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LECTURES 
 
 ENGLISH POETRY; 
 
 ROM THE REIGN OF EDWARD THE THIRD, TO THE TIME OF BURN:; 
 AND COWPER, DELIVERED AT THE RUSSELL INSTITUTION, IN 1827 : 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TALES AND'POEMS ; 
 
 BEING THE 
 
 LITERARY REMAINS 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 HENRY NEELE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF THE "ROMANCE OF HISTORY," ETC. ETC. 
 
 Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
 A deathless part of him who died too soon. 
 
 LORD BYRON'S MONODY ON SHERIDAN. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 LONDON : 
 SMITH, ELDER, AND CO. 65, CORNHILL. 
 
A' 37? 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 THE present Volume, like almost every other 
 posthumous publication, has to solicit it's Readers 7 
 indulgence towards those unavoidable inaccuracies, 
 for which he who alone could have corrected them, 
 is no longer responsible. The hand that traced 
 the following pages now moulders in the grave ; 
 the wreath which should have garlanded the Poet's 
 brow, is now twined around his sepulchre; and 
 the chaplet of his living fame 
 
 " Is hung upon his Hearse, to droop and wither there ! " 
 
 To the last work which will bear the name of 
 HENRY NEELE upon it's Title-page, it becomes 
 
vi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 an act of duty to prefix some few particulars of 
 his writings, and of their Author : and though 
 this tribute to the departed comes late and un- 
 availing; though, like the custom of placing 
 flowers in the cold hands of the dead, Praise now 
 but wastes it's sweetness upon ears which can no 
 longer listen to it's melody; still, to give per- 
 petuity to the memory of Genius is one of the 
 most grateful offices of humanity ; nor does man 
 ever seem more deserving of immortality himself, 
 than when he is thus endeavouring to confer it 
 worthily upon others. 
 
 The late Henry Neele was the second Son of a 
 highly respectable map and heraldic Engraver in 
 the Strand, where he was born January 29th, 
 1798 ; and upon his Father removing to Kentish 
 Town, was there sent to School, as a daily 
 boarder, and continued at the same Seminary until 
 his education was completed. At this Academy, 
 though he became an excellent French scholar, 
 yet he acquired " little Latin, and less Greek;" 
 and, in fact, displayed no very devoted applica- 
 tion to, or even talent for, study of any sort : with 
 the exception of Poetry ; for which he thus early 
 
INTRODUCTION. vii 
 
 evinced his decided inclination, and produced 
 several specimens of extraordinary beauty, for so 
 juvenile a writer. Henry Neele's inattention at 
 School was, however, amply redeemed by his un- 
 assisted exertions when he better knew the value 
 of those attainments which he had neglected ; and 
 he subsequently added a general knowledge of 
 German and Italian, to the other languages in which 
 he became a proficient. Having made choice of 
 the profession of the Law, he was, upon leaving 
 School, articled to a respectable Attorney; and, 
 after the usual period of probationary experience, 
 was admitted to practice, and commenced busi- 
 ness as a Solicitor. 
 
 It was during the progress of his clerkship, in 
 January, 1817, that Henry Neele made his first 
 appearance as an Author, by publishing a Volume 
 of Poems ; the expenses of which were kindly 
 defrayed by his Father : who had the judgment to 
 perceive, and the good taste to appreciate and en- 
 courage, the dawning genius of his Son. Though 
 this work displayed evident marks of youth and 
 inexperience, yet it was still more decidedly cha- 
 racterised by a depth of thought and feeling, and 
 
Vlll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 an elegance and fluency of versification, which 
 gave the surest promises of future excellence. 
 It's contents were principally Lyrical, and the ill- 
 fated Collins was, avowedly, his chief model. The 
 publication of this Volume introduced the young 
 Poet to Dr. Nathan Drake, Author of " Literary 
 Hours," &c., who, though acquainted with him 
 " only through the medium of his writings," de- 
 voted a Chapter of his " Winter Nights" to a 
 critical examination and eulogy of these Poems ; 
 " of which," says the Doctor, " the merit strikes 
 me as being so considerable, as to justify the notice 
 and the praise which I feel gratified in having 
 an opportunity of bestowing upon them." And in 
 a subsequent paragraph, he observes, that, " when 
 beheld as the very firstlings of his earliest years, 
 they cannot but be deemed very extraordinary 
 efforts indeed, both of taste and genius ; and as 
 conferring no slight celebrity on the Author, as 
 the name next to be pronounced, perhaps, after 
 those of Chatterton and Kirke White." 
 
 The duties and responsibility of active life, how- 
 ever, necessarily withdrew much of his attention 
 from writing : yet though his professional avoca- 
 
INTRODUCTION. ix 
 
 tions were ever the objects of his first regard, he 
 still found frequent leisure to devote to composi- 
 tion. In July, 1820, Mr. Neele printed a new 
 Edition of his Odes, &c., with considerable addi- 
 tions ; and in March, 1823, published a Second 
 Volume of Dramatic and Miscellaneous Poetry, 
 which was, by permission, dedicated to Miss Joanna 
 Baillie, and at once established it's Author's claims 
 to no mean rank amongst the most popular writers 
 of the day. The minor Poems, more especially 
 the Songs and Fragments, were truly beautiful 
 specimens of the grace and sweetness of his genius ; 
 and amply merited the very general approval with 
 which they were received. 
 
 Ardent and enthusiastic in all his undertakings, 
 Mr. Neele's Literary industry was now amply 
 evidenced by his frequent contributions to the 
 " Monthly Magazine" and other Periodicals ; as 
 well as to the " Forget Me Not" and several of 
 it's contemporary Annuals ; the numerous Tales 
 and Poems for which, not previously reprinted by 
 himself, are all included in the present Volume. 
 Having been long engaged in studying the Poets 
 of the olden time, particularly the great masters 
 of the Drama of the age of Queen Elizabeth, for 
 
 a3 
 
X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 all of whom, but more especially for Shakspeare, 
 he felt the most enthusiastic veneration, he was 
 well qualified for the composition of a series of 
 " Lectures on English Poetry," from the days of 
 Chaucer down to those of Cowper, which he com- 
 pleted in the Winter of 1826 ; and delivered, first 
 at the Russell, and subsequently at the Western 
 Literary, Institution, in the Spring of 1827. 
 These Lectures were most decidedly successful ; 
 and both public and private opinion coincided in 
 describing them as " displaying a high tone of 
 Poetical feeling in the Lecturer, and an intimate 
 acquaintance with the beauties and blemishes of 
 the great subjects of his criticism." Although 
 written with rapidity, and apparent carelessness, 
 they were yet copious, discriminative, and elo- 
 quent; abounding in well-selected illustration, and 
 inculcating the purest taste. From the original 
 Manuscripts these compositions are now first pub- 
 lished ; and deeply is it to be deplored, that the 
 duty of preparing them for the Press should have 
 devolved upon any one but their Author : since in 
 that case alone, could the plan which he had evi- 
 dently proposed to himself have been fully com- 
 pleted; and where, in many instances, his intentions 
 can now but be conjectured only, from the traces 
 
INTRODUCTION. XI 
 
 of his outline, his design would then have been 
 filled up to it's entire extent, and harmonized in 
 all it's proportions of light and shadow. 
 
 In the early part of 1827 Mr. Neele published 
 a new Edition of all his Poems, collected into two 
 Volumes; and in the course of the same year pro- 
 duced his last and greatest Work, the " Romance 
 of English History " which was dedicated, by per- 
 mission, to His Majesty; and though extending 
 to three Volumes, and, from it's very nature, re- 
 quiring much antiquarian research, was completed 
 in little more than six months. Flattering as was 
 the very general eulogium which attended this 
 publication, yet the voice of praise was mingled 
 with the warnings of approaching evil ; and, like 
 the lightning which melts the sword within it's 
 scabbard, it is but too certain that the incessant 
 labour and anxiety of mind attending it's comple- 
 tion, were the chief sources of that fearful malady 
 which so speedily destroyed him. 
 
 " 'Twas his own genius gave the final blow, 
 And help'd to plant the wound that laid him low ; 
 So the struck Eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
 No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
 
Xll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, 
 Which wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart ! 
 Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel 
 He nursed the pinion which impelFd the steel ; 
 While the same plumage that had warra'd his nest, 
 Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast ! " 
 
 Of the work itself, which comprises a series of 
 Tales, founded on some Romantic occurrences in 
 every reign, from the Conquest to the Reforma- 
 tion, it is difficult to speak accurately. The sub- 
 ject, excepting in it's general outlines, was one to 
 which Mr. Neele was confessedly a stranger; and 
 as he had to search for his materials through the 
 obscure Chronicles of d/y antiquity, and actually 
 to " read up" for the illustration of each succeed- 
 ing narrative, his exertions must have been equally 
 toilsome and oppressive ; and the instances of haste 
 and inaccuracy, which, it is to be regretted, are 
 of such very frequent occurrence, are thus but too 
 readily accounted for. On the other hand, the 
 Tales are, in general, deeply interesting and ef- 
 fective ; the leading historical personages all cha- 
 racteristically distinguished ; and the dialogue, 
 though seldom sufficiently antique for the perfect 
 vraisemblance of History, is lively and animated. 
 The illustrations of each reign are preceded by a 
 
INTRODUCTION. Xlll 
 
 brief chronological summary of it's principal events; 
 and amusement and information are thus most hap- 
 pily and inseparably united. 
 
 The " Romance of History" was very speedily 
 reprinted in a Second Edition, and one Tale, 
 " Blanche of Bourbon" (inserted at page 254 
 of this Volume,) was written for it's continuation ; 
 as Mr. Neele would most probably have prepared 
 another series ; though it was the Publisher's ori- 
 ginal intention that each Country should be illus- 
 trated by a different Author. 
 
 With the mention of a new edition of Shaks- 
 peare's Plays, under the superintendence of Mr. 
 Neele as Editor, for which his enthusiastic reve- 
 rence for the Poet of " all time," peculiarly fitted 
 him, but which, from the want of patronage, ter- 
 minated after the publication of a very few Num- 
 bers, closes the record of his Literary labours, and 
 hastens the narration of that " last scene of all," 
 which laid him in an untimely grave. All the 
 fearful details of that sad event it were too painful 
 to dwell upon ; and if the curtain of oblivion even 
 for a moment be removed, it is to weep over them 
 in silence, and close it again for ever. Henry 
 
xiV INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Neele fell by his own hand ; the victim of an over- 
 wrought imagination : 
 
 " Like a tree, 
 
 That, with the weight of it's own golden fruitage, 
 Is bent down to the dust/' 
 
 On the morning of Thursday, February 7th, 
 1828, when he had scarcely passed his thirtieth 
 birth-day, he was found dead in his bed, with but 
 too positive evidences of self-destruction. The 
 unhesitating verdict of the Coroner's Inquest was 
 Insanity, as he had exhibited most unquestionable 
 symptoms of derangement on the day preceding. 
 And thus, in the very Spring of life, with Fame 
 and Fortune opening their brightest views before 
 him, he perished under the attacks of a disease, 
 from which no genius is a defence, and no talent 
 a protection; which has numbered amongst it's 
 victims some of the loftiest Spirits of humanity, 
 and blighted the proudest hopes that ever waked 
 the aspirings of ambition. 
 
 " Breasts, to whom all the strength of feeling given, 
 Bear hearts electric, charged with fire from Heaven, 
 Black with the rude collision, inly torn, 
 By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, 
 
INTRODUCTION. XV 
 
 Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst 
 
 Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder, scorch and burst ! " 
 
 In person, Mr. Neele was considerably below 
 the middle stature; but bis features were singularly 
 expressive, and his brilliant eyes betokened ardent 
 feeling and vivid imagination. Happily, as it has 
 now proved, though his disposition was in the 
 highest degree kind, sociable, and affectionate, he 
 was not married. His short life passed, indeed, 
 almost without events ; it was one of those obscure 
 and humble streams which have scarcely a name in 
 the map of existence, and which the traveller passes 
 by without enquiring either it's source or it's direc- 
 tion. His retiring manners kept him comparatively 
 unnoticed and unknown, excepting by those with 
 whom he was most intimate ; and from their 
 grateful recollection his memory will never be 
 effaced. He was an excellent son ; a tender 
 brother ; and a sincere friend. He was beloved 
 most by those who knew him best ; and at his 
 death, left not one enemy in the world. 
 
 Of his varied talents this posthumous Volume will 
 afford the best possible estimate ; since it includes 
 specimens of nearly every kind of composition 
 
xvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 which Mr. Neele ever attempted. The Lectures 
 will amply evidence the nervous eloquence of his 
 Prose ; and the grace and tenderness of his Poetry 
 are instanced in almost every stanza of his Verse. 
 Still, with a mind and manners so peculiarly 
 amiable, and with a gaiety of heart, and playful- 
 ness of wit, which never failed to rouse the spirit 
 of mirth in whatever society he found himself, it 
 is, indeed, difficult to account for the morbid 
 sensibility and bitter discontent, which characterize 
 so many of his Poems ; and which were so strongly 
 expressed in a contribution to the " Forget Me 
 Not" for 1826, (vide page 514 of thesq " Re- 
 mains") that the able Editor, his friend, Mr. 
 Shoberl, considered it his duty to counteract it's 
 influence by a " Remonstrance," which was in- 
 serted immediately after it. This is a problem, 
 however, which it is now impossible to solve ; 
 and, with a brief notice of the present work, this 
 Introduction will, therefore, at once be closed. 
 
 The following pages contain all the unpublished 
 Manuscripts left with Mr. Neele's family ; as well 
 as most of those Miscellaneous Pieces which were 
 scattered, very many of them anonymously, through 
 various Periodicals, several of which are now 
 
INTRODUCTION. XV11 
 
 discontinued ; though the Tales and Poems alluded 
 to were never printed in any former collection 
 of his writings. From the facility with which 
 Mr. Neele wrote, the ready kindness with which 
 he complied with almost every entreaty, and his 
 carelessness in keeping copies, it is, however, 
 highly probable, that numerous minor Poems may 
 yet remain in obscurity. It would, indeed, have 
 been easy to have extended the present Volume, 
 even very far beyond it's designed limits, but the 
 failure of more than one similar attempt was a 
 caution to warn from the quicksand on which they 
 were wrecked : and to contract, rather than to ex- 
 tend, the boundaries previously prescribed. The 
 Satire of the Reverend Author of " Walks in a 
 Forest" has, unluckily for it's objects, been but 
 too frequently deserved : 
 
 " When Genius dies, 
 
 I speak what Albion knows, surviving friends, 
 Eager his bright perfections to display 
 To the last atom, echo through the land 
 All that he ever did, or ever said, 
 Or ever thought: 
 
 Then for his writings, search each desk and drawer, 
 Sweep his Portfolio, publish every scrap, 
 And demi-scrap he penn'd ; beg, borrow, steal, 
 Each line he scribbled, letter, note, or card, 
 
xviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 To order shoes, to countermand a hat, 
 
 To make enquiries of a neighbour's cold, 
 
 Or ask his company to supper. Thus, 
 
 Fools! with such vile and crumbling trash they build 
 
 The pedestal, on which at length they rear 
 
 Their huge Colossus, that, beneath his weight, 
 
 'Tis crushed and ground ; and leaves him dropt aslant, 
 
 Scarce raised above the height of common men !" 
 
 Here, theD, this Introduction terminates. To 
 those who loved him living, and who mourn him 
 dead, these Remains of Henry Neele are dedi- 
 cated ; in the assured conviction that his Genius 
 will long " leave a mark behind," and not without 
 a hope that even this slight Memorial will serve 
 
 " To pluck the shining page from vulgar Time, 
 And leave it whole to late Posterity." 
 
 j. T. 
 
 November 2Qth, 1828. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 THE only notice requisite to introduce this 
 Second Edition, is the expression of the EDITOR'S 
 most unqualified gratification at the highly flat- 
 tering reception of the First ; and his very sincere 
 acknowledgments for the truly unanimous ap- 
 proval, with which it was honoured by every criti- 
 cism. To the friends of it's lamented Author, such 
 posthumous praise cannot but be doubly welcome ; 
 and in this last memorial of a career so brilliant, 
 though so brief, they must thus enjoy both a record 
 and a consolation, never to pass away : 
 
 " Long, long be each heart with such memories fill'd ! 
 Like a Vase in which roses have once been distill'd ; 
 You may break, you may ruin the Vase, if you will, 
 But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.'* 
 
 j. T. 
 
 December 7th, 1829. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 INTRODUCTION Page v 
 
 Advertisement to the Second Edition xix 
 
 LECTURES ON ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 Lecture the First, Introductory Analysis 3 
 
 Second, Epic and Narrative Poetry JU . 
 
 Third, Dramatic Poetry 78 
 
 Fourth, Dramatic Poetry continued 126 
 
 Fifth, Didactic, Descriptive, Pastoral, and 
 
 Satirical Poetry 159 
 
 Sixth, Lyrical and Miscellaneous Poetry. ... 187 
 
 ORIGINAL TALES, POEMS, ETC. 
 
 The Garter, a Romance of English History 219 
 
 Blanche of Bourbon, a Romance of Spanish History .... 254 
 
 Shakspeare's Supernatural Characters 301 
 
 A Night at the Mermaid, an Old English Tale 310 
 
 TheTrekschuit.. . 321 
 
xxii CONTENTS. 
 
 Hymns for Children Page 330 
 
 Epitaphs 334 
 
 Sonnet on reading the Remains of the late Henry 
 
 Kirke White 335 
 
 Friendship 336 
 
 Love and Beauty * 337 
 
 AThought 340 
 
 Epigram 340 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PROSE AND POETRY, NOW 
 FIRST COLLECTED. 
 
 The Valley of Servoz, a Savoyard Tale 343 
 
 The Poet's Dream 357 
 
 Totteridge Priory, a Reverie in Hertfordshire 384 
 
 The Shakspearean Elysium 394 
 
 The Dinner of the Months 404 
 
 Every Day at Breakfast 412 
 
 A Young Family , . . . . 422 
 
 The Comet 432 
 
 The Magician's Visiter 468 
 
 The Houri, a Persian Tale 478 
 
 Stanzas 495 
 
 Lines written after visiting a Scene in Switzerland ..>... 496 
 
 The Crusaders' Song . . , 498 
 
 A Serenade . 500 
 
CONTENTS. XXlii 
 
 Similitudes , Page 502 
 
 The Return of the Golden Age s 503 
 
 Questions Answered 504 
 
 Time's Changes 506 
 
 Such Things were 508 
 
 The Heart 510 
 
 Madonna , 511 
 
 Song 512 
 
 Stanzas 514 
 
 Thoughts 515 
 
 The Comet 516 
 
 Stanzas , . . . . 518 
 
 What is Life ? 519 
 
 Time 521 
 
 Love and Sorrow 523 
 
 The Natal Star, a Dramatic Sketch 524 
 
 L!Amore Dominatore , 529 
 
 Goodrich Castle 530 
 
 The Captives' Song 532 
 
 Stanzas 534 
 
 Mount Carmel, a Dramatic Sketch from Scripture History 536 
 A Royal Requiem 543 
 
To develope the dawnings of Genius, and to pursue the pro- 
 gress of our own National Poetry, from a rude origin and 
 obscure beginnings, to it's perfection in a polished age, must 
 prove an interesting and instructive investigation. 
 
 T. WARTON. 
 
 Authentic History informs us of no time when Poetry was 
 not ; and if the Divine Art has sometimes sung it's own na- 
 tivity, it is in strains which confess, while they glorify igno- 
 rance. The Sacred Annals are silent, and the Heathens, by 
 referring the invention of Verse to the Gods, do but tell us 
 that the mortal inventor was unknown. 
 
 " BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE/' NOVEMBER, 1828. 
 
LECTURES 
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 DELIVERED AT THE RUSSELL INSTITUTION, IN 
 
 THE MONTHS OF MARCH, APRIL, 
 
 AND MAY, 1827. 
 
HAIL Bards triumphant! born in happier days! 
 Immortal heirs of universal praise ! 
 Whose honours with increase of ages grow, 
 As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow ; 
 Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, 
 And Worlds applaud that must not yet be found. 
 
 POPE. 
 
LECTURES 
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 LECTURE THE FIRST. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY ANALYSIS. 
 
 General Historical Summary : The Age of Edward the Third : 
 Chaucer : The Ages of Henry the Eighth and Eliza- 
 beth: Coincidences in the Literary Histories of England 
 and Spain : The Age of Charles the First : Milton : 
 The New School of Comedy : The Age of Queen 
 Anne : Compared with the Age of Elizabeth : The 
 Didactic Writers: Improvement in the Public Taste: 
 Modern Authors to the time of Cowper. 
 
 IT may appear somewhat presumptuous to hope to 
 interest your attention, by a series of Lectures 
 upon English Poetry, after the power and ability 
 
 B2 
 
4 LECTURES ON 
 
 with which the Mechanical and useful Arts have 
 so recently been discussed and explained, on the 
 same spot, and the wonders and mysteries of those 
 Sciences laid open, which contribute so much to 
 the happiness, the comforts, and even the neces- 
 sities, of ordinary life. In introducing Poetry to 
 your notice, I am constrained to confess that it is 
 x a mere superfluity and ornament. As Fahtaff 
 said of Honour, " it cannot set to a leg, or an 
 arm, or heal the grief of a wound ; it has no skill 
 in Surgery." Still, within the mind of man there 
 exists a craving after intellectual beauty and 
 sublimity. There is a mental appetite, which it is 
 as necessary to satisfy as the corporeal one. There 
 are maladies of the mind, which are even more 
 destructive than those of the body ; and which, as 
 the sound of the sweet Harp of David drove the 
 demon out of Saul, have been known to yield to 
 the soothing influence of Poetry. The earliest 
 accomplishment of the rudest and wildest stages of 
 society, it is also the crowning grace of the most 
 polished and civilized. Nations the most illustrious 
 in Arts and arms, have also been the most celebra- 
 ted for their cultivation of letters ; and when the 
 monuments of those Arts, and the achievements of 
 those arms, have passed away from the face of the 
 earth, they have transmitted their fame to the 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 5 
 
 remotest ages through the medium of Literature 
 alone. The genius of Timanthes lives but in 
 the pages of Pliny ; and the sword of Caesar has 
 been rendered immortal only by his pen. 
 
 The canvas fritters into shreds, and the column 
 moulders into ruin ; the voice of Music is mute ; 
 and the beautiful expression of Sculpture a blank 
 and gloomy void: the right hand of the Mechanist 
 forgets it's cunning, and the arm of the Warrior 
 becomes powerless in the grave ; but the Lyre of 
 the Poet still vibrates ; ages listen to his song and 
 honour it : and while the pencil of Apelles, and 
 the chisel of Phidias, and the sword of Caesar, 
 and the engines of Archimedes, live only in the 
 breath of tradition, or on the page of history, or 
 in some perishable and imperfect fragment ; the 
 pen of Homer, or of Virgil, or of Shakspeare, is 
 an instrument of power, as mighty and magical as 
 when first the gifted finger of the Poet grasped it, 
 and with it traced those characters which shall re- 
 main unobliterated, until the period when this great 
 globe itself, 
 
 " And all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
 And, like an insubstantial Pageant faded, 
 Leave not a rack behind !" 
 
 The history of the Poetry of England exhibits 
 
6 LECTURES ON 
 
 changes and revolutions not less numerous and re- 
 markable than that of it's politics ; and to a brief 
 general summary of these, I propose to confine 
 myself in this Introductory Lecture. I shall after- 
 wards take a more detailed review of the merits 
 of the individual Authors, who distinguished them- 
 selves at various periods ; and in drawing your at- 
 tention to particular passages in their works, I 
 shall select from such writers as are least exten- 
 sively known. 
 
 English Poetry may be said to have been born in 
 the reign of Edward the Third. The Monkish 
 rhymes, the Troubadour Poems, the Metrical 
 Romances of Thomas the Rhymer, Piers Plow- 
 man, and others, and the clumsy Translations 
 from the Latin and the French, which were pro- 
 duced prior to that period, have but slender 
 claims upon our attention ; except as affording, by 
 their dulness and their gloom, a contrast to the ex- 
 traordinary blaze of light which succeeded them, 
 when Chaucer appeared in the Poetical hemisphere. 
 At that period, the eyes of all Europe were turned 
 towards England, who, perhaps, never in any age 
 more highly distinguished herself. She then pro- 
 duced a Monarch who was the greatest Statesman 
 and Warrior of his age, and to whom we are in- 
 debted for the foundation of many of the most im- 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 portant of the free Institutions, under which we 
 now flourish ; she produced a Divine, who had 
 the boldness to defy the spiritual and temporal 
 authority of Rome, and who struck the first blow 
 at that colossal power, a blow, from the effects 
 of which we may say that she has never yet re- 
 covered ; and now she produced a Poet, of whom 
 it is scarcely too much to assert, that he was the 
 greatest who had then appeared in modern Eu- 
 rope. 
 
 Chaucer's genius was vast, versatile, and ori- 
 ginal. He seems to have been deeply versed in 
 classical, in French, and in Italian Literature, as 
 well as in the Sciences, so far as they were known 
 in his day, and in the polemical and theological 
 questions which were then the favourite and 
 fashionable studies. His knowledge of human na- 
 ture was profound. The Knights, the Monks, 
 the Reves, the Prioresses, which he has painted, 
 have long since disappeared ; but wherever we 
 look around, we recognise the same passions, and 
 feelings, and characters ; the features remain, al- 
 though the costume is altered ; manners vary, but 
 man remains the same : Human nature, however 
 changeable in fashion, opinion, and outward ap- 
 pearance, is immutable in it's essence. Such as 
 is the Monarch on his throne, such is the peasant 
 
8 LECTURES ON 
 
 in his cottage ; such as was the ancient Egyp- 
 tian wandering among the Pyramids, such is the 
 modern Englishman making the tour of Europe, 
 and the Poet, who " dips" as Garrick said of 
 Shakspeare, " his pencil in the human heart," 
 will produce forms and colours, the truth and beauty 
 of which will be recognised, wherever such a heart 
 beats. Chaucer's versatility was most extraordi- 
 nary. No English Poet, Shakspeare alone exeepted, 
 exhibits such striking instances of Comic and Tragic 
 powers, united in the same mind. His humour 
 and wit are of the brightest and keenest character; 
 but then his pathos is tremendous, and his de- 
 scriptive powers are of the highest order. 
 
 His diction and versification must be looked at 
 with reference to the age in which he lived, and 
 not to the splendid models which we now possess, 
 He has been much censured by modern critics for 
 a too liberal use of French and Norman words ia 
 his Poems ; but Mr. Tyrwhitt, in his learned dis- 
 sertation on the subject, has shewn most satisfac- 
 torily, that, as compared with his contemporaries, 
 his diction is remarkably pure and vernacular ; and 
 Spenser has emphatically called him " a well of 
 English undefiled." His verses have also been said 
 to be imperfect, and sometimes to consist of nine 
 syllables, instead of ten. This is > I think, an equally 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 9 
 
 unfounded accusation ; and, if the Reader will 
 only take the precaution to make vocal the e final, 
 whenever he meets with it, he will find few lines 
 in Chaucer which are not harmonious and satisfac- 
 tory to the ear. 
 
 I have, perhaps, spoken more at large of the 
 merits of Chaucer than is consistent with my plan 
 in this Introductory Lecture, but his writings form 
 so important an era in the history of English Poe- 
 try, that I feel myself justified in making an ex- 
 ception in his favour. Chaucer died, and left no- 
 thing that resembled him behind him. Those Au- 
 thors who formed what is called the School of Chau- 
 cer, are in no particular entitled to the name, ex- 
 cepting that they professed and entertained the 
 profoundest veneration for their illustrious Master. 
 Gower, although senior both in years and in au- 
 thorship to Chaucer, and although he claims the 
 latter as his scholar, 
 
 " Grete well Chaucer, when ye mete 
 As my disciple and Poete," 
 
 did not begin to write English Poetry until after 
 him, and is therefore placed in his School. He is a 
 tame and mediocre writer, but every page displays 
 his erudition, and shews that he possessed all the 
 learning and accomplishments of his age. Neither 
 
 B3 
 
10 v LECTURES ON 
 
 can much be said in favour of Occleve, or of 
 Lydgate. The former, perhaps possessed more 
 imagination, and the latter was the better versifier ; 
 but both are remembered only in the absence of 
 superior talent. 
 
 From the death of Chaucer to the middle of the 
 reign of Henry the Eighth, the history of English 
 Literature is one dull and gloomy blank. The 
 civil disturbances by which the kingdom was then 
 convulsed, are probably the principal cause of this. 
 While men were trembling for their lives, they 
 were not likely to occupy themselves greatly either 
 in the production, or the perusal, of Literature. 
 The Sceptre first passed from the strenuous grasp 
 of Edward the Third into the feeble hands of his 
 grandson. Then came the usurpation of Boling- 
 broke ; the rebellion of Northumberland ; and 
 afterwards the long and bloody wars of the Roses. 
 Henry the Eighth mounted the throne with an 
 undisputed title. He himself possessed some 
 Literary talent, and made a shew probably in 
 emulation of his illustrious contemporary Francis 
 of France, of patronising letters and the Arts. 
 Hence his reign was adorned by the productions 
 of some men of real taste and genius, particularly 
 by those of Lord Surrey, and Sir Thomas Wyatt. 
 Neither of them were men of very commanding 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 11 
 
 powers, but they were both elegant and accom- 
 plished writers, and did much, at least to refine 
 our English versification. Surrey is also dis- 
 tinguished as the first writer of narrative blank 
 verse in our language, although he principally 
 wrote in rhyme. Lord Vaux was also a very 
 elegant lyrical writer, and some verses from one 
 of his Songs are quoted by Shakspeare in the 
 grave-digging scene in " Hamlet." Lord Buck- 
 hurst was in conjunction with Thomas Norton, 
 the Author of the first English Tragedy, " Gor- 
 boduc;" a heavy, cumbrous performance, of but 
 little value, except as a curious piece of antiquity. 
 The noble Poet's fame is much better supported 
 by his " Induction to the Mirror of Magistrates ," 
 a production of great power and originality. The 
 tyrannical temper of the Sovereign, however, soon 
 became manifest ; and, together with the contests 
 between the Papists and the Reformers, diverted 
 the attention of the nation from Literature. The 
 noblest and the best were seen daily led to the 
 scaffold ; and, among them, Surrey, the accom- 
 plished Poet whom I have just mentioned. The 
 barbarous feuds stirred up by political and pole- 
 mical animosity, which now again deluged the 
 nation with blood, did not subside until Elizabeth 
 ascended the throne. The Reign of Queen Eliza- 
 
12 LECTURES ON 
 
 beth is the most illustrious period in the Literary 
 history of modern Europe. Much has been said 
 of the ages of Leo the Tenth, of Louis the 
 Fourteenth, and of Queen Anne, but we are 
 prepared to shew that the Literary trophies of the 
 first mentioned period, are more splendid and 
 important, than those of all the other three united. 
 We are not alluding merely to what passed in our 
 own country. The superiority of the literary efforts 
 of that age to all the productions of English genius 
 before or since, is too trite a truism to need our 
 advocacy. JBut it is not so generally known, or, 
 at least, remembered, that during the same period 
 the other nations of Europe produced their master 
 Spirits; and that Tasso, Camoens, and Cervantes, 
 were contemporary with Shakspeare. Weigh these 
 four names against those of all who have ever 
 written, since the revival of Learning, to the present 
 time, and the latter will be found to be but as 
 dust in the balance. The accomplished scholars 
 and elegant writers who adorned the Courts of 
 Leo, of Louis, and of Anne, enjoy and deserve 
 their fame ; but they must not be put in compe- 
 tition with the mighty geniuses, who each, as it 
 were,wzadk the Literature of their respective coun- 
 tries; whose works are columns " high o'er the 
 /wrecks of Time that stand sublime ;" and whose 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 13 
 
 reputations are independent of all the adventitious 
 advantages of Schools and Courts, and are the 
 self-reared monuments of great and original minds, 
 which no time shall ever be able to disturb. 
 
 But though we have named only the four master 
 Spirits of that period, yet that there is a troop 
 behind, more numerous than those which were 
 shewn in Banquos glass. Spenser, Ben Jonson, 
 Fletcher, Massinger, Lope de Vega, Calderon, 
 Marino, these are bright names, which cannot be 
 lost, even in the overwhelming splendour of those 
 which we have already mentioned. In Spain and 
 England, Literature, and especially Dramatic 
 Literature, flourished simultaneously ; and a simi- 
 larity of taste and genius appears to have pervaded 
 both Nations. The same bold and irregular flights 
 of Fancy, the same neglect of all classical rules of 
 composition, more than atoned for by the same 
 original and natural beauties of thought and dic- 
 tion ; and the same less venial violations of time, 
 place, and costume, characterise both the Castilian 
 and the English Muses. There appears then to 
 have existed an intercourse of Literature and in- 
 tellect between the two Nations, the interruption of 
 which is much to be deplored. The Spanish lan- 
 guage was then much studied in England ; Spanish 
 plots and scenery were chosen by many of our 
 
14 LECTURES ON 
 
 Dramatists, and their dialogues, especially those 
 of Jonson and Fletcher, were thickly interspersed 
 with Spanish phrases and idioms. The marriage 
 of Philip and Mary might probably conduce great- 
 ly to this effect ; though the progress of the Refor- 
 mation in England, and the strong political and 
 commercial hostility, which afterwards existed be- 
 tween the two nations, appear to have put an end 
 to this friendly feeling. English Literature then 
 began to be too closely assimilated to that of 
 France, and sustained, in my opinion, irreparable 
 injury by the connection. Spain appears to be our 
 more natural ally in Literature ; and, it is a curious 
 fact, that after the Poetry of both nations had for 
 a long period been sunk in tameness and medio- 
 crity, it should at the same time suddenly spring 
 into pristine vigour and beauty, both in the Island 
 and in the Peninsula ; for Melandez, Quintana, 
 and Gonsalez, are the worthy contemporaries of 
 Byron, Wordsworth, Scott, and Moore. 
 
 Two great Authors of each nation, have also ex- 
 hibited some curious coincidences, both in the 
 structure of their minds, and in the accidents 
 of their lives. Ben Jonson fought in the English 
 Army against the Spaniards in the Netherlands, 
 and Lope de Vega accompanied the Spanish Ar- 
 mada for the invasion of England. Shakspeare 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 15 
 
 and Cervantes, the profoundest masters of the 
 human heart which the modern world has produced, 
 were neither of them mere Scholars, shut up in the 
 seclusion of a study ; both were busily engaged 
 in active life, although one merely trod the mimic 
 stage, and the other acted a part oh the World's 
 great Theatre ; both were afflicted with a bodily 
 infirmity ; Shakspeare was lame, and Cervantes 
 had lost a hand ; and, a still stranger coincidence 
 remains, for both died upon the same day. If it 
 be indeed true then, that, 
 
 " they do not err 
 Who say that when the Poet dies 
 Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, 
 And celebrates his obsequies/' 
 
 how shall we be able to estimate the grief which 
 pervaded Spain and England, on the 12th of April, 
 1616? 
 
 Elizabeth was unquestionably the first and most 
 important person of the age in which she lived ; 
 and, although she was, as Voltaire has somewhere 
 called her, " Mistress of only half an Island," 
 still she managed to humble the gigantic power of 
 Spain ; to afford important succour to Henry the 
 Fourth of France ; and to lay the foundation of 
 that maritime superiority, which has given England, 
 
16 LECTURES ON 
 
 insignificant as it is in extent and population, so 
 important an influence over the destinies of the 
 Globe. But besides this, she was a munificent 
 and discriminating Patron of letters and literary 
 men ; was herself an accomplished linguist ; and, 
 according to Puttenham, " a Poetess of tolerable 
 pretensions." Her Court was thronged with men 
 of letters and of genius. Her Chancellor was the 
 immortal Bacon, the father of modern Philosophy; 
 among her most distinguished Captains, were 
 Raleigh and Sidney ; among her Peers, were Lord 
 Brooke, Vere, Earl of Oxford, and Herbert, Earl 
 of Pembroke, all distinguished Poets ; among her 
 Prelates and dignified Divines, were Hall, the first 
 and best of English Satirists, and Donne, the 
 founder of what has been called the Metaphysical 
 School of Poetry ; and whatever honours she dis- 
 tributed, lawn sleeves, or robes of ermine, Coronets, 
 or badges of Knighthood, they were rarely, if 
 ever, given without reference to the learning and 
 genius of the receiver. 
 
 James the First was destitute of the taste and 
 talent of his great predecessor, but still he was 
 desirous of being reputed a Patron of letters ; 
 and, by virtue of some stiff, pedantic, and ab- 
 surd productions of his pen, styled himself an Au- 
 thor. Literature rather advanced than retrograded 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 17 
 
 under his rule ; and indeed, something like that 
 mighty engine which is now of such enormous 
 power, Public opinion, began to form in the na- 
 tion ; taking Literature under it's protection, and 
 thus rendering it less dependant, than heretofore, 
 upon the Monarch and the Court. Of the So- 
 vereign, however, who sent Raleigh to the block, 
 no Literary man, or lover of letters, can speak 
 with respect. The Authors who flourished in his 
 reign were for the most part those who adorned 
 that of Elizabeth. 
 
 The accession of Charles the First seemed an 
 auspicious event for the cause of Literature, and 
 the Arts. The Sovereign was himself a Prince of 
 much learning, and of a refined and elevated 
 taste. To him this nation is indebted for the ac- 
 quisition of the Cartoons of Raphael ; he invited 
 Vandyke, Rubens, Bernini, and other foreign 
 Artists into this country ; was the liberal patron of 
 Ben Jonson, Inigo Jones, and other native Poets 
 and Artists ; and, amongst the crimes with which 
 he was charged by his enemies, was one which, at 
 the present day, we cannot judge to be quite un- 
 pardonable, namely, that the volumes of Shak- 
 speare were his companions day and night. The 
 Poets who flourished in his reign, in addition to 
 those who survived the reigns of his predecessors, 
 
18 , LECTURES ON 
 
 although they possessed not the commanding ge- 
 nius, and the wonderful creative powers of the Bards 
 of the Elizabethan age, " for there were Giants on 
 the earth in those days/' were yet among the most 
 polished and elegant writers which the nation has 
 produced. The sweetness of their versification 
 was not of that tame and cloying nature, which the 
 imitators of Pope afterwards introduced into our 
 Literature ; smooth to the exclusion of every bold 
 and original thought. 
 
 The writings of Carew, Crashaw, Waller, Her- 
 rick, and Suckling, sparkling with the most bril- 
 liant and original ideas, expressed in the most 
 elegant versification, shine out like precious gems 
 richly cased. The favourite amusement of this 
 period was the Dramatic entertainments called 
 Masques. These were got up at Court with an ex- 
 traordinary magnificence, which, we are told, mo- 
 dern splendour never reached even in thought ; 
 and that the taste in which they were produced 
 was equal to the splendour, we may rest assured, 
 when we know that Ben Jonson commonly wrote 
 the Poetry, Lawes composed the Music, and Inigo 
 Jones designed the decorations. Had Charles 
 long continued to sway the English sceptre, there 
 is no doubt that Literature and the Arts, but espe- 
 cially the latter, would have been materially ad- 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 19 
 
 vanced. To them the establishment of a Com- 
 monwealth, whatever it may have effected for the 
 civil and religious liberties of the country, gave a 
 blow from which they have scarcely yet recovered. 
 The Theatres were kept closed ; Stage Plays were 
 considered impious and profane ; the Altar-pieces 
 were torn down, and the statues broken in our 
 Cathedrals, as idolatrous and encouraging the 
 image-worship of the Papists. Music, which was 
 wont to give so solemn and impressive an effect 
 to the service of the Church, was abolished as one 
 of the most odious among the abominations of Po- 
 pery; and Chaucer, Spenser, and Shakspeare, 
 were exiled from the libraries of the orthodox to 
 make .way for Withers, Quarles, and Herbert! 
 Nay, if we are literally to believe the assertion of 
 an old Author, every thing which bore the slightest 
 resemblance to the popish symbol of the Crucifix 
 was held in such detestation, that even tailors were 
 forbidden to sit cross-legged ! The King's Paint- 
 ings, we are told by Whitelocke, were sold at 
 very low prices, and enriched all the collections 
 in Europe ; and, but for the tact and pianagement 
 of Selden, the library and medals of Saint James's 
 would have been put up to auction, in order to pay 
 the arrears of some regiments of Cavalry, quar- 
 
20 LECTURES ON 
 
 tered near London. Poets, and other literary men 
 were not only disturbed in their studies by the 
 clang of arms, but many of them exchanged the 
 pen for the sword, and mingled actively in the 
 contest which raged around them. 
 
 Still, the most stirring and turbulent times are 
 not the most unfavourable to the productions of 
 Poetry. The Muse catches inspiration from the 
 storm, and Genius rides upon the whirlwind, while 
 perhaps it would only slumber during the calm. 
 Chaucer wrote amidst all the irritation and fury 
 excited by the progress of the Reformation ; Spenser 
 and Shakspeare, while the nation was contending 
 for it's very existence against the colossal power 
 of Spain ; and it was during the political and 
 religious frenzy of the times of which we are now 
 speaking, that Milton stored his mind with those 
 sublime imaginings, which afterwards expanded 
 into that vast masterpiece of human genius, the 
 " Paradise Lost" There can be but little doubt 
 that when this illustrious Poet, a man so accom- 
 plished in mind and manners, joined the Par- 
 liamentary party, he made many sacrifices of taste 
 and feeling, for what he considered whether 
 correctly or not, it is riot now my province to 
 enquire, the cause of civil and religious liberty. 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 21 
 
 Neither, vulgar and tastless as was the mass of 
 that party, was he without associates of whom 
 even he had reason to be proud : 
 
 " Great men have been among us, hands that penn'd. 
 And tongues that utter' d wisdom : better none ; 
 The later Sydney, Marvell, Harrington, 
 Young Vane, and others, who call'd Milton friend." 
 
 In early life he published his charming " Comus" 
 " L 'Allegro" " II Penseroso" " Lycidas" and 
 others of his minor Poems. During the war, his 
 active engagements, as Latin Secretary to the 
 Protector, and, generally, as a political partisan, 
 occupied him almost exclusively ; although, he 
 has himself told us, that, even then his mind was 
 brooding over the production of something " which 
 the world should not willingly let die." It was 
 not, however, until " fallen on evil days, and 
 evil tongues/ 7 when the once celebrated Latin 
 Secretary, and the future Poet of " all time," was 
 only known as the blind old Schoolmaster of Ar- 
 tillery-walk, that he produced his immortal Epic. 
 
 The present Introductory Lecture being, as I 
 have already stated, rather historical than critical, 
 I shall not here enter into any examination of the 
 merits of " Paradise Lost." I would, however, 
 say a few words as to it's effects upon the Literature 
 
22 LECTURES ON 
 
 of the time. It is a very common error to suppose 
 that it fell almost still-born from the press ; or, at 
 least, that it was generally received with extraordi- 
 nary coolness and neglect. That it was not at 
 first acknowledged to be entitled to occupy that 
 proud station on the British Parnassus, which is 
 now universally conceded to it, is unquestionable ; 
 but it is equally certain, that when first published, 
 it was hailed with admiration and delight, by men 
 of the highest talent ; and that even throughout 
 the nation at large, the circumstances of the Author, 
 and the spirit of the times considered, it was far 
 more successful than could have been reasonably 
 expected. The Author was a democrat and a 
 dissenter, and the age was ultra-loyal and ultra- 
 orthodox: the Poem was thoroughly imbued with 
 a religious feeling and sentiment, and the public 
 to which it was addressed, was more profligate and 
 irreligious than it had been known to have ever 
 been before. " Paradise Lost 19 was '\noreover 
 written in blank verse; anew, and strange, and, 
 to many ears, an unpleasing style of metre, and, 
 the purity and severity of taste which reigned 
 throughout it, was opposed to the popular admira- 
 tion of the far-fetched conceits and the tawdry 
 ornaments of Cowley, and the Metaphysical School. 
 Notwithstanding all these disadvantages, the Poem 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 23 
 
 received extraordinary homage, both from the 
 learned and the public. Andrew Marvell and 
 Dr. Barrow addressed eulogistic verses to the 
 Author; and Dryden, the Laureate, and the 
 favourite Poet of the day, when Milton's Epic 
 was first introduced to his notice by the Earl of 
 Dorset, exclaimed, " This man cuts ns all out, 
 and the ancients too." He also complimented 
 Milton with the well known Epigram, beginning 
 " Three Poets, in three distant ages born ;" and 
 afterwards, with his consent, constructed a Drama 
 called " The State of Innocence ; or, the Fall of 
 Man" founded upon " Paradise Lost" " Fit au- 
 dience let me find, though few/' says Milton, and 
 his wish was more than gratified ; for above 1300 
 copies a very great number in those days, of 
 his Poem were sold in less than two years ; and 
 3000 more in less than nine years afterwards. It 
 was not, however, until the celebrated critique of 
 Addison appeared in the " Spectator" that the 
 English nation at large became aware that it 
 possessed a native Poet " above all Greek, above 
 all Roman fame," and that it fully rendered him 
 the honours which were so unquestionably his due. 
 The publication of " Paradise Lost" was soon 
 followed by that of " Paradise Regained" and 
 " Sampson Agonistes" Neither of the latter works 
 
24 LECTURES ON 
 
 can be said to have advanced the fame of the Author 
 of the former ; but for any other author they would 
 have assuredly won the wreath of immortality. They 
 do not appear to have had any decided influence 
 upon the taste and spirit of the time. The favourite 
 Poets were Butler, Otway, and Dryden : and, if 
 we can once forget the sin of overlooking Milton, 
 we must admit that the judgment of the age can- 
 not be very severely arraigned for it's choice of 
 favourites. The matchless Wit of the first, not- 
 withstanding his occasional grossnesses, and his 
 too general obscurity ; the profound pathos, and 
 sweet versification of the Second, notwithstanding 
 his wretched ribald attempts at wit and humour, 
 his imperfect delineation of character, and the 
 wicked sin of bombast, of which he is always guilty 
 when he wishes to be sublime ; and the polish, 
 elegance, and majestic flow of versification, the 
 keen and indignant Satire, and the light and airy 
 fancy of the last, notwithstanding his want of every 
 thing that can be strictly called originality or inven- 
 tion; I say that these brilliant endowments of the 
 illustrious Triumvirate which I have named, are 
 sufficient to eclipse all their imperfections, and to 
 justify to the utmost, the eulogiums of their warmest 
 admirers. About this period, too, began that bril- 
 liant, but profligate School of Comedy, which, in 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 25 
 
 time, could number in it's ranks Wycherley, Ethe- 
 rege, Farquhar, Vanbrugh, Congreve, Centiivre, 
 and, last and least, Cibber. This School has been, 
 strangely enough, termed a French School of 
 Comedy : though ail it's characteristics, both of 
 merit and defect, appear to me to be perfectly 
 national. The great stain of profligacy, which is 
 unhappily impressed upon all it's productions, is 
 certainly not to be traced to the example of our 
 neighbours : for no one, even with the most 
 thorough conviction of the superiority of our own 
 Literature to their's, can pretend to point out in 
 the scenes of French Comedy, any thing like the 
 unblushing and shameless indelicacy which dis- 
 graces the masterpieces of English wit and hu- 
 mour. I fear that it is to that highly gifted duum- 
 virate, Beaumont and Fletcher, that we must as- 
 sign the " bad eminence" of having originally 
 given to English Comedy this unfortunate charac- 
 teristic. In the writings of Shakspeare, Jonson, 
 and others of their contemporaries, we meet with 
 occasional instances of this fault, but in none of 
 them is it mixed up so essentially with the entire 
 stamina and spirit of the Drama, as it is in Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher. The domination of the Puritans 
 afterwards checked this vitiated taste : but at the 
 Restoration it broke out again in more than pris- 
 
 c 
 
6 LECTURES ON 
 
 tine vigour, and continued so long to infect Dra- 
 matic Literature, that, with the exception of the 
 " Provoked Husband" of Vanbrugh and Gibber, 
 it would be difficult to point out a single Comedy 
 between the times of Dryden and Steele, which 
 could possibly now be read aloud in reputable 
 society. Decency afterwards reigned upon the 
 Stage; but, unfortunately, she brought dulness 
 and imbecility along with her. 
 
 The reign of Queen Anne, to which our en- 
 quiries have now brought us, is a very celebrated 
 period in the annals of English Literature, and has 
 been generally styled it's Augustan age. I am 
 not disposed to quarrel with names. As far as 
 Prose Literature is concerned, I am willing to 
 admit that English Authors, during the reign of 
 Anne, surpassed all their predecessors. The lan- 
 guage certainly then possessed a higher polish, and 
 was fixed upon a more durable basis, than it had 
 ever attained before ; a taste for Literature was 
 very generally diffused, and Authors were most 
 munificently patronized. Indeed this may rather 
 be styled the Golden age for Authors ; for eminence 
 in polite Literature was then a passport to wealth, 
 and honour, and sometimes to the highest offices 
 of the State. Rowe was under Secretary for public 
 affairs ; Congreve enjoyed a lucrative post in the 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 27 
 
 Customs ; Swift exercised great authority and 
 influence in the Tory cabinet ; Prior was Ambas- 
 sador to the Court of France ; and Addison was a 
 Secretary of State ; but if, by styling this the 
 Augustan age, it is meant to affirm that it's Poetical 
 productions are of a higher order of merit than 
 those of any former period of our literary history, 
 then I must pause before I admit the propriety of 
 so designating it. Grace, fluency, elegance, and 
 I will venture to add, mediocrity, are the charac- 
 teristics of the Poetry of this age, rather than 
 strength, profundity, and originality. True it is, 
 that there are splendid exceptions to this rule, and 
 that Swift, Pope, and Gay brightened the annals 
 of the period of which I am speaking; but what 
 are it's pretensions, when compared with the age 
 of Queen Elizabeth? What are even the great 
 names which I have just mentioned, when weighed 
 against those of Jonson, Fletcher, Massinger, 
 Spenser, and Shakspeare ? and as to the minor 
 writers of the two periods, who would dream of 
 mentioning Donne, Drummond, Brown, Carew, 
 and Herrick, in the same breath with Duke, King, 
 Sprat, Tickell, Yalden, and Hughes? I must 
 even deny the boasted refinement of versification 
 in the latter age ; unless to refine be to smooth, 
 and level, and reduce all to one tame and insipid 
 
 c 2 
 
28 LECTURES ON 
 
 equality. Leaving originality out of the question, 
 I will ask, what Lyrical pieces of the age of Queen 
 Anne, can, in mere elegance of diction, and flow 
 of versification, be compared to the Lyrical parts 
 of Jonson's and Beaumont's Dramas, and the sweet 
 Songs of Carew and Herrick I The following is 
 a once much admired Song, by Lord Landsdowne, 
 who was Comptroller of the Household to Queen 
 Anne : 
 
 " Thoughtful nights, and restless waking, 
 
 Oh ! the pains that we endure ! 
 Broken faith, unkind forsaking, 
 Ever doubting, never sure. 
 
 Hopes deceiving, vain endeavours, 
 
 What a race has Love to run ! 
 False protesting, fleeting favours, 
 
 Every, every way undone. 
 
 Still complaining, and defending, 
 
 Both to love, yet not agree ; 
 Fears tormenting, passion rending, 
 
 Oh ! the pangs of jealousy. 
 
 From such painful ways of living, 
 Ah ! how sweet could Love be free ! 
 
 Still preserving, still receiving, 
 Fierce, immortal ecstasy !" 
 
 To these Verses, which, I admit, are exceed- 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 29 
 
 ingly smooth and flowing, I will oppose some by 
 the supposed rugged old bard, Ben Jonson ; and 
 I will then ask, for I do not wish to bear unrea- 
 sonably hard upon the noble Poet of the Augustan, 
 age, I say, I will then ask, not which has the 
 most sense, the most meaning, the most Poetry, 
 but which of the two Songs possesses the noblest 
 music in the versification ? 
 
 " Oh ! do not wanton with those eyes, 
 
 Lest I be sick with seeing ; 
 Nor cast them down, but let them rise, 
 Lest shame destroy their being. 
 
 Oh ! be not angry with those fires, 
 
 For then their threats will kill me, 
 Nor look too kind on my desires, 
 
 For then my hopes will spill me. 
 
 Oh ! do not steep them in thy tears, 
 
 For so will sorrow slay me, 
 Nor spread them as distract with fears, 
 
 Mine own enough betray me !" 
 
 When it is remembered, that these latter verses 
 were written one hundred years before the former, 
 I think that I shall not excite any surprise, when I 
 say that I cannot discover in what consists the won- 
 derful refinement, and improvement in versifica- 
 
30 LECTURES ON 
 
 tion, which is boasted to have taken place during 
 that period. 
 
 Pope was the great Poet of that age, and it is 
 to him alone that English versification is indebted 
 for all the improvement which it then received ; 
 an improvement which is confined to the heroic 
 measure of ten syllables. That noble measure 
 had hitherto been written very lawlessly and care- 
 lessly. Denham and Dryden alone, had reduced 
 it to any thing like regularity and rule, and even 
 they too often sanctioned, by their example, the 
 blemishes of others. Of Pope, it is scarcely too 
 much to say, that there is not a rough or dis- 
 cordant line in all that he has written. His 
 thoughts, so often brilliant and original, sparkle 
 more brightly by reason of the elegant and flowing 
 rhymes in which they are expressed ; and even 
 where the idea is feeble, or common place, the 
 music of the versification almost atones for it : the 
 ear is satisfied, although the mind is disappointed. 
 Still, it must be confessed, that Pope carried his 
 refinements too far ; his sweetness cloys at last ; 
 his music wants the introduction of discords to 
 give full effect to the harmony. The unpleasant 
 effect produced upon the ear by the frequently 
 running of the sense of one line with another, and 
 especially of continuing the sentence from the last 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 31 
 
 line of one couplet to the first line of the next, 
 Pope felt, and judiciously avoided. Still, for the 
 sense always to find a pause with the couplet, and 
 often with the rhyme, will necessarily produce 
 something like tedium and sameness. Succeeding 
 Authors have been conscious of this fault in Pope's 
 versification, and have, in some measure, reverted 
 to the practice of his predecessors. Lord Byron 
 especially, has, by pauses in the middle of the line, 
 and by occasionally, but with judgment and cau- 
 tion, running one line into another, enormities, 
 at which the Poet of whom we are now speaking 
 would have been stricken with horror, has fre- 
 quently produced effects of which the well tuned, 
 but somewhat fettered, Lyre of Pope was utterly 
 incapable. It is, however, injustice to Pope, to 
 speak of him so long as a mere versifier; great as 
 his merits were in that respect, his Poetry, as we 
 shall hereafter show, more at length, possessed 
 recommendations of a higher and nobler order ; 
 keen Satire, deep pathos, great powers of de- 
 scription, and wonderful richness and energy of 
 diction. 
 
 At this period, no attempt, worthy of our notice, 
 was made at Epic Poetry, and the leaden sceptre 
 of French taste was stretched over the Tragic 
 Drama, and over Lyric, Pastoral, and descriptive 
 
32 LECTURES ON 
 
 Poetry. The Tragedies of Shakspeare were 
 driven from the Stage, to make way for those of 
 Addison and Howe ; such Songs as my Lord 
 Lansdowne's, of which I have given a specimen, 
 were thought wonderfully natural and touching; 
 and Pastoral and descriptive Poetry was in the 
 hands of such rural swains as Ambrose Phillips, 
 and others, who were called men of wit about 
 town ; who painted their landscapes after the 
 model of Hyde Park, and the squares ; and drew 
 their sketches of rural life and manners from what 
 they observed at the Levees and the Drawing- 
 rooms of the great. Mere unsophisticated simple 
 Nature was considered low and vulgar, and when 
 Gay wrote his " Eclogues" which he intended 
 should be burlesque, he went to the furthest 
 possible remove from the fashionable and elegant 
 way of writing Pastoral Poetry, and so, uncon- 
 sciously produced a real and natural likeness of 
 rustic scenery and society. There is a well known 
 picture of day-break by Shakspeare, which, 
 although comprised in two lines, possesses more 
 of reality and vividness than can be found in whole 
 volumes of diffuse description which I could name : 
 
 " Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund Day 
 Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain's top," 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 33 
 
 This passage would have been considered vile and 
 vulgar by the critics of those days: the word 
 " candles" would have been voted low and un- 
 poetical, and " torches/' perhaps, substituted for 
 it; " Day" would never have been described as 
 standing " tiptoe," but as with " foot upraised," 
 or " proudly advancing;" and what gentleman 
 who walked about the Strand and the Mall, writing 
 Pastoral poetry, would, when speaking of " moun- 
 tain tops," have thought of the mists which some- 
 times envelope them, or would have dreamed 
 that such ugly accompaniments could possibly add 
 to their sublimity and beauty? Shakspeare has 
 so little idea of what is regal and Roman, that he 
 shews us Lear, tottering about amidst the pelting 
 of the storm, and taking shelter with a madman 
 and a fool in a hovel ; and describes Julius Ccesar 
 as once shivering with an ague-fit ; 
 
 Aye, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans 
 Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, 
 Alas '. it cried, ' give me some drink, Titinius/ 
 Like a sick girl !" 
 
 In the Augustan age, however, things were ordered 
 very differently; " On avoit change tout cela." 
 Alexander could not appear upon the Stage until 
 
 c3 
 
34 LECTURES ON 
 
 one of the persons of the Drama exclaims, " Be- 
 hold ! the master of the world approaches!" Cato, 
 when for the first time he sees the dead body of 
 his son, does not as Shakspeare, in his ignorance, 
 would have probably made him do, 
 
 " Shed some natural tears, but wipe them soon," 
 
 but merely exclaims, " What a pity it is that one 
 can die but once to serve our country !" and, when 
 the heroine of the " Cid" learns that her Father has 
 been slain by her lover, what does she do? In 
 nature, she would faint, or at any rate she would 
 certainly not think of ceremony, but in the Drama, 
 she makes the politest of all possible curtsies to 
 the company, and begs that they will excuse her 
 retiring for a few moments ! 
 
 The fact is, that the age of Anne rendered itself 
 illustrious by it's Prose writings. It's Poetry is, 
 with few exceptions, exceedingly mediocre. Pope, 
 Gay, Swift, Steele, Shaftsbury, Addison, and 
 Bolingbroke, are it's foremost Authors. Of these, 
 the first alone is entitled to the rank of a great 
 Poet, and the Poetry of the last five is too trifling 
 and unimportant to be taken into the account. 
 
 The history of English Poetry for a long period 
 afterwards presents a very dreary and melancholy 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 35 
 
 prospect. It is in the Didactic walk alone, which 
 is the nearest allied to Prose, that we meet with 
 any production approaching to excellence, with 
 the exception of the beautiful Odes of Collins. 
 Thomson, Akenside, Goldsmith, Young, and 
 Dyer, are men to whom English Literature is 
 greatly indebted, and who distinguished themselves 
 as much as the narrow walk in which they chose 
 to be confined would allow them. Thomson espe- 
 cially did much to bring back the artificial taste of 
 the public to a just appreciation of natural scenes 
 and sentiments, naturally described and expressed. 
 His exclamation on the publication of Glover's 
 " Leonidas" " What! he write an Epic Poem 
 who never saw a mountain ! " shews that he well 
 knew that Nature was the only school in which 
 true Poetry is taught. Yet even Thomson himself 
 was somewhat infected with the taste of the age, 
 and is too fond of pompous and high-sounding 
 diction, in which we frequently find his beautiful 
 thoughts obscured, instead of being adorned. 
 This objection, however, does not apply to the 
 " Castle of Indolence," the most delightful pro- 
 duction of it's age. Akenside wrote elegantly and 
 classically, with precision, and with energy. Gold- 
 smith is perfection in every thing that he has 
 done : the only thing to regret is, that he has done 
 
36 LECTURES ON 
 
 so little. Young, so often turgid and declamatory, 
 is not, I confess, much to my taste, although he 
 has doubtless many bold and original thoughts, 
 which he expresses very powerfully. Dyer, in 
 his long Poem upon Sheep-shearing has made as 
 much of so unpoetical a theme as could possibly 
 be expected ; but the theme, after all, had better 
 have been let alone. The Epics of Blackmore, 
 of Wilkie, and of Glover, once enjoyed conside- 
 rable popularity. They have now passed into 
 comparative oblivion ; and, with the exception of 
 the " Leonidas" of the last, they have achieved 
 only the destiny which they merited. Glover 
 was a Scholar, and a man of taste. His Poem is 
 chaste, classical, and elegant; but at the same 
 time, defective in action, character, passion, and 
 interest. The sentiments are just, and eloquently 
 expressed, and the imagery and descriptions are 
 in strict congruity with the classical nature of the 
 subject ; but still the effect of the entire Poem is 
 such, that we rather approve than admire. What 
 Dr. Johnson said of his Dramatic namesake, may, 
 with much more truth and propriety, be applied 
 to Glover: 
 
 " Cold approbation gives the lingering bays, 
 
 And those \vho dare not censure, scarce can praise/* 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 37 
 
 But brighter days were about to dawn on English 
 Poetical Literature. The public became satiated 
 with the mediocrity with which their poetical ca- 
 terers gorged them, and they began to turn their 
 eyes upon the elder writers, whose traditionary 
 fame still survived, and whose works were much 
 talked of, although they were little read. Johnson 
 and Steevens published their edition of Shakspeare; 
 and so laid the foundation of that general knowledge 
 and due appreciation of the merits of the great 
 Dramatist, which forms so distinguishing and cre- 
 ditable a feature in the public taste at the present 
 day. Percy gave to the world those invaluable 
 literary treasures, the " Reliques of Ancient En- 
 glish Poetry " which, although at first received 
 with coolness and neglect, eventually, by their 
 simplicity and beauty, extorted general admiration ; 
 and, as Mr. Wordsworth has said, " absolutely 
 redeemed the Poetry of this country." " I do 
 not think/' adds this distinguished Author, " that 
 there is an able writer in verse of the present day, 
 who would not be proud to acknowledge his 
 obligations to the ' Reliques.' I know that it is so 
 with my friends ; and for myself, I am happy to 
 make a public avowal of my own." The new 
 Edition of Shakspeare turned the attention of the 
 public to the works of his contemporaries, and 
 
38 
 
 LECTURES ON 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, Ford, Massinger, and 
 Jonson, with all the world of literary wealth which 
 their works contain, were given to the public by 
 the successive labours of Seward, Whalley, Cole- 
 man, Weber, and Gifford, Ellis and Headley 
 also published their " Specimens of the Ancient En- 
 glish Poets ,*" and Dr. Anderson sent forth into the 
 world his Edition of the English Poets, including 
 all those mighty Bards who were omitted in Dr. 
 Johnson's Edition, by reason of the strange plan 
 which he imposed upon himself, or which was 
 dictated to him by others, of beginning that col- 
 lection with the works of Cowley. An Author too, 
 of a far higher character for originality of mind, 
 purity of taste, simplicity of thought and expres- 
 sion, and deep observation of nature, than had 
 come before the public for many years, appeared 
 in the person of the highly-gifted, but ill-fated 
 Cowper. The success of his exquisite " Task" 
 was so rapid and brilliant, as to shew that the taste 
 of the public had undergone a great revolution, 
 since the time when the Pastorals of Phillips, the 
 Heroics of Blackmore, and the Lyrics of Lans- 
 downe, were it's favourite studies. 
 
 Into the merits and the authenticity of two works, 
 which created an extraordinary sensation about this 
 time, I shall have a more convenient opportunity 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 39 
 
 of enquiring in a subsequent Lecture. I mean 
 the Poems attributed to Rowley the Saxon, and to 
 Ossian the Celtic, Poets. The authenticity of the 
 former appears to be a point which is now very 
 generally given up ; but that of the latter is a 
 question with which the literary world is still 
 agitated, and with which it will probably continue 
 to be agitated, as long as the Poems themselves 
 are extant. 
 
 Having thus endeavoured to lay before you the 
 history of the rise and progress of English Poetry, 
 from the days of Chaucer to those of Cowper, I 
 do not intend to bring the enquiry down to a later 
 period, or to venture upon any discussion of the 
 merits of the writers of the present day. There is, 
 however, one omission in my Lecture which may 
 perhaps require an explanation. I have not directed 
 your attention to the Scottish Poets who flourished 
 during the period which has been embraced by our 
 enquiries. This omission has occurred, not, I 
 trust, from any insensibility to the merits of those 
 distinguished writers, but from a consciousness of 
 my own inability to speak critically upon the 
 subject. To select a few names at random, 
 Dunbar, the northern Chaucer; James the First, 
 the only Monarch whose poetical laurels have been 
 large enough to hide his diadem ; and Burns, the 
 
40 LECTURES ON 
 
 most exquisite Lyrical Poet which this nation or any 
 other has ever yet possessed, are Authors whose 
 merits, although they may be universally felt and 
 appreciated, can only be critically expounded and 
 pointed out by a native of the country to which 
 they belong. 
 
 Here, therefore, must we pause for the present: 
 the illustrious names which have " been familiar in 
 our mouths as household words/' carry their own 
 eulogy along with them ; and I will venture to 
 assert, that there are few persons who will refuse 
 to echo the sentiment of a distinguished living 
 writer ; 
 
 Blessings be on them, and eternal praise, 
 The Poets!" 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 41 
 
 LECTURE THE SECOND. 
 
 EPIC AND NARRATIVE POETRY. 
 
 Epic Poetry in general: Epic and Dramatic Poetry com- 
 pared : Critical distinction between Taste and Genius : 
 Chaucer, Spenser, and Milton compared : The Mirror 
 for Magistrates : Lord Buckhurst : Dray ton : Chamber- 
 lain's Pharonnida: Chapman's Homer, and other old 
 English Translations of Epic and Narrative Poetry: 
 Milton: Influence of Paradise Lost on the National 
 Taste : Paradise Regained : Cowley's Davideis : Dave- 
 nant: Dryden: The Translations of Rowe, Pope, &c. 
 Authenticity of Macpherson's Ossian : Chatterton. 
 
 HAVING already treated the subject of English 
 Poetry historically, and endeavoured to give a 
 sketch . of the revolutions in Public taste and 
 opinion, I shall not consider myself any longer 
 bound to speak of the Authors who may come 
 under our review in any Chronological order, but 
 shall classify them according to the nature of the 
 subjects on which they have written. I shall, 
 therefore, devote this, and the remaining Lec- 
 tures, to the consideration, First, of Epic and 
 
42 LECTURES ON 
 
 Narrative Poetry; Secondly, of Dramatic Poetry ; 
 Thirdly, of Descriptive and Didatic Poetry; in- 
 cluding Pastoral and Satire ; and Fourthly, of 
 Lyrical and Miscellaneous Poetry. In pursuance 
 of which arrangement, we shall at present confine 
 our attention to the subject of Epic and Narrative 
 Poetry. 
 
 The production of a standard Epic Poem has 
 been generally considered the highest effort of 
 human genius, and so seldom has such an effort 
 been made, that the rarity of such an occurrence 
 alone, would seem to justify the very high estimate 
 which has been formed of it's value. I will not at- 
 tempt to say how many, or how few, Poems have 
 been produced, which are really and truly of an 
 Epic character. Some Critics maintain that there 
 is only one, the production of the immortal Father 
 of Poetry; others admit the " j&ndd" into the 
 list ; Englishmen struggle to obtain the Epic bays 
 for Milton ; and the Italians, the Portuguese, 
 and the Germans are equally strenuous in their 
 advocacy of the rights of Tasso, of Camoens, and 
 of Klopstock. Even granting all these claims, 
 and I am not aware of another which is deserving 
 of a moment's consideration, we shall find that the 
 World has, during the Six thousand years of it's 
 existence, produced only six Epic Poets. 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 43 
 
 I know that there are Critics who consider the 
 Drama entitled to a higher rank than the Epopee. 
 For my own part, I would rather 
 
 " Bless the Sun, than reason how it shines :" 
 
 I would rather enjoy the beauties of the Epic and 
 the Dramatic Muses, than oppose them to each 
 other, and awaken controversy as to their relative 
 excellencies. As the subject, however, forces 
 itself upon us, and as I mean to touch it reve- 
 rently, for, 
 
 " We do it wrong, being so majestical, 
 To offer it the shew of violence," 
 
 I will venture a few observations upon it. The 
 Drama is to Epic Poetry, what Sculpture is to 
 Historical Painting. It is, perhaps, on the whole, 
 a severer Art. It rejects many adventitious aids 
 of which the Epic may avail itself. It has more 
 unity and simplicity. It's figures stand out more 
 boldly, and in stronger relief. But then it has no 
 aerial background ; it has no perspective of enchant- 
 ment ; it cannot draw so largely on the imagination 
 of the spectator ; it must present to the eye, and 
 make palpable to the touch, what the Epic Poet 
 may steep in the rainbow hues of Fancy, and veil, 
 
44 LECTURES ON 
 
 but with a veil of light, woven in the looms of his 
 Imagination. The Epopee comprises Narration 
 and Description, and yet must be, in many parts, 
 essentially Dramatic. The Epic Poet is the 
 Dramatic Author and the Actor combined. The 
 fine characteristic speech which Milton puts into 
 the mouth of Moloch, in the Second Book of 
 " Paradise Lost" proves him to have been pos- 
 sessed of high powers for Dramatic writing ; and 
 when, after the speech is concluded, the Poet 
 adds, 
 
 " He ended frowning, and his look denounced 
 Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous 
 To less than Gods :" 
 
 he personates the character with a power and 
 energy worthy of the noblest Actor. I have said 
 that the Epic Poet is the Dramatist and the Actor 
 combined ; but he is more. He must not only 
 write the Dialogue, and create the Actors who are 
 to utter it, but he must also erect the Stage on 
 which they are to tread, and paint the scenes in 
 which they are to appear. Still, the Drama, by 
 the very circumstances which condense and cir- 
 cumscribe it's powers, becomes capable of exciting 
 a more intense and tremendous interest. Hence 
 there are pieces of Dramatic writing which, even 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 45 
 
 in the perusal only, have an overwhelming power, 
 to which Epic Poetry cannot attain. The Third 
 Act of " Othello" the Dagger scene in " Mac- 
 beth" and the interview between Wallemtein 
 and the Swedish Captain, may bq adduced as in- 
 stances. Perhaps, to sum up the whole question, 
 what the Epic Poet gains in expansion and variety, 
 the Dramatic Poet gains in condensation and in- 
 tensity. When Desdemona says to Othello, 
 
 " And yet I fear, 
 When your eyes roll so ;" 
 
 we have as vivid a portrait of the Moor's coun- 
 tenance, as the most laboured description could 
 give us. Again, how powerfully is the frown on 
 the features of the Ghost in " Hamlet" pictured 
 to us in two lines : 
 
 " So frown'd he once, when in an angry parle, 
 He smote the sledded Polack on the ice." 
 
 Such descriptions would be meagre and unsa- 
 tisfactory in Epic Poetry ; more diffuse ones would 
 mar the interest, and impede the action in the 
 Drama. In the Drama the grand pivot upon 
 which the whole moves is Action ; in Epic Poetry 
 it is narration. Narration is the fitter medium for 
 representing a grand series of events ; and action 
 
46 LECTURES ON 
 
 for exhibiting the power and progress of a passion, 
 or the consequences of an incident. Hence, the 
 siege of Troy, the wanderings of Ulysses, and 
 the loss of Paradise, are Epic subjects ; and the 
 jealotisy of Othello, the ambition of Macbeth, and 
 the results of the ill-grounded partiality of Lear, 
 are Dramatic ones. The Epic Poet takes a loftier 
 flight ; the Dramatist treads with a firmer step. 
 The one dazzles ; the other touches. The Epic is 
 wondered at ; the Drama is felt. We lift Milton 
 like a conqueror above our heads ; we clasp Shak- 
 speare like a brother to our hearts ! 
 
 Before I proceed further, it will be requisite to 
 state the sense in which I shall use two words, 
 which will necessarily occur very frequently in the 
 course of these Lectures; namely, Genius and 
 Taste. Genius, I should say, is the power of 
 production; Taste is the power of appreciation. 
 Genius is creation ; Taste is selection. Horace 
 Walpole was a man of great Taste, without an 
 atom of Genius. Nathaniel Lee was a man of 
 Genius, without Taste. Dryden had more Genius 
 than Pope. Pope had more Taste than Dryden. 
 Many instances may be adduced of obesity of 
 Taste in men of Genius; especially with reference 
 to their own works. Milton, who had Genius 
 enough to produce " Paradise Lost," had not 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 47 
 
 Taste enough to perceive it's superiority over 
 " Paradise Regained" Howe, who produced so 
 many successful Tragedies, all of which although 
 I am no violent admirer of them, possessed a 
 certain degree of merit, valued himself most upon 
 the wretched ribaldry in his Comedy of the 
 " Biter." Dr. Johnson was proud of his Dic- 
 tionary, and looked upon the " Rambler" as a 
 trifle of which he ought almost to be ashamed. 
 The timidity and hesitation with which many 
 juvenile Authors have ventured to lay their works 
 before the public, and their surprise when public 
 opinion has stamped them as works of high merit, 
 have been attributed to humility and bashfulness. 
 The fact, however, is often otherwise; it is not 
 humility, but want of Taste. Genius, or the 
 power of producing such works, is not accompa- 
 nied by Taste, or the power of appreciating them. 
 Taste is of later growth in the mind than Genius ; 
 and the reason is, I think, obvious. Genius is 
 innate ; a part and portion of the mind ; born with 
 it ; while Taste is the result of observation, and 
 enquiry, and experience. However the folly and 
 vanity of ignorance and presumption may have 
 deluged the public with worthless productions, 
 there can be no doubt that the deficiency of Taste 
 in men of Genius, has deprived the world of many 
 
48 LECTURES ON 
 
 a work of merit and originality. Genius is often 
 startled at the boldness of her own ideas ; while, 
 
 " Fools rush in, where Angels fear to tread/' 
 
 Having said thus much in explanation of the 
 sense in which I shall use two words, which are so 
 often employed in a vague and indefinite manner, 
 let us return to the immediate subject before us. 
 It has been said that English Literature cannot 
 boast of the possession of any work which is strictly 
 entitled to be denominated an Epic Poem. I 
 know not exactly what this assertion means. If it 
 mean that the works of the English Poets are not 
 curiously and exactly modelled after the example 
 of classical writers, then I admit and I glory in it's 
 truth. The great characteristic of English Litera- 
 ture, from the days of Chaucer to the present time, 
 has been it's originality. Words are arbitrary, and 
 I care not greatly whether the specific term Epic 
 can be appropriately applied to the works of 
 Chaucer, or of Spenser, or of Milton. If the 
 Critics who are such strenuous advocates for the 
 exclusive possession of the Epic bays by Homer 
 and Virgil, will be conciliated by such a conces- 
 sion, I will be content that " Paradise Lost" shall 
 he called a Divine Poem ; the " Fairy Queen" a 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 49 
 
 Romantic Poem; and the " Canterbury Tales" a 
 Narrative Poem. If original Genius, .if severe 
 Taste, if profound knowledge of human nature, 
 if a luxuriant imagination, and a rich and copious 
 diction, entitle a Poet to the highest honours of his 
 Art, then are the three illustrious Englishmen 
 whom I have named, whether I may call them 
 Epic Poets, or not, eminently and incontestibly 
 entitled to those honours. 
 
 These three Poets have not many points of 
 comparison. They are each original and great. If 
 I may be allowed to illustrate my opinions by a 
 reference to the sister art, I should say, that 
 Chaucer's outlines are more spirited and graceful ; 
 but that Spenser is the finer colourist. Chaucer 
 I should compare to Raffaelle ; Spenser to Rubens : 
 but then Chaucer combined with all his elegance 
 and beauty, many laughing graces which neither 
 his brother bard, nor the illustrious artist whom I 
 have just named, possessed. If one could suppose 
 a congruity in such a combination, I should say 
 that Chaucer was Raffaelle and Teniers combined : 
 Raffaelle, perhaps, a little lowered from his pin- 
 nacle of dignity and elegance, and Teniers cer- 
 tainly much elevated above bis vulgarity and gross- 
 nesses. For the genius of Milton, I can hardly 
 find a fitting comparison. When he sets the Deity 
 
 D 
 
50 LECTURES ON 
 
 in arms, when he marshals myriads of malignant 
 Spirits in battle array against Omnipotence, when 
 he paints the bliss of Heaven, and the horrors of 
 Hell, he reminds me of the power and sublimity 
 of Michael Angelo : when he shews us our first 
 Parents, sinless, artless, and endowed with godlike 
 beauty ; 
 
 " Adam the goodliest Man of men since born 
 His sons; the fairest of her daughters, Eve;" 
 
 he exhibits all the grace and beauty of Raffaelle : 
 when he paints the happy fields of Paradise, where 
 Nature played at will her virgin fancies, he seems 
 to have caught the pencil of Claude Lorraine ; and 
 when we listen to the solemn and majestic flow of 
 his verse, and the ear dwells on the rich harmony 
 of his periods, we are reminded of another Art, 
 and feel that neither Mozart, nor Handel, could 
 produce Music so perfect and soul-stirring as that 
 of Milton. 
 
 In the former Lecture I discussed, as fully as 
 my limits would permit me, the merits of Chaucer, 
 the Father of English Poetry. Spenser is an 
 Author of a very different stamp. To Wit or 
 Humour, he has no pretensions. Neither are his 
 delineations of human character at all comparable 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 51 
 
 to those of his great predecessor. Chaucer's 
 knowledge of the heart of man was almost Shak- 
 spearean. Spenser had, however, a richer imagi- 
 nation. He was a greater inventor, although a 
 less acute observer. Chaucer was incapable of 
 creating such original imaginary beings as the 
 Fays, Elves, Heroes, and Heroines of Spenser ; 
 and Spenser was equally incapable of the exquisite 
 truth and fidelity of Chaucer's portraitures from 
 real life. There is also a fine moral and didactic 
 tone running through the " Fairy Queen" which 
 we look for in vain, in the " Canterbury Tales." 
 Spenser's imagery is magnificent. His descriptive 
 powers are of the highest order. Here the two 
 Poets approximate more than in any other par- 
 ticular: yet, even here they essentially differ. 
 Spenser paints Fairy haunts, enchanted Palaces, 
 unearthly Paradises, things such as Caliban saw 
 in his sleep, and, " waking, cried to dream again." 
 Chaucer's pencil depicts the smiling verdant En- 
 glish landscape, which we see before us every 
 day ; the grass, the flowers, the brooks, the blue 
 sky, and the glowing sun. 
 
 When we open the volumes of Spenser, we 
 leave this *' working-day world," as Rosalind calls 
 it, behind us. We are no longer in it, or of it. 
 We are introduced to a new creation, new scenes, 
 
 D 2 
 
52 LECTURES ON 
 
 new manners, new characters. The laws of Na- 
 ture are suspended, or reversed. The possible, 
 the probable, and the practicable, all these are 
 thrown behind us. The mighty Wizard whose 
 spell is upon us, waves but his wand, and a new 
 World starts into existence, inhabited by nothing 
 but the marvellous and the wild. Spenser is the 
 very antipodes of Shakspeare. The latter is of the 
 earth, earthy. His most ethereal fancies have 
 some touch of mortality about them. His wildest 
 and most visionary characters savour of humanity. 
 Whatever notes he draws forth from his Harp, it 
 is the strings of the human heart that he touches. 
 Spenser's Hero is always Honour, Truth, Valour, 
 Courtesy, but it is not Man. His Heroine is 
 Meekness, Chastity, Constancy, Beauty, but it is 
 not Woman ; his landscapes are fertility, magni- 
 ficence, verdure, splendour, but they are not 
 Nature. His pictures have no relief; they are all 
 light, or all shadow ; they are all wonder, but no 
 truth. Still do I not complain of them ; nor would 
 I have them other than what they are. They are 
 delightful, and matchless in their way. They are 
 dreams: glorious, soul-entrancing dreams. They 
 are audacious, but magnificent falsehoods. They 
 are like the Palaces built in the clouds ; the domes, 
 the turrets, the towers, the long-drawn terraces, 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 68 
 
 the aerial battlements, who does not know that they 
 have no stable existence ? but, who does not sigh 
 when they pass away ? 
 
 The " Mirror for Magistrates " was a work to 
 which many of the most eminent Writers in Eliza- 
 beth's Reign contributed. It consists of Narra- 
 tives of the adventures of certain Princes, and 
 other great characters in English history, whose 
 lives had been unfortunate. It's incidents are 
 founded on the old Chronicles, which, indeed, are 
 followed so servilely in general, as to give to the 
 work a very prosaic character, and to take from 
 it all claim to originality. The most valuable por- 
 tion of it is the Induction, by Lord Buckhurst. 
 The Poet supposes himself to be led, like Dante, 
 to the Infernal Regions, tinder the conduct of 
 Sorrow ; where he meets with the Spirits of those 
 persons, alike distinguished for their high station, 
 and their misfortunes, whose narrations compose 
 the Volume. He also meets with various Allego- 
 rical characters : such as Fear, Sorrow, Old Age, 
 Sleep, and Death; and it is in the wonderful power 
 and spirit with which the Poet personifies these 
 allegorical beings, that the great merit of his work 
 consists. What, for instance, can be finer, or 
 truer, than the following picture of Old Age ? 
 
54 LECTURES ON 
 
 " And next in order sad Old Age we found ; 
 
 His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind, 
 With drooping cheer still poring on the ground, 
 As on the place where nature him assigned 
 To rest, when that the Sisters had untwined 
 His vital thread, and ended with their knife, 
 The fleeting course of fast-declining life. 
 
 Crookback'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed, 
 Went on three feet, and sometimes crept on four ; 
 
 With old lame bones that rattled by his side, 
 His scalp all piled, and he with eld forlore ; 
 His withered fist still knocking at Death's door. 
 
 Trembling and drivelling as he draws his breath, 
 
 In brief, the shape and messenger of Death." 
 
 Sleep is also delineated with the pencil of a 
 master : 
 
 " By him lay heavy Sleep, Cousin of Death, 
 Flat on the ground, and still as any stone ; 
 
 A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath ; 
 
 Small keep took he, whom Fortune frowned on, 
 Or whom she lifted up into the Throne 
 
 Of high renown ; but as a living death, 
 
 So dead alive, of life he drew the breath. 
 
 The body's rest, the quiet of the heart, 
 The travail's ease, the still Night's fere was he, 
 
 And of our life in earth the better part ; 
 Rever of sight, and yet in whom we see 
 Things oft' that 'tide, and oft' that never be. 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 55 
 
 Without respect, esteeming equally 
 King Croesus* pomp, and Irus' poverty.*' 
 
 The following description of Night may likewise 
 challenge a comparison with any thing on the same 
 subject in the language : 
 
 " Midnight was come, when every vital thing 
 
 With sweet, sound sleep their weary limbs did rest ; 
 The beasts were still, the little birds that sing, 
 Now sweetly slept beside their mother's breast, 
 The old and all were shrouded in their nest ; 
 The waters calm, the cruel seas, did cease, 
 The woods, and fields, and all things held their peace. 
 
 The golden Stars were whirFd amid their race, 
 And on the Earth did laugh with twinkling light ; 
 
 When each thing nestled in his resting place, 
 Forgot Day's pains with pleasure of the Night : 
 The hare had not the greedy hound in sight ; 
 
 The fearful deer of death stood not in doubt ; 
 
 The partridge dreamt not of the falcon's foot." 
 
 I have not time to dwell at large upon the merits 
 of the other Narrative Poets of the Elizabethan 
 age. Drayton was a man of real genius ; but, 
 like many of his contemporaries, he was a bad 
 economist of his powers. He wasted them upon 
 unworthy subjects ; and often exhibits feebleness, 
 on occasions where the exertion of his highest 
 
56 LECTURES ON 
 
 powers is demanded and deserved. Warner in 
 his " Albion's England"' has preserved many of 
 our old national traditions, and embellished them 
 with much truth, nature, and simplicity. The 
 Ballad stanza, however, in which he writes, be- 
 comes tedious and fatiguing, when excruciated to 
 the length in which he employs it. Chamberlain's 
 " Pharonnida" is a very noble work. The cha- 
 racters are drawn and supported with great truth 
 and force ; the action of the Poem is eventful and 
 interesting, and the images bold, natural, and 
 original. A very few instances will suffice to 
 shew how rich the Poem is in the latter particular. 
 Joys not yet mature, or consummated, are elegantly 
 said to be 
 
 " Clothed in fresh 
 Blossoms of Hope, like Souls ere mix'd with flesh :" 
 
 and Hope is styled 
 
 " That wanton bird that sings as soon as hatch'd." 
 
 The agitation of Pharounida, when discovered 
 by her Father with her Lover's letter in her hand, 
 is thus described : 
 
 " She stands 
 A burthen to her trembling legs, her hands 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 57 
 
 Wringing each other's ivory joints, her bright 
 Eyes scattering their distracted beams." 
 
 May wrote the Histories of Henry the Second, 
 and of Edward the Third, in verse. He also 
 translated the " Georgics" of Virgil, and the 
 41 Pharsalia" of Lucan. The last is a performance 
 of great merit ; as is also the continuation of the 
 Poem to the death of Julius Caesar, by the trans- 
 Istfor. The Reign of Queen Elizabeth was pecu- 
 liarly rich in Poetical translations. Fairfax's Tasso, 
 which was so long and so strangely neglected, is 
 now recovering it's popularity. Of all the strange 
 caprices of the Public taste, there is none more 
 strange, than the preference which ivas given to 
 the rhyme-tagged prose of Hoole, over this spirited 
 and truly poetical production of Fairfax. Chap- 
 man's Homer, with all it's faults, is also a produc- 
 tion of great value and interest. The " Iliad" is 
 written in the cumbrous and unwieldly old English 
 measure of fourteen syllables, which, however, the 
 Author had the judgment to abandon in the 
 " Odyssey" for the heroic measure of ten. The 
 following description from the Thirteenth Book of 
 the " Iliad" of Neptune and his chariot, will, 
 notwithstanding it's occasional quaintness, suffi- 
 ciently prove the power and energy of the Trans- 
 lator : 
 
 D3 
 
58 LECTURES ON 
 
 " He took much ruth to see the Greeks from Troy receive 
 
 such ill, 
 And mightily incenst with Jove, stoop'd straight from that 
 
 steep hill ; 
 That shook as he flew off, so hard his parting press'd the 
 
 height, 
 The woods and all the great hills near, trembled beneath the 
 
 weight 
 
 Of his immortal moving feet: three steps he only took, 
 Before he far off jEgas reach'd ; but with the fourth it 
 
 shook 
 With his dread entry. In the depth of those seas he did 
 
 hold 
 
 His bright and glorious Palace, built of never-rusting gold ; 
 And there arrived, he put in coach his brazen footed steeds, 
 All golden-maned, and paced with wings, and all in golden 
 
 weeds 
 
 He clothed himself; the golden scourge, most elegantly done, 
 He took, and mounted to his seat, and then the God begun 
 To drive his chariot through the waves. From whirlpits 
 
 every way 
 The whales exulted under him, and knew their King ; the 
 
 Sea 
 
 For joy did open, and his horse so light and swiftly flew, 
 The under axle-tree of brass no drop of water drew." 
 
 Chapman is remarkable for translating literally 
 the compound epithets of the Greeks, which are 
 so very striking and powerful in the original ; but 
 which, unhappily, cannot be transferred to our 
 language with the same felicity. Pope calls Juno 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 59 
 
 " the Goddess of the large majestic eyes," which 
 is certainly a somewhat too free amplification of 
 the original epithet. Chapman more literally, but 
 I am afraid not more happily, calls her " the cow- 
 eyed Queen." 
 
 Crashaw's Translation of Marino's " Sospetti 
 d' Herode" is the best, or, I believe the only, 
 version in our language, of a work of singular 
 beauty and originality ; to which Milton is clearly 
 indebted for hints for some of the finest passages 
 in " Paradise Lost! 7 These works, together 
 with Harrington's Ariosto, and other translations 
 of the same period from the classical and Italian 
 Poets, deserve to be much better known to the 
 public, at least in the shape of extract and spe- 
 cimen. We have been regaled with Specimens of 
 old English Ballads, of old English Metrical Ro- 
 mances, and of old English Dramatists, and I 
 hope that it will not be long before some Editor of 
 competent taste and research, will present us with 
 Specimens of the old English Translators. 
 
 The Second great name in the annals of English 
 Poetry is Milton : which is the First, of course, I 
 need not say. Many other Poets have excelled 
 him in variety and versatility ; but none ever ap- 
 proached him in intensity of style and thought, 
 in unity of purpose, and in the power and grandeur 
 
60 LECTURES ON 
 
 with which he piles up the single monument of 
 Genius, to which his mind is for the time devoted. 
 His Harp may have but one string-, but that is 
 such an one, as none but his own finger knows how 
 to touch. " Paradise Lost" has few inequalities; 
 few feeblenesses. It seems not like a work taken 
 up and continued at intervals ; but one continuing 
 effort ; lasting, perhaps, for years, yet never re- 
 mitted : elaborated with the highest polish, yet 
 with all the marks of ease and simplicity in it's 
 composition. To begin with the least of Milton's 
 merits, what Author ever knew how to 
 
 " Untwist all the links that tie 
 The hidden soul of Harmony," 
 
 as he did? Whence came his knowledge ? What 
 rules or system did he proceed upon, in building 
 up his magnificent Stanza ? And what has become 
 of the discovery which he made ? for assuredly it 
 has not been preserved by his successors. There 
 is no blank verse worthy of the name, real 
 verse, not measured prose, but the legitimate me- 
 dium for the expression of the thoughts and feel- 
 ings of Poetry, beyond the volumes of Milton. 
 
 The peculiar distinguishing feature of Milton's 
 Poetry is it's Sublimity. The sublime is reached 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 61 
 
 by other Poets when they excel themselves, and 
 hover for a moment amidst unusual brightness; 
 but it is Milton's native reign. When he descends, 
 it is to meet the greatness of others ; when he 
 soars, it is to reach heights unattainable by any 
 but himself. The first two Books of " Paradise 
 Lost " are one continuous effort of unmitigated 
 sublimity. I know of no spot, or blemish, or in- 
 equality, or falling off, from the beginning of the 
 First Book to the close of the Second ; and then, 
 how wonderfully fine is the contrast, when the Third 
 Book opens with that inimitably pathetic address 
 to Light, in which the Poet alludes, with a par- 
 donable egotism, to the calamity under which he 
 is himself suffering : 
 
 " Hail holy Light! offspring of Heaven first-born, 
 Or of th' eternal co-eternal beam !" 
 
 Because Milton is universally admitted to excel 
 in sublimity, some Critics have chosen to deny him 
 pathos : but this is the very cant of Criticism, which 
 will insist upon it that the faults of every Author 
 must balance his excellencies, and which delights 
 in nothing but antithesis. Thus Shakspeare we are 
 told, is a great but irregular Genius ; Jonson is a 
 powerful but a rough and coarse writer ; and Mil- 
 
62 LECTURES ON 
 
 ton is a sublime but not a pathetic Poet : whereas 
 the plain fact, obvious to all who take the trouble 
 to examine it, is, that Shakspeare is not an irre- 
 gular Genius, that Jonson is not a rough or coarse 
 writer, that Milton is a pathetic Poet, and a writer 
 of powerful, of tremendous pathos. 
 
 Need I, to prove my last assertion, do more 
 than direct your attention to Adam's lament after 
 his fall; to Eve's farewell to Paradise; or to Satan, 
 when about to address his adherents, and endea- 
 vouring to assume the tone and aspect of a God, 
 bursting involuntarily into tears, " tears such as 
 Angels shed," as the remembrance of the height 
 from which he has fallen, forces itself upon his 
 memory, and compels this evidence of his weak- 
 ness. Milton's descriptive powers are also of the 
 highest order. Whether he paints landscape, or 
 history, it is with the pencil of a master. The 
 burning lake, the bowers of Paradise, Angels 
 and Demons, Humanity and Deity, all are pour- 
 trayed with unerring fidelity and truth. There are 
 indeed few things by which a writer of real Genius 
 is more easily known, than by his descriptions. 
 This is the most difficult, and the most delightful 
 chord of the Poet's harp ; and there is perhaps 
 nothing in the whole range of Poetry which gives 
 so much unmixed pleasure, as that descriptive of 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 63 
 
 natural objects ; while, at the same time, in no- 
 thing is a depraved taste, or a defect of genius, 
 sooner discovered, or more intolerable. A great 
 fault into which descriptive writers too commonly 
 fall, is the vagueness and indistinctness of their 
 pictures : they have no specific likeness. Every 
 thing is described in generals. No new ideas are 
 conveyed to the mind ; but a dim and shadowy 
 phantom seems to haunt the brain of the writer. 
 This arises, either from ignorance of the objects 
 described, or from a want of Taste to seize and 
 appropriate their characteristic features. Whoever 
 enjoys but faint and imperfect conceptions himself, 
 must fail in presenting any very vivid or striking 
 pictures to others. If we were to cause the repre- 
 sentations of many of our modern Poets to be 
 faithfully transferred to the canvas, we should 
 quickly discover how defective and unnatural, how 
 utterly shapeless and monstrous, some of their 
 most celebrated delineations are. 
 
 Opposed to this fault, is another equally fatal, 
 which descends so minutely and curiously into par- 
 ticulars, neither governed by taste in the selection, 
 or judgment in the appropriation of circumstances, 
 that, instead of a noble picture, we are presented 
 with a piece of fantastical patchwork. Such 
 writers stand in much the same relation to the 
 
64 LECTURES ON 
 
 masters of descriptive Poetry, as a book of the 
 roads in the neighbourhood of Claude's most cele- 
 brated scenes, to his enchanting paintings. The 
 following extract from Cowley will sufficiently il- 
 lustrate what I mean. It is a description of the 
 Angel Gabriel, as he appeared to David : 
 
 " He took for skin, a cloud most soft and bright, 
 That ere the mid-day Sun pierced through with light ; 
 Upon his cheeks a lively blush he spread, 
 Wash'd from the Morning's beauties' deepest red ; 
 An harmless flaming meteor shone for hair, 
 And fell adown his shoulders with loose care ; 
 He cuts out a silk mantle from the skies, 
 Where the most sprightly azure pleased the eyes ; 
 This he with starry vapours sprinkles all, 
 Took in their prime, ere they grow ripe and fall ; 
 Of a new rainbow ere it fret or fade, 
 The choicest piece cut off, a scarf is made." 
 
 Dr. Johnson justly says, that " Cowley could not 
 let us go till he had related where Gabriel got first 
 his skin, and then his mantle, then his lace, and then 
 his scarf, and related it in the terms of the Mercer 
 and Tailor." But how happily, on the contrary, 
 has Milton described the same object, " a Seraph 
 winged :" 
 
 " Six wings he wore to shade 
 His lineaments divine. The pair that clad 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. / 65 
 
 Each shoulder broad, came mantling o'er his breast 
 With regal ornament ; the middle pair 
 Girt like a starry zone his waist, and round, 
 Skirted his loins and thighs with downy gold, 
 And colours dipt in heaven ; the third his feet 
 ShadowM from either heel with feather'd mail, 
 Sky-tinctured grain. Like Maia's son he stood, 
 And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance fill'd 
 The circuit wide." 
 
 The same immortal master has touched with a yet 
 finer and more delicate pencil, the persons of our 
 first parents in Paradise : 
 
 " Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall, 
 Godlike erect, with native honour clad, 
 In naked majesty, seem'd lords of all ; 
 And worthy seem'd ; for in their looks divine 
 The image of their glorious Maker shone ; 
 Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure, 
 Severe, but in true filial freedom placed, 
 Whence true authority in men ; though both 
 Not equal, as their sex not equal seem'd : 
 For contemplation he, and valour form'd ; 
 For softness she, and sweet attractive grace ; 
 He for God only, she for God in him. 
 His fair large front, and eye sublime, declared 
 Absolute rule ; and hyacinthine locks 
 Round from his parted forelock manly hung 
 Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad ; 
 She as a veil, down to her slender waist, 
 Her unadorned golden tresses wore 
 
66 LECTURES ON 
 
 Disheyell'd, but in wanton ringlets waved, 
 As the vine curls her tendrils." 
 
 Cowley is one of the earliest names of eminence 
 in the history of English Lyrical Poetry, and it is 
 principally in reading his Odes that we lament 
 those metaphysical conceits, which obscure the 
 reputation of a genius of first-rate ability. But 
 " the light that led astray was light from Heaven." 
 His very faults are the offspring of Genius ; they 
 are the exuberances of a mind " o'er-informed 
 with meaning ;" the excrescences of a tree, whose 
 waste foliage, if properly pruned and arranged, 
 would form an immortal wreath on the brows of 
 any humbler genius. But he now claims our 
 notice in another character, that of a Narrative 
 Poet, as the Author of the " Davideis; or, the 
 Troubles of David," a Sacred Poem ; a character 
 in which it must be confessed he appears to far 
 less advantage than as a Lyrical Poet. The 
 " Davideis" is much more disfigured by far-fetched 
 conceits than even his Odes ; and they offend still 
 more against good Taste, when we find them 
 mixed up with the sobriety of narration, than when 
 they mingle in his Pindaric ecstacies. The narra- 
 tive itself is also heavy and uninteresting ; there are 
 no strongly drawn or predominating characters; 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 67 
 
 and the Allegorical personages, who are the chief 
 actors, do not, of course, excite any strong in- 
 terest, or greatly arrest the attention. Still there 
 are many scattered beauties throughout the Poem ; 
 many original ideas, and much brilliant versifica- 
 tion. The following is very sweetly expressed : 
 
 " Upon their Palace' top, beneath a row 
 Of lemon trees, which there did proudly grow, 
 And with bright stores of golden fruit repay 
 The light they drank from the Sun's neighbouring ray, 
 A small but artful Paradise, they walked, 
 And hand in hand, sad, gentle things they talk'd." 
 
 The account of the Creation is also full of 
 eloquence and Poetry : 
 
 " They sung how God spoke-out the "World's vast ball, *"" 
 From nothing ; and from nowhere call'd forth all. 
 No Nature yet, 'or place for't to possess, 
 But an unbottom'd gulph of emptiness ; 
 Full of himself, th' Almighty sate, his own 
 Palace, and without solitude, alone. 
 But he was goodness whole, and all things wilFd ; 
 Which ere they were, his active word fulfilFd : 
 And their astonish'd heads o' th' sudden rear'd ; 
 An unshaped kind of something first appeared, 
 Confessing it's new being, and undrest, 
 As if it stepped in haste before the rest ; 
 Yet, buried in this matter's darksome womb, 
 Lay the rich seeds of every thing to come ; 
 
68 LECTURES ON 
 
 From hence the cheerful flame leap'd up so high, 
 
 Close at it's heels the nimble air did fly ; 
 
 Dull Earth with his own weight did downwards pierce 
 
 To the fix'd navel of the Universe, 
 
 And was quite lost in waters ; till God said 
 
 To the proud Sea, ' Shrink in your insolent head ; 
 
 See how the gaping Earth has made you place I* 
 
 That durst not murmur, but shrunk in apace : 
 
 Since when, his bounds are set ; at which in vain 
 
 He foams and rages, and turns back again. 
 
 With richer stuff he bade Heaven's fabric shine, 
 
 And from him a quick spring of light divine 
 
 Swell'd up the Sun, from whence his cherishing flame 
 
 Fills the whole world, like him from whom it came. 
 
 He smpoth'd the rough-cast Moon's imperfect mould, 
 
 And comb'd her beamy locks with sacred gold : 
 
 ' Be thou/ said he^ < Queen of the mournful Night!' 
 
 And as he spake, she rose^ clad o'er in light, 
 
 With thousand Stars attending in her train, 
 
 With her they rise, with her they set again. 
 
 Then Herbs peep'd forth, now Trees admiring stood, 
 
 And smelling Flowers painted the infant wood ; 
 
 Then flocks of birds through the glad air did flee, 
 
 Joyful, and safe before Man's luxury ; 
 
 Singing their Maker in their untaught lays : 
 
 Nay the mute Fish witness no less his praise ; 
 
 For those he made, and clothed with silver scales, 
 
 From Minnows to those living islands, Whales. 
 
 Beasts, too, were his command ; what could he more ? 
 
 Yes, Man he could, the bond of all before ; 
 
 In him he all things with strange order hurl'd, 
 
 In him that full abridgment of the World !" 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 69 
 
 There are likewise many beautiful Lyrical pieces 
 introduced. The following in which David speaks 
 of his love for Saul's daughter is a perfect gem : 
 
 " Awake, awake my Lyre ! 
 And tell thy silent master's humble tale, 
 In sounds that may prevail ; 
 
 Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire : 
 Though so exalted she, 
 And I so lowly be, 
 Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony ! 
 
 Hark ! how the strings awake ! 
 And though the moving hand approach not near, 
 Themselves with awful fear 
 
 A kind of numerous trembling make : 
 Now all thy forces try, 
 Now all thy charms apply, 
 Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. 
 
 Weak Lyre ! thy virtue sure 
 Is useless here, since thou art only found 
 To cure, but not to wound ; 
 
 And she to wound but not to cure : 
 Too weak too wilt thou prove 
 My passion to remove, 
 Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to Love. 
 
 Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre ! 
 For thou can'st never tell my humble tale, 
 In sounds that will prevail ; 
 
 Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire ; 
 All thy vain mirth lay by, 
 Bid thy strings silent lie ; 
 Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! and let thy master die !" 
 
70 LECTURES ON 
 
 Unhappily, however, 
 
 " Men's evil manners live in brass, 
 Their virtues we write in water ;" 
 
 The " Davideis" is now seldom quoted; and 
 when it is noticed, it is not for the purpose of re- 
 calling to our recollection the brilliant passages 
 which I have just cited. If the Poem live at all 
 in the memory of the general reader, it is by rea- 
 son of two ridiculous lines, descriptive of the 
 sword of Goliath : 
 
 " A Sword so great, that it was only fit 
 
 To cut off his great head that came with it!" 
 
 In discussing the merits of our remaining Nar- 
 rative Poets, I shall be necessarily brief. Dave- 
 nant's " Gondibert" is very defective both in inte- 
 rest and passion. As a Narrative, it is not entitled 
 to any high praise ; though there are passages in 
 it replete with beautiful imagery, and genuine 
 and unaffected sentiment. We have not, how- 
 ever, space for any quotations; and Dry den's 
 " Fables," and his " JlZneid" are too generally 
 known to need any. That Author's fame as a 
 Narrative Poet rests upon these. The matter is 
 all borrowed. The " Fables" are as much trans- 
 lations from Boccacio, and Chaucer, as his 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 71 
 
 " Mmid" is from Virgil. The matter, 1 have 
 said, is not Dryden's, but the manner is all his 
 own ; and in that their great charm consists. The 
 energy, the beauty, the power, the majesty, and 
 the delicacy of his style, are unrivalled. His 
 versification is even now, notwithstanding the 
 efforts of his successors, Pope, Goldsmith, Camp- 
 bell, and Byron, the noblest and most perfect in 
 our language. As Milton in blank verse, so 
 Dryden in the heroic rhymed measure, is without 
 a competitor or even an approximator. 
 
 " Waller was smooth, but Dryden taught to join 
 The varying verse, the full resounding line, 
 The long majestic march, and energy divine." 
 
 The Translations of Rowe, Pitt, Pope, and 
 Mickle, have enriched our language with the 
 noblest monuments of the genius of foreign nations. 
 To Rowe and Pitt may be assigned the merit of 
 fidelity, and of considerable powers in versification. 
 Pope and Mickle, the former especially, are very 
 splendid writers: though the latter must rank 
 among the most unfaithful of translators. Of Pope 
 I have already spoken at some length, and we shall 
 hereafter have occasion to consider his merits as a 
 Didactic, and Descriptive Poet. I shall therefore, 
 not now enter into any discussion of the subject. 
 
72 LECTURES ON 
 
 Glover's " Leonidas" I have also already no- 
 ticed; and the Epics of Wilkie and Blackmore, 
 are really not worth our attention. The latter has 
 made himself immortal by two memorable lines, 
 which will suffice as a specimen of his merits: 
 
 " A painted vest Prince Vortigern had on, 
 Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won!" 
 
 The authenticity of the Poems ascribed to Ossian, 
 is a subject full of doubt and intricacy, into the 
 mazes of which it is not my intention to enter. It 
 is difficult to believe that Poems formed so nearly 
 upon the Aristotlean rules, should have been 
 produced in an age, and amongst a people, where 
 those rules were totally unknown : it is still more 
 difficult to believe that such Poems, never having 
 been written, should have been preserved through 
 so many ages, by oral tradition alone : but, per- 
 haps, an attentive reader would declare that, all 
 circumstances considered, it would be the greatest 
 difficulty of all to believe, that the whole is a 
 modern invention. The absence of all traces of 
 Religion, however, in these Poems, is a very 
 singular fact, and strikes me as a strong argument 
 against their authenticity ; as the Poetical compo- 
 sitions of all other nations are so closely connected 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 73 
 
 with their mythology. The rocky steeps of Morven 
 too, do not seem to be a very appropriate scene 
 for the exploits of " car-borne" heroes; and Mr. 
 Wordsworth adds his own personal experience, 
 and it is a high authority, against the probability 
 of the genuineness of Ossian's Poems, by saying, 
 that no man who has been born and bred up 
 among mountain scenery, as Ossian was, would 
 describe it as he has done. This objection, how- 
 ever, cuts both ways. These Poems were written, 
 if not by Ossian, by Macpherson, and Macpherson 
 was himself an Highlander. I have also heard 
 more than one Landscape Painter of eminence, 
 well acquainted with the scenery of the Poems, 
 and such evidence I cannot help considering of 
 considerable weight, bear testimony to the power 
 and fidelity of Ossian's descriptions. The beauty 
 and merit of the Poems is, however, a question 
 quite independent of their authenticity. For my- 
 self, I confess that the most popular and most 
 often quoted passages are not my greatest fa- 
 vourites. Ossian's most laboured efforts do not 
 strike me as his best. It is in a casual expression, 
 in a single simple incident, that he often startles 
 us by the originality and force of his ideas. What 
 a picture of desolation does he force upon our 
 imagination when describing the ruins of Balclutha 
 
 E 
 
74 LECTURES ON 
 
 by that one unlaboured, but powerful incident: 
 " The fox looked out from the window." The 
 ghost of Crugal, the dim and shadowy visitant 
 from another world, is also painted by a single 
 stroke of the pencil : " The stars dim twinkled 
 through his form:" and the early death of Cormac 
 is prophesied in a simile as original, as it is power- 
 ful : " Death stands dim behind thee, like the 
 darkened half of the moon behind it's growing 
 light." Had Ossian, or the Author of the pieces 
 ascribed to him, written nothing but the three 
 passages which I have just cited, he would have 
 proved himself a genuine Poet. 
 
 The grand characteristic of Ossian is pathos, as 
 that of Homer is invention, and that of Milton is 
 sublimity. Whether he describes scenery, or deli- 
 neates character, or narrates events, tenderness is 
 the predominating feeling excited in the mind. 
 His battle-pieces impress us more with compassion 
 for the vanquished, than admiration for the victor. 
 We feel more sympathy for the sufferings of his 
 heroines, than we do of delight at their beauty. 
 His heroes, if young, are cut off before their fame 
 is achieved; or if old, have survived their strength 
 and prowess. Even Fingal himself, is at last 
 shewn to us as a feeble ghost, lamenting the loss 
 of his mortal fame and vigour. 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 75 
 
 I have placed Chatterton amongst the narrative 
 Poets, although he also wrote Dramatic, lyrical, 
 and didactic pieces. Perhaps there never was a 
 more slender veil of forgery attempted, than that 
 which he threw around his pretended ancient pro- 
 ductions. He has written in the language of no 
 one age, but in a piebald diction of all ; made up 
 of the phrases and idioms of various periods, and 
 the reader has often nothing to do, but to strip his 
 verses of their antique spelling, and he finds the 
 language precisely that which is used in the present 
 day. Take for instance, the opening of the Song 
 of Ella: 
 
 " When Freedom drest in blood-stain'd vest, 
 
 To every land her War-song sung ; 
 Upon her head wild weeds were spread, 
 A gory anlace by her hung." 
 
 The Poems themselves bear internal evidence of 
 their being the productions of a boy; of a mar- 
 vellous boy indeed, but still of a boy. There are 
 no traces of experience, of long observation, of a 
 knowledge of Human nature, and indeed of ac- 
 quirement of any sort. Of strong natural powers, 
 of talent, of genius, every page furnishes us with 
 abundant instances. Chatterton's forte I think 
 
 E 2 
 
76 LECTURES ON 
 
 was pathos ; and had not his mortal career closed 
 so prematurely, he would probably have devoted 
 himself to Lyrical Poetry. What he has left 
 behind him, is full of genius ; but full of inequa- 
 lities and faults. We have hardly sufficient data 
 to enable us to judge what Chatterton's real cha- 
 racter, moral or literary, and it is difficult to se- 
 parate them in our enquiry, was, or would have 
 been. I, for one, cannot help thinking, that the 
 vices of the former were adventitious, and that the 
 imperfections of the latter would have been ob- 
 viated, or removed. His tale is but half told. 
 Had not the curtain dropt so abruptly on the hero 
 of the Drama, succeeding scenes might have shewn 
 him triumphing over all his follies, and atoning 
 for all his faults. His ruling passion was the love 
 of fame. The progress of Fame is like the course 
 of the Thames, which in it's native fields will 
 scarcely float the toy-ship which an infant's hand 
 has launched, but when it has once visited the 
 metropolis, mighty vessels ride upon it's bosom, 
 and it rolls on irresistibly to the ocean. This 
 Chatterton knew ; and, in a blind confidence on 
 his own unaided powers, rushed to the capital in 
 pursuit of fame and competence. The result we all 
 know was neglect, penury, and self-destruction. 
 Narrative Poetry has of late been a favourite 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 77 
 
 and popular study, and has employed the pens of 
 all the most eminent of our living writers. Although 
 the limits which I have prescribed to myself in 
 these Lectures, do not permit to discuss their 
 merits, I may be allowed to say, that the Narra- 
 tive writers of the present day, have done much 
 to wean the public taste from the meretricious 
 school by which it was directed half a century ago, 
 and bring it back to a wholesome appreciation of 
 the powers of those genuine old English Poets, 
 whose teacher was Nature., and whose study was 
 the human heart. 
 
78 LECTURES ON 
 
 LECTURE THE THIRD. 
 
 DRAMATIC POETRY. 
 
 Origin of the Drama : Old English Mysteries and Moralities: 
 Gorboduc and Gammer Gurton's Needle, the first English 
 Tragedy and Comedy : The Predecessors of Shakspeare : 
 Dramatic Writers of the Reigns of Elizabeth and James 
 the First : Shakspeare : Dissertation on the excellence 
 of his Female Characters and Clowns : Jonson : The 
 Beauty of the Lyrical parts of Jonson's Dramas : His 
 Tragedy of Catiline : Cartwright : Beaumont and 
 Fletcher : Massinger : Ford and Webster. 
 
 MY last Lecture treated of the Epic and Narra- 
 tive Poets ; I shall now briefly review the merits 
 of the Dramatic Poets who flourished previous to 
 the Restoration. Although, in a period of elegance 
 and refinement, there is not a more certain " sign 
 of the times" than a taste for Dramatic entertain- 
 ments, yet the fact is, that these had their origin 
 in the rudest, and most uninformed ages of society. 
 In ancient Greece, Thespis, the Father of Tragedy, 
 represented his Dramas on a sort of cart, or 
 moveable stage, which was drawn from place to 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 79 
 
 'place ; and his Actors sang and danced alternately, 
 with their faces smeared with wine-lees : 
 
 Ignotum Tragicae genus invenisse camoenae 
 Dicitur, et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis, 
 Quae canerent agerentque peruncti foecibus ora." 
 
 HOR. ART. POET, 
 
 In England, in the same manner, the original 
 of those magnificent structures which are now 
 dedicated to the Dramatic Muses, were moveable 
 pageants, drawn about upon wheels; after which, 
 the court-yards of inns and hostelries were chosen 
 for Dramatic representations ; the floor forming what 
 we now call the Pit of the Theatre, and the Balco- 
 nies, or galleries around, being occupied as the Boxes 
 and the Stage ; and public Theatres do not appear 
 to have been regularly erected till about the begin- 
 ning of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. The Drama, 
 it is also worthy of remark, although it has become 
 the theme of constant depreciation among modern 
 Puritans, as it was formerly among the ancient 
 Philosophers, had it's origin in Religious ceremo- 
 nies. The Hymns, or Odes, sung in honour of 
 Bacchus, and other Deities in Greece, and the 
 Mysteries and Moralities of Monkish times in 
 England, were the rude foundations on which 
 
80 LECTURES ON 
 
 were erected the splendid superstructures of 
 chylus, and Euripides, and Sophocles ; of Shaks- 
 peare, of Fletcher, and of Otway. In the houses 
 of the great it was as much the custom of. the 
 Chaplain to compose Plays for the families, as it 
 now is to write Sermons ; and Sunday was a day 
 frequently appropriated for the representation of 
 dramatic entertainments. Modern readers shudder 
 at the impiety of the ancients, who represented 
 their Gods in propria persona upon the Stage, 
 while it is not less true, although less generally 
 known, that in our own country, the Divine per- 
 sons of the Trinity, the good and evil Angels, 
 the Prophets, and the Apostles, were in the same 
 manner personated in the English Theatres. 
 
 The first regular Comedy which appeared in 
 England was " Gammer Gurtoris Needle" The 
 precise time of it's representation is unknown, 
 but an edition of it is said by Chetwood, to have 
 been printed in 1551 ; and the copy which Dodsley 
 used for his collection of Old Plays was printed 
 in 1575. " In this Play," says Hawkins, " there 
 is a vein of familiar humour, and a kind of 
 grotesque imagery, not unlike some parts of 
 Aristophanes ; but without those graces of language 
 and metre, for which the Greek Comedian is so 
 eminently distinguished." There is certainly much 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 81 
 
 whim and wit in many of the situations ; and 
 the characters, although rudely, are very forcibly 
 delineated. The plot is simple and coarse enough. 
 Gammer Gurton has lost her needle, and, just 
 when she despairs of ever finding it, it is dis- 
 covered sticking to part of her servant Hodge's 
 breeches, which she had been lately employed in 
 mending. The fine old Song, beginning " Back 
 and sides, go bare, go bare," with which the 
 Second Act of this Play opens, is of itself suffi- 
 cient to rescue it from oblivion. 
 
 Lord Buckhursfs " Gorboduc" is the first re- 
 gular Tragedy which ever appeared in England. 
 The plot is meagre and uninteresting; the dic- 
 tion cumbrous and heavy ; and the characters ill 
 conceived, and hastily drawn. The dawn of 
 English Tragedy was, therefore, as gloomy as 
 it's meridian was splendid. George Peele, the 
 Author of " The Loves of King David and Fair 
 Bethsabe" was a Writer of a very different stamp ; 
 and, although not possessing much force and 
 originality, there is a vein of pathos and unaffected 
 feeling in this Play, and a sweetness and flow of 
 versification, which we look for in vain in the 
 writings of his contemporaries. Lily, who turned 
 the heads of the people by his Euphuism, which 
 has been so happily ridiculed by Sir Walter Scott, 
 
 E3 
 
82 LECTURES ON 
 
 in his character of Sir Piercie Shafton, in the " Mo- 
 nastery," was nevertheless an Author of distin- 
 guished merit; and in his " Cupid and Campaspe" 
 especially, we find touches of genuine Poetry, 
 and unsophisticated nature. " The Spanish Tra- 
 gedy, or, Hieronimo is mad again,' 9 by Thomas 
 Kyd, is valuable for one Scene only, which is 
 supposed to have been interpolated by a later 
 hand, and has been attributed by various com- 
 mentators to Jonson, to Webster, and to Shaks- 
 peare. It is not unworthy of either of those 
 writers ; but is most probably the property of the 
 first, to whom, as has been ascertained by a dis- 
 covery made a few years since at Dulwich College, 
 two sundry payments were made by the Theatre, 
 for additions to this Tragedy. Hieronimo, whose 
 son has been murdered, goes distracted, and 
 wishes a Painter to represent the fatal catastrophe 
 upon canvas. He finds that the Artist is suffering 
 under a bereavement similar to his own ; and there 
 is something powerfully affecting in the following 
 dialogue ; 
 
 " The PAINTER enters. 
 Paint. God bless you, Sir ! 
 Hieron. Wherefore ? why, thou scornful villain ! 
 How, where, or by what means should I be blest ? 
 Jlsab. What would you have, good fellow ? 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 83 
 
 Paint* Justice, madam. 
 
 Hieron. Oh ! ambitious fellow, would'st thou have that 
 That lives not in the world ? 
 Why all the undelved mines cannot buy 
 An ounce of justice ; 'tis a jewel so inestimable. 
 I tell thee, God has engross'd all justice in his hand, 
 And there is none but what comes from him. 
 
 Paint. Oh ! then I see that God must right me for my mur- 
 -der'd son ! 
 
 Hieron. How ! was thy son murder'd ? 
 
 Paint. Ay, Sir ; no man did hold a son so dear. 
 
 Hieron. What ! not as thine ? That's a lie 
 As massy as the earth ! I had a Son, 
 Whose least unvalued hair did weigh 
 A thousand of thy Son's ! and he was murder'd \ 
 
 Paint. Alas ! Sir, I had no more but he. 
 
 Hieron. Nor I, nor I; but this same one of mine 
 Was worth a legion." 
 
 The nature and simplicity of this Scene is worth 
 all the ambitious imagery, and rhetorical ornaments 
 which modern Authors lavish upon their Dramas. 
 It reminds us of that fine burst of natural passion 
 of Lear, 
 
 " Lear. Did'st thou give all to thy daughters ? 
 Kent. He hath no daughters, Sir. 
 
 Lear. Death, traitor ! nothing could have reduced nature 
 To such a lowness, but his unkind daughters." 
 
 But by far the mightiest Dramatic Genius who 
 preceded Shakspeare, was Christopher Marlowe* 
 
84 LECTURES ON 
 
 This extraordinary Author is an anomaly in Lite- 
 rature. With innumerable faults, and those of the 
 worst kind, frequently displaying turgidity and 
 bombast in his Tragic scenes, and buffoonery and 
 grossnessin his Comic ones, he nevertheless evinces 
 in many places, not only powerful genius, but se- 
 vere taste, and fastidious judgment. Nothing 
 can be worse than " Lust's Dominion" and " The 
 Mighty Tairiburlaine " and nothing can be finer 
 than many parts of " Edward the Second," and 
 " Doctor Faustus" Mr. Charles Lamb says, 
 truly, that the former Tragedy furnished hints 
 which Shakspeare scarcely improved in his 
 " Richard the Second." We may say the same 
 thing of the latter, with reference to Goethe, and 
 his " Faust" The Tragedy of Goethe is more 
 connected, and better sustained throughout, than 
 that of Marlowe. It is not chargeable with the 
 same inequalities, and keeps up the character of 
 the Hero, as a Soul lost by the thirst after know-* 
 ledge, instead of representing him, as the English 
 Author too often does, in the light of a vulgar 
 conjurer indulging in tricks of legerdemain ; though 
 we doubt whether there is any thing in the German 
 Play, which approaches the sublimity and awful- 
 ness of the last scene in " Doctor Faustus" 
 At length the great Literary era of Elizabeth 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 85 
 
 dawned upon Britain ; and in the Dramatic annals 
 of the Nation, we no longer find a few stars faintly 
 twinkling amidst the surrounding darkness, but a 
 magnificent constellation, composed of Shakspeare, 
 Beaumont, Fletcher, Jonson, Ford, Webster, Mas- 
 singer, Rowley, Chapman, Middleton, Dekker, 
 Tourneur, Shirley, and others, brightening the whole 
 Literature hemisphere with a blaze of glory. 
 In addition to these names, which belong almost 
 exclusively to Dramatic Literature, we may enu- 
 merate those of Spenser, Hall, Brown, Drummond, 
 Sidney, and Raleigh, in other branches of Poetry. 
 The period during which these illustrious men 
 flourished has been distinguished by the name of 
 Elizabeth, although it is only to the latter part of 
 her reign, and to those of her two immediate suc- 
 cessors, that most of them properly belong. 
 
 The merits of Shakspeare are now so well, and 
 so generally appreciated, that it can scarcely be 
 necessary to enter into any detail of them. It is, 
 however, extraordinary, that in a Nation which 
 has exulted so much in his genius, and has pro- 
 fessed to derive so much of it's Literary glory from 
 his fame, his merits should, until very recently, 
 have been so imperfectly known. Steele, in one 
 of the " Tatlers" bestows some very high en- 
 comiums upon a justly celebrated passage in 
 
86 LECTURES ON 
 
 " Macbeth" and then gives a miserably erroneous 
 quotation, from some garbled Stage Edition, then 
 extant. 
 
 The opinion which prevailed until within the 
 last half century, that Shakspeare had failed in his 
 delineation of Female Character, is also a striking 
 and decisive proof of the general ignorance re- 
 specting the real merits of our immortal Bard. 
 On the Stage, and in quotations, he was well 
 known, but it is only very recently, that Readers 
 have taken the trouble to explore this vast mine of 
 intellectual lore for themselves; and though we 
 now rank those beautiful pictures, both serious 
 and comic, which the Poet has drawn in Lady 
 Macbeth, Constance, Juliet, Imogen, Cleopatra, 
 Rosalind, and Beatrice, as amongst the happiest 
 efforts of his Genius, yet many years have not 
 gone by, since it was a popular opinion, that his 
 mind was of too masculine a structure to excel in 
 pictures of Female grace and loveliness ; and that 
 it was only in his Male characters, that his won- 
 derful genius developed itself. This opinion, too, 
 was not confined to the vulgar and uninformed. 
 Men of taste and education were content to take 
 up the current opinion, without examining it's 
 truth ; and we accordingly find that even Collins, 
 whose genius in some particulars discovered a 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 87 
 
 strong affinity to that of Shakspeare himself, in 
 his " Epistle to Sir Thomas Hanmer," after 
 eulogizing the Female Characters of Fletcher, 
 adds, 
 
 " But stronger Shakspeare felt for Man alone." 
 
 In truth, Shakspeare's Females are creations of 
 a very different stamp from those which have been 
 immediately popular in histrionic records. Their 
 sorrows are not obstreperous and theatrical, but, 
 
 " The still sad music of Humanity," 
 
 as Wordsworth hath finely phrased it, is heard 
 throughout all their history. The Poet's descrip- 
 tion of a Lover, 
 
 " All made of passion, and all made of wishes ; 
 All adoration, duty, and obedience ; 
 All humbleness, all patience, and impatience ; 
 All purity, all trial, all observance ;" 
 
 will apply as well to his delineations of Woman. 
 Sighs, tears, passion, trial, and humility, are the 
 component parts of her character ; and however 
 the Dramatic Writer may endeavour to " elevate 
 and surprise," by pursuing a different course, these 
 
88 LECTURES ON 
 
 are the materials with which Nature will furnish 
 him ; and, if he really wish to follow her, " to this 
 complexion he must come at last." Shakspeare 
 reconciled Poetry and Nature ; he borrowed her 
 wildest wing of Romance, and yet stooped to the 
 severest discipline of Truth ; he revelled in the 
 impossible, without violating the probable; he 
 preserved the unity of character, while he spurned 
 the unities of time, place, and action ; and com- 
 bined propriety, nature, truth, and feeling, with 
 wildness, extravagance, and an unbounded license 
 of Imagination. 
 
 The general cast of character in Shakspeare's 
 Females is tenderness and pathos ; but this is not 
 because our Author was unable to depict Woman 
 in her more dignified and commanding, though 
 less ordinary, attitude. Thus, there is nothing 
 more majestic, and, we may say, awful, on the 
 Stage, than Katharine defending herself against 
 the malice and hypocrisy of Henry ; and nothing 
 more fearful and appalling than the whole character 
 of Lady Macbeth, from the first Scene in which 
 her ambition is awakened, by the perusal of her 
 Husband's letter, to the last, in which we discover 
 it's bitter fruits, in treason, murder, and insanity. 
 Then there is the Lady Constance, a Woman, a 
 Mother, and a Princess ; seen in all the fearful 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 89 
 
 vicissitudes of human life ; hoping, exulting, 
 blessing, fearing, weeping, despairing, and, at 
 last, dying. Shall we add the Weird Sisters, 
 those " foul anomalies," in whom all that is ma- 
 lignant and base in the female character is exagge- 
 rated to an unearthly stature, and those gentler 
 beings, such as Juliet and Desdemona, who, with 
 frailties and imperfections which ally them to earth, 
 yet approximate to those superior and benevolent 
 spirits, of whom we have such an exquisite picture 
 in Ariel, and the Fairies in the " Midsummer 
 Night's Dream?' 9 Cleopatra, Volumnia, and 
 Isabella, are further instances of Shakspeare's 
 power of exhibiting the loftier and stronger traits 
 of the Female character. His picture of the 
 fascinating Egyptian Queen is, indeed, a master- 
 piece. In perusing it, we feel no longer astonished 
 that crowns and empires were sacrificed for her, 
 " The soft Triumvir's fault" is easily " forgiven/' 
 We no longer wonder at, we scarcely pity him, 
 so splendid is the prize for which he is content to 
 
 " Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch 
 Of the ranged empire fall !" 
 
 The Reader for this is not on the list of acting- 
 plays, is himself caught in the golden snare. 
 
90 LECTURES ON 
 
 The Play is occupied with battles and treaties, 
 with wars and commotions, with the quarrels of 
 Monarchs, and the destinies of the world, yet all 
 are forgotten when Cleopatra is on the Scene. 
 We have many and splendid descriptions of her 
 personal charms, but it is her mind, the strength 
 of her passion, the fervour and fury of her love, 
 the bitterness of her hatred, and the desperation 
 of her death, which take so strong a hold upon the 
 imagination. We follow her, admire her, sympa- 
 thize with her, through all, and when the Asp has 
 done it's fatal work, who does not exclaim with 
 Charmion ? 
 
 " Now boast thee, Death ! in thy possession lies 
 A lass unparalleFd !" 
 
 How different a being from this, is the ill-fated 
 fair who slumbers in " the tomb of the Capulets." 
 She is all gentleness and mildness, all hidden 
 passion, and silent suffering; but her love is as 
 ardent, her sorrows are as overwhelming, and her 
 death as melancholy. " The gentle lady wedded 
 to the Moor" is another sweet, still picture, which 
 we contemplate with admiration, until Death 
 drops his curtain over it. Imogen and Miranda, 
 Perdita and Ophelia, Cordelia, Helen, and Viola, 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 91 
 
 need only be mentioned to recal to the mind the 
 most fascinating pictures of female character which 
 have ever been delineated. The last is a mere 
 sketch, but it is a most charming one ; and it's best 
 description is that exquisite paraphrase, in which 
 the character is so beautifully summed up : 
 
 " She never told her love, 
 But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, 
 Feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought, 
 And with a green and yellow melancholy, 
 She sat, like Patience on a monument, 
 Smiling at Grief." 
 
 Of Shakspeare's Comic Female Characters, it 
 will be sufficient to adduce two, Rosalind and 
 Beatrice. What a fascinating creature is the first ! 
 what an admirable compound of wit, gaiety, and 
 good humour! blended, at the same time, with 
 deep and strong passion, with courage and resolu- 
 tion ; with unshaken affection to her Father, and 
 constant and fervent love for Orlando. How 
 extraordinary and romantic is this character, if we 
 contemplate it in the abstract, yet how beautiful and 
 true to Nature, if we examine it in all it's details. 
 Beatrice is a character of a very different stamp 
 from Rosalind, although resembling her in some 
 particulars. She has all her wit ; but, it must be 
 
92 LECTURES ON 
 
 confessed, without her good humour. Her arrows 
 are not merely piercing, but poisoned. Rosalind's 
 is cheerful raillery, Beatrice's, satirical bitterness ; 
 Rosalind is not only afraid to strike, but unwilling 
 to wound : Beatrice is, at least, careless of the 
 effect of her wit, if she can but find an opportu- 
 nity to utter it. But Shakspeare has no heartless 
 characters in his Dramas, he has no mere " intel- 
 lectual gladiators," as Dr. Johnson has well styled 
 the Actors in the witty scenes of Congreve. Bea- 
 trice has strong and easily excited feelings. Love 
 is called into action by the stratagem of the garden 
 scene; and rage, indignation, and revenge, by 
 the slanders cast upon her cousin. We have 
 heard the character called inconsistent, but what 
 is human nature but a tissue of inconsistencies? or 
 rather, are not our hopes, fears, affections, and 
 passions, linked together by a thread so fine, that 
 only the gifted eye of such a Poet as Shakspeare 
 can discover it? The changes of purpose and 
 passion, as developed by him in the mind of Bea- 
 trice are anything but inconsistencies ; abrupt and 
 surprising they certainly are, but they are ac- 
 counted for by motives of extraordinary weight, 
 and feelings of singular susceptibility. 
 
 Before I close this subject, however, I would 
 say a few words upon the neglected Play of 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 93 
 
 " Pericles;" first, because it contains a very sweet 
 and interesting Female character, that of Marina, 
 the heroine, and, secondly, because it's authen- 
 ticity has been questioned by the commentators. 
 This Drama has always clearly appeared to me to 
 be a production of Shakspeare, although certainly 
 a production of his earlier years. The inconsis- 
 tency and confusion of the plot, and the inartificial 
 manner in which many of the events are brought 
 about, prove it to be the work of a novice in the 
 art; but the delicate touches of Nature, the beau- 
 tiful delineations of character, the sweet flow of 
 it's verse, and the rich vein of poetry and imagina- 
 tion, which pervade the whole, betray the master's 
 hand, and entitle it, in my opinion, to a high rank 
 among the works of Shakspeare. How fine, for 
 instance, is the following soliloquy of Pericles, on 
 a Ship at sea : 
 
 " Thou God of the great vast! rebuke these surges 
 
 Which wash both Heaven and Hell ; and Thou, that hast 
 
 Upon the Winds command, bind them in brass, 
 
 Having call'd them from the deep ! Oh ! still thy deaf ning, 
 
 Thy dreadful thunders ! gently quench thy nimble, 
 
 Sulphureous flashes ! Thou storm ! thou, venomously, 
 
 Wilt thou spit all thyself? The seaman's whistle 
 
 Is as a whisper in the ears of death, 
 
 Unheard/' 
 
94 LECTURES ON 
 
 The description of the recovery of Thaisa from a 
 state of suspended animation, is also most power- 
 fully eloquent : 
 
 " Nature awakes ; a warmth 
 Breathes out of her ; she hath not been entranced 
 Above five hours. See how she 'gins to blow 
 Into life's flower again ! She is alive ; behold, 
 Her eyelids, cases to those heavenly jewels 
 Which Pericles hath lost, 
 Begin to part their fringes of bright gold, 
 The diamonds of a most praised water 
 Appear to make the world twice rich." 
 
 Marina, the daughter of Pericles, is born at sea, 
 during a storm ; and our Author, in this Drama, 
 as in the " Winter's Tale," leaps over the inter- 
 vening years, and shews her, in the fourth Act, 
 " on the eve of womanhood ;" where her first 
 speech, on the death of her Nurse, is sweetly 
 plaintive and poetical : 
 
 " No, no ; I will rob Tellus of her weed 
 To strew thy grave with flowers ! the yellows, blues, 
 The purple violets, and marygolds, 
 Shall as a chaplet hang upon thy grave, 
 While Summer-days do last. Ah me ! poor maid, 
 Born in a tempest, when my mother died, 
 This world to me is like a lasting storm, 
 Whirring me from my friends." 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 95 
 
 In the course of the Play, Marina undergoes 
 a variety of adventures, in all of which the mingled 
 gentleness and dignity of her character is most 
 admirably developed. The interview with her 
 Father, in the fifth Act, is, indeed, one of the 
 most powerful and affecting passages in the whole 
 range of the British Drama ; and I earnestly re- 
 commend all who are unacquainted with this Play 
 to peruse it immediately, and judge for themselves, 
 whether the mighty hand of Shakspeare be not 
 visible throughout. 
 
 The preceding observations have, I hope, suffi- 
 ciently shewn, not only the great power and skill 
 of Shakspeare in his delineation of Females, but 
 also that he exhibits as great resources, and as 
 much fertility of genius in them, as in any of the 
 other characters of his Dramas. The Champions 
 who have hitherto broken a lance in favour of this 
 cause, have usually confined their observations to 
 the gracefulness and gentleness of Juliet, and 
 Imogen) and Desdemona, but when we remember 
 that the same pencil has painted so many, and 
 such diametrically opposite characters, then I say, 
 that if Shakspeare had never given us a single 
 masculine portrait, still he would have shewn a 
 powerful and original genius, which, in fecundity 
 and versatility, as well as in elegance and grace- 
 
96 LECTURES ON 
 
 fulness, has never yet been equalled, and will 
 certainly never be surpassed. 
 
 In addition to the neglect of his Female cha- 
 racters, another vulgar estimate of the powers of 
 Shakspeare, was founded upon the idea, that he 
 was a great, but irregular genius, flourishing in a 
 barbarous age, which was unenlightened, excepting 
 by the splendour which he himself threw around it; 
 and which even over his own " mounting Spirit" 
 has cast it's gothic chains, and prevented it from 
 reaching it's natural elevation. We now feel and 
 know, that his judgment was as profound, as his 
 genius was magnificent; that his skill in con- 
 structing his plots, and developing his characters, 
 was not surpassed even by the splendour of his 
 imagination, and the richness of his diction ; and 
 that, so far from shining a solitary star in the 
 midst of Cimmerian blackness, he was surrounded 
 by inferior, but still resplendent orbs, each of 
 which only waited the setting of his surpassing 
 brightness, to shine itself the Lord of the as- 
 cendant. 
 
 The fame which this extraordinary man has 
 acquired, and which seems, to use a simile of 
 SchlegeFs, " to gather strength, like an Alpine 
 avalanche, at every period of it's descent," is not 
 the least remarkable circumstance connected with 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 97 
 
 our subject. It is not simply from the approving 
 judgments, or the delighted fancies, of his partial 
 readers, that Shakspeare derives his reputation 
 and his power. His writings " come home/' as 
 Lord Bacon has expressed it, " to men's business 
 and bosoms." They teach us something of our- 
 selves, and " of the stuff we're made of." Like 
 his own Hamlet, 
 
 " They set us up a glass, 
 Where we may see the inmost parts of us/' 
 
 Hence, it is not merely approval, or even de- 
 light, which is excited by his powers ; it is " an 
 appetite, a feeling, and a love." No Poet was 
 ever so passionately admired ; because none ever 
 so completely developed the springs of Human 
 nature, and thus rendered himself intelligible, and 
 interesting to all. Hence too, the universality, 
 and the perpetuity of his fame. He has painted 
 all the modes and qualities of human conditions ; 
 all the shades and peculiarities of human character. 
 Wherever, therefore, those characters, and those 
 conditions exist, the works of Shakspeare can 
 never become foreign, or obsolete. " The stream 
 of Time, which is continually washing the disso- 
 
 F 
 
98 LECTURES ON 
 
 luble fabrics of other Poets, passes without injury 
 by the adamant of Shakspeare." 
 
 " Age cannot wither him, nor custom stale 
 His infinite variety.'* 
 
 The surface of life may be altered, but the tide 
 of human feelings and passions will continue it's 
 unalterable course beneath it. Reputation built 
 upon the ephemeral taste and fancies of a day, 
 will vanish with the causes which produced it ; but 
 Shakspeare's, with it's altar in the heart of man, 
 is extensive as the world, and imperishable as 
 humanity. The fame of Shakspeare has naturally 
 suggested an enquiry as to the peculiar powers of 
 that mind, which could acquire such an influence 
 over the minds of others. What was the talisman 
 that worked these wonders? Wherein did he 
 surpass that world which has paid him such extra- 
 ordinary honours ? The answers to these enquiries 
 have been as various as the tastes and opinions of 
 readers. His wit, his imagination, his sublimity, 
 have all been suggested as the distinguished cha- 
 racteristics of his mind ; but the arguments which 
 have been advanced in support of these positions 
 have proved only, that in these particulars he 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 99 
 
 excelled the rest of the world. In order to answer 
 this enquiry satisfactorily, we must also shew wherein 
 he excelled himself. The most extraordinary sup- 
 position, however, that we have heard started on 
 this point, is that he painted with truth and fidelity, 
 because he divested himself of the common passions 
 and feelings of human nature ; and stood aloof 
 from the ordinary concerns of mankind, in order to 
 describe with greater correctness and impartiality. 
 
 " Cold lookers-on, they say, 
 Can better judge than those who play ;" 
 
 and the remark would apply to Shakspeare, if, 
 indeed, he merely described; if the warm and 
 glowing pictures which he exhibits could have been 
 the effects of cold calculation, and unimpassioned 
 observations. If I might hazard an opinion, I 
 should say that the master-feeling in the mind of 
 Shakspeare, and that which has enabled him to 
 subjugate the hearts of all mankind, was Sympathy; 
 for it has been well said, that " when words come 
 from one heart, they cannot fail to reach another." 
 Shakspeare's feelings, there can be no doubt, were 
 of the finest and acutest order. He is styled by his 
 contemporaries " sweet Shakspeare," and " gentle 
 Shakspeare," as if to denote the susceptibility of 
 
 F2 
 
100 LECTURES ON 
 
 bis disposition, and his amiable manners. He 
 painted correctly, because he felt strongly: and it 
 seems to me impossible to account, in any other 
 way, for his excellence in both provinces of the 
 Dramatic art. It is well known that spirits re- 
 markable for their mirth and hilarity, are most 
 susceptible of tender and mournful passions ; and 
 it has been observed that the English, as a nation, 
 are equally famous for wit, and for melancholy, 
 It is a common observation, that mirth begets 
 mirth ; and on the other hand an old English Poet, 
 Drayton, has beautifully said, that, 
 
 " Tears, 
 Elixir-like, turn all to tears they touch." 
 
 The feelings of Shakspeare's mind produced cor- 
 respondent feelings in the minds of others; like 
 a precious stone, which casts it's brilliant hues over 
 every object that it approaches. 
 
 But whatever may have been the strongest 
 marked feature in the mind of our Author, we are 
 convinced that the theory which refers his asto- 
 nishing fame to the possession of any one peculiar 
 quality, is erroneous. His distinguishing charac- 
 teristic is the union of many excellencies: each of 
 v/hich he possessed in a degree unequalled by any 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 101 
 
 other Poet. Shakspeare will be found pre-eminent, 
 if we consider his sublimity, his pathos, his ima- 
 gination, his wit, or his humour; his union in 
 his own person of the highest Tragic and Comic 
 excellence, and his knowledge of Nature, animate, 
 inanimate, and human. To excel in any one of 
 these particulars would form a great Poet ; to unite 
 two, or three of them, is a lot too lofty even for 
 the ambition of highly favoured mortals; but to 
 combine all, as Shakspeare has done, in one tre- 
 mendous intellect, is, indeed, 
 
 " To get the start of the majestic World, 
 And bear the palm alone !" 
 
 The genius of Shakspeare cannot be illustrated 
 by a reference to that of any other Poet ; for, with 
 whom is he to be compared? Like his own 
 Richard, 
 
 " He has no brother, is like no brother, 
 He is himself alone I" 
 
 Geniuses of the most colossal dimensions become 
 dwarfed by his side. Like Titan, he is a Giant 
 among giants. Like him too, he piles up his 
 magnificent thoughts, Olympus high; he grasps the 
 
102 LECTURES ON 
 
 lightnings of creative Jove ; and speaks the words 
 that call Spirits, and Mortals, and Worlds, into 
 existence. He has faults, doubtless ; faults which 
 it is not my purpose either to extenuate, or to 
 deny, but the Critic who thinks that such faults 
 are of much weight, when opposed to his genius, 
 would be likely to condemn the Apollo Belvidere, 
 for a stain upon the pedestal. The very brightness 
 of transcendent excellence renders it's faults and 
 imperfections but the more visible; nothing appears 
 faultless but mediocrity. The Moon and the Stars 
 shine with unsullied brightness; the Sun alone 
 exhibits spots upon his disk ! 
 
 It is, however, truly difficult to say anything on 
 the subject of Shakspeare, which has not been 
 said before. So numerous, so ardent, and so 
 discriminative, have been his admirers, that almost 
 every latent beauty seems to have been brought to 
 light, and every once-obscure passage surrounded 
 by a blaze of illustration. There is, indeed, but 
 one class of characters which he has delineated 
 with consummate power and excellence, which has 
 not, I think, yet attracted that critical notice which 
 it merits, I mean the party-coloured Fool, or 
 Jester, whose gibes and jeers were wont to set 
 the tables of our ancestors in a roar. This character 
 is now no longer to be met with in the halls of the 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 103 
 
 great and opulent. The glories of the motley 
 coat have passed away. A few faint vestiges of 
 it are preserved at Wakes, and Village festivals, 
 in the remote provinces of the island ; and some 
 of it's honours are yet divided between the Clown 
 and Harlequin of our modern Pantomime; but, 
 alas! "how changed! how fallen!" Spirits of 
 Touchstone, Gobbo, and Pompey Bum! do ye 
 not sometimes wander from your Elysium, to 
 mourn over the imbecile efforts of these degenerate 
 times ? 
 
 The sketches which Shakspeare has given us of 
 this character, will sufficiently excuse our ances- 
 tors for the attachment which they evinced for it ; 
 for, if his portraits at all resemble the originals, 
 they must have been very delightful personages 
 indeed. As delineated by our Author, the cha- 
 racter is a compound of infinite wit, with match- 
 less effrontery; affecting Folly, making itself the 
 butt of it's companions for their amusement, yet 
 frequently turning the laugh upon themselves ; 
 generally escaping from the consequences of great 
 Impudence, and not a little knavery, by the exer- 
 cise of it's humorous talents ; yet liable to be 
 kicked and cudgelled, whensoever, and where- 
 soever, it was deemed expedient. These are the 
 general outlines ; but these, Shakspeare has diver- 
 
104 LECTURES ON 
 
 sified with such varied and admirable power, that, 
 many as are the Clowns introduced into his Plays, 
 he has never repeated the same individual. Like 
 Nature herself, who does not produce two blades 
 of grass exactly similar, so Shakspeare makes the 
 nicest discrimination between personages which 
 approximate, and almost blend with each other* 
 Even the Ruffians who are hired to murder the 
 Infant Princes in " Richard the Third" and the 
 Servants who are spreading the table for the ban- 
 quet of the Volscian Lords in " Coriolanus," are 
 all distinguished from each other, by the most 
 minute, and delicate traits of character. 
 
 In Shakspeare 's Clowns there is every variety 
 which diversity of humour, talents, station, and 
 disposition, can give to them. From the witless 
 blundering Costard, -perhaps the lowest in the 
 scale, we ascend by regular gradations through 
 the half-starved, conscientious Launcelot Gobbo, 
 " young master Launcelot," the merry chirping 
 Clown in " Twelfth Night" and the bitter sar- 
 castic Fool in " King Lear" up to that very 
 Prince of Fools, the Courtier, Lover, Philoso- 
 pher, Scholar, Poet, Duellist, the " unimitated, 
 inimitable" Touchstone. The Clowns of Shak- 
 speare, also, are not extraneous characters, intro- 
 duced, like those in the Plays of Marston, Beau- 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 105 
 
 mont and Fletcher, and some others, merely for 
 the purpose of shewing off their own humour. 
 They are active personages of the Drama, and 
 often contribute materially to the business of the 
 Scene. On the mistakes of Costard, hinges the 
 whole Plot of " Love's Labour Lost" and Launce- 
 lot Gobbo is a principal agent in the escape of 
 Jessica, in the " Merchant of Venice." The 
 dialogues between Launce and Speed in the " Two 
 Gentlemen of Verona" and between the Dromios 
 in the " Comedy of Errors" are, on this very ac- 
 count alone, sufficient to prove that those Plays are 
 not wholly Shakspeare's. That the marks of his 
 powerful pencil may be sometimes recognised, 
 cannot be denied; but, that the composition of 
 the entire picture is his, is an opinion which not 
 all the authorities in the world shall persuade 
 me to adopt: this feeling " fire cannot burn 
 out of me; I will die with it at the stake!" 
 The character of the Fool in " Lear" is one of 
 the most effective even in that wonderful Drama, 
 by the way in which it sets off, and relieves that of 
 the King ; and there cannot be a more striking- 
 proof of the incapacity of Managers, and of the 
 menders of Shakspeare, than it's omission in the 
 acted Play. 
 
 I have already expressed my attachment to 
 
 F3 
 
106 LECTURES ON 
 
 Touchstone ; and I hope that general opinion will 
 coincide with me. I would say, as Jacques said 
 to the Duke," I pray you, like this Fool !" He 
 is indeed the very paragon of his tribe : " One 
 that hath been a Courtier ; and says, if Ladies be 
 but young and fair, they have the gift to know it ; 
 and in his brain, which is as dry as the remainder 
 biscuit, after a voyage, he hath strange places 
 crammed with observation, the which he vents in 
 mangled forms." 
 
 Was there ever such matter in Folly ? was there 
 ever, as Jacques calls him, such " a material 
 fool ?" Are all the wise treatises which were ever 
 written on the laws of Honour, comparable to his 
 dissertation on the seven causes? Or, is there 
 any one who will dispute his claim to a Courtier's 
 rank, after having heard him plead his own cause ? 
 " I have trod a measure ; I have flattered a lady ; 
 I have been politic with my friend ; smooth with 
 mine enemy ; I have undone three tailors ! I 
 have had four quarrels, and like to have fought 
 oae !" Then, how richly is his mind furnished ! 
 Launcelot Gobbv is an erudite man in his way, but 
 he is nothing to Touchstone. The former, it is 
 true, talks of " the Fates and Destinies, and such 
 odd sayings ; the Sisters three, and such branches 
 of learning :" but Touchstone, moralising on the 
 
ENGLTSH POETRY. 107 
 
 time, and playing the logician with the Shepherd, 
 till he proves to his hearer's own satisfaction, that 
 he is incontestibly damned ; and reading his lec- 
 tures on Poetry to Audrey; and recounting his 
 amours with Jane Smile ; is entirely matchless and 
 irresistible ; and compels us to reiterate the excla- 
 mation of Jacques, 
 
 " Oh noble Fool ! 
 A worthy fool ! Motley's the only wear I" 
 
 Shakspeare in this Play has very artfully and beau- 
 tifully shewn, how two characters, which to the 
 casual observer appear diametrically opposed, may 
 have latent resemblances ; and may feel themselves 
 irresistibly drawn together, by some inexplicable 
 link, so fine as to t>e invisible, and yet so strong, 
 as to form an instant bond of union. Of all the 
 characters in this Drama, those of Jacques and 
 the Clown would seem to stand at the farthest dis- 
 tance from each other ; but on their first interview, 
 the former becomes attached to Touchstone ; is 
 ambitious of a motley coat, and is wrapt in admi- 
 ration that, " Fools should be so deep contempla- 
 tive/' Yet Jacques is a gentleman of polished 
 mind and manners ; and Touchstone is a low do- 
 mestic. One is shy and reserved ; the other 
 
108 LECTURES ON 
 
 loquacious and fond of society. One is of a mind 
 sensitive and irritable, even to disease ; the other, 
 the common butt at which it is the chartered privi- 
 lege of all to level their malice, or their wit. If, 
 however, we examine these characters more closely, 
 we shall find amidst all their contrarieties, many 
 traits of resemblance. Both are men of strong 
 sense and extensive observation ; both have a 
 quick talent for detecting the ridiculous ; but in 
 the nervous temperament of Jacques, this has pro- 
 duced misanthropy, and a sullen abjuration of the 
 world ; while in the heartier humour of Touchstone, 
 it has only added to his sources of enjoyment, by 
 enabling him to laugh more frequently at the follies 
 of mankind. Both have been used to the Court; 
 and, although in very different stations, have en- 
 joyed equal opportunities of observing the world, 
 and it is clear that the good-humoured Fool has 
 arrived at much the same conclusion in his estimate 
 of mankind, as the splenetic Recluse. They have 
 the same disposition to depreciate whatever is the 
 admiration, or the occupation of others. Jacques 
 adds a burlesque stanza to the Song of Amiens, 
 and Touchstone produces a ludicrous parody on 
 Orlando's verses : Jacques swears that the Duke, 
 because he kills venison, is a greater Usurper than 
 his brother ; and Touchstone, because the Shep- 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 109 
 
 herd gets his living by the increase of his flock, 
 tells him that he lives by the intrigues of cattle, 
 and the wickedness of bell-wethers. 
 
 I find that by beginning with Touchstone, I have 
 been guilty of a sad anti-climax. To descend with 
 Shakspeare is, however, a loftier occupation than 
 to rise with other writers. Indeed, I am not sure, 
 when I reconsider the matter, that I have not com- 
 mitted an injustice in giving any of the motley 
 tribe precedence of the Fool in " Lear." This is 
 a Tragic character; not in itself, but in the way in 
 which it sets off, and heightens the picture which 
 is presented of the misery of the King. It is like 
 the dark lights of Rembrandt; a gleam, a ray, 
 showing, but not dispelling, the blackness which 
 surrounds it. The following Scene is an example : 
 
 " Fool. Can'st tell how an oyster makes his shell? 
 
 Lear. No. 
 
 Fool. Nor I neither ; but I can tell why a snail has a house. 
 
 Lear. Why? 
 
 Fool. Why, to put his head in ; not to give it away to his 
 daughters, and leave his horns without a case. 
 
 Lear. I will forget my nature. So kind a father ! Be my 
 horses ready ? 
 
 Fool. Thy asses are gone about 'em. The reason why the 
 seven Stars are seven, is a pretty reason. 
 
 Lear. Because they are not eight ? 
 
 Fool. Yes, indeed. Thou would'st make a good Fool. 
 
 Lear. To take it again perforce ! Monster ingratitude ! 
 
110 LECTURES ON 
 
 Fool. If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I'd have thee beaten 
 for being old before thy time. 
 
 Lear. How's that? 
 
 Fool. Thou should'st not have been old before thou had'st 
 been wise. 
 
 Lear. Oh ! let me not be mad ! not mad, sweet Heaven ! 
 Keep me in temper, I would not be mad." 
 
 How subtle and fine was Shakspeare's knowledge 
 of the human mind ! How beautifully has he, in 
 the three characters of Lear, Edgar, and the 
 Fool, discriminated between the real insanity of 
 the first, the assumed madness of the second, and 
 the official buffoonery of the third. Lear's thoughts 
 are ever dwelling on his daughters; his mind is a 
 desert, and that one idea, like the Banana tree, fixes 
 in it it's thousand roots, to the exclusion of all others. 
 How different is this from the wild farrago of Mad 
 Tom, who is obliged to talk an unintelligible gibber- 
 ish, for the purpose of supporting his assumed part; 
 through which his real character is every now and 
 then seen, and discovers itself in a sympathy for 
 the unhappy King. The conversation of the Fool, 
 on the contrary, is composed of scraps of old 
 Songs and sayings, which he applies with bitter 
 mirthfulness to the situation of his master. It is 
 also worthy of notice, among those minute beau- 
 ties which are so often passed over without com- 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. Ill 
 
 ment, that, as Lear s misery deepens and increases, 
 the witticisms of the Fool become less frequent; 
 and, unable any longer to indulge in his jests, he 
 shows his sympathy by his silence. This is finely 
 imagined, and worth all the eloquent sorrow that 
 an ordinary Play-wright would have indited. In 
 the early part of the Tragedy, the Fool is as 
 frequent an interlocutor as Lear himself; but in 
 that powerfully pathetic scene, in which the dis- 
 tracted King imagines, that his daughters are 
 being arraigned before him for their crimes, he in- 
 dulges in only one sorry jest, at the beginning, 
 and is afterwards mute; while, Edgar also, unable 
 any longer to play the Maniac, exclaims : 
 
 " My tears begin to take his part so much, 
 They'll mar my counterfeiting/' 
 
 It is thus that Genius effects it's noblest triumphs, 
 by identifying it's actors with it's auditors, 
 
 I have left myself very little space for discussing 
 the merits of the remaining worthies of this class. 
 The Clown in " Twelfth Night" should occupy a 
 very considerable place in our esteem. He has 
 less Poetry about his character than either of those 
 of whom we have been speaking, but he is more 
 of a bon vivant, and a man amongst men. Both 
 
11.2 LECTURES ON 
 
 Touchstone, and the Fool in " Lear" seem in 
 some measure to stand aloof from the other per- 
 sonages, and to have but few feelings and objects 
 in common with them. They are " among them, 
 but not of them." But the Clown in the Play be- 
 foreus, can sing a good Song, can take his share of 
 a stoop of wine ; can join in the laugh which he has 
 not raised, and assist in the plot which others have 
 projected. There is " a laughing devil in the 
 sneer" of Lear's Fool, and even Touchstone 
 " smiles in bitterness," but this jovial Clown has 
 much more of mere flesh and blood in him : he ap- 
 proximates nearer to Falstaff than his brethren do. 
 There seems to be nothing of pure malevolence in 
 his wit. Even his share in the conspiracy against 
 Malvolio, is undertaken simply for the love of 
 laughter, and without any desire to give real pain 
 to the fantastical Steward. Nay, he at length en- 
 tertains sympathy for his persecutions, and endea- 
 vours to use his good offices in his favour. His 
 joining in the bitter laugh, and ironical compliments 
 of his companions, when impelled to it by the ab- 
 surdities of Malvolio, is the effect of long habit, 
 and a naturally quick discernment of the ridiculous; 
 and he no more evinces thereby a want of sympathy 
 and good nature, than did Hogarth when he used 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 his pencil to depict the ludicrous expression of the 
 boy's countenance whose head was broken at the 
 Tavern. He is a more inveterate punster than 
 any of his tribe. Words with him are the most 
 ductile and pliable of all things ; he can twist them 
 into any shape, and extort from them almost 
 any meaning ; he is a very despot over the English 
 language ; he pursues with unconquerable pertina- 
 city the most innocent word in the vocabulary, 
 and never parts with it till he has triumphed over 
 it's simplicity: he is, indeed, as he describes him- 
 self, " not his mistress's fool, but her corrupter of 
 words." 
 
 These are the flower of the Clownish army ; but 
 there are numerous, although inferior, worthies, 
 behind. There is Pompey the Great, in " Mea- 
 sure for Measure ;" and Costard, who finds out, 
 that remuneration is the Latin word for three far- 
 things ; and Launcelot Gobbo who was the subject 
 of that memorable warfare between the fiend and 
 his conscience ; and the Shepherd's Son, in the 
 " Winters Tale," the new made gentleman, or 
 rather, " the gentleman born before his father." 
 On the merits of these I have not time to descant : 
 if not worthy to be compared with their brethren, 
 whom I have noticed more at length, they are, 
 nevertheless, fine creations in their way. They 
 
114 LECTURES ON 
 
 are imbued with the genius of Shakspeare : his 
 " image and superscription" is on them. There 
 is, however, this distinction between them and 
 the others, that they seem rather to be qualified 
 for the motley-coated office, than to have ever 
 filled that station ; and Costard, and the Shep- 
 herd's Son, are not gratuitous, but involuntary 
 blunderers. Pompey Bum, however, is really a 
 great man. His narration of the amours of Master 
 Froth and Mistress Elbow, is irresistibly comic ; 
 and the arguments by which he endeavours to con- 
 vince Barnardine of the benefits of being hanged, 
 are almost worthy of Touchstone, himself. 
 
 Such was England's, Nature's Shakspeare : 
 
 " Each change of many-colour'd life he drew, 
 Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new : 
 Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, 
 And panting Time toil'd after him in vain 1" 
 
 * Shakspeare's contemporaries have, since the 
 publication of Mr. Lambe's Specimens, and the 
 Critical labours of Seward, Whalley, Colman, 
 Weber, and Gifford, begun to attract that portion 
 of public attention to which they are entitled. Jon- 
 son's character has also been successfully vindicated, 
 by the last named gentleman, against the charge 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 115 
 
 of malignity and envy of Shakspeare ; but I do 
 not think that his Poetical merits are yet properly 
 appreciated. I cannot consent that the palm of 
 humour alone shall be given to him ; while, in 
 wit, feeling, pathos, and Poetical diction, be is 
 to be sunk fathoms below Fletcher and Massinger. 
 In the last particular, I think that he excels them 
 both, and, indeed, all his contemporaries, except- 
 ing Shakspeare. 
 
 The strength of Jonson's style is undoubted, 
 and therefore, his Critics have chosen to deny him 
 the merits of elegance and gracefulness. The 
 fact is, that in his Tragedies, and the metrical parts 
 of his Comedies, his versification is peculiarly 
 smooth and flowing ; and the Songs, and other 
 Lyrical pieces, which he has sprinkled over his 
 Dramas, are exquisitely elegant, and elaborated 
 to the highest degree of polish. The celebrated 
 Poems cf " Drink to me only with thine eyes," 
 and " Still to be neat, still to be drest," sufficiently 
 prove this assertion. I have already, in a former 
 Lecture, given one of Jonson's Canzonets, but I 
 cannot refrain from also quoting the following 
 beautiful Madrigal : 
 
 " Do but look on her eyes, they do light 
 All that Love's world compriseth j 
 
116 LECTURES ON 
 
 Do but look on her hair, it is bright 
 
 As Love's star when it riseth ! 
 Do but mark her forehead, smoother 
 Than words that soothe her ! 
 And from her arch'd brow such a grace 
 Sheds itself through the face, 
 As alone there triumphs to the life, 
 All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. 
 
 Have you seen but a bright lily grow 
 
 Before rude hands have touch'd it? 
 Have you marked but the fall of the snow 
 
 Before the soil hath smutch'd it ? 
 Have you felt the wool of the beaver ? 
 Or the swan's down, ever ? 
 Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar? 
 Or the nard i' the fire ? 
 Or have tasted the bag o' the bee, 
 Oh! so white! Oh! so soft! Oh! so sweet is she !" 
 
 " Catiline, his Conspiracy, 19 is a fine Tragedy, 
 full of passionate and animated action ; but, at the 
 same time, displaying eloquent dialogue, powerful 
 description, and a sweet, yet vigorous versification; 
 while the Characters are drawn, that of Catiline 
 especially, with Shakspearean force and truth. 
 The piece opens with the denunciation of Sylla's 
 Ghost ; after which Catiline enters, brooding over 
 his intended treason. The succeeding Scene is 
 very artfully contrived to let us into the cha- 
 racters of the leading Conspirators, by the account 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 117 
 
 which Catiline gives of them to Aurelia ; and 
 these characters are preserved, and acted up to, 
 with uncommon skill throughout the whole Drama. 
 The Imprecation pronounced by Catiline is fine, 
 and contains a brief summary of his purpose and 
 character: 
 
 " It is decreed ! Nor shall thy fate, Oh Rome ! 
 Resist my vow. Though hills were set on hills, 
 And seas met seas, to guard thee, I would through : 
 I'd plough up rocks, steep as the Alps, in dust; 
 And lave the Tyrrhene waters into clouds, 
 But I would reach thy head, thy head, proud City !" 
 
 The description of the morning on which the 
 chief Conspirators meet together, in the following 
 Scene, is highly poetical ; and, as it is remarked by 
 Whalley, in strict accordance with the character of 
 the speaker, Lentulus, who has been before de- 
 scribed, as addicted to superstition, and a belief in 
 omens. Jonson, like Shakspeare, does not in- 
 dulge in extraneous description ; every thing in 
 both these great Authors is characteristic and 
 dramatic ; and, in the present instance, the mind 
 is finely prepared for the fearfully interesting 
 subject on which the characters are about to de- 
 bate, by this powerful description : 
 
 " It is, methinks, a Morning full of Fate \ 
 She riseth slowly, as her sullen car 
 
118 LECTURES ON 
 
 Had all the weights of Sleep and Death hung at it. 
 
 She is not rosy finger'd, but swolPn black ! 
 
 Her face is like a water turn'd to blood, 
 
 And her sick head is bound about with clouds, 
 
 As if she threatened night ere noon of day ! 
 
 It does not look, as it would have a hail, 
 
 Or health wished in it, as on other morns." 
 
 This, besides being short, and highly charac- 
 teristic of the speaker, is connected with the 
 business of the Play by the answer of Cethegus: 
 
 " Why, all the fitter, Lentulus ; our coming 
 Is not for salutation, we have business." 
 
 The art and subtlety of Catiline's character is 
 also finely developed in this Scene ; for though 
 ambition is his ruling passion, the gratification of 
 that passion depends upon his assuming the ap- 
 pearance of subserviency to his coadjutors ; and 
 he tells them, 
 
 " I am shadow 
 
 To honoured Lentulus and Cethegus here, 
 Who are the heirs of Mars." 
 
 And he is diligent in applauding, and coinciding 
 with, all their suggestions. Afterwards, however, 
 when his power is consummated, in his address to 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 119 
 
 his soldiers, and in his conduct during the battle, 
 he takes a loftier tone, and acts " as one having 
 authority." This is human nature, and is beauti- 
 fully and truly illustrated by the Poet. My limits 
 will, of course, not allow me to adduce many 
 specimens of the Dramatic skill of Jonson, which 
 cannot be shewn by passages, or even by whole 
 scenes. For this, I must refer to the Plays them- 
 selves : the present object being merely to prove 
 that Jonson excelled in the lighter graces and 
 elegancies of Poetry; that he could describe 
 powerfully; and that his versification, instead of 
 being rugged and lame, is constructed upon the 
 truest principles of harmony. The, following is 
 animated and striking : 
 
 Slaughter bestrid the streets, and stretch'd himself 
 
 To seem more huge ; whilst to his stained thighs, 
 
 The gore he drew, flow'd up, and carried down 
 
 Whole heaps of limbs and bodies through his arch ; 
 
 No age was spared, no sex, nay, no degree ; 
 
 Not infants in the porch of life were free. 
 
 The sick, the old, that could not hope a day 
 
 Longer by Nature's bounty, not let stay : 
 
 Virgins and widows, matrons, pregnant wives, 
 
 All died ! 
 
 The rugged Charon fainted, 
 
 And ask'd a navy, rather than a boat, 
 
 To ferry over the sad world that came. 
 
120 LECTURES ON 
 
 The maws and dens of beasts could not receive 
 The bodies that those souls were frighted from ; 
 And e'en the graves were fill'd with men yet living, 
 Whose flight and fear had mix'd them with the dead." 
 
 The speech of Petteius, in the closing Scene of 
 this fine Tragedy, is, perhaps, somewhat too long 
 for our purpose ; but it is so full of noble and 
 sublime images, gives so striking a picture of the 
 chief personage of the Drama, and is so charac- 
 teristic of the strength and beauty of the Author's 
 style, that I cannot persuade myself to mutilate 
 it: 
 
 The straits and needs of Catiline being such, 
 That he must fight with one of the two armies, 
 That then had near enclosed him, it pleased Fate 
 To make us th' object of his desperate choice, 
 Wherein the danger almost poised the honour : 
 And as he rose, the day grew' black with him, 
 And Fate descended nearer to the earth, 
 As if she meant to hide the name of things 
 Under her wings, and make the world her quarry. 
 At this we roused, lest one small minute's stay 
 Had left it to be enquired, what Rome was ; 
 And, as we ought, arm'd in the confidence 
 Of our great cause, in form of battle stood : 
 Whilst Catiline came on, not with the face 
 Of any man, but of a public ruin : 
 His countenance was a civil war itself ; 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 121 
 
 And all his host had standing in their looks 
 
 The paleness of the death that was to come. 
 
 Yet cried they out like vultures, and urged on, 
 
 As though they would precipitate our fates : 
 
 Nor stay'd we longer for them ; but himself 
 
 Struck the first stroke, and with it fled a life ; 
 
 Which cut, it seem'd a narrow neck of land 
 
 Had broke between two mighty seas, and either 
 
 Flow'd into other ; for so did the slaughter ; 
 
 And whirl'd about, as when two violent tides 
 
 Meet, and not yield. The Furies stood on hills, 
 
 Circling the place, and trembling to see men 
 
 Do more than they ; whilst Piety left the field, 
 
 Grieved for that side, that in so bad a cause 
 
 They knew not what a crime their valour was. 
 
 The Sun stood still, and was behind a cloud 
 
 The battle made, seen sweating to drive up 
 
 His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward : 
 
 And now had fierce Enyo, like a flame, 
 
 Consumed all it could reach, and then itself ; 
 
 Had not the fortune of the Commonwealth 
 
 
 
 Come, Pallas-like, to every Roman thought, 
 Which Catiline seeing, and that now his troops 
 Cover'd that earth they'd fought on with their trunks, 
 Ambitious of great fame to crown his ill, 
 Collected all his fury, and ran in, 
 Arm'd with a glory high as his despair, 
 Into our battle, like a Lybian' lion, 
 Upon his hunters ; scornful of our weapons, 
 Careless of wounds, plucking^lown lives about him, 
 Till he had circled in himself with death ; 
 Then he fell too, t' embrace it where it lay. 
 Minerva holding forth Medusa's head, 
 
 'G 
 
122 LECTURES ON 
 
 One of the giant brethren felt himself 
 Grow marble at the killing sight, and now, 
 Almost made stone, began t' enquire what flint, 
 What rock, it was that crept through all his limbs, 
 And ere he could think more, was that he fear'd ; 
 So Catiline, at the sight of Rome, in us 
 Became his tomb : yet did his look retain 
 Some of his fierceness, and his hands still moved, 
 As if he laboured yet to grasp the state 
 With those rebellious parts." 
 
 It would be difficult to find, in the whole range 
 of English Poetry, a more magnificent description 
 than this. The images are of a grandeur and 
 sublimity correspondent with the subject, yet do 
 they not, excepting perhaps that of the horses of 
 the Sun being frightened at the noise of the 
 battle, which is certainly somewhat too violent, 
 degenerate into turgidity and bombast. It is, 
 however, more Epic than Dramatic ; and if the 
 action had been represented, instead of being 
 described, it would certainly have a more powerful 
 effect upon the audience. For the honour of the 
 Poet, we should add, that, much as he borrowed 
 from the classics, this speech is original. 
 
 I have quoted so largely from " Catiline," that 
 I have not any space for extracts from the 
 rest of our Author's Dramas. The most poetical 
 among them are " Sejanus," " Cynthia's Revels" 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 123 
 
 the " Poetaster," and the fine fragments of the 
 " Sad Shepherd" and "Mortimer's Fall" 
 
 But Jonson's fame rests principally upon his 
 Comic powers. The great characteristic feature 
 of his Comic genius is humour; an ingredient 
 which seems to be entirely lost sight of in the 
 composition of modern Comedies ; the best, and 
 most successful of which are remarkable only for 
 wit. Brilliancy of dialogue, and smartness <of 
 repartee, excellent things as they are, are but poor 
 substitutes for (character, action, and human na- 
 ture?) In the composition of a perfect Comedy 
 must be united wit and humour. Jonson had 
 infinite humour, without much wit. Congreve, 
 on the contrary, had wit in abundance, with very 
 little, if any, humour. Sir Joseph Wittol and 
 Captain Bluff may seem exceptions to this remark ; 
 but the former appears to me to be not humourous, 
 but fantastic and unnatural ; and the latter is a 
 compound plagiarism from Bessus and the two 
 Swordsmen of Beaumont and Fletcher. Congreve's 
 most humourous Play is " Love for Love;" the 
 most witty of Jonson's is, perhaps,, " Volpone, 
 or, the Fox ,*" which is the most perfect of all his 
 works. The next in merit are " Epicene, or, the 
 Silent Woman," the " Alchemist" and " Every 
 Man in his Humour" 
 
 G 2 
 
124 LECTURES ON 
 
 Jonson's style had few imitators, while that of 
 his illustrious rival Shakspeare, formed the taste, 
 and fixed the literary character, of his country. 
 The best pupil of the Jonsonian School was 
 Cartwright, of whom Jonson was very proud, and 
 used to call him his son ; and I give an extract 
 from the " Royal Slave" to prove the truth of 
 the old bard's assertion, " My Son Cartwright 
 writes like a man :" 
 
 " If they are Gods, Pity's a banquet to them. 
 Whene'er the innocent and virtuous 
 Do escape death, then is their festival : 
 Nectar ne'er flows more largely than when blood's 
 Not spilt that should be saved. D'ye think the smoke 
 Of human entrails is a steam that can . 
 Delight the Deities ? Whoe'er did burn 
 The Temple to the honour of the Architect ? 
 Or break the tablet in the Painter's praise? 
 'Tis Mercy is the sacrifice they like." 
 
 I have entered thus largely upon the merits of 
 Jonson, because I know, that, although much 
 talked of, he is little read. He has the reputation 
 of being a humourous, but rough and unpolished 
 writer; exhibiting a rude strength in his Comic 
 scenes, but without the feeling, elegance, or power, 
 necessary for a Tragic, or Poetical Author. How 
 true such opinions are, my quotations have suffi- 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 125 
 
 ciently shewn ; and for the number and length of 
 those quotations, I need make no apology; for 
 they are, indeed, 
 
 " No weak efforts of a modern pen, 
 But the strong touches of immortal Ben." 
 
126 LECTURES ON 
 
 LECTURE THE FOURTH. 
 
 DRAMATIC POETRY CONTINUED. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher : Massinger : Ford : "W ebster : 
 Effects of the Civil "War upon Dramatic Literature : 
 Milton, Dryden, Otway, Lee, Rowe, and Young : -*- 
 Brilliancy and Licentiousness of the new School of 
 Comedy : Congreve, Farquhar, and Vanbrugh : Jeremy 
 Collier : Sentimental Comedy : Sir Richard Steele : 
 Goldsmith : Cumberland : The German School : 
 Sheridan : Present State of the Drama. 
 
 MY last Lecture attempted a Critical Review of 
 the splendid Dramatic talents of Shakspeare, and 
 Jonson ; I now proceed to notice some of their 
 gifted Contemporaries. Beaumont and Fletcher 
 have given birth to many admirable scenes of wit 
 and humour; and much lofty, eloquent, and affect* 
 ing Poetry. Their powers, I speak of them 
 jointly, for all the attempts to distinguish their 
 productions have ended in nothing but vain con- 
 jecture, their powers were of a very high order ; 
 not, however, as some of their admirers assert, 
 approachable to that of Shakspeare. They skimmed 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 127 
 
 the surface of life, and painted some of the lighter 
 feelings and passions, with much ability: but they 
 could not sound the depths of human nature like 
 Shakspeare. When they venture into the higher 
 regions of passion, they shew great fancy and 
 elegance, but nothing more. The madness of the 
 Gaoler's daughter, in that part of the " Two Nolle 
 Kinsmen, 97 which is ascribed to Fletcher, is 
 prettily managed ; but compare it for a moment 
 with Ophelia, or Lear, the comparison with the 
 latter has been challenged, and how infinite is 
 the disproportion: the first is not without the 
 graces of Poetry, but the latter are compounded 
 of the elements of human nature. There is, 
 however, great beauty in the following passage 
 from the " Queen of Corinth:' 1 
 
 " Wherefore sits 
 
 My Phoebe shadow'd in a sable cloud ? 
 Those pearly drops which thou lett'st fall like beads, 
 Numbering on them thy vestal orisons, 
 Alas ! are spent in vain ; I love thee still. 
 In midst of all these showers thou sweetlier scent'st 
 Like a green meadow on an April day, 
 In which the Sun and west wind play together, 
 Striving to catch and drink the pearly drops." 
 
 Their use of imagery drawn from external na- 
 
128 LECTURES ON 
 
 ture, is in general peculiarly happy: the passage 
 which I have just quoted is an instance of this, 
 and that which follows is still more striking : 
 
 "1. Of all the Flowers, methinks the Rose is best. 
 
 2. Why, gentle Madam ? 
 
 1. It is the very emblem of a maid ; 
 
 For when the west wind courts her gently, 
 
 How modestly she blows, and paints the Sun 
 
 With her chaste blushes ! When the north wind comes 
 
 near her, 
 
 Rude and impatient, then, HL3 Chastity, 
 She locks her beauties in her bud again, 
 And leaves him to base briars." 
 
 Shakspeare is reported to have joined in the 
 composition of the " Two Noble Kinsmen" from 
 which this passage is taken ; and from the extreme 
 beauty and delicacy of the simile, I am half 
 inclined to ascribe it to him. Again, how exqui- 
 sitely simple and natural is the following image: 
 
 " Though I have lost my fortune, and lost you, 
 For a worthy Father, yet I will not lose 
 My former virtue ; my integrity 
 Shall not forsake me : But, as the wild ivy 
 Spreads and thrives better in some piteous ruin, 
 Of tower, or defaced temple, than it does 
 Planted by a new building ; so shall I, 
 Make my adversity my instrument 
 To wind me up into a full content*" 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 129 
 
 The public are much better acquainted with the 
 writings of Massinger than with those of most of 
 his contemporaries : for which distinction he is 
 mainly indebted to the admirable manner in which 
 he has been edited by Mr. Gifford, and to the 
 circumstance of some of his Plays having been 
 illustrated on the Stage by the talents of a popular 
 Actor. I cannot, however, quite agree with Mr. 
 Gifford, when he ranks this Author immediately 
 after Shakspeare. He certainly yields in versa- 
 tility of talent to Beaumont and Fletcher, whose 
 Comic genius was very great ; and in feeling and 
 nature, I by no means think his Tragedies equal 
 to their's, or to Ford's, or Webster's. Massinger 
 excelled in working up a single scene forcibly and 
 effectively, rather than in managing his plots skil- 
 fully, or in delineating characters faithfully, and 
 naturally. His catastrophes are sometimes brought 
 about in a very improbable and unnatural manner; 
 as in the " Bondman" where the Insurrection of 
 the slaves is quelled by their masters merely 
 shaking their whips at them; and in " A new Way 
 to pay old Debts" where Overreach, about to 
 murder his daughter, suddenly drops his weapon, 
 and says, " Some undone Widow sits upon my arm, 
 and takes away the use of 't." I am aware that 
 the first incident is said to be an historical fact ; 
 
 G3 
 
130 LECTURES ON 
 
 but even if it be so, it is not a probable and effec- 
 tive incident in a Drama. " Le vrai n'est pas 
 toujours le vraisemblable." His characters are 
 certainly drawn with amazing power, especially 
 those in which the blacker passions are depicted ; 
 but they are generally out of nature. At least he 
 wanted the art of shading his pictures : he gives 
 us nothing but the bold, prominent features; we 
 miss all the delicate tints of the back ground. 
 
 With all these drawbacks, the genius of Mas- 
 singer is unquestionably great. The sweetness 
 and purity of his style, was not surpassed even 
 in his own days. His choice and management of 
 imagery is generally very happy; excepting that 
 he is apt to pursue a favourite idea too long. His 
 descriptive powers were also very considerable, the 
 clearness and distinctness with which he places ob- 
 jects before our eyes, might furnish models for a 
 Painter. In single scenes too, as I before ob- 
 served, his genius is great and original. The 
 battle between the Father and Son in the " Un- 
 natural Combat " and the dreadful parley which 
 precedes it, are as powerfully expressed, as they 
 are imagined. Indeed, the genius of Massinger 
 is, perhaps, more conspicuous in this Play, with all 
 it's faults, than in any other. The character of 
 Old Malefortf although possessing all the defects 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 131 
 
 which I have pointed out, is a masterly delineation, 
 and ably sustained. Like Ford's Giovanni, he is 
 the victim of a guilty passion ; but instead of an 
 enthusiastic, romantic, and accomplished scholar, 
 we have here a veteran warrior, and the perpe- 
 trator of many crimes. The flash of lightning by 
 which he is destroyed is another of Massinger's 
 violent catastrophes; but such a catastrophe is finer 
 and more effective in this Play than in some others, 
 as it seems to harmonise with the tremendous tone 
 of the whole picture. 
 
 I have not space to enter into a detailed review 
 of the merits of the rest of Shakspeare's contem- 
 poraries. Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and 
 Massinger, have perhaps, fewer faults than most 
 of them; but there are others by whose excellen- 
 cies they are rivalled, and even surpasssed. Ford 
 is the Poet of domestic life; the lord and ruler of 
 our sighs and tears. No where, not even in the 
 pages of Shakspeare himself, is there to be found 
 any thing more deeply pathetic, or more intensely 
 affecting, than some scenes in the " Broken Heart" 
 and the " Brother and Sister " But his " web is 
 of a mingled yarn." He delighted too much in 
 violent situations, and shocking catastrophes ; and 
 his style is too bald and unornamented. He can- 
 not shower the sweet flowers of fancy over the 
 
132 LECTURES ON 
 
 grave, and hide the horrors of his scenes of blood 
 under the bewitching mantle of Poetry. This is 
 the grand secret with which Shakspeare was so 
 well acquainted. We weep and tremble over the 
 scenes of Ford ; but we feel a disinclination to 
 take up the volume again, and undergo the same 
 harrowing and unmitigated sensations. In Shaks- 
 peare, though we tremble as we read, we still 
 cling to his pages with thrilling interest and una- 
 bated delight, and recur to them with feelings of 
 increased admiration. 
 
 The same objections will apply to the Dramas of 
 Webster; but his fancy had a far bolder wing than 
 that of Ford, andhe, therefore, in that particular, ap- 
 proaches near to the standard of Shakspeare. This 
 Author, with whose name few persons are probably 
 very familiar, enjoyed a great and a deserved re- 
 putation among his contemporaries, and will, doubt- 
 less, yet emerge from the temporary oblivion in 
 which the forgetful generations who succeeded him 
 have allowed him to sink. Ford, of whom I have 
 just been speaking, says, 
 
 " Crown him a Poet, whom nor Greece nor Rome 
 Transcend ;" 
 
 and Middleton, another distinguished Dramatic 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 133 
 
 contemporary, speaking of his Tragedy the " Duch- 
 ess of Malfy" says 
 
 " Thy Monument is raised in thy life time, 
 Each Man is his own marble. 
 Thy Epitaph only the title be, 
 Write Duchess ! that will fetch a tear for thee." 
 
 The Tragedy here mentioned is certainly one of 
 the most extraordinary compositions in our lan- 
 guage. With many faults, and many extrava- 
 gances, it yet evinces so much sterling merit, such 
 a vivid Poetic fancy, and such power in moving- 
 terror and pity, that I know very few Dramatic 
 pieces which are entitled to rank above it. Two 
 similies will sufficiently show the originality and 
 beauty of Webster's imagery. The first illustrates 
 the ingratitude displayed to a faithful servant, who 
 continued attached to his master during his fallen 
 fortunes: 
 
 " Oh ! th' inconstant, 
 
 And rotten ground of service ! You may see 
 'Tis e'en like one, that on a Winter's night 
 Takes a long slumber o'er a dying fire, 
 As loath to part from't; yet parts thence more cold, 
 Than when he first sat down," 
 
 The Second is contained in the following lines : 
 
134 LECTURES ON 
 
 " An honest Statesman to a Prince 
 Is like a Cedar planted by a spring : 
 The spring bathes the tree's roots, the grateful tree 
 Rewards it with the shadow." 
 
 Chapman, Middleton, Heywood, Dekker, and 
 Tourneur, occupy honourable stations in what may 
 be called the School of Shakspeare; and Shirley 
 gracefully closes the list, not as one of the great- 
 est, but as the last, of an illustrious phalanx, who 
 disappeared, and left their ranks to be occupied by 
 a body, to whom they bore no more resemblance, 
 than did the Titans who assaulted Olympus, to 
 
 " That small infantry 
 Warr'd on by Cranes/' 
 
 We have now traced the history, and entered 
 into a brief review, of the merits of Dramatic 
 Literature in England, previous to the Restora- 
 tion ; we have seen it's faint and imperfect dawn 
 in the authors of " Gorboduc" and " Gammer 
 GurtoTLS Needle;" it's morning light of rich pro- 
 mise in Peele, Lily, and Marlowe ; and it's full 
 meridian of power and splendour, in Shakspeare 
 and his contemporaries. We have now the less 
 gratifying, but not less imperative duty, of the 
 Historian and Critic, to perform, to narrate it's 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 135 
 
 degradation and debasement; it's decline and fall: 
 to watch it's downward course from the proud 
 pinnacle on which we have recently contemplated 
 it, until we find it in the present day, in a 
 state where the only consolation left us, is the 
 conviction that it cannot possibly sink any lower : 
 when we find the National Theatres, where de- 
 lighted and applauding audiences listened to the 
 music. of Shakspeare, Fletcher, and Jonson, con- 
 verted into booths for cattle, and puppet-boxes for 
 Punch ; when the boards where Garrick trod are 
 disgraced by hoofs; and when the natural emotions 
 of " Lear' 9 and " Hamlet" are no longer attrac- 
 tive, unless aided by the contortions of Apes, and 
 the mummeries of Pantomime. 
 
 The deposition and death of Charles the First, 
 as we have already had occasion to remark, were 
 events, which, however advantageous they may 
 have proved to the liberties of the Nation, were 
 death blows to Poetry, and the Arts. When 
 Charles ascended the throne, above a Century had 
 elapsed since the civil commotions of the nation 
 had been quieted by the accession of the house of 
 Tudor; and the Ecclesiastical persecutions of 
 Henry, Mary, and Elizabeth, had subsided into 
 something like Religious toleration, if not Reli- 
 
136 LECTURES ON 
 
 gious liberty. Charles the First, if the incidents 
 of his reign had not turned out so disastrous, bid 
 fair to have proved to England, what Francis the 
 First had been to France, the encourager of the 
 Arts; the munificent patron of their Professors; 
 and an example in the highest station in the realm, 
 of good taste and mental acquirement, which would 
 have been very generally imitated by all who looked 
 up to the Throne as the fountain of emolument and 
 honour. 
 
 The triumph of the Puritans effected a sad 
 Revolution in these matters. The days of Jack 
 Cade seemed to have returned, when a man was 
 hanged for being able to write his own name, 
 instead of having a mark to himself like an honest, 
 plain-dealing citizen; and when the nobility were 
 proscribed as national enemies, because, as it was 
 said, they thought it scorn to go in leathern aprons. 
 Painting, Sculpture, Music, and Poetry, but above 
 all Dramatic Poetry, were anathematised as in- 
 famous, and abominable ; and even Milton consi- 
 dered it necessary to excuse himself to his sect, 
 for writing the fine Tragedy of " Sampson Ago- 
 nistes" by citing the authority of St. Paul, who 
 thought it not unworthy of him to insert a verse of 
 Euripides, the great Tragic writer of Greece, into 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 137 
 
 the Holy Scriptures : 1 Corinthians, 15th chapter, 
 83d verse, " Be not deceived, evil communications 
 corrupt good manners." 
 
 Milton, as a Dramatist, is the connecting link 
 between the writers who flourished previous, and 
 subsequent, to the Restoration: not that he has 
 much in common with either, but of his two 
 Dramas, the first, " Comus," was written before, 
 and the other, " Sampson Agonist es" after, that 
 period ; and they are each characteristic of the 
 writer at the different periods in which they were 
 written. The first has all the buoyancy and 
 vivacity of youth ; is full of high aspirings ; of 
 splendid imaginings ; the outpourings of a Poetical 
 spirit, before it was soured by disappointment, or 
 fevered by Criticism, or embittered by political, 
 or polemical controversy. The Second is as 
 strongly characteristic of it's Author when " fallen 
 on evil days, and evil tongues ; with darkness and 
 with dangers compassed round." The utmost 
 severity of thought and diction is observable in 
 this Drama. There are no vagaries of fancy ; no 
 symptoms of an unbridled imagination. In thought, 
 expression, sentiment, it is Greek, attic Greek ; 
 tinged, however, with that solemn and unearthly 
 character, which it derived from the Sacred na- 
 ture of it's subject. Both Dramas are worthy of 
 
138 LECTURES ON 
 
 the Author of " Paradise Lost." It is true that 
 they are not structures of the same vastness and 
 magnificence, but they bear evident traces of the 
 master-mind of the same surpassing Architect ; 
 they are designed with the same consummate taste 
 and judgment ; and are constructed of the same 
 costly, and superb, and imperishable materials. 
 
 The Restoration varied only the nature of the 
 poison with which the public taste was infected. 
 The sour manners and fanatical feelings of the 
 Puritans, were exchanged for the licentiousness 
 and frivolity of a depraved and dissipated Court. 
 The Monarch, who had been so long a dependent 
 on the bounty of Louis the Fourteenth, brought 
 with him a taste for French vices, and introduced 
 into the Court of St. James's all the profligacy, 
 without the refinement, of the Tuilleries. The 
 English Stage, in like manner, soon became a bad 
 copy of the French ; and Corneille, Racine, and 
 Crevillon, are the literary parents of Dryden, 
 Addison, Rowe, and Young. Dryden's Tragedies 
 have some redeeming passages, but as a whole 
 they are essentially and utterly bad. For cha- 
 racter, passion, action, or interest, we search 
 through them in vain. Their Author has, indeed, 
 confessed his own conviction that his powers were 
 not adapted for Dramatic writing, and that he had 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 139 
 
 meditated the production of an Epic Poem, but 
 that the taste of the age afforded him no encou- 
 ragement for such a task. 
 
 " Dryden in immortal strain, 
 
 Had raised the Table Round again, 
 But that a ribald King and Court, 
 Bade him toil on to make them sport : 
 Demanding for their niggard pay, 
 Fit for their souls, a looser lay, 
 Licentious Satire, Song, and Play." 
 
 Otway is a writer of a very different stamp ; 
 and, as a Dramatist, of a far higher order ; al- 
 though the plague-spots of the age are upon him, 
 licentiousness in his Comic, and bombast and tur- 
 gidity in his Tragic scenes. But in the latter, 
 where he does not attempt to be sublime, where 
 he confines himself to his own element, the pathetic, 
 I know of no writer who can produce effects more 
 powerful than his. The reception of his " Venice 
 Preserved" and " Orphan" on the Stage, when 
 supported by histrionic talent at all commensurate 
 to their merits, is the most triumphant attestation 
 of his pathetic powers that can be imagined. 
 Mirth may be forced ; rapture may be affected ; but 
 tears are unequivocal evidences of the intensity 
 and genuineness of the feeling which they express. 
 
140 LECTURES ON 
 
 Otway is not remarkable either for skilfulriess in 
 the construction of his plots, or truth and force in 
 the delineation of his characters. The plot of the 
 " Orphan" is as clumsy as it is indelicate; and 
 that of " Venice Preserved" full of glaring impro- 
 babilities. Of his characters, Pierre is the only 
 one which shews any thing like the finish of the 
 master. The best of the others are but sketches. 
 Jaffier is intended by the Author for the likeness 
 of a person of naturally virtuous disposition, driven 
 by the uncontrollable influence of oppression and 
 misfortune, to deeds of desperation and crime. 
 But Jaffier, as delineated, is incapable of exciting 
 any feeling but one of unmixed contempt. His 
 affection is puerile and drivelling ; his friendship, 
 perfidy and treachery ; and what is meant to be 
 represented as his return to the principles of 
 honour and virtue, is but the craven misgivings of 
 pusillanimity and fear. 
 
 The beauty and delicacy of Otway's imagery 
 will be seen in the following example ; which is, 
 however, almost too trite for quotation : 
 
 " You took her up a little tender flower, 
 
 Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frost 
 
 Had nipt, and with a careful, loving hand, 
 
 Transplanted her into your own fair garden, 
 
 Where the Sun always shines. There long she flourish'd ; 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 141 
 
 Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye ; 
 Till at the last a cruel spoiler came, 
 Cropt this fair rose, and rifled all it's sweetness, 
 Then threw it like a loathsome weed away." 
 
 That his descriptive powers were also of a high 
 order, one instance will suffice to prove : 
 
 " Through a close lane as I pursued my journey, 
 And meditated on my last night's vision, 
 I spied a withered hag, with age grown double, 
 Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself; 
 Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red, 
 Gold Palsy shook her head, her hands seem'd wither'd, 
 And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapt 
 The tatter'd remnant of an old striped hanging, 
 Which served to keep her carcass from the cold ; 
 So there was nothing of a piece about her. 
 Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patch'd 
 With different colour'd rags, black, red, white, yellow, 
 And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness." 
 
 The minute and powerful detail of this picture 
 would sustain a comparison with the most celebra- 
 ted efforts of the Dutch and Flemish schools. 
 
 Nathaniel Lee's Dramas am full of faults ; 
 faults of the least venial nature ; but they are evi- 
 dently the productions of a man of genius, and do 
 not betray a single indication of imbecility or dul- 
 ness. Their characteristics are summed up in a 
 saying of his own. When the unfortunate Author 
 
142 LECTURES ON 
 
 was confined in a straight waistcoat in Bedlam, a 
 scribbler who went to visit him, had the cruelty to 
 jeer at his dreadful malady, by observing that it 
 was an easy thing to write like a madman : " No/' 
 said Lee, " it is not an easy thing to write like a 
 madman ; but it is very easy to write like a fool." 
 
 Lee's scenes have nothing of the fool, but much 
 of the madman in them. They are full of strong 
 and violent effort ; sometimes well and powerfully 
 directed, but often falling short of the object at 
 which it aims. There are passages in Lee's 
 " Alexander" in his " Theodosius" and in his 
 portion of " (Edipus" which he wrote in con- 
 junction with Dryden, which are not unworthy of 
 the brightest names in our dramatic annals. Oc- 
 casionally too, he could touch a softer note, and 
 waken the tenderest and most pleasing emotions. 
 The following lines on the Nightingale are full of 
 sweetness and pathos : 
 
 " Thus in some poplar shade the Nightingale, 
 With piercing moans does her lost young bewail ; 
 Which the rough hind, observing as they lay 
 Warm in their downy nest, had stolen away : 
 But she in mournful sounds does still complain, 
 Sings all the night, though all her songs are vain, 
 And still renews her miserable strain." 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 143 
 
 John Crowne was an Author of much repute at 
 the period in which he wrote, but, after a painful 
 examination of his writings, I have found very 
 little which is worth remembering". I have heard 
 of a French work, which consisted of the witti- 
 cisms of persons who never said more than one 
 good thing in their lives. I have not found many 
 more in the works of John Crowne, but one is so 
 good that I cannot resist the quotation of it : 
 
 " Thy wit, thy valour, and thy delicate form, 
 
 Were mighty faults which the world could not pardon. 
 No wonder the vile envy of the base 
 Pursued thee, when the noble could not bear thee : 
 They cursed thee, as Negroes curse the Sun, 
 Because thy shining glories blacken'd them." 
 
 Of the remaining Tragedians of this School, 
 Rowe, Hughes, Aaron Hill, Phillips, and Young ; 
 the first, and the last only, are worthy of our at- 
 tention. Rowe, though deeply infected with the 
 false French taste which was then fashionable, was 
 not unacquainted with the early English writers, 
 and some beneficial effects from this acquaintance 
 are visible in all his Dramas. Perhaps his versifi- 
 cation is the best part about him ; and his blank 
 verse has a flow and an easy sweetness, which are 
 advantageously contrasted to the tumidity of Dry- 
 
144 LECTURES ON 
 
 den, and the feebleness of Otway. His " Jane 
 Shore" in which he professedly imitated Shak* 
 speare, and his " Fair Penitent, 19 which is an au- 
 dacious plagiarism from Massinger, are the best 
 of his productions. Although they do not speak 
 much for his originality, they are creditable to his 
 taste ; and prove, I think, that it was no defect in 
 his own judgment, but a compliance with the 
 popular opinion, that led -him to French models for 
 the general cast and character of his works. 
 
 Young's Tragedies of the " Revenge," " Bu- 
 siris," and the " Brothers" are evidently the 
 productions of no ordinary mind. For high and 
 eloquent declamation, they are equal to any thing 
 which the French School has produced, either in 
 it's native soil, or in our imitative Country. Though 
 the first is the only one of these three Tragedies 
 which keeps possession of the Stage, yet " Bu- 
 siris" appears to me to possess the most merit. 
 The principal character is drawn with as much 
 force and decision as Zanga, but has more of real 
 human nature in it's composition. Zanga is a fine 
 Poetical study; the grandeur of the conception, 
 and the power of the execution, are equalf; but it 
 has not much of truth or Nature in it's composition. 
 Compare it with the lago of Shakspeare, of which 
 it is evidently a copy, and it is like comparing a 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 145 
 
 lay figure with a Statue. One is a fitting vehicle 
 to convey to us the drapery of the Poet's fancy, 
 and the folds and forms in which he chooses to 
 array it ; but the other has the truth and power of 
 Nature stamped upon every limb. 
 
 But it is not in the Tragedy of this period that 
 we are to look for the Dramatic Genius of Eng- 
 land. She took refuge in the arms of Comedy. 
 A race of brilliant, but profligate, Wits arose, 
 whose powers are only eclipsed by those of the 
 worthies of the Elizabethan age : Wycherley, Far- 
 quhar, Sedley, Etherege, Durfey, Centlivre, Van- 
 brugh, Congreve, Hoadley, Gibber, and Gay; 
 these are names, of which, notwithstanding their 
 blemishes, our Nation cannot, and ought not to be 
 otherwise than proud. The Dramas of the ages of 
 Elizabeth and Charles, are diametrically opposite to 
 each other, both in their excellencies and their de- 
 fects. The first are all Nature, but Nature in her 
 sweetest, truest, and most graceful forms : the se- 
 cond are all Art, but Art in her most polished, plea- 
 sing, and elegant costumes. The first painted pas- 
 sions; the second, manners : the firstled us through 
 the mazes of the human heart; the second makes 
 us acquainted with the modes of human society. 
 In the first, we find Geography, Chronology, and 
 propriety of costume and manners, set at defiance, 
 
 H 
 
146 LECTURES ON 
 
 Iii the second we find unity of character, and 
 natural sentiment and passion, treated with equal 
 indifference. If Shakspeare can unlock the se- 
 crets of the human heart, he cares not to ship- 
 wreck a vessel on the coast of Bohemia, or to 
 make Pandarus of Troy talk about Winchester 
 geese. If Congreve can dazzle by his brilliant 
 dialogue, and his smart repartee, he does not 
 shrink from putting the most splendid wit into 
 the mouths of his fools, and exhibiting characters 
 who are sunk in the depths of disaster, full of 
 sprightliness and merriment. Shakspeare makes 
 us forget the Author ; Congreve makes us think 
 of no one else. We rise from the scenes of the 
 first, overwhelmed with the sorrows of Hamlet, 
 or of Othello, or of Lear. We close the pages 
 of the second, charmed with the wit, the spright- 
 liness, and the vivacity of Congreve. 
 
 I have chosen Congreve as the champion and 
 exemplar of the second School, because he is, 
 in many particulars, the most eminent Scholar 
 which it has produced. Wit was it's grand dis- 
 tinguishing feature, and Congreve was one of the 
 wittiest writers that, perhaps, any age or nation has 
 given birth to. But the Dramatist has to paint 
 character, and he who has only one colour in 
 which to dip his pencil, Wit, cannot produce a 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 147 
 
 true, a natural, or even a permanently pleasing 
 picture. We may gaze upon the Sun till we see 
 nothing but darkling motes; and so Congreve's 
 scenes fatigue us by their very brilliancy. All his 
 characters are like himself, witty. They are, if I 
 may borrow an image from the Hindoo Mytho- 
 logy, all Avaters of the Author; they have no in- 
 dividuality, no specific likeness. What Churchill 
 said of Quin as an Actor, may be applied to Con- 
 greve as a writer : 
 
 " Self still like oil upon the surface play'd, 
 And marr'd th* impression that the Author made." 
 
 Still, as pictures of manners and society, the 
 writings of Congreve, and his contemporaries, 
 and immediate predecessors, are invaluable. They 
 have made the age of furbelows and brocade, 
 shoe-buckles and hoop-petticoats, live for ever. 
 They have rendered the Parks classic grgund. 
 They have made the very air there, redolent of 
 wit and pleasantry. Rotten-Row, the Mulberry- 
 Walk, and the Mall, are as immortal as the plains 
 of Troy, or the fields of Marathon. Every walk, 
 every turning, is peopled with the gay creations of 
 Congreve, of Farquhar, and of Vanbrugh. We 
 expect to see Sir Fopling Flutter, or Sir Harry 
 Wildair on every bench. We hear the gay laugh. 
 
 H2 
 
148 LECTURES ON 
 
 of Clarinda on every breeze ; and the stately 
 figures of Millamont, and Belinda, and Clarissa, 
 glide past the mind's eye as youthful and as be- 
 witching as ever. 
 
 Congreve had, I think, high Tragic powers, if 
 he had chosen to exert them, and to give them 
 their full and natural play. When he wrote the 
 " Mourning Bride 97 he thought it necessary to 
 mount himself upon stilts. I do not, therefore, 
 refer to that Play, when I allude to him as a 
 Tragedian. But there are touches of pathos, and 
 even of sublimity, in some of his Comic scenes, 
 which show the hand of a master. The destitute 
 condition of Valentine in " Love for Love" is 
 strongly, and even powerfully, painted ; and the 
 characters of Maskwell, and of Lord and Lady 
 Touchwood, in the " Way of the World" are 
 full of the Poetry of passion, and of interest. 
 The serious scenes in Vanburgh's " Provoked 
 Husband" have been much admired, but they are 
 nothing in comparison with those in which these 
 characters appear; and set off as they are, by 
 the broad Comedy, and almost Farce, of Lord 
 Frisk, Brisk, and Lady Pliant, they produce an 
 effect which reminds us, " not to speak it pro- 
 fanely/' of that produced by the juxtaposition of 
 the Fool and Lear, 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 149 
 
 Farquhar has not the wit of Congreve, but he 
 has more humour ; and is, on the whole, a far better 
 Dramatist. His Plots are not so elaborately con- 
 structed, but they have more vitality in them ; they 
 are brought about in a more natural manner ; and the 
 Characters contribute more to their developement. 
 The observations which I have made on the want of 
 individuality, and specific likeness of character, will 
 apply less to the scenes of Farquhar, than to those of 
 any of his contemporaries. His characters are often 
 drawn improbably, and out of nature, but still they 
 are active personages, and agents in the Drama, 
 which cannot be very often said of Coagreve. He 
 also possesses much genuine humour, as his cha- 
 racters of Sir Harry Wildair, Beau Clincher, 
 and Serjeant Kite, sufficiently shew. Farquhar 
 has more of the kindly spirit of the old English 
 Dramatists about him, than any writer of his times : 
 and is a less bitter Satirist than either Congreve, 
 Wycherley, or Vanbrugh. His arrows are bright 
 and keen, but those of his contemporaries are 
 poisoned: Farquhar makes the sides ache, but 
 Vanbrugh makes the heart ache also. 
 
 The last-mentioned author is as appalling a Sa- 
 tirist as Swift. His pictures of human nature are 
 hideously like ; they are true to the very wrinkle* 
 Swift said that he hated the Ourang Outang, be- 
 
150 LECTURES ON 
 
 cause it was so like us ; and so we may say 
 of Vanbrugh's delineations of character. All the 
 vices of humanity are treasured up in them ; yet they 
 are not natural delineations. They are the bad parts 
 of human nature picked out and separated from those 
 redeeming qualities, which scarcely the vilest of 
 mankind are not without. Such writers as Vanbrugh 
 and Swift do not use the vices and follies of mankind 
 for the purpose of instruction or amusement ; but 
 stand aloof from humanity like the Mephistopliiles 
 of Goethe, and make it's weaknesses and it's crimes 
 the objects of their fiend-like derision. 
 
 These three Authors occupy the foremost places in 
 that School of Comedy, which flourished in England 
 from the days of Charles the Second, to those of 
 Anne. I have endeavoured, briefly and succinctly, 
 to sum up their merits and defects. They were 
 certainly vastly inferior the Dramatists of the Eli- 
 zabethan age ; but, they were at least as much 
 superior to any School which has succeeded them. 
 The Elizabethan writers possessed great advan- 
 tages from the character of the times in which they 
 lived. They revelled in the holiday of intellect; 
 in the sweet Spring morning of wit and genius, 
 which dawned upon the world after the long and 
 gothic darkness of the middle ages. The genius 
 of a Shakspeare cannot be expected to revisit us, 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 151 
 
 until after the concurrence of circumstances similar 
 to those by which the age in which he existed was 
 preceded. Like the dew of the early morning, 
 darkness and gloom must once more envelope the 
 Earth, before we can gaze upon it again. 
 
 The attack of Jeremy Collier upon the profligacy 
 and licentiousness of the Stage, although it's effects 
 were not immediately felt, ultimately proved the 
 destruction of this School of Comedy. Congreve 
 confessed his fault; and Vanbrugh and Gibber 
 wrote the " Provoked Husband" of which the 
 tendency is unexceptionable, as an expiation for 
 the immorality of their former productions. 
 
 This Comedy may be said to have given rise to 
 the Sentimental School ; the most meretricious and 
 contemptible of all the demons of dulness which 
 ever possessed the Stage. I do not, of course, 
 mean to apply this censure to the very elegant 
 production which I have just mentioned, and 
 from which I have considered this School as taking 
 it's rise ; nor to the Comedies of Sir Richard 
 Steele, who may be ranked amongst it's adherents. 
 The last mentioned Author had a quiet natural 
 vein of humour, and a delicate perception of the 
 foibles of human character, which give great zest 
 and interest to his scenes : though even in his 
 works we find the Comic Muse somewhat abated 
 
152 LECTURES ON 
 
 of those smiles which are hers by prescriptive right. 
 She affects the grave airs of her Tragic Sister, and 
 wears them, at the best, but awkwardly. She may 
 smile, but she never laughs : 
 
 " Mirth that wrinkled Care derides, 
 And Laughter holding both his sides," 
 
 are banished from the works of the Sentimental 
 Writers. A well-bred simper, or a demure dim- 
 ple, is the utmost extent of hilarity in which they 
 indulge, What an uproar, what a devastation, 
 would the introduction of such a person as Sir 
 John Falstaff among the Dramatis Persons of 
 our modern playwrights, occasion ! How would 
 Lady Elinor Irwin receive the addresses of such 
 a person as Sir Toby Belch ? and how would Old 
 Dorntonlook, if he found young Master Launcelot 
 Gobbo capering about his banking house? In 
 truth, this Sentimental style of writing is the most 
 artificial and worthless that was ever imposed upon 
 the public, in the name of Comedy, Goldsmith 
 wrote amidst the very hey-day of this fashionable 
 folly; but he rolled his own pure tide of wit and 
 humour through, and stainless and unmixed with 
 the surrounding vortex, as the River Rhone rushes 
 through the Lake of Geneva, His two admirable 
 Comedies of the " Good Natured Man" and 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 163 
 
 " She Stoops to Conquer,' 9 are the greenest spots 
 in the Dramatic waste of the period of which we 
 are speaking. They are worthy of the Author of 
 the " Vicar of Wakefield;' and to praise them 
 more highly is impossible. Wit, without licen- 
 tiousness ; Humour, without extravagance ; brilliant 
 and elegant dialogue ; and forcible but natural 
 delineation of character ; are the excellencies with 
 which his pages are prodigally strewn. 
 
 Cumberland was the last, and the best of the 
 Sentimental School. His Genius was of too mas- 
 culine a character to submit entirely to the fetters 
 which the popular prejudices would impose upon 
 it; and his taste too pure, to relish the sickly 
 viands with which the public appetite was palled. 
 But, even in the extinction of this School, we 
 cannot congratulate ourselves in the elevation of 
 any thing better in it's place. " Bad begins, but 
 worse remains behind." Our present Lecture has 
 been a history of the gradual declension of th 
 British Drama: 
 
 " We have fallen upon our gloomy days, 
 Star after star decays ; 
 Every bright name that shed 
 Light o'er the land is fled !" 
 
 The Shakspearean School was succeeded by 
 that of Congreve : there we sunk a step, but we 
 
 H3 
 
154 LECTURES ON 
 
 were on a lofty eminence still. The Congreve 
 School gave place to that of the Sentimental 
 Artists. This was a more fearful declension : but 
 even here we met with elegant writers, although 
 we looked in vain for skilful or interesting Dra- 
 matists. The next " change that comes o'er the 
 spirit of our dream/' presents us with the ultra 
 German horrors of Lewis, and his School. This 
 is the very Antipodes of the Sentimental School : 
 the badge and banner of one is the cambric hand- 
 kerchief; of the other the gory dagger. Instead 
 of high flown sentiments of virtue and honour, we 
 have murderers and spectres; trap-doors and long 
 corridors; daggers and poison-bowls; faces whitened 
 over with meal, and hands looking as sanguinary 
 as red paint can make them. This School has also 
 had it's day, and fallen into the " sere and yellow 
 leaf," to make way for Juvenile Roscii, Elephants, 
 and rope-dancers ! Various entertainments have 
 since been resorted to for the edification and 
 amusement of the enlightened public. Sometimes 
 it has been treated with the sight of a Monkey 
 which can dance on the tight rope like a man ; and 
 at others, with a Man who can climb trees and crack 
 nuts like a Monkey. For such refined amuse- 
 ments as these have we exchanged the Genius of 
 our early Dramatists : a jewel, which, as Shylock 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 155 
 
 says, " we would not have given for a wilderness 
 of monkeys." Occasionally, however, a gleam of 
 light has broken in upon the general gloom of the 
 Dramatic hemisphere; and the names of Foote, 
 Garrick, Colman the Elder, and, " the greatest is 
 behind/' Sheridan, shew, amidst the surrounding 
 mass of clulness and folly, like the stars of heaven, 
 more fiery by night's blackness. 
 
 Sheridan is, indeed, a golden link which con- 
 nects us with the Authors of better days. He 
 has wit; pure, polished, genuine wit. He has 
 humour ; not, perhaps, of quite so pure an order, 
 a little forced and overstrained, but it's root is in 
 Nature, whatever aberrations it may spread into 
 in it's branches. His dialogue is of matchless 
 brilliancy ; so brilliant as to enchain the attention, 
 and to blind us to the grand defect of his Plays, 
 their want of action, and of what is technically 
 called, business. This defect alone shuts out 
 Sheridan from taking his place by the side of the 
 elder Dramatists, and assigns him his situation a 
 step lower among the writers of the age of Charles. 
 He is, however, free from their impurities of 
 thought and language; their equal in wit, and 
 their superior in genuine humour. 
 
 The Drama of the present day is, with some 
 few exceptions, a compound of all the vices which 
 
156 LECTURES ON 
 
 characterised the preceding Schools; excepting'/ 
 I am happy to say, the profligacy of the writers of 
 the Restoration. If we are dull, we are, at least, 
 decent. The Dramas, however, which are now 
 produced, are as lawless and irregular as the 
 writers of the Elizabethan School ; turgid and 
 bombastic as the Tragedies which succeeded it ; 
 mawkish as the Comedies of the Sentimentalists; 
 and extravagant and outrageous as the maddest 
 productions of Germany. The works of -Joanna 
 Baillie unquestionably the greatest Dramatist 
 who has appeared here since the Restoration, - e 
 are driven from the Stage ; and, although Shaks- 
 peare is still endured, he is made to bow his 
 " eminent tops to our low heads ;" his Tragedies 
 must have a happy ending, and his Comedies must 
 be " interspersed with Songs." But then, the 
 tricks of Harlequin, the mysteries of Melo Drame, 
 the prancing of real horses, arid the tumbling of 
 real water ; these are surely enough to compensate 
 for the absence of Shakspeare, and all his trumpery. 
 We have passed, it may be thought, a severe 
 censure upon the present state of the English 
 Drama ; but, we speak it " more in sorrow than in 
 anger. 3 ' When we consider the splendid heritage 
 of talent and genius which we derive from our 
 ancestors; when we recollect the immortal pro- 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 157 
 
 ductions which have been bequeathed to the Eng-* 
 lish Stage, from the days of Shakspeare to those 
 of Sheridan ; when we mark, too, the energy and 
 intelligence of the present day, as shewn in every 
 other quarter, while the Stage alone is usurped 
 by imbecility and dulness ; the mingled feeliqgs 
 of shame and astonishment are too powerful for 
 their expression to be repressed. The causes of 
 this national degradation are various. One of the 
 most obvious and powerful, unquestionably is the 
 enormous size of the Theatres. The Music of the 
 veice, the magic of the eye, the passion and pro- 
 priety of the gestures, these are the true and 
 legitimate elements of Dramatic effect; but these, 
 in the immense area upon which they are exerted, 
 are lost to the largest proportion of the auditory. 
 Hence, the actor distorts his features, strains his 
 voice, and throws himself into violent and unna- 
 tural attitudes; and when it is at length found 
 that even these fail of producing the requisite 
 effect, then pomp and shew, decoration and noise, 
 unmeaning bustle and preposterous parade, are 
 called in to fill up the melancholy hiatus. 
 
 Accordingly, the Managers and the public sus- 
 tain a re-action from each other ; the former create 
 in the latter an appetite for Spectacle and shew ; 
 and the appetite thus created in the latter, calls upon 
 
158 LECTURES ON * 
 
 the former for fresh efforts to gratify it. Thus the 
 state of things may be prolonged ad infinitum, 
 unless some voice should be raised sufficiently 
 powerful to induce a change of system. 
 
 But, potent as are the causes to which we have 
 last alluded, in promoting the degeneracy of the 
 Drama, still it must not be disguised that these are 
 not solely the origin of the evil. The incompe- 
 tency of the Authors in whose hands rests the task 
 of winning the public taste back to the legitimate 
 Drama, is another, and not less influential cause. 
 The Spectacles and Pageants with which the 
 Managers feast the eyes of their Audiences, are as 
 nearly as possible, perfect in their way. The 
 Tragedies and Comedies which are occasionally 
 produced, are the farthest possible removed from 
 the standard to which they aspire. The Public 
 chooses between them ; and we can scarcely blame 
 it's decision : 
 
 " Now forced, at length, her ancient reign to quit, 
 Nature sees Dulness lay the ghost of Wit ; 
 Exulting Folly hails the joyous day, 
 And Pantomime and Song confirm her sway." 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 159 
 
 LECTURE THE FIFTH. 
 
 DIDACTIC, DESCRIPTIVE, PASTORAL, AND 
 SATIRICAL POETRY. 
 
 Nature of Didactic and Descriptive Poetry : Death and Life, 
 the earliest Specimen of English Blank "V^erse : Bishop 
 Hall's Satires: Brown's Pastorals: Donne: Butler's 
 Hudibras: Dryden, Pope, Akenside, Dyer, Armstrong, 
 Young, and Goldsmith: Thomson's Seasons : Cowper. 
 
 OUR Lectures have already exhausted the more 
 interesting topics, which a review of the history 
 and merits of English Poetry presents to our con- 
 sideration. The Harvest is past ; and, we have 
 now little more to do, than to garner in the com- 
 paratively scanty gleanings, which remain behind. 
 The subject of the present Lecture is English 
 Didactic, and Descriptive Poetry ; including Pas- 
 toral and Satire. The Didactic Muse has been 
 called " the least attractive of the Nine ;" but if 
 she has less beauty, she has, perhaps, more truth 
 than her sisters. If she cannot soar as high, she 
 treads more firmly. She addresses herself, not to 
 
160 LECTURES ON 
 
 the Imagination and the heart, but to the under- 
 standing. She seeks not to please the fancy, but 
 to improve the mind. She is, in fact, however, 
 scarcely a legitimate denizen of the world of 
 Poetry. She is too nearly allied to Prose, to 
 mingle quite freely and gracefully with those gay 
 " creatures of the elements," who people the re- 
 gions of Fancy. She is an amphibious animal ; 
 " parcel woman, parcel fish." She has powers 
 which those who are exclusively confined to either 
 element, do not possess ; but then in neither does 
 she move with the same freedom and unconstrain- 
 edness as they do. She has not the real sober 
 prose step of the Historian and the Essayist, any 
 more than she has the bold and fearless pinion of 
 the Epic Poet, and the Dramatist. She has not 
 " angelic wings, nor feeds on manna." She has 
 rather the wings of the flying-fish, which, for a 
 moment, elevate her towards the heaven of Poe- 
 try, whence she soon sinks exhausted, into her 
 own native element of Prose. 
 
 The works of the Descriptive and Pastoral 
 Muses are to the Epic and the Drama, what a 
 trim and elegant flower-garden is to the wildness 
 and magnificence of unadorned Nature ; who is, 
 " when unadorned, adorned the most." The de- 
 scriptive passages which spring up amidst all the 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 161 
 
 lawfulness and sublimity of Shakspeare and Mil- 
 ton, are like the delicious fruits and fragrant 
 flowers which are found among the grandest and 
 most terrific passages of Alpine scenery ; while 
 the continuous descriptions of Thomson and Cow- 
 per, are like flowers of every imaginable form 
 and hue, exotic and native, got together and 
 crowded into one bed. They bring home to those 
 who cannot go in search of them, those treasures 
 of Nature, which bolder spirits are content to 
 scale Alpine steeps, and dive amidst mountain 
 torrents to attain. The mind is not always pre- 
 pared to accompany Shakspeare or Milton in their 
 daring flights, any more than the body is always 
 at leisure to undertake a journey to the Andes, or 
 the Appenines. Then the pages of Goldsmith, 
 and Thomson, and Cowper, yield as much enjoy- 
 ment to the one, as the velvet lawn and the gaily 
 ornamented parterre do to the other. 
 
 English Poetry has been, from the earliest pe- 
 riod, as rich in description as the English taste has 
 been observed to be particularly attached to ex- 
 ternal Nature. The humblest and most closely- 
 confined denizens of our English Cities have 
 been remarked by foreigners to cherish this taste 
 in the possession of a box of mignonette, a vase 
 of flowers, or a solitary myrtle, or geranium. So, 
 
162 LECTURES ON 
 
 too, in the most humble of our versifiers, if they 
 possess any Poetical powers at all, they will be 
 roused into action by the inspiration excited on 
 beholding the face of Nature. 
 
 The earliest English Poets were fond and acute 
 observers of Nature. The touches of scenic de- 
 scription in the ancient Ballads are numerous and 
 beautiful ; and Percy has preserved a fine relique of 
 an old descriptive Poem, entitled " Death and 
 Life," the beauties of which cannot fail to be per- 
 ceived, even through the veil of uncouth and an- 
 tique language in which they are enveloped. The 
 Poem is supposed by Percy to have been written 
 as early as, if not earlier than, the time of Lang- 
 baine ; and it is curious, as the oldest specimen 
 of Blank Verse in our language. The following 
 is an allegorical description of Life : 
 
 " She was brighter of her blee, than was the bright sonne ; 
 Her rudd redder than the rose, that on the rise hangeth. 
 Meekly smiling with her mouth, and merry in her lookes ; 
 Ever laughing for love, as she the like wolde. 
 And as shee came by the banks, the boughs eche one 
 They lowted to that ladye, and lay'd forth their branches ; 
 Blossoms and burgens breathed full sweete : 
 Flowers flourished in the frith, where she forth stepp'd ; 
 And the grass that was grey, greened belive." 
 
 But it is to that golden age of our Literature, 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 163 
 
 the reign of Queen Elizabeth, that we must look 
 for the earliest, and some of the best, specimens 
 of Satire and Pastoral ; considered as a class of 
 Poetry, distinct from, and unmixed with, any 
 other. I allude more particularly to the Satires 
 of Bishop Hall, and the " Britannia's Pastorals" 
 of William Browne ; two names which, I believe, 
 are still " caviare to the million;" are unknown to 
 the general reader; and are not admitted into 
 many of the collections of the general body of 
 English Poetry. To Mr. Warton the public are 
 indebted for having first drawn their attention to 
 the beauties of Hall. This powerful and truly ori- 
 ginal writer is the earliest professed Satirist 
 among our Poets ; and he has himself alluded to 
 that fact with a proud and pardonable' egotism : 
 
 " I first adventure, follow me who list, 
 And be the Second English Satirist." 
 
 His Satires, besides their own intrinsic Poetical 
 excellencies, are valuable to the Antiquary as 
 presenting a most vivid and faithful picture of the 
 manners of our ancestors ; their fashions, follies, 
 vices, and peculiarities. These Hall has touched 
 with a powerful and unsparing hand. Scribblers, 
 Lawyers, Parsons, Physicians, all those unfortu- 
 
164 LECTURES ON 
 
 nate classes of men, who have, from time imme- 
 morial, enjoyed the unenvied privilege of at- 
 tracting the peculiar notice of the Satiric Muse, 
 are by him laid bare and shrinking to the scorn 
 and hatred of Mankind. Hall is, I believe, well 
 known as a Divine : his Sermons and Meditations 
 having procured him a high rank among polemical 
 writers. It is my object, however, to notice him 
 merely as a Poet, and I shall, therefore, make a 
 few extracts from his Satires. The following tirade 
 against the Legal Profession is a fair specimen of 
 the force and fearlessness of his style : 
 
 " Woe to the weal where many Lawyers be, 
 For there is sure much store of malady : 
 ? Twas truly said, and truly was foreseen, 
 The fat kine are devoured of the lean. 
 Genus and species long since barefoot went 
 Upon their ten toes, in wild wonderment ; 
 Whiles Father Bartol on his footcloth rode, 
 Upon high pavement, gayly silver-strew'd. 
 Each home-bred Science percheth in the chair, 
 While Sacred Arts grovel on the groundsell bare ; 
 Since pedling barbarisms 'gan be in request, 
 Nor classic tongues, nor Learning found no rest. 
 The crouching Client with low bended knee, 
 And many worships and fair flattery, 
 Tells on his tale as smoothly as he list ; 
 But still the Lawyer's eye squints on his fist; 
 If that seem lined with a larger fee, 
 Doubt not the suit, the law is plain for thee. 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 165 
 
 Though must he buy his vainer hope with price, 
 Disclout his crowns, and thank him for advice. 
 So have I seen, in a tempestuous stowre, 
 Some briar bush shew shelter from the shower, 
 Unto the hopeful sheep, that fain would hide 
 His fleecy coat from that same angry tide : 
 The ruthless briar, regardless of his plight, 
 Lays hold upon the fleece he should acquite ; 
 And takes advantage of the careless prey, 
 That thought she in securer shelter lay. 
 The day is fair, the sheep would far to feed, 
 The tyrant briar holds fast his shelter's meed, 
 And claims it for the fee of his defence, 
 So robs the sheep in favour's fair pretence." 
 
 The following lines are in ridicule of the Ama- 
 tory Poetry of the age, and of the exaggerated 
 compliments which the Poets addressed to their 
 Mistresses : 
 
 - " As witty Pontan in great earnest said, 
 
 His Mistress* breasts were like two weights of lead j 
 
 Another thinks her teeth might liken'd be, 
 
 To two fair ranks of pales of ivory ; 
 
 To fence in, sure, the wild beast of her tongue, 
 
 From either going far, or going wrong ; 
 
 Her grinders like two chalk-stones in a mill, 
 
 Which shall with time and wearing wax as ill 
 
 As old Catillas, who doth every night 
 
 Lay up her holy pegs till next daylight, 
 
 And with them grind soft simp'ring all the day ; 
 
 When, lest her laughter should her mouth betray, 
 
166 LECTURES ON 
 
 Her hands must hide it; if she would but smile, 
 Fain would she seem all fire, and frolic still : 
 Her forehead fair is like a brazen hill, 
 Whose wrinkled furrows which her age doth breed, 
 Are daubed full of Venice chalk for need ; 
 Her eyes, like silver saucers fair beset 
 With shining amber, and with shady let; 
 Her lids like Cupid's bow-case, where he'll hide 
 The weapon that doth wound the wanton eyed : 
 Her chin, like Pindus', or Parnassus' hill, 
 Where down descends the flowing stream, doth fill 
 The well of her fair mouth. Each hath his praise, 
 Who would not but wed Poets no w-a-days !" 
 
 That Hall could compliment as elegantly, as he 
 could satirise unsparingly, a short Epigram will, 
 however, amply prove. It is entitled, 
 
 " ON MR. GREENHAM'S BOOK OF THE SABBATH. 
 
 While Greenham writeth on the Sabbath's rest, 
 His Soul enjoys not what his pen exprest : 
 His work enjoys not what itself doth say, 
 For it shall never find one resting day. 
 A thousand hands shall toss each page and line, 
 Which shall be scanned by a thousand eyne. 
 This Sabbath's rest, or that Sabbath's unrest, 
 'Tis hard to say which is the happiest." 
 
 Brown is one of the sweetest Pastoral Writers 
 in the world. It has been complained, that Eng- 
 lish Literature, however rich in other respects, 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 167 
 
 is very defective in Pastoral Poetry ; but this is a 
 complaint which can only be made by Critics who 
 are ignorant of the existence of such a writer as 
 Brown. Of the more popular Pastorals, the arti- 
 ficial affectations of Shenstone, Phillips, Hammond, 
 and a thousand others, I wish to say little or no- 
 thing. The tinsel is by this time pretty well rub- 
 bed off the meretricious baubles which so long 
 pleased the public taste ; and the trumpery mate- 
 rials of which all their finery was composed, is be- 
 ginning to be properly appreciated.^ A Poem is 
 no longer supposed to be wonderfully natural and 
 Pastoral, merely because it makes love rhyme to 
 dove ; breeze to trees ; and mountains to fountains. 
 The Shepherds and Shepherdesses, or rather the 
 Ladies and Gentlemen in disguise, like the Beef- 
 eater in Sheridan's " Critic" who sat upon green 
 hillocks, with Pastoral pipes in their hands, talking 
 about Love and Arcadia, have been discovered to 
 be very insipid and unnatural personages, ever since 
 readers have made use of their eyes, looked into 
 the world and Nature for themselves, and found 
 that no such society, or scenery, is, or ever was, in 
 existence. Brown is a writer thoroughly and en- 
 tirely English. His scenery is English. He paints 
 not Arcadia, or Utopia ; but he takes us to the leafy 
 shores of Devon, and the fertile banks of Tamar and 
 
168 LECTURES ON 
 
 describes their beauties with the ardour of a lover, arid 
 the truth of a Painter. He does not introduce us 
 to Naiads, or Dryads; to Pan, or to Apollo; but 
 to the fair and smiling faces with which our own 
 green fields are peopled, and to the rustic manners 
 of the English Villages. His Music is not of the 
 oaten stop, or of the pastoral pipe, or of the wild 
 harp of antiquity ; but of the ploughman's whistle, 
 the milkmaid's song, the sheep-bell, the minstrelsy 
 rung out from beneath some neighbouring spire. 
 Shepherds piping all night under some hawthorn 
 bush are not often seen in our northern climate ; 
 and Dryads, and Nymphs, and Satyrs, harmonise 
 as ill with the features of English scenery, as Dr. 
 Bentley, in the celebrated picture which decorates 
 a certain public building in London, swimming 
 with his wig and gown on, in the Thames, does 
 with the water nymphs and tritons who surround 
 him. Browne confines himself to the scenery, and 
 to the manners, which he has seen and known^ 
 His works, although full of truth and nature, are 
 rich in Poetry and imagination : for to these nature 
 and truth are not opposed, but are the best and 
 surest inspirers and auxiliaries. The Poet's address 
 to England is full of patriotism and feeling: 
 
 '' Hail ! thou my native soil, thou blessed spot 
 Whose equal all the world affordeth not ; 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 169 
 
 Shew me, who can, so many crystal rills, 
 
 Such well-clothed vallies, or aspiring hills ; 
 
 Such wood-grounds, pastures, quarries, wealthy mines ; 
 
 Such rocks, in whom the diamond fairly shines ; 
 
 And if the Earth can show the like again, 
 
 Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men." 
 
 Brown, however, in enumerating the excellent 
 productions of our native Island, has very ungallantly 
 omitted one, which did not escape the notice of 
 Thomson, when making a similar enumeration : 
 
 " May my song soften, as thy daughters, I, 
 Britannia ! hail, for beauty is their own/' 
 
 I subjoin one other instance of his descriptive 
 powers, which is said, by those acquainted with 
 the scenery described, the banks of the Tamar, 
 in Devonshire, to be an extraordinarily faithful 
 delineation of the spot : 
 
 " Between two rocks, immortal without mother, 
 That stand as if outfacing one another, 
 There ran a creek up, intricate and blind, 
 As if the waters hid them from the wind, 
 Which never wash'd, but at a higher tide, 
 The frizzled cotes which do the mountains hide ; 
 Where never gale was longer known to stay, 
 Than from the smooth wave it had swept away 
 The new divorced leaves, that from each side 
 Left the thick boughs to dance out with the tide. 
 
 I 
 
170 LECTURES ON 
 
 At further end the creek, a stately wood 
 Gave a kind shadow to the brackish flood ; 
 Made up of trees, not less kenn'd by each skiff, 
 Than that sky-scaling peak of Teneriffe ; 
 Upon whose tops the hernshaw bred her young, 
 And hoary moss upon their branches hung ; 
 Whose rugged rinds sufficient were to shew, 
 Without their height, what time they 'gan to grow." 
 
 Donne is another of our best ancient Satirists, 
 and was also, like Hall, a dignified Prelate ; 
 having been Rector of St. Dunstan's in the West, 
 and Dean of St. Paul's. He was the founder of 
 that School in Poetry which has been somewhat 
 improperly styled the Metaphysical ; which attained 
 it's greatest elevation in Cowley, and may be said 
 to have become extinct with Spratt. Donne is as 
 full of far-fetched conceits, and recondite illustra- 
 tions, or rather obscurations, as Cowley ; without, 
 however, being possessed of any thing approaching 
 to the same genuine Poetical powers. Still he is 
 a writer of great fancy and ingenuity. His Satires 
 are more remarkable for wit, than for severity. 
 He laughs at Vice and Folly ; but holds them up 
 to derision, rather than overwhelms them with 
 punishment; and, in this respect, offers many 
 points of contrast to his brother Satirist, Hall, of 
 whom I have just been speaking. The first points 
 out the deformity of vice ; the other exhibits it's 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 171 
 
 danger. One holds it up to derision ; the other 
 to execration. One exposes it to the gibes and 
 the jeers of the world ; the other tlevotes it to 
 the axe, the scourge, and the gibbet. 
 
 Butler's " Hudibras" is a production of match- 
 less \vit and fancy ; but the construction of the 
 story, and the delineation of the characters, have 
 been praised far beyond their merits. In these 
 partiulars it has very slender claims to originality. 
 Cervantes is evidently the model which Butler 
 followed ; and Hudibras is Don Quixote turned Pu- 
 ritan. He has exchanged the helmet of Malbrino 
 for the close cap of Geneva. Instead of encoun- 
 tering Giants and Enchanters ; he wages war with 
 Papists and Prelatists. Instead of couching his 
 lance at tilts and tournaments ; he mounts the 
 pulpit, and harangues the "long-eared" multitude. 
 He is not quite so unsophisticated a Lunatic as 
 Quixote. When his own interest is concerned, 
 his apprehension becomes wonderfully keener. 
 Like Hamlet, he is but " mad North-north-west ; 
 when the Wind is Southerly, he knows a hawk 
 from a hand-saw." Ralpho, in like manner, is 
 but a Conventicle edition of Sancho ; but who 
 can wonder that Butler should have failed in co- 
 pying from such models as these ? The Knight of 
 La Mancha is, like Shakspeare's Richard, " him- 
 
 i2 
 
172 LECTURES ON 
 
 self alone !" The Book in which his adventures 
 are recorded, is shall I say, perfect? Perhaps, 
 I may not apply such an epithet to the production 
 of human Genius ; but it is matchless, it is un- 
 imitated, it is inimitable. It is, however, possible 
 to be a great and powerful genius, and yet to be 
 inferior to Cervantes : such is Butler. His Book 
 cannot be expected to be so fascinating, for it's sub- 
 ject is far more repulsive. The Knight's greatest 
 weaknesses are amiable, and of vices he has none. 
 We sympathise in all his misfortunes, and almost 
 wish him success in his wildest enterprises. We 
 can hardly help quarrelling with the Windmills for 
 resisting his attack ; and feel inclined to tilt a lance 
 in support of his chivalrous assault upon the flock 
 of sheep. Butler certainly might have made the 
 fanaticism of Hudibras more amiable, and more 
 sincere, without at all weakening either the truth 
 or the comic force of the picture. As it is, we 
 rather turn from it with disgust, than gaze upon it 
 with enjoyment. These observations, however, 
 apply only to our Author's delineations of character, 
 and not to the fine touches of Satire, and to the 
 keen and profound observations on morals and 
 manners, in which his work is so rich. His genius 
 was not Dramatic, but didactic. He was not an 
 inventor, but an observer. His Satire is keen 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 173 
 
 and caustic ; his wit brilliant and delightful. His 
 knowledge of the Arts and Sciences appears to 
 have been profound ; and he has brought a won- 
 derful variety of attainment and research to the 
 embellishment of his Poem. He has also enriched 
 it with many beauties of thought and diction, which 
 form a strong contrast to it's general ludicrous cast 
 and character. Nothing, for instance, can be 
 finer than the following lines : 
 
 " The Moon put off her veil of light 
 That hides her by the day from sight ; 
 Mysterious veil ! of brightness made, 
 That's both her lustre and their shade." 
 
 This, besides being poetically beautiful, is philoso- 
 phically true; the rays of the Sun being the cause 
 of our seeing the Moon by night, and of our not 
 seeing her by day. 
 
 Dryden occupies the foremost place in the fore- 
 most ranks of English Didactic Writers. We 
 have already had occasion to speak of him as a 
 Narrative and Dramatic Poet, and shall therefore, 
 be proportionably brief in our observations upon 
 his merits in the present instance. His Satire is 
 appalling, and tremendous; and not the less so, 
 for it's extreme polish and splendour. It excites 
 our indignation against it's objects, not only on 
 
174 LECTURES ON 
 
 account of the follies, or faults, which it imputes to 
 them, but also on account of their writhing beneath 
 the infliction of so splendid a weapon. We forget 
 the offender in the awfulness and majesty of the 
 power by which he is crushed. Instead of shrink- 
 ing at the horror of the carnage, we are lost in 
 admiration of the brilliancy of the victory. Like 
 the lightning of heaven, the Satire of Dryden 
 throws a splendour around the objects which it 
 destroys. He has immortalised the persons whom 
 he branded with infamy and contempt; for who 
 would have remembered Shadwell, if he had not 
 been handed down to everlasting fame as Mac 
 Flecnoe ? 
 
 Pope is usually ranked in the School of Dryden, 
 but he has few either of the faults or excellencies 
 of his master. To begin with that for which he 
 has been most lauded, his versification is vastly 
 inferior to that of Dryden. What he has gained 
 in ease and sweetness, he has lost in majesty and 
 power. Dryden left our English versification at a 
 point from which it has since rather retrograded 
 than advanced. Pope polished and levelled it ; 
 but he polished away much of it's grandeur, as well 
 as of it's roughness, and levelled the rocks which 
 impelled, as well as the stones which impeded, it's 
 majestic current. Pope had fewer opportunities 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 175 
 
 for observation than Dryden, and perhaps improved 
 those which he had, less than he did. But he had 
 a finer fancy, and I am almost inclined to say, in 
 opposition to the popular opinion, that he possessed 
 more genius. 1 know of nothing so original and 
 imaginative in the whole range of Dryden's Poetry 
 as the " Rape of the Lock;" no descriptions of 
 Nature which can compare with those in Pope's 
 " Windsor Forest ;" and nothing so tender and 
 feeling as many parts of the " Elegy on the Death 
 of an unfortunate Lady" and the " Epistle from 
 Eloisa to Abelard" Pope's Satire, however, is 
 neither so keen nor so bright as that of Dryden ; 
 whom he attacks, he butchers ; whom he cuts, he 
 mangles. He shews us not the lifeless carcass of 
 his victim, but the writhing and tortured limbs. 
 We never feel any thing like sympathy for the 
 object of Dryden's Satire. His seems to be the 
 fiat of unerring justice which it would be almost 
 impiety to dispute. Pope exhibits more of the 
 accuser than the Judge. Petty interests, and 
 personal malice, instead of a love of justice, and 
 a hatred of vice, appear to be the powers which 
 nerve his arm. The victim is sure to fall beneath 
 his blow, but the deed, however righteous, in- 
 spires us with no very affectionate feelings for his 
 executioner. 
 
176 LECTURES ON 
 
 Akenside's " Pleasures of Imagination" is a 
 very brilliant and pleasing production. Every page 
 shews the refined taste and cultivated mind of the 
 Author. That it can strictly be called a work of 
 genius, I am not prepared to admit. The ideas 
 are not generally new; and I am afraid that they 
 are often even common-place. They are clothed, 
 however, in elegant versification ; they are illus- 
 trated with much variety, and ingenuity ; and they 
 invariably tend to the advancement of good taste, 
 and good feeling. Occasionally, too, Akenside 
 soars beyond his ordinary height, as in his descrip- 
 tion of the Soul : 
 
 " The high-born Soul 
 Disdains to rest her Heav'n-aspiring wing 
 Beneath it's native quarry. Tired of earth, 
 And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft ; 
 Through fields of air pursues the flying storm, 
 And, yoked with whirlwinds, and the northern blast ? 
 Sweeps the long track of day.'' 
 
 This passage, however, is remarkable for a con- 
 fusion of metaphors of which Akenside is not very 
 often guilty. The " native quarry" of a wing would, 
 I fear, very much puzzle any Painter to represent 
 accurately. 
 
 His Hymns and Odes have long since fallen 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 177 
 
 into oblivion, and I do not feel inclined to disturb 
 their rest. His Inscriptions, however, have an 
 attic terseness and force, which are unequalled 
 by any productions of the ^same class in our 
 language, excepting, perhaps, by a few of our 
 contemporary, Southey's. One example of 
 Akenside's Inscriptions that for a column at 
 Runnymede, will suffice : 
 
 " Thou, who the verdant plain dost traverse here, 
 While Thames among his willows from thy view 
 Retires, Oh Stranger ! stay thee, and around, 
 The scene contemplate well. This is the place 
 Where England's ancient Barons, clad in arms, 
 And stern with conquest, from the Tyrant King, 
 Then render'd tame, did challenge and secure 
 The Charter of thy Freedom. Pass not on 
 Till thou hast bless'd their memory, and paid 
 Those thanks, which God appointed the reward 
 Of public virtue. And if chance, thy home 
 Salute thee with a Father's honoured name, 
 Go, call thy sons, instruct them what a debt 
 They owe their ancestors ; and make them swear 
 To pay it, by transmitting down entire, 
 The sacred rights to which themselves were born!" 
 
 Dyer's and Armstrong's Didactic Poems are 
 written upon subjects which do not seem pecu- 
 liarly qualified to lend Inspiration to the Muse; 
 that of the first being Sheep-shearing, and that of 
 
 i 3 
 
178 LECTURES ON 
 
 the second, Physic. They have both, however, 
 been more successful with those subjects than 
 could have been reasonably expected. Dyer is, 
 nevertheless, better, and deserves to be better re- 
 membered, as the Poet c~ " Grongar-Hill" than 
 of the "Fleece;" and Armstrong in his " Art 
 of Preserving Health" has done wonders with a 
 somewhat repulsive theme. He pleads hard in 
 favour of it's aptness for Poetical illustration, and 
 reminds us that the ancients acknowledged " one 
 power of Physic, melody, and song." This, how- 
 ever, is, I fear, less calculated to allure than to 
 repel the readers of Poetry, and to have the same 
 effect upon them, as Apollo's own enumeration of 
 his accomplishments had upon Daphne whom he 
 was pursuing : 
 
 " Stay, stay, gentle Maiden, why urge thus your flight, 
 I'm the Great God of Song, and of Physic, and Light, 
 At the dreadful word Physic the nymph fled more fast, 
 At the fatal word Physic she doubled her haste." 
 
 This Poem contains one very noble passage, which 
 would do honour to any Author, however illus- 
 trious : 
 
 " What does not Fate ? The tower that long had stood 
 The crashing thunder, and the warring winds, 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 179 
 
 Shook by the slow, but sure destroyer, Time, 
 Now hangs in doubtful ruin o'er it's base ; 
 And flinty pyramids, and walls of brass 
 Descend. The Babylonian spires are sunk ; 
 Achaia, Rome, and Egypt moulder down ; 
 Time shakes the stable tyranny of Thrones, 
 And tottering Empires sink with their own weight : 
 This huge rotundity we tread grows old, 
 And all those worlds that roll around the Sun. 
 The Sun himself shall die, and ancient Night 
 Again involve the desolate abyss/ 1 
 
 Young is an Author of a very extraordinary 
 character, and certainly of great powers. His 
 imagery is bold and original ; his sentiments ex- 
 pressed with wonderful force and eloquence ; and 
 his versification, although infinitely inferior to the 
 exquisite music of Milton, yet has more of 
 real poetical rhythm in it's composition, than that 
 of most of his contemporaries. His genius, how- 
 ever, is only seen to advantage amidst Charnei 
 houses and sepulchres. When it is employed on 
 lighter subjects, in Satirical or humorous deli- 
 neations, it is unsuccessful ; it seems as if, like 
 the pictures of the Camera Obscura, it could not 
 be exhibited but in an apparatus of darkness, 
 His Muse is a Mummy ; his Apollo a Sexton ; 
 his Parnassus a Church-yard. He drinks from 
 the River Styx instead of Hippocrene, and mis- 
 
180 LECTURES ON 
 
 takes the pale horse in the Revelations for Pe^ 
 gasus. The consequence is, that as far as a very 
 large portion of his volume is concerned, it may be 
 very good Divinity, but it is not Poetry. 
 
 Goldsmith I have already had occasion to men- 
 tion several times in the course of these Lectures, 
 as the various classes of English Poetry in which 
 he has written, have come under our review. He 
 now appears before us in the character of a Di- 
 dactic Poet, and what can I say of him better 
 than by repeating the true and eloquent eulogium 
 in his Epitaph : 
 
 " Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit!" 
 
 The " Traveller," and the " Deserted Village' 7 
 scarcely claim any notice from me. They are in 
 every one's hands ; they live in every one's me- 
 mory ; they are felt in every one's heart. They 
 are daily the delight of millions. The Critic and 
 the Commentator are never asked their opinion 
 upon their merits. " Song/' says Campbell, " is but 
 the Eloquence of Truth," and of this eloquence 
 are the writings of Goldsmith made up. Elo- 
 quence that will be listened to ; Truth that it is 
 impossible to doubt. 
 
 Thomson is the first of our Descriptive Poets ; 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 181 
 
 I had almost said, the first in the world. He is 
 one of the best Poets, and the worst versifiers, 
 that ever existed. To begin with the least pleasing 
 part of our subject, his versification, it is arti- 
 ficial and elaborate ; timid and pompous ; deserting 
 simplicity, without attaining dignity. It scorns 
 the earth, without being able. to soar into the air. 
 In the best passages of his Poetry, the power and 
 splendour of his thoughts burst through the clouds 
 in which his versification shrouds them ; and, like 
 the Sun, impart a portion of their own lightness 
 to that which would obscure them. Strange, that 
 he who had such an eye for Nature, and had a 
 mind teeming with so many simple and beautiful 
 images, should choose language so artificial, in 
 which to describe the one, and express the others. 
 Thomson, when he wrote his " Castle of Indo- 
 lence" could describe as naturally as he felt. The 
 fact seems to be, that the last mentioned Poem 
 was a work of amusement, and the " Seasons" a 
 work of labour. Thomson's ideas spring up so 
 naturally and unforced, that he seems to think 
 himself bound to clothe them in a cumbrous and 
 elaborate versification, before he ventures to ex- 
 hibit them to the world. He could not believe 
 that in their naked simplicity and beauty they 
 were fit for the public gaze. His versification, 
 
182 LECTURES ON 
 
 however, is but the husk and stalk ; the fruit 
 which grows up with them is of a delicious taste 
 and flavour. Thomson is the genuine child of 
 Nature. He seems equally at home in the sun- 
 shine, and in the storm ; in the smiling vallies of 
 Arcadia, and in the icy wastes of Nova Zembla ; 
 amidst the busy hum of mankind, and the so- 
 litude and silence of deserts. The following lines 
 present as perfect and well-defined a picture to the 
 eye, as ever was embodied on the canvas : 
 
 te Home from his morning task the swain retreats, 
 His flock before him stepping to the fold, 
 While the full udder'd mother lows around 
 The cheerful cottage, then expecting food ; 
 The food of innocence and health. The daw, 
 The rook, and magpie, to the grey-grown oaks, 
 That the calm Village in their verdant arms, 
 Sheltering, embrace, direct their lazy flight ; 
 Where on the mingling boughs they sit embower'd, 
 All the hot Noon, till cooler hours arise. 
 Faint underneath the household fowls convene ; 
 And in a corner of the buzzing shade, 
 The house-dog, with the vacant greyhound, lies 
 Outstretch'd and sleepy/' 
 
 Here the versification is less stilted than that of 
 Thomson generally is ; but even here it is loaded 
 with expletives ; such as the " mingling boughs," 
 the " household fowls/' the " vacant greyhound/' 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 183 
 
 and the " grey-grown oaks." Thomson's epithets 
 are laboured, and encumber, instead of assisting 
 his descriptions. Shakspeare's, on the contrary, 
 are artless, and seem scarcely sought for ; but every 
 word is a picture. Instance his description of the 
 martlet, building his nest outside of MacbetKs 
 castle : 
 
 " This guest of Summer, 
 The temple-haunting Martlet, doth approve, 
 By his loved mansionry, that the Heaven's breath 
 Smells wooingly here." 
 
 Or his description of the infant sons of Edward 
 the Fourth sleeping in the Tower : 
 
 " Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, 
 That in their Summer beauty kiss'd each other/' 
 
 Again, the following description, in the " Sea- 
 sons," of that period of the year when the Winter 
 and the Spring are contending for the mastery, is 
 perfectly true and natural : 
 
 " As yet the trembling Year is unconfirm'd, 
 And Winter off at eve resumes the breeze ; 
 Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets 
 Deform the day delightless ; so that scarce 
 The bittern knows his time, with bill ingulph'd 
 
184 LECTURES ON 
 
 To shake the sounding marsh, or from the shore 
 The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath, 
 And sing their wild notes to the listening waste.' 1 
 
 But how are the beauty and fidelity of the pic- 
 ture deformed by such harsh inversions and tumid 
 epithets as "day delightless," and " bill in- 
 gulphed." 
 
 Cowper has not Thomson's genius, but he has 
 much more taste. His range is neither so wide, 
 nor so lofty, but, as far it extends, it is peculiarly 
 his own. He cannot paint the Plague at Cartha- 
 gena, or the Snow-storm, or the Earthquake, as 
 Thomson has done ; but place him by the banks of 
 the Ouse, or see him taking his " Winter walk 
 at Noon," or accompany him in his rambles through 
 his Flower garden, and where is the Author who 
 can compare with him for a moment ? The pic- 
 tures of domestic life which he has painted are 
 inimitable. It is hard to say whether his sketches 
 of external nature, or of indoor life, are the best. 
 Cowper does not attempt the same variety of scene 
 as Thomson ; but in what he does attempt, he al- 
 ways succeeds. The grander features of Nature 
 are beyond his grasp ; mountains and cataracts, 
 frowning rocks, and wide-spreading seas, are not 
 subjects for his pencil : but the meadow and the 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 185 
 
 hay-field, the gurgling rill, and the flower-crowned 
 porch, he can place before our eyes with astonishing 
 verisimilitude. Sometimes too he takes a flight 
 beyond his ordinary reach ; and his personification 
 of Winter is powerful, and even sublime : 
 
 " Oh Winter ! ruler of the inverted year ! 
 Thy scattered hair, with sleet-like ashes fill'd, 
 Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheek 
 Fringed with a beard made white with other snows 
 Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds, 
 A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
 A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 
 But urged by storms along it's slippery way. 
 
 Cowper's minor Poems are full of beauties ; 
 and of beauties of the most versatile nature. For 
 pathos and feeling, his lines " On his Mother's 
 Picture" are positively unrivalled. His " Review 
 of Schools" and his piece entitled " Conversation" 
 display an acute observation of men and manners, 
 and are replete with the keenest, but at the same 
 time, the most polished Satire ; while his " John 
 Gilpin" is a masterpiece of quiet and unforced, 
 but, at the same time, strong and racy humour. 
 
 His versification, like Thomson's, is not his best 
 quality ; but it's faults are of a totally opposite 
 character. If Thomson fails from too much effort, 
 
186 LECTURES ON 
 
 Cowper fails from too little. If one is bombastic 
 and turgid, the other is tame and prosaic. English 
 Narrative blank verse is an Instrument which few 
 know how to touch. It is like wielding the bow 
 of Ulysses. Milton, and Milton only, could draw 
 from it all the ravishing harmony which it con- 
 tained. 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 187 
 
 LECTURE THE SIXTH. 
 
 LYRICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 
 
 Ancient Minstrels, Troubadours, and Ballad- Writers: Abun- 
 dance and Beauty of the old English Lyrical Poems: 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt : Beaumont and Fletcher : Martin 
 Llewellyn: Sir Walter Raleigh : George Herbert: 
 Translations of the Psalms : Modern Ballad -Writers : 
 Modern Odes: Dryden, Pope, Collins, Gray, Mason, 
 and the Wartons : Conclusion. 
 
 WE have already taken a brief review of English 
 Narrative, Epic, Dramatic, Descriptive, Didactic, 
 Pastoral, and Satirical Poetry. The subject of 
 these Lectures we shall, therefore, now bring to a 
 close by directing our enquiries to English Lyrical 
 and Miscellaneous Poetry. 
 
 The value of a Song is a Proverbial saying to 
 express something utterly worthless ; and yet it 
 is scarcely too much to assert, that the characters 
 of Nations have been moulded and fixed by 
 their Songs and Ballads ; which have not unfre- 
 quently been found to be instruments of incalcu- 
 
188 LECTURES ON 
 
 lable power. " Give me/' said a great Statesman, 
 *' the making of the National Ballads, and I care 
 not who makes the Laws." History presents us 
 with many proofs of the truth and wisdom of this 
 remark. A Minstrel who accompanied William 
 the Conqueror to the Invasion of England, by 
 rushing into the enemy's ranks, chaunting the Song 
 of Hollo, led on his countrymen to the Victory of 
 Hastings; the Songs of the Welsh Bards inspired 
 such a spirit of resistance to the authority of the 
 English, that Edward the First caused the whole 
 fraternity to be exterminated ; which Hume has 
 justly styled a barbarous, but not absurd policy ; the 
 air of the "Ranz des Vetches" has been forbidden to 
 be played in the bands of the Swiss Regiments on 
 foreign service, because it brought back the scenes 
 of home to their recollections, and inspired them 
 with a resistless wish to return to their native 
 country ; and Lord Wharton's song of " Lillebulero" 
 immortal as the favourite of Uncle Toby, is sup- 
 posed to have had no slight influence in promoting 
 our English Revolution. To cite instances of a 
 more modern date, the " Marsellois Hymn" shook 
 the Bourbons from their throne ; and Dibdin's 
 unrivalled Naval Songs were instrumental in 
 quelling the Mutiny at the Nore. Songs and 
 Ballads, too, give us a more certain and faithful 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 189 
 
 picture of the state of manners and society at 
 the periods in which they were written, than do 
 the more bulky and ambitious works of the histo- 
 rians and chroniclers : as " a straw thrown up into 
 the air will shew which way the wind blows," while 
 a stone will return to the Earth, without giving us 
 any such intelligence. 
 
 Lyrical Poetry is the Parent of all others. 
 Before men learned to construct their versfes into 
 artificial and elaborate narratives, or to give them 
 a Dramatic form, they were accustomed to ex- 
 press any ardent emotion, such as Affection, Ex- 
 ultation, or Devotion, by short metrical composi- 
 tions, which were usually sung, and accompanied 
 by some musical instrument. The praises of their 
 Gods, the achievements of their warriors, and 
 the beauty of their mistresses, are the favourite 
 topics of the Poets in the earliest and rudest 
 stages of society. Hence arose a class of men, 
 whose peculiar province it was to compose and 
 sing verses upon such subjects ; men who united 
 the characters of Poet and Minstrel ; who were 
 treated with extraordinary respect and reverence, 
 and who could frequently number in their ranks 
 persons of high station, and great power. 
 
 The Bards of Druidical time form the earliest 
 class of this character of whom we have any record 
 
190 LECTURES ON 
 
 in our Island : these have been succeeded by the 
 Saxon Gleemen and Minstrels; the Provengal 
 Troubadours, and finally, by Poets of a more 
 lofty and enduring reputation. 
 
 The Troubadours are the fathers of modern 
 Literature. The Provengal language in which 
 they wrote, was the general language of civilised 
 Europe ; or, at least, of the educated classes of 
 society. At the period at which they flourished, 
 it was very generally spoken in France, Italy, the 
 South of Germany, Flanders, and England. The 
 Poets of those days, however, bore very little re- 
 semblance to those secluded and sedentary persons 
 who now rule the world of Literature. They were 
 Warriors and Knights, Earls and Barons, Princes 
 and Kings ; although persons of the lowest stations 
 in society were numbered amongst them, and could 
 claim all the honours and privileges which apper- 
 tained to the character of the Minstrel ; if they 
 were but accomplished in what was called, la gaie 
 Science : but these were also active and perambu- 
 latory persons, wandering from City to City, and 
 from Castle to Castle, singing of Love, and War, 
 and Glory. Many of their compositions teem 
 with the most beautiful and original imagery, and 
 are full of expressions of that high sense of honour, 
 courtesy, and devotion to the fair sex, which cha- 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 191 
 
 racterised the ages of Chivalry. A few specimens 
 of their Poetry, as far as a literal Prose version 
 can be called a specimen, will not be irrelevant 
 to the subject immediately before us. Geoffrey 
 Rudel, whose life was as romantic as that of any 
 Romance which was ever invented, thus unburthens 
 the feelings of his heart: " All Nature sets me 
 an example of elegance and love. The trees 
 when renewing their leaves, and their fruits, invite 
 me to adorn myself in my gayest apparel. When 
 I behold the Nightingale caressing his faithful 
 mate, who returns his tenderness in every look, 
 and who so delightfully warble their joys in unison, 
 I feel my soul penetrated with delight; I feel my 
 heart melt with tender love. Happy birds ! you 
 are still at liberty to express what you feel, while 
 I languish in silence. The Shepherds amuse them- 
 selves with their pipes, and Children with their 
 little labours. I alone rejoice not, for distant is 
 the object of my love. Day and night, a thousand 
 tender thoughts transport me to the blest mansions. 
 When, whisper I, my Soul's delight ! when shall 
 I meet you there?" 
 
 Folquet de Marseilles, who was afterwards, 
 Bishop of Thoulouse, in one of his Poems, also 
 makes use of a very striking and original simile: 
 
192 LECTURES ON 
 
 " I wish only to express my feelings, but to do 
 so would be an unpardonable boldness. How can 
 my heart contain so vast a love ! It is like a great 
 tower reflected from a small mirror!" 
 
 Bertrand le Bonn, who had been defeated and 
 made prisoner by our heroic Monarch Coeur-de- 
 Lion, then Count of Poitou, who was himself a 
 distinguished Poet, thus addresses his conqueror. 
 " If Count Richard will vouchsafe me his grace, 
 I will devote myself to his service, and my attach- 
 ment to him shall be as pure as the finest silver. His 
 high dignity should cause him to resemble the Sea, 
 which seems to retain all she receives within her 
 bosom, but casts it back on the shore. It befits 
 so great a Baron to restore what he has taken, 
 from a vassal who humbles himself before him." 
 
 But it is doing the Troubadour Poets manifest 
 injustice to pretend to give any idea of their merits 
 by a literal Prose version. I will therefore venture 
 to attempt a metrical translation of two short ex- 
 tracts, which struck me as possessing peculiar 
 beauty. The first is from Geoffrey Rudel : 
 
 ie Once on my lip, my bliss to seal, 
 
 Thine own a kiss imprest ; 
 And ever since that time I feel 
 Love's pangs within my breast. 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 193 
 
 Give me again that kiss so dear, 
 Which my heart's peace betray'd ; 
 
 That kiss which like Achilles' spear, 
 Can heal the wound it made." 
 
 The other is from Folquet de Marseilles; and I 
 should premise that Love and Mercy were suppli- 
 cated as Divinities among the Troubadours. 
 
 " Love! thou hast done me wrong to wage 
 
 Thy war within my heart ; 
 Not bringing Mercy to assuage 
 
 The rankling of thy dart. 
 Where Mercy is not, Love is found 
 
 A tyrant haught and proud ; 
 Love, let thy knee salute the ground, 
 
 At Mercy's footstool bow'd. 
 
 Surely the greatest of the great, 
 
 The best among the good, 
 May bid those powers together mate, 
 
 Oh Lady ! calm their feud. 
 That thou can'st blend in union meek, 
 
 Things more opposed than they, 
 The white and red upon thy cheek, 
 
 In Love's own language say." 
 
 By degrees, however, the Provenal declined 
 into a dead language ; the Poets of Europe made use 
 of the tongues of their own respective countries; 
 and Lyrical and Narrative Poetry became closely 
 
194 LECTURES ON 
 
 connected. The old English Metrical Romances 
 were composed with a view to a Musical accom- 
 paniment ; and the old English Ballads, for the 
 most part, contain some narration formed of two 
 or three striking incidents. In the number and 
 beauty of it's ancient Lyrical reliques, this nation 
 is said to be richer than all the rest of Europe 
 combined. The fine old Ballads of " Clievy Chace" 
 and '" Sir Cauline and King Estmere" abound 
 with the most exquisite and original imagery, and 
 with touches of deep and genuine feeling. Of 
 the first, Sir Philip Sidney, no .incompetent judge, 
 has said, " I never heard the old song of Percie 
 and Douglas, that I have found not my heart 
 moved more than with a trumpet ; and yet it is sung 
 but by some blind crowder, with no rougher voice 
 than rude style; which being so eviL apparelled, 
 in the dust and cobweb of that uncivil age, what 
 would it work trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence 
 of Pindar?" " Old Robin Gray' 9 also deserves 
 our notice, if it were only on account of these two 
 lines: 
 
 " My Father argued sair, though my Mither didna speak, 
 But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break." 
 
 There is also in " Lady Ann Bothwelts Lament " 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 195 
 
 a touch of unaffected nature and pathos of the 
 same kind : 
 
 " Lie still, my darling ! sleep awhile, 
 And when thou wakest, sweetly smile ; 
 But smile not as thy Father did, 
 To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid !" 
 
 The early part of the reign of Henry the Eighth 
 \vas rich in Lyrical Poetry ; and indeed, wore an 
 aspect of great promise to the cause of Literature 
 and the Arts. I am afraid that I shall be venturing 
 a very unpopular opinion, when I say, that I be- 
 lieve these propitious appearances were owing to 
 the influence of Cardinal Wolsey; for we find the 
 character of the King, and of the nation, mate- 
 rially altered after that distinguished Minister 
 was removed from the Royal Councils. Hen- 
 ry, who durftig Wolsey's administration held the 
 balance of Europe, became comparatively power- 
 less and insignificant; the love of Poetry and. the 
 Arts was exchanged for controversial subtleties, 
 and for the more conclusive, if less logical argu- 
 ments, of the axe, the faggot, and the gibbet; 
 and thus the budding Spring time of English Lite- 
 rature, which had produced such Poets as Surrey, 
 Wyatt, and Vaux, was nipped untimely by the 
 chilling breath of tyranny. One extract from the 
 
 K 2 
 
196 LECTURES ON 
 
 productions of this period is all that I can find 
 room for ; and this I shall give not so much on ac- 
 count of any claims to originality, or genius, which 
 it evinces, as for the purpose of shewing the 
 strength and sweetness, which the Authors, even 
 of that early age, infused into their versification. 
 It is by Sir Thomas Wyatt, and is entitled " An 
 earnest Suit to his Mistress not to forsake 
 him:" 
 
 " And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 Say nay, say nay, for shame : 
 To save thee from the blame 
 Of all my grief and grame, 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 Say nay, say nay. 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 That has loved thee so long, 
 In wealth and woe among ; 
 And is thy heart so strong, 
 
 As for to leave me thus ? 
 Say nay, say nay. 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 That hath given thee my heart, 
 Never for to depart, 
 Neither for pain or smart : 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 Say nay, say nay. 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 197 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus? 
 And have no more pity 
 Of him that loveth thee ; 
 Alas ! thy cruelty ! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 Say nay, say nay," 
 
 The age of Queen Elizabeth, however, to which, 
 almost whatever class of Poetry we are discussing, 
 we must revert as the period in which it arrived at 
 it's greatest perfection, is peculiarly rich in Lyrical 
 Poems. From the writings of the early Dra- 
 matists alone, we may extract gems " of purest 
 ray serene/' whose brightness will shame the most 
 ambitious efforts of subsequent periods. I have 
 already given some extracts from Ben Jonson ; 
 who is, perhaps, on the whole, the finest Lyrical 
 Poet in our language. Shakspeare, Beaumont 
 and Fletcher, Lylye, and Heywood, also stand out 
 from among the ranks of the Dramatists, as ele- 
 gant and accomplished Lyrists ; and the following 
 Song, from Beaumont and Fletcher, is evidently 
 the foundation on which Milton built that noble 
 Poetical structure, his " II Penseroso :" 
 
 Hence ! all you vain delights, 
 As short as are the nights, 
 
198 LECTURES ON 
 
 In which you spend your folly ; 
 There's nought in this life sweet. 
 If men were wise to see't, 
 
 But only Melancholy. 
 
 Oh ! sweetest Melancholy ! 
 
 Welcome folded arms, and fixed eyes, 
 
 A sigh that piercing, mortifies ; 
 
 A look that fastened to the ground, 
 
 A tongue chain'd up, without a sound ; 
 
 Fountain-heads, and pathless groves, 
 
 Places which pale Passion loves ; 
 
 Moonlight walks, where all the fowls 
 
 Are warmly housed, save bats and owls ; 
 
 A Midnight bell, a parting groan, 
 
 These are the sounds we feed upon : 
 Then stretch our limbs in a still gloomy valley, 
 Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely Melancholy/' 
 
 The number and beauty of the Lyrical Poems 
 produced in the age of Queen Elizabeth, are such 
 that I cannot attempt to give any adequate notion 
 of them by extracts. Their grand distinguishing 
 features are originality of thought, and elegance 
 of versification. Donne, Sydney, Raleigh, Ca- 
 rew, Herrick, Crashaw, Suckling, Waller, and 
 others, form an unrivalled School of Lyrical Poetry, 
 -which existed in this country from the days of 
 Elizabeth to those of Charles : and it is perfectly 
 unaccountable, that, possessing so many gems of 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 199 
 
 the purest Poetry, the public taste should afterwards 
 have sunk into such a state of utter debasement, 
 as to be gratified by the sickening common- 
 places of Lansdowne, Walsh, and Halifax ; that it 
 should " on that fair mountain leave to feed, to 
 batten on this moor." I cannot, however, dismiss 
 this part of our subject, without giving an extract 
 or two, which, in pursuance of my plan, shall be 
 taken from such Authors as are least generally 
 known. The first is by Martin Llewellyn : 
 
 " I felt my heart, and found a flame, 
 That for relief and shelter came ; 
 I entertained the treacherous guest, 
 And gave it welcome in my breast : 
 Poor Celia ! whither wilt thou go, 
 To cool in streams, or freeze in snow ? 
 Or gentle Zephyrus entreat, 
 To chill thy flames, and fan thy heat ? 
 Perhaps a taper's fading beams 
 May die in air, or quench in streams ; 
 But Love is an immortal fire, 
 Nor can in air, or ice, expire ; 
 Nor will that Phoenix be supprest, 
 But with the ruin of it's nest/' 
 
 My second quotation is from the writings of 
 one, whose achievements arid misfortunes have 
 made him sufficiently renowned ; but whose Literary 
 
200 LECTURES ON 
 
 productions are comparatively unknown. I allude 
 to that Soldier, that Sailor, that Statesman, that 
 Patriot, that Poet, that Hero, Sir Walter Raleigh! 
 
 THE SILENT LOVER. 
 
 Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams, 
 The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb ; 
 
 So, when affection yields discourse, it seems 
 The bottom is but shallow whence they come ; 
 
 They that are rich in words must needs discover 
 
 They are but poor in that which makes a lover. 
 
 Wrong not, sweet Mistress of my heart * 
 
 The merit of true passion, 
 With thinking that he feels no smart, 
 
 That sues for no compassion. 
 
 Since, if my plaints were not t* approve 
 
 The conquest of thy beauty ; 
 It comes not from defect of love, 
 
 But fear t' exceed my duty. 
 
 For knowing that I sue to serve 
 
 A Saint of such perfection, 
 As all desire, but none deserve 
 
 A place in her affection ; 
 
 I rather choose to want relief, 
 
 Than venture the revealing ; 
 Where glory recommends the grief,, 
 
 Despair disdains the healing. 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 20L 
 
 Silence in love betrays more woe 
 Than words, though ne'er so witty : 
 
 A beggar that is dumb you know, 
 May challenge double pity. 
 
 Then wrong not, dearest to my heart ! 
 
 My love for secret passion ; 
 He smarteth most who hides his smart, 
 
 And sues for no compassion." 
 
 The excitement and partizanship produced by the 
 progress of the Reformation in the reign of Queen 
 Elizabeth, gave a religious tinge to many of the 
 Lyrical writings of that period. Crashaw, who 
 translated Marino's " Sospetto d' Herode," is a 
 Lyric Poet of great sweetness and power ; but his 
 writings were not very popular, on account of the 
 religious tenets which he professed being Roman 
 Catholic; and of his Poems being very deeply 
 imbued with them. The unfortunate Robert 
 Southwell, the Jesuit, was also doomed, not only 
 to find his Poetry neglected, but to lay down his 
 life on account of his Creed ; and this too, during 
 the domination of that boasted advocate of libe- 
 rality and toleration, Queen Elizabeth. His 
 Works, both Prose and Poetry, are full of deep 
 and original thoughts, which are, in general, charm- 
 ingly expressed. George Herbert, brother of the 
 
 K 3 
 
202 LECTURES ON 
 
 celebrated Edward, Lord Herbert, of Cherbury, 
 was once an Author of great reputation as a devo- 
 tional Lyrist; but his beauties of thought and 
 diction are so overloaded with far-fetched conceits, 
 and quaintnesses ; low, and vulgar, and even inde- 
 licate imagery; and a pertinacious appropriation 
 of Scripture language and figure, in situations 
 where they make a most unseemly exhibition, that 
 there is now very little probability of his ever re- 
 gaining the popularity which he has lost. That 
 there was much, however, of the real Poetical 
 temperament in the composition of his mind, the 
 following lines, although not free from his cha- 
 racteristic blemishes, will abundantly prove : 
 
 " Sweet Day! so cool, so calm, so bright, 
 
 The bridal of the Earth and sky ; 
 Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night, 
 For thou must die ! 
 
 Sweet Rose ! whose hue, angry and brave, 
 
 Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; 
 Thy root is ever in it's grave, 
 And thou must die ! 
 
 Sweet Spring ! full of sweet days and roses, 
 
 A box, where sweets compacted lie ; 
 My Music shews you have your closes, 
 And all must die ! 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 203 
 
 Only a sweet and virtuous Soul, 
 
 Like seasoned timber never gives, 
 But when the whole world turns to coal 
 Then chiefly lives." 
 
 Francis Quarles is an Author of the same stamp ; 
 with a fine genius, but the vilest taste in the world. 
 His writings are full of powerful effort, ill directed. 
 His Poetry, in all it's faults and merits, is well 
 illustrated by his engravings. There is much of 
 what Artists call good intention in both, but never 
 was good intention so marred in the execution. 
 His Poetry is not more like Milton's, than his 
 pictures are like Raffaelle's ; yet both are full of 
 originality and power : the mere chippings and 
 parings of his genius, combined with a little taste 
 and judgment, would have been sufficient to have 
 formed either an Artist, or a Poet, of no ordinary 
 rank. 
 
 The Odes and Choruses of Milton are perhaps 
 the most perfect Lyrics in our language. The 
 " Hymn on the Nativity " beginning, " It was 
 the Winter wild;" the lines " On a solemn Mu- 
 sic"" Blest pair of Syrens ! pledges of Hea- 
 ven's joy !" and the Choruses of " Sampson Ago* 
 nistes" are altogether matchless. Like all the 
 writings of Milton, they are remarkable for their 
 union of the sublimity and daring of the Greek 
 
204 LECTURES Otf 
 
 Poets, with the holy fervour and sanctity of tntf 
 Scriptural writers. He is, as it were, Isaiah and 
 Pindar combined. He soars on the pinions of the 
 Theban Eagle, yet his lips seem touched with 
 the same coal of fire from the Altar, as were 
 those of the inspired Prophet of Israel. 
 
 Of all Authors, ancient or modern, who 
 have been subjected to the inflictions of Transla- 
 tors, certainly the Royal Psalmist, David, has 
 been treated with the greatest indignity; for, in 
 no language in Europe, has justice been done to 
 him. He has been traduced into French, over- 
 turned into Dutch, and done into English, with 
 equal beauty and felicity. In our own country, 
 the Psalms, like every thing else appertaining to 
 the Church, seem to be considered Parish property, 
 and to be under the control of a Select Vestry ; 
 every vestige of genius, or Poetry, in them, is 
 therefore most carefully picked out, lest they should 
 interfere with the popularity of the Verses of that 
 most ancient and respectable parochial officer, 
 the bellman! The words which are feloniously 
 attributed to the " sweet singer of Israel/' might, 
 with greater probability, be considered the author- 
 ship of the Parish Clerk, who drawls them out ; or of 
 the Charity Children, who lend their most " sweet 
 voices" to grace them with appropriate melody. 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 205 
 
 It is, certainly, most extraordinary, that a work 
 which is worthy of the highest Poetical powers of 
 any age, or of any country, should hitherto have 
 been generally abandoned to the ignorant, the in- 
 capable, and the presumptuous. But the truth is, 
 that so long as the purposes of Public worship are 
 exclusively kept in view, and the Translator is 
 confined to the drawling long, and short Metres, 
 the straight waistcoats of Verse, which are now 
 used, it will be impossible to infuse into any 
 English version, the power and feeling, the spirit 
 and energy, of the originals. It is obvious that 
 many of these Psalms are not fitted for public use ; 
 and that the variety of their subjects, requires an 
 equal variety of Metre. Some of them breathe 
 all the ardour of triumph ; some, all the dejection 
 of humility; some are sweet and gentle Pastorals; 
 others are grand and melancholy Songs, which are 
 fit to be warbled only amidst the scenes which they 
 describe ; in solitude, and captivity, amidst danger 
 and distress ; by the rivers of Babylon, and among 
 the tents of Kedar. 
 
 One Translator has had the conscience to render 
 a part of that fine Lyric, the 137th Psalm, which 
 runs thus, " If I forget thee, Oh Jerusalem ! may 
 my right hand forget her cunning ; if I do not re- 
 
206 LECTURES ON 
 
 member thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of 
 my mouth ! " in the following manner : 
 
 " If I forget thee ever, 
 Then let me prosper never, 
 
 But let it cause 
 
 My tongue and jaws 
 To cling and cleave together!" 
 
 William Slatyer published, in 1642, the " Songs 
 of Sion, or certain Psalms of David, set to strange 
 Tunes, and rendered into a strange Tongue" Of 
 the Tunes, I can say nothing ; but the tongue is 
 strange enough. For instance, a part of the 6th 
 and 7th Verses of the 52d Psalm, " The righteous 
 also shall see, and fear, and shall laugh at him : 
 Lo ! this is the man that made not God his 
 strength ; but trusted in the abundance of his 
 riches ! " is thus versified : 
 
 " The righteous shall his sorrow scan, 
 
 And laugh at him, and say, behold ! 
 What has become of this here man, 
 That on his riches was so bold !" 
 
 Archbishop Parker, in the year 1564,- printed a 
 Version of the entire book of Psalms, for private 
 circulation, which was never published ; but a copy 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 207 
 
 which has fallen into my hands, does not say much 
 for the Most Reverend Prelate's Poetical talents. 
 His version of the 1st verse of the 125th Psalm 
 will suffice as a specimen of the entire Volume. 
 The Prose translation is as follows: '* They that 
 trust in the Lord shall be as Mount Zion, which 
 cannot be removed, but abideth for ever :" which 
 the Archbishop versifies thus : 
 
 " Who sticketh to God in stable trust, 
 As Sion mount he stands full just ; 
 Which moveth no whit, nor yet can reel, 
 But standeth for ever, as stiff as steel." 
 
 Other parts of the Scriptures have scarcely 
 suffered less at the hands of versifiers than the 
 Psalms; for, in the reign of Edward the Sixth, Dr. 
 Christopher Tye turned the whole " Acts of the 
 Apostles" into rhyme. His Metre is something 
 like that of Mr. Moore's Song of " Fly from the 
 world, Oh Bessy, to me !" and the Reverend 
 Doctor begins his task thus : 
 
 " In the former Epistle to thee, 
 
 Dear friend Theophilus, 
 I have written the veritie 
 
 Of the Lord Christ Jesus !" 
 
208 LECTURES OK 
 
 Such, as Lord Byron truly said, are some of thd 
 Authors, who, 
 
 " Break into Verse the Gospel of St. Luke, 
 Or boldly pilfer from the Pentateuch ; 
 And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, 
 Pervert the Prophets, and purloin the Psalms !" 
 
 One of the earliest complete versions of the 
 Psalms, and, perhaps, with all it's faults, for, 
 alas ! we have but a choice of evils, one of the 
 best, is that of Sternhold and Hopkins. It is by 
 far the most faithful version ; and, although in the 
 effort to be scrupulously literal, the Authors have 
 so often fallen into absurdity, and bathos, yet 
 there are a few Psalms which are rendered into 
 English with real poetical beauty, and feeling. 
 Those which have the signature N affixed to them, 
 are by far the best. They are the production of 
 Thomas Norton, who was, jointly with Lord Buck- 
 hurst, Author of the old Play of " Gorbuduc" 
 which we have had occasion to mention several 
 times in the course of these Lectures, as the first 
 regular English Tragedy. The version of Tate 
 and Brady is really beneath our notice. All the 
 absurdities of Sternhold and his coadjutors, are 
 preferable to this dull, sleepy, prosaic transmuta- 
 tion of some of the most magnificent Poems in the 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 209 
 
 world. That of Dr. Watts, however respectable, 
 is not, and does not affect to be, a translation. It 
 is a commentary, or an exposition of the Author's 
 own views and fancies; and, however acceptable 
 to those who coincide in his opinions, is worse 
 than nothing, as a faithful and correct version of 
 the Psalms. Perhaps, after all, the genius of the 
 two languages, Hebrew and English, is so adverse, 
 that it is not likely that any Metrical imitation 
 can give an adequate idea of the original. The 
 fine Prose version of the Translators of the Bible, 
 is certainly infinitely more Poetical than any at- 
 tempt which has yet been made at Versification. 
 
 Lyrical Poetry, like almost all other Poetry, 
 except the Comic Drama, seems to have made a 
 dead stop at the Restoration. The Love Songs, 
 Pastoral Songs, Sentimental Songs, Loyal Songs, 
 and Devotional Songs, which were then produced, 
 now call upon us for no other expression of our 
 sentiments and opinions, but that of peace be with 
 their ashes ! The stream from which those Poets 
 drank was Lethe, and not Helicon ; a wreath of 
 poppy and nightshade, instead of laurel and 
 bays, has now settled quietly on their brows; 
 and the Critical resurrectionist who would raise 
 them from the oblivious grave in which they are 
 so peacefully inurned, would deserve a sentence 
 
210 LECTURES ON 
 
 of outlawry in all the Courts of Parnassus. Dry- 
 den is a solitary, but a magnificent, exception. 
 His two splendid Odes on St. Cecilia's Day will 
 last as long as the language in which they are 
 written. The Second, entitled " Alexander's 
 Feast " is unquestionably the finest Ode in our 
 language. Pope's on the same subject sinks infi- 
 nitely in the camparison. It is certainly not with- 
 out merit; but Pope's pinions, strong and vigorous 
 as they were, were not peculiarly adapted for 
 Pindaric flights. Rowe, who has shewn his taste, 
 if not his honesty, in directing his attention to our 
 old English writers, has thus truly and ener- 
 getically characterised the Authors of the ancient 
 Ballads : 
 
 " Those venerable ancient Song enditers, 
 
 Soar'd many a pitch beyond our modern writers; 
 With rough, majestic strength they touch'd the heart, 
 And Truth and Nature made amends for Art." 
 
 His own Poems are very pleasing imitations of 
 the ancient Lyrists, and may be said to have given 
 rise to the School of Modern Ballad Writers ; in 
 which may be numbered Tickell, whose fine and 
 feeling " Elegy on the death of Addison" is very 
 superior to the general tone of English Poetry at 
 that period ; Mallet, Mickle, Glover, of whose 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 211 
 
 Ballad of " Hosier's Ghost" Sheridan declared 
 he would rather be the Author than of the Annals 
 of Tacitus, Gay, Percy, and Goldsmith. From 
 such well known works as " Colin and Lucy" 
 " William and Margaret," " Edwin and Emma," 
 " Black-Eyed Susan," the " Friar of Orders 
 Grey" and " Edwin and Angelina" it would be idle 
 for me to adduce any extracts. They form a very 
 agreeable variety in our Literature, and combine 
 much of the native beauty and feeling of the an- 
 cient Ballad, with the more polished versification 
 of modern times. 
 
 I cannot, however, close this part of my sub- 
 ject without observing that there are several 
 highly gifted Ballad writers now living ; especially 
 Mr. Coleridge, whose " Genevieve" and the " An- 
 cient Mariner" are two of the most magnificent 
 productions in our language. 
 
 Gray for a long time held undivided empire in 
 the world of English Lyrical Poetry. Mason said 
 of him : 
 
 " No more the Grecian Muse unrivall'd reigns, 
 
 To Britain let the Nations homage pay ; 
 She boasts a Homer's fire in Milton's strains, 
 A Pindar's rapture in the Lyre of Gray !" 
 
 and the public eagerly echoed the sentiment. 
 
212 LECTURES OK 
 
 Milton still continues in undisputed possession of 
 the Epic Supremacy, but the Lyrical crown of 
 Gray was swept away at one fell swoop by the 
 ruthless arm of Dr. Johnson. That the Doctor's 
 celebrated critique was unduly severe, must be 
 admitted ; but the stern censor had truth on his 
 side, nevertheless. There is more of Art than 
 Nature in Gray ; more of recollection than in- 
 vention; more of acquirement than genius. If I 
 may use a colloquial illustration, I should say, 
 that the marks of the tools are too evident on ail 
 that he does. I do not object to effort and la- 
 bour being exercised on that which is intended 
 for the public eye ; but the highest effort, and the 
 most successful labour, are those which produce 
 the effects without exhibiting the means. Who 
 can doubt but that the works of Milton were the 
 result of long, and painful, and elaborate la- 
 bour ; but the only evidence of that labour is the 
 perfection to which they are wrought. In Milton 
 we see the Poet; in Gray, the Verse constructor. 
 In Milton we see the stately edifice reared ; in 
 Gray, the materials brought together for it's erec- 
 tion. One shews us the palette, and the canvas, 
 and the brush ; the other shews us the Picture ; 
 the production of the Master mind, without 
 whose informing genius, the palette, and the can- 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 213 
 
 vas, and the brush, are but idle and worthless 
 toys. 
 
 Collins is, next to Jonson, Milton, and Dryden, 
 the finest Lyrical Poet which England has pro- 
 duced. Elegance, delicacy, refinement, pathos, 
 sublimity, all are his. Had health of body, and 
 sanity of mind been preserved to him, I know 
 scarcely any English Poet by whom he would have 
 been surpassed. But, as an Author, whom I 
 have not yet named in these Lectures, but for 
 whom, with all his faults, I take this opportunity 
 of testifying my admiration, Churchill, has said,- 
 
 " By curious Art the brain too finely wrought, 
 Preys on itself, and is destroy'd by thought." 
 
 Such was the fate of Collins ; the most accom- 
 plished Scholar, and the most original Poet of his 
 age. His misfortunes, however, survived him ; 
 for his Epitaph was written by Hayley, who bore 
 about as much resemblance to him, " as I to 
 Hercules." 
 
 Mason, and the Wartons, are the latest Lyrical 
 Poets, whom it will be consistent with my plan to 
 mention. The first was certainly a man of con- 
 siderable talent. His " Elfrida" and " Carac- 
 lacus" notwithstanding the trammels in which he 
 
214 LECTURES ON 
 
 voluntarily chose to involve himself, shew much 
 dramatic power, and the Choruses in the last, 
 particularly that beginning " Hark ! heard ye not 
 yon footstep dread?" venture almost on the pathless 
 regions of sublimity. The Wartons, particularly 
 Thomas Warton, were men of cultivated minds, 
 and refined taste, but to original genius they had 
 no pretensions. 
 
 And now, " my task is done, my labour is com- 
 plete." For the attention which I have been for- 
 tunate enough to command, I am indebted to the 
 nature of the subject on which I have been speak- 
 ing. The situations of the Painter and the Critic 
 are singularly contrasted. In the one instance, 
 the canvas derives all it's importance from the 
 Artist; in the other, the Artist derives all his 
 importance from the canvas. The canvas on which 
 I have been employed, has been the merits of the 
 Poets of England ; of those illustrious men who, 
 more than her Monarchs, her Statesmen, or her 
 Warriors, great as they confessedly have been, 
 will transmit her fame to the most distant climes, 
 and the remotest generations. The works of man's 
 hand often perish before that hand has mouldered 
 in the dust; but the vast productions of his mind 
 are immortal as that mind itself. Even now we 
 see how far the genius of England has extended 
 
ENGLISH POETRY. 215 
 
 beyond her territorial limits. Language is the 
 type of ideas, and the medium by which they are 
 expressed. Louis the Fourteenth boasted, that 
 he had made French the language of Europe ; but, 
 when we remember, that English is not only the 
 language of these realms, and their dependencies 
 in the four quarters of the world ; but also of 
 another mighty Empire beyond the wide Atlantic ; 
 and of the hundred realms of Hindoostan ; and 
 of that insular continent, which may be called 
 the fifth division of the globe ; and, moreover, 
 that, for tha purposes of Commerce, or of Lite- 
 rature, or by means of Religious Missionaries, it 
 has been, more or less, introduced into almost every 
 Realm, and State, and Territory, on the face of 
 the earth, we may then, indeed, venture to call it' 
 the language of the World ! This Language is 
 that mighty engine which our Poets have subdued 
 to themselves ; and on which they have stamped 
 the impress of their own unrivalled genius : this is 
 that flood which shall spread over the whole World ; 
 and when the dynasties of the present period, and 
 the " cloud capt towers, and the gorgeous pa- 
 laces," and the political Institutions, and the 
 customs, and modes, and manners, which now 
 prevail, shall sink beneath it, like the Cities and 
 Mountains of the antediluvian world ; the genius 
 
216 
 
 of England, like the Ark of old, shall float proudly 
 and securely on it's bosom, and survive to delight 
 new eras, and form the taste and manners of 
 Nations yet unborn. 
 
 END OF THE LECTURES. 
 
TALES, POEMS, &c. 
 
 PRINTED FROM THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPTS. 
 
Th' Earth o' the grave hath stopt his hearing, Sir; 
 And praise and blame are now alike to him : 
 Yet, though his ear be dull, and his heart cold, 
 And all Fame's aspirations quench'd in death, 
 Still let these reliques bear a charmed life, 
 And speak, though he be silent. 
 
 OLD PLAY. 
 
THE GARTER. 
 
 A ROMANCE OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 
 
 " Honi soit qui Mai y pense." 
 
 ENGLAND resumed her ascendancy over Scotland 
 soon after Edward the Third had commenced that 
 brilliant reign which was destined to attract the 
 eyes of all Europe towards him. Nature and 
 Fortune seemed to have concurred in distinguishing 
 this Prince from all other monarchs. He was very 
 tall, but well shaped ; and of so noble and majestic 
 an aspect, that his very looks commanded esteem 
 and veneration. His conversation was easy, and 
 always accompanied with gravity and discretion. 
 He was affable and obliging, benevolent and con- 
 descending ; and although the most renowned 
 Prince, Warrior, and Statesman, of the age in 
 which he lived, his manners and conduct were 
 courteous, unaffected, and even humble. His heart, 
 
 L2 
 
220 ORIGINAL 
 
 filled with visions of glory, was as yet ignorant of 
 a passion with which few men know how to combat ; 
 and which is equally the source of the greater part 
 of all the virtues, and vices, of humanity: young 
 Edward was unacquainted with love. He only 
 aspired to resume those conquests, which had es- 
 caped from the feeble grasp of his unhappy Father. 
 He burned with the desire of subjecting a neigh- 
 bouring kingdom, the conquest of which had ever 
 been a favourite project of England. Robert 
 Bruce was in his grave ; and his successor, although 
 he inherited his courage, did but hasten the de- 
 struction of the Scottish monarchv. 
 
 The English Monarch was served by men who 
 were worthy of their master. William Montacute 
 had fought with distinction and success, against 
 the French and Scots, and raised by the king 
 to the rank of Earl of Salisbury, he desired no- 
 thing but the continuance of his Sovereign's fa- 
 vour ; which Edward confirmed, by engaging the 
 Baron de Grandison, one of his Ministers, to give 
 his eldest daughter to him in marriage. 
 
 Katharine de Grandison had not yet appeared 
 at Court, but lived in seclusion and solitude at her 
 Father's castle in Gloucestershire. To a tall and 
 stately form, and a majestic gait, she added the 
 most sylph-like grace, and lightness of figure. 
 
TALKS, POEMS, ETC. 221 
 
 Her features were of that classical symmetry, and 
 faultless beauty, which we so often see in the 
 Greek statues, and sigh over as if they were only 
 the dreams of the inspired. Her face was exqui- 
 sitely fair ; her eyes of an intense blue ; and her 
 voice surpassingly rich, powerful, and melodious. 
 The accomplishments, both mental and acquired, 
 with which she was endowed, were of as high an 
 order as those of her person ; and to both, she 
 united a sweetness and gentleness of disposition, 
 which made her the idol of all who were acquainted 
 with her. 
 
 Her Father, the Lord de Grandison, was of a 
 lofty and imperious character. Neither very mild, 
 or, what has been in modern times called amiable, 
 he had a stern and inflexible spirit of justice, and 
 probity. Incapable of sycophancy, although he 
 resided at Court, and adoring his Sovereign 
 without being able to degrade himself to the rank 
 of a flatterer, he would gladly have sacrificed his 
 life for the King, but his honour was dearer to 
 him even than Edward. Next to the Monarch, 
 and the state, the object to which he was most at- 
 tached was his daughter ; and he lost no time in ac- 
 quainting Katharine with the wishes of his Master, 
 who demanded her hand for the Earl of Salisbury. 
 The Father did not observe the Daughter's emo- 
 
222 ORIGINAL 
 
 tion, but retired, convinced that he should be 
 obeyed, and that she knew no other law than her 
 parent's will. He had, however, not long quitted 
 the apartment before her younger sister Alice en- 
 tered it, and found her bathed in tears. " Sweet 
 Sister," said Alice, " what mean these tears?" 
 
 " Alas !" returned the lady Katharine, " I am 
 no longer to be mistress of myself. Thy love, and 
 my Father's protection, were all I wished to form my 
 happiness ; and I am now about to pass under the 
 yoke of a husband, whom I have never seen, nor 
 ever wish 'to see." 
 
 It was in vain that Alice endeavoured to impress 
 upon her Sister's mind the advantages which would 
 attend her union with King Edward's favourite. 
 " It is true," she replied, " that the Earl of 
 Salisbury stands high in the favour of the greatest 
 Monarch in Europe. But hast thou ever seen the 
 King, Alice ? Is he not worthy of the homage of 
 all mankind ? Lives there any one who can so 
 irresistibly command our respect, our veneration, 
 our love ? I beheld him but once, at an entertain- 
 ment to which my Father accompanied me : but 
 one glance was sufficient ! Oh ! how happy will 
 that Princess be who calls him husband !" 
 
 At these words the young lady paused, and 
 blushed; yet notwithstanding such very unpromising 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 223 
 
 symptoms, the day for the nuptials was immediately 
 fixed ; as the old Lord never dreamed of asking his 
 Daughter if his own, and the King's choice were 
 agreeable to her. The Abbey of Westminster was 
 chosen for the celebration ; the Primate performed 
 the ceremony; the King gave away the bride; and 
 Katharine, accompanied by her husband, and her 
 Sister, proceeded to spend the honeymoon at the 
 Earl's Castle of Wark, in Northumberland. His 
 Lordship had not, however, many weeks enjoyed 
 the society of his beautiful wife, before he was 
 summoned to attend the Earl of Suffolk on a war- 
 like expedition to Flanders; on which occasion his 
 usual good fortune for the first time forsook him. 
 Both the Earls were defeated in the first battle in 
 which they engaged ; and were sent prisoners to the 
 Court of France, until they could be either ran- 
 somed, or exchanged. 
 
 This piece of intelligence was communicated to 
 the lady Katharine at the same time with another, 
 by which she learned that King Edward had been 
 solemnly betrothed to the lady Philippa of Hainault. 
 The Treaty for this Marriage gave general and 
 unmixed pleasure to all his subjects ; the Count 
 of Hainault, the lady's Father, being one of the 
 most powerful allies of England on the Continent, 
 
224 ORIGINAL 
 
 who had been mainly instrumental in rescuing it 
 from the tyranny of Mortimer, Earl of March, and 
 the old Queen Isabella, and thus securing the 
 Crown for Edward the Third. The Lord de 
 Grandison, in particular, was delighted by the 
 prospect of an union between the houses of Eng- 
 land and Hainault ; but no sooner was this news 
 communicated to the Countess of Salisbury, than 
 she was overwhelmed with the most poignant 
 sorrow. Whether the EaiTs captivity, or the 
 King's marriage, had the greatest share in causing 
 it, we must leave our fair readers to determine. 
 
 "Why, my sweet Katharine/' said Alice, " why 
 do you take the Earl's captivity so much to heart? 
 the Court of France must be the most agreeable 
 prison in the world. There he will find every 
 thing to solace him in his misfortunes, and enable 
 him to sustain his separation from you." 
 
 " Let him forget me ; let him cease to love me; 
 'tis no matter !" sighed the Countess. 
 
 " You deceive me, Katharine," said Alice ; 
 " you conceal something from me ; for it is im- 
 possible that the capture which has placed your 
 Lord in the hands of generous and magnanimous 
 foes, can be the occasion of so deep a grief as 
 yours." 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 225 
 
 *' True, true, my sweet Alice," said the Countess, 
 throwing herself in her Sister's arms; " I am the 
 most wretched of women ; I love " 
 
 " The Earl!" said Alice. 
 
 " The King!" said Katharine; hiding her face 
 in her Sister's bosom. 
 
 ". Ha !" said the latter, " what is't I hear ? I 
 am your friend, your Sister, Katharine, and would 
 fain administer to your peace ; but whither will 
 this fatal passion lead you?" 
 
 " To death, sweet Alice ! to death ! or, at least, 
 to a life made miserable by the consciousness of 
 nursing in my heart a sentiment, to which honour 
 and virtue are alike opposed. And I have a rival, 
 Alice! Oh! save me, save me from myself! 
 Speak to me of Salisbury, of my husband! of his 
 renown, his truth, his valour ! and I will forget 
 this King, whose conquests cannot be bounded by 
 France and Scotland, but must include even the 
 affections of his subjects." 
 
 The heart of Katharine was tender and suscep- 
 tible, but bold and firm ; and in the society of her 
 Sister, and in the active discharge of the various 
 duties devolving upon her elevated rank, she en- 
 deavoured to repress that fatal passion, which the 
 recent intelligence had strengthened to a height, 
 almost bordering upon insanity. 
 
 L3 
 
226 ORIGINAL 
 
 In the meantime, King Edward openly declared 
 war against the Scots ; who, instead of waiting 
 to be attacked, resolved to become themselves 
 the assailants, and, with a large army, invaded 
 England ; ravaged the northern counties ; attacked 
 Newcastle ; took and burned the City of Durham ; 
 and finally, laid siege to Wark Castle, which was 
 left to the defence of the Countess of Salisbury, 
 Sir William Montacute, the son of her Husband's 
 sister, and a very slender garrison. This heroic 
 Lady, however, by her beauty and firmness, in- 
 spired all with courage, and devotion to her cause ; 
 though the assault of the enemy was too fierce 
 and unremitting for them to hope long to defend 
 the Castle, without assistance from King Edward ; 
 which Sir William Montacute volunteered to ob- 
 tain. " I know your loyalty and heartiness, as 
 well as your affection for the Lady of this house/' 
 said the gallant Knight to the beleagured garrison ; 
 " and so, out of my love for her, and for you, 
 I will risque my life in endeavouring to make the 
 King acquainted with our situation ; when I doubt 
 not to be able to bring back with me such succour 
 as will effectually relieve us." 
 
 This speech cheered both the Countess and her 
 defenders ; and at midnight Sir William left the 
 fortress, happily unobserved by the Scots, It 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 227 
 
 was so pitiless a storm, that he passed through 
 their army without being noticed ; until about day 
 break, when he met two Scotsmen, half a league 
 from their camp, driving thither some oxen. 
 These men Sir William attacked, and wounded 
 very severely ; killed the cattle that they might not 
 carry them to their army; and then said to them, 
 " Go and tell your leader, that William Monta- 
 cute has passed through his troops, and is gone to 
 seek succour from the King of England, who is 
 now at Berwick ;" which intelligence being speedily 
 communicated to the King of Scotland, he lost no 
 time in raising the siege, and retreating towards 
 the frontier. 
 
 Within a very few hours, King Edward arrived 
 to the relief of the garrison, and proceeded to 
 pay his respects to the Countess ; who went to meet 
 him at the Castle-gates, and there gave him her 
 thanks for his assistance. They entered the Castle 
 hand in hand ; and the King kept his eyes so con- 
 tinually upon her, that the gentle dame was quite 
 abashed: after which, he retired to a window, 
 where he fell into a profound reverie; and, as 
 Froissart tells us, upon the Countess enquiring the 
 subject of his thoughts, and whether it was public 
 business on which he mused, the King replied, 
 " Other affairs, Lady, touch my heart more nearly; 
 
228 ORIGINAL 
 
 for in truth, your perfections have so surprised and 
 affected me, that my happiness depends on my 
 meeting from you a return to that love with which 
 my bosom burns, and which no refusal can ex- 
 tinguish." 
 
 " Sire," replied the Countess, " do not amuse 
 yourself by laughing at me ; for I cannot believe, 
 that you mean what you have just said ; or, that so 
 noble and gallant a Prince would think of disho- 
 nouring me, or my Husband, who now is in prison 
 on your account." 
 
 The Lady then quitted the King ; who, after 
 passing the whole of that day, and a restless and 
 sleepless night, at the Castle ; at dawn the next 
 morning departed in chase of the Scots. Upon 
 taking leave of the Countess, he said, " Dearest 
 Lady, God preserve you ! Think well of what I 
 have said, and give me a kinder answer." Her 
 reply to which solicitation was, however, similar 
 to all the former, though Edward would have been 
 amply revenged for the rejection of his suit, had 
 he possessed the keen eyes of Alice de Grandison ; 
 for to their piercing scrutiny, her Sister's heart, with 
 all the storm of passions by which it was agitated, 
 was laid entirely open. " Alice," she said, " it is 
 too true ; I do not love alone! Edward returns 
 my fatal passion. But my mind is fixed. I will 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 229 
 
 behold him no more. Would to Heaven that my 
 Husband were here !" 
 
 As she uttered these words the Countess sunk 
 into the arms of Alice ; and almost at that moment, 
 she received a letter from the Earl. " Heaven be 
 praised !" said she, " Salisbury is on his return ; 
 and his arrival will alike prevent the King, and me, 
 from nursing a sentiment which ought to be stifled 
 in it's birth." Upon the old Lord de Grandison's 
 arrival on a visit to his daughter, he failed not to 
 observe the profound sorrow in which she was 
 plunged; " But rejoice, Katharine !" said he, "your 
 Husband will soon be here. By an arrangement 
 between King Edward and the Courts of France 
 and Scotland, he has been exchanged for the Earl 
 of Moray. Check, then, this immoderate grief; 
 Salisbury has suffered defeat, but it is without 
 disgrace." 
 
 The Countess felt all the pangs of conscious 
 guilt, when she heard her Father attribute her 
 grief to the absence of her Husband. " Oh, my 
 Father !" she said, when left to the companionship 
 of her own painful thoughts, " even thee too, do I 
 deceive ! I am the betrayer of all who surround 
 me ; and dare I meet the gaze of Salisbury ? 
 Alas ! my misfortune and my crime are traced in 
 indelible characters upon my brow." 
 
230 ORIGINAL 
 
 Edward on his return to his capital, though sur- 
 rounded by the most dazzling splendour, and the 
 most enticing pleasures, could not chase from his 
 mind the image of the Countess; and, unable any 
 longer to bear her absence, he wrote to the Lord 
 de Grandison commanding him to bring his daugh- 
 ter to Court, for the purpose of awaiting the speedy 
 arrival of her Husband. " My Father," said she, 
 as soon as the old Lord had communicated to her 
 the royal command, " will not the Earl come hither 
 tome?" 
 
 " Katharine !" answered De Grandison, " the 
 slightest wishes of the King it is our imperative 
 duty to obey." 
 
 " My Lord, if you knew I am a stranger to 
 the capital ; does it not abound with dangers? Is 
 there not ?" 
 
 " Nay, nay, my child ; you have wisdom, edu- 
 cation, and virtuous example to protect you. Once 
 more, your Father and your King command you ; 
 and you must accompany me." 
 
 De Grandison then made the necessary prepa- 
 rations for his own return to the Metropolis; and 
 the Countess, under the pretext of indisposition, 
 was able to delay her own journey but for a short 
 period. News from her Father, however, speedily 
 informed her of her Husband's arrival, and this 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 231 
 
 was quickly followed by a letter from Salisbury 
 himself, full of the most passionate expressions of 
 attachment, and urging her immediate presence. 
 To both these she answered by a plea of continued 
 illness ; and to the latter, added an earnest en- 
 treaty that her lord would himself come to Wark 
 Castle, where she had matter of importance to 
 communicate to him; being resolved to explain 
 the cause of her reluctance to visit London, and, 
 confidentially to acquaint the Earl with the solici- 
 tations of the King. 
 
 This last letter had remained unanswered for a 
 considerable time ; and the Countess feared that 
 she had given offence to both her Husband and her 
 Father, when at length a messenger arrived from 
 London. The Countess snatched his paquet from 
 his hand, and eagerly perused it ; it was from her 
 Father, and ran thus : 
 
 " My dearest Daughter, 
 
 " The moment has arrived when you must arm 
 yourself with all that fortitude which you have 
 inherited from me. True grandeur resides in our 
 own souls; that which we derive from fortune 
 vanishes with the other illusions, of which this life 
 is compounded. You were anxiously expecting 
 your Husband ; and he was about to receive further 
 honours from his master ; but the King of Kings 
 
232 ORIGINAL 
 
 has decreed that Salisbury should not live to enjoy 
 the bounty of his Monarch. A sudden illness has 
 just removed him from this world. 
 
 " Your affectionate Father, 
 
 " DE GRANDISON." 
 
 The decease of the Earl of Salisbury was deeply 
 lamented by the Countess. Gallant, generous, and 
 affectionate, he had won her esteem ; and had she 
 had an opportunity of knowing him longer, might 
 have gained her love. Her delicacy too, loaded her 
 with self-reproaches, from which she did not at- 
 tempt to escape ; and made her feel the loss she 
 had sustained still more acutely. " I will repair 
 my crime/' she said; " I will revenge the manes 
 of Salisbury. The King, although affianced, and 
 by proxy espoused, to Philippa of Hainault, will 
 renew his suit to me ; but he shall learn that 
 esteem and duty are sometimes as powerful as 
 love itself." 
 
 By the death of the gallant Earl, King Edward 
 found himself deprived of one of the main sup- 
 porters of his crown ; and he regretted him not 
 less as an useful citizen, of whom the nation was 
 justly proud, than as a loyal servant, who was sin- 
 cerely attached to his master. Love, nevertheless, 
 mingled with the King's regrets; since he could 
 not but be sensible that he was now without a 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 233 
 
 rival ; and that the Countess was free from a con- 
 straint, which had hitherto separated them from 
 each other. The Earl died without children ; and 
 the Law compelled his Widow to renounce the 
 territorial possessions which were attached to the 
 title, and which now reverted to the Crown. This 
 event, therefore, rendered her presence in London 
 unavoidable; and, on her arrival in the Metropolis, 
 her father, desirous to relieve her from the melan- 
 choly in which she was plunged, wished to intro- 
 duce her at Court, and present her to the King. 
 This proposal, however, met her firm refusal. 
 " What is it that you propose to me, my Lord ?" 
 said she; " ere these mourning habiliments are 
 well folded round me, would you have me parade 
 them in solemn mockery at the foot of the Throne ? 
 Never! Leave me, I conjure you, my Lord; 
 leave me to solitude and silence ; to forgetfulness 
 and despair !" 
 
 De Grandison wished not to constrain the incli- 
 nations of his daughter; and upon communicating 
 the reasons of her absence, the King affected to 
 be satisfied with them. He had, however, com- 
 municated his passion, which he did not choose to 
 avow to honester courtiers, to Sir William Trussell, 
 one of the most artful intriguers, and insinuating 
 sycophants about his Court ; who, anxious only to 
 
234 ORIGINAL 
 
 secure his place in the King's favour, had encou- 
 raged him in the prosecution of this amour, and 
 recommended him to use stratagem, and even 
 violence, should it be necessary towards the attain- 
 ment of his object. 
 
 " The ingrate!" said the King, when he found 
 himself alone with Trussell ; " she refuses me even 
 the innocent gratification of beholding her. I ask 
 but an interview; I wish but to look upon her 
 beauty ; and she refuses to grant me even this 
 niggardly boon, for all that she has made me 
 suffer." 
 
 " My Liege," said Trussell, <f it is compromising 
 your honour and your dignity, to submit to such 
 audacity. The daughter of de Grandison ought 
 to feel but too much flattered that King Edward 
 deigns to bestow a glance, or a thought, upon her. 
 Her husband is in the tomb ; she is free from all 
 restraint ; and you have tendered your love : 
 what is it that she opposes to your offer? Her 
 virtue ! Is not obedience virtue ? Is not com- 
 pliance the first duty of subjects to their Sovereign? 
 My Liege, this daughter of de Grandison hides 
 intrigue under the name of virtue. Your Grace 
 has a rival." 
 
 " Ha!" said Edward, while his lip quivered, 
 and his whole gigantic frame trembled like an 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 235 
 
 aspen leaf; " by Heaven, them hast it, Trussell ! 
 Fool that I was to feign that delicacy and reserve, 
 for which this haughty minion now despises me ! 
 Fly to her, then ; demand an audience, and com- 
 mand her to appear at Court ; tell her that I will 
 brook no answer but compliance." 
 
 Trussell hastened to execute the Monarch's 
 orders; and the King, left to himself, began to 
 ponder on the course which he was pursuing. " I 
 hare yielded, then/' said he, " to the fiend's sug- 
 gestions ; and thus abased myself to a level with 
 the weakest, and most despicable, of mankind. 
 I am preparing to play the tyrant with my sub- 
 jects, and my first victim is an unhappy woman ; 
 whose only crime is the obstinacy with which she 
 repels my unworthy addresses. Hither!" he added, 
 clapping his hands, and immediately one of his 
 pages stood before him ; " hasten after Sir William 
 Trussell: bid him attend me instantly." 
 
 " Trussell," said the King, as he returned, 
 equipped for the errand he was about to undertake, 
 " I have consulted my heart ; I have held com- 
 munion with myself; and I have learned, that it 
 befits not Edward of England to employ force or 
 artifice to achieve the conquest of the heart of 
 Katharine : I will vanquish her obstinacy by other 
 means." 
 
236 ORIGINAL 
 
 " What, my Liege!" said Trussell, " will you 
 then submit ?" 
 
 " To any thing, rather than suffer the Countess 
 of Salisbury to accuse me of despotism." 
 
 " In your Grace's place " said Trussell. 
 
 " In my place," interrupted Edward, " you 
 would act as I do; I wish to shew, that I possess 
 the soul, as well as the station of a King. Katha- 
 rine of Salisbury shall not be the victim of my 
 caprice. Go ; and, in future, give me only such 
 counsel as shall be worthy of both of us." 
 
 The King congratulated himself on this heroic 
 effort ; and it was one which cost him many pangs : 
 nor was the Countess without her struggles, and her 
 anxieties ; for, while the image of her lost husband 
 was hourly becoming more effaced from her heart, 
 that of the King was more deeply engraven there 
 than ever. She received many letters from him, but 
 answered none ; and the pride of the royal lover 
 began to take fire again at the neglect and con- 
 tumely with which his mistress treated his ad- 
 dresses : whilst Trussell used every means of 
 nourishing this feeling, and of insinuating that both 
 the Father and Daughter were anxious only to en- 
 hance the price, at which the virtue of the latter 
 was to be bartered. 
 
 De Grandison, who began to think that his 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. \ 237 
 
 daughter carried her grief for her Husband to an 
 extravagant and immoderate height, now remon- 
 strated with her, somewhat impetuously, on her 
 absence from the Court. 
 
 " Do you think," said he, " that I will will- 
 ingly behold you in a state of eternal widowhood ? 
 or that I will suffer you to fail in the respect and 
 duty which we owe the King? Is there a Monarch 
 in the world so worthy of his subjects' love? of his 
 subjects' hearts?" 
 
 "Alas!" said the Countess, " who can feel 
 more deeply than I do, how much we are indebted 
 to him ! But take care, my Father, that he per- 
 forms the contract for which his royal word and 
 your own are irrevocably given. See that he weds, 
 and that speedily, Philippa de Hainault." 
 
 " Wherefore should I doubt that he will do so?" 
 said de Grandison. " Is he not pledged, in the 
 face of all Europe, to become her husband ? and 
 was I not the bearer of his promise to the Earl of 
 Hainault to that effect?" 
 
 " He will never wed her, rny Father/' said the 
 Countess ; <c you are yourself witness that from 
 day to day he defers the marriage, on the most 
 frivolous pretexts." 
 
 " Nay, nay, sweet Katharine," said the old 
 Lord, " wherefore should you take so much inte- 
 
238 ORIGINAL 
 
 rest in this marriage? This is but a stratagem to 
 put me from my suit. I am going this evening to 
 attend the King ; you must accompany me." 
 
 " Pardon me, my dearest Father ; pardon me, 
 but I cannot go." 
 
 " I entreat, I command you," said de Grandi- 
 son. " I have too long permitted your disobedi- 
 ence and now " 
 
 " Father ! behold me a suppliant on my knees 
 before you ! defer, but for a few days defer this 
 visit to the Court ; and then I will obey you." 
 
 " What means this emotion, Katharine ?" said 
 her Father; " I find it difficult to refuse you any 
 thing. Do not forget, however, that the delay 
 which I grant must be but a short one ; in three 
 days you must accompany me." 
 
 This interview, however, which the Baron had 
 been unable to effect, either by his commands, or 
 his entreaties, he at last managed to accomplish 
 by a stratagem. He persuaded his daughter to 
 consent to accompany him to a Masqued Ball, to 
 which she had been invited by the Countess of 
 Suffolk, at her seat, a few miles distant from 
 London ; and the fair and noble widow no sooner 
 made her appearance among the assembled com- 
 pany, than every eye was fixed upon her. Her 
 tall and stately, yet graceful figure, glided down 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 239 
 
 the rooms like a visitant from another sphere, when 
 an unfortunate accident completely disconcerted 
 her. A Mask, richly dressed, had long followed 
 her through all the apartments ; when, as she was 
 endeavouring with some embarrassment to escape 
 from his pursuit, by hurrying to a vacant seat, her 
 Garter dropped upon the floor ! The Mask ea- 
 gerly stooped down and seized it, and she as ea- 
 gerly, instantly demanded it's restoration. 
 
 " Nay, gentle Madam," said he, " this is a 
 prize too precious to be lightly parted with, and 
 
 J 99 
 
 " Discourteous Knight !" said the lady, " know 
 you whom you treat with so much indignity T and 
 at these words she removed the mask from her 
 face, hoping thus to awe her persecutor into ac- 
 quiescence. Her surprise, however, was equal to 
 that of any one present, when her tormentor, 
 removing his own visor, discovered the features of 
 King Edward ! The Lady sank on her knee be- 
 fore the Monarch, and the whole company fol- 
 lowed her example. 
 
 " Behold!" cried the King, holding up the ra- 
 vished Garter, " a treasure, of the possession of 
 which I own myself unworthy ; yet will I not part 
 with it, for any ransom wealth or power can offer." 
 An ill-suppressed burst of laughter followed this 
 speech. " Honi soit qui Maly pense!" exclaimed 
 
240 ORIGINAL 
 
 the King. " Laugh on, my Lords and Gentlemen! 
 but in good time the merriest of ye, aye, and the 
 greatest Sovereigns of Europe, shall be proud to 
 wear this Garter." Thus saying, the King whis- 
 pered a few words to the Countess, which seemed 
 to occasion her considerable embarrassment ; and 
 then, making a lowly obeisance, left the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 The declaration which he had that night made, 
 he shortly afterwards accomplished, by instituting 
 the far renowned order of the Garter ; which, with 
 the ceremonies and entertainments consequent 
 upon it, for some time occupied the almost undi- 
 vided attention of King Edward. His love for the 
 Countess of Salisbury was, however, now openly 
 avowed ; and the arrival of the Princess Philippa, 
 to whom he had already been married by proxy, 
 was delayed in consequence of his not sending the 
 necessary escort. The people soon began to mur- 
 mur at this delay, since not only the honour of the 
 King, but of the nation also, was concerned in 
 keeping faith with the Count of Hainault, whose 
 alliance was of such vital importance to the in- 
 terests of England. It was at this juncture that 
 the Lord de Grandison presented himself to the 
 King, and demanded a private audience. 
 
 " I have letters, my Liege/' said the Baron, 
 " from the Count of Hainault, who bitterly com- 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 241 
 
 plains of the delay in executing the treaty, with 
 the conclusion of which your Grace was pleased to 
 honour me." 
 
 At these words the King changed colour, which 
 the Baron was not slow in observing, as he con- 
 tinued, " wherefore, my Liege, should this in- 
 telligence displease you? I perceive in your 
 glance traces of indifference, and even of dislike, 
 towards this union, which all England expects with 
 such impatience." 
 
 " De Grandison," said Edward, " Kings are 
 formed of the same materials as other men : they 
 have hearts, and mine is consumed by a passion, 
 which makes me sensible that rank and power are 
 not happiness." 
 
 " What, my Liege ! have your eyes betrayed 
 your heart to another object ? can you forswear 
 your royal word ? Honour, fame, policy, all for- 
 bid it ; all conspire to hasten your marriage with 
 the Lady Philippa." 
 
 " If you knew the Beauty of my own Court, 
 who has inspired my passion, my Lord, you would 
 not press this subject." 
 
 " I know nothing but your Grace's interest and 
 honour," said de Grandison. " Pardon my frank- 
 ness, but there can be no motive of sufficient 
 weight to occasion any further delay." 
 
 M 
 
242 ORIGINAL 
 
 " No motive, Lord de Grandison?" said Ed- 
 ward, and he sighed. " Alas ! I see that age has 
 chilled your blood, and frozen up your heart." 
 
 " My Liege, I burn more than ever with devo- 
 tion to your service. If this Marriage be not so- 
 lemnized, and speedily, you will offend a power- 
 ful Prince, to whom you are indebted for many 
 benefits, and also disappoint the fond hopes of 
 your loyal people. You forget yourself, my 
 Liege ; remember that you are a King, and 
 King of England! I speak to Edward; who, 
 stripped even of the splendours of Royalty, should 
 still be worthy of the respect and admiration of 
 mankind." 
 
 " We shall see, my Lord de Grandison,' 7 said 
 the King; " but now leave me; leave me." 
 
 The old Baron had no sooner left Edward, than 
 the King summoned Trussell to an audience, and 
 informed him of his recent interview, and of it's 
 unfavourable result ; adding, " I wished to speak 
 to him of his daughter, and of my love for her ; 
 but I know not wherefore, I was unable to explain 
 myself. There is a fierce inflexibility about that 
 old man, which I admire, and yet which irritates 
 me. I reverence, and yet I fear him !" 
 
 " And is your Grace deceived by this de Gran- 
 dison's affectation of inflexibility and virtue ? Be- 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 243 
 
 lieve me, my Liege, that the old lord and his 
 daughter both have their price ; although it is a 
 somewhat extravagant one. But suffer me to un- 
 dertake your Grace's suit ; and doubt not I will 
 so manage it, that the Baron himself shall be the 
 first to give the lovely Countess to your arms." 
 
 Upon leaving the King, Trussell speedily sought 
 and found the Baron alone in his apartment, pe- 
 rusing and sighing over his despatches from the 
 Count de Hainault. De Grandison had that in- 
 stinctive aversion for his visitor, which was natural 
 to a mind like his ; still he could not refuse to 
 listen to a messenger from the King ; and Trussell 
 accordingly called up all the resources of an artful 
 genius, skilled in the deepest intrigues and subtle- 
 ties of a Court, to explain the object of his visit 
 with as much delicacy as possible. The old Lord 
 listened with a cold and disdainful attention, till 
 the conclusion of his harangue, and then replied, 
 " Sir William Trussell, you explain yourself very 
 clearly. The King loves my daughter, and you 
 come to persuade me to use my influence in in* 
 ducing her to yield to his Grace's wishes." 
 
 " Nay, nay, my Lord," said Trussell, " your 
 Lordship misconceives me. I spoke merely of 
 management and prudence; of modes of conduct 
 to be observed by your Lordship and the Countess. 
 
 M2 
 
244 ORIGINAL 
 
 You have been more than fifty years a Courtier, 
 my Lord, and I cannot be speaking a language 
 which you do not understand. It is for your 
 Lordship, therefore, to decide what answer t 
 shall bear from you to the King." 
 
 " I will bear it myself, Sir William/' said de 
 Grandison, rising from his seat ; " and that in- 
 stantly." 
 
 " You cannot mean it, my Lord/' said Trus- 
 
 sell; " you surely cannot " 
 
 " Any further conversation, between us," said 
 de Graudison, " is quite unnecessary. His Grace 
 shall shortly see me." 
 
 Scarcely was the unhappy Father relieved from 
 the presence of Trussell, than he sank upon a seat 
 in a state of distraction. " This then was Ed- 
 ward's reason for desiring the presence of my 
 
 daughter, and he would ! but he is incapable 
 
 of such baseness ; it is that villain Trussell who 
 has corrupted the princely current of his thoughts 
 and feelings. Or can my daughter be acquainted 
 with the King's weakness? Can Katharine be an 
 accomplice in this amour? If but in thought she 
 
 has dishonoured these grey hairs " his look 
 
 grew black as midnight as he grasped his sword, 
 and rushed from the apartment. 
 
 The interview with his daughter at once re- 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 245 
 
 moved the most painful of the old man's suspi- 
 cions, and with an anxious, but determined heart, 
 he then presented himself before the King 1 . 
 
 " Welcome, my Lord de Grandison," said the 
 Monarch ; " my good friend Trussell has revealed 
 to you the precious secret of my heart ; and you 
 come to tell me I have not relied in vain upon 
 your friendship, and your loyalty ; your daugh- 
 ter " 
 
 " I have just left her, my Liege ; and she has 
 laid open her whole heart to me." 
 
 " And she hates me ?" said the King, im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " The most dutiful and loyal of your Grace's 
 subjects, Katharine offers you a homage the most 
 respectful and profound. But she is the Daughter 
 of de Grandison ; she is the Widow of Salisbury ; 
 and that neither of those names have yet been 
 tainted with dishonour, is a truth of which the 
 King of England needs least of all men to be re- 
 minded." 
 
 " What have I heard ?" said the King. 
 
 " Truth, my Liege ; Truth, to whose accents 
 your minions would close your ears, but whom you 
 hear speaking by my mouth. My daughter is not 
 fitted for the rival of the Princess of Hainault ; 
 and to be If I offend, my Liege, my head 
 
246 ORIGINAL 
 
 is at your Grace's disposal. I have finished my 
 course ; and shall soon be no longer in a condition 
 to serve you. Why then should I care for the 
 few days which nature might yet permit me to 
 live ? At least, I shall die with the assurance, 
 that my daughter will cherish the memory of her 
 Father, and of his honour. Dispose of me as 
 you please, my Liege ; you are my master." 
 
 " Yes, Traitor," answered Edward ; " and I 
 would be your protector, and your friend : but you 
 compel me to exhibit myself only as your Sove- 
 reign. Instantly command your daughter's pre- 
 sence here, or prepare yourself for a lodging in 
 the Tower." 
 
 " The Tower, my Liege," replied de Grandi- 
 son ; " I will hasten thither with as much alacrity 
 as I interposed my shield between your Grace's 
 breast, and the arrow which was pointed at it, on 
 the field of battle." 
 
 " Audacious traitor!" said the Monarch; " away 
 with him to the Tower !" 
 
 De Grandison was immediately hurried off*, 
 closely guarded ; and at that moment Sir Neele 
 Loring, a gallant knight, who was one of the first 
 invested with the order of the Garter, rushed into 
 the royal presence, exclaiming, " What have 1 
 beheld, my Liege ?" 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 247 
 
 " The punishment due to outraged Majesty/' 
 replied the King. 
 
 " Nay, nay, my Liege ; wherefore deprive 
 your old and faithful servant of his liberty ? and 
 for what crime ? Can it be King Edward to whom 
 I am speaking ? Can it be Edward who would 
 load the limbs of old de Grandison with fetters ? 
 But you relent, your Grace remembers " 
 
 At that instant Trussell entered : " My Liege, 
 de Grandison vents his anger in violence and 
 threats; he would write to his daughter, but I 
 have denied him permission so to do." 
 
 " You hear, Sir Neele," said the King ; " the 
 old traitor indulges in threats towards our royal 
 person ; but I am weary of your boldness, Sir 
 Knight ; I am the King of England, and my sub- 
 jects shall obey me." 
 
 The bold Knight had no sooner disappeared, 
 than an object of still greater interest presented 
 itself; it was the Countess of Salisbury. Pale 
 and trembling, with dishevelled locks and stream- 
 ing eyes, but still surpassingly beautiful, the lovely 
 Katharine threw herself at the King's feet. 
 
 " Sire ! Sire !" she shrieked, f give me back 
 my Father !" 
 
 A blush of self-reproach mantled on the brow 
 
248 ORIGINAL 
 
 of Edward, as he extended his hand, and raised 
 the lovely suppliant from her knees. " Pardon, 
 Madam," said he, " pardon the acts to which a 
 lover's despair drives him. Remember that the 
 first sight of you kindled in my breast a flame 
 which yet I stifled during the lifetime of your gal- 
 lant Husband. Salisbury, Heaven assoil his soul ! 
 is now in his grave ; and yet now, when I acquaint 
 you with my sufferings, and my hopes, you answer 
 me only with your reproaches and your tears." 
 
 " My tears, my Liege, are all that remain to 
 me for my defence ; and yet they touch you not." 
 
 " Say'st thou that they touch me not? Is it 
 for you, sweet Katharine, to doubt your empire 
 over my heart ? I am no longer able to impose 
 laws on that passion which you repay with ingrati- 
 tude." 
 
 " I am no ingrate, most dread Sovereign," re- 
 plied the Countess ; " would that you could see 
 my heart. But, my Liege, can I, ought I to for- 
 get that my aged father is in fetters ?" 
 
 " They shall be broken," said the King ; " He 
 shall resume his station as my best trusted coun- 
 sellor, and his daughter " 
 
 " Forbear, my Liege, to finish what you would 
 say. I speak not of his daughter." 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 249 
 
 " Then her Father, Katharine," 
 
 " My Father can but die, Sire ; what right 
 have I, my Liege, to entertain your Grace's love, 
 when the Princess of Hainault is waiting to take 
 her seat beside you upon the throne of England. 
 But release my Father, and I will wander from 
 your presence, where the sight of the unhappy 
 Katharine never more shall trouble you. Restore 
 my Father to me, and we will begone from hence 
 for ever !" 
 
 " No, adorable Katharine !" said the King, 
 " your Father shall be free ; and you shall still 
 know your Sovereign your lover, and see him 
 worthy of your love." 
 
 Thus saying, he left the Countess alone in the 
 Presence Chamber, where she remained a con- 
 siderable time, much wondering at his behaviour, 
 and suffering great uneasiness of mind. At length 
 Sir Neele Loring approached, and sinking on his 
 knee before her, said, " Madam,' permit me to 
 conduct you to the place, which the King's com- 
 mands have assigned for you." 
 
 The Countess much troubled and trembling, 
 silently gave the Knight her hand, and traversed with 
 him a vast suite of splendid apartments, until they 
 at length arrived at a door, which opening led into 
 
 M 3 
 
250 ORIGINAL 
 
 a magnificent Saloon, where she beheld Edward 
 seated on his Throne, surrounded by his Courtiers ; 
 all of whom, and even the Sovereign himself, 
 were decorated with the insignia of the Garter. 
 Upon her entrance, the King rushed towards her, 
 and with one hand taking hold of hers, with the 
 other placed the Crown upon her head. 
 
 " Approach, dearest Lady!" said he, "and 
 share the Throne of the King of England, and the 
 homage of his subjects. Become my Consort ; my 
 Queen. Beauty, truth, and virtue call you to the 
 Throne ; and in placing you there I equally fulfil 
 my own wishes, and those of my people. They 
 will applaud my choice, for it is worthy of me. 
 Your Father is free ; and, both to him and you, 
 will I repair the injustice which I have com- 
 mitted." 
 
 " Beauty, my Liege," said Sir Neele Loring, 
 V was made to reign ; for it was Man's first Sove- 
 reign." 
 
 The Countess, overwhelmed with the suddenness 
 of her surprise, was scarcely able to articulate. 
 * 4 My Liege," said she, " the Throne is not my 
 place : the Princess of Hainault " 
 
 " Yes," said the Lord de Grandison, bursting 
 into the apartment, " She only must sit there! 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 251 
 
 What, my Liege ! my Daughter crowned, and 
 about to ascend the Throne ! Is that the price at 
 which my chains are broken ? Back with me to 
 the Tower ! Rather eternal slavery, than freedom 
 purchased by dishonour !" 
 
 " My Lord de Grandison," said the King, " lis- 
 ten to me. I have given your daughter my hand, 
 she is my Queen, and wherefore would you op- 
 pose our happiness?" 
 
 " My daughter Queen !" exclaimed the Baron ; 
 " Katharine," he added, addressing her in a tone 
 of supplication, " wilt thou lend thyself to the 
 cause of falsehood and perjury? wilt thou aid 
 thy King to break a promise plighted in the face 
 of Europe? listen to me and prove thyself my 
 daughter. Put off that diadem. Fall at the 
 King's feet for pardon ; or, if thou can'st not per- 
 form the dictates of duty, then die, and Heaven 
 pardon thee !" 
 
 He drew a dagger from his bosom as he spoke, 
 and as the King arrested his hand he continued, 
 " Approach me not, my Liege, or I bury this 
 dagger in her heart. Give me thy royal word that 
 she shall not be Queen, or " 
 
 " My Liege !" said the Countess, lifting the 
 Crown from her brow, and falling at Edward's 
 
252 ORIGINAL 
 
 feet, " it must not be ; your royal word is 
 pledged ; the nation's honour is it's guarantee ; 
 and war and desolation would follow the violation 
 of your plighted promise. I am Katharine of Sa- 
 lisbury, your Grace's most faithful subject ; but 
 dare not be your Queen/' 
 
 " Generous beings !" said the King, " it is you 
 who teach me how to reign. Rise, gracious Ma- 
 dam ; rise, my good Lord de Grandison. You, 
 my noble friend, shall instantly proceed to the 
 Court of Hainault, to bring over my affianced 
 bride. Your lovely daughter must not be my 
 Wife; but you will suffer her to remain at my 
 Court, it's brightest and most distinguished orna- 
 ment." 
 
 Thus ended the adventure of the Garter, with- 
 out any of those disastrous consequences, which 
 once seemed so threatening. The Princess of 
 Hainault filled the Throne to which she was called by 
 the voice of the nation, and won and merited the 
 love of her Royal consort. Anxious to give to the 
 virtuous object of his former passion a splendid tes- 
 timony of the sentiments which he still entertained 
 towards her, the King, on his marriage, renewed 
 the institution of the Order of the Garter. De 
 Grandison long continued to hold the highest place 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 253 
 
 in the Royal favour; the Countess of Salisbury 
 appeared at Court as the friend of Queen Philip- 
 pa; and long continued the object of the respect- 
 ful passion of the greatest Monarch who had ever 
 filled the throne of England. 
 
BLANCHE OF BOURBON. 
 
 A ROMANCE OF SPANISH HISTORY. 
 
 At his birth, be sure on't, 
 
 Some Devil thrust sweet Nature's hand aside, 
 Ere she had pour'd her balm into his breast, 
 To warm his gross and earthy clod with Pity. 
 
 COLMAN. 
 
 THE accession of Don Pedro to the throne of 
 Castile, on the death of his Father Alphonso, was 
 speedily followed by violent insurrectionary move- 
 ments amongst all classes of the people. Although 
 Pedro was the only legitimate offspring of his 
 Father, the nation in general fondly wished that 
 the sceptre might pass into the hands of Don 
 Henry, Count of Trastamare, eldest son of the 
 deceased King by his Concubine, the beautiful 
 Leonora de Guzman. This Prince had already 
 distinguished himself by his valour and wisdom ; 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 255 
 
 his kind and condescending demeanour ; and even 
 by his attachment and fidelity to the new King ; 
 since he laboured with the utmost solicitude not 
 only to confirm the allegiance of his own partizans 
 to Pedro, but to discourage every attempt at 
 disturbing the peace of the Monarchy. Pedro, 
 however, who by his conduct during his Reign 
 acquired the surname of " the Cruel," took the 
 earliest opportunity of seizing the person of Don 
 Henry's Mother, Leonora, whom he immediately 
 committed to the custody of the Queen Dowager; 
 who no sooner found her hated rival in her power, 
 than she caused her to be put to a cruel and lin- 
 gering death. All Castile was indignant at this 
 atrocity; and Don Henry flew to arms. Don 
 Frederick, Grand Master of St. James', Don Tello, 
 Lord of Aguilar, and Don Ferdinand, Lord of 
 Ledesne, his brothers, the other sons of the un- 
 fortunate Leonora, immediately joined him ; and, 
 having raised a considerable force, took possession 
 of the town of Gijon, and bade defiance to the 
 tyrant. 
 
 Intelligence of the revolt of the Princes was 
 brought to Don Pedro as he was taking his even- 
 ing promenade on the terrace of the royal gardens 
 of Valladolid, accompanied by his Prime Minister, 
 Don Alphonso d'Albuquerque. " Hearest thou 
 
25(5 ORIGINAL 
 
 this, Alphonso?" said the King. " The Bastard 
 Henry, and his Brothers, have garrisoned the 
 Castle of Gijon, and troops, headed by the dis- 
 contented nobles, are daily flocking to their assist- 
 ance." 
 
 " I hear it, Sire/' said the Minister, " with 
 sorrow and alarm." 
 
 " And wherefore so, good Alphonso?" replied 
 Don Pedro. " Let all the factions in Castile, and 
 they are not a few, rally round the banner of the 
 Bastards; let the puling Kings of Arragon and 
 Navarre, who have already shewn that they bear 
 me no good will, join in the traitorous league ; aye, 
 let even the powers of France, and the proud 
 islanders of the West, for once agree for my 
 destruction ; yet I fear not. I have Allies, whose 
 power and influence, not all of these together 
 banded, could withstand." 
 
 " And who, Sire," enquired the Minister won- 
 deringly ; " who are the Allies who could possibly 
 defend your Majesty against such a confederacy ?" 
 
 " The Stars! the Stars are with us, Albu- 
 querque!" exclaimed the King. " Look yonder," 
 he continued, pointing to the sky ; " and see how 
 even now, at the very instant that I receive this 
 news, the Heavens are smiling on me." 
 
 Albuquerque looked towards the sky, and be- 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 257 
 
 held indeed one of those evenings of surpassing 
 beauty, which are seldom seen even beneath the 
 glowing atmosphere of Spain. The Sun had set 
 some time, but still the west retained a portion 
 of his declining glory, which, with a varied line of 
 deep red light, defined the summits of the distant 
 hills. Above them spread the deep blue sky, be- 
 spangled with innumerable Stars, intensely bright; 
 amongst which, the largest and most resplendent 
 was the planet Jupiter, which shone over the 
 Palace of Valladolid, and seemed to be shedding 
 it's brightest beams upon the royal residence. 
 
 " That is my natal Star !" said the King; " that 
 noble planet, or rather that other Sun, which 
 seems to traverse the system in rivalship, and not 
 in the train of the great source of light and heat. 
 See, how all others shrink their beams before him. 
 Even Mars, that lurid orb which now threatens 
 me, quails before his superior brightness. The 
 omens are most propitious!" 
 
 " Even so, Oh King!" said a sharp, shrill 
 voice behind them ; and, turning round, they per- 
 ceived an aged man, of a noble and venerable 
 countenance, with a long white beard, and black 
 expressive eyes, which rivalled in brightness even 
 the Stars on which they had been gazing. He 
 wore a turban on his head, and was dressed after 
 the Oriental fashion, in a white flowing robe. This 
 
258 ORIGINAL 
 
 was Simon Joseph, the favourite Jewish Physician, 
 and Astrologer to the King, whom he kept con- 
 stantly about his person. 
 
 " Sayestthouso, good Joseph!" said Don Pedro ; 
 " and who shall gainsay thee, when thou hast read 
 the Stars? But what brings thee hither, at this hour?" 
 
 " I came to tell thee, Sire, that this evening, 
 as I drew thy Horoscope, I read the prediction 
 of strange events. Danger, and contest, but, at 
 the same time, triumph and victory were foretold 
 there ; aye, and Love was mentioned in the 
 starry prophecy. Yon planet Jupiter is now 
 Lord of the ascendant ; Mars and Venus are in 
 conjunction ; and Saturn, dull and dim, is quenched 
 beneath their overwhelming influence." 
 
 " Thou read'st strange riddles, Simon Joseph," 
 said Don Pedro ; " but a part, at least, of thy 
 prophecy is true : for I hold here letters, which 
 inform me, that the sons of Leonora de Guzman 
 are in arms ; and defy me from behind the strong 
 walls of Gijon. What would'st thou have me do ?" 
 
 " On to the fight, Sire !" said the Astrologer, 
 and then added, pointing to the planet Jupiter, 
 " before that Star sets behind the western hills, 
 let the King be on his march to battle, and to 
 conquest. Don Pedro, do not hope for ease and 
 quietness, but thy reign shall be long and pros- 
 perous. Victory shall wait upon thy banners, 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 259 
 
 and new kingdoms shall be added to Castile." 
 Thus saying, and drawing his robe more closely 
 round him, Simon Joseph left the Terrace, and 
 the King and his Minister speedily followed him. 
 Don Pedro, amongst whose vices cowardice could 
 not be numbered, determined to adopt the advice 
 of the Astrologer. Although he scoffed at all 
 idea of Religion, he was a fervent believer in the 
 occult Sciences, and never entered upon any pur- 
 suit of importance without consulting the Stars. 
 That very evening, accordingly, saw him at the 
 head of as many troops as could be mustered at 
 so short a notice, depart from Valladolid, having 
 left instructions for a formidable force to follow 
 him. 
 
 In a few days the King of Castile, with a nu- 
 merous Army, had sat down before the Gates o* 
 Gijon. They had already had various skirmishes 
 on their march with detached parties of the 
 enemy; and on their first attack upon the town 
 they carried the most important outpost ; so that 
 ultimate success now appeared certain. In the 
 mean time, however, the heart of the Monarch 
 had surrendered at the first summons to the charms 
 of a beautiful young female, of a noble family, 
 named Maria de Padilla, in the suite of Madame 
 d'Albuquerque, who had followed her husband to 
 
260 ORIGINAL 
 
 the army. This young lady possessed numerous 
 attractions, both of mind and person. Although 
 not tall, she was exquisitely formed ; and her 
 whole form and manner were equally graceful and 
 bewitching. Her complexion was of the most 
 dazzling fairness ; her eyes black and sparkling ; 
 and her features of a regularity, in which the most 
 fastidious connoiseur in beauty could find nothing 
 to object to. She possessed an infinite fund of 
 wit, and was of a gay and lively temper ; but she 
 was, at the same time, vain and ambitious ; and a 
 perfect mistress of every species of dissimulation. 
 Obdurate and sanguinary as was the disposition of 
 Don Pedro, he became deeply fascinated with the 
 charms of Maria ; " and Love," say the Histo- 
 rians of that age, " held in his bosom divided em- 
 pire with cruelty." She, dazzled by the splendour 
 of royalty, and the prospect of power and great- 
 ness, turned a deaf ear to the remonstrances of 
 virtue ; and after a very feeble and ill counter- 
 feited resistance, became the Mistress of the King 
 of Castile. Don Pedro was now as eager to con- 
 clude the war, as he had been to commence it ; 
 and having made terms with the revolted Princes, 
 he disbanded his forces, and retired with Maria 
 to Torrejos, a little town near Toledo. 
 
 It is necessary to state here, that previous to 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 261 
 
 the occurrence of these events, Don Pedro had 
 asked in marriage the hand of the beautiful 
 Blanche de Bourbon, Sister of the Queen of 
 France, and the Duke of Burgundy ; who, during 
 the King's absence on his expedition to Gijon, had 
 arrived in the city of Valladolid, and was there 
 awaiting the celebration of the nuptial contract. 
 To that city the other Princes repaired on the ces- 
 sation of hostilities, and the King commended his 
 bride to the especial attention of Don Henryr 
 Count of Trastamare, until his own return. The 
 Count, on his arrival, found that the French Prin- 
 cess, of whose beauty and accomplishments the 
 most glowing accounts had been generally circulated, 
 far surpassed all that rumour had spoken, or ima- 
 gination had portrayed. She was of a majestic 
 figure, tall, and finely formed. The mild but 
 glowing Suns of France had given a dark tinge to 
 her cheeks, which well matched with the intense 
 deep blue of her eyes, and the jetty ringlets which 
 fell in rich clusters down her neck. Her pale high 
 forehead and drooping eyelids, spoke of pensive- 
 ness, and perhaps melancholy; but the smile which 
 frequently illuminated all her features, 
 
 " As though her veins ran lightning," 
 
 was full of benevolence and sweetness ; and told, 
 
262 ORIGINAL 
 
 not falsely, the goodness of her heart. Her voice 
 was low and gentle, but it's tones went to the 
 heart of the listener ; and her stately step, and 
 majestic gait, while they befitted the high station 
 which she filled, were unmingled with the slightest 
 indication of arrogance, or pride. 
 
 As Don Henry gazed upon this enchanting 
 being, he could not but lament that she was 
 destined to become the bride of a man, who, al- 
 though of high talents, and of handsome and even 
 majestic person, was stained with almost every 
 vice under Heaven. Still he indulged a hope, 
 and that hope was shared by many, that the 
 beauty and virtues of the Princess, could not 
 but have a genial effect on the disposition of her 
 Husband, and be productive of important bene- 
 fits, both to him and to the nation. The Queen 
 Mother had received her with the most flattering 
 distinction ; the Grandees in Valladolid took every 
 opportunity of testifying their devotion ; and, when- 
 ever she appeared in public, she was greeted with 
 the warmest acclamations of the populace. Still, 
 however, the King remained atTorrejos, in the so- 
 ciety of Maria de Padilla ; and had not even had 
 the courtesy to send any communication to her, or 
 to the Queen. He would not listen to any intel- 
 ligence of his betrothed bride, or even attend to 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 263 
 
 State affairs. The letters of his Mother, ex- 
 pressing her chagrin and indignation at his conduct, 
 and the remonstrances of his Minister, who repre- 
 sented the impolicy of this treatment of a Princess 
 of the blood royal of France, were received with 
 equal disregard. At length his Courtiers were 
 constrained to be silent, for some of them who 
 had ventured to speak their minds rather too freely 
 upon the subject, he had found himself under the 
 awkward necessity of assassinating. The influence 
 of Maria increased daily; and to such an extent, 
 that it was very generally believed she had es- 
 tablished her dominion over him, by practising 
 the art of Magic. He caused a Tourney to be 
 celebrated in her honour ; and compelled all the 
 Grandees atToledo, and in it's neighbourhood, with 
 their wives and daughters, to be present. Here he 
 chanced to be so severely wounded in his hand, 
 that his life was despaired of by his Physicians ; 
 though, after a long delay, the attentions and me- 
 dical skill of Maria de Padilla wrought his complete 
 cure, to the infinite regret of the nation, and of 
 the Court, but especially of Don Henry. 
 
 This Prince was indefatigable in his attendance 
 upon the young Queen elect, and endeavoured, by 
 the most delicate attentions, to console her for the 
 neglect of her betrothed Don Pedro. The Queen 
 
264 ORIGINAL 
 
 returned his attentions by a gratitude which was 
 expressed rather in her eyes, than with her lips ; 
 until at length a more tender feeling by degrees 
 began to pervade the breasts of both; although they 
 dared scarcely confess it, even to themselves, and 
 much less to each other. Indignation at her af- 
 fianced husband's conduct, and pity for her own 
 forlorn situation, were no unnatural harbingers of 
 love in the bosom of Don Henry : while Blanche, 
 as she gazed on his fine person, and thought of 
 his strong and polished mind ; his military renown ; 
 and his high birth ; for his illegitimacy was scarcely 
 considered a stain in those days, could not help 
 thinking how suitable their union would have been ; 
 and wishing, like Desdemona, 
 
 " That Heaven had made her such a man ! " 
 
 These, however, were thoughts, which they 
 carefully locked up within their own bosoms, and 
 which were soon afterwards banished even from 
 those secret sanctuaries, by the unexpected arrival 
 of the King. 
 
 Don Pedro had at length yielded to the advice 
 of his wisest Counsellors ; which was seconded by 
 Maria de Padilla herself; and determined to pay 
 a visit to the Princess Blanche, whom, as yet, he 
 had not even seen. The meeting of the Royal 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 265 
 
 couple was in the streets of Valladolid, by torch- 
 light. The King entered the City on horseback, 
 attended by Don Ferdinand, and I)on Juan of 
 Arragon, sons of his Aunt, the Queen Dowager 
 of Arragon ; the Grand Master of Calatrava, the 
 Archbishop of Toledo, Don Juan de la Cerda, 
 Don Alphonso d' Albuquerque, and other great 
 lords. The young Queen rode between the Queen 
 Mother and the Count of Trastamare ; and was 
 attended by the Grand Master of St. James 7 , Don 
 Tello of Castile, and the municipal authorities of 
 Valladolid. The streets were crowded with the 
 population of the City, eager to see the meeting ; 
 but, above all, to catch a glimpse of the young 
 Queen^ whose beauty was seen to great advantage 
 by the light of the innumerable torches which 
 blazed around her. As she approached the King, 
 the acclamations of the people redoubled, but they 
 were frozen into wondering silence, as they ob- 
 served the cold and indifferent air with which he 
 returned her salute. She descended from her 
 palfrey, and it was naturally expected that he 
 would have done the same ; but he merely extended 
 her his hand to kiss, while he continued in conver- 
 sation with his minister, Don Alphonso. 
 
 " The monster!" muttered Don Henry between 
 bis teeth, as he assisted Blanche to remount. 
 
 N 
 
266 ORIGINAL 
 
 " Aye/' whispered some one in his ear ; " is 
 this the man to be King of Castile, and husband 
 of Blanche of Bourbon?" 
 
 Henry turned roundjpbut could perceive no one. 
 His own heart, however, echoed the question ; and, 
 silently and moodily, he continued to ride on, until 
 the Palace gates appeared before him, and he, 
 together with the rest of the procession, entered. 
 
 The next day was appointed for the celebration 
 of the Marriage ceremony, and, with the earliest 
 dawn of morning, all the bells in Valladolid were 
 ringing a merry peal ; and the citizens appeared 
 in the streets in their holiday garbs, and wearing 
 white favours in honour of the event. A peremp- 
 tory order from the King was, however, soon is- 
 sued for the silencing of the bells, and commanding 
 every one to return to his ordinary occupation, 
 upon pain of death. At the hour of noon the 
 Royal cavalcade was seen moving towards the 
 Cathedral, slowly and silently as a Funeral pro- 
 cession. The King wore a look of dogged en- 
 durance ; and Blanche was pale as death ; but there 
 was a forced smile upon her lip, which appeared 
 more melancholy than sighs and tears could pos- 
 sibly have done. The Queen Mother's face 
 glowed with resentment and chagrin ; and Don 
 Henry kept his eyes fixed upon Blanche, with an 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 267 
 
 expression in which pity, and a still softer feeling, 
 could be traced most legibly. The Nobles who 
 accompanied the royal party, with heads depressed, 
 and their arms folded sullenly upon their bosoms, 
 looked more like mutes at an interment, than as- 
 sistants at a bridal. 
 
 Notwithstanding the royal mandate, the popu- 
 lace had ventured again to assemble in the streets 
 when the procession passed ; but pale and silent, 
 each of them appeared to feel that he was 
 committing a crime, and each look which was bent 
 upon the personages as they passed, was stealth- 
 like and timid. As Don Pedro rode by them, 
 every head was bared, but not one voice was heard 
 in gratulation. The approach of Blanche was 
 hailed with loud acclamations, which were, how- 
 ever, instantly suppressed ; and every one looked 
 timidly over his shoulder, and seemed to fear that 
 he had committed an offence, for which instant 
 punishment would follow. Every eye was fixed 
 on the Count of Trastamare, and gleamed bright- 
 lier as he passed ; but no one dared to give an 
 open expression to his feelings. One voice, how- 
 ever, which the Count instantly recognised as the 
 same which had addressed him on the preceding 
 day, was heard to shout from amidst the crowd, 
 " God save King Henry !" 
 
268 ORIGINAL 
 
 All were aghast at this daring exclamation. The 
 populace shrank back with fear and horror; but 
 the nobles in the Procession, as soon as they had 
 recovered from the stupor of their surprise, cried 
 out " Treason ! treason !" 
 
 " Guards, seize the traitor!" exclaimed Don 
 Alphonso d' Albuquerque, " and drag him hither." 
 
 A tall, stout-built man, but pale and squalid, 
 with an extraordinary expression of resolution 
 and defiance in his countenance, was immediately 
 forced before the King, on whose left hand rode 
 Don Alphonso. Don Pedro's colour changed as 
 he gazed upon him, but the ordinary malignant 
 expression of his features was deepened tenfold 
 as he exclaimed, " What do'st thou here, Villain?" 
 
 " What do'st thou here ?" returned the unshrink- 
 ing Stranger; " thou man of lust and blood ! with 
 yonder fair and hapless Princess in thy train? 
 How long is it since you tore my Sister from 
 her abode, the most peaceful and the happiest in 
 all Castile, to lodge her in thy vile Harem? How 
 long is it since thy steel drank the blood of her 
 indignant husband ? How long ?" 
 
 " Bind him! gag him!" exclaimed the King, 
 foaming with passion. " Lend me thy axe, fel- 
 low!" continued he, vaulting from his horse, and 
 snatching a partizan from a guard near him. The 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 269 
 
 victim was immediately bound, and thrown upon 
 the earth ; when the King, lifting with his own 
 hand the fatal weapon, at one blow severed his 
 head from his body. 
 
 A smile of grim delight played upon the tyrant's 
 features as he gazed upon the mutilated trunk 
 before him; and listened to the fearful shriek 
 which burst from the assembled crowd, who with 
 starting eyes and pallid cheeks stared upon each 
 other, as if to ask if what they had just witnessed 
 was a reality. The unhappy Blanche had fainted 
 in the arms of her attendants ; but Don Pedro, 
 without waiting for her recovery, with a yell of 
 savage laughter again sprang into his saddle, and, 
 motioning to his attendants to move on, rode for- 
 wards to the Cathedral. There, shortly afterwards 
 the Bride, or rather the victim, arrived more dead 
 than alive ; and joining her hand with that which 
 was yet wet with the blood which it had shed, this 
 ill-omened Marriage was solemnized, amidst the 
 fear and wonder of all who were present at the 
 ceremony. 
 
 Three days had elapsed after the nuptials, and 
 Don Pedro was yet inseparable from his beautiful 
 Queen ; to whom, those about him began to hope 
 that he would become really and permanently at- 
 tached ; but on the third he received letters from 
 
270 ORIGINAL 
 
 Maria de Padilla, who was at Montalban, in which 
 she complained bitterly of his absence from her, 
 and informed him that she found herself pregnant. 
 On receiving this intelligence, the King's joy 
 knew no bounds ; and he immediately summoned 
 his Minister, Don Alphonso, and commanded him 
 to prepare for their immediate departure to join 
 his Mistress. 
 
 " Sire," said Don Alphonso, " to hear is to 
 obey; but might the humblest of your subjects 
 venture to speak his mind, he would say, that if 
 this journey were postponed for a short time, her 
 Majesty would be less likely to complain, and the 
 factions who pretend to espouse her cause, would 
 be unable to find the slightest ground for cen- 
 suring the conduct of your Majesty." 
 
 " Peace, idiot!" cried the King furiously; 
 " have I not already devoted three days to this 
 Bourbon doll ; and as for the factions are not the 
 poniard, and the gibbet, and the axe, enough for 
 them?" 
 
 " Sire," continued the Minister, " is it well to 
 leave Don Henry in the midst of the discontented 
 populace of the Capital, while your Majesty is at 
 Montalban? Already do dreams of power and 
 sovereignty fill his imagination, and " 
 
 " What! dares the Bastard look so high as 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 271 
 
 that? " said Pedro, with a malicious grin : " well, 
 well, his hour will come, but not yet. Love and 
 Maria are all that can engage my thoughts at 
 present. See, then, that you provide for our 
 instant journey." 
 
 In less than an hour after this conversation, the 
 King, accompanied by Don Alphonso, and his other 
 immediate favourites, and attended by the Royal 
 Guard, passed the City gates ; but as he had ' 
 taken no leave of the Queen, or of his Mother, 
 and had given no previous intimation of his inten- 
 tion to quit Valladolid, it was supposed that he 
 was merely gone to enjoy the chase in the neigh- 
 bouring forest. Messengers, however, speedily 
 arrived to Madame d'Albuquerque from her hus- 
 band, to inform her that the King and he had set 
 off for Montalban, and that they had instructions 
 to escort her thither. The rage of the Queen 
 Mother was now ungovernable, and she could 
 scarcely be restrained from rushing forth to the 
 market-place, and rousing the populace. Don 
 Henry, whose attachment to Blanche increased 
 in the same proportion with her husband's neglect 
 and cruelty, felt his bosom agitated by love and 
 indignation. Still he possessed so much of the 
 chivalrous loyalty of those days, which bound the 
 subject to his Sovereign, however despicable or 
 
272 ORIGINAL 
 
 infamous he might be, that he could not persuade 
 himself to encourage any insurrectionary move- 
 ment; notwithstanding his own personal injuries, 
 and although he knew that he had but to lift his 
 finger, and the whole population of Valladolid 
 would espouse his cause. He, therefore, con- 
 tented himself by paying the most delicate and 
 respectful attention to the young Queen; and thus 
 endeavouring, as far as possible, to alleviate her 
 neglected and forlorn condition, The people, also, 
 now that the expression of their feelings was un- 
 restrained by the presence of Don Pedro, took 
 every opportunity afforded them by her appearance 
 at the windows of the Palace, or her riding out in 
 public, to greet her with the most cordial accla- 
 mations. The King in the mean time continued 
 at Montalban, completely fascinated with the at- 
 tractions of Maria de Padilla; all public business 
 was totally neglected by him ; and although mes- 
 senger after messenger arrived from Valladolid, 
 on the most urgent State affairs, he could not be 
 persuaded to return there, or even to peruse the 
 depatches of which they were the bearers. The 
 Queen Mother repeatedly wrote to him, reproach- 
 ing him with his base conduct; and Don Alphonso, 
 his favourite Minister, ceased not to urge the 
 oifence which he was giving to his subjects and 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 273 
 
 to the neighbouring Princes, until at length he re- 
 luctantly consented to return to Valladolid ; but 
 only on the condition, that Maria de Padilla should 
 accompany him, and should be received by the 
 two Queens at Court. 
 
 Behold then the Castilian Monarch once more 
 in his Capital, or rather in the City which was then 
 usually the Royal residence, and in which the 
 public business was transacted. His Mistress was 
 received with coldness and distance by the Queen 
 Mother, and with frigid indifference by Blanche, 
 With matchless self-possession and effrontery, 
 however, she continued to appear at Court; where 
 the Nobles thronged around her, as the favourite 
 of the King, and her distinguished wit and beauty 
 soon made their devotion no constraint, or at any 
 rate, rendered their chains very light and easy to 
 be worn. Amongst the numerous Grandees of 
 Spain, she soon singled out Don Henry as superior 
 both in mind and person to all the others. Her 
 heart even began to be treacherous to her Royal 
 paramour, and she felt that her affections were fix- 
 ing themselves upon the Count of Trastamare. To 
 her inexpressible chagrin also, she found that he 
 studiously avoided paying the slightest attention to 
 her ; that he was pensive and fond of solitude ; 
 and that he was evidently a prey to 'some intense 
 
274 ORIGINAL 
 
 mental suffering 1 . A feeling of compassion ac- 
 cordingly mingled with the sentiments which she 
 already entertained towards him, and confirmed 
 in her bosom the existence of the tyrant passion, 
 Love. The difficulty of obtaining a private inter- 
 view with him, was, however, extremely great, 
 as the King required her to be constantly about 
 his person ; and the Count shunned her like a pes- 
 tilence. Could she but once acquaint Don Henry 
 with her attachment, she could scarcely anticipate 
 the possibility of his not returning it ; and even 
 should he refuse, she felt assured that she could 
 win him to her embraces by the consideration of 
 the precarious situation of himself and his brothers ; 
 who were detested alike by the Queen Mother, 
 and the King ; and of the importance of their 
 making a friend of her. 
 
 She had observed that the Count was in the 
 habit of retiring to the most solitary and unfre- 
 quented parts of the Royal gardens, and resolved, 
 therefore, one morning, to endeavour to trace him 
 to his haunts, and have an explanation with him 
 on that subject with which her bosom was now in- 
 cessantly haunted. She had traversed the grounds in 
 all directions, and began to despair of succeeding 
 in the object of her search, when at length she 
 arrived at a Grotto, far out of the ordinary route, 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 275 
 
 and, entering it, perceived Don Henry stretched 
 upon the moss in a deep slumber. His face was 
 wet with tears, and even in his sleep he heaved 
 profound sighs. Maria instantly conjectured that 
 his malady was Love. " Perhaps too," thought 
 she, " I may be the object of it. Perhaps the 
 studious manner in which he avoids me, and which 
 I have attributed to aversion, is only the result of 
 his timidity. But alas !" she continued, sighing, 
 " it is too probable that I have a rival ; and, if so, 
 Maria de Padilla shall not long be unavenged." 
 As she spake these words, the Count moved in his 
 sleep ; and, in turning, discovered some open 
 tablets, upon which his left arm had rested, which 
 Maria hastily seized, and hurrying out of the Grotto, 
 read in them the following lines : 
 
 " Cease, cease, my heart ! to nurse a hopeless love > 
 
 The end of all thy perseverance lies 
 
 Within the orbs of two bright sparkling eyes ; 
 But cold as they are bright. Nor can'st thou move 
 
 One spark of passion in that colder breast, 
 
 Or wake one hope that shall, 'midst thy unrest, 
 Sing like a sweet bird to my weary Soul, 
 
 I dare not even whisper in her ear, 
 Whom I adore, the griefs that o'er me roll, 
 
 Overwhelming all my peace ; yet still the tear 
 That wets my lids, how sweet it is to weep 
 
 Such precious dew ! Then will I silence keep. 
 And strive to hide my love even from my heart, 
 But still flow on my tears, with ye I cannot part*" 
 
276 ORIGINAL 
 
 The jealous suspicions which she had entertained 
 were now confirmed, and her whole frame shook 
 with the violence of her emotions. So severe a 
 respect as was here expressed, could not have refe- 
 rence to her. "It is the Queen ! 'tis Blanche P 
 she said ; and as the hated idea entered her mind, 
 it wrung it almost to madness. " That Bourbon 
 serpent crosses my path at every step ! Through 
 her the people hate me ! Her beauty, the dull, 
 tame beauty of France, attracts the Courtiers from 
 me. With difficulty have I won the wittol King 
 from her ; and now, where my very heart is trea- 
 sured up, she has coiled herself around it's ten- 
 derest fibres." Having carefully copied out the 
 verses, she then erased them, and, in a feigned 
 hand, wrote the following in their place : 
 
 ORACLE. 
 
 It is permitted to thee to sigh, and to love, and to hope .; 
 
 To act, and to break the seal of silence. 
 
 Be in no fear either of a sceptre, or of rivals. 
 
 My heart, one worthy of thee, is interested in thy woes : 
 
 Behold, then, the reward of perseverance ! " 
 
 After this she returned to the Grotto, and 
 meeting no one there, replaced the tablets where 
 she had found them. 
 
 In the mean time, Don Henry on awakening 
 
TALKS, POEMS, ETC. 277 
 
 had missed his treasure, and was much disconcerted 
 in consequence. He made a careful search, but, 
 of course, his search was unavailing. He enquired 
 of the gardeners if they had seen any person enter, 
 but they all replied in the negative. He then re- 
 tired with great dismay to his chamber, and was 
 not seen again till the evening; when he once 
 more proceeded to his favourite haunt, and was 
 agreeably surprised to find his tablets in the place 
 in which he had lost them. He opened, and, 
 scarcely believing his eyes, read the Oracle which 
 Maria de Padilla had written in them. At first he 
 was transported with joy, for he hoped that what 
 he read had been written by the Queen ; but 
 as he reflected more calmly, the improbability of 
 such an idea impressed itself so strongly upon him, 
 that he dismissed it altogether from his mind. It 
 was evident, however, that the precious secret of 
 his heart was in the possession of another, who 
 might make some pernicious use of it ; and as he 
 laid his head upon his pillow that night, his bosom 
 was distracted with a variety of painful emotions. 
 The next day the Queen Mother held a Court, 
 and Don Henry as he was proceeding to it along 
 the Palace corridors, met Queen Blanche coming 
 out of her apartments, and leaning upon the Arm 
 of an Esquire. He immediately offered her his 
 
278 ORIGINAL 
 
 own, which she accepted with the utmost frank- 
 ness, and the Page submissively gave way. As 
 they entered in the Royal presence, Henry could 
 not prevent the joy of his heart from manifesting 
 itself in his face, and having seated Blanche be- 
 side the Queen Mother, he took his station behind 
 her chair. The whole Court rose on the entrance 
 of Queen Blanche, excepting the King, who ma- 
 nifested some displeasure at the rising of Maria 
 de Padilla, who was seated next him. The latter 
 did not fail to observe the delight which Henry 
 evinced, as he entered with his lovely escort, and 
 whispered to the King, as she glanced towards 
 Blanche and Henry, "These two persons appear 
 to be on a remarkably good understanding with 
 each other, my Liege. The Count of Trastamare 
 appears to hold a very high place in her Majesty's 
 esteem." 
 
 "Very possibly/' answered the King; "but 
 the partizans of her immaculate virtue would insti- 
 tute a process against us for daring to hold a doubt 
 of it's most perfect purity." 
 
 " I should be rather difficult to convince, never- 
 theless," replied Maria. " The French ladies 
 are, as every one knows, not only liberal, but 
 even prodigal, when they would secure a suitor. 
 But you do not exhibit any symptoms of jealousy." 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 279 
 
 " I should exhibit enough of them," interrupted 
 Don Pedro, " if Henry were enamoured of you ; 
 but my heart takes so little interest either in the 
 actions, or the feelings, of Blanche de Bourbon, 
 that it is out of her power to disturb my peace of 
 mind for a moment." 
 
 While the King and his mistress were thus con- 
 versing, the whole Court was astonished at the 
 assurance and self-possession of Maria de Padilla, 
 who appeared to consider herself as the most dis- 
 tinguished female present, and took not the 
 slightest notice of Queen Blanche, after having at 
 first risen upon her entrance. The two Queens 
 were, however, engaged with each other, and 
 seemed not to regard either the neglect of Don 
 Pedro, or the assumption of his paramour. The 
 Count of Trastamare, in the mean time, was 
 hardly able to restrain an open explosion of his 
 anger and indignation ; and the practised eye of 
 Maria, who continued narrowly to observe him, 
 easily detected the real state of his feelings. The 
 King, at length weary of the restraint and for- 
 mality to which he found himself obliged to submit, 
 arose, and taking no other notice of Blanche, be- 
 yond coldly saluting her as he past, left the Court, 
 followed by his immediate retainers. Maria, 
 partly out of regard for a decorous appearance, 
 
280 ORIGINAL 
 
 and partly from the pleasure which she experienced 
 in being in the presence of Don Henry, remained 
 for a few moments, in the seat which she had oc* 
 cupied, and then also followed the King. 
 
 Don Henry still stood behind the chair of 
 Blanche, and as her brutal husband passed her in 
 the manner in which we have described, he gave 
 utterance to a deep drawn sigh. 
 
 " You are in love, my Lord," said the Queen, 
 turning round to him, and smiling. 
 
 " I am so, indeed, Madam/' replied Henry ; 
 " my respect for your Majesty will not allow me 
 to disavow it, but my affection is mingled with 
 anger." 
 
 " You are then/' added Blanche, " more un- 
 happy than I had supposed ; for you are also jea- 
 lous." 
 
 " Alas ! no, Madam ; I am so far from jea- 
 lousy, that my anger is excited, because others do 
 not pay to the object of my love the attentions and 
 respect which are due to matchless beauty, and 
 unequalled virtue." 
 
 As he uttered these last words, he seized her 
 hand, and kissed it fervently. She withdrew it 
 silently, but her heart too well understood his 
 meaning, and she sighed deeply, as she compared 
 the handsome and accomplished Prince who knelt 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 281 
 
 before her, with the man with whose destiny her 
 own was indissolubly united. 
 
 " Your Majesty also sighs," said Henry. 
 
 " Few persons are exempt from some sorrow," 
 returned the Queen ; and she sighed still more 
 deeply. 
 
 " True, Madam," said the Count ; " and your 
 Majesty finds cause enough in the cruel and inju- 
 rious treatment of the King." 
 
 " Nay," said Blanche, " his Majesty, unkind 
 as he appears, has doubtless ample reasons for his 
 conduct. Some strange fault of mine must be 
 apparent to him, which my ignorance has not yet 
 discovered to myself." 
 
 " Say not so, sweet lady," replied Henry; "he 
 can see nothing in you but goodness. Where is 
 the wonder that a Monster should be the enemy of 
 beauty ?" 
 
 " How can you call him an enemy of beauty," 
 asked the Queen, " when you look upon Maria de 
 Padilla? but I entreat you, Sir, let us close 
 this conversation which has already proceeded too 
 far." 
 
 Thus saying, the Queen rose, and left the 
 Presence Chamber; when the whole Court followed 
 her example : and Blanche proceeded, accompa- 
 nied by a young French lady, named Adelaide de 
 
282 ORIGINAL 
 
 Montauban, who was much in her confidence, to 
 take her accustomed walk in the Royal gardens. 
 To Adelaide she had already confessed that she 
 felt a more than ordinary interest for the Count of 
 Trastamare, and that she considered him the 
 noblest and most accomplished Cavalier at the 
 Castilian Court ; and she now related to her the 
 conversation which had recently passed between 
 them, and her consequent uneasiness. 
 
 " The Count, Madam," returned Adelaide, " is 
 doubtless enamoured of your Majesty. His con- 
 duct towards you has long convinced me of it; and 
 if you have not observed it, I am persuaded that 
 Maria de Padilla has not been so blind. Her 
 watchful eye is ever upon him, or upon your 
 Majesty, and the expression sometimes of envy, 
 and sometimes of malignity, in her countenance, 
 shews that she takes a more than ordinary interest 
 in the affair." 
 
 " I have felt her basilisk glance upon me," said 
 the Queen, " more frequently than I desired. But 
 hark ! what noise is that ?" 
 
 The interesting nature of their conversation had 
 led them much beyond their usual walk, and as 
 they approached the Grotto, which has been already 
 mentioned, they heard voices in earnest conver- 
 sation. 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 283 
 
 " Nay," said a voice, which they immediately 
 recognised to be that of the Grand Master of St. 
 James', the brother of Don Henry, " wherefore 
 deny a fact so apparent to all ? What else mean 
 this abstracted carriage, these solitary rambles, 
 these sighs, and even tears ? this refraining from 
 all pursuits consistent with your age, and cha- 
 racter, and rank ?" 
 
 " And are not," said Don Henry, t{ the load 
 of ills with which Castile is distracted, and the 
 injurious treatment with which our house is over- 
 whelmed, sufficient to account for all this ? Can 
 I mix in the follies and frivolities of the Court of 
 Valladolid, while my heart is bleeding with the 
 wounds of my country, and with it's own?" 
 
 " Alas ! my brother/' replied the Grand Mas- 
 ter, " the injuries of Castile, and of our house, 
 are of a much more ancient date than this change 
 in your behaviour. When you first became aware 
 of them, they worked very different effects upon 
 you, from those which I now behold. Then you 
 were the lion roused from his lair ; now you are 
 the sloth shrinking to it's hiding-place. You are 
 in love, Henry, and Queen Blanche is the object 
 of your misguided passion." 
 
 " You have probed me to the heart/' exclaimed 
 
284 ORIGINAL 
 
 Don Henry, " and extracted from it the secret 
 which I thought hidden in it's deepest recesses." 
 
 The Queen now listened with the most intense 
 and painful interest, but the voices grew faint and 
 indistinct, and were soon lost in the distance. 
 
 ' ' Unhappy that I am!" she cried, "hated 
 where I expected to be beloved ; and beloved 
 where love is crime, and the parent not of de- 
 light, but of danger, and misery, and guilt. Oh ! 
 that we were once more in our own sweet France, 
 Adelaide ! where hearts are happy as the skies are 
 genial. Where no torrid clime like this mingles 
 pestilence with it's grandeur, and poison with it's 
 beauty; where the Suns scorch not while they 
 warm ; and where hearts are the nurseries of feel- 
 ings, fervent and passionate as those that exist 
 here, but unmixed with cruelty, and unstained 
 with sorrow, or with crime/' 
 
 By this time all the persons of whom this nar- 
 rative treats had nearly come to an eclaircissement 
 with each other ; excepting that Maria de Padilla 
 had not yet had an opportunity of fully explaining 
 to the Count of Trastamare the sentiments which 
 she entertained towards him. That opportunity 
 was, however, very soon afterwards afforded her, 
 on the occasion of the Marriage of his brother 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 285 
 
 Don Tello, the Lord of Aguila, with the beautiful 
 Donna Joanna de Lara, heiress to the Signiory of 
 Biscay. 
 
 As all the nobility in Valladolid were to be present 
 at the solemnization of this Marriage, and the en- 
 tertainment which followed, Don Pedro, much as 
 he hated all his brothers, was constrained, out of 
 policy, and in order to preserve an appearance of 
 cordiality and reconciliation, to shew himself at 
 the nuptial feast ; although he, as usual, stipu- 
 lated for the presence of Maria de Padilla also. 
 Don Henry was, of course, of the party; but he 
 continued to wear that look of abstraction and me- 
 lancholy, for which he had lately become remark- 
 able ; but his brother, the Grand Master, had told 
 him that his every look and action were minutely 
 watched by Maria, and had, therefore, conjured 
 him not to keep his eyes so constantly fixed upon 
 the Queen. Thus cautioned, he withdrew them 
 from the object of his affection, and fixed them 
 upon the ground. After the Banquet, the party 
 divided into numerous groups ; and, of the more 
 distinguished personages present, Don Pedro at- 
 tached himself to the Queen Mother; Blanche 
 conversed with the young Bride ; the Bridegroom 
 and Don Alphonso d'Albuquerque were engaged 
 in close conversation with each other ; and Don 
 
286 ORIGINAL 
 
 Henry found himself obliged to submit to the ad- 
 vances of Maria de Padilla. 
 
 " Count of Trastamare," said she, smiling, " it 
 belongs neither to your rank, or to your age to 
 appear thus abstracted and pensive in so distin- 
 guished an assembly; and if your perseverance 
 proposes to itself no other end, it appears to me 
 to be but to little purpose. Is it of the earth on 
 which we tread that you are enamoured ? It seems 
 that you cannot prevail upon yourself to look 
 upon any thing else, and because that is mute, 
 I suppose you have vowed to be so also." 
 
 Maria was the object of Don Henry's unmixed 
 hatred and contempt, and but for the words per- 
 severance and end, which she had used in the 
 course of her address to him, and which he in- 
 stantly recognised as having been contained in the 
 verses which he had lost, he would not have deigned 
 her an answer. His curiosity, however, as well as 
 his fears, was roused, and he replied, " If I am 
 amorous of the Earth, fair Lady, then have I as 
 many rivals as there are kingdoms and provinces, 
 and all the heroes who exist dispute her favours 
 with me : what wonder, therefore, is it that I am 
 sad?" 
 
 " Then," returned Maria, " you should address 
 your vows to objects where you would meet with 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 287 
 
 no competition, and where they would be fa- 
 vourably received. Have you any difficulty in 
 explaining the Oracle, or must I interpret for you ?" 
 
 " Madam," answered the Count, " we have 
 discontinued the customs of antiquity, and I know 
 not that you would be a just interpreter of the 
 decrees of heaven." 
 
 ** It is only of the decrees of Love that I 
 would speak," replied Maria; " and if I were to 
 interpret them to you now, perhaps it would not 
 be for the first time. Behold," she added, giving 
 him the verses which she had copied from his 
 tablets, " and tell me whether a heart which can 
 thus express itself stands in need of consolation I" 
 
 The terrible words which Dante read upon the 
 gates of Hell could scarcely have excited a 
 stronger agitation, than that which Henry felt at 
 beholding his Sonnet in the hands of this artful 
 and malignant woman. Fear, scorn, and indigna- 
 tion took by turns possession of his bosom. His own 
 situation and that of his brothers was sufficiently 
 insecure at the Court of a cruel and treacherous 
 tyrant, under the domination of such a woman ; 
 and to this was now added' the peril to which he 
 had exposed the Queen, by placing her in the 
 power of her bitterest enemy. 
 
288 ORIGINAL 
 
 Maria perceived his agitation and exclaimed, 
 " You fear me, and you have reason so to do ; 
 because I can make a very different use of your 
 secret from that which I would wish. Although I 
 am not indebted to you for my knowledge of that 
 secret, yet will I put you in possession of my own ; 
 leaving the opposition of scruples to common minds. 
 What can you hope from the sentiments which 
 you entertain for Blanche of Bourbon? Think 
 you, that after discovering my own passion, I will 
 suffer you to indulge yours with impunity? Speak 
 then, Don Henry, is my love returned? or, are we 
 henceforth mortal enemies ? for, after the pangs 
 which this avowal costs me, I will accept of only 
 love or enmity !" 
 
 That it had cost her much was evident, from 
 her tone and manner ; for, while she spake, even 
 the unabashed front of Maria de Padilla was suf- 
 fused with a crimson hue. Her voice faltered ; 
 her head drooped ; and the moisture in her eyes 
 for once attested the sincerity of her expressions. 
 The Count was also sufficiently agitated. With 
 all her beauty, and all her talents, he could not 
 surmount the indignation and contempt in which 
 he held her : and even that beauty, and those ta- 
 lents, suffered, in his mind, in comparison with 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 289 
 
 those of the Queen. The idea, too, that he had 
 exposed the latter to the malignity of her rival, 
 overwhelmed him with terror. 
 
 " I confess, Madam," at length he answered, 
 " that I am the author of those love verses to 
 which you replied by an Oracle : but what does 
 that fact prove further, than that I have an inclina- 
 tion for Poetry ? If I were in love with the Queen, 
 should I be insane enough to discover it so rashly ? 
 The sentiments towards me which you have with 
 so much delicacy avowed, bind me your grateful 
 slave for ever. You are beautiful enough to drive 
 a man of my age mad with ecstasy. But I must 
 preserve, for I have reason enough so to do, the 
 respect which I owe the King, and " 
 
 " You would lose it with all your heart," said 
 Maria, interrupting him, " if the Queen asked 
 you. I love you, to my misfortune. Take care 
 that you do not love her to her misfortune, and 
 your own. None speak as I have spoken, until 
 their resolves are fully made. Remember that it 
 is dangerous to make me suffer ; and that I am 
 not of the humour to let my blushes be seen and 
 despised, with impunity." 
 
 Thus saying, she walked away without wait- 
 ing for his answer, and entered into conversa- 
 tion with Madame d' Albuquerque. The rest of 
 
 o 
 
290 ORIGINAL 
 
 the evening passed off gloomily and heavily. The 
 King sat mute and motionless ; the Queen, after 
 vainly endeavouring to rally her spirits, sank at last 
 into that listless melancholy which the presence of 
 Don Pedro always inspired ; and the Count re- 
 lapsed into his usual abstractedness and silence, 
 from which he was only roused by the breaking 
 up of the party. 
 
 That night a thousand agitating feelings of love, 
 jealousy, anger, and mortified pride, haunted the 
 bosom of Maria de Padilla. She had stooped 
 to solicit the affection of Don Henry, and her suit 
 had been rejected. Sometimes she meditated his 
 death, and she knew that she could procure it 
 easily. She had but to hint such a wish to her 
 Royal lover, who then slumbered by her side, and 
 the Count of Trastamare would be speedily num- 
 bered with those who were. Then again, all her 
 love for him rushed upon her heart, and the idea 
 which she had conceived but a moment before, was 
 rejected with horror. Then the hated image of 
 Blanche of Bourbon would occupy her mind : that 
 double rival, with charms and graces at least equal 
 to her own ; and with virtues which won for her 
 the benedictions and esteem of all. " That ser- 
 pent must be crushed/* said she ; " and who dare 
 do it, if not I ? Yet, yet," she added, as some- 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 291 
 
 thing of woman's softness mingled with her hate 
 and jealousy, " even she might be spared, could 
 but Henry be weaned from her. I must see and 
 speak to him on that subject once again; and, 
 should he still continue obstinate, let the bolt 
 fall!" 
 
 Thoughts like these so occupied her mind during 
 the whole of the night, as to chase away all slum- 
 ber from her eyelids-; and soon after daybreak 
 she rose to seek the Grotto in which she had before 
 discovered Don Henry ; resolved, should she again 
 find him there, to obtain an explicit declaration. 
 Leaving the King still slumbering, she descended 
 to the gardens; yet though the Sun had riot long 
 risen, and the night dews were still thick upon the 
 ground ; when she arrived at the Grotto she found 
 that some persons were there before her, and 
 heard voices in earnest conversation. As she ap- 
 proached near enough to be able to see who they 
 were, she was astounded to behold Queen Blanche, 
 and Don Henry on his knees, before her ; and to 
 hear the Count exclaim, as he seized her hand and 
 kissed it rapturously, " Fly, dearest Madam! fly 
 from a cruel tyrant, who hates you ; and a malig- 
 nant rival, who is plotting your destruction !" 
 
 At that moment the demons of jealousy and 
 hatred took full possession of the soul of Maria de 
 
 o2 
 
292 ORIGINAL 
 
 Padilla ; and, as she gasped for breath, she was 
 obliged to lean against a tree, to support herself 
 from falling. As soon, however, as she recovered 
 her bodily strength, she did not hesitate for an in- 
 stant as to the coarse which she should pursue, but 
 swiftly and silently retracing her steps to the 
 chamber of the slumbering King, she there shrieked 
 out, " Awake, Don Pedro ! King of Castile, 
 awake ! Treason and dishonour are in thy Palace ! 
 Awake ! awake ! " 
 
 The King started from his sleep, and seizing a 
 dagger which always hung beside him, stared 
 wildly in the direction whence the voice proceeded ; 
 " Ha! my sweet Maria!" said he, as a smile 
 succeeded the scowl upon his brow, when he 
 perceived by whom his slumber had been disturbed, 
 " is it thou? 'twas but a hideous dream then. 
 Methought I lay, powerless and helpless, upon the 
 earth, whilst the accursed Henry stood above me 
 with a naked sword, which Blanche of Bourbon 
 directed to my heart. I had no power to stir, but 
 felt his fatal steel drinking my life blood, when 
 thy sweet voice awoke me. It was a silly dream, 
 
 Love! but " 
 
 " Your dream was true, my Liege," replied 
 Maria, interrupting him ; " arise, and I will sliew 
 you it's interpretation." 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 293 
 
 Hastily throwing a loose robe round him, and 
 seizing his sword, the King accompanied Maria 
 into the gardens ; and two soldiers of the Royal 
 guard, whom he hastily summoned, followed them. 
 They were not long in reaching the Grotto, near 
 which, listening with lowering brows, and beating 
 hearts, to the conversation within, we must for a 
 moment leave the Monarch and his paramour. 
 
 Don Henry had, on the previous evening, left 
 his Brother's nuptial feast, full of sorrowful fore- 
 bodings. . He had discovered that the most precious 
 secret of his heart, was in the possession of one, 
 who of all others had equally the inclination and 
 the power to make a dangerous use of it. He 
 felt the slippery and dangerous ground on which 
 he stood, at the Court of a cruel and treacherous 
 Prince like Pedro ; and that his personal safety 
 could only be secured by instant flight. Still he 
 could not leave the Queen exposed to so many 
 dangers ; since he well knew her life was unsafe in 
 the keeping of her husband and of Maria ; espe- 
 cially exasperated as the latter would feel at his 
 rejection, and his departure. As these thoughts 
 crossed his mind, Adelaide de Montalban passed 
 him in the great corridor of the Palace, and he at 
 once unfolded to her the enmity of Maria, and the 
 danger of her mistress. 
 
294 ORIGINAL 
 
 " Alas/' said Adelaide, " the good Queen and 
 I have long, long been convinced that her heart 
 is full of hatred and treachery towards her. But 
 whither can she fly? how can she save herself?" 
 
 " Beg the Queen," said he, " to grant me but 
 half an hour's conversation to-morrow, at the 
 silver Grotto, at sunrise ; for it is too hazardous 
 to speak to her for a moment when this she-devil, 
 or her spies, are watching every movement. The 
 hour and place I have named will secure us from 
 interruption, and I may then be able to propose 
 some mode of rescuing her Majesty from the perils 
 which surround her. Promise me that you will 
 propose this to her/' 
 
 " I promise you faithfully, my Lord," said 
 Adelaide. 
 
 " Then, fare thee well, pretty maiden/' added 
 Henry ; " for this conference has already lasted 
 long enough for our safety." 
 
 The next morning saw the Count de Trastamare 
 at the rendezvous at the hour appointed ; and he 
 had not long to wait the arrival of Queen Blanche. 
 " Count," said the Queen, " before we commu- 
 nicate further with each other, let me exact a pro- 
 mise from you, that, not now, nor ever, shall I 
 hear from you any declaration of such a passion 
 as that which you rashly hinted at in our last con- 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 295 
 
 versation ; and the indulgence of which, the laws 
 of God and man alike prohibit." 
 
 " I own my fault, Madam !" said Don Henry, 
 " and entreat your pardon for the inconsidera- 
 tion and rashness of my conduct. My heart was 
 full, and the conduct of Don Pedro towards your 
 Majesty stirred it to overflowing. But I readily 
 promise all that you can demand : you shall per- 
 ceive nothing in my conduct towards you, but the 
 most respectful deference, and the warmest solici- 
 tude for your welfare. My purpose in soliciting 
 this interview, is to warn you that your life is in 
 danger, and to point out to you the propriety of 
 seeking safety by immediate flight." 
 
 " I know too well," she replied, " how pre- 
 carious is my situation among the hollow hearts, 
 and blood-stained hands, which crowd this Court ; 
 but what new cause of alarm have you dis- 
 covered ?" 
 
 "Alas, Madam! your bitterest foe has not only 
 made me a tender of her affections, which I re- 
 jected with scorn ; but she has also discovered the 
 fatal passion which already occupied my heart, and 
 has, in no equivocal terms, informed me, that your 
 Majesty's life is in her hands, and threatened to 
 exercise the power which she possesses." 
 
 " Alas ! alas !" said the Queen, " guiltless as 
 
296 ORIGINAL 
 
 1 know myself, how am I environed with dangers 
 through the crimes, and the indiscretions of others ! 
 How am I to save myself! Long since would I 
 have taken shelter at my Father's Court, but that 
 I had no means of escaping thither/' 
 
 " Then listen to me, Madam," said the Count. 
 " My brother, Don Tello, will this day depart 
 with his suite to take possession of the Signiory of 
 Biscay. Your Majesty may take your accustomed 
 ride in the forest at the hour at which he passes 
 through it, and then join his escort ; where I can 
 ensure you a hearty welcome. The King con- 
 cerns himself so little about your movements, that 
 before your flight can be discovered, you will be 
 beyond the reach of pursuit. Arrived in the terri- 
 tories of my brother, the power of Don Pedro 
 may be defied, and measures easily concerted for 
 sending your Majesty to the Court of France." 
 
 " Dangers and difficulties attend your plan, 
 Count," said the Queen, " but despair has seldom 
 any alternative but a choice of evils ; and I con- 
 fess that I cannot discover any better mode of 
 effecting my escape from the evils which surround 
 me, than by the path which you have pointed out." 
 
 " Then," said Don Henry, falling on his knees, 
 and pressing her hand to his lips, " do not hesitate 
 to pursue that path which will lead you to peace and 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 297 
 
 v 
 
 safety. Fly, dearest Madam ! fly from a cruel 
 tyrant, who hates you ; and a malignant rival, who 
 is plotting your destruction !" 
 
 As he uttered this, a slight rustling was heard 
 amongst the foliage which concealed the entrance 
 to the Grotto. It was Maria de Padilla, who 
 started when she heard the words with which the 
 Count concluded, and had nearly discovered her- 
 self as she retreated. All, however, was in an 
 instant perfectly tranquil ; for with noiseless tread, 
 and a heart which, although nearly bursting with 
 the violence of it's emotions, she scarcely per- 
 mitted to beat, lest even it's throbbing should be- 
 come audible, she had stolen away to apprise the 
 King of her discovery. 
 
 " Our untimely meeting, Count," said the 
 Queen, " has startled even the feathered race 
 from their nests among the bushes. As to the 
 plan which you have devised for me, I will venture 
 to pursue it, come what, come may ; it may per- 
 haps lead, as you promise me, to safety, but to 
 peace, never ! That is a word which hereafter may 
 sound in the ear of Blanche of Bourbon, but to 
 which her heart must ever be a stranger." 
 
 A deadlier paleness spread over the wan features 
 of the Queen, as she uttered these words, and 
 tears, not profuse and flowing, 
 
 o3 
 
298 ORIGINAL 
 
 " The heart's gentlest waters, 
 Lightening the fount they flow'd from ;" 
 
 but in large heavy drops, slowly gathered beneath 
 her eyelids, and fell upon her bosom. 
 
 " Say not so, gentlest Madam," returned Don 
 Henry ; " all residences are not as dismal as the 
 Castle of Valladolid ; all hearts are not as cold 
 and barbarous as Don Pedro's. The vows which 
 you have plighted to him, he has himself rendered 
 null and void, and in the compass of the world, 
 surely another will be found who will know how to 
 estimate " 
 
 " No more, Count ; no more of this," said the 
 Queen, interrupting him. " It has pleased Hea- 
 ven to link me to Don Pedro by irrevocable ties. 
 For yourself, rest assured that you possess my 
 esteem, my gratitude, and even my affection, " 
 
 " Say'st thou so, Traitress !" shouted Don 
 Pedro, who had arrived only in time to hear the 
 latter part of her answer to Henry. " Adultress ! 
 miscreant ! serpent of France ! here receive the 
 reward of thy perfidy and shame !" 
 
 Thus saying, he passed his sword thrice through 
 the body of the unhappy Queen, who fell at his 
 feet bathed in blood. Don Henry, although un- 
 armed, would have rushed upon him, but was in- 
 stantly made a prisoner by the guard. With the 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 299 
 
 cold, Gorgon-like gaze of Maria de Padilla fixed 
 upon him, his blood ran chilly in his veins at this 
 hateful sight; his lips quivered, and for a moment 
 he could have fancied himself undergoing the me- 
 tamorphosis which the glance of Medusa is said to 
 have effected in those on whom it was fixed. 
 
 " Sire!" said Maria, in an under tone to the 
 King, as she raised his hand wet with the blood 
 of his Queen to her lips, " behold the traitor ! 
 what shall be his doom ?" 
 
 " To the scaffold with him! to the block in- 
 stantly!" 
 
 " Not so, my Liege, not so ; the Bastard's fate 
 would but excite too much sympathy in Valla- 
 dolid, where he has contrived to gain the people's 
 hearts ; and his brother Don Tello would not suffer 
 his death to pass unrevenged. Strip him of his 
 titles, degrade him, banish him ; and thus prolong 
 his pangs for years, instead of the brief interval 
 between the uplifting of the axe and it's descent." 
 
 " Thou counsellest wisely, my sweet Maria," 
 said the King ; and then turning towards his pri- 
 soner, added, " thank my mercy that 1 will not 
 stain myself with thy bastard blood, traitor ! but 
 upon pain of death, instantly begone ! nor let 
 Castile be further polluted by thy presence. De- 
 part not, however, as Count of Trastamare, but 
 
300 ORIGINAL 
 
 simply, Henry de Guzman, the fruit and evidence 
 of thy mother's infamy !" 
 
 " Tyrant and murderer !" retorted the indignant 
 Henry, " I will fly from Castile, and even to the 
 end of the earth to escape from the domination of 
 such a monster as thou art." 
 
 The King grinned fiercely, and raised his weapon, 
 but his arm was restrained by Maria ; and his fears, 
 and not his clemency, having at length triumphed 
 over his thirst for blood, Don Henry walked un- 
 injured*, out of the custody of the guards. 
 
 Month succeeded month, and year rolled after 
 year, and the blood of Blanche of Bourbon seemed 
 to call for vengeance in vain. That vengeance 
 was at length, however, fully and signally accom- 
 plished by a series of events, which are too familiar 
 to the readers of French and Spanish history to 
 require to be enumerated. Maria de Padilla, 
 though loaded with the favours of Don Pedro, 
 could not give him her heart, and the remembrance 
 of her flagrant crimes and her unrequited affection, 
 combined to bring her to an early grave ; whilst 
 Don Pedro, after a reign of unexampled cruelty 
 and oppression, was chased from his throne by 
 his indignant subjects, and died by the hands of 
 his deeply-wronged brother, Don Henry, Count 
 of Trastamare, who subsequently wore his crown. 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 301 
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S 
 
 SUPERNATURAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 He was the Soul of genius, 
 And all our praises of him are like waters 
 Drawn from a spring, that still rise full, and leave 
 
 The part remaining greatest. 
 
 JONSON. 
 
 IT is one of the most striking peculiarities in 
 the genius of Shakspeare, that, although he is 
 eminently the Poet of Nature, and exhibits her 
 with singular felicity in her ordinary and every day 
 attire, yet that, when he gets " beyond this visi- 
 ble, diurnal sphere/' he surpasses all other writers, 
 in the extraordinary power and invention which he 
 displays in the delineation of Supernatural beings. 
 It has been justly remarked, that, in his most 
 imaginary characters he cannot be so properly said 
 to go beyond Nature, as to carry Nature along with 
 him, into regions which were before unknown to 
 
302 ORIGINAL 
 
 her. There is such an extraordinary propriety 
 and consistency in his supernatural beings, and 
 every thing which they say and do, is in such strict 
 accordance with the character with which he has 
 invested them, that we at once become, as it were, 
 denizens of the imaginary world, which the potent 
 art of the Poet has conjured around us ; the mar- 
 vellous merges into the probable; and astonish- 
 ment and surprise are changed into intense interest 
 and powerful sympathy. Shakspeare is the only 
 Poet who effects this ; at least, to the same ex- 
 tent. The magic of other writers pleases and 
 surprises us ; but in that of Shakspeare we are 
 thoroughly wrapt up. We are as much under the 
 influence of the wand of Prospero, as are Ariel 
 and Caliban ; the presence of the Weird Sisters 
 on the blasted heath, arrests our attention as 
 strongly as it did that of Macbeth and Banquo ; 
 and the predictions of the prophetic Spirits on the 
 eve of the battle of Bosworth, ring as fearfully 
 and as solemnly in our ears, as they did in those of 
 the conscious usurper. The great secret of all this 
 is, the wonderful art with which the character of 
 these visitants from another world is sustained, 
 and in which they are not surpassed by any of our 
 Author's representations of mere humanity. Ariel 
 is as perfect and harmonious a picture as Miranda, 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 303 
 
 or Ferdinand; and, above all, the Witches in 
 ft Macbeth" are creations on which the Poet has 
 lavished all his skill, and exhausted all his inven- 
 tion. 
 
 The Supernatural machinery of which he makes 
 the most frequent use, is founded upon the popular 
 belief in Ghosts. This is a superstition which has 
 existed in all ages and countries, and amongst all 
 classes and conditions of men. There are many 
 who affect to despise it, but it is scarcely too much 
 to say that there never existed an individual who 
 was not, at some period or other, under the in- 
 fluence of the feelings which such a belief excites. 
 
 The " Saint, the savage, and the sage," the 
 man of letters and the uninformed peasant ; the 
 child of Science, who can explain the structure of 
 the universe ; and even the Sceptic, Hobbes, for 
 instance, among many others, who refuses to give 
 credence to any written revelation of the will of 
 the Creator ; have all confessed that 
 
 " There are more things in Heaven and earth, 
 Than are dream'd of in our philosophy." 
 
 Hence this belief has become an engine of most 
 potent influence in the hands of the Poet ; since 
 by it he could work upon the feelings of all man- 
 
804 ORIGINAL 
 
 kind. The great Authors of antiquity, and those 
 of Spain and Italy, and above all, those of the 
 north of Europe, the countries of cloud and mist, 
 the 
 
 " Lands of brown heath and shaggy wood, 
 Lands of the mountain and the flood," 
 
 where the phenomena of Nature are such power- 
 ful auxiliaries to a lively imagination, and a cre- 
 dulous understanding, all these have delighted in 
 breaking down the barrier between the corporeal 
 and the spiritual world, and in shaking our dispo- 
 sitions, 
 
 " With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls." 
 
 The most distinguished writers of our own age 
 have not neglected to avail themselves of this po- 
 pular Superstition, if such it must be called. Co- 
 leridge's " Ancient Mariner; 19 Lord Byron's 
 " Manfred" and " Siege of Corinth;' and that 
 masterpiece of the mighty Wizard of the North, 
 the " Bride of Lammermoor " are proofs, amongst 
 innumerable others, of the ability which our con- 
 temporaries have evinced, when they have ventured 
 to lift up the veil which shrouds the secrets of the 
 spiritual world. 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 
 
 It is, therefore, not surprising that Shakspeare 
 should have enrolled these shadowy beings among 
 his Dramatis personce ; or, that in his management 
 of them he should have displayed consummate 
 genius. The introduction to the entrance of the 
 Ghost in " Hamlet," shows infinite taste and 
 judgment. Just as our feelings are powerfully 
 excited by the narration of it's appearance on the 
 foregoing evening, the speaker is interrupted by 
 " majesty of buried Denmark" once more stand- 
 ing before him : 
 
 " The bell then beating One, 
 
 But soft, break off! look where it comes again!" 
 
 then the solemn adjurations to it to speak ; the aw- 
 ful silence which it maintains; the impotent at- 
 tempts to strike it ; and the exclamation of Ho- 
 ratio, when it glides away, 
 
 " We do it wrong, being so majestical, 
 To offer it the shew of violence," 
 
 present to us that shadowy and indistinct, but at 
 the same time, appalling and fearfully interesting 
 picture, which constitutes one of the highest efforts 
 of the sublime. The interview with Hamlet is a 
 masterpiece. The language of this awful visitant 
 
306 ORIGINAL 
 
 is admirably characteristic. It is not of this world. 
 It savours of the last long resting-place of mor- 
 tality ; " of worms, and graves, and epitaphs." It 
 evinces little of human feeling and frailty. Ven- 
 geance is the only passion which has survived the 
 wreck of the body ; and it is this passion which 
 has burst the cerements of the grave, and sent 
 it's occupant to revisit the " glimpses of the 
 moon." It's discourse is of murder, incest, suf- 
 fering, and revenge ; and gives us awful glimpses 
 of that prison-house, the details of which are not 
 permitted to " ears of flesh and blood." Whether 
 present or absent, we are continually reminded of 
 this perturbed Spirit. When on the stage, " it 
 harrows us with fear and wonder ;" and when ab- 
 sent, we see it in it's influence on the persons of 
 the Drama, especially Hamlet. The sensations of 
 horror and revenge which at first possess the mind 
 of this Prince ; then his tardiness and irresolu- 
 tion, which are chided by the re-appearance of the 
 Spectre ; and his fears, notwithstanding all the 
 evidence to the contrary, that it may be an evil 
 Spirit, which, 
 
 " Out of his weakness and his melancholy, 
 Abuses him to damn him," 
 
 form one of the most affecting and interesting 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 307 
 
 pictures in the whole range of Shakspeare's 
 dramas. 
 
 The Spirits of the murdered victims of the 
 usurper Richard, are also admirably introduced ; 
 but they do not occupy so prominent a station in 
 the Drama as the Ghost in " Hamlet." The ap- 
 parition of Julius Cczsar in the tent of Brutus, is 
 a brief but awful visitation, and the mind of the 
 spectator is finely prepared for it by the unnatural 
 drowsiness which possesses all the attendants. 
 
 The Ghost of Banquo exists only in the dis- 
 ordered mind of Macbeth ; and we think that the 
 effect would be prodigiously increased if the ma- 
 nagers would listen to the opinions of the best 
 critics, and forbear to present it before our visual 
 organs. But what shall we say of the Weird 
 Sisters, and of their unutterable occupation ? 
 
 " How now, ye secret, black, and midnight hags, 
 Whatis'tyedo?" 
 
 " A deed without a name I w 
 
 This is the true sublime ; it is composed of the 
 essential elements of sublimity; and the most 
 highly-wrought description of their employment 
 would produce an effect infinitely inferior to the 
 
308 ORIGINAL 
 
 simple brevity of this reply. The mind wanders 
 into the pathless field of horrible imaginings. From 
 the moment that Macbeth encounters them on the 
 blasted heath, be is impelled along his inevitable 
 path by their spells. His mind is troubled with 
 " thick-coming fancies;" his " face is a book 
 where men may read strange matters ;" " Things 
 bad begun, make strong themselves by ill:" until 
 at length, he is 
 
 " in blood 
 
 Slept in so far, that, should he wade no more, 
 Returning were as tedious as go o'er ! " 
 
 and his unearthly tempters complete their horrid 
 task, and gain their prey. 
 
 The Fairies in " A Midsummer NigJifs Dream" 
 are of a nature as essentially and distinctly different 
 as celestial from infernal ; or light from darkness. 
 Even " that shrewd and knavish Sprite " Puck, is 
 but mischievous only, not wicked ; and Oberon, 
 and Titania, and all their elfish troop are un- 
 tainted with any fiendish attributes, and almost 
 without any touches of mortality. The " delicate 
 Ariel" is another still-varying creation of the same 
 gifted pencil ; made still more effective by it's 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 309 
 
 contrast with the monster Caliban; " that thing of 
 darkness/' " as disproportioned in his manners, 
 as in his shape :" 
 
 " Whose mother was a Witch ; and one so strong 
 That could control the Moon, make ebbs and flows ; 
 And deal in her command, without her power." 
 
 But to do ample justice to all the Supernatural 
 characters of Shakspeare, would demand a Volume, 
 not an Essay; and however frequently we may 
 have perused the magic page which " gives these 
 airy nothings a local habitation and a name," it is 
 still untiring, and still new. And though the all- 
 potent art which gave it life, and breath, and being, 
 is extinct ; though the charm be broken, and the 
 power lost ; yet still, 
 
 " Our mighty Bard's victorious lays 
 Fill the loud voice of universal praise ; 
 And baffled Spite, with hopeless anguish dumb, 
 Yields to Renown the centuries to come ! " 
 
810 ORIGINAL 
 
 A NIGHT AT THE MERMAID. 
 
 AN OLD ENGLISH TALE. 
 
 " 'TlS a dismal shower, good mine Host, and the 
 night is black as Erebus ; my steed, too, is as ill 
 conditioned as I am, without some slight respite 
 to his labour, to travel as far as Whitehall, whi- 
 ther my affairs call me. So that were your Hostelry 
 as full of guests as London town is of sign boards, 
 you must e'en find room to afford me shelter for 
 an hour or two/' 
 
 " In troth, Master," replied the Host, " ye have 
 chosen a naughty night to travel in. But i'faith ! 
 my private chambers are all occupied by constant 
 guests ; and my public room is filled by a set of 
 gallants, who choose this night in every week to 
 make merry at the sign of the Mermaid." 
 
 " 'Tis wondrous hard, mine Host," returned the 
 Stranger, " that a benighted traveller, and a loyal 
 subject of her Majesty, should, in the centre of 
 this ancient and hospitable City of London, and 
 from so fair a Host as thou art, beg in vain for that 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 311 
 
 favour which would be freely granted to him by a 
 wanderer of the desert. May I crave of thee at 
 least this courtesy, to commend me to those gal- 
 lants, and say that a Kentish gentleman, whom 
 nightfall and the tempest have driven here for 
 shelter, begs to know if he may warm himself at 
 the same fire with them, without detriment to 
 their merriment ?" 
 
 The Host stared the pertinacious Stranger in the 
 face, while he slowly unbarred the Inn-gate : for, 
 during this conversation, the traveller had ques- 
 tioned on the outside, while the Host answered 
 him through a small grating. " They are not such 
 churlish curs as to deny thee that," said the latter, 
 " although they have Players, and Poets, and 
 ne'er-do-wells of all sorts amongst them. They 
 drink too, plenty of Sack and Rhenish ; and the 
 silver comes at last, although sometimes it is over 
 long in it's travels. No, no, they would not drive 
 a night- foundered. Stranger from the gates; and 
 you, Sir, it is likely, will be wanting a flask of 
 good wine to keep this raw night air from your 
 stomach." 
 
 " It is the very thing, mine host/' said the 
 Stranger, as the man of flagons and puncheons 
 was helping him from his steed, in the Inn-yard, 
 " which I was about to crave of thee. But first 
 
312 ORIGINAL 
 
 bear my message to thy guests ; and I will await 
 their answer in the hall." 
 
 The Host, or, as we shall in future call him, 
 Master Stephen Drawwell, disappeared at this 
 bidding ; but soon returned with a message from 
 his guests, to say that the Stranger was heartily 
 welcome to their society. He then ushered him 
 across a long corridor, and up a flight of steps into 
 a spacious and lofty apartment where the gallants, 
 of whom he bad spoken, were assembled. A long 
 table extended the whole length of the room, while 
 an enormous wood fire blazed at each extremity. 
 The floor was strewed with rushes ; a piece of 
 state and luxury with which Master Drawwell orna- 
 mented his common room on this night of the week 
 only; and wax tapers were placed on various parts 
 of the table ; which was also plentifully furnished 
 with flasks and cups, bearing generous liquors of 
 every quality. 
 
 The Stranger was kindly welcomed by the whole 
 party, and was conducted to a seat at the right 
 hand of the person who appeared to officiate as 
 their President, or Chairman. A slight glance at 
 the persons by whom he was surrounded, convinced 
 him that he was in the company of no common men. 
 They were, for the most part, plainly habited ; and 
 many of them were now considerably under the 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 313 
 
 influence of the purple deity, to whom they had 
 been sacrificing. But amidst the wild jollity and 
 obstreperous mirth in which they indulged, he de- 
 tected many brilliant sallies of wit ; the most caustic 
 touches of satire; and a profound acquaintance 
 with the deepest mysteries of the human heart. 
 After listening for some time with vacuity, and 
 almost disgust, to a stale punster, he found him 
 suddenly transformed into a man of brilliant genius ; 
 a dull person near him, whom his potations, and 
 too great an indulgence in that fragrant weed which 
 had recently been imported from Virginia, seemed 
 to have reduced to a state of listlessness, at the 
 inspiring call of some kindred spirit, discovered 
 himself to be an accomplished scholar, and an obser- 
 vant and philosophical traveller ; whilst a third, 
 after singing a stave of a dull and senseless Madrigal, 
 became engaged in a discussion, which drew forth 
 from him a display of knowledge and eloquence, 
 at which Demosthenes himself would have sat down 
 in despair. 
 
 Such was the gifted but eccentric circle to which 
 our Traveller found himself introduced. The Presi- 
 dent, to whose peculiar care he was assigned, was a 
 thickset, and rather clumsily built person, with a 
 round burly face ; a high forehead ; and eyes, whose 
 uncommon expression of keenness and intelligence 
 
 p 
 
314 ORIGINAL 
 
 was not impaired by the circumstance of one being 
 considerably larger than the other. He seemed to 
 be peculiarly well fitted for the jovial station which 
 he occupied ; for, as the flasks passed round the ta- 
 ble, he pulled from them as long, and as hearty a 
 draught, as any of the company ; and, apparently, 
 with less effect of ebriety than most of them. His 
 conversational powers seemed of the highest order ; 
 and the sly satire, the fine humour, and the po- 
 lished wit, which escaped apparently unconsciously 
 from his lips, kept the table in a roar during the 
 whole of the evening. 
 
 This vivacious Chairman soon found out that the 
 Stranger had been in the army ; " Ye have, doubt- 
 less, then/' he said, " fought against the Don, Sir, 
 in the Netherlands?" 
 
 " I have, Sir," replied the Stranger; " in the 
 Netherlands, and in America." 
 
 " I had a scratch with him myself," said the 
 Chairman; " when Lord Essex went over to Flan- 
 ders, I was in good old Sir Thomas Stanton's 
 Regiment." 
 
 " Indeed !" said the other, somewhat incredu- 
 lously; " and may I ask your name?" 
 
 " You may, and learn it too," replied the digni- 
 tary of the Mermaid : " 'tis Jonson." 
 
 " Jonson!" said the Stranger, who now felt con- 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 315 
 
 vinced that he was either gravely imposed upon by 
 the Chairman, or that the wags of the Hostelry 
 were laughing at him in their sleeves; " 'tis 
 strange, but I was well acquainted with every 
 officer in that Regiment, and do not recollect that 
 there was one of that name." 
 
 " Officer!" shouted the other, and followed his 
 shout with an obstreperous laugh ; " No, no ; 
 Fortune placed me in the ranks. 'Twas a boy's 
 freak ; I thought that I should prefer handling a 
 musket to a trowel, so I left the front of Lincoln's- 
 inn-gateway for the palisadoes of Bruges.'* 
 
 A light broke in upon the Stranger's mind, which 
 instantly brightened over his face ; " Can it be?' 1 
 he said ; " I have heard of this story before ; can 
 you be the Poet, the Dramatist, Ben Jonson ? " 
 
 " Aye," exclaimed a dozen voices from all parts 
 of the room, " who but Ben ? rare Ben ! jovial 
 Ben ! honest Ben ! immortal Ben !" and the 
 mirth and conviviality were redoubled ; while the 
 Stranger, who felt like one who has unconsciously 
 intruded into the presence of superior beings, was 
 by turns awed and delighted by the persons among 
 whom he found himself. 
 
 About the middle of the table was seated a 
 person of a singularly saturnine and melancholy 
 expression of countenance. His features, which 
 
 P2 
 
316 ORIGINAL 
 
 were somewhat of an Italian cast, indicated a fine 
 intelligence, and a polished taste ; but still there 
 was something about them which repelled the ad- 
 vances of the most cordially disposed. He appeared 
 considerably older than most of his companions ; 
 but led by a similarity of tastes and occupations, 
 to mingle in their society. They seemed to regard 
 him with extraordinary deference and respect, and 
 to listen with attention and even reverence to all 
 that he uttered ; although every sentence which fell 
 from his lips was imbued with the bitterest and 
 most virulent personal satire. The praises and 
 compliments which were heaped upon Jonson, in 
 consequence of the Stranger's surprise, seemed 
 greatly to discompose this personage. He listened 
 to them in silence, and, after they had subsided, 
 pursed his lips into a sardonic grin, while he ad- 
 dressed the Chairman in these words : 
 
 " Pray tell me, Ben, where does the mystery lurk ? 
 What others call a Play, you call a Work !" 
 
 The sting in this line consisted in the fact of 
 Jonson having lately published a volume of Plays, 
 entitled " The Works of Benjamin Jonson ;" which 
 term was then considered ridiculously arrogant and 
 pompous, although it has since been commonly 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 317 
 
 applied in the same sense. Some of the company 
 were amused, but more were grieved, at this sally, 
 as tending to damp their hilarity ; but no one seemed 
 more disconcerted than the person who was the 
 object of it. At length, however, a lame man, at 
 the lower end of the room, exclaimed, while a 
 good-humoured smile mantled over his features, 
 
 " The Author's friend, thus for the Author says, 
 
 Ben's Plays are works, while others' Works are plays/'* 
 
 The momentary damp which had hung upon the 
 spirits of the company, was dispelled by this sally ; 
 and one long loud peal of laughter and applause 
 cleared away the gloom which had darkened round 
 them. 
 
 " Thanks! Uncle Willy !" said Jonson; " thanks, 
 my sweet Swan of Avon! A mad wag, my friend," 
 he continued, addressing the Stranger; " he com- 
 menced his career with deer-stealing, and he has 
 ever since continued the pilfering trade, by stealing 
 away the hearts of all who know him." 
 
 * As both these jeux d'esprit are anonymous, I have con- 
 sidered myself privileged to appropriate them as I thought 
 proper. 
 
318 ORIGINAL 
 
 " Is it Shakspeare?" enquired the Stranger, in 
 a tremulous tone. 
 
 " 'Tis none but he," returned Jonson; " a 
 kind youth, and a clever. He lacks the an- 
 cient tongues though; and he doth take most 
 irreverent liberties with the wise rules of the 
 Stagyrite : yet he knows in some sort to tickle the 
 popular ear ; and crowds will go to see his repre- 
 sentation of a Shipwreck, although it be upon the 
 coast of Bohemia, who do not comprehend a single 
 one of the classical allusions in my Poetaster." 
 
 " Nay, nay, Ben/ 7 said a keen-eyed, good- 
 looking stripling by his side; " thy Poetaster hath 
 it's praise, but match it not with the immortal 
 works of my Godfather." 
 
 " I cry you mercy, young Master Davenant !" 
 said Jonson ; " I knew not that thy quick ears were 
 so close to my hasty tongue. But William, friend, 
 have a care in future, when thou speakest of Master 
 Shakspeare, that thou take not the name of God 
 in vain." 
 
 Jonson had now turned the laugh against his 
 defender, who was supposed by many to be con- 
 nected with Davenant much more closely than by the 
 sponsorial tie. " But ne'er mind, Master Shak- 
 speare," said Jonson, " the lad is a proper person ; 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 319 
 
 and hath more wit in his pate than was ever inhe- 
 rited from an Oxford tapster. But tell me, my 
 heart of Warwickshire, when am I to carry thy 
 little Judith to the baptismal font?" 
 
 " Right speedily, Ben," answered Shakspeare ; 
 " and then we shall see what rare present thou 
 wilt bestow upon her." 
 
 " It shall be something," returned Jonson, 
 " which it is fitting for a Poet and a Scholar to 
 give ; one who hath the tongues, and is skilled in 
 the lore of ancient Greece and Rome." 
 
 " Give her some latten spoons," added Shak- 
 speare ; " and then, Ben, thou can'st translate them." 
 
 " A murrain upon thy word-torturing wit, 
 Willy," replied Jonson ; " thou perverter of lan- 
 guage, and destroyer of the simplicity of syllables ! 
 But a truce to these wit-combats, as Master Fuller 
 calleth them, and let us have a Catch. Here is 
 Master Stephen Dowland just entering the room ; 
 and, by my faith! Master Matthew Locke with 
 him. A Song, Master Locke ! a Song, and that 
 right speedily ! " 
 
 Locke, however, had no sooner joined the 
 party than he engaged in close conversation with 
 Shakspeare, without paying any attention to the 
 call of the Chairman. They were conversing upon 
 a subject deeply interesting not only to themselves, 
 
320 ORIGINAL 
 
 but to all posterity, for it was on the time and 
 manner of bringing out at the Globe Theatre, a 
 Tragedy, which the latter had written, and parts 
 of which the former had set to Music, under the 
 title of " Macbeth. 9 ' 
 
 " He heeds me not, Master Dowland," said 
 Jonson; " he and that Warwickshire carle are 
 plotting some mischief, for their heads have never 
 'been under the same roof for the last six months, 
 without coming into close contact." 
 
 (Left unfinished.) 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 321 
 
 THE TREKSCHUIT. 
 
 IT was in the Autumn of the year 1824, on my 
 return to England from a tour along the Rhine, 
 that I found myself for the second time in the city 
 of Ghent ; and it was not without a feeling of very 
 considerable interest and pleasure, that I revisited 
 Flanders. I had seen most of the finest towns of 
 Germany and France; but in picturesque and 
 antique beauty, they were none of them to be 
 compared with Antwerp ; Brussels, the old part of 
 the town ; Malines; Bruges ; and, above all, Ghent. 
 The magnificent and venerable Cathedrals ; the 
 stately streets lined with Palaces, once the resi- 
 dences of the nobility of Flanders and Burgundy ; 
 although now, alas ! let out into tenements, and 
 the ground floors occupied by petty tradesmen ; 
 the Museums so richly adorned with the works of 
 native Artists ; and the sad and melancholy solitude 
 of those once thickly populated thoroughfares, 
 which nevertheless, retained, I thought, a solemn 
 beauty about them ; made a deep impression on 
 
 P3 
 
322 ORIGINAL 
 
 my mind. I will, however, deal candidly with my 
 Readers ; and confess to them, that ideas of a 
 grosser, and less intellectual, character, mingled 
 with my reveries, as I approached Ghent. I had 
 been riding all day ; it was long after sunset ; and 
 I thought of the Hotel des Pays Bas, and of the 
 good cheer with which M. Doublet, the worthy 
 Host, used to spread his table at the patriarchal 
 Supper hour of nine. Although the viands were 
 always excellent, and the wines of the most tempt- 
 ing quality, M. Doublet's hours at first puzzled 
 me not a little. Dinner at one, and Supper at 
 nine, were such plebeian meals, that I should have 
 blushed to the very throat, had certain of my ac- 
 quaintances detected me in the commission of such 
 enormities. However, I recollected that if I chose 
 to christen the first repast, Lupcheon, and the 
 second, Dinner, I should be sufficiently near to the 
 hours set apart for such affairs in London ; where, 
 as is well known, it is the height of fashion to go 
 without Dinner, and take a hot Supper. 
 
 I arrived in Ghent just in time to allow my phy- 
 sical organs to participate in the meal, with which 
 I had been for some time past regaling my fancy. 
 I sat down amidst a party of ten or twelve, and 
 was received with that courtesy and cordiality, 
 which, whatever John Bull may think of his own 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 323 
 
 hospitality, a stranger never meets with in such 
 perfection, as on the Continental side of the Chan- 
 nel. 
 
 " Monsieur is going to make some stay in this 
 town ?" said the person, who had been most assi- 
 duous in loading my plate with the best of every 
 thing. 
 
 " No/' I replied ; " I have already seen all 
 that is most interesting in Ghent, and purpose 
 starting for Ostend in the morning, by the Trek- 
 schuit." 
 
 " C'est bien heureux" answered the Abbe, for 
 such he was ; " that is very lucky, as we are all 
 bent on the same expedition. There are eleven of 
 us ; we have hired the little Trekschuit La Ville 
 de Bruges, for ourselves; and there is just accom- 
 modation for another passenger. If Monsieur will 
 join us, I -think I shall do no more than speak the 
 sense of all, when I say that we shall be proud of 
 his company." 
 
 The Abbe's proposition was instantly and unani- 
 mously carried ; and as I was travelling alone, I 
 did not hesitate to accede to it. 
 
 " Monsieur however," said a young gentleman 
 with dark hair, and a pale face, who sat opposite 
 to me, *' should be made acquainted with the 
 terms by which our party is bound together. If 
 
324 ORIGINAL 
 
 he has ever sailed, or rather been towed, in the 
 Trekschuit before/' I nodded an assent, " he 
 cannot have forgotten that, however pleasant he 
 found the journey at first, the noiseless monotonous 
 progress of the boat, and the flat and unvaried 
 character of the scenery, oppressed him with in- 
 sufferable weariness and ennui, long before he 
 arrived at his destination." 
 
 " Of a surety," I replied, " I have not for- 
 gotten it; for my last journey from Ostend to 
 Brussels, will long be remembered ; though, at 
 first, the Trekschuit pleased me well enough. 
 Having been tossed about all the day before in a 
 Steam boat, on the German Ocean, without being 
 quite sure that I should not make up my final bed 
 there ; and the three things in the world, which, if 
 I have any choice, I like least, being sea-sickness, 
 explosion, and drowning, I cannot decide which 
 is the worst, the Trekschuit appeared to me a very 
 quiet and secure conveyance. But the day wore 
 on, and there being still nothing to be seen, but 
 the same straight banks of the Canal ; the same 
 plantations of cabbages and onions on each side of 
 it ; and the same dull taciturn crew, whose wits, if 
 they had any, seemed spell-bound by the genius of 
 the place ; I even wished myself again beating 
 backwards and forwards off the Foreland. If 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 325 
 
 then, ye have any device for mitigating the tedium 
 of to-morrow's journey, there is no one will co- 
 operate with you, more willingly than I shall." 
 
 " Then it is even this expedient," said my pale- 
 faced companion, " which has been proposed by 
 our reverend friend the Abbe, that each should 
 narrate a tale for the entertainment of the com- 
 pany. This, with a plentiful supply of Rhenish 
 and cigars ; and such a dinner, to divide the morn- 
 ing from the evening, as even M. Doublet would 
 not blush to lay before us, will perhaps make the 
 Trekschuit to-morrow, a residence at least as 
 agreeable as the Hotel d'Angleterre at Boulogne." 
 
 As the allusion to the Debtors' prison, which is 
 thus designated, at Boulogne, on account of the 
 number of our countrymen who do it the honour 
 to take up their residence there, was intended to 
 raise a laugh at my expense, in which it was suc- 
 cessful, I readily promised also to assist in the 
 plan of amusement proposed, and then applied 
 myself with becoming alacrity to the completion 
 of my meal. 
 
 An early hour the next morning saw us on the 
 deck of La Ville de Bruges. As the Reader is to 
 accompany us in our progress down the Canals, 
 and as " all our tediousness" is 'specially reserved 
 for him, I think that it will be only seemly and 
 
826 ORIGINAL 
 
 decorous if I introduce him to our party. First 
 then there is Myself; " fidelicet, myself," as Sir 
 Hugh Evans would say, a beardless, briefless 
 Barrister; 
 
 " One foredoomed his Father's soul to cross, 
 And pen a Stanza when he should engross." 
 
 I was ambitious to surmount my wig with a wreath 
 of laurel ; to introduce the nine Muses to the 
 twelve Judges; to invest Apollo with a silk gown ; 
 and harness Pegasus to the Chief Justice's car- 
 riage. But I unfortunately found, that the two 
 occupations did not harmonise, and I made all 
 kinds of ridiculous blunders. I sent an Attorney 
 a Volume of Poems with the Author's compliments; 
 and despatched the case and opinion, which should 
 have filled their place, to the Editor of the/' New 
 Monthly, 19 requesting an early and favourable 
 Review ; the consequence of which was, that the 
 Attorney sent me no more Briefs, and the next 
 New Monthly contained some mighty pleasant 
 verses, to all but the subject of them, entitled 
 " Verse-atility of Talent at the Bar." I had re- 
 solved to spend my long vacation on the Continent 
 this year, for the purpose of viewing foreign 
 Courts of Law, and getting some insight into the 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 327 
 
 jurisprudence of other countries ; and after atten- 
 tively studying the works of Rubens and Vandyke, 
 seeing how Judges and Barristers looked at the 
 Theatres, and Spiel-houses; and pondering deeply 
 on those abstruse legal questions which were sug- 
 gested by the scenery on the banks of the Rhine ; 
 having accomplished all these desiderata, I was 
 now on my return to Westminster-hall, with a 
 wonderful acquisition of juridical knowledge in my 
 cranium. 
 
 Next to me sat the Abbe ; a jovial, rubicond, 
 good-humoured, Priest, who was travelling on the 
 affairs of the Church to Ostend ; and as he was 
 portly and well fed, and the weather intensely hot, 
 the good father was in " a continual dissolution 
 and thaw" throughout the journey. As I gazed in 
 his face, and saw the whole huge mass of flesh, 
 of which his person was composed, resolving itself 
 into water, I began, good Protestant as I am, to 
 have some faith in the doctrine of transubstantiation. 
 He was a lively and merry, but withal, discreetly- 
 conducted personage ; evidently a man of learning 
 and considerable talent ; and one of the members 
 of our little society with whom we would have least 
 willingly parted. 
 
 The pale-faced youth, whom I have already 
 mentioned, was a young Artist from Antwerp, on 
 
328 ORIGINAL 
 
 his way to London. He was tall and handsome; 
 but a close and unwearied enthusiasm in his appli* 
 cation to his art, had evidently impaired his health. 
 I soon entered into conversation with him, and 
 found that he had travelled in Greece and Italy; 
 had once visited Paris, solely with a view of going 
 through the Louvre ; and was now journeying to 
 London, for the purpose of studying from the 
 the Elgin Marbles. His great townsman Rubens 
 was the god of his idolatry ; whenever his merits 
 formed the subject of conversation, his eye would 
 kindle with unusual light, and his whole frame 
 seemed animated by some extraordinary impulse. 
 It is true, that he was apt to be a little intolerant 
 of those who ventured to differ with him on this 
 subject ; but this is a fault with which I fear that 
 we are most of us chargeable, when our favourite 
 topic is undergoing discussion. 
 
 Opposite to me sat an Officer in the Prussian 
 service, who had distinguished himself in the last 
 campaign in Flanders ; and was now conducting 
 his Lady, the only female in our party, over the 
 scenes of his former exploits. He had taken her 
 to view the fields of Waterloo and Ligny, and the 
 ramparts of Antwerp ; and he was now about to 
 inspect the fortifications of Ostend. He had 
 proved himself a good Soldier, and was withal a 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 329 
 
 man of strong sense, but not uninfected with strong 
 prejudices. He hated the French ; believed that 
 Prussia was the greatest, grandest, and most 
 glorious kingdom in the world; and maintained 
 that the battle of Waterloo was won by Blucher. 
 He did not seem very fond of Catholics, and at 
 first eyed the Abbe somewhat askance ; but the 
 good humour and lively manners of the Priest 
 speedily triumphed over the reserve of the Ger- 
 man, and before we had proceeded far on our 
 journey, they were seated side by side, and were 
 partaking very cordially of the contents of the 
 same snuff-box. 
 
 The preceding Fragment, which thus is abruptly terminated 
 in the MS., was originally intended to have had a second title, 
 and to have been called, either " The Decameron of the Canals" 
 or, " Tales told in Flanders ;" and to have introduced about a 
 dozen different narratives : several of which are contained in 
 the present A^olume, and the remainder are included in Mr. 
 Neele's last work, the " Romance of History." EDITOR. 
 
330 ORIGINAL 
 
 HYMNS FOR CHILDREN. 
 
 I. 
 
 OH thou ! who silt's t enthroned on high, 
 Ancient of Days ! Eternal King ! 
 
 May Childhood and mortality 
 
 Hope thou wilt listen whilst they sing ! 
 
 We raise our Songs, but, Oh ! to Thee, 
 What praise can mortal tongue impart ; 
 
 Till thou hast tuned to harmony, 
 
 That jarring instrument, the Heart ? 
 
 Then, Infant warblings in thine ear, 
 As sweet as Angel notes shall roll ; 
 
 For thou wilt bend from Heaven to hear 
 The still, soft music of the Soul. 
 
 Oh ! teach us some celestial Song, 
 Some note of high and holy joy ; 
 
 And that shall dwell upon the tongue, 
 And that shall all our Souls employ. 
 
 Then, Time shall hear, while Time is ours, 
 The Song of praise we pour to Thee ; 
 
 And Heaven shall lend us nobler powers 
 To sound it through Eternity ! 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 831 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh Thou ! who mak'st the Sun to rise, 
 Beam on my Soul, illume mine eyes, 
 
 And guide me through this world of care : 
 The wandering atom thou can'st see, 
 The falling Sparrow's mark'd by thee, 
 Then, turning Mercy's ear to me, 
 Listen ! Listen ! 
 
 Listen to an Infant's prayer ! 
 
 Oh Thou ! whose blood was spilt to save 
 Man's nature from a second grave ; 
 
 To share in whose redeeming care, 
 Want's lowliest child is not too mean, 
 Guilt's darkest victim too unclean, 
 Oh ! thou wilt deign from Heaven to lean, 
 And listen, listen, 
 
 Listen to an Infant's prayer. 
 
 Oh Thou ! who wilt from Monarchs part, 
 To dwell within the contrite heart, 
 
 And build thyself a Temple there ; 
 O'er all my dull affections move, 
 Fill all my Soul with Heav'nly love, 
 And, kindly stooping from above, 
 Listen ! Listen ! 
 
 Listen to an Infant's prayer ! 
 
332 ORIGINAL 
 
 III. 
 
 God of Mercy! throned on high, 
 
 Listen from Thy lofty seat : 
 Hear, Oh ! hear our feeble cry, 
 
 Guide, Oh ! guide our wandering feet. 
 
 Young and erring Travellers, we 
 All our dangers do not know ; " 
 
 Scarcely fear the stormy sea, 
 Hardly feel the tempest blow. 
 
 While our bosoms yet are young, 
 Kindle in them Love divine ; 
 
 Ere the tide of sin grow strong, 
 
 Take us, keep us, make us, Thine ! 
 
 When perplex'd in danger's snare, 
 Thou alone our guide can'st be : 
 
 When oppressed with deepest care, 
 Whom have we to trust but Thee ? 
 
 Lord ! instruct us then, and pour 
 Hope and Love on every Soul ; 
 
 Hope, till Time shall be no more, 
 Love, while endless ages roll. 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 333 
 
 IV. 
 
 Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth. 
 Ecclesiastes, Chapter 12, v. 1. 
 
 Remember Him, for He is great, 
 And winds and waves obey his will : 
 
 The surges, awed by Him, abate, 
 And tempests at his voice are still. 
 
 Remember Him, for He is wise, 
 
 To mark our actions every day ; 
 To know what thoughts within us rise, 
 
 And notice every word we say. 
 
 Remember Him, for He is good, 
 
 He sent his Son to die for Sin ; 
 And the rich ocean of his blood, 
 
 Can cleanse and purify within. 
 
 Remember Him, for He is kind, 
 And will not frown the poor away ; 
 
 He heals the rich, restores the blind, 
 And listens when the humblest pray. 
 
 Remember Him, before the days 
 
 Of evil come, and joy is dim ; 
 "While Time is yours, repeat his praise, 
 
 While Life remains, remember Him ! 
 
834 ORIGINAL 
 
 EPITAPHS. 
 I. 
 
 A Saint, a Wife, a Mother slumbers here, 
 To Heaven, to Husband, and to Children dear; 
 But Heaven, to which her chiefest thoughts were prone, 
 Too early claimed, and made her all it's own. 
 Three infant pledges of pure love she left, 
 Unconscious they of how much good bereft^ 
 Their tears may well be spared, they need not fall, 
 There's one whose heart hoards grief enough for all ; 
 Who, but for them, as he bends o'er this stone, 
 Would long to make her peaceful grave his own. 
 
 II. 
 
 Good night ! Good night, sweet Spirit! thou hast cast 
 
 Thy bonds of clay away from thee at last; 
 
 Broken the earthly fetters, which alone 
 
 Held thee at distance from thy Maker's Throne ; 
 
 But Oh ! those fetters to th' immortal mind, 
 
 Were links of love to those thou'st left behind. 
 
 For thee we mourn not ; as th' Apostle prest 
 
 His dungeon pillow, till the Angel-guest 
 
 Drew nigh, and when the light that round him shone, 
 
 Beam'd on the prisoner, his bonds were gone : 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 335 
 
 So wert thou subject to disease and pain ; 
 Till Death, the brightest of th' angelic train, 
 Pour'd Heaven's own radiance, by divine decree, 
 Around thy suffering Soul, and it was free ! 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 On reading the Remains of the late HENRY KIRKB WHITE. 
 
 Yes, all is o'er ! the pangs which Nature felt, 
 
 Have thus subsided into dread repose; 
 
 The feelings Genius only gives, and knows, 
 Nor soothe, nor sadden now; nor fire, nor melt; 
 How sadly and how soon Death's weltering wave 
 
 Closed o'er his honour'd head. Too lovely Rose, 
 
 Why in such open brilliancy disclose 
 Those buds condemn'd such cruel blight to brave ? 
 
 Was Genius', Virtue's, Learning's power too small 
 To snatch their votary from the silent grave ? 
 
 Ah me ! we toil through life, until the call 
 Of Death arrests us, impotent to save ; 
 
 The great, the good, the wise around us fall, 
 
 While Vice and Folly live, proud arbiters of all. 
 
336 ORIGINAL 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 From the French. 
 
 " FRIENDSHIP ! to thee I raise my voice, 
 
 Love cannot equal thee ; 
 Thou art the object of my choice, 
 
 Oh ! come and comfort me ! 
 Thou, like the roseate break of day, 
 
 Shinest, but dost not burn ; 
 Peace dwells with thee, and 'neath thy sway, 
 
 True happiness we learn." 
 
 'Twas thus, when fifteen Springs their braids 
 
 Had woven, Laura spake ; 
 The gentle error of fair maids, 
 
 When their first vows they make. 
 Unto her Idol then she raised 
 
 A Temple, rich and rare ; 
 And, night and day, bright cressets blazed, 
 
 And odours rich burn'd there. 
 
 Only his features to express 
 
 A Statue was required ; 
 Had the Arts reached such perfectness, 
 
 T' achieve the work desired. 
 A master-piece of Art to choose, 
 
 To Phidias quick she went ; 
 All grandeur's forms, and beauty's hues, 
 
 Must in that form be blent. 
 
TALES, POEMS, ETC. 337 
 
 The Artist Friendship's statue shew'd: 
 
 How unlike what she sought ! 
 Simple, severe, of antique mode, 
 
 With no soft graces fraught. 
 " This is not he !" she cried, " I spurn 
 
 Your false and peevish art ; 
 Would you from a true model learn, 
 
 Behold him in my heart I 
 
 " There, stretch'd upon a bed of down, 
 
 Slumbers a lovely child ; 
 Behold the master whom I own, 
 
 And serve ! " she said, and smiled : 
 " Ah !" said the Artist, " Beauty must 
 
 That tyrant's vassal prove ; 
 You come to me for Friendship's bust, 
 And bid me copy Love !" 
 
 LOVE AND BEAUTY. 
 
 A Fragment. 
 
 On Love ! triumphant Love ! thy throne is built 
 Where tempests cannot shake it, or rude force 
 Tear up it's strong foundations. In the heart 
 Thy dwelling is, and there thy potent spell 
 
 Q 
 \ 
 t 
 
338 ORIGINAL 
 
 Turns it's dark chambers into Palaces. 
 
 Thy power is boundless ; and o'er all creation 
 
 Works it's miracles. So Pygmalion once 
 
 Woke the cold statue on it's pedestal, 
 
 To life and rapture. So the rugged soul, 
 
 Hard as the rifted rock, becomes the slave, 
 
 The feeblest slave of Love ; and, like the pearl 
 
 In Cleopatra's goblet, seems to melt 
 
 On Beauty's lips. So, when Apelles gazed 
 
 Upon Campaspe's eyes, her peerless image, 
 
 Instead of glowing on his canvass, bright 
 
 In all it's beauty, stole into his heart, 
 
 And mock'd his feeble pencil. 
 
 Love in the soul, not bold and confident, 
 
 But, like Aurora, trembles into being; 
 
 And with faint flickering, and uncertain beams, 
 
 Gives notice to th' awakening world within us, 
 
 Of the full blazing orb that soon shall rise, 
 
 And kindle all it's passions. Then begin 
 
 Sorrow and joy : unutterable joy, 
 
 And rapturous sorrow. Then the world is nothing ; 
 
 Pleasure is nothing ; suffering is nothing ; 
 
 Ambition, riches, praise, power, all are nothing ; 
 
 Love rules and reigns despotic and alone. 
 
 Then, Oh ! the shape of magic loveliness, 
 
 He conjures up before us. In her form 
 
TALES, POBM8, ETC. 339 
 
 Is perfect symmetry. Her swan-like gait, 
 As she glides by us, like a lovely dream, 
 Seems not of earth. From her bright eye the soul 
 Looks out ; and, like the topmost gem o' the heap, 
 Shews the Mine's wealth within. Upon her face, 
 As on a lovely landscape, shade and sunlight 
 Play as strong feeling sways : now her eye flashes 
 A beam of rapture ; now, lets drop a tear ; 
 And now, upon her brow as when the Rainbow 
 Rears it's fair arch in Heaven, Peace sits, and gilds 
 The sweet drops as they fall. The soul of mind 
 Dwells in her voice, and her soft, spiritual tones 
 Sink in the heart, soothing it's cares away ; , 
 As Halcyons brood upon the troubled wave, 
 And charm it into calmness. When she weeps, 
 Her tears are like the waters upon which 
 Love's mother rose to Heaven. E'en her sighs, 
 Although they speak the troubles of her soul, 
 Breathe of it's sweetness ; as the wind that shakes 
 The Cedar's boughs, becomes impregnated 
 With it's celestial odours. 
 
340 ORIGINAL 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 THE shadow we pursue still flees us, 
 Fast pacing as we faster pace : 
 
 That which we flee from will not ease us y 
 By pausing in the fearful race. 
 
 Thus, Pleasure, vainly we implore thee 
 To stay thy flight, and longer bloom ; 
 
 And thus, Oh Death ! we flee before thee. 
 But only flee into the tomb ! 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 To a Great Beauty. 
 
 Believe me, my corpulent Fair, 
 
 I love your fat cheeks and full face ; 
 
 Oh my heart ! your eyes kindle love there, 
 And I sink in your melting embrace. 
 
 The poor buzzing fly does the same, 
 While yet inexperienced and callow : 
 
 First, burns his bright wings in the flame, 
 And then, tumbles into the tallow ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 
 
 ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN VARIOUS PERIODICAL 
 
 PUBLICATIONS, AND NEVER BEFORE 
 
 COLLECTED. 
 
Miss Vortex. A charming Nosegay! All exotics, I declare! 
 
 Jessy. No, Madam, neglected wild-flowers; I took them 
 from their bed of weeds, bestowed care on their culture, and 
 by transplanting them to a more genial soil, they have flou- 
 rished with luxuriant strength and beauty. 
 
 Miss Vortex. A pretty amusement ! 
 
 Jessy. And it seemed, Madam, to convey this lesson: not 
 to despise the lowly mind, but rather, with fostering hand, to 
 draw it from it's chill obscurity, that, like these humble flowers, 
 it might grow rich in worth and native energy." 
 
 MORTON'S (t CURE FOR THE HEART-ACHE." 
 
THE VALLEY OF SERVOZ. 
 
 A SAVOYARD TALE. 
 
 Servoz ! sweet Servoz ! there is not a Vale 
 On Earth's green bosom nursed, so beautiful 
 As thou ! How lovely yon cerulean sky 
 Glittering with blue and gold, and all the charms 
 It canopies. The purple vines which feed 
 On thy rich veins ; the flowers whose fragrant breath 
 Satiate the sense with sweetness ; the tall groves 
 With their eternal whisperings in thine ear, 
 Of blessedness and joy ; thy guardian fence 
 Of hills which o'er thee rise, Alp over Alp, 
 As though each peer'd above his fellow, anxious 
 To snatch a glance at thee ; and sweeter still, 
 Thy Vale's deep quiet, which no sound disturbs, 
 Save the sweet brawling of the silver Arve ; 
 The wild bee's hum ; the grasshopper's shrill note ; 
 And distant tinklings mingled with the lay 
 Which the swarth peasant o'er the furrow chaunts, 
 Echoed by village maids. But most I love 
 Thy Churchyard's grassy precincts : in such spots, 
 While the foot rambles, the soul treasures up 
 Truth's holiest lessons ; and as the green-sward 
 Springs freshest over graves, so there the heart 
 Brings forth it's kindliest feelings, and distils 
 Dews precious as the drops which fall from heaven. 
 
 HENRY NEELE. 
 
 IT was in the Summer of the year 1820 that, at 
 the close of a fine July day, I found myself, for 
 
344 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 the first time, in the village of Servoz. This is a 
 beautiful, quiet group of cottages, deposited, if I 
 may use the term, in the bosom of the Valley from 
 which it takes it's name, in one of the most ro- 
 mantic and secluded parts of Savoy. It is impos- 
 sible for language to do justice to the delightful 
 and varied scenery which surrounds it. That pe- 
 culiar characteristic of Alpine views, the union of 
 wildness with fertility, is here exhibited in a sur- 
 prising degree. The Valley seems absolutely sa- 
 turated with the sweetness and the fecundity of 
 Nature. Flowers of the most brilliant hues and 
 enchanting fragrance, and fruits of the most deli- 
 cious flavour, abound in every part; in the middle 
 is seen the river Arve, in some places leaping and 
 foaming over the rocks by which it's course is im- 
 peded, and in others quietly watering the Valley. 
 All around rise gigantic hills, the bases of which 
 are clothed with vines ; whilst midway extend 
 enormous forests, and on their summits is a 
 mantle of everlasting snow. At the time at which 
 I was entering the Village, the whole scene was 
 surmounted by a clear, blue sky, of whose glorious 
 tints those who have never travelled out of Eng- 
 land cannot have the faintest conception ; and the 
 setting Sun had thrown it's own radiant hues upon 
 Mont Blanc ; whose summit, even while I gazed 
 upon it, became suddenly changed from a brilliant 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 345 
 
 white to a gorgeous red, and " Sun-set, " as Lord 
 Byron expresses it, " into rose-hues saw it wrought." 
 This gradually faded away, exhibiting, as the Sun 
 declined, the most exquisite variety of colour, 
 until the brilliant white, which can be compared to 
 nothing so well as to molten silver, resumed it's 
 original dominion. 
 
 There is much truth in the maxim of Rousseau, 
 that " On s'exerce a voir cornme a sentir, ou 
 plutot une vue exquise n'est qu'un sentiment de- 
 licat et fin/' Certainly, the same scenes excite 
 very different emotions in different minds; and 
 even in the same mind at different moments. Be 
 this as it may, at the time of which I am writing, I 
 felt as fully persuaded as ever Sterne did, that I 
 had a Soul; and, like him, could have defied all 
 the materialists in the world to persuade me to the 
 contrary. On arriving at such a place, the first 
 objects of my research are the Village Inn, and 
 the Church-yard ; for from those places I gather 
 the history of the spot, and get an insight into the 
 minds and manners of the inhabitants. I see 
 them in the house of mirth, and in the house of 
 mourning ; I mix with them in the pleasures, and 
 in the business of life ; and I learn how they sup- 
 port the intrusions of death, and what are t^eir 
 hopes beyond the regions of mortality. On this 
 
 Q3 
 
346 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 occasion, not finding much to interest me at the 
 Inn, I merely took some slight refreshment, and, 
 disencumbering myself from the staff and wallet 
 with which I had performed my journey, pro- 
 ceeded to take a ramble among the tombs. They 
 were many and interesting. Here rested the Pa- 
 triarch of the Village, gathered full of years and 
 honours to his fathers. There, a modest stone 
 told a simple but melancholy tale of an unfortunate 
 Traveller engulphed in a glacier, as he was travel- 
 ling these lonely, but dangerous, regions without 
 a guide. Here the Soldier rested from the battle, 
 and the Chamois-hunter from the chase. The gay 
 ceased to smile, and the unhappy forgot to weep ; 
 Death garnered up his harvest here, and methought 
 that there was among it food that might be whole- 
 some and invigorating for the mind. 
 
 Amongst those memorials of the dead, there was 
 one by which I found my steps irresistibly arrested : 
 this was a heap of turf, surrounded by beds of 
 flowers. It was undistinguished by any stone; 
 but a wooden cross, of the rudest workmanship, 
 was raised upon it, on which hung a chaplet of 
 lilies. The cross was evidently some years old, 
 but the lilies were fresh gathered, and blooming ; 
 and some young girls were watering the flower- 
 beds which surrounded the grave. From them, and 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 347 
 
 from others of the neighbours, I gathered the his- 
 tory of this tomb. It was a simple tale : but I 
 have seen tears raining plenteously at it's recital, 
 from some of the brightest eyes which ever bor- 
 rowed from southern suns their lustre, and their 
 warmth ; and big drops roll down the faded cheeks 
 of age like juices forced from fruits which seemed 
 withering upon their stalks. 
 
 If the rustic annalists of the Valley of Servoz 
 may be credited, there never moved upon the 
 earth a being more exquisitely beautiful than 
 Annette de la Cluse. Her form was tall, and 
 moulded to the finest symmetry ; her eyes black and 
 sparkling ; and her hair of the same colour, and 
 almost of the same brightness. Some of the rural 
 connoisseurs of the Village considered her face too 
 pale : as it has been described to me, it must have 
 been beautifully fair ; but the sun of that climate, 
 which usually marks the daughters of the Valley 
 for his own, had so slightly tinged her cheeks with 
 the rose, that it was only in moments of extraor- 
 dinary animation and feeling that it was percep- 
 tible ; and during the last year of her life it 
 entirely vanished. Her disposition was pensive, 
 but far from gloomy ; and during the little Village 
 festivals, with which the Romish Calendars abound, 
 a more gay and hearty laugh was seldom heard 
 
348 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 than Annette's. Still, she loved solitude and 
 seclusion ; and although Literature had not at 
 that time unfolded it's treasures to the Valley, yet 
 her mind appeared to be informed by the beauty 
 and sublimity of the scenes which surrounded her, 
 and she 
 
 " Found tongues in trees, books in the running brooks;. 
 Sermons in stones, and good in every thing/' 
 
 To these qualities were added, a sweetness and 
 kindness of heart which endeared her to every 
 one, and which continues to keep her memory 
 piously cherished to the present moment. 
 
 With such attractions it is not to be wondered 
 at, that by the time that Annette had attained her 
 seventeenth year her admirers should be nume- 
 rous. Her course of studies not having included 
 the science of coquetry, it was not long before she 
 avowed that her affections were fixed upon Victor 
 de St. Foix ; and those worthy neighbours, who 
 there, as in more polished districts, kindly took 
 upon themselves the office of deciding upon the 
 fitness of the match, were unanimous in their 
 approval of her choice, Victor was Annette's 
 senior by only a few months, and his taste and 
 habits were, in most particulars, congenial with 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 349 
 
 her own. It is true that he possessed the more 
 masculine habits of enterprise and intrepedity : 
 none could track the Chamois to his haunt among 
 the Alps with a keener eye, and a surer foot ; and 
 in leaping from rock to rock, he was rivalled only 
 by the mountain rivulet. The Traveller who en- 
 quired for a hardy and intelligent guide was always 
 recommended to Victor ; and when circumstances 
 of danger or difficulty occasioned the Villagers to 
 rally together, he was invariably among the fore- 
 most, and frequently filled the post of chieftain. 
 Still his heart found room for the softer emotions, 
 and when at evening he stole to Annette's side to 
 tell her some melancholy tale of the Traveller over- 
 whelmed by the avalanche, or lost among the tor- 
 rents; or, when he warbled, in unison with her, 
 some of those sweet Savoyard melodies which are 
 often heard among the Vallies, the tears would 
 rush into his eyes, and the hardy mountaineer 
 seemed metaphosed into a " soft carpet Knight." 
 One Song which they used to sing most frequently 
 together, and which the Villagers have distinguished 
 by their names, I transcribe as it was recited to 
 me by the Host of my Inn. The words of the ori- 
 ginal, when accompanied by the simple and beau- 
 tiful melody to which they are sung, are irresistibly 
 touching and affecting. The following version 
 
350 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 sinks infinitely below it's prototype, but I have 
 endeavoured to preserve the sentiment : 
 
 " For thee, Love ! for thee, Love ! 
 
 I'll brave Fate's sternest storm ; 
 She cannot daunt, or chill the hearts 
 
 Which Love keeps bold and warm : 
 And when her clouds are blackest, nought 
 
 But thy sweet self I'll see ; 
 Nor hear amidst the tempest aught, 
 
 But thee, Love ! only thee ! 
 
 For thee, Love I for thee, Love ! 
 
 My fond heart would resign 
 The brightest cup that Pleasure fills, 
 
 And Fortune's wealthiest mine ; 
 For Pleasure's smiles are vanity, 
 
 And Fortune's fade or xlee ; 
 There's purity and constancy 
 
 In thee, Love ! only thee ! 
 
 For thee, Love ! for thee, Love ! 
 
 Life's lowly vale I'll tread, 
 And aid thy steps the journey through, 
 
 Nor quit thee till I'm dead : 
 And even then, round her I love, 
 
 My shade shall hovering be ; 
 And warble notes from Heaven above, 
 
 To thee, Love ! only thee ! " 
 
 In this manner they passed the morning of their 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 351 
 
 lives, until the day arrived which had been fixed 
 upon for their union. In such a place as Servoz 
 this was an incident of considerable interest and 
 importance; and almost the whole population of 
 the Village, young and old, contributed to swell 
 the retinue, which proceeded with decorous hilarity 
 towards the simple, but venerable, Church of St, 
 Pierre. A troop of young girls advanced first, 
 strewing flowers in the path of the joyous proces- 
 sion ; these were succeeded by some youthful pea- 
 sants of the other sex, who filled the air with rus- 
 tic, but by no means tasteless, Music ; the Bride 
 followed, " blushing like the morning," supported 
 on her right by her aged Mother, and on her left 
 by the Bridegroom ; their relatives and intimate 
 friends came next, and a numerous party of pea- 
 santry brought up the rear. 
 
 This was on one of those bright Summer morn- 
 ings, the splendours of which the inhabitants of 
 more northern climates never behold, even in 
 imagination. It was the hushed and breathless 
 hour of noon, and all nature seemed reposing 
 from the meridian heat, except the bridal party, 
 who were protected from it by the shadow cast by 
 a gigantic Alp across their path. Suddenly a 
 strange sound was heard above them, like the 
 noise of an avalanche, and a quantity of stones 
 
352 . MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 and rock descended upon their heads, without, 
 however, producing any serious consequences. 
 They were, nevertheless, induced to quicken their 
 steps, but before they had proceeded ten paces 
 further, a tremendous explosion like an awful 
 thunder-clap was heard. The enormous Alp under 
 which they were walking was seen rocking to and 
 fro, like an aspen tree shaken by the wind ; and 
 before the whole of the party could escape beyond 
 it's reach, it had precipitated itself into the Valley, 
 and choked up a little lake which lay immediately 
 under it's brow ; while huge blocks of granite were 
 hurled about in all directions, and the dust pro- 
 duced by rocks thus dashed violently against each 
 other, concealed for awhile the extent of the ca- 
 lamity, Annette had instinctively caught her Mo- 
 ther's hand, and hurried her beyond the reach of 
 danger; but when the party had arrived at a place 
 of safety, and the tremendous convulsion of nature 
 had subsided, the wailings of distress at seeing 
 their habitatinos crushed, and their fields and vine- 
 yards laid desolate, were many ; though more were 
 the exclamations of joy at beholding that their 
 children and friends had escaped unhurt. On a 
 sudden a heart-rending shriek was heard, followed 
 by a fearful cry of " Where is Victor?" From 
 Annette those sounds proceeded, who, as the 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 353 
 
 cloud of dust disappeared, had cast a hasty glance 
 around, and perceived, among the groups who 
 were felicitating each other on their escape, all but 
 Victor! Instantly the whole party was in motion; 
 the cloak, the hat, and some of the bridal orna- 
 ments of Victor were found, while some mangled 
 reliques of his corpse told too soon, and too cer- 
 tainly, his miserable fate. 
 
 Annette, who followed as fast as her failing 
 limbs would allow her, heard their exclamations of 
 despair, and sank senseless upon the earth. Every 
 effort that kindness and pity could suggest was 
 used to recover her, but for months they could 
 scarcely be said to restore her suspended anima- 
 tion ; for the state of listless inanity in which she 
 remained was much more nearly allied to death 
 than life. At length, however, she regained the 
 use of her corporeal powers ; but, alas ! her mind 
 had wandered from it's dwelling. She would often, 
 after remaining inactive for hours together, hurry 
 suddenly to the Church, and there, standing before 
 the altar, repeat that part of the Matrimonial ser- 
 vice which is uttered by the Bride ; then she would 
 wait for a few moments silently, as if expecting 
 to hear another voice, and at length, looking round 
 on the empty Church, utter a dreadful groan, and 
 hurry away. At other times she would wander 
 through the Church-yard, count over the tombs 
 
354 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 one by one, and read all the inscriptions, as if she 
 was seeking one which she could not find ; while 
 it was observed that she was always more cheerful 
 after having been employed in this manner. " He 
 is not dead ! I shall see him soon !" she would 
 say ; but as her path homewards led by the ruins 
 of the fallen mountain, the dreadful recollection 
 seemed to rush upon her brain, and she was often 
 carried away from the spot as senseless as at first. 
 The only occupation which seemed to impart any 
 tranquillity to her mind was singing, or playing 
 upon her lute, those little melodies which she and 
 Victor used to chaunt together. The Song which 
 I have translated was her especial favourite ; and 
 while singing the last verse she would look up- 
 wards, and, after she had finished it, remain silent 
 for some time, as if she expected that the promise 
 which it contains would be literally fulfilled, and 
 that she should hear her lover's voice responsive 
 to her own. In her wanderings she was conti- 
 nually penetrating into paths which were unknown 
 to the Villagers generally, and some of these are 
 now among the most beautiful spots pointed out 
 to the curious traveller. At length she found a 
 little Valley, composed of only one green field, 
 and one gurgling rill which stole through it, and 
 surrounded by picturesque rocks, which were 
 clothed with a profusion of beautiful trees ; larches, 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. v 355 
 
 firs, pines., and others of every imaginable form 
 and hue. She sat down by the margin of the 
 little stream, and sang her favourite ballad. The 
 first two verses she warbled, or rather recited, in 
 a low mournful tone, but when she came to the 
 last, she raised her voice to the highest compass ; 
 and her tones, which were always beautiful, were 
 described by those who followed her unseen, at a 
 short distance, to be, on this occasion, of seraphic 
 sweetness. As she elevated her voice, all the 
 echoes with which that romantic spot abounds, 
 were awakened; and every rock warbled, as it 
 were, a response to her Song. Now the sound 
 rolled over her head deep and sonorous ; now it 
 became softened and mellowed among the hills ; 
 now it returned as loudly and distinctly as at first ; 
 and at length died away in a faint and distant 
 whisper. Annette clasped her hands in rapture ; 
 her eyes were raised to Heaven ; tears, but tears 
 of joy, stole down her cheek ; her beautiful face, 
 which sorrow, and sickness, and insanity, had 
 robbed of many of it's charms, seemed now more 
 beautiful than ever, and her whole form appeared 
 animated by something which was more than 
 earthly, " 'Tis he ! 'tis Victor speaks ! 
 
 ' Thou warblest notes from Heaven above, 
 To me, Love ! only me !' 
 
356 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 My Love! my life! where art thou? I have 
 sought thee long ; my brain is strangely troubled r 
 but now we will part no more. I see thee beckon 
 me! Victor! my love! I come! I come!" 
 The echoes answered " Come ! come !" Annette 
 lifted her hands once more to Heaven ; then sank 
 upon the earth, and her Spirit fled for ever ! 
 
 Since that time the spot on which she died has 
 gone by the name of " Annette's Vale." The 
 Villagers think it haunted, and never enter it but 
 with uncovered head and naked feet ; but more 
 from reverence than fear, for who would fear the 
 gentle Spirit of Annette de la Cluse ? The Cha- 
 mois which escapes into this place is in a sanctuary; 
 and the flowers which grow there are never 
 plucked but to strew upon Annette's grave ; in 
 every murmur of the wind, in every rustling of 
 the leaves, are heard the voices of her and her 
 lover; and, above all, the echoes among those 
 rocks are listened to with awe, as the Songs or the 
 conversations of Victor and Annette ! 
 
 " NEW EUROPEAN MAGAZINE," 1822. 
 
THE POET'S DREAM. 
 
 Oh ! then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. 
 
 SHAKSPEABE. 
 
 IT was in the forenoon of a sultry autumnal day, 
 in the year 1638, that a person apparently about 
 five and thirty years of age, handsomely, though 
 not gorgeously clad in the costume of the country, 
 and mounted upon a mule, was seen traversing the 
 wild and romantic road which leads from Sienna 
 to Rome. A slight glance at the Traveller would 
 enable the intelligent observer to discover in him 
 " more than marks the crowd of vulgar men." 
 His forehead was high and pale ; and his hair, of a 
 light flaxen colour, flowed in rich ringlets over his 
 shoulders. Although his complexion was consi- 
 derably tinged by the southern suns which he bad 
 encountered in the course of his travels, it was 
 evidently originally very fair, if not pale ; and, to- 
 gether with the oval face and bright blue eyes, de- 
 
358 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 noted a native of a more northern region than that 
 which he was traversing. His countenance was 
 singularly beautiful, and it's mild and beneficent 
 expression was shaded, but not impaired, by the 
 pensive air which, apparently, deep study, or 
 perhaps early misfortune had cast over it. His 
 height was rather above the middle stature ; and 
 his form displayed that perfection of symmetry 
 which we usually look for in vain in nature, but 
 mark with admiration in the works of Phidias and 
 of Raffaelle. He was followed by a servant, 
 also mounted upon a mule, and both were taking 
 the high road to the " eternal City/' from which 
 they were distant about two days' journey. 
 
 The day was sultry, and as the road then wound 
 among some of the most precipitous and difficult 
 passes of the Appenines, the Travellers appeared 
 to experience considerable fatigue. It was with 
 no slight degree of pleasure, therefore, that they 
 descried, at a small distance onwards, a thick 
 forest of pines, which promised a shelter from the 
 noontide heat, as well as an opportunity of ex- 
 ploring the contents of their wallet, for the pur- 
 pose of procuring refreshment. Having arrived 
 there, they dismounted ; and their morning's meal, 
 consisting of bread, fruit, cheese, and wine, was 
 soon spread before them ; and nearly as soon dis- 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 359 
 
 appeared before such appetites, as a long fast 
 and a fatiguing journey never fail to create. The 
 superior Traveller then having desired his servant 
 to lead the mules to a little distance, prepared 
 to take a short slumber previous to resuming his 
 journey. 
 
 He had not long resigned himself to sleep be- 
 fore his ever restless brain began to teem with cer- 
 tain vague and shadowy forms, which at length 
 settled into a vision of consummate beauty. He 
 fancied that he beheld a beautiful female figure 
 bending over and gazing at him, while her fea- 
 tures were expressive of the utmost astonishment 
 and delight. Once she appeared to speak, and the 
 wonder with which he beheld the exquisite loveli- 
 ness of her form and features, was lost in that 
 excited by the ravishing melody of her voice. He 
 extended his hand towards her, and endeavoured 
 to grasp her own; she gently eluded him, smiled, 
 and dropping a small scroll of paper, vanished 
 from his sight, while our traveller, with the effort 
 which he made to reach it, suddenly awoke. 
 
 He started on his feet, scarcely believing that 
 what he had seen could have been a dream, so 
 strong and vivid was the impression which it had 
 made upon his senses ; but his wonder was wound 
 up to the highest pitch at perceiving a scroll, ex- 
 
860 . MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 actly resembling that which he had seen in his 
 dream, lying at his feet. He snatched it up ea- 
 gerly, and read the following lines : 
 
 " Occhi stelli mortali 
 Ministri di miei mail 
 Che'n sogno anco mostrate, 
 Che'l mio morir bramate. 
 Se chiusi m'uccidete, 
 Aperti che farete !" 
 
 which, in our own less mellifluous language, would 
 read nearly thus : 
 
 " Eyes! ye mortal stars which shed 
 Fatal influence on my head, 
 Bidding me in omens know, 
 That to you my death I owe, 
 If when closed ye've power to slay, 
 Hide me from your opening ray ! " 
 
 Doubting the evidence of his senses, he read the 
 scroll over again and again, before he thought of 
 calling his servant, and endeavouring to gather 
 from him such particulars as might assist in un- 
 ravelling the mystery. The account which he re- 
 ceived from his domestic only involved him in new 
 perplexities. From him he learned that, during 
 his slumber, a carriage, containing two elegantly 
 dressed females, had stopped close to the place 
 where his master was sleeping ; that the youngest 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 361 
 
 of the two, whose description, as related by the 
 servant, corresponded in the most minute parti- 
 culars with the figure which he had seen in his 
 dream, alighted ; and after gazing for some time 
 upon the handsome sleeper, addressed certain in- 
 terrogatories to the domestic, which, from his ig- 
 norance of the language in which they were con- 
 veyed, he was unable either to comprehend, or 
 answer; that she then hastily wrote some lines 
 upon a scroll, which she threw at his master's feet ; 
 and, seeing the latter move, re-entered the car- 
 riage, which immediately drove off with the utmost 
 rapidity. 
 
 " You would know her again, Horatio ?" en- 
 quired the wondering Traveller. 
 
 " Aye, Sir," returned the other, " even were her 
 beautiful face veiled ; let her but utter three words, 
 and I shall remember her voice. Not even when 
 I saw the Lady Alice Egerton play in the Masque 
 at Ludlow Castle, and heard her call upon Echo 
 in her Song, till I wondered how so sweet an in- 
 vitation could be resisted, did I feel my soul steal- 
 ing out at my ears so delightfully ; for even she, 
 craving your honour's pardon, was but a chirrup- 
 ping wren to this Italian nightingale." 
 
 " Saddle the mules instantly," interrupted his 
 master, " let us lose no time in overtaking her." 
 
 R 
 
362 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 " Oh Sir! that were a fruitless chase, for the 
 carriage has had a long start before us, besides 
 being drawn by four of the fleetest horses in 
 Italy/' 
 
 " Nevertheless, speed will do no harm, Horatio; 
 and unless we travel at a quicker pace than that 
 at which we have been proceeding this morning, I 
 shall scarcely reach Rome in time for the Cardinal 
 Barberini's Concert to-morrow evening." 
 
 They accordingly resumed their journey, the 
 ci-devant sleeper much marvelling at the extraor- 
 dinary incident of the day, and puzzling his brains, 
 for he was deeply learned in metaphysics, to ac- 
 count for the phenomenon by which that which was 
 hidden from his visual organs, was revealed to his 
 " mind's eye" during the hour of slumber. He 
 was, however, unable to arrive at any more satis- 
 factory conclusion than that contained in two lines 
 of his favourite author, which he uttered aloud, 
 turning round to his valet, 
 
 " There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, 
 Than are dreamt of in our Philosophy." 
 
 They now travelled with the utmost expedition, 
 but, as our Readers will have guessed from the in- 
 formation of Horatio, without overtaking the fair 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 363 
 
 and mysterious fugitive. Nothing occurred during 
 the remainder of their journey beyond the usual 
 routine of eating, drinking, sleeping, and travelling ; 
 and sometimes the necessity, however unpleasant, 
 of dispensing with the three former items, until 
 they arrived at Rome. Here our Traveller's first 
 care was to find out the residence of his friend 
 Holstenius, keeper of the Vatican library, and 
 with whom he had become acquainted at Oxford, 
 where the Italian had resided for three years. 
 
 The meeting of the friends was cordial and af- 
 fectionate. " But we have no time to lose/' said 
 Holstenius, " the Cardinal's Concert has already 
 commenced, and he is in the utmost anxiety to see 
 you : you will find there a distinguished party, who 
 are drawn together principally in the expectation 
 of meeting you." 
 
 " I fear," said the Englishman, half smiling, 
 and at the same time lowering his brow, as to the 
 present day is done by literary men, when they 
 feel, or affect to feel, offended at being made what 
 they call " a shew" of; "I fear that the attraction 
 will cease when the cause of it is seen and known. 
 But who are these, friend Holstenius, to whom I 
 am to be exhibited this evening?" 
 
 " Amongst others, to the Marquis Villa, who has 
 just arrived from Naples/ 7 said the other. 
 
 R2 
 
364 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 " What! Manso?" exclaimed the Englishman, 
 his features brightening as he spoke, " the friend 
 of the illustrious Tasso ?" 
 
 " The same/' resumed Holstenius; " also the 
 Poets, Selvaggi and Salsilli ; the famous Grotius, 
 the Swedish Ambassador to the Court of France, 
 who is here on a visit to his Eminence, and whom 
 I believe you met at Paris ; the Duke de Pagliano ; 
 and the Count di Vivaldi. Adriana of Mantua, 
 Sister to the Poet Basil, and her daughter Leonora 
 Baroni, who are reported to be the finest singers 
 in the world, have also arrived at .Rome expressly 
 to be present at this entertainment." 
 
 The momentary gloom which had gathered on 
 the Englishman's features, was immediately dis- 
 persed ; he expressed the utmost delight at the 
 prospect of mingling with the lofty spirits who 
 were assembled under the Cardinal Barberini's 
 roof; and, after having suitably attired himself, 
 the friends were not long in finding their way to 
 the Cardinal's Palace. 
 
 Here they found the illustrious owner, although 
 nephew to the ruling Pontiff, and possessing, under 
 him, the whole delegated sovereignty of Rome, 
 anxiously looking amongst the crowd at the door 
 for his transalpine guest. When he recognised 
 Holstenius and his friend, he darted out, and 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 365 
 
 grasping the latter by the hand, heartily bade him 
 welcome. He then led him up a magnificent 
 staircase lined with attendants in the most gorgeous 
 liveries, and blazing with innumerable lamps, until 
 he arrived at a splendid Saloon, in which the dis- 
 tinguished company were assembled. Here, after 
 a momentary pause, he elevated his voice and an- 
 nounced in an exulting tone to the anxious audi- 
 tory, the presence of " il Signer Milton." 
 
 " Onor a I'altissimo Poeta!" exclaimed a hun- 
 dred voices. Fair hands strewed flowers upon his 
 head, and noble palms were extended emulous of 
 his grasp. The learned and the famous, the rich, 
 and the young, and the beautiful, all crowded with 
 expressions of admiration and delight around the 
 illustrious Englishman. The Poet Salsilli, was the 
 first who gained possession of Milton's hand, and 
 fixing upon him a steadfast look, he recited in a 
 loud voice the following lines : 
 
 " Cede Meles ; cedat depressa Mincius urna, 
 
 Sebetus Tassum desinat usque loqui. 
 At Tharaesis victor cunctis ferat altior undas ; 
 Nam per te, Milto, par tribus unus erit." 
 
 " Meles and Mincius ! now more humbly glide, 
 Tasso's Sebetus ! now resign thy pride ; 
 
366 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Supreme of rivers, Thames, henceforth shall be, 
 His Milton makes him equal to the three/* 
 
 At this unexpected sally, the place rang with 
 applauses, which had scarcely subsided before 
 a voice from the other end of the room, which was 
 recognised to be that of the Poet Selvaggi, ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " Graecia Mseonidem, jactet sibi Roma Maronem ; 
 Anglia Miltonum jactat utrique parem." 
 
 " Greece ! vaunt your Homer's, Rome ! your Maro's fame, 
 England in Milton boasts an equal name." 
 
 The thunders of applause were redoubled, and 
 Milton began to feel himself under some embar- 
 rassment, as to the mode of returning such extra- 
 ordinary and unexpected compliments, when he 
 was relieved by his entertainer, begging him to seat 
 himself by him, and entering into close conversa- 
 tion with him. 
 
 " I am told, Mr. Milton," said the Cardinal, " that 
 you are a proficient in the divine art of Music." 
 
 " I can claim but a slender acquaintance with 
 the Science," answered the Poet ; " but I have 
 ever been peculiarly susceptible of it's power, and 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 367 
 
 have found iny feelings swayed by it in an extra- 
 ordinary manner, upon more than one occasion. 
 To my Father, who was deeply accomplished in 
 the science, and to my friend and countryman, 
 Henry Lawes, whose fame, I believe, is not un- 
 known even in this classic land of song, I am in- 
 debted for what little knowledge I may possess." 
 
 " Nay, nay, Mr. Milton, your knowledge is 
 somewhat greater than you will allow. The cele- 
 brated Leonora Baroni, who has just left the 
 room, but will soon re-enter it, had, shortly before 
 your arrival, delighted the company, by the ex- 
 quisite manner in which she sang a divine melody 
 composed by herself, to suit some still diviner 
 words of yours, which fully prove that you have 
 the soul and the feelings of the most inspired mu- 
 sician .'* He then recited with energy and pro- 
 priety, although with a strong foreign accent, the 
 following lines : 
 
 Blest pair of Syrens, pledges of Heaven's joy ! 
 
 Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse ! 
 Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power employ, 
 
 Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce ; 
 And to our high-raised phantasy present 
 That undisturbed Song of pure consent, 
 Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd Throne 
 To him that sits thereon, 
 
368 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 With saintly shout and solemn jubilee 5 
 Where the bright Seraphim in burning row, 
 Their loud uplifted an gel- trumpets blow ; 
 And the cherubic host, in thousand quires, 
 Touch their immortal harps of golden wires; 
 With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms. 
 Hymns devout, and holy psalms, 
 
 Singing everlastingly \" 
 
 The conversation between the Cardinal and his 
 illustrious guest was here interrupted by the en- 
 trance of Adriana, of Mantua, and her daughter, 
 Leonora Baroni. Milton's heart throbbed, and he 
 drew his breath thickly, as he fancied that he re- 
 cognised in the figure of the latter, the fair one who 
 had brightened his dreams among the Appenines. 
 The first glimpse of her face confirmed him in this 
 idea, and he was about to rush to the harp at 
 which she had seated herself, and the strings of 
 which she was trying, when a moment's reflection 
 convinced him of the impropriety of such a pro- 
 ceeding. The resemblance might be accidental, 
 or it might be produced merely by his own heated 
 imagination. At length she struck the strings, 
 and played a low sweet prelude with such exquisite 
 delicacy, and yet such masterly execution, that 
 the whole company were entranced in wonder, and 
 none more so than the Poet. She then raised her 
 voice, whose divine tones thrilled to his very soul 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 369 
 
 The air was her own composition, and of matchless 
 beauty ; but what was his astonishment at recog- 
 nising in the Poetry to which it was adapted, the 
 very words which were inscribed upon the scroll. He 
 rose from his seat, and approached the beautiful 
 songstress. Like his own Adam, he " hung over 
 her enamoured." He forgot his hopes, his ambi- 
 tion, his travels, the place in which he was; he 
 forgot even the extraordinary way in which he first 
 became acquainted with her. The recollection of 
 all was lost in the intense delight with which he 
 listened to the flood of melody which she was 
 pouring forth. At length she came to the con- 
 cluding verses of the Madrigal : 
 
 " Se chiusi m'uccidete, 
 Aperti che farete ! " 
 
 and as she warbled the last line, turned her head, 
 and beheld the bright blue eyes of the Poet, as 
 though his whole soul was concentrated in those 
 two orbs, gazing upon her. A slight tremor 
 shook her frame ; a deadly paleness overspread 
 her face ; and she sank senseless upon the ground. 
 This incident created general confusion. The 
 whole company crowded round H;he harp, and 
 beheld the beautiful Leonora, pale and senseless, 
 
 R 3 
 
370 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 in the arms of the Poet, while her Mother was 
 chafing her temples in an agony of distress. At 
 length Milton and Adriana succeeded in convey- 
 ing her out of the room into the open air. It was 
 a bright and beautiful night. The moon was riding 
 high, shedding a mild pale light upon the waters 
 of the Tiber, the venerable monuments of the 
 Eternal City which frowned upon it's banks, and 
 the lofty summits of the Appenines towering in 
 the distance. The night-wind crept from leaf to 
 leaf, and gently agitated the waters of the river ; 
 while from a neighbouring grove the notes of the 
 nightingale were borne upon the breeze. The ge- 
 nial influence of the air, and the fragrance of a 
 thousand odorous flowers, which bloomed around 
 her, soon revived Leonora. The first objects 
 which she beheld, on opening her eyes, were those 
 " stelli mortali," which had been the cause of this 
 confusion. A smile played upon her lip, although 
 a deep blush overspread her cheeks, as she said 
 to Milton, " I believe, Sir, we have met before, 
 and I hope you will pardon the inconsiderate folly 
 of an enthusiastic girl." 
 
 " Talk not of pardon !" interrupted the Poet, 
 " divine Leonora ! talk of joy, of rapture! The 
 heavenly form which I fancied an insubstantial 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 371 
 
 vision is corporeal, is vital, and I hold it in my 
 
 arms I 
 
 I" 
 
 We believe the lady blushed, and gently disen- 
 gaged herself, according to the received dicta of 
 decorum on such occasions. The Poet, however, 
 still retained enough favour in her eyes, and in 
 those of her Mother, to be allowed to accompany 
 them home, and to obtain permission to call upon 
 them on the following morning. 
 
 " And may I," said Adriana, as the Poet was 
 taking his leave, " may I beg to know, Signor, to 
 whom we are so greatly indebted?" 
 
 " My name," he answered, " is Milton." 
 
 " Milton!" exclaimed both ladies, as with a 
 feeling of solemn awe, they retreated for a few 
 paces, and then, with a deeper feeling of enthusi- 
 astic admiration, advanced, and each took hold of 
 one of his hands. A crimson blush suffused the 
 face of the beautiful Leonora at recognising, in 
 the handsome sleeper, the mighty Bard, by whose 
 writings she had been spell-bound for many an 
 hour of intense and delighted interest. He had 
 not yet given to the world his master-work, and 
 thus rendered the high encomiums of Selvaggi and 
 Salsilli no hyperbole ; but that scarcely less glorious 
 emanation of his genius, Comus, as well as E Al- 
 legro, II Penseroso, Lycidas, and some of his 
 
372 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 immortal Sonnets, had already appeared, and were 
 read, and justly appreciated both in England and 
 Italy. The permission which he had obtained to 
 appear the next day at their residence, was now 
 transformed into something between an injunction 
 and a petition. He then took a reluctant leave 
 for the purpose of rejoining the assembly at the 
 Cardinal's, and apologising for the absence of the 
 syrens, which was readily excused on the score of 
 the illness of the younger one. 
 
 The remainder of the evening passed without 
 the occurrence of any incident, the record of 
 which would be likely to interest our Headers. The 
 Poet, whose fine person and fascinating manners 
 had more than confirmed the feelings of admiration 
 which his divine writings had created, retired, the 
 theme of universal eulogy. He retired, but not to 
 rest; the image of Leonora haunted his waking 
 thoughts, and formed the subject of his dreams: 
 again he fancied himself among the Appenines; 
 again the fairy figure approached and dropped the 
 scroll ; again he stretched forth his hand, but more 
 successfully than before ; he reached hers ; when 
 suddenly the scene changed, and he found himself 
 in the Saloon of the Barberini Palace, with the 
 beautiful songstress, pale and senseless, in his 
 arms. 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 373 
 
 He arose feverish and unrefreshed; and while 
 the divine tones of Leonora's voice seemed to 
 be still ringing in his ears, he seized his pen, and 
 composed the following elegant Latin verses : 
 
 " AD LEONORAM ROMIE CANENTEM. 
 
 Altera Torquatum cepit Leonora poetam, 
 Cujus ab insano cessit amore furens. 
 Ah miser ! ille tuo quanto felicior aero 
 Perditus et propter te, Leonora foret ! 
 Et te Pieria sensisset voce canentem 
 Aurea maternse fila movere lyrse ; 
 Quamvis Dircseo torsisset lumina Pentheo 
 Saevior, aut totus desipuissetiners; 
 Tu tamen errantes caeca vertigine sensus 
 Voce eadem poteras composuisse tua; 
 Et poteras, aegro spirans sub corde, quietem 
 Flexamino cantu restituisse sibi." 
 
 Which have been thus translated by Dr. Sym- 
 mons: 
 
 " TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME. 
 
 Another Leonora's charms inspired 
 The love that Tasso's phrensied senses fired; 
 More blest had been his fate were this his age, 
 And you th' inspirer of his amorous rage. 
 Oh ! had he heard the wonders of your song, 
 AB leads your voice it's liquid maze along; 
 
374 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Or, seen you in your Mother's right command 
 The Lyre, while rapture wakes beneath your hand ; 
 By Pentheus' wildness though his brain were tost, 
 Or his worn sense in sullen slumber lost, 
 His soul had check'd her wanderings at the strain ; 
 The soothing charm had lulPd his stormy brain ; 
 Or, breathing with creative power had driven 
 Death from his heart, and open'd it to Heaven." 
 
 These lines were despatched by the Poet early 
 in the morning to Leonora, and he himself was 
 not long in following. His second interview with 
 the fair syren was deeply interesting to both. The 
 charms and talents of Leonora made an impression 
 on the heart of the Bard, which he found himself 
 unable to control ; and in the feelings with which 
 the former now regarded Milton, there was less of 
 admiration for the Poet, than of affection for the 
 handsome and accomplished Englishman who sat 
 beside her. Our Readers, therefore, will not be 
 surprised to hear that this visit lasted long, and 
 was quickly succeeded by another and another. 
 The ladies shortly afterwards leaving Rome for 
 Mantua, Milton escorted them to the latter place, 
 and fixed his temporary abode there, where his 
 attentions to Leonora became still more marked. 
 The keen apprehension of Adriana soon detected 
 the state of their hearts, but the feelings which 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 375 
 
 the discovery awakened in her own, were by no 
 means of an unmingled character. The accom- 
 plishments, both mental and personal, of her 
 Daughter's suitor had gained the admiration and 
 esteem of the Mother ; but his transalpine birth, 
 and heretical creed, presented obstacles to the 
 union, which, although to her they did not appear 
 insuperable, would, she feared, be deemed so by 
 other members of the family, and especially by 
 her Son ; who was an officer in the service of the 
 Republic of Venice, a bigoted adherent to the 
 Church of Rome; of fierce and ungovernable 
 passions ; and accustomed to rule with despotic 
 authority in all the concerns of the family. When, 
 therefore, Milton formally announced himself to 
 Adriana, as a suitor for her Daughter's hand, she 
 did not affect to disguise her own approbation of 
 the proposal, but informed him that it would be 
 necessary that Leonora's relations, and especially 
 her Brother, should be consulted. Milton, who 
 was not ignorant of the temper and character of 
 the soldier, felt much chagrined at this intelligence, 
 but proposed to take a journey to Venice immedi- 
 ately, for the purpose of advocating his suit in 
 person. The entreaties of Adriana, who antici- 
 pated dangerous, if not fatal consequences, from 
 so abrupt a proceeding, induced him to relinquish 
 
376 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 his design. She undertook to break the matter to 
 her son by degrees ; but, as she had no doubt that 
 the first intelligence would bring him, foaming with 
 fury, to Mantua, she advised Milton to withdraw 
 himself for a short time from that city. This ad- 
 vice the Poet determined to adopt ; especially as 
 he had lately received several pressing invitations 
 from the Marquis Villa to visit him at Naples. 
 His parting interview with Leonora was of the 
 most tender description; vows of eternal fidelity 
 were made on both sides; and sighs, and tears, and 
 protestations, were lavished with even more than 
 amatory prodigality. 
 
 At Naples the Poet was received with open 
 arms by Manso. This fine old man, who had been 
 the friend and patron of Marino and of Tasso, 
 bestowed on the still more illustrious Bard who 
 now visited him, the most flattering marks of dis- 
 tinction. He acted as his cicerone during his stay 
 in Naples ; conducting him through the Viceroy's 
 Palace, and all the other public buildings which 
 usually attract the notice of strangers ; and also 
 introduced him to the circle of his friends, com- 
 prising the most illustrious and distinguished men 
 in Naples. The manners and conversation of 
 Milton were such as to make him a welcome guest 
 wherever he went ; and to Manso in particular the 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 377 
 
 Poet's society became every day more fascinating. 
 That he was a heretic appeared to him to be his 
 only fault, and this he considered as more a mis- 
 fortune than a crime. Manso's Epigram on this 
 subject is well known : 
 
 " Ut mens, forma, decor, facies, mos, si pietas sic, 
 Non Anglus verum hercle Angelus ipse fores." 
 
 And though the pun in this distich seems to defy 
 translation, yet, as Dr. Symmons has attempted it, 
 we give his version for want of a better: 
 
 " With mind, form, manners, face, did faith agree, 
 No Angle but an Angel would'st thou be/' 
 
 All the attractions of the society and scenery of 
 Naples did not, however, make Milton forgetful 
 of Leonora. He wrote to her often, and fervent- 
 ly ; and it was from this place that he addressed 
 to her those beautiful Italian Sonnets, which we 
 find amongst his Poems. To these he received the 
 most tender replies; accompanied, however, with 
 the unwelcome intelligence that her brother had 
 declared himself hostile to their union, and had 
 uttered threats of personal violence to Milton if he 
 persisted in his suit. The Poet, in answer, re- 
 newed his protestations of unaltered love, and de- 
 clared his determination never to resign her but 
 
378 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 with his life. He told her that her brother's threats 
 could not daunt him ; and that his heart, although 
 easily subdued by love, was bold enough to en- 
 counter any danger; which sentiments we find 
 beautifully expressed in the following Sonnet: 
 
 " Giovane piano e simplicette amante, 
 
 Poi che fuggir me stesso in dubbio sono 
 Madonna a voi del mio cuor Thumil dono 
 
 Faro divoto ; io certo a prove tante 
 
 L'hebbi fedile, intrepido, costante, 
 
 De pensieri legg'iadro, accorto e buono ; 
 Quando rugge il gran mondo, e scocca il tuono, 
 
 S'arma di se e d'intero diamante. 
 Tanto del forse, e d'invidia sicuro, 
 
 Di timori, e speranze, al popol use, 
 
 Quanto d'ingegno, e d'altor valo vago, 
 
 E di cetra sonora e delle muse. 
 Sol troverete in tal parte men duro, 
 
 Ove Amor raise 1'insanabil ago." 
 
 " Lady ! to you, a youth unknown to art, 
 
 Who fondly from himself in thought would fly, 
 Devotes the faith, truth, spirit, constancy, 
 
 And firm, yet feeling temper of his heart ; 
 
 Proved strong by trials for life's arduous part. 
 
 When shakes the worlcj, and thunders roll on high, 
 All adamant, it dares the storm defy, 
 
 Erect, unconscious of the guilty start ; 
 
 Not more above fear, envy, low desire, 
 And all the tyrants of the vulgar breast, 
 
 Than prone to hail the heaven-resounding Lyre, 
 High worth, and genius of the Muse possest : 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 379 
 
 Unshaken, and entire, and only found 
 
 Not proof against the shaft, when Love directs the wound/' 
 
 Milton continued to reside at Naples for about 
 a month, during which time no event occurred 
 worth recording ; except that one night as he 
 was returning to his own lodgings from the Pa- 
 lace of the Marquis, he received a w r ound in the 
 back from a stiletto. He hastily drew his sword, 
 and faced his adversary, whom he found to be a 
 tall thin figure in a mask. The contest was short, 
 and would have proved fatal to Milton, for the as- 
 sassin was his superior, both in strength and skill, 
 had not a party of the Police come up just as he 
 was on the point of being overpowered. The vil- 
 lain made one desperate, but unsuccessful, aim at 
 Milton's breast, and then fled with incredible speed. 
 His pursuers were unable to overtake him, but his 
 mask having dropped off during the contest, it was 
 hoped that he might yet be identified and secured. 
 A strict search was set on foot the following day, 
 but no trace of him could be discovered. Milton's 
 wound was slight, and soon healed ; and the only 
 consequence of this encounter was a determination 
 on his part, whenever he ventured into the streets 
 of Naples at so late an hour, to go less ostenta- 
 tiously ornamented ; for he had worn, suspended 
 
380 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 round his neck, by a gold chain, a portrait of 
 Manso set in diamonds, which had been presented 
 to him by that nobleman, and which, he had no 
 doubt, had tempted the cupidity of the robber. 
 
 Our Poet had passed a whole fortnight without 
 receiving any letters from Leonora, although he 
 had, during that period, written repeatedly and 
 anxiously to her ; when, dreading the worst from her 
 brother's violence, he determined to proceed im- 
 mediately to Mantua. He took a sorrowful leave 
 of his friends in Naples, especially of Manso, 
 with whom he left as a parting gift those fine 
 Latin verses, in which he has immortalised his 
 noble friend. 
 
 On his arrival at Mantua, he hastened to the 
 residence of Adriana. He enquired if Leonora 
 was within, and heard with rapture that she was in 
 the little apartment, which was called her Music- 
 room. He resisted the anxious importunities of 
 the domestic, who admitted him, to suffer him to 
 announce him, determining to enjoy the surprise 
 which his arrival would occasion. He softly as- 
 cended the staircase, and arrived at the door of 
 her apartment. As he approached, he heard sighs 
 and weeping. The door was half open, and as 
 he leaned gently forward, he was surprised at 
 seeing a tall thin male figure seated by the side of 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 381 
 
 Leonora. His surprise was changed into horror, 
 when, on looking in his face, he recognised the fea- 
 tures of the assassin who had assaulted him in the 
 street of Naples. He grasped his sword, and was 
 about to spring upon him, fearing that he would 
 commit some violence upon Leonora, when he 
 saw the latter take the assassin's hand, and kiss it 
 fervently. Horror rooted his feet to the ground : 
 he drew his mantle closely over his face, so as to 
 cover every part of it except his eyes, while he 
 listened in breathless anxiety to the following 
 dialogue: 
 
 " Why," said Leonora, " why will you talk thus 
 cruelly? If you love me no longer, at least pity 
 me!" 
 
 "Pity you! pity one so utterly lost! Even 
 Heaven itself, all merciful as it is, withholds it's 
 pity from the damned." 
 
 " Alas !" she sobbed, " I have committed no 
 crime." 
 
 " No crime!" he exclaimed; call you it no crime 
 to love a wretch like this ? an Englishman ! a he- 
 retic! one who has even visited the infamous Ga- 
 lileo in his dungeon." 
 
 *' And, yet, Antonio," she said, " he is brave, 
 and wise, and kind, and generous; can it be a 
 crime to love such an one, dear Brother ?" 
 
382 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Milton started! Antonio turned round; the 
 Poet, placed in a dark recess, with his face and 
 form muffled in his cloak, would have escaped his 
 observation, but his eyes flashing with the fires of 
 fury and horror, arrested the attention of the bravo. 
 
 "Tishe! 'tis he!" exclaimed the latter: " I 
 know that fiend-like glare ; hell and heresy are in 
 it. Unhand me, Sister, or, by Heaven, the sti- 
 letto, when it enters his breast, shall be reeking 
 warm from your own." 
 
 He sprung like an emancipated tiger from the 
 grasp of his Sister, and rushed towards Milton, 
 " Oh ! spare him ! save him !" exclaimed Leonora. 
 She rushed between them as the stiletto was raised 
 in the act to strike, and her bosom formed at once 
 a shield for that of Milton, and a sheath for the fa- 
 tal weapon. 
 
 She sunk upon the ground, bathed in blood ; 
 and even the monster who was the author of this 
 tragedy was moved. " Support her," he said to 
 Milton, " help me to hold her up." 
 
 " It is in vain ! all is in vain !" shrieked the Poet ; 
 as he clasped her hand, and gazed earnestly in her 
 face. She fixed her eyes upon his until they closed. 
 One gentle pressure of his hand ; one slight qui- 
 vering of her lips ; and then the temple of the im- 
 mortal Spirit was an uninhabited ruin. 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 383 
 
 Antonio fled howling from the chamber of death ; 
 and Milton sunk upon the bosom of the murdered 
 beauty. We have but little tojidd. The feelings of 
 the unhappy Adriana may be better conceived than 
 expressed. She survived her daughter but twelve 
 months, and ended her days in a Convent. Mil- 
 ton, when the first paroxysm of grief had subsided, 
 resolved to travel into Italy and Greece, in order 
 to divert his melancholy. The troubles, however, 
 which just then broke out in England, made him 
 abandon this design and return to his native coun- 
 try ; " For I esteemed it," said he, " dishonourable 
 for me to be lingering abroad, even for the im- 
 provement of my mind, when my fellow citizens 
 were contending for their liberty at home." 
 
 The death of Leonora made a deep impression 
 on the minds of all classes ; and the superstitious 
 used to dwell with awe upon the extraordinary ful- 
 filment of the prophecy contained in the verses 
 which she had inscribed upon the scroll. Those 
 " stelli mortal!" had literally proved the cause of 
 all her ills, and ultimately of her death; and the 
 eyes of Milton were for a long time compared to 
 the heel of Achilles ; as the only part neglected, 
 and the part which was destined to prove fatal. 
 
 " HOMMAGE Aux DAMES," 1825. 
 
384 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 TOTTERIDGE PRIORY. 
 
 A REVERIE IN HERTFORDSHIRE. 
 
 WERE you ever, my dear Reader, at the village 
 of Totteridge ? If not, put your horse to your 
 gig this moment ; drive past the pleasant villages 
 of Holloway, Finchley, and Whetstone; and, 
 turning sharp round to the left, you will find a 
 green lane, so quiet, so rural, so solitary, and such 
 a declivity, that you will stand as fair a chance as 
 any man in the world of breaking your neck, or 
 getting your throat cut, before you get to the end 
 of it. Supposing neither of those interesting in- 
 cidents were to occur, you will find at the end, a 
 long straggling Village, scarcely containing a dozen 
 houses, but extending perhaps over a couple of 
 miles of ground. There are several houses here 
 of rare antiquity ; but the spirit of modern inno- 
 vation and improvement has found it's way among 
 them, and a parcel of trim dapper brick and stone 
 fronts, in the modern style of building, have made 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 385 
 
 their appearance, and stare the ancient denizens 
 of the place out of countenance. The most inter- 
 esting of the old houses is the Priory ; said by the 
 inhabitants to be of an age which T dare not men- 
 tion to my incredulous Readers. However, it is 
 certainly of no modern date, but a gothic eccle- 
 siastical structure, built in the style which was 
 most prevalent in this Island in the reign of Eliza- 
 beth. The cowled Monks, the bare-foot Friars, 
 the chaunted Mass, the solemn Vespers, alas! 
 alas ! all these have disappeared ; and, instead of 
 them, melancholy change ! you meet with nothing 
 but happy countenances, pleasant conversation, 
 cheerfulness, and hospitality. 
 
 But, this is rambling from the main object 
 of my Paper. My indulgent Readers, however, 
 know my way, and will pardon it. I had not been 
 long under this roof, before I learned that the 
 house had formerly been occupied by the cele- 
 brated Lord Chesterfield, the prince of diploma- 
 tists and dancing-masters. This information I ac- 
 quired from my worthy Host, with whom I was sit- 
 ting, tete-a-tete, after dinner. Strangely enough, 
 it's effect, aided, I suppose, by the wine which I 
 had drunk, was to set my body at rest, and my 
 mind at work. My corporeal eyelids closed over 
 the organs of vision suddenly, as if they had a 
 
 s 
 
386 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 weight of lead upon them, but instantly " my 
 mind's eyes" opened, and I found myself still oc- 
 cupying the same chair, at the same table, in the 
 same room; but my Host was gone; and instead 
 of him, I found standing near me an aristocratical- 
 looking gentleman, of fifty years of age, perhaps, or, 
 " by'r lady, some threescore." I instantly knew 
 this person to be no other than my Lord Chester- 
 field. He was dressed most fastidiously, in the 
 fashion of the period to which he belonged. He 
 wore a long flowing peruque, most elaborately 
 powdered ; a blue coat, with a velvet collar, and 
 enormous buttons ; a waistcoat which, in our de- 
 generate age, would be assigned only to persons 
 of the dimensions of Daniel Lambert; and a 
 frilled shirt, with lace ruffles ; round his left leg 
 was tied the riband of the Garter, while he held a 
 cocked hat in his right hand, and a gold-headed 
 cane under his left arm. 
 
 This courteous, but antiquated figure saluted 
 me civilly, but coldly ; and I returned his atten- 
 tions in the same manner. He, however, conti- 
 nued bowing so long, bowing, as our friend 
 Richard Martin, M.P. would say, like a Master 
 in Chancery, that I plainly perceived his inten- 
 tion was to bow me out. 
 
 " Pardon me, my Lord," said I; " but this is 
 my domicile for to-night." 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 387 
 
 " Exceedingly happy to see you, Sir," he re- 
 plied ; " but you must be aware that this mansion 
 is not your property." 
 
 " Nor yours, either, my Lord, I apprehend, 
 now, whatever it may have been a century ago. 
 I take the liberty of presuming that it at present 
 appertains to my friend, Mr. Dashville." 
 
 " And pray, Sir, who is Mr. Dashville?" said 
 the Spirit, peevishly. 
 
 " Will you taste his wine ?" said I, handing him 
 a glass, " and then you may give something of a 
 guess at him." 
 
 " With all my heart," returned his Lordship. 
 " It is a hundred years since I tasted wine, and 
 therefore it is no wonder that I feel rather thirsty. 
 Excellent ! excellent !" he added, after empty- 
 ing his glass. " I have no doubt that Mr. Dash- 
 ville is a most worthy gentleman ; and, if you 
 please, we'll drink his health." 
 
 We now got very sociable, and I could not help 
 informing his Lordship of my late interview with 
 Ben Jonson ; but it had not the effect which I 
 anticipated. 
 
 " Ben Jonson," he said, " was a clever man, 
 but he was a bear ; and besides that, he frequented 
 taverns, and kept low company." 
 
 " My Lord !" exclaimed I, in a tone of sur- 
 
 s 2 
 
388 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 prise, " the company which he kept was composed 
 of Shakspeare, Spenser, Fletcher, Donne, " 
 
 " No matter for their names," interrupted he ; 
 " they were vulgar fellows, not fit for a man of 
 fashion to think or talk of. We keep aloof from 
 all such." 
 
 " Really, my Lord," said I, " I am surprised 
 that a fine gentleman like yourself, should have 
 ever condescended to put your foot into so un- 
 fashionable a place as the grave." 
 
 " True, true ; 'tis an unfortunate necessity. 
 There is good company there, though, could one 
 but keep it select. But, pardon me, Sir, you are 
 most hideously clothed." 
 
 Thus saying, he turned me round, adjusted my 
 hair so as to look as much like a peruque as possi- 
 ble ; flung some of his own powder upon it ; and 
 then proceeded to pull my linen and waistcoat 
 about, even to the operation of tearing. 
 
 " Hold! hold! my dear Lord!" I exclaimed, 
 in a tone of supplication. " I shall never be able 
 to shew my face in Hyde Park, or Bond-street, if 
 you go on in this manner. We dress in a very 
 different style now, from what you and your con- 
 temporaries did." 
 
 A smile of serene contempt passed over the 
 features of the defunct Peer, as I made this ob- 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 389 
 
 servation, and I could plainly perceive that all his 
 dead blood was roused. He, nevertheless, ma- 
 naged to master his emotion as well as a dead man 
 could be expected to do it, and proceeded. 
 
 " I dare say that is very true/' said he; " for 
 I have seen most awful changes in the fashions, as 
 exemplified by the various occupants of this house, 
 who have usually been persons of Ion-ton. In the 
 first family which succeeded me, the pink of 
 fashion was the heir. He was of the real Mr. 
 Jessamy breed. He had passed a twelvemonth in 
 Paris, where he acquired a becoming contempt 
 for his own country and it's manners ; and learned 
 just nothing at all of the country which he visited, 
 but a few phrases of the language, with which he 
 so managed to lard his conversation, as to render it 
 unintelligible to a native of either nation. He 
 was always seized with a violent spasmodic affec- 
 tion if he passed a filthy fellow of a ploughman or 
 a haymaker; and once kept his bed for five 
 weeks with a violent cold, brought on by the cir- 
 cumstance of a person in a wet great coat having sat 
 down in the same room with him. He was a gen- 
 tleman of very tender and sympathetic habits ; al- 
 though he once discharged his whole household, 
 because he found a bottle, containing a favourite 
 cosmetic, broken, and could not discover the indi- 
 
390 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 vidual author of the accident. He at length died 
 of immoderate grief for the loss of a favourite 
 monkey, to whom he bore a great resemblance, 
 and with whom he was on terms of extraordinary 
 intimacy. The two animals were so much alike, 
 that, were it not that the one wore a tail, and the 
 other a sword, it would have been difficult to dis- 
 cover the difference. 
 
 " By the time that the next tenant took posses- 
 sion, the fashion had materially altered. Logic 
 and disputation were the order of the day, and all 
 our fine gentlemen were infidels. The Bible was 
 considered as the most facetious book in the world, 
 and the most immoderate laughter that I ever 
 heard, was that roared out over the story of Balaam 
 and his ass. The occupant of the Priory, although 
 he did not believe in the existence of his own soul, 
 yet, like Hobbes, he paid the compliment to those 
 of others, by believing that they revisited the earth 
 after death, and he was consequently most dis- 
 mally afraid of apparitions. He died one night 
 of excessive terror, caused by a friend who 
 shewed his kindness and his wit, by arraying him- 
 self in a white sheet, plastering his face, and pro- 
 ceeding with a lighted taper in his hand, into his 
 bedchamber. 
 
 " The house was now shut up for some time, and 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 391 
 
 reported to be haunted ; nay, the ghost of our free- 
 thinking friend is said still to walk in it's most an- 
 cient chambers. At length it was bought cheap by 
 a dashing young fellow, who drove his own four-in- 
 hand, at a time when that accomplishment was 
 considered the very acme of aristocratical educa- 
 tion. The Coronet was not worthily surmounted, 
 except by a coachman's cap ; the gold stick, the 
 Field-marshal's baton, and the Steward of the 
 Royal household's wand of office, were considered 
 as worthless baubles, in comparison with a Jehu's 
 whip ; and the seat nearest the Throne was a sta- 
 tion neither so enviable, nor so honourable, as the 
 top of a coach-box. The gentleman, however, 
 who tenanted the Priory, soon finished his career ; 
 for, on turning one evening short round with his 
 four greys down Totteridge-lane, he was thrown 
 from * his high estate ;' and picked up lifeless, 
 and ' weltering in his blood/ like Darius of old." 
 
 " A most melancholy termination, my Lord," 
 said I, "of such an ambitious and well-spent 
 life. But pray who succeeded the Charioteer? I 
 suppose some character of a similar stamp?" 
 
 " No, no/' replied the loquacious ghost; " the 
 Charioteer had nearly outlived the fashion of which 
 he was the breathing mirror, and when the young 
 Honourable Tom Hardfist took possession of these 
 
392 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 premises, boxing was the order of the day. No 
 person without a swelled lip, and a pair of black 
 eyes, could presume to take his seat in the House 
 of -Peers ; nay, the blue riband itself was consi- 
 dered an inferior distinction to the black eye. Even 
 the Ladies shared in the general mania ; and as we 
 all know that in, that sex there is not so beautiful 
 a feature as black eyes, so that those who had the 
 misfortune to be born with blue or hazel, had now 
 a short and easy means of remedying the defect, 
 and becoming at once handsome, and in the fashion. 
 Totteridge Priory was now converted into a box- 
 ing arena. All the most eminent pugilists of the 
 day exhibited their science there to the great de- 
 light of the proprietor ; until one day, Mr. Hard- 
 fist received such a severe blow upon his chest, 
 that he was obliged to take to his bed, and, after 
 lingering two or three weeks, died in great agony." 
 
 " A most extraordinarily varied succession of 
 tenants, my Lord," said I; " and although I am 
 no great admirer of your system of fashion and 
 manners, still I cannot hesitate in giving it the 
 preference over all that you have enumerated as 
 following after it. But pray, who filled the vacant 
 seat of Mr. Hardfist?" 
 
 " Nay, nay/* said the noble ghost, " we shall 
 be getting too near the present times, my friend ; 
 
PROS* AND POETRY. 393 
 
 and I do not like to talk scandal even in my grave ; 
 so, good evening to you." 
 
 *' Nay, nay," said I, starting up, and knocking 
 down two or three glasses, " I cannot part with 
 you so easily," This effort broke my reverie ; 
 and, on opening my eyes, I perceived no one near 
 me, but my Host. 
 
 " What is the matter?" said he : "I hope you 
 have enjoyed your nap ?" 
 
 " My nap !" I exclaimed, " I do not under- 
 stand you ; where's Lord Chesterfield ?" 
 
 " Lord Chesterfield !" was the ejaculation in re- 
 ply ; " I have seen no such person." 
 
 By degrees I recovered my recollection ; and, 
 as an atonement for breaking the glasses, I was 
 obliged to narrate my dream at the tea-table. 
 Such as it is, I told it ; and such as it is, I give it 
 for the perusal of my fashionable Readers. 
 
 " NEWS OF LITERATURE," 1826. 
 
394 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 THE 
 
 SHAKSPEAREAN ELYSIUM. 
 
 A FEW evenings ago, after I had spent several 
 hours in the perusal of Shakspeare, and while my 
 mind was occupied in reflecting upon that amazing 
 genius which had " exhausted worlds, and then 
 imagined new/' one of those reveries to which I 
 have lately been subject, stole over my senses, I 
 fancied myself seated in a crazy boat, upon a 
 sluggish stream, over which a sturdy fellow of a 
 waterman was rowing me. " Whither are you 
 carrying me, my friend ? " said I. 
 
 " To the other world!" he replied, in a gruff 
 voice, which caused a thrill throughout my whole 
 frame. 
 
 " To the other world ! " exclaimed I ; " pray on 
 what part of it do you intend to land me ? " 
 
 " I have orders/' said he, " to take you to the 
 Shakspearean Elysium," 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 395 
 
 This was a place of which I had never heard 
 before; and I therefore begged him to explain 
 himself more fully. 
 
 " Why, Master," said he, " you must know 
 that this Shakspeare created a world of his own ; 
 and filled it, moreover, with such a vast variety 
 of characters, that, when their appointed times 
 came, Pluto declined admitting them into his 
 dominions ; saying, that he had no room for them, 
 unless he turned out his own subjects : this place 
 was, therefore, created purposely for their recep- 
 tion, in which, as in the other, there is both an 
 Elysium and a Tartarus. All the characters in- 
 vented by the Poet are sent to Elysium ; excepting 
 the very few that he has ill drawn, which, to- 
 gether with his bad puns, his bombast, and his 
 indelicacies, are despatched to Tartarus ; and also, 
 excepting his historical personages, who, being 
 natives of the real substantial world above, are, of 
 course, under the dominion of Pluto." 
 
 " Indeed," said I, " this is a rare place to visit ; 
 but although you, saving your presence, are mar- 
 vellously ill-favoured, you do not exactly answer 
 the descriptions which I have read of that grim 
 ferryman, Charon." 
 
 " No/' said he, sulkily ; " I am not exactly he, 
 although my occupation is similar : T am the Boat- 
 
396 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 swain mentioned in the " Tempest" and fill this 
 office at the instigation of an old brute of a Nea- 
 politan lord, named Gonzalo ; who prophesied that 
 I should be hanged in the other world, and has 
 done all he could to make me wish myself so in 
 this." 
 
 By the time that my Ferryman had told me thus 
 much, our boat had reached the shore. The first 
 thing that I did upon landing was to look out for 
 that " gentleman with three heads," as Mrs. Ma- 
 laprop calls him, Cerberus. Instead of him, how- 
 ever, I found a good-looking mastiff with only one 
 head upon his shoulders, who turned out to be no 
 other than our friend Crab, in the " Two Gentle- 
 men of Verona" I soon afterwards learned that 
 Bottom, the Weaver, whose fondness for volun- 
 teering his services on all occasions, my Readers 
 must be aware of, was very anxious to fill this 
 situation ; as he said that he could boast of having, 
 at least, two heads ; namely, the one with which he 
 was born, and the ass's head which Master Puck 
 had fixed upon him. The qualifications of Crab 
 were, however, considered superior, and Bottom 
 was dismissed to Elysium. 
 
 Seated upon the Throne of these infernal regions, 
 instead of Pluto and Proserpine, I found Tragedy 
 and Comedy. The former saluted me with a very 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 397 
 
 condescending bend of the head; and the latter, 
 with a bewitching smile, pointed out to me the 
 gate of Elysium. I entered, and after recover- 
 ing from the rapture which the delicious atmo- 
 sphere, and the enchanting scenery excited, I 
 looked around in search of some human object of 
 curiosity. I found the place very thickly popu- 
 lated, and the inhabitants split into various small 
 groups and parties. The first of these which I 
 encountered, consisted of six or seven persons who 
 were seated round a table in an arbour, and were 
 eating and drinking, and making very merry. I 
 soon found out that they were of that class of cha- 
 racters, now no longer in existence, so admirably por- 
 trayed by the great Poet, called Clowns, or Fools. 
 Touchstone, " one that had been a Courtier," was 
 in the chair ; and around him were ranged Laun- 
 celot Gobbo ; the bitter and sarcastic, yet, withal, 
 kind-hearted Fool in " King Lear ;" the merry 
 singing Clown in " Twelfth Night" who made 
 such irreverent sport of the cross garters of Mal- 
 volio; Pompey Bum, in one particular, the greatest 
 of them all ; the Shepherd's Son, and Costard; 
 besides several others of inferior eminence. I also 
 found this Company pestered by a troublesome 
 fellow, whose object it evidently was to get ad- 
 
MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 mitted among them, but who took much pains to 
 persuade them that he despised them immensely, 
 and considered himself infinitely their superior. 
 This person, whom they at length permitted to 
 join them, I discovered to be Apemantus. The 
 Grave-digger in " Hamlet" I learned had longbeen 
 desirous of making one amongst them ; and at last, 
 having made them a present of a goblet made out 
 of the skull of Yorick, the King of Denmark's 
 Jester, a noted man of their fraternity in his time, 
 he was voted in with acclamation. I soon found 
 that Touchstone was the orator and oracle of the 
 circle ; and he had just finished his dissertation upon 
 the seven causes, and was reading them a Lec- 
 ture upon things in general, at the time that I ap- 
 proached the party. 
 
 After leaving this facetious group, I joined a 
 party of Supernatural beings. Amongst them I 
 found that mischievous fellow Puck, pretending to 
 make violent love to one of the Weird Sisters. 
 The grim lady appeared to be much flattered by 
 his attentions, and was cooking him a delicate 
 dish of Bat's liver, baked ; which she proposed that 
 he should wash down with a cup of Baboon's blood. 
 The waggish Elf, however, was continually pes- 
 tering her, by pinching her hips, pulling her beard, 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 399 
 
 and riding away on her broom-stick. Caliban 
 was sprawling on the lap of his mother Sycorax, 
 who kissed his lips, patted his cheeks, and fondled 
 the foul monster like a baby. Tall ladies are said 
 to be fond of little gentlemen, and accordingly I 
 found that Hecate had been guilty of the abduction 
 of Master Peasblossom, the favourite of Queen 
 Tilania, and head-scratcher to Nicholas Bottom. 
 This small Adonis seemed by no means proud of the 
 lady's attachment, and was, for a long time, vainly 
 plotting his escape ; until a humble-bee flying past 
 them, he sprang upon it's back, and rode away 
 merrily to Fairy-land. 
 
 I next met two ill-looking, yet evidently blus- 
 tering fellows, moving along at a quick, stealthy 
 pace, and casting many an alarmed look behind 
 them ; and about a hundred yards in the rear, I en- 
 countered a brace of sturdy-looking old Gentle- 
 men, one of whom carried a leek, and the other 
 a cudgel in his hand. These were indications 
 sufficient to inform me that the first-mentioned 
 pair were those valorous military gentlemen, En- 
 sign Pistol , and Captain Parolles ; and that their 
 followers were the wholesome disciplinarians, 
 Lafeu and Fluellen. 
 
 Soon afterwards I found two persons in close 
 
400 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 consultation, whose scowling brows, darkened 
 countenances, and heaving bosoms, denoted much 
 mental affliction. They were weighing clouds, 
 and measuring ants' legs ; casting up cyphers, fa- 
 thoming the profundity of a puddle, and taking 
 the dimensions of a freckle on a lady's cheek, 
 which they viewed through a powerful magnifying 
 glass. The result always appeared to astonish and 
 distress them exceedingly. I knew the first by his 
 black visage and martial air, to be Othello ; and 
 guessed that the other was his fellow-dupe and 
 brother-sufferer, Leontes. 
 
 Lear, Hamlet, Jaques, and Timon seemed 
 to be very close associates. Timon was giving a 
 vehement description of his sufferings, mental and 
 bodily, when he was, interrupted by Lear, who 
 asked him how many daughters he had ? and the 
 querist shook his head incredulously, when he was 
 answered that he had not any. Master Slender 
 passed by them, scratching his head violently ; upon 
 which Jaques, with tears in his eyes, begged him 
 to desist, saying that the small animals he was 
 annoying, being " native burghers" of his land, 
 had as much right to inhabit there, as he had 
 to occupy the ground upon which he stood. Slen- 
 der thought he was laughing at him, and said that 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 401 
 
 he would have him up before his cousin, Robert 
 Shallow, Esquire, a Justice of the Peace, upon 
 which Hamlet told him that he was " a very, very 
 
 peacock !" and bid him go to a Nunnery. 
 
 I continued walking on, and soon afterwards 
 found myself on the banks of a stream which was 
 of a very different colour from any that I had ever 
 seen before. I at first imagined that this must be 
 Lethe, or a branch thereof, and I afterwards learned 
 that the latter had originally been the case ; but 
 that such was the antipathy between things Shak- 
 spearean and Lethean, that as soon as the first of 
 our Author's characters entered these Elysian fields, 
 the river shrunk from it's channel, and at length 
 left it completely dry. Every one was much puz- 
 zled what to do with the deserted bed of the river, 
 until, at the suggestion of Falstaff, it was filled 
 with sack and sugar. I was, therefore, not much 
 surprised to find that worthy knight and his asso- 
 ciates seated on it's banks, with wooden bowls in 
 their hands, where they were joined by several stran- 
 gers, of whom Sir Toby Belch was the chief, and 
 he soon became a favourite with his brother knight. 
 Shallow came up to them, and very gravely re- 
 monstrated on the dissoluteness of their lives ; but 
 finding that they would not leave their potations, 
 he joined them, saying that as he was in the Com- 
 
402 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 mission, he might probably be useful in preventing 
 a breach of the peace. On this hint Dogberry 
 and Verges joined the party ; alleging, that as they 
 were the Prince's officers, they could execute his 
 worship's warrant if necessary. Sir .Hugh Evans 
 sat himself next to Falstaff, saying, that it was 
 unbecoming Christian men to follow such depraved 
 courses, but that if they would just give him one 
 cup of Sack, he would drink to the amendment 
 of their lives. 
 
 The next change that " came o'er the spirit of 
 my dream" placed me among a group of Ladies. 
 There I found Rosalind and Beatrice chatting 
 very familiarly ; only I thought that the gentle, 
 though mirthful, spirit of the former seemed occa- 
 sionlly to shrink at the bitterness of her companion. 
 Imogene and Viola were walking, arm in arm, very 
 lovingly ; as were also Juliet and Desdemona. Mrs. 
 Ford, Mrs. Page, Mrs. Fenton, late Anne Page, 
 and numerous other gossips, were seated round a 
 tea-table, and inhaling and distributing scandal 
 from a beverage, with which they had not the hap- 
 piness to be acquainted in the world above* Mrs. 
 Quickly was attending upon them very busily, though 
 she contrived to bear as large a share in the con- 
 versation as the ladies themselves. Such a clatter 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 403 
 
 and a din, I thought, I had never heard raised 
 before, even by female voices; when suddenly 
 awaking, I found that the noise proceeded from 
 my own sweet-voiced better-half, who told me that 
 my fire had burnt out, my candle was glimmering 
 in it's socket, and that, unless I speedily roused 
 myself, I must go supperless to bed. 
 
 " NEWS OF LITERATURE," 1826. 
 
404 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 THE 
 
 DINNER OF THE MONTHS. 
 
 ONCE upon a time, the Months determined to 
 dine together. They were a long while deciding 
 who should have the honour of being the Host upon 
 so solemn an occasion ; but the lot at length fell 
 upon December, for although this old gentleman's 
 manners were found to be rather cold upon first 
 acquaintance, yet it was well known that when 
 once you got under his roof, there was not a mer- 
 rier, or more hospitable, person in existence. The 
 messenger too, Christmas Day, whom he sent 
 round with his cards of invitation, won the hearts 
 of all ; although he played several mad pranks, and 
 received many a box in return. February begged 
 to be excused coming to the Dinner, as she was 
 in very bad spirits on account of the loss of her 
 youngest child, the twenty-ninth, who had lately 
 left her, and was not expected to return for four 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 405 
 
 years. Her objection, however, was over-ruled; 
 and being seated at table between the smiling 
 May, and that merry old fellow October, she ap- 
 peared to enjoy the evening's entertainment as 
 much as any of the Company. 
 
 The Dinner was a superb one ; all the company 
 having contributed to furnish out the table. Ja- 
 nuary thought for the thirtieth time what he should 
 give, and then determined to send a calf s head. 
 February not being a very productive Month, was 
 also a littled puzzled, but at length resolved to 
 contribute an enormous cake, which she managed 
 to manufacture in fine style, with the assistance of 
 her servant Valentine, who was an excellent fellow 
 at that sort of ware, but especially at Bride-cake. 
 March and April agreed to furnish all the fish; 
 May to decorate the dishes with flowers ; June to 
 supply plenty of excellent cyder; July and Au- 
 gust to provide the dessert; September a mag- 
 nificent course of all sorts of game, excepting 
 pheasants ; which exception was supplied by Oc- 
 tober, as well as a couple of hampers of fine 
 home-brewed ale; and November engaged that 
 there should be an abundance of ice. The rest of 
 the eatables, and all the wine, were provided by 
 the worthy host himself. 
 
 Just before sitting down to table, a slight 
 
406 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 squabble arose about precedency; some of the 
 Company insisting that the first in rank was Janu- 
 ary, and some that it was March. The host, how- 
 ever decided in favour of January, whom he placed 
 in the seat of honour, at his right hand. Novem- 
 ber, a prim, blue-nosed old maid, sat at his left; 
 and June, a pleasant, good-tempered fellow, 
 although occasionally rather too warm, sat oppo- 
 site him at the end of the Table. 
 
 The Dinner was admirably served. Christmas- 
 day was the principal waiter; but the host had 
 been obliged to borrow the attendance of some of 
 his guests' servants, and accordingly Twelfth-night, 
 Shrove-Tuesday, and Michaelmas-day, officiated in 
 various departments: though Shrove-Tuesday was 
 speedily turned out, for making rather too free 
 with a prim, demure servant-maid, called Good- 
 Friday, while she was toasting some hot-cross buns 
 for the tea-table. 
 
 A short, squab, little fellow, called St. Thomas's 
 day, stood behind December's chair, and officiated 
 as toast-master; and much merriment was excited 
 by the contrast between the diminutive appearance 
 of this man, and the longest day, who stood be- 
 hind June, at the other end of the table. Master 
 Thomas, however, was a very useful fellow; and 
 besides performing the high official duty, which we 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 407 
 
 have mentioned, he drew the curtains, stirred the 
 fire, lighted and snuffed the candles, and, like all 
 other little men, seemed to think himself of more 
 importance than any body else. 
 
 The pretty blushing May was the general toast 
 of the company ; and many compliments were 
 passed upon the elegant manner in which she had 
 decorated the dishes. Old January tried to be 
 very sweet upon her, but she received him coldly ; 
 as he was known not to be a loyal subject, and to 
 have once stolen a Crown and Sceptre, and hidden 
 them in a grave ; and May, who was loyal to the 
 back-bone, had much trouble in finding out, and 
 restoring them. January at length ceased to per- 
 secute her with his attentions, and transferred 
 them to November, who was of the same politics 
 as himself, although she had not been quite so 
 successful in supporting them. Poor May had 
 scarcely got rid of her venerable lover, before that 
 sentimental swain April, began to tell her that he 
 was absolutely dying for her. This youth was one 
 moment all sunshine, and smiles, and rapture ; and 
 the next he dissolved in tears, clouds gathered 
 upon his brow, and he looked a fitter suitor for 
 November than for May ; who having at last hinted 
 as much to him, he left her in a huff, and entered 
 into close conversation with September, who al- 
 
408 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 though much his senior, resembled him in many 
 particulars. 
 
 July, who was of a desperately hot temper, was 
 every now and then a good deal irritated by March, 
 a dry old fellow, as cool as a cucumber, who was 
 continually passing his jokes upon him. At one 
 time July went so far as to threaten him with a 
 prosecution for something he had said ; but March, 
 knowing what he was about, always managed to 
 keep on the windy side of the Law, and to throw 
 dust in the eyes of his accusers. July, however, 
 contrived to have his revenge ; for, being called 
 upon for a Song, he gave " The dashing White 
 Serjeant" in great style, and laid a peculiar em- 
 phasis upon the words " March! March! away!" 
 at the same time motioning to his antagonist to 
 leave the room. 
 
 April having announced that it was raining hard, 
 January was much perplexed as to how he should 
 get home, as he had not brought his carriage. At 
 one time, when he was looking very anxiously out 
 of the window to discover if there were any stars 
 visible, October, at the suggestion of May, asked 
 him if he thought of borrowing Charles's wain to 
 carry him, as he had done so great a kindness to 
 it's proprietor ? This put the old fellow into such 
 a passion, that he hastily seized his head-gear, a 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 409 
 
 red cap, sallied out through the rain, and would 
 most likely have broken his neck in the dark, had 
 not February sent her footman, Candlemas-day, 
 after him with a lanthorn, by whom he was guided 
 in safety to his lodgings in Fog-alley. 
 
 On the retirement of the Ladies, February, 
 May, August, and November, the Host proposed 
 their healths, which were drank with the usual 
 honours ; when April, being a soft-spoken youth, 
 and ambitious of distinction as an orator, began 
 to return thanks for them in a very flowery speech ; 
 but was soon coughed down by December and 
 March ; and March, by the bye, at length got into 
 such high favour with his old enemy July, that the 
 latter was heard to give him an Invitation, saying, 
 that if ever he came to his side of the Zodiac, he 
 should be most happy to see him. October told 
 the Host that, with his leave, he would drink no 
 more wine, but that he should be glad of some 
 good home-brewed, and a pipe. To this December 
 acceded, and said he should be happy to join him, 
 and he thought his friend March would do the 
 same. March having nodded assent, they set to, 
 and a pretty puffing and blowing they made among 
 them. April, however, continued to drink Ma- 
 deira ; while June, July, and September, stuck, 
 with exemplary constancy, to the Burgundy.' 
 
410 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 After repeated summonses to the drawing-room* 
 they joined the Ladies at the tea-table. Novem- 
 ber drew herself up, and affected to be quite 
 overpowered by the smell of smoke, which March, 
 October, and December had brought in with them ; 
 although it was well known that the old lady herself 
 could blow a cloud as well as any of them. Oc- 
 tober seated himself by May, and said he hoped 
 that his pipe would not have the same effect upon 
 her, as upon her Aunt ; and after having very 
 gracefully assured him, that she was not at all 
 annoyed by it, he told her, that he would make 
 her exercise her own sweet pipe before the eve- 
 ning was much older ; which, instead of annoying, 
 would delight every body. August, a grave stately 
 matron of extraordinary beauty, although perhaps 
 un pen passe> officiated as tea-maker. Good- 
 Friday, who by this time had recovered the fright 
 into which Shrove-Tuesday had thrown her, handed 
 about the toasted buns, and Swithin, a servant of 
 July, was employed to keep the tea-pot supplied 
 with water, which he too often did to overflowing. 
 Tea being over, the old folks went to cards ; 
 and the young ones, including October, who ma- 
 naged to hide his years very successfully, to the 
 Piano-forte. May was the Prima Donna, and 
 delighted every one, especially poor April, who 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 411 
 
 was alternately all smiles and tears, during the 
 whole of her performance. October gave them a 
 hunting Song, which caused even the card-tables 
 to be deserted ; and August sang a sweet melan- 
 choly Canzonet which was rapturously encored. 
 April both sang and played most unmercifully ; but 
 the company had an ugly trick of yawning over 
 his comic songs, and were ready to expire with 
 laughter at his pathetics, 
 
 At length, Candlemas-day having returned from 
 seeing old January home, his mistress February 
 took leave of the company. April, who was a little 
 the worse for the wine he had drunk, insisted 
 on escorting November ; although she had several 
 servants in waiting, and her road was in an oppo- 
 site direction to his own. May went away in her 
 own carriage, and undertook to set Juned own, 
 who lived very near her. The road was hilly and 
 steep, but her coachman, Ascension-day, got the 
 horses very well to the top ; and July and August 
 both walked home, each preceded by a dog-day, 
 with a lighted torch. September and October, 
 who were next door neighbours, went away in the 
 same hackney-coach ; and March departed as N he 
 came, on the back of a rough Shetland poney. 
 
 " NEWS OF LITERATURE/' 1826. 
 
 T2 
 
412 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 EVERY DAY AT BREAKFAST 
 
 THE Seven Days of the Week, hearing that the 
 Months had dined together, were not a little vexed 
 and puzzled at the circumstance, being anxious to 
 do something of the same sort, and yet feeling that 
 they were by no means in a condition to manage 
 the affair so splendidly as their rivals. Every one 
 knows that a Month is a person whose importance 
 is, at least, eight and twenty times superior to that 
 of a Day, and, therefore, for the latter to attempt 
 to emulate the former, would have been only a 
 practical illustration of the fable of the Ox and the 
 Frog. Still, as the Days very significantly asked, 
 " What would the Months be without them ?" It 
 was, therefore, unanimously resolved, that they 
 should have some meal or other together, to shew 
 their spirit; and, as a Dinner was out of the ques- 
 tion, it was at length determined that they should 
 have a Breakfast instead, and that Monday, the 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 413 
 
 first lay day not lady, of the week, should have 
 the honour of being their entertainer. 
 
 Before entering upon a detail of what passed at 
 Breakfast, I may as well introduce my dramatis 
 persona to my Readers. Monday, the Host, had 
 the reputation, among many persons, of being a 
 /tttta-tic, an idea to which his name gave some 
 sort of countenance. He was, however, as far as 
 I could learn, a jovial, good-tempered fellow, 
 whom every body liked, although a little wild and 
 eccentric. He was too fond of encouraging the 
 lower orders to lie in bed in the morning, and to 
 spend the rest of the day in idleness and drunken- 
 ness ; and was consequently much reverenced by 
 that class of people, who went so far as to canonize 
 him under the title of Saint Monday. He was, 
 at the same time, not without his enemies ; for, 
 frequently having occasion to escort some young - 
 urchins to School at the expiration of the vaca- 
 tions, they fixed upon him the nickname of Black 
 Monday. 
 
 Tuesday bore a great resemblance to her next 
 door neighbour ; but she was, on the whole, a much 
 steadier person. She was, nevertheless, a great fre- 
 quenter of festivals ; and at Easter, Whitsuntide, 
 and Shrovetide, there was no one better known 
 than she : especially as she was also particularly cele- 
 
414 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 % 
 
 brated for her skill in the manufacture of pan- 
 cakes. 
 
 Wednesday was an Irish Catholic Priest ; very 
 zealous and very scrupulous, but withal a merry, 
 good humoured person. He was particularly 
 anxious about the observation of fast days. Fasting, 
 he said, being a peremptory injunction of the 
 Church ; though he would add, in an under tone, it 
 should never be done on an empty stomach. 
 
 Thursday had no distinguishing features of cha- 
 racter ; he was a " fellow of no mark or likeli- 
 hood :" one of those harmless, innocent, insipid 
 persons who are met with at every table, whether 
 it be at Breakfast, Dinner, or Supper. Some- 
 times, when he was drunk, he would take it into 
 his head to boast of his descent from the Saxon 
 divinity, Thor, a piece of Pagan exultation, which 
 excited great horror in all companies. 
 
 Friday was a prim old Lady, of the same reli- 
 gious persuasion with Wednesday. She was, 
 however, most celebrated for being a very unlucky 
 person ; as she never sat down to table without 
 crossing her knife and fork, spilling the salt, or 
 being the occasion of some other inauspicious 
 omen. 
 
 Saturday was a Jewish Rabbi of great learning, 
 zeal, and, in his own way, Piety. He, however, 
 
fcROSE AND POETRY. 415 
 
 tarried his liberality so far as to have no objection 
 to take a Breakfast or Dinner with a Christian : 
 provided that the said Breakfast or Dinner was 
 gratis, and was a good one. 
 
 Sunday was a Clergyman of the Church of En- 
 gland ; and most particularly orthodox, especially 
 in his preference of Port wine to that frenchified, 
 papistical, beverage, Claret. He hated the Roman 
 Catholics, principally on account of their advocacy 
 of fasting. The Romish Church has very reason- 
 ably complained that it's tenets are not understood 
 by Protestants, and, had the worthy divine been a 
 little more in the secret, I suspect that he would 
 not have found their fasts quite such self-denying 
 ordinances as he imagined. He moreover heartily 
 despised the Jews for their Creed generally, but 
 particularly because they disliked roasted pig, even 
 though it should be a tithe-pig. He was, neverthe- 
 less, a person of great learning, talent, and benevo- 
 lence ; and took much pains to instruct and edify 
 the lower classes. Since the days of Cromwell, 
 however, he had become a little puritanical. He 
 would sometimes take offence at being designated 
 by his right name, arid insist upon being called the 
 Sabbath : a title, the possession of which, Saturday 
 would always dispute with him, and, in the opinion 
 
416 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 of many, both Jews and Christians, the latter had 
 most reason on his side. 
 
 They were in no want of attendants, for they 
 had all the four-and-twenty hours at their beck and 
 call. They contented themselves, however, with the 
 services of four, namely, Morning, Noon, Evening, 
 and Midnight. The first was a rosy-faced boy, 
 very handy and clever, who waited at table. Noon 
 was the cook ; and she laboured hard in her voca- 
 tion, as her burning cheeks and greasy forehead 
 demonstrated. Evening, a pretty black-eyed 
 brunette, received the dishes at the door ; and 
 Midnight, a strong, broad-backed negro, officiated 
 at the side-board in the character of butler. 
 
 Before sitting down to breakfast, Sunday was 
 called upon to say grace, which he did rather 
 lengthily. During the time which he thus occu- 
 pied, the Catholics told their beads ; the Jew put 
 his tongue into his left cheek ; Monday yawned ; 
 Tuesday's mouth watered ; and Thursday stared 
 at the reverend orator with eyes and mouth wide 
 open, and features, which indicated at the same 
 time wonder and impatience, expressing, as well 
 as dumb looks could, the same sentiments as 
 Christopher Sly when at the Theatre, " 'Tis a 
 most excellent piece of work! would 'twere done !" 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 417 
 
 The Dejeunt was, of course, a la fourchette. 
 So distinguished a company could not be expected 
 to sit down to a dreary cockney Breakfast, com* 
 posed of a cup of sugared slop, and a bit of grilled 
 bread, smeared over with butter. The fish, ac- 
 cording to the French fashion, was not the first, 
 but the third course ; an arrangement which Wed- 
 nesday highly approved of, because, he said, it 
 gave him an opportunity of satisfying both his ap- 
 petite and his conscience ; as he could breakfast 
 upon flesh and fowl first, and fast upon the fish after- 
 wards ; whereas, a fast once commenced, no Chris- 
 tian ought to break it until the appointed period. 
 
 Friday, who, at the request of the host, occu- 
 pied the head of the table, did nothing but commit 
 blunders, both in her feeding and her carving. 
 She ate the bread of her neighbour on her right 
 hand, drank the wine of him on her left, and 
 loaded the Jew's plate with huge slices of ham, the 
 quality of which the latter contrived not to find out 
 until after he had swallowed them. 
 
 The Divine, having somewhat blunted his ap- 
 petite, began to think about the Protestant faith, 
 and commenced a furious attack upon the Priest, 
 for the worship of images. The latter having at 
 last convinced him that the Papists entertained no 
 such tenet, Master Sunday shifted his ground, and 
 
 T3 
 
418 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 said that if they were not guilty of that species of 
 idolatry, no one could deny that they worshipped 
 the golden calf: a jest at which he himself laughed 
 heartily. Wednesday answered it by taking a 
 pinch of snuff, and saying, that he had heard as 
 much imputed to the Clergy of the Reformed 
 Church ; that it was at least certain that they wor- 
 shipped the fatted calf of good flesh and blood; 
 and that they not merely coveted, but got possession 
 of their neighbour's goods, as they cared more 
 about the tenth calf than the tenth Commandment. 
 This dispute threatening to grow rather warm, the 
 host, to put an end to it, called upon Wednesday 
 for a Toast : not a very common thing, perhaps, 
 to do at Breakfast ; but this, you will remember, 
 gentle Reader, was rather an uncommon Breakfast 
 party. Wednesday, like a good Catholic, imme- 
 diately gave " the memory of the Saints ;" upon 
 which Monday rose up and said, that, as he was the 
 only Saint present, he begged leave to return 
 thanks for the honour just conferred. Friday 
 looked very grave, and seemed shocked at the 
 impiety of the host ; but Wednesday only laughed, 
 and said they would dispense with Monday's 
 speech, if he would favour them with a Song. 
 This proposal being unanimously supported, Mon- 
 day, after the usual apologetic preliminaries, such 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 419 
 
 as " bad cold, can't remember, well, ahem !" 
 began as follows : 
 
 " Talk of days that are gone ! why they're all left behind, 
 
 From Monday and Tuesday to Sunday ; 
 Talk of losing a day ! why I never could find 
 A man clever enough to lose one day. 
 
 Once a Pleiad was lost, 'twas an awkward affair, 
 But 'twas felt less in Earth than in Heaven ; 
 
 If all seven were lost, man would feel little care, 
 To whom seven happy days are still given. 
 
 Come, fill me a bumper of Claret or Port : 
 One is brightest, the other is strongest ; 
 
 May the days of our happiness never be short, 
 And the day we love best be the longest ! " 
 
 By this time, Thursday was particularly drunk, 
 and, feeling that he had had a sufficient portion 
 of wine, began to want punch, a wish which 
 Wednesday observed was natural enough in Judy 
 (Jeudi), as the French called him. Coffee being 
 handed about, he contented himself with that be- 
 verage, and the eau-de-vie which accompanied it. 
 Being very anxious to exhibit his vocal powers, he 
 at last managed to get the ear of the Company, 
 and bawled, or rather hiccuped out, the following 
 Stanzas : 
 
420 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 " Come, fill up the Tankard, the wisest man drank hard, 
 
 And said, that, when sunken in care, 
 The best cure, he should think, would be found in good drink. 
 
 For where can cures lurk, if not there ? 
 
 Trowl, trowl, the bonny brown bowl ! 
 
 Let the dotard and fool from it flee ; 
 Ye Sages, wear ivy ; and, fond fellows, wive ye ; 
 
 But the bonny brown bowl for me ! 
 
 Let old Time beware, for if he should dare 
 
 To intrude 'mongst companions so blithe, 
 We'll lather his chin with the juice of the bin, 
 
 And shave off his beard with his scythe," 
 
 This, however, was all of his Song that poor 
 Thursday could remember; and soon afterwards 
 he fell back in his chair, and was carried out of 
 the room on the shoulders of the black butler. 
 
 The Ladies, Tuesday and Friday, now looked 
 at their watches ; and although they knew perfectly 
 well what the time was before they looked, they 
 affected to be vastly surprised when they discovered 
 that it was near two o'clock. They, therefore, took 
 their leave; Friday looked very significantly at 
 Wednesday, as much as to request him to escort 
 her home, a mode of asking which he did not 
 choose to understand ; but he gave her his blessing. 
 
 Sunday now began to express very liberal sen- 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 421 
 
 timents as the wine warmed within him. He said 
 that we were indebted to the Catholics for Magna 
 Charta, and the foundation of those magnificent seats 
 of Learning and Piety which we now possessed ; and 
 he talked to Saturday about " God's ancient peo- 
 ple, the Jews." Monday, who was nothing of a 
 divine, was, nevertheless, happy to see so much 
 harmony among his guests, and assented to every 
 thing that was said, whether by Papist, Protes- 
 tant, or Israelite. Sunday, however, at length 
 bethought himself of his cloth, arid of the time, 
 and having mumbled a thanksgiving grace, which 
 was neither so long, nor so well articulated, as that 
 before Breakfast, the party broke up, and each 
 man took his departure, not remarkably well quali- 
 fied for the duties of the day. 
 
 " NEWS OF LITERATURE, " 1826, 
 
422 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 A YOUNG FAMILY. 
 
 You must know, most dear and courteous Reader, 
 that I am a Bachelor : not an old one, Heaven 
 forbid ! but one of whom the Ladies say, " What 
 a pity it is that Mr. Wiggins does not marry ! " 
 The fact is, I am sole lord of my hours, and of 
 my limbs. If 1 stay out late, I need neither lie, 
 nor look sulky, when I get home. I need not 
 say, " My dear Peggy, I really was the first to 
 come away;" nor run the fearful alternative of 
 either losing good company, or enduring a cur- 
 tain-lecture. Besides all this, I am not surrounded 
 by a sweet young family : but of that " anon, anon, 
 Sir." 
 
 Having thus introduced myself to your notice, 
 allow me to perform the same kind office for one 
 of my friends. George Cheviot and I were 
 school-fellows. He was neither very wise, nor 
 very rich ; but he was merry, and good-tempered : 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 423 
 
 qualities which I could then better appreciate than 
 the others, and which I am still heretical enough 
 to think the most valuable of the quartette. He 
 was, moreover, " a tall fellow of his hands," and 
 as brave as a lion ; and I, I don't blush to own it, 
 was a weak, puny chitling, and, as it is called in 
 school-phraseology, wanted somebody to take my 
 part. George, accordingly, fought my battles, 
 while I wrote his exercises ; and thus we became 
 sworn associates. We played, and romped, and 
 rioted together ; and, like the Vicar of Wakefield's 
 parties, what we wanted in wit we made up in 
 laughter; which, after all, I still consider the better 
 thing of the two. 
 
 After leaving School, we both settled in the 
 great city, until George, who had a touch of the 
 sentimental in his character, fell in love with, and 
 married, a journey-woman Milliner ; the conse- 
 quence of which was that all his friends cut 
 him, and none of his family would go within a mile 
 of his residence. For my own part, I make it a 
 rule to cut all my friends as soon as they get mar- 
 ried : I do not like the transformation of a merry, 
 frank, sociable companion, into an important fa- 
 mily man. Neither do I like their invariable 
 practice of laying every fault upon the shoulders of 
 their bachelor acquaintances ; for I have known 
 
424 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 more than one man, who, when rated by his amia- 
 ble help-mate for his late hours, has excused him- 
 self by saying, " My dear, Mr. Wiggins would 
 not let me come away." Notwithstanding the 
 tenacity with which I usually adhere to this rule, 
 I determined to make an exception in favour of 
 poor George. His grandfather had been a but- 
 cher, and his father a master carpenter, and there- 
 fore it is not surprising that his mother should be 
 shocked at his demeaning -himself so vastly. I, 
 however, who have always been of opinion that, in 
 a free country like ours, a man has a right to make 
 a fool of himself, if he chooses, looked at the affair 
 with different eyes, and we continued as warm 
 and friendly as ever. Although I did not call at 
 his house, we met at our usual places of resort ; 
 and I found less difference in George than in most 
 of my married acquaintances. He was, neverthe- 
 less, constantly expatiating on the joys of a married 
 life, and especially of seeing a young family growing 
 up about you; of " teaching the young idea how to 
 shoot;'' and of watching the archness, the vivacity, 
 aad the simplicity, of the pretty prattlers. One 
 day when he was particularly eloquent on these 
 topics, and I was as acquiescent and insincere 
 as a man ought to be on such occasions, he ex- 
 torted from me a promise to dine with him, that I 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 425 
 
 might have the satisfaction of seeing him surrounded 
 with his young family. 
 
 The appointed day arrived, and I was ushered 
 into the presence of my friend, and his lady. She 
 was dressed very finely, had a mincing air of gen- 
 tility, and I should have thought her rather pretty, 
 if no one had said any thing about her. In one 
 corner of the room stood a cradle, and close by it 
 no matter what; socks, and caps, and ribands, 
 were thrown about the room in " most admired 
 disorder;" the chimney smoked ; several panes of 
 the window were broken ; and three or four squalid, 
 dirty-faced children were sprawling on the ground, 
 and roaring very lustily. " That is a sweet little 
 fellow, Madam," said I ; Heaven forgive me for 
 the lie ! pointing to a blear-eyed, bloated-cheeked 
 cupid in her arms. 
 
 " It's a girl, Sir," said she, bursting into a horse 
 laugh ; " yes ! " she added, patting the bloated 
 cheek aforesaid, " and it is a girl, though he 
 thought it was a boy, my pretty ! " 
 
 This was the commencement of my bacalarean 
 blunders, and the Lady for some time regarded 
 me with a contempt, which, had I mistaken her 
 own sex, could hardly have been surpassed. 
 
 To recover myself from my confusion I took a 
 pinch of snuff; my friend and his wife begged to 
 
426 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 participate in the contents of my box, which they 
 had no sooner done, than every obstreperous 
 urchin in the room roared out to be allowed to do 
 the same. This petition was followed by a half- 
 angry altercation between husband and wife, the 
 former saying, " Oh let them, pretty dears !" and 
 the latter, " Indeed they shall not." The cause 
 of indulgence, however, triumphed ; and every 
 dirty pug-nose in the room, was speedily made 
 dirtier, at the expense of my black rappee. The 
 consequences may easily be guessed : a round of 
 sneezing, snivelling, coughing, crying, and scolding, 
 commenced, until the adventure was closed by a 
 general wiping of eyes, and blowing of noses, 
 throughout the apartment. For myself, I did no- 
 thing but commit blunders all the while I was in 
 the house. Now my foot was on the nose of one, 
 and now my elbow was in the eye of another; and 
 I could not stir an inch without being in danger 
 of dislocating a boy's neck, or fracturing a girl's 
 cranium. I am afraid that I shall be thought a sad 
 barbarian, for not being rapturously fond of chil- 
 dren : but give me a cat, say I ; I can play with 
 that as long as I please, and kick it out of the room 
 when I'm tired of it. 
 
 The announcement that Dinner was ready re- 
 lieved me, at least for a time, from my many mise- 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 427 
 
 ries. While descending the stairs, George whis- 
 pered in my ear, asking me, if I did not think 
 him the happiest fellow in the world, to which I 
 replied, " My dear boy, I quite envy you." We 
 sat down to table, and after many apologies from 
 the Lady, who hoped that I should find something 
 to my liking, but who feared that her fare would 
 be found but homely, as her time was so much 
 occupied by her young family, the dishes were 
 uncovered. Whatever the dinner might be in fact, 
 I found that it was intended to be considered a 
 very good, and even a handsome one. The Lady, 
 who, before her marriage, had lived at the west 
 end of the town, where she made shifts, in more 
 senses than one, petticoats, and mantuas, in a 
 garret, wished to pass for a person of some taste 
 and fashion. Accordingly, the table, instead of 
 the ordinary viands which the Englishman de- 
 lighteth to masticate, exhibited a profusion of 
 would-be French and Italian dishes. Of these I 
 merely counterfeited to eat, excepting one or two ; 
 among which was a fricassee, for so my hostess 
 styled a blue-looking leg of a fowl, floating in a 
 sea of dirty lard and salt butter, and a plate of 
 macaroni, so called, which tasted exceedingly like 
 melted tallow. The best thing which I could get 
 
428 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 hold of, was a bottle of their Champagne, which 
 was really very tolerable Perry. Our dinner did 
 not, however, pass over without the usual accom- 
 paniment of much uproariousness from the room 
 above, which the sweet young family continued to 
 occupy, and Betty was every five minutes de- 
 spatched from the dining-room to still " the dread- 
 ful pother o'er our heads." 
 Lord Byron says, 
 
 a fine family 's a fine thing, 
 
 Provided they don't come in after dinner," 
 
 and I agree with him ; especially in the proviso. 
 At my friend George's, however, the young family 
 was introduced with the dessert. The eldest, a 
 wide-mouthed, round-shouldered girl, took pos- 
 session of the better half of my chair ; where she 
 amused herself the greater part of the evening by 
 picking cherries out of my plate, and spitting the 
 stones into it. The sweet innocent whose sex I 
 had aspersed, filled, and well filled, the arms of 
 Mamma ; and two greedy, greasy boys stood one 
 on each side of my worthy host. These contrived 
 to entertain themselves in a variety of ways : put- 
 ting their fingers into the preserves ; drinking out 
 of their father's wine glass ; eating till their sto- 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 429 
 
 machs were crammed to satiety, and bellowing out 
 bravely for more. As a variety, we were occa- 
 sionally treated with crying, scolding, and threats 
 of a whipping, which operation I at one time posi- 
 tively expected to see performed in my presence. 
 At length the Lady and the " family" retired, and 
 amidst boasting of his happiness on George's part, 
 and felicitations on mine, we continued to ply the 
 bottle. Rather to my surprise, I found that the 
 Port-wine was admirable, but poor George, as I 
 afterwards learned, had sent for two or three bottles 
 from a neighbouring Tavern, for which he had paid 
 an admirable price. After emptying the decanters 
 on the table, I found that I had had enough, and 
 proposed joining the interesting domestic group up 
 stairs. In consequence, however, of my friend 
 being very pressing, and of my being " nothing 
 loath," I consented that another bottle should be 
 broached. The order to that effect being speedily 
 communicated to Betty, she met it with the as- 
 tounding reply, " There is no more, Sir." Al- 
 though I told my friend that I was glad of it, and 
 that I had drank quite sufficient, his chagrin 
 was manifest. He assured me that although his 
 wine-cellar was exhausted, he had plenty of spirits 
 and cigars, of which he proposed that we should 
 
430 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 immediately avail ourselves. To this, however, 
 I positively objected, especially as I knew that 
 the ci-devant journey-woman Milliner, considered 
 smoking ungenteel. 
 
 I have but little more to tell you ; we adjourned 
 to the tea-table, where nothing passed worth re- 
 cording. The family was again introduced, for 
 the purpose of kissing all round, previous to their 
 retirement to bed. " Kiss the gentleman, Amy," 
 said the Lady ; " and Betty, wipe her face first : 
 how can you take her to the gentleman in such 
 a state?" Betty having performed this very re- 
 quisite operation, I underwent the required pe- 
 nance from one and all, with the heroism of a 
 martyr. Shortly afterwards I took leave of my 
 worthy host and hostess, and experienced a heart- 
 felt delight when I heard the door close behind 
 me. I am not in the habit, like Sterne, of falling 
 down on my knees in the streets, or clasping my 
 hands with delight, in a crowded highway. Still 
 I could not help feeling, that few as Tvere my po- 
 sitive causes of rejoicing, I was not devoid of 
 some negative ones ; and, above all, I felicitated 
 myself, that I was not the happiest fellow in the 
 world ; that I had not married a journey-woman 
 Milliner ; and that I was not blessed with a sweet 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 431 
 
 young family: as my recent experience of the 
 latter comfort had induced me to think that King 
 Herod was really not quite so cruel as I had 
 hitherto considered him. 
 
 " NEWS OF LITERATURE," 1826, 
 
432 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 THE COMET. 
 
 A FEW years ago at the little fishing town, or 
 rather village, of G., on the coast of Cornwall, 
 resided a gentleman, who, from his appearance, 
 might be estimated to be nearly sixty years 
 of age ; though I have since learned that he was 
 not more than forty. Whatever his age might be, 
 he was more than suspected to be the old gentle- 
 man ; that is to say, no other than the Devil him- 
 self. Now I, who happened to be obliged, for 
 the arrangement of some family affairs, to reside 
 a month or two at G., had the misfortune to differ 
 from my worthy neighbours as to the identity of 
 the occupant of the old Manor-house, with the 
 enemy of mankind. In the first place, his dress 
 bore no sort of resemblance to that of Beelzebub. 
 The last person who had the good fortune to get a 
 glimpse of the real Devil was the late Professor 
 Porson, and he has taken the pains to describe his 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 433 
 
 apparel very minutely, so that I am enabled to 
 speak with some degree of confidence upon this 
 part of the subject. The Professor's description 
 runs thus : 
 
 " And pray how was the Devil drest ? 
 Oh! he was in his Sunday's best : 
 His coat was black, and his breeches were blue, 
 With a hole behind that his tail went through. 
 
 And over the hill, and over the dale, 
 
 And he rambled over the plain ; 
 And backwards and forwards he switched his long tail, 
 
 As a gentleman switches his cane." 
 
 The " complement externe" of the old gentle- 
 man at G. was quite the reverse of all these. In 
 the first place, he had no Sunday's best: the Sab- 
 bath and the working day saw him in precisely the 
 same habiliments, a circumstance which confirmed 
 the towns-people in their opinion ; whereas I have 
 no less an authority than that of Porson for de- 
 ducing an opposite conclusion from the same pre- 
 mises ; because the Devil is scrupulously particular 
 about his Sunday's apparel. Then again he was 
 never seen in a coat, but always wore a loose 
 morning gown. This, however, was a circumstance 
 which, in the opinion of all, told decidedly against 
 
 u 
 
434 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 him; for why should he always wear that gown,, 
 unless it was for the purpose of hiding his tail 
 beneath it's ample folds? The goodwives of the 
 town were especially pertinacious upon this point, 
 and used to eye the lower part of the old gentle- 
 man's garment very suspiciously as he took his 
 morning's walk upon the beach. As to his ram- 
 bling over hill and dale, in the manner mentioned 
 by the learned Professor, that was quite out of 
 the question ; for he was a great sufferer by the 
 gout, and wore bandages as large as a blanket 
 round his leg. Whenever this fact was mentioned, 
 the gossips used to smile, shake their heads, and 
 look particularly wise: observing, that it was 
 clearly a stratagem which he resorted to for the 
 purpose of concealing his cloven foot. 
 
 Another circumstance ought not to be omitted : 
 he never went to the Parish Church, the only 
 place of worship within twenty miles; and after 
 he left G. an ivory Crucifix was found in his house, 
 over which there was no doubt, in the opinion of 
 the neighbours, that he used to say the Lord's 
 Prayer backwards, and repeat a variety of diabolical 
 incantations. I ventured humbly to suggest that 
 his absence from Church, -and the discovery of 
 the Crucifix, were proofs, not that he was the 
 Devil, but a Catholic ; upon which I was inter- 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 435 
 
 rupted with a sneer, and an exclamation of 
 " Where is the mighty difference?" 
 
 He gave great offence at the house of a Fisher- 
 man who lived near him, and strongly confirmed 
 the prejudices existing against him, by tearing 
 down a horse-shoe which was nailed at the door 
 as a protection against witchcraft, and calling the 
 inhabitants fools and idiots for their pains. Seeing, 
 however, the consternation which he had created, 
 he laughed heartily, and threw them a guinea to 
 make amends. The good folks were determined 
 not to derive any pecuniary advantages from the 
 Devil's gold, but gave it to their last-born, an 
 infant in arms, as a plaything. The child was 
 delighted with the glittering bauble; but having 
 one day got it down it's throat, there it stuck, 
 and instant suffocation ensued. The weeping and 
 wailing of the family on this occasion were mingled 
 with execrations on the author of the calamity, for 
 such they did not hesitate to term the old gentle- 
 man, who had evidently thrown to them this infernal 
 coin for the purpose of depriving them of their 
 chief earthly comfort. They were not long in pro- 
 ceeding to the nearest Magistrate, and begging 
 him to issue his warrant to apprehend the Stranger 
 for murder. To this, however, his worship de- 
 murred; and the good folks then changed their 
 
 u2 
 
436 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 battery, and begged to ask, as the guinea was, of 
 course, a counterfeit, whether they could not hang 
 the Devil for coining ? To this his worship replied, 
 that though coining is an offence amounting to 
 high-treason, yet the Devil, not being a natural 
 born subject of his Majesty, owed him no alle- 
 giance, and therefore could riot be guilty of the 
 crime in question. The poor people departed, 
 thinking it all very odd, and that the Devil and 
 the 'Squire must be in collusion; in which opinion 
 they were confirmed by a tallow-chandler, who was 
 the chief tradesman of the town, as well as a vio- 
 lent Radical, and who advised them to petition the 
 House of Commons without delay. 
 
 I will explain to my readers the secret of the 
 tallow-chandler's enmity. The old gentleman had 
 of a sudden ceased to buy candles ; and had illu- 
 minated his house, inside and out, in a strange and 
 mysterious manner, by some means, which, from 
 the brimstone-like smell occasionally perceived, 
 were plainly of infernal origin. For several weeks 
 previously, he had been employing labourers from 
 a distant town, for he did not engage the honest 
 man, whose pick-axe was the only one ever used 
 by the good people of G., in digging trenches, and 
 laying down pipes, round his house. The towns- 
 folk gazed on in wonder and terror, but at a careful 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 437 
 
 distance ; and, although they had a longing desire 
 to understand the meaning of all this, cautiously 
 avoided any intercourse with the only persons who 
 could give them the least information, the labourers 
 who performed the work. At length, one night, 
 without any obvious cause, the lamp before the 
 old gentleman's door, that in his hall, and another 
 in his sitting-room, were seen to spring into light 
 as if by magic. They were also observed to go 
 out in the same way ; and thereupon a smell, which 
 could not be of this world, proceeded from them. 
 One day, too, a dreadful explosion took place at 
 the house, and a part of the garden wall was thrown 
 down ; all which were plain proofs that it could be 
 no one but the Devil who inhabited there. The 
 good folks of G. had never heard of Gas, or it's 
 properties, and I was thought to be no better than 
 I should be, for endeavouring to explain all these 
 phenomena by natural causes. 
 
 There was one more fact which proved, if proof 
 were wanting, the accusation of the towns-people. 
 He was a great correspondent, and put more let- 
 ters into the Post-office than all the rest of the 
 inhabitants of G. together. These were generally 
 directed to Berlin, a town which, after much en- 
 quiry, was ascertained to lie in a remote part of 
 Devonshire, and to be inhabited by a horridly dis- 
 
438 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 solute and profane set of people. What was 
 stranger still, no part of the superscription could 
 ever be read but the word Berlin : the rest was 
 such a piece of cramp penmanship, that the most 
 expert scholar in G. could not decipher it. The 
 Postmaster, without having ever heard of Tony 
 Lumpkin, or his aphorisms, knew that " the in- 
 side of a letter is the cream of the correspondence/ 
 and ventured one day to open an epistle which the 
 mysterious one had just dropped into his box. The 
 contents, however, did not much edify him. Not 
 a letter was there which resembled any one in the 
 English alphabet ; it was, therefore, some devilish 
 and cabalistic writing, invented for purposes of 
 evil. My opinion being asked, I positively refused 
 to look at the inside ; but having perused the su- 
 perscription, I said that it was addressed to some 
 one in Berlin, which was a city in Germany ; and 
 that, although I did not understand German, I 
 had no doubt that the direction was written in the 
 German character. Being asked whether even 
 I, with all my scholarship, could read it ? I candidly 
 confessed that I could not; upon which I was 
 asked, with a sneer, whether I expected to per- 
 suade them that the Germans were such a nation 
 of fools as to write in a hand which nobody could 
 read ? The good folks were also firmly persuaded 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 439 
 
 that, whatever I might say, I was in my conscience 
 of the same opinion with them, and my refusal to 
 iook at the inside of the letter was set down as 
 a plain proof that I was afraid of receiving some 
 mysterious injury if I did. 
 
 My own opinions were so much opposed to those 
 of my neighbours, that I felt rather a desire to be 
 acquainted with the Stranger, whose manners ap- 
 peared to be open and good-humoured, although 
 testy and eccentric. My naturally shy disposition 
 prevented me, however, from accomplishing my 
 wish ; and, besides this, I found that my own 
 affairs were enough to occupy me during the short 
 time that I remained at G. I learned that the 
 person who had created so much consternation had 
 arrived at that town about four months before, and 
 that the house had been previously engaged for 
 him. Who, or what he was, or why he came 
 thither, no one who tried could ascertain. Whe- 
 ther I could have attained this wonderful height 
 in knowledge, I do not know ; for, having some- 
 thing else to do, I never made the attempt. At 
 length the old gentleman and his two servants, an 
 elderly female, and a stout active man who talked 
 a gibberish, so they called it at G., which no one 
 could understand, were one day seen very busily 
 employed in packing up. ^L-^jtteec-looking, broad- 
 
440 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 bottomed vessel, from which a boat was lowered, 
 appeared off the town. The three Strangers sallied 
 out with their boxes, and after depositing a packet 
 at the Post-office, addressed to the former proprietor 
 of the house, which was supposed to contain the 
 keys, and was ordered to be kept until the arrival 
 of the person to whom it was addressed, they got 
 into the boat, rowed to the ship, and were never 
 seen,' or heard of, more. 
 
 During the short time afterwards that I conti- 
 nued at G. I was subject to repeated lectures for 
 my obstinate infidelity as to the old gentleman's 
 diabolisms ; and whatever argument I advanced in 
 support of my own opinion, it was sure to be met 
 by the unanswerable question, " If he was not the 
 Devil, who the Devil was he?" 
 
 Many years rolled over my head, and the me- 
 mory of the mysterious inhabitant of G. had en- 
 tirely vanished from it, when circumstances, which 
 it is unnecessary to detail, obliged me to pay a 
 visit to the north of Germany. At the close of a 
 fine autumnal day in 1824, I found myself entering 
 the splendid city of Berlin. Both my good steed 
 and I were so much fatigued that a speedy resting 
 was very desirable for us ; but it was long before 
 I could choose an Hotel out of the immense num- 
 bers which presented themselves to my view. Some 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 441 
 
 were far too magnificent for my humble means, 
 and the mere sight of their splendour appeared to 
 melt away the guilders in my pocket. Some, on 
 the other hand, were such as no " man of wit and 
 fashion about town" would think of putting his 
 head into. At length I thought that I had disco- 
 vered one which looked like the happy medium, 
 and the whimsicality of it's sign determined me to 
 put up there. The sign was Der Teufel; and 
 since my departure from G. I had acquired a suf- 
 ficient mastery of the German language to know 
 what those two words signified in English. I en- 
 tered, and, after taking all due precautions for 
 the accommodation and sustenance of the respect- 
 able quadruped who had borne me upon his back 
 for nearly half the day, I began to think of satisfying 
 that appetite which disappointment, anxiety, and 
 fatigue, had not been able entirely to destroy. My 
 worthy Host, who did not seem to bear any re- 
 semblance to his sign, unless I could have the 
 ingratitude to ascribe his magical celerity aod 
 marvellous good fare to the auspices of his patron 
 Saint, quickly covered my table with a profusion 
 of tempting viands ; while a flask of sparkling 
 Hochheim towered proudly, like a presiding deity, 
 above the whole. My good humour, howevei, 
 was a little clouded when I saw plates, knives, and 
 
 u3 
 
442 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 forks, laid for two instead of one. " What means 
 this?" said I to the Landlord. 
 
 " Mein Herr," answered he, submissively, " a 
 gentleman who has just arrived will have the honour 
 of dining with you." 
 
 " But I mean to dine alone," I replied angrily; 
 not that I doubted the sufficiency of the meal, 
 but I did not choose to be intruded upon by stran- 
 gers. 
 
 " Pardon me, mein Herr," said the Landlord 
 with unabashed impudence, " I have told Herr 
 von Schwartzmann that Dinner is ready. I am 
 sure you will like his company. He is a gentleman 
 of good fortune and family, and is moreover " 
 
 " I care not who he is," exclaimed I; " but in 
 order to cut thy prating short, and to get my din- 
 ner, if I must needs submit, let him come in at 
 once, even if he be the Devil himself!" 
 
 I had scarcely uttered these words when I started 
 as if I had really seen the person whom I men- 
 tioned, for the room-door opened, and in walked 
 the old gentleman who had caused so much won- 
 der and terror at G. The superstitions of the peo- 
 ple of that town, the sign of the Inn where I now 
 was, the old fellow's name, Schwartzmann, which 
 being interpreted in English, meaneth black man, 
 my own petulant exclamation, and the sudden ap- 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 443 
 
 parition of this unaccountable person, were cir- 
 cumstances that crowded my brain at once, and 
 for an instant I almost fancied myself in the 
 presence of the foul fiend, " You seem surprised," 
 at length said Herr von Schwartzmann, " at our 
 unexpected meeting; and, indeed, you cannot be 
 more so than I am. I believe it was in England 
 that we met before." 
 
 *' Even so, mein Herr," I answered, encou- 
 raged by the earthly tone of his voice, and fancying 
 that the good-humoured smile which mantled over 
 his face must be of this world, and at any rate 
 could be of no worse origin; " even so, mien 
 Herr; and I have often regretted that, placed as 
 we were among a horde of barbarous peasantry, 
 an opportunity never occurred for our better ac- 
 quaintance." 
 
 " It is at length arrived," he said, filling two 
 glasses of Hochheim; " let us drink to our better 
 and our long acquaintance." 
 
 I pledged the old gentleman's toast with great 
 alacrity, and it was not until the passage of the 
 wine down my throat had sealed me to it irrevo- 
 cably, that I reflected upon the sentiment to which 
 I had drank with so much cordiality; and was 
 again shaken with doubts as to the nature of the 
 
444 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 person with whom I had avowed my wish to be 
 long and intimately acquainted. 
 
 I looked upon his feet, " but that's a fable/ 7 
 and then I looked upon the viands on which he 
 was feeding lustily, whilst I, although he had the 
 courtesy to load my plate with the best of every 
 thing, was wasting the golden moments in idle 
 alarms and superstitious absurdity. The more rea- 
 sonable man was roused within me, and I fell to 
 the work of mastication with a zeal and fervour 
 that would have done honour to Dr. Kitchener 
 himself. 
 
 " Well, my friend," said my companion, after 
 we had pretty well satisfied the cravings of our 
 stomachs, our Landlord has this day treated us 
 nobly, and methinks we have not been backward 
 in doing honour to his excellent cheer. He is an 
 honest fellow, who well deserves to prosper, and 
 we will therefore, if you please, drink Success to 
 DerTeufel!" 
 
 I had raised my glass to my lips when I found 
 that the old gentleman meant to propose a toast, 
 but I set it down again right hastily, as soon as I 
 heard the very equivocal sentiment to which he 
 wanted me to pledge myself. The fiend, I thought, 
 is weaving his web around me, and wishes me to 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 445 
 
 drink to my own perdition. A cold sweat came 
 over me; a film covered my eyes; and I thought 
 that I perceived the old man looking askew at me, 
 while his lip was curled with a malignant smile. 
 
 " You are not well," he said, taking my hand. 
 I shrank from his grasp at first, but to my surprise 
 it was as cool and healthy as the touch of humanity 
 could possibly be. " Let us retire to our worthy 
 Host's garden ; the heat of this room overpowers 
 you ; and we can finish our wine coolly and plea- 
 santly in the arbour." 
 
 He did not wait for my consent, but led me 
 out ; and our bottle and glasses were very quickly 
 arranged upon a table in a leafy arbour, where we 
 were sheltered from the sun, and enjoyed the re- 
 freshing fragrance of the evening breeze as it gently 
 stirred the leaves about us. 
 
 " They were odd people," said my friend, 
 " those inhabitants of G. ; they stared at me, 
 and shrank from me, as if I -had been the Devil 
 himself." 
 
 " And in truth, mein Herr," I replied, " they 
 took you to be no less a personage than he whom 
 you have just named/" 
 
 The old gentleman laughed long and heartily at 
 my information. " I thought as much," he said, " it 
 is an honour which has been ascribed to me from 
 
446 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 the hour of my birth, and in more countries than 
 one." 
 
 " Indeed," said I, " you speak as if there were 
 something in your history to which a Stranger 
 might listen with interest. May I crave the fa- 
 vour of you to be a little more communicative?" 
 
 " With all my heart !" he replied: " but in truth 
 you will not find much to interest you in my story. 
 A little mirth and a good deal of sorrow make up 
 the history of most men's lives, and mine is not 
 an exception to the general rule. I was born 
 some threescore years ago, and was the son and 
 heir of the Baron von Schwartzmann, whose Castle 
 is a few miles to the southward of this city ; and I 
 am now, by your leave, mein Herr, the Baron 
 himself." I made him a lower bow than I had 
 ever yet greeted him with. " My Mother had 
 brought into the world, about two years previously, 
 a daughter of such extraordinary beauty, that it was 
 confidently expected that the next child would be 
 similarly endowed; but I was no sooner presented 
 to my Father than he was so startled at my surpri- 
 sing ugliness, that he retreated several paces, and 
 involuntarily exclaimed, ' The Devil ! ' This was 
 a Christian name which stuck to me ever after- 
 wards, and which, as you can bear witness, fol- 
 lowed me even into a foreign country. 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 447 
 
 " My Godfather and Godmother, however, 
 treated me much more courteously than my own 
 natural parent, and bestowed upon me, at the 
 baptismal font, the high-sounding appellation 
 of Leopold. Nothing worth describing occurred 
 during the years of my infancy. I cried, and 
 laughed, and pouted, and sucked, and was kissed 
 and scolded, and treated, and whipped, as often, 
 and with the same alternations, as children in gene- 
 ral ; only I grew uglier, and justified the paternal 
 benediction more and more every day. In due 
 time I was sent to a grammar-school. As I had 
 at home been accustomed to independence and 
 the exercise of my self-will, I soon became the 
 most troublesome fellow there ; and yet, I may 
 now say it without the imputation of vanity, I con- 
 trived, by some means or other, to gain the hearts 
 of all, whether tutors or pupils. For solving a 
 theme, or robbing an orchard; writing nonsense 
 verses, or frightening a whole neighbourhood; 
 translating Homer into German verse, or beating 
 a Watchman until his flesh was one general bruise, 
 who could compete with Leopold von Schwartz- 
 inann? One day I was publicly reprimanded and 
 punished for some monstrous outrage, and the 
 next rewarded with all the honours of the School 
 for my proficiency in the Classics. In short, it was 
 
448 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 generally agreed that there was not such another 
 clever, pleasant, good-tempered, good-for-nothing 
 fellow in the School. ( Certainly/ the wise people 
 would say, ' the Devil is in him! 7 
 
 " And now," added the old man, smiling, but 
 smiling, I thought, somewhat solemnly and sadly, 
 " I must let you into the secret of one of my 
 weaknesses. I have ever had the most implicit 
 belief in the science of Astrology. You stare at 
 me incredulously, and I can excuse your incredu- 
 lity. You, born in England perhaps some forty 
 years ago, can have but few superstitions in com- 
 mon with one whose birth-place is Germany, and 
 whose natal Star first shone upon him above three- 
 score years before the time at which he is speaking. 
 Observe that Comet/' said he, pointing towards 
 the west ; " it is a very brilliant one, and this is 
 the last night that it will be visible." 
 
 " It is the beautiful Comet," I said, " which 
 has shone upon us for the last six months, and 
 which first appeared, I think, in the belt of Orion." 
 
 " True, true," replied the Baron ; " it is the 
 Comet which, according to the calculations of As- 
 tronomers, visits the eyes of the inhabitants of this 
 world once in twenty years, and I can confirm the 
 accuracy of their calculations as far as relates to 
 three of it's visits. You will smile, and think that 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 449 
 
 the eccentricity of my conduct and character is 
 sufficiently accounted for, when I tell you that 
 that Comet is my natal planet. On the very day 
 and instant that it became visible, sixty years and 
 six months ago, did I first open my eyes in my 
 Father's castle. There is, however, a tradition 
 connected with this Comet, which has sometimes 
 made me uneasy. It runs thus : 
 
 ( The Comet that's born in the belt of Orion, 
 Whose Cradle it gilds, gilds the place they shall die on/ 
 
 However, this is it's third return that I have seen, 
 and being now as hale and hearty as ever I was, 
 the tradition, if it means any thing to interest me, 
 means that I shall live on to the good old age of 
 fourscore. But to return to my history. I was a 
 fervent believer in Astrology ; and thought that if 
 I could meet with a person, either male or female, 
 who was born under the same Star, to that person 
 I might safely attach myself, and our destinies 
 must be indissolubly bound together. I had, how- 
 ever, never met with such a person, and as yet I 
 had never seen my natal Star, for on the day on 
 which I entered the University of Halle I wanted 
 three days of attaining my twentieth year. Those 
 three days seemed the longest and most tedious 
 that I had ever passed ; but at length the fateful 
 
450 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 morning dawned, on the evening of which, a few 
 minutes before the hour of eight, the hour of my 
 birth, I hastened to a secluded place at a short 
 distance from the town, and planting myself there, 
 gazed earnestly and intently upon the belt of Orion. 
 I had not gazed long before a peculiar light seemed 
 to issue from it, and at length I saw a beautiful 
 Comet, with a long and glittering train, rising in 
 all its celestial pomp and majesty. How shall I 
 describe my feelings at that moment ? I felt as it 
 were new-born : new ideas, new hopes, new joys, 
 seemed to rush upon me, and I gave vent to my 
 emotions in an exclamation of delight. This ex- 
 clamation I was astonished to hear repeated as 
 audibly and fervently as it was made, and turn- 
 ing round, I beheld a female within a few paces of 
 me to my right. 
 
 " She was tall, and exquisitely formed : her 
 dress denoted extreme poverty; and her eye, which 
 for a moment had been lighted up with enthusiasm, 
 was downcast, and abashed with a sense of con- 
 scious inferiority, when it met mine. Still I thought 
 that I had never beheld a face so perfectly beauti- 
 ful. Her general complexion was exquisitely fair, 
 without approaching to paleness, with a slight tinge 
 of the rose on each cheek, which I could not help 
 thinking that care and tenderness might be able to 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 451 
 
 deepen to a much ruddier hue. Her eyes were 
 black and sparkling, but the long dark lashes which 
 fell over them seemed, I thought, acquainted with 
 tears. Her hair was of the same colour with her 
 eyes, and almost of the same brightness. I gazed 
 first upon her and then upon the newly-risen Co- 
 met, and my bosom seemed bursting with emotions 
 which I could not express, or even understand. 
 
 " ' Sweet girl! 7 I said, approaching her, and 
 taking her hand, ' what can have induced you to 
 wander abroad at this late hour?' 
 
 " ' The Comet!' said she, ' the Comet!' point- 
 ing to it with enthusiasm. 
 
 " ' It is indeed a beautiful Star/ I replied, and 
 as I gazed I felt as if I were the apostle of truth 
 for so saying, ' but here,' I added, pressing my 
 lip to her white forehead, ' is one still more beau- 
 tiful, but alas! more fragile, and which ought 
 therefore not to be exposed to danger.' 
 
 " ' Aye/ she said, ' but it is the Star which I 
 have been waiting to gaze upon for many a long 
 year ; it is the Star that rules my destiny, my natal 
 Star ! Twenty years ago, and at this hour, was I 
 brought into the world. 
 
 " Scarcely could I believe my ears. I thought 
 that the sounds which I had heard could not come 
 from the beautiful lips which I saw moving, but 
 
452 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 that some lying fiend had whispered them in my 
 ears; I made her repeat them over and over again. 
 I thought of the desire which had so long haunted 
 me, and which now seemed gratified ; I thought, 
 too, of the beautiful lines of Schiller: 
 
 ' It is a gentle and affectionate thought, 
 That in immeasurable heights above us, 
 At our first birth this wreath of love was woven, 
 With sparkling stars for flowers!' 
 
 In short, I thought and felt so much that I fell at 
 the fair girl's feet; told her the strange coincidence 
 of our destinies; revealed to her my name and 
 rank; and made her an offer of my hand and heart 
 without any further ceremony. 
 
 " ' Alas Sir!' she said, permitting, but not 
 returning the caress which I gave her, ' I could 
 indeed fancy that Fate has intended us to be indis- 
 solubly united, but I am poor, friendless, wretched; 
 my Mother is old and bed-ridden ; and my Father, 
 I fear, follows desperate courses to procure even 
 the slender means on which we subsist/ 
 
 " ' But I have wealth, sweet girl !' exclaimed I, 
 ' sufficient to remove all these evils ; and here is 
 an earnest of it/ endeavouring to force my purse 
 into her hands. 
 
 " ' Nay, nay/ she said, thrusting it back, ' keep 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 453 
 
 your gold, lest slander should blacken the fair fame 
 which is Adeline's only dowry !' 
 
 " ' Sweet Adeline ! beautiful Adeline!' said I, 
 ' do not let us part thus. Can you doubt my sin- 
 cerity I Would you vainly endeavour to interpose a 
 barrier against the decrees of fate ? Believe that 
 I love you, and say that you love me in return.' 
 
 " g It is the will of Fate/ she said, sinking in 
 my arms : ' Why should I belie what it has writ- 
 ten in my heart ? Leopold, I love thee.' 
 
 " Thus did we, who but half an hour previously 
 were ignorant of each other's existence, plight our 
 mutual vows ; but each recognised a being long 
 sought and looked for, and each yielded to the 
 overruling influence of the Planet which was the 
 common governor of our destiny. I was anxious 
 to celebrate our nuptials immediately, but Adeline 
 put a decided negative upon it. 
 
 < What,' she said, ' were you born under yon 
 Star, and know not the dark saying which is at- 
 tached to it ? 
 
 * The love that is born at the Comet's birth, 
 Treat it not like a thing of earth ; 
 Breathe it to none but the loved-one's ear, 
 Lest Fate should remove what Hope deems so near ; 
 Seal it not till the hour and the day 
 When that Star from the Heavens shall pass away/ 
 
454 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 " I instantly recollected the saying, and acqui- 
 esced in the wisdom of not acting adversely to 
 what I believed to be the will of destiny. ' It will 
 then be six long months, sweet Adeline !' said I, 
 * ere our happiness can be sealed ; but I must 
 see thee daily, I cannot else exist/ 
 
 " 'Call upon me at yonder white Cottage/ she 
 answered, * at about this hour. My Father is then 
 out ; indeed he has been out for some weeks now, 
 but he is never at home at that hour ; and my Mo- 
 ther will have retired to rest. Farewell, Leopold 
 von Schwartzmann/ 
 
 " ' Farewell, dearest Adeline ! tell me no more 
 of thy name. I seek not, I wish not, to know it; 
 tell it not to me until the hour when thou art about 
 to exchange it for Schwartzmann/ 
 
 " Our parting was marked, as the partings of 
 lovers usually are, with sighs, and tears, and em- 
 braces, protestations of eternal fidelity, and pro- 
 mises of speedily seeing each other again. 
 
 " The love thus suddenly lighted up within our 
 bosoms, I did not suffer to die away, or to be ex- 
 tinguished. Every evening at the hour of nine, I 
 was at the fair one's Cottage door, and ever found 
 her ready to receive me ; nay, at length I used to 
 find the latchet left unfastened for me, and I stole 
 up stairs to her chamber unquestioned. I soon 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 455 
 
 discovered that her mind and manners were, at 
 least, equal to her beauty ; but the utmost penury 
 and privation were but too visible around her. It 
 was in vain that I offered her the assistance of my 
 purse, and urged her to accept by anticipation that 
 which must very shortly be hers by right. The 
 high-minded girl positively refused to avail herself 
 of this offer, and then I could not help at all ha- 
 zards, endeavouring to persuade her to consent to 
 our immediate union, as that seemed to me to be 
 the only means of rescuing her from the distressing 
 state of poverty in which I found her. 
 
 i ' Say no more, Leopold/ she said, one night, 
 when I had been urging this upon her more stre- 
 nuously than ever, ' say no more, lest I should be 
 weak enough to consent, and so draw down upon 
 our heads the bolts of destiny. And, Leopold, I 
 find thy presence dangerous to me ; let me, there- 
 fore, I pray thee, see thee no more until the 
 hour which is to make us one. I dread thy en- 
 treating eyes, thy persuading tongue : one short 
 month of separation, and then a whole life of 
 constant union. Say that it shall be so, for my 
 sake/ 
 
 " ' It shall be so, it shall, for thy sake!' I said. 
 For, bitter as was the trial to which she put me, 
 
456 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 the tone and manner in which she implored my ac- 
 quiescence were irresistible. 
 
 " ' Then farewell!' she said, ' come not near me 
 until that day. Should you attempt to see me 
 earlier, I have a fearful foreboding that something 
 evil will befall us/ 
 
 " This was the most sorrowful parting which I 
 had yet experienced ; but I bore it as manfully as 
 I could. Three, four, five days, did I perform 
 my promise, and never ventured near the residence 
 of Adeline. I shut myself up in my own cham- 
 ber, where I saw no one but the domestic who 
 brought my meals. I could not support this life 
 any longer, and at last I determined to pay a visit 
 to Adeline. 
 
 " 'Whither would you go, mein HenT said 
 the Centinel at the City gate, through which I had 
 to pass. 
 
 " ' I have business of importance about a mile 
 from the City,' I answered ; ( pray do not detain 
 me.' 
 
 " ' Nay, mein Herr,' replied the Centinel, ' I 
 have no authority to detain you; but if you will 
 take the advice of a friend, you will not leave the 
 city to-night. Know you not that the noted bandit 
 Brandt is suspected to be in the neighbourhood 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 457 
 
 this evening; that the Council have set a price 
 upon his head ; and that the City bands are now 
 engaged in pursuit of him?' 
 
 " ' Be it so/ I said ; * a man who is skulking 
 about to avoid the City bands is not, methinks, an 
 enemy whom I need greatly fear encountering.' 
 
 " The Centinel shook his head, but allowed me 
 to pass without further question. Love lent wings 
 to my feet, and already was Adeline's white Cot- 
 tage in sight, when a violent blow on the back of 
 my head with the butt-end of a pistol, stretched 
 me on the ground, and a man, whose knee was 
 immediately on my chest, pointed the muzzle at 
 my head. 
 
 " ' Deliver your money/ he said, ' or you have 
 not a moment to live.' 
 
 " ' Ruffian/ I said, ' let me go ; I am a Stu- 
 dent at Halle, son of the Baron von Schwartzmann. 
 Thou durst not for thy head attempt my life.' 
 
 " ' That we shall soon see/ said the villain 
 coolly ; and my days had then certainly been num- 
 bered, had not three men, springing from a neigh- 
 bouring thicket, suddenly seized the robber, dis- 
 armed him, and then proceeded very quietly to 
 bind his hands behind him. 
 
 " Have we caught you at last, mein Herr 
 
 x 
 
458 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Brandt?' said one of my deliverers. ' We have 
 been a long time looking out for you. Now we 
 meet to part only once, and for ever/ 
 
 " The Robber eyed them sullenly, but did not 
 deign a reply, as they marched him between them 
 towards the town. We soon entered the gate, 
 through which I had already passed, and were 
 conducted before the Commander of the garrison, 
 who, as Brandt had been placed by proclamation , 
 under military law, was the Judge appointed to 
 decide upon his case. 
 
 " My evidence was given in a very few words, 
 and, corroborated as it was by that of the police- 
 men, was, I perceived, fatal to Brandt. I could 
 not help, however, entreating for mercy to the 
 wretched criminal. 
 
 " Nay, Sir/ said the officer, ' your entreaty 
 is vain. Even without this last atrocious case to 
 fix his doom, we needed only evidence to identify 
 him as Brandt, to have cost him all his lives, were 
 they numerous as the hairs upon his head. Away 
 with him, and hang him instantly upon the ram- 
 parts.' 
 
 " ' I thank thee, Colonel,' said the Bandit, ' for 
 my death. It is better to die than to witness such 
 sights as have torn my heart daily. It was only to 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 459 
 
 save a wretched wife and daughter from starvation, 
 that I resorted to this trade. But, fare thee well! 
 Brandt knows how to die.' 
 
 " The unhappy man was instantly removed; 
 and finding that there was no further occasion for 
 my attendance, I rushed into the streets in a state 
 that bordered upon frenzy. The idea that I had, 
 however innocently, been the occasion of the death 
 of a man, shook every fibre in my frame ; and 
 while I was suffering under the influence of 
 these feelings, the sullen roll of the death-drums 
 announced that Brandt had ceased to live. 
 
 " I went home and hurried to bed, but not to 
 rest. The violence of the blow which I had re- 
 ceived from the Bandit, as well as the mental agony 
 which I had undergone, threw me into a dangerous 
 fever. For ten days I was in a state of delirium, 
 raving incoherently, and unconscious of every 
 thing around me. At length I arrived at the crisis 
 of my disorder, which proved favourable. The 
 fever left my brain, and the glassy glaze of my 
 eye was exchanged for it's usual look of intelligence 
 and meaning. I turned round my head in my 
 bed, and looked towards the window of my cham- 
 ber. It was evening ; the arch of heaven was of 
 one deep azure, and the Comet was shining in all 
 
 x 2 
 
460 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 it's brightness. It's situation in the Heavens, which 
 was materially different from that which it occu- 
 pied when I was last conscious of seeing it, re- 
 called and fixed my wandering recollections of all 
 that was connected with it. I rang the bell vio- 
 lently, and was speedily attended by my valet, 
 who had watched over me during my illness. I 
 interrupted the expressions of delight which the 
 sight of my convalescent state drew from him, by 
 eagerly enquiring what was the day of the month, 
 and the hour. 
 
 " ' It is the eighth of August, Sir; and the 
 Cathedral clock has just chimed seven/ 
 
 " * Heavens!' I exclaimed, starting from my 
 bed, ' had this cursed fever detained me one hour 
 longer, the destined moment would have passed 
 away. Assist me to dress, good Ferdinand, I must 
 away instantly/ 
 
 " * Sir/ said the man, alarmed, ' the Doctor 
 would chide.' 
 
 " ' Care not for his chiding/ said I ; ' I will 
 secure thee ; but an affair of life and death is not 
 more urgent than that on which I am about to go/ 
 
 " ' The good Curate, von Wilden, is below/ 
 said Ferdinand, ' and told me that he must see you ; 
 but I dared not disturb you. He was just going 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 461 
 
 away when you rang the bell, and is now waiting 
 to know the result/ 
 
 " I immediately remembered that I had ap- 
 pointed the Curate to. meet me at that hour, for 
 the purpose of proceeding to Adeline's Cottage 
 and tying the nuptial knot between us. I had told 
 him the nature of the duty which I wished him to 
 perform, without, however, disclosing so much as 
 to break through the caution contained in the tradi- 
 tionary verses. I lost no time in joining him in 
 the hall, and proceeded to leave the house, ac- 
 companied by him, with as much celerity as possi- 
 ble, lest the intervention of my medical attendant, 
 or some other person, should throw difficulty in the 
 way. 
 
 " We soon reached the open fields. It was a 
 beautiful star-light evening. The Comet was nearly 
 upon the verge of the horizon, and I was fearful 
 of it's disappearing before the ceremony of my 
 nuptials could be accomplished. We therefore 
 proceeded rapidly on our walk. An involuntary 
 shudder came over me as I passed by the scene of 
 my encounter with the Bandit; but just then the 
 white Cottage peeped out from among the woods 
 which had concealed it, and my heart felt re-assured 
 by the near prospect of unbounded happiness* 
 
462 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 We approached the door : it was on the latch, 
 which I gently raised, and then proceeded, as 
 usual, up the stairs, followed by the Curate. I 
 thought I heard a low moaning sound as we ap- 
 proached the chamber-door ; but it was ajar, and 
 we entered. An old woman, who seemed scarcely 
 able to crawl about, was at the bed-side with a 
 phial in her hand ; and stretched upon the couch, 
 with a face on which the finger of death seemed 
 visibly impressed, lay the wasted form of Adeline. 
 * Just Heaven!' I exclaimed, * what new misery 
 is there in store for me? ? 
 
 " The sound of my voice roused Adeline from 
 her death-like stupor. She raised her eyes, but 
 closed them again suddenly on seeing me, exclaim- 
 ing, ' Tis he, 'tis he ! the fiend ! save me, save 
 me !' The bitterness of death seemed to invade 
 my heart when I heard this unaccountable excla- 
 mation. I gasped for breath, and cold drops of 
 agony rolled from my temples. I ventured to ap- 
 proach the bed. I took her burning hand within 
 my own, and pressed it to my heart. She again 
 fixed her eyes upon me solemnly, and said, ' Know 
 you whom you embrace ? Miserable man, has not 
 the universal rumour reached thine ear T 
 
 " ' Dearest Adeline/ I said, c for the last ten 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 463 
 
 days I have been stretched upon the bed of deli- 
 rium and insensibility. Rumour, however trum- 
 pet-tongued to other ears, has been dumb to mine,' 
 
 " ' You call me Adeline/ she said, ' is that all?' 
 
 " ' The hour/ I answered, 'is at length arrived, 
 I thought it would be a less melancholy one, when 
 thou wert to tell me that other name, ere thou ex- 
 changed'st it for ever/ 
 
 " ' Know then/ said she, rising up in the bed 
 with an unusual effort, in which all her remaining 
 strength seemed to be concentrated, ' that my name 
 is Adeline Brandt !' 
 
 " For an instant she fixed her dark eyes upon 
 my face, which grew cold and pallid as her own ; 
 then the film of death came over them, and her 
 head sank back upon her pillow, from which*it ne- 
 ver rose again. 
 
 " Weak, and sickly, and stricken, as it were, with 
 a thunderbolt, I know not how I preserved my re- 
 collection and reason at that moment. I remem- 
 ber, however, looking from the chamber window, 
 and seeing the Comet shining brightly, although 
 just on the verge of the horizon ; I turned to the 
 dead face of Adeline, and thought of those ill- 
 omened lines, 
 
 ' The Comet that's born in the belt of Orion, 
 Whose cradle it gilds, gilds the place they shall die on/ 
 
464 MISCELLAtf ECUS 
 
 I looked again, and the Comet was just departing 
 from the heavens ; it's fiery train was no longer visi- 
 ble ; and in an instant after the nucleus disappeared. 
 " I have but little to add in explanation. I learned 
 that, on the evening of our meeting, the unfortu- 
 nate Brandt, who had carried on his exploits at a 
 distance, knowing that a price was set upon his 
 head, had fled to the house where his wife and 
 daughter lived, and between whom and him no 
 suspicion of any connexion existed, resolving, if 
 he escaped his present danger, to give up his pe- 
 rilous courses ; but that he found those two females 
 in such a state of wretchedness and starvation, 
 that he rushed out, and committed the act for which 
 he forfeited his life. Had I but asked Adeline 
 her name, this fatal event would not have hap- 
 pened ; for I should most assuredly have removed 
 her to another dwelling, and provided in some 
 way for her Father's safety ; or, had not the tradi- 
 tionary verses restrained us from mentioning our 
 attachment to any one until the hour of our nuptials, 
 I should have revealed it to the Bandit, and so 
 taken away from him every inducement for follow- 
 ing his lawless occupation. Ill news is not long in 
 spreading. Adeline heard of her Father's death, 
 and that I was the occasion of it, a few hours after 
 it took place. The same cause which sent her to 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 465 
 
 her death-bed roused her Mother from the couch 
 of lethargy and inaction on which she had lain for 
 so many years; and I found that she was the 
 wretched old woman whom I had seen attending 
 the last moments of her daughter. 
 
 " The remainder of my history has little in it to 
 interest you. I left the University, and retired to 
 my Father's castle, where I shut myself up, and 
 lived a very recluse life, until his death, which 
 happened a few years afterwards, obliged me to 
 exert myself in the arrangement of my family af- 
 fairs. The lapse of years gradually alleviated, 
 although it could not eradicate, my sorrow ; but 
 when I found myself approaching my fortieth year, 
 and knew that the Comet would very soon make 
 it's re-appearance, I could not bear the idea of 
 looking again upon the fatal Planet which had 
 caused me so much uneasiness. I therefore re- 
 solved to travel in some country where it would 
 not be visible ; and having received a pressing in- 
 vitation from a friend in England to visit his native 
 land, accompanied by an intimation that his house, 
 at G. was entirely at my service, I did not hesitate 
 to accept his offer. You know something of my 
 adventures there, especially of the consternation 
 which I occasioned by laying down Gas-pipes 
 round my friend's house, in consequence of a 
 
 x 3 
 
466 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 letter which I had received from him, requesting 
 me to take the trouble to superintend the work- 
 men. Twenty more years have now rolled over 
 my head ; the Comet has re-appeared, and I can 
 gaze on it with comparative indifference; and as 
 it is just about taking it's leave of us, suppose 
 we walk out and enjoy the brightness of it's de- 
 parting glory. " 
 
 I acceded to the old Gentleman's proposal, and 
 lent him the assistance of my arm during our walk. 
 " Yonder fence," said he, " surrounds my friend 
 Berger's garden, in which there is an eminence 
 from which we shall get a better view. The gate 
 is a long way round, but I think you, and even I, 
 shall find but little difficulty in leaping this fence ; 
 I will indemnify you for the trespass :" and he 
 had scarcely spoken before he was on the other 
 side of it. I followed him, and we proceeded at 
 a brisk pace towards a beautiful shrubbery, on an 
 elevated spot in the centre of the garden. M. 
 von Schwartzmann led the way, but he had scarcely 
 reached the summit before I heard an explosion, 
 and saw him fall upon the ground. I hastened to 
 his assistance, and found him weltering in his 
 blood. I raised him, and supported him in my 
 arms, but be shook his head, saying, " No, no, 
 my friend, it is all in vain! the influence of that 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 467 
 
 malignant Star has prevailed over me. I forgot 
 that my friend Berger had lately planted spring- 
 guns in his grounds. But it is Destiny, and not 
 they, which has destroyed me. Farewell! 
 farewell!" 
 
 In these words his last breath was spent ; his 
 eyes, while they remained open, were fixed upon 
 the Comet, and the instant they closed, the ill- 
 boding planet sunk beneath the horizon. 
 
 " FORGET ME NOT/' 1827. 
 
468 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 THE MAGICIAN'S VISITER. 
 
 IT was at the close of a fine autumnal day, and 
 the shades of evening were beginning 1 to gather 
 over the city of Florence, when a low quick rap 
 was heard at the door of Cornelius Agrippa, and 
 shortly afterwards a Stranger was introduced into 
 the apartment in which the Philosopher was sitting 
 at his studies. 
 
 The Stranger, although finely formed, and of 
 courteous demeanour, had a certain indefinable 
 air of mystery about him, which excited awe, if, 
 indeed, it had not a repellent effect. His years it 
 was difficult to guess, for the marks of youth and 
 age were blended in his features in a most extra- 
 ordinary manner. There was not a furrow in his 
 cheek, nor a wrinkle on his brow, and his large 
 black eye beamed with all the brilliancy and viva- 
 city of youth ; but his stately figure was bent, ap- 
 parently beneath the weight of years ; his hair, 
 
N PROSE AND POETRY. 469 
 
 although thick and clustering, was grey ; and 
 though his voice was feeble and tremulous, yet it's 
 tones were of the most ravishing and soul-searching 
 melody. His costume was that of a Florentine 
 gentleman ; but he held a staff like that of a Pal- 
 mer in his hand, and a silken sash, inscribed with 
 oriental characters, was bound around his waist. 
 His face was deadly pale, but every feature of it 
 was singularly beautiful, and it's expression was 
 that of profound wisdom, mingled with poignant 
 sorrow. 
 
 " Pardon me, learned Sir," said he, addressing 
 the Philosopher, " but your fame has travelled into 
 all lands, and has reached all ears ; and I could 
 not leave the fair City of Florence without seeking 
 an interview with one who is it's greatest boast 
 and ornament." 
 
 " You are right welcome, Sir," returned Agrippa ; 
 " but I fear that your trouble and curiosity will be 
 but ill repaid. I am simply one, who, instead of 
 devoting my days, as do the wise, to the acquire- 
 ment of wealth and honour, have passed long 
 years in painful and unprofitable study ; in endea- 
 vouring to unravel the secrets of Nature, and 
 initiating myself in the mysteries of the Occult 
 Sciences." 
 
 u Talkest thou of long years!" echoed the 
 
470 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Stranger, and a melancholy smile played over his 
 features : " thou, who hast scarcely seen fourscore 
 since thou left'st thy cradle, and for whom the 
 quiet grave is now waiting, eager to clasp thee in 
 her sheltering arms ! I was among the tombs 
 to-day, the still and solemn tombs : I saw them 
 smiling in the last beams of the setting sun. When 
 I was a boy, I used to wish to be like that sun ; 
 his career was so long, so bright, so glorious ! But 
 to-night I thought * it is better to slumber among 
 those tombs than to be like him/ To-night he 
 sank behind the hills, apparently to repose, but to- 
 morrow he must renew his course, and run the 
 same dull and unvaried, but toilsome and unquiet, 
 race. There is no grave for him ! and the night 
 and morning dews are the tears that he sheds over 
 his tyrannous destiny ." 
 
 Agrippa was a deep observer and admirer of 
 external nature and of all her phenomena, and had 
 often gazed upon the scene which the Stranger 
 described, but the feelings and ideas which it 
 awakened in the mind of the latter were so diffe- 
 rent from any thing which he had himself expe- 
 rienced, that he could not help, for a season, gazing 
 upon him in speechless wonder. His guest, how- 
 ever, speedily resumed the discourse. 
 
 " But I trouble you, I trouble you; then to 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 471 
 
 my purpose in making you this visit. I have heard 
 strange tales of a wondrous Mirror, which your 
 potent art has enabled you to construct, in which 
 whosoever looks may see the distant, or the dead, 
 on whom he is desirous again to fix his gaze. My 
 eyes see nothing in this outward visible world 
 which can be pleasing to their sight : the grave has 
 closed over all I loved ; and Time has carried down 
 it's stream every thing that once contributed to my 
 enjoyment. The world is a vale of tears : but 
 amongst all the tears which water that sad valley, 
 not one is shed for me ! the fountain in my own 
 heart, too, is dried up. I would once again look 
 upon the face which I loved ; I would see that 
 eye more bright, and that step more stately, than 
 the antelope's ; that brow, the broad smooth page 
 on which God had inscribed his fairest characters. 
 I would gaze on all I loved, and all I lost. Such 
 a gaze would be dearer to my heart than all that 
 the world has to offer me ; except the grave ! ex- 
 cept the grave ! except the grave !" 
 
 The passionate pleading of the Stranger had such 
 an effect upon Agrippa, who was not used to ex- 
 hibit his miracle of art to the eyes of all who desired 
 to look in it, although he was often tempted by 
 exorbitant presents and high honours to do so, 
 
472 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 that he readily consented to grant the request of 
 his extraordinary visiter. 
 
 " Whom would'st thou see ? " he enquired. 
 
 " My child ! my own sweet Miriam! " answered 
 the Stranger. 
 
 Cornelius immediately caused every ray of the 
 light of Heaven to be excluded from the chamber, 
 placed the Stranger on his right hand, and com- 
 menced chaunting, in a low soft tone, and in a 
 strange language, some lyrical verses, to which the 
 Stranger thought he heard occasionally a response ; 
 but it was a sound so faint and indistinct that he 
 hardly knew whether it existed any where but in 
 his own fancy. As Cornelius continued his chaunt, 
 the room gradually became illuminated, but whence 
 the light proceeded it was impossible to discover. 
 At length the Stranger plainly perceived a large 
 Mirror, which covered the whole of the extreme 
 end of the apartment, and over the surface of 
 which a dense haze, or cloud, seemed to be rapidly 
 passing. 
 
 *; Died she in wedlock's holy bands?" enquired 
 Cornelius. 
 
 te She was a virgin, spotless as the snow." 
 
 " How many years have passed away since the 
 grave closed over her? " 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 473 
 
 A cloud gathered on the Stranger's brow, and 
 he answered somewhat impatiently, " Many, 
 many ! more than I have now time to number/' 
 
 " Nay," said Agrippa, " but I must know; for 
 every ten years that have elapsed since her death 
 once must I wave this wand ; and when I have 
 waved it for the last time you will see her figure in 
 yon Mirror." 
 
 " Wave on, then," said the Stranger, and groaned 
 bitterly, " wave on ; and take heed that thou be 
 not weary." 
 
 Cornelius Agrippa gazed on his strange guest 
 with something of anger, but he excused his want 
 of courtesy, on the ground of the probable extent 
 of his calamities. He then waved bis magic wand 
 many times, but, to his consternation, it seemed to 
 have lost it's virtue. Turning again to the Stranger, 
 he exclaimed, " Who, arid what art thou, man ? 
 Thy presence troubles me. According to all the 
 rules of my art, this wand has already described 
 twice two hundred years : still has the surface of 
 the Mirror experienced no alteration. Say, do'st 
 thou mock me, and did no such person ever exist 
 as thou hast described to me ? " 
 
 " Wave on, wave on!" was the s'tern and only 
 reply which this interrogatory extracted from the 
 Stranger. 
 
474 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 The curiosity of Agrippa, although he was him- 
 self a dealer in wonders, began now to be excited, 
 and a mysterious feeling of awe forbade him to 
 desist from waving his wand, much as he doubted 
 the sincerity of his visiter. As his arm grew slack, 
 he heard the deep solemn tones of the Stranger, 
 exclaiming, " Wave on, wave on ! " and at length, 
 after his wand, according to the calculations of his 
 art, had described a period of nearly fifteen hun- 
 dred years, the cloud cleared away from the surface 
 of the Mirror, and the Stranger, with an excla- 
 mation of delight, arose, and gazed rapturously 
 upon the scene which was there represented. 
 
 An exquisitely rich and romantic prospect was 
 before him : in the distance arose lofty mountains 
 crowned with cedars ; a rapid stream rolled in the 
 centre, and in the fore-ground were seen camels 
 grazing ; a rill trickling by, in which some sheep 
 were quenching their thirst; and a lofty palm-tree, 
 beneath whose shade a young female of exquisite 
 beauty, and richly habited in the costume of the 
 East, was sheltering herself from the rays of the 
 noontide sun. 
 
 " 'Tis she ! 'tis she !" shouted the Stranger, and 
 he was rushing towards the Mirror, but was pre- 
 vented by Cornelius, who said, 
 
 " Forbear, rash man, to quit this spot ! with 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 475 
 
 each step that thou advancest towards the Mirror, 
 the image will become fainter, and should'st thou 
 approach too near, it will entirely vanish." 
 
 Thus warned, he resumed his station, but his 
 agitation was so excessive, that he was obliged to 
 lean on the arm of the Philosopher for support; 
 whilst, from time to time, he uttered incoherent 
 expressions of wonder, delight, and lamentation. 
 " Tis she ! 'tis she ! even as she looked while 
 living ! How beautiful she is ! Miriam, my child ! 
 can'st thou not not speak to me ? By Heaven, 
 she moves ! she smiles ! Oh ! speak to me a single 
 word ! or only breathe, or sigh ! Alas ! all's silent : 
 dull and desolate as this cold heart! Again that 
 smile ! that smile, the remembrance of which a thou- 
 sand winters have not been able to freeze up in my 
 heart ! Old man, it is in vain to hold me ! I must, 
 will clasp her !" 
 
 As he uttered these last words, he rushed franticly 
 towards the Mirror ; the scene represented within 
 it faded away ; the cloud gathered again over it's 
 surface, and the Stranger sunk senseless to the 
 earth ! 
 
 When he recovered his consciousness, he found 
 himself in the arms of Agrippa, who was chafing 
 his temples and gazing on him with looks of fear 
 and wonder. He immediately rose on his feet, 
 
476 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 with restored strength, and, pressing the hand of 
 his host, he said, " Thanks, thanks, for thy cour- 
 tesy and thy kindness ; and for the sweet but pain- 
 ful sight which thou hast presented to my eyes." 
 
 As he spake these words, he put a purse into 
 the hand of Cornelius, but the latter returned it, 
 saying, " Nay, nay, keep thy gold, friend. I 
 know not, indeed, that a Christian man dare take 
 it ; but, be that as it may, I shall esteem myself 
 sufficiently repaid, if thou wilt tell me who thou 
 art." 
 
 " Behold ! " said the Stranger, pointing to a 
 large historical picture which hung on the left hand 
 of the room. 
 
 " I see," said the Philosopher, " an exquisite 
 work of art, the production of one of our best and 
 earliest Artists, representing our Saviour carrying 
 his Cross." 
 
 " But look again!" said the Stranger, fixing 
 his keen dark eyes intently on him, and pointing 
 to a figure on the left hand of the picture. 
 
 Cornelius gazed, and saw with wonder what he 
 had not observed before, the extraordinary resem- 
 blance which this figure bore to the Stranger, of 
 whom, indeed it might be said to be a portrait. 
 " That," said Cornelius, with an emotion of horror, 
 " is intended to represent the unhappy infidel who 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 477 
 
 smote the divine Sufferer for not walking faster ; 
 and was, therefore, condemned to walk the earth 
 himself, until the period of that sufferer's second 
 coming. Tis I ! 'tis I !" exclaimed the Stranger ; 
 and rushing out of the house, rapidly disappeared. 
 Then did Cornelius Agrippa know that he had 
 been conversing with the Wandering Jew ! 
 
 " FORGET ME NOT," 1828. 
 
478 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 THE HOURI. 
 
 A PERSIAN TALE. 
 
 IN the 414th year of the Hegira, Shah Abbas Se- 
 iim reigned in the kingdom of Iratim. He was a 
 young and an accomplished Prince, who had dis- 
 tinguished himself alike by his valour in the field, 
 and by his wisdom in the cabinet. Justice was 
 fairly and equally administered thoughout his do- 
 minions ; the nation grew wealthy and prosperous 
 under his sway ; and the neighbouring potentates, 
 all of whom either feared his power, or admired 
 his character, were ambitious of being numbered 
 among the friends and allies of Abbas Selim. 
 Amidst all these advantages, a tendency to pen- 
 siveness and melancholy, which had very early 
 marked his disposition, began to assume an abso- 
 lute dominion over him. He avoided the plea- 
 sures of the chase, the banquet, and the Harem ; 
 and would shut himself up for days and weeks in 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 479 
 
 his Library, the most x valuable and extensive col- 
 lection of Oriental literature then extant, where he 
 passed his time principally in the study of the Occult 
 Sciences, and in the perusal of the works of the 
 Magicians and the Astrologers. One of the most 
 remarkable features of his character was the indiffe- 
 rence with which he regarded the beautiful females, 
 Circassians, Georgians, and Franks, who thronged 
 his Court, and who tasked their talents and charms 
 to the utmost to find favour in the eyes of the Shah. 
 Exclamations of fondness for some unknown object 
 would, nevertheless, often burst from his lips in 
 the midst of his profoundest reveries ; and, during 
 his slumbers, he was frequently heard to murmur 
 expressions of the most passionate love. Such of 
 his subjects whose offices placed them near his 
 person, were deeply afflicted at the symptoms which 
 they observed, and feared that they indicated an 
 aberration of reason ; but when called upon to give 
 any directions, or take any step for the manage- 
 ment of the affairs of the nation, he still exhibited 
 his wonted sagacity and wisdom, and excited the 
 praise and wonder of all. 
 
 He had been lately observed to hold long and 
 frequent consultations with the Magicians. The 
 kingdom had been scoured from east to west in 
 search of the most skilful and learned men of this 
 
480 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 class : but whatever might be the questions which 
 Abbas Selim propounded, it seemed that none of 
 them could give satisfactory answers. His melan- 
 choly deepened, and his fine manly form was daily 
 wasting under the influence of some unknown ma- 
 lady. The only occupations which seemed at all 
 to soothe him, were singing and playing on his Dul- 
 cimer. The tunes were described, by those who 
 sometimes contrived to catch a few notes of them, 
 to be singularly wild and original, and such as 
 they had never heard before ; and a Courtier, 
 more daring than the rest, once ventured so near 
 the royal privacy as to be able to distinguish the 
 words of a Song, which were to the following 
 effect: 
 
 1 Sweet Spirit! ne'er did I behold 
 Thy ivory neck, thy locks of gold ; 
 Or gaze into thy full dark eye ; 
 Or on thy snowy bosom lie ; 
 Or take in mine thy small white hand ; 
 Or bask beneath thy smilings bland ; 
 Or walk, enraptured, by the side 
 Of thee, my own immortal Bride 1 
 
 I see thee not ; yet oft' I hear 
 Thy soft voice whispering in mine ear ; 
 And, when the evening breeze I seek, 
 I feel thy kiss upon my cheek ; 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 481 
 
 And when the moon-beams softly fall 
 On hill, and tower, and flower-crown'd wall, 
 Methinks the patriarch's dream I see, 
 The steps that lead to Heaven and Thee ! 
 
 Fve heard three wake, with touch refined, 
 The viewless harp-strings of the wind; 
 When on my ears their soft tones fell, 
 Sweet as the voice of Israfel.* 
 I've seen thee, midst the lightning's sheen, 
 Lift up for me Heaven's cloudy screen, 
 And give one glimpse, one transient glare, 
 Of the full blaze of glory there- 
 
 Oft* 'midst my wanderings wild and wide, 
 I know that thou art by my side ; 
 For flowers breathe sweeter 'neath thy tread, 
 And suns burn brighter o'er thy head ; 
 And though thy steps so noiseless steal ; 
 Though thou did'st ne'er thy form reveal, 
 My throbbing heart, and pulses high, 
 Tell me, sweet Spirit ! thou art nigh. 
 
 Oh ! for the hour, the happy hour, 
 When Azrael'st wings shall to thy bower 
 Bear my enfranchised Soul away, 
 Unfetter'd with these chains of clay ! 
 For what is he, whom men so fear, 
 Azrael, the solemn and severe ! 
 
 The Angel of Music. t The Angel of Death. 
 
 Y 
 
482 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 What, but the white-robed Priest is he, 
 Who weds my happy Soul to thee ? 
 
 Then shall we rest in bowers that bloom 
 
 With more than Araby's perfume ; 
 
 And gaze on scenes so fair and bright, 
 
 Thought never soar'd so proud a height ; 
 
 And list to many a sweeter note 
 
 Than swells th' enamour'd Bulbul's throat; 
 
 And one melodious Ziraleet* 
 
 Through Heaven's eternal year repeat 1 " 
 
 One evening, when the Shah was thus occupied, 
 his Prime Minister and favourite, Prince Ismael, 
 introduced into his apartment a venerable man, 
 whose white hair, long flowing beard, and wan 
 and melancholy, but highly intellectual features, 
 failed not to arrest the attention, and command 
 the respect, of all who beheld him. His garments 
 were plain and simple, even to coarseness ; but 
 he was profusely decorated with jewels, apparently 
 of considerable value ; and bore a long white wand 
 in his hand. 
 
 "I have at length, Oh King!" said the Mi- 
 nister, " met with the famous Achmet Hassan, 
 who professes, that if it be in the power of any 
 
 A Song of rejoicing. 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 483 
 
 mortal to procure the gratification of your High- 
 ness's wishes, that power resides in him." 
 
 " Let him enter," said the Shah. The Minister 
 made an obeisance, introduced the Sage, and re- 
 tired. 
 
 " Old man," said Abbas Shah, " thou knowest 
 wherefore I have sought thee, and what I have 
 desired of thee?" 
 
 " Prince," said Achmet, " thou would'st see 
 the Houri, the Queen of thy Bower of Paradise ; 
 her who, in preference to all the other dark-eyed 
 daughters of Heaven, will greet thee there, and 
 shall be thy chosen companion in those blissful 
 regions." 
 
 " Thou sayest it ! " said the Shah. " Can thy 
 boasted Art procure me a sight, be it even transi- 
 tory as the lightning's flash, of that heavenly 
 being?" 
 
 " King of Iraun!" said the Sage, " the hea- 
 venly Houris are of two different natures. They 
 are, for the most part, of a peculiar creation formed 
 to inhabit these bowers ; but a few are sinless and 
 beautiful virgins ; natives of this lower world ; 
 who, after death, are endowed with tenfold charms, 
 which surpass even those of the native daughters 
 of Paradise. If thy immortal Bride be of the 
 former nature, she is beyond the reach of my Art; 
 
 Y2 
 
484 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 but if she be of the latter, and have not yet quitted 
 our world, I can call her Spirit before thee, and 
 thine eyes may be gratified by gazing upon her, 
 although it will be only for a moment, transitory, 
 as thou hast said, as the lightning's flash !" 
 
 " Try, then, thy potent Art," said the Prince. 
 " Thou hast wound up my Spirit to a pitch of in- 
 tense desire. Let me gaze upon her, if it be but 
 for an instant." 
 
 " Prince! " said the Sage, fixing his dark bright 
 eye upon the Shah, " hope not to possess her upon 
 Earth. Any attempt at discovering her abode, or 
 making her thine own, will be disastrous to you 
 both. Promise me that thou will not think of any 
 such enterprise." 
 
 " I promise thee any thing, every thing ! But 
 haste thee, good Achmet, haste thee ; for my heart 
 is full, even to overflowing." 
 
 The Sage with his wand then described a circle 
 round the Prince, within which he placed several 
 boxes of frankincense, and other precious spices ; 
 and afterwards kindled them. A light thin cloud 
 of the most odorous fragrance began to diffuse 
 itself over the apartment ; Achmet bowed his head 
 to the ground repeatedly during this ceremony, 
 and waved his wand, uttering many sounds in a 
 a nguage with which the Shah was unacquainted. 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 485 
 
 At length, as the cloud began to grow more dense, 
 the old man drew himself up to his utmost height, 
 leaned his right hand on his wand, which he rested 
 on the floor, and, in a low, solemn tone, uttered an 
 Incantation, which seemed to be a metrical compo- 
 sition, but was in the same unknown language. It 
 lasted several minutes ; and while he was pronoun- 
 cing it, the cloud, which was spread over the whole 
 apartment, seemed gradually gathering together, 
 and forming a condensed body. An unnatural, 
 but brilliant light then pervaded the chamber, and 
 the cloud was seen resolving itself into the re- 
 semblance of a human shape, until at length the 
 Prince saw, or fancied that he saw, a beautiful 
 female figure standing before him. His own sur- 
 prise was not greater than that of the old man, 
 who gazed upon the phantom he had raised, and 
 trembled as he gazed. It appeared to be a young 
 female, about fifteen years of age. She was tall, 
 and her form exhibited the most wonderful sym- 
 metry. Her eyes were large, bright, and black ; 
 her complexion was as though it had borrowed the 
 combined hues of the ruby and the pearl, being 
 of an exquisite white and red. Her lips and her 
 teeth each exhibited one of these colours in per- 
 fection ; and her long, dark hair was crowned with 
 flowers, and flowed in glossy ringlets down to her 
 
486 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 waist. She was dressed in a long flowing robe of 
 dazzling whiteness ; she neither moved nor spoke : 
 only once the Prince thought that she smiled upon 
 him, and then the figure instantly vanished ; the 
 preternatural light left the apartment, and the mild 
 moon-beams again streamed through the open 
 lattices. 
 
 Before the exclamation of joy which was formed 
 in the Prince's bosom could reach his lips, it was 
 changed into a yell of disappointment. " Old 
 man ! " he said, " thou triflest with me ! thou hast 
 presented this vision to my eyes only that thou 
 might'st withdraw it immediately. Call back that 
 lovely form, or, by Mahomet ! thou shalt exchange 
 thy head for the privilege which thou hast chosen 
 to exercise of tormenting Abbas Selim." 
 
 "Is it thus, Oh King!" said Achmet, "that 
 thou rewardest the efforts made by thy faithful sub- 
 jects to fulfil thy wishes ? I have tasked my Art to 
 it's utmost extent : to call back that vision, or to 
 present it again to thine eyes, is beyond my skill." 
 
 " But she lives ! she breathes ! she is an inha- 
 bitant of this world !" said the Prince. 
 
 " Even so," returned the other. 
 
 " Then I'll search all Iraun ; I'll despatch emis- 
 saries over all the world, that wherever she be, 
 she may be brought hither to fill up the vacuum 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 487 
 
 in my heart, and to share the throne of Abbas 
 Selim ! " 
 
 " The instant/' said Achmet, " that your High- 
 ness's eyes meet hers, her fate is sealed ; she will 
 not long remain an inhabitant of Earth. It is 
 written in the Book of Fate that she shall not be 
 the bride of mortal man." 
 
 " Death, traitor ! " said the Monarch ; am I 
 not the Shah? who shall gainsay my will? what 
 shall oppose it ? " 
 
 " The will of Heaven!" replied the Sage, 
 calmly. " The irrevocable decrees of Destiny." 
 
 " Away! avaunt! thou drivelling idiot!" said 
 Selim, " let me not see thee more !" 
 
 The Shah's maladies, both mental and bodily, 
 increased alarmingly after this event. The lovely 
 phantom haunted him sleeping and waking. He 
 lost all appetite and strength ; and appeared to be 
 fast sinking into the grave. At length he bethought 
 himself, that if he could, from memory, sketch 
 the features which he had beheld, he might possibly 
 thence derive some consolation. He possessed some 
 talent for drawing; his remembrance of the form 
 and features was most vivid and distinct; and, 
 guiding his pencil with his heart rather than his 
 hand, he succeeded in producing a most extraor- 
 dinary likeness. He then summoned into his pre- 
 
488 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 sence a skilful and accomplished limner, in whose? 
 hands he deposited the sketch, and, describing to 
 him the colour of the hair, eyes, and complexion, 
 of the original, desired him to paint a portrait. 
 
 The Artist gazed upon the sketch, and listened 
 to the description with profound attention, and 
 evident surprise. " Surely," said he, *' I have 
 seen her whose features are here delineated. In- 
 deed they are features which are not easily mis- 
 taken, for she is beautiful as one of the damsels 
 of Paradise." 
 
 " Sayest thou so?" said the Monarch, starting 
 from his seat, while he tore from his turban some 
 jewels of inestimable value, which he thrust into 
 the Painter's hand. " Knowest thou where to 
 find her?" 
 
 " She lives in the southern suburbs," answered 
 the limner. " Her name is Selima, and her Fa- 
 ther is a poor but learned man, who is constantly 
 buried in his studies, and is unconscious of the 
 value of the gem which is hidden under his hum- 
 ble roof." 
 
 " Haste thee, good Ali, haste tbee ! bring her 
 hither! Let no difficulties or dangers impede 
 thee, and there is not a favour in the power of the 
 Monarch of Iraun to grant which thou shalt ask in 
 vain." 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 489 
 
 All flew rather than ran to the abode of his 
 fair friend, in whose welfare he had always taken 
 a lively interest. He knocked at the door, which 
 was opened by the lovely Selima herself. 
 
 " Sweet Selima," he said, <c I have strange 
 news for thee." 
 
 " Speak it then," she answered smilingly ; 
 " be it bad or good, the sooner I hear it the 
 better." 
 
 " I have a message for thee from the Shah." 
 
 " The Shah !" she said, and her eyes sparkled 
 with a mysterious expression of intelligence and 
 wonder; but she did not, extraordinary as was 
 the information, appear to entertain the slightest 
 doubt of it's veracity. " Tis wondrous strange !" 
 
 " 'Tis true," said the limner. " He placed in 
 my hands a sketch for a female portrait, in which 
 I instantly recognised your features." 
 
 " It is but a few days ago," said she, " that I 
 had an extraordinary dream. Methought I was 
 in an apartment of surprising extent and magnifi- 
 cence. A cloud of fragrant odours filled the 
 room ; the cloud became gradually condensed, and 
 then assumed the form of a young man of most 
 majestic form and handsome features. Although 
 I had never seen the Shah, I soon knew, by his 
 pale, proud brow, so sad and yet so beautiful; 
 
 Y3 
 
490 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 his bright, sparkling blue eye; his tall, stately 
 form ; and his regal gait ; that this could be none 
 other than Abbas Selim. He smiled sweetly upon 
 me ; he took my hand in his ; but as his lips ap- 
 proached mine I woke, and saw only the cold 
 moon-beams gilding my chamber." 
 
 " Sweet Selima ! why have I never heard of 
 this before ?" 
 
 " I told it all to my Father," said she ; " but 
 he frowned upon me, and bade me think of it no 
 more ; and to tell my dream to no one. But thy 
 strange message has made me violate his command. 
 I have thought of nothing but Abbas Selim since. 
 How happy ought the nation to be whom he go- 
 verns; and, above all, how happy the maiden 
 whom he loves !" 
 
 " Then art thou, my Selima, supremely happy," 
 said the Painter ; " for of thee is he enamoured 
 to desperation. Thou must accompany me imme- 
 diately to the Palace." 
 
 In the mean time the Shah paced his apartment 
 in an agony of impatience. " Curse on this lin- 
 gering limner !" he exclaimed ; " has he combined 
 with the Magian to drive me to distraction ? May 
 every vile peasant press to his heart the being 
 whom he adores, and am I, the lord of this vast 
 empire, to sigh in vain, and to be continually tor- 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 491 
 
 mented with faint and momentary glimpses of the 
 heaven from which I am debarred V 9 
 
 He had scarcely uttered these words, when the 
 private entrance to his apartment, to which he had 
 given the Painter a passport, opened, and his 
 messenger entered, leading his fair companion by 
 the hand. No sooner did the Monarch's eyes en- 
 counter those of Selima, than he instantly knew 
 that he was in the real, substantial presence of her 
 whose phantom he had beheld. His wonder and 
 delight knew no bounds, nor will the power of 
 language suffice to describe them. He pressed 
 to his heart the object for which he had so long 
 panted. Health and strength appeared to be sud- 
 denly restored to him ; new life seemed rushing 
 through his veins ; and his buoyant step and 
 elastic tread seemed to belong to a world less 
 gross and material than that in which he dwelt. 
 When the first paroxysm of his raptures was over, 
 he summoned the chief Imaum into his presence, 
 and gave him orders to follow him into the Mosque 
 attached to the Palace, for the purpose of imme- 
 diately celebrating his nuptials with Selima. 
 
 The Priest gazed intently on the Bride, and his 
 features became strangely agitated. " The will 
 of Abbas Selim," he said, " is the law of his 
 faithful subjects ; but if I have read the Koraun 
 
492 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 aright, and if my studies have not been idly pur- 
 sued, the finger of Death is on yon fair maiden, 
 and her nuptials with the Shah will but accelerate 
 the approach of Azrael." 
 
 "Dotard!" said the Prince; and he gazed 
 upon Selima, whose features glowed with all the 
 hues of beauty and health : " tell not to me thy 
 idle dreams, but perform thine office, and be si- 
 lent." 
 
 The chidden Priest obeyed the last injunction 
 of his Sovereign, and, with head depressed and 
 folded arms, followed him and his Bride to the 
 Mosque ; which was hastily prepared for the cele- 
 bration of these unexpected nuptials. Heavily 
 and falteringly he pronounced the rites, which 
 were just on the point of being concluded, when 
 a man rushed into the Mosque, and, with frantic 
 and threatening gestures, placed himself between 
 the Bride and Bridegroom. It was Achmet Hassan. 
 
 "Forbear, forbear!" he cried, "or Allah's 
 curse light on you !" 
 
 " It is the traitorous Magian," said the Shah. 
 " Villain ! would'st thou beard thy Sovereign even 
 at his nuptial hour ?" 
 
 As he spoke, he unsheathed his scymitar, and 
 rushed towards Achmet. " Save him; spare 
 him!" shrieked the Bride; "it is my Father T 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 493 
 
 and rushing between them, the Shah's weapon 
 pierced her to the heart, and she sank lifeless to 
 the earth. 
 
 All were struck mute and motionless with 
 horror at this fatal event. When they had some- 
 what recovered from their stupor, every eye was 
 fixed upon the Shah. Still, and cold, and silent 
 as a statue, he occupied the same place as at the 
 moment of this fearful catastrophe. His eyes 
 glared fixedly and unmeaningly ; and his lips and 
 cheeks were of an ashly paleness. He returned 
 no answer to the enquiries which were made of 
 him, and the import of which it was evident that 
 he did not comprehend. In fact, it was clear that 
 reason had fled from the once highly endowed 
 mind of Abbas Selim ; and that the reign of one 
 of the greatest and most highly-accomplished 
 Princes who had ever filled the throne of Persia 
 was terminated, 
 
 In a state of listlessness and inanity he continued 
 for above a twelvemonth. A few apartments of 
 the Palace were all that remained to him of his 
 once mighty empire, and the sceptre passed into 
 the hands of his Brother His most faithful and 
 constant attendant was the unhappy Achmet 
 Hassan, whom he had rendered childless ; and on 
 whose bosom he breathed his latest sigh. As the 
 
494 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 hour of death approached, his intellects seemed 
 to return ; but his malady had so entirely exhausted 
 his strength, that he could not utter a syllable. 
 Once, from the motion of his lips, it was supposed 
 that he was endeavouring to pronounce the name 
 of Selima ; then a faint smile illumined his fea- 
 tures, while he pointed to the casement, and the 
 deep blue sky which was seen through it, and his 
 enfranchised Spirit fled to the bowers of Paradise. 
 
 " FORGET ME NOT." 1829. 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 495 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 I WANDER'D by her side in Life's sweet Spring; 
 
 When all the world seem'd beautiful and young ; 
 When Hope was truth, and she a peerless thing, 
 
 Round whom my heart's best, fondest wishes clung: 
 Her cheek was fann'd, not smitten, by Time's wing ; 
 
 Her heart Love had drawn sweets from, but ne'er 
 
 stung ; 
 
 And, as in Youth's, and Beauty's, light she moved, 
 All bless'd her ! she was lovely and beloved ! 
 
 I stood by her again, when her cheek bloom'd 
 Brightlier than aye, but wore an ominous hue ; 
 
 And her eye's light was dimm'd not, but assumed 
 A fiercer, ghastlier, but intenser blue : 
 
 And her wan cheek proclaim'd that she was doom'd, 
 And her worn frame her Soul seem'd bursting- 
 through ; 
 
 And friends and lovers were around her sighing, 
 
 And Life's last sands were ebbing, she was dying { 
 
 I stood by her once more ; and, bending down, 
 
 Seal'd on her lips a pledge, which they return'd not ; 
 
 And press'd her to my bosom, but her own 
 
 With Life's warm fires, to mine responsive, burn'd 
 not ; 
 
496 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 And clasp'd her hand, but, as in days by gone, 
 
 Her heart's thoughts from it's eloquent pulse I learn'd 
 
 not; 
 
 Light from her eye, hue from her cheek, had fled, 
 And her warm heart was frozen ; she was dead ! 
 
 " MONTHLY MAGAZINE." 
 
 LINES 
 
 Written after visiting a Scene in Switzerland. 
 
 THOU glorious scene ! my wondering eye 
 
 Hath gazed on thee at last, 
 And by the proud reality 
 
 Found Fancy's dreams surpassed. 
 
 'Twas like the vision which of old 
 
 To the Saint seer was given, 
 When the sky open'd, and behold ! 
 
 A Throne was set in Heaven.* 
 
 * After this I looked, and behold a door was opened in 
 Heaven, and the first voice which I heard, was as it were of 
 a trumpet talking with me ; which said, " come up hither, 
 and I will shew thee things which must be hereafter :" and 
 immediately I was in the Spirit ; and behold, a Throne was set 
 in Heaven, and One sat on the Throne : and He that sat was 
 to look upon like a jasper, and a sardine stone. And before 
 the Throne there was a sea of glass like unto crystal. 
 
 REVELATIONS, Chap. iv. v. 1, 2, 3 ? and G. 
 
' PROSE AND POETRY. 497 
 
 For there the everlasting Alps 
 
 To the deep azure soar'd ; 
 And the Sun on their snowy scalps 
 
 A flood of glory pour'd. 
 
 A present Deity, that Sun 
 
 Above them seem'd to blaze ; 
 Too strong and bright to gaze upon, 
 
 Too glorious not to gaze. 
 
 Below, the bright lake far and wide 
 
 Spread like a crystal sea, 
 Whose deep, calm waters seem'd to glide, 
 
 Eternity, to thee ! 
 
 Long, long, thou glorious scene ! shalt thou 
 
 Within my memory dwell; 
 More vivid and heart-gladd'ning now, 
 
 Than when I mark'd thee well. 
 
 More vivid and heart-gladd'ning too, 
 
 Than the wild dreams I nursed 
 Of thee and thine, ere on my view, 
 
 Thy world of wonders burst. 
 
 For Fancy's picture was a gleam, 
 
 Weak, faint, and shadowy ; 
 And brief, and passing as a dream, 
 
 The gaze I bent on thee. 
 
498 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 But now, thou art a thing- enshrined 
 
 Within my inmost heart ; 
 A part and portion of my mind, 
 
 Which cannot thence depart. 
 
 Deep woes may whelm, long years may roll, 
 
 Their course o'er me in vain ; 
 But ftx'd for ever in my Soul 
 
 Thine image shall remain. 
 
 " MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 
 
 THE CRUSADERS' SONG. 
 
 " Remember the Holy Sepulchre/' 
 
 FORGET the land which gave ye birth ; 
 
 Forget the womb that bore ye ; 
 Forget each much-loved spot of earth ; 
 
 Forget each dream of glory ; 
 Forget the friends that by your side, 
 
 Stood firm as rocks unbroken ; 
 Forget the late affianced Bride, 
 
 And every dear love-token ; 
 Forget the hope that in each breast, 
 
 Glow'd like a smould'ring ember ; 
 But still the Holy Sepulchre, 
 
 Remember ! Oh remember ! 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 499 
 
 Remember all the vows yeVe sworn 
 
 At holy Becket's Altar ; 
 Remember all the ills ye've borne, 
 
 And scorn'd to shrink or falter ; 
 Remember every laurell'd field, 
 
 Which saw the Crescent waving; 
 Remember when compell'd to yield, 
 
 Uncounted numbers braving : 
 Remember these, remember too 
 
 The cause ye strive for, ever ; 
 The Cross! the Holy Sepulchre! 
 
 Forget, forget them never! 
 
 By Him who in that Sepulchre 
 
 Was laid in Death's cold keeping ; 
 By Her who bore, who rear'd him, Her 
 
 Who by that Cross sat weeping ; 
 By those, whose blood so oft has cried 
 
 Revenge for souls unshriven ! 
 By those, whose sacred precepts guide 
 
 The path to yonder Heaven ! 
 From youth to age, from morn to eve, 
 
 From Spring-tide to December; 
 The Holy Sepulchre of Christ, 
 
 Remember ! Oh remember ! 
 
 " MONTHLY MAGAZINE." 
 
500 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 A SERENADE. 
 
 WAKE Lady! wake! the midnight Moon 
 Sails through the cloudless skies of June ; 
 The Stars gaze sweetly on the stream, 
 Which in the brightness of their beam, 
 
 One sheet of glory lies ; 
 The glow-worm lends it's little light, 
 And all that's beautiful and bright 
 Is shining on our world to-night, 
 
 Save thy bright eyes. 
 
 Wake Lady ! wake ! the nightingale 
 Tells to the Moon her love-lorn tale ; 
 Now doth the brook that's hush'd by day, 
 As through the vale she winds her way, 
 
 In murmurs sweet rejoice ; 
 The leaves, by the soft night-wind stirr'd, 
 Are whispering many a gentle word, 
 And all Earth's sweetest sounds are heard, 
 
 Save thy sweet voice. 
 
 Wake Lady! wake! thy lover waits, 
 Thy steed stands saddled at the gates ; 
 Here is a garment rich and rare, 
 To wrap thee from the cold ijjght-air ; 
 Th' appointed hour is flown. 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 501 
 
 Danger and doubt have vanish'd quite, 
 Our way before lies clear and right, 
 And all is ready for the flight, 
 Save thou alone ! 
 
 Wake Lady ! wake ! I have a wreath 
 Thy broad fair brow should rise beneath ; 
 I have a ring that must not shine 
 On any finger, Love ! but thine ; 
 
 I've kept my plighted vow ; 
 Beneath thy casement here I stand, 
 To lead thee by thine own white hand, 
 Far from this dull and captive strand, 
 
 But where art thou ? 
 
 Wake Lady ! wake ! She wakes ! she wakes ! 
 Through the green mead her course she takes ; 
 And now her lover's arms enfold 
 A prize more precious far than gold, 
 
 Blushing like morning's ray; 
 Now mount thy palfrey, Maiden kind ! 
 Nor pause to cast one look behind, 
 But swifter than the viewless wind, 
 
 Away ! away ! 
 
 " MONTHLY MAGAZINE." 
 
502 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 SIMILITUDES. 
 
 WHAT can Love be liken'd to ? 
 
 To the glittering, fleeting dew; 
 
 To Heaven's bright, but fading bow ; 
 
 To the white, but melting snow ; 
 
 To fleeting sounds, and viewless air; 
 
 To all that's sweet, and false, and fair. 
 
 Whereto can we liken Hope ? 
 
 To the arch of Heaven's wide cope, 
 
 Where birds sing sweetly, but are flying ; 
 
 Where days shine brightly, but are dying; 
 
 So near, that we behold it ever ; 
 
 So far that we shall reach it never. 
 
 What can Beauty's semblance boast ? 
 The rose resembles her the most, 
 For that's the sweetest among flowers, 
 The brightest gem in Flora's bowers; 
 And all it's sweetness soon is past, 
 And all it's brightness fades at last. 
 
 And what are Dreams, that light night's gloom ? 
 
 Doves that, like Noah's, go and come, 
 
 To teach the Soul this orb of clay 
 
 Shall not it's prison be for aye ; 
 
 That Time's dark waves shall soon subside, 
 
 And brighter worlds spread far and wide. 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 503 
 
 And what's like Popular Renown, 
 When the destroyer it doth crown ?. 
 The honey which the wild bee's power 
 Wrings from the bosom of the flower; 
 The harmless drones no honey bring, 
 They win the sweets who wear the sting. 
 
 And what is like Ambition's flight ? 
 
 The eagle on his airy height ; 
 
 On whose broad wings the sunbeam plays, 
 
 Though from the world they hide his rays, 
 
 Drinking the dew before it falls, 
 
 For which the parch'd Earth vainly calls. 
 
 " MONTHLY MAGAZINE." 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE GOLDEN AGE. 
 
 Imitated from the French of the PRESIDENT HENAUT. 
 
 WHEREFORE regret those happy days, 
 
 When Love was Lord the wide world o'er ? 
 Our hearts from Time's dull tomb can raise 
 Those days, and all their bliss restore : 
 Let us love, let us love, and again behold 
 The happy times of the Age of Gold. 
 
504 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 The flowers still flourish in our fields, 
 
 As beautiful as then they were : 
 The rose the same sweet odour yields ; 
 The birds the same bright plumage bear : 
 Let us love, let us love, and again behold 
 The happy times of the Age of Gold. 
 
 Still in the Spring the nightingale 
 
 Sings in the flower-enamell'd meads ; 
 And still the brooks, Love's same sweet tale, 
 Whisper amidst the answering reeds. 
 
 Let us love, let us love, and again behold 
 The happy times of the Age of Gold. 
 
 Still Zephyr breathes, and still doth he 
 
 For Flora feel unchanging love ; 
 And still doth the enamour'd bee 
 Amongst the fair young lilies rove : 
 
 Let us love, let us love, and again behold 
 The happy times of the Age of Gold. 
 
 " MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 
 
 QUESTIONS ANSWERED. 
 
 OH! what is Pleasure, in whose chase, 
 Life's one brief day is made a race, 
 Of levity and lightness ? 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 505 
 
 A Star, to gaze on whose bright crown, 
 We wait until the Sun goes down, 
 And find, when it has o'er us shone, 
 
 No warmth in all it's brightness. 
 
 And what is Friendship? but that flower, 
 Which spreads it's leaves at daylight's hour, 
 
 And closes them at eve ; 
 Opening it's petals to the light, 
 Sweet breathing, while the Sun shines bright, 
 But closed to those who 'midst the night 
 
 Of doubt and darkness grieve ? 
 
 And what is Fame ? The smile that slays, 
 The cup in which sweet poison plays, 
 
 At best, the flowery wreath 
 That's twined around the victim's head, 
 When, 'midst sweet flowers around it spread, 
 And harps' and timbrels' sound, 'tis led 
 
 Melodiously to death. 
 
 And what are Hopes ? Gay butterflies, 
 That on the breath of Fancy rise, 
 
 Where'er the sun-beam lures them ; 
 For ever, ever on the wing, 
 Mocking our faint steps following, 
 And if at last caught, perishing 
 
 In the grasp that secures them. 
 
506 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 And our Affections, what are they ? 
 Oh ! blossoms smiling on the spray. 
 
 All beauty, and all sweetness, 
 But which the canker may lay bare, 
 Or rude hands from the branches tear, 
 Or blighting winds leave withering there. 
 
 Sad types of mortal fleetness. 
 
 And what is Life itself? A sail, 
 With sometimes an auspicious gale, 
 
 With some bright beams surrounded ; 
 But oftener amidst tempests cast, 
 The lowering sky, the howling blast, 
 And 'whelm'd beneath the wave at last, 
 
 Where never plummet sounded. 
 
 " MONTHLY MAGAZINE, 
 
 TIME'S CHANGES. 
 
 THERE was a Child, a helpless Child, 
 Full of vain fears and fancies wild, 
 That often wept, and sometimes smiled, 
 
 Upon it's Mother's breast ; 
 Feebly it's meanings stammer 'd out, 
 And totter'd tremblingly about, 
 And knew no wider world without 
 
 It's little home of rest. 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 507 
 
 There was a Boy, a light-heart Boy, 
 One whom no troubles could annoy, 
 Save some lost sport, or shattered toy, 
 
 Forgotten in an hour ; 
 No dark remembrance troubled him, 
 No future fear his path could dim, 
 But joy before his eyes would swim, 
 
 And hope rise like a tower. 
 
 There was a Youth, an ardent Youth, 
 Full of high promise, courage, truth, 
 He felt no scathe, he knew no ruth, 
 
 Save Love's sweet wounds alone ; 
 He thought but of two soft blue eyes, 
 He sought no gain but Beauty's prize, 
 And sweeter held Love's saddest sighs, 
 
 Than Music's softest tone. 
 
 There was a Man, a wary Man, 
 Whose bosom nursed full many a plan 
 For making life's contracted span 
 
 A path of gain and gold ; 
 And how to sow, and how to reap, 
 And how to swell his shining heap, 
 And how the wealth acquired, to keep 
 
 Secure within it's fold. 
 
508 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 There was an old, old, grey-hair'd one , 
 On whom had fourscore winters done 
 Their work appointed, and had spun 
 
 His thread of life so fine, 
 That scarce it's thin line could be seen, 
 And with the slightest touch, I ween, 
 Twould be as it had never been, 
 
 And leave behind no sign. 
 
 And who were they, those five, whom Fate 
 Seem'd as strange contrasts to create, 
 That each might in his different state 
 
 The others' pathways shun ? 
 I tell thee that, that Infant vain, 
 That Boy, that Youth, that Man of gain, 
 That Grey-beard, who did roads attain 
 
 So various, They were One ! 
 
 " MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 
 
 SUCH THINGS WERE. 
 
 I cannot but remember such things were, 
 And were most precious to me ! 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 SUCH things were ! such things were ! 
 False but precious, brief but fair ; 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 509 
 
 The eagle with the bat may wed ; 
 The hare may like the tortoise tread ; 
 The finny tribe may cleave the air ; 
 Ere I forget that such things were. 
 
 Can I forget my native glen, 
 
 Far from the sordid haunts of men ? 
 
 The willow-tree before the door ; 
 
 The flower-crown'd porch, the humble floor ; 
 
 Pomp came not nigh, but peace dwelt there ; 
 
 Can I forget that such things were ? 
 
 Can I forget that fair wan face, 
 Smiling with such a mournful grace ? 
 That hand, whose thrilling touch met mine ; 
 Those eyes that did too brightly shine ; 
 And that low grave, so sad, yet fair ; 
 Can I forget that such things were ? 
 
 I would not change these tears, these sighs, 
 
 For all Earth's proudest luxuries ; 
 
 I would not with my sorrows part, 
 
 For a more light, but colder heart ; 
 
 Nor barter for pomp's costliest fare, 
 
 The memory that such things were. 
 
 " MONTHLY MAGAZINE," 
 
510 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 THE HEART. 
 
 In Imitation of Francis Quarles, 
 
 I STOOD in the sweet Spring-time by the side 
 
 Of a fair river, rolling wild and free ; 
 Winter's cold chain had melted from it's tide, 
 And on it revell'd in it's joyous pride/ 
 As though no ice-touch e'er could bid it bide ; 
 
 How like, my fond, vain Heart ! how like to thee ! 
 
 I roam'd it's banks once more, 'midst Summer's blaze, 
 
 Onward it rush'd to th' unfathom'd sea ; 
 Nor stay'd to listen to the sweet bird's lays, 
 Nor, calm and clear, imaged the Sun's bright rays, 
 But rush'd along it's channel's devious ways ; 
 
 How like, my headstrong Heart! how like to thee! 
 
 I stood by that fair stream's green banks again, 
 When Autumn winds were moaning sullenly ; 
 
 The dead, sere leaves did it's bright waters stain, 
 
 And heavy pouring floods of falling rain, 
 
 Swell'd it's full breast, and drench'd the neighbouring- 
 plain ; 
 How like, my sad, swoll'n Heart ! how like to thee ! 
 
 I stood again when Winter reign'd severe, 
 
 By that stream's banks which cheerless seem'd to me : 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 511 
 
 It's once swift waves were frozen cold, and clear, 
 And seem'd as they an enemy's strength could bear, 
 Yet fail'd beneath the foot that ventured there ; 
 
 How like, my cold, false Heart ! how like to thee ! 
 
 And shall the Seasons only when they shew 
 
 Their darkest hues, my Heart ! thy mirror be ( 
 Oh! learn Spring's mildness, Summer's strength, and 
 
 grow 
 
 Mature as Autumn, pure as Winter's snow, 
 So shall they, when their features brightest glow, 
 Be most like thee, my Heart ! be most like thee ! 
 " MONTHLY MAGAZINE." 
 
 MADONNA. 
 
 Written on seeing a Painting by CARLO Dotci, in a 
 Private Collection at Antwerp. 
 
 MADONNA ! sweet Madonna! I could gaze 
 For ever on that heavenly face of thine ; 
 
 Albeit I do not worship as I praise, 
 
 Or bend my knee devoutly at thy shrine : 
 For surely there was something of divine, 
 
 Within the wondrous pencil that portray'd 
 The tender softness of those deep blue eyne, 
 
 That brow's wan beauty, those bright ringlets' braid, 
 
 And the sweet Mother's smile upon those soft lips laid. 
 
512 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Sure they who worship thee will be forgiven, 
 Nor bear the penalty of that fond crime ; 
 
 For in that face is less of Earth than Heaven : 
 Beauty was ever worshipped, from the time 
 That fabled Venus from the Ocean's slime 
 
 Arose ; then well may adoration move 
 
 Man's breast, for one of beauty more sublime, 
 
 Rome's Goddess, Queen of smiles, far, far above, 
 
 Whose offspring was indeed a God, a God of Love ! 
 
 Madonna ! thine own rosy hour is near, 
 
 The hour of calm, of softness, and of prayer : 
 And 'tis not well that I be lingering here, 
 Lest my too yielding heart that error share, 
 Which to thy shrine doth countless votaries bear ; 
 And Music too is weaving her soft spell, 
 
 And heavenly fragrance floats upon the air, 
 And feelings sad, but sweet, my bosom swell, 
 And tears are in my eyes, Madonna ! Fare thee well ! 
 
 " PARTHENON." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Come, pledge the cup to me, Sweetheart ! 
 
 Oh ! pledge the cup to me ! 
 And I will shew thee, ere we part, 
 
 How Wine resembles thee. 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 513 
 
 And first, it's semblance to begin, 
 
 I tell thee frank and free, 
 There's nought on earth can make me sing, 
 Save Wine, Sweetheart ! and thee ! 
 
 Then pledge the cup to me, Sweetheart ! 
 
 Oh ! pledge the cup to me ! 
 And I will shew thee ere we part, 
 How Wine resembles thee. 
 
 This bottle's ruby as thy cheek, 
 And sparkling as thine eye ; 
 And, like thy fond heart, should it break, 
 
 Then all my comforts fly : 
 And when it's blissful tide I sip, 
 
 That tide of Love and Wit, 
 Methinks it is thine own sweet lip, 
 Which mine's so loath to quit. 
 
 Then pledge the cup to me, Sweetheart ! 
 
 Oh ! pledge the cup to me ! 
 And I will shew thee, ere we part, 
 How Wine resembles thee. 
 
 A sadder semblance is behind ! 
 
 Ah ! Sweetheart ! thou wilt die ! 
 And so the bottle's tide, we find, 
 
 Ebbs low, which flow'd so high. 
 Then, as I'll do when I lose thee, 
 
 My grief and care to smother, 
 
 z 3 
 
514 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 I'll bless it's memory, and flee 
 For comfort to another ! 
 
 Then pledge the cup to me, Sweetheart f 
 
 Oh ! pledge the cup to me ! 
 And let's drink deeply, ere we part, 
 Since Wine resembles thee. 
 
 " NEW EUROPEAN MAGAZINE." 1823, 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 SUNS will set, and moons will wane, 
 Yet they rise and wax again ; 
 Trees, that Winter's storms subdue. 
 Their leafy livery renew; 
 Ebb and flow is Ocean's lot ; 
 But Man lies down and rises not : 
 Heaven and Earth shall pass away, 
 Ere shall wake his slumbering clay ! 
 
 Vessels but to havens steer; 
 Paths denote a resting near ; 
 Rivers flow into the main ; 
 Ice-falls rest upon the plain; 
 The final end of all is known; 
 Man to darkness goes alone : 
 Cloud, and doubt, and mystery, 
 Hide his future destiny. 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 515 
 
 Nile, whose waves their boundaries burst, 
 Slakes the torrid desert's thirst; 
 Dew, descending on the hills, 
 Life in Nature's veins instils ; 
 Showers, that on the parch'd meads fall, 
 Their faded loveliness recall; 
 Man alone sheds tears of pain, 
 Weeps, but ever weeps in vain ! 
 
 " FORGET ME NOT." 1826. 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 
 I SAW a Glow-worm on a grave, 
 
 But it's cold light could not scare 
 Baser worms, who came to crave 
 
 A share in the banquet there. 
 And I thought of Fame, can it lighten the gloom, 
 Or warm the chilliness of the tomb ? 
 
 I gazed on Saturn's beautiful ring, 
 
 I gazed and I marvell'd much ; 
 Shining a lovely but separate thing, 
 
 Round the orb that it did not touch. 
 And I thought of Hope, that shines bright and high. 
 Never close, but ever nigh. 
 
516 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 I saw the dew-drops gemming the flowers, 
 
 Beautiful pearls by Aurora strung ; 
 But they vanished away in a few short hours, 
 
 As o'er them the Sun his full radiance flung; 
 And I thought of Youth 's generous feelings, how soon 
 They're parch'd and dried up in Manhood's noon. 
 
 I saw a tree by a fair river's side, 
 
 Put forth many a strong and vigorous shoot, 
 But it breathed nought but pestilence far and wide, 
 And it poison'd the stream, that bathed it's root. 
 And I thought of Ingratitude piercing the breast, 
 That has nursed it to strength, and has rock'd it to rest. 
 
 I saw the leaves gliding down the brook, 
 
 Swift the brook ran, and bright the sun burn'd ; 
 The sere and the verdant, the same course they took, 
 And sped gaily and fast, but they never return'd. 
 And I thought how the years of a Man pass away, 
 Threescore and ten, and then, where are they ? 
 
 " FORGET ME NOT." 1827. 
 
 THE COMET. 
 
 O'ER the blue Heavens, majestic and alone, 
 He treads, as treads a Monarch towards his throne ; 
 Darkness her leaden sceptre lifts in vain, 
 Crush'd and consumed beneath his fiery wain; 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. o!7 
 
 And Night's swarth cheeks, pain'd by his gazing eye, 
 Blush like Aurora's, as he passes by. 
 See how the countless hosts of Heaven turn pale ! 
 The blood-red cheek of Mars begins to fail ; 
 Bright Berenice's shining locks grow dim; 
 Orion changes as he looks on him; 
 And the stern Gorgon on his brightness rests 
 Her stony eyes, and lowers her snaky crests ! 
 In breathless wonder hush'd, the starry choir 
 Listen, in silence, to his one bold lyre ; 
 Save when it's lingering echoes they prolong, 
 And tell to distant worlds the wondrous song ! 
 And what that song whose numbers fill the ears 
 With admiration of surrounding spheres? 
 " Honour and adoration, power and praise, 
 To Him who tracks the Comet's pathless ways ; 
 Who to the Stars has their bright courses given, 
 And to the Sun appoints his place in Heaven ; 
 And rears for Man a mansion more sublime, 
 Not built with hands, not doom'd to stoop to Time ; 
 Whose strong foundations, unimpair'd shall stay, 
 When Suns, and Stars, and Worlds, and all things pass 
 away ! " 
 
 " FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING." 1826. 
 
518 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 SING me a Lay! not of knightly feats, 
 
 Of honour's laurels, or pleasure's sweets ; 
 
 Not of the brightness in Beauty's eye, 
 
 Not of the splendours of royalty; 
 
 But of sorrow, and suffering, and death, let it tell ; 
 
 Of the owlet's shriek, and the passing bell ; 
 
 Of joys that have been, and have ceased to be ; 
 
 That is the lay, the lay for me ! 
 
 'Twine me a Wreatlx, but not of the vine. 
 Of primrose, or myrtle, or eglantine ; 
 Let not the fragrant rose breathe there, 
 Or the slender lily her white bosom bare ; 
 But 'twine it of poppies, so dark and red, 
 And cypress, the garland that honours the dead ; 
 And ivy, and nightshade, and rosemary, 
 That is the wreath, the wreath for me ! 
 
 Bring me a Robe, not such as is worn 
 On the festal eve, or the bridal morn ; 
 Yet such as the great and the mighty must wear ; 
 Such as wraps the limbs of the brave and the fair ; 
 Such as Sorrow puts on, and she ceases to weep ; 
 Such as Pain wraps round him, and sinks to sleep : 
 The winding-sheet my garment shall be, 
 That is the robe, the robe for me ! 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 519 
 
 Oh ! for a rest ! not on Beauty 's breast, 
 
 Not on the pillow by young Hope press'd ; 
 
 Not 'neath the canopy Pomp has spread ; 
 
 Not in the tent where shrouds Valour his head ; 
 
 Where Grief gnaws not the heart, though the worm imiy 
 
 feed there ; 
 
 Where the sod weighs it down, but not sorrow, or care ; 
 The grave ! the grave ! the home of the free ; 
 That is the rest, the rest for me ! 
 
 " FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING." 1827. 
 
 WHAT IS LIFE? 
 
 TELL me what is Life, I pray ? 
 
 'Tis a changing April day, 
 
 Now dull as March, now blithe as May : 
 
 A little gloom, a little light, 
 
 Nought certain but th' approach of night ; 
 
 At morn and evening, dew appears, 
 
 And Life begins and ends with tears. 
 
 Yet what is Life, I pray thee tell ? 
 'Tis a varied sounding bell, 
 Now a triumph, now a knell : 
 
520 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 At first it rings of hope and pleasure, 
 Then, sorrow mingles in the measure, 
 And then a stern and solemn toll, 
 The Requiem of a parted Soul. 
 
 Yet once again say what is Life ? 
 Tis a Tale with wonder rife, 
 Full of sorrow, full of strife : 
 A Tale that first enchants the ear, 
 Then fills the Soul with grief and fear ; 
 At last with woe bows down our heads, 
 And sends us weeping to our beds. 
 
 Still what is Life ? That insect vain, 
 Lured from the Heaven it might attain, 
 To wed the glow-worm on the plain : 
 Wealth, pleasure, power at distance seen, 
 Shine brilliant as the glow-worm's sheen, 
 Life weds these seeming glorious forms, 
 And finds them blind and grovelling worms. 
 
 Still what is Life, again declare ? 
 Oh ! 'tis an arch of promise fair, 
 Built like the rainbow's, in the air : 
 With many a charm that's quickly past, 
 Many a bright hue, but none that last ; 
 All vanishing, away, away, 
 Ere we can say, how fair are they! 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 521 
 
 Yet what is Life ? A taper's light, 
 That feebly glimmers through the night, 
 And soon is quench'd in darkness quite : 
 Each wind that spreads it's flame but hastes it. 
 Each touch that trims it's splendour, wastes it ; 
 And brighter as it's lustre plays, 
 Sooner it's fragile frame decays. 
 
 " FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING." 1827. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 I SAW a Child whose youthful cheek 
 
 Glow'd with health's golden bloom, 
 And light did from his young eyes break, 
 
 And his sweet face illume : 
 The Song he sang was " Dance ! prepare 
 
 To tread a measure light ! " 
 And his hand held a mirror, where 
 
 The Sun was imaged bright : 
 On wings as swift as Love's he flew, 
 
 Blushing like morning's prime ; 
 And flowers across his path he threw, 
 
 And that Child's name was Time. 
 
 I saw a Man, whose ample brow 
 Was furrow'd deep with care ; 
 
 And now despair, and rapture now, 
 By turns were pictured there : 
 
522 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 The Song he sang was " Heap and hoard , 
 
 And scale Ambition's height," 
 And his hand grasp'd a keen-edged sword 
 
 Of majesty and might. 
 Around him throng'd a numerous train, 
 
 Wealth, Fame, and Power sublime : 
 While his breast swell'd with fancies vain, 
 
 And his name too was Time. 
 
 I saw an aged, shrivell'd form, 
 
 With hollow eyes and blind ; 
 He crouch'd beneath the pelting storm, 
 
 And shook with every wind. 
 His Song was " Life's fair tree is fell'd, 
 
 It yields before the blast ; " 
 And his lean hand an hour- glass held, 
 
 Whose sands were ebbing fast. 
 Across his path dark phantoms roved, 
 
 Of Age, and Want, and Crime, 
 His wings seem'd clipt, yet swift he moved, 
 
 And still his name was Time. 
 
 Oh ! how Time changes ! and Man too, 
 
 Doth with the Wizard change ; 
 Borrow his every form and hue, 
 
 And in his footsteps range : 
 And now his mirror, now his sword, 
 
 And now his hourglass seize : 
 Thou fool ! why is thy mind still stored 
 
 With trifles such as these ? 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 523 
 
 Spurn this world for a better home, 
 
 Where his wings cannot soar ; 
 Where chance and change shall never come, 
 
 And Time shall be no more ! 
 
 " FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING." 1828. 
 
 LOVE AND SORROW. 
 
 MOURN not, sweet maid, and do not try 
 
 To rob me of my Sorrow ; 
 It is the only friend whom I 
 Have left, 'midst my captivity, 
 
 To bid my heart good morrow. 
 
 I would not chase him from my heart, 
 For he is Love's own brother : 
 
 And each has learn'd his fellow's part 
 
 So aptly, that 'tis no mean art 
 To know one from the other. 
 
 Thus Love will fold his arms, and moan, 
 
 And sigh, and weep like Sorrow ; 
 And Sorrow has caught Love's soft tone, 
 And mix'd his arrows with his own, 
 And learn'd his smile to borrow. 
 
524 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Only one mark of difference they 
 
 Preserve, which leaves them never ; 
 Young Love has wings, and flies away, 
 While Sorrow, once received, will stay, 
 The Soul's sad guest for ever. 
 
 " FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING/' 1829. 
 
 THE NATAL STAR. 
 
 A Scene from a Manuscript Drama. 
 SAVONA on a Couch. RINALDO attending him. 
 
 Savona. Dear Rinaldo ! 
 
 To thee these seem strange fancies, but I tell thee, 
 There's not a pulse beats in the human frame, 
 That is not govern'd by the Stars above us ; 
 The blood that fills our veins, in all it's ebb 
 And flow is sway'd by them, as certainly 
 As are the restless tides of the salt sea 
 By the resplendent Moon ; and at thy birth, 
 Thy Mother's eye gazed not more steadfastly 
 On thee, than did the Star that rules thy fate, 
 Showering upon thy head an influence, 
 Malignant or benign. 
 
 Rinaldo. Nay, nay, Savona, 
 
 These are but dreams : the reveries of greybeards, 
 And curious schoolmen. 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 525 
 
 Savona. Pr'ythee, my Rinaldo, 
 
 Unclose the casement, that my eyes may once, 
 If only once, again 'read in that volume, 
 Whose treasured wisdom is far, far beyond 
 All that the painful industry of man 
 Heaps on his loaded shelves. 
 
 [RINALDO opens the casement. 
 
 There, there they shine ! 
 
 Oh ! ye bright partners of my midnight watches ! 
 Ye glorious torches, by whose heavenly light 
 We read the volume of futurity ! 
 Ye golden sanctuaries of knowledge, safe 
 And inaccessible, 'midst all the change, 
 The ebb and flow of mortal accident ! 
 When the vast deluge spread it's mighty wings 
 Over the earth, ye track'd a path of light 
 On the abyss, o'er which the hallow'd ark 
 Floated in safety ; when proud Babel fell, 
 And accents strange to human ears were dropt 
 From human lips, ye spake one language still, 
 And told the same bright tale ; when Omar gave 
 The Alexandrian wonder to the flames, 
 Ye spread your ample volume o'er his head 
 In broad derision ; bidding him advance 
 His torches, and add fuel to his pile, 
 To shrivel up your shining leaves, and melt 
 The glittering clasps of gold that guarded them ! 
 
526 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Rinaldo. Savona, check this ardour ; your weak frame 
 Will sink beneath it. 
 
 Savona. Nay, my friend, 'tis vain. 
 
 Tis written yonder. When the hand of man 
 Can tear the shining planets from their spheres 
 Then may he work my cure. 
 
 Rinaldo. I behold nought 
 
 But a bright starry night ; betokening 
 Aught but disease and death. 
 
 Savona. See'st thou yon cluster 
 
 Of stars, that glitter right above that clump 
 Of stately pines ? 
 
 Rinaldo. I mark it steadfastly. 
 
 Savona. And mark'st thou in the midst one Star, that 
 
 seems 
 The centre of the group? 
 
 Rinaldo. Yes ; 'tis a Star 
 
 Of a peculiar brightness, soft and mild 
 It's light, yet beautiful as Hesper's, when 
 The rest fade from him ; yet the neighbouring orbs, 
 Larger, and all of gloomier disks, appear 
 T' overwhelm it's beams ; while, stationed as it is, 
 In the most stormy point of Heaven, e'en now 
 On this bright night, light mists and vapours battle, 
 As 'twere around it's head ; and one black cloud 
 Comes sailing towards it from the north, and soon 
 Will blot it from my sight. 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 
 
 Savona. There ! there, Rinaldo ! 
 
 Hast thou not in those few unconscious words, 
 Summ'd up Savona's life ? Was I not born 
 With shining hopes, wealth, friends, and, so 
 The world said, talents ? Did not envious Fate 
 Cross my bright path ? malignant foes, false friends, 
 Untoward accident, and blighted love, 
 Rain misery on my head ? and am I not, 
 Now, in the noontide of my life, Rinaldo, 
 Stretch'd, with a broken heart, and faltering limbs, 
 Upon a bed of grief, while, rapidly, 
 Death, like a monster, lured from far, comes on 
 To grapple with his prey ? 
 
 Rinaldo. Alas ! alas ! 
 
 Sorrow, indeed, has mingled in your cup 
 Of Life, but sure your ills were not so strangely 
 Piled higher than the common lot of man, 
 To weigh you down thus soon. 
 
 Savona. True, my Rinaldo ; 
 
 True, not so strange ; so very strange. Crush'd hopes, 
 Blighted affections, benefits forgot, 
 A broken heart and an untimely grave, 
 These form no wondrous tale : 'tis trite and common, 
 The lot of many, most of all, of those 
 Who learn to crowd into a few brief years 
 Ages of feeling ; as the o'er charg'd pulse 
 Throbs high, and throbs no more ! 
 
 Rinaldo. Dear friend, I hoped 
 
528 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Your heart had mastered it's unquiet inmates. 
 
 I've met you at the revel, and the dance, 
 
 And seen your brow wear that gay look, which charm'd 
 
 All hearts in former times. 
 
 Savona. Even so, Rinaldo ; 
 
 But often, often is the visage masqued 
 In smiles and revelry, when the heart's wounds 
 Rankle the sorest ; and, when we go forth 
 Into the cold and smiling world, and seem 
 The gayest of the gay, we do but bear 
 Our sorrows with us, as the stricken deer 
 Bounds on, through field and thicket, with the arrow 
 That wounds it, in it's side. 
 
 Rinaldo. Dear friend, cheer up ! 
 
 Your malady is slight ; friends, and new scenes, 
 And hopes revived, and trustier, truer joys, 
 Will soon work wonders. Think'st not so, Savona ? 
 
 Savona. Look at the Star! look at the Star, Rinaldo ! 
 
 Rinaldo. Oh Heaven ! it does, indeed, wane, and 
 
 grow pale ! 
 
 And that black cloud is near approaching it ! 
 But this is idle, and but feeds the fancies 
 That prey upon your health. I'll close the casement. 
 
 Savona. Oh ! no, no, no ! for Heaven's sweet sake, 
 
 forbear ! 
 
 That Star gazed on my birth, and on that Star 
 My dying eyes shall gaze.' 
 
 Rinaldo. But not to-night, 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 521) 
 
 I hope, Savona. Lend me thy hand. Ha ! 
 'Tis strangely hot and feverish ; but kind care, 
 And skill will work it's cure. And yet I like not 
 That black and ominous cloud. Now it comes nearer : 
 It touches the Orb's disk. Thank Heaven ! his hand 
 Is cooler now. It has o'erwhelm'd the Star 
 In it's black mantle ! Why am I thus moved ? 
 I have no faith in these things, yet 1 dare not 
 Speak, or look at him. Ha; the cloud has pass'd 
 The bright bland orb emerges ! Dear Savona ! 
 Laugh at your idle fears : your Star has now 
 'Scaped all it's ills. 
 
 [Turns towards him. 
 Oh God ! so has his Spirit ! 
 Cold, cold indeed his hand ! Oh ! but to feel 
 Once more that feverish glow I started from. 
 Savona ! dear Savona ! dead, dead, dead ! 
 
 " HOMMAGE AUX DAMES." 1825. 
 
 L' AMORE DOMINATORE. 
 
 WHO is the Monarch so mighty and bright, 
 Who comes triumphing on in his chariot of light ? 
 The sceptre he bears is more rich to behold, 
 Than Samarcand's pearls, or Potosi's gold ; 
 His coronal glitters with many a gem, 
 As though Beauty's bright eyes form'd his diadem, 
 
 2 A 
 
530 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 And his waving wings round his light form play ? 
 Like the rainbow's hues on a Summer's day. 
 
 Tis Love ! young Love, th' immortal boy, 
 The child of Beauty, the parent of Joy; 
 Even Gods bow down to the Lord of hearts ; 
 Jove's thunder is feebler than Cupid's darts ; 
 And the sword of Mars, and the sceptre of Dis, 
 Have in turns been conquer 'd and sway'd by his : 
 Then lift high each voice, and set wide each gate, 
 To welcome young Love to his throne of state. 
 
 That Throne is thy heart, Oh Mistress mine ! 
 Dress it in smiles from thine own bright eyne ; 
 The thousands that welcome young Love to his goal ; 
 Are the wishes and passionate hopes of my Soul ; 
 The wings that he flies on, Oh ! this sweet kiss, 
 Dearest ! is one, and the other is this ; 
 And those soft lips are the rosy gate 
 That leads young Love to his throne of state. 
 
 " HOMMAGE AUX DAMES." 1825. 
 
 GOODRICH CASTLE. 
 
 THOU sylvan Wye, since last my feet 
 Wander'd along thy margin sweet, 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 531 
 
 I've gazed on many a far-famed stream ; 
 Have seen the Loire's bright waters gleam ; 
 Seen Arveron from his wild source gush ; 
 The dull Scheldt creep, the swift Rhone rush ; 
 And Arve, the proud Alps' froward child, 
 Run murmuring through it's regions wild : 
 
 But none to my delighted eye, 
 
 Seem'd lovelier than my own sweet Wye : 
 
 Through meads of living verdure driven, 
 
 Twixt hills that seem Earth's links to Heaven ; 
 
 With sweetest odours breathing round, 
 
 With every woodland glory crown'd, 
 
 And skies of such Cerulean hue, 
 
 A veil of such transparent blue, 
 
 That God's own eye seems gazing through. 
 
 And thou, proud Goodrich ! changed and worn, 
 By Time, and war, and tempest torn ; 
 Still stand'st thou by that lovely stream, 
 Though past thy glory like a dream, 
 Stand'st like a monitor, to say, 
 How Nature lives 'midst Art's decay ; 
 Or, like a Spectre, haunting yet 
 The spot where all it's joys were set. 
 
 Time-hallow'd pile ! no more, no more, 
 Thou hear'st the hostile cannon roar ; 
 
532 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 No more bold knights thy drawbridge pace. 
 To Battle, tournament, or chase ; 
 No more the valiant man thy towers ; 
 No more the lovely grace thy bowers ; 
 Nor bright eyes smile o'er the guitar ; 
 Nor the trump stirs bold hearts to war. 
 
 The falling meteor o'er thee shoots,, 
 The dull owl in thy chambers hoots ; 
 Now doth the creeping ivy twine, 
 Where once bloom'd rose and eglantine ; 
 And there, where once in rich array 
 Met lords, and knights, and ladies gay, 
 The bat is clinging to the walls, 
 And the fox nestles in thy halls. 
 
 " LITERARY SOUVENIR/' 11827. 
 
 THE CAPTIVES' SONG. 
 
 Paraphrased from the 137th Psalm. 
 
 WE sat us down by Babel's streams, 
 
 And dreamt soul-sadd'ning Memory's dreams ; 
 
 And dark thoughts o'er our spirits crept 
 
 Of Sion, and we wept, we wept ! 
 
 Our Harps upon the willows hung, 
 
 Silent, and tuneless, and unstrung ; 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 5:33 
 
 For they who wrought our pains and wroiiL 
 Ask'd us for Sion's pleasant Songs. 
 
 How shall we sing Jehovah's praise 
 To those who Baal's altars raise ? 
 How warble Judah's free-born hymns, 
 With Babel's fetters on our limbs ? 
 How chaunt thy lays, dear Father-land ! 
 To strangers on a foreign strand ? 
 Ah no ! we'll bear grief's keenest sting, 
 But dare not Sion's Anthems sing. 
 
 Place us where Sharon's roses blow, 
 Place us where Siloe's waters flow ; 
 Place us on Lebanon, that waves 
 It's Cedars o'er our Father's graves ; 
 Place us upon that holy mount, 
 Where stands the Temple, gleams the fount ; 
 Then love and joy shall loose our tongues 
 To warble Sion's pleasant Songs. 
 
 If I should e'er, Earth's brightest gem! 
 Forget thee, Oh Jerusalem ! 
 May my right hand forget it's skill 
 To wake the slumbering Lyre at will : 
 If from my heart, e'en when most gay, 
 Thine image e'er should fade away, 
 
 2A2 
 
634 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 May my tongue rest within my head, 
 Mute as the voices of the dead. 
 
 Remember, Oh ! remember, Lord ! 
 In that day Edom's sons abhorr'd ; 
 When once again o'er Salem's towers, 
 The Sun of joy his radiance pours, 
 Forget not them, whose hateful cry ^ 
 Rose loud and fiend-like to the sky: 
 " Be that unhallow'd City crush'd ! 
 Raze, raze it even to the dust ! " 
 
 Daughter of Babylon ! the hour 
 Is coming, that shall bow thy power ; 
 The Persian sword shall make thee groan, 
 The Mede shall fill Belshazzar's throne ; 
 Blest shall he be who bids thee sip 
 The cup thou held'st to Salem's lip; 
 And mocks thee, weeping o'er the stones 
 Red with thy children's mangled bones.. 
 
 " AMULET." 1827. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Like the young Spring-buds sweet and bright, 
 And like the lark, and like the light, 
 
. 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 535 
 
 And like the wind, and like the wave, 
 E'en such is Hope : buds find a grave, 
 The lark gives place unto the owl, 
 The light must yield to darkness foul, 
 The winds are fickle, waves betray, 
 And Hope is falser far than they. 
 
 And like the dew upon the thorn, 
 And like the blushful break of morn, 
 And like a vessel harboured well, 
 And like a song, and like a spell, 
 E'en such is man : the dew exhales, 
 The Morning's past, the vessel sails, 
 The song is sweet, but swiftly flies, 
 The spell is broken, Man he dies ! 
 
 And like the azure skies of June, 
 And like the Sun, and like the Moon, 
 And like a bowl, and like a smile, 
 And like a taper's burning pile, 
 E'en such is Life : the changed sky rains, 
 The Sun goes down, the pale Moon wanes, 
 The bowl is drain'd, that smile 's the last, 
 The taper 's spent, and Life is past ! 
 
 " AMULET." 1828. 
 
536 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 MOUNT CARMEL. 
 
 A Dramatic Sketch from Scripture History. 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 The HIGH PRIEST OF BAAL. 
 
 ELIJAH, the Prophet. 
 
 REUBEN, an Israelite. 
 
 MIRIAM, his Sister. 
 
 Attendants on Elijah, Priests, Crowd, fyc. 
 
 SCENE, Mount Carmel. TIME, near Sunset. 
 Reub. Nay, Sister, do not doubt, 
 Our God will manifest his power, and shame 
 Yon bold idolaters. 
 
 Mir. I hope, yet fear ; 
 
 For they are many, they are mighty, and 
 
 Reub. See, see, the High Priest doth approach the 
 
 Prophet. 
 High P. Where is thy God? What eye hath ever 
 
 gazed 
 
 Upon his face ? What ear hath heard his voice ? 
 If there be such an one, he loves to dwell 
 In darkness and obscurity; he fears 
 To meet the gaze of those who worship him, 
 And, in his proud invisibility, 
 Laughs at their lowly orisons. Not such 
 Is he whom we adore. Behold him there ! 
 
 [Pointing to the Sun, 
 Baal ! the great, the bright, the wonderful ! 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 537 
 
 See how he traverses the boundless Heaven, 
 
 The azure palace of his sovereignty; 
 
 Answering our prayers with treasures of rich light, 
 
 Bidding the world on which we dwell, bring forth 
 
 Herbs, fruits, and flowers, to gladden and support 
 
 His worshippers. From morn to eve, his eye, 
 
 With an untiring love, is fixed on us; 
 
 And when our feeble senses seek repose, 
 
 Then doth he kindly veil his burning beams, 
 
 And bid his silver regent bathe our lids 
 
 In a pure flood of milder, gentler light ; 
 
 While sweet dreams glad our spirits, or deep sleep 
 
 Rocks them to rest unbroken. 
 
 Mir. Look, my Brother ! 
 
 Reuben, it is indeed a glorious orb ! 
 How like a God he walks the fields of Heaven ; 
 Brother, I fear that he whom we adore 
 Is not so great as he. 
 
 Reub. Peace, doubting girl ; 
 
 The holy Prophet speaks. 
 
 Elijah. Fond, impious man ! 
 
 My God is every where ! is seen and heard 
 In all created things ! I see his power 
 And majesty in that resplendent orb, 
 The work of his own hand, which ye adore 
 In ignorance and sin ; on which I gaze 
 With wonder and with humble thankfulness. 
 I see his wrath and terror in the blind, 
 
538 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Cold unbelief, which he permits to seal 
 
 Your senses and your hearts ; and I shall soon 
 
 Behold his goodness, and his love to those, 
 
 Who keep their Faith unspotted and unchanged, 
 
 When, at my prayer, his fire from Heaven shall kindle 
 
 The offering which I place upon his shrine. 
 
 But wherefore linger ye? Did ye not say 
 
 That ye and I should each unto our Gods 
 
 Raise altars, and bring offerings ; and whose God 
 
 Answer'd by fire from Heaven, should be acknowledged 
 
 The Lord above all Lords, and God indeed? 
 
 Have ye not call'd upon your God since noon, 
 
 And has he answer'd? Is not his bright orb 
 
 Fast sinking in the west, and will he not 
 
 Soon beam his last farewell ? 'Tis now my turn 
 
 To try the power and goodness of the God 
 
 Whom I adore. 
 
 High P. Not yet, for Baal is angry 
 
 At our imperfect rites, and he requires 
 To be again invoked. 
 
 Crowd. Baal requires 
 
 To be again invoked. 
 
 [Here the Priests of Baal range themselves in a 
 circle, and chaunt the following Incantation; 
 dancing round the Altar at the end of each 
 stanza, and cutting themselves with knives and 
 lancets as they chaunt the last. 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 539 
 
 From thy bright throne, bow thine ear, 
 Baal! Baal! hear us, hear! 
 Thou who mak'st the rosy day, 
 Thou who lend'st the lunar ray, 
 Thou, at whom the stars grow pale, 
 Thou, who gildest mount and vale, 
 From thy bright throne, bow thine ear, 
 Baal ! Baal ! hear us, hear ! 
 
 Thou, to whom the highest Heaven 
 For thy throne of power is given ; 
 Thou, who mak'st the mighty sea 
 The mirror of thy brightness be; 
 Thou, who bidd'st th' else barren Earth 
 Give wealth, and food, and beauty birth ; 
 From thy bright throne, bow thine ear, 
 Baal ! Baal ! hear us, hear ! 
 
 Now thine Altar we array ; 
 Now the sacrifice we slay ; 
 Now his bleeding limbs recline, 
 Offerings on thy hallow'd shrine ; 
 Now with lancet and with knife, 
 We ope our own warm tides of life. 
 From thy bright throne, bow thine ear, 
 Baal! Baal! hear us, hear! 
 
 [During this Invocation, the Sun gradually sinks 
 below the horizon. 
 
540 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 High P. Woe! woe! woe! 
 
 Leave us not, Baal! leave us not unanswered; 
 Unanswer'd and in darkness ! 
 
 Crowd. Woe! woe! woe! 
 
 Leave us not, Baal! 
 
 Elijah. Aye ! howl on, howl on ! 
 
 And call upon your God. Will he not answer? 
 Sleeps he, or is he weary, or departed 
 On some far journey, that he hears you not? 
 Are ye not here, four hundred priests of Baal, 
 And yet your many voices cannot pierce 
 His dull, cold ear? How, therefore, can I hope, 
 Jehovah's one poor Prophet, that with these 
 My few attendants, I can make him bow 
 His ear to my complaints. Yet I'll essay it. 
 
 [To his attendants. 
 
 Now what I bid, perform: and answer ye 
 The questions I propound. 
 
 Let twelve stones the numbers tell 
 Of the Tribes of Istael; 
 Build with them an Altar straight 
 To our God, the good, the great; 
 Quickly answer every one ; 
 Is it done ? 
 
 At ten. 'Tisdone! 'tis done! 
 
 Elijah. Dig a trench the Altar round; 
 On the Altar be there found 
 Piles of wood; the bullock slay; 
 And on the wood his carcase lay, 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 541 
 
 In bleeding fragments, one by one ; 
 Is it done ? 
 
 At ten. Tis done ! 'tis done ! 
 
 Elijah. Fill four barrels from the rill, 
 
 That streams down Carmers holy hill ; 
 Pour the water, once, twice, thrice, 
 On the wood and sacrifice, 
 Till the trenches over-run; 
 Is it done ? 
 
 Atten. Tis done! 'tis done! 
 
 Elijah. Then now, most righteous God ! what wait 
 
 we for? 
 
 In humbleness, and reverence have we set 
 Our offerings on thine Altar. Oh! send down 
 Thy fire from Heaven to kindle, and accept them ; 
 So shall thine inward fire shine in the hearts 
 Of Israel gone astray, lost in the night 
 Of dark Idolatry, and they shall know 
 That Thou art Lord of Lords ! the God of Heaven! 
 
 [The whole scene becomes suddenly illuminated, and 
 a flame descending on the Altar, consumes the 
 Sacrifice, and dries up the water in the trenches. 
 
 Mir. Wonderful! wonderful! Jehovah! thou 
 Art God indeed ! thou art the Lord of Lords ! 
 
 Crowd. Sing, sing Jehovah's praise, for he is God! 
 He is the Lord of Lords, who reigns in Heaven! 
 
 2 B 
 
542 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Reub. See, see, Heaven opens! and the sacred fire 
 Consumes the offering ! it is as though 
 God stretched his own right arm down to the earth 
 To accept the service of his worshippers. 
 
 Elijah. The trenches are dried up ; the fire returns 
 Into it's native Heaven. That last red streak 
 Just glimmers faintly in the west, and now 
 Tis gdne, 'tis past ! and hark ! that fearful peal ! 
 
 [ Thunder is heard. 
 
 It is Jehovah speaks ! answer him. Say 
 " Thou, thou, art Lord of Lords ! the God of Heaven !" 
 
 Mir. Wonderful, wonderful ! Jehovah thou 
 Art God indeed ! 
 
 Crowd. Sing, sing Jehovah's praise, for he is God ! 
 He is the Lord of Lords, who reigns in Heaven ! 
 
 High P. Away ! away ! The Evil One prevails ! 
 The foe of Baal ! 
 
 [Elijah and the Crowd kneel be/ore the Altar, and 
 the Priests of Baal rush out tumultuously, as 
 the scene closes. 
 
 " BIJOU." 1828. 
 
PROSE AND POETRY. 543 
 
 A ROYAL REQUIEM. 
 
 SHED the fast- falling tear o'er the tomb of the brave, 
 
 Mourn, mourn for the offspring of Kings ! 
 The sword of the valiant is sheath'd in the grave, 
 The son of the mighty lies low as the slave, 
 And the warm heart of honour is cold as the wave, 
 And still as the ice-fetter'd springs. 
 
 Earth's splendours and pomps, like the bright skies of 
 June, 
 
 Too often are dimm'd by a cloud ; 
 Like the mild seeming halo, at Night's brilliant noon, 
 That, diadem-like, gems the orb of the Moon, 
 They oft' but betoken the storm that will soon 
 
 That orb and it's brilliancy shroud. 
 
 Then pour the Lament o'er the tomb of the brave, 
 
 Let us mourn for the offspring of Kings ; 
 For sheath'd is the sword that was bared for the right, 
 Death-cold is the heart that beat warmly and light, 
 And the Spirit has fled to a mansion more bright, 
 And shaken Earth's stains from it's wings. 
 
 " MORNING CHRONICLE." 1827. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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