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ECLECTIC ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 COLLEGE 
 
 ENTRANCE REQUIREMENTS 
 
 IN ENGLISH 
 
 I9OI-I9O5 
 
 BURKE'S CONCILIATION WITH COLONIES 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S MACBETH 
 
 MILTON'S MINOR POEMS 
 
 MACAULAY'S ADDISON 
 
 MACAULAY'S MILTON 
 
 NEW YORK . : . CINCINNATI - ; • CHICAGO 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
ECLECTIC ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 CONCILIATION 
 
 WITH THE 
 
 AMERICAN COLONIES 
 
 BY 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 NEW YORK •:• CINCINNATI •:• CHICAGO 
 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
EDUCAIIOH LIBH. 
 
 Copyright, 1895, by 
 American Book Companv, 
 
 BURKE ON CONCILIATION. 
 W. P. I 
 

 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Edmund Burke was bom in Dublin, probably on January 12, 
 1729, though there is some dispute about this date. He passed 
 his early school days in a town not far from his birthplace, under 
 the tutorship of Abraham Shackleton, a Quaker schoolmaster of 
 rare ability and moral worth, who had considerable influence in 
 molding Burke's character. One characteristic which clung to 
 him through hfe Burke manifested at an early age — when others 
 were at play he was always at work. He entered Trinity Col- 
 lege, DubHn, in 1743, and graduated in 1748. Much of his time 
 at this period he spent in the libraries, gathering a store of useful 
 information on many subjects which, later in life, proved to him a 
 mine of intellectual wealth. 
 
 Burke*s father was a sohcitor, and Edmund prepared to follow 
 in his footsteps; but, at the critical moment, his distaste for the 
 law as a profession led him to abandon this career. He was, in 
 fact, strongly attracted to literature, and he determined to adopt 
 it as his calling. His father, indignant at this course, and an- 
 gered at the overthrow of his most cherished plans, withdrew his 
 allowance, and left his son to shift for himself in that most pre- 
 carious of all callings. This was in 1755, and for the next year 
 or so we hear little of Burke's doings. In 1756 he married Miss 
 
 ^750287 
 
6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Nugent, the daughter of his physician, and in his married life he 
 must have been pecuharly fortunate, for he tells us himself that 
 every care vanished the moment he entered under his own roof. 
 Just about this time he published anonymously his first book, " A 
 Vindication of Natural Society," — a clever imitation of one of 
 Lord Bolingbroke's works against Christianity. Burke's design 
 was to prove the absurdity of Bolingbroke's arguments by show- 
 ing that they applied with equal force to civilization, and that, if 
 carried out to their logical conclusion, we must deduce that so- 
 ciety is an evil, and the savage state the only one in which virtue 
 and happiness are possible. But so closely was the satire veiled, 
 and so perfect was the imitation of Bolingbroke's style, that many 
 of the best critics of the day firmly believed that the "Vindication" 
 came from the pen of Bolingbroke himself, and that the argu- 
 ments and conclusions were written in all seriousness. When we 
 reflect that Bolingbroke at this time stood at the very summit 
 of fame as a master of style, we perceive that Burke had attained 
 no mean insight into the arts of literary composition. A few 
 months later he published an essay on " The SubHme and the 
 Beautiful," which was received with much applause. Perhaps 
 the greatest good that resulted to Burke from these writings was 
 the acquaintance with his brother authors to which they led, and 
 the admission they gave him to the literary clubs of the day. 
 
 In 1759 Burke was engaged in collecting details of current 
 events for a periodical called " The Annual Register." In this 
 connection he became acquainted with men in public life, and 
 among others with William Gerard Hamilton. In 1761 Hamil- 
 ton went to Ireland as secretary to Lord Halifax, and Burke 
 accompanied him. In 1763 Hamilton, who found Burke's ser- 
 vices invaluable, procured him a pension of ;^30o from the Irish 
 
INTRODUCTION. 7 
 
 Treasury. When Burke found, however, that in return for this 
 benefit Hamilton expected him to bind himself body and soul to 
 his service and to cast aside all loftier aims, he threw up the 
 pension and severed his connection with this narrow-minded 
 man. Not long thereafter, in 1765, Lord Rockingham was ap- 
 pointed prime minister, and Burke became his private secretary 
 and, from that time on, his most loyal and devoted friend. 
 
 Now began Burke's political career, and that rare opportunity 
 for good to his country and to the world at large of which he so 
 well availed himself. We shall trace that career here in the 
 briefest compass, for we are concerned now only with its outcome 
 in his political writings. 
 
 He was returned in 1765 as a member of Parliament for the 
 borough of Wendover, and in January, 1766, he made his opening 
 speech, an argument favoring the petition sent to Parliament by 
 the Stamp- Act Congress in America. " An Irishman, Mr. Burke, 
 has sprung up in the House of Commons," said one of his con- 
 temporaries, " who has astonished everybody with the power of 
 his eloquence and his comprehensive knowledge in all our exterior 
 and internal politics and commercial interests." He represented 
 Wendover until 1774, when he was returned from Bristol, a city 
 at that time second in importance only to London itself. He sat 
 in Parliament as the representative of Bristol until 1780, and 
 thereafter for the town of Malton, which he continued to repre- 
 sent for the remainder of his parliamentary career. During this 
 time his zeal for his country, and his love of virtue, justice, and 
 good government showed themselves in a number of speeches 
 which, by reason of their enduring literary qualities and the fire 
 of eloquence which pervades them, are to-day regarded as 
 classics. 
 
8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 These were troublous times in England as well as in Amer- 
 ica. It may be that the conflict for American independence was 
 bound to arise sooner or later, that no conciliation or concession 
 on the part of England could have repressed that deep longing 
 for unrestrained freedom which was made manifest during the war 
 for American independence ; but the thing which above all others 
 nourished the seed and fertilized the ground, and hastened the 
 growth from a mere germ to its fullest development, was corrupt 
 government in England. 
 
 No one saw this more clearly than Burke, and no one more 
 courageously raised the warning cry. In 1770 he wrote his 
 " Thoughts on the Cause of the Present Discontents," a master- 
 piece in which he attempted to paint in clearest colors the evils 
 that had attacked Parliament by the growth of royal influence. 
 
 In 1774, 1775, and 1777 appeared his famous speeches on the 
 American question — the " Speech on American Taxation," the 
 " Speech on Conciliation with America," and the " Letter to the 
 Sheriffs of Bristol." His keen foresight and indefatigable labors 
 in search of truth enabled him to see the situation in its fullest 
 light, and in all its bearings. Others there were who, through 
 love of justice and humanity, favored a more generous policy on 
 the part of England toward her colonies in America ; but none 
 among the English saw so plainly as did he the outcome toward 
 which the English spirit was tending. Not for a moment did 
 he shrink from his duty. He knew the members of Parliament 
 with whom he was dealing, and he knew that arguments based 
 on sentiment or abstract ideas of right would have no force. He 
 spoke out in plain words, and appealed to their reason and their 
 own interest. " The question with me is not whether you have 
 a right to render your people miserable, but whether it is not your 
 
INTRODUCTION. 9 
 
 interest to make them happy." Had his hearers been less cor- 
 rupt, had they been but a Httle less blinded by their personal in- 
 terests in respect to the public welfare, these speeches must have 
 had their desired effect. Burke labored unceasingly to root out 
 this corruption and to reform English politics. In his " Speech 
 on Economic Reform," in 1780, he gives us a clear insight into 
 the evils existing at that time in the relations between the Court 
 and the House of Commons. 
 
 In return for all this disinterested service, and in recognition 
 of his marvelous executive ability, we might well expect to see 
 him filling one of the highest positions the government had to be- 
 stow. And yet he was never admitted into the Cabinet, nor did 
 he ever hold any office above the rather subordinate one of pay- 
 master — not even when his own friends and the party which 
 owed everything to his efforts and ability came into power. 
 There have been many attempts to explain this omission by his 
 poverty, by his Irish birth and family connections, and by his 
 sympathies with the Roman Catholics at a time when they were 
 scarcely tolerated; but none of these causes seem adequate to 
 account for such flagrant neglect, and, in truth, the matter has 
 never been explained. 
 
 The Rockingham ministry had been dissolved in 1766, to be 
 succeeded in turn by the ministries of Chatham and Grafton, and 
 then by that of Lord North, who remained in power from 1770 
 to 1782, and who was largely responsible for the stringent measures 
 against America. With the surrender of Comwallis at Yorktown, 
 Lord North's power came to an end, and Burke's friend. Lord 
 Rockingham, once more became prime minister. He lived for 
 only two months, and was succeeded in office by Lord Shelbume, 
 who represented the Whig party and all the principles for which 
 
lO INTRODUCTION, 
 
 Burke had so strenuously fought. To be sure, Shelburne was 
 personally objectionable to Burke; but that does not excuse the 
 latter from withdrawing his allegiance, and, least of all, for lend- 
 ing his support to Lord North — the man who, during his twelve 
 years* previous ministry, had been responsible for many of the 
 evils which Burke had done so much to reform. Lord North re- 
 mained in power only eight months, and with him Burke with- 
 drew from his office of paymaster, never to return. 
 
 He now devoted himself to a consideration of the English 
 misrule in India — a question in which he had for some time 
 manifested an active interest. The result of his study was given 
 to the world in '' The Nabob of Arcot's Debts," and the *' Im- 
 peachment of Warren Hastings." The trial of Warren Hastings, 
 Governor General of India, for crimes and misdemeanors, dragged 
 on for six weary years, and in the end he was acquitted; but 
 Burke's eloquent exposure and denunciation of the evils in India 
 were not delivered in vain; for although the man he accused 
 was not condemned, the system he opposed received its death- 
 blow. " If I were to call for a reward," Burke said, " it would 
 be for the services in which for fourteen years I showed the most 
 industry and had the least success. I mean the affairs in India. 
 They are those on which I value myself the most — most for the 
 importance; most for the labor; most for the judgment; most for 
 the constancy and perseverance in the pursuit." 
 
 We have now to consider the last period of Burke^s life — 
 that of the French Revolution. Burke was essentially conserva- 
 tive. "What he valued was the deep-seated order of systems 
 that worked by the accepted uses, opinions, beliefs, prejudices of 
 a community." He watched with an ever-growing distrust the 
 rise of those forces in France which were to destroy this order, 
 
INTRODUCTION, li 
 
 and in the " Reflections on the Revolution in France," which 
 appeared in November, 1790, he gave voice to his feeHngs in 
 almost frenzied tones. For the first time in his Hfe he did not 
 study thoroughly the subject he had in hand. He saw but one 
 side of the question; he wished to see no other. The dangers of 
 the new system blinded him to the disorders of the old, and he 
 had nothing but scorn and invective to hurl against the revolu- 
 tionists ; not one word of sympathy for their wrongs or of excuse 
 for their actions. The influence of this work was tremendous. 
 " With a long resounding blast on his golden trumpet, Burke had 
 unfurled a new flag, and half the nation hurried to rally to it — 
 that half which had scouted his views on America, which had 
 mocked his ideas on religious toleration, and which a moment 
 before had hated and reviled him beyond all men living for his 
 fierce tenacity in the impeachment of Warren Hastings." 
 
 Burke's attitude brought him much honor, but still more humili- 
 ation. The crowned heads of Europe applauded him, but his 
 friends one by one dropped away. The climax came when he 
 renounced the friendship of his lifelong companion, Charles Fox, 
 because the latter could not follow him in his bitter denuncia- 
 tion of the French. This was in 179 1. In August of the same 
 year he wrote an " Appeal from the New to the Old Whigs," in 
 which he tried to defend his views on the French Revolution, and 
 to vindicate himself against the charge of having renounced his 
 most avowed principles. From this time on he devoted himself 
 to the French situation, and he went so far as to urge the English 
 to interfere and wage war with France. 
 
 In 1794 Burke retired altogether from Parliament. The king 
 and the Tories, well pleased at his attitude toward the French, 
 were making arrangements to elevate him to the peerage when, 
 
12 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 in August, 1794, he was completely prostrated by the sudden death 
 of his son Richard, to whom he was deeply attached. 
 
 The question of the peerage was dropped, but the king, in re- 
 turn for his long years of service, granted him a pension. As 
 this pension had not been sanctioned by Parliament, the Duke of 
 Bedford assailed it on the plea of corruption. In his " Letter to 
 a Noble Lord," Burke repudiated this charge and showed how 
 well he had earned this slight reward for long political services. • 
 
 In 1795 he wrote his "Letters on a Regicide Peace," which, 
 like all his writings of this period, are marked by his undying 
 horror and hatred of the spirit of the French Revolution. After 
 the death of his son he had little interest left in life, and he 
 followed him to the grave on July 9, 1797. 
 
 And now we must consider what it was in Burke, that raised 
 him from obscurity to a position whence he influenced the whole 
 of Europe; what it was that ranked him among orators with 
 Demosthenes and Cicero, among statesmen with Richelieu and 
 Pitt, and among philosophical thinkers and eloquent writers with 
 the greatest men of his time and of all time. The answer is 
 ready at hand. To great breadth of intellect he added a strong 
 will and a determination to gain a thorough knowledge of every 
 subject within his range. He worked indefsitigably, and his 
 versatility was truly marvelous. It was difficult to find a subject 
 in which he was not as much at home as though it had been his 
 specialty. Add to these qualities a strong moral character, which 
 led him to unwearied work in the cause of right and virtue, as he 
 conceived it, and we have the elements of all true success. 
 
 He had no personal charms to recommend him; his gestures 
 were awkward, his voice harsh, and his utterance displeasing. 
 
INTRODUCTION, 13 
 
 We are even told that one of his listeners crept under a bench 
 to escape a speech which, when published, he read till it was 
 thumbed to rags. "I was not," Burke tells us himself, "swaddled 
 and rocked and dandled into a legislator. I possessed not one 
 of the qualities, nor cultivated one of the arts, that recommend 
 men to the favor and protection of the great. I was not made 
 for a minion or a tool. As little did I follow the trade of win- 
 ning the hearts by imposing on the understandings of the people. 
 At every step of my progress in life, — for in every step was I 
 traversed and opposed, — and at every turnpike I met, I was 
 obliged to show my passport, and again and again to prove my 
 sole title to the honor of being useful to my country, by a proof 
 that I was not wholly unacquainted with its laws and the whole 
 system of its interests both abroad and at home; otherwise no 
 rank, no toleration even, fot me." 
 
 'And so, inch by inch, he raised himself to the very pinnacle 
 of fame. " No man of sense," said Dr. Johnson, " could meet 
 Mr. Burke by accident under a gateway without being convinced 
 that he was the first man in England." 
 
 The following characterization is taken from John Morley's 
 excellent " Life of Burke ": " Opinion is slowly, but without re- 
 action, settling down to the verdict that Burke is one of the 
 abiding names in our history, not because he either saved Europe 
 or destroyed the Whig party; but because he added to the per- 
 manent considerations of wise political thought, and to the max- 
 ims of wise practice in great affairs, and because he imprints him- 
 self upon us with a magnificence and elevation of expression, 
 that places him among the highest masters of literature, in one 
 of its highest and most commanding senses. . . . . His pas- 
 sion appears hopelessly fatal to success in the pursuit of Truth, 
 
14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 who does not usually reveal herself to followers thus inflamed. 
 His ornate style appears fatal to the cautious and precise method 
 of statement suitable to matter which is not known at all unless 
 it is known distinctly. Yet the natural ardor which impelled 
 Burke to clothe his judgments in glowing and exaggerated 
 phrases, is one secret of his power over us, because it kindles in 
 those who are capable of that generous infection a respondent 
 interest and sympathy. But more than this, the reader is speedily 
 conscious of the precedence in Burke of the facts of morality and 
 conduct, of the many interwoven affinities of human affection and 
 historical relation, over the unreal necessities of mere abstract 
 logic. Burke's mind was full of the matter of great truths, copi- 
 ously enriched from the fountain of generous and many-colored 
 feeling. He thought about life as a whole, with all its infirmities 
 and all its pomps. With none of the mental exclusiveness of the 
 moralist by profession, he fills every page with solemn reference 
 and meaning ; with none of the mechanical bustle of the common 
 politician, he is everywhere conscious of the mastery of laws, in- 
 stitutions, and government over the character and happiness of 
 men. Besides thus diffusing a strong light over the awful tides 
 of human circumstance, Burke has the sacred gift of inspiring 
 men to use a grave diligence in caring for high things, and in 
 making their lives at once rich and austere. Such a part in liter- 
 ature is indeed high And we do not dissent when 
 
 Macaulay, after reading Burke's works over again, exclaims, 
 ' How admirable ! The greatest man since Milton ! ' " 
 
 We, as Americans, owe to Edmund Burke a special debt of 
 gratitude for his zeal and labors in our cause, and for the three 
 speeches that should be placed on our shelves, side by side with 
 those of our own great political writers. 
 
INTROD UCTION. 1 5 
 
 To quote Mr. Morley once more : " Of all Burke's writings 
 none are so fit to secure unqualified and unanimous admiration 
 as the three pieces on this momentous struggle : the * Speech on 
 American Taxation' (April 19, 1774); the ^Speech on Concili- 
 ation with America' (March 22, 1775); and the * Letter to the 
 
 Sheriffs of Bristol' (1777) It is no exaggeration to 
 
 say that they compose the most perfect manual in our literature, 
 or in any literature, for one who approaches the study of public 
 affairs, whether for knowledge or for practice. They are an ex- 
 ample without fault of all the qualities which the critic, whether 
 a theorist or an actor, of great poUtical situations should strive 
 by night and by day to possess. If the subject with which they 
 deal were less near than it is to our interests and affections as free 
 citizens, these three performances would still abound in the les- 
 sons of an incomparable political method. We should still have 
 everything to learn from the author's treatment; the vigorous 
 grasp of masses of compressed detail, the wide illumination from 
 great principles of human experience, the strong and masculine 
 feeling for the two great political ends of Justice and Freedom, 
 the large and generous interpretation of expediency, the morality, 
 the vision, the noble temper. If ever in the fullness of time, — 
 and surely the fates of men and literature cannot have it other- 
 wise, — Burke becomes one of the half-dozen names of established 
 and universal currency in education and in common books, rising 
 above the waywardness of literary caprice or intellectual fashions, 
 as Shakespeare and Milton and Bacon rise above it, it will be the 
 mastery, the elevation, the wisdom, of these far shining discourses 
 in which the world will, in an especial degree, recognize the com- 
 bination of sovereign gifts with beneficent uses." 
 
CONCILIATION WITH THE 
 AMERICAN COLONIES/ 
 
 I HOPE, Sir, that, notwithstanding the austerity of the Chair, 
 your good nature will incline you to some degree of indulgence 
 towards human frailty. You will not think it unnatural, that those 
 who have an object depending, which strongly engages their 
 hopes and fears, should be somewhat inclined to superstition. As 
 I came into the House full of anxiety about the event of my 
 motion, I found, to my infinite surprise, that the grand penal bill, 
 by which we had passed sentence on the trade and sustenance of 
 America, is to be returned to us from the other House.^ I do 
 confess, I could not help looking on this event as a fortunate 
 omen. I look upon it as a sort of providential favor; by which 
 we are put once more in possession of our deliberative capacity, 
 upon a business so very questionable in its nature, so very uncer- 
 tain in its issue. By the return of this bill, which seemed to have 
 
 1 This speech was delivered by Edmund Burke in the House of Com- 
 mons, March 22, 1775, ^^^ moving his resolutions for conciliation with the 
 colonies. 
 
 2 House of Lords. A few weeks previous, Lord North, at that time 
 Prime Minister of England, had proposed an act to restrain the trade and 
 commerce of the provinces of Massachusetts Bay and New Hampshire, the 
 colonies of Connecticut and Rhode Island, and Providence Plantation, in 
 North America, to Great Britain, Ireland, and the British Islands in the 
 West Indies ; and to prohibit such provinces and colonies from carrying on 
 any fishery on the banks of Newfoundland, and other places therein men- 
 tioned, under certain conditions and limitations. Burke had spoken with 
 great indignation against the injustice of this bill. 
 
1 8 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 taken its flight forever, we are, at this very instant, nearly as free 
 to choose a plan for our American government as we were on the 
 first day of the session. If, Sir, we incline to the side of concilia- 
 tion, we are not at all embarrassed (unless we please to make 
 ourselves so) by any incongruous mixture of coercion and re- 
 straint. We are therefore called upon, as it were by a superior 
 warning voice, again to attend to America; to attend to the 
 whole of it together ; and to review the subject with an unusual 
 degree of care and calmness. 
 
 Surely it is an awful subject ; or there is none so on this side of" 
 the grave. When I first had the honor of a seat in this House, 
 the affairs of that continent pressed themselves upon us, as the 
 most important and most delicate object of parliamentary atten- 
 tion. My little share in this great deliberation oppressed me. I 
 found myself a partaker in a very high trust ; and having no sort 
 of reason to rely on the strength of my natural abilities for the 
 proper execution of that trust, I was obliged to take more than 
 common pains to instruct myself in everything which relates to 
 our colonies. I was not less under the necessity of forming some 
 fixed ideas concerning the general policy of the British empire. 
 Something of this sort seemed to be indispensable, in order, 
 amidst so vast a fluctuation of passions and opinions, to concenter 
 my thoughts, to ballast my conduct, to preserve me from being 
 blown about by every wind of fashionable doctrine. I really did 
 not think it safe, or manly, to have fresh principles to seek upon 
 every fresh mail which should arrive from America. 
 
 At that period! I had the fortune to find myself in perfect con- 
 currence with a large majority in this House. Bowing under that 
 high authority, and penetrated with the sharpness and strength of 
 that early impression, I have continued ever since, without the 
 least deviation, in my original sentiments. Whether this be owing 
 to an obstinate perseverance in error, or to a religious adherence 
 to what appears to me truth and reason, it is in your equity 
 to judge. 
 
 Sir, Parliament having an enlarged view of objects, made, during 
 
 1 The time of the repeal of the Stamp Act. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES. 19 
 
 this interval, more frequent changes in their sentiments and their 
 conduct, than could be justified in a particular person upon the 
 contracted scale of private information. But though 1 do not 
 hazard anything approaching to censure on the motives of former 
 Parliaments to all those alterations, one fact is undoubted — that 
 under them the state of America has been kept in continual 
 agitation. Everything administered as remedy to the pubHc 
 complaint, if it did not produce, was at least followed by, an 
 heightening of the distemper; until, by a variety of experiments, 
 that important country has been brought into her present situation 
 — a situation which I will not miscall, which I dare not name, 
 which I scarcely know how to comprehend in the terms of any 
 description. 
 
 In this posture. Sir, things stood at the beginning of the session. 
 About that time, a worthy member ^ of great parliamentary experi- 
 ence, who, in the year 1766, filled the chair of the American 
 Committee with much ability, took me aside ; and, lamenting the 
 present Aspect of our politics, told me things were come to such a 
 pass that our former methods of proceeding in the House would 
 be no longer tolerated. That the public tribunal (never too 
 indulgent to a long and unsuccessful opposition) would now 
 scrutinize our conduct with unusual severity. That the very 
 vicissitudes and shiftings of ministerial measures, instead of con- 
 victing their authors of inconstancy and want of system, would 
 be taken as an occasion of charging us with a predetermined dis- 
 content which nothing could satisfy, whilst we accused every 
 measure of vigor as cruel, and every proposal of lenity as weak 
 and irresolute. The public, he said, would not have patience to 
 see us play the game out with our adversaries : we must produce 
 our hand. It would be expected that those, who for many years 
 had been active in such afiairs, should show that they had formed 
 some clear and decided idea of the principles of colony govern- 
 ment ; and were capable of drawing out something like a platform 
 of the ground, which might be laid for fu^^nr^ ^nd permanent 
 tranquillity. 
 
 1 Mr. Rose Fuller 
 
20 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 I felt the truth of what my honorable friend represented ; but I 
 felt my situation too. His application might have been made 
 with far greater propriety to many other gentlemen. No man 
 was indeed ever better disposed, or worse quaHfied, for such an 
 undertaking than myself. Though I gave so far into his opinion 
 that I immediately threw my thoughts into a sort of parliamen- 
 tary form, I was by no means equally ready to produce them. 
 It generally argues some degree of natural impotence of mind, or 
 some want of knowledge of the world, to hazard plans of govern- 
 ment except from a seat of authority. Propositions are made, not 
 only ineffectually, but somewhat disreputably, when the minds 
 of men are not properly disposed for their reception ; and for my 
 part, I am not ambitious of ridicule, not absolutely a candidate 
 for disgrace. 
 
 Besides, Sir, to speak the plain truth, I have in general no very 
 exalted opinion of the virtue of paper government,^ nor of any 
 politics in which the plan is to be wholly separated from the exe- 
 cution. But when I saw that anger and violence prevailed every 
 day more and more, and that things were hastening toward an 
 incurable alienation of our colonies, I confess my caution gave 
 way. I felt this as one of those few moments in which decorum 
 yields to a higher duty. Public calamity is a mighty leveler ; and 
 there are occasions when any, even the slightest, chance of doing 
 good must be laid hold on, even by the most inconsiderable person. 
 
 To restore order and repose to an empire so great and so dis- 
 tracted as ours, is, merely in the attempt, an undertaking that 
 would ennoble the flights of the highest genius, and obtain pardon 
 for the efforts of the meanest understanding. Struggling a good 
 while with these thoughts, by degrees I felt myself more firm. I 
 derived, at length, some confidence from what in other circum- 
 stances usually produces timidity. I grew less anxious, even from 
 the idea of my own insignificance. For, judging of what you are 
 by what you ought to be, I persuaded myself that you would not 
 reject a reasonable proposition because it had nothing but its 
 
 1 "Paper government," i.e., measures proposed in a bill, but not yet 
 carried out. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 2i 
 
 reason to recommend it. On the other hand, being totally desti- 
 tute of all shadow of influence, natural or adventitious, I was very- 
 sure that, if my proposition were futile or dangerous, if it were 
 weakly conceived, or improperly timed, there was nothing exterior 
 to it of power to awe, dazzle, or delude you. You will see it 
 just as it is; and you will treat it just as it deserves. 
 
 The proposition is peace. Not peace through the medium of 
 war; not peace to be hunted through the labyrinth of intricate 
 and endless negotiations ; not peace to arise out of universal dis- 
 cord, fomented from principle, in all parts of the empire; not 
 peace to depend on the juridical determination of perplexing 
 questions, or the precise marking of the shadowy boundaries of. a 
 complex government. It is simple peace, sought in its natural 
 course, . and in its ordinary haunts. It is peace sought in the 
 spirit of peace, and laid in principles purely pacific. I propose, 
 by removing the ground of the difference, and by restoring the 
 former unsuspecti?ig confidence of the colonies in the mother country^ 
 to give permanent satisfaction to your people, and (far from a 
 scheme of ruhng by discord) to reconcile them to each other in 
 the same act and by the bond of the very same interest which 
 reconciles them to British government. 
 
 My idea is nothing more. Refined policy ever has been the 
 parent of confusion; and ever will be so, as long as the world en- 
 dures. Plain good intention, which is as easily discovered at the 
 first view as fraud is surely detected at last, is, let me say, of no 
 mean force in the government of mankind. Genuine simplicity 
 of heart is a healing and cementing principle. My plan, there- 
 fore, being formed upon the most simple grounds imaginable, 
 may disappoint some people when they hear it. It has nothing 
 to recommend it to the pruriency ^ of curious ears. There is 
 nothing at all new and captivating in it. It has nothing of the 
 splendor of the project which has been lately laid upon your 
 table by the noble lord in the blue ribbon. 2 It does not propose 
 
 1 Eager desire. 
 
 2 The blue ribbon was the badge of the Order of the Garter. The refer- 
 ence here is to Lord North, who had been made a knight of the Garter. He 
 
2 2 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 to fill your lobby with squabbling colony agents, who will require 
 the interposition of your mace,i at every instant, to keep the peace 
 amongst them. It does not institute a magnificent auction of 
 finance, where captivated provinces come to general ransom by 
 bidding against each other, until you knock down the hammer, 
 and determine a proportion of payments beyond all the powers 
 of algebra to equalize and settle. 
 
 The plan which I shall presume to suggest, derives, however, 
 one great advantage from the proposition and registry of that no- 
 ble lord's project. The idea of conciliation is admissible. First, 
 the House, in accepting the resolution moved by the noble lord, 
 has admitted, notwithstanding the menacing front of our address, 
 notwithstanding our heavy bill of pains and penalties, that we 
 do not think ourselves precluded from all ideas of free grace and 
 bounty. 
 
 The House has gone further ; it has declared conciHation ad- 
 missible, /r<f2//^//j- to any submission on the part of America. It 
 has even shot a good deal beyond that mark, and has admitted 
 that the complaints of our former mode of exerting the right of 
 taxation were not wholly unfounded. That right thus exerted is 
 allowed to have had something reprehensible in it — something 
 unwise, or something grievous; since, in the midst of our heat 
 and resentment, we, of ourselves, have proposed a capital altera- 
 tion, and, in order to get rid of what seemed so very exception- 
 able, have instituted a mode that is altogether new — one that is, 
 indeed, wholly alien from all the ancient methods and forms of 
 Parhament. 
 
 The principle of this proceeding is large enough for my purpose. • 
 The means proposed by the noble lord for carrying his ideas into 
 execution, I think, indeed, are very indifferently suited to the end; 
 and this I shall endeavor to show you before I sit down. But, for 
 
 had introduced a bill proposing that any province or colony which should 
 make provision for their common defense should be exempt from taxation. 
 This offer was rejected by the colonies. 
 
 1 The emblem of authority lying on the Speaker's table ; hence, the ser- 
 geant-at-arms of th"^ House. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 2$ 
 
 the present, I take my ground on the admitted principle. I mean 
 to give peace. Peace impHes reconciHation ; and, where there 
 has been a material dispute, reconciliation does in a manner al- 
 ways imply concession on the one part or on the other. In this 
 state of things, I make no difficulty in affirming that the proposal 
 ought to originate from us. Great and acknowledged force is not 
 impaired, either in effect or in opinion, by an unwillingness to ex- 
 ert itself. The superior power may* offer peace with honor and 
 with safety. Such an offer from such a power will be attributed 
 to magnanimity. But the concessions of the weak are the con- 
 cessions of fear. When such a one is disarmed, he is wholly at 
 the mercy of his superior ; and he loses forever that time and those 
 chances, which, as they happen to all men, are the strength and 
 resources of all inferior power. 
 
 The capital leading questions on which you must this day de- 
 cide, are these two : first, whether you ought to concede ; and 
 secondly, what your concession ought to be. On the first of 
 these questions we have gained (as I have just taken the liberty 
 of observing to you) some ground. But I am sensible that a 
 good deal more is still to be done. Indeed, Sir, to enable us to 
 determine both on the one and the other of these great questions 
 with a firm and precise judgment, I think it may be necessary to 
 consider distinctly the true nature and the peculiar circumstances 
 of the object which we have before us. Because, after all our 
 struggle, whether we will or not, we must govern America accord- 
 ing to that nature, and to those circumstances ; and not according 
 to our own imaginations ; nor according to abstract ideas of right ; 
 by no means according to mere general theories of government, 
 the resort to which appears to me, in our present situation, no 
 better than arrant trifling. I shall therefore endeavor, with your 
 leave, to lay before you some of the most material of these cir- 
 cumstances in as full and as clear a manner as I am able to state 
 them. 
 
 The first thing that we have to consider with regard to the na- 
 ture of !he object is — the number of people in the colonies. I 
 have taken for some years a good deal of pains on that point. I 
 
24 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 can by no calculation justify myself in placing the number below 
 two millions of inhabitants of our own European blood and color; 
 besides at least 500,000 others, who form no inconsiderable part 
 of the strength and opulence of the whole. This, Sir, is, I believe, 
 about the true number. There is no occasion to exaggerate, 
 where plain truth is of so much weight and importance. But 
 whether I put the present numbers too high or too low is a mat- 
 ter of little moment. Such* is the strength with which popula- 
 tion shoots in that part of the world, that, state the numbers as 
 high as we will, whilst the dispute continues, the exaggeration 
 ends. Whilst we are discussing any given magnitude, they are 
 grown to it. Whilst we spend our time in deliberating on the 
 mode of governing two miUions, we shall find we have millions 
 more to manage. Your children do not grow faster from infancy 
 to manhood, than they spread from families to communities, and 
 from villages to nations. 
 
 I put this consideration of the present and the growing num- 
 bers in the front of our deliberation; because. Sir, this consideration 
 will make it evident to a blunter discernment than yours, that no 
 partial, narrow, contracted, pinched, occasional system will be at 
 all suitable to such an object. It will show you that it is not to 
 be considered as one of those minima 1 which are out of the eye 
 and consideration of the law; not a paltry excrescence of the 
 state ; not a mean dependent, who may be neglected with little 
 damage and provoked with little danger. It will prove that 
 some degree of care and caution is required in the handHng such 
 an object; it will show that you ought not, in reason, to trifle with 
 so large a mass of the interests and feelings of the human race. 
 You could at no time do so without guilt; and be assured you will 
 not be able to do it long with impunity. 
 
 But the population of this country, — the great and growing pop- 
 ulation, — though a very important consideration, will lose much 
 of its weight if not combined with other circumstances. The com- 
 merce of your colonies is out of all proportion beyond the num- 
 
 1 Plural of the Latin adjective minimum, meaning " of the smallest possi- 
 ble amount'*; hence, matters of no consequence; trifles. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 25 
 
 bers of the people. This ground of their commerce indeed has 
 been trod some da)^s ago, and with great abiUty, by a distin- 
 guished person, 1 at your bar. This gentleman, after thirty-five 
 years, — it is so long since he first appeared at the same place to 
 plead for the commerce of Great Britain, — has come again before 
 you to plead the same cause, without any other efiect of time, 
 than that, to the fire of imagination and extent of erudition which 
 even then marked him as one of the first literary characters of his 
 age, he has added a consummate knowledge in the commercial 
 interest of his country, formed by a long course of enlightened 
 and discriminating experience. 
 
 Sir, I should be inexcusable in coming after such a person with 
 any detail, if a great part of the members who now fill the House 
 had not the misfortune to be absent when he appeared at your 
 bar. Besides, Sir, I propose to take the matter at periods of time 
 somewhat different from his. There is, if I mistake not, a point 
 of view, from whence if you will look at this subject, it is impossi- 
 ble that it should not make an impression upon you. 
 
 I have in my hand two accounts : one a comparative state 2 of 
 the export trade of England to its colonies, as it stood in the year 
 1704, and as it stood in the year 1772; the other a state of the 
 export trade of this country to its colonies alone, as it stood in 
 1772, compared with the whole trade of England to all parts of 
 the world (the colonies included) in the year 1704. They are 
 from good vouchers ; the latter period from the accounts on your 
 table, the earlier from an original manuscript of Davenant, who 
 first established the inspector-general's office, which has been ever 
 since his time so abundant a source of parliamentary information. 
 
 The export trade to the colonies consists of three great 
 branches. The African, which, terminating almost wholly in the 
 colonies, must be put to the account of their commerce; the 
 West Indian ; and the North American. All these are so inter- 
 wbven that the attempt to separate them would tear to pieces the 
 
 1 A Mr. Glover, who had appeared before the House in a plea for peace 
 with the colonies. 
 
 2 Statement. 
 
26 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 contexture of the whole, and if not entirely destroy, would very 
 much depreciate the value of all the parts. I therefore consider 
 these three denominations to be, what in effect they are, one trade. 
 The trade to the colonies, taken on the export side, at the 
 beginning of this century, that is, in the year 1704, stood thus: 
 
 Exports to North America and the West Indies . . £^^3 . 265 
 To Africa 86,665 
 
 ;£569,930 
 
 In the year 1772, which I take as a middle year between the 
 highest and lowest of those lately laid on your table, the account 
 was as follows : 
 
 To North America and the West Indies ^4,791,734 
 
 To Africa 866,398 
 
 To which if you add the export trade from Scot- 
 land, which had in 1704 no existence 364,000 
 
 ;£6,022,I32 
 
 From five hundred and odd thousand, it has grown to six 
 millions. It has increased no less than twelve-fold. This is the 
 state of the colony trade, as compared with itself at these two 
 periods within this century; and this is a matter for meditation. 
 But this is not all. Examine my second account. See how the 
 export trade to the colonies alone in 1772 stood in the other point 
 of view, that is, as compared to the whole trade of England 
 in 1704. 
 
 The whole export trade of England, including 
 
 that to the colonies, in 1704 ;!^6, 509,000 
 
 Export to the colonies alone, in 1772 6,024,000 
 
 Difference £ 485,000 
 
 The trade with America alone is now within less than ;^5oo,ooo 
 of being equal to what this great commercial nation, England, 
 carried on at the beginning of this century with the whole world ! 
 If I had taken the largest year of those on your table, it would 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 27 
 
 rather have exceeded. But, it will be said, is not this American 
 trade an unnatural protuberance, that has drawn the juices from 
 the rest of the body ? The reverse. It is the very food that has 
 nourished every other part into its present magnitude. Our 
 general trade has been greatly augmented, and augmented more 
 or less in almost every part to which it ever extended ; but with 
 this material difference, that of the six millions which in the 
 beginning of the century constituted the whole mass of our 
 export commerce, the colony trade was but one-twelfth part; it 
 is now (as a part of sixteen millions) considerably more than a 
 third of the whole. This is the relative proportion of the impor- 
 tance of the colonies at these two periods; and all reasoning 
 concerning our mode of treating them must have this proportion 
 as its basis, or it is a reasoning weak, rotten, and sophistical. 
 
 Mr. Speaker, I cannot pre\'ail on myself to hurry over this great 
 consideration. It is good for us to be here. We stand where we 
 have an immense view of what is, and what is past. Clouds, 
 indeed, and darkness rest upon the future. Let us, however, 
 before we descend from this noble eminence, reflect that this 
 growth of our national prosperity has happened within the short 
 period of the life of man. It has happened within sixty-eight 
 years. There are those alive whose memory might touch the two 
 extremities. For instance, my Lord Bathurst might remember all 
 the stages of the progress. He was in 1704 of an age at least to 
 be made to comprehend such things. He was then old enough 
 acta parentum jam lege re, et guce sit poterit cog} los cere virtusy 
 Suppose, Sir, that the angel of this auspicious youth, foreseeing 
 the many virtues which made him one of the most amiable, as he 
 is one of the most fortunate, men of his age, had opened to him 
 in vision, that when, in the fourth generation, the third prince 2 of 
 the House of Brunswick had sat twelve years on the throne of that 
 nation, which (by the happy issue of moderate and healing coun- 
 
 1 " To read the achievements of his fathers, and be able to understand what 
 virtue is." See Vergil, Eclogue iv. 
 
 2 The reference here is to George III., who was King of England at the 
 time of the delivery of this speech. 
 
28 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 cils) was to be made Great Britain,^ he should see his son, Lord 
 Chancellor of England, turn back the current of hereditary- 
 dignity to its fountain, and raise him to a higher rank of peerage, 
 whilst he enriched the family with a new one. If amidst these 
 bright and happy scenes of domestic honor and prosperity, that 
 angel should have drawn up the curtain, and unfolded the rising 
 glories of his country, and whilst he was gazing with admiration 
 on the then commercial grandeur of England, the genius should 
 point out to him a little speck, scarce visible in the mass of the 
 national interest, a small seminal principle,^ rather than a formed 
 body, and should tell him: "Young man, there is America, 
 which at this day serves for Httle more than to amuse you with 
 stories of savage men and uncouth manners, yet shall, before you 
 taste of death, show itself equal to the whole of that commerce 
 which now attracts the envy of the world. Whatever England 
 has been growing to by a progressive increase of improvement, 
 brought in by varieties of people, by succession of civilizing con- 
 quests and civilizing settlements in a series of seventeen hundred 
 years, you shall see as much added to her by America in the 
 course of a single life!" — if this state of his country had been 
 foretold to him, would it not require all the sanguine creduKty of 
 youth, and all the fervid glow of enthusiasm, to make him believe 
 it ? Fortunate man, he has lived to see it ! Fortunate indeed, if 
 he lives to see nothing that shall vary the prospect, and cloud the 
 setting of his day ! 
 
 Excuse me, Sir, if, turning from such thoughts, I resume this 
 comparative view once more. You have seen it on a large scale ; 
 look at it on a small one. I will point out to your attention a 
 particular instance of it in the single province of Pennsylvania. 
 In the year 1704, that province called for ^11,459 in value of 
 your commodities, native and foreign. This was the whole. 
 What did it demand in 1772 ? Why, nearly fifty times as much ; 
 for in that year the export to Pennsylvania was ;^507,909, nearly 
 
 1 The name of Great Britain was not formally used to indicate the kingdom 
 until after the union of the Scottish and English Parliaments in 1707. 
 
 2 " Seminal principle," i.e., germ. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES. 29 
 
 equal to the export to all the colonies together in the first 
 period. 
 
 I choose, Sir, to enter into these minute and particular details ; 
 because generalities, which in all other cases are apt to heighten 
 and raise the subject, have here a tendency to sink it. When we 
 speak of the commerce with our colonies, fiction lags after truth, 
 invention is unfruitful, and imagination cold and barren. 
 
 So far, Sir, as to the importance of the object in view of its 
 commerce, as concerned in the exports from England. If I were 
 to detail the imports, I could show how many enjoyments they 
 procure which deceive the burthen 1 of life ; how many materials 
 which invigorate the springs of national industry, and extend and 
 animate every part of our foreign and domestic commerce. This 
 would be a curious subject indeed — but I must prescribe bounds 
 to myself in a matter so vast and various. 
 
 I pass, therefore, to the colonies in another point of view^ — th^ir 
 agriculture. This they have prosecuted with such a spirit, that, 
 besides feeding plentifully their own growing multitude, their an- 
 nual export of grain, comprehending rice, has some years ago ex- 
 ceeded a million in value. Of their last harvest, I am persuaded 
 they will export much more. At the beginning of the century 
 some of these colonies imported corn from their mother country. 
 
 For some time past, the Old World has been fed from the New. 
 The scarcity which you have felt would have been a desolating 
 famine, if this child of your old age, with a true filial piety, with 
 a Roman charity, had not put the full breast of its youthful 
 exuberance to the mouth of its exhausted parent. 2 
 
 As to the wealth which the colonies have drawn from the sea 
 by their fisheries, you had all that matter fully opened at your 
 bar. You surely thought these acquisitions of value, for they 
 seemed even to excite your envy; and yet the spirit by which 
 that enterprising employment has been exercised, ought rather, in 
 
 1 Old form of " burden. " 
 
 2 An allusion to the story of a Roman girl who, when her father was im- 
 prisoned and left to starve, obtained entrance to his cell, and nourished him 
 from her own breast. 
 
30 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 my opinion, to have raised your esteem and admiration. And 
 pray, Sir, what in the world is equal to it? Pass by the other 
 parts, and look at the manner in which the people of New Eng- 
 land have of late carried on the whale fishery. Whilst we fol- 
 low them among the tumbhng mountains of ice, and behold them 
 penetrating into the deepest frozen recesses of Hudson Bay and 
 Davis Straits, whilst we are looking for them beneath the arctic 
 circle, we hear that they have pierced into the opposite region of 
 polar cold, that they are at the antipodes, and engaged under the 
 frozen serpent ^ of the south. Falkland Island,^ which seemed too 
 remote and romantic an object for the grasp of national ambition, 
 is but a stage and resting place in the progress of their victorious 
 industry. Nor is the equinoctial heat more discouraging to them 
 than the accumulated winter of both the poles. We know that 
 whilst some of them draw the Hne and strike the harpoon on the 
 coast of Africa, others run the longitude, and pursue their gigantic 
 game along the coast of Brazil. No sea but what is vexed by 
 their fisheries! No climate that is not witness to their toils! 
 Neither the perseverance of Holland, nor the activity of France, 
 nor the dexterous and firm sagacity of English enterprise, ever 
 carried this most perilous mode of hard industry to the extent to 
 which it has been pushed by this recent people — a people who 
 are still, as it were, but in the gristle, and not yet hardened into 
 the bone of manhood. When I contemplate these things ; when 
 I know that the colonies in general owe little or nothing to any 
 care of ours, and that they are not squeezed into this happy form 
 by the constraints of watchful and suspicious government — but 
 that, through a wise and salutary neglect, a generous nature has 
 been suffered to take her own way to perfection : when I reflect 
 upon these effects, when I see how profitable they have been to 
 us, I feel all the pride of power sink, and all presumption in the 
 wisdom of human contrivances melt and die away within me. 
 My rigor relents. I pardon something to the spirit of liberty. 
 
 1 A constellation seen within the antarctic circle. 
 
 2 The largest of a group of islands off the southeast coast of South America, 
 belonging to Great Britain. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES. 31 
 
 I am sensible, Sir, that all which I have asserted in my detail, 
 is admitted in the gross ; but that quite a different conclusion is 
 drawn from it. America, gentlemen say, is a noble object. It is 
 an object well worth fighting for. Certainly it is, if fighting a 
 people be the best way of gaining them. Gentlemen in this re- 
 spect will be led to their choice of means by their complexions 
 and their habits. Those who understand the military art will, of 
 course, have some predilection for it. Those who wield the 
 thunder of the state, may have more confidence in the efficacy of 
 arms. But I confess, possibly for want of this knowledge, my 
 opinion is much more in favor of prudent management, than 
 of force; considering force not as an odious, but a feeble, instru- 
 ment, for preserving a people so numerous, so active, so growing, 
 so spirited as this, in a profitable and subordinate connection 
 with us. 
 
 First, Sir, permit me to observe, that the use of force alone is 
 but temporary. It may subdue for a moment; but it does not 
 remove the necessity of subduing again: and a nation is not 
 governed, which is perpetually to be conquered. 
 
 ''My next objection is its uncertainty. Terror is not always the 
 effect of force ; and an armament is not a victory. If you do not 
 succeed, you are without resource ; for, conciliation failing, force 
 remains; but, force faihng, no further hope of reconciliation is 
 left. Power and authority are sometimes bought by kindness; 
 but they can never be begged as alms by an impoverished and 
 defeated violence. 
 
 A further objection to force is, that you impair the object by 
 your very endeavors to preserve it. The thing you fought for is 
 not the thing which you recover — but depreciated, sunk, wasted, 
 and consumed in the contest. Nothing less will content me, 
 than whole America, I do not choose to consume its strength 
 along with our own ; because in all parts it is the British strength 
 that I consume. I do not choose to be caught by a foreign 
 enemy at the end of this exhausting conflict ; and still less in the 
 midst of it. I may escape ; but I can make no insurance against 
 such an event. Let me add, that I do not choose wholly to 
 
32 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 break the American spirit ; because it is the spirit that has made 
 the country. 
 
 Lastly, we have no sort of experience in favor of force as an in- 
 strument in the rule of our colonies. Their growth and their 
 utility has been owing to methods altogether different. Our 
 ancient indulgence has been said to be pursued to a fault. It 
 may be so. But we know, if feeling is evidence, that our fault 
 is more tolerable than our attempt to mend it; and our sin far 
 more salutary than our penitence. 
 
 These, Sir, are my reasons for not entertaining that high opin- 
 ion of untried force, by which many gentlemen, for whose senti- 
 ments in other particulars I have great respect, seem to be so 
 greatly captivated. But there is still behind a third consideration 
 concerning this object, which serves to determine my opinion on 
 the sort of policy which ought to be pursued in the management 
 of America, even more than its population and its commerce. 
 I mean its temper and character. 
 
 In this character of the Americans, a love of freedom is the 
 predominating feature which marks and distinguishes the whole ;" 
 and as an ardent is always a jealous affection, your colonies be- 
 come suspicious, restive, and untractable, whenever they see the 
 least attempt to wrest from them by force, or shuffle from them 
 by chicane, what they think the only advantage worth living for. 
 This fierce spirit of liberty is stronger in the English colonies, 
 probably, than in any other people of the earth ; and this from a 
 great variety of powerful causes, which, to understand the true 
 temper of their minds, and the direction which this spirit takes, it 
 will not be amiss to lay open somewhat more largely. 
 
 First, the people of the colonies are descendants of English- 
 men. England, Sir, is a nation which still, I hope, respects, and 
 formerly adored, her freedom. The colonists emigrated from you 
 when this part of your character was most predominant; and 
 they took this bias and direction the moment they parted from 
 your hands. They are therefore not only devoted to liberty, but 
 to liberty according to English ideas, and on English principles. 
 Abstract liberty, like other mere abstractions, is not to be found. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES. T^Z 
 
 Liberty inheres in some sensible object; and every nation has 
 formed to itself some favorite point which, by way of eminence, 
 becomes the criterion of their happiness. It happened, you 
 know, Sir, that the great contests for freedom in this country 
 were from the earliest times chiefly upon the question of taxing. 
 Most of the contests in the ancient commonwealths turned pri- 
 marily on the right of election of magistrates, or on the balance 
 among the several orders of the state. The question of money 
 was not with them so immediate. But in England it was other- 
 wise. On this point of taxes the ablest pens and most eloquent 
 tongues have been exercised, the greatest spirits have acted and 
 suffered. In order to give the fullest satisfaction concerning the 
 importance of this point, it was not only necessary for those, who 
 in argument defended the excellence of the English constitution, 
 to insist on this privilege of granting money as a dry point of 
 fact, and to prove that the right had been acknowledged in 
 ancient parchments and blind usages to reside in a certain body 
 called a House of Commons. ^iThey went much farther; they 
 attempted to prove, and they succeeded, that in theory it ought 
 to be so, from the particular nature of a House of Commons as 
 an immediate representative of the people, whether the old rec- 
 ords had delivered this oracle or not. They took infinite pains 
 to inculcate, as a fundamental principle, that in all monarchies 
 the people must in effect themselves, mediately or immediately,^ 
 possess the power of granting their own money, or no shadow 
 of liberty could subsist. The colonies draw from you, as with 
 their lifeblood, these ideas and principles — their love of liberty, 
 as with you, fixed and attached on this specific point of taxing. 
 Liberty might be safe, or might be endangered, in twenty other 
 particulars, without their being much pleased or alarmed. Here 
 they felt its pulse; and as they found that beat, they thought 
 themselves sick or sound. I do not say whether they were right 
 or wrong in applying your general arguments to their own case. 
 It is not easy, indeed, to make a monopoly of theorems and 
 corollaries. The fact is that they did thus apply those gen- 
 
 1" Mediately or immediately," i.e., indirectly or directly. 
 
34 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 eral arguments; and your mode of governing them, whether 
 through lenity or indolence, through wisdom or mistake, con- 
 firmed them in the imagination that they, as well as you, had an 
 interest in these common principles. 
 
 They were further confirmed in this pleasing error by the 
 form of their provincial legislative assemblies. Their govern- 
 ments are popular in a high degree. Some are merely popular; in 
 all, the popular representative is the most weighty ; and this share 
 of the people in their 'ordinary government never fails to inspire 
 them with lofty sentiments, and with a strong aversion from 
 whatever tends to deprive them of their chief importance. 
 
 If anything were wanting to this necessary operation of the 
 form of government, religion would have given it a complete 
 effect. Religion, always a principle of energy, in this new people 
 is no way worn out or impaired ; and their mode of professing it 
 is also one main cause of this free spirit. The people are Protes- 
 tants, and of that kind which is the most adverse to all implicit 
 submission of mind and opinion. This is a persuasion not only 
 favorable to liberty, but built upon it. I do not think. Sir, that 
 the reason of this averseness in the dissenting churches, from all 
 that looks like absolute government, is so much to be sought in 
 their religious tenets as in their history. Every one knows that 
 the Roman Catholic religion is at least coeval with most of the 
 governments where it prevails ; that it has generally gone hand 
 in hand with them, and received great favor and every kind 
 of support from authority. The Church of England, too, was 
 formed from her cradle under the nursing care of regular govern- 
 ment. But the dissenting interests have sprung up in direct op- 
 position to all the ordinary powers of the world, and could justify 
 that opposition only on a strong claim to natural liberty. Their 
 very existence depended on the powerful and unremitted asser- 
 tion of that claim. All Protestantism, even the most cold and 
 passive, is a sort of dissent. But the religion most prevalent in 
 our northern colonies is a refinement on the principle of resist- 
 ance; it is the dissidence of dissent,^ and the Protestantism of 
 
 1 " Dissidence of dissent," i.e., the very essence of dissent. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 35 
 
 the Protestant religion. This rehgion, under a variety of denom- 
 inations agreeing in nothing but in the communion of the spirit 
 of liberty, is predominant in most of the northern provinces, where 
 the Church of England, notwithstanding its legal rights, is in 
 reality no more than a sort of private sect, not composing, most 
 probably, the tenth of the people. The colonists left England 
 when this spirit was high, and in the emigrants was the highest 
 of all ; and even that stream of foreigners which has been con- 
 stantly flowing into these colonies has, for the greatest part, been 
 composed of dissenters from the establishments of their several 
 countries, and they have brought with them a temper and char- 
 acter far from alien to that of the people with whom they mixed. 
 Sir, I can ])erceive by their manner that some gentlemen object 
 to the latitude of this description, because in the southern colo- 
 nies the Church of England forms a large body, and has a reg- 
 ular establishment. It is certainly true. There is, however, a 
 circumstance attending these colonies which, in my opinion, fully 
 counterbalances this difference, and makes the spirit of liberty 
 still more high and haughty than in those to the northward. It 
 is that in Virginia and in the Carohnas they have a vast multi- 
 tude of slaves. Where this is the case in any part of the world, 
 those who are free are by far the most proud and jealous of their' 
 freedom. Freedom is to them not only an enjoyment, but a kind 
 of rank and privilege. Not seeing there that freedom, as in coun- 
 tries where it is a common blessing and as broad and general as 
 the air, may be united with much abject toil, with great misery, 
 with all the exterior of servitude, liberty looks amongst them like 
 something that is more noble and liberal. I do not mean. Sir, to 
 commend the superior morality of this sentiment, which has at 
 least as much pride as virtue in it ; but I cannot alter the nature 
 of man. The fact is so ; and these people of the southern colo- 
 nies are much miore strongly, and with a higher and more stubborn 
 spirit, attached to liberty than those to the northward. Such 
 were all the ancient commonwealths \ such were our Gothic ^ an- 
 
 1 The ancestors of the English were the Angles and not the Goths ; both 
 were Teutonic tribes. 
 
36 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 cestors ; such in our days were the Poles ; i and such will be all 
 masters of slaves who are not slaves themselves. In such a peo- 
 ple the haughtiness of domination combines with the spirit of 
 freedom, fortifies it, and renders it invincible. 
 
 Permit me, Sir, to add another circumstance in our colonies, 
 which contributes no mean part toward the growth and effect of 
 this untractable spirit. I mean their education. In no country 
 perhaps in the world is the law so general a study. The profes- 
 sion itself is numerous and powerful; and in most provinces it 
 takes the lead. The greater number of the deputies sent to the 
 Congress ^ were lawyers. But all who read — and most do read — 
 endeavor to obtain some smattering in that science. I have been 
 told by an eminent bookseller, that in no branch of his business, 
 after tracts of popular devotion, were so many books as those on 
 the law exported to the plantations. The colonists have now 
 fallen into the way of printing them for their own use. I hear 
 that they have sold nearly as many of Blackstone's " Commenta- 
 ries " 3 in America as in England. General Gage ^ marks out this 
 disposition very particularly in a letter on your table. He states 
 that all the people in his government are lawyers, or smatterers 
 in law ; and that in Boston they have been enabled, by successful 
 chicane, wholly to evade many parts of one of your capital penal 
 constitutions. 
 
 The smartness of debate will say that this knowledge ought to 
 teach them more clearly the rights of legislature, their obligation 
 to obedience, and the penalties of rebellion. All this is mighty 
 well. But my honorable and learned friend^ on the floor, who 
 
 1 There were but two classes in Poland, nobles and serfs. The nobles had 
 been struggling for freer institutions, but the partition of Poland between 
 Austria, Germany, and Russia in 1772 had defeated their hopes. 
 
 2 The First Colonial Congress, which met in Philadelphia in September, 
 1774. 
 
 3 Sir William Blackstone (i 723-1 780) wrote Commentaries on the Laws 
 of England, a work extensively used by students of law. Its popularity is 
 due largely to the clearness and perfection of its style. 
 
 4 Then commander of the British troops in Boston. 
 
 5 The attorney-general, Thurlow. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, ^7 
 
 condescends to mark what I say for animadversion, will disdain 
 that ground. He has heard, as well as I, that when great honors 
 and emoluments do not win over this knowledge to the service 
 of the state, it is a formidable adversary to government. If the 
 spirit be not tamed and broken by these happy methods, it is stub- 
 born and litigious. Abeunt studia in mores)- This study renders 
 men acute, inquisitive, dexterous, prompt in attack, ready in de- 
 fense, full of resources. In other countries, the people, more 
 simple and of a less mercurial cast, judge of an ill principle in 
 government only by an actual grievance ; here they anticipate the 
 evil, and judge of the pressure of the grievance by the badness of 
 the principle. They augur misgovemment at a distance, and snuff 
 the approach of tyranny in every tainted breeze. 
 
 The last cause of this disobedient spirit in the colonies is 
 hardly less powerful than the rest, as it is not merely moral, but 
 laid deep in the natural constitution of things. Three thousand 
 miles of ocean lie between you and them. No contrivance can 
 prevent the effect of this distance in weakening government. 
 Seas roll and months pass between the order and the execution ; 
 and the want of a speedy explanation of a single point is enough 
 to defeat a whole system. You have, indeed, winged ministers of 
 vengeance,'^ who carry your bolts in their pounces ^ to the remotest 
 verge of the sea. But there a power steps in, that limits the ar- 
 rogance of raging passions and furious elements, and says, " So 
 far shalt thou go, and no further." ^ Who are you, that should 
 fret and rage, and bite the chains of nature ? Nothing worse 
 happens to you than does to all nations who have extensive em- 
 pire ; and it happens in all the forms into which empire can be 
 thrown. In large bodies, the circulation of power must be less 
 vigorous at the extremities. Nature has said it. The Turk can- 
 not govern Egypt, and Arabia, and Kurdistan,^ as he governs 
 
 1 " Pursuits become habits." See Ovid, Heroides, xv. ^Z 
 
 2 Warships. 3 Talons. 
 
 ^ See Job xxxviii. ii, " Hitherto shah thou come, but no further." 
 6 A country in western Asia, belonging partly to Persia and partly to 
 Turkey. 
 
3^ EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 Thrace; nor has he the same dominion in Crimea and Algiers, 
 which he has at Brusa i and Smyrna. Despotism itself is obHged 
 to truck and huckster.^ The Sultan gets such obedience as he 
 can. He governs with a loose rein, that he may govern at all ; 
 and the whole of the force and vigor of his authority in his center 
 is derived from a prudent relaxation in all his borders. Spain, 
 in her provinces, is, perhaps, not so well obeyed as you are in 
 yours. She complies, too ; she submits ; she watches times. This 
 is the immutable condition, the eternal law, of extensive and de- 
 tached empire. 
 
 Then, Sir, from these six capital sources, — of descent, of form 
 of government, of religion in the northern provinces, of man- 
 ners in the southern, of education, of the remoteness of situa- 
 tion from the first mover of government, — from all these causes 
 a fierce spirit of liberty has grown up. It has grown with the 
 growth of the people in your colonies, and increased with the 
 increase of their wealth ; a spirit that, unhappily meeting with an 
 exercise of power in England, which, however lawful, is not rec- 
 oncilable to any ideas of liberty, much less with theirs, has kin- 
 dled this flame that is ready to consume us. 
 
 I do not mean to commend either the spirit in this excess, or 
 the moral causes which produce it. Perhaps a more smooth and 
 accommodating spirit of freedom in them would be more accep- 
 table to us. Perhaps ideas of liberty might be desired, more 
 reconcilable with an arbitrary and boundless authority. Perhaps 
 we might wish the colonists to be persuaded, that their liberty is 
 more secure when held in trust for them by us (as their guar- 
 dians during a perpetual minority), than with any part of it in 
 their own hands. The question is, not whether their spirit de- 
 serves praise or blame, but — what, in the name of God, shall 
 we do with it ? You have before you the object, such as it is, 
 with all its glories, with all its imperfections on its head.^ You 
 see the magnitude; the importance; the temper; the habits; 
 
 1 A city in Asia Minor, between Constantinople and Smyrna. 
 
 2 "Truck and huckster," i.e., resort to petty bargaining. 
 
 3 See Shakespeare, Hamlet, act i., sc. 5. 
 
• WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES. 39 
 
 the disorders. By all these considerations we are strongly urged 
 to determine something concerning it. We are called upon to 
 fix some rule and line for our future conduct, which may give a 
 little stability to our politics, and prevent the return of such un- 
 happy dehberations as the present. Every such return will bring 
 the matter before us in a still more untractable form. For what 
 astonishing and incredible things have we not seen already ! 
 What monsters have not been generated from this unnatural con- 
 tention ! Whilst every principle of authority and resistance has 
 been pushed, upon both sides, as far as it would go, there is no- 
 thing so solid and certain, either in reasoning or in practice, that 
 has not been shaken. 
 
 Until very lately, all authority in America seemed to be nothing 
 but an emanation from yours. Even the popular part of the col- 
 ony constitution derived all its activity and its first vital movement 
 from the pleasure of the Crown. We thought. Sir, that the ut- 
 most which the discontented colonists could do, was to disturb 
 authority ; we never dreamt they could of themselves supply it, 
 knowing in general what an operose business it is to establish a 
 government absolutely new. But having, for our purposes in this 
 contention, resolved that none but an obedient assembly should 
 sit, the humors of the people there, finding all passage through 
 the legal channel stopped, with great violence broke out another 
 way. Some provinces have tried their experiment, as we have 
 tried ours ; and theirs has succeeded. They have formed a gov- 
 ernment sufficient for its purposes, without the bustle of a revolu- 
 tion or the troublesome formality of an election. Evident neces- 
 sity and tacit consent have done the business in an instant. So 
 well they have done it, that Lord Dunmore i (the account is 
 among the fragments on your table) tells you that the new insti- 
 tution is infinitely better obeyed than the ancient government ever 
 was in its most fortunate periods. Obedience is what makes gov- 
 ernment, and not the names by which it is called ; not the name 
 of governor, as formerly, or committee, as at present. This new 
 government has originated directly from the people, and was not 
 
 1 Then governor of Virginia. 
 
40 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 transmitted through any of the ordinary artificial media of a posi- 
 tive constitution. It was not a manufacture ready formed, and 
 transmitted to them in that condition from England. The evil 
 arising from hence is this : that the colonists, having once found 
 the possibihty of enjoying the advantages of order in the midst of 
 a struggle for liberty, such struggles will not henceforward seem 
 so terrible to the settled and sober part of mankind as they had 
 appeared before the trial. 
 
 Pursuing the same plan of punishing by the denial of the exer- 
 cise of government to still greater lengths, we wholly abrogated 
 the ancient government of Massachusetts.^ We were confident 
 that the first feeling, if not the very prospect of anarchy, would 
 instantly enforce a complete submission. The experiment was 
 tried. A new, strange, unexpected face of things appeared. 
 Anarchy is found tolerable. A vast province has now subsisted — 
 and subsisted in a considerable degree of health and vigor — for 
 near a twelvemonth, without governor, without public council, 
 without judges, without executive magistrates. How long it will 
 continue in this state, or what may arise out of this unheard-of 
 situation, how can the wisest of us conjecture ? Our late experi- 
 ence has taught us, that many of those fundamental principles, 
 formerly beHeved infallible, are either not of the importance they 
 were imagined to be ; or that we have not at all adverted to some 
 other far more important and far more powerful principles, which 
 entirely overrule those we had considered as omnipotent. I am 
 much against any further experiments which tend to put to the 
 proof any more of these allowed opinions which contribute so 
 much to the public tranquiUity. In effect, we suffer as much at 
 home by this loosening of all ties, and this concussion of all estab- 
 lished opinions, as we do abroad. For, in order to prove that the 
 Americans have no right to their liberties, we are every day en- 
 deavoring to subvert the maxims which preserve the whole spirit 
 
 1 In 1774, acts were passed by Parliament transferring to the king the 
 appointment of all judges and administrative officers in the colony of Massa- 
 chusetts, and forbidding the holding of town meetings without the consent of 
 the governor. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COIONIES. 41 
 
 of our own. To prove that the Americans ought not to be free, 
 we are obliged to depreciate the value of freedom itself; and we 
 never seem to gain a paltry advantage over them in debate, with- 
 out attacking some of those principles^ or deriding some of those 
 feelings, for which our ancestors have shed their blood. 
 
 But, Sir, in wishing to put an end to pernicious experiments, I 
 do noi mean to preclude the fullest inquiry. Far from it ! Far 
 from deciding on a sudden or partial view, I would patiently go 
 round and round the subject, and survey it minutely in every 
 possible aspect. Sir, if I were capable of engaging you to an 
 equal attention, I would state that, as far as I am capable of dis- 
 cerning, there are but three ways of proceeding relative to this 
 stubborn spirit which prevails in your colonies and disturbs your 
 government. These are : to change that spirit, as inconvenient, 
 by removing the causes; to prosecute it as criminal; or to 
 comply with it as necessary. I would not be guilty of an imper- 
 fect enumeration; I can think of but these three. Another has 
 indeed been started — that of giving up the colonies; but it met 
 so slight a reception that I do not think myself obhged to dwell a 
 great while upon it. It is nothing but a little sally of anger, like 
 the frowardness of peevish children, who, when they cannot get 
 all they would have, are resolved to take nothing. 
 
 The first of these plans, — to change the spirit as inconvenient 
 by removing the causes, — I think, is the most like a systematic 
 proceeding. It is radical in its principle ; but it is attended with 
 great difficulties, some of them little short, as I conceive, of impos- 
 sibiHties. This will appear by examining into the plans which 
 have been proposed. 
 
 As the growing population in the colonies is evidently one 
 cause of their resistance, it was, last session, mentioned in both 
 Houses, by men of weight, and received not without applause, 
 that in order to check this evil it would be proper for the Crown 
 to make no further grants of land. But to this scheme there are 
 two objections. The first, that there is already so much unsettled 
 land in private hands as to afford room for an immense future 
 population, although the Crown not only withheld its grants but 
 
42 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 annihilated its soil. If this be the case, then the only effect of 
 this avarice of desolation, this hoarding of a royal wilderness, 
 would be to raise the value of the possessions in the hands of the 
 great private monopolists, without any adequate check to the 
 growing and alarming mischief of population. 
 
 But if you stopped your grants, what would be the conse- 
 quence ? The people would occupy without grants. Thq|^ have 
 already so occupied in many places. You cannot station garri- 
 sons in every part of these deserts. If you drive the people from 
 one place, they will carry on their annual tillage, and remove witli 
 their flocks and herds to another. Many of the people in the 
 back settlements are already little attached to particular situations. 
 Already they have topped the Appalachian mountains. From 
 thence they behold before them an immense plain — one vast, 
 rich, level meadow, a square of five hundred miles. Over this 
 they would wander without a possibihty of restraint ; they would 
 change their manners with the habits of their life; would soon 
 forget a government by which they were disowned ; would become 
 hordes of English Tartars,^ and, pouring down upon your unfor- 
 tified frontiers a fierce and irresistible cavalry, become masters of 
 your governors and your counselors, your collectors and comp- 
 trollers, and of all the slaves that adhered to them. Such would, 
 and, in no long time, must be, the effect of attempting to forbid 
 as a crime, and to suppress as an evil, the command and blessing 
 of Providence, " Increase and multiply." ^ Such would be the 
 happy result of an endeavor to keep as a lair of wild beasts that 
 earth which God, by an express charter, has given to the children 
 of men. '^ Far different, and surely much wiser, has been our 
 poHcy hitherto. Hitherto we have invited our people, by every 
 kind of bounty, to fixed establishments. We have invited the 
 husbandman to look to authority for his title. We have taught 
 him piously to believe in the mysterious virtue of wax and parch- 
 
 1 The Tartars were a fierce Mongol tribe, which invaded Russia in Europe 
 in the thirteenth century. 
 
 2 See Gen. i. 22. 
 
 3 See Ps. cxv. 16. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 43 
 
 ment.i We have thrown each tract of land^ as it was peopled, 
 into districts, that the ruHng power should never be wholly out 
 of sight. We have settled all we could \ and we have carefully 
 attended every settlement with government. 
 
 Adhering, Sir, as I do, to this policy, as well as for the reasons 
 I have just given, I think this new project of hedging in popula- 
 tion to be neither prudent nor practicable. 
 
 To impoverish the colonies in general, and in particular to 
 arrest the noble course of their marine enterprises, would be a 
 more easy task. I freely confess it. We have shown a disposi- 
 tion to a system of this kind; a disposition even to continue the 
 restraint after the offense, looking on ourselves as rivals to our 
 colonies, and persuaded that of course we must gain all that they 
 shall lose. Much mischief we may certainly do. The power 
 inadequate to all other things is often more than sufficient for this. 
 I do not look on the direct and immediate power of the colonies 
 to resist our violence as very formidable. In this, however, I may 
 be mistaken. But when I consider that we have colonies for no 
 purpose but to be serviceable to us, it seems to my poor under- 
 standing a little preposterous to make them unserviceable in 
 order to keep them obedient. It is, in truth, nothing more than 
 the old and (as I thought) exploded problem of tyranny, which 
 proposes to beggar its subjects into submission. But remember, 
 when you have completed your system of impoverishment, that 
 nature still proceeds in her ordinary course ; that discontent will 
 increase with misery ; and that there are critical moments in the 
 fortune of all states, when they who are too weak to contribute to 
 your prosperity may be strong enough to complete your ruin. 
 Spoliaiis a?'ma super sunt?' 
 
 The temper and character which prevail in our colonies are, I 
 am afraid, unalterable by any human art. We cannot, I fear, 
 falsify the pedigree of this fierce people, and persuade them that 
 they are not sprung from a nation in whose veins the blood of 
 freedom circulates. The language in which they would hear you 
 
 1 " Wax and parchment," i. e., legal procedure. 
 
 2 "Though plundered they yet have arms." See Juvenal, Sat. viii. 
 
44 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 tell them this tale would detect the imposition ; your speech would 
 betray you. An Englishman is the unfittest person on earth to 
 argue another Englishman into slavery. 
 
 I think it is nearly as little in our power to change their repub- 
 lican religion as their free descent, or to substitute the Roman 
 Cathohc as a penalty, or the Church of England as an improve- 
 ment. The mode of inquisition and dragooning i is going out of 
 fashion in the Old World; and I should not confide much to their 
 efficacy in the New. The education of the Americans is also on 
 the same unalterable bottom with their religion. You cannot 
 persuade them to burn their books of curious science, to banish 
 their lawyers from their courts of laws, or to quench the lights 
 of their assemblies by refusing to choose those persons who are 
 best read in their privileges. It would be no less impracticable 
 to think of wholly annihilating the popular assemblies in which 
 these lawyers sit. The army by which we must govern in their 
 place would be far more chargeable to us ; not quite so effectual, 
 and perhaps in the end full as difficult to be kept in obedience. 
 
 With regard to the high aristocratic spirit of Virginia and the 
 southern colonies it has been proposed, I know, to reduce it by 
 declaring a general enfranchisement of their slaves. This project 
 has had its advocates and panegyrists, yet I never could argue 
 myself into any opinion of it. Slaves are often much attached to 
 their masters. A general wild offer of liberty would not always 
 be accepted. History furnishes few instances of it. It is some- 
 times as hard to persuade slaves to be free as it is to compel free- 
 men to be slaves ; and in this auspicious scheme we should have 
 both these pleasing tasks on our hands at once. But when we 
 talk of enfranchisement, do we not perceive that the American 
 master riiay enfranchise too, and arm servile hands in defense of 
 freedom ? — a measure to which other people have had recourse 
 more than once, and not without success, in a desperate situation 
 of their affairs. 
 
 1 One device for persecuting the Protestants in France in the reign of Louis 
 XIV. was to quarter upon them dragoons, who were instructed to annoy them 
 in every conceivable way. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES. 45 
 
 Slaves as these unfortunate black people are, and dull as all 
 men are from slavery, must they not a little suspect the offer of 
 freedom from that very nation, which has sold them to their pres- 
 ent masters; from that nation, one of whose causes of quarrel 
 with those masters is their refusal to deal any more in that inhu- 
 man traffic ? An offer of freedom from England would come 
 rather oddly, shipped to them in an African vessel, which is re- 
 fused an entry into the ports of Virginia or Carolina, with a cargo 
 of three hundred Angola i negroes. It would be curious to see 
 the Guinea captain attempting at the same instant to publish his 
 proclamation of liberty, and to advertise his sale of slaves. 2 
 
 But let us suppose all these moral difficulties got over. Th§ 
 ocean remains. You cannot pump this dry ; and as long as it 
 continues in its present bed, so long all the causes which weaken 
 authority by distance will continue. "Ye gods, annihilate but 
 space and time, and make two lovers happy ! "^ was a pious and 
 passionate prayer ; but just as reasonable as many of the serious 
 wishes of very grave and solemn politicians. 
 
 If, then. Sir, it seems almost desperate to think of any altera- 
 tive course for changing the moral causes (and not quite easy to 
 remove the natural) which produce prejudices irreconcilable to 
 the late exercise of our authority, — but that the spirit infallibly will 
 continue, and, continuing, will produce such effects as now em- 
 barrass us, — the second mode undeV consideration is to prosecute 
 that spirit in its overt acts as criminaL 
 
 At this proposition I must pause a moment. The thing seems 
 a great deal too big for my ideas of jurisprudence. It should 
 seem to my way of conceiving such matters, that there is a very 
 wide difference in reason and policy between the mode of pro- 
 ceeding on the irregular conduct of scattered individuals, or even 
 
 1 A colony belonging to Portugal, on the west coast of Africa, formerly 
 famous for its extensive slave trade. 
 
 2 Though the employment of slaves in England had been forbidden by a 
 law enacted in 1772, the English nation continued to carry on a very lucrative 
 trade, in negroes imported from Africa, with the American colonies. 
 
 3 From one of Dryden's plays. 
 
46 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 of bands of men, who disturb order within the state, and the 
 civil dissensions which may from time to time, on great questions, 
 agitate the several communities which compose a great empire. 
 It looks to me to be narrow and pedantic to apply the ordinary 
 ideas of criminal justice to this great public contest. I do not 
 know the method of drawing up an indictment against a whole 
 people. I cannot insult and ridicule the feelings of millions of 
 my fellow creatures as Sir Edward Coke i insulted one excellent 
 individual (Sir Walter Raleigh) at the bar. I hope I am not ripe 
 to pass sentence on the gravest pubhc bodies, intrusted with 
 magistracies of great authority and dignity, and charged with 
 J;he safety of their fellow citizens upon the very same title that I 
 am. I really think that for wise men this is not judicious; for 
 sober men, not decent; for minds tinctured with humanity, not 
 mild and merciful. 
 
 Perhaps, Sir, I am mistaken in my idea of an empire, as dis- 
 tinguished from a single state or kingdom. But my idea of it is 
 this : that an empire is the aggregate of many states under one 
 common head, whether this head be a monarch or a presiding 
 republic. It does, in such constitutions, frequently happen (and 
 nothing but the dismal, cold, dead uniformity of servitude can 
 prevent its happening) that the subordinate parts have many 
 local privileges and immunities. Between these privileges and 
 the supreme common authority the line may be extremely nice. 
 Of course disputes — often, too, very bitter disputes — and much ill 
 blood will arise. But though every privilege is an exemption (in 
 the case) from the ordinary exercise of the supreme authority, it is 
 no denial of it. The claim of a privilege seems rather, ex vi 
 termini^^ to imply a superior power. For to talk of the privileges 
 of a state, or of a person, who has no superior, is hardly any bet- 
 ter than speaking nonsense. Now, in such unfortunate quarrels 
 among the component parts of a great political union of com- 
 
 1 A noted lawyer (1552-1634), the greatest of his day. He was harsh and 
 violent in his manner, and, in the trial of Sir Walter Raleigh, treated the 
 prisoner with marked discourtesy. 
 
 2 By the meaning, or force, of the expression. k 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES. 47 
 
 munities, I can scarcely conceive anything more completely im- 
 prudent than for the head of the empire to insist that, if any privi- 
 lege is pleaded against his will or his acts, his whole authority 
 is denied ; instantly to proclaim rebellion, to beat to arms, and to 
 put the offending provinces under the ban. Will not this. Sir, 
 very soon teach the provinces to make no distinctions on their 
 part ? Will it not teach them that the government, against which 
 a claim of liberty is tantamount to high treason, is a government 
 to which submission is equivalent to slavery ? It may not always 
 be quite convenient to impress dependent communities with such 
 an idea. 
 
 We are, indeed, in all disputes with the colonies, by the neces- 
 sity of things, the judge. It is true, Sir. But I confess that the 
 character of judge in my own cause is a thing that frightens me. 
 Instead of filling me with pride, I am exceedingly humbled by it. 
 I cannot proceed with a stern, assured, judicial confidence, until 
 I find myself in something more like a judicial character. I 
 must have these hesitations as long as I am compelled to recol- 
 lect that, in my little reading upon such contests as these, the 
 sense of mankind has, at least, as often decided against the su- 
 perior as the subordinate power. Sir, let me add, too, that the 
 opinion of my having some abstract right in my favor would not 
 put me much at my ease in passing sentence, unless I could be 
 sure that there were no rights which, in their exercise under cer- 
 tain circumstances, were not the most odious of all wrongs, and 
 the most vexatious of all injustice. Sir, these considerations 
 have great weight with me, when I find things so circumstanced 
 that I see the same party, at once a civil litigant against me in 
 point of right, and a culprit before me ; while I sit as a criminal 
 judge on acts of his, whose moral quafity is to be decided upon 
 the merits of that very litigation. Men are every now and then 
 put, by the complexity of human affairs, into strange situations ; 
 but justice is the same, let the judge be in what situation he will. 
 
 There is, Sir, also a circumstance which convinces me that this 
 mode of criminal proceeding is not (at least in the present stage 
 of our contest) altogether expedient ; which is nothing less than 
 
48 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 the conduct of those very persons who have seemed to adopt 
 that mode, by lately declaring a rebellion in Massachusetts Bay, 
 as they had formerly addressed to have traitors brought hither, 
 under an act of Henry VIII. i for trial. For though rebelHon is 
 declared, it is not proceeded against as such ; nor have any steps 
 been taken toward the apprehension or conviction of any indi- 
 vidual offender, either on our late or our former address ; but 
 modes of public coercion have been adopted, and such as have 
 much more resemblance to a sort of qualified hostility toward an 
 independent power than the punishment of rebelHous subjects. 
 All this seems rather inconsistent; but it shows how difficult it is 
 to apply these juridical ideas to our present case. 
 
 In this situation, let us seriously and coolly ponder. What is 
 it we have got by all our menaces, which have been many and 
 ferocious ? What advantage have we derived from the penal 
 laws we have passed, and which, for the time, have been severe 
 and numerous ? What advances have we made toward our ob- 
 ject, by the sending of a force, which, by land and sea, is no con- 
 temptible strength ? Has the disorder abated ? Nothing less. 2 
 When I see things in this situation, after such confident hopes, 
 bold promises, and active exertions, I cannot, for my life, avoid a 
 suspicion that the plan itself is not correctly right. 
 
 If, then, the removal of the causes of this spirit of American 
 liberty be, for the greater part, or rather entirely, impracticable ; 
 if the ideas of criminal process be inapplicable, or if appHcable, 
 are in the highest degree inexpedient, what way yet remains? 
 No way is open but the third and last — to comply with the 
 American spirit as necessary ; or, if you please, to submit to it as 
 a necessary evil. 
 
 If we adopt this mode, if we mean to conciliate and concede, 
 let us see of what nature the concession ought to be. To ascertain 
 the nature of our concession, we must look at their complaint. 
 The colonies complain that they have not the characteristic 
 mark and seal of British freedom. They complain that they are 
 
 1 King of England from 1509 to 1547. 
 
 2 " Nothing less," i.e., nothing has abated le^. 
 
1 WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 49 
 
 taxed in a Parliament in which they are not represented. If you 
 mean to satisfy them at all, you must satisfy them with regard to 
 this complaint. If you mean to please any people, you must 
 give them the boon which they ask; not what you may think 
 better for them, but of a kind totally different. Such an act may 
 be a wise regulation, but it is no concession ; whereas our present 
 theme is the mode of giving satisfaction. 
 
 Sir, I think you must perceive that I am resolved this day to 
 have nothing at all to do with the question of the right of taxa- 
 tion. Some gentlemen startle — but it is true ; I put it totally out 
 of the question. It is less than nothing in my consideration. I 
 do not indeed wonder, nor will you. Sir, that gentlemen of pro- 
 found learning are fond of displaying it on this profound subject. 
 But my consideration is narrow, confined, and wholly Hmited to 
 the policy of the question. I do not examine whether the giving 
 away a man's money be a power excepted and reserved out of 
 the general trust of government; and how far all mankind, in 
 all forms of polity, are entitled to an exercise of that right by the 
 charter of nature. Or whether, on the contrary, a right of taxa- 
 tion is necessarily involved in the general principle of legislation, 
 and inseparable from the ordinary supreme power. These are 
 deep questions, where great names militate against each other, 
 where reason is perplexed, and an appeal to authorities only 
 thickens the confusion. For high and reverend authorities lift up 
 their heads on both sides, and there is no sure footing in the mid- 
 dle. This point is the great 
 
 Serbonian bog, 
 
 *Twixt Damiata and Mount Cassius old, 
 
 Where armies whole have sunk.^ 
 
 I do not intend to be overwhelmed in that bog, though in such 
 respectable company. 
 
 1 See Milton, Paradise Lost, Book ii., lines 592, 593. Lake Serbonis 
 was surrounded by high hills of sand, which was often carried into the water 
 by violent winds, and floated on the surface, giving the lake a solid appear- 
 ance. Herodotus and Diodorus Siculus speak of armies that had disappeared 
 in its depths. 
 4 
 
50 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 The question with me is, not whether you have a right to render 
 your people miserable, but whether it is not your interest to make 
 them happy. It is not what a lawyer tells me I may do; but 
 what humanity, reason, and justice tell me I ought to do. Is a 
 politic act the worse for being a generous one ? Is no concession 
 proper but that which is made from your want of right to keep 
 what you grant ? Or does it lessen the grace or dignity of relax- 
 ing in the exercise of an odious claim, because you have your 
 evidence room full of titles, and your magazines stuffed with arms 
 to enforce them ? What signify all those titles, and all those arms ? 
 Of what avail are they, when the reason of the thing tells me that 
 the assertion of my title is the loss of my suit, and that I could do 
 nothing but wound myself by the use of my own weapons ? 
 
 Such is steadfastly my opinion of the absolute necessity of 
 keeping up the concord of this empire by a unity of spirit, 
 though in a diversity of operations, that, if I were sure the colo- 
 nists had, at their leaving this country, sealed a regular compact 
 of servitude; that they had solemnly abjured all the rights of 
 citizens; that they had made a vow to renounce all ideas of 
 liberty for them and their posterity to all generations; yet I 
 should hold myself obhged to conform to the temper I found 
 universally prevalent in my own day, and to govern two millions 
 of men, impatient of servitude, on the principles of freedom. I 
 am not determining a point of law ; I am restoring tranquillity ; 
 and the general character and situation of a people must determine 
 what sort of government is fitted for them. That point nothing 
 else can or ought to determine. 
 
 My idea, therefore, without considering whether we yield as 
 matter of right, or grant as matter of favor, is to admit the people 
 of our colonies into an interest i?t the constitution; and, by record- 
 ing that admission in the journals of Parliament, to give them as 
 strong an assurance as the nature of the thing will admit, that we 
 mean forever to adhere to that solemn declaration of systematic 
 indulgence. 
 
 Some years ago, the repeal of a revenue act, upon its under- 
 stood principle, might have served to show that we intended an 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 51 
 
 unconditional abatement of the exercise of a taxing power. Such 
 a measure was then sufficient to remove all suspicion, and to give 
 perfect content. But unfortunate events since that time may 
 make something further necessary; and not more necessary for 
 the satisfaction of the colonies than for the dignity and con- 
 sistency of our own future proceedings. 
 
 I have taken a very incorrect measure of the disposition of the 
 House, if this proposal in itself would be received with dislike. I 
 think, Sir, we have few American financiers. But our misfortune 
 is, we are too acute; we are too exquisite in our conjectures of 
 the future, for men oppressed with such great and present evils. 
 The more moderate among the opposers of parliamentary conces- 
 sion freely confess that they hope no good from taxation; but 
 they apprehend the colonists have further views, and, if this [)oint 
 were conceded, they would instantly attack the trade laws. 
 These gentlemen are convinced that this was the intention from 
 the beginning, and the quarrel of the Americans with taxation 
 was no more than a cloak and cover to this design. Such 
 has been the language even of a gentleman of real moder- 
 ation, and of a natural temper well adjusted to fair and equal 
 government. I am, however. Sir, not a little surprised at this 
 kind of discourse, whenever I hear it; and I am the more sur- 
 prised, on account of the arguments which I constantly find in 
 company with it, and which are often urged from the same 
 mouths, and on the same day. 
 
 For instance, when we allege that it is against reason to tax a 
 people under so many restraints in trade as the Americans, the 
 noble lord in the blue riband shall tell you that the restraints on 
 trade are futile and useless, of no advantage to us, and of no 
 burthen to those on whom they are imposed ; that the trade to 
 America is not secured by the acts of navigation, but by the 
 natural and irresistible advantage of a commercial preference. 
 
 Such is the merit of the trade laws in this posture of the de- 
 bate. But when strong internal circumstances are urged against 
 the taxes, when the scheme is dissected, when experience and 
 the nature of things are brought to prove (and do prove) the 
 
52 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 Utter impossibility of obtaining an effective revenue from the 
 colonies, — when these things are pressed, or rather press them- 
 selves, so as to drive the advocates of colony taxes to a clear 
 admission of the futility of the scheme, — then, Sir, the sleeping 
 trade laws revive from their trance ; and this useless taxation is 
 to be kept sacred, not for its own sake, but as a counter-guard 
 and security of the laws of trade. 
 
 Then, Sir, you keep up revenue laws which are mischievous, in 
 order to preserve trade laws that are useless. Such is the wis- 
 dom of our plan in both its members. They are separately given 
 up as of no value ; and yet one is always to be defended for the 
 sake of the other. But I cannot agree with the noble lord, nor 
 with the pamphlet 1 from whence he seems to have borrowed these 
 ideas concerning the inutility of the trade laws. For, without 
 idolizing them, I am sure they are still, in many ways, of great 
 use to us ; and in former times they have been of the greatest. 
 They do confine, and they do greatly narrow, the market for the 
 Americans. But my perfect conviction of this does not help me 
 in the least to discern how the revenue laws form any security 
 whatsoever to the commercial regulations; or that these com- 
 mercial regulations are the true ground of the quarrel; or that 
 the giving way, in any one instance, of authority is to lose all 
 that may remain unconceded. 
 
 One fact is clear and indisputable. The public and avowed 
 origin of this quarrel was on taxation. This quarrel has indeed 
 brought on new disputes on new questions; but certainly the 
 least bitter, and the fewest of all, on the trade laws. To judge 
 which of the two be the real, radical cause of quarrel, we have 
 to see whether the commercial dispute did, in order of time, 
 precede the dispute on taxation ? There is not a shadow of 
 evidence for it. Next, to enable us to judge whether at this 
 moment a dislike to the trade laws be the real cause of quarrel, 
 it is absolutely necessary to put the taxes out of the question by 
 
 1 Written by Dr. Tucker, Dean of Gloucester, who wrote tracts on politi- 
 cal and commercial subjects, and advocated granting the Americans inde- 
 pendence. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 53 
 
 a repeal. See how the Americans act in this position, and then 
 you will be able to discern correctly what is the true object of 
 the controversy, or whether any controversy at all will remain. 
 Unless you consent to remove this cause of difference, it is im- 
 possible, with decency, to assert that the dispute is not upon what 
 it is avowed to be. And I would. Sir, recommend to your seri- 
 ous consideration, whether it be prudent to form a rule for pun- 
 ishing people, not on their own acts but on your conjectures ? 
 Surely it is preposterous at the very best. It is not justifying 
 your anger by their misconduct; but it is converting your ill- 
 will into their delinquency. 
 
 But the colonies will go further. Alas ! alas ! When will this 
 speculating against fact and reason end ? What will quiet these 
 panic fears which we entertain of the hostile effect of a concilia- 
 tory conduct ? Is it true that no case can exist in which it is 
 proper for the sovereign to accede to the desires of his discon- 
 tented subjects ? Is there anything peculiar in this case, to make 
 a rule for itself? Is all authority of course lost, when it is not 
 pushed to the extreme ? Is it a certain maxim, that the fewer 
 causes of dissatisfaction are left by government, the more the sub- 
 ject will be inclined to resist and rebel ? 
 
 All these objections being in fact no more than suspicions, con- 
 jectures, divinations, formed in defiance of fact and experience, 
 they did not. Sir, discourage me from entertaining the idea of a 
 conciliatory concession, founded on the principles which I have 
 just stated. 
 
 In forming a plan for this purpose, I endeavored to put my- 
 self in that frame of mind which was the most natural, and the 
 most reasonable, and which was certainly the most probable 
 means of securing me from all error. I set out with a perfect 
 distrust of my own abilities, a total renunciation of every specu- 
 lation of my own, and with a profound reverence for the wisdom 
 of our ancestors, who have left us the inheritance of so happy a 
 constitution, and so flourishing an empire, and — what is a thou- 
 sand times more valuable — the treasury of the maxims and prin- 
 ciples which formed the one and obtained the other. 
 
54 
 
 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 During the reigns of the Kings of Spain of the Austrian fam- 
 ily,i whenever they were at a loss in the Spanish councils, it was 
 common for their statesmen to say that they ought to consult 
 the genius of Phihp 1 1. 2 The genius of Philip II. might mislead 
 them; and the issue of their affairs showed that they had not 
 chosen the most perfect standard. But, Sir, I am sure that I 
 sfiall not be misled, when, in a case of constitutional difficulty, I 
 consult the genius of the English constitution. Consulting at 
 that oracle (it was with all due humiHty and piety), I found four 
 capital examples in a similar case before me : those of Ireland^ 
 Wales, Chester, and Durham. 
 
 Ireland, before the EngHsh conquest, though never governed 
 by a despotic power, had no Parhament. How far the English 
 Parhament itself was at that time modeled according to the 
 present form, is disputed among antiquarians. But we have all 
 the reason in the world to be assured that a form of Parliament, 
 such as England then enjoyed, she instantly communicated to 
 Ireland ; and we are equally sure that almost every successive 
 improvement in constitutional liberty, as fast as it was made 
 here, was transmitted thither. The feudal baronage and the 
 feudal knighthood, ^ the roots of our primitive constitution, were 
 early transplanted into that soil, and grew and flourished there. 
 Magna Charta,4 if it did not give us originally the House of 
 Commons, gave us at least a House of Commons of weight and 
 
 1 Charles I. of Spain, better known as Emperor Charles V. of Germany, 
 was grandson of Ferdinand and Isabella, and succeeded his grandfather on 
 the throne of Spain. His mother was the daughter of Ferdinand and Isa- 
 bella, but his father was Archduke of Austria, and so Charles and his descen- 
 dants, who occupied the Spanish throne for nearly two hundred years, are some- 
 times known as the Kings of the Austrian family. 
 
 2 King of Spain from 1556 to 1598. Spain was at that time in the height 
 of her prosperity. 
 
 3 Burke here has reference to the early English system of land tenure, 
 government, and representation, from which the present system has been 
 gradually evolved. The assembhes convened by the king were made up of 
 nobles (who held their land as vassals of the king) and bishops. 
 
 4 The great charter of English liberty, extorted from King John by the 
 barons in 12 15. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 55 
 
 consequence. But your ancestors did not churlishly sit down 
 alone to the feast of Magna Charta. Ireland was made irnme- 
 diately a partaker. This benefit of English laws and liberties, I 
 confess, was not at first extended to all Ireland. Mark the con- 
 sequence. English authority and English liberties had exactly 
 the same boundaries. Your standard could never be advanced 
 an inch before your privileges. Sir John Davies ^ shows, beyond 
 a doubt, that the refusal of a general communication of these 
 rights was the true cause why Ireland was five hundred years in 
 subduing; and after the vain projects of a military government, 
 attempted in the reign of Queen Elizabeth,^ it w^as soon discov- 
 ered that nothing could make that country English in civility 
 and allegiance but your laws and your forms of legislature. 
 
 It was not English arms, but the English constitution that con- 
 quered Ireland. From that time Ireland has ever had a general 
 Parliament, as she had before a partial Parliament. You changed 
 the people ; you altered the religion ; but you never touched the 
 form or the vital substance of free government in that kingdom. 
 You deposed kings ; you restored them ; you altered the succes- 
 sion to theirs, as well as to your own Crown; but you never al- 
 tered their constitution, the principle of which was respected by 
 usurpation, restored with the restoration of monarchy, and estab- 
 lished, I trust, for ever, by the glorious Revolution. ^ This has 
 made Ireland the great and flourishing kingdom that it is, and 
 from a disgrace and a burthen intolerable to this nation, has ren- 
 dered her a principal part of our strength and ornament. 
 
 This country cannot be said to have ever formally taxed her. 
 The irregular things done in the confusion of mighty troubles, and 
 on the hinge of great revolutions, even if all were done that is said 
 to have been done, form no example. If they have any effect 
 
 1 A poet and statesman (1570-1626), who, in 1603, was made solicitor- 
 general, and soon after attorney-general, of Ireland. A few years later he 
 published a valuable work on the political condition of Ireland. 
 
 2 Queen of England from 1558 to 1603. 
 
 3 The Revolution of 1688-89 i" England, in which the doctrine of the di- 
 vine right of kings received its death-blow, and the supremacy of Parliament 
 was established, 
 
g6 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 in argument, they make an exception to prove the rule. None 
 of your own hberties could stand a moment if the casual devia- 
 tions from them, at such times, were suffered to be used as proofs 
 of their nullity. By the lucrative amount of such casual breaches 
 in the constitution, judge what the stated and fixed rule of supply 
 has been in that kingdom. Your Irish pensioners would starve 
 if they had no other fund to live on than taxes granted by Eng- 
 lish authority. Turn your eyes to those popular grants from 
 whence all your great supplies are come, and learn to respect 
 that only source of public wealth in the British Empire. 
 
 My next example is Wales. This country was said to be re- 
 duced by Henry III. i It was said more truly to be so by Ed- 
 ward 1.2 But though then conquered, it was not looked upon 
 as any part of the realm of England. Its old constitution, what- 
 ever that might have been, was destroyed ; and no good one was 
 substituted in its place. The care of that tract was put into the 
 hands of lords marchers ^ — a form of government of a very singu- 
 lar kind, a strange heterogeneous monster, something between 
 hostihty and government; perhaps it has a sort of resemblance, 
 according to the modes of those times, to that of commander in 
 chief at present, to whom all civil power is granted as secondary. 
 The manners of the Welsh nation followed the genius of the gov- 
 ernment. The people were ferocious, restive, savage, and unculti- 
 vated ; sometimes composed, never pacified. Wales, within itself, 
 was in perpetual disorder ; and it kept the frontier of England in 
 perpetual alarm. Benefits from it to the state there were none; 
 Wales was only known to England by incursion and invasion. 
 
 ^Sir, during that state of things, Parliament was not idle. They 
 attempted to subdue the fierce spirit of the Welsh by all sorts of 
 vigorous laws. They prohibited by statute the sending all sorts 
 
 1 King of England from 1216 lo 1272. 
 
 2 King of England from 1272 to 1307. Wales gave allegiance to Henry III. 
 at times, when compelled to do so, but was not fully conquered until the time 
 of Edward I. 
 
 3 The lords marchers were officers appointed by England to keep order in 
 the marches, or border lands, of Wales, 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES. 57 
 
 of arms into Wales, as you prohibit by proclamation (with some- 
 thing more of doubt on the legality) the sending arms to America. 
 They disarmed the Welsh by statute, as you attempted (but still 
 with more question on the legality) to disarm New England by 
 an instruction.! They made an act to drag offenders from Wales 
 into England for trial, as you have done (but with more hardship) 
 with regard to America, By another act, where one of the par- 
 ties was an Englishman, they ordained that his trial should be 
 always by English. They made acts to restrain trade, as you do; 
 and they prevented the Welsh from the use of fairs and markets, 
 as you do the Americans from fisheries and foreign ports. In 
 short, when the statute book was not quite so much swelled as it 
 is now, you find no less than fifteen acts of penal regulation on 
 the subject of Wales. 
 
 Here we rub our hands — a fine body of precedents for the 
 authority of Parliament and the use of it ! I admit it fully ; and 
 pray add likewise to these precedents, that all the while Wales 
 rid 2 this kingdom like an incubus ; ^ that it was an unprofitable 
 and oppressive burthen; and that an Englishman traveling in 
 that country could not go six yards from the highroad without 
 being murdered. 
 
 The march of the human mind is slow. Sir, it was not, until 
 after two hundred years, discovered that by an eterrfal law Provi- 
 dence had decreed vexation to violence, and poverty to rapine. 
 Your ancestors did, however, at length open their eyes to the ill- 
 husbandry of injustice. They found that the tyranny of a free 
 people could, of all tyrannies, the least be endured ; and that laws 
 made against a whole nation were not the most effectual methods 
 for securing its obedience. Accordingly, in the twenty-seventh 
 year of Henry VIII. the course was entirely altered. With a 
 preamble stating the entire and perfect rights of the Crown of 
 England, it gave to the Welsh all the rights and privileges of 
 Enghsh subjects. A political order was estabHshed; the mili- 
 
 1 That is, by an order to Gage, the commander in America. 
 
 2 Old form of "rode." 
 
 3 Nightmare. 
 
58 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 tary power gave way to the civil ; the marches were turned into 
 counties. But that a nation should have a right to English liber- 
 ties, and yet no share at all in the fundamental security of these 
 liberties, — the grant of their own property, — seemed a thing so 
 incongruous, that eight years after, that is, in the thirty-fifth of 
 that reign, a complete and not ill-proportioned ref)resentation by 
 counties and boroughs was bestowed upon Wales by act of Parlia- 
 ment. From that moment, as by a charm, the tumults subsided ; 
 obedience was restored ; peace, order, and civilization followed in 
 the train of liberty. When the day-star of the English constitu- 
 tion had arisen in their hearts, all was harmony within and 
 
 without. 
 
 — Simul alba nautis 
 Stella refulsit, 
 Defluit saxis agitattis hu7nor, 
 Concidunt venti^ fugiuntque nubeSy 
 Et minax (quod sic voluere) ponto 
 Unda recumbit^- 
 
 The very same year the county palatine 2 of Chester received 
 the same relief from its oppressions, and the same remedy to its 
 disorders. Before this time Chester was little less distempered 
 than Wales. The inhabitants, without rights themselves, were 
 fittest to destroy the rights of others ; and from thence Richard 11.^ 
 drew the standing army of archers, with which for a time he op- 
 pressed England. The people of Chester applied to Parliament 
 in a petition penned as I shall read it to you : 
 
 1 " As soon as the clear-shining constellation has shone forth to the sailors, 
 the troubled surge falls down from the rocks, the winds cease, the clouds van- 
 ish, and the threatening waves subside in the sea, — because it was their will." 
 — Horace, Ode to Augustus, i. 12 (Smart's trans.). 
 
 2 A county palatine in England was so called because the owner, or holder, 
 was entitled to special privileges and prerogatives, like a king in his palace. 
 He appointed his own officers of justice, and could pardon crimes committed 
 within his territory. There were three counties palatine in England — Tan- 
 caster, Chester, and Durham, the two first-named in the eastern part, an'^ the 
 last in the northern. 
 
 3 King of England from 1377 to 1399. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 59 
 
 " To the king our sovereign lord, in most humble wise shown 
 unto your excellent Majesty, the inhabitants of your Grace's 
 county palatine of Chester : That where the said county palatine 
 of Chester is and hath been alw^ays hitherto exempt, excluded and 
 separated out and from your high court of Parliament, to have 
 any knights and burgesses within the said court; by reason whereof 
 the said inhabitants have hitherto sustained manifold disherisons, i 
 losses, and damages, as well in their lands, goods, and bodies, as 
 in the good, civil, and politic governance and maintenance of the 
 commonwealth of their said country: (2) And forasmuch as the 
 said inhabitants have always hitherto been bound by the acts and 
 statutes made and ordained by your said Highness, and your 
 most noble progenitors, by authority of the said court, as far forth 
 as other counties, cities, and boroughs have been, that have had 
 their knights and burgesses within your said court of Parliament, 
 and yet have had neither knight ne ^ burgess there for the said 
 county palatine ; the said inhabitants, for lack thereof, have been 
 oftentimes touched and grieved with acts and statutes made within 
 the said court, as well derogatory unto the most ancient jurisdic- 
 tions, liberties, and privileges of your said county palatine, as pre- 
 judicial unto the commonwealth, quietness, rest, and peace of 
 your Grace's most bounden subjects inhabiting within the same." 
 
 What did Parliament with this audacious address ? Reject it 
 as a libel ? Treat it as an affront to government ? Spurn it as a 
 derogation from the rights of legislature ? Did they toss it over 
 the table ? Did they burn it by the hands of the common hang- 
 man ? They took the petition of grievance, all rugged as it was, 
 without softening or temperament, unpurged of the original bitter- 
 ness and indignation of complaint; they made it the very pre- 
 amble to their act of redress, and consecrated its principle to all 
 ages in the sanctuary of legislation. 
 
 Here is my third example. It was attended with the success 
 of the two former. Chester, civilized as well as Wales, has dem- 
 onstrated that freedom, and not servitude, is the cure of anarchy; 
 
 1 Acts of disinheritance ; here it means deprivations. 2 Old form of " nor." 
 
6o EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILiATlON 
 
 as religion, and not atheism, is the true remedy for superstition. 
 Sir, this pattern of Chester was followed in the reign of Charles 
 II. 1 with regard to the county palatine of Durham, which is my 
 fourth example. This county had long lain out of the pale of 
 free legislation. So scrupulously was the example of Chester 
 followed, that the style of the preamble is nearly the same with 
 that of the Chester act; and, without affecting the abstract ex- 
 tent of the authority of Parliament, it recognizes the equity of not 
 suffering any considerable district, in which the British subjects may 
 act as a body, to be taxed without their own voice in the grant. 
 
 Now, if the doctrines of policy contained in these preambles, 
 and the force of these examples in the acts of Parliament avail 
 anything, what can be said against applying them with regard to 
 America? Are not the people of America as much Englishmen 
 as the Welsh ? The preamble of the act of Henry VIII. says 
 the Welsh speak a language no way resembling that of his Maj- 
 esty's English subjects. Are the Americans not as numerous ? 
 If we may trust the learned and accurate Judge Barrington's ac- 
 count of North Wales, and take that as a standard to measure 
 the rest, there is no comparison. The people cannot amount to 
 above 200,000 — not a tenth part of the number in the colonies. 
 Is America in rebellion ? Wales was hardly ever free from it. 
 Have you attempted to govern America by penal statutes ? You 
 made fifteen for Wales. But your legislative authority is perfect 
 with regard to America ; was it less perfect in Wales, Chester, and 
 Durham ? But America is virtually represented. What ! Does 
 the electric force of virtual representation more easily pass over 
 the Atlantic than pervade Wales, which Hes in your neighbor- 
 hood; or than Chester and Durham, surrounded by abundance 
 of representation that is actual and palpable ? But, Sir, your an- 
 cestors thought this sort of virtual representation, however ample, 
 to be totally insufficient for the freedom of the inhabitants of ter- 
 ritories that are so near, and comparatively so inconsiderable. 
 How, then, can I think it sufficient for those which are infinitely 
 greater, and infinitely more remote ? 
 
 1 King of England from 1660 to 1685. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES. 6i 
 
 You will now, Sir, perhaps imagine that I am on the point of 
 proposing to you a scheme for a representation of the colonies in 
 Parliament. Perhaps I might be inclined to entertain some such 
 thought; but a great flood stops me in my course. Opposuit na- 
 tura'^ — I cannot remove the eternal barriers of the creation. 
 The thing in that mode I do not know to be possible. As I 
 meddle with no theory, I do not absolutely assert the impractica- 
 bility of such a representation. But I do not see my way to it ; 
 and those who have been more confident have not been more 
 successful. However, the arm of public benevolence is not short- 
 ened, and there are often several means to the same end. What 
 nature has disjoined in one way, wisdom may unite in another. 
 When we cannot give the benefit as we would wish, let us not re- 
 fuse it altogether. If we cannot give the principal, let us find a 
 substitute. But how ? Where ? What substitute ? 
 
 Fortunately, I am not obliged, for the ways and means of this 
 substitute, to tax my own unproductive invention. I am not even 
 obliged to go to the rich treasury of the fertile framers of imaginary 
 commonwealths — not to the " Republic " of Plato 2 ; not to the 
 " Utopia " of More ^ ; not to the " Oceana " of Harrington. 4 It is 
 before me ; it is at my feet, 
 
 And the dull swain 
 Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.^ 
 ♦ 
 
 1 "Nature has erected barriers." 
 
 2 A great Greek philosopher, born about 429 B. c. He was a disciple of 
 Socrates, whose teachings he gives us in his Dialogues. His Republic is a 
 picture of an ideal state where the most perfect justice prevails. 
 
 3 Sir Thomas More (1480- 1535), an eminent philosopher and statesman. 
 In 15 16 he produced his famous work, Utopia. The nam-e is derived from 
 a Greek word meaning "nowhere," and the book is a description of an imag- 
 inary commonwealth, where the citizens had all things in common, and the 
 administration of law and justice were perfect. By contrast he showed the 
 evils of the then existing government in England. The adjective "Utopian " 
 is now applied to any visionary and impracticable scheme of reform. 
 
 4 James Harrington (1611-1677), an English writer, whose principal work, 
 Oceana, a political allegory, describes an ideal republic supposed to repre- 
 sent England. The project was generaifly considered highly impracticable. 
 
 5 See Milton, Comus, lines 634,635. "Clouted shoon," i.e., hobnailed 
 shoes. 
 
62 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 I only wish you to recognize, for the theory, the ancient constitu- 
 tional policy of this kingdom with regard to representation, as 
 that policy has been declared in acts of ParHament ; and, as to 
 the practice, to return to that mode which an uniform experience 
 has marked out to you as best, and in which you walked with 
 security, advantage, and honor until the year 1763. 
 
 My resolutions, therefore, mean to establish the equity and jus- 
 tice of a taxation of America by grants and not by imposition; 
 to mark the legal competency of the colony assemblies for the 
 support of their government in peace, and for pubhc aids in time 
 of war; to acknowledge that this legal competency has had a 
 dutiful and beneficial exercise^ and that experience has shown the 
 benefit of their grants and the futility of parliamentary taxation 
 as a method of supply. 
 
 These solid truths compose six fundamental propositions. 
 There are three more resolutions corollary to these. If you admit 
 the first set, you can hardly reject the others. But if you admit 
 the first, I shall be far from solicitous whether you accept or refuse 
 the last. I think these six massive pillars will be of strength suffi- 
 cient to support the temple of British concord. ^ I have no more 
 doubt than I entertain of my existence that, if you admitted these^ 
 you would command an immediate peace, and, with but tolerable 
 future management, a lasting obedience in America. I am not 
 arrogant in this confident assurance. The propositions are all 
 mere matters of fact ; and if they are such facts as draw irresistible 
 conclusions even in the stating, this is the power of truth, and not 
 any management of mine. 
 
 Sir, I shall open the whole plan to you, together with such ob- 
 servations on the motions as may tend to illustrate them where 
 they may want explanation. The first is a resolution : " That 
 the colonies and plantations of Great Britain in North America, 
 consisting of fourteen separate governments, and containing two 
 millions and upwards of free inhabitants, have not had the liberty 
 
 1 An allusion to the Temple of Concord at Rome, built at the head of the 
 Forum. The ruins of the latest building, which was erected by the Emperor 
 Tiberius, may still be seen- 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 63 
 
 and privilege of electing and sending any knights and burgesses, 
 or others, to represent them in the high court of Parliament." 
 This is a plain matter of fact, necessary to be laid down, and (ex- 
 cepting the description) it is laid down in the language of the con- 
 stitution ; it is taken nearly verbatim from acts of Parliament. 
 
 The second is like unto the first : " That the said colonies and 
 plantations have been liable to, and bounden by, several subsidies, 
 payments, rates, and taxes, given and granted by Parhament, 
 though the said colonies and plantations have not their knights 
 and burgesses in the said high court of Parliament, of their own 
 election, to represent the condition of their country; by lack 
 whereof they have been oftentimes touched and grieved by sub- 
 sidies given, granted, and assented to, in the said court, in a man- 
 ner prejudicial to the commonwealth, quietness, rest, and peace 
 of the subjects inhabiting within the same." 
 
 Is this description too hot or too cold, too strong or too 
 weak ? Does it arrogate too much to the supreme legislature ? 
 Does it lean too much to the claims of the people ? If it runs 
 into any of these errors, the fault is not mine. It is the language 
 of your own ancient acts of Parliament. 
 
 Nee meus hie sermo est, sed qtiee p7'ceeepit Ofellus, 
 RustieuSy abnormis sapiens. ^ 
 
 It is the genuine produce of the ancient, rustic, manly, home-bred 
 sense of this country. I did not dare to rub off a particle of the 
 venerable rust that rather adorns and preserves than destroys the 
 metal. It would be a profanation to touch with a tool the stones 
 which construct the sacred altar of peace. I would not violate 
 with modem polish the ingenuous and noble roughness of these 
 truly constitutional materials. Above all things, I was resolved 
 not to be guilty of tampering — the odious vice of restless and un- 
 stable minds. I put my foot in the tracks of our forefathers, 
 where I can neither wander nor stumble. Determining to fix 
 
 1 " This is no doctrine of mine, but what Ofellus the peasant, a philosopher 
 without rules, taught me." — Horace, Sat. ii. 2 (Smart's trans.). 
 
64 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 articles of peace, I was resolved not to be wise beyond what was 
 written ; I was resolved to use nothing else than the form of sound 
 words, to let others abound in their own sense, and carefully to 
 abstain from all expressions of my own. What the law has said, 
 I say. In all things else I am silent. I have no organ but for 
 her words. This, if it be not ingenious, I am sure is safe. 
 
 There are indeed words expressive of grievance in this second 
 resolution, which those who are resolved always to be in the right 
 will deny to contain matter of fact, as applied to the present case, 
 although Parliament thought them true with regard to the coun- 
 ties of Chester and Durham. They will deny that the Americans 
 were ever " touched and grieved " with the taxes. If they consider 
 nothing in taxes but their weight as pecuniary impositions, there 
 might be some pretense for this denial. But men may be sorely 
 touched and deeply grieved in their privileges, as well as in their 
 purses. Men may lose little in property by the act which takes 
 away all their freedom. When a man is robbed of a trifle on the 
 highway, it is not the twopence lost that constitutes the capi- 
 tal outrage. This is not confined to privileges. Even ancient 
 indulgences withdrawn, without offense on the part of those who 
 enjoyed such favors, operate as grievances. 
 
 But were the Americans, then, not touched and grieved by the 
 taxes, in some measure, merely as taxes ? If so, why were they 
 almost all either wholly repealed or exceedingly reduced ? Were 
 they not touched and grieved even by the regulating duties of 
 the sixth i of George II. ? ^ Else why were the duties first reduced 
 to one third in 1764, and afterwards to a third of that third in 
 the year 1766 ? Were they not touched and grieved by the Stamp 
 Act? 3 I shall say they were, until that tax is revived. Were 
 they not touched and grieved by the duties of 1767, which wea-e 
 
 1 Supply "act." * 
 
 2 King of England from 1727 to 1760. 
 
 3 A bill proposed in Parliament by George Grenville in 1765, by whicli all 
 paper bearing the government stamp in America was to be subject to a duty, 
 and all legal documents must be written on such paper. The American col- 
 onies refused to submit to this duty, and the act was repealed in 1 766. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 65 
 
 likewise repealed, and which Lord Hillsborough tells you (for 
 the ministry) were laid contrary to the true principle of com- 
 merce ? Is not the assurance given, by that noble person, to 
 the colonies of a resolution to lay no more taxes on them, an 
 admission that taxes would touch and grieve them ? Is not 
 the resolution of the noble lord in the blue riband, now stand- 
 ing on your journals, the strongest of all proofs that parliamen- 
 tary subsidies really touched and grieved them ? Else why 
 all these changes, modifications, repeals, assurances, and reso- 
 lutions ? 
 
 The next proposition is : "• That, from the distance of the said 
 colonies, and from other circumstances, no method hath hitherto 
 been devised for procuring a representation in Parliament for the 
 said colonies." This is an assertion of a fact. I go no further on 
 the paper, though, in my private judgment, an useful representa- 
 tion is impossible. I am sure it is not desired by them, nor ought 
 it be perhaps by us ; but I abstain from opinions. 
 
 The fourth resolution is : " That each of the said colonies hath 
 within itself a body, chosen in part, or in the whole, by the free- 
 men, freeholders, or other free inhabitants thereof, commonly 
 called the general assembly, or general court; with powers le- 
 gally to raise, levy, and assess, according to the several usage of 
 such colonies, duties and taxes towards defraying all sorts of pub- 
 lic services. 
 
 This competence in the colony assembHes is certain. It is 
 proved by the whole tenor of their acts of supply in all the assem- 
 blies, in which the constant style of granting is, " an aid to his 
 Majesty ; " and acts granting to the Crown have regularly, for 
 near a century, passed the public offices without dispute. Those 
 who have been pleased paradoxically to deny this right, holding 
 that none but the British Parliament can grant to the Crown, are 
 wished to look to what is done, not only in the colonies, but in 
 Ireland, in one uniform unbroken tenor every session. Sir, I am 
 surprised that this doctrine should come from some of the law 
 servants of the Crown. I say, that if the Crown could be 
 responsible, his Majesty, but certainly the ministers, and even 
 
66 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 these law officers themselves through whose hands the acts pass 
 biennially in Ireland, or annually in the colonies, are in an habit- 
 ual course of committing impeachable offenses. What habitual 
 offenders have been all presidents of the council, all secretaries of 
 state, all first lords of trade, all attorneys, and all solicitors general ! 
 However, they are safe, as no one impeaches them ; and there is 
 no ground of charge again ,t them, except in their own un- 
 founded theories. 
 
 The fifth resolution is also a resolution of fact : " That the said 
 general assemblies, general courts, or other bodies legally qualified 
 as aforesaid, have at sundry times freely granted several large 
 subsidies and public aids for his Majesty's service, according to 
 their abilities, when required thereto by letter from one of his 
 Majesty's principal secretaries of state; and that their right to 
 grant the same, and their cheerfulness and sufficiency in the said 
 grants, have been at sundry times acknowledged by Parliament." 
 To say nothing of their great expenses in the Indian wars ; and 
 not to take their exertion in foreign ones, so high as the supplies 
 in the year 1695 \ "^^^ ^^ g^ back to their pubHc contributions in 
 the year 1710 : I shall begin to travel only where the journals give 
 me hght, resolving to deal in nothing but fact, authenticated by 
 parliamentary record, and to build myself wholly on that soHd 
 basis. 
 
 On the 4th of April, 1748, a committee of this House came to 
 the following resolution : 
 
 " Resolved, 
 " That it is the opinion of this committee. That it is just and 
 reasonable that the several provinces and colonies of Massachu- 
 setts Bay, New Hampshire, Connecticut, and Rhode Island, be 
 reimbursed the expenses they have been at in taking and securing 
 to the Crown of Great Britain the island of Cape Breton and its 
 dependencies." 
 
 These expenses were immense for such colonies. They were 
 above ^200,000 sterHng —money first raised and advanced on 
 their public credit. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 67 
 
 On the 28th of January, 1756, a message from the kingi came 
 to us, to this effect : 
 
 " His Majesty, being sensible of the zeal and vigor with which 
 his faithful subjects of certain colonies in North America have 
 exerted themselves in defense of his Majesty's just rights and 
 possessions, recommends it to this House to take the same into 
 their consideration, and to enable his Majesty to give them such 
 assistance as may be a p7'oper reward and encouraged/tent.'" 
 
 On the 3d of February, 1756, the House came to a suitable 
 resolution, expressed in words nearly the same as those of the 
 message ; but with the further addition, that the money then voted 
 was as an encouragement to the colonies to exert themselves with 
 vigor. It will not be necessary to go through all the testimonies 
 which your own records have given to the truth of my resolutions, 
 I will only refer you to the places in the journals : 
 
 Vol. xxvii. — 1 6th and 19th May, 1757. 
 
 Vol. xxviii. — June ist, 1758 — April 26th and 30th, 1759 — 
 
 March 26th and 31st, and April 28th, 1760 — 
 
 Jan. 9th and 20th, 1761. 
 Vol. xxix. — Jan. 22d and 26th, 1762 — March 14th and 
 
 17th, 1763. 
 
 Sir, here is the repeated acknowledgment of Parliament, that 
 the colonies not only gave, but gave to satiety. This nation has 
 formally acknowledged two things : first, that the colonies had 
 gone beyond their abilities. Parliament having thought it neces- 
 sary to reimburse them ; secondly, that they had acted legally and 
 laudably in their grants of money, and their maintenance of 
 troops, since the compensation is expressly given as reward and 
 encouragement. Reward is not bestowed for acts that are unlaw- 
 ful; and encouragement is not held out to things that deserve 
 reprehension. My resolution, therefore, does nothing more than 
 collect into one proposition, what is scattered through your jour- 
 nals. I give you nothing but your own ; and you cannot refuse 
 
 1 George II. was then king. 
 
68 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 in the gross, what you have so often acknowledged in detail. 
 The admission of this, which will be so honorable to them and 
 to you, will, indeed, be mortal, i to all the miserable stories by 
 which the passions of the misguided people have been engaged in 
 an unhappy system. The people heard, indeed, from the begin- 
 ning of these disputes, one thing continually dinned in their ears : 
 that reason and justice demanded that the Americans, who paid 
 no taxes, should be compelled to contribute. How did that fact 
 of their paying nothing stand, when the taxing system began ? 
 When Mr. Grenville^ began to form his system of American 
 revenue, he stated in this House that the colonies were then in 
 debt two million six hundred thousand pounds sterling money, 
 and was of opinion they would discharge that debt in four years. 
 On this state, those untaxed people were actually subject to the 
 payment of taxes to the amount of six hundred and fifty thousand 
 a year. In fact, however, Mr. Grenville was mistaken. The 
 funds given for sinking the debt did not prove quite so ample as 
 both the colonies and he expected. The calculation was too san- 
 guine ; the reduction was not completed till some years after, and 
 at different times in different colonies. However, the taxes after 
 the war continued too great to bear any addition, with prudence 
 or propriety ; and when the burthens imposed in consequence of 
 former requisitions were discharged, our tone became too high to 
 resort again to requisition. No colony, since that time, ever has 
 had any requisition whatsoever made to it. 
 
 We see the sense of the Crown, and the sense of Parliament, 
 on the productive nature of a revemie by grant Now search the 
 same journals for the produce of the revenue by impositio7i — 
 Where is it ? Let us know the volume and the page. What is 
 the gross, what is the net produce ? To what service is it ap- 
 
 1 Fatal. 
 
 2 Hon. George Grenville (171 2-1 770), who held the position of Prime Min- 
 ister of England from 1763 to 1765, is noted as being the author of the Stamp 
 Act. He was an able man, but self-willed and dictatorial, and the king, who 
 at first liked him because of his high-handed policy with the colonies, came 
 soon to hate him, and dismissed him from the position of his chief adviser. 
 
IVITII THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 69 
 
 plied? How have you appropriated its surplus? What, can 
 none of the many skillful index-makers that we are now employ- 
 ing find any trace of it ? Well, let them and that rest together. 
 But are the journals, which say nothing of the revenue, as silent 
 on the discontent ? Oh, no ! a child may find it. It is the mel- 
 ancholy burthen and blot of every page. 
 
 I think then I am, from those journals, justified in the sixth 
 and last resolution, which is : " That it hath been found by ex- 
 perience, that the manner of granting the said suppHes and aids, 
 by the said general assemblies, hath been more agreeable to the 
 said colonies, and more beneficial, and conducive to the public 
 service, than the mode of giving and granting aids in Parliament, 
 to be raised and paid in the said colonies." 
 
 This makes the whole of the fundamental part of the plan. 
 The conclusion is irresistible. You cannot say that you were 
 driven by any necessity to an exercise of the utmost rights of 
 legislature. You cannot assert that you took on yourselves the 
 task of imposing colony taxes, from the want of another legal 
 body that is competent to the purpose of supplying the exigencies 
 of the state without wounding the prejudices of the people. 
 Neither is it true that the body so quahfied, and having that 
 competence, had neglected the duty. 
 
 The question now, on all this accumulated matter, is : Whether 
 you will choose to abide by a profitable experience, or a mis- 
 chievous theory; whether you choose to build on imagination, or 
 fact ; whether you prefer enjoyment, or hope ; satisfaction in your 
 subjects, or discontent ? 
 
 If these propositions are accepted, everything which has been 
 made to enforce a contrary system must, I take it for granted, 
 fall along with it. On that ground, I have drawn the following 
 resolution, which, when it comes to be moved, will naturally be 
 divided in a proper manner : " That it may be proper to repeal an 
 act, made in the seventh year of the reign of his present Majesty, 
 intituled : 1 An act for granting certain duties in the British 
 colonies and plantations in America ; for allowing a drawback 2 of 
 1 Another spelling of "entitled." 2 Refund of a duty. 
 
70 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 the duties of customs upon the exportation from this kingdom, of 
 coffee and cocoanuts of the produce of the said colonies or plan- 
 tations; for discontinuing the drawbacks payable on China earthen- 
 ware exported to America; and for more effectually preventing 
 the clandestine running of goods in the said colonies and plan- 
 tations. — And that it may be proper to repeal an act, made in 
 the fourteenth year of the reign of his present Majesty, intituled : 
 An act to discontinue, in such manner, and for such time, as are 
 therein mentioned, the landing and discharging, lading or shipping, 
 of goods, wares, and merchandise, at the town, and within the 
 harbor, of Boston, in the province of Massachusetts Bay, in North 
 America. — And that it may be proper to repeal an act, made in 
 the fourteenth year of the reign of his present Majesty, intituled: 
 An act for the impartial administration of justice, in the cases of 
 persons questioned for any acts done by them, in the execution of 
 the law, or for the suppression of riots and tumults, in the prov- 
 ince of Massachusetts Bay, in New England. — And that it may be 
 proper to repeal an act, made in the fourteenth year of the reign of 
 his present Majesty, intituled : An act for the better regulating the 
 government of the province of Massachusetts Bay, in New Eng- 
 land. — And, also, that it may be proper to explain and amend an 
 act, made in the thirty-fifth year of the reign of King Henry 
 VIII., intituled: An act for the trial of treasons committed out 
 of the king's dominions." 
 
 I wish, Sir, to repeal the Boston Port Bill,i because (indepen- 
 dently of the dangerous precedent of suspending the rights of the 
 subject during the king's pleasure) it was passed, as I apprehend, 
 with less regularity, and on more partial principles, than it ought,, 
 The corporation of Boston was not heard before it was condemned. 
 Other towns, full as guilty as she was, have not had their ports 
 blocked up. Even the restraining bill of the present session does 
 not go to the length of the Boston Port Act. The same ideas of 
 prudence which induced you not to extend equal punishment to 
 
 1 A bill proposed by Lord North in 1 774, prohibiting the landing or ship- 
 ping of goods at Boston, as a punishment for the rebellion of the people of 
 Boston against the tax on tea. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 71 
 
 equal guilt, even when you were punishing, induced me, who 
 mean not to chastise, but to reconcile, to be satisfied with the 
 punishment already partially inflicted. 
 
 Ideas of prudence and accommodation to circumstances pre- 
 vent you from taking away the charters of Connecticut and Rhode 
 Island, as you have taken away that of Massachusetts colony, 
 though the Crown has far less power in the two former prov- 
 inces than it enjoyed in the latter; and though the abuses have 
 been full as great and as flagrant in the exempted as in the pun- 
 ished. The same reasons of prudence and accommodation have 
 weight with me in restoring the charter of Massachusetts Bay. Be- 
 sides, Sir, the act which changes the charter of Massachusetts is 
 in many particulars so exceptionable, that if I did not wish abso- 
 lutely to repeal, I would by all means desire to alter it; as several 
 of its provisions tend to the subversion of all public and private 
 justice. Such, among others, is the power in the governor to 
 change the sheriff at his pleasure, and to make a new returning 
 officer for every special cause. It is shameful to behold such a 
 regulation standing among English laws. 
 
 The act for bringing persons accused of committing murder un- 
 der the orders of government to England for trial is but tem- 
 porary. That act has calculated the probable duration of our 
 quarrel with the colonies, and is accommodated to that supposed 
 duration. I would hasten the happy moment of reconciliation, 
 and therefore must, on my principle, get rid of that most justly 
 obnoxious act. 
 
 The act of Henry VIII., for the trial of treasons, I do not mean 
 to take away, but to confine it to its proper bounds and original 
 intention; to make it expressly for trial of treasons (and the 
 greatest treasons may be committed) in places where the jurisdic- 
 tion of the Crown does not extend. 
 
 Having guarded the privileges of local legislature, I would next 
 secure to the colonies a fair and unbiased judicature ; for which 
 purpose. Sir, I propose the following resolution : " That, from 
 the time when the general assembly or general court of any colony 
 or plantation in North America shall have appointed by act of 
 
72 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 assembly, duly confirmed, a settled salary to the offices of the 
 chief justice and other judges of the superior courts, it may be 
 proper that the said chief justice and other judges of the superior 
 courts of such colony shall hold his and their office and offices 
 during their good behavior; and shall not be removed therefrom, 
 but when the said removal shall be adjudged by his Majesty in 
 council, upon a hearing on complaint from the general assembly, 
 or on a complaint from the governor, or council, or the house of 
 representatives, severally, or of the colony in which the said chief 
 justice and other judges have exercised the said offices." 
 
 The next resolution relates to the courts of admiralty. It is 
 this : " That it may be proper to regulate the courts of admiralty, 
 or vice-admiralty, authorized by the fifteenth chapter of the fourth 
 of George III., in such a manner as to make the same more 
 commodious to those who sue, or are sued, in the said courts, and to 
 provide for the more decent maintenanceof the judges in the same." 
 
 These courts I do not wish to take away ; they are in themselves 
 proper establishments. This court is one of the capital securities 
 of the Act of Navigation, i The extent of its jurisdiction, indeed, 
 has been increased ; but this is altogether as proper, and is indeed 
 on many accounts more eligible, where new powers were wanted, 
 than a court absolutely new. But courts incommodiously situated 
 in effect deny justice, and a court partaking in the fruits of its own 
 condemnation is a robber. The congress complain, and complain 
 justly, of this grievance. 
 
 These are the three consequential propositions. I have thought 
 of two or three more ; but they come rather too near detail and 
 to the province of executive government, which I wish Parliament 
 always to superintend, never to assume. If the first six are 
 granted^ congruity will carry the latter three. If not, the things 
 that remain unrepealed will be, I hope, rather unseemly encum- 
 brances on the building than very materially detrimental to its 
 strength und stability. 
 
 1 This act prevented foreign ships from trading with English colonies, and 
 only permitted trade with England in English ships or ships of the country 
 supplying the merchandise carried. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 73 
 
 Here, Sir, I should close; but I plainly perceive some objec- 
 tions remain, which I ought, if possible, to remove. The first 
 will be that, in resorting to the doctrine of our ancestors, as con- 
 tained in the preamble to the Chester act, I prove too much : that 
 the grievance from a want of representation, stated in that pre- 
 amble, goes to the whole of legislation as well as to taxation ; 
 and that the colonies, grounding themselves upon that doctrine, 
 will apply it to all parts of legislative authority. 
 
 To this ob'* action, with all possible deference and humility, and 
 wishing as little as any man living to impair the smallest particle 
 of our supreme authority, I answer, that the words are the words 
 of Parliament, and not mine ; and that all false and inconclusive 
 inferences drawn from them are not mine ; for I heartily disclaim 
 any such inference. I have chosen the words of an act of Parlia- 
 ment which Mr. Grenville, surely a tolerably zealous and very 
 judicious advocate for the sovereignty of Parliament, formerly 
 moved to have read at your table in confirmation of his tenets. 
 It is true that Lord Chatham i considered these preambles as de- 
 claring strongly in favor of his opinions. He was a no less pow- 
 erful advocate for the privileges of the Americans. Ought I not 
 from hence to presume, that these preambles are as favorable as 
 possible to both when properly understood ; favorable both to the 
 rights of Parliament and to the privilege of the dependencies of 
 this Crown ? But, Sir, the object of grievance in my resolution 
 I have not taken from the Chester, but from the Durham act, 
 which confines the hardship of want of representation to the case 
 of subsidies ; and which therefore falls in exactly with the case of 
 the colonies. But whether the unrepresented counties were de 
 fure, 2 Qj. ^^ facto, ^ bound, the preambles do not accurately dis- 
 
 1 William Pitt (i 708-1 778), perhaps the greatest of English statesmen. He 
 was distinguished by great insight and breadth of view in political matters, 
 and, previous to becoming Earl of Chatham, was almost worshiped by the 
 English people, who called him the "Great Commoner." By accepting a 
 peerage he sacrificed his popularity to a great extent. He was an advocate 
 of greater freedom for the colonies, and vigorously opposed the Stamp Act. 
 
 2 Literally, " from the law " ; hence, rightly. 
 '^ Literally, " from the fact " ; hence, really. 
 
74 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 tinguish, nor indeed was it necessary ; for, whether de jure or de 
 facto, the legislature thought the exercise of the power of taxing, 
 as of right, or as of fact without right, equally a grievance and 
 equally oppressive. 
 
 I do not know that the colonies have, in any general way, or 
 in any cool hour, gone much beyond the demand of immunity in 
 relation to taxes. It is not fair to judge of the temper or disposi- 
 tions of any man, or any set of men, when they are composed and 
 at rest, from their conduct, or their expressions, in a state of dis- 
 turbance and irritation. It is, besides, a very great mistake to 
 imagine that mankind follow up practically any speculative prin- 
 ciple, either of government or of freedom, as far as it will go in 
 argument and logical illation. 
 
 We Englishmen stop very short of the principles upon which 
 we support any given part of our constitution, or even the whole 
 of it together. I could easily, if I had not already tired you, give 
 you very striking and convincing instances of it. This is nothing 
 but what is natural and proper. All government, indeed every 
 human benefit and enjoyment, every virtue, and every prudent 
 act, is founded on compromise and barter. We balance incon- 
 veniences ; we give and take ; we remit some rights that we may 
 enjoy others; and we choose rather to be happy citizens than 
 subtle disputants. As we must give away some natural liberty 
 to enjoy civil advantages, so we must sacrifice some civil liber- 
 ties for the advantages to be derived from the communion and 
 fellowship of a great empire. But, in all fair dealings, the thing 
 bought must bear some proportion to the purchase paid. None 
 will barter away the immediate jewel of his soul.i Though a 
 great house is apt to make slaves haughty, yet it is purchasing a 
 part of the artificial importance of a great empire too dear to 
 pay for it all essential rights, and all the intrinsic dignity of 
 human nature. None of us who would not risk his life rather 
 than fall under a government purely arbitrary! But although 
 there are some amongst us who think our constitution wants 
 many improvements to make it a complete system of liberty, 
 
 1 See Shakespeare, Othello, act iii., sc. 3. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 75 
 
 perhaps none who are of that opinion would think it right to 
 aim at such improvement by disturbing his country and risking 
 everything that is dear to him. In every arduous enterprise we 
 consider what we are to lose as well as what we are to gain ; and 
 the more and better stake of liberty every people possess, the less 
 they will hazard in a vain attempt to make it more. These are 
 the cords of man, i Man acts from adequate motives relative to 
 his interest, and not on metaphysical speculations. Aristotle,^ 
 the great master of reasoning, cautions us, and with great weight 
 and propriety, against this species of delusive geometrical accu- 
 racy in moral arguments as the most fallacious of all sophistry. 
 
 The Americans will have no interest contrary to the grandeur 
 and glory of England, when they are not oppressed by the weight 
 of it ; and they will rather be inclined to respect the acts of a su- 
 perintending legislature, when they see them the acts of that 
 power, which is itself the security, not the rival, of their secondary 
 importance. In this assurance my mind most perfectly acquiesces, 
 and I confess I feel not the least alarm from the discontents which 
 are to arise from putting people at their ease; nor do I apprehend 
 the destruction of this empire from giving, by an act of free grace 
 and indulgence, to two milUons of my fellow citizens, some share 
 of those rights upon which I have always been taught to value 
 myself. 
 
 It is said, indeed, that this power of granting, vested in Ameri- 
 can assemblies, would dissolve the unity of the empire; which 
 was preserved entire, although Wales and Chester and Durham 
 were added to it. Truly, Mr. Speaker, I do not know what this 
 unity means; nor has it ever been heard of, that I know, in the 
 constitutional policy of this country. The very idea of subordina- 
 tion of parts excludes this notion of simple and undivided unity. 
 England is the head j but she is not the head and the members 
 too. Ireland has ever had from the beginning a separate, but not 
 an independent, legislature ; which, far from distracting, promoted 
 
 1 " The cords of man," i.e., the motives which govern men. See Hosea xi. 4: 
 **■ I drew them with cords of a man, with bands of love." 
 
 2 A great Greek philosopher of the fourth century B. c. 
 
y6 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 the union of the whole. Everything was sweetly and harmoniously 
 disposed through both islands for the conservation of Enghsh do- 
 minion and the communication of English liberties. I do not 
 see that the same principles might not be carried into twenty isl- 
 ands, and with the same good effect. This is my model with re- 
 gard to America, as far as the internal circumstances of the two 
 countries are the same. I know no other unity of this empire 
 than I can draw from its example during these periods, when it 
 seemed to my poor understanding more united than it is now, or 
 than it is hkely to be by the present methods. 
 
 But since I speak of these methods, I recollect, Mr. Speaker, 
 almost too late, that I promised before I finished to say something 
 of the proposition of the noble lord i on the floor, which has been 
 so lately received, and stands on your journals. I must be deeply 
 concerned whenever it. is my misfortune to continue a difference 
 with the majority of this House. But as the reasons for that dif- 
 ference are my apology for thus troubhng you, suffer me to state 
 them in a very few words. I shall compress them into as small a 
 body as I possibly can, having already debated that matter at 
 large when the question was before the committee. 
 
 First, then, I cannot admit that proposition of a ransom by 
 auction, because it is a mere project. It is a thing new, unheard 
 of, supported by no experience, justified by no analogy, without 
 example of our ancestors or root in the constitution. It is neither 
 regular parliamentary taxation, nor colony grant. Experimentum 
 in corpore viW^ is a good rule, which will ever make me adverse 
 to any trial of experiments on what is certainly the most valuable 
 of all subjects — the peace of this empire. 
 
 Secondly, it is an experiment which must be fatal in the end to 
 our constitution. For what is it but a scheme for taxing the col- 
 onies in the antechamber of the noble lord and his successors ? 
 To settle the quotas and proportions in this House is clearly im- 
 possible. You, Sir, may flatter yourself you shall sit a state auc- 
 tioneer, with your hammer in your hand, and knock down to each 
 
 1 The allusion is to Lord North. 
 
 2 " Experiment should be made upon a worthless subject." 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES. 77 
 
 colony as it bids. But to settle (on the plan laid down by the no- 
 ble lord) the true proportional payment for four or five and twenty 
 governments, according to the absolute and the relative wealth 
 of each, and according to the British proportion of wealth and 
 burthen, is a wild and chimerical notion. This new taxation must, 
 therefore, come in by the back door of the constitution. Each 
 quota must be brought to this House ready formed ; you can nei- 
 ther add nor alter. You must register it. You can do nothing 
 further. For on what grounds can you deliberate either before or 
 after the proposition ? You cannot hear the counsel for all these 
 provinces, quarreling each on its own quantity of payment, and its 
 proportion to others. If you should attempt it, the committee of 
 provincial ways and means, or by whatever other name it will de- 
 light to be called, must swallow up all the time of Parliament. 
 
 Thirdly, it does not give satisfaction t^ the complaint of the 
 colonies. They complain that they are taxed without their con- 
 sent ; you answer that you will fix the sum at which they shall be 
 taxed. That is, you give them the very grievance for the remedy. 
 You tell them, indeed, that you will leave the mode to themselves. 
 I really beg pardon : it gives me pain to mention it ; but you 
 must be sensible that you will not perform this part of the com- 
 pact. For, suppose the colonies were to lay the duties, which 
 furnished their contingent, upon the importation of your manufac- 
 tures; you know you would never suffer such a tax to be laid. 
 You know, too, that you would not suffer many other modes of 
 taxation. So that when you come to explain yourself, it will be 
 found that you will neither leave to themselves the quantum nor 
 the mode, nor indeed anything. The whole is delusion from one 
 end to the other. 
 
 Fourthly, this method of ransom by auction, unless it be uni- 
 versally accepted, will plunge you into great and inextricable 
 difficulties. In what year of our Lord are the proportions of 
 payments to be settled ? To say nothing of the impossibility 
 that colony agents should have general powers of taxing the colo- 
 nies at their discretion, consider, I implore you, that the commu- 
 nication by special messages and orders between these agents 
 
yS EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 and their constituents on each variation of the case, when the 
 parties come to contend together and to dispute on their relative 
 proportions, will be a matter of delay, perplexity, and confusion 
 that never can have an end. 
 
 •^ If all the colonies do not appear at the outcry, what is the con- 
 dition of those assemblies who offer by themselves or their agents 
 to tax themselves up to your ideas of their proportion ? The re- 
 fractory colonies, who refuse all composition, will remain taxed 
 only to your old impositions, which, however grievous in prin- 
 ciple, are trifling as to production. The obedient colonies in this 
 scheme are heavily taxed; the refractory remain unburthened. 
 What will you do ? Will you lay new and heavier taxes by Par- 
 liament on the disobedient ? Pray consider in what way you can 
 do it. You are perfectly convinced that, in the way of taxing, 
 you can do nothing b^t at the ports. Now suppose it is Virginia 
 that refuses to appear at your auction, while Maryland and North 
 Carolina bid handsomely for their ransom and are taxed to your 
 quota, how will you put these colonies on a par ? Will you tax 
 the tobacco of Virginia ? If you do, you give its death wound to 
 your English revenue at home, and to one of the very greatest 
 articles of your own foreign trade. If you tax the import of that 
 rebellious colony, what do you tax but your own manufactures, or 
 the goods of some other obedient and already well-taxed colony ? 
 Who has said one word on this labyrinthi of detail which be- 
 wilders you more and more as you enter into it ? Who has pre- 
 sented, who can present, you with a clue to lead you out of it ? 
 I think, Sir, it is impossible that you should not recollect that the 
 colony bounds are so implicated in one another (you know it by 
 your other experiments in the bill for prohibiting the New Eng- 
 land fishery), that you can lay no possible restraints on almost 
 any of them which may not be presently eluded, if you do not 
 confound the innocent with the guilty, and burthen those whom, 
 
 1 The allusion here is to the labyrinth at Crete in which the monster 
 Minotaur was kept. When Theseus entered this labyrinth to slay the Mino- 
 taur, Ariadne, the daughter of King Minos, gave him as a clew a skein of 
 thread, by means of which he found his way out. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 79 
 
 'upon every principle, you ought to exonerate. He must be 
 grossly ignorant of America who thinks that, without falling into 
 this confusion of all rules of equity and policy, you can restrain 
 any single colony, especially Virginia and Maryland, the central 
 and most important of them all. 
 
 Let it also be considered that, either in the present confusion 
 you settle a permanent contingent which will and must be trifling, 
 and then you have no effectual revenue ; or you change the 
 quota at every exigency, and then on every new repartition you 
 will have a new quarrel. 
 
 Reflect, besides, that when you have fixed a quota for every 
 colony, you have not provided for prompt and punctual payment. 
 Suppose one, two, five, ten years' arrears. You cannot issue a 
 treasury extent ^ against the failing colony. You must make new 
 Boston Port Bills, new restraining laws, new acts for dragging 
 men to England for trial. You must send out new fleets, new 
 armies. All is to begin again ! From this day forward the empire 
 is never to know an hour's tranquillity. An intestine fire will be 
 kept alive in the bowels of the colonies, which one time or other 
 must consume this whole empire. I allow, indeed, that the empire 
 of Germany raises her revenue and her troops by quotas and con- 
 tingents ; but the revenue of the empire and the army of the 
 empire is the worst revenue and the worst army in the world. 
 
 Instead of a standing revenue, you will, therefore, have a per- 
 petual quarrel. Indeed the noble lord, who proposed this pro- 
 ject of a ransom by auction, seemed himself to be of that opinion. 
 His project was rather designed for breaking the union of the 
 colonies than for establishing a revenue. He confessed he appre- 
 hended that his proposal would not be to their taste, I say, this 
 scheme of disunion seems to be at the bottom of the project ; for 
 I will not suspect that the noble lord meant nothing but merely 
 to delude the nation by an airy phantom which he never intended 
 to realize. But whatever his views may be, as I propose the 
 peace and union of the colonies as the very foundation of my 
 
 1 "Treasury extent," i.e., an order by which the lands and goods of a 
 debtor to the Crown are seized for payment. 
 
8o EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 plan, it cannot accord with one whose foundation is perpetual 
 discord. 
 
 Compare the two. This I offer to give you is plain and sim- 
 ple; the other, full of perplexed and intricate mazes. This is 
 mild; that harsh. This is found by experience effectual for its 
 purposes ; the other is a new project. This is universal ; the other 
 calculated for certain colonies only. This is immediate in its 
 conciliatory operation; the other remote, contingent, full of haz- 
 ard. Mine is what becomes the dignity of a ruling people — gra- 
 tuitous, unconditional, and not held out as matter of bargain and 
 sale. I have done my duty in proposing it to you. I have, in- 
 deed, tired you by a long discourse ; but this is the misfortune of 
 those to whose influence nothing will be conceded, and who must 
 win every inch of their ground by argument. You have heard 
 me with goodness. May you decide with wisdom! For my 
 part, I feel my mind greatly disburthened by what I have done to- 
 day. I have been the less fearful of trying your patience, be- 
 cause on this subject I mean to spare it altogether in future. I 
 have this comfort, that^ in every stage of the American affairs, I 
 have steadily opposed the measures that have produced the con- 
 fusion, and may bring on the destruction of this empire. I now 
 go so far as to risk a proposal of my own. If I cannot give 
 peace to my country, I give it to my conscience. 
 
 But what (says the financier) is peace to us without money ? 
 Your plan gives us no revenue. No! But it does; for it se- 
 cures to the subject the power oi refusal — the first of all revenues. 
 Experience is a cheat, and fact a liar, if this power in the subject 
 of proportioning his grant, or of not granting at all, has not 
 been found the richest mine of revenue ever discovered by the 
 skill or by the fortune of man. It does not indeed vote you 
 ^^152, 750: II : 2^, nor any other paltry limited sum. But it 
 gives the strong box itself, the fund, the bank, from whence only 
 revenues can arise amongst a people sensible of freedom : Posita 
 luditur arcay 
 
 1 "The strong box itself is staked in playing." See Juvenal, Sat. i. 
 An allusion to excess in gambling. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES. 8 1 
 
 Cannot you in England ; cannot you at this time of day; can- 
 not you, a House of Commons, trust to the principle which has 
 raised so mighty a revenue, and accumulated a debt of near 
 140 millions in this country ? Is this principle to be true in Eng- 
 land, and false everywhere else ? Is it not true in Ireland ? Has 
 it not hitherto been true in the colonies ? Why should you pre- 
 sume that, in any country, a body duly constituted for any func- 
 tion, will neglect to perform its duty, and abdicate its trust ? Such 
 a presumption would go against all governments in all modes. 
 But, in truth, this dread of penury of supply, from a free assembly, 
 has no foundation in nature. For first observe that, besides the 
 desire which all men have, naturally, of supporting the honor of 
 their own government, that sense of dignity and that security to 
 property, which ever attend freedom, have a tendency to increase 
 the stock of the free community. Most may be taken where most 
 is accumulated. And what is the soil or climate where experience 
 has not uniformly proved, that the voluntary flow of heaped-up 
 plenty, bursting from the weight of its own rich luxuriance, has 
 ever run with a more copious stream of revenue than could be 
 squeezed from the dry husks of oppressed indigence, by the strain- 
 ing of all the politic machinery in the world ? 
 
 Next, we know that parties must ever exist in a free country. 
 We know, too, that the emulations of such parties, their contra- 
 dictions, their reciprocal necessities, their hopes, and their fears, 
 must send them all in their turns to him that holds the balance of 
 the state. The parties are the gamesters ; but government keeps 
 the table, and is sure to be the winner in the end. When this 
 game is played, I really think it is more to be feared that the 
 people will be exhausted than that government will not be 
 supplied. Whereas, whatever is got by acts of absolute power ill- 
 obeyed because odious, or by contracts ill-kept because con- 
 strained, will be narrow, feeble, uncertain, and precarious. 
 
 Ease would recant 
 Vows made in pain, as violent and void. 7 
 
 1 See Milton, Paradise Lost, Book iv. , lines 96, 97. 
 
82 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 I, for one, protest against compounding our demands; I declare 
 against compounding, for a poor, limited sum, the immense, ever- 
 growing, eternal debt which is due to generous government from 
 protected freedom. And so may I speed in the great object I 
 propose to you; as I think it would not only be an act of injustice, 
 but would be the worst economy in the world, to compel the colo- 
 nies to a sum certain, either in the way of ransom or in the way 
 of compulsory compact. 
 
 But to clear up my ideas on this subject. A revenue from 
 America transmitted hither! Do not delude yourselves; you 
 never can receive it. No, not a shilling ! We have experience 
 that from remote countries it is not to be expected. If, when you 
 attempted to extract revenue from Bengal, you were obliged to 
 return in loan what you had taken in imposition, what can you 
 expect from North America ? For certainly, if ever there was a 
 country qualified to produce wealth, it is India ; or an institution 
 fit for the transmission, it is the East India Company. America 
 has none of these aptitudes. 
 
 If America gives you taxable objects, on which you lay your 
 duties here, and gives you, at the same time, a surplus by a 
 foreign sale of her commodities, to pay the duties on these objects 
 which you tax at home,i she has performed her part to the Brit- 
 ish revenue. But with regard to her own internal establishments, 
 she may, I doubt not she will, contribute in moderation. I say 
 in moderation; for she ought not to be permitted to exhaust her- 
 self. She ought to be reserved to a war ; the weight of which, 
 with the enemies that we are most Hkely to have, must be con- 
 siderable in her quarter of the globe. There she may serve you, 
 and serve you essentially. 
 
 For that service, for all service, whether of revenue, trade, or 
 empire, my trust is in her interest in the British constitution. My 
 hold of the colonies is in the close afiection which grows from 
 
 1 According to the Navigation Laws, American products could not be ex- 
 ported to foreign countries direct, but had first to be sent to England, thence 
 to be reexported. Duties were laid upon them in England, which were more 
 than covered by the profits of foreign sale. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, ^^ 
 
 common names, from kindred blood, from similar privileges, and 
 equal protection. These are ties, which, though light as air, are as 
 strong as links of iron. Let the colonies always keep the id,ea 
 of their civil rights associated with your government; they will 
 cling and grapple to you, and no force under heaven will be of 
 power to tear them from their allegiance. But let it be once 
 understood that your government may be one thing and their 
 privileges another, that these two things may exist without any 
 mutual relation; the cement is gone, the cohesion is loosened, 
 and everything hastens to decay and dissolution. 
 
 As long as you have the wisdom to keep the sovereign authority 
 of this country as the sanctuary of liberty, the sacred temple con- 
 secrated to our common faith, wherever the chosen race and sons of 
 England worship freedom they will turn their faces towards you. 
 The more they multiply, the more friends you will have; the more 
 ardently they love liberty, the more perfect will be their obedience. 
 Slavery they can have anywhere. It is a weed that grows in every 
 soil. They may have it from Spain, they may have it from Prus- 
 sia. But, until you become lost to all feeling of your true interest 
 and your natural dignity, freedom they can have from none but 
 you. This is the commodity of price, of which you have the mo- 
 nopoly. This is the true act of navigation, which binds to you the 
 commerce of the colonies, and through them secures to you the 
 wealth of the world. Deny them this participation of freedom, 
 and you break that sole bond, which originally made, and must 
 still preserve, the unity of the empire. 
 
 Do not entertain so weak an imagination as that your registers 
 and your bonds, your affidavits and your sufferances, your cockets 
 and your clearances, are what form the great securities of your 
 commerce. Do not dream that your letters of office, and your in- 
 structions, and your suspending clauses, are the things that hold 
 together the great contexture of the mysterious whole. These 
 things do not make your government. Dead instruments, passive 
 tools as they are, it is the spirit of the English communion that 
 gives all their life and efficacy to them. It is the spirit of the 
 English constitution, which, infused through the mighty mass, per- 
 
84 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 vades, feeds, unites, invigorates, vivifies every part of the empire, 
 even down to the minutest member. 
 
 Is it not the same virtue which does everything for us here in 
 England ? Do you imagine, then, that it is the Land-tax Act which 
 raises your revenue ; that it is the annual vote in the committee 
 of supply which gives you your army ; or that it is the mutiny bill 
 which inspires it with bravery and discipline ? No ! Surely no ! 
 It is the love of the people ; it is their attachment to their govern- 
 ment from the sense of the deep stake they have in such a glorious 
 institution, which gives you your army and your navy, and infuses 
 into both that liberal obedience without which your army would 
 be a base rabble, and your navy nothing but rotten timber. 
 
 All this, I know well enough, will sound wild and chimerical 
 to the profane herd of those vulgar and mechanical politicians 
 who have no place among us : a sort of people who think that 
 nothing exists but what is gross and material ; and who, therefore, 
 far from being qualified to be directors of the great movement of 
 empire, are not fit to turn a wheel in the machine. But to men 
 truly initiated and rightly taught, these ruling and master princi- 
 ples which, in the opinion of such men as I have mentioned, have 
 no substantial existence, are in truth everything, and all in all. 
 Magnanimity in politics is not seldom the truest wisdom ; and a 
 great empire and little minds go ill together. If we are conscious 
 of our situation, and glow with zeal to fill our place as becomes 
 our station and ourselves, we ought to auspicate ^ all our public 
 proceedings on America with the old warning of the church, 
 Sursum corda 1 2 We ought to elevate our minds to the greatness 
 of that trust to which the order of Providence has called us. By 
 adverting to the dignity of this high calling, our ancestors have 
 turned a savage wilderness into a glorious empire ; and have made 
 the most extensive and the only honorable conquests, not by de- 
 stroying, but by promoting the wealth, the number, the happiness 
 of the human race. Let us get an American revenue as we have 
 got an American empire. English privileges have made it all 
 that it is ; English privileges alone will make it all it can be. 
 
 1 Inaugurate. 2 « Lift up your hearts," — a call to prayer. 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 8$ 
 
 In full confidence of this unalterable truth, I now (quodfelix 
 faustiimque sit) i lay the first stone of the temple of peace ; and I 
 move you, — 
 
 " That the colonies and plantations of Great Britain in North 
 America, consisting of fourteen separate governments, and con- 
 taining two minions and upwards of free inhabitants, have not had 
 the liberty and privilege of electing and sending any knights and 
 burgesses, or others, to represent them in the high court of Par- 
 liament." 
 
 Upon this resolution the previous question was put, and carried ; 
 for the previous question 270, against it 78. 
 
 As the propositions were opened separately in the body of the 
 speech, the reader perhaps may wish to see the whole of them to- 
 gether, in the form in which they were moved. 
 
 Mr. Burke's Propositions. 
 
 " That the colonies and plantations of Great Britain in North 
 America, consisting of fourteen separate governments, and con- 
 taining two millions and upwards of free inhabitants, have not had 
 the liberty and privilege of electing and sending any knights and 
 burgesses, or others, to represent them in the high court of Par- 
 liament. 
 
 " That the said colonies and plantations have been made liable to, 
 and bounden by, several subsidies, payments, rates, and taxes, given 
 and granted by Parliament ; though the said colonies and planta- 
 tions have not their knights and burgesses, in the said high court 
 of Parliament, of their own election, to represent the condition of 
 their country ; by lack whereof^ they have been of te7i times touched 
 and grieved by subsidies given ^ granted^ and assented to, in the said 
 court, in a manner prejudicial to the commonwealth, quietness, rest, 
 and peace of the subjects inhabiting within the same,^ 
 
 1 " May it be happy and auspicious." 
 
 2 The words in Italics, in this and the last motion, were, by an amendment 
 that was carried, left out of the motion. 
 
86 EDMUND BURKE ON CONCILIATION 
 
 " That, from the distance of the said colonies, and from other 
 circumstances, no method hath hitherto been devised for procur- 
 ing a representation in ParUament for the said colonies. 
 
 " That each of the said colonies hath within itself a body, chosen, 
 in part or in the whole, by the freemen, freeholders, or other free 
 inhabitants thereof, commonly called the general assembly, or gen- 
 eral court; with powers legally to raise, levy, and assess, accord- 
 ing to the several usage of such colonies, duties and taxes towards 
 defraying all sorts of public services. 
 
 " That the said general assemblies, general courts, or other 
 bodies, legally qualified as aforesaid, have at sundry times freely 
 granted several large subsidies and public aids for his Majesty's 
 service, according to their abilities, when required thereto by letter 
 from one of his Majesty's principal secretaries of state ; and that 
 their right to grant the same, and their cheerfulness and sufficiency 
 in the said grants, have been at sundry times acknowledged by 
 Parliament. 
 
 " That it hath been found by experience, that the manner of 
 granting the said supplies and aids, by the said general assemblies, 
 hath been more agreeable to the inhabitants of the said colonies, 
 and more beneficial and conducive to the public service, than the 
 mode of giving and granting aids and subsidies in Parliament to 
 be raised and paid in the said colonies. 
 
 " That it may be proper to repeal an act, made in the seventh 
 year of the reign of his present Majesty, intituled : An act for 
 granting certain duties in the British colonies and plantations in 
 America ; for allowing a drawback of the duties of customs, upon 
 the exportation from this kingdom, of coffee and cocoanuts of the 
 produce of the said colonies or plantations ; for discontinuing the 
 drawbacks payable on China earthenware exported to America ; 
 and for more effectually preventing the clandestine running of 
 goods in the said colonies and plantations. 
 
 " That it may be proper to repeal an act, made in the fourteenth 
 year of the reign of his present Majesty, intituled : An act to discon- 
 tinue, in such manner and for such time as are therein mentioned, 
 the landing and discharging, lading or shipping of goods, wares, 
 
WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES, 87 
 
 and merchandise, at the town, and within the harbor, of Boston, in 
 the province of Massachusetts Bay, in North America. 
 
 " That it may be proper to repeal an act, made in the four- 
 teenth year of the reign of his present Majesty, intituled: An act 
 for the impartial administration of justice, in the cases of persons 
 questioned for any acts done by them, in the execution of the 
 law, or for the suppression of riots and tumults, in the province of 
 Massachusetts Bay, in New England. 
 
 *'That it is proper to repeal an act, made in the fourteenth 
 year of the reign of his present Majesty, intituled: An act for the 
 better regulating the government of the province of Massachu- 
 setts Bay, in New England. 
 
 " That it is proper to explain and amend an act made in the 
 thirty-fifth year of the reign of King Henry VIII., intituled : An 
 act for the trial of treasons committed out of the king's do- 
 minions. 
 
 " That, from the time when the general assembly, or general 
 court, of any colony or plantation, in North America, shall have 
 appointed, by act of assembly duly confirmed, a settled salary to 
 the offices of the chief justice and judges of the superior courts, it 
 may be proper that the said chief justice and other judges of the 
 superior courts of such colony shall hold his and their office and 
 offices during their good behavior ; and shall not be removed there- 
 from, but when the said removal shall be adjudged by his Maj- 
 esty in council, upon a hearing on complaint from the general as- 
 sembly, or on a complaint from the governor, or council, or the 
 house of representatives, severally, of the colony in which the said 
 chief justice and other judges have exercised the said office. 
 
 " That it may be proper to regulate the courts of admiralty, or 
 vice-admiralty, authorized by the fifteenth chapter of the fourth 
 of George III., in such a manner, as to make the same more com- 
 modious to those who sue, or are sued, in the said courts ; and to 
 provide for the more decent maintenaiice of the judges of the same.^^ 1 
 
 1 The first four motions and the last had the previous question put on them. 
 The others were negatived. 
 
ECLECTIC ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 THE TRAGEDY 
 
 OF 
 
 MACBETH 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 WITH AN APPENDIX CONTAINING SUGGESTIONS 
 FOR ITS STUDY 
 
 BY 
 FRANKLIN THOMAS BAKER, A. M. 
 
 TEACHERS COLLEGE, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 
 
 NEW YORK •:• CINCINNATI •:• CHICAGO 
 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
Copyright, 1895, 1898, by 
 American Book Company, 
 
 Macbeth. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The tragedy of *' Macbeth " — one of the grandest and most 
 wonderful creations of Shakespeare's genius — appeared in print 
 for the first time in the foHo of 1623, the earhest pubHshed col- 
 lection of the dramatist's plays. 
 
 The plot is derived from two independent and wholly unre- 
 lated stories in Holinshed's " Chronicles of England, Scotland, 
 and Ireland " (1587), a curious collection of superstitious legends, 
 unreliable traditions, and a very few facts. The play is in no 
 sense historical, though Duncan, King of Scotland, was treach- 
 erously murdered in 1040, and Macbeth was his assassin and 
 successor. 
 
 The drama may be thus briefly outHned : Macbeth, Thane of 
 Glamis, kinsman of Duncan, King of Scotland, achieves a signal 
 victory over Norway's king, Sweno, who, embracing the oppor- 
 tunity afforded by a rebeUion in Scotland headed by the Thane of 
 Cawdor, had invaded the kingdom. Duncan decrees the death 
 of the traitorous thane, whose title he confers on Macbeth, and 
 dispatches two nobles of the court to advise Macbeth of his new 
 *' addition " and advancement. 
 
 In the mean time, Macbeth and Banquo, crossing a blasted 
 heath, are suddenly confronted by three witches, or *' weird sis- 
 ters," who successively hail Macbeth as Thane of Glamis, Thane 
 
 3 
 
4 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 of Cawdor, and as one who shall be king hereafter ; greet Banquo 
 as " lesser than Macbeth, and greater," that shall be the ancestor 
 of kings, though not a king himself; and then vanish as sud- 
 denly as they had appeared. The messengers from the King 
 then arrive, and salute Macbeth as Thane of Cawdor, assuring 
 him that greater honors await him at the hand of his royal master. 
 
 The first prophetic greeting of the witches thus quickly verified, 
 their tempting prediction of regal honors inflames the ambitious 
 desires of Macbeth ; and, being further incited by the inordinate 
 and unscrupulous ambition of his wife, the two contrive the death 
 of their sovereign. An occasion offers when Duncan — with his 
 sons Malcolm and Donalbain, and their retinue — is a guest at 
 their castle ; and they proceed to execute their bloody and per- 
 fidious purpose. Lady Macbeth having so drugged the drink of 
 the guardians of Duncan's chamber that they lie in swinish sleep, 
 Macbeth enters the room at dead of night, and with the daggers 
 of the attendants stabs the sleeping king. Dazed by the atrocity 
 of his own act, Macbeth steals from the chamber with the bloody 
 weapons in his hands. He is met by his wife, who seizes the 
 daggers, and replaces them by the side of the snoring grooms, 
 whose faces she smears with blood ; for, as she tells her husband, 
 it must appear that the murder was done by these besotted ser- 
 vants. Malcolm suspects treachery, and flies to England, while 
 Donalbain speeds to Ireland. 
 
 Macbeth, the next in succession, assumes the crown ; but his 
 guilty conscience gives him little rest. He suspects and fears all 
 around him. Especially is Banquo the object of his dread and 
 jealous hatred ; and he has Banquo waylaid and killed. Still 
 harassed by "horrible imaginings," Macbeth seeks the weird sis- 
 ters, and demands that they unfold to him his future fate ; where- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 5 
 
 upon three apparitions present themselves to his disordered mind. 
 One warns him to beware of Macduff ; the second urges him to 
 be bold and resolute, as none of woman born has power to harm 
 him ; and the third assures him he shall never be vanquished till 
 Birnam Wood shall come to Dunsinane. Then Banquo's ghost 
 appears with the semblances of eight kings, the long line of Ban- 
 quo's descendants, future successors to the crown which Macbeth 
 wears. Although his fear of Macduff is somewhat allayed by the 
 utterances of the second apparition, in order to '' make assurance 
 doubly sure " Macbeth sends to Macduff's castle, and, faihng to 
 find him, has his wife and children put to death. 
 
 The opening of the fifth act is a sleepwalking scene, in which 
 Lady Macbeth enters in her nightdress, holding a lighted taper 
 in her hand, fast asleep, though her eyes are open, and entirely 
 unconscious of her surroundings. Here, in the presence of her 
 astounded physician and her waiting woman, she betrays in fitful 
 mutterings and disconnected sentences the dread secret of the 
 terrible crime in which she had participated. The death of 
 Lady Macbeth, who, '' as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands 
 took off her Hfe," occurs before the denouement of the tragedy. 
 
 Macduff having joined Malcolm in England, they raise an 
 army there, unite with a force of Scots already in arms to resist 
 Macbeth, and prepare to besiege the usurper in his stronghold on 
 Dunsinane Hill. As they pass Birnam Wood, Malcolm, in order 
 to conceal the numbers of his force, commands that his followers 
 cut branches from the trees, and that each soldier bear one before 
 him on the march. An astonished sentinel on the walls reports 
 to Macbeth in the castle that, looking towards Birnam, he saw the 
 wood begin to move. Terrified by the announcement, Macbeth 
 at once saUies out with his garrison, gives battle to the besiegers, 
 
6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 and meets Macduff, whom he would have avoided, but who chal- 
 lenges him to personal combat. Macbeth replies that it would 
 be labor lost; that he bears a charmed hfe, invulnerable to the 
 assaults of any man born of woman. Macduff then reveals the 
 extraordinary circumstances of his birth, and demands that Mac- 
 beth fight, or yield. Though appalled by the disclosure, and curs- 
 ing the ''juggling fiends" who had deceived him, Macbeth does 
 not yield, but with the courage of despair will fight to the last, 
 and tells Macduff to do his worst. They encounter. Macbeth is 
 slain ; and Malcolm, the rightful heir to the crown, is proclaimed 
 King of Scotland. 
 
 Professor Dowden (''Shakespeare") remarks of this tragedy: 
 "While in ' R^omeo and Juhet,' and in 'Hamlet,' we feel that 
 Shakespeare now began and now left off, and refined upon or 
 brooded over his thoughts, ' Macbeth ' seems as if struck out at 
 a heat, and imagined from first to last with unabated fervor. It 
 is like a sketch by a great master, in which everything is executed 
 with rapidity and power, and a subtlety of workmanship which 
 has become instinctive. The theme of the drama is the gradual 
 ruin, through yielding to evil within and evil without, of a man 
 who, though from the first tainted by base and ambitious thoughts, 
 yet possessed elements in his nature of possible honor and loyalty. 
 The contrast between Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, united by 
 their affections, their fortunes, and their crime, is made to illus- 
 trate and light up the character of each. Macbeth has physical 
 courage, but moral weakness, and is subject to excited imagina- 
 tive fears. His faint and intermittent loyalty embarrasses him : 
 he would have the gains of crime without its pains. But when 
 once his hands are dyed in blood, he hardly cares to withdraw 
 
INTRODUCTION, . 7 
 
 them ; and the same fears which had tended to hold him back 
 from murder now urge him on to double and treble murders, 
 until slaughter, almost reckless, becomes the habit of his reign. 
 At last the gallant soldier of the opening of the play fights for 
 his life with a wild and brutehke force. His whole existence has 
 become joyless and loveless, and yet he cHngs to existence. 
 
 " Lady Macbeth is of a finer and more delicate nature. Hav- 
 ing fixed her eye upon an end, — the attainment for her husband of 
 Duncan's crown, — she accepts the inevitable means; she nerves 
 herself for the terrible night's work by artificial stimulants; yet 
 she cannot strike the sleeping King, who resembles her father. 
 Having sustained her weaker husband, her own strength gives 
 way ; and in sleep, when her will cannot control her thoughts, 
 she is piteously afflicted by the memory of one stain of blood 
 upon her little hand. At last her thread of life '.-naps suddenly. 
 Macbeth, whose affection for her was real, has sunk too far into 
 the apathy of joyless crime to feel deeply her loss. 
 
 ^* Banquo, the loyal soldier, praying for restraint of evil 
 thoughts, which enter his mind as they had entered that of Mac- 
 beth, but which work no evil there, is set over against Macbeth, 
 as virtue is set over against disloyalty. 
 
 *^ The witches are the supernatural beings of terror, in harmony 
 with Shakespeare's tragic period, as the fairies of the ' Midsum- 
 mer-Night's Dream ' are the supernatural beings of his days of 
 fancy and frolic, and as Ariel is the supernatural genius of his 
 later period. There is at once a grossness, a horrible reality 
 about the witches, and a mystery and grandeur of evil influence." 
 
 "This tragedy," says Gervinus (" Shakespeare Commentaries," 
 translation of F. E. Bunnett, London, 1875), "has ever been re- 
 
8 « INTRODUCTION. 
 
 garded and criticised with distinguishing preference among Shake- 
 speare's works. If perhaps no other play can vie with ' Hamlet ' 
 in philosophical insight into the nature and worth of the various 
 powers at work in man ; ... if none can compare with ' Othello ' 
 in profoundness of design and careful carrying out of the charac- 
 ters ; if none with ^ Lear ' in the power of contending passions, 
 and none with ' Cymbehne ' in the importance of moral principles, 
 'Macbeth' in like manner stands forth uniquely preeminent in the 
 splendor of poetic and picturesque diction and in the living rep- 
 resentation of persons, times, and places. How grandly do the 
 mighty forms rise ; how naturally do they move in heroic style ! 
 '' Locally we are transported into the Highlands of Scotland, 
 where everything appears tinged with superstition, full of tangible 
 intercommunion with the supernatural world and prognostics of 
 the moral life by signs in the animate and inanimate kingdom ; 
 while, in uniformity with this, men are credulous in belief, and 
 excitable in fancy ; where they speak with strong expression, 
 with highly poetical language, and with unusual imagery. . . . 
 This mastery over the general representation of time and place 
 is rivaled by the pictures of single circumstances and situations. 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds justly admired that description of the mart- 
 let's resort to Macbeth's dwelling as a charming image of repose, 
 following, by way of contrast, the lively picture of the fight. 
 More justly still has praise been always lavished on the powerful 
 representation of the horrible in that night wandering of Lady 
 Macbeth, in the banquet scene, and in the dismal creation of the 
 weird sisters. And far above all this is the speaking truth of 
 the scenes at the murder of Duncan ; . . . the fearful whispered 
 conference, in the horrible dimness of which the pair arrange 
 and complete their atrocious project ; the heartrending portrai- 
 
INTRODUCTION, 9 
 
 ture of Macbeth's state of mind at the deed itself; the uneasy, 
 half- waking condition of the sacrificed attendants, one of whom 
 dreams on of the evening's feast, the other, in paralyzed con- 
 sciousness, seems to anticipate the impending atrocity. 
 
 *' In the witches, Shakespeare has made use of the popular 
 belief in evil geniuses and in adverse persecutors of mankind, 
 and has produced a similar but darker race of beings, just as he 
 made use of the fairies in * Midsummer-Night's Dream.' They 
 are simply the embodiment of inward temptation. . . . Mac- 
 beth, in meeting them, has to struggle against no external power, 
 but only with his own nature. . . . Within himself the evil spirits 
 dwell which allure him with the delusions of his aspiring mind. 
 They approach him as he stands on the highest step of his for- 
 tunes, his power, and his valor. The rebelhon he has just crushed 
 places him above the weak Duncan, who is powerless to help 
 himself; the newly attained rank of Thane of Cawdor increases 
 his influence, and suggests to him the consideration of how far 
 more successfully he could have played the part of traitor than the 
 deposed chief who bore the title before him ; to this there is 
 added the opportunity of Duncan's visit and the influence of his 
 wife. 
 
 " Banquo is opposed to Macbeth as a complementary character, 
 and this contrast is displayed at once in the relations of both to 
 the witches' temptation. Banquo has the same heroic courage, 
 the same merit, and the same claims as Macbeth : it is natural, 
 therefore, that the same ambitious thoughts should arise in one 
 as in the other. But in Banquo they arise in a calmer nature, 
 susceptible of the finest discretion, and therefore they do not 
 master him as they do Macbeth. . . . Like Macbeth, he has 
 temptations to struggle against; but he withstands them with 
 
lo INTRODUCTION, 
 
 more powerful self-government. He has tempting dreams which 
 trouble him ; he drives them away by prayer that they may not 
 come again : he does more than pray, — he struggles against sleep 
 itself, that he may escape them. Waking, his spirit masters the 
 * cursed thoughts,' while in sleep nature pays tribute to the blood 
 by giving way to these dreams. In his unrest he meets Macbeth. 
 The guiltless man confesses his dreams ; the guilty denies further 
 thoughts on the weird sisters ; he who at first had himself wished 
 for free interchange of thought now avoids it. That Banquo 
 should know what he knows is oppressive to Macbeth ; the uncon- 
 scientious man feels burdened by the presence of the conscien- 
 tious one, the evil by the good, the envious by the successful. 
 Banquo might have been his good angel ; but, avoiding intercourse 
 with him, Macbeth falls under the influence of his evil genius, 
 his wife. 
 
 " The complete antitype to her husband's irritable and imagi- 
 native nature, Lady Macbeth is calm in judgment and cold in 
 blood. No supernatural temptation approaches her, but only the 
 substantial one in her husband's letter. No warning voice of 
 conscience, no forebodings of terrible consequences, alarm her as 
 they did Macbeth before the deed ; while it is being perpetrated, 
 she remains circumspect, deliberate, ready for dissimulation ; after 
 it, she would have been able speedily to forget what had happened. 
 ... A will of uncommon firmness renders her in a remarkable 
 manner mistress of herself. She knows that by dissimulation, 
 foresight, and cunning, she could commit and conceal the fatal 
 deed in question. She scorns the bare idea that she could fail. 
 She goes through her part so perfectly that no suspicion falls on 
 her. ... Her husband contents her only when he conceives 
 the idea of creating for himself the opportunity which now offers 
 
INTRODUCTION. 1 1 
 
 itself unexpectedly. She urges him to snatch as prey what may 
 be the gift of destiny. . . . Knowing her consort well, she arro- 
 gates to herself the manly part for which she endeavors to screw 
 up her nature that she may herself perpetrate the murder. Mac- 
 beth, she says, is only to look up clear, and leave all the rest 
 to her ; she makes the plans, and talks of herself and him, both 
 of whom are to have a share in the work ; she drugs the servants 
 and lays their daggers ready. . . . She would even gxw^ the blow 
 with her own hands ; but at the moment itself her overwrought 
 nature gives way. Those ^ compunctious visitings of nature ' 
 which she had banished from herself shake her when she traces 
 in the sleeping King a resemblance to her father ; and the woman 
 must leave that business to a man, which needs more than man 
 to execute it." 
 
 Hazlitt i!i' Characters of Shakespeare's Plays," New York, 1845), 
 in a critical notice of this play, remarks : '' ' Macbeth ' (generally 
 speaking) is done upon a stronger and more systematic principle 
 of contrast than any other of Shakespeare's plays. It moves upon 
 the verge of an abyss, and is a constant struggle between hfe and 
 death. The action is desperate and the reaction is dreadful. It 
 is a huddling together of fierce extremes, a war of opposite 
 natures which of them shall destroy the other. There is nothing 
 but what has a violent end or violent beginnings. The lights 
 and shades are laid on with a determined hand ; the transitions 
 from triumph to despair, from the height of terror to the repose 
 of death, are sudden and startling ; every passion brings in its 
 fellow-contrary, and the thoughts pitch and jostle against each 
 other as in the dark. The whole play is an unruly chaos of 
 strange and forbidden things, where the ground rocks under our 
 
1 2 INTRO D UCTION. 
 
 feet. Shakespeare's genius here took its full swing, and trod 
 upon the farthest bounds of nature and passion. This circum- 
 stance will account for the abruptness and violent antitheses of 
 the style, the throes and labor which run through the expression, 
 and from defects will turn them into beauties, — ' So fair and 
 foul a day,* etc. ; 'Such welcome and unwelcome news together;' 
 * Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.' 
 The scene before the castle gate follows the appearance of the 
 witches on the heath, and is followed by a midnight murder. 
 ... In Lady Macbeth's speech, * Had he not resembled my 
 father as he slept, I had done't,' there is murder and filial piety 
 together ; and in urging him [her husband] to fulfill his vengeance 
 against the defenseless King, her thoughts spare the blood of 
 neither infants nor old age. The description of the witches is 
 full of the same contradictory principle, — they are neither of the 
 earth nor the air, but both ; ' they should be women, but their 
 beards forbid it;' they take all the pains possible to lead Mac- 
 beth on to the height of his ambition, only to betray him *in 
 deepest consequence,' and, after showing him all the pomp of 
 their art, discover their malignant delight in his disappointed hopes 
 by that bitter taunt, ' Why stands Macbeth thus amazedly ? ' " 
 
MACBETH. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE FLAY. 
 
 noblemen of Scotland. 
 
 Duncan, King of Scotland. 
 
 Malcolm, ) , . 
 
 T^ y his sons. 
 
 DONALBAIN, S 
 
 Macbeth, > generals of the King's 
 
 Banquo, \ army. 
 
 Macduff, 
 
 Lennox, 
 
 Ross, 
 
 Menteith, 
 
 Angus, 
 
 Caithness, 
 
 Fleance, son to Banquo. 
 
 SlWARD, Earl of Northumberland, 
 general of the English forces. 
 
 Young SlWARD, his son. 
 
 Seyton, an officer attending on Mac- 
 beth. 
 
 Boy, son to Macduff. 
 
 An English Doctor. 
 A Scotch Doctor. 
 A Soldier. 
 A Porter. 
 An Old Man. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. 
 Lady Macduff. 
 
 Gentlewoman attending on Lady Mac- 
 beth. 
 
 Hecate. 
 Three Witches. 
 Apparitions. 
 
 Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, 
 
 Murderers, Attendants, and 
 
 Messengers. 
 
 Scene : Scotland ; England. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene L A Desert Place. 
 
 Thunder and Lightning. Enter three Witches. 
 
 First Witch. When shall we three meet again 
 In thunder, hghtning, or in rain ? 
 
 Second Witch. When the hurlyburly's ^ done, 
 When the battle's lost and won. 
 
 1 Tumult. 
 13 
 
14 SHAKESPEARE, [act i. 
 
 Third Witch, That will be ere the set of sun. 
 First Witch. Where the place ? 
 Second Witch. Upon the heath. 
 
 Third Witch. There to meet with Macbeth. 
 First Witch. I come, Graymalkin ! ' 
 Second Witch. Paddock 2 calls. 
 Third Witch. Anon. 
 All. Fair is foul, and foul is fair ; 
 Hover through the fog and filthy air. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. A Camp 7iear Forres. 
 
 Alarum within. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with 
 Attendants, meeting a bleeding Sergeant. 
 
 Duncan. What bloody man is that ? He can report, 
 As seemeth by his phght, of the revolt 
 The newest state. 
 
 Malcolm. This is the sergeant 
 
 Who like a good and hardy soldier fought 
 'Gainst my captivity. — Hail, brave friend ! 
 Say to the King the knowledge of the broil 
 As thou didst leave it. 
 
 Sergeant. Doubtful it stood ; 
 
 As two spent swimmers, that do cling together 
 And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald — 
 Worthy to be a rebel, for to that 
 The multiplying villainies of nature 
 Do swarm upon him — from the Western Isles ^ 
 Of kerns and gallowglasses^ is suppHed ; 
 
 1 Cat. 
 
 2 Toad. Cats and toads were supposed to be familiar spirits of witches. 
 
 3 The Hebrides. 
 
 * ** Of kerns," etc., i.e., with kerns and gallowglasses, who are thus de- 
 scribed in Hunter's note, quoted by Furness (Variorum Shakespeare, vol. ii.) : 
 
SCENE II. ] MA CBE TH, 1 5 
 
 And Fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, 
 Show'd like a rebel's wench : but alPs too weak ; 
 For brave Macbeth — well he deserves that name — 
 Disdaining Fortune, with his brandish'd steel, 
 Which smok'd with bloody execution, 
 Like valor's minion ^ carv'd out his passage 
 Till he fac'd the slave ; 
 
 And ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, 
 Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps,^ 
 And fix'd his head upon our battlements. 
 
 Duncan. O valiant cousin ! worthy gentleman ! 
 
 Sergeant As whence the sun 'gins his reflection 
 Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break,^ 
 So from that spring whence comfort seem'd to come 
 Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark : 
 No sooner justice had, with valor arm'd, 
 Compell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels, 
 But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage,^ 
 With furbish'd arms and new supphes of men 
 Began a fresh assault. 
 
 Duncan. Dismay'd not this 
 
 Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo ? 
 
 Sergeant. Yes ; 
 
 As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. 
 If I say sooth,^ I must report they were 
 
 '* Their foot [speaking of the Milesian race, the ancient inhabitants of Ireland] 
 were of two sorts, the heavy and light armed ; the first were called Galloglachs, 
 armed with a helmet and coat of mail bound with iron rings, and wore a long 
 sword. . . . The light-armed infantry, called Keherns, fought with bearded 
 javelins and short daggers." 
 
 1 Favorite. 2 Cheeks. 
 
 3 " As whence," etc. The allusion is to the vernal equinox, when the 
 sun, beginning its reflex course towards us, occasions, by its increasing 
 warmth, the disastrous equinoctial storms. 
 
 * " Surveying vantage," i.e., perceiving an opportunity. 
 
 5 Truth, 
 
1 6 SHAKESPEARE. [act i. 
 
 As cannons overcharg'd with double cracks ; 
 
 So they doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe. 
 
 Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, 
 
 Or memorize ^ another Golgotha,^ 
 
 I cannot tell — 
 
 But I am faint ; my gashes cry for help. 
 
 Duncan, So well thy words become thee as thy wounds ; 
 They smack of honor both. — Go get him surgeons. — 
 
 \Exit Sergeant, attended. 
 Who comes here ? 
 
 Enter Ross. 
 
 Malcolm. The worthy Thane ^ of Ross. 
 
 Lemiox. What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he 
 look 
 That seems to speak things strange. 
 
 Ross, God save the King ! 
 
 Duncan, Whence cam'st thou, worthy thane ? 
 
 Ross. From Fife, great King ; 
 
 Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky 
 And fan our people cold. Norway himself. 
 With terrible numbers. 
 Assisted by that most disloyal traitor 
 The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict ; 
 Till that Bellona's bridegroom,^ lapp'd in proof,^ 
 Confronted him with self-comparisons,^ 
 Point against point rebeUious, arm 'gainst arm, 
 
 1 Make memorable. 
 
 2 See Matt, xxvii. 2tZ- 
 
 8 An ancient Scotch title of nobility. 
 
 * ** Bellona's bridegroom," i.e., Macbeth. Bellona, or Enyo, as described 
 by the Latin poets, was the wife or sister of Mars. She attended him in battle, 
 drove his chariot, and watched over his safety generally. 
 
 ^ '*Lapp'd in proof," i.e., clad or wrapped in armor proof against all 
 blows. 
 
 6 *' Selfsame comparisons ; as well armed and endued with equal courage. 
 
SCENE III.] MACBETH. 17 
 
 Curbing his lavish spirit ; and, to conclude, 
 The victory fell on us. 
 
 Duncan. Great happiness ! 
 
 Ross. That now 
 
 Sweno, the Norways* king, craves composition;^ 
 Nor would we deign him burial of his men 
 Till he disbursed, at Saint Colme's Inch,^ 
 Ten thousand dollars to our general use. 
 
 Duncan. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive 
 Our bosom interest. Go pronounce his present death, 
 And with his former title greet Macbeth. 
 
 Ross. I'll see it done. 
 
 Duncan. What he hath lost noble Macbeth hath won. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. A Heath near Forres. 
 Thunder. Enter the three Witches. 
 
 First Witch. Where hast thou been, sister ? 
 
 Second Witch. Killing swine. 
 
 Third Witch. Sister, where thou ? 
 
 First Witch. A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap. 
 And munch'd and munch'd and munch'd. *' Give me," 
 
 quoth I. 
 " Aroint ^ thee, witch ! " the rump-fed ronyon ^ cries. 
 Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o* the Tiger; 
 But in a sieve ^ I'll thither sail, 
 
 1 " Craves composition," i.e., sues for terms of peace. 
 
 2 A small island, now called Inchcolm, lying in the Firth of Edinburgh, 
 on which, as Dyce notes, are the remains of an abbey dedicated to St. Colomb. 
 " Inch " or " Inche " signifies island in the Erse and Irish languages, and 
 there are numerous islands on the coast of Scotland having names with this 
 affix. 
 
 3 Begone! avaunt! 
 
 * ** Rump-fed ronyon," i.e., an ill-fed, ill-conditioned, scabby woman. 
 
 5 Steevens quotes from the Life of Dr. Fian — a notable sorcerer burned 
 at Edinburgh, January, 1 591 — how ** that he and a number of witches together 
 went to sea, each one in a riddle or sieve." 
 2 
 
iS SHAKESPEARE. [act i. 
 
 And, like a rat without a tail,i 
 V\\ do, I'll do, and I'll do. 
 
 Second Witch, I'll give thee a wind. 
 
 First Witch, Thou'rt kind. 
 
 Third Witch, And I another. 
 
 First Witch, I myself have all the other, 
 And the very ports they blow,^ 
 All the quarters that they know 
 r the shipman's card.^ 
 I will drain him dry as hay : 
 Sleep shall neither night nor day 
 Hang upon his penthouse lid ; ^ 
 He shall live a man forbid ; ^ 
 Weary se'nnights ^ nine times nine 
 Shall he dwindle, peak,^ and pine ; 
 Though his bark cannot be lost, 
 Yet it shall be tempest-tost. 
 Look what I have. 
 
 Second Witch. Show me, show me. 
 
 First Witch. Here I have a pilot's thumb. 
 Wrecked as homeward he did come. \prum within. 
 
 Third Witch. A drum, a drum ! 
 Macbeth doth come. 
 
 All. The weird sisters, hand in hand, 
 Posters 8 of the sea and land. 
 Thus do go about, about ; 
 
 1 It was supposed that when a witch took the form of an animal, the tail 
 would be lacking. 
 
 2 "I myself have," etc., i. e., I myself control the other winds, and the 
 very ports upon which they blow. 
 
 3 "Shipman's card," i.e., a circular card on which, radiating from its 
 center, are painted the points of the compass. Over this, suspended at the 
 center on a pivot, the magnet turns which determines tl: e ship's course. 
 
 4 " Penthouse lid," i.e., the eyelid (figuratively). 
 
 5 Bewitched. « Sevennights ; weeks. 
 ^ Grow thin. ^' Rapid travelers. 
 
SCENE III.] MACBETH. I9 
 
 Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, 
 And thrice again to make up nine.^ 
 Peace! the charm's wound up. 
 
 Enter Macbeth mid Banquo. 
 
 Macbeth, So foul and fair a day I have not seen. 
 
 Banquo. How far is't call'd to Forres ? — What are these 
 So wither'd and so wild in their attire, 
 That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, 
 And yet are on't ? — Live you ? or are you aught 
 That man may question ? You seem to understand me, 
 By each at once her choppy finger laying 
 Upon her skinny lips. You should be women. 
 And yet your beards 2 forbid me to interpret 
 That you are so. 
 
 Macbeth. Speak, if you can. What are you ? 
 
 First Witch. All hail, Macbeth ! hail to thee. Thane of 
 Glamis ! 
 
 Second Witch. All hail, Macbeth ! hail to thee. Thane of 
 Cawdor ! 
 
 Third Witch. All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king here- 
 after ! 
 
 Banquo. Good sir, why do you start, and seem to fear 
 Things that do sound so fair ? — F the name of truth, 
 Are ye fantastical,*^ or that indeed 
 Which outwardly ye show ? My noble partner 
 You greet with present grace and great prediction 
 Of noble having * and of royal hope. 
 That he seems rapt withal ; ^ to me you speak not. 
 
 1 The witches here join hands, and dance round and round in a circle. 
 
 2 The witches of Shakespeare's day were supposed to have beards. In 
 The Merry WivQs of Windsor, Sir Hugh, the Welsh parson, says, ** I think 
 the 'oman is a witch indeed. I like not when a 'oman has a great peard." 
 
 3 ** That is, creatures of fantasy or imagination " (Johnson). 
 
 4 Possession. 
 
 5 " Rapt withal," i.e., carried away with it, as in ecstasy. 
 
20 !^HAKESPEARE. [act i. 
 
 If you can look into the seeds of time, 
 And say which grain will grow and which will not, 
 Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear 
 Your favors nor your hate. 
 
 First Witch. Hail ! 
 
 Second Witch. Hail ! 
 
 Third Witch. Hail ! 
 
 First Witch. Lesser ^ than Macbeth, and greater. 
 
 Second Witch. Not so happy, yet much happier. 
 
 Third Witch. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none : 
 So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo ! 
 
 First Witch. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail ! 
 
 Macbeth. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more. 
 By SinePs death I know I am Thane of Glamis ; 
 But how of Cawdor ? The Thane of Cawdor hves, 
 A prosperous gentleman ; and to be king 
 Stands not within the prospect of belief. 
 No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence 
 You owe 2 this strange inteUigence ; or why 
 Upon this blasted heath you stop our way 
 With such prophetic greeting. Speak, I charge you. 
 
 [ Witches vanish. 
 
 Banquo. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, 
 And these are of them. Whither are they vanish'd ? 
 
 Macbeth. Into the air ; and what seem'd corporal melted 
 As breath into the wind. Would they had stayed ! 
 
 Banquo. Were such things here as we do speak about ? 
 Or have we eaten on the insane root ^ 
 That takes the reason prisoner ? 
 
 1 Double comparatives and superlatives are often met with in Elizabethan 
 writers. 
 
 2 Own ; have. 
 
 3 ** Insane root," i.e., the root which causes insanity. Shakespeare 
 probably alludes to the hemlock. From Greene's Never too Late (i6i6), 
 Steevens quotes : " You have eaten of the roots of hemlock, that makes 
 men's eyes conceit unseen objects." 
 
SCENE III.] MACBETH, 21 
 
 Macbeth. Your children shall be kings. 
 Banquo. You shall be king. 
 
 Macbeth. And Thane of Cawdor too ; went it not so ? 
 
 Banquo. To the selfsame tune and words. — Who's here? 
 
 Enter Ross and Angus. 
 
 Ross. The King hath happily receiv'd, Macbeth, 
 The news of thy success ; and when he reads 
 Thy personal venture in the rebels' fight, 
 His wonders and his praises do contend 
 Which should be thine or his. Silenc'd with that,i 
 In viewing o'er the rest o' the selfsame day, 
 He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, 
 Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make. 
 Strange images of death. As thick as tale ^ 
 Came post with post ; and every one did bear 
 Thy praises in his kingdom's great defense. 
 And pour'd them down before him. 
 
 Angus. We are sent 
 
 To give thee from our royal master thanks ; 
 Only to herald thee into his sight. 
 Not pay thee. 
 
 Ross. And, for an earnest of a gi'eater honor. 
 He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor; 
 In which addition, ^ hail, most worthy thane ! 
 For it is thine. 
 
 Banquo. What, can the devil speak true ? 
 
 Macbeth. The Thane of Cawdor hves ; why do you dress me 
 In borrow'd robes ? 
 
 Angus. Who was the thane lives yet, 
 
 ^ " Silenc'd with that," i.e., silenced with wonder. ** Wrapped in silent 
 wonder at the deeds performed by Macbeth " is Malone's explanation. 
 
 2 ** As thick as tale," i.e., as fast as they could be told. 
 
 3 Title. 
 
2 2 SHAKESPEARE. [act i. 
 
 But under heavy judgment bears that life 
 
 Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combin'd 
 
 With those of Norway, or did line ^ the rebel 
 
 With hidden help and vantage, or that with both 
 
 He labor'd in his country's wreck, I know not ; 
 
 But treasons capital, confess'd and prov'd. 
 
 Have overthrown him. 
 
 Macbeth. \Aside\ Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor ! 
 
 The greatest is behind. \To Ross and Angus] Thanks for your 
 
 pains. 
 [To Banquo\ Do you not hope your children shall be kings. 
 When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me 
 Promis'd no less to them ? 
 
 Banqiio. That, trusted home,^ 
 
 Might yet enkindle you unto ^ the crown, 
 Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange ; 
 And oftentimes, to win us to our harm. 
 The instruments of darkness tell us truths, 
 Win us with honest ^ trifles, to betray's 
 In deepest consequence. — 
 Cousins, a word, I pray you. 
 
 Macbeth. [Aside] Two truths are told, 
 
 As happy prologues to the swelling act 
 Of the imperial theme. — I thank you, gentlemen. 
 [Aside] This supernatural soliciting ^ 
 Cannot be ill, cannot be good. If ill. 
 Why hath it given me earnest of success. 
 Commencing in a truth ? I am Thane of Cawdor. 
 If good, why do I yield to that suggestion 
 Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair. 
 And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, 
 
 1 Sustain. 
 
 2 " Trusted home," i.e., trusted to the fullest extent. 
 
 3 " Enkindle you unto," i.e., incite you to hope for. 
 * Truthful. 5 Incitement. 
 
SCENE III.] MACBETH, 23 
 
 Against the use of nature ? Present fears 
 
 Are less than horrible imaginings ; 
 
 My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,^ 
 
 Shakes so my single 2 state of man that function 
 
 Is smothered in surmise, and nothing is 
 
 But what is not.^ 
 
 Banquo. Look how our partner's rapt. 
 
 Macbeth. [Aside] If chance will have me king, why, chance 
 may crown me 
 Without my stir. 
 
 Ba7iquo, New honors come upon him. 
 
 Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mold 
 But with the aid of use. 
 
 Macbeth. [Aside] Come what come may. 
 
 Time and the hour runs through the roughest day. 
 
 Banquo. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure. 
 
 Macbeth. Give me your favor ; my dull brain was wrought 
 With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains 
 Are register'd where every day I turn 
 The leaf to read them. Let us towards the King. — 
 Think upon what hath chanced, and, at more time. 
 The interim having weigh'd it,^ let us speak 
 Our free hearts each to other. 
 
 Banquo. Very gladly. 
 
 Macbeth. Till then, enough. — Come, friends. [Exeunt. 
 
 1 " Is but fantastical," i.e., is as yet imagined only. 
 
 2 Individual. 
 
 3 ** That function is," etc. This passage Dr. Johnson paraphrases : ** All 
 powers of action are oppressed and crushed by one overwhelming image in 
 the mind, and nothing is present to me but that which is really future. Of 
 things now about me I have no perception, being intent wholly on that which 
 has yet no existence." 
 
 * ** The interim having weigh'd it," i.e., having considered it in the inter- 
 val. 
 
24 SHAKESPEARE. [act i. 
 
 Scene IV. Forres. The Palace, 
 
 Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, and Attend- 
 ants. 
 
 Duncan. Is execution done on Cawdor ? Are not 
 Those in commission ^ yet return'd ? 
 
 Malcolm. My liege, 
 
 They are not yet come back. But I have spoke ^ 
 With one that saw him die ; who did report 
 That very frankly he confess'd his treasons, 
 Implor'd your highness' pardon, and set forth 
 A deep repentance. Nothing in his life 
 Became him like the leaving it ; he died 
 As one that had been studied in his death 
 To throw away the dearest thing he owed ^ 
 As 'twere a careless trifle. 
 
 Duncan. There's no art 
 
 To find the mind's construction in the face ; 
 He was a gentleman on whom I built 
 An absolute trust. — 
 
 Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross, and Angus. 
 
 O worthiest cousin ! 
 The sin of my ingratitude even now 
 Was heavy on me. Thou art so far before, 
 That swiftest wing of recompense is slow 
 To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserv'd^ 
 That the proportion both of thanks and payment 
 Might have been mine ! only I have left to say. 
 More is thy due than more than all can pay. 
 Macbeth. The service and the loyalty I owe, 
 
 1 ** Those in commission," i.e., those to whom the business of the execu- 
 tion was committed. 
 
 2 Participles thus curtailed are frequent in Shakespeare. 
 
 3 Owned. 
 
SCENE IV.] MACBETH, 2£ 
 
 In doing it, pays itself. Your highness' part 
 
 Is to receive our duties ; and our duties 
 
 Are to your throne and state", children and servants ; 
 
 Which do but what they should, by doing everything 
 
 Safe towards ^ your love and honor. 
 
 Duncan. Welcome hither! 
 
 I have begun to plant thee, and will labor 
 To make thee full of growing. — Noble Banquo, 
 That hast no less deserv'd, nor must be known 
 No less to have done so, let me infold thee 
 And hold thee to my heart. 
 
 Banquo. There if I grow, 
 
 The harvest is your own. 
 
 Duncan. My plenteous joys. 
 
 Wanton in fullness, seek to hide themselves 
 In drops of sorrow. — Sons, kinsmen, thanes. 
 And you whose places are the nearest, know 
 We will establish our estate upon 
 Our eldest, Malcolm, whom we name hereafter 
 The Prince of Cumberland ;2 which honor must 
 Not unaccompanied invest him only. 
 But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine 
 On all deservers. From hence to Inverness, 
 And bind us further to you. 
 
 Macbeth. The rest is labor, which is not us'd for you :' 
 I'll be myself the harbinger,^ and make joyful 
 The hearing of my wife with yoiu* approach. 
 So humbly take my leave. 
 
 1 ** Safe towards," i.e., with a sure regard to. 
 
 2 By giving to Malcolm the title of the Prince of Cumberland, Ouncan 
 indicated that this son was to succeed him upon the throne. 
 
 3 ** The rest," etc., i.e., when not in your service, rest itself is labor. 
 
 * Forerunner ; here used in the original sense of an officer of the royal 
 household, whose duty it was to ride in advance of the king and t'ic royal 
 party, and engage lodgings for them in any place where they were to stop- 
 
26 SHAKESPEARE. [act i. 
 
 Duncan. My worthy Cawdor ! 
 
 Macbeth, \Aside\ The Prince of Cumberland ! that is a step 
 On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, 
 For in my way it lies. — Stars, hide your fires ; 
 Let not light see my black and deep desires ; 
 The eye wink at the hand ; yet let that be,i 
 Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. \Exit. 
 
 Duncan. True, worthy Banquo ; he is full so valiant, 
 And in his commendations I am fed ; 
 It is a banquet to me. Let's after him, 
 Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome ; 
 It is a peerless kinsman. [Flourish. Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. Inverness. Macbeth^ s Castle, 
 
 Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. ^^They inet 7ne in the day of success ; and I have 
 learned^ by the perfectest report, they have more in them thaft mortal 
 knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made 
 themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the 
 wonder of it, came missives'^ from the King, who all-hailed me ''Thane 
 of Cawdor,^ by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me, and 
 referred 7ne to the coming on of time with ^Hail, king that shall be I ' 
 This have I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partjter of great- 
 ness, that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing by being ignorant 
 of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell. " 
 
 Glamis thou art, and Cawdor ; and shalt be 
 
 What thou art promis'd. Yet do I fear thy nature ; 
 
 It is too full o' the milk of human kindness 
 
 To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great ; 
 
 Art not without ambition, but without 
 
 The illness ^ should attend it ; what thou wouldst highly, 
 
 That wouldst thou holily ; wouldst not play false. 
 
 And yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou*dst have, great Glamis, 
 
 1 Take place. 2 Messengers. 8 Wickedness. 
 
SCENE V.J MACBETH, 27 
 
 That which cries, "Thus thou must do, if thou have it;" 
 And that which rather thou dost fear to do. 
 Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither, 
 That I may pour my spirits in thine ear, 
 And chas'tise with the valor of my tongue 
 All that impedes thee from the golden round 
 Which fate and metaphysical 1 aid doth seem 
 To have thee crown'd withal. — 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 What is your tidings ? 
 
 Messenger, The King comes here to-night. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Thou'rt mad to say it : 
 
 Is not thy master with him ? who, were't so. 
 Would have inform'd for preparation. 
 
 Messenger, So please you, it is true ; our Thane is coming. 
 One of my fellows had the speed of him. 
 Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more 
 Than would make up his message. 
 
 Lady Macbeth, Give him tending ; 
 
 He brings great news. — \Exit Messenger, 
 
 The raven himself is hoarse 
 That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 
 Under my battlements. — Come, you spirits 
 That tend on mortal 2 thoughts, unsex me here, 
 And fill me from the crown to the toe topful 
 Of direst cruelty ! make thick my blood ; 
 Stop up the access and passage to remorse,^ 
 That no compunctious visitings of nature 
 Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between 
 The effect and it ! Come to my woman's breasts, 
 And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers, 
 Wherever in your sightless substances 
 You wait on Nature's mischief ! — Come, thick night, 
 
 1 Supernatural. 2 Deadly, 3 Compassion. 
 
28 SHAKESPEARE, [act i. 
 
 And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, 
 That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, 
 Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, 
 To cry ^* Hold, hold ! " — 
 
 Enter Macbeth. 
 
 Great Glamis ! worthy Cawdor ! 
 Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter ! 
 Thy letters have transported me beyond 
 This ignorant present,^ and I feel now 
 The future in the instant. 
 
 Macbeth. My dearest love, 
 
 Duncan comes here to-night. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. And when goes hence ? 
 
 Macbeth. To-morrow, — as he purposes. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. O, never 
 
 Shall sun that morrow see ! 
 Your face, my thane, is as a book where men 
 May read strange matters. To beguile the time, 
 Look like the time ; bear welcome in your eye. 
 Your hand, your tongue ; look like the innocent flower, 
 But be the serpent under't. He that's coming 
 Must be provided for ; and you shall put 
 This night's great business into my dispatch,^ 
 Which shall to all our nights and days to come 
 Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. 
 
 Macbeth. We will speak further. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Only look up clear , 
 
 To alter favor ever is to fear.^ 
 Leave all the rest to me. [Exeunt. 
 
 1 ** This ignorant present," i.e., this present which knows nothing of the 
 future. 
 
 2 Management. 
 
 3 ** To alter favor," etc., i.e., to change countenance indicates fear in you, 
 and causes it in others. 
 
SCENE VI.] MACBETH. 29 
 
 Scene VI. Before Macbeth^ s Castle. 
 
 Hautboys and torches. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, 
 Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus, and Attendants. 
 
 Duncan. This castle hath a pleasant seat ; the air 
 Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself 
 Unto our gentle senses. 
 
 Banquo. This guest of summer, 
 
 The temple-haunting martlet/ does approve, 
 By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's breath 
 Smells wooingly here ; no jutty, frieze, 
 Buttress, nor coign ^ of vantage, but this bird 
 Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle : 
 Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd, 
 The air is delicate. 
 
 Enter Lady Macbeth. 
 
 Duncan. See, see, our honor'd hostess ! — 
 
 The love that follows us sometime ^ is our trouble. 
 Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you 
 How you shall bid God 'ild us ^ for your pains, 
 And thank us for your trouble. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. All our service. 
 
 In every point twice done and then done double, 
 Were poor and single^ business to contend 
 Against those honors, deep and broad, wherewith 
 Your Majesty loads our house. For those of old, 
 And the late dignities heap'd up to them. 
 We rest your hermits.^ 
 
 1 Martin, a bird of the swallow kind. Its nest of mud is built beneath the 
 eaves and sheltered projections of lofty buildings, especially in the well pro- 
 tected angles of the cornices an.d gables of temples, towers, castles, etc. 
 
 2 Corner or angle. 3 Sometimes. 
 
 * *' 'Ild us," a contraction of " yield us," i.e., reward us. 5 Weak. 
 6 ** We rest your hermits," i.e., " we, as hermits or beadsmen, will always 
 pray for you " (Steevens). 
 
30 SHAKESPEARE, [act i. 
 
 Duncan. Where's the Thane of Cawdor ? 
 
 We cours'd him at the heels, and had a purpose 
 To be his purveyor ; ^ but he rides well, 
 And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp '^ him 
 To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess. 
 We are your guest to-night. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Your servants ever 
 
 Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt,^ 
 To make their audit at your highness' pleasure, 
 Still to return your own. 
 
 Duncan. , Give me your hand ; 
 
 Conduct me to mine host ; we love him highly. 
 And shall continue our graces towards him. 
 By your leave, hcstess. \Exeunt 
 
 Scene VII. Macbeth's Castle. 
 
 Hautboys and torches. Enter a Sewer, ^ and divers Servants with dishes and 
 service^ and pass over the stage. Then enter Macbeth. 
 
 Macbeth. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well. 
 It were done quickly, if th' assassination 
 Could trammel up the consequence, and catch 
 With his ^ surcease ^ success ; that but this blow 
 Might be the be-all and the end-all here. 
 But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, 
 We'd jump the life to come."^ But in these cases 
 We still have judgment here, that^ we but teach 
 
 1 "To be his purveyor," i.e., to be in advance of him. A purveyor is 
 properly one sent ahead of a party to obtain food for them. 
 
 2 Helped. 3 ** in compt," i.e., accountable. 
 
 * An upper servant who prepared and served the table ; a head waiter. 
 
 5 Its : '* assassination " is the antecedent. • ^ Ending. 
 
 '^ " If th' assassination," etc., i.e., if the murder, when done, could insure 
 complete success here in this life," upon this bank and shoal of time," we 
 would risk the life to come. 
 
 ^ Since. 
 
SCENE VII.] MACBETH. 31 
 
 Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return 
 To plague the inventor. This even-handed justice 
 Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chaHce 
 To our own Hps. He's here in double trust : 
 First, as I am his kinsman and his subject. 
 Strong both against the deed ; then as his host. 
 Who should against his murderer shut the door. 
 Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan 
 Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 
 So clear in his great office, that his virtues 
 Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongu'd, against 
 The deep damnation of his taking off ; 
 And pity, like a naked newborn babe. 
 Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim,^ hors'd 
 Upon the sightless couriers of the air,^ 
 Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye. 
 That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur 
 To prick the sides of my intent, but only 
 Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself 
 And falls on th' other — 
 
 Enter Lady Macbeth. 
 
 How now ! what news ? 
 Lady Macbeth. He has almost supp'd. Why have you left 
 
 the chamber ? 
 Macbeth. Hath he ask'd for me ? 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Know you not he has ? 
 
 Macbeth. We will proceed no further in this business. 
 He hath honor'd me of late, and I have bought^ 
 Golden opinions from all sorts of people, 
 
 1 " A naked newborn babe," etc. " Either like a mortal babe, terrible 
 in helplessness, or like heaven's child angels, mighty in love and compas- 
 sion " (Rev. C. E. Moberly). 
 
 2 " Sightless couriers of the air," i.e., the invisible winds. 
 
 3 Gained, 
 
32 SHAKESPEARE. [act h 
 
 Which would ^ be worn now in their newest gloss, 
 Not cast aside so soon. 
 
 Lady Macbeth, Was the hope drunk 
 
 Wherein you dress' d yourself ? hath it slept since ? 
 And wakes it now, to look so green and pale 
 At what it did so freely ? From this time 
 Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard 
 To be the same in thine own act and valor 
 As thou art in desire ? Wouldst thou have that 
 Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life. 
 And live a coward in thine own esteem, 
 Letting " I dare not " wait upon " I would," 
 Like the poor cat i' the adage ? 2 
 
 Macbeth. Prithee, peace. 
 
 I dare do all that may become a man ; 
 Who dares do more is none. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. What beast was't, then, 
 
 That made you break this enterprise to me ? 
 When you durst do it, then you were a man ; 
 And, to be more than what you were, you would 
 Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place 
 Did then adhere,^ and yet you would make both ; 
 They have made themselves, and that their fitness now 
 Does unmake you. 
 
 Macbeth. If we should fail, — 
 
 Lady Macbeth. We fail! 
 
 But screw your courage to the sticking place,^ 
 And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep, — 
 
 1 Should. 
 
 2 "Letting 'I dare not,'" etc. Bos well (as quoted by Furness) notes 
 that " the adage * The cate would eate fish, and would not wete her feete,' is 
 among Heywood's Proverbs (1566)." 
 
 3 Accord. 
 
 4 " But screw," etc. Probably a metaphor from the tuning of a stringed 
 instrument. 
 
SCENE vii.] MACBETH, 33 
 
 Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey 
 Soundly invite him, — his two chamberlains 
 Will I with wine and wassail so convince/ 
 That memory, the warder of the brain, 
 Shall be a fume, and the receipt 2 of reason 
 A limbeck ^ only. When in swinish sleep 
 Their drenched natures lie, as in a death, 
 What cannot you and I perform upon 
 The unguarded Duncan ? what not put upon 
 His spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt 
 Of our great quell ? ^ 
 
 Macbeth. Bring forth men children only ; 
 
 For thy undaunted mettle should compose 
 Nothing but males. Will it not be receiv'd,^ 
 When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two 
 Of his own chamber, and us'd their very daggers. 
 That they have done't ? 
 
 Lady Macbeth, Who dares receive it other, 
 
 As we shall make our griefs and clamor roar 
 Upon his death ? 
 
 Macbeth. I am settled, and bend up 
 
 Each corporal agent ^ to this terrible feat. 
 Away, and mock the time with fairest show ; 
 False face must hide what the false heart doth know. \Exeunt, 
 
 1 " With wine and wassail so convince," i.e., with drink and carousing so 
 overcome. 
 
 2 Receptacle. 
 
 3 An alembic ; a still, or rather the cap of a still. 
 
 4 Murder. 5 Believed. 
 
 ^ " Each corporal agent," i.e., every faculty of the body. 
 
34 SHAKESPEARE, [act ii. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. Court of Macbeth' s Castle, 
 Enter Banquo, and Fleance bearing a torch before him. 
 
 Banquo, How goes the night, boy ? 
 
 Fleance, The moon is down ; I have not heard the clock. 
 
 Banquo. And she goes down at twelve. 
 
 Fleance, I take't, 'tis later, sin 
 
 Banquo, Hold ; take my sword. — There's husbandry i in heaven ; 
 Their candles are all out. — Take thee that, too. 
 A heavy summons lies hke lead upon me,^ 
 And yet I would not sleep. — Merciful Powers, 
 Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature 
 Gives way to in repose ! — 
 
 Enter Macbeth, and a Servant with a torch. 
 
 Give me my sword. — 
 Who's there ? 
 
 Macbeth, A friend. 
 
 Banqiw, What, sir, not yet at rest ? The king's abed — 
 He hath been in unusual pleasure, and 
 Sent forth great largess ^ to your offices.^ 
 This diamond he greets your wife withal. 
 By the name of most kind hostess — and shut up 
 In measureless content.^ 
 
 Macbeth, Being unprepar'd, 
 
 1 Thrift. 
 
 2 '* A heavy summons," etc., i.e., a strong disposition to sleep is upon me. 
 
 3 Gifts of money. 4 The servants' departments. 
 
 5 " Shut up in measureless content," i.e., retiring to sleep most happy, and 
 contented with everything around him» 
 
SCENE I.] MACBETH, 35 
 
 Our will became the servant to defect, 
 Which else should free have wrought.^ 
 
 Banquo. All's well. 
 
 I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters ; 
 To you they have show'd some truth. 
 
 Macbeth, I think not of them. 
 
 Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, 
 We would spend it in some words upon that business, 
 If you would grant the time. 
 
 Banquo. At your kind'st leisure. 
 
 Macbeth. If you shall cleave to my consent, when 'tis,^ 
 It shall make honor for you. 
 
 Banquo. So I lose none 
 
 In seeking to augment it, but still keep 
 My bosom franchis'd and allegiance clear, 
 I shall be counsel'd. 
 
 Macbeth. Good repose the while ! 
 
 Banquo. Thanks, sir ; the Hke to you ! 
 
 [Exeunt Banquo and Fleance. 
 
 Macbeth. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, 
 She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. — \Exit Servant, 
 Is this a dagger which I see before me. 
 The handle towards my hand? — Come, let me clutch thee. 
 I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 
 Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
 To feeling as to sight ? or art thou but 
 A dagger of the mind, a false creation. 
 Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ? 
 I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
 As this which now I draw. 
 Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going ; 
 And such an instrument I was to use. — 
 
 1 " Being unprepar'd," etc., i.e., lack of time for preparation constrained 
 the free working of my will. 
 
 2 ** Cleave to my consent," i.e., join my party when it is established. 
 
36 SHAKESPEARE. [act ii. 
 
 Mine eyes are made the fools o* the other senses, 
 
 Or else worth all the rest ; — I see thee still, 
 
 And on thy blade and dudgeon ^ gouts ^ of blood, 
 
 Which was not so before. — There's no such thing ; 
 
 It is the bloody business which informs ^ 
 
 Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half world 
 
 Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 
 
 The curtain'd sleep ; witchcraft celebrates 
 
 Pale Hecate's^ offerings, and wither'd murder, 
 
 Alarum'd ^ by his sentinel, the wolf, 
 
 Whose howl's his watch,^ thus with his stealthy pace, 
 
 With Tarquin's ravishing strides,"^ towards his design 
 
 Moves like a ghost. — Thou sure and firm-set earth, 
 
 Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear 
 
 Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, 
 
 And take the present horror from the time. 
 
 Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he hves ; 
 
 Words to the heat of deeds too cool breath gives.^ 
 
 \A bell rings. 
 I go, and it is done ; the bell invites me. — 
 Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell 
 That summons thee to heaven or to hell. \Exit. 
 
 1 Handle. 2 Drops. ^ Creates forms. 
 
 4 Hecate, according to classic mythology the wife of Pluto and Queen of the 
 infernal regions, was supposed to preside over witchcraft and enchantments, 
 and to control the incantations of evil spirits. Dogs, lambs, and honey were 
 generally offered to her. The word is dissyllabic here i^Hec'ate), as it always 
 is in Shakespeare's verse. 
 
 5 Aroused. 6 Watchword. 
 
 7 '* Tarquin's ravishing strides," alluding to Sextus Tarquinius, by whom 
 Lucretia, the Roman matron, was dishonored. 
 
 8 Singular in form for the sake of the rhyme, though having. a plural sub- 
 ject. The singular noun "breath," just preceding the verb, makes the 
 violation of a grammatical rule less noticeable. 
 
SCENE II.] MACBETH. 2>"l 
 
 Scene II. The Same, 
 Enter Lady Macbeth. 
 
 Lady Macbeth, That which hath made them drunk hath made 
 me bold ; 
 What hath quench'd them hath given me fire. — Hark ! Peace ! — 
 It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman, 
 Which gives the stern'st good night.^ He is about it ; 
 The doors are open, and the surfeited grooms 
 Do mock their charge with snores ; I have drugg'd their possets, 
 That death and nature do contend about them, 
 Whether they live or die. 
 
 Macbeth, [ Within\ Who's there ? what, ho ! 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd, 
 And 'tis not done. The attempt and not the deed 
 Confounds us. Hark ! I laid their daggers ready ; 
 He could not miss 'em. Had he not resembled 
 My father as he slept, I had done't. — 
 
 Enter Macbeth. 
 
 My husband ! 
 
 Macbeth. I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise ? 
 
 Lady Macbeth. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. 
 Did not you speak ? 
 
 Macbeth. When ? 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Now. 
 
 Macbeth. As I descended ? 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Ay. 
 
 Macbeth. Hark ! 
 Who lies i' the second chamber ? 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Donalbain. 
 
 Macbeth. This is a sorry sight. [Looking on his hands. 
 
 1 The hooting of the owl is even now heard by many persons with super- 
 stitious dread, as an ominous cry. 
 
38 SHAKESPEARE. [act ii. 
 
 Lady Macbeth, A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. 
 
 Macbeth. There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried 
 '' Murder ! " 
 That they did wake each other ; I stood and heard them ; 
 But they did say their prayers, and address'd ^ them 
 Again to sleep. 
 
 Lady Macbeth, There are two lodg'd together. 
 
 Macbeth. One cried '' God bless us ! " and "Amen ! " the olher, 
 As 2 they had seen me with these hangman's hands, 
 Listening their fear. I could not say " Amen ! " 
 When they did say " God bless us ! " 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Consider it not so deeply. 
 
 Macbeth. But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"? 
 I had most need of blessing, and "Amen " 
 Stuck in my throat. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. These deeds must not be thought 
 After these ways ; so, it will make us mad. 
 
 Macbeth. Methought I heard a voice cry, " Sleep no more ! 
 Macbeth does murder sleep," — the innocent sleep, 
 Sleep that knits up the ravel'd ^ sleave ^ of care, 
 The death of each day's hfe, sore labor's bath, 
 Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course,^ 
 Chief nourisher in life's feast, — 
 
 Lady Macbeth. What do you mean ? 
 
 Macbeth. Still it cried, " Sleep no more ! " to all the house ; 
 " Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor 
 Shall sleep no more ; Macbeth shall sleep no more." 
 
 Lady Macbeth, Who was it that thus cried ? Why, worthy 
 thane, 
 You do unbend your noble strength to think 
 So brainsickly of things. Go get some water, 
 And wash this filthy witness from your hand. 
 Why did you bring these daggers from the place ? 
 
 1 Prepared. 2 As if. 3 Tangled. * Soft floss or silk. 
 
 5 *' Second course," i.e., the chief course at the feast. 
 
SCENE II.] MACBETH. 39 
 
 They must lie there ; go carry them, and smear 
 The sleepy grooms with blood. 
 
 Macbeth. I'll go no more ; 
 
 I am afraid to think what I have done ; 
 Look on't again I dare not. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Infirm of pmpose ! 
 
 Give me the daggers ; the sleeping and the dead 
 Are but as pictures ; 'tis the eye of childhood 
 That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, 
 I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal ; 
 For it must seem their guilt. \Exit. Knocking within, 
 
 Macbeth. Whence is that knocking ? 
 
 How is't with me, when every noise appals me ? 
 What hands are here ? Ha ! they pluck out mine eyes. 
 Will all great Neptune's ocean ^ wash this blood 
 Clean from my hand ? No ; this my hand will rather 
 The multitudinous seas incarnadine, 
 Making the green one red.^ 
 
 Reenter Lady Macbeth. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. My hands are of your color, but I shame 
 To wear a heart so white. [Knocking withifi.] I hear a knocking 
 At the south entry : retire we to our chamber ; 
 A little water clears us of this deed ; 
 How easy is it, then ! Your constancy 
 Hath left you unattended.^ [Knocking within. \ Hark ! more 
 
 knocking. 
 Get on your nightgown,^ lest occasion call us, 
 
 1 The ancient mythologists tell us, that, when Jupiter assigned to each of 
 his brothers a separate portion of the universe, he decreed that Neptune 
 should be given all the waters upon the face of nature, and be sole monarch 
 of the ocean. 
 
 2 " The multitudinous seas," etc., i.e., change the innumerable waves of 
 the ocean to a carnation hue, making its natural green color a uniform red. 
 
 3 " Your constancy," etc., i.e., your resolution has forsaken you. 
 
 4 Dressing gown, as we should say. • 
 
40 SHAKESPEARE. [act ii. 
 
 And show us to be watchers. Be not lost 
 So poorly in your thoughts. 
 
 Macbeth, To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself. — 
 
 [Knocking withi?i. 
 Wake Duncan with thy knocking ! I would thou couldst ! 
 
 [Exemit. 
 
 Scene III. The Same. 
 
 Enter a Porter. Knocking within. 
 
 Porter. Here's a knocking indeed ! If a man were porter of 
 hell gate, he should have old turning the key.^ [Knocking within. \ 
 Knock, knock, knock ! Who's there, i' the name of Beelzebub ? 
 — Here's a farmer that hang'd himself on the expectation of 
 plenty.2 — Come in time; have napkins enow^ about you; here 
 you'll sweat for't. — [Knocking within?^ Knock, knock ! Who's 
 there, in the other devil's name ? — Faith, here's an equivocator, 
 that could swear in both the scales against either scale ; who com- 
 mitted treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to 
 heaven. — O, come in, equivocator. — [Knocking within.] Knock, 
 knock, knock ! Who's there ? — Faith, here's an English tailor 
 come hither for stealing out of a French hose.^ — Come in, tailor ; 
 here you may roast your goose.^ — [Knocking within.] Knock, 
 knock ! never at quiet ! What are you ? — But this place is too cold 
 for hell. I'll devil-porter it no further ; I had thought to have let 
 in some of all professions that go the primrose way to the ever- 
 lasting bonfire. — [Knocking within.] Anon, anon ! I pray you, 
 remember the porter. [Opens the gate, 
 
 1 " Have old," etc., i.e., be kept busy unlocking the door. " Old" as an 
 intensive frequently occurs in Shakespeare. 
 
 2 Because, with plentiful crops, prices would decline. 
 
 3 ** Napkins enow," i.e., pocket handkerchiefs enough. 
 
 * Trousers. It is an old joke against tailors, that they always steal from 
 the material given out to them. 
 
 5 A tailor's smoothing iron. It received its name from the resemblance 
 of the handle to the neck of a goose. 
 
SCENE III.] MACBETH. 41 
 
 Enter Macduff and Lennox. 
 
 Macduff. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, 
 That you do lie so late ? 
 
 Porter. Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock.^ 
 
 Macduff. I beheve drink gave thee the lie last night. 
 
 Porter. That it did, sir, i' the very throat on me ; but I requited 
 him for his lie; and, I think, being too strong for him, though 
 he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast ^ him. 
 
 Macduff, Is thy master stirring ? 
 
 Enter Macbeth. 
 
 Our knocking has awak'd him ; here he comes. 
 
 Lennox. Good morrow, noble sir. 
 
 Macbeth. Good morrow, both. 
 
 Macduff. Is the King stirring, worthy thane ? 
 
 Macbeth. Not yet. 
 
 Macduff. He did command me to call timely on him ; 
 I have almost slipped the hour. 
 
 Macbeth. I'll bring you to him. 
 
 Macduff. I know this is a joyful trouble to you ; 
 But yet 'tis one. 
 
 Macbeth. The labor we delight in physics ^ pain. 
 This is the door. 
 
 Macdiff. I'll make so bold to call, 
 
 For 'tis my limited service.^ \Exit. 
 
 Lennox. Goes the King hence to-day ? 
 
 Macbeth. He does ; — he did appoint so. 
 
 Lennox. The night has been unruly : where we lay, 
 Our chimneys were blown down ; and, as they say, 
 Lamentings heard i' the air, — strange screams of death, 
 And prophesying, with accents terrible, 
 
 1 " Till the second cock," i.e., till the cock crew the second time. 
 
 2 Overthrow. 3 Relieves. 
 
 4 *' My limited service," i.e., service specially assigned to me. 
 
42 SHAKESPEARE, [act ii. 
 
 Of dire combustion and confus'd events 
 New hatch'd to the woeful time. The ob'scure bird i 
 Clamor'd the Hvelong night. Some say the Earth 
 Was feverous and did shake. 
 
 Macbeth. 'Twas a rough night. 
 
 Lennox. My young remembrance cannot parallel 
 A fellow to it. 
 
 Reenter Macduff. 
 
 Macduff. O horror, horror, horror ! Tongue nor heart 
 
 Cannot conceive nor name thee ! 
 
 Macbeth. \ ,,^, , , 
 
 r \ What's the matter ? 
 
 Lennox. ) . 
 
 Macduff. Confusion 2 now hath made his masterpiece ! 
 
 Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope 
 
 The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence 
 
 The life o' the building ! 
 
 Macbeth. What is't you say ? the life ? 
 
 Le?t?iox. Mean you his Majesty ? 
 
 . Macduff. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight 
 
 With a new Gorgon.^ Do not bid me speak ; 
 
 See, and then speak yourselves. 
 
 [Exeunt Macbeth and Lemiox. 
 
 Awake, awake ! 
 
 Ring the alarum bell. — Murder and treason ! — 
 
 1 The owl. 2 Destruction. 
 
 3 It is fabled that there were three Gorgons, sisters, of whom Medusa, 
 the youngest, was very handsome. Wishing to leave her home, a desolate 
 land, she entreated Minerva to let her go and visit the delightful sunny 
 south. When Minerva refused her request, she reviled the goddess, declar- 
 ing that nothing but her conviction that mortals would no longer consider 
 her beautiful, if they but once beheld Medusa, could have prompted this 
 denial. This remark so incensed Minerva, that, to punish her for her vanity, 
 the goddess changed Medusa's beautiful curling locks into hissing, writhing 
 serpents, and decreed that one glance into her still beautiful face would suffice 
 to change the beholder into stone. (See Guerber's Myths of Greece and 
 Romet p. 242.) 
 
SCENE III.] MACBETH. 43 
 
 Banquo and Donalbain ! Malcolm! awake! 
 
 Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit, 
 
 And look on death itself ! Up, up, and see 
 
 The great doom's image ! ^ Malcolm ! Banquo ! 
 
 As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites, 
 
 To countenance this horror ! 2 — Ring the bell. \Bell rings. 
 
 Enter Lady Macbeth. 
 
 Lady Macbeth, What's the business, 
 That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley 
 The sleepers of the house 1 Speak, speak ! 
 
 Macduff. O gentle lady, 
 
 'Tis not for you to hear what I can speak ; 
 The repetition, in a woman's ear. 
 Would murder as it fell. — 
 
 Enter Banquo. 
 
 O Banquo, Banquo, 
 Our royal master's murder'd ! 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Woe, alas ! 
 
 What ! in our house ? 
 
 Banquo. Too cruel anywhere. — 
 
 Dear Duff, I prithee, contradict thyself, 
 And say it is not so. 
 
 Reenter Macbeth and Lennox, with Ross. 
 
 Macbeth. Had I but died an hour before this chance, 
 I had liv'd a blessed time ; for, from this instant 
 There's nothing serious in mortality;^ 
 All is but toys ; renown and grace is dead ; 
 The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees ^ 
 Is left this vault to brag of. 
 
 1 " The great doom's image," i.e., a sight as terrible as the last judgment. 
 
 2 " Walk like sprites," etc. Ghosts are the only proper accompaniments 
 to this horror. 
 
 3 Human life. ■* Dregs of the cask. 
 
44 SHAKESPEARE. [act ii. 
 
 Enter Malcolm and Donalbain. 
 
 Donalbain. What is amiss ? 
 
 Macbeth. You are, and do not know't ; 
 
 The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood 
 Is stopp'd, — the very source of it is stopp'd. 
 
 Macduff. Your royal father's murder'd. 
 
 Malcolm. Oh ! by whom ? 
 
 Lennox. Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't : 
 Their hands and faces were all badg'd with blood ; 
 So were their daggers, which unwip'd we found 
 Upon their pillows. 
 
 They star'd and were distracted ; no man*s life 
 Was to be trusted with them. 
 
 Macbeth. O, yet I do repent me of my fury, 
 That I did kill them. 
 
 Macduff. Wherefore did you so ? 
 
 Macbeth. Who can be wise, amaz'd,^ temperate and furious. 
 Loyal and neutral, in a moment ? No man. 
 The expedition ^ of my violent love 
 Outran the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan, 
 His silver skin lac'd with his golden blood ; 
 And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature 
 For ruin*s wasteful entrance : there, the murderers, 
 Steep'd in the colors of their trade, their daggers 
 Unmannerly breech'd with gore.^ Who could refrain, 
 That had a heart to love, and in that heart 
 Courage to make's love known ? 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Help me hence, ho ! 
 
 Macdtff. Look to the lady. 
 
 Malcolm. [Aside to Donalbain] Why do we hold our tongues. 
 That most may claim this argument for ours ? * 
 
 1 Bewildered. 2 Haste. 
 
 3 ** Breech'd with gore," i.e., covered with blood. 
 
 4 " That most may claim," etc., i.e., who have the greatest interest in the 
 
SCENE III.] MACBETH, 45 
 
 Donalbain, [Aside to Malcolm] What should be spoken here, 
 where our fate, 
 Hid in an auger hole, may rush and seize us ? 
 Let's away ; 
 Our tears are not yet brew'd. 
 
 Malcolm. [Aside to Donalbain] Nor our strong sorrow 
 Upon the foot of motion. 
 
 Banquo, Look to the lady. — 
 
 \Lady Macbeth is carried out. 
 And when we have our naked frailties hid, 
 That suffer in exposure,^ let us meet, 
 And question ^ this most bloody piece of work, 
 To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us. 
 In the great hand of God I stand ; and thence 
 Against the undivulg'd pretense I fight 
 Of treasonous malice. 
 
 Macduff, And so do I. 
 
 All. So all. 
 
 Macbeth. Let's briefly put on manly readiness. 
 And meet i' the hall together. 
 
 AIL Well contented. 
 
 \Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain. 
 
 Malcoht. What will you do ? Let's not consort with them ; 
 To show an unfelt sorrow is an bfiice 
 Which the false man does easy. I'll to England. 
 
 Do7ialbain. To Ireland I ; our separated fortune 
 Shall keep us both the safer ; where we are 
 There's daggers in men's smiles ; the near in blood. 
 The nearer bloody.^ 
 
 1 " And when we have," etc., is thus paraphrased by Steevens : " When we 
 have clothed our half-dressed bodies, which may take cold from being exposed 
 to the air." 
 
 2 Examine thoroughly. 
 
 3 " The near in blood," etc., i.e., the nearer the kin, the more the danger 
 to our lives. 
 
46 SHAKESPEARE. [act ii. 
 
 Malcolm, This murderous shaft that's shot 
 
 Hath not yet lighted, and our safest way 
 Is to avoid the aim. Therefore, to horse ; 
 And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, 
 But shift away ;i there's warrant in that theft 
 Which steals itself when there's no mercy left. \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. Without the Castle. 
 Enter Ross and an old Man. 
 
 Old Man. Threescore and ten I can remember well ; 
 Within the volume of which time I've seen 
 Hours dreadful and things strange ; but this sore night 
 Hath trifled former knowings. 
 
 Ross. Ah, good father, 
 
 Thou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man's act, 
 Threaten his bloocfy stage : by the clock 'tis day. 
 And yet dark night strangles the traveling lamp.2 
 Is't night's predominance, or the day's shame, 
 , That darkness does the face of earth entomb, 
 When living light should kiss it ? 
 
 Old Man. 'Tis unnatural 
 
 Even like the deed that's done. On Tuesday last 
 A falcon, towering in her pride of place,^ 
 Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at ^ and kill'd. 
 
 Ross. And Duncan's horses, — a thing most strange and cer- 
 tain, — 
 Beauteous and swift, the minions ^ of their race, 
 Turn'd wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, 
 Contending 'gainst obedience, as they would make 
 War with mankind. 
 
 1 " Shift away," i.e., get away quietly and quickly. 
 
 2 ** The traveling lamp," i.e., the sun. 
 
 3 " Towering," etc., is a phrase of falconry meaning soaring at her highest 
 elevation. 
 
 * " Hawk'd at," i.e., pounced upon. 5 Chosen darlings. 
 
SCENE IV.] MACBETH. 47 
 
 Old Man. 'Tis said they eat ^ each other. 
 
 Ross. They did so, to the amazement of mine eyes, 
 That look'd upon't. Here comes the good Macduff. — 
 
 Enter Macduff. 
 
 How goes the world, sir, now ? 
 
 Macduff. Why, see you not ? 
 
 Ross. Is't known who did this more than bloody deed ? 
 
 Macduff. Those that Macbeth hath slain. 
 
 Ross. Alas the day ! 
 
 What good could they pretend ? 
 
 Macduff. They were suborn 'd : 2 
 
 Malcolm and Donalbain, the King's two sons. 
 Are stol'n away and fled, which puts upon them 
 Suspicion of the deed. 
 
 Ross. 'Gainst nature still ! — 
 
 Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up ^ 
 Thine own life's means ! — Then 'tis most like 
 The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. 
 
 Macduff. He is already nam'd, and gone to Scone* 
 To be invested. 
 
 Ross. Where is Duncan's body ? 
 
 1 Old and colloquial form for " ate." 2 Bribed; hired. 
 
 3 ** Ravin up," i.e., eat ravenously. 
 
 4 " The ancient royal city of Scone, supposed to have been the capital oi* 
 the Pictish kingdom, lay two miles northward from the present city of Perth. 
 It was the residence of the Scottish monarchs as early as the reign of Ken- 
 neth McAlpin, and there was a long series of kings crowned on the cele- 
 brated stone inclosed in a chair, now used as the seat of our sovereigns at 
 coronation in Westminster Abbey. This stone was removed to Scone from 
 Dunstaffnage, the yet earlier residence of the Scottish kings, by Kenneth II., 
 soon after the founding of the Abbey of Scone by the Culdees in 838, and was 
 transferred by Edward I. to Westminster Abbey in 1296. This remarkable 
 stone is reported to have found its way to Dunstaffnage from the plain of Luz, 
 where it was the pillow of the patriarch Jacob while he dreamed his dream (! ). 
 An aisle of the Abbey of Scone remains. A few poor habitations alone exist 
 on the site of the ancient royal city." (Knight.) 
 
48 SHAKESPEARE. [act hi. 
 
 Macduff, Carried to Colme-kill,i 
 The sacred storehouse of his predecessors, 
 And guardian of their bones. 
 
 Ross, Will you to Scone ? 
 
 Macduff, No, cousin, I'll to Fife. 
 
 Ross, Well, I will thither. 
 
 Macduff. Well, may you see things well done there ; — adieu ! — 
 Lest our old robes sit easier than our new ! 2 
 
 Ross. Farewell, father. 
 
 Old Man. God's benison go with you, and with those 
 That would make good of bad, and friends of foes ! 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. Forres. A Room in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Banquo. 
 
 Banquo. Thou hast it now, — king, Cawdor, Glamis, all, 
 As the weird women promis'd ; and, I fear. 
 Thou play'dst most foully for't. Yet it was said 
 It should not stand in thy posterity. 
 But that myself should be the root and father 
 Of many kings. If there come truth from them — 
 
 1 Colmekill, or lona, one of the Western Isles (Hebrides), now called 
 Icolmkill. Knight notes that ** this little island, only three miles long and 
 one and a half broad, was once the most important spot of the whole cluster of 
 British Isles. It was inhabited by Druids previous to the year 563, when 
 Colum McFelim McFergus, afterwards called St. Columba, landed and began 
 to preach Christianity. A monastery was soon established and a noble 
 cathedral built, of which the ruins still remain. The reputation of these 
 establishments extended over the whole Christian world for some centuries, 
 and devotees of rank strove for admission into them ; the records of royal 
 deeds were preserved there, and there the bones of kings reposed." 
 
 2 " Lest our old robes," etc., i.e., lest things go from bad to worse. 
 
SCENE I.J MACBETH. 49 
 
 As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine — 
 Why, by the verities on thee made good, 
 May they not be my oracles as well. 
 And set me up in hope ? — But hush ! no more. 
 
 Sennet^ sounded. Enter Macbeth, as king. Lady Macbeth, as queen^ 
 Lennox, Ross, Lords, Ladies, and Attendants. 
 
 Macbeth. Here's our chief guest. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. If he had been forgotten, 
 
 It had been as a gap in our great feast. 
 And all-thing 2 unbecoming. 
 
 Macbeth. To-night we hold a solemn supper,^ sir, 
 And I'll request your presence. 
 
 Banquo. Let your highness 
 
 Command upon me ; to the which my duties 
 Are with a most indissoluble tie 
 Forever knit. 
 
 Macbeth. Ride you this afternoon ? 
 
 Banquo. Ay, my good lord. 
 
 Macbeth. We should have else desir'd your good advice — 
 Which still ^ hath been both grave and prosperous — 
 In this day's council ; but we'll take to-morrow. 
 Is't far you ride ? 
 
 Banquo. As far, my lord, as will fill up the time 
 'Twixt this and supper : go not my horse the better, 
 I must become a borrower of the night 
 For a dark hour or twain. 
 
 Macbeth. Fail not our feast. 
 
 Banquo. My lord, I will not. 
 
 Macbeth. We hear our bloody cousins are bestow'd 
 In England and in Ireland, not confessing 
 
 1 A signal call, on a trumpet or cornet, for entrance or exit on the stage, 
 
 2 In every way 
 
 3 " Solemn supper," i.e., state or ceremonious festival. 
 * Always. 
 
 X 
 
50 SHAKESPEARE. [act hi. 
 
 Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers 
 With strange invention. But of that to-morrow, 
 When therewithal we shall have cause of state 
 Craving us jointly. ^ Hie you to horse ; adieu, 
 Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you ? 
 
 Baiiquo. Ay, my good lord : our time does call upon*s. 
 
 Macbeth. I wish your horses swift and sure of foot ; 
 And so I do commend you to their backs. 
 
 Farewell. — \Exit Ba7iqiw. 
 
 Let every man be master of his time 
 Till seven at night. To make society 
 The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself 
 Till supper time alone ; while then, 2 God be with you ! — 
 
 [Exeunt all but Macbeth and an Attendant. 
 Sirrah, a word with you : attend those men 
 Our pleasure ? 
 
 Attenda?tt. They are, my lord, without the palace gate. 
 
 Macbeth. Bring them before us. — [Exit Attendant. 
 
 To be thus is nothing. 
 But to be safely thus. Our fears in Banquo 
 Stick deep ; and in his royalty of nature 
 Reigns that which would be fear'd. 'Tis much he dares ; 
 And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, 
 He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valor 
 To act in safety. There is none but he 
 Whose being I do fear ; and under him 
 My Genius is rebuk'd, as, it is said, 
 Mark Antony's was by Caesar.^ He chid the sisters 
 
 1 " Cause of state," etc., i.e., affairs of state calling for our joint consid- 
 eration. 
 
 2 " While then," i.e., till then. 
 
 3 Plutarch relates that " Antony had in his house a fortune-telling gypsy, 
 who was skilled in the calculation of nativities. This man, either to oblige 
 Cleopatra, or following the investigation of truth, told Antony that the star of 
 his fortune was eclipsed and obscured by that of Caesar, and advised him by 
 all means to keep at the greatest distance from that young man. [Octavius 
 
SCENE I.] ' MACBETH. 51 
 
 When first they put the name of king upon me, 
 
 And bade them speak to him ; then, prophetHke, 
 
 They hail'd him father to a hne of kings. 
 
 Upon my head they plac'd a fruitless crown, 
 
 And put a barren scepter in my gripe, 
 
 Thence to be wrench'd with an unHneal hand. 
 
 No son of mine succeeding. If t be so, 
 
 For Banquo*s issue have I fil'd ^ my mind ; 
 
 For them the gracious Duncan have 1 murder'd ; 
 
 Put rancors in the vessel of my peace 
 
 Only for them ; and mine eternal jewel ^ 
 
 Given to the common enemy of man. 
 
 To make them kings, — the seed of Banquo kings ! 
 
 Rather than so, come, Fate, into the list. 
 
 And champion me to the utterance l^ — Who's there ? 
 
 Reenter Attendant, with tzvo Murderers. 
 
 Now go to the door, and stay there till we call. 
 
 \Exit Attendant, 
 Was it not yesterday we spoke together ? 
 
 First Murderer. It was, so please your highness. 
 
 Macbeth. Well, then, now^ 
 
 Have you considered of my speeches ? Know 
 
 is the Caesar referred to.] * The Genius of your life,' said he, * is afraid of 
 his : when it is alone, its bearing is erect and fearless ; when his approaches, 
 it is dejected and depressed.' Indeed, there were many circumstances to jus- 
 tify the conjurer's doctrine ; for in every kind of play, whether they cast lots 
 or cast the die, Antony was still the loser. In their quail fights and cock 
 fights, Caesar's birds always won." 
 
 1 Defiled. 2 ** Eternal jewel," i.e., immortal soul. 
 
 3 " Champion me," etc., i.e., fight against me to the last. Furness (Vari- 
 orum Shakespeare, vol. ii.) quotes Johnson's note : " A Potttrance (of which 
 ' utterance ' of the text is a corruption) is a French phrase of arms. A 
 challenge or combat a Voutrance was the term used when the combatants 
 engaged with an intention to destroy each other, in opposition to trials of skill 
 at festivals or on other occasions, where the contest was only for reputation 
 or a prize." 
 
52 SHAKESPEARE, [act hi. 
 
 That it was he in the times past which held you 
 
 So under fortune, which you thought had been 
 
 Our innocent self. This I made good to you 
 
 In our last conference, pass'd in probation with you,^ 
 
 How you were borne in hand,^ how cross'd, the instruments, 
 
 Who wrought with them, and all things else that n^ght 
 
 To half a soul and to a notion craz'd 
 
 Say, *^ Thus did Banquo." ° . 
 
 First Murderer. You made it known to us. 
 
 Macbeth. I did so, and went further, which is now 
 Our point of second meetmg. Do you find 
 Your patience so predominant in your nature 
 That you can let this go ? Are you so gospePd ^ 
 To pray for this good man and for his issue. 
 Whose heavy hand hath bow'd you to the grave 
 And beggar'd yours forever ? 
 
 First Murderer. We are men, my liege. 
 
 Macbeth. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men ; 
 As hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, 
 Shoughs,^ water rugs, and demi-wolves are clept^ 
 All by the name of dogs : the valued file ^ 
 Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, 
 The housekeeper, the hunter, every one 
 According to the gift which bounteous nature 
 Hath in him clos'd, whereby he does receive 
 Particular addition, from the bill 
 That writes them all alike : and so of men. 
 Now, if you have a station in the file, 
 
 1 " Pass'd," etc., i.e., in which it was proved to you in detail. 
 
 2 *' Borne in hand," i.e., beguiled by flattering promises. 
 
 3 See Matt. v. 44. 
 
 4 " Shough " is a dog with rough, shaggy hair. The word is sometimes 
 written, and always pronounced, " shock." 
 
 5 Called. 
 
 ^ ** Valued file," i.e., a list in which names and qualities are specifically 
 designated. 
 
SCENE 1.] MACBETH. 53 
 
 Not i' the worst rank of manhood, say't ; 
 And I will put that business in your bosoms, 
 Whose execution takes your enemy off, 
 Grapples you to the heart and love of us, 
 Who wear our health but sickly in his life. 
 Which in his death were perfect. 
 
 Second Murderer. I am one, my liege, 
 
 Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world 
 Have so incens'd that I am reckless what 
 I do to spite the world. 
 
 First Murderer. And I another 
 
 So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune. 
 That I would set my life on any chance, 
 To mend it, or be rid on't. 
 
 Macbeth. Both of you 
 
 Know Banquo was your enemy. 
 
 Both Murderers. True, my lord. 
 
 Macbeth. So is he mine ; and in such bloody distance,^ 
 That every minute of his being thrusts 
 Against my near'st of life : and though I could 
 With barefac'd power sweep him from my sight 
 And bid my will avouch it,^ yet I must not. 
 For 3 certain friends that are both his and mine. 
 Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall 
 Whom I myself struck down; and thence it is. 
 That I to your assistance do make love. 
 Masking the business from the common eye 
 For sundry weighty reasons. 
 
 Second Murderer. We shall, my lord. 
 
 Perform what you command us. 
 
 First Murderer. Though our lives — 
 
 1 Variance. 
 
 2 " With barefac'd power," etc., i.e., with arbitrary power destroy him, 
 and justify the act by my will. 
 
 3 On account of. 
 
54 SHAKESPEARE. [act hi. 
 
 Macbeth. Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour at 
 most 
 I will advise you where to plant yourselves ; 
 Acquaint you with the perfect spy o* the time,i 
 The moment on't ; for't must be done to-night, 
 And something 2 from the palace ; always thought 
 That I require a clearness i^ and with him — 
 To leave no rubs^ nor botches in the work — 
 Fleance his son, that keeps him company, 
 Whose absence is no less material to me 
 Than is his father's, must embrace the fate » 
 Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart : 
 I'll come to you anon. 
 
 Both Murderers. We are resolv'd, my lord. 
 
 Macbeth. I'll call upon you straight:^ abide within. 
 
 \Exeunt Murderers. 
 It is concluded. Banquo, thy soul's flight. 
 If it find heaven, must find it out to-night. \Exit, 
 
 Scene II. The Palace. 
 Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Is Banquo gone from court ? 
 
 Servant. Ay, madam, but returns again to-night. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Say to the king, I would attend his leisure 
 For a few words. 
 
 Servant. Madam, I will. \Exit. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Naught's had, all's spent, 
 
 Where our desire is got without content : 
 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy 
 Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy. 
 
 1 " The perfect spy," etc., i.e., the exact time when you may expect him. 
 
 2 Somewhat. 
 
 3 ** Always thought," etc., i.e., remembering always that I am not to be 
 implicated in the matter. 
 
 4 Hindrances, 5 Immediately. 
 
SCENE II.] MACBETH, 55 
 
 Enter Macbeth. 
 
 How now, my lord ! why do you keep alone, 
 
 Of sorriest fancies your companions making, 
 
 Using those thoughts which should indeed have died 
 
 With them they think on ? Things without all remedy 
 
 Should be without regard : what's done is done. 
 
 Macbeth. We have scotch'd ^ the snake, not kill'd it : 
 She'll close and be herself, whilst our poor maHce 
 Remains in danger of her former tooth. 
 But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, 
 Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep 
 In the affliction of these terrible dreams 
 That shake us nightly : better be with the dead, 
 Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, 
 Than on the torture of the mind to lie 
 In restless ecstasy.^ Duncan is in his grave ; 
 After hfe's fitful fever he sleeps well ; 
 Treason has done his ^ worst : nor steel, nor poison, 
 Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing. 
 Can touch him further. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Come on ; 
 
 Gentle my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks ; 
 Be bright and jovial among your guests to-night. 
 
 Macbeth. So shall I, love ; and so, I pray, be you : 
 Let your remembrance apply to Banquo ; 
 Present him eminence,^ both with eye and tongue : 
 Unsafe the while, that we 
 
 Must lave our honors in these flattering streams. 
 And make our faces vizards ^ to our hearts, 
 Disguising what they are. 
 
 1 Wounded; gashed. 
 
 2 " Ecstasy" is used by Shakespeare for any violent emotion, as anger, 
 sorrow, etc. 3 its. 
 
 * " Present him eminence," i.e., do him all honor. 
 5 Masks. 
 
56 SHAKESPEARE. [act hi. 
 
 Lady Macbeth, You must leave this. 
 
 Macbeth. O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife ! 
 Thou know'st that Banquo, and his Fleance, Hves. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. But in them nature's copy's ^ not eterne.^ 
 
 Macbeth. There's comfort yet ; they are assailable ; 
 Then be thou jocund. Ere the bat hath flown 
 His cloister'd flight, ere to black Hecate's summons 
 The shard-borne beetle with his drowsy hums 
 Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done 
 A deed of dreadful note. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. What's to be done ? 
 
 Macbeth. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, 
 Till thou applaud the deed. — Come, seelrng night, 
 Scarf up the tender eye ^ of pitiful day. 
 And with thy bloody and invisible hand 
 Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond ^ 
 Which keeps me pale ! — Light thickens ; and the crow 
 Makes wing to the rooky wood:^ 
 Good things of day begin to droop and drowse ; 
 Whiles ^ night's black agents to cheir preys do rouse. 
 Thou marvel'st at my words ; but hold thee still : 
 Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill. 
 So, prithee, go with me. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. A Park 7tear the Palace. 
 Enter three Murderers. 
 
 First Murderer. But who did bid thee join with us ? 
 
 Third Murderer. Macbeth. 
 
 Second Murderer. He needs not our mistrust,"^ since he deHvers 
 
 1 '* Nature's copy," i.e., the " human form divine; " man, the image of 
 his Maker. 2 Eternal. 
 
 3 " Seeling night," etc., i.e., obscuring night blindfolds the tender eye. 
 
 4 ** That great bond," i.e., Banquo's life. 
 
 5 ** Rooky wood," i.e., wood thronged with rooks. ^ While. 
 
 *? " He needs not our mistrust," i.e., we need have no suspicion of him. 
 
SCENE III.] MACBETH. 57 
 
 Our offices and what we have to do 
 To the direction just. 
 
 First Murderer. Then stand with us. 
 
 The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day : 
 Now spurs the lated traveler apace 
 To gain the timely inn ; and near approaches 
 The subject of our watch. 
 
 Third Murderer, Hark ! I hear horses. 
 
 Banquo. [ JVi/Mn] Give us a hght there, ho ! 
 
 Second Murderer. Then 'tis he : the rest 
 
 That are within the note of expectation ^ 
 Already are i' the court. 
 
 First Murderer. His horses go about. 
 
 Third Murderer. Almost a mile : but he does usually, 
 So all men do, from hence to the palace gate 
 Make it their walk. 
 
 Second Murderer. A light, a light ! 
 
 Enter Banquo and Fleance, with a torch. 
 
 Third Murderer. 'Tis he. 
 
 First Murderer. Stand to't. 
 
 Banquo. It will be rain to-night. 
 
 First Murderer. Let it come down. 
 
 [ They set upon Banquo. 
 
 Banquo. O, treachery ! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly ! 
 Thou mayst revenge. O slave ! \Dies. Fleance escapes. 
 
 Third Murderer. Who did strike out the light ? 
 
 First Murderer. Was't not the way ? 
 
 Third Murderer. There's but one down ; the son is fled. 
 
 Second Murderer. We have lost 
 
 Best half of our affair. 
 
 First Murderer. Well, let's away, and say how much is done. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 1 " Note of expectation," i.e., list of those expected at the feast. 
 
58 SHAKESPEARE, [act hi. 
 
 Scene IV. The Same, Hall in the Palace, 
 
 A banquet prepared. Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, 
 Lords, and Attendants. 
 
 Macbeth. You know your own degrees ; sit down : at first 
 And last ^ the hearty welcome. 
 
 Lords. Thanks to your majesty. 
 
 Macbeth. Ourself will mingle with society, 
 And play the humble host. 
 Our hostess keeps her state,^ but in best time 
 We will require her welcome. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends ; 
 For my heart speaks they are welcome. 
 
 First Murderer appears at the door. 
 
 Macbeth. See, they encounter thee with their hearts* thanks. 
 Both sides are even : here I'll sit i' the midst. 
 Be large in mirth ; anon we'll drink a measure 
 The table round. [Approach i?tg the door.] There's blood upon 
 thy face. 
 
 Murderer. 'Tis Banquo's, then. 
 
 Macbeth. 'Tis better thee without than he within. 
 Is he dispatch' d ? 
 
 Murderer. My lord, his throat is cut ; that I did for him. 
 
 Macbeth. Thou art the best o' the cut-throats ; yet he's good 
 That did the like for Fleance : if thou didst it. 
 Thou art the nonpareil.^ 
 
 Murderer. Most royal sir, 
 
 Fleance is 'scaped. 
 
 Macbeth. Then comes my fit again : I had else been perfect, 
 Whole as the marble, founded as the rock, 
 As broad and general as the casing ^ air ; 
 
 1 " At first and last," i.e., to first and last ; to one and all. 
 
 2 " Keeps her state," i.e., keeps her chair or seat of state. 
 
 3 Unequaled. * Surrounding. 
 
SCENE IV.] MACBETH, 59 
 
 But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in 
 To saucy doubts and fear. But Banquo's safe ? 
 
 Murderer, Ay, my good lord ; safe in a ditch he bides, 
 With twenty trenched gashes on his head, 
 The least a death to nature. 
 
 Macbeth. Thanks for that : 
 
 There the grown serpent hes ; the worm that's fled 
 Hath nature tha .n time will venom breed, 
 No teeth for the present. Get thee gone ; to-morrow 
 We'll hear ourselves again. ^ [Exit Murderer. 
 
 Lady Macbeth, My royal lord, 
 
 You do not give the cheer ;2 the feast is sold 
 That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a-making, 
 'Tis given with welcome : to feed were best at home ; 
 From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony ; 
 Meeting were bare without it. 
 
 Macbeth. Sweet remembrancer ! 
 
 Now, good digestion wait on appetite. 
 And health on both ! 
 
 Lennox. May't please your highness sit. 
 
 [The Ghost of Banquo enters^ and sits in Macbeth'' s place. 
 
 Macbeth. Here had we now our country's honor roof d. 
 Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present ; 
 Who may I rather challenge for unkindness 
 Than pity for mischance ! 
 
 Ross. His absence, sir, 
 
 Lays blame upon his promise. Please't your highness 
 To grace us with your royal company. 
 
 Macbeth, The table's full. 
 
 Lennox. Here is a place reserv'd, sir. 
 
 Macbeth. Where ? 
 
 Lennox. Here, my good lord. What is't that moves your 
 highness ? 
 
 Macbeth. Which of you have done this ? 
 
 1 ** We'll hear," etc., i.e., we'll talk toijether again. 2 Welcome. 
 
6o SHAKESPEARE, [act hi. 
 
 Lords. What, my good lord ? 
 
 Macbeth. Thou canst not say I did it : never shake 
 Thy gory locks at me. 
 
 Ross. Gentlemen, rise : his highness is not well. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Sit, worthy friends : my lord is often thus, 
 And hath been from his youth : pray you, keep seat ; 
 The fit is momentary ; upon a thought 
 He will again be well. If much you note him, 
 You shall offend him and extend his passion : 
 Feed, and regard him not. — Are you a man ? 
 
 Macbeth. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that 
 Which might appal the devil. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. O proper stuff ! 
 
 This is the very painting of your fear : 
 This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said, 
 Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws and starts, 
 Impostors to true fear,^ would well become 
 A woman's story at a winter's fire, 
 Author'iz'd by her grandam. Shame itself ! 
 Why do you make such faces ? When all's done, 
 You look but on a stool. 
 
 Macbeth. Prithee, see there ! behold ! look ! lo ! how say 
 you ? — 
 Why, what care I ? If thou canst nod, speak too. 
 If charnel houses and our graves must send 
 Those that we bury back, our monuments 
 Shall be the maws of kites. [ Ghost vanishes. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. What ! quite unmann'd in folly ? 
 
 Macbeth. If I stand here, I saw him. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Fie, for shame ! 
 
 Macbeth. Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time, 
 Ere human statute purg'd the gentle weal ; 2 
 
 1 " To true fear," i.e., when compared with true fear. 
 
 2 " Ere human statute," etc., i.e., before human statute purified the com- 
 monwealth and civilized it, made it gentle. 
 
SCENE IV.] MACBETH. 6i 
 
 Ay, and since too, murders have been performed 
 Too terrible for the ear : the time has been, 
 That, when the brains were out, the man would die, 
 And there an end ; but now they rise again, 
 With twenty mortal murders ^ on their crowns. 
 And push us from our stools. This is more strange 
 Than such a murder is. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. My worthy lord. 
 
 Your noble friends do lack you. 
 
 Macbeth. I do forget. — 
 
 Do not muse 2 at me, my most worthy friends ; 
 I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing 
 To those that know me. Come, love and health to all ; 
 Then Til sit down. — Give me some wine; fill full. 
 I drink to the general joy o' the whole table. 
 And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss ; 
 Would he were here ! to all, and him, we thirst, 
 And all to all.^ 
 
 Lords. Our duties, and the pledge. 
 
 Reenter Ghost. 
 
 Macbeth. Avaunt ! and quit my sight ! let the earth hide thee ! 
 Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold ; 
 Thou hast no speculation ^ in those eyes 
 Which thou dost glare with ! 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Think of this, good peers, 
 
 But as a thing of custom : 'tis no other ; 
 Only it spoils the pleasure of the time. 
 
 Macbeth. What man dare, I dare: 
 Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, 
 
 1 ** Mortal murders," i.e., fatal wounds. 2 Wonder. 
 
 3 " To all," etc., i.e., we drink to him and to all, with all best wishes 
 to all. 
 
 4 ** Speculation," i.e., as Dr. Johnson notes, ** the intelligence which is 
 perceived in the eye of the living man." 
 
62 SHAKESPEARE. [act hi. 
 
 The arm*d rhinoceros,^ or the Hyrcan^ tiger; 
 
 Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves 
 
 Shall never tremble : or be alive again, 
 
 And dare me to the desert with thy sword ; 
 
 If trembling I inhabit ^ then, protest^ me 
 
 The baby of a girl.^ Hence, horrible shadow ! 
 
 Unreal mockery, hence ! \Ghost vanishes. 
 
 Why, so : being gone, 
 I am a man again. — Pray you, sit still. 
 
 Lady Macbeth, You have displaced the mirth, broke the good 
 meeting, 
 With most admir'd disorder.^ 
 
 Macbeth. Can such things be. 
 
 And overcome us Hke a summer's cloud. 
 Without our special wonder ? You make me strange 
 Even to the disposition that I owe,^ 
 When now I think you can behold such sights, 
 And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, 
 When mine is blanch'd with fear. 
 
 Ross, What sights, my lord ? 
 
 Lady Macbeth, I pray you, speak not ; he grows worse and 
 worse ; 
 Question enrages him. At once, good night : 
 Stand not upon the order of your going, 
 But go at once„ 
 
 1 " Arm'd rhinoceros, "i.e., armored with his thick hide as with a coat of 
 mail. 
 
 2 Hyrcania was the name given by the ancients to a part of Asia of uncer- 
 tain extent, its northern boundary being the Caspian or Hyrcanian Sea. 
 
 3 Stay at home ; keep under roof. 
 * Call. 
 
 5 " Baby of a girl," i.e., a girl's doll. 
 <5 *' Admir'd disorder," i.e., disorder to be wondered at. 
 ■7 ** You make me strange," etc., i.e., you make me a stranger even to my 
 own feelings, unable to comprehend the motive of my fear. 
 
SCENE IV.] MACBETH. 63 
 
 Lennox, Good night ; and better health 
 
 Attend his majesty ! 
 
 Lady Macbeth, A kind good night to all ! 
 
 [Exeunt all but Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, 
 
 Macbeth, It will have blood ; they say blood will have 
 blood : 
 Stones have been known to move/ and trees to speak ; 
 Augurs and understood relations have 
 By magot-pies and choughs and rooks ^ brought forth 
 The secret'st man of blood. — What is the night ? 
 
 Lady Macbeth, Almost at odds with morning, which is which. 
 
 Macbeth. How say'st thou,^ that Macduff denies his person 
 At our great bidding ? 
 
 Lady Macbeth, Did you send to him, sir ? 
 
 Macbeth. I hear it by the way ; but I will send : 
 There's not a one of them but in his house 
 I keep a servant fee'd. I will to-morrow, 
 And betimes I will, to the weird sisters : 
 More shall they speak ; for now I am bent to know, 
 By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good, 
 All causes shall give way : I am in blood 
 Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more. 
 Returning were as tedious as go o'er. 
 Strange things I have in head, that will to hand ; 
 Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd.* 
 
 1 ** Stones have been known to move." Furness (Variorum Shakespeare, 
 vol. ii. p. 183) quotes from Notes and Queries, Nov. 6, 1869: ** May not 
 fhe allusion be to the rocking-stones or * stones of judgment,' by which it was 
 thought the Druids tested the guilt or innocence of accused persons? At a 
 slight touch of the innocent, such a stone moved ; but * the secret man of 
 blood ' found that his best strength could not stir it." 
 
 2 Magot-pies and choughs and rooks are all cunning birds, frequently 
 household pets, that may be taught to articulate more or less distinctly. That 
 such birds have been the means of disclosing secrets is well known. 
 
 3 ** How say'st thou.? " i.e., what do you say to this? 
 * Closely examined. 
 
64 SHAKESPEARE. [act hi. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. You lack the season of all natures,^ sleep. 
 
 Macbeth. Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse 2 
 Is the initiate fear that wants hard use : 
 We are yet but young in deed. \Exeunt, 
 
 Scene V. A Heath. 
 Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecate. 
 
 First Witch. Why, how now, Hecate ! you look angerly. 
 
 Hecate. Have I not reason, beldams as you are. 
 Saucy and overbold ? How did you dare 
 To trade and traffic with Macbeth 
 In riddles and affairs of death ; 
 And I, the mistress of your charms, 
 The close ^ contriver of all harms. 
 Was never calFd to bear my part, 
 Or show the glory of our art ? 
 And, which is worse, all you have done 
 Hath been but for a wayward son, 
 Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do, 
 Loves for his own ends, not for you. 
 But make amends now : get you gone, 
 And at the pit of Acheron ^ 
 Meet me i' the morning : thither he 
 Will come to know his destiny ; 
 
 1 '* The season of all natures," i.e., that which keeps all natures fresh; 
 preserves them. 
 
 2 ** My strange and self-abuse," i.e., my strange self-delusion. 
 
 3 Secret. 
 
 ^ A river celebrated in antiquity, from its supposed communication with 
 the realms of Pluto. Homer called it, from its dead appearance, one of the 
 rivers of the Lower World ; and the fable has been adopted by succeeding 
 poets. Shakespeare, as Steevens remarks, ** seems to have thought it allowa- 
 ble to bestow the name of Acheron on any fountain, lake, or pit through 
 which there was vulgarly supposed to be a communication between this and 
 the infernal world." 
 
SCENE VI.] MACBETH. 65 
 
 Your vessels and your spells provide, 
 
 Your charms and everything beside. 
 
 I am for the air; this night I'll spend 
 
 Unto a dismal and a fatal end : 
 
 Great business must be wrought ere noon. 
 
 Upon the corner of the moon 
 
 There hangs a vaporous drop profound ; 
 
 I'll catch it ere it come to ground : 
 
 And that distill'd by magic sleights 1 
 
 Shall raise such artificial sprites ^ 
 
 As by the strength of their illusion 
 
 Shall draw him on to his confusion : 
 
 He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear 
 
 His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear : 
 
 And you all know, security^ 
 
 Is mortals' chiefest enemy. 
 
 \Music and a song within : " Come away, come away," etc. 
 Hark ! I am call'd ; my little spirit, see. 
 
 Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me. \Exit, 
 
 First Witch. Come, let's make haste ; she'll soon be back 
 
 again. \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene VI. Forres. The Palace. 
 
 Enter Lennox and another Lord. 
 
 Lennox. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts, 
 Which can interpret further: only, I say. 
 Things have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan 
 Was pitied of Macbeth : marry,* he was dead ; 
 And the right- vahant Banquo walk'd too late ; 
 
 1 Contrivances. 
 
 2 " Artificial sprites," i.e., spirits made, or made to appear, by artificial 
 means. 
 
 3 Carelessness. 
 
 4 " Marry:" this exclamation, or petty oath, is a corruption of "Virgin 
 Mary." 
 
66 SHAKESPEARE. [act hi 
 
 Whom, you may say, if't please you, Fleance kill'd, 
 
 For Fleance fled : men must not walk too late. 
 
 Who cannot want the thought how monstrous 
 
 It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain 
 
 To kill their gracious father ? damned fact ! 
 
 How it did grieve Macbeth ! did he not straight 
 
 In pious rage the two delinquents tear. 
 
 That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep ? 
 
 Was not that nobly done ? Ay, and wisely too ; 
 
 For 'twould have anger'd any heart alive 
 
 To hear the men deny't. So that, I say. 
 
 He has borne all things well : and I do think 
 
 That had he Duncan's sons under his key — 
 
 As, an't please Heaven, he shall not — they should find 
 
 What 'twere to kill a father ; so should Fleance. 
 
 But, peace ! for from broad words,' and 'cause he fail'd 
 
 His presence at the tyrant's feast, I hear 
 
 Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell 
 
 Where he bestows himself ? 
 
 Lord. The son of Duncan, 
 
 From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth. 
 Lives in the English court, and is receiv'd 
 Of the most pious Edward ^ with such grace 
 That the malevolence of fortune nothing 
 Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduff 
 Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid,^ 
 To wake Northumberland and warlike Si ward ; 
 That, by the help of these, with Him above 
 To ratify the work, we may again 
 Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights. 
 Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives, 
 Do faithful homage, and receive free honors ; 
 
 1 " From broad words," i.e., in consequence of free speech. 
 
 2 Edward the Confessor (see Note 3, p. 82). 
 
 3 " Upon his aid," i.e., to his aid. 
 
SCENE I.] ' MACBETH, 67 
 
 All which we pine for now. And this report 
 Hath so exasperate ^ the king, that he 
 Prepares for some attempt of war. 
 
 Lenfiox. Sent he to Macduff ? 
 
 Lord. He did ; and with an absolute '' Sir, not I," 
 The cloudy messenger turns me ^ his back, 
 And hums, as who should say, " You'll rue the time 
 That clogs me with this answer." 
 
 Lennox. And that well might 
 
 Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance 
 His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel 
 Fly to the court of England and unfold 
 His message ere he come, that a swift blessing 
 May soon return to this our suffering country 
 Under a hand accurs'd ! 
 
 Lord. V\\ send my prayers with him. 
 
 \Exeunt- 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. A Cavern. In the Middle a Boiling Caldron. 
 Thunder. Enter the three Witches. 
 
 First Witch. Thrice the brinded ^ cat hath mew'd. 
 
 Second Witch. Thrice and once the hedgepig whin*d. 
 
 Third Witch. Harpier cries, " 'Tis time, 'tis time." 
 
 First Witch. Round about the caldron go ; 
 In the poison'd entrails throw. 
 Toad, that under the cold stone 
 Days and nights has thirty-one 
 
 X Exasperated. 
 
 2 The "me" is redundant, introduced to enliven the speech. There 
 are many instances of this use of the word in Shakespeare. 
 
 3 Brindled. 
 
68 SHAKESPEARE. [act iv. 
 
 Swelter'd venom sleeping got, 
 Boil thou first i' the charmed pot. 
 
 All. Double, double toil and trouble; 
 Fire burn, and caldron bubble. 
 
 Second Witch. Fillet of a fenny snake, 
 In the caldron boil and bake ; 
 Eye of newt ^ and toe of frog, 
 Wool of bat and tongue of dog, 
 Adder's fork 2 and blindworm's sting, 
 Lizard's leg and howlet's ^ wing, 
 For a charm of powerful trouble, 
 Like a hellbroth boil and bubble. 
 
 All. Double, double toil and trouble ; 
 Fire burn, and caldron bubble. 
 
 Third Witch. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, 
 Witches' mummy ,^ maw and gulf ^ 
 Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark. 
 Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark, 
 Liver of blaspheming Jew, 
 Gall of goat, and slips of yew 
 Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse, 
 Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips, 
 Finger of birth-strangled babe 
 Ditch-deliver'd by a drab, 
 Make the gruel thick and slab : 
 Add thereto a tiger's chawdron,^ 
 For the ingredients of our caldron. 
 
 ' A kind of lizard. 2 Forked tongue. 3 Owlet's. 
 
 4 Nares (as quoted by Furness) notes that Egyptian mummy, or what 
 passed for it, was formerly used as a medicine ; and Sir Thomas Browne, 
 as noted by Dyce, remarks "that the Egyptian mummies which Cambyses 
 or time had spared, avarice now consumeth ; Mummie has become merchan- 
 dise, Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." But 
 the same writer adds, that a large business was done in the manufacturing 
 of mummies from dead carcasses, and giving them the names of kings. 
 
 5 Gullet. 6 Entrails. 
 
SCENE I.] MACBETH. 69 
 
 All' Double, double toil and trouble ; 
 Fire burn, and caldron bubble. 
 
 Second Witch. Cool it with a bab'oon's blood, 
 Then the charm is firm and good. 
 
 Enter Hecate to the other three Witches. 
 
 Hecate. O, well done ! I commend your pains ; 
 And every one shall share i' the gains : 
 And now about the caldron sing. 
 Like elves and fairies in a ring. 
 Enchanting all that you put in. 
 
 \Miisic and a song : '' Black spirits," etc. Hecate retires. 
 Second Witch. By the pricking of my thumbs. 
 Something wicked this way comes. ^ 
 Open, locks. 
 Whoever knocks ! 
 
 Enter Macbeth. 
 
 Macbeth. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags ! 
 What is't you do ? 
 
 All. A deed without a name. 
 
 Macbeth. I con' jure you, by that which you profess, 
 Howe'er you come to know it, answer me : 
 Though you untie the winds and let them fight 
 Against the chiurches ; though the yesty waves 
 Confound and swallow navigation 2 up; 
 Though bladed corn be lodg'd ^ and trees blown down ; 
 Though castles topple on their warders' heads ; 
 Though palaces and pyramids do slope 
 Their heads to their foundations ; though the treasure 
 
 1 Steevens remarks, "It is a very ancient superstition, that all sudden 
 pains of the body which could not naturally be accounted for were presages 
 of somewhat that was shortly to happen." 
 
 2 The vessels of navigation ; ships. 3 Laid. 
 
70 SHAKESPEARE. [act iv. 
 
 Of nature's germens ^ tumble altogether, 
 Even till destruction sicken ; answer me 
 To what I ask you. 
 
 First Witch. Speak. 
 
 Second Witch. Demand. 
 
 Third Witch. We'll answer. 
 
 First Witch. Say if thou'dst rather hear it from our mouths, 
 Or from our masters' ? 
 
 Macbeth, Call 'em ; let me see 'em. 
 
 First Witch. Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten 
 Her nine farrow i^ grease that's sweaten 
 From the murderer's gibbet throw 
 Into the flame. 
 
 All. Come, high or low; 
 
 Thyself and office deftly show ! 
 
 Thunder. First Apparition : an armed Head. 
 
 Macbeth. Tell me, thou unknown power, — 
 
 First Witch. He knows thy thought: 
 
 Hear his speech, but say thou naught. 
 
 First Apparition. Macbeth ! Macbeth ! Macbeth ! beware 
 Macduff ; 
 Beware the Thane of Fife. Dismiss me. Enough. 
 
 \Descends. 
 
 Macbeth. Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks ; 
 Thou hast harp'd my fear aright: ^ but one word more, — 
 
 First Witch. He will not be commanded : here's another, 
 More potent than the first. . 
 
 Thunder. Second Apparition : a bloody Child. 
 
 Second Apparition. Macbeth ! Macbeth 1 Macbeth ! 
 Macbeth. Had I three ears I'd hear thee. 
 
 1 Fruitful, germinating seeds. 2 Litter. 
 
 S " Harp'd my fear aright," i.e., struck the chord or keynote of my fear. 
 
SCENE I.] MACBETH, 7 1 
 
 Second Apparition. Be bloody, bold, and resolute ; laugh to 
 scorn 
 The power of man, for none of woman born 
 Shall harm Macbeth. [Descends, 
 
 Macbeth. Then live, Macduff : what need I fear of thee ? 
 But yet I'll make assurance double sure, 
 And take a bond of fate : thou shalt not live ; 
 That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies. 
 And sleep in spite of thunder. 
 
 Thunder. Third Apparition : a Child crowned^ with a tree in his hand. 
 
 What is this 
 That rises like the issue of a king, 
 And wears upon his baby brow the round 
 And top of sovereignty ? 
 
 Alt Listen, but speak not to't. 
 
 Third Apparition. Be lion-mettled, proud ; and take no care 
 Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are : 
 Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be until 
 Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsin'ane Hill 
 Shall come against him. [Descends, 
 
 Macbeth. That will never be : 
 
 Who can impress the forest, bid the tree 
 Unfix his earth-bound root ? Sweet bodements ! ^ good ! . 
 Rebellion's head rise never till the wood 
 Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac'd Macbeth 
 Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath 
 To time and mortal custom. Yet my heart 
 Throbs to know one thing : tell me, if your art 
 Can tell so much, shall Banquo's issue ever 
 Reign in this kingdom ? 
 
 All. Seek to know no more. 
 
 Macbeth. I will be satisfied : deny me this 
 
 I Presages. 
 
72 SHAKESPEARE. [act iv. 
 
 And an eternal curse fall on you ! Let me know. 
 Why sinks that caldron ? and what noise is this ? 
 
 \Hautboys, 
 
 First Witch. Show ! 
 
 Second Witch. Show ! 
 
 Third Witch. Show ! 
 
 All. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart ; 
 Come like shadows, so depart ! 
 
 A show of eight Kings, the last with a glass in his hand; Banquo's Ghost 
 
 following. 
 
 Macbeth. Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo ; down ! 
 Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs. And thy hair, 
 Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first. 
 A third is hke the former. Filthy hags ! 
 Why do you show me this ? A fourth ! Start, eyes ! 
 What ! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom ? 
 Another yet ! A seventh ! I'll see no more : 
 And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass 
 Which shows me many more ; and some I see 
 That twofold balls ^ and treble scepters carry : 
 Horrible sight ! Now, I see, 'tis true ; 
 For the blood-bolter'd ^ Banquo smiles upon me. 
 And points at them for his. [Apparitions vanish.] What, is 
 this so ? 
 
 First Witch. Ay, sir, all this is so : but why 
 Stands Macbeth thus amazedly ? 
 Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprights,^ 
 And show the best of our dehghts : 
 I'll charm the air to give a sound. 
 While you perform your antic round ; 
 
 1 The ball carried by kings was an emblem of sovereignty, ** and the 
 twofold balls refer to the double coronation of James I. at Scone and at 
 Westminster." 
 
 2 Blood-clotted. 3 Spirits. 
 
SCENE I.] MACBETH, 73 
 
 That this great king may kindly say, 
 Our duties did his welcome pay. 
 
 \Music. The Witches dance, and then vanish, with Hecate. 
 Macbeth. Where are they ? Gone ? Let this pernicious hour 
 Stand aye accursed in the calendar ! — 
 Come in, without there ! 
 
 Enter Lennox. 
 
 ■Lennox. What's your grace's will ? 
 
 Macbeth. Saw you the weird sisters ? 
 
 Lennox. No, my lord. 
 
 Macbeth. Came they not by you ? 
 
 Lennox. No indeed, my lord. 
 
 Macbeth. Infected be the air whereon they ride. 
 And damn'd all those that trust them ! — I did hear 
 The galloping of horse : who was't came by ? 
 
 Lennox. 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word 
 Macduff is fled to England. 
 
 Macbeth. Fled to England ! 
 
 Lennox. Ay, my good lord. 
 
 Macbeth. [Aside] Time, thou anticipat'st ^ my dread exploits : 
 The flighty purpose never is o'ertook 
 Unless the deed go with it. From this moment 
 The very firstlings of my heart shall be 
 The firstlings of my hand. And even now. 
 To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done : 
 The castle of Macduff I will surprise ; 
 Seize upon Fife ; give to the edge o' the sword 
 His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls 
 That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool ; 
 This deed I'll do before this purpose cool. 
 But no more sights ! ^ — Where are these gentlemen ? 
 Come, bring me where they are. [£xeunt. 
 
 1 Preventest. 
 
 2 ** No more sights " like the *' horrible sight " he has just beheld. 
 
74 SHAKESPEARE, [act iv. 
 
 Scene II. Fife, Macduff^ s Castle, 
 
 Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross. 
 
 Lady Macduff, What hath he done, to make him fly the land ? 
 
 Ross. You must have patience, madam. 
 
 Lady Macduff. He had none : 
 
 His flight was madness. When our actions do not. 
 Our fears do make us traitors. 
 
 Ross. You know not 
 
 Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. 
 
 Lady Macduff. Wisdom ! to leave his wife, to leave his babes. 
 His mansion and his titles, in a place 
 From whence himself does fly ? He loves us not ; 
 He wants the natural touch : ^ for the poor wren, 
 The most diminutive of birds, will fight. 
 Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. 
 All is the fear and nothing is the love ; 
 As Httle is the wisdom, where the flight 
 So runs against all reason. 
 
 Ross. My dearest coz, 
 
 I pray you, school yourself : but for your husband, 
 He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows 
 The fits o' the season.^ I dare not speak much further ; 
 But cruel are the times, when we are traitors 
 And do not know ourselves ; ^ when we hold rumor 
 From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, 
 But float upon a wild and violent sea 
 Each way and move.* I take my leave of you : 
 Shall not be long but I'll be here again. 
 
 1 Affection. 
 
 2 ** The fits o' the season," i.e., that which befits the season. 
 
 3 " We are traitors," etc., i.e., we are unconscious of guilt, yet held to be 
 traitors. 
 
 ^ " But float," etc., i.e., but float and move each way, hither and thither, 
 upon a wild and violent sea. 
 
SCENE II.] MACBETH. 75 
 
 Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward 
 To what they were before. My pretty cousin, 
 Blessing upon you ! 
 
 Lady Macduff, Fathered he is, and yet he's fatherless. 
 
 Ross, I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, 
 It would be my disgrace and your discomfort : 
 I take my leave at once. \Exit, 
 
 Lady Macduff, Sirrah, your father's dead: 
 
 And what will you do now ? How will you Hve ? 
 
 Son, As birds do, mother. 
 
 Lady Macduff, What, with worms and flies ? 
 
 Son, With what I get, I mean ; and so do they. 
 
 Lady Macduff, Poor bird ! thou'dst never fear the net nor 
 lime,i 
 The pitfall nor the gin.^ 
 
 Sofi, Why should I, mother ? Poor birds they are not set for. 
 My father is not dead, for all your saying. 
 
 Lady Macduff. Yes, he is dead : how wilt thou do for a father ? 
 
 Son, Nay, how will you do for a husband ? 
 
 Lady Macduff, Why, I can buy me twenty at any market. 
 
 Son, Then you'll buy 'em to sell again. 
 
 Lady Macduff, Thou speak'st with all thy wit ; and yet, i' faith, 
 With wit enough for thee. 
 
 Son, Was my father a traitor, mother ? 
 
 Lady Macduff, Ay, that he waSo 
 
 Son, What is a traitor ? 
 
 Lady Macduff, Why, one that swears and lies. 
 
 Son. And be all traitors that do so ? 
 
 Lady Macduff, Every one that does so is a traitor, and must 
 be hang'd. 
 
 Son, And must they all be hang'd that swear and lie ? 
 
 1 Birdlime, a viscous substance with which the edges of birds' nests and 
 the tree branches near- them were smeared, and by which the birds were 
 insnared. 
 
 2 Trap. 
 
76 SHAKESPEARE, [act iv. 
 
 Lady Macduff, Every one. 
 
 Son, Who must hang them ? 
 
 Lady Macduff. Why, the honest men. 
 
 Son, Then the liars and swearers are fools, for there are liars 
 and swearers enow ^ to beat the honest men and hang up them. 
 
 Lady Macduff, Now, God help thee, poor monkey ! But how 
 wilt thou do for a father ? 
 
 Son, If he were dead, you'd weep for him : if you would not, 
 it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father. 
 
 Jjidy Macduff, Poor prattler, how thou talk'st ! 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Messenger. Bless you, fair dame ! I am not to you known, 
 Though in your state of honor I am perfect. 
 I doubt some danger does approach you nearly : 
 If you will take a homely ^ man's advice. 
 Be not found here ; hence, with your little ones. 
 To fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage ; 
 To do worse to you were fell cruelty. 
 Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you ! 
 I dare abide no longer. \Exit. 
 
 Lady Macduff, Whither should I fly ? 
 
 I have done no harm. But I remember now 
 I am in this earthly world, where to do harm 
 Is often laudable, to do good sometime 
 Accounted dangerous folly; why, then, alas! 
 Do I put up that womanly defense. 
 To say I have done no harm ? 
 
 Enter Murderers. • 
 
 What are these faces ? 
 First Murderer. Where is your husband ? 
 Lady Macduff. I hope in no place so unsanctified 
 Where such as thou mayst find him. 
 
 1 Enough. 2 Plain. 
 
SCENE III.] MACBETH, 77 
 
 First Murderer. He's a traitor. 
 
 Son, Thou liest, thou shag-hair'd ^ villain ! 
 First Murderer, What, you ^gg ! 
 
 [Stabbing him. 
 Young fry of treachery ! 
 
 Son. He has kill'd me, mother : 
 
 Run away, I pray you ! [Dies. 
 
 [Exit Lady Macduff, crying " Murder ! " 
 Exeunt Murderers, following her. 
 
 Scene in. England. Before the King's Palace, 
 Enter Malcolm and Macduff. 
 
 Malcolm, Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there 
 Weep our sad bosoms empty. 
 
 Macduff, Let us rather 
 
 Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men 
 Bestride our downfall'n birthdom;^ each new morn 
 New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows 
 Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds 
 As if it felt with Scotland and yell'd out 
 Like syllable of dolor.^ 
 
 Malcohn, What I beheve I'll wail ; 
 
 What know, believe ; and what I can redress, 
 As I shall find the time to friend,^ I will. 
 What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. 
 This tyrant, whose sole name ^ blisters our tongues, 
 Was once thought honest : you have lov'd him well ; 
 He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young ; but something 
 You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom 
 
 1 Rough ; coarse-haired. 
 
 2 ** Our downfalFn birthdom," i.e., our downfallen country. 
 
 3 ** Like syllable of dolor," i.e., similar cry of grief. 
 
 4 " The time to friend," i.e., the time convenient. 
 
 5 ** Whose sole name," i.e., the mere naming of whom. 
 
78 • SHAKESPEARE. [act iv. 
 
 To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb 
 To appease an angry god. 
 
 Macduff. I am not treacherous. 
 
 Malcolm. But Macbeth is. 
 
 A good and virtuous nature may recoil ^ 
 In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon ; 
 That which you are my thoughts cannot transpose : 
 Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell : 
 Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, 
 Yet grace must still look so. 2 
 
 Macduff. I have lost my hopes. 
 
 Malcolm. Perchance even there where I did find my doubts. 
 Why in that rawness ^ left you wife and child. 
 Those precious motives, those strong knots of love, 
 Without leave-taking ? I pray you, 
 Let not my jealousies be your dishonors, 
 But mine own safeties. You may be rightly just, 
 Whatever I shall think. 
 
 Macduff. Bleed, bleed, poor country ! 
 
 Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure. 
 For goodness dare not check thee : wear thou thy wrongs ; 
 The title is affeer'd ! ^ Fare thee well, lord : 
 I would not be the villain that thou think'st 
 For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp, 
 And the rich East to boot. 
 
 Malcolm. Be not offended : 
 
 I speak not as in absolute fear of you. 
 I think our country sinks beneath the yoke ; 
 It weeps, it bleeds ; and each new day a gash 
 Is added to her wpunds : I think withal 
 There would be hands uplifted in my right ; 
 And here from gracious England have I offer 
 
 1 Give way. 
 
 2 *' Grace must still look so," i.e., grace must still look like herself. 
 
 3 Unprotected condition. ^ Confirmed. 
 
SCENE III.] MACBETH, 79 
 
 Of goodly thousands ; but, for all this, 
 When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head. 
 Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country 
 Shall have more vices than it had before, 
 More suffer and more sundry ways than ever,i 
 By him that shall succeed. 
 
 Macduff, What should he be ? 
 
 Malcolm. It is myself I mean ; in whom I know 
 All the particulars of vice so grafted 
 That, when they shall be open'd,^ black Macbeth 
 Will seem as pure as snow, and the poor state 
 Esteem him as a lamb, being compared 
 With my confineless^ harms. 
 
 Macduff, Not in the legions 
 
 Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd 
 In evils to top Macbeth. 
 
 Malcolm. I grant him bloody, 
 
 Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, 
 Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin 
 That has a name ; but there's no bottom, none. 
 In my voluptuousness. Better Macbeth 
 Than such an one to reign. 
 
 Macduff. Boundless intemperance 
 
 In nature is a tyranny ; it hath been 
 The untimely emptying of the happy throne 
 And fall of many kings. But fear not yet 
 To take upon you what is yours : you may 
 Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, 
 And yet seem cold. 
 
 Malcolm. With this there grows 
 
 In my most ill-compos'd affection such 
 A stanchless ^ avarice that, were I king, 
 
 1 " More suffer," etc., i.e., suffer more and in more various ways than 
 ever. 2 Blossom, like grafted buds. 
 
 3 Unconfined ; boundless. * Ever-flowing ; unceasing. 
 
So SHAKESPEARE. t^ex iv. 
 
 I should cut off the nobles for their lands, 
 Desire his jewels and this other's house ;i 
 And my more-having would be as a sauce 
 To make me hunger more, that I should forge 
 Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, 
 Destroying them for wealth. 
 
 Macduff, This avarice 
 
 Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root 
 Than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been 
 The sword of our slain kings : yet do not fear ; 
 Scotland hath foisons ^ to fill up your will. 
 Of your mere own : all these are portable,^ 
 With other graces weigh'd. 
 
 Malcolm. But I have none : the king-becoming graces, 
 As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, 
 Bounty, persev'erance, mercy, lowliness. 
 Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, 
 I have no relish of them, but abound 
 In the division of each several crime. 
 Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should 
 Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, 
 Uproar^ the universal peace, confound 
 All unity on earth. 
 
 Macduff. O Scotland, Scotland ! 
 
 Malcolm. If such a one be fit to govern, speak : 
 I am as I have spoken. 
 
 Macduff. Fit to govern ! 
 
 No, not to live. O nation miserable. 
 With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd. 
 When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, 
 Since that the truest issue of thy throne 
 
 1 " His jewels and this other's house," i.e., this man's jewels, that man's 
 house. 
 
 2 Abundance. 3 Bearable. 
 * Put in an uproar or confusion. 
 
SCENE III.] MACBETH, 8l 
 
 By his own interdiction i stands accurs'd, 
 
 And does blaspheme his breed ? Thy royal father 
 
 Was a most sainted king : the queen that bore thee, 
 
 Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, 
 
 Died every day she lived.^ Fare thee well ! 
 
 These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself 
 
 Have banish'd me from Scotland. O my breast, 
 
 Thy hope ends here ! 
 
 Malcolm. Macduff, this noble passion, 
 
 Child of integrity, hath from my soul 
 Wip'd the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts 
 To thy good truth and honor. DeviHsh Macbeth 
 By many of these trains ^ hath sought to win me 
 Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me 
 From overcredulous haste : but God above 
 Deal between thee and me ! for even now 
 I put myself to thy direction, and 
 Unspeak mine own detraction, here abjure 
 The taints and blames I laid upon myself. 
 For strangers to my nature. I am yet 
 Unknown to woman, never was forsworn, 
 Scarcely have coveted what was mine own, 
 At no time broke my faith, would not betray 
 The devil to his fellow, and dehght 
 No less in truth than life : my first false speaking 
 Was this upon myself. What I am truly, 
 Is thine and my poor country's to command ; 
 Whither indeed, before thy here-approach, 
 Old Si ward, with ten thousand warlike men. 
 Already at a point,^ was setting forth. 
 
 1 Confession. 
 
 2 ** Died every day she lived," i.e., mortified herself daily. ** I die daily '* 
 (l Cor. XV. 31). 
 
 3 Seductive wiles ; lures. 
 
 * " Already at a point," i.e., fully prepared. 
 
 6 
 
82 SHAKESPEARE. [act iv. 
 
 Now we'll together ; and the chance of goodness 
 
 Be like our warranted quarrel ! ^ Why are you silent ? 
 
 Macduff. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once 
 Tis hard to reconcile. 
 
 Enter a Doctor. 
 
 Malcolm. Well, more anon. — Comes the king forth, I pray 
 you ? 
 
 Doctor. Ay, sir ; there are a crew of wretched souls 
 That stay his cure : their malady convinces 
 The great assay of art,^ but at his touch, 
 Such sanctity hath Heaven given his hand. 
 They presently amend. 
 
 Malcolm. I thank you, doctor. [Exit Doctor. 
 
 Macduff. What's the disease he means ? 
 
 Malcobn. 'Tis call'd the evil .^ 
 
 A most miraculous work in this good king. 
 Which often, since my here-remain in England, 
 I have seen him do. How he solicits Heaven, 
 Himself best knows ; but strangely- visited people, 
 
 1 " Chance of goodness," etc., i.e., the chance of success be as assured as 
 the justice of our cause. 
 
 2 *' Their malady convinces," etc., i.e., their disease overcomes all the art 
 of the most skillful physicians. 
 
 3 " 'Tis call'd the evil," i.e., the king's evil, scrofula. The name of 
 " king's evil " was applied to this affliction in consequence of an old belief that 
 scrofulous tumors could be cured by royal touch. Old historians record that 
 multitudes of patients were submitted to this treatment from the days of Ed- 
 ward the Confessor to the reign of Queen Anne. In the English Cyclopedia, 
 under the head of ** Scrofula," a note from Carte's History of England is cited 
 to the effect that " the Jacobites considered that this power did not descend 
 to Mary, William, or Anne, as they did not reign by divine right." The 
 practice of presenting the patient with a coin was not introduced till the time 
 of Henry VII. In the reign of Charles II. a medal specially designed for 
 the purpose was given. Dr. Samuel Johnson, in 171 2, when a child, was 
 touched by Queen Anne, and was probably among the last to receive the 
 treatment. The prayer for the ceremony, which appears in the Liturgy of 
 the Church of England as late as 1719, has been silently omitted. 
 
SCENE III.] MACBETH, 83 
 
 All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, 
 
 The mere despair of surgery, he cures, 
 
 Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, 
 
 Put on with holy prayers ; and 'tis spoken, 
 
 To the succeeding royalty he leaves 
 
 The healing benediction. With this strange virtue 
 
 He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy, 
 
 And sundry blessings hang about his throne, 
 
 That speak him full of grace. 
 
 Enter Ross. 
 
 Macduff, See, who comes here ? 
 
 Malcolm, My countryman ; but yet I know him not. 
 
 Macduff. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither. 
 
 Malcolm. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove 
 The means that makes us strangers ! 
 
 Ross. . Sir, amen. 
 
 Macduff. Stands Scotland where it did ? 
 
 Ross. Alas, poor country ! 
 
 Almost afraid to know itself. It cannot 
 Be caird our mother, but our grave ; where nothing, 
 But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile ; 
 Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air 
 Are made, not mark'd ; where violent sorrow seems 
 A modern ecstasy : ^ the dead man's knell 
 Is there scarce ask'd for who ; 2 and good men's lives 
 Expire before the flowers in their caps. 
 Dying or ere they sicken. 
 
 Macdtiff. O, relation 
 
 Too nice, and yet too true ! ^ 
 
 Malcolm. What's the newest grief? 
 
 Ross. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker : 
 Each minute teems ^ a new one. 
 
 1 ** A modern ecstasy," i.e., an ordinary grief. 2 Whom. 
 
 3**0, relation," etc., i.e., the narrative, though worded with too much 
 art, is yet, alas, too true. 4 Gives birth to. 
 
84 SHAKESPEARE. [act iv. 
 
 Macduff. How does my wife ? 
 
 Ross. Why, well. 
 
 Macduff, And all my children ? * 
 
 Ross. Well too. 
 
 Macduff, The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace ? 
 
 Ross. No ; they were well at peace when I did leave 'em. 
 
 Macduff. Be not a niggard of your speech : how goes't ? 
 
 Ross. When I came hither to transport the tidings, 
 Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumor 
 Of many worthy fellows that were out ; ^ 
 Which was to my belief witness'd the rather, 
 For that ^ I saw the tyrant's power ^ afoot. 
 Now is the time of help ; your eye in Scotland 
 Would create soldiers, make our women fight, 
 To doff ^ their dire distresses. 
 
 Malcolm. Be't their comfort 
 
 We are coming thither : gracious England hath 
 Lent us good Si ward and ten thousand men ; 
 An older and a better soldier none 
 That Christendom gives out. 
 
 Ross. Would I could answer 
 
 This comfort with the hke ! But I have words 
 That would be howl'd out in the desert air. 
 Where hearing should not latch ^ them. 
 
 Macduff. What concern they ? 
 
 The general cause ? or is it a fee-grief ^ 
 Due to some single breast ? 
 
 Ross. No mind that's honest 
 
 But in it shares some woe ; though the main part 
 Pertains to you alone. • 
 
 Macduff. If it be mine, 
 
 Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. 
 
 1 Out in armed rebellion. 2 ** p^^r that," i.e., because. 
 
 3 Army. ■* Do off ; to be freed from. ^ Catch. 
 
 6 A personal grief of which one is the sole possessor, has it in fee. 
 
SCENE III.] MACBETH. 85 
 
 Ross. Let not your ears despise my tongue forever, 
 Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound 
 That ever yet they heard. 
 
 Macduff. Hum ! I guess at it. 
 
 Ross. Your castle is surpris'd ; your wife and babes 
 Savagely slaughter'd : to relate the manner, 
 Were, on the quarry ^ of these murder'd deer, 
 To add the death of you. 
 
 Malcolm. Merciful Heaven ! 
 
 What, man ! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows ; 
 Give sorrow words : the grief that does not speak 
 Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break. 
 
 Macduff. My children too ? 
 
 Ross. Wife, children, servants, all 
 
 That could be found. 
 
 Macduff. And I must be from thence ! 
 
 My wife kill'd too ? 
 
 Ross. I have said. 
 
 Malcobn. Be comforted : 
 
 Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge. 
 To cure this deadly grief. 
 
 Macduff, He has no children. All my pretty ones ? 
 Did you say all ? O hell-kite ! All ? 
 What, all my pretty chickens and their dam 
 At one fell swoop ? 
 
 Malcolm. Dispute 2 it like a man. 
 
 Macduff. I shall do so 
 
 But I must also feel it as a man : 
 I cannot but remember such things were. 
 That were most precious to me. -Did Heaven look on, 
 And would not take their part ? Sinful Macduff, 
 They were all struck for thee ! naught ^ that I am, 
 Not for their own demerits, but for mine. 
 Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now ! 
 
 1 *' A heap of slaughtered game." 2 Contend with. 3 Vile thing. 
 
86 SHAKESPEARE. [act v. 
 
 Malcolm, Be this the whetstone of your sword : let grief 
 Convert to anger ; blunt not the heart, enrage it. 
 
 Macduff, O, I could play the woman with mine eyes, 
 And braggart with my tongue ! But, gentle heavens, 
 Cut short all intermission ; ^ front to front 
 Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself ; 
 Within my sword's length set him ; if he 'scape. 
 Heaven forgive him too ! 
 
 Malcolm. This tune goes manly. 
 
 Come, go we to the king ; our power is ready ; 
 Our lack is nothing but our leave. 2 Macbeth 
 Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above 
 Put on their instruments.^ Receive what cheer you may : 
 The night is long that never finds the day. [Exeunt, 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. Dunsinane. Anteroom in the Castle. 
 Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting Gentlewoman. 
 
 Doctor, I have two nights watch'd with you, but can perceive 
 no truth in your report. When was it she last walk'd ? 
 
 Gentlewoman. Since his majesty went into the field, I have 
 seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, un- 
 lock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon't, read it, 
 afterwards seal it, and again return to bed ; yet all this while in 
 a most fast sleep. 
 
 Doctor, A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the 
 benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching ! In this slum- 
 bery^ agitation, besides her walking and other actual perform- 
 ances, what, at any time, have you heard her say ? 
 
 1 Interruption; delay. 
 
 2 ** Our lack," etc., i.e., there is nothing lacking now but to take leave. 
 
 3 " Powers," etc., i.e., powers above instigate men to the work. 
 
 4 Slumberous. 
 
SCENE I.] MACBETH, 87 
 
 Gentlewo7nan, That, sir, which I will not report after her. 
 Doctor, You may to me : and 'tis most meet you should. 
 Gentlewoman. Neither to you nor any one ; having no witness 
 to confirm my speech. 
 
 Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper. 
 
 Lo you, here she comes ! This is her very guise ;i and, upon 
 my life, fast asleep. Observe her ; stand close.*'^ 
 
 Doctor, How came she by that light ? 
 
 Gentlewoman, Why, it stood by her: she has light by her 
 continually ; 'tis her command. 
 
 Doctor, You see, her eyes are open. 
 
 Gentlewoman. Ay, but their sense is shut. 
 
 Doctor. What is it she does now ? Look how she rubs her hands. 
 
 Gentlewoman. It is an accustom'd action with her, to seem thus 
 washing her hands : I have known her continue in this a quarter 
 of an hour. 
 
 Lady Macbeth, Yet here's a spot. 
 
 Doctor. Hark ! she speaks : I will set down what comes from 
 her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Out, damned spot ! out, I say ! — One: two: 
 why, then 'tis time to do't. — Hell is murky ! — Fie, my lord, fie ! 
 a soldier, and afeard ? What need we fear who knows it, when 
 none can call our power to account? — Yet who would have 
 thought the old man to have had so much blood in him! 
 
 Doctor. Do you mark that ? 
 
 Lady Macbeth. The Thane of Fife had a wife : where is she 
 now? — What, will these hands ne'er be clean ? — No more o' 
 that, my lord, no more o' that : you mar all with this starting. 
 
 Doctor, Go to, go to ; ^ you have known what you should not. 
 
 1 ** Very guise," i.e., the dress and manner in which she always appears 
 on these occasions. 2 Quiet. 
 
 3 "Go to," an exclamation of horror and astonishment here. The 
 phrase is used in various senses by Shakespeare, — as an expression of en- 
 couragement, of reproach, of contempt, etc. 
 
88 SHAKESPEARE, [act v. 
 
 Gentlewoman, She has spoke what she should not^ I am sure 
 of that : Heaven knows what she has known. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Here's the smell of the blood still : all the per- 
 fumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh ! 
 
 Doctor. What a sigh is there ! The heart is sorely charg'd. 
 
 Gentlewoman. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for 
 the dignity of the whole body.i 
 
 Doctor. Well, well, well, — 
 
 Gentlewoman. Pray God it be, sir. 
 
 Doctor. This disease is beyond my practice : yet I have known 
 those which have walk'd in their sleep who have died holily in 
 their beds. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown ; 
 look not so pale. — I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he 
 cannot come out on's grave. 
 
 Doctor. Even so ? 
 
 Lady Macbeth. To bed, to bed ! there's knocking at the gate : 
 come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What's done can- 
 not be undone. — To bed, to bed, to bed ! \Exit. 
 
 Doctor. Will she go now to bed ? 
 
 Gentlewo?nan. Directly.^ 
 
 Doctor. Foul whisperings are abroad : unnatural deeds 
 Do breed unnatural troubles : infected minds 
 To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets : 
 More needs she the divine than the physician. 
 God, God forgive us all ! Look after her ; 
 Remove from her the means of all annoyance. 
 And still keep eyes upon her. So, good night : 
 My mind she has mated,^ and amazed my sight. 
 I think, but dare not speak. 
 
 Gentlewoman. Good night, good doctor. [Exeunt. 
 
 1 " Heart," etc., i.e., such a heart in my bosom for all the rank and 
 honors of her state. 
 
 2 At once. 3 Confounded. 
 
SCENE II.] MACBETH. 89 
 
 Scene II. The Country near Dunsinane. 
 
 Drum and colors. Enter Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, and 
 
 Soldiers. 
 
 Menteith. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm, 
 His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. 
 Revenges burn in them ; for their dear causes 
 Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm 
 Excite the mortified man.^ 
 
 Angus. Near Birnam Wood 
 
 Shall we well meet them ; that way are they coming. 
 
 Caithness. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother ? 
 
 Lennox. For certain, sir, he is not : I have a file 
 Of all the gentry : there is Siward's son. 
 And many unrough 2 youths that even now 
 Protest 3 their first of manhood. 
 
 Menteith. What does the tyrant ? 
 
 Caithness. Great Dimsinane he strongly fortifies : 
 Some say he's mad ; others that lesser hate him 
 Do call it vahant fury : but, for certain, 
 He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause 
 Within the belt of rule.^ 
 
 Angus. Now does he feel 
 
 His secret murders sticking on his hands ; 
 Now minutely ^ revolts upbraid his faith-breach ; 
 Those he commands move only in command. 
 Nothing in love : now does he feel his title 
 Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe 
 Upon a dwarfish thief. 
 
 Menteith. Who then shall blame 
 
 His pester'd ^ senses to recoil and start, 
 
 1 " Mortified man," i.e., an ascetic; a man dead to worldly affairs. 
 
 2 Unbearded. 3 Testify to. 
 
 * " He cannot," etc., i.e., he cannot bind his disaffected party to his sway. 
 5 Constantly occurring. 6 Perplexed. 
 
90 SHAKESPEARE, [act v. 
 
 When all that is within him does condemn 
 Itself for being there ? 
 
 Caithness. . Well, march we on, 
 
 To give obedience where 'tis truly ow*d : 
 Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal, 
 And with him pour we in our country's purge 
 Each drop of us.^ , . 
 
 Lennox, Or so much as it needs, 
 
 To dew the sovereign flower and drown the weeds. 
 Make we our march towards Birnam. \Exeunt^ marching. 
 
 Scene III. Dunsinane, A Room i?i the Castle, 
 
 Enter Macbeth, Doctor, «?/^ Attendants. 
 
 Macbeth, Bring me no more reports ; let them fly all : 
 Till Birnam Wood remove to Dunsinane, 
 I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm ? 
 Was he not born of woman ? The spirits that know 
 All mortal consequences have pronounc'd 2 me thus : 
 " Fear not, Macbeth ; no man that's born of woman 
 Shall e'er have power upon thee." Then fly, false thanes, 
 And mingle with the English epicures : 
 The mind I sway by '^ and the heart I bear 
 Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon ! 
 Where got'st thou that goose look ? 
 
 Servant, There is ten thousand — 
 
 Macbeth, Geese, villain ? 
 
 Servant, Soldiers, sir. 
 
 Macbeth, Go prick thy face, and over-red thy fear, 
 
 1 " Meet we," etc., i.e., let us join the physician (Malcolm), and with 
 him, to cleanse the sickly commonwealth, shed our blood to the last drop. 
 
 2 Declared to. 3 •• Sway by," i.e., am governed by. 
 
SCENE III.] MACBETH. 91 
 
 Thou lily-liver'd ^ boy. What soldiers, patch ? 2 
 Death of thy soul ! those Hnen cheeks of thine 
 Are counselors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face ? 
 
 Servant. The English force, so please you. 
 
 Macbeth. Take thy face hence. \Exit Servant, 
 
 Seyton ! — I am sick at heart, 
 
 When I behold — Seyton, I say ! — this push^ 
 
 Will chair me ever, or disseat me now. 
 
 I have liv'd long enough : my way of life 
 
 Is falPn into the sear, the yellow leaf ; 
 
 And that which should accompany old age, 
 
 As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends, 
 
 I must not look to have ; but, in their stead. 
 
 Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath, 
 
 Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. 
 
 Seyton ! 
 
 Enter Seyton. 
 
 Seyton. What is your gracious pleasure ? 
 
 Macbeth. What news more ? 
 
 Seyton. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported. 
 
 Macbeth. Fll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack'd. 
 Give me my armor. 
 
 Seyton. 'Tis not needed yet. 
 
 Macbeth. I'll put it on. 
 Send out more horses ; skirr ^ the country round ; 
 Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armor. 
 How does your patient, doctor ? 
 
 Doctor. Not so sick, my lord, 
 
 As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, 
 That keep her from her rest. 
 
 Macbeth, Cure her of that. 
 
 Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd, 
 
 1 Cowardly. Formerly the liver was regarded as the seat of the passions 
 and emotions generally. 
 
 2 Stupid fool. 3 Onset. * Scour. 
 
92 SHAKESPEARE. [act v. 
 
 Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, 
 Raze out the written troubles of the brain 
 And with some sweet oblivious antidote 
 Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff 
 Which weighs upon the heart ? 
 
 Doctor, Therein the patient 
 
 Must minister to himself. 
 
 Macbeth, Throw physic to the dogs; I'll none of it. — 
 Come, put mine armor on ; give me my staff.^ — 
 Seyton, send out. — Doctor, the thanes fly from me. — 
 Come, sir, dispatch.*-^ — If thou couldst, doctor, cast 
 The water of my land, find her disease, 
 And purge it to a sound and pristine health, 
 I would applaud thee to the very echo. 
 That should applaud again. — PuU't off, I say.^ — 
 What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug, 
 Would scour these English hence ? Hear'st thou of them ? 
 
 Doctor. Ay, my good lord ; your royal preparation 
 Makes us hear something. 
 
 Macbeth. Bring it after me. — 
 
 I will not be afraid of death and bane. 
 Till Birnam Forest come to Dunsinane. 
 
 Doctor. \Aside\ Were I from Dunsinane away and clear. 
 Profit again should hardly draw me here. \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. Country near Birnam Wood. 
 
 Drum and colors. Enter Malcolm, old Siward and his Son, Macduff, 
 Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross, and Soldiers, marching. 
 
 Malcolm. Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand 
 That chambers will be safe. 
 
 1 Lance. 
 
 2 " Come, sir, dispatch," addressing the attendant who is' putting on the 
 armor. 
 
 3 ** Pull't off, I say," i.e., the armor, or some part of it, to which Macbeth 
 refers a few lines below, — " Bring it after me," 
 
SCENE v.] MACBETH. 93 
 
 Menteith, We doubt it nothing. 
 
 Siward. What wood is this before us ? 
 
 Menteith. The wood of Birnam. 
 
 Malcolm. Let every soldier hew him down a bough 
 And bear't before him ; thereby shall we shadow 
 The numbers of our host, and make discovery 
 Err in report of us. 
 
 Soldiers, It shall be done. 
 
 Siward, We learn no other but the confident tyrant 
 Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure 
 Our setting down before't.^ 
 
 Malcolm, 'Tis his main hope : 
 
 For where there is advantage to be ta'en, 
 Both more and less have given him the revolt, 
 And none serve with him but constrained things 
 Whose hearts are absent too. 
 
 Macduff. Let our just censures 
 
 Attend the true event, and put we on 
 Industrious soldiership.^ 
 
 Siivard. The time approaches 
 
 That will with due decision make us know 
 What we shall say we have and what we owe. 
 Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate. 
 But certain issue strokes must arbitrate : 
 Towards which advance the war. [Exeunt, marching. 
 
 Scene V. Dunsinane. Within the Castle. 
 
 Enter Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers, with drum and colors. 
 
 Macbeth. Hang out our banners on the outward walls ; 
 The cry is still, " They come ! " Our castle's strength 
 
 1 " Keeps still," etc., i.e., intrenched in his castle of Dunsinane, will 
 stand a siege from us. 
 
 2 ** Let our just censures," etc., i.e., let us act the part of true soldiers, 
 that the event may prove our judgments just. 
 
94 SHAKESPEARE. [act v. 
 
 Will laugh a siege to scorn : here let them lie 
 Till famine and the ague eat them up : 
 Were they not forc'd ^ with those that should be ours, 
 We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, 
 And beat them backward home. \A. cry of women within. 
 
 What is that noise ? 
 Seyion. It is the cry of women, my good lord. \Exit, 
 
 Macbeth. I have almost forgot the taste of fears : 
 The time has been, my senses would have cool'd 
 To hear a night-shriek ; and my fell of hair ^ 
 Would at a dismal treatise ^ rouse and stir 
 As life were in't. I have supp'd full with horrors ; 
 Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, 
 Cannot once start me. 
 
 Reenter Seyton. 
 
 Wherefore was that cry ? 
 
 Seyton. The queen, my lord, is dead. 
 
 Macbeth. She should have died hereafter ; 
 There would have been a time for such a word. 
 To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow. 
 Creeps in this petty pace from day to day 
 To the last syllable of recorded time. 
 And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
 The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle ! 
 Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player 
 That struts and frets his hour upon the stage 
 And then is heard no more : it is a tale 
 Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
 Signifying nothing. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Thou com'st to use thy tongue ; thy story quickly. 
 Messenger. Gracious my lord, 
 
 1 Reenforced. 2 " Fell of hair,*' i.e., scalp with the hair on it. 
 
 S " Dismal treatise," i.e., blood-curdling story. 
 
SCENE VI.] MACBETH, 95 
 
 I should report that which I say I saw, 
 But know not how to do it. 
 
 Macbeth. Well, say, sir. 
 
 Messenger. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, 
 I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, 
 The wood began to move. 
 
 Macbeth. Liar and slave ! 
 
 Messefiger. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so: 
 Within this three mile may you see it coming ; 
 I say, a moving grove. 
 
 Macbeth. If thou speak'st false, 
 
 Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive. 
 Till famine cling 1 thee : if thy speech be sooth, 
 I care not if thou dost for me as much. 
 I pall 2 in resolution, and begin 
 To doubt the equivocation of the fiend 
 That lies hke truth : *' Fear not till Birnam Wood 
 Do come to Dunsinane : " and now a wood 
 Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out ! 
 If this which he avouches does appear. 
 There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. 
 I 'gin to be aweary of the sun, 
 
 And wish the estate o' the world were now undone. 
 Ring the alarum bell ! Blow, wind ! come, wrack ! ^ 
 At least we'll die with harness ^ on our back. \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene VI. Dunsinane. Before the Castle. 
 
 Drum and colors. Enter Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff, and their 
 Army, with boughs. 
 
 Malcolm. Now near enough : your leavy screens throw down, 
 And show like those you are. You, worthy uncle, 
 
 1 Wither, shrivel up, a signification of " cling" which it still has in the 
 north of England. 
 
 2 Lose heart. 3 Ruin. * Armor. 
 
q6 SHAKESPEARE. [act v 
 
 Shall, with my cousin, your right-noble son, 
 Lead our first battle : ^ worthy Macduff and we 
 Shall take upon's what else remains to do, 
 According to our order. 
 
 Siward. Fare you well. 
 
 Do we but find the tyrant's power to-night, 
 Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight. 
 
 Macduff. Make all our trumpets speak ; give them all breath. 
 Those clamorous harbingers ^ of blood and death. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene VII. Another Part of the Field, 
 
 Alarums. Enter Macbeth. 
 
 Macbeth. They have tied me to a stake ; I cannot fly, 
 But, bearhke, I must fight the course.^ What's he 
 That was not born of woman ? Such a one 
 Am I to fear, or none. 
 
 Enter young Siward. 
 
 Young Siward. What is thy name ? 
 
 Macbeth. Thou'lt be afraid to hear it. 
 
 Young Siward. No ; though thou call'st thyself a hotter name 
 Than any is in hell. 
 
 Macbeth. My name's Macbeth. 
 
 Young Siward. The devil himself could not pronounce a title 
 More hateful to mine ear. 
 
 Macbeth. No, nor more fearful. 
 
 Young Siward. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant ; with my sword 
 I'll prove the He thou speak'st. 
 
 \They fight ^ and young Siward is slain. 
 
 * Battalion. 2 Announcers (see Note 4, p. 25). 
 
 3 '* They have tied," etc. Bear-baiting was a popular amusement in 
 England in Shakespeare's time. The bear was tied to a stake, and a certain 
 number of dogs set on him at intervals. Each attack was called a course. 
 
SCENE VIII.] MACBETH. 97 
 
 Macbeth. Thou wast born of woman. 
 
 But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, 
 Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born. \Exit, 
 
 Alaru77is. Enter Macduff. 
 
 Macduff. That way the noise is. Tyrant, show thy face ! 
 If thou be'st slain and with no stroke of mine, 
 My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still. 
 I cannot strike at wretched kerns,i whose arms 
 Are hir'd to bear their staves i^ either thou, Macbeth, 
 Or else my sword with an unbatter'd edge 
 I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be ; 
 By this great clatter, one of greatest note 
 Seems bruited.^ Let me find him. Fortune ! 
 And more I beg not. \Exit. Alarums. 
 
 Enter Malcolm and old Siward. 
 
 Siward. This way, my lord ; the castle's gently rendered : 
 The tyrant's people on both sides do fight ; 
 The noble thanes do bravely in the war ; 
 The day almost itself professes yours, 
 And little is to do. 
 
 Malcolm. We have met with foes 
 
 That strike beside us. 
 
 Siward. Enter, sir, the castle. [Exeunt. Alarums, 
 
 Scene VIII. Another Part of the Field. 
 Enter Macbeth. 
 
 Macbeth. Why should I play the Roman fooH and die 
 On mine own sword ? Whiles I see lives, the gashes 
 Do better upon them. 
 
 1 '* Kerns " is used here contemptuously for the common soldiers of Mac- 
 beth's army (see Note 4, p. 14). 
 
 2 Lances. 3 Hailed with great clamor. 
 
 * " Roman fool," alluding, probably, to Cato or Marcus Brutus. 
 7 
 
98 SHAKESPEARE. [act v. 
 
 Enter Macduff. 
 
 Macduff, Turn, hell-hound, turn ! 
 
 Macbeth. Of all men else I have avoided thee : 
 But get thee back ; my soul is too much charg'd 
 With blood of thine already. 
 
 Macduff. I have no words : 
 
 My voice is in my sword, thou bloodier villain 
 Than terms can give thee out ! \They fight. 
 
 Macbeth. Thou losest labor : 
 
 As easy mayst thou the intrenchant ^ air 
 With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed: 
 Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests ; 
 I bear a charmed life, which must not yield 
 To one of woman born. 
 
 Macduff. Despair thy charm ; 
 
 And let the angel ^ whom thou still hast serv'd 
 Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb 
 Untimely ripp'd. 
 
 Macbeth. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, 
 For it hath cow'd my better part of man ! 
 And be these juggling fiends no more believed, 
 That palter ^ with us in a double sense ; 
 That keep the word of promise to our ear. 
 And break it to our hope. I'll not fight with thee. 
 
 Macduff. Then yield thee, coward. 
 And Hve to be the show and gaze o' the time : 
 We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, 
 Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, 
 *' Here may you see the tyrant." 
 
 Macbeth. I will not yield 
 
 To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, 
 
 1 Incapable of receiving a wound. 
 
 2 Demon. It was the belief of the ancients that every man was controlled 
 for good or evil by his attendant genius or demon (see Note 3, p. 50). 
 
 3 Equivocate. 
 
SCENE VIII.] MACBETH, 99 
 
 And to be baited ^ with the rabble's curse. 
 
 Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane, 
 
 And thou oppos'd, being of no woman born, 
 
 Yet I will try the last. Before my body 
 
 I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff, 
 
 And damn'd be him that first cries, " Hold, enough ! " 
 
 \Exeu7it^ fighting. Alarums, 
 
 Retreat. Flourish, Enter, with drum and colors, Malcolm, old Siward, 
 Ross, the other Thanes, and Soldiers. 
 
 Malcolm, I would the friends we miss were safe arriv'd. 
 
 Siward, Some must go off : and yet, by these I see,^ 
 So great a day as this is cheaply bought. 
 
 Malcolm. Macduff is missing, and your noble son. 
 
 Ross. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt : 
 He only liv'd but till he was a man ; 
 The which no sooner had his prowess confirmed 
 In the unshrinking station where he fought. 
 But like a man he died. 
 
 Siward. Then he is dead ? 
 
 Ross. Ay, and brought off the field : your cause of sorrow 
 Must not be measur'd by his worth, for then 
 It hath no end. 
 
 Siward. Had he his hurts before ? 
 
 Ross. Ay, on the front. 
 
 Siward. Why then, God's soldier be he ! 
 
 Had I as many sons as I have hairs, 
 I would not wish them to a fairer death : 
 And so, his knell is knoll'd. 
 
 Malcolm, He's worth more sorrow, 
 
 And that I'll spend for him. 
 
 1 Snarled at ; worried, as by dogs. 
 
 2 ** Some must," etc., i.e., some must die; and yet, by the full ranks I 
 see around us, etc. 
 
lOO SHAKESPEARE. [act v. 
 
 Siward, He's worth no more : 
 
 They say he parted well, and paid his score : 
 And so, God be with him ! Here comes newer comfort. 
 
 Reenter Macduff, with Macbeth's head. 
 
 Macduff. Hail, King ! for so thou art : behold, where stands 
 The usurper's cursed head : the time is free. 
 I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl,i 
 That speak my salutation in their minds ; 
 Whose voices I desire aloud with mine : 
 Hail, King of Scotland ! 
 
 All. Hail, King of Scotland ! [Flourish. 
 
 Malcolm. We shall not spend a large expense of time 
 Before we reckon with your several loves, 
 And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen, 
 Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland 
 In such an honor nam'd. What's more to do. 
 Which would be planted newly with the time, 
 As calling home our exil'd friends abroad 
 That fled the snares of watchful tyranny ; 
 Producing forth the cruel ministers 
 Of this dead butcher and his fiendlike queen. 
 Who, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands 
 Took off her life ; this, and what needful else 
 That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace, 
 We will perform in measure, time, and place : 
 So, thanks to all at once and to each one. 
 Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone. 
 
 [Flourish, Exeunt, 
 
 1 ** Thy kingdom's pearl," i.e., the nobility of Scotland as a body. 
 
SUGGESTIONS FOR THE STUDY OF 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Most people can read Shakespeare, and *^have some aim what he 
 would work them to." But anything like a full appreciation of the 
 riches within his greater plays comes only as a reward for patient and 
 intelligent study. Mere reading, in the cursory and superficial sense 
 of the term, will not avail ; sympathetic, earnest, and studious read- 
 ing is the price we must pay for appreciating the greatest of poets. 
 
 A play of Shakespeare must be regarded, first of all, as a story. 
 As such, it must be understood in its individual parts, even to its 
 words and phrases. These minor parts have a relation to one another 
 like that of the members of an organism. And the failure to see 
 these relations is failure to understand the play. Character, action, 
 and situation grow out of one another, and are related to one another 
 in an essential and vital manner. The story must therefore be seen 
 as a growth, a development. In this unity of purpose and tendency, 
 as well as in its creative originality and force or beauty of diction, lies 
 its claim to greatness. 
 
 As poetry deals with the universal elements in human life, the 
 reader must see in the play the concrete representation of the laws 
 to which his own life is subject. He must see the characters as em- 
 bodying motives and passions like his own. He must see the circum- 
 stances under which they live as making up a world governed by laws 
 not essentially different from those of the world in which he himself 
 lives. He must enter into the story with an imaginative sympathy 
 that makes him seem almost a participant in the action. 
 
 The reader must not be drawn aside into trivial interests in those 
 things that are not a vital part of the poet's conception. Historical and 
 other allusions, philological curiosities of grammar and diction, and 
 
102 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 all such matters, must be kept strictly in their subordinate place. 
 They are to be studied when they afford a key to the meaning of 
 the passage in which they stand; but they are not to be considered 
 as the thii^gs of ultimate value. Shakespeare is a poet, not a philo- 
 logical gymnasium. 
 
 The questions given in the following pages are intended to suggest 
 such lines of thought and discussion as will help the student in the 
 appreciative reading of the play. It is not assumed that they are 
 the best questions that may be asked, nor that they will, as they 
 stand, best fit the needs of every class. The teacher must know the 
 particular needs of his class, and select from the questions those which 
 he regards as most helpful. Every teacher finds, however, that 
 questions must be asked if he would have his pupils read with eyes 
 open and minds alert. 
 
 But it would be a great mistake to allow these or any other ques- 
 tions to obstruct the free communion of the pupils with the poet. 
 The play should first be read through as one reads any book, without 
 other study than is necessary to get the general drift and meaning of 
 the story. Then the detailed study, with the help of the questions, 
 may begin. Pupils should be held responsible for the meanings of 
 the words as a matter of course. Allusions should be treated likewise, 
 where they involve the sense of the passage. But the most of the 
 work at this stage of study will be upon the significance and relations 
 to one another of the parts of the play. After this analytic work — 
 which will interest and benefit the pupil just in proportion as it reveals 
 to him things that he would not have found out for himself and 
 that bring the play within the realm of ideas and ideals which he 
 has or for which he is ready — will come the final reading of the play 
 to enable the student to complete his synthesis of the whole. He 
 should now be able to see the career of Macbeth, from its beginning 
 with criminally ambitious thoughts, through its development under 
 the influence of fear and crime, to its end in utter moral and material 
 ruin ; the part of Macduff in the play from his first challenge of Mac- 
 beth's rash act to the point where he dominates the action ; the place 
 of Lady Macbeth, at first strong in resolution, and at last broken 
 utterly by the weight of her guilt; the motives and the fears that 
 incite to action ; the laws that are at first set at naught, and that 
 reassert themselves so sternly: these, and many other interesting 
 things, the student will realize as making up the meaning and the 
 power of the play. 
 
MACBETH. 103 
 
 Much of the poetry and the power of any great work of literature 
 cannot be taught. It may be felt ; but it can be communicated only 
 by the author himself, and only to those who can in some measure 
 enter into his spirit. The teacher may, indeed, help the pupil to 
 create in his mind the intellectual conditions necessary to such feeling. 
 He may infect the pupil with some of the contagion of his own ad- 
 miration. But he cannot enforce appreciation. He must be con- 
 tent with seeking to foster it. ^ 
 
 The following books will be found especially helpful in the teaching 
 of Shakespeare in the schools: Dowden's '^Shakespeare Primer" 
 (American Book Co.); Freytag's '^ Technique of the Drama" (Scott, 
 Foresman & Co.) ; Butcher's *' Aristotle's Theory of Poetry and Fine 
 Art" (Macmillan). I would especially recommend the *' Variorum 
 Edition of Macbeth," by Dr. Furness (Lippincott). If possible, "have 
 it accessible to the class. No student of this play can do without 
 the monumental work of Dr. Furness. 
 
MACBETH. 
 
 First read the play through for its story as you would read any 
 book. Do not, by going first to these notes, allow them to get be- 
 tween you and the poet. As you read the play, notice what sort of 
 characters, motives, and actions develop the story to the end. Use 
 the notes at the foot of the pages and the dictionary wherever they 
 are necessary to an understanding of the text. After the first reading 
 of the play, read the critical comments given in the Introduction to 
 this volume, pp. 3-12 inclusive; but hold yourself ready to form in- 
 dependent judgments. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. i. In what kind of natural environment does the action 
 begin ? 
 
 2. What other sort of turmoil is also in progress ? 
 
 3. What associations do we connect with witches — good or evil? 
 
 4. What is the effect upon us of their intention ''to meet with 
 Macbeth " ? 
 
 5. What do they mean by ** Fair is foul, and foul is fair " ? 
 
 6. Why are they associated with *' Graymalkin" and "Paddock"? 
 
 7. What kind of action does this opening scene lead us to expect ? 
 
 8. Did the people of Shakespeare's time believe in witches? (See 
 Century Dictionary under witch and witchcraft, ) 
 
 Scene II. i. How is this scene linked to the preceding scene? 
 
 2. What is the state of the country at the opening of the play? 
 
 3. Who are the leaders of the rebellion? 
 
 4. Who are the leaders of the loyal party ? 
 
 5. In what way does the sergeant regard Macbeth? 
 
 104 
 
ACT I. sc. III.] MACBETH. 105 
 
 6. In what tone does Ross speak of him a moment later? 
 
 7. How does this difference suggest Macbeth's increasing promi- 
 nence ? 
 
 8. What impression do we get of Duncan ? Was it the custom of 
 kings at that time to remain at a distance from the battle ? 
 
 9. How does this scene prepare us for the entrance of Macbeth ? 
 
 10. Why is the introduction of the principal character delayed? 
 Compare the method of ^'Julius Caesar," ** Hamlet," and ''King 
 Lear." 
 
 Scene III. i. In what kind of exploits are the witches wont to 
 engage ? How does this reveal their character ? 
 
 2. What supernatural powers have they ? 
 
 3. What limit is put upon their power to do harm ? 
 
 4. What qualities are suggested by their appearance? By their 
 style of speaking ? 
 
 5. By what is Macbeth's approach announced? 
 
 6. How are we impressed by their coming out to meet him ? 
 
 7. Of what are Macbeth and Banquo talking upon their entrance ? 
 
 8. How do the announcements of the witches at once affect Mac- 
 beth ? Why does he ** start, and seem to fear " ? 
 
 9. Has the prophecy contained any suggestion of crime ? 
 
 10. How is Banquo affected? 
 
 11. Which of the two displays the greater eagerness to know more ? 
 
 12. Note the difference in the nature of the comments made by 
 them after the witches disappear. 
 
 13. Note the prompt fulfillment of a part of the prophecy. What 
 effect does it have upon us ? 
 
 14. How does Macbeth receive the news ? How does Banquo ? 
 
 15. What warning does Banquo give him ? 
 
 16. What evidence is there in this scene of Macbeth's vivid imagi- 
 nation ? 
 
 17. Has he ever entertained treasonous thoughts before? 
 
 18. Is there any scruple of conscience mingled with his evil thoughts? 
 
 19. How does he seem already set apart from his fellows ? See pp. 
 22, 23. 
 
 20. Where does he show the manners of the courtier? Is he 
 already anticipating the need of them? 
 
 21. At what juncture in the fortunes of Macbeth have the witches 
 come to him ? What is the effect of this upon him ? 
 
io6 SHAKESPEARE. [act i. sc. iv., v. 
 
 22. Do the witches now appear to be a mere poetic fancy, or do 
 they typify anything in human experience? 
 
 23. At what point in this scene does the ** exciting force," or 
 motive, of the play enter? 
 
 24. Does it come from within the hero, or from an external source ? 
 
 Scene IV. i. In what Hght does the king's character again ap- 
 pear? Does he seem fit to be a leader and ruler of men ? 
 
 2. Why do you suppose the kingdom was in revolt ? 
 
 3. Does this in any way affect our feeling regarding Macbeth's am- 
 bition to be king ? 
 
 4. Note the motive for his ambition that Macbeth reveals in 
 Scenes III., IV., V., and VII. of Act I. Compare the motives of 
 Brutus in '* Julius Caesar," Act I., Scene II. ; Act II., Scene I., and 
 elsewhere. 
 
 5. Compare the spirit of the king's speeches to Macbeth with Mac- 
 beth's replies. Is there any evidence of constraint in the latter? 
 
 6. What precipitates Macbeth's resolution? Compare his de- 
 termination to wait for chance to crown him king (Scene III., 
 p. 23). 
 
 7. Why does he go himself to announce to his wife the coming 
 of the king ? 
 
 8. What does his last speech show of his purposes? Note the 
 rapidity with which they have developed. 
 
 9. Why are we shown so much of Macbeth's character before Lady 
 Macbeth appears ? 
 
 10. What strong contrast is suggested by Duncan's last speech? 
 
 11. What has Banquo been saying to him? 
 
 Scene V. i. How long an interval has elapsed between this scene 
 and the last ? 
 
 2. Where has Macbeth found opportunity to write the letter? 
 
 3. What does it contain preceding the part that we hear Lady 
 Macbeth read ? 
 
 4. Does it suggest to her anything that it does not say ? 
 
 5. What is her estimate of Macbeth's character? 
 
 6. Does she know him accurately? Does it seem from the rest of 
 the play that he is too tender-hearted ? Or may the phrase '* too full 
 of the milk of human kindness " be only her euphemism for hesita- 
 tion, moral cowardice, or lack of bloody fierceness ? 
 
ACT I. sc. VI., VII.] MACBETH, 1 07 
 
 7. What traits in her own character does she reveal while she 
 analyzes her husband's? 
 
 8. Note the balanced form of her sentences. What is the effect ? 
 
 9. Why does she decide to assume the burden of the deed? 
 
 10. Is she influenced by wifely affection or by ambition ? 
 
 11. Note the title Macbeth gives to her in the letter, and that with 
 which she greets him upon his arrival. 
 
 12. Why has the poet shown the strong affection existing between 
 them? 
 
 13. Why does Lady Macbeth exclaim to the messenger, ** Thou'rt 
 mad to say it " ? 
 
 14. How does she hasten to explain her exclamation ? 
 
 15. Note the double meaning in *^ He brings great news." 
 
 16. Note the somber beauty of the speech that follows. In what 
 does its force consist ? 
 
 17. Note that Macbeth hints at the murder and Lady Macbeth 
 openly resolves it. 
 
 18. What does she expect to gain by the crime? 
 
 19. In what particular passages is the mockery of this hope re- 
 vealed ? (See Act III., Scene I., p. 50, II., pp. 54-56, and IV., 
 pp. 58-64; Act IV., Scene I., pp. 70-73; Act V., Scenes L, II., III., 
 v., VIL, and VIII.) 
 
 20. Note Macbeth's inabihty to dissemble successfully. Where 
 does he again show this ? 
 
 Scene VI. i. Note the element of repose in this scene. Does it 
 afford relief or suspense ? 
 
 2. Has Duncan any premonition of evil ? Compare the method in 
 *' JuUus Csesar," Act II., Scene II. 
 
 3. What feelings are most prominent in Duncan's speeches? 
 
 4. Why does Lady Macbeth dwell so much upon ^'honors" and 
 "duties"? 
 
 5. Why is Macbeth absent? 
 
 6. Why does Lady Macbeth not answer the king's inquiry about 
 him? 
 
 Scene VII. i. How long is the interval between this scene and the 
 last? 
 
 2. What considerations move Macbeth for and against the crime ? 
 
 3. Does *' the milk of human kindness" figure largely in this 
 soliloquy? Does conscience ? 
 
io8 SHAKESPEARE, [act ii. sc. i. 
 
 4. Or does Macbeth intentionally shut his mind to the promptings 
 of his conscience and his feeUngs, and try to fix it solely upon politic 
 considerations? Or are the two mingled? 
 
 5. Why does the poet show us these long mental conflicts and 
 hesitations before the crime ? 
 
 6. How should we regard the play if this murder were committed 
 out of hand ? 
 
 7. Which lines of Macbeth's first soliloquy in this scene are a 
 prophecy of his future career ? 
 
 8. What is gained by making Duncan's character appear more 
 noble as the crime comes nearer ? 
 
 9. Why had Macbeth left the presence of the king ? 
 
 10. What reason does he give for resolving to ''proceed no 
 further " ? What is his real reason ? 
 
 11. How does Lady Macbeth again bring him to the resolution? 
 
 12. Is his claim of manly courage a just one ? 
 
 13. Has she a just sense of the horror of the crime ? 
 
 14. Is she lacking in womanly feeling ? Or has she resolutely put 
 such feeling aside? Compare Scene V., p. 27, and Act II., Scene 
 II., lines I, 13, 14, p. 37. 
 
 15. What hght does this scene throw upon Macbeth's thought 
 of the murder before the time of the opening of the play ? 
 
 16. What use does Lady Macbeth make of the prophecy of the 
 witches ? 
 
 17. Does she answer all Macbeth's objections to the deed? 
 
 18. Note the point at which she retires into the background. 
 
 Sum up the traits of character that have appeared in the hero and 
 heroine in Act I. What motives and feelings are in control ? To 
 what point does this act bring the action of the play ? Why is it 
 necessary for the purposes of tragedy that the hero should begin by 
 being neither wholly good nor wholly bad ? Note the rapidity of the 
 action. How much time has elapsed since the opening of the play ? 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. i. What is the time of night? How is the approaching 
 storm indicated ? 
 
 2. Why does Banquo give Fleance his sword? 
 
 3. What does he mean by the ''cursed thoughts"? 
 
ACT II. sc. II.] MACBETH. 109 
 
 4. Why does he call for his sword as some one approaches ? 
 
 5. Why are the king^s gift and his ^'measureless content" men- 
 tioned here ? 
 
 6. Why does Banquo refer to the weird sisters ? 
 
 7. Does Macbeth answer him truthfully ? 
 
 8. Of what would he talk to Banquo ? 
 
 9. What caution does Banquo show ? Why ? 
 
 10. What leads Macbeth to see the dagger? 
 
 11. How does this quality of his mind help to make the drama 
 more tragic ? 
 
 12. Note the effect of lines 6-18, p. 36. To what is it due? 
 
 13. Why do the very stones seem to him to *' prate of his where- 
 about " ? 
 
 14. Who sounded the bell that was to be the knell of Duncan ? 
 
 15. Why had this arrangement been made? 
 
 Scene II. i. Where is Macbeth at the opening of this scene? 
 
 2. What does it show of Lady Macbeth's character that she has 
 taken wine to make her bold? Is it hardness or womanly weakness ? 
 Does this have any bearing on the sleep-walking scene? 
 
 3. Note how the brooding horror of this scene is intensified by the 
 shrieking of the owl, by the talking of the grooms in their sleep, and 
 by the voice that Macbeth hears. 
 
 4. What touch of womanliness does Lady Macbeth show here just 
 before Macbeth enters ? 
 
 5. In what ways does he show himself to be completely unnerved? 
 
 6. Why does he harp upon '* I could not say ' Amen ' " ? 
 
 7. Does Lady Macbeth again assume control ? 
 
 8. Which shows greater self-possession ? 
 
 9. What foreshadowing of the nature of their punishment is seen 
 here ? Note how his imagination already torments him. 
 
 10. Compare the ways in which each speaks of the blood. What 
 difference does it suggest? (See Act V., Scene I., pp. 87, 88.) 
 
 11. Why has she now the courage to finish what he dared not? 
 
 12. What is the effect upon us of the knocking? 
 
 13. Note the peculiar effectiveness of lines 14-18, p. 39. 
 
 14. Is it fear alone, or remorse also, that Macbeth and Lady Mac- 
 beth show? (See especially the last two lines of this scene.) 
 
 15. What irony is suggested by Lady Macbeth's saying, ''A little 
 water clears us of this deed"? Compare Act V., Scene i. 
 
no SHAKESPEARE. [act ii. sc. hi., iv. 
 
 1 6. What things here prepare us for the sleep-walking scene? 
 
 17. Why is the actual scene of the murder not on the stage? 
 
 Scene III. i. What is the effect of this scene? 
 
 2. What does the porter whimsically imagine himself to be? 
 
 3. How does this conceit fit in with the conditions ? 
 
 4. Why does Macbeth enter so soon? 
 
 5. Why does he answer so briefly? 
 
 6. Why does he not himself call Duncan ? 
 
 7. Note the use of tumult in nature accompanying crime. Com- 
 pare '* Julius Caesar," Act I., Scene III. 
 
 8. Compare Macbeth's and Lennox's speeches when Macduff tells 
 of the murder. How does the former show that he knows? 
 
 9. See the openness and vigor that belong to Macduff. For what 
 part in the drama do these qualities fit him ? 
 
 10. Does Lady Macbeth feign well when she enters? 
 
 11. Does Macbeth's lamentation have the true ring? 
 
 12. When had Macbeth gone in and murdered the grooms? 
 
 13. Was it wisely done? 
 
 14. Why does Macduff demand his reason for it? 
 
 15. Was this murder less atrocious than that of the king? Why 
 does the poet treat it with such indifference ? 
 
 16. How is the attention now distracted from Macbeth ? 
 
 17. Was Lady Macbeth's fainting real or assumed? Was there 
 anything in the scene to make her swoon? 
 
 18. Why do the king's sons flee ? 
 
 19. Why does Banquo promptly assert his loyalty and call for 
 question of ** this bloody piece of work " ? 
 
 20. Compare Macduffs part here with his part later in the play. 
 
 Scene IV. i. What does this scene contribute to our impressions 
 of the events of the night ? Compare it with the effect of the knock- 
 ing at the gate. 
 
 2. Is Macduff deceived? 
 
 3. Why does he not go to see Macbeth crowned? 
 
 4. Why is it necessary to the tragedy that Macbeth should gain his 
 object ? 
 
 To what point has this act brought the action of the play ? What 
 beginning is there of a force likely to prove hostile or even dangerous 
 to Macbeth? By what means has this force been brought into 
 existence ? 
 
ACT III. sc. I., II.] MACBETH. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. i. How much time has elapsed between Acts II. and III. ? 
 
 2. How does Banquo voice the feeUng against Macbeth ? 
 
 3. How does he view his own hopes of good from the prophecy of 
 the witches? Why does he check himself? 
 
 4. What is there in this speech to prepare us for Macbeth's later 
 attitude toward him ? 
 
 5. What is that attitude? 
 
 6. Why is Macbeth about to give a feast to the nobles? What 
 does he hope to determine or accomplish thereby ? 
 
 7. Why do he and Lady Macbeth single out Banquo for special 
 honor ? 
 
 8. Why does Macbeth question him so closely regarding his plans ? 
 
 9. Why did not Banquo suspect the danger to himself? 
 
 10. What various reasons had Macbeth for wishing him out of the 
 way? 
 
 11. Where doesJVIacbeth first show that he sees he has gained 
 nothing by his great crime ? 
 
 12. Why does he refer to the *^ strange inventions" of his *^ bloody 
 cousins " ? 
 
 13. What sort of men are the murderers? What fortunes have 
 they had? 
 
 14. To what motives in them does Macbeth appeal? 
 
 1$. Where had he himself been moved by an appeal to similar 
 motives? 
 
 16. How, then, are these men but a reflection, an echo, of himself? 
 
 17. What care does he make most prominent in his instructions to 
 them? 
 
 18. What evidence is there that he had been planning the murder 
 before this scene opens ? 
 
 19. Where does he seem to descend furthest from the kingly char- 
 acter in which the opening of this scene presents him ? 
 
 20. In what respect do you see a development in his character? 
 
 21. To what is it due ? 
 
 Scene II. i. Why does Lady Macbeth inquire concerning Ban- 
 quo? Why does she ask for Macbeth a moment after? Does she 
 know what is to be done ? 
 
I 12 SHAKESPEARE, [act hi. sc. hi., iv. 
 
 2. What is her state of mind ? Compare her confident assurance 
 in Act II., Scene II., p. 39: ^*A little water clears us of this 
 deed." 
 
 3. What is Macbeth's state of mind ? Does he suffer from fear, 
 from remorse, or from both ? 
 
 4. How does his wife deal with him ? 
 
 5. Why is she no longer able to take the lead and to dictate to him 
 his course of action ? 
 
 6. Compare the resolution that here follows his distress of mind 
 with that in Act I., Scene VII., last 3 lines, p. 31, and first 13, 
 
 P- 32. 
 
 7. Does Lady Macbeth suggest the new murder to him? Or is 
 she trying to find out what he means to do? 
 
 8. What do you think are her feelings and her demeanor during 
 his last speech ? Is she elated or resolute, as in Act I. ? 
 
 9. What three speeches of Macbeth show fine poetic quality ? 
 
 10. At what points in the action does he rise to the highest flights 
 of poetry ? Why ? 
 
 1 1 . What effect does this have ? Does it seem to soften or make 
 less repulsive the uglier features of the evil in the play ? 
 
 12. What mental qualities does he seem to have? 
 
 13. What dramatic fitness of application to himself and to his con- 
 dition does his speech regarding Duncan have ? 
 
 14. What sort of images predominate, and with what effect, in his 
 last two speeches ? 
 
 Scene III. i. In what kind of light does this action occur? 
 
 2. Why may it be presented to the audience more directly than 
 the murder of Duncan ? 
 
 3. What effect is gained by having this scene follow immediately 
 upon the events of Scene II. ? 
 
 4. It has been suggested by some critics that the third murderer 
 was Macbeth. Study carefully the evidences for or against this view 
 in Scenes I., III., and IV. 
 
 5. Why is it fitting that Fleance should escape? 
 
 6. Has Banquo in any way provoked or deserved his fate ? 
 
 Scene IV. i. What sort of scene is here represented? 
 2. Note the elements of formality and courtesy with which the 
 guests are greeted. 
 
ACT III. sc. IV.] MACBETH, 113 
 
 3. Why is the murderer made to appear at the door with Ban- 
 quo's blood upon his face ? 
 
 4. Does any one else see the murderer? 
 
 5. In what way does Macbeth inquire after Banquo and Fleance? 
 Does this throw any light upon the question as to who was the third 
 murderer ? 
 
 6. How does Macbeth receive the news of Fleance's escape ? Why ? 
 
 7. Why does Lady Macbeth recall him to his duties ? 
 
 8. Sum up the various ways by which we have been prepared for 
 the appearance of the ghost. (See ^^ Hamlet," Act I., for a similar 
 dramatic method.) 
 
 9. What is gained by making the ghost of Banquo appear so soon 
 after Macbeth hears of the murder? 
 
 10. At what point in the scene does Macbeth first see the ghost? 
 
 11. On what word is the emphasis in ** Which of you have done 
 this " ? Compare Macbeth's next speech. 
 
 12. Does Lady Macbeth at first know what is the matter with him ? 
 
 13. What do you suppose is the first effect upon the guests? 
 
 14. What hints have been given hitherto that make it probable 
 that they would put a dark construction upon Macbeth's actions in 
 this scene ? 
 
 15. As the scene advances, what things would be likely to make the 
 nobles certain of Macbeth's guilt ? 
 
 16. With what crime would they associate it? 
 
 17. Follow the images in his mind as his terror compels him to 
 reveal them. 
 
 18. How does LaJy Macbeth seek to divert suspicion? With what 
 success ? 
 
 19. Why does she reproach him so sharply with what he cannot 
 help ? Compare her attitude in Act L 
 
 20. At what point does the ghost reenter? Why? 
 
 21. Is there any reason for thinking this the ghost ot Duncan? 
 Some critics have thought that more than one ghost appeared. Is 
 the change in its appearance merely due to Macbeth's delirious 
 state of mind ? Study carefully the passages relating to the ghost. 
 Note especially lines 23-26, p. 60, and recall the fact that Banquo has 
 not been buried. Note, on the other hand, Hnes 2 and 3, p. 60, and 
 lines 21 and 22, p. 61. Compare line 5, p. 61, with line 4, p. 59. 
 Which view is more natural and more dramatic ? 
 
 22. Is the phantom seen by any one else ? 
 
114 SHAKESPEARE. [act iii. sc. v., vi. 
 
 23. Why does Ross say, ** What sights, my lord " ? 
 
 24. Why does Lady Macbeth now send her guests off so quickly, 
 even though the feast is untasted? 
 
 25. Note how the fit passes off from Macbeth in moralizing. Com- 
 pare Act II., Scene II., Hnes 7-14, p. 38. 
 
 26. For what hour was the feast set? How has the time been 
 consumed, if it is now almost morning? 
 
 27. What change is there in Lady Macbeth's attitude? Account 
 for it. 
 
 28. In what light is Macduff shown here ? What does this fore- 
 shadow ? 
 
 29. What indication is there that Macbeth's tyranny has begun ? 
 Compare his statement, ^*To be thus is nothing, but to be safely 
 thus." 
 
 30. What hint does he give as to his future course ? 
 
 31. Why does he resolve to revisit the witches? What develop- 
 ment of his character does this show ? 
 
 32o How does he account for his present weakness? 
 
 Scene V. i. How is Hecate connected with the witches? 
 
 2. For what purpose is she introduced ? 
 
 3. How is Macbeth's downfall definitely foretold? 
 
 4. Compare lines 9-16, p. 65, with the classical proverb, ** Whom 
 the gods would destroy they first make mad." 
 
 5. Compare hnes 13-16, p. 65, with Macbeth's last words in the 
 preceding scene. 
 
 Scene VI. i. What is the dramatic purpose of this scene? 
 
 2. What indications has it of the dangers that are arising for 
 Macbeth ? 
 
 3. How definitely are these things stated ? 
 
 4. In what spirit does Lennox speak? 
 
 5. What was the result of Macbeth's message to Macduff? 
 
 6. In summing up the effects of this scene, bear in mind also the 
 supernatural enmity against Macbeth in Scene V. 
 
 7. Note the extremely rapid movement of the play as indicated 
 in this scene, especially in the lord's speech, p. 66. 
 
 To what point has this act brought the action of the play? What 
 forces are becoming more prominent? What indications are there 
 
ACT IV. sc. I., II.] MACBETH. 1 1 5 
 
 that Macbeth's star is descending? Show how he is hastening his 
 downfall by the means by which he seeks to make himself secure. 
 Where is the climax or turning-point of the entire play ? 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. i. What sort of material do the witches choose for their 
 caldron ? Why ? 
 
 2. Why is Hecate introduced ? 
 
 3. How do they now regard Macbeth ? 
 
 4. What powers does he attribute to them ? 
 
 5. What is indicated by the fact that he seeks them ? 
 
 6. How does he greet them ? What relation with them does this 
 seem to imply ? 
 
 7. Whom do they mean by their ^* masters"? 
 
 8. What does this seem to indicate as to the nature and function 
 of the witches in the play ? 
 
 9. Explain the meaning of each of the apparitions. 
 
 10. How are these at once an answer to his thoughts and feeling 
 and a revelation of his future ? 
 
 11. Does he suspect that the witches are mocking him? 
 
 12. What fitness is there in the fact that it is Lennox who brings 
 him the news of Macduff's flight? 
 
 13. Why are the witches visible to no one except Macbeth and 
 Banquo ? What does this suggest as to their function in the play ? 
 
 14. What resolution does Macbeth now make ? Why ? 
 
 15. Show how this, hke the murder of Banquo, is a delusive hope, 
 and how it helps to carry out the prediction of Hecate (Act HI., Scene 
 v., p. 65). 
 
 Scene II. i . Why had Macduff left his family ? 
 
 2. Did he know the danger in which they stood? 
 
 3. Where have we first learned of it ? 
 
 4. Did Lady Macduff know why he had gone ? Why had he not 
 told her ? 
 
 5. What does Ross think of the times ? 
 
 6. Comment upon the delineation of Lady Macduff's son. Does 
 he speak like a child ? 
 
 7. For what purpose is the messenger introduced ? Would it be 
 more, or less, effective if the murder occurred without any warning? 
 
Ii6 SHAKESPEARE. [act v. sc. i. 
 
 8. Compare the open fashion of this murder with the two preced- 
 ing murders. How does it indicate the development of the play ? 
 
 9. How much of this scene is left to the imagination? (See Ross's 
 account in the next scene, p. 85.) 
 
 10. How is this scene a preparation for the next ? 
 
 Scene III. i. What steady purpose does Macduff now hold? 
 
 2. What is his mission to England now seen to be ? 
 
 3. Has Malcolm kept himself informed of affairs at home ? 
 
 4. What progress of time is indicated by the fact that he is now 
 •-ought out to be made king? 
 
 5. What has become of Donalbain? Why is he allowed to drop 
 out of the story ? 
 
 6. Why does Malcolm suspect Macduff? 
 
 7. What two tests does he put to him ? 
 
 8. How is he satisfied ? 
 
 9. Why is the scene of the doctor introduced ? Is it in compliment 
 to the ruling sovereign, or for the sake of contrast with Macbeth as 
 king'? 
 
 10. What is gained by having anew from Ross the picture of Scot- 
 land's distress? 
 
 11. Why does Ross delay his news? 
 
 12. How does Macduff at first receive it? 
 
 13. How does it become a new motive force in the play? 
 
 14. What had been Macbeth's purpose in this atrocity? How does 
 it result for him ? 
 
 15. How is it shown that Macduff is now the dominating force of 
 the play ? 
 
 To what point has Act IV. advanced the action ? What forces are 
 gathering for Macbeth's destruction ? By what means has our sym- 
 pathy been almost completely alienated from him ? 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. i. What stage setting is used to augment the power of 
 this scene ? 
 
 2. Why is it rendered more impressive by the presence of the 
 doctor and the gentlewoman ? 
 
 3. Why have they come ? 
 
ACT V. sc. II., III.] MACBETH. 117 
 
 4. When did Lady Macbeth's breakdown occur ? Why ? 
 
 5. Why has Macbeth not given way under the strain? Has he 
 been able to sleep? (See Act III., Scenes II. and IV.) 
 
 6. Where have premonitions of this scene been given ? Quote the 
 passages. 
 
 7. Show how each of Lady Macbeth's statements is an echo of 
 great crimes or an evidence of her suffering from them. 
 
 8. What things show that she has suffered remorse as well as fear ? 
 
 9. Note the effectiveness with which the sense of smell is made to 
 add to the tragic effect. Compare the use of this sense in the proph- 
 ecy of Cassandra in ^schylus' tragedy of '* Agamemnon." 
 
 10. What things show that Lady Macbeth has suffered from crimes 
 in which she had no direct share ? 
 
 11. Why is she made to speak in broken and disjointed fashion? 
 
 12. What evidences are there in this scene that Lady Macbeth was 
 not masculine and Amazonian ? Examine also the evidences in Act 
 II. (See lines 7-17, p. 7, of the Introduction.) 
 
 13. Why is she allowed to pass out of sight here ? Why does it not 
 give us a sense of incompleteness in the story ? 
 
 14. How has the unity of the play been preserved in spite of the 
 prominent part given both to Macbeth and Lady Macbeth ? 
 
 15. What impression do you get of the doctor? 
 
 16. How does he interpret this scene? As he says, **Even so?" 
 what is it that recurs to his mind? 
 
 17. What feelings does the scene arouse in you? 
 
 Scene II. i. For what purpose is this scene introduced? What 
 direct and important information regarding the progress of the action 
 does it give us ? 
 
 2. What is signified by the fact that all the prominent characters 
 of the play are in this and the following scenes arrayed against Mac- 
 beth? Compare his words in Scene III., p. 91. 
 
 3. What is now the dominating motive of action among the 
 nobles? 
 
 4. What does Menteith mean by his reference to Macbeth's *' pes- 
 ter'd senses " ? 
 
 Scene III. i. What ''reports" does Macbeth mean? 
 
 2. Does he yet realize the ironical nature of the witches' prophecies ? 
 Or is he only trying to bolster up his own courage and that of his 
 followers ? 
 
1 1 8 SHAKESPEARE. [act v. sc. iv.-viii. 
 
 3. In what state of mind is he? Note the manner in which he 
 treats those about him. 
 
 4. How is this state of mind a fulfillment of Hecate's threat in Act 
 ni., Scene v., p. 65? 
 
 5. How does Macbeth now regard his life? 
 
 6. What " poetic justice " is there in his situation ? Consider its 
 causes. 
 
 7. Why does he speak of himself as already old ? How much time 
 is supposed to have elapsed since the opening of the play? 
 
 8. What difference do you see between ^* stage time," or '* dramatic 
 time," and ordinary time ? Compare the lapse of time in the banquet 
 scene (Act III., Scene IV.). 
 
 9. Does Macbeth sympathize with the suffering of his wife ? Is he 
 thinking of her only when he speaks of ^'a mind diseased"? 
 
 10. Note the reascendency of his habit of courage and resolute 
 action. Is he thus rendered more heroic, dramatically considered, 
 than if he repented and gave himself up to punishment? 
 
 11. Is repentance possible to him? Would it be a violation of 
 consistency in his character ? 
 
 Scene IV. What is the dramatic purpose of this scene ? 
 
 Scene V. i. What are the two great events of this scene? 
 
 2. Account for the way in which Macbeth receives the news of his 
 wife's death. 
 
 3. How has he come to regard life? Why? Does he see it as 
 it would naturally appear to a man in his condition ? 
 
 4. How is he affected by the news about Birnam wood? 
 
 5. What course of action does it drive him into ? Is it a wise 
 plan? 
 
 6. In what light do these facts place the prophecies of Hecate and 
 the witches ? 
 
 Scenes VI., VII., and VIII. i. How does Macbeth now regard 
 himself? Has he lost courage ? 
 
 2. Note the way in which he clings to the last of the prophecies. 
 
 3. For what reasons is it fitting that he should be slain by Macduff? 
 
 4. Is it more effective to have him first learn that this last of the 
 prophecies was also delusive ? 
 
 5. How does it affect him to learn this? 
 
ACT V. sc. VIII.] MACBETH. 119 
 
 6. Why do we feel mingled pity and terror at the events of 
 Act v.? 
 
 7. What new conditions for Scotland come in with the end of the 
 play ? Compare this ending with that of ** Hamlet " and ** King Lear." 
 
 Show who was the dominating force in the first half of the play and 
 who in the second half Trace the rise and decline of the first, and 
 the steady rise, to the end of the play, of the second. Point out the 
 motives and causes that were at work in each case. Is the play then 
 a final triumph of the evil or of the good forces? With what sort of 
 laws does it deal — moral or social, or both ? If with both, point 
 out their relations to each other. 
 
ECLECTIC ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 L'ALLEGRO, IL PENSEROSO 
 COMUS, AND LYCIDAS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN MILTON 
 
 NEW YORK •:• CINCINNATI •:• CHICAGO 
 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
Copyright, 1894, by 
 American Book Company. 
 
 Milton. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 John Milton was born in London in 1608. He was edu- 
 cated at Christ's College, Cambridge, where he graduated in 1632. 
 While yet a student, he wrote several of his shorter poems, and 
 the hymn '' On the Morning of Christ's Nativity." Between 
 1632 and 1638 he wrote ''Arcades," '' Comus," " Lycidas," 
 "L'Allegro," and ''II Penseroso." In 1638 he- visited France 
 and Italy, returning to England in the following year. From 
 that time until after the restoration of Charles II., in 1660, he 
 published no poetry, but was actively engaged in poHtical con- 
 troversy, or occupied with his official duties as Latin secretary to 
 Cromwell. His greatest work, " Paradise Lost," begun in 1658, 
 was pubhshed in 1665. "Paradise Regained" and "Samson 
 Agonistes" were both published in 1671. Milton died in 1674. 
 
 In the four poems comprising this volume we have the best 
 of the earHer works of John Milton. No criticism of them has 
 been more widely accepted than the statement that they proved, 
 upon their first appearance, that another true poet had arisen 
 in England. Written between the years 1632 and 1638, when 
 great questions of Church and State were disturbing the minds of 
 the Enghsh people, and preparing the way for the Puritan Revo- 
 lution which very soon followed, they naturally reflect in some 
 
 3 
 
4 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 measure the spirit of the times. In the heroic age of EHzabeth, 
 which had just passed away, each subject had seemed to feel 
 that he must uphold the honor of the English name at any cost. 
 The influence of the spirit of chivalry had bound men together 
 in the common ties of loyalty and national pride, and was appar- 
 ent not more in the heroic achievements of Raleigh and of Drake 
 than in the immortal works of Shakespeare and of Spenser. But 
 now, under the tyranny of Charles I., and amid the rapid growth 
 of commercial influences, the ennobling sentiments which had 
 formerly shaped men's actions were being gradually stifled. The 
 bonds of unfaltering loyalty and unquestioning obedience were 
 being forced asunder by the opposition which royal despotism had 
 aroused ; and every thinking mind was being swayed by rehgious 
 unrest, or was seeking refuge in dogmatic assertion and ecclesi- 
 astical authority. Even in literature a great change was appar- 
 ent ; " for a reaction had taken place from poetical impulse and 
 heroic achievement to prosaic weariness and worldly wisdom.'* 
 In order, therefore, to understand the deeper import and mean- 
 ing of these early poems of Milton, one should enter upon their 
 study with some knowledge oi the conditions of life and thought 
 and purpose which prevailed at the time of their composition, 
 and should bear in mind the influence which these must have 
 had upon the poet and his utterances. 
 
 John Milton graduated from Christ's College, Cambridge, in 
 1632, when twenty-four years of age. During the six years 
 which followed, he remained in his father's home at Horton, 
 Buckinghamshire ; and it was there that he wrote these poems. 
 One might have supposed that the courtly manners of his early 
 home, his musical tastes, and the teachings of his father would 
 have bred in him a disincHnation for the strict, self-denying life 
 
INTRODUCTION, 5 
 
 of Puritanism. But he could not be oblivious to the underlying 
 excellence of the Puritan doctrines, or neglectful of the demands 
 of the times. To him, Duty was ever '' the stern daughter of the 
 voice of God." 
 
 In " L'Allegro " (The Cheerful Man) and " II Penseroso " (The 
 Thoughtful Man) Milton presents, for his own contemplation and 
 ours, pictures of the two paths which seemed at that time to open 
 before him, — the life of a Courtier or Cavalier, and the life of a 
 Puritan. He gives Itahan titles to these poems, perhaps because 
 there are no English equivalents which are exactly applicable to 
 his ideals. In the first instance, to say " A Mirthful Man " would 
 suggest a character too shallow or too frivolous, while the ex- 
 pression " A Cheerful Man " would fail to convey his entire mean- 
 ing ; in the other case, to write of " A Thoughtful Man " would 
 call up the image of a student or a philosopher, and lead to a 
 hasty misjudgment of the intent of the poem. 
 
 Each poem describes the pursuits and pleasures of twelve 
 hours. L'Allegro is introduced to us at the first peep of dawn, 
 listening to the cheerful song of the lark, the cockcrowing, and 
 the music of the huntsman's horn; then the fieldworkers are 
 observed at their various tasks ; the landscape, with its ever 
 changing beauties, dehghts the eye ; the humble cottage and the 
 lordly castle each contributes a picture to the scene ; and when 
 the day's duties are at an end, the evening is spent in social 
 dehghts, in story-telhng, in the reading of Jonson's comedies or 
 Shakespeare's " wood-notes wild," or in listening to soft strains of 
 music, . 
 
 " Untwisting all the chains that tie 
 The hidden soul of harmony." 
 
6 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 II Penseroso starts out in the early evening hours ; he Hstens 
 to the song of the nightingale, or, as he walks in the moonKght, 
 hears the far-off curfew sound ; he spends the evening in the 
 contemplation of the great tragedies of antiquity, or devotes the 
 later hours of the night to the study of the mysteries of life and 
 immortahty ; and with the break of day he betakes himself to 
 some quiet nook in the woods, or hstens, under the '' high-em- 
 bowed roof" of church or cathedral, to the ecstatio music of 
 full-voiced choir and pealing organ. 
 
 Thus Mirth and Seriousness each finds its cw-: evjoyments in 
 life ; but it is plain that the poet's sympathies are with the latter. 
 Perhaps, all unwitting to himself, he thus intimates the ultimate 
 choice of his life, — to ally himself with the seriousness of Puri- 
 tanism rather than permit the mirth of the Cavaliers to tempt him 
 from the plain path of duty. Both poems are nature lyrics, with 
 a reflective background which the reader must discover for him- 
 self. Strictly speaking, they are not descriptive poems ; for '^ the 
 charm of nature poetry is not its description — its rivalry with a 
 painting of the scene ; it is the suggestive power of objects to 
 stimulate the imagination." It is in this quahty that the beauty 
 and excellence of these two poems is chiefly to be found. 
 
 " Comus," the third poem in this collection, is a dramatic com- 
 position, — ''a fine example of the high literary masque." This 
 species of drama, which is of Itahan origin, was introduced into 
 England as early as the reign of Henry VIII., and when " Comus " 
 was written it was in the height of its popularity. It combined 
 lyric poetry, declamation, dialogue, music, and dancing, the whole 
 being set off with elaborate scenery. When, as in this case, the 
 literary element predominated, the performance was much like 
 
INTRODUCTION. 7 
 
 that of an ordinary drama ; but when the poem was subordinate 
 to the scenery, the result was a pageant. 
 
 " Comus " was written for presentation at Ludlow Castle, 
 Shropshire, on Michaelmas night, 1634, the occasion being the 
 induction of the Earl of Bridgewater into the office of Lord 
 President of Wales, to which he had been appointed some three 
 years before. Henry Lawes, a distinguished musical composer, 
 had been intrusted with the preparation of an entertainment, or 
 masque, to be performed in connection with the other festivities 
 of the evening, and it was at his request that Milton undertook 
 the composition of the poem. The leading parts in the play — 
 those of the Lady and her Brothers — were taken by the Earl of 
 Bridgewater's three children, while the part of the Attendant 
 Angel was performed by Lawes himself. The names of those 
 who personated Comus and Sabrina have not been preserved. 
 The presentation took place in the great hall of Ludlow Castle, * 
 on a stage erected for the purpose at one end of the room. 
 
 The story which the play brings out is said tp have had some 
 foundation in fact. There is a popular tradition, still extant in 
 Shropshire, to the effect that the three children of the Earl of 
 Bridgewater were actually overtaken by nightfall, and separated 
 from one another in Haywood Forest near Ludlow. '' If this 
 ever took place, and news of it reached Milton's ears, then he 
 simply dramatized the episode ; but it is far more probable that 
 the legend, which dates from the last century, grew out of the 
 masque, than vice versa.'''' 
 
 In the writing of this masque Milton borrowed suggestions 
 and ideas from many sources. The main incidents of the story 
 are almost identical with those related in a play entitled *^The 
 Old Wives' Tale " by George Peele, published nearly forty years 
 
8 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 before. Comus, as the personification of revelry, appears in 
 Ben Jonson's masque of ** Pleasure Reconciled to Virtue " (pub- 
 lished in 1619), where he is apostrophized as 
 
 *' The founder of taste 
 For fresh meats, or powdered, or pickled, or paste ; 
 An emptier of cups." 
 
 He also appears in a Latin play, entitled '' Comus," written 
 by Hendrik van der Putten, a Dutch professor at Louvain, and 
 repubhshed at Oxford in 1634. With this play as well as with 
 Jonson's masque, Milton was no doubt familiar. In the writing 
 of the last part of the poem — the disenchantment scene — he 
 owed not a little to Fletcher's pastoral drama, ''The Faithful 
 Shepherdess," which was very popular in the London theaters 
 in 1633. In other passages the influence of earlier poets, and 
 especially of Spenser, is plainly apparent. But whatever he may 
 have borrowed, Milton infused into it new life and a new charm, 
 not only presenting it in a highly improved form, but breathing 
 into it the breath of fresh suggestion. 
 
 The poem, besides having an obvious moral signification, was 
 probably intended by Milton to admit of a deep allegorical inter- 
 pretation. In it may be seen the influence of Spenser's " Faerie 
 Queene " upon the thought and literary methods of the poet. 
 Did he intend Comus to represent the corrupt influences of the 
 then existing Court and Church, and the Lady and her friends to 
 personify Virtue and her champions? Or did he intend to por- 
 tray the conflict which is waged between Body and Soul, result- 
 ing finally in the complete triumph of the higher nature over the 
 lower ? " The bare fact that Milton wrote * Comus ' showed that 
 he had not yet gone over to help the party which bore an unrea- 
 
INTRODUCTION, 9 
 
 soning hatred of all amusements. On the other hand, the whole 
 tone of the poem was a rebuke to the seekers of mere pleasure. 
 The revel god personified the worst elements of court Hfe. In 
 his overthrow Milton allegorically foreshadowed the downfall 
 of those who led that hfe. Two hundred and fifty years ago 
 ' Comus ' was terribly real, as a warning against the danger upon 
 which the ship of national life was drifting. But the theme is 
 true yesterday, to-day, and forever ; and the art with which it is 
 set off remains undimmed, the wisdom unfading." (Verity.) 
 
 " Lycidas," the fourth and last poem in the collection, is Mil- 
 ton's tribute to his college friend and companion, Edward King. 
 Milton and King had studied and written together, and their 
 tastes and pursuits were in many respects identical. After grad- 
 uation. King had remained at Cambridge, first as fellow, then as 
 tutor, with the expectation of soon being ordained for the Church. 
 In 1637 he embarked on a vessel at Chester, intending to go 
 over into Ireland, to spend the long vacation ,with his relatives 
 there. When hardly out to sea, in calm weather, the vessel 
 foundered upon a rock, and nearly all on board were drowned. 
 In the same autumn, King's friends at Cambridge pubhshed a 
 volume of verses dedicated to his memory, and to this volume 
 Milton contributed " Lycidas." 
 
 The poem begins with the intimation that only grief for his dead 
 friend had induced the poet to forego a resolution not to write 
 more until he should be better able to attain to the high ideal he 
 had chosen. In pastoral allegory he refers briefly to their com- 
 mon tasks and pursuits, and represents all nature as bewaiHng the 
 loss of Lycidas. Yet the reflection that naught could interpose 
 to save his friend induces Milton to question the wisdom of 
 
I o INTROD UCTION. 
 
 human toil and aspiration. What is fame? Is it not a vain in- 
 firmity? But then he is reminded that true fame is of no earthly 
 growth, and that Heaven alone can declare what shall be the 
 rew^ard of man's work. Then, returning to his grief for Lycidas, 
 he listens to Triton, who makes inquiry concerning the cause of 
 the shipwreck ; to Comus, asking mournfully who has bereft him 
 of his dearest pledge ; and to St. Peter, bewailing the loss of 
 so promising a youth. This leads him into another digression, 
 wherein he rebukes the worldliness and greed of the clergy of the 
 time, and by implication foretells their downfall. Then the poet 
 resumes his strain, bidding all the flowers of wood and plain to 
 bring their tribute to the memory of Lycidas ; and finally he is 
 persuaded that the youth is not dead, but has been transported 
 to '^the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love," and will live 
 henceforth as the Genius of the shore. The shepherds are bid- 
 den to dry their tears ; and the poet declares that other subjects 
 of thought and effort shall hereafter claim his attention — 
 
 *^ To-morrow to fresh fields and pastures new." 
 
 '^ He who wishes to know whether he has a true taste for poetry 
 or not, should consider whether he is highly deHghted or not with 
 the perusal of Milton's ' Lycidas.' " 
 
L'ALLEGRO. 
 
 Hence, loathed 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. lo 
 
 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 Graces ^ more, 
 To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore : 
 
 1 Cerberus was the three-headed dog that guarded the entrance to the 
 infernal regions. His den, the *' Stygian cave forlorn," was on the farther 
 bank of the river Styx, where the spirits of the dead were landed from Cha- 
 ron's boat. The Styx was the chief river of the lower world. 
 
 2 The country of the Cimmerii, a sunless region on the confines of the 
 lower world, where the spirits of the dead were condemned to sojourn awhile, 
 ere they were admitted into Hades. (See Guerber.) 
 
 3 A corruption of the past participle of the Anglo-Saxon word clipian (** to 
 call "). It is frequently used by the older poets. 
 
 4 The three Graces were Euphrosyne (the mirthful), Aglaia (the bright), 
 and Thalia (the blooming). Classical writers do not agree as to their parent- 
 age. That they were the daughters of Venus (love) and Bacchus (good 
 
 II 
 
12 MILTON. 
 
 Or whether (as some sager sing) i 
 
 The frohc wind that breathes the spring, 
 
 Zephyr, with Aurora playing, 
 
 As he met her once a-Maying,2 20 
 
 There, on beds of violets blue, 
 
 And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, 
 
 Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, 
 
 So buxom, bhthe, and debonair. 
 
 Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 
 
 Jest, and youthful Jollity, 
 
 Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, 
 
 Nods and becks and wreathed smiles, 
 
 Such as hang on Hebe's ^ cheek, 
 
 And love to Hve 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 honor due, 
 
 Mirth, admit ^ me of thy crew, 
 
 cheer), or perhaps rather of Zephyr (the "frolic wind") and Aurora (the 
 morning) seems best to harmonize with Milton's conception of their character, 
 and especially of that of Euphrosyne (mirth). 
 
 1 " As some," etc., i.e., as some wiser (ones) sing. 
 
 2 Enjoying the sports of May Day, as was formerly the custom in England. 
 In Old English it was not uncommon to prefix ** on " or " a" to a verbal 
 noun after verbs of motion; as in ** We go a-fishing." 
 
 3 The goddess of youth, and cupbearer to the gods. 
 
 * Note the reason for calling Liberty a mountain nymph. The environ- 
 ment of mountainous regions has doubtless aided in developing physical 
 strength and the desire to use nature's defenses in the maintenance of 
 freedom. Mountainous Switzerland, with its liberty-loving people, may be 
 mentioned as an example. 
 
 5 The word " admit" is here equivalent to *' permit." The phrase may 
 be rendered, ** Permit me, as one of thy company." 
 
r ALLEGRO, 13 
 
 To live with her, and live with thee, 
 
 In unreproved pleasures free ; 40 
 
 To hear ^ the lark 2 begin his flight. 
 
 And, singing, startle the dull night. 
 
 From his watchtower in the skies, 
 
 Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
 
 Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 
 
 And at my window bid good-morrow, 
 
 Through the sweetbrier or the vine, 
 
 Or the twisted eglantine ; 
 
 While the cock, with lively din. 
 
 Scatters the rear of darkness thin ; 50 
 
 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 hedgerow elms, on hillocks green. 
 
 Right against the eastern gate 
 
 Where the great Sun begins his state, 60 
 
 Robed in flames and amber light. 
 
 The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 
 
 While the plowman, 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 tale ^ 
 
 1 This infinitive, as well as ** to come," below, depends upon " admit," in 
 line 38. 
 
 2 The English skylark begins his flight before sunrise, singing as he soars 
 apward, and sometimes passing into the light of the early sunbeams before 
 they have reached the fields and valleys below. 
 
 3 The words "tell" and "tale" are both from the Anglo-Saxon word 
 
14 MILTON. 
 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
 
 Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
 
 Whilst the landskip i round it measures : ro 
 
 Russet lawns, and fallows gray. 
 
 Where the nibbhng flocks do stray ; 
 
 Mountains on whose barren breast 
 
 The laboring 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 cynosure ^ of neighboring eyes. 80 
 
 Hard by a cottage chimney smokes 
 
 From betwixt two aged oaks, 
 
 Where Corydon ^ and Thyrsis ^ met 
 
 Are at their savory dinner set 
 
 Of herbs and other country messes. 
 
 Which the neat-handed PhyUis dresses ; 
 
 And then in haste her bower she leaves, 
 
 With Thestyhs to bind the sheaves ; 
 
 Or, if the earlier season lead. 
 
 To the tanned haycock in the mead. 90 
 
 Sometimes, with secure delight. 
 
 The upland hamlets will invite. 
 
 When the merry bells ring round, 
 
 tellan, one meaning of which is "to count." The expression " tells his tale " 
 is equivalent to " counts his number (of sheep)." 
 
 1 " Landskip," now spelled " landscape," meant originally " landshape," 
 that is, the shape or general aspect of the country. 
 
 2 An object of great or general interest. The word comes from Cynosura 
 (** the dog's tail"), the constellation of the Lesser Bear, by which the Phoe- 
 nician mariners guided their course at sea. 
 
 3 Corydon and Thyrsis are favorite names given to shepherds by writers 
 of pastoral poetry. So, also, Phyllis and Thestylis are names often applied to 
 rustic maidens or shepherdesses. 
 
V ALLEGRO, 15 
 
 And the jocund rebecks sound 
 
 To many a youth and many a maid 
 
 Dancing in the checkered shade, 
 
 And young and old come forth to play 
 
 On a sunshine hohday, 
 
 Till the livelong daylight fail : 
 
 Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100 
 
 With stories told of many a feat, 
 
 How Fairy Mab ^ the junkets eat. 
 
 She was pinched and pulled, she said ; 
 
 And he,2 by Friar's lantern ^ led. 
 
 Tells how the drudging goblin 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-laborers could not end ; 
 
 Then lies him down, the lubber fiend,^ no 
 
 1 Fairy Mab, or Queen Mab, is the fairy that sends dreams. Read 
 Shakespeare's description of her in Romeo and JuHet, Act i., sc. 4. 
 
 2 The pronouns " she " (line 103) and *' he " (Hne 104) refer to members 
 of the company of youths and maidens mentioned above. The telling of folk- 
 lore legends and fairy tales was a favorite amusement with the country people 
 in Milton's time, and the belief in fairies was very general. These mysterious 
 little beings were supposed to be ever ready to play some trick or work some 
 harm, and every misfortune or deed of mischief that could not be otherwise 
 accounted for, was popularly ascribed to them. 
 
 3 The "Friar's lantern" was probably the will-o'-the-wisp, or, as it is 
 sometimes called, Jack-o'-lantern, — a delusive light which was supposed to 
 be produced by souls broken out from purgatory, or by spirits trying to dis- 
 cover hidden treasures. The *' drudging goblin " was Robin Goodfellow, a 
 domestic goblin, who did his tasks secretly by night. *' Your grandames, 
 maids, were wont to set a bowl of milk for him for his pains in grinding of 
 malt or mustard and sweeping the house at midnight. His white bread and 
 milk was his standing fee." (Reginald Scott's Discoverie of Witchcraft.) 
 
 4 " In the rustic imagination, Robin Goodfellow was represented as a huge, 
 loutish fellow of great strength, but very lazy." The word " fiend," as used 
 here, means " spirit'* or " goblin," without any necessary reference to his 
 malignant character. 
 
1 6 MILTON, 
 
 And, stretched out all the chimney's length, 
 
 Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 
 
 And cropful 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,i 
 
 Where throngs of knights and barons bold. 
 
 In weeds 2 of peace, high triumphs hold, 120 
 
 With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
 
 Rain influence, and judge the prize 
 
 Of wit or arms, while both contend 
 
 To win her grace whom all commend. 
 
 There let Hymen ^ oft appear 
 
 In saffron robe, with taper clear. 
 
 And pomp, and feast, and revelry. 
 
 With mask and antique pageantry ; 
 
 Such sights as youthful poets dream 
 
 On summer eves by haunted stream. 130 
 
 Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
 
 If Jonson*s learned sock ^ be on. 
 
 Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, 
 
 1 " Towered cities," etc., i. e., taking our leave now of the sleeping rustics, 
 we go to enjoy the scenes and pleasures of city life, the tournament, the 
 theater, and the wedding festival. 
 
 2 From Anglo-Saxon, waed (/' clothing"). 
 
 3 The god of marriage. He is represented in modern poetry as dressed 
 in a saffron-colored robe ; and in works of art, as bearing a torch. 
 
 ^ The sock was the low shoe worn by actors of comedy in ancient Greece 
 and Rome ; hence the word is used as a symbol of the comic drama. Ben 
 Jonson (English dramatist, 1 574-1637) wrote several famous comedies, and 
 the allusion to " Jonson's learned sock " was doubtless intended as a com- 
 pliment to his erudition. Note how happily Milton contrasts Shakespeare, 
 nature's own poet, and master of the romantic drama, with Jonson, the schol- 
 arly master of the classical drama. 
 
r ALLEGRO. 17 
 
 Warble his native wood-notes wild. 
 
 And ever, against eating cares, 
 
 Lap me in soft Lydian ^ airs. 
 
 Married ^ to immortal verse, 
 
 Such as the meeting ^ soul may pierce, 
 
 In notes with many a winding bout 
 
 Of linked sweetness long drawn out 140 
 
 With wanton heed and giddy cunning, 
 
 The melting voice through mazes running, 
 
 Untwisting all the chains that tie 
 
 The hidden soul of harmony ; 
 
 That Orpheus^ ^ self 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. 
 
 1 The soft, voluptuous music of the Lydians as opposed to the harsher 
 Phrygian or Dorian music. " Lap " is a corruption of the word ** wrap," 
 meaning to infold. 
 
 2 Joined inseparably. 
 
 3 Appreciative. 
 
 * Orpheus was the most famous of all musicians. His wife Eurydice hav- 
 ing died, he descended into Hades to bring her back to life. Charmed by 
 the sweetness of his music, Pluto consented that Eurydice should return with 
 him to the upper world, on condition that he should not look back until they 
 were safely outside the bounds of Hades. When almost out, however, Or- 
 pheus, forgetting himself, turned around to see if she were coming, and she 
 vanished from his sight. 
 
 5 The Elysian Fields, or Isles of the B^est, were the regions where those 
 who were beloved of the gods dwelt in happiness, wandering among flowers 
 and enjoying all the beauties which delight the senses or the imagination. 
 2 
 
MILTON, 
 
 IL PENSEROSO. 
 
 Hence, vain deluding Joys, 
 
 The brood of Folly without father bred ! 
 How little you bested,^ 
 
 Or fill the fixed ^ mind with all your toys ! 
 Dwell in some idle brain, 
 
 And fancies fond ^ with gaudy shapes possess,^ 
 As thick and numberless 
 
 As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, 
 Or likest hovering dreams. 
 
 The fickle pensioners of Morpheus'^ train. lo 
 
 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 Ethiope queen ^ that strove 
 
 1 Help ; avail. Used now rarely, and only as a participle. 
 
 2 Steady; sober. 
 
 3 The word " fond " has here its original meaning, " foolish." 
 * Fill, or occupy. 
 
 5 Morpheus (" the shaper ") was the son of Sleep and the god of Dreams. 
 
 6 Compare the characterization of Melancholy which follows with that given 
 in the first ten lines of L 'Allegro. 
 
 ■^ Touch. 
 
 ^ Memnon, the son of Tithonus and Aurora, was a king of Ethiopia, slain 
 by Achilles in the siege of Troy. Although black, he was famed for his 
 beauty. His sister was Hemera. 
 
 ^ Cassiopeia, Queen of Ethiopia, boasted that the beauty of her daughter 
 Andromeda exceeded that of the Nereids, or sea nymphs. Both mother and 
 
IL PENSEROSO, 19 
 
 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 soHtary Saturn bore;i 
 
 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's ^ inmost grove, 
 
 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 stole of cypress lawn * 
 
 Over thy decent ^ shoulders drawn. 
 
 Come ; but keep thy wonted state, 
 
 With even step, and musing gait, 
 
 daughter were "starred," i.e., transferred to the skies as constellations of 
 stars. Cassiopeia is represented in old astronomical prints as a black female 
 figure marked with white stars. 
 
 1 This conception of the parentage of Melancholy is as fanciful as that 
 in L'Allegro of the parentage of Mirth, and is equally original with Milton. 
 Vesta was the goddess of the domestic hearth, and therefore symbolizes quiet 
 contemplation ; while Saturn, the son of Heaven (Uranus) and Earth (Terra), 
 represents retirement. By " Saturn's reign " is meant the golden age of the 
 innocence of the human race, while there was " yet no fear of Jove." 
 
 2 There were several mountains called Ida. The one here alluded to is on 
 the island of Crete, and was a favorite trysting place of the gods. 
 
 3 Tyrian purple. The word " grain " was applied to the dried body of an 
 insect (the size of a seed or grain) from which the Tyrian dy^ was obtained ; 
 afterwards it was applied to the dye itself and to the color produced by it. 
 
 4 *' Stole of cypress lawn," i.e., robe of crape of the finest kind. The 
 word "cypress," used alone, denotes crape, while lawn denotes the finest 
 quality of cloth. 
 
 5 Comely; graceful. 
 
20 MILTON. 
 
 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 chief est, with thee bring 
 
 Him that yon soars on golden wing, 
 
 Guiding the fiery- wheeled throne,^ 
 
 The Cherub Contemplation ; 
 
 And the mute Silence hist ^ along, 
 
 'Less Philomel ^ will deign a song, 
 
 In her sweetest saddest phght. 
 
 Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 
 
 While Cynthia "^ checks her dragon yoke 
 
 1 ** Forget thyself," etc., i.e., become as insensible to your surroundings 
 as a statue. 
 
 2 The nine Muses were the daughters of Jupiter and Mnemosyne. They 
 were : Calliope, Muse of epic poetry ; Clio, Muse of history ; Erato, Muse of 
 love ditties ; Euterpe, Muse of lyric poetry ; Melpomene, Muse of tragedy ; 
 Polyhymnia, Muse of sacred poetry; Terpsichore, Muse of choral song and 
 dance ; Thalia, Muse of comedy ; and Urania, Muse of astronomy. 
 
 S Always ; forever. 
 
 * See Ezekiel x. i, 2, and 6. Ezekiel describes a vision of a sapphire 
 throne, the wheels of which were four cherubs, each wheel or cherub being 
 full of eyes all over, while in the midst of them and underneath the throne 
 was a burning fire. Milton brings into his company one of these cherubs, 
 whom he names Contemplation. 
 
 5 Hush, or whisper. 
 
 6 ** 'Less Philomel," i.e., unless the nightingale. 
 
 "^ A name for the goddess of the moon. Cynthia's chariot was drawn by 
 
IL PENSEROSO. 2i 
 
 Gently o'er the accustomed oak.i 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 evensong ; 
 
 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 curfew ^ sound, 
 
 Over some wide-watered shore. 
 
 Swinging slow with sullen roar ; 
 
 Or, if the air will not permit. 
 
 Some still removed place will fit. 
 
 Where glowing embers through the room 
 
 Teach hght to counterfeit a gloom, 80 
 
 Far from all resort of mirth, 
 
 Save the cricket on the hearth. 
 
 Or the bellman's ^ drowsy charm 
 
 horses and not by dragons, as here represented. It was Ceres, the goddess 
 of plenty, who had a " dragon yoke." Shakespeare several times alludes to 
 the dragon team of night. 
 
 1 " Accustomed oak," i.e., the oak where the nightingale was accustomed 
 to sing and the poet was wont to listen to her. 
 
 2 Songstress. 
 
 3 From French, couvre-feii (''cover fire"); the bell which was rung in 
 the evening as a signal that all fires were to be covered and all lights extin- 
 guished. The custom, which was instituted as a law by William the Con- 
 queror, was still quite generally observed in Milton's time. 
 
 * The watchman who patrolled the streets and called out the hour of night. 
 Sometimes he repeated scraps of pious poetry in order to charm away danger. 
 
2 2 MILTON. 
 
 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 outwatch the Bear,i 
 
 With thrice-great Hermes,^ 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 fleshly nook ;^ 
 
 And of those demons that are found 
 
 In fire, air, flood, or underground. 
 
 Whose power hath a true consent ^ 
 
 With planet or with element. 
 
 Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
 
 In sceptered pall ^ come sweeping by, 
 
 Presenting Thebes,^ or Pelops' line. 
 
 Or the tale of Troy divine, 100 
 
 Or what (though rare) of later age 
 
 Ennobled hath the buskined '^ stage. 
 
 But, O sad Virgin! that thy power 
 
 1 The constellation of the Great Bear, which in these latitudes never sets. 
 To " outwatch the Bear " would be to remain awake until daybreak. 
 
 2 Hermes Trismegistus, an ancient Egyptian philosopher, the supposed 
 author of certain once-famous works on philosophy. 
 
 2 ** Unsphere the spirit of Plato," etc., i.e., study Plato's philosophy of 
 the immortality of the soul, and of the relation of the spirits (** demons ") to 
 the four elements, earth, air, fire, and water, over which they presided. The 
 literal meaning of the phrase is " bring back the disembodied spirit of Plato 
 from the sphere which he now inhabits." 
 
 4 Sympathy. 
 
 5 " Sceptered pall," i.e., royal robes. 
 
 6 The three most popular subjects of Greek tragedy were those relating to 
 the city of Thebes, to the descendants of Pelops (an early king of Greece), 
 and to the memorable war with Troy. 
 
 '^ The buskin was the high-heeled boot worn by the actors of tragedy in 
 the theaters of ancient Greece. It is therefore sometimes used as a symbol of 
 the tragic drama. See note on " sock," L' Allegro, line 132. 
 
IL PENSEROSO. 23 
 
 Might raise Musaeus ^ from his bower ; 
 
 Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
 
 Such notes as, warbled to the string, 
 
 Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek. 
 
 And made Hell grant what love did seek; 2 
 
 Or call up him that left half told 
 
 The story of Cambuscan bold, no 
 
 Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
 
 And who had Canace to wife. 
 
 That owned the virtuous 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. 120 
 
 Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career. 
 
 Till civil-suited ^ Morn appear. 
 
 Not tricked and frounced, as she was wont 
 
 With the Attic boy ^ to hunt. 
 
 But kerchieft '^ in a comely cloud, 
 
 1 An ancient Greek minstrel, or poet. 
 
 2 See note on L'Allegro, line 145. 
 
 3 ** Or call up him," etc. An allusion to the poet Chaucer (1340- 1400) 
 and the poem The Squiers Tale, which he left unfinished. In this tale 
 Cambuscan is a king of Tartary; Camball and Algarsife are his sons; and 
 Canac^ is his daughter. The horse of brass is a present from a neighboring 
 king, as are also Canace's ring and glass. The word ** virtuous " here 
 means ** having magic power." 
 
 4 " And if aught else," etc. A reference probably to the poets Ariosto, 
 Tasso, and Spenser, and the romantic character and underlying moral purpose 
 of their works. 
 
 5 Contrast this description of Morning with that in L'Allegro. 
 ^ Cephalus, an Athenian youth, beloved by Aurora. 
 
 ^ Having the head covered, as with a kerchief, 
 
24 , MILTON, 
 
 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 Sylvan ^ loves, 
 
 Of pine, or monumental oak. 
 
 Where the rude ax 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 his wings, in airy stream 
 
 Of lively portraiture displayed, 
 
 Softly on my eyeHds laid ; 150 
 
 And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 
 
 Above, about, or underneath, 
 
 Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, 
 
 Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 
 
 1 Its. 
 
 2 *' Minute drops," i.e., drops falling slowly and at regular intervals as 
 the shower comes to an end. Compare with '' minute gun.'* 
 
 3 Sylvanus, the god of the woods. 
 
 * " Day's garish eye," i.e., the dazzling sun. 
 5 Concert ; harmony. 
 
IL PENSEROSO. 25 
 
 But let my due feet 1 never fail 
 
 To walk the studious cloister's pale,^ 
 
 And love the high embowed ^ roof, 
 
 With antique pillars massy proof,* 
 
 And storied windows ^ richly digh<-. 
 
 Casting a dim rehgious hght. 160 
 
 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 Hke prophetic strain.^ 
 
 These pleasures. Melancholy, give ; 
 
 And I with thee will choose to live. 
 
 1 ** Due feet," i.e., feet that are due at a certain place at a certain time. 
 
 2 ** To walk," etc., i.e., to resort to the precincts or inclosure of some 
 building devoted to study or religious meditation. The word *' pale " means 
 here ** inclosure " or " boundary." 
 
 3 Arched. 
 
 * Massive enough to be proof against the great weight which they are 
 intended to support. 
 
 ° ** Storied windows," i.e., windows of stained glass with Scripture stories 
 represented on them. 
 
 6 Old spelling of choir. 
 
 ^ "^Rightly spell," etc., i.e., study aright the phenomena of nature. 
 
 8 Utterance. 
 
COMUS: A MASQUE. 
 
 THE PERSONS. 
 
 The Attendant Spirit, after- 
 wards in the habit of Thyrsis. 
 CoMUS, with his Crew. 
 The Lady. 
 
 First Brother. 
 Second Brother. 
 Sabrina, the Nymph, 
 
 The first Scene discovers a Wild Wood. 
 The Attendant Spirit descends or enters. 
 
 Before the starry threshold of Jove's court 
 
 My mansion is, where those immortal shapes 
 
 Of bright aerial spirits live insphered ^ 
 
 In regions mild of calm and serene air, > 
 
 Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot 
 
 Which men call Earth, and, with low-thoughted care, 
 
 Confined and pestered ^ in this pinfold ^ here, 
 
 Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being. 
 
 Unmindful of the crown that Virtue gives. 
 
 After this mortal change, to her true servants ^^ lo 
 
 Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats. 
 
 Yet some there be that by due steps aspire 
 
 1 In the sphere assigned to them. Compare with II Penseroso, hile 88. 
 
 2 Encumbered. ** Pester " originally meant *' a clog for horses in a paSv 
 ture," hence, in its verbal signification, " to impede." 
 
 3 A. pound, pen, fold, or inclosure for confining stray cattle. 
 
 36 
 
COMUS: A MASQUE, 27 
 
 To lay their just hands on that golden key ^ 
 That opes the palace of eternity. 
 To such my errand is ; and, but for such, 
 I would not aoil these pure ambrosial weeds 2 
 With the rank vapors of this sin-worn mold.*^ 
 
 But to my task. Neptune ^ besides the sway 
 Of every salt 'flood and each ebbing stream, ^v^ 
 Took in by lot, 'twixt high and nether Jove,^ 20 
 
 Imperial rule of all the seagirt isles 
 That, Hke to rich and various gems, inlay 
 The unadorned bosom of the deep ; 
 Which he, to grace his tributary gods. 
 By course commits to several ^ government, 
 And gives them leave to wear their sapphire crowns. 
 And wield their httle tridents. ' But this Isle,*^ 
 The greatest and the best of all the main, 
 He quarters to his blue-haired deities ;^ 
 
 1 "Yet some," etc. St. Peter is represented as carrying the golden key 
 with which to unlock the gates of heaven (see Lycidas, line 110). Milton 
 here means that there are some who by their virtuous lives strive to merit 
 admittance into heaven. 
 
 2 " Ambrosial weeds," i.e., immortal garments. Ambrosia was the food 
 of the gods. For " weeds," see note on L' Allegro, line 120. 
 
 3 World. 
 
 4 The god of the sea and of all waters. His scepter was a three-pronged 
 fork, or trident. 
 
 5 ** Took in by lot," etc. The sons of Saturn, after the dethronement of 
 their father, divided the government of the world by lot among themselves. 
 Jupiter (high Jove) obtained the heavens and the mainland; Neptune, the sea 
 and its islands ; and Pluto (nether Jove), the infernal regions. 
 
 6 Separate. 
 
 "^ Great Britain. 
 
 8 '* Quarters to," etc., i.e., assigns to the deities of the sea. Neptune and 
 his subordinates are referred to in classical poetry as " green-haired." Pos- 
 sibly Milton adopted " blue-haired " as more fitly symbolizing the seAvaves ; 
 perhaps, also, he had in mind the blue-stained Britons who fought with 
 Coesar. 
 
28 MILTON. 
 
 And all this tract ^ that fronts the falling sun 30 
 
 A noble Peer ^ of mickle ^ trust and power 
 
 Has in his charge, with tempered awe to guide 
 
 An old and haughty nation,* proud in arms : 
 
 Where his fair offspring,^ nursed in princely lore, 
 
 Are coming to attend their father's state. 
 
 And new-intrusted scepter. But their way 
 
 Lies through the perplexed paths of this drear wood,^ 
 
 The nodding horror of whose shady brows 
 
 Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger ; 
 
 And here their tender age might suffer peril, 40 
 
 But that, by quick command from sovran Jove, 
 
 I was dispatched for their defense and guard : 
 
 And listen why ; for I will tell you now 
 
 What never yet was heard in tale or song. 
 
 From old or modern bard, in hall or bower. 
 
 Bacchus,"^ that first from out the purple grape 
 Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine. 
 After the Tuscan mariners transformed. 
 Coasting the Tyrrhene ^ shore, as the winds listed. 
 On Circe's island^ fell. (Who knows not Circe, 50 
 
 The daughter of the Sun, whose charmed cup 
 
 1 Wales. 2 The Earl of Bridgewater (see Introduction, p. 7). 
 
 3 Great ; much. * The Welsh. 
 
 5 The three children of the Earl of Bridgewater, who were now coming to 
 Ludlow Castle on the occasion of their father's induction into office. 
 
 6 This is probably an allusion to the densely wooded region of Shropshire * 
 in the neighborhood of Ludlow Castle. 
 
 '<' The god of wine and revelry. 
 
 s Italian. The story is that on one occasion Tuscan pirates attempted to 
 carry Bacchus to Italy to sell him as a slave. Suddenly the chains dropped 
 from his limbs and he assumed the form of a lion. The ship stood still while 
 vines grew up and entwined themselves round the mast and sails ; and the 
 pirates,^in terror, leaped into the sea, where they were transformed into 
 dolphins. 
 
 ^ yEsea, near the shore of Tuscany. 
 
COM US: A MASQUE. 29 
 
 Whoever tasted lost his upright shape, 
 
 And downward fell into a groveling swine?) 
 
 This Nymph, that gazed upon his clustering locks, 
 
 With ivy berries wreathed, and his blithe youth. 
 
 Had by him, ere he parted thence, a son 
 
 Much like his father, but his mother more. 
 
 Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus ^ named : 
 
 Who, ripe and frolic of his full-grown age^ 
 
 Roving the Celtic and Iberian fields,^ 60 
 
 At last betakes him to this ominous wood. 
 
 And, in thick shelter of black shades embowered. 
 
 Excels his mother at her mighty art ; 
 
 Offering to every weary traveler 
 
 His orient liquor in a crystal glass. 
 
 To quench the drouth of Phoebus;^ which as they taste 
 
 (For most do taste through fond intemperate thirst), 
 
 Soon as the potion works, their human count'nance. 
 
 The express resemblance of the gods, is changed 
 
 Into some brutish form of wolf or bear, 70 
 
 Or ounce or tiger, hog, or bearded goat, 
 
 All other parts remaining as they were. 
 
 And they, so perfect is their misery, 
 
 Not once perceive their foul disfigurement. 
 
 But boast themselves more comely than before, 
 
 And all their friends and native home forget, 
 
 To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty. 
 
 Therefore, when any favored of high Jove 
 
 Chances to pass through this adventurous glade, 
 
 Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star 80 
 
 I shoot from heaven, to give him safe convoy, 
 
 1 This genealogy of Comus is purely the invention of Milton's fancy, and 
 has no warrant in ancient mythology. 
 
 2 " Celtic," etc., i.e., France and Spain. 
 
 ^ ■'* Drouth," etc., i.e., the thirst caused by the sun's heat. Phoebus was 
 the sun god, or personification of the sun. 
 
30 MILTON. 
 
 As now I do. But first I must put off 
 . These my sky robes, spun out of Iris' ^ woof, 
 And take the weeds and Hkeness of a swain 
 That to the service of this house belongs; 
 Who, with his soft pipe and smooth-dittied song, 
 Well knows ^ to still the wild winds when they roar, 
 And hush the waving woods ; nor of less faith, 
 And in this office of his mountain watch 
 Likeliest, and nearest to the present aid 90 ^ 
 
 Of this occasion. But I hear the tread 
 Of hateful steps ; I must be viewless now. 
 
 Com us enters, with a charming-rod in one hand, his glass in the other; with 
 him a rout of monsters, headed like sundry sorts of ivild beasts, but other^ 
 wise like men and women, their apparel glistering.^ They come in making 
 a riotous and unruly noise, with torches in their hands, 
 
 Comus. The star ^ that bids the shepherd fold ^ 
 Now the top of heaven doth hold ; 
 And the gilded car of day 
 His glowing axle doth allay 
 In the steep Atlantic stream ;6 
 And the slope sun his upward beam 
 Shoots against the dusky pole, 
 
 Pacing towards the other goal 100 
 
 Of his chamber in the east.'^ 
 Meanwhile, welcome joy and feast, 
 
 1 The personification of the rainbow. It may be inferred that the Attendant 
 Spirit's sky robes were of the colors of the rainbow. 
 
 2 Supply ** how." 3 Glittering. 
 * The evening star, Hesperus or Venus. 
 
 5 Drive his sheep into the fold. 
 
 ^ ** In the steep," etc., i.e., in the sloping Atlantic flood, where it curves 
 below the western horizon. 
 
 7 " Pacing towards," etc., i.e., returning towards his rising place in the 
 east. 
 
COM US: A MASQUE. 31 
 
 Midnight shout and revelry, 
 
 Tipsy dance and jollity. 
 
 Braid your locks with rosy twine,^ 
 
 Dropping odors, dropping wine. 
 
 Rigor now is gone to bed ; 
 
 And Advice with scrupulous head. 
 
 Strict Age, and sour Severity, 
 
 With their grave saws,^ in slumber lie. no 
 
 We, that are of purer fire. 
 
 Imitate the starry quire,^ 
 
 Who, in their nightly watchful spheres. 
 
 Lead in swift round the months and years. 
 
 The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove, 
 
 Now to the moon in wavering morrice^ move; 
 
 And on the tawny sands and shelves 
 
 Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves. 
 
 By dimpled brook and fountain brim. 
 
 The wood nymphs, decked with daisies trim, 120 
 
 Their merry wakes ^ and pastimes keep : 
 
 What hath night to do with sleep ? 
 
 Night hath better sweets to prove ; 
 
 Venus ^ now wakes, and wakens Love. 
 
 Come, let us our rites begin ; 
 
 Tis only daylight that makes sin. 
 
 Which these dun shades will ne'er report. — 
 
 Hail, goddess of nocturnal sport, 
 
 1 Roses twined together. 2 Wise sayings ; sober rules. 
 
 3 Choir. Used here, perhaps, with its original signification, a band of 
 choral dancers. The poet has also in mind the ancient notion of the music 
 of the spheres. 
 
 * The morris, or Moorish dance, was introduced into England in the reign 
 of Edward III. It was a prominent feature of the May Day and other out- 
 door festivities. 
 
 5 Nocturnal amusements. Originally a *' wake " was the watch or sitting 
 up till late before one of the church holidays. 
 
 6 Goddess of love and beauty. 
 
3? MILTON. 
 
 Dark-veiled Cotytto/ to whom the secret flame 
 
 Of midnight torches burns! mysterious dame, 130 
 
 That ne'er art called but when the dragon womb 
 
 Of Stygian darkness ^ spets ^ her thickest gloom, 
 
 And makes one blot of all the air! 
 
 Stay thy cloudy ebon chair, 
 
 Wherein thou ridest with Hecat',^ and befriend 
 
 Us thy vowed priests, till utmost end 
 
 Of all thy dues be done, and none left out; 
 
 Ere the blabbing eastern scout. 
 
 The nice Morn on the Indian steep. 
 
 From her cabined loophole peep,^ 140 
 
 And to the telltale Sun descry 
 
 Our concealed solemnity. 
 
 Come, knit hands, and beat the ground 
 
 In a hght fantastic round. ^ \The Measure^ 
 
 Break off, break off ! "^ I feel the different pace 
 Of some chaste footing near about this ground. 
 Run to your shrouds ^ within these brakes and trees ; 
 Our number may affright. Some virgin sure 
 (For so I can distinguish by mine art) 
 Benighted in these woods ! Now to my charms, 150 
 And to my wily trains : ^ I shall ere long 
 Be well stocked with as fair a herd as grazed 
 About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl 
 My dazzling spells into the spongy "^^ air, 
 
 1 A Thracian goddess whose licentious festivals were celebrated at night. 
 
 2 *' Stygian darkness," i.e., the darkness of the infernal regions. See note 
 on L'Allegro, line 3. 
 
 3 Spits ; ejects. 
 
 4 Hecate, the goddess of sorcery, supposed to preside over all nocturnal 
 horrors. 
 
 5 ''Nice Morn," etc., i.e., the fastidious dawn peeps from among the 
 clouds on the eastern (Indian) horizon. 
 
 6 Dance; measure. '^ ** Break off," i.e., cease dancing. 
 
 8 Hiding places. ^ Allurements. 10 Absorbent. 
 
COM US: A MASQUE. ZZ 
 
 Of power to cheat the eye with blear ^ illusion, 
 
 And give it false presentments, lest the place 
 
 And my quaint habits breed astonishment, 
 
 And put the damsel to suspicious flight ; 
 
 Which must not be, for that's against my course. 
 
 I, under fair pretense of friendly ends, i6o 
 
 And well-placed words of glozing 2 courtesy, 
 
 Baited with reasons not unplausible. 
 
 Wind me into the easy-hearted man, 
 
 And hug him into snares. When once her eye 
 
 Hath met the virtue ^ of this magic dust, 
 
 I shall appear some harmless villager. 
 
 Whom thrift keeps up about his country gear.^ — 
 
 But here she comes ; I fairly step aside, 
 
 And hearken, if I may, her business here. 
 
 The Lady enters. 
 
 Lady. This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, 170 
 My best guide now. Methought it was the sound 
 Of riot and ill-managed merriment. 
 Such as the jocund flute or gamesome pipe 
 Stirs up among the loose unlettered hinds,^ 
 When, for their teeming flocks and granges full. 
 In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan,^ 
 And thank the gods amiss."^ I should be loath 
 To meet the rudeness and swilled insolence 
 Of such late wassailers ; yet, oh ! where else 
 Shall I inform my unacquainted feet 180 
 
 In the blind mazes of this tangled wood? 
 My brothers, when they saw me wearied out 
 
 1 Blurred ; deceitful. 2 Flattering. 3 Peculiar power. 
 
 4 Business; duties. 5 Peasants. 
 
 6 God of shepherds and pastoral life. 
 
 ■^ By acts altogether displeasing to them. 
 
 3 
 
34 MILTON, 
 
 With this long way, resolving here to lodge 
 
 Under the spreading favor of these pines, 
 
 Stepped, as they said, to the next thicket side 
 
 To bring me berries, or such cooHng fruit 
 
 As the kind hospitable woods provide. 
 
 They left me then when the gray-hooded Even, 
 
 Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed,i 
 
 Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain.^ 190 
 
 But where they are, and why they came not back. 
 
 Is now the labor of my thoughts. 'Tis likeHest 
 
 They had engaged their wandering steps too far;^ 
 
 And envious darkness, ere they could return. 
 
 Had stole them from me. Else, O thievish Night, 
 
 Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end. 
 
 In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars 
 
 That Nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps 
 
 With everlasting oil, to give due light 
 
 To the misled and lonely traveler? 200 
 
 This is the place, as well as I may guess. 
 
 Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth 
 
 Was rife, and perfect in my Hstening ear ; 
 
 Yet naught but single ^ darkness do I find. 
 
 What might this be ? A thousand fantasies 
 
 Begin to throng into my memory. 
 
 Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire. 
 
 And airy tongues that syllable men's names 
 
 On sands and shores and desert wildernesses. 
 
 These thoughts may startle well, but not astound 210 
 
 The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended 
 
 By a strong siding ^ champion. Conscience. — 
 
 1 ** Votarist in palmer's weed," i.e., a pilgrim clad in the garb of one re- 
 turning from the Holy Sepulcher. 
 
 2 ** Phoebus' wain," i.e., the sun car. See note on line 66. 
 8 " Engaged," etc., i.e., had undertaken to go too far. 
 
 * Only. 5 Supporting. 
 
COMUS: A MASQUE, 35 
 
 O, welcome, pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope, 
 
 Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings, 
 
 And thou unblemished form of Chastity ! 
 
 I see ye visibly, and now believe 
 
 That He, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill 
 
 Are but as slavish officers of vengeance. 
 
 Would send a glistering guardian, if need were, 
 
 To keep my life and honor unassailed. — 220 
 
 Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud 
 
 Turn forth her silver lining on the night ? 
 
 I did not err : there does a sable cloud 
 
 Turn forth her silver lining on the night. 
 
 And casts a gleam over this tufted grove. 
 
 I cannot hallo to my brothers, but 
 
 Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest 
 
 I'll venture ; for my new-enlivened ^ spirits 
 
 Prompt me, and they perhaps are not far off. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Sweet Echo,"^ sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen 230 
 
 Within thy airy shell 
 By slow Meander's ^ margent green, 
 And in the violet-embroidered vale 
 Where the lovelorn nightingale 
 Nightly to thee her sad song 7nourneth well: 
 Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair 
 That likest thy Narcissus are? 
 
 O, if thou have 
 Hid them in some flowery cave. 
 
 Tell me but where, 240 
 
 1 Encouraged. 
 
 2 The nymph Echo loved Narcissus ; as her love was not returned, she 
 pined away until nothing remained but her beautiful voice. 
 
 3 A winding river in Asia Minor. 
 
36 MILTON. 
 
 Sweet Queen of Parley^ Dajigkter of the Sphere 1 1 
 So jnay^st thou be translated to the skies, 
 And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies I 
 
 Camus. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mold 
 Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment ? 
 Sure something holy lodges in that breast, 
 And with these raptures moves the vocal air 
 To testify his - hidden residence. 
 How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
 Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night, 256 
 
 At every fall smoothing the raven down ^ 
 Of darkness till it smiled! I have oft heard 
 My mother Circe, with the Sirens ^ three, 
 Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades,^ 
 Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs. 
 Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul, 
 And lap it in Elysium:^ Scylla wept, 
 And chid her barking waves into attention. 
 And fell Charybdis ^ murmured soft applause. 
 Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense, 260 
 
 And in sweet madness robbed it of Itself ; 
 
 1 *' Queen," etc., i.e., Queen of Speech, Daughter of the Air. 
 
 2 Its. The antecedent of the word is ** something holy," line 246. The 
 neuter possessive pronoun its is of comparatively recent origin. Spenser did 
 not use it at all, nor is it found anywhere in the authorized version of the 
 English Bible. It occurs but nine times in Shakespeare's works ; and Milton 
 seems to prefer the old form, his. 
 
 3 ** The raven down," i.e., the black, feathery softness. 
 
 * Sea nymphs, who by their songs lured people to death. In ancient 
 mythology they had no connection with Circe. 
 
 5 Nymphs of the fountains and streams. 
 
 6 ** Lap it," etc., i.e., enwrap it in heavenly bliss. See note on " Elysi- 
 an," L'Allegro, line 147. 
 
 7 Scylla and Charybdis were rocks upon opposite sides of the Sicilian 
 Straits. The myth states that Circe transformed the nymph Scylla, who 
 lived under the rock of that name, into a barking dog. 
 
COM US: A MASQUE, 37 
 
 But such a sacred and home-felt delight, 
 
 Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 
 
 I never heard till now. I'll speak to her, 
 
 And she shall be my queen. — Hail, foreign wonder! 
 
 Whom certain these rough shades did never breed. 
 
 Unless the goddess that in rural shrine 
 
 DwelPst here with Pan or Sylvan,^ by blest song 
 
 Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog 
 
 To touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood. 270 
 
 Lady. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise 
 That is addressed to unattending ears. ) 
 Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift 2 
 How to regain my severed company. 
 Compelled me to awake the courteous Echo 
 To giwQ me answer from her mossy couch. 
 
 Co7nus. What chance, good Lady, hath bereft you 
 thus ? 
 
 Lady. Dim darkness and this leafy labyrinth. 
 
 Conius. Could that divide you from near-ushering 
 guides ? 
 
 Lady. They left me weary on a grassy turf. 280 
 
 Comus. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why? 
 
 Lady. To seek i' the valley some cool friendly spring. 
 
 Comus. And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady? 
 
 Lady. They were but twain, and purposed quick re- 
 turn. 
 
 Comus. Perhaps forestalling night prevented them. 
 
 Lady. How easy my misfortune is to hit! ^ 
 
 Comus. Imports their loss, beside the present need? 
 
 Lady. No less than if I should my brothers lose. 
 
 Comus. Were they of manly prime, or youthful bloom? 
 
 Lady. As smooth as Hebe's^ their unrazored lips. 290 
 
 1 See note on II Penseroso, line 134. 
 
 2 '' Extreme shift," i.e., the last expedient. 
 
 3 Guess. 4 See note on L'Allegro, line 29. 
 
3^ MILTON. 
 
 Comus. Two such I saw, what time the labored ox 
 In his loose traces from the furrow came, 
 And the swinked hedger i at his supper sat. 
 I saw them under a green mantling vine, 
 That crawls along the side of yon small hill, 
 Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots ; 
 Their port ^ was more than human, as they stood. 
 I took it for a fairy vision 
 Of some gay creatures of the element,^ 
 That in the colors of the rainbow live, 300 c 
 
 And play i' the plighted ^ clouds. I was awe-strook,^ 
 And, as I passed, I worshiped. If those you seek, 
 It were a journey like the path to heaven 
 To help you find them. 
 
 Lady. Gentle villager. 
 
 What readiest way would bring me to that place? 
 
 Comus. Due west it rises from this shrubby point. 
 
 Lady. To find out that, good shepherd, I suppose, 
 In such a scant allowance of starlight. 
 Would overtask the best land pilot's art. 
 Without the sure guess of well-practiced feet. 310 
 
 Comus. I know each lane, and every alley green, 
 Dingle, or bushy dell, of this wild wood. 
 And every bosky bourn ^ from side to side, 
 My daily walks and ancient neighborhood ; 
 And, if your stray attendance "^ be yet lodged. 
 Or shroud ^ within these Hmits, I shall know 
 Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark 
 From her thatched pallet ^ rouse. If otherwise, 
 
 1 " Swinked hedger," i.e., tired laborer. 
 
 2 Bearing ; manner. The poet here pays a compliment to the two sons of 
 the Earl of Bridgewater, who were about to come on the stage. 
 
 3 Air. 4 glaited ; interwoven. 5 Awe-struck. 
 6 Shrubby-banked watercourse. 7 Attendants. 
 
 ^ Are hidden. See the use of the same word as a noun, line 147. 
 ^ The lark makes her nest on the ground. 
 
COM US: A MASQUE. 39 
 
 I can conduct you, Lady, to a low 
 
 But loyal cottage, where you may be safe 320 
 
 Till further quest. 
 
 Lady. Shepherd, I take thy word, 
 
 And trust thy honest-offered courtesy, 
 Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds. 
 With smoky rafters, than in tapestry halls 
 And courts of princes, where it first was named,i 
 And yet is most pretended. In a place 
 Less warranted than this, or less secure, 
 I cannot be, that I should fear to change it. — 
 Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial 
 To my proportioned strength! 2 — Shepherd, lead on. 330 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Enter the Two Brothers. 
 
 Elder Brother. Unmuffle, ye faint stars ; and thou, fair 
 moon, 
 That wont'st to love the traveler's benison, 
 Stoop thy pale visage through an amber cloud, 
 And disinherit Chaos that reigns here 
 In double night of darkness and of shades ; ^ 
 
 Or, if your influence be quite dammed up 
 With black usurping mists, some gentle taper, 
 Though a rush candle from the wicker hole ^ 
 Of some clay habitation, visit us 
 
 With thy long leveled rule of streaming Hght, 340 
 
 An,d thou shalt be our star of Arcady,* 
 Or Tyrian Cynosure. 
 
 1 Courtesy meant originally the manners of the court. 
 
 2 " Square my trial," etc., i.e., adapt my trial to the proportions of my 
 strength. 
 
 3 Wicker-crossed opening, or window. 
 
 4 ** Star of Arcady," i.e., any star in the constellation of the Great Bear. 
 It was so called from Calisto, daughter of a king of Arcadia, who was changed 
 
40 MILTON. 
 
 Second Brother. Or, if our eyes 
 
 Be barred that happiness, might we but hear 
 The folded flocks, penned in their wattled cotes,^ 
 Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops,^ 
 Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock 
 Count the night watches to his feathery dames, 
 *Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering. 
 In this close dungeon of innumerous ^ boughs. 
 But, oh, that hapless virgin, our lost sister! 350 
 
 Where may she wander now, whither betake her 
 From the chill dew, amongst rude burs and thistles? 
 Perhaps some cold bank is her bolster now. 
 Or 'gainst the rugged bark of some broad elm 
 Leans her unpillowed head, fraught with sad fears. 
 What if in wild amazement and affright. 
 Or, while we speak, within the direful grasp 
 Of savage hunger, or of savage heat! 
 
 Elder Brother. Peace, brother : be not over- exquisite ^ 
 To cast the fashion ^ of uncertain evils ; 360 
 
 For, grant they be so, while they rest unknown. 
 What need a man forestall his date of grief. 
 And run to meet what he would most avoid? 
 Qr, if they be but false alarms of fear, 
 How bitter is such self-delusion! 
 I do not think my sister so to seek,^ 
 Or so unprincipled in virtue's book. 
 And the sweet peace that goodness bosoms ever. 
 
 Into that constellation. The Greek sailors steered their vessels by a star ot 
 Arcady ; the Phoenicians, by the Cynosura. See note on L'Allegro, line 80. 
 
 1 ** Wattled cotes," i.e., cots or sheltering places made of wattled withes, 
 or twigs. 
 
 2 The stops are the holes in an oaten pipe, or reed, used as a musical in- 
 strument. 
 
 3 Innumerable. * Overanxious, or inquisitive. 
 ^ *' To cast the fashion," i.e., to predict the nature. 
 
 ^ *' So to seek," i.e., so ignorant what to do. 
 
COM US: A MASQUE. 44 
 
 As that the single want of light and noise 
 
 (Not being in danger, as I trust she is not) 370 
 
 Could stir the constant mood of her calm thoughts, 
 
 And put them into misbecoming plight. 
 
 Virtue could see to do what Virtue would 
 
 By her own radiant light, though sun and moon 
 
 Were in the flat sea sunk.^ And Wisdom's self 
 
 Oft seeks ^ to sweet retired solitude, 
 
 Where, with her best nurse. Contemplation, 
 
 She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings. 
 
 That, in the various bustle of resort. 
 
 Were all to-ruffled, -and sometimes impaired. 380 
 
 He that has light within his own clear breast. 
 
 May sit i' the center,^ and enjoy bright day : 
 
 But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts 
 
 Benighted walks under the midday sun ; 
 
 Himself is his own dungeon. 
 
 Second Brother. 'Tis most true 
 
 That musing Meditation most affects 
 The pensive secrecy of desert cell. 
 Far from the cheerful haunt of men and herds. 
 And sits as safe as in a senate house ; 
 For who would rob a hermit of his weeds, 390 
 
 His few books, or his beads, or maple dish. 
 Or do his gray hairs any violence? 
 But Beauty, Uke the fair Hesperian tree^ 
 Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard 
 Of dragon watch with unenchanted eye 
 To save her blossoms, and defend her fruit, 
 From the rash hand of bold Incontinence. 
 
 1 *' Virtue could, " etc. Spenser says : ' ' Virtue gives herselfe light, through 
 darknesse for to wade." — Faerie Queene, Book I., line i. 
 
 2 Resorts. 3 in the center of the earth, or utter darkness. 
 
 * The tree which was under the guardianship of the Hesperides, and which 
 bore golden apples. It was watched by a dragon. 
 
42 MILTON, 
 
 You may as well spread out the unsunned heaps 
 
 Of miser's treasure by an outlaw's den, 
 
 And tell me it is safe, as bid me hope 400 
 
 Danger will wink on Opportunity, 
 
 And let a single helpless maiden pass 
 
 Uninjured in this wild surrounding waste. 
 
 Of night or loneliness it recks me not ;i 
 
 I fear the dread events that dog ^ them both, 
 
 Lest some ill-greeting touch attempt the person 
 
 Of our unowned ^ sister. 
 
 Elder Brother. I do not, brother, 
 
 Infer as if I thought my sister's state 
 Secure without all doubt or controversy ; 
 Yet, where an equal poise of hope and fear 410 
 
 Does arbitrate the event, my nature is 
 That I inchne to hope rather than fear. 
 And gladly banish squint ^ suspicion. 
 My sister is not so defenseless left 
 As you imagine ; she has a hidden strength. 
 Which you remember not. 
 
 Second Brother. What hidden strength, 
 
 Unless the strength of Heaven, if you mean that? 
 
 Elder Brother. I mean that too, but yet a hidden 
 strength. 
 Which, if Heaven gave it, may be termed her own. 
 'Tis chastity, my brother, chastity: 420 
 
 She that has that is clad in complete steel, 
 And, like a quivered nymph ^ with arrows keen, 
 May trace huge forests, and unharbored heaths, 
 Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds ; 
 Where, through the sacred rays of chastity, 
 
 1 *' It recks," etc., i.e., I take no account. 
 
 2 Pursue. 3 Unprotected. ■* Looking askance or sideways. 
 
 5 A reference to one of the nymphs or companions of the chaste goddess 
 Diana. See note on h'ne 441. 
 
COM US: A MASQUE. 43 
 
 No savage fierce, bandit, or mountaineer, 
 
 Will dare to soil her virgin purity. 
 
 Yea, there where very desolation dwells, 
 
 By grots and caverns shagged with horrid shades. 
 
 She may pass on with unblenched ^ majesty, 430 
 
 Be it not done in pride, or in presumption. 
 
 Some say no evil thing that walks by night, 
 
 In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen. 
 
 Blue meager hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost 
 
 That breaks his magic chains at curfew ^ time. 
 
 No goblin or swart faery ^ of the mine. 
 
 Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity. 
 
 Do ye beheve me yet, or shall I call 
 
 Antiquity from the old schools of Greece 
 
 To testify the arms of chastity? 440 
 
 Hence had the huntress Dian ^ her dread bow, 
 
 Fair silver-shafted queen, forever chaste. 
 
 Wherewith she tamed the brinded ^ lioness 
 
 And spotted mountain pard, but set at naught 
 
 The frivolous bolt of Cupid ;6 gods and men 
 
 Feared her stern frown, and she was queen o' the woods. 
 
 What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield ^ 
 
 1 Fearless. 
 
 2 See note on II Penseroso, line 74. There was a popular superstition that 
 certain evil spirits were always abroad from curfew time till the crowing of 
 the cock at dawn. 
 
 •^ ** Swart faery," i.e., black fairy, or elf, such as, according to ancient 
 superstition, dwelt in mines. 
 
 * *' Diana (Cynthia) was not only goddess of the moon, but also of the 
 chase. In works of art she is represented as a beautiful maiden, clad in a short 
 hunting dress, and with a crescent on her well-poised head." (Guerber.) 
 
 5 Brindled; streaked, 
 
 6 Cupid, son of Venus and Mars, was god of love. The bolts or darts 
 which he shot from his bow had the power of exciting love in the heart of 
 any one whom they pierced. 
 
 '^ The three Gorgons were hideous monsters whose faces were so fearful 
 that whoever looked on them became ** congealed stone." One of these 
 
44 MILTON, 
 
 That wise Minerva wore, unconquered virgin, 
 
 Wherewith she freezed her foes to congealed stone, 
 
 But rigid looks of chaste austerity, 450 
 
 And noble grace that dashed brute violence 
 
 With sudden adoration and blank awe ? 
 
 So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity 
 
 That, when a soul is found sincerely so, 
 
 A thousand liveried angels lackey her, 
 
 Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, 
 
 And in clear dream and solemn vision 
 
 Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear ; 
 
 Till oft ^ converse with heavenly habitants 
 
 Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape, 460 
 
 The unpolluted temple of the mind, 
 
 And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence, 
 
 Till all be made immortal. But, when lust, 
 
 By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk, 
 
 But most by lewd and lavish act of sin. 
 
 Lets in defilement to the inward parts. 
 
 The soul grows clotted by contagion, 
 
 Imbodies, and imbrutes,^ till she quite lose 
 
 The divine property of her first being. 
 
 Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp 470 
 
 Oft seen in charnel vaults and sepulchers, 
 
 Lingering and sitting by a new-made grave. 
 
 As loath to leave the body that it loved. 
 
 And linked itself by carnal sensualty 
 
 To a degenerate and degraded state.^ 
 
 creatures, Medusa, was slain by Perseus, and her head was presented to 
 Minerva, who placed it in her shield, where the face continued to retain its 
 petrifying power. 
 
 1 Frequent. 
 
 2 ** Imbodies, and imbrutes," i.e., becomes carnal and brutal. 
 
 3 Milton has here adapted a well-known passage from Plato's Phaedo, in 
 which Socrates is speaking of souls that have given themselves up to corporeal 
 
COM US: A MASQUE. 45 
 
 Second Brother, How charming is divine philosophy! 
 Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, 
 But musical as is Apollo's lute,i 
 And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets, 
 Where no crude surfeit ^ reigns. 
 
 Elder Brother. List! list! I hear 480 
 
 Some far-off hallo break the silent air. 
 
 Second Brother. Methought so too ; what should it be ? 
 
 Elder Brother. For certain, 
 
 Either some one, Hke us, night foundered here ; 
 Or else some neighbor woodman ; or, at worst. 
 Some roving robber calling to his fellows. 
 
 Second Brother. Heaven keep my sister! Again, 
 again, and near! 
 Best draw, and stand upon our guard. 
 
 Elder Brother. I'll hallo. 
 
 If he be friendly, he comes well : if not, 
 Defense is a good cause, and Heaven be for us! 
 
 Enter the Attendant Spirit, habited like a shepherd. 
 
 That hallo I should know. What are you ? speak. 490 
 Come not too near ; you fall on iron stakes ^ else. 
 
 Spirit. What voice is that ? my young lord ? speak 
 
 again. 
 Second Brother. O brother, 'tis my father's shepherd, 
 
 sure. 
 Elder Brother. Thyrsis! whose artful strains have oft 
 delayed 
 
 pleasures. When the body dies, these souls, he says, being unfit to soar to 
 heaven, are weighed down to earth, and wander as visible, shadowy phantoms 
 amongst the tombs. 
 
 1 Apollo was the god of song and music, and was said to have been the in- 
 ventor of the flute. 
 
 2 *' Crude surfeit," i.e., unhealthful excess. 
 
 3 " Fall on iron stakes," i.e., come in contact with our swords. 
 
46 MILTON. 
 
 The huddling brook ^ to hear his madrigal, 
 
 And sweetened every musk rose of the dale. — 
 
 How camest thou here, good swain? Hath any ram 
 
 Slipped from the fold, or young kid lost his dam, 
 
 Or stragghng wether the pent flock forsook? 
 
 How couldst thou find this dark sequestered nook? 500 
 
 Spirit. O my loved master's heir, and his next joy, 
 I came not here on such a trivial toy 
 As a strayed ewe, or to pursue the stealth 
 Of pilfering wolf ; not all the fleecy wealth 
 That doth enrich these downs is worth a thought 
 To this my errand, and the care it brought. 
 But, oh! my virgin Lady, where is she? 
 How chance she is not in your company? 
 
 Elder Brother. To tell thee sadly. Shepherd, without 
 blame 
 Or our neglect, we lost her as we came. 510 
 
 Spirit, Ay me unhappy! then my fears are true. 
 
 Elder Brother. What fears, good Thyrsis? Prithee 2 
 briefly show. 
 
 Spirit. I'll tell ye. 'Tis not vain or fabulous 
 (Though so esteemed by shallow ignorance) 
 What the sage poets, taught by the heavenly Muse, 
 Storied of old in high immortal verse 
 Of dire Chimeras ^ and enchanted isles. 
 And rifted rocks whose entrance leads to hell ; 
 For such there be, but unbeHef is bHnd. 
 
 1 ** Huddling brook." The waters are huddled together as they delay to 
 listen to his music. The poet is here paying a compliment to Henry Lawes, 
 who acted the part of the Attendant Spirit and had arranged the music for the 
 masque. 
 
 2 I pray thee. 
 
 3 The chimera was a mythical monster having a lion's head, a goat's body, 
 and a dragon's tail. Hence, a name applied to any incongruous fancy or 
 creature of the imagination. 
 
COM US: A MASQUE. 47 
 
 Within the naveP of this hideous wood, 520 
 
 Immured in cypress shades, a sorcerer dwells, 
 Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great Comus, 
 Deep skilled in all his mother's witcheries, 
 And here to every thirsty wanderer 
 By sly enticement gives his baneful cup, 
 With many murmurs 2 mixed, whose pleasing poison 
 The visage quite transforms of him that drinks, 
 And the inglorious Hkeness of a beast 
 Fixes instead, unmolding reason's mintage 
 Charactered in the face.^ This have I learnt 530 
 
 Tending my flocks hard by i' the hilly crofts ^ 
 That brow this bottom glade ; whence night by night 
 He and his monstrous rout are heard to howl 
 Like stabled wolves, or tigers at their prey. 
 Doing abhorred rites to Hecate 
 In their obscured haunts of inmost bowers. 
 Yet have they many baits and guileful spells 
 To inveigle and invite the unwary sense 
 Of them that pass unweeting ^ by the way. 
 This evening late, by then ^ the chewing flocks 540 
 
 Had ta'en their supper on the savory herb 
 Of knotgrass dew-besprent, and were in fold, 
 "i\ sat me down to watch upon a bank 
 With ivy canopied, and interwove 
 With flaunting honeysuckle, and began, 
 Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholy. 
 To meditate "^ my rural minstrelsy. 
 Till fancy had her fill. But ere a close 
 
 1 Center. 2 Muttered incantations. 
 
 3 " Unmolding," etc., i.e., destroying the stamp of reason impressed in 
 the human face. 
 
 4 Small, inclosed fields. 5 Unwitting; not knowing the dangers. 
 
 6 " By then," i.e., about the time when. 
 
 7 ** To meditate," i.e., to practice; to devote some time to. 
 
48 MILTON, 
 
 The wonted roar was up i amidst the woods, 
 
 And filled the air with barbarous dissonance; 550 
 
 At which I ceased, and hstened them awhile, 
 
 Till an unusual stop of sudden silence 
 
 Gave respite to the drowsy frighted 2 steeds 
 
 That draw the litter of close-curtained Sleep. 
 
 At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound 
 
 Rose like a steam of rich distilled perfumes. 
 
 And stole upon the air, that even Silence 
 
 Was took ere she was ware, and wished she might 
 
 Den)^ her nature, and be never more. 
 
 Still to be so displaced. I was all ear, 560 
 
 And took in strains that might create a soul 
 
 Under the ribs of Death.^ But, oh! ere long 
 
 Too well I did perceive it was the voice 
 
 Of my most honored Lady, your dear sister. 
 
 Amazed I stood, harrowed with grief and fear ; 
 
 And " O poor hapless nightingale," thought I, 
 
 " How sweet thou sing'st, how near the deadly snare! " 
 
 Then down the lawns I ran with headlong haste, 
 
 Through paths and turnings often trod by day. 
 
 Till, guided by mine ear, I found the place 570 
 
 Where that damned wizard, hid in sly disguise 
 
 (For so by certain signs I knew), had met 
 
 Already, ere my best speed could prevent. 
 
 The aidless innocent lady, his wished prey ; 
 
 Who gently asked if he had seen such two, 
 
 Supposing him some neighbor villager. 
 
 1 Had begun. 
 
 2 ** Drowsy frighted," etc., i.e., the drowsy steeds of night that have 
 been frighted by the barbarous dissonance of Comus and his crew. 
 
 3 ** Even Silence," etc., i.e., even Silence was so charmed by this music 
 that she would willingly have ceased to exist if she could always be displaced 
 by it. I could hear nothing else, for these strains were so ravishing that 
 they might even have restored a soul within a lifeless skeleton. 
 
COMUS: A MASQUE, 49 
 
 Longer I durst not stay, but soon I guessed 
 Ye were the two she meant ; with that I sprung 
 Into swift flight, till I had found you here ; 
 But further know I not. 
 
 Second Brother, O night and shades, 580 
 
 How are ye joined with hell in triple knot 
 Against the unarmed weakness of one virgin, 
 Alone and helpless! Is this the confidence 
 You gave me, brother? 
 
 Elder Brother. Yes, and keep it still ; 
 
 Lean on it safely ; not a period ^ 
 Shall be unsaid for me. Against the threats 
 Of malice or of sorcery, or that power 
 Which erring men call Chance, this I hold firm : 
 Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt; 
 Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled; 590 
 
 Yea, even that which Mischief meant most harm 
 Shall in the happy trial prove most glory. 
 But evil on itself shall back recoil. 
 And mix no more with goodness, when at last. 
 Gathered like scum, and settled to itself. 
 It shall be in eternal restless change 
 Self-fed and self-consumed. If this fail, 
 The pillared firmament is rottenness. 
 And earth's base built on stubble. But come, let's on! 
 Against the opposing will and arm of Heaven 600 
 
 May never this just sword be lifted up ; 
 But, for that damned magician, let him be girt 
 With all the grisly legions that troop 
 * Under the sooty flag of Acheron,^ 
 
 Harpies ^ and Hydras,^ or all the monstrous forms 
 
 1 Sentence. 
 
 2 Acheron was one of the rivers of the infernal regions ; as here used, it 
 means hell itself. 
 
 2 Loathsome winged monsters. ^ Huge water snakes. 
 
 4 
 
50 MILTON, 
 
 Twixt Africa and Ind, I'll find him out, 
 And force him to return his purchase ^ back, 
 Or. drag him by the curls to a foul death, 
 Cursed as his life. 
 
 Spirit. Alas! good venturous youth, 
 
 I love thy courage yet, and bold emprise; 6io 
 
 But here thy sword can do thee little stead. 
 Far other arms and other weapons must 
 Be those that quell the might of helhsh charms. 
 He with his bare wand can unthread thy joints. 
 And crumble all thy sinews. 
 
 Elder Brother. Why, prithee. Shepherd, 
 
 How durst thou then thyself approach so near 
 As to make this relation? 
 
 Spirit. Care and utmost shifts 2 
 
 How to secure the Lady from surprisal 
 Brought to my mind a certain shepherd lad. 
 Of small regard to see to,^ yet well skilled 620 
 
 In every virtuous ^ plant and healing herb 
 That spreads her verdant leaf to the morning ray. 
 He loved me well, and oft would beg me sing ; 
 Which when I did, he on the tender grass 
 Would sit, and hearken even to ecstasy. 
 And in requital ope his leathern scrip. 
 And show me simples ^ of a thousand names. 
 Telling their strange and vigorous faculties. 
 Amongst the rest a small unsightly root. 
 But of divine effect, he culled me out. 630 
 
 The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it. 
 But in another country, as he said. 
 Bore a bright golden flower, but not in this soil : 
 Unknown, and hke esteemed, and the dull swain 
 
 1 " His purchase," i.e., what he has stolen; his booty. 
 
 2 See note on line 273. 3 Xo look upon. 
 
 * Medicinal. 5 Simple medicinal remedies 
 
COMUS: A MASQUE. 51 
 
 Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon ;i 
 
 And yet more med'cinal is it than that Moly 2 
 
 That Hermes once to wise Ulysses gave. 
 
 He called it Hsemony,^ and gave it me, 
 
 And bade me keep it as of sovran use 
 
 'Gainst all enchantments, mildew blast, or damp, 640 
 
 Or ghastly Furies' apparition. 
 
 I pursed it up, but little reckoning made, 
 
 Till now that this extremity compelled. 
 
 But now I find it true ; for by this means 
 
 I knew the foul enchanter, though disguised. 
 
 Entered the very hme twigs of his spells,^ 
 
 And yet came off. If you have this about you 
 
 (As I will give you when we go) you may 
 
 Boldly assault the necromancer's hall ; 
 
 Where if he be, with dauntless hardihood 650 
 
 And brandished blade rush on him ; break his glass. 
 
 And shed the luscious liquor on the ground ; 
 
 But seize his wand. Though he and his curst crew 
 
 Fierce sign of battle make, and menace high. 
 
 Or, like the sons of Vulcan,^ vomit smoke. 
 
 Yet will they soon retire, if he but shrink. 
 
 Elder Brother. Thyrsis, lead on apace ; I'll follow thee ; 
 And some good angel bear a shield before us! 
 
 1 " Clouted shoon," i.e., patched or hobnailed shoes. 
 
 2 A fabulous herb having the power to protect against the charms of Circe. 
 ** It was black at the root, but the flower was like to milk. Moly the gods 
 call it, but it is hard for mortal men to dig ; howbeit, with the gods all things 
 are possible. " (Odyssey, 303-306.) 
 
 3 A name probably coined by Milton from Hsemonia CThessaly), a land 
 once famous for magic. 
 
 4 ** Very lime twigs," etc., an allusion to the method of catching birds by 
 means of twigs covered with a sticky substance. 
 
 5 Vulcan was the god of fire. The allusion is probably to Cacus, a son 
 of Vulcan, who, according to Virgil, vomited huge volumes of smoke when 
 pursued by Hercules. 
 
52 MILTON, 
 
 The Scene changes to a stately palace ^ set out with all manner of delicionsness : 
 soft music ^ tables spread with all dainties. Com us appears with his rabble, 
 and the Lady set in an enchanted chair: to whom he offers his glass ; zuhich 
 she puts by, and goes abouf^ to rise. 
 
 Comus. Nay, Lady, sit. If I but wave this wand. 
 Your nerves are all chained up in alabaster, 660 
 
 And you a statue,^ or as Daphne ^ was, 
 Root bound, that fled Apollo. 
 
 Lady. Fool, do not boast. 
 
 Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind 
 With all thy charms, although this corporal rind ^ 
 Thou hast immanacled, while ^ Heaven sees good. 
 
 Comus. Why are you vexed. Lady? why do you frown? 
 Here dwell no frowns, nor anger ; from these gates 
 Sorrow flies far. See, here be all the pleasures 
 That fancy can beget on youthful thoughts. 
 When the fresh blood grows lively, and returns 670 
 
 Brisk as the April buds in primrose season. 
 And first behold this cordial julep ^ here. 
 That flames and dances in his crystal bounds. 
 With spirits of balm and fragrant syrups mixed. 
 Not that nepenthes '^ which the wife of Thone 
 In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena, 
 Is of such power to stir up joy as this. 
 To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst. 
 Why should you be so cruel to yourself. 
 And to those dainty hmbs, which Nature lent 680 
 
 For gentle usage and soft delicacy? 
 
 1 " Goes about," i.e., attempts. 
 
 2 "And you," etc., i.e., as if*you were a statue. 
 
 3 A maiden beloved by Apollo. Being pursued by him, and likely to be 
 overtaken, she prayed for aid, and was transformed into a laurel tree. 
 
 4 " Corporal rind," i.e., bodily protection; body. 5 So long as. 
 
 6 " Cordial julep," i.e., exhilarating drink. " Julep " is from two Persian 
 words meaning "rose" and ** water." 
 
 7 A care-dispelling drug, thought to have been opium. 
 
COM US: A MASQUE. 53 
 
 But you invert the covenants of her trust, 
 
 And harshly deal, like an ill borrower, 
 
 With that which you received on other terms, 
 
 Scorning the unexempt condition 
 
 By which all mortal frailty must subsist, 
 
 Refreshment after toil, ease after pain, 
 
 That have been tired all day without repast, 
 
 And timely rest have wanted. But, fair virgin, 
 
 This will restore all soon. 
 
 Lady. 'Twill not, false traitor! 690 
 
 'Twill not restore the truth and honesty 
 That thou hast banished from thy tongue with hes. 
 Was this the cottage and the safe abode 
 Thou told'st me of ? What grim aspects are these. 
 These oughly-headed ^ monsters? Mercy guard me! 
 Hence with thy brewed enchantments, foul deceiver! 
 Hast thou betrayed my credulous innocence 
 With vizored 2 falsehood and base forgery? 
 And would'st thou seek again to trap me here 
 With liquorish 3 baits, fit to insnare a brute? 700 
 
 Were it a draft for Juno when she banquets, 
 I would not taste thy treasonous offer. None 
 But such as are good men can give good things ; 
 And that which is not good is not delicious 
 To a well-governed and wise appetite. 
 
 Comus. O foohshness of men! that lend their ears 
 To those budge ^ doctors of the Stoic ^ fur,. 
 
 1 Ugly-headed. 2 Masked. 
 
 3 From a German word meaning to ' * lick the lips ; " hence, dainty, delicious. 
 
 4 A kind of fur, or lamb's wool, formerly used for trimming scholastic 
 habits. The word is sometimes used in the sense of " big," and may also 
 mean " surly." 
 
 ^ The Stoics were Greek philosophers who taught that men should repress 
 all exhibition of passion and should submit to unavoidable necessity without 
 complaining. 
 
54 MILTON. 
 
 And fetch their precepts from the Cynic ^ tub, 
 
 Praising the lean and sallow Abstinence! 
 
 Wherefore did Nature pour her bounties forth 710 
 
 With such a full and unwithdrawing hand, 
 
 Covering the earth with odors, fruits, and flocks, 
 
 Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable, 
 
 But all to please and sate the curious taste? 
 
 And set to work millions of spinning worms. 
 
 That in their green shops weave the smooth-haired silk, 
 
 To deck her sons ; and, that no corner might 
 
 Be vacant of her plenty, in her own loins 
 
 She hutched ^ the all-worshiped ore and precious gems, 
 
 To store her children with. If all the world 720 
 
 Should, in a pet of temperance, feed on pulse. 
 
 Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze,^ 
 
 The All-giver would be unthanked, would be unpraised. 
 
 Not half his riches known, and yet despised ; 
 
 And we should serve him as a grudging master, 
 
 As a penurious niggard of his wealth. 
 
 And live hke Nature's bastards, not her sons. 
 
 Who would be quite surcharged with her own weight, 
 
 And strangled with her waste fertility : 
 
 The earth cumbered, and the winged air darked with 
 
 plumes, 730 
 
 The herds would overmultitude their lords ; 
 The sea o'erfraught^ would swell, and the unsought 
 
 diamonds 
 Would so emblaze the forehead of the deep. 
 And so bestud with stars, that they below 
 Would grow inured to light, and come at last 
 To gaze upon the sun with shameless brows. 
 
 1 The Cynics were Greek philosophers noted for the austerity of their lives. 
 Diogenes, the most distinguished member of the sect, lived in a tub. 
 
 2 Laid up, as in a box. 3 Coarse woolen cloth. 
 * Overloaded; overfilled. 
 
COM US: A MASQUE, 55 
 
 List, Lady ; be not coy, and be not cozened 
 With that same vaunted name, Virginity. 
 Beauty is Nature's coin ; must not be hoarded, 
 But must be current ; and the good thereof 740 
 
 Consists in mutual and partaken bliss, 
 Unsavory in the enjoyment of itself. 
 If you let slip time, like a neglected rose 
 It withers on the stalk with languished head. 
 Beauty is Nature's brag,^ and must be shown 
 In courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, 
 Where most may wonder at the workmanship. 
 It is for homely features to keep home ; 
 They had their name thence : coarse complexions 
 And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply 750 
 
 The sampler, and to tease the huswife's wool. 
 What need of vermeil-tinctured 2 lip for that, 
 Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn? 
 There was another meaning in these gifts ; 
 Think what, and be advised ; you are but young yet. 
 Lady. I had not thought to have unlocked my lips 
 In this unhallowed air, but that this juggler 
 Would think to charm my judgment, as mine eyes, 
 Obtruding false rules pranked in reason's garb. 
 I hate when Vice can bolt her arguments ^ 760 
 
 And Virtue has no tongue to check her pride. 
 Impostor! do not charge most innocent Nature, 
 As if she would her children should be riotous 
 With her abundance. She, good cateress, 
 Means her provision only to the good, 
 That live according to her sober laws, 
 And holy dictate of spare Temperance, 
 If every just man that now pines with want^ 
 
 1 Boast. ' 2 Vermilion-colored. 
 
 3 " Bolt her arguments," i.e., set them forth with fine discrimination. 
 
56 MILTON, 
 
 Had but a moderate and beseeming share 
 
 Of that which lewdly-pampered Luxury 770 
 
 Now heaps upon some few with vast excess, 
 
 Nature's full blessings would be well dispensed 
 
 In unsuperfluous even proportion, 
 
 And she no whit encumbered with her store ; 
 
 And then the Giver would be better thanked, 
 
 His praise due paid : for swinish gluttony 
 
 Ne'er looks to Heaven amidst his gorgeous feast. 
 
 But with besotted base ingratitude 
 
 Crams, and blasphemes his Feeder. Shall I go on? 
 
 Or have I said enow? ^ To him that dares 780 
 
 Arm his profane tongue with contemptuous words 
 
 Against the sun clad power of chastity, 
 
 Fain would I something say; — yet to what end? 
 
 Thou hast nor ear, nor soul, to apprehend 
 
 The sublime notion and high mystery 
 
 That must be uttered to unfold the sage 
 
 And serious doctrine of virginity ; 
 
 And thou art worthy that thou shouldst not know 
 
 More happiness than this thy present lot. 
 
 Enjoy your dear wit, and gay rhetoric, 790 
 
 That hath so well been taught her dazzhng fence; 2 
 
 Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinced. 
 
 Yet, should I try, the uncontrolled worth 
 
 Of this pure cause would kindle my rapt spirits 
 
 To such a flame of sacred vehemence 
 
 That dumb things would be moved to sympathize, ' 
 
 And the brute ^ Earth would lend her nerves, and shake, 
 
 Till all thy magic structures, reared so high, 
 
 Were shattered into heaps o'er thy false head. 
 
 Comus. She fables not. I feel that I do fear 800 
 
 Her words set off by some superior power ; 
 
 I Enough. 2 Defense; swordplay. 3 Senseless, 
 
COM US: A MASQUE, 57 
 
 And, though not mortal, yet a cold shuddering dew 
 
 Dips me all o'er, as when the wrath of Jove 
 
 Speaks thunder and the chains of Erebus i 
 
 To some of Saturn's crew. I must dissemble, 
 
 And try her yet more strongly.— Come, no more! 
 
 This is mere moral babble, and direct 
 
 Against the canon laws of our foundation.^ 
 
 I must not suffer this ; yet 'tis but the lees 
 
 And settlings of a melancholy blood. 8io 
 
 But this will cure all straight \^ one sip of this 
 
 Will bathe the drooping spirits in delight 
 
 Beyond the bhss of dreams. Be wise, and taste. 
 
 The Brothers rush in with swords drawtty wrest his glass out of his handy 
 and break it against the ground : his rout make sign of resistance^ but are 
 all driven in. The Attendant Spirit comes in. 
 
 Spirit. What! have you let the false enchanter scape? 
 Oh, ye mistook ; ye should have snatched his wand, 
 And bound him fast. Without his rod reversed, 
 And backward mutters of dissevering power, 
 We cannot free the Lady that sits here 
 In stony fetters fixed and motionless. 
 Yet stay: be not disturbed; now I bethink me, 820 
 
 Some other means I have which may be used. 
 Which once of Mehboeus * old I learnt, 
 The soothest ^ shepherd that e'er piped on plains. ' 
 
 1 A name applied to the dark and gloomy space under the earth through 
 which the souls of the dead were obliged to pass on their way to Hades. 
 Milton uses it here for Tartarus, the prison house into which Jupiter cast the 
 Titans, the adherents of his father Saturn. 
 
 2 Institution. 3 Straightway; immediately. 
 
 4 Meliboeus is the name of one of the shepherds in Virgil's Eclogues ; but 
 Milton here probably refers to Geoffrey of Monmouth, an old English chron- 
 icler, the first to relate the story of Locrine and his daughter. 
 
 5 Truest. 
 
58 MILTON. 
 
 There is a gentle nymph not far from hence, 
 That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream : 
 Sabrina is her name : a virgin pure ; 
 Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine, 
 That had the scepter from his father Brute.^ 
 She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit 
 Of her enraged stepdame, Guendolen, 830 
 
 Commended her fair innocence to the flood 
 That stayed her flight with his 2 crossflowing course. 
 The water nymphs, that in the bottom played, 
 Held up their pearled wrists, and took her in, 
 Bearing her straight to aged Nereus' ^ hall ; 
 Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank ^ head, 
 And gave her to his daughters to imbathe 
 In nectared lavers strewed with asphodel,^ 
 And through the porch and inlet of each sense 
 Dropt in ambrosial oils, till she revived, 840 
 
 And underwent a quick immortal change. 
 Made Goddess of the river.^ Still she retains 
 Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve 
 Visits the herds along the twiHght meadows, 
 Helping all lu-chin blasts,'^ and ill-luck signs 
 
 1 Brute, or Brutus, was said to have been a descendant of ^neas, and the 
 first king of Britain. It was from him that the island derived its name. See 
 note on line 923. 
 
 2 Its. . 
 
 3 The good spirit of the sea, the father of the Nereids, or sea nymphs. 
 * Languid; drooping. 
 
 5 " Nectared lavers," etc., i.e., baths into which nectar had been poured 
 and where asphodels were growing. The asphodel was a flower found in 
 Elysium. 
 
 6 Geoffrey of Monmouth relates that Queen Guendolen, jealous of Sabrina 
 and her mother, Estrildis, raised an army and made war upon Locrine. 
 Locrine was defeated and slain, and Guendolen, assuming the government, 
 commanded Estrildis and Sabrina to be cast into the river, which was ever 
 afterwards called the Severn. 
 
 7 " Helping," etc., i.e., remedying the evil influences of bad fairies, such 
 
COMUS: A MASQUE, 59 
 
 That the shrewd meddling elf delights to make, 
 
 Which she with precious vialed liquors heals : 
 
 For which the shepherds, at their festivals, 
 
 Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays, 
 
 And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream, 850 
 
 Of pansies, pinks, and gaudy daffodils ; 
 
 And, as the old swain said, she can unlock 
 
 The clasping charm, and thaw the numbing spell. 
 
 If she be right invoked in warbled song ; 
 
 For maidenhood she loves, and will be swift 
 
 To aid a virgin, such as was herself. 
 
 In hard besetting need. This will I try. 
 
 And add the power of some adjuring verse. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Sabrina fair, 
 
 Listen where thou art sitting 860 
 
 Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, 
 
 In twisted braids of lilies knitting 
 The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair; 
 
 Listen for dear honor's sake. 
 
 Goddess of the silver lake, 
 Listen and save ! 
 
 Listen, and appear to us. 
 
 In name of great Oceanus,^ 
 
 By the earth-shaking Neptune'* s mace. 
 
 And Tethys^^ grave majestic pace ; 870 
 
 By hoary Nereus'' wrinkled look, 
 
 And the Carpathian wizard^ s^ hook; 
 
 as the blasting of corn, etc. ** Urchin " originally meant the hedgehog, but 
 came later to be applied to goblins, imps, and, finally, to small children. 
 
 1 An earlier sea god than Neptune. 2 The wife of Oceanus. 
 
 3 Proteus, the shepherd of the sea, who had the care of Neptune's flocks 
 of seals. 
 
6o MILTON, 
 
 By scaly Triton's i winding shell, 
 
 And old soothsaying Glaucus* ^ spell; 
 
 By Leucothea^s ^ lovely hands, 
 
 And her son that rules the strands; 
 
 By Thetis'* * tinsel-slippered feet. 
 
 And the songs of Sirens sweet; 
 
 By dead Parthenope^s ^ dear tomb, 
 
 And fair Ligea^s ^ golden comb, 880 
 
 Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks 
 
 Sleeking her soft alluring locks ; 
 
 By all the nymphs that nightly dance 
 
 Upon thy streams with wily glance ; 
 
 Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head 
 
 From thy coral-pave7t bed, 
 
 And bridle i7i thy headlong wave. 
 
 Till thou our summons answered have. 
 
 Liste7t and save! 
 
 Sabrina rises, attended by Water Nymphs^ and sings. 
 
 By the rushy-fringed bank, 890 
 
 Where grows the willow and the osier dank. 
 
 My sliding chariot stays. 
 Thick set with agate, and the azurn sheen "^ 
 Ofturkis^ blue, and emerald green, 
 
 That in the channel strays ; 
 
 1 The son of Neptune. He is represented with a trumpet made of a wind- 
 ing shell, and is sometimes called the herald of the sea. 
 
 2 A Greek fisherman who obtained a place among the sea gods, and had 
 the power of prophecy. 
 
 3 Ino, fleeing from her mad husband. King Athamas, leaped into the sea 
 with her young son in her arms. The Nereids received them and made them 
 sea deities, changing the name of Ino to Leucothea, or the *' white goddess." 
 Her son was Palsemon, the guardian of harbors. 
 
 4 A Nereid, called " the silver-footed," the mother of Achilles. 
 
 5 One of the Sirens, whose dead body was washed ashore on the present 
 site of Naples. 
 
 6 Another Siren. The name signifies " the shrill voiced." 
 
 '^ ** Azurn sheen," i.e., azured gleam. 8 Turquoise. 
 
COM US: A MASQUE. 6 1 
 
 Whilst from off the waters fleet 
 Thus I set my prmtless feet 
 O^er the cowslips s velvet head^ 
 
 That bends not as I tread. 
 Gentle swain, at thy request 900 
 
 I am here! 
 
 Spirit. Goddess dear, 
 We implore thy powerful hand 
 To undo the charmed band 
 Of true virgin here distressed 
 Through the force and through the wile 
 Of unblessed enchanter vile. 
 
 Sabrina. Shepherd, 'tis my office best 
 To help ensnared, chastity. — 
 
 Brightest Lady, look on me. 910 
 
 Thus I sprinkle on thy breast 
 Drops that from my fountain pure 
 I have kept of precious cure ; 
 Thrice upon thy finger's tip, 
 Thrice upon thy rubied lip : 
 Next this marble venomed seat. 
 Smeared with gums of glutinous heat, 
 I touch with chaste palms moist and cold. 
 Now the spell hath lost his hold ; 
 And I must haste ere morning hour 920 
 
 To wait in Amphitrite's 1 bower. 
 
 Sabrina descends, and the Lady rises out of her seat. 
 
 Spirit. Virgin, daughter of Locrine, 
 Sprung of old Anchises' ^ line, 
 
 1 Wife of Neptune. 
 
 2 Anchises, a Trojan prince and father of ^neas, escaped from the Greeks 
 at the destruction of Troy by being carried out of the burning city on the back 
 of his son. Brutus, the grandfather of Sabrina, was the great-grandson of 
 ^neas. 
 
62 MILTON. 
 
 May thy brimmed waves for this 
 
 Their full tribute never miss 
 
 From a thousand petty rills, 
 
 That tumble down the snowy hills : 
 
 Summer drouth or singed i air 
 
 Never scorch thy tresses ^ fair, 
 
 Nor wet October's torrent flood 930 
 
 Thy molten crystal fill with mud ; 
 
 May thy billows roll ashore 
 
 The beryl and the golden ore ; 
 
 May thy lofty head be crowned 
 
 With many a tower and terrace round, 
 
 And here and there thy banks upon 
 
 With groves of myrrh and cinnamon. 
 
 Come, Lady ; while Heaven lends us grace. 
 Let us fly this cursed place, 
 
 Lest the sorcerer us entice 940 
 
 With some other new device. 
 Not a waste ^ or needless sound 
 Till we come to holier ground. 
 I shall be your faithful guide 
 Through this gloomy covert wide ; 
 And not many furlongs thence 
 Is your father's residence. 
 Where this night are met in state 
 Many a friend to gratulate 
 
 His wished presence, and beside 950 
 
 All the swains that there abide 
 With jigs and rural dance resort. 
 We shall catch them at their sport, 
 And our sudden coming there 
 
 1 Singeing ; scorching hot. 
 
 2 Referring to the foliage along the banks of the Severn. 
 
 3 Useless. 
 
COMUS: A MASQUE, 63 
 
 Will double all their mirth and cheer. 
 Come, let us haste ; the stars grow high, 
 But Night sits monarch yet in the mid sky. 
 
 The Scene changes^ presenting Ludlow Town, and the Presidents Castle ; 
 then come in Country Dancers; after them the Attendant Spirit, with 
 the Two Brothers and the Lady. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Spirit. Back, shepherds, back! Enough your play 
 Till next sunshine holiday. 
 
 Here be, without duck or nod,^ 960 
 
 Other trippings to be trod 
 Of lighter toes, and such court guise 
 As Mercury 2 did first devise 
 With the mincing Dryades ^ 
 On the lawns and on the leas. 
 
 This second Song presents thein to their Father and Mother. 
 
 Noble Lord and Lady bright, 
 L have brought ye new delight. 
 Here behold so goodly grown 
 Three fair branches of your own. 
 
 Heaven hath timely tried their youth, 970 
 
 Their faith, their patience, and their truth, 
 And sent them here through hard assays^ 
 With a crown of deathless praise, 
 To triumph in victorious dance 
 O^er sensual folly and intemperance. 
 
 The dances ended, the Spirit epiloguizes. 
 
 Spirit. To the ocean now I fly, 
 And those happy climes that lie 
 
 1 '* Duck or nod," forms of obeisance peculiar to country folk, or servants. 
 
 2 Mercury (Hermes), the messenger of the gods, was the ideal of agility 
 and grace. 
 
 3 Wood nymphs. * Trials. 
 
64 MILTON. 
 
 Where day never shuts his eye, 
 
 Up in the broad fields of the sky. 
 
 There I suck the liquid air, 980 
 
 All amidst the gardens fair 
 
 Of HesperuSji and his daughters three 
 
 That sing about the golden tree. 
 
 Along the crisped shades and bowers 
 
 Revels the spruce and jocund Sprng ; 
 
 The Graces 2 and the rosy-bosomed Hours ^ 
 
 Thither all their bounties bring. 
 
 There eternal Summer dwells. 
 
 And west winds with musky wing 
 
 About the cedarn ^ alleys fling 990 
 
 Nard and cassia's ^ balmy smells. 
 
 Iris ^ there with humid bow 
 
 Waters the odorous banks, that blow 
 
 Flowers of more mingled hue 
 
 Than her purfled '^ scarf can show, 
 
 And drenches with Elysian dew 
 
 (List, mortals, if your ears be true) 
 
 Beds of hyacinth and roses, 
 
 Where young Adonis ^ oft reposes. 
 
 Waxing well of his deep wound, 1000 
 
 In slumber soft, and on the ground 
 
 1 See note on line 393. " The Hesperides were daughters of Hesperus, 
 god of the West." (Guerber.) 
 
 2 See note on L' Allegro, line 15. 
 
 3 The Horae (the goddesses of the seasons) were three in number, and 
 were the daughters of Jupiter and Themis. 
 
 4 Cedar lined. 
 
 5 ** Nard and cassia," i.e., spikenard and aromatic laurel. 
 ^ See note on line 83. 
 
 "7 Embroidered. 
 
 8 A beautiful youth, loved by Venus, and slain by a wild boar which he 
 was hunting. On account of Venus 's grief for him the gods of the lower 
 world allowed him to return to the earth for six months every year. 
 
COM US: A MASQUE. 65 
 
 Sadly sits the Assyrian queen. ^ 
 
 But far above, in spangled sheen, 
 
 Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced 
 
 Holds his dear Psyche,^ sweet entranced 
 
 After her wandering labors long, 
 
 Till free consent the gods among 
 
 Make her his eternal bride, 
 
 And from her fair unspotted side 
 
 Two blissful twins are to be born, loio 
 
 Youth and Joy ; so Jove hath sworn. 
 
 But now my task is smoothly done : 
 I can fly, or I can run 
 Quickly to the green earth's end. 
 Where the bowed welkin ^ slow doth bend, 
 And from thence can soar as soon 
 To the corners of the moon. 
 Mortals, that would follow me, 
 Love Virtue ; she alone is free. 
 
 She can teach ye how to climb 1020 
 
 Higher than the sphery chime ;* 
 Or, if Virtue feeble were. 
 Heaven itself would stoop to her. 
 
 1 Venus. She was worshiped in Assyria as Astarte. 
 
 2 Psyche, the youngest of three daughters of a king, was loved by Cupid. 
 As a punishment for distrusting him she was forced to wander from place 
 to place and to endure many hardships. Finally, however, Cupid claimed 
 her as his " eternal bride," and she was admitted with him among the gods. 
 
 3 '* Bowed welkin," i.e., arched dome of the sky. 
 
 * ** Sphery chime," i.e., the music of the spheres ; the starry choir referred 
 to in line 112. 
 
66 MILTON. 
 
 LYCIDAS. 
 
 In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drowned 
 in his passage from Chester on the Irish seas, 1637; and, by occasion, 
 foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then in their height. 
 
 Yet once more, O ye laurels,^ and once more, 
 
 Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
 
 I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude. 
 
 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 10 
 
 Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
 
 He must not float upon his watery bier 
 
 Unwept, and welter to the parching wind. 
 
 Without the meed of some melodious tear. 
 
 Begin, then. Sisters g of the sacred well 
 That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring ; 
 Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 
 Hence with denial vain and coy excuse : 
 So may some gentle Muse 
 
 1 The laurel was sacred to Apollo, and has always been associated with 
 poetry. The myrtle was sacred to Venus. Ivy was used to deck the brows 
 of the learned, and was sacred to Bacchus. It has been suggested that Mil- 
 ton, in naming these three plants, intends a delicate allusion to King's poetry, 
 beauty, and learning. 
 
 2 Unwilling. 
 
 3 The nine Muses. See note on II Penseroso, line 47. By the ^* sacred 
 well " the poet probably means the Pierian fountain at the foot of Mount 
 Olympus, the birthplace of the Muses and the '* seat of Jove." 
 
LYCIDAS. 67 
 
 With lucky words favor my destined urn,i 20 
 
 And as he passes, turn 
 
 And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud ! 2 
 
 For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill, 
 Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill ; ^ 
 Together both, ere the high lawns 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,^ 
 Battening ^ our flocks with the fresh dews of night. 
 Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 30 
 
 Towards heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. 
 Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute ; 
 Tempered to the oaten flute,^ 
 
 Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns "^ with cloven heel 
 From the glad sound would not be absent long ; 
 And old Damoetas ^ loved to hear our song. 
 
 But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone, 
 Now thou art gone and never must return! 
 Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, 
 
 1 ** My destined urn," i.e., my approaching or inevitable death. The 
 Romans deposited the ashes of their dead in urns. 
 
 2 ** Sable shroud," i.e., dark tomb. 
 
 3 " For we were nursed," etc. Referring to the fact of their companion- 
 ship at college, and the sameness of their tastes and pursuits. 
 
 * " Winds," etc., i.e., hums in the noontide heat. 
 
 5 Feeding; fattening. 
 
 6 " Meanwhile," etc. Reference is made to the early poetical attempts of 
 Milton and King. The "oaten flute " was made of reeds or straws, and was 
 a favorite musical instrument among shepherds ; hence it is emblematic of 
 pastoral poetry. 
 
 ■^ The Satyrs of Greek mythology were represented as of a pleasure-loving 
 nature, always engaged in dance and song. The Roman Fauns — half men, 
 half goats — were of a similar nature. The names here refer to the college- 
 mates of King and Milton. 
 
 8 A name frequently used in pastoral poetry. It is supposed to refer here 
 to some *' well-remembered Fellow of Christ's College." 
 
68 MILTON. 
 
 With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 40 
 And all their echoes, mourn. 
 The willows, and the hazel copses green, 
 Shall now no more be seen 
 Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
 ' As kilHng as the canker to the rose. 
 Or taintworm to the weanling herds that graze, 
 Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, 
 When first the whitethorn blows ; 
 Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 
 
 Where were ye. Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 50 
 Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? 
 For neither were ye playing on the steep ^ 
 Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 
 Nor on the shaggy top of Mona ^ high. 
 Nor yet where Deva ^ spreads her wizard stream. 
 Ay me! I fondly dream 
 
 " Had ye been there," — for what could that have done? 
 What could the Muse ^ 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 shore? 
 
 Alas! what boots it with uncessant care 
 To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade, 
 
 1 "The steep," etc., probably Penmaenmawr in Wales, an old Druidic 
 burial place. 
 
 2 The wooded heights of the island of Anglesey, the favorite haunt of the 
 Welsh Druids. 
 
 3 The river Dee, the ancient boundary between England and Wales, and 
 for that reason regarded with a kind of superstitious reverence. 
 
 4 Calliope, the mother of Orpheus. The Thracian women, celebrating 
 the orgies of Bacchus, became enraged at Orpheus, tore him in pieces, and 
 threw his remains into the river Hebrus. His head was washed ashore on 
 the island of Lesbos. 
 
LYCIDAS. 69 
 
 And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? 
 
 Were it not better done, as others use/ 
 
 To sport 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 delights and live laborious days ; 
 
 But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
 
 And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
 
 Comes the blind Fury ^ with the abhorred shears. 
 
 And slits the thin-spun life. '* But not the praise," 
 
 Phoebus ^ replied, and touched my trembling ears : 
 
 " Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. 
 
 Nor in the glistering foil 
 
 Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor hes,^ 80 
 
 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 honored flood. 
 Smooth-sliding Mincius,^ crowned with vocal reeds, 
 That strain I heard was of a higher mood. 
 
 1 Are accustomed to do. 
 
 2 Amaryllis and Neaera are names of shepherdesses in the Greek and Latin 
 pastorals. 
 
 3 Noble ; pure. 
 
 4 It was one of the Fates, Atropos, and not a Fury, that was said to cut 
 the threads of life. In speaking of her as blind, the poet means to imply 
 that she knows no distinction. See Thumann's picture of the three Fates in 
 Guerber's Myths of Greece and Rome. 
 
 5 Apollo is here referred to as the god of song. 
 
 6 ** Fame is no plant," etc., i.e., fame is not a product merely of this life, 
 nor does it consist in the superficial glitter which delights the world, nor in 
 the widespread notoriety which some men attain. 
 
 '^ A fountain near Syracuse, sacred to the nymph Arethusa; here men- 
 tioned in allusion to the Sicilian poet, Theocritus, who was born there. 
 
 ^ A river in northern Italy, famous as flowing past the birthplace of Virgil. 
 
70 MILTON. 
 
 But now my oat ^ proceeds, 
 
 And listens to the Herald of the Sea,2 
 
 That came in Neptune's plea. 90 
 
 He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds. 
 
 What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? 
 
 And questioned every gust of rugged wings 
 
 That blows from off each beaked promontory. 
 
 They knew not of his story ; 
 
 And sage Hippotades ^ their answer brings, 
 
 That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed : 
 
 The air was calm, and on the level brine 
 
 Sleek Panope ^ 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,^ reverend sire, went footing slow, 
 His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,"^ 
 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? '' 
 
 1 My pastoral muse. See note on line 'TiZ above. 
 
 2 Triton, son of Neptune, comes forward in the name of his father to 
 make a judicial inquiry concerning the cause of the shipwreck in which 
 Lycidas had perished. 
 
 3 ^olus, king of the winds and son of Hippotes. 
 
 * A sea nymph, one of the daughters of Nereus. See note on Nereus, 
 Comus, line 835. 
 
 5 It was a very common superstition that eclipses brought misfortune upon 
 all undertakings that were begun or completed during their appearance. 
 
 6 The genius of the river Cam, and of Cambridge University. 
 
 '^ * * The * mantle hairy ' is the hairy river weed that is found floating on 
 the Cam ; and the * bonnet ' is the sedge that grows in the river and along its 
 edge." (Bell.) 
 
 ^ ** Sanguine flower," etc., referring to the hyacinth. Hyacinthus was a 
 youth beloved by Apollo, and accidentally slain by him while playing at quoits. 
 From his blood sprang the flower which bears his name, on the leaves of 
 which are certain marks said to resemble the Greek M^ord AI (** alas!"). 
 
L vein AS, 71 
 
 Last came, and last did go, 
 
 The Pilot 1 of the Gahlean Lake ; 
 
 Two massy keys he bore of metals twain no 
 
 (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). 
 
 He shook his mitered locks,- and stern bespake : — 
 
 " How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,^ 
 
 Enow of such as,* for their beUies' 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 ! that scarce themselves know how to hold 
 
 A sheephook, or have learnt aught else the least 120 
 
 That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! 
 
 What recks it them ? ^ What need they ? They are sped ;® 
 
 And, when they Hst, their lean and flashy songs 
 
 Grate on their scrannel '^ pipes of wretched straw ; 
 
 The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 
 
 But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, 
 
 Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; 
 
 Besides what the grim wolf ^ with privy paw 
 
 Daily devours apace, and nothing said. 
 
 But that two-handed engine at the door 130 
 
 1 St. Peter. In Christian art he is always represented with two keys in 
 his hands ; the one to open the gates of heaven, the other, to close them by 
 force. See Comus, line 13. 
 
 2 " Mitered locks," i.e., his head crowned with a bishop's headdress, or 
 miter. 
 
 3 " For thee, young swain." Edward King had been educated for the 
 Church, and was about to be ordained. 
 
 * " Enow of such," etc. From here to the end of line 131, reference is 
 made to Archbishop Laud and the debased character of the clergy during his 
 administration. Laud had now been archbishop for five years. 
 
 5 " What recks it them? " i.e., what do they care? 
 
 6 Provided for. '^ Meager ; thin. 
 
 ^ Milton probably refers here to the Roman Catholiq Church^ 
 
72 MILTON, 
 
 Stands ready to smite once, an'd smite no more." ^ 
 
 Return, Alpheus;^ the dread voice is past 
 That shrunk thy streams ; return, SiciUan Muse,^ 
 And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
 Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
 Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
 Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, 
 On whose fresh lap the swart star ^ sparely looks, 
 Throw hither all your quaint enameled eyes. 
 That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, 140 
 And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
 Bring the rathe ^ primrose that forsaken dies. 
 The tufted crowtoe, 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 all his ^ beauty shed. 
 And daffadillies "^ fill their cups with tears, 150 
 
 To strew the laureate hearse ^ where Lycid lies. 
 For so, to interpose a little ease, 
 
 1 " But that two-handed engine," etc., i.e., but the instrument of retribu- 
 tion is ready, and will soon bring swift and complete punishment upon the 
 corrupted clergy. See the latter part of the argument, or note, immediately 
 following the title to this poem. 
 
 2 The river god who was the lover of Arethusa, and made one with her in 
 the fountain near Syracuse ; hence, like her, symbolizing pastoral poetry. 
 
 3 The Muse of pastoral poetry. 
 
 * Sirius, the Dog Star; called swart, or swarthy, on account of its sup- 
 posed influence upon vegetation, being in the ascendency during the hottest 
 months of the year. 
 
 5 Early*^ 6 Its. See note on Comus, line 248. 
 
 7 Daffodils ; meaning the same as asphodels, from the Greek name of a 
 flower of the lily family. 
 
 8 " Laureate hearse," i.e., poet's tomb. See Note i, p. 66. 
 
LYCIDAS. 73 
 
 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, 
 
 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, i6o 
 
 Where the great Vision "^ of the guarded mount 
 
 Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold.^ 
 
 Look homeward, Angel,^ now, and melt with ruth : 
 
 And, O ye dolphins,^ 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 tricks 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,^ 
 Where, other groves and other streams along. 
 
 1 '^Moist vows," i.e., tearful prayers. 
 
 ^ " Fable of Bellerus," i.e., fabled Bellerus. Bellerus is the name of a 
 Cornish giant, so called from Bellerium, the ancient name of Land's End, 
 Cornwall. 
 
 3 The vision of St. Michael, on St. Michael's Mount, near Land's End. 
 The mountain is spoken of as ** guarded," in allusion to the legend of the 
 archangel's appearance on one of its crags. 
 
 4 Namancos and Bayona were near Cape Finisterre in Spain, and in the 
 direct line of vision southwestward from Land's End. 
 
 5 St. Michael. 
 
 6 The allusion is to the story of the musician Arion, who, having thrown 
 himself into the sea to escape from pirates, was taken up by dolphins, and 
 carried on their backs safe to land. 
 
 ■^ The sun. 8 Gold. 9 See Matt. xiv. 25. 
 
74 MTLTON, 
 
 With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 
 And hears the unexpressive ^ 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, i8o 
 
 . And wipe the tears forever from his eyes.^ 
 Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; 
 Henceforth thou art the Genius ^ of the shore, 
 In thy large recompense,^ 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 warbHng his Doric lay:^ 
 And now the sun had stretched out '^ all the hills, 1 90 
 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. 
 
 1 Inexpressible. 
 
 2 " Nuptial song," i.e., marriage hymn. See Rev. xix. 6, 7, 9. 
 
 3 See Isaiah xxv. 8, and Rev. vii. 17. * Guardian spirit. 
 
 5 "In thy large recompense," i.e., as a great recompense to thee. 
 
 6 The ancient pastoral poets wrote in the Doric dialect. A " Doric lay,*' 
 therefore, is a pastoral poem or song. 
 
 7 '* Stretched out," i.e., lengthened the shadows of. 
 
 8 Drew closely about him. 
 
J-. Jc/^u^zr^, 
 
ECLECTIC ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 THE 
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 OF 
 
 ADDISON 
 
 BY 
 
 LORD MACAULAY 
 
 NEW YORK • : • CINCINNATI • : • CHICAGO 
 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
Copyright, 1894, by 
 American Book Company, 
 
 MACAULAY — ADDISON. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Macaulay, in his " Essay upon Addison," has related the 
 principal events in his life with a fullness of detail that makes it 
 unnecessary to dwell upon them here, except incidentally and so 
 far as they connect themselves with a discussion of his writings. 
 Written in the maturity of his powers, and divested of some of 
 the redundance attaching to his earlier style. Lord Macaulay 
 presents to us a most winning portrait of this great master of 
 English prose, with a truthfulness, a graphic power, and a beauty 
 of diction, such as, up to the time of its appearance, fifty years 
 ago, did not exist in the language. It forms at once a splendid 
 tribute to Addison's genius and to his many virtues as a man. 
 
 It is remarkable, in view of the unique and distinguished place 
 occupied by Addison among English men of letters, that no. 
 complete and carefully annotated edition of his works has yet 
 been made ; and, except for the narrative of Tickell prefixed to 
 the edition of 1721, no account of him was published during his 
 lifetime, or subsequently, by any of his contemporaries. 
 
 If one whose acquaintance with English hterature was precise 
 as well as extensive, and who was thereby qualified for judgment, 
 were asked to indicate which, among its eminent writers, had 
 exerted the most salutary influence in his generation, in reforming 
 
 5 
 
6 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 and correcting, not only public taste, but public morals as well, 
 he would with little hesitation, we think, point to Joseph Addison. 
 
 As a poet, Addison's talents did not fit him to excel ; and had 
 his fame rested entirely upon his translations from the Latin 
 poets, the '' Campaign," an apotheosis of Marlborough, the 
 tragedy of " Cato," and his other verses, he would have been 
 assigned a niche in the British Temple of Fame, doubtless in a line 
 with Gay, Tickell, and Parnell, but certainly much below Pope. 
 
 In that kind of prose literature, however, which he may be said 
 to have created in those charming* papers in the "Tatler," and 
 in the ''Spectator" particularly, — of which nearly one half ema- 
 nated from his pen, — he was unapproachable. Imitators by the 
 score he has had, — in the " World," to which Lord Chesterfield and 
 Horace Walpole contributed, the ''Connoisseur," the "Mirror," 
 the "Lounger," and Dr. Johnson's sententious "Rambler;" but, 
 as Macaulay said of Boswell in his immortal biography, Addi- 
 son distanced all competitors. " Eclipse is first, and all the rest 
 nowhere." 
 
 No example presents itself in our language, and certainly not 
 in that of any other nation, of writings of such rare and precious 
 merit, produced, as were Addison's essays in the " Spectator," 
 from day to day, going to the press from his writing table, often 
 with the ink scarcely dry upon them, unpremeditated, as in many 
 cases they must have been, and with little or no opportunity 
 of revision. 
 
 Addison, as many other distinguished men have done, ripened 
 slowly ; and there is a broad line of distinction between his earlier 
 prose works and the papers in the " Spectator," in which, later in 
 life, he at last found his inspiration. It must be regarded as a 
 misfortune, that with his powers of observation, and his hvely 
 
INTRODUCTION, 7 
 
 interest in what was going on about him, Addison should, in the 
 narrative of his travels in Italy, have given us so few ghmpses of 
 the hfe of the Itahan people, or of the men — the statesmen and 
 the scholars — who were then shaping the destinies of Italy, or 
 enriching its Kterature. As Macaulay has pointed out, the Latin 
 writers with whom he seems to have been most familiar, and of 
 whom he is oftenest reminded in the presence of some memorable 
 scene, are, many of them, but Httle esteemed among us now. In 
 fact, while, undoubtedly, Latin composition was cultivated at the 
 universities, and an ease and elegance attained in it at that time 
 far more than is common at present, the acquaintance of our 
 scholars with the language and its Hterature is much more exten- 
 sive, exact, and profound than we have any evidence of its being 
 then. 
 
 Of Italian literature, — that of Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarch, Ari- 
 osto, and others, — which had exerted so powerful an influence 
 upon that of England in the earlier period, from Chaucer to Shake- 
 speare, the writers of Queen Anne's time knew but httle ; and 
 from their study of French literature, then more in favor with 
 them, their style had acquired a stiffness and formality, from 
 which Addison, among the rest, was long in emancipating himself. 
 
 In order rightly to estimate our indebtedness — not only in a 
 hterary sense, but also in their influence on the amelioration of 
 manners and the elevation of the tone of pubhc morality — to 
 these httle essays in the ''Spectator," which found their way to 
 many thousand breakfast tables every week-day morning, the 
 condition of literature and of society at the dawn of the eighteenth 
 century should be considered. 
 
 The nation had been slow in recovering from that state of in- 
 tellectual and spiritual torpor into which the license, the ribaldry, 
 
8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 and the infamous excesses of the Restoration of Charles II. had 
 plunged it. The cynicism and irreverence of Charles's court 
 had blunted the moral sensibiHties of the people, debauched the 
 pubHc conscience, and destroyed, apparently, all memory of that 
 chivalrous feeling, that reverence for women, and those noble 
 ideals of Hfe and conduct, which distinguished the men of the 
 Elizabethan age and those of a later generation. Of the coarse- 
 ness, indecency, and profligacy of the people of fashion in Lon- 
 don, at this and a later period, the works of Swift, the novels of 
 Defoe, and the graphic and terrible reahsm of Hogarth's paint- 
 ings, furnish abundant evidence. 
 
 Of polite Hterature, in any strict sense, such as existed in 
 France and in Italy at the time, there was none. Books were 
 being multipHed ; but they were mostly of a controversial or 
 religious character, or translations from the classics, the reading 
 of which was confined to the few. Of reading for the people, of 
 an entertaining or instructive kind, there was scarcely any de- 
 serving mention. The people of London were still crowding the 
 playhouses to witness and applaud the vile entertainments pro- 
 vided for them by Congreve, Etherege, Wycherley, and other 
 lesser wits of the town, and to the production of which the great 
 Dry den himself — though a moralist by profession, and a man of 
 decorous life — did not disdain to prostitute his talents. 
 
 The ignorance prevailing among the rural population, even of 
 the better class, and among the tradespeople in the provincial 
 towns, would be incredible, if we failed to consider the diffi- 
 culties of communication between the metropolis and the differ- 
 ent parts of the kingdom, and the fact that no such means of 
 diffusing intelligence as is furnished by a newspaper press existed 
 in England prior to 1685. Until the reign of Wilham III. no 
 
INTRODUCTION, 9 
 
 systematic effort was made by the government for the construc- 
 tion of highways for travel from London into the provinces. 
 People of means, in town or country, whom business or pleasure 
 led to take these journeys, were compelled to use private convey- 
 ances, or to depend upon the stagecoaches, which crawled 
 along at a snail's pace over roads, where in summer the luckless 
 traveler was choked or bhnded with dust, and in winter stuck fast 
 in a quagmire, or was spilt into a ditch. 
 
 Of the London of his day, Addison, could he visit it now, 
 would find few traces in that vast metropolis, with its teeming 
 millions and the almost infinite variety of its apphances for not 
 only the comforts of hfe, but for so many of its refinements and 
 luxuries. With a population of less than half a milHon then, but 
 little provision was made for the comfort or protection of its 
 citizens. Only a few of its streets were paved, and most of 
 them were rendered filthy by gutters on each side, which, like 
 the Tiber, in stormy weather ''rose above their banks," and in 
 hot and dry weather became a fruitful source of disease. The 
 arrangements for lighting them were of the most primitive kind ; 
 thousands of little tin lamps, supphed with oil of inferior quahty, 
 being fixed on posts in the main thoroughfares, or swung from 
 iron rods projecting over the street. The city police consisted 
 of a number of ancient watchmen, who were sent out at inter- 
 vals during the night, armed with poles, rattles, and lanterns, and 
 who, so far from inspiring a wholesome terror of the law in evil 
 doers, were, by reason of their age and infirmities, made the 
 victims of the thieves whom they encountered in their rounds, or 
 of the riotous Mohawk or Macaroni reeling homeward after a 
 late debauch. Sedan chairs and hackney coaches were the only 
 vehicles in use for public convenience in the streets ; the former 
 
I o INTROD UCriON. 
 
 being patronized by the people of fashion when on their way 
 to the court drawing-rooms, levees, theaters, routs, and other 
 assembUes of the beau monde. In 1685 there was no daily news- 
 paper in London ; and, although a number of weekly and semi- 
 weekly publications of a political character had made their 
 appearance in the interval, it was not until 1691 that the ''Athe- 
 nian Gazette," a weekly journal of literature, in which " all the 
 most nice and curious questions proposed by the ingenious " 
 would be discussed, was published. Defoe's " Review," issued 
 in 1704, in penny weekly numbers, — in which, among other 
 matters, the doings of a " Scandal Club " were described, and 
 which may have furnished a hint to Steele, — preceded the 
 " Tatler " by about five years. 
 
 When the "Tatler" was projected, the middle classes, engrossed 
 in their business or in politics, were indifferent to the pleasures 
 and advantages of literature. There was no general system of 
 education, no diffusion of knowledge, and but few of the refine- 
 ments of our diversified social structure. The taste for reading 
 itself had to be created, as well as the means of gratifying it. 
 Addison announced in one of the early "Spectators" that as Soc- 
 rates was said to have " brought philosophy down from heaven 
 to inhabit among men, so I shall be ambitious to have it said of 
 me that I have brought philosophy out of closets and libraries, 
 schools and colleges, to dwell in clubs and assemblies, at tea 
 tables and in coffeehouses." 
 
 No account of Addison, indeed, could be made complete with- 
 out reference to the coffeehouses and the clubs, many of which 
 are immortalized in the "Tatler" and "Spectator," and which 
 were at that time such important factors in the life of London. 
 In the first decade of the last century, the coffeehouses alone 
 
INTRODUCTION, 1 1 
 
 numbered nearly two thousand. These were not merely places 
 of refreshment, but of public resort, in which every class, profes- 
 sion, occupation, or political opinion was represented. There 
 were coffeehouses for the clergy, others for the wits and fine 
 gentlemen, others, again, for the lawyers, the merchants, the 
 ^stockjobbers, and the poHticians. The club, though a natural 
 outgrowth, to some extent, of the coffeehouse, was more ex- 
 clusive in its character, corresponding in many respects to our 
 modern institution. The coffeehouse, on the other hand, was 
 the lyceum of that day, in the free atmosphere of which all 
 matters of pubhc concern were discussed, pubhc opinion largely 
 molded and directed, and a spirit of inquiry fostered, which led 
 the way eventually to those brilliant discoveries in science and 
 the arts by which the last years of the century were distinguished. 
 The most famous of these for a time was Will's, opened in 
 1660, owing its reputation to the fact that it was Dryden's 
 custom to visit it ^* of an afternoon," where he had his special 
 place assigned him, and where callow bards crowded to get a 
 nod from the great man, or his favorable comment on some new 
 sonnet or epigram. Addison's resort was Button's, in the im- 
 mediate neighborhood of Will's, which he has made memorable, 
 too, as the meeting place of the Spectator's Club. He evidently 
 loved a coffeehouse as much as Dr. Johnson did a tavern, and 
 it is to this inclination we are indebted for many of the most 
 charming papers in the "Spectator." There, surrounded by that 
 group of friends, — the "Httle senate," as Pope sneeringly charac- 
 terized it, — we can imagine the discourse of this man, so silent 
 usually, but when with his intimates, as Mary Wortley Montagu 
 said, "the best company in the world." What would we not 
 give had a Boswell been there ! 
 
1 2 INTROD UCTION. 
 
 It has been the custom to depreciate Steele*s merits as a writer 
 as compared with Addison, and the relative value of his share in 
 their joint work. This test is one, we think, too severe to apply, 
 not to Steele only, but to any other writer in this kind of litera- 
 ture before or since his time. It must be conceded that Steele 
 has done but little to enrich the language, or to add to the har- » 
 mony, the correctness, or the purity of its diction. There are 
 many defects of style, and errors of taste and judgment, discover- 
 able in his writings ; and it is probable, that, but for his association 
 with Addison, they would not have survived the fate of many 
 other works of this character. It may be said, once for all, that 
 style, in the sense we use it when speaking of Addison or Lamb, 
 for instance, cannot be acquired any more than genius can. 
 "The style, it is the man." When he entered upon his labors 
 as an essayist in the "Tatler," Steele fell into the error, not un- 
 common among his craft, of thinking, that in order the better to 
 accomplish his purpose of general instruction and entertainment, 
 and adapt himself to the comprehension of the people, he should 
 aim, to use his own words, at a certain " incorrectness of style, 
 and writing in an air of common speech." That this absurd 
 resolution, if persisted in, would have proved fatal to his avowed 
 purpose of chastising the vices and follies of society, of correct- 
 ing the foibles and weaknesses of mankind, regulating the duties 
 and amenities of social intercourse, and cultivating a taste for 
 pure literature, we need not multiply words to demonstrate. It 
 is true, Steele's influence as a moralist was somewhat impaired 
 by the gay and dissipated Hfe he led ; and politics and the 
 tumults of party strife left him but little of the leisure which 
 Addison enjoyed. At the same time, he was gifted with acute 
 sensibility and a nature keenly alive and responsive to the ten- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 der emotions ; and examples are abundant in his writings to prove 
 th^t where his feehngs were enlisted, or his generous impulses 
 aroused, his style assumes an energy and an animation fully 
 adequate to his subject. Almost alone among the writers of his 
 day, Steele was a consistent champion of women ; and his pen 
 was ever ready in defense of their wit, their virtue, and their 
 beauty. He did much, too, to improve the theater, which, at the 
 beginning of the eighteenth century, was still, as it had long 
 been, a nursery and hotbed of vice. Not only by means of his 
 own productions, but by reason of his strictures in the ''Tatler" 
 and " Spectator," and his critical discernment, public attention 
 was directed to the merits of Shakespeare's plays, which had for 
 many years been almost entirely banished from the stage. 
 
 Nothing can be added by an inferior pen to Macaulay's portrait 
 of Addison. His figure, from the time when he was wont, in 
 meditative mood, to pace the groves of Magdalen College, in 
 what came to be known as "Addison's Walk," to the later years, 
 when, a silent spectator of men, he looked upon the busy scenes 
 about him with an eye so keen but so kindly, is the most fa- 
 mihar, and certainly one of the most lovable, of any in the long 
 roll of English men of letters. To the people who had at length 
 emerged from the arid desert of the Restoration, he opened a 
 fountain of clear, sweet, sparkling water, from his '' well of pure 
 English undefiled," with which he invited them to slake their 
 thirst at will. 
 
 A perennial stream, it has been flowing down with ever increas- 
 ing volume from generation to generation to our own day. Mod- 
 em prose literature may, indeed, be said to have begun with the 
 " Spectator ; " the easy, graceful, elastic movement of its style, and 
 at the same time its aptitude, simplicity, and precision, contrast- 
 
14 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 ing strongly with the cumbrous diction, the '' long resounding " 
 periods, and the crude forms of expression, so common in even 
 the best writers of the seventeenth century, and in many of Queen 
 Anne's time. 
 
 But that for which Addison, perhaps, would have preferred, 
 before all things else, to be held in honor was, that in all his writ- 
 ings he steadily exerted his great powers in promoting the social, 
 moral, and religious advancement of his race. Many of the noble 
 and beneficent measures, with this end in view, by which a part 
 of the last century, and our own particularly, have been distin- 
 guished, may be traced directly to the daily, lay discourses of 
 this ''parson in a tye-wig." Cato's Httle senate, since its small 
 beginnings in Button's coffeehouse, has been expanding, until 
 now he is loved and honored with an affection " just this side of 
 idolatry," in far-distant lands, in milHons of homes, wherever the 
 English-speaking race is found, and in states and commonwealths 
 that were wildernesses then, — in this Western continent of ours, 
 and in " the long wash of Australasian seas." 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON.^ 
 
 SOME reviewers are of opinion that a lady who dares to pub- 
 hsh a book renounces by that act the franchises appertaining 
 to her sex, and can claim no exemption from the utmost rigor 
 of critical procedure. From that opinion we dissent. We 
 admit, indeed, that, in a country which boasts of many female 
 writers eminently qualified by their talents and acquirements to 
 influence the public mind, it would be of most pernicious conse- 
 quence that inaccurate history or unsound philosophy should be 
 suffered to pass uncensured, merely because the offender chanced 
 to be a lady. But we conceive that, on such occasions, a critic 
 would do well to imitate the courteous knight who found him- 
 self compelled by duty to keep the hsts against Bradamante.^ 
 He, we are told, defended successfully the cause of which he 
 was the champion, but, before the fight began, exchanged Bal- 
 isarda ^ for a less deadly sword, of which he carefully blunted 
 the point and edge. 
 
 Nor are the immunities of sex the only immunities which Miss 
 Aikin may rightfully plead. Several of her works, and especially 
 the very pleasing *' Memoirs of the Court of King James I.," have 
 fully entitled her to the privileges enjoyed by good writers. One 
 
 1 A review of the Life of Joseph Addison, by Lucy Aikin, published in 
 1843. 
 
 2 A lady knight-errant whose exploits are related in Ariosto's Orlando 
 Furioso. 
 
 3 A sword made by a sorceress, and capable of cutting through the hardest 
 substances. See Orlando Furioso, Hoole's translation, xlv. 523. 
 
 15 
 
i6 MACAULAY, 
 
 of those privileges we hold to be this : that such writers, when, 
 either from the unlucky choice of a subject or from the indo- 
 lence too often produced by success, they happen to fail, shall 
 not be subjected to the severe discipline which it is sometimes 
 necessary to inflict upon dunces and impostors, but shall merely 
 be reminded by a gentle touch, hke that with which the Laputan 
 flapper i roused his dreaming lord, that it is high time to wake. 
 
 Our readers will probably infer from what we have said that 
 Miss Aikin's book has disappointed us. The truth is, that she is 
 not well acquainted with her subject. No person who is not 
 familiar with the political and literary history of England during 
 the reigns of William III., of Anne, and of George I. ,2 can 
 possibly write a good life of Addison. Now, we mean no 
 reproach to Miss Aikin, and many will think that we pay her a 
 compliment, when we say that her studies have taken a different 
 direction. She is better acquainted with Shakespeare and Ra- 
 leigh ^ than with Congreve and Prior,^ and is far more at home 
 among the ruffs and peaked beards of Theobald's ^ than among 
 the Steenkirks^ and flowing periwigs which surrounded Queen 
 
 1 The Laputan flapper was, according to Swift's story of Gulliver's Voyage 
 to Laputa, an officer whose business it was to attend his master in his walks, 
 with a blown bladder attached to a stick, with which he roused his attention 
 by a gentle flap, lest he should fall over a precipice or against a post, so con- 
 stantly wrapped was he in cogitation. 
 
 2 William III. and his wife Mary, the daughter of James II., were made 
 rulers of England on the expulsion of James, in 1688. Queen Anne suc- 
 ceeded to the throne in 1 702, and George I. in 1714. The entire period 
 covered by the reigns of these monarchs was about forty years (1688-1727). 
 
 3 William Shakespeare (1564-1616) and Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618) 
 llourished a hundred years before the time of Addison. 
 
 * William Congreve (1670-1729), a poet and dramatist, and Matthew 
 Prior ( 1664-172 1 ), a poet and diplomat, were both contemporaries of Addison. 
 
 5 A country seat built by Lord Burleigh, Queen Elizabeth's minister; 
 afterwards a residence of James I., who died there. 
 
 6 Loosely arranged military cravats, worn by the French noblemen after 
 the battle of Steenkirk, in Holland, in which the allies under William III. 
 were defeated. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 17 
 
 Anne's tea table at Hampton.^ She seems to have written 
 about the EHzabethan age, because she had read much about 
 it: she seems, on the other hand, to have read a httle about the 
 age of Addison, because she had determined to write about it. 
 The consequence is, that she has had to describe men and things 
 without having either a correct or a vivid idea of them, and that 
 she has often fallen into errors of a very serious kind. The repu- 
 tation which Miss Aikin has justly earned stands so high, and 
 the charm of Addison's letters is so great, that a second edition of 
 this work may probably be required. If so, we hope that every 
 paragraph will be revised, and that every date and fact about 
 which there can be the smallest doubt will be carefully verified. 
 
 To Addison himself we are bound by a sentiment as much hke 
 affection as any sentiment can be which is inspired by one who 
 has been sleeping a hundred and twenty years in Westminster 
 Abbey.2 We trust, however, that this feeling will not betray us 
 into that abject idolatry which we have often had occasion to 
 reprehend in others, and which seldom fails to make both the 
 idolater and the idol ridiculous. A man of genius and virtue is 
 but a man. All his powers cannot be equally developed, nor 
 can we expect from him perfect self-knowledge. We need not, 
 therefore, hesitate to admit that Addison has left us some com- 
 positions which do not rise above mediocrity, some heroic poems 
 hardly equal to Parnell's,^ some criticism as superficial as Dr. 
 Blair's,^ and a tragedy not very much better than Dr. Johnson's.^ 
 
 1 Hampton Court, built by Cardinal Wolsey, and the favorite residence of 
 many of the English sovereigns. 
 
 2 The most ancient of the cathedrals of England, and the mausoleum of 
 many of her illustrious dead. 
 
 3 Thomas Parnell (1679-1 71 7), one of the minor poets of Queen Anne's 
 reign ; best known by his poem, the Hermit. 
 
 4 Dr.Hugh Blair (1718-1800), born at Edinburgh, a distinguished preach- 
 er, and writer on rhetoric and belles-lettres. 
 
 5 Dr. Samuel Johnson (1709-84), a celebrated scholar, writer, and lexi- 
 cographer. The comparison here made is between Addison's Cato and 
 Dr. Johnson's Irene. 
 
 2 
 
i8 MACAULAY, 
 
 It is praise enough to say of a writer, that, in a high department 
 of Hterature in which many eminent writers have distinguished 
 themselves, he has had no equal ; and this may with strict justice 
 be said of Addison. 
 
 As a man he may not have deserved the adoration which he 
 received from those who, bewitched by his fascinating society, 
 and indebted for all the comforts of life to his generous and deli- 
 cate friendship, worshiped him nightly in his favorite temple at 
 Button's.^ But, after full inquiry and impartial reflection, we 
 have long been convinced that he deserved as much love and 
 esteem as can be justly claimed by any of our infirm and erring 
 race. Some blemishes may undoubtedly be detected in his char- 
 acter ; but the more carefully it is examined, the more will it 
 appear, to use the phrase of the old anatomists, sound in the noble 
 parts, free from all taint of perfidy, of cowardice, of cruelty, of 
 ingratitude, of envy. Men may easily be named in whom some 
 particular good disposition has been more conspicuous than in 
 Addison. But the just harmony of qualities, the exact temper 
 between the stern and the humane virtues, the habitual observ- 
 ance of every law, not only of moral rectitude, but of moral 
 grace and dignity, distinguish him from all men who have been 
 tried by equally strong temptations, and about whose conduct 
 we possess equally full information. 
 
 His father was the Rev. Lancelot Addison, who, though 
 eclipsed by his more celebrated son, made some figure in the 
 world, and occupies with credit two folio pages in the '' Bio- 
 graphia Britannica." Lancelot was sent up, as a poor scholar, 
 from Westmoreland to Queen's College,"^ Oxford, in the time of 
 the Conimonwealth,^ made some progress in learning, became, 
 
 1 A noted coffeehouse in London in Queen Anne's time, the resort of 
 Addison and his friends (see Introduction). 
 
 2 A college founded in 1340, and so named from Philippa, queen of 
 Edward III. 
 
 3 The government established by Cromwell and his associates, continuing 
 from the execution of Charles I. in 1649, till the Restoration in 1660. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 19 
 
 like most of his fellow students, a violent Royalist, lampooned 
 the heads of the university, and was forced to ask pardon on 
 his bended knees. When he had left college, he earned a hum- 
 ble subsistence by reading the hturgy of the fallen church to 
 the families of those sturdy squires whose manor houses were 
 scattered over the Wild of Sussex. After the Restoration, his 
 loyalty was rewarded with the post of chaplain to the garrison 
 of Dunkirk. 2 When Dunkirk was sold to France, he lost his 
 employment. But Tangier^ had been ceded by Portugal to 
 England as a part of the marriage portion of the Infanta* 
 Catharine ; and to Tangier, Lancelot Addison was sent. A more 
 miserable situation can hardly be conceived. It was difficult to 
 say whether the unfortunate settlers were more tormented by the 
 heats, or by the rains ; by the soldiers within the wall, or by the 
 Moors without it. One advantage the chaplain had. He 
 enjoyed an excellent opportunity of studying the history and 
 manners of Jews and Mohammedans ; and of this opportunity he 
 appears to have made excellent use. On his return to England, 
 after some years of banishment, he published an interesting vol- 
 ume on the " Polity and Rehgion of Barbary," and another on 
 the " Hebrew Customs and the State of Rabbinical Learning." ^ 
 He rose to eminence in his profession, and became one of the royal 
 chaplains, a doctor of divinity. Archdeacon of Sahsbury, and 
 Dean of Lichfield. It is said that he would have been made a 
 bishop after the Revolution, if he had not given offense to the 
 government by strenuously opposing, in the Convention of 1689, 
 the liberal policy of William and Tillotson.^ 
 
 1 Originally a forest or uncultivated tract of land. 
 
 2 A seaport of France, on the Straits of Dover, taken by Oliver Cromv^^ell 
 in 1658, but sold to Louis XIV. by Charles II. 
 
 3 A seaport of Morocco, on a small bay in the Straits of Gibraltar. It was 
 taken by the Portuguese in 1471. 
 
 * A title given to princesses of the blood royal of Spain and Portugal, except 
 the eldest. ^ Learning in the later periods of the literary history of the Jews. 
 
 6 John Robert Tillotson (1630-94), one of the great prelates and theologians 
 of the English Church, made Archbishop of Canterbury by William 211. 
 
20 MAC AULA Y, 
 
 In 1672, not long after Dr. Addison's return from Tangier, 
 his son Joseph was born. Of Joseph's childhood we know little. 
 He learned his rudiments at schools in his father's neighborhood, 
 and was then sent to the Charter House.^ The anecdotes which 
 are popularly related about his boyish tricks do not harmonize 
 very well with what we know of his riper years. There remains 
 a tradition that he was the ringleader in a barring-out,^ and 
 another tradition that he ran away from school, and hid himself 
 in a wood, where he fed on berries, and slept in a hollow tree, till, 
 after a long search, he was discovered and brought home. If 
 these stories be true, it would be curious to know by what moral 
 discipline so mutinous and enterprising a lad was transformed 
 into the gentlest and most modest of men. 
 
 We have abundant proof, that, whatever Joseph's pranks may 
 have been, he pursued his studies vigorously and successfully. 
 At fifteen he was not only fit for the university, but carried 
 thither a classical taste and a stock of learning which would 
 nave done honor to a master of arts. He was entered at 
 Queen's College, Oxford ; but he had not been many months 
 there when some of his Latin verses fell by accident into me 
 hands of Dr. Lancaster, Dean of Magdalen College. The 
 young scholar's diction and versification were already such as 
 veteran professors might envy. Dr. Lancaster was desirous to 
 serve a boy of such promise ; nor was an opportunity long want- 
 ing. The Revolution ^ had just taken place, and nowhere had it 
 been hailed with more deHght than at Magdalen College. That 
 great and opulent corporation had been treated by James, and 
 by his chancellor,^ with an insolence and injustice, which, even 
 
 1 A famous school for boys, in London, founded in 161 1, and removed 
 since 1872 to the village of Godalming, in Surrey. 
 
 2 An old school custom of barring the master out of the schoolroom in 
 order to dictate terms to him. 
 
 3 The Revolution of 1688, which seated William and Mary on the English 
 throne. 
 
 4 Chief Justice Jeffreys, to whom an infamous notoriety has attached from 
 his insolence, brutality, and cruelty. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 21 
 
 in such a prince and in such a minister, may justly excite amaze- 
 ment, and which had done more than even the prosecution of 
 the bishops ^ to alienate the Church of England from the throne. 
 A president, duly elected, had been violently expelled from his 
 dweUing ; a Papist had been set over the society by a royal man- 
 date ; the fellows who, in conformity with their oaths, had re- 
 fused to submit to this usurper, had been driven forth from their 
 quiet cloisters and gardens, to die of want, or to live on charity. 
 But the day of redress and retribution speedily came. The 
 intruders were ejected ; the venerable house was again inhabited 
 by its old inmates ; learning flourished under the rule of the wise 
 and virtuous Hough ;^ and with learning was united a mild and 
 liberal spirit too often wanting in the princely colleges of Oxford. 
 In consequence of the troubles through which the society had 
 passed, there had been no vahd election of new members during 
 the year 1688. In 1689, therefore, there was twice the ordinary 
 number of vacancies ; and thus Dr. Lancaster found it easy to 
 procure for his young friend admittance to the advantages of a 
 foundation then generally esteemed the wealthiest in Europe. 
 
 At Magdalen, Addison resided during ten years. He was at 
 first one of those scholars who are called *' Demies," but was sub- 
 sequently elected a fellow. His college is still proud of his name ; 
 his portrait still hangs in the hall ; and strangers are still told 
 that his favorite walk was under the elms which fringe the 
 meadow on the banks of the Cherwell. It is said, and is highly 
 probable, that he was distinguished among his fellow students by 
 the delicacy of his feelings, by the shyness of his manners, and 
 by the assiduity with which he often prolonged his studies far 
 into the night. It is certain that his reputation for ability and 
 learning stood high. Many years later the ancient doctors of 
 
 1 The prosecution of the primate and six of the bishops of the English 
 Church, by James II., in 1687, for refusing to read his declaration of indul- 
 gence in the churches. They were triumphantly acquitted, 
 
 2 Dr. John Hough (1651-1743), president of Magdalen College during 
 Addison's stay there. 
 
22 MACAULAY. 
 
 Magdalen continued to talk in their common room of his boy- 
 ish compositions, and expressed their sorrow that no copy of 
 exercises so remarkable had been preserved. 
 
 It is proper, however, to remark that Miss Aikin has committed 
 the error, very pardonable in a lady, of overrating Addison's 
 classical attainments. In one department of learning, indeed, 
 his proficiency was such as it is hardly possible to overrate. His 
 knowledge of the Latin poets, from Lucretius ^ and Catullus,^ 
 down to Claudian "^ and Prudentius,^ was singularly exact and 
 profound. He understood them thoroughly, entered into their 
 spirit, and had the finest and most discriminating perception of 
 all their peculiarities of style and melody ; nay, he copied their 
 manner with admirable skill, and surpassed, we think, all their 
 British imitators who had preceded him, Buchanan ^ and Milton ^ 
 alone excepted. This is high praise ; and beyond this we can- 
 not with justice go. It is clear that Addison's serious attention 
 during his residence at the university was almost entirely con- 
 centrated on Latin poetry, and that, if he did not wholly neglect 
 other provinces of ancient literature, he vouchsafed to them only 
 a cursory glance. He does not appear to have attained more 
 than an ordinary acquaintance with the pohtical and moral writers 
 of Rome; nor was his own Latin prose by any means equal to 
 his Latin verse. His knowledge of Greek, though doubtless 
 such as was, in his time, thought respectable at Oxford, was 
 evidently less than that which many lads now carry away every 
 
 1 One of the greatest of the Roman poets (95-55 B.C.). 
 
 2 A Roman lyric poet (86-46 B.C.), justly admired for the exquisite grace 
 and beauty of his compositions. 
 
 3 A Latin poet, who was born at Alexandria, and flourished in the fourth 
 century A.D. 
 
 4 A Roman Christian poet, born in Spain about A.D. 348. 
 
 5 George Buchanan (1506-82), an eminent Scottish divine and historian, 
 at one time tutor to Mary Queen of Scots and to her son, afterwards James I. 
 of England. His History of Scotland, written in Latin, is remarkable for 
 the vigor and beauty of its style. 
 
 6 John Milton (1608-74), author of Paradise Lost. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON, 23 
 
 year from Eton and Rugby. ^ A minute examination of his 
 works, if we had time to make such an examination, would fully 
 bear out these remarks. We will briefly advert to a few of the 
 facts on which our judgment is grounded. 
 
 Great praise is due to the notes which Addison appended to his 
 version of the second and third books of the *^ Metamorphoses." ^ 
 Yet those notes, while they show him to have been, in his own 
 domain, an accompHshed scholar, show also how confined that 
 domain was. They are rich in apposite references to Virgil,^ 
 Statins,* and Claudian ; but they contain not a single illustration 
 drawn from the Greek poets. Now if, in the whole compass of 
 Latin literature, there be a passage which stands in need of illus- 
 tration drawn from the Greek poets, it is the story of Pentheus 
 in the third book of the '' Metamorphoses." Ovid was indebted 
 for that story to Euripides ^ and Theocritus,^ both of whom he 
 has sometimes followed minutely. But neither to Euripides nor 
 to Theocritus does Addison make the faintest allusion ; and we 
 therefore beheve that we do not wrong him by supposing that 
 he had little or no knowledge of their works. 
 
 His travels in Italy, again, abound with classical quotations 
 happily introduced ; but scarcely one of those quotations is in 
 prose. He draws more illustrations from Ausonius and Manilius "^ 
 than from Cicero. ^ Even his notions of the political and miHtary 
 affairs of the Romans seem to be derived from poets and poet- 
 
 1 Eton and Rugby, two famous English schools. 
 
 2 Poems written by Ovid (43 B.C.-A.D. 18), a celebrated Roman poet of 
 the Augustan age. 
 
 2 The great Roman epic poet (70-19 B.C.), author of the ^neid and of 
 the pastoral Eclogues and Georgics. 
 
 4 A Roman poet (A.D. 61-96), author of the Thebais. 
 
 5 One of the three great Greek tragic writers, born about 481 B.C. 
 
 6 The greatest of the Greek pastoral and idyllic poets. He was born in 
 Syracuse, Sicily, early in the third century B.C. 
 
 ^ Inferior Latin poets, the former of the fourth century, the latter of the 
 first. 
 
 8 Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 B.C.), the greatest of Roman orators. 
 
24 MACAULAY. 
 
 asters. Spots made memorable by events which have changed 
 the destinies of the world, and which have been worthily recorded 
 by great historians, bring to his mind only scraps of some ancient 
 versifier. In the gorge of the Apennines he naturally remembers 
 the hardships which Hannibal's ^ army endured, and proceeds 
 to cite, not the authentic narrative of Polybius,^ not the pictur- 
 esque narrative of Livy,^ but the languid hexameters of Silius 
 Italicus.^ On the banks of the Rubicon^ he never thinks of 
 Plutarch's lively description, or of the stern conciseness of the 
 Commentaries,^ or of those Letters to Atticus "^ which so forcibly 
 express the alternations of hope and fear in a sensitive mind at 
 a great crisis. His only authority for the events of the civil war is 
 Lucan.^ 
 
 All the best ancient works of art at Rome and Florence are 
 Greek. Addison saw them, however, without recalling one single 
 verse of Pindar,^ of Callimachus,^^ or of the Attic dramatists; 
 
 1 The great Carthaginian general (247-183 B.C.), who crossed the Alps, 
 invaded Italy, and defeated the Romans in several engagements. He was 
 finally recalled to Africa to resist the advance of Scipio, who defeated him 
 in the battle of Zama. 
 
 2 A Greek historian, born about 204 B.C. He wrote a general history 
 of the affairs of Greece and Rome, in forty books, of which only five are 
 extant. 
 
 3 An illustrious Roman historian (59 B.C.-A.D. 18), who wrote the 
 Annals of Rome from the foundation to 9 B.C. Only thirty-five of its one 
 hundred and forty-two books have survived. 
 
 4 A minor Latin pofet (A.D. 25-101). 
 
 5 A small river in Italy, which formed the southern boundary of the prov- 
 ince of Gaul. By crossing it with his army, Caesar virtually declared war 
 against the Republic. 
 
 6 Caesar's Commentaries on the Gallic War. 
 
 7 The Letters to Atticus, a noble Roman, were addressed to him by his 
 friend Cicero. 
 
 8 A celebrated Roman poet, born in Spain, A.D. 37. His great work is 
 Pharsalia, a poem on the civil war between Caesar and Pompey. 
 
 9 The greatest of the Greek lyric poets, born about 522 B.C. 
 
 10 A Greek poet in the third century B.C., author of an epic poem, Argo- 
 nautica. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 25 
 
 but they brought to his recollection innumerable passages of 
 Horace, 1 Juvenal,^ Statins, and Ovid, k 
 
 The same may be said of the treatise on medals. In that 
 pleasing work we find about three hundred passages extracted 
 with great judgment from the Roman poets; but we do not 
 recollect a single passage taken from any Roman orator or his- 
 torian, and we are confident that not a line is quoted from any 
 Greek writer. No person who had derived all his information 
 on the subject of medals from Addison would suspect that the 
 Greek coins were in historical interest equal, and in beauty of 
 execution far superior, to those of Rome. 
 
 If it were necessary to find any further proof that Addison's 
 classical knowledge was confined within narrow limits, that proof 
 would be furnished by his *^ Essay on the Evidences of Christi- 
 anity." The Roman poets throw little or no light on the literary 
 and historical questions which he is under the necessity of examin- 
 ing in that essay. He is, therefore, left completely in the dark ; 
 and it is melancholy to see how helplessly he gropes his way from 
 blunder to blunder. He assigns as grounds for his rehgious be- 
 lief stories as absurd as that of the Cock Lane ghost,^ and for- 
 geries as rank as Ireland's Vortigern ; ^ puts faith in the lie about 
 the Thundering Legion ; ^ is convinced that Tiberius ^ moved the 
 
 1 One of the poets of the Augustan age in Rome, whose odes, epistles, 
 and satires show the Latin tongue in its perfection. 
 
 2 A Roman poet and satirist in the first century A.D., unrivaled as a casti- 
 gator of vice. 
 
 3 The name given to the supposed cause of strange phenomena which took 
 place about the bed of a young girl, in 1762, in Cock Lane, London. It 
 was found to be an imposture, and the principals were punished. 
 
 4 W. H. Ireland (i 777-1835) forged an autograph of Shakespeare, a deed 
 purporting to be in the poet's handwriting, and finally a play, Vortigern, 
 which Sheridan brought out at Drury Lane. The imposture was exposed by 
 Malone, and Ireland made a full confession. 
 
 5 A name given to a Roman legion, A.D. 179 ; the prayers of some Chris- 
 tians in it having been followed, it is said, by a thunderstorm which quenched 
 their thirst, and discomfited the enemy. 
 
 * Tiberius (42 B.C.-A.D. 37), SQQond Emperor of Rome. 
 
26 MAC AULA Y, 
 
 senate to admit Jesus among the gods ; and pronounces the letter 
 of Agbarus, King of Edessa, to be a record of great authority.^ 
 Nor were these errors the effects of superstition, for to supersti- 
 tion Addison was by no means prone. The truth is, that he was 
 writing about what he did not understand. 
 
 Miss Aikin has discovered a letter, from which it appears, that, 
 while Addison resided at Oxford, he was one of several writers 
 whom the booksellers engaged to make an English version of 
 Herodotus ;2 and she infers that he must have been a good Greek 
 scholar. We can allow very little weight to this argument, when 
 we consider that his fellow laborers were to have been Boyle and 
 Blackmore.3 Boyle is remembered chiefly as the nominal author 
 of the worst book on Greek history and philology that ever was 
 printed ; and this book, bad as it is, Boyle was unable to pro- 
 duce without help. Of Blackmore's attainments in the ancient 
 tongues, it may be sufficient to say, that in his prose he has 
 confounded an aphorism with an apothegm, and that when, 
 in his verse, he treats of classical subjects, his habit is to regale 
 his readers with four false quantities to a page. 
 
 It is probable that the classical acquirements of Addison were 
 of as much service to him as if they had been more extensive. 
 The world generally gives its admiration, not to the man who 
 does what nobody else even attempts to do, but to the man who 
 does best what multitudes do Well. Bentley ^ was so immeasure- 
 ably superior to all the other scholars of his time, that few among 
 them could discover his superiority. But the accomplishment in 
 which Addison excelled his contemporaries was then, as it is now, 
 
 1 Agbarus, according to a tradition of the Church, wrote a letter to Jesus, 
 and received one in reply. 
 
 2 Born 434 B.C., and called the '* Father of History." He visited most 
 of the then known portions of the globe, and wrote an account of them. 
 
 3 Robert Boyle (1626-91) and Sir Richard Blackmore (i 650-1 729) were 
 both distinguished writers. 
 
 4 Richard Bentley (1662-1742), an English divine distinguished for his 
 classical learning. He had a controversy with Charles Boyle (i 676-1 731) as 
 to the genuineness of the Epistles of Phalaris, which he pronounced spurious. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 27 
 
 highly valued and assiduously cultivated at all Enghsh seats of 
 learning. Everybody who had been at a pubHc school had written 
 Latin verses : many had written such verses with tolerable suc- 
 cess, and were quite able to appreciate, though by no means able 
 to rival, the skill with which Addison imitated Virgil. His lines 
 on the " Barometer " and the " Bowling Green " were applauded 
 by hundreds to whom the " Dissertation on the Epistles of Pha- 
 laris " was as unintelligible as the hieroglyphics on an obelisk. 
 
 Purity of style, and an easy flow of numbers, are common to 
 all Addison's Latin poems. Our favorite piece is the '' Battle of 
 the Cranes and Pygmies," for in that piece we discern a gleam of 
 the fancy and humor which many years later enlivened thousands 
 of breakfast tables. Swift ^ boasted that he was never known to 
 steal a hint ; and he certainly owed as little to his predecessors 
 as any modern writer. Yet we cannot help suspecting that he 
 borrowed, perhaps unconsciously, one of the happiest touches in 
 his " Voyage to Lilliput " from Addison's verses. Let our readers 
 judge. 
 
 " The Emperor," says Gulliver, '' is taller by about the breadth 
 of my nail than any of his court, which alone is enough to strike 
 an awe into the beholders." 
 
 About thirty years before " Gulliver's Travels " appeared, 
 Addison wrote these hnes: — 
 
 '* Jamque acies inter madias sese arduus infert 
 Pygmeadum ductor, qui, majestate verendus, 
 Incessuque gravis, reliquos supereminet omnes 
 Mole gigantea, mediamque exsurgit in ulnam."2 
 
 The Latin poems of Addison were greatly and justly admired 
 both at Oxford and Cambridge, before his name had ever been 
 
 1 Jonathan Swift (1667-1745), author of Gulliver's Travels, Tale of a 
 Tub, Battle of the Books, etc. ^ 
 
 2 ""And now the tall leader of the Pygmies presents himself within the 
 lines of battle, who, terrible in his majesty and heavy in his gait, overtops all 
 the rest with his huge mass, and rises to the middle of the arm." 
 
28 MACAULAY, 
 
 heard by the wits who thronged the coffeehouses round Drury 
 Lane Theater. In his twenty-second year he ventured to appear 
 before the pubhc as a writer of Enghsh verse. He addressed 
 some comphmentary hues to Dryden,^ who, after many triumphs 
 and many reverses, had at length reached a secure and lonely 
 eminence among the hterary men of that age. Dryden appears 
 to have been much gratified by the young scholar's praise ; and 
 an interchange of civilities and good offices followed. Addison 
 was probably introduced by Dryden to Congreve, and was cer- 
 tainly presented by Congreve to Charles Montague,^ who was 
 then chancellor of the exchequer, and leader of the Whig party 
 in the House of Commons. 
 
 At this time, Addison seemed inclined to devote himself to 
 poetry. He published a translation of part of the fourth '*Geor- 
 gic,"3 "Lines to King WilHam," and other performances of equal 
 value ; that is to say, of no value at all. But in those days the pub- 
 lic was in the habit of receiving with applause pieces which would 
 now have httle chance of obtaining the Newdigate prize or the 
 Seatonian prize.^ And the reason is obvious. The heroic couplet 
 was then the favorite measure. The art of arranging words in 
 that measure, so that the lines may flow smoothly, that the 
 accents may fall correctly, that the rhymes may strike the ear 
 strongly, and that there may be a pause at the end of every 
 distich, is an art as mechanical as that of mending a kettle, or 
 shoeing a horse, and may be learned by any human being who 
 has sense enough to learn anything. But, like other mechanical 
 arts, it was gradually improved by means of many experiments 
 
 1 John Dryden (i 631- 1700), a famous English poet, author of a translation 
 of Virgil's ^neid and a number of plays and poems. 
 
 2 Lord Halifax (1661-1715), a distinguished wit, statesman, and finan- 
 cier, who, when chancellor of the exchequer under William III., directed 
 the recoining r)f all the current money of the nation. He was a lifelong 
 friend of Addison. 
 
 3 Of Virgil. 
 
 4 The Newdigate prize and the Seatonian prize were scholarships ; the one 
 at Oxford, the other at Cambridge. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 29 
 
 and many failures. It was reserved for Pope^ to discover the 
 trick, to make himself complete master of it, and to teach it to 
 everybody else. From the time when his "Pastorals" appeared, 
 heroic versification became matter of rule and compass ; and 
 before long all artists were on a level. Hundreds of dunces who 
 never blundered on one happy thought or expression were able 
 to write reams of couplets, which, as far as euphony was con- 
 cerned, could not be distinguished from those of Pope himself, 
 and which very clever writers of the reign of Charles II. — 
 Rochester,^ for example, or Marvell,^ or Oldham^ — would 
 have contemplated with admiring despair. 
 
 Ben Jonson ^ was a great man, Hoole ^ a very small man. 
 But Hoole, coming after Pope, had learned how to manufacture 
 decasyllable verses, and poured them forth by thousands and tens 
 of thousands, all as well turned, as smooth, and as like each othei' 
 as the blocks which have passed through Mr. Brunei's ^ mill in the 
 dockyard at Portsmouth. Ben's heroic couplets resemble blocks 
 rudely hewn out by an unpracticed hand with a blunt hatchet. 
 Take as a specimen his translation of a celebrated passage in 
 the "^neid : " — 
 
 ' Alexander Pope (1688-1744), author of the Rape of the Lock, an Essay 
 on Man, and the Dunciad. He also translated Homer's Iliad. 
 
 2 John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-80), a wit, poet, and profligate 
 associate of Charles II. 
 
 3 Andrew Marvell (1620-78), a poet and political writer during the Com- 
 monwealth, and a friend of Milton. 
 
 4 John Oldham (1653-83) wrote in imitation of Horace and Juvenal, in a 
 style of coarse but vigorous invective. 
 
 5 Ben Jonson (i 574-1637), a dramatist and a contemporary and friend of 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 <5 John Hoole (i 727-1803) wrote translations of the Italian poets, Tasso 
 and Ariosto, and several poor plays. 
 
 ^ Mark Isambard Brunei (i 769-1849), a French civil engineer, who sub- 
 mitted to the government a plan for making block pulleys for ships, which 
 was carried into execution in the dockyard at Portsmouth, and proved a great 
 .success- He also constructed the Thames itunnol. 
 
3© MAC AULA Y. 
 
 ** This child our parent earth, stirr'd up with spite 
 Of all the gods, brought forth, and, as some write, 
 She was last sister of that giant race 
 That sought to scale Jove's court, right swift of pace, 
 And swifter far of wing, a monster vast 
 And dreadful. Look, how many plumes are placed 
 On her huge corpse, so many waking eyes 
 Stick underneath, and, which may stranger rise 
 In the report, as many tongues she wears." 
 
 Compare with these jagged, misshapen distichs the neat fabric 
 which Hoole's machine produces in unlimited abundance. We 
 take the first lines on which we open in his version of Tasso.^ 
 They are neither better nor worse than the rest: — 
 
 '* O thou, whoe'er thou art, whose steps are led. 
 By choice or fate, these lonely shores to tread. 
 No greater wonders east or west can boast 
 Than yon small island on the pleasing coast. 
 If e'er thy sight would blissful scenes explore. 
 The current pass, and seek the further shore." 
 
 Ever since the time of Pope there has been a glut of lines of 
 this sort ; and we are now as Httle disposed to admire a man for 
 being able to write them as for being able to write his name. 
 But in the days of William III. such versification was rare; and 
 a rhymer who had any skill in it passed for a great poet, just as, 
 in the dark ages, a person who could write his name passed for 
 a great clerk. Accordingly, Duke, Stepney, Granville, Walsh, 
 and others whose only title to fame was that they said in toler- 
 able meter what might have been as well said in prose, or what 
 was not worth saying at all, were honored with marks of distinc- 
 tion which ought to be reserved for genius. With these Addison 
 must have ranked, if he had not earned true and lasting glory by 
 performances which very Httle resembled his juvenile poems. 
 
 1 Torquato Tasso (1544-95), one of the greatest of modern Italian poets, 
 author of Jerusalem Delivered, an epic poem in twenty-four books. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 31 
 
 Dryden was now busied with Virgil, and obtained from Addison 
 a critical preface to the '* Georgics." In return for this service, 
 and for other services of the same kind, the veteran poet, in the 
 postscript to the translation of the ''^neid," complimented his 
 young friend with great hberality, and indeed with more liberality 
 than sincerity. He affected to be afraid that his own performance 
 would not sustain a comparison with the version of the fourth 
 '* Georgic," by ** the most ingenious Mr. Addison of Oxford." 
 '' After his bees," added Dryden, ''' my latter swarm is scarcely 
 worth the hiving." ^ 
 
 The time had now arrived when it was necessary for Addison 
 to choose a calling. Everything seemed to point his course 
 towards the clerical profession. His habits were regular, his 
 opinions orthodox. His college had large ecclesiastical prefer- 
 ment in its gift, and boasts that it has given at least one bishop 
 to almost every see in England. Dr. Lancelot Addison held an 
 honorable place in the Church, and had set his heart on seeing 
 his son a clergyman. It is clear, from some expressions in the 
 young man's rhymes, that his intention was to take orders. But 
 Charles Montague interfered. Montague had first brought him- 
 self into notice by verses, well timed and not contemptibly written, 
 but never, we think, rising above mediocrity. Fortunately for 
 himself and for his country, he early quitted poetry, in which he 
 could never have attained a rank as high as that of Dorset '^ or 
 Rochester, and turned his mind to official and parliamentary 
 business. It is written that the ingenious person who undertook 
 to instruct Rasselas,^ prince of Abyssinia, in the art of flying, 
 ascended an eminence, waved his wings, sprang into the air, and 
 instantly dropped into the lake. But it is added that the wings 
 which were unable to support him through the sky, bore him up 
 
 ^ In his fourth Georgic, Virgil describes the habits of bees. 
 
 2 Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset (163 7- 1706), a favorite courtier of 
 Charles II., a generous patron of men of letters, and himself author of some 
 verses now almost forgotten. 
 
 3 Rasselas is the title of an Eastern tale written by Dr. Samuel Johnson. 
 
32 MACAULAY. 
 
 effectually as soon as he was in the water. This is no bad type 
 of the fate of Charles Montague, and of men Hke him. When 
 he* attempted to soar into the regions of poetical invention, he 
 altogether failed ; but, as soon as he had descended from that 
 ethereal elevation into a lower and grosser element, his talents in- 
 stantly raised him above the mass. He became a distinguished 
 financier, debater, courtier, and party leader. He still retained 
 his fondness for the pursuits of his early days ; but he showed 
 that fondness, not by wearying the pubhc with his own feeble 
 performances, but by discovering and encouraging hterary ex- 
 cellence in others. A crowd of wits and poets, who would easily 
 have vanquished him as a competitor, revered him as a judge and 
 a patron. In his plans for the encouragement of learning, he 
 was cordially supported by the ablest and most virtuous of his 
 colleagues, the Lord Chancellor Somers.^ Though both these 
 great statesmen had a sincere love of letters, it was not solely 
 frAn a love of letters that they were desirous to enlist youths of 
 high intellectual quaHfications in the pubhc service. The Revo- 
 lution had altered the whole system of government. Before that 
 event, the press had been controlled by censors, and the Parlia- 
 ment had sat only two months in eight years. Now the press 
 was free, and had begun to exercise unprecedented influence on 
 the public mind. Parliament met annually, and sat long. The 
 chief power in the State had passed to the House of Commons. 
 At such a conjuncture it was natural that literary and oratorical 
 talents should rise in value. There was danger that a government 
 which neglected such talents might be subverted by them. It 
 was, therefore, a profound and enhghtened policy which led Mon- 
 tague and Somers to attach such talents to the Whig^ party 
 by the strongest ties both of interest and of gratitude. 
 
 1 John, Lord Somers (1652-1716), was made by William III. successively 
 attorney-general, lord keeper of the Great Seal, and lord high chancellor. 
 He was president of the Royal Society and a great patron of learning. 
 
 2 A name applied first in 1679 to that one of the two great parties in Eng- 
 land which advocated liberal principles in politics, as opposed to the Tories.. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. Z2> 
 
 It is remarkable that in a neighboring country we have re- 
 cently seen similar effects follow from similar causes. The Revo- 
 lution of July, 1830, estabhshed representative government in 
 France. The men of letters instantly rose to the highest impor- 
 tance in the State. At the present moment, most of the persons 
 whom we see at the head both of the Administration and of the 
 Opposition have been professors, historians, journalists, poets. 
 The influence of the literary class in England during the genera- 
 tion which followed the Revolution was great, but by no means 
 so great as it has lately been in France ; for in England the 
 aristocracy of intellect had to contend with a powerful and deeply 
 rooted aristocracy of a very different kind. France had no Som 
 ersets ^ and Shrewsburies - to keep down her Addisons and Priors 
 
 It was in the year 1699, when Addison had just completed hie 
 twenty-seventh year, that the course of his life was finally dete: 
 mined. Both the great chiefs of the ministry were kindly dis- 
 posed towards him. In political opinions he already was wflat 
 he continued to be through life, a firm though a moderate Whig, 
 He had addressed the most polished and vigorous of his early 
 English lines to Somers, and had dedicated to Montague a Latin 
 poem, truly Virgilian both in style and rhythm, on the peace of 
 Ryswick.^ The wish of the young poet's great friends was, it 
 should seem, to employ him in the service of the Crown abroad. 
 But an intimate knowledge of the French language was a quali- 
 fication indispensable to a diplomatist ; and this qualification 
 Addison had not acquired. It was therefore thought desirable 
 that he should pass some time on the Continent in preparing 
 
 1 Charles Seymour (1661-1748), known as " the proud Duke of Somerset," 
 who filled several high positions in the reigns of Charles II., William III., 
 and Queen Anne. 
 
 2 Charles Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury (1684-1737), a lawyer and states- 
 man of high character, a solicitor-general, and lord high chancellor of 
 England. 
 
 3 The peace of Ryswick was a treaty concluded in 1697 in Ryswick, a 
 town of Holland, which put an end to the bloody contest in which England 
 and France had been engaged. 
 
 3 
 
34 MACAULAY. 
 
 himself for official employment. His own means were not such 
 as would enable him to travel ; but a pension of three hundred 
 pounds a year was procured for him by the interest of the lord 
 chancellor. It seems to have been apprehended that some diffi- 
 culty might be started by the rulers of Magdalen College ; but 
 the chancellor of the exchequer^ wrote in the strongest terms 
 to Hough. The State — such was the purport of Montague's 
 letter — could not at that time spare to the Church such a man 
 as Addison. Too many high civil posts were already occupied 
 by adventurers, who, destitute of every liberal art and sentiment, 
 at once pillaged and disgraced the country which they pretended 
 to serve. It had become necessary to recruit for the public 
 service from a very different class, — from that class of which 
 Addison was the representative. The close of the minister's 
 letter was remarkable. '* I am called," he said, '* an enemy of 
 the Church ; but I will never do it any other injury than keeping 
 m-. Addison out of it." 
 
 This interference was successful; and in the summer of 1699 
 Addison, made a rich man by his pension, and still retaining his 
 fellowship, quitted his beloved Oxford, and set out on his travels. 
 He crossed from Dover to Calais, proceeded to Paris, and was 
 received there with great kindness and politeness by a kinsman 
 of his friend Montague, Charles, Earl of Manchester, who had 
 just been appointed ambassador to the court of France. The 
 countess, a Whig and a toast,^ was probably as gracious as her 
 lord ; for Addison long retained an agreeable recollection of the 
 impression which she at this time made on him, and, in some 
 lively lines written on the glasses of the Kit Cat Club,^ described 
 
 1 The chancellor of the exchequer in England is the member of the cabi- 
 net of ministers having charge of the finances. The lord high chancellor 
 is the presiding judge of the Court of Chancery, and chief adviser of the 
 Crown in matters of law and conscience. 
 
 2 A toast was some reigning beauty whose health was drunk in a company 
 of gentlemen. In the Kit Cat Club the name, with some appropriate verse, 
 was often inscribed on the glasses. 
 
 3 The Kit Cat Club was a famous association formed about 1700, and so 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 35 
 
 the envy which her cheeks, glowing with the genuine bloom of 
 England, had excited among the painted beauties of Versailles. 
 
 Louis XIV.i was at this time expiating the vices of his youth 
 by a devotion which had no root in reason, and bore no fruit 
 of charity. The servile Hterature of France had changed its 
 character to suit the changed character of the prince. No book 
 appeared that had not an air of sanctity. Racine,^ who was 
 just dead, had passed the close of his life in writing sacred 
 dramas ; and Dacier ^ was seeking for the Athanasian ^ mysteries 
 in Plato.^ Addison described this state of things in a short but 
 lively and graceful letter to Montague. Another letter, written 
 about the same time to the lord chancellor, conveyed the strong- 
 est assurances of gratitude and attachment. *' The only return I 
 can make to your lordship," said Addison, '* will be to apply myself 
 entirely to my business." With this view he quitted Paris, and 
 repaired to Blois, a place where it was supposed that the Frejich 
 language was spoken in its highest purity, and where not a single 
 Enghshman could be found. Here he passed some months 
 pleasantly and profitably. Of his way of life at Blois, one of his 
 associates, an abbe named Philippeaux, gave an account to 
 Joseph Spence.® If this account is to be trusted, Addison 
 studied much, mused much, talked little, had fits of absence, and 
 
 called from Christopher Cat, a pastry cook who made their mutton pies. It 
 was composed originally of about forty noblemen and gentlemen, all Whigs. 
 
 1 King of France (b. 1638; d. 1715). 
 
 2 Jean Racine (1639-99), author of tragedies, mostly upon classical themes, 
 which still keep possession of the French stage. 
 
 3 Andre Dacier (1651-1722), a French philologist. 
 
 4 Athanasius, one of the most distinguished of the Greek fathers, born in 
 Alexandria about A.D. 296. He was author of the famous Athanasian Creed, 
 still in use in the Church. 
 
 5 A great Greek philosopher (429-347 B.C.), pupil of Socrates, whose 
 system of ethics and philosophy he has preserved in his Dialogues. 
 
 6 A fellow of Oxford, and for a time professor of poetry in the university 
 (b. 1699; d. 1768). He left interesting records of conversations with Pope 
 and other eminent men of the time. 
 
36 MACAULAY, 
 
 either had no love affairs or was too discreet to confide them to 
 the abbe. A man who, even when surrounded by fellow coun- 
 trymen and fellow students, had always been remarkably shy and 
 silent, was not hkely to be loquacious in a foreign tongue and 
 among foreign companions. But it is clear from Addison's let- 
 ters, some of which were long after pubhshed in the '' Guardian," ^ 
 that, while he appeared to be absorbed in his own meditations, 
 he was really observing French society with that keen and sly, 
 yet not ill-natured side glance which was peculiarly his own. 
 
 From Blois he returned to Paris, and, having now mastered 
 the French language, found great pleasure in the society of French 
 philosophers and poets. He gave an account, in a letter to 
 Bishop Hough, of two highly interesting conversations, one with 
 Malebranche,- the other with Boileau.^ Malebranche expressed 
 great partiahty for the English, and extolled the genius of New- 
 ton,* but shook his head when Hobbes ^ was mentioned, and was 
 indeed so unjust as to call the author of the " Leviathan " a poor 
 silly creature. Addison's modesty restrained him from fully re- 
 lating, in his letter, the circumstances of his introduction to Boi- 
 leau. Boileau having survived the friends and rivals of his youth 
 — old, deaf, and melancholy — lived in retirement, seldom went 
 either to court or to the Academy ,6 and was almost inaccessible 
 to strangers. Of the English and of English literature he knew 
 nothing. He had hardly heard the name of Dry den. Some of 
 our countrymen, in the warmth of their patriotism, have asserted 
 
 1 One of the three serial papers conducted by Steele, to which Addison 
 contributed. 
 
 2 Nicolas Malebranche (1638-17 15), a celebrated French philosopher. 
 
 3 A famous French poet and satirist (1636-1711). 
 
 * Sir Isaac Newton (1642-1727), the greatest of English mathematicians 
 and astronomers, renowned for his discovery of the law of gravitation, his 
 invention of the method of the calculus, and his investigations in the science 
 of optics. 
 
 5 Thomas Hobbes (i 588-1679), an English philosopher, distinguished in 
 his day, but now almost forgotten. His principal work was the Leviathan. 
 
 6 The French Academy was instituted in 1635 by Cardinal Richelieu. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 37 
 
 that this ignorance must have been affected. We own that we 
 see no ground for such a supposition. EngHsh Kterature was to 
 the French of the age of Louis XIV. what German Uterature 
 was to our own grandfathers. Very few, we suspect, of the 
 accompHshed men who, sixty or seventy years ago, used to dine 
 in Leicester Square with Sir Joshua,^ or at Streatham with 
 Mrs. Thrale,^ had the sHghtest notion that Wieland^ was one 
 of the first wits and poets, and Lessing,^ beyond all dispute, the 
 first critic in Europe. Boileau knew just as httle about the *' Par- 
 adise Lost," and about " Absalom and Achitophel ; " ^ but he 
 had read Addison's Latin poems, and admired them greatly. 
 They had given him, he said, quite a new notion of the state of 
 learning and taste among the English. Johnson will have it that 
 these praises were insincere. " Nothing," says he, " is better 
 known of Boileau than that he had an injudicious and peevish 
 contempt of modern Latin ; and therefore his profession of 
 regard was probably the effect of his civility rather than appro- 
 bation." Now, nothing is better known of Boileau than that he 
 was singularly sparing of compliments. We do not remember 
 that either friendship or fear ever induced him to bestow praise 
 on any composition which he did not approve. On literary 
 questions his caustic, disdainful, and self-confident spirit rebelled 
 against that authority to which everything else in France bowed 
 down. He had the spirit to tell Louis XIV., firmly and even 
 rudely, that his Majesty knew nothing about poetry, and ad- 
 
 1 Sir Joshua Reynolds (1723-92), the famous portrait painter, resided in 
 Leicester Square, London. 
 
 2 Afterwards Mrs. Piozzi, wife of a wealthy London brewer, who by her 
 many social charms drew a brilliant circle of men of letters, artists, and 
 others about her, at her home at Streatham. Dr. Johnson was for a long 
 time a guest there. 
 
 3 A German poet and novelist(i 733-1813), and author of numerous works. 
 
 4 A distinguished German critic, dramatist, and writer (1729-81), whose 
 works are among the classics of German literature, and have done much 
 to refine and polish its style. 
 
 5 A famous political satire by Dryden. 
 
38 ^ MACAULAY, 
 
 mired verses which were detestable. What was there in Addi- 
 son's position that could induce the satirist whose stern and 
 fastidious temper had been the dread of two generations to turn 
 sycophant for the first and last time ? Nor was Boileau's 
 contempt of modern Latin either injudicious or peevish. He 
 thought, indeed, that no poem of the first order would ever be 
 written in a dead language. And did he think amiss ? Has 
 not the experience of centuries confirmed his opinion ? Boileau 
 also thought it probable that, in the best modern Latin, a writer 
 of the Augustan age ^ would have detected ludicrous improprie- 
 ties. And who can think otherwise ? What modern scholar can 
 honestly declare that he sees the smallest impurity in the style of 
 Livy ? Yet is it not certain that, in the style of Livy, PoHiOj^ 
 whose taste had been formed on the banks of the Tiber, detected 
 the inelegant idiom of the Po ? Has any modern scholar 
 understood Latin better than Frederick the Great ^ understood 
 French ? Yet is it not notorious that Frederick the Great — after 
 reading, speaking, writing French, and nothing but French, during 
 more than half a century ; after unlearning his mother tongue in 
 order to learn French ; after living familiarly during many years 
 with French associates — could not, to the last, compose in French 
 without imminent risk of committing some mistake which would 
 have moved a smile in. the Hterary circles of Paris? Do we 
 beheve that Erasmus ^ and Fracastorius ^ wrote Latin as well as 
 Dr. Robertson ^ and Sir Walter Scott '^ wrote English ? And are 
 
 1 The age of the first- Roman emperor, Augustus (63 B.C.-A.D. 14), in 
 which the poets Horace, Virgil, Ovid, and others flourished. 
 
 2 A Roman orator, poet, and historian, a friend of Virgil. 
 
 3 King of Prussia (b. 1712; d. 1786). 
 
 4 An eminent scholar (1467-1536), born at Rotterdam, who spent many 
 years in France, Italy, and the Netherlands, in teaching and study. 
 
 5 A learned physician and poet, author of many medical and poetical 
 works (b. 1483; d. 1553). 
 
 6 Dr. William Robertson (1721-93), a British historian, author, among 
 other works, of a History of Charles V. and a History of America. 
 
 "* Author of Waverley Novels, Lady of the Lake, etc. fb. 1771 ; d. 1832). 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 39 
 
 there not in the '* Dissertation on India," the last of Dr. Robert- 
 son's works, in '* Waverley," in " Marmion," Scotticisms at which 
 a London apprentice would laugh ? But does it follow, because 
 we think thus, that we can find nothing to admire in the noble 
 alcaics ^ of Gray ,2 or in the playful elegiacs of Vincent Bourne ? ^ 
 Surely not. Nor was Boileau so ignorant or tasteless as to be 
 incapable of appreciating good modern Latin. In the very letter 
 to which Johnson alludes, Boileau says, *' Ne croyez pas pourtant 
 que je veuille par la blamer les vers Latins que vous m'avez en- 
 voyes d'un de vos illustres academiciens. Je les ai trouves fort 
 beaux, et dignes de Vida et de Sannazar,^ mais non pas d' Horace 
 et de Virgile." ^ Several poems in modern Latin have been praised 
 by Boileau quite as liberally as it was his habit to praise anything. 
 He says, for example, of the Pere Fraguier's^ epigrams, that 
 Catullus seems to have come to hfe again. But the best proof 
 that Boileau did not feel the undiscerning contempt for modern 
 Latin verses which has been imputed to him, is, that he wrote 
 and pubhshed Latin verses in several meters. Indeed it hap- 
 pens, curiously enough, that the most severe censure ever pro- 
 nounced by him on modern Latin is conveyed in Latin hexam- 
 eters. We allude to the fragment which begins: — 
 
 1 One of the most beautiful and melodious of the ancient lyric meters ; so 
 called from Alcseus, a Greek poet (about 600 B.C.), who invented it. 
 
 2 Thomas Gray (i 716-71), an English poet and scholar. His Elegy 
 written in a Country Churchyard, and other poems, give him high rank 
 among English writers. 
 
 3 An accomplished English scholar (1695-1747), who wrote entirely in 
 Latin verse. 
 
 * Vida (b. 1566) and Sannazar (1468-1532) were both writers of Latin 
 verses. The latter, an Italian poet of Spanish descent, is best known for his 
 Arcadia, a medley of prose and verse. 
 
 5 " Do not think, however, that I mean by that to find fault with the Latin 
 verses of one of your illustrious academicians which you have sent me. I 
 have found them very beautiful, and worthy of Vida and of Sannazar, but not 
 of Horace and of Virgil." 
 
 6 A French Jesuit (i 666-1 728), who wrote numerous Latin poems, 
 etc. 
 
40 MA CAUL AY. 
 
 *' Quid numeris iterum me balbutire Latinis, 
 Longe Alpes citra natum de patre Sicambro, 
 Musa, jubes ? " ^ 
 
 For these reasons we feel assured that the praise which Boi- 
 leau bestowed on the Machince Gesticulanies'^ and the Gerano- 
 PygmcBomachia^ was sincere. He certainly opened himself to 
 Addison with a freedom which was a sure indication of esteem. 
 Literature was the chief subject of conversation. The old man 
 talked on his favorite theme much and well, indeed, as his young 
 hearer thought, incomparably well. Boileau had undoubtedly 
 some of the qualities of a great critic. He wanted imagination ; 
 but he had strong sense. His literary code was formed on narrow 
 principles; but in applying it he showed great judgment and 
 penetration. In mere style, abstracted from the ideas of which 
 style is the garb, his taste is excellent. He was well acquainted 
 with the great Greek writers ; and, though unable fully to ap- 
 preciate their creative genius, admired the majestic simphcity of 
 their manner, and had learned from them to despise bombast and 
 tinsel. It is easy, we think, to discover in the " Spectator " and 
 the '' Guardian," traces of the influence, in part salutary and in 
 part pernicious, which the mind of Boileau had on the mind of 
 Addison. 
 
 While Addison was at Paris, an event took place which made 
 that capital a disagreeable residence for an Englishman and a 
 Whig. Charles, second of the name, King of Spain, died, and 
 bequeathed his dominions to Philip, Duke of Anjou, a younger 
 son of the Dauphin.^ The King of France, in direct violation 
 of his engagements both with Great Britain and with the States 
 
 1 ** Why, Muse, do you order me, born far on this side of the Alps, of a 
 Sicambrian father, again to lisp in Latin numbers? " 
 
 2 Puppet shows. 
 
 3 The Battle of the Pygmies and the Cranes. 
 
 ^ The Dauphin was the title borne by the heir apparent to the throne of 
 France. It was originally held by the counts of Vienne, in the province of 
 Dauphin^o 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 41 
 
 General,! accepted the bequest on behalf of his grandson. The 
 house of Bourbon 2 was at the summit of human grandeur. Eng- 
 land had been outwitted, and found herself in a situation at once 
 degrading and perilous. The people of France, not presaging 
 the calamities by which they were destined to expiate the perfidy 
 of their sovereign, went mad with pride and delight. Every man 
 looked as if a great estate had just been left him. *' The French 
 conversation," said Addison, *' begins to grow insupportable ; that 
 which was before the vainest nation in the world is now worse 
 than ever." Sick of the arrogant exultation of the Parisians, and 
 probably foreseeing that the peace between France and England 
 could not be of long duration, he set off for Italy. 
 
 In December, 1700, he embarked at Marseilles. As he glided 
 along the Ligurian ^ coast, he was delighted by the sight of 
 myrtles and olive trees, which retained their verdure under the 
 winter solstice. Soon, however, he encountered one of the black 
 storms of the Mediterranean. The captain of the ship gave up 
 all for lost, and confessed himself to a capuchin who happened 
 to be on board. The English heretic, in the mean time, fortified 
 himself against the terrors of death with devotions of a very 
 different kind. How strong an impression this perilous voyage 
 made on him appears from the ode, ''How are thy servants blest, 
 O Lord ! " which was long after published in the '' Spectator." 
 After some days of discomfort and danger, Addison was glad to 
 land at Savona,^ and to make his way, over mountains where no 
 road had yet been hewn out by art, to the city of Genoa. 
 
 At Genoa, still ruled by her own doge and by the nobles 
 
 1 States General was the title borne by the representatives of the provinces 
 of the Netherlands, who met at the Hague from 1593 to 1795. 
 
 2 An illustrious French family, which for centuries was the greatest dynas- 
 tic power in Europe. Henry IV. (1553-1610) was the first Bourbon sover- 
 eign in France ; and the line ceased to reign with the abdication of Louis 
 Philippe in 1848. 
 
 3 The coast of the province of Genoa ; so called from its ancient inhabitants, 
 the Ligures. 
 
 * A seaport town of Italy, about twenty miles from Genoa. 
 
42 MACAULAY. 
 
 whose names were inscribed on her Book of Gold,i Addison made 
 a short stay. He admired the narrow streets overhung by long 
 lines of towering palaces, the walls rich with frescoes, the gor- 
 geous temple of the Annunciation, and the tapestries whereon 
 were recorded the long glories of the house of Doria.2 Thence 
 he hastened to Milan, where he contemplated the Gothic mag- 
 nificence of the cathedral with more wonder than pleasure. He 
 passed Lake Benacus ^ while a gale was blowing, and saw the 
 waves raging as they raged when Virgil looked upon them. At 
 Venice, then the gayest city in Europe, the traveler spent the 
 Carnival,^ the gayest season of the year, in the midst of masques, 
 dances, and serenades. Here he was at once diverted and pro- 
 voked by the absurd dramatic pieces which then disgraced the 
 Italian stage. To one of those pieces, however, he was indebted 
 for a valuable hint. He was present when a ridiculous play on 
 the death of Cato was performed. Cato, it seems, was in love 
 with the daughter of Scipio. The lady had given her heart to 
 Csesar. The rejected lover determined to destroy himself. He 
 appeared seated in his library, a dagger in his hand, a Plutarch ^ 
 and a Tasso before him ; and in this position he pronounced a 
 soliloquy before he struck the blow. We are surprised that so 
 remarkable a circumstance as this should have escaped the notice 
 of all Addison's biographers. There cannot, we conceive, be 
 the smallest doubt that this scene, in spite of its absurdities and 
 
 1 The doge was the title of the chief magistrate in the old Italian republics 
 of Venice and Genoa. The Libra cf Oro (the Book of Gold) was the book of 
 the nobility in Venice and Genoa. 
 
 2 An illustrious family of Genoa, the chief of whom were distinguished in 
 the wars of the republic. 
 
 3 Now Lago di Garda, the largest of the Italian lakes, thirty-eight miles 
 long, and twelve miles broad at its southern extremity. It is the source of 
 the River Mincio. 
 
 4 The season of indulgence allowed by the Catholic Church before Lent 
 sets in. 
 
 5 Plutarch's Parallel Lives of Eminent Greeks and Romans, written in the 
 first century. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 43 
 
 anachronisms, struck the traveler's imagination, and suggested to 
 him the thought of bringing ** Cato " on the Enghsh stage. It is 
 well known that about this time he began his tragedy,^ and that 
 he finished the first four acts before he returned to England. 
 
 On his way from Venice to Rome, he was drawn some miles 
 out of the beaten road by a wish to see the smallest independent 
 state in Europe. On a rock where the snow still lay, though the 
 Italian spring was now far advanced, was perched the little for- 
 tress of San Marino. 2 The roads which led to the secluded town 
 were so bad, that few travelers had ever visited it, and none had 
 ever published an account of it. Addison could not suppress a 
 good-natured smile at the simple manners and institutions of this 
 singular community ; but he observed, with the exultation of a 
 Whig, that the rude mountain tract which formed the territory 
 of the repiiblic swarmed with an honest, healthy, and contented 
 peasantry, while the rich plain which surrounded the metropoHs 
 of civil and spiritual tyranny was scarcely less desolate than the 
 uncleared wilds of America. 
 
 At Rome, Addison remained on his first visit only long enough 
 to catch a glimpse of St. Peter's ^ and of the Pantheon.^ His 
 haste is the more extraordinary, because the Holy Week ^ was 
 close at hand. He has given no hint which can enable us to pro- 
 nounce why he chose to fly from a spectacle wliich every 3^ear 
 allures from distant regions persons of far less taste and sensibil- 
 
 1 Of Cato (see Note 2, p. 88). 
 
 2 This, the smallest and one of the most ancient states in Europe, is sit- 
 uated in Central Italy, on a plateau two thousand feet in height, with an area 
 of only twenty-seven square miles. The government is a republic. 
 
 3 St. Peter's at Rome, the largest cathedral in Christendom, the founda- 
 tion of which was laid in 1406. It is 613 feet long, 450 feet across the tran- 
 septs, and 435 feet from the pavement to the top of the cross. 
 
 4 One of the most magnificent temples of ancient Rome, and the only one 
 of its splendid fanes that has come down to us uninjured. It was built by 
 Agrippa, and dedicated to all the gods, as its name implies. It has been con- 
 verted into a Christian church. 
 
 5 The last week in Lent. 
 
44 MACAULAY. 
 
 ity than his. Possibly, travehng, as he did, at the charge of a 
 government distinguished by its enmity to the Church of Rome, 
 he may have thought that it would be imprudent in him to assist 
 at the most magnificent rite of that Church. Many eyes would 
 be upon him, and he might find it difficult to behave in such a 
 manner as to give offense neither to his patrons in England nor 
 to those among' whom he resided. Whatever his motives may 
 have been, he turned his back on the most august and affecting 
 ceremony which is known among men, and posted along the 
 Appian Wayi to Naples. 
 
 Naples was then destitute of what are now, perhaps, its chief 
 attractions. The lovely bay and the awful mountain were indeed 
 there ; but a farmhouse stood on the theater of Herculaneum, 
 and rows of vines grew over the streets of Pompeii.^ The 
 temples of Psestum ^ had not, indeed, been hidden from the eye 
 of man by any great convulsion of nature ; but, strange to say, 
 their existence was a secret even to artists and antiquaries. Though 
 situated within a few hours' journey of a great capital, where 
 Salvator ^ had not long before painted, and where Vico ^ was then 
 lecturing, those noble remains were as little known to Europe 
 as the ruined cities overgrown by the forests of Yucatan. What 
 was to be seen at Naples, Addison saw. He climbed Vesuvius, 
 explored the tiinnel of Posilipo,^ and wandered among the vines 
 
 1 The oldest and most celebrated of all the ancient Roman roads. 
 
 2 Herculaneum and Pompeii, cities of ancient Italy, near Naples, were 
 completely buried under showers of ashes by an eruption of Mount Vesuvius, 
 A.D. 79. Herculaneum was discovered by an accident in 17 13, and Pompeii 
 in 1750. Many streets, temples, and precious works of art, have been 
 exhumed from the two cities. 
 
 3 An ancient city of Italy, and a place of importance and great beauty in 
 the time of the Romans. 
 
 * Salvator Rosa (1615-73), a celebrated painter, who painted directly from 
 nature, and delighted in scenes of gloomy grandeur and magnificence, 
 
 5' An Italian philosopher (1668-1744), author of a philosophy of history, 
 which anticipated the speculations of many eminent writers of recent times. 
 
 6 A promontory in the Bay of Naples, through which a tunnel was con 
 structed in ancient times, probably by Agrippa, 27 B.C. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON, 45 
 
 and almond trees of Capreae.^ But neither the wonders of nature, 
 nor those of art, could so occupy his attention as to prevent 
 him from noticing, though cursorily, the abuses of the government 
 and the misery of the people. The great kingdom which had 
 just descended to Philip V. was in a state of paralytic dotage. 
 Even Castile and Aragon^ were sunk in wretchedness. Yet, 
 compared with the ItaHan dependencies of the Spanish Crown, 
 Castile and Aragon might be called prosperous. It is clear that 
 all the observations which Addison made in Italy tended to 
 confirm him in the poHtical opinions which he had adopted at 
 home. To the last he always spoke of foreign travel as the 
 best cure for Jacobitism.^ In his '' Freeholder," ^ the Tory ^ fox 
 hunter asks what traveling is good for, except to teach a man 
 to jabber French and to talk against passive obedience. 
 '^From Naples, Addison returned to Rome by sea, along the 
 coast which his favorite Virgil had celebrated. The felucca ^ 
 passed the headland where the oar and trumpet were placed by 
 the Trojan adventurers ^ on the tomb of Misenus, and anchored 
 at night under the shelter of the fabled promontory of Circe.^ 
 The voyage ended in the Tiber, still overhung with dark verdure, 
 
 1 Modern Capri, a beautiful island in the Mediterranean, facing the city of 
 Naples, the residence for a long time of the Roman Emperor Tiberius. 
 
 2 The principal states of Spain. 
 
 3 The Jacobites (from Latin Jacobus^ James) were the party which adhered 
 to James II. after the Revolution of i688, and sought to restore his family to 
 the English throne. 
 
 * A political and literary paper in the style of the Spectator, published foi 
 a short time by Addison in 171 5- 
 
 ^ The name originally given to that party in England adhering to the 
 ancient constitution of the monarchy and to the apostolical hierarchy. 
 
 6 A vessel with oars and lateen sails, used in the Mediterranean. 
 
 7 The survivors of the siege^of Troy, who were led by ^neas, the hero of 
 Virgil's ^neid. Misenus was the trumpeter, and his tomb was said to be on 
 the promontory of Misenum, now Capo di Miseno, on the Bay of Naples. 
 
 8 Monte Circeio, a rocky promontory on the seacoast near Terracina in 
 Italy, at one time supposed to be an fsland, and the abode of Circe the 
 sorceress. 
 
46 MACAU LAY. 
 
 and still turbid with yellow sand, as when it met the eyes of 
 ^neas. From the ruined port of Ostia the stranger hurried to 
 Rome, and at Rome he remained during those hot and sickly 
 months, when, even in the Augustan age, all who could make 
 their escape fled from mad dogs and from streets black with 
 funerals, to gather the first figs of the season in the country. 
 It is probable that when he, long after, poured forth in verse 
 his gratitude to the Providence which had enabled him to 
 breathe unhurt in tainted air, he was thinking of the August and 
 September which he passed at Rome. 
 
 It was not till the tatter end of October that he tore himself 
 away from the masterpieces of ancient and modern art which are 
 collected in the city so long the mistress of the world. He then 
 journeyed northward, passed through Sienna,^ and for a moment 
 forgot his prejudices in favor of classic architecture as he looked 
 on the magnificent cathedral. At Florence he spent some days 
 with the Duke of Shrewsbury, who — cloyed with the pleasures of 
 ambition, and impatient of its pains ; fearing both parties, and lov- 
 ing neither — had determined to hide in an Itahan retreat talents 
 and accomphshments, which, if they had been united with fixed 
 principles and civil courage, might have made him the foremost 
 man of his age. These days, we are told, passed pleasandy, and 
 we can easily believe it ; for Addison was a delightful compan- 
 ion when he was at his ease ; and the duke, though he seldom 
 forgot that he was a Talbot, had the invaluable art of putting at 
 ease all who came near him. 
 
 Addison gave some time to Florence, and especially to the 
 sculptures in the Museum, which he preferred even to those of 
 the Vatican.2 He then pursued his journey through a country 
 
 1 Situated on the road from Florence to Rome, and noted for its superb 
 churches, palaces, and public monuments. 
 
 2 The residence of the Pope in Rome, the largest structure of the kind in 
 the world, comprising the private gardens and apartments of the Pope, recep- 
 tion halls, chapels, libraries, picture galleries, and vast museums of ancient 
 sculptures and other antiquities. 
 
THE LIFE AND VVRiriNGS OF ADDISON. ^j 
 
 in which the ravages of the last war were still discernible, and in 
 which all men were looking forward with dread to a still fiercer 
 conflict. Eugene ^ had already descended from the Rhsetian 
 Alps to dispute with Catinat'*^ the rich plain of Lombardy. The 
 faithless ruler of Savoy ^ was still reckoned among the alHes of 
 Louis. England had not yet actually declared war against 
 France; but Manchester ^ had left Paris; and the negotiations 
 which produced the Grand AHiance ^ against the house of Bour- 
 bon were in progress. Under such circumstances, it was desirable 
 for an English traveler to reach neutral ground without delay. 
 Addison resolved to cross Mont Cenis.^ It was December ; and 
 the road was very different from that which now reminds the 
 stranger of the power and genius of Napoleon. The winter, how- 
 ever, was mild ; and the passage Avas, for those times, easy. To 
 this journey Addison alluded, when, in the ode which we have 
 already quoted, he said that for him the Divine Goodness had 
 warmed the hoary Alpine hills. 
 
 It was in the midst of the eternal snow that he composed his 
 *^ Epistle " to his friend Montague, now Lord Halifax. That 
 " Epistle," once widely renowned, is now known only to curious 
 readers, and will hardly be considered by those to whom it is 
 known as in any perceptible degree heightening Addison's fame. 
 
 1 Prince Eugene (1663- 1736), a distinguished military chieftain who en- 
 tered the service of the German Emperor as a volunteer against the Turks, 
 was speedily promoted, and placed in command of the army of Hungary, was 
 associated with the Duke of Marlborough, and took part in the victories of 
 Blenheim, Oudenarde, and others. 
 
 2 A French marshal, who was commander of the army in Italy against 
 Prince Eugene, but was forced to retreat, which caused his disgrace and his 
 retirement. 
 
 3 Victor Amadeus II. (1665-1732), Duke of Savoy, and first King of 
 Sardinia. 
 
 * Charles Montague, fourth Earl of Manchester, espoused the cause of the 
 Prince of Orange, William III., and was sent ambassador to France in 1699. 
 
 5 The Grand Alliance was formed between the Emperor of Germany, Eng- 
 land, and the States of Holland, by a treaty signed Sept. 7, 1701. 
 
 6 A mountain pass in the Alps, 6,775 f^^t above the level of the sea. 
 
.i8 MACAU LAY. 
 
 It is, however, decidedly superior to any English composition 
 which he had previously published. Nay, we think it quite as 
 good as any poem in heroic meter which appeared during the 
 interval between the death of Dryden and the publication of 
 the '' Essay on Criticism." i It contains passages as good as the 
 second-rate passages of Pope, and would have added to the 
 reputation of Parnell or Prior. 
 
 But, whatever be the literary merits or defects of the *' Epistle," 
 it undoubtedly does honor to the principles and spirit of the au- 
 thor. Halifax had now nothing to give. He had fallen from 
 power, had been held up to obloquy, had been impeached by the 
 House of Commons, and, though his peers had dismissed the im- 
 peachment, had, as it seemed, little chance of ever again filling 
 high office. The '' Epistle," written at such a time, is one among 
 many proofs that there was no mixture of cowardice or meanness 
 in the suavity and moderation which distinguished Addison from 
 all the other pubhc men of those stormy times. 
 
 At Geneva the traveler learned that a partial change of minis- 
 try had taken place in England, and that the Earl of Manchester 
 had become secretary of state. Manchester exerted himself to 
 serve his young friend. It was thought advisable that an Eng- 
 lish agent should be near the person of Eugene in Italy ; and 
 Addison, whose diplomatic education was now finished, was the 
 man selected. He was preparing to enter on his honorable 
 functions when all his prospects were for a time darkened by 
 the death of Wilham III. 
 
 Anne had long felt a strong aversion — personal, poHtical, and 
 religious — to the Whig party. That aversion appeared in the first 
 measures of her reign. Manchester was deprived of the seals 
 after he had held them only a few weeks. Neither Somers nor 
 Halifax was sworn of the Privy Council.^ Addison shared the 
 
 1 A poem written by Pope in 1709, in his twenty-first year. 
 
 2 An assembly of state advisers unlimited as to number, and appointed by 
 the sovereign ; the sole qualification being, that the members be native-born 
 subjects of Great Britain. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 49 
 
 fate of his three patrons. His hopes of employment in the pub- 
 He service were at an end ; his pension was stopped ; and it was 
 necessary for him to support himself by his own exertions. He 
 became tutor to a young English traveler, and appears to have 
 rambled with his pupil over great part of Switzerland and Ger- 
 many. At this time he wrote his pleasing treatise on medals. 
 It was not published dll after his death ; but several distinguished 
 scholars saw the manuscript, and gave just praise to the grace 
 of the style and to the learning and ingenuity evinced by the 
 quotations. 
 
 From Germany, Addison repaired to Holland, where he learned 
 the melancholy news of his father's death. After passing some 
 months in the United Provinces,^ he returned, about the close of 
 the year 1703, to England. He was there cordially received by 
 his friends, and introduced by them into the Kit Cat Club, a 
 society in which were collected all the various talents and accom- 
 plishments which then gave luster to the Whig party. 
 
 Addison was, during some months after his return from the 
 Continent, hard pressed by pecuniary difficulties ; but it was soon 
 in the power of his noble patrons to serve him effectually. A 
 poHtical change — silent and gradual, but of the highest impor- 
 tance — was in daily progress. The accession of Anne had been 
 hailed by the Tories with transports of joy and hope ; and for a 
 time it seemed that the Whigs had fallen never to rise again. 
 The throne was surrounded by men supposed to be attached to 
 the prerogative and to the Church ; and among these none stood 
 so high in the favor of the sovereign as the Lord Treasurer 
 Godolphin 2 and the Captain General Marlborough.^ 
 
 1 The States of Holland. 
 
 2 Sidney, Earl of Godolphin (1645-1712), commissioner of the treasury 
 under William III. and lord high treasurer to Queen Anne. He was dis- 
 tinguished for his ability, sagacity, and administrative talents. 
 
 3 John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough (1650-1722), one of the greatest 
 of English generals. He entered military service under Charles II., but at the 
 Revolution of 1688 gave in his adhesion to William, Prince of Orange, and 
 
 4 
 
50 MAC AULA Y. 
 
 The country gentlemen and country clergymen had fully ex- 
 pected that the policy of these ministers would be directly 
 opposed to that which had been almost constantly followed by 
 WilHam ; that the landed interest would be favored at the 
 expense of trade ; that no addition would be made to the funded 
 debt ; that the privileges conceded to Dissenters ^ by the late King 
 would be curtailed, if not withdrawn ; that ^the war with France, 
 if there must be such a war, would, on our part, be almost 
 entirely naval ; and that the government would avoid close con- 
 nections with foreign powers, and, above all, with Holland. 
 
 But the country gentlemen and country clergymen were 
 fated to be deceived, not for the last time. The prejudices and 
 passions which raged without control in vicarages, in cathedral 
 closes, and in the manor houses of foxhunting squires, were not 
 shared by the chiefs of the ministry. Those statesmen saw that 
 it was both for the public interest and for their own interest to 
 adopt a Whig pohcy, at least as respected the alliances of the 
 country and the conduct of the war. But, if the foreign pohcy 
 of the Whigs were adopted, it was impossible to abstain from 
 adopting, also, their financial policy. The natural consequences 
 followed. The rigid Tories were ahenated from the government. 
 The votes of the Whigs became necessary to it. The votes of 
 the Whigs could be secured only by further concessions ; and 
 further concessions the Queen was induced to make. 
 
 At the beginning of the year 1704, the state of parties bore a 
 close analogy to the state of parties in 1826. In 1826, as. in 
 1704, there was a Tory ministry divided into two hostile sections. 
 The position of Mr. Canning 2 and his friends in 1826 corre- 
 
 was placed in command of the English forces in the Netherlands, but, on sus- 
 picion of correspondence with James II., was for a time in disgrace, and 
 deprived of his command, which was subsequently restored to him when he 
 entered upon that brilliant military career which established.his reputation. 
 
 1 Those who separated from the doctrines and ritual of the Established or 
 State Church. 
 
 2 George Canning (1770-1827), a British orator and statesman, prominent 
 in the political complications during the wars with Napoleon. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 51 
 
 sponded to that which Marlborough and Godolphin occupied in 
 1 704. Nottingham and Jersey were, in 1 704, what Lord Eldon 1 
 and Lord Westmoreland were in 1826. The Whigs of 1704 
 were in a situation resembling that in which the Whigs of 1826 
 stood. In 1704, Somers, Hahfax, Sunderland, Cowper,'^ were 
 not in office. There was no avowed coalition between them and 
 the moderate Tories. It is probable that no direct communica- 
 tion tending to such a coahtion had yet taken place ; yet all men 
 saw that such a coalition was inevitable, nay, that it was already 
 half formed. Such, or nearly such, was the state of things when 
 tidings arrived of the great battle fought at Blenheim ^ on the 
 13th of August, 1704. By the Whigs the news was hailed with 
 transports of joy and pride. No fault, no cause of quarrel, could 
 be remembered by them against the commander whose genius 
 had in one day changed the face of Europe, saved the imperial 
 throne,^ humbled the house of Bourbon, and secured the Act 
 of Settlement^ against foreign hostihty. The feeling of the 
 Tories was very different. They could not, indeed, without im- 
 prudence, openly express regret at an event so glorious to their 
 country ; but their congratulations were so cold and sullen as to 
 give deep disgust to the victorious general and his friends. 
 
 Godolphin was not a reading man. Whatever time he could 
 spare from business he was in the habit of spending at New- 
 market ^ or at the card table. But he was not absolutely indiffer- 
 
 1 John Scott (1 751-1838). He was lord high chancellor from 1801 to 
 1827. 
 
 2 William, Earl Cowper (i 664-1 723), was lord high chancellor in 1707, 
 and created earl in 1718. 
 
 3 A village of Bavaria, where Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marl- 
 borough defeated the French and the Bavarians. 
 
 4 The throne of the Germanic Empire, of which Joseph I. was Emperor 
 from 1705 to 1 71 1, and Charles VI. from 171 1 to 1740. 
 
 5 This act, passed in 1701, fixed the succession to the English throne in 
 Anne and in the Princess Sophia, daughter of the Elector of Hanover, and 
 granddaughter of James I. 
 
 6 At that time, the chief racing center of England. 
 
52 MACAULAY. 
 
 ent to poetry, and he was too intelligent an observer not to per- 
 ceive that literature was a formidable engine of political warfare, 
 and that the great Whig leaders had strengthened their party, and 
 raised their character, by extending a liberal and judicious pat- 
 ronage to good writers. He was mortified, and not without 
 reason, by the exceeding badness of the poems which appeared 
 in honor of the battle of Blenheim. One of these poems has 
 been rescued from oblivion by the exquisite absurdity of three 
 lines : — 
 
 '^ Think of two thousand gentlemen at least, 
 And each man mounted on his capering beast ; 
 Into the Danube they were pushed by shoals." 
 
 Where to procure better verses the treasurer did not know. 
 He understood how to negotiate a loan, or remit a subsidy ; he 
 was also well versed in the history of running horses and fighting 
 cocks ; but his acquaintance among the poets was very small. 
 He consulted Halifax ; but Halifax affected to decline the office 
 of adviser. He had, he said, done his best, when he had power, 
 to encourage men whose abilities and acquirements might do 
 honor to their country. Those times were over. Other maxims 
 had prevailed. Merit was suffered to pine in obscurity ; and the 
 public money was squandered on the undeserving. "I do 
 know," he added, ''a gentleman who would celebrate the battle 
 in a manner worthy of the subject ; but I will not name him." 
 Godolphin, who was expert at the soft answer which turneth 
 away wrath, and who was under the necessity of paying court to 
 the Whigs, gently replied that there was too much ground for 
 Halifax's complaints, but that what was amiss should in time be 
 rectified, and that in the mean time the services of a man such 
 as Halifax had described should be liberally rewarded. Halifax 
 then mentioned Addison, but mindful of the dignity, as well as 
 of the pecuniary interest, of his friend, insisted that the minister 
 should apply in the most courteous manner to Addison himself ; 
 and this Godolphin promised to do. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON, 53 
 
 Addison then occupied a garret up three pair of stairs, over 
 a small shop in the Haymarket.^ In this humble lodging he 
 was surprised, on the morning which followed the conversation 
 between Godolphin and HaHfax, by a visit from no less a per- 
 son than the Right Hon. Henry Boyle, then chancellor of the 
 exchequer, and afterwards Lord Carleton. This high-born min- 
 ister had been sent by the lord treasurer as ambassador to the 
 needy poet. Addison readily undertook the proposed task, — a 
 task which, to so good a Whig, was probably a pleasure. When 
 the poem was little more than half finished, he showed it to Godol- 
 phin, who was delighted with it, and particularly with the famous 
 simiHtude of the angel.* Addison was instantly appointed to a 
 commissionership worth about two hundred pounds a year, and 
 was assured that this appointment was only an earnest of greater 
 favors. 
 
 The '' Campaign " came forth, and was as much admired by 
 the public as by the minister. It pleases us less, on the whole, 
 than the " Epistle " to HaHfax ; yet it undoubtedly ranks high 
 among the poems which appeared during the interval between 
 the death of Dryden and the dawn of Pope's genius. The chief 
 merit of the " Campaign," we think, is that which was noticed by 
 Johnson, — the manly and rational rejection of fiction. The first 
 great poet ^ whose works have come down to us sang of war long 
 before war became a science or a trade. If, in his time, there 
 was enmity between two Httle Greek towns, each poured forth its 
 crowd of citizens, ignorant of disciphne, and armed with imple- 
 ments of labor rudely turned into weapons. On each side ap- 
 peared conspicuous a few chiefs, whose wealth had enabled them 
 to procure good armor, horses, and chariots, and whose leisure had 
 enabled them to practice mihtary exercises. One such chief — 
 if he were a man of great strength, agility, and courage — would 
 probably be more formidable than twenty common men; and 
 
 1 A broad street in London where carts filled with hay and straw for sale 
 were formerly allowed to stand. 
 
 2 See note, p. 56. 3 Homer. 
 
54 MAC AULA Y. 
 
 the force and dexterity with which he flung his spear might 
 have no inconsiderable share in deciding the event of the day. 
 Such were probably the battles with which Homer was familiar. 
 But Homer related the actions of men of a former generation ; of 
 men who sprang from the gods, and communed with the gods 
 face to face ; of men, one of whom could with ease hurl rocks 
 which two sturdy hinds of a later period would be unable even 
 to lift. He therefore naturally represented their martial ex- 
 ploits as resembling in kind, but far surpassing in magnitude, 
 those of the stoutest and most expert combatants of his own 
 age. Achilles,! clad in celestial armor, drawn by celestial cours- 
 ers, grasping the spear which none but himself could raise, driv- 
 ing all Troy and Lycia ^ before him, and choking Scamander^ 
 with dead, was only a magnificent exaggeration of the real hero, 
 who, strong, fearless, accustomed to the use of weapons, guarded 
 by a shield and helmet of the best Sidonian ^ fabric, and whirled 
 along by horses of Thessalian ^ breed, struck down with his own 
 right arm foe after foe. In all rude societies similar notions are 
 found. There are at this day countries where the Lifeguards- 
 man Shaw would be considered as a much greater warrior than 
 the Duke of Wellington. Bonaparte loved to describe the aston- 
 ishment with which the Mamelukes^ looked at his diminutive 
 
 1 The hero of Homer's Iliad, the bulwark of the Greeks in the Trojan 
 War. 
 
 2 Troy was the chief city of the Troad, a promontory of Asia Minor. The 
 story of Troy was considered as mythical, for the most part, until the dis- 
 coveries of Schliemann, in 1870, apparently identified the city. The Lycians 
 were neighbors and allies of the Trojans. 
 
 3 A river near Troy. 
 
 4 Sidon, an ancient city of Phoenicia, on the Mediterranean, was noted for 
 its manufactures of glass, purple dye, and weapons. 
 
 s Thessaly, in ancient Greece, was famous for its breed of horses. 
 
 6 A body of soldiery composed chiefly of Asiatic youths who were brought 
 into Egypt in the thirteenth century, assassinated the Sultan there, and ruled 
 over the country for several centuries. They were all massacred by Mehemet 
 All, at Cairo, in 181 1. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 55 
 
 figure. Mourad Bey, distinguished above all his fellows by his 
 bodily strength, and by the skill with which he managed his horse 
 and his saber, could not beheve that a man who was scarcely five 
 feet high, and rode like a butcher, could be the greatest soldier 
 in Europe. 
 
 ^ Homer's descriptions of war had, therefore, as much truth as 
 poetry requires. But truth was altogether wanting to the per- 
 formances of those who, writing about battles which had scarcely 
 anything in common with the battles of his times, servilely imi- 
 tated his manner. The folly of Silius Italicus, in particular, is 
 positively nauseous. He undertook to record in verse the vicis- 
 situdes of a great struggle between generals of the first order ; 
 and his narrative is made up of the hideous wounds which these 
 generals inflicted with their own hands. Asdrubal flings a spear 
 which grazes the shoulder of the consul Nero ; but Nero sends 
 his spear into Asdrubal's side. Fabius slays Thuris and Butes, 
 and Maris and Arses, and the long-haired Adherbes, and the 
 gigantic Thylis, and Sapharus and Mongesus, and the trumpeter 
 Morinus. Hannibal runs Perusinus through the groin with a 
 stake, and breaks the backbone of Telesinus with a huge stone. 
 This detestable fashion was copied in modern times, and con- 
 tinued to prevail down to the age of Addison. Several versifiers 
 had described WiUiam turning thousands to flight by his single 
 prowess, and dyeing the Boyne»i with Irish blood. Nay, so 
 estimable a writer as John PhiHps,^ the author of the " Splendid 
 Shilling," represented Marlborough as having won the battle of 
 Blenheim merely by strength of muscle and skill in fence. The 
 following lines may serve as an example : — 
 
 '^Churchill, viewing where 
 The violence of Tallard most prevailed, 
 Came to oppose his slaughtering arm. With speed 
 Precipitate he rode, urging his way 
 
 1 The battle of Boyne, in Ireland, between William III. and James II., 
 was fought July I, 1690, and resulted in the defeat of the latter. 
 
 2 1676-1708. 
 
56 MACAULAY. 
 
 O'er hills of gasping heroes, and fallen steeds 
 Rolling in death. Destruction, grim with blood, 
 Attends his furious course. Around his head 
 The glowing balls play innocent, while he 
 With dire impetuous sway deals fatal blows 
 Among the flying Gauls. In Gallic blood 
 He dyes his reeking sword, and strews the ground 
 With headless ranks. What can they do ? Or how 
 Withstand his wide destroying sword?" 
 
 Addison, with excellent sense and taste, departed from this 
 ridiculous fashion. He reserved his praise for the qualities 
 which made Marlborough truly great, — energy, sagacity, military 
 science ; but, above all, the poet extolled the firmness of that 
 mind, which in the midst of confusion, uproar, and slaughter, 
 examined and disposed everything with the serene wisdom of 
 a higher intelligence. 
 
 Here it was that he introduced the famous comparison i of 
 Marlborough to an angel guiding the whirlwind. We will not 
 dispute the general justice of Johnson's remarks on this passage. 
 But we must point out one circumstance which appears to have 
 escaped all the critics. The extraordinary effect which this 
 simile produced when it first appeared, and which to the follow- 
 ing generation seemed inexplicable, is doubtless to be chiefly 
 attributed to a line which most readers now regard as a feeble 
 parenthesis: — 
 
 ''Such as, of late, o'er pale Britannia pass'd." 
 Addison spoke, not of a storm, but of the storm. The great tem- 
 
 1 The lines in which this comparison occurs are as follows : — 
 
 " So when an angel by divine command 
 With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, 
 Such as, of late, o'er pale Britannia pass'd, 
 Calm and serene he drives the furious blast ; 
 And, pleased th' Almighty's orders to perform. 
 Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm." 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 57 
 
 pest of November, 1 703 — the only tempest which in our latitude 
 has equaled the rage of a tropical hurricane — had left a dreadful 
 recollection in the minds of all men. No other tempest was ever, 
 in this country, the occasion of a parliamentary address or of a 
 public fast. Whole fleets had been cast away. Large mansions 
 had been blown down. One prelate had been buried beneath 
 the ruins of his palace. London and Bristol had presented the 
 appearance of cities just sacked. Hundreds of famihes were still 
 in mourning. The prostrate trunks of large trees, and the ruins 
 of houses, still attested, in all the southern counties, the fury of 
 the blast. The popularity which the simile of the angel enjoyed 
 among Addison's contemporaries has always seemed to us to be 
 a remarkable instance of the advantage which, in rhetoric and 
 poetry, the particular has over the general. 
 
 Soon after the '' Campaign," was pubhshed Addison's narra- 
 tive of his travels in Italy. The first effect produced by this 
 narrative was disappointment. The crowd of readers who ex- 
 pected pohtics and scandal, speculations on the projects of 
 Victor Amadeus,^ and anecdotes about the joHities of convents 
 and the amours of cardinals and nuns, were confounded by find- 
 ing that the writer's mind was much more occupied by the war 
 between the Trojans and Rutulians^ than by the war between 
 France and Austria ; and that he seemed to have heard no scan- 
 dal of later date than the gallantries of the Empress Faustina.^ 
 In time, however, the judgment of the many was overruled by 
 that of the few ; and before the book was reprinted it was so 
 eagerly sought that it sold for five times the original price. It 
 is still read with pleasure. The style is pure and flowing ; the 
 classical quotations and allusions are numerous and happy ; and 
 we are now and then charmed by that singularly humane and 
 
 1 See Note 3, p. 47. 
 
 2 A people of ancient Italy, settled, according to tradition, in Latium, near 
 the seacoast. 
 
 3 The name of two Roman ladies, mother and daughter, remarkable for 
 their profligacy. 
 
58 MACAULAY, 
 
 delicate humor in which Addison excelled all men. Yet this 
 agreeable work, even when considered merely as the history of a 
 Hterary tour, may justly be censured on account of its faults of 
 omission. We have already said that, though rich in extracts 
 from the Latin poets, it contains scarcely any references to the 
 Latin orators and historians. We must add that it contains little, 
 or rather no information respecting the history and literature of 
 modern Italy. To the best of our remembrance, Addison does 
 not mention Dante,i Petrarch,^ Boccaccio,^ Boiardo,^ Berni,^ 
 Lorenzo de Medici,^ or Machiavelli.'^ He coldly tells us that at 
 Ferrara he saw the tomb of Ariosto, and that at Venice he heard 
 the gondoliers sing verses of Tasso. But for Tasso and Ariosto 
 he cared far less than for Valerius Flaccus ^ and Sidonius Apol- 
 linaris.^ The gentle flow of the Ticin ^^ brings a Kne of Sihus ^^ to 
 his mind. The sulphurous steam of Albula suggests to him sev- 
 eral passages of Martial. ^'^ But he has not a word to say of the 
 illustrious dead of Santa Croce ; ^^ he crosses the wood of Ra- 
 
 1 The greatest of Italian poets (i 265-1321), author of the Divina Corn- 
 media, in which he describes his vision of hell, purgatory, and paradise. 
 
 2 An illustrious poet of Italy (1304-74), whose sonnets and lyric poems 
 are noted for their exquisite melodies and great delicacy of feeling. 
 
 3 A celebrated Italian novelist (1313-75), author of the Decameron. 
 * An Italian poet (1434-94), author of the Orlando Innamorato. 
 
 5 An Italian poet of the sixteenth century, whose style was remarkable for 
 its gracefulness and purity. 
 
 6 Styled the Magnificent (1448-92), the most illustrious of the great Medici 
 family in Florence. 
 
 7 A celebrated Florentin^e statesman and historian (1469-1527), infamous 
 and perfidious in politics. 
 
 8 A Roman poet of the time of Vespasian (A.D. 9-79), of whose life 
 nothing is known. 
 
 9 A writer and churchman of the fifth century A.D. 
 
 10 Properly Ticino, a river of Switzerland and Northern Italy, which flows 
 through Lake Maggiore, and unites with the Po near Pavia. 
 
 11 Silius Italicus (see Note 4, p. 24). 
 
 12 A Latin poet and epigrammatist, born in Spain about A.D. 40. 
 
 13 The Church of Santa Croce in Florence contains the remains and tombs 
 of many of the greatest men of modern Italy. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON, 59 
 
 venna^ without recollecting the Specter Huntsman, and wanders 
 up and down Rimini '-^ without one thought of Francesca.^ At 
 Paris he had eagerly sought an introduction to Boileau ; but he 
 seems not to have been at all aware that at. Florence he was in 
 the vicinity of a poet with whom Boileau could not sustain a 
 comparison, — of the greatest lyric poet of modern times, Vincen- 
 zio Fihcaja. This is the more remarkable because Filicaja was 
 the favorite poet of the accomplished Somers, under whose protec- 
 tion Addison traveled, and to whom the account of the travels is 
 dedicated. The truth is, that Addison knew little, and cared 
 less, about the literature of modern Italy. His favorite models 
 were Latin. His favorite critics were French. Half the Tuscan 
 poetry that he had read seemed to him monstrous, and the other 
 half tawdry. 
 
 His travels were followed by the lively opera of '' Rosamond." 
 This piece was ill set to music, and therefore failed on the stage ; 
 but it completely succeeded in print, and is indeed excellent in 
 its kind. The smoothness with which the verses glide, and the 
 elasticity with which they bound, is, to our ears at least, very 
 pleasing. We are inclined to think that if Addison had left 
 heroic couplets to Pope, and blank verse to Rowe,'^ and had 
 employed himself in writing airy and spirited songs, his reputa- 
 tion as a poet would have stood far higher than it now does. 
 Some years after his death, " Rosamond " was set to new music 
 by Dr. Arne, and was performed with complete success. Several 
 passages long retained their popularity, and were daily sung, 
 during the latter part of the reign of George H., at all the harp- 
 sichords in England. 
 
 While Addison thus amused him.self, his prospects and the 
 
 1 An ancient city of Italy. Dante was buried there. 
 
 2 A city on the shore of the Adriatic. 
 
 3 The tragic story of Francesca da Rimini forms an episode in Dante's 
 Divina Commedia. 
 
 * Nicholas Rowe (1674-1718), a dramatist and translator, who wrote sev- 
 eral plays, and in 1709 published the first critical edition of Shakespeare. 
 
6o MAC AULA Y. 
 
 prospects of his party were constantly becoming brighter and 
 brighter. In the spring of 1705, the ministers were freed from 
 the restraint imposed by a House of Commons in which Tories 
 of the most perverse class had the ascendency. The elections 
 were favorable to the Whigs. The coalition which had been 
 tacitly and gradually formed was now openly avowed. The 
 Great Seal ^ was given to Cowper. Somers and Halifax were 
 sworn of the Council. Halifax was sent in the following year 
 to carry the decorations of the order of the garter to the Elec- 
 toral Prince of Hanover,^ and was accompanied on this honorable 
 mission by Addison, who had just been made undersecretary 
 of state. The secretary of state under whom Addison first 
 served was Sir Charles Hedges, a Tory ; but Hedges was soon 
 dismissed to make room for the most vehement of Whigs, Charles, 
 Earl of Sunderland. In every department of the state, indeed, 
 the High Churchmen were compelled to give place to their 
 opponents. At the close of 1707, the Tories who still remained 
 in office strove to rally, with Harley ^ at their head ; but the at- 
 tempt, though favored by the Queen, — who had always been a 
 Tory at heart, and who had now quarreled with the Duchess of 
 Marlborough,* — was unsuccessful. The time was not yet. The 
 captain general was at the height of popularity and glory. The 
 
 1 The Great Seal, the specific emblem of sovereignty in England, is ap- 
 pended only to the most important class of documents. It is in charge of a 
 lord keeper. 
 
 2 George, son of the Princess Sophia of Hanover, granddaughter of 
 James I. He was made King of England, as George I., on the death of 
 Queen Anne in 1714. 
 
 3 Earl of Oxford (1661-1724), a prominent but vacillating politician, 
 chancellor of the exchequer under Queen Anne. On the accession of 
 George I., he was impeached for alleged complicity with the Jacobites, and 
 imprisoned in the Tower for two years. 
 
 * Sarah Jennings, Duchess of Marlborough (i 660-1 744), a woman of 
 strong character and imperious temper. She enjoyed the entire confidence 
 of Queen Anne, and was for many years the "power behind the throne," 
 dispensing places and favors at her pleasure. Her rule became intolerable, 
 however, in time, and she retired from the Queen's service in 171 1. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 6i 
 
 Low Church party had a majority in Parhament. The country 
 squires and rectors, though occasionally uttering a savage growl, 
 were for the most part in a state of torpor, which lasted till they 
 were roused into activity, and indeed into madness, by the pros- 
 ecution of Sacheverell.i Harley and his adherents were com- 
 pelled to retire. The victory of the Whigs was complete. At the 
 general election of 1708, their strength in the House of Com- 
 mons became irresistible ; and before the end of that year Somers 
 was made lord president of the Council, and Wharton 2 lord 
 Heutenant of Ireland. 
 
 Addison sat for Malmesbury in the House of Commons which 
 was elected in 1708; but the House of Commons was not the 
 field for him. The bashfulness of his nature made his wit and 
 eloquence useless in debate. He once rose, but could not over- 
 come his diffidence, and ever after remained silent. Nobody can 
 think it strange that a great writer should fail as a speaker ; but 
 many probably will think it strange that Addison's failure as a 
 speaker should have had no unfavorable effect on his success as 
 a pohtician. In our time, a man of high rank and great fortune 
 might, though speaking very little and very ill, hold a consid- 
 erable post ; but it would now be inconceivable that a mere 
 adventurer — a man who, when out of office, must hve by his 
 pen — should in a few years become successively undersecretary 
 of state, chief secretary for Ireland, and secretary of state, with- 
 out some oratorical talent. Addison, without high birth and 
 with little property, rose to a post which dukes, the heads of the 
 great houses of Talbot, Russell, and Bentinck, have thought it 
 an honor to fill. Without opening his lips in debate, he rose to 
 
 1 Henry Sacheverell, D.D. (1672-1724), a college mate of Addison, who 
 gained great notoriety by the delivery of two sermons reflecting upon the 
 government, which led to his imprisonment, and his suspension for three 
 years. 
 
 2 Thomas, Marquis of Wharton (1640-1715), an eminent Whig statesman, 
 reputed author of the ballad of Liiliburlero, and lord lieutenant of Ireland 
 from 1708 to 1 710, with Addison for his chief secretary. 
 
62 MACAULAY. 
 
 a post, the highest that Chatham ^ or Fox 2 ever reached ; and 
 this he did before he had been nine years in Parhament. We 
 must look for the explanation of this seeming miracle to the pecul- 
 iar circumstances in which that generation was placed. During 
 the interval which elapsed between the time when the censorship 
 of the press ceased, and the time when parhamentary proceed- 
 ings began to be freely reported, literary talents were, to a pubhc 
 man, of much more importance, and oratorical talents of much 
 less importance, than in our time. At present, the best way of 
 giving rapid and wide publicity to a fact or an argument is to 
 introduce that fact or argument into a speech made in Parlia- 
 ment. If a political tract were to appear superior to " The Con- 
 duct of the Allies," ^ or to the best numbers of the " Freeholder," 
 the circulation of such a tract would be languid indeed, when com- 
 pared with the circulation of every remarkable word uttered in 
 the deliberations of the Legislature. A speech made in the House 
 of Commons at four in the morning is on thirty thousand tables 
 before ten. A speech made on the Monday is read on the Wednes- 
 day by multitudes in Antrim and Aberdeenshire.^ The orator, 
 by the help of the shorthand writer, has to a great extent super- 
 seded the pamphleteer. It was not so in the reign of Anne. 
 The best speech could then produce no effect except on those 
 who heard it. It was only by means of the press, that the opin- 
 ion of the public without doors could be influenced; and the 
 opinion of the pubhc without doors could not but be of the high- 
 est importance in a country governed by parliaments, and indeed 
 
 1 William Pitt, Earl of Chatham (1708-78), orator, and prime minister 
 under George III. 
 
 2 Charles James Fox (i 749-1 806), a brilliant orator and statesman, the 
 rival of Chatham. He opposed the coercive measures adopted against the 
 American Colonies, took an active part in all the great political events of the 
 time, and prepared a bill for the abolition of the slave trade. 
 
 3 The title of a pamphlet written by Dean Swift in 171 1, the purpose of 
 which was to persuade the nation to a peaceful solution of its quarrel with 
 France. 
 
 * Antrim is in Ireland, and Aberdeenshire in Scotland. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 63 
 
 at that time governed by triennial parliaments. The pen was 
 therefore a more formidable political engine than the tongue. 
 Mr. Pitt and Mr. Fox contended only in Parliament. But Wal- 
 pole 1 and Pulteney,^ the Pitt and Fox of an earher period, had 
 not done half of what was necessary when they sat down amidst 
 the acclamations of the House of Commons. They had still to 
 plead their cause before the country, and this they could do only 
 by means of the press. Their works are now forgotten ; but it 
 is certain that there were in Grub Street "^ few more assiduous 
 scribblers of Thoughts, Letters, Answers, Remarks, than these 
 two great chiefs of parties. Pulteney, when leader of the Op- 
 position, and possessed of thirty thousand a year, edited the 
 "Craftsman." Walpole, though not a man of literary habits, was 
 the author of at least ten pamphlets, and retouched and corrected 
 many more. These facts sufficiently show of how great impor- 
 tance literary assistance then was to the contending parties. St. 
 John ^ was certainly, in Anne's reign, the best Tory speaker ; 
 Cowper was probably the best Whig speaker : but it may well 
 be doubted whether St. John did so much for the Tories as Swift, 
 and whether Cowper did so much for the Whigs as Addison. 
 When these things are duly considered, it will not be thought 
 strange that Addison should have climbed higher in the State 
 than any other Englishman has ever, by means merely of literary 
 talents, been able to climb. Swift would in all probabiHty have 
 climbed as high if he had not been encumbered by his cassock 
 
 1 Sir Robert Walpole (1676-1745), an English statesman, leader of the 
 Whig party in Parliament. Under George I. he was made chancellor of the 
 exchequer and prime minister. 
 
 2 WiUiam^ Pulteney (1682-1764) was at first a friend and colleague of Sir 
 Robert Walpole, but subsequently led a coalition against him. He assisted 
 Bolingbroke in writing the Craftsman, was made member of the Privy Coun- 
 cil, and created Earl of Bath. 
 
 3 A street in London inhabited mostly by literary hacks and penniless 
 writers, which became a proverb to denote any mean production in litera- 
 ture. 
 
 . * Lord Bolingbroke. 
 
64 MACAULAY. 
 
 and his pudding sleeves. ^ As far as the homage of the great 
 went, Swift had as much of it as if he had been lord treasurer. 
 
 To the influence which Addison derived from his literary tal- 
 ents was added all the influence which arises from character. 
 The world, always ready to think the worst of needy political 
 adventurers, was forced to make one exception. Restlessness, 
 violence, audacity, laxity of principle, are the vices ordinarily at- 
 tributed to that class of men. But faction itself could not deny 
 that Addison had, through all changes of fortune, been strictly 
 faithful to his early opinions and to his early friends ; that his 
 integrity was without stain ; that his whole deportment indicated 
 a fine sense of the becoming ; that, in the utmost heat of contro- 
 versy, his zeal was tempered by a regard for truth, humanity, 
 and social decorum ; that no outrage could ever provoke him to 
 retaliation unworthy of a Christian and a gentleman ; and that 
 his only faults were a too sensitive dehcacy and a modesty which 
 amounted to bashfulness. 
 
 He was undoubtedly one of the most popular men of his time ; 
 and much of his popularity he owed, we beheve, to that very 
 timidity which his friends lamented. That timidity often pre- 
 vented him from exhibiting his talents to the best advantage ; 
 but it propitiated Nemesis.^ It averted that envy which would 
 otherwise have been excited by fame so splendid, and by so rapid 
 an elevation. No man is so great a favorite with the public as 
 he who is at once an object of admiration, of respect, and of 
 pity ; and such were the feelings which Addison inspired. Those 
 who enjoyed the privilege of hearing his familiar conversation 
 declared with one voice that it was superior even to his writings. 
 The brilHant Mary Montagu^ said that she had known all the 
 
 ^ A cassock is a long loose outer coat worn by the priests and choristers 
 in the Anglican and Roman-Catholic churches. Pudding sleeves are the 
 lawn sleeves of a dean's or bishop's gown. 
 
 2 In Greek mythology, the goddess of vengeance, whose business it was to 
 punish wickedness. 
 
 3 Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1690-1762), an English lady of distin- 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 65 
 
 wits, and that Addison was the best company in the world. The 
 mahgnant Pope was forced to own that there was a charm in 
 Addison's talk which could be found nowhere else. Swift, when 
 burning with animosity against the Whigs, could not but confess 
 to Stella 1 that, after all, he had never known any associate so 
 agreeable as Addison. Steele,^ an excellent judge of lively con- 
 versation, said that the conversation of Addison was at once the 
 most polite and the most mirthful that could be imagined ; that 
 it was Terence ^ and Catulkis in one, heightened by an exquisite 
 something which was neither Terence nor Catullus, but Addison 
 alone. Young, an excellent judge of serious conversation, said, 
 that, when Addison was at his ease, he went on in a noble strain 
 of thought and language, so as to chain the attention of every 
 hearer. Nor were Addison's great colloquial powers more ad- 
 mirable than the courtesy and softness of heart which appeared 
 in his conversation. At the same time, it would be too much to 
 say that he was wholly devoid of the malice which is, perhaps, 
 inseparable from a keen sense of the ludicrous. He had one 
 habit which both Swift and Stella applauded, and which we 
 hardly know how to blame. If his first attempts to set a presum- 
 ing dunce right were ill received, he changed his tone, ** assented 
 with civil leer," and lured, the flattered coxcomb deeper and 
 deeper into absurdity. That such was his practice we should, 
 we think, have guessed from his works. The "Tatler's " criticisms 
 on Mr. Softly's sonnet, and the " Spectator's " dialogue with the 
 politician who is so zealous for the honor of Lady Q — p — t — s,^ 
 are excellent specimens of this innocent mischief. 
 
 guished literary attainments who lived for some years in Constantinople, and 
 wrote interesting letters from there to Pope, Addison, and other eminent men. 
 She first introduced into England the practice of inoculation for smallpox. 
 
 1 Name given by Swift to Miss Johnson, to whom he wrote his Journal. 
 
 2 Sir Richard Steele was born in 1671, died in 1729. 
 
 3 An author of comedies in the Latin tongue, supposed to have been born 
 about 194 B.C. 
 
 4 It is not clear whether this is a real or a fictitious personage (see Spec- 
 tator, Nos. 567, 568). 
 
 5 
 
66 MACAULAY. 
 
 Such were Addison^s talents for conversation. But his rare 
 gifts were not exhibited to crowds or to strangers. As soon as 
 he entered a large company, as soon as he saw an unknown face, 
 his lips were sealed, and his manners became constrained. None 
 who met him only in great assemblies would have been able to 
 believe that he was the same man who had often kept a few 
 friends listening and laughing round a table from the time when 
 the play ended till the clock of St. Paul's in Covent Garden ^ 
 struck four. Yet, even at such a table, he was not seen to the 
 best advantage. To enjoy his conversation in the highest per- 
 fection, it was necessary to be alone with him, and to hear him, 
 in his own phrase, think aloud. " There is no such thing," he 
 used to say, ''as real conversation but between two persons." 
 
 This timidity — a timidity surely neither ungraceful nor unamia- 
 ble — led Addison into the two most serious faults which can with 
 justice be imputed to him. He found that wine broke the spell 
 which lay on his fine intellect, and was therefore too easily se- 
 duced into convivial excess. Such excess was in that age regarded, 
 even by grave men, as the most venial of all peccadillos,^ and 
 was so far from being a mark of ill breeding that it was almost 
 essential to the character of a fine gentleman. But the smallest 
 speck is seen on a white ground ; and almost all the biographers 
 of Addison have said something about this faihng. Of any other 
 statesman or writer of Queen Anne's reign, we should no more 
 think of saying that he sometimes took too much wine than that 
 he wore a long wig and a sword. 
 
 To the excessive modesty of Addison's nature we must ascribe 
 another fault, which generally arises from a very different cause. 
 He became a little too fond of seeing himself surrounded by a 
 small circle of admirers to whom he was as a king or rather as a 
 god. k\\ these men were far inferior to him in abilit)^, and some 
 
 1 Originally the garden of Westminster Abbey (and so called *' Convent 
 Garden "), a square in London and a great market of fruits, vegetables, and 
 flowers. The Covent Garden Theater is near it. 
 
 2 Small sins. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 67 
 
 of them had very serious faults. Nor did those faults escape his 
 observation ; for, if ever there was an e3^e which saw through and 
 through men, it was the eye of Addison. But, with the keenest 
 observation and the finest sense of the ridiculous, he had a large 
 charity. The feeling with which he looked on most of his 
 humble companions was one of benevolence, slightly tinctured 
 with contempt. He was at perfect ease in their company ; 
 he was grateful for their devoted attachment ; and he loaded 
 them with benefits. Their veneration for him appears to have 
 exceeded that with which Johnson was regarded by Boswell,i or 
 Warburton^ by Hurd.'^ It was not in the power of adulation to 
 turn such a head, or deprave such a heart, as Addison's ; but it 
 must in candor be admitted, that he contracted some of the faults 
 which can scarcely be avoided by any person who is so unfortu- 
 nate as to be the oracle of a small literary coterie. 
 
 One member of this little society was Eustace Budgell, a young 
 templar of some literature, and a distant relation of Addison. 
 There was at this time no stain on the character of Budgell ; and 
 it is not improbable that his career would have been prosperous 
 and honorable, if the life of his cousin had been prolonged. But 
 when the master was laid in the grave, the disciple broke loose 
 from all restraint, descended rapidly from one degree of vice and 
 misery to another, ruined his fortune by follies, attempted to 
 repair it by crimes, and at length closed a wicked and unhappy hfe 
 by self-murder. Yet, to the last, the wretched man — gambler, 
 lampooner, cheat, forger, as he was — retained his affection and 
 veneration for Addison, and recorded those feelings in the last 
 lines which he traced before he hid himself from infamy under 
 London Bridge. 
 
 1 James Bos well (1740-95), a Scottish gentleman whose Memoirs of 
 Dr. Samuel Johnson are pronounced by Macaulay and others the greatest of 
 all biographies. 
 
 2 William Warburton (i 698-1 779), a famous English divine, a man of 
 vast reading, but dogmatic and intolerant in his methods of controversy. 
 
 3 Richard Hurd (i 720-1808), an English prelate and writer, author of 
 several polemical and critical works ; a friend of Warburton. 
 
68 MACAULAY. 
 
 Another of Addison's favorite companions was Ambrose Philips,^ 
 a good Whig and a middling poet, who had the honor of bring- 
 ing into fashion a species of composition which has been called, 
 after his name, Namby Pamby. But the most remarkable mem- 
 bers of the little senate, as Pope long afterwards called it, were 
 Richard Steele and Thomas Tickell.^ 
 
 Steele had known Addison from childhood. They had been 
 together at the Charter House and at Oxford ; but circumstances 
 had then, for a time, separated them widely. Steele had left college 
 without taking a degree, had been disinherited by a rich relation, 
 had led a vagrant life, had served in the army, had tried to find 
 the philosopher's stone, and had written a religious treatise and 
 several comedies. He was one of those people whom it is 
 impossible either to hate or to respect. His temper was sweet, 
 his affections warm, his spirits lively, his passions strong, and his 
 principles weak. His life was spent in sinning and repenting ; 
 in inculcating what was right, and doing what was wrong. In 
 speculation he was a man of piety and honor; in practice he 
 was much of the rake and a little of the swindler. He was, how- 
 ever, so good-natured that it was not easy to be seriously angry 
 with him, and that even rigid morajists felt more incHned to pity 
 than to blame him when he diced himself into a sponging house,^ 
 or drank himself into a fever. Addison regarded Steele with 
 kindness not unmingled with scorn, tried, with little success, to 
 keep him out of scrapes, introduced him to the great, procured 
 a good place for him, corrected his plays, and, though by no 
 means rich, lent him large sums of money. One of these loans 
 appears, from a letter dated in August, 1708, to have amounted 
 
 1 Ambrose Philips (1671-1749), author of a drama, The Distressed 
 Mother, and occasional papers in the Spectator. 
 
 2 Thomas Tickell (i 686-1 740) published an edition of Addison's works in 
 1 72 1, and wrote a beautiful elegy upon his death, one of the finest examples 
 of memorial verse in the language. 
 
 3 A house where persons arrested for debt were kept for twenty-four 
 hours before lodging them in prison. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 69 
 
 to a thousand pounds. These pecuniary transactions probably 
 led to frequent bickerings. It is said that, on one occasion, 
 Steele's negligence or dishonesty provoked Addison to repay 
 himself by the help of a baiHff. We cannot join with Miss Aikin 
 in rejecting this story. Johnson heard it from Savage,^ who heard 
 it from Steele. Few private transactions which took place a hun- 
 dred and twenty years ago are proved by stronger evidence than 
 this. But we can by no means agree with those who condemn 
 Addison's severity. The most amiable of mankind may well be 
 moved to indignation when what he has earned hardly, and lent 
 with great inconvenience to himself, for the purpose of relieving 
 a friend in distress, is squandered with insane profusion. We 
 will illustrate our meaning by an example which is not the less 
 striking because it is taken from fiction. Dr. Harrison, in Field- 
 ing's 2 " Amelia," is represented as the most benevolent of human 
 beings ; yet he takes in execution, not only the goods, but the 
 person, of his friend Booth. Dr. Harrison resorts to this strong 
 measure because he has been informed that Booth, while plead- 
 ing poverty as an excuse for not paying just debts, has been buying 
 fine jewelry, and setting up a coach. No person who is well 
 acquainted with Steele's life and correspondence can doubt that 
 he behaved quite as ill to Addison as Booth was accused of 
 behaving to Dr. Harrison. The real history, we have httle doubt, 
 was something like this: a letter comes to Addison, imploring 
 help in pathetic terms, and promising reformation and speedy 
 repayment. Poor Dick declares that he has not an inch of can- 
 dle, or a bushel of coals, or credit with the butcher for a shoulder 
 of mutton. Addison is moved. He determines to deny him- 
 self some medals which are wanting to his series of the Twelve 
 
 1 Richard Savage (i 698-1 743), a minor English poet. Dr. Johnson be- 
 friended him during his wandering and homeless life in London, and wrote 
 his biography. 
 
 2 Henry Fielding (1714-54), one of the great masters of English fiction, 
 called by Byron " the prose Homer of human nature." His greatest work 
 is Tom Jones. 
 
70 MAC AULA Y. 
 
 Caesars, to put off buying the new edition of Bayle*s ^ Diction- 
 ary, and to wear his old sword and buckles another year: in 
 this way he manages to send a hundred pounds to his friend. 
 The next day he calls on Steele, and finds scores of gentlemen 
 and ladies assembled. The fiddles are playing. The table is 
 groaning under Champagne, Burgundy, and pyramids of sweet- 
 meats. Is it strange that a man whose kindness is thus 
 abused should send sheriff's officers to reclaim what is due to 
 him ? 
 
 Tickell was a young man, fresh from Oxford, who had intro- 
 duced himself to public notice by writing a most ingenious and 
 graceful httle poem in praise of the opera of " Rosamond." He 
 deserved, and at length attained, the first place in Addison's 
 friendship. For a time Steele and Tickell were on good terms ; 
 but they loved Addison too much to love each other, and at 
 length became as bitter enemies as the rival bulls in Virgil.^ 
 
 At the close of 1708 Wharton became lord lieutenant of 
 Ireland, and appointed Addison chief secretary. Addison was 
 consequently under the necessity of quitting London for Dublin. 
 Besides the chief secretaryship, which was then worth about two 
 thousand pounds a year, he obtained a patent appointing him 
 keeper of the Irish Records for life, with a salary of three or four 
 hundred a year. Budgell accompanied his cousin in tlie capa- 
 city of private secretary. 
 
 Wharton and Addison had nothing in common but Whiggism. 
 The lord lieutenant was not only licentious and corrupt, but was 
 distinguished from other libertines and jobbers by a callous impu- 
 dence which presented the strongest contrast to the secretary's 
 gentleness and delicacy. Many parts of the Irish administration 
 at this time appear to have deserved serious blame ; but against 
 Addison there was not a murmur. He long afterwards asserted, 
 
 1 Pierre Bayle (1657-1706), author of the celebrated Historical and Critical 
 Dictionary, which has attracted the attention of the learned so much since his 
 day. 
 
 2 See GeorgicSj iii. 220-225. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 71 
 
 what all the evidence which we have ever seen tends to prove, 
 that his diHgence and integrit}^ gained the friendship of all the 
 most considerable persons in Ireland. 
 
 The parliamentary career of Addison in Ireland has, we think, 
 wholly escaped the notice of all his biographers. He was elected 
 member for the borough of Cavan in the summer of 1709 ; and 
 in the journals of two sessions his name frequently occurs. Some 
 of the entries appear to indicate that he so far overcame his 
 timidity as to make speeches. Nor is this by any means im- 
 probable, for the Irish House of Commons was a far less for- 
 midable audience than the English House, and many tongues 
 which were tied by fear in the greater assembly became fluent 
 in the smaller. Gerard Hamilton, ^ for example, who, from fear 
 of losing the fame gained by his single speech, sat mute at 
 Westminster during forty years, spoke with great effect at Dublin 
 when he was secretary to Lord Hahfax. 
 
 While Addison was in Ireland, an event occurred to which he 
 owes his high and permanent rank among British writers. As 
 yet his fame rested on performances, which, though highly re- 
 spectable, were not built for duration, and which would, if he 
 had produced nothing else, have now been almost forgotten, — on 
 some excellent Latin verses, on some Enghsh verses which occa- 
 sionally rose above mediocrity, and on a book of travels, agree- 
 ably written, but not indicating any extraordinary powers of mind. 
 These works showed him to be a man of taste, sense, and learn- 
 ing. The time had come when he was to prove himself a man 
 of genius, and to enrich our literature with compositions which 
 will live as long as the English language. 
 
 In the spring of 1709 Steele formed a literary project, of which 
 he was far indeed from foreseeing the consequences. Periodical 
 papers had during many years been pubHshed in London. Most 
 of these were political ; but in some of them questions of moral- 
 ity, taste, and love casuistry had been discussed. The literary 
 
 1 William Gerard Hamilton (1729-96), an English statesman, nicknamed 
 ** Single-speech Hamilton." 
 
72 MACAULAY, 
 
 merit of these works was small indeed, and even their names are 
 now known only to the curious. 
 
 Steele had been appointed gazetteer ^ by Sunderland, at the re- 
 quest, it is said, of Addison, and thus had access to foreign intel- 
 ligence earlier and more authentic than was in those times within 
 the reach of an ordinary news- writer. This circumstance seems 
 to have suggested to him the scheme of publishing a periodical 
 paper on a new plan. It was to appear on the days on 
 which the post left London for the country, which were, in that 
 generation, the Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. It was to 
 contain the foreign news, accounts of theatrical representations, 
 and the literary gossip of Will's and of the Grecian.^ It was also 
 to contain remarks on the fashionable topics of the day, compli- 
 ments to beauties, pasquinades^ on noted sharpers, and criticisms 
 on popular preachers. The aim of Steele does not appear to 
 have been at first higher than this. He was not ill qualified to 
 conduct the work which he had planned. His public intelli- 
 gence he drew from the best sources. He knew the town, and 
 had paid dear for his knowledge. He had read much more than 
 the dissipated men of that time were in the habit of reading. 
 He was a rake among scholars, and a scholar among rakes. 
 His style was easy and not incorrect, and, though his wit and 
 humor were of no high order, his gay animal spirits imparted to 
 his compositions an air of vivacity which ordinary readers could 
 hardly distinguish from comic genius. His writings have been 
 well compared to those light wines, which, though deficient in 
 body and flavor, are yet a pleasant small drink, if not kept too 
 long, or carried too far. 
 
 Isaac Bickerstaff, Esq., astrologer, was an imaginary person, 
 almost as well known in that age, as Mr. Paul Pry^ or Mr. 
 
 1 An author or publisher of news, authorized by the government. 
 
 2 Will's and the Grecian, well-known coffeehouses in Queen Anne's time. 
 
 3 Lampoons, or squibs, having ridicule for their object ; so called from 
 Pasquinado, a famous Italian wit of the fifteenth century. 
 
 * A character in a comedy of same name, by John Poole, about 1840. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 73 
 
 Samuel Pickwick ^ in ours. Swift had assumed the name of Bick- 
 erstaff in a satirical pamphlet against Partridge, the maker of 
 almanacs. Partridge had been fool enough to publish a furious 
 reply. Bickerstaff had rejoined in a second pamphlet still more 
 diverting than the first. All the wits had combined to keep up 
 the joke ; and the town was long in convulsions of laughter. 
 Steele determined to employ the name which this controversy 
 had made popular; and in 1709 it was announced that Isaac 
 Bickerstaff, Esq., astrologer, was about to pubhsh a paper called 
 the " Tatler." 
 
 Addison had not been consulted about this scheme ; but, as 
 soon as he heard of it, he determined to give his assistance. 
 The effect of that assistance cannot be better described than in 
 Steele's own words. '* I fared," he said, ** like a distressed prince 
 who calls in a powerful neighbor to his aid. I was undone by 
 my auxiliary. When I had once called him in, I could not sub- 
 sist without dependence on him." ''The paper," he says else- 
 where, " was advanced indeed. It was raised to a greater thing 
 than I intended it." 
 
 It is probable that Addison, when he sent across St. George^s 
 Channel his first contributions to the '' Tatler," had no notion of 
 the extent and variety of his own powers. He was the possess- 
 or of a vast mine, rich with a hundred ores ; but he had been 
 acquainted only with the least precious part of his treasures, and 
 had hitherto contented himself with producing sometimes copper, 
 and sometimes lead, intermingled with a little silver. All at once, 
 and by mere accident, he had lighted on an inexhaustible vein 
 of the finest gold. 
 
 The mere choice and arrangement of his words would have 
 sufficed to make his essays classical ; for never — not even by 
 Dryden, not even by Temple ^ — had the English language been 
 written with such sweetness, grace, and facility. But this was 
 
 1 The principal character in Dickens's Pickwick Papers, published in 1836. 
 
 2 Sir William Temple (1628-99), a diplomatist, and writer upon various 
 subjects, whose essays are considered models of English style. 
 
74 MAC AULA Y, 
 
 the smallest part of Addison's praise. Had he clothed his 
 thoughts in the half French style of Horace Walpole,i or in the 
 half Latin style of Dr. Johnson, or in the half German jargon of 
 the present day, his genius would have triumphed over all faults 
 of manner. As a moral satirist, he stands unrivaled. If ever the 
 best ''Tatlers" and ''Spectators" were equaled in their own kind, 
 we should be inchned to guess that it must have been by the lost 
 comedies of Menander. 
 
 In wit, properly so called, Addison was not inferior to Cow- 
 ley ^ or Butler.^ No single ode of Cowley contains so many 
 happy analogies as are crowded into the lines to Sir Godfrey 
 Kneller;^ and we would undertake to collect from the ''Specta- 
 tors " as great a number of ingenious illustrationaas can be found in 
 " Hudibras." The still higher faculty of invention, Addison pos- 
 sessed in still larger measure. The numerous fictions, generally 
 original, often wild and grotesque, but always singularly graceful 
 and happy, which are found in his essays, fully entitle him to the 
 rank of a great poet, — a rank to which his metrical compositions 
 give him no claim. As an observer of life, of manners, of all 
 the shades of human character, he stands in the first class ; and 
 what he observed he had the art of communicating in two widely 
 different ways. He could describe virtues, vices, habits, whims, 
 as well as Clarendon. ^ But he could do something better: he 
 
 1 Earl of Orford (1707-97), son of Sir Robert Walpole. At his seat at 
 Strawberry Hill, near London, he formed a collection of books, manuscripts, 
 pictures, and other works of art, and wrote several works. His incompara- 
 ble Letters are the best of his writings. 
 
 2 Abraham Cowley (1618-67), greatly esteemed as a poet in his day, au- 
 thor of an epic poem, the Davideis, and a series of amatory poems now little 
 read. His prose essays are written in a very easy and graceful style. 
 
 3 Samuel Butler (1612-80), author of Hudibras, a long mock-heroic poem 
 ridiculing the Puritans or Roundheads. 
 
 4 A famous portrait painter (1648-1723), born in Germany, but who re. 
 sided most of his life in England. He painted the Hampton Court beauties 
 for William HI. 
 
 5 Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon (1608-74), lord high chancellor in the 
 reign of Charles I., and author of a History of the Rebellion. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON, 75 
 
 could call human beings into existence, and make them exhibit 
 themselves. If we wish to find anything more vivid than Ad- 
 dison's best portraits, we must go either to Shakespeare or to 
 Cervantes.^ 
 
 But what shall we say of Addison's humor, of his sense of the 
 ludicrous, of his power of awakening that sense in others, and 
 of drawing mirth from incidents which occur every day, and from 
 little peculiarities of temper and manner such as may be found 
 in every man ? We feel the charm ; we give ourselves up to it : 
 but we strive in vain to analyze it. 
 
 Perhaps the best way of describing Addison's pecuHar pleas- 
 antry is to compare it with the pleasantry of some other great 
 satirists. The three most eminent masters of the art of ridicule 
 during the eighteenth century were, we conceive, Addison, Swift, 
 and Voltaire. Which of the three had the greatest power of 
 moving laughter may be questioned ; but each of them, within 
 his own domain, was supreme. 
 
 ^rVoltaire is the prince of buffoons. His merriment is without 
 disguise or restraint. He gambols ; he grins ; he shakes the sides ; 
 he points the finger ; he turns up the nose ; he shoots out the 
 tongue. The manner of Swift is the very opposite to this. He 
 moves laughter, but never joins in it. He appears in his works 
 such as he appeared in society. All the company are convulsed 
 with merriment ; while the Dean, the author of all the mirth, pre- 
 serves an invincible gravity and even sourness of aspect, and gives 
 utterance to the most eccentric and ludicrous fancies with the 
 air of a man reading the commination service.^ 
 
 The manner of Addison is as remote from that of Swift as from 
 that of Voltaire. He neither laughs out hke the French wit, nor, 
 like the Irish wit, throws a double portion of severity into his 
 countenance while laughing inwardly, but preserves a look pecul- 
 
 1 The most illustrious of Spanish writers (i 547-1616), author of the 
 immortal Don Quixote. 
 
 2 A service of the English Church, read on Ash Wednesday, and contain- 
 ing a recital of God's anger and judgments against sinners. 
 
7^ MAC AULA Y, 
 
 iarly his own, — a look of demure serenity, disturbed only by an 
 arch sparkle of the eye, an almost imperceptible elevation of the 
 brow, an almost imperceptible curl of the lip. His tone is never 
 that either of a Jack Pudding ^ or of a Cynic.^ It is that of a gen- 
 tleman in whom the quickest sense of the ridiculous is constantly 
 tempered by good nature and good breeding. 
 
 We own that the humor of Addison is, in our opinion, of more 
 delicious flavor than the humor of either Swift or Voltaire. Thus 
 much, at least, is certain, that both Swift and Voltaire have been 
 successfully mimicked, and that no man has yet been able to 
 mimic Addison. The letter of the Abbe Coyer to Pansophe is 
 Voltaire all over, and imposed, during a long time, on the Aca- 
 demicians of Paris. There are passages in Arbuthnot's ^ satirical 
 works which we, at least, cannot distinguish from Swift's best 
 writing. But of the many eminent men who have made Addi- 
 son their model, though several have copied his mere diction 
 with happy effect, none has been able to catch the tone of his 
 pleasantry. In the '' World," in the *' Connoisseur," in the 
 " Mirror," in the " Lounger," there are numerous papers written 
 in obvious imitation of his '' Tatlers " and '^ Spectators." Most 
 of those papers have some merit ; many are very lively and amus- 
 ing ; but there is not a single one which could be passed off as 
 Addison's on a critic of the smallest perspicacity. 
 
 But that which chiefly distinguishes Addison from Swift, from 
 Voltaire, from almost all the other great masters of ridicule, is 
 the grace, the nobleness, the moral purity, which we find even 
 in his merriment. Severity, gradually hardening and darkening 
 
 1 A buffoon who performs tricks, such as the swallowing of a certain 
 number of yards of black pudding, etc. 
 
 2 A sect of philosophers among the Greeks ; so called from their snarling 
 humor and their disregard of the conventional usages of society. 
 
 2 Dr. John Arbuthnot (1667-1735), physician to Queen Anne, the friend 
 of Swift and Pope. He was a wit and man of letters, author of the Memoirs 
 of Martinus Scriblerus, one of the finest pieces of sarcastic humor in the 
 English language, and also of a number of scientific works. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 77 
 
 into misanthropy, characterizes the works of Swift. The nature 
 of Voltaire was, indeed, not inhuman ; but he venerated nothing. 
 Neither in the masterpieces of art nor in the purest examples of 
 virtue, neither in the Great First Cause nor in the awful enigma 
 of the grave, could he see anything but subjects for drollery. 
 The more solemn and august the theme, the more monkey-like 
 was his grimacing and chattering. The mirth of Swift is the 
 mirth of Mephistopheles ;i the mirth of Voltaire is the mirth of 
 Puck.2 If, as Soame Jenyns ^ oddly imagined, a portion of the 
 happiness of seraphim and just men made perfect be derived 
 from an exquisite perception of the ludicrous, their mirth must 
 surely be none other than the mirth of Addison, — a mirth consist- 
 ent with tender compassion for all that is frail, and with profound 
 reverence for all that is sublime. Nothing great, nothing amia- 
 ble, no moral duty, no doctrine of natural or revealed religion, 
 has ever been associated by Addison with any degrading idea. 
 His humanity is without a parallel in literary history. The high- 
 est proof of virtue is to possess boundless power without abusing 
 it. No kind of power is more formidable than the power of mak- 
 ing men ridiculous ; and that power Addison possessed in bound- 
 less measure. How grossly that power was abused by Swift and 
 by Voltaire is well known. But of Addison it may be confidently 
 affirmed that he has blackened no man's character, nay, that it 
 would be difficult, if not impossible, to find in all the volumes 
 which he has left us a single taunt which can be called ungener- 
 ous or unkind. Yet he had detractors, whose malignity might 
 have seemed to justify as terrible a revenge as that which men 
 not superior to him in genius wreaked on Bettesworth and on 
 Franc de Pompignan.^ He was a politician ; he was the best 
 
 1 A sneering, jeering tempter, next to Satan himself. 
 
 2 The " tricksy" spirit in Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 3 Soame Jenyns (1704-87), author, among other religious works, of a View 
 of the Internal Evidence of the Christian Religion. 
 
 4 Jean Jacques le Franc, Marquis of Pompignan, a French writer, who, 
 when elected member of the Academy in 1760, delivered a discourse in de- 
 
78 MAC AULA Y, 
 
 writer of his party ; he lived in times of fierce excitement, in times 
 when persons of high character and station stooped to scurriHty 
 such as is now practiced only by the basest of mankind : yet 
 no provocation and no example could induce him to return rail- 
 ing for railing. 
 
 Of the service which his essays rendered to morality it is 
 difficult to speak too highly. It is true that, when the " Tatler " 
 appeared, that age of outrageous profaneness and licentiousness 
 which followed the Restoration had passed away. Jeremy Col- 
 lier 1 had shamed the theaters into something which, compared 
 with the excesses of Etherege " and Wycherley,^ might be called 
 decency ; yet there still lingered in the public mind a pernicious 
 notion that there was some connection between genius and prof- 
 ligacy, between the domestic virtues and the sullen formality of 
 the Puritans. That error it is the glory of Addison to have dis- 
 pelled. He taught the nation that the faith and the morality of 
 Hale ^ and Tillotson might be found in company with wit more 
 sparkling than the wit of Congreve, and with humor richer than 
 the humor of Vanbrugh.^ So effectually, indeed, did he retort 
 on vice the mockery which had recently been directed against 
 virtue, that since his time the open violation of decency has 
 
 fense of Christianity, which drew upon him a number of satires and lampoons 
 from Voltaire and others. 
 
 1 A nonjuring preacher in the English Church (1650-1736), author of 
 Short View of the Profaneness and Immorality of the English Stage, for 
 which he has been most justly praised. 
 
 2 Sir George Etherege (1636-94), a dramatist of the Restoration. He 
 was the inventor of the comedy of intrigue, which reached its perfection in 
 Congreve. 
 
 3 William Wycherley (1640-1715), author of several brilliant but licentious 
 comedies produced on the stage during the reign of Charles II. 
 
 * Sir Matthew Hale (1609-76), a celebrated lawyer, who, after vain at- 
 tempts to effect a settlement between Charles I. and the Parliament, ultimately 
 sided with the Commonwealth, and was made a judge under Cromwell in 
 
 1653- 
 
 5 Sir John Vanbrugh (i 666-1 726), a dramatist and architect. His plays 
 exceed in grossness any of the comic dramas of the period. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 79 
 
 always been considered among us as the mark of a fool. And 
 this revolution, the greatest and most salutary ever effected by 
 any satirist, he accomplished, be it remembered, without writing 
 one personal lampoon. 
 
 In the early contributions of Addison to the "Tatler " his peculiar 
 powers were not fully exhibited ; yet from the first his superiority 
 to all his coadjutors was evident. Some of his later " Tatlers " are 
 fully equal to anything that he ever wrote. Among the portraits, 
 we most admire Tom Foho, Ned Softly, and the Political Uphol- 
 sterer. The proceedings of the " Court of Honor," the '' Ther- 
 mometer of Zeal," the story of the " Frozen Words," the *' Memoirs 
 of the Shining," are excellent specimens of that ingenious and 
 lively species of fiction in which Addison excelled all men. There 
 is one still better paper of the same class ; but though that paper, 
 a hundred and thirty-three years ago, was probably thought as 
 edifying as one of Smalridge's sermons, we dare not indicate it 
 to the squeamish readers of the nineteenth century. 
 
 During the session of Parliament which commenced in Novem- 
 ber, 1709, and which the impeachment of Sacheverell has made 
 memorable, Addison appears to have resided in London. The 
 "Tatler" was now more popular than any periodical paper had 
 ever been, and his connection with it was generally known : it was 
 not known, however, that almost everything good in the " Tatler " 
 was his. The truth is, that the fifty or sixty numbers which we 
 owe to him were not merely the best, but so decidedly the best, 
 that any five of them are more valuable than all the two hundred 
 numbers in which he had no share. 
 
 He required at this time all the solace which he could derive 
 from literary success. The Queen had always disliked the Whigs. 
 She had during some years dishked the Marlborough family: 
 but, reigning by a disputed title, she could not venture directly 
 to oppose herself to a majority of both houses of Parliament; 
 and, engaged as she was in a war on the event of which her 
 own crown was staked, she could not venture to disgrace a great 
 and successful general. But at length, in the year 1710, the causes 
 
8o MAC AULA Y. 
 
 which had restrained her from showing her aversion to the Low 
 Church party ceased to operate. The trial of Sacheverell pro- 
 duced an outbreak of pubHc feeling scarcely less violent than the 
 outbreaks which we can ourselves remember in 1820 and in 1831. 
 The country gentlemen, the country clergymen, the rabble of the 
 towns, were all, for once, on the same side. It was clear that, 
 if a general election took place before the excitement abated, 
 the Tories would have a majority. The services of Marlborough 
 had been so splendid that they were no longer necessary. The 
 Queen's throne was secure from all attack on the part of Louis : ^ 
 indeed, it seemed much more Hkely that the English and Ger- 
 man armies would divide the spoils of Versailles and Marli 2 than 
 that a marshal of France would bring back the Pretender ^ to 
 St. James's.^ The Queen, acting by the advice of Harley, deter- 
 mined to dismiss her servants. In June the change commenced. 
 Sunderland was the first who fell. The Tories exulted over his 
 fall. The Whigs tried, during a few weeks, to persuade them- 
 selves that her Majesty had acted only from personal dislike to 
 the secretary, and that she meditated no further alteration ; but, 
 early in August, Godolphin was surprised by a letter from Anne, 
 which directed him to break his white staff. Even after this 
 event, the irresolution or dissimulation of Harley kept up the 
 hopes of the Whigs during another month, and then the ruin 
 became rapid and violent. The Parliament was dissolved. The 
 ministers were turned out. The Tories were called to office. 
 The tide of popularity ran violently in favor of the High Church 
 
 1 Louis XIV. 
 
 2 Versailles, twelve miles from Paris, was the seat of the royal palace built 
 by Louis XIV. Marli, five miles north of Versailles, was famous for the 
 sumptuous chateau erected there at great expense by the same monarch. 
 
 3 James Francis Edward Stuart (1688-1766), son of James II., and 
 claiming succession to the English throne for himself and his son Charles 
 Edward. 
 
 4 St. James's Palace in London became, after 1697, a residence of the 
 British sovereigns, and so remained until Queen Victoria's time : hence the 
 British court is often referred to as the Court of St. James. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 8 1 
 
 party. That party, feeble in the late House of Commons, was 
 now irresistible. The power which the Tories had thus suddenly 
 acquired, they used with blind and stupid ferocity. The howl 
 which the whole pack set up for prey and for blood appalled 
 even him who had roused and unchained them. When, at this 
 distance of time, we calmly review the conduct of the discarded 
 ministers, we cannot but feel a movement of indignation at the 
 injustice with which they were treated. No body of men had 
 ever administered the government with more energy, ability, and 
 moderation ; and their success had been proportioned to their wis- 
 dom. They had saved Holland and Germany. They had hum- 
 bled France. They had, as it seemed, all but torn Spain from 
 the house of Bourbon. They had made England the first power 
 in Europe. At home they had united England and Scotland.^ 
 They had respected the rights of conscience and the liberty of 
 the subject. They retired, leaving their country at the height 
 of prosperity and glory. And yet they were pursued to their 
 retreat by such a roar of obloquy as was never raised against 
 the government which threw away thirteen colonies," or against 
 the government which sent a gallant army to perish in the ditches 
 of Walcheren.^ 
 
 None of the Whigs suffered more in the general wreck than 
 Addison. He had just sustained some heavy pecuniary losses, 
 of the nature of which we are imperfectly informed, when his 
 secretaryship was taken from him. He had reason to believe 
 that he should also be deprived of the small Irish office which 
 he held by patent. He had just resigned his fellowship. It 
 seems probable that he had already ventured to raise his eyes to 
 a great lady, and that while his political friends were in power, 
 
 1 The union of England and Scodand under the name of *' Great Britain " 
 was established by act of Parliament, July 22, 1706. 
 
 2 In America in 1776. 
 
 3 An island in the Dutch province of Zealand. The Walcheren expedition 
 against Napoleon was planned in 1806, and ended disastrously, seven thou- 
 sand men dying of malaria. 
 
 6 
 
82 , MAC AULA Y. 
 
 and while his own fortunes were rising, he had been, in the phrase 
 of the romances which were then fashionable, "permitted to hope." 
 But Mr. Addison the ingenious writer, and Mr. Addison the chief 
 secretary, were, in her ladyship's opinion, two very different per- 
 sons. All these calamities united, however, could not disturb the 
 serene cheerfulness of a mind conscious of innocence, and rich 
 in its own wealth. He told his friends, with smiling resignation, 
 that they ought to admire his philosophy ; that he had lost at 
 once his fortune, his place, his fellowship, and his mistress ; that 
 he must think of turning tutor again : and yet that his spirits were 
 as good as ever. 
 
 He had one consolation. Of the unpopularity which his friends 
 had incurred, he had no share. Such was the esteem with which 
 he was regarded, that, while the most violent measures were taken 
 for the purpose of forcing Tory members on Whig corporations, 
 he was returned to Parliament without even a contest. Swift, 
 who was now in London, and who had already determined on 
 quitting the Whigs, wrote to Stella in these remarkable words : 
 '' The Tories carry it among the new members six to one. Mr. 
 Addison's election has passed easy and undisputed, and I believe, 
 if he had a mind to be king, he would hardly be refused." 
 
 The good will with which the Tories regarded Addison is the 
 more honorable to him, because it had not been purchased by 
 any concession on his part. During the general election, he pub- 
 lished a political journal entitled the " Whig Examiner." Of that 
 journal it may be sufficient to say, that Johnson, in spite of his 
 strong poHtical prejudices, pronounced it to be superior in wit 
 to any of Swift's writings on the other side. When it ceased to 
 appear. Swift, in a letter to Stella, expressed his exultation at the 
 death of so formidable an antagonist. ''He might well rejoice," 
 says Johnson, " at the death of that which he could not have 
 killed." " On no occasion," he adds, " was the genius of Addi- 
 son more vigorously Exerted, and on none did the superiority of 
 his powers more evidently appear." 
 
 The only use which Addison appears to have made of the favor 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. ^2> 
 
 with which he was regarded by the Tories was to save some of 
 his friends from the general ruin of the Whig party. He felt 
 himself to be in a situation which made it his duty to take a 
 decided part in pohtics. But the case of Steele and of Ambrose 
 Philips was different. For Philips, Addison even condescended 
 to sohcit, with what success we have not ascertained. Steele 
 held two places : he was gazetteer, and he was also a commis- 
 sioner of stamps. The gazette was taken from him ; but he was 
 suffered to retain his place in the Stamp Office on an implied 
 understanding that he should not be active against the new gov- 
 ernment ; and he was, during more than two years, induced by 
 Addison to observe this armistice with tolerable fidelity. 
 
 Isaac Bickerstaff accordingly became silent upon politics, and 
 the article of news which had once formed about one third of 
 his paper altogether disappeared. The *' Tatler " had completely 
 changed its character : it was now nothing but a series of essays 
 on books, morals, and manners. Steele, therefore, resolved to 
 bring it to a close, and to commence a new work on an improved 
 plan. It was announced that this new work would be pubhshed 
 daily. The undertaking was generally regarded as bold, or rather 
 rash ; but the event amply justified the confidence with which 
 Steele relied on the fertihty of Addison's genius. On the 2d of 
 January, 171 1, appeared the last "Tatler." At the beginning 
 of March following, appeared the first of an incomparable series 
 of papers, containing observations on life and literature by an 
 imaginary Spectator. 
 
 The Spectator himself was conceived and drawn by Addison ; 
 and it is not easy to doubt that the portrait was meant to be in 
 some features a likeness of the painter. The Spectator is a gen- 
 tleman who, after passing a studious youth at the university, has 
 traveled on classic ground, and has bestowed much attention on 
 curious points of antiquity. He has, on his return, fixed his resi- 
 dence in London, and has observed all the forms of life which 
 are to be found in that great city, has daily listened to the wits 
 of Will's, has smoked with the philosophers of the Grecian, and 
 
84 MACAULAY, 
 
 has mingled with the parsons at Child's and with the politicians 
 at the St. James's.i In the morning he often listens to the hum 
 of the Exchange ; in the evening his face is constantly to be 
 seen in the pit of Drury Lane Theater. But an insurmountable 
 bashfulness prevents him from opening his mouth, except in a 
 small circle of intimate friends. *- 
 
 These friends were first sketched by Steele. Four of the club 
 — the templar, the clergyman, the soldier, and the merchant — were 
 uninteresting figures, fit only for a background; but the other 
 two, — an old country baronet and an old town rake, — though not 
 delineated with a very delicate pencil, had some good strokes. 
 Addison took the rude outlines into his own hands, retouched 
 them, colored them, and is in truth the creator of the Sir Roger 
 de Coverley and the Will Honeycomb with whom we are all 
 familiar. 
 
 The plan of the Spectator must be allowed to be both original 
 and eminently happy. Every valuable essay in the series may be 
 read with pleasure separately ; yet the five or six hundred essays 
 form a whole, and a whole which has the interest of a novel. It 
 must be remembered, too, that at that time no novel giving a 
 lively and powerful picture of the common hfe and manners of 
 England had appeared. Richardson ^ was working as a com- 
 positor. Fielding was robbing birds' nests. Smollett ^ was not 
 yet born. The narrative, therefore, which connects together the 
 Spectator's essays gave to our ancestors their first taste of an 
 exquisite and untried pleasure. That narrative was indeed con- 
 structed with no art or labor. The events were such events as 
 occur every day. Sir Roger comes up to town to see Eugenio, 
 as the worthy baronet always calls Prince Eugene, goes with the 
 
 "^ Child's and St. James's, well-known clubs in London of that time. 
 
 2 Samuel Richardson (i 689-1 761), author of Pamela, Clarissa Harlowe, 
 and Sir Charles Grandison, prolix and sentimental novels, once very popular, 
 but now little read. 
 
 3 Tobias Smollett (1721-71), novelist and historian, author of Roderick 
 Random, Humphrey Clinker, and other novels, and of a History of England. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 85 
 
 Spectator on the water to Spring Gardens/ walks among the 
 tombs in the Abbey, and is frightened by the Mohawks,^ but 
 conquers his apprehension so far as to go to the theater when 
 the '* Distressed Mother"^ is acted. The Spectator pays a visit 
 in the summer to Coverley Hall, is charmed with the old house, 
 the old butler, and the old chaplain, eats a jack caught by Will 
 Wimble, rides to the assizes, and hears a point of law discussed 
 by Tom Touchy. At last a letter from the honest butler brings 
 to the club the news that Sir Roger is dead. Will Honeycomb 
 marries and reforms at sixty. The club breaks up, and the Spec- 
 tator resigns his functions. Such events can hardly be said to 
 form a plot ; yet they are related with such truth, such grace, 
 such wit, such humor, such pathos, such knowledge of the human 
 heart, such knowledge of the ways of the world, that they charm 
 us on the hundredth perusal. We have not the least doubt, that, 
 if Addison had written a novel on an extensive plan, it would 
 have been superior to any that we possess. As it is, he is entitled 
 to be considered not only as the greatest of the EngHsh essayists, 
 but as the forerunner of the great English novelists. 
 
 We say this of Addison alone ; for Addison is the Spectator. 
 About three sevenths of the work are his ; and it is no exaggera- 
 tion to say that his worst essay is as good as the best essay of 
 any of his coadjutors. His best essays approach near to abso- 
 lute perfection ; nor is their excellence more wonderful than their 
 variety. His invention never seems to flag ; nor is he ever under 
 the necessity of repeating himself, or of wearing out a subject. 
 There are no dregs in his wine. He regales us after the fashion 
 of that prodigal nabob who held that there was only one good 
 glass in a bottle. As soon as we have tasted the first sparkling 
 foam of a jest, it is withdrawn, and a fresh draught of nectar is 
 
 1 A place of resort for outdoor amusements in London. 
 
 2 The Mohawks, or Mohocks, were an infamous club of profligate young 
 men, who, under cover of darkness, assaulted wayfarers, men and women, in 
 the streets. They were finally suppressed by royal proclamation. 
 
 3 A play by Ambrose Philips, for which Addison wrote a prologue. 
 
86 MACAULAY. 
 
 at our lips. On the Monday we have an allegory as lively and 
 ingenious as Lucian's ''Auction of Lives ;"i on the Tuesday, an 
 Eastern apologue as richly colored as the tales of Schehere- 
 zade ; ^ on the Wednesday, a character described with the skill 
 of La Bruyere ; ^ on the Thursday, a scene from common life 
 equal to the best chapters in the '' Vicar of Wakefield ; " ^ on the 
 Friday, some sly Horatian pleasantry on fashionable follies, on 
 hoops, patches, or puppet shows ; and on the Saturday, a religious 
 meditation which will bear a comparison with the finest pas- 
 sages in Massillon.^ » 
 
 It is dangerous to select where there is so much that deserves 
 the highest praise. We will venture, however, to say that any 
 person who wishes to form a just notion of the extent and variety 
 of Addison's powers will do well to read at one sitting the fol- 
 lowing papers, — the two " Visits to the Abbey," the '* Visit to the 
 Exchange," the ''Journal of the Retired Citizen," the "Vision 
 of Mirza," the " Transmigrations of Pug the Monkey," and the 
 " Death of Sir Roger de Coverley." 
 
 The least valuable of Addison's contributions to the " Specta- 
 tor " are, in the judgment of our age, his critical papers ; yet his 
 
 1 Lucian, a celebrated Greek author born during the reign of the Roman 
 Emperor Trajan. His works are mostly in the form of dialogues, written in 
 an elegant and witty style, ridiculing the Pagan mythology and the sects of 
 philosophers. 
 
 2 The Arabian Nights. A certain Persian King married a new bride every 
 day, and put her to death the next morning. One of these, Scheherezade, 
 more discreet than the rest, one evening began telling the King a story, which 
 she broke off late at night at such an interesting point that the King next morn- 
 ing spared her life, and at night begged her to resume the tale. This she did 
 for one thousand nights. 
 
 3 A French moralist and novelist (1644-96), whose chief work, the 
 Characters, placed him in the highest rank as a master of style. 
 
 * A novel by Oliver Goldsmith (1728-74), and one of the classics of 
 English literature. 
 
 ^ A famous French preacher (1663-1742), whose discourses were dis- 
 tinguished for their simplicity, eloquence, and knowledge of the human 
 heart. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 87 
 
 critical papers are always luminous, and often ingenious. The very- 
 worst of them must be regarded as creditable to him, when the 
 character of the school in which he had been trained is fairly 
 considered. The best of them were much too good for his read- 
 ers. In truth, he was not so far behind our generation as he was 
 before his own. No essays in the '' Spectator " were more cen- 
 sured and derided than those in which he raised his voice against 
 the contempt with which our fine old ballads were regarded, and 
 showed the scoffers that the same gold which, burnished and pol- 
 ished, gives luster to the ''^neid" and the "Odes of Horace" 
 is mingled with the rude dross of '^ Chevy Chace." 1 
 
 It is not strange that the success of the " Spectator " should have 
 been such as no simliar work has ever obtained. The number 
 of copies daily distributed was at first three thousand. It sub- 
 sequently increased, and had risen to near four thousand when 
 the stamp tax was imposed. That tax was fatal to a crowd of 
 journals. The " Spectator," however, stood its ground, doubled 
 its price, and, though its circulation fell off, still yielded a large 
 revenue both to the state and to the authors. For particular 
 papers, the demand was immense ; of some, it is said, twenty 
 thousand copies were required. But this was not all. To have 
 the " Spectator" served up every morning with the bohea and rolls 
 was a luxury for the few. The majority were content to wait 
 till essays enough had appeared to form a volume. Ten thousand 
 copies of each volume were immediately taken off, and new 
 editions were called for. It must be remembered that the popu- 
 lation of England was then hardier a third of what it now is. 
 The number of Enghshmen who were in the habit of reading 
 was probably not a sixth of what it now is. A shopkeeper or a 
 farmer who found any pleasure in literature was a rarity. Nay, 
 there was doubtless more than one knight of the shire whose 
 country seat did not contain ten books, receipt books and books 
 on farriery included. In these circumstances, the sale of the 
 
 1 A famous old English ballad, commemorating the battle of Otterburn in 
 1388 between the English and the Scotch, in which the Scots were victorious. 
 
88 MACAULAY, 
 
 " Spectator " must be considered as indicating a popularity quite 
 as great as that of the most successful works of Sir Walter Scott 
 and Mr. Dickens ^ in our own time. 
 
 At the close of 1 7 1 2 the " Spectator " ceased to appear. It 
 was probably felt that the short-faced gentleman and his club had 
 been long enough before the town, and that it was time to with- 
 draw them, and to replace them by a new set of characters. In 
 a few weeks the first number of the " Guardian " was published ; 
 but the ^' Guardian " was unfortunate both in its birth and in its 
 death. It began in dullness, and disappeared in a tempest of 
 faction. The original plan was bad. Addison contributed noth- 
 ing till sixty-six numbers had appeared ; and it was then impossible 
 to make the," Guardian " what the "Spectator " had been. Nes- 
 tor Ironside and the Miss Lizards were people to whom even he 
 could impart no interest. He could only furnish some excellent 
 little essays, both serious and comic ; and this he did. 
 
 Why Addison gave no assistance to the " Guardian " during the 
 first two months of its existence is a question which has puzzled 
 the editors and biographers, but which seems to us to admit of 
 a very easy solution. He was then engaged in bringing his 
 " Cato " 2, on the stage. 
 
 The first four acts of this drama had been lying in his desk 
 since his return from Itaty. His modest and sensitive nature 
 shrank from the risk of a pubHc and shameful failure; and, 
 though all who saw the manuscript were loud in praise, some 
 thought it possible that an audience might become impatient 
 even of very good rhetoric, and advised Addison to print the 
 play without hazarding a representation. At length, after many 
 
 1 Charles Dickens (1812-70), whose Pickwick Papers, Oliver Twist, 
 Master Humphrey's Clock, David Copperfield, and other novels, are among 
 the most popular ever written. 
 
 2 This drama was. based on the history of Cato the Younger, a noble 
 Roman (95-45 B.C.). thoroughly devoted to the Republic. After the defeat 
 of Pompey by Caesar he retired to Utica in Africa, where, despairing of ulti- 
 mate success, he put an end to his own life. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 89 
 
 fits of apprehension, the poet yielded to the urgency of his politi- 
 cal friends, who hoped that the public would discover some anal- 
 ogy between the followers of Caesar ^ and the Tories, between 
 Sempronius^ and the apostate Whigs, between Cato struggling 
 to the last for the liberties of Rome, and the band of patriots 
 who still stood firm round Halifax and Wharton. 
 
 Addison gave the play to the managers of Drury Lane Theater, 
 without stipulating for any advantage to himself. They there- 
 fore thought themselves bound to spare no cost in scenery and 
 dresses. The decorations, it is true, would not have pleased the 
 skillful eye of Mr. Macready.^ Juba's waistcoat blazed with gold 
 lace ; Marcia's hoop was worthy of a duchess on the birthday ; 
 and Cato wore a wig worth fifty guineas. The prologue was 
 written by Pope, and is undoubtedly a dignified and spirited 
 composition. The part of the hero was excellently played by 
 Booth.^ Steele undertook to pack a house. The boxes were in 
 a blaze with the stars of the peers in opposition. The pit was 
 crowded with attentive and friendly listeners from the Inns of 
 Court and the literary coffeehouses. Sir Gilbert Heathcote, gov- 
 ernor of the Bank of England, was at the head of a powerful 
 body of auxiHaries from the city, warm men and true Whigs, but 
 better known at Jonathan's and Garraway's ^ than in the haunts 
 of wits and critics. 
 
 These precautions were quite superfluous. The Tories, as a 
 body, regarded Addison with no unkind feeHngs. Nor was it 
 for their interest — professing, as they did, profound reverence for 
 law and prescription, and abhorrence both of popular insurrec- 
 tions and of standing armies — to appropriate to themselves reflec- 
 
 1 Caius Julius Caesar (100-44 B.C.). 
 
 2 A Roman senator, one of the characters in Addison's Cato. 
 
 3 William Charles Macready (i 793-1 873), an actor of great power and 
 original methods, greatly admired in Macbeth, Lear, lago, Richelieu, and 
 Werner. 
 
 * Barton Booth (1681-1733), the favorite tragic actor of the day. 
 5 Two London clubs of that time, frequented by merchants and stock- 
 brokers. 
 
90 « MACAULAY, 
 
 tions thrown on the great military chief and demagogue who, 
 with the support of the legions and of the common people, sub- 
 verted all the ancient institutions of his country. Accordingly, 
 every shout that was raised by the members of the Kit Cat was 
 echoed by the High Churchmen of the October ; ^ and the cur- 
 tain at length fell amidst thunders of unanimous applause. 
 
 The delight and admiration of the town were described by the 
 " Guardian " in terms which we might attribute to partiality, were 
 it not that the " Examiner," the organ of the ministry, held similar 
 language. The Tories, indeed, found much to sneer at in the 
 conduct of their opponents. Steele had on this, as on other 
 occasions, shown more zeal than taste or judgment. The honest 
 citizens who marched under the orders of Sir Gibby, as he was 
 facetiously called, probably knew better when to buy and when 
 to sell stock than when to clap and when to hiss at a play, and 
 incurred some ridicule by making the hypocritical Sempronius 
 their favorite, and by giving to his insincere rants louder plaudits 
 than they bestowed on the temperate eloquence of Cato. Whar- 
 ton, too, who had the incredible effrontery to applaud the lines 
 about flying from prosperous vice and from the power of impious 
 men to a private station, did not escape the sarcasms of those 
 who justly thought that he could fly from nothing more vicious 
 or impious than himself. The epilogue, which was written by 
 Garth,^ a zealous Whig, was severely and not unreasonably cen- 
 siured as ignoble and out of place. But Addison was described, 
 even by the bitterest Tory writers, as a gentleman of wit and 
 virtue, in whose friendship many persons of both parties were 
 happy, and whose name ought not to be mixed up with factious 
 squabbles. 
 
 Of the jests by which the triumph of the Whig party was dis- 
 
 1 A Tory club, the resort chiefly of country members of Parliament, whose 
 favorite beverage was October ale. 
 
 2 Sir Samuel Garth (i 660-1 71 8), an eminent physician and mediocre poet, 
 knighted, and appointed court physician, by George I. He is best known 
 in our literary history by his mock-heroic poem, the Dispensary. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON, 91 
 
 turbed, the most severe and happy was Bolingbroke's. Between 
 two acts he sent for Booth to his box, and presented him, before ' 
 the whole theater, with a purse of fifty guineas for defending the 
 cause of Hberty so well against a perpetual dictator. This was 
 a pungent allusion to the attempt which Marlborough had made, 
 not long before his fall, to obtain a patent creating him captain 
 general for life. 
 
 It was April, and in April a hundred and thirty years ago the 
 London season was thought to be far advanced. During a whole 
 month, however, " Cato *' was performed to overflowing houses, 
 and brought into the treasury of the theater twice the gains of an 
 ordinary spring. In the summer the Drury Lane company went 
 down to the act at Oxford, and there, before an audience which 
 retained an affectionate remembrance of Addison's accomplish- 
 ments and virtues, his tragedy was acted during several days. 
 The gownsmen 1 began to besiege the theater in the forenoon, 
 and by one in the afternoon all the seats were filled. 
 
 About the merits of the piece which had so extraordinary an 
 effect, the public, we suppose, has made up its mind. To com- 
 pare it with the masterpieces of the Attic stage,^ with the great 
 English dramas of the time of Elizabeth, or even with the pro- 
 ductions of Schiller's ^ manhood, would be absurd indeed. Yet 
 it contains excellent dialogue and declamation, and, among plays 
 fashioned on the French model, must be allowed to rank high ; 
 not, indeed, with '* Athahe" or ''Saul," but, we think, not below 
 "Cinna,"^ and certainly above any other English tragedy of the 
 same school, above many of the plaj^s of Corneille,^ above many 
 
 1 Students. 
 
 2 The dramas of the ancient Greek tragedians. 
 
 3 One of the most illustrious of German poets (i 759-1805), author of sev- 
 eral tragedies, and a number of other works in prose and verse. 
 
 * Athalie, Saul, and Cinna were dramas written respectively by Racine, 
 Alfieri, and Corneille. 
 
 5 Pierre Corneille (1606-84), a celebrated French dramatist of the time of 
 Louis XIV. 
 
92 MACAULAY, 
 
 of the plays of Voltaire and Alfieri,i and above some plays of 
 Racine. Be this as it may, we have little doubt that *' Cato " did 
 as much as the ** Tatlers," ** Spectators," and *' Freeholders " 
 united to raise Addison's fame among his contemporaries. 
 " The modesty and good nature of the successful dramatist had 
 tamed even the mahgnity of faction. But Hterary envy, it should 
 seem, is a fiercer passion than party spirit. It was by a zealous 
 Whig that the fiercest attack on the Whig tragedy was made. 
 John Dennis 2 published " Remarks on Cato," which were writ- 
 ten with some acuteness and with much coarseness and asperity. 
 Addison neither defended himself nor retaUated. On many 
 points he had an excellent defense, and nothing would have 
 been easier than to retaliate, for Dennis had written bad odes, 
 bad tragedies, bad comedies ; he had, moreover, a larger share 
 than most men of those infirmities and eccentricities which excite 
 laughter : and Addison's power of turning either an absurd book 
 or an absurd man into ridicule was unrivaled. Addison, how- 
 ever, serenely conscious of his superiority, looked with pity on 
 his assailant, whose temper, naturally irritable and gloomy, had 
 been soured by want, by controversy, and by literary failures. 
 
 But among the young candidates for Addison's favor there 
 was one distinguished by talents from the rest, and distinguished, 
 we fear, not less by malignity and insincerity. Pope was only 
 twenty-five. But his powers had expanded to their full maturity ; 
 and his best poem, the " Rape of the Lock," had recently been 
 published. Of his genius, Addison had always expressed high 
 admiiration ; but Addison had early discerned, what might, indeed, 
 have been discerned by an eye less penetrating than his, that 
 the diminutive, crooked, sickly boy was eager to revenge him- 
 self on society for the unkindness of nature. In the ** Spectator," 
 the " Essay on Criticism " had been praised with cordial warmth ; 
 
 1 The greatest of Italian tragic poets (i 749-1803). 
 
 2 A critic and playwright (1679-1734), whose irritable temper involved 
 him in controversy with many of the writers of his time. Swift lampooned 
 him, and Pope attacked him in the Dunciad. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 93 
 
 but a gentle hint had been added, that the writer of so excellent 
 a poem would have done well to avoid ill-natured personalities. 
 Pope, though evidently more galled by the censure than gratified 
 by the praise, returned thanks for the admonition, and promised 
 to profit by it. The two writers continued to exchange civihties, 
 counsel, and small good offices. Addison pubHcly extolled Pope's 
 miscellaneous pieces ; and Pope furnished Addison with a pro- 
 logue. This did not last long. Pope hated Dennis, whom he 
 had injured without provocation. The appearance of the ** Re- 
 marks on Cato " gave the irritable poet an opportunity of vent- 
 ing his mahce under the show of friendship ; and such an oppor- 
 tunity could not but be welcome to a nature which was implacable 
 in enmity, and which always preferred the tortuous to the straight 
 path. He published, accordingly, the " Narrative of the Frenzy 
 of John Dennis." But Pope had mistaken his powers. He was 
 a great master of invective and sarcasm ; he could dissect a char- 
 acter in terse and sonorous couplets, brilliant with antithesis : but 
 of dramatic talent he was altogether destitute. If he had written 
 a lampoon on Dennis, such as that on Atticus or that on Sporus,^ 
 the old grumbler would have been crushed. But Pope writing 
 dialogue resembled — to borrow Horace's imagery and his own 
 — a wolf, which, instead of biting, should take to kicking, or a 
 monkey which should try to sting. The Narrative is utterly con- 
 temptible. Of argument there is not even a show; and the jests 
 are such as, if they were introduced into a farce, would call forth 
 the hisses of the shilling gallery. Dennis raves about the drama ; 
 and the nurse thinks that he is calling for a dram. " There is," 
 he cries, *' no peripetia ^ in the tragedy, no change of fortune, no 
 change at all." '^ Pray, good sir, be not angry," says the old 
 woman ; '' I'll fetch change." This is not exactly the pleasantry 
 of Addison. 
 
 1 Atticus is the name used by Pope in his sneering attack upon Addison 
 in his Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot ; Sporus, that under which he satirizes John, 
 Lord Hervey, known as Lord Fanny, from his foppishness and effeminacy. 
 
 2 That part of a drama in which the plot is unraveled. 
 
94 MACAU LAY, 
 
 There can be no doubt that Addison saw through this officious 
 zeal, and felt himself deeply aggrieved by it. So foolish and 
 spiteful a pamphlet could do him no good, and, if he were 
 thought to have any hand in it, must do him harm. Gifted 
 with incomparable powers of ridicule, he had never, even in self- 
 defense, used those powers inhumanly or uncourteously ; and he 
 was not disposed to let others make his fame and his interests a 
 pretext under which they might commit outrages from which he 
 had himself constantly abstained. He accordingly d(xlared that 
 he had no concern in the Narrative, that he disapproved of it, 
 and that if he answered the remarks, he would answer them like 
 a gentleman ; and he took care to communicate this to Dennis. 
 Pope was bitterly mortified ; and to this transaction we are in- 
 clined to ascribe the hatred with which he ever after regarded 
 Addison. 
 
 In September, 1 7 1 3, the ^* Guardian " ceased to appear. Steele 
 had gone mad about politics. A general election had just taken 
 place. He had been chosen member for Stockbridge, and he 
 fully expected to play a first part in Parliament. The immense 
 success of the '' Tatler " and '' Spectator " had turned his head. 
 He had been the editor of both those papers, and was not aware 
 how entirely they owed their influence and popularity to the 
 genius of his friend. His spirits, always violent, were now ex- 
 cited by vanity, ambition, and faction, to such a pitch that he 
 every day committed some offense against good sense and good 
 taste. All the discreet and moderate members of his own party 
 regretted and condemned his folly. '' I am in a thousand trou- 
 bles," Addison wrote, *^ about poor Dick, and wish that his zeal 
 for the public may not be ruinous to himself. But he has sent 
 me word that he is determined to go on, and that any advice I 
 may give him in this particular will have no weight with him." 
 
 Steele set up a political paper called the " Englishman," which, 
 as it was not supported by contributions from Addison, com- 
 pletely failed. By this work, by some other writings of the same 
 kind, and by the airs which he gave himself at the first meeting 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 95 
 
 of the new Parliament, he made the Tories so angry that they 
 determined to expel him. The Whigs stood by him gallantly, 
 but were unable to save him. The vote of expulsion was re- 
 garded by all dispassionate men as a tyrannical exercise of the 
 power of the majority. But Steele's violence and folly, though 
 they by no means justified the steps which his enemies took, 
 had completely disgusted his friends ; nor did he ever regain the 
 place which he had held in the public estimation. 
 
 Addison about this time conceived the design of adding an 
 eighth volume to the ** Spectator." In June, 1714, the first num- 
 ber of the new series appeared, and during about six months three 
 papers were published weekly. Nothing can be more striking 
 than the contrast between the '* Englishman " and the eighth 
 volume of the '* Spectator," between Steele without Addison and 
 Addison without Steele. The '* Enghshman " is forgotten : the 
 eighth volume of the '' Spectator " contains, perhaps, the finest 
 essays, both serious and playful, in the English language. 
 
 Before this volume was completed, the death of Anne pro- 
 duced an entire change in the administration of public affairs. 
 The blow fell suddenly. It found the Tory party distracted by 
 internal feuds, and unprepared for any great effort. Harley had 
 .just been disgraced. Bolingbroke, it was supposed, would be the 
 chief minister, But the Queen was on her deathbed before the 
 white staff had been given ; and her last pubHc act was to deliver 
 it with a feeble hand to the Duke of Shrewsbury. The emer- 
 gency produced a coalition between all sections of pubHc men 
 who were attached to the Protestant succession.^ George I. was 
 proclaimed without opposition. A council, in which the leading 
 Whigs had seats, took the direction of affairs till the new King 
 should arrive. The first act of the lords justices was to appoint 
 Addison their secretary. 
 
 There is an idle tradition that he was directed to prepare a 
 letter to the King, that he could not satisfy himself as to the 
 
 1 The exclusion of the heirs of James II., who were Catholics, and the set- 
 tlement of the crown upon the descendants of Sophia (see Note 5, p. 51). 
 
96 MACAULAY. 
 
 Style of this composition, and that the lords justices called in a 
 clerk, who at once did what was wanted It is not strange that 
 a story so flattering to mediocrity should be popular, and we are 
 sorry to deprive dunces of their consolation. But the truth must 
 be told. It was well observed by Sir James Mackintosh, ^ whose 
 knowledge of these times was unequaled, that Addison never, in 
 any official document, affected wit or eloquence, and that his 
 dispatches are, without exception, remarkable for unpretending 
 simplicity. Everybody who knows with what ease Addison's fin- 
 est essays were produced must be convinced, that, if well-turned 
 phrases had been wanted, he would have had no difficulty in find- 
 ing them. We are, however, inchned to believe that the story is 
 not absolutely without a foundation. It may well be that Addison 
 did not know, till he had consulted experienced clerks who re- 
 membered the time when William III. was absent on the Con- 
 tinent, in what form a letter from the Council of Regency 
 to the King ought to be drawn. We think it very likely that the 
 ablest statesmen of our time — Lord John Russell, Sir Robert Peel, 
 Lord Palmerston,2 for example — would, in similar circumstances, 
 be found quite as ignorant. Every office has some Httle mys- 
 teries which the dullest man may learn with a little attention, 
 and which the greatest man cannot possibly know by intuition. 
 One paper must be signed by the chief of the department ; an- 
 other by his deputy ; to a third the royal sign manual is neces- 
 sary. One communication is to be registered, and another is 
 not. One sentence must be in black ink, and another in red ink. 
 If the ablest secretary for Ireland were moved to the India Board, 
 if the ablest president of the India Board were moved to the War 
 Office, he would require instruction on points like these ; and we 
 do not doubt that Addison required such instruction when he 
 became, for the first time, secretary to the lords justices. 
 
 1 Statesman and historian (i 766-1832). He wrote, among other works, 
 a History of the Revolution of 1688. 
 
 2 Lord John Russell, Sir Robert Peel, and Lord Palmerston, distinguished 
 English statesmen and prime ministers in the reign of Queen Victoria. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 97 
 
 George I. took possession of his kingdom without oppo- 
 sition. A new ministry was formed, and a new Parhament favor- 
 able to the Whigs chosen. Sunderland was appointed lord lieu- 
 tenant of Ireland, and Addison again went to Dubhn as chief 
 secretary. 
 
 At Dubhn, Swift resided ; and there was much speculation 
 about the way in which the Dean and the Secretary would be- 
 have towards each other. The relations which existed between 
 these remarkable men form an interesting and pleasing portion 
 of literary history. They had early attached themselves to the 
 same political party and to the same patrons. While Anne's 
 Whig ministry was in power, the visits of Swift to London, and 
 the official residence of Addison in Ireland, had given them oppor- 
 tunities of knowing each other. They were the two shrewdest 
 observers of their age ; but their observations on each other had 
 led them to favorable conclusions. Swift did full justice to the 
 rare powers of conversation which were latent under the bashful 
 deportment of Addison. Addison, on the other hand, discerned 
 much good nature under the severe look and manner of Swift ; 
 and, indeed, the Swift of 1708 and the Swift of 1738 were two 
 very different men. 
 
 But the paths of the two friends diverged widely. The Whig 
 statesmen loaded Addison with solid benefits. They praised 
 Swift, asked him to dinner, and did nothing more for him. His 
 profession laid them under a difficulty. In the State they could 
 not promote him ; and they had reason to fear, that, by bestow- 
 ing preferment in the Church on the author of the " Tale of a 
 Tub," i they might give scandal to the pubhc, which had no high 
 opinion of their orthodoxy. He did not make fair allowance 
 for the difficulties which prevented Halifax and Somers from 
 serving him, thought himself an ill-used man, sacrificed honor and 
 consistency to revenge, joined the Tories, and became their most 
 formidable champion. He soon found, however, that his old 
 
 1 A powerful satire by Dean Swift, written to promote the interests of the 
 Tory and High Church party. 
 
 7 
 
98 MAC AULA Y. 
 
 friends were less to blame than he had supposed. The dislike 
 with which the Queen and the heads of the Church regarded 
 him was insurmountable ; and it was with the greatest difficulty 
 that he obtained an ecclesiastical dignity of no great value, on 
 condition of fixing his residence in a country which he detested. 
 
 Difference of political opinion had produced, not, indeed, a 
 quarrel, but a coolness between Swift and Addison. They at length 
 ceased altogether to see each other. Yet there was between 
 them a tacit compact like that between the hereditary guests in 
 the "Iliad:"— 
 
 '^Ey;(;ea (5' bXkrfkciv cikecjfJLeda kol 6C ofiDiov 
 JIoaI.oI fiev yap kfiol Tpwef K?i€iToi f emuovpoiy 
 Kreiveiv, uv ke d^eog ye irdpri koI tzoggI Kix^iUf 
 lIo9i?iOL 6' av Got ^AxcLioly evalpejueVj bv ke dvvrjau^ 
 
 Ih'adf Lib. VI. 226-229. 
 
 It is not strange that Addison, who calumniated and insulted 
 nobody, should not have calumniated or insulted Swift ; but it 
 is remarkable that Swift, to whom neither genius nor virtue was 
 sacred, and who generally seemed to find, like most other rene- 
 gades, a peculiar pleasure in attacking old friends, should have 
 shown so much respect and tenderness to Addison. 
 
 Fortune had now changed. The accession of the house of 
 Hanover had secured in England the liberties of the people, and 
 in Ireland the dominion of the Protestant caste. To that caste 
 Swift was more odious than any other man. He was hooted 
 and even pelted in the streets of Dublin, and could not venture 
 to ride along the strand for his health without the attendance of 
 armed servants. Many whom he had formerly served now libeled 
 
 1 Bryant's translation : — 
 
 ** And let us in the tumult of the fray, 
 Avoid each other's spears, for there will be 
 Of Trojans and of their renowned allies 
 Enough for me to slay, whene'er a god 
 Shall bring them in my way. In turn for thee 
 Are many Greeks to smite, whomever thou 
 Canst overcome." 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 99 
 
 and insulted him. At this time Addison arrived. He had been 
 advised not to show the smallest civihty to the Dean of St. Pat- 
 rick's. He had answered, with admirable spirit, that it might 
 be necessary for men whose fidehty to their party was suspected 
 to hold no intercourse with political opponents ; but that one 
 who had been a steady Whig in the worst times might venture, 
 when the good cause was triumphant, to shake hands with an 
 old friend who was one of the vanquished Tories. His kind- 
 ness was soothing to the proud and cruelly wounded spirit of 
 Swift ; and the two great satirists resumed their habits of friendly 
 intercourse. 
 
 Those associates of Addison whose political opinions agreed 
 with his shared his good fortune. He took Tickell with him to 
 Ireland. He procured for Budgell a lucrative place in the same 
 kingdom. Ambrose Philips was provided for in England. Steele 
 had injured himself so much by his eccentricity and perverseness 
 that he obtained but a very small part of what he thought his 
 due. He was, however, knighted ; he had a place in the house- 
 hold ; and he subsequently received other marks of favor from 
 the court. 
 
 Addison did not remain long in Ireland. In 1 7 1 5 he quitted 
 his secretaryship for a seat at the Board of Trade. In the same 
 year his comedy of the '' Drummer " was brought on the stage. 
 The name of the author was not announced. The piece was coldly 
 received ; and some critics have expressed a doubt whether it 
 were really Addison's. To us the evidence, both external and 
 internal, seems decisive. It is not in Addison's best manner; 
 but it contains numerous passages which no other writer known 
 to us could have produced. It was again performed after Addi- 
 son's death, and, being known to be his, was loudly applauded. 
 
 Towards the close of the year 1 7 1 5, while the Rebellion was still 
 raging in Scotland, ^ Addison pubhshed the first number of a paper 
 
 1 The Rebellion in Scotland in 171 5 was instigated by the Jacobites, with 
 a view to reinstating the Stuart dynasty on the English throne (see Note 3, 
 p. 80). 
 
lOO MACAULAY, 
 
 called the " Freeholder." Among his political works the " Free- 
 holder " is entitled to the first place. Even in the " Spectator " 
 there are few serious papers nobler than the character of his friend 
 Lord Somers, and certainly no satirical papers superior to those 
 in which the Tory fox hunter is introduced. This character is 
 the original of Squire Western,^ and is drawn with all Fielding's 
 force, and with a delicacy of which Fielding was altogether des- 
 titute. As none of Addison's works exhibit stronger marks of 
 his genius than the *' Freeholder," so none does more honor to his 
 moral character. It is difficult to extol too highly the candor 
 and humanity of a political writer whom even the excitement oi 
 civil war cannot hurry into unseemly violence. Oxford, it is well 
 known, was then the stronghold of Toryism. The High Street 
 had been repeatedly hned with bayonets in order to keep down 
 the disaffected gownsmen ; and traitors pursued by the messen- 
 gers of the government had been concealed in the garrets of 
 several colleges. Yet the admonition which, even under such 
 circumstances, Addison addressed to the university, is singularly 
 gentle, respectful, and even affectionate : indeed, he could not 
 find it in his heart to deal harshly even with imaginary persons. 
 His fox hunter, though ignorant, stupid, and violent, is at heart a 
 good fellow, and is at last reclaimed by the clemency of the King. 
 Steele was dissatisfied with his friend's moderation, and, though he 
 acknowledged that the '' Freeholder" was excellently written, com- 
 plained that the ministry played on a lute when it was necessary 
 to blow the trumpet. He accordingly determined to execute a 
 flourish after his own fashion, and tried to rouse the public spirit 
 of the nation by means of a paper called the '' Town Talk," which 
 is now as utterly forgotten as his " Enghshman," as his " Crisis," 
 as his '^ Letter to the Bailiff of Stockbridge," as his '^ Reader : " in 
 short, as everything that he wrote without the help of Addison. 
 
 In the same year in which the " Drummer " was acted, and in 
 which the first numbers of the "Freeholder" appeared, the estrange- 
 
 1 Squire Western is one of the characters, a typical foxhunting squire, in 
 Fielding's Tom Jones. 
 
THE LIFE. AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. loi 
 
 ment of Pope and Addison became complete. Addison had from 
 the first seen that Pope was false and malevolent. Pope had dis- 
 covered that Addison was jealous. The discovery was made in 
 a strange manner. Pope had written the '' Rape of the Lock," 
 in two cantos, without supernatural machinery. These two cantos 
 had been loudly applauded, and by none more loudly than by 
 Addison. Then Pope thought of the sylphs and gnomes, Ariel, 
 Momentilla, Crispissa, and Umbriel, and resolved to interweave 
 the Rosicrucian ^ mythology with the original fabric. He asked 
 Addison's advice. Addison said that the poem as it stood was 
 a delicious httle thing, and entreated Pope not to run the risk 
 of marring what was so excellent in trying to mend it. Pope after- 
 wards declared that this insidious counsel first opened his eyes 
 to the baseness of him who gave it. 
 
 Now there can be no doubt that Pope's plan was most ingen- 
 ious, and that he afterwards executed it with great skill and 
 success ; but does it necessarily follow that Addison's advice 
 was bad ? And, if Addison's advice was bad, does it necessarily 
 follow that it was given from bad motives ? If a friend were to 
 ask us whether we would advise him to risk his all in a lottery 
 of which the chances were ten to one against him, we should do 
 our best to dissuade him from running such, a risk. Even if he 
 were so lucky as to get the thirty thousand pound prize, we 
 should not admit that we had counseled him ill, and we should 
 certainly think it the height of injustice in him to accuse us of 
 having been actuated by mahce. We think Addison's advice 
 good advice. It rested on a sound principle, the result of long 
 and wide experience. The general rule undoubtedly is, that, when 
 a successful work of imagination has been produced, it should 
 not be recast. We cannot at this moment call to mind a single 
 instance in which this rule has been transgressed with happy 
 
 1 The Rosicrucians were a sect of visionaries, originating in Germany, and 
 founded by a German nobleman, Rosenkreuz, in the fourteenth century. 
 They pretended to know all sciences, particularly medicine, and to be masters 
 of important secrets, among them the philosopher's stone. 
 
102 MACAULAY, 
 
 effect, except the instance of the " Rape of the Lock." Tasso 
 recast his ''Jerusalem." Akenside ^ rec'ast his *' Pleasures of the 
 Imagination," and his '' Epistle to Curio." Pope himself, em- 
 boldened, no doubt, by the success with which he had expanded 
 and remodeled the " Rape of the Lock," made the same experi- 
 ment on the *' Dunciad." 2 All these attempts failed. Who was 
 to foresee that Pope would, once in his life, be able to do wliat 
 he could not himself do twice, and what nobody else has ever 
 done ? 
 
 r: Addison's advice was good ; but, had it been bad, why 
 should we pronounce it dishonest ? Scott tells us that one of 
 his best friends predicted the failure of '' Waverley." Herder'^ 
 adjured Goethe not to take so unpromising a subject as Faust. 
 Hume ^ tried to dissuade Robertson from writing the '* History 
 of Charles the Fifth." Nay, Pope himself was one of those 
 who prophesied that '' Cato " would never succeed on the stage, 
 and advised Addison to print it without risking a representation. 
 But Scott, Goethe, Robertson, Addison, had the good sense and 
 generosity to give their advisers credit for the best intentions. 
 Pope's heart was not of the same kind with theirs. 
 
 In 1 71 5, while he was engaged in translating the ''Iliad," he 
 met Addison at a coffeehouse. Philips and Budgell were there ; 
 but their sovereign got rid of them, and asked Pope to dine with 
 him alone. After dinner, Addison said that he lay under a diffi- 
 culty which he wished to explain. "Tickell,"he said, "trans- 
 lated some time ago the first book of the ' Iliad.' I have prom- 
 ised to look it over and correct it. I cannot therefore ask to see 
 
 1 Mark Akenside (1721-70), poet and physician, and author of the Pleas- 
 ures of the Imagination, a once celebrated poem. 
 
 2 A mock-heroic poem, in which Pope attacked with merciless satire a 
 number of obscure writers, and with them many worthy persons who had 
 given him no offense. 
 
 3 A German writer and philosopher (1744- 1803), author of a number of 
 works on science, philosophy, language, and history. 
 
 4 David Hume (171 1-76), a celebrated English historian and philosopher, 
 author of a History of England to the period of William and Mary. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 103 
 
 yours ; for that would be double dealing." Pope made a civil 
 reply, and begged that his second book might have the advan- 
 tage of Addison's revision. Addison readily agreed, looked over 
 the second book, and sent it back with warm commendations. 
 
 Tickell's version of the first book appeared soon after this con- 
 versation. In the preface, all rivalry was earnestly disclaimed. 
 Tick ell declared that he should not go on with the '' Iliad." 
 That enterprise he should leave to powers which he admitted 
 to be superior to his own. His only view, he said, in publishing 
 this specimen was to bespeak the favor of the pubhc to a trans- 
 lation of the " Odyssey," in which he had made some progress. 
 
 Addison, and Addison's devoted followers, pronounced both 
 the versions good, but maintained that Tickell's had more of the 
 original. The town gave a decided preference to Pope's. We 
 do not think it worth while to settle such a question of precedence. 
 Neither of the rivals can be said to have translated the *' Iliad," 
 unless, indeed, the word " translation " be used in the sense which 
 it bears in the '' Midsummer Night's Dream." ^ When Bottom 
 makes his appearance with an ass's head instead of his own, 
 Peter Quince 2 exclaims, '^ Bless thee. Bottom ! bless thee ! thou 
 art translated." In this sense, undoubtedly, the readers of either 
 Pope or Tickell may very properly exclaim, " Bless thee, Homer! 
 thou art translated indeed." 
 
 Our readers will, we hope, agree with us in thinking that no 
 man in Addison's situation could have acted more fairly and 
 kindly, both towards Pope and towards Tickell, than he appears 
 to have done. But an odious suspicion had sprung up in the 
 mind of Pope. He fancied, and he soon firmly believed, that 
 there was a deep conspiracy against his fame and his fortunes. 
 The work on which he had staked his reputation was to be 
 depreciated. The subscription, on which rested his hopes of a 
 competence, was to be defeated. With this view, Addison had 
 
 1 One of Shakespeare's comedies. 
 
 2 Bottom and Peter Quince are characters in Shakespeare's Midsummer 
 Night's Dream. 
 
I04 MACAULAY, 
 
 made a rival translation ; Tickell had consented to father it ; and 
 the wits of Button's had united to puff it. 
 
 Is there any external evidence to support this grave accusa- 
 tion ? The answer is short. There is absolutely none. 
 
 Was there any internal evidence which proved Addison to be 
 the author of this version ? Was it a work which Tickell was 
 incapable of producing ? Surely not. Tickell was a fellow of 
 a college at Oxford, and must be supposed to have been able to 
 construe the " Iliad ;" and he was a better versifier than his friend. 
 We are not aware that Pope pretended to have discovered any 
 turns of expression peculiar to Addison. Had such turns of 
 expression been discovered, they would be sufficiently accounted 
 for by supposing Addison to have corrected his friend's lines, as 
 he owned that he had done. 
 
 Is there anything in the character of the accused persons which 
 makes the accusation probable ? We answer confidently. Noth- 
 ing. Tickell was long after this time described by Pope himself 
 as a very fair and worthy man. Addison had been, during many 
 years, before the public. Literary rivals, political opponents, had 
 kept their eyes on him. But neither envy nor faction, in their 
 utmost rage, had ever imputed to him a single deviation from the 
 laws of honor and of social morality. Had he been, indeed, a 
 man meanly jealous of fame, and capable of stooping to base 
 and wicked arts for the purpose of injuring his competitors, would 
 his vices have remained latent so long ? He was a writer of 
 tragedy : had he ever injured Rowe ? He was a writer of com- 
 edy : had he not done ample justice to Congreve, and given valu- 
 able help to Steele ? . He was a pamphleteer : have not his good 
 nature and generosity been acknowledged by Swift, his rival in 
 fame, and his adversary in politics ? 
 
 That Tickell should have been guilty of a villainy seems to us 
 highly improbable. That Addison should have been guilty of a 
 villainy seems to us highly improbable. But that these two men 
 should have conspired together to commit a villainy seems to us 
 improbable in a tenfold degree. All that is known to us of their 
 
THE LIFE AND. WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 105 
 
 intercourse tends to prove that it was not the intercourse of two 
 accomplices in crime. These are some of the hnes in which 
 Tickell poured forth his sorrow over the coffin of Addison: — 
 
 ** Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, 
 A task well suited to thy gentle mind ? 
 Oh, if sometimes thy spotless form descend. 
 To me thine aid, thou guardian genius, lend. 
 When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, 
 When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, 
 In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart. 
 And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart ; 
 Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before. 
 Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more." 
 
 In what words, we should like to know, did this guardian genius 
 invite his pupil to join in a plan such as the editor of the '' Satirist " 
 would hardly dare to propose to the editor of the *' Age " ? 
 
 We do not accuse Pope of bringing an accusation which he 
 knew to be false. We have not the smallest doubt that he be- 
 lieved it to be true ; and the evidence on which he believed it he 
 found in his own bad heart. His own Hfe was one long series 
 of tricks, as mean and as malicious as that of which he suspected 
 Addison and Tickell. He was all stiletto and mask. To injure, 
 to insult, and to save himself from the consequences of injury 
 and insult by lying and equivocating, was the habit of his hfe. 
 He pubHshed a lampoon on the Duke of Chandos : he was taxed 
 with it, and he hed and equivocated. He published a lampoon 
 on Aaron Hill : 1 he was taxed with it, and he lied and equivo- 
 cated. He pubHshed a still fouler lampoon on Lady Mary Wort- 
 ley Montagu : he was taxed with it, and he Hed with more than 
 usual effrontery and vehemence. He puffed himself and abused 
 his enemies under feigned names. He robbed himself of his own 
 letters, and then raised the hue and cry after them. Besides his 
 frauds of maHgnity, of fear, of interest, and of vanity, there were 
 frauds which he seems to have committed from love of fraud 
 
 1 An obscure poet and dramatist (i 685-1 750), 
 
io6 MACAU LAY. 
 
 alone. He had a habit of stratagem, a pleasure in outwitting all 
 who came near him. AVhatever his object might be, the indirect 
 road to it was that which he preferred. For Bolingbroke, Pope 
 undoubtedly felt as much love and veneration as it was in his 
 nature to feel for any human being ; yet Pope was scarcely dead 
 when it was discovered, that, from no motive except the mere 
 love of artifice, he had been guilty of an act of gross perfidy to 
 Bolingbroke. 
 
 Nothing was more natural than that such a man as this should 
 attribute to others that which he felt within himself. A plain, 
 probable, coherent explanation is frankly given to him : he is 
 certain that it is all a romance. A line of conduct scrupulously 
 fair, and even friendly, is pursued towards him : he is convinced 
 that it is merely a cover for a vile intrigue by which he is to be 
 disgraced and ruined. It is vain to ask him for proofs. He has 
 none, and wants none, except those which he carries in his own 
 bosom. 
 
 Whether Pope's malignity at length provoked Addison to retali- 
 ate for the first and last time, cannot now be known with cer- 
 tainty. We have only Pope's story, which runs thus : a pam- 
 phlet appeared containing some reflections which stung Pope to 
 the quick. What those reflections were, and whether they were 
 reflections of which he had a right to complain, we have now no 
 means of deciding. The Earl of Warwick, a foolish and vicious 
 lad, who regarded Addison with the feehngs with which such 
 lads generally regard their best friends, told Pope, truly or falsely, 
 that this pamphlet had been written by Addison's direction. 
 When we consider what a tendency stories have to grow in pass- 
 ing even from one honest man to another honest man, and when 
 we consider that to the name of honest man neither Pope nor 
 the Earl of Warwick had a claim, we are not disposed to attach 
 much importance to this anecdote. 
 
 It is certain, however, that Pope was furious. He had already 
 sketched the character of Atticus in prose. In his anger he turned 
 this prose into the brilliant and energetic lines which everybody 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 107 
 
 knows by heart, or ought to know by heart, and sent them to 
 Addison. One charge which Pope has enforced with great skill 
 is probably not without foundation. Addison was, we are in- 
 cHned to believe, too fond of presiding over a circle of humble 
 friends. Of the other imputations which these famous lines are 
 intended to convey, scarcely one has ever been proved to be just, 
 and some are certainly false. That Addison was not in the habit 
 of ''damning with faint praise" appears from innumerable pas- 
 sages in his writings, and from none more than from those in which 
 he mentions Pope. And it is not merely unjust, but ridiculous, to 
 describe a man who made the fortune of almost every one of 
 his intimate friends, as *'so obhging that he ne'er obliged." 
 
 That Addison felt the sting of Pope's satire keenly, we cannot 
 doubt ; that he was conscious of one of the weaknesses with 
 which he was reproached, is highly probable : but his heart, we 
 firmly believe, acquitted him of the gravest part of the accusa- 
 tion. He acted like himself. As a satirist, he was at his own 
 weapons more than Pope's match, and he would have been at 
 no loss for topics. A distorted and diseased body, tenanted by 
 a yet more distorted and diseased mind ; spite and envy thinly 
 disguised by sentiments as benevolent and noble as those which 
 Sir Peter Teazle admired in Mr. Joseph Surface ;^ a feeble, sickly 
 licentiousness ; an odious love of filthy and noisome images, — these 
 were things which a genius less powerful than that to which we 
 owe the '' Spectator " could easily have held up to the mirth and 
 hatred of mankind. Addison had, moreover, at his command, 
 other means of vengeance, which a bad man would not have 
 scrupled to use. He was powerful in the State. Pope was a 
 Cathohc ; and in those times a minister would have found it 
 easy to harass the most innocent Catholic by innumerable petty 
 vexations. Pope, near twenty years later, said that ''through 
 the lenity of the government alone he could Hve with comfort." 
 " Consider," he exclaimed, "the injury that a man of high rank 
 
 1 Sir Peter Teazle and Joseph Surface are characters in Sheridan's comedy 
 of the School for Scandal. 
 
Io8 MACAULAY, 
 
 and credit may do to a private person, under penal laws and 
 many other disadvantages." It is pleasing to reflect that the only 
 revenge which Addison took was to insert in the '' Freeholder " 
 a warm encomium on the translation of the *^ Iliad," and to exhort 
 all lovers of learning to put down their names as subscribers. 
 There could be no doubt, he said, from the specimens already 
 published, that the masterly hand of Pope would do as much for 
 Homer as Dryden had done for Virgil. From that time to the 
 end of his life, he always treated Pope, by Pope's own acknowl- 
 edgment, with justice. Friendship was, of course, at an end. 
 
 One reason which induced the Earl of Warwick to play the 
 ignominious part of talebearer on this occasion may have been 
 his dislike of the marriage which was about to take place between 
 his mother and Addison. The countess dowager, a daughter of 
 the old and honorable family of the Middletons of Chirk, a fam- 
 ily which, in any country but ours, would be called noble, resided 
 at Holland House. ^ Addison had, during some years, occupied 
 at Chelsea a small dwelling, once the abode of Nell Gwynn.2 
 Chelsea is now a district of London, and Holland House may be 
 called a town residence ; but, in the days of Anne and George I., 
 milkmaids and sportsmen wandered between green hedges, 
 and over fields bright with daisies, from Kensington almost 
 to the shore of the Thames. Addison and Lady Warwick 
 were country neighbors, and became intimate friends. The great 
 wit and scholar tried to allure the young lord from the fashion- 
 able amusements of beating watchmen, breaking windows, and 
 rolling women in hogsheads down Holborn Hill, to the study of 
 letters and the practice of virtue. These well-meant exertions 
 did little good, however, either to the disciple or to the master. 
 Lord Warwick grew up a rake, and Addison fell in love. The 
 
 1 Holland House in Kensington, one of the famous London houses, and, 
 in the early part of this century, the most renowned temple of wit, social 
 graces, and hospitality in England. 
 
 2 An English actress of profligate character, and for some time a favorite 
 of Charles II. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 109 
 
 mature beauty of the countess has been celebrated by poets in 
 language which, after a very large allowance has been made for 
 flattery, would lead us to believe that she was a fine woman ; 
 and her rank doubtless heightened her attractions. The court- 
 ship was long. The hopes of the lover appear to have risen 
 and fallen with the fortunes of his party. His attachment was 
 at length matter of such notoriety, that, when he visited Ireland 
 for the last time, Rowe addressed some consolatory verses to the 
 Chloe 1 of Holland House. It strikes us as a little strange, that 
 in these verses Addison should be called Lycidas,^ a name of 
 singularly evil omen for a swain just about to cross St. George's 
 Channel. 
 
 At length Chloe capitulated. Addison was indeed able to treat 
 with her on equal terms. He had reason to expect preferment 
 even higher than that which he had attained. He had inherited 
 the fortune of a brother who died governor of Madras. He had 
 purchased an estate in Warwickshire, and had been welcomed 
 to his domain in very tolerable verse by one of the neighboring 
 squires, the poetical fox hunter, WiUiam Somerville. In August, 
 1 7 16, the newspapers announced that Joseph Addison, Esq., 
 famous for many excellent works both in verse ^nd prose, had 
 espoused the Countess Dowager of Warwick. 
 
 He now fixed his abode at Holland House, a house which can 
 boast of a greater number of inmates distinguished in pohtical 
 and literary history than any other private dwelhng in England. 
 His portrait still hangs there. The features are pleasing ; the 
 complexion is remarkably fair ; but in the expression we trace 
 rather the gentleness of his disposition than the force and keen- 
 ness of his intellect. 
 
 Not long after his marriage, he reached the height of civil 
 greatness. The Whig government had, during some time, been 
 
 1 In pastoral poetry, a favorite name for a shepherdess. 
 
 2 In pastoral poetry, a favorite name for a shepherd. Milton, in his 
 famous elegy of the same name, applies it to his friend Edward King, who 
 was drowned in St. George's Channel. 
 
no MACAULAY. 
 
 torn by internal dissensions. Lord Townshend ^ led one section 
 of the cabinet, Lord Sunderland the other. At length, in the 
 spring of 1717, Sunderland triumphed. Townshend retired from 
 office, and was accompanied by Walpole and Cowper. Sunder- 
 land proceeded to reconstruct the ministry, and Addison was 
 appointed secretary of state. It is certain that the seals were 
 pressed upon him, and were at first declined by him. Men 
 equally versed in official business might easily have been found ; 
 and his colleagues knew that they could not expect assistance 
 from him in debate. He owed his elevation to his popularity, 
 to his stainless probity, and to his literary fame. 
 
 But scarcely had Addison entered the cabinet when his health 
 began to fail. From one serious attack he recovered in the 
 autumn ; and his recovery was celebrated in Latin verses, worthy 
 of his own pen, by Vincent Bourne, who was then at Trinity Col- 
 lege, Cambridge. A relapse soon took place, and in the follow- 
 ing spring Addison was prevented by a severe asthma from 
 discharging the duties of his post. He resigned it, and was suc- 
 ceeded by his friend Craggs, a young man whose natural parts, 
 though little improved by cultivation, were quick and showy, 
 whose graceful person and winning manners had made him gen- 
 erally acceptable in society, and who, if he had lived, would prob- 
 ably have been the most formidable of all the rivals of Walpole. 
 
 As yet there was no Joseph Hume.^ The ministers, therefore, 
 were able to bestow on Addison a retiring pension of fifteen hun- 
 dred pounds a year. In what form this pension was given, we 
 are not told by the biographers, and have not time to inquire ; 
 but it is certain that Addison did not vacate his seat in the 
 House of Commons. 
 
 Rest of mind and body seemed to have reestabhshed his 
 
 1 Charles, Viscount Townshend (i 674-1 738), when minister at the Hague, 
 negotiated the treaty which pledged the States General to the Hanoverian 
 succession. 
 
 2 An English economist (i 777-1855), a member of Parliament for many 
 years, an4 active in the promotion of many reforms. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 1 1 1 
 
 health, and he thanked God, with cheerful piety, for having set 
 him free both from his office and from his asthma. Many years 
 seemed to be before him; and he meditated many works, — a 
 tragedy on the death of Socrates,^ a translation of the Psalms, a 
 treatise on the evidences of Christianity. Of this last perform- 
 ance, a part, which we could well spare, has come down to us. 
 
 But the fatal complaint soon returned, and gradually prevailed 
 against all the resources of medicine. It is melancholy to think 
 that the last months of such a life should have been overclouded 
 both by domestic and by political vexations. A tradition which 
 began early, which has been generally received, and to which we 
 have nothing to oppose, has represented his wife as an arrogant 
 and imperious woman. It is said that, till his health failed him, 
 he was glad to escape from the countess dowager and her mag- 
 nificent dining room, blazing with the gilded devices of the house 
 of Rich, to some tavern where he could enjoy a laugh, a talk 
 about Virgil and Boileau, and a bottle of claret, with the friends 
 of his happier days. All those friends, however, were not left to 
 him. Sir Richard Steele had been gradually estranged by vari- 
 ous causes. He considered himself as one who, in evil times, 
 had braved martyrdom for his political principles, and demanded, 
 when the Whig party was triumphant, a large compensation for 
 what he had suffered when it was militant. The Whig leaders 
 took a very different view of his claims. They thought that he 
 had, by his own petulance and folly, brought them as well as him- 
 self into trouble, and though they did not absolutely neglect him, 
 doled out favors to him with a sparing hand. It was natural that 
 he should be angry with them, and especially angry with Addi- 
 son. But what, above all, seems to have disturbed Sir Richard 
 was the elevation of Tickell, who at thirty was made by Addi- 
 son undersecretary of state ; while the editor of the *' Tatler " and 
 ''Spectator," the author of the " Crisis," the member for Stock- 
 bridge, who had been persecuted for firm adherence to the house 
 
 1 Socrates (469-399 B.C.), the great Athenian philosopher, the story of 
 whose teachings and death is related by his disciple, Plato, 
 
112 MACAULAY, 
 
 of Hanover, was, at near fifty, forced, after many solicitations 
 and complaints, to content himself with a share in the patent of 
 Drury Lane Theater. Steele himself says, in his celebrated letter 
 to Congreve, that Addison, by his preference of Tickell, ** incurred 
 the warmest resentment of other gentlemen;" and everything 
 seems to indicate that, of those resentful gentlemen, Steele was 
 himself one. 
 
 While poor Sir Richard was brooding over what he considered 
 as Addison's unkindness, a new cause of quarrel arose. The 
 Whig party, already divided against itself, was rent by a new 
 schism. The celebrated bill for limiting the number of peers 
 had been brought in. The proud Duke of Somerset, first in rank 
 of all the nobles whose rehgion permitted them to sit in Parlia- 
 ment, was the ostensible author of the measure ; but it was sup- 
 ported, and in truth devised, by the prime minister.^ 
 
 We are satisfied that the bill was most pernicious, and we 
 fear that the motives which induced Sunderland to frame it were 
 not honorable to him ; but we cannot deny that it was supported 
 by many of the best and wisest men of that age. Nor was this 
 strange. The royal prerogative had, within the memory of the 
 generation then in the vigor of life, been so grossly abused, that 
 it was still regarded with a jealousy, which, when the peculiar 
 situation of the house of Brunswick ^ is considered, may per- 
 haps be called immoderate. The particular prerogative of creat- 
 ing peers had, in the opinion of the Whigs, been grossly abused 
 by Queen Anne's last ministry ; and even the Tories admitted 
 that her Majesty, in swamping, as it has since been called, the 
 Upper House, had done what only an extreme case could jus- 
 tify. The theory of the Enghsh Constitution, according to many 
 high authorities, was that three independent powers — the sover- 
 eign, the nobihty, and the commons — ought constantly to act as 
 checks on each other. If this theory were sound, it seemed to 
 follow that to put one of these powers under the absolute con- 
 trol of the other two, was absurd. But, if the number of peers 
 1 Lord Sunderland. 2 Same as house of Hanover. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 113 
 
 were unlimited, it could not well be denied that the Upper House 
 was under the absolute control of the Crown and the Commons, 
 and was indebted only to their moderation for any power which 
 it might be suffered to retain. 
 
 Steele took part with the Opposition, Addison with the Minis- 
 ters. Steele, in a paper called the '"Plebeian," vehemently attacked 
 the bill. Sunderland called for help on Addison, and Addison 
 obeyed the call. In a paper called the " Old Whig " he answered 
 and indeed refuted Steele's arguments. It seems to us that the 
 premises of both the controversialists were unsound ; that on 
 those premises Addison reasoned well, and Steele ill ; and that 
 consequently Addison brought out a false conclusion, while Steele 
 blundered upon the truth. In style, in wit, and in poHteness, 
 Addison maintained his superiority, though the " Old Whig " is 
 by no means one of his happiest performances. 
 
 At first, both the anonymous opponents observed the laws of 
 propriety. But at length Steele so far forgot himself as to throw 
 an odious imputation on the morals of the chiefs of the adminis- 
 tration. Addison replied with severity, but, in our opinion, with 
 less severity than was due to so grave an offense against morality 
 and decorum ; nor did he, in his just anger, forget for a moment 
 the laws of good taste and good breeding. One calumny which 
 has been often repeated, and never yet contradicted, it is our 
 duty to expose. It is asserted in the '' Biographia Britannica," 
 that Addison designated Steele as " little Dicky." This assertion 
 was repeated by Johnson, who had never seen the '' Old Whig," 
 and was therefore excusable. It has also been repeated by Miss 
 Aikin, who has seen the '' Old Whig," and for whom, therefore, 
 there is less excuse. Now, it is true that the words " httle Dicky " 
 occur in the '' Old Whig," and that Steele's name was Richard. It 
 is equally true that the words " little Isaac " occur in the '' Duen- 
 na," 1 and that Newton's name was Isaac. But we confidently 
 affirm that Addison's httle Dicky had no more to do with Steele 
 
 1 A comic opera by Richard Brinsley Sheridan, produced at Covent Garden 
 Theater in 1775. 
 8 
 
114 MACAULAY. 
 
 than Sheridan's httle Isaac with Newton. If we apply the words 
 " Httle Dicky " to Steele, we deprive a very Hvely and ingenious 
 passage, not only of all its wit, but of all its meaning. Little Dicky 
 was the nickname of Henry Norris, an actor of remarkably small 
 stature, but of great humor, who played the usurer Gomez, then 
 a most popular part, in Dry den's *' Spanish Friar." 
 
 The merited reproof which Steele had received, though soft- 
 ened by some kind and courteous expressions, galled him bitterly. 
 He rephed with little force and great acrimony ; but no rejoinder 
 appeared. Addison was fast hastening to his grave, and had, we 
 may well suppose, Httle disposition to prosecute a quarrel with an 
 old friend. His complaint had terminated in dropsy. He bore 
 up long and manfuUy ; but at length he abandoned all hope, 
 dismissed his physicians, and calmly prepared himself to die. 
 
 His works he intrusted to the care of TickeH, and dedicated 
 them a very few days before his death to Craggs, in a letter writ- 
 ten with the sweet and graceful eloquence of a Saturday's " Spec- 
 tator." In this his last composition he alluded to his approach- 
 ing end in words so manly, so cheerful, and so tender, that it is 
 difficult to read them without tears. At the same time, he ear- 
 nestly recommended the interests of Tickell to the care of Craggs. 
 
 Within a few hours of the time at which this dedication was 
 written, Addison sent to beg Gay,i who was then living by his 
 wits about town, to come to HoHand House. Gay went, and 
 was received with great kindness. To his amazement, his for- 
 giveness was implored by the dying man. Poor Gay, the most 
 good-natured and simple of mankind, could not imagine what 
 he had to forgive. There was, however, some wrong, the remem- 
 brance of which weighed on Addison's mind, and which he de- 
 clared himself anxious to repair. He was in a state of extreme 
 exhaustion, and the parting was doubtless a friendly one on both 
 sides. Gay supposed that some plan to serve him had been in 
 
 1 John Gay (1688-1732), author of a series of pastorals entitled the Shep> 
 herd's Week, of a collection of fables in verse, and of the Beggar's Opera, the 
 best specimen of ballad opera in the English language. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 115 
 
 agitation at court, and had been frustrated by Addison's influ- 
 ence. Nor is this improbable. Gay had paid assiduous court 
 to the royal family. But in the Queen's days he had been the 
 eulogist of Bohngbroke, and was still connected with many 
 Tories. It is not strange that Addison, while heated by conflict, 
 should have thought himself justified in obstructing the prefer- 
 ment of one whom he might regard as a political enemy. Neither 
 is it strange, that when reviewing his whole life, and earnestly 
 scrutinizing all his motives, he should think that he had acted 
 an unkind and ungenerous part in using his power against a dis- 
 tressed man of letters who was as harmless and as helpless as a 
 child. 
 
 One inference may be drawn from this anecdote. It appears 
 that Addison, on his deathbed, called himself to a strict account, 
 and was not at ease till he had asked pardon for an injury which 
 it was not even suspected that he had committed, for an injury 
 which would have caused disquiet only to a very tender con- 
 science. Is it not, then, reasonable to infer, that, if he had really 
 been guilty of forming a base conspiracy against the fame and 
 fortunes of a rival, he would have expressed some remorse for so 
 serious a crime ? But it is unnecessary to multiply arguments 
 and evidence for the defense, when there is neither argument 
 nor evidence for the accusation. 
 
 The last moments of Addison were perfectly serene. His in- 
 terview with his son-in-law is universally known. *' See," he said, 
 "how a Christian can die." The piety of Addison was, in truth, 
 of a singularly cheerful character. The feeling which predomi- 
 nates in all his devotional writings is gratitude. God was to him 
 the all -wise and all-powerful friend who had watched over his 
 cradle with more than maternal tenderness ; who had listened to 
 his cries before they could form themselves in prayer ; who had 
 preserved his youth from the snares of vice ; who had made his 
 cup run over with worldly blessings ; who had doubled the value 
 of those blessings by bestowing a thankful heart to enjoy them, 
 and dear friends to partake them ; who had rebuked the waves 
 
Ii6 MACAULAY, 
 
 of the Ligurian gulf, had purified the autumnal air of the Cam- 
 pagna,! and had restrained the avalanches of Mont Cenis. Of 
 the Psalms, his favorite was that which represents the Ruler of 
 all things under the endearing image of a shepherd, whose crook 
 guides the flock safe, through gloomy and desolate glens, to 
 meadows well watered, and rich with herbage. On that good- 
 ness to which he ascribed all the happiness of his life, he relied 
 in the hour of death with the love which casteth out fear. He 
 died on the 17th of June, 17 19. He had just entered on his 
 forty-eighth year. 
 
 His body lay in state in the Jerusalem Chamber,^ and was 
 borne thence to the Abbey at dead of night. The choir sang a 
 funeral hymn. Bishop Atterbury, one of those Tories who had 
 loved and honored the most accomplished of the Whigs, met the 
 corpse, and led the procession by torchHght, round the shrine of 
 St. Edward ^ and the graves of the Plantagenets,^ to the chapel 
 of Henry VII. On the north side of that chapel, in the 
 vault of the house of Albemarle, the coffin of Addison lies next 
 to the coffin of Montague. Yet a few months, and the same 
 mourners passed again along the same aisle. The same sad 
 anthem was again chanted. The same vault was again opened, 
 and the coffin of Craggs was placed close to the coffin of Addison. 
 
 Many tributes were paid to the memory of Addison ; but one 
 alone is now remembered. Tickell bewailed his friend in an 
 elegy which would do honor to the greatest name in our hterature, 
 and which unites the energy and magnificence of Dryden to the 
 tenderness and purity of Cowper.^ This fine poem was prefixed 
 
 1 A district of Southern Italy, considered one of the most unhealthy tracts 
 in Europe. 
 
 2 A room or hall in Westminster Abbey ; so called from the pictures or 
 tapestries on the wall, of stories from the history of Jerusalem. The famous 
 Westminster Assembly convened there in 1643. 
 
 3 Edward the Confessor, King of England 1041-66. 
 
 4 A line of English Kings, from Henry II. to Richard III. 
 
 5 William Cowper (i 731-1800), author of the Task, and many delightful 
 shorter poems. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 1 1 7 
 
 to a superb edition of Addison's works, which was pubhshed in 
 1 72 1 by subscription. The names of the subscribers proved 
 how widely his fame had been spread. That his countrymen 
 should be eager to possess his writings, even in a costly form, is 
 not wonderful ; but it is wonderful, that, though English litera- 
 ture was then little studied on the Continent, Spanish grandees, 
 Italian prelates, marshals of France, should be found in the hst. 
 Among the most remarkable names are those of the Queen of 
 Sweden, of Prince Eugene, of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, of 
 the Dukes of Parma, Modena, and Guastalla, of the Doge of 
 Genoa, of the Regent Orleans, and of Cardinal Dubois. We 
 ought to add that this edition, though eminently beautiful, is in 
 some important points defective ; nor, indeed, do we yet possess 
 a complete collection of Addison's writings. 
 
 It is strange that neither his opulent and noble widow, nor 
 any of his powerful and attached friends, should have thought of 
 placing even a simple tablet, inscribed with his name, on the 
 walls of the Abbey. It was not till three generations had laughed 
 and wept over his pages that the omission was supphed by the pub- 
 he veneration. At length, in our own time, his image, skillfully 
 graven, appeared in Poets' Corner. It represents him, as we can 
 conceive him, — clad in his dressing gown, and freed from his wig, 
 — stepping from his parlor at Chelsea into his trim little garden, 
 with the account of the '' Everlasting Club," or the '' Loves of 
 Hilpa and Shalum," just finished for the next day's '' Spectator," 
 in his hand. Such a mark of national respect was due to the 
 unsuUied statesman, to the accomphshed scholar, to the master 
 of pure English eloquence, to the consummate painter of life 
 and manners. It was due, above all, to the great satirist, who 
 alone knew how to use ridicule without abusing it, who, without 
 inflicting a wound, effected a great social reform, and who recon- 
 ciled wit and virtue, after a long and disastrous separation, 
 during which wit had been led astray by profligacy, and virtue 
 by fanaticism. 
 
^9^^ fVl%Utm. 
 
ECLECTIC ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 . AN ESSAY 
 
 ON 
 
 JOHN MILTON 
 
 BY 
 
 LORD MACAULAY 
 
 NEW YORK •:• CINCINNATI •:• CHICAGO 
 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
Copyright, 1894, by 
 American Book Company, 
 
 Macaulay's Milton 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Thomas Babington Macaulay was born in Leicestershire, 
 Oct. 25, 1800. Before he was ten years old he showed a decided 
 bent for hterature, and a good deal of juvenile prose and verse 
 attests his precocity. He entered Trinity College, Cambridge, 
 in 1 81 8. He was averse to mathematical and scientific studies, 
 but achieved much distinction at the university by his poems 
 and essays, and by his speeches in the debating society. He 
 received his degree in 1822, and four years later was admitted 
 to the bar. 
 
 When, about this time, commercial disaster befell his father, 
 it was plain that Macaulay, upon whom the family support de- 
 volved, could not count for maintenance upon his chosen profes- 
 sion of the law. At the instance of powerful friends, he was in 
 1828 made a commissioner of bankruptcy, and two years after- 
 wards he entered the House of Commons as member for Calne, 
 a pocket borough in the gift of Lord Lansdowne. 
 
 In 1834 he was appointed to a seat in the Supreme Council 
 of India. This place he held till 1838, and the munificent sal- 
 ary attached to it (^^i 0,000) gave him the independence need- 
 ful for the carrying out of his great literary work, the " History 
 of England." His " Essays," by which he is best known to the 
 
 5 
 
6 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 general reader, were many t)f them of the nature of preHminary 
 historical studies. Before his pohtical preferment these pieces 
 had served to increase Macaulay's slender income ; those written 
 after his return from India were the outcome of choice and 
 greater leisure. 
 
 Macaulay reentered Parliament in 1839 — this time as mem- 
 ber for Edinburgh — and became secretary of war in Melbourne's 
 ministry. In 1846 he was paymaster general, as Chatham had 
 been before him. 
 
 The first two volumes of his history appeared in 1848, and 
 were followed by two more in 1855. Two years later he was 
 raised to the peerage. He died of heart disease in December, 
 1859, and was buried in Westminster Abbey, in Poets* Corner, 
 near the statue of Addison. 
 
 Macaulay lacked some of the traits we are accustomed to look 
 for in lofty natures. We are told that he was ignorant of the 
 deeper emotions ; that his sensibilities were not delicate ; that he 
 lacked piety of mind, had no sympathy with high speculation, 
 and displayed but little interest even in the practical problems 
 of science and social life. On the other hand, his virtues were 
 many and great. He was an affectionate friend, and blameless, 
 unselfish, and magnanimous in every relation of life. His nature 
 was simple, manly, and straightforward. He hated Hes, liars, 
 and all evil ; and one of the reasons he is never dull is that he 
 was deeply in earnest in all he wrote. 
 
 Macaulay's powers of memory were very great, and the extent 
 of his reading has perhaps never been exceeded. Like Johnson, 
 Coleridge, and other men of great information, he was an exu- 
 berant talker ; and like most men who talk well, he was, it may 
 be, a poor listener. 
 
INTRODUCTION, 7 
 
 His fame rests on his " Lays of Ancient Rome," his " His- 
 tory of England," and his '' Essays." It is with the last that we 
 are here concerned. Though the titles of the essays suggest biog- 
 raphy, most of them are in fact detached chapters of history. 
 
 Macaulay's style is pecuHar to himself. By it he was able to 
 give to written language a good share of the glow and rush of 
 spoken oratory. Critics have pointed to his wealth of epithet, 
 the rhythm of his periods, and the masterly unity of each of his 
 pieces. Yet beyond the reach of analysis there remains a some- 
 thing that is Macaulay's that cannot be defined. ^' You will ask 
 science in vain to tell you," says Saintsbury, '* why some dozen 
 or sixteen of the simplest words in language, arranged by one 
 man, in one fashion, make a permanent addition to the delight of 
 the world, while other words differently arranged by another do 
 not." 
 
 The essay upon the poet and statesman of the Commonwealth, 
 of which this book furnishes the text, and which appeared in the 
 " Edinburgh Review" of 1825, while not the first of Macaulay's 
 essays in order of composition, was the first to attract attention to 
 the rising young barrister who had not long before come back to 
 London from the university with a brilliant reputation, and who 
 was already widely known in the literary and political circles of 
 the metropohs. In spite of redundancy and ornament, — defects 
 which are readily excusable in a youthful enthusiast, and which 
 Macaulay himself in the maturity of his judgment condemned, 
 • — and a tendency to obscure, in the blaze of Milton's renown, 
 some obvious blemishes of conduct and character, the essay was 
 instandy recognized as the most remarkable contribution to the 
 critical literature of that time, — a verdict which the lapse of 
 nearly three quarters of a century has not disturbed. 
 
8 INTRODUC-TION, 
 
 John Milton, ''organ-mouth of England," as Tennyson styles 
 him, indisputably, after Shakespeare, the greatest of English 
 poets, was born in London, Dec. 9, 1608. His father, whose 
 name was also John, was by profession a scrivener. The house 
 in Bread Street in which Milton was born, was known as the 
 Spread Eagle, from the device of an eagle with outstretched 
 wings over the doorway. Milton's father was himself a man of 
 superior talents, who had been educated at Oxford University, 
 but had afterwards embraced the doctrines of the Reformed 
 Church. He was the poet's first teacher. 
 
 In his tenth year the son was placed under the tuition of 
 Thomas Young, a Puritan minister and an excellent scholar. 
 After two years he was admitted to St. Paul's, a grammar school 
 for classical instruction chiefly, where, as he afterwards wrote, he 
 was '' seized with such eagerness for the study of humane letters, 
 that from the twelfth year of my age I scarcely ever went from 
 my lessons to bed before midnight ; which, indeed, was the first 
 cause of injury to my eyes." 
 
 There is evidence that before Milton's school-days were over 
 he was not only a diligent student of English literature, but could 
 read French and Italian, and had some knowledge of Hebrew. 
 The father, too, though of a serious disposition, was a man of 
 liberal culture, particularly noted as a musician and composer, 
 and it was from him the poet received those first lessons in the 
 delightful art which was to be the solace of his neglected age, 
 and by which his ear was first attuned to the majestic harmonies 
 of '' Paradise Lost." 
 
 With his early readings in Spenser and in Du Bartas, a French 
 rehgious poet of the sixteenth century, we must connect Milton's 
 first efforts in Enghsh verse. Of these, the earliest that remain 
 
INTRODUCTION, 9 
 
 are paraphrases -of two of the Psalms, pubHshed in his later life 
 with the statement that they were written in his sixteenth year, 
 the last year of his stay at St. Paul's School. 
 
 On completing the course of study at St. Paul's, Milton was 
 admitted a pensioner at Christ's College, Cambridge, in 1625, 
 where he was soon distinguished for his proficiency in classi- 
 cal learning, and for the ease and elegance of his Latin versifi- 
 cation. During his second academic year, in 1626, the beautiful 
 lines " On the Death of a Fair Infant," his first original English 
 poem, were written. Milton remained at Cambridge for seven 
 years, taking his master's degree in 1632, in his twenty-fourth 
 year. 
 
 On or about Christmas day, 1629, when in his twenty-first 
 year, Milton composed the ode " On the Morning of Christ's 
 Nativity," which Hallam describes as " perhaps the most beauti- 
 ful in the Enghsh language." To the same period, — that is, in 
 1630, — belongs the well-known epitaph on Shakespeare, which, 
 as far as is known, was the first of Milton's writings to appear in 
 print. 
 
 Milton's parents, in sending him to the university, had in view 
 his entering the Church — that is, the English Church — as a pro- 
 fession, but to this his Puritan training and his own convictions 
 had made him so much averse that the project was abandoned. 
 Before leaving college, indeed, he had expressed a preference for 
 a literary career, for which his genius and the bent of his studies 
 had so evidently destined him ; and on repairing to the new home 
 in the village of Horton, about seventeen miles from London, to 
 which his father had retired, he addressed himself seriously to 
 this design. In the seclusion of this retreat, shut out from the 
 world except during occasional visits to London, he, devoted the 
 
1 o IN TROD UC7TON. 
 
 next five years of his life to an assiduous review of the Greek and 
 Latin classics, not omitting his study of the Italian poets and his 
 readings in English hterature. Of this literature but little had 
 been written to interest or attract the student prior to the works 
 of that brilliant galaxy of conspicuous men of Elizabeth's ''spa- 
 cious times," and of the succeeding reign. 
 
 Among the poets in this era of England's literary splendor, 
 with whose works we may reasonably presume Milton to have 
 been more or less acquainted, were Spenser, Marlowe, Daniel, 
 Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, Ben Jonson, and Chapman. 
 Of these Spenser was undoubtedly the favorite, Milton being, as 
 Dryden says, Spenser's ** poetical son." The influence of the 
 " Faerie Queene " and the " Pastorals " was clearly traceable in 
 the poems which he was now composing at Horton, and these, if 
 "Paradise Lost" had never been conceived, would have amply 
 satisfied his cherished hope of **an immortality of fame." They 
 were the sonnet " To the Nightingale," " L'Allegro " and *' II 
 Penseroso," the two masques, "Arcades" and " Comus," and 
 " Lycidas." 
 
 In 1638 Milton left England to make his long-contemplated 
 visit to the Continent, then in a greatly disturbed condition by 
 reason of the Thirty Years' War. After a brief stay in Paris, 
 he proceeded leisurely on his journey through southern France 
 towards the goal of his wishes, Italy, going by way of Genoa and 
 Pisa to Florence, where he remained for two months. In that 
 city, the glorious foster mother of art and poesy, Milton explored 
 the galleries and museums, and was soon placed on a footing of 
 friendship with many of its learned men, to whom the beauty of 
 his person and his elegant scholarship commended him. His 
 most interesting meeting of this kind was that with Galileo, then 
 
IN TROD UCTION. 1 1 
 
 living in a suburb of Florence, in a seclusion enforced upon him 
 by the Inquisition, for maintaining that the earth moves round 
 the sun. At Rome he spent two months, making dihgent study 
 of its antiquities, and extending his acquaintance among its 
 scholars and Hterati, many of whom were Jesuit priests. Milton 
 then visited, in turn, Naples, Bologna, Venice, and lastly Geneva, 
 setting foot again in England, after an absence of little more than 
 a year, in the summer of 1639. 
 
 With his resources somewhat depleted by the expense of his 
 travels, Milton settled in London, and undertook the instruction 
 of his sister's two sons, an occupation that admitted of abundant 
 leisure for the prosecution of his studies, to which he now re- 
 turned with fresh zest, and with a mind greatly expanded and 
 fructified by his Itahan journey. 
 
 In 1625 James I. had died, and his son Charles had come to 
 the throne. The doctrine of the '' divine right " of kings, though 
 existing as a sort of tradition among English sovereigns, was now 
 defined and formulated for the first time. It asserted that heredi- 
 tary monarchy was established by direct act of the Supreme Being, 
 that the king could do no wrong, and that no human power 
 could Hmit or abrogate his authority. It was easy to see that if 
 this odious doctrine were allowed to have free sway, a despotism 
 might be set up on English soil that would speedily stifle the spirit 
 of liberty which was now widely diffused, and deprive the people 
 of many of their most cherished rights. This consummation the 
 people were making ready to resist to the death. 
 
 In such a contest it was of course impossible for one hke Mil- 
 ton, whose love of freedom had been instilled into him from his 
 youth, to remain neutral. We know, indeed, that his decision 
 had long before been made. He was not, in the strictest sense, 
 
1 2 INTROD UCTION. 
 
 a Puritan. Many of his tastes and associations, his love of art 
 and letters and of the elegancies of life, inclined him to sympa- 
 thy with the RoyaHsts, or Cavahers. But in principle a democrat, 
 these traits in his character, so far from making him half-hearted 
 or lukewarm, only served to intensify his hatred of tyranny, and 
 to render his weapons of assault upon it more effective and 
 deadly. 
 
 In 1629 the House of Commons, presenting a determined re- 
 sistance to the king's encroachments on their privileges and to his 
 repeated violations of law, had refused to grant the supplies he 
 demanded, and had extorted from him the Petition of Right, by 
 which he bound himself " never again to raise money without the 
 consent of the Houses, nor imprison any person except in due 
 course of law, nor subject his people to the jurisdiction of courts- 
 martial." This solemn compact, however, Charles took occasion 
 soon after to break. He dissolved the Parliament, which was 
 not again convoked until 1640, and took the reins of govern- 
 ment into his own hands. Associating with himself two efficient 
 and willing instruments of oppression, Thomas Wentworth, Earl 
 of Strafford, and William Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury, he 
 reestablished the infamous Star Chamber and High Commission 
 Courts, the one a political, the other a rehgious, inquisition, in 
 order to still further rivet his fetters upon the English people. 
 To make this more effective, a standing army was needed, and 
 to provide for its maintenance he revived an old tax, known as 
 " ship money," raised in time of war for maritime defense, never 
 exacted in time of peace, and long fallen into disuse. This act, 
 together with others as arbitrary and illegal, at length thoroughly 
 roused the spirit of the nation. In 1640 that memorable assem- 
 bly, the Long Parhament, met, and the flames of civil war were 
 
INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 finally kindled. This brief summary of events has been given in 
 order to present a somewhat connected view of the condition of 
 the country, and of the state of parties, at the time Milton began 
 to take an active part in public affairs. 
 
 In 1 64 1 Milton entered the lists for the defense of liberty in 
 religion, with the publication of the treatise " Reformation of 
 Church Disciphne in England," his first prose work, in which 
 occur passages of subhmity and of rhythmic beauty unsurpassed \ 
 in our prose literature. This was followed by other tractates 
 upon the same subject, in one of which, ** The Reason of Church 
 Government," partly autobiographical, he utters words prophetic 
 of what was to be his life's crowning work, expressing the hope 
 that he "might perhaps leave something so written to after 
 times, as they should not willingly let it die." 
 
 In 1643 Milton, after a brief courtship, married Mary Powell, 
 daughter of a Royalist justice of the peace in Oxfordshire. She 
 was but little more than seventeen years of age when he brought 
 her to the new home in Aldersgate Street, London, to which he 
 had removed, and where his father soon after came to live with 
 him. The young wife was not happy in this Puritan household, 
 with the society of a recluse scholar and his somewhat austere 
 way of Hving. Yielding to her entreaty, Milton presently con- 
 sented to her spending the summer at her father's house ; but 
 when her leave of absence had expired, the gayety and delights 
 of her childhood's home seeming doubly sweet to her, she felt 
 no inclination to return. To Milton's many letters she made 
 no reply, and a messenger sent with a more urgent request was 
 contemptuously dismissed. Discovering his mistake too late, and 
 with the view to justify himself in the step he was contemplat- 
 ing, he published a tract called "The Doctrine and Discipline of 
 
14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Divorce," which he had actually begun to write before his wife 
 had left him. It must be confessed that in this treatise — fol- 
 lowed by a second of like tenor — Milton appears in no very 
 amiable Hght, as, in defending his thesis with great display of 
 learning, copious reference to the Mosaic law, and quotation of 
 Old and New Testament texts, he shows little consideration for 
 the young and simple girl, less than half his own age, who had 
 committed her future life and happiness into his hands. No pro- 
 ceedings of divorce, however, were instituted, and some time after, 
 through the intercession of friends, a reconciliation was effected, 
 which proved a lasting one. 
 
 In 1644 Milton published his ''Tractate on Education," in 
 which, discarding the old scholastic methods of study, he outlined 
 a scheme anticipating by nearly two centuries the enlightened 
 views which now prevail. He advocated the teaching of tJmigs 
 rather than words., and a course of systematic instruction in the 
 facts of nature, of hfe, and of science, together with a training in 
 virtuous conduct and the highest literary culture. In the same 
 year appeared the " Areopagitica," a speech, as he termed it, for 
 the liberty of unlicensed printing, against the oppressive licensing 
 system, or censorship of the press, which had been in operation 
 for some time, and was being enforced with renewed rigor. This 
 is the best known of Milton's pamphlets, and for the sustained 
 vigor and majesty of its style, its splendid eloquence, and its un- 
 answerable logic, is justly considered his greatest work in prose. 
 
 In 1645 Milton made a collection of his poems, English, 
 Latin, and Italian, for the press, in which "L'Allegro" and "II 
 Penseroso," with others, written long before at Horton, were 
 printed for the first time. In this year, too, the civil war was 
 drawing to an end. The battle of Naseby was fought, resulting 
 
'I NT ROD UCTION, 1 5 
 
 in the complete rout of the Royahst forces, the flight of King 
 Charles to Scotland, and his surrender to the Parliamentary army. 
 
 In 1647 his father died, a parent to whose unceasing care and 
 affection he had been so much indebted, and to whose many 
 virtues he had borne grateful testimony fifteen years before in a 
 Latin poem, "Ad Patrem." During this year Milton was busy 
 in collecting material for a Latin dictionary and for a history of 
 Britain from the earliest times to the Norman Conquest, and in 
 the preparation of a complete ** Digest of Christian Doctrine," 
 labors from which he was diverted, however, by the more im- 
 perative duties which he was presently called to assume in the 
 new government. 
 
 The year 1649 was a momentous one, for in that year, with 
 monarchy destroyed in the person of the king, were laid the 
 foundations of a republic, known to all after time as the Com- 
 monwealth. To its constitution Milton at once gave in his ad- 
 hesion by his publication of the ''Tenure of Kings and Mag- 
 istrates," a reply to the pamphlets and sermons of the English 
 Presbyterian clergy, who were now representing the moderate 
 party, and were protesting against the execution of the king. 
 
 Milton, now in his forty-first year, was selected by the chiefs 
 of the Republican party to be their Latin secretary in the newly 
 created Council of State, to conduct their foreign correspondence 
 in that tongue in which he was so eminently skilled, and which 
 at that time was universally in use for that purpose. Among 
 other work assigned him by the Council was a reply to a book, 
 '* Eikon Basilike " (The Royal Image), which had appeared but 
 a short time after the king's death, and which, purporting to be 
 by the king's own hand, was regarded as a sort of spiritual auto- 
 biography of his last years. This reply was called *' Eikono- 
 
l6 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 klastes" (Image-Breaker), in which, following the text of the 
 king's book, Milton commented upon each passage in a spirit of 
 animosity towards the royal martyr, more trenchant, direct, and 
 personal than he had shown even in the " Tenure." 
 
 His great labor during the year 1650 was the preparation, by 
 order of the Council, of the " Defensio pro Populo AngHcano " 
 (Defense of the English People), in answer to Claude de Sau- 
 maise, better known by his Latinized name of Salmasius. The 
 latter was a Frenchman born, but for some time settled in Ley- 
 den, and a scholar of immense erudition, who had been em- 
 ployed by Charles II., then in refuge at the Hague, to write a 
 defense of the monarchy. The " Defensio " demolished this 
 apology for the king as though it were a house of cards, and was 
 the first of Milton's prose works to give him celebrity on the Con- 
 tinent. In reviewing it, however, at this distance of time, one 
 cannot fail to be amazed at the ferocity which Milton displayed 
 in his methods of attack, and at the abuse and scurrility heaped 
 without stint, and so undeservedly, upon Salmasius. With all 
 due allowance for the customs then prevaihng in this kind of war- 
 fare, it is difficult to make excuse for him, or to reconcile our 
 ideal of his character with the author of this defense. A melan- 
 choly interest attaches to it, which should soften the asperity of 
 criticism, for, working upon it night and day, it was completed 
 finally at great and irreparable loss to himself, — that of his sight. 
 
 In 1654 his Second Defense was published, one of the most 
 interesting of his writings, by reason of its numerous passages of 
 autobiography, its eloquent eulogy of Cromwell and other nota- 
 ble men of the Commonwealth, and its noble self-defense and 
 expression of his consolation under the affliction of blindness, 
 with which his adversaries had reproached him. The sensation 
 
INTROD UCTION. 1 7 
 
 created on the Continent by this work was enormous. The at- 
 tention of scholars and statesmen in France, Germany, Holland, 
 and Sweden was at once drawn to it, and we are told that, with- 
 out exception, every foreigner then resident in London in an 
 official capacity, called upon Milton personally to offer his con- 
 gratulations. It would be idle, perhaps, to speculate how widely 
 its influence was disseminated in those countries, but unquestion- 
 ably in England this and other of Milton's prose works were 
 largely instrumental in instructing the public conscience, and in 
 upbuilding and fortifying that public opinion of which the Com- 
 monwealth had been a natural outgrowth, and which has ren- 
 dered possible constitutional government as it exists in England 
 and in America to-day. 
 
 Milton's first wife died in 1652, leaving three daughters; and 
 after four years' widowerhood, in 1656 he married Catherine, 
 daughter of a Captain Woodcock of London, who died within 
 a year after their union, and to whose memory he paid affection- 
 ate tribute in one of the most beautiful of his sonnets. 
 
 Of the long series of letters addressed by Milton, as Latin sec- 
 retary for the government, to the foreign powers, more than two 
 thirds were dictated during Oliver Cromwell's Protectorate, a 
 fact remarkable, if it is considered that when he entered the Pro- 
 tector's service, in 1653, he had become totally blind. 
 
 It was in May, 1658, that Milton returned to the design of 
 writing an epic poem, which he had meditated eighteen years 
 before, soon after his journey to Italy, and which he had then 
 thought of treating in the form of a sacred tragedy. The myth- 
 ical exploits of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table 
 had at one time taken a strong hold upon his imagination, and 
 he had contemplated making them the subject of his great poem, 
 2 
 
l8 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 but he now settled finally upon that of '' Paradise Lost," in which 
 he proposed to recount the story of 
 
 ''Man's first disobedience and the fruit 
 Of that forbidden tree. " 
 
 Early in the year 1660 Milton pubhshed the ''Ready and 
 Easy Way to Establish a Free Commonwealth," the last of his 
 writings of this kind of special significance, and his last effort 
 to stay the returning tide, upon the topmost wave of which the 
 " Merry Monarch " was seated. Two months later the Restora- 
 tion was accomplished, and Milton, abandoning his post only 
 when all hope was gone, and leaving his home secretly, went 
 to live in hiding with a friend in an obscure part of London. 
 There he remained in concealment, in constant danger of dis- 
 covery, for over three months, while his fate hung in the bal- 
 ance. His escape finally from the doom of so many others, far 
 less prominent in the affairs of the Commonwealth, was owing 
 to the accidental omission of his name from among the " excep- 
 tions" in the bill of indemnity, and is to be regarded as little 
 short of miraculous. 
 
 Towards the end of the year 1662 he had dictated about one 
 half of " Paradise Lost," the actual composition of which he had 
 begun in 1658, four years before. In this work he was assisted 
 somewhat unwiUingly by his daughters, who, strange to say, had 
 been very imperfectly educated ; and some of the friends who 
 were still faithful to him, among them Thomas Ellwood, the 
 Quaker, aided him with their criticisms. 
 
 In this year, 1662, Milton, then fifty-four years old, married 
 for his third wife a young lady of good family, who proved a 
 faithful companion and helpireet to him. to the end of his life. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 19 
 
 It was in a house in Artillery Walk, near what was then known 
 as Bunhill Fields, and the last of his many London residences, 
 that ''Paradise Lost" was completed, in the autumn of 1665, 
 and two years later, in 1667, after thorough revision, it was given 
 to the world. 
 
 The reception of such a poem, with the " Fall of Man " for its 
 theme, in which were to be found in such rich profusion "things 
 unattempted yet in prose or rhyme," was necessarily cold in that 
 irreverent and licentious age. But among the learned and the 
 judicious few it speedily gained many admirers. Andrew Mar- 
 veil, Milton's old-time friend and associate, wrote some com- 
 mendatory verses upon it, and Dryden, recognizing the new and 
 greater light dawning upon England, was generous in its praise. 
 
 In 1670 .appeared the long deferred ''History of Britain." 
 The work is chiefly valuable to students of Enghsh literature 
 for its entertaining collection and abstract of the British legends 
 of the mythical, or pre-Roman, period, and those pertaining to 
 King Arthur. 
 
 About this time, Milton's three daughters finally separated 
 from him. Long dissatisfied with their task of reading to him 
 from books, many of them in foreign tongues, of which they 
 knew nothing, and chafing under his parental restraint, they de- 
 termined to make provision for their future livelihood by learn- 
 ing " some ingenious sorts of manufacture proper for women to 
 learn," for which purpose he furnished them the means of sup- 
 port, at great expense to himself, out of his impaired estate. 
 
 The year was made further memorable by the appearance in 
 one volume of two poems, " Paradise Regained " and " Samson 
 Agonistes." The " Paradise Regained," in which the Evangel- 
 ist's simple story of Christ's temptation is enriched and amplifiec] 
 
20 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 in the glowing fires of Milton *s imagination, with a splendor of 
 diction and a wealth of imagery to which no Enghsh writer since 
 Shakespeare could make pretension, was no doubt suggested to 
 him some years before, by the Quaker Ellwood, who on return- 
 ing the manuscript of '* Paradise Lost " remarked : " Thou hast 
 said much here of Paradise lost, but what hast thou to say of 
 Paradise found ? " " Samson Agonistes " is a lyrical drama, which, 
 though in form modeled strictly upon those of ancient Greece, 
 Milton's genius has made an English classic, elevated and inspir- 
 mg in thought and language, and of exquisite metrical structure. 
 A '^ Treatise on Logic," a second edition of his ^' Minor Poems," 
 and a tract called *' True Rehgion and Toleration," were the last 
 works upon which his still active and alert mind was engaged. 
 
 In the summer of 1674 the gout was making serious inroads 
 upon his health, but it was not until autumn that the disease as- 
 sumed a threatening form, when, after a brief illness, comparatively 
 free from pain, he expired on Sunday, Nov. 8, 1674, wanting but 
 one month of being sixty-six years of age. He was buried in the 
 church of St. Giles, Cripplegate, London, beside his father, and 
 according to the rites of the Church of England. 
 
 A posthumous work by Milton, a " Treatise on Christian Doc- 
 trine," was discovered in 1823 among the state papers, where it 
 had been lying in manuscript for over a hundred and fifty years. 
 This was edited and published in the original Latin and in an 
 Enghsh translation, by Rev. Charles R. Sumner, in 1825, and 
 the appearance of this translation was the occasion of the fol- 
 lowing essay by Macaulay. In this, his final confession of faith 
 as we may consider it, Milton appears to have wandered from 
 his primitive Calvinistic beliefs to something almost identical 
 with modern Unitarian doctrines. 
 
MILTON/ 
 
 {Edinburgh Eevcew, August^ iSsjJ^ 
 
 TOWARDS the close of the year 1823, Mr. Lemon, deputy 
 keeper of the state papers, in the course of his researches 
 among the presses of his office met with a large Latin manu- 
 script. With it were found corrected copies of the foreign dis- 
 patches written by Milton while he filled the office of secretary, 2 
 and several papers relating to the Popish Trials and the Rye 
 House Plot.^ The whole was wrapped up in an envelope, super- 
 scribed, To Mr. Skijifier, Merchant. On examination the large 
 manuscript proved to be the long lost essay on the Doctrines of 
 Christianity, which, according to Wood and Toland, Milton fin- 
 ished after the Restoration, and deposited with Cyriac Skinner. 
 Skinner, it is well known, held the same political opinions with 
 his illustrious friend. It is therefore probable, as Mr. Lemon 
 conjectures, that he may have fallen under the suspicions of the 
 government during that persecution of the Whigs ^ which fol- 
 lowed the dissolution of the Oxford Parhament;^ and that, in 
 
 1 Joannis Miltoni^ Anglic de Doctrind Christiana Hbri duo posthumi. A 
 Treatise on Christian Doctrine, compiled from the Holy Scriptures alone. 
 By John Milton, translated from the original by Charles R. Sumner, M. A., 
 etc., 1825. 
 
 2 See Introduction, p. 15. 
 
 3 A conspiracy to assassinate Charles II. It was discovered, and several 
 prominent persons implicated in it suffered death. 
 
 4 A political party which took its rise in the reign of Charles I., and 
 which was devoted to the cause of popular rights. 
 
 5 During the civil war, Oxford was for a time the headquarters of King 
 Charles, and the meeting place of his Parliaments. 
 
 21 
 
22 MACAULAY, 
 
 consequence of a general seizure of his papers, this work may 
 have been brought to the office in which it has been found. 
 But whatever the adventures of the manuscript may have been, 
 no doubt can exist that it is a genuine reHc of the great poet. 
 
 Mr. Sumner, who was commanded by his Majesty to edit and 
 translate the treatise, has acquitted himself of his task in a man- 
 ner honorable to his talents and to his character. His version is 
 not, indeed, very easy or elegant ; but it is entitled to the praise 
 of clearness and fidelity. His notes abound with interesting quo- 
 tations, and have the rare merit of really elucidating the text. 
 The preface is evidently the work of a sensible and candid man, 
 firm in his own religious opinions, and tolerant towards those of 
 others. 
 
 The book itself will not add much to the fame of Milton. It 
 is, like all his Latin works, well written, though not exactly in 
 the style of the prize essays of Oxford and Cambridge.^ There 
 is no elaborate imitation of classical antiquity, no scrupulous 
 purity, none of the ceremonial cleanness which characterizes the 
 diction of our academical Pharisees. The author does not at- 
 tempt to polish and brighten his composition into the Ciceronian ^ 
 gloss and brilliancy. He does not, in short, sacrifice sense and 
 spirit to pedantic refinements. The nature of his subject com- 
 pelled him to use many words 
 
 ** That would have made Quintilian ^ stare and gasp." 
 
 But he writes with as much ease and freedom as if Latin were 
 his mother tongue ; and, where he is least happy, his failure seems 
 to arise from the carelessness of a native, not from the ignorance 
 
 1 Oxford and Cambridge are the two great universities of England. 
 
 2 Marcus TuUius Cicero (106-43 B.C.), an orator, statesman, and man 
 of letters of the first rank in ancient Rome. With a somewhat diffuse and 
 ornate style, he possessed great vehemence and power of invective. 
 
 3 Quintilian (A.D. 35-96), a teacher of eloquence in Rome, who wrote 
 a complete treatise on rhetoric and oratory. The line is from one of Milton's 
 sonnets. 
 
MILTON. 23 
 
 of a foreigner. We may apply to him what Denham ^ with great 
 felicity says of Cowley.^ He wears the garb, but not the clothes, 
 of the ancients. 
 
 Throughout the volume are discernible the traces of a power- 
 ful and independent mind, emancipated from the influence of 
 authority, and devoted to the search of truth. Milton professes 
 to form his system from the Bible alone ; and his digest of scrip- 
 tural texts is certainly among the best that have appeared. But 
 he is not always so happy in his inferences as in his citations. 
 
 Some of the heterodox doctrines which he avows seem to have 
 excited considerable amazement, particularly his Arianism,^ and 
 his theory on the subject of polygamy.^ Yet we can scarcely 
 conceive that any person could have read the '' Paradise Lost " 
 without suspecting him of the former ; nor do we think that any 
 reader, acquainted with the history of his life, ought to be much 
 startled at the latter. The opinions which he has expressed re- 
 specting the nature of the Deity, the eternity of matter, and the 
 observation of the Sabbath, might, we think, have caused more 
 just surprise. 
 
 But we will not go into the discussion of these points. The 
 book, were it far more orthodox or far more heretical than it is, 
 would not much edify or corrupt the present generation. The 
 men of our time are not to be converted or perverted by quartos.^ 
 A few more days and this essay will follow the " Defensio Pop- 
 uli " ^ to the dust and silence of the upper shelf. The name of 
 
 1 Sir John Denham (1615-68), a writer and poet contemporary with Mil- 
 ton, chiefly known by his Cooper's Hill, a poem descriptive of the Thames. 
 
 2 Abraham Cowley (1618-67), a poet highly esteemed in his time, best 
 known to modern readers by his essays, written in an easy and graceful 
 style. He was a Royalist in the civil war. 
 
 3 A theological system, named after Arius, a presbyter of Alexandria (third 
 century), denying a trinity of coequal persons in the Godhead. 
 
 4 A plurality of wives. Milton's views on the subject are found in his 
 works on divorce. 
 
 5 Books in which the leaves are twice folded, making four leaves. 
 
 6 See Introduction, p. 16. 
 
24 MACAU LAY. 
 
 its author, and the remarkable circumstances attending its pub- 
 lication, will secure to it a certain degree of attention. For a 
 month or two it will occupy a few minutes of chat in every 
 drawing-room, and a few columns in every magazine ; and it 
 will then, to borrow the elegant language of the playbills, be 
 withdrawn to make room for the forthcoming novelties. 
 
 We wish, however, to avail ourselves of the interest, transient 
 as it may be, which this work has excited. The dexterous Capu- 
 chins ^ never choose to preach on the life and miracles of a saint 
 till they have awakened the devotional feehngs of their auditors 
 by exhibiting some reHc of him, — a thread of his garment, a lock 
 of his hair, or a drop of his blood. On the same principle, we 
 intend to take advantage of the late interesting discovery, and, 
 while this memorial of a great and good man is still in the hands 
 of all, to say something of his moral and intellectual qualities. 
 Nor, we are convinced, will the severest of our readers blame us 
 if, on an occasion like the present, we turn for a short time from 
 the topics of the day, to commemorate, in all love and reverence, 
 the genius and virtues of John Milton, the poet, the statesman, 
 the philosopher, the glory of English literature, the champion 
 and the martyr of English liberty. 
 
 It is by his poetry that Milton is best known ; and it is of his 
 poetry that we wish first to speak. By the general suffrage of 
 the civihzed world, his place has been assigned among the great- 
 est masters of the art. His detractors, however, though outvoted, 
 have not been silenced. There are many critics, and some of 
 great name, who contrive in the same breath to extol the poems 
 and to decry the poet. The works they acknowledge, consid- 
 ered in themselves, may be classed among the noblest produc- 
 tions of the human mind. But they will not allow the author to 
 rank with those great men, who, born in the infancy of civiliza- 
 tion, supplied by their own powers the want of instruction ; and, 
 
 1 A branch of the Franciscan Order in the Roman Catholic Church, so 
 named from the capuche^ or cowl, worn by the monks in imitation of 
 St. Francis. 
 
MILTON, 25 
 
 though destitute of models themselves, bequeathed to posterity 
 models which defy imitation. Milton, it is said, inherited what 
 his predecessors created : he Hved in an enhghtened age ; he re- 
 ceived a finished education ; and we must, therefore, if we would 
 form a just estimate of his powers, make large deductions in con- 
 sideration of these advantages. 
 
 We venture to say, on the contrary, paradoxical as the remark 
 may appear, that no poet has ever had to struggle with more 
 unfavorable circumstances than Milton. He doubted, as he has 
 himself owned, whether he had not been born '' an age too late." 
 For this notion Johnson ^ has thought fit to make him the butt 
 of much clumsy ridicule. The poet, we beheve, understood the 
 nature of his art better than the critic. He knew that his poet- 
 ical genius derived no advantage from the civilization which sur- 
 rounded him, or from the learning which he had acquired ; and 
 he looked back with something like regret to the ruder age of 
 simple words and vivid impressions. 
 
 We think that as civihzation advances poetry almost necessa- 
 rily dechnes. Therefore, though we fervently admire those great 
 works of imagination which have appeared in dark ages, we do 
 not admire them the more because they have appeared in dark 
 ages. On the contrary, we hold that the most wonderful and 
 splendid proof of genius is a great poem produced in a civihzed 
 age. We cannot understand why those who beheve in that most 
 orthodox article of literary faith, that the earliest poets are gen- 
 erally the best, should wonder at the rule as if it were the excep- 
 tion. Surely, the uniformity of the phenomenon indicates a cor- 
 responding uniformity in the cause. 
 
 The fact is, that common observers reason from the progress 
 of the experimental sciences to that of the imitative arts. The 
 
 1 Dr. Samuel Johnson (1709-84), the most famous man of letters of the 
 eighteenth century in England. He wrote an English Dictionary, The Ram- 
 bler (a series of papers in the style of The Spectator), Lives of the Poets, etc. 
 His Life of Milton does scant justice to the poet, owing to Johnson's violent 
 Tory prejudices. 
 
26 MACAULAY, 
 
 improvement of the former is gradual and slow. Ages are spent 
 in collecting materials, ages more in separating and combining 
 them. Even when a system has been formed, there is still some- 
 thing to add, to alter, or to reject. Every generation enjoys the 
 use of a vast hoard bequeathed to it by antiquity, and trans- 
 mits that hoard, augmented by fresh acquisitions, to future ages. 
 In these pursuits, therefore, the first speculators lie under great 
 disadvantages, and, even when they fail, are entitled to praise. 
 Their pupils, with far inferior intellectual powers, speedily sur- 
 pass them in actual attainments. Every girl who has read Mrs. 
 Marcet'si little dialogues on political economy could teach Monta- 
 gue 2 or Walpole ^ many lessons in finance. Any inteUigent man 
 may now, by resolutely applying himself for a few years to mathe- 
 matics, learn more than the great Newton^ knew after half a cen- 
 tury of study and meditation. 
 
 But it is not thus with music, with painting, or with sculpture. 
 Still less is it thus with poetry. The progress of refinement rarely 
 supplies these arts with better objects of imitation. It may 
 indeed improve the instruments which are necessary to the me- 
 chanical operations of the musician, the sculptor, and the painter. 
 But language, the machine of the poet, is best fitted for his pur- 
 pose in its rudest state. Nations, like individuals, first perceive 
 and then abstract. They advance from particular images to 
 general terms. Hence the vocabulary of an enlightened society 
 is philosophical ; that of a half-civilized people is poetical. 
 
 1 Mrs. Marcet (i 769-1858), a writer on educational subjects, notably nat- 
 ural philosophy and political economy. The latter is the science pertaining 
 to the production and distribution of wealth. 
 
 2 Charles Montague, Lord Halifax (1661-1715), a poet, financier, and 
 statesman, Chancellor of the Exchequer in the reign of William III. 
 
 3 Sir Robert Walpole (1676-1745) was distinguished as a statesman, also 
 as Chancellor of the Exchequer under George I. and George II. 
 
 4 Sir Isaac Newton (i 642-1 727), the greatest of English mathematicians 
 and natural philosophers. He discovered the law of gravitation, shared with 
 Leibnitz the honor of discovering the calculus, and made many original and 
 brilliant discoveries in optics. 
 
MILTON. 27 
 
 This change in the language of men is partly the cause and 
 partly the effect of a corresponding change in the nature of their 
 intellectual operations, of a change by which science gains and 
 poetry loses. Generalization is necessary to the advancement of 
 knowledge ; but particularity is indispensable to the creations of 
 the imagination. In proportion as men know more and think 
 more, they look less at individuals and more at classes. They 
 therefore make better theories and worse poems. They give us 
 vague phrases instead of images, and personified qualities instead 
 of men. They may be better able to analyze human nature than 
 their predecessors. But analysis is not the business of the poet. 
 His office is to portray, not to dissect. He may believe in a 
 moral sense, like Shaftesbury ; ^ he may refer all human actions 
 to self-interest, like Helvetius;^ or he may never think about the 
 matter at all. His creed on such subjects will no more influence 
 his poetry, properly so called, than the notions which a painter 
 may have conceived respecting the lachrymal glands, or the cir- 
 culation of the blood, will affect the tears of his Niobe,*^ or the 
 blushes of his Aurora.^ If Shakespeare had written a book on 
 the motives of human actions, it is by no means certain that it 
 would have been a good one. It is extremely improbable that 
 it would have contained half so much able reasoning on the sub- 
 ject as is to be found in the " Fable of the Bees." But could 
 
 1 Earl of Shaftesbury (1671-1713), a philosopher, who in his Character- 
 istics, written in a superfine style, maintained that everything in the world is 
 for the best. 
 
 2 Helvetius (171 5-71), a French philosopher. The central idea in his 
 system of philosophy was that self-interest is the motive power in human 
 conduct. 
 
 3 A character in Greek mythology, who had twelve children, and who 
 taunted Latona for having only two, Apollo and Diana. Latona, enraged, 
 compelled her children to slay all those of Niobe, who was then changed into 
 stone on a mountain in Lydia. From this stone, drops of water like tears were 
 said to flow every summer. 
 
 4 The goddess of dawn, according to the Greek myth, who preceded the 
 Sun in his rising. 
 
28 MACAULAY, 
 
 Mandevillei have created an lago? ^ Well as he knew how to 
 resolve characters into their elements, would he have been able 
 to combine those elements in such a manner as to make up a 
 man, — a real, Hving, individual man ? 
 
 Perhaps no person can be a poet, or can even enjoy poetry, 
 without a certain unsoundness of mind, if anything which gives 
 so much pleasure ought to be called unsoundness. By poetry we 
 mean not all writing in verse, nor even all good writing in verse. 
 Our definition excludes many metrical compositions which, on 
 other grounds, deserve the highest praise. By poetry we mean 
 the art of employing words in such a manner as to produce an 
 illusion on the imagination, the art of doing by means of words 
 what the painter does by means of colors. Thus the greatest of 
 poets has described it, in Hues universally admired for the vigor 
 and felicity of their diction, and still more valuable on account 
 of the just notion which they convey of the art in which he ex- 
 celled : — 
 
 *' As imagination bodies forth 
 The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
 Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
 A local habitation and a name." ^ 
 
 These are the fruits of the " fine frenzy " which he ascribes to 
 the poet, — a fine frenzy, doubtless, but still a frenzy. Truth, in- 
 deed, is essential to poetry ; but it is the truth of madness. The 
 reasonings are just ; but the premises are false. After the first 
 suppositions have been made, everything ought to be consistent ; 
 but those first suppositions require a degree of credulity which 
 almost amounts to a partial and temporary derangement of the 
 intellect. Hence of all people children are the most imagina- 
 
 1 Bernard de Mandeville (1670-1733), an ethical and satirical writer who, 
 in his Fable of the Bees, asserted that private vices are public benefits, and 
 that all virtue has its root in selfishness. 
 . 2 A leading character in Shakespeare's Othello, and a type of utter depravity. 
 
 3 Shakespeare's Midsummer-Night's Dream, act v., sc. I. 
 
MILTON. 29 
 
 tive. They abandon themselves without reserve to every illu- 
 sion. Every image which is strongly presented to their mental 
 eye produces on them the effect of reality. No man, whatever 
 his sensibiHty may be, is ever affected by Hamlet or Lear^ as a 
 little girl is affected by the story of poor Red Ridinghood. She 
 knows that it is all false, that wolves cannot speak, that there are 
 no wolves in England. Yet in spite of her knowledge she be- 
 lieves ; she weeps ; she trembles ; she dares not go into a dark 
 room lest she should feel the teeth of the monster at her throat. 
 Such is the despotism of the imagination over uncultivated minds. 
 In a rude state of society men are children with a greater 
 variety of ideas. It is therefore m such a state of society that 
 we may expect to find the poetical temperament in its highest 
 perfection. In an enhghtened age there will be much intelli- 
 gence, much science, much philosophy, abundance of just classi- 
 fication and subtle analysis, abundance of wit and eloquence, 
 abundance of verses, and even of good ones ; but little poetry. 
 Men will judge and compare ; but they will not create. They 
 will talk about the old poets, and comment on them, and to a 
 certain degree enjoy them. But they will scarcely be able to 
 conceive the effect which poetry produced on their ruder ances- 
 tors, — the agony, the ecstasy, the plenitude of behef. The Greek 
 Rhapsodists,2 according to Plato,^ could scarce recite Homer ^ 
 without falling into convulsions. The Mohawk ^ hardly feels the 
 scalping knife while he shouts his death song. The power which 
 the ancient bards of Wales and Germany exercised over their 
 
 1 Two of Shakespeare's greatest tragedies. 
 
 2 The Rhapsodists were a class of men in ancient Greece who went from 
 place to place reciting poetry, principally from the two epic poems of Homer, 
 the Iliad and the Odyssey. 
 
 3 A great philosopher of Athens, born about 427 B.C. He was a pupil 
 of Socrates, of whose life and teachings he wrote in his Dialogues. 
 
 4 The reputed author of the two great Greek epic poems, the Iliad and 
 the Odyssey. The subject of the former is the ten years' siege of Troy, and 
 the latter describes the adventures of Ulysses in returning from Troy. 
 
 5 The Mohawks are a tribe of North American Indians. 
 
30 M AC AULA Y. 
 
 auditors seems to modern readers almost miraculous. Such feel- 
 ings are very rare in a civilized community, and most rare among 
 those who participate most in its improvements. They linger 
 longest among the peasantry. 
 
 Poetry produces an illusion on the eye of the mind, as a magic 
 lantern produces an illusion on the eye of the body. And, as 
 the magic lantern acts best in a dark room, poetry effects its pur- 
 pose most completely in a dark age. As the hght of knowledge 
 breaks in upon its exhibitions, as the outlines of certainty become 
 more and more definite, and the shades of probabihty more and 
 more distinct, the hues and hneaments of the phantoms which 
 the poet calls up grow fainter and fainter. We cannot unite the 
 incompatible advantages of reahty and deception, the clear dis- 
 cernment of truth, and the exquisite enjoyment of fiction. 
 
 He who, in an enlightened and literary society, aspires to be 
 a great poet, must first become a little child. He must take to 
 pieces the whole web of his mind. He must unlearn much of 
 that knowledge which has perhaps constituted hitherto his chief 
 title to superiority. His very talents will be a hindrance to him. 
 His difficulties will be proportioned to his proficiency in the pur- 
 suits which are fashionable among his contemporaries ; and that 
 proficiency will in general be proportioned to the vigor and 
 activity of his mind. And it is well if, after all his sacrifices and 
 exertions, his works do not resemble a Hsping man or a modern 
 ruin. We have seen in our own time great talents, intense labor, 
 and long meditation employed in this struggle against the spirit 
 of the age, and employed, we will not say absolutely in vain, but 
 with dubious success and feeble applause. 
 
 If these reasonings be just, no poet has ever triumphed over 
 greater difficulties than Milton. He received a learned educa- 
 tion ; he was a profound and elegant classical scholar ; he had 
 studied all the mysteries of Rabbinical hterature;i he was inti- 
 
 1 Rabbinical literature (from Hebrew rabbi^ meaning ''master") is that 
 of the Jews in the later periods of their history. 
 
MILTON. 31 
 
 mately acquainted with every language of modern Europe from 
 which either pleasure or information was then to be derived. 
 He was perhaps the only great poet of later times who has been 
 distinguished by the excellence of his Latin verse. The genius 
 of Petrarch ^ was scarcely of the first order ; and his poems in 
 the ancient language, though much praised by those who have 
 never read them, are wretched compositions. Cowley, with all 
 . his admirable wit and ingenuity, had httle imagination ; nor in- 
 deed do we think his classical diction comparable to that of Mil- 
 ton. The authority of Johnson is against us on this point. But 
 Johnson had studied the bad writers of the middle ages till he 
 had become utterly insensible to the Augustan 2 elegance, and 
 was as ill quahfied to judge between two Latin styles as a habit- 
 ual drunkard to set up for a wine taster. 
 
 Versification in a dead language is an exotic, a farfetched, 
 costly, sickly imitation of that which elsewhere may be found in 
 healthful and spontaneous perfection. The soils on which this 
 rarity flourishes are in general as ill suited to the production of 
 vigorous native poetry as the flowerpots of a hothouse to the 
 growth of oaks. That the author of the '' Paradise Lost " should 
 have written the " Epistle to Manso " ^ was truly wonderful. Never 
 before were such marked originahty and such exquisite mimicry 
 found together. Indeed, in all the Latin poems of Milton, the 
 artificial manner indispensable to such works is admirably pre- 
 served, while, at the same time, his genius gives to them a pecu- 
 liar charm, an air of nobleness and freedom, which distinguishes 
 them from all other writings of the same class. They remind us 
 
 1 The greatest of Italian lyric poets (1304-74), and one of the most learned 
 men of his time, who collected and transcribed several precious Latin manu- 
 scripts. 
 
 2 Referring to the reign of the first Roman emperor, Augustus (63 B.C.- 
 A.D. 14), a period of great refinement in literature, as shown in the writings 
 of Horace, Virgil, Ovid, and others. 
 
 3 A Latin poem addressed by Milton, when in Italy, to a nobleman by 
 whom he was entertained, a friend of the poet Tasso. 
 
32 MACAULAY, 
 
 of the amusements of those angehc warriors who composed the 
 cohort of Gabriel : — 
 
 ** About him exercised heroic games 
 The unarmed youth of heaven ; but nigh at hand 
 Celestial armory, shields, helms, and spears, 
 Hung high, with diamond flaming and with gold."^ 
 
 We cannot look upon the sportive exercises for which the genius 
 of Milton ungirds itself, without catching a ghmpse of the gor- 
 geous and terrible panoply which it is accustomed to wear. The 
 strength of his imagination triumphed over every obstacle. So 
 intense and ardent was the fire of his mind, that it not only was 
 not suffocated beneath the weight of fuel, but penetrated the 
 whole superincumbent mass with its own heat and radiance. 
 
 It is not our intention to attempt anything like a complete 
 examination of the poetry of Milton. The public has long been 
 agreed as to the merit of the most remarkable passages, the in- 
 comparable harmony of the numbers, and the excellence of that 
 style which no rival iias been able to equal and no parodist to 
 degrade, which displays in their highest perfection the idiomatic 
 powers of the English tongue, and to which every ancient and 
 every modern language has contributed something of gi*ace, of 
 energy, or of music. In the vast field of criticism on which we 
 are entering, innumerable reapers have already put their sickles. 
 Yet the harvest is so abundant that the negligent search of a 
 straggling gleaner may be rewarded with a sheaf. 
 
 The most striking characteristic of the poetry of Milton is the 
 extreme remoteness of the associations by means of which it acts 
 on the reader. Its effect is produced, not so much by what it 
 expresses, as by what it suggests ; not so much by the ideas 
 which it directly conveys, as by other ideas which are connected 
 with them. He electrifies the mind through conductors. The 
 most unimaginative man must understand the Ihad.^ Homer 
 
 1 Milton's Paradise Lost, Book IV., lines 551-54. 
 
 2 See Note 4, p. 29. 
 
MILTON. ZZ 
 
 gives him no choice, and requires from him no exertion, but 
 takes the whole upon himself, and sets the images in so clear a 
 light that it is impossible to be blind to them. The works of 
 Milton cannot be comprehended or enjoyed unless the mind of 
 the reader cooperate with that of the writer. He does not 
 paint a finished picture, or play for a mere passive listener. He 
 sketches, and leaves others to fill up the outline. He strikes the 
 keynote, and expects his hearer to make out the melody. 
 
 We often hear of the magical influence of poetry. The ex- 
 pression in general means nothing ; but, applied to the writings 
 of Milton, it is most appropriate. His poetry acts like an in- 
 cantation. Its merit lies less in its obvious meaning than in its 
 occult power. There would seem, at first sight, to be no more 
 in his words than in other words. But they are words of en- 
 chantment. No sooner are they pronounced, than the past is 
 present and the distant near. New forms of beauty start at once 
 into existence, and all the burial places of the memory g\Y^ up 
 their dead. Change the structure of the sentence ; substitute one 
 synonym for another, and the whole effect is destroyed. The 
 spell loses its power ; and he who should then hope to conjure 
 with it would find himself as much mistaken as Cassim in the 
 Arabian tale, when he stood crying, " Open Wheat," " Open Bar- 
 ley," to the door which obeyed no sound but "Open Sesame." i 
 The miserable failure of Dryden 2 in his attempt to translate into 
 his own diction some parts of the '' Paradise Lost " is a remark- 
 able instance of this. 
 
 In support of these observations we may remark, that scarcely 
 any passages in the poems of Milton are more generally known, 
 or more frequently repeated, than those which are little more 
 than muster rolls of names. They are not always more appropri- 
 
 1 An East Indian grain. The name is used in one of the tales of the 
 Arabian Nights as a password to a robbers' cave. 
 
 2 John Dryden (1631-1700), eminent as poet and prose writer. Among 
 his works is a translation of Virgil's ^neid. The reference here is to his 
 sacred opera based on Paradise Lost. 
 
 .3 
 
34 MACAULAY. 
 
 ate or more melodious than other names. But they are charmed 
 names. Every one of them is the first Hnk in a long chain of 
 associated ideas. Like the dwelling place of our infancy revis- 
 ited in manhood, like the song of our country heard in a strange 
 land, they produce upon us an effect wholly independent of their 
 intrinsic value. One transports us back to a remote period of 
 history. Another places us among the novel scenes and manners 
 of a distant region. A third evokes all the dear classical recol- 
 lections of childhood, — the schoolroom, the dog-eared Virgil,^ the 
 holiday, and the prize. A fourth brings before us the splendid 
 phantoms of chivalrous romance, — the trophied lists, the embroid- 
 ered housings, the quaint devices, the haunted forests, the en- 
 chanted gardens, the achievements of enamored knights, and the 
 smiles of rescued princesses. 
 
 In none of the works of Milton is his peculiar manner more 
 happily displayed than in the ''Allegro" and the *' Penseroso."^ 
 It is impossible to conceive that the mechanism of language can 
 be brought to a more exquisite degree of perfection. These 
 poems differ from others as ottar of roses differs from ordinary 
 rose water, the close-packed essence from the thin, diluted mix- 
 ture. They are, indeed, not so much poems as collections of 
 hints, from each of which the reader is to make out a poem for 
 himself. Every epithet is a text for a stanza. 
 
 The '' Comus " and the *' Samson Agonistes " are works which, 
 though of very different merit, offer some marked points of re- 
 semblance. Both are lyric poems in the form of plays. There 
 are, perhaps, no two kinds of composition so essentially dissimilar 
 as the drama and the ode. The business of the dramatist is to 
 keep himself out of sight, and to let nothing appear but his 
 characters. As soon as he attracts notice to his personal feel- 
 ings, the illusion is broken. The effect is as unpleasant as that 
 
 1 Virgil (70-19 B.C.), a pastoral and didactic Roman poet, author of the 
 -^neid, the greatest Latin epic. 
 
 2 Allegro and Penseroso mean *' mirthful " and " melancholy." The two 
 opposite emotions are beautifully expressed in the poems. 
 
MILTON. 35 
 
 which is produced on the stage by the voice of a prompter or 
 the entrance of a sceneshifter. Hence it was that the tragedies 
 of Byron were his least successful performances. They resem- 
 ble those pasteboard pictures invented by the friend of children, 
 Mr. Newberry, in which a single movable head goes round twenty 
 different bodies, so that the same face looks out upon us, suc- 
 cessively, from the uniform of a hussar, the furs of a judge, and 
 the rags of a beggar. In all the characters,— patriots and tyrants, 
 haters and lovers, — the frown and sneer of Harold i were discerni- 
 ble in an instant. But this species of egotism, though fatal to the 
 drama, is the inspiration of the ode. It is the part of the lyric 
 poet to abandon himself, without reserve, to his own emotions. 
 
 Between these hostile elements many great men have endeav- 
 ored to effect an amalgamation, but never with complete success. 
 The Greek drama, on the model of which the " Samson " was 
 written, sprang from the ode. The dialogue was ingrafted on 
 the chorus, and naturally partook of its character. The genius 
 of the greatest of the Athenian dramatists cooperated with the 
 circumstances under which tragedy made its first appearance, 
 ^schylus 2 was, head and heart, a lyric poet. In his time the 
 Greeks had far more intercourse with the East than in the days 
 of Homer ; and they had not yet acquired that immense superi- 
 ority in war, in science, and in the arts, which, in the following 
 generation, led them to treat the Asiatics with contempt. From 
 the narrative of Herodotus ^ it should seem that they still looked 
 
 1 Childe Harold was the first of his many poems in which Lord Byron 
 ( 1 788-1824) gave free vent to the cynicism and misanthropy so characteristic 
 of them all. 
 
 2 ^schylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, the three great Greek tragedians, 
 flourished in the fifth century B.C., and represent respectively the rise, the 
 culmination, and the decline of Greek tragedy. Only a few of their many 
 dramas survive. The greatest work of y^schylus, Prometheus Bound, was 
 evidently one of Milton's sources of inspiration in writing Paradise Lost, 
 although Euripides was his favorite. 
 
 3 Herodotus, born about 484 B.C., was called "the father of history." 
 He visited and wrote about most of the then civilized portions of the globe. 
 
36 MACAULAY. 
 
 up, with the veneration of disciples, to Egypt and Assyria. At 
 this period, accordingly, it was natural that the hterature of Greece 
 should be tinctured with the Oriental style. And that style, we 
 think, is discernible in the works of Pindar i and ^schylus. The 
 latter often reminds us of the Hebrew writers. The Book of 
 Job, indeed, in conduct and diction, bears a considerable resem- 
 blance to some of his dramas. Considered as plays, his works 
 are absurd ; considered as choruses, they are above all praise. 
 If, for instance, we examine the address of Clytemnestra to 
 Agamemnon ^ on his return, or the description of the seven 
 Argive chiefs,^ by the principles of dramatic writing, we shall 
 instantly condemn them as monstrous. But if we forget the 
 characters, and think only of the poetry, we shall admit that it 
 has never been surpassed in energy and magnificence. Sophocles 
 made the Greek drama as dramatic as was consistent with its 
 original form. His portraits of men have a sort of similarity ; 
 but it is the similarity not of a painting, but of a bas-relief. It 
 suggests a resemblance ; but it does not produce an illusion. 
 Euripides attempted to carry the reform further. But it was a 
 task far beyond his powers, perhaps beyond any powers. Instead 
 of correcting what was bad, he destroyed what was excellent. 
 He substituted crutches for stilts, bad sermons for good odes. 
 
 Milton, it is well known, admired Euripides highly ; much 
 more highly than, in our opinion, Euripides deserved. Indeed, 
 the caresses which this partiahty leads our countryman to bestow 
 on " sad Electra^s ^ poet," sometimes remind us of the beautiful 
 
 1 Pindar, born about 520 B.C., was the greatest of Greek lyric poets. He 
 wrote hymns to the gods, triumphal odes, choric songs, etc., in an elevated, 
 but rather abrupt and obscure, style. 
 
 2 One of the Greek heroes of Homer's Iliad. Clytemnestra, his wife, con- 
 spiring with her lover, slew him on his return from Troy. 
 
 3 These were Polynices, son of (Edipus, his father-in-law. King Adrastus 
 of Argos, and five other princes, with whom he made war upon Thebes when 
 deprived of his share in its government. The story is told in The Seven 
 against Thebes, one of the dramas of ^schylus. 
 
 4 Electra is the name of one of the plays of Euripides. 
 
MILTON. 37 
 
 Queen of Fairyland kissing the long ears of Bottom.^ At all 
 events, there can be no doubt that this veneration for the Athe- 
 nian, whether just or not, was injurious to the " Samson Agonis- 
 tes." Had Milton taken ^schylus for his model, he would have 
 given himself up to the lyric inspiration, and poured out pro- 
 fusely all the treasures of his mind, without bestowing a thought 
 on those dramatic proprieties which the nature of the work ren- 
 dered it impossible to preserve. In the attempt to reconcile 
 things in their own nature inconsistent, he has failed, as every 
 one else must have failed. We cannot identify ourselves with 
 the characters, as in a good play. We cannot identify ourselves 
 with the poet, as in a good ode. The conflicting ingredients, 
 like an acid and an alkali mixed., neutralize each other. We are 
 by no means insensible to the merits of this celebrated piece, to 
 the severe dignity of the style, the graceful and pathetic solem- 
 nity of the opening speech, or the wild and barbaric melody 
 which gives so striking an effect to the choral passages. But 
 we think it, we confess, the least successful effort of the genius 
 of Milton. 
 
 The " Comus " is framed on the model of the Italian masque,^ 
 as the '^ Samson " is framed on the model of the Greek tragedy. 
 It is certainly the noblest performance of the kind which exists in 
 any language. It is as far superior to the " Faithful Shepherd- 
 ess"^ as the " Faithful Shepherdess" is to the ''Aminta,"^ or the 
 *'Aminta" to the ''Pastor Fido."^ It was well for Milton that 
 he had here no Euripides to mislead him. He understood and 
 
 1 One of the ** mechanics " in Midsummer-Night's Dream, upon whom 
 Oberon, king of the fairies, had caused an ass's head to be set, and with 
 whom, for spite, he makes his queen, Titania, fall in love. 
 
 2 A dramatic entertainment in vogue in England at the end of the sixteenth, 
 and beginning of the seventeenth, century, acted by imaginary or allegorical 
 personages. Ben Jonson and Fletcher have left many beautiful examples of 
 the masque. 
 
 3 A pastoral drama by John Fletcher (i 576-1625). The Aminta and II 
 Pastor Fido are poems of the same character, written in Italian, the one by 
 Tasso (1544-95), the other by Guarini (i 537-1612). 
 
38 MACAU LAY, 
 
 loved the literature of modern Italy. But he did not feel for it 
 the same veneration which he entertained for the remains of 
 Athenian and Roman poetry, consecrated by so many lofty and 
 endearing recollections. The faults, moreover, of his Italian 
 predecessors were of a kind to which his mind had a deadly an- 
 tipathy. He could stoop to a plain style, sometimes even to a 
 bald style ; but false briUiancy was his utter aversion. His Muse 
 had no objection to a russet attire ; but she turned with disgust 
 from the finery of Guarini, as tawdry and as paltry as the rags 
 of a chimney sweeper on May Day. Whatever ornaments she 
 wears are of massive gold, not only dazzHng to the sight, but 
 capable of standing the severest test of the crucible. 
 
 Milton attended in the " Comus " to the distinction which he 
 afterwards neglected in the " Samson." He made his masque 
 what it ought to be, essentially lyrical, and dramatic only in sem- 
 blance. He has not attempted a fruitless struggle against a de- 
 fect inherent in the nature of that species of composition ; and 
 he has therefore succeeded, wherever success was not impossible. 
 The speeches must be read as majestic sohloquies ; and he who 
 so reads them will be enraptiured with their eloquence, their sub- 
 Hmity, and their music. The interruptions of the dialogue, how- 
 ever, impose a constraint upon the writer, and break the illusion 
 of the reader. The finest passages are those which are lyric in 
 form as well as in spirit. '' I should much commend," says the 
 excellent Sir Henry Wotton i in a letter to Milton, " the tragical 
 part, if the lyrical did not ravish me with a certain Dorique deli- 
 cacy in your songs and odes, whereunto, I must plainly confess 
 to you, I have seen yet nothing parallel in our language." The 
 criticism was just. It is when Milton escapes from the shackles 
 of the dialogue, when he is discharged from the labor of uniting 
 two incongruous styles, when he is at liberty to indulge his choral 
 raptures without reserve, that he rises even above himself. Then, 
 like his own Good Genius bursting from the earthly form and 
 
 1 An accomplished scholar and poet (i 568-1639). 
 
MILTON, 39 
 
 weeds of Thyrsis,i he stands forth in celestial freedom and 
 beauty; he seems to cry exultingly, — 
 
 ** Now my task is smoothly done, 
 I can fly, or I can run,"^ 
 
 to skim the earth, to soar above the clouds, to bathe in the ely- 
 sian 3 dew of the rainbow, and to inhale the balmy smells of nard 
 and cassia, which the musky wings of the zephyr scatter through 
 the cedared alleys of the Hesperides.* 
 
 There are several of the minor poems of Milton on which we 
 would wiUingly make a few remarks. Still more wilhngly would 
 we enter into a detailed examination of that admirable poem, 
 the " Paradise Regained," which, strangely enough, is scarcely 
 ever mentioned except as an instance of the blindness of the 
 parental affection which men of letters bear towards the offspring 
 of their intellects. That Milton was mistaken in preferring this 
 work, excellent as it is, to the '' Paradise Lost," we readily ad- 
 mit. But we are sure that the superiority of the '^ Paradise Lost " 
 to the '' Paradise Regained " is not more decided than the su- 
 periority of the " Paradise Regained " to every poem which has 
 since made its appearance. Our limits, however, prevent us 
 from discussing the point at length. We hasten on to that ex- 
 traordinary production which the general suffrage of critics has 
 placed in the highest, class of human compositions. 
 
 The only poem of modern times which can be compared with 
 the "Paradise Lost" is the ''Divine Comedy."^ The subject 
 
 1 A character in the Comus, really a spirit, but disguised as a shepherd. 
 
 2 Comus, lines 1012, 1013. 
 
 3 The Elysian Fields were the abode of the blessed spirits in the Hades 
 of the ancient Greeks. 
 
 * In Greek mythology, daughters of Hesperus. The garden in which 
 they guarded the golden apples presented to Juno on her marriage with 
 Jupiter was fabled to lie on the extreme verge of the Western ocean. 
 
 5 The religious poem of Dante (i 265-1 321), the greatest of the Italian 
 poets. He was born in Florence, from which city he was banished by a 
 political faction, and died in exile. 
 
40 MACAU LAY, 
 
 of Milton, in some points, resembled that of Dante ; but he has 
 treated it in a widely different manner. We cannot, we think, 
 better illustrate our opinion respecting our own great poet, than 
 by contrasting him with the father of Tuscan literature. 
 
 The poetry of Milton differs from that of Dante as the hiero- 
 glyphics ^ of Egypt differed from the picture writing of Mexico. 
 The images which Dante employs speak for themselves ; they 
 stand simply for what they are. Those of Milton have a signifi- 
 cation which is often discernible only to the initiated. Their 
 value depends less on what they directly represent than on what 
 they remotely suggest. However strange, however grotesque, 
 may be the appearance which Dante undertakes to describe, he 
 never shrinks from describing it. He gives us the shape, the 
 color, the sound, the smell, the taste ; he counts the numbers ; he 
 measures the size. His similes are the illustrations of a traveler. 
 Unlike those of other poets, and especially of Milton, they are 
 introduced in a plain, businesshke manner; not for the sake of 
 any beauty in the objects from which they are drawn ; not for 
 the sake of any ornament which they may impart to the poem ; 
 but simply in order to make the meaning of the writer as clear 
 to the reader as it is to himself. The ruins of the precipice which 
 led from the sixth to the seventh circle of hell were like those of 
 the rock which fell into the Adige ^ on the south of Trent. The 
 cataract of Phlegethon^ was like that of Aqua Cheta at the 
 monastery of St. Benedict.^ The place where the heretics were 
 
 1 Sacred writings or inscriptions on the monuments in Egypt, by means of 
 which their history, civil and religious calendars, deeds, etc., were recorded. 
 In Mexico pictures of animals, plants, etc., instead of signs, were used for 
 the same purpose. 
 
 2 The Adige is a river of the Tyrol and northern Italy, flowing into the 
 Adriatic, on which the city of Trent is situated. 
 
 3 One of the mythical rivers of the infernal regions, whose waves were 
 torrents of fire. 
 
 4 Founder of the Benedictine Order of monks, and of Western monasti- 
 cism, born about A.D. 480. His famous monastery was on Monte Cassino, 
 in the vicinity of Naples. 
 
MILTON. 41 
 
 confined in burning tombs resembled the vast cemetery of 
 Aries. 1 
 
 Now let us compare with the exact details of Dante the dim 
 intimations of Milton. We will cite a few examples. The Eng- 
 hsh poet has never thought of taking the measure of Satan. He 
 gives us merely a vague idea of vast bulk. In one passage the 
 fiend lies stretched out, huge in length, floating many a rood, 
 equal in size to the earthborn enemies of Jove, or to the sea 
 monster which the mariner mistakes for an island. When he 
 addresses himself to battle against the guardian angels, he stands 
 like Teneriffe ^ or Atlas : ^ his stature reaches the sky. Contrast 
 with these descriptions the lines in which Dante has described 
 the gigantic specter of Nimrod. " His face seemed to me as 
 long and as broad as the ball of St. Peter's at Rome ; and his 
 other limbs were in proportion ; so that the bank, which con- 
 cealed him from the waist downwards, nevertheless showed so 
 much of him, that three tall Germans would in vain have at- 
 tempted to reach to his hair." We are sensible that we do 
 no justice to the admirable style of the Florentine poet. But 
 Mr. Gary's translation is not at hand ; and our version, however 
 rude, is sufficient to. illustrate our meaning. 
 
 Once more, compare the lazar house ^ in the eleventh book of 
 the " Paradise Lost " with the last ward of Malebolge in Dante. 
 Milton avoids the loathsome details, and takes refuge in indis- 
 tinct but solemn and tremendous imagery : Despair hurrying 
 from couch to couch to mock the wretches with his attendance ; 
 Death shaking his dart over them, but, in spite of supplications, 
 
 1 A town of France, in Provence, in which there is a well-preserved amphi- 
 theater, and other remains of Roman occupation. 
 
 2 A volcano on an island of the same name, off the coast of Africa, 12,200 
 feet above sea level. 
 
 3 A great mountain system in northern Africa, its greatest altitude being 
 13,000 feet. 
 
 4 Lazar house (from Lazarus), a public hospital for the reception of vie. 
 tims of contagious or loathsome diseases. 
 
42 MACAULAY. 
 
 delaying to strike. What says Dante? " There was such a moan 
 there as there would be if all the sick who, between July and 
 September, are in the hospitals of Valdichiana, and of the Tuscan 
 swamps, and of Sardinia, were in one pit together ; and such a 
 stench was issuing forth as is wont to issue from decayed limbs." 
 We will not take upon ourselves the invidious office of settling 
 precedency between two such writers. Each in his own depart- 
 ment is incomparable ; and each, we may remark, has wisely, or 
 fortunately, taken a subject adapted to exhibit his peculiar talent 
 to the greatest advantage. The '' Divine Comedy " is a per- 
 sonal narrative. Dante is the eyewitness and earwitness of that 
 which he relates. He is the very man who has heard the tor- 
 mented spirits crying out for the second death ; who has read the 
 dusky characters ^ on the portal within which there is no hope ; 
 who has hidden his face from the terrors of the Gorgon ;2 who 
 has fled from the hooks and the seething pitch of Barbariccia 
 and Draghignazzo. His own hands have grasped the shaggy 
 sides of Lucifer. His own feet have cHmbed the mountain of 
 expiation. His own brow has been marked by the purifying 
 angel. The reader would throw aside such a tale in incredulous 
 disgust, unless it were told with the strongest air of veracity; 
 with a sobriety even in its horrors ; with the greatest precision 
 and multiplicity in its details. The narrative of Milton in this 
 respect differs from that of Dante, as the adventures of Amadis ^ 
 differ from those of Gulliver.^ The author of ''Amadis " would 
 
 1 These were the characters: "All hope abandon, ye who enter here." 
 — Dante's Inferno, Canto III. 
 
 2 Known as Medusa; according to Homer, a female monster, one of three 
 sisters, whose head was covered with serpents instead of hair, and with so 
 frightful an aspect that whoever looked on her was changed into stone. 
 
 3 The hero of one of the early prose romances of chivalry, Amadis of 
 Gaul, written by a Portuguese gentleman towards the end of the fourteenth 
 century. 
 
 4 Lemuel Gulliver, whose fictitious travels and adventures in the strange 
 lands of Lilliput, Brobdingnag, etc., were made the vehicle of bitter social 
 and political satire by Dean Swift (1667-1745). 
 
MILTON. 43 
 
 have made his book ridiculous if he had introduced those minute 
 particulars which give such a charm to the work of Swift ; the 
 nautical observations, the affected deHcacy about names, the offi- 
 cial documents transcribed at full length, and all the unmeaning 
 gossip and scandal of the court, springing out of nothing, and 
 tending to nothing. We are not shocked at being told that a 
 man who lived, nobody knows when, saw many very strange 
 sights, and we can easily abandon ourselves to the illusion of 
 the romance. But when Lemuel GuUiver, surgeon, resident at 
 Rotherhithe, tells us of pygmies and giants, flying islands, and 
 philosophizing horses, nothing but such circumstantial touches 
 could produce for a single moment a deception on the imagi- 
 nation. 
 
 Of all the poets who have introduced into their works the 
 agency of supernatural beings, Milton has succeeded best. Here 
 Dante decidedly yields to him ; and as this is a point on which 
 many rash and ill-considered judgments have been pronounced, 
 we feel inclined to dwell on it a little longer. The most fatal 
 error which a poet can possibly commit in the management of 
 his machinery is that of attempting to philosophize too much. 
 Milton has been often censured for ascribing to spirits many 
 functions of which spirits must be incapable. But these objec- 
 tions, though sanctioned by eminent names, originate, we venture 
 to say, in profound ignorance of the art of poetry. 
 
 What is spirit? What are our own minds, the portion of spirit 
 with which we are best acquainted? We observe certain phe- 
 nomena. We cannot explain them into material causes. We 
 therefore infer that there exists something which is not material. 
 But of this something we have no idea. We can define it only 
 by negatives. We can reason about it only by symbols. We use 
 the word, but we have no image of the. thing; and the business 
 of poetry is with images, and not with words. The poet uses 
 words indeed ; but they are merely the instruments of his art, 
 not its objects. They are the materials which he is to dispose 
 tn such a manner as to present a picture to the mental eye. And 
 
44 MACAULAY. 
 
 if they are not so disposed, they are no more entitled to be called 
 poetry than a bale of canvas and a box of colors to be called a 
 painting. 
 
 Logicians may reason about abstractions. But the great mass 
 of men must have images. The strong tendency of the multi- 
 tude in all ages and nations to idolatry can be explained on no 
 other principle. The first inhabitants of Greece, there is reason 
 to beheve, worshiped one invisible Deity. But the necessity 
 of having something more definite to adore produced, in a few 
 centuries, the innumerable crowd of gods and goddesses. In like 
 manner the ancient Persians ^ thought it impious to exhibit the 
 Creator under a human form. Yet even these transferred to the 
 sun the worship which, in speculation, they considered due only 
 to the Supreme Mind. The history of the Jews is the record of 
 a continued struggle between pure Theism, supported by the 
 most terrible sanctions, and the strangely fascinating desire of 
 having some visible and tangible object of adoration. Perhaps 
 none of the secondary causes which Gibbon 2 has assigned for 
 the rapidity with which Christianity spread over the world, while 
 Judaism scarcely ever acquired a proselyte, operated more power- 
 fully than this feehng. God, the uncreated, the incomprehensi- 
 ble, the invisible, attracted few worshipers. A philosopher might 
 admire so noble a conception ; but the crowd turned away in dis- 
 gust from words which presented no image to their minds. It 
 was before Deity, embodied in a human form, walking among 
 men, partaking of their infirmities, leaning on their bosoms, 
 weeping over their graves, slumbering in the manger, bleeding on 
 the cross, that the prejudices of the Synagogue,^ and the doubts 
 
 1 The religion of the ancient Persians was a dualistic creed, called Zoro- 
 asticism, from its founder, which asserted the existence of two creative spir- 
 its, one good, the other evil, but the triumph, ultimately, of the good. 
 
 2 Edward Gibbon (1737-94), author of the History of the Decline and 
 Fall of the Roman Empire. 
 
 3 A Greek word, meaning " a place of assembly." The name was given 
 \o the Jewish place of worship. 
 
MILTON. 45 
 
 of the Academy,! and the pride of the Portico,^ and the fasces 
 of the Lictor,^ and the swords of thirty legions, were humbled in 
 the dust. Soon after Christianity had achieved its triumph, the 
 principle which had assisted it began to corrupt it. It^ became 
 a new paganism. Patron saints assumed the offices of house- 
 hold gods. St. George 4 took the place of Mars.^ St. Elmo^ 
 consoled the mariner for the loss of Castor and Pollux. The 
 Virgin Mother and Ceciha'^ succeeded to Venus ^ and the 
 Muses.^ The fascination of sex and loveHness was again joined 
 to that of celestial dignity ; and the homage of chivalry was 
 blended with that of religion. Reformers have often made a 
 stand against these feehngs ; but never with more than apparent 
 and partial success. The men who demolished the images in 
 cathedrals have not always been able to demolish those which 
 were enshrined in their minds. It would not be difficult to 
 show that in politics the same rule holds good. Doctrines, we 
 are afraid, must generally be embodied before they can excite a 
 strong public feehng. The multitude is more easily interested 
 for the most unmeaning badge, or the most insignificant name, 
 than for the most important principle. 
 
 1 A garden in Athens, so called from Academos, its original owner, where 
 Socrates discoursed and Plato taught. 
 
 2 The Portico was a painted porch, or stoa, in Athens, where Zeno taught 
 his disciples, the Stoics. 
 
 3 A public officer in ancient Rome, in attendance upon the chief magis- 
 trates to enforce their authority. He carried the fasces^ a bundle of rods, 
 as emblem of his office. 
 
 4 The tutelary saint of England, and the especial patron of chivalry. 
 
 5 The god of war. 
 
 6 St. Elmo's fire was the name given to the electric light often seen about 
 the masts of ships in stormy weather. The Romans ascribed it to Castor 
 and Pollux, twin divinities of their mythology. 
 
 7 St. Cecilia, the patroness of music in the church, who suffered martyr- 
 dom about A.D. 230. 
 
 * The goddess of love. 
 
 ^ The Muses, nine in number, were the goddesses of poetry, music, danc- 
 ing, painting, etc. 
 
46 MAC AULA Y. 
 
 From these considerations, we infer that no poet who should 
 affect that metaphysical accuracy for the want of which Milton 
 has been blamed, would escape a disgraceful failure. Still, how- 
 ever, there was another extreme which, though far less danger- 
 ous, was also to be avoided. The imaginations of men are in a 
 great measure under the control of their opinions. The most 
 exquisite art of poetical coloring can produce no illusion when 
 it is employed to represent that which is at once perceived to be 
 incongruous and absurd. Milton wrote in an age of philoso- 
 phers and theologians. It was necessary, therefore, for him 
 to abstain from giving such a shock to their understandings as 
 might break the charm which it was his object to throw over 
 their imaginations. This is the real explanation of the indistinct- 
 ness and inconsistency with which he has often been reproached. 
 Dr. Johnson acknowledges that it was absolutely necessary that 
 the spirits should be clothed with material forms. *' But," says 
 he, '' the poet should have secured the consistency of his system 
 by keeping immateriality out of sight, and seducing the reader to 
 drop it from his thoughts." This is easily said ; but what if Mil- 
 ton could not seduce his readers to drop immateriahty from their 
 thoughts? What if the contrary opinion had taken so full a 
 possession of the minds of men as to leave no room even for the 
 half behef which poetry requires? Such we suspect to have been 
 the case. It was impossible for the poet to adopt altogether the 
 material or the immaterial system. He therefore took his stand 
 on the debatable ground. He left the whole in ambiguity. He 
 has doubtless, by so doing, laid himself open to the charge of 
 inconsistency. But, though philosophically in the wrong, we 
 cannot but beheve that he was poetically in the right. This 
 task, which almost any other writer would have found impracti- 
 cable, was easy to him. The peculiar art which he possessed of 
 communicating his meaning circuitously through a long succes- 
 sion of associated ideas, and of intimating more than he ex- 
 pressed, enabled him to disguise those incongruities which he 
 could not avoid. 
 
MILTON, 47 
 
 Poetry which relates to the beings of another world ought to 
 be at once mysterious and picturesque. That of Milton is so. 
 That of Dante is picturesque, indeed, beyond any that ever was 
 written. Its effect approaches to that produced by the pencil or 
 the chisel. But it is picturesque to the exclusion of all mystery. 
 This is a fault on the right side, a fault inseparable from the 
 plan of Dante's poem, which, as we have already observed, ren- 
 dered the utmost accuracy of description necessary. Still it is a 
 fault. The supernatural agents excite an interest ; but it is not 
 the interest which is proper to supernatural agents. We feel that 
 we could talk to the ghosts and demons, without any emotion of 
 unearthly awe. We could, hke Don Juan,^ ask them to supper, 
 and eat heartily in their company. Dante's angels are good men 
 with wings. His devils are spiteful, ugly executioners. His 
 dead men are merely living men in strange situations. The 
 scene which passes between the poet and Farinata is justly cele- 
 brated. Still, Farinata in the burning tomb is exactly what Fari- 
 nata would have been at an auto da feP' Nothing can be more 
 touching than the first interview of Dante and Beatrice.^ Yet 
 what is it, but a lovely woman chiding, with sweet, austere com- 
 posure, the lover for whose affection she is grateful, but whose 
 vices she reprobates? The feehngs which g\N^ the passage its 
 charm would suit the streets of Florence as well as the summit 
 of the Mount of Purgatory. 
 
 The spirits of Milton are unhke those of almost all other 
 writers. His fiends, in particular, are wonderful creations. 
 They are not metaphysical abstractions. They are not wicked 
 
 1 A character in Mozart's opera, Don Giovanni, who invites a statue (of 
 the Commendatore) to sup with him, and is amazed when the statue keeps 
 the appointment. 
 
 2 ** Act of the faith," the name given to the ceremony in use in Spain and 
 Portugal at the execution of heretics by the Inquisition. 
 
 3 Beatrice Portinari, whom Dante first met and loved in 1274, when he 
 was but nine years old, and she about the same age, and who, in his Vision, 
 was his guide into Paradise. 
 
48 MACAULAY, 
 
 men. They are not ugly beasts. They have no horns, no tails, 
 none of the fee-faw-fum of Tasso ^ and Klopstock.'^ They have 
 just enough in common with human nature to be intelhgible to 
 human beings. Their characters are, like their forms, marked 
 by a certain dim resemblance to those of men, but exaggerated 
 to gigantic dimensions, and veiled in mysterious gloom. 
 
 Perhaps the gods and demons of ^schylus may best bear a 
 comparison with the angels and devils of Milton. The style of 
 the Athenian had, as we have remarked, something of the Ori- 
 ental character ; and the same peculiarity may be traced in his 
 mythology. It has nothing of the amenity and elegance which 
 we generally find in the superstitions of Greece. All is rugged, 
 barbaric, and colossal. The legends of ^schylus seem to har- 
 monize less with the fragrant groves and graceful porticos in 
 which his countrymen paid their vows to the God of Light ^ and 
 Goddess of Desire,^ than with those huge and grotesque laby- 
 rinths of eternal granite in which Egypt enshrined her mystic 
 Osiris,^ or in which Hindostan still bows down to her seven- 
 headed idols. His favorite gods are those of the elder genera- 
 tion, the sons of heaven and earth, compared with whom Jupiter 
 himself was a stripling and an upstart, — the gigantic Titans,^ and 
 the inexorable Furies."^ Foremost among his creations of this 
 class stands Prometheus,^ half fiend, half redeemer, the friend of 
 
 1 An Italian poet (1544-95), who wrote romantic and pastoral poems and 
 dramas, but is chiefly known by his great epic, Jerusalem Delivered. 
 
 2 A German poet (i 724-1803), who wrote an epic. The Messiah, and 
 dramatic poems on subjects taken from the Old Testament. 
 
 3 Apollo. 4 Venus. 
 
 5 The greatest of the Egyptian gods, who judged the dead in the nether 
 world. 
 
 6 In classical mythology, a race of giants who warred against Jupiter. 
 
 7 Deities, avengers of crime, who drove guilty souls into the infernal 
 world. 
 
 8 Prometheus stole fire from heaven for the use and benefit of man, and 
 was chained to the Caucasus Mountains by Jupiter, where an eagle fed upon 
 his liver. 
 
MILTON, 49 
 
 man, the sullen and implacable enemy of heaven. Prometheus 
 bears undoubtedly a considerable resemblance to the Satan of 
 Milton. In both we find the same impatience of control, the 
 same ferocity, the same unconquerable pride. In both charac- 
 ters, also, are mingled, though in very different proportions, some 
 kind and generous feelings. Prometheus, however, is hardly 
 superhuman enough. He talks too much of his chains and his 
 uneasy posture ; he is rather too much depressed and agitated. 
 His resolution seems to depend on the knowledge which he 
 possesses that he holds the fate of his torturer in his hands, and 
 that the hour of his release will surely come. But Satan is a 
 creature of another sphere. The might of his intellectual nature 
 is victorious over the extremity of pain. Amidst agonies which 
 cannot be conceived without horror, he deliberates, resolves, and 
 even exults. Against the sword of Michael, against the thunder 
 of Jehovah, against the flaming lake, and the marl burning with 
 solid fire, against the prospect of an eternity of unintermitted 
 misery, his spirit bears up unbroken, resting on its own innate 
 energies, requiring no support from anything external, nor even 
 from hope itself. 
 
 To return for a moment to the parallel which we have been 
 attempting to draw between Milton and Dante, we would add 
 that the poetry of these great men has in a considerable degree 
 taken its character from their moral qualities. They are not 
 egotists. They rarely obtrude their idiosyncrasies on their 
 readers. They have nothing in common with those modern 
 beggars for fame, who extort a pittance from the compassion of 
 the inexperienced by exposing the nakedness and sores of their 
 minds. Yet it would be difficult to name two writers whose 
 works have been more completely, though undesignedly, colored 
 by their personal feelings. 
 
 The character of Milton was peculiarly distinguished by lofti- 
 ness of spirit ; that of Dante by intensity of feehng. In every 
 line of the '^ Divine Comedy " we discern the asperity which is 
 produced by pride struggling with misery. There is perhaps 
 4 
 
50 MACAULAV, 
 
 no work in the world so deeply and uniformly sorrowful. The 
 melancholy of Dante was no fantastic caprice. It was not, as 
 far as at this distance of time can be judged, the effect of ex- 
 ternal circumstances. It was from within. Neither love nor 
 glory, neither the conflicts of earth nor the hope of heaven, 
 could dispel it. It turned every consolation and every pleasure 
 into its own nature. It resembled that noxious Sardinian soil of 
 which the intense bitterness is said to have been perceptible even 
 in its honey. His mind was, in the noble language of the He- 
 brew poet, ''a land of darkness, as darkness itself, and where 
 the light was as darkness." The gloom of his character discolors 
 all the passions of men, and all the face of nature, and tinges 
 with its own livid hue the flowers of Paradise and the glories 
 of the eternal throne. All the portraits of him are singularly 
 characteristic. No person can look on the features, noble even 
 to ruggedness, the dark furrows of the cheek, the haggard and 
 woeful stare of the eye, the sullen and contemptuous curve of 
 the lip, and doubt that they belong to a man too proud and too 
 sensitive to be happy. 
 
 Milton was, hke Dante, a statesman and a lover ; and, like 
 Dante, he had been unfortunate in ambition and in love. He 
 had survived his health and his sight, the comforts of his home, 
 and the prosperity of his party. Of the great men by whom he 
 had been distinguished at his entrance into life, some had been 
 taken away from the evil to come ; some had carried into for- 
 eign climates their unconquerable hatred of oppression ; some 
 were pining in dungeons ; and some had poured forth their blood 
 on scaffolds. Venal and licentious scribblers, with just sufficient 
 talent to clothe the thoughts of a pander in the style of a bell- 
 man, were now the favorite writers of the sovereign ^ and of the 
 public. It was a loathsome herd, which could be compared to 
 nothing so fitly as to the rabble of ** Comus," grotesque mon- 
 sters, half bestial, half human, dropping with wine, bloated with 
 gluttony, and reeling in obscene dances. Amidst these that fair 
 
 1 Charles II. 
 
MILTON, 51 
 
 Muse was placed, like the chaste lady of the masque, lofty, spot- 
 less, and serene, to be chattered at, and pointed at, and grinned 
 at, by the whole rout of satyrs and goblins. If ever despond- 
 ency and asperity could be excused in any man, they might have 
 been excused in Milton. But the strength of his mind overcame 
 every calamity. Neither blindness, nor gout, nor age, nor pen- 
 ury, nor domestic afflictions, nor pohtical disappointments, nor 
 abuse, nor proscription, nor neglect, had power to disturb his 
 sedate and majestic patience. His spirits do not seem to have 
 been high, but they were singularly equable. His temper was 
 serious, perhaps stern ; but it was a temper which no sufferings 
 could render sullen or fretful. Such as it was when, on the eve 
 of great events, he returned from his travels, in the prime of 
 health and manly beauty, loaded with literary distinctions, and 
 glowing with patriotic hopes; such it continued to be when, 
 after having experienced every calamity which is incident to our 
 nature, old, poor, sightless, and disgraced, he retired to his hovel 
 to die. 
 
 Hence it was, that, though he wrote the '* Paradise Lost " at 
 a time of life when images of beauty and tenderness are in gen- 
 eral beginning to fade, even from those minds in which they have 
 not been effaced by anxiety and disappointment, he adorned it 
 with all that is most lovely and delightful in the physical and in 
 the moral world. Neither Theocritus ^ nor Ariosto ^ had a finer 
 or a more healthful sense of the pleasantness of external objects, 
 or loved better to luxuriate amidst sunbeams and flowers, the 
 songs of nightingales, the juice of summer fruits, and the cool- 
 ness of shady fountains. His conception of love unites all the 
 voluptuousness of the Oriental harem, and all the gallantry of 
 the chivalric tournament, with all the pure and quiet affection of 
 an Enghsh fireside. His poetry reminds us of the miracles of 
 
 1 The greatest of the Greek idyllic and pastoral poets, a Syracusan by 
 birth, who flourished about the end of the third century B.C. 
 
 2 Ludovico Ariosto (1474-1533), an Italian poet, author of many lyrical 
 poems, and of Orlando Furioso, a fantastic story of chivalry. 
 
52 MACAULAY. 
 
 Alpine scenery. Nooks and dells, beautiful as fairyland, are 
 embosomed in its most rugged and gigantic elevations. The 
 roses and myrtles bloom unchilled on the verge of the avalanche. 
 
 Traces, indeed, of the peculiar character of Milton may be 
 found in all his works ; but it is most strongly displayed in the 
 Sonnets. Those remarkable poems have been undervalued by 
 critics who have not understood their nature. They have no 
 epigrammatic point. There is none of the ingenuity of Filicaja i 
 in the thought, none of the hard and brilliant enamel of Petrarch 
 in the style. They are simple but majestic records of the feel- 
 ings of the poet ; as little tricked out for the public eye as his 
 diary would have been. A victory, an expected attack upon the 
 city, a momentary fit of depression or exultation, a jest thrown 
 out against one of his books, a dream which for a short time 
 restored to him that beautiful face over which the grave had 
 closed forever, led him to musings which, without effort, shaped 
 themselves into verse. The unity of sentiment and severity of 
 style which characterize these little pieces remind us of the Greek 
 Anthology,^ or perhaps still more of the Collects ^ of the Enghsh 
 Liturgy. The noble poem on the Massacres of Piedmont is 
 strictly a collect in verse. 
 
 The Sonnets are more or less striking, according as the occa- 
 sions which gave birth to them are more or less interesting. But 
 they are, almost without exception, dignified by a sobriety and 
 greatness of mind to which we know not where to look for a 
 parallel. It would, indeed, be scarcely safe to draw any decided 
 inferences as to the character of a writer from passages directly 
 egotistical. But the qualities which we have ascribed to Milton, 
 
 1 Filicaja (1642-1707), an Italian lyric poet, who celebrated, in a series 
 of odes, the triumph of the Christians in the defeat of the Turks at Vienna, 
 in 1683. 
 
 2 A collection of several thousand short poems, among the most valuable 
 remains of ancient Greek literature. 
 
 3 A collect is a form of prayer used in the Liturgies, or orders of wor- 
 ship, in the Western churches. 
 
MILTON, S3 
 
 though perhaps most strongly marked in those parts of his works 
 which treat of his personal feelings, are distinguishable in every 
 page, and impart to all his writings, prose and poetry, English, 
 Latin, and Itahan, a strong family likeness. 
 
 His public conduct was such as was to be expected from a 
 man of a spirit so high and of an intellect so powerful. He 
 lived at one of the most memorable eras in the history of man- 
 kind ; at the very crisis of the great conflict between Oromasdes 
 and Arimanes,! hberty and despotism, reason and prejudice. 
 That great battle was fought for no single generation, for no 
 single land. The destinies of the human race were staked on 
 the same cast with the freedom of the English people. Then 
 were first proclaimed those mighty principles which have since 
 worked their way into the depths of the American forests, which 
 have roused Greece from the slavery and degradation of two 
 thousand years, and which, from one end of Europe to the other, 
 have kindled an unquenchable fire in the hearts of the oppressed, 
 and loosed the knees of the oppressors with an unwonted fear. 
 
 Of those principles, then strugghng for their infant existence, 
 Milton was the most devoted and eloquent hterary champion. 
 We need not say how much we admire his public conduct. But 
 we cannot disguise from ourselves that a large portion of his 
 countrymen still think it unjustifiable. The civil war, indeed, 
 has been more discussed, and is less understood, than any event 
 in English history. The friends of hberty labored under the 
 disadvantage of which the lion in the fable ^ complained so 
 bitterly. Though they were the conquerors, their enemies were 
 
 1 Oromasdes and Arimanes, the gbod and evil geniuses of the ancient 
 Persian religion. 
 
 2 This fable is to the effect that a man and a lion, traveling through a for- 
 est, and boasting of their respective strength and prowess, came to a statue 
 of a man strangling a lion, on which the man remarked, " See how strong 
 we are, and how we can prevail over you." To this the king of beasts re- 
 plied, " Yes, but if the statue had been made by one of us, the man would 
 have been under the lion's paw." 
 
MACAULAY. 
 
 the painters. As a body, the Roundheads ^ had done their ut- 
 most to decry and ruin hterature ; and hterature was even with 
 them, as, in the long run, it always is with its enemies. The 
 best book on their side of the question is the charming narrative 
 of Mrs. Hutchinson. 2 May's *' History of the Parliament " ^ is 
 good ; but it breaks off at the most interesting crisis of the strug- 
 gle. The performance of Ludlow ^ is fooHsh and violent ; and 
 most of the later writers who have espoused the same cause, 
 Oldmixon,^ for instance, and Catherine Macaulay,^ have, to say 
 the least, been more distinguished by zeal than either by candor 
 or by skill. On the other side are the most authoritative and the 
 most popular historical works in our language, — that of Claren- 
 don^ and that of Hume.^ The former is not only ably written and 
 full of valuable information, but has also an air of dignity and 
 sincerity which makes even the prejudices and errors with which 
 it abounds respectable. Hume, from whose fascinating narrative 
 the great mass of the reading public are still contented to take 
 their opinions, hated religion so much that he hated liberty for 
 having been allied with religion, and has pleaded the cause of 
 tyranny with the dexterity of an advocate, while affecting the 
 impartiality of a judge. 
 
 The public conduct of Milton must be approved or con- 
 demned, according as the resistance of the people to Charles I. 
 
 1 A name given in derision by the Cavalier or Royalist party in the civil 
 war to the Puritans and Independents. 
 
 2 Mrs. Hutchinson (1620-59) wrote a memoir of her husband, Colonel 
 Hutchinson, who was in the Parliamentary army in the civil war. 
 
 3 May's work, printed in 1647, treats of only a part of the civil war. He 
 was secretary to the Parliament. 
 
 4 General Ludlow wrote memoirs of Cromwell; John Oldmixon (1673- 
 1742), a History of England (1730-39); and Mrs. Macaulay (1733-91), a 
 history from the reign of James I. to the accession of the House of Hanover. 
 
 5 Earl of Clarendon (1608-74), a Royalist statesman of the time of 
 Charles I. and Charles II., who wrote a History of the Civil Wars. 
 
 6 David Hume (171 1-76), a famous philosopher, and author of a History 
 of England. 
 
MILTON. 55 
 
 shall appear to be justifiable or criminal. We shall therefore 
 make no apology for dedicating a few pages to the discussion 
 of that interesting and most important question. We shall not 
 argue it on general grounds. We shall not recur to those pri- 
 mary principles from which the claim of any government to the 
 obedience of its subjects is to be deduced. We are entitled to 
 that vantage ground ; but we will relinquish it. We are, on this 
 point, so confident of superiority, that we are not unwilling to 
 imitate the ostentatious generosity of those ancient knights who 
 vowed to joust without helmet or shield against all enemies, and 
 to give their antagonists the advantage of sun and wind. We 
 will take the naked constitutional question. We confidently 
 affirm, that every reason which can be urged in favor of the 
 Revolution of 1688 ^ may be urged with at least equal force in 
 favor of what is called the Great Rebellion. 
 
 In one respect only, we think, can the warmest admirers of 
 Charles venture to say that he was a better sovereign than his 
 son. He was not, in name and profession, a Papist ; we say in 
 name and profession, because both Charles himself and his crea- 
 ture Laud,2 while they abjured the innocent badges of Popery, 
 retained all its worst vices, — a complete subjection of reason 
 to authority, a weak preference of form to substance, a childish 
 passion for mummeries, an idolatrous veneration for the priestly 
 character, and, above all, a merciless intolerance. This, how- 
 ever, we waive. We will concede that Charles was a good 
 Protestant ; but we say that his Protestantism does not make the 
 slightest distinction between his case and that of James. 
 
 The principles of the Revolution have often been grossly mis- 
 represented, and never more than in the course of the present 
 year. There is a certain class of men who, while they profess to 
 
 1 The revolution in which James II., brother of Charles II., was driven 
 from the throne by William, Prince of Orange, who succeeded him. 
 
 ^ William Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury, who supported Charles I. in 
 many of his oppressive measures in church matters. He was beheaded on 
 Tower Hill in 1645. 
 
56 MACAULAY, 
 
 hold in reverence the great names and great actions of former 
 times, never look at them for any other purpose than in order to 
 find in them some excuse for existing abuses. In every vener- 
 able precedent they pass by what is essential, and take only what 
 is accidental : they keep out of sight what is beneficial, and hold 
 up to public imitation all that is defective. If, in any part of 
 any great example, there be anything unsound, these flesh flies 
 detect it with an unerring instinct, and dart upon it with a rave- 
 nous dehght. If some good end has been attained in spite of 
 them, they feel, with their prototype, that their 
 
 '^ Labor must be to pervert that end, 
 And out of good still to find means of evil."^ 
 
 To the blessings which England has derived from the Revolu- 
 tion these people are utterly insensible. The expulsion of a tyrant, 
 the solemn recognition of popular rights, — liberty, security, tol- 
 eration, — all go for nothing with them. One sect^ there was, 
 which, from unfortunate temporary causes, it was thought neces- 
 sary to keep under close restraint. One part of the empire^ 
 there was, so unhappily circumstanced that at that time its misery 
 was necessary to our happiness, and its slavery to our freedom. 
 These are the parts of the Revolution which the pohticians of 
 whom we speak love to contemplate, and which seem to them 
 not indeed to vindicate, but in some degree to palliate, the good 
 which it has produced. Talk to them of Naples, of Spain, or 
 of South America. They stand forth zealots for the doctrine of 
 Divine Right,'^ which has now come back to us, like a thief from 
 transportation, under the alias of Legitimacy. But mention the 
 miseries of Ireland. Then William ^ is a hero. Then Somers 
 
 1 Paradise Lost, Book I., lines 164, 165. 
 
 2 The Roman Catholics. 
 
 3 " One part of the empire," i.e., Ireland. 
 
 4 See Introduction, p. 11. 
 
 5 William III., Prince of Orange, and King of England after James IL 
 He was the son of Mary, daughter of Charles I. 
 
MILTON. 57 
 
 and Shrewsbury 1 are great men. Then the Revolution is a 
 glorious era! The very same persons who, in this country, never 
 omit an opportunity of reviving every wretched Jacobite ^ slan- 
 der respecting the Whigs of that period, have no sooner crossed 
 St. George's Channel ^ than they begin to fill their bumpers to 
 the glorious and immortal memory. They may truly boast that 
 they look not at men, but at measures. So that evil be done, 
 they care not who does it ; the arbitrary Charles or the liberal 
 William, Ferdinand the CathoHc ^ or Frederick the Protestant.^ 
 On such occasions their deadliest opponents may reckon upon 
 their candid construction. The bold assertions of these people 
 have of late impressed a large portion of the public with an 
 opinion that James II. was expelled simply because he was a 
 Catholic, and that the Revolution was essentially a Protestant 
 revolution. 
 
 But this certainly was not the case, nor can any person who 
 has acquired more knowledge of the history of those times than 
 is to be found in Goldsmith's ^ " Abridgment '* believe that, if 
 James had held his own rehgious opinions without wishing to 
 make proselytes, or if, wishing even to make proselytes, he had 
 contented himself with exerting only his constitutional influence 
 for that purpose, the Prince of Orange would ever have been 
 invited over. Our ancestors, we suppose, knew their own mean- 
 ing ; and, if we may believe them, their hostility was primarily 
 not to Popery, but to tyranny. They did not drive out a tyrant 
 
 1 Somers and Shrewsbury were Lord Chancellor and Secretary of State, 
 respectively, in the reign of William III. 
 
 2 A term applied to the adherents of James II. and his family. 
 
 3 Separating England and Ireland. 
 
 * King of Spain (1452-15 16), who, with his wife Isabella, established the 
 Inquisition. 
 
 5 Frederick V. (i 596-1632), Elector Palatine, one of the Protestant princes 
 of Germany, and son-in-law of King James I. of England. 
 
 6 Oliver Goldsmith (1728-74), contemporary with Dr. Samuel Johnson, 
 wrote an abridged History of England. He is best known for his poems. The 
 Traveler and The Deserted Village, and his novel, The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
58 MACAULAY. 
 
 because he was a Catholic ; but they excluded Catholics from 
 the Crown because they thought them hkely to be tyrants. The 
 ground on which they, in their famous resolution, declared the 
 throne vacant, was this, " that James had broken the fundamen- 
 tal laws of the kingdom." Every man, therefore, who approves 
 of the Revolution of 1688 must hold that the breach of funda- 
 mental laws on the part of the sovereign justifies resistance. The 
 question, then, is this : Had Charles I. broken the fundamental 
 laws of England? 
 
 No person can answer in the negative unless he refuses credit, 
 not merely to all the accusations brought against Charles by his 
 opponents, but to the narratives of the warmest Royalists, and 
 to the confessions of the king himself. If there be any truth 
 in any historian of any party who has related the events of that 
 reign, the conduct of Charles, from his accession to the meeting 
 of the Long Parhament,^ had been a continued course of oppres- 
 sion and treachery. Let those who applaud the Revolution and 
 condemn the Rebellion mention one act of James II. to which a 
 parallel is not to be found in the history of his father. Let them 
 lay their fingers on a single article in the Declaration of Right,^ 
 presented by the two Houses to William and Mary, which 
 Charles is not acknowledged to have violated. He had, accord- 
 ing to the testimony of his own friends, usurped the functions of 
 the legislature, raised taxes without the consent of Parliament, 
 and quartered troops on the people in the most illegal and vexa- 
 tious manner. Not a single session of Parliament had passed 
 without some unconstitutional attack on the freedom of debate. 
 The right of petition was grossly violated. Arbitrary judgments, 
 
 1 The Long Parliament was convened in 1640, and so called from its con- 
 tinued existence, except for its suspension by Cromwell in 1653 (when it was 
 known as the ** Rump "), until the Restoration in 1660. 
 
 An instrument in which the crimes and errors of the government under 
 James II. were recited, with a statement of the rights and privileges of Par- 
 liament and the people. On solemn assurance that these would be preserved, 
 William and Mary were constituted joint rulers of Great Britain. 
 
MILTON, 59 
 
 exorbitant fines, and unwarranted imprisonments were grievances 
 of daily occurrence. If these things do not justify resistance, 
 the Revolution was treason ; if they do, the great RebeUion was 
 laudable. 
 
 But, it is said, why not adopt milder measures ? Why, after 
 the king had consented to so many reforms and renounced so 
 many oppressive prerogatives, did the Parliament continue to 
 rise in their demands at the risk of provoking a civil war ? The 
 ship money ^ had been given up, the Star Chamber ^ had been 
 abolished, provision had been made for the frequent convocation 
 and secure deliberation of Parliaments. Why not pursue an end 
 confessedly good by peaceable and regular means? We recur 
 again to the analogy of the Revolution. Why was James driven 
 from the throne? Why was he not retained upon conditions? 
 He, too, had offered to call a free Parliament, and to submit to 
 its decision all the matters in dispute. Yet we are in the habit 
 of praising our forefathers, who preferred a revolution, a disputed 
 succession, a dynasty of strangers, twenty years of foreign and 
 intestine war, a standing army, and a national debt, to the rule, 
 however restricted, of a tried and proved tyrant. The Long 
 Parliament acted on the same principle, and is efititkd to the 
 same praise. They could not trust the king. He had, no 
 doubt, passed salutary laws ; but what assurance was there that 
 he would not break them? He had renounced oppressive pre- 
 rogatives ; but where was the security that he would not resume 
 them? The nation had to deal with a man whom no tie could 
 bind ; a man who made and broke promises with equal facihty ; a 
 man whose honor had been a hundred times pawned, and never 
 redeemed. 
 
 Here, indeed, the Long Parliament stands on still stronger 
 ground than the Convention of 1688. No action of James can 
 be compared to the conduct of Charles with respect to the Peti- 
 tion of Right.i The Lords and Commons present him with a 
 
 1 See Introduction, p. 12. 
 
6o MACAULAY. 
 
 bill in whick the constitutional limits of his power are marked 
 out. He hesitates ; he evades ; at last he bargains to give his 
 assent for five subsidies. The bill receives his solemn assent ; 
 the subsidies are voted ; but no sooner is the tyrant relieved than 
 he returns at once to all the arbitrary measures which he had 
 bound himself to abandon, and violates all the clauses of the 
 very act which he had been paid to pass. 
 
 For more than ten years the people had seen the rights which 
 were theirs by a double claim, — by immemorial inheritance and 
 by recent purchase, — infringed by the perfidious king who had 
 recognized them. At length circumstances compelled Charles 
 to summon another Parliament. Another chance was given to 
 our fathers: were they to throw it away as they had thrown 
 away the former ? Were they again to be cozened by le Roi le 
 vent? 1 Were they again to advance their money on pledges 
 which had been forfeited over and over again? Were they to 
 lay a second Petition of Right at the foot of the throne, to grant 
 another lavish aid in exchange for another unmeaning ceremony, 
 and then to take their departure, till, after ten years more of 
 fraud and oppression, their prince should again require a supply, 
 and again repay it with a perjury? They were compelled to 
 choose whether they would trust a tyrant or conquer him. We 
 think that they chose wisely and nobly. 
 
 The advocates of Charles, hke the advocates of other male- 
 factors against whom overwhelming evidence is produced, gen- 
 erally dechne all controversy about the facts, and content them- 
 selves with caUing testimony to character. He had so many 
 private virtues! And had James II. no private virtues? Was 
 Oliver Cromwell, his bitterest enemies themselves being judges, 
 destitute of private virtues? And what, after all, are the virtues 
 ascribed to Charles? A religious zeal, not more sincere than 
 that of his son, and fully as weak and narrow-minded, and a few 
 
 1 "The king wishes it," a phrase in which the royal assent to bills in 
 Parliament is conveyed. It dates from the time when French was the lan- 
 guage of the court. 
 
MILTON, 6 1 
 
 of the ordinary household decencies which half the tombstones in 
 England claim for those who lie beneath them. A good father! 
 A good husband! Ample apologies indeed for fifteen years of 
 persecution, tyranny, and falsehood! 
 
 We charge him with having broken his coronation oath ; and 
 we are told that he kept his marriage vow! We accuse him 
 of having given up his people to the merciless inflictions of the 
 most hot-headed and hard-hearted of prelates ; and the defense 
 is that he took his little son on his knee, and kissed him! We 
 censure him for having violated the articles of the Petition of 
 Right, after having, for good and valuable consideration, prom- 
 ised to observe them ; and we are informed that he was accus- 
 tomed to hear prayers at six o'clock in the morning! It is to 
 such considerations as these, together with his Vandyke ^ dre-ss, 
 his handsome face, and his peaked beard, that he owes, we verily 
 beHeve, most of his popularity with the present generation. 
 
 For ourselves, we own that we do not understand the common 
 phrase, "a good man, but a bad king." We can as easily con- 
 ceive a good man and an unnatural father, or a good man and 
 a treacherous friend. We cannot, in estimating the character of 
 an individual, leave out of our consideration his conduct in the 
 most important of all human relations ; and if in that relation we 
 find him to have been selfish, cruel, and deceitful, we shall take 
 the liberty to call him a bad man, in spite of all his temperance 
 at table, and all his regularity at chapel. 
 
 We cannot refrain from adding a few words respecting a topic 
 on which the defenders of Charles are fond of dwelHng. If, 
 they say, he governed his people ill, he at least governed them 
 after the example of his predecessors. If he violated their privi- 
 leges, it was because those privileges had not been accurately 
 defined. No act of oppression has ever been imputed to him 
 
 1 Properly spelled Van Dyck, — a distinguished portrait painter (1599- 
 1 641). He was born at Antwerp, but lived for most of his life in England, 
 where he painted portraits of many of the historical characters of Charles's 
 court 
 
62 MACAULAY, 
 
 which has not a parallel in the annals of the Tudors.^ This 
 point Hume has labored, with an art which is as discreditable in 
 a historical work as it would be admirable in a forensic address. 
 The answer is short, clear, and decisive. Charles had assented 
 to the Petition of Right. He had renounced the oppressive 
 powers said to have been exercised by his predecessors, and he 
 had renounced them for money. He was not entitled to set up 
 his antiquated claims against his own recent release. 
 
 These arguments are so obvious that it may seem superfluous 
 to dwell upon them ; but those who have observed how much 
 the events of that time are misrepresented and misunderstood, 
 will not blame us for stating the case simply. It is a case of 
 which the simplest statement is the strongest. 
 
 The enemies of the Parliament, indeed, rarely choose to take 
 issue on the great points of the question. They content them- 
 selves with exposing some of the crimes and follies to which 
 public commotions necessarily give birth. They bewail the un- 
 merited fate of Strafford.2 They execrate the lawless violence 
 of the army. They laugh at the scriptural names of the preach- 
 ers. Major generals fleecing their districts ; soldiers reveling on 
 the spoils of a ruined peasantry ; upstarts, enriched by the public 
 plunder, taking possession of the hospitable firesides and heredi- 
 tary trees of the old gentry ; boys smashing the beautiful win- 
 dows of cathedrals; Quakers ^ riding naked through the market 
 place ; Fifth-monarchy men ^ shouting for King Jesus ; agitators 
 
 1 A dynasty of English rulers, beginning with Henry VII., and occupy- 
 ing the throne until succeeded by the Stuarts, Queen Elizabeth being the last 
 Tudor sovereign. 
 
 2 Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford (i 593-1641), a leading member 
 at first of the opposition in Parliament to Charles I. He subsequently joined 
 the king's party, and became his chief counselor and adviser in all his acts of 
 usurpation and tyranny. He was executed on Tower Hill in 1641. 
 
 3 A religious society originally known as Friends, founded by George 
 Fox about 1648. The name Quaker was afterwards applied to them in con- 
 tempt. 
 
 4 Fifth-monarchy men were sectaries who believed that they were to 
 
MILTON, 63 
 
 lecturing from the tops of tubs on the fate of Agag; — all these, 
 they tell us, were the offspring of the Great Rebelhon. 
 
 Be it so. We are not careful to answer in this matter. These 
 charges, were they infinitely more important, would not alter our 
 opinion of an event which alone has made us to differ from the 
 slaves who crouch beneath despotic scepters. Many evils, no 
 doubt, were produced by the civil war. They were the price of 
 our liberty. Has the acquisition been worth the sacrifice ? It 
 is the nature of the devil of tyranny to tear and rend the body 
 which he leaves. Are the miseries of continued possession less 
 horrible than the struggles of the tremendous exorcism? 
 
 If it were possible that a people brought up under an intoler- 
 ant and arbitrary system could subvert that system without acts 
 of cruelty and folly, half the objections to despotic power would 
 be removed. We should, in that case, be compelled to acknowl- 
 edge that it at least produces no pernicious effects on the intel- 
 lectuaf and moral character of a nation. We deplore the out- 
 rages which accompany revolutions. But the more violent the 
 outrages, the more assured w^e feel that a revolution was neces- 
 sary. The violence of those outrages will always be proportion- 
 ed to the ferocity and ignorance of the people, and the ferocity 
 and ignorance of the people will be proportioned to the oppres- 
 sion and degradation under which they have been accustomed 
 to live. Thus it was in our civil war. The heads of the Church 
 and State reaped only that which they had sown. The govern- 
 ment had prohibited free discussion ; it had done its best to 
 keep the people unacquainted with their duties and their rights. 
 The retribution was just and natural. If our rulers suffered from 
 popular ignorance, it was because they had themselves taken away 
 the key of knowledge. If they were assailed with blind fury, it 
 was because they had exacted an equally blind submission. 
 
 It is the character of such revolutions that we always see the 
 
 prepare the way for the reign on earth of Christ and his saints, which 
 was to form the fifth monarchy, after the Assyrian, Persian, Greek, and 
 Roman. 
 
64 MACAULAY. 
 
 worst of them at first. Till men have been some time free, they 
 know not how to use their freedom. The natives of wine coun- 
 tries are generally sober. In climates where wine is a rarity in- 
 temperance abounds. A newly hberated people may be com- 
 pared to a northern army encamped on the Rhine or the Xeres.^ 
 It is said that, when soldiers in such a situation first find them- 
 selves able to indulge without restraint in such a rare and expen- 
 sive luxury, nothing is to be seen but intoxication. Soon, how- 
 ever, plenty teaches discretion, and, after wine has been for a 
 few months their daily fare, they become more temperate than 
 they had ever been in their own country. In the same manner, 
 the final and permanent fruits of hberty are wisdom, moderation, 
 and mercy. Its immediate effects are often atrocious crimes, 
 conflicting errors, skepticism on points the most clear, dogmatism 
 on points the most mysterious. It is just at this crisis that its 
 enemies love to exhibit it. They pull down the scaffolding from 
 the half-finished edifice ; they point to the flying dust, the fall- 
 ing bricks, the comfortless rooms, the frightful irregularity of the 
 whole appearance ; and then ask in scorn where the promised 
 splendor and comfort is to be found. If such miserable sophisms 
 were to prevail there would never be a good house or a good 
 government in the world. 
 
 Ariosto tells a pretty story 2 of a fairy, who, by some mysterious 
 law of her nature, was condemned to appear at certain seasons 
 in the form of a foul and poisonous snake. Those who injured 
 her during the period of her disguise were forever excluded from 
 participation in the blessings which she bestowed. But to those 
 who, in spite of her loathsome aspect, pitied and protected her, 
 she afterwards revealed herself in the beautiful and celestial form 
 which was natural to her ; accompanied their steps, granted all 
 their wishes, filled their houses with wealth, made them happy in 
 love and victorious in war. Such a spirit is Liberty. At times 
 
 1 A city (not a river) of Spain, famous for the production of sherry wine, 
 which takes its name from that of the place. 
 
 2 In his poem, Orlando Furioso, Canto XLIII. 
 
MILTON. 65 
 
 she takes the form of a hateful reptile. She grovels, she hisses, 
 she stings. But woe to those who in disgust shall venture to 
 crush her! And happy are those who, having dared to receive 
 her in her degraded and frightful shape, shall at length be re- 
 warded by her in the time of her beauty and her glory! 
 
 There is only one cure for the evils which newly acquired 
 freedom produces ; and that cure is freedom. When a prisoner 
 first leaves his cell he cannot bear the hght of day ; he is unable 
 to discriminate colors, or recognize faces. But the remedy is, 
 not to remand him into his dungeon, but to accustom him to the 
 rays of the sun. The blaze of truth and liberty may at first 
 dazzle and bewilder nations which have become half blind in 
 the house of bondage. But let them gaze on, and they will 
 soon be able to bear it. In a few years men learn to reason. 
 The extreme violence of opinions subsides. Hostile theories 
 correct each other. The scattered elements of truth cease to 
 contend, and begin to coalesce. And at length a system of jus- 
 tice and order is educed out of the chaos. 
 
 Many poHticians of our time are in the habit of laying it down 
 as a self-evident proposition, that no people ought to be free till 
 they are fit to use their freedom. The maxim is worthy of the 
 fool in the old story, who resolved not to go into the water till 
 he had learned to swim. If men are to wait for liberty till they 
 become wise and good in slavery, they may indeed wait forever. 
 
 Therefore it is that we decidedly approve of the conduct of 
 Milton and the other wise and good men who, in spite of much 
 that was ridiculous and hateful in the conduct of their associates, 
 stood firmly by the cause of pubhc liberty. We are not aware 
 that the poet has been charged with personal participation in any 
 of the blamable excesses of that time. The favorite topic of his 
 enemies is the hne of conduct which he pursued with regard to 
 the execution of the king. Of that celebrated proceeding we by 
 no means approve. Still we must say, in justice to the many 
 eminent persons who concurred in it, and in justice more partic- 
 ularly to the eminent person who defended it, that nothing can 
 
66 MACAULAY, 
 
 be more absurd than the imputations which, for the last hundred 
 and sixty years, it has been the fashion to cast upon the Regi- 
 cides.^ We have, throughout, abstained from appeaHng to first 
 principles. We will not appeal to them now. We recur again 
 to the parallel case of the Revolution. What essential distinc- 
 tion can be drawn between the execution of the father and the 
 deposition of the son ? What constitutional maxim is there 
 which applies to the former and not to the latter? The king 
 can do no wrong. If so, James was as innocent as Charles 
 could have been. The minister, only, ought to be responsible for 
 the acts of the sovereign. If so, why not impeach Jeffreys 2 and 
 retain James ? The person of a king is sacred. Was the person 
 of James considered sacred at the Boyne?^ To discharge can- 
 non against an army in which a king is known to be posted is to 
 approach pretty near to regicide. Charles, too, it should always 
 be remembered, was put to death by men who had been exas- 
 perated by the hostilities of several years, and who had never 
 been bound to him by any other tie than that which was com- 
 mon to them with all their fellow-citizens. Those who drove 
 James from his throne, who seduced his army, who ahenated his 
 friends, who first imprisoned him in his palace, and then turned 
 him out of it, who broke in upon his very slumbers by imperious 
 messages, who pursued him with fire and sword from one part 
 of the empire to another, who hanged, drew, and quartered his 
 adherents, and attainted his innocent heir, were his nephew ^ and 
 his two daughters.^ When we reflect on all these things, we are 
 
 1 The men, sixty-seven in number, who sat in trial upon Charles I. and 
 signed his death warrant. Many of them were executed after the Resto- 
 ration. 
 
 2 A brutal chief justice in the reigns of Charles II. and James II., who 
 presided at the ** Bloody Assizes," and condemned over three hundred per- 
 sons to death. 
 
 3 A river of Ireland, on the banks of which was fought, July i, 1690, the 
 battle in which William III. defeated the exiled James II. 
 
 4 William III. 
 
 5 Mary, William's wife, and Anne, queen after William's death. 
 
MILTON. 67 
 
 at a loss to conceive how the same persons who, on the 5th of 
 November,^ thank God for wonderfully conducting his servant 
 William, and for making all opposition fall before him until he 
 became our king and governor, can, on the 30th of January ,2 
 contrive to be afraid that the blood of the Royal Martyr may be 
 visited on themselves and their children. 
 
 We disapprove, we repeat, of the execution of Charles ; not 
 because the constitution exempts the king from responsibility, 
 for we know that all such maxims, however excellent, have their 
 exceptions ; nor because we feel any peculiar interest in his 
 character, for we think that his sentence describes him with 
 perfect justice as '' a tyrant, a traitor, a murderer, and a public 
 enemy;" but because we are convinced that the measure was 
 most injurious to the cause of freedom. He whom it removed 
 was a captive and a hostage ; his heir, to whom the allegiance 
 of every Royalist was instantly transferred, was at large. The 
 Presbyterians could never have been perfectly reconciled to the 
 father ; they had no such rooted enmity to the son. The great 
 body of the people, also, contemplated that proceeding with feel- 
 ings which, however unreasonable, no government could safely 
 venture to outrage. 
 
 But though we think the conduct of the Regicides blamable, 
 that of Milton appears to us in a very differeiat light. The deed 
 was done. It could not be undone. The evil was incurred ; 
 and the object was to render it as small as possible. We censure 
 the chiefs of the army for not yielding to the popular opinion ; 
 but we cannot censure Milton for wishing to change that opinion. 
 The very feehng which would have restrained us from commit- 
 ting the act would have led us, after it had been committed, to 
 defend it against the ravings of servility and superstition. For 
 the sake of public liberty we wish that the thing had not been 
 done while the people disapproved of it. But, for the sake of 
 
 1 The day of William's landing in England, 1688. 
 
 2 The day of the execution of Charles I., 1649. 
 
68 MACAU LAY. 
 
 public liberty, we should also have wished the people to approve 
 of it when it was done. If anything more were wanting to the 
 justification of Milton, the book of Salmasius ^ would furnish it. 
 That miserable performance is now with justice considered only 
 as a beacon to word-catchers who wish to become statesmen. 
 The celebrity of the man who refuted it, the "^neae magni 
 dextra," ^ gives it all its fame with the present generation. In 
 that age the state of things was different. It was not then fully 
 understood how vast an interval separates the mere classical 
 scholar from the poHtical philosopher. Nor can it be doubted 
 that a treatise which, bearing the name of so eminent a critic, 
 attacked the fundamental principles of all free governments, 
 must, if suffered to remain unanswered, have produced a most 
 pernicious effect on the pubhc mind. 
 
 We wish to add a few words relative to another subject, on 
 which the enemies of Milton dehght to dwell, — his conduct dur- 
 ing the administration of the Protector.^ That an enthusiastic 
 votary of liberty should accept office under a military usurper 
 seems, no doubt, at first sight, extraordinary. But all the circum- 
 stances in which the country was then placed were extraordinary. 
 The ambition of OHver was of no vulgar kind. He never seems 
 to have coveted despotic power. He at first fought sincerely 
 and manfully for the Parliament, and never deserted it till it had 
 deserted its duty. If he dissolved it by force, it was not till he 
 found that the few members who remained after so many deaths, 
 secessions, and expulsions, were desirous to appropriate to them- 
 selves a power which they held only in trust, and to inflict upon 
 England the curse of a Venetian oligarchy.^ But even when 
 thus placed by violence at the head of affairs, he did not assume 
 
 1 See Introduction, p. i6. 
 
 2 **^ne3e magni dextra (cadis)," thou fallest by the right hand of the 
 great ^neas. Virgil's y^neid, Book X., line 830. 
 
 3 The title assumed by Oliver Cromwell with his supreme power in the 
 government of the Commonwealth. 
 
 4 An oligarchy is a government by a few ; an aristocracy. 
 
MILTON, 69 
 
 unlimited power. He gave the country a constitution far more 
 perfect than any which had at that time been known in the 
 world. He reformed the representative system in a manner 
 which has extorted praise even from Lord Clarendon. For him- 
 self he demanded, indeed, the first place in the Commonwealth ; 
 but with powers scarcely so great as those of a Dutch stadt- 
 holder ^ or an American president. He gave the Parliament a 
 voice in the appointment of ministers, and left to it the whole 
 legislative authority, not even reserving to himself a veto on its 
 enactments ; and he did not require that the chief magistracy 
 should be hereditary in his family. Thus far, we think, if the 
 circumstances of the time and the opportunities which he had of 
 aggrandizing himself be fairly considered, he will not lose by 
 comparison with Washington 2 or BoHvar.^ Had his moderation 
 been met by corresponding moderation, there is no reason to 
 think that he would have overstepped the line which he had 
 traced for himself. But when he found that his Parliaments 
 questioned the authority under which they met, and that he was 
 in danger of being deprived of the restricted power which was 
 absolutely necessary to his personal safety, then it must be ac- 
 knowledged he adopted a more arbitrary policy. 
 
 Yet, though we believe that the intentions of Cromwell were 
 at first honest, though we believe that he was driven from the 
 noble course which he had marked out for himself by the almost 
 irresistible force of circumstances, though we admire, in common 
 with all men of all parties, the ability and energy of his splendid 
 administration, we are not pleading for arbitrary and lawless 
 power, even in his hands. We know that a good constitution is 
 infinitely better than the best despot. But we suspect, that at 
 
 1 English form of the Dutch stadhoicder^ a title given to the governor of a 
 province in Holland. 
 
 2 George Washington (1732-99), the first President of the United States 
 of America. 
 
 3 A South American patriot called " The Liberator," for having put an 
 end to Spanish rule in that country. 
 
70 MAC AULA Y, 
 
 the time of which we speak, the violence of reHgious and pohtical 
 enmities rendered a stable and happy settlement next to impos- 
 sible. The choice lay, not between Cromwell and hberty, but 
 between Cromwell and the Stuarts. That Milton chose well no 
 man can doubt who fairly compares the events of the Protecto- 
 rate with those of the thirty years which succeeded it, the darkest 
 and most disgraceful in the English annals. Cromwell was evi- 
 dently laying, though in an irregular manner, the foundations of 
 an admirable system. Never before had reHgious liberty and the 
 freedom of discussion been enjoyed in a greater degree. Never 
 had the national honor been better upheld abroad, or the seat of 
 justice better filled at home. And it was rarely that any opposi- 
 tion which stopped short of open rebellion provoked the resent- 
 ment of the hberal and magnanimous usurper. The institutions 
 which he had established, as set down in the Instrument of Gov- 
 ernment and the Humble Petition and Advice, were excellent. 
 His practice, it is true, too often departed from the theory of 
 these institutions. But had he lived a few years longer, it is 
 probable that his institutions would have survived him, and that 
 his arbitrary practice would have died with him. His power 
 had not been consecrated by ancient prejudices. It was upheld 
 only by his great personal qualities. Little, therefore, was to be 
 dreaded from a second Protector, unless he were also a second 
 Oliver Cromwell. The events which followed his decease are 
 the most complete vindication of those who exerted themselves 
 to uphold his authority. His death dissolved the whole frame 
 of society. The army rose against the Parliament, the different 
 corps of the army against each other. Sect raved against sect. 
 Party plotted against party. The Presbyterians, in their eager- 
 ness to be revenged on the Independents,^ sacrificed their own 
 liberty, and deserted all their old principles. Without casting 
 one glance on the past, or requiring one stipulation for the future, 
 
 1 Seceders from the F/esbyterian body, who composed the greater part of 
 the Parhamentary army. 
 
MILTON. 71 
 
 they threw down their freedom at the feet of the most frivolous 
 and heartless of tyrants. 
 
 Then came those days, never to be recalled without a blush, 
 the days of servitude without loyalty, and sensuality without 
 love ; of dwarfish talents and gigantic vices ; the paradise of cold 
 hearts and narrow minds ; the golden age of the coward, the 
 bigot, and the slave. The king cringed to his rival that he might 
 trample on his people, sank into a viceroy of France, and pock- 
 eted with complacent infamy her degrading insults and her more 
 degrading gold. The caresses of harlots and the jests of buffoons 
 regulated the policy of the state. The government had just 
 abihty enough to deceive, and just rehgion enough to persecute. 
 The principles of liberty were the scoff of every grinning courtier, 
 and the Anathema Maranatha ^ of every fawning dean. In every 
 high place, worship was paid to Charles and James, Belial 2 and 
 Moloch ;^ and England propitiated those obscene and cruel idols 
 with the blood of her best and bravest children. Crime suc- 
 ceeded to crime, and disgrace to disgrace, till the race, accursed 
 of God and man, was a second time driven forth, to wander on 
 the face of the earth, and to be a byword and a shaking of the 
 head to the nations. 
 
 Most of the remarks which we have hitherto made on the 
 public character of Milton apply to him only as one of a large 
 body. We shall proceed to notice some of the pecuHarities 
 which distinguished him from his contemporaries. And for that 
 purpose it is necessary to take a short survey of the parties into 
 which the poHtical world was at that time divided. We must 
 
 1 ** Anathema Maranatha," i.e., a form of denunciation, as in i Cor. xvi. 
 22. Anathema is Greek for "curse; " maranatha, a Syriac word, signifying 
 '* the Lord will come." 
 
 2 A Hebrew word often used by translators of the Bible as a proper name, 
 but really an abstract term meaning "worthlessness," and hence **wicked- 
 ness." 
 
 3 Worshiped as a deity with cruel rites among the Ammonites in the days 
 of Solomon, and at a later date among the Jews. 
 
72 MACAULAY. 
 
 premise that our observations are intended to apply only to those 
 who adhered, from a sincere preference, to one or to the other 
 side. In days of public commotion every faction, hke an Orien- 
 tal army, is attended by a crowd of camp followers, a useless 
 and heartless rabble, who prowl round its line of march in the 
 hope of picking up something under its protection, but desert it 
 in the day of battle, and often join to exterminate it after a de- 
 feat. England, at the time of which we are treating, abounded 
 with fickle and selfish politicians, who transferred their support 
 to every government as it rose ; who kissed the hand of the king 
 in 1640, and spat in his face in 1649 I who shouted with equal 
 glee when Cromwell was inaugurated in Westminster Hall, and 
 when he was dug up to be hanged at Tyburn ; who dined on 
 calves' heads, or stuck up oak branches, as circumstances altered, 
 without the slightest shame or repugnance. These we leave out 
 of the account. We take our estimate of parties from those who 
 really deserve to be called partisans. 
 
 We would speak first of the Puritans, the most remarkable 
 body of men, perhaps, which the world has ever produced. The 
 odious and ridiculous parts of their character He on the surface. 
 He that runs may read them ; nor have there been wanting atten- 
 tive and malicious observers to point them out. For many years 
 after the Restoration they were the theme of unmeasured invec- 
 tive and derision. They were exposed to the utmost Hcentious- 
 ness of the press and of the stage, at the time when the press and 
 the stage were most Hcentious. They were not men of letters ; 
 they were, as a body, unpopular ; they could not defend them- 
 selves ; and the public would not take them under its protection. 
 They were therefore abandoned, without reserve, to the tender 
 mercies of the satirists and dramatists. The ostentatious sim- 
 phcity of their dress, their sour aspect, their nasal twang, their 
 stiff posture, their long graces, their Hebrew names, the scriptural 
 phrases which they introduced on every occasion, their contempt 
 of human learning, their detestation of poHte amusements, were 
 indeed fair game for the laughers. But it is not from the laugh- 
 
MILTON, 73 
 
 ers alone that the philosophy of history is to be learned. And 
 he who approaches this subject should carefully guard against 
 the influence of that potent ridicule which has already misled so 
 many excellent writers. 
 
 '* Ecco il fonte del riso, ed ecco il rio 
 Che mortali perigli in se contiene : 
 Hor qui tener a fren nostro desio, 
 Ed esser cauti molto a noi conviene."^ 
 
 Those who roused the people to resistance ; who directed their 
 measures through a long series of eventful years ; who formed, 
 out of the most unpromising materials, the finest army that 
 Europe had ever seen ; who trampled down king, church, and 
 aristocracy ; who, in the short intervals of domestic sedition and 
 rebeUion, made the name of England terrible to every nation on 
 the face of the earth, — were no vulgar fanatics. Most of their 
 absurdities were mere external badges, hke the signs of free- 
 masonry, or the dresses of friars. We regret that these badges 
 were not more attractive. We regret that a body to whose cour- 
 age and talents mankind has owed inestimable obligations, had 
 not the lofty elegance which distinguished some of the adherents 
 of Charles I., or the easy good breeding for which the court of 
 Charles II. was celebrated. But, if we must make our choice, 
 we shall, like Bassanio^ in the play, turn from the specious 
 
 1 " This is the source of laughter and this the stream 
 Which contains mortal perils in itself: 
 Now here to hold in check our desire, 
 And to be very cautious, becomes us." 
 
 2 In Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice, Portia, in accordance with her 
 father's will, was to take for her husband that one of her suitors who should 
 select from among three caskets, of gold, silver, and lead respectively, the 
 one in which her portrait had been placed. Bassanio, in choosing the leaden 
 casket, became possessed of the portrait and the lady, the two other suitors 
 selecting the gold and silver caskets, in which respectively a death's-head 
 and a fool's head were found. 
 
74 MACAULAY, 
 
 caskets which contain only the death's-head and the fool's head, 
 and fix on the plain leaden chest which conceals the treasure. 
 
 The Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar 
 character from the daily contemplation of superior beings and 
 eternal interests. Not content with acknowledging, in general 
 terms, an overruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every 
 event to the will of the Great Being, for whose power nothing 
 was too vast, for whose inspection nothing was too minute. To 
 know Him, to serve Him, to enjoy Him, was with them the 
 great end of existence. They rejected with contempt the cere- 
 monious homage which other sects substituted for the pure wor- 
 ship of the soul. Instead of catching occasional ghmpses of the 
 Deity through an obscuring veil, they aspired to gaze full on the 
 intolerable brightness, and to commune with Him face to face. 
 Hence originated their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. The 
 difference between the greatest and the meanest of mankind 
 seemed to vanish, when compared with the boundless interval 
 which separated the whole race from Him on whom their own 
 eyes were constantly fixed. They recognized no title to superi- 
 ority but His favor ; and, confident of that favor, they despised 
 all the accompHshments and all the dignities of the world. If 
 they were unacquainted with the works of philosophers and poets, 
 they were deeply read in the oracles of God. If their names 
 were not found in the registers of heralds, they were recorded in 
 the Book of Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a 
 splendid train of menials, legions of ministering angels had 
 charge over them. Their palaces were houses not made with 
 hands ; their diadems, crowns of glory which should never fade 
 away. On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they 
 looked down with contempt ; for they esteemed themselves rich 
 in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime 
 language, nobles by the right of an earher creation, and priests 
 by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest of 
 them was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible impor- 
 tance belonged, on whose slightest action the spirits of hght and 
 
MILTON. 75 
 
 darkness looked with anxious interest ; who had been destined, 
 before heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which 
 should continue when heaven and earth should have passed 
 away. Events which shortsighted politicians ascribed to earthly 
 causes had been ordained on his account. For his sake em- 
 pires had risen, and flourished, and decayed. For his sake the 
 Almighty had proclaimed His will by the pen of the Evangel- 
 ist and the harp of the prophet. He had been wrested by no 
 common deliverer from the grasp of no common foe. He had 
 been ransomed by the sweat of no vulgar agony, by the blood 
 of no earthly sacrifice. It was for him that the sun had been 
 darkened, that the rocks had been rent, that the dead had risen, 
 that all nature had shuddered at the sufferings of her expiring 
 God. 
 
 Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men : the one 
 all self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion ; the other proud, 
 calm, inflexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust 
 before his Maker ; but he set his foot on the neck of his king. 
 In his devotional retirement, he prayed with convulsions, and 
 groans, and tears. He was half maddened by glorious or terrible 
 illusions. He heard the lyres of angels or the tempting whispers 
 of fiends. He caught a gleam of the Beatific Vision, or woke 
 screaming from dreams of everlasting fire. Like Vane,^ he 
 thought himself intrusted with the scepter of the millennial ^ 
 year. Like Fleetwood,^ he cried in the bitterness of his soul that 
 God had hid his face from him. But when he took his seat 
 in the council, or girt on his sword for war, these tempestuous 
 
 1 Sir Henry Vane (1612-62), identified with the Puritan cause, was gov- 
 ernor of Massachusetts in 1636, and on his return to England in 1637 was 
 active in opposition to the Royalist party. He was beheaded on Tower Hill 
 in 1662. 
 
 2 Millennium means a thousand years, and refers to a period during which 
 the Messiah, as the prophecies are interpreted, will reign in person on the 
 earth. 
 
 3 Son-in-law of Oliver Cromwell, and a general in the Parliamentary army. 
 
76 MAC AULA Y. 
 
 workings of the soul had left no perceptible trace behind them. 
 People who saw nothing of the godly but their uncouth visages, 
 and heard nothing from them but their groans and their whining 
 hymns, might laugh at them. But those had httle reason to 
 laugh who encountered them in the hall of debate or in the field 
 of battle. These fanatics brought to civil and military affairs 
 a coolness of judgment and an immutability of purpose which 
 some writers have thought inconsistent with their religious zeal, 
 but which were in fact the necessary effects of it. The intensity 
 of their feehngs on one subject made them tranquil on every 
 other. One overpowering sentiment had subjected to itself pity 
 and hatred, ambition and fear. Death had lost its terrors and 
 pleasure its charms. They had their smiles and their tears, their 
 raptures and their sorrows, but not for the things of this world. 
 Enthusiasm had made them Stoics,^ had cleared their minds from 
 every vulgar passion and prejudice, and raised them above the 
 influence of danger and of corruption. It sometimes might lead 
 them to pursue unwise ends, but never to choose unwise means. 
 They went through the world, like Sir Artegal's iron man Talus ^ 
 with his flail, crushing and trampling down oppressors, mingling 
 with human beings, but having neither part nor lot in human 
 infirmities ; insensible to fatigue, to pleasure, and to pain ; not to 
 be pierced by any weapon, not to be withstood by any barrier. 
 
 Such we believe to have been the character of the Puritans. 
 We perceive the absurdity of their manners. We dislike the 
 sullen gloom of their domestic habits. We acknowledge that 
 the tone of their minds was often injured by straining after things 
 too high for mortal reach ; and we know that, in spite of their 
 hatred of Popery, they too often fell into the worst vices of that 
 bad system, — intolerance and extravagant austerity ; that they 
 
 1 The Stoic philosophers held that we should lead a passionless life, indif- 
 ferent to any sensations of either pleasure or pain. 
 
 2 An " iron man" (representing power), in the Fifth Book of Spenser's 
 Faery Queene, follows Sir Artegal, who personates justice, with an iron flail, 
 "with which he thrashed out falsehood and did truth unfold." 
 
MILTON, 77 
 
 had their anchorites and their crusades,^ their Dunstans^ and their 
 De Montforts,^ their Dominies ^ and their Escobars.^ Yet, when 
 all circumstances are taken into consideration, we do not hesitate 
 to pronounce them a brave, a wise, an honest, and a useful body. 
 The Puritans espoused the cause of civil liberty mainly be- 
 cause it was the cause of religion. There was another party, by 
 no means numerous, but distinguished by learning and abihty, 
 which acted with them on very different principles. We speak 
 of those whom Cromwell was accustomed to call the Heathens, 
 men who were, in the phraseology of that time, doubting Thom- 
 ases ® or careless Gallios '^ with regard to religious subjects, but 
 passionate worshipers of freedom. Heated by the study of an- 
 cient literature, they set up their country as their idol, and pro- 
 posed to themselves the heroes of Plutarch ^ as their examples. 
 They seem to have borne some resemblance to the Brissotines ^ 
 of the French Revolution. But it is not very easy to draw the 
 line of distinction between them and their devout associates, 
 whose tone and manner they sometimes found it convenient to 
 affect, and sometimes, it is probable, imperceptibly adopted. 
 
 1 The name given to the religious wars waged in Palestine against the 
 Mohammedans by the Christian natives of Europe in the eleventh, twelfth, 
 and thirteenth centuries, for the possession of the Holy Sepulcher. 
 
 2 St. Dunstan, Archbishop of Canterbury in England in the tenth century, 
 who made the Anglo-Saxon Church subject to that of Rome. 
 
 3 De Montfort (i 150-1226) was a French nobleman notorious for his ter- 
 rible persecution of the Albigenses, a religious sect in the south of France, 
 which had seceded from the Roman Church. 
 
 4 Dominic, founder of the order of Black Friars or Dominicans, was De 
 Montfort's associate in these cruelties. 
 
 5 Escobar (i 589-1669), a Spanish Jesuit, was a writer on casuistry, which 
 treats of delicate questions of conscience and morals. 
 
 6 John XX. 24, 25. 7 Acts xviii. 17. 
 
 ® A Greek writer, author of parallel Lives of the most famous Greeks and 
 Romans. He lived in the first century of the Christian era. 
 
 9 The Girondists in the French Revolution, who favored the Republic, 
 but were opposed to its excesses : so called from their leader, Jean Pierre 
 Brissot. 
 
78>/ MACAULAY. 
 
 We now come to the Royalists. We shall attempt to speak 
 of them, as we have spoken of their antagonists, with perfect 
 candor. We shall not charge upon a whole party the. profligacy 
 and baseness of the horse boys, gamblers, and bravoes, whom the 
 hope of license and plunder attracted from all the dens of White- 
 friars to the standard of Charles, and who disgraced their asso- 
 ciates by excesses which, under the stricter discipline of the par- 
 liamentary armies, were never tolerated. We will select a more 
 favorable specimen. Thinking as we do that the cause of the 
 king was the cause of bigotry and tyranny, we yet cannot refrain 
 from looking with complacency on the character of the honest 
 old Cavaliers. We feel a national pride in comparing them with 
 the instruments which the despots of other countries are com- 
 pelled to employ ; with the mutes who throng their antechambers, 
 and the Janissaries ^ who mount guard at their gates. Our Roya- 
 list countrymen were not heartless, dangling courtiers, bowing 
 at every step, and simpering at every word. They were not 
 mere machines for destruction, dressed up in uniforms, caned 
 into skill, intoxicated into valor, defending without love, destroy- 
 ing without hatred. There was a freedom in their subserviency, 
 a nobleness in their very degradation. The sentiment of indi- 
 vidual independence was strong within them. They were in- 
 deed misled, but by no base or selfish motive. Compassion and 
 romantic honor, the prejudices of childhood, and the venerable 
 names of history, threw over them a spell potent as that of 
 Duessa;2 and, like the Red Cross Knight, they thought that 
 they were doing battle for an injured beauty, while they defended 
 a false and loathsome sorceress. In truth, they scarcely entered 
 at all into the merits of the political question. It was not for a 
 
 1 A celebrated body of Turkish troops, composed mostly of Christian 
 youths captured in war and trained in military discipline. They were so 
 called from Yeni-tsheri, meaning " new soldiers." 
 
 2 A sorceress (typifying falsehood), in the First Book of Spenser's Faery 
 Queene, who in the guise of Una (representing truth and purity) deceives for 
 a time her champion, the Red Cross Knight. 
 
MILTON. 79 
 
 treacherous king or an intolerant church that they fought, but 
 for the old banner which had waved in so many battles over 
 the heads of their fathers, and for the altars at which they had 
 received the hands of their brides. Though nothing could be 
 more erroneous than their political opinions, they possessed, in a 
 far greater degree than their adversaries, those qualities which 
 are the grace of private life. With many of the vices of the 
 Round Table,! they had also many of its virtues, — courtesy, 
 generosity, veracity, tenderness, and respect for women. They 
 had far more both of profound and of pohte learning than the 
 Puritans. Their manners were more engaging, their tempers 
 more amiable, their tastes more elegant, and their households 
 more cheerful. 
 
 Milton did not strictly belong to any of the classes which we 
 have described. He was not a Puritan. He was not a free- 
 thinker. He was not a Royalist. In his character the noblest 
 qualities of every party were combined in harmonious union. 
 From the Parliament and from the court, from the conventicle ^ 
 and from the Gothic cloister,^ from the gloomy and sepulchral 
 circles of the Roundheads, and from the Christmas revel of the 
 hospitable Cavalier, his nature selected and drew to itself what- 
 ever was great and good, while it rejected all the base and per- 
 nicious ingredients by which those finer elements were defiled. 
 Like the Puritans, he lived 
 
 As ever in his great Taskmaster's eye.* 
 
 Like them, he kept his mind continually fixed on an Almighty 
 Judge and an eternal reward. And hence he acquired their con- 
 tempt of external circumstances, their fortitude, their tranquillity, 
 
 1 The mythical table of King Arthur and his knights. 
 
 2 Originally meaning a cabal among the monks of a monastery, was given 
 as a term of reproach to meetings of English or Scotch Nonconformists. 
 
 3 The cloister was an arcade around the open courts of monasteries and 
 cathedrals, usually built in the Gothic style of architecture. 
 
 * See Milton's Sonnet on his Twenty-third Birthday. 
 
So MACAULAV, 
 
 their inflexible resolution. But not the coolest skeptic or the 
 most profane scoffer was more perfectly free from the contagion 
 of their frantic delusions, their savage manners, their ludicrous 
 jargon, their scorn of science, and their aversion to pleasure. 
 Hating tyranny with a perfect hatred, he had nevertheless all the 
 estimable and ornamental qualities which were almost entirely 
 monopolized by the party of the tyrant. There was none who 
 had a stronger sense of the value of literature, a finer relish for 
 every elegant amusement, or a more chivalrous delicacy of honor 
 and love. Though his opinions were democratic, his tastes and 
 his associations were such as harmonize best with monarchy and 
 aristocracy. He was under the influence of all the feeHngs by 
 which the gallant Cavahers were misled. But of those feehngs 
 he was the master and not the slave. Like the hero ^ of Homer, 
 he enjoyed all the pleasures of fascination ; but he was not fas- 
 cinated. He listened to the song of the Sirens ;2 yet he glided 
 by without being seduced to their fatal shore. He tasted the 
 cup of Circe ; 3 but he bore about him a sure antidote against the 
 effects of its bewitching sweetness. The illusions which capti- 
 vated his imagination never impaired his reasoning powers. The 
 statesman was proof against the splendor, the solemnity, and the 
 romance which enchanted the poet. Any person who will con- 
 trast the sentiments expressed in his treatises on Prelacy with the 
 exquisite lines on ecclesiastical architecture and music in the 
 *' Penseroso," which was published about the same time, will 
 understand our meaning. This is an inconsistency which, more 
 
 1 Ulysses, the hero of Homer's Odyssey. 
 
 2 The Sirens were maidens who, as related by Homer, lived on an island 
 in the ocean, to which they lured passing mariners by their sweet songs, only 
 to destroy them. Ulysses, forewarned by Circe, stuffed the ears of his com- 
 panions with wax, and had himself lashed to a mast, until they had sailed 
 out of hearing of the fatal songs. 
 
 3 A sorceress who by her drugs changed human beings into wolves, lions, 
 swine, etc. She thus changed twenty-two of Ulysses' companions, but the 
 hero himself, having obtained from Mercury an antidote in the herb moly, 
 was proof against her charm. 
 
MILTON, 8 1 
 
 than anything else, raises his character in our estimation, because 
 it shows how many private tastes and feeHngs he sacrificed, in 
 order to do what he considered his duty to mankind. It is the 
 very struggle of the noble Othello.^ His heart relents ; but his 
 hand is firm. He does naught in hate, but all in honor. He 
 kisses the beautiful deceiver before he destroys her. 
 
 That from which the public character of Milton derives its 
 great and pecuHar splendor still remains to be mentioned. If 
 he exerted himself to overthrow a forsworn king and a perse- 
 cuting hierarchy, he exerted himself in conjunction with others. 
 But the glory of the battle which he fought for the species of 
 freedom which is the most valuable, and which was then the 
 least understood, the freedom of the human mind, is all his own. 
 Thousands and tens of thousands among his contemporaries 
 raised their voices against ship money and the Star Chamber. 
 But there were few indeed who discerned the more fearful evils 
 of moral and intellectual slavery, and the benefits which would 
 result from the liberty of the press and the unfettered exercise of 
 private judgment. These were the objects which Milton justly 
 conceived to be the most important. He was desirous that the 
 people should think for themselves as well as tax themselves, and 
 should be emancipated from the dominion of prejudice as well 
 as from that of Charles. He knew that those who, with the best 
 intentions, overlooked these schemes of reform, and contented 
 themselves with pulling down the king and imprisoning the 
 malignants, acted like the heedless brothers in his own poem, 
 who, in their eagerness to disperse the train of the sorcerer, neg- 
 lected the means of hberating the captive. They thought only 
 of conquering when they should have thought of disenchanting. 
 
 *' Oh, ye mistook, ye should have snatch'd his wand, 
 And bound him fast ; without his rod reversed, 
 
 » The hero of Shakespeare's play of that name, upon whose simple nature 
 the villain lago works, till he is persuaded that his wife Desdemona is false 
 to him. 
 
 6 
 
82 MACAULAY. 
 
 And backward mutters of dissevering power, 
 We cannot free the Lady that sits here 
 In stony fetters fix'd, and motionless." ^ 
 
 To reverse the rod, to spell the charm backward, to break the 
 ties which bound a stupefied people to the seat of enchantment, 
 was the noble aim of Milton. To this all his public conduct was 
 directed. For this he joined the Presbyterians ; for this he for- 
 sook them. He fought their perilous battle ; but he turned away 
 with disdain from their insolent triumph. He saw that they, 
 like those whom they had vanquished, were hostile to the liberty 
 of thought. He therefore joined the Independents, and called 
 upon Cromwell to break the secular chain, and to save free con- 
 science from the paw of the Presbyterian wolf.^ With a view 
 to the same great object, he attacked the licensing system,^ in 
 that sublime treatise which every statesman should wear as a 
 sign upon his hand and as frontlets between his eyes. His 
 attacks were, in general, directed less against particular abuses 
 than against those deeply seated errors on which almost all 
 abuses are founded, — the servile worship of eminent men and 
 the irrational dread of innovation. 
 
 That he might shake the foundations of these debasing senti- 
 ments more effectually, he always selected for himself the boldest 
 literary services. He never came up in the rear, when the out- 
 works had been carried and the breach entered. He pressed 
 into the forlorn hope. At the beginning of the changes, he wrote 
 with incomparable energy and eloquence against the bishops. 
 But, when his opinion seemed likely to prevail, he passed on to 
 other subjects, and abandoned prelacy to the crowd of writers 
 who now hastened to insult a faUing party. There is no more 
 hazardous enterprise than that of bearing the torch of truth into 
 
 1 Comus, lines 815-819. 
 
 2 " Help us to save free conscience from the paw 
 Of hiteling wolves, whose gospel is their maw." 
 
 Milton's Sonnet to CromwelL 
 8 See Introduction, p. 14. 
 
MILTON. ^Z 
 
 those dark and infected recesses in which no light has ever shone. 
 But it was the choice and the pleasure of Milton to penetrate 
 the noisome vapors, and to brave the terrible explosion. Those 
 who most disapprove of his opinions must respect the hardihood 
 with which he maintained them. He, in general, left to others 
 the credit of expounding and defending the popular parts of his 
 religious and poHtical creed. He took his own stand upon those 
 which the great body of his countrymen reprobated as criminal, 
 or derided as parodoxical. He stood up for divorce and regi- 
 cide. He attacked the prevaiHng systems of education. His 
 radiant and beneficent career resembled that of the god of light 
 and fertility : — 
 
 *^ Nitor in adversum ; nee me, qui caetera, vincit 
 Impetus, et rapido contrarius evehor orbi.'^i 
 
 It is to be regretted that the prose writings of Milton should, 
 in our time, be so little read. As compositions, they deserve the 
 attention of every man who wishes to become acquainted with 
 the full power of the English language. They abound with pas- 
 sages compared with which the finest declamations of Burke 2 
 sink into insignificance. They are a perfect field of cloth of 
 gold. The style is stiff with gorgeous embroidery. Not even 
 in the earher books of the '' Paradise Lost " has the great poet 
 ever risen higher than in those parts of his controversial works 
 in which his feelings, excited by conflict, find a vent in bursts of 
 devotional and lyric rapture. It is, to borrow his own majestic 
 language, " a sevenfold chorus of hallelujahs and harping sym- 
 phonies." 
 
 We had intended to look more closely at these performances, 
 
 1 '* I contend against opposing circumstances; that force which subdues 
 other things affects me not, and I am borne in a direction contrary to the 
 swiftly moving world." — Ovid's Metamorphoses^ Book II., lines 72, 73. 
 
 2 Edmund Burke (1729-97), a distinguished orator, statesman, and polit- 
 ical and philosophical writer. 
 
84 MACAULAY, 
 
 to analyze the peculiarities of the diction, to dwell at some length 
 on the subhme wisdom of the " Areopagitica " ^ and the nervous 
 rhetoric of the *' Iconoclast," ^ and to point out some of those 
 magnificent passages which occur in the ** Treatise of Reforma- 
 tion," and the '* Animadversions on the Remonstrant." But the 
 length to which our remarks have already extended renders this 
 impossible. 
 
 We must conclude. And yet we can scarcely tear ourselves 
 away from the subject. The days immediately following the 
 publication of this rehc of Milton appear to be pecuHarly set 
 apart, and consecrated to his memory. And we shall scarcely be 
 censured if, on this his festival, we be found lingering near his 
 shrine, how worthless soever may be the offering which we bring 
 to it. While this book lies on our table, we seem to be contem- 
 poraries of the writer. We are transported a hundred and fifty 
 years back. We can almost fancy that we are visiting him in 
 his small lodging ; that we see him sitting at the old organ be- 
 neath the faded green hangings ; that we can catch the quick 
 twinkle of his eyes, rolling in vain to find the day ; that we are 
 reading in the lines of his noble countenance the proud and 
 mournful history of his glory and his affliction. We image to 
 ourselves the breathless silence in which we should listen to his 
 slightest word ; the passionate veneration with which we should 
 kneel to kiss his hand and weep upon it ; the earnestness with 
 which we should endeavor to console him, if indeed such a spirit 
 could need consolation, for the neglect of an age unworthy of 
 his talents and his virtues ; the eagerness with which we should 
 contest with his daughters, or with his Quaker friend Ellwood,^ 
 the privilege of reading Homer to him, or of taking down the 
 immortal accents which flowed from his Hps. 
 
 These are perhaps foolish feelings. Yet we cannot be ashamed 
 of them ; nor shall we be sorry if what we have written shall in 
 
 1 See Introduction, p. 14. 
 
 2 See Introduction, p. 16. 
 
 3 Thomas Ellwood., See Introduction, p. 18. 
 
MILTON, 85 
 
 any degree excite them in other minds. We are not much in 
 the habit of idoHzing either the hving or the dead. And we 
 think that there is no more certain indication of a weak and ill- 
 regulated intellect than that propensity which, for want of a 
 better name, we will venture to christen Boswellism.i But there 
 are a few characters which have stood the closest scrutiny and 
 the severest tests, which have been tried in the furnace and have 
 proved pure, which have been weighed in the balance and have 
 not been found wanting, which have been declared sterling by 
 the general consent of mankind, and which are visibly stamped 
 with the image and superscription of the Most High. These 
 great men we trust that we know how to prize ; and of these 
 was Milton. The sight of his books, the sound of his name, are 
 pleasant to us. His thoughts resemble those celestial fruits and 
 flowers which the Virgin Martyr 2 of Massinger sent down from 
 the gardens of Paradise to the earth, and which were distinguished 
 from the productions of other soils, not only by superior bloom 
 and sweetness, but by miraculous efficacy to invigorate and to 
 heal. They are powerful, not only to delight, but to elevate and 
 purify. Nor do we envy the man who can study either the hfe 
 or the writings of the great poet and patriot, without aspiring to 
 emulate, not indeed the subhme works with which his genius has 
 enriched our literature, but the zeal with which he labored for the 
 pubUc good, the fortitude with which he endured every private 
 calamity, the lofty disdain with which he looked down on tempta- 
 tions and dangers, the deadly hatred which he bore to bigots and 
 tyrants, and the faith which he so sternly kept with his country 
 and with his fame. 
 
 1 From James Bos well, who wrote the Life of Dr. Samuel Johnson, which, 
 though fulsome in its eulogy of that writer, is conceded to be the greatest of 
 all works in biography, and is so pronounced by Macaulay. 
 
 2 A play by Philip Massinger (i 554-1640), one of the Elizabethan drama- 
 tists. 
 
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 given to make students interested in him as a personality, and to show 
 how his environment affected his work. The author s productions, their 
 relation to the age, and the reasons why they hold a position in literature, 
 receive treatment commensurate with their importance. 
 
 One of the most striking features of the work consists in the way in 
 which literary movements are clearly outlined at the beginning of each of 
 the chapters. Special attention is given to the essential qualities which 
 differentiate one period from another, and to the animating spirit of each 
 age. The author shows that each period has contributed something 
 definite to the literature of England, either in laying characteristic foun- 
 dations, in presenting new ideals, in improving literary form, or in 
 widening the circle of human thought. 
 
 At the end of each chapter a carefully prepared list of books is given 
 to direct the student in studying the "original works of the authors 
 treated. He is told not only what to read, but also where to find it at 
 the least cost. 
 
 The book contains as a frontispiece a Literary Map of England in 
 colors, showing the counties, the birthplaces, the homes, and the haunts 
 of the chief authors, specially prepared for this work. 
 
 Copies of Halleck^s History of English Literature will be sent, prepaid, 
 to any address on receipt of price. 
 
 American Book Company 
 
 New York ♦ Cincinnati ♦ Chicago 
 
 (90)- 
 
An Introduction to the 
 
 Study of American Literature 
 
 BRANDER MATTHEWS 
 
 Professor of Literature in Columbia University 
 
 Cloth, 12mo, 256 pages - - - Price, $1.00 
 
 A text-book of literature on an orig^inal plan, and conforming with 
 the best methods of teaching. 
 
 Admirably designed to guide, to supplement, and to stimulate the 
 student's reading of American authors. 
 
 Illustrated with a fine collection of facsimile manuscripts, portraits 
 of authors, and views of their homes and birthplaces. 
 ^ Bright, clear, and fascinating, it is itself a literary work of high rank. 
 
 The book consists mostly of delightfully readable and yet compre- 
 hensive little biographies of the fifteen greatest and most representative 
 American writers. Each of the sketches contains a critical estimate of 
 the author and his works, which is the more valuable coming, as it does, 
 from one who is himself a master. The work is rounded out by four 
 general chapters which take up other prominent authors and discuss the 
 history and conditions of our literature as a whole ; and there is at the 
 end of the book a complete chronology of the best American literature 
 from the beginning down to 1896. 
 
 Each of the fifteen biographical sketches is illustrated by a fine 
 portrait of its subject and views of his birthplace or residence and in 
 some cases of both. They are also accompanied by each author's 
 facsimile manuscript covering one or two pages. The book contains 
 excellent portraits of many other authors famous in American literature. 
 
 Copies of Brander Matthews^ Introduction to the Study of American 
 Literature will be sent prepaid to any address^ on receipt of the price ^ 
 by the Publishers : 
 
 American Book Company 
 
 New York ♦ Cincinnati ♦ Chicago 
 
 (9X) 
 
American Literature 
 
 BY 
 
 MILDRED CABELL WATKINS 
 
 Flexible cloth, 18mo, 224 pages - - Price, 35 cents 
 
 THE eminently practical character of this work will 
 at once commend it to all who are interested in 
 forming and guiding the literary tastes of the young, 
 and especially to teachers who have long felt the need of a 
 satisfactory text-book in American literature which will 
 give pupils a just appreciation of its character and worth 
 as compared with the literature of other countries. In 
 this convenient volume the story of American literature is 
 told to young Americans in a manner which is at once 
 brief, simple, graceful, and, at the same time, impressive 
 and intelligible. The marked features and characteristics 
 of this work may be stated as follows : 
 
 Due prominence is given to the works of the real makers of our 
 American literature. 
 
 All the leading authors are grouped in systematic order and classes. 
 
 Living writers, including minor authors, are also given their proper 
 share of attention. 
 
 A brief summary is appended to each chapter to aid the memory in 
 fixing the salient facts of the narrative. 
 
 Estimates of the character and value of an author's productions are 
 often crystallized in a single phrase, so quaint and expressive that it is 
 not easily forgotten by the reader. 
 
 Numerous select extracts from our greatest writers are given in their 
 proper connection. 
 
 Copies of Watkins's American Literature will be sent prepaid by the 
 publishers on receipt of the price. 
 
 American Book Company 
 
 New York ♦ Cincinnati ♦ Chicago 
 
 (92) 
 
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