bees.
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent.
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas.
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high.
Are each paved with the moon and tliese.
I bind the sun 's throne with a burning zone.
And the moon 's with a girdle of pearl ; 60
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and
swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape.
Over a torrent sea.
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, —
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow.
When the powers of the air are chained to my
chair.
Is the million-coloured bow ; "0
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
W'hile the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water.
And the nursling of the sky ;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and
shores ;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of heaven is bare.
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex
gleams
Build up the blue dome of air, SO
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, i
And out of the caverns of rain.
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from
the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
TO A SKYLARK
Hail to thee, blithe spirit !
Bird thou never wert.
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire ;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever
singest. Ki
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun.
O'er which clouds are brightning.
Thou dost float and run ;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
ifelts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill
delight, 20
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere.
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, Mhen night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is
overflowed. 3o
What thou art we know not ;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,
.\s from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
1 An empty tomb.
480
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
Siugiug Lyniiis uubiclden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded
not: 40
Like a high-born maiden
la a palaee-tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows lier
bower :
Like a glow-worm golden
In a ilell of dew,
S«»attering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it
from the view: "O
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves.
By warm winds deflowered.
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-
wingetl thieves:
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth
surpass. 60
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus Hymeneal.
Or triumphal chant,
Matched with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden
want. 70
What oVijects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain f
What love of thine own kindf what ignoram-*'
of painf
With thy clear keen joyanee
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad
satiety. so
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death nuist deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal
stream ?
We look before and after,
And j>ine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught ;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of
saddest thought. 90
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come
near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found.
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the
ground! lOO
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow.
The world should listen then, as I am listening
now.
From ADONAIS'
The Gr.we of Keats
49
Oo thou to Rome, — at once the Paradise,
The grave, the city, and the wilderness;
• "John Keats died at Rome of a consumption, in
Ills twenty-fourtli | twentj-slxtli J vear. on
tlie [22d] day of [February], 1821 ; and was
hurled in the romantic and lonely cemetery
of the Protestants in that city, under the pyr
amid which is the tomb of Cestlns and the
massy walls and towers, now mouldering and
desolate, which formed the circuit of ancleul
Home. The cemetery Is an open space among
the ruins, covered In winter with violets and
tiaisles. It might make one in love with
death to think that one should be burled in
so sweet a place." — From Shelley's Preface.
"Adonals" is of course a poetical name for
Kents. The elegy was the outcome of Shel-
ley's noble Indignation over a death which he
somewhat mIstaKenly supposed was immedi-
ately due to the savage criticism of Keats's
reviewers — "Wretched men." as he character
lised them, who "know not what they do."
murderers who had "spoken daggers but used
none." See Enii. Lit., p. '2'>H. The especially
beautiful concluding stanzas, which are given
here, are almost purely personal : Shelley Is
communing with himself, and thinking of his
own troubled life.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
481
And where its wrecks like shattered mountains
rise,
And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress
The bones of Desolation 's nakedness,
Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead
Thy footsteps to a slope of green access
Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead
A light of laughing flowers along the grass is
spread.
50
And gray walls moulder round, on which dull
Time
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ;
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime.
Pavilioning the dust of him who planned
This refuge for his memory, doth stand
Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath,
A field is spread, on which a newer band
Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of
death
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extin-
guished breath.
51
Here pause: these graves are all too young as
yet
To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned
Its charge to each; and if the seal is set.
Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind.
Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou find
Thine own well full, if thou returnest home.
Of tears and gall. From the world 's bitter
wind
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb.
W'hat Adonais is. why fear we to become I
52
The One remains, the many change and pass;
Heaven's light forever shines. Earth's shadows
fly;
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of Eternity,
Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die,
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost
seek!
Follow where all is fled! — Rome's azure sky.
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak.
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to
speak.
53
Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my
Heart!
Thy hopes are gone before: from all things hero
They have departed: thou shouldst now depart I
A light is past from the revolving year.
And man, and woman; and what still is dear
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither.
The soft sky smiles, — the low wind whispers
near;
'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither.
No more let Life divide what Death can join
together.
54
That Light whose smile kindles the Universe.
That Beauty in which all things work and move,
That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love
Which through the web of being blindly wove
By man and beast and earth and air and sea.
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of
The fire for which all thirst ; now beams on mc.
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality.
The breath whose might I have invoked in song
Descends on me ; my spirit 's bark is driven.
Far from the shore, far from the trembling
throng
Whose sails were never to the tempest given;
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven!
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar;
Whilst burning through the inmost veil of
Heaven,
The soul of Adonais, like a star.
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.
From HELLAS*
Chorus
The world's great age begins anew,
The golden years return.
The earth doth like a snake renew
Her winter weedsi outworn:
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires^ gleam.
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. 6
A brighter Hellas rears its mountains
From waves serener far;
A new Peneus rolls his fountains
1 robes
- creeds iind monarchies Ho which, as such, Shel-
ley was devotedly hostile)
• Shelley's drama of the modern Greeks" stnig-
S\e for Independence concludes with this
Chorus, prophesying the return of that Golden
-\ge when Saturn was fabled to have reigned
over a universe of peace and love. Of the
fulfillment of this prophecy Shelley had at
times an ardent hope, which reaches perhaps
its highest expression in this Chorus (with
which compare Byron's Islen of Greece), and
;it other times a profound despair, which can
easily be read in some of the lyrics that are
given on subsequent pages.
482
THE BOMANTK BEVIVAL
Against the morning star.
Wliorc fairer Tempos bloom, there slee^i
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.
A loftier Argo cleaves the main,
Fraught ^ith a later prize;
Another Orpheus sings again,
And loves, and weeps, and dies.
A new Ulysses leaves once more
Calypso for his native shore.
Oh, write no more the tale of Troy,t
If earth Death's scroll must be!
Nor mix with Laian rage the joy
Which dawns upon the free:
Although a subtler Sphinx renew
Biddies of death Thebes never knew.
Another Athens shall arise,
And to remoter time
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
The splendour of its prime;
And leave, if nought so bright may live,
All earth can take or Heaven can give.
Saturn and Love their long repose
Shall burst, more bright and good
Than all who fell,3 than One who rose,*
Than many unsubdued : •''•
Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers.
But votive tears and symbol flowers.
Oh, cease ! must hate and death return ?
Cease! must men kill and die?
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn
Of bitter prophecy.
The world is weary of the past,
Oh, might it die or rest at last!
TO
18
30
36
Music, when .soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken.
Live Avithin the sen^ they quicken.
Bose leaves, when the rose is dead.
Are heaped for the beloved 's bed ;
And 80 thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
TO
One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdained
n raran gods. n Objects of hoalhen
4 ChrlBt. Idolatry.
t The more or \?nn historic Trojan War. and the
WOPS of the Theban bouse of Lalus and bli*
son ODdlpus. belong of course to a time sue-
coedliiK I he (Jolden Age of fable.
For thee to disdain it;
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.
I can give not what men call love,
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not, —
The desire of the moth for the star.
Of the night for the morrow.
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow!
A LAMENT
O world! O life! O time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before;
Wlien will return the glory of your prime?
No more — oh, never more!
Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight ;
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar.
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
No more — oh, never more!
WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTEBED
When the lamp is shattered,
The light in the dust lies dead —
When the cloud is scattered.
The rainbow 's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken.
Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart 's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute: —
No song but sad dirges.
Like the wind through a ruined cell.
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman 's knell.
16
When hearts have once mingled.
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possessed.
O Lov.1 ! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here.
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
JOHN KEATS
483
Its passious will rock thee
As the storms rock the raveus on high:
Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home
Leave thee naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come. 32
A DIROE
Rough wiml, that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song ;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Sad storm, whose tears are vain,
Bare woods, whose branches strain,
Deep caves and dreary main.
Wail, for the world's wrong!
JOHN KEATS
(1795-1821)
From EXDYMION*
Proem. From Book I
A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pa'ss into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet
breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow,^ are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth.
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o 'er-darkened ways 10
Made for our searching: yes. in spite of all.
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon.
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear
rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake.
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms :
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms2 20
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read :
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour ; no, even as the trees
morning
Sec /:>!{/.
Lit., p. 258.
2 destinies
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple 's self, so does the moon.
The passion poesy, glories infinite.
Haunt us till they become a cheering light 30
L^nto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o 'ercast,
They alway must be with us, or we die.
Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys : so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city 's din ; 40
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write.
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white, 50
Hide in deep herbage ; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary.
See it half finished : but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold.
Be all about me when I make an end.
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress 60
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thoroughs flowers and weed.
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES
St. Agnes' Eve<— Ah, bitter chill it was!
The OAvl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limped trembling through the frozen
grass.
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Xumb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he
told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath.
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seemed taking flight for heaven, without a
death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his
prayer he saith.
3 til rough
4 The night precedlns
Jan. 21.
484
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees :
The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to
freeze,
Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat 'ries,
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails
To think liow they may ache in icy hoods and
mails.
Northward he turneth through a little door.
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden
tongue
Flattered to tears this aged man and poor ;
But no — already had his deathbell rung;
The joys of all his life were said and sung:
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake
to grieve.
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ;
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide.
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft.
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide :
The level chambers, ready with their pride,
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed.
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-
wise on their breasts.
At length burst in the argent revelry,
With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
Numerous as shadows, haunting fairily
The brain, new stuffed, in youth, with triumphs
gay
Of old romance. These let us wish away,
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there.
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day.
On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care.
As she had heard old dames full many times
declare.
They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honeyed middle of the night,
It ceremonies due they did aright;
As, sup|>rr]e88 to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they
desire.
7
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline ;
The music, yearning like a God in pain.
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping traini
Pass by — she heeded not at all: in vain
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier.
And back retired ; not cooled by high disdain,
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:
She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest
of the year.
8
She danced along with vague, regardless eyes,
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short :
The hallowed hour was near at hand: she sighs
Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn.
Hoodwinked- with faery fancy; all amort,^
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn.*
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
9
So, purposing eacli moment to retire,
She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors.
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors.
Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and im-
plores
All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
But for one moment in the tedious hours.
That he might gaze and worship all unseen ;
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth
such things have been.
10
He ventures in: let no buzzed whisper tell:
All eyes be mufiled, or a hundred swords
Will storm his heart, Love's feverous citadel:
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes.
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords.
Whose very dogs would execrations howl
Against his lineage: not one breast affords
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul.
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in
soul.
1 i. c, of robes (Keats) s dead
•i blinded (to all elbe)
* St. Agnes was a Roman virgin who suffered
martyrdom. At Mass, on tJio day sacred to
lior, while the Agnns Do! (Lamb of God) was
ch.anted, t.ro lambs were dedicated to her.
nnd afterwards shorn and the wool woven
(Ktanza i:^).
JOHN KEATS
485
11
Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
To whfre lie stood, hid from the torch 's flame,
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond
The sound of merriment and chorus bland:
He startled her ; but soon she knew his face,
And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand,
Saying, "^lercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this
place ;
They are all here to-night, the whole blood-
thirsty race!
12
Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hilde-
brand ;
He had a fever late, and in the fit
He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:
Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit
More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me! flit!
Flit like a ghost away. ' ' — ' ' Ah, Gossip* dear,
We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit.
And tell me how" — "Good Saints! not here,
not here;
Follow me, child, or else these stones will
be thy bier. ' '
13
He followed through a lowly arched way,
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume;
And as she muttered ' ' Well-a — well-a-day ! ' '
He found him in a little moonlight room.
Pale, latticeil, chill, and silent as a tomb.
' * Now tell me where is Madeline, ' ' said he,
' ' O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
Which none but secret sisterhood may sec,
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving
piously. ' '
14
"St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve-
Vet men will murder upon holy days:
Thou must hold water in a witch 's sieve.
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,
To venture so : it fills me with amaze
To see thee, Porphyro! — St. Agnes' Eve!
God's help! my lady fair the conjurer plays
This very night ; good angels her deceive !
But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle time to
grieve. ' '
15
Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
While Porphyro upon her face dotl\ look,
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
WTio keepeth closed a wond'rous riddle-book,
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
< godmother
Lut soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told
His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook"-
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments
cold,
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.
16
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
Made purple riot : then doth he propose
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
' ' A cruel man and impious thou art :
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
Alone with her good angels, far apart
From wicked men like thee. Go, go! — I deem
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou
didst seem. ' '
' ' T will not harm her, by all saints I swear, ' '
(^uoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace
When my weak voice shall whisper its last
prayer.
If one of her soft ringlets I displace.
Or look with ruflian passion in her face:
Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
Or I will, even in a moment 's space,
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears.
And beard them, though they be more fanged
than wolves and bears."
18
"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken churchyard thing,
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
Were never missed." Thus plaining, doth she
bring
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing,
That Angela gives promise she will do
Whatever he shall nish, betide her weal or
woe.
19
Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide
Him in a closet, of such privacy
That he might see her beauty unespied,
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
While legioned fairies paced the coverlet.
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.
Never on such a night have lovers met.
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the mon-
strous debt.*
5 Misused for "check".
• Merlin, the famous wizard, became himself a
victim of magic. See Tcnny.son's Merlin and
Vivien.
486
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
20
"It shall be as tbou wishest, " said the Dame;
' * All catesi and dainties shall be stored there
Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour
frames
Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
On such a catering trust my dizzy head.
Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in
prayer
The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady
wed,
Or may I never leave my grave among the
dead."
21
So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;
The dame returned, and whispered in his ear
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last.
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain
The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed, and
chaste;
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain.
His poor guide hurried back with agues in
her brain.
22
Her faltering hand upon the balustrade,
Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
W^hen Madeline, St. Agnes' charm&d maid,
Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware:
W^ith silver taper's light, and pious care,
She turned, and down the aged gossip led
To a safe level matting. Now prepare,
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ;
She comes, she comes again, like ringdove
frayed and fled.
23
Out went the taper as she hurried in;
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died :
She closed the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
No utteretl syllable, or woe betide!
But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
As though a tongueless nightingale should
swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in
her dell.
24
A casement high and triple arcljed there wjis,
All garlanded with carven imag'ries
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-
grass,
1 delicacies 2 A dnim-llko omhrold-
r«ry rrumc.
And diamonded with panes of quaint device.
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes.
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries.
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of
queens and kings.
25
l\ill on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm guless on IMadeline's fair
breast.
As down she knelt for heaven's gi'ace and
boon ;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest.
And on her silver cross soft amethyst.
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seemed a splendid angel, newly drcst,
Save wings, for heaven : Porphyro grew faint :
She knelt, so i)ure a thing, so free from mor-
tal taint.
26
Anon his lieart revives: her vespers done.
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees;
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed.
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees.
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed.
But dares not look behind, or all the duuin
is fled.
27
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay.
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed
Her soothM limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
Blissfully havened both from joy and pain;
Clasped like a missal* where swart Paynims
pray ;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud
again.
2S
Stol 'n to this paradise, and so entranced,
Porphyro gazed upon her enii)ty dress,
-And listened to her breathing, if it chanced
To wake into a shimberoua tenderness;
Which when lie heard, that minute did lie bless,
.\nd breathed himself: then from the closet
crept.
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
And over the hushed carpet, silent, stepped,
t red color (a heraldic torm>
t ninss-book (which pagans would liavo no occ.t-
slon to unclnsp)
JOHN KEA¥s
487
And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo!
how fast she slept.
29
Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half-anguished, threw thereon
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: —
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion.
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarinet,
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone: —
The hall door shuts again, and all the noise
is gone.
30
And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep.
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered,
While he from forth the closet brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ;
With jellies soother-^ than the creamy curd,
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon.
31
These delicates he heaped with glowing hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreath&d silver: sumptuous they stand
In the retired quiet of the night.
Filling the chilly room with perfume light. —
' ' And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake !
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite;
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake.
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul
doth ache."
32
Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
By the dusk curtains: — 'twas a midnight
charm
Impossible to melt as iced stream:
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam :
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:
It seemed he never, never could redeem
From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes;
So mused awhile, entoiled in woofM phan-
tasies.
33
Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, —
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be.
He played an ancient ditty, long since mute.
In Provence called, "La belle dame sans
mercy : ' '«
5 .\pparontly used here
fiif ••smootlKT."
•i 'Tlio beautifnl lady
without pity."
Close to her ear touching the melody; —
Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan:
He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly
Her blue aff rayed eyes wide open shone:
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-
sculptured stone.
34
Her eyes were open, but she still beheld.
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
There was a painful change, that nigh ex-
pelled
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep,
At which fair Madeline began to weep.
And moan forth witless words with many a
sigh;
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ;
Who knelt, with join&d hands and piteous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she looked so
dreamingly.
35
"Ah, Porphyro I " said she, "but even now
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear.
Made tuneable with every sweetest vow ;
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear;
How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and
drear !
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe.
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where
to go."
36
Beyond a mortal man impassioned fr.r
At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odour with the violet, —
Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon
hath set.
37
*Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown
sleet :
' ' This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! ' '
'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
"Xo dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. —
Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
T curse not, for my heart is lost in thine.
Though thou forsakest a deceiv&d thing; —
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned
wing. ' '
488
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
38
"My Madeline! sweet dreamer', lovely bride!
Say, may 1 be for aye tliy vassal blest?
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil
dyed ?
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
After so many hours of toil and quest,
A famished pilgrim, — saved by miracle.
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think 'st well
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.
39
"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
Arise — arise! the morning is at hand; —
The bloated wassaillers will never heed: —
Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, —
Drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
For o 'er the southern moors I have a home
for thee."
40
She hurried at his words, beset with fears.
For there were sleeping dragons all around.
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears —
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they
found. —
In all the house was heard no human sound.
A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each
door;
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and
hound,
Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty
floor.
41
They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
Like ])hantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
"Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl.
With a huge empty flagon by his side:
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his
hide.
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
By one and one, the bolts full easy slide: —
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones; —
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges
groans.
42
And they are gone: ay. ages long ago
These lovers fle<l away into the storm.
Thiit night the Baron dreamt of many a woe.
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
Were lony bc-nightmared. .Xngela the old
Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform;
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
For aye unsought for slept among his ashes
cold.
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk;
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness, —
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 10
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delvfed earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green.
Dance, and Provencal song,i and sun-burnt
mirth !
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,^
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth ;
That I might drink, and leave the world un-
seen.
And with thee fade away into the forest
dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never
known.
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other
groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin,
and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
W^here Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes.
Or new Love pine at them beyond
to-morrow. 30
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,*
But on the viewless wings of Poesy.
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
1 Of southern France, 2 A fountain of the
tlx- homo of the Miise.s on Mt. Hell-
troubadours. con.
* The sources of Koats's classical knowledKo arc
interesting. The suggestion for this partlcn-
liir metaphor came, doul)tloss, from Titian's
painting of Ariadno (with Bacchus and his
leopards), which was brought to England in
1800 and of which Keats must at least have
seen a print, for he descriiies it in liis Sleep
anil Povtvii, lino ."JS.'i. The painting was p\it
In the National Gallery In lK'_'«i.
JOHN KEATS
489
Already with thee I tender is the niglit,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes
blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding
mossy ways. "^O
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs.
But, in embalmeds darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine.
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer
eves. 50
Darkling I listen ; and, for* many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme.
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die.
To cease upon the midnight with no pain.
While thou art pouring forth thy soul
abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou ,sing, and I have ears in
vain —
To thy high requiem become a sod. 60
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Kuth, when, sick
for home.
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;'-
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the
foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. TO
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream.
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: — Do I wake or sleep!
3 balmy
4 inasmuch as, while
R Ruth, il.
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN*
Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, i who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy
shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both.
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens
loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild
ecstasy? 10
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play
on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared.
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not
leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss.
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not
grieve ;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy
bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be
fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
.\nd, happy melodist, unweari&d.
For ever piping songs for ever new ;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoyed.
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above.
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and
cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching
tongue. 30
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies.
And all her silken flanks with garlands
dressed ?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
1 historian of sylvan scenes
* "There is some reason for thinking that the par-
ticular urn which Inspired this heautiful poem
is a somewhat woather-hcaten work in marble
still preserved in the gardon of Holland House,
and figured in Piranesi's VoKi e Cnndelabri."
— IF. b; P'orman.
490
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede^
Of marble men and maidens overwrought.
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of
thoughts
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou
say 'st,
"Beautv is truth, truth beauty," — that is
air
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to
know. 50
ODE ON MELANCHOLY
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous
wine ;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche,^ nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the
soul. 10
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud.
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless
eyes. 20
She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu ; and acliing Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine.
Though seen of none save him whose stren-
uous tongue
2 embroidery (cp. Col-
lln«*8 Ode to Even-
ing, line 7, p. 346)
8 draw us from
anxieties
1 Psyche, the bohI. was conventlonallr srmbolized
l)j- tlic Initti rrt.v.
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine:
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies
hung. 30
TO AUTUMN
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-
eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel
shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never
cease, 10
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clam-
my cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while
thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined
flowers :
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 20
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours bv
hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are
they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, —
While barrfed clouds bloom the soft-dying day.
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy Ime;
Then in a wailful choir tlie small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly
bourn ; 30
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble
soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft ;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN*
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known.
• The Mermaid Tavern was a favorite resort of
Shnlti'spfiirc. .lonson. and tiieir friends.
JOHN KEATS
491
10
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine!
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.
1 have heard that on a day
Mine host 's sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer 's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glorv',
Underneath a new old sign
Sipping beverage divine, 20
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of Poets dead and gone.
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
IN A DREAE-NIGHTED DECEMBER
Tn a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree.
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them,
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime. 8
In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting.
Never, never petting
About the frozen time. 16
.\h! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
Writhed not at pass&d joy?
To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it.
Nor numbed sense to steel it,
W^as never said in rhvme. 24
LA BELLE DAME SANS MEECI*
what can ail thee, knight-at-arms.
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
what can ail thee, knight-at-arms.
So haggard and so woebegone!
The squirrel 's granary is full,
And the harvest 's done. 8
1 see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too. —
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful — a faery 's child ;
Her hair was long, her foot was light.
And her eyes were wild. 16
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed.
And nothing else saw, all day long.
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song. 24
She found me roots of relish sweet.
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
' ' I love thee true. ' '
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sighed full sore;
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four. 32
And there she lullM me asleep.
And there I dreamed, ah woe betide!
The latest dream I' ever dreamt
On the cold hill's side.
I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried, "La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!" 40
» '-The Fair Lady without Pity." Cp. The Eve of
St. Affiles. St. 33. Keats obtained the title
from an old French po^ra. a translation of
which Was once attributed to Chaucer. There
are two versions of Keats's poem, but the
second is hardly an improvement over the
first, which is the more familiar, and which
is given here. The reply of the knipht begins
at the fourth stanza. The story has some
resemblance to that of TannhHn.ser and the
Venusberg.
492
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gapfed wide —
And I awoke, and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake
And no birds sing. 48
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S
HOMER*
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific — and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise —
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKETf
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown
mead;
That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead
In summer luxury, — he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some jdeasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there
shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever.
And seems to one in drowsiness half lo»t.
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
• This Bonnet of discovery was written after
Keats had spent a night with a friend readlnR
In Chapman's translation (Kmo. Lit., p. 07).
Keats covild not read <!reek. but had to con-
tent himself mainly with "western Islands"
of poetry and romance. It should be noted
that It was not ("ortez, but Balboa, who dis-
covered the raclfic.
t Written In a friendly competition with I.elK'b
Hunt. See Hunt's sonnet, p. 40rt.
ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES$
My spirit is too weak — mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep.
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky.
Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep,
Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
Bring round the heart an undescribable feud;
So do these wonders a most dizzy i>ain.
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
Wasting of old Time — with a billowy main —
A sun — a shadow of a magnitude.
ON THE sea;
It keeps eternal whisperings around
Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell
Of Hecatei leaves them their old shadowy
sound.
Often 'tis in such gentle temper found.
That scarcely will the very smallest shell
Be moved for days from where it sometime
fell,
Wlien last the winds of heaven were unbound.
Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vexed and
tired,
Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;
Oh ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar
rude,
Or fed too much with cloying melody —
Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood
Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired!
WHEN I HAVE FEARS THAT I MAY
CEASE TO BE
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain.
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starred face.
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
.\n(l when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look u]ion thee more.
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love! — then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
1 The moon.
I These marbles are mainly sculptures from the
Parthenon which were transferred from
Athens to London bv Lord Klgin In ISO.I.
LATE GEORGIAN BALLADS AND LYRICS
403
BRIGHT STAR! WOULD I WERE STED-
FAST AS THOU ART*
Bright star! would I were stedfast as thou
art —
Not in lone splendour bung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth 's human shores.
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors —
No — yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowed upon my fair love 's ripening breast.
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell.
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath.
And so live ever — or else swoon to death.
LATE GEORGIAN BALLADS AND
LYRICSt
ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843)
The Battle of BlenheimJ
It was a summer evening;
Old Kaspar's work was done.
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 6
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found.
He came to ask what he had found.
That was so large, and smooth, and round. 12
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
• This sonnet was composed on the Dorsetshire
coast just as Keats was sailing for Italy the
autumn before his death. It was written in
a copy of Shakespeare's poems on a blank page
facing A Lnrer'n Coniplnini.
t Under this general title are given here some
minor poems of the early decades of the nine
teenth century, though one or two are really
post-Georgian. Hunt's Abov hen Adhew. for
instance, is as late as 1844: but Hunt wa<
himself a contemporary of Shelley and Keats
The poems have been selected partly for theii
real value as shown by their continued popu
larlty. and partly to illustrate the character
and r:inee of the minor verse of the period.
tAt Blenheim, in Bavaria, in 1704, the British
and their German allies, under the Duke of
Marlborough and the .\uFtrlan Prince Eugene,
defeated the French and Bavarians with great
loss.
And then the old man shook his head.
And with a natural sigh,
" 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
' * Who fell in the great victory. 18
"^I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about;
And often, when 1 go to plough.
The ploughshare turns them out;
For many thousand men," said he,
* ' Were slain in that great victory. ' ' 24
"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder- waiting eyes;
' ' Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for." 30
' ' It was the English, ' ' Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said," quoth he,
* ' That 'twas a famous victory.
36
' ' My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
"With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide.
And many a childing mother then.
And new-born baby, died ;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
"They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
.\fter a famous victory.
42
48
54
"Great praise the Duke of Marlboro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene."
"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine.
"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he;
' ' It was a famous victory. 60
"And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win. ' '
"But what good came of it at last ?"
494
THE ROMANTIC KEVIVAL
Quoth little Peterkin.
"Why, that I cannot tell," said he;
' * But 'twas a famous victory. ' ' 66
THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844)
Ye Mariners op England
A Naval Ode*
Ye mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep
While the stormy winds do blow;
'\\'Tiile the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow. 10
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave! —
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson foil,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long.
And the stormy winds do blow. 20
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep,
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below, —
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn.
Till danger's troubled night depart.
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
30
40
•This poem was wrltton. It Is said. In 1800, on
the prospect of n war with Russia (soo lino
.T) ; bnt It must hnvp nndorsrone some littor
rpvlslon. for NoNon (lino 1i)) foil nt Trafalijnr
In 180.%. Admiral Robort Rlako diod at soa In
HOHENLINDENf
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow.
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly:
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery. 8
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed.
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed.
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven.
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery. 16
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden 's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun.
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 24
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
.4nd every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 32
CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823)
The Burial of Sir John MooREt
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
t At the Bavarian village of Ilohcnlinden, not far
from Munich, the Auslrian army (reforrod to
In this poem as the "Hun") was defeated bv
the French (the "Frank") In December, 1800.
Campbell did not witness the battle, as a
pleasing tradition relates, but he was on the
continent at the time and witnessed at least
one skirmish. Scott greatly admired this bal-
lad, though the author himself spoke .some-
what contomptuonsly of its "drum and trum-
p(>t lines."
t Sir John Moore, a British general, was killed at
Corunna In January, 1800, just as the British
tri)ops. retreatinjr from the French, wen* about
to embark, though he lived long enough to
hear that the French were beaten hack. He
was burled at night In the citadel.
LATE GEORGIAN BALLADS AND LYRICS
495
We buried him darkly, at dead of night.
The sods «ith our bayonets turning;
Ky the struggling moonbeam 's misty light,
Anil the lantern dimly burning. 8
No useless coflSn enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was
dead.
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 16
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow.
That the foe and the stranger would tread
o 'er his head.
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 24
But half of our weary task was done
When the clock struck the note for retiring ;
And we heard the distant and random gun
Of the enemy sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down.
From the field of his fame fresh and gory ;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone.
But we left him alone with his glory. 32
THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852)
The Harp that Oxce Through Tara's Hau,.s§
The harp that once through Tara 's halls
The soul of music shed.
Now hangs as mute on Tara 's walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory 's thrill is o 'er.
And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more! s
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone that breaks at night
Its tale of riiin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives. 16
I Tara Flill, some twenty miles from Dublin, is
said to have been "tho seat of the nnol«>nt
kings of Ireland.
The Minstrel Boy
The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you '11 find him ;
His father's sword he has girded on.
And his wild harp slung behin<l him. —
"Land of song! " said the warriorbard,
"Though all the world betrays thee.
One sworil at least thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee! " 8
The Minstrel fell! — but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again.
For he tore its cords asunder;
And said, ' ' No chains shall sully thee.
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the brave and free,
They shall never sound in slavery! "
Oft, in the Stilly Night
(Scotch Air)
Oft, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me;
The smiles, the tears.
Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken ;
The eyes that shone.
Now dimmed and gone.
The cheerful hearts now broken! 10
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me.
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
When I remember all
The friends, so linked together,
I 've seen around me fall,
Like leaves in wintry weather;
T feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead.
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night.
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
20
HARLES LAMB (1775-1834
Thi; Old Familiar Faces
I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of .childhood, in my joyful school-
days —
.\ll, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
49(1
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
T have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom
cronies —
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 6
I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her <loors on me, I must not see
her —
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend al)niptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar
faces. 12
Ghost like I paced round the haunts of my
childhood,
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse.
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Frienrl of my bosom, thou more than a brother.
Why wert not thou born in my father "s
dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces — IS
How some they have died, and some they have
left me,
And some are taken from me ; all are departed ;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
Rose Aylmek*
(1775-1864)
Ah Mhat avails the sceptred race,
Ah what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never .see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.
LETGH HUNT (1784-1859)
To THE GUA.SSHOPPEK A.\D THE CRICKETf
Green little vaulter in the sunny grass.
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that 's heard amidst the lazy noon.
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;
• Rose, a daughter of Baron Aylmer. and a youth-
ful compHnlon of I.andor. died In India In
IHOd.
t Wrilten in fomp<'tltlon with Keats, whose sonnet
miiy Ik- seen on p. 4J)i.'.
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come t<>o
soon.
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pa.ss;
O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong.
One to the fields, the other to the hearth.
Both have your sunshine; both, though small,
are strong
At your clear hearts; and l>oth seem given to
earth
To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song —
Indoors and out, summer an<l winter, Mirth.
Rondeau
.fenny kissed me when we met.
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in :
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad.
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.
Abou Ben Adhem
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace.
And saw, within the moonlight in his room.
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold.
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" — The vision raised its
head.
And, whh a look made of all sweet accord, 9
Answered, "The names of those who love the
Lord. ' '
"And is mine one!" sai<l Abou. " Nav, not
so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low.
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then.
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men. "t
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next
night
It came again, with a great wakening light,
.\nd showed the names whom love of (^toil had
blessed, —
And lo! Ben Adhem 's name led all tiie rest.
(This line is carved on Hunt's moniunent In
Kensal (Jreon Cemetery.
LATE GEORGIAN BALLADS AND LYRICS
497
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
(1802-1839)
Letters From Teigx mouth. I. — Our Ball§
You'll come to our ball; — since we parted
I've thought of you more than I'll say;
Indeed, I was half broken-hearted
For a week, when they took you away.
Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers
Our walks on the Ness and the Den,
And echoed the musical numbers
Which you used to sing to me then.
I know the romance, since it 's over,
'Twere idle, or worse, to recall; —
I know you're a terrible rover;
But, Clarence, you'll come to our Ball I 12
It 's only a year since, at College,
You ])ut on your cap and your gown;
But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge,
And changed from the spur to the crown;
The voice that was best when it faltered.
Is fuller and firmer in tone:
And the smile that should never have altered, —
Dear Clarence, — it is not your own;
Your cravat was badly selected,
Your coat don't become you at all;
And why is your hair so neglected?
You must have it curled for our Ball. 24
I 've often been out upon Haldon
To look for a covey with Pup;
I've often been over to Shaldon,
To see how your boat is laid up.
In spite of the terrors of Aunty,
I 've ridden the filly you broke ;
And I 've studied your sweet little Dante
In the shade of your favourite oak:
When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence,
I sat in your love of a shawl;
And I'll wear what you brought me from
Florence,
Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball. 36
{ This is a specimen of the half gay, luilf grave
vera tie sociHe of wlilch Praed was a master.
Teignmoutli Is a watering-place in Devonshire.
The various places named belong to the local-
ity. The Noss is a promontory. The Den is a
promenade formed by a sand-banic between the
town and the sea. Maiden Is a range of hills :
Shaldon, a village just a<'ross the river Teign :
Dawlish, another seaside resort three miles
away. As for the other allusions. Sir Thomas
Lawrence was a famous portrait painter of
that date (1829) : National Schools (line 3S)
had lately been established at various places
by a national society for the education of the
poor : "Captain Rocli" was a fictitious name
signed to public notices by one of the Irish
insurgents of 1822: "Hock" is a Icind of wine
— Hochheimer ; a "Blue" Is a "blue-stocking"
— a woman affecting literature and politics.
You'll find us all changed since you Tanished;
We've set up a National School;
.\nd waltzing is utterly banished;
And Ellen has married a fool;
The Major is going to travel;
Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout ;
The walk is laid down with fresh gravel;
Papa is laid up with the gout;
And Jane has gone on with her easels.
And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul;
And Fanny is sick with the measles.
And I '11 tell you the rest at the Ball. 48
You'll meet all your beauties; — the Lily,
And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm,
.\nd Lucy, who made me so silly
At Dawlish, by taking your arm;
Miss Manners, who always abused you,
For talking so much about Hock;
And her sister, who often amused you,
By raving of rebels and Rock;
And something which surely would answer.
An heiress quite fresh from Bengal : —
t?o, though you were seldom a dancer,
You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball. t-^'
But out on the world! — from the flowers
It shuts out the sunshine of truth;
It blights the green leaves in the bowers,
It makes an old age of our youth:
And the flow of our feeling, once in it,
Like a streamlet beginning to freeze,
Though it cannot turn ice in a minute,
Grows harder by sudden degrees.
Time treads o'er the graves of affection;
Sweet honey is turned into gall;
Perhaps you have no recollection
That ever you danced at our Ball. 72
You once could be pleased with our ballads —
To-day you have critical ears;
You once could be charmed with our salads —
Alas! you've been dining with Peers;
You trifled and flirted with many;
You've forgotten the when and the how;
There was one you liked better than any —
Perhaps you've forgotten her now.
But of those you remember most newly.
Of those who delight or inthrall,
None love you a quarter so truly
As some you will find at our Ball. 84
They tell me you've many who flatter.
Because of your wit and your song;
They tell me (and what does it matter?)
You like to be praised by the throng;
They tell me you're shadowed with laurel,
They tell me you're loved by a Blue;
They tell me you're sadly immoral —
498
THE EOMAXTIC REVIVAL
Dear Clarence, that cannot be true!
But to me you are still what I found you
Before you grew clever and tall;
And you'll think of the spell that once bound
you ;
And you'll come, won't you come? to our
Ball? 96
THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES (1803-1849)
Dream-Pedlary*
If there were dreams to sell,
What would you buy?
Some cost a passing-bell;
Some a light sigh,
That shakes from Life's fresh crown
Only a rose-leaf down.
If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell.
And the crier rang the bell,
What would you buy?
A cottage lone and still.
With bowers nigh.
Shadowy, my woes to still
Until I die.
Such pearl from Life's fresh crown
Fain would I shake me down :
W^ere dreams to have at will.
This would best heal my ill,
This would I buy.
But there were dreams to sell
111 didst thou buy;
Life is a dream, they tell.
Waking, to die.
Dreaming a dream to prize,
Is wishing ghosts to rise;
And, if I had the spell
To call the buried well,
Which one would It
If there are ghosts to raise,
What shall I call,
Out of hell's murky haze,
Heaven's blue pallf
Raise my loved long-lost boy
To lead me to his joy —
There are no ghosts to raise;
Out of death lead no ways;
Vain is the call.
Know'st thou not ghosts to sue,
No love thou hast.
Else lie, as I will do,
20
30
40
• TlilH |>ooin Ih somewhat obHcuie, but to para-
))hrns(« It into perfect liirUllty would In- to
ueHtro^' tin *-lcmcut of It.s rburui.
And breathe thy last.
So out of Life's fresh crown
Fall like a rose-leaf down.
Thus are the ghosts to woo;
Thus are all dreams made true,
Ever to last!
THOMAS HOOD (1798-1845)
The Death-bed
We watched her breathing through the night.
Her breathing soft and low.
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak.
So slowly moved about.
As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out. 8
Our very hopes belied our fears.
Our fears our hopes belied —
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad.
And chill with early showers.
Her quiet eyelids closed — she had
Another morn than ours. 16
The Song of the Shirt
With fingers weary and worn.
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt.
And still with a voice of dolorous ])itch
She sang the ' ' Song of the Shirt ' '. 8
"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work — work — work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It 's Oh ! to be a slave
Along with tlie barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work! 16
' ' Work — work — work.
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work — work — work,
Till the eyes are heavy and dim 1
Seam, and gusset, and band.
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the btittons T fall asleep,
.\nd sow them on in a drenni! 24
LATE GEORGIAN BALLADS AND LYEICS
•199
"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch — stitch — stitch.
In poverty, hunger, and dirt.
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
• ' But why do I talk of Death ?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear its terrible shape,
It seems so like my own —
It seems so like mj' own.
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God ! that bread should be so dear
And flesh and blood so cheap I
• • Work — work — work !
My labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread — and rags.
That shattered roof — this naked floor —
A table — a broken chair —
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there I
40
4J
' ' Work — work — work !
From weary chime to chime.
Work — work — work,
As prisoners work for crime I
Band, and gusset, and seam.
Seam, and gusset, and band.
Till the heart is sick, and the bniin benumbed.
As well as the wearj- hand. 56
' ' Work — w ork — work.
In the dull December light.
And work — work — work,
When the weather is warm and biig'it-
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.
64
"Oh I but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet —
With the sky above my head.
And the grass beneath my feet ;
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel.
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal.
" Oh ! but for one short hour !
A respite however brief I
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief !
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread ! " SO
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, —
Would that its tone could reach the Rich! —
She sang this ' ' Song of the Shirt ! " 89
ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER (1803-1875)
The Song of the Western Men*
A good sword and a trusty hand!
A merry heart and true!
King James 's men shall understand
What Cornish lads can do.
And have they fixed the where and when I
And shall Trelawny die!
Here's twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason whv ! S
Out spake their captain brave and bold,
A merry wight was he :
"If London Tower were Michael's hold,
We'll set Trelawny free!
' ' We '11 cross the Tamar, land to laud.
The Severn is no stay.
With 'one and all,' and hand in hand.
And who shall bid us nay ? 16
"And when we come to London Wall.
A pleasant sight to view.
Come forth ! come forth, ye cowards all.
Here 's men as good as you !
' ' Trelaw ny he 's in keep and hold.
Trelawny he may die;
But here 's twenty thousand Cornish bold.
Will know the reason whv! " -i
In 1688, Sir .Jonathan Trehuvny. a native of
Cornwall, was, with six othor bishops, thrown
into the Tower of London for resisting James
the Second's Declaration of Indulgence. lie
was soon released. It was long supposed that
this ballad, which was first printed anony-
mously, dated from that time. The refrain is
ancient, but the ballad was written by Hawker
in 1825. The Tamar and Severn (lines 1?.
and 14) are rivers of southwestern England.
Michael (line 11) is the archangel to whom
was given the task of overthrowing Satan and
consigning him to hell.
500
THE BOMANTIC REVIVAL
The Silent Towek of BottkeauI
Tintadgel bells ring o Vr the tide,
The boy leans on his vessel side ;
He hears that sound, and dreams of home
Soothe the wild orphan of the foam.
"Come to thy God in time! "
Thus saith their pealing chime:
Youth, manhood, old age past,
' ' Come to thy God at last. ' '
Hut why are Bottreau 's echoes still?
Her tower stands proudly on the hill ;
Yet the strange chough that home hath founi
The lamb lies sleeping on the ground.
"Come to thy God in time! "
Should be her answering chime:
' ' Come to thy God at last ! ' '
Should echo ou the blast.
The ship rode down with courses free,
The daughter of a distant sea:
Her sheet was loose, her anchor stored.
The merry Bottreau bells on board.
' * Come to thy God in time ! ' '
Rung out Tintadgel chime;
Youth, manhood, old age past,
' ' Come to thv God at last ! ' '
16
24
llie pilot heard his native bells
Hang on the breeze in fitful swells;
"Thank God," with reverent brow he cried,
' ' We make the shore with evening 'c tide. ' '
"Come to thy God in time! "
It was his marriage chime:
Youth, manhood, old age past,
His bell must ring at last. 32
"Thank God, thou whining knave, on land,
But thank, at sea, the steersman 's hand, ' '
The captain's voice above the gale:
' ' Thank the good ship and ready sail. ' '
"Come to thy God in time! "
Sad grew the boding chime:
"Come to thy God at last I "
Boomed heavy on the blast. 40
Tprose that sea! as if it heard
The mighty Master 's signal-word :
What thrills the captain's whitening lip?
♦ "The rngjjod hpls;hts that line tlio soa-shorc In
Mio n<'ii;lil»i>iliood of Tintadgel <'a8tle and
Cluircli [on the coast of (Cornwall 1 aro crestfd
Avlth towerK. AmonR theso, that of Bottroau.
or. as it Is now written, Bosfastlo, Is without
bcllH. The silence of this wild and lonely
cliurchyard on festive or solemn occasions Is
not a little striking- On ennnlry I was told
that the bells were once snipped for this
church, but that when the vessel was within
sleht of the tower the blasphemy of her cap*
tain was punished In the manner related In
the Poem. The bells, they told me. still lie
In the bay. and announce by strani;c sotinds
IJie approach of a storm." — 11. 8. Hawker.
Tiie death-groans of his sinking shiji.
' ' Come to thy God in time ! ' '
Swung deep the funeral chime:
Grace, mercy, kindness past,
' ' Come to thy God at last ! " -is
Long did the rescued pilot tell —
When gray hairs o 'er his forehead fell,
While those around Avould hear and weep —
That fearful judgment of the deep.
"Come to thy God in time! "
He read his native chime:
Youth, manhood, old age past,
His bell rung out at last. 'iii
Still when the storm of Bottreau 's waves
Ts wakening in his weedy caves.
Those bells, that sullen surges hide,
Peal their deep notes beneath the tide :
"Come to thy God in time! "
Thus saith the ocean chime:
Storm, billow, whirlwind past,
' ' Come to thy God at last ! " r, i
SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832)
From OLD MORTALITY*
Chapter 1. Preliminary
"Most readers," says the Manuscript of Mr.
Pattieson, "must have witnessed with delight
the joyous burst which attends the dismissing
of a village-school on a fine summer evening.
The buoyant spirit of childhood, repressed with
so much diflSculty during the tedious hours of
discipline, may then be seen to explode, as it
were, in shout, and song, and frolic, as the
little urchins join in groups on their play-
ground, and arrange their matches of sport for
the evening. But there is one individual who
partakes of the relief afforded by the moment
of dismission, whose feelings are not so obvious
to the eye of the spectator, or so apt to receive
his sympathy. I mean the teacher himself, who.
stunned with the hum, and suffocated with the
closeness of his school-room, has spent the whole
day (himself against a host) in controlling
petulance, exciting indifference to action, striv-
ing to enlighten stupidity, and labouring to
soften obstinacy; and whose very powers of
* Old Mortality Is a story of the rlslnff of the
Scotch Covenantors about 1677-!> against the
Knglish church and throne. Scott had once
mot. In the churchyard of Dunnottar, one
Robert Paterson, familiarly known as "Old
Mortality," and he chooses to make him re-
sponsible for the substance of the tale. It
Is one of the "Tales of My Landlord" ; and
the Landlord of Wallace Inn, Mr. Clelshbot-
tom the schoolmaster, and the manuscript of
his assistant, the frail Mr. Pattieson, are all
a part of the fictitious backsronnd.
SIR WALTER SCOTT
501
intellect have been confounded by hearing the
same dull lesson repeated a hundred times by
rote, and only varied by the various blunders
of the reciters. Even the flowers of classic
genius, Avith which his solitary fancy is most
gratified, have been rendered degraded, in his
imagination, by their connexion with tears, with
errors, and with punishment; so that the
Eclogues of Virgil and Oden of Horace are
each inseparably allied in association with the
sullen figure and monotonous recitation of some
blubbering school-bo}\ If to these mental dis-
tresses are added a delicate frame of body, and
a mind ambitious of some higher distinction
than that of being the tyrant of childhood, the
reader may have some slight conception of the
relief which a solitary walk, in the cool of a
fine summer evening, affords to the head which
has ached, and the nerves which have been
shattered, for so many hours, in plying the
irksome task of public instruction.
* ' To me these evening strolls have been the
happiest hours of an unhappy life; and if any
gentle reader shall hereafter find pleasure in
perusing these lucubrations, I am not unwilling
he should know, that the plan of them has been
usually traced in those moments, when relief
from toil and clamour, combined with the quiet
scenery around me, has disposed my mind to the
task of composition.
' ' My chief haunt, in these hours of golden
leisure, is the banks of the small stream, which,
winding through a 'lone vale of green bracken,'
passes in front of the village school-house of
Gandercleugh. For the first quarter of a mile,
perhaps, I may be disturbed from my medita-
tions, in order to return the scrape, or doffed
bonnet, of such stragglers among my pupils as
fish for trouts or minnows in the little brook,
or seek rushes and wild-flowers by its margin.
But, beyond the space I have mentioned, the
juvenile anglers do not, after sunset, volun-
tarily extend their excursions. The cause is,
that farther \ip the narrow valley, and in a
recess which seems scooped out of the side of
the steep heathy bank, there is a deserted
burial-ground, Avhich the little cowards are fear-
ful of approaching in the twilight. To me,
however, the place has an inexpressible charm.
It has been long the favourite termination of
my walks, and. if my kind patron forgets not
his promise, will (and probably at no very dis-
tant day) be my final resting-place after my
mortal pilgrimage.
"It is a spot which possesses all the solem-
nity of feeling attached to a burial-ground,
without exciting those of a more unpleasing
description. Having been very little used for
many years, the few hillocks wliich rise above
the level plain are covered with the same short
velvet turf. The monuments, of which there
are not above seven or eight, are half sunk in
the ground, and overgrown with moss. No
newly-erected tomb disturbs the sober serenity
of our reflections by reminding us of recent
calamity, and no rank-springing grass forces
u})on our imagination the recollection, that it
owes its dark luxuriance to the foul and fester-
ing remnants of mortality which ferment be-
neath. The daisy which sprinkles the sod, and
the harebell which hangs over it, derive their
pure nourishment from the dew of heaven, and
their growth impresses us with no degrading
or disgusting .recollections. Death has indeed
been here, and its traces are before us; but
tliey are softened and deprived of their horror
by our distance from the period when they have
been first impressed. Those who sleep beneath
are only connected with us by the reflection,
that they have once been what we now are, and
that, as their relics are now identified with their
mother earth, ours shall, at some future period,
undergo the same transformation.
"Yet, although the moss has been collected
on the most modern of these humble tombs
during four generations of mankind, the memory
of some of those who sleep beneath them is still
held in reverent remembrance. It is true, that,
upon the largest, and, to an antiquary, the most
interesting monument of the group, which bears
the eftigies of a doughty knight in his hood of
mail, with his shield hanging on his breast, the
armorial bearings are defaced by time, and a
few worn-out letters may be read, at the pleasure
of the decipherer, Dns. Johan — de Eamcl, - - -
or Johan - - - de Lamel — . And it is also true,
that of another tomb, richly sculptured with an
ornamental cross, mitre, and pastoral staff, tra-
dition can only aver, that a certain nameless
bishop lies interred there. But upon other two
stones which lie beside, may still be read in
rude prose, and ruder rhyme, the history of
those who sleep beneath them. They belong,
we are assured by the epitaph, to the class
of persecuted Presbyterians who afforded a
melancholy subject for history in the times of
Charles II. and his successor. In returning
from the battle of Pentland Hills, a party of
the insurgents had been attacked in this glen
by a small detachment of the King's troops,
and three or four either killed in the skirmish,
or shot after being made prisoners, as rebels
taken with arms in their hands. The peasantry
continued to attach to the tombs of those vic-
tims of prelacy an honour which they do not
render to more splendid mausoleums; and, when
502
THE EOM ANTIC IJEVIVAL
they point them out to their sons, and narrate
the fate of the sufferers, usually conclude, by
exhorting them to be ready, should times call
for it, to resist to the death in the cause of
civil and religious liberty, like their brave
forefathers.
' ' Although I am far from venerating the
peculiar tenets asserted by those who call them-
selves the followers of those men, and whose
intolerance and narrow-minded bigotry are at
least as conspicuous as their devotional zeal,
yet it is without depreciating the memory of
those sufferers, many of whom united the inde-
pendent sentiments of a Hampden^ with the
suffering zeal of a Hooper or Latimer.2 On the
other hand, it would be unjust to forget, that
many even of those who had been most active
in crushing what they conceived the rebellious
and seditious spirit of those unhappy wander-
ers, displayed themselves, when called upon to
suffer for their political and religious opinions,
the same daring and devoted zeal, tinctured, in
their case, with chivalrous loyalty, as in the
former with republican enthusiasm. It has
often been remarked of the Scottish character,
that the stubbornness with which it is moulded
shows most to advantage in adversity, when it
seems akin to the native sycamore of their hills,
which scorns to be biased in its mode of growth,
even by the influence of the prevailing wind,
but, shooting its branches with equal boldness
in every direction, shows no weather-side to the
storm, and may be broken, but can never be
bended. It must be understood that I speak
of my countrymen as they fall under my own
observation. When in foreign countries, I have
been informed that they are more docile. But
it is time to return from this digression.
"One summer evening, as in a stroll, such as
I have described, I approached this deserted
mansion of the dead, I was somewhat surprised
to hear sounds distinct from those which usually
soothe its solitude, the gentle chiding, namely,
of the brook, and the sighing of the wind in the
boughs of three gigantic ash-trees, which mark
the cemetery. The clink of a hammer was, on
this occasion, distinctly heard ; and T enter-
tained some alarm that a march-dike, long
meditated by the two proprietors whose estates
were divided by my favourite brook, was about
to be drawn up the glen, in order to substitute
its rectilinear deformity for the graceful wind-
ing of the natural boundary. As I approached,
T was agreeably undeceived. An old man was
1 .Tohn !Iampden, who
rofuBed to pay
taxPH levied by
Charles I.
2John Hooper and
Bishop Lati-
mer were both
Imrned for heresy
In 1565.
seated upon the monument of the slaughtered
presbyterians, and busily employed in deepening,
with his chisel, the letters of the inscription,
which, announcing, in scriptural language, the
promised blessings of futurity to be the lot of
the slain, anathematised the murderers with
corresponding violence. A blue bonnet of un-
usual dimensions covered the grey hairs of the •
pious workman. His dress was a large old-
fashioned coat of the coarse cloth called hoddin-
iirey, usually worn by the elder peasants, with
waistcoat and breeches of the same; and the
whole suit, though still in decent repair, had
obviously seen a train of long service. Strong
clouted shoes, studded with hobnails, and gra-
moches or leg gins, made of thick black cloth,
completed his equipment. Beside him, fed
among the graves a pony, the companion of his
journey, whose extreme whiteness, as well as
its projecting bones and hollow eyes, indicated
its antiquity. It was harnessed in the most
simple manner, with a pair of branks,3 a hair
tether, or halter, and a s%mTc, or cushion of
straw, instead of bridle and saddle. A canvas
pouch hung around the neck of the animal, for
the purpose, probabh'. of containing the rider's ■
tools, and any tiling else he might have occasion
to carry with him. Although I had never seen
the old man before, yet from the singularity of
his employment, and the style of his equipage,
I had no difficulty in recognising a religious
itinerant whom I had often heard talked of,
and who was known in various parts of Scotland
by the title of Old Mortality.
"Where this man was born, or what was his
real name, I have never been able to learn; nor
are the motives which made him desert his home,
and adopt the erratic mode of life which he pur-
sued, known to me except very generally. Ac-
cording to the belief of most people, he was a
native of either the county of Dumfries or
Galloway, and lineally descended from some of
those champions of the Covenant, whose deeds
and sufferings were his favourite theme. He is
said to have held, at one period of his life, a
small moorland farm; but, whether from pecu-
niary losses, or domestic misfortune, he had
long renounced that and every other gainful
calling. In the language of Scripture, ho
left his house, his home, and his kindred, and
wandered about until the day of his death, a
period of nearly thirty years.
"During this long pilgrimage, the pious en-
thusiast regulated his circuit so as annually to
visit the graves of the unfortunate Covenanters,
who suffered by the sword, or by the execu-
tioner, during the reigns of the two hist mon-
8 curbs, or bridle
SIR WALTEK SCOTT
503
archs of the Stewart line. These are most
numerous in the western districts of Ayr, Gallo-
way, and Dumfries; but they are also to be
found in other parts of Scotland, wherever the
fugitives had fought, or fallen, or suffered by
military or civil execution. Their tombs are
often apart from all human habitation, in the
remote moors and wilds to which the wanderers
had fled for concealment. But wherever they
existed, Old Mortality was sure to visit them
when his annual round brought them within his
reach. In the most lonely recesses of the moun-
tains, the moor-fowl shooter has been often sur-
prised to find him busied in cleaning the moss
from the grey stones, renewing with his chisel
the half-defaced inscriptions, and repairing the
emblems of death with Avhicli these simple monu-
ments are usually adorned. Motives of the most
sincere, though fanciful devotion, induced the
old man to dedicate so many years of existence
to perform this tribute to the memory of the
deceased warriors of the church. He considered
himself as fulfilling a sacred duty, while renew-
ing to the eyes of posterity the decaying em-
blems of the zeal and sufferings of their fore-
fathers, and thereby trimming, as it were, the
beacon-light, which was to warn future genera-
tions to defend their religion even unto blood.
"In all his wanderings, the old pilgrim never
seemed to need, or was known to accept, pecu-
niary assistance. It is true, his wants were
very few ; for wherever he went, he found ready
quarters in the house of some Cameronian* of
liis own sect, or of some other religious person.
The hosjiitality which was reverentially paid to
him he always acknowledged, by repairing the
gravestones (if there existed any) belonging to
the family or ancestors of his host. As the
wanderer was usually to be seen bent on this
pious task within the precincts of some country
churchyard, or reclined en the solitary tomb-
stone among the heath, disturbing the plover
and the black-cock with the clink of his chisel
and mallet, with his old white pony grazing by
his side, he acquired from his converse among
the dead, the popular appellation of Old
Mortality.
"The character of such a man could have in
it little connexion even with innocent gaiety.
Yet, among those of his own religious persua-
sion, he is reported to have been cheerful. The
descendants of persecutors, or those whom he
supposed guilty of entertaining similar tenets,
and the scoffers at religion by whom he was
sometimes assailed, he usually termed the gen-
eration of vipers.'' Conversing with others, he
i .\n austere sect of Presbyterians. 5 Matthew iii, 7. !
was grave and sententious, not without a cast
of severity. But he is said never to have been
observed to give way to violent passion, except-
ing upon one occasion, when a mischievous
truant-boy defaced with a stone the nose of a
cherub's face, which the old man was engaged
in retouching. I am in general a sparer of the
rod, notwithstanding the maxim of Solomon,
for which school-boys have little reason to
thank his memory; but on this occasion I
deemed it proper to show that I did not hate
the child. — But I must return to the circum-
stances attending my first interview with this
interesting enthusiast.
"In accosting Old Mortality, I did not fail
to pay respect to his years and his principles,
beginning my address by a respectful apology
for interrupting his labours. The old man inter-
mitted the operation of the chisel, took off his
spectacles and wiped them, then, replacing them
on his nose, acknowledged my courtesy by a
suitable return. Encouraged by his affability,
I intruded upon him some questions concerning
the sufferers on whose monument he was now
employed. To talk of the exploits of the
Covenanters was the delight, as to repair their
monuments was the business, of his life. He
was profuse in the communication of all the
minute information which he had collected con-
cerning them, their wars, and their wanderings.
One would almost have sup]iosed he must have
been their contemporary, and have actually be-
I'.eld the passages which he related, so much had
he identified his feelings and opinions with
theirs, and so much had his narratives the
circumstantiality of an eye-witness.
' ' ' We, ' he said, in a tone of exultation, —
' ue are the only true whigs. Carnal men have
assumed that triumphant appellation, following
him whose kingdom is of this world. Which of
them would sit six hours on a wet hill-side to
hear a godly sermon? I trow an hour o't wad
staws them. They are ne'er a hair better than
them that shamena to take upon themsells the
l)ersecuting name of bludethirsty tories. Self-
seekers all of them, strivers after wealth, power,
and worldly ambition, and forgetters alike of
what has been dree'd*' and done by the mighty
men who stood in the gap in the great day of
wrath. Nae wonder they dread the accomplish-
ment of what was spoken by the mouth of the
worthy Mr. Pedens (that precious servant of the
Lord, none of whose words fell to the ground),
that the French monzies" sail rise as fast in the
6 disgust 7 suffered
8 Alexander Peden. an eloquent minister who was
supposed to have prophetic gifts.
monsieurs ( referring to a possible invasion from
France)
504
THE KOMANTIC KEVIVAL
glens of Ayr, and the kennsio of Galloway, as
ever the Highlandmen did in 1677. And now
they are gripping to the bow and to the spear,
when they siild be mourning for a sinfu' land
and a broken covenant.'
"Soothing the old man by letting his pecu-
liar opinions pass without contradiction, and
anxious to prolong conversation with so singu-
lar a character, I prevailed upon him to accept
that hospitality, which ]Mr. Cleishbotham is
always willing to extend to those who need it.
In our way to the schoolmaster's house, we
called at the Wallace Inn, wliere I was pretty
certain I should find my patron about that hour
of the evening. After a courteous interchange
of civilities. Old Mortality was, with difficulty,
prevailed upon to join his host in a single glass
of liquor, and that on condition that he should
be permitted to name the pledge, which he
prefaced with a grace of about five minutes,
and then, with bonnet doffed and eyes uplifted,
drank to the memory of those heroes of the
Kirkii who had first uplifted her banner upon
the mountains. As no persuasion could prevail
on him to extend his conviviality to a second
cup, my patron accompanied him home, and
accommodated him in the Prophet's Chamber,
as it is his pleasure to call the closet which
holds a spare bed, and which is frequently a
place of retreat for the poor traveller.
' ' The next day I took leave of Old Mortality,
who seemed affected by the unusual attention
with which I had cultivated his acquaintance
and listened to his conversation. After he had
mounted, not without difficulty, the old white
pony, he took me by the hand and said, 'The
blessing of our Master be with you, young man!
My hours are like the ears of the latter harvest,
and your days are yet in the spring; and yet
you may be gathered into the garner of mor-
tality before me, for the sickle of death cuts
down the green as oft as the ripe, and there is
a colour in your cheek, that, like the bud of the
rose, serveth oft to hide the worm of corruption.
Wherefore labour as one who knoweth not when
his master calleth. And if it be my lot to re-
turn to this village after ye are gane hame to
your ain place, these auld withered hands will
frame a stane of memorial, that your name may
not perish from among the people. '
"I thanked Old Mortality for his kind inten-
tions in my behalf, and heaved a sigh, not, I
think, of regret so much as of resignation, to
think of the chance that T might soon require
his good offices. Biit though, in all human
probability, he did not err in supposing that
10 From Gaelic ceann, head, headland, mountain.
11 The Scotch, or Pr«*iibyterlan Church.
my span of life may be abridged in youth, he
had over-estimated the period of his own pil
grimage on earth. It is now some years since
he has been missed in all his usual haunts, while
moss, lichen, and deer-hair, are fast covering
those stones, to cleanse which had been the busi-
ness of his life. About the beginning of this
century he closed liis mortal toils, being found
on the highway near Lockerby, in Dumfries-
shire, exhausted and just expiring. The old
white pony, the companion of all his wander-
ings, was standing b}- the side of his dying
master. There was found about his person a
sum of money sufficient for his decent inter-
ment, which serves to show that his death Avas
in no ways hastened by violence or by want.
The common people still regard his memory
with great respect; and many are of opinion,
that the stones which he repaired will not again
require the assistance of the chisel. They even
assert that on the tombs where the manner of
the martyrs' murder is recorded, their names
have remained indelibly legible since the deatli
of Old Mortality, while those of the persecutors,
sculptured on tiie same monuments, have been
entirely defaced. It is hardly necessary to say
that this is a fond imagination, and that, since
the time of the pious pilgrim, the monuments
which were the objects of his care are hastening,
like all earthly memorials, into ruin or decay."
CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834)
From ELIA*
Dream-Children: A Reverie
Children love to listen to stories about their
elders, when thci/ were children; to stretch their
imagination to the conception of a traditionary
great-uncle, or grandame, whom they never saw.
It was in this spirit that my little ones crept
about me the other evening to hear about their
great-grandmother Field, who lived in a great
house in Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than
• "Ella." the sljmature under which Lamb pub
lished his essays In the London Mapazlno. wan
the name of an Italian clerk «t tho Soiith-Soa
IIoiiso whorp Lamb hnrt boon employi'd nearly
thirty vears boforo. The tfsay ontltlod Urcani-
Chtlihni was written some (iinf after tb(
death of his brother .lohn. late In the yea'-
1821. when he and his sister Mary ("Hrldget
Klla") were left alone. ".Mice W n" or
"Allcp Wlnterton" may have stood. In part at
least, for one Ann Simmons (later Mrs. Har-
trnm) for whom Lamb seems to have fell
some attachment. The "Rreat house In Nor-
folk" was a manor-house in Hertfordshire
where his grandmother. Mary Field, had for
many years been housekeeper.
CHABLES LAMB
505
that iu which they aucl papa lived) which had
been the scene (so at least it was generally
believed in that part of the country) of the
tragic incidents which they had lately become
familiar with from the ballad of the Children
in the Wood. Certain it is that the whole story
of the children and their cruel uncle was to be
seen fairly carved out in wood upon the
chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story
down to the Robin Bedbreasts; till a foolish
rich person pulled it down to set up a marble
one of modern invention in its stead, with no
story upon it. Here Alice put out one of her
dear mother's looks, too tender to be called up-
braiding. Then I went on to say how religious
and how good their great-grandmother Field
was, how beloved and respected by everybody,
though she was not indeed the mistress of this
great house, but had only the charge of it
(and yet in some respects she might be said to
be the mistress of it too) committed to her by
the owner, who preferred living in a newer and
more fashionable mansion which he had pur-
chased somewhere in the adjoining county ; but
still she lived in it in a manner as if it had been
her own, and kept up the dignity of the great
house in a sort while she lived, which after-
wards came to decay, and was nearly pulled
down, and all its old ornaments stripped and
carried away to the owner's other house, where
they were set up, and looked as awkward as if
some one were to carry away the old tombs
they had seen lately at the Abbey ,t and stick
them up in Lady C. 's tawdry gilt drawing-
room. Here John smiled, as much as to say,
"that would be foolish indeed." And then I
told how, when she came to die, her funeral
was attended by a concourse of all the poor,
and some of the gentry too, of the neighbour-
hood for many miles round, to show their re-
spect for her memory, because she had been
such a good and religious woman ; so good in-
deed that she knew all the Psaltery by heart,
ay, and a great ])art of the Testament besides.
Here little Alice sjuead her hands. Then I told
what a tall, upright, graceful person their
great-grandmother Field once was; and how in
her youth she was esteemed the best dancer —
here Alice's little right foot played an invol-
untary movement, till, upon my looking grave,
it desisted — the best dancer, I was saying, in
the county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer,
came, and bowed her down with pain ; but it
could never bend her good spirits, or make
them stoop, but they were still upright, be-
t Lamb was fond of visitlnfr Westminster Abbey,
and ho wroto an ossay in protest against the
charge for ."jdmittance which had lately l)een
imposed.
cause she was so good and religious. Then I
told how she was used to sleep by herself in a
lone chamber of the great lone house; and how
she believed that an apparition of two infants
was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down
the great staircase near where she slept, but
she said, "those innocents would do her no
harm ; ' ' and how frightened I used to be,
though in those days I had my maid to sleep
with me, because I was never half so good or
religious as she — and yet I never saw the in-
fants. Here John expanded all his eyebrows
and tried to look courageous. Then I told how
good she was to all her grandchildren, having
us to the great house in the holidays, where I
in particular used to spend many hours by my-
self, in gazing upon the old busts of the Twelve
Caesars, that had been Emperors of Borne, till
the olil marble heads would seem to live again,
or I to be turned into marble with them; how
I never could be tired with roaming about that
huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms, with
their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry,
and carved oaken panels, with the gilding al-
most rubbed out — sometimes in the spacious
old-fashioned gardens, which I had almost to
myself, unless when now and then a solitary
gardening man would cross me — and how the
nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls,
without my ever offering to pluck them, be-
cause they were forbidden fruit, unless now
and then, — and because I had more pleasure in
strolling about among the old melancholy-look-
ing yew-trees, or the firs, and picking up the
red berries, and the fir-apples, which were good
for nothing but to look at — or in lying about
upon the fresh grass with all the fine garden
smells around me — or basking in the orangery,
till I could almost fancy myself ripening too
along with the oranges and the limes in that
grateful Avarmth — or in watching the dace that
darted to and fro in the fish-pond, at the bottom
of the garden, with here and there a great sulky
pike hanging mi<lway down the water in silent
state, as if it mocked at their impertinent frisk-
ings, — I had more pleasure in these busy-idle
diversions than in all the sweet flavours of
peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such-like com-
mon baits of children. Here John slyly depos-
ited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes,
which, not unobserved by Alice, he had medi-
tated dividing with her, and both seemed willing
to relinquish them for the present as irrelevant.
Then, in somewliat a more heightened tone, I
told how, though their great-grandmother Field
loved all her grandchildren, yet in an especial
manner she might be said to love their uncle,
•Tohn L , because he was so handsome and
506
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
spirited a youth, and a king to the rest of us;
and, instead of moping about in solitary cor-
ners, like some of us, he would mount the most
mettlesome horse he could get, when but an
imp no bigger than themselves, and make it
carry him half over the county in a morning,
and join the hunters when there were any out
— and yet he loved the old great house and gar-
dens too, but had too much spirit to be always
pent up within their boundaries — and how their
uncle grew up to man's estate as brave as he
was handsome, to the admiration of every-
body, but of their great-grandmother Field
most especially; and how he used to carry me
upon his back Avhen I was a lame-footed boy —
for he was a good bit older than me — many a
mile when I could not walk for pain ; — and how
in after life he became lame-footed too, and
I did not always (I fear) make allowances
enough for him when he was impatient, and in
pain, nor remember suflScienlly how considerate
he had been to me when I was lame-footed ;
and how when he died, though he had not been
dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a
great while ago, such a distance there is be-
twixt life and death; and how I bore his death
as I thought pretty well at first, but afterwards
it haunted and haunted me; and though I did
not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as
I think he would have done if I had died, yet
I missed him all day long, and knew not till
then how much I had loved him. I missed his
kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished
him to be alive again, to be quarrelling with
him (for we quarrelled sometimes) rather than
not have him again, and was as uneasy with-
out him as he their poor uncle must have
been when the doctor took off his limb. Here
the children fell a crying, and asked if their
little mourning which they had on was not for
uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed me
not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them
some stories about their pretty dead mother.
Then I told how for seven long years, in hope
sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting
ever, I courted the fair Alice W n; and,
as much as children could understand, I ex-
plained to them what coyness, and difficulty,
and denial, meant in maidens — when suddenly,
turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice
looked out at her eyes with such a reality of
re-presentment, that I became in doubt which
of them stood there before me, or whose that
bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both
the children gradually grew fainter to my view,
receding, and still receding, till nothing at last
but two mournful features were seen in the
attermoBt distance, which, without speech,
strangely impressed upon me the effects of
speech : ' ' We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor
arc we children at all. The children of Alice
call Bartrum father. We are nothing; less
than nothing, and dreams. We are only what
might have been, and must wait upon the
tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before
we have existence and a name" and imme-
diately awaking, I found myself quietly seated
in my bachelor arm-chair, where I had fallen
asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by
my side — but John L. (or James Eli a) was
gone forever.
A Dissertation Upox Roast Pig
Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript,* which
my friend M. was obliging enough to read and
explain to me, for the first seventy thousand
ages ate their meat raw, clawing or biting it
from the living animal, just as they do in Abys-
sinia to this day. This period is not obscurely
hinted at by their great Confucius in the second
chapter of his Mundane Mutations, Mhere he
designates a kind of golden age by the term
Chofang, literally the Cooks' Holiday. The
manuscript goes on to say, that the art of
roasting, or rather broiling (which I take to be
the elder-brother), was accidentally discovered
in the manner following. The swineherd, Ho-ti,
having gone out into the woods one morning,
as his manner was, to collect mast for his hogs,
left his cottage in the care of his eldest son,
Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who being fond
of playing with fire, as younkers of his age
commonly are, let some sparks escape into a
bundle of straw, which kindling quickly, spread
the conflagration over every part of their poor
mansion, till it was reduced to ashes. Together
with the cottage (a sorry antediluvian make-
shift of a building, you may think it), what
was of much more importance, a fine litter of
new-farrowed pigs, no less than nine in number,
perished. China pigs have been esteemed a
luxury all over the East, from the remotest
periods that we read of. Bo-bo was in the
utmost consternation, as you may think, not so
much for the sake of the tenement, which his
father and he could easily build up again with
a few dry branches, and the labour of an hour
or two, at any time, as for the loss of the pigs.
While he Mas thinking what he should say to
his father, and wringing his hands over the
smoking remnants of one of those untimely
* The manuscript, and the Chinese names (except
that of Confucius the great phllosouhor). arc
fictitious, but the tradition Itself, wlilcli r.amt>
<il)talnpd from the trnvt>Ili>r Tliomas Manning,
Is an ancl(>nt on«>.
CHARLES LAMB
507
sufferers, an odour assailed his nostrils, unlike
any scent which he had before experienced.
What could it proceed from? — not from the
burnt cottage — he had smelt that smell before
— indeed this was by no meaus the first acci-
dent of the kind which had occurred through
the negligence of this unlucky young fire-brand.
Much less did it resemble that of any known
herb, weed, or flower. A premonitory moisten-
ing at the same time overflowed his nether lip.
He knew not what to think. He next stooped
down to feel the pig, if there were any signs
of life in it. He burnt his fingers, and to cool
them he applied them in his booby fashion to
his mouth. Some of the crumbs of the scorchetl
skin had come away with his fingers, and for
the first time in his life (in the world's life
indeed, for before him no man had known it)
he tasted — crackling!^ Again he felt and fum-
bled at the pig. It did not burn him so much
now; still he licked his fingers from a sort of
habit. The truth at length broke into his slow
understanding, that it was the pig that smelt so,
and the pig that tasted so delicious; and, sur-
rendering himself up to the new-born pleasure,
he fell to tearing up whole handfuls of the
scorched skin with the flesh next it, and was
cramming it down his throat in his beastly
fashion, when his sire entered amid the smoking
rafters, armed with retributory cudgel, and
finding how affairs stood, began to rain blows
upon the young rogue 's shoulders, as thick as
hail-stones, which Bo-bo heeded not any more
than if they had been flies. The tickling
pleasure, which he experienced in his lower
regions, had rendered him quite callous to any
inconveniences he might feel in those remote
quarters. His father might lay on, but he
could not beat him from his pig, till he had
fairly made an end of it, when, becoming a
little more sensible of his situation, something
like the following dialogue ensued.
"You graceless whelp, what have you got
there devouring? Is it not enough that you
have burnt me down three houses with your
dog's tricks, and be hanged to you! but you
must be eating fire, and T know not what — what
have you got there, T say ? ' '
"O father, the pig, the pig! do come and
taste how nice the burnt pig eats."
The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He
cursed his son, and he cursed himself, that ever
he should beget a son that should eat burnt pig.
Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharp-
ened since morning, soon raked out another pig,
and fairly rending it asunder, thrust the lesser
1 The crisp skin of roast pork.
half by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still
shouting out, "Eat, eat, eat the burnt pig,
father ; only taste — O Lord ! ' ' — with such-liko
barbarous ejaculatious, cramming all the while
as if he would choke.
Ho-ti trembled every joint while he grasped
the abominable thing, wavering whether he
should not put his son to death for an un-
natural young monster, when the crackling
scorching his fingers, as it had done his son's,
and applying the same remedy to them, he in
his turn tasted some of its flavour, which, make
what sour mouths he would for a pretense,
proved not altogether displeasing to him. In
conclusion (for the manuscript here is a little
tedious), both father and son fairly sat down
to the mess, and never left oft' till they had
despatched all that remained of the litter.
Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the
secret escape, for the neighbours would cer-
tainly have stoned them for a couple of abomi-
nable wretches, who could think of improving
upon the good meat which God had sent them.
Nevertheless, strange stories got about. It was
observed that Ho-ti 's cottage was burnt down
now more frequently than ever. Nothing but
fires from this time forward. Some would
break out in broad day, others in the night-
time. As often as the sow farrowed, so sure
was the house of Ho-ti to be in a blaze; and
Ho-ti himself, which was the more remarkable,
instead of chastising his son, seemed to grow
more indulgent to him than ever. At length
they were watched, the terrible mystery dis-
covered, and father and son summoned to take
their trial at Pekin, then an inconsiderable
assize town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious
food itself produced in court, and verdict about
to be pronounced, when the foreman of the jury
begged that some of the burnt pig, of which
the culprits stood accused, might be handed int j
the box. He handled it, and they all handled
it; and burning their fingers, as Bo-bo and his
father had done before them, and nature
proinpting to each of them the same remedy,
against the face of all the facts, and the clear-
est charge which judge had ever given, — to the
surprise of the whole court, townsfolk, strangers,
reporters, and all present — without leaving the
box, or any manner of consultation whatever,
they brought in a simultaneous verdict of Not
Guilty.
The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked
at the manifest iniquity of the decision; and
when the court was dismissed, went privily, and
bought up all the pigs that could be had for
love or money. In a few days his Lordship's
town-house was observed to be on fire. The
508
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
thing took wing, and now there was nothing to
be seen but fires in every direction. Fuel and
pigs grew enormously dear all over the district.
The insurance-offices one and all shut up shop.
People built slighter and slighter every day,
until it was feared that the very science of
architecture would in no long time be lost to
the world. Thus this custom of firing houses
continued, till in process of time, says my
nianuscrii)t, a sage arose, like our Locke.s who
made a discovery, that the flesh of swine, or
indeed of any other animal, might be cooked
(burnt, as they called it) without the necessity
of consuming a whole house to dress it. Then
first began the rude form of a gridiron. Roast-
ing by the string, or spit, came in a century or
two later, I forget in whose dynasty. By such
slow degrees, concludes the manuscript, do the
most useful, and seemingly the most obvious
arts, make their way among mankind. —
Without placing too implicit faith in the
account above given, it must be agreed, that if
a worthy pretext for so dangerous an experi-
ment as setting houses on fire (especially in
these days) could be assigned in favour of any
culinary object, that pretext and excuse might
be found in roast pig.
Of all the delicacies in the whole mtindm
edibilis,^ I will maintain it to be the most
delicate — princeps obsoniorum.*
I speak not of your grown porkers — things
between pig and pork — those hobbydehoys^ —
but a young and tender suckling — under a moon
old — guiltless as yet of the sty — with no original
speck of the amor immunditice ,^ the hereditary
failing of the first parent, yet manifest — his
voice as yet not broken, but something between
a childish treble and a grumble — the mild fore-
runner, or priehidium, of a grunt.
He must be roasied. I am not ignorant that
our ancestors ate them seethed, or boiled — but
what a sacrifice of the exterior tegument!
There is no flavour comparable, I will con-
tend, to that of the crisp, tawny, well-watched,
not over-roasted, cracUitu/, as it is well called —
the very teeth are invited to their share of the
pleasure at this banquet in overcoming the coy,
brittle resistance — with the adliesive oleaginous
— O call it not fat! but an indefinable sweetness
growing up to it — the tender blossoming of fat
— fat cropped in the bud — taken in the shoot — in
the first innocence — the cream and quintessence
of the child-pig's yet pure food — die lean, no
lean, but a kind of animal manna — or, rather,
2 John Locke, a British
plillosoplior.
8 world of cdibloN
* chief of tidbits
(■•youths at tlu» awlc-
ward HK<'
« lovp of dirt
fat and lean (if it must be so) so blended and
running into each other, that both together make
but one ambrosian result, or common substance.
Behold him, while he is "doing" — it seemeth
rather a refreshing warmth, than a scorching
heat, that he is so passive to. How equably he
twirleth round the string! — Now he is just done.
To see the extreme sensibility of that tender
age! he hath wept out his pretty eyes — radiant
jellies — shooting stars" —
See him in tlie dish, his second cradle, how
meek he lieth! — wouldst thou have had this
innocent grow up to the grossness and indo-
cility whicli too often accompany maturer swine-
lioodl Ten to one he would have ])roved a glut-
ton, a sloven, an ol)stinate disagreeable animal
— wallowing in all manner of filthy conversation.
From these sins he is happily snatched away —
Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade,
Death came with timely cares —
his memory is odoriferous — no clown curseth,
while his stomach half rejecteth, the rank liacon
— no coalheaver bolteth him in reeking sausages
— lie hath a fair sepulchre in the grateful
stomach of the judicious epicure — and for such
a tomb might be content to die.
He is the best of sapors.o Pine-apple is
great. She is indeed almost too transcendent
— a delight, if not sinful, yet so like to sinning,
that really a tender-conscienced person would do
well to pause — too ravishing for mortal taste,
she woundeth and excoriateth the lips that
approach her — like lovers' kisses, she biteth —
she is a pleasure bordering on pain from tlie
fierceness and insanity of her relish — but she
stoppeth at the palate — she meddleth not witli
the appetite — and the coarsest hunger might
barter her consistently for a mutton chop.
Pig — let me speak his praise — is no less jiro-
vocative of the appetite, than he is satisfactory
to the criticalness of the censorious palate. The
strong man may batten on him, and the weak-
ling refuseth not his mild juices.
Fnlike to mankind's mixed characters, a
bundle of virtues and vices, inexplicably inter-
twisted and not to be unravelled without hazard,
he is — good throughout. No part of him is bet-
ter or worse than another. He helpeth, as far
as his little means extend, all around. He is the
least envious of banquets. He is all neighbours '
fare.
1 nm one of those who freely and ungrudg-
r Ancli'nt superstition roKardpd cortain Jellv-llko
fuuKi as fallen shootinK-stnrs. ronipnri'.
moreover, Cornwall's "Out. vile jelly" {Kiii</
Lear, III, vll. 8.S).
H ('ol(<rld;.'p : Enitnph oil an Infant.
n Kiivors
CHARLES LAMB
;09
iiigly impart a share of the good things of this
life which fall to their lot (few as mine are iu
this kind) to a friend. 1 protest I take as
great an interest in my friend's pleasures, his
relishes, and proper satisfactions, as in mine
own. "Presents," I often say, "endear Ab-
sents." Hares, pheasants, partridges, snipes,
barn-door chickens (those "tame villatici^
fowl"), capons, plovers, brawn,ii barrels of
oysters, I dispense as freely as I receive them.
I love to taste them, as it were, upon the tongue
of my friend. But a stop must be put some-
where. One would not, like Lear, "give every-
thing. ' '12 I make my stand uponis pig. Me-
thinks it is an ingratitude to the Giver of all
good flavours, to extra-domiciliate, or send out
of the house slightingly (under pretext of
friendship, or I know not what), a blessing so
particularly adapted, predestined, I may say, to
my individual palate — it argues an insensibility.
I remember a touch of conscience in this kind
at school. My good old aunt, who never parted
from me at the end of a holiday without stuffing
a sweet-meat, or some nice thing, into my
jiocket, had dismissed me one evening with a
smoking plum-cake, fresh from the oven. In
my way to school (it was over London Bridge)
a gray-headed old beggar saluted me (I have no
doubt at this time of day that he was a counter-
feit). I had no pence to console him with, and
in the vanity of self-denial, and the very cox-
combry of charity, schoolboy-like, I made him a
present of — the whole cake! I walked on a
little, buoyed up, as one is on such occasions,
with a sweet soothing of self-satisfaction; but
before I had got to the end of the bridge, my
better feelings returned, and I burst into tears,
thinking how ungrateful I had been to my good
aunt, to go and give her good gift away to a
stranger that I had never seen before, and who
might be a bad man for aught I knew; and
then I thought of the pleasure my aunt would
be taking in thinking that I — I myself and not
another — would eat her nice cake — and what
should I say to her the next time I saw her —
how naughty I was to part with her pretty
l)resent! — and the odour of that spicy cake
came back upon my recollection, and the
pleasure and the curiosity I had taken in seeing
her make it, and her joy when she had sent it
to the oven, and how disappointed she would
feel tiiat I had never had a bit of it in my
mouth at last — and I blamed my impertinent
spirit of alms-giving, and out-of-place hypoc-
10 farm -yard (Milton: n pickled boar's flesh
l<<jmh>n Agonixten, 12 Kiiif/ Leor, II. iv. 2.").'*..
line 1695) i'. halt at
risy of goodness; and above all, I wisheil never
to see the face again of that insidious, good-for-
nothing, old gray impostor.
Our ancestors were nicei* in their method of
sacrificing these tender victims. We read of
pigs whipt to death with something of a shock,
as we hear of any other obsolete custom. The
age of discipline is gone b}', or it would be
curious to inquire (in a philosophical light
merely) what effect this process might have
towards intenerating and dulcifying a sub-
stance, naturally so mild and dulcet as the flesh
of young pigs. It looks like refining a violet.
Yet we should be cautious, while we condemn
the inhumanity, how we censure the wisdom of
the practice. It might impart a gusto —
I remember an hypothesis, argued upon by
the young students, when I was at St. Omer's,!^
and maintained with much learning and pleas-
antry on both sides, ' ' Whether, supposing that
the flavour of a pig who obtained his death by
whipping (per ffagellationem extremam) super-
added a pleasure upon the palate of a man
more intense than any possible suffering we can
conceive in the animal, is man justified in using
that method of putting the animal to death?"
I forget the decision.
His sauce should be considered. Decidedly a
few bread crumbs, done up with his liver and
brains, and a dash of mild sage. But banish,
dear Mrs. Cook, I beseech you, the whole onion
tribe. Barbecue your whole hogs to your palate,
steep them in shalots, stuff them out with jjlan-
tations of the rank and guilty garlic ; you can-
not poison them, or make them stronger than
they are — but consider, he is a weakling — a
flower.
From THE LAST ESSAYS OF ELIA
Old China
I have an almost feminine partiality for old
china. When I go to see any great house, I
inquire for the china-closet, and next for the
picture-gallery. I cannot defend the order of
preference, but by saying that we have all some
taste or other, of too ancient a date to admit of
our remembering distinctly that it was an ac
quired one. I can call to mind the first play,
and the first exhibition, that I was taken to;
but I am not conscious of a time when china
jars and saucers were introduced into my imagi-
nation.
I had no repugnance then — why should I now
have? — to those little, lawless, azure-tinctured
H particular
ir, A .lesuit Collpse (Lamb was never a student
thorci.
510
THE ROMANTIC BEVIVAL
grotesques, that, under the notion of men and
women, float about, uncircumscribed by any
element, in that world before perspective — a
china tea-cup.
I like to see my old friends — whom distance
cannot diminish — figuring up in the air (so they
appear to our optics), yet on terra fir ma still —
for so we must in courtesy interpret that speck
of deeper blue, which the decorous artist, to
prevent absurdity, has made to siiring up
beneath their sandals.
I love the men with women's faces, and the
women, if possible, with still more womanish
expressions.
Here is a young and courtly Mandarin, hand-
ing tea to a lady from a salver — two miles off.
See how distance seems to set off respect! And
here the same lady, or another — for likeness is
identity on tea-cups — is stepping into a little
fairy boat, moored on the hither side of this
calm garden river, with a dainty mincing foot,
which in a rights angle of incidence (as angles
go in our world) must infallibly land her in the
midst of a flowery mead — a furlong off on the
other side of the same strange stream!
Farther on — if far or near can be predicated
of their world — see horses, trees, pagodas,
dancing the hays.2
Here — a cow and rabbit couchant and co-
extensive — so objects show, seen through the
lucid atmosphere of fine Cathaj'.s
I was pointing out to my cousin last evening,
over our Hyson* (which we are old-fasliioned
enough to drink unmixed still of an afternoon),
some of these speciosa Diiracula'' upon a set of
extraordinary old blue china (a recent pur-
chase) which we were now for the first time
using; and could not help remarking, how
favourable circumstances had been to us of late
years, that we could afford to please the eye
sometimes with trifles of this sort — when a
passing sentiment seemed to overshade the
brows of my companion. I am quick at detect-
ing these summer clouds in Bridget.^
* ' I wish the good old times would come
again," she said, "when we were not quite so
rich. I do not mean that I want to be poor;
but there was a middle state" — so she was
pleased to ramble on — "in which I am sure we
were a great deal happier. A purchase is but
a purchase, now that you have money enough
and to spare. Formerly it used to be a tri-
umph. Wlien we coveted a cheap luxury (and
O! how much ado I had to get you to consent in
1 proporly calonlatod
2 An old KnKliHh danro.
sChtnoKc Tartary (used
liMtsely for China)
* grocn tea
5 radiant wondora
Sco Introductory note
on "Ella."
those times ! ) we were used to have a debate
two or three days before, and to weigh the fort
and ofjainst, and think what we might spare itj
out of, and what saving avc could hit upon, thati
should be an equivalent. A thing was Avorthj
buying then when we felt the money that wej
paid for it.
' ' Do you remember the brown suit, which you
made to hang upon you, till all your friends
cried shame upon you, it grew so threadbare —
and all because of that folio Beaumont and
Fletcher* which you dragged home late at night
from Barker's in Covent Garden ?7 Do you
remember how we eyed it for weeks before we
could make up our minds to the purchase, and
had not come to a determination till it was near
ten o 'clock of the Saturday night, when you set
off from Islington,^ fearing you should be too
late — and when the old bookseller with some
grumbling opened his shop, and by the twinkling
taper (for he was setting bedwards) lighted out
the relic from his dusty treasures — and when
you lugged it home, wishing it were twice as
cumbersome — and when you presented it to me
— and when we were exploring the perfectuess
of it (collating, you called it) — and while I was
repairing some of the loose leaves with paste,
which your impatience would not suffer to be
left till day-break — was there no pleasure in
being a poor man? or can those neat black
clothes which you wear now, and are so careful
to keep brushed, since we have become rich and
finical, give you half the honest vanity with
which you flaunted it about in that overworn
suit — your old corbeau^ — for four or five weeks
longer than yon should have done, to pacify
your conscience for the mighty sum of fifteen —
or sixteen shillings was itf — a great affair we
thought it then — which you had lavished on tlie
old folio. Now you can afford to buy any book
that pleases you, but I do not see that you ever
bring me home any nice old purchases now.
* * When you came home with twenty apologies
for laying out a less number of shillings upon
that print after Lionardo,io which we christened
the ' Lady Blanche ; ' when you looked at the
purchase, and thought of the money — and
thought of the money, and looked again at the
picture — was there no pleasure in being a poor
man ? Now-, you have nothing to do but to walk
into Colnaghi's, and buy a wildernessn of
Lionardos. Yet do youf
7 A squarp In the heart » black coat
of London, best lo Leonardo da Vinci,
known for Its fruit the Italian painter,
and flower markets. ii Merchant of Venice.
8 In nortborn London. HL 1. 128.
• This particular vohime. with notes In It by
C"ol«TldBe. is now In the Rritlsh Mnsoum.
CHARLES LAMB
ill
"Then, do you remember our pleasant walks
to Enfield, and Potter's Bar, and Waltham,i^
^vhen we had a holiday — holidays and all other
fun are gone, now we are rich — and the little
nandbasket in w hich I used to deposit our day 's
fare of savory, cold lamb and salad — and how
you would pry about at noontide for some
decent house, where we might go in, and pro-
duce our store — only paying for the ale that
you must call for — and speculate upon the looks
of the landlady, and whether she was likely to
allow us a table-cloth — and wish for such an-
other honest hostess, as Izaak Walton has de-
scribed many a one on tlie pleasant banks of
the Lea, when he went a-fishing — and sometimes
they would prove obliging enough, and some-
times they would look grudgingly upon us — but
we had cheerful looks still for one another, and
would eat our plain food savorily, scarcely
grudging Piscatoris his Trout Hall? Now,
when we go out a day 's pleasuring, which is
seldom moreover, we ride part of the way — and
go into a fine inn, and order the best of dinners,
never debating the expense — which, after all,
never has half the relish of those chance country
snaps, when we were at the mercy of uncertain
usage, and a precarious welcome.
"You are too proud to see a play anywhere
now but in the pit. Do you remember where it
was we used to sit, when we saw the Battle of
Hexam and the Surrender of Calais,i* and Ban-
nisteris and Mrs. Bland in the Children in the
Woodis — when we squeezed out our shilling
a-piece to sit three or four times in a season in
the one-shilling gallery — where you felt all the
time that you ought not to have brought me —
and more strongly I felt obligation to you for
having brought me — and the pleasure was the
better for a little shame — and when the curtain
drew up, what cared we for our place in the
house, or what mattered it where we were sit-
ting, when our thoughts were with Bosalind in
Arden, or with Viola at the court of Illyria?i'
You used to say, that the gallery was the best
place of all for enjoying a jday socially — that
the relish of such exhibitions must be in propor-
tion to the infrequeney of going — that the com-
pany we met there, not being in general readers
of plays, were obliged to attend the more, and
did attend, to what was going on, on the stage
— because a word lost would have been a chasm,
which it was impossible for them to fill up.
12 London suburbs.
13 See Walton's The
Complete Angler, p.
264.
14 Plays by George Col-
man the younger.
15 John Bannister, a
pupil of Garrick.
16 A comedy by Tbomas
Morton.
17 In As Yoii Like It
and Tirelfth yight.
With such reflections we consoled our pride then
— and I appeal to you, whether, as a woman, I
met generally with less attention and accommo-
ilation than I have done since in more expensive
situations in the house ? The getting in indeed,
and the crowding up those inconvenient stair-
cases, was bad enough, — but there was still a
law of civility to women recognized to quite as
great an extent as we ever found in the other
passages — and how a little diflBculty overcome
heightened the snug seat, and the play, after-
wards! Now we can only pay our money, and
walk in. You cannot see, you say, in the gal-
leries now. I am sure we saw, and heard too,
well enough then — but sight, and all, I think is
gone with our poverty.
"There was pleasure in eating strawberries,
before they became quite common — in the first
dish of peas, while they were yet dear — to have
them for a nice supper, a treat. What treat
can we have now? If we were to treat ourselves
now — that is, to have dainties a little above our
means, it would be selfish and wicked. It is the
very little more that we allow ourselves beyond
what the actual poor can get at, that makes
what I call a treat — when two people, living to-
gether as we have done, now and then imlulge
themselves in a cheap luxury which both like;
while each apologizes, and is willing to take
both halves of the blame to his single share.
1 see no harm in people making njuch of them-
selves, in that sense of the word. It may give
them a hint how to make much of others. But
now — what I mean by the word — we never do
make much of ourselves. None but the poor
can do it. I do not mean the veriest poor of
all, but i)ersons as we were, just above poverty.
' * I know what you were going to say, that it
is mighty pleasant at tiie end of the year to
make all meet — and much ado we used to have
every Thirty-first Night of December to account
for our exceedings — many a long face did you
make over your jmzzled accounts, and in con-
tri\-ing to make it out how we had spent so
much — or that we had not spent so much — or
that it was impossible we should spend so much
next year — ami still we found our slender capi-
tal decreasing — but then, betwixt ways, and
projects, and compromises of one sort or an-
other, an.l talk of curtailing this charge, and
doing without that for the future — and the hope
that youth brings, and laughing spirits (in
which you were never poor till now), we pock-
eted up our loss, and in conclusion, with 'lusty
brimmers' (as you used to quote it out of
hearty cheerful Mr. Cotton,i» as you called
IS Charles Cotton : The Xeir Tear.
512
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
him), we used to welcome in the 'coming guest.'
Now we have no reckoning at all at the end of
the old year — no flattering promises about the
new year doing better for us. ' '
Bridget is so sparing of her speech on most
occasions, that when she gets into a rhetorical
vein, I am careful how I interrupt it. I could
not help, however, smiling at the phantom of
wealth which her dear imagination had conjured
up out of a clear income of poor hundred
pounds a year. "It is true we were happier
when we were poorer, but we were also younger,
my cousin. I am afraid we must put up with
the excess, for if we were to shake the superflux
into the sea, we should not much mend ourselves.
That we had much to struggle with, as we grew
up together, we have reason to be most thank-
ful. It strengthened, and knit our compact
closer. "We could never have been what we have
been to each other, if we had always had the
sufficiency which you now complain of. The
resisting power — those natural dilations of the
youthful spirit, which circumstances cannot
straiten — with us are long since passed away.
Competence to age is supplementary youth; a
sorry supplement indeed, but I fear the best that
is to be had. We must ride, where we formerly
walked; live better, and lie softer — and shall be
wise to do so — than we had means to do in those
good old days you speak of. Yet could those
days return — could you and I once more walk
our thirty miles a-day — could Bannister and
Mrs. Bland again be young, and you and I be
young to see them — could the good old one-
shilling gallery days return — they are dreams,
my cousin, now — but could you and I at this
moment, instead of this quiet argument, by our
well-carpeted fireside, sitting on this luxurious
sofa — be once more struggling up those incon-
venient staircases, pushed about, and squeezed,
and elbowed by the poorest rabble of poor
gallery scramblers — could I once more hear
those anxious shrieks of yours — and the deli-
cious Thank God, we are safe, which always
followed when the topmost stair, conquered, let
in the first light of the whole cheerful theatre
down beneath us — I know not the fathom line
that ever touched a descent so deep as I would
be willing to bury more wealth in than Croesusi"
had, or the great Jew R 20 is supposed to
have, to purchase it.
"And now do just look at that merry little
Chinese waiter holding an umbrella, big enough
for a bed-tester ,21 over the head of that pretty
insipid half-Madona-ish chit of a lady in that
very blue summer-house. ' '
in King of T.rdla.
2oltothH<blld
21 l)od <nnopy
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
(1775-1864)
From IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS
Metellus and Maeius*
MeteUus. Well met, Cains Marius! My or-
ders are to find instantly a centurion who shall
mount the walls; one capable of observation,
acute in remark, prompt, calm, active, intrepid.
The Numantians are sacrificing to the gods in
secrecy; they have sounded the horn once only,
— and hoarsely and low and mournfully.
Marius. Was that ladder I see yonder
among the caper-bushes and purple lilies, un-
der where the fig-tree grows out of the ram-
part, left for me?
Metellus. Even so, wert thou willing.
Wouldst thou mount it?
Marius. Rejoicingly. If none are below or
near, may I explore the state of things by
entering the city?
Metellus. Use thy discretion in that.
What seest thou? Wouldst thou leap down?
Lift the ladder.
]ilarius. Are there spikes in it where it
sticks in the turf? I should slip else.
Metellus. How! bravest of our centurions,
art even thou afraid? Seest thou any one by?
^farius. Ay; some hundreds close beneath
me.
Metellus. Retire, then. Hasten back; I will
protect thy descent.
Marius. May I speak, O Metellus, without
an offence to discipline?
Metellus. Say.
Marius. Listen! Dost thou not hear?
Metellus. Shame on thee! alight, alight! my
shield shall cover thee.
Marius. There is a murmur like the hum of
bees in the bean-field of Cereat4;i for the sun
is hot, and the ground is thirsty. When will it
1 The rustic home of Marius's childhood, near
Arpiuum.
* The sie«o and oaptuio, in l.'?2 B. C, of the
Numantlnns, struggling with 8,000 men
against the whole power of Rome, was one of
the stages in the disgracefnl tliird I'lmio war,
which was conducted by Scipio Africanus the
Youngor. Caius Caecillus Motcllus, the tribune,
was a comparatively unimportant personage.
Marius. the centurion, of obscure birth, rose
later to be seven times consul. IMutarch tells
us that Scipio had marked the youth's good
qnalltles, and when asked who should succeed
himself in case of accident, had touched the
shoulder of Marius, saying. "Perhaps this
man ;" which saying "raised the hopes of
Marius like a divine oracle." On this slight
historical foundation I.andor constructs his
dramatic scene. The Numantians, in all prob
ability, had no regular walla ; and Appian
says that some of them preferred surrender to
death and were led in a Roman Triumph.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
513
have drunk up for me the blood that has run,
and is yet oozing on it, from those fresh
bodies I
Metellus. How! We have not fought for
many days; what bodies, then, are fresh ones?
Mariun. Close beneath the wall are those of
infants and of girls; in the middle of the road
are youths, emaciated; some either unvvounded
or wounded months ago; some on their spears,
others on their swords: no few have received
in mutual death the last interchange of friend-
ship; their daggers unite them, hilt to hilt,
bosom to bosom.
Metellus. Mark rather the living, — what are
they about?
Marias. About the sacrifice, which portends
them, I conjecture, but little good, — it burns
sullenly and slowly. The victim will lie upon
the pyre till morning, and still be unconsumed.
unless they bring more fuel.
I will leap down and Avalk on cautiously, and
return with tidings, if death should spare me.
Never was any race of mortals so unmilitary
as these Numantians; no watch, no stations,
no palisades across the streets.
Metellus. Did they want, then, all the wood
for the altar?
Marius. It appears so — I will return anon.
Metellus. The gods speed thee, my brave,
honest Marius!
Marhi^ (returned). The ladder should have
been better spiked for that slippery ground.
I am down again safe, however. Here a man
may walk securely, and without picking his
steps.
Metellus. Tell me, Caius, what thou sawest.
Marius. The streets of Numantia.
Metellus. Doubtless; but what else?
Marius. The temples and markets and places
of exercise and fountains.
Metellus. Art thou crazed, centurion? what
more? Speak plainly, at once, and briefly.
Marius. I beheld, then, all Nuniantia.
Metellus. Has terror maddened thee? hast
Ihou descried nothing of the inhabitants but
those carcasses under the ramparts?
Marius. Those, Metellus, lie scattered, al-
though not indeed far asunder. The greater
part of the soldiers and citizens — of the
fathers, husbands, widows, wives, espoused —
were assembled together.
Metellus. About the altar?
Marhis. Upon it.
Metellus. So busy and earnest in devotion!
but how all upon it?
Marius. It blazed under them, and over
them, and round about them.
Metellus. Immortal gods! Art thou sane,
Caius Marius? Thy \isage is scorched: thy
speech may wander after such an enterprise;
thy shield burns my hand.
Marius. I thought it had cooled again. Why,
truly, it seems hot: 1 now feel it.
Metellus. W'ipe off those embers.
Marius. 'Twere better: there will be none
opposite to shake them upon, for some time.
The funereal horn, that sounded with such
feebleness, sounded not so from the faint heart
of him wiio blew it. Him I saw ; him only of
the living. Should I say it? there was an-
other: there was one child whom its parent
could not kill, could not part from. She had
hidden it in her robe, I suspect; and, when the
fire had reached it, either it shrieked or she
did. For suddenly a cry pierced through the
crackling pinewood, and something of round
in figure fell from brand to brand, until it
reached the pavement, at the feet of him who
had blown the horn. I rushed toward him, for
I wanted to hear the whole story, and felt the
pressure of time. Condemn not my weakness,
Caecilius! I wished an enemy to live an
hour longer ; for my orders were to explore and
bring intelligence. When I gazed on him, in
height almost gigantic, I wondered not that the
blast of his trumpet was so weak : rather did
1 wonder that Famine, whose hand had in-
dented everj- limb and feature, had left him
any voice articulate. I rushed toward him,
however, ere my eyes had measured eitlier his
form or strength. He held the child against
me, and staggered under it.
"Behold," he exclaimed, "the glorious or-
nament of a Roman triumph!"
I stood horror-stricken ; when suddenly drops,
as of rain, pattered down from the pyre. I
looked; and many were the precious stones,
many were the amulets and rings and brace-
lets, and other barbaric ornaments, unknown to
me in form or purpose, that tinkled on the
hardened and black branches, from mothers and
wives and betrothed maids; and some, too, I
can imagine, from robuster arms — things of
joyance. won in battle. The crowd of incum-
bent bodies was so dense and heavy, that
neither the fire nor the smoke could penetrate
upward from among them ; and they sank,
whole and at once, into the smouldering cavern
eaten out below. He at whose neck hung the
trumpet felt this, and started.
"There is yet room," he cried, "and there
is strength enough yet, both in the element and
in me."
He extended his withered arms, he thrust
forward the gaunt links of his throat, and upon
gnarled knees, that smote each other audibly,
514
THE KOMANTIG REVIVAL
tottered into the civic- fire. It — like some hun-
gry and strangest beast on the innermost wild
of Africa, pierced, broken, prostrate, motion-
less, gazed at by its hunter in the impatience
of glory, in the delight of awe — panted once
more, and seized him.
I have seen within this hour, O Metellus,
what Rome in the cycle of her triumphs will
never see, what the Sun in his eternal course
can never show her, what the Earth has borne
l)Ut now, and must never rear again for her,
what Victory herself has envied her, — a
JVumantian.
Metelhis. We shall feast to-morrow. Hope,
fains Mai'ius, to become a tribune: trust in
fortune.
Marius. Auguries are surer: surest of all is
perseverance.
Metellus. I hope the wine has not grown
vapid in my tent: I have kept it waiting, and
must now report to Scipio the intelligence of
our discovery. Come after me, Caius.
Marhis (alone). The tribune is the discov-
erer! the centurion is the scout! Caius
Marius must enter more Numantias. Light-
hearted Caecilius, thou mayest perhaps here-
after, and not with humbled but with exulting
pride, take orders from this hand. If Scipio 's
words are fate, and to me they sound so, the
])ortals of the Capitol may shake before my
chariot, as my horses plunge back at the ap-
plauses of the people, and Jove in his high
domiciles may welcome the citizen of Arpinum.
Leofric and Godiva*
Godiva. There is a dearth in the land, my
sweet Leofric! Remember how many weeks
of drought we have had, even in the deep pas-
tures of Leicestershire; and how many Sundays
ive have heard the same prayers for rain, and
supplications that it would please the Lord in
his mercy to turn aside his anger from the poor,
pining cattle. You, my dear husband, have im-
prisoned more than one malefactor for leaving
his dead ox in the public way; and other hinds*
have fled before you out of the traces, in which
they, and their sons and their daughters, and
2 citizens' (perhaps after the analogy of • the
"civic" crown, conferred for distinction)
3 The Temple of Jupiter, whither the leader of a
Triumph went lo offer sacrifice.
4 peasants.
• According to legend, Leofric, Earl of Mercla in
the 11th century, acceded to his wife's plea,
that he remit n certain burdensome tax on
the people, on the harsh condillon that she
should ride through the street naked at noon-
day. She fulfilled the condition with modesty,
owing to her luxuriant hair.
haply their old fathers and njothcrs, were drag-
ging the abandoned wain homeward. Although
we were accompanied by many brave spearmen
and skilful archers, it was perilous to pass the
creatures which the farm-yard dogs, driven
from the hearth by the poverty of their mas-
ters, were tearing and devouring; while others,
bitten and lamed, filled the air either with
long and deep howls or sharp and quick bark-
ings, as they struggled with hunger and feeble-
ness, or were exasperated by heat and pain.
Nor could the thyme from the heath, nor the
bruised branches of the fir-tree, extinguish or
abate the foul odour,
Leofric. And now, Godiva, my darling, thou
art afraid we should be eaten up before we
enter the gates of Coventry; or perchance that
in the gardens there are no roses to greet thee^
no sweet herbs for thy mat and pillow. *
Godiva. Leofric, I have no such fears. This
is the month of roses: I find them everywhere
since my blessed marriage. They, and all other
sweet herbs, I know not why, seem to greet me
wherever I look at them, as though they knew
and expected me. Surely they cannot feel that
I am fond of them.
Leofric. O light, laughing simpleton! But
what wouldst thou 1 I came not hither to pray ;
and yet if praying would satisfy thee, or re
move the drought, I would ride up straightway
to Saint Michael 's and pray until morning.
Godiva. I would do the same, O Leofric!
but God hath turned away his ear from holier
lips than mine. Would my own dear husbaml
hear me, if I implored him for what is easier
to accomplish, — what he can do like God?
Leofric. How ! what is it f
Godiva. I would not, in the first hurry of
your wrath, appeal to you, my loving Lord, in
behalf of these unhappy men who have offende<l
you.
Leofric. Unhappy! is that all?
Godiva. Unhappy they must surely be, to
have otfended you so grievously. What a soft
air breatlies over us! how quiet and serene and
still an evening! how calm are the heavens and
the earth! — Shall none enjoy them; not even
we, my Leofric? The sun is ready to set: let
it never set, O Leofric, on your anger. These
are not my words: they are better than mine."'
Should they lose their virtue from my unworlhi-
nesa in uttering them?
Leofric. Godiva, wouldst thou plead to uu\
for rebels?
Godiva. They have, then, drawn the sword
against you? Indeed, I knew it not.
' Epheiiaii}!. Iv. 2fi.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOE
51^
Lcofric. Tliey have omitted to send me my
dues, established by my ancestors, well knowing
of our nuptials, and of the charges and festivi-
ties they, require, and that in a season of such
scarcity my own lauds are insufficient.
Godiva. If they were starving, as they said
they were
Leofric. Must I starve tool Is it not enough
to lose my vassals?
Godiva. Enough! O God! too much! too
much! May you never lose them! Give them
life, peace, comfort, contentment. There are
those among them who kissed me in my in-
fancy, and who blessed me at the baptismal
font. Leofric, Leofric! the first old man I
meet I shall think is one of those; and I shall
think on the blessing he gave me, and (ah me!)
on the blessing 1 bring back to him. My heart
will bleed, will burst ; and he will weep at it !
he will weep, poor soul, for the wife of a cruel
lord who denounces vengeance on him, who
carries death into his family!
Leofric. We must hold solemn festivals.
Godiva. We must, indeed.
Leofric. Well, then?
Godiva. Is the clamorousness that succeeds
the death of God 's dumb creatures, are crowded
halls, are slaughtered cattle, festivals? — are
maddening songs, and giddy dances, and hire-
ling praises from parti-coloured coats? Can the
voice of a minstrel tell us better things of our-
selves than our own internal one might tell us;
or can his breath make our breath softer in
sleep? O my beloved! let everything be a
joyance to us: it will, if we will. Sad is the
day, and worse must follow, when we hear the
blackbird in the garden, and do not throb with
joy. But, Leofric, the high festival is strown
by the servant of God upon the heart of man.
It is gladness, it is thanksgiving; it is the
orphan, the starveling, pressed to the bosom,
and bidden as its first commandment to remem-
ber its benefactor. We will hold this festival;
the guests are ready; we may keep it up for
weeks, and months, and years together, and
always be the happier and the richer for it.
The beverage of this feast, O Leofric, is sweeter
than bee or flower or vine can give us:^ it
flows from heaven ; and in heaven will it abun-
dantly be poured out again to him who pours
it out here unsparingly.
Leofric. Thou art wild.
Godtva. I have, indeed, lost myself. Some
Power, some good kind Power, melts me (body
and soul and voice) into tenderness and love. O
6 Honey, nectar, and wine are the conptituents of
mead.
my husband, we must obey it. Look upon me!
look upon me! lift your sweet eyes from the
ground! I will not cease to supplicate; I dare
not.
Leofric. We may think upon it.
Godiva. Never say that ! What ! think upon
goodness when you can be good? Let not
the infants cry for sustenance! The mother of
(Hir blessed Lord wiU hear them ; us never, never
afterward.
Leofric. Here comes the Bishop : we are but
one mile from the walls. Why dismountest
thou? no bishop can expect it. Godiva! my
honour and rank among men are humbled by
this. Earl Godwin will hear of it. Up! up!
the Bishop hath seen it: he urgeth his horse
onward. Dost thou not hear him now upon the
solid turf behind thee?
Godiva. Never, no, never will I rise, O
Leofric, until you remit this most impious tax
— this tax on hard labour, on hard life.
Leofric. Turn round: look how the fat nag
canters, as to the tune of a sinner 's psaJm,
slow and hard-breathing. AVhat reason or right
can the people have to complain, while their
bishop 's steed is so sleek and well caparisoned ?
Inclination to change, desire to abolish old
usages. — Up! up! for shame! They shall
smart for it, idlers! Sir Bishop, I must blush
for my young bride.
Godiva. My husband, my husband! will you
pardon the city?
Leofric. Sir Bishop! I could not think you
would have seen her in this plight. Will I
pardon? Yea, Godiva, by the holy rood|»will I
pardon the city, when thou ridest naked at
noontide through the streets!
Godiva. O my dear, cruel Leofric, where is
the heart you gave me? It was not so: can
mine have hardened it?
Bishop. Earl, thou abashest thy spouse; she
turneth pale, and weepeth. Lady Godiva, peace
be with thee.
Godiva. Thanks, holy man! peace will be
with me when peace is with your city. Did you
hear my Lord 's cruel word ?
Bishop. I did, lady.
Godiva. Will you remember it, and pray
against it?
Bishop. Wilt thou forget it, daughter?
Godiva. I am not offended.
Bishop. Angel of peace ai^d purity!
Godiva. But treasure it up in your heart:
deem it an incense, good only when it is con
sumed and spent, ascending with prayer and
sacrifice. And. now. what was it?
Bishop. Christ save us! that he will pardon
516
THE KOMANTIC REVIVAL
the city when thou ridest naked through the
streets at noon,
Godiva. Did he not swear an oathf
Bishop. He sware by the holy rood.
Godiva. My Kedeemer, thou hast heard it I
save the city!
Leofric. We are now upon the beginning of
the pavement: these are the suburbs. Let us
think of feasting: we may pray afterward;
to-morrow we shall rest.
Godiva. No judgments, then, to-morrow,
Leofric f
Leofric. None: we will carouse.
Godiva. The saints of heaven have given me
strength and confidence ; my prayers are heard ;
the hesirt of my beloved is now softened.
Leofric (aside). Ay, ay — they shall smart,
though.
Godiva. Say, dearest Leofric, is there indeed
no other hope, no other mediation?
Leofric. I have sworn. Beside, thou hast
made me redden and turn my face away from
thee, and all the knaves have seen it: this adds
to tlie city 's crime.
Godiva. I have blushed too, Leofric, and
was not rash nor obdurate.
Leofric. But thou, my sweetest, art given to
blushing: there is no conquering it in thee. I
wish then hadst not alighted so hastily and
roughly : it liath shaken dow n a sheaf of thy
hair. Take heed thou sit not upon it, lest it
anguish thee. Well done! it mingleth now
sweetly with the cloth of gold upon the saddle,
running here and there, as if it had life and
faculties and business, and were working there-
upon some newer and cunninger device. O my
beauteous P>ve! there is a Paradise about thee!
the world is refreshed as thou movest and breath-
est on it. I cannot see or think of evil where
thou art. I could throw my arms even here
about thee. No signs for me! no shaking of
sunbeams! no reproof or frown or wonderment
— I will say it — now, then, for worse — I could
close with my kisses thy half-open lips, ay, and
those lovely and loving eyes, before the people.
Godiva. To-morrow you shall kiss me, and
they shall bless you for it. I shall be very pale,
for to-night I must fast and pray.
Leofric. T do not hear thee; the voices of
the folk are so loud under this archway.
Godiva {to Inrxelf). God help them! good
kind souls! T hope they will not crowd about
me so tomorrow. O Leofric! could my name
be forgotten, and yours alone remembered!
But perhaps my innocence may save me from
reproach; and how many as innocent are in
fear and famine! No eye will open on me but
fresh from tears. What a young mother for so
large a family! Shall my youth harm me?
Under God's hand it gives me courage. Ah!
when Avill the morning come? Ah! when will
the noon be over?
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
(1785-1859)
Fkom confessions OF AN ENGLISH
OPIUM-EATER*
The Pains of Opium
I now pass to what is the main subject of
these latter confessions, to the history and
journal of wliat took place in my dreams; for
these were the immediate and proximate cause
of my aeutest suflfering.
The first notice I had of any important
change going on in this part of my physical
economy, was from the re-awakening of a state
of eye generally incident to childhood, or exalted
states of irritability. I know not Avhether my
reader is aware that many children, perhaps
most, have a jjowor of painting, as it were,
upon the darkness, all sorts of i)hantoms; in
some, that power is simply a mechanic aflfectioii
of the eye; others have a voluntary, or semi-
voluntarj' power to dismiss or to summon them;
or, as a child once said to me when I questioned
him on this matter, "I can tell them to go, and
they go ; but sometimes they come, when I don 't
tell them to come." Whereupon I told him that
he had almost as unlimited a command over
apjiaritions as a Eonian centurion over his sol-
diers. In the middle of 1817, I think it was,
that this faculty became positively distressing
to me: at night, when I lay awake in bed, vast
processions passed along in mournful pomp;
* De Quincey says : "The Opium Confensionfi were
written with some Hllght secondary purpose
of exposing the spedtic power of opium upon
the faculty of drcaminj;, but much more with
the purpose of displaying the faculty itself."
And again : "Th*" madiinciy for dreaming
planted in the human brain was not planted
for nothing. That faculty, in alliance with
the mystery of darkness, is tlie oni> gn-at tube
through which man (ommnnicates with the
shadowy. .\nd the dreaming organ, in con-
nection with the heart, the eye. and the ear.
compose the magnillcent apparatus whl<li
forces the infinite into the chambers of the
human brnln. and throws dark reflections
from eternities below all life upon the mirrors
of that mvsterious rnmrrn ohnriini - \ho sleen-
Ing mind." Such, In substance, is De Quincey's
ac<'onnt of what may very well be resrarded a^;
an almost unhnie contribution to the literature
of the world. To English literature he has made,
moreover, the important contribution of a
style of "Impassioned prose" which has no
counterpart. See Knfi. Lit., p. 27i'>. Late in
life, he revised his CnnfrsKinuM, but the (>arly
text of 1S21-1S22 Is from a rhetorical point
of view generally the superior and is here
retained.
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
517
friezes of never-ending stories, that to ray feel-
ings were as sad and solemn as if they were
stories drawn from times before (Edipus or
Priam — before Tyre — before Memphis.i And,
at the same time, a corresponding change took
place in my dreams; a theatre seemed suddenly
opened and lighted up within my brain, which
presented nightly spectacles of more than earthly
splendour. And the four following facts may
be mentioned, as noticeable at this time:
1. That as the creative state of the eye in-
creased, a sympathy seemed to arise between
the waking and the dreaming states of the brain
in one point — that whatsoever I happened to
call up and to trace by a voluntary act upon
the darkness was very apt to transfer itself to
my dreams; so that I feared to exercise this
faculty ; for, as Midas turned all things to gold,
that yet baffled his hopes and defrauded his
human desires, so whatsoever things capable of
being visually represented I did but think of
in the darkness, immediately shaped themselves
into phantoms of the eye; and, by a process
apparently no less inevitable, when thus once
traced in faint and visionary colours, like
writings in sympathetic ink, they were drawn
out by the fierce chemistry of my dreams, into
•nsuflPerable splendour that fretted my heart.
2. For this, and all other changes in my
dreams, were accompanied by deep-seated anxi-
ety and gloomy melancholy, such as are wholly
incommunicable by words. I seemed every
night to descend, not metaphorically, but liter-
ally to descend, into chasms and sunless abysses,
depths below depths, from which it seemed
hopeless that I could ever re-ascend. Nor did
1, by waking, feel that I had re-ascended. This
I do not dwell upon; because the state of
gloom which attended these gorgeous spectacles,
amounting at last to utter darkness, as of some
suicidal despondency, cannot be approached by
words.
3. The sense of space, and, in the end, the
sense of time, were both powerfully affected.
Buildings, landscapes, etc., were exhibited in
proportions so vast as the bodily eye is not fit-
ted to receive. Space swelled, and was ampli-
fied to an extent of unutterable infinity. This,
liowever, did not disturb me so much as the vast
expansion of time ; I sometimes seemed to have
lived for seventy or a hundred years in one
night; nay, sometimes had feelings representa-
tive of a millennium passed in that time, or,
however,^ of a duration far beyond the limits
of any human experience.
4. The minutest incidents of childhood, or
J Grpofo. I'hoenicia. Egypt, form a climax of an-
ti<iuit.v. 2 at any rate.
forgotten scenes of later years, were often re-
vived; 1 could not be said to recollect them;
for if I had been told of them when waking, I
should not have been able to acknowledge them
as parts of my past experience. But placed as
thej' were before me, in dreams like intuitions,
and clothed in all their evanescent circumstances
and accompanying feelings, I recognised them
instantaneously. I was once told by a near
relative of mine, that having in her childhood
fallen into a river, and being on the very verge
of death but for the critical assistance which
reached her, she saw in a moment her whole life,
in its minutest incidents, arrayed before her
simultaneously as in a mirror; and she had a
faculty developed as suddenly for comprehend-
ing the whole and every part. This, from some
opium experiences of mine, I can believe; I
have, indeed, seen the same thing asserted twice
in modern books, and accompanied by a remark
which I am convinced is true — viz., that the
dread book of account, which the Scriptures
speak of,3 is, in fact, the mind itself of each
individual. Of this, at least, I feel assured,
that there is no such thing as forgetting pos-
sible to the mind; a thousand accidents may
and will interpose a veil between our present
consciousness and the secret inscriptions on the
mind; accidents of the same sort will also rend
away this veil; but alike, whether veiled or
unveiled, the inscription remains for ever; just
as the stars seem to withdraw before the com-
mon light of day, whereas, in fact, we all know
that it is the light which is drawn over them
as a veil, and that they are waiting to be
revealed when the obscuring daylight shall have
withdrawn.
Having noticed these four facts as memorably
distinguishing my dreams from those of health,
I shall now cite a case illustrative of the first
fact ; and shall then cite any others that I re-
member, either in their chronological order, or
any other that may give them more effect as
pictures to the reader.
I had been in youth, and even since, for occa-
sional amusement, a great reader of Livy, whom,
I confess, that I prefer, both for style and mat-
ter, to any other of the Eoman historians; and
I had often felt as most solemn and appalling
sounds, and most emphatically representative of
the majesty of the Roman people, the two words
so often occurring in Livy — Consid Bamanus:
especially when the consul is introduced in his
military character. I mean to say that the
words king — sultan — regent, etc., or any other
titles of those who embody in their own persons
the collecti%-e majesty of a great people, had
o Kcilation, xx, 12.
518
THE ROMANTIC ItEVIVAL
less power over my reverential feelings. I had
also, though no great reader of history, made
myself minutely and critically familiar with
one period of English history — viz., the period
of the Parliamentary War — having been at-
tracted by the moral grandeur of some who
figured in that day, and by the many interesting
memoirs which survive those unquiet times.
Both tliese parts of my lighter reading, having
furnished me often with matter of reflection,
now furnished me with matter for my dreams.
Often I used to see, after painting upon the
blank darkness a sort of rehearsal whilst wak-
ing, a crowd of ladies, and perhaps a festival,
and dances. And I heard it said, or I said to
myself, ' ' These are English ladies from the un-
happy times of Charles I. These are the wives
and the daughters of those who met in peace,
and sat at the same tables, and were allied by
marriage or by blood; and yet, after a certain
day in August, 1642,4 never smiled upon each
other again, nor met but in the field of battle;
and at Marston Moor, at Newbury, or at Nase-
by, cut asunder all ties of love by the cruel
sabre, and washed away in blood the memory of
ancient friendship." The ladies danced, and
looked as lovely as the court of George IV. Yet
I knew, even in my dreams, that they had been
in the grave for nearly two centuries. This
pageant would suddenly dissolve; and, at a
clapping of hands, would be heard the heart-
quaking sound of Consul Bomanus; and imme-
diately came "sweeping by," in gorgeous palu-
daments,'' Paulus or Marius,^ girt round by a
company of centurions, with the crimson tunic
hoisted on a spear,7 and followed by the
alalagnws^ of the Roman legions.
And now came a tremendous change, which,
unfolding itself slowly like a scroll, through
many months, promised an abiding torment;
and, in fact, it never left me until the winding
up of my case. Hitherto the human face had
mixed often in my dreams, but not despotically,
nor with any special power of tormenting. But
now that which I have called the tyranny of the
human face began to unfold itself. Perhaps
some part of my London life might be answer-
able for this. Be that as it niaj', now it was
that upon the rocking waters of the ocean the
human face began to aj)i)ear: the sea appeared
4 Charles's standard was raised. Riving the signal
for civil war, August 22, 1042.
fi mllltar)- cloaks
« For this latter Consul, see note to Landor's
MrtelliiD and Mariiix, p. r)12.
7 A signal (if battle.
» ".V word cxproHKlnK collectively the gathering of
tlio Itoinan wur-crlPH — Al6Ui, AlAla." — I)c
<juliirey.
paved with innumerable faces, upturned to the
heavens; faces imploring, wrathful, despairing,
surged upwards by thousands, by myriads, by
generations, by centuries: — my agitation was
infinite, — my mind tossed — and surged with the
ocean.
May, 1818.
The Malayo has been a fearful enemy for
months. I have been every night, through his
means, transported into Asiatic scenes. I know-
not whether others share in my feelings on this
point; but I have often thought that if I were
compelled to forego England, and to live in
China, and among Chinese manners and modes
of life and scenery, I should go mad. The
causes of my horror lie deep; and some of them
must be common to others. Southern Asia, in
general, is the seat of awful images and asso-
ciations. As the cradle of the human race, it
would alone have a dim and reverential feeling
connected with it. But there are other reasons.
No man can pretend that the wild, barbarous,
and capricious superstitions of Africa, or of
savage tribes elsewhere, affect him in the way
that he is affected by the ancient, monumental,
cruel, and elaborate religions of Indostan, etc.
The mere antiquity of Asiatic things, of their
institutions, histories, modes of faith, etc., is
so impressive, that to me the vast age of the
race and name overpowers the sense of youth
in the individual. A young Chinese seems to
me an antediluvian man renewed. Even Eng-
lishmen, though not bred in any knowledge of
such institutions, cannot but shudder at the
mystic sublimity of castes that have flowed
apart, and refused to mix, through such imme-
morial tracts of time ; nor can any man fail
to be awed by the names of the Ganges, or the
Euphrates. It contributes much to these feel-
ings, that Southern Asia is, and has been for
thousands of years, the part of the earth most
swarming with human life ; the great oflicina
.^/e)iti«»i.i'> Man is a Aveed in those regions.
Tne vast empires also, in which the enormous
population of Asia has always been cast, give
a further sublimity to the feelings associated
with all oriental names or images. In China,
over and above what it has in common with tlic
rest of Southern Asia, 1 am terrified by the
modes of life, by the manners, and the barrier
of utter abhorrence, and want of sympathy,
I)laced between us by feelings deeper than I
can analyse. I could sooner live with lunatics,
or brute animals. All this, and much more than
n A Malnv. as related In nn earlier part of the
Confessions, onre knocked at IX' (juincey's
d<M)r.
lu luboriilory of nations
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
519
I can say, or have time to say, the reader must
enter into before he can comprehend the un-
imaginable horror which these dreams of orien-
tal imagery, and mythological tortures, im-
pressed upon me. Under the connecting feeling
of tropical heat and vertical sun-lights, 1
brought together all creatures, birds, beasts,
reptiles, all trees and plants, usages «nd appear-
ances, that are found in all tropical regions,
and assembled them together in China or Indo-
stan. From kindred feelings, I soon brought
Egypt and all her gods under the same law.
I was stared at, hooted at, grinned at, chat-
tered at, by monkeys, by paroquets, by cocka-
toos. I ran into pagodas: and was fixed, for
centuries, at the summit, or in secret rooms;
I was the idol ; I was the priest ; I was wor-
shipped ; I was sacrificed. I fled from the
wrath of Brama through all the forests of
Asia: Vishnu hated me: Seeva laid wait for
me.ii I came suddenly upon Isis and Osiris:
I had done a deed, they said, which the ibis
and the crocodile trembled at. I was buried,
for a thousand years, in stone coffins, with
mummies and sphinxes, in narrow chambers
at the heart of eternal pyramids. I was kissed,
with cancerous kisses, by crocodiles; and laid,
confounded with all unutterable slimy things,
amongst reeds and Nilotic mud.
I thus give the reader some slight abstraction
of my oriental dreams, wliich always filled me
with such amazement at the monstrous scenery,
that horror seemed absorbed, for a while, in
sheer astonishment. Sooner or later, came a
reflux of feeling that swallowed up the aston-
ishment, and left me, not so much in terror, as
in hatred and abomination of what I saw. Over
every form, and threat, and punishment, and
dim sightless incarceration, brooded a sense of
eternity and infinity that drove me into an
oppression as of madness. Into these dreams
only, it was, with one or two slight exceptions,
that any circumstances of physical horror en-
tered. All before had been moral and spiritual
terrors. But here the main agents were ugly
birds, or snakes, or crocodiles; especially the
last. The cursed crocodile became to me the
object of more horror tlian almost all the rest.
I was compelled to live with him; and (as was
always the case almost in my dreams) for cen-
turies. I escaped sometimes, and found myself
in Chinese houses, with cane tables, etc. All
the feet of the tables, sofas, etc., soon became
II Brahma the creator, Vishnu the preserver, and
Sivji the destroyer, constitute the s;reat triad
of Hindu mythology. Osiris the creator, and
Isis. his sister and wife, were Egyptian
deities, and the ibis and crocodile were re-
garded as sacred animals.
instinct with life: the abominable head of the
crocodile, and his leering eyes, looked out at
me, multiplied into a thousand repetitions: and
I stood loathing and fascinated. And so often
did this hideous reptile haunt my dreams, that
many times the very same dream was broken
up in the very same way : I heard gentle voices
speaking to me (I hear everything when I am
sleeping) ; and instantly I awoke: it was broad
noon; and my children were standing, hand in
hand, at my bed-side; come to show me their
coloured shoes, or new frocks, or to let me see
them dressed for going out. I protest that so
awful was the transition from the damned croco-
dile, and the other unutterable monsters and
abortions of my dreams, to the sight of inno-
cent human natures and of infancy, that, in
the mighty and sudden revulsion of mind, 1
wept, and could not forbear it, as I kissed their
faces.
From SUSPIEIA DE PROFUNDIS*
Levaxa axd Our Ladies of Sorrow
Oftentimes at Oxford I saw Levana in my
dreams. 1 knew her by her Koman symbols.
Who is Levana? Eeader, that do not pretend
to have leisure for very much scholarship, you
will not be angry with me for telling you.
Levana was the Roman goddess that performed
for the new-born infant the earliest office of
ennobling kindness, — typical, by its mode, of
that grandeur which belongs to man everywhere,
and of that benignity in powers invisible which
even in Pagan worlds sometimes descends to
sustain it. At the very moment of birth, just
as the infant tasted for the first time the atmos-
phere of our troubled planet, it was laid on the
ground. I'hat might bear different interpreta-
tions. But immediately, lest so grand a crea-
ture should grovel there for more than one
instant, either the paternal hand, as proxy for
the goddess Levana, or some near kinsman, as
" Suspiria de Profiindis (Sighs from the Depths)
is the title under which De Quincey began in
1845 to publish a series of articles which were
to liave closed with a crowning succession of
"some twenty or twenty-tive dreams and noon-
day visions.'" Most of the articles were either
never written or were destroyed. Of Levana,
one of the earliest. Professor Masson has said
that "it is a permanent addition to tlie myth-
ology of the human race," typifying as it
does "the varieties and degrees of liiisery that
there are in the world." As for De Qulncey's
own education through initiation into these
several degrees of sorrow, it is to be remem-
bered that in childhood he lost by death his
father and two sisters, in youth he ran away
from an uncongenial school and wandered lil<e
an outcast in Wales and London, and in man-
hood his bodv. intellect, and will became
enslaved to opium.
520
THE BOMANTIC BEVIVAL
proxy for the father, raised it upright, bade it
look erect as the king of all this world, and pre-
sented its forehead to the stars, saying, perhaps,
in his heart, "Behold what is greater than
yourselves!" This symbolic act represented
the function of Levana. And that mysterious
lady, who never revealed her face (except to
me in dreams), but always acted by delegation,
had her name from the Latin verb (as still it is
the Italian verb) levare, to raise aloft.
This is the explanation of Levana, and hence
it has arisen that some people have understood
by Levana the tutelary power that controls the
education of the nursery. She, that would not
suffer at his birth even a prefigurative or mimic
degradation for her awful ward, far less could
be supposed to suffer the real degradation at-
taching to the non-development of his powers.
She therefore watches over human education.
Now the word educo, with the penultimate
short, was derived (by a process often exempli-
fied in the crystallisation of languages) from
the word educo, with the penultimate long.
Whatsoever educes, or develops, educates. By
the education of Levana, therefore, is meant, —
not the poor machinery that moves by spelling-
books and grammars, but that mighty system of
central forces hidden in the deep bosom of
human life, which by passion, by strife, by
temptation, by the energies of resistance, works
for ever upon children, — resting not day or
night, any more than the mighty wheel of day
and night themselves, whose moments, like rest-
less spokes, are glimmering for ever as they
revolve.
If, then, these are the ministries by which
Levana works, how profoundly must she rever-
ence the agencies of grief! But you, reader,
think that children generally are not liable to
grief such as mine. There are two senses in the
word generally, — the sense of Euclid, where it
means universally (or in the whole extent of the
genus), and a foolish sense of this word, where
it means usually. Now, I am far from saying
that children universally are capable of grief
like mine. But there are more than you ever
heard of who die of grief in this island of ours.
I will tell you a common case. The rules of
Eton require that a boy on the foundation^
should be there twelve years: he is superannua-
ted at eighteen, consequently he must come at
six. Children torn away from mothers and
sisters at that age not unfrequently die. I
speak of what I know. The complaint is not
entered by the registrar as grief; but that it is.
Grief of that sort, and at that age, has killed
1 holding a scholarship provided by the fogndation,
or endowment
more than ever have been counted amongst its
martyrs.
Therefore it is that Levana often communes
with the powers that shake man's heart: there-
fore it is that she dotes upon grief. "These
ladies," said I softly to myself, on seeing the
ministers with whom Levana was conversing,
"these are the Sorrows; and they are three in
number, as the Graces are three, who dress
man's life with beauty; the Parcce^ are thi-ee,
who weave the dark arras of man's life in their
mysterious loom, always with colours sad in
part, sometimes angry with tragic crimson and
black; the Furies are three, who visit with
retributions called from the other side of the
grave offences that walk upon this; and once
even the Muses were but three, who fit the harp,
the trumpet, or the lute, to the great burdens
of man's impassioned creations. These are the
SorroAvs, all three of whom I know." The last
words I say noiv ; but in Oxford I said, ' * One
of whom I know, and the others too surely I
shall know. ' ' For already, in my fervent youth,
1 saw (dimly relieved upon the dark background
of my dreams) the imperfect lineaments of the
awful sisters. These sisters — by what name
shall we call them? If I say simply, "The
Sorrows," there will be a chance of mistaking
the term ; it might be understood of individual
sorrow, — separate cases of sorrow, — whereas I
want a term expressing the mighty abstractions
that incarnate themselves in all individual suf-
ferings of man 's heart ; and I wish to have
these abstractions presented as impersonations,
that is, as clothed with human attributes of life,
and with functions pointing to flesh. Let us
call them, therefore, Our Ladies of Sorrow.
1 know them thoroughly, and have walked in
all their kingdoms. Three sisters they are, of
one mysterious household ; and their paths are
wide apart; but of their dominion there is no
end. Them I saw often conversing with Levana,
and sometimes about myself. Do they talk,
then? 0, no! Mighty phantoms like these dis-
dain the infirmities of language. They may
utter voices through the organs of man when
they dwell in human hearts, but amongst
themselves is no voice nor sound; eternal
silence reigns in their kingdoms. They spoke
not, as they talked with Levana; they whis-
pered not; they sang not; though oftentimes
methought they might have sung: for I upon
earth had heard their mysteries oftentimes de-
ciphered by harp and timbrel, by dulcimer and
organ. Like God, whose servants they are, they
utter their pleasure, not by sounds that perish,
or by words that go astray, but by signs in
2 Fates
THOMAS DE gUlNCEY
521
heaven, by changes on earth, by pulses in secret
rivers, heraldries painted on darkness, and liiero-
glyphics written on the tablets of the brain.
They wheeled in mazes; / spelled the steps.
They telegraphed^ from afar; / read the sig-
nals. They conspired together; and on the
mirrors of darkness my eye traced the plots.
Tlitirs were the symbols; mine are the words.
What is it the sisters are? What is it that
tliey do? Let me describe their form, and their
presence: if form it were that still fluctuated
in its outline, or presence it were that for ever
advanced to the front, or for ever receded
amongst shades.
The eldest of the three is named Mater Lach-
lymarum, Our Lady of Tears. She it is that
night and day raves and moans, calling for
vanished faces. She stood in Rama, where a
voice was heard of lamentation, — Rachel weep-
ing for her children, and refusing to be com-
forted.* She it was that stood in Bethlehem on
the night when Herod's sword swept its nur-
series of Innocents, and the little feet were
stiffened for ever, which, heard at times as they
totlered along floors overhead, woke pulses of
love in household hearts that were not unmarked
in heaven.
Her eyes are sweet and subtle, wild and
sleepy, by turns ; oftentimes rising to the clouds,
oftentimes challenging the heavens. She wears
a diadem round her head. And I knew by child-
ish memories that she could go abroad upon the
winds, when she heard the sobbing of litanies or
the thundering of organs, and when she beheld
the mustering of summer clouds. This sister,
the eldest, it is that carries keys more than
papain at her girdle, which open every cottage
and every palace. She, to my knowledge, sat
all last summer by the bedside of the blind beg-
gar, him that so often and so gladly I talked
with, whose pious daughter, eight years old,
with the sunny countenance, resisted the temp-
tations of play and village mirth to travel all
day long on dusty roads with her afflicted father.
For this did God send her a great reward. In
the spring-time of the year, and whilst yet her
own spring was budding, He recalled her to him-
self. But her blind father mourns for ever over
her; still he dreams at midnight that the little
guiding hand is locked within his own; and
still he wakens to a darkness that is note within
a second and a deeper darkness. This Mater
Lachrymarum also has been sitting all this
3 The word was formprly used of various methods
<>t signalling, as bv beacon-fires.
iJrremidh. xxxi. l.">: itatthcir. ii. 16-18.
•*' St. Peter's kevs, emblem of papal power. Cp.
Milton's Liiriflax, 1. 110.
winter of 1844-5 within the bed-chamber of tlio
Czar,« bringing before his eyes a daughter (not
less pious) that vanished to God not less sud-
denly, and left behind her a darkness not less
profountl. By the power of the keys it is that
Our Lady of Tears glides a ghostly intruder
into the chambers of sleepless men, sleepless
women, sleepless children, from Ganges to Nile,
from Nile to Mississippi. And her, because she
is the first-born of her house, and has the
widest empire, let us honour with the title of
"Madonna!"
The second sister is called Mater Smpiriorum
— Our Lady of Sighs. She never scales the
clouds, nor walks abroad upon the winds. She
wears no diadem. And her eyes, if they were
ever seen, would be neither sweet nor subtle;
no man could read their story; they would be
found filled with perishing dreams, and with
wrecks of forgotten delirium. But she raises
not her eyes; her head, on which sits a dilapi-
dated turban, droops for ever, for ever fastens
on the dust. She weeps not. She groans not.
But she sighs inaudibly at intervals. Her sister.
Madonna, is oftentimes stormy and frantic,
raging in the highest against heaven, and de-
manding back her darlings. But Our Lady of
Sighs never clamours, never defies, dreams not
of rebellious aspirations. She is humble to
abjectness. Hers is the meekness that be-
longs to the hopeless. Murmur she may, but it
is in her sleep. Whisper she may, but it is to
herself in the twilight. Mutter she does at
times, but it is in solitary places that are deso-
late as she is desolate, in ruined cities, and when
the sun has gone down to his rest. This sister
is the visitor of the Pariah,^ of the Jew, of the
bondsman to the oar in the Mediterranean gal-
leys; and of the English criminal in Norfolk
Island,8 blotted out from the books of remem-
brance in sweet far-off England; of the baffled
penitent reverting his eyes for ever upon a soli-
tary grave, which to him seems the altar over-
thrown of some past and bloody sacrifice, on
which altar no oblations can now be availing,
whether towards pardon that he might implore,
or towards reparation that he might attempt.
Every slave that at noonday looks up to the
tropical sun with timid reproach, as he points
with one hand to the earth, our general mother,
but for him a stepmother, — as he points with
the other hand to the Bible, our general teacher,
but against him sealed and sequestered; — every
woman sitting in darkness, without love to shel-
« Xicholas I., whose daughter Alexandra had late-
ly died.
7 social ontcast (Hindu term)
8 A penal colony in the south raciflc, 1825-1845.
)22
THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL
ter her head, or hope to illumine her solitude,
bec-ause the heaven-born instincts kindlino; iu
her nature germs of holy affections which God
implanted in her womauly bosom, having been
stifled by social necessities, now burn sullenly
to waste, like sepulchral lamps amongst the an-
cients; every nun defrauded of her unreturning
May-time by wicked kinsman, whom God will
judge; every captive in every dungeon; all
that are betrayed ami all that are rejected ; out-
casts by traditionary law, and children of
Jiereditarij disgrace, — all these walk with Our
Lady of Sighs. She also carries a key ; but
she needs it little. For her kingdom is chiefly
amongst the tents of Shem,o and the houseless
vagrant of every clime. Yet in the very highest
ranks of man she finds chapels of her own ; and
even in glorious England there are some that, to
the world, carry their heads as proudly as the
reindeer, who yet secretly have received her
mark upon their foreheads.
But the third sister, who is also the youngest
! Hush, whisper whilst we talk of her!
Her kingdom is not large, or else no flesh should
live; but within that kingdom all power is hers.
Her head, turreted like that of Cybele,io rises
almost beyond the reach of sight. She droops
not; and her eyes rising so high might be hid-
den by distance; but, being what they are, they
cannot be hidden; through the treble veil of
crape which she wears, the fierce light of a
blazing misery, that rests not for matins or for
vespers, for noon of clay or noon of night, for
ebbing or for flowing tide, may be read from
the very ground. She is the defier of God. She
also is the mother of lunacies, and the suggest-
ress of suicides. Deep lie the roots of her
power; but narrow is the nation that she rules.
For she can approach only those in whom a pro-
found nature has been upheaved by central con-
vulsions; in whom the heart trembles, and the
brain rocks under conspiracies of tempest from
without and tempest from within. Madonna
moves with uncertain steps, fast or slow, but
still with tragic grace. Our Lady of Sighs
creeps timidly and stealthily. But this youngest
sister moves with incalculable motions, bound-
ing, and with tiger's leaps. She carries no key;
for, though coming rarely amongst men, she
storms all doors at which she is permitted to
enter at all. And her name is Mater Tenchra-
in.m — Our Lady of Darkness.
These were the Sevumi Theai, or Sublime
Goddesses, these were the Eumenides,^^ or Gra-
ft Ron of Noah, reputed ancestor of the Roraitlc
races — the Ilpbrcws, Arnhs, otc. For the
phriiKc, Kce (IrncHlH, Ix, 27.
10 Spp note on Chilrie Harold, IV. 2.
n A (Miphomfstlo nnnip for the Furies.
cious Ladies (so called by antiquity in shud
dering propitiation), of my Oxford dreams.
-Madonna spoke. She spoke by her mysterious
hand. Touching my head, she beckoned to Our
Lady of Sighs; and what she spoke, translated
out of the signs which (except in dreams) no
man reads, was this: —
"Lo! here is he, whom in childhood T <ledi-
cated to my altars. This is lie that once 1 made
my darling. Him I led astray, him I beguiled,
and from heaven I stole away his young heart
to mine. Through me did he become idolatrous;
and through me it was, by languisliing desires,
that he worshipped the worm, and prayed to the
wormy gra\ e. Holy was the grave to him ;
lovely was its darkness; saintly its corruption.
Him, this young iilolater, I have seasoned for
thee, dear gentle Sister of Sighs! Do thou take
him now to thy heart, and season him for our
dreadful sister. And thou, ' ' — turning to the
Mater Tenebranim, she said, — "wicked sister,
that temptest and hatest, do thou take him from
her. See that thy sceptre lie heavy on his head.
Suffer not woman and her tenderness to sit near
him in his darkness. Banish the frailties of
hope, wither the relenting of love, scorch tlie
fountains of tears, curse him as only thou canst
curse. So shall he be accomplished i^ in the fur-
nace, so shall he see the things that ought not to
be seen, sights that are abominable, and secrets
that are unutterable. So shall he read elder
truths, sad truths, grand truths, fearful truths.
So shall he rise again before he dies, and so
shall our commission be accomplished which
from God we had, — to plague his heart until we
had unfolded the capacities of his spirit."
Savannah-la-Mar*
God smote Savannah-la-mar, and in one night,
by earthquake, removed her, with all her towers
standing and population sleeping, from the
steadfast foundations of the shore to the coral
floors of ocean. And God said, — "Pompeii did
I bury and conceal from men through seventeen
centuries : this city I will bury, but not conceal.
She shall be a monument to men of my myste-
rious anger, set in azure light through genera-
tions to come; for I will enshrine her in a
crystal dome of my trojjic seas." This city,
therefore, like a mighty galleon with all her
apparel mounted, streamers flyiug, and tackling
perfect, seems floating along the noiseless depths
1 2 perfected.
• "IMnin (of) the Sea" — n fanciful name adopted
liv Dp Qnlncev for this vision of a sunken city.
I'he "Dark Interpreter" mentioned here gives
name to another of the Susplria papers.
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
523
of ocean ; and oftentimes in glassy calms,
through the trauslucid atmosphere of water
that now stretches like an air-woven awning
above the silent encampment, mariners from
every clime look down into her courts and ter-
races, count her gates, and number the spires of
her churches. She is one ample cemetery, and
has been for many a year; but, in the mighty
calms that brood for weeks over tropic latitudes,
she fascinates the eye with a Fata-Morgana'\
revelation, as of human life still subsisting in
submarine asylums sacred from the storms that
torment our upper air.
Thither, lured by the loveliness of cerulean
depths, by the peace of human dwellings privi-
leged from molestation, by the gleam of marble
altars sleeping in everlasting sanctity, often-
times in dreams did I and the Dark Interpreter
cleave the watery veil that divided us from her
streets. We looked into the belfries, where the
pendulous bells were waiting in vain for the
summons which should awaken their marriage
peals; together we touched the mighty organ-
keys, that sang no jubilates^ for the ear of
heaven, that sang no requiems for the ear of
human sorrow; together we searched the silent
nurseries, where the children were all asleep,
and had been asleep through five generations.
"They are waiting for the heavenly dawn,"
whispered the Interpreter to himself: "and,
when that comes, the bells and organs will utter
a jubilate repeated by the echoes of Paradise. ' '
Then, turning to me, he said, — "This is sad,
this is piteous; but less would not have suf-
ficed for the purpose of God. Look here. Put
into a Roman clepsydras one hundred drops of
water; let these run out as the sands in an
hour-glass, every drop measuring the hundredth
part of a second, so that each shall represent
but the three-hundred-and-sixty-thousandth part
of an hour. Now, count the drops as they race
along; and, when the fiftieth of the hundred is
passing, behold! forty-nine are not, because
already they have perished, and fifty are not,
because they are yet to come. You see, there-
fore, how narrow, how incalculably narrow, is
the true and actual present. Of that time which
we call the present, hardly a hundredth part but
belongs either to a past which has fled, or to a
future which is still on the wing. It has perished,
or it is not bom. It was, or it is not. Yet even
this approximation to the truth is infinitely
false. For again subdivide that solitary drop,
which only was found to represent the present,
1 hymns of rejoicing (specifically the 100th Psalm)
2 water-clock
t Here "mirasip-likp" : from the fata morgana of
the Sicilian coast — a plipnomcnon attributed
to Morgan le F'ay, or Morjrana tiio Fairy.
into a lower scries of similar fractions, and the
actual present which you arrest measures now
but the thirty-sixth-milliouth of an hour; and
so by infinite declensions the true and very
present, in which only we live and enjoy, will
vanish into a mote of a mote, distinguishable
nly by a heavenly vision. Therefore the present,
which only man possesses, offers less capacity
for his footing than the slenderest film that
ever spider twisted from her womb. Therefore,
also, even this incalculable shadow from the nar-
rowest pencil of moonlight is more transitory
than geometry can measure, or thought of angel
can overtake. The time which is contracts into
a mathematic point; and even that point per-
ishes a thousand times before we can utter its
birth. All is finite in the present ; and even
that finite is infinite in its velocity of flight
towards death. But in God there is nothing
finite; but in God there is nothing transitory;
but in God there can be nothing that tends to
death. Therefore, it follows, that for God there
can be no present. The future is the present of
God, and to the future it is that he sacrifices
the human j)resent. Therefore it is that he
works by earthquake. Therefore it is that he
works by grief. O, deep is the ploughing of
earthquake! O, deep" — (and his voice swelled
like a sanctiis^ rising from the choir of a cathe-
dral) — "O, deep is the ploughing of grief. But
oftentimes less would not suffice for the agricul-
ture of God. Upon a night of earthquake he
builds a thousand years of pleasant habitations
for man. Upon the sorrow of an infant he
raises oftentimes from human intellects glorious
vintages that could not else have been. Less
than these fierce ploughshares would not have
stirred the stubborn soil. The one is needed for
Earth, our planet, — for Earth itself as the
dwelling-place of man ; but the other is needed
yet oftener for God's mightiest instrument, —
yes" (and he looked solemnly at mj-self), "is
needed for the mvsterious children of the
Earth!"
From JOAX OF ABC*
What is to be thought of her? What is to be
thought of the poor shepherd girl from the hills
and forests of Lorraine, that — like the Hebrew
3 The anthem "Holy, Holy, Holy."
* De Quincey's venture into this particular field
of liistory, which is so obscure and so acri-
moniously debated, was inspired by Michelet's
Histoire de France, then (1847) appearing,
and his avowed object was to do justice to
the maligned Maid, defending hor even against
her own countrymen. The body of his arti-
cle, which is narrative and argumentative, is
here omitted, only the introduction and con-
clusion being given. See Enff. Lit., p. 274.
524
THE KOMANTKJ REVIVAL
ahephenl boy from the hills and forests of
Judea — rose suddenly out of the quiet, out of
the safety, out of the religious inspiration,
rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, to a station
in the van of armies, and to the more perilous
station at the right hand of kings! The Hebrew-
boy inaugurated his patriotic mission by an act.
by a victorious act, such as no man could deny.i
But so did the girl of Lorraine, if we read her
story as it was read by those who saw her
nearest. Adverse armies bore witness to the
boy as no pretender; but so they did to the
gentle girl. Judged by the voices of all who
saw them frofii a station of good will, both were
found true and loyal to any promises involved
in their first acts. Enemies it was that made
the difference between their subsequent fortunes.
The boy rose to a splendour and a noonday pros-
perity, both personal and public, that rang
through the records of his people, and became a
byword among his posterity for a thousand
years, until the sceptre was departing from
Judah.2 The poor forsaken girl, on the con-
trary, drank not herself from that cup of rest
which she had secured for France. She never
sang together with the songs that rose in her
native Domremy as echoes to the departing
steps of invaders. She mingled not in the
festal dances at Vaucouleurss Avhich celebrated
in rapture the redemption of France. No! for
her voice was then silent ; no ! for her feet were
dust. Pure, innocent, noble-hearted girl ! whom,
from earliest youth, ever I believed in as full
of truth and self-sacrifice, this was among the
strongest pledges for thy truth, that never once
■ — no, not for a moment of weakness — didst thou
revel in the vision of coronets and honour from
man. Coronets for thee! Oh, no! Honours, if
they come when all is over, are for those that
share thy blood. Daughter of Domremy, when
the gratitude of thy king shall awaken, thou
wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Call her,
king of France, but she will not hear thee. Cite
her by the apparitors* to come and receive a
robe of honour, but she will be found en con-
tumaceJ' When the thunders of universal
France, as even yet may happen,t shall proclaim
the grandeur of the poor shepherd girl that gave
up all for her country, thy ear, young shepherd
girl, will have been deaf for five centuries. To
suffer and to do, that was thy portion in this life,
that was thy destiny ; and not for a moment was
it hidden from thyself. Life, thou saidst, is short ;
1 The killing of Goliath ; 4 court summoners
/. Samuel, xvll. o A legal term slgnlfy-
2 0eneHiii, xllx, 10. injf failure to ap-
3 A village near Potn penr In court.
r^'-my.
t Joan has lately been canonized by the church.
and the sleep which is in the grave is long; let
mo use that life, so transitory, for the glory of
those heavenly dreams destined to comfort the
sleep which is so long! This pure creature —
pure from every suspicion of even a visionary
self-interest, even as she was pure in senses more
obvious — never once did this holy child, as re-
garded herself, relax from her belief in the
darkness that was travelling to meet her. She
might not prefigure the very manner of her
death ; she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial
altitude of the fiery scaffold, the spectators
without end, on every road, pouring into Rouen«
as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the volley-
ing flames, the hostile faces all around, the pity-
ing eye that lurked but here and there, until
nature and imperishable truth broke loose from
artificial restraints — these might not be apparent
through the mists of the hurrying future. But
the voice that called her to death, that she heard
forever.
Great was the throne of France, even in those
days, and great was he that sat upon it; but
well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he
that sat upon it, was for her; but, on the con-
trary, that she was for them; not she by them,
but they by her, should rise from the dust.
Gorgeous were the lilies of France,^ and for
centuries had the privilege to spread their
beauty over land and sea, until, in another cen-
tury, the wrath of God and man combined to
wither them; but well Joanna knew, early at
Domremy she had read that bitter truth, that
the lilies of France would decorate no garland
for her. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom,
would ever bloom for her!
Bishop of Beauvaisis thy victim died in fire
upon a scaffold — thou upon a down bed. But,
for the departing minutes of life, both are
oftentimes alike. At the farewell crisis, when
the gates of death are opening, and flesh is
resting from i<-8 struggles, oftentimes the tor-
tured and the torturer have the same truce from
carnal torment ; both sink together into sleep ;
together both sometimes kindle into dreams.
When the mortal mists were gathering fast upon
you two, bishop and shepherd girl — when the
pavilions of life were closing up their shadowy
curtains about you — let us try, through the
gigantic glooms, to decipher the flying features
of your separate visions.
The shepherd girl that had delivered France
— she, from her dungeon, she, from her baiting
The place of Joan's martyrdom.
7 The royal device of the fleur-de-lis.
« The presiding Judge at Joan's trial. He bad
played traitor to the Freneh and abetted the
I'^ngllsh In this exorutlon.
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
at the stake, she, from her duel with fire, as she j Oh, mercy! what a groau was that which the
entered her last dream — saw Domr^my, saw the
fountain of Domremy, saw the pomp of forests
in which her childhood had wandered. That
Easter festival which man had denied to her
languishing l>eart — that resurrection of spring-
time, which the darkness of dungeons had inter-
cepted from her, hungering after the glorious
liberty of forests — were by God given bai-k into
her hands as jewels that had been stolen from
her by robbers. With those, i)erhaps (for the
minutes of dreams can stretch into ages), was
given back to her by God the bliss of childhood.
By special privilege for her might be created,
in this farewell dream, a second childhood, inno-
cent as the first ; but not, like that, sad with the
gloom of a fearful mission in the rear. This
mission had now been fulfilled. The storm was
weathered; the skirts even of that mighty
storm were drawing off. The blood that she
was to reckon for had been exacted; the tears
that she was to shed in secret had been paid to
the last. The hatred to herself in all eyes had
been faced steadily, had been suffered, had been
survived. And in her last fight upon the scaf-
fold she had triumphed gloriously; victoriously
she had tasted the stings of death. For all,
except this comfort from her farewell dream,
she had died — died amid the tears of ten thou-
sand enemies — died amid the drums and trum-
pets of armies — ilied amid peals redoubling upon
peals, volleys upon volleys, from the saluting
clarions of martyrs.
Bishop of Beauvais! because the guilt-bur-
dened man is in dreams haunted and waylaid by
the most frightful of his crimes, and because
upon that fluctuating mirror — rising (like the
mocking mirrors of mirage in Arabian deserts)
from the fens of death — most of all are re-
flected the sweet countenances which the man
has laid in ruins; therefore I know, bishoj).
that you also, entering your final dream, saw
Domremy. That fountain, of which the wit-
nesses spoke so much, showetl itself to your eyes
in pure morning dews; but neither dews, nor
the holy dawn, could cleanse away the bright
sjiots of innocent blood upon its surface. By
tlie fountain, bishop, you saw a woman seated,
that hid her face. But, as jioii draw near, the
woman raises her wasted features. Would Dom-
remy know them again for the features of her
child? Ah, but yon know them, bishop, well!
servants, waiting outside the bishop 's dream at
his bedside, heard from his labouring heart, as
at this moment he turned away from the foun-
tain and the woman, seeking rest in the forests
afar off. Yet not so to escape the woman,
whom once again he must behold before he dies.
In the forests to which he prays for pity, will
he find a respite? What a tumult, what a
gathering of feet is there! In glades where
only wild deer should run, armies and nations
are assembling; towering in the fluctuating
crowd are phantoms that belong to departed
hours. There is the great English Prince,
Regent of France. There is my Lord of Win-
chester, the princely cardinal, that died and
made no sign.9 There is the Bishop of Beauvais,
clinging to the shelter of thickets. What build-
ing is that which hands so rapidly are raising?
Is it a martyr's scaffold? Will they burn the
child of Domremy a second time! Xo; it is a
tribunal that rises to the clouds; and two na-
tions stand around it, waiting for a trial. Shall
my Lord of Beauvais sit again upon the
judgment-seat, and again number the hours for
the innocent? Ah, no! he is the prisoner at
tlie bar. Already all is waiting: the mighty
audience is gathered, the Court is hurrying to
their seats, the witnesses are arrayed, the trum-
pets are sounding, the judge is taking his place.
Oh, but this is sudden! My Lord, have you no
counsel? "Counsel I have none; in heaven
above, or on earth beneath, counsellor there is
none now that would take a brief from me:
all are silent." Is it, indeed, come to this?
Alas! the time is short, the tumult is wondrous,
llie crowd stretches away into infinity; but yet
I will search in it for somebody to take your
brief ; I know of somebody that will be your
counsel. Who is this that cometh from Dom-
h'muv? Who is she in bloody coronation robes
from Rheims?io Who is she that cometh with
l)Iackened flesh fmm walking the furnaces of
Kouen ? This is she, the shepherd girl, counsellor
that had none for herself, whom I choose, bishop,
for yours. She it is, I engage, that shall take
my lord's brief. She it is, bishop, that would
plead for you; yes, bishop, she — when heaven
and earth are silent.
9 Spo Shakespeare's // Henri/ VT.. Ill, iil.
10 Joan was present at the coronation of Charles
VII. at Rheinis — a coronation made possible
by her own martial exploits.
THE VICTORIAN AGE
THOMAS CARLYLE (I 795-1881)
From SARTOK KKSARTUS
The Eveklastixg Yea. From Book II,
Chapter IX*
"Temptations in the Wilderness! "i exclaims
Teufelsdrockh: "Have we not all to be tried
with such? Not so easily can the old Adam,
lodged in us by birth, be dispossessed. Our
Life is compassed round with Necessity; yet
is the meaning of Life itself no other tlian
Freedom, than Voluntary Force; thus have
we a warfare; in the beginning, especially,
a hard-fought battle. For the God-given man-
date, 7l'o;l- thou dii Welldoing, lies mysteriously
written, in Promethean-' Prophetic Characters,
in our hearts; and leaves us no rest, night or
day, till it be deciphered and obeyed; till it
burn forth, in our conduct, a visible, acted
Gospel of Freedom. And as the clay-given
mandate, Eat thou, and be filled, at the same
time persuasively proclaims itself through every
nerve, — must there not be a confusion, a con-
test, before the better influence can become the
upper i
" To me nothing seems more natural than that
the Son of Man, when such God-given man-
date first prophetically stirs within him, and
the Clay must now be vanquished or vanquish, —
1 Spp Luke, iv, 1, 2.
■■i The mime of Promothous, the fabled defender of
man against .Jupiter's tyranny, means "fore-
thought.
• Rarlor Rrnnrtns, or "The Tailor Ke-Tallored " 1«
nominally a work on clothes: in reality it is
a philosophy, or rather gospel, of life! Car
lyle poses as the editor merely, professing to
have received the work in manuscript from a
certain (ierman Professor "Teufelsdrockh" of
the Iniversily of "Weissnichtwo" (see Enq
Lit., pp. 345-3^«^ In the Second Rook he
assumes to give the physical and spiritual
biography of the author as culled from imag-
inary •'Paper-bags" — bundles of loose docti-
ments — derived from the same . source. The
Professor, afllicted with personal sorrows, and
beset by religious and sp.'cuiaMve doubts, has
set forth on a world-pilgrimage. In his men-
tal strugy^ie he passes from the "Kverlasting
No." n period of doubt and denial, throiigh
the "Centre of Indlflference" to the "FOverlast-
Ing Yea."
should be carried of the spirit into grim Soli-
tudes, and there fronting the Tempter do
grimmest battle with him; defiantly setting him
at naught, till he yield and fly. Name it as we
choose: with or without visible Devil, whether
in the natural Desert of rocks and sands, or
in the populous moral Desert of selfishness and
baseness, — to such Temptation are we all called.
Unhappy if we are not! Unliappy if we are
but Half -men, in whom that divine handwriting
has never blazed forth, all-subtluing, in true
sun-splendour; but quivers dubiously, amid
meauer lights: or smoulders, in dull pain, in
darkness, under earthly vapours! — Our Wilder-
ness is the wide W^orld in an Atheistic Cen-
tury; our Forty Days are long years of suf-
fering and fasting: nevertheless, to these also
comes an end. Yes, to me also Avas given, if
not Victory, yet the consciousness of Battle, and
the resolve to persevere therein while life or
faculty is left. To me also, entangled in the
enciianted forests, demon-peopled, doleful of
sight and of sound, it was given, after weariest
wanderings, to work out my way into the higher
sunlit slopes— of that Mountain which has no
summit, or whose summit is in Heaven only! "
He says elsewhere, under a less ambitious
figure; as figures are, once for all, natural to
him: "Has not thy Life been that of most
sufficient men (tilchtU/en Mlinn-er) thou hast
known in this generation? An outflush of fool-
ish young Enthusiasm, like tiie first fallow-crop,
wherein are as many weeds as valuable herbs:
this all parched away, under the Droughts of
practical and spiritual Unbelief, as Disappoint-
ment, in thought and act, often-repeated gave
rise to Doubt, and Doubt gradually settled into
Denial! If I have had a second-crop, and now
see the perennial greensward, and sit under
umbrageous cedars, which defy all Drought
(and Doubt) ; herein too, be the Heavens
praised, I am not without examples, and even
exemplars."
So that, for Teufelsdrockh also, there has
been a "glorious revolution: " these mad shad-
ow-hunting and shadow-hunted Pilgrimings of
his were hut some purifying "Temptation in
the Wilderness," before iiis apostolic work
S2fi
THOA[AS CARLYLB
(such as it was) could begin; which Tempta-
tion is now happily over, and the Uevil once
more worsted! Was "that high moment in
the Eiie de I'Enfer,"'^ then, properly, the turn-
ing point of the battle; when the P'iend said,
IVorship mc, or be torn in shreds, and Avas
answered valiantly with an A page Satana?* —
Singular Teufelsdrockh, would thou hadst told
thy singular story in plain words! But it is
fruitless to look there, in those Paper-bags, for
such. Nothing but innuendoes, figurative
crotchets: a typical Shadow, fitfully wavering,
prophetico-satiric ; no clear logical Picture.
"How paint to the sensual eye," asks he once,
"what passes in the Holy-of -Holies of Man's
Soul; in what words, known to these profane
times, speak even afar off of the unspeakable?"
We ask in turn: Why perplex these times,
profane as they are, with needless obscurity,
by omission and by commission? Not mystical
only is our Professor, but whimsical ; and in-
volves himself, now more than ever, in eye-
bewildering chiaroscuro. ■• Successive glimpses,
here faithfully imparted, our more gifted read-
ers must endeavour to combine for their own
behoof.
He says: "The hot Harmattan-winds had
raged itself out: its howl went silent within
me; and the long-deafened soul could now hear.
I paused in my wild wanderings; and sat me
down to wait, and consider; for it was as if
the hour of change drew nigh. I seemed to
surrender, to renounce utterly, and say : Fly,
then, false shadows of Hope; I will chase you
no more, I will believe you no more. And ye
too, haggard spectres of Fear, I care not for
you ; ye too are all shadows and a lie. Let me rest
here: for I am way-weary and life-weary; I
will rest here, were it but to die: to die or to
live is alike to me; alike insignificant." — And
again: "Here, then, as I lay in that Centre
of Indifference; cast, doubtless by benignant
upper Influence, into a healing sleep, the heavy
dreams rolled gradually away, and I awoke to
a new Heaven and a new Earth. The first pre-
liminary moral Act, Annihilation of Self
(Selhst-todtung) , had been happily accom-
plished ; and my mind 's eyes were now un-
sealed, and its hands ungyved. ' '
Might we not also conjecture that the follow-
3 Described in a previous chapter as a "dirty
little" street in tlie French Capital wlieie
fresh courage had suddenly come to him. This
passage Cailyle admitted to be autobiograph-
ical, and the street was l.eith Walk, Edin-
burgh.
i "Get thee hence. Satan." Mattlicir. iv. 10.
'' light and shade
c A withering wind of West Africa ; here figurative
for Doubt.
ing pas.sage refers to his Locality, during this
same "healing sleep;" that his Pilgrim-staff
lies cast aside here on "the high table-laud;"
and indeed that the repose is already taking
wholesome effect on him? If it were not that
the tone, in some parts, has more of riancy,"
even of levity, than we could have expected!
However, in Teufelsdrockh, there is always the
strangest Dualism : light dancing, with guitar-
music, will be going on in the fore-court, while
by fits from within comes the faint whimpering
of woe and wail. We transcribe the piece
entire :
' * Beautiful it was to sit there, as in my
skyey Tent, musing and meditating; on the
high table-land, in front of the ^Fountains;
over me, as roof, the azure Dome, and around
me, for walls, four azure flowing curtains, —
namely, of the Four azure Winds, on whose
bottom-fringes also I have seen gilding. And
then to fancy the fair Castles, that stood shel-
tered in these Mountain hollows; with their
green flower lawns, and white dames and damo-
sels, lovely enough: or better still, the straw-
roofed Cottages, wherein stood many a ^lother
baking bread, with her children round her: —
all hidden and protectingly folded-up in the
valley-folds; yet there and alive, as sure as if
I beheld them. Or to see, as well as fancy, the
nine Towns and Villages, that lay round my
mountain-seat, which, in still weather, were
wont to speak to me (by their steeple-bells)
with metal tongue; and, in almost all weather,
proclaimed their vitality by repeated Smoke-
clouds; whereon, as on a culinary horologe, I
might read the hour of the day. For it was
the smoke of cookery, as kind housewives at
morning, midday, eventide, were boiling their
husbands' kettles; and ever a blue pillar rose
up into the air, successively or simultaneously,
from each of the nine, saying, as plainly as
smoke could say: Such and such a meal is
getting ready here. Not uninteresting! For
you have the whole Borough, with all its love-
makings and scandal-mongeries, contentions and
contentments, as in miniature, and could cover
it all with your hat. — If. in my wide Wayfar-
ings, I had learned to look into the business
of the World in its details, here perhaps was
the place for combining it into general propo-
sitions, and deducing inferences therefrom.
' ' Often also could I see the black Tempest
marching in anger through the Distance:
round some Schreckhorn." as yet grim-blue,
would the eddying vapour gather, and there
" laughing gayety
X '"IVak of Terror."
528
'11 IK Vle'TOKlA.N ACE
tumultuously eddy, aud flow down like a mad
witch's hair; till, after a space, it vanished,
and, in the clear sunbeam, your Hehreckhorn
stood smiling grim-white, for the vapour had
held snow. How thou fermentest and elabo-
ratest in thy great fermenting-vat and labora-
tory of an Atmosphere, of a World, O Nature I
Or what is Nature? Ha! why do I not name
thee God? Art thou not the "Living Garment
of God?" O Heavens, is it, in very deed, He
then that ever speaks through thee; that lives
and loves in thee, that lives and loves in me?
' ' Fore-shadows, call them rather fore-splen-
dours, of that Truth, and Beginning of Truths,
fell mysteriously over my soul. Sweeter than
Dayspring to the Shipwrecked in Nova Zem-
bla;* ah, like the mother's voice to her little
child that strays bewildered, weeping, in un-
known tumults; like soft streamings of celes-
tial music to my too-exasperated heart, came
that Evangel. The Universe is not dead and
demoniacal, a charnel-house with spectres: but
godlike, and my Father 's !
"With other eyes, too, could I now look
upon my fellow man; with an infinite Love, an
infinite Pity. Poor, wandering, wayward man!
Art thou not tried, and beaten with stripes,
even as I am? Ever, whether thou bear the
royal mantle or the beggar's gabardine, art
thou not so weary, so heavy-laden; and thy
Bed of Rest is but a Grave. O my Brother,
my Brother, why cannot I shelter thee in my
bosom, and Avipe away all tears from thy eyes!
— Truly, the din of many-voiced Life, which in
this solitude, with the mind's organ, I could
hear, was no longer a maddening discord, but
a melting one: like inarticulate cries, and sob-
bings of a dumb creature, which in the ear of
Heaven are prayers. The poor Earth, with her
poor joys, was now my needy Mother, not my
cruel Stepdame; Man, with his so mad Wants
and so mean Endeavours, had become the dearer
to me; and even for his sufferings and his sins,
I now first named him brother. Thus was I
standing in the porch of that 'Sanctuary of
Sorroiv;' by strange, steep ways, had I too
been guided thither; and ere long its sacred
gates would open, and the 'Divine Drplh of
Sorrow' lie disclosed to me."
The Profes-sor says, he here first got eye
on the Knot that had been strangling him, and
straightway could unfasten it, and was free.
• Carlylp pot tlip sugReKllon for HIh compariHon
from the Juiirnal ot Williani Rarcntz. a Dutch
navigator who wa« Khipwn'ck«'d In the winter
of 1.'«m; <.ii thcw Arctic iHlandH. whore the sun
returns only after weeks of (larknesN. Com-
pare the third note on Addiflon's paper on
"t-'.-ozen Words." p. 208.
I "A vain interminable controversy," write;? he,
"touching what is at present called Origin of
Evil, or some such thing, arises in every soul,
since the beginning of the world; and in every
soul, that would pass from idle Suffering into
actual Endeavouring, must first be put an end
to. The most, in our time, have to go content
with a simple, incomplete enough Suppression ol'
this controversy; to a few, some Solution of
it is indis{)ensable. In every new era, too, such
Solution conies out in different terms; and
ever the Solution of the last era has become
obsolete, and is found unserviceable. For it
is man's nature to change his Dialect from
century to century; he cannot help it though
he would. The authentic Church-Catechism of
our present century has not yet fallen into my
hands: meanwhile, for my OAvn private behoof,
1 attempt to elucidate the matter so. Man 's
Unhappiness, as I construe, comes of his Great-
ness; it is because there is an Infinite in him,
which with all his cunning he cannot quite bury
under the Finite. W^ill the whole Finance Min-
isters and Upholsterers and Confectioners of
modern Europe undertake, in joint-stock com-
pany, to make one Shoeblack happy.? They
cannot accomplish it, above an hour or two ;
for the Shoeblack also has a Soul quite other
than his Stomach: and would require, if you
consider it, for his permanent satisfaction and
saturation, simply this allotment, no more, and
no less: God's infinite Universe altogther to
himself, therein to enjoy infinitely, and fill
every wish as fast as it rose. Oceans of Hoch-
heimer,! a Throat like that of Ophiuchus:-
speak not of them; to the infinite Shoeblack
they are as nothing. No sooner is your ocean
filled, than ho grumbles that it might have
been of better vintage. Try him with half of
a Universe, of an Omnipotence, he sets to
quarrelling with the proprietor of the other
half, and declares himself the most maltreated
of men. — Always there is a black spot in our
sunshine: it is even, as I said, the Shadow of
Ourselves.
"But the whim we have of Happiness is
somewhat thus. By certain valuations, and
averages, of our own striking, we come upon
some sort of average terrestrial lot ; this we
fancy belongs to us by nature, and of inde-
feasible right. It is simple payment of our
wages, of our deserts; requires neither thanks
nor complaint : only such overplus as there
j may be do we account Happiness; any deficit
again is Misery. Now consider that we have
the valuation of our own deserts ourselves, and
I I Hook.
•-• .See /'«(•. Loft, II. 70S.
THOMAS CAKLYLE
529
what a fund of Self-conceit there is in each of
us, — do you wonder that the balance should so
often dip the wrong way, and many a Block-
head cry: See there, what a payment; was
ever worthy gentleman so used! — I tell thee,
Blockhead, it all comes of thy Vanity; of
what thou funcicst those same deserts of thine
to be. Fancy that thou deservest to be hanged
(as is most likely), thou wilt feel it happiness
to be only shot: fancy that thou deservest to
be hanged in a hair-halter, it will be a luxury
to die in hemp.
"So true it is, what I then said, that the
Fraction of Life can he increased in value not
so much by increa.sitig your Numerator as by
Lsscning your Denominator. Nay, unless my
Algebra deceive me. Unity itself divided by
Zero will give Inpnity. Make thy claim of
wages a zero, then ; thou hast the worjd under
thy feet. Well did the Wisest of our times
write: 'It is only with Eenunciation
(Entsafjen) that Life, properly speaking, can
be said to begin. '
"1 asked myself: What is this that, ever
since earliest years, thou hast been fretting
and fuming, and lamenting and self-tormenting,
on account of ? Say it in a word : is it not
because thou art not happy ? Because the Thou
(sweet gentleman) is not sufficiently honoured,
nourished, soft-bedded, and lovingly cared-fori
Foolish soul I What Act of Legislature was
there that thou shouldst be Happy? A little
while ago thou hadst no right to be at all.
What if thou wert born and predestined not to
be Happy, but to be Unhappy! Art thou noth-
ing other than a Vulture, then, that fliest
through the Universe seeking after somewhat
to eat ; and shrieking dolefully Ijecause carrion
enough is not given thee? Close thy Byron;*
open thy Goethe."
" Es leuchtet mir ein, I see a glimpse of it I "
cries he elsewhere "there is in man a Higher
than Love of Happiness: he can do without
Happiness, and instead thereof find Blessed-
ness! Was it not to preach-forth this same
Higher that sages and martyrs, the Poet and
the Priest, in all times, have spoken and suf-
fered; bearing testimony, through life and
through death, of the Godlike that is in ^fan.
and how in the Godlike only has he Strength
and Freedom ? Which God-inspired Doctrine
art thou also honoured to be taught; O Heav-
ens! and broken with manifold merciful Af-
flictions, even till thou become contrite, and
learn it! O thank thy Destiny for these;
? noetlip.
i nyron's verse is full of his persona! grievances.
Sm Enn. Lit., p. 2.%1,
thankfully bear what yet remain: thou hadst
need of them; the Self in thee needed to be
annihilated. By benignant fever-paroxjsms is
Life rooting out the deep-seated chronic Dis-
ease, and triumphs over Death. On the roaring
billows of Time, thou art not engulfed, but
borne aloft into the azure of Paternity. Love
not Pleasure; love God. This is the Ever-
lasting Yea, wherein all contradiction is
solved; wherein whoso walks and works, it is
well with him. ' '
Natural Superxaturalism. From Book III,
Chapter VIII
"But deepest of all illusory Appearances, for
hiding Wonder, as for many other ends, are
your two grand fundamental world-enveloping
Appearances, Space and Time. These, as spun
and woven for us from before Birth itself, to
clothe our celestial Me for dwelling here, and
yet to blind it, — lie all-embracing, as the uni-
versal canvas, or warp and woof, whereby all
minor lllusion.s, in this Pliantasm Existence,
weave and paint themselves. In vain, while
here on Earth, shall you endeavour to strip
them off; you can, at best, but rend them
asunder for moments, and look through.
" Fortunatus"' had a wishing Hat, which
when he put on, and wished himself Anywhere,
behold he was There. By this means had For-
tunatus triumphed over Space, he ha<l anni-
hilated Space; for him there was no Where,
but all was Here. Were a Hatter to establish
himself, in the Wakngasse of Weissnichtwo.«
and make felts of this sort for all mankind,
what a world we should have of it! Still
stranger, should, on the opposite side of the
street, another Hatter establish himself; and,
as his fellow -craftsman made Space-annihilat-
ing Hats, make Time-annihilating! Of both
Avould I purchase, were it with my last
groschen^ ; but chietiy of this latter. To clap
on your felt, and. simply by wishing that you
were Knyn-here, straightway to be There! Next
to clap on your other felt, and simply by wish-
ing that you were Ar\\n-hen, straightway to be
Then! This were indeed the grander: shooting
at will from the Fire-Creation of the World
to its Fire-Con-summation ; here historically
present in the First Century, conversing face to
face with Paul and Seneca ; * there prophet-
3 The hero of a popular modern legend.
•J "Dream-lane of Know-not-where.'' See intro-
ductory note.
7 A very small silver coin of Germany, now obso-
lete.
* Certain spurious letters have come down to us
which were said to have passed between Paul
and Seneca,
530
THE VlCTOlUA^s AGE
ically in the Thirty-first, conversing also face
to face with other Pauls and Senecas, who as
yet stand hidden in the depth of that late Time !
' ' Or thinkest thou, it were impossible, un-
imaginable? Is the Past annihilated, then, or
only past; is the Future non-extant, or only
future? Those mystic faculties of thine. Mem-
ory and Hope, already answer: already through
those mystic avenues, thou the Earth-blinded
summonest both Past and Future, and com-
muuest with them, though as yet darkly, and
with mute beckonings. The curtains of Yes-
terday drop down, the curtains of To-morrow
roll up; but Yesterday and To-morrow both are.
Pierce through the Time-Element, glance into
the Eternal. Believe what thou findest written
in the sanctuaries of Man 's Soul, even as all
Thinkers, in all ages, have devoutly read it
there: that Time and Space are not God, but
creations of God; that with God as it is a
universal Here, so is it an everlasting Now,
"And seest thou therein any glimpse of Im-
mortality? — O Heaven! Is the white Tomb
of our Loved One, who died from our arms,
and had to be left behind us there, which rises
in the distance, like a pale, mournfully reced-
ing Milestone, to tell how many toilsome un-
cheered miles we have journeyed on alone, —
but a pale spectral Illusion ! Is the lost Friend
still mysteriously Here, even as we are Here
mysteriously with God! — Know of a truth that
only the Time-shadows have perished, or are
perishable ; that the real Being of whatever was,
and whatever is, and whatever will be, is even
now and forever. This, should it unhappily
seem new, thou mayst ponder at thy leisure; for
the next twenty years, or the next twenty cen-
turies: believe it thou must; understand it
thou canst not.
"That the Thought-forms, Space and Time,
wherein, once for all, we are sent into this
Earth to live, should condition and determine
our wliole Practical reasonings, conceptions,
and imagings or imaginings, — seems altogether
fit, .just, and unavoidable. But that they
should, furthermore, usurp such sway over purfl
spiritual Meditation, and blind us to the wonder
everywhere lying close on us, seems nowise so.
Admit Space and Time to their due rank as
Forms of Thought ; nay, even, if thou wilt, to
their quite undue rank of Realities: and con-
sider, then, with thyself how their thin dis-
guises hide from us the brightest flod-efful-
gences! Thus, were it not miraculous, could
f stretch forth my han<l and clutch the Sun?
Yet thou seest me daily stretch forth my hand,
and therewith clutch many a thing, and swing
it hither and thither. Art thou a grown baby,
then, to fancy that the Miracle lies in nules of
distance, or in pounds avoirdupois of weight ;
and not to see that the true inexplicable God-
revealing Miracle lies in this, that I can stretch
forth my hand at all ; that 1 have free Force to
clutch aught therewith? Innumerable other of
this sort are the deceptions, and wonder-hiding
stupefactions, which Space practices on us.
' ' Still worse is it with regard to Time. Your
grand anti-magician, and universal wonder-
hider, is this same lying Time. Had we but
the Time-annihilating Hat, to put on for once
only, we should see ourselves in a World of
Miracles, wherein all fabled or authentic Thau-
maturgy, and feats of Magic, were outdone.
But unhappily we have not such a Hat; and
man, poor fool that he is, can seldom and
scantily help himself without one.
"Were it not wonderful, for instance, had
Orpheus, or Amphion, built the walls of Thebes
by the mere sound of his Lyrefs Yet tell me.
Who built these walls of Weissnichtwo ; sum-
moning out all the sandstone rocks, to dance
along from the Stein-bruch» (now a huge
Troglodyte Chasm, with frightful green-mantled
pools) ; and shape themselves into Doric and
Ionic pillars, squared ashlar houses, and noble
streets? Was it not the still higher Orpheus,
or Orpheuses, who, in past centuries, by the
divine Music of Wisdom, succeeded in civilising
man? Our highest Orpheus walked in Judea,
eighteen hundred years ago: his sphere-melody,i"J
flowing in wild native tones, took captive the
ravished souls of men; and, being of a truth
sphere-melody, still flows and sounds, though
now with thousandfold accomplishments, and
rich symphonies, through all our hearts; and
modulates, and divinely leads them. Is that
a wonder, which happens in two hours; and
does it cease to be wonderful if happening in
two million? Not only was Thebes built by the
music of an Orjdieus; but without the music
of some inspired Orpheus was no city ever
built, no work that man glories in ever done,
"Sweep away the Illusion of Time; glance.
if thou have eyes, from the near moving-cause.
to its far-distant Mover: The stroke that came
transmitted through a whole galaxy of elastic
balls, was it less a stroke than if the last ball
only had been struck, and sent flying? Oh,
could T (with the Time-annihilating Hat)
transport thee direct from the Beginnings to
the landings, how were thy eyesight unsealed,
and thy heart set flaming in the Light-sea of
8 Ar anolont tradition. Cp, p. 228, noto 30,
!' stonc-'H'.nrry
10 S»r p. :{21, note H,
THOMAS CAKLYLE
531
celestial wonder! Then sawest thou that this
fair Universe, were it in the meanest province
thereof, is in very deed the star-domed City of
God; that through every star, through every
grass-blade, and most through every Living
Soul, the glory of a present God still beams.
But Nature, which is the Time-vesture of God,
and reveals Him to the wise, hides Him from
the foolish.
' ' Again, could anything be more miraculous
than an actual authentic Ghost? The English
Johnson longed, all his life to see one ; but
could not, though he went to Cock Lane,* and
thence to the church-vaults, and tapped on cof-
fins. Foolish Doctor! Did he never, with the
mind's eye as well as with the body's, look
round him into that full tide of human Life he
so loved ; did he never so mucli as look into
Himself? The good Doctor was a Ghost, as
actual and authentic as heart could wish ; well-
nigh a million of Ghosts were travelling the
streets by his side. Once more I say, sweep
away the illusion of Time; compress the three-
score years into three minutes: what else was
he, what else are we ? Are we not Spirits, that
are shaped into a body, into an Appearance;
and that fade away again into air, and Invis-
ibility? This is no metaphor, it is a simple
scientific fact; we start out of Nothingness,
take figure, and are Apparitions; round us, as
round the veriest spectre, is Eternity; and to
Eternity minutes are as years and a?ons. Come
theie not tones of Love and Faith, as from
celestial harp-strings, like the Song of beatified
Souls ? And again, do not we squeak and
gibber- (in our discordant, screech-owlish de-
batings and recriminatings) ; and glide bodeful
and feeble, and fearful; or uproar (poltern),
and revel in our mad Dance of the Dead, — till
the scent of the morning-airs summons us to
our still Home; and dreamy Night becomes
awake and Day? Where now is Alexander of
Macedon: does the steel Host, that yelled in
fierce battle-shouts, at Issus and Arbela, remain
behind him ; or have they all vanished utterly,
even as perturbed Goblins must? Napoleon loo,
and his Moscow Retreats and Austerlitz Cam-
paigns! Was it all other than the veriest
Spectre-hunt; which has now, with its howling
tumult that made night hideous, flitted away? —
Ghosts! There are nigh a thousand million
walking the Earth openly at noontide; some
half-hundred have vanished from it, some half-
1 The "Cork Lane Ohost" was a notorious Impos-
turo perpetrated In London In 1762.
2 Hamlet. I. i, 116.
3 11 a III let, I, V, 58.
hundred have arisen in it, ere thy Avatch ticks
once.
"O Heaven, it is mysterious, it is awful to
consider that we not only carry each a future
Ghost within him; but are, in very deed,
Ghosts! These Limbs, whence had we them;
this stormy Force; this life-blood with its
burning passion? They are dust and shadow;
a Shadow-system gathered round our Me;
wherein through some moments or years, the
Divine Essence is to be revealed in the Flesh.
That warrior on his strong war-horse, fire flashes
through his eyes; force dwells in his arm and
heart ; but warrior and war-horse are a vision ;
a revealed Force, nothing more. Stately they
tread the Earth, as if it were a firm substance:
fool! the Earth is but a film; it cracks in
twain, and warrior and war-horse sink beyond
plummet's sounding. Plummet's? Fantasy
herself will not follow them. A little while ago
they were not ; a little while and they are not,
their very ashes are not.
"So has it been from the beginning, so will
it be to the end. Generation after generation
takes to itself the Form of a Body; and forth-
issuing from Cimmerian Night,* on Heaven 's
mission appears. What Force and Fire is in
each he expends: one grinding in the mill of
Industry ; one hunter-like climbing the giddy
Alpine heights of Science; one madly dashed
in pieces on the rocks of Strife, in war with
his fellow: — and then the Heaven-sent is re-
called; his earthly Vesture falls away, and soon
even to Sense becomes a Vanished Shallow.
Thus, like some wild-flaming, wild-thundering
train of Heaven's Artillery, does this mysteri-
ous Mankind thunder and flame, in long-drawn,
quick-succeeding grandeur, through the unknown
Deep. Thus, like a Goil-created, fire-breathing
Spirit-host, we emerge from the Inane; haste
stormfully across the astonished Earth; then
plunge again into the Inane. Earth 's mountains
are levelled, and her seas filled up, in our pas-
sage: can the Earth, which is but dead and a
vision, resist Spirits which have reality and are
alive? On the hardest adamant some foot-
print of us is stamped-in ; the last Rear of
the host will read traces of the earliest Van.
But whence? — O Heaven, whither? Sense
knows not; Faith knows not; only that it is
through Mystery to Mystery, from God and to
God.
"We are such stuff
As Dreams are made on, and our little Life
Is rounded with a sleep !" 5
♦ Clmmeria was a fp1)Ied country of perpetual
darkness.
5 The Temi>e><t, IV. i. 156.
53i;
THE VICTOKIAX AGE
FuoM THE FRENCH BEVOLUTIOX
■Uprising ok the Populace. Storming of the
Bastille. From Volume I, Book V,
Chapters IV- VI*
So hangs it, dubious, fateful, in the sultry
days of July. It is the passionate printed
advice of ^I. ilarat.t to abstain, of all things,
from violence. Nevertheless the hungry poor
are already burning Town Barriers,i where
Tribute on eatables is levied; getting clamor-
ous for food.
The twelfth July morning is Sunday: the
streets are all placarded with an enormous-
sized De par le Koi,- ' ' inviting peaceable citi-
zens to remain within doors, "| to feel no
alarm, to gather in no crowd. Why so? What
mean these "placards of enormous size?"
Above all, what means this clatter of military;
dragoons, hussars, rattling in from all points
of the compass towards the Place Louis Quinze:3
with a staid gravity of face, though saluted
with mere nicknames, hootings and even mis-
siles? Besenval* is with them. Swiss Guards
of his are already in the Champs Elys^es,^ with
four pieces of artillery.
Have the destroyers descended on us,§ then?
From the Bridge of S&vres to utmost Vincennes,
from Saint-Denis to the Champ-de-Mars, we are
begirt! Alarm, of the vague unknown, is in
1 City gates.
2 An order de part le roi, "by the authority of the
king."
3 "Square of Louis XV." ; a noted square west of
the Tuileries, or royal residence ; now the
Place de la Concorde.
4 Then Commandant of I'aris.
5 An avenue and public park extending westward
from the Place de la Concorde,
• The immediate cause of the French Revolution
was a defltienc-y of revenue and the oppres-
sive taxation of the people— the Commonalty,
or Third Kstate — to the exemption of the two
other Estates, the Nobility and the Clergy.
Necker. a Genevesc statesman, wlio was Di-
rector (Jeneral of Finance, convened the
StatC8-(ieneral, or legislative assemblies, at
Versailles in May, 1789. As they failed to
come to an agreement, the Third Estate re-
solved Itself into a National Assembly with
the object of forming a Constitution. Such
in brief was the Kltuatlon when this narrative
opens. — the King and his court at Versailles.
Just outside of Paris. Iiopelessly at odds with
the National Assembly, and the starving popu-
lace in Paris and throughout France begin-
ning to clamor for bread.
t .lean Paul Marat, at one time the Prince d'Ar-
tois's horse-leech (horse doctor) ; one of the
earliest IncltTs to revolution, and a leader of
the Jacobin pprty after it was formed.
t Words thus quoted by Carlyle are taken from
various memoirs and contemporary documents.
I Carlyle s|M>aks from the point of "view of the
pHrisian r>opulace. or revolutionists, whom
he Inter ealls by the collective name of "Pa-
triotism,"
every heart. The Palais Royal* has become a
place of awestruck interjections, silent shakings
of the head : one can fancy with what dolorous
sound the noontide cannon (which the Sun fires
at crossing of his meridian) went off there;
bodeful, like an inarticulate voice of doom. Are
these troops verily come out "against Brig-
ands?" Where are the Brigands? What mys-
tery is in tlie wind? — Hark! a human voice
reporting articulately the Job 's-news : 'i Necker,
People's Minister, Savimtr of France, is dis-
missed. Impossible, incredible! Treasonous to
tlie public peace! Such a voice ought to be
choked in the water works; — had not the news-
bringer quickly fled. Nevertheless, friends,
make of it what ye will, the news is true.
Necker is gone. Necker hies northward inces
.santly, in obedient secrecy, since yesternight.
We have a new Ministry: Broglie the War-
god ;7 Aristocrat Breteuil; Foulon who said
the people might eat grass!
Rumour, therefore, shall arise; in the Palais
Royal, and in broad France. Paleness sits on
every face: confused tremor and f remescence ; >*
waxing into thunder-peals, of Fury stirred on
by Fear.
But see Caniille Desmoulins, from the Cafe
de Foy, rushing out, sibylline" in face; his hair
streaming, in each hand a pistol! He springs
to a table : the Police satellites are eyeing him ;
alive they shall not take him, not they alive
him alive. This time he speaks witliout stam-
mering: — Friends! shall we die like hunted
hares? Like sheep hounded into their pinfold;
bleating for mercy, where is no mercy, but only
a whetted knife? The hour is come; the su-
preme hour of Frenchman and Man; when
Oppressors are to try conclusions with Op-
pressed; and tlje word is, swift Death, or
Deliverance forever. Let such hour be iceH-
come! Us, meseems, one cry only befits: To
Anns! Let universal Paris, universal France,
as with the throat of the whirlwind, sound only:
To arms! — "To arms! " yell responsive the in-
numerable voices; like one great voice, as of a
Demon yelling from the air: for all faces wax
fire-eyed, all hearts burn up into madness. In
such, or fitter words, does Camille evoke the
Elemental Powers, in this great moment. —
disheartening news
7 1. e.. Minister of War
8 From Latin frcmo. to growl.
like the ancient Sibyl, or inspired prophetess
• A pnlnce, with galleries and gardens, built by
Cardinal Hichelieii in the heart of Paris. At
this time it was occupied by the Due d'Or-
leans (Philippe ftgaltt^), one of the nobles
who had Joined the Commons, and its cat^n
were the resort of the mon* violent democrats.
THOMAS CARLYLE
533
Friends, contiuues Camille, some rallying sign!
Cockades; green ones; — the colour of Hope! —
As with the flight of locusts, these green tree-
leaves; green ribands from the neighbouring
shops; all green things are snatched, and made
cockades of. Camille descends from his table;
"stifled with embraces, wetted with tears;"
has a bit of green ribbon handed him; sticks
it in his hat. And now to Curtius' Image-
shop there; to the Boulevards; to the four
winds, and rest not till France be on fire!
France, so long shaken and wind-parched, is
probably at the right inflammable point. — As
for poor Curtius, who, one grieves to tliink,
might be but imperfectly paid, — he cannot
make two words about his Images. The Wax-
bust of Xecker, the Wax-bust of D 'Orleans,
helpers of France: these, covered Avith crape,
as in funeral procession, or after the manner
of suppliants appealing to Heaven, to Earth,
and Tartarus itself, a mixed multitude bears
off. For a sign! As indeed man, with his sin-
gular imaginative faculties, can do little or
nothing without signs; thus Turks look to
their Prophet's Banner; also Osier Mannikins^o
have been burnt, and Keeker's Portrait has
erewhile figured, aloft on its perch.
In this manner march they, a mixed, contin-
ually increasing multitude; armed with axes,
staves and miscellanea; grim, many-sounding,
through the streets. Be all Theatres shut; let
all dancing on planked floor, or on the natural
greensward, cease! Instead of a Christian Sab-
bath, and feast of gidnguette^i tabernacles, it
shall be a Sorcerer's Sabbath; 12 and Paris, gone
rabid, dance, — with the Fiend for piper!
Eaging multitudes surround the H6tel-de-
Ville,i3 crying: Arms! Orders! The Six-and-
twenty Town-Couucillors, with their long gowns,
have ducked under (into the raging chaos) ; —
shall never emerge more. Besenval is painfully
wriggling himself out, to the Champ-de-Mars ;i*
he must sit there "in the cruellest uncertain-
ty!" courier after courier may dash off for
Versailles; but will bring back no answer, can
hardly bring himself back. For the roads are
all blocked with batteries and pickets, with
floods of carriages arrested for examination:
such was Broglie's one sole order; the CEil-de-
BcBuf,i5 hearing in the distance such mad din,
which sounded almost like invasion, will before
10 Images of Guy Fawkes, for example.
11 tea-garden
12 assembly of witches or wizards
13 The Town Hall, which became the rallying place
of the democratic party.
14 A military field, south of the Seine.
15 The hall of the king's counsellors, at Versailles.
all things keep its own head whole. A new Min-
istry, with, as it were, but one foot in the
stirrup, cannot take leaps. Mad Paris is aban-
doned altogether to itself.
What a Paris, when the darkness fell! A
European metropolitan City hurled suddenly
forth from its old combinations and arrange-
ments; to crash tumultuously together, seeking
new. Use and wont will now no longer direct
any man; each man with what of originality
he has, must begin thinking ; or following those
that think. Seven hundred thousand individ-
uals, on the sudden, find all their old paths,
old ways of acting, and deciding, vanish from
under their feet. And so there go they, with
clangour and terror, they know not as yet
whether running, swimming, or flying, — head-
long into the New Era. With clangour and
terror: from above, Broglie, the war-god, im-
pends, preternatural, with his redhot cannon-
balls; and from below a preternatural Brigand-
world menaces with dirk and firebrand: mad-
ness rules the hour.
Happily, in place of the submerged Twenty-
six, the Electoral Club is gathering; has de-
clared itself a ' ' Provisional Municipality. ' ' On
the morrow, it will get Provost Flesselles, with
an Echevin or two,i6 to give help in many
things. For the present it decrees one most
essential thing: that forthwith a "Parisian
Militia" shall be enrolled. Depart, ye heads
of Districts, to labour in this great work;
while we here, in Permanent Committee, sit
alert. Let fenciblei^ men, each party in its
own range of streets, keep watch and ward, all
night. Let Paris court a little fever-sleep;
confused by such fever-dreams, of ' ' violent mo-
tions at the Palais Royal;" — or from time to
time start awake, and look out, palpitating, in
its nightcap, at the clash of discordant mu-
tually-unintelligible Patrols; on the gleam of
distant Barriers, going up ail-too ruddy
towards the vault of Night.
On Monday, the huge City has awoke, not to
its week-day industry : to what a different one !
The working man has become a fighting man;
has one want only : that of arms. The industry
of all crafts has paused; — except it be the
smith's, fiercely hammering pikes; and, in a
faint degree, the kitchener's, cooking offhand
victuals, for bouche va toujoursA» Women too
are sewing cockades; — not now of green, which
iCThe Provost of Merchants, with his municipal
magistrates.
IT capable of defending
18 "Eating must go on."
534
THE VICTOBIAN AGE
being D'Artoisi» colour, the H6tel-de-Ville has
had to interfere in it; but of red and blue,
our old Paris colours: these, once based on a
ground of constitutional white, are the famed
Tricolor, — Which (if Prophecy err not) "will
go round the world."
All shops, unless it be the Bakers' and Vint-
ners', are shut: Paris is in the streets; —
rushing, foaming like some Venice wine-glass
into which you had dropped poison. The tocsin,
by order, is pealing madly from all steeples.
Arms, ye Elector Municipals; thou Flesselles
with thy Echevins, give us arms! Flesselles
gives what he can : fallacious, perhaps insidious
promises of arms from Charleville; order to
seek arms here, order to seek them there. The
new Municipals give what they can; some
three hundred and sixty indifferent firelocks,
the equipment of the City-watch: "a man in
wooden shoes, and without coat, directly clutches
one of them, and mounts guard." Also as
hinted, an order to all Smiths to make pikes
with their whole soul.
Heads of Districts are in fervent consulta-
tion; subordinate Patriotism roams distracted,
ravenous for arms. Hitherto at the H6tel-de-
Ville was only such modicum of indifferent
firelocks as we have seen. At the so-called
Arsenal, there lies nothing but rust, rubbish
and saltpetre, — overlooked too by the guns of
the Bastille. His Majesty's Kepository, what
they call Garde- Meuhle, is forced and ran-
sacked: tapestries enough, and gauderies; but
of serviceable fighting-gear small stock! Two
silver-mounted cannons there are; an ancient
gift from his Majesty of Siam to Louis Four-
teenth; gilt sword of the Good Henri20; antique
Chivalry arms and armour. These, and such
as these, a necessitous Patriotism snatches
greedily, for want of better. The Siamese
cannons go trundling, on an errand they were
not meant for. Among the indifferent fire-
locks are seen tourney-lances; the princely
helm and hauberk glittering amid ill-hatted
heads, — as in a time when all times and their
possessions are suddenly sent jumbling!
In such circumstances, the Aristocrat, the un-
patriotic rich man is packing up for departure.
But he shall not get departed. A wooden-shod
force has seized all Barriers, burnt or not: all
that enters, all that seeks to issue, is stopped
there, and dragged to the H6tel-de-Ville :
coaches, tumbrils,-! plate, furniture, "many
10 Monspignenr d'Artois was an unpopular adher-
ent of the king.
20 Henry of Navarre.
iii two-wbceled carta
meal-sacks," in time even "flocks and herds"
encumber the Place de Greve.2
And so it roars, and rages, and brays: drums
beating, steeples pealing; criers rushing with
hand-bells: "Oyez,3 oyez, All men to their
Districts to be enrolled ! ' ' The Districts have
met in gardens, open squares; are getting mar-
shalled into volunteer troops. No redhot ball
has yet fallen from Besenval's Camp; on the
contrary, Deserters with their arms are con-
tinually dropping in: nay now, joy of joys,
at two in the afternoon, the Gardes FranQaiscs,*
being ordered to Saint-Denis, and flatly declin-
ing, have come over in a body! It is a fact
worth many. Three thousand six hundred of
the best fighting men, with complete accoutre-
ment; with cannoneers even, and cannon!
Their officers are left standing alone; could
not so much as succeed in "spiking the guns."
The very Swiss, it may now be hoped, Chateau-
Vieux"* and the others, will have doubts about
fighting.
Our Parisian Militia, — which some think it
were better to name National Guard, — is pros-
pering as heart could Avish. It promised to be
forty-eight thousand ; but will in few hours
double and quadruple that number: invincible,
if we had only arms!
But see, the promised Charleville Boxes,
marked Artillerie! Here then are arms enough?
— Conceive the blank face of Patriotism, when ;
it found them filled with rags, foul linen, '
candle-ends, and bits of wood! Provost of the
Merchants, how is this? Neither at the Char-
treux Convent, whither we were sent with
signed order, is there or ever was there any
weapon of war. Nay here, in this Seine Boat,
safe under tarpaulings (had not the nose of
Patriotism been of the finest), are "five thou-
sand-weight of gunpowder;" not coming in,
but surreptitiously going out! What meanest j
thou, Flesselles? 'Tis a ticklish game, that of *
"amusing" us. Cat plays with captive mouse:
but mouse with enraged cat, with enraged .
National Tiger? j
Meanwhile, the faster, O ye black-aproned f
Smiths, smite; with strong arm and willing
heart. This man and that, all stroke from head
to heel, shall thunder alternating, and ply the
great forge-hammer, till stithy reel and ring
again; while ever and anon, overhead, booms]
the alarm-cannon, — for the City has now got
gunpowder. Pikes are fabricated; fifty thou-
2 Now the Place de rHOtel-de-VllIe.
3 "Hear ye !"
4 The French Guards, the chief regiment of the
French army.
r> A regiment of Swiss troops.
THOMAS CARLYLE
535
sand of them, in six-and-thirty hours; judge
whether the Blaek-aproned have been idle. Dig
trenches, unpave the streets, ye others, assidu-
ous, man and maid ; cram the earth in barrel-
barricades, at each of them a volunteer sentry;
pile the whin-stones in window-sills and upper
rooms. Have scalding pitch, at least boiling
water ready, ye weak old women, to pour it and
dash it on Koyal-Allemand,8 with your skinny
arms: your shrill curses along with it will not
be wanting! — Patrols of the new-born National
Guard, bearing torches, scour the streets, all
that night; which otherwise are vacant, yet
illuminated in every window by order. Strange-
looking; like some naphtha-lighted City of the
Dead, with here and there a flight of perturbed
Ghosts.
O poor mortals, how ye make this Earth bit-
ter for each other; this fearful and wonderful
Life fearful and horrible; and Satan has his
place in all hearts! Such agonies and ragings
and wailings ye have, and have had, in all
times: — to be buried all, in so deep silence;
and the salt sea is not swoln with your tears.
Great meanwhile is the moment, when tidings
of Freedom reach us; when the long-enthralled
soul, from amid its chains and squalid stag-
nancy, arises, were it still only in blindness and
bewilderment, and swears by Him that made
it, that it will be free! Free? Understand
that well, it is the deep commandment, dimmer
or clearer, of our whole being, to be free.
Freedom is the one purport, wisely aimed at,
or unwisely, of all man 's struggles, toilings and
sufferings, in this Earth. Yes, supreme is such
a moment (if thou have known it) : first vision
as of a flame-girt Sinai,i in this our waste Pil-
grimage, — which thenceforth wants not its
pillar of cloud by day, and pillar of fire by
night! 2 Something it is even, — nay, something
considerable, when the chains have grown corro-
sive, poisonous, — to be free * from oppression
by our fellow-man. ' Forward, ye maddened
sons of France; be it towards this destiny or
towards that! Around you is but starvation,
falsehood, corruption and the clam of death.
Where ye are is no abiding.
Imagination may, imperfectly, figure how
Commandant Besenval, in the Champ-de-Mars,
has worn out these sorrowful hours. Insurrec-
tion raging all round; his men melting away!
From Versailles, to the most pressing messages,
comes no answer ; or once only some vague word
e A regiment of German troops.
1 The mountain on which the law was given to
Moses. Exodus, xix.
2 Exodus, xiil, 21.
of answer which is worse than none. A Council
of Officers can decide merely that there is no
decision: Colonels inform him, 'weeping,' that
they do not think their men will fight. Cruel
uncertainty is here: war-god Broglie sits yon-
der, inaccessible in his Olympus; does not de-
scend terror-clad, does not produce his whiff of
grape-shot;* sends no orders.
Truly, in the Chateau3 of Versailles all seems
mystery: in the Town of Versailles, were we
there, all is rumour, alarm and indignation.
An august National Assembly sits, to appear-
ance, menaced with death ; endeavouring to defy
death. It has resolved 'that Necker carries
with him the regrets of the Nation.' It has
sent solemn Deputation over to the Chateau,
with entreaty to have these troops withdrawn.
In vain: his Majesty, with a singular com-
posure, invites us to be busy rather with our
own duty, making the Constitution! . . .
So at Versailles. But at Paris, agitated
Besenval, before retiring for the night, has
stept over to old M. de Sombreuil, of the Hotel
des InvaUdes* hard by. M. de Sombreuil has,
what is a great secret, some eight-and-twenty-
thousand stand of muskets deposited in his
cellars there; but no trust in the temper of his
Invalides. This day, for example, he sent
twenty of the fellows down to unscrew those
muskets; lest Sedition might snatch at them:
but scarcely, in six hours, had the twenty un-
screwed twenty gun-locks, or dogsheads
(chiens) of locks, — each Invalide his dogshead!
If ordered to fire, they would, he imagines, turn
their cannon against himself.
Unfortunate old military gentlemen, it is
your hour, not of glory! Old Marquis de
Launay too, of the Bastille, has pulled up his
drawbridges long since, 'and retired into his
interior ; ' with sentries walking on his battle-
ments, under the midnight sky, aloft over the
glare of illuminated Paris; — whom a National
Patrol passing that way, takes the liberty of
firing at : ' seven shots towards twelve at night, '
which do not take effect. This was the 13th
day of July 1789; a worse day, many said,
than the last 13th was, when only hail fell out
of Heaven, not madness rose out of Tophet,6
ruining worse than crops!
3 The residence of the king.
4 An establishment for disabled soldiers, not far
from the Champs de Mars.
5 Hell.
* Broglie had boasted that he would settle the
Third Estate with a "whlfif of grape-shot"
(salve (le canons). Six j'ears later the whiff
was delivered by Napoleon, and the Revolution
ended. See the next to the last chaptor of
Carlyle's History,
536
THE VICTOEIAN AGE
But ... a new, Fourteenth morning dawns.
Under all roofs of this distracted City is the
noduss of a drama, not untragical, crowding
towards solution. The bustlings and prepar-
ings, the tremors and menaces; the tears that
fell from old eyes! This day, my sons, ye shall
quit^ you like men. By the memory of your
fathers ' wrongs, by the hope of your children 's
rights! Tyranny impends in red wrath: help
for you is none, if not in your own right hands.
This day ye must do or die.
From earliest light, a sleepless Permanent
Committee has heard the old cry, now waxing
almost frantic, mutinous: Arms! Arms!
Provost Flesselles, or what traitors there are
among you, may think of those Charleville
Boxes. A hundred-and-fifty-thousand of us;
and but the third man furnished with so much
as a pike! Arms are the one thing needful:
with arms we are an unconquerable man-defy-
ing National Guard; without arms, a rabble to
be whififed with grapeshot.
Happily the word has arisen, for no secret
can be kept, — that there lie muskets at the
Hotel des Invalides. Thither will we: King's
Procureurs M. Ethys de Corny, and whatsoever
of authority a Permanent Committee can lend,
shall go with us. Besenval's Camp is there;
perhaps he will not fire on us; if he kill us,
we shall but die.
Alas, poor Besenval, with his troops melting
away in that manner, has not the smallest
humour to fire! At five o'clock this morning,
as he lay dreaming, oblivious in the f:cole Mili-
taire,^ a 'figure' stood suddenly at his bedside;
'with face rather handsome; eyes inflamed,
speech rapid and curt, air audacious ; ' such a
figure drew Priam's curtains !io The message
and monition of the figure was, that resistance
would be hopeless; that if blood flowed, woe to
him who shed it. Thus spoke the figure: and
vanished. 'Withal there was a kind of elo-
quence that struck one.' Besenval admits that
he should have arrested him, but did not. Who
this figure with inflamed eyes, with speech rapid
and curt, might be? Besenval knows, but men-
tions not. Camille Desmoulinsf Pythagorean
Marquis Valadi,ii inflamed with 'violent mo-
tions all night at the Palais Boyalf Fame
names him, 'Young M. Meillar'; then shuts
her lips about him forever.
In any case, behold, about nine in the morn-
« "knot," tangle, plot
7 acquit
8 Attorney
» Military School ; bv the Champs de Mars.
10 Pp. (ioldsmith's The Haunch of Venison, 1. 110
and note.
11 Another of the nnhles who had Joined the peo-
ple.
ing, our National Volunteers rolling in long
wide flood, south-westward to the Hotel des
Invalides; in search of the one thing needful.
King's Procureur M. Ethys de Corny and
officials are there; the Cure of Saint-fetienne du
Mont marches unpacific, at the head of his
militant Parish; the Clerks of the Basoche^^
in red coats we see marching, now Volunteers
of the Basoche; the Volunteers of the Palais
Royal: — National Volunteers, numerable by
tens of thousands; of one heart and mind. The
King's muskets are the Nation's; think, old
M. de Sombreuil, how, in this extremity, thou
wilt refuse them! Old M. de Sombreuil would
fain hold parley, send couriers; but it skillsi^
not: the walls are scaled, no Invalide firing a
shot ; the gates must be flung open. Patriotism
rushes in, tumultuous, from grunseli* up to
ridge-tile, through all rooms and passages;
rummaging distractedly for arms. What cellar,
or what cranny can escape itf The arms are
found; all safe there; lying packed in straw, —
apparently with a view to being burnt! More
ravenous than famishing lions over dead prey,
the multitude, with clangour and vociferation,
pounces on them; struggling, dashing, clutch-
ing: — to the jamming-up, to the pressure, frac-
ture and probable extinction of the weaker
Patriot. And so, with such protracted crash
of deafening, most discordant Orchestra-music,
the Scene is changed; and eight-and-twenty
thousand sufficient firelocks are on the shoulders
of as many National Guards, lifted thereby out
of darkness into fiery light.
Let Besenval look at the glitter of these
muskets, as they flash by: Gardes Fran§aises.
it is said, have cannon levelled on him; ready
to open, if need were, from the other side of
the Kiver. Motionless sits he ; ' astonished, '
one may flatter oneself, 'at the proud bearing
{Here contenance) of the Parisians.' — And now
to the Bastille, ye intrepid Parisians! There
grapeshot still threatens : thither all men 's
thoughts and steps are now tending.
Old De Launay, as we hinted, withdrew 'into
his interior' soon after midnight of Sunday.
He remains there ever since, hampered, as all
military gentlemen now are, in the saddest con-
flict of uncertainties. The Hotel-de-Ville 'in-
vites' him to admit National Soldiers, which
is a soft name for surrendering. On the other
hand. His Majesty's orders were precise. His
garrison is but eighty-two old Invalides, rein-
forced by thirty-two young Swiss; his walls
indeed are nine feet thick, he has cannon and
12 A collective term for "the Law."
IS avails
14 groundsill
THO^rAS CABLYLE
537
powder; but, aks, only one day's provision of
victuals. The i-ity, too, is French, the poor
garrison mostly French. Kigorous old De
Launay, think what thou wilt do!
All morning, since nine, there has been a cry
every where: To the Bastille! Repeated
'deputations of citizens' have been here, pas-
sionate for arms; whom De Launay has got
dismisseil by soft s^ieeches through portholes.
Towards noon, Elector Thuriot de la Eosifere
gains admittance; finds De Launay indisposed
for surrender; nay, disposed for blowing up
the place rather. Thuriot mounts with him to
the battlements: heaps of paving-stones, old
iron and missiles lie piled; cannon all duly
levelled; in every embrasure a cannon, — ^only
drawn back a little! But outwards, behold,
Thuriot, how the multitude flows on, welling
through every street; tocsin furiously pealing,
all drums beating the generale^: the Suburb
Saint-Antoine rolling hitherward wholly, as one
man!* Such vision (spectral yet real) thou, O
Thuriot, as from thy Mount of Vision, beholdest
in this moment: prophetic of what other Phan-
tasmagories, and loud-gibbering Spectral Real-
ities, which thou yet beholdest not, but shalt!
"Que voulez-voiisF''^ said De Launay, turning
pale at the sight, with an air of reproach,
almost of menace. "Monsieur," said Thuriot,
rising into the moral sublime, "what mean youl
Consider if I could not precipitate both of us
from this height," — say only a hundred feet,
exclusive of the walled ditch! Whereupon De
Launay fell silent. Thuriot shows himself from
some pinnacle, to comfort the multitude becom-
ing suspicious, fremescent: then descends; de-
parts with protest; with warning addressed also
to the Invalides, — on whom however, it produces
but a mixed indistinct impression. The old
heads are none of the clearest; besides, it is
said, De Launay has been profuse of beverages
{prodigua des huissons). They think they will
not fire, — if not fired on, if they can help it;
but must, on the whole, be ruled considerably
by circumstances.
Wo to thee. De Launay, in such an hour, if
thou canst not, taking some one firm decision,
rule circumstances! Soft speeches will not
serve; hard grapeshot is questionable; but
hovering between the two is wnquestionable.
Ever wilder swells the tide of men; their in-
finite hum waxing ever louder, into impreca-
tions, perhaps into crackle of stray musketry,
1 The signal for assembling, or of alarm.
2 "What do you want? What do you mean?"
• The Faubourg St. Antoine, or east side of I'ails.
much like the east side of London, is mainly
a residence of the lower classes.
— which latter, on walls nine feet thick, cannot
do execution. The Outer Drawbridge has been
lowered for Thuriot; new deputation of citi-
zens (it is the third, and noisiest of all) pene-
trates that way into the Outer Court: soft
speeches producing no clearance of these, De
Launay gives fire; pulls up his Drawbridge. A
slight sputter; — which has kindled the too com-
bustible chaos; made it a roaring fire-chaos!
Bursts forth Insurrection, at sight of its own
blood (for there were deaths by that sputter
of fire), into endless rolling explosion of mus-
ketry, distraction, execration; — and over head,
from the Fortress, let one great gun, with its
grapeshot, go booming, to show what we could
do. The Bastille is besieged!
On, then, all Frenchmen, that have hearts in
your bodies! Eoar with all your throats, of
cartilage and metal, ye Sons of Liberty; stir
spasmodically whatsoever of utmost faculty is
in you, soul, body, or spirit; for it is the hour!
Smite, thou Louis Tournay, cartwright of the
Marai8,3 old-soldier of the Eegiment Dauphine;
smite at that Outer Drawbridge chain, though
the fiery hail whistles round thee! Never, over
nave or felloe, did thy axe strike such a stroke.
Down with it, man; down with it to Orcus:*
let the whole accursed Edifice sink thither, and
Tyranny be swallowed up forever! Mounted,
some say, on the roof of the guard-room, some
'on bayonets stuck into joints of the wall,'
Louis Tournay smites, brave Aubin Bonne-
m&re (also an old soldier) seconding him; the
chain yields, breaks ; the huge drawbridge slams
down, thundering (avec fracas). Glorious: and
yet, alas, it is still but the outworks. The
Eight grim Towers, with their Invalide mus-
ketry, their paving stones and cannon-mouths,
still soar aloft intact; — Ditch yawning im-
passable, stone-faced; the inner Drawbridge
with its back towards us: the Bastille is still
to take!
To describe this Siege of the Bastille
(thought to be one of the most important in
History) perhaps transcends the talent of mor-
tals. Could one but, after infinite reading, get
to understand so much as the plan of the build-
ing! But there is open Esplanade, at the end
of the Eue Saint-Antoine; there are such Fore-
courts, Cour Avancee, Cowr de I'Orme, arched
Gateway (where Louis Tournay now fights) ;
then new drawbridges, dormant-bridges, ram-
part-bastions, and the grim Eight Towers; a
labyrinthic Mass, high-frowning "there, of all
ages from twenty years to four hundred and
twenty; — beleaguered, in this its last hour, as
3 A manufacturing quarter of Paris.
4 Hades.
538
THE VICTORIAN AGE
we said, by mere Chaos come again! Ordnance
of all calibres; throats of all capacities; men
of all plans, every man his own engineer: sel-
dom since the war of Pygmies and Cranes^ was
there seen so anomalous a thing. Half-pay
Elie is home for a suit of regimentals;* no
one would heed him in coloured clothes: half-
pay Hulin is haranguing Gardes Frangaises in
the Place de Grfeve. Frantic Patriots pick up
the grapeshots; bear them, still hot (or seem-
ingly so), to the Hotel-de^Ville ; — Paris, you
perceive, is to be burnt! Flesselles is 'pale to
the very lips,' for the roar of the multitude
grows deep. Paris wholly has got to the acme
of its frenzy; whirled, all ways, by panic mad-
ness. At every street-barricade, there whirls
simmering a minor whirlpool, — strengthening
the barricade, since God knows what is com-
ing; and all minor whirlpools play distractedly
into that grand Fire-Mahlstromfi which is lash-
ing round the Bastille.
And so it lashes and it roars. Cholat the
wine-merchant has become an impromptu can-
noneer. See Georget, of the Marine Service,
fresh from Brest,^ ply the King of Siam's
cannon. Singular (if we were not used to the
like) : Georget lay, last night, taking his ease
at his inn; 8 the King of Siam's cannon also
lay, knowing nothing of him, for a hundred
years. Yet now, at the right instant, they have
got together, and discourse eloquent music.
For, hearing what was toward, Georget sprang
from the Brest Diligence,^ and ran. Gardes
Fran^aises also will be here, with real
artillery: were not the walls so thick! — Up-
wards from the Esplanade, horizontally from
all neighbouring roofs and windows, flashes one
irregular deluge of musketry, without effect.
The Invalides lie flat, firing comparatively at
their ease from behind stone; hardly through
portholes show the tip of a nose. "We fall,
shot; and make no impression!
Let conflagration rage ; of whatsoever is com-
bustible! Guard-rooms are burnt, Invalides
mess-rooms. A distracted 'Peruke-maker with
two fiery torches' is for burning 'the saltpetres
of the Arsenal ; ' — had not a woman run scream-
ing; had not a Patriot, with some tincture of
Natural Philo8ophy,io instantly struck the wind
a An nnciont fable; we lUad, III, K.
•t mai'lRtrom, whirlpool
7 The principal naval port of Frnnoe.
H "Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?" 1
Henry IV., III. lil, 93.
n Btage-coach*
10 Home l(nowled{;e of phynica
• Carlylp la here merely reportlns a gllmpi^e of
Klie as he gets it from Home record. lie has
earlier descrll)ed thene two t-aptalns, Kile and
Hulin, aa "both with an air uf half-pay."
out of him (butt of musket on pit of stomach),
overturned barrels, and stayed the devouring
element. A young beautiful lady, seized escap-
ing in these Outer Courts, and thought falsely
to be De Launay's daughter, shall be burnt in
De Launay's sight; she lies swooned on a
paillasse ;ii but again a Patriot, it is brave
Aubin Bonnemfere the old soldier, dashes in,
and rescues her. Straw is burnt ; three cartloads
of it, hauled thither, go up in white smoke:
almost to the choking of Patriotism itself; so
that Elie had, with singed brows, to drag back
one cart; and Reole the 'gigantic haberdasher'
another. Smoke as of Tophet; confusion as of
Babel ; noise as of the Crack of Doom !
Blood flows; the aliment of new madness.
The wounded are carried into houses of the Rue
Cerisaie; the dying leave their last mandate
not to yield till the accursed Stronghold fall.
And yet, alas, how fall? The walls are so
thick! Deputations, three in number, arrive
from the Hotel- de-Ville; Abbe Fauchat (who
was of one) can say, with what almost super-
human courage of benevolence. These wave
their Town-flag in the arched Gateway; and
stand, rolling their drum; but to no purpose.
In such Crack of Doom, De Launay cannot hear
them, dare not believe them: they return, with
justified rage, the whew of lead still singing in
their ears. What to do? The Firemen are
here, squirting with their fire pumps on the
Invalides cannon, to wet the touchholes; they
unfortunately cannot squirt so high; but jjro-
duce only clouds of spray. Individuals of
classical knowledge propose catapults. San-
terre, the sonorous Brewer of the Suburb Saint-
Antoine, advises rather that the place be fired,
by a 'mixture of phosphorus and oil-of -turpen-
tine spouted up through forcing pumps: ' O
Spinola-Santerre,t hast thou the mixture ready?
Every man his own engineer! And still the
fire-deluge abates not: even women are firing,
and Turks; at least one woman (with her
sweetheart), and one Turk. Gardes Franc^aises
have come: real cannon, real cannoneers.
Usheri2 Maillard is busy; half-pay Elie, half-
pay Hulin rage in the midst of thousands.
How the great Bastille Clock ticks (inaudi-
ble) in its Inner Court there, at its ease, hour
after hour; as if nothing special, for it or the
world, were passing! It tolled One when the
firing began; and is now pointing towards Five,
and still the firing slakes not. — Far down, in
their vaults, the seven Prisoners hear rauflaed
11 straw mattress
12 hutKMicr, constable
t Oeneinl Spinolii In KiU'.". took the fortress of
Hreda in Holland.
THOMAS BABIXGTON, LORD MACAUT.AY
539
din as of earthquakes; their Turnkeys answer
vaguely.
Wo to thee, De Launay, with thy poor hun-
dred Invalides! Broglie is distant, and his ears
heavy: Besenval hears, but can send no help.
One poor troop of Hussars has crept, recon-
noitering, cautiously along the Quais, as far as
the Pont Neuf.i3 <'We are come to join you,"
said the Captain ; for the crowd seems shore-
less. A large-headed dwarfish individual of
smoke-bleared aspect, shambles forward, open-
ing his blue lips, for there is sense in him; and
croaks: "Alight then, and give up your
arms ! ' ' The Hussar-Captain is too happy to
be escorted to the Barriers, and dismissed on
parole. Who the squat individual was? Men
answer. It is M. Marat, author of the excellent
pacific Avis au Peuple!^* Great truly, O thou
remarkable Dogleeeh, is this thy day of emer-
gence and new-birth: and yet this same day
come four years ! — But let the curtains of
the Future hang.ij
What shall De Launay do? One thing only
De Launay could have done: what he said he
would do. Fancy him sitting, from the first,
with lighted taper, within arm *s length of the
Powder-Magazine ; motionless, like old Eoraan
Senator, or Bronze Lamp-holder; coldly appris-
ing Thuriot, and all men, by a slight motion of
his eye, what his resolution was: — Harmless,
he sat there, while unharmed; but the King's
Fortress, meanwhile, could, might, would, or
should, in nowise be surrendered, save to the
King's Messenger: one old man's life is worth-
less, so it be lost with honour ; but think, ye
brawling canaiUe,^^ how will it be when a
whole Bastille springs skyward! — In such
statuesque, taper-holding attitude, one fancies
De Launay might have left Thuriot. the red
Clerks of the Basoche, Cure of Saint-Stephen
and all the tag-rag-and-bobtail of the M-orld, to
work their will.
And yet, withal, he could not do it. Hast
thou considered how each man 's heart is so
tremulously responsive to the hearts of all men ;
hast thou noted how omnipotent is the very
sound of many men? How their shriek of in-
dignation palsies the strong soul; their howl
of contumely withers with unfelt pangs? The
Ritter GluckiT confessed that the ground-tone
of the noblest passage, in one of his noblest
Operas, was the voice of the Populace he had
heard at Vienna, crying to their Kaiser:
13 "New Bridge."
i-i "Advice to the People."
15 He was assassinated by Charlotte Corday. Jnly
l.J. 1793.
i« rabhle
IT Of (Jt'rraany. A Ritter Is a knight.
Bread! Bread! Great is the combined voice
of men; the utterance of their instincts, which
are truer than their thoughts: it is the greatest
a man encounters, among the sounds and
shadows which make up this World of Time.
He who can resist that, has his footing some-
where beyond Time. De Launay could not do
it. Distracted, he hovers between two; hopes
in the middle of despair; surrenders not his
Fortress; declares that he will blow it up,
seizes torches to blow it up, and does not blow
it. Unhappy old De Launay, it is the death-
agony of thy Bastille and thee! Jail, Jailor-
ing, and Jailor, all three, such as they may have
been, must finish.
For four hours now has the World-Bedlam
roared: call it the World-Chimaera, blowing
fire! The poor Invalides have sunk under their
battlements, or rise only with reversed muskets:
they have made a white flag of napkins; go
beating the chamade,^^ or seeming to beat, for
one can hear nothing. The very Swiss at the
Portcullis look weary of firing; disheartened
in the fire-deluge: a porthole at the drawbridge
is opened, as by one that would speak. See
Huissier Maillard, the shifty man! On his
plank, swinging over the abyss of that stone
Ditch; plank resting on parapet, balanced by
weight of Patriots, — he hovers perilous: such a
Dove towards such an Ark ! Deftly, thou shifty
Usher; one man already fell; and lies smashed,
far down there, against the masonry; Usher
Maillard falls not; deftly, unerring he walks,
with outspread palm. The Swiss holds a paper
through his porthole; the shifty Usher snatches
it, and returns. Terms of surrender: Pardon,
immunity to all! Are they accepted? — "Foi
d' officier, On the word of an oflBcer," answers
half-pay Hulin, — or half-pay Elie, for men do
not agree on it, "they are!" Sinks the draw-
bridge, — Usher ^laillard bolting it when down;
rushes-in the living deluge: the Bastille is
fallen! Victoire! La Bastille est prise .'^^
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD
MACAULAY (1800-1859)
THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND
London in 1685. From Chapter III
Whoever examines the maps of London which
were published towards the close of the reign
of Charles the Second will see that only the
nucleus of the present capital then existed.
18 parley
19 "Victory! The Bastille is taken!" — After the
first anniversary of its capture, this ancient
fortress and prison was razed to the ground.
540
THE VICTORIAN AGE
The town did not, as now, fade by imperceptible
degrees into the country. No long avenues of
villas, embowered in lilacs and laburnums, ex-
tended from the great centre of wealth and
civilization almost to the boundaries of Mid-
dlesex and far into the heart of Kent and Sur-
rey. In the east, no part of the immense line
of warehouses and artificial lakes which now
stretches from the Tower to Blackwall had even
been projected. On the west, scarcely one of
those stately piles of building which are in-
habited by tlie noble and wealthy was in exist-
ence; and Chelsea, which is now peopled by
more than forty thousand human beings, was a
quiet country village with about a thousand
inhabitants. On the north, cattle fed, and
sportsmen wandered with dogs and guns, over
the site of the borough of Marylebone,i and
over far the greater part of the space now
covered by the boroughs of Finsbury and of
the Tower Hamlets. Islington was almost a
solitude; and poets loved to contrast its silence
and repose with the din and turmoil of the
monster London.2 On the south the capitcil is
now connected with its suburb by several
bridges, not inferior in magnificence and solid-
ity to the noblest works of the Caesars. In
1685, a single line of irregular arches, over-
hung by piles of mean and crazy houses, and
garnishetl, after a fashion, worthy of the naked
barbarians of Dahomy,3 with scores of moulder-
ing heads, impeded the navigation of the river.
He who then rambled to what is now the
gayest and most crowded part of Regent Street*
found himself in a solitude, and was sometimes
so fortunate as to have a shot at a woodcock.
On the north the Oxford road ran between
hedges. Three or four hundred yards to the
south were the garden walls of a few great
houses which were considered as quite out of
town. On the west was a meadow renowned for
a spring from which, long afterwards, Conduit
Street was named. On the east was a field not
to be passed without a shudder by any Lon-
doner of that age. There, as in a place far
from the haunts of men, had been dug, twenty
years before, when the greiit plague was raging,
a pit into which the dead-carts had nightly shot
corpses by scores. It was popularly believed
that the earth was deeply tainted with infec-
tion, and could not be disturbed without immi-
nent risk to human life. No foundations were
1 Popularly pronounced Marlllmn, or Maribun.
2 Cp. Cowloy : IHavourKC of HoHiuric.
3 In WcHt Africa. (ThiK 1b a doHcrlpllon of th«»
famouH old London ItrtdKc)
4 A faKhlonnblc Hhoppint; dlHtrict in West London.
laid there till two generations had passed with-
out any return of the pestilence, and till the
ghastly spot had long been surrounded by build
ings.
We should greatly err if we were to suppose
that any of the streets and squares then bore
the same aspect as at present. The great
majority of the houses, indeed, have, since that
time, been wholly, or in great part, rebuilt. If
the most fashionable parts of the capital could
be placed before us, such as they then were,
we should be disgusted by their squalid appear-
ance, and poisoned by their noisome atmosphere.
In Covent Garden'- a filthy ami noisy market
was held close to the dwellings of the great.
Fruit women screamed, carters fought, cabbage
stalks and rotten apples accumulated in heaps
at the thresholds of the (Jountess of Berkshire
and of the Bishop of Durham.
The centre of Lincoln 's Inn Fieldso was an
open space where the rabble congregated every
evening, within a few yards of Cardigan House
and Winchester House, to hear mountebanks
harangue, to see bears dance, and to set dogs
at oxen. Rubbish was shot in every part of tlie
area. Horses were exercised there. Tlie beg-
gars were as noisy and importunate as in the
worst governed cities of the Continent. A Lin-
coln's Inn mumperT was a proverb. The whole
fraternity knew the arms and liveries of every
charitably disposed grandee in the neighbour-
hood, and, as soon as his lordship's coach and
six appeared, came hopping and crawling in
crowds to persecute him. These disorders
lasted, in spite of many accidents, and of some
legal proceedings, till, in the reign of George
the Second, Sir Joseph Jekyll, Master of the
Rolls, was knocked down and nearly killed in
the middle of the square. Then at length pali-
sades were set up, and a pleasant garden laid
out.
Saint James's Square" was a receptacle for
all the oflfal and cinders, for all the dead cats
and dead dogs of Westminster.^ At one time
a cudgel player'o kept the ring there. At an-
other time an impudent squatter settled himself
there, and built a shed for rubbish under the
windows of the gilded saloons in which the
first magnates of the realm, Norfolk. Ormond,
!"• A piazza north of the Strand ; a fruit and flower
market.
•1 The largest of London's squares, surrounded by
lawyers' ofllcps and ancient mansions.
T lx>KKar and impostor
8 The site of the most aristocratic mansions and
clubs.
The portion of London which was once the city
of Westminster; the site of the (Jovernment
houses.
10 One Kkillod in contests with cndsels or staves.
THOMAS BABINGTON, LOBD MACAULAY
541
Kent, ajid Pembroke, gave banquets and balls.
It was not till these nuisances had lasted
through a wliole generation, and till much had
r)(HMi written about theni, that the inhabitants
applied to Parliament for permission to put
up rails, and to plant trees.
When such was the state of the region in-
habited by the most luxurious portion of so-
ciety, we may easily believe that the great body
of the population suffered what would now be
considered as insupportable grievances. The
pavement was detestable; all foreigners cried
Bhame upon it. The drainage was so bad that
in rainy weather the gutters soon became tor-
rents. Several facetious poets have commemo-
rated the fury with which these black rivulets
roared down Snow Hill and Ludgate Hill, bear-
ing to Fleet Ditch a vast tribute of animal and
vegetable filth from the stalls of butchers and
greengrocers. This flood was profusely thrown
to right and left by coaches and carts. To keep
as far from the carriage road as possible was
therefore the wish of every pedestrian. The
mild and timid gave the wall. The bold and
athletic took it. If two roisterers met, they
cocked their hats in each other's faces, and
pushed each other about till the weaker was
shoved towards the kennel.n If he was a mere
bully he sneaked off, muttering that he should
find a time. If he was pugnacious, the en-
counter probably ended in a duel behind Mon-
tague House. 12
The houses were not numbered. There would
indeed have been little advantage in number-
ing them; for of the coachmen, chairmen,i3 por-
ters, and errand boys of London, a very small
proportion could read. It was necessary to use
marks which the most ignorant could under-
stand. The shops were therefore distinguished
by painted or sculptured signs, which gave a
gay and grotesque aspect to the streets. The
walk from Charing Cross to Whitechapel lay
through an endless succession of Saracens*
Heads, Royal Oaks, Blue Bears, and Golden
Lambs, which disappeared when they were no
longer required for the direction of the com-
mon people.
When the evening closed in, the difficulty and
danger of walking about London became serious
indeed. The garret windows were opened, and
pails were emptied, with little regard to those
who were passing below. Falls, bruises, and
broken bones were of constant occurrence.
For, till the last year of the reign of Charles
the Second, most of the streets were left in
11 gutter
1-' In Whitehall, the resfion of the Government
ofBcps.
13 sedan-cliair bearers
profound darkness. Thieves and robbers plied
their trade with impunity: yet they were hardly
so terrible to peaceable citizens as another
class of ruffians. It was a favourite amusement
of dissolute young gentlemen to swagger by
night about the town, breaking windows, upset-
ting sedans, beating quiet men, and offering
rude caresses to pretty women. Several dynas-
ties of these tyrants had, since the Restoration,
domineered over the streets. The Muns and
Tityre Tus had given place to the Hectors, and
the Hectors had been recently succeeded by the
Scourers. At a later period rose the Nicker,
the Hawcubite, and the yet more dreaded name
of Mohawk. The machinery for keeping the
peace was utterly contemptible. There was an
act of Common Council which provided that
more than a thousand watchmen should be con-
stantly on the alert in the city, from sunset to
sunrise, and that every inhabitant should take
his turn of duty. But this Act was negligently
executed. Few of those who were summoned
left their homes; and those few generally found
it more agreeable to tipple in alehouses than to
pace the streets.
The London Coffee Houses. From Chap-
ter III
The coffee house must not be dismissed with
a cursory mention. It might indeed at that
time have been not improperly called a most
important political institution. No Parliament
had sat for years. The municipal council of
the City had ceased to speak the sense of the
citizens. Public meetings, harangues, resolu-
tions, and the rest of the modern machinery of
agitation had not yet come into fashion. Noth-
ing resembling the modern newspaper existed.
In such circumstances the coffee houses were
the chief organs through which the public
opinion of the metropolis vented itself.
The first of these establishments had been
set up, in the time of the Commonwealth, by a
Turkey merchant, who had acquired among the
Mahometans a taste for their favourite bever-
age. The convenience of being able to make
appointments in any part of the town, and of
being able to pass evenings socially at a
very small charge, was so great that the fashion
spread fast. Every man of the upper or mid-
dle class went daily to his coffee house to learn
the news and to discuss it. Every coffee house
had one or more orators to whose eloquence the
crowd listened with admiration, and who soon
became, what the journalists of our own time
have been called, a fourth Estate of the realm.
The court had long seen with uneasiness the
54$
THE VICTORIAN AGE
growth of this new power in the state. An at-
tempt had been made, during Danby'si admin-
istration, to close the coifee houses. But men
of all parties missed their usual places of resort
so much that there was an universal outcry.
The government did not venture, in opposition
to a feeling so strong and general, to enforce
a regulation of which the legality might well be
questioned. Since that time ten years had
elapsed, and during those years the number and
influence of the coffee houses had been con-
stantly increasing. Foreigners remarked that
the coffee house was that which especially dis-
tinguished London from all other cities; that
the coffee house was the Londoner's home, and
that those who wished to find a gentleman
commonly asked, not whether he lived in Fleet
Street or Chancery Lane, but whether he fre-
quented the Grecian or the Rainbow. Nobody
was excluded from these places who laid down
his penny at the bar. Yet every rank and pro-
fession, and every shade of religious and polit-
ical opinion, had its own headquarters. There
were houses near Saint James's Park where
fops congregated, their heads and shoulders
covered with black or flaxen wigs, not less
ample than those which are now worn by the
Chancellor and by the Speaker of the House of
Commons. The wig came from Paris ; and so
did the rest of the fine gentleman's ornaments,
his embroidered coat, his fringed gloves, and
the tassel which upheld his pantaloons. The
conversation was in that dialect which, long
after it had ceased to be spoken in fashionable
circles, continued, in the mouth of Lord Fop-
pington,2 to excite the mirth of theatres. The
atmosphere was like that of a perfumer's shop.
Tobacco in any other form than that of richly
scented snuff was held in abomination. If any
clown, ignorant of the usages of the house,
called for a pipe, the sneers of the wiiole as-
sembly and the short answers of the waiters
soon convinced him that he had better go some-
where else. Nor, indeed, would he have had far
to go. For, in general, the coffee rooms reeked
with tobacco like a guard-room ; and strangers
sometimes expressed their surprise that so many
people should leave their own firesides to sit in
the midst of eternal fog and stench. Nowhere
was the smoking more constant than at Will 's.
That celebrated house, situated between Covent
Garden and Row Street, was sacred to polite
letters. There the talk was about poetical jus-
tice and the unities of place and time. There
1 Thomns Oshorn, T.orrt Trpnsnror under Charlos IT.
«A cliaractfT in Vniil»niKl>'H 'I'hr KtlaitHf. Ah an
cxaiuph- of tl»«' dialect Macaulay gives the
word Ixtrd, pronounced Lard.
was a faction for Perrault and the moderns,
a faction for Boileau and the ancients.3 One
group debated whether Paradise Lost ought not
to have been in rhyme. To another an envious
poetaster demonstrated that Venice Preserved*
ought to have been hooted from the stage. Un-
der no roof was a greater variety of figures to
be seen. There were Earls in stars and garters,
clergymen in cassocks and bands, pert Tem-
plars,^* sheepish lads from the Universities,
translators and index makers in ragged coats
of frieze. The great press was to get near the
chair where .John Dryden sat. In winter that
chair was always in the warmest nook by the
fire; in summer it stood in the balcony. To
bow to the Laureate, and to hear his opinion
of Racine's last tragedy or of Bossu's treatise
on epic poetry, was thought a privilege. A
pinch from his snuff-box was an honour suffi-
cient to turn the head of a young enthusiast.
There were coffee houses where the first medical
men might be consulted. Doctor John Radcliffe,
who, in the year 1685, rose to the largest prac-
tice in London, came daily, at the hour wnen
the Exchange was full, from his house in Bow
Street, then a fashionable part of the capital,
to Garraway's, and was to be found, sur
rounded by surgeons and apothecaries, at a
particular table. There were Puritan coffee
houses where no oath was heard, and wliere
lank-haired men discussed election and repro-
bation through their noses; Jew coffee houses
where dark eyed money changers from Venice
and from Amsterdam greeted each other; and
Popish coffee houses where, as good Protestants
believed, Jesuits planned, over their cups, an-
other great fire, and cast silver bullets to shoot
the King.
These gregarious habits had no small share
in forming the character of the Londoner of
that age. He was, indeed, a different being
from the rustic Englishman. There was not
then the intercourse which now exists between
the two classes. Only very great men were in
the habit of dividing the year between town
and country. Few esquires came to the capital
thrice in their lives. Nor was it yet the prac-
tice of all citizens in easy circumstances to
breathe the fresh air of the fields and woods
during some weeks of every summer. A cock-
ney, in a rural village, was staretl at as much
as if he had intruded into a Kraal of Hotten-
s Between Perrnnlt and Bollenu. two members of
the French Academy, arose about 1087 a
famoiiH quarrel over the respective merits of
modern and ancient literature.
* Hy Thomas Otway, a contemporary dramatist.
s Htudents or lawyers residing in the Temple.
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY
543
tots. On the other hand, when the Lord of a
Lincolnshire or Shropshire manor appeared in
Fleet Street, he was as easily distinguished
from the resident population as a Turk or a
Lascar. His dress, his gait, his accent, the
manner in which he stareii at the shops, stum-
bled into the gutters, ran against the porters,
and stood under the water spouts, marked him
out as an excellent subject for the operations
of swindlers and banterers. Bullies jostled him
into the kennel. Hackney coachmen splashed
him from head to foot. Thieves explored
with perfect security the huge pockets of
his horseman's coat, while he stood en-
tranced by the splendour of the Lord Mayor's
show. Moneydroj)pers,6 sore from the cart 's
tail,^ introduced themselves to him, and appeared
to him the most honest, friendly gentlemen that
he had ever seen. Painted women, the refuse
of Lewkner Lane and Whetstone Park, passed
themselves on him for countesses and maids of
honour. If he asked his way to Saint James 's,8
his informants sent him to Mile End.9 If he
went into a shop, he was instantly discerned to
be a fit purchaser of everything that nobody
else would buy, of secondhand embroidery, cop-
per rings, and watches that would not go. If
he rambled into any fashionable coffee house,
he became a mark for the insolent derision of
fops and the grave waggery of Templars. En-
raged and mortified, he soon returned to his
mansion, and there, in the homage of his ten-
ants, and the conversation of his boon com-
panions, found consolation for the vexations
and humiliations which he had undergone.
There he was once more a great man, and saw
nothing above himself except when at the
assizes he took his seat on the bench near the
Judge, or when at the muster of the militia he
saluted the Lord Lieutenant.
The Battle of Killiecrankie. From Chap-
ter XIII*
While these things were passing in the Par-
liament House, the civil war in the Highlands,
having been during a few weeks suspended,
6 Confidence men who 7 Offenders were tied to
drop money and the end of a cart
pretend to find It and whipped
for purposes o f through the streets,
fraud. 8 In West London.
9 In East London.
* The events here described took place in .Tnly,
1689. during the English Revolution. .Tames
the Second had lately been deposed, but the
success of the party of William was still in
doubt. In Scotland. William was supported
by the parliament at Edinburgh and had a
l)ody of troops commanded by General Mackay.
On the other hand, .John Graham of Claver-
broke forth again more violently than before.
Since the splendour of the House of Argylei
had been eclipsed, no Gaelic chief could vie in
power with the Marquess of Athol. The dis-
trict from which he took his title, and of which
he might almost be called the sovereign, was in
extent larger than an ordinary county, and was
more fertile, more diligently cultivated, and
more thickly peopled than the greater part of
the Highlands. The men who followed his
banner were supposed to be not less numerous
than all the Macdonalds and Macleans united,
and were, in strength and courage, inferior to
no tribe in the mountains. But the clan had
been made insignificant by the insignificance of
the chief. The Marquess was the falsest, the
most fickle, the most pusillanimous, of mankind.
Already, in the short space of six months, he
had been several times a Jacobite, and several
times a Williamite. Both Jacobites and Will-
iamites regarded him with contempt and dis-
trust, which respect for his immense power
prevented them from fully expressing. After
repeatedly vowing fidelity to both parties, and
repeatedly betraying both, he began to think
that he should best provide for his safety by
abdicating the functions both of a peer and of
a chieftain, by absenting himself both from
the Parliament House at Edinburgh and from
his castle in the mountains, and by quitting
the country to which he was bound by every
tie of duty and honour at the very crisis of
her fate. While all Scotland was waiting with
impatience and anxiety to see in which army
his numerous retainers would be arrayed, he
stole away to England, settled himself at Bath,
and pretended to drink the waters. His prin-
cipality, left without a head, was divided
against itself. The general leaning of the
Athol men was towards King James. For they
had been employed by him, only four years be-
fore, as the ministers of his vengeance against
the House of Argyle. They had garrisoned
Inverary: they had ravaged Lorn: they had
demolished houses, cut down fruit trees, burned
fishing boats, broken millstones, hanged Camp-
bells, and were therefore not likely to be
pleased by the prospect of MacCallum More's2
restoration. One word from the Marquess
1 The Campbells. The last Earl of Argyle had
been executed for participating in Monmouth's
rising against .Tames.
2 A name given to the Dtikes and Earls of Argyle.
."! broadswords
house. Viscount Dundee, had gathered about
him his own Lowland adherents and a con-
siderable force of Highland clansmen who sup-
ported James. Compare Scott's poem. Bonny
Dundee, p. 448.
644
THE VICTORIAN AGE
would have sent two thousand claymoress to the
Jacobite side. But that word he would not
speak; and tlie consequence was, that the con-
duct of his followers was as irresolute and in-
consistent as his own.
While they were waiting for some indica-
tion of his wishes, they were called to arms at
once by two leaders, either of whom might,
with some show of reason, claim to be con-
sidered as the representative of the absent
chief. Lord Murray, the Marquess's eldest son,
who was married to a daughter of the Duke
of Hamilton, declared for King William.
Stewart of Ballenach, the Marquess's confiden-
tial agent, declared for King James. The
people knew not which summons to obey. He
whose authority would have been held in pro-
found reverence, had plighted faith to both
sides, and had then run away for fear of
being under the necessity of joining either;
nor was it very easy to say whether the place
which he had left vacant belonged to his steward
or to his heir apparent.
The most important military post in Athol
was Blair Castle. The house which now bears
that name is not distinguished by any striking
peculiarity from other country seats of the
aristocracy. The old building was a lofty tower
of rude architecture which commanded a vale
watered by the Garry. The walls would have
offered very little resistance to a battering
train, but were quite strong enough to keep the
herdsmen of the Grampians* in awe. About
five miles south of this stronghold, the valley
of the Garry contracts itself into the celebrated
glen of Killiecrankie. At present a highway
as smooth as any road in Middlesex'' ascends
gently from the low country to the summit of
the defile. White villas peep from the birch
forest; and, on a fine summer day, there is
scarcely a turn of the pass at which may not
be seen some angler casting his fly on the foam
of the river, some artist sketching a pinnacle
of rock, or some party of pleasure banqueting
on the turf in the fretwork of shade and sun-
shine. But, in the days of William the Third,
Killiecrankie was mentioned with horror by
the peaceful and industrious inhabitants of
the Perthshire lowlands. It was deemed the
most perilous of all those dark ravines through
which the marauders of the hills were wont to
sally forth. The sound, so musical to modern
ears, of the river brawling round the mossy
rocks and among the smooth pebbles, the masses
of grey crag and verdure worthy of the pencil
4 A monntnln system In Scotland,
s An KnKlish county which then included a great
part of the metropolis of London.
of Wilson,6 the fantastic peaks bathed, at sun-
rise and sunset, with light rich as that which
glows on the canvass of Claude," suggested to
our ancestors thoughts of murderous ambus-
cades and of bodies stripped, gashed, and aban-
doned to the birds of prey. The only path was
narrow and rugged: a horse could with diffi-
culty be led up: two men could hardly walk
abreast; and, in some places, the way ran so
close by the precipice that the traveller had
great need of a steady eye and foot. Many
years later, the first Duke of Athol constructed
a road up which it was just possible to drag his
coach. But even that road was so steep an 1 so
strait that a handful of resolute men might
have defended it against an army; nor did
any Saxons consider a visit to Killiecrankie
as a pleasure, till experience had taught the
English Government that the weapons by which
the Celtic clans could be most effectually sub-
dued were the pickaxe and the spade.
The country which lay just above this pass
was now the theatre of a war such as the High-
lands had not often witnessed. Men wearing
the same tartan, and attached to the same lord,
were arrayed against each other. The name of
the absent chief was used, with some show of
reason, on both sides. Ballenach, at the head
of a body of vassals who considered him as the
representative of the Marquess, occupied Blair
Castle. Murray, with twelve hundred followers,
appeared before the walls and demanded to be
admitted into the mansion of his family, the
mansion which would one day be his own. The
garrison refused to open the gates. Messages
were sent off by tlie besiegers to Edinburgh,
and by the besieged to Lochaber.o In both
places the tidings produced great agitation.
Mackay and Dundee agreed in thinking that the
crisis required prompt and strenuous exertion.*
On the fate of Blair Castle probably depended
the fate of all Athol. On the fate of Athol
might depend the fate of Scotland. Mackay
hastened northward, and ordered his troops to
assemble in the low country of Perthshire. Some
of them were quartered at such a distance that
they did not arrive in time. He soon, however,
had with him the three Scotch regiments which
lad served in Holland, and which bore the names
of their Colonels, Mackay himself, Balfour, and
Ramsay. There was also a gallant regiment of
infantry from England, then called Hastings's,
e Richard Wilson, EnKllwh Inndacape painter.
7 Claude Lorrain, French landscape painter.
8 An EnKlishman or Lowlander, as opposed to the
IliKhlanders, who are Celts.
Mackay was at Edinburgh, Dundee in the district
of Loch.iber.
THOMAS BABIXGTOX, LOKD MACAULAY
545
but now known as the thirteenth of the line.
With these old troops were joined two regi-
ments newly levied in the Lowlands. One of
them was commanded by Lord Kenmore; the
other, which had been raised on the Border, and
which is still styled the King's Own Borderers,
by Lord Leven. Two troops of horse, Lord
Annandale's and Lord Belhaven's, probably
made up the army to the number of above three
thousand men. Belhaven rode at the head of
his troop: but Annandale, the most factious
of all Montgomery's followers, preferred the
Club and the Parliament House to the field.*
Dundee, meanwhile, had summoned all the
clans which acknowledged his commission to
assemble for an expedition into Athol. His
exertions were strenuously seconded by Loch-
iel.io The fiery crosses^ were sent again in
all haste through Appin and Ardnamurchan, up
Glenmore, and along Loch Leven. But the call
•was so unexpected, and the time allowed was so
short, that the muster was not a very full one.
The whole number of broadswords seems to have
been under three thousand. With this force,
such as it was, Dundee set forth. On his
march he was joined by succours which had just
arrived from Ulster. They consisted of little
more than three hundred Irish foot, ill armed,
ill clothed, and ill disciplined. Their commander
was an officer named Cannon, who had seen
service in the ^Netherlands, and who might per-
haps have acquitted himself well in a subor-
dinate post and in a regular army, but who
was altogether unequal to the part now assigned
him. He had already loitered among the
Hebrides so long that some ships which had
been sent with him, and which were laden with
stores, had been taken by English cruisers. He
and his soldiers had with difficulty escaped the
same fate. Incompetent as he was, he bore a
commission which gave him military rank in
Scotland next to Dundee.
The disappointment was severe. In truth
James would have done better to withhold all
assistance from the Highlanders than to mock
them by sending them, instead of the well ap-
pointed army which they had asked and ex-
pected, a rabble contemptible in numbers and
appearance. It was now evident that whatever
was done for his cause in Scotland must be
done by Scottish hands.
While Mackay from one side, and Dundee
from the other, were advancing towards Blair
10 Sir Ewan Cameron ii The signal for a gath-
of Lochiel. erlng.
* Sir .Tamos Montgomery, a malcontent scheming
for office, had formed a clul) at Edinburgh to
concert plans of secret opposition to the- king.
1 Castle, important events had taken place there.
j Murray's adherents soon began to waver in
their fidelity to him. They had an old antipathy
to Whigs; for they considered the name of
Whig as synonymous with the name of Camp-
bell. They saw arrayed against them a large
number of their kinsmen, commanded by a gen-
tleman who was supposed to possess the confi-
dence of the Marquess. The besieging army
therefore melted rapidly away. Many returned
home on the plea that, as their neighbourhood
was about to be the seat of war, they must
place their families and cattle in security.
Others more ingenuously declared that they
would not fight in such a quarrel. One large
body went to a brook, filled their bonnets with
water, drank a health to King James, and then
dispersed. Their zeal for King James, how-
ever did not induce them to join the standard
of his general. They lurked among the rocks
and thickets which overhang the Garry, in the
hope that there would soon be a battle, and
that, whatever might be the event, there would
be fugitives and corpses to plunder.
Murray was in a strait. His force had
dwindled to three or four hundred men: even
in those men he could put little trust; and the
Macdonalds and Camerons were advancing fast.
He therefore raised the siege of Blair Castle,
and retired with a few followers into the defile
of Killiecrankie. There he was soon joined by
a detachment of two hundred fusileers whom
Mackay had sent forward to secure the pass.
The main body of the Lowland army speedily
followed.
Early in the morning of Saturday the twenty-
seventh of July, Dundee arrived at Blair Cas-
tle. There he learned that Mackay 's troops
were already in the ravine of Killiecrankie. It
was necessary to come to a prompt decision. A
council of war was held. The Saxon officers
were generally against hazarding a battle. The
Celtic chiefs were of a different opinion. Glen-
garryi2 and Lochiel were now both of a mind.
"Fight, my Lord," said Lochiel with his usual
energy; "fight immediately: fight, if you have
only one to three. Our men are in heart. Their
only fear is that the enemy should escape. Give
them their way; and be assured that they will
either perish or gain a complete victory. But
if you restrain them, if you force them to re-
main on the defensive, I answer for nothing.
If we do not fight, we had better break up and
retire to our mountains."
Dundee's countenance brightened. "You
hear, gentlemen," he said to his Lowland
;2 Macdonald of Glengarry, another Highland chief-
tain.
546
THE VICTORIAN AGE
oflScers, "you hear the opinion of one who
understands Highland war better than any of
us." No voice was raised on the other side.
It was determined to fight; and the confed-
erated clans in high spirits set forward to en-
counter the enemy.
The enemy meanwhile had made his way up
the pass. The ascent had been long and toil-
some: for even the foot had to climb by twos
and threes; and the baggage horses, twelve hun-
dred in number, could mount only one at a
time. No wheeled carriage had ever been
tugged up that arduous path. The head of the
column had emerged and was on the table land
while the rearguard was still in the plain below.
At length the passage was effected; and the
troops found themselves in a valley of no great
extent. Their right was flanked by a rising
ground, their left by the Garry. Wearied with
the morning 's work, they threw themselves on
the grass to take some rest and refreshment.
Early in the afternoon, they were roused by
an alarm that the Highlanders were approach-
ing. Regiment after regiment started up and
got into order. In a little while the summit of
an ascent which was about a musket shot before
them was covered with bonnets and plaids.
Dundeeis rode forward for the purpose of sur-
veying the force with which he was to con-
tend, and then drew up his own men with as
much skill as their peculiar character permitted
him to exert. It was desirable to keep the
clans distinct. Each tribe, large or small,
formed a column separated from the next col-
umn by a wide interval. One of these bat-
talions might contain seven hundred men, while
another consisted of only a hundred and twenty.
Lochiel had represented that it was impossible
to mix men of different tribes without destroy-
ing all that constituted the peculiar strength
of a Highland army.
On the right, close to the Garry, were the
Macleans. Nearest to them were Cannon and
his Irish foot. Next stood the Macdonalds of
Clanronald, commanded by the guardian of
their young prince. On their left were other
bands of Macdonalds. At the head of one
large battalion towered the stately form of
Glengarry, who bore in his hand the royal
standard of King James the Seventh. i* Still
further to the left were the cavalry, a small
squadron consisting of some Jacobite gentle-
men who had fled from the Lowlands to the
mountains and of about forty of Dundee's olil
18 Hero tlip narrative
roturuH abruptly to
the .Tacoblte army.
u .Tames Socond of Kns-
land was .Tames
Sevonth o f Scot-
land.
troopers. The horses had been ill fed and ill
tended among the Grampians, and looked miser-
ably lean and feeble. Beyond them was Lochiel
with his Camcrons. On the extreme left, the
men of Sky were marshalled by Macdonald of
Sleat.
In the Highlands, as in all countries where
war has not become a science, men thought it
the most important duty of a commander to
set an example of personal courage and of
bodily exertion. Lochiel was especially re-
nowned for his physical prowess. His clans-
men looked big with pride when they related
how he had himself broken hostile ranks and
hewn down tall warriors. He probably owed
quite as much of his influence to these achieve-
ments as to the high qualities which, if fortune
had placed him in the English Parliament or
at the French court, would have made him one
of the foremost men of his age. He had the
sense however to perceive how erroneous was
the notion which his country men had formed.
He knew that to give and to take blows was
not the business of a general. He knew with
how much difficulty Dundee had been able to
keep together, during a few days, an army com-
posed of several clans; and he knew that what
Dundee had effected with difficulty Cannon
would not be able to effect at all. The life
on which so much depended must not be sacri-
ficed to a barbarous prejudice, Lochiel there-
fore adjured Dundee not to run into any un-
necessary danger, * * Your Lordship 's busi-
ness, ' ' he said, "is to overlook everything, and
to issue your commands. Our business is to
execute those commands bravely and prompt-
ly," Dundee answered with calm magnanimity
that there was much weight in what his friend
Sir Ewan had urged, but that no general could
effect anything great without possessing the
confidence of his men, "I must establish my
character for courage. Your people expect to
see their leaders in the thickest of the battle;
and to-day they shall see me there. I promise
you, on my honour, that in future fights I will
take more care of myself."
Meanwhile a fire of musketry was kept up on
both sides, but more skillfully and more
steadily by the regular soldiers than by the
mountaineers. The space between the armies
was one cloud of smoke. Not a few Highland-
ers dropped; and the clans grew impatient.
The sun however was low in the west before
Dundee gave the order to prepare for action.
His men raised a great shout. The enemy,
probably exhausted by the toil of the day,
returned a feeble and wavering cheer. "We
shall do it uow, ' ' said Lochiel : ' ' that is not
THOMAS BABINGTON, LOED MACAULAY
547
the cry of men who are going to win." He
had walked through all his ranks, had addressed
a few words to every Cameron, and had taken
from every Cameron a promise to conquer or
die.
It was past seven o'clock. Dundee gave the
word. The Highlanders dropped their plaids.
The few who were so luxurious as to wear
rude socks of untanncd hide spurned them
away. It was long remembered in Lochaber
that Lochiel took off what probably was the
only pair of shoes in his clan, and charged
barefoot at the head of his men. The whole
line advanced firing. The enemy returned the
fire and did much execution. When only a
small space was left between the armies, the
Highlanders suddenly flung away their fire-
locks, drew their broadswords, and rushed for-
ward with a fearful yell. The Lowlanders pre-
pared to receive tlie shock: but this was then
a long and awkward process; and the soldiers
were still fumbling with the muzzles of their
guns and the handles of their bayonets when
the whole flood of Macleans, Macdonalds, and
Camerons came down. In two minutes the
battle was lost and won. The ranks of Bal-
four 's regiment broke. He was cloven down
while struggling in the press. Kamsey 's men
turned their backs and dropped their arms.
Mackay's own foot were swept away by the
furious onset of the Camerons. His brother
and nephew exerted themselves in vain to rally
the men. The former was laid dead on the
ground by a stroke from a claymore. The lat-
ter, with eight wounds on his body, made his
way through the tumult and carnage to his
uncle 's side. Even in that extremity Mackay
retained all his self-possession. He had still
one hope. A charge of horse might recover the
day! for of horse the bravest Highlanders were
supposed to stand in awe. But he called on
the horse in vain. Belhaven indeed behaved
like a gallant gentleman : but his troopers, ap-
palled by the rout of the infantry, galloped
off in disorder ; Annandale 's men followed : all
was over; and the mingled torrent of redcoats
and tartans went raving down the valley to
the gorge of Killiecrankie.
Mackay, accompanied by one trusty servant,
spurred bravely through the thickest of the
claymores and targets, and reached a point
from which he had a view of the field. His
whole army had disappeared, with the exception
of some Borderers whom Levea had kept to-
gether, and of the English regiment, which had
poured a murderous fire into the Celtic ranks,
and which still kept unbroken order. All the
men that could be collected were only a few
hundreds. The general made haste to lead
them across the Garry, and, having put that
river between them and the enemy, paused for
a moment to meditate on his situation.
He could hardly understand how the con-
querors could be so unwise as to allow him
even that moment for deliberation. They
might with ease have killed or taken all who
were with him before the night closed in. But
the energy of the Celtic warriors had spent
itself in one furious rush and one short strug-
gle. The pass was choked by the twelve hun-
dred beasts of burden which carried the provi-
sions and baggage of the vanquished army.
Such a booty was irresistibly tempting to men
W'ho were impelled to war quite as much by the
desire of rapine as by the desire of glory. It
is probable that few even of the chiefs were
disposed to leave so rich a prize for the sake
of King James. Dundee himself might at that
moment have been unable to persuade his fol-
lowers to quit the heaps of spoil, and to com-
plete the great work of the day; and Dundee
was no more.
At the beginning of the action he had taken
his place in front of his little band of cavalry.
He bade them follow him. and rode forward.
But it seemed to be decreed that, on that day,
the Lowland Scotch should in both armies
appear to disadvantage. The horse hesitated.
Dundee turned round, stood up in his stirrups,
and, waving his hat, invited them to come on.
As he lifted his arm, his cuirass rose, and ex-
posed the lower part of his left side. A mus-
ket ball struck him: his horse sprang forward
and plunged into a cloud of smoke and dust,
which hid from both armies the fall of the vic-
torious general. A person named Johnstone
was near him and caught him as he sank down
from the saddle. "How goes the day?" said
Dundee. ' ' Well for King James ; ' ' answered
Johnstone: "but I am sorry for Your Lord-
ship." "If it is well for him," answered the
dying man, ' ' it matters the less for me. ' ' He
never spoke again : but when, half an hour
later, Lord Dunfermline and some other friends
came to the spot, they thought that they could
still discern some faint remains of life. The
body wrapped in two plaids, was carried to the
Castle of Blair.
648
THE VICTOKIAN AGE
JOHN HENRY. CARDINAL
NEWMAN (1801-1890)
SITE OF A UNIVEESITYt
If we would know what a University is, con-
sidered in its elementary idea, we must betake
ourselves to the first and most celebrated home
of European literature and source of European
civilization, to the bright and beautiful Athens,
— Athens, whose schools drew to her bosom, and
then sent back again to the business of life the
youth of the Western World for a long thou-
sand years. Seated on the verge of the conti-
nent, the city seemed hardly suited for the
duties of a central metropolis of knowledge;
yet, what it lost in convenience of approach, it
gained in its ncighbourhoojl to the traditions
of the mysterious East, and in the loveliness
of the region in which it lay. Hither, then,
as to a sort of ideal land, where all archetypes
of the great and the fair were found in sub-
stantial being, and all departments of truth ex-
plored, and all diversities of intellectual power
exhibited, where taste and philosophy were
majestically enthroned as in a royal court,
where there was no sovereignty but that of
mind, and no nobility but that of genius, where
professors were rulers, and princes did hom-
age, hither flocked continually from the very
corners of the orbis terrarum,^ the many-
tongued generation, just rising, or just risen
into manhood, in order to gain wisdom.
Pisistratust had in an early age discovered
and nursed the infant genius of his people,
and Cimon, after the Persian war,2 had given
it a home. That war had established the naval
supremacy of Athens; she had become an im-
perial state; and the Ionians,3 bound to her by
the double chain of kindred and of subjection,
were importing into her both their merchan-
dise and their civilization. The arts and phil-
osophy of the Asiatic coast were easily carried
across the sea, and there was Cimon, as I have
said, with his ample fortune, ready to receive
1 the world
2 B. C. 500-449. Cimon, having signally defeated
the Persians in 466 B. C, made liberal use of
his spoils In ariornlng Athens.
3 Greeks of Asia Minor.
t From The Rine and Progress of Vniveraitics,
originally piibliBhed In 1854. Newman's large
purpose, In this and his related works, of set-
ting forth an ideal of University life and
trnlning, cannot be conveyed in an extract;
but the present selection may afford some hint
of It, besides exemplifying the author's im-
agination and rhetoric in their more gracious
aspeets.
X A niler of Athens in the sixth century B. C,
who established the groves and gymnasium
known as the Lyceum, and who is said to
have commissioned a body of scholars to col-
lect and write down the poems of Homer.
them with due honours. Not content with
patronizing their professors, he built the first
of tliose noble porticos,§ of which we hear so
much in Athens, and he formed the groves,
which in process of time became the celebrated
Academy. Planting is one of the most grace-
ful, as in Athens it was one of the most benefi-
cent, of employments. Cimon took in hand the
wild wood, pruned and dressed it, and laid it
out with handsome walks and welcome foun-
tains. Nor, while hospitable to the authors of
the city's civilization, was he ungrateful to the
instruments of her prosperity. His trees ex-
tended their cool, umbrageous branches over the
merchants, who assembled in the Agora,^ for
many generations.
Those merchants certainly had deserved that
act of bounty; for all the while their ships had
been carrying forth the intellectual fame of
Atliens to the western world. Then commenced
what may be called her University existence.
Pericles, who succeeded Cimon both in the gov-
ernment and in the patronage of art, is said by
Plutarch to have entertained the idea of mak-
ing Athens the capital of federated Greece: in
this he failed, but his encouragement of such
men as Phidias^ and Anaxagorass led the way
to her acquiring a far more lasting sovereignty
over a far wider empire. Little understand-
ing the sources of her own greatness, Athens
would go to war ; peace is the interest of a scat
of commerce and the arts; but to war she
went; yet to her, whether peace or war, it mat-
tered not. The political power of Athens waned
and disappeared; kingdoms rose and fell; cen-
turies rolled away, — they did but bring fresh
triumphs to the city of the poet and the sage.
There at length the swarthy Moor and Span-
iard were seen to meet the blue-eyed Gaul; and
the Cappadocian, late subject of Mithridates,
gazed without alarm at the haughty conquer-
ing Roman.* Revolution after revolution
passed over the face of Europe, as well as of
Greece, but still she was there, — Athens, the
city of mind, — as radiant, as splendid, as deli-
cate, as young, as ever she had been.
Many a more fruitful coast or isle is washed
4 The Market, or Exchange.
•1 Sculptor of the frieze of the Parthenon, etc.
6 A philosopher.
! Porches, or Independent covered walks, often
built In magnificent style, and used as out-
door resorts for conversation, study, or pleas-
ure. In the .Vcadciny. mentioned Just below,
Plato taught for nearly lifty years.
* After the death of MItbrldntes, a iwwerful enemy
of the Romans, Cappadocla passed into Roman
control. The signiflcance of tlie passage is
that Athens was at the center of the great
conflicts of races — of the South against the
North, and the East against the West.
JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN
549
by the blue .Egeau, many a spot is there more
beautiful or sublime to see, many a territory
more ample; but there was one charm in Attica,
which, in the same perfection, was nowhere else.
The deep pastures of Arcadia, the plain of
Argos, the Thessalian vale, these had not the
gift ; Ba?otia, which lay to its immediate north,
was notorious for its very want of it. The
heavy atmosphere of that Boeotia might be good
for vegetation, but it was associated in popular
belief with the duluess of the Boeotian intel-
lect :t on the contrary, the special purity, elas-
ticity, clearness, and salubrity of the air of
Attica, fit concomitant and emblem of its
genius, did that for it which earth did not; —
it brought out every bright hue and tender
shade of the landscape over which it was
spread, and would have illuminated the face of
even a more bare and rugged country.
A confined triangle, perhaps fifty miles its
greatest length, and thirty its greatest breadth;
two elevated rocky barriers, meeting at an
angle; three prominent mountains, command-
ing the plain, — Parnes, Pentelicus, and Hymet-
tus; an unsatisfactory soil; some streams, not
always full; — such is about the report which
the agent of a London company would have
made of Attica. He would report that the
climate wa.s mild; the hills were limestone;
there was plenty of good marble; more pasture
land than at first survey might have been ex-
pected, sufficient certainly for sheep and
goats; fisheries productive; silver mines once,
but long since worked out; figs fair; oil first-
rate; olives in profusion. But what he would
not think of noting down, was, that the olive
tree was so choice in nature and so noble in
shape that it excited a religious veneration; and
that it took so kindly to the light soil, as to
expand into woods upon the open plain, and to
climb up and fringe the hills. He would not
think of writing word to his employers, how
that clear air, of which I have spoken, brought
out, yet blended and subdued, the colours on
the marble, till they had a softness and har-
mony, for all their richness, which in a picture
looks exaggerated, yet is after all within the
truth. He would not tell, how that same deli-
cate and brilliant atmosphere freshened up the
pale olive, till the olive forgot its monotony,
and its cheek glowed like the arbutusi or beech
of tiie Umbrian hills.2 He would say nothing
of the thyme and the thousand fragrant herbs
which carpeted Hymettus; he would hear uoth-
1 strawberry-tree, ma- ^ In Italy,
drona
t "As the nimble Attics would say, a glorious cli-
mate for eels, but a bad air for brains."- -15.
I.. Gildorsloeve. Yrt I'indar was a Boeotiau,
ing of the hum of its bees; nor take much
account of the rare flavour of its honey, since
Gozo and Minorcas were sufficient for the
English demand. He would look over the
-Egean from the height he had ascended; he
would follow with his eye the chain of islands,
which, starting from the Sunian headland,
seemed to offer the fabled divinities of Attica,
when they would visit their Ionian cousins, a
sort of viaduct thereto across the sea; but that
fancy would not occur to him, nor any admira-
tion of the dark violet billows with their white
edges down below; nor of tliose graceful, fan-
like jets of silver upon the rocks, which slowly
rise aloft like water spirits from the deep, then
shiver, and break, and spread, and shroud them-
selves, and disappear in a soft mist of foam;
nor of the gentle, incessant heaving and pant-
ing of the whole liquid plain ; nor of the long
waves, keeping steady time, like a line of sol-
•liery as they resound upon the hollow shore, —
he would not deign to notice that restless living
element at all except to bless his stars that he
was not upon it.* Nor the distinct details, nor
the refined colouring, nor the graceful outline
and roseate golden hue of the jutting crags,
nor the bold shadows cast from Otus or
Laurium by the declining sun ; — our agent of a
mercantile firm would not value these matters
even at a low figure. Rather we must turn for
the sympathy we seek to yon pilgrim student,
come from a semi-barbarous land to that small
corner of the earth, as to a shrine, where he
might take his fill of gazing on those emblems
and coruscations of invisible unoriginate'' per-
fection. It was the stranger from a remote
province, from Britain or from JIauritania,
who in a scene so different from that of his
chilly, woody swamps, or of his fiery, choking
sands, learned at once what a real University
must be, by coming to understaml the sort of
country Avhich was its suitable home.
Nor was this all that a University required,
and found in Athens. No one, even there,
could live on poetry. If the students at that
famous place had nothing better than bright
hues and soothing sounds, they would not have
been able or disposed to turn their residence
there to much account. Of course they must
have the means of living, nay, in a certain
sense, of enjoyment, if Athens was to be an
Alma plater" at the time, or to remain after-
wards a pleasant thought in their memory.
And so they had: be it recollected Athens waa
a port, and a mart of trade, perhaps the first
3 Islands In the Med- 5 not originated, self
iterranean. existing, divine
* The .li^gean is famous 6 fostering mother
for squalls.
550
THE VICTORIAN AGE
in Greece; and this was very much to the
point, when a number of strangers were ever
flocking to it, whose combat was to be with
intellectual, not physical difficulties, and who
claimed to have their bodily wants supplied,
that they might be at leisure to set about fur-
nishing their minds. Now, barren as was the
soil of Attica, and bare the face of the country,
yet it had only too many resources for an ele-
gant, nay, luxurious abode there. So abundant
were the imports of the place, that it was a
common saying, that the productions, which
were found singly elsewhere, were brought all
together in Athens. Corn and wine, the staple
of subsistence in such a climate, came from the
isles of the ^gean; fine wool and carpeting
from Asia Minor; slaves, as now, from the
Euxine, and timber too; and iron and brass
from the coasts of the Mediterranean. The
Athenian did not condescend to manufactures
himself, but encouraged them in others; and a
population of foreigners caught at the lucrative
occupation both for home consumption and for
exportation. Their cloth, and other textures
for dress and furniture, and their hardware —
for instance, armour — were in great request.
Labour was cheap; stone and marble in plenty;
and the taste and skill, which at first were
devoted to public buildings, as temples and
porticos, were in course of time applied to the
mansions of public men. If nature did much
for Athens, it is undeniable that art did much
more.
Here some one will interrupt me with the
remark: "By the by, where are we, and
whither are we going! — what has all this to
do with a University? at least what has it to
do with education? It is instructive doubtless;
but still how much has it to do with your sub-
ject?" Now I beg to assure the reader that 1
am most conscientiously employed upon my
subject; and I should have thought every one
would have seen this: however, since the ob-
jection is made, I may be allowed to pause
awhile, and show distinctly the drift of what
I have been saying, before I go farther. What
has this to do with my subject! why, the
question of the site is the very first that comes
into consideration, when a Studhim GencralC
is contemplated; for that site should be a lib-
eral and a noble one; who will deny it? All
authorities agree in this, and very little reflec-
tion will be flufllcient to make it clear. 1
recollect a conversation I once had on this
very subject with a very eminent man.* T was
a youth of eighteen, and was leaving my Uni-
7 School of UnlvcrHal Learning.
versity for the Long Vacation, when I found r-l
myself in company in a public conveyance with
a middle-aged person, whose face was strange
to me. However, it was the great academical ^
luminary of the day, whom afterwards I knew
very well. Luckily for me, I did not suspect
it; and luckily too, it was a fancy of his, as
his friends knew, to make himself on easy
terms especially with stage-coach companions.
So, what with my flippancy and his condescen-
sion, I managed to hear many things which
were novel to me at the time ; and one point
which he was strong upon, and was evidently
fond of urging, was the material pomp and cir-
cumstance which should environ a great seat of
learning. He considered it was worth the con-
sideration of the government, whether Oxford
should not stand in a domain of its own. An
ample range, say four miles in diameter, should ,
be turned into wood and meadow, and the i
University should be approached on all sides '
by a magnificent park, with fine trees in groups
and groves and avenues, and with glimpses and
views of the fair city, as the traveller drew
near it. There is nothing surely absurd in
the idea, though it would cost a round sum to
realize it. What has a better claim to the
purest and fairest possessions of nature, than
the seat of wisdom? So thought my coach
companion; and he did but express the tradi-
tion of ages and the instinct of mankind.
For instance, take the great University of
Paris. That famous school engrossed as its
territory the whole south bank of the Seine,
and occupied one half, and that the pleasanter
half, of the city. King Louis had the island
pretty well as his own, — it was scarcely more
than a fortification; and the north of the
river was given over to the nobles and citizens
to do what they could with its marshes; but
the eligible south, rising from the stream,
which swept around its base, to the fair summit
of St. Genevieve, with its broad meadows, its
vineyards and its gardens, and with the sacred
elevation of Montmartre* confronting it, all
this was the inheritance of the University.
There was that pleasant Pratum," stretching
along the river's bank, in which the students
for centuries took their recreation, which i
Alcuinio seems to mention in his farewell verses |
8 "Mount of Martyrs," north of the Seine : so |
named from the tradition that St. Denis,
Bishop of Paris. sufFered martyrdom tliere.
n Latin for "meadow"; French, pr{-.
10 An Knglish scholar who was riiarleniasnc's
superintendent of education. i
* Prol)al)Iv Dr. Edward Ooploston ( 1 770-1 84{». |
I'rovost of Oriel CoIIokc. whore Newman later t
JK'camo n Kcllow. It was lie who raised Oriel \
lo a poHitlou of Icadcrublp ut Oxford. i
CHARLES DICKENS
651
to Paris, and which has given a name to the
great Abbey of St. Germain-des-Pr^s." For
long years it was devoted to the purposes of
innocent and healthy enjoyment; but evil times
came on the University; disorder arose with-
in its precincts, and the fair meadow be-
came the scene of party brawls; heresy stalked
through Europe, and Germany and England no
longer sending their contingent of students, a
heavy debt was the consequence to the academ-
ical body. To let their land was the only
resource left to them: buildings rose upon it,
and spread along the green sod, and the country
at length became town. Great was the grief
and indignation of the doctors and masters,
when this catastrophe occurred. "A wretched
sight," said the Proctor of the German
nation,i2 "a wretched sight, to witness the sale
of that ancient manor, whither the Muses were
wont to wander for retirement and pleasure.
Whither shall the youthful student now betake
himself, what relief will he find for his eyes,
wearied with intense reading, now that the
pleasant stream is taken from him I" Two
centuries and more have passed since this com-
plaint was uttered; and time has shown that
the outward calamity, which it recorded, was
but the emblem of the great moral revolution,
which was to follow; till the institution itself
has followed its green meadows, into the region
of things which once were and now are not.is
CHARLES DICKENS (1812-1870)
A CHRISTMAS TREE*
I have been looking on, this evening, at a
merry company of children assembled round
that pretty German toy, a Christmas Tree.
The tree was planted in the middle of a
great round table, and towered high above their
heads. It was brilliantly lighted by a multitude
of little tapers; and everywhere sparkled and
glittered with bright objects. There were rosy-
cheeked dolls, hiding behind the green leaves;
and there were real watches (with movable
11 Founded about .^542 and dedicated to St. Ger-
main, Bistiop of Paris.
12 The Dean of the resident German students.
13 During the French revolution, the Faculties of
the University were alx»lished and its organ-
ization destroyed. In Newman's time it was
only a member of the National University of
France, but in 1890 it became once more the
University of Paris.
♦ Contributed by Dickens to Household Words, Dec.
Zl, 185U.
hands, at least, and an endless capacity of
being wound up) dangling from innumerable
twigs; there were French-polished tables,
chairs, bedsteads, wardrobes, eight-day clocks,
and various other articles of domestic furniture
(wonderfully made, in tin, at Wolverhampton^),
perched among the boughs, as if in prepara-
tion for some fairy housekeeping; there were
jolly, broad-faced little men, much more agree-
able in appearance than many real men — and
no wonder, for their heads took off, and showed
them to be full of sugarplums; there were
fiddles and drums; there were tambourines,
books, work-boxes, paint-boxes, sweetmeat-
boxes, peep-show boxes, and all kinds of boxes;
there were trinkets for the elder girls, far
brighter than any grown-up gold and jewels;
there were baskets and pincushions in all de-
vices; there were guns, swords, and banners;
there were witches standing in enchanted rings
of pasteboard, to tell fortunes; there were
teetotums, humming-tops, needle-eases, pen-
wipers, smelling-bottles, conversation-cards,
bouquet-holders ; real fruit, made artificially
dazzling with goldleaf ; imitation apples, pears,
and walnuts, crammed with surprises; in short,
as a pretty child before me delightedly whis-
pered to another pretty child, her bosom friend,
' ' There was everything, and more. ' ' This mot-
ley collection of odd objects, clustering on the
tree like magic fruit, and flashing back the
bright looks directed towards it from every
side — some of the diamond-eyes admiring it
were hardly on a level with the table, and a
few were languishing in timid wonder on the
bosoms of pretty mothers, aunts, and nurses —
made a lively realization of the fancies of
childhood; and set me thinking how all the
trees that grow and all the things that come
into existence on the earth, have their wild
adornments at that well-remembered time.
Being now at home again, and alone, the
only person in the house awake, my thoughts
are drawn back, by a fascination which I do
not care to resist, to my own childhood. I
begin to consider, what do we all remember
best upon the branches of the Christmas Tree
of our own young Christmas days, by which we
climbed to real life.
Straight, in the middle of the room, cramped
in the freedom of its growth by no encircling
walls or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowy tree
arises; and, looking up into the dreamy bright-
ness of its top — for I observe in this tree the
singular property that it . appears to grow
1 In Staffordshire ; a center for the mwiufacture of
hardware.
THE VICTORIAN AGE
downward towards the earth — I look into my
youngest Christmas recollections!
All toys at first I find. Up yonder, among the
green holly and red berries, is the Tumbler
with his hands in his pockets, who wouldn't lie
down, but whenever he was put upon the floor,
persisted in rolling his fat body about, until
he rolled himself still, and brought those lobster
eyes of his to bear upon me — when I affected
to laugh very much, but in my heart of hearts
was extremely doubtful of him. Close beside
him is that infernal snuff-box, out of which
there sprang a demoniacal Counsellor in a black
gown, with an obnoxious head of hair, and a
red cloth mouth, wide open, who was not to be
endured on any terms, but could not be put
away either; for he used suddenly, in a highly
magnified state, to fly out of Mammoth Snuff-
boxes in dreams, when least expected. Nor is
the frog with cobbler's wax on his tail,
far off; for there was no knowing where he
wouldn't jump; and when he flew over the
candle, and came upon one's hand with that
spotted back — red on a green ground — he was
horrible. The cardboard lady in a blue-silk
skirt, who was stood up against the candlestick
to dance, and whom I see on the same branch,
was milder, and was beautiful; but I can't
say as much for the larger cardboard man, who
used to be hung against the wall and pulled
by a string; there was a sinister expression
in that nose of his; and when he got his legs
round his neck (which he very often did), he
was ghastly, and not a creature to be alone
with.
When did that dreadful Mask first look at
me? Who put it on, and why was I so fright-
ened that the sight of it is an era in my life?
It is not a hideous visage in itself; it is even
meant to be droll; why then were its stolid
features so intolerable? Surely not because it
hid the wearer's face. An apron would have
done as much; and though I should have pre-
ferred even the apron away, it would not have
been absolutely insupportable, like the mask.
Was it tlie immovability of the mask? The
doll's face was immovable, but I was not afraid
of her. Porliaps that fixed and set change
coming over a real face, infused into my quick-
ened heart some remote suggestion and dread of
the universal change that is to come on every
face, and make it still ? Nothing reconciled me to
it. No drummers, from whom proceeded a melan-
choly chirping on the turning of a handle; no
regiment of soldiers, with a mute band, taken
out of a box, and fitted, one by one, upon a
stiff and lazy little set of lazy-tongs;' no ol'l
woman, made of wires and a brown-paper com-
position, cutting up a pie for two small chil-
dren; could give me a permanent comfort, for
a long time. Nor was it any satisfaction to
be shown the Mask, and see that it was made
of paper, or to have it locked up and be as-
sured that no one wore it. The mere recollec-
tion of that fixed face, the mere knowledge of
its existence anywhere, was sufficient to awake
me in the night all perspiration and horror,
with, "01 know it 's coming ! the mask ! ' '
I never wondered what the dear old donkey
with the panniers — there he is! — was made of,
then! His hide was real to the touch, I recol-
lect. And the great black horse with the round
red spots all over him — the horse that I could
even get upon — I never wondered what had
brought him to that strange condition, or
thought that such a horse was not commonly
seen at Newmarket.2 The four horses of no
colour, next to him, that went into the waggon
of cheeses, and could be taken out and stabled
under the piano, appear to have bits of fur-
tippet for their tails, and other bits for their
manes, and to stand on pegs instead of legs;
but it was not so when they were brought home
for a Christmas present. They w-ere all right,
then; neither was their harness unceremoni-
ously nailed into their chests, as appears to be
the case now. The tinkling works of the music-
cart, I did find out to be made of quill tooth-
picks and wire; and I always tlvouglit that
little tumbler in his shirt sleeves, perpetually
swarming up one side of a wooden frame, and
coming down, head foremost, on the other,
ratlier a weak-minded person — though good-
natured; but the Jacob's Ladder ,3 next him,
made of little squares of red wood, that went
flapping and clattering over one another, each
developing a different picture, and the whole
enlivened by small bells, was a mighty marvel
and a great delight.
Ah! The Doll's house! — of which I was not
proj)rietor, but where I visited. I don't admire
the Houses of Parliament half so much as that
stone-fronted mansion with real glass windows,
and door-steps, and a real balcony — greener
than I ever see now, except at watering-places;
and even they afford but a poor imitation. And
though it did open all at once, the entire house-
front (which was a blow, I admit, as cancelling
I SclsKors-lik«\ oxlonsl-
Me tong8, common
ly used for picking
up ohjccts at adlB-
lance.
:; Newmarket Heath.
where annual lior^t!
races arc held.
3 Name taken from (Jen-
eais, xxvlii, 12.
CHARLES DICKENS
553
the fiction of a staircase), it was but to shut
it u|) ajjain, and I could believe. Even open,
there were three distinct rooms in it: a sitting-
room and bedroom, elegantly furnished, and
best of all, a kitchen, with uncommonly soft
fire-irons, a plentiful assortment of diminutive
utensils — oh, the warming-pan! — and a tin man-
cook in profile, who was always going to fry
two fish. What Barmecide justice* have I done
to the noble feasts wherein the set of wooden
platters figured, each with its own peculiar
delicacy, as a ham or turkey, glued tight on to
it, and garnished with something green, which
I recollect as moss! Could all the Temperance
Societies of these later days, united, give me
such a tea-drinking as I have had through the
means of yonder little set of blue crockery,
which really would hold liquid (it ran out of
the small wooden cask, I recollect, and tasted
of matches), and which made tea, nectar. And
if the two legs of the ineffectual little sugar-
tongs did tumble over one another, and want
purpose, like Punch's"' hands, what does it mat-
ter? And if I did once shriek out, as a poi-
soned child, and strike the fashionable company
with consternation, by reason of having drunk
a little teaspoon, inadvertently dissolved in too
hot tea, I was never the worse for it, except
by a powder!
Upon the next branches of the tree, lower
down, hard by the green roller and miniature
gardening-tools, how thick the books begin to
hang. Thin books, in themselves, at first, but
many of them, and with delieiously smooth cov-
ers of bright red or green. What fat black
letters to begin with! "A was an archer, and
shot at a frog." Of course he was. He was
an apple-pie also, and there he is! He was a
good many things in his time, was A, and so
were most of his friends, except X, who had so
little versatility, that I never knew him to get
beyond Xerxes or Xantippe — like Y, who was
always confined to a Yacht or a Yew Tree;
and Z condemned for ever to be a Zebra or a
Zany. But now, the very tree itself changes,
and becomes a bean-stalk — the marvellous bean-
stalk np which Jack climbed to the Giant 's
house! And now, those dreadfully interesting,
double-headed giants, with their clubs over their
shoulders, begin to stride along the boughs in
a perfect throngs dragging knights and ladies
home for dinner by the hair of their heads.
And Jack — how noble, with his sword of sharp-
4 In the story of the "Barber's Sixth Brother" in
the Arabian yif/hts. a rich Barmecide (the
name of a princely famiiy) sets before a
starving man a service of empty dishes.
5 The masculine puppet of a I'nnch and Judy show.
ness, and his shoes of swiftness! Again those
old meditations come upon me as I gaze up at
him; and I debate within myself whether
there was more than one Jack (which I am loth
to believe possible), or only one genuine original
admirable Jack, who achieved all the recorded
exploits.
Good for Christmas time is the ruddy colour
of the cloak, in which — the tree making a forest
of itself for her to trip through, with her bas-
ket — Little Bed Eiding-Hood comes to me one
Christmas Eve to give me information of the
cruelty and treachery of that dissembling Wolf
who ate her grandmother, without making any
impression on his appetite, and then ate her,
after making that ferocious joke about his
teeth. She was my first love, I felt that if I
could have married Little Bed Biding-Hood, I
should have known perfect bliss. But, it was
not to be; and there was nothing for it but
to look out the W^olf in the Noah's Ark there,
and put him late in the procession on the table,
as a monster who was to be degraded. O the
wonderful Noah's Ark! It was not found
seaworthy when put in a washing-tub, and the
animals were crammed in at the roof, and
needed to have their legs well shaken down
before they could be got in, even there — and
then, ten to one but they began to tumble
out at the door, which was but imperfectly
fastened with a wire latch — but what was that
against it! Consider the noble fly, a size or
two smaller than the elephant: the lady-bird,
the butterfly — all triumphs of art! Consider
the goose, whose feet were so small, and whose
balance was so indifferent, that he usually
tumbled forward, and knocked down all the
animal creation. Consider Noah and his fam-
ily, like idiotic tobacco-stoppers ;i and how the
leopard stuck to warm little fingers; and how
the tails of the larger animals used gradually
to resolve themselves into frayed bits of string!
Hush! Again a forest, and somebody up in
a tree — not Bobin Hood, not Valentine, not
the Yellow Dwarf (I have passed him and all
Mother Bunch's wonders,2 without mention),
but an Eastern King with a glittering scimitar
and turban. By Allah! two Eastern Kings,
for I see another, looking over his shoulder!
Down upon the grass, at the tree's foot, lies
the full length of a coal-black Giant, stretched
asleep, with his head in a lady 's lap ; and near
them is a glass box, fastened with four locks
of shining steel, in which he keeps the lady
1 Plugs used to com-
press tobacco in a
pipe.
2 In Mother Bunch'8
Fairy Talen.
554
THE VICTORIAN AGE
prisoner when he is awake. I see the four
keys at his girdle now. The lady makes signs
to the two kings in the tree, who softly de-
scend. It is the setting-in of the bright
Arabian Nights.
Oh, now all common things become uncom-
mon and enchanted to me. All lamps are won-
derful; all rings are talismans. Common
flower-pots are full of treasure, with a little
earth scattered on the top; trees are for Ali
Baba to hide in; beef -steaks are to throw-
down into the Valley of Diamonds, that the
precious stones may stick to them, and be
carried by the eagles to their nests, whence
the traders, with loud cries, will scare them.
Tarts are made, according to the recipe of the
Vizier's son of Bussorah, who turned pastry-
cook after he was set down in his drawers at
the gate of Damascus; cobblers are all Mus-
taphas, and in the habit of sewing up people
cut into four pieces, to whom they are taken
blindfold.
Any iron ring let into stone is the entrance
to a cave which only waits for the magician,
and the little fire, and the necromancy, that
will make the earth shake. All the dates im-
ported come from the same tree as that unlucky
date, with whose shell the merchant knocked
out the eye of the genie's invisible son. All
olives are of the stock of that fresh fruit, con-
cerning which the Commander of the Faithful
overheard the boy conduct the fictitious trial
of the fraudulent olive merchant; all apples
are akin to the apple purchased (with two
others) from the Sultan's gardener for three
sequins, and which the tall black slave stole
from the child. All dogs are associated with
the dog, really a transformed man, who jumped
upon the baker's counter, and put his paw on
the piece of bad money. All rice recalls the
rice which the awful lady, who was a ghoul,
could only peck by grains, because of her
nightly feasts in the burial-place. My very
rocking-horse, — there he is, with his nostrils
turned completely inside-out, indicative of
Blood! — should have a peg in his neck, by
virtue thereof to fly away with me, as the
wooden horse did with the Prince of Persia,
in the sight of all his father's Court.
Yes, on every object that I recognize among
those upper branches of my Christmas Tree, I
see this fairy light! When I wake in bed, at
daybreak, on the cold dark winter mornings,
the white snow dimly beheld, outside, through
the frost on the window-pane, I hear Dinarzade.
"Sister, sister, if you are yet awake, I pray
you finish the history of the Young King of
the Black Islands. ' ' Scheherazade replies, ' ' If
my lord the Sultan will suffer me to live an-
other day, sister, I will not only finish that,
but tell you a more wonderful story yet. ' '
Then, the gracious Sultan goes out, giving no
orders for the execution, and we all three
breathe again.i
At this height of my tree I begin to see,
cowering among the leaves — it may be born of
turkey, or of pudding, or mince-pie, or of
these many fancies, jumbled with Robinson
Crusoe on his desert island, Philip Quarll among
the monkeys,2 Sandford and ilertons with Mr.
Barlow, Mother Bunch, and the Mask — or it
may be the result of indigestion, assisted by
imagination and over-doctoring — a prodigious
nightmare. It is so exceedingly indistinct, that
I don't know why it's frightful — but 1 know
it is. I can only make out that it is an im-
mense array of shapeless things, which appear
to be planted on a vast exaggeration of the
lazy-tongs that used to bear the toy soldiers,
and to be slowly coming close to my eyes, and
receding to an immeasurable distance. When
it comes closest, it is worst. In connection
with it I descry remembrances of winter nights
incredibly long; of being sent early to bed,
as a punishment for some small offence, an*!
waking in two hours, with a sensation of hav-
ing been asleep two nights; of the leaden hope-
lessness of morning ever dawning; and the
oppression of a weight of remorse.
And now, I see a wonderful row of little
lights rise smoothly out of the ground, before
a vast green curtain. Now, a bell rings — a
magic bell, which still sounds in my ears unlike
all other bells — and music plays, amidst a buzz
of voices, and a fragrant smell of orange-peel
and oil. Anon, the magic bell commands the
music to cease, and the great green curtain rolls
itself up majestically, and The Play begins!
The devoted dog of Montargis avenges the
death of his master, foully murdered in the
Forest of Bondy;* and a humorous Peasant
1 The stories of the Arabian Xiphtit were profess-
edly related on succosslve nights by Schehera-
zade to her sister, in order to interest the
Sultan, whom she had wedded, and so prevent
him from carrying out his practice of behead-
ing his bride the day after the wedding.
2 A castaway, like Robinson Crusoe, who was
solaced on bis desert Island by a monkey.
3 The heroes of a popular juvenile book by Thomas
Day. Mr. Barlow was the boys' Instructor.
4 Aubrey de Montdidler was murdered In VMl In
the forest of Bondy (or of Montargis) and
avenged by his dog. which attracted such sus-
picion to the slayer that the king finally re-
tpilred the slayer to flght with the dog. The
story has been dramatized.
CHARLES DICKENS
555
with a red nose and a very little hat, whom I
take from this hour forth to my bosom as a
friend (I think he was a Waiter or an Hostler
at a village Inn, but many years have passed
since he and I have met), remarks that the
sassigassity of that dog is indeed surprising;
and evermore this jocular conceit will live in
my remembrance fresh and unfading, overtop-
ping all possible jokes, until the end of time.
Or now, I learn with bitter tears how poor
Jane Shore, dressed all in white, and with her
brown hair hanging down, went starving
through the streets ;■» or how George Barnwell
killed the worthiest uncle that ever man had,
and was afterwards so sorry for it that he
ought to have been let off.s Comes swift to
comfort me, the Pantomime — stupendous Phe-
nomenon! — when clowns are shot from loaded
mortars into the great chandelier, bright con-
stellation that it is; when Harlequins,^ cov-
ered all over with scales of pure gold, twist
and sparkle, like amazing fish; when Pantaloon
(whom I deem it no irreverence to compare in
my own mind to my grandfather) puts red-hot
pokers in his pocket, and cries "Here's some-
body coming ! " or taxes the Clown with petty
larceny, by saying, "Now, I sawed you do it! "
when Everything is capable, with the greatest
ease, of being changed into Anything; and
"Nothing is, but thinking makes it so." Now,
too, I perceive my first experience of the dreary
sensation — often to return in after-life — of
being unable, next day, to get back to the
dull, settled world; of wanting to live for
ever in the bright atmosphere I have quitted ;
of doting on the little Fairy, with the wand
like a celestial Barber's Pole, and pining for a
Fairy immortality along with her. Ah, she
comes back in many shapes, as my eye wanders
down the branches of my Christmas Tree, and
goes as often, and has never yet stayed by
me!
Out of this delight springs the toy-theatre, —
there it is, with its familiar proscenium, « and
ladies in feathers, in the boxes! — and all its
attendant occupation with paste and glue, and
gum, and water colours, in the get ting-up of
The Miller and His Men," and Elizabeth, or the
n In a tragedy (founded on fact) by Nicholas
Rowe. See also the ballad of "Jane Shore"
in Percy's Reliques.
nOeorne Barnirell, or The London Merchant, by
George Llllo : founded on another ballad.
7 The clowns, in pantomimes, who play tricks upon
an absurd old man, called "Pantaloon."
8 stage
fiOriglnallv a popular melodrama by Isaac Pocock,
first played at Covent Garden in 181.S. A
gang of bandits, disguised as millers, try to
earry off the daughter of Kelmar, an old cot-
tager.
Exile of Siberia.io In spite of a few besetting
accidents and failures (particularly an unrea-
sonable disposition in the respectable Kelmar,
and some others, to become faint in the legs,
and double up, at exciting points of the
drama), a teeming world of fancies so suggest-
ive and all-embracing, that, far below it on
my Christmas Tree, I see dark, dirty, real
Theatres in the day-time, adorned with these
associations as with the freshest garlands of
the rarest flowers, and charming me yet.
But hark! The Waitsu are playing, and
they break my childish sleep! What images do
I associate with the Christmas music as I see
them set forth on the Christmas Tree? Known
before all the others, keeping far apart from
all the others, they gather round my little bed.
An angel, speaking to a group of shepherds in
a field; some travellers, with eyes uplifted,
following a star ; a baby in a manger ; a child
in a spacious temple, talking with grave men;
a solemn figure, with a mild and beautiful face,
raising a dead girl by the hand; again, near
a city gate, calling back the son of a widow,
on his bier, to life; a crowd of people looking
through tlie opened roof of a chamber where
he sits, and letting down a sick person on a
bed, with ropes; the same, in a tempest, walk-
ing on the water to a ship; again, on a sea-
shore, teaching a great multitude; again, with
a chiid upon his knee, and other children round ;
again, restoring sight to the blind, speech to
the dumb, hearing to the deaf, health to the
sick, strength to the lame, knowledge to the
ignorant ; again, dying upon a Cross, watched
by armed soldiers, a thick darkness coming on,
the earth beginning to shake, and only one
voice heard, "Forgive them, for they know
not what they do."
Still, on the lower and maturer branches of
the Tree, Christmas associations cluster thick.
School-books shut up ; Ovid and Virgil silenced ;
the Eule of Three,i2 with its cool impertinent
inquiries, long disposed of; Terence and
Plautus acted no more, in an arena of huddled
desks and forms, all chipped, and uotched, and
inked; cricket-bats, stumps,i3 and balls, left
higher up, with the smell of trodden grass and
the softened noise of shouts in the evening air;
the tree is still fresh, still gay. If I no more
come home at Christmas time, there will be
10 Taken from a French novel published by Madame
Cottin in 1800. Elizabeth walks from Sil)eria
to Russia to get the Czar's pardon for her
exiled family.
II Street musicians who sing from house to house
on Christmas Eve.
12 The rule of "proportion."
13 The three posts constituting a wicket in the
game of cricket.
556
THK VICTORIAN AGE
boys and girls (thank Heaven!) while the
"World lasts; and they do! Yonder they dance
and play upon the branches of my Tree, God
bless them, merrily, and my heart dances and
plays too!
And I do come home at Christmas. We all
do, or we all should. We all come home, or
ought to come home, for a short holiday — the
longer, the better — from the great boarding-
school, where we are for ever working at our
arithmetical slates, to take, and give a rest.
As to going a visiting, where can we not go,
if we will ; where have we not been, when we
would; starting our fancy from our Christmas
Tree!
Away into the winter prospect. There are
many such upon the tree! On, by low-lying,
misty grounds, through fens and fogs, up long
hills, winding dark as caverns between thick
plantations, almost shutting out the sparkling
stars; so, out on broad heights, until we stop
at last, with sudden silence, at an avenue. The
gate-bell has a deep, half-awful sound in the
frosty air; the gate swings open on its hinges;
and, as we drive up to a great house, the
glancing lights grow larger in the windows,
and the opposing rows of trees seem to fall
solemnly back on either side, to give us place.
At intervals, all day, a frightened hare has
shot across this whitened turf; or the distant
clatter of a herd of deer trampling the hard
frost, has, for the minute, crushed the silence
too. Their watchful eyes beneath the fern may
be shining now, if we could see them, like the
icy dew<lrop8 on the leaves; but they are still,
an<l all is still. And so, the lights growing
larger, and the trees falling back before us,
and closing up again behind us, as if to forbid
retreat, we come to the house.
There is probably a smell of roasted chest-
nuts and other good comfortable things all the
time, for we are telling Winter Stories — Ghost
Stories, or more shame for us — round the
Christmas fire; and we have never stirred,
except to draw a little nearer to it. But, no
matter for that. We came to the house, and it
is an old house, full of great chimneys where
wood is burnt on ancient dogs upon the hearth,
and grim portraits (some of them with grim
legends, too) lower distrustfully from the
oaken panels of the walls. We are a middle-
aged nobleman, and we make a generous sup-
per with our host and hostess and their guests
— it being Christmas time, and the old house
full of company — and then we go to bed. Our
room is a very old room. It is hung with
tapestry. We don't like the portrait of a
cavalier in green, over the fireplace. There
are great black beams in the ceiling, and there
is a great black bedstead, supported at the
foot by two great black figures, who seem to
have come oif a couple of tombs in the old
baronial church in the park, for our particular
accommodation. But, we are not a supersti-
tious nobleman, and we don't mind. Well! we
dismiss our servant, lock the door, and sit
before the fire in our dressing-gown, musing
about a great many things. At length we go
to bed. Well! we can't sleep. We toss and
tumble, and can't sleep. The embers on the
hearth burn fitfully and make the room look
ghostly. We can't help peeping out over the
counterpane, at the two black figures and the
cavalier — that wicked-looking cavalier — in
green. In the flickering light they seem to
advance and retire: which, though we are not
by any means a superstitious nobleman is not
agreeable. Well! we get nervous — more and
more nervous. We say "This is very foolish,
but we can't stand this; we'll pretend to
ill, and knock up somebody." Well! we are
just going to do it, when the locked door opens,,
and there comes in a young woman, deadly
pale, and with long fair hair, who glides tO'
the fire, and sits down in the chair we have loft
there, wringing her hands. Then, we notice
that her clothes are wet. Our tongue cleaves;
to the roof of our mouth, and we can't speak;:
but, we observe her accurately. Hei clothes are-
wet ; her long hair is dabbled with moist mud ;
she is dressed in the fashion of two hundred
years ago; and she has at her girdle a bunch
of rusty keys. Well! there she sits, and we
can't even faint, we are in such a state about
it. Presently she gets up, and tries all the
locks in the room with the rusty keys, which
won't fit one of them; then, she fixes her eyes
on the portrait of the cavalier in green, and
says, in a low, terrible voice, "The stags know
it!" After that, she wrings her hands again,
passes the bedside, and goes out at the door.
We hurry on our dressing-gown, seize our pis-
tols (we always travel with pistols), and are
following, when we find the door locked. We
turn the key, look out into the dark gallery;
no one there. We wander away, and try to find
our servant. Can 't be done. We pace the
gallery till daybreak; then return to our de-
serted room, fall asleep, and are awakened by
our servant (nothing ever haunts hiv\) and the
shining sun. Well! we make a wretched break
fast, and all the company say we look queer.
After breakfast, we go over the house with our
host, and then we t.nke him to the portrait of
CHARLES DICKENS
557
the cavalier in green, and then it all conies out.
He was false to a young housekeeper once at-
tached to that family, and famous for her
b<'auty, who drowned herself in a pond, and
whose body was discovered, after a long time,
because the stags refused to drink of the water.
Since which, it has been whispered that she
traverses the house at midnight (but goes es-
pecially to that room where the cavalier in
green was wont to sleep), trying the old locks
^^ith the rusty keys. Well! we tell our host of
what we have seen, and a shade comes over his
features, and he begs it may be hushed up ; and
so it is. But, it's all true; and we said so,
before we died (we are dead now) to many
responsible people.
There is no end to the old houses, with re-
sounding galleries, and dismal state-bedcham-
bers, and haunted wings shut up for many
years, through which we may ramble, with an
agreeable creeping up our back, and encounter
any number of ghosts, but (it is worthy of
remark perhaps) reducible to a very few gen-
eral types and classes; for, ghosts have little
originality, and * ' walk " in a beaten track.
Thus, it comes to pass, that a certain room in
a certain old hall, where a certain bad lord,
baronet, knight, or gentleman, shot himself,
has certain planks in the floor from which the
blood will not be taken out. You may scrape
and scrape, as the present owner has done, or
plane and plane, as his father did, or scrub and
scrub, as his grandfather did, or burn and burn
with strong acids, as his great-grandfather did,
but, there the blood will still be — no redder
and no paler — no more and no less — always
just the same. Thus, in such another house
there is a haunted door, that never will keep
open; or another door that never will keep
shut ; or a haunted sound of a spinning-wheel,
or a hammer, or a footstep, or a cry, or a sigh,
or a horse's tramp, or the rattling of a chain.
Or else, there is a turret-clock, which, at the
midnight hour, strikes thirteen when the head
of the family is going to die; or a shadowy,
immovable black carriage which at such a time
is always seen by somebody, waiting near the
great gates in the stable-yard. Or thus, it
came to pass how Lady Mary went to pay a
visit at a large wild house in the Scottish High-
lands, and, being fatigued with her long jour-
ney, retired to bed early, and innocently said,
next morning, at the breakfast-table, "How
odd, to have so late a party last night, in this
remote place, and not to tell me of it, before
I went to bed ! ' ' Then, every one asked Lady
Mary what she meant? Then, Lady Mary re-
plied, ' ' Why, all night long, the carriages were
driving round and round the terrace, under-
neath my window!" Then, the owner of the
house turned pale, and so did his Lady, and
Charles Macdoodle of Macdoodle signed to
Lady Mary to say no more, and every one was
silent. After breakfast, Charles ^lacdoodle told
Lady Mary that it was a tradition in the
family that those rumbling carriages on the
terrace betokened death. And so it proved, for.
two months afterwards, the Lady of the man-
sion died. And Lady Mary, who was a Maid
of Honour at Court, often told this story to the
old Queen Charlotte; by this token that the old
King always said, "Eh, eh? What, what?
Ghosts, ghosts? No such thing, no such
thing! " And never left off saying so, until he
went to bed.
Or, a friend of somebody's whom most of us
know, when he was a young man at college, had
a particular friend, with whom he made the
compact that, if it were possible for the Spirit
to return to this earth after its separation from
the body, he of the twain who first died, should
reappear to the other. In course of time, this
compact was forgotten by our friend; the two
young men having progressed in life, and taken
diverging paths that were wide asunder. But,
one night, many years afterwards, our friend
being in the North of England, and staying for
the night in an inn, on the Yorkshire Moors,
i happened to look out of bed ; and there, in the
moonlight, leaning on a bureau near the win-
dow, stedfastly regarding him, saw his old
college friend! The appearance being solemnly
addressed, replied, in a kind of whisper, but
very audibly, "Do not come near me. I am
dead. I am here to redeem my promise. I
come from another world, but may not disclose
its secrets! " Then, the whole form becoming
paler, melted, as it were, into the moonlight,
and faded away.
Or, there was the daughter of the first oc-
cupier of the picturesque Elizabethan house, so
famous in our neighbourhood. You have heard
about her? No! Why, She went out one sum-
mer evening at twilight, when she was a beau-
tiful girl, just seventeen years of age, to gather
flowers in the garden; and presently came run-
ning, terrified, into the hall to her father, say-
ing, "Oh, dear father, I have met myself!"
He took her in his arms, and told her it was
fancy, but she said, "Oh no! I met myself in
the broad walk, and I was pale and gathering
withered flowers, and I turned my head, and
held them up!" And, that night, she died;
and a picture of her story was begun, though
558
THE VICTORIAN AGE
never finished, and they say it is somewhere in
the house to this day, with its face to the wall.
Or, the uncle of my brother's wife was rid-
ing home on horseback, one mellow evening at
sunset, when, in a green lane close to his own
house, he saw a man standing before him, in
the very centre of the narrow way. "Why
does that man in the cloak stand there ! " he
thought. "Does he want me to ride over
him?" But the figure never moved. He felt
a strange sensation at seeing it so still, but
slackened his trot and rode forward. When
he was so close to it, as almost to touch it with
his stirrup, his horse shied, and the figure
glided up the bank, in a curious, unearthly
manner — backward, and without seeming to use
its feet — and was gone. The uncle of my
brother's wife, exclaiming, "Good Heaven!
It's my cousin Harry, from Bombay!" put
spurs to his horse, which was suddenly in a pro-
fuse sweat, and, wondering at such strange
behaviour, dashed round to the front of his
house. There, he saw the same figure, just
passing in at the long French window of the
drawing-room, opening on the ground. He
threw his bridle to a servant, and hastened in
after it. His sister was sitting there, alone.
"Alice, Where's my cousin Harry?" "Your
cousin Harry, John?" "Yes. From Bombay.
I met him in the lane just now, and saw him
enter here, this instant." Not a creature had
been seen by any one; and in that hour and
minute, as it afterwards appeared, this cousin
died in India.
Or, it was a certain sensible old maiden lady,
who died at ninety-nine, and retained her facul-
ties to the last, who really did see the Orphan
Boy; a story which has often been incorrectly
told, but, of which the real truth is this — be-
cause it is, in fact, a story belonging to our
family — and she was a connection of our fam-
ily. When she was about forty years of age,
and still an uncommonly fine woman (her lover
died young, which was the reason why she never
married, though she had many offers), she went
to stay at a place in Kent, which her brother,
an Indian-Merchant, had newly bought. There
was a story that this place had once been held
in trust, by the guardian of a young boy; who
was himself the next heir, and who kille«l the
young boy by harsh and cruel treatment. She
knew nothing of that. It has been said that
there was a Cage in her bedroom in which the
guardian used to put the boy. There was no
such thing. There was only a closet. She went
to bod, made no alarm whatever in the night,
and in the morning said composedly to her
maid when she came in, "Who is the pretty
forlorn-looking child who has been peeping out
of that closet all night?" The maid replied
by giving a loud scream, and instantly de-
camping. She was surprised; but she was a
woman of remarkable strength of mind, and
she dressed herself and went downstairs, and
closeted herself with her brother. ' ' Now, Wal-
ter, " she said, "I have been disturbed all
night by a pretty, forlorn-looking boy, who has
been constantly peeping out of that closet in
my room, which I can't open. This is some
trick." "I am afraid not, Charlotte," said
he, "for it is the legend of the house. It is
the Orphan Boy. What did he do?" "He
opened the door softly," said she, "and
peeped out. Sometimes, he came a step or two
into the room. Then, I called to him, to en-
courage him, and he shrunk, and shuddered,
and crept in again, and shut the door." "The
closet has no communication, Charlotte," said
her brother, ' ' with any other part of the house,
and it's nailed up." This was undeniably
true, and it took two carpenters a whole fore-
noon to get it open, for examination. Then,
she was satisfied that she had seen the Orphan
Boy. But, the wild and terrible part of the
story is, that he was also seen by three of her
brother's sons, in succession, who all died
young. On the occasion of each child being
taken ill, he came home in a heat, twelve hours
before, and said, Oh, Mamma, he had been
playing under a particular oak-tree, in a certain
meadow, with a strange boy — a pretty, forlorn-
looking boy, who was very timid, and made
signs! From fatal experience, the parents
came to know that this was the Orphan Boy,
and that the course of that child whom he
chose for his little playmate was surely run.
Legion is the name of the German castles,
where we sit up alone to wait for the Spectre —
where we are shown into a room, made com-
paratively cheerful for our reception — where we
glance round at the shadows, thrown on the
blank walls by the crackling fire — where we
feel very lonely when the village innkeeper and
his pretty daughter have retiretl, after laying
down a fresh store of wood upon the hearth,
and setting forth on the small table such sup-
per-cheer as a cold roast capon, bread, grapes,
and a flask of old Rhine wine — whore the rever-
berating doors close on their retreat, one after
another, like so many peals of sullen thunder —
and where, about the small hours of the night,
we come into the knowledge of divers super-
natural mysteries. Legion is the name of the
haunted German students, in whose society we
Wn^LIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
559
^raw yet nearer to the fire, while the schoolboy
in the corner opens his eyes wiile and round,
autl flies ofl: the footstool he has chosen for his
seat, when the door accidentally blows open.
Vast is the crop of such fruit, shining on our
Christmas Tree ; in blossom, almost at the very
■top; ripening all down the boughs!
Among the later toys and fancies hanging
tl,ere— as idle often and less pure — be the
image once associated with the sweet old Waits,
the "softened music in the night, ever unalter-
able! Encircled by the social thoughts of
Christmas time, still let the benignant figure of
my childhood stand unchanged ! In every cheer-
ful image and suggestion that the season
brings, may the bright star that rested above
the poor roof be the star of all the Christian
World! A moment's pause, O vanishing tree,
of which the lower boughs are dark to me as
yet, and let me look once more! I know there
are' blank spaces on thy branches, where eyes
that I have loved have shone and smiled; from
which they are departed. But, far above, I see
the raiser of the dead girl, and the Widow's
Son; and God is good! If Age be hiding for
me in the unseen portion of thy downward
growth, O may I, with a grey head, turn a
i-hild's heart to that figure yet, and a child's
trustfulness and confidence!
Now, the tree is decorated with bright merri-
ment, and song, and dance, and cheerfulness.
And they are welcome. Innocent and welcome
be they ever held, beneath the branches of the
Christmas Tree, which cast no gloomy shadow!
But, as it sinks into the ground, I hear a whis-
per going through the leaves, "This, in com-
memoration of the law of love and kindness,
mercy, and compassion. This, in remembrance
of Me!"
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACK-
ERAY (1811-1863)
From THE ENGLISH HUMOURISTS OF
THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY*
Goldsmith
"3et4 sur cette boule.
Laid, chetif et souffrant ;
Etouflfe dans la foule,
Faute d'etre assez grand :
I'ne plainte toiuhanto
l>e ma honche sortit.
Lo hon Dieu me dit : Chante,
Chanto, pauvre petit !
• These papers, six In number, were prepared by
Thackeray as lectures and were delivered in
Knirland in 18.51, and In America in the winter
of lH.".2-.5:i. The first lecture dealt with Swift,
thf last with Sterne and Goldsmith.
Chanter, ou je m'abuse,
Est ma tacho Ici-bas.
Tous ceux qu'ainsi j'amuse,
Ne m'almeront-ils pas?"t
In those charming lines of B^ranger, one may
fancy described the career, the suiferings, the
genius, the gentle nature of Goldsmith, and
the esteem in which we hold him. Who, of the
millions whom he has amused, doesn't love himi
To be the most beloved of English writers, what
a title that is for a man! A wild youth, way-
ward, but full of tenderness and affection,
quits the country village, where his boyhood
has been passed in happy musing, in idle shel-
ter, in fond longing to see the great world out
of doors, and achieve name and fortune: and
after years of dire struggle, and neglect and
poverty, his heart turning back as fondly to
his native place as it had longed eagerly for
change when sheltered there, he writes a book
and a poem, full of the recollections and feel-
ings of home: he paints the friends and scenes
of his youth, and peoples Auburn and Wake-
fieldt with remembrances of Lissoy. Wander
he must, but he carries away a home-relic with
him, and dies with it on his breast. His nature
is truant; in repose it longs for change: as on
the journey it looks back for friends and quiet.
He passes to-day in building an air-castle for
to-morrow, or in writing yesterday's elegy; and
he would fly away this hour, but that a cage and
necessity keep him. What is the charm of his
verse, of his style, and humour? His sweet
regrets, his delicate compassion, his soft smile,
his tremulous sympathy, the weakness which
he owns? Your love for him is half pity. You
come hot and tired from the day's battle, and
this sweet minstrel sings to you. Who could
harm the kind vagrant harper? Whom did he
ever hurt? He carries no weapon, save the
harp on which he plays to you ; and with which
he delights great and humble, young and old,
t Beranger (1780-1851) was a kind of French
Burns, a writer of songs beloved by the people.
The lines may be translated somewhat freely
thus :
Flung Into life.
Dwarfed, ugly, in pain ;
Nigh crushed in the strife
Where I struggle in vain ;
What wonder, should spring ^
To my lips my dole?
God said to me, "Sing !
Sing, poor little soul !"
So my task here below
Is a-slnging to rove ;
If pleasure I sow.
Shall I not reap love?
t The scenes respectively of the poem and the ro-
mance on which Goldsmith's literary reputa-
tion chiefly rests. Compare The Deneried
Village and the notes thereon, p. .173.
560
THE VICTORIAN AGE
the captains in the tents, or the soldiers round
tlie firo, or the women and children in the vil-
lages, at whose porches he stops and sings his
simple songs of love and beauty. With that
sweet story of the "Vicar of Wakefield" he
has found entry into every castle and every
hamlet in Europe. Not one of us, however
busy or hard, but once or twice in our lives
has passed an evening with him, and undergone
the charm of his delightful music.
Goldsmith's father was no doubt the good
Doctor Primrose,! whom we all of us know.
Swift was yet alive, when the little Oliver was
born at Pallas, or Pallasmore, in the county
of Longford, in Ireland. In 1730, two years
after the child's birth, Charles Goldsmith re-
moved his family to Lissoy, in the county West-
meath, that sweet ' ' Auburn ' ' which every per-
son who hears me has seen in fancy. Here the
kind parson brought up his eight children; and
loving all the world, as his son says, fancied
all the world loved him. He had a crowd of
poor dependants besides those hungry children.
He kept an open table; round which sat flat-
terers and poor friends, who laughed at the
honest rector's many jokes, and ate the produce
of his seventy acres of farm. Those who have
seen an Irish house in the present day can fancy
that one of Lissoy. The old beggar still has his
allotted corner by the kitchen turf; 2 the
maimed old soldier still gets his potatoes and
buttermilk; the poor cottiers still asks his
honour's charity, and prays God bless his rever-
ence for the sixpence; the ragged pensioner
still takes his place by right and sufferance.
There's still a crowd in the kitchen, and a
crowd round the parlour table, profusion, con-
fusion, kindness, poverty. If an Irishman
comes to London to make his fortune, he has a
half-dozen of Irish dependants who take a
percentage of his earnings. The good Charles
Goldsmith left but little provision for his hun-
gry race when death summoned him ; and one of
his daughters being engaged to a Squire of
rather superior dignity, Charles Goldsmith im-
poverished the rest of his family to provide the
girl with a dowry.
The smallpox which scourged all Europe at
that time, and ravaged the roses oflf the cheeks
of half the world, fell foul of poor little
Oliver's face, when the child was eight years
old, and left him scarred and disfigured for his
life. An old woman in his father's village
taught him his letters, and pronounced him a
1 The "Vicar'
WBkoflPirt).
2 peat
(of 8 A peasant rentlnfc and
cultivatinK a Hmnll
holding.
dunce: Paddy Byrne, the hedge-schoolmaster,^
took him in hand: and from Paddy Byrne he
was transmitted to a clergyman at Elphin.
When a child was sent to school in those days,
the classic phrase was that he was placed
under ]Mr. So-and-so's ferule. Poor little an-
cestors! It is hard to think how ruthlessly
you were birched; and how much of needless
whipping and tears our small forefathers had
to undergo! A relative — kind uncle Contarine
— took the main charge of little Noll ; who went
through his schooldays righteously doing as lit-
tle work as he could: robbing orchards, playing
at ball, and making his pocket-money fly about
whenever fortune sent it to him. Everybody
knows the story of that famous • ' Mistake of a
Night," when the young schoolboy, provided
with a guinea and a nag, rode up to the "best
house ' ' in Ardagh, called for the landlord 's
company over a bottle of wine at supper, and
for a hot cake for breakfast in the morning;
and found, when he asked for the bill, that the
best house was Squire Featherstone 's, and not
the inn for which he mistook it.^ Who does not
know every story about Goldsmith? That is a
delightful and fantastic picture of the child
dancing and capering about in the kitchen at
home, when the old fiddler gibed at him for his
ugliness, and called him JEsop;o and little Noll
made his repartee of "Heralds proclaim aloud
this saying — See ^sop dancing and his monkey
playing." One can fancy a queer pitiful look
of humour and appeal upon that little scarred
face — the funny little dancing figure, the funny
little brogue. In his life, and his writings,
which are the honest expression of it, he is
constantly bewailing that homely face and per-
son; anon he surveys them in the glass rue-
fully; and presently assumes the most comical
dignity. He likes to deck out his little person
in splendour and fine colours. He presented
himself to be examined for ordination in a pair
of scarlet breeches, and said honestly that he
did not like to go into the Church, because he
was fond of coloured clothes. When he tried
to practise as a doctor, he got by hook or by
crook a black velvet suit, and looked as big and
grand as he could, and kept his hat over a
patch on the old coat: in better days he
bloomed out in plum-colour, in blue silk, and in
new velvet. For some of those splendours the
4 Open air schools, held by hedge-sides, wore once
common in Ireland.
•I The Joke was actually played on Goldsmith, and
he worked it into the plot of his play. Hlw
Stoops to Conquer.
« This traditionary (Jreek writer of fables is repre-
sented to have been deformed.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
561
heirs and assignees of Mr. Filby, the tailor,
have never been paid to this day: perhaps the
! kind tailor and his creditor have met and set-
tled their little account in Hades.
They showed until lately a window at Trinity
College, Dublin, on which the name of O. Gold-
smith was engraved with a diamond. Whose
diamond was it ? Not the young sizar 's,7 who
made but a poor figure in that place of learn-
ing. He was idle, penniless, and fond of pleas-
ure: he learned his way early to the pawn-
broker's shop. He wrote ballads, they say.
for the street singers, who paid him a crown
for a poem: and his pleasure was to steal out
at night and hear his verses sung. He was
chastised by his tutor for giving a dance in his
rooms, and took the box on the ear so much to
heart, that he packed up his all, pawned his
books and little property, and disappeared from
college and family. He said he intended to go
to America, but when his money was spent, the
young prodigal came home ruefully, and the
good folks there killed their calf — it was but
a lean one — and welcomed him back.
After college he hung about his mother's
house, and lived for some years the life of a
buckeens — passed a month with this relation
and that, a year with one patron, a great deal
of time at the public-house. Tired of this life,
it was resolved that he should go to London,
and study at the Temple ;» but he got no
farther on the road to London and the wool-
sackio than Dublin, where he gambled away the
fifty pounds given to him for his outfit, and
whence he returned to the indefatigable for-
giveness of home. Then he determined to be
a doctor, and uncle Contarine helped him to a
couple of years at Edinburgh. Then from Edin-
burgh he felt that he ought to hear the famous
professors of Leyden and Paris, and wrote
most amusing pompous letters to his uncle about
Jth^great Farheim, Du Petit, and Duhamel du
Monceau, whose lectures he proposed to follow.
If uncle Contarine believed those letters — if
Oliver's mother believed that story which the
youth related of his going to Cork, with the
purpose of embarking for America, of his hav-
ing paid his passage-money, and having sent his
kit on board ; of the anonymous captain sailing
away with Oliver 's valuable luggage in a name-
less ship, never to return; if uncle Contarine
and the mother at Ballymahon, believed his
7 A student given free
rations, usually iu
return for menial
services.
8 An idle jounger son
of the poorer aris-
tocracy.
9 Quarters occupied by
students of law.
10 T lie cushion, and
hence the oflSce. of
the Lord High
Chancellor,
stories, they must have been a very simple pair;
as it was a very simple rogue indeed who
cheated them. When the lad, after failing in
his clerical examination, after faUing in his
plan for studying the law, took leave of these
projects and of his parents, and set out for
Edinburgh, he saw mother, and uncle, and lazy
Ballymahon, and green native turf, and spark-
ling river for the last time. He was never to
look on old Ireland more, and only in fancy
revisit her.
"But me not destined such delights to share
My prime of life in wandering spent and care.
Impelled, with steps unceasing to pursue
Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view ;
That like the circle bounding earth and skies
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies :
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone.
And find no spot of all the world my own." ii
I spoke in a former lecture of that high cour-
age which enabled Fielding,i2 in spite of dis-
ease, remorse, and poverty, always to retain a
cheerful spirit and to keep his manly benevo
lence and love of truth intact, as if these treas-
ures had been confided to him for the public
benefit, and he was accountable to posterity for
their honourable employ; and a constancy
equally happy and admirable I think was shown
by Goldsmith, whose sweet and friendly nature
bloomed kindly always in the midst of a life 's
storm, and rain, and bitter weather. The poor
fellow was never so friendless but he could be-
friend some one ; never so pinched and wretched
but he could give of his crust, and speak his
word of compassion. If he had but his flute
left, he could give that, and make the children
happy in the dreary London court. He could
give the coals in that queer coal-scuttle we read
of to his poor neighbour: he could give away
his blankets in college to the poor widow, and
warm himself as he best might in the feathers:
he could pawn his coat to save his landlord from
gaol: when he was a school-usher he spent his
earnings in treats for the boys, and the good-
natured schoolmaster's wife said justly that she
ought to keep Mr. Goldsmith's money as well
as the young gentlemen 's. When he met his
pupils in later life, nothing would satisfy the
Doctor but he must treat them still. "Have
you seen the print of me after Sir Joshua Bey-
noldsl"i3 he asked of one of his old pupils.
"Not seen it! not bought it? Sure, Jack, if
your picture had been published, I'd not have
11 Goldsmith's The Trav-
eller, lines 23-30.
12 Henry Fielding, the
novelist.
13 Reynolds painted his
portrait, and it
was engraved in
mezzotint by Mar-
chi in 1770.
562
THE VICTOBIAN AGE
been without it half-an-hour. " His purse and
his heart were everybody's, and his friends' as
much as his own. When he was at the height
of his reputation, and the Earl of Northumber-
land, going as Lord Lieutenant to Ireland,
asked if he could be of any service to Doctor
Goldsmith, Goldsmith recommended his brother,
and not himself, to the great man. "My
patrons, ' ' he gallantly said, ' ' are the book-
sellers, and I want no others." Hard patrons
they were, and hard work he did; but he did
not complain much: if in his early writings
some bitter words escaped him, some allusions
to neglect and poverty, he withdrew these ex-
pressions when his works were republished, and
betters days seemed to open for him; and he
did not care to complain that printer or pub-
lisher had overlooked his merit, or left him
poor. The Court face was turned from honest
Oliver, the Court patronised Beattie;!* the
fashion did not shine on him — fashion adored
Sterne.i5 Fashion pronounced Kellyic to be
the great writer of comedy of his day. A little
— not ill-humour, but plaintiveness — a little be-
trayal of wounded pride which he showed ren-
der him not the less amiable. The author of
the "Vicar of Wakefield" had a right to pro-
test when Newberyi7 kept back the manuscript
for two years; had a right to be a little peevish
with Sterne; a little angry when Colman'sis
actors declined their parts in his delightful
comedy, when the manager refused to have a
scene painted for it, and pronounced its damna-
tion before hearing. He had not the great
public with him ; but he had the noble John-
son, and the admirable Eeynolds, and the
great Gibbon, and the great Burke, and the
great Fox — friends and admirers illustrious in-
deed, as famous as those who, fifty years be-
fore, sat round Pope's table.
Nobody knows, and I dare say Goldsmith's
buoyant temper kept no account of, all the
pains which he endured during the early period
of his literary career. Should any man of let-
ters in our day have to bear up against such,
Heaven grant he may come out of the period
of misfortune with such a pure kind heart as
that which Goldsmith obstinately bore in his
breast. The insults to which he had to submit
14 .Tamos Beattic. a Scottish poet.
15 Laurence 8ternp, author of Tristram Shandji-
10 Hugh Kelly, author of False DeUcacy, which
was produced at Drury Lane Just before
ColdRtiilth's The Onod-Satured Man.
17 A publisher.
18 (;eori;e rdman the elder, a dramatist and man-
ager, who brought out Goldsmith's ^hc Stoops
to Conquer only after much urging by Dr.
.JohOHon and his friends.
are shocking to read of — slander, contumely,!
vulgar satire, brutal malignity perverting his
commonest motives and actions; he had his
share of these, and one 's anger is roused at
reading of them, as it is at seeing a woman
insulted or a child assaulted, at the notion that
a creature so very gentle and weak, and full
of love, should have had to suffer so. And he
had worse than insult to undergo — to own to
fault and deprecate the anger of ruffians.
There is a letter of his extant to one Griffiths,
a bookseller, in which poor Goldsmith is forced
to confess that certain books sent by Griffiths
are in the hands of a friend from whom Gold-
smith had been forced to borrow money. "lie
was wild, sir," Johnson said, speaking of Gold-
smith to Boswell, with his great, wise benevo-
lence and noble mercifulness of heart — ' ' Dr.
Goldsmith was wild, sir; but he is so no more."
Ah! if we pity the good and weak man who
suffers undeservedly, let us deal very gently
with him from whom misery extorts not only
tears, but shame; let us think humbly and
charitably of the human nature that suffers so
sadly and falls so low. Whose turn may it be
to-morrow? What weak heart, confident before
trial, may not succumb under temptation in-
vincible? Cover the good man who has been
vanquished — cover his face and pass on.
For the last half-dozen years of his life.
Goldsmith was far removed from the pressure
of any ignoble necessity: and in the receipt,
indeed, of a pretty large income from the book-
sellers his patrons. Had he lived but a few
years more, his public fame would have been
as great as his private reputation, and he might
have enjoyed alive a part of that esteem which
his country has ever since paid to the vivid and
versatile genius who has touched on almost
every subject of literature, and touched nothing
that he did not adorn. Except in rare in-
stances, a man is known in our profession, and
esteemed as a skillful workman, years before
the lucky hit which trebles his usual gains, and
stamps him a popular author. In the strength
of his age, and the dawn of his reputation,
having for backers and friends the most illus-
trious literary men of his time, fame and pros-
perity might have been in store for Goldsmith,
had fate .so willed it. and, at forty-six, had
not sudden disease carried him off. I say pros-
perity rather than competence, for it is prob-
able that no sum could have put order into his
affairs, or sufficed for his irreclaimable habits
of dissipation. It must be remembered that
he owed £2000 when he died. "Was ever
poet," Johnson asked, "so trusted before?"
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
563
As has been the case with many another good
fellow of his nation, his life was tracked and
his substance wasted by crowds of hungry beg-
gars and lazy dependants. If they came at a
lucky time (and be sure they knew his affairs
better than he did himself, and watched his
pay-day), he gave them of his money: if they
begged on empty-purse days, he gave them his
promissory bills: or he treated them to a
tavern where he had credit ; or he obliged them
with an order upon honest Mr. Filby for coats,
for which he paid as long as he could earn, and
until the shears of Filby were to cut for him
no more. Staggering under a load of debt and
labour, tracked by bailiffs and reproachful cred-
itors, running from a hundred poor dependants,
whose appealing looks were perhaps the hardest
of all pains for him to bear, devising fevered
plans for the morrow, new histories, new come-
dies, all sorts of new literary schemes, flying
from all these into seclusion, and out of seclu-
sion into pleasure — at last, at five-and-forty,
death seized him and closed his career. I have
been many a time in the chambers in the Tem-
ple which were his, and passed up the staircase,
wnich Johnson and Burke and Reynolds trod
to see their friend, their poet, their kind Gold-
smith — the stair on which the poor women sat
weeping bitterly when they heard that the
greatest and most generous of all men was dead
within the black oak door. Ah! it was a dif-
ferent lot from that for which the poor fellow
sighed, when he wrote with heart yearning for
home those most charming of all fond verses,
in which he fancies he revisits Auburn: —
"Here, as I take my solitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds.
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to
pain. . . ."•
In these verses, I need not say with what
melody, with what touching truth, with what
exquisite beauty of comparison — as indeed in
hundreds more pages of the writings of this
honest soul — the whole character of the man
is told — his humble confession of faults and
weakness; his pleasant little vanity, and desire
that his village should admire him; his simple
scheme of good in which everybody was to be
happy — no beggar was to be refused his dinner
— nobody in fact was to work much, and he to
be the harmless chief of the Utopia,t and the
* Thackeray's quotation here from The Deserted
Village extends through thirty lines more,
for which see page 374, II. 83-112.
t See page 110 and note.
monarch of the Irish Yvetot.J He would have
told again, and without fear of their failing,
those famous jokes which had hung fire in Lon-
don;! he would have talked of his great friends
of the Club — of my Lord Clare and my Lord
Bishop, my Lord Xugent — sure he knew them
intimately, and was hand and glove with some
of the best men in town — and he would have
spoken of Johnson and of Burke, and of Sir
Joshua who had painted him — and he would
have told wonderful sly stories of Ranelagh and
the Pantheon,2 and the masquerades at Madame
Cornelys;3 and he would have toasted, with a
sigh, the Jessamy Bride* — the lovely Mary
Horneck.
The figure of that charming young lady
forms one of the prettiest recollections of Gold-
smith 's life. She and her beautiful sister, who
married Bunbury, the graceful and humorous
amateur artist of those days, when Gillray' had
but just begun to try his powers, were among
the kindest and dearest of Goldsmith's many
friends, cheered and pitied him, travelled
abroad with him, made him welcome at their
home, and gave him many a pleasant holiday.
He bought his finest clothes to figure at their
country house at Barton — he wrote them droll
verses. They loved him, laughed at him, played
him tricks and made him happy. He asked for
a loan from Garrick,o and Garrick kindly sup-
plied him, to enable him to go to Barton : but
there were to be no more holidays and only one
brief struggle more for poor Goldsmith. A
lock of his hair was taken from the coflBn and
given to the Jessamy Bride. She lived quite
into our time. Hazlitt^ saw her an old lady,
but beautiful still, in Xorthcote's* painting-
room, who told the eager critic how proud she
always was that Goldsmith had admired her.
The younger Colman^ has left a touching rem-
iniscence of him (vol. i, 63, 64) : —
1 Compare page 36.3. 6 David Garrick, the
2 London pleasure re- actor.
sorts of that time. v William Hazlitt, the
3 Conductress of a pub- essayist.
lie place for social 8 James Northcote, of
gatherings. the Royal Acade-
4 Goldsmith's pet name my.
for this young girl 9 George Colman. a dra-
friend of his. matist, son of the
5 James GlUray, a cari- Colman mentioned
caturist. above.
t A little town in Normandy whose lords were
once called kings. Beranger wrote a ballad
on the subject, which Thackeray translated :
There was a king of Yvetot.
Of whom renown hath little said.
Who let all thoughts of glory go.
And dawdled half his days abed ;
And every night, as night came round,
By Jenny with a nightcap crowned,
Slept very sound :
Sing bo, bo, ho '. and he, he, he !
That's the kind of king for me. Etc.
564
THE VICTORIAN AGE
• ' I was only five years old, ' ' he says, ' ' when
Goldsmith took me on his knee one evening
whilst he was drinking coffee with my father,
and began to play with me, which amiable act
I returned, with the ingratitude of a peevish
brat, by giving him a very smart slap on the
face: it must have been a tingler, for it left
the marks of my spiteful paw on his cheek.
This infantile outrage was followed by sum-
mary justice, and I was locked up by my indig-
nant father in an adjoining room to undergo
solitary imprisonment in the dark. Here I
began to howl and scream most abominably,
which was no bad step towards my liberation,
since those who were not inclined to pity me
might be likely to set me free for the purpose
of abating a nuisance.
"At length a generous friend appeared to
extricate me from jeopardy, and that generous
friend was no other than the man I had so
wantonly molested by assault and battery —
it was the tender-hearted Doctor himself, with
a lighted candle in his hand and a smile upon
his countenance, which was still partially red
from the effects of my petulance. I sulked and
sobbed as he fondled and soothed, till I began
to brighten. Goldsmith seized the propitious
moment of returning good-humour, when he put
down the candle and began to conjure. He
placed three hats, which happened to be in the
room, and a shilling under each. The shillings,
he told me, were England, France, and Spain.
'Hey presto cockalorum! ' cried the Doctor, and
lo, on uncovering the shillings, which had been
dispersed each beneath a separate hat, they
were all found congregated under one. I was
no politician at five years old, and therefore
might not have wondered at the sudden revolu-
tion which brought England, France, and
Spain all under one crown; but as also I was
no conjurer, it amazed me beyond measure.
. . . From tiiat time, whenever the Doctor
came to visit my father, * [ plucked his gown
to share the good man's smile;' a game at
romps constantly ensued, and we were always
cordial friends and merry playfellows. Our
unequal companionship varied somewhat as to
sports as I grew older; but it did not last long:
my senior playmate <lied in his forty-fifth year,
when I had attained my eleventh. , . . In
all the numerous accounts of his virtues and
foibles, his genius and absurdities, his knowl
rdge of nature and ignorance of the world, his
'compassion for another's woe' was always pre-
dominant ; and my trivial story of his humour-
ing a froward child weighs but as a feather
in the recorded scale of his benevolence."
Think of him reckless, thriftless, vain, if you
like — but merciful, gentle, generous, full of
love and pity. He passes out of our life, ami
goes to render his account beyond it. Think
of the poor pensioners weeping at his grave;
think of the noble spirits that admired and
deplored him; think of the righteous pen that
wrote his epitaph — and of the wonderful and
unanimous response of affection with which the
world has paid back the love he gave it. His
humour delighting us still: his song fresh and
b-^autiful as when first he charmed with it: his
words in all our mouths: his very weaknesses
beloved and familiar — his benevolent spirit
seems still to smile upon us ; to do gentle kind-
nesses: to succour with sweet charity: to
soothe, caress, and forgive: to plead with the
fortunate for the unhappy and the poor.
His name is the last in the list of those men
of humour who have formed the themes of the
discourses which you have heard so kindly.
From KOUNDABOUT PAPEKS*
De JUVENTUTEI
Our last paper of this veracious and round-
about series related to a period which can only
be i.istorical to a great number of readers of
this Magazine. Four I saw at the station
to-day with orange-covered books in their
hands, who can but have known George IV.-
by bookSj and statues, and pictures. Elderly
gentlemen were in their prime, old men in their
middle age, when he reigned over us. His
inuige remains on coins ; on a picture or two
hanging here and there in a Club or old-
fashioned dining-room ; on horseback, as at
Trafalgar Square, for example, where I defy
any monarch to look more uncomfortable. He
turns up in sundry memoirs and histories which
may have been published in Mr. Massey'ss
"History"; in the "Buckingham and Gren-
ville Correspondence"; and gentlemen who
have accused a certain writer of disloyalty are
referred to those volumes to see whether the
picture drawn of George is overcharged.
1 "Upon Youth."
:: Died 1830.
3 William Masscy, autlior of a history of George
Ill's reign. Grenville's Memoirs of the Court
of George IV had Just been published (1859).
Thackoray's lectiUTs on The Four Oeorijea had
been delivered about live years before.
* In emulation of Household WordK. of which
DIckeUH had madr such a great success iti
the fifties. The Coriihill Magazine was founded
in 18«0 and Thackeray was engaged to edit
it. The "Roundabout Tapers" were his regu
lar contribution for three years. The Maga-
zine bore an orange cover.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
5G5
Charon* has paddled him off; he has mingled
with the crowded republic of the dead. His
effigy smiles from a canvas or two. Breechless
he bestrides his steed in Trafalgar Square. I
believe he still wears his robes at Madame Tus-
saud's> (Madame herself having quitted Baker
Street and life, and found him she modelled
t'other side the Stygian stream). On the head
of a five-shilling piece we still occasionally
come upon him, with St. George, the dragon-
slayer, on the other side of the coin.f Ah me I
did this George slay many dragons? Was he a
brave, heroic champion, and rescuer of virgins?
Well! Well! have you and I overcome all the
dragons that assail us? come alive and vic-
torious out of all the caverns which we have
t'utered in life, and succoured, at risk of life
and limb, all poor distressed persons in whose
naked limbs the dragon Poverty is about to
fasten his fangs, whom the dragon Crime is
poisoning with his horrible breath, and about
to crunch up and devour? O my royal liege!
O my gracious prince and warrior! You a
champion to fight that monster? Your feeble
spear ever pierce that slimy paunch or plated
back? See how the flames come gurgling out
of his red-hot brazen throat! WTiat a roar!
Nearer and nearer he trails, with eyes flaming
like the lamps of a railroad engine. How he
squeals, rushing out through the darkness of
his tunnel! Now he is near. Now he is here.
And now — what? — lance, shield, knight, feath-
ers, horse and all? O horror, horror! Next
day, round the monster's cave, there lie a few
bones more. You, who wish to keep yours in
your skins, be thankful that you are not called
upon to go out and fight dragons. Be grateful
that they don't sally out and swallow you.
Keep a wise distance from their caves, lest you
pay too dearly for approaching them. Eemem-
ber that years passed, and whole districts were
ravaged, before the warrior came who was able
to cope with the devouring monster. When
that knight does make his appearance, with all
my heart let us go out and welcome him with
our best songs, huzzas, and laurel wreaths, and
eagerly recognize his valour and victory. But
he comes only seldom. Countless knights were
sfain before St. George won the battle. Tn the
battle of life are we all going to try for the
honours of championship? If we can do our
4 Ferryman of the river Styx.
5 The proprietress of a famous show-place contain-
ing wax eflSgies of various celebrities,
t St. George is the great Christian hero of the
middle ages, and legendary slayer of the
dragon (the devil ». whereby ho delivered the
virgin Sahrn (tb" Cburchi: adopted as the
patron saint of lOn^land.
duty, if we can keep our place pretty honour-
ably through the combat, let us say Laus Deo!^
at the end of it, as the firing ceases, and the
night falls over the field.
The old were middle-aged, the elderly were in
their prime, then, thirty years since, when yon
royal George was till fighting the dragon. As
for you, my pretty lass, with your saucy hat
and golden tresses tumbled in your net, and
you, my spruce young gentleman in your man-
darin 's cap (the young folks at the country-
place where I am staying are so attired), your
parents were unknown to each other, and wore
short frocks and short jackets, at the date of
this five-shilling piece. Only to-day I met a
dog-cart crammed with children — children with
moustaches and mandarin caps — children with
saucy hats and hair-nets — children in short
frocks and knickerbockers (surely the prettiest
boy 's dress that has appeared these hundred
years) — children from twenty years of age to
six; and father, with mother by his side, driv-
ing in front — and on father's countenance I
saw that very laugh which I remember per-
fectly in the time when tliis crown-piece was
coined — in his time, in King George's time,
when we were school-boys seated on the same
form. The smile was just as broad, as bright,
as jolly, as I remember it in the past — unfor-
gotten, though not seen or thought of, for how
many decades of years, and quite and instantly
familiar, though so long out of sight.
Any contemporary of that coin who takes
it up and reads the inscription round the lau-
relled head, ' ' Georgius IV Britanniarum Rex.
Fid. Def.7 1823," if he will but look steadily
at the round, and utter the proper incantation, t
I dare say may conjure back his life there.
Look well, my elderly friend, and tell me what
you see? First, I see a Sultan, with hair,
beautiful hair, and a crown of laurels round
his head, and his name is Georgius Rex. Fid.
Def., and so on. Now the Sultan has disap-
peared; and what is it that I see? A boy, —
a boy in a jacket. He is at a desk ; he has
great books before him, Latin and Greek books
and dictionaries. Yes, but behind the great
books, which he pretends to read, is a little one.
with pictures, which he is really reading. It
6 "Praise God."
7 "King of Britain. Defender of the Faith."
t This word suggests to Thackeray's fancy the
oriental terms in which he proceeds to de-
scribe the vision. The king is a "Sultan."
The conjurer who reviews his own past life
sees himself as a school-boy under the instruc-
tion of a gowned "dervish" : later, as a college
youth in cap and gown he is himself a "der-
vish." disciplined by an old proctor perhaps
Cmoollah. ' .iudge. priest) ; and so on.
566
THE VICTORIAN AGE
is — yes, 1 can read now — it is the "Heart of
Mid Lothian," by the author of "Waverley"
— or, no, it is "Life in London, or the Adven-
tures of Corinthian Tom, Jeremiah Hawthorn,
and their friend Bob Logic," by Pierce Egan ;
and it has pictures — oh! such funny pictures!
As he reads, there comes behind the boy, a man.
a dervish, in a black gown, like a woman, and
a black square cap, and he has a book in each
hand, and he seizes the boy who is reading the
picture-book, and lays his head upon one of his
books, and smacks it with the other. The boy
makes faces, and so that picture disappears.
Now the boy has grown bigger. He has got
on a black gown and cap, something like the
dervish. He is at a table, with ever so many
bottles on it, and fruit, and tobacco; and other
young dervishes come in. They seem as if they
were singing. To them enters an old moollah;
he takes down their names, and orders them
all to go to bed. What is this? A carriage,
with four beautiful horses all galloping — a man
in red is blowing a trumpet. Many young men
are on the carriage — one of them is driving the
horses. Surely they won't drive into that — ?
— ah! they have all disappeared. And now I
see one of the young men alone. He is walk-
ing in a street — a dark street — presently a
light comes to a window. There is the shadow
of a lady who passes. He stands there till the
light goes out. Now he is in a room scribbling
on a piece of paper, and kissing a miniature
every now and then. There seem to be lines
each pretty much of a length. I can read
heart, smart, dart; Mary, fairy; Cupid, stupid;
true, you; and never mind what more. Bah!
it is bosh. Now see, he has got a gown on
again, and a wig of white hair on his head, and
he is sitting with other dervishes in a great
room full of them, and on a throne in the
middle is an old Sultan in scarlet, sitting be-
fore a desk, and he wears a wig too — and the
young man gets up and speaks to him. And
now what is here? He is in a room with ever
80 many children, and the miniature hanging
up. Can it be a likeness of that woman who
is sitting before that copper urn with a silver
vase in her hand, from which she is pouring
hot liquor into cups? Was she ever a fairy?
She is as fat as a hippopotamus now. He is
sitting on a divan by the fire. He has a paper
on his knees. Read the name. It is the Super-
fine Review. It inclines to think that Mr.
Dickens is not a true gentleman, that Mr.
Thackeray is not a true gentleman, and that
when the one is pert and the other arch, we, the
gentlemen of the Superfine Review, think, and
think rightly, that we have some cause to be
indignant. The great cause why modern
humour and modern sentimentalism repel us,
is that they are unwarrantably familiar. Now,
Mr. Sterne, the Superfine Review thinks, "was
a true sentimentalist, because he was above
all things a true gentleman." The flattering
inference is obvious; let us be thankful for an
elegant moralist watching over us, and learn,
if not too old, to imitate his high-bred polite-
ness and catch his unobtrusive grace. If we
are unwarrantably familiar, we know who is
not. If we repel by pertness, we know who
never does. If our language offends, we know
whose is always modest. O pity! The vision
has disappeared off the silver, the images of
youth and the past are vanishing away! We
who have lived before railways were made be-
long to another world. In how many hours
could the Prince of Wales drive from Brighton
to London, with a light carriage built ex-
pressly, and relays of horses longing to gallop
the next .stage? Do you remember Sir Some-
body, the coachman of the Age, who took our
half-crown so affably? It was only yesterday;
but what a gulf between now and then! Then
was the old world. Stage-coaches, more or less
swift, riding-horses, pack-horses, highwaymen,
knights in armour, Norman invaders, Roman
legions, Druids, Ancient Britons painted blue,
and so forth — all these belong to the old period.
I will concede a halt in the midst of it, and
allow that gunpowder and printing tended to
modernize the world. But your railroad starts
the new era, and we of a certain age belong
to the new time and the old one. We are of the
time of chivalry as well as the Black Prince^
or Sir Walter ]\Ianny.2 We are of the age of
steam. We have stepped out of the old world
on to "Brunei's" vast deck,3 and across the
waters ingens patet tellus.* Towards what new
continent are we wending? to what new laws,
new manners, new politics, vast new expanses
of liberties unknown as yet, or only surmised?
I used to know a man who had invented a
flying-machine. "Sir," he would say, "give
me but five hundred pounds, and I will make
it. It is so simple of construction that I trem-
ble daily lest some other person should lifeht
upon and patent my discovery, ' ' Perhaps faith
was wanting; perhaps the five hundred pounds.
He is dead, and somebody else must make the
flying-machine. But that will only be a step
1 The son of Edward s Tho steamship "Orpat
III ; horo of Pol- Kaatprn." doal^ned
tiers, 1,356. by I. K. Brunol.
2 A soldier of Edward 1858.
in. * "A great world looms."
ALFRED, LOKD TENNYSON
567
forward on the journey already begun since j
we quitted the old world. There it lies on the
other side of yonder embankments. You young
folks have never seen it; and Waterloo^ is to
you no more than Agincourt,^ and George IV.
than Sardanapalus.7 We elderly people have
lived in that pre-railroad world, which has
passed into limbo and vanished from under us.
I tell you it was firm under our feet once, and
not long ago. They have raised those railroad
embankments up, and shut off the old world
that was behind them. Climb up that bank on
which the irons are laid, and look to the other
side — it is gone. There is no other side. Try
and catch yesterday. Where is itf Here is a
Times newspaper, dated Monday 26th, and this
is Tuesday 27th. Suppose you deny there was
such a day as yesterday.
We who lived before railways, and survive
out of the ancient world, are like Father Noah
and his family out of the Ark. The children
will gather round and say to us patriarchs,
' ' Tell us, grandpapa, about the old world. ' '
And we shall mumble our old stories; and we
shall drop off one by one; and there will be
fewer and fewer of us, and these very old and
feeble. There will be but ten pre-railroad ites
left ; then three — then two — then one — then O !
If the hippopotamus had the least sensibility
(of which I cannot trace any signs either in
his hide or his face), I think he would go down
to the bottom of his tank, and never come up
again. Does he not see that he belongs to
bygone ages, and that his great hulking barrel
of a body is out of place in these times! What
has he in common with the brisk young life
surrounding him! In the watches of the night,
when the keepers are asleep, when the birds
are on one leg, when even the little armadillo
is quiet, and the monkeys have ceased their
chatter, — he, I mean the hippopotamus, and the
elephant, and the long-necked giraffe, perhaps
may lay their heads together and have a col-
loquy about the great silent antediluvian world
which they remember, where mighty monsters
floundered through the ooze, crocodiles basked
on the banks, and dragons darted out of the
caves and waters before men were made to slay
them. We who lived before railroads are ante-
diluvians — we must pass away. We are grow-
ing scarcer every day; and old — old — very old
relics of the times when George was still fight-
ing the Dragon.
ALFRED. LORD TENNYSON
(1809-1892)
THE LADY OF SHALOTT*
PART I
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye.
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower 'd Camelot ; i
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers.
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veil 'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail 'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail 'd
Skimming down to Camelot;
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower 'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy.
Listening, whispers " 'T is the fairy
Lady of Shalott."
PART II
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
10
20
30
5 Fought 1815.
8 Fought 1415.
7 An Assyrian king :
died 626 B. C.
40
1 The place of Arthur's court.
* This is, with some variations, essentially the
storv of Elaine, "the lily maid of Astolat."
which is told at greater length and with more
fidelity in the IdijUs of the King. It is Tenny-
son's earliest venture into the Arthurian field.
S68
THE VICTORIAN AGE
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she.
The Lady of Shalott,
And moving thro* a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot; 50
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair 'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower 'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 60
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights.
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the moon was overhead.
Came two young lovers lately wed: 70
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.f
PART III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro ' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel 'd
To a lady in his shield,
'That sparkled on the yellow field, 80
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter 'd free.
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.2
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot;
And from his blazon 'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
2 The Milky Way.
t In these lines. Bays Tennyson's son. is to be
found the key to the poem. The allegory
then, If one be desired, is not bard to trace.
90
100
110
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick- jewell'd shone the saddle-leather.
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together.
As he rode down to Camelot;
As often thro' the purple night.
Below the starry clusters bright.
Some bearded meteor, trailing light.
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow 'd ;
On burnish 'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash 'd into the crystal mirror,
' ' Tirra lirra, ' ' by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom.
She made three paces thro ' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom.
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack 'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining, 120
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower 'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat.
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance.
Seeing all his own mischance —
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay ;
The broad stream bore her far away.
The Lady of Shalott.
l.SO
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right —
The leaves upon her falling light—
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
569
'Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot; 140
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly.
And her eyes were darken 'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower 'd Camelot.
For ere she reach 'd upon the tide 160
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by.
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 160
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer.
And they cross 'd themselves for fear.
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace, 170
The Lady of Shalott."
OINONE*
There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier
Than all the valleys of Ionian hills.
The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen.
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to
pine.
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand
The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down
Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars
The long brook falling thro' the cloven ravine
In cataract after cataract to the sea.
Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 10
Stands up and takes the morning; but in front
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal
Troas and Ilion's column 'd citadel.
The crown of Troas.
* CEnone. a nymph of Mt. Ida in the Troad, early
the beloved of the shepherd Paris, mourns his
desertion of hei. and relates the story of the
famous ".ludgment of Paris" which led to the
Trojan war.
Hither came at noon-' •-'
Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills.
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck
Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest.
She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine.
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 20
Sloped downward to her seat from the upper
cliflF.
"O mother Ida, many fountain 'd Ida,
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill;
The grasshopper is silent in the grass;
The lizard, with his shadow on the stone.
Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead.
The purple flower droops, the golden bee
Is Uly-cradled : I alone awake.
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 30
My heart is breaking and my eyes are dim.
And I am all aweary of my life.
"O mother Ida, many-fountain 'd Ida,
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
Hear me, O earth, hear me, O hills, O caves
That house the cold crown 'd snake! O moun-
tain brooks,
I am the daughter of a River-God,
Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all
My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed,! 40
A cloud that gather 'd shape; for it may be
That, while I speak of it, a little tvhile
My heart may wander from its deeper woe.
"O mother Ida, many-f ountain 'd Ida,
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
I waited underneath the dawning hills;
Aloft the mountain-lawn was dewy-dark,
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain-pine.
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris,
Leading a jet-black goat white-horn 'd. white-
hooved, 50
Came up from reedy Simois all alone.
"O mother Ida, harken ere I die.
Far off the torrent call'd me from the cleft;
Far up the solitary morning smote
The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt
eyes
I sat alone; white-breasted like a star
Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin
Droop 'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair
Cluster 'd about his temples like a God's;
And his cheek brighten M as the foam-bow
brightens 60
+ According to a legend in Ovid, the walls of Troy
rose to the music of Apollo's lyre.
570
THE VICTOBIAN AGE
When the wind blows the foam, and all my
heart
Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came.
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold,
That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd
And listen 'd, the full-flowing river of speech
Came down upon my heart:
* My own GCnone,
Beautiful-brow 'd ffinone, my own soul.
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind in-
graven 70
"For the most fair," would seem to award it
thine,
As lovelier than whatever Oreadi haunt
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace
Of movement, and the charm of married
brows. '
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
He prest the blossom of his lips to mine.
And added, 'This was cast upon the board.
When all the full-faced presence of the Gods
Banged in the halls of Peleus;^ whereupon
Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere
due; 80
But light-foot Iriss brought it yester-eve.
Delivering, that to me, by common voice
Elected umpire, Herfe comes to-day,
Pallas and Aphrodite,* claiming each
This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine,
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.'
' ' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
It was the deep midnoon; one silvery cloud 90
Had lost his way between the piny sides
Of this long glen. Then to the bower they
came,
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower.
And at their feet the crocus brake like fire,
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel,
Lotos and lilies; and a wind arose,
And overhead the wandering ivy and vine,
This way and that, in many a wild festoon
Ban riot, garlanding the gnarl^^d boughs
With bunch and berry and flower thro' and
thro '. 100
"O mother Ida, harken ere I die.
On the tree-tops a crested peacock- lit,
1 Mountain nymph.
2 Tho husband of the
Koa-nymph THoHh.
and the father of
A<hllleH.
8 The meRsenRer of the
KOdR.
4 Juno, MInorvn, and
VenuH.
fi Haered to .luno.
And o 'er him flow 'd a golden cloud, and lean 'd
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew.
Then first I heard the voice of her to whom
Coming thro' heaven, like a light that grows
Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made
Proffer of royal power, ample rule
Unquestion 'd, overflowing revenue 110
Wherewith to embellish state, 'from many a
vale
And river-sunder 'd champaign clothed with
corn,
Or labour 'd mine undrainable of ore.
Honour,' she said, 'and homage, tax and toll,
From many an inland town and haven large.
Mast-throng 'd beneath her shadowing citadel
In glassy bays among her tallest towers.'
"O mother Ida, harken ere I die.
Still she spake on and still she spake of power,
'Which in all action is the end of all; 120
Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred
And throned of wisdom — from all neighbour
crowns
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand
Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from
me,
From me, heaven's queen, Paris, to thee king-
born,
A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born,*
Should come most welcome, seeing men, in
power
Only, are likest Gods, who have attain 'd
Rest in a happy place and quiet seats
Above the thunder, with undying bliss 130
In knowledge of their own supremacy. '
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit
Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of
power
Flatter 'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold.
The while, above, her full and earnest eye
Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 140
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply:
'Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control.
These three alone lead life to sovereign power.
Yet not for power (power of herself
Would come uncall 'd for) but to live by law,
Acting the law we live by without fear;
And, because right is right, to follow right
Were wisdom in the scorn of eonsequence. '
• Paris was the son of Priam of Troy ; he had
heen left exposed on tho monntnln-slde l»p-
enusp of the prophecy that he would liring ]
ruin to Troy. ■
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
571
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
Again she said : ' I woo thee not with gifts.
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 151
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am,
So shalt thou find me fairest.
Yet, indeed,
If gazing on divinity disrobed
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair,
Unbias'd by self -profit, 0, rest thee sure
That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee,
So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood,
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's,
To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks, 160
Dangers, and ileeds, until endurance grow
Sinew 'd with action, and the full-grown will.
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law,
Commeasure perfect freedom, 't
"Here she ceas'd.
And Paris ponder 'd and I cried, *0 Paris,
Give it to Pallas! ' but he heard me not,
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me!
"O mother Ida, many-f ountain 'd Ida,
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 170
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian
wells,t
With rosy slender fingers backward drew§
From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat
And shoulder; from the violets her light foot
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form
Between the shadows of the vine-bunches
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved.
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 180
The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh
Half-whisper 'd in his ear, 'I promise thee
The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.'
She spoke and laugh 'd; I shut my sight for
fear;
But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm,
And I beheld great Herfe's angry eyes,
As she withdrew into the golden cloud,
And I was left alone within the bower;
And from that time to this I am alone,
And I shall be alone until I die. 190
"Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die.
Fairest — why fairest wife! am T not fair?
t Thp will, tried and porfectPd by experience until
it is redeemed from all temptation to lawless-
ness, attains — and only then — to perfect free-
dom.
t Idalia and Paphos. in Cyprus, were places where
Venus was especially worshiped.
§ Note the marked delaying effect of four trochaic
words in an iambic line.
My love hath told me so a thousand times.
Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday.
When I past by, a wild and wanton pard.
Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail
Crouch 'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is
she?
Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms
Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest
Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew
Of fruitful kisses, thick as autumn rains 200
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois!
"O mother, hear me yet before I die.
They came, they cut away my tallest pines.
My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy
ledge
High over the blue gorge, and all between
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract
Foster 'd the callow eaglet — from beneath
Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark
morn
The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat
Low in the valley. Never, never more 210
Shall lone Oi^none see the morning mist
Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid
With narrow moonlit slips of silver cloud.
Between the loud stream and the trembling
stars.
"O mother, hear me yet before I die.
I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds.
Among the fragments tumbled from the glens.
Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her
The Abominable.e that uninvited came 220
Into the fair Pelelan banquet-hall.
And east the golden fruit upon the board,
And bred this change; that I might speak my
mind,
And tell her to her face how much I hate
Her presence, hated both of Gods and men.
"O mother, hear me yet before I die.
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times.
In this green valley, under this green hill,
Even on this hand, and sitting on this stone?
Seal'd it with kisses? water 'd it with tears? 230
O happy tears, and how unlike to these!
O happy heaven, how canst thou see my face?
O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight?
death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud.
There are enough unhappy on this earth,
Pass by the happy souls, that love to live;
1 pray thee, pass before my light of life,
And shadow all my soul, that I may die.
Thou weighest heavy on the heart within.
Weigh heavy on my eyelids; let me die. 240
6 Erls, or "Strife" : whence the apple was called
the "Apple of Discord."'
572
THE VICTORIAN AGE
"O mother, hear lue yet before 1 (lie.
I will not die alone,^ for fiery thoughts
Do shape themselves within me, more and more,
Whereof 1 catch the issue, as I hear
Dead sounds at night come from the inmost
hills.
Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother
Conjectures of the features of her child
Ere it is born. Her child! — a shudder comes
Across me: never child be born of me, 250
Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes!
* ' O, mother, hear me yet before I die.
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone,
Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me
Walking the cold and starless road of death
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love
With tlie Greek woman. I will rise and go
Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth
Talk with the wild Cassandra,8 for she says
A fire dances before her, and a sound 260
Rings ever in her ears of arm6d men.
What this may be I know not, but I know
That wheresoe'er I am by night and day,
All earth and air seem only burning fire, ' '
THE LOTOS-EATERS*
"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the
land,
* ' This mounting wave will roll us shoreward
soon. ' '
In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;
And, like a downward smoke, the slender stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did
seem. 9
A land of streams! some, like a downward
smoke,
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
And some thro ' wavering lights and shadows
broke,
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
7 The Death of (Enone, a late poem of Tennyson's.
(l<>sfrlbos her death on the funeral pyre of
Paris.
« SiHter of Paris, and u prophetess.
* This poem Is founded on the story told by TIlvs
ses (Odynsci/ IX. 8.'M)7) of himself and nls
men arriving at the land of the lotos and par-
taklne of the "flowery food" which caused for-
gotfulness of iiome. These Ave Spenserian
stanzas, which are followed in Ihe original by
a long "Ohorlc Sonir." contain some distinct
ocliooH of Thomson's Cantle of Indnlrncr.
which sec ().. ;i44>.
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From the inner land; far off, three mountain-
tops,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood sunset-flush 'd ; and, dew 'd with showery
drops,
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven
copse. 18
The charmed sunset linger 'd low adown
In the red W^est; thro' mountain clefts the dale
AVas seen far inland, and the yellow down
Border 'd with palm, and many a winding vale
And meadow, set Avith slender galingale;i
A land where all things always seem 'd the
same !
And round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 26
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.
Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
To each, but whoso did receive of them
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake,
And music in his ears his beating heart did
make. 36
They sat them down upon the yellow sand.
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, "We will return no
more ; ' '
And all at once they sang, "Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer
roam. ' ' 45
SAINT AGNES' EVE
Deep on the convent-roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon;
My breath to heaven like vapour goes;
May my soul follow soon!
The shadows of the convent:towers
Slant down the snowy sward,
Still creeping with the creeping hours
That lead me to my lord.
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear
As are the frosty skies.
Or this first snowdrop of the year
That in my bosom lies. 12
' 1 \ tall sedRP.
ALFRED. LORD TENNYSON
573
As these white robes are soil 'd and dark,
To yonder shining ground ;
As this pale taper's earthly spark,
To yonder argent round;
So shows my soul before the Lamb,
My spirit before Thee;
So in mine earthly house I am,
To that I hope to be.
Break up the heavens. O Lord! and far.
Thro ' all yon starlight keen,
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,
In raiment white and clean. 24
He lifts me to the golden doors;
The flashes come and go;
All heaven bursts her starry floors.
And strows her lights below,
And deepens on and up! the gates
Roll back, and far within
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,
To make me pure of sin.
The Sabbaths of Eternity,
One Sabbath deep and wide —
A light upon the shining sea —
The Bridegroom with his bride! 36
SIR GALAHAD*
My good blade carves the casques of men.
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten.
Because my heart is pure.
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high.
The hard brands shiver on the steel.
The splinter 'd spear-shafts crack and fly.
The horse and rider reel;
They reel, they roll in clanging lists,
And when the tide of combat stands, 10
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
That lightly rain from ladies' hands.
How sweet are looks that ladies bend
On whom their favours fall!
For them I battle till the end.
To save from shame and thrall;
But all my heart is drawn above.
My knees are bow'd in crypti and shrine;
I never felt the kiss of love.
Nor maiden's hand in mine. 20
More bounteous aspects on me beam.
Me mightier transports move and thrill;
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer
A virgin heart in work and will.
When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,
1 vault, cell
* Spp Malory's account on pages 100, 10.5-108.
Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns.
Then by some secret shrine 1 ride;
I hear a voice, but none are there; 30
The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
The tapers burning fair.
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth.
The silver vessels sparkle clean.
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
And solemn chants resound between.
Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark.
I leap on board; no helmsman steers;
I float till all is dark. 40
A gentle sound, an awful light!
Three angels bear the Holy Grail;
With folded feet, in stoles of white.
On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
My spirit beats her mortal bars.
As down dark tides the glory slides,
And starlike mingles with the stars.
W^hen on my goodly charger borne
Thro' dreaming towns I go, 50
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,2
The streets are dumb with snow.
The tempest crackles on the leads.
And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;
But o 'er the dark a glory spreads.
And gilds the driving hail.
[ leave the plain, I climb the height ;
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling storms
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 60
A maiden knight — to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear;
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
That often meet me here.
I muse on joy that will not cease.
Pure spaces clothed in living beams.
Pure lilies of eternal peace.
Whose odours haunt my dreams;
And, stricken by an angel's hand,
This mortal armour that I wear, 70
This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touch 'd, are turn 'd to finest air.
The clouds are broken in the sky.
And thro' the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony
Swells up and shakes and falls.
Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
2Cp. Hamlet, I, 1, 158.
574
THE VICTORIAN AGE
"O just and faithful knight of God!
Ride on! the prize is near." 80
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;
By bridge and ford, by park and pale,
All-arm 'd I ride, whate 'er betide,
Until I find the Holy Grail.
THE BEGGAR MAID*
Her arms across her breast she laid;
She was more fair than words can say;
Barefooted came the beggar maid
Before the king Cophetua.
In robe and crown the king stept down,
To meet and greet her on her way;
* ' It is no wonder, ' ' said the lords,
"She is more beautiful than day."
As shines the moon in clouded skies,
She in her poor attire was seen;
One praised her ankles, one her eyes.
One her dark hair and lovesome mien.
So sweet a face, such angel grace.
In all that land had never been.
Cophetua sware a royal oath:
' ' This beggar maid shall be my queen ! ' '
YOU ASK ME, WHY, THO' ILL AT EASE
You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease.
Within this region I subsist.
Whose spirits falter in the mist,
And languish for the purple seas.
It is the land that freemen till,
That sober-suited Freedom chose.
The land, whore girt with friends or foes
A man may speak the thing he will; 8
A land of settled government,
A land of just and old renown.
Where Freedom slowly broadens downf
From precedent to precedent;
Where faction seldom gathers head,
But, by degrees to fullness wrought,
The strength of some diffusive thought
Hath time and space to work and spread. 16
Should banded unions persecute
Opinion, and induce a time
When single thought is civil crime.
And individual freedom mute,
• Fniindod on an old ballad, which mny l>o read
In I'crov'H llrlUiueH.
t Til.' oriclnnl reading, "broadens slowly down."
wbic'b wiiH cbanKt'd for the Hake of eui>hony,
jjave a more eorre<'t eiuphaHlN.
Tho' power should make from land to land
The name of Britain trebly great —
Tho' every channel of the State
Should fill and choke with golden sand — 24
Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth.
Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky.
And I will see before I die
The palms and temples of the South.
OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE
HEIGHTS
Of old sat Freedom on the heights.
The thunders breaking at her feet;
Above her shook the starry lights;
She heard the torrents meet.
There in her place she did rejoice.
Self -gather 'd in her prophet-mind.
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind. 8
Then stepped she down thro' town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men reveal 'd
The fulness of her face —
Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-altar gazing down,
Who, Godlike, grasps the triple forks,!
And, king-like, wears the crown.
16
Her open eyes desire the truth.
The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth
Keep dry their light from tears;
That her fair form may stand and shine,
Make bright our days and light our dreams,
Turning to scorn with lips divine
The falsehood of extremes! 24
MORTE D 'ARTHUR*
So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
Among the mountains by the winter sea.
Until King Arthur's table, man by man.
Had fallen in Lyonesse- about their lord,
King Arthur; then, because his wound was
deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
1 .love's thunderbolt.
•-• Supposed to have been In Corn wall.
♦ See Malory's aoronnt on pages 108-110. This
fraRment was the Keiin of the lihillx of the
Kiiiii. It was written in IH.sn. and was Incor-
porated In the "I'asslnR of .\rlliiir" when thai
was published In ISO!).
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
575
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross.
That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 10
On one side lay the ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
''The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep — the men I loved. 1 think that we
Shall never more, at any future time.
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls 20
Of Camelot,3 as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made, —
Tho' ^Merlin* sware that I should come again
To rule once more — but let what will be be,
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride; for thou rememberest
how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 30
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword — and how I row'd across
And took it, and have worn it, like a kingj^
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known.
But now delay not; take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere; 6
Watch what thou seest, and lightly" bring me
word. ' '
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus.
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 41
A little thing may harm a wounded man.
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee
word. ' '
So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men.
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping
down
By zigzag paths and juts of pointed rppk, 50
Came on the shining levels of the lake.
There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon.
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran
forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt;
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
3 The capital of Arthur.
4 See pages 90, 99, etc.
5 See page 98.
6 into the mid-Iakc
7 quickly
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth work
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind, 60
In act to throw; but at the last it seem'd
Better to leave Excalibur conceal 'd
There in the many-knotted water-flags.
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded king.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"Hast thou perform 'd my mission which I
gave?
What is it thou hast seen, or what hast
heard?"
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
' ' I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 70
And the wild water lapping on the crag."
To whom replied King Arthur, faint and
pale:
"Thou hast betray 'd thy nature and thy name.
Not rendering true answer, as beseem 'd
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight;
For surer sign had follow 'd, either hand.
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again
As thou art lief« and dear, and do the thing 80
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me
word. ' '
Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere.
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix 'd in thought :
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt.
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
His palms together, and he cried aloud :
' * And if indeed I cast the brand away.
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note.
Should thus be lost forever from the earth, 90
Which might have pleased the eyes of many
men.
What good should follow this, if this were
done?
Wliat harm, undone? deep harm to disobey.
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable, against himself?
The king is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 99
And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept.
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings.
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the lake;
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.'
8 beloved
576
THE VICTORIAN AGE
So might some old man speak in the aftertime j Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
120
thee
130
To all the people, winning reverence;
But now much honour and much fame were
lost."
So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,"
And hid Excalibur the second time, m
And ?o strode back slow to the wounded king.
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
* * What IS it thou hast seen, or what hast
heard?"
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
* ' I heard the water lapping on the crag.
And the long ripple washing in the reeds. ' '
To whom replied King Arthur, much in
wrath :
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow 'd of the power in his eye
That bow 'd the will. I see thee what thou art,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all.
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, forio a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get
hence ;
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands. ' ' i
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged j
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch 'd the
sword,
And strongly wheel 'd and threw it. The great
brand
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl 'd in
an arch.
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 140
By night, with noises of the northern sea.
So flash 'd and fell the brand Excalibur;
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Cloth 'd in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish 'd
him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the king.
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker
breath :
"Now I see by thine eyes that this is done.
Speak out ; what is it thou hast heard, or
seen?" 160
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
» fancy lohecanne
behold an arm,
mystic, wonderful,
hilt, and brandish 'd
160
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die.
Not tho' 1 live three lives of mortal men.
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling
him;
But when I look 'd again,
Clothed in white samite,
That caught him by the
him 160 1
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. ' '
And answer made King Arthur, breathing
hard:
' ' My end draws nigh ; 't is time that I were
gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.'*
So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere HO
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not
words.
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid
hands,
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.
But, as he walk'd. King Arthur panted hard.
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh 'il the
king,
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick,
quick !
I fear it is too late, and I shall die."
But the other swiftly strode from ridge
ridge.
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as
walk 'd,
Larger tlian human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
Before. His own thought drove him like a
goad.
Dry clash 'd his harness in the icy caves
And barren chasms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clang 'd round him, as he
based
His feet on juts of slipi)ery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of arm^d heels —
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, 191
And the long glories of the winter moon.
Then saw tiiey how there hove a dusky barge,
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern.
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately
forma
180
to
he
ALFKED, LOKD TExNNYSON
577
200
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by
these
Three queens with crowns of gold — and from
them rose
A cry that shiver 'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills
All night in a waste land, Avliere no one comes.
Or hath come, since the making of the world.
Then murmur 'd Arthur, "Place me in the
barge. ' '
And to the barge they came. There those
three queens
Put forth their hands, and took the king, and
wept.
But she that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap.
And loosed his shatter 'd casque, and chafed
his hands, 209
And call 'd him by his name, complaining loud,
And dropping bitter tears against his brow
Striped with dark blood ; for all his face was
white
And colourless, and like the wither 'd moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
And aJl his greaves and cuisses dash 'd with
drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls —
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the dais-throne — were parch 'd with
dust;
Or. clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix 'd with the knightly growth that fringed
his lips. 220
So like a shatter 'd column lay the king ;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the good old times are dead, 229
When every morning brought a noble chance.
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have not been since the light that
led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole Eound Table is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world;
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds. ' '
And slowly answer 'd Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to
new. 240
And God fulfils himself in many ways.
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me I
I have lived my life, and that which I have
done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought
by prayer
Than this world dreams of. W'herefore, let thy
voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats 250
That nourish a blind life within tlie brain.
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them
friend ?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.i
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest — if indeed 1 go- —
For all my mind is clouded with a doubt —
To the island- valley of Avilion;*
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 260
Nor ever wind blows loudly, but it lies
Deep-meadow 'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown 'd with summer sea.
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound. ' '
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted
swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull 270
Look'd one black dot against the verge of
dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.
ULYSSESt
It little pr.ofits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
jNlatch'd with an aged wdfe, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race.
Til at hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know
not me.
1 Cp. Paradise Lost, II, 1051 (p. 255).
* The earthly paradise of mediaeval romance, cor-
responding to the Grecian Isles of the Blest.
t Tke germ of this poem Is found, not in the
Odyssey, but in the story which Dante makes
Ulysses tell of his adventures {Inferno, XXVI,
91 ff.). It was written shortly after the
death of Tennyson's friend, Arthur Ilallam
(see In Memoriam), and voiced, said Tenny-
son, his "feelings about the need of going
forward and braving the struggle of life
more simply than anything in In Memoriam."
(Memoir, I. 196). It is an admirable comple-
ment to The Lotos-Eaters. Of lines 62-64
Carlyle said : "These lines do not make me
weep, but there is in me what would flU whole
Lachrymatories as I read."
578
THE VICTOKIAN AGE
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer 'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades2 10
Vext the dim sea, I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known, — cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments.
Myself not least, but honour 'd of them all, —
And drunk delight of battle with my peers.
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin
fades 20
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end.
To rust unburnish 'd, not to shine in use !
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on
life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things: and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire 30
To follow knowledge like a sinking star.
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle, —
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail 40
In oflSees of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods.
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and
thought with me, —
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads, — you and I are old ;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil. 50
Death closes all ; but something ere the end.
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
,Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs;
the deep
2 Starn in the ronHtollation Taurus, nnpposed to be
barbingcrg of rain, ^neid, I, 744.
Moans round with many voices.* Come, my
friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 60
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,t
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are,
we are, —
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in
will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 70
LOCKSLEY HALLJ
Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet
't is early morn :
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound
upon the bugle-horn.
'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the
curlews call,
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over
Locksley Hall;
Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks
the sandy tracts.
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into
cataracts.
Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere
I went to rest,
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the
west.
Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro '
the mellow shade.
Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled in a
silver braid. 10
Here about the beach I wander 'd, nourishing
a youth sublime
♦ Successive heavy monosyllables. Ions vowels, and
full pauses, combine to malte thi.s a passaj^e
of remarlcable weight and slowness.
t Compare note on preceding poem, 1. 2.">0.
$ This was intended to be a purely dramatic poem,
giving expression to the conflicting and some-
what morbid feelings characteristic perhaps
of introspective youth at any time, but with
particular reference both to contemporary so-
cial conditions in England (it was published
in 1842) and to the fresh spur given to im
agination by the discoveries in science and
mechanics. Some forty .years later. Tennyson
wrote a sequel, Locksley Hall Sixty Years
After.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
579
With the fairy tales of science, and the long
result of time;
When the centuries behind me like a fruitful
land reposed;
When I clung to all the present for the promise
that it closedi;
When I dipt into the future far as human eye
could see,
Saw the vision of the world and all the wonder
that would be. —
In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the
robin's breast;
In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself
another crest;
lu the spring a livelier iris changes on the
burnish 'd dove;
In the spring a young man 's fancy lightly
turns to thoughts of love. 20
Then her cheek was pale and thinner than
should be for one so young.
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute
observance hung.
And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and
speak the truth to me,
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being
sets to thee."
On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour
and a light,
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the
northern night.
And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a
sudden storm of sighs —
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of
hazel eyes —
Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they
should do me wrong ; ' '
Saying, ' ' Dost thou love me, cousin ? ' ' weeping,
"I have loved thee long." 30
Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it
in his glowing hands;
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in
golden sands.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on
all the chords with might;
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, past
in music out of sight.
I enclosed
Many a morning on the moorland did we hear
the copses ring.
And her whisper throng 'd my pulses with the
fulness of the spring.
Many an evening by the waters did we watch
the stately ships,
And our spirits rushed together at the touching
of the lips.
O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy,
mine no more!
O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren,
barren shore! 40
Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all
songs have sung.
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a
shrewish tongue!
Is it well to wish thee happy? having known
me — to decline
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower
heart than mine!
Yet it shall be; thou shalt lower to his level
day by day,
What is fine within thee growing coarse to
sympathize with clay.
As the husband is, the wife is; thou art mated
with a clown.
And the grossness of his nature will have
weight to drag thee down.
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have
spent its novel force,
Something better than his dog, a little dearer
than his horse. 50
What is this? his eyes are heavy; think not
they are glazed with wine.
Go to him, it is thy duty; kiss him, take his
hand in thine.
It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is
overwrought ;
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him
with thy lighter thought.
He will answer to the purpose, easy things to
understand —
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew
thee with my hand!
Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the
heart's disgrace.
580
THE Vl( TUKIAX AGE
SoU'd in one another's arms, and silent iu a
last embrace.
Cursed be the social wants that sin against the
strength of youth!
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from
the li\-ing truth! 60
Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest
Nature's rule!
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten \\
forehead of the fool!
Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art
staring at the wall,
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the
shadows rise and fall. 80
Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing
to his drunken sleep,
To thy widow 'd marriage-pillows, to the tears
that thou wilt weep.
Tliou shalt hear the "Never, never," wiiis
per'd by the phantom years,
And a song from out the distance in the ring-
ing of thine ears;
Well— 'tis well that I should bluster!— Hadst
thou less unworthy proved — I
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than | And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient
ever wife was loved.
Am I mad, that I should cherish tliat which
bears but bitter fruit?
1 will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart
be at the root.
Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length
of years should come
As the many-winter 'd crow that leads the
clanging rookery home.
Where is comfort? in division of the records
of the mind?
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as 1
knew her, kind? 70
I remember one that perish 'd;i sweetly did she
speak and move;
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was
to love.
Can I think of her as dead, and love her for
the love she bore?
Xo — slie never loved me truly; love is love for
erermore.
Comfort? comfort scorn 'd of devils! this is
truth the poet sings.
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remember-
ing happier things.2
Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy
heart be put to proof,
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain
is on the roof.
1 I. e., she has lo«t the perRonallty which 1 re-
member.
-' Dante : Inferno, V, 121. The thought may l)o
traced to many writers — to IMndnr. among
the earllPHt.
kindness on thy pain.
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow ; get thee to
thy rest again.
Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a
tender voice will cry.
'T is a purer life than thine, a lip to drain thy
trouble dry.
Baby lips will laugh me down; my latest rival
brings thee rest.
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from tlie
mother's breast. 90
O, the child too clothes the father with a dear-
ness not his due.
Half is thine and half is his; it will be worthy
of the two.
O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty »
part,
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down
a daughter's heart.
* ' They were dangerous guides the feelings —
she herself was not exempt —
Truly, she herself had suffer 'd "a — Perish in
thy self-contempt!
Overlive it — lower yet — be hapi)y! wherefore
should I care? J
I myself must mix with action, lost 1 wither |
by despair. f
What is that which I should turn to, lighting
upon days like these?
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but
to golden keys
100
3 Amy Is Imagined to be talking to hor daughter.
at some niture time, of her own early life.
ALFKED, LORD TENNYSON
581
Every gate is throng 'd with suitors, all the j Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there
markets overflow.
1 have but an angry fancy; what is that which
I shouH do?
I had been content to perish, falling on the
foeman's ground,
When the ranks are roll 'd in vapour, and the
winds are laid with sound.
But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt
that Honour feels,
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at
each other's heels.
Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that
earlier page.
Hide me from my deep emotion, O tbou won-
drous Mother-Age!*
Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt
before the strife,
When I heard my days before me, and the
tumult of my life; 110
Yearning for the large excitement that the
coming years would yield,
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his
father's field,
And at night along the dusky highway near
and nearer drawn,
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like
a dreary dawn;
And his spirit leaps within him to be gone
before him then,
Underneath the light he looks at, in among
the throngs of men;
Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reap-
ing something new ;
That which they have done but earnest of the
things that they shall do.
For I dipt into the future, far as human eye
could see.
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the won-
der that would be; 120
Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies
of magic sails.
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down
with costly bales;*
rain 'd a ghastly dew
From the nations' airy navies grappling in
the central blue;
Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-
wind rushing warm,
With the standards of the peoples plunging
thro ' the thunder-storm ;
Till the war-drum throbb 'd no longer, and the
battle-flags were furl'd
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of
the world.
There the common sense of most shall hold a
fretful realm in awe,
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapped^ in
universal law. 130
So I triumphed ere my passion sweeping thro'
me left me dry.
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me
with the jaundiced eye;
Eye, to which all order festers, all things here
are out of joint.
Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on
from point to point;
Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creep-
ing nigher.
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a
slowly-dying fire.t
Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing
purpose runs,
And the thoughts of men are widen 'd with the
process of the suns.
What is that to him that reaps not harvest of
his youthful joys,
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever
like a boy's! 140
Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I
linger on the shore.
I And the individual withers, and the world is
more and more."
5 wrapped
I <> Looms forever larger by contrast. Cp. /" Ur-
* Cp. line 185.
• Tennyson had a rare faculty for putting the
dopes and achievements of science into poetic i
laagruage. It is interesting, however, to ob- ;
serve at what a cautious distance he placed |
th3 realization of this seemingly extrava'.;ant j
prophecy. '
moriam, LV.
I t He of the "laundiced eye" scoffs at science and
I is suspicious of democratic and socialistic
tendencies. The weak point in Tennyson's
picture is the connection of this large pessi-
mism with the purely personal disappointment
of his hero. It may not be altogether unfaith-
ful, but it is undramatic.
682
THE VICTOBIAN AGE
Kuowledge comes, but Avisdom Jingers, aud he
bears a laden breast,
i'ull of sad experience, moving toward the
stillness of his rest.
Hark, my merry comrades call mo, sounding
on the bugle-horn,
They to whom my foolish passion were a target
for their scorn.
Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a
moulder 'd string?
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved
so slight a thing.
Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman 's
pleasure, woman's pain —
Nature made them blinder motions" bounded
in a shallower brain. 150
Womao-is the lesser man, and all thy passions,
match 'd with mine.
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water
unto wine —
Here at least, Avhere nature sickens, nothing.s
Ah, for some retreat
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life
began to beat.
Where in wild Mahratta-battleo fell my father
evil-starred; —
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish
uncle's ward.
Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander
far away.
On from island unto island at the gateways of
the day.
Larger constellations burning, mellow moons
and happy skies,
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster.
knots of Paradise.io 160
Never comes the trader, never floats an
European flag,
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings
the trailer from the crag;
Droops the heavy-blossom 'd bower, hangs the
heavy-fruited tree —
7 beinsTR 8 The British have had
8 Implying that tho in- many conflicts with
fcrlorlty of woman the warlike Mali-
may be the result rattas «>f India,
of the con vent ionH i" Sec I'ur. Lost, Iv,
of a false civiliza- 242.
tlon. Compare The
PrinvcHs.
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple
spheres of sea.
There methinks would be enjoyment more than
in this march of mind.
In the steamship, in the railway, in the
thoughts that shake mankind.
There the passions cramp 'd no longer shall
have scope and breathing space ;
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear
my dusky race.
Iron-jointed, supple-sinew 'd, they shall dive,
and they shall run.
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their
lances in the sun; 170
Whistle back the parrot 's call, and leap the
rainbows of the brooks.
Not with blinded eyesight poring over mis-
erable books —
Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I Inoxo
my words are wild.
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the
Christian child.
I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of
our glorious gains.
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast
with lower pains!
Mated with a squalid savage — what to me wore
sun or clime!
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files
of time —
I that rather held it better men should perish
one by one,
Than that earth should stand at gaze like
Joshua's moon in Ajalon!"
Not in vain the distance beaieons. Forward,
forward let us range.
Let the great world spin for ever down llic
ringing grooves of change.'"
Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into
the younger day;
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of
Cathay.
Mother-Age, — for mine I knew not, — help mr
as when life begun;
II JoHhiia, X lii.
12 Tennyson drew this figure from the railway.
then new, under the false impressiuu that lix
car-wheels ran in groovt-s.
ALFRED, LOKD TENNYSON
583
Bift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the
lightnings, weigh the sun.
O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath
not set.
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all
my fancy yet.
Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to
Locksley Hall!
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me
the roof-tree fall. 190
Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening
over heath and holt,
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast
a thunderbolt.
Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail,
or fire or snow;
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward.
and I go.
A FAREWELL
Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver;
No more by thee my steps shall be.
For ever and for ever.
Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,
A rivulet, then a river;
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be.
For ever and for ever.
But here will sigh thine alder-tree,
And here thine aspen shiver ;
And here by thee will hum the bee.
For ever and for ever.
A thousand suns will stream on thee,
A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be.
For ever and for ever,
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK*
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman's boy.
That he shouts with his sister at play!
♦ Tlipso linos were written in memory of Arthur
Hallam, and might well have been included
among the poems of fn Meinoiiain had they
not been cast in a dififercnt metre.
O, well for the sailor lad.
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish M hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break.
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
SONGS FROM THE PRINCESS
Sweet and Low
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow.
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go.
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me:
While my little one, while my pretty one,
sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest.
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother 's breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest.
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon;
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one,
sleep.
The Splendour FALLsf
The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes.
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying.
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying,
dying.
O, hark, 0, hear! how thin and clear.
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
0, sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying.
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying,
dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river;
t This song was inspired by the echoes at the
Lakes of Killarney.
584
THE VICTORIAN AGE
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying.
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying,
dying.
Tears, Idle Tears
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Bise in the heart, and gather to the eyes.
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the under-
world,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer
dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken 'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering
square ;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember 'd kisses after death.
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign M
On lips that are for others; deep as love.
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no morel
From IN MEMOKIAM*
I held it truth, with hinii 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 thro' time to catch
The far-off interest of tears?
Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown 'd,
Let darkness keep her raven gloss.s
1 Goethe, says Tennygon.
* TcnnyBon's friend, Arthur Henry ilallam, died at
Vienna in lH'i'.i. The Hhort poems written in
his memory at variouH times and in variouK
moodfl, TennyKon arranged and published in
the year 18.'»0. See Kng. Lit., p. 204. The
earlier poems are chiefly personal in nature ;
the later treat some of the larger problems of
human life and destiny growing out of both
personal berearemenf and the unrest produced
bv the ehanges that were then taking plaet- In
the realm of religious and sclentlflc thought.
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss,
To dance with Death, to beat the ground,
Thau that the victor Hours should scorn
The long3 result of love, and boast,
'Behold the man that loved and lost,
But all he was is overworn. '
XXVIl
I envy not in any moods
The captive void of noble rage.
The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods;
I envy not the beast that takes
His license in the field of time,
Unfetter 'd by the sense of crime,
To whom a conscience never wakes;
Nor, what may count itself as blest,
The heart that never plighted troth
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;
Nor any want-begotten rest.*
I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'T is better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
uv
O, yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;
That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroy 'd.
Or cast as rubbish to the void.
When God hath made the pile complete;
That not a worm is cloven in vain;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivell 'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.
Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last — far off — at last, to all.
And every winter change to spring.
So runs my dream; but what am If
An infant crying in the night;
:; Cp. Milton's ContiiH, 251.
:j Used poetically for "ultimate." Cp. Lockshif
Hall. 1. 12.
t Content due to mere want of higher faeultles.
ALFRED, LORD T1-:NNYS0X
585
An infant crying for the light.
And with no language but a cry.
The wish, that of the living whole
No life may fail beyond the grave.
Derives it not from what we have
The likest God within the soul?
Are God and Nature then at strife,
That Nature lends such evil dreams f
So careful of the type she seems,
So careless of the single life,
That I, considering everywhere
Her secret meaning in her deeds,
And finding that of fifty seeds
She often brings but one to bear,
I falter where I firmly trod.
And falling with my weight of cares
Upon the great world's altar-stairs
That slope thro' darkness up to God,
I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope.
And gather dust and chaff, and call
To what I feel is Lord of all.
And faintly trust the larger hope.
"So careful of the type!" but no,
From scarped cliff and quarried stone^
She cries, "A thousand types are gone;
I care for nothing, all shall go.
"Thou makest thine appeal to me:
I bring to life, I bring to death;
The spirit does but mean the breath:
I know no more." And he, shall he,
Man, her last work, w-ho seera'd so fair,
Such splendid purpose in his eyes.
Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies.
Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,
Who trusted God was love indeed
And love Creation's final law —
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek 'd against his creed —
Who loved, who suffer 'd countless ills,
Who battled for the True, the Just,
Be blown about the desert dust.
Or seal'd within the iron hills?
No more? A monst«r then, a dream,
A discord. Dragons of the prime,
1 Which shows fossil remains of extinct forms.
That tare each other in their slime.
Were mellow music match 'd with him.
O life as futile, then, as frail!
O for thy voice to soothe and bless!
What hope of answer, or redress?
Behind the veil, behind the veil.
Peace; come away: the song of woe
Is after all an earthly song.
Peace; come away: we do him wrong
To sing so wildly: let us go.
Come; let us go: your cheeks are pale;
But half my life I leave behind.2
Methinks my friend is richly shrined;*
But I shall pass, my work will fail.
Yet in these ears, till hearing dies,
One set slow bell will seem to toll
The passing of the sweetest soul
That ever look'd with human eyes.
I hear it now, and o'er and o'er,
Eternal greetings to the dead;
And "Ave, Ave, Ave," said,
"Adieu, adieu," for evermore.
LVIII
In those sad words I took farewell.
Like echoes in sepulchral halls.
As drop by drop the water falls
In vaults and catacombs, they fell;
.\nd, falling, idly broke the peace
Of hearts that beat from day to day,
Half-conscious* of their dying clay,
And those cold crypts where they shall cease.
The high Muse answer 'd : " Wherefore grieve
Thy brethren with a fruitless tear?
Abide a little longer here.
And thou shalt take a nobler leave."
The time draws near the birth of Christ;*
The moon is hid, the night is still;
A single church below the hill
Is pealing, folded in the mist.
A single peal of bells below,
That wakens at this hour of rest
2 In the grave. 4 Only half-conscious.
3 In these poe ns.
* This is the third Christmas described in the
poem. Tennyson had removed to a new home.
586
THE VICTORIAN AGE
A single murmur in the breast,
That these are not the bells I know.
Like strangers' voices here they sound,
In lands where not a memory strays,
Nor landmark breathes of other days.
But all is new unhallow'd ground. . ,
CVI
Bing out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Bing out, wild bells, and let him die.
Bing out the old, ring in the new.
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Bing out the false, ring in the true.
Bing out the grief that saps the mind.
For those that here we see no more;
Bing out the feud of rich and poor;
Bing in redress to all mankind.
Bing out a slowly dying cause.
And ancient forms of party strife;
Bing in the nobler modes of life.
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Bing out the want, the care, the sin.
The faithless coldness of the times;
Bing out, ring out my mournful rhymes.
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Bing out false pride in place and blood.
The civic slander and the spite;
Bing in the love of truth and right,
Bing in the common love of good.
Bing out old shapes of foul disease;
Bing out the narrowing lust of gold;
Bing out the thousand wars of old,
Bing in the thousand years of peace.
Bing in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Bing out the darkness of the land,
Bing in the Christ that is to be.
cxy
Now fades the last long streak of snow,
Now burgeons every maze of quicki
About the flowering squares,'- and thick
By ashen roots the violets blow.
1 hodfce (espeolally hawthorn)
1' tIcidH
Now rings the woodland loud and long,
The distance takes a lovelier hue,
And drown 'd in yonder living blue
The lark becomes a sightless song.
Now dance the lights on lawn and lea.
The flocks are whiter down the vale.
And milkier every milky sail
On winding stream or distant sea;
Where now the seamew pipes, or dives
In yonder greening gleam, and fly
The happy birds, that change their sky
To build and brood, that live their lives
From land to land ; and in my breast
Spring wakens too, and my regret
Becomes an April violet.
And buds and blossoms like the rest.
CXVI
Is it, then, regret for buried time
That keenlier in sweet April wakes.
And meets the year, and gives and takes
The colours of the crescent prime ?3
Not all: the songs, the stirring air.
The life re-orient out of dust.
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust
In that which made the world so fair.
Not all regret: the face will shine
Upon me, while I muse alone.
And that dear voice, I once have known,
Still speak to me of me and mine.
Yet loss of sorrow lives in me
For days of happy commune dead.
Less yearning for the friendship fled
Than some strong bond which is to be.
CXVll
O days and hours, your work is this.
To hold me from my proper place,
A little while from his embrace,
For fuller gain of after bliss;
That out of distance might ensue
Desire of nearness doubly sweet,
And unto meeting, when we meet,
Delight a hundredfold accrue, •
For every grain of sand that runs,*
And every span of shade that steals,
3 IncreasInK spring
■» This stanzn desorlbos
moaHiirIng time.
tho various monna of
ALFBED, LOBD TENNYSON
587
And every kiss of toothed wheels,
And all the courses of the suns.
CXVIII
Contemplate all this work of Time,
The giant labouring in his youth;
Nor dream of human love and truth,
As dying Nature's earth and lime;
But trust that those we call the dead
Are breathers of an ampler day
For ever nobler ends. They say,
The solid earth whereon we tread
In tracts of fluent heat began.
And grew to seeming-random forms,
The seeming prey of cyclic^ storms,
Till at the last arose the man;
Who throve and branch 'd from clime to clime,
The herald of a higher race.
And of himself in higher place.
If so he typec this work of time
Within himself, from more to more;
Or, crown 'd with attributes of woe
Like glories, move his course, and show
That life is not as idle ore,
But iron dug from central gloom.
And heated hot with burning fears.
And dipped in baths of hissing tears,
And batter 'd with the shocks of doom
To shape and use. Arise and fly
The reeling Faun, the sensual feast;
^love upward, working out the beast,
And let the ape and tiger die.
cxxv
What ever I have said or sung,
Some bitter notes my harp would give.
Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live
A contradiction on the tongue.
Yet Hope had never lost her youth.
She did but look through dimmer eyes;
Or Love but play'd with gracious lies.
Because he felt so fix'd in truth;
And if the song were full of care.
He breathed the spirit of the song;
And if the words were sweet and strong
He set his royal signet there;
r. periodic (in a large sense)
represent, properly
Abiding with me till I sail
To seek thee on the mystic deeps,
And this electric force, that keeps
A thousand pulses dancing, fail.
CXXVI
Love is and was my lord and king,
And in his presence I attend
To hear the tidings of my friend.
Which every hour his couriers bring.
Love is and was my king and lord.
And will be, tho' as yet I keep
Within the court on earth, and sleep
Encompass 'd by his faithful guard.
And hear at times a sentinel
Who moves about from place to place,
And whispers to the worlds of space.
In the deep night, that all is well.
CXXVII
And all is well, tho' faith and form
Be sunder 'd in the night of fear;
Well roars the storm to those that hear
A deeper voice across the storm.
Proclaiming social truth shall spread.
And justice, even tho' thrice again
The red fool-fury of the Seine
Should pile her barricades with dead.*
But ill for him that wears a crown,
And him, the lazar, in his rags!
They tremble, the sustaining crags;
The spires of ice are toppled down,
And molten up, and roar in flood;
The fortress crashes from on high.
The brute earth lightens to the sky.
And the great iEon sinks in blood.
And compass 'd by the fires of hell;
While thou, dear spirit, happy star,
O 'erlook 'st the tumult from afar.
And smilest, knowing all is well.
IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZf
All along the valley, stream that flashest white.
Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the
night,
All along the valley, where thy waters flow,
* There was a violent revolution in France In
1830. resulting in the overthrow of Charles X.
t In 1861. Tennyson revisited this valley In the
French Pyrenees which he had visited with
Hallam In 1830.
588
THE VICTORIAN AGE
I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years
ago.
All along the valley, while I walk'd to-day,
The two and thirty years were a mist that
rolls away;
For all along the valley, down thy rocky betl,
Thy living voice to me was as the voice of
the dead,
And all along the valley, by rock and cave and
tree,
The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.
IN THE GAEDEN AT SWAINSTONf
Nightingales warbled without.
Within was weeping for thee;
Shadows of three dead men
Walk'd in the garden with me.
Shadows of three dead men, and thou wast
one of the three.
Nightingales sang in his woods,
The Master was far away;
Nightingales warbled and sang
Of a passion that lasts but a day;
Still in the house in his coffin the Prince of
courtesy lay.
Two dead men have I known
In courtesy like to thee;
Two dead men have I loved
With a love that ever will be;
Three dead men have I loved, and thou art
last of the three.
SONG FROM MAUD§
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad.
And the musk of the rose is blown. 6
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daflfodil sky.
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die. 12
t The borne of Sir John Simeon In the Isie of
Wlglit, where Tennyson also lived in the lat-
ter part of bis life. Sir .Tohn died in 1870.
The other two friends referred to were Arthur
Hallam (see precedinf; poems) and Henry
LushlnKton (d. 18.55). to whom Tennyson had
dedicated The Princess. All three, by a cu-
riouH coincidence, died abroad.
I There is a distinct echo in this song of The
Hnnf) of ffolnmon ; cp. chapters v and vl.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird.
And a hush with the setting moon. IS
I said to the lily, ' ' There is but one,
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone.
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away. 26
I said to the rose, ' ' The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine." 32
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash 'd in the Hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the
wood.
Our wood, that is dearer than all; 38
From the meadow your walks have left so
sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes.
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise. 44
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake.
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 52
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls.
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun. 58
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate,
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
589
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate.
The red rose cries, * * She is near, she is near ; ' '
And the white rose weeps, ''She is late;"
The larkspur listens, ' * 1 hear, I hear ; ' '
And the lily whispers, "1 wait." 66
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead,
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
74
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE*
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward.
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
♦'Forward the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns ! " he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
10
20
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
"Was there a man dismay 'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder 'd.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why.
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them.
Cannon to left of them.
Cannon in front of them
Volley 'd and thunder 'd;
Storm 'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash 'd all their sabres bare.
Flash 'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there.
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder 'd.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
♦This fatal charge, due to a misunderstanding of
orders, was made at Balaklava, in the Crimea,
in 1854. Less than one-third of the brigade
returned alive.
30
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter 'd and sunder 'd.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley 'd and thunder 'd;
Storm 'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fadef
O the wild charge they made!
All the w^orld wonder 'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
THE CAPTAIN
A LEGEND OF THE NAVY
He that only rules by terror
Doeth grievous wrong.
Deep as hell I count his error.
Let him hear my song.
Brave the captain was; the seamen
Made a gallant crew.
Gallant sons of English freemen,
Sailors bold and true.
But they hated his oppression;
Stern he was anil rash,
So for every light transgression
Doom'd them to the lash.
Day by day more harsh and cruel
Seem'd the Captain's mood.
Secret wrath like smother 'd fuel
Burnt in each man's blood.
Yet he hoped to purchase glory,
Hoped to make the name
Of his vessel great in story,
Wlieresoe'er he came.
So they past by capes and islands^
ilany a harbour-mouth.
Sailing under palmy highlands
Far within the South.
On a day when they were going
O'er the lone expanse,
In the north, her canvas flowing.
Rose a ship of France.
40
50
10
20
590
THE VICTORIAN AGE
Then the Captain's colour heightened,
Joyful caiue his speech; 30
But a cloudy gladness lighten 'd
In the eyes of each.
"Chase," he said; the ship flew fonvard,
And the wind did blow;
Stately, lightly, went she norward,
Till she near'd the foe.
Then they look M at him they hated,
Had what they desired;
Mute with folded arms they waited —
Not a gun was fired. 40
But they heard the f oeman 's thunder
Roaring out their doom;
All the air was torn in sunder,
Crashing went the boom,
Spars were splinter 'd. decks were shatter 'd,
Bullets fell like rain;
Over mast and deck were scatter 'd
Blood and brains of men.
Spars were splinter 'd; decks were broken;
Every mother 's son — 50
Down they dropt — no word was spoken —
Each beside his gun.
On the decks as they were lying,
Were their faces grim.
In their blood, as they lay dying,
Did they smile on him.
Those in whom he had reliance
For his noble name
With one smile of still defiance
Sold him unto shame. 60
Shame and wrath his heart confounded,
Pale he turn'd and red,
Till himself was deadly wounded
Falling on the dead.
Dismal error! fearful slaughter!
Years have wandered by;
Side by side beneath the water
Crew and Captain lie;
There the sunlit ocean tosses
O'er them mouldering, 70
And the lonely seabird crosses
With one waft of the wing.
THE REVENGE*
A BALLAD OF THE FLEET
I
At Floros in the Azores Sir Richard Grenvillc
lay,
And a pinnace, like a flutter 'd bird, came
flying from far away;
"Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted
fifty-three!"
• S'M' Sir WaMcr Ilnli'ltfh'R ncconnt, p. 'JOS.
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: " 'Fore
God I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are
out of gear.
And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but
follow quick.
We are six ships of the line;t can we fight
with fifty-three?"
Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know
you are no coward;
You fly them for a moment to fight with them
again.
But I 've ninety men and more that are lying
sick ashore. 10
I should count myself the coward if I left
them, my Lord Howard,
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms
of Spain."
So Lord Howard past away with five ships of
war that day.
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer
heaven ;
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men
from the land
Very carefully and slow,
Men of Bideford in Devon,
And we laid them on the ballast down below:
For we brouglit them all aboard,
And they blest him in their pain, that they
were not left to Spain, 20
To the thumb-screw and the stake, for the
glory of the Lord.
He had only a hundred seamen to work the
ship and to fight
And he sailed away from Flores till the Span-
iard came in sight.
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the
weather bow,
"Shall we fight or shall we fly?
Good Sir Richard, tell us now,
For to fight is but to die!
There'll be little of us left by the time this
sun be set."
And Sir Richard said again : ' ' We be all
good English men.
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children
of the devil, 30
t I. e., ships of the llKhtinR lino, the old term for
hnttlf-shlpa.
i^
ALFEED, LORD TENNYSON
591
For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil
yet. ' '
V
Sir Eichard spoke and he laughed, and we
roar 'd a hurrah, and so
The little Eevenge ran on sheer into the heart
of the foe.
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her
ninety sick below;
For half of their fleet to the right and half to
the left were seen,
And the little Eevenge ran on thro' the long
sea-lane between.
VI
Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from
their decks and laugh 'd,
Thousands of their seamen made mock at the
mad little craft
Eunning on and on, till delay M
By their mountain-like San Philip that, of
fifteen hundred tons, 40
And up-shadowing high above us with her
yawning tiers of guns,
Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd.
vn
And while now the great San Philip hung
above us like a cloud
Whence the thunderbolt will fall
Long and loud,
Four galleons drew away
From the Spanish fleet that day,
And two upon the larboard and two upon the
starboard lay,
And the battle-thunder broke from them all.
VIII
But anon the great San Philip, she bethought
herself and went, 50
Having that within her womb that had left her
ill content;
And the rest they came aboard us, and they
fought us hand to hand.
For a dozen times they came with their pikes
and musqueteers,
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog
that shakes his ears
When he leaps from the water to the land.
IX
And the sun went down, and the stars came
out far over the summer sea.
But never a moment ceased the fight of the
one and the fifty-three.
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their
high-built galleons came,
Ship after ship, tlie whole night long, with her
battle-thunder and flame:
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew
back with her dead and her shame. 60
For some were sunk and many were shatter 'd,
and so could fight no more —
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in
the world before?
For he said, "Fight on! fight on!"
Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck;
And it chanced that, when half of the short
summer night was gone.
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left
the deck,
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it
suddenly dead.
And himself he was wounded again in the side
and the head.
And he said, "Fight on! fight on!"
XI
And the night went down, and the sun smiled
out far over the summer sea, 70
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay
round us all in a ring;
But they dared not touch us again, for they
fear 'd that we still could sting.
So they watch 'd what the end would be.
And we had not fought them in vain,
But in perilous plight were we.
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,
And half of the rest of us maim'd for life
In the crash of the cannonades and the des-
perate strife:
And the sick men down in the hold were most
of them stark and cold,
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the
powder was all of it spent; 80
And the masts and the rigging were lying over
the side;
But Sir Eichard cried in his English pride:
"We have fought such a fight for a day and
a night
As may never be fought again!
We have won great glory, my men!
And a day less or more
At sea or ashore.
We die — does it matter when?
Sink me the ship, blaster Gunner — sink her,
split her in twain!
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands
of Spain!" 90
592
THE VICTORIAN AGE
Xll
And the gunner said, ' * Ay, ay, ' ' but the sea-
men made reply:
"We have children, we have wives,
And the Lord hath spared our lives.
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we
yield, to let us go;
We shall live to fight again and to strike an-
other blow."
And the lion there lay dying, and ttiey yielded
to the foe.
XIII
And the stately Spanish men to their flagship
bore him then,
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir
Richard caught at last,
And they praised him to his face with their
courtly foreign grace;
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: 100
"I have fought for Queen and Faith like a
valiant man and true;
I have only done my duty as a man is bound
to do.
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville
die!"
And he fell upon their decks, and he died.
XIV
And they stared at the dead that had been so
valiant and true,
And had holden the power and glory of Spain
so cheap
That he dared her with one little ship and his
English few;
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught
they knew.
But they sank his body with honour down into
the deep.
And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier
alien crew, HO
And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd
for her own;
When a wind from the lands they had ruin 'd
awoke from sleep.
And the water began to heave and the weather
to moan,
And or ever that evening ended a great gale
blew,
And a wave like the wave that is raised by an
earthquake grew.
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and
their masts and their flags,
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-
shatter 'd navy of Spain,
And the little Revenge herself wont down by
the island crags
To be lost evermore in the main.
NORTHERN FARMER*
Old Style
I
Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin'
'ere aloan?
Xoorsel thoort nowt o' a noorse; whoy, l^o<-
tor 's abean an ' agoan ;
Says that ] nioant 'a naw moor aale, but I
beiint a fool;
Git ma my aale, fur 1 beant a-gawin ' to breiik
my rule. 4
II
Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what 's
nawways true;
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things
that a do.
I 've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noight sin' I
bean 'ere.
An ' I 've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for
foorty year. 8
ni
Parson 's a bean loikewoise, an ' a sittin ' ere
o ' my bed.
"The Amoighty 's a taiikin o' youi to 'issen>
my friend," a said,
An ' a towd ma my sins, an ' 's toithe were due,
an' I gied it in hond;
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy
the lond. 12
IV.
Larn'd a ma' beii. I reckons I 'annot sa
mooch to larn.
But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bossy ^[ar-
ris's barne.
Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an'
choorch an' staate,
An' i' the woost o' toimes I war nivor agin
the raate. l*
V
An' I hallus coom'd to 's choorch afoor moy
Sally wur dead.
An' 'card 'um a bummin' awaay loike a buz-
zard-clocks ower my 'ead,
1 ott as In 7»0Mr 2 cockchafer
* Noto that In this dialect poem an a pronounced
very lightly represents thou, as in " 'asta
(hast thou), or he, as In "a says"; or it Is a
mere prefix to a participle, as in "a boiln,'
"a sittin' " ; or, pronounced broadly, it may
stand for hare, as in "as I 'a done." Further,
toltne = tithe ; barne = bairn: rail te = church-
rate, or tax; 'sivor = howsoever ; stubbed —
Krubbed; boKglo = bogle (ghost): rnilved and
rembled = tore out and removed ; 'soize = as-
sizes : yow8 = ewe8; 'ail poth = half -penn.v-
worth ; sewer-loy = surely : atta = art thoii ;
hallus V the owd taiUe = alwa.vs urging the
samp thing. Ihe numbered notes nrc Tenny-
son's.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
593
An ' I niver knaw 'il whot a mean 'd but I
thowt a 'ad sunimut to saay,
An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said, an'
I coom 'd awaay. 20
VI
Bessy Marris's barnel tha knaws she laiiid it
to mea.
Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un,
shea.
'Siver, 1 kep 'um, I kep 'uni, ray lass, tha niun
understond ;
I done mov duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the
lond. ' 24
VII
But Parson a cooms an ' a goas. an ' a says it
eiisy an ' f rea :
' ' The Amoighty 's a taakin o ' you to 'issen,
my friend," says 'ea.
I wejiut sajiy men be loiars, thaw summun said
Done it ta-year I mean 'd, an ' runu 'd plow
thruflF it an ' all,
If Godamoighty an ' parson 'ud nobbut let ma
aloan, —
Mea, wi ' haate hoonderd haacre o ' Squoire 's,
an lond o' my oan, 44
Do Godamoighty knaw what a's doing a-taakin'
o' mea?
I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an yonder a
pea;
An ' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an ' all — a ' dear,
a' dear!
And I 'a managed for Squoire coom Michael-
mas thutty year. 48
XIII
A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant not a
'aiipoth ' sense,
it in aaste; l q^ a mowt a' tasien young Robins — a niver
But 'e reads wonn sarinin a weeak, an
stubb'd Thurnaby waaste.
2S
VIII
D' ya moind the waaste. ray lassf naw, naw,
tha was not born then;
Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eiird 'um
mysen ;
Moast loike a butter-bump.s fur 1 'eard 'um
about an' about,
But I stubb 'd 'um oop wi ' the lot, an ' raaved
an' renibled 'um out. 32
IX
Keaper 's it wur ; f o ' they fun 'um theer a-laaid
of 'is faace
Down i ' the woild 'enemies^ af oor I coora 'd to
the plaace.
Noaks or Thimbleby — toaner^ 'ed shot 'um as
dead as a naail.
Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize — but git
ma my aale. 36
X
Dubbut loook at the waaste ; theer warn 't not
feead for a cow;
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' loook at
it now —
Warn 't worth nowt a haacre. an ' now theer 's
lots o ' feead,
Fourscoor yowsi upon it, an ' some on it down
i ' seeiid.fi
XI
Xobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I meiin'd to 'a
stubb'd it at fall,
mended a fence;
But Godamoighty a moost taiike mea an' taake
ma now,
Wi ' aaf the cows to cauve an ' Thurnaby
hoalms to plow! 52
XIV
Loook 'ow quoloty smoiles when they seeas
ma a passin' boy,
Says to thessen, naw doubt, * ' What a man a
bea sewer-loy ! ' '
Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin'
fust a coom'd to the 'AH;
I done raoy duty by Squoire an' I done moy
duty boy hall. 56
XV
Squoire 's i ' Lunnou, an ' summun I reckons
'ull 'a to wroite,
For whoa 's to howd the lond ater mea thot
muddles ma quoit;
Sartin-sewer I bea thot a weiint niver give it
to Joanes,
Naw, nor a moiint to Robins — a niver rembles
the stoans. 60
.'. Uittern
4 anemones
5 ono or other
6 clover
But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is
kittle o' steam
^** I Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the
divil's oiin team.
Sin ' I mun doy I mun doy, thaw loife they
says is sweet,
But sin' 1 mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn
abear to see it. **
594
THE VICTOEIAN AGE
What atta ptannin' theer fur, an' doesn bring
ma the aalel
Doctor 's a 'toattler, lass, an a 's hallus i ' the
owd taale;
I weant break rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw
moor nor a floy;
Git ma my aale, I tell tha, an' if I mun doy 1
mun doy. 68
EIZPAH*
17—
Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over laud
and sea —
And Willy's voice in the wind, "O mother,
come out to me \"
Why should he call me to-night, when he knows
that I cannot go?
For the downs are as bright as day, and the
full moon stares at the snow.
We should be seen, my dear; they would spy us
out of the town.
The loud black nights for us, and the storm
rushing over the down,
When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by
the creak of the ehain,i
And grovel and grope for my son till I find
myself drenched with the rain.
Ill
Anything fallen again? nay — what was there
left to fall?
I have taken them home, I have number 'd the
bones, I have hidden them all. 10
What am I saying? and what are you.^ do you
come as a spy!
Falls? what falls! who knows? As the tree
falls so must it lie.
Who let her in? how long has she been? you —
what have you heard?
Why did you sit so quiet? you never have
spoken a word.
O — to pray with me — yes — a lady — none of
their spies —
But the night has crept into my heart, and
begun to darken my eyes.
• Foiindpd on a story rolntod In a p^nny mnKflzinp,
and on thi' fact that (TlniiDalR "were of ton
denied CliriHtian burial. The title is taken
from the narrative in 2 Samuel, xxi, 1-14.
1 See line 35.
Ah — you, that have lived so soft, what should
you know of the night,
The blast and the burning shame and the bit-
ter frost and the fright?
I have done it, Avhile you were asleep — you
were only made for the day.
I have gather 'd my baby together — and now
you may go your way. 20
VI
Nay — for it 's kind of you, madam, to sit by an
old dying wife.
But say nothing hard of my boy, I have only
an hour of life.
I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before he went
out to die.
"They dared me to do it," he said, and he
never has told me a lie.
I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when
he was but a child —
"The farmer dared me to do it," he said; he
was always so wild —
And idle — and could n't be idle — my Willy —
he never could rest.
The King should have made him a soldier, he
would have been one of his best.
vn
But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they
never would let him be good ;
They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and
he swore that he would; 30
And he took no life, but he took one purse, and
when all was done
He flung it among his fellows — ' ' I '11 none of
it," said my son.
vni
I came into court to the judge and the lawyers.
I told them my tale,
God 'a own truth — but they kill 'd him, they
kill'd him for robbing the mail.
They hang'd him in chains for a show — we had
always borne a good name —
To be hang'd for a thief — and then put away
— is n't that enough shame?
Dust to dust — low down — let us hide! but they
set him so high
That all the ships of the world could stare at
him, passing by.
God *11 pardon the hell-black raven and horrible
fowls of the air,
But not the black heart of the lawyer who
kill 'd him and hang 'd him there. 40
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
595
And the jailer forced me away. I had bid Mm
my last good-bye;
They had fasten 'd the door of his cell. "O
mother! " I heard him cry.
J could n't get back tho' I tried, he had some-
thing further to say,
And now I never shall know it. The jailer
forced me away.
Then since I could n't but hear that cry of my
boy that was dead,
They seized me and shut me up: they fasten 'd
me down on my bed.
''Mother, O mother!" — he call'd in the dark
to me year after year —
They beat me for that, tliey beat me — you know
that I could n 't but hear ;
And then at the last they found I had grown
so stupid and still
They let me abroad again — but the creatures
had worked their will. 50
Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my
bone was left —
I stole them all from the lawyers — and you, will
you call it a theft f —
My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, the
bones that had laugh 'd and had cried —
Theirs? O, no! they are mine — not theirs —
they had moved in my side.
xa
Do you think I was scared by the bones? I
kiss'd 'em, I buried 'em all —
I can 't dig deep, I am old — in the night by the
churchyard wall.
My Willy 'II rise up whole when the trumpet of
judgment '11 sound,
But I charge you never to say that I laid him
in holy ground.
xni
They would scratch him uii — they would hang
him again on the cursed tree.
Sin? O, yes, we are sinners, I know — let all
that be, 60
And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's good-
will toward men —
' ' Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord ' ' —
let me hear it again ;
"Full of compassion and mercy — long-suffer-
ing." Yes, O, yes!
For the lawyer is born but to murder — the
Saviour lives but to bless.
He '11 never put on the black cap except for
the worst of the worst,
And the first may be last — I have heard it in
church — and the last may be first.
Suffering — O, long-suffering — yes, as the Lord
must know,
Year after year in the mist and the wind and
the shower and the snow.
Heard, have you? what? they have told you he
never repented his sin.
How do they know it? are they his mother? are
you of his kinf 70
Heard! have you ever heard, when the storm
on the downs began.
The wind that '11 wail like a child and the sea
that 'II moan like a man?
XV
Election, Election, and Reprobation — it 's ail
very well.
But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not
find him in hell.
For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord
has look'd into my care.
And He means me I 'm sure to be happy with
Willy, I know not where.
XVI
And if he be lost — but to save my soul, that is
all your desire —
Do you think that I care for my soul if my boy
be gone to the fire?
I have been with God in the dark — go, go, you
may leave me alone —
You never have borne a child — you are just as
hard as a stone. 80
xvn
Madam, I beg your pardon! T think that yon
mean to be kind,
But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy's
voice in the wind —
The snow and the sky so bright — he used but
to call in the dark,
And he calls to me now from the church and
not from the gibbet — for hark!
Nay — you can hear it yourself — it is coming —
shaking the walla —
Willy — the moon 's in a cloud Good-night.
I am going. He calls.
696
THE VICTOKIAN AGE
MILTON
(Alcaics) *
O mighty-mouth W inventor of harmonies,
skill 'd to sing of Time or Eternity,
(.lod-gifted organ-voice of England,
Milton, a name to resound for ages:
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel,
Starr 'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armories.
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean
Bings to the roar of an angel onset!
^le rather all that bowery loneliness.
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring.
And bloom profuse and cedar arches
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean,
Where some refulgent sunset of India
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle.
And crimson-hued the stately palm-woods
Whisper in odorous heights of even.
TO DANTE
(Written at the Request of the Floren-
tines) t
King, that hast reign 'd six hundred years, and
grown
In power, and ever growest, since thine own
Fair Florence honouring thy nativity,
Thy Florence now the crown of Italy,
Hath sought the tribute of a verse from me,
I, wearing but the garland of a day,
Cast at thy feet one flower that fades away.
TO VIEGIL
(written at the request of the mantuans
for the nineteenth centenary of virgil 's
death.)
Boman Virgil, thou that singest
Ilion 's lofty temples robed in fire,
Ilion falling, Bome arising,
wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre;
Landsc-ape-lover, lord of language
more than he that sang the "Works and
Days,"»
All the chosen coin of fancy
flashing out from many a golden phrase;
Thou that singest wheat and woodland,
tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd ;
1 Hesiod.
* ThiH poom Ik one of Tennyson'M cxperiiuents in
the quantitative metre of the claRsios. The
two Htyies of Milton here described may be
found in many passages of Paradise Lost; see
especlaliy, for the "angel onset," Boox VI. 96
ff., and for the "bowery loneliness," IV, 214 ff.
t For a festival on the six hundredth anniversary
of the birth of Dante, 180.">.
All the charm of all the Muses
often flowering in a lonely word;
Poet of the happy Tityrus^
piping underneath his beechen bowers;
Poet of the poet-satyr
whom the laughing shepherd bound with flow-
ers; a
Chantei of the PoUio,* glorying
in the blissful years again to be.
Summers of the snakeless meadow,
unlaborious earth and oarless sea; 10
Thou that seest Universal
Nature moved by Universal Mind;
Thou majestic in thy sadness
at the doubtful doom of human kind;
Light among the vanish 'd ages;
star that gildest yet this phantom shore;
Golden branch amid the shadows,
kings and realms that pass to rise no more;
Now thy Forum roars no longer,
fallen every purple Ca-sar's dome —
Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm
sound forever of Imperial Rome —
Now the Rome of slaves hath perish 'd,
and the Bome of freemen holds her place,
I, from out the Northern Island
sunder 'd once from all the human race,
I salute thee, Mantovano,
T that loved thee since my day began,
Wielder of the stateliest measure
ever moulded by the lips of man. 20
"FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE"*
Bow us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione
row!
So they row 'd, and there we landed — * ' O i
venusta Sirmio! " I
2 A shepherd piper In * Title of the fourth
Virgil's first Kc- Kclogue. wbiCli is
loguc. prophetic of a gold-
.1 Eclogue sixth. en age.
* In these words. "Hail, brother, and farewell."
the Roman poet Catullus lamented the d<>atli
of his brother (Cannina 101, 10). Catullus
had a villa on the peninsula of Sermlone —
"venusta (beautiful) Sirmio" — in Lake Uarda,
northern Italy. The last two lines of this
little poem, which reproduce so well the soft
music of Catullus's verse, are modelled tipon
lines in his thirty-first song. Catullus used
the word "Lydlan" in the belief that the
Ktruscans, who anciently had settlements near
the Lake of Garda. were of Lydinn origin.
ALl'KED, LORD TE^•^'YSO^"
597
There to me thro ' all the groves of olive in the
summer glow.
There beneath the Roman ruin where the purple
flowers grow,
Came that "Ave atque Vale" of the Poet's
hopeless woe,
Temlerest of Roman poets nineteen hundred
years ago,
' M" rater Ave atque Vale" — as we wander M to
and fro
Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the Garda
Lake below
Sweet Catullus 's all-but-island, olive-silvery
Sirmio 1
FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL
Flower in the crannied wall,
I i)luck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all. in my hand,
I.ittle ilower — but if I could understand
What you are, root and all. and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
WAGES
Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song.
Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an
endless sea —
Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right
the wrong —
Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of
glory she :
Give her the glory of going on, and still to be.
The wages of sin is death : if the wages of Vir-
tue be dust,
Would she have heart to endure for the life
of the worm and the fly?
She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats
of the just,
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a
summer sky:
Give her the wages of going on, and not to die.
BY AN EVOLUTIONIST
The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul
of a man.
And the man said, 'Am I your debtor?'
And the Lord — 'Not yet: but make it as clean
as you can,
And then I will let you a better.'
I
If my body come from brutes, my soul uncer-
tain or a fable.
Why not bask amid the senses while the sun
of morning shines,
1, the finer brute rejoicing in my hounds, and in
my stable.
Youth and health, and birth and wealth, and
choice of women and of wines I
What hast thou done for me, grim Old Age,
save breaking my bones on the rack?
Would I had past in the morning that looks
so bright from afar!
Old Age
Done for thee? starved the wild beast that was
linkt with thee eighty years back.
Less weight now for the ladder-of-heaven
that hangs on a star.
If my body come from brutes, tho' somewhat
finer than their own,
I am heir, and this my kingdom. Shall the
royal voice be mute?
No, but if the rebel subject seek to drag me
from the throne.
Hold the sceptre, Human Soul, and rule thy
province of the brute.
I have climb 'd to the snows of Age, and I gaze
at a field in the Past,
Where I sank with the body at times in the
sloughs of a low desire.
But I hear no yelp of the beast, and the Man
is quiet at last
As he stands on the heights of his life with a
glimpse of a height that is higher,
VASTNESS
Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs after
many a vanish 'd face,
Many a planet by many a sun may roll with the
dust of a vanish 'd race.
Raving politics, never at rest — as this poor
earth 's pale history runs, —
What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam
of a million million of suns?
Lies upon this side, lies upon that side, truth-
less violence mourned by the wise.
Thousands of voices drowning his own in a
popular torrent of lies upon lies;
Stately purposes, valour in battle, glorious an-
nals of army and fleet,
Death for the right cause, death for the wrong
cause, trumpets of victory, groans of de-
feat:
598
THE VICTORIAN AGE
Innocence seethed in her mother's milk, and
Charity setting the martyr aflame ;
Thraldom who walks with the banner of Free-
dom, and recka not to ruin a realm in her
name. i^
Faith at her zenith, or all but lost in the gloom
of doubts that darken the schools;
Craft with a bunch of all-heal in her hand, fol-
low 'd up by her vassal legion of fools ;
Trade flying over a thousand seas with her spice
and her vintage, her silk and her corn;
Desolate offing, sailorless harbours, famishing
populace, wharves forlorn;
Star of the morning, Hope in the sunrise;
gloom of the evening, Life at a close;
Pleasure who flaunts on her wide downway with
her flying robe and her poison 'd rose;
Pain that has crawl 'd from the corpse of Pleas-
ure, a worm which writhes all day, and
at night
Stirs up again in the heart of the sleeper, and
stings him back to the curse of the light ;
Wealth with his wines and his wedded harlots;
honest Poverty, bare to the bone;
Opulent Avarice, lean as Poverty; Flattery
gilding the rift in a throne; 20
Fame blowing out from her golden trumpet a
jubilant challenge to Time and to Fate;
Slander, her shadow, sowing the nettle on all
the laurell'd graves of the great;
Love for the maiden, crown 'd with marriage, no
regrets for aught that has been.
Household happiness, gracious children, debtless
competence, golden mean;
National hatreds of whole generations, and
pigmy spites of the village spire;
Vows that will last to the last death-ruckle, and
vows that are snapt in a moment of fire;
He that has lived for the lust of the minute,
and died in the doing it, flesh without
mind;
He that has nail'd all flesh to the Cross, till
Self died out in the love of his kind;
Spring and Summer and Autumn and Winter,
and all these old revolutions of earth;
All new-old revolutions of Empire — change of
the tide — what is all of it worth f 30
What the philosophies, all the sciences, poesy,
varying voices of prayer,
All that is noblest, all that is basest, all that is
filthy with all that is fairf
What is it all, if we all of us end but in being
our own corpse-coflins at lastf
Swallow 'd in Vastness, lost in Silence, drown 'd
in the deeps of a meaningless Past!
What but a murmur of gnats in the gloom, or a
moment's anger of bees in their hivef —
Peace, let it be! for I loved him, and love him
for ever: the dead are not dead but
alive.
CROSSING THE BAR*
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea.
But such a tide as moving seems asleep.
Too full for sound and foam,
When that w'hich drew from out the boun<lless
deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell.
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell.
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and
Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889)
From PIPPA PASSES
New Year's Hymn
All service ranks the same with God:
If now, as formerly he trod
Paradise, his presence fills
Our earth, each only as God wills
Can work — God 's puppets, best and worst.
Are we; there is no last nor first.
Say not "a small event ! " Why " small ' ' t
Costs it more pain that this, ye call
• Written In Tennyson's eighty-first year.
KOBERT BROWNING
599
A "great event," should come to pass,
Than that I Untwine me from the mass
Of deeds which make up life, one deed
Power shall fall short in or exceed!
Song
The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hillside 's dew-pearled ;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in his heaven —
All's right with the world!
CAVALIER TUNES*
I. MARCHING ALONG
Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King,
Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing:
And, pressiugi a troop unable to stoop
And see the rogues flourish and honest folk
droop,
Marched them along, fifty-score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.
God for King Charles! Pym and such carles
To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous
parles2 !
Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,
Hands from the pasty, nor bite take, nor sup,
Till you're —
Chorus. — Marching along, fifty-score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this
song!
Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell
Serves Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry, as
well!
England, good cheer! Rupert is near!
Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here,
Cho. — Marching along, fifty-score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this
song?
Then, God for King Charles!
snarls
Pym and his
1 impressing, enlisting
2 parleys, debates
3 may it serve
• These songs are meant to portray the spirit of
tlie adherents of Charles I., and their hatred
of the Puritans, or Roundheads. The Byngs
of Kent are famous in the annals of British
warfare. Pym, a leader of the Long Parlia-
ment, Hazelrig (or Hesilrige). Fiennes (Lord
Say), and Sir Henry Vane the Younger, were
all important figures in the rebellion against
Charles. Prince Rupert was a nephew of
Charles, and a celebrated cavalry leader.
To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent
carles !
Hold by the right, you double your might;
So, onward to Nottingham,! fresh for the fight,
Cho. — March we along, fifty-score strong.
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this
song!
11. GIVE A ROUSE
King Charles, and who '11 do him right now!
King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now,
King Charles!
Who gave me the goods that went since?
Who raised me the house that sank once?
Who helped me to gold I spent since?
Who found me in wine you drank once?
Cho. — King Charles, and who 11 do him right
now ?
King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight
now?
Give a rouse: here 's, in hell's despite
now,
King Charles!
To whom used my boy George quaff else,
By the old fool's side that begot him?
For whom did he cheer and laugh else.
While Noll's* damned troopers shot him?
Cho. — King Charles, and who'll do him right
now?
King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight
now?
Give a rouse: here 's, in hell's despite
now,
King Charles!
III. boot and saddle
Boot, saddle, to horse and away!
Rescue my castle before the hot day
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray.
Cho. — ^Boot, saddle, to horse and away!
Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you 'd say ;
Many's the friend there, will listen and pray
"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay —
Cho. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"
Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, -
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' ar-
ray:
Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my
fay,
4 Oliver's (I. e.. Cromwell's)
t The standard of Charles was raised there in
1642, marking the beginning of the Civil War.
coo
THE VICTORIAN AGE
Cho.— Boot, saddle, to horse, aud away!"
Who! My wife Gertrude; that, honest and
gay,
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, ' ' Nay !
I've better counsellors; what counsel they I
Cho.— Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! ' '
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:^
A mile or so away,
On a little mound. Napoleon
Stood on our storming-day ;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arras locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind. 8
Just as perhaps he mused ' * My plans
That soar, to earth may fall.
Let once my army-leader Lannes
AVaver at yonder wall," —
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.
16
Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect —
(So tight he kept his lips compressed.
Scarce any blood came through)
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.
MY LAST DUCHESS*
FERRARA
24
* * Well, ' ' cried he, ' ' Emperor, by God 's grace
We 've got you Ratisbon!
The Marshal 's in the market-place.
And you '11 be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart's desire,
Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his
plans
Soared up again like fire. 32
The chief's eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother-eagle's eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes;
"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's
pride
Touched to the quick, he said :
"T 'm killed, Sire! " And. liis chief beside.
Smiling the boy fell dead. <0
6 In Itxvarta: Htormed by Napoleon In 1809.
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's
hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance.
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) ^0
And seemed as they would ask me, if they
durst.
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, ' ' Her mantle laps
Over my lady 's wrist too much, " or " Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat : ' ' such
stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 20
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart — how shall I say ? — too soon made glad.
Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 't was all one! My favour at her breast.
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
■^he rode with round the terrace — all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving
speech, ^^
Or blush, at least. She thanked men,— good!
but thanked
Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who 'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech — (which I have not)— to make your
will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark ' '—and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 40
*A Duke of Forrnrn stands bofore a .PO'"*''*'*^*''
his deceased Duchrss. talking coolly with t ic
envoy of a Count whose daughter he seeks
to niairv. The poem is a study in the heart-
less Jealousy of supreme selfishness. ine
nature of the commands (line 4r>) which such
a man might give, living at the time of the
Italian Uenulsaance, may be left to the imagi-
nation, us drowning leaves it. I he artists
mentioned (lines '.i. .^0) are Imagluary. On
thf monologue form, see ICtijj. Lit., p. -wi.
KOKKRT BROWN I Nf;
601
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
— E'eu then wouhl be some stooping; and I
choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile ? This grew ; I gave com-
mands ;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she
stands
As if alive. Will 't please you rise? W^e '11
meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence 50
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we '11 go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for
me!
IN A GONDOLA*
He sings
I send my heart up to thee, all my heart
In this my singing.
For the stars help me, and the sea bears part ;
The very night is clinging
Closer to Venice ' streets to leave one space
Above me, whence thy face
May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling
place.
She speaks
Ray after me, and try to say
Aiy very words, as if each word
(,'ame from you of your own accord, 10
In your own voice, in your own way:
* ' This woman 's heart and soul and brain
Are mine as much as this gold chain
She bids me wear; which" (say again)
* ' I choose to make by cherishing
A precious thing, or choose to fling
Over the boat-side, ring by ring."
And yet once more say ... no word more !
Since words are only words. Give o'er!
Unless you call me, all the same, 20
Familiarly by my pet name.
Which if the Three should hear you call,
* Written for aj)icture, "The Serenade," by Daniel
Maclise. The Cliaracters are imaginary. So
also are tiie pictures mentionpd in iines 183-
202, tliough the painters are well known.
Ilnste-thee-Luke was a nickname for the
Neapolitan, I.uca Giordano. Casteifranro Is
Giorgione. Tizian we know best as Titian,
and his "Sor" (Sir) would bo the portrait of
an Italian gontlcman.
And me re])ly to, would proclaim
At once our secret to tlieni all.
Ask of me, too, command me, blame, —
Do, break down the partition-wall
'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds
Curtained in dusk and splendid folds!
What's left but — all of me to take?
I am the Three 's: prevent them, slake 30
Your thirst! 'T is said, the Arab sage,
In practising with gems, can loose
Their subtle spirit in his cruce
And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage,
Leave them my ashes when thy use
Sucks out my soul, thy heritage!
He sings
Past we glide, and past, and past !
What's that poor Agnese doing
Where they make the shutters fast?
Gray Zanobi 's just a-wooing 40
To his couch the purchased bride:
Past we glide!
Past we glide, and past, and past!
Why's the PucCi Palace flaring
Like a beacon to the blast?
Guests by hundreds, not one caring
If the dear host's neck were wried:
Past we glide!
She sings
The moth's kiss, first!
Kiss me as if you made believe 50
You were not sure, this eve,
How my face, your flower, had pursed
Its petals up ; so, hero and there
You brush it, till I grow aware
Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.
The bee's kiss, now!
Kiss me as if you entered gay
My heart at some noonday,
A bud that dares not disallow
The claim, so all is rendered up, 60
And passively its shattered cup
Over your head to sleep I bow.
He sings
What are we two?
I am a Jew,
And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue.
To a feast of our tribe;
Where they need thee to bribe
The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe
Thy . . . Scatter the vision forever! An<l
now.
As of old, T am T, thon art thou! 70
602
THE VICTOBIAN AGE
Say again, what we are?
The sprite of a star,
1 lure thee above where the destinies bar
My plumes their full play
Till a ruddier ray
Than my pale one announce there is withering
away
Some . . . Scatter the vision forever! And
now,
As of old, I am I, thou art thou!
Se muses
Oh, which were best, to roam or rest?
The land's lap or the water's breast? 80
To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves.
Or swim in lucid shallows just
Eluding water-lily leaves,
An inch from Death's black fingers, thrust
To lock you, whom release he must ;
Which life were best on Summer eves?
Se speaks, mtmng
Lie back; could thought of mine improve you?
From this shoulder let there spring
A wing; from this, another wing;
Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you! 90
Snow-white must they spring, to blend
With your flesh, but I intend
They shall deepen to the end.
Broader, into burning gold.
Till both wings crescent-wise enfold
Your perfect self, from 'neath your feet
To o'er your head, where, lo, they meet
As if a million sword-blades hurled
Defiance from you to the world!
Rescue me thou, the only real! 100
And scare away this mad ideal
That came, nor motions to depart!
Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art!
Still he muses
What if the Three should catch at last
Thy serenader? While there 's cast
Paul's cloak about my head, and fast
Oian pinions me. Himself has past
His stylet through my back; I reel;
And . . . is it thou I feel?
They trail me, these three godless knaves, HO
Past every church that saints and saves.
Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves
By Lido's' wet accursed graves.
They scoop mine, roll me to its brink,
And ... on thy hreast I sink!
1 A lontc sandy bar lying off Vonlco. There Is a
.IcwInIi (t'nu'lcry tliorp.
She replies, musing
Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow-deep,
As 1 do: thus: were death so unlike sleep,
Caught this way? Death 's to fear from flame
or steel.
Or poison doubtless; but from water — feel!
Go find the bottom! Would you stay me?
There! 120
Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass
To plait in where the foolish jewel was,
I flung away: since you have praised my hair,
'T is proper to be choice in what I wear.
He speals
Row home? must we row home? Too surely
Know I where its front 's demurely
Over the Giudecca^ piled;
Window just with window mating,
Door on door exactly waiting.
All 's the set face of a child: 130
But behind it, where 's a trace
Of the staidness and reserve.
And formal lines without a curve,
In the same child's playing-faee?
No two windows look one way
O'er the small sea-water thread
Below them. Ah, the autumn day
I, passing, saw you overhead!
First, out a cloud of curtain blew.
Then a sweet cry, and last came you — 140
To catch your lorys that must needs
Escape just then, of all times then.
To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds.
And make me happiest of men.
I scarce could breathe to see you reach
So far back o'er the balcony
To catch him ere he climbed too high
Above you in the Smyrna peach.
That quick the round smooth cord of gold,
This coiled hair on your head, unrolled, 150
Fell down you like a gorgeous snake
The Roman girls were wont, of old.
When Rome there was, for coolness' sake
To let lie curling o'er their bosoms.
Dear lory, may his beak retain
Ever its delicate rose stain
As if the wounded lotus-blossoms
Had marked their thief to know again!
Stay longer yet, for others' sake
Than mine! What should your chamber do?
— With all its rarities that ache 161
In silence while day lasts, but wake
At night-time and their life renew,
Suspended Just to pleasure you
Who brought against their will together
2 A Venetian ranal. » A kind nf pnrrot.
ROBERT BROWNING
603
These obiects, and, while day lasts, weave
Around them such a magic tether
That dumb they look: your harp, believe,
With all the sensitive tight strings
Which dare not speak, now to itself 170
Breathes slumberously, as if some elf
Went in and out the chords,* his wings
Make murmur wheresoe'er they graze,
As an angel may, between the maze
Of midnight palace-pillars, on
And on, to sow God's plagues, have gone
Through guilty glorious Babylon.
And while such murmurs flow, the nymph
Bends o 'er the harp-top from her shell
As the dry limpet for the lymph 180
Come with a tune he knows so well.
And how your statues' hearts must swell!
And how your pictures must descend
To see each other, friend with friend!
Oh, could you take them by surprise,
You 'd find Schidone 's eager Duke
Doing the quaintest courtesies
To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke !
And, deeper into her rock den.
Bold Castelf ranco 's Magdalen 190
You'd find retreated from the ken
Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser —
As if the Tizian thinks of her,
And is not, rather, gravely bent
On seeing for himself what toys
Are these,* his progeny invent.
What litter now the board employs
Whereon he signed a document
That got him murdered! Each enjoys
Its night so well, you cannot break 200
The sport up, so, indeed must make
More stay with me, for others' sake.
She speaks
To-morrow, if a harp-string, say.
Is used to tie the jasmine back
That overfloods my room with sweets,
Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets
My Zanze! If the ribbon's black.
The Three are watching: keep away!
Your gondola — let Zorzi wreathe
A mesh of water-weeds about 210
Its prow, as if he unaware
Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair!
That I may throw a paper out
As you and he go underneath.
There's Zanze 's vigilant taper; safe are we.
Only one minute more to-night with me?
* Supply "which" before "his".
Resume your past self of a month ago!
Be you the bashful gallant, I will be
The lady with the colder breast than snow.
Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand
More than I touch yours when I steo to land,
And say, "All thanks, Siora! "— " 222
Heart to heart
And lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part,
Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art!
[He is surprised, and stabbed.]
It was ordained to be so, sweet! — and best
Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast.
Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! Care
Only to put aside thy beauteous hair
My blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scorn
To death, because they never lived: but I 230
Have lived indeed, and so — (yet one more kiss)
— can die!
THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN*
A child's story
I
Hamelin Town 's in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide.
Washes its wall on the southern side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago.
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.
n
Rats! 10
They fought the dogs and killed the cats.
And bit the babies in the cradles.
And ate the cheeses out of the vats.
And licked the soup from the cooks' own
ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats.
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats.
And even spoiled the women's chats
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats. 20
111
At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
* This poem was written by Browning to amuse
the little son of the actor, William Macready,
and furnish him a subject for drawings. The
legend Is an old one. John Fiske is dispcsed
to identify it with various myths : "Goethe's
Erlking is none other than the Piper of
Hamelin. And the piper, in turn, is the
classic Hermes or Orpheus. . . . His
wonderful pipe is the horn of Oberon, the
lyre of Apollo (who, like the piper, was a
rat-killer), the harp stolen by Jack when be
climbed the bean-stalk to the ogre's castle."
C04
THE VICTORIAN AGE
" 'T is clear, ' ' cried tliey, ' ' our Mayor 's a
noddy ;
And as for our Corporation — shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can't or won't determine
What 's best to rid us of our vermin!
You hope, because you 're old and obese.
To find in the furry civic robe easef
Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking 30
To find the remedy we 're lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we '11 send you packing!"
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.
IV
An hour they sat in council;
At length the Mayor broke silence:
"For a guilderi I 'd my ermine gown sell,
I wish I were a mile hence!
It 's easy to bid one rack one's brain —
I 'm sure my poor head aches again, 40
I 've scratched it so, and all in vain.
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap ! ' '
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber-door but a gentle tap?
' ' Bless us, ' ' cried the Mayor, ' ' what 's that ? ' '
(With the Corporation as he sat,
Looking little though wondrous fat;
Xor brighter was his eye, nor moister
Than a too-long-opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) 51
"Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat ! ' '
V
' ' Come in ! ' ' — the Mayor cried, looking bigger :
And in did come the strangest figure!
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red.
And he himself was tall and thin.
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 60
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin.
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin.
But lips where smiles went out and in;
There was no guessing his kith and kin :
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire.
Quoth one: "It 's as my great-grandsire.
Starting up at the Trump of Doom 's tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tomb-
stone ! "
VI
He advanced to the council-table: 70
And, "Please yotir honours," said he, "I 'm
able,
1 A Dutch roln. worth forty opnts.
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm.
The mole and toad and newt and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper. ' '
(And here they noticed round his neck 80
A scarf of red and yellow stripe.
To match with his coat of the self-same check;
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever stray-
ing
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
"Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; 9o
1 cased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats:
And as for what your brain bewilders.
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?"
"One? fifty thousand!" — was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.
100 I
VII
Into the street the Piper stept,
Smiling first a little smile.
As if he knew what magic slept
In Ids quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled.
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled.
Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rum-
bling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, HI
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives —
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to streot he piped advancing.
And step for step they followed dancing. 120
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished!
]— Save one who, stout as Julius Ca?sar,
Swam across and lived to carry
ROBERT BROW M NO
005
(As he, the manuscript he eherishedi)
To Rat-land home his coninientarj- :
Which was. "At the first shrill notes of the
pipe,
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press's gripe: 130
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards.
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks:
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out, 'Oh rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast dry-saltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,^
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' 140
And just as a bulky sugar puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said, ' Come, bore me I '
— 1 found the Weser rolling o'er me."
You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
"Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles.
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders, 150
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats ! ' ' — when, suddenly, up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market-place.
With a, "First, if you please, my thousand
guilders ! ' '
IX
A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havoc
W^ith Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. 160
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gypsy coat of red an«l yellow!
"Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing
wink
"Our business was done at the river's brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink.
And what 's dead can't come to Ufe, I think.
So, friend, we 're not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something for
drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But as for the guilders, what we spoke 170
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
1 This happened In Egypt, according to riutarch,
wlio tolls the story.
2 Ahor.t tho same as "luncheon".
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.
A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty ! ' '
The Piper's face fell, and he cried,
' ' Xo trifling ! I can 't wait, beside !
I 've promised to visit by dinner time
Bagdad, and accept the prime
Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he 's rich in.
For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen.
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: 1S'>
With him I proved no bargain-driver.
With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!
And folks who put uie in a passion
May find me pipe after another fashion. ' '
"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'je think I brook
Being worse treated than a Cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald!
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst.
Blow your pipe there till you burst!" 190
xn
Once more he stept into the street,
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician 's cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling that seemed like a bust-
ling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hust-
ling;
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clatter-
ing,
Little hands clapping and little tongues chat-
tering, 200
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is
scattering.
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laugh-
ter.
XIII
The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood.
Unable to move a step, or cry 210
To the children merrily skipping by,
— Could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack.
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,
606
THE VICTOBIAX AGE
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Kight in the way of their sons and daughters!
However, he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 220
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
* * He never can cross that mighty top !
He 's forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop ! ' '
When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side,
A wondrous portal opened wide.
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper advanced and the children fol-
lowed,
And when all were in to the very last, 230
The door in the mountain-side shut fast.
Did I say all! No! One was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say, —
* * It 's dull in our town since my playmates
left!
I can't forget that I'm bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see.
Which the Piper also promised me.
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 240
Joining the town and just at hand.
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings,
And horses were born with eagles' wings;
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured, 250
The music stopped and I stood still.
And found myself outside the hill.
Left alone against my will.
To go now limping as before.
And never hear of that country more!"
XIV
Alas, alas for Hamelin!
There came into many a burgher's pate
A text which says that heaven 's gate
Opes to the rich at as easy rate
As the needle's eye takes a camel in! 260
The Mayor sent East, West, North and South,
To offer the Pi};er, by wonl of mouth,
Wherever it was men 's lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart's content.
If he'd only return the way he went,
.\nd bring the children behind him.
But when they saw 't was a lost endeavour.
And Piper and dancers were gone forever.
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly 270
If, after the day of the month and year.
These words did not as well appear,
"And so long after what happened here
On the Twenty-second of July,
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:"
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the children's last retreat.
They called it, the Pied Piper's Street —
Where any one playing on pipe or tabour
Was sure for the future to lose his labour. 280
Nor suflfered they hostelry or tavern
To shock witii mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column.
And on the great church-window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away.
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there 's a tribe 290
Of alien people who ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison
Into which they were trepanned"
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land.
But how or why, they don 't understand.
So, Willy, let me and you be wipers 300
Of scores out with all men — especially pipers!
And, whether they pipe us free from rats or
from mice.
If we've promised them aught, let us keep our
promise I
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS
FEOM GHENT TO AIX*
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all
three ;
"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-
bolts undrew;
' ' Speed ! ' ' echoed the wall to us galloping i
through ; I
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
.\nd into the midnight we galloped abreast.
3 ensnared
* This poom has no historical foundation. It sup-
posts comparison wirli l.o'iKfcllow's Paul He-
irre'M Itidi'. which was written later, (ihent
(// hard) is In Bolgium, and Alx-la-Chapelle
in rniHsia. about ninety miles distant.
ROBERT BROWNING
607
Not a word to each other; we kept the great
pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing
our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths
tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique*
right, 10
Rebuekled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the
bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
'T was moonset at starting; but while we drew
near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned
clear ;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Diiflfeld, 't was morning as plain as could
be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the
half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is
time!"
At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun.
And against him the cattle stood black every
one, 20
To stare through the mist at us galloping past.
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last.
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its
spray :
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear
bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his
track;
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that
glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master,
askance !
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye
and anon 29
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris,
"Stay, spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in
her.
We'll remember at Aix" — for one heard the
quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and stag-
gering knees.
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and
sank.
4 peak pommel
So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble
like chaflf; 40
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in
sight!"
' ' How they '11 greet us ! ' ' — and all in a moment
his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a
stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole
weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from
her fate.
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the
brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets'
rim.
Then T cast loose my buffcoat, each holster
let fall.
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and
all, 50
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
tailed my Roland his pet-name, my horse with-
out peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any
noise, bad or good.
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and
stood.
And all I remember is — friends flocking round
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the
ground ;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of
mine.
As I poured down his throat our last measure
of wine.
Which (the burgesses voted by common con-
sent)
Was no more than his due who brought good
news from Ghent. 60
THE LOST LEADER*
Just for a handful of silver he left us.
Just for a riband to stick in his coat —
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others she lets us devote;
♦ This poem was suggested by Wordsworth's
change from very radical views to conserva-
tism and Toryism. Browning later apologized
for its great injustice to Wordsworth : it was
the effusion of "hasty youth." and was. more-
over, not Intended as an exact characteriza-
tion. Compare Browning's poem, ^yhy I am a
Liberal, below. Whittier's poem, Jchahod, on
the defection of Daniel Webster, is written
in a similar strain.
608
THE VICTORIAN AGE
They, witb the gold to give, doled him out
silver,
So much was theirs who so little allowed:
How all our copper had gonei for his service!
Rags — were they purple,^ his heart had been
proud !
We that had loved him so, followed him, hon-
oured him.
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 10
Learned his great language, caught his clear
accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch
from their graves!
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
— He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!
We shall march prospering, — not through his
presence ;
Songs may inspirit us, — not from his lyre;
Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quies-
cence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade
aspire : 20
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul
more,
One task more declined, one more footpath
untrod,
One more devils '-triumph and sorrow for
angels,
One wrong more to man, one more insult to
God!
Life's night begins: let him never come back
to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain.
Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twi-
light,
Never glad confident morning again!
Best fight on well,3 for we taught him — strike
gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we master his own; 30
Then let him receive the new knowledge and
wait us,
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD
Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood
sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
1 would have Kone (gladlv)
2 bad tlicy hoea royal robes (spoken In sarcaBm)
3 I. c, aKainnt us
While tlie chaftinch sings on the orchard bough
In England — now!
And after April, when May follows.
And the whitethroat builds, and all tlie swal-
lows ! 10
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the
hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray 's
edge —
That 's the wise thrush ; he sings each song
twice over.
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And tliough the fields look rough with hoary
dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children 's dower 19
— Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
HOME-THOUGHTS. FROM THE SEA
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-
west died away;*
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into
Cadiz Bay;
Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face
Trafalgar lay;
In the dimmest Northeast distance dawned
Gibraltar grand and gray;
"Here and here did England help me: how
can I help England?" — say,
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God
to praise and pray,
j While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over
Africa.
THE BOY AND THE ANGEL*
Morning, evening, noon and night,
"Praise God!" sang Theocrite.
Then to his poor trade he turned,
Whereby the daily meal was earned.
Hard he laboured, long and well;
O 'er his work the boy 's curls fell.
But ever, at each period,
He stopped and sang, ' ' Praise God ! ' '
* The scene is that of Nelson's great victorj-.
• This legend Is a pure Invention, In the media? vnl
spirit. Tbc moral is the same as that of the
'"Now Year's Ilvmn" from I'ippa Pnsxrs above.
Or, in the words of Kmerson.
"There is no great nnd no smnll
To the Soul that maketb all."
ROBERT BROWNING
609
Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.
With his holy vestments dight,*"
10 Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:
Said Blaise, the listening monk. "Well done;
I doubt not thou art heard, my son:
"As well as if thy voice to-day
W'ere praising God, the Pope's great way.
"This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome
Praises God from Peter's dome."
Said Theocrite, "Would God that I
Might praise him that great way. and die!"
20
Night passed, day shone,
And Theocrite was gone.
With God a day endures alway,
A thousand years are but a day.
God said in heaven, "Nor day nor night
Now brings the voice of my delight."
Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth.
Spread his wings and sank to earth ;
Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,
Lived there, and played the craftsman well;
And morning, evening, noon and night,
Praised God in place of Theocrite. 30
And from a boy, to youth he grew:
The man put off the stripling's hue:
The man matured and fell away
Into the season of decay:
And ever o'er the trade he bent.
And ever lived on earth content.
(He did God's will; to him, all one
If on the earth or in the sun.)
God said "A praise is in mine ear;
There is no doubt in it, no fear: 40
"So sing old worlds, and so
New worlds that fi'om my footstool go.
"Clearer loves sound other ways:
I miss my little human praise."
Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell
The flesh disguise, remained the cell.
'Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome,
And paused above St. Peter's dome.
In the tiring-room close by
The great outer gallery,
50
And all his past career
Came back upon him clear,
Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,
Till on his life the sickness weighed;
And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer:
And rising from the sickness drear.
He grew a priest, and now stood here. *0
To the East with praise he turned,
And on his sight the angel burned.
' * I bore thee from thy craftsman 's cell.
And set thee here; I did not well.
' ' Vainly I left my angel-sphere,
Vain was thy dream of many a year.
' ' Thy voice 's praise seemed weak ; it dropped —
Creation's chorus stopped!
"Go back and praise again
The early way, while I remain. 70
' ' With that weak voice of our disdain,
Take up creation 's pausing strain.
' ' Back to the cell and poor employ :
Resume the craftsman and the boy ! ' '
Theocrite grew old at home;
A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.
One vanished as the other died:
They sought God side by side.
SAUL*
I
Said Abner.i "At last thou art come! Ere I
tell, ere thou speak,
Kii-s my cheek, wish me well! " Then I wished
it, and did kiss his cheek.
•> arrayed
I The captain of Sauls host. David is tlie speak-
er throughout.
* In T Samuel, xvi. 14-2.".. David, the shepherd
boy. is summoned to play on his harp and
drive away the evil spirit which troubles
Saul. Browning has availed himself of the
theme to set forth, in majestic anapests. the
range and power of music in its various
kinds : thenee passing to a view of the bound-
lessness of spiritual influence, and rising in
the end to a vision of the ultimate oneness
of human sympathy and love with divine.
A. ,1. George writes : "The severity, sweet-
ness, and lieauty of the closing scene where
David returns to his simple task of tending
his flocks, when all nature is alive with the
new impulse and pronounces the benediction
on his efforts, is not surpassed by anything
in our literature."
610
THE VICTOBIAN AGE
And he: "Since the King, O my friend, for
thy countenance sent,
Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until
from his tent
Thou return with the joyful assurance the
King liveth yet,
Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with
the water be wet,
For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space
of three days.
Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of
prayer nor of praise.
To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended
their strife.
And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch
sinks back upon life. 10
"Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's
child with his dew
On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still
living and blue
Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings,
as if no wild heat
Were now raging to torture the desert ! ' '
m
Then I, as was meet,
Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and
rose on ray feet.
And ran o 'er the sand burnt to powder. The
tent was unlooped;
I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and
under I stooped;
Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch,
all withered and gone.
That extends to the second enclosure, I groped
my way on
Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then
once more I prayed, 20
And opened the foldskirts and entered, and
was not afraid
But spoke, "Here is David, thy servant!"
And no voice replied.
At the first 1 saw naught but the blackness:
but soon I descried
A something more black than the blackness —
the vast, the upright
Main prop which sustains the pavilion: and
slow into sight
Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest
of all.
Then a sunbeam, that burst through the tent-
roof, showed Saul.
IV
He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms
stretched out wide
On the great cross-support in the centre, that
goes to each side;
He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as,
caught in his pangs 30
And waiting his change, the king-serpent all
heavily hangs.
Far away from his kind, in the pine, till
deliverance come
With the spring-tinie,2 — so agonized Saul, drear
and stark, blind and dumb.
Then I tuned my harp, — took off the lilies we
twine round its chords
Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noon-
tide — those sunbeams like swords!
And I first played the tune all our sheep know,
as, one after one.
So docile they come to the pen-door till folding
be done.
They are white and untorn by the bushes, for
lo, they have fed
Where the long grasses stifle the water within
the stream's bed;
And now one after one seeks its lodging, as
star follows star 40
Into eve and the blue far above us, — so blue
and so far!
VI
— Then the tune for which quails on the corn-
land will each leave his mate
To fly after the player; then, what makes the
crickets elate
Till for boldness they fight one another; and
then, what has weight
To set the quick jerboa'J a-musing outside his
sand house —
There are none such as he for a wonder, half
bird and half mouse!
God made all the creatures and gave them our
love and our fear,
To give sign, we and they are his children, one
family here. 'U' >i -
VII
Then I played the help-tune of our reapers,
their wine-song, when hand
Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friend-
ship, and great hearts expand 50
And grow one in the sense of this world's life.
— And then, the last song
When the dead man is praised on his journey
— "Bear, bear him along.
With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets!
Are balm seeds not here
2 Through tbp slonghinK of his old skin.
8 A rodent with Iodk hind legs, with which it can
spring like a bird.
BOBERT BROWNING
611
To console usf The land has none left such j
as he on the bier. i
Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother! " —
Aud then, the glad chaunt
Of the marriage, — first go the young maidens,
next, she whom we vaunt
As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling. —
And then, the grand march
Wherein man runs to man to assist him and
buttress an arch
Naught can break; who shall harm them, our
friends f Then, the chorus intoned
As the Levites go up to the altar in glory
enthroned. *^
But I stopped here: for here in the darkness
Saul groaned.
VIII
And I paused, held my breath in such silence,
and listened apart:
And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shud-
dered: and sparkles 'gan dart
From the jewels that woke in his turban, at
once, with a start.
All its lordly male-sapphires,* and rubies cour-
ageous at heart.
So the head: but the body still moved not,
still hung there erect.
And I bent once again to my playing, pursued
it unchecked,
As I sang: —
• IX
**0h, our manhood's prime vigour! No
spirit feels waste,
Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor
sinew unbraced.
Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from
rock up to rock, 70
The strong rending of boughs from the fir-
tree, the cool silver shock
Of the plunge in a pool 's living water, the hunt
of the bear,
And the sultriness showing the lion is couched
in his lair.
And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over
with gold dust divine,
And the locust-flesh^ steeped in the pitcher,
the full draught of wine.
And the sleep in the dried river-channel where
bulrushes tell
That the water was wont to go warbling so
softly and well.
How good is man's life, the mere living! how
fit to employ
4 Sapphires of superior hardness and brilliancy.
5 The meat of John the Baptist in the wilderness.
See page 41, and the note on Wyclif's mis-
translation.
All the heart and the soul and the senses for-
ever in joy!
Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father,
whose swiord thou didst guard SO
When he trusted thee forth with the armies,
for glorious reward!
Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother,
held up as men sung
The low song of the nearly-departed, and hear
her faint tongue
Joining in while it could to the witness, * * Let
one more attest,
1 have lived, seen God's hand through a life-
time, and all was for best ? ' '
Then they sung through their tears in strong
triumph, not much, but the rest.
And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the
working whence grew
Such result as, from seething grape-bundles,
the spirit strained true:
And the friends of thy boyhood — that boyhood
of wonder and hope.
Present promise and wealth of the future be-
yond the eye 's scope, — 90
Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch : a people
is thine;
And all gifts, which the world offers singly,
on one head combine!
On one head, all the beauty and strength, love
and rage (like the throe
That, a-work in the rock, helps its labour and
lets the gold go)
High ambition and deeds which surpass it,
fame crowning them, — all
Brought to blaze on the head of one creature
—King Saul!"
And lo, with that leap of my spirit, — heart,
hand, harp and voice.
Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each
bidding rejoice
Saul's fame in the light it was made for — as
when, dare I say,
The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains
through its array." H'O
And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot — "Saul!"
cried I, and stopped.
And waited the thing that should follow. Then
Saul, who hung propped
By the tent's cross-support in the centre, was
struck by his name.
Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons
goes right to the aim.
And some mountain, the last to withstand her,
that held (he alone,
8 See Ezekiel, x-
6113
THE VICTORIAN AGE
While the vale laughed in freedom and flow-
ers) on a broad bust of stone
A year 's snow bound about for a breast-plate,
— leaves grasp of the sheet I
Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously
down to his feet,
And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive
yet, your mountain of old,
With his rents, the successive bequeathings of
ages untold — ^^^
Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles,
each furrow and scar
Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest
—all hail, there they are!
— Now again to be softened with verdure.
again hold the nest
Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to
the green on his crest
For their food in the ardours of summer. One
long shudder thrilled
All the tent till the very air tingled, then
sank and was stilled
At the King's self left standing before me,
released and aware.
What was gone, what remained? All to trav-
verse 'twixt hope and despair.
Death was past, life not come: so he waited.
Awhile his right hand
Held the brow, helped the eyes left too vacant
forthwith to remand 120
To their place what new objects shouM enter:
't was Saul as before.
I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor
was hurt any more
Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye
watch from the shore.
At their sad level gaze o 'er the ocean — a sun 's
slow decline
Over hills which, resolvedi in stern silence,
o'erlap and entwine
Base with base to knit strength more intensely:
80, arm folded arm
O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided.
XI
What spell or what charm.
(For awhile there was trouble within me),
what next should I urge
To sustain him where song had restored him? —
Song filled to the verge
His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all
that it yields 130
Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty:
beyond, on what fields,
Glean a vintage more potent anrl perfect to
brighten the eye
1 neparat'^'l in outline
And bring blood to the lip, and commend them
the cup they put by I
He saith, "It is good;" still he drinks not:
he lets me praise life,
Gives assent, yet would die for his own part.
xn
Then fancies grew rife
Which had come long ago on the pasture,
when round me the sheep
I'ed in silence — above, the one eagle wheeled
slow as in sleep;
And 1 lay in my hollow and mused on the
world that might lie
'Neath his ken, though 1 saw but the strip
'twixt the hill and the sky:
And I laughed — "Since my days are ordained
to be passed with my flocks, i"**^
Let me people at least, with my fancies, the
plains and the rocks.
Dream the life I am never to mix with, and
image the show
Of mankind as they live in those fashions 1
hardly shall know!
Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses,
the courage that gains,
And the prudence that keeps what men strive
for." And now these old trains
Of vague thought came again; I grew surer;
so, once more the string
Of my harp made response to my spirit, as
thus —
XIII
"Yea, my King,"
I began — "thou dost well in rejecting mere
comforts that spring
From the mere mortal life held in common by
man and by brute:
In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in
our soul it bears fruit. 150
Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree,—
liow its stem trembled first
Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler;
then safely outburst
The fan-branches all round; and thou mindest
when these too, in turn.
Broke abloom and the palm-tree seemed jier-
fect: yet more was to learn,
E'en the good that comes in with the palm-
fruit. Our dates shall we slight.
When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow 9
or care for the plight
Of tlie i>alm's self whose slow growth produced
themf Not so! stem and branch
Shall decay, nor be known in their i)lm'o, while
the palm-wine shall stanch
KOBEKT BKOWNING
613
Even- wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour
thee such wine,
Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the
spirit be thine! 160
By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee,
thou still shalt enjoy
More indeed, tiian at first when inconscious,
the life of a boy.
Crush that life, and behold its wine running!
Each deed thou hast done
Dies, revives, goes to work in the world! until
e'en as the sun
Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil
him, though tempests efface.
Can find nothing his own deed produced not,
must everywhere trace
The results of his past summer-prime, — so, each
ray of thy will,
Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long
over, shall thrill
Thy whole people, the countless, with ardour,
till they too give forth
A like cheer to their sons, who in turn, fill the
South and the North 170
With the radiance thy deed was the germ of.
Carouse in the past!
But the license of age has its limit; thou diest
at last:
As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose
at her height,
So with man — so his power and his beauty
forever take flight.
No! Again a long draught of my soul-wine!
Look forth o'er the years!
Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual;
begin with the seer's!
Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make
his tomb — bid arise
A gray mountain of marble heaped four-square,
till, built to the skies,
Let it mr.rk where the great First Kingi slum-
bers: whose fame would ye knowf
Up above see the rock 's naked face, where the
record shall go 180
In great characters cut by the scribe. — Such
was Saul, so he did;
With the sages directing the work, by the pop-
ulace chid, —
For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there!
Which fault to amend,
In the grove with his kind grows the cedar,
whereon they shall spend
(See, in tablets 't is level before them) their
praise, and record
With the gold of the graver, Saul's story, — the
statesman's great word
lOf Israel,
Side by side v ith the poet's sweet comment.
The river's a-wave
With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other
when prophet-winds2 rave:
So the pen gives unborn generations their due
and their part
In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank
God that thou art!" 190
And behold while I sang . . . but O Thou
who didst grant me that day.
And before it not seldom hast granted thy
help to essay.
Carry on and complete an adventure, — my
shield and my sword
In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy
word was my word, —
StiU be with me, who then at the summit of
human endeavour
And scaling the highest man's thought could,
gazed hopeless as ever
On the new stretch of heaven above me — till,
mighty to save,
Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance
— God's throne from man's grave!
Let me tell out my tale to its ending — my
voice to my heart
Which can scarce dare believe in what manels
last night I took part, 200
As this morning I gather the fragments, alone
with my sheep,
And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish
like sleep!
For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while
Hebrons upheaves
The dawn, struggling with night, on his shoul-
der, and Kidron retrieves
Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine.*
XV
I say then, — my song
While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and
ever more strong
Made a proffer of good to console him — he
slowly resumed
His old motions and habitudes kingly. The
right hand replumed
His black locks to their wonted composure, ad-
justed the swathes
Of his turban, and see — the huge sweat that
his countenance bathes, 210
2 The winds of prophecy : divine inspiration, dfi-
manding to be recorded on papyrus.
.1 The city which l>ecame for a time David's royal
residence.
• The Kidron Is a nearly dry water-course at the
foot of Mt. Olivet. In dry eoimtries, small
streams are always perceptibly fuller at
morning than at night.
614
THE VICTORIAN AGE
He wipes oflf with the robe; and he girds now
his loins as of yore,
And feels slow for the armlets of price, with
the clasp set before.
He is Saul, ye remember in glory, — ere error
had bent
The broad brow from the daily communion;
and still, though much spent
Be the life and the bearing that front you, the
same God did choose
To receive what a man may waste, desecrate,
never quite lose.
So sank he along by the tent-prop till, stayed
by the pile
Of his armour and war-cloak and garments,
he leaned there awhile,
And sat out my singing, — one arm round the
tent-prop, to raise
His bent head, and the other hung slack — till
I touched on the praise 220
1 foresaw from all men in all time, to the man
patient there;
And thus ended, the harp falling forward.
Then first I was 'ware
That he sat, as I say, with my head just above
his vast knees
Which were thrust out on each side around me,
like oak roots which please
To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked
up to know
If the best I could do had brought solace; he
spoke not, but slow
Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he
laid it with care
Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my
brow: through my hair
The large fingers were pushed, and he bent
back my head, with kind power —
All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men
do a flower. 230
Thus held he me there with his great eyes that
scrutinized mine —
And oh, all my heart how it loved him! but
where was the sign?
I yearned — 'Tould I help thee, my father,
inventing a bliss,
I would add, to that life of the past, both the
future and this;
I would give thee new life altogether, as good,
ages hence,
As this moment, — had love but the warrant,
love's heart to dispensel"
XVI
Then the truth came upon me. No harp more
— n<» Honjj more! outbroke —
XVII
"I have gone the whole round of creation: I
saw and I spoke:
I, a work of God 's hand for that purpose,
received in my brain
And pronounced on the rest of his handwork —
returned him again 240
His creation's approval or censure: I spoke
as I saw:
I report, as a man may of God 's work — all 's
love, yet all's law.
Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me.
Each faculty tasked
To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a
dewdrop was asked.
Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at
Wisdom laid bare.
Have I forethought? how purblintl, how blank
to the Infinite Care!
Do I task any faculty highest, to image
success I
I but open my eyes, — and perfection, no more
and no less.
In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and
God is seen God
In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the.
soul and the clod. 250'
And thus looking within and around me, I
ever renew
(With that stoop of the soul which in bending
upraises it too)
The submission of man 's nothing-perfect to
God's all-complete.
As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to
his feet.
Yet with all this abounding experience, this
deity known,
I shall dare to discover some province, some
gift of my own.
There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard
to hoodwink,
I am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I laugh
as I think)
Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot
ye, I worst
E'en the Giver in one gift. — Behold, I could
love if I durst! 260
But I sink the pretension as fearing a man
may o 'ertake
God's own speed in the one way of love: I
abstain for love's sake.
— What, my soulf see thus far and no farther?
when doors great and small,
Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should
the hundredth appal?
In the least things have faith, yet distrust in
the greatest of all?
ROBERT BROWNING
615
Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ulti-
mate gift,
That I doubt his own love can compete with
itt Here, the parts shift t
Here, the creature surpass the Creator, — the
end, what Began!
Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all
for this man.
And dare doubt He alone shall not help him,
who yet alone can! 270
W^ould it ever have entered my mind, the bare
will, much less power.
To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the
marvellous dower
Of the life he was gifted and filled with? to
make such a soul.
Such a body, and then such an earth for in-
sphering the whole!
And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm
tears attest)
These good things being given, to go on, and
give one more, the best!
Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, main-
tain at the height
This perfection, — succeed with life 's day-spring,
death's minute of night!
Interpose at the diflBcult minute, snatch Saul
the mistake,
Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now, — and
bid him awake 280
From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to
find himself set
Clear and safe in new light and new life, — a
new harmony yet
To be run, and continued, and ended — who
knows? — or endure!
The man taught enough by life 's dream, of the
rest to make sure;
By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning in-
tensified bliss,
And the next world 's reward and repose, by
the struggles in this.
xvin
"I believe it! 'T is thou, God, that givest,
't is I who receive:
In the first is the last, in thy will is my power
to believe.
All's one gift: thou canst grant it moreover,
as prompt to my prayer
As I breathe out this breath, as I open these
arms to the air. 290
From thy will stream the worlds, life and
nature, thy dread Sabaoth:»
/ will! — the mere atoms despise me! Why am
I not loth
I The armies of the Lord.
To look that, even that in the face toof Why
is it I dare
Think but lightly of such impuissance! What
stops my despair!
This ; — 't is not what man Does which exalts
him, but what man Would do!
See the King — I would help him but cannot,
the wishes fall through.
Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow
poor to enrich.
To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would
— knowing which,
I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak
through me now!
Would I suffer for him that I love! So
wouldst thou — so wilt thou! 300
So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest,
uttermost crown —
And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave
up nor down
One spot for the creature to stand in! It is by
no breath,
Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins
issue with death!
As thy Love is discovered almighty, almighty
be proved
Thy power, that exists with and for it, of
being Beloved!
He who did most, shall bear most ; the strongest
shall stand the most weak.
'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for!
my flesh, that I seek
In the Godhead ! I seek and I find it. O Saul,
it shall be
A Face like my face that receives thee; a Man
like to me, 310
Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever: a
Hand like this hand
Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee!
See the Christ stand!"
XIX
I know not too well how I found my way
home in the night.
There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left
and to right.
Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the aUve,
the aware:
[ repressed, I got through them as hardly, as
strugglingly there,
As a runner beset by the populace famished
for news —
Life or death. The whole earth was awakened,
hell loosed with her crews;
And the stars of night beat with emotion, and
tingled and shot
616
THE VICTORIAN AGE
Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge:
but I fainted not, 320
For the Hand still impelled me at once and
supported, suppressed
All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and
holy behest.
Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the
earth sank to rest.
Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had with-
ered from earth —
Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's
tender birth ;
In the gathered intensity brought to the gray
of the hills;
In the shuddering forests' held breath; in the
sudden wind-thrills;
In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each
with eye sidling still
Though averted with wonder and dread; in
the birds stiff and chill
That rose heavily, as I approached tliem, made
stupid with awe: 330
E'en the serpent that slid away silent, — he felt
the new law.
The same stared in the white humid faces up-
turned by the flowers;
The same worked in the heart of the cedar and
moved the vine-bowers:
And the little brooks witnessing murmured, per-
sistent and low.
With their obstinate, all but hushed voices —
"E'en so, it is so! ' '
EVELYN HOPE
Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!
Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;
She plucked that piece of geranium-flower.
Beginning to die too, in the glass;
Little has yet been changed, I think:
The shutters are shut, no light may pass ^
Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.
Sixteen years old when she died !
Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;
It was not her time to love; beside,
Her life had many a hope and aim.
Duties enough and little cares,
And now was quiet, now astir,
Till Oo<I 's hand beckoned unawares, —
And the sweet white brow is all of her. 16
Is it too late then, Evelyn Hopef
What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire and dew — "
And, just because I was thrice as old
And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was naught to each, must I be told?
We were fellow mortals, naught beside? 24
No, indeed I for God above
Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love:
I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Delayed it may be for more lives yet,
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few:
Much is to learn, much to forget
Ere the time be come for taking you. 32
But the time will come, — at last it will.
When. Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall
say)
In the lower earth, in the years long still.
That body and soul so pure and gay?
Why your hair was amber. I shall divine.
And your mouth of your own geranium 's
red —
And what you would do with me. in fine, 39
In the new life come in the old one's stead.
I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,
Given up myself so many times.
Gained nie the gains of various men.
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yet one thing, one, in my soul 's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me:
And I want and find you. Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue? let us see! 48
I loved you, Evelyn, all the while!
My heart seemed full as it could hold;
There was place and to spare for the frank
young smile,'
And the red young mouth, and the hair's
young gold.
So, hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep :
See. I shut it inside the sweet cold hand I
There, that is our secret: go to sleep!
You will wake, and remember, and under-
stand. 66
ERA LIPPO LIPPI*
I AM poor Wother Lippo, by your leave!
You need not clap your torches to my face.
Zooks. what's to blame? you think you see a
monk!
• This, like My Last Duchess. Is another of Brown-
ing's dramatic monologues. It portrays nd-
mlrably that period of the Italian Uonals
sancc "when men were growing more keenly
awnke to the charm of physical life, and so-
rietv l>egan to break ihrouKli llie rostralnfa to
whiili It had long submitted. In painting,
ROBERT BROWNING
G17
Wluit, 't is past miduight, aii<l you go tlie i
rounds, i
Antl here you catch uie at an alley "s end
Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar ?
The Carmine's my cloister: hunt it ui).
Do. — harry out, if you must show your zeal,
Wliatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole,
And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, 10
tl'eke, weke, that 's crept to keep him company!
Alia, you know your betters! Then, you'll take
Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat.
And please to know me likewise. Who am I ?
Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend
Three streets oft" — he's a certain . . . how d'
ye call?
Master — a . . . Cosimo of the Medici,
I' the house that cap.s the corner. Boh! you
were best!
Remember and tell me, the day you're hanged,
How you affected such a gullet 's-gripe ! 20
But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves
Pick up a manner! nor discredit you:
Zooks, are we pilchards,^ that they sweep the
streets
And count fair prize what comes .into their
net!
He's .Judas to a tittle, that man is!
.Tust such a face! Why, sir, you make amends.
Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hang-dogs go
Drink out this quarter-florin to the health
Of the munificent House that harbours me
(And many more beside, lads! more beside!) 30
And all's come square again. I'd like his
face —
His, elbowing on his comrade in the door
With the pike and lantern, — for the slave that
holds
John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair
With one hand ("Look you, now," as who
should say)
1 mend a little
2 Mediterranean sardines.
the new spirit was manifested in the change
from religious and symbolical subjects — haloed
saints and choiring angels — to portraits and
scenes from human life and the world of na-
ture, or to religious pictures thoroughly hu-
manized. The poem 'was suggested by a pic-
ture of the "Coronation of the Virgin" (de-
scribed in lines 347 ff.) which is in the
Academv of Fine Arts at Florence ; the inci-
dents of the life of Fra Filippo Lippi (1406?-
1460) were obtained from Vasari s Lives of
the I'aintciK. He was first a monk, but he
broke away from the Carmine, or Carmelite
monastery, and came under the patronage of
Cosimo de' Medici the Elder, the great banker,
patron of art and litemture, and practical
ruler of the Florentine Republic. It is said
that bis patron once shut him up in his
pal \ce in order to restrain his roving propen-
sities and keep him at work on some frescoes
he was painting. The poem opens with his
capture on this escapade by the watchmen.
An<l Ills weapon in the other, yet unwiped !
It 's not your chance to have a bit of chalk,
A wood-coal or the like? or you should see;
Yes, I 'm the painter, since you style me so.
What, brother Lippo 's doings, up and down, 40
You know them and they take you? like enough!
I saw the proper twinkle in your eye —
'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first.
Let 's sit and set things straight now, hip to
haunch.
Here's spring come, and the nights one makes
up bands
To roam the town and sing out carnival,
And I've been three weeks shut within my mew,
A-painting for the great man, saints and saints
And saints again. 1 could not paint all night —
Ouf ! I leaned out of window for fresh air. 50
There came a hurry of feet and little feet,
A sweep of lute strings, laughs, and whifts of
song,—
Floiier o ' the broom,
Take away love, and our earth is a tomh !
Flower o' the quince,
I let Lisa go, and what good in life since?
Flower o' the thyme — and so on. Round they
went.3
Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter
Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight, —
three slim shapes.
And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, flesh
and blood, 60
That 's all I 'm made of ! Into shreds it went,
(,'urtain and counterpane and coverlet,
All the bed-furniture — a dozen knots,
There was a ladder! Down I let myself,
Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so
dropped.
And after them. I came up with the fun
Hard by Saint Laurence,* hail fellow, well
met, —
Flower o' the rose, ^
If I've been merry, what matter who Jcnows?
And so as I was stealing back again 70
To get to bed and have a bit of sleep
Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work
On Jerome'' knocking at his poor old breast
With his great round stone to subdue the flesh,
You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see!
Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your
head —
Mine's shaved — a monk, you say — the sting's in
that!
If Master Cosimo announced himself,
Mura's the word naturally; but a monk!
Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now! so
3 I. e., took up the song in turn.
4 The Chjirch of San Lorenzo.
.1 St. .Terome, one of the early church fathers.
618
THE VICTORIAN AGE
I was a babj when mj mother died
And father died and left me in the street.
I starved there, God knows how, a year or two
On fig-skins, melon-parings, rintls and shucks,
Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day.
My stomach being empty as your hat.
The wind doubled me up and down I went.
Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand,
(Its fellow was a stinger as I knew)
And so along the wall, over the bridge, 90
By the straight cut to the convent. Six words
there,
While I stood munching my first bread that
month :
"So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat
father,
Wiping his own mouth, 't was refection-time, —
"To quit this very miserable world?
Will you renounce" . . . "the mouthful of
bread?" thought I;
By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me;
I did renounce the world, its pride and greed.
Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house.
Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici 100
Have given their hearts to — all at eight years
old.
Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure,
'T was not for nothing — the good bellyful,
The warm serge and the rope that goe« all
round.
And day-long blessed idleness beside!
"Let's see what the urchin's fit for" — that
came next.
Not overmuch their way, I must confess.
Such a to-do! They tried me with their books;
Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure
waste !
Flower o' the clove, HO
All the Latin I construe is "amo," I love!
But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets
Eight years together, as my fortune was,
Watching folk's faces to know who will fling
The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires,
And who will curse or kick him for his pains, —
Which gentleman processional* and fine.
Holding a candle to the Sacrament,
Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch
The droppings of the wax to sell again, 120
Or holla for the Eighth and have him whipped, —
How say It — nay, which dog bites, which lets
drop
His bone from the heap of offal in the street, —
Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike,
He learns the look of things, and none the less
For admonition from the hunger-pinch.
a taking part In a rollKlouB procosslon (an at one
of ttip sncrampntK)
7 Thi» city maitlsfratpn.
I had a store of such remarks, be sure.
Which, after I found leisure, turned to use.
I drew men's faces on my copy-books, 129
Scrawled them within the antiplionary 'ss marge.
Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes,
Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's,
And made a string of pictures of the world
Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun.
On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks
looked black.
"Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d 'ye
In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark.
What if at last we get our man of parts.
We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese»
And Preaching Friars,!" to do our church up
fine 140
And put the front on it that ought to be ! "
And hereupon he bade me daub away.
Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls
a blank,
Never was such prompt disemburdening.
First, every sort of monk, the black and white, n
I drew them, fat and lean : then, folk at church,
From good old gossips waiting to confess
Their cribsia of barrel-droppings, candle-ends, —
To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot.
Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there
With the little children round him in a row 151
Of admiration, half for his beard and half
For that white anger of his victim's son
Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm,
Signing himself with the other because of
Christ
(Whose sad face on the cross .sees only this
After the passion of a thousand years)
Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head,
(Which the intense eyes looked through) came
at eve
On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, 160
Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers
(The brute took growling), prayed, and so was
gone.
I painted all, then cried " 'T is ask and have;
Choose, for more 's ready I ' ' — laid the ladder
flat.
And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall.
The monks closed in a circle and praised loud
Till checked, taught what to see and not to see,
Being simple bodies, — "That's the very man!
Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog!
That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes
« A book of antlphons, or responsive songs.
9 A monastic order founded by St. Unmiiald at
Camaldoll, near Florence.
10 DomlnicaDH.
II The Dominicans wore black robes, the rarmelltea
white.
12 pilfevinKs
ROBERT BROWNING
G19
To care about his asthma: it's the life! " 171
But there my triumph 's straw-fire flared and
funked ;
Their betters took their turn to see and say :
The Prior and the learned pulled a face
And stopped all that in no time. "How?
what's here?
Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all!
Paces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true
As nuieh as pea and pea ! it 's devil 's-game I
Your business is not to catch men with show.
With homage to the perishable clay, 180
But lift tliem over it, ignore it all,
Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh.
Your business is to paint the souls of men —
Man 's soul, and it 's a fire, smoke . . . no, it 's
not . . .
It 's vapour done up like a new-born babe —
(In that shape when you die it leaves your
mouthis)
It 's . . . well, what matters talking, it 's the
soul!
Give us no more of body than shows soul!
Here's Giotto,!-* with his Saint a-praising God,
That sets us praising, — why not stop with him?
Why put all thoughts of praise out of our
head 191
With wonder at lines, colours, and what not?
Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms!
Rub all out, try at it a second time.
Oh, that white smallish female with the
breasts,
She's just my niece . . . Herodias,i"' I would
say, —
Who went and danced and got men 's heads
cut oflf!
Have it all out!" Now, is this sense, I a.sk?
A fine way to paint soul, by painting body
So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go fur-
ther 200
And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for
white
W^hen M hat you put for yellow 's simply black,
And any sort of meaning looks intense
When all beside itself means and looks naught.
Why can 't a painter lift each foot in turn.
Left foot and right foot, go a double step,
Make his flesh liker and his soul more like.
Both in their order! Take the prettiest face,
The Prior's niece . . . patron-saint — is it so
pretty
13 Frequently represented so in early paintings,
o. g., in the "Triumph of Death," ascribed to
Orcagna, in the Campo Santo of Pisa.
M Somatimes called "the father of modern Italian
art" ; he floMrishod at the beginning of the
14th century.
i">It was not Herodias, but her daughter, Salome,
who danced before Herod and obtained the
head of John the Baptist. See Mntthew, 14.
You can't discover if it means hope, fear, 210
Sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these!
Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue,
Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash,
And then add soul and heighten them three-
fold?
Or say there's beauty with no soul at all —
(I never saw it — put the case the same — )
If you get simple beauty and naught else,
You get about the best thing God invents:
That 's somewhat : and you '11 find the soul you
have missed,
Within yourself, when you return him thanks.
"Rub all out! " Well, well, there's my life, in
short, 221
And so the thing has gone on ever since.
I 'm grown a man no doubt, I 've broken
bounds:
You should not take a fellow eight years old
And make him swear to never kiss the girls.
I 'm my own master, paint now as I please —
Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house!
Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front —
Those great rings serve more purposes than just
To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse! 230
And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave
eyes
Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work.
The heads shake still — "It's art's decline, my
son!
You're not of the true painters, great and old;
Brother Angelico'sis the man, you'll find;
Brother Lorenzoi^ stands his single peer:
Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third! "
Flower o' the pine,
Yoii Iceep your mistr . . . manners, and I'll
stich to mine!
I 'm not the third, then : bless us, they must
know ! 240
Don't you think they're the likeliest to know,
They with their Latin? So, I swallow my rage.
Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and
paint
To please them — sometimes do and sometimes
don 't ;
For, doing most, there 's pretty sure to come
A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints —
A laugh, a cry, the business of the world —
(Flower o' the peach.
Death for ns all, and his own life for each!)
And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs
over.
250
The world and life's too big to pass for a
dream,
And I do these wild things in sheer despite,
18 Fra Angellco (l.?87-1415), who painted In the
•?arlier manner ; famous for his paintings of
angels. Cp. what Busliin says, p. 684.
17 Lor.^nzo Monaco, another contemporary painter.
G20
THE vu:toi{Ja.\ acie
And play tli© fooleries you catch me at,
In pure rage! Tlie old mill-horse, out at grass
After liard years, throws up his stiff lieels so,
Although the miller does not preach to him
The only good of grass is to make chaff.
What would men have? Do they like grass
or no —
May they or may n't they? all I want's the
thing
Settled forever one way. As it is, 260
You tell too many lies and hurt yourself;
You don't like what you only like too much.
You do like what, if given you at your word,
You find abundantly detestable.
For me, I think I speak as I was taught ;
I always see the garden and God there
A-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned.
The value and significance of flesh,
I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards.
You understand me: I'm a beast, I know. 270
But see, now — why, I see as certainly
As that the morning-star 's about to shine.
What will hap some day. We've a youngster
here
Comes to our convent, studies what I do,
Slouches and stares and let.s no atom drop:
His name is Guidiis — he '11 not mind the
monks —
They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk —
He picks my practice up — he '11 paint apace.
J hope so — though I never live so long,
T know what 's sure to follow. You be
judge! 280
You speak no Latin more than I, belike;
However, you 're my man, you 've seen the
world
—The beauty and the wonder and the power.
The .shapes of things, tneir colours, lights and
shades,
Changes, surprises, — and God made it all!
— For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no.
For this fair town's face, yonder river 's line,
The mountain round it and the sky above.
Much more the figures of man, woman, child,
These are the frame to? What's it all about ?290
To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon.
Wondered at? oh, this last of course! — ^you say.
But why not do as well as say, — paint these
Just as they are, careless what ertmes of it?
Go<l 's works — paint any one, and count it crime
To lot a truth slip. Don't object, ''His works
Are here already; nature is complete: ;
Suppose yon reproduce her — ( which you, can 't)
isTommaso Gnid!, better known an Masaocio (i. e.
TommasHrclo. ••Careless Tom"), the cmnt
pioneer of tho RonafHgance period, ann the
nnster of Flllppo I.lppl. not the pnpll.
There's no advantage! you nnu^t beat her,
then. ' '
For, don't you mark? we're made so that we
love 300
First when we see them painted, things we have
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see;
And so they are better, painted — better to us.
Which is the same thing. Art was given for
that ;
God uses us to help each other so,
Lending our minds out. Have you noticed,
now,
Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk.
And trust me but you should, though! How
much more.
If I drew higher things with the same truth !
That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place, 310
Interpret God to all of you ! Oh, oh.
It makes me mad to see what men shall do
And we in our graves! This world 's no blot
for us.
Nor blank; it means intensely, and means
good :
To find its meaning is my meat and drink.
"Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!"
Strikes in the Prior : ' ' w hen your meaning 'a
plain
It does not say to folk — remember matins,
Or, mind you fast next Friday ! ' ' Why, for this,
What need of art at all? A skull and bones, 320
Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's
best,
A bell to chime the hour with, does as well.
I painted a Saint Laurenceis six months since
At Prato,20 splashed the fresco in fine style:
"How looks my painting, now the scaffold 's
down?"
I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns —
"Already not one phiz of your three slaves
Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, .
But 's scratched and prodded to our heart's
content.
The pious people have so eased their own 330
With coming to say prayers there in a rage:
We get on fast to see the bricks beneath.
Expect another job this time next year.
For pity and religion grow i' the crowd —
Your painting serves its purpose! " Hang tho
fools !
— That is — you '11 not mistake an idle word
8poke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot.
Tasting the air this spicy night which turns
in A Christian martyr of the 3d centnr.r who was
roasted alive on a gridiron, or Iron chair.
20 A town nenr l<^lorenee.
ROREBT BROWXING
031
The unaccustomed head like Chiauti-'i wind
Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me,
now!
It *s natural a poor monk out of bounds
Should have his apt word to excuse himself:
And harken how I plot to make amends.
I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece
. . . There 's for you! 22 Give me six months.
then go, see
Something in Sant' Ambrogio 's ! 23 Bless the
nuns!
They want a cast 0' my office.24 I shall paint
God in the midst, Madonna and her babe,
Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood,
Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet 350
As puff on puff of grated orris-root
When ladies crowd to Church at mid-summer.
And then i' the front, of course a saint or
two —
Saint John,2'> because he saves the Florentines.
Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and
white
The convent 's friends and gives them a long
day.
And Job, I must have him there past mistake,
The man of Uz (and Us without the z.
Painters who need his patience). Well, all
these
Secured at their devotion, up shall come 360
Out of a corner when you least expect.
As one by a dark stair into a great light,
Music and talking, who but Lippo! I! —
Mazed, motionless, and moonstruck — I'm the
man!
Back I shrink — ^what is this I see and hear?
I, caught up with my monk's-things by mistake.
My old serge gown and rope that goes all round.
I, in this presence, this pure company!
Where 's a hole, where 's a corner for escape?
Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing 370
Forward, puts out a soft palm — ' ' Not so
fast ! ' '
■ — Addresses the celestial presence, "nay^
He made you and devised you, after all.
Though he 's none of you! Could Saint .Toh:,
there draw —
His camel-hair2c jnake up a painting-brush ?
We come to brother Lippo for all that,
Iste perfeeit opus!"-'' So, all smile —
I shuffle sideways with my blushing face
Under the cover of a hundred wings
21 A famous vineyard rcjrion near Florence.
i>2 (Jiving them money.
23 St. Ambrose's, a Florentine convent.
24 A stroke of my skill.
2r. The patron saint of Florence.
2« S<»e page 41 (Mattheir, Hi, 4).
ii7 In prrfecit npun ("This is he wl»o made it") is
the inscription on a scroll in the painting de-
s(ril>ert, indicating the portrait of I.ippl.
Thrown like a spread of kirtles wlien you're
gay ^ 380
And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut,
Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops
The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off
To some safe bench behind, not letting go
The palm of her, the little lily thing
That sjjoke the good word for me in the nick,
Like the Prior's niece . . . Saint Lucy, 1
would say.
And so all's saved for me, and for the church
A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence!
Your hand, sir, and good-by: no lights, no
lights! " 3fl0
The street 's hushed, and I know my own way
back,
Don't fear me! There 's the gray beginning.
ZookB !
UP AT A VILLA— DOWN IN THE CITY
(as DrSTINCmSHED BY AN ITALIAN PERSON OF
quality)
Had I but plenty of money, money enough and
to spare.
The house for me, no doubt, were a house in
the city-square;
Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the
window there!
Something to see. by Bacchus, something to
hear, at least!
There, the whole day long, one's life is a per-
fect feast;
While up at a villa one lives. I maintain it, no
more than a beast.
Well now, look at our villa ! stuck like the
horn of a bull
Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the crea-
ture's skull,
Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf
to pull!
— I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the
hair's turned wool. 10
But the city, oh the city — the square with the
houses ! Why,
They are stone-faced, white as a curd, tiiere's
something to take the eye!
Houses in four straight lines, not a single front
awry;
You watch who crosses and gossips, who saun-
ters, who hurries by;
Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw
when the sun gets high ;
And the shops with fanciful signs which are
painted properly.
622
THE VICTORIAN AGE
What of a villa? Though winter be over in
March by rights,
*Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have
withered well off the heights:
You've the brown ploughed land before, where
the oxen steam and wheeze,
And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint
gray olive-trees. 20
Is it better in May, I ask you? You've sum-
mer all at once;
In a day he leaps complete with a few strong
April suns.
'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce
risen three fingers well,
The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out
its great red bell
Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the
children to pick and sell.
Is it ever hot in the square? There 's a
fountain to spout and splash!
In the shade it sings and springs: in the shin'>
such foambows flash
On the horses with curling fish-tails, that
prance and paddle and pash
Bound the lady atop in her conch — fifty gazers
do not abash,
Though all that she wears is some weeds round
her waist in a sort of sash. 30
All the year long at the villa, nothing to see
though you linger.
Except yon cypress that points like death's
lean lifted forefinger.
Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i' the
corn and mingle.
Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it
seem a-tingle.
Late August or early September, the stunning
cicala is shrill,
And the bees keep their tiresome whine round
the resinous firs on the hill.
Enough of the seasons, — I spare you the months
of the fever and chill.
Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed
church-bells begin:
No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence
rattles in :
You get the pick of the news, and it costs you
never a pin. 40
By and by there's the travelling doctor gives
pills, lets blood, draws teeth:
Or the Puldnelloi-trumpet breaks up the mar-
ket beneath.
At the post-office such a scene-picture — the new
play, piping hot!
1 Kn^llxh "Punch" f Punch and Judy nhow).
And a notice how, only this morning, three
liberal thieves were shot.2
Above it, behold the Arclibishop 's most fatherly
of rebukes.
And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some
little new law of the Duke's!
Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Eev-
erend Don So-and-so,
Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint
Jerome, and Cicero.
"And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,)
"the skirts of Saint Paul has reached,
Having preached us those six Lent-lectures
more unctuous than ever he preache<l. ' ' 50
Noon strikes, — here sweeps the procession! our
Lady borne smiling and smart
With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and
seven swords stuck in her heart!
Bang -whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-
tootle the fife;
No keeping one's haunches still: it's the great-
est pleasure in life.
But bless you, it 's dear — it 's dear! fowls,
wine, at double the rate.
They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and
what oil pays passing the gate
It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa
for me, not the city!
Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still —
ah, the pity, the pity!
Look, two and two go the priests, then tlie
monks with cowls and sandals.
And the penitents dressed in white shirts,
a-holding the yellow candles; 60
One, he carries a flag up straight, and another
a cross with handles.
And the Duke 's guard brings up the rear, for
the better prevention of scandals:
Bang -whang -whang goes the drum, tootle-te-
tootle the fife.
Oh, a day in the city-square, there ia no such
pleasure in life!
MEMORABILIA*
Ah, did you once see Shelley plain.
And did he stop and speak to you,
And did you speak to him again?
How strange it seems and new!
2 Thoro is subtle Irony In making this aonllPRS
civilian l>etray his childiBh contempt for the
lilM>ral or republican party.
♦ Once, in a bookstore. Browning overheard some
one mention the fact that he had once seen
Shelley. Browning was a youthful admirer
of Shelley, having received from certain vol-
umes of him and Keats — a chance-found
"eagle-feather." as it were. — some of his
earliest inspiration. On Keats, .see the next
po«>m.
ROBERT BROWNING
623
But you were living before that,
And also you are living after;
And the memory I started at —
^ly starting moves your laughter I
I crossed a moor, with a name of its own
And a certain use in the world no douht.
Yet a hand 's breadth of it shines alone
'Mid the blank miles round about:
For there I picked up on the heather
And there I put inside my breast
A moulted feather, an eagle- feather!
Well, I forget the rest.
POPULARITY
Stand still, true poet that you are! t
I know you; let me try and draw you.
Some night you'll fail us; when afar
You rise, remember one man saw you,
Knew you, and named a star!
My star, God's glow-worm! Why extend
That loving hand of his which leads you,
Yet locks you safe from end to end
Of this dark world, unless he needs you.
Just saves your light to spend? 10
His clenched hand shall unclose at last,
1 know, and let out all the beauty:
My poet holds the future fast,
Accepts the coming ages' duty,
Their present for this past.
That day the earth's feast-master's brow
Shall clear, to God the chalice raising;
' ' Others give best at first, but thou
Forever set'st our table praising,
Keep 'st the good wine till now ! " 20
Meantime, Til draw you as you stand,
With few or none to watch and wonder:
I '11 say — a fisher, on the sand
By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder,
A netful, brought to land.
Who has not heard how Tyrian shells
Enclosed the blue, that dye of dyes
t This poet Is not necessarily Keats, but Keats
is a type of the great man who, missiag
popularity in his own life, dies obscurely —
lilce the ancient ol)scurf discoverer of the
murex. the fish whose precious purple dyes
made the fortune of many a mere trader or
artis.in who came after him. (Without In-
Uraatin;:; for a moment that Tennyson was a
mere artisan, it may he freely actcnowledged
that much of his popularity. In which at this
time. 1855, he quite exceeded Browning, was
due to qualities which he derived from Keats.)
Whereof one drop worked miracles.
And coloured like Astarte'st eyes
Raw silk the merchant sells?
30
And each bystander of them all
Could criticise, and quote tradition
How depths of blue sublimed some palls
— To get which, pricked a king's ambition;
Worth sceptre, crown and ball.s
Yet there 's the dye, in that rough mesh.
The sea has only just o 'er-whispered !
Live whelks, each lip's beard dripping fresh.
As if they still the water's lisp heard
Through foam the rock-weeds thresh. 40
Enough to furnish Solomon
Such hangings for his cedar-house.
That, when gold-robed he took the throne
In that abyss of blue, the Spouse*
Might swear his presence shone.
Most like the centre-spike of gold
Which burns deep in the bluebell's womb
What time, with ardours manifold.
The bee goes singing to her groom.
Drunken and overbold. 60
Mere eonchs! not fit for warp or woof!
Till cunning come to pound and squeeze
And clarify, — refine to proof
The liquor filtered by degrees.
While the world stands aloof.
And there's the extract, flasked and fine.
And priced and salable at last!
And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes and Nokea combine
To paint the future from the past,
Put blue into their line.» 60
Hobbs hints blue, — straight he turtle eats:
Nobbs prints blue, — claret crowns his cup:
Xokes outdares Stokes in azure feats, —
Both gorge. Who fished the murex upf
What porridge had John Keats?
THE PATRIOT*
AX OLD .STORY.
It was roses, roses, all the way.
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad :
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway.
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.
1 The Syrian Aphrodite.
2 coronation robe
8 The trolden orb borne with the sceptre as em-
blem of sovereignty.
4 The Soiiij of HoloiHOH. v, i.
5 I. e., aspire to the aristocracy.
• The poem is purely dramatic, not historical.
r.34
THE VICTOEIAN AGE
The air broke into a mist with bells,
The oM walls rocked with the crowd and
cries.
Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels —
But give me your sun from yonder skies ! ' '
They had answered, "And afterward, what
else!" 10
Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun
To give it my loving friends to keep!
Naught man could do, have I left undone:
And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run.
There's nobody on the house-tops now —
Just a palsied few at the windows set;
For the best of the sight is, all allow,
At the Shambles' Gate — or, better yet.
By the very scaffold 's foot, I trow. 20
I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
A rope cuts both my wrists behind ;
And 1 think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds.
For they fling, whoever has a mind.
Stones at me for my year 's misdeeds.
Thus I entered, and thus I go!
In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.
"Paid by the world, what dost thou owe
Me?" — God might question; now instead,
'T is God shall repay: I am safer so. 30
"CHILDE BOLAND TO THE DABK
TOWER CAME"*
My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.
What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him poste<l
there,
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like
laugh 10
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my
epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,
• Thp titio Is a llnp of Edgnr's sonpr. Kinp Lear,
III. Iv. 187. "Chlldo" Is an old titlo for a
youth of noble birth. Them has boon much
diKciiHsion over the qupstlon whether the j
knif^ht'H pilgrimage, which Ih hero so vividly i
and yet ho m.vRtically portrAyed. is allegorical j
or not. DoiibtlesH there 18 no elaborate nl- I
legory in It. though there may well he a |
moral- Komething like conxtancy to an ideal, i
Ttrownlng admitted. !
If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree.
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly
1 did turn as he pointed: neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.
For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,
What with my search drawn out through
years, my hope 20
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
With that obstreperous joy success would
bring,—
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring
My heart made, finding failure in its scope.
As when a sick man very near to death
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
The tears, and takes the farewell of each friend,
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
Freelier outside, ("since all is o'er," he saith.
"And the blow fallen no grieving can
amend;") 30
While some discuss if near the other graves
Be room enough for this, and when a day
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
With care about the banners, scarves and
staves :
And still the man hears all, and only craves
He may not shame such tender love and stay.
Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
So many times among * ' The Band ' ' — to wit
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search
addressed 40
Their steps — that just to fail as they, seemed
best.
And all the doubt was now — should I be fit?
So, quiet as despair, I turned from him.
That hateful cripple, out of his highway
Ihto the path he pointed. All the day
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray. ; ;'
For mark! no sooner was I fairly found
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, 60
Than, pausing t6 throw backward a last view
O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; gray plain
all round :
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.
I might go on; naught else remained to do.
So, on T went. T think I never saw
Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
Fftr flowers — as well expect a cedar grove!
ROBERl BROWNING
625
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You'd think: a burr had been a treasure
trove. 60
No! penury, inertness and grimace,
Jn some strange sort, were the land's portion.
"See
Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly,
"It nothing skills :i I cannot help my case:
'T is the Last Judgment 's fire must cure this
place,
Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free. ' '
If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
Above its mates, the head was chopped; the
bents2
Were jealous else. What made those holes
and rents
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as
to balk 70
All hope of greenness! 'tis a brute must walk
Pashing their life out, with a brute "s intents.
As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with
blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare.
Stood stupefied, however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!
Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and coUopeds neck
a-strain, 80
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.
I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
As a man calls for wine before he fights.
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards — the soldier's art:
One taste of the old time sets all to rights.
Not it ! I fancied Cuthbert 's reddening face 91
Beneath its garniture of curly gold.
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm in mine to fix me to the place,
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!
Out went my heart 's new fire and left it cold.
Giles then, the soul of honour — there he stands
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
1 avails nothing
3 ridged
2 grass stalk^^
What honest man should dare (he said) he
durst.
Good — but the scene shifts — faugh ! what hang-
man hands 100
Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!
Better this present than a past like that;
Back therefore to my darkening path again!
No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
I asked: when something on the dismal flat
Came to arrest my thoughts and change their
train.
A sudden little river crossed my path
As unexpected as a serpent comes. HO
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
For the fiend 's glowing hoof — to see the wrath
Of its black eddy bespate* with flakes and
spumes.
So petty, yet so spiteful! All along,
Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng:
The river which had done them all the wrong,
Whate 'er that was, rolled by, deterred no
whit. 120
Which, while I forded, — good saints, how I
feared
To set my foot upon a dead man 's cheek.
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
— It may have been a water-rat I speared.
But, ugh, it sounded like a baby's shriek.
Glad was T when I reached the other bank.
Now for a better country. Vain presage!
Who were the strugglers, what war did they
wage,
Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank
Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank, 131
Or wild-cats in a red-hot iron cage —
The fight must so have seemed in that fell
cirque.
What penned them there, with all the plain to
choose ?
No footprint leading to that horrid mews,
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the
Turk
• That is, bespit, bespattered : from the archaic
bespete. The rather unusual diction employed
throughout the poem helps to hoighten Its
grotesque character.
626
THE VICTORIAN AGE
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.
And more than that — a furlong on— why, tlwre !
What bad use was that engine for, that
wheel, 140
Or brake, not wheel — that harrow fit to reel
Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air
Of Tophet'si tool, on earth left unaware.
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.
Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a
wood,
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere
earth
Desperate and done with: (so a fool finds
mirth.
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
Changes and off he goes!) within a rood —
Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black
dearth. 160
Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,
Now patches where some leanness of the
soil 's
Broke into moss or substances like boils;
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.
And just as far as ever from the end!
Naught in the distance but the evening,
naught
To point my footstep further! At the
thought,
A great black bird, Apollyon 's2 bosom-friend.
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-
penneds 161
That brushed my cap — ^perchance the guide I
sought.
For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round to mountains — with such name to
grace
Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
How thus they had surprised me, — solve it,
you!
How to get from them was no clearer case.
Yet half T seemed to recognize some trick
Of mischief happened to me, God knows
when — 170
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,
Progress this way. When, in the very nick
Of giving up, one time more, came a click
As when a trap shuts — you 're inside the den !
1 boll's -J Satan's
3 with pinluuij like u dragon's
Burningly it came on me all at once.
This was the place! tJiose two hills on the
right,
Crouched like two bulls lucked horu in horn
in fight;
While to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . .
Dunce,
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,*
After a life spent training for the sight! 180
What in the midst lay but the Tower itself!
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's
heart,
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart
In the whole world. The tempest 's mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.
Not see? because of night perhaps? — why, day
Came back again for that! before it left
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, 190
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, —
' ' Now stab and end the creature — to the
heft!"
Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears.
Of all the lost adventurers my peers, —
How such a one was strong, and such was bold.
And such was fortunate, yet each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of
years.
There they stood, ranged along the hillsides,
met
To view the last of me, a living frame 200
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn^ to my lips I set.
And blew: "Childe Roland to the Dark
Tower came."
BABBI BEN EZRA*
Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for wliich the first was made:
Our times are in his hand
4 critical moment
Not properly the name of a horn, If the word
Is a corruption of "slogan." It was fliiis
misused by Chatterton fretinently. and Brown-
ing may have obtained it from that source.
* There was a certain Rabbi. Ben Ezra (or Aben-
ezra, or Ibn Ezra), who was a great sdiolar
and theologian of the twelfth century, lie
was born at Toledo and traveled widely,
dwelling at Rome, I^ndon. Palestine, and else-
where. Browning here mnkes him the mouth-
piece of a noblt philosophy.
ROBERT BROWNING
627
Who saith, "A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half: trust God: see all, nor
be afraid ! ' '
Not that, amassing flowers,
Youth sighed, ' ' Which rose make ours.
Which lily leave and then as best recall ? ' '
Not that, admiring stars, 10
It yearned, ' ' Nor Jove, nor Mars ;
Mine be some figured flame which blends,
transcends them all! "
Not for such hopes and fearst
Annulling youth's brief years.
Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!
Rather I prize the doubtt
Low kinds exist without.
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.
Poor vaunt of life indeed,
Were man but formed to feed 20
On joy. to solely seek and find and feast:
Such feasting ended, then
As sure an end to men:
Irks carei the erop-full bird! Frets doubt the
maw-crammed beast t
Rejoice we are allied
To that which doth provide
And not partake, effect and not receive!
A spark disturbs our clod;
Nearer we hold of God
Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must
believe. 30
Then, welcome each rebuff
That turns earth 's smoothness rough.
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!
Be our joys three-parts pain!
Strive, and hold cheap the strain;
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never
grudge the throe!
For thence, — a paradox
Which comforts while it mocks, —
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:
What I aspired to be, 40
And was not, comforts me:
A brute I might have been, but would not sink
i' the scale.
What is he but a brute
Whose flesh has soul to suit,
1 Subject of "irks."
1 1, e., such as those just mentioned, which seem
to make youth ineffectual.
t Supply "that." This is exactly the thought
which Tennyson had already expressed in In
.Vcmorfam, XXVII.
Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want
play?
To man, propose this test —
Thy body at its best,
How far can that project thy soul on its lone
wayt
Yet gifts should prove their use:
I own the Past profuse 50
Of power each side, perfection every turn:
Eyes, ears took in their dole,
Brain treasured up the whole;
Should not the heart beat once * ' How good to
live and learn"?
Not once beat "Praise be thine!
I see the whole design,
I, who saw power, see now Love perfect too;
Perfect I call thy plan:
Thanks that I was a man!
Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what thou
Shalt do!" 60
For pleasant is this flesh;
Our soul, in its rose-mesh
Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest :
Would we some prize might hold
To match those manifold
Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we did
best!
Let us not always say,
' ' Spite of this flesh to-day
I strove, made head, gained ground upon the
whole!"
As the bird wings and sings, 70
Let us cry, "All good things
Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than
flesh helps soul ! ' '
Therefore I summon age
To grant youth 's heritage.
Life's struggle having so far reached its term:-
Thence shall I pass, approved
A man, for aye removed
From the developed brute; a God though in the
germ.
And I shall thereupon
Take rest, ere I be gone 80
Once more on my adventure brave and new:
Fearless and unperplexed.
When I wage battle next,
What weapons to select, what armour to indue.i
Youth ended, I shall try
My gain or loss thereby;
1 put on
G28
THE VICTOKIAN AGE
Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold :
And I shall weigh the same,
Give life its praise or blame:
Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being
old. 90
For note, when evening shuts,
A certain moment cuts
The deed off, calls the glory from the gray:
A whisper from the west
Shoots — "Add this to the rest,
Take it and try its worth: here dies another
day. ' '
So, still within this life.
Though lifted o'er its strife,
Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last,
' ' This rage was right i ' the main, 100
That acquiescence vain:
The Future I may face now 1 have proved the
Past."
For more is not reserved
To man, with soul just nerved
To act to-morrow what he learns to-day:
Here, work enough to watch
The Master work, and catch
Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's
true play.
As it was better, youth
Should strive, through acts uncouth, 110
Toward making, than repose On aught found
made:
So, better, age, exempt
From strife, should know, than tempt
Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death nor
be afraid!
Enough now, if the Sight
And Good and Infinite
Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine
own.
With knowledge absolute,
Subject to no dispute 'tr* '>*•
From fools that crowded youth, noV let thee
feel alone. 120
Be there, for once and all.
Severed great minds from small,
Announced to each his station in the Past!
Was 1,2 the world arraigned,
Were tbey,2 my soul disdained,
Right f Let age speak the truth and give us
peace nt lastf
■i Knpply "whom."
Kow, who shall arbitrate!
Ten men love what I hate.
Shun what 1 follow, slight what I receive;
Ten, who in ears and eyes 130
Match me; we all surmise,
They this thing, and I that : whom shall my
soul believe?
Not on the vulgar mass
Called "work" must sentence pass,"
Things done, that took the eye and had the
price;
O'er which, from level stand.
The low world laid its hand.
Found straightway to its niiiul, eoukl value in
a trice:
But all, the world 's coarse thumb
And finger failed to plumb, 110
So passed in making up the main account;
All instincts immature.
All purposes unsure.
That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the
man's amount:
Thoughts hardly to be packed
Into a narrow act.
Fancies that broke through language and
escaped ;
All I could never be,
All, men ignored in me.
This, 1 was worth to God, whose wheel the
pitcher shaped. 150
Ay, note that Potter's wheel,
Tljat metaphor! and feel
Why time spins fast, why passive lies our
clay, —
Thou, to whom fools propound,
When the wine makes its round,
"Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone,
seize to-day ! ' '*
Fool! All that is, at all,
Lasts ever, past recall;
Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand
sure:
What entered into thee, ISO
That was. is, and shall be:
Time's wlieel runs back or stops: Potter and
clay endure.
Ho fixed thee 'mid this dance
Of plastic^ circumstance,
3 shaping
• Both the figure and the philosophy hero obvious-
ly Huggcst Omar Khayyam, though both are
very much older.
ROBERT BROWNING
G-^9
This Present, thou, forsooth, would fain arrest:
Machinery just meant
To give thy soul its bent,
Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently
impressed.*
What though the earlier grooves.
Which ran the laughing loves 170
Around thy base, no longer pause and press?
What though, about thy rim,
Skull-things in order grim
Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner
stress?
Look not thou down but up!
To uses of a cup.
The festal board, lamp's flash and t'"umpet *s
peal.
The new wine's foaming flow,
The Master's lips aglow!
Thou, lieaven's consummate cup, what needst
thou with earth's wheel! 180
But 1 need, now as then.
Thee, God, who niouldcst men;
And since, not even while the whirl was worst,
Did I — to the wheel of life
With shapes and colours rife.
Bound dizzily — ^mistake my end, to slake thy
thirst :
So, take and use thy work:
Amend what flaws may lurk.
What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past
the aim!
My times be in thy hand! 190
Perfect the cup as planned!
Let age approve of youth, and death complete
the same!
PROSPICE*
Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat.
The mist in my face.
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible
form,
Yet the strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit
attained,
And the barriers fall, 10
4 moulded and figured
♦This poem was vxritteu in 1861. shortly after]
Mrs. Browninjr's death. The title moans i
"Look forward." I
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be
gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more.
The best and the last!
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and
forbore.
And bade me creep past.
No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my
peers
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's
arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold. -0
For sudden the worst turns the best to the
brave.
The black minute's at end.
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices thai,
rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of
pain.
Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee
again,
And with God be the rest!
HERVE RIELf
I
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred
ninety-two.
Did the English fight the French, — woe to
France !
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter
through the blue,
Like a crowd of frightened porpoiscsi a .shoal
of sharks pursue.
Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo
on the Ranee,
With the English fleet in view.
'T was the squadron that escaped, with the vic-
tor in full chase;
First and foremost of the drove, in his great
ship, Damfreville;
Close on him fled, great and small,
Twenty-two good ships in all ; 10
And they signalled to the place
"Help the winners of a race!
I Supply "which."
t The victory of La Hogue was won off the north
coast of Normandy by the British and Dutch
Allies against Louis XIV. Ilervo Riol, a Bre-
ton .sailor from the village of Croisic, saved
many of the fleeing French vessels hv pilot-
ing them through the shallows at the" mouth
of the liver Ranee to the roadstead at St.
Malo.
630
THE VICTORIAN AGE
Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us
quick — or, quicker still,
Here 's the English can and will ! ' '
III
Then the pilots of the place put out brisk aud
leapt on board;
"Why what hope or chance have ships like
these to pass?" laughed they:
"Bocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the
passage scarred and scored.
Shall the 'Formidable' here with her twelve
and eighty guns
Think to make the river-mouth by the single
narrow way.
Trust to enter where 't is ticklish for a craft
of twenty tons, 20
And with flow at full beside f
Now, 't is slackest ebb of tide.
Reach the mooring? Rather say,
While rock stands or water runs.
Not a ship will leave the bay ! ' '
IV
Then was called a council straight.
Brief and bitter the debate:
"Here's the English at our heels; would you
have them take in tow
All that's left us of the fleet, linked together
stern and bow,
For a prize to Plymouth Sound? 30
Better run the ships aground ! ' '
(Ended Damfreville his speech).
' ' Not a minute more to wait !
Let the Captains all and each
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels
on the beach!
France must undergo her fate.
V
"Give the word!" But no such word
Was ever spoke or heard:
For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck
amid all these
— A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate — first,
second, third? 40
No such man of mark, and meet
With his betters to compete!
But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville
for the fleet,
A poor coasting pilot he, Herv6 Riel the Croi-
sickese.
VI
And "What mockery or malice have we here?"
cries Herv6 Riel:
"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cow-
ards, foola, or rogues?
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took
the soundings' tell
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every
swell,
'Twixt the offing here and Grfeve where the
river disembogues?
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love
the lying's for? »<>
Morn and eve, night and day,
Have I piloted your bay.
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of
Solidor.
Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were
worse than fifty Hoguesl ;
Sirs, they know 1 speak the truth ! Sirs, believe )
me there's a way!
Only let me lead the line.
Have the biggest ship to steer, |
Get this 'Formidable' clear, ]
Make the others follow mine.
And I lead them, most and least, by a passage
I know well, ^^
Right to Solidor past Gr^ve,
And there lay them safe and sound:
And if one ship misbehave,
— Keel so much as grate the ground.
Why I've nothing but my life, — here's my
head ! ' ' cries Herv6 Biel. |
VII
Not a minute more to wait.
"Steer us in, then, small and great!
Take the helm, lead the line, save the
squadron ! ' ' cried its chief. i
Captains, give the sailor place! *
He is Admiral, in brief. '^
Still the north-wind, by God's grace!
See the noble fellow's face j
As the big ship, with a bound.
Clears the entry like a hound.
Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the
wide sea's profound! |
See, safe through shoal and rock,
How they follow in a flock.
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that
grates the ground, |
Not a spar that comes to grief 1
The peril, see, is past, *<'
All are harboured to the last.
And just as Herv6 Riel hollas "Anchor!"— |
sure as fate, |
Up the English come — too late! |
VIII
So, the storm subsides to calm:
They see the green trees wave
On the heights o'erlooking Grfeve.
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.
"Just our rapture to enhance,
Let the English rake the bay,
BOBEKT BROWNING
631
Gnash their teeth ami glare askance 90
As they cannonade away!
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the
Ranee ! ' '
How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's
countenance !
Out burst all with one accord,
"This is Paradise for Hell!
Let France, let France's King
Thank the man that did the thing! "
What a shout, and all one word,
"Herve Eiel!"
As he stepped in front once more, 100
Not a symptom of surprise
In the frank blue Breton eyes.
Just the same man as before.
Then said Damfreville, * ' My friend,
I must speak out at the end,
Though I find the speaking hard.
Praise is deeper than the lips:
You have saved the King his ships.
You must name your own reward.
'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! 110
Demand whate'er you will,
France remains your debtor still.
Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's
not Damfreville."
Then a beam of fun outbroke
On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton blue:
"Since I needs must say my say.
Since on board the duty 's done,
And from Malo Boads to Croisic Point, what
is it but a run? — 120
Since 't is ask and have, I may —
Since the others go ashore —
Come! A good whole holiday!
Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call
the Belle Aurore ! ' '
That he asked and that he got, — nothing
more.
XI
Name and deed alike are lost:
Not a pillar nor a post
In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it be-
fell;
Not a head in white and black
On a single fishing-smack, 130
In memory of the man but for whom had gone
to wrack
All that France saved from the fight whence
England bore the bell.i
1 bad the victory
Go to Paris: rank on rank
Search the heroes flung pell-mell
On the Louvre,' face aad flank:
You shall look long enough ere you come to
Herve Biel.
So, for better and for worse,
Herve Biel, accept my verse!
In my verse, Herve Biel, do thou once more
Save the squadron, honour France, love thy
wife, the Belle Aurore! 140
WANTING IS— WHAT!
Wanting is — what?
Summer redundant,
Blueness abundant,
— W^here is the blot?
Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same,
— Framework which waits for a picture to
frame :
W'hat of the leafage, what of the flower?
Boses embowering with naught they embower!
Come then, complete incompletion, O comer,
Pant through the blueness, perfect the summer!
Breathe but one breath
Bose-beauty above.
And all that was death
Grows life, grows love,
Grows love!
WHY I AM A LIBEBAL
"Why?" Because all I haply can and do,
All that I am now, all I hope to be, —
Whence comes it save from fortune setting free
Body and soul the purpose to pursue,
God traced for both? If fetters not a few,
Of prejudice, convention, fall from me,
These shall I bid men — each in his degree
Also God-guided — bear, and gayly, too?
But little do or can the best of us:
That little is achieved through Liberty.
Who, then, dares hold, emancipated thus,
His fellow shall continue bound? Not I,
Who live, love, labour freely, nor discuss
A brother 's right to freedom. That is ' ' Why. ' '
EPILOGUE*
At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time,
When you set your fancies free.
Will they pass to where — by death, fools think,
imprisoned —
1 An ancient royal palace, now mainly an art-
gallery, adorned with the statues of eminent
Frenchmen.
* This is the Epilogue to Asolando, which was
published at London on the day when Brown-
ing died at Venice.
632
THE VICTOKIAN AGE
Low he lies who once so loved you, wlioiu you
loved so,
— Pity me?
Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!
What had I on earth to do
With the slothful, with the mawkish, the un-
manly ?
Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel
— Being — who ?
One who never turned liis back but marched
breast forward.
Never doubted clouds would break.
Never dreamed, though right were worsted,
wrong would triumph,
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,
Sleep to wake.
No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-
time
Greet the unseen with a cheer!
Bid him forward, breast and back as either
should be,
"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed, — fight on,
fare ever
There as here ! ' '
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWN-
' ING (1 809-1 8bl)
SONNETS FKOM THE POKTUGUESE*
I thought once how Theocritus had sungi
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished- for
years.
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow- across me. Straightway I was 'ware,
1 Idyh, XV, 104.
* Thfso SonnctH. forty-four in number, were
written by Miss Barrt'tt during the time of
Mr. Browning's courtship, but were not shown
to him until after their marriage in 1846.
The title under which they were published
(1850) was adopted as a disguise. To under-
stand them nrigbt, it must be remembered
that Miss Barrett was in middle life and
had long been nn invalid. See Knij- Lit., p.
- :{07. F. (i. Keiiyon. in his edition of Mrs.
Browning's IjCHpih, writes: "With the sin-
gle exception of Itossettl. no modern Knglish
poet has written of love with such genius.
Hucb beauty, and such sincerity, as the two
who gave the most beautiful example of it in
their own lives."
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery, while 1 strove, —
"Guess now who holds thee?" — "Death," 1
said. But, there,
Tlie silver answer rang, — "Not Death, but
Love."
m
Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!
Unlike our uses and our destinies.
Our ministering two angels look surprise
On one another, as they strike athwart
Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art
A guest for queens to social pageantries.
With gages from a hundred brighter eyes
Than tears even can make mine, to play thy
part
Of chief musician. What hast thou to do
With looking from the lattice-lights at me,
A poor, tired, Avandering singer, singing through
The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?
The chrism- is on thine heatl, — on mine, the
dew, —
And Death must dig the level where these agree.
rv
Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor.
Most gracious singer of high poems! where
I The dancers will break footing, from the care
Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.
And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor
For hand of thine? and canst thou think and
bear
To let thy music drop here unaware
In folds of golden fulness at my door?
Look up and see the casement broken in.
The bats and owlets builders in the roof!
.My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.
Hush, call no echo up in further proof
Of desolation! there's a voice within
That weeps — as thou must sing — alone, aloof.
XIV
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
' ' I love her for her smile — her look — her w ay
Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day ' ' —
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee, — and love, so
wrought.
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, —
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
2 The sacred ointment; here flgurntlve for poetic
consecration.
EDWARD FITZGERALD
C)33
But love mo for love's sake, that evermore
Thou may'st love ou. through love's eternity.
XXII
When our two souls stand up erect and strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire
At either curvM point,— what bitter wrong
Can the earth do to us, that we should not long
He here eontentedl Think. In mounting
higher.
The angels would press on us and aspire
To drop some golden orb of perfect song
1 nto our deep, dear silence. Let us stay
Rather on earth. Beloved. — where the unfit
Tontrarious moods of men recoil away
And isolate pure spirits, and permit
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.
xim
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
.My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and i<leal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday 's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old- griefs, and with my childhood's
faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the
breath.
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and. if God
choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
EDWARD FITZGERALD
(1809-1883)
RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM*
I
Wake ! For the Sun, who scatter 'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Niglit.
Drives Night along with them from Ileav 'n.
and strikes
The Sultdn's Turret with a Shaft of Light.f
1 "False Dawn." preceding the real dawn about
an hour ; "a well known phenomenon hi the
East." (This note, and many that follow,
are condensed from Fitzgerald's notes.)
2 The Vernal equinox.
S See Exodun. iv. 6. A strong fijiurc for the
miracle of spring blossoms.
4 "According to the Persians, the healing power
of Jesus resided in his breath."
Before the phantom of False morning died,i
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
* ' When all the Temple is prepared within.
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside ? ' '
III
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted — ' ' Open then the Door !
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
IV
Now the New Year^ reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand of Moses on the
Bough
Puts out,3 and Jesus from the Ground suspires.*
V
Irani indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd 's Sev 'n-ring 'd Cup where no one
knows ;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows.J
* Omar Khayyam (i. e., Omar the Tent-maker)
was a Persian astronomer and poet of the
12th century, who dwelt at XalshApflr.
Rubdiyat is a Persian word, the plural of
rubdi, which signifies "a quatrain." These
rubaiyat are therefore short, epigrammatic
poems, virtually independent of each other.
From among the numerous quatrains left by
Omar, Edward Fitzgerald selected and free-
ly translated a number, and printed them in
1859 (see Eng. Lit., p. 300). The number in
that edition was seventy-flve. The third edi-
tion (1873) contained one hundred and one;
the fourth edition, which is reproduced here,
had a few further verbal changes. There are
two widely divergent views of the philosophy
contained in them, the one regarding it as
wholly materialistic, raising questions of the
"Two Worlds" only to dismiss them and take
refuge in the pleasures of sense — an Epi-
curean philosophy of "Eat, drink, and be
merry." The other regards it as an example
of Oriental mysticism, employing Wine and
the like as poetic symbols of deity. Fitz-
gerald held firmly to the former view, con-
tent, however, "to believe that, while the
wine Omar celebrates is simply the juice of
the grape, he bragged more than he drank of
it. in very defiance perhaps of that spiritual
wine which left its votaries sunk in hypocrisy
or disgust."
;■ The opening stanza of the first edition is con-
siderably more daring in its imagery, drawing
one of its figures from the practice, in the
desert, of flinging a stone into the cup as a
signal "To Horse !" —
Awake ! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
lias flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
.\nd I.o ! the Hunter of the East bas caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.
J Tram was an ancient garden, planted by King
Shaddad. .lamshyd was a legendary king of
Persia's golden age ; his seven-ringed cup was
'typical of the seven heavens, etc., and was
a divining cup." Other kings and heroes
are mentioned in quatrains X and XVIII.
HAtim was "a well known type of oriental
generosity." For ZAl and Rustum. see Ar-
nold's poem of Sohiab and Runiunt.
634
THE VICTORIAN AGE
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi,^ with "Wine! Wine!
Wine!
Eed Wine ! ' ' — the Nightingale cries to the
Rose
That sallow cheek of hers to ' incarnadine.
vn
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter — and the Bird is on the Wing.
vin
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop.
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
IX
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say ;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the
Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will.
Or Hatim call to Supper — heed not you.
XI
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown.
Whore name of Slave and Sultan is forgot —
And Peace to Mahmuds on his golden Throne!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A .Tug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness —
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow I
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet 's Paradise to come ;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!'
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us — "Lo,
laughing," she says, "into the world I blow.
At on«'e the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
R An nnclont Iltf-rary lan^naKP of Pprala.
6 St'o quatrain LX.
7 "IleaU'u outKide a palace."
XV
And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes — or it prospers; and anon,
Like SnoAv upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two — was gone.
xvn
Think, in this batter 'd Caravanserais
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destin 'd Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank
deep : »
And Bahram, that great Hunter — the Wild
Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his
Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Csesario bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean —
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXI
Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
To-day of past Regrets and future Fears:
To-morrow! — Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand
Years.ii
XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before.
And one by one crept silently to rest.
XXIII
And we that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of
Earth
Descend — ourselves to make a couch — for
whom f
8 Inn P(>r<iopolis.
JO emperor
II "A thousand years to each Planet"
EDWARD FITZGEBALD
635
XXIV
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie,
Sansi2 Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and — sans
End!
XXY
Alike for those who for To-DAT prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzfnis from the Tower of Darkness
cries,
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor
There. ' '
XXVI
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss 'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely — they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to
Scorn
Are scatter 'd, and their Mouths are stopt with
Dust.
XXVII
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
XXVIII
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow.
And with mine own hand wrought to make it
grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap 'd—
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly, blowing.
XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking. Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
XXXI
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh
Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturni-* sate,
And many a Knot unravell'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Huma* Fate.
There was the Door to which I found no
Key;
12 without
13 A summoner to prayer.
14 "Lord of the Seventh Heaven."
There was the Veil through which I might not
Some little talk awhile of Me and Theeis
There was — and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXIII
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that
mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs re-
veal 'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
XXXIV
Then of the Thee ix Me who works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without— "The Me within Thee
blind! "
XXXV
Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur 'd — "While you
live,
Drink! — for, once dead, you never shall re-
turn. ' '
XXXVI
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer M, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take — and give!
XXXVII
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur 'd— "Gently, Brother, gently,
pray ! ' '
xxxvni
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roU'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould!
XXXIX
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden— far beneath, and long ago.
XL
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you— like an empty Cup.
15 "Some dividual Existence or Personality dls-
tinct from the Whole."
GSf)
THE VICTORIAX AGE
XLI
Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow 's tangle to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.
XLn
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press.
End in what All begins and ends in — Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were — To-morrow you shall not be less.
XLIII
So when the Anj^el of the darker Drink
At last shall fin.l you by the river-brink,
And, offering his (up, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff — you shall not
shrink.
XLIV
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride.
Were 't not a Shame — were 't not a Shame
for him
in this clay carcase crippled to abide?
XLV
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day 's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash^
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
XLVI
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no
more;
The Eternal Sakf-' from that Bowl has pourM
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
XLVII
When You and I behin<l the Veil are past.
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall
last,
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
XLvm
A Moment's Halt — a momentary taste
Of Bein(; from the Well amid the Wast? —
And Lo! — the phantom Caravan has reach 'd
The Nothing it set out from — Oh, make haste I
xux
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About THE SECRET — quick about it. Friend!
A Hair perhaps divides the. False and True —
And upon what, prithee, does life depend?
1 attendant s wlni>-lM>arer
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True;
Yes; and a single Alifs were the clue —
Could you but find it — to the Treasure-house,
And peradventure to The Master too;
through Creation 's
LI
Whose secret Presence,
veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi;* and
They change and perish all — but He remains;
Ln
A moment guess 'd — then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.
LUI
But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor
Of Earth, and up to Heav 'n 's unopening Door.
You gaze To-day, while You are You — how
then
To-morrow, You when shall be You no more?
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter. Fruit.
You
LV
Friends, with
what a brave
know, my
Carouse
r made a Second ^larriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
LVI
For "Is" and "Is-xot" though with Rule and
Line,
And " Up-axd-down " by Logic I define,
Of all that one shouhl care to fathom, I
Was never deep in anything but — Wine.
LVII
Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Reduced the Year to better reckoning!' — Xay,
'Twas only striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.
LVIII
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shui»e
3 The lettor a. often represented hy n slight mark
llko an apostrupho, tho proscnco or absciici' ni
which could chnnK** the moaninK of a word.
4 from lisb to moon
Omar a«slstnd in rnformlng the calendar.
EDWABD FITZGERALD
63^
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 't was — the Grape!
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects^ confute:
The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life 's leaden metal into Gold transmute :
liX
The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord,"
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.
LXl
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse — why, then, Who set it there?
I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must.
Soared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust.
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Cup — when crumbled into Dust!
I,XIII
Oh. threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain — This Life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
uav
Strange, is it not ? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.
LXV
The Revelations of Devout and Learn 'd
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd.
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep
They told their comrades, and to Sleep re-
turn 'd.
LXVI
T sent my Soul through the Invisible.
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return 'd to me,
And answer 'd "I Myself am Heav'n and
Hell:"
LXVII
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill 'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,
« "The seventy-two religions supposed to divide
the world."
7 "Alluding to Sultan Mahmfld's conquest of India
and Its dark people." By "Allah-breathing"
is meant tbat the Sultan was a Mohamme-
dan, or worshiper of Allah.
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
LXVIII
We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern" held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show;
LXIX
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
I'pon this Chequer- board of Xights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and
slays.
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;
And He that tos-s 'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all — he knows — HE knows!
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
!Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line.
Xor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
Lxxn
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help — for It
As impotently moves as you or I,
T.XXIII
With Earth 's first Clay They did the Last Man
knead.
And there of the Last Harvest sow 'd the Seed :
And the first Mornii.g of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
LXXIV
Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;
To-morrow 's Silence, Triumph, or Despair :
Drink! for you know not whence you came,
nor why.
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor
where.
LXXV
I tell you this — When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
Of Heav'n Parwfn and ^lushtarf^ they flung,
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul
liXXVI
The Vine had struck a fibre: which about
If clings my Being — let the Dervishio flout;
" 1. e., the earth
ft The Pleiads and .Tupiter.
i*> A Mohammedan devotee.
638
THE VICTOETAN AGE
Of my Base metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
LXXVII
And this 1 know : whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite,
One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
LXXVIII
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!
LXXIX
What! from his helpless Creature be repaid
Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay 'd —
Sue for a Debt we never did contract,
And cannot answer — Oh, the sorry trade!
LXXX
Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in.
Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!
LXXXI
Oh Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake:
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken 'd — Man's forgiveness give — and
take!
LXXXII
As under cover of departing Day
Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazanii away.
Once more within the Potter's house alone
I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.
LXXXIII
Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
That stood along the floor and by the wall;
And some loquacious Vessels were ; and some
Listen 'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.
LXXXIV
Said one among them — "Surely not in vain
My substance of the common Earth was ta 'en
And to this Figure moulded, to be broke,
Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."
LXXXV
Then said a Second — "Ne'er a peevish Boy
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in
joy;
11 Thf month of fnstlnK. during; which no food Is
inkt-n ln'tw<'<'n s\iiirlsc and nunsot.
And He that with his hand the Vessel made
Will surely not in after Wrath destroy. ' '
LXXXVI
After a momentary silence spak§
Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make:
' * They sneer at me for leaning all awry :
What! did the Hand then of the Potter
shake?"
LXXXVII
Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot —
1 think a Sufii- pipkin — waxing hot —
"All this of Pot and Potter— Tell me then,
Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"
LXXXVIII
"Why," said another, "Some there are who
tell
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
The luckless Pots he marr'd in making —
Pish!
He 's a Good Fellow, and 't will all be well. ' '
LXXXIX
' * Well, ' ' murmur 'd one, ' ' Let whoso make or
buy.
My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry:
But fill me with the old familiar Juice,
Methinks 1 might recover by and by. ' '
XC
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
The little Moon^s look'd in that all were seek-
ing:
And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother!
Brother !
Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot i-» a-creak-
ing!"
, xci
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash the Body whence the Life has died.
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
By some not unfrequented Garden-side.
XCII
That ev'n my buried Ashes such a snare
Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air
As not a True-believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.
12 Tho allusion here Is to a sect of oriental mystics
who held a pantheistic doctrine.
13 Marking the now month and the end of the
fast.
MA shoulder-strap In which the Jars of wine
were sliinR.
ARTHUR HUGH CT.OUOH
fi39
XCIII
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in this World much
wrong :
Have drown 'd my Glory in a shallow Cup,
And sold my Reputation for a Song.
Indeed, indeed. Repentance oft before
I swore — but was I sober when I swore f
And then and then oame Spring, and Rose-in-
hand
My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.
xcv
And much as "Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour — Well,
[ wonder often what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the stuff they sell.
XCVI
Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the
Rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should
close!
The Nightingale that in the branches sang.
Ah whence, and whither flown again, who
knows !
xcvii
Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
One glimpse — if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd,
To which the fainting Traveller might spring.
As springs the trampled herbage of the field.
XCVIII
Would but some winged Angel ere too late
Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,
And make th>i stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister, or quite obliterate!
XCIX
Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things Entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits — and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's desire!
Yon rising ^loon that looks for us again —
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look for us
Through this same Garden — and for one in
vain!
CI
And when like her. oh Saki. yon shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter 'd on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made One — turn down an empty
Glass!
TAMAM15
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
U819-186I)
IX A LECTURE-ROOM
Away, haunt thou not me.
Thou vain Philosophy!
Little hast thou bestead,
Save to perplex the head,
And leave the spirit dead.
Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go,
While from the secret treasure-depths below.
Fed by the skyey shower,
And clouds that sink and rest on hill-tops higli.
Wisdom at once, and Power,
Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, inces-
santly ?
Why labour at the dull mechanic oar,
When the fresh breeze is blowing,
And the strong current flowing.
Right onward to the Eternal Shore?
QUA CURSUM VENTUS*
As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side.
Two towers of sail at dawn of day
Are scarce long leagues apart descried;
When fell the night, upsprung the breeze.
And all the darkling hours they plied,
Xor dreamt but each the self-same seas
By each was cleaving, side by side,: 8
E 'en so, but why the tale reveal
Of those, whom year by year unchanged.
Brief absence joined anew to feel.
Astounded, soul from soul estranged!
At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered —
Ah, neither blame, for neither willed.
Or wist, what first with dawn appeared! 16
To veer, how vain! On, onward strain.
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,
Through winds and tides one compass guides —
To that, and your own selves, be true.
« "The end."
* "As the wind (dirocts) the courf?e." The poem
is nietaphoricai of the divergence of men's
I reeds. See Eng. Lit., p. .315.
640
THE VICTORIAN AGE
But O blithe breeze I and O great seas,
Though ne 'er, that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last. 24
One port, methought, alike they sought,
One purpose hold where 'er they fare, —
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!
At last, at last, unite them therel
SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT
AVAILETH
Say not the struggle nought .iTeileth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers.
And, but for you, possess the field. 8
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain.
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.f
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light.
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly.
But westward, look, the land is bright. 16
ITE DOMUM SATUR.E, VENIT
HESPERUS J
The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Paliei),
The rainy clouds are filing fast below,
And wet will be the path, and wet shall we.
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.
All dear, and where is he. a year agone.
Who stepped beside and cheered us on and on?
Aly sweetheart wanders far away from me.
In foreign land or on a foreign sea, 9
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.
The lightning zigzags shoot across the sky
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
PaUe),
And through the vale the rains go sweeping by;
Ah me, and when in shelter shall we be?
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.
1 "The Pnle One" — fl nnm«> of ohvloiis Rlffniflcanoe,
like ••IManclie" or "Brlndle."
t "Porhaps rioiiffh's jrrpatPHt title to poetic fame
Is this ox<|iilKit<' an<l <'XfHilsUoly oxprosso*!
iinac*' of the rlxltiK tide." -<;oorjrp Salntsbiiry.
t "Oo home, now that you have fed. ovenlnu
comes." — VIrBll. Eriog. x. 77.
Cold, dreary cold, the stormy winds feel they
O'er foreign lands and foreign seas that stray
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie).
And doth he e'er, I wonder, bring to mind
The pleasant huts and herds he left behind? 20
And doth he sometimes in his slumbering see
The feeiling kine, and doth he think of me.
My sweeth^Art wandering wheresoe'er it be?
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.
Lii
The thunder bellows far from snow to snow
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and
Palie),
And loud and louder roars the flood below.
Heigho! but soon in shelter siiall we be:
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.
Or shall he find before his term be sped 30
Some eomelier maid that he shall wish to wed?
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie.)
For weary is work, and weary day by day
To have your comfort miles on miles away.
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.
Or may it be that I shall find my mate.
And he returning see himself too late?
For work we must, and what we see. we see.
And God he knows, and what must be, must be.
When sweethearts wander far away from me. 40
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.
The sky behind is brightening up anew
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie),
The rain is ending, and our journey too:
Heigho! aha! for here at home are we: —
In, Rose, and in, Provence and La Palie.
ALL IS WELL
Whate'er you dream, with doubt possessed,
Keej), keep it snug within your breast.
And lay you down and take your rest;
Forget in sleep the doubt and pain,
And when you wake, to work again.
The wind it blows, the vessel goes,
And where and whither, no one knows.
'Twill all be well : no need of care ;
Though how it will, and when, and where.
We cannot see. and can't declare. 10
In spite of dreams, in spite of thought,
'Tis not in vain, and not for nought,
Tlie winii it blows, the ship it goes,
Thou''h where and whither, no one knows.
MATTHEW ARNOLD
641
MATTHEW ARNOLD
(1822-1888)
THE FORSAKEN MERMAN*
Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below!
Now my brothers call from the bay,
Now the great winds shoreward blow,
Now the salt tides seaward flow;
Now the wild white horsesi play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away I
This way, this way!
Call her once before you go —
Call once yet!
In a voice that she will know:
* ' Margaret ! Margaret ! ' '
Children's voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother's ear;
Children's voices, wild with pain —
Surely she will come again!
Call her once and come away;
This way, this way!
' ' Mother dear, we cannot stay !
The wild white horses foam and fret."
Margaret! Margaret!
10
20
Come, dear children, come away down;
Call no more!
One last look at the white-walled town.
And the little gray church on the windy shore.
Then come down!
She will not come though you call all day;
Come away, come away !
Children dear, was it yesterday 30
We heard the sweet bells over the bay I
In the caverns where we lay,
Through the surf and through the swell.
The far-off sound of a silver bell?
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep.
Where the winds are all asleep;
Wliere the spent lights quiver and gleam,
Where the salt weed sways- in the stream,
Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round.
Feed in the ooze of their pasture ground; 40
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine.
Dry their mail and bask in the brine;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
I The breakers.
* This poem is based on a legend which is found
In the literature of various nations. See
Eiig. r.it.. p. "11.
j Round the world for ever and ayef
j When did music come this way?
Children dear, was it yesterday?
Children dear, was it yesterday
(Call yet once) that she went away!
Once she sate with you and me, 50
On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
And the joungest sate on her knee.
She combed its bright hair, and she tended it
well.
When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.
She sighed, she looked up through the clear
green sea;
She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray
In the little gray church on the shore to-day.
'Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me!
And I lose my poor soul. Merman! here with
thee."
I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the
waves ; 60
Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind
sea-caves ! ' '
She smiled, she went up through the surf in
the bay.
Children dear, was it yesterday?
Children dear, were we long alone f
"The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan;
Long prayers," I said, "in the world they
say;
Come ! " I said ; and we rose through the surf
in the bay.
We went up the beach, by the sandy down
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled
town ;
Through the narrow-paved streets, where all
was still, ^0
To the little gray church on the windy hill.
From the church came a murmur of folk at
their prayers,
But we stood without in the cold blowing
airs.
We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn
with rains,
And we gazed up the aisle through the small
leaded panes.
She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:
"Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here!
Dear heart, ' ' I said, ' ' we are long alone ;
The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. ' '
But, ah, she gave me never a look, 80
For her eyes were sealed to the holy book!
Loud prays the priest ; shut stands the door.
Come away, children, call no more!
Come away, come down, call no more!
Down, down, down!
Down to the depths of the sea!
642
THE VICTOBIAN AGE
She sits at her wheel in the huminiujj town,
Singing most joyfully.
Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy,
Por the humming street, and the child with its
toy! 90
Por the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;
For the wheel where I spun,
And the blessed light of the sun ! ' *
And so she sings her fill,
Singing most joyfully.
Till the spindle drops from her hand,
And the whizzing wheel stands still.
She steals to the window, and looks at the
sand,
And over the sand at the sea;
And her eyes are set in a stare; 100
And anon there breaks a sigh,
And anon there drops a tear,
From a sorrow-clouded eye.
And a heart sorrow-laden,
A long, long sigh;
For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden
And the gleam of her golden hair.
Come away, away children ;
Come children, come down!
The hoarse wind blows coldly;
Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door;
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar.
We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl.
Singing: "Here came a mortal.
But faithless was she!
And alone dwell forever
The kings of the sea."
But, children, at midnight.
When soft the winds blow.
When clear falls the moonlight,
When spring tides are low ;
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starred with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanched sands a gloom ;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie.
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white, sleeping town;
At the church on the hillside —
And then come back down.
110
120
130
Singing: " There dwells a loved one, 140.,
But cruel is she!
She left lonely forever
The kings of the sea."
TO A FRIEND*
Who prop, thou ask'st, in these bad days, my
mind? —
He much, the old man, who, clearest-souled of
men.
Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,
And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind.
Much he, whose friendship I not long since won,
That halting slave, who in Nicopolis
Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son
Cleared Eome of what most shamed him. But
be his
My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul,
From first youth tested up to extreme old age.
Business could not make dull, nor passion wild;
Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole;
The mellow glory of the Attic stage.
Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child.
SHAKESPEARE
Others abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask — Thou smilest and art still,
Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill.
Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty,
Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea,
Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-
place,
Spares but the cloudy border of his base
To the foiled searching of mortality;
And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams
know.
Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honoured, self-
secure.
Didst tread on earth unguessed at. — Better so!
All pains the immortal spirit must endure.
All weakness which impairs, all griefs which
bow,
Find their sole speech in that victorious brow.
* This sonnet gives expression to Arnold's steady
rclianco, for mental and moral support, upon
the great poets and phllosoph<M"s — his con-
stant recourse to "the best that is known and
thought in the world." The three "props"
mentioned here are Homer, the blind bard
whom the city of Smyrna in Asia Minor
claimed as her son ; Epictetus. the lamo
philosopher who had been a slave, and who.
when Domitian banished the philosophers
from Rome, went to Nicopolis in Greece and
taught his Stole principles to Arrian ; and
Sophocles, thp Athenian dramatist, author of
(Edipus at Colonus and other tragedies. Ar-
nold explains the third line by pointing out
that the name Kuropo means "the wide pros-
pect," and Asia probably means "marshy."
The twelfth line has passed Into familiar
•juotatlon.
MATTHEW ARNOLD
643
AUSTERITY OF POETRY
That son of Italy who tried to blow,i
Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song,
In his light youth amid a festal throng
Sat with his bride to see a public show.
Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow
Youth like a star; and what to youth belong —
Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong.
A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! lo,
'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she
lay!
Shuddering, they drew her garments off — and
found
A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin.
Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young,
gay,
Radiant, adorned outside; a hidden ground
Of thought and of austerity within.
MEMORIAL VERSES
April, 1850
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece,
Long since, saw Byron 's struggle cease.
But one such death remained to come;
The last poetic voice is dumb—
We stand to-day by Wordsworth 's tomb.
When Byron's eyes were shut in death,
We bowed our head and held our breath.
He taught us little; but our soul
Had felt him like the thunder's roll.
With shivering heart the strife we saw 10
Of passion with eternal law;
And yet with reverential awe
We watched the fount of fiery life
Which served for that Titanic strife.
When Goethe's death was told, we said:
Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head.
Physician of the iron age,
Goethe has done his pilgrimage.
He took the suffering human race,
He read each wound, each weakness clear ; 20
And struck his finger on the place,
And said: Tliou ailest here, and here!
He looked on Europe's dying hour
Of fitful dream and feverish power;
His eye plunged down the weltering strife,
The turmoil of expiring life —
He said: The end is everywhere,
Art still has truth, take refuge there!
1 Jacopone da Todi, who was, says Gaspary, a
"true type of the mediaeval Christian ascetic. '"
According to the legend, he was turned bv the
incident which Arnold relates from a life of
gayety to one of rigorous self-imposed pen-
ances.
And he was happy, if to know
Causes of things, and far below 30
His feet to see the lurid flow
Of terror, and insane distress,
And headlong fate, be happiness.
And Wordsworth! — Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice!
For never has such soothing voice
Been to your shadowy world conveyed.
Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade
Heard the clear song of Orpheus come
Through Hades, and the mournful gloom.
Wordsworth has gone from us — and ye, 40
Ah, may ye feel his voice as we !
He too upon a wintry clime
Had fallen — on this iron time
Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.
He found us when the age had bound
Our souls in its benumbing round;
He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.
He laid us as we lay at birth
On the cool flowery lap of earth.
Smiles broke from us and we had ease; 50
The hil's were round us, and the breeze
Went o'er the sun-lit fields again;
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
Our youth returned ; for there was shed
On spirits that had long been dead,
Spirits dried up and closely furled,
The freshness of the early world.
Ah! since dark days still bring to light
Man 's prudence and man 's fiery might,
Time may restore us in his course 60
Goethe 's sage mind and Byron 's force ;
But where will Europe 's latter hour
Again find Wordsworth's healing powerf
Others will teach us how to dare.
And against fear our breast to steel;
Others will strengthen us to bear —
But who, ah! who, will make us feel?
The cloud of mortal destiny.
Others will front it fearlessly —
But who, like him, will put it by? 70
Keep fresh the grass upon his grave,
Rotha,! with thy living wave!
Sing him thy best! for few or none
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.
SELF-DEPENDENCE
Weary of myself, and sick of asking
What I am, and what I ought to be,
At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me
Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.
1 The stream which flows past the churchyard of
Grasmere where Wordsworth is burled.
644
THE VICTOKIAN AC5E
And a look of passionate desire
O 'er the sea and to ih ' stars 1 send :
' ' Ye who from my childhood up have calmed
me,
Calm me, ah, compose me to the end! 8
"Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye
waters,
On my heart your mijfhty charm renew;
Still, still let me. as I gaze upon you.
Feel my soul becoming vast like you! "
From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of
heaven,
Over the lit sea 's unquiet way.
In the rustling night-air came the answer:
"Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as
they. 16
" Unaff righted by the silence round them,
tlndistracted bj- the sights they see.
These demand not that the things without them
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.
■ * And with joy the stars perform their shining.
And the sea its long moon-silvered roll;
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
All the fever of some differing soul. 24
"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful
In what state God's other works may be,
In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
These attain the mighty life you see."
O air-born voice! long since, severely clear,
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear:
"Resolve to be thyself; and know that he,
Who finds himself, loses his misery ! " 32
LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON
GARDENS2
In this lone, open glade I lie,
Screened by deep boughs on either hand;
, And at its end, to stay the eye,
Those black-crowned, red-boled pine-trees stand!
Birds here make song, each bird has his,
Across the girdling city 's hum.
How green under the boughs it is!
How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come! 8
Sometimes a child will cross the glade
To take his nurse his broken toy;
Sometimes a thrush flit overhead
Deep in her unknown day 's employ.
Here at my feet what wonders pass,
What endless, active life i.s here!
'.* An pztPDxiTc London park.
What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!
An air-stirred forest, fresh and clear. 16
Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod
Where the tired angler lies, stretched out,
And, eased of basket and of rod.
Counts his day 's spoil, the spotted trout.
In the huge world, which roars hard by,
Be others happy if they can!
But in my helpless cradle I
Was breathed on by the rural Pan." 24
I, on men's impious uproar hurled.
Think often, as I hear them rave,
That peace has left the upper world
And now keeps only in the grave.
Yet here is peace for ever new!
When I who watch them am away.
Still all things in this glade go through
The changes of their quiet day. 32
Then to their happy rest they pass!
The iiovkers upclose, the birds are fed,
The night comes down upon the grass,
The child sleeps warmly in his bed.
Calm soul of all things! make it mine
To feel, amid the city's jar.
That there abides a peace of thine,
Man did not make, and cannot mar. 40
The will to neither strive nor cry,
The power to feel with others give!
Calm, calm me more! nor let me die
Before I have begun to live.
REQUIESCAT*
Strew on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew!
In quiet she reposes;
Ah, would that I did too!
Her mirth the world required;
She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.
Her life was turning, turning,
In mazes of heat and sound.
But for peace her soul was yearning.
And now peace laps her rountl.
Her cabined, ample spirit.
It fluttered and failed for breath.
To-night it doth inherit
The vasty hall of death.
s Arnold waR born at Laleham In tbc Thames val-
ley, and grew up amid touuiry swnos.
4 "May she rest."
MATTHEW ARNOLD
645
SOHKAB AND RUSTUM*
And the first gray of morning filled the east,
And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream.^
But all the Tartar camp along the stream
Was hushed, and still the men were plunged in
sleep ;
Sohrab alone, he slept not ; all night long
lie had lain wakeful, tossing on hit bed;
But when the gray dawn stole into his tent,
He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword,
And took his horseman's cloak, and left his
tent.
And went abroad into the cold wet fog, 10
Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa 's« tent.
Through the black Tartar tents he passed,
which stood
( lustering like beehives on the low flat strand
Of Oxus, where the summer -floods o 'crflow
When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere ;
Through the black tents he passed, o'er that
low strand.
And to a hillock came, a little back
From the stream's brink — the spot where first
a boat.
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the
land.
The men of former times had crowned the top -0
With a clay fort ; but that was fallen, and now j
The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa 's tent,
A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were spread.
And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood
Upon the thick piled' carpets in the tent,
And found the old man sleeping on his bed
Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms.
And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step
Was dulled; for he slept light, an old man's
sleep ;
And he rose quickly on one arm, and said: — 30
* ' Who art thou ? for it is not yet clear dawn.
Speak! is there news, or any night alarm?"
But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said: —
* ' Thou know 'st me, Peran-Wisa ! it is I.
The sun is not yet risen, and the foe
Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lie
5 Now the Amu-Daria. flowing from the plateau
of Pamir, in central Asia, to the Aral Sea.
6 A Turanian chieftain.
7 From "pile" — fur, or hair-like nap.
* Founded on a story in the Persian epic, Shah
yameh, or "Book of Kings." Rustum is the
great legendary warrior- hero of Iran, or Per-
sia. In the Turanian, or Tartar land, which
is ruled over by Af rasiab, an enemy of the Per-
sians, Rustum's son Sohrab has grown up
without ever having seen his father ; nor does
the father know of the existence of his son,
having l>een tol* that the child born to him
was a girl. The rest of the tragic tale may
be left to tell itself in the simple and digni-
fied lansiiair'» whioli Arnold, in professed imi-
tation of the Homeric poems, has chosen.
• See Enij. Lit., p. 312.
Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee.
For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek
Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son,
In Samarcand, before the army marched; 'lO
And 1 will tell thee what my heart desires.
Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan* first
I came among the Tartars and bore arms,
I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown.
At my boy's years, the courage of a nmn.
This too thou know'st, that while I still bear on
The conquering Tartar ensigns through the
world,
And beat the Persians back on every field,
1 seek one man, one man, and one alone — 49
Kustum, my father; who I hoped should greet.
Should one day greet, upon some well-fought
field.
His not unworthy, not inglorious son.
So I long hoped, but him I never find.
Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask.
Let the two armies rest to-day; but I
Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords
To meet me, man to man; if I prevail,
Rustum will surely hear it; if I fall —
Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin.
Dim is the rumour of a common fight, ''<>
Where host meets host, and many names are
sunk;
But of a single combat fame speaks clear. ' '
He spoke ; and Peran-Wisa took the hand
Of the young man in his, and sighed, and
said : —
"O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine!
Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs,
And share the battle's common chance with us
Who love thee, but must press for ever first.
In single fight incurring single risk,
To find a father tliou hast never seen? 70
That were far best, my son, to stay with us
Unmurmuring; in our tents, while it is war.
And when 't is truce, then in Afrasiab 's towns.
But, if this one desire indeed rules all.
To seek out Rustum — seek him not through
fight!
Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms,
O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son!
But far hence seek him, for he is not here.
i For now it is not as when I was young,
' When Rustum was in front of every fray; 8(
I But now he keeps apart, and sits at home.
I In Seistan,9 ^ith Zal, his father old.
1 Whether that his own mighty strength at last
' Feels the abhorred approaches of old age.
Or in some quarrel with the Persian King.
There go! — Thou wilt not? Yet my heart fore-
bodes
s A northerlv province of Persia.
» Three syllables, ac-ii-tutt ; in eastern Persia.
646
THE VICTOBIAN AGE
Danger or death awaits thee on this field.
Fain would I know thee safe and well, though
lost
To us! fain therefore send thee hence, in peace
To seek thy father, not seek single fights 90
In vain; — but who can keep the lion's cub
From, ravening, and who govern Kustum's sou?
Go, I will grant thee what thy heart desires. ' '
So said he, and dropped Sohrab's hand, and
left
His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay;
And o'er his chilly limbs his woollen coat
He passed, and tied his sandals on his feet,
And threw a white cloak round him, and he took
In his right hand a ruler 's staff, no sword ;
And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap, 100
Black, glossy, curled, the fleece of Kara-Kul;io
And raised the curtain of his tent, and called
His herald to his side, and went abroad.
The sun by this had risen, and cleared the
fog
From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands.
And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed
Into the open plain; so Haman bade —
Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled
The host, and still was in his lusty prime.
From their black tents, long files of horse, they
streamed ; 110
As when some gray November morn the files.
In marching order spread, of long-necked cranes
Stream over Casbin and the southern slopes
Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries.
Or some frore" Caspian reed-bed, southward
bound
For the warm Persian sea-board — so they
streamed.
The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard,
First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long
spears ;
Large men, large steeds; who from Bokhara
come
And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares.12
Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns of the
south, 121
The Tukas, and the lances of Salore,
And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands;
Light men and on light steeds, who only drink
The acrid milk of camels, and their wells.
And then a swarm of wandering horse, who
came
From far, and a more doubtful service owned;
The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks
Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards
And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder
hordes 130
10 A town In Bokhara.
11 Her Par. Lout, Jl. OJCt.
^ Making the drink called kumiss.
Who roam 'er Kipchak and the northern waste,
Kalmucks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes who
stray
Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes,
Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamerc;
These all filed out from camp into the plain.
And on the other side the Persians formed;—
First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they
seemed,
The Ilyats of Khorassan; and behind.
The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot.
Marshalled battalions bright in burnished steel.
But Peran-Wisa with his herald came, 141
Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front,
And with his staff kept back the foremost
ranks.
And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw
That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back.
He took his spear, and to the front he came.
And checked his ranks, and fixed them where
they stood.
And the old Tartar came upon the sand
Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said : —
"Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars,
hear! 150
Let there be truce between the hosts to-day.
But choose a champion from the Persian lords
To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man. ' '
As, in the country, on a morn in June,
When the dew glistens on the pearlfid ears,
A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy — ■
So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said,
A thrill through all the Tartar squadron ran
Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved.
But'as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool, 160
Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus,
That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk
snow ;
Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they pass
Long flocks of travelling birds dead on tho
snow.
Choked by the air, and scarce can they them-
selves
Slake their parched throats with sugared mul-
berries —
In single file they move, and stop their breath.
For fear they should dislodge the 'erhanging
snows —
So the pale Persians held their breath with fear.
And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up IVO
To counsel; Gudurz and Zoarrah came,
And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host
Second, and was the uncle of the King ;
These came and counselled, and then Gudurz
said : —
' * Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge
up,
Yet champion have we none to match this youth.
MATTHEW ARNOLD
Gi7
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart.
But Kustum came last night ; aloof he sits
And sullen, and has pitched his tents apart.
Him will I seek, and carry to his ear ISO
The Tartar challenge, and this young man's
name.
Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. i-'
Stand forth the while, and take their challenge
up."
So spake he; and Ferood stood forth and
cried : —
' ' Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said !
Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man. ' '
He spake: and Peran-Wisa turned, and
strode
Back through the opening squadrons to his tent.
But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran.
And crossed the camp which lay behind, and
reached, 1^^
Out on the sands beyond it, Kustum 's tents.
Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay,
.lust pitched; the high pavilion in the midst
Was Eustum 's, and his men lay camped around.
And Gudurz entered Eustum 's tent, and found
Eustum; his morning meal was done, but still
The table stood before him, charged with
food —
A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread.
And dark green melons ; and there Eustum sate
Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, 200
And played with it ; but Gudurz came and stood |
Before him; and he looked, and saw him stand.
And with a cry sprang up and dropped the bird.
And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and
said : —
"Welcome! these eyes could see no better
sight.
What news? but sit down first, and eat and
drink. ' '
But Gudurz stood in the tent door, and
said : —
"Not now! a time will come to eat and drink.
But not to-day; to-day has other needs.
The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze;
For from the Tartars is a challenge brought -11
To pick a champion from the Persian lords
To fight their champion — and thou know'st his
name —
Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid,
O Eustum, like thy might is this young man's!
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart;
And he is young, and Iran's chiefs are old.
Or else too weak; and all eyes turn to thee.
Come down and help us, Eustum, or we lose! "
He spoke; but Bustam answered with a
smile: — 220
OTbls is a distinct echo of tho fllad.
"Go to! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I
Am oluer; if the young are weak, the King
Errs strangely; for the King, for Kai Khosroo,
Himself is young, and honours younger men.
And lets the aged moulder to their graves.
Eustum he loves no more, but loves the young —
The young may rise at Sohrab 's vaunts, not I.
For what care I, though all speak Sohrab 's
fame!
For Avould that I myself had such a son.
And not that one slight helpless girl I have —
A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, 231
And [ to tarry with the snow-haired Zal,*
My father, whom the robber Afghans vex.
And clip his borders short, and drive his herds.
And he has none to guard his weak old age.
There would I go, and hang my armour up.
And with my great name fence that weak old
man.
And spend the goodly treasures I have got.
And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab 's fame,
And leave to death the hosts of thankless
kings, 240
And with these slaughterous hands draw sword
no more. "
He spoke and smiled; and Gudurz made re-
ply:—
' ' What then, O Eustum, will men say to this,
When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks
Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks,
Hidest thy face! Take heed lest men should
say:
Like some old miser, Eustum hoards his fame,
And shuns to peril it with younger men."
And greatly moved, then Eustum made re-
ply:-
' ' O Gudurz. wherefore dost thou say such
words? 250
Thou knowest better words than this to say.
What is one more, one less, obscure or fame'l,
Valiant or craven, young or old, to me?
Are not they mortal, am not I myself?
But who for men of nought would do great
deeds?
Come, thou shalt see how Eustum hoards his
fame!
But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms;
Let not men say of Eustnm, he was matched
In single fight with any mortal man. ' '
He spoke, and frowned ; and Gudurz turned.
and ran 260
Back quickly through the camp in fear and
joy-
Fear at his wrath, but joy that Eustum came.
* Zal was born with white hair, and on that ac-
count had been cast out to die. but was fos-
tered by a marvelous bird, the simburg, or roc.
Cp. I. 679.
648
THE VICTOKIAN AGE
But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and called
His followers in, and bade them bring his arms,
And clad himself in steel ; the arms he chose
Were plain, and on his shield was no device,
Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold.
And, from the fluted spine atop, a plume
Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair plume.
So armed, he issued forth; and Euksh, his
horse, 270
I'oUowed liini like a faithful hound at heel —
Suksh, whose renown was noised through all the
earth.
The horse, whom Bustum on a foray once
Did in Bokhara by the river find
A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home.
And reared him; a bright bay, with lofty crest,
Dight with a saddle-cloth of broidered green
Crusted with gold, and on the ground were
worked
AH beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters
know. 280
So followed, Eustum left his tents, and crossed
The camp, and to the Persian host appeared.
And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts
Hailed; but the Tartars knew not who he was.
And dear as the wet diver to the eyes
Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore.
By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf,
Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night,
Having made up his tale of precious pearls,
Kejoins her in their hut upon the sands —
So dear to the pale Persians Kustum came. 290
And Rustum to the Persian front advanced,
And Sohrab armed in Haman 's tent, and came.
And as afield the reapers cut a swath
Down through the middle of a rich man 's corn.
And on each side are squares of standing corn,
And in the midst a stubble, short and bare —
So on each side were squares of men, with
spears
Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand.
And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast
His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw 300
Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came.
As some rich woman, on a winter's morn,
Eyes through her silken curtains the poor
drudge
Who with numb blackened fingers makes her
fire —
At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn,
When the frost flowers the whitened window-
panes—
And wonders how she liveg, and what the
thoughts
Of that poor drudge may be; so Rustum eyed
The unknown adventurous youth, who from a fin-
Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth sio
All the most valiant chiefs; long he perused
His spirited air, and wondered who he was.
For very young he seemed, tenderly reared ;
Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and'.
straight,*
Which in a queen's secluded garden throws i
Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf.
By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound — ••
So slender Sohrab seemed, so softly reared.
And a deep pity entered Rustum 's soul
As he beheld him coming; and he stood, 320
And beckoned to him with his hand, and said: —
"O thou young man, the air of Heaven is
soft.
And warm, and pleasant; but the grave is cold!
Heaven's air is better than the cold dead grave.
Behold me! I am vast, and clad in iron,
And tried; and I have stood on many a field
Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe —
Never was that field lost, or that foe saved.
O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death?
Be governed ! quit the Tartar host, and come 330
To Iran, and be as my son to me.
And fight beneath my banner till I die!
There are no youths in Iran brave as thou."
So he spake, mildly; Sohrab heard his voice.
The mighty voice of Rustum, and he saw
His giant figure planted on the sand,
Sole, like some single tower, which a chief '
Hath builded on the waste in former years
A^^ainst the robbers; and he saw that head.
Streaked with its first gray hairs; — hope filled
his soul, 34a
And he ran forward and embraced his knees,
And clasped his hand within his own, and
said: —
"O, by thy father's head! by thine own soul!'
Art thou not Rustum ? speak ! art thou not he ? ' "
But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth,,
And turned away, and spake to his own soul : —
"Ah me, I muse what this young fox may
mean!
False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys.
For if I now confess this thing he asks.
And hide it not, but say: li tost urn is here! 350
He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes,
But he will find some pretext not to fight,
And praise my fame, and profl'cr courteous gifts,
.\ belt or sword perhaps, and go his way.
And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab's hall,
Tn Samarcand, he will arise and cry:
' I challenged once, wlien the two armies
camped
Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords
To cope with me in single fight; but they
Shrank, only Rustum dared ; then he and I 3fi0
(Changed gihs, and went on equal terms away.'
• For this orieiitnl ngurc, conipnrp the Itubaii/dt,
Ht. xli.
MATTHEW ARNOLD
649
So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud;
Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through
me."
And then he turned, and sternly spake
aloud: —
"Kise! wherefore dost thou vainly question
thus
Of Kustum? I am here, whom thou hast called
By challenge forth; make good thy vaunt, or
yield !
Is it with Eustuni only thou wouldst fight?
Itash boy, men look on Rustum 's face and flee !
For well I know, that did great Rustum stand
Before thy face this day, and were re-
vealed, 371
There would be then no talk of fighting more.
But being what I am, I tell thee this —
Do thou record it in thine inmost soul:
Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt and yield,
Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till
winds
Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer-floods,
Oxus in summer wash them all away. ' '
He spoke; and Sohrab answered, on his
feet:—
"Art thou so fierce? Thou wilt not fright me
so ! 380
I am no girl, to be made pale by words.
Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand
Here on this field, there were no fighting then.
But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here.
Begin! thou art more vast, more dread than I,
And thou art proved, I know, and I am young —
But yet success sways with the breath of
Heaven.
And though thou thinkest that thou knowest
sure
Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know.
For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, 390
Poised on the top of a huge wave of fate,
Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall.
And whether it Avill heave us up to land.
Or whether it will roll us out to sea.
Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death.
We know not, and no search will make us know ;
Only the event will teach us in its hour."
He spoke, and Rustum answered not, but
hurled
His spear; down from the shoulder, down it
came.
As on some partridge in the corn a hawk, 400
That long has towered in the airy clouds,
Drops like a plummet; Sohrab saw it come,
And sprang aside, quick as a flash ; the spear
Hissed, and went quivering down into the sand,
Which.it sent flying wide; — then Sohrab threw
In turn, and full struck Rustum 's shield ; sharp
rang,
The iron plates rang sharp, but turned the
spear.
And Rustum seized his club, which none but he
Could wield; an unlopped trunk it was, and
huge.
Still rough — like those which men in treeless
plains 410
To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers,
Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up
By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time
Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack.
And strewn the channels with torn boughs — so
huge
The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck
One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside,
Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came
Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum 's
hand.
And Rustum followed his own blow, and fell
To his knees, and with his fingers clutched the
sand; 421
And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his
sword.
And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay
Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand ;
But he looked on, and smiled, nor bared his
sword.
But courteously drew back, and spoke, and
said : —
' ' Thou strik 'st too hard ! that club of thine
will float
Upon the summer-floods, and not my bones.
But rise, and be not wroth! not wroth am I;
No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul.
Thou say 'st, thou art not Rustum ; be it so ! 431
Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul?
Boy as I am, I have seen battles too —
Have waded* foremost in their bloody waves.
And heard their hollow roar of dying men;
But never was my heart thus touched before.
Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the
heart?
O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven!
Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears.
And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, 440
And pledge each other in red wine, like friends.
And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum 's deeds.
There are enough foes in the Persian host.
Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no
pang;
Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou
Mayst fight; fight them, when they confront
thy spear!
But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and
me!"
* The word originally meant only "walked" : with
the chango in mVaning grew up the hyperbole
of "seas of blood," "bloody waves," etc.
050
THE VICTORIAN AGE
He ceased, but while he spake, Bustum had
risen,
And stood erect, trembling with rage; his club
He left to lie, but had regained his spear, 450
Whose fiery point now in his mailed right-
hand
Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-
star,
The baleful sign of fevers; dust had soile<l
His stately crest, and dimmed his glittering
arms.
His breast heaved, his lips foamed, and twice
his voice
Was choked with rage; at last these words
broke way: —
"Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy
hands !
Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words!
Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no more !
Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 460
With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to
dance ;
But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance
Of battle, and with me, who make no play
Of war; I fight it out, and hand to hand.
Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine !
Remember all thy valour; try thy feints
And cunning! all the pity I had is gone;
Because thou hast shamed me before both the
hosts
With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl 's
wiles. ' ' 469
He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts,
And he too drew his sword; at once they
rushed
Together, as two eagles on one prey
Come rushing down together from the clouds.
One from the east, one from the west; their
shields
Dashed with a clang together, and a din
Rose, such as that the sinewy wood-cutters
Make often in the forest's heart at morn,
Of hewing axes, crashing trees — such blows
Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed.
And you would say that sun and stars took
part 480
In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud
Grew suddenly in Heaven, and darked the sun
Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose
Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain,
And in a sandy whirlwind wrappetl the pair.
In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they
alone ;
P'or both the on-looking hosts on either hand
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure.
An<l the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream.
But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot
eves 490
And labouring breath; first Rustum struck the
shield
Which Sohrab held stifl:' out; tlie steel-spiketl
spear
Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the
skin,
And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan.
Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum 's
helm.
Nor clove its steel quite through ; but all the
crest
He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume,
Never till now defiled, sank to the dust;
And Rustum bowed his head; but then the
gloom
Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, 500
And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the
horse,
Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry ; —
No horse's cry was that, most like the roar
Of some pained desert-lion, who all day
Hath trailed the hunter's javelin in his side.
And comes at night to die upon the sand.
The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for
fear.
And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream.
But Sohrab heard, and quailed not, but rushed
on,
And struck again ; and again Rustum bowed 510
His head ; but this time all the blade, like glass,
Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm,
And in the hand the hilt remained alone.
Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful
eyes
Glareil, and he shook on high his menacing
spear,
And shouted : Bustum ! — Sohrab heard that
shout,
And shrank amazed; back he recoiled one step,
And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing
form ; ,
And then he stood bewildered; and he dropped
His covering shield, and the spear pierced his
side. 520
He reeled, and staggering back, sank to the
ground.
And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind
fell,
And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all
The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair —
Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet,
And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloo<ly sand.
Then, with a bitter smile, Rustum began: —
"Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill
A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse,
And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. MO
Or else that the great Rustum would come down
Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move
MATTHEW ARNOLD
651
His heart to take a gift, and let thee go.
And then that all the Tartar host would praise
Thy courage or thy craft, an<l spread thy fame,
To glad thy father in his weak old age.
Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man!
Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be
Than to thy friends, and to thy father old. ' '
And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab re-
plied:— 540
"l^nknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is
vain.
Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful
man!
No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart.
For were I matched with ten such men as thee.
And I were that which till to-day I was,
They should be lying here, 1 standing there.
But that beloved name unnerved my arm —
That name, and something, I confess, in thee,
Which troubles all my heart, and made my
shield
Fall; and thy spear transfixed an unarmed
foe. 550
And now thou boastest, and insult 'st my fate.
But hoar thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death!
My father, whom I seek through all the world.
He shall avenge my death, and punish thee ! ' '
As when some hunter in the spring hath
found
A breeding eagle sitting on her nest,
Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake.
And pierced her with an arrow as she rose,
And followed her to find her where she fell 560
Far off; — anon her mate comes winging back
From hunting, and a great way off descries
His huddling young left sole; at that, he checks
His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps
Circles above his eyry, with loud screams
Chiding his mate back to her nest; but she
Lies dying, with the arrow in her side,
In some far stony gorge out of his ken,
A heap of fluttering feathers — never more
Shall the lake glass her, flying over it ; 570
Never the black and dripping precipices
Echo her stormy scream as she sails by —
As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss.
So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood
Over his dying son, and knew him not.
But, with a cold incredulous voice, he said: —
"What prate is this of fathers and revenge?
The mighty Rustum never had a son. "
And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied: —
"Ah yes, he had! and that lost son am I. 580
Surely the news will one day reach his ear,
Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long,
Somewhere, I know not where, but far from
here.
And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap
To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee.
Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son!
What will that grief, what will that vengeance
be I
Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen!
Yet him I pity not so much, but her,
My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells 590
With that old king, her father, who grows gray
With age, and lules over the valiant Koords.
Her most I pity, who no more will see
Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp.
With spoils and honour, when the war is done.
But a dark rumour will be bruited up,
From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear;
And then will that defenceless woman learn
That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more.
But that in battle with a nameless foe, 600
By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain."
He spoke; and as he ceased, he wept aloud,
Thinking of her he left, and his own death.
He spoke; but Rustum listened, plunged in
thought.
Nor did he yet believe it was his son
Who spoke, although he called back names he
knew ;
For he had had sure tidings that the babe,
Which was in Ader-baijan born to him.
Had been a puny girl, no boy at all —
So that sad mother sent him word, for fear 610
Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms.
And so he deemed that either Sohrab took,
By a false boast, the style of Rustum 's son;
Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame.
So deemed he; yet he listened, plunged in
thought.
And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide
Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore
At the full moon; tears gathered in his eyes;
For he remembered his own early youth.
And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn, 620
The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries
A far, bright city, smitten by the sun.
Through many rolling clouds — so Rustum saw
His youth; saw Sohrab 's mother, in her bloom;
And that old king, her father, who loved well
His wandering guest, and gave him his fair
child
With joy; and all the pleasant life they led,
They three, in that long-distant summer-time —
The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt
And hound, and morn on those delightful hills
In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth, 631
Of age and looks to be his own dear son.
Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand,
Like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe
Of an unskilful gardener has been cut,
Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed.
652
THE VICTOKIAN AGE
And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom,
Oil the mown, dying grass — so Sohrab lay,
Lovely in death, upon the common sand.
And Rustum gazed on him with grief, anil
said:— 640
* ' O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son
Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have
loved.
Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men
Have told thee false — thou art not Rustum 's
son.
For Rustum had no son ; one child he had —
But one — a girl; who with her mother now
Plies some light female task, nor dreams of
us —
Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war. "
But Sohrab answ ered him in wrath ; for now
The anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew
fierce, ^50
And he desired to draw forth the steel.
And let the blood flow free, and so to die —
But first he would convince his stubborn foe ;
And, rising sternly on one arm, he said: —
"Man, who art thou who dost deny my
words ?
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men,
And falsehood, while 1 lived, was far from
mine.
I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear
That seal wliich Rustum to my mother gave,
That she might prick it on the babe she bore."
He spoke; and all the blood left Rustum 's
cheeks, 661
And his knees tottered, and he smote his hand
Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand.
That the hard iron corslet clanked aloud:
And to his heart he ))ressed the other hand,
And in a hollow voice he spake, and said: —
"Sohrab, that were a proof which could not
lie!
If thou show this, tlien art thou Rustum 's
son. ' '
Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed
His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm,
And showed a sign in faint vermilion points 671
Pricked; as a cunning workman, in Pekin,
Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain
vase,
An emperor's gift — at early morn he paints.
And all day long, and, when night comes, the
lamp
liights up his studious forehead and thin
hands —
So delicately pricked the sign appeared
On Sohrab 's arm, the sign of Rustum 'h seal.
It was that griffin, which of old reared Zal,
Rustum 's great father, wliom they left to die,
A helpless hjibc, ;imnng the mountain-rocks; 681
Him that kind creature found, and reared, and
loved —
Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign.
And Sohrab bared that imago on his arm.
And himself scanned it long with mournful
eyes,
And then he touched it with his hand and
said: —
"How say'st thou? Is that sign the proper
sign
Of Rustum 's son, or of some other man 's ? "
He spoke; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and
stood
Speechless; and then he uttered one sharp
cry : 690
boy — thy father! — and his voice choked there.
And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes.
And his head swam, and he sank down to earth.
But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and cast
His arms about his neck, and kissed his lips,
And with fond faltering fingers stroked his
cheeks.
Trying to call him back to life; and life
Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes,
And they stood wide with horror; and he seized
In both his hands the dust which lay around,
And threw it on his head, and smirched his
hair, — 701
His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering
arms;
And strong convulsive groanings shook his
breast,
And his sobs choked him; and he clutched his
sword,
To draw it, and for ever let life out.
But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his
hands.
And with a soothing voice he spake, and
said: —
"Father, forbear! for I but meet to-day
The doom which at my birth was written down
In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's unconscious
hand. 710
Surely my heart cried out that it was thou,
When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too,
1 know it! but fate trod those promptings
down
Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged
The strife, and hurled me on my father's spear.
But let us speak no more of this! I find
My father; let me feel that I have found!
Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take
My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks.
And wash them with thy tears, and say: My
son ! 720
Quick! quick! for numbered are mv sands of
life.
And swift; for like the lightning to this field
MATTHEW ARNOLD
r..-,3
I tame, ami like the wind I go awaj- —
Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind.
But it was writ in Heaven that this should be."
So said he, and his voice released the heart
Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast
His arms round his son 's neck, and wept aloud.
And kissed him. And awe fell on both the
hosts,
"When they saw Rustum 's grief; and Ruksh, the
horse, 730
With his head bowing to the ground and mane
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe
First to the one, then to the other moved
His head, as if inquiring what their grief
Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate
eyes,
The big warm tears rolled down, and caked the
sand.*
But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and
said: —
' ' Ruksh, now thou grievest ; but, O Ruksh,
thy feet
Should first have rotted on their nimble joints,
Or ere they brought thy master to this field I "
But Sohrab looked upon the horse and
said: — 741
"Is this, then, Ruksh? How often, in past
days,
My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed.
My terrible father 's terrible horse ! and said.
That I should one day find thy lord and thee.
Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane!
O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I ;
For thou hast gone where I shall never go,
And snuflFed the breezes of my father's home,
And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, 750
And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake
Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself
Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee
food.
Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine,
And said: O Euksh! hear Bustum tcell! — but 1
Have never known my grandsire's furrowed
face,
Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan,
Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund
stream ;
But lodged among my father's foes, and seen
Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand. 760
Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste.
And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunk
The desert rivers. Moorghab and Tejend,
Knhik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep,
The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream.
The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die. ' '
Compare the action of the horse of Achilles,
Iliad, xix, end.
Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum be-
wailed: —
**0h, that its waves were flowing over me I
Oh, that I saw its grains of yellow silt
Roll tumbling in the current o 'er my head ! ' '
But, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab re-
plied: — 771
"Desire not that, my father! thou must live.
For some are born to do great deeds, and live.
As some are born to be obscured, and die.
Do thou the deeds 1 die too young to do,
And reap a second glory in thine age;
Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine.
But come! thou seest this great host of men
Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these!
Let me entreat for them; what have they
done? 780
They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star.
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.
But me thou must bear hence, not send with
them.
But carry me with thee to Seistan,
And place me on a bed, and mourn for me.
Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy
friends.
And thou must lay me in that lovely earth,
And heap a stately mound above my bones,
And plant a far- seen pillar over all.
That so the passing horseman on the waste 790
May see my tomb a great way off, and cry:
Sohrab, the mighty Bustum's son, lies there.
Whom his great father did in ignorance kill!
And I be not forgotten in my grave."
And, with a mournful voice, Rustum re-
plied : —
"Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son,
So shall it be; for I will burn my tents.
And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me,
And carry thee away to Seistan,
And place thee on a bed. and mourn for thee.
With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends,
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, 802
And heap a stately mound above thy bones.
And plant a far-seen pillar over all,
And men shall not forget thee in thy grave.
And I will spare thy host; yea, let them go!
Let them all cross the Oxus back in i^eacel
What should I do with slaying any more?
For would that all that I have ever slain
Might be once more alive; my bitterest foes. 810
And they who were called champions in their
time,
And through whose death I won that fame 1
have —
And I were nothing but a common man,
A poor, mean soldier, and without renown.
So thou mightest live too, my son, my son!
Or rather would that I, even I myself.
654
THE VICTORIAN AGE
Might now be lying on this bloody sand,
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine.
Not thou of mine; and 1 might die, not thou;
And 1, not thou, be borne to Seistan; S-0
And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine;
And say: son, I weep thee not too sore,
For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end!
But now in blood and battles was my youth,
And full of blood and battles is my age,
And I shall never end this life of blood."
Then, at the point of death, Sohrab re-
plied : —
"A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man!
But thou shalt yet have peace; only not now,
Not yet! but thou shalt have it on that day.
When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship, 831
Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo,
Returning home over the salt blue sea.
From laying thy dear master in his grave."
And Rustum gazed in Sohrab 's face, and
said: —
'*Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea!
Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure. ' '
He spoke; and Sohrab smiled on him, and
took
The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased
His wound's imperious anguish; but the blood
Came welling from the open gash, and life 841
Flowed with the stream; — all down his cold
white side
The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soiled,
Like the soiled tissue of white violets
Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank,
By children whom their nurses call with haste
Indoors from the sun's eye; his head drooped
low,
His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he
lay —
White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps,
Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his
frame, 850
Convulsed him back to life, he opened them.
And fixed them feebly on his father's face;
Till now all strength was ebbed, and from his
limbs
Unwillingly the spirit fled away,
Regretting the warm mansion which it left.
And youth, and bloom, and this delightful
world.
So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dea<l;
And the great Rustum drew his horseman's
cloak
Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son.
Ah those black granite pillars, once higii-
reared 860
By Jemshidi in Persepolis, to bear
1 Or .Tntnshid : n mythical kinpr of Pnrsln. Porsp-
IMtliH In nutfd for itH ruins of ancit>nl Krandcur.
His house, now 'mid their broken flights of
steps
Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side —
So in the sand lay Rustum by his son.
And night came down over the solemn waste,
And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair,
And darkened all; and a cold fog, with night,
Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose
As of a great assembly loosed, and fires
Began to twinkle through the fog; for now 870
Both armies moved to camp, and took their
meal;
The Persians took it on the open sands
Southward, the Tartars by the river marge;
And Rustum and his son were left alone.
But the majestic river floated on,
Out of the mist and hum of that low land,
Into the frosty starlight, and there moved.
Rejoicing, through the hushed Cliorasmian
waste,
Under the solitary moon; — he flowed
Right for the polar star, past Orgunje,2 880
Brimming, and bright, and large; then sands
begin
To hem his watery march, and dam his streams.
And split his currents; that for many a league
The shorn and parcelled Oxus strains along
Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles —
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had
In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere,
A foiled circuitous wanderer — till at last
The longed-for dash of waves is heard, and wide
His luminous home of waters opens, bright 890
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed
stars
Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea.
PHILOMELA*
Hark! ah, the nightingale —
The tawny-throated!
Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!
What triumph! hark! — what pain!
O wanderer from a Grecian shore.
Still, after many years, in distant lands,
Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain
That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world
pain —
Say, will it never heal?
And can this fragrant Isiwn 10
With its cool trees, and night,
And the sweet, tranquil Thames.
And moonshine, and the dew,
2 A vlllaRp near Khiva.
• Sop till' fnrnilinr sloiy of IMiilomoln nnd Proone
ill Croplc inytlioloKy. Tlip pot'in is evldpntly
addfpsspd to II friend, "Eugpnia."
MATTHEW ARNOLD
650
To thy racked heart and brain
Afford no balm?
Dost thou to-night behold,
Here, through the moonlight on this English
grass,
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?
Dost thou again peruse
With hot cheeks and seared eyes 20
The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's
shame ?
Dost thou once more assay
Thy flight, and feel come over thee,
Poor fugitive, the feathery change
Once more, and once more seem to make re-
sound
With love and hate, triumph and agony.
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian valef
Listen, Eugenia —
How thick the bursts come crowding through
the leaves!
Again — thou hearest? 30
Eternal passion!
Eternal pain!
KAISER DEAD
April 6, 1887.
What, Kaiser dead? The heavy news
Post-haste to Cobhami calls the Muse,
From where in Farringford^ she brews
The ode sublime.
Or with Pen-bryn 's bold barda pursues
A rival rhyme.
Kai's bracelet tail, Kai's busy feet,
Were known to all the village-street.
"What, poor Kai dead?" say all 1 meet;
* * A loss indeed ! ' '
for the croon pathetic, sweet.
Of Robin's reed!* 12
Six years ago I brought him down,
A baby dog, from London town;
Round his small throat of black and brown
A ribbon blue.
And vouched by glorious renown
A dachshound true.
His mother, most majestic dame.
Of blood-unmixed, from Potsdam'"' came;
And Kaiser's race we deemed the same —
No lineage higher.
1 In Surrey, where Arnold was then living.
2 Tonnvson's home on the Isle of Wight.
•i Sir Lewis Morris lived at Pen-bryn, In Wales.
•I Adapted from Burnss Poor MaUie'a Elegy, which
Arnold is imitating,
r. A residence of the German emperor.
24
36
And so he bore the imperial name.
But ah, his sire!
Soon, soon the days conviction bring.
The collie hair, the collie swing.
The tail's indomitable ring.
The eye's unrest —
The case was clear; a mongrel thing
Kai stood confest.
But all those virtues, which commend
The humbler sort who serve and tend,
Were thine in store, thou faithful friend.
What sense, what cheer!
To us, declining towards our end,
A mate how dear!
For Max, thy brother-dog, began
To flag, and feel his narrowing span.
And cold, besides, his blue blood ran.
Since, 'gainst the classes,
He heard, of late, the Grand Old Man
Incite the Masses.^
Yes, Max and we grew slow and sad;
But Kai, a tireless shepherd-lad,
Teeming with plans, alert, and glad
In work or play.
Like sunshine went and came, and bade
Live out the day!
Still, still I see the figure smart —
Trophy in mouth, agog to start.
Then, home returned, once more depart;
Or prest together
Against thy mistress, loving heart.
In winter weather,
I see the tail, like bracelet twirled.
In moments of disgrace uncurled.
Then at a pardoning word re- furled,
A conquering sign;
Crying, "Come on, and range the world.
And never pine. ' '
Thine eye was bright, thy coat it shone;
Thou hadst thine errands, off and on;
In joy thy last morn flew; anon,
A fit! All's over;
And thou art gone where Geist' hath gone,
And Toss, and Rover.
Poor Max, with downcast, reverent head.
Regards his brother's form outspread;
6 A mild thrust at Gladstono and his Homo Rule
Bill.
1 Mourned in a previous elegy, Oeint'x Orave.
48
60
666
THE VICTORIAN AGE
72
84
Full well Max knows the friend is dead
Whose cordial talk,
And jokes, in doggish language said,
Beguiled his walk.
And Glory, stretched at Burwood gate,
Thy passing by doth vainly wait;
And jealous Jock, thy only hate,
The chiel from Skye,
Lets from his shaggy Highland pate
Thy memory die.
Well, fetch his graven collar fine,
And rub the steel, and make it shine,
And leave it round thy neck to twine,
Kai, in thy grave.
There of thy master keep that sign,
And this plain stave.
DOVER BEACH*
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; — on the French coast the
light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England
stand.
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and
fling, 10
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the .Egsean, and it brought
Into Ijis mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery ; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
20
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth 's
shore
Im}' like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edgefi drear
And naked shinglcH of the world.
• Another expronnlon of Arnold*!* Btolc creed. See
niiic oil Ills sonnet 7V< u I'linitl. p. m-^.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another; for the world, which seems 30
To lie before us like a land of dreams.
So various, so beautiful, so new.
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and
flight.
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
THE LAST WOKD
Creep into thy narrow bed.
Creep, and let no more be said!
Vain thy onset! all stands fast.
Thou thyself must break at last.
Let the long contention cease!
Geese are swans, and swans are geese.
Let them have it how they will!
Thou art tired; best be still.
They out-talked thee, hissetl thee, tore theef
Better men fared thus before thee;
Fired their ringing shot and passed.
Hotly charged — and sank at last.
Charge once more, then, and be dumb!
Let the victors, when they come.
When the forts of folly fall.
Find thy body by the wall!
CULTURE AND HUMAN PERFECTION*
The disparagers of culture make its motive
curiosity; sometimes, indeed, they make its
motive mere exclusiveness and vanity. The cul-
ture which is supposed to plume itself on a
smattering of Greek and Latin is a culture
which is begotten by nothing so intellectual as
curiosity; it is valued either out of sheer vanity
and ignorance, or else as an engine of social
and class distinction, separating its holder, like
a badge or title, froni other people who have
not got it. No serious man would call this cul-
ture, or attach any value to it, as culture, at all.
To find tl»e real ground for the very different
estimate which serious people will set upon cul-
ture, we must find some motive for culture in
tlie terms of which may lie a real ambiguity;
and such a motive the word cur.ioMitii gives us,
I have before now pointed out tlint we Kng-
lish do not, like tlie foreigners, use this word
•.From the first chapter of Ciilturr nml Aimrvhy
(ISO"), entitled "Sweetness .ind l.luht."
MATTHEW ARNOLD
6o7
in a good sense as well as in a bad sense. With
us the word is always used in a somewhat dis-
approving sense. A liberal and intelligent
eagerness about the things of the mind may be
meant by a foreigner when he speaks of
curiosity, but with us the word always conveys
a certain notion of frivolous and unedifying
activity. In the Quarterly Beview, some little
time ago, was an estimate of the celebrated
French critic, M. Sainte-Beuve, and a very in-
adequate estimate it in my judgment was. And
its ina<lequacy consisted chiefly in this: that in
our English way it left out of sight the double
sense really involved in the word curiosity,
thinking enough was said to stamp ^I. Sainte-
Beuve with blame if it wras said that he was
impelled in his operations as a critic by
curiosity, and omitting either to perceive that
M. Sainte-Beuve himself, and many other peo-
ple with him, would consider that this was
praiseworthy and not blameworthy, or to point
out why it ought really to be accounted worthy
of blame and not of praise. For, as there is a
curiosity about intellectual matters which is
futile and merely a disease, so there is certainly
a curiosity, — a desire after the things of the
mind simply for their own sakes and for the
pleasure of seeing them as they are, — which is,
in an intelligent being, natural and laudable.
Nay, and the very desire to see things as they
aret implies a balance and regulation of mind
which is not often attained without fruitful
effort, and which is the very opposite of the
blind and diseased impulse of mind which is
what we mean to blame when we blame curiosity.
Montesquieui says: "The first motive which
ought to impel us to study is the desire to
augment the excellence of our nature, and to
render an intelligent being yet more intelli-
gent." Tliis is the true ground to assign for
the genuine scientific passion, however mani-
fested, and for culture, viewed simply as a
fruit of this passion; and it is a worthy ground,
even though we let the term curiosity stand to
describe it.
But there is of culture another view, in which
not solely the scientific passion, the sheer desire
to see things as they are, natural and proper in
an intelligent being, appears as the ground of
it. There is a view in which all the love of our
neighbour, the impulses towards action, help,
1 A French writer of the 18th century, author of
the celebrated philosophical work on The
Spirit of the Laws.
; This phrase, derived from Wordsworth, has been
given wide currency by Arnold. See Words-
worth's Supplementary Essay to his Treface
to the Lyrical Ballads,
and beneficence, the desire for removing human
error, clearing human confusion, and diminish-
ing human misery, the noble aspiration to leave
the world better and happier than we found it,
— motives eminently such as are called social, —
come in as part of the grounds of culture, and
the main and pre-eminent part. Culture is,
then, properly described, not as having its
origin in curiosity, but as having its origin in
the love of perfection; it is a study of perfec-
tion. It moves by the force, not merely or
primarily of the scientific passion for pure
knowledge, but also of the moral and social
passion for doing good. As, in the first view
of it, we took for its worthy motto Montes-
quieu 's words, ' ' To render an intelligent being
yet more intelligent!" so, in the second view
of it, there is no better motto which it can
have than these words of Bishop Wilson- : "To
make reason and the will of God prevail! "
Only, whereas the passion for doing good is
apt to be over-hasty in determining what rea-
son and the will of God say, because its turn
is for acting rather than thinking, and it wants
to be beginning to act ; and whereas it is apt
to take its own conceptions, which proceed from
its own state of development and share in all
the imj^erfections and immaturities of this, for
a basis of action; what distinguishes culture is,
that it is possessed by the scientific passion, as
well as by the passion of doing good; that it
demands worthy notions of reason and the will
of God, and does not readily suffer its own
crude conceptions to substitute themselves for
them. And knowing that no action or insti-
tution can be salutary and stable which is not
based on reason and the will of God, it is not
so bent on acting and instituting, even with the
great aim of diminishing human error and
misery ever before its thoughts, but that it
can remember that acting and instituting are
of little use, unless we know how and what we
ought to act and to institute.
This culture is more interesting and more
far-reaching than that other, which is founded
solely on the scientific passion for knowing.
But it needs times of faith and ardour, times
when the intellectual horizon is opening and
widening all round us, to flourish in. And is
not the close and bounded intellectual horizon
within which we have long lived and moved
now lifting up, and are not new lights finding
free passage to shine in upon us? For a long
time there was no passage for them to make
their way in upon us, and then it was of no
2 Thomas Wilson, Bishop of the Isle of Man (d.
1765),
658
THE VICTORIAN AGE
use to think of adapting the world's action to
them. Wliere was the hope of making reason
and the will of God prevail among people who
had a routine which they had christened reason
and the will of God, in which they were inex-
tricably bound, and beyond which they had no
power of looking? But now the iron force of
adhesion to the old routine, — social, political
religious, — has wonderfully yielded; the iron
force of exclusion of all which is new has won-
derfully yielded. The danger now is, not that
people should obstinately refuse to allow any-
thing but their old routine to pass for reason
and the will of God, but either that they should
allow some novelty or other to pass for these too
easily, or else that they should underrate the
importance of them altogether, and think it
enough to follow action for its own sake, with-
out troubling themselves to make reason and
the will of God prevail therein. Now, then, is
tiie moment for culture to be of service, culture
which believes in making reason and the will
of God prevail; believes in perfection; is the
study and pursuit of perfection; and is no
longer debarred, by a rigid invincible exclusion
of whatever is new, from getting acceptance
for its ideas, simply because they are new.
The moment this view of culture is seizeil,
the moment it is regarded not solely as the
endeavour to see things as they are, to draw
towards a knowledge of the universal order
which seems to be intended and aimed at in the
world, and which it is a man's happiness to go
along with or his misery to go counter to, — to
learn, in short, the will of God, — the moment,
I say, culture is considered not merely as the
endeavour to see and learn this, but as the
endeavour, also, to make it prevail, the moral,
social, and beneficent character of culture be-
comes manifest. The mere endeavour to see
and learn the truth for our own personal satis-
faction is indeed a commencement for making
it prevail, a preparing the way for this, which
always serves this, and is wrongly, therefore,
stamped with blame absolutely in itself and not
only in its caricature and degeneration. But
perhaps it has got stamped with blame and dis-
paraged with the dubious title of curiosity
because, in comparison with this wider en-
deavour of such great and plain utility, it looks
selfish, petty, and unprofitable.
And religion, the greatect and most impor-
tant of the efforts by which the human race
has manifested its impulse to perfe<'t itself, —
religion, that voice of the deepest human expe-
rience, — does not only enjoin and sanction the
aim which is the great aim of culture, the
aim of setting ourselves to ascertain what per-
fection is, and to make it prevail; but also, in
determining generally in what human perfec-
tion consists, religion comes to a conclusion
identical with that which culture, — culture
seeking the determination of this question
through all the voices of human experience
which have been heard upon it, of art, science,
poetry, philosophy, history, as well as of reli-
gion, in order to give a greater fullness and
certainty to its solution, — likewise reaches. Ee-
ligion says: The kingdom of God is within
you ; and culture, in like manner, places human
perfection in an internal condition, in the
growth and predominance of our humanity pro-
per, as distinguished from our animality. It
places it in the ever-increasing efficacy and in
the general harmonious expansion of those gifts
of thought and feeling which make the pecu-
liar dignity, wealth, and happiness of human
nature. As 1 have said on a former occasion:
"It is in making endless additions to itself, in
the endless expansion of its powers, in endless
growth in wisdom and beauty, that the spirit of
the human race finds its ideal. To reach this
ideal, culture is an indispensable aid, and that
is the true value of culture. ' ' Not a having
and a resting, but a growing and a becoming,
is the character of perfection as culture con-
ceives it; and here, too, it coincides with reli-
gion
But the point of view of culture, keeping
the mark of human perfection simply and
broadly in view, and not assigning to this per-
fection, as religion or utilitarianism pssigns to
it, a special and limited character, tiiis point
of view, I say, of culture is best given by
these words of Epictetusi: "It is a sign of
d(pvia," says he, — that is, of a nature not
finely tempered, — "to give yourselves up to
things which relate to the body ; to make, for
instance, a great fuss about exercise, a great
fuss about eating, a great fuss about drinking,
a great fuss about walking, a great fuss about
riding. All these things ought to be done merely
by the way; the formation of the spirit and
character must be our real concern. ' ' This is ad-
mirable; and, indeed, the Greek word evipvia,
a finely tempered nature, gives exactly the no-
tion of perfection as culture brings us to con-
ceive it: a harmonious i>erfection, a perfec-
tion in which the characters of beauty and in-
telligence are both present, which unites 'the
two noblest of things," — as Swift, who of one
I of the two, at any rate, had himself all too
little, most happily calls them in his Battle of
I Sor note on Arnold's sonnet To a Frlrnd.
MATTHEW ARNOLD
659
the Books, — "the two noblest of things, sweet-
ness and light.' ^* The €V<f>vrii- is the man
who tends toward sweetness and light; the
d<^ifj3 on the other hand, is our Philistine.*
The immense spiritual significance of the
tireeks is due to their having been inspired
with this central and happy idea of the essen-
tial character of human perfection; and Mr.
Bright 's' misconception of culture, as a smat-
tering of Greek and Latin, comes itself, after
all, from this wonderful significance of the
Greeks having affected the very machinery of
our education, and is in itself a kind of hom-
. age to it.
I in thus making sweetness and light to be
characters of perfection, cultiwe is of like
spirit with poetry, follows one law with po-
etry. Far more than on our freedom, our
population, and our industrialism, many
amongst us rely upon our religious organiza-
tions to save us. I have called religion a yet
more important manifestation of human na-
ture than poetry, because it has worked on a
broader scale for perfection, and with greater
masses of men. But the idea of beauty and of
a human nature perfect on all its sides, which is
the dominant idea of poetry, is a true and in-
valuable idea, though it has not yet had the
success that the idea of conquering the obvious
faults of our animality, and of a human na-
ture perfect on the moral side, — which is the
dominant idea of religion, — has been enabled
to have; and it is destined, adding to itself
the religious idea of a devout energy, to trans-
form and govern the other.
The best art and poetry of the Greeks, in
which religion and poetry are one, in which the
idea of beauty and of a human nature perfect
on all sides adds to itself a religious and de-
vout energy, and works in the strength of that,
is on this account of such surpassing interest
and instructiveness for us, though it was, — as
having regard to the human race in general,
and, indeed, having regard to the Greeks them-
selves, we must own, — a premature attempt, an
attempt which for success needed the moral
and religious fibre in humanity to be more
braced and developed than it had yet been. But
2 "Well endowed by nature."
3 "III endowed by nature."
4 Arnold's name " for the middle class of English
society, whose defect he declares to be nar-
rowness. I
.•i .John Bright, a Liberal statesman, who had
scoffed at Arnold's advocacy of culture. i
* Swift derived the words from the labor of the
bees, that (ill their hives "with honey and
wax. thus furnishing mankind with the two '
noblest of things, sweetness and light." The I
terms stand for spiritual beauty and intellec-
tual breadth.
j Greece did not err in having the idea of beau-
ty, harmony, and complete human perfection,
so present and paramount. It is impossible to
have this idea too present and paramount ; only,
the moral fibre must be braced too. And we,
because we have braced the moral fibre, are
not on that account in the right way, if at the
same time the idea of beauty, harmony, and
complete human perfection is wanting or mis-
apprehended amongst us.
NATURAL MAGIC IN CELTIC LITER-
ATUREt
The Celt's quick feeling for what is noble
and distinguished gave his poetry style; his
indomitable personality gave it pride and pas-
sion; his sensibility and nervous exaltation
gave it a better gift still, the gift of render-
ing with wonderful felicity the magical charm
of nature. The forest solitude, the bubbling
spring, the wild flowers, are everywhere in ro-
mance. They have a mysterious life and grace
there; they are Nature's own children, and
utter her secret in a way which makes them
something quite different from the woods, wa-
ters, and plants of Greek and Latin poetry.
Now of this delicate magic, Celtic romance is
so pre-eminent a mistress, that it seems impos-
sible to believe the power did not come into
romance from the Celts. Magic is just the
word for it, — the magic of nature; not merely
the beauty of nature, — that the Greeks and
Latins had ; not merely an honest smack of tlie
soil, a faithful realism, — that the Germans
had; but the intimate life of Nature, her
weird power and her fairy charm. As the
Saxon names of places, with the pleasant
wholesome smack of the soil in them, — Weath-
ersfield, Thaxted, Shalford, — are to the Celtic
names of places, with their penetrating, lofty
beauty, — Velindra, Tyntagel, Caernarvon, — so
is the homely realism of German and Norse
nature to the fairy-like loveliness of Celtic
nature. Gwydion wants a wife for his pupil:
"Well," says Math, "we will seek, I and
thou, by charms and illusions, to form a wife
for him out of flowers. So they took the blos-
soms of the oak, and the blossoms of the broom,
and the blossoms of the meadow-sweet, and pro-
duced from them a maiden, the fairest and
most graceful that man ever saw. And they
baptized her, and gave her the name of Flower-
Aspect."!: Celtic romance is full of exquisite
t From On the Sfiiilij of Celtic LUerotnie (ISfifi).
The Celtic race is represented mainly by the
Welsh, the Irish, and the Highland Scotch.
t This and the following quotations are taken
from the Welsh Mnhinogion, translated by
Lady Charlotte Guest.
660
THE VJCTOKIAX AGE
touches like that, showing the delicacy of the
Celt's feeling in these matters, and how deei)-
ly Nature lets him come into her secrets. The
quick dropping of blood is called "faster than
the fall of the dewdrop from the blade of
•reed-grass upon the earth, when the dew of
June is at the heaviest." And thus is Olwcn
described : ' ' More yellow was her hair than
the flower of the broom, and her skin was
whiter than the foam of the wave, and fairer
were her hands and her fingers than the
blossoms of the wood-anemouy amidst the
spray of the meadow fountains.'* For loveli-
ness it would be hard to beat that ; and for
magical clearness and nearness take the
following: —
"And in the evening Peredur entered a val-
ley, and at the head of the valley he came to
a hermit's cell, and the hermit welcomed him
gladly, and there he spent the night. And in
the morning he arose, and when he Avent forth,
behold! a shower of snow had fallen the niglit
before, and a hawk had killed a wild-fowl in
front of the cell. And the noise of the horse
seared the hawk away, and a raven alighted
upon the bird. And Peredur stood and com-
pared the blackness of the raven and the white-
ness of the snow, and the redness of the blood,
to the hair of the lady whom best he loved,
which was blacker than the raven, and to her
skin, which was whiter than the snow, and to
her two cheeks, which were redder than the
blood upon the snow appeared to be. ' '
And this, which is perhaps less striking, is not
less beautiful:
"And early in the day Geraint and Enid left
the wood, and they came to an open country,
with meadows on one hand and mowers mowing
the meadows. And there was a river before
them, and the horses bent down and drank the
water. And they went up out of the river by
a steep bank, and there they met a slender
stripling with a satchel about his neck ; and he
had a small blue pitcher in his hand, and a
bowl on the mouth of the pitcher."
And here the landscape, up to this point so
Greek in its clear beauty, is suddenly magical-
izefl by the romance touch :
* ' And they saw a tall tree by the side of the
river, one-half of which was in flames from the
root to the top, and the other half was green
and in full leaf."
Magic is the word to insist upon, — a magic-
ally vivid and near interpretation of nature;
since it is this which constitutes the special
charm and power of the effect I am calling at-
tention to, and it is for this that the Celt's
sensibility gives him a peculiar aptitude.
WOKDSWOKTH*
"But turn we," as Wordsworth says, "from
these bold, bad men," the haunters of Social
Science Congresses. And let us be on our
guard, too, against the exhibitors and extollers
of a "scientific system of thought" in Words-
worth's poetry. The poetry will never be seen
aright while they thus exhibit it. The cause
of its greatness is simple, and may be told quite
simply. Wordsworth 's poetry is great because
of the extraordinary power with which Words-
worth feels the joy offered to us in nature, m
the joy oifered to us in the simple primary af- 1
fections and duties; and because of the extra-
ordinary power with which, in case after case,
he shows us this joy, and renders it so as to 1
make us share it.
The source of joy from which he thus draws
is the truest and most unfailing source of joy
accessible to man. It is also accessible uni-
versally. Wordsworth brings us word, there-
fore, according to his own strong and charac-
teristic line, he brings us word
"Of Joy in widest commonalty spread.'"i
Here i.s an immense advantage for a poet.
Wordsworth tells of what all seek, and tells
of it at its truest and best source, and yet a
source where all may go and draw from it.
Nevertheless, we are not to suppose that
everything is precious which Wordsworth,
I standing even at this perennial and beautiful
1 source, may give us. Wordsworth ians are apt
to talk as if it must be. They will speak with
the same reverence of The Sailor's Mother, for
example, as of Lucy Gray. They do their nms-
I ter harm by such lack of discrimination. Lucy
\ Gray is a beautiful success; The Sailor's Moth-
er is a failure.t To give aright what he wishes
to give, to interpret and render successfully, is
not always within Wordsworth's own command.
Tt is within no poet's command; here is the
part of the Muse, the inspiration, the God, the
"not ourselves. "2 In Wordsworth's case, the
accident, for so it may almost be called, of
inspiration, is of peculiar importance. No
poet, perhaps, is so evidently filled with a new
1 Thr Recluse, line 771.
;; Arnold elsewhere speaks of dolty as the "tend-
ency not oui-i,elves that makes for righteous-
ness."
♦ From the Preface to The Poema of Wordxworfh,
choson and edited by Arnold (18"!»). In the
passage Just preoodlnn. Arnold dei)recat('s the
attempt to make Wordsworth sponsor for
any complete philosophical or sochil system,
such, for Instance, as a Social Science con-
tiVHH mlglit dryly and dismally (nmtc and
discuss.
; Swinburne thought otherwiso. See his Miscul-
laiilcH.
MATTHEW AENOLD
661
and sacred energy when the inspiration is upon
him; no poet, when it fails him, is so left
"weak as is a breaking wave." I remember
hearing him say tha' ' ' Goethe 's poetry was not
inevitables enough." The remark is striking
and true; no line in Goethe, as Goethe said
himself, but its maker knew well how it came
there. Wordsworth is right, Goethe's poeti'y
is not inevitable; not inevitable enough. But
Wordsworth's poetry, when he is at his best,
is inevitable, as inevitable as Nature herself.
It might seem that Nature not only gave him
the matter for his poem, but wrote his poem
for him. He has no style. He was too con-
versant with Milton not to catch at times his
master's manner, and he has fine Miltonic
lines; but he has no assured poetic style of his
own, like ililton. When he seeks to have a
style, he falls into ponderosity and pomposity.
In the Excursion we have his style, as an artis-
tic product of his own creation; and although
Jeffrey* completely failed to recognize Words-
worth 's real greatness, he was yet not wrong
in saying of the Excursion, as a work of poetic
style: "This will never do." And yet mag-
ical as is that power, which Wordsworth has
not, of assured and possessed poetic style, he
has something which is an equivalent for it.
Every one who has any sense for these things
feels the subtle turn, the heightening, which is
given to a poet's verse by his genius for style.
We can feel it in the
"After life's fitful fever, he sleeps weir'5
of Shakespeare; in the
"... though fallen on evil days.
On evil days though fallen, and evil tongues"6 —
of Milton. It is the incomparable charm of
Milton's power of poetic style which gives such
worth to Paradise Regained, and makes a great
poem of a work in which Milton 's imagination
does not soar high. Wordsworth has in con-
stant possession, and at command, no style of
this kind; but he had too poetic a nature, and
had read the great poets too well, not to catch,
as I have already remarked, something of it
occasionally. We find it not only in his Miltonic
lines ; we find it in such a phrase as this, where
the manner is his own, not Milton's:
"... the fierce confederate storm
Of sorrow barricadoed evermore
Within the walls of cities ;"T
although even here, perhaps, the power of style,
which is undeniable, is more properly that of
eloquent prose than the subtle heightening and
3 i. e.. spontaneous
4 Francis Jeffrey, first editor of the Edinburgh Re-
5 Macbeth, III. li, 23.
6 Par. Lost, vii, 25.
7 The Recluse, 11. 831-833.
change wrought by genuine poetic style. It is
style, again, and the elevation given by style,
which chiefly makes the effectiveness of Lao-
damia. Still, the right sort of verse to choose
from Wordsworth, if we are to seize his true
and most characteristic form of expression, is
a line like this from Michael:
"And never lifted up a single stone."
There is nothing subtle in it, no heightening,
no study of poetic style, strictly so called,
at all; yet it is expression of the highest and
most truly expressive kind.
Wordsworth owed much to Burns, and a style
of perfect plainness, relying for effect solely
on the weight and force of that which with
entire fidelity it utters. Burns could show him:
"The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn and wise to know
And keenly felt the friendly glow
And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low
And stained his name."8
Every one will be conscious of a likeness here
to Wordsworth; and if Wordsworth did great
things with this nobly plain manner, we must
remember, what indeed he himself would al-
ways have been forward to acknowledge, that
Burns used it before him.
Still, Wordsworth's use of it has something
unique and unmatchable. Nature, herself,
seems, I say, to take the pen out of his hand,
and to write for him with her own bare, sheer,
penetrating power. This arises from two
causes; from the profound sincereness with
which Wordsworth feels his subject, and also
from the profoundly sincere and natural char-
acter of his subject itself. He can and will
treat such a subject with nothing but the most
plain, first-hand, almost austere naturalness.
His expression may often be called bald, as,
for instance, in the poem of Resolution and
Independence ; but it is bald as the bare moun-
tain tops are bald, with a baldness which is
full of grandeur.
Wherever we meet with the successful bal-
ance, in Wordsworth, of profound truth of sub-
ject with profound truth of execution, he is
unique. His best poems are those which most
perfectly exhibit this balance. I have a warm
admiration for Laodamia and for the great
Ode; but if I am to tell the very truth, I find
Laodamia not wholly free from something ar-
tificial, and the great Ode not wholly free from
something declamatory. If I had to pick out
poems of a kind most perfectly to show Words-
worth 's unique power, I should rather choose
poems such as Michael, The Fountain, The Hiph-
8 A Bard's Epitaph, st. 4.
663
THE VILTOIUAN AUE
land Reaper. And poems with the peculiar and
unique beauty which distinguishes these, Words-
worth produced in considerable number; be-
sides very many other poems of which the
worth, although not so rare as the wortli of
these, is still exceedingly high.
On the whole, then, as I said at the begin-
ning, not only is Wordsworth eminent by rea-
son of the goodness of his best work, but ho is
eminent also by reason of the great body of
good work which he has left to us. With the
ancients I will not compare him. In many re-
spects the ancients are far above us, and yet
there is something that we demand whicli they
can never give. Leaving the ancients, let us
come to the poets and poetry of Cliristendom.
Dante, Shakespeare, Moli^re, ]\Iilton, Goethe,
are altogether larger and more splendid lumi-
naries in the poetical heaven than Wordsworth.
But I know not where else, among the mod-
erns, we are to find his superiors
He is one of the very chief glories of English
Poetry; and by nothing is England so glorious
as by her poetry. Let us lay aside every weight
which hinders our getting him recognized as
this, and let our one study be to bring to pass,
as widely as possible and as truly as possible,
his own word concerning his poems: "They
will cooperate with the benign tendencies in hu-
man nature and society, and will, in their de-
gree, be efficacious in making men wiser, better
and happier. '^
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
(1818-1894)
THE SAILING OF THE SPANISH
ARMADA*
The weatlier moderating, the fleet was again
collected in the Bay of FerroU by the 6th
]6th2 of July. All repairs were completed by
the llth-21st, and the next day, 12th-22nd, the
1 OIT nort hwestorn 2 The first date Is Old
Spain. Stvlo ; see note on
p. .'523.
* Tho story of tho spectacular but ill-fated expe-
dition of the Spanish .\rniada has often been
told, but by no one perhaps more graphically
than by Froudo. Ills first account is that in
the .'50th chapter of his Uistorn of Enfiland
(1856-1870), from which has been taken this
description of the sailing of the Armada.
Later in life, after mtich additional research.
Fronde wrote and piil)llshfd The Spanixh
Htory of the Armuila (1K!>2). About the same
time he was appolnfi-fl to a lf<tureshlp at
Oxford, whern Iw delivered sonio lectures on
the subject which were published after his
death (Unollxh Hcanicn in the XV 1th Cen-
tury, IS!).'). From these the second selection
above has been taken.
In the summer of l.'iHM, Philip II. of Spain, who
Armada took leave of Spain for the last time.
The scene as the fleet passed out of the har-
bour must liave been singularly beautiful. It
was a treaclierous interval of real summer. The
early sun was lighting the long chain of the
Galician mountains, marking with shadows the
cleft ilefiles, and shining softly on the white
walls and vineyards of Corufia. The wind was
light, and falling towards a calm; the great
galleons drifted slowly Avith the tide on the
puri)lo water, the long streamers trailing from
the" trucks, the red crosses, the emblem of the
crusade, showing bright upon the hanginf sails.
The fruit boats were bringing oft' tlie .ast
fresh supplies, and tlie pinnaces hastening to
the ships with the last loiterers on shore. Out
of thirty thousand men who that morning stood
upon the decks of the i)roud Armada, twenty
thousand and more were never again to see the
hills of Spain. Of the remnant who in two
short months crept back ragged and torn, all
but a few hundred returned only to die.
The Spaniards, thougli a great people, were
usually over conscious of tlieir greatness, and
boasted too loudly of their fame and prowess;
but among the soldiers and sailors of the
doomed expedition against England, the na-
tional vainglory Avas singularly silent. They
were the flower of the country, culled and
chosen over the entire Peninsula, and they were
going with a modest nobility upon a service
whicli they knew to be dangerous, but which
they believed to be peculiarly sacred. Every
one, seaman, officer, and soldier, had confessed
and communicated before he went on board.
Gambling, swearing, profane language of all
kinds had been peremptorily forbidden. Pri-
vate quarrels and differences had been made up
or suspended. . . In every vessel, and in the
whole fleet, the strictest order was prescribed
and observed. Medina Sidonia led the way in
the »SVoi Martin, showing lights at night, and
firing guns when the weather was hazy. Mount 's
was tryinjj to restore the Catholic faith
through the Protestant countries of ICurope.
fitted out his "Invincil)ie Armada" with the
purpose of invading England. His great Ad-
miral. Santa Cruz, had just died, and the
expedition was given into tlie command of
the Duke of Medina Sidonia. a wealthy nolile-
man of little experience and less ability, who
ought to have been allowed to remain at
home among his orange groves. His instruc-
tions were to effect a junction with the Duke
of Tariua, a general in the Spanish service
in the r..ow (Countries, and to assist the latter
in transporting his army to thi> English
shores. The obvious tactifs for the English to
pursue was to cripple and if possible de-
feat the fleet as it sailed through the English
Channel. The fleet start<'d from Lisbon on
the 20th of May. Iiut was delayed on the
route six weeks liy had weather.
JAMES ANTHONY FBOUDE
663
Bays was to be the next place of remlezvous if
they were again separated.
On the first evening the wind dropped to a
calm. The morning after, the 13th-23rd, a
fair fresh breeze came up from the south and
southwest; the ships ran fiowingly before it;
and in two days and nights they had crossed
the bay,* and were off Ushant.s Tlie fastest of
the pinnaces was dispatched from thence to
Parma, with a letter bidding him expect the
Duke's immediate coming.
But they had now entered the latitude of
the storms which through the whole season had
raged round the English shore. The same night
a southwest gale overtook them. They lay-to,
not daring to run further. The four galleys
unable to keep the sea were driven in upon the
French coast, and wrecked. The Santa Aila, a
galleon of eight hundred tons, went down, car-
rying with her ninety seamen, three hundred
soldiers, and fifty thousand ducats in gold. The
weather was believed to be under the peculiar
care of God, and this first misfortune was of
evil omen for the future. The storm lasted two
days, and then the sky cleared, and again gath-
ering into order they proceeded on tlieir way.
On the 19th-29th they were in the mouth of the
Channel. At daybreak on the morning of the
20th-30th the Lizard was under their lee, and
an English fishing-boat was hanging near them,
counting their numbers. They gave chase, but
the boat shot away down wind and disappeared.
They captured another an liour or two later,
from which they learnt the English fleet was
in Plymouth, and Medina Sidonia called a
council of war to consider whether they should
go in, and fall upon it while at anchor. Phil-
ip's orders, however, were peremptory that
they should turn neither right nor left, and
maice straiglit for Margate roadsf and Parma.
The Duke was unenterprising, and consciously
unequal to his work; and already bending un-
der his responsibilities, he hesitated to add to
them.
Had he decided otherwise it would have made
no difference, for the opportunity was not al-
lowed him. Long before the Spaniards saw
the Lizard they had themselves been seen, and
3 On the English coast of Cornwall, between
Lands End on th" west and Lizard Head on
the east.
4 Of Biscay.
r. An island off the extrpme northwpstern coast of
France.
t Just north of Dover, opposite Calais. Vessels
sailing up the English Channel and through
Dover Strait would round the North Foreland
and Margate to pass into the Thames. The
passage of the fleet up the Channel was vir-
tually a running fight, beginning at Plymouth
and lasting for a week.
on the evening of the 19th-29th, the beacons
along the coast had told England that the hour
of its trial was come.
DEFEAT OF THE ARMADA
In the gallery at Madrid there is a picture,
painted by Titian, representing the Genius of
Spain coming to the delivery of the afflicted
Bride of Christ. Titian was dead, but the
temper of the age survived, and in the study
of that great picture you will see the spirit
in which the Spanish nation had set out for the
conquest of England. The scene is the sea-
shore. The Church a naked Andromeda,t with
dishevelled hair, fastened to the trunk of an
ancient disbranched tree. The cross lies at her
feet, the cup overturned, the serpents of heresy
biting at her from behind with uplifted crests.
Coming on before a leading breeze is the sea
monster, the Moslem fleet, eager for their prey,
while in front is Perseus, the Genius of Spain,
banner in hand, with the legions of the faithful
laying not raiment before him, but shield and
helmet, the apparel of war for the Lady of
Nations to clothe herself with strength and
smite her foes.
In the Armada the crusading enthusiasm had
reached its point and focus. England was the
stake to which the Virgin, the daughter of
Sion, was bound in captivity. Perseus had
come at last in the person of the Duke of Me-
dina Sidonia, and with him all that was best
and brightest in the countrymen of Cervantes.i
to break her bonds and replace her on her
throne. They had sailed into the channel in pi-
ous hope, with the blessed banner waving over
their heads.
To be the executor of the decrees of Provi-
dence is a lofty ambition, but men in a state
of high emotion overlook the precautions which
are not to be dispensed with even on the sub-
limest of errands. Don Quixote, when he set
out to redress the wrongs of humanity, forgot
that a change of linen might be necessary, and
that he must take money with him to pay his
hotel bills. Philip II., in sending the Armada
to England, and confident in supernatural pro-
tection, imagined an unresisted triumphal pro-
cession. He forgot that contractors might be
rascals, that water four months in the casks
in a hot climate turned putrid, and that putrid
water would poison his ships ' companies, though
1 Creator of Don Quixote, the half-mad knight-
errant.
JAndromeda. according to the Greek legend, was
exposed to be devoured by a sea-mouster, but
was rescued by Perseus.
664
THE VICTORIAN AGE
his crews were companies of angels. He forgot
that the servants of the evil one might fight
for their mistress after all, and that he must
send adequate supplies of powder, and, worst
forgetfulness of all, that a great naval expe-
dition required a leader who understood his
business. Perseus, in the shape of the Duke of
Medina Sidonia, after a week of disastrous
battles, found himself at the end of it in an ex-
posed roadstead,2 where he ought never to have
been, nine-tenths of his provisions thrown over-
board as unfit for food, his ammunition ex-
hausted by the unforeseen demands upon it,
the seamen and soldiers harassed and dis-
pirited, oflScers the whole week without sleep,
and the enemy, who had hunted him from Plym-
outh to Calais, anchored within half a league
of him.
Still, after all his misadventures, he had
brought the fleet, if not to the North Foreland,3
yet within a few miles of it, and to outward
appearance not materially injured. Two of the
galleons had been taken; a third, the Santa
Alia, had strayed; and his galleys had left
him, being found too weak for the channel sea,
but the great armament had reached its desti-
nation substantially uninjured so far as English
eyes could see. Hundreds of men had been
kilJed and hundreds more wounded, and the
spirit of the rest had been shaken. But the loss
of life could only be conjectured on board the
English fleet. The English admiral* could only
see that the Duke was now in touch with
Parma. Parma, they knew, had an army at
Dunkirk* with him, which was to cross to Eng-
land. He had been collecting men, barges, and
transports all the winter and spring, and the
backward state of Parma's preparations could
not be anticipated, still less relied upon. The
(,'alais anchorage was unsafe; but at that sea-
son of the year, especially after a wet summer,
the weather usually settled; and to attack the
Spaniards in a French port might be dangerous
for many reasons. It was uncertain after the
day of the Barricades"' whether the Duke of
(Juise or Henry of Valois was master of France,
and a violation of the neutrality laws might
easily at that moment bring Guise and France
into the field on the Spaniards' side. It was,
no doubt, with some such expectation that the
2 Calais Roads.
8 K«'(' Inst note of preceding selection.
* A iHtVt twenty mlleM east of Calais.
& May 12. wlien tlie Pulte of Guise entered Paris
In an attempt to depose Henry III.
• Lord Charles Howard. Sir Francis Drake, vice
admlnil, commanded a second division of the
I'rltlsh fleet ; HIr Henry Seymour a third.
Commanders of squadrons were Sir John
Hawkins and Sir Martin Froblsher.
Duke and his advisers, had chosen Calais aa
the point at which to bring up. It was now
Saturday, the 7th of August. The governor of
the town came ofl' in the evening to the San
Martin. He expressed surprise to see the Span-
ish fleet in so exposed a position, but he was
profuse in his offers of service. Anything which
the Duke required should be provided, especially
every facility for communicating with Dunkirk
and Parma. The Duke thanked him, said that
he supposed Parma to be already embarked
witli his troops, ready for the passage, and that
his own stay in the roads would be but brief.
On Monday morning at latest he expected that
the attempt to cross would be made. The gov-
ernor took his leave, and the Duke, relieved
from his anxieties, was left to a peaceful night.
He was disturbed on the Sunday morning by
an express from Parma informing him that, so
far from being embarked, the army could not
be ready for a fortnight. The barges were
not in condition for sea. The troops were in
camp. The arms and stores were on the quays
at Dunkirk. As for the fly-boatse and ammuni-
tion which the Duke had asked for, he had
none to spare. He had himself looked to be
supplied from the Armada. He promised to
use his best expedition, but the Duke, mean-
while, must see to the safety of the fleet.
Unwelcome news to a harassed landsman
thrust into the position of an admiral and
eager to be rid of his responsibilities. If by
evil fortune the northwester should come down
upon him, with the shoals and sandbanks close
under his lee, he would be in a bad way. Nor
was the view behind him calculated for com-
fort. There lay the enemy almost within gun-
shot, who, though scarcely more than half his
numbers, had huntetl him like a pack of blood-
hounds, and, worse than all, in double strength ;
for the Thames squadron — three Queen 's ships
and thirty London adventurers — under Lord H.
Seymour and Sir John Hawkins, had crossed
in the night. There they were between him and
Cape Grisnez,7 and the reinforcements meant
plainly enough that mischief was in the wind.
After a week so trying the Spanish crews
would have been glad of a Sunday 's rest if they
could have had it; but the rough handling
which they had gone through had thrown every-
thing into disorder. The sick and wounded had
to be cared for, torn rigging looked to, splin-
tered timbers mended, decks scoured, and guns
and arms cleaned up and put to rights. And
so it was that no rest could be allowed; so
6 "OunI)oats worked with oars."
7 Eighteen miles S. W. of Calais.
JAMES ANTHONY FEOUDE
665
much had to be done, and so busy was every
one, that the usual rations were not served out
and the Sunday was kept as a fast. In the
afternoon the stewards went ashore for fresh
meat and vegetables. They came back with
their boats loaded, and the prospect seemed a
little less gloomy. Suddenly, as the Duke and
a group of officers were watching the English
fleet from the San Martin's poop deck, a small
smart pinnace, carrying a gun in her bow, shot
out from Howard's lines, bore down on the
San Martin, sailed round her, sending in a shot
or two as she passed, and went off unhurt. The
Spanish officers could not help admiring such
airy impertinence. Hugo de Mon^ada^ sent a
ball after the pinnace, which went through her
mainsail, but did no damage, and the pinnace
again disappeared behind the English ships.
So a Spanish officer describes the scene. The
English story says nothing of the pinnace, but
she doubtless came and went as the Spaniard
says, and for sufficient purpose. The English,
too, were in straits, though the Duke did not
dream of it. You will remember that the last
supplies which the Queen had allowed to the
fleet had been issued in the middle of June.
They were to serve for a month, and the eon-
tractors were forbidden to prepare more. The
Queen had clung to her hope that her differ-
ences with Philip were to be settled by the
Commission at Ostend;^ and she feared that if
Drake and Howard were too well furnished
they Mould venture some fresh rash stroke on
the coast of Spain, which might mar the nego-
tiations. Their month's provisions had been
stretched to serve for six weeks, and when the
Armada appeared but two full days' rations
remained. On these they had fought their way
up Channel. Something had been brought out
by private exertion on the Dorsetshire coast,
and Seymour had, perhaps, brought a little
more. But they were still in extremity. The
contractors had warned the Government that
they could provide nothing without notice, and
notice had not been given. The adventurers
were in better state, having been equipped by
private owners. But the Queen's ships in a
day or two more must either go home or their
crews would be starving. They had been on
reduced rations for near two months. Worse
than that, they were still poisoned by the sour
beer. The Queen had changed her mind so
8 Commander of the 8 A conferonce botween
Duke's flagship and commissioners o f
captain of the galle- Elizabeth and Par-
asses (iarge galleys, ma, who were try-
wlth masts and ing to arrange
oars). terms of peace.
often, now ordering the fleet to prepare for
sea, then recalling her instructions and paying
off the men, that those whom Howard had with
him had been enlisted in haste, had come on
board as they were, and their clothes were hang-
ing in rags on them. The fighting and the sight
of the flying Spaniards were meat and drink,
and clothing, too, and had made them careless
of all else. There was no fear of mutiny; but
there was a limit to the toughest endurance.
If the Armada was left undisturbed, a long
struggle might be still before them. The enemy
would recover from its flurry, and Parma would
come out from Dunkirk. To attack them di-
rectly in French waters might lead to perilous
complications, while delay meant famine. The
Spanish fleet had to be started from the roads
in some way. Done it must be, and done imme-
diately.
Then, on that same Sunday afternoon a mem-
orable council of war was held in the Ark's^o
main cabin. Howard, Drake, Seymour, Haw-
kins, Martin Frobisher and two or three others
met to consult, knowing that on them at that
moment the liberties of England were depend-
ing. Their resolution was taken promptly.
There was no time for talk. After nightfall a
strong flood tide would be setting up along
shore to the Spanish anchorage. They would
try what could be done with fire ships, and the
excursion of the pinnace, which was taken for
bravado, was probably for a survey of the
Armada's exact position. Meantime eight use-
less vessels were coated with pitch — hulls, spars
and rigging. Pitch was poured on the decks
and over the sides, and parties were told off
to steer them to their destination and then fire
and leave them.
The hours stole on, and twilight passed into
dark. The night was without a moon. The
Duke paced his deck late with uneasy sense of
danger. He observed lights moving up and
down the English lines, and imagining that the
endemoniada gente — the infernal devils — might
be up to mischief, ordered a sharp lookout. A
faint westerly air was curling the water, and to-
wards midnight the watchers on board the gal-
leons made out dimly several ships which seemed
to be drifting down upon them. Their experi-
ence since the action off Plymouth had been so
strange and unlooked for that anything unin-
telligible which the English did was alarming.
The phantom forms drew nearer, and were
almost among them when they broke into a
blaze from water-line to truck, and the two
fleets were seen by the lurid light of the con-
10 The Ark Ra7eff;7i, How ard's flagship.
666
THE VIOTORIAX AGE
flagration; the anchorage, the walls and win-
dows of ('alais, and the sea shining rod as far
as eye could reach, as if the ocean itself was
burning. Among the dangers which they might
have to encounter, English fireworks had been
especially dreaded by the Spaniards. Fire ship??
— a fit device of heretics — had worked havoc
among the Spanish troops, when the bridge was
blown up at Antwerp. n They imagined tliat
similar infernal macliines were approaching the
Armada. A capable commander would have
sent a few launches to grapple the burning
hulks, which of course were now deserted, and
tow them out of harm 's way. Spanish sailors
were not cowards, and would not have fliinched
from duty because it might be dangerous; but
the Duke and Diego Florezi^ lost their heads
again. A signal gun from the San Martin
ordered the whole fleet to slip their cables and
stand out to sea.
Orders given in panic are doubly unwise, for
they spread the terror in which they originate.
The danger from the fire ships was chiefly from
the eff'ect on the imagination, for they api)ear
to have drifted by and done no real injury.
And it speaks well for the seamanship and cour-
age of the Spaniards that they were able,
crowded together as they were, at midnight.
and in sudden alarm, to set their canvas and i
clear out without running into one another.
They buoyed their cables, expecting to return
for them at daylight, and with only a single
accident, to be mentioned directly, they executed
successfully a really difficult manoeuvre.
The Duke was delighted with himself. The
fire ships burned harmlessly out. He had baf-
fled the inventions of the cndcmoniada gente.
He brought up a league outside the harbour,
and supposed that the whole Armada had done
the same. Unluckily for himself, he found it
at daylight divided into two bodies. The San
Martin with forty of the best appointed of tlie
galleons were riding together at their andiors.
The rest, two-thirds of the whole, having no
second anchors ready, and inexperienced in
Channel tides and currents, had been lying to.
The west wind was blowing up. Witliout see-
ing wliere they were going they had drifted to
leeward and were two leagues ofT, towards
Oravelines, dangerously near the shore. The
Duke was too ignorant to realize the full ])eril
of his situation. He signalled to them to re-
turn and join him. As the wind and tide
stood it was impossible. Tie proposed to follow
them. The pilots told him that if he did the
11 Three yonrs previ- i2Tho Duke's nautical
ously. adviser.
whole fleet might be lost on the banks. To-
wards the land the look of things was not more
encouraging. ,
One accident only had happened the night
before. The Capitana galleass, with Don Hugo
de Mon^ada and eight hundred men on board,
had fouled her helm in a cable in getting under
way and had become unmanageable. The gal-
ley slaves disobeyed orders, or else Don Hugo
was as incompetent as his commander-in-chief.
The galleass had gone on the sands, and as the
tide ebbed had fallen over on her side. How-
ard, seeing her condition, had followed her in
the Ark with four or five other of the Queen's
ships, and was furiously attacking her with his
boats, careless of neutrality laws. Howard 's
theoi-y was, as he said, to pluck the feathers one
by one from the Spaniard 's wing, and here was
a feather worth picking up. The galleass was
the most splendid vessel of her kind afloat, Don
Hugo one of the greatest of Spanish gran-
dees.
Howard was making a double mistake. He
took the galleass at last after three hours ' fight-
ing. Don Hugo was killed by a muskot ball.
The vessel was plundered and Howard 's men
took possession, meaning to carry her away
wlien the tide rose. The French authorities
ordered him off, threatening to fire upon him ;
and after wasting the forenoon, he was obliged
at last to leave her where she lay. Worse than
this, he had lost three precious hours, and had
lost along with them, in the opinion of the
Prince of Parma, the honours of the great day.
Drake and Hawkins knew better than to
waste time plucking single feathers. The fire
ships had been more effective than they could
have dared to hope. The enemy was broken
up. The Duke was shorn of half his strength,
and the Lord had delivered him into their hand.
He had got under way, still signalling wildly,
and uncertain in which direction to turn. His
uncertainties Avere ended for him by seeing
Drake bear down ujion him with the whole Eng-
lish fleet, save those which were loitering about
the galleass. The English liad now the advan-
tage of numbers. The superiority of their guns
lie knew already, and their greater speed al-
lowerl him no hope to escape a battle. Forty
ships alone were left to him to defend the ban-
ner of the crusade and the honour of Castile;
l)ut those forty were the largest and most pow-
erfully armed and manned that he had, and on
l)oard them were Oquendo, De Leyva, Becalde,
Mretandona, the best officers in the Spanish
navy next to the lost Don Pedro. »
1 Tnken cnptlvp liy Drake In the first action at
I'lymojiih.
JAMES ANTHOJ^'Y PROUDE
GG7
It was now or never for England. The scene
of the action which was to decide the future of
Europe was between Calais and Dunkirk, a few
miles off shore, and within sight of Parma's
camp. There was no more manoeuvring for the
weather-gage, no more fighting at long range.
Drake dashed straight upon his prey as the fal-
con stoops upon its quarry. A chance had
fallen to him which might never return; not for
the vain distinction of carrying prizes into Eng-
lish ports, not for the ray of honour which
would fall on him if he could carry off the
sacred banner itself and hang it in the Abbey
at Westminster, but a chance so to handle the
Armada that it should never be seen again in
English waters, and deal such a blow on Philip
that the Spanish Empire should reel with it.
The English ships had the same superiority
over the galleons which steamers have now over
sailing vessels. They had twice the speed ;
they could lie two points nearer to the wind.
Sweeping around them at cable 's length, crowd-
ing them in one upon the other, yet never once
giving them a chance to grapple, they hurled
in their cataracts of round shot. Short as was
the powder supply, there was no sparing it that
morning. The hours went on, and still the
battle raged, if battle it could be called where
the blows were all dealt on one side and the
suffering was all on the other. Never on sea
or land did the Spaniards show themselves wor-
thier of their great name than on that day.
But from the first they could do nothing. It
"was said afterwards in Spain that the Duke
showed the white feather, that he charged his
pilot to keep him out of harm's way, that he
shut himself up in his cabin, buried in wool-
packs, and so on. The Duke had faults enough,
but poltroonery was not one of them. He,
who till he entered the English Channel had
never been in action on sea or lan<l, found him-
self, as he said, in the midst of the most furious
engagement recorded in the history of the
world. As to being out of harm's way, the
standard at his masthead drew the hottest of
the fire upon him. The Sail Martin's timbers
were of oak and a foot thick, but the shot, he
said, went through them enough to shatter a
rock. Her deck was a slaughterhouse; half his
company w^ere killed or wounded, and no more
would have been heard or seen of the San Mar-
tin or her commander had not Oquendo and De
Leyva pushed in to the rescue and enabled him
to creep away under their cover. He himself
saw nothing more of the action after this.
The smoke, he said, was so thick that he could
make out nothing, even from his masthead.
But all round it was but a repetition of the
same scene. The Spanish shot flew high, as be-
fore, above the low English hulls, and they
were themselves helpless butts to the EngUsh
guns. And it is noticeable and supremely
creditable to them that not a single galleon
struck her colours. One of them, after a long
duel with an Englishman, was on the point of
sinking. An EngUsh officer, admiring the cour-
age which the Spaniards had shown, ran out
upon his bowsprit, told them that they had done
all wliich became men, and urged them to sur-
render and save their lives. For answer they
cursed the English as cowards and chickens be-
cause they refused to close. The officer was shot.
His fall brought a last broadside on them,
which finished the work. They went down, and
the water closed over them. Rather death to
the soldiers of the Cross than surrender to a
heretic.
The deadly hail rained on. In some ships
blood was seen streaming out of the scupper
holes. Yet there was no yielding; all ranks
showed equal heroism. The priests went up and
down in the midst of the carnage, holding the
crucifix before the eyes of the dying. At mid-
day Howard came up to claim a second share
in a victory which was no longer doubtful.
Towards the afternoon the Spanish fire slack-
ened. Their powder was gone, and they could
make no return to the cannonade which was
still overwhelming them. They admitted freely
afterwards that if the attack had been con-
tinued but two hours more they must all have
struck or gone ashore. But the English maga-
zines were empty also; the last cartridge was
shot away, and the battle ended from mere
inability to keep it up. It had been fought on
both sides with peculiar determination. In the
English there was the accumulated resentment
of thirty years of menace to their country and
their creed, with the enemy in tangible shape
at last to be caught and grappled with; in the
Spanish, the sense that if their cause had not
brought them the help they looked for from
above, the honour and faith of Castile should
not suffer in their hands.
It was over. The English drew off, regret-
ting that their thrifty mistress had limited
their means of fighting for her, and so obliged
them to leave their work half done. When the
cannon ceased the wind rose, the smoke rolled
away, and in the level light of the sunset they
could see the results of the action.
A galleon in Recalde's squadron was sinking
with all hands. The San Philip and the San
Matteo were drifting dismasted towards the
668
THE VICTORIAN AGE
Dutch coast, where they were afterwards
wrecked. Those which were left with canvas
still showing were crawling slowly after their
comrades who had not been engaged, the spars
and rigging so cut up that they could scarce
bear their sails. The loss of life could only be
conjectured, but it had been obviously terrible.
The nor'-wester was blowing up and was press-
ing the wounded ships upon the shoals, from
which, if it held, it seemed impossible in their
crippled state they would be able to work
off.
In this condition Drake left them for the
night, not to rest, but from any quarter to col-
lect, if he could, more food and powder. The
snake had been scotched, but not killed.i More
than half the great fleet were far away, un-
touched by shot, perhaps able to fight a second
battle if they recovered heart. To follow, to
drive them on the banks if the wind held, or
into the North Sea, anywhere so that he left
them no chance of joining hands with Parma
again, and to use the time before they had
rallied from his blows, that was the present
necessity. His own poor fellows were famished
and in rags ; but neither he nor they had leisure
to think of themselves. There was but one
thought in the whole of them, to be again in
chase of the flying foe. Howard was resolute
as Drake. All that was possible was swiftly
done. Seymour and the Thames squadron were
to stay in the straits and watch Parma. From
every obtainable source food and powder were
collected for the rest — far short in both ways
of what ought to have been, but, as Drake said,
'we were resolved to put on a brag and go on
as if we needed nothing.' Before dawn the
admiral and he were again off on the chase.
The brag was unneeded. What man could do
had been done, and the rest was left to the
elements. Never again could Spanish seamen
be brought to face the English guns with Me-
dina Sidonia to lead them. They had a fool at
their head. The Invisible Powers in whom they
had been taught to trust had deserted them.
Their confidence was gone and their spirit
broken. Drearily the morning broke on the
Duke and his consorts the day after the battle.
The Armada had collected in the night. The
nor'-wester had freshened to a gale, and they
were labouring heavily along, making fatal lee-
way towards the shoals.
It was St. Lawrence's Day, Philip's patron
saint, whose shoulder-bone he had lately added
to the treasures of the Escurialjz but St. Law-
t Macbeth, III, il. 13.
2Tb«> palac<> uf !'hillp II.
fence was as heedless as St. Dominic* The
San Martin had but six fathoms under her.
Those nearer to the land signalled five, and
right before them they could see the brown
foam of the breakers curling over the sands,
while on their weather-beam, a mile distant and
clinging to them like the shadow of death, were
the English ships which had pursued them from
Plymouth like the dogs of the Furies. The
Spanish sailors and soldiers had been without
food since the evening when they anchored at
Calais. All Sunday they had been at work,
no rest allowed them to eat. On the Sunday
night they had been stirred out of their sleep
by the fire ships. Monday they had been fight-
ing, and Monday night committing their dead
to the sea. Now they seemed advancing di-
rectly upon inevitable destruction. As the
wind stood there was still room for them to
wear and thus escape the banks, but they would
then have to face the enemy, who seemed only
refraining from attacking them because while
they continued on their present course the
winds and waves would finish the work without
help from man. Kecalde, De Leyva, Oquendo,
and other officers were sent for to the San
Martin to consult. Oquendo came last. 'Ah,
Seiior Oquendo,' said the Duke as the heroic
Biscayan stepped on board, 'que haremos?'
(what shall we do?) 'Let your Excellency bid
load the guns again,' was Oquendo 's gallant
answer. It could not be. De Leyva himself
said that the men would not fight the English
again. Florez advised surrender. The Duke"
wavered. It was said that a boat was actually
lowered to go off to Howard and make terms,
and that Oquendo swore that if the boat left
the San Martin on such an errand he would fling
Florez into the sea. Oquendo 's advice would
have, perhaps, been the safest if the Duke
could have taken it. There were still seventy
ships in the Armada little hurt. The English
were ' bragging, ' as Drake said, and in no con-
dition themselves for another serious engage-
ment. But the temper of the entire fleet made
a courageous course impossible. There was but
one Oquendo. Discipline was gone. The sol-
diers in their desperation had taken the com-
mand out of the hands of the seamen. Officers
and men alike abandoned hope, and, with no
human prospect of salvation left to them, they
flung themselves on their knees upon the decks
and prayed the Almighty to have pity on them.
But two weeks were gone since they had knelt
on those same decks on the first sight of the
!< Referring to a disaRtrous pnRaKcment five days
before, on St. Dominic's Day, Aug. 4.
THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY
669
English shore to thank Him for having brought
them so far on an enterprise so glorious. Two
weeks; and what weeks! Wrecked, torn by
cannon shot, ten thousand of them dead or
dying — for this was the estimated loss by bat-
tle — the survivors could now but pray to be
delivered from a miserable death by the ele-
ments. In cyclones the wind often changes
suddenly back from northwest to west, from
west to south. At that moment, as if in an-
swer to their petition, one of these sudden shifts
of wind saved them from the immediate peril.
The gale backed round to S.S.W., and ceased
to press them on the shoals. They could ease
their sheets, draw off into open water, and steer
a course up the middle of the North Sea.
So only that they went north, Drake was
content to leave them unmolested. Once away
into the high latitudes they might go where
they would. Neither Howard nor he, in the
low state of their own magazines, desired any
unnecessary fighting. If the Armada turned
back they must close with it. If it held its
present course they must follow it till they
could be assured it would communicate no more
for that summer with the Prince of Parma.
Drake thought they would perhaps make for the
Baltic or some port in Norway. They would
meet no hospitable reception from either Swedes
or Danes, but they would probably try. One
only imminent danger remained to be provided
against. If they turned into the Forth, it was
still possible for the Spaniards to redeem their
defeat, and even yet shake Elizabeth's throne.
Among the many plans which had been formed
for the invasion of England, a landing in Scot-
land had long been the favourite. Guise had
always preferred Scotland when it was intended
that Guise should be the leader. Santa Cruz
had been in close correspondence with Guise on
this very subject, and many officers in the Ar-
mada must have been acquainted with Santa
Cruz's views. The Scotch Catholic nobles were
still savage at Mary Stuart's execution, and
had the Armada anchored in Leith Roads* with
twenty thousand men, half a million ducats,
and a Santa Cruz at its head, it might have
kindled a blaze at that moment from John
o 'Groat's Lands to the Border.
But no such purpose occurred to the Duke
of Medina Sidonia. He probably knew nothing
at all of Scotland or its parties. Among the
many deficiencies which he had pleaded to
Philip as unfitting him for the command, he
had said that Santa Cruz had acquaintances
4 On the Firth of Forth,
near Edinburgh.
5 The northwestern ex-
tremity of Scotland.
among the English and Scotch peers. He had
himself none. The smaU information which he
had of anything did not go beyond his orange
gardens and his tunny fishing. His chief merit
was that he was conscious of his incapacity;
and, detesting a service into which he had been
fooled by a hysterical nun,* his only anxiety
was to carry home the still considerable fleet
which had been trusted to him without further
loss. Beyond Scotland and the Scotch isles
there was the open ocean, and in the open ocean
there were no sandbanks and no English guns.
Thus, with all sail set, he went on before the
wind. Drake and Howard attended him till
they had seen him past the Forth, and knew
then that there was no more to fear. It was
time to see to the wants of their own poor fel-
lows, who had endured so patiently and fought
so magnificently. On the 13th day of August
they saw the last of the Armada, turned back,
and made their way to the Thames-t
\
THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY
(1825-1895)
ON A PIECE OF CHALK.t
If a well were to be sunk at our feet in the
midst of the city of Norwich, the diggers would
very soon find themselves at work in that white
substance, almost too soft to be called rock,
with which we are all familiar as "chalk."
Not only here, but over the whole county of
Norfolk, the well-sinker might carry his shaft
down many hundred feet without coming to
the end of the chalk; and, on the sea-coast,
where the waves have pared away the face of
the land which breasts them, the scarped faces
of the high cliflFs are often wholly formed of
the same material. Northward, the chalk may
be followed as far as Yorkshire; on the south
* A nun at Lisbon had told the wavering Duke
that "Our Lady had sent her to promise him
success."
t The remainder of the narrative is the story of
the disasters that attended the Spanish in
their voyapc around Scotland and Ireland
Many died from exposure, scanty food, and
poisonous water : many were wrecked ; even
of those who reached Spain alive, few ever
rallied from the experience.
tA lecture delivered to the working men of Nor-
wich, England, and printed in Macmillan's
Magazine, 1868 ; now in Lay Sermons, Ad-
dresses and Reviews. Some changes have
here been made in paragraphing and punctua-
tion. For clearness of exposition Huxley has
few or no superiors, but the system of para-
graphing employed in his works as they are
ordmarily printed not Infrequently has an
obscuring eflfect.
g:o
THE VICTORIAN AGE
I'oast it appears abruptly in the picturesque
western bays of Dorset, and breaks into tlie
Needlesi of tiie Isle of Wight; wliile on the
shores of Kent it supplies that long line of
white cliffs to which England owes her name
of Albion.2
Were the thin soil which covers it all washed
away, a curved baud of white chalk, here broad-
er and there narrower, might be followed diag-
onally across England from Lulworth in Dorset
to Flamborough Head in Yorkshire — a distance
of over two hundred and eighty miles as the
crow flies. From this band to the Xorth Sea,
on the east, and the Channel, on the south,
the chalk is largely hidden by other deposits;
but, except in the Wealdf of Kent and Sussex,
it enters into the very foundation of all the
south-eastern counties.
Attaining, as it does in some places, a thick-
ness of more than a thousand feet, the English
chalk must be admitted to be a mass of consid-
erable magnitude. Nevertheless, it covers but
an insignificant portion of the whole area occu-
pied by the chalk formation of the globe, wliidi
has precisely the same general characters as our.s,
and is found in detached patches, some less and
others more extensive than the English. Chalk
occurs in northwest Ireland ; it stretches over
a large part of France, — the chalk which un-
derlies Paris being, in fact, a continuation of
that of the London basin ; runs through Den-
mark and Central Eur()]>e, and extends south-
ward to North Africa; while eastward, it ap-
pears in the Crimea and in Syria, and may be
traced as far as the shores of the Sea of Aral,
in Central Asia. If all the points at which
true chalk occurs were circumscribetl, they
would lie within an irregular oval about three
thousand miles in long diameter, the area of
which would be as great as that of Europe,
and would many times exceed that of the
largest existing inland sea — the Mediterranean.
Thus the chalk is no unimportant element in
the masonry of the eartli 's crust, and it im-
presses a peculiar stamp, varying witli the con-
ditions to which it is exi)08ed, on the s.-enery of
the districts in which it occurs. The undulat-
ing downs an<l rounded coombs-', covered with
sweet-grasged turf, of our inland chalk country,
have a peacefully domestic and mutton-suggest-
ing prettiness, but can hardly be called either
grand or beautiful. But on our southern coasts,
1 Throe white rocks rlslnp nhruptiv from the son
to the hclKhf of 100 fopt.
-' I.atln ulhiiH. "wliltf."
3 Or combK ; bowl-shapod valleys.
t ThiM namp for the nx.'lon is old: .\nt:lo-Snxon
irenid (nprmnn \Va\tl) means "forest." Com-
pnrc riixloiis nciininl of liis Iiiiih. p. n.">.
the wall -sided cliffs, many hundred feet high,
with vast needles and pinnacles standing out
in the sea, sharp and solitary enough to serve
as perches for the wary cormorant, confer a
wonderful beauty and grandeur upon the chalk
iieadlands. And in the East, chalk has its
share in the formation of some of the most
venerable of mountain ranges, such as the Leb-
anon.
What is this wide-spread component of the
surface of the earth? and whence did it come?
You may think this no very hopeful inquiry.
You may not unnaturally suppose that the at-
tempt to solve such problems as these can lead
to no result, save that of entangling the in-
quirer in vague speculations, incapable of refu-
tation and of verification. If such were really
the case, I should have selected some other sub-
ject than a "piece of chalk" for my discourse.
But in truth, after much deliberation, I have
been unable to think of any topic which would
80 well enable me to lead you to see how solid
,is the foundation upon which some of the most
startling conclusions of physical science rest.
A great chapter in the history of the world is
written in the chalk. Few passages in the his-
tory of man can be supported by such an over-
whelming mass of direct and indirect evidence
as that which testifies to the truth of the frag-
ment of the history of the globe which I hope
to enable you to read, with your own eyes, to-
night.
Let me add that few chapters of human his-
tory have a more profound significance for our-
sehes. I weigh my words well when I assert
tiiat the man who should know the true history
of tlie bit of chalk which every car]ienter car-
ries about in his breeches-pocket, though igno-
rant of all other history, is likely, if he will
think his knowledge out to its ultimate results,
to ha\e a truer, and therefore a better, concep-
tion of this wonderful universe, and of man's
relation to it, than the most learned student
who is deep read in the records of humanity
and ignorant of those of Nature. The lan-
guage of the chalk is not hard to learn, not
nearly so hard as Latin, if you only want to
get at the broad features of the story it has
to tell ; and I propose that we now set to work
to spell tiiat story out together. . . .
fin the intervening jjortion of his address
Huxley sets forth tlie following facts:
First. Chemically, chalk consists of carbonic
acid and quicklime. Under the microscope it
is seon to be made up of granules in which are
imbedded numerous calcareous skeletons known
as Glohipniiiip.
Second. The be<l of the North Atlantic, be-
THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY
671
tween Ireland and Xewfouudland, is found to '
bo a vast i)lain of ileep-sea nuid whieli is sub- '■
stantially chalk, deposited there by multitudes i
of organisms (Globigiriiuv), which in life have I
the power of separating from the ocean the j
small proportion of carbonate of lime which is j
dissolved in sea-water, and of building that sub-
stance into skeletons for themselves. l
Third. The living Glohigerince are exclus- |
ively marine animals, and this, along with other |
evidence, compels the conclusion that the chalk .
beds of the dry land are the dried mud of an j
ancient deep sea. {
Fourth. The thickness of the chalk bed and |
the character of its fossil remains prove that
the period of deposit — the cretaceous epoch —
was of great duration.]
Thus not only^s it certain that the chalk is
the mud of an ancient sea-bottom ; but it is
no less certain that the chalk sea existed dur-
ing an extremely long period, though we may
not be prepared to give a precise estimate of
the length of that period in years. The relative
duration is clear, though the absolute duration
may not be definable. The attempt to aifix any |
precise date to the period at which the chalk \
sea began, or ended, its existence, is baffled by |
difficulties of the same kind. But the relative |
age of the cretaceous epoch may be determined
with as great ease and certainty as the long
duration of that epoch.
You will have heard of the interesting dis-
coveries recently made in various parts of West-
ern Europe of flint implements, obviously
worked into shape by human hands, under cir-
cumstances which show conclusively that man
is a very ancient denizen of these regions. It
has been proved that the old populations of
Europe, whose existence has been revealed to us
in this way, consisted of savages, such as the
Esquimaux are now; that, in the country which
is now France, they hunted the reindeer, an<l
were familiar with the ways of the mammotli
and the bison. The physical geography of
France was in those days different from what
it is now — the river Somme. for instance, hav-
ing cut its bed a hundred feet deeper between
that time and this; and it is probable that the
climate was more like that of Canada or Si-
beria than that of Western Europe.
The existence of these people is forgotten
even in the traditions of the oldest historical
nations. The name and fame of them had
utterly vanished until a few years back; and
the amount of physical change which has been
effected since their day renders it more than
probable that, venerable as are some of the
historical nations, the workers of the chipped
flints of Hoxnei or of Amiens- are to them, as
they are to us, in point of antiquity.
But if we assign to these hoar relics of long-
vanished generations of men the greatest age
that can possibly be claimed for them, they are
not older than the drift, or boulder clay, which,
in comparison with the chalk, is but a very
juvenile deposit. You need go no further than
your own sea-board for evidence of this fact.
At one of the most charming spots on the coast
of Norfolk, Cromer, you will see the boulder
clay forming a vast mass, wMch lies upon the
chalk, and must consequently have come into
existence after it. Huge boulders of chalk are,
in fact, included in the clay, and have evi-
dently been brought to the position they now
occupy by the same agency as that which has
planted blocks of syenite from Norway side by
side with them.
The chalk, then, is certainly older than the
boulder clay. If you ask how much, I will
again take you no further than the same spot
upon your own coasts for evidence. I have
spoken of the boulder clay and drift as rest-
ing upon the chalk. That is not strictly true.
Interposed between the chalk and the drift is
a comparatively insignificant layer, containing
vegetable matter. But that layer tells a won-
derful history. It is full of stumps of trees
standing as they grew. Fir-trees are there with
their cones, and hazel-bushes with their nuts;
there stand the stoolss of oak and yew trees,
beeches and alders. Hence this stratum is ap-
propriately called the "forest-bed."
It is obWous that the chalk must have been
upheaved and converted into dry land before
the timber trees could grow upon it. As the
boles of some of these trees are from two to
three feet in diameter, it is no less clear that
the dry land thus formed remained in the same
condition for long ages. And not only do the
remains of stately oaks and well-grown firs tes-
tify to the duration of this condition of things,
but additional evidence to the same effect is
afforded by the abundant remains of elephants,
rhinoceroses, hippopotamuses and other great
wild beasts, which it has yielded to the zealous
search of such men as the Rev. Mr. Gunn.*
When you look at such a collection as he has
formed, and bethink you that these elephantine
bones did veritably carry their owners about,
and these great grinders crunch, in the dark
1 In Suffolk. England, where an important discov-
ery of flint implements was made in 1707.
2 In northern France.
3 stumps
4 Robert Campbell Gunn (1808-1881). a British
naturalist.
672
THE VICTORIAN AGE
woods of which the forest-bed is now the only
trace, it is impossible not to feel that they are
as good evidence of the lapse of time as the
annual rings of the tree-stumps.
Thus there is a writing upon the walls of
cliffs at Cromer, and whoso runs may read it.
It tells us, with an authority which cannot be
impeached, that the ancient sea-bed of the
chalk sea was raised up, and remained dry land
until it was covered with forest, stocked with
the great game whose spoils have rejoiced your
geologists. How long it remained in that con-
dition cannot be said; but "the whirligig of
time brought its revenges ' 's in those days as in
these. That dry land, with the bones and teeth
of generations of long-lived elephants hidden
away among the gnarled roots and dry leaves
of its ancient trees, sank gradually to the bot-
tom of the icy sea, which covered it with huge
masses of drift and boulder clay. Sea-beasts,
such as the ^ walrus, now restricted to the ex-
treme north, paddled about where birds had
twittered among the topmost twigs of the fir-
trees. How long this state of things endured
we know not, but at length it came to an end.
The upheaved glacial mud hardened into the
soil of modern Norfolk. Forests grew once
more, the wolf and the beaver replaced the
reindeer and the elephant; and at length what
we call the history of England dawned.
Thus you have, within the limits of your own
county, proof that the chalk can justly claim
a very much greater antiquity than even the
oldest physical traces of mankind. But we
may go further and demonstrate, by evidence
of the same authority as that which testifies to
the existence of the father of men, that the
chalk is vastly older than Adam himself.
The Book of Genesis informs us that Adam,
immediately upon his creation, and before the
appearance of Eve, was placed in the Garden
of Eden. The problem of the geographical
position of Eden has greatly vexed the spirits
of the learned in such matters, but there is one
point respecting which, so far as I know, no
commentator has ever raised a doubt. This is,
that of the four rivers which are said to run
out of it, Euphrates and Hiddekel are identical
with the rivers now known by the names of
Euphrates and Tigris. But the whole country
in which these mighty rivers take their origin,
and through which they run, is composed of
rocks which are either of the same age as the
chalk, or of later date. So that the chalk must
not only have been formed, but, after its for-
mation, the time required for the deposit of
6 Twelfth ytght. V, I. 384.
■ these later rocks, and for their upheaval into
i dry land, must have elapsed before the smallest
I brook which feeds the swift stream of ' ' the
great river, the river of Babylon, "e began to
flow.
Thus, evidence which cannot be rebutted, and
which need not be strengthened, though if time
permitted I might indefinitely increase its quan-
tity, compels you to believe that the earth, from
the time of the chalk to the present day, has
been the theater of a series of changes as vast
in their amount as they were slow in their pro-
gress. The area on which we stand has been
first sea and then land, for at least four al-
ternations; and has remained in each of these
conditions for a period of great length. Nor
have these wonderful metamorphoses of sea into
land, and of land into sea, been confined to one
corner of England. During the chalk period,
or "cretaceous epoch," not one of the present
great physical features of the globe was in
existence. Our great mountain ranges, Pyre-
nees, Alps, Himalayas, Andes, have all been
upheaved since the chalk was deposited, and
the cretaceous sea flowed over the sites of Sinai
and Ararat. All this is certain, because rocks
of cretaceous, or still later date, have shared
in the elevatory movements which gave rise to
these mountain chains; and may be found
perched up, in some cases, many thousand feet
high upon their flanks. And evidence of equal
cogency demonstrates that, though in Norfolk
the forest-bed rests directly upon the chalk,
yet it does so, not because the period at wiiich
the forest grew immediately followed that at
which the chalk was formed, but because an
immense lapse of time, represented elsewhere by
thousands of feet of rock, is not indicated at
Cromer.
I must ask you to believe that there is no
less conclusive proof that a still more prolonged
succession of similar changes occurred before
the chalk was deposited. Nor have we any rea-
son to think that the first term in the series of
these changes is known. The oldest sea-beds
preserved to us are sands, and mud, and peb-
bles, the wear and tear of rocks which were
formed in still older oceans.
But, great as is the magnitude of these phys-
ical changes of the world, they have been ac-
companied by a no less striking series of modifi-
cations in its living inhabitants. All the great
classes of animals, beasts of the field, fowls of
the air, creeping things, and things which dwell
in the waters, flourished upon the globe long
ages before the chalk was deposited. Very few,
rt GencHis, xv, 18.
THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY
673
however, if any, of these ancient forms of ani-
mal life were identical with those which now
live. Certainly not one of the higher animals
was of the same species as any of those now
in existence. The beasts of the field, in the
days before the chalk, were not our beasts of
the field, nor the fowls of the air such as those
which the eye of man has seen flying, unless
his antiquity dates infinitely further back than
we at present surmise. If we could be carried
back into those times, we should be as one sud-
denly set down in Australia before it was colo-
nized. "We should see mammals, birds, reptiles,
fishes, insects, snails, and the like, clearly recog-
nizable as such, and yet not one of them would
be just the same as those with wliich we are
familiar, and many would be extremely dif-
ferent
Trom that time to the present, the population
of the world has undergone slow and gradual,
but incessant changes. There has been no
grand catastrophe — no destroyer has swept away
the forms of life of one period and replaced
them by a totally new creation; but one spe-
cies has vanished and another has taken its
place; creatures of one type of structure have
diminished, those of another have increased,
as time has passed on. And thus, while the dif-
ferences between the living creatures of the
time before the chalk and those of the present
day appear startling if placed side by side, we
are led from one to the other by the most grad-
ual progress if we follow the course of Nature
through the whole series of those relics of her
operations which she has left behind.
And it is by the population of the chalk
sea that the ancient and the modern inhabitants
of the world are most completely connected.
The groups which are dying out flourish side
by side with the groups which are now the dom-
inant forms of life. Thus the chalk contains
remains of those strange flying and swimming
reptiles, the pterodactyl, the ichthyosaurus, and
the plesiosaurus, which are found in no later
deposits, but abounded in preceding ages. The
chambered shells called ammonites and belem-
nites, which are so characteristic of the period
preceding the cretaceous, in like manner die
with it. But amongst these fading remainders
of a previous state of things are some very mod-
ern forms of life, looking like Yankee pedlars
among a tribe of Red Indians. Crocodiles of
modern type appear; bony fishes, many of them
very similar to existing species, almost supplant
the forms of fish which predominate in more
ancient seas; and many kinds of living shell-
fish first become known to us in the chalk. The
vegetation acquires a modern aspect. A few
living animals are not even distinguishable as
species from those which existed at that remote
epoch. The Globigerina of the present day,
for example, is not difl^erent specifically from
that of the chalk; and the same may be said of
many other Foraminifera. I think it probable
that critical and unprejudiced examination will
show that more than one species of much higher
animals have had a similar longevity; but the
only example which I can at present give con-
fidently is the snake 's-head lamp-shell (Tere-
bratulina caput serpentis), which lives in our
English seas and abounded (as Terebratulina
striata of authors) in the chalk.
The longest line of human ancestry must hide
its diminished head^ before the pedigree of this
insignificant shell-fish. We Englishmen are
proud to have an ancestor who was present at
the Battle of Hastings.* The ancestors of
Terebratulina caput serpentis may have been
present at a battle of Ichthyosauria in that part
of the sea which, when the chalk was forming,
flowed over the site of Hastings. While all
around has changed, this Terebratulina has
peacefully propagated its species from genera-
tion to generation, and stands, to this day, as
a living testimony to the continuity of the pres-
ent with the past history of the globe.
Up to this moment I have stated, so far as I
know, nothing but well-authenticated facts, and
the immediate conclusions which they force
upon the mind. But the mind is so constituted
that it does not willingly rest in facts and
immediate causes, but seeks always after a
knowledge of the remoter links in the chain of
causation. Taking the many changes of any
given spot of the earth 's surface, from sea to
land and from land to sea, as an established
fact, we cannot refrain from asking ourselves
how these changes have occurred. And when
we have explained them — as they must be ex-
plained — by the alternate slow movements of
elevation and depression which have affected the
crust of the earth, we go still further back and
ask. Why these movements?
I am not certain that anyone can give you
a satisfactory answer to that question. Assur-
edly I cannot. All that can be said, for cer-
tain, is that such movements are part of the
ordinary course of nature, inasmuch as they are
going on at the present time. Direct proof
may be given that some parts of the land of
the northern hemisphere are at this moment in-
7 Paradine Lost. IV. 35.
8 The Norman Conquest, 1066.
674
THE V1CT0K1A2S AGE
sensibly rising and otliers insensibly sinking;
and there is indirect, but perfectly satisfactory,
proof tliat an enormous area now covered by
the Pacific has been deepened thousands of feet
since the present inhabitants of that sea c-anie
into existence. Thus there is not a shadow
of a reason for believing that the physical
changes of the globe in past times have been
effected by other than natural causes. Is there
any more reason for believing that the con-
comitant modifications in the forms of the liv-
ing inhabitants of the globe have been brought
about in otiier ways?
Before attempting to answer this question,
let us try to form a distinct mental picture of
what has happened in some special case. The
crocodiles are animals which, as a group, liave
a very vast antiquity. They abounded ages be-
fore the chalk was deposited; they tlirong the
rivers in warm climates at the present day.
There is a difference in the form of the joints
of the backbone, and in some minor particulars,
between the crocodiles of the present epoch and
those which lived before the chalk; but in the
cretaceous epoch, as I have already mentioned,
the crocodiles had assumed the modern type of |
structure. Notwithstanding this, the crocodiles !
of the chalk are not identically the same as i
those which lived in the times called "older
tertiary," which succeeded the cretaceous epoch,
and the crocodiles of the older tertiaries are
not identical with those of the newer tertiaries.
nor are these identical with existing forms. (I
leave open the question whether particular spe-
cies may have lived on from epoch to epocii.)
Thus each epoch has had its peculiar crocodiles ;
though all, since the chalk, have belonged to
the modern type, and differ simply in their pro-
portions, and in sueh structural particulars as
are discernible only to trained eyes.
How is the existence of this long succession
of different species of crocodiles to be accounted
for? Only two suppositions seem to be open to
us — Either each species of crocodile has been
specially created, or it has arisen out of some
pre-existing form by the operation of natural
causes. Choose your hypothesis; I have chosen
mine. I can find no warranty for believing in
the distinct creation of a score of successive
species of crocodiles in the course of countless
ages of time. Science gives no countenance to
such a wild fancy; nor can even the perverse
ingenuity of a commentator protend to discover
this sense in the simple words in wliicli the
writer of Genesis records the proceedings of the
fifth and sixth days of the Oeation. On the
other iuim!, I see no good reason for doubting
the necessary alternative, that all these varied
species have been evolved from pre-existing
crocodilian forms, by the operation of causes
as completely a part of the common order of
nature as those which have ett'ected the changes
of the inorganic world. Few will venture to
affirm that the reasoning which applies to croco-
tliles loses its force among other animals, or
among plants. If one series of species has
come into existence by the operation of natural
causes, it seems folly to deny that all may have
arisen in the same way,
A small beginning has led us to a great end-
ing. If I were to put the bit of chalk with
which we started into the hot but obscure flame
of burning hydrogen, it would presently shine
like the sun. It seems to me that this physical
metamorphosis is no false image of what has
been the result of our subjecting it to a jet of
fervent, though nowise brilliant, thought to-
night. It has become luminous, and its clear
rays, penetrating the abyss of the remote past,
have brought within our ken some stages of the
evolution of the earth. And in the shifting
"without haste, but without rest "f of the land
and sea, as in the endless variation of the forms
assumed by living beings, we have observeil
nothing but the natural product of the forces
originally possessed by the substance of the
universe.
JOHN RUSKIN (1819-1900)
From THE SEYEX LAMPS OF ARCHI-
TECTUBE*
The Lamp of Memory.
Among the hours of his lite to which the
writer looks back with peculiar gratitude as hav-
ing been marked by more than ortliuary fulness
of joy or clearness of teaching, is one passed,
now some years ago, near time of sunset, among
the broken masses of pine forest which skirt
the course of the Ain, above the village of
Champagnole, in the Jura,i It is a spot which
has all the solemnity, with none of the savage-
II "Ohiie Hast, aher oltne Rant." — Goethe.
1 A chain of mountains In eastern France.
* I'nl)lisliPd in lS4n. some time after the first two
volumes of Modern I'o intern. The seven
"Lamps" arc Sacrifice. Truth. Power, Beauty.
I.ifo. >!emory. and 0))edl(>nre. The word
"lump" is used in allusion to the story of
Aladdin's magic lamp : and the Iwok was
written, said Iluskln. "to show that certain
right states of temper and moral feeling were
the mnslc powers hy which all good archl-
li'ctnre. without exception, had been pro-
duced." The selection here given Illustrates
Hnskin's early exuberant style and also, con-
tains his fundamental doctrine of the neces-
sity of relating art to life and morality.
JOHN KUSKIN
675
ness, of the Alps; where there is a sense of a
great power beginning to be manifested in the
earth, and of a deep and majestic concord in
the rise of the long low lines of piny liills; the
first utterance of those mighty mountain sym-
phonies, soon to be more loudly lifted and
wildly broken along the battlements of the Alps.
But their strength is as yet restrained; and the
far-reaching ridges of pastoral mountain suc-
ceed eadi other, like the long and sighing swell
which moves over quiet waters from some far-
off stormv sea. And tiiere is a deep tenderness
pervaiUng that vast monotony. The destructive
forces and the stern expression of the central
ranges are alike withdra^\n. No frost-ploughe<l,
dust-encumbered paths of ancient glacier fret
the soft Jura pastures; no splintered heaps of
ruin break the fair ranks of her forests; no pale,
defiled, or furious rivers rend their rude and
changeful ways among her rocks. Patiently,
eddy by eddy, the clear green streams wind
along their well-known beds; and under the
dark quietness of the undisturbed pines, there
spring up, year by year, such company of joy-
ful flowers as I know not the like of among
all the blessings of the earth. It was spring
time, too; and all were coming forth in clusters
crowded for very love; there was room enough
for all, but they crushed their leaves into all
manner of strange shapes only to be nearer
each other. There was the wood anemone, star
after star, closing every now and then into neb-
ula' ; and there was the oxalis, troop by troop.
like virginal processions of the ]Mois de Marie,^
the dark vertical clefts in the limestone choked
up with them as with heavy snow, and touched
with ivy on the edges — ivy as light and lovely
as the vine ; and, ever and anon, a blue gush
of violets, and cowslip bells in sunnv places;
and in the more open ground the vetch and com-
frey, and mezereon. and the small sappiiire
buds of the Polygala Alpiua,3 and the wild
strawberry, just a blossom or two all showered
amidst the golden softness of deep, warm, am-
ber-coloured moss. I came out presently on the
edge of the ravine ; the solemn murmur of its
waters rose suddenly from beneath, mixed with
the singing of the thrushes among the pine
boughs; and on the opposite side of the valley,
walled all along as it was by gray cliffs of
limestone, there was a hawk sailing slowly off
their brow, touching them nearly with his wings,
and with the shadows of the pines flickering
upon his plumage from above; but with the fall
of a hundred fathoms under lus breast, and the
2 "Mary's Month." The reference is to May pro-
cessions in honor of the Virgin.
.1 .\ milkwort.
curling pools of the green river gliding and
glittering dizzily beneath him, their foam globes
moving with him as he flew. It would be diffi-
cult to conceive a scene less dependent upon any
other interest than that of its own secluded and
serious beauty; but the writer well remembers
the sudden blankness and chill which were cast
upon it when he endeavoured, in order more
strictly to arrive at the sources of its impres-
siveness, to imagine it, for a moment, a scene
in some aboriginal forest of the New Conti-
nent. The flowers in an instant lost their light,
tlie river its music; the hills became oppressively
desolate ; a heaviness in the boughs of the dark-
ened forest showed how much of their former
l)ower had been dependent upon a life which
was not theirs, how much of the glory of the
imperishable, or continually renewed, creation
is reflected from things more precious in their
memories than it, in its renewing. Those ever
springing flowers and ever flowing streams had
been dyed by the deep colours of human endur-
ance, valour, and virtue; and the crests of the
sable hills that rose against the evening sky
received a deeper worship, because their far
shadows fell eastward over the iron walL^ of
Joux,-i and the four-square keep of Granson.s
It is as the centralization and protectress of
this sacred influence, that Architecture is to be
regarded by us with the most serious thought.
We may live without her, and worship without
her, but we cannot remember without her. How
cold is all history, how lifeless all imagery,
compared to that which the living nation writes,
and the uncorrupted marble bears! — how many
pages of doubtful record might we not often
spare, for a few stones left one upon another!
The ambition of the old Babel builders was well
directed for this world: 6 there are but two
strong conquerors of the forgetfulness of men.
Poetry and Architecture; and the latter in some
sort includes the former, and is mightier in its
reality; it is well to have, not only what men
have thought and felt, but what their hands
iiave handled, and their strength wrought, and
their eyes beheld, all the days of their life. The
age of Homer is surrounded with darkness, his
very personality with doubt. Not so that of
Pericles: 7 and the day is coming when we shall
4 In tlip Fort de Joux. Mirabeau. the French ora-
tor, was once Imprisoned ; and Toussaint
I/Ouverture, the Haitian revolutionist, died
there.
■"• A village and castle on the Lake of Neuchatel.
Switzerland. A Swiss garrison was treacher-
ously put to death there by Charles the Bold
in 147fi nnd gloriously avenged by the Swiss
army.
6 See Unie-ii-i. xi. 4.
T It was during the ascendency of Pericles that
the Parthenon was built.
676
THE VICTORIAN AGE
confess that we have learned more of Greece
out of the crumbled fragments of her sculpture
than even from her sweet singers or soldier his-
torians. And if indeed there be any profit in
our knowledge of the past, or any joy in the
thought of being remembered hereafter, which
can give strength to present exertion, or pa-
tience to present endurance, there are two du-
ties respecting national architecture whose im-
portance it is impossible to overrate; the first,
to render the architecture of the day historical;
and the second, to preserve, as the most precious
of inheritances, that of past ages.
It is in the first of these two directions that
Memory may truly be said to be the Sixth Lamp
of Architecture; for it is in becoming memorial.
or monumental that a true perfection is at-
tained by civil and domestic buildings; and this
partly as they are, with such a view, built in a
more stable manner, and partly as their decora-
tions are consequently animated by a metaphor-
ical or historical meaning.
As regards domestic buildings, there must al-
ways be a certain limitation to views of this
kind in the power, as well as in the hearts, of
men; still I cannot but think it an evil sign of
a people when their houses are built to last for
one generation only. There is a sanctity in a
good man's house which cannot be renewed in
every tenement that rises on its ruins; and I
believe that good men would generally feel this ;
and that having spent their lives happily and
honourably, they would be grieved, at the close
of them, to think that the place of their earthly
abode, which had seen, and seemed almost to
sympathize in, all their honour, their gladness or
their suffering, — that this, with all the record
it bare of them, and of all material things that
they had loved and ruled over, and set the stamp
of themselves upon — was to be swept away, as
soon as there was room made for them in the
grave; that no respect was to be shown to it,
no affection felt for it, no good to be drawn
from it by their children; that though there was
a monument in the church, there was no warm
monument in the heart and house to them ; that
all that they ever treasured was despised, and
the places that had sheltered and comforted
them were dragged down to the dust. I say
that a good man would fear this; and that, far
more, a good son, a noble descendant, would
fear doing it to his father 's house. I say that
if men lived like men indeed, their houses would
b« temples — temples which we should hardly
dare to injure, and in which it would make us
holy to be permitted to live; and there must be
a strange dissolution of natural affection, a
strange unthankfulness for all that homes have
given and parents taught, a strange conscious-
ness that we have been unfaithful to our fath-
ers ' honour, or that our own lives are not such
as would make our dwellings sacred to our
children, when each man would fain build to
himself, and build for the little revolution of his
own life only. And I look upon those pitiful
concretions of lime and clay which spring up,
in mildewed forwardness, out of the kneaded
fields about our capital — upon those thin, totter-
ing, foundationless shells of splintered wood and
imitated stone — upon those gloomy rows of for-
malized minuteness, alike without difference and
without fellowship, as solitary as similar — not
merely with the careless disgust of an offended
eye, not merely with sorrow for a desecrated
landscape, but with a painful foreboding that
the roots of our national greatness must be
deeply cankered when they are thus loosely
struckt in their native ground ; that those com-
fortless and unhonoured dwellings are the signs
of a great and spreading spirit of popular dis-
content; that they mark the time when every
man 's aim is to be in some more elevated sphere
than his natural one, and every man's past life
is his habitual scorn; when men build in the
hope of leaving the places they have built, and
live in the hope of forgetting the years that
they have lived; when tlie comfort, the peace,
the religion of home have ceased to be felt, and
the crowded tenements of a struggling and rest-
less population differ only from the tents of the
Arab or the Gipsy by their less healthy open-
ness to the air of heaven, and less happy choice
of their spot of earth; by their sacrifice of lib-
erty without the gain of rest, and of stability
without the luxury of change.
This is no slight, no consequenceless evil; it
is ominous, infectious, and fecund of other fault
and misfortune. When men do not love their
hearths, nor reverence their thresholds, it is a
sign that they have dishonoured both, and that
they have never acknowledged the true univer-
sality of that Christian worship which was in-
deed to supersede the idolatry, but not the piety,
of the pagan. Our God is a household God,
as well as a heavenly one; He has an altar in
every man's dwelling; let men look to it when
they rend it lightly and pour out its ashes. It
is not a question of mere ocular delight, it is
no question of intellectual pride, or of cultivated
and critical fancy, how, and with what aspect
of durability and of completeness, the domestic
buildings of a nation shall be raised. It is
one of those moral duties, not with more im-
punity to be neglected because the perception
of them depends on a finely toned and balanced
conscientiousness, to build our dwellings with
JOHN RUSKIN
677
care, and patience, and fondness, and diligent
completion, and with a view to their duration at
least for such a period as, in the ordinary course
of national revolutions, might be supposed
likely to extend to the entire alteration of the
direction of local interests. This at the least;
but it would be better if, in every possible in-
stance, men built their own houses on a scale
commensurate rather with their condition at
the commencement, than their attainments at
the termination, of their worldly career; and
built them to stand as long as human work
at its strongest can be hoped to stand; record-
ing to their children what they have been, and
from what, if so it had been permitted them,
they had risen. And when houses are thus
built, we may have that true domestic archi-
tecture, the beginning of all other, which does
not disdain to treat with respect and thought-
fulness the small habitation as well as the
large, and which invests with the dignity of
contented manhood the narrowness of worldly
circumstance.
From THE STONES OF VENICE.
The Throne. Volume II, Chapter I*
In the olden days of travelling, now to re-
turn no more, in which distance could not be
vanquished without toil, but in which that toil
was rewarded, partly by the power of delib-
erate survey of the countries through which
the journey lay, and partly by the happiness
of the evening hours, when from the top of
the last hill he had surmounted, the traveller
beheld the quiet village where he was to rest,
scattered among the meadows beside its valley
stream; or, from the long hoped for turn in
the dusty perspective of the causeway, saw,
for the first time, the towers of some famed
city, faint in the rays of sunset — hours of
peaceful and thoughtful pleasure, for which
the rush of the arrival in the railway station
is perhaps not always, or to all men, an equiv-
alent, — in those days, I say, when there was
something more to be anticipated and remem-
bered in the first aspect of each successive
halting-place, than a new arrangement of glass
roofing and iron girder, there were few mo-
ments of which the recollection was more
fondly cherished by the traveller, than that
* In this "faithful view of the site of the Vene-
tian Throne," we liave both an illustration
of Ruslcin's descriptive and narrative powers,
and an expression of the deep religious con-
victions which informed his earlier writings.
In the selection that follows will be found
his defence and praise of Gothic art, together
with his central social theory,
which, as I endeavoured to describe in the close
of the last chapter, brought him within sight
of Venice, as his gondola shot into the open
lagoon from the canal of Mestre. Not but that
the aspect of the city itself was generally the
source of some slight disappointment, for, seen
in this direction, its buildings are far less
characteristic than those of the other great
towns of Italy; but this inferiority was partly
disguised by distance, and more than atoned
for by the strange rising of its walls and
towers out of the midst, as it seemed, of the
deep sea, for it was impossible that the mind
or the eye could at once comprehend the shal-
lowness of the vast sheet of water which
stretched away in leagues of rippling lustre to
the north and south, or trace the narrow line
of islets bounding it to the east. The salt
breeze, the white noaning sea-birds, the masses
of black weed separating and disappearing
gradually, in knots of heaving shoal, under
the advance of the steady tide, all proclaimed
it to be indeed the ocean on whose bosom the
great city rested so calmly; not such blue,
soft, lake-like ocean as bathes the Neapolitan
promontories, or sleeps beneath the marble
rocks of Genoa, but a sea with the bleak power
of our own northern waves, yet subdued into a
strange spacious rest, and changed from its
angry pallor into a field of burnished gold, as
the sun declined behind the belfry tower of
the lonely island church, fitly named "St.
George of the Seaweed. ' ' As the boat drew
nearer to the city, the coast which the traveller
had just left sank behind him into one long,
low, sad-coloured line, tufted irregularly with
brushwood and willows; but at what seemed
its northern extremity, the hills of Arqua rose
in a dark cluster of purple pyramids, balanced
on the bright mirage of the lagoon; two or
three smooth surges of inferior hill extended
themselves about their roots, and beyond these,
beginning with the craggy peaks above Vi-
cenza, the chain of the Alps girded the whole
horizon to the north — a wall of jagged blue,
here and there showing through its clefts a
wilderness of misty precipices, fading far
back into the recesses of Cadore, and itself
rising and breaking away eastward, where the
sun struck opposite upon its snow into mighty
fragments of peaked light, standing up behind
the barred clouds of evening, one after an-
other, countless, the crown of the Adrian Sea,
until the eye turned back from pursuing them,
to rest upon the nearer burning of the cam-
panilesi of Murano, and on the great city,
1 bell-towers (Murano is an island just north of
Venice. )
GTS
THE VICTOKIAN AGE
where it magnified itself along the waves, as
the quick silent pacing of the gondola drew
nearer and nearer. And at last, when its walls
were reached, and the outmost of its untrod-
den streets was entered, not through towered
gate or guarded rampart, but as a deep inlet
between two rocks of coral in the Indian sea;
•when first upon the traveller's sight opened
the long ranges of columned palaces, — each
with its black boat moored at the portal, —
each with its image cast down beneath its feet
upon that green pavement which every breeze
broke into new fantasies of rich teSvsellation ;
when first, at the extremity of the bright vista,
the shadowy IJialto threw its colossal curve
slowly forth from behind the palace of the
Camerlenghi;- that strange curve, so delicate,
so adamantine, strong as a mountain cavern,
graceful as a bow just bent; when first, before
its moonlike circumference was all risen, the
gondolier 's cry, ' ' Ah ! Stall, ' '3 struck sharp
upon the ear, and the prow turned aside un-
der the mighty cornices that half met over the
narrow canal, where the plash of the water
followed close and loud, ringing along the
marble by the boat 's side ; and when at last
that boat darted forth upon the breadth of
silver sea, across which the front of the Ducal
Palace, flushed with its sanguine veins, looks
to the snowy dome of Our Lady of Salvation,*
it was no marvel that the mind should be
so deeply entranced by the visionary charm
of a scene so beautiful and so strange, as to
forget the darker truths of its history and its
being. "Well might it seem that such a city
had owed her existence rather to the rod of
the enchanter than the fear of the fugitive;
that the waters which encircled her had been
chosen for the mirror of her state, rather than
the shelter of her nakedness ; and that all w hich
in nature was wild or merciless, — Time and
Decay, as well as the waves and tempests, —
had been won to adorn lier instead of to de-
stroy, and might still spare, for ages to come,
that beauty which seemed to have fixed for its
throne the sands of the hour-glass as well as
of the sea.
And although the last few eventful years,
fraught with change to the face of the whole
earth, have been more fatal in their influence
on Venice than the five hundred that preceded
them; though the noble landscape of approach
to her can now be seen no more, or seen only
2 The Bridge of the RIalto. across the Grand
Canal. consistH of n slnKle marble arch of 74
f<>ot Hpan and .T_' feet In height.
» IndlratinK that the gondollcT meant to turn to
the right.
4 The Church of Santa .Maria dHIn Snliil.'. on the
right uldtf of the mouth of (lie Grand Canal.
by a glance, as the engine slackens its rushing
on the iron line; and though many of her
palaces are forever defaced, and many in dese-
crated ruins, there is still so much of magic
in her aspect that the hurried traveller, who
must leave her before the wonder of that fir.st
aspect has been worn away, may still be led to
forget the humility of her origin, and to shut
his eyes to the depth of her desolation. They,
at least, are little to be envied, in whose hearts
the great charities of the imagination lie dead,
and for whom the fancy has no power to re-
press the importunity of painful impressions,
or to raise wliat is ignoble, and disguise what
is discordant, in a scene so rich in its remem-
brances, so surpassing in its beauty. But for
this work of tlie imagination there must be no
permission during the task which is before usl
The impotent feelings of romance, so singu-
larly characteristic of this century, may indeed
gild, but never save, the remains of those
mightier ages to which they are attached like
climbing flowers; and they must be torn away
from the magnificent fragments, if we would
see them as they stood in their own strength.
Those feelings, always as fruitless as they are
fond, are in Venice not only incapable of pro-
tecting, but even of discerning, the objects to
which they ought to have been attached. The
Venice of modern fiction and drama is a thing
of yesterday, a mere eflBorescence of decay,
a stage dream which the first ray of daylight
must dissipate into dust. No prisoner, whose
name is worth remembering, or whose sorrow
deserved sympathy, ever crossed that "Bridge
of Sighs," which is the centre of the Byronic
ideal of Venice;"- no great merchant of Venice
ever saw that Rialto under which the traveller
now passes with breathless interest; the statue
which Byron makes Faliero address as one of his
great ancestors was erected to a soldier of fortune
a hundred and fifty years after Faliero 's death ;«
and the most conspicuous parts of the city have
been so entirely altered in the course of the last
three centuries, that if Henry Dandolo or
Francis Foscari^ could be summoned from their
tombs, and stood each on the deck of his galley
at the entrance of the Grand Canal, that re-
nowned entrance, the painter 's favourite sub-
ject, the novelist 's favourite scene, where the
water first narrows by the steps of the Church
of La Salute, — the mighty Doges would not
know in what part of the world they stood,
would literally not recognize one stone of the
r. Sec ChlUlp Tfarnltl. IV. 1.
'i Sec Mm inn l-alicro. Ill, i. 36.
7 Knrl.v I><)g('M of Venice: the one was blinded by
ll»e Kv/.iintlne emiwror, tlio other compelled
to abdicate.
JOHN RUSKIN
679
great city, for whose sake, and by whose in-
gratitude, their grey hairs had been brought
down with bitterness to the grave. The re-
mains of their Venice lie hidden behind the
cumbrous masses which were the delight of the
nation in its dotage; hidden in many a grass-
grown court, and silent pathway, and lightless
canal, where the slow waves have sapped their
foundations for five hundred years, and must
soon prevail over them for ever. It must be
our tasks to glean and gather them forth, and
restore out of them some faint image of the
lost city; more gorgeous a thousandfold than
that which now exists, yet not created in the
day-dream of the prince, nor by the ostentation
of the noble, but built by iron hands and
patient hearts, contending against the adver-
sity of nature and the fury of man, so that
its wonderfulness cannot be grasped by the
indolence of imagination, but only after frank
inquiry into the true nature of that wild and
solitary scene, whose restless tides and trem-
bling sands did indeed shelter the birth of the
city, but long denied her dominion.
When the eye falls casually on a map of
Europe, there is no feature by which it is more
likely to be arrested than the strange sweeping
loop formed by the junction of the Alps and
Apennines, and enclosing the great basin of
Lombardy. This return of the mountain chain
upon itself causes a vast difference in the char-
acter of the distribution of its debris on its
opposite sides. The rock fragments and setli-
ment which the torrents on the other side of
the Alps bear into the plains are distributed
over a vast extent of country, and, though here
and there lodged in beds of enormous thickness,
soon permit the firm substrata to appear from
underneath them; but all the torrents which
descend from the southern side of the High
Alps, and from the northern slope of the Apen-
nines, meet concentrically in the recess or
mountain bay which the two ridges enclose;
every fragment which thunder breaks out of
their battlements, and every grain of dust
which the summer rain washes from their pas-
tures, is at last laid at rest in the blue sweep
of the Lombardic plain ; and that plain must
have risen within its rocky barriers as a cup
fills with wine, but for two contrary influences
which continually depress, or disperse from its
surface, the accumulation of the ruins of ages.
I will not tax the reader's faith in modern
science by insisting on the singular depression
of the surface of Lombardy, which appears for
many centuries to have taken place steadily and
8 I. o.. Raskin's task, in this intended work on
Vonotian arcliitecture and sculpture.
continually; the main fact with which we have
to do is the gradual transport, by the Po and
its great collateral rivers, of vast masses of
the finer sediment to the sea. The character
of the Lombardic plain is most strikingly ex-
pressed by the ancient walls of its cities, com-
posed for the most part of large rounded
Alpine pebbles alternating with narrow courses
of brick; and was curiously illustrated in 1848,
by the ramparts of these same pebbles thrown
up four or five feet high round every field, to
check the Austrian cavalry in the battle under
the walls of Verona. The finer dust among
which these pebbles are dispersed is taken up
by the rivers, fed into continual strength by the
Alpine snow, so that, however pure their
waters may be when they issue from the lakes
at the foot of the great chain, they become of
the colour and opacity of clay before they reach
the Adriatic ; the sediment which they bear is
at once thrown down as they enter the sea,
forming a vast belt of low land along the
eastern coast of Italy. The powerful stream
of the Po of course builds forward the fastest;
on each side of it, north and south, there is a
tract of marsh, fed by more feeble streams,
and less liable to rapid change than the delta
of the central river. In one of these tracts is
built Ravenna, and in the other Venice.
What circumstances directed the peculiar ar-
rangement of this great belt of sediment in the
earliest times, it is not here the place to in-
quire. It is enough for us to know that from
the mouths of the Adige to those of the Piave
there stretches, at a variable distance of from
three to five miles from the actual shore, a bank
of sand, divided into long islands by narrow
channels of sea. Tlie space between this bank
and the true shore consists of the sedimentary
deposits from these and other rivers, a great
plain of calcareous mud,^ covered, in the neigh-
bourhood of Venice, by the sea at high water,
to the depth in most places of a foot or a foot
and a half, and nearly everywhere exposed at
low tide, but divided by an intricate network
of narrow and winding channels, from which
the sea never retires. In some places, accord-
ing to the run of the currents, the land has
risen into marshy islets, consolidated, some by
art, and some by time, into ground firm enough
to be built upon, or fruitful enough to be cul-
tivated: in others, on the contrary, it has not
reached the sea level ; so that, at the average low
water, shallow lakelets glitter among its irregu-
larly exposed fields of seaweed. In the midst
of the largest of these, increased in importance
:• Comnarp what Hnxle.v says on the chalk forma-
tion of Europe, p. 670,
680
THE VICTORIAN AGE
by the confluence of several large river channels
towards one of the openings in the sea bank,
the city of Venice itself is built, on a crowded
cluster of islands; the various plots of higher
ground which appear to the north and south of
this central cluster, have at different periods
been also thickly inhabited, and now bear, ac-
cording to their size, the remains of cities, vil-
lages, or isolated convents and churches, scat-
tered among spaces of open ground, partly
waste and encumbered by ruins, partly under
cultivation for the supply of the metropolis.
The average rise and fall of the tide is about
three feet (varying considerably with the sea-
sons) ; but this fall, on so flat a shore, is
enough to cause continual movement in the
waters, and in the main canals to produce a
reflux which frequently runs like a mill stream.
At high water no land is visible for many miles
to the north or south of Venice, except in the
form of small islands crowned with towers or
gleaming with villages: there is a channel, some
three miles wide, between the city and the
mainland, and some mile and a half wide
between it and the sandy breakwater called the
Lido, which divides the lagoon from the
Adriatic, but which is so low as hardly to dis-
turb the impression of the city's having been
built in the midst of the ocean, although the
secret of its true position is partly, yet not
painfully, betrayed by the clusters of piles set
to mark the deep-water channels, which undu-
late far away in spotty chains like the studded
backs of huge sea-snakes, and by the quick
glittering of the crisped and crowded waves
that flicker and dance before the strong winds
upon the uplifted level of the shallow sea. But
the scene is widely difterent at low tide. A fall
of eighteen or twenty inches is enough to show
ground over the greater part of the lagoon j
and at the complete ebb the city is seen stand-
ing in the midst of a dark plain of seaweed,
of gloomy green, except only where the larger
branches of the Brenta and its associated
streams converge towards the port of the Lido.
Through this salt and sombre plain the gondola
and the fishing-boat advance by tortuous chan-
nels, seldom more than four or five feet deep,
and often so choked with slime that the
heavier keels furrow the bottom till their cross-
ing tracks are seen through the clear sea water
like the ruts upon a wintry road, and the oar
leaves blue gashes upon the ground at every
stroke, or is entangled among the thick weed
that fringes the banks with the weight of its
fiuUon waves, leaning to and fro upon the uncer-
tain sway of the exhausted tide. The scene is
often profoundly oppressive, even at this day,
when every plot of higher ground bears some
fragment of fair building: but, in order to
know what it was once, let the traveller follow
in his boat at evening the windings of some
unfrequented channel far into the midst of
the melancholy plain; let him remove, in his
imagination, the brightness of the great city
that still extends itself in the distance, and the
walls and towers from the islands that are
near; and so wait, until the bright investiture
and sweet warmth of the sunset are withdrawn
from the waters, and the black desert of their
shore lies in its nakedness beneath the night,
pathless, comfortless, infirm, lost in <iark
languor and fearful silence, except where the
salt runlets plash into the tideless pools, or
the sea-birds flit from their margins with a
questioning cry ; and he will be enabled to enter
in some sort into the horror of heart with which
this solitude was anciently chosen by man for
his habitation. They little thought, who first
drove the stakes into the sand, and strewed
the ocean reeds for their rest, that their chil-
dren were to be the princes of that ocean, and
their palaces its pride; and yet, in the great
natural laws that rule that sorrowful wilder-
ness, let it be remembered what strange prep-
aration had been made for the things which no
human imagination could have foretold, and
how the whole existence and fortune of the
Venetian nation were anticipated or compelled,
by the setting of those bars and doors to the
rivers and the sea. Had deeper currents
divided their islands, hostile navies would again
and again have reduced the rising city into
servitude; had stronger surges beaten their
shores, all the richness and refinement of the
Venetian architecture must have been ex-
changed for the walls and bulwarks of an
ordinary sea-port. Had there been no tide,
as in other parts of the Mediterranean, the nar-
row canals of the city would have become
noisome, and the marsh in which it was built
pestiferous. Had the tide been only a foot or
eighteen inches higher in its rise, the water-
access to the doors of the palaces would have
been impossible: even as it is, there is some-
times a little difiiculty, at the ebb, in landing
without setting foot upon the lower and slip-
pery steps; and the highest tides sometimes
enter the courtyards, and overflow the entrance
halls. Eighteen inches more of difl'erence be-
tween the level of the flood and ebb would have
rendered the doorsteps of every palace, at low
water, a treacherous mass of weeds and limpets,
and the entire system of water-carriage for the
higher classes, in their easy and daily inter-
course, must have been done away with. The
JOHN EUSKIN
681
streets of the city would have been widened, its
network of canals filled up, and all the peculiar
character of the place and the people destroyed.
The reader may perhaps have felt some pain
in the contrast between this faithful view of
the site of the Venetian Throne, and the
romantic conception of it which we ordinarily
form; but this pain, if he have felt it, ought
to be more than counterbalanced by the value
of the instance thus afforded to us at once of
the inscrutableness and the wisdom of the ways
of God. If, two thousand years ago, we had
been permitted to watch the slow settling of
the slime of those turbid rivers into the pol-
luted sea, and the gaining upon its deep and
fresh waters of the lifeless, impassable, unvoy-
ageable plain, how little could we have under-
stood the purpose with which those islands were
shaped out of the void, and the torpid waters
enclosed with their desolate walls of sand!
How little could we have known, any more than
of what now seems to us most distressful, dark,
and objectless, the glorious aim which was then
in the mind of Him in whose hand are all the
corners of the earth! how little imagined that
in the laws which were stretching forth the
gloomy margins of those fruitless banks, and
feeding the bitter grass among their shallows,
there was indeed a preparation, and the only
preparation possible, for the founding of a
city which was to be set like a golden clasp on
the girdle of the earth, to write her history on
the white scrolls of the sea-surges, and to word
it in their thunder, and to gather and give
forth, in world-wide pulsation, the glory of the
West and of the East, from the burning heart
of her Fortitude and Splendour.
The Mediaeval and the Modern Workman.
From Volume II, Chapter VI
Now, in the make and nature of every man,
however rude or simple, whom we employ in
manual labour, there are some powers for bet-
ter things: some tardy imagination, torpid
capacity of emotion, tottering steps of thought,
there are, even at the worst ; and in most cases
it is all our own fault that they are tardy or
torpid. But they cannot be strengthened, unless
we are content to take them in their feebleness,
and unless we prize and honour them in their
imperfection above the best and most perfect
manual skill. And this is what we have to do
with all our labourers; to look for the thought-
ful part of them, and get that out of them,
whatever we lose for it, whatever faults and
errors we are obliged to take with it. For the
best that is in them cannot manifest itself, but
in company with much error. Understand this
clearly: You can teach a man to draw a
straight line, and to cut one ; to strike a curved
line, and to carve it; and to copy and carve any
number of given lines or forms, with admirable
speed and perfect precision; and you find his
work perfect of its kind: but if you ask him
to think about any of those forms, to consider
if he cannot find any better in his own head,
he stops; his execution becomes hesitating; he
thinks, and ten to one he thinks wrong; ten
to one he makes a mistake in the first touch he
gives to his work as a thinking being. But
you have made a man of him for all that. He
was only a machine before, an animated tool.
And observe, you are put to stern choice in
this matter. You must either make a tool of
the creature, or a man of him. You cannot
make both. Men were not intended to work
with the accuracy of tools, to be precise and
perfect in all their actions. If you will have
that precision out of them, and make their
fingers measure degrees like cog-wheels, and
their arms strike curves like compasses, you
must unhumanize them. All the energy of their
spirits must be given to make cogs and com-
passes of themselves. All their attention and
strength must go to the accomplishment of the
mean act. The eye of the soul must be bent
upon the finger-point, and the soul's force must
fill all the invisible nerves that guide it, ten
hours a day, that it may not err from its steely
precision, and so soul and sight be worn away,
and the whole human being be lost at last — a
heap of sawdust, so far as its intellectual work
in this world is concerned; saved only by its
Heart, which cannot go into the form of cogs
and compasses, but expands, after the ten hours
are over, into fireside humanity. On the other
hand, if you will make a man of the working
creature, you cannot make a tool. Let him but
begin to imagine, to think, to try to do any-
thing worth doing; and the engine-turned pre-
cision is lost at once. Out come all his rough-
ness, all his dulness, all his incapability; shame
upon shame, failure upon failure, pause after
pause: but out comes the whole majesty of him
also ; and we know the height of it only when
we see the clouds settling upon him. And,
whether the clouds be bright or dark, there
will be transfiguration behind and within them.
And now, reader, look round this English
room of yours, about which you have been
proud so often, because the work of it was so
good and strong, and the ornaments of it so
finished. Examine again all those accurate
mouldings, and perfect polishings, and unerring
adjustments of the seasoned wood and tem-
682
THE VICTORIAN AGE
pered steel. Many a time you have exulted over
them, and thought how great England was,
because her slightest work was done so thor-
oughly. Alas! if read rightly, these perfect-
nesses are signs of a slavery in our England a
thousand times more bitter and more degrading
than that of the scourged African, or helot i
Greek. ^Men may be beaten, chained, tormented,
yoked like cattle, slaugiitered like summer flies,
and yet remain in one sense, and the best sense,
free. But to smother their souls within them,
to blight and hew into rotting pollards the
suckling branches of their human intelligence,
to make the flesh and skin which, after the
worm 's work on it, is to see God,2 into leathern
thongs to yoke machinery with, — this it is to be
slave-masters indeed; and there might be more
freedom in England, though her feudal lords'
lightest words were Avorth men's lives, and
though the blood of the vexed husbandman
dropped in the furrows of her fields, than there
is while the animation of her multitudes is sent
like fuel to feed the factory smoke, and the
strength of them is given daily to be wasted
into the fineness of a web, or racked into the
exactness of a line.
And, on the other hand, go forth again to
gaze upon the old cathedral front, where you
have smiled so often at the fantastic ignorance
of the old sculptors: examine once more those
ugly goblins, and formless monsters, and stern
statues, anatomiless and rigid; but do not
mock at them, for they are signs of the life and
liberty of every workman who struck the stone;
a freedom of thought, and rank in scale of
being, such as no laws, no charters, no charities
can secure; but which it must be the first aim
of all Europe at this day to regain for her
children.
Let me not be thought to speak wildly or
extravagantly. It is verily this degradation of
the operative into a machine, which, more than
any other evil of the times, is leading the mass
of the nations everywhere into vain, incoherent,
destructive struggling for a freedom of which
they cannot explain the nature to themselves.
Their universal outcry against wealth, and
against nobility, is not forced from them
either by the pressure of famine, or the sting
of mortified pride. These do much, and have
done much in all ages; but the foundations of
society were never yet shaken as they are at
this day. It is not that men are ill fed, but
that they have no pleasure in the work by which
they make their bread, and therefore look to
1 A ulavc In nnclont Spnrta. owned by the state,
and attacli«'<l to the noil.
2 Beo .loh, xlx, 2«.
wealth as the only means of pleasure. It is
not that men are pained by the scorn of the
upper classes, but they cannot endure their
own; for they feel that the kind of labour to
which they are condemned is verily a degrading
one, and makes them less than men. Never
had the upper classes so much sympathy with
the lower, or charity for them, as they have at
this day, and yet never were they so much
hated by them: for, of old, the separation
between the noble and the poor was merely a
wall built by law; now it is a veritable dif-
ference in level of standing, a precipice be-
tween upper and lower grounds in the field of
humanity, and there is pestilential air at the
bottom of it. I know not if a day is ever to
come when the nature of right freedom will be
understood, and when men will see that to obey
another man, to labour for him, yield reverence
to him or to his place, is not slavery. It is
often the best kind of liberty, — liberty from
care. The man who says to one, Go, and he
goeth, and to another. Come, and he cometh,^
has, in most cases, more sense of restraint and
difficulty than the man who obeys him. The
movements of the one are hindered by the bur-
den on his shoulder; of the other, by the bridle
on his lips: there is no way by which the bur-
den may be lightened; but we need not suffer
from the bridle if we do not champ at it. To
yield reverence to another, to hold ourselves
and our lives at his disposal, is not slavery;
often it is the noblest state in which a man can
live in this world. There is, indeed, a reverence
which is servile, that is to say irrational or
selfish: but there is also noble reverence, that
is to say, reasonable and loving; and a man is
never so noble as when lie is reverent in this
kind; nay, even if the feeling pass the bounds
of mere reason, so that it be loving, a man is
raised by it. Which had, in reality, most of
the serf nature in him, — the Irish peasant who
was lying in wait yesterday for his landlord,
with his musket muzzle thrust through the
ragged hedge; or that old mountain servant,
who 200 years ago, at Inverkeithing, gave up
his own life and the lives of his seven sons for
his chief? — as each fell, calling forth his
brother to the death, ' ' Another for Hector ! ' '*
And therefore, in all ages and all countries,
reverence has been paid and sacrifice made by
men to each other, not only without complaint,
but rejoicingly; and famine, and peril, and
sword, and all evil, and all shame, have been
borne willingly in the causes of njasters and
8 R*e Matthew, viii, 0.
4 S<»e the Preface to Scott's The Fair Maid of
Perth.
JOHN BUSKIN
683
kings; for all these gifts of the heart ennobled
the men who gave, not less than the men who
received, them, and nature prompted, and God
rewarded the sacrifice. But to feel their souls
withering within them, unthanked, to find their
whole being sunk into an unrecognized abyss, to
be counted off into a heap of mechanism, num-
bered with its wheels, and weighed with its
hammer strokes; — this nature bade not, — this
God blesses not, — this humanity for no long
time is able to endure.
We have much studied and much perfected,
of late, the great civilized invention of the
division of labour; only we give it a false
name. It is not, truly speaking, the labour that
is divided; but the men: — Divided into mere
segments of men — broken into small fragments
and crumbs of life; so that all tlie little piece
of intelligence that is left in a man is not
enough to make a pin, or a nail, but exhausts
itself in making the point of a pin or the head
of a nail. Now it is a good and desirable
thing, truly, to make many pins in a day; but
if we could only see with what crystal sand
their points were polished, — sand of human
soul, much to be magnified before it can be dis-
cerned for what it is, — we should think there
might be some loss in it also. And the great
cry that rises from all our manufacturing
cities, louder than their furnace blast, is all in
very deed for this, — that we manufacture
everything there except men; we blanch cotton,
and strengthen steel, and refine sugar, and
shape pottery; but to brighten, to strengthen,
to refine, or to form a single living spirit, never
enters into our estimate of advantages. And all
the evil to which that cry is urging our myriads
can be met only in one way: not by teaching
nor preaching, for to teach them is but to
show them their misery, and to preach to them,
if we do nothing more than preach, is to mock
at it. It can be met only by a right under-
standing, on the part of all classes, of what
kinds of labour are good for men, raising them,
and making them happy; by a determined
sacrifice of such convenience, or beauty, or
cheapness as is to be got only by the degrada-
tion of the workman; and by equally deter-
mined demand for the products and results of
healthy and ennobling labour.
From MODERN PAINTERS
Or THE True Ideal: — First, Purist. Part TV,
Chapter VI
Having thus glanced at the principal modes
in which the imagination works for evil, we must
rapidly note also the principal directions in j
which its operation is admissible, even in chang-
ing or strangely combining what is brought
within its sphere.
For hitherto we have spoken as if every
change wilfully wrought by the imagination was
an error; apparently implying that its only
proper work was to summon up the memories
of past events, and the anticipations of future
ones, under aspects which would bear the
sternest tests of historical investigation, or ab-
stract reasoning. And in general this is, in-
deed, its noblest work. Nevertheless, it has also
permissible functions peculiarly its own, and
certain rights of feigning, and adorning, and
fancifully arranging, inalienable from its na-
ture. Everything that is natural is, within cer-
tain limits, right ; and we must take care not, in
over-severity, to deprive ourselves of any re-
freshing or animating power ordained to be in
us for our help.
(A). It was noted in speaking above of the
Angelieani or passionate ideal, that there was
a certain virtue in it dependent on the expres-
sion of its loving enthusiasm.
(B). In speaking of the pursuit of beauty
as one of the characteristics of the highest art,
it was also said that there were certain ways
of showing this beauty by gathering together,
without altering, the finest forms, and marking
them by gentle emphasis.
(C). And in speaking of the true uses of
imagination it was said that we might be al-
lowed to create for ourselves, in innocent play,
fairies and naiads, and other such fictitious
creatures.
Now this loving enthusiasm, which seeks for
a beauty fit to be the object of eternal love;
this inventive skill, which kindly displays what
exists around us in the world; and this playful
energy of thought which delights in various
conditions of the impossible, are three forms
of idealism more or less connected with the
three tendencies of the artistical mind which I
had occasion to explain in the chapter on the
Nature of Gothic, in the Stones of Venice. It
was there pointed out, that, the things around
us containing mixed good and evil, certain men
chose the good and left the evil (thence prop-
erly called Purists) ; others received both good
and evil together (thence properly called
Naturalists) ; and others had a tendency to
choose the evil and leave the good, whom, for
convenience* sake, I termed Sensualists. I do
not mean to say that painters of fairies and
naiads must belong to this last and lowest
1 So named by Ruskin because Fra .\njielico (1.187-
1455). . famous for bis paintings of angels,
was "tho cputral master of tho school."
684
THE VICTORIAN AGE
class, or habitually choose the evil and leave
the good; but there is, nevertheless, a strange
connection between the reinless play of the
imagination, and a sense of the presence of evil,
which is usually more or less developed in those
creations of the imagination to which we prop-
erly attach the word Grotesque.
For this reason, we shall find it convenient to
arrange what we have to note respecting true
idealism under the three heads —
A. Purist Idealism.
B. Naturalist Idealism.
C. Grotesque Idealism.
A. Purist Idealism. — It results from the un-
willingness of men whose dispositions are more
than ordinarily tender and holy, to contemplate
the various forms of definite evil which neces-
sarily occur in the daily aspects of the world
around them. They shrink from them as from
pollution, and endeavour to create for them-
selves an imaginary state, in which pain and
imperfection either do not exist, or exist in
some edgeless and enfeebled condition.
As, however, pain and imperfection are, by
eternal laws, bound up with existence, so far as
it is visible to us, the endeavour to cast them
away invariably indicates a comparative child-
ishness of mind, and produces a childish form
of art. In general, the effort is most success-
ful when it is most naive, and when the ignor-
ance of the draughtsman is in some frank pro-
portion to his innocence. For instance, one of
the modes of treatment, the most conducive to
this ideal expression, is simply drawing every-
thing without shadows, as if the sun were every-
where at once. This, in the present state of
©ur knowledge, we could not do with grace,
because we could not do it without fear or
shame. But an artist of the thirteenth century
did it with no disturbance of conscience, —
knowing no better, or rather, in some sense, we
might say, knowing no worse. It is, however,
evident, at the first thought, that all representa-
tions of nature without evil must either be
ideals of a future world, or be false ideals, if
they are understood to be representations of
facts. They can only be classed among the
branches of the true ideal, in so far as they
are understood to be nothing more than expres-
sions of the painter's personal affections or
hopes.
Let us take one or two instances in order
clearly to explain our meaning.
The life of Angelico was almost entirely
spent in the endeavour to imagine the beings
belonging to another world. By purity of life,
habitual elevation of thought, and natural
sweetness of disposition, he was enabled to ex-
press the sacred affections upon the human
countenance as no one ever did before or since.
In order to effect clearer distinction between
heavenly beings and those of this world, he
represents the former as clothed in draperies of
the purest colour, crowned with glories of bur-
nished gold, and entirely shadowless. "With
exquisite choice of gesture, and disposition of
folds of drapery, this mode of treatment gives
perhaps the best idea of spiritual beings which
the human mind is capable of forming. It is,
therefore, a true ideal; but the mode in which
it is arrived at (being so far mechanical and
contradictory of the appearances of nature)
necessarily precludes those who practise it from
being complete masters of their art. It is al-
ways childish, but beautiful in its childishness.
The works of our own Stothard2 are examples
of the operation of another mind, singular in
gentleness and purity, upon mere worldly sub-
ject. It seems as if Stothard could not con-
ceive wickedness, coarseness, or baseness; every
one of his figures looks as if it had been copied
from some creature who had never harboured
an unkind thought, or permitted itself in an
ignoble action. With this intense love of men-
tal purity is joined, in Stothard, a love of mere
physical smoothness and softness, so that he
lived in a universe of soft grass and stainless
fountains, tender trees, and stones at which no
foot could stumble.
All this is very beautiful, and may sometimes
urge us to an endeavour to make the world it-
self more like the conception of the painter.
At least, in the midst of its malice, misery,
and baseness, it is often a relief to glance at
the graceful shadows, and take, for momentary
companionship, creatures full only of love, glad-
ness, and honour. But the perfect truth will
at last vindicate itself against the partial
truth ; the help which we can gain from the un-
substantial vision will be only like that which
we may sometimes receive, in weariness, from
the scent of a flower or the passing of a
breeze. For all firm aid, and steady use, we
must look to harder realities ; and, as far as the
painter himself is regarded, we can only receive
such work as the sign of an amiable imbecility.
It is indeed ideal; but ideal as a fair dream is
in the dawn of morning, before the faculties
are astir. The apparent completeness of grace
can never be attained without much definite
falsification as well as omission; stones, over
which we cannot stumble, must be ill-drawn
2 Thomas Stothard (175.'>-18.'?4). best known per-
haps for his painting of the "Canterbury rll-
grims."
JOHN EUSKIN
68i
stones; trees, which are all gentleness and soft-
ness, cannot be trees of wood; nor companies
without evil in them, companies of flesh and
blood. Tlie habit of falsification (with what-
ever aim) begins always in dulness and ends
always in incapacity: nothing can be more
pitiable than any endeavour by Stothard to
express facts beyond his own sphere of soft
pathos or graceful mirth, and nothing more
unwise than the aim at a similar ideality by
any painter who has power to render a sin-
cerer truth.
I remember another interesting example of
ideality on this same root, but belonging to
another branch of it, in the works of a young
German painter, which I saw some time ago in
a London drawing-room. He had been travel-
ling in Italy, and had brought home a port-
folio of sketches remarkable alike for their
fidelity and purity. Every one was a laborious
and accurate study of some particular spot.
Every cottage, every cliff, every tree, at the
site chosen, had been drawn; and drawn with
palpable sincerity of portraiture, and yet in
such a spirit that it was impossible to conceive
that any sin or misery had ever entered into
one of the scenes he had represented; and the
volcanic horrors of Eadicofani,3 the pestilent
gloom of the Pontines,* and the boundless
despondency of the Campagnas became, under
his hand, only various appearances of Paradise.
It was very interesting to observe the minute
emendations or omissions by which this was
effected. To set the tiles the slightest degree
more in order upon a cottage roof; to insist
upon the vine leaves at the window, and let
the shadow which fell from them naturally
conceal the rent in the wall; to draw all the
flowers in the foreground, and miss the weeds;
to draw all the folds of the white clouds, and
miss those of the black ones; to mark the
graceful branches of the trees, and, in one
way or another, beguile the eye from those
which were ungainly; to give every peasant-
girl whose face was visible the expression of an
angel, and every one whose back was turned the
bearing of a princess; finally, to give a general
look of light, clear organization, and serene
vitality to every feature in the landscape; —
such were his artifices, and such his delights.
It was impossible not to sympathize deeply
3 A town in the province of Siena. Italy, situated
on a hill at the foot of a basaltic rock.
4 A marshy region in central Italy.
6 The Roman Campagna. In his preface to the
second edition of the first volume of Modern
Painters, Ruskin has a remarkable description
of this "wild and wasted plain."
with the spirit of such a painter; and it was
just cause for gratitude to be permitted to
travel, as it were, through Italy with such a
friend. But his woik had, nevertheless, its
stern limitations and marks of everlasting in-
feriority. Always soothing and pathetic, it
could never be sublime, never perfectly nor
entrancingly beautiful; for the narrow spirit
of correction could not east itself fully into
any scene; the calm cheerfulness which shrank
from the shadow of the cypress, and the dis-
tortion of the olive, could not enter into the
brightness of the sky that they pierced, nor
the softness of the bloom that they bore: for
every sorrow that his heart turned from, he
lost a consolation; for every fear which he
dared not confront, he lost a portion of his
hardiness; the unsceptred sweep of the storm-
clouds, the fair freedom of glancing shower
and flickering sunbeam, sank into sweet recti-
tudes and decent formalisms; and, before eyes
that refused to be dazzled or darkened, the
hours of sunset wreathed their rays unheeded,
and the mists . of the Apennines spread their
blue veils in vain.
To this inherent shortcoming and narrow-
ness of reach the farther defect was added,
that this work gave no useful representation of
the state of facts in the country which it pre-
tended to contemplate. It was not only want-
ing in all the higher elements of beauty, but
wholly unavailable for instruction of any kind
beyond that which exists in pleasurableness of
pure emotion. And considering what cost of
labour was devoted to the series of drawings,
it could not but be matter for grave blame, as
well as for partial contempt, that a man of
amiable feeling and considerable intellectual
power should thus expend his life in the
declaration of his own petty pieties and pleas-
ant reveries, leaving the burden of human sor-
row unwitnessed, and the power of God's judg-
ments unconfessed; and, while poor Italy lay
wounded and moaning at his feet, pass by, in
priestly calm, lest the whiteness of his decent
vesture should be spotted with unhallowed
blood.
Of several other forms of Purism I shall
have to speak hereafter, more especially of that
exhibited in the landscapes of the early re-
ligious painters ; but these examples are enough,
for the present, to show the general principle
that the purest ideal, though in some measure
j true, in so far as it springs from the true long-
I ings of an earnest mind, is yet necessarily in
I many things deficient or blamable, and always
I an indication of some degree of weakness in
686
THE VICTORIAN AGE
the iniiul pursuing it. But, on the other hand,
it is to be noted that entire scorn of this purist
ideal is the sign of a far greater weakness.
Multitudes of petty artists, incapable of any
noble sensation whatever, but acquainted, in a
dim way, with the technicalities of tlie schools,
mock at the art whose depths they cannot
fathom, and whose motives they cannot com-
prehend, but of which they can easily detect
the imperfections, and deride the simplicities.
Thus poor fumigatory Fuseli,« with an art com-
posed of the tinsel of the stage and the panics
of the nursery, speaks contemptuously of the
name of Angelico as "dearer to sanctity than
to art." And a large portion of the resistance
to the noble Pre-Raphaelite movement of our
own days" has been offered by men who sup-
pose the entire function of the artist in this
world to consist in laying on colour with a
large brush, and surrounding dashes of flake
white with bituminous brown; men whose en-
tire capacities of brain, soul, and sympathy,
applied industriously to the end of their lives,
would not enable them, at last, to paint ^o much
as one of the leaves of the nettles, at the bot-
tom of Hunt 's picture of the Light of the
World.8
It is finally to be remembered, therefore, that
Purism is always noble when it is instinctive.
It is not the greatest thing that can be done,
but it is j)robably the greatest thing that the
man who does it can do, provided it comes from
his heart. True, it is a sign of weakness, but
it is not in our choice whether we Avill be weak
or strong; and there is a certain strength which
can only be made perfect in weakness. If he
is working in humility, fear of evil, desire of
beauty, and sincere purity of purpose and
thought, he will produce good and helpful
things; but he must be much on his guard
against supposing himself to be greater than
his fellows, because he has shut himself into
this calm and cloistered sphere. His only
safety lies in knowing himself to be, on the
«A Swiss-English painter and art-critic (1741-
1825). He had a powerful but ill-regulated
fancy, being both a fantastic designer and a
reckless colorlst. Perhaps Kuskin means
something like this by calling him "fumi-
gatory," but his meaning is not very clear.
" The movement led by Kossetti, Millnis, and Hunt.
See Enff. Lit., pp. .S69, :{70. Holman Hunt's
well-known "Lignt of the World" (now at
Keble College, Oxford) is a painting repre-
Kenting rhrist. with n lantern In his hand,
MtandiDg at a door and knocking.
« "Not that the Pre-Uaphaelite Is a purist move-
ment. It is stern naturalist ; but Its unfor-
tunate opposers. who neither know what na-
ture \h. nor what purism is, have mistaken
the Mimple nature for morbid purism, and
therefore cried out against It." — Kuskln's
noli'.
contrary, less than his fellows, and iu always
striving, so far as he can find it in his heart,
to extend his delicate narrowness toward the
great naturalist ideal. The whole group of
modern German purists have lost themselves,
because they founded »their work not on humil-
ity, nor on religion, but on small self-conceit.
Incapable of understanding the great Venetians,
or any other masters of true imaginative power,
and having fed what mind they had with weak
poetry and false philosophy, they thought them-
selves the best and greatest of artistic mankind,
and expected to found a new school of painting
in pious plagiarism and delicate pride. It is
difficult at first to decide which is the more
worthless, the spiritual affectation of the petty
German, or the composition and chiaroscuro of
the petty Englishman; on the whole, however,
the latter have lightest weight, for the pseudo-
religious painter must, at all events, pass much
of his time in meditation upon solemn subjects,
and in examining venerable models; and may
sometimes even cast a little useful reflected
light, or touch the heart with a pleasant echo.
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
(1828-1882)
THE BLESSED DAMOZEL*
The blessed damozel leaned out
From the gold bar of Heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth
Of waters stilled at even;
She had three lilies in her hand,
And the stars in her hair were seven. 6
Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem.
No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary's gift,
For service meetly worn;
Her hair that lay along her back
Was yellow like ripe corn. 12
Herseemed she scarce had been a day
One of God's choristers;
The wonder was not yet quite gone
From that still look of hers;
Albeit, to them she left, her day
Had counted as ten years. 18
♦ Slight in substance as this poem is. It has two
unusual sources of charm — a very definite
pictorial character which stamps it as the
work of a poet who was also a painter,
and a mystical quality si)ringing from uu
Imagination that dared to portray enrtlily
love in heavenly siirroimdlngs. Those who
are interested in sources may consult Virgil,
Eclogue v, r»0 ; and I'etrnrch. Sonnets In
Morie, 74.
DAXTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
687
24
30
36
(To one, it is t*n years of years.
. . . Yet now, and in this place,
Surely she leaned o 'er me — her hair
Fell all about my face. . . .
Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves.
The whole year sets apace.)
It was the rampart of God's house
That she was standing on;
By God built over the sheer depth
The which is Space begun;
So high, that looking downward thence
She scarce could see the sun.
It lies in Heaven, across the flood
Of ether, as a bridge.
Beneath, the tides of day and night
With flame and darkness ridge
The void, as low as where this earth
Spins like a fretful midge.
Around her, lovers, newly met
'Mid deathless love 's acclaims,
Spoke evermore among themselves
Their heart-remembered names;
And the souls mounting up to God
Went by her like thin flames.
And still she bowed herself and stooped
Out of the circling charm;
Until her bosom must have made
The bar she leaned on warm,
And the lilies lay as if asleep
Along her bended arm.
From the fixed place of Heaven she saw
Time like a pulse shake fierce
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove
Within the gulf to pierce
Its path; and now she spoke as when
The stars sang in their spheres. 54
The sun was gone now; the curled moon
Was like a little feather
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now
She spoke through the still weather.
Her voice was like the voice the stars
Had when they sang together.
42
60
(Ah sweet ! Even now, in that bird 's song,
Strove not her accents there,
Fain to be hearkened? When those bells
Possessed the mid-day air.
Strove not her steps to reach my side
Down all the echoing stair?) 66
' ' I wish that he were come to me,
For he will come," she said.
"Have I not prayed in Heaven! — on earth,
Lord, Lord, has he not prayed?
Are not two prayers a perfect strength?
And shall I feel afraid? 72
"When round his head the aureole clings,
And he is clothed in white,
1 '11 take his hand and go with him
To the deep wells of light;
As unto a stream we will step down.
And bathe there in God's sight. '<8
' ' We two will stand beside that shrine.
Occult, w^ithheld, untrod.
Whose lamps are stirred continually
With prayer sent up to God ;
And see our old prayers, granted, melt
Each like a little cloud. S4
' ' We two will lie i ' the shadow of
That living mystic tree
Within whose secret growth the Dovei
Is sometimes felt to be,
While every leaf that His plumes touch
Saith His Name audiblv. 90
"And I myself will teach to him,
I myself, lying so,
The songs I sing here; which his voice
Shall pause in, hushed and slow.
And find some knowledge at each pause,
Or some new thing to know. ' '
96
(Alas! We two, we two, thou say'st!
Yea, one wast thou with me
That once of old. But shall God lift
To endless unity
The soul whose likeness with thy soul
Was but its love for thee?) 102
"We two," she said, "will seek the groves
Where the lady Mary is.
With her five handmaidens, whose names
Are five sweet symphonies,
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,
Margaret and Bosalys. 108
"Circlewise sit they, with bound locks
And foreheads garlanded;
Into the fine cloth white like flame
Weaving the golden thread.
To fashion the birth-robes for them
Who are just born, being dead.
114
"He shall fear, haply, and be dumb:
Then will I lay my cheek
1 The Dove typifies the third member of the Trin-
ity, the Holy Spirit.
688
THE VICTORIAN AGE
To his, and tell about our love,
Not once abashed or weak:
And the dear Mother will approve
My pride, and let me speak.
"Herself shall bring us, hand in hand.
To Him round whom all souls
Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads
Bowed with their aureoles;
And angels meeting us shall sing
To their citherns and citoles.
' ' There will I ask of Christ the Lord
Thus much for him and me: —
Only to live as once or earth
"With Love, only to be,
As then awhile, for ever now
Together, I and he."
120
132
She gazed and listened and then said,
Less sad of speech than mild, —
"All this is when he comes." She ceased.
The light thrilled towards her, filled
With angels in strong level flight.
Her eyes prayed, and she smiled. 138
(I saw her smile.) But soon their path
Was vague in distant spheres:
And then she east her arms along
The golden barriers.
And laid her face between her hands,
And wept. (I heard her tears.) 144
SISTER HELEN*
"Why did you melt your waxen man.
Sister Helen?
To-day is the third since you began."
"The time was long, yet the time ran,
Little brother."
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!)
"But if you have done your work aright.
Sister Helen,
You'll let me play, for you said I might." 10
"Be very still in your play to-night,
Little brother."
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
• Thin ballad Is foundod on nn old superstition.
Ilolinshed, tor example, tolls a story of an at-
tempt upon the life of King Duffe — how cer-
tain soldiers breaking into a house, "found
ene of the witches roasting upon a wooden
broach an image of wax at the nre, resembling
in each feature the king's person, . . .
by the which means It should have come to
pass that when the wax was once clean con-
sumed, the death of the king should imme-
diately follow."
TMrd night, to-night, between Hell and
Heaven!)
' * You said it must melt ere vesper-bell,
Sister Helen;
If now it be molten, all is well."
"Even so, — nay, peace! you cannot tell.
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 20
what is this, between Hell and Heaven?)
"Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day.
Sister Helen;
How like dead folk he has dropped away ! ' '
"Nay now, of the dead what can you say.
Little brother?"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?)
"See, see, the sunken pile of wood.
Sister Helen, 30
Shines through the thinned wax red as blood ! ' '
"Nay now, when looked you yet on blood.
Little brother?"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven!)
"Now close your eyes, for they're sick and
^^^^> Sister Helen,
And I '11 play without the gallery door. ' '
' ' Aye, let me rest, — I '11 lie on the floor.
Little brother." 40
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)
"Here high up in the balcony,
Sister Helen,
The moon flies face to face with me. ' '
"Aye, look and say whatever you see.
Little brother."
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
What sight to-night, between Hell and
Heaven?)
' ' Outside it 's merry in the wind 's wake, 50
Sister Helen;
In the shaken trees the chill stars shake."
"Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you spake,
Little brother?"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What found to-night, between Hell and
Heaven?)
' ' I hear a horse-tread, and I see,
Sister Helen,
Three horsemen that ride terribly."
DANTE GABRIEL EOSSETTI
689
"Little brother, whence come the three, 60
Little brother?"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Whence should they come, between Hell and
Heaven?)
* * They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar,
Sister Helen,
And one draws nigh, but two are afar."
"Look, look, do you know them who they axe,
Little brother?"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Who should they be, between Hell and
Heaven?) 70
' * Oh, it 's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast.
Sister Helen,
For 1 know the white mane on the blast."
' ' The hour has come, has come at last.
Little brother! "
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven!)
' ' He has made a sign and called Halloo !
Sister Helen,
And he says that he would speak with you. ' ' 80
"Oh tell him I fear the frozen dew,
L^tle brother."
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Why laughs she thus, between Hell and
Heaven?)
' ' The wind is loud, but I hear him cry,
Sister Helen,
That Keith of Ewern 's like to die. ' '
"And he and thou, and thou and I,
Little brother."
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 90
And they and we, between Hell and Heaven!)
"Three days ago, on his marriage-morn,
Sister Helen,
He sickened, and lies since then forlorn."
"For bridegroom's side is the bride a thorn.
Little brother?"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Cold bridal cheer, between Hell and Heaven!)
* ' Three days and nights he has lain abed,
Sister Helen, 100
And he prays in torment to be dead."
' ' The thing may chance, if he have prayed.
Little brother ! ' '
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
If he have prayed, between Hell (ifui Heaven!)
"But he has not ceased to cry to-day,
Sister Helen,
That you should take your curse away."
"My prayer was heard, — he need but pray,
Little brother!" HO
(0 Mother, Mary Mothet,
Shall God not hear, between Hell and
Heaven?)
"But he says, till you take back your ban,
Sister Helen,
His soul would pass, yet never can."
"Nay then, shall I slay a living man,
Little brother?"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
A living soul, between Hell and Heaven!)
"But he calls for ever on your name, 120
Sister Helen,
And says that he melts before a flame. ' '
' ' My heart for his pleasure fared the same.
Little brother."
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Fire at the heart, between Hell and Heaven!)
"Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast,
Sister Helen,
For I know the white plume on the blast."
' ' The hoar, the sweet hour I forecast, 130
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Is the hour sweet, between Hell and Heaven?)
"He stops to speak, and he stills his horse,
Sister Helen j
But his words are drowned in the wind's
course. ' '
"Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce.
Little brother!"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What word now heard, between Hell and
Heaven?) 140
" Oh he says that Keith of Ewern 's cry,
Sister Helen,
Is ever to see you ere he die. ' '
"In all that his soul sees, there am I,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
The soul's one sight, between Hell and
Heaven!)
"He sends a ring and a broken coin.
Sister Helen,
And bids you mind the banks of Boyne." 150
690
THE VICTORIAN AGE
' ' What else he broke will be ever join,
Little brother! "
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
No, never joined, between Hell and Heaven!)
"He yields you these and craves full fain,
Sister Helen,
You pardon him in his mortal pain."
' ' What else he took will he give again.
Little brother?"
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 160
Not twice to give, between Hell and Heaven!)
' ' He calls your name in an agony,
Sister Helen,
That even dead Love must weep to see."
"Hate, born of Love, is blind as he,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Love turned to hate, between Hell and
Heaven!)
"Oh it's Keith of Keith now that rides fast,
Sister Helen, 170
For I know the white hair on the blast."
' ' The short, short hour will soon be past.
Little brother!"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Will soon be past, between Hell and
Heaven!)
* ' He looks at me and he tries to speak.
Sister Helen,
But oh! his voice is sad and weak!"
"What here should the mighty Baron seek,
Little brother?" 180
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven?)
"Oh his son still cries, if you forgive,
Sister Helen,
The body dies, but the soul shall live."
* ' Fire shall forgive me as I forgive,
Little brother!"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
As she forgives, between Hell and Heaven!)
"Oh he prays you, as his heart would rive, 190
Sister Helen,
To save his dear son 's soul alive. ' '
* ' Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive,
Little brother!"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Alas, aUu, between Hell and Heaven!)
* ' He tries to you, kneeling in the road,
Sister Helen,
To go with him for the love of God!"
' ' The way is long to his son 's abode, 200
Little brother."
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
The way is long, between Hell and Heaven!)
"A lady's here, by a dark steed brought,
Sister Helen,
So darkly clad, I saw her not."
"See her now or never see aught.
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
What more to see, between Hell and
Heaven?) 210
"Her hood falls back, and the moon shines
^^"> Sister Helen,
On the Lady of Ewern's golden hair."
' ' Blest hour of my power and her despair,
Little brother!"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Hour blest and banned, between Hell and
Heaven!)
"Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow.
Sister Helen,
'Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago." 220
"One morn for pride and three days for woe,
Little brother!"
^0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Three days, three nights, between Hell and
Heaven!)
"Her clasped hands stretch from her bending
^®^^' Sister Helen;
With the loud wind's wail her sobs are wed."
' * What wedding-strains hath her bridal-bed.
Little brother?" 229
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
What strain but death's, between Hell and
Heaven?)
"She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon.
Sister Helen,
She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon."
"Oh! might I but hear her soul's blithe tune.
Little brother! "
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Her woe's dumb cry, between Hell and
Heaven!)
"They've caught her to Westholm's sa(Jdle-
^o"' Sister Helen, 240
And her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow. ' '
' ' Lot it turn whiter than winter snow,
Little brother!"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
fVoi-irithcrcd gold, between UcU ami Ilrarcit!)
DANTE GABRIEL KOSSETTI
691
' ' O Sister Helen, you heard the bell,
Sister Helen!
More loud than the vesper-chime it fell. ' '
" A' vesper-ehime, but a dying knell,
Little brother ! " 250
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven!)
"Alas! but I fear the heavy sound,
Sister Helen;
Is it in the sky or in the ground?"
"Say, have they turned their horses round,
Little brother?"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
What would she more, between Hell and
Heaven?)
' ' They have raised the old man from his knee,
Sister Helen, -61
And they ride in silence hastily. ' '
"More fast the naked soul doth flee,
Little brother ! ' '
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven!)
"Flank to flank are the three steeds gone.
Sister Helen,
But the lady 's dark steed goes alone. ' '
"And lonely her bridegroom's soul hath flown,
Little brother." 371
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven!)
"Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill.
Sister Helen,
And weary sad they look by the hill."
"But he and I are sadder still,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Most sad of all, between Hell and Heaven!) 280
"See, see, the wax has dropped from its place.
Sister Helen,
And the flames are winning up apace ! ' '
"Yet here they burn but for a space.
Little brother! "
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven!)
' ' Ah ! what white thing at the door has crossed,
Sister Helen?
Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?" 290
' ' A soul that 's lost as mine is lost.
Little brother ! ' '
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!)
LA BELLA DONNA*
She wept, sweet lady,
And said in weeping:
' ' What spell is keeping
The stars so steady?
Why does the power
Of the sun's noon-hour
To sleep so move me?
And the moon in heaven.
Stained where she passes
As a worn-out glass is, —
Why walks she above me?
' ' Stars, moon, and sun too,
I 'ni tired of either
And all together!
Whom speak they unto
That I should listen?
For very surely.
Though my arms and shoulders
Dazzle beholders,
And my eyes glisten,
All 's nothing purely !
What are. words said for
At all about them,
If he they are made for
Can do without them?"
She laughed, sweet lady,
And said in laughing:
"His hand clings half in
My own already!
Oh! do you love me?
Oh! speak of passion
In no new fashion.
But the old sayings
You once said of me.
"You said: 'As summer,
Through boughs grown brittle,
Comes back a little
Ere frosts benumb her, —
So bring 'st thou to me
All leaves and flowers.
Though autumn's gloomy
To-day in the bowers. '
"Oh! does he love me,
When my voice teaches
The very speeches
He then spoke of me?
Alas! what flavour
♦ This is a translation, by Rossettl. of an Italian
song (probably also written by him) in his
poem. The Last Confession. Though appar-
ently little more than a lour dc force of
rhyme, it has a quality, and portrays a mood,
not common in our literature.
692
THE VICTORIAN AGE
Still with me lingers — "
(But she laughed as my kisses
Glowed in her fingers
With love's old blisses)
"Oh! what one favour
Eemains to woo him,
Whose whole poor savour
Belongs not to him f ' '
THE WOODSPUEGE
The wind flapped loose, the wind was still,
Shaken out dead from tree and hill:
I had walked on at the wind 's will, —
I sat now, for the wind was stUl.
Between my knees my forehead was, —
My lips, drawn in, said not Alas!
My hair was over in the grass.
My naked ears heard the day pass.
My eyes, wide open, had the run
Of some ten weeds to fix upon;
Among those few, out of the sun.
The woodspurge flowered, three cups in one.
From perfect grief there need not be
Wisdom or even memory:
One thing then learnt remains to me.
The woodspurge has a cup of three.
THE SONG OF THE BOWER
Say, is it day, is it dusk in thy bower,
Thou whom I long for, who longest for me?
Oh! be it light, be it night, 'tis Love's hour.
Love 's that is fettered as Love 's that is free.
Free Love has leaped to that innermost cham-
ber.
Oh! the last time, and the hundred before:
Fettered Love, motionless, can but remember.
Yet something that sighs from him passes
the door. 8
Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower,
What does it find there that knows it again?
There it must droop like a shower-beaten flower,
Red at the rent core and dark with the rain.
Ah! yet what shelter is still shed above it, —
What waters still image its leaves torn apart!
Thy soul is the shade that clings round it to
lOTB it,
And tears are its mirror deep down in thy
heart. 16
What were my prize, could I enter the bower.
This day, to-morrow, at eve or at momf
Large lovely arms and a neck like a tower,
Bosom then heaving that now lies forlorn.
Kindled with love-breath, (the sun's kiss is
colder ! )
Thy sweetness all near me, so distant to-day;
My hand round thy neck and thy hand on my
shoulder.
My mouth to thy mouth as the world melts
away. 24
What is it that keeps me afar from thy
bower, —
My spirit, my body, so fain to be there?
Waters engulfing or fires that devour? —
Earth heaped against me or death in the air?
Nay, but in day-dreams, for terror, for pity.
The trees wave their heads with an omen to
tell;
Nay, but in night-dreams, throughout the dark
city,
The hours, clashed together, lose count in the
bell. 32
Shall I not one day remember thy bower,
One day when all days are one day to me? —
Thinking, 'I stirred not, and yet had the
power, '
Yearning, * Ah God, if again it might be ! '
Peace, peace! such a small lamp illumes, on
this highway.
So dimly so few steps in front of my feet, —
Yet shows me that her way is parted from my
way. . . .
Out of sight, beyond light, at what goal may
we meet? 40
THE CLOUD CONFINES
The day is dark and the night
To him that would search their heart;
No lips of cloud that will part
Nor morning song in the light:
Only, gazing alone.
To him wild shadows are shown.
Deep under deep unknown
And height above unknown height.
Still we say as we go, —
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know.
That shall we know one day."
The Past is over and fled;
Named new, we name it the old;
Thereof some tale hath been told,
But no word comes from the dead;
Whether at all they be,
Or whether as bond or free,
Or whether they too were we,
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
693
Or by what spell they have sped.
Still T\e say as we go, —
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
What of the heart of hate
That beats in thy breast, O Time?—
Red strife from the furthest prime,
And anguish of fierce debate;
War that shatters her slain,
And peace that grinds them as grain,
And eyes fixed ever in vain
On the pitiless eyes of Fate.
Still we say as we go, —
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know.
That shall we know one day."
What of the heart of love
That bleeds in thy breast, Man?
Thy kisses snatched 'neath the ban
Of fangs that mock them above;
Thy bells prolonged unto knells,
Thy hope that a breath dispels,
Thy bitter forlorn farewells
And the empty echoes thereof?
Still we say as we go, —
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day. ' '
The sky leans dumb on the sea,
Aweary with all its wings;
And oh! the song the sea sings
Is dark everlastingly.
Our past is clean forgot,
Our present is and is not.
Our future's a sealed seedplot,
And what betwixt them are we? —
We who say as we go, —
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know.
That shall we know one day."
feom the house of life*
The Sonnet
A Sonnet is a moment's monument, —
Memorial from the Soul's eternity
To one dead deathless hour. Look that it be,
Whether for lustral rite or dire portent,
• The "house of life" was the first of the twelve
divisions of tlie heavens made by old astrol-
ogers in casting the horoscope of a man's des-
tiny. This series of a hundred and one son-
nets is a faithful record, drawn from Ros-
setti's own inward experience, "of the myste-
rious conjunctions and oppositions wrought by
Love, Change, and Fate in the House of
Ute."—Eng. Lit., p. 37.3.
Of its own arduous fulness reverent:
Carve it in ivory or in ebony.
As Day or Night may rule; and let Time see
Its flowering crest impearled and orient.
A Sonnet is a coin: its face reveals
The Soul, — its converse, to what Power 'tis
due: —
Whether for tribute to the august appeals
Of Life, or dower in Love's high retinue,
It serve ; or 'mid the dark wharf 's cavernous
breath,
In Charon's palm it pay the toll to Death.
IV. LOVESIGHT
When do I see thee most, beloved one?
When in the light the spirits of mine eyes
Before thy face, their altar, solemnize
The worship of that Love through thee made
known ?
Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,)
Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies
Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies.
And my soul only sees thy soul its own?
O love, my love!. if I no more should see
Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee,
Nor image of thine eyes in any spring, —
How then should sound upon Life's darkening
slope
The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of
Hope,
The wind of Death's imperishable wing?
XIX. Silent Noon
Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass.
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms;
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and
glooms
'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-
hedge.
'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the
sky: —
So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,
This close-companioned inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of love.
XLIX — LII. WiLLOWWOOD
I sat with Love upon a woodside well,
Leaning across the water, I and he;
Nor ever did he speak nor looked at me.
694
THE VICTORIAN AGE
But touched his lute wherein was audible
The certain secret thing he had to tell:
Only our mirrored eyes met silently
In the low wave; and that sound came to be
The passionate voice I knew ; and my tears fell.
And at their fall, his eyes beneath grew hers;
And with his foot and with his wing-feathers
He swept the spring that watered my heart 's
drouth.
Then the dark ripples spread to waving hair,
And as I stooped, her own lips rising there
Bubbled with brimming kisses at my mouth.
And now Love sang: but his was such a song,
So meshed with half-remembrance hard to free,
As souls disused in death's sterility
May sing when the new birthday tarries long.
And I was made aware of a dumb throng
That stood aloof, one form by every tree,
All mournful forms, for each was I or she,
The shades of those our days that had no
tongue.
They looked on us, and knew us and were
known ;
While fast together, alive from the abyss,
Clung the soul-wrung implacable close kiss;
And pity of self through all made broken moan
Which said, "For once, for once, for once
alone ! ' '
And still Love sang, and what he sang was
this: —
III
"O ye, all ye that walk in Willowwood,
That walk with hollow faces burning white;
What fathom-depth of soul-struck widowhood.
What long, what longer hours, one life-long
night.
Ere ye again, who so in vain have wooed
Your last hope lost, who so in vain invite
Your lips to that their unforgotten food,
Ere ye, ere ye again shall see the light!
Alas! the bitter banks in Willowwood,
With tear-spurge wan, with blood-wort burning
red:
Alas! if ever such a pillow could
Steep deep the soul in sleep till she were
dead, —
Better all life forget her than this thing,
That Willowwood should hold her wandering! "
So sang he: and as meeting rose and rose
Together cling through the wind 's wellawayi
Nor change at once, yet near the end of day
1 An arrhalr oxprosslon of Rflof.
The leaves drop loosened where the heart-stain
glows,—
So when the song died did the kiss unclose;
And her face fell back drowned, and was as
gray
As its gray eyes; and if it ever may
Meet mine again I know not if Love knows.
Only I know that I leaned low and drank
A long draught from the water where she sank,
Her breath and all her tears and all her soul:
And as I leaned, I know I felt Love's face
Pressed on my neck with moan of pity and
grace,
Till both our heads were in his aureole.
LXV. Known in Vain
As two whose love, first foolish, widening scope.
Knows suddenly, to music high and soft.
The Holy of holies; who because they scoff 'd
Are now amazed with shame, nor dare to cope
With the whole truth aloud, lest heaven shouki
ope;
Yet, at their meetings, laugh not as they
laugh 'd
In speech; nor speak, at length; but sitting oft
Together, within hopeless sight of hope
For hours are silent: — So it happeneth
When Work and Will awake too late, to gaze
After their life sailed by, and hold their breath.
Ah! who shall dare to search through what sad
maze
Thenceforth their incommunicable ways
Follow the desultory feet of Death?
LXVI. The Heart of the Niuht
From child to youth; from youth to arduous
man;
From lethargy to fever of the heart;
From faithful life to dream-dowered days
apart ;
From trust to doubt; from doubt to brink of
ban; —
Thus much of change in one swift cycle ran
Till now. Alas, the soul! — how soon must she
Accept her primal immortality, —
The flesh resume its dust whence it began?
O Lord of work and peace! O Lord of life!
O Lord, the awful Lord of will! though late.
Even yet renew this soul with duteous breath:
That when the peace is garnered in from strife.
The work retrieved, the will regenerate,
This soul may see thy face, O Lord of death!
LXVII. The Landmark
Was that the landmark! What— the foolish
well
CHRISTINA EOSSETTI
695
Whose wave, low down, I did not stoop to
drink,
But sat and flung the pebbles from its brink
In sport to send its imaged skies pell-mell,
(And mine own image, had I noted well!) —
Was that my point of turning? — I had thought
The stations of my course should rise unsought,
As altar-stone or ensigned citadel,
But lo! the path is missed, I must go back,
And thirst to drink when next I reach the
spring
Which once I stained, which since may have
grown black.
Yet though no light be left nor bird now sing
As here I turn, I '11 thank God, hastening,
That the same goal is still on the same track.
LXX. The Hill Summit
This feast-day of the sun, his altar there
In the broad west has blazed for vesper-song;
And I have loitered in the vale too long
And gaze now a belated worshipper.
Yet may I not forget that I was 'ware,
So journeying, of his face at intervals
Transfigured where the fringed horizon falls, —
A fiery bush with coruscating hair.
And now that 1 have climbed and won this
height,
I must tread downward through the sloping
shade
And travel the bewildered tracks till night.
Yet for this hour I still may here be stayed
And see the gold air and the silver fade
And the last bird fly into the last light.
LXXIX. The Moxochord*
Is it this sky's vast vault or ocean's sound
That is Life's self and draws my life from me.
And by instinct ineffable decree
Holds my breath quailing on the bitter bound!
Nay, is it Life or Death, thus thunder-ci'owned,
That 'mid the tide of all emergency
Now notes my separate wave, and to what sea
Its difficult eddies labour in the ground?
Oh! what is this that knows the road I came,
The flame turned cloud, the cloud returned to
flame,
The lifted shifted steeps and all the way ? —
That draws round me at last this wind-warm
space,
And in regenerate rapture turns my face
Upon the devious coverts of dismay?
• A musical instrument of one strlnc. hence, unity,
harmony : here apparently used to symbolize
the ultimate merging o£ separate lives into
one Life.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI (1830-1894)
GOBLIN MARKET*
Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
* Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpecked cherries.
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheeked peaches.
Swart-headed mulberries, M
Wild free-born cranberries.
Crab-apples, dewberries.
Pine-apples, blackberries.
Apricots, strawberries J —
All ripe together
In summer weather, —
Morns that pass by.
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy:
Our grapes fresh from the vine, 20
Pomegranates full and fine.
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages.
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries.
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye; 30
Come buy, come buy.'
Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bowed her head to hear,
Lizzie veiled her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather.
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger tips.
' Lie close, ' Laura said. 40
Pricking up her golden head: ,.
* Of this poem. William M. Ros.setti. Christina's
brother, writes : "I have more than once
heard Christina say that she did not mean
anything profound by this fairy tale — it is
not a moral apologue consistently carried out
in detail. Still the incidents are . . .
suggestive, and different minds may be likely
to read different messages into them." He
remarks further that the central point of the
story, read merely as a story, is often missed.
Lizzie's service to her sister lies in procuring
for her a itecond taste of the goblin fruits,
such as those who have once tasted them ever
afterward long for. and pine away with long-
ing. I>Ht which the goblins themselves will
not voluntarily accord.
696
THE VICTOEIAN AGE
'We must not look at goblin men,
"We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?'
'Come buy,' call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.
'Oh,' cried Lizzie, 'Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men.'
Lizzie covered up her eyes, 50
Covered close lest they should look;
Laura reared her glossy head, ,
And whispered like the restless brook:
'Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket.
One bears a plate.
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds' weight.
How fair the vine must grow 60
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes.'
'No,' said Lizzie: 'No, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us.'
She thrust a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man. 70
One had a cat's face,
One whisked a tail.
One tramped at a rat's pace,
One crawled like a snail,
One like a wombat^ prowled obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel2 tumbled hurry skurry.
She heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing aU together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather. 80
Laura stretched her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan.
Like a lily from the beck,3
Like a moonlit poplar branch.
Like a vessel at the launch
When its last restraint is gone.
Backwards up the mossy glen
Turned and trooped the goblin men,
With their shrill repeated cry,
'Come buy, come buy.' 90
When they reached where Laura was
They stood stock still upon the moss,
1 An Australian marsupial, something like a small
bear.
3 A booey-badger ; a nocturnal animal which feeds
on rata, birds, and honey,
s brook
Leering at each other.
Brother with queer brother;
Signalling each other.
Brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down.
One reared his plate;
One began to weave a crown
Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown 100
(Men sell not such in any town) ;
One heaved the golden weight
Of dish and fruit to offer her:
'Come buy, come buy,' was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
Longed but had no money.
The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste
In tones as smooth as honey.
The cat-faced purr'd.
The rat-paced spoke a word HO
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard ;
One parrot-voiced and jolly
Cried 'Pretty Goblin' still for 'Pretty Polly';
One whistled like a bird.
But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
'Good Folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either.
And all my gold is on the furze 120
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather.'
'You have much gold upon your head,'
They answered all together:
' Buy from us with a golden curl. '
She clipped a precious golden lock.
She dropped a tear more rare than pearl.
Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red.
Sweeter than honey from the rock.
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, 130
Clearer than water flowed that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of usef
She sucked and sucked and sucked the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore
She sucked until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away
But gathered up one kernel stone.
And knew not was it night or day
As she turned home alone. 140
Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
'Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
CHRISTINA BOSSETTI
697
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers 150
Plucked from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours!
But ever in the moonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
round them no more, but dwindled and grew
grey;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago 160
That never blow.
You should not loiter so.'
'Nay, hush,' said Laura:
' Nay, hush, my sister :
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still:
To-morrow night I will
Buy more ; ' and kissed her.
'Have done with sorrow;
I '11 bring you plums to-morrow 170
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead 180
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they
drink
With inies at the brink.
And sugar-sweet their sap.'
Golden head by golden head.
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other's wings,
They lay down in their curtained bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fall 'n snow,
Like two wands of ivory 190
Tipped with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars gazed in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forebore to fly,
Not a bat flapped to and fro
Round their nest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Locked together in one nest.
Early in the morning
When the first cock crowed his warning, 200
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
Fetched in honey, milked the cows.
Aired and set to rights the house.
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat.
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
Next churned butter, whipped up cream.
Fed their poultry, sat and sewed ;
Talked as modest maidens should:
Lizzie with an open heart, 210
Laura in an absent dream,
One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day 's delight,
One longing for the night.
At length slow evening came:
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep.
Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags, 220
Then turning homeward said: 'The sunset
flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags.
No wilful squirrel wags.
The beasts and birds are fast asleep.*
But Laura loitered still among the rushes,
And said the bank was steep,
And said the hour was early stiU,
The dew not fallen, the wind not chill;
Listening ever, but not catching 230
The customary cry,
'Come buy, come buy,'
With its iterated jingle
Of sugar-baited words:
Not for all her watching
Once discerning even one goblin
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling —
Let alone the herds
That used to tramp along the glen.
In groups or single, 240
Of brisk fruit-merchant men.
Till Lizzie urged, 'O Laura, come;
I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look:
You should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each glow-worm winks her spark,
Let us go home before the night grows dark ;
For clouds may gather
Though this is summer weather, 260
Put out the lights and drench us through;
Then if we lost our way what should we dot'
698
THE VICTORIAN AGE
Laura turned cold as stone
To find her sister heard that cry alone,
That goblin cry,
'Come buy our fruits, come buy.'
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must she no more such succous pasture* find,
Gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life drooped from the root: 260
She said not one word in her heart's sore ache:
But peering thro' the dimness, nought discern-
ing,
Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the
way;
So crept to bed, and lay
Silent till Lizzie slept;
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And gnashed her teeth for baulked desire, and
wept
As if her heart would break.
Day after day, night after night,
Laura kept watch in vain 270
In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She never caught again the goblin cry,
' Come buy, come buy ; ' —
She never spied the goblin men
Hawking their fruits along the glen:
But when the noon waxed bright
Her hair grew thin and grey;
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay and burn
Her fire away. 280
One day remembering her kernel-stone
She set it by a wall that faced the south;
Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watched for a waxing shoot.
But there came none.
It never saw the sun.
It never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees
False waves in desert drouth 290
With shade of leaf-crowned trees.
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.
She no more swept the house,
Tended the fowls or cows.
Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat.
Brought water from the brook:
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook
And would not eat.
Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister's cankerous care,
Yet not to share.
* Jatcy foaxtlnfc
300
She night and morning
Caught the goblin's cry:
'Come buy our orchard fruits.
Come buy, come buy : ' —
Beside the brook, along the glen.
She heard the tramp of goblin men.
The voice and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Longed to buy fruit to comfort her, 310
But feared to pay too dear.
She thought of Jeanie in her grave.
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died
In her gay prime.
In earliest winter time.
With the first glazing rime,
With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.
Till Laura dwindling 320
Seemed knocking at Death's door.
Then Lizzie weighed no more
Better and worse;
But put a silver penny in her purse.
Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of
furze
At twilight, halted by the brook:
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.
Laughed every goblin
When they spied her peeping:
Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,^
Full of airs and graces.
Pulling wry faces.
Demure grimaces.
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratel- and wombat-like.
Snail-paced in a hurry.
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter skelter, hurry skurry.
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,
Gliding like fishes, —
Hugged her and kissed her :
Squeezed and caressed her:
Stretched up their dishes,
Panniers, and plates:
' Look at our apples
Russet and dun.
Bob at our cherries.
340
850
n See The Trmpriti, IV, I, 47. and noto (paRO 184).
CHRISTINA ROSSETTl
699
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun.
Plums on their twigs; 360
Pluck them and suck them, —
Pomegranates, figs. '
* Good folk, ' said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie:
* Give me much and many : '
Held out her apron,
Tossed them her penny.
' Nay, take a seat with us,
Honour and eat with us,'
They answered grinning: 370
'Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly.
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry;
Half their bloom would fly.
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavour would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us, 380
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us.' —
'Thank you,' said Lizzie: 'But one waits
At home alone for me:
So without further parleying.
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I tossed you for a fee. ' —
They began to scratch their pates, 390
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One called her proud,
Cross-grained, uncivil ;
Their tones waxed loud.
Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbowed and jostled her, 400
Clawed with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,
Twitched her hair out by the roots,
Stamped upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeezed their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.
White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood. —
Like a rock of blue- veined stone 410
Lashed by tides obstreperously, —
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary roaring sea.
Sending up a golden fire, —
Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee, —
Like a royal virgin town
Topped with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguered by a fleet 420
Mad to tug her standard down.
One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,
Coaxed and fought her.
Bullied and besought her,
Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,
Kicked and knocked her.
Mauled and mocked her,
Lizzie uttered not a word; 430
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in:
But laughed in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syruped all her face,
And lodged in dimples of her chin.
And streaked her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people.
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit
Along whichever road they took, 440
Not leaving root or stone or shoot;
Some writhed into the ground.
Some dive«l into the brook
With ring and ripple,
Some scudded on the gale without a sound.
Some vanislied in tlie distance.
In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore thro' the furze, 450
Threadetl copse and dingle,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse, —
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she feared some goblin man
Dogged her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin skurried after,
Nor was she pricked by fear; 460
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with
haste
And inward laughter.
700
THE VICTORIAN AGE
She cried, 'Laura,' up the garden,
'Did you miss mef
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeezed from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew. 470
Eat me, drink me, love mej
Laura, make much of me;
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men.'
Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air.
Clutched her hair:
'Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden!
Must your light like mine be hidden, 480
Your young life like mine be wasted.
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruined in my ruin.
Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?' —
She clung about her sister.
Kissed and kissed and kissed her:
Tears once again
Refreshed her shrunken eyes.
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth; 490
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain.
She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth.
Her lips began to scorch,
That juice was wormwood to her tongue.
She loathed the feast:
Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung,
Bent all her robe, and wrung
Her hands in lamentable haste,
And beat her breast.
Her locks streamed like the torch 500
Borne by a racer at full speed,
Or like the mane of horses in their flight.
Or like an eagle when she stems the light
Straight toward the sun,
Or like a caged thing freed,
Or like a flying flag when armies run.
Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked
at her heart,
Met the fire smouldering there
And overbore its lesser flame;
She gorged on bitterness without a name: 510
Ah fool, to choose such part
Of soul-consuming care!
Sense failed in the mortal strife:
Like the watch-tower of a town
Which an earthquake shatters down,
Like a lightning-stricken mast,
Like a wind-uprooted tree
Spun about.
Like a foam-topped waterspout
Cast down headlong in the sea, 620
She fell at last;
Pleasure past and anguish past.
Is it death or is it life!
Life out of death.
That night long, Lizzie watched by her,
Counted her pulse's flagging stir.
Felt for her breath.
Held water to her lips, and cooled her face
With tears and fanning leaves.
But when the first birds chirped about their
eaves, 530
And early reapers plodded to the place
Of golden sheaves.
And dew-wet grass
Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass.
And new buds with new day
Opened of cup-like lilies on the stream,
Laura awoke as from a dream,
Laughed in the innocent old way,
Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice;
Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of
grey, 540
Her breath was sweet as May,
And light danced in her eyes.
Days, weeks, months, years
Afterwards, when both were wives
With children of their own;
Their mother-hearts beset with fears.
Their lives bound up in tender lives;
Laura would call the little ones
And tell them of her early prime,
Those pleasant days long gone 660
Of not-returning time:
Would talk about the haunted glen.
The wicked quaint fruit-merchant men,
Their fruits like honey to the throat
But poison in the blood
(Men sell not such in any town):
Would tell them how her sister stood
In deadly peril to do her good.
And win the fiery antidote:
Then joining hands to little hands 560
Would bid them cling together, —
' For there is no friend like a sister
In calm or stormy weather;
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands.'
CHRISx'lNA ROSSETTI
701
THE THBEE ENEMIES
THE FLESH
'Sweet, thou art pale.'
'More pale to see,
Christ hung upon the cruel tree
And bore His Father's wrath for me.'
'Sweet, thou art sad.'
'Beneath a rod
More heavy, Christ for my sake trod
The winepress of the wrath of God.' 6
'Sweet, thou art weary.'
'Not so Christ;
Whose mighty love of me suflBced
For Strength, Salvation, Eucharist.'
'Sweet, thou art footsore.'
'If I bleed.
His feet have bled; yea in my need
His Heart once bled for mine indeed.' 12
THE "WOBLD
'Sweet, thou art young.'
' So He was young
Who for my sake in silence hung
Upon the Cross with Passion wrung.'
'Look, thou art fair.'
'He was more fair
Than men. Who deigned for me to wear
A visage marred beyond compare.'
'And thou hast riches.'
'Daily bread:
All else is His: Who, living, dead.
For me lacked where to lay His Head. '
18
'And life is sweet,'
'It was not so
To Him, Whose Cup did overflow
With mine unutterable woe.' 24
THE DEVHi
'Thou drinkest deep.'
'When Christ would sup
He drained the dregs from out my cup:
So how should I be lifted upf '
'Thou shalt win Glory.'
'In the skies,
Lord Jesus, cover up mine eyes
Lest they should look on vanities.' 30
'Thou shalt have Knowledge,*
'Helpless dust!
In Thee, O Lord, I put my trust:
Answer Thou for me, Wise and Just.*
'And Might.'—
'Get thee behind me. Lord,
Who hast redeemed and not abhorred
My soul, oh keep it by Thy Word.' 36
AN APPLE GATHEBING
I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree
And wore them all that evening in my hair:
Then in due season when I went to see
I found no apples there.
With dangling basket all along the grass
As I had come I went the selfsame track:
My neighbours mocked me while they saw me
pass
So empty-handed back. 8
Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by.
Their heaped-up basket teased me like a
jeer;
Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,
Their mother's home was near.
Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,
A stronger hand than hers helped it along;
A voice talked with her through the shadows
cool
More sweet to me than song. 16
Ah Willie, Willie, was my love less worth
Than apples with their green leaves piled
above ?
I counted rosiest apples on the earth
Of far less worth than love.
So once it was with me you stooped to talk
Laughing and listening in this very lane;
To think that by this way we used to walk
We shall not walk again! 24
I let my neighbours pass me, ones and twos
And groups; the latest said the night grew
chill.
And hastened: but I loitered; while the dews
Fell fast I loitered still.
MONNA INNOMINATA*
1
Come back to me, who wait and watch for
you: —
Or come not yet, for it is over then,
And long it is before you come again.
So far between my pleasures are, and few.
• "Lady Unnamed" ; a series of fourteen sonnets
In which the personal utterance, as In Mrs.
Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese,
wears a titular disguise.
702
THE VICTORIAN AGE
While, when you come not, what 1 do I do
Thinking 'Now when he comes,' my sweetest
' when ' :
For one man is my world of all the men
This wide world holds; O love, my world is you.
Howbeit, to meet you grows almost a pang
Because the pang of parting comes so soon;
My hope hangs waning, waxing, like a moon
Between the heavenly days on which we meet:
Ah me, but where are now the songs I sang
When life was sweet because you called them
sweet?
2
I wish I could remember that first day.
First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
If bright or dim the season, — it might be
Summer or Winter for aught I can say;
So unrecorded did it slip away.
So blind was I to see and to foresee.
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it, such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much;
If only now I could recall that touch.
First touch of hand in hand — Did one but
know !
11
Many in aftertimes will say of you
'He loved her' — while of me what will they
say?
Not that I loved you more than just in play.
For fashion's sake as idle women do.
Even let them prate; who know not what we
knew
Of love and parting in exceeding pain,
Of parting hopeless here to meet again.
Hopeless on earth, and heaven is out of view.
But by my heart of love laid bare to you,
My love that you can make not void nor vain,
Love that foregoes you but to claim anew
Beyond this passage of the gate of death,
I charge you at the Judgment make it plain
My love of you was life and not a breath.
UP-HILL
Does the road wind up-bill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long
day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896)
THE GILLIFLOWER OF GOLD.
A golden gilliflower to-day
I wore upon my helm alvvay.
And won the prize of this tourney.
Hah! hah! la belle jaune girofleeA
However well Sir Giles might sit,
His sun was weak to wither it;
Lord Miles 's blood was dew on it:
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 8
Although my spear in splinters flew.
From John's steel-coat, my eye was true-
I wheeled about, and cried for you,
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giro/Ice.
Yea, do not doubt my heart was good.
Though my sword flew like rotten wood.
To shout, although I scarcely stood.
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 16
My hand was steady, too, to take
My axe from round my neck, and break
John 's steel-coat up for my love 's sake.
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee.
When I stood in my tent again.
Arming afresh, I felt a pain
Take liold of me, I was so fain —
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee —
To hear: "Honneur aux fits des prenx!^'*
Right in my ears again, and shew
The gilliflower blossomed new.
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee.
The Sieur Guillaume against me came,
His tabard bore three points of flame
From a red heart; with little blame^ —
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee —
1 "Flah ! hah ! the beautiful yellow sllllflowor !"
2 "Honor to the sona of the brave !"
8 hurt
24
32
WILLIAM MORBIS
703
40
Our tough spears crackled up like straw;
He was the first to turn and draw
His sword, that had nor speck nor flaw;
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee.
But I felt weaker than a maid,
And my brain, dizzied and afraid,
Within my helm a fierce tune played,
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee,
Until I thought of your dear head.
Bowed to the gilliflower bed.
The yellow flowers stained with red;
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee.
Crash! how the swords met; "giroflee!"
The fierce tune in my helm would play,
' ' La belle ! la belle jaune giroflee ! ' '
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 48
Once more the great swords met again:
"La belle! la belle!" but who fell then?
Le Sieur Guillaume, who struck down ten;
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee.
And as with mazed and unarmed face,
Toward my own crown and the Queen's place,
They led me at a gentle pace, —
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee, — 56
I almost saw your quiet head
Bowed o'er the gilliflower bed,
The yellow flowers stained with red.
Hall! hah! la belle jaune giroflee.
THE SAILING OF THE SWORD.
Across the empty garden-beds.
When the Sword went out to sea,
I scarcely saw my sisters' heads
Bowed each beside a tree.
I could not see the castle leads.
When the Sword tcent out to sea. 6
Alicia wore a scarlet gown,
When the Sword went out to sea,
But Ursula 's was russet brown :
For the mist we could not see
The scarlet roofs of the good town.
When the Sword went out to sea.
12
Green holly in Alicia's hand,
When the Sword went out to sea;
AVith sere oak-leaves did Ursula stand;
Oh! yet alas for me!
I did but bear a peeled white wand.
When the Sword went out to sea.
18
O, russet brown and scarlet bright,
When the Sword went out to sea,
My sisters wore; I wore but white;
Red, brown, and white, are three;
Three damozels; each had a knight.
When the Sword went out to sea. 24
Sir Robert shouted loud, and said,
When the Sword went out to sea,
''Alicia, while I see thy head.
What shall I bring for thee?"
' ' O, my sweet Lord, a ruby red : * '
2'he Sword went out to sea. 30
Sir Miles said, while the sails hung down.
When the Sword went out to sea,
"O, Ursula! while I see the town,
What shall I bring for thee?"
' ' Dear knight, bring back a falcon brown : ' '
The Sword tcent out to sea. 36
But my Roland, no word he said.
When the Sword went out to sea,
But only turned away his head;
A quick shriek came from me:
' ' Come back, dear lord, to your white maid ! ' '
The Sicord tcent out to sea. 42
The hot sun bit the garden-beds
When the Sward came back from sea;
Beneath an apple-tree our heads
Stretched out toward the sea;
Gray gleamed the thirsty castle-leads,
When the Sword came back from sea.
48
Lord Robert brought a ruby red,
When the Sword came back from sea;
He kissed Alicia on the head:
' * 1 am come back to thee ;
'Tis time, sweet love, that we were wed.
Now the Sword is back from sea!"
Sir Miles he bore a falcon brown,
When the Sword came back from sea;
His arms went round tall Ursula's gown:
"What joy, O love, but thee?
Let us be wed in the good town,
Now the Stvord is back from sea!"
My heart grew sick, no more afraid,
When the Sword came back from sea;
Upon the deck a tall white maid
Sat on Lord Roland 's knee ;
His chin was pressed upon her head,
When the Stcord came back from sea!
54
CO
704
THE VICTOBIAN AGE
10
THE BLUE CLOSET.*
The DamoseU.
Lady Alice, lady Louise,
Between the wash of the tumbling seas
We are ready to sing, if so ye please:
So lay your long hands on the keys;
Sing, " Laudate pueri."^
And ever the great tell overhead
Boomed in the wind a knell for the dead,
Though no one tolled it, a knell for the dead.
Lady Louise.
Sister, let the measure swell
Not too loud; for you sing not well
If you drown the faint boom of the bell;
He is weary, so am I.
And ever the chevron- overhead
Flapped on the banner of the dead;
(Was he asleep, or was he dead?)
Lady Alice
Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen,
Two damozels wearing purple and green,
Four lone ladies dwelling here
From day to day and year to year;
And there is none to let us go, 20
To break the locks of the doors below.
Or shovel away the heaped-up snow;
And when we die no man will know
That we are dead; but they give us leave,
Once every year on Christmas-eve,
To sing in the Closet Blue one song;
And we should be so long, so long.
If we dared, in singing; for dream on dream,
They float on in a happy stream;
Float from the gold strings, float from the
keys, 30
Float from the opened lips of Louise;
But, alas! the sea-salt oozes through
The chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue;
And ever the great bell overhead
Booms in the wind a knell for the dead,
The wind plays on it a knell for the dead.
They Sing All Together
How long ago was it, how long ago.
He came to this tower with hands full of snowf
1 "Praise ye, youths." The beginning of the so-
called Irlsb version of the familiar hymn, Te
Deum Laudamua.
2 A V-shaped device.
• Written for a picture (a water-color) by Dante
Gabriel Rossetti. The romantic theme, the
mediaeval remoteness, the color and sound,
the sharpness of detail with the vagueness
of general outline and setting, are all In the
early Pre-Rnphaollfe manner. See Eiig. Lit.,
pp. 370, 374.
' ' Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down ! " he
said.
And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head. 40
He watched the snow melting, it ran through my
hair,
Ean over my shoulders, white shoulders and
bare.
"I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise,
For my tears are all hidden deep under the
seas;
In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my
tears.
But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old
years;
"Yea, they grow gray with time, grow small
and dry,
I am so feeble now, would I might die."
And in truth the great bell overhead
Left off his pealing for the dead, 50
Perchance, because the wind was dead.
Will he come back again, or is he dead?
O! is he sleeping, my scarf round his head?
Or did they strangle him as he lay there.
With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear?
Only I pray thee. Lord, let him come here!
Both his soul and his body to me are most
dear.
Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receive
Either body or spirit this wild Christmas-eve.
Through the floor shot up a lily red, 60
With a patch of earth from the land of the
dead.
For he was strong in the land of the dead.
What matter that his cheeks were pale.
His kind kissed lips all gray?
"0, love Louise, have you waited long?"
' ' O, my lord Arthur, yea. ' '
What if his hair that brushed her cheek
Was stiff with frozen rime?
His eyes were grown quite blue again.
As in the happy time. 70
"O, love Louise, this is the key
Of the happy golden land!
O, sisters, cross the bridge with me,
.My eyes are full of sand.
What matter that I cannot see.
If ye take me by the hand?"
WILLIAM MORRIS
705
And ever the great bell overhead,
And the tumbling seas mourned for the dead;
For their song ceased, and they were dead!
From THE EARTHLY PARADISE
An Apology
Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,
I cannot ease the burden of your fears,
Or make quick-coming death a little thing,
Or bring again the pleasure of past years.
Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears.
Or hope again for aught that I can say,
The idle singer of an empty day. 7
But rather, when aweary of your mirth.
From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,
And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,
Grudge every minute as it passes by.
Made the more mindful that the sweet days
die—
— Remember me a little then I pray.
The idle singer of an empty day. 14
The heavy trouble, the bewildering care
That weighs us down who live and earn our
bread,
These idle verses have no power to bear;
So let me sing of names remembered.
Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead.
Or long time take their memory quite away
From us poor singers of an empty day. 21
Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time,
Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?
Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme
Beats with light wing against the ivory gate,i
Telling a tale not too importunate
To those who in the sleepy region stay.
Lulled by the singer of an empty day. 28
Folk say, a wizard to a northern king
At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did
show, ■
That through one window men beheld the
spring,
And through another saw the summer glow,
And through a third the fruited vines a-row.
While still, unheard, but in its wonted way.
Piped the drear wind of that December day. 35
So with this Earthly Paradise it is,
If ye will read aright, and pardon me,
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss
Midmost the beating of the steely sea.
Where tossed about all hearts of men must be;
1 According to Greek legend, false dreams come
through the gate of ivory, true dreams
through the gate of horn.
Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall
slay.
Not the poor singer of an empty day. 42
Peom LOVE IS ENOUGH
Song foe Music
Love is enough: though the world be a- waning.
And the woods have no voice but the voice of
complaining,
Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to
discover
The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming there-
under.
Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea
a dark wonder,
And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed
over,
Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet
shall not falter,
The void shall not weary, the fear shall not
alter
These lips and these eyes of the loved and
the lover.
From SIGURD THE VOLSUNG*
Of the Passing Away of Brynhild
Once more on the morrow-morning fair
shineth the glorious sun,
And the Niblung children labour on a deed that
shall be done;
For out in the people's meadows they raise a
bale2 on high,
The oak and the ash together, and thereon shall
the Mighty lie;
♦ The Volsunga Saga is an older, Norse version of
the legend which appears in German literature
as the A'ibelungenlied, and which has been
made familiar in modern times by Wagner's
opera Der Ring des yibelungen. It is the
great Teutonic race epic. Sigurd (Siegfried,
in the German version) is the grandson of Vol-
sung, who was a descendant of Odin. Bryn-
hild was originally a Valkyrie, one of Odin's
"Choosers of the Slain," maidens who rode
on white cloud-horses and visited battle-fields
to select heroes for Odin's great hall, Valhalla.
Sigurd wakened Brynhild from an enchanted
sleep to the doom of mortal life and love, and
they plighted troth. But their love was
thwarted at the court of the Niblung princes,
Gunnar, Hogni, and Guttorm. and their sister
Gudrun, the^ children of Ginki. Through the
witchcraft of Grlmhild, Gudrun's mother,
Sigurd is made to lose all memory of Bryn-
hild and to marry Gudrun. Moreover, he Is
made to assist in bringing about the marriage
of Brynhild to Gunnar. Later, as a result
of rivalry, Guttorm surprises and slays
Sigurd, but Is him.self slain by Sigurd's sword,
the "Wrath." Then follows the portion of the
tale here given — the pathetic story of the
means taken by Brynhild to rejoin Sigurd.
MdVris's metrical rendering of the entire
legend extends to about ten thousand lines.
-' funeral pile
706
THE VICTORIAN AGE
Nor gold nor steel shall be lacking, nor savour
of sweet spice,
Nor cloths in the Southlands woven, nor webs
of untold price:
The work grows, toil is as nothing; long blasts
of the mighty horn
From the topmost tower out-wailing o 'er the
woeful world are borne.
But Brynhild lay in her chamber, and her
women went and came,
And they feared and trembled before her, and
none spake Sigurd's name; iO
But whiles^ they deemed her weeping, and
whiles they deemed indeed
That she spake, if they might but hearken, but
no words their ears might heed;
Till at last she spake out clearly : "I know not
what ye would;
For ye come and go in my chamber, and ye
seem of wavering mood
To thrust me on, or to stay me; to help my
heart in woe,
Or to bid my days of sorrow midst nameless
folly go."
None answered the word of Brynhild, none
knew of her intent;
But she spake: "Bid hither Gunnar, lest the
sun sink o'er the bent,*
And leave the words unspoken I yet have will
to speak."
Then her maidens go from before her, and
that lord of war they seek, 20
And he stands by the bed of Brynhild and
strives to entreat and beseech,
But her eyes gaze awfully on him, and his lips
may learn no speech.
And she saith: "I slept in the morning, or 1
dreamed in the \^aking-hour,
And my dream was of thee, O Gunnar, and the
bed in thy kingly bower,
And the house that I blessed in my sorrow, and
cursed in my sorrow and shame,
The gates of an ancient people, the towers of
a mighty name;
King, cold was the hall I have dwelt in, and
no brand burned on the hearth ;
Dead-cold was thy bed, O Gunnar, and thy land
was parched with dearth:
But I saw a great King riding, and a master
of the harp,
And he rode amidst of the foemen, and the
swords were bitter-sharp, 30
But his hand in the hand-gyves 8mot« not, and
his feet in the fetters were fast.
s at times
4 heath, field
While many a word of mocking at his speech-
less face was cast. "-^
Then I heard a voice in the world : ' woe
for the broken troth,
And the heavy Need of the Niblungs," and the
Sorrow of Odin the Goth ! '^
Then I saw the halls of the strangers, and the
hills, and the dark-blue sea,
Xor knew of their names and their nations, for
earth was afar from me.
But brother rose up against brother, and blootl
swam over the board,
And women smote and spared not, and the fire
was master and lord.
Then, then was the moonless mid-mirk, and 1
woke to the day and the deed —
The deed that earth shall name not, the day of
its bitterest need. 40
Many words have I said in my life-days, and
little more shall I say;
Ye have heard the dream of a woman, deal with
it as ye may;
For meseems the world-ways sunder, and the
dusk and the dark is mine,
Till I come to the hall of Freyia,^ where the
deeds of the Mighty shall shine. ' '
So hearkened Gunnar the Niblung, that her
words he understood.
And he knew she was set on the death-stroke,
and he deemed it nothing good;
But he said: "I have hearkened, and heeded
thy death and mine in thy words:
I have done the deed and abide it, and my face
shall laugh on the swords;
But thee, woman, I bid thee abide here till thy
grief of soul abate;
Meseems nought lowly nor shameful shall be the
Niblung fate; 50
And here shalt thou rule and be mighty, and
be Queen of the measureless Gold,"
And abase the Kings and upraise them; and
anew shall thy fame be told.
And as fair shall thy glory blossom as the fresh
fields under the spring. ' '
Then he casteth his arms about her, and hot
is the heart of the King
For the glory of Queen Brynhild and the hopo
of her days of gain,
5 A prophecy of Gunnar's fate nt the hands of
Atir the Eastern King, who afterward mar-
ried Qudrun.
6 That is, their lime of need, when punishment
began to overtalce them.
7 Tlie sorrows of the race of Odin.
8 Tlie goddess of love.
9 The lioard of the Nibhings, won from the
Dwarfs, or smiths who dwelt in the caverns
of the earth. The curse attached to this treas-
ure brought sorrow on all who shared in it.
WILLIAM MORBIS
707
And he clean forgetteth Sigurd and the foster-
brother slain;
But she shrank aback from before him, and
cried : ' ' Woe worth the whileio
For the thoughts ye drive back on me, and the
memory of your guile!
The Kings of Earth were gathered, the wise of
men were met;
On the death of a woman's pleasure their glo-
rious hearts were set," 60
And I was alone amidst them — ah, hold thy
peace hereof!
Lest the thought of the bitterest hours this little
hour should move. ' '
He rose abashed from before her, and y€t he
lingered there;
Then she said: "O King of the Niblungs,
what noise do I hearken and hear?
Why ring the axes and hammers, while feet of
men go past.
And shields from the walls are shaken, and
swords on the pavement cast,
And the door of the treasure is opened, and the
horn cries loud and long,
And the feet of the Niblung children to the
people's meadows throng?"
His face was troubled before her, and again
she spake and said:
"Meseemeth this is the hour when men array
the dead; "0
Wilt thou tell me tidings, Gunnar, that the
children of thy folk
Pile up the bale for Guttorm, and the hand
that smote the stroke?"
He said: "It is not so, Brynhild: for that
Giuki's soni2 was burned
When the moon of the middle heaven last night
toward dawning turned."
They looked on each other and spake not;
but Gunnar gat him gone,
And came to his brother Hogni, the wise-heart
Giuki's son.
And spake: "Thou art wise, O Hogni; go in
to Brynhild the Queen,
And stay her swift departing ; or the last of her
days hath she seen. ' '
" It is nought, thy word, ' ' said Hogni ; ' ' wilt
thou bring dead men aback,
10 woe betide the time
11 When Sigurd. In the guise of Gunnar. walked
through the flame and won Brynhild for
Gunnar.
12 Guttorm.
Or the souls of Kings departed midst the battle
and the wrack? 80
Yet this shall be easier to thee than the turn-
ing Brynhild 's heart;
She came to dwell among us, but in us she had
no part;
Let her go her ways from the Niblungs, with
her hand in Sigurd's hand.
Will the grass grow up henceforward where her
feet have trodden the land?"
' * evil day ! ' ' said Gunnar, ' ' when my
Queen must perish and die ! ' '
"Such oft betide," saith Hogni, "as the lives
of men flit by;
But the evil day is a day, and on each day
groweth a deed.
And a thing that never dieth; and the fateful
tale shall speed.
Lo, now, let us harden our hearts and set our
brows as the brass,
Lest men say it, ' They loathed the evil and they
brought the evil to pass ' . " 90
So they spake, and their hearts were heavy,
and they longed for the morrow morn,
And the morrow of tomorrow, and the new day
yet to be born.
But Brynhild cried to her maidens: "Now
open ark and chest,
And draw forth queenly raiment of the loveliest
and the best;
Red rings that the Dwarf-lords fashioned, fair
cloths that Queens have sewed.
To array the bride for the Mighty, and the trav-
eller for the road. ' '
They wept as they wrought her bidding and
did on her goodliest gear;
But she laughed 'mid the dainty linen, and the
gold-rings fashioned fair;
She arose from the bed of the Niblungs, and
her face no more was wan;
As a star in the dawn-tide heavens, 'mid the
dusky house she shone; 100
And they that stood about her, their hearts
were raised aloft
Amid their fear and wonder. Then she spake
them kind and soft:
"Now give me the sword, O maidens, where-
with I sheared the wind
When the Kings of Earth were gathered to
know the Chooser's mind, "is
i:; See introductory note, p. 705.
W8
THE VICTORIAN AGE
All sheathed the maidens brought it, and
feared the hidden blade,
But the naked blue-white edges across her knees
she laid,
And spake : ' ' The heaped-up riches, the gear
my fathers left.
All dear-bought woven wonders, all rings from
battle reft,
All goods of men desired, now strew them on
the floor.
And so share among you, maidens, the gifts of
Brynhild's store." 110
They brought them 'mid their weeping, but
none put forth a hand
To take that wealth desired, the spoils of many
a land:
There they stand and weep before her, and
some are moved to speech.
And they cast their arms about her and strive
with her and beseech
That she look on her loved-ones' sorrow and the
glory of the day.
It was nought; she scarce might see them^ and
she put their hands away.
And she said: "Peace, ye that love m.e! and
take the gifts and the gold
In remembrance of my fathers and the faith-
ful deeds of old."
Then she spake: "Where now is Guniiar,
that I may speak Avith him?
For new things are mine eyes beholding and
the Niblung house grows dim, 120
And new sounds gather about me, that may
hinder me to speak
When the breath is near to flitting, and the
voice is waxen weak."
Then upright by the bed of the Niblungs
for a moment doth she stand.
And the blade flasheth bright in the chamber,
but no more they hinder her hand
Than if a god were smiting to rend the world
in two;
Then dulled are the glittering edges, and the
bitter point cleaves through
The breast of the all-wise Brynhild, and her
feet from the pavement fail,
And the sigh of her heart is hearkened 'mid
the hush of the maidens' wail.
Chill, deep is the fear upon them, but they
bring her aback to the bed,
And her hand is yet on the hilts, and sidelong
droopeth her head. 130
Then there cometh a cry from withoutward,
and Gunnar's hurrying feet
Are swift on the kingly threshold, and Bryn
hild's bleed they meet.
Low down o 'er the bed he hangeth and beark
eneth for her word.
And her heavy lids are opened to look on th«
Niblung lord,
And she saith : * * I pray thee a prayer, the last
word in the world I speak.
That ye bear me forth to Sigurd, and the hand
my hand would seek;
The bale for the dead is builded, it is wrought
full wide on the plain,
It is raised for Earth 's best Helper, and there-
on is room for twain:
Ye have hung the shields about it, and the
Southland hangings spread;
There lay me ado.vn by Sigurd and my head
beside his head; 140
But ere ye leave us sleeping draw his Wrath
from, out the sheath.
And lay that Light of -the Branstock* and the
blade that frighted death
Betwixt my side and Sigurd's, as it lay that
while agone.
When once in one bed together we twain were
laid alone:
How then when the flamea flare upward may I
be left behind?
How then may the road he wendeth be hard
for my feet to find?
How then in the gates of Valhall may the door
of the gleaming ring
Clash to on the heel of Sigurd, as I follow on
my King?"
Then she raised herself on her elbow, but
again her eyelids sank.
And the wound by the sword-edge whispered,
as her heart from the iron shrank, 150
And she moaned: "0 lives of man-folk, for
unrest all overlong
By the Father were ye fashioned; and what
hope amendeth wrong?
Now at last, my beloved, all is gone; none
else is near.
Through the ages of all ages, never sundered,
shall we wear."
Scarce more than a sigh was the word, as
back on the bed she fell,
Nor was there need in the chamber of the pass-
ing of Brynhild to tell;
♦ Another name for Sigurd's sword. The Brin-
Btock was a groat oak tree about which was
built the ancestral home of the Volsungs. The
Hword, sent bv Odin, was drawn from the
Hranstock by Sigurd's father. It was later
broken into pieces, but reforged as Dram, or
the Wrath of Sigurd.
WILLIAM MORRIS
709
And no more their lamentation might the maid-
ens hold aback,
But the sound of their bitter mourning was as
if red-handed wrack
Ran wild in the Burg of the Niblungs, and the
fire were master of all.
Then the voice of Gunnar, the war-king, cried
out o 'er the weeping hall : 160
* ' Wail on, O women forsaken, for the mightiest
woman born!
Now the hearth is cold and joyless, and the
waste bed lieth forlorn.
Wail on, but amid your weeping lay hand to
the glorious dead,
That not alone for an hour may lie Queen
Brynhild's head:
For here have been heavy tidings, and the
Mightiest under shield
Is laid on the bale high-builded in the Ni-
blungs' hallowed field.
Fare forth! for he abideth, and we do All-
father wrong
If the shining Valhall's pavement await their
feet o'erlong. "
Then they took the body of Brynhild in the
raiment that she wore,
And out through the gate of the Niblungs
the holy corpse they bore, 170
And thence forth to the mead of the people,
and the high-built shielded bale:
Then afresh in the open meadows breaks forth
the women's wail
When they see the bed of Sigurd and the glit-
tering of his gear;
And fresh is the wail of the people as Bryn-
hild draweth anear,
And the tidings go before her that for twain
the bale is built.
That for twain is the oak-wood shielded and
the pleasant odours spilt.
There is peace on the bale of Sigurd, and
the gods look down from on high,
And they see the lids of the Volsung close shut
against the sky.
As he lies with his shield beside him in the
hauberk all of gold.
That has not its like in the heavens, nor has
earth of its fellow told; ISO
And forth from the Helm of Aweingi* are the
sunbeams flashing wide,
14 Or the Helm of Dread, won by the slaying of
the dragon Fafnir.
And the sheathed Wrath of Sigurd lies still
by his mighty side.
Then cometh an elder of days, a man of the
ancient times,
Who is long past sorrow and joy, and the
steep of the bale he climbs;
And he kneeleth down by Sigurd, and bareth
the Wrath to the sun
That the beams are gathered about it, and
from hilt to blood-point run,
And wide o'er the plain of the Niblungs doth
the Light of the Branstock glare.
Till the wondering mountain-shepherds on that
star of noontide stare.
And fear for many an evil; but the ancient
man stands still
With the war-flame on his shoulder, nor thinks
of good or of ill, 190
Till the feet of Brynhild 's bearers on the top-
most bale are laid,
And her bed is dighti"- by Sigurd's; then he
sinks the pale white blade
And lays it 'twixt the sleepers, and leaves them
there alone —
He, the last that shall ever behold them, — and
his days are well-nigh done.
Then is silence over the plain; in the noon
shine the torches pale,
As the best of the Niblung Earl-folkis bear fire
to the builded bale:
Then a wind in the west ariseth, and the white
flames leap on high.
And with one voice crieth the people a great
and mighty cry,
And men cast up hands to the Heavens, and
pray without a word.
As they that have seen God 's visage, and the
voice of the Father have heard. 200
They are gone — the lovely, the mighty, the
hope of the ancient Earth:
It shall labour and bear the burden as before
that day of their birth;
It shall groan in its blind abiding for the day
that Sigurd hath sped,
And the hour that Brynhild hath hastened, and
the dawn that waketh the dead ;
It shall yearn, and be oft-times holpen, and
forget their deeds no more,
Till the new sun beams on Baldur, and the
happy sealess shore.*
15 prepared
10 The nobles, or warriors, as opposed to the churls.
* Alluding to the new heaven, that is to arise
after the Twilight of the Gods, when Baldur
the Good shall be released from Hel and
I reign in the seats of the old gods.
710
THE VICTORIAN AGE
THE VOICE OF TOIL*
I heard men saying, Leave hope and praying,
All days shall be as all have been;
To-day and to-morrow bring fear and sorrow,
The never-ending toil between.
When Earth was younger mid toil and hunger,
In hope we strove, and our hands were strong;
Then great men led us, with words they fed us.
And bade us right the earthly wrong. 8
Go read in story their deeds and glory.
Their names amidst the nameless dead;
Turn then from lying to us slow-dying
In that good world to which they led;
Where fast and faster our iron master,
The thing we made, for ever drives,
Bids us grind treasure and fasliion pleasure
For other hopes and other lives. 16
W^here home is a hovel and dull we grovel,
Forgetting that the world is fair;
Where no babe we cherish, lest its very soul
perish ;
Where mirth is crime, and love a snare.
Who now shall lead us, what god shall heed us
As we lie in the hell our hands have won?
For us are no rulers but fools and befoolers,
The great are fallen, the wise men gone. 24
I heard men saying, Leave tears and praying.
The sharp knife heedeth not the sheep;
Are we not stronger than the rich and the
wronger.
When day breaks over dreams and sleep!
Come, shoulder to shoulder ere the world grows
older !
Help lies in nought but thee and me;
Hope is before us, the long years that bore us
Bore leaders more than men may be. 32
Let dead hearts tarry and trade and marry.
And trembling nurse their dreams of mirth,
While we the living our lives are giving
To bring the bright new world to birth.
Come, shoulder to shoulder ere earth grows
older !
The Cause spreads over land and sea;
Now the world shaketh, and fear awaketh,
And joy at last for thee and me. 40
• This poem, now printed \n Morris's Poema hy
thi- Way, was tirst published. In 188r», In a
paniphlft railed Chants for HoclallntH. 'Tin*
CauM*-" mentioned In the last Htany.a Is of
coiifc Hoelaliom. in which MoitIb whh much
InliTfsted In hlH later life.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWIN-
BURNE (1837-1909)
From AT AL ANT A IN CALYDON
Choeus
When the hounds of spring are on winter's
traces.
The mother of monthsf in meadow or plain
Fills the shadows and windy places
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;
And the brown bright nightingale amorous
Is half assuaged for Itylus,i
For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces,
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 8
Come with bows bent and with emptying of
quivers,
Maiden most perfect, lady of light.
With a noise of winds and many rivers,
With a clamour of waters, and with miglit;
Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet,
0\-er the splendour and speed of thy feet;
For the faint east quickens, the wan west
shivers.
Round the feet of the day and the feet of
the night. 16
Where shall we find her, how shall we sing
to her,
Fold our hands round her knees, and cling f
O that man's heart were as fire and could
spring to her,
Fire, or the strength of the streams that
spring!
For the stars and the winds are unto her
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player;
For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,
And the southwest-wind and the west-wind
sing. 24
For winter's rains and ruins are over.
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover.
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 32
The full streams feed on flower of rushes,
Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, '
t Artemlg, or Diana, the goddess of the moon ;
also the goddess of the hunt — see next stanza.
<^ompare Shelley's Promcfhctm T'nboiiii<l. Iv,
•-'07.
1 Alluding to the old Thracian Icijcnd of Philo-
mela and I'roino.
ALGERNON CHAKLES SWINBUBNE
711
The faint fresh flame of the young year
flushes
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ;
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire,
And the oat is heard above the lyre,t
And the hoof&d heel of a satyr crushes
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 40
And Pan by noon and Batchus by night,
Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
Follows with ilancing and fills with deligh'.
The Maenad and the Bassarid;^
And soft as lips that laugh and hide,
The laughing leaves of the trees divide,
And screen from seeing and leave in sight
The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 4S
The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair
Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes;
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare
Her bright breast shortening into sighs;
The wild vine slips with the weight of its
leaves,
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare
The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 50
A LEAVE-TAKING
Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.
Let us go hence together without fear;
Keep silence now, for singing-time is over.
And over all old things and all things dear.
She loves not jou nor me as all we love her.
Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear,
She would not hear. 7
Let us rise up and part ; she will not know.
Let us go seaward as the great winds go,
Full of blown sand and foam; what help is
here?
There is no help, for all these things are so.
And all the world is bitter as a tear;
And how these things are, though ye strove to
show,
She would not know. 14
Let us go home and hence; she will not weep.
We gave love many dreams and days to keep,
Flowers without scent, and fruits that would
not grow,
Saying, "If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and
reap. ' *
s Names for bacchanals, or frenzied votaries of
Bacchus.
t That is. pastornl. ont-of-door music takes the
place of indoor, festal song : Pan supplants
Apollo. An oat Is a shepherd's pipe madi- of
an oat stem.
All is reaped now; no grass is left to mow;
And we that sowed, though all we fell on
sleep,
She would not weep. 21
Let us go hence and rest ; she will not love.
She shall not hear us if we sing hereof.
Nor see love's ways, how sore they are and
steep.
Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough.
Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep;
And though she saw all heaven in flower above.
She would not love. 28
Let us give up, go down; she will not care.
Tliough all the stars made gold of all the air.
And the sea moving saw before it move
One moon-flower making all the foam-flowers
fair,
Though all those waves went over us, and drove
Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair,
She would not care. 35
Let us go hence, go hence; she will not see.
Sing all once more together; surely she,
She, too, remembering days and words that
were,
Will turn a little toward us, sighing; but we.
We are hence, we are gone, as though we had
not been there.
Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me.
She would not see. 42
HYMN TO PROSERPINE*
(After the Proclamation in Rome of thb
Christian Faith)
Vicisti, Galilcee
I have lived long enough, having seen one thing,
that love hath an end;
Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me
now and befriend.
Thou art more than the day or the morrow, the
seasons that laugh or that weep ;
For these give joy and sorrow ; but thou, Pros-
erpina, sleep.
Sweet is the treading of wine, and sweet the
feet of the dove;
♦ Proserpine, or Proserpina, was the Roman god-
dess of death and the under world. The
Latin motto set before this poem means
"Thou hast conquered, Galilean." The words
are traditionally ascribed to the dyinj? Em-
peror .Julian — Julian "the apostate," who had
been brought up as a Christian but who re-
verted to paganism after his accession to the
throne. The poem attempts to portray the
sentiment of expiring paganism ; Swinburne
called it "tho death-song of spiritual deca-
dence."
712
THE VICTORIAN AGE
But a goodlier gift is thine than foam of the
grapes or love.
Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harp-
string of gold,
A bitter God to follow, a beautiful God to
behold t
I am sick of singing; the bays burn deep and
chafe; I am fain
To rest a little from praise and grievous pleas-
ure and pain. 10
For the Gods we know not of, who give us our
daily breath.
We know they are cruel as love or life, and
lovely as death.
Gods dethroned and deceased, cast forth,
wiped out in a day!
From your wrath is the world released, re-
deemed from your chains, men say.
New Gods are crowned in the city, their flow-
ers have broken your rods;
They are merciful, clothed with pity, the young
compassionate Gods.
But for me their new device is barren, the days
are bare;
Things long past over suflSce, and men forgot-
ten that were.
Time and the Gods are at strife: ye dwell in
the midst thereof.
Draining a little life from the barren breasts
of love. 20
1 say to you, cease, take rest ; yea, I say to you
all, be at peace.
Till the bitter milk of her breast and the bar-
ren bosom shall cease.
Wilt thou yet take all, Galilean? but these thou
shalt not take,
The laurel, the palms, and the paean, the breasts
of the nymphs in the brake;
Breasts more soft than a dove 's, that tremble
with tenderer breath;
And all the wings of the Loves, and all the joy
before death;
All the feet of the hours that sound as a single
lyre,
Dropped and deep in the flowers, with strings
that flicker like fire.
More than these wilt thou give, things fairer
than all these things?
Nay, for a little we live, and life hath mutable
wings. 30
A little while and we die; shall life not thrive
as it mayf
For no man under the sky lives twice, outliving
his day.
And grief is a grievous thing, and a man hath
enough of bis tears:
Why should he labour and bring fresh grief to
blacken his years?
Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean ; the world
has grown gray from thy breath;
We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed
on the fulness of death.
Laurel is green for a season, and love is sweet
for a day;
But love grows bitter with treason, and laurel
outlives not May.
Sleep, shall we sleep after all? for the world
is not sweet in the end;
For the old faiths loosen and fall, the new-
years ruin and rend. 40
Fate is a sea without shore, and the soul is a
rock that abides;
But her ears are vexed with the roar and her
face with the foam of the tides.
O lips that the live blood faints in, the leavings
of racks and rods!
ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs of gib-
beted Gods!
Though all men abase them before you in
spirit, and all knees bend,
1 kneel not, neither adore you, but standing,
look to the end.
All delicate days and pleasant, all spirits and
sorrows are cast
Far out with the foam of the present that
sweeps to the surf of the past;
Where beyond the extreme sea-wall, and be-
tween the remote sea-gates.
Waste water washes, and tall shipi founder,
and deep death waits: 50
Where, mighty with deepening sides, clad about
with the seas as with wings,
And impelled of invisible tides, and fulfilled
of unspeakable things.
White-eyed and poisonous-finned, shark-toothed
and serpentine-curled.
Rolls, under the whitening wind of the future,
the wave of the world.
The depths stand naked in sunder behind it,
the storms flee away;
In the hollow before it the thunder is taken
and snared as a prey;
In its sides is the north-wind bound; and its
salt is of all men's tears;
With light of ruin, and sound of changes, and
pulse of years;
With travail of day after day, and with trouble
of hour upon hour;
And bitter as blood is the spray; and the
crests are as fangs that devour: 60
And its vapour and storm of its steam as the
sighing of spirits to be;
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
713
And its noise as the noise in a dream; and its
depth as the roots of the sea:
And the height of its heads as the height of the
utmost stars of the air;
And the ends of the earth at the might thereof
tremble, and time is made bare.
Will ye bridle the deep sea with reins, will ye
chasten the high sea with rods?
Will ye take her to chain her with chains, who
is older than all ye Gods?
All ye as a wind shall go by, as a fire shall ye
pass and be past;
Ye are Gods, and behold ye shall die, and the
waves be upon you at last.
In the darkness of time, in the deeps of the
years, in the changes of things,
Ye shall sleep as a slain man sleeps, and the
world shall forget you for kings. 70
Though the feet of thine high priests tread
where thy lords and our forefathers trod,
Though these that were Gods are dead, and
thou being dead art a God,
Though before thee the throned Cytherean be
fallen, and hidden her head.
Yet thy kingdom shall pass, Galilean, thy dead
shall go down to thee dead.
Of the maiden thy mother, men sing as a god-
dess with grace clad around;
Thou art throned where another was king;
where another was queen she is crowned.
Yea, once we had sight of another; but now
she is queen, say these.
Not as thine, not as thine was our mother, a
blossom of flowering seas,i
Clothed round with the world 's desire as with
raiment, and fair as the foam.
And fleeter than kindled fire, and a goddess
and mother of Rome. 80
For thine came pale and a maiden, and sister
to sorrow; but ours,
Her deep hair heavily laden with odour and
colour of flowers,
White rose of the rose-white water, a silver
splendour, a flame.
Bent down unto us that besought her, and earth
grew sweet with her name.
For thine came weeping, a slave among slaves,
and rejected; but she
Came flushed from the full-flushed wave, and
imperial, her foot on the sea,
And the wonderful waters knew her, the winds
and the viewless ways.
And the roses grew rosier, and bluer the sea-
blue stream of the bays.
Ye are fallen, our lords, by what token? we wist
that ye should not fall.
1 Vcnas, bom of the foam.
Ye were all so fair that are broken; and one
more fair than ye all. 90
But I turn to her still, having seen she shall
surely abide in the end;
Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me
now and befriend.
daughter of earth, of my mother, her crown
and blossom of birth,
1 am also, I also, thy brother; I go as I came
unto earth.
In the night where thine eyes are as moons are
in heaven, the night where thou art,
Where the silence is more than all tunes, where
sleep overflows from the heart.
Where the poppies are sweet as the rose in our
world, and the red rose is white.
And the wind falls faint as it blows with the
fume of the flowers of the night.
And the murmur of spirits that sleep in the
shadow of Gods from afar
Grows dim in thine ears and deep as the deep
dim soul of a star, 100
In the sweet low light of thy face, under heav-
ens untrod by the sun.
Let my soul with their souls find place, and
forget what is done and undone.
Thou art more than the Gods who number the
days of our temporal breath;
For these give labour and slumber; but thou,
Proserpina, death.
Therefore now at thy feet I abide for a season
in silence. I know
1 shall die as my fathers died, and sleep as they
sleep; even so.
For the glass of the years is brittle wherein we
gaze for a span;
A little soul for a little bears up this corpse
which is man.2
So long I endure, no longer; and laugh not
again, neither weep.
For there is no God found stronger than death;
and death is a sleep. HO
PRELUDE OF SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE*
Between the green bud and the red
Youth sat and sang by Time, and shed
From eyes and tresses flowers and tears.
From heart and spirit hopes and fears,
2 Adapted from Epictetus.
• Swinburne's Songs Before Sunrise, published In
1871. and dedicated to .Joseph Mazzini, the
Italian patriot, are a noteworthy contribution
to the poetry of political and religious free-
dom. They were mainly inspired by the long
struggle for a free and united Italy. The par-
tial union of Italy, effected in 1861, was com-
pleted by the occupation of Rome in 1870,
but the government was monarchical, and
not republican, as the more ardent revolu-
tionists had hoped.
714
THE VICTORIAN AGE
Upou the hollow stream whose bed
Is channelled by the foamless years;
And with the white the gold-haired head
Mixed running locks, and in Time's ears
Youth 's dreams hung singing, and Time 's truth
Was half not harsh in the ears of Youth. 10
Between the bud and the blown flower
Youth talked with joy and grief an hour,
With footless joy and wingless grief
And twin-born faith and disbelief
Who share the seasons to devour;
And long ere these made up their sheaf
Felt the winds round him shake and shower
The rose-red and the blood-red leaf,
Delight whose germ grew never grain.
And passion dyed in its own pain. ^0
Then he stood up, and trod to dust
Fear and desire, mistrust and trust.
And dreams of bitter sleep and sweet,
And bound for sandals on his feet
Knowledge and patience of what must
And what things may be, in the heat
And cold of years that rot and rust
And alter; and his spirit's meat
Was freedom, and his staff was wrought
Of strength, and his cloak woven of thought. 30
For what has he whose will sees clear
To do with doubt and faith and fear,
Swift hopes and slow despondencies?
His heart is equal with the sea's
And with the sea-wind's, and his ear
Is level to the speech of these.
And his soul communes and takes cheer
With the actual earth's equalities,
Air, light, and night, hills, winds, and streams.
And seeks not strength from strength less
dreams. 40
His soul is even with the sun
Whose spirit and whose eyes are one,
Who seeks not stars by day nor light
And heavy heat of day by night.
Him can no God cast down, whom none
Can lift in hope beyond the height
Of faith and nature and things done
By the calm rule of might and right
That bids men be and bear and do,
And die beneath blind skies or blue. 50
To him the lights of even and morn
Speak no vain things of love or s<'orn,
Fancies and passions miscreate
By man in things dispasnionate.
Nor holds he fellowship forlorn
With souls that pray and hope and hate,
And doubt they had better not been born,
And fain would lure or scare off fate
And charm their doomsman from their doom
And make fear dig its own false tomb. 60
He builds not half of doubts and half
Of dreams his own soul's cenotaph.
Whence hopes and fears with helpless eyes,
Wrapt loose in cast-off cerecloths, rise
And dance and wring their hands and laugh,
And weep thin tears and sigh light sighs.
And without living lips would quaff
The living spring in man that lies,
And drain his soul of faith and strength
It might have lived on a life's length. 70
He hath given himself and hath not sold
To God for heaven or man for gold,
Or grief for comfort that it gives,
Or joy for grief's restoratives.
He hath given himself to time, whose fold
Shuts in the mortal flock that lives
On its plain pasture's heat and cold
And the equal year's alternatives.
Earth, heaven, and time, death, life, and he.
Endure while they shall be to be. 80
"Yet between death and life are hours
To flush with love and hide in flowers;
What profit save in these f" men cry:
"Ah, see, between soft earth and sky.
What only good things here are ours ! ' '
They say, "What better wouldst thou try,
What sweeter sing of? or what powers
Serve, that will give thee ere thou die
More joy to sing and be less sad.
More heart to play and grow more glad?" 90
Play then and sing; we too have played,
We likewise, in that subtle shade.
We too have twisted through our hair
Such tendrils as the wild Loves wear.
And heard what mirth the Ma?nadsi made,
Till the wind blew our garlands bare
And left their roses disarrayed.
And smote the summer with strange air,
And disengirdled and discrowned 99
Tlie limbs and locks that vine-wreaths bound.
We too have tracked by star-proof trees
The tempest of the Thyiadesi
Scare the lou<l night on hills that hid
The blood-feasts of the Bassarid.i
Heard their song's iron cadences
Fright the wolf hungering from the kid,
Outroar the lion-throated seas,
Outchide the north-wind if it chid,
And hush the torrent-tongued ravines
With thunders of their tambourines. 110
t Anclont names of votaries of Bacchus.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
715
120
130
But the fierce flute whose notes acclaim
Dim goddesses of fiery fame,
( vmbal and clamorous kettledrum,
Timbrels and tabrets, all are dumb
That turned the high chill air to flame;
The singing tongues of fire are numb
That called on Cotyss by her name
Edonian,-till they felt her come
And maddened, and her mystic face
Lightened along the streams of Thrace.
For Pleasure slumberless and pale,
And Passion with rejected veil,
Pass, and the tempest-footed throng
Of hours that follow them with song
Till their feet flag and voices fail,
And lips that were so loud so long
Learn silence, or a wearier wail;
So keen is change, and time so strong,
To weave the robes of life and rend
Ami weave again till life have end.
But weak is change, but strengthless time,
To take the light from heaven, or climb
The hills of heaven with wasting feet.
Songs they can stop that earth found meet,
But the stars keep their ageless rhyme;
Flowers they can slay that spring thought
sweet,
But the stars keep their spring sublime;
Passions and pleasures can defeat.
Actions and agonies control.
And life and death, but not the soul. 140
Because man 's soul is man 's God still.
What wind soever waft his will
Across the waves of day and night
To port or shipwreck, left or right,
By shores and shoals of good and ill;
And still its flame at mainmast height
Through the rent air that foam-flakes fill
Sustains the indomitable light
Whence only man hath strength to steer
Or helm to handle without fear. 150
Save his own soul 's light overhead.
None leads him, and none ever led,
Across birth 's hidden harbour-bar.
Past youth where shoreward shallows are.
Through age that drives on toward the red
Vast void of sunset hailed from far.
To the equal waters of the dead;
Save his own soul he hath no star,
And sinks, except his own soul guide,
Helmless in middle turn of tide.
No blast of air or fire of sun
Puts out the light whereby we run
2 An Edonian. or Thraolan,
with liofntloiif; revelry.
160
dlvlnltj, worshiped
With girdled loins our lampUt race,^
And each from each takes heart of grace
And spirit till his turn be done,
And light of face from each man's face
In whom the light of trust is one;
Since only souls that keep their place
By their own light, and watch things roll.
And stand, have light for any soul. 170
A little time we gain from time
To set our seasons in some chime,
For harsh or sweet or loud or low,
With seasons played out long ago
And souls that in their time and prime
Took part with summer or with snow.
Lived abject lives out or sublime.
And had their chance of seed to sow
For service or disservice done
To those days dead and this their son.
ISO
A little time that we may fill
Or with such good works or such ill
As loose the bonds or make them strong
Wherein all manhood suffers wrong.
By rose-hung river and light-foot rill
There are who rest not; who think long
Till they discern as from a hill
At the sun 's hour of morning song.
Known of souls only, and those souls free.
The sacred spaces of the sea.
190
LINES ON THE ilONUMENT OF GIU-
SEPPE MAZZINI*
Italia, mother of the souls of men,
Motlier divine.
Of all that served thee best with sword or pen,
All sons of thine.
Thou knowest that here the likeness of the best
Before thee stands:
The head most high, the heart found faith-
fullest,
The purest hands.
Above the fume and foam of time that flits,
The soul, we know, 10
Now sits on high where Alighieri sits
With Angelo.
Not his own heavenly tongne hath heavenly
speech
Enough to say
3 In allusion to the ancient torch race.
• .Joseph Mazzini, the Italian patriot, died in
1872. A monumont was erected to him at
Genoa (Genoa "La Superba"). where there
is also a monument to Columbus. Alighieri
(line 11) Is Dante, Angelo Is Michelangelo.
ne
THE VICTORIAN AGE
What this man was, whose praise no thought
may reach,
No words can weigh.
Since man's first mother brought to mortal
birth
Her first-born son,
Such grace befell not ever man on earth
As crowns this One. 20
Of God nor man was ever this thing said:
That he could give
Life back to her who gave him, whence his dead
Mother might live.
But this man found his mother dead and slain,
With fast-sealed eyes.
And bade the dead rise up and live again.
And she did rise:
And all the world was bright with her through
him:
But dark with strife, 30
Like heaven's own sun that storming clouds
bedim.
Was all his life.
Life and the clouds are vanished; hate and fear
Have had their span
Of time to hurt and are not: He is here.
The sunlike man.
City superb, that hadst Columbus first
For sovereign son.
Be prouder that thy breast hath later nurst
This mightier One. 40
Glory be his for ever, while his land
Lives and is free,
As with controlling breath and sovereign hand
He bade her be.
Earth shows to heaven the names by thousands
told
That crown her fame.
But highest of all that heaven and earth be-
hold,
Mazzini's name.
THE PILGRIMS*
Who is your lady of love, O ye that pass
Singing? and is it for sorrow of that which was
That ye sing sadly, or dream of what shall be?
For gladly at once and sadly it seems ye
sing.
♦ Tho poem Is in the form of a dialogue, an indi-
rntpd by the dsHhes, — a speecli and a reply
In each Rtanza. For form, compare with it
Tennyson's The Two Voices ; for thought,
Wordsworth's Ode to Duty, Tennyson's
Waoen, and Browning's Rabhi Ben EerQ.
— Our lady of love by you is unbeholden;
For hands she hath none, nor eyes, nor lips, nor
golden
Treasure of hair, nor face nor form; but we
That love, we know her more fair than any-
thing. 8
— Is she a queen, having great gifts to give?
— Yea, these : that whoso hath seen her shall not
live
Except he serve her sorrowing, with strange
pain,
Travail and bloodshedding and bitterer tears;
And when she bids die he shall surely die.
And he shall leave all things under the sky.
And go forth naked under sun and rain.
And work and wait and watch out all his
years. 16
— Hath she on earth no place of habitation?
— Age to age calling, nation answering nation'.
Cries out. Where is she? and there is none to
say; ,;
For if she be not in the spirit of men, ^
For if in the inward soul she hath no place,
In vain they cry unto her, seeking her face,
In vain their mouths make much of her; for
they
Cry with vain tongues, till the heart lives
again. 24
— O ye that follow, and have ye no repentance?
For on your brows is written a mortal sentence.
An hieroglyph of sorrow, a fiery sign.
That in your lives ye shall not pause or rest.
Nor have the sure sweet common love, nor keep
Friends and safe days, nor joy of life nor
sleep.
— These have we not, who have one thing, the
divine
Face and clear eyes of faith and fruitful
breast. 32
— And ye shall die before your thrones be won.
— Yea, and the changed world and the liberal
sun •<
Shall move and shine without us, and we lie
Dead ; but if she too move on earth, and live,
But if the old world with all the old irons rent
Laugh and give thanks, shall we not be content?
Nay, we shall rather live, we shall not die,
Life being so little, and death so good to
give. 40
— And these men shall forget you. — Yea, but we
Shall be a part of the earth and the ancient sea.
And heaven-high air august, and awful fire.
And all things good ; and no man 's heart
shall beat
ALGERNON CHAELES SWINBUENE
717
But somewhat in it of our blood once shed
Shall quiver and quicken, as now in us the dead
Blood of men slain and the old same life's de-
sire
Plants in their fiery footprints our fresh
feet. 48
— But ye that might be clothed with all things
pleasant,
Ye are foolish that put off the fair soft present,
That clothe yourselves with the cold future
air;
When mother and father, and tender sister
and brother
And the old live love that was shall be as ye,
Dust, and no fruit of loving life shall be.
— She shall be yet who is more than all these
were.
Than sister or wife or father unto us or
mother. 56
— Is this worth life, is this, to win for wages?
Lo, the dead mouths of the awful grey-grown
ages.
The venerable, in the past that is their prison.
In the outer darkness, in the unopening
grave.
Laugh, knowing how many as ye now say have
said.
How many, and all are fallen, are fallen and
dead:
Shall ye dead rise, and these dead have not
risen ?
— Not we but she, who is tender, and swift to
save. 64
— Are ye not weary and fai*t not by the way,
Seeing night by night devoured of day by day,
Seeing hour by hour consumed in sleepless fire?
Sleepless; and ye too, when shall ye too
sleep ?
— We are weary in heart and head, in hands and
feet,
And surely more than all things sleep were
sweet, —
Than all things save the inexorable desire
Which whoso knoweth shall neither faint nor
* : weep. 72
— Is this so sweet that one were fain to follow?
Is this so sure where all men 's hopes are hol-
low,
Even this your dream, that by much tribulation
Ye shall make whole flawed hearts, and
bowed necks straight?
— Nay, though our life were blind, our death
were fruitless,
Not therefore were the whole world's high hope
rootless ;
But man to man, nation would turn to nation,
And the old life live, and the old great word
be great. 80
— Pass on, then, and pass by us, and let us be,
For what light think ye after life to seel
And if the world fare better will ye know?
And if man triumph who shall seek you and
say?
— Enough of light is this for one life 's span,
That all men born are mortal, but not man;
And we men bring death lives by night to sow,
That men may reap and eat and live by
day. 88
A FOESAKEN GARDEN
In a coign of the clilT between lowland and
highland,
At the sea-down's edge between windward
and lee,
Walled round with rocks as an inland island,
The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses
The steep square slope of the blossomless bed
Where the weeds that grew green from the
graves of its roses
Now lie dead. 8
The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken.
To the low last edge of the long Ion 3 land.
If a step should sound or a word be spoken.
Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's
hand?
So long have the grey bare walks lain guestless,
Through branches and briars if a man make
way.
He shall find no life but the sea-wind 's, rest-
less
Night and day. 16
The dense hard passage is blind and stifled
That crawls by a track none turn to climb
To the straight waste place that the years have
rifled
Of all but the thorns that are touched not of
time.
The thorns he spares when the rose is taken ;
The rocks are left when he wastes the plain;
The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken,
These remain. 24
Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls
not;
As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are
dry;
718
THE VICTORIAN AGE
32
From the thicket of thorns whence the night in- |
gale calls not, i
Could she call, there were never a rose to i
reply.
Over the meadows that blossom and wither,
Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song.
Only the sun and the rain come hither
All year long.
The sun burns sere, and the rain dishevels
One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath.
Only the wind here hovers and revels
In a round where life seems barren as death.
Here there was laughing of old, there was
weeping,
Haply, of lovers none ever will know,
Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping
Years ago. 40
Heart handfast in heart as they stood, "Look
thither,"
Did he whisper? "Look forth from the flow-
ers to the sea;
For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-
blossoms wither.
And men that love lightly may die — But
we?"
And the same wind sang, and the same waves
whitened,
And or ever the garden's last petals were
shed,
In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that
had lightened.
Love was dead. 48
Or they loved their life through, and then went
whither?
And were one to the end — but what end who
knows ?
Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither.
As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose.
Shall the dead take thought for the dead to
love them?
What love was ever as deep as a grave?
They are loveless now as the grass above them
Or the wave. 56
All are at one now, roses and lovers,
Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the
sea.
Not a breath of the time that has been hovers
In the air now soft with a summer to be.
Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons
hereafter
Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now
or weep,
When, as they that are free now of weeping
and laughter,
We shall sleep. 64
Here death may deal not again forever;
Here change may come not till all change
end.
P'rom the graves they have made they shall rise
up never.
Who have left naught living to ravage and
rend.
Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground
growing,
While the sun and the rain live, these shall
be;
Till a last wind 's breath upon all these blow-
ing
Roll the sea. 72
Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crum-
ble.
Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink,
Till the strength of the waves of the high tides
humble
The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink.
Here now in his triumph where all things falter,
Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand
spread, ^.j,
As a god self -slain on his own strange altar.
Death lies dead. 80
A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND
T hid my heart in a nest of roses.
Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;
In a softer bed than the soft white snow 's is.
Under the roses I hid my heart.
Why would it sleep not? why should it start.
When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?
What made sleep flutter his wings and part?
Only the song of a secret bird. 8
Lie still, I said, for the wind 's wing closes,
And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart;
Lie still, for the wind on the warm sea dozes,
And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art.
Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's
wound smart?
Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred?
What bids the lids of thy sleep dispart?
Only the song of a secret bird. 16
The green land 's name that a charm encloses.
It never was writ in the traveller's chart.
And sweot on its trees as the fruit that grows is,
It never was sold in the merchant's mart.
The swallows of dreams through its dim fields
dart,
And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard;
No hound 's note wakens the wildwood hart,
Only the song of a secret bird. 24
ALGERXOX CHARLES SWINBURNE
719
ENVOI*
In the world of dreams I have chosen my part,
To sleep for a season and hear no word
Of true love's truth or of light love's art,
Only the song of a secret bird.
UPON A CHILD
Of such is the kingdom of heaven.
No glory that ever was shed
From the crowning star of the seven
That crown the north world's head,
No word that ever was spoken
Of human or godlike tongue,
Gave ever such godlike token
Since human harps were strung.
No sign that ever was given
To faithful or faithless eyes
Showed ever beyond clouds riven
So clear a Paradise.
Earth's creeds may be seventy times seven
And blood have defiled each creed:
If of such be the kingdom of heaven,
It must be heaven indeed.
A CHILD'S LAUGHTER
All the bells of heaven may ring,
All the birds of heaven may sing,
All the wells on earth may spring.
All the winds on earth may bring
All sweet sounds together;
Sweeter far than all things heard.
Hand of harper, tone of bird,
Sound of woods at sundawn stirr'd.
Welling water 's winsome word,
Wind in warm wan weather.
One thing yet there is, that none
Hearing ere its chime be done
Knows not well the sweetest one
Heard of man beneath the sun.
Hoped in heaven hereafter;
Soft and strong and loud and light.
Very sound of very light
Heard from morning's rosiest height,
When the soul of all delight
Fills a child's clear laughter.
Golden bells of welcome roU'd
Never forth such notes, nor told
* L'envoi, or "the despatch," was the name for-
merly given to the closing lines of a ballade. '
containing an address to some prince, or j
poet's patron ; see The Compleynt of Chaucer
to his Purse, p. 62. In modern imitations,
this address can be only a formula and is
frequently omitted, the e«i;ot being merely a
summary, or an appended stanza completing
the metrical scheme.
Hours so blithe in tones so bold,
As the radiant mouth of gold
Here that rings forth heaven.
Jf the golden-crested wren
Were a nightingale — why, then
Something seen and heard of men
Might be half as sweet as when
Laughs a child of seven.
A BABY'S DEATH*
I
A little soul scarce fledged for earth
Takes wing with heaven again for goal
Even while we hailed as fresh from birth
A little soul.
Our thoughts ring sad as bells that toll.
Not knowing beyond this blind world's girth
What things are writ in heaven's full scroll.
Our fruitfulness is there but dearth.
And all things held in time's control
Seem there, perchance, ill dreams, not worth
A little soul.
The little feet that never trod
Earth, never strayed in field or street,
What hand leads upward back to God
The little feet?
A rose in June's most honied heat.
When life makes keen the kindling sod,
Was not so soft and warm and sweet.
Their pilgrimage's period
A few swift moons have seen complete
Since mother's hands first clasped and shod
The little feet.
The little hands that never sought
Earth 's prizes, worthless all as sands.
What gift has death, God's servant, brought
The little hands?
We ask: but love's self silent stands,
Love, that lends eyes and wings to thought
To search where death's dim heaven expands.
Ere this, perchance, though love knew nought.
Flowers fill them, grown in lovelier lands.
Where hands of guiding angels caught
The little hands,
* From A Century of Roundels. Of the poem
here given in part there are seven sections,
each In the form of a roundel with regularly
recurring refrain. The last three soctlons,
however, vary in length of line, and being of
a personal nature detract from the universal
appeal of the first four.
no
THE VICTORIAN AGE
The little eyes that never knew
Light other than of dawning skies,
What new life now lights up anew
The little eyes!
Who knows but on their sleep may rise
Such light as never heaven let through
To lighten earth from Paradise?
No storm, we know, may change the blue
Soft heaven that haply death descries;
No tears, like these in ours, bedew
The little eyes.
From TRISTRAM OF LYONESSEf
Prelude. Tristram and Iseult
Love, that is first and last of all things made,
The light that has the living world for shade,
The spirit that for temporal veil has on
The souls of all men woven in unison,
One fiery raiment with all lives inwrought
And lights of sunny and starry deed and
thought.
And alway through new act and passion new
Shines the divine same body and beauty
through.
The body spiritual of fire and light
That is to worldly noon as noon to night; 10
Love, that is flesh upon the spirit of man
And spirit within the flesh whence breath be-
gan;
Love, that keeps all the choir of lives in chime;
Love, that is blood within the veins of time;
That wrought the whole world without stroke of
hand.
Shaping the breadth of sea, the length of land,
And with the pulse and motion of his breath
Through the great heart of the earth strikes life
and death.
The sweet twain chords that make the sweet
tune live
Through day and night of things alternative, 20
Through silence and through sound of stress
and strife,
t In the long lyrical epic thus named, Swinburne
tells again the story of Tristram and Iseult,
which shares with that of Siegfried and
Brunhild the distinction of being one of the
greatest love stories of the world. "The
world of Swinburne," says Professor Wood-
berry, "is well symbolized by that Zodiac of
the burning signs of love that he named in
the prelude to Trintram of LyoncHne, — the
signs of Helen, Hero, Alcyone, Iseult, Rosa-
mond, Dido, .Tuliet, Cleopatra, Francesca,
Thlsbe, Angelica. Ouenevere ; under the
heavens of these starry names the poet moves
In his place apart and sees bis visions of
woe and wrath and weaves his dream of the
loves and the fates of men."
And ebb and flow of dying death and life;
Love, that sounds loud or light in all men's
ears.
Whence all men 's eyes take fire from sparks of
tears.
That binds on all men 's feet or chains or wings ;
Love, that is root and fruit of terrene things;
Love, that the whole world's waters shall not
drown,
The whole world's fiery forces not burn down;
Love, that what time his own hands guard his
head
The whole world's wrath and strength shall not
strike dead ; 30
Love, that if once his own hands make his grave
The whole world's pity and sorrow shall not
save ;
Love, that for very life shall not be sold.
Nor bought nor bound with iron nor with gold;
So strong that heaven, could love bid heaven
farewell.
Would turn to fruitless and unflowering hell;
So sweet that hell, to hell could love be given.
Would turn to splendid and sonorous heaven ;
Love that is fire within thee and light above.
And lives by grace of nothing but of love; 40
Through many and lovely thoughts and much
desire
Led these twain to the life of tears and fire;
Through many and lovely days and much de-
light
Led these twain to the lifeless life of night.
Yea, but what then? albeit all this were thus,
And soul smote soul and left it ruinous.
And love led love as eyeless men lead men.
Through chance by chance to deathward — Ah,
what then?
Hath love not likewise led them further yet.
Out through the years where memories rise and
set, 50
Some large as suns, some moon-like warm and
pale.
Some starry-sighted, some through clouds that
sail
Seen as red flame through spectral float of
fume.
Each with the blush of its own special bloom
On the fair face of its own coloured light.
Distinguishable in all the host of night.
Divisible from all the radiant rest
And separable in splendour! Hath the best
Light of love's all, of all that burn and move,
A better heaven than heaven is? Hath not
love 60
Made for all these their sweet particular air
To shine in, their own beams and names to bear,
Their ways to wander and their wards to keep,
ALGERNON CHAELES SWINBURNE
721
Till story and song and glory and all things
sleep ?
Hath he not plucked from death of lovers dead
Their musical soft memories, and kept red
The rose of their remembrance in men 's eyes,
The sunsets of their stories in his skies,
The blush of their dead blood in lips that speak
Of their dead lives, and in the listener's cheek
That trembles with the kindling pity lit "1
In gracious hearts for some sweet fever-fit,
A fiery pity enkindled of pure thought
By tales that make their honey out of nought,
The faithless faith that lives without belief
Its light life through, the griefless ghost of
grief?
Yea, as warm night refashions the sere blood
In storm-struck petal or in sun-struck bud,
With tender hours and tempering dew to cure
The hunger and thirst of day's distemperature
And ravin of the dry discolouring hours, 81
Hath he not bid relume their flameless flowers
With summer fire and heat of lamping song
And bid the short-lived things, long dead, live
long,
And thought remake their wan funereal fames,
And the sweet shining signs of women 's names,
That mark the months out and the weeks anew
He moves in changeless change of seasons
through
To fill the days up of his dateless year,
Flame from Queen Helen to Queen Guenevere?
For first of all the sphery signs whereby 91
Love severs light from darkness, and most high.
In the white front of January there glows
The rose-red sign of Helen like a rose:i
And gold-eyed as the shore-flower shelterless
Whereon the sharp-breathed sea blows bitter-
ness,
A storm-star that the seafarers of love
Strain their wind-wearied eyes for glimpses of.
Shoots keen through February's grey frost and
damp
The lamp-like star of Hero for a lamp; 100
The star that Marlowe2 sang into our skies
With mouth of gold, and morning in his eyes;
And in clear March across the rough blue sea
The signal sapphire of Alcyones
Makes bright the blown brows of the wind-foot
year;
And shining like a sunbeam-smitten tear
Full ere it fall, the fair next sign in sight
Burns opal-wise with April-coloured light
When air is quick with song and rain and flame.
My birth-month star that in love's heaven hath
name 110
1 Homer : The Iliad.
2 In his Hero and Lcander.
3 Ovid's Metamorphoses, xi.
Iseult,* a Ught of blossom and beam and
shower.
My singing sign that makes the song-tree
flower ;
Next like a pale and burning pearl beyond
The rose-white sphere of flower-named Rosa-
monds
Signs the sweet head of Maytime ; and for June
Flares like an angered and storm-reddening
moon
Her signal sphere, whose Carthaginian pyre
Shadowed her traitor's flying sail with fire;6
Next, glittering as the wine-bright jacinth -
stone,
A star south-risen that first to music shone, 1-0
The keen girl-star of golden Juliet^ bears
Light northward to the month whose forehead
wears
Her name for flower upon it, and his trees
Mix their deep English song with Veronese;
And like an awful sovereign chrysolite
Burning, the supreme fire that blinds the night.
The hot gold head of Venus kissed by Mars,
A sun-flower among small sphered flowers of
stars,
The light of Cleopatras fills and burns
The hollow of heaven whence ardent August
yearns; 130
And fixed and shining as the sister-shed
Sweet tears for Phaethon disorbed and dead,9
The pale bright autumn's amber-coloured
sphere,
That through September sees the saddening
year
As love sees change through sorrow, hath to
name
Francesca's; and the star that watches flame
The embers of the harvest overgone
Is Thisbe's, slain of love in Babylon,io
Set in the golden girdle of sweet signs
A blood-bright ruby; last save one light shines
An eastern wonder of sphery chrysopras, 141
The star that made men mad, Angelica 's;ii
And latest named and lordliest, with a sound
4 Her story has been told by Malory. Tennyson
{Idylls of the King. "The Last Tournament"),
Arnold, Wagner, etc.
5 The "Fair Rosamond" of Henry II. See Scott's
The Talisman and ^yoodstock.
6 Virgil : Aeneid, iv.
" Shakespeare : Romeo and Juliet.
8 Shakespeare : Antony and Cleopatra.
9 Alluding to the story that after Phaethon's fatal
fall with the chariot of the sun, his sisters,
the Ileliades, mourned for him until they
were changed into poplars and their tears
into amber. The story of Paolo and Fran-
cesca is immortalized in Dante's Inferno.
10 Chaucer : Legend of Oood Women (see p. 60).
11 Boiardo : Orlando Innamorafo ; Ariosto : Orlando
Furioso. Angelica's coquetry drove Orlando
mad.
722
THE \ ICTUKIAN ACiE
Of swords aiul liarps in lioaveu that ring it
round,
Last loYc-light and last love-song of the year 's,
Lileains like a glorious emerald Guenevere's.i^
These are the signs wherethrough the year sees
move,
I'ull of the sun, the sun-god which is love,
A fiery body blooil-red from the heart
Outward, with fire-white wings made wide apart.
That close not and unclose not, but upright 151
Steered without wind by their own light and
might,
Sweep through the flameless fire of air tliat
rings
I'rom heaven to heaven with tliunder of wheels
and wings
And antiphones of motion-moulded rhyme
Through spaces out of space aud timeless time.
So shine above dead chance and conquered
change
The sphered sif;us, aud leave without their
range
Doubt and desire, anil hope with fear for wife,
Pale pains, and pleasures long worn out of life.
Yea, even the shadows of them spiritless, 161
Through the dim door of sleep that seem to
press,
Forms without form, a piteous people and
blind,
Alen and no men, whose lamentable kind
The shadow of death and shadow of life compel
Through semblances of heaven and false-faced
hell.
Through dreams of light and dreams of dark-
ness tost
On waves innavigable, are these so lost!
Shapes tliat wax pale and shift in swift strange
wise,
Void faces with unspeculative eyes, 170
Dim things that gaze and glare, dead mouths
that move,
Featureless heads discrowned of hate and love.
Mockeries and masks of motion and mute
breath.
Leavings of life, the superflux of death —
If these things and no more than these things be
Left when man ends or changes, who can see?
Or who can say with what more subtle sense
Their subtler natures taste in air less dense
A life less thick and palpable than ours,
Warme«l with faint fires and sweetened with
dea<l flowers 180
And measured by low music? how time fares
In that wan time-forgotten world of theirs,
Their pale poor worhl to<» deep for sun or star
To live in, where the eyes of Helen are,
isCf. Mallory, Tennyson, etc.
And hers'^ who made as God's owu eyes to
shine
The eyes that met them of the Florentine,
Wherein the godhead thence transfigured lit
All time for all men with the shadow of it;
Ah, and these too felt on them as God's grace
The pity and glory of this man 's breathing
face; 190
Kor these too, these my lovers, these my twain.
Saw Dunte," saw God visible by pain.
With lips that thundered and with feet tiiat
trod
Before men's eyes incognisable God;
Saw love and wrath and light and night and fire
Live with one life and at one mouth respire,
And ill one golden sound tiieir whole soul heard
Sounding, one sweet immitigable word.
They have the night, who had like us the
day;*
AV^e, whom day binds, shall have the night as
they. 200
We, from the fetters of the ligiit unbound,
Healed of our wound of living, shall sleep
sound.
All gifts but one the jealous God may keep
From our soul 's longing, one he cannot— sleep.
This, though he grudge all other grace to
prayer.
This grace his closed hand cannot choose but
spare.
This, though his ear be sealed to all that live,.
Be it lightly given or lothly. God must give. "
We, as the men whose name on earth is none,
We too shall surely pass out of the sun ; 210
Out of the sound and eyeless light of things,
Wide as the stretch of life's time-wandering
wings.
Wide as the naked world and shadowless,
.\nd long-lived as the w orld 's own weariness.
Us too, when all the fires of time are cold.
The heights shall hide us and the depths shall
hold.
Us too, when all the tears of time are dry,
The night shall lighten from her tearless eye.
Blind is the day and eyeless all its light,
But the large unbewildered eye of night 220
Hatii sense and speculation; and the sheer
Limitless length of lifeless life and clear.
The timeless space wherein the brief worlds
move
13 Dante's Beatrice.
14 Inferno, v, 7.
* In this passage, with its rapt contemplation and
solemn nuislc. Swinburne lius surely attained
to that "hlnh Moriousnt'ss" which Matthew
Arnold rcKnrdi'd as the mark of the Krcatcst
poetry. A portion of it reads not unlike an
i-xpanslon of I'oraitisc Lo^t, Hook tl, lines
I »lt. I.-.O.
WALTER PATER
723
Clothed with light life ami fruitful with light
love,
With hopes that threaten, and witli fears that
cease,
Past fear and hope, hath in it only peace.
Yet of these lives inlaid with hopes and
fears.
Spun fine as fire and jewelleu thick with tears,
These lives made out of loves that long since
were,
Lives wrought as ours of earth and burning
air, 230
Fugitive flame, and water of secret springs.
And clothed with joys and sorrows as with
wings.
Some yet are good, if aught be good, to save
Some while from washing wreck and wrecking
wave.
Was such not theirs, the twain I take, and give
Out of my life to make their dead life live
Some days of mine, and blow my living breath
Between dead lips forgotten even of death?
So many and many ere me have given my twain
Love and live song and honey-hearted pain, 240
Whose root is sweetness and whose fruit is
sweet.
So many and with such joy have tracked their
feet.
What should I do to follow? yet I too,
1 have the heart to follow, many or few-
Be the feet gone before me; for the way,
Rose-red with remnant roses of the day
Westward, and eastward white with stars that
break,
Between the green and foam is fair to take
For any sail the sea-wind steers for me
I'^om morning into morning, sea to sea. -50
WALTER PATER (1839-1894)
THE CHILD IN THE HOUSE*
As Florian Deleal walked, one hot afternoon,
he overtook by the wayside a poor aged man,
and, as he seemed weary with the road, helped
him on with the burden which he carried, a
certain distance. And as the man told his
story, it chanc-ed that he named the place, a
little place in the neighbourhood of a great city,
where Florian had passed his earliest years,
but which he had never since seen, and, the
• When originally piiMisluHl In 1878 this essay
was denominatod an •ImaRinary rortrait."
thouEth it is dor.l3tless iu some measure auto-
Idograpliical. As an account of tlie <level<)i)-
ment of an extremely sensiti\'e and iiiipn-s-
sionable youtli. it liolds a unique place in our
literature. On I'ater's pliilosopliy and style,
see Etiy. Lit., \i. ^82.
story told,i went forward on his journey com-
forted. And that night, like a reward for his
pity, a dream of that place came to Florian, a
dream which did for him the oflice of the finer
sort of memory, bringing its object to n\ind
with a great clearness, yet, as sometimes liap-
pens in dreams, raised a little above itself, and
above ordinary retrospect. The true aspect of
the place, especially of the house there in which
he had lived as a child, the fashion of its doors,
its hearths, its windows, the very scent upon
the air of it, was with him in sleep for a sea-
son; only, with tints more musically- blent on
wall and floor, and some finer light and shadow-
running in and out along its curves and angles,
and with all its little carvings daintier. He
awoke with a sigh at the thought of almost
thirty years which lay between him and that
place, yet with a flutter of pleasure still within
him at the fair light, as if it were a smile, upon
it. And it happened that this accident of his
dream was just the thing needed for the begin-
ning of a certain design he then had in view,
the noting, namely, of -some things in the story
of his spirit — in that process of brain-building
by which we are, each one of us, what we are.
With the image of the place so clear and
favourable upon him, he fell to tliinking of
himself therein, and how his thoughts had
grown up to him. In that half-spiritualiseil
house he could watch the better, over again,
the gradual expansion of the soul which had
come to be there — of which indeed, through
the law which makes the material objects about
them so large an element in children's lives, it
had actually become a part; inward and out-
ward being woven through and through each
other into one inextricable texture — half, tint
and trace and accident of homely colour and
form, from the wood and the bricks; half,
meres soul-stuff, floated thither from who knows
how far. In the house and garden of his dream
he saw- a child moving, and could divide the
main streams at least of the winds that had
])layed on him, and study so the first stage in
that mental journey.
The old house, as when Florian talked of it
afterwards he always called it, (as all children
do, who can recollect a change of home, soon
enough but not too soon to mark a period in
their lives) really was an old house; and an
element of French descent in its inmates —
1 Pater's fondness for participles partakes rather
more of Latin than of English style. Note,
too, the difficulty of resuming, in the close of
this sentence, the grammatical subject of the
lieifinnimr.
•.; harmoniously
i pure, unmixed
724
THE VICTORIAN AGE
descent from Watteau, the old court-painter,*
one of whose gallant pieces still hung in one
of the rooms — might explain, together with
some other things, a noticeable trimness and
comely whiteness about everything there — the
curtains, the couches, the paint on the walls
with which the light and shadow played so deli-
cately; might explain also the tolerance of the
great poplar in the garden, a tree most often
despised by English people, but which French
people love, having observed a certain fresh
way its leaves have of dealing with the wind,
making it sound, in never so slight a stirring of
the air, like running water.
The old-fashioned, low wainscoting went
round the rooms, and up the staircase with
carved balusters and shadowy angles, landing
half-way up at a broad window, with a swal-
low's nest below the sill, and the blossom of an
old pear-tree showing across it in late April,
against the blue, below which the perfumed
juice of the find of fallen fruit in autumn was
so fresh. At the next turning came the closet
which held on its deep 'shelves the best china.
Little angel faces and reedy flutings stood out
round the fireplace of the children's room. And
on the top of the house, above the large attic,
where the white mice ran in the twilight — an
infinite, unexplored wonderland of childish
treasures, glass beads, empty scent-bottles still
sweet, thrum of coloured silks, among its lum-
ber — a flat space of roof, railed round, gave a
view of the neighbouring steeples; for the
house, as I said, stood near a great city, which
sent up heavenwards, over the twisting weather-
vanes, not seldom, its beds of rolling cloud
and smoke, touched with storm or sunshine.
But the child of whom I am writing did not
hate the fog, because of the crimson lights
which fell from it sometimes upon the chimneys,
and the whites which gleamed through its open-
ings, on summer mornings, on turret or pave-
ment. For it is false to suppose that a child 's
Bense of beauty is dependent on any choiceness
or special fineness, in the objects which present
themselves to it, though this indeed comes to
be the rule with most of us in later life ; earlier,
in some degree, we see inwardly; and the child
finds for itself, and with unstinted delight, a
diflference for the sense, in those whites and
rerls through the smoke on very homely build-
ings, and in the gold of the dandelions at the
road side, just beyond the houses, where not a
handful of earth is virgin and untouched, in
• Theff may have Ix'cn Homo family connootion
betw«M>n I'ntcr and Joan Uapttntp Patrr, a
French painter of Watteau's tlmo.
the lack of better ministries to its desire of
beauty.f
This house then stood not far beyond the
gloom and rumours of the town, among high
garden-walls, bright all summer-time with
Golden-rod, and brown-and-golden Wall-flower
— Flos Parietis, as the children's Latin-reading
father taught them to call it, while he was
with them. Tracing back the threads of his
complex spiritual habit, as he was used in after
years to do, Florian found that he owed to the
place many tones of sentiment afterwards cus-
tomary with him, certain inward lights under
which things most naturally presented them-
selves to him. The coming and going of travel-
lers to the town along the way, the shadow of
the streets, the sudden breath of the neigh-
bouring gardens, the singular brightness of
bright weather there, its singular darknesses
which linked themselves in his mind to certain
engraved illustrations in the old big Bible at
home, the coolness of the dark, cavernous shops
round the great church, with its giddy winding
stair up to the pigeons and the bells — a citadel
of peace in the heart of the trouble — all this
acted on his childish fancy, so that ever after-
wards the like aspects and incidents never
failed to throw him into a well-recognised
imaginative mood, seeming actually to have
become a part of the texture of his mind.
Also, Florian could trace home to this point a
pervading preference in himself for a kind of
comeliness and dignity, an urbanity literally, in
modes of life, which he connected with the
pale people of towns, and which made him sus-
ceptible to a kind of exquisite satisfaction in
the trimness and well-considered grace of cer-
tain things and persons he afterwards met
with, here and there, in his way through the
world.
So the child of whom I am writing lived on
there quietly; things without thus ministering
to him, as he sat daily at the window with the
birdcage hanging below it, and his mother
taught him to read, wondering at the ease with
which he learned, and at the quickness of his
memory. The perfume of the little flowers of
the lime-tree fell through the air upon them
like rain; while time seemed to move ever more
slowly to the murmur of the bees in it, till it
almost stood still on June afternoons. How
insignificant, at the moment, seem the in-
fluences of the sensible things which are tossed
and fall and lie about us, so, or so, in the
t This last clause is to be attached to the sub-
ject, "child." Pnter'8 sentences often wind
thuH, l>y a devious route, to an unexpected
end.
WALTER PATEE
725
environment of early childhood. How indelibly,
as we afterwards discover, they affect us; with
what capricious attractions and associations
they figure themselves on the white paper,t the
smooth wax, of our ingenuous souls, as "with
lead in the rock for ever, "i giving form and
feature, and as it were assigned house-room in
our memory, to early experiences of feeling
and thought, which abide with us ever after-
wards, thus, and not otherwise. The realities
and passions, the rumours of the greater world
without, steal in upon us, each by its own
special little passage-way, through the wall of
custom about us; and never afterwards quite
detach themselves from this or that accident,
or trick, in the mode of their first entrance to
us. Our susceptibilities, the discovery of our
powers, manifold experiences — our various ex-
periences of the coming and going of bodily
pain, for instance — belong to this or the other
well-remembered place in the material habita-
tion — that little white room with the window
across which the heavy blossoms could beat so
peevishly in the wind, with just that particular
catch or throb, such a sense of teasing in it,
on gusty mornings; and the early habitation
thus gradually becomes a sort of material shrine
or sanctuary of sentiment; a system of visible
symbolism interweaves itself through all our
thoughts and passions; and irresistibly, little
shapes, voices, accidents — the angle at which
the sun in the morning fell on the pillow —
become parts of the great chain wherewith we
are bound.
Thus far, for Florian, what all this had de-
termined was a peculiarly strong sense of home
— so forcible a motive with all of us — prompt-
ing to us our customary love of the earth, and
the larger part of our fear of death, that revul-
sion we have from it, as from something
strange, untried, unfriendly; though life-long
imprisonment, they teU you, and final banish-
ment from home is a thing bitterer still; the
looking forward to but a short space, a mere
childish gouter^ and dessert of it, before the
end, being so great a resource of effort to pil-
grims and wayfarers, and the soldier in dis-
tant quarters, and lending, in lack of that, some
power of solace to the thought of sleep in the
home churchyard, at least — dead cheek by dead
cheek, and with the rain soaking in upon one
from above.
iJoft. xlx, 24.
2 a slight repast, a taste
t Referring to Locke's familiar figure for the state
of mind at birth (Locke did not believe in
innate ideas). The next figure is derived
from the ancient practice of writing on tab-
lets of wax.
So powerful is this instinct, and yet accidents
like those I have been speaking of so mechan-
ically determine it; its essence being indeed the
early familiar, as constituting our ideal, or
typical conception, of rest and security. Out
of so many possible conditions, just this for
you and that for me, brings ever the unmistak-
able realisation of the delightful chez sot;3 this
for the Englishman, for me and you, with the
closely-drawn white curtain and the shaded
lamp; that, quite other, for the wandering
Arab, who folds his tent every morning, and
makes his sleeping-place among haunted ruins,
or in old tombs.
With Florian then the sense of home became
singularly intense, his good fortune being that
the special character of his home was in itself
so essentially home-like. As after many wan-
derings I have come to fancy that some parts
of Surrey and Kent are, for Englishmen, the
true landscape, true home-counties, by right,
partly, of a certain earthy warmth in the yellow
of the sand below their gorse-bushes, and of a
certain gray-blue mist after rain, in the hollows
of the hills there, welcome to fatigued eyes, and
never seen farther south; so I think that the
sort of house I have described, with precisely
those proportions of red-brick and green, and
with a just perceptible monotony in the sub-
dued order of it, for its distinguishing note, is
for Englishmen at least typically • home-like.
And so for Florian that general human instinct
was reinforced by this special home-likeness in
the place his wandering soul had happened to
light on, as, in the second degree, its body and
earthly tabernacle; the sense of harmony be-
tween his soul and its physical environment
became, for a time at least, like perfectly
played music, and the life led there singularly
tranquil and filled with a curious sense of self-
possession. The love of security, of an habit-
ually undisputed standing-ground or sleeping-
place, came to count for much in the generation
and correcting of his thoughts, and afterwards
as a salutary principle of restraint in all his
wanderings of spirit. The wistful yearning
towards home, in absence from it, as the
shadows of evening deepened, and he followed
in thought what was doing there from hour to
hour, interpreted to him much of a yearning
and regret he experienced afterwards, towards
he knew not what, out of strange ways of feel-
ing and thought in which, from time to time,
his spirit found itself alone; and in the tears
shed in such absences there seemed always to
3 at home
726
THE VICTORIAN AGE
be some soul-subduing foretaste of what his
last tears might be.
And the sense of security could hardly have
been deeper, the quiet of the child's soul being
one with the quiet of its home, a place * ' in-
closed" and "sealed." But upon this assured
place, upon the child's assured soul which
resembled it, there came floating in from the
larger world without, as at windows left ajar
unknowingly, or over the high garden walls, two
streams of impressions, the sentiments of
beauty and pain — recognitions of the visible,
tangible, audible loveliness of things, as a very
real and somewhat tyrannous element in them
— and of the sorrow of the world, of grown
people and children and animals, as a thing
not to be put by in them. From this point he
could trace two predominant processes of men-
tal .change in him — the growth of an almost dis-
eased sensibility to the spectacle of suffering,
and, parallel with this, the rapid growth of a
certain capacity of fascination by bright colour
and choice form — the sweet curvings, for in-
stance, of the lips of those who seemed to him
comely persons, modulated in such delicate
unison to the things they said or sang, — mark-
ing early the activity in him of a more than
customary sensuousne-s, "the lust of the eye,"
as the Preacher says,* which might lead him,
one day, how far! Could he have foreseen the
weariness of the way! In music sometimes the
two sorts of impressions came together, and
he would weep, to the surprise of older people.
Tears of joy too the child knew, also to older
people's surprise; real tears, once, of relief
from long-strung, childish expectation, when
he found returned at evening, with new roses
in her cheeks, the little sister who had been to
a place where there was a wood, and brought
back for him a treasure of fallen acorns, and
black crow 's feathers, and his peace at finding
her again near him mingled all night with some
intimate sense of the distant forest, the rumour
of its breezes, with the glossy blackbirds aslant
and the branches lifted in them, and of the
perfect nicety of the little cups that fell. So
those two elementary apprehensions of the ten-
derness and of the colour in things grew apace
in him, and were seen by him afterwards to
send their roots back into the beginnings of
life. Let me note first some of the occasions
of his recognition of the element of pain in
things — incidents, now and again, which seemed
suddenly to awake in him the whole force of
that sentiment which Goethe has called the
• The Preachpf is EcclesiaBtes, hut the phrase
"lust of the eyes" is in / John, li, 16.
Weltschmerz,^ and in which the concentrated
sorrow of the world seemed suddenly to lie
heavy upon him. A book lay in an old book-
case, of which he cared to remember one pic-
ture — a woman sitting, with hands bound be-
lund her, the dress, the cap, the hair, folded
with a simplicity which touched him strangely,
as if not by her own hands, but with some
ambiguous care at the hands of others — Queen
Marie Antoinette, on her way to execution — we
all remember David 's- drawing, meant merely
to make her ridiculous. The face that had been
so high had learned to be mute and resistless;
but out of its very resistlessness, seemed now
to call on men to have pity, and forbear; and
he took note of that, as he closed the book, as
a thing to look at again, if he should at any
time find himself tempted to be cruel. Again,
he would never quite forget the appeal in the
small sister's face, in the garden under the
lilacs, terrified at a spider lighted on her sleeve.
He could trace back to the look then noted a
certain mercy he conceived always for people
in fear, even of little things, which seemed to
make him, though but for a moment, capable
of almost any sacrifice of himself. Impressible,
susceptible persons, indeed, who had had their
sorrows, lived about him; and this sensibility
was due in part to the tacit influence of their
presence, enforcing upon him habitually the
fact that there are those who pass their days,
as a matter of course, in a sort of "going
quietly." Most poignantly of all he could re-
call, in unfading minutest circumstance, the cry
on the stair, sounding bitterly through the
house, and struck into his soul for ever, of an
aged woman, his father's sister, come now to
announce his death in distant India; how it
seemed to make the aged woman like a child
again; and, he knew not why, but this fancy
was full of pity to him. There were the little
sorrows of the dumb animals too — of the white
angora, with a dark tail like an ermine's, and
a face like a flower, who fell into a linger-
ing sickness, p.nd became quite delicately human
in its valetudinarianism, and came to have a
hundred different expressions of voice — how it
grew worse and worse, till it began to feel the
light too much for it, and at last, after one
wild morning of pain, the little soul flickered
away from the body, quite worn to death al-
ready, and now but feebly retaining it.
So he wanted another pet; and as there were i
starlings about the place, which could be taught i
1 world-sorrow
2 Jacques Louis David, court-painter to Louis XVI. \
and to Napoleon. i
WALTEE PATER
727
to speak, one of them was caught, and be meant
to treat it kindly; but in the night its young
ones could be heard crying after it, and the
responsive cry of the mother-bird towards them ;
and at last, with the first light, though not till
after some debate with himself, he went down
and opened the cage, and saw a sharp bound
of the prisoner up to her nestlings; and there-
with came the sense of remorse, — that he too
was become an accomplice in moving, to the
limit of his small power, the springs and han-
dles of that great machine in things, con-
structed so ingeniously to play pain-fugues on
the delicate nerve-work of living creatures.
I have remarked how, in the process of our
brain-building, as the house of thought in which
we live gets itself together, like some airy
bird's-nest of floating thistle-down and chance
straws, compact at last, little accidents have
their consequence; and thus it happened that,
as he walked one evening, a garden gate,
usually closed, stood open; and lo! within, a
great red hawthorn in full flower, embossing
heavily the bleached and twioted trunk and
branches, so aged that there were but few green
leaves thereon — a plumage of tender, crimson
fire out of the heart of the dry wood. The
perfume of the tree had now and again reached
him, in the currents of the wind, over the wall,
and he had wondered what might be behind it,
and was now allowed to fill his arms with the
flowers — flowers enough for all the old blue-
china pots along the chimney-piece, making
fete in the children's room. Was it some
periodic moment in the expansion of soul within
him, or mere trick of heat in the heavily-laden
summer air? But the beauty of the thing
struck home to him feverishly; and in dreams
all night he loitered along a magic roadway of
crimson flowers, which seemed to open ruddily
in thick, fresh masses about his feet, and fill
softly all the little hollows in the banks on
either side. Always afterwards, summer by
summer, as the flowers came on, the blossom of
the red hawthorn still seemed to him absolutely
the reddest of all things; and the goodly crim-
son, still alive in the works of old Venetian
masters or old Flemish tapestries, called out
always from afar the recollection of the flame
in those perishing little petals, as it pulsed
gradually out of them, kept long in the drawers
of an old cabinet. Also then, for the first time,
he seemed to experience a passionateness in his
relation to fair outward objects, an inexplicable
excitement in their presence, which disturbed
him, and from which he half longed to be free.
A touch of regret or desire mingled all night
with the remembered presence of the red flow-
ers, and their perfume in the darkness about
him ; and the longing for some undivined, entire
possession of them was the beginning of a reve-
lation to him, growing ever clearer, with the
coming of the gracious summer guise of fields
and trees and persons in each succeeding year,
of a certain, at times seemingly exclusive, pre-
dominance in his interests, of beautiful physical
things, a kind of tyranny of the senses over
him.
In later years he came upon philosophies
which occupied him much in the estimate of the
proportion of the sensuous and the ideal ele-
ments in human knowledge, the relative parts
they bear in it; and, in his intellectual scheme,
was led to assign very little to the abstract
thought, and much to its sensible vehicle or
occasion. Such metaphysical speculation did
but reinforce what was instinctive in his way
of receiving the world, and for him, everywhere,
that sensible vehicle or occasion became, per-
haps only too surely, the necessary concomitant
of any perception of things, real enough to be
of any weight or reckoning, in his house of
thought. There were times when he could
think of the necessity he was under of associat-
ing all thoughts to touch and sight, as a sym-
pathetic link between himself and actual, feel-
ing, living objects; a protest in favour of real
men and women against mere gray, unreal ab-
stractions; and he remembered gratefully how
the Christian religion, hardly less than the
religion of the ancient Greeks, translating so
much of its spiritual verity into things that may
be seen, condescends in part to sanction this
infirmity, if so it be, of our human existence,
wherein the world of sense is so much with us,i
and welcomed this thought as a kind of keeper
and sentinel over his soul therein. But cer-
tainly, he came more and more to be unable to
care for, or think of soul but as in an actual
body, or of any world but that wherein are
water and trees, and where men and women
look, so or so, and press actual hands. It was
the trick even his pity learned, fastening those
who suffered in anywise to his affections by a
kind of sensible attachments. He would think
of Julian, fallen into incurable sickness, as
spoiled in the sweet blossom of his skin like
pale amber, and his honey-like hair; of Cecil,
early dead, as cut off from the lilies, from
golden summer days, from women's voices; and
then what comforted him a little was the
thought of the turning of the child's flesh to
violets in the turf above him. And thinking of
1 See Wordsworth's sonnet, p. 427.
728
THE VICTOEIAN AGE
the very poor, it was not the things which most
men care most for that he yearned to give
them; but fairer roses, perhaps, ami power to
taste quite as they will, at their ease and not
task-burdened, a certain desirable, clear light
in the new morning, through which sometimes
he had noticed them, quite unconscious of it,
on their way to their early toil.
So he yielded himself to these things, to be
played upon by them like a musical instrument,
and began to note with deepening watchfulness,
but always with some puzzled, unutterable long-
ing in his enjoyment, the phases of the seasons
and of the growing or waning day, down even
to the shadowy changes wrought on bare wall
or ceiling — the light cast up from the snow,
bringing out their darkest angles; the brown
light in the cloud, which meant rain; that
almost too austere clearness, in the protracted
light of the lengthening day, before warm
weather began, as if it lingered but to make a
severer workday, with the school-books opened
earlier and later; that beam of June sunshine,
at last, as he lay awake before the time, a way
of gold-dust across the darkness; all the hum-
ming, the freshness, the perfume of the garden
seemed to lie upon it — and coming in one after-
noon in September, along the red gravel walk,
to look for a basket of yellow crab-apples left
in the cool, old parlour, he remembered it the
more, and how the colours Struck upon him,
because a wasp on one bitten apple stung him,
and he felt the passion of sudden, severe pain.
For this too brought its curious reflexions ; and,
in relief from it, he would wonder over it —
how it had then been with him — puzzled at the
depth of the charm or spell over him, which lay,
for a little while at least, in the mere absence
of pain; once, especially, when an older boy
taught him to make flowers of sealing-wax, and
he had burnt his hand badly at the lighted
taper, and been unable to sleep. He remem-
bered that also afterwards, as a sort of typical
thing — a white vision of heat about him, cling-
ing closely, through the languid scent of the
ointments put upon the place to make it well.
Also, as he felt this pressure upon him of
the sensible world, then, as often afterwards,
there would come another sort of curious ques-
tioning how the last impressions of eye and ear
might happen to him, how they would find him
— the scent of the last flower, the soft yellow-
ness of the last morning, the last recognition of
some object of affection, hand or voice ; it could
not be but that the latest look of the eyes,
before their final closing, would be strangely
▼ivid; one would go with the hot tears, the cry,
the touch of the wistful bystander, impressed
how deeply on one! or would it be, perhaps, a
mere frail retiring of all things, great or little,
away from one, into a level distance?
For with this desire of physical beauty
mingled itself early the fear of death — the fear
of death intensified by the desire of beauty.
Hitherto he had never gazed upon dead faces,
as sometimes, afterwards, at the Morgue in
Paris, or in that fair cemetery at Munich,
where all the dead must go and lie in state
before burial, behind glass windows, among the
flowers and incense and holy candles — the aged
clergy with their sacred ornaments, the young
men in their dancing-shoes and spotless white
linen — after which visits, those waxen, resist-
less faces would always live with him for many
days, making the broadest sunshine sickly. The
child had heard indeed of the death of his
father, and how, in the Indian station, a fever
had taken him, so that though not in action he
had yet died as a soldier; and hearing of the
"resurrection of the just, "i he could think of
him as still abroad in the world, somehow, for
his protection — a grand, though perhaps rather
terrible figure, in beautiful soldier's things,
like the figure in the picture of Joshua 's Vision
in the Bible2 — and of that, round which the
mourners moved so softly, and afterwards with
such solemn singing, as but a worn-out garment
left at a deserted lodging. So it was, until on
a summer day he walked with his mother
through a fair churchyard. In a bright dress
he rambled among the graves, in the gay
weather, and so came, in one corner, upon an
open grave for a child — a dark space on the
brilliant grass — the black mould lying heaped
up round it, weighing down the little jewelled
branches of the dwarf rosebushes in flower.
And therewith came, full-grown, never wholly
to leave him, with the certainty that even chil-
dren do sometimes die, the physical horror of
death, with its wholly selfish recoil from the
association of lower forms of life, and the
suffocating weight above. No benign, grave
figure in beautiful soldier's things any longer
abroad in the world for his protection! only a
few poor, piteous bones; and above them, pos-
sibly, a certain sort of figure he hoped not to
see. For sitting one day in the garden below
an open window, he heard people talking, and
could not but listen, how, in a sleepless hour, a
sick woman had seen one of the dead sitting
beside her, come to call her hence; and from
the broken talk evolved with much clearness the
notion that not all those dead people had really
1 Luke, xiv. 14. 3 Joahua, v, 13.
WALTEB PATER
nQ
departed to the churchyard, nor were quite so
motionless as they looked, but led a secret, half-
fugitive life in their old homes, quite free by
night, though sometimes visible in the day,
dodging from room to room, with no great
goodwill towards those who shared the place
with them. All night the figure sat beside him
in the reveries of his broken sleep, and was not
quite gone in the morning — an odd, irreconci-
lable new member of the household, making the
sweet familiar chambers unfriendly and suspect
by its uncertain presence. He could have hated
the dead he had pitied so, for being thus.
Afterwards he came to think of those poor,
home-returning ghosts, which all men have fan-
cied to themselves — the revenants — pathetically,
as crying, or beating with vain hands at the
doors, as the wind came, their cries distinguish-
able in it as a wilder inner note. But, always
making death more unfamiliar still, that old
experience would ever, from time to time, re-
turn to him; even in the living he sometimes
caught its likeness; at any time or place, in a
moment, the faint atmosphere of the chamber
of death would be breathed around him, and
the image with the bound chin, the quaint smile,
the straight, stiff feet, shed itself across the
air upon the bright carpet, amid the gayest
company, or happiest communing with himself.
To most children the sombre questionings to
which impressions like these attach themselves,
if they come at all, are actually suggested by
religious books, which therefore they often re-
gard with much secret distaste, and dismiss,
as far as possible, from their habitual thoughts
as a too depressing element in life. To Florian
such impressions, these misgivings as to the
ultimate tendency of the years, of the relation-
ship between life and death, had been sug-
gested spontaneously in the natural course of
his mental growth by a strong innate sense for
the soberer tones in things, further strength-
ened by actual circumstances; and religious
sentiment, that system of biblical ideas in
which he had been brought up, presented itself
to him as a thing that might soften and dig-
nify, and light up as with a "lively hope, "s
a melancholy already deeply settled in him. So
he yielded himself easily to religious impres-
sions, and with a kind of mystical appetite
for sacred things; the more as they came to
him through a saintly person who loved him
tenderly, and believed that this early pre-
occupation with them already marked the child
out for a saint. He began to love, for their
own sakes, church lights, holy days, all that
3 / Peter, I, 3.
belonged to the comely order of the sanctuary,
the secrets of its white linen, and holy vessels,
and fonts of pure water ; and its hieratic purity
and simplicity became the type of something
he desired always to have about him in actual
life. He pored over the pictures in religious
books, and knew by heart the exact mode in
which the wrestling angel grasped Jacob, how
Jacob looked in his mysterious sleep, how the
bells and pomegranates were attached to the
hem of Aaron's vestment, sounding sweetly as
he glided over the turf of the holy place.* His
way of conceiving religion came then to be in
effect what it ever afterwards remained — a
sacred history indeed, but still more a sacred
ideal, a transcendent version or representation,
under intenser and more expressive light and
shade, of human life and its familiar or excep-
tional incidents, birth, death, marriage, youth,
age, tears, joy, rest, sleep, waking — a mirror,
towards which men might turn away their eyes
from vanity and dullness, and see themselves
therein as angels, with their daily meat and
drink, even, become a kind of sacred transac-
tion — a complementary strain or burden, ap-
plied to our every-day existence, whereby the
stray snatches of music in it re-set themselves,
and fall into the scheme of some higher and
more consistent harmony. A place adumbrated
itself in his thoughts, wherein those sacred per-
sonalities, which are at once the reflex and the
pattern of our nobler phases of life, housed
themselves; and this region in his intellectual
scheme all subsequent experience did but tend
still further to realise and define. Some ideal,
hieratic persons he would always need to occupy
it and keep a warmth there. And he could
hardly understand those who felt no such need
at all, finding themselves quite happy without
such heavenly companionship, and sacred double
of their life, beside them.
Thus a constant substitution of the typical
for the actual took place in his thoughts.
Angels might be met by the way, under English
elm or beech-tree; mere messengers seemed like
angels, bound on celestial errands; a deep
mysticity brooded over real meetings and part-
ings; marriages were made in heaven; and
deaths also, with hands of angels thereupon,
to bear soul and body quietly asunder, each to
its appointed rest. All the acts and accidents
of daily life borrowed a sacred colour and sig-
nificance; the very colours of things became
themselves weighty with meanings like the
sacred stuffs of Moses' tabernacle,^ full of
4 Genesis, xxxli, 24 ; xxviii, 11 ; Exodus, xxvlil,
33-35.
5 Exodus, XX vl.
730
THE VICTOEIAN AGE
penitence or peace. Sentiment, congruous in
the first instance only with those divine trans-
actions, the deep, effusive unction of the House
of Bethany," was assumed as the due attitude
for the reception of our every-day existence;
and for a time he walked through the world
in a sustained, not unpleasurable awe, gener-
ated by the habitual recognition, beside every
circumstance and event of life, of its celestial
correspondent.
Sensibility — the desire of physical beauty —
a strange biblical awe, which made any refer-
ence to the unseen act on him like solemn
music — these qualities the child took away with
him, when, at about the age of twelve years,
he left the old house, and was taken to live in
another place. He had never left home before,
and, anticipating much from this change, had
long dreamed over it, jealously counting the
days till the time fixed for departure should
come; had been a little careless about others
even, in his strong desire for it — when Lewis
fell sick, for instance, and they must wait still
two days longer. At last the morning came,
very fine; and all things — the very pavement
with its dust, at the roadside — seemed to have
a white, pearl-like lustre in them. They were
to travel by a favourite road on which he had
often walked a certain distance, and on one
of those two prisoner days, when Lewis was
sick, had walked farther than ever before, in
his great desire to reach the new place. They
had started and gone a little way when a pet
bird was found to have been left behind, and
must even now — so it presented itself to him
— have already all the appealing fierceness and
wild self-pity at heart of one left by others to
perish of hunger in a closed house; and he
returned to fetch it, himself in hardly less
stormy distress. But as he passed in search of
it from room to room, lying so pale, with a
look of meekness in their denudation, and at
last through that little, stripped white room,
the aspect of the place touched him like the
face of one dead; and a clinging back towards
it came over him, so intense that he knew it
would last long, and spoiling all his pleasure
in the realisation of a thing so eagerly antici-
pated. And so, with the bird found, but him-
self in an agony of home-sickness, thus capri-
ciously sprung up within him, he was driven
quickly away, far into the rural distance, so
fondly speculated on, of that favourite country-
road.
6 The house of Simon the leper, where the woman
poured the box of ointment on Jesus' bead —
a "deep, efTusive unction." See Matthew,
xxtI, 7.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
(1850-1894)
EL DOKADO*
It seems as if a great deal were attainable
in a world where there are so many marriages
and decisive battles, and where we all, at cer-
tain hours of the day, and with great gusto
and despatch, stow a portion of victuals finally
and irretrievably into the bag which contains
us. And it would seem also, on a hasty view,
that the attainment of as much as possible was
the one goal of man's contentious life. And
yet, as regards the spirit, tliis is but a sem-
blance. We live in an ascending scale when
we live happily, one thing leading to another
in an endless series. There is always a new
horizon for onward-looking men,i and although
we dwell on a small planet, immersed in petty
business and not enduring beyond a brief
period of years, we are so constituted that our
hopes are inaccessible, like stars, and the term
of hoping is prolonged until the term of life.
To be truly happy is a question of how we
begin and not of how we end, of what we want
and not of what we have. An aspiration is a
joy forever,2 a possession as solid as a landed
estate, a fortune which we can never exhaust
and which gives us year by year a revenue of
pleasurable activity. To have many of these
is to be spiritually rich. Life is only a very
dull and ill-directed theatre unless we have
some interests in the piece; and to those who
have neither art nor science, the world is a
mere arrangement of colours, or a rough foot-
way where they may very well break their shins.
It is in virtue of his own desires and curiosities
that any man continues to exist with even
patience, that he is charmed by the look of
things and people, and that he wakens every
morning with a renewed appetite for work and
pleasure. Desire and curiosity are the two eyes
through which he sees the world in the most
enchanted colours: it is they that make women
beautiful or fossils interesting: and the man
may squander his estate and come to beggary,
but if he keeps these two amulets he is still rich
in the possibilities of pleasure. Suppose he
1 Cp. Tennyson's famous figure, Ulyaaes, 19-21.
2 Echoed from Keats's Endymion, 1,
♦ Spanish : The Gilded, or Golden. The name was
originally given to a fabulous king of a
wealthy city supposed to exist somewhere in
South America, tne object of much search in
the 10th century. It was later applied to the
city, and has now become a name for the
object of anv visionary quest. The essay is
from Virginibus Piierisque, 1881, and is re-
printed, along with the selections that follow,
by permission of Messrs. Charles Scrlbner's
Sons, who hold the copyright.
EGBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
ni
could take one meal so compact and comprehen-
sive that he should never hunger any more;
suppose him, at a glance, to take in all the
features of the world and allay the desire for
knowledge; suppose him to do the like in any
province of experience — would not that man
be in a poor way for amusement ever after?
One who goes touring on foot with a single
volume in his knapsack reads with circumspec-
tion, pausing often to reflect, and often lay-
ing the book down to contemplate the landscape
or the prints in the inn parlour; for he fears
to come to an end of his entertainment, and be
left companionless on the last stages of his
journey. A young fellow recently finished the
works of Thomas Carlyle, winding up, if we
remember aright, with the ten note-books upon
Frederick the Great. "What!" cried the
young fellow, in consternation, ' ' is there no
more Carlyle? Am I left to the daily papers?"
A more celebrated instance is that of Alex-
ander, who wept bitterly because he had no
more worlds to subdue. And when Gibbon had
finished the Decline and Fall,^ he had only a
few moments of joy; and it was with a "sober
melancholy" that he parted from his labours.
Happily we all shoot at the moon with in-
effectual arrows; our hopes are set on inac-
cessible El Dorado; we come to an end of
nothing here below. Interests are only plucked
up to sow themselves again, like mustard. You
would think, when the child was born, there
would be an end to trouble; and yet it is only
the beginning of fresh anxieties; and when you
have seen it through its teething and its educa-
tion, and at last its marriage, alas! it is only
to have new fears, new quivering sensibilities,
with every day; and the health of your chil-
dren 's children grows as touching a concern as
that of your own. Again, when you have mar-
ried your wife, you would think you were got
upon a hilltop, and might begin to go down-
ward by an easy slope. But you have only
ended courting to begin marriage. Falling in
love and winning love are often difficult tasks
to overbearing and rebellious spirits; but to
keep in love is also a business of some im-
portance, to which both man and wife must
bring kindness and goodwill. The true love
story commences at the altar, when there lies
before the married pair a most beautiful con-
test of wisdom and generosity, and a life-long
struggle towards an unattainable ideal. Unat-
tainable? Ay, surely unattainable, from the
very fact that they are two instead of one.
3 A twenty-four years' labor. See Eng. Lit., p.
213.
"Of making books there is no end," com-
plained the Preacher; 4 and did not perceive
how highly he was praising letters as an occu-
pation. There is no end, indeed, to making
books or experiments, or to travel, or to gather-
ing wealth. Problem gives rise to problem. We
may study for ever, and we are never as learned
as we would. We have never made a statue
worthy of our dreams. And when we have dis-
covered a continent, or crossed a chain of
mountains, it is only to find another ocean or
another plain upon the further side. In the
infinite universe there is room for our swiftest
diligence and to spare. It is not like the works
of Carlyle, which can be read to an end. Even
in a corner of it, in a private park, or in the
neighbourhood of a single hamlet, the weather
and the seasons keep so deftly changing that
although we walk there for a lifetime there will
be always something new to startle and de-
light us.
There is only one wish realisable on the
earth; only one thing that can be perfectly
attained: Death. And from a variety of cir-
cumstances we have no one to tell us whether
it be worth attaining.
A strange picture we make on our way to our
chimaeras, ceaselessly marching, grudging our-
selves the time for rest; indefatigable, adven-
turous pioneers. It is true that we shall never
reach the goal; it is even more than probable
that there is no such place; and if we lived for
centuries and were endowed with the powers of
a god, we should find ourselves not much nearer
what we wanted at the end. O toiling hands
of mortals! O unwearied feet, travelling ye
know not whither ! Soon, soon, it seems to you,
you must come forth on some conspicuous hill-
top, and but a little way further, against the
setting sun, descry the spires of El Dorado.
Little do ye know your own blessedness; for to
travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive,
and the true success is to labour.
THE MAEOON*
Of the beauties of Anaho books might be
written. I remember waking about three, to
find the air temperate and scented. The long
swell brimmed into the bay, and seemed to fill
4 Ecclesiastes, xii, 12.
* A maroon is one who has been "marooned," or
abandoned on an island. This chapter is
taken from Jn the South Seas, 1891. Steven-
son made a cruise among the South Sea Islands
in the yacht Caaco, which he chartered at
San Francisco in 1888. Anaho is a native
village of Nuka-hiva, the chief island of the
Marquesas. Kanaka, properly a Sandwich-
Islander, is a general name for a South Sea
Islander or bis speech.
yag
THE VICTORIAN AGE
it full and then subside. Gently, deeply, and
silently the Casco rolled; only at times a blocki
piped like a bird. Oceanward, the heaven was
bright with stars and the sea with their reflec-
tions. If I looked to that side, I might have
sung with the Hawaiian poet:
Va niaomao ka lani, ua kahaea luna,
Ua pipi ka maka o ka hoku.
(The heavens were fair, they stretched above,
Many were the eyes of the stars.)
And then I turned shoreward, and high squalls
were overhead; the mountains loomed up black;
and 1 could have fancied I had slipped ten
thousand miles away and was anchored in a
Highland loch; that when the day came, it
would show pine, and heather, and green fern,
and roofs of turf sending up the smoke of
peats ; and the alien speech that should next
greet my ears must be Gaelic, not Kanaka.
And day, when it came, brought other sights
and thoughts. I have watched the morning
break in many quarters of the world; it has
been certainly one of the chief joys of my
existence, and the dawn that I saw with most
emotion shone upon the bay of Anaho. The
mountains abruptly overhang the port with
every variety of surface and of inclination,
lawn, and cliff, and forest. Not one of these
but wore its proper tint of saffron, of sulphur,
of the clove, and of the rose. The lustre was
like that of satin; on the lighter hues there
seemed to float an eflBorescence ; a solemn bloom
appeared on the more dark. The light itself
was the ordinary light of morning, colourless
and clean; and on this ground of jewels, pen-
cilled out the least detail of drawing. Mean-
while, around the hamlet, under the palms,
where the blue shadow lingered, the red coals
Of cocoa-husk and the light trails of smoke
betrayed the awakening business of the day;
along the beach men and women, lads and
lasses, were returning from the bath in bright
raiment, red and blue and green, such as we
delighted to see in the coloured little pictures
of our childhood ; and presently the sun had
cleared the eastern hill, and the glow of the
day was over all.
The glow continued and increased, the busi-
ness, from the main part., ceased before it had
begun. Twice in the day there was a certain
stir of shepherding along the seaward hills.
At times a canoe went out to fish. At times
a woman or two languidly filled a basket in
the cotton patch. At times a pipe would sound
out of the shadow of a house, ringing the
changes on its three notes, with an effect like
1 pulley
Que le jour me dure^ repeated endlessly. Or
at times, across a corner of the bay, two natives
might communicate in the Marquesan manner
with conventional whistlings. All else was
sleep and silence. The surf broke and shone
around the shores; a species of black crane
fished in the broken water; the black pigs were
continually galloping by on some affair; but
the people might never have awaked, or they
might all be dead.
My favourite haunt was opposite the hamlet,
where was a landing in a cove under a lianaed^
cliff. The beach was lined with palms and a
tree called the purao, something between the
fig and mulberry in growth, and bearing a
flower like a great yellow poppy with a maroon
heart. In places rocks encroached upon the
sand; the beach would be all submerged; and
the surf would bubble warmly as high as to
my knees, and play with cocoa-nut husks as our
more homely ocean plays with wreck and wrack
and bottles. As the reflux drew down, marvels
of colour and design streamed between my
feet; which I would grasp at, miss, or seize:
now to find them what they promised, shells to
grace a cabinet or be set in gold upon a
lady's finger; now to catch only maya* of col-
oured sand, pounded fragments and pebbles,
that, as soon as they were dry, became as dull
and homely as the flints upon a garden path.
1 have toiled at this childish pleasure for hours
in the strong sun, conscious of my incurable
ignorance; but too keenly pleased to be
ashamed. Meanwhile, the blackbird (or his
tropical understudy) would be fluting in the
thickets overhead.
A little further, in the turn of the bay, a
streamlet trickled in the bottom of a den,!"'
thence spilling down a stair of rock into the
sea. The draught of air drew down under the
foliage in the very bottom of the den, which
was a perfect arbour for coolness. In front it
stood open on the blue bay and the Casco lying
there under her awning and her cheerful col-
ours. Overhead was a thatch of puraos, and
over these again palms brandished their bright
fans, as I have seen a conjurer make himself a
halo out of naked swords. For in this spot,
over a neck of low land at the foot of the
mountains, the trade-wind streams into Anaho
Bay in a flood of almost constant volume and
velocity, and of a heavenly coolness.
It chanced one day that I was ashore in the
cove with Mrs. Stevenson and the ship's cook.
2 "IIow heavy hangs the day on me !"
3 Covered with lianas, or tropical vines.
* illusion (Hindu philosophy)
•'• glen, dingle
BOBBRT LOUIS STEVENSON
733
Except for the Casco lying outside, and a crane
or two, and the ever-busy wind and sea, the
face of the world was of a prehistoric empti-
ness; life appeared to stand stockstill, and the
sense of isolation was profound and refreshing.
On a sudden, the trade-wind, coming in a gust
over the isthmus, struck and scattered the fans
of the palms above the den; and, behold! in
two of the tops there sat a native, motionless
as an idol, and watching us, you would have
said, without a wink. The next moment the tree
closed, and the glimpse was gone. This dis-
covery of human presences latent overhead in a
place where we had supposed ourselves alone,
the immobility of our tree-top spies, and the
thought that perhaps at all hours we were
similarly supervised, struck us with a chill.
Talk languished on the beach. As for the cook
(whose conscience was not clear), he never
afterwards set foot on shore, and twice, when
the Casco appeared to be driving on the rocks,
it was amusing to observe that man's alacrity;
death, he was persuaded, awaiting him upon
the beach. It was more than a year later, in
the Gilberts, that the explanation dawned upon
myself. The natives were drawing palm-tree
wine, a thing forbidden by law; and when the
wind thus suddenly revealed them, they were
doubtless more troubled than ourselves.
At the top of the den there dwelt an old,
melancholy, grizzled man of the name of Tari
(Charlie) CoflSn. He was a native of Oahu, in
the Sandwich Islands; and had gone to sea in
his youth in the American whalers; a circum-
stance to which he owed his name, his English,
his down-east twang, and the misfortune of his
innocent life. For one captain, sailing out of
New Bedford, carried him to Nuka-hiva and
marooned him there among the cannibals. The
motive for this act was inconceivably small;
poor Tari's wages, which were thus economised,
would scarce have shook the credit of the New
Bedford owners. And the act itself was sim-
ply murder. Tari's life must have hung in the
beginning by a hair. In the grief and terror
of that time, it is not unlikely he went mad, an
infirmity to which he was still liable; or per-
haps a child may have taken a fancy to him
and ordained him to be spared. He escaped at
least alive, married in the island, and when I
knew him was a widower with a married son
and a granddaughter. But the thought of
Oahu haunted him ; its praise was for ever on
his lips; he beheld it, looking back, as a place
of ceaseless feasting, song and dance; and in
his dreams I dare say he revisits it with joy.
I wonder what he would think if he could be
carried there indeed, and see the modern town
of Honolulu brisk with traflSc, and the palace
with its guards, and the great hotel, and Mr.
Berger's band with their uniforms and out-
landish instruments; or what he would think
to see the brown faces grown so few and the
white so many; and his father's land sold for
planting sugar, and his father's house quite
perished, or perhaps the last of them struck
leprous and immured between the surf and the
cliflfs on Molokai.i So simply, even in South
Sea Islands, and so sadly, the changes come.
Tari was poor, and poorly lodged. His bouse
was a wooden frame, run up by Europeans; it
was indeed his official residence, for Tari was
the shepherd of the promontory sheep. I can
give a perfect inventory of its contents: three
kegs, a tin biscuit-box, an iron sauce-pan, sev-
eral cocoa-shell cups, a lantern, and three bot-
tles, probably containing oil; while the clothes
of the family and a few mats were thrown
across the open rafters. Upon my first meeting
with this exile he had conceived for me one of
the baseless island friendships, had given me
nuts to drink, and carried me up the den "to
see my house" — the only entertainment that
he had to offer. He liked the "AmeUcan, "
he said, and the * * Inglisman, ' ' but the ' ' Fless-
man" was his abhorrence; and he was careful
to explain that if he had thought us "Fless, "
we should have had none of his nuts, and never
a sight of his house. His distaste for the
French I can partly understand, but not at
all his toleration of the Anglo-Saxon. The
next day he brought me a pig, and some days
later one of our party going ashore found him
in act to bring a second. We were still
strange to the islands; we were pained by the
poor man 's generosity, which he could ill
afford; and by a natural enough but quite
unpardonable blunder, we refused the pig. Had
Tari been a Marquesan we should have seen
him no more ; being what he was, the most mild,
long-suffering, melancholy man, he took a re-
venge a hundred times more painful. Scarce
had the canoe with the nine villagers put off
from their farewells before the Casco was
boarded from the other side. It was Tari;
coming thus late because he had no canoe of
his own, and had found it hard to borrow one;
coming thus solitary (as indeed we always saw
him), because he was a stranger in the land,
and the dreariest of company. The rest of my
family basely fled from the encounter. I must
1 An island on which the lepers are isolated, a
little to the southeast of Oahu.
2 The farewell visit of the natives, mentioned in
a preceding chapter.
734
THE VICTORIAN AGE
receive our injured friend alone; and the inter-
view must have lasted hard upon an hour, for
he was loath to tear himself away. "You go
'way. I see you no more — no, sir ! " he
lamented; and then looking about him with rue-
ful admiration, "This goodee ship! — no, sir! —
goodee ship ! " he would exclaim : the ' ' no,
sir, ' ' thrown out sharply through the nose upon
a rising inflection, an echo from New Bedford
and the fallacious whaler. From these expres-
sions of grief and praise, he would return con-
tinually to the case of the rejected pig. "I
like give plesent all the same you," he com-
plained ; ' ' only got pig : you no take him ! ' '
he was a poor man; he had no choice of gifts;
he had only a pig, he repeated; and I had
refused it. I have rarely been more wretched
than to see him sitting there, so old, so grey,
so poor, so hardly fortuned, of so rueful a
countenance, and to appreciate, with growing
keenness, the affront which I had so innocently
dealt him; but it was one of those cases in
which speech is vain.
Tari's son was smiling and inert; his daugh-
ter-in-law, a girl of sixteen, pretty, gentle, and
grave, more intelligent than most Anaho
women, and with a fair share of French; his
grandchild, a mite of a creature at the breast.
I went up the den one day when Tari was from
home, and found the son making a cotton sack,
and madame suckling mademoiselle. When J
had sat down with them on the floor, the girl
began to question me about England; which I
tried to describe, piling the pan and the cocoa
shells one upon another to represent the houses,
and explaining, as best I was able, and by word
and gesture, the over-population, the hunger,
and the perpetual toil. "Pas de cocotiers?
pas de popoi?"^ she asked. I told her it was
too cold, and went through an elaborate per-
formance, shutting out draughts, and crouch-
ing over an imaginary fire, to make sure she
understood. But she understood right well;
remarked it must be bad for the health, and
sat a while gravely reflecting on that picture
of unwonted sorrows. I am sure it roused her
pity, for it struck in her another thought al-
ways uppermost in the Marquesan bosom; and
she began with a smiling sadness, and looking
on me ont of melancholy eyes, to lament the
decease of her own people. "Id pas de
Kanaqves,"* said she; and taking the baby
from her breast, she held it out to me with both
her hands. " Tenezf^—a little baby like this;
« "No cocoa-paImi«7 no bread-fruit trees?"
4 "Here no more Kanakas !"
6 "See here !"
then dead. All the Kanaques die. Then no
more." The smile, and this instancing by the
girl-mother of her own tiny flesh and blood,
affected me strangely; they spoke of so tran-
quil a despair. Meanwhile the husband smil-
ingly made his sack; and the unconscious babe
struggled to reach a pot of raspberry jam,
friendship's offering, which I had just brought
up the den; and in a perspective of centuries
I saw their case as ours, death coming in like
a tide, and the day already numbered when
there should be no more Beretani,o and no more
of any race whatever, and (what oddly touched
me) no more literary works and no more
readers.
THE VAGABOND
Give to me the life I love,
Let the lave'^ go by me.
Give the jolly heaven above
And the Dyway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see.
Bread I dip in the river —
There's the life for a man like me,
There's the life for ever.
Let the blow fall soon or late.
Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek the heaven above
And the road below me.
Or let autumn fall on me
Where afield I linger.
Silencing the bird on tree,
Biting the blue finger:
White as meal the frosty field —
Warm the fireside haven —
Not to autumn will I yield.
Not to winter even!
Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around.
And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love.
Nor a friend to know me.
All I ask the heaven above,
And the road below me.
8 I. e., Britanni. Britons. The language of the
Kanakas being so largely vocalic, they find it
difficult to pronounce two consonants in suc-
cession without interposing a vowel.
7 The leave, the rest; a familiar word in Burns.
EGBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
735
THE MORNING DRUM-CALL ON MY
EAGER EAR
The morning drum-call on my eager ear
Thrills unforgotten yet; the morning dew
Lies yet andried along my field of noon.
But now I pause at whiles in what I do,
And count the bell, and tremble lest I hear
(My work untrimmed) the sunset gun too
soon.
EVENSONG
The embers of the day are red
Beyond the murky hill.
The kitchen smokes: the bed
In the darkling house is spread:
The great sky darkens overhead,
And the great woods are shrill.
So far have I been led,
Lord, by Thy will:
So far I have followed, Lord, and wondered
still.
The breeze from the embalmed land
Blows sudden toward the shore,
And claps my cottage door.
I hear the signal. Lord — I understand.
The night at Thy command
Comes. I will eat and sleep and will not ques-
tion more.
REQUIEM
Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea.
And the hunter home from the hill.
INDEX TO NOTES, AND GLOSSARY
The page number is given first ; a superior numeral or character indicates the note. When it
Is necessary to distinguish columns, the letters a and b are used. Occasionally the references are
to numbered lines on a page.
Not all notes are indexed. Notes upon authors and titles may be found through the indexes to
authors and titles. In general this index has been restricted to such notes as are illtely to be
wanted for purposes of cross-reference and comparison (see Introduction) ; but a few others, that
seemed of especial intrinsic importance, have been added.
The glossary is inserted here in one alphabetical order with the index, but the words begin
with small letters. It has likewise been restricted to the items of most importance. Since practically
every strange or archaic usage is explained as it occurs, it seemed useless to repeat them all here,
especially those that occur only once, or have only a contextual significance. Thus, the vocabulary
of Chaucer has been largely omitted from the glossary, and so also have the Scotticisms. But
all such archaisms as are to be found widely scattered through our literature are given, with
nearly always one or more references to illustrate their use.
Abora, Mt. Perhaps for Amara, the seat of a
terrestrial paradise (Dr. Lane Cooper). 428
line 41.
Academe, or Academy, The, 391*, '64Si.
Acheron, 154t.
aches (pronunciation of), 170t.
Act of Relief, 387*.
Admiral = flagship, 238»«.
admire, wonder at, 212'.
Adonis, 226» 239^3.
Adriatic, Espousal of the, 427t.
Aegean, The, 549*.
Aeneas, 2812», 317i.
Aeolus, 231^. Cp. 316 line 82.
Aesculapius, 48b*.
Aesop, 560«.
affray, frighten, 4876 line 4.
again, in return, 100«.
Aglaia, 227^.
Albion = England, 3506 line 8, 67(F.
Alcais, 596*.
Alchemy, 325*. See Elixir vitae; Philosopher's
stone.
Alcibiades's dog, 366t.
Ale-stake, 51"
Alexander the Great, 233», 2SZb\ 321'.
Aloes, 67"'.
Alphabet, 215*, 467«
Alpheus, 232»».
Amadis de Gaul, 201^.
Amaranth, 232«
Ammon, 226» 32r.
among, all the time, everywhere, 806i, 89^
Amphion, 157**, 173i'>, 530'.
an, an', and, if, 70» 201«.
Anacreon, 466», 467i«.
Anagrams, 154«, 154».
Anapestic metres, 450*, 609*,
Andromeda, 663t.
Angel gold, 275".
Angelico, Fra, 619i», 683i.
Angels, Hierarchy of, 139".
Antwerp bridge, 152t, 666".
Aphrodite. See Venus.
Apis, 2263S, 3202.
Apollo, 612, 231". 466«, 569t, 711t.
Apple of Discord, 571".
Aquinas, 264».
Arabian Nights, 553*. 554i, 674*.
Arcadia, 206*t, 4896 line 7.
Archangels, 139".
Archery, 119t, 212".
Archimago, 130^.
Areopagus, 2621.
Arethusa, 231»>, 232».
Argo, Argonauts, 305*, 482o line 13.
argument = theme, 235'".
Ariadne, Titian's, 488*.
Ariel, 164*.
Aries, 3431, See Ram.
Arimaspians, 254«i.
Arion, 23253, 28O8.
Aristotle, 308», 309".
Armada, 208^, 662*.
Artemis. The goddess of the moon, hunt, etc.
The Latin name is Diana. 710t.
Arthur, King, 31 ff., 96 ff., 241'='.
Arthur, Prince, 127*, 1376.
artist = artisan, 237'^, 376».
as = that (in clauses of result), 214'.
as redundant, 101".
Ascanius, 28128.
Ashtaroth, Ashtoreth, Astarte, 226«, 239^, 623».
Astraea, 345".
Astrology, 48*. 291», 693*.
atheling, prince, 26*.
Athens, 548 ff.
Atlas, 247".
Attic salt, 450*.
Atropos, 231".
737
738
INDEX TO NOTES, AND GLOSSAEY
Augustus, 280'.
Aurora, dawn, 227i».
Ausonian, 242".
Avalon, Avilion, 32o line 18, 110» 577». See
Earthly Paradise.
ave (Latin), hail. 5896 line 21, 596*. Cp. 467, st.
101.
Avernus = Hades, 2056 line 12.
Baal (plural, Baalim), 226" 239»«.
Bacchantes, 231»*, 258t, 389*, 711», 714i.
Bachelor, 44".
Bacon, Roger, 153».
bairn, child (of any age), 742».
Baldur (or Balder), 709*.
Ballade, 719a*.
Barbers, 204".
Barmecide, 553^
Barricades, Day of, 664^
Bartholomew-tide, 219^2.
Bashan, 3822, 4553.
Basset, 277<.
Bat-fowling, 174«'.
Bath, Knights of the, 3405.
Bayard, Blind, 95t.
be = be good for, 4112.
beads, prayers, 221*, 353".
Bear, The Great, 229".
Beauvais, Bishop of, 524'.
Beelzebub, 154t.
Belial, 240*'.
Bellerophon, 258t.
Bellerus, 232»>.
Bellman, 229".
Bellona, 253m.
Bells rung backward, 448^
Benedictines, 45".
bent, dry grass, stubble land, 219=*, 474i, 625»,
706*.
Beowulf, 1*. 18*.
B^ranger, 559t.
Berenice's Hair, 319^.
Bermudas, 164*. les^".
Bickerstaff, Isaac, 296*.
Bliboe, 149'.
bill = prescription, 151", 308'.
bill = sword, 25".
birk, birch, 413*.
Black art, 152".
Blank verse, first employed, 125*; dramatic, 159t.
Blanket, Tossing in, 280^
Blenheim, 493t.
Blue-stocking, 4981.
Boeotian dulness, 450*, 549t.
Bol<thius, 58'.
Bollngbroke, Lord, 319>.
Bonivard, Frangois de, 463t.
bonnet = cap (Scotch), 444*.
bonny, bonie, comely, blithe, 405*.
Borgia, Cesare, 321*.
Bourne, Vincent, 392t.
Bow bells, 317".
bower. Inner room (opposed to hall), women's
apartment, chamber, 53". See 402*.
Brabant, 65^
brae, bank, hillside, 399».
Brahma, 519".
brand, sword, 27'.
Branstock, The, 708*.
brave (Scotch braw), fine, 165" 402»a.
brede, embroidery, 346«, 490*.
Bridge of Sighs, 460i, 678'.
Broglle, Due de, 532', 535*.
Brutus, King, 62".
Buckeen, 561'.
Buckingham, Duke of, 27921.
Bull, 40««.
burn, brook, 399".
Busirls, 238".
Buskin = Tragedy, 192», 2292^, 281".
buxom, yielding, supple, lively, 227', 253».
byrnle, corslet, 1 line 40.
Byron, 529*.
Cadmus, 263*. 467".
Caerleon, Carleon, 9932.
Caesar, Stories of, 463", 605i.
Qa Ira, 466*.
Calendar, Reformation of, 323i, 3646*, 662*. Cp.
636".
Caliban, 164*.
Caliphs, 3841".
Calliope, 231".
Camelot, IO02, 567», 575".
Cameron, Donald, 468=; Sir Ewan, 545".
Cameronians, 503*.
Campagna, The Roman, 685'.
Campaniles, 677*.
Campbells, The, 445'.
can, gan, did, 129'*.
Candlemas, 98".
card = compass, 323«, 408*.
carl, churl, fellow, 49".
carl in, old woman, 399", 410", 448'.
Carmelites, 616*. 618".
Cashmire, 470'.
Cassandra, 572^
Cassiopea, 228'.
Castle Rock, 448".
Castor and Pollux, 141".
Catiline, 321«.
Catch (song), 181", 265>. Cp. 617».
Cathay, 5103, 552 line 184.
Catullus, 5966*.
Cell, 451'.
Celtic race, 659t.
Centre = Earth, 234», 235*.
Cerberus, 227*, 25(fiK
Ceres, 1846, 229«
Cervantes, 663*.
Cestus of Venus, 459'.
chair = sedan-chair, 311', 335*. 541".
Champ-de-l\^ars, 533".
Champs Elys6es, 532*.
chapman, pedlar, 217>*, 40", 408'.
Chariots of war, 224*.
Charon, 665*.
Chaucer's Pronunciation, 42, 289t.
INDEX TO NOTES, AND GLOSSARY
739
Cheapside, 52^^
Cheke, Sir John, 123*.
Chersonese, 467".
Cherubim, 139i».
Chesterfield, Lord, 367*.
Chevron, 704*.
Chevy Chace, 73*.
Childe, 624*.
Chosroes, 384^*. Chosroes I. the Persian mon-
arch, reigned 531-579. The name is a Greek
form of the Persian Khusrau, a common
royal name. Cp. Kaikhosru.
Chronos, 2862.
Cimmerians, 227*. 534*.
Cimon, 5482.
CIncinnatus, 343^
Cinque Ports, 273'.
Civil War, Beginning of, 518<, 599t.
Clan-Alpine, 445*.
Claude Lorrain, 544^
Claverhouse, 448*, 543*.
clepe, to call, 107".
clerk, scholar, 208^
Clio, 1275.
Clootie, 4041.
close = enclose, 477^, 580^.
Club, The Literary, 366*.
Cock Lane Ghost, 534i.
Coffee, 170*, 314'.
Coffee houses, 290t, 541 fE.
coil, turmoil, 168'2, 344^
Colman, George, 562»
Colman, George, the Younger, 511i*, 563».
Companies of players, 202"'.
Companies, London, 274t.
Conceits, 206t, 288^, 309".
conference, conversation, 208*, 212".
Conventionalism, Reaction against, 395*.
Cordovan, The, 1925.
Coronach, 444'.
Cotter, Cottier, 401*, 560».
course, sail, 165 line 52.
Covenant, Covenanters, 271t, 448*. 500*.
Covent Garden, 510^ 540^.
Cowley, Abraham, 288».
Credo, SS^.
Croesus, 512".
Cromwell, Oliver, 233^ 348*. 599'.
Cuishes, 355'*.
Curfew, 229".
Curtius, 324*.
Cybele, 460«.
Cyclades. A group of islands in the -<Egean Sea.
482a.
Cynthia, 131", 224i», 229i=.
Cythera, 206t. Cp. 350 line 2, 459''.
Dagon, 226»3, 239=5.
dan = don, sir, master, 55'.
Dante, 238*, 453t, 577t, 580", 5961:, 721», 722".
Darius, 284«.
D'Artois, Prince, 532t, 534>».
David Jacques Louis, 726^.
Deal, 2711.
decent, becoming, 229".
Decius, 324*.
Dee, The, 2311^.
Delos, 466«.
Demogorgon, 154t, 254'®. Compare Gorgon.
depart, part, separate, 106".
Dervish, 565t, 637i».
Diana, Goddess of the chase, 229". Introduced
into Dryden's Secular Masque (p. 286) to
typify the sylvan sports of King James the
First. See also Artemis,
dight, arrayed, prepared, 227".
Dinner hour, 292t.
Dis, 161=, 184".
Divisions, Musical, 137", 220*.
doctor, learned man, 94*, 194*.
Doges of Venice, 427t, 678^
Dog-star, 232«.
Dolt, 177«».
Dolphins, 232", 280».
Dominicans, 618", 618".
Dominions, 139i'.
dool, dule, sorrow, 400°.
Doria, 460*.
Dorian mood, 240'«. See Greek Music,
douce, grave, 406^ 4112^, 448^
Dove, Holy Spirit, 687i.
Dove, River, 418i.
down, high plain, or pasture, undulating upland,
108^
Dreams, Gates of, 1325=, 705i.
Drugget, 280*.
Druids, 231 lines 52-55.
Ducal Palace, at Venice, 460i.
Duddon, River, 4275.
Duessa, 132&.
Dundee. See Claverhouse.
Dunfermline, 77i.
Earthly Paradise, 577*, 578t. Cp. Hesperides,
Iram, Cashmire, Arcadia, Avalon, El Dorado.
East London, 378', 537*.
Eclipse, 231*, 251*.
Eden, 234*, 258*.
Elaine, 567*.
El Dorado, 730*.
Electra, 233=.
Elements, The Four, 257". Cp. 263t; and Evelyn
Hope, line 20, p. 616.
Elgin Marbles, 492t
Elixir vitae, 1962i, 476».
Elysium, 154".
Emblem, of papal power, 232 line 110, 521=; of
bishopric, 232'i; of sovereignty, 623^
engine = contrivance, 243'».
English vernacular, Growth of, 119t.
Envoi, 719a*.
Eormenric, HI.
Epictetus, 642*. 713".
Epicurus, 4723, 633*.
Epimenides, 213*.
Erebus, 253".
Erls, 571».
erne, earn, eagle, 25", 445*.
I Escurial, The, 668*.
I Estates, Three, 97«, 532*.
740
INDEX TO NOTES, AND GLOSSABY
Esthwaite Vale, 420>.
Etherege, George, 282«, 293».
Eumenides, 285». 622".
Euphuism, 206*.
Euripides, Ancient admiration of, 233*, 461".
Eurydice, 228».
event, issue, 241".
Excalibur, 32*. 98-99, 109. See Tennyson's Morte
D'Arthur, p. 575, lines 36, 103.
fact = deed. 245'. 270*.
Fairy rings, 187».
Fallows, 227'*.
Farnese, 152*.
Fata Morgana, 523t.
Fates, The, 231", 306», 5203.
Faust legend, 151*.
feat, neat. deft. 175 line 273, 140«.
Ferrara, 600*.
Fidessa, 132&.
Fifth Monarchy, 389\
figure = horoscope, 29P,
Firth, Solway. 443».
Flamens, 226«.
flashy, insipid, 212«, 232».
Fleur-de-lis, 524^.
Fly-boats, 211=», 664».
fond, foolish, 120*.
Fortunatus, 529«.
Foundation, 520i.
Frankeleyn, 47".
fray, to affray, to frighten, 486 line 27.
Freeman, 198^
French Revolution, 440>, 466*, 532*.
Freyja, 115, 706».
Frippery, 186»*.
Furies, The, 285», 5206 line 14. 522".
Fuseli, 686«.
Galahad, lOOb^ 102 ff.; 5736.
Galen, 48 line 431. 151".
Gallcia, 49*. 6626 line 6.
Galileo, 237«. 319 line 138.
Galleass, 665".
Galliards, 213*. 444*.
Ganelon, 57*>.
gar, cause, make, 402".
Gargantua, 205*>.
Garrick, David, 379*. 380 lines 93 ft.
Garter, Knights of the, 325», 340J.
Gazette, 296*.
Geats, 3*.
Geneva, Lake of. 453t, 458*.
genius, a spirit, 225**. 302>.
gentle, noble, of good birth, 128 line 1.
german, brother, 136*.
Giaours, 381>.
GIgantes, 236t.
Giotto, 619><.
Glorlana, 127*.
go = walk, 270*.
Goal, 249«*.
Godiva. 514*.
Goethe, 529*, 684>, 674*, 726*.
Gold, Medicinal. 196*i.
Golden Age, 481*. 596*.
Gooseberry fool, 380*.
Gorgon, 131". Cp. Demogorgon.
Goshen, 238^8.
gossip, godmother. 485*.
Gothic, 296^
Graces, The. 227», 520 line 9.
Grail, The Holy, 101*. 103 ff.
gramercy, great thanks (grand merci), 161*.
Grammatical freedom, 164t. 170", 463*.
Grassmarket, 448".
Greek Games, 249<«. t66*.
Greek Music, Moods of, 349*. 228*^.
Green-gown, 221*.
greet, weep, 400»*, 408»^
Grenville, Sir Richard, 208*, 209t, 211J.
Groom -porter, 275*.
Grub Street, 381'.
grunsel, groundsill, 239=>*, 536".
Guenever, 996, 722".
Guilds, London, 274t.
Guinea grains, 327^
Gules, 486'.
habit = costume, 294« 336*.
Haha, 386*.
Half piece (coin), 214".
Hallam, Arthur, 577t, 583*. 584*. 587t, 588*.
Hampden, John. 348*. 502i.
Hampton Court, 313'.
Hasdrubal, 59".
Hautboy, 284*.
Hays, 510*.
Hebe, 227".
Hebrides, 232".
Hebrus, 231 line 63.
Hecate, 131*», 492i.
Hedge-schools, 560*.
Helicon, 234", 398», 488*.
Helicon, England's, 140*.
Helm of Aweing, 708".
Helots, 2086 line 11, 682*.
hem, them.
Heorot, 2*.
her, their.
Hercules, 249«-'.
Hermes Trismegistus, 229*0.
Herodias, 619'^
Heroic measure, 289'.
Hesperian, 240«*.
Hesperldes, 466".
Hides of land, 26t.
hight, called. Is called, was called, 99»».
Hilda, Abbess, 21t
hind, peasant, 346*, 514*.
Hindu mythology, 519".
hir, their.
his (pedantic possessive), 121«.
his = its, 173".
Hock, 498J, 528'.
holt, wood. 110".
Holy Alliance, 462*.
Homer, 466», 648t, 642*.
INDEX TO NOTES, AND GLOSSAEY
741
Hooper, John. 502«.
Horeb, 234*.
Horoscope, See Astrolo^i'.
horrid, horrent, rough, 249", 396».
Hotel-de-Ville, 533".
Houris, 382".
Hudibras, 298*.
Hulks, 210".
Humours, 48t, 54b lines 105-149; extended sense,
131% 192*. 294i«.
Hunt, Holman. his "Light of the World," 686^.
Hyacinth, 232**.
Hyades, 578==.
Hyde Park, SI?"".
Hymen, 184^ 228". Hymen's torch, 185 line 97.
Iambics = satire, 282«.
Icarus, 151'.
Ida, Mt., 228», 240 line 515, 304S 398», 569t.
Ilk, ilka, every, 399».
Images, 48a». 688*.
Invalides, Hotel des, 535*.
lonians, 548^
I ram, 633t.
Iran, 645*.
Iris, 184&, 5703.
! Isis, 22638, 51911.
Islands of the Blest, 466''.
Islington, 510', 540^.
Jacobin Party, 532t. Cp. 465i.
Jacobites, 337*, 448*, 543 ff.
Jamshyd, 633t, 654^.
Janus, 2861. From this two-faced deity is de-
rived the name January.
Jeffrey, Francis, 449*. 661*.
Jerboa, 610^
Jerome's Bible, 152".
"Joe Miller," 450*.
John the Baptist, 41, 611', 619^, 621».
Joseph of Arimathea, 101*.
Jotun, eoten, giant, 5 line 421.
Jousts, 97".
Jubal, 283*.
Jubilates, 523>.
Judas Maccabee, 93^.
Juno, 184", 570*.
Jupiter, Temple of, 514*.
Jura, 459 st. 92, 674i.
Justinian, 152».
Kalkhosru. I. e.. King Khosrfl, or Khusrau, one
of the legendary heroes of the Persian Shah
Xameh. 634, stanza x; 647 line 223. Cp.
Chosroes.
Kanaka, 731*, 734".
Keats, 622*. 623t.
Kempenfelt, Admiral, 392*.
kenn, head, mountain, 504".
Kennings, 1*.
Kidron, 613*.
Killarney, 583t.
kind, nature, 183«
King at Arms, 273*.
King's Evil, 274t, 367«,
Kit, 299".
Knight-errantry burlesqued, 197*.
Knighthood, Orders of, 340J.
Knot-grass, 203^^.
Lamb, Mary, 504*,
Lars, or Lares. Spirits of the departed, wor-
shiped by the Romans as household gods,
226».
Latimer, Bishop, 5022.
Launcelot du Lac, 101, 103, etc.
Laurel, 163i", 356t, 463".
lave, the rest. 402=^.
lawn = unfilled ground, 224".
lazar, leper, 46i2. 134i.
Lazy-tongs, 552*.
leads = roof, 274', 703a line 7.
leasing, lying, 21*, 89^.
leech, physician, 98".
Leicester, Lord, 127*, 14r.
Leman, Lalte. See Geneva.
Lemures. The spirits of those who have died in
sin. 226»
Lepanto, 460".
let, hinder, hindrance, 117".
let, cause, give orders for, 100^'.
Levant, The, 331i.
lewd, ignorant, 122*.
Liberals (of Italy), 622«, 713*.
Licentiate, 45*«.
Lido, The, 602i.
lief; dear, 100», 575».
Lilly, William, 260*.
Lfmitour, 45*i, 354".
Lincoln's Inn Fields, 540*.
Lingua Franca, 336*.
Lion of St. Mark, 460^.
list or lust, wish, please (both present and pret-
erit, usually impersonal), 123".
Liver, the seat of passion, 184».
Lochiel. See Cameron.
Locke, John, 725t
Locusts as food, 41*, 611'.
London Bridge, 385*, 540\
London streets, 113*, 385*, 539 ff.
Louvre, 631*.
Love-days, 462"'.
Lovelace, 221*.
Lucifer, 154t, 224".
Lucy, Poems upon, 418*.
Lunardi (a balloon bonnet), 407=*.
lust. See list.
Lyceum of Athens, 261", 548t
Lydia, 304=.
Lydian laughter, 5966*.
Lydlan measures, 284'. See Greek Music.
Lyonesse, 574*.
Lyrical Ballads of Wordsworth and Coleridge,
415t, 428t, 451»
Mab, Faery, 228«.
Mabinogion, 659t.
I^acgibbon, Wm.,
S99".
742
INDEX TO NOTES, AND GLOSSARY
Mackay, General, 543*.
Maenad, 471^ See Bacchantee.
Maeonldes, 255^
make, mate, 126^.
Male-sapphires, 611^
Mall, The, 319'.
Mandevllle, Bernard, 362^*.
Manes, 291^
Manna, 245^
Mantua, Mantuan, 2312i, 308», 596b line 19.
Marat, Jean Paul, 532t. 539".
March-beer, 159»«.
marches, boundaries, 2^
Marlus, 512*, 518*.
Maro = Virgil, 308^ 343*.
marry, an oath. See 89"'.
Mars, th^ god of War. Introduced into Dryden's
Secular Masque to represent the troubled times
of Charles the First.
Martinmas, 79«, Ibd^.
Masaccio, 620".
Mask, Masque, 228'^
maun, must, 4076^; mauna, must not.
Maunciple, 49*".
may, maid, 38^
may, may-blo'-som, white-thorn, 221t.
Mazzini, Giuseppe (Joseph), 713*, 715*.
Mead, 515«.
Medea, 476^
Memnon, 228*.
Mephlstophills, 154t.
mere, sea, lake, 15 line 1603, 5759,
Merlin, 96^, 485*. 575*.
Mermaid Tavern, 490*.
Michael the Archangel, 258*, 499*.
Michaelmas, 386'.
mickle, properly = muckle, much; sometimes by
corruption used for "little," as in "many a
mickle makes a muckle." 400^1, 409^.
Middlesex, 544^
Milan = Duke of Milan, 161^.
Mile-End, 3785, 5439, cp. 2006, bottom.
MInclus, 231^1.
Mistress as title, 331».
moil, labor, 344', 401*.
Moloch, 226".
Monastic Orders, 40»«, 45«, 618".
Monmouth, Duke of, 277*.
Montesquieu, 657^
Mordred, 108*.
Morpheus, 228>.
Morris, Sir Lewis, 655".
Moses, 238».
Motley, 46'*.
Mulclber, 242w.
Murex, 623t.
Musaens, ISS**, 229".
Napoleon, 427t. 535*.
nas, has not, was not.
natheless, nathless, nevertheless.
National Assembly, 532*.
"Natural piety," 422». 469>.
Nature In poetry, 342*, 416*, 416t, 428t.
ne, not, nor.
Necker, Jacques, 532*.
Nelson, Admiral, 494*. 603*.
Neptune, 231».
nere, were not.
Nereid, 2312'.
ness, headland, 3 line 223.
Nessus, 249«.
Newmarket, 552^.
New Style. See Calendar.
NIbelungenlled, 705*.
nicker, sea-monster, 5 line 422.
Night-watchman, 229i8.
NInus, 60».
NIobe, 461«
nis, is not.
Nisus, 3188.
Nobody, ISl^o.
Nova Zembia, 298^ 528*.
Numantia, Siege of, 512*.
numbers = verses, 304^.
Oaten pipe, 346^ 399", 7111:.
Old Jewry, 33P, 389'.
Old Style. See Calendar.
Olympus, 240 line 516.
Ombre, 311*, 314^ ff.
Ophiuchus, 251^, 528=.
or, either, 354*.
or, or that, ere, before, 101".
ordain, prepare, lOO*"
Oread, 570^.
Orgoglio, 137ft.
Orion, 154*, 2383«, 578ft line 8.
Ormus, 2431.
Orpheus, 228™>, 2292», 231", 258t, S05*, 530*. Cp.
4508, 603*.
Orus, 2263».
Osiris, 22638, 51911.
other, early plural form, 207=.
Overbury's "Characters," 266t.
Ovid, 60", 72P.
owe = own, 171".
Paean, 389*.
painful = careful, 263».
Palais Royal, 532ft*.
Pall, 2292s, 6232.
Palmers, 39".
Pan, 224i«, 644», 711t
Pandemonium, 243*'.
Panope, 23128.
Pantaloon, 555^
Paphos, 185 line 93, 571t.
pardie, an oath, 87".
Pardoner, 40'», 49«.
Pariah, 521^.
Paris and Oenone, 144ft, 157", 1572* 569*.
Parma, Duke of, 152*, 662*.
Parnassus, 307*.
Parthenon, 492t, 548», 675'
Partridge, John, 319".
party = side, 247»*.
passing, exceeding, surpassing, 96>, 374*.
INDEX TO NOTES, AND GLOSSAKY
743
passion, suffering:, 170«". The passion of Christ,
91o line 603, 101'«.
Patch, 180".
Paternoster, 33*.
"Patriotism," 5325.
Patronage, Literary, 357*.
Pegasus, 258t, 308^
Pelion, Mt., 305*.
Pelles, 100*.
Pelorus, 237».
Peneus. A river of Thessaly, which flowed through
the Vale of Tempe. 4815.
Pentecost, 100*.
Percy, 73^.
perdie, perdy, an oath, Sl^".
Periodicals, 290*.
Persepolis, 654i.
Perseus, 663t
Phaethon, 134*, 721».
Philistines, 659*.
Philomela, 229i«, 343", 654*, 710^.
Philosopher's stone, 215", 325«.
Phlegra, 241"i.
Phoebus, 612, i27". See Apollo.
Phrygian. See Greek Music.
Pierian spring, 230«, 309*.
pight, pitched, fixed, 65^
Pigmies, 241™. 243» 538^.
Pilgrims, 147*.
Pindar, 233*, 349*, 350», 466», 549t. 580«.
Pindaric ode, 349*.
Pindus, 3041.
Pine-apple-trees, 218».
Pirates, Hanging of, 165t.
Piscator, 264*. 511".
plain, complain, 344*.
Pluto, 1612, 18418.
"Popish Plot," 277*, 286*.
Popples, 281«.
Powers, 139".
Preacher, The, 726*, 731*.
Pre-Raphaelitism, 686^ 6868, 704*.
Prester John, 65*.
Preterit form for past participle, 340t.
prevent, anticipate, 223^
Priam's curtains, 379', 536">.
prime, 37^2, lOl").
Prisoner's base, 208*.
Prometheus, 526".
proper, own, 66', 183 line 3.
Proserpine, 131**, 184", 711*.
Prose style, Elizabethan, 206*; Milton's 262t; De
Quincey's, 516*; Pater's, 723^
Provence, 488^
Psyche, 490^.
Ptolemaic Astronomy, 158*, 235*, 255*.
Punch, 5536, 622».
Punning, Word-play, 140*. 241*.
Pygmies. See Pigmies.
Pyrrhus, 466'*.
Pythagoras's doctrine of transmigration, 163*.
Quintessence, 263t.
Quixote, Don, 309i», 663».
Quorum, 293*.
Ram (zodiac), 43", 193i.
Ratel, 6962.
rathe, early, 232**.
Ratlsbon, 600'.
Rebecks, 227".
Recorder, 240".
rede, advise, advice, 109»».
Reeve, 49*^
Regent Street, 540*.
Relic Sunday, 48^.
Renaissance, Italian, 600*. 616*, 620".
Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 381 lines 137 ft.; 561".
Rhodope, 307^.
Riaito, The, 460", 678*.
Ring, The. 311«, 317»
Roarers, 164t.
Robin Goodfellow, 228*^.
Romulus, 319».
Roncesvalles, 24F*.
rood, cross, 702», 435».
Rosamond, Fair, 301*, 721».
Roundel, 719b*.
Round Table, The, 996.
rout, gay party, 380^.
Rowley forgeries, 352*.
"Rules of Charles I.," 375*.
Runes, 24t.
Rustum, 645*.
Sabbath, Witch's, 633".
St. Agnes, 484*.
St. Agnes' Eve, 483*.
St. Augustine, SS".
St. Cecilia, 282*.
St. Denis, 5508, C^. 532a.
St. George, 565t.
St. Helena, 24t.
St, James, Shrine of, 39'«, 49^.
St. James's Park, 319*.
St. James's Square, 540«, 543«.
St. Julian, 472*.
St. Mark (Venice), 194», 460\
St. Paul, 529*.
St. Paul's Cathedral, 46<«, 97*. 272».
St. Peter, 232*', 521'.
St. Veronica, 512*.
Saki, 6362.
Salisbury, Bishop of, 32*.
Salmasius, 234t.
Samite, 9928.
Sanctus, 523».
Sangreal. See Grail.
Sansfoy, 132b. Sansjoy, 1356. Sansloy, 133&.
sark, cuirass, 7 line 550; shirt, 41025.
Sarras, City of, 103*.
Saturn, 228», 240 line 512, 481*.
Saxon = I^owland or English, 4452, 458*, 5448.
scar, scaur, a bare rock, or cliff, 444*.
School, 119*.
Schoolmen, 212", 264».
Scipio's Dream, SG**.
scdp, poet, 1*.
Scotus, 264».
Scottish Covenant, 271t.
Scottish Poetry, 399*.
lU
INDEX TO NOTES, AND GLOSSAEY
Scylding, 1*.
Scylla, 251*. Another Scylla, 318».
secular, marking or completing a century, 2866.
Sedge, 231".
seen, skilled, llli.
Semi -cope, 46*', 354»»,
Semiramis, 60*.
Seneca, 192«, 529*.
sensible, sensitive, 174".
sentence, sense, opinion, judgment, 95*.
Sequin, 195i».
Seraphim, 139^*.
Sessions, Courts of, 293*.
Setebos, 170»«.
Seven Deadly Sins, 135t.
Shadwell, Thomas, 280* ff.
Shaftesbury, Earl of, 277*.
Shah Nameh, 645*.
Shakespeare, Epitaph on, 191t.
shell = lyre, 349i, 35P.
Shelley, 622*.
Sher-Thursday, 106»'.
Shooting-stars, 508^
Sicilian Muse, 232«».
Siege Perilous, 101".
Siegfried, Sigurd, 705*. 720t.
Signs, London, 369=, 541a.
Sigurd, The "Wrath" of, 705*, 708*.
silly (German selig, blessed), innocent, simple,
224", 433*.
Slon, 234^
Sinai, Mt., 225", 234*, 535i.
sith, sithens, since, 103*.
Sizar, 56P.
skills, (impersonal), matters, avails, 113", 625i.
Slug-horn, 626'.
Sock = Comedy, 192«, 228» 281".
Soho Square, 292^
Solway Firth, 443».
Song of Solomon, 588$, 623^
Sonnet, Introduction of, 125*.
Sonnet sequences, 142*, 632*. 693*, 701*.
sooth, soth, sothe, truth, 87".
sop, soupe, sup, small portion of a liquid, 162*,
402'.
Sophocles, 642*.
Souls, Pictorial representation of, 619".
Spalrges, 404t.
speir, ask, 402l^
Spheres, Music of, 255*, 225=, 3218, 53010. see
Ptolemaic Astronomy.
Sphinx, Theban, 482a line 23.
Stang, 336>.
Stella. 362>«.
stole, robe. 229»», 577 line 197.
Storied, 348^ 230«,
Stothard, Thomas, 684«.
Strappado, 299o.
Straw, Jack, 59«.
Stratford atte Bowe, 44*.
style = name, 247*».
sublime = uplifted. 249", 350».
Summoner, 49". 524«.
Sunlum, 467". 649b.
8wan-song, 318*.
"Sweetness and light," 659*.
Switzerland, Invasion of, 440*.
Sword of King David, 103t.
Sylvanus, 230».
syne, since, 405^.
Synonyms in early prose style, lllj.
Tabard, 43", 7026 line 30.
tale, number, 227".
Tanaquil, 127^
Tara Hill, 495§.
Tartarus, 253 line 858.
Tasso, 460'.
Taurus, 343i, 578*.
teen, grief, 166".
Telegraph, 521'.
tell, count, 227".
Tempe. A vale in Thessaly, near Mt. Olympus.
482a, 4896 line 7.
Templars, 542'.
Temple, The, 50i2, 293", 542', 561i.
Tethys, 131«>,
Thalia, 227'.
Thammuz, 239^3.
thane, war-companion, retainer, 3 line 234.
that = that which, what, 212^.
that pleonastic (when that = when, because that
= because, etc.), 43*.
that serving to repeat a preceding connective,
207'.
Theatre, Customs of Elizabethan, 197*.
Thebes, Walls of, 1576 line 26, 173>", 5308. cp.
569t.
Theocritus, 231»', 632*.
Third Estate, 535*. See Estates,
tho, then, 136".
thorough, through, 483'.
thou in familiar address, 165**.
Thresholds, Blessing of, 438*.
Thrones, 139".
Timotheus, 2836=.
Titan, 240 line 510; = the sun, 221t.
Titans, 236t.
to intensive: to-burst, burst to pieces, 936 line
814.
Toad-eater, 371».
Tophet = hell 535', 626*. See 239, lines 402-405.
Touchstone, 133*.
Tournament, 97*'.
Transubstantiation, 278^.
Travellers' Insurance, 182*.
Treiawny, Sir Jonathan, 499*.
Triple Alliance, 278**.
Triton, 231=3.
Triumphal processions, 228», 512*, 514*.
Trosachs, 445*".
Troubadours, 488*.
Tuilerles, 532».
Tuily, 293*5.
Tussaud, Madame, 565".
Twelfth-day, 98*'.
Twelve good rules, 375*.
Tyler, Wat, 59».
Typhon, 226", 236t.
Tyrian purple, 287».
INDEX TO NOTES, AND GLOSSAEY
u&
Ulysses, Bow of, 262*.
Una, 1288.
unco, uncouth, unknown, 227', 405t.
Unction, Extreme, 92»». Cp. 730«.
undern, 57» IOI12.
Unities, Dramatic, 309»2.
unnethe, uneasily, scarcely.
L rani a, 234^, 258*.
use, to be accustomed, 215".
Utopia, 110*, 563t.
Valkyries, 705*.
Vaiiombrosa, 238»
Vandals, 238«
Venice, 427*, 460=, 601 ff., 677 ff.
Venus, 1852". 570*, 571t, 713i. Introduced into
Dryden's Secular Masque to represent the
licentious age of Charles the Second.
Versailles, 532*, 533", 535^
Vers de soci6t6, 497§.
Vesta, 22S«.
virtue = strength, 229".
Virtues, Aristotle's twelve moral, 127*.
Volsunga Saga, 705*.
Vulcan, 242^.
vulgar, common, 215**.
Vulgate, 152«.
wade = walk, 649*.
Waits, 19915, 55511.
Waldenses, 233*.
Walpole, Sir Robert, 339*, 340t, 340§.
Walsingham, 40*, 146t.
Waitham, 200&, 51I12.
Wandering Jew, 476-.
Wapping, 299».
Wax Image, Melting of, 688*.
Weald, The, 95a bottom, 670t.
Weders, 3*.
weed, garment, 127*.
ween, think; wened, wendc, went, thought.
Weland, 62.
wench, girl, 167".
Westminster, 540».
Westminster Abbey, 191t, 505t.
wnat time = when, 230b^.
whenas = when (in Middle English),
whereas = where (in Middle English),
whiles, at times, 404".
whilk, which, 399a
whilom, formerly, 127*.
whist, silent, 170<", 224".
Whitehall, 541i2.
Whitsunday, 100»,
wight, person, 128".
wight, active, 69i">.
Wigs, 36215.
Windermere, 421'.
Windows, 114t.
Wise Men of the East; 49», 223*.
wit, wete, know. Pres. indie, sing., wot; pre-
terit, wist. For I wis, see y-wis.
wit = talent, etc., 307*. 3611*.
Wits, 2762.
wold, undulating upland, a down, 567b line S.
Wombat, 6961.
wood, mad, 108».
Woolsack, 561i».
Wordsworth, Dorothy, 417 line 12i, 427*.
Wordsworth, Mrs., 423*.
worship, worthiness, honor, 99™.
Wye, River, 416t
Wynkyn de Worde, IO225.
Wyrd, 1*, 11 line 1233.
y-, a past participial prefix; y-done = done, y-
dread = dreaded, etc. 63».
ycleped, yclept, called, 48 line 410.
yede, went, 102'*.
you in respectful address, 165".
your (indefinite, generalizing) =a, the, any, ISS".
Yvetot, 563t
y-wis, certainly, 124'. Cp. 431".
ZaI, 647*, 634 stanza x.
Zephyr, the west wind, 227 line 19.
INDEX TO TITLES AND FIRST LINES
Abou Ben Adhem
Absalom and Achitophel, From
Across the empty garden-beds
Addison, The Charactek of
Address to the Deil
Address to the Unco Gcid
Adonais, From
Afterthought
Afton Water
Agincourt
Aglauba, Song from
A golden gllllflower to-day
A good sword and a trusty hand !
Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh
Ah, did you once see Shelley plain
Ah fading Joy ! how quickly art thou past ! . . .
Ah, Sunflower
Ah, Sunflower, weary of time
Ah what avails the sceptred race
Alastor
Alexander's Feast
Alfred, From The Proverbs of King
A little soul scarce fledged for earth
All along the valley, stream that flashest
white
All human things are subject to decay
All is Well
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their
lair
All service ranks the same with God
All tho bells of heaven may ring
Althea, To, from Prison
A Man's a Man fob a' That
Amoretti, From
Ancren Riwle, From The
And all is well, tho' faith and form
And now Love sang ; but his was such a song.
And the first gray of morning
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, From The
Apology, An
A povre widwe somdel stope in age
Apple Gathering, An
Arcadia, From The Countess of
Pembroke's
Abeopaoitica, From
Arraignment of Paris, Song From The....
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
Arthur Makes the Saxons His Tributabies
As I gaed down the water side
As I in hoary winter's night
A simple child
Ask me no more where Jove bestows
A Slumber did my spirit seal
A Sonnet is a moment's monument
As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
496
277
703
360
404
405
480
427
412
148
220
702
49'J
448
622
285
398
398
496
468
283
35
719
587
280
640
443
598
719
221
414
142
32
587
694
645
25
705
53
701
200
2C2
144
14S
31
400
145
415
220
410
693
639
Astrophel and Stella, First Song 144
Astrophel and Stella, Sonnets From 142
As two whose love, first foolish, widening
scope 694
A sunny shaft did I l)ehold 442
As you came from the holy land 146
As You Like It, Songs From 147
Atalanta in Calydon, From 710
At Babiloyne whilom fll it thus CO
At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard
Grenville lay 590
A thing of beauty is a joy forever 483
At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-
time 631
Auld Lang Syne 411
AuLD Robin Gray 399
Austerity of Poetry 643
Autumn, To 490
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints,
whose bones 233
Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake 349
Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things 319
Away, haunt thou not me 639
Baby's Death, A 719
Ballad of Dreamland, A 718
Banks o' Doon, The 412
Bannockburn 413i
Bastille, Storming of the 532
Battle of Beal' an Duine, The 445
Battle of Blenheim, The 493
Battle of Brunanburh, The 20
Battle of Hastings, The .S54
Battle of Killiecrankie 543
Beautiful EVelyn Hope is dead ! 616
Beggar Maid, The 57 ^
Behold her, single in the field 422
Be it right or wronge, thes men amonge 80
Beowulf, From 1
Better Answer, A 304
Between the green bud and the red 713
Bible, From the Wyclif and the Kino James 41
Blessed Damozel, The 686
Blindness, On His 224
Blow, blow, thou winter wind 147
Blub Closet, The 701
Bonnie George Campbell 79
Bonny Dundee 448
Boot, saddle, to horse and away ! 599
Borough, From The 395
Boy and the Angel, The 008
Break, Break, Break 583
Bright Star ! Would I were Stedpast as
Thou Art 493
Bring the bowl which you boast 449
746
INDEX TO TITLES AND FIRST LINES
Ul
Britons Seek Succor from the Romaxs,
THE 20
Brunanburh, The Battle of 20
Brynhild, The Passing Away of 705
Burial of Sir John Moore, The 494
Burning Babe, The 145
But be contented : when that fell arrest 144
By an Evolutionist 597
Caedmon, The Stort of 21
Calm was the day, and through the trembling
air 139
Canterbury Tales, From The 43
Captain, The 5S9
Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in arms 233
Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable night.. . 142
Carthon, From 352
Castaway, The 394
Castle of Indolence, from The 344
Ca' the Yowes 400
Cavalier Tunes 599
Celia, To 149
Celtic Literature, Natural Magic in 659
Chalk, From, On a Piece of 669
Chamouni, Hymn Before Sunrise in the
Vale of 441
Chapman's Homer, On First Looking Into 492
Charge op the Light Brigade, The 58.)
Charles II, Coronation of 272
Charles, Return op King 271, 274
Charles II, The Death of 27G
Chaucer, On 288
Cherry-Ripe 148
Chesterfield, Letter to Lord 357
Cheviot, The Hunting op the 73
Child, Upon A 719
Childe Harold, From 457
"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came" 624
Child in the House, The 723
Child op Quality Five Years Old, To a. . . . 303
Child's Laughter, A 719
Chillon, Sonnet on 453
Chillon, The Prisoner of 453
Christ, From The 24
Christabel, Part First 436
Christmas Tree, A 551
Chronicle, From The Anglo-Saxon 25
Chronos, Chronos, mend thy pace 286
Citizen op the World, From The. 368
Cllomenes, Song from 286
Cloud, The 478
Cloud Confines, The 692
Club, The 292
Coliseum, The 462
Come away, come away. Death 147
Come back to me, who wait and watch for you 701
Come, dear children, let us away 641
Come, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come.. 342
Come into the garden, Maud 58S
Come live with me and be my love 146
Come unto these yellow sands 170
Complete Angler, From The 264
Compleynt op Chaucer to His Purse, The 62
Composed upon Westminster Bridge 426
Comrades, leave me here a little 578
Confessions op an English Opidm-Eater,
From 516
Constantinople, The Fall of 381
Contemplate all this work of Time 58/
Contented wi' Little and Cantie wi' Mair 413
Coquette's Heart, A 300
Coronach 444
CoRiNNA's Going A-Maying 221
Cotter's Saturday Night, The 401
County Guy 448
"Courage !" he said, and pointed toward the
land 572
Coverley, Sir Roger de, at Church 295
Cowley, The Death op 276
Creep into thy narrow bed 656
Criticism, From An Essay On 307
Cromwell, To the Lord General 233
Crossing the Bar 598
Cuckoo Song 36
Cuckoo, To the 422
Culture and Human Perfection 650
Cymbeline, Song from 148
Cyriack Skinner, To 234
Cyriack this three years' day these eyes
though clear 234
daisy. To a Mountain 407
Dante, To 596
Dear Cloe, how blubbered is that pretty face ! 304
Dear Native Regions 415
Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop 304
Death-Bed, The 498
Decline and Fall op the Roman Empire,
From The 381
Deep on the convent-roof the snows 572
Db Juventute, From 564
Delia, To 142
Deor's Lament 18
Departure of ^neas From Dido 126
Descend, ye Nine ! descend and sing 305
"Describe the Borough." — Though our idle tribe 395
Description op Spring, Wherein Each Thing
Renews 126
Deserted Village, The 373
Destruction op Sennacherib, The 452
Diary op John Evelyn, From The 274
Diary of Samuel Pepys, From The 271
Dirge, A 483
Discourse, Op 212
Dissertation upon Roast Pig, A 506
Does the road wind uphill all the way ? 702
Don Juan, From 464
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes
intendeth? 144
Dover Beach 656
Dream-Children : A Reverie 504
Dreamland, A Ballad of 718
Dream-Pedlary 498
Drink to me only with thine eyes 149
Duchess, My Last 600
Duty, Ode to 423
Earthly Paradise, From The 7').'»
Earth has not anything to show more fair... 426
Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood ! 469
^48
INDEX TO TITLES AND FIRST LINES
Ecclesiastical History, From The 20
Eddcation, On 259
El Dorado 730
Electba, To 222
Elf.oy on the Death of Scots Music 399
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. 347
Elene, From The 24
Elgin Marbles, On Seeing the 492
Elia, From 504
Elia, From The Last Essays of 509
Endymion, From 483
English Bards and Scotch Revieweus, From 449
English Humourists of the Eighteenth
Century, From The 550
Epilogue (to Asolando) 631
Epitaph on Robert Canynge 352
Essay on Criticism, From An 307
Essay on Man, From An 319
Eternal Spirit of the cliainless Mind 1 453
Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 424
Evelyn Hope 6H5
Evensong 735
Eve of St. Agnes, The 483
Everlasting Yea, The 526
Everyman 84
Evolutionist, By an 597
EXCELENTE Balade OF Charitie, An 353
Fables, From 305
Faerie Queene, From The 127
Fair and fair, and twice so fair 144
Fair stood the wind for France 148
Fall of Constantinople, The 381
Farewell, A 583
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the
North 412
Father of all ! in every age 325
Faustus, From The Tragical History of
Doctor 151
Fear Death ? — to feel the fog in my throat . . 629
Fire, The Great 275
First when Maggie was my care 411
Five years have past ; five summers, with the
length 416
Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea. 583
Flower in the Crannied Wall 597
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green
braes 412
Forsaken Garden, A 717
Forsaken Merman, The 641
Fha Lippo Lippi 610
France : an Ode 440
"Fbater Ave atque Vale" 596
French Revolution, From The 532
Friend, To a 642
Friendship, Of 213
From child to youth ; from youth to arduous
man 694
From harmony, from heavenly harmony 282
Frozen Words 298
Full fathom five thy father lies 170
Oabocms, From Or 218
Gather ye rose-buds, while ye may 222
Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn 221
I Gilliflower of Gold, The 702
Girdle, On a 223
Give a Rouse 599
Give place, ye lovers, here before 126
Give to me the life I love 734
Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song 597
Goblin Market 695
Godiva, Leofbic and 514
God moves In a mysterious way 391
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece 613
Goldsmith (in English Humourists) 559
Go, Lovely Rose 222
Gondola, In a 601
Grasshopper and Cricket, On thi: 492, 496
Great Fire, The 275
Grecian Urn, Ode on a 489
Green Grow the Rashes 411
Green little vaulter in the sunny grass 496
Grow old along with me ! 626
Gulliver's Travels, From 330
Had I but plenty of money, money enough and
to spare
Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-
born
Hail to thee, blithe spirit !
Half a league, half a league
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick
Hamlet, Song From
Happy, those early days, when I
Hark ! ah, the nightingale
Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings. .
Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls,
The
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star . .
Haunch of Venlson, The
Ha ! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin forlie
Heart of the Night, The
He is gone on the mountain
Hellas, Chorus from
Hence, loathM Melancholy
Hence, vain deluding Joys
Her arms across her breast she ia.d
Here's a Health to King Chaklk.s
HERVfi RiEL
He that rules only by terror
Highland Mary
High, upon Highlands
Hill Summit, The
History of England, From Macaulay's. . . .
Hohenlinden
Home Thoughts, from Abroad
Home Thoughts, prom the Sea
Hound and the Huntsman, The
House of Life, From The
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways
How Roses Came First Into the World. .
How Roses Came Red
How should I your true love know
How sleep the brave who sink to rest
How sweet I roamed from field to field
How the Earth and Sea Be of Round Form
How They Brought the Good News fbo.m
Ghent to Aix
Hunting of the Cheviot, The
621
255
470
589
603
147
223
654
148
495
441
377
407
694
444
481
227
228
571
449
620
589
413
79
695
530
494
608
608
305
693
C33
64
222
147
346
397
64
600
73
INDEX TO TITLES AND FIRST LINES
749
Hymn Before Scnhise in the Vale of
Chamouni 441
Hymn to Pkosebpine 711
I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave '. 616
I arise from dreams of thee 477
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers 478
I dare not ask a kiss 222
Idea .' 143
Ideal, Op the True 683
I envy not in any moods 584
If all the world and love were young 146
If ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song 346
If there were dreams to sell 498
If thou must love me, let it be for nought. . 632
I hate the man who builds his name 305
I have had playmates, I have had companions 493
I have lived long enough, having seen one
thing, that love hath an end 711
I heard a thousand blended notes 416
I heard men saying. Leave hope and praying 710
I held it truth with him who sings 584
I hid my heart in a nest of roses 718
IL Penseroso 228
Imaginary Conversations, From 512
I met a traveller from an antique land 476
Impertinence at first is borne 303
I'm wearin' awa*, John 401
In a coign of the cliff between lowland and
highland 717
In a Drear-nighted December 491
In a Gondola 601
In a Lecture Room 639
In a somer seson, whan soft was the sonne. . 39
Incident of the French Camp 600
Indian Emperor, Song from 285
Indian Serenade, The 477
In Memoriam, From 584
In somer, when the shawes be sheyne 69
In the Garden at Swainston 588
In the South Seas, From 731
In the Valley of Cauteretz 587
In this lone, open glade I lie 644
In those sad words I took farewell 585
Intimations of Immortality from Recol-
lections OF Childhood 424
In Virgo now the sultry sun did sheene 353
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 428
I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple tree 701
I sat with Love upon a woodside well 693
I send my heart up to thee, all my heart.... 601
Is it, then, regret for buried time 586
Is it this sky's vast vault or ocean's sound. . 695
Isles of Greece, The 465
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he . . 606
Is there for honest poverty 414
Italia, mother of the souls of men 715
Ite Domum Saturae, venit Hesperus 640
I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide 427
I thought once how Theocritus had sung. . . . 632
It Is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free 427
It is an ancient Mariner 42S
It keeps eternal whisperings around 492
It little profits that an idle king 577
I Travelled among Unknown Men 418
It was roses, roses, all the way 62S
It was a summer evening 493
I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud 423
Jackdaw, The 392
Jenny kissed me when we met 496
Joan of Arc, From ". . 523
Jock of Hazeldean 447
John Anderson My Jo 411
JOHNiB Cock 7 «'
Johnson and Goldsmith 364
Johnson at School 363
Johnson's Character 367
Johnson's Friends 304
Just for a handful of silver he left us 607
Kaiser Dead 655
Katharine Jaffray 79
Keats, The Grave of 480
Kensington Gardens, Lines Written in. . . . 644
Kentish Sir Byng stood for his king 599
Killiecrankie, Battle of 543
King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 599
King James Bible, From The 41
King, that hast reign'd six hundred years and
grown 536
Knight of the Burning Pestle, From The 197
Knight's Tomb, The 442
Known In Vain 694
Kubla Khan 428
La Bella Donna 691
La Belle Dame sans Merci 491
Lady Alice, lady Louise 704
Lady of Shalott, The 567
Lady of the Lake, From The 444
Lake Leman, Night on 458
L' Allegro 227
Lament, A 482
Lamp of Memory, From The 674
Landmark, The 694
Land o' the Leal, The 401
Last Fight of the Revenge, The 208
Last Word, The 656
Leave-Taking, a 711
Legend of Good Women, From The 60
Leir, The Story of King 29
Leofric and Godiva 514
Letters from Teignmouth, From 497
Let us go hence, my songs ; she will not hear 711
Levana and Our Ladies op Sorrow 519
Life of Life, thy lips enkindle 478
Life of Samuel Johnson, From The 363
Light Shining Oct of Darkness 391
Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintebn
Abbey 416
Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 490
Lines on the Monument of Giuseppe Mazzini 715
Lines Printed under the Engraved Portrait
of Milton 285
Lines Written in Early Spring 416
Lines Written in Kensington Gardens .... 644
Lives of the English Poets, From The. . . . 360
lochinvab 443
Locksley Hall 578
760
INDEX TO TITLES AND FIRST LINES
Lo I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske 127
London, 1802 427
LoNDON Coffee Houses 541
London in 1685 539
Lords, knights, and 'squires, the numerous
band 303
Lost Leader, The 607
Lotos-Eaters, The 572
Louse, To a 407
Love in my bosom, like a bee 145
Love is and was my lord and king 587
Love Is Enough, From 705
Love, that is first and last of all things made 720
LOVESIGHT 693
Loving in truth, and fain in veiae my love to
show 142
LucASTA, To, Going to the Wars 220
Lucy Gray 419
Lycidas 230
Mac Flecknoe 280
Maid op Athen.s, Ere We Part 451
Man, From An Essay On 319
Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs after
many a vanish'd face. 597
Marching Along 599
Maroon, The 731
Mary in Heaven, To 412
Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings 394
Maud, Song from , 588
Mazzini, Lines on the Monument of
Giuseppe 715
Measure for Measure, Song from 147
Mediaeval and Modern Workmen, The 681
Melancholy, Ode on 490
Memorabilia 622
Memorial Verses 643
Memories 291
Mermaid Tavern, Lines on the 490
Mbtellus and Marius 512
Milton 596
Milton, Lines Printed Under the Engraved
Portrait of 285
Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour 427
Minstrel Boy, The 495
Modern Painters, From 683
MONNA Innominata 701
Monochord, The 965
Moore, To Thomas 453
Morning and evening 695
Morning Drum-Call on My Eager Ear, The 735
Morning, evening, noon and night 608
Morning of Christ's Nativity, On the 223
Morte Darthur, From Lb 96
Mohtb D'Arthur 574
Mouse, To a 406
Mrs. TJnwin, To 394
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold. . 492
Muses, To the 398
Music, when soft voices die 482
My boat is on the shore 453
My first thought was, he lied In every word. . 624
My good blade carves the casques of men 573
My hair is gray, but not with years 453
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 488
My Heart Leaps up When I Behold
My Heart's in the Highlands
My Last Duchess
My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend !
My lute, awake, perform the last
My soul is an enchanted boat
My spirit is too weak — mortality
Natural History of Selborne, I<"rom' The
Natural Magic in Celtic Literature
Natural Supernaturalism
Ned Softly
New Year's Hymn
Nightingale, Ode to a
Nightingales warbled without
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the
Northwest died away
NoNNE Preestes Tale, The
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
No, no, poor suff'ring heart, no change
endeavour
Northern Farmer (Old Style)
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note. . . .
Now fades the last long streak of snow
Nutbrown Mayde, The
Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd, The
O blithe New-comer ! I have heard.
Obscurest night involved the sky
Ocean, The
O days and hours, your work Is this
Ode, An
I Ode (How sleep the brave)
Ode on a Grecian Urn
Ode on Intimations of Immortality from
Recollections of Early Childhood. . .
Ode on Melancholy
Ode on St. Cecilia's Day
Ode to a Nightingale
Ode to Duty
Ode to Evening
Ode to the West Wind
Oenone
Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing. .
Of His Love That Pricked Her Finger.. ..
Of man's first disobedience and the fruit....
Of old sat Freedom on the heights
Of old, when Scarron his companions invited
Of such is the kingdom of heaven
Of the Cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ..
Of the Paradise Terrestrial
Of the Trees That Bear Meal, Honey, Wine
AND Venom
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray
Oft in the Stilly Night
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story
Ohthehe's Narrative
Oh, to be in England
Oh, young Lochinvar la come out of the west
Oina-Morul
Old China
Old Familiar Faces, The
Old father Ocean calls my tide
Old Mortality, From
Olnry Hymns, From
422
412
600
401
125
478
492
384
659
529
296
598
488
588
608
53
490
286
592
494
586
80
146
422
394
463
586
304
346
489
424
490
305
488
423
346
476
569
705
125
234
574
379
719
63
67
66
419
495
453
27
608
448
351
509
495
286
500
391
INDEX TO TITLES AND FIEST LINES
761
O mighty-mouth'd Inventor of harmonies.... 596
O mortal man, who livest here by toil 344
ON A Girdle 223
On a Piece of Chalk, From 669
Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee . . . 427
On Chaucer 288
On Education 259
On either side the river lie 567
One word is too often profaned 482
On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer. . 492
On His Blindness 234.
On Linden, when the sun was low 494
On Scotia's plains, in days of yore 399
On Seeing the Elgin Marbles 492
On the Extinction of the Venetian
Republic 427
On the Grasshopper and Cricket 492, 496
On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 233
On the Loss of the Royal George 392
On the Morning of Christ's Nativity 223
On the Receipt of My Mother's Picture.. 392
On the Sea 492
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred
ninety-two 629
Opium-Eater, From Confessions of an
English 516
O that those lips had language ! Life has
passed 392
Others abide our question. Thou art free. . . 642
O thou that rollest above 352
O Thou ! whatever title suit thee 404
OssiAN's Address to the Sun 352
Our Ball 497
O WERT Thou in the Cauld Blast 414
O what can ail thee, Icnight-at-arms 491
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's
being 476
O world ! O life ! O time ! 482
O, yet we trust that somehow good 58-1
O ye wha are sae guid yoursel' 405
O ye, all ye that walk in Willowwood 694
Ozymandias 476
Pains of Opium, The 516
Parable of a Man's Life, A 21
Paradise Lost, From 234
Paraphrase of the Scriptures, From The.. 18
Passionate Shepherd to His Love, The. . . . 146
Patient Grissell, Song from 148
Patriot, The 623
Peace ; come away : the song of woe 585
l»EARL, From The 37
Philomela 654
Pied Piper op Hamelin, The 603
Piers the Plowman, From The Vision of 39
Pilgrims, The 716
Pilgrim's Progress, From The 267
Pilgrim to Pilgrim 146
Piping down the valleys wild 398
PIPPA Passes, Songs from 598
Plague, The Great 275
Plan of an English Dictionary, From The. 355
Poet and the Rose, The 305
Popularity 623
POPUI.AB Pastimes 276
Praise of His Love, A 126
Preface to an Edition or Shakespeare's
Plays, From The 358
Preface to the English Dictionary, From
The 357
Preface to the Fables, From The 288
Prelude of Songs before Sunrise 713
Prelude, From The 420
Princess, Songs from The 583
Prisoner of Chillon, The 45S
Progress of Poesy, The 340
Prologue to the Canterbury Tales 43
Prometheus Unbound, Songs from 478
Prospectus to the Tatleb 290
Prospice 629
Proth.\lamion 139
Proud Maisie 448
Proverbs of King Alfred, From The 35
Qua Cursum Ventus 639
Rabbi Ben Ezra 626
Rape of the Lock, The 310
Recuyell of the Histories of Troy, From
The 93
Reflections on the Revolution in France,
From 388
Requiem 735
Requiescat 644
Retaliation, From 379
Retreat, The 223
Revenge, Of 217
Revenge, The 590
Revenge, The Last Fight of the 208
Riches, Of 216
Riddles, From Cynewulf's 23
Rime of the Ancient Mariner, The 428
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky 586
RizPAH 594
Roast Pig, A Dissertation upon 506
Robin Hood and the Monk 69
Robinson Crusoe, From 326
Roman Virgil, thou that singest 596
Roman Wall, The 20
Rome 461
Rondeau 496
Rosalind's Madrigal 145
Rose Aylmeb 496
Roses at first were white 222
Rough wind, that meanest loud 483
Roundabout Papers, From 564
Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione
row ! 596
RubAiyAt of Omar KhayyAm 633
Rule, Britannia 345
Said Abner, At last thou art come 609
Runes From The Christ 24
Sailing of the Sword, The 703
Saint Agnes' Eve 572
St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill It was ! 483
St. Cecilia's Day, Ode on 305
St. Cecilia's Day, Song for 282
Sartor Resartus, From 526
Saul 600
752
INDEX TO TITLES AND FIRST LINES
Savannah-la-Mah 522
Say, is it day, Is It dusk In thy bower 692
Say not the struggle nought availeth 640
Schoolmaster, From The 122
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 413
Sea, On the 492
Season of mists and mellow frultfulness 490
Seasons, From The 342
Secular Masque, The 286
See the chariot at hand here of Love 150
Self- Dependence 643
Seven Lamps of Architecture, From 674
Shakespeare 642
Shakespeare, On 226
Shakespeare, To the Memory of My Beloved
Master William 191
She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways... 418
She sat and sewed, that hath done me the
wrong 123
She Walks In Beauty 452
She Was a Phantom of Delight 423
She wept, sweet lady 691
Shipwreck, The 464
Should auld acquaintance be forgot 411
Sigurd the Volsung, From 705
Silent Noon 693
Silent Toweb of Bottreau, The 500
Simile, A 304
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless
sea 143
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and
part 143
Sir Galahad 573
Sir Patrick Spens 77
Sir Roger at Church 295
Sister Helen 688
Site op a University 548
Sky-Lark, To a 424
Skylark, To a 479
So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 574
"So careful of the type?" but no 585
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 645
Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er 444
Solitary Reaper, The 422
Song 397
Song for Music 705
Song from Cleomenes 286
Song from Shakespeare's Cymbeline, A . . . . 346
Song of Thamesis 286
Song of the Bower, The 692
Song of the Shirt, The 498
Song of the Western Men, The 499
Songs before Sunrise, Prelude of 713
Songs of Innocence, Introduction to 398
Sonnet, The 693
Sonnets from the Portuguese 632
So sang he ; and as meeting rose and rose. . . . 694
Souls of Poets dead and gone 490
So We'll Go No More a Roving 452
Spanish Armada, Defeat of 663
Spanish Armada, The Sailing of the 602
Spectator, From The 292, 295, 300, 801
Speech at Bristol, From The 387
Splendour Falls, The 583
Stand still, true poet that you are ! 623
Stanzas Written on the Road between
Florence and Pisa 453
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 423
Stones of Venice, From The 677
Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known... 418
Strew on her roses, roses 644
Studies, Of 212
Summer is y-comen in 36
Sunset and evening star 598
SuspiRiA db Profundis, From 519
Sweet and low, sweet and low 583
Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain 373
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright 220
'Sweet, thou art pale' 701
Sweetness and Light, From 656
Take, O, take those lips away 147
Talk at the Club, 1778 366
Tam O' Shanter 408
Tatler, From The 290, 291, 296, 298
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean 584
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind 220
Tempest, The 164
Thanks, my Lord, for your venison, for finer
or fatter 377
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall . . 600
That son of Italy who tried to blow 643
That time of year thou may'st in me behold. 144
That which her slender waist confined 223
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the
fold 452
The blessed damozel leaned out 686
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.... 347
The day is dark and the night 692
The embers of the day are red 735
The glorious image of the Maker's beauty. . . . 142
The harp that once through Tara's halls 495
The Isles of Greece, the isles of Greece 466
The king sits in Dumferllng toune 77
The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul
of a man 597
The Lover Complaineth the Unkindness
OF His Love 125
The Lover Having Dreamed 125
The merchant, to secure his treasure 304
The minstrel-boy to the war Is gone 495
The morning drum-call on my eager ear 735
The Perse owt off Northombarlonde 73
The poetry of earth is never dead 492
There is a bird, who, by his coat 392
There Is a garden in her face 148
There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 569
There lived a lass in yonder dale 79
There lived a wife at Usher's Well 79
There's nought but care on ev'ry han' 411
There was a Boy : ye knew him well, ye cllflf. . 421
There was a time when meadow, grove, and
stream 424
The sea Is calm to-night 656
The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow. 640
The soote season that bud and bloom forth
brings 126
The splendour falls on castle walls 583
The time draws near the birth of Christ 685
The wind flapped loose, the wind was still .... 692
INDEX TO TITLES AND FIRST LINES
753
The wish, that of the living whole 585
The World Is Too Much with Us 427
The world's great age begins anew 481
The year's at the spring 599
Thisbe op Babylon, Martyr, The Story of. 60
This feast-day of the sun, his altar there 695
This Is the month, and this the happy morn. . 223
Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor. . . . 632
Thou ling'ring star, with less'nlng ray 412
Thou still unravished bride of quietness 489
Three Enemies, The 701
Three poets in three distant ages born 285
Three Years She Grew in Sun and
Shower 418
Throne, The ( Venetian) 677
Thys Momeynge Starre of Radcleves
rysinge Rale 352
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright 398
Tiger, The 398
Tintadgel bells ring o'er the tide 500
TiNTERN Abbey, Lines Composed a Few
Miles above 416
'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill 307
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock. . . 436
To 482
To A Child of Quality Five Years Old. . . . 303
To A Friend 642
To A Louse 407
To Althea, from Prison 221
To a Mountain Daisy 407
To a Mouse 406
To a Sky-lark 424
To A Skylark 479
To Autumn : 490
To Celia 149
To Dante 596
To Delia 142
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name. . 191
To Electra 222
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 346
Toil, The Voice of 710
Toll for the brave 392
To Lucasta, Going to the Wars 220
To Mary in Heaven | 412
To Mrs. Unwin 394
To the Cuckoo 422
To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se
who spoke 448
To the Lord General Cromwell 233
To the Memory of my Beloved Master,
William Shakespeare 191
To the Muses 398
To the Virgins, to make much of their
Time 222
To Thomas^ Moore 453
To Virgil. '. 596
Toxophilus, From 119
To you, my purse, and to noon other wyght. . 62
Tractate on Education, From 259
Tragical History of Doctor Faustus, From
The
Travels op Sir John Mandeville, From The. 63
Tristram and Iseult 720
Tristram of Lyonesse, From 720
Triumph of Charis, The 150
'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 283
Twelfth Night, Song from 147
Ulysses 577
Under the greenwood tree 147
Under the wide and starry sky 735
Universal Prayer, The 325
University, Site of a 548
Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart ! 632
Unstable dream, according to the place 125
Up at a Villa — Down in the City 621
Up-Hill 702
Up Johnie raise in a May morning 77
Upon a Child 719
Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! . . . . 424
Usher's Well, The Wife of 79
Utopia, From 110
Vagabond, The 734
Vastness 597
Venetian Republic, On the Extinction of. 427
Venice 460
Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying 442
Virgil, To 596
Virgins, To the. To Make Much op Time. . . 222
Virtue 220
Vision op Mirza, The 301
Vision of Piers the Plowman, From The.. 39
Voice of Toil, The 710
VOLPONE ; OB THE Fox, From 192
Wages 597
Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land
and sea 594
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight. 633
Wanting Is — What ? 631
Was that the landmark? What — the foolish
well 694
Waterloo 457
We Are Seven 415
Weary of myself, and sick of asking 643
Wee, modest, crimson-tippM flow'r 407
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie 406
Western Men, The Song of The 499
Westminster Bridge, Composed upon 425
West Wind, Ode to the 476
We watched her breathing through the night. 498
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote.... 43
What dire offence from amorous causes
springs 310
Whate'er you dream, with doubt possessed. .. . 640
What ever I have said or sung 587
What guile is this, that those her golden
tresses 142
What, Kaiser dead? The heavy news 655
What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured
bones 226
Wheer 'asta beSn saw long and meS liggin
'ere aloiin ? 592
When Britain first, at Heaven's command.... 345
When chapman billies leave the street 408
When do I see thee most, beloved one? 693
When I consider how my light is spent 2.34
When I Have Fears that I mat Cease
TO Be 492
754
INDEX TO TITLES AND FIRST LINES
When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced. 143
When In disgrace with fortune and men's eyes. 143
When Love with unconflned wings 221
When our two souls stand up erect and strong 633
When the Assault Was Intended the City. 233
When the hounds of spring are on winter's
traces 710
When the Lamp Is Shattered 482
When the sheep are In the fauld and the kye
at hame 399
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought.. 143
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?.. . 442
Where the bee sucks, there suck 1 188
Whether on Ida's shady brow 398
Whistle O'er the Lave O't 411
Who is your lady of love, O ye that pass 71<i
Who prop, thou ask'st, in these bad days,
my mind? 642
"Why?" Because all I haply can and do 631
Why did you melt your waxen man 68S
Why I Am a Liberal 631
Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 220
"Why weep ye by the tide, ladle? 447
Wife of Usher's Well, The 79
WiLLOWWOOD 693
With fingers weary and worn 498
With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st
the skies ! 142
WooDSPURGE, The 692
Wordsworth 660
Work without Hope 443
Wyclif Bible, From The 41
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 413
Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause. 440
Ye flowery banks o' bonle Doon 412
Ye Mariners of England 494
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more. . . 230
Ye tradeful merchants that with weary toil. . . 142
You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease 574
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon 600
You'll come to our ball; — since we parted.. 497
Your hands lie open In the long fresh grass. . . 693
Youth and Age 442
Zapolya, Somg from 442
INDEX TO AUTHORS
Addison, Joseph
Alfred the Great 27,
Arnold, Matthew
AscHAM, Roger
Bacon, Francis
Beaumont, Francis
Beddoes, Thomas Lovell
Beds
Blake, William
BoswELL, James
Browning, Elizabeth Barrett
Browning, Robert
BUNYAN, John
Burke, Edmund
Burns, Robert
BxRON, Lord
Caedmon
Campbell, Thomas
Campion, Thomas
Cakew, Thomas
Carlyle, Thomas
Caxton, William
Chatteuton, Thomas
Chaucer, Geoffrey
Clough, Arthur Hctjh
Coleridge, Samuel Tatlob
Collins, William
Cowper, William . . .'
Crabbe, George
Cynewulf
Daniel, Samuel
Defoe, Daniel
Dekker, Thomas
Deob
De Quincey, Thomas
Dickens, Charles
Drayton, Michael 143,
Dbyden, John
EvKLTN, John
Fehousson, Robert
Fitzgerald, ETdward
Fletcher, John
Froude, James Anthony
Gay, John
Geoffrey of Monmouth
295
35
641
119
212
197
498
20
397
363
632
598
267
387
401
149
18
494
148
220
526
95
352
43
639
428
346
391
39.-)
23
142
326
148
18
516
551
148
277
274
390
633
197
662
305
I Gibbon, Edward
I Goldsmith, Oliver
I Gray, Thomas
I Hawker, Robert Stephen
j Herbert, George
I Hebbick, Robebt
j Hood, Thomas
I Howard, Henry, Earl of Surrey.
Hunt, Leigh
Huxley, Thomas Henry
Johnson, Samuel
Jonson, Ben 149, 191,
381
368
347
499
220
221
498
126
496
669
355
192
Keats, John 483
Lamb, Charles 495,
Landor, Walter Savage 496,
Langland, William
Lindsay, Lady Anne
Lodge, Thomas
Lovelace, Richard
Macaulay, Thomas Babington, Lord
Macpherson, James
Malory, Sir Thomas
Mandeville, Sir John
Marlowe, Christopher 146,
Milton, John
Moore, Thomas
More, Sir Thomas
Morris, William
Nairne, Carolina, Lady
Newman, John Henry, Cardinal.
504
512
39
399
145
220
539
351
96
63
151
223
495
110
702
401
548
"Ossian" 351
Pagan, Isobel
Pater, Walter
Peele, George
Pepys, Samuel
Poor, Richard (?)
Pope, Alexander
Praed, Winthrop Mackworth.
Prior, Matthew
Raleigh, Sir Walter 146,
RossETTi, Christina
RossETTi, Dante Gabriel
29 JRusKiN, John.
755
400
723
144
.271
32
305
497
303
208
695
686
674
756
INDEX TO AUTHOBS
Scott, Sir Walter 443, 500
Shakespeare, William 143, 147, 104
Shellet, Percy Bysshe 468
Sidney, Sir Philip 142, 144, 206
Southey, Robert 493
Southwell, Robert 145
Spenser, Edmund 127, 142
Steele, Sir Richard 290
Stevenson, Robert Louis 730
Suckling, Sir John 220
Surrey, Henry Howard, Earl of 126
Swift, Jonathan 330
Swinburne, Aloebnon Charles 710
Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 507
Thackeray, William Makepeace 559
Thomson, Jasies 342
Vacqhan, Henry 223
Waller, Edmund 222
Walton, Izaak 264
White, Gilbb.rt 384
Wolfe, Charles 494
Wordsworth, William 415
Wyatt, Sir Thomas 125
WYciiiF, John , 41
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