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 THE 
 
 lilTJ^RARY REMAINS 
 
 OF THE LATD 
 
 HENRT NEELE: 
 
 AUTHOR OF THE « K03IANCE OF KlSTOltY,'' ETC. 
 
 CONSISTING OF 
 
 LECTURES ON ENGLISH POETRY, 
 TALES, 
 
 AIsP OTHER MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 
 IN PROSE AND VERSE. 
 
 ^'ruils 01" a genial iiunii, and glorious iiuuii, 
 A deathless part of liiiii vviio died too soon. 
 
 Lord Bvron'3 Monody on Suekidan. 
 
 I'BLVTKD BY J. S,- ./. HJiRPER, 8J CLIFh-ST. 
 
 SOLD by COLLINS AND HANNAY, COLLINS AND CO., W. B. GILLEY, (i. AND C. 
 AND 11. CARVILL, WHITE, GALLAGHER, AND WHITE, O. A. KOORBACH, E. 
 BLISS, W. BURGESS, JR., AND D. FELT ; — PHILADELPHIA, CAREY, LEA, 
 AND CAUEY, AND J. QUIGG ; — ALBANY, O. STEELE. 
 
 1829.
 
 VK 
 
 \ >^ 
 
 INTRODUCTIOSr. 
 
 The present volume, like almost every other posthu- 
 mous publication, has to solicit its readers' indulgence 
 towards those unavoidable inaccuracies, for which he 
 ;vho alone could have corrected them, is no longer re- 
 sponsible. 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 
 
 " Js iiung upon his hearse, to droop and wither there!" 
 
 To the last work which will bear the name of Henry 
 Neele upon its title-page, it becomes 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 unavailing ; though, like the custom of placing flowers 
 in the cold hands of the dead, praise now but wastes its 
 sweetness upon ears which can no longer listen to its 
 melody ; still, to give perpetuity 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 Necle 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 

 
 IV INTRODUCTION. 
 
 School, as a daily boarder, and continued at the same 
 Seminary until his education was compIet<^d. At this 
 Academy, though he became an excellent French scholar, 
 jet he acquired «' little Latin, and less G eek ;" and, in 
 fact, displayed no very devoted application to, or even 
 talent for, study of any sort : with the exception of 
 Poetry ; for which he thus early evinced his decided in- 
 clination, and produced several specimens of extraordi- 
 nary beauty, for so juvenile a writer. Henry Neele's 
 inattention at School was, however, amply redeemed by 
 his unassisted exertions when he better knew the value of 
 those attainments which he had neglected ; and he sub- 
 sequently added a general knowledge of German and 
 Italian, to the other languages in wliich he became a pro- 
 ficient. Having made choice of the profession of the 
 Law, he was, upon leaving School, articled to a respecta- 
 ble Attorney ; and, after the usual period of probationary 
 experience, was admitted to practice, and commenced 
 business 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 encourage, the dawning genius of his Son. Though 
 this work displayed evident ;iiarks of youth and inexpe- 
 lience, yet it was still more decidedly characterized by a 
 depth o! thought and feeling, and ai elegance and fluf ncy 
 of versification, which gave the surest promises of future 
 excellence. Its contents were principally Lyrical, and 
 the ill-fated Collins was, avowedl}, his chief model. The 
 ])ublication of this Volume introduced the young Poet to 
 Dr. Nathan Drake, Author of '' Literary Hours, ''^ &.C., 
 who. though acquainted with him " onlv through the me-
 
 INTRODUCTION. V 
 
 dium of his writings," devoted a Chapter of his " Winter 
 J^ights,'^ to a critical examiiiati"n and eulogy of these 
 Poems ; *• of which," says the Doctor, " the merit strikes 
 me as heing so consider;. ble, as to justify the notice and 
 the praise which I feel gratified in having an opportunity 
 of bestowing upon th^m." And in a subsequent para- 
 graph, he observes, that, " when beheld as the very first- 
 lings of his earliest yf-ars, the\ cannot but be deemed very 
 extraordinary efforts indt ed, 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, however, 
 necessarily withdrew much o( bis attention from writing ; 
 yet though his professional avocations were ever the ob- 
 jects of bis first regard, he still found frequent leisure to 
 devote to composition. 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 xMiscellaneous Poetry, which was, by 
 permission, dedicated to Miss Joanna Baillie, and at once 
 establi-shed its Author's claims to no mean rank among 
 the most popular writets of the day. The minor Poems, 
 more especially the Songs and Fragments, were truly 
 beauiiiiil specimens of thi grace and sweetness of his 
 genius; an ■ amply merited the verygeneial 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 " jMontkhj Magazine^''' 
 and other Periodicals ; as well as to the " Forget Me J^ot,^^ 
 and several of its contemporary Annuals ; the numerous 
 Tales and Poems for which, not previously j'eprintcd by
 
 Vi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 liimself, 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 all of whom, but more espe- 
 cially for Shaksptare, he felt the most enthusiastic vene- 
 ration, he was well qualified for the composition of a 
 series of *' Lectures on English Poetry,'" from the days of 
 Chaucer down to those of Cwwppr, which he completed 
 in the Winter of 18'iG ; and deUvered, first at the Russell, 
 and subsequently at the Western Literary, Institution, in 
 the Spring of 1827. T.tese Lectures were most deci- 
 dedly successful ; and bi.th public and private opinion 
 coincided in describing them as " displaying a high tone 
 of Poetical feeling in the Lecturer, and an intimate ac- 
 quaintance with the beauties and bletnishes of the great 
 subjects of his criticism." Although written with rapid- 
 ity, and apparent carelessness, they were yet copious, 
 discriminative, and eloque-nt ; 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 evidently proposed to himself have 
 been fully completed ; and where, in many instances, 
 his intentions can now but be conjectured only, from the 
 traces of his outline, his design wouM then have been 
 filled up to its entire extent, and harmonized in all its pro- 
 portions of light and shadow. 
 
 In the early part of 1S27 Mr. Neele published a new 
 Edition of his Poems, collected into two Volumes ; and 
 in the course of the same year produced his last and 
 greatest Work, the " Romance of English History" which 
 was dedicated, by permission, to His Majesty ; and
 
 introduction;. vu 
 
 though extending to three Vohimes, and, from its very 
 nature, requiring much antiquarian research, was com- 
 pleted in little more than six months. Flattering as was 
 the very general eulogium which attended this publica- 
 tion, yet the voice of praise was mingled with the warn- 
 ings of approaching evil ; and, like the lightning which 
 melts the sword within its scabbard, it is but too certain 
 that the incessant labour and anxiety of mind attending 
 its completion, were the chief sources of that fearful ma- 
 lady 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 ol luds to soar again, 
 Vievv'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 impeli'dthe steel ; 
 "While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest. 
 Drank the last hfe-drop of his bleeding breast !" 
 
 Of the work itself, which comprises a series of Tales, 
 founded on some Romantie occurrences in every reign, 
 from the Conquest to the Reformation, it is difficult to 
 speak accurately. The subject, excepting in its 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 dry antiquity, and ac- 
 tually to " read up" for the illustration of each succeed- 
 ing narrative, his exertions must have been equally toil- 
 some and oppressive ; and the instances of haste and 
 inaccuracy, which, it is to be regretted, are of such fre- 
 quent occurrence, are thus but too readily accounted for. 
 On the other hand, the Tales are, in general, deeply in- 
 teresting and effective ; the leading historical personages 
 all characteristically distinguished ; and the dialogue, 
 though seldom sufficiently antique for the perfect vraisem-
 
 Viii JxNfKODUCTlON. 
 
 hlance of History, is lively and animated. The illustra- 
 tions of each reign are preceded by a brief chronolo- 
 gical summary of its principal events ; and amusement 
 and information are thus must happily and inseparably 
 united. 
 
 The " Romance of History''^ was very speedily reprinted 
 in a Second Edition, and one Tale, " Blanche of Bourbon,'' 
 (inserted at page 167 of this Volume,) was written for its 
 continuation ; as Mr. Neele would most probably have 
 prepared another series ; though it was the Publisher's 
 original intention that each Country should be illus- 
 trated by a different Author. 
 
 With the mention of a new edition of Shakspeare's 
 Plays, under the superintendence of Mr. Neele as Editor, 
 for which his enthusiastic reverence for the Poet of " all 
 time," pecuharly fitted him, but which, for the want of 
 patronage, terminated after the publication of a very few 
 Numbers, 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 obhvion even for a moment be removed, it 
 is to weep over them in silence, and close it again for 
 ever. Henry Neele fell by his own hand ; the victim of 
 an overwrought imagination : — 
 
 " Like a tree, 
 Tliat, ividi the weight of its own golden fruitage, 
 Is bent down to the dust." 
 
 Un the morning of Thursday, February 7th, 1S2», 
 when he had scarcely passed his thirtieth birth-day, he 
 was found dead in his bed, with but too positive evidences
 
 INTRODUCTION. ' IX 
 
 of self-destruction. The unhesitating verdict of the Coro- 
 ner's Inquest was Insanity, as he had exhibited unques- 
 tionable symptoms of derangement on the day preceding. 
 And thus, in the very Spring of life, with Fame and For- 
 tune 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 
 among its victims some of the loftiest Sfiriis of human- 
 ity, and blighted the proudest hopes that ever waked the 
 aspirmgs 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. 
 Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst 
 Tlioughts which have turn'd to thunder, scorch and burst !" 
 
 In person, Mr. Neele was considerably below the mid- 
 dle stature ; but his 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 ob- 
 scure and humble streams which have scarcely a name in 
 the map of existence, and which the traveller passes by 
 without inquiring either its source or its direction. His 
 retiring manners kept him comparatively unnoticed and 
 unknown, excepting by those with whom he was most in- 
 timate ; and fiom their grateful recollection his memory 
 will never be effaced, lit' was an excellent son ; a ten- 
 der brother ; and a sincere friend. He v/as 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 
 
 B
 
 X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the best possible estimate ; since it includes specimens 
 of nearly every kind of composition which Mr. Neele 
 ever attempted. The Lectures will amply evidence the 
 nervous eloquence of his Prose ; and the grace and ten- 
 derness of his Poetry are instanced in almost every stanza 
 of his Verse. Still, with a mind and manners so pecu- 
 liarly amiable, and with a gayety of heart, and playfulness 
 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 " For- 
 get Me J^or for 1826, {vide page 322 of these " Re- 
 mains") that the able Editor, his friend, Mr. Shoberl, 
 considered it his duty to counteract its influence by a 
 '• Remonstrance" which was inserted immediately after 
 it. This is a problem, however, which it is now impossi- 
 ble 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 Manu- 
 scripts 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 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 con>- 
 plied with almost every entreaty, and his carelessness in 
 keeping copies, it is, however, highly probable, that nu- 
 merous minor Poems may yet remain in obscurity. It 
 would, indeed, have been easy to have extended the pre- 
 sent Volume, even very far beyond its designed limits, but 
 the failure of more than one similar attempt was a cau- 
 tion to warn from the quicksand on which they were
 
 INTRODUCTION, xi 
 
 wrecked ; and to contract, rather than to extend, the 
 boundaries previously prescribed. The Satire of the Re- 
 verend Author of " Walks in a ForesC^ has, unluckily 
 for its 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 tlie land 
 All that he ever did, or ever said, 
 Or ever thought : 
 
 Then for his writings, search each desk and drawer, 
 Sweep his Portfolio, pubHsh every scrap, 
 And demi-sorap he peiin'd ; beg, borrow, steal, 
 Each line he scribbled, letter, note, or card, 
 To order shoes, to countermand a hat, 
 To make inquiries 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 crushM and ground ; and leaves him dropt aslant. 
 Scarce raised above the height of common men !" 
 
 Here, then, this Introduction terminates. To those 
 who loved him livins:, and who mourn him dead, these 
 Remains of Henry Neele are dedicated ; in the assured 
 conviction that his Gejiius will long " leave a mark be- 
 hind," and not without a hope, that even this slight Me- 
 morial will serve 
 
 " To pluck the shining page from vulgar Time, 
 And leave it whole to late Posterity."
 
 To develope tlie dawnings of Genius, and to pursue the 
 progress of our own National Poetry, from a rude origin and 
 obscure beginnings, to its 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 its 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," Nov. IQ28.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 iNTRODnCTION 5 
 
 LECTURES ON ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 Lecture the First, Introductory Analysis i 17 
 
 Second, Epic and Narrative Poetry • 39 
 
 Third, Diamatic Poetry 62 
 
 Fourth, Dramatic Poetry continued 90 
 
 Fifth, Didactic, Descriptive, Pastoral, and Satirical 
 
 Poetry. 110 
 
 Sixth, Lyrical and Miscellaneous Poetry 127 
 
 ORIGINAL TALES, POEMS, ETC. 
 
 The Garter, a Romance of English History 147 
 
 Blanche of Bourbon, a Romance of Spanish History 167 
 
 Shakspeare's Supernatural Characters 194 
 
 A Night at the Mermaid, an Old English Talc 199 
 
 The Trekschuit 205 
 
 Hymns for Children 2l0 
 
 Epitaphs 212 
 
 Sonnet on reading the Remains of the late Henry Kirke White .... 213 
 
 Friendship 214 
 
 Love and Beauty 215 
 
 A Thought 216 
 
 Epigram 216
 
 \iv CONTENTS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PROSE AND POETRY, 
 NOW FIRST COLL Et TED. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Valley of Servoz, a Savoyard Talc 219 
 
 The Poet's Dream 22S 
 
 Totteridgf Priory, a Reverie in Hertfordshire 245 
 
 The St.akspearean Elysium 251 
 
 The Dinner of the Months 257 
 
 Every Day nt Breakfast 261 
 
 A Young Family 2Gb 
 
 The Comet 274 
 
 The Maf!;iriaii's Visiter 204 
 
 The Houri, a Persian Tale 300 
 
 Stanzas 310 
 
 Lines written after visiting a scene in Switzerland 310 
 
 The Crusaders' Song 312 
 
 A Serenade 313 
 
 Similitiiiies ^ 314 
 
 The Return of the Golden Age 31 !> 
 
 Questions Answered 316 
 
 Time's Changes 317 
 
 Such Things were 319 
 
 The Heart 320 
 
 Madonna 321 
 
 Song 321 
 
 Stanzas 322 
 
 The Comet 324 
 
 Stanzas • 325 
 
 Thoughts 325 
 
 What is Life ? • 326 
 
 Time 327 
 
 Lore and Sorrow 328 
 
 The Natal Star, a Dramatic Sketch 329 
 
 L'Amorc Dominatorc 333 
 
 Goodrich Castle 333 
 
 The Captives' Song • 335 
 
 Stanzas 336 
 
 Mount Carmel, a Dramatic Sketch from Scripture History 337 
 
 \ Royal Requiem 341
 
 LECTURES 
 
 OK 
 
 ENGLISH POETRY, 
 
 UKLlVKUEn AT THE RUSSELL INSTITUTtON, IN THE 
 MONTHS OF JIAKCn, APRIL, AND MAY, 1827.
 
 ' 1 
 
 Hail, Bards triumphant ! born in liappier 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 
 
 Olf 
 
 ENGIilSM POETRY. 
 
 , LECTURE THE FIRST. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY ANALYSIS. 
 
 General Historical Summary : — The Age of Edward the 
 Third : — Chaucer : — The Ages of Henry the Eighth and 
 Elizabeth : — Coincidences in the Literary Histories of Eng- 
 land 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 Cow[)er. 
 
 It may appear son:iewhat presumptuous to hope to in- 
 terest your attention, by a series of Lectures upon English 
 Poetry, after the power and ability with which the me- 
 chanical and useful arts have so recently been discussed 
 and explained, on the same spot, and the wonders and 
 mysteries of thf)se sciences laid open, which contribute 
 so much to the happiness, the comforts, and even the 
 necessities, of ordinary life. In introducing poetry to 
 your notice, I am constrained to confess that it is a mere 
 superfluity and ornament. As Falstaffsdiid 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 sub- 
 limity. There is a mental appetite, which it is as neces- 
 sary to satisfy as the corporeal one. There are maladies 
 
 C 
 
 »,
 
 IS LECTURES ON 
 
 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 infhience of poetry. The earhest 
 accomplishment of the rudest and wildest stages of so- 
 ciety, 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 celebrated for their culti- 
 vation 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 remotest ages through the medium of litera- 
 ture alone. The genius of Timanthes lives but in the 
 ])ages of Pliny ; and the sword of Cajsar has been ren- 
 dered imtnortal only by his pen. 
 
 The canvass fritters into shreds, and the column moul- 
 ders 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 its 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 tra- 
 dition, 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 
 remain 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 changes 
 and revolutions not less numerous and remarkable than 
 that of its politics; and to a brief general summary of 
 these, I propose to confine myself in this Introductory 
 Ijecture. I shall afterwards take a more detailed review 
 of the merits of the individual authors, who distinguished 
 themselves at various periods ; and in drawing your atten-
 
 ENGLISH POETRi'. * ID 
 
 tion to particular passages in their worlds, I shall select 
 from such writers as are least extensively known. 
 
 Englisli poetry may be said to have been born in the 
 reign of Edward the Third. The monkish rhymes, the 
 Troubadour partns, the metrical rotnaiices of Thomas the 
 Rhymer, Piers riowniaii, and others, and the clumsy trans- 
 lations from tlie Latin and French, which were produced 
 prior to that period, have but slender claims upon our at- 
 tention ; except as affording, by their dulness and their 
 gloom, a contrast to the 'Xtraordinary blaze of light which 
 succeeded them, when Cliaucer 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 produced a 
 monarch who was the greatest statesman and warrior of 
 his age, and to whom we are indebted for the foundation 
 of many of the most important of the free institutions, 
 utider 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 recovered ; and now she 
 produced a poet, of whom it is scarcely too much to as- 
 sert, that he was the greatest who had then appeared in 
 modern Europe. 
 
 Chaucer's genius was vast, versatile, and original. 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 nature 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 feel- 
 ings, and characters ; the features remain, although the 
 costume is altered ; maimers vary, but man remains the 
 same : human nature, however changeable in fashion, 
 opinion, and outward appearance, is immutable in its es- 
 sence. Such as is the monarch on his throne, such is 
 the peasant in his cottage ; such as was the ancient Egyp- 
 tian uandering among the pyramids, such is the modern 
 Englishman making a tour of Europe, and the poet who
 
 20 LECTURES ON 
 
 " dips'' — as Garrick said of Sliakspeare — " his pencil 
 in the human heart," will produce tbrms and colours, the 
 truth and beauty of which will be recoi^nised, wherever 
 such a heait beats. Chaucer's versatility was most ex- 
 traordinary. No English poet, Sliakspeare alone ex- 
 cepted, 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 descriptive powers 
 are of the highest order. 
 
 His diction and versification must be looked at with re- 
 ference to the age in which he lived, and not to the splen- 
 did models which we now possess. He has been much 
 censured by modern critics for a too liberal use of French 
 and Norman v/ords in his poems ; hw Mr. Tyrwhitt, in 
 his learned dissertation on the subject, has shown most 
 satisfactorily, that, as compared with his contemporaries, 
 his diction is remarkably pure and vernacular ; and Spen- 
 ser has emphatically called him "a well of English unde- 
 filed." His verses have also been said to be imperfect, 
 and sometimes to consist of nine syllables, instead often. 
 This is, I think, an equally 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 tlie merits of 
 Chaucer than is consistent with my plan in this Introduc- 
 tory Lecture, but his writings form so important an era 
 in the history of English poetry, that 1 feel myself justi- 
 fied in making an exception in his favour. Chaucer died, 
 and left nothing that resembled him behind him. Those 
 authors who formed what is called the School of Chau- 
 cer, are in no particular entitled to the name, excepting 
 that they professed and entertained the profoundest vene- 
 ration for their illustrious master. Gower, although 
 senior both in years and in authorship to Chaucer, and 
 although he claims the latter as his scholar, — 
 
 " Crete well Chaucer, when ye mete 
 As my disciple and poete," 
 
 did not begin to write English poetry^ until after him, and
 
 ENGLISH FOETRV, - J^l 
 
 is theretore placed in his school. He is a tame and 
 mediocre writer, but every page displays his erudition, 
 and shows that he possessed all the learning- and ucconi- 
 plishments of iiis age. Neither can much be said in ia- 
 vour of Occleve, or of Lydgate. The turmer, peiiiaps 
 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 tremblinu for 
 their lives, they vi^ere not likely to occupy themselves 
 greatly either in the production, or the perusal, of litera- 
 ture. The sceptre first passed from the strenuous grasp 
 of Edward the Third into the leeble hands ol' his grand- 
 son. Then came the usurpation of Boliitgbroke ; 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 pos- 
 sessed some literary tah-nt, and made a show — probably 
 in emulation of his illustrious contem})orary 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 Sur- 
 rey, and Sir Thomas VVyatt. Neither of them were men 
 of very conimanding powers, but they were both elegant 
 and accomplished writers, and did much, at least to refine 
 our English versifieation. Surrey is also distmguished as 
 the first writer of narrative blank verse m our language, 
 although he principally wrote in rhyme. Lord Vaiix was 
 also a very elegant lyrical writer, and some verses from 
 one of his songs are quoted by Shaksf-eare in the giave- 
 digging scene in " Hamlet^ L.)rd Buckhurst was — in 
 conjunction with Thomas Noiton, — the author of the first 
 Knglish tragedy, '^ Gorboduc ;" a heavy, cumbrous per- 
 formance, of but little value, excejjt as a curious pi(;ce of 
 antiquity. The noble |)oet's fame is nuich better sup- 
 ported by his " Induction to the Mirror oj JMagistrates" a 
 production of great power and originality. The tyran- 
 nical temper of the sovereign, however, soon became
 
 22 LECTURES ON 
 
 manifest ; and together with the contests between the pa- 
 ])i.st.s and the rctbrnit^rs, divertetl the attention of the 
 nation f'rnm literature. The noblest and the best were 
 seen ilailv led t-; the scat^'old ; and, among thein, Surrey, 
 the accomplished poet whom 1 liav" just mentioned. The 
 barbarous tends siirred up by lioliticai and polemical ani- 
 mosity, which now aj?ain deluged the nation with blood, 
 did not subside until Elizabeth ascended the throne. The 
 reign of Queen Elizabeth 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 Four- 
 teenth, and of Queen Anne, but wi- are prepared to show 
 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 lite- 
 rary elforts of that age to all the productions of English 
 genius before or since, is too trite a truism to need our 
 advocacy. But it is not so generally known, or, at least, 
 remembt;red, that during the same period the other na- 
 tions of Euro[)e protiuced 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 learn- 
 ing, 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 competition with the mighty ge- 
 niuses, who each, as it were, made the literature of their 
 respective countries ; whose works are columns " high 
 o'er the wrecks of Time that stand sublime ;" and whose 
 reputations are independent of all the adventitious advan- 
 tages of schools and courts, and are the self-reared monu- 
 ments 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 there is a troop behind, more nume- 
 rous than those which were shown in Banqud's glass. 
 Spensei-, Ben Jonson, Fletcher, Massinger, Lope de Vega, 
 Calderon, Marino, these are bright names, which cannot 
 be lost, even in the overwhelming splendour of those
 
 ENGLISH POETRY, 23 
 
 which we have already mentioncfl. In Spain and Eng- 
 land, literature, and especially dramatic literatuK , flour- 
 ished simultaneouvly ; and a similarity of tasrt- and g<'nius 
 apptars to have pervaded both nations. The same bold 
 and irregular ilights of tancy, the same negl> ct of all 
 classical rules of composition, more than atoned for b} the 
 same original and natural beauties of thought and diction ; 
 and the same less venial violations of time, place, and 
 costume, characterise both the Castiliai- and the English 
 muses. There appears then to have existed an inter- 
 course of literature and intellect between the two na- 
 tions, the interruption of which is ntuch to be deplored. 
 The Spanish language was then much studied in England ; 
 Spanish plots and scenery were chosen by many of our 
 dramatists, and their dialogues, especially those of Jon- 
 son and Fletcher, were thickly interspersed with Spanish 
 phrases and idioms. The marriage of Philip and Mary 
 might probably conduce greatly to this effect ; though the 
 progress of the reformation in England, and the strong 
 political and coriimercial hostility, which aherwards ex- 
 isted between 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 na- 
 tions bad for a long period been sunk in tameness and 
 mediocrity, 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 exhibited 
 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 
 Armada for the invasion of England. Shakspeare 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
 
 24 LECTURES ON 
 
 merely trod the mimic stage, and the other acted a part 
 on 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 uiourns 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 impor- 
 tant 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 rnarititne superiority, which has given England, 
 insignificant as it is in extent and population, so important 
 an influence over the destinies of the globe. But be- 
 sides tnis, she was a munificent and discriminating patron 
 of letters and literary men ; was herself an accomplished 
 linguist ; and according to Puttenham, " a poetess of tol- 
 erable pretensions." Her court was thronged with men 
 of letters and of genius. Her chancellor was the immor- 
 tal Bacon, the father of modern philosophy ; among her 
 most distinguished captains, were Raleigh and Sidney; 
 among her peers, were Lord Brooke, Vere, Earl of Ox- 
 ford, and Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, all distinguished 
 poets ; among her prelates and dignified divines, were 
 Hali, 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 distributed, 
 lawn sleeves, or robes of ermine, coronets, or badges of 
 knighthood, the\ were rarely, if ever, given without re- 
 ference 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 stifii 
 pedantic, and absurd productions of his pen, styled him-
 
 ENGLISH FOETRi. 85 
 
 self an author- Literature rather advanced than retro- 
 graded under his rule ; and indeed, something like that 
 mighty engine which is now of such enormous power, 
 puhlic opinion, hegan to form in the nation ; taking lite- 
 rature under its protection, and thus rendering it less de- 
 pendent, than heretofore, upon the monarch and the 
 court. Of the sovereign, however, who sent Raleigh to 
 the block, no literary man, or lover of letters, can speak 
 with respect. The authors who flourished in his reigu 
 were for the most part those who adorned that of Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 The accession of Charles the First seemed an auspi- 
 cious 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 in- 
 debted for the acquisition of the Cartoons of Raphael ; 
 he invited Vandyke, Rubens, Bernini, and other foreign 
 artists into this country ; was the liberal patron of Ben 
 .Tonson, Iniiio Jones, and other native poets and artists ; 
 and, among the crimes with which he was charged by his 
 enemies, was one which, at the present day, we cannot 
 judge to be quite uupardtjuable, namely, — that the volumes 
 of Shakspeare were his companions day and night. The 
 poets \^o flourished in his reign, in addition to those who 
 survived the reigns of his predecessors, although they pos- 
 sessed not the commanding genius, and the wonderfal cre- 
 ative 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 versifica- 
 tion was not of that tame and cloying nature, which the 
 imitators of Pope afterwards introduced into our litera- 
 ture ; smooth to the exclusion of every bold and original 
 thought. 
 
 The writings of Carew, Crashaw, Waller, Herrick, and 
 Suckling, sparkling with the most brilliant and original 
 ideas, expressed in the most elegant versification, shine out 
 like precious gems richly cased. The favourite amuse- 
 ment of this period was the dramatic entertainments 
 called masques. These were got up at court with an 
 extraordinary magnificence, which, we are told, modern 
 splendour never reached even in thought ; and that the 
 
 D
 
 26 LECTURES ON 
 
 taste in which they were produced was equal to the splen- 
 dour, we may rest assured, when we know that Ben Jon- 
 sou commonly wrote the poetry, Lawes composed the 
 music, and luij^o Jones designed the decorations. Had 
 Charles long continued to sway the English sceptre, there 
 is no doubt that literature and the arts, but especially 
 the latter, would have been materially advanced. To 
 them the estabhshment of a Commonwealth, whatever it 
 may have eilected 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 
 players 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 efi'ect to the service of the 
 church, was abolished as one of the most odious among 
 the abominations of Popery ; 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 au- 
 thor, every thing which bore the slightest resemblance to 
 the popish symbol of the crucifix was held in such detes- 
 tation, that even tailors were forbidden to sit cross*legged I 
 The king's paintings, we are told by Whitelocke, were 
 sold at very low prices, and enriched all the collections 
 in Europe ; and, but for the tact and management of Sel- 
 den, the library and medals of St. James's would have 
 been put up to auction, in order to pay the arrears of 
 some regiments of cavalry, quartered near London. 
 Poets, and other literary men, were not only disturbed in 
 their studies by the clang of arms, but many of them ex- 
 changed 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 contend- 
 ing for its very existence agaiuit the colossal power of
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 27 
 
 8 
 
 pain ; and it was during the political and religious frenzy 
 of the times of wiiich we are now speaking, that Milton 
 stored Ins mind with those subhme imaginings, which atter- 
 wards expanded into that vast masterpiece of hunian 
 genius, the " Paradise Losi^ There can be but little 
 doubt that whtn this lilustiious poet, a man so accom- 
 plished in min(i and manners, joined the paiiiamentary 
 party, he made many sacrifices of taste and feeling, for 
 what he considered-^whethev correctly or not, it is not 
 now my province to inquire, — the cause of civil and reli- 
 gious liberty. Neither, vulgar avid tasteless 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, Marvel), Harrington, 
 Young, Vane, and others, who call'd Milton friend.'* 
 
 In early life he published his charming " Comus,'^ 
 *' UJlllegro,"^^ " // Penseroso,''^ " Lycidas,^' and others of 
 his niin ir poems. During the war, his active engage- 
 ments, as Latin secretary to the Protector, and generally, 
 p.s a poHtical paitizan, occu(iied 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, how- 
 ever, until " fallen on evil days and evil tongues," when 
 the once celebrated Latin secretary, and the future poet 
 of " all time," was only known as the blind old school- 
 master of Artillery- walk, that he produced his immortal 
 cjiic. 
 
 The present Introductory Lecture being, as I have 
 already stated, rather histoiical than critical, I shall not 
 here enter into any examination of the merits of " Para- 
 dise Lost.''^ I wtiuld, however, say a few words as to its 
 eifects upon the literature of the time. It is a very com- 
 mon error to suppose that it fell almost still-born from the 
 press ; or, at least, that it was gent- rally received with ex- 
 traordinaiy coolness and neglect. That it was not at first 
 acknowledged to be entitled to occupy that proud station 
 on the British Purnassus, which is now universally con- 
 ceded to it, is unquestionable ; but it is equally certain.
 
 28 LECTURES ON 
 
 that when first puhllshecl, it was hailed with admiration 
 and dehght, by men of the highest lalent ; and that even 
 throughout the nation at large, the circumstances of the 
 author, and the sjiirit 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 prof- 
 ligate and irrelii?ious than it harl been known to have ever 
 been before. " Paradise Lost" was moreover written in 
 blank verse ; a new, and strange, and, to many ears, an 
 unpleasing style of metre, and the p\irity and severity of 
 taste which reigned throughout it, was opposed to the 
 popular admiration of the far-fetched conceUs and the 
 tawdry ornaments of Cowley, and the metaphysical 
 school. Notwithstanding all these disadvantages, the 
 poem received extraordinary homage, both from the 
 learned and the public. Andrew Marvell and Dr. Bar- 
 row addressed eulogistic verses to the author ; and Dry- 
 den, 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 us all out, 
 and the ancients too." He also comj)limenfed Milton 
 with the well known epigram, beginning " Three Poets, 
 in three distant ages boin ;" and alterwards, with his con- 
 sent, constructed a Drama called '• The State of Inno- 
 cence ; or, the Fall of Alan," Ibunded upon " Paradise 
 Lost.''' "Fit audience let me find, though iaw," 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 tv/o 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 Sgo- 
 nistes." Neither of the latter works can be said to have 
 advanced the fame of the f\uthor of the former ; but for
 
 ENGLISH voetry; 29 
 
 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 overlook- 
 ing Milton, we must admit that the judgment of the age 
 cannot be very severely arraigned for its choice ot favour- 
 ites. The matchless wit of the first, notwithstanding his 
 occasional jirossnesses, and his too general obscurity ; the 
 profound pathos and sweet versification of the second, 
 notvathstanding his wretched ribald attempts at wit and 
 humour, his imperfect delineation of character, and the 
 wicked sin of bombast, ot which he is always guilty when 
 he wishes to be sublime ; and the polish, elegance, and 
 majestic flow of versifii-ation, the keen and indignant 
 satire, and the light and airy fancy of the last, notwith- 
 standing bis want of every thing that can be strictly called 
 originality or invention ; I say that these brilliant endow- 
 ments 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 ad- 
 mirers. About this period, too, began that brilliatit but 
 profligate school of comedy, which, in time, could num- 
 ber in its ranks Wycheiley, Etherege, Faiquhar, Van- 
 ■ bruglj, Congreve, Centlivre, and, last and least, Cibber. 
 This school has been, strangely enough, termed a French 
 school of comedy : though all its characteristics, both of 
 merit and defect, appear to me to be perfectly national. 
 The great stain of profligacy, which is unhappily im- 
 pressed upon all its 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 theirs, can pretend to point out 
 in the scenes of French comedy, any thing like the un- 
 blushing and shameless indelicacy which disgraces the 
 masterpieces of English uit and humour. I fear that it 
 is to that highly gifted duumvirate, Beaumont and Fletcher, 
 that wc must assign the »' bad eminence" of having origi- 
 nally given to English comedy this unfortunate character- 
 istic. In the writings of Shakspare, Jonson, and others 
 of their contemporaries, we meet with occasional instances 
 of this fault, but in none of them is it mixed up so esscn-
 
 J* 
 
 J-tCrURKS ON 
 
 tially with the entire stamina and spirit of the drama, as 
 it is in Bcautnont and Fletcher. The doiiunation of the 
 puritans al'teiwanls checkt-d this vitiat«'d lassie : but at the 
 restoration u lnokt- out again in ni.*r» than piistine vigour, 
 and continued so long to infect dramatic lit^raturt-, that, 
 with the exception of the " Provoktd llushanif ot Van- 
 brugh and Ciblxr, it would be iiliirult lo point out a single 
 comeilv betw. en the ti^Mcs of D.yden and S;eele, which 
 could possibly now be read aloud in reputable society. 
 D«icency afterwards reigned upon the stage; but, un- 
 fortunately, she brought dulncbS and imbecility along 
 with her. 
 
 The reign of Queen Anne, to which our inquiries have 
 now brought us, is a very celebraied j)eriod in the annals 
 of English literature, and has been generally styled its 
 Augustine age. I am not disposed to quarrel witli names. 
 As far as prose literature is concerned, I am willing to 
 adiiiit that English authors, during the reign of Anne, 
 surpassed all their predecessors. The language certainly 
 then poisewsed a higher polish, and was fixed upon a more 
 durable basis, than it had tver attained btiore ; a taste 
 for hterature was ver^ generally diffused, and authors 
 were most muuittcently patronised. Indeed, this may 
 rather be siyled the golden age for authors ; for emi- 
 nence in polite literature was then a passpoit to wealth, 
 and honour, and sometimes to the highest oliices of the 
 state. Rowe was undei--secretary for i)ubric affairs ; 
 Congrevc enjoyed a lucrative post in the custoins , Swift 
 exercised great authority and influc nee in the Tory cabi- 
 net ; Prior was amoassadur to the court of France ; and 
 Addison was a secretary of state ; but if, by styling this 
 the Augu.stine age, it is meant to affirm that its po rical 
 productions are of a higher order of merit than those of 
 any former period of our literary history, then 1 must 
 pause before 1 admit the propriety of so designating it. 
 Grace, fluency, elegance., and 1 will venture to add, me- 
 diocrity, are the. characteristics 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 S^vif\, Pope, and Gay brightened the annals of the 
 period ot which I am speaking , but what are its preten- 
 sions, when compared with the age of Queen Elizabeth %
 
 ENGLISH tOETRi. - SI 
 
 What are even the great names which I have just men- 
 tioned, when weighed against those of Jonson, Fletcher, 
 Massinger, Spenser, and Sbukspcare ? and as to the minor 
 writers of the two periods, who would dream of mention- 
 ing Donne, Diumtiiond, Brown, Carew, and Herrick, in 
 the same breath with Duke. King, Sprat, Tickell, lalden, 
 and Hughes 1 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 
 equality. Leaving originality out of the question, I will 
 ask, v/hat 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 Beau- 
 mont's dramas, and the sweet songs of Carew and Her- 
 rick ? The following is a once much adm.ired song, by 
 Lord Landsdowne, who was comptroller of the household 
 to Queen Anne : — 
 
 " The thoughtful nights, and restless waking, 
 
 Oil ! 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 I 
 
 Still preserving, still receiving, 
 Fierce, immortal ecstasy !" 
 
 To these verses, which, I admit, are exceedingly 
 smooth and (lowing, 1 will oppose some by the supposed 
 rugged old bard, Ben Jonson ; and I will then ask, for I 
 do not wish to bear unreasonably hard upon the noble 
 poet of the Augustan age> — I say, I will then ask, not 
 which has the most sense, the most meaning, tlie most
 
 32 - LECTURES ON 
 
 poetry, but which of the two songs possesses the nabiesC 
 music in the versification ? 
 
 " Oh ! do not wanton with those eyes, 
 
 Lest I be sick with sfeinjj ; 
 Nor oust itiein down, but let them rise, 
 
 Lest shame destroy their being. 
 
 Oh ! be not angry with those fires, 
 
 For then tijeir thre.its 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 distrnct with fears, 
 
 Mine own enough betray me !" 
 
 When it is remembered that these latter verses were 
 written one hundred years before thf' former, I think that 
 I shall not excite a y sur.oise, when I say that I cannot 
 discover in what consists the wonderful refinement, and 
 improvement in versification, 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 indtbted for all the im- 
 provement 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 carelessly. Denham and Dryden alone had reduced 
 it to any thin.^ 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 discordant line in all that he has written. His 
 thoughts, so oJten brilliant and original, sparkle more 
 brightly by reason of the elegant and flowing rhymes in 
 which they are expressed ; and even where the ideii is 
 feeble or coinmon-;.'lace, 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 
 ull effect to the harmony. The unpleasant effect pro*
 
 ENGLISH POETRI. 33 
 
 duced upon the ear by the frequently running ot' tlie sense 
 of one line with another, and especially of continuing the 
 sentence from the last line of one couplet to the lirst line 
 of the next, Pope felt, and judiciously avoided. Still, for 
 the sense always to tind 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 predeces- 
 sors. Lord Byron especially, has, by pauses in the middle 
 of the line, and by occasionally, but with judgment and 
 caution, running one line into another, — enormities, at 
 which the poet of whom we are now speaking, would 
 have been stricken with horror, — has frequently produced 
 effects of which the well tuned, but somewhat fettered, 
 lyre of Pope was utterly incapable. It is, however, in- 
 justice to Pope, to speak of him so long as a mere ver- 
 sifier ; great as liis merits were in that respect, his poetry, 
 as we shall hereafter show more at length, possessed re- 
 commendations of a higher and nobler order ; keen 
 satire, deep pathos, great powers of description, and 
 wonderful richness and ent-rgy 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 poetry. The tragedies 
 of Shakspeare were driven from the stage, to make way 
 for those of Addison and Rowe ; such songs as my lord 
 Lansdowne's, of which I have given a specimen, were 
 thought cvonderfully natural and touching ; and pastoral 
 and descriptive poetry was in the hands of such rural 
 swains as Ambrose Philips and others, who were called 
 iTien 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 consi- 
 dered 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, unconsciously 
 Droduced a real and natural likeness of rustic scenerv and 
 
 E
 
 34 LECTURES ON 
 
 society. There is a well known picture ol day-break by 
 Shakspeare, which, although comprised in two lines, pos- 
 sesses more of reality and vividness than can be found in 
 Avhole volumes of dilluse description which I could name : 
 
 " Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund Day 
 Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain's top." 
 
 This passage would have been considered vile and vulgar 
 by the critics of those days : the word " candles" would 
 liave been voted low and unpoetical, and " torches," per- 
 haps substituted for it ; " Day" would never have been 
 described as standing " tiptoe," but as with " foot up- 
 raised," or " profoundly advancing ;" and what gentleman 
 wlio walked about the Strand and the Mall, writing pas- 
 toral poetry, would, when speaking of " mountain tops," 
 have thought of the mists which sometimes envelope 
 them, or would have dreamed that such ugly accompani- 
 ments could possibly add to their sublimity and beauty'? 
 Shakspeare has so little idea of what is regal and Roman, 
 that he shows 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 Cccsar as once shivering 
 with an ague-fit : — 
 
 •' Aye, and that tongue of his, that bade tlie Romans 
 Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, 
 Alas 1 it cried, ' give me some drink, Titinius,' 
 Like a sick girl !" 
 
 In the Augustan age, however, things were ordered very dif- 
 ferently " On avoit change tout cela.'' Jllexand&i^ could 
 not appear upon the stage until one of the persons of the 
 drama exclaims, " Behold ! the master of the world ap- 
 proaches !" Calo, when for the first time he sees the 
 dead body of his son, does not, as Shakspeare, in tiis 
 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 ol' 
 the " Ci(r learns that her father has been slain by her
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. ' 30 
 
 lover, what does she do ] In nature, she would fahit, or 
 at any rate she would certainly not think ot 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 illus- 
 trious by its prose writings. Its poetry is, with few 
 exceptions, exceedingly mediocre. Pope, Gay, Swift, 
 Steele, Shaftsbury, Addison, and Bolingbroke are its fore- 
 most 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 liistory of English poetry for a long period after- 
 wards presents a very dreary and melancholy prospect. 
 It is in the didactic walk alone, which is the nearest allied 
 to prose, that v/e 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 in- 
 debted, and who distinguished themselves as much as the 
 narrow walk in which they chose to be confined would 
 allow them. Thomson especially did much to bring back 
 the attificial taste of the public to a just appreciation of 
 natural scenes and sentiments, naturally described and ex- 
 pressed. His exclamation on the publication of Glover's 
 *' Leonidas,''^ "What ! he write an epic poem who never 
 Baw a mountain !"' shows 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 find his beautiful thoiights 
 obscured, instead of being adorned. This objection, how- 
 ever, does not apply to the " Castle of Indolence,^^ the 
 jnost delightful production of its age. Akenside wrote 
 elegantly and classically, with precision, and with energy. 
 Goldsmith is perfection in every thing that he has done : 
 the only thing to regret is, that he has done so little. 
 Young, so often turgid and declamatory, is not, I confess, 
 much to my taste, altliough he has doubtless many bold 
 and original thoughts, which he expresses very povverfull}'. 
 Dyer, in his long poem upon sheep-shearing, has made 
 as much of so unpoelical a theme as could possibly be
 
 56 LECTURES ON 
 
 expected ; but the theme, after all, had better have been 
 let alone. The epics of Blackmore, of Wilkie, and A 
 Glover, once enjoyed considerable popularity. They have 
 now passed into comparative oblivion ; and, with the ex- 
 ception 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, clas- 
 sical, 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 na- 
 ture of the subject ; hut 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 who dare not censure, scarce can praise." 
 
 But brighter days were about to dawn on English 
 poetical literature. The public became satiated with the 
 mediocrity with which their poetical caterers 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 Shaks- 
 peare ; and so laid the foundation of that general know- 
 ledge and due appreciation of the merits of the great dra- 
 matist, which form so distinguishing and creditable a fea- 
 ture in the public taste at the present day. Percy gave to 
 the world those invaluable literary treasures, the ^^Reliques 
 of ^flncient English Poetry,^' which, although at first re- 
 ceived with coolness and neglect, eventually, by their sim- 
 plicity and beauty, extorted general admiration ; and, as 
 Mr. Wordsworth has said, " absolutely redeemed the po- 
 etry of this country." — " I do not think," adds this distin- 
 guished 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.^ 1 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 contempora-
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 37 
 
 ries, and Beaumont and Fletcher, Ford, Massinger, and Jon- 
 son, with all the world of literav} wealth which their works 
 contain, were given to the public by the successive labours 
 of Seward, Whalley, Coleman, Weber, and Giftord. Ellis 
 and Headley also published their " i!ipecime7is of the An- 
 cient English Poets ;" and Dr. Anderson sent tbrih into 
 the world his edhion 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 collection with the works of Cowley. An 
 author too, of a far higher character for originality of 
 mind, purity of taste, simplicity of thought and expression, 
 and deep observation of natun-, 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 show 
 that the taste of the public had undergone a great revo- 
 lution since the time when the pastorals of PhUlips, the 
 heroics of Blackmore, and the l3rics of Lansdowne, were 
 its 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 of inquii ing in a sub- 
 sequent lecture. I mean the poems attributed to Row- 
 ley 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 in- 
 quiry down to a later period, or to venture upon any discus- 
 sion 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 atten- 
 tion to the Scottish poets who flourished during the period 
 which has been embraced by our inquiries. This omis' 
 sion has occurred, not, 1 trust, from any insensibility to 
 the merits of those distinguished writers, but from a con-
 
 GS LECTURES ON 
 
 sciousness of my own inability to speak critically upon the 
 subject. To select a i'ew names at random, Dunbar, the 
 northern Chaucer ; James the First, the ou\y monarch 
 whose poetical laurels has been large enough to hide his 
 diadem; and Burns, the most exquisite lyrical poet which 
 this nation or any other has ever yet possessed, are au- 
 thors whose nu-rits, although they may be universally felt 
 and appreciated, can onl) 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 woids," carry their ov/n eulogy along with 
 them ; and I will venture to assert, that there are few 
 persons who will refuse to echo the sentiment of a dis- 
 tinguished living writer; — 
 
 " Blessings be on them, and eternal praise. 
 The Poets I"
 
 ENGLISH POETRV. o^ 
 
 LECTURE THE SECOND. 
 
 EPIC AND NARRATIVE POETRV, 
 
 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 : — Drayton : — Chamber- 
 lain's Pharonnida : — Chapman's Homer, and other old Eng- 
 lish Translations of Epic and Narrative Poetry : — Milton : — 
 Influence of Paradise Lost on the National Taste : — Para- 
 dise Regained : — Cowley's Davideis : — Davenant : — Dry- 
 den : — The Translations of Rowe, Pope, &.c. — Authenti- 
 city of Macpherson's Ossian : — Cliatterton. 
 
 Having already treated the subject of English poetry 
 historically, and endeavoured to give a sketch of the revo- 
 lutions 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, dt vote 
 this, and the remaining lectures, to the consideration, — 
 First, of epic and narrative poetry ; Secondly, of dra- 
 matic poetry ; Thirdly, ot' descriptive and didactic po- 
 etry, including 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 eftbrt been made, that the rarity 
 of such an occurrence alone, would seem to justify the 
 very high estimate which has been formed of its value. 
 1 will not attempt to say how many, or how (tw, poems 
 have been produced, which arc really and truly of an 
 e{)ic character. Some critics maintain that tliere is only
 
 •10 LECTURES ON 
 
 one, tlie production of the immortal lather of poetry ; 
 others admit the " JKneiil" into the Hst ; Englishmen 
 struggle to obtain the e[)ic bays tor IMilton ; and the Ita- 
 lians, the Portuguese, and the Germans are equally stren- 
 uous in tbfir advocacy of the rights of Tasso, of Camo- 
 ens, and of Klopsiock. Even granting all these claimg, 
 and I am not aware of another deserving even of a mo- 
 ment's consideration, we shall find that the world has, 
 during the six thousand years of its existence, produced 
 only six epic poets. 
 
 I know tliat 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 reverently, for, — 
 
 " We do it wrong, being so majestical, 
 To offer it the show of violence," 
 
 I will venture a few observations upon it. The drama is 
 to epic poetry, what sculp ure is to historical painting-. 
 It is, perhaps, on the whole, a severer art. It rejects 
 many a iventitious aids of which the epic mayaviiil itself. 
 It has more unity and simplicity. Its figures stand 
 out more boldly, and in stronger relief. But then it has 
 no aerial ba<'k ground ; it has no perspective of enchant- 
 ment : it cannot draw so larg' y on the imagination of the 
 spectator ; it must present to ihe eye, and make palpable 
 to the touch, what the epic poet may steep.Ln the rainbow 
 hues of fancy, and veil, 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
 
 ENGLISH rOETRV. " 4% 
 
 Weil possessed of Iiigli 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:"-— 
 
 tie 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 nmst 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 the} are to appear. Still, the drama, by the very 
 circumstances which condense and circumscribe its 
 powers, becomes capable of exciting a more intense and 
 tremendous interest. Hence there are pieces of dra- 
 matic writing, which, even 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 PVallenstein and the 
 Swedisk Captain, may be adduced as instances. Per- 
 hafis, to sum up the whole question, what the epic poet 
 gains in expansion and variety, the dramatic poet gains 
 in condensation and intensity. When Desdemona sa3's to 
 OthcllOy — • 
 
 " And yet I fear, 
 When your eyes roll so ;" 
 
 we have as vivid a portrait of the Moors countenance, 
 as the most laboured description could give us. Again, 
 how powerfully is the frown on the features of the Ghosi 
 in " Hamlet" pictured to us in two lines : — 
 
 '' So frown'd he once, when in an angry parie, 
 lie smote the sledded Polack on the ice." 
 
 Such descriptions would be meagre and unsatisfactory 
 in e{)ic poetry ; more diffuse ones would mar the interest, 
 and impede the action in the drama. In the drama the 
 irrand pivot upon which the whole moves is action : in 
 
 F
 
 42 LECTtRE::* 0X5 
 
 epic poetry it is narration. Narration is the fitter me- 
 ilium for representing a grand series of events ; and action 
 for exhibiting the power or 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 jealousy of Olhello, 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 won- 
 dered at ; the drama is felt. We lift Milton like a con- 
 queror above our heads ; we clasp Shakspeare 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 ao 
 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 taste enough to perceive its superiority over " Para- 
 dise Regained.^'' Rowe, who produced so many success- 
 ful 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 " .S/fcr." Dr. Johnson was proud of his 
 Dictionary, 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 bash- 
 fulness. The fact, however, is often otherwise ; it is not 
 humility, but want of taste. Genius, or the power of 
 producing such works, is not accompanied by taste, or 
 the power of appreciating them. Taste is of later growth
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. -13 
 
 in the mind than Genius ; and the reason is, I think, ob- 
 vious. Genius is innate : a part and portion of the mind ; 
 born with it ; while taste is the result of observation, 
 and inquiry, and experience. However the folly and 
 vanity of ignorance and presumption may have deluged 
 the public wirh worthless productions, there can be no 
 doubt that the deficiency of taste in men of genius, has 
 deprived the world of many a work of merit and origi- 
 nality. 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 Eng- 
 lish 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 classi- 
 cal writers, then I admit and I glory in its truth. The great 
 characteristic of English literature, from the days of 
 Chaucer to the present time, has been its 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 exclu- 
 sive possession of the epic bays by Homer and Virgil, 
 will be conciliated by such a concession, I will be content 
 that " Paradise Losf shall be called a divine poem ; tho 
 " Fainj Qtteen," a romantic poem ; and the " Ganlerbunj 
 Tales,^^ a narrative poem. If original genius, if severe 
 taste, if profound knowledge of human nature, if a luxu- 
 riant 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 incontes- 
 tibly entitled to those honours. 
 
 These three poets have not many points of comparisonj 
 They are each original and great. If I may be a1 lower}
 
 44 LECTURES ON 
 
 to illustrate my opinions by a reference to the sister art, I 
 should say, that ('haucer's outlines are more spirited and 
 graceful ; but that Spenser is the fmer 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 Raifaele and Teniers com- 
 bined : RatVaelle, perhaps, a little lowered from his pin- 
 nacle of dignity and elegance, and Teniers certainly 
 much elevated above his vulgarity and grossnesses. 
 For the genius of Milton I can hardly find a fitting com- 
 parison. When he sets the Deity in arms, when he mar- 
 shals 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 shows 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 to those of his great predecessor. Chaucer's 
 knowledge of the heart of man vvas almost Shakspearean. 
 Spenser had, however, a richer imagination. He was a 
 greater inventor, although a less acute observer, Chaucer
 
 ENGLISH POETRV. 45 
 
 was incapable of creating such original imaginary beings 
 as the Fays, Elves, Heroes, and Heroines of Spenser ; 
 and Spenser was equally iiscapable of the exquisite truth 
 and fidelity of Chaucer's portiaituics from real lue. There 
 is also a fine moral and didactic lone running thrcugh the 
 " Fairy Queen,'^ which we look lor in vain in the ^'Can- 
 terbury Tales. ^' Spenser's imagery is magnificent. His 
 descriptive powers are of the highest order. Here the 
 two poets approximate more than in any other particu- 
 lar : yet even here, they essentially differ. Spenser paints 
 fairy haunts, enchanted palaces, unearthly Parailises, 
 things such as Caliban saw in his sleep, and, " waking, 
 cried to dream again." Chaucer's pencil depicts the smil- 
 ing verdant English landscape, which v/e 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 introi'uced to a 
 new creation, new scenes, new manners, new characters. 
 The laws of nature are suspended, or reversed. The pos- 
 sible, 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 marvtlious 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 chaiacters savour of huo anity. 
 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, Courtf^sy, but it is not Man. 
 His heroine is Meekness, Chastity, Constancy, Beauty, 
 but it is noi Woman ; — his landsca{)es are fertility, Hiag- 
 r.ificence, 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 arc dreams : glorious, soul-entrancing 
 dreams. They are audacious, but magnificent falsehoods.
 
 48 LECTURES ON 
 
 They are like the palaces built in the clouds ; the domes, 
 the turrets, the towers, the long-drawn terraces, the aerial 
 battlements, who does not know that they have no stable 
 existence ? but, who «loes not sigh when they pass away ? 
 The ^^ Mirror of Magistrates^^ was a work to which 
 many of ihe most eminent writers in Elizabeth's reign 
 contributed. It consists of narratives of the adventures 
 of certain princes, an! othei- great characters in English 
 history, whose lives had been unfortunate. Its incidents 
 are founded on the old chronicles, which, indeed, are Jbl- 
 lowed so servilely in general, as to give to the work a very 
 prosaic character, and to take from it all claim to original- 
 ity. The most valuable portion of it is the Induction, by 
 Lord Backhurst. The poet supposes himself to be led, 
 like Dante, to the infernal regions, under the conduct of 
 Sorrow ; where he meets with the spirits of those persons, 
 alike distinguished for their hi'.rh station and their misfor- 
 tunes, whose narrations compose the volume. He also 
 meets with various allegorical characters : such as Fear, 
 Sorrow, Old Age, Sleep, and Death ; and it is in the won- 
 derful power and spirit with v^hich the poet personifies 
 these allegorical beings, that the great merit of his work 
 consists. What, for instance, can be liner, or truer, than 
 the following picture of Old Age ? — 
 
 " And next in order sad Old Age we found ; 
 His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind, 
 
 With drooping cheer still pouring on the ground, 
 As on the place where nature him assign'd 
 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 wither'd fist still knocking at Death's door^ 
 
 Trembling and drivelling as he draws his breath, 
 
 Jji brief, the shape and messenger of Death."
 
 ENGLISH POETKV. 47 
 
 Sleep is also delineated with the pencil of a master : — 
 
 '• By him lay heavy Sleej), cousin of Dpath, 
 Flat on the grf>und, and still as any stone ; 
 
 A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath ; 
 
 Small keep took he, whotn Fortune frowned on, 
 Or who 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 travaiPs ease, the still Night's fere was he, 
 
 And of our life in earth the better part ; 
 Rever of sight, and yet m whom we see 
 Things oft that 'tide, and oft that never be. 
 
 Without respect, esteeming equally 
 
 King Croesus' pomp, and Irus' poverty." 
 
 The following description of Night may likewise chai- 
 lenge 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, the fields, and all things held their peace. 
 
 The golden Stars were whirl'd 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 ol his contem- 
 poraries, 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 bighe.«it
 
 46 LECTURES ON 
 
 powers is demanded and deserved. AVarner in his "^Z- 
 bmi's England''' h.ts preserved many of our old national 
 tiaditious, and embellished them with much truth, nature, 
 and siin[ilicity. The ballad stanza, however, in which he 
 writes becomes tedious and fatiguing, when excruciated 
 to the leiij^th in which he employs it. Chamberlain's 
 " Pharoimida'^ is a very noble work. The characters are 
 dra>vii an i 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 show how rich the poem is in the latter par- 
 ticular. Joys not yet mature, or consummated, are ele- 
 gantly said to be 
 
 " Clothed in fresh 
 Blossoms of Hope, hke Souls ere mix'd with flesh :'■ 
 
 and Hope is styled 
 
 " That wanton bird that sings as soon as hatch'd." 
 
 ■ The agitation of Pharonnida. when discovered by her 
 father with her lover's letter in her hand, is thus de- 
 scribed . — 
 
 " She stands 
 A burtlien to her trembUng legs, her hands 
 Wringing each other's ivory joints, her bright 
 Eyes scattering their distracted beams." 
 
 May wrote the histories of Henry the Second, and o( 
 Edward the Third, in verse. He also translated the 
 " Georgics''^ of Virgil, and the " Pharsalia'^ of Lucan. The 
 last is a performance of great merit ; as is also the conti- 
 nuation of the poem to the death of Julius Caesar, by the 
 tra-islator The .reign of Queen Elizabeth was pecu- 
 liarly rich in poetical translations. Fairfax's Tasso, whicli 
 was so long and so strangely neglected, is now recovering 
 its popularity. Of all the stiange caprices of the public 
 taste, there is none more strange, than the preference 
 which was given to the rhyue-tagged prose of Hoole, 
 over this spirited and truly poetical production of Fairfax. 
 Chapman's Homer, with all its faults, is also a production
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 49 
 
 oi great value and interest. The " //irtrt" is written in the 
 cumbrous and unwieldy old Knglisii 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, notwith- 
 standing its occasional quaintness, sutficiently prove the 
 power and energy of the translator : — 
 
 *' He took much ruth to see the Greeks from Troy receive such 
 
 ill, 
 And mightily incens'd with Jove, stoop'd straight from that 
 
 steep hill ; 
 That shook as he flew ofT, so liard his parting pressM the 
 
 height, 
 The woods, and ail the great hills near, trembled beneath the. 
 
 weight 
 Of his immortal moving feet : three steps he only took, 
 Before he far off ^Egas reach'd ; but with the fourth if. 
 
 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 whiripits 
 
 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 ci)ithets of the Greeks, which are so very 
 striking and powerful in the original ; but which, unhap- 
 pily, cannot be transferred to our language with the same 
 felicity. Pope calls .]uno "the goddess of the large 
 majestic eyes," which is certainly a somewhat too free 
 amplification of the original epithet. Chapman more lite- 
 rally, but I am afraid not more happily, calls her "the 
 cow-evcd qu€cn." 
 
 G
 
 50 LECTtfRES ON 
 
 Crashaw's translation of Marino's " Sospetti if 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 tiie finest 
 passages in " Paradise Lost."" 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 specimen. We iiave been regaled 
 with specimens of old English ballads, of old English 
 metrical romances, and of old English dramatists, and 
 I hope that it will not be long before some editor of con)- 
 petent 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 versa- 
 tility; but none ever approached him in intensity of style 
 and thought, in unity of purpose, and in the power and 
 grandeur with which he piles up the single monument ot 
 genius, to which his mind is for the time devoted. His 
 harp may have but one string, but that is such a one, as 
 none but his own finger knows how to touch. " Paradise 
 Losf^ has itw 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 remitted : elaborated with the highest polish, yet 
 with all the marks of ease and simplicity in its composi- 
 tion. 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 'I Whence came his knowledge ? What rules 
 or system did he proceed upon, in building up his magni- 
 ficent 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 
 medium for the expression of the thoughts and feelings of 
 })oetry,— beyond the volumes of Milton.
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 51, 
 
 The peculiar distinguishing feature of Milton's poetry 
 is its suhlimity. The sublime is reached 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 ; 
 ivhen he soars, it is to reach heights unattainable by any 
 but himself. The first two books of " Paradise Losf are 
 one continuous effort of unihitigated sublimity. I know 
 of no spot, or blemish, or inequafity, or falling off, from the 
 beginning of the first book to the close of the second ; 
 and then, how wonderfully tine is the contrast, when the 
 third book opens with that inimitably pathetic address to 
 Light, in which the poet alludes, with a pardonable ego- 
 tism, to the calamity under which he is himself suffering : — 
 
 "Hail holy Light! ofisprins; of Heaven first-born, 
 Or of th' eternal co-eternal beam !" 
 
 Because Milton is universally admitted to excel in sub- 
 limity, some critics have chosen to deny him jxUhos : but 
 this is the very cant of criticism, which will insist upon it 
 that the faults of every author must balance his excel- 
 lencies, and which delights in nothing but antithesis Thus 
 Sh ikspeare, we are told, is a great but irregular genius ; 
 .Tonson is a powerful but a rough and coarse writer ; and 
 Miiton is a sublime but not a pathetic poet : whereas the 
 plain fact, obvious to all who take the trouble to examine 
 it, is, tliat Shakspeare is not an irregular genius, that 
 .Tonson 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 lamint after his iall ; to Eve's 
 farewell to Paradise ; or to Satan, when about to adilress 
 his adherents, and endeavouring 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 weakness. 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,
 
 53 LECTURES ON 
 
 Angels and Demons, Humanity and Deity, all are por- 
 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 diffi- 
 cult and the most delightful chord of the poet's harp ; and 
 there is perhaps nothing in the whole range of })oetry 
 which gives so much unmixed pleasure, as that descriptive 
 of natural objects; while, at the same time, in nothing 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 indistinct- 
 ness of their pictures r they have no specific likeness. 
 Every thing is described in generals. No new ideas are 
 conveyed to the mind : but a dim and shadowy phantoni 
 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 him- 
 self, must fail in presenting any very vivid or stiking pic- 
 tures to others. If we were to cause the representations 
 of many of our modern poets to be faithfully transferred 
 to the canvass, we should quickly discover how defective 
 and unnatural, how utterly shapeless and monstrous, some 
 of their most celebrated delineations are. 
 
 Opposed to this lault, is another equally fatal, which 
 descends so minutely and curiously into particulars, nei- 
 ther governed I y 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 patch- 
 work. Such writeis stand in much the same relation to 
 the masters of descriptive poetry, as a book of the roads 
 in the neighbourhood of Claude's most celebrated scenes, 
 to his enchanting paintings. The following extrabt from 
 Cowley will sufficiently illustrate what 1 mean. It is a 
 description of the Angel Gabriel, as he appeared tn 
 David : — 
 
 " He took for skin, a cloud most soft and bright, 
 'J'liat eretlie mid-day Sun pierced through with light, 
 Upon his cheeks a lively blush he spread, 
 Wash'd from the Morning's beauties' deepest red_;
 
 ENGLISH POETUV. 5S 
 
 A 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 must 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 oil", a scart 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 hi.^ lace, and then his searl, and re- 
 lated it in the term> 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 
 Ejch 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 thiglis with downy gold. 
 And colours dipt in heaven ; tlie third Ins feet, 
 Sliadow'd from cither heel with feather'd mail. 
 Sky-tinctured grain Like Maia's son he stood, 
 And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance fiU'd 
 The circuit wide."' 
 
 The same immortal master has touched with a yet finer 
 and inore delicate pencil, the persons of our first parents 
 in Paradise : — 
 
 •' Two of far nobler shape, erect and tali, 
 Godlike '-rcct. will) native honour clad, 
 In naked majoi-ty, seein'd lords of all ; 
 And worthy seem'd ; for in tlicir Uxjks divine 
 'J'he image of their glorious Maker shone ; 
 'J'ruth, wisdom, sanctitiidc severe and pure. 
 Severe, but in true filial freedom placed. 
 Whence true autlK^ritv in men ; thouoh both 
 Not equal, as their sex not equal seem'd : 
 ]''or contemplation he, and valour form'd ; 
 For softness she, and sweet attractive grace ; 
 He for (lod onlv, she for God in him.
 
 54 LECTURES ON 
 
 His fair large front, and eye sublime, declared 
 Absolute rule; and hyacinthine locks 
 Hound from his parted forelock manly hung 
 Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad r. 
 She as a veil, down to her slender waist, 
 Her unadorned golden tresses wore 
 Dishcveird, but in wanton ringlets waved. 
 As the vine curls her tendrils." 
 
 Cowley is one of the earliest names of eminence in (he 
 history of English lyrical poeti), and it is prineij)ally in 
 reading his odes that we lament those metaphysical con- 
 ceits, which ohscure 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 ot a tree, whose v/aste foliage, 
 if properly pruned and arranged, would form an immor- 
 tal wreath on the brows of any humbltr 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 advan- 
 tage 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 Pmdaric eestacies. The narra- 
 tive itself is also heavy and uninteresting ; there are no 
 strongly drawn or predontinating characters; and the 
 allegorical personages, who are the chief actors, do not, 
 of course, excite any strong interest, or greaily arrest 
 the attention. Still there are man\ stattered beauties 
 throughout the poem ; many original ideas, and much 
 brilliant versification. The following is very sweetly ex- 
 pressed : — 
 
 " 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 walk'd, 
 And hand in hand, sad, gentle things they talk'd."
 
 ENGLISH POETKY. 55 
 
 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 froni now hero call'd forth all. 
 No Nature yet, or place for 't to possess, 
 But an unbottoniM gulf 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 fulfill'd : 
 And their astonish'd heads o' th' sudden rear'd ; 
 An unshaped land of something first appear'd, 
 Confessing its new being, and undrest. 
 As if it stepp'd in haste before the rest ; 
 let, buried in this matter's darksome womb, 
 Lay the rich seeds 6f every thing to come ; 
 From hence the cheerful flame leap'd up so high, 
 Close at its 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 '.' 
 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 stufl'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 smooth'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.
 
 56 LECTURES ON 
 
 Boasts, too, wore liis command ; wliat could lie more ? 
 Yos, Man ho could, the bond of all before ; 
 In him he all thinj^s with strang-e order hiirlM, 
 In him that full abridgnjent of the World !" 
 
 There are lilcewlse many beautiful lyrical pieces intro- 
 duced. The following in which Davit 1 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 slie, 
 And I so lowly be, 
 Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony I 
 
 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, 
 Hevenge 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, ray Lyre ! and let thy master die !'• 
 
 Unhappily, however,— 
 
 " Men's evil manners live in brass. 
 Their virtues we write in water ;" —
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. S'Si 
 
 The '"■ Davideis^^ is now seldom quoted ; and when it 
 is noticed, it is not for the purpose of recalling to our 
 recollection the brilliant passages which 1 have just cited. 
 If the poem live at all in the memory of the general 
 reader, it is by reason 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 narrative 
 poets, I shall be necessarily brief. Davenant's " Gondi' 
 hert^^ is very defective both in interest 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 Drjden's " FahleSy^ 
 and his ^^JEneid,^' 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 
 translations from Boccacio, and Chaucer, as his ^^^nekV^ 
 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 elforts of 
 his successors. Pope, Goldsmith, Campbell, 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 approxiinator. 
 
 " Waller was smooth, but Dryden taught to join 
 The varying verse, the fUll resounding line. 
 The long majestic marcii, 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 lldelity, 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 
 
 H
 
 58 LECTUKES OK 
 
 Pope I have already spoken at some lengtli, and we sliall 
 hereafter have occasion to consider his merits as a didac- 
 tic and descriptive poet. I shall, therelbre, not now 
 enter into any discussion of the subject. 
 
 Glover's " Leonidas''' I have also already noticed ; and 
 the epics of VVilkie 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 i" 
 
 The authenticity of the poems ascribed to Ossian, is a 
 subject full of doubt and intricacy, into the mazes of whicij 
 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 among a peo- 
 ple 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, perhaps, 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 sin- 
 gular fact, and strikes me as a strong argument against 
 their authenticity ; as the poetical compositions of all. 
 other nations are so closely connected with their mytho- 
 logy. 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 ex- 
 perience, and it is a high authority, against the proba- 
 bility of the genuineness of Ossian's Poems, by saying, 
 that no man who has been born and bred up among moun- 
 tain scenery, as Ossian was, would describe it as he has 
 done. This objection, however, cuts both ways. These 
 poems were written, if not by Ossian, by Macpherson, 
 and Macpherson was himself a highlander. I have also 
 heard more than one landscape painter of eminence, well 
 •acquainted with the scenery of the poems, — and such evi- 
 dence 1 cannot help considering of considerable weight, —
 
 bear testimony to the power and fidelity of Ossian*s de- 
 scriptions. The beauty and merit of the poems is, how- 
 ever, a question quite independent of their authenticity. 
 For myself, I confess that the most popular and most 
 often quoted passages are not my greatest favourites. 
 Ossian's most laboured efforts do not strike mc 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 
 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 pow- 
 erful : — " Death stands dim behind thee, like the darkened 
 half of the moon behind its 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 delineates character, or 
 narrates events, tenderness is the predominating fieeling 
 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 sutferings of 
 his heroines, than we do of delight at their beauty. His 
 heroes, if young, are cut otf before their fame is achieved ; 
 or if old, have survived their strength and prowess. Even 
 Fingal himself, is at last shown to us as a feeble ghost, 
 lamenting the loss of his mortal fame and vigour. 
 
 I have placed Chatterton among 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 productions. 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 stri[) his verses 
 of their antitpie spelling, and he iinds the language pre-
 
 60 LECTURES ON 
 
 cisely that which is used in the present day. Tal^e for 
 instance, the opening of the song Ella : — 
 
 " When' Freedom drest in blood stain'd vest, 
 'f o every land her war-song sung ; 
 f ' Upon her head wild weeds were spread. 
 
 A gory anlace by her hung.'' 
 
 The poems themselves bear internal evidence of then' 
 being the productions of a boy ; of a marvellous boy 
 indeed, but still of a boy. There are no traces of expe- 
 rience, of long observation, of a knowledge of human 
 nature, and indeed of acquirement of any sort. Of strong 
 natural powers, of talent, of genius, every page furnishes 
 us with abundant instances. Chatterton's forte I think 
 was pathos ; and had not his mortal career closed so 
 prematurely, he would probablyfhave devoted himself to 
 lyrical poetry. What he has left behind him, is full of 
 genius ; but full of inequalities and faults. We have 
 hardly sufficient data to enable us to judge what Chatter- 
 ton's real character, moral or literary, — and it is difficult 
 to separate them in our inquiry,— was, or would hare been, 
 I, for one, cannot help thinking, that the vices of the for- 
 mer were adventitious, and that the imperfections of the 
 latter would have been obviated, or removed. His tale is 
 but half told. Had not the curtain dropped so abruptly 
 on the hero of the drama, succeeding scenes might have 
 shown 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 its 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 its 
 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 and 
 popular study, and has employed the pens of all the most 
 eminent of our living writers. Although the limits which 
 1 have prescribed to myself in these lectures, do not per-
 
 ENGLISH poetry; 61 
 
 mit to discuss their merits, I may be allowed to say, that 
 the narrative 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.
 
 62 r.KCTURES ON 
 
 LECTURE THE THIRD. 
 
 DRAMATIC POETRY. 
 
 Origin of the Drama : — Old English Mysteries and Moralities ; 
 — Gof'boduc and Gavtmer Gurtotis 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 : — Ilia Tra- 
 gedy of Catiline : — Cartwright : — Beaumont and Fletcher : 
 — Massinger : — Ford and Webster. 
 
 My last lecture treated of the epic and narrative poets ; 
 I shall now briefly review the merits of the dramatic 
 poets who flourished previous to the restoration. Al- 
 though, iu a period of elegance and refinement, there is 
 not a more certain '• sign of the times" than a taste for 
 dramatic entertainments, yet the fact is, that these had 
 their origin in the rudest, and most uninformed afes of 
 society. In ancient Greece, Thespis, the father of tra- 
 gedy, represented his Dramas on a sort of cart, or move- 
 able stage, which was drawn from place to place ; and 
 his actors sang and danced alternately, with their faces 
 smeared with wine- lees : — 
 
 " Ignotum Tragical genus invenisse camosnar; 
 Dicitur, et plaustris vexisse poemata Tliespis, 
 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.
 
 ENGLISH tOETRi. Q3 
 
 and the balconies, or galleries around, being occupied as 
 the boxes and the stage ; and public theatres do not 
 appear to have been regular!) 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 its 
 origin in religious ceremonies. 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 were erect- 
 ed the splendid superstructures of ^schylus, and Euri- 
 pides, and Sophocles ; of Shakspeare, 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 fami- 
 lies, as it now is to write sermons ; and Sunday was a 
 day frequently appropriated for the representation of dra- 
 matic 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 persons of the Trinity, the good and evil an- 
 gels, 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 Gurtori's A^eedle."" The precise time of 
 its 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 gro- 
 tesque 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 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 discovered stick- 
 ing to part of her servant Hodge's breeches, which she 
 liad been lately employed in mending. The fine old song, 
 beginning •' Back and sides', go bare, go bare," with which
 
 U4 LKCTUHES ON 
 
 the second act of this play opens, is of itself sulhcient 
 to rescue it from oblivion. 
 
 Lonl Buckhurst's " Gorhoduc''' is the first regular tra- 
 gedy which ever appeared in England. The plot is meagre 
 and uninteresting ; the diction cumbrous and heavy ; and 
 the characters ill conceived, and hastily drawn. The dawn 
 of English tragedy was, therefore, as gloomy as its meridian 
 was splendid. George Peele, the author of" The Loves 
 of King David and Fair Bethsade,^' was a writer of a 
 very different stamp : and, although not possessing much 
 force and originality, there is a vein of pathos and unaf- 
 fected 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 ridi- 
 culed by Sir Walter Scott, in his character of Sir Piercie 
 Shafton, in the " Monastery," was nevertheless an author 
 of distinguished merit ; and in his " Cupid and Cam- 
 'paspe,''^ especially, we find touches of genuine poetry, and 
 unsophisticated nature. " The Spanish Tragedy, or, 
 Hieronimo is mad again," by Thomas Kyd, is valuable for 
 one scene only, which is supposed to have been interpo- 
 lated by a later hand, and has been attributed by various 
 commentators to Jonson, to Webster, and to Shakspeare, 
 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 discovery made a iew 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 canvass. 
 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 Paintek enters. 
 
 Paint. God bless you, Sir ! 
 
 Hieron. Wherefore ? why, thou scornful villain ! 
 How, where, or by what means should I be blest ? 
 
 Isab. What would you have, good fellow ? 
 
 Paint. Justice, madam. 
 
 Hieron. Oh ! ambitious felloV\^, would'st tJiou have tiiat 
 That lives not in the world "^
 
 ENISLISH POETRV^. IJS^ 
 
 Why all tiie undelved minds cannot buy 
 
 An ounce of justice ; 'tis a jewel so inestiinal)le. 
 
 1 tel! thee, God has engrossed all justice in his hand, 
 
 And there is none but what comes from him. 
 
 , Paint. Oh ! then 1 see that God must right me for my mur- 
 
 '.lerM son ! 
 
 Ilieron. How! was thy son murder'd ? 
 
 Paint. Ay, Sir ; no man did hold a son so dear. . / 
 
 Ilieron. 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 1 ', : 
 
 Paint. Alas! Sir, 1 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 aii 
 the ambitious imagery, and rhetorical ornaments which 
 modern authors lavish upon their dramas. It rcrahids us 
 of that fine burst of natural passion of Lear : — 
 
 '■ Lear. Didst 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. This extraordi- 
 nary author is an anomaly in literature. With innume- 
 rable faults, and those of the worst kind, frequently dis- 
 playing turgidlty and bombast in his tragic scenes, and 
 buffoonery and grossness in his comic ones, he never- 
 theless, evinces in many places, not only powerful genius, 
 but severe taste and fastidious judgment. Nothing can 
 be worse than " LusCs Dominion,''' and " The Mighlij 
 Tamburluine ,•" and nothing can be finer than many parts 
 of " Edward the Second,''^ and ''Doctor Faitsttis.^' Mr, 
 Charles Lamb says, truly, that the former tragedy fur- 
 nished hints which Shakspeare scarcely improved in his 
 •' Richard the Second.^' We may say the same thing of 
 the latter in reference to Goethe, and his " Faust.''' The 
 tragedy of Go<;the is more connected, and better sustained 
 throughout, than that of Marlowe. It is not chargeable 
 
 I
 
 l>^ LECTURES ON 
 
 with the same inequalities, and keeps up the character of 
 the hero, as a soul lost by the thirst after, knowledge, 
 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 therei 
 is any thing in the German play, which approaches the 
 sublimity and awl'ulness of the last scene in " Doctor 
 Fauslus.^' 
 
 At length the great literary era of Elizabeth dawned 
 upon Britain ; and in the dramatic annals of the nation, 
 we no longer fmd a few stars faintly twinkling amidst the 
 surrounding darkness, but a magnificent constellation, 
 composed of Shakspeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, Jonson, 
 Ford, Webster, Massinger, Rowley, Chapman, Middleton, 
 Dekker, Tourneur, Shirley, and others, brightening the 
 whole literature hemisphere with a blaze of glory. In 
 addition to those names, which belong almost exclusively 
 to dramatic literature, we may enumerate those of Spen- 
 ser, Hall, Brown, Drummond, Sidney, and Raleigh, in 
 other branches of poetry. The peiiod 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 tv/o immediate 
 successors, 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, extra- 
 ordinary, that in a nation which has exulted so much in 
 his genius, and has professed to derive so much of its 
 hterary 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 encomiums upon 
 a justly celebrated passage in " Macbetk^^^ and then gives 
 a miserably erroneous quotation, from some garbled stage 
 edition, then extant. 
 
 The opinion which prevailed imtil 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 respecting 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 intel-
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 67 
 
 -" . :1 
 
 lectual lore for themselves ; and though we now rank 
 those beautiful pictures, both serious and comic, vvhieh 
 the poet has drawn in Lady JMacbeth, Comtani:e, Juliety 
 Imogen, Cleopatra, Rof^nl'md, and Beatrice, as among the 
 happiest etfor > ol' his genius, jet man) years have not 
 gone by, since t was a po[tular opinion, that his mind was 
 of too masculine a stiuctute to excel in pictures of female 
 grace and loveliness; and that it was only in his male 
 characters, that his wonderful genius developed itself. 
 This opinion, too, was not contined to the vulgar and un- 
 informed. Men of taste and education were content to 
 take up the current o})inion, without examining its truth ; 
 and we accordingly find that even Collins, whose genius 
 in some particulars discovered a strong affinity to that of 
 Shakspeare himself, in his '^Epistle to Sir Thomas Ilan- 
 mer," 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 
 pojular 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 through^ 
 out all their history. The poet's description of a lover, — 
 
 "All made of passion, and all made of wishes ; 
 All adoration, duly, and obedience ; 
 Ail humbleness, all patience, and impatience : 
 All purity, all trial, all observance 
 
 3 
 
 will apply as well to his delineations of woman. Siglis, 
 tears, passion, trial, and humility, are the component parts 
 of her character; and however the dramatic writer may 
 endeavour to " elevate and surprise," by j)ursuing a dif- 
 ferent course, these are the materials with which nature 
 ■will furnish him • and, if he really wish to follow her, "to
 
 68 LECTURES ON 
 
 this complexion he must come at last." Sbakspeare re- 
 conciled poetry and nature ; he borrowed her wildest 
 wing of romance, and yet stooped to the severest disci- 
 pline of truth ; he revelled in the impossible, without vio- 
 lating the probable ; he preserved the unity of character, 
 while he spurned the unities of time, place and action ; 
 and combined propriety, nature, truth, and feeling, with 
 ■wildness, extravagance, and an unbounded license of ima~ 
 gination. 
 
 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 fear- 
 ful and appalling than the whole character of Ladu 
 JMacbeth, 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 its 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 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 malignant and base in the female cha- 
 racter is exaggerated 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 may have such an exquisite picture in ^^riel, 
 and the Fairies, in the " Midsummer J^ighVs Dream .?" 
 Cleopatra, Volumnia, and Isabella, are further itistances 
 of Shakspeare's power of exhibiting the loftier and stronger 
 traits of the female character. His picture of the fasci- 
 nating 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 —
 
 ENGLI5K POETRY. 69 
 
 • " 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. The plaj* is occu- 
 pied with battles and treaties, with wars and commotions, 
 Vi'ith the quarrels of monarchs, and the destinies of the 
 v.-orld, yet all are forgotten when Cleopatra is on the 
 scene. We have many and splendid descriptions oi 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, sympathize with her, through all, and when 
 the asp has done its fatal work, who does not exclaim 
 ^vith Charmion ? — 
 
 " Now boast thee, Death ! in thy possession lies 
 A lass unparailel'd !" 
 
 How different a being from this, is the ill-fated fair who 
 slumbers in " the tomb of the Capulets." She is all gen- 
 tleness and mildness, all hidden passion, and silent suffer- 
 ing ; but her love is as ardent, her sorrows are as over- 
 nvhelming, 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^ Perdila and 
 Ophelia, Cordelia, Helen, and Viola, need only be men- 
 tioned to recall 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 chyiming one ; and 
 its 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 m thought, 
 And with a green and yellow melancholy, 
 She sat, like Patience on a monument, 
 Smiling at Grief." 
 
 Of .Shaks})eare's comic female characters, it will be 
 sufficient to adduce two, fiosalind and Beatrice. What a 
 fascinnting creature is the first ! what an admirable com-
 
 70 LECTURES ON 
 
 pound of wit, pf.iyety, and good humour ! blended, at the 
 same time, with deep and strong passion, with courage 
 and resolution ; with unshaken art'ection to hei- father, 
 and constant and fervent love for Orlando. How extra- 
 ordinary 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 its 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 nmst 
 be confessed, without her good humour. Her arrows are 
 not merely piercing, but poisoned. Rosalindas 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 opportunity to utter it. But Shakspeare has no 
 heartless characters in his dramas, he has no mere " intel- 
 lectual gladiators,'' as Dr. Johnson lias well styled the 
 actors in the witty scenes of Congreve. Beatrice ha;? 
 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 pas- 
 sions, 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 Beatrice are any thing but inconsistencies; 
 abrupt and surprising they certainly are, but they arc 
 accounted for by motives of extraordinary weight, and 
 feelings of singular susceptibility. 
 
 Before I close this subject, however, 1 would say a few 
 words upon the neglected play of ^' Pericles ;" first, because 
 it contains a very sweet and interesting female character, 
 — that of Marina, the heroine, — and, secondly, because 
 .its authen.ticity has been questioned by the commentators. 
 This dran)a has always clearly appeared to me to be a pro- 
 duction of Shakspeare, although certainly a production of 
 his earlier years. The inconsistency 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 
 povice in the art ; but the delicate touches of nature, the
 
 KNUUSH POKfRif. 71 ". 
 
 Ibeautiful delineations of character, the sweet flow of its 
 verse, and the rich vein of poetry and imagination, which 
 pervade the whole, betray the master's hand, and entitle it, 
 hi my opinion, to a high rank among the works ol Shaks- 
 peare. How tine, 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 h;aveu aiui hell; airJ Thou, that hast 
 
 Upon the winds command, bind them in brass, 
 
 Having call'd them from the deep ! Oh ! still thy deafning, 
 
 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." 
 
 The description of the recovery of Thaisa from a state of 
 suspended animation, is also most powerfully 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 " JVinier's 
 Tale,'''' leaps over the intervening years, and shows her, in 
 the fourth act, "on the eve of womardiood ;" wheie her 
 first speech, on the death of her nurse, is sweetly plaintive 
 and poetical : — 
 
 '' No, no ; 1 will rob Tellus of hor 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. Ahmc! poor maid. 
 Born in a tempest, when my mother died, 
 1'his world to me is like a lasting storm. 
 Whirring me from my friends." 
 
 '3
 
 72 vLKCTURES 0^ 
 
 In the course ol' the play, Marina unueigoes a van- 
 ety of adventures, in all of which the mingled gentle- 
 ness and dignity of her character is most admirably deve- 
 loped. The interview with her father, in the lifth act, is, 
 indeed, one of the most powerful and atiiecting passages 
 in the whole range of the British drama ; and I earnestly 
 recommend 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, sutliciently 
 shown, 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 cham- 
 pions 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 shown a 
 powerful and original genius, which, in fecundity and ver- 
 satility, as well as in elegance and gracefulness, has never 
 yet been equalled, and will certainly never be surpassed. 
 
 In addition to the neglect of his female characters, 
 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 unen- 
 lightened, excepting by the splendour which he himself 
 threw around it ; and which even over his own ♦« mounting 
 spirit" has cast its gothic chains, and prevented it from 
 reaching its natural elevation. We now feel and know, 
 that his'^judgment was as profound, as his genius was mag-- 
 nilicent; that his skill in constructing his plots, and 
 developing his characters, was not surpassed even by the 
 splendour of his imagination, and the richness of his dic- 
 tion ; and that, so far from shining a solitary star in the 
 midst of Cimmerian blackness, he was surrounded by infe- 
 rior, but still resplendent orbs, each of which only waited 
 the setting of his surpassing brightness, to shine itself the 
 lord of the ascendant. 
 
 The fame which this extraordinary man has acquired.
 
 ENLGISH POETRr. 7S 
 
 and which seems, to use a simile of Schlegel's, " to gather 
 strength, hke an Alpine avalanche, at every period of its 
 descent," is not the least remarkable circumstance con- 
 nected with our subject. It is not simply from the 
 approving judgments, or the delighted fancies, of his par- 
 tial 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 ourselves, 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 delight, which 
 is excited by his powers ; it is " an appetite, a feeling, and 
 a love." No poet was ever so passionately admired ; be- 
 cause 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 pecu- 
 liarities of human character. Wherever, therefore, those 
 characters, and those conditions exist, the works of Shaks- 
 peare can never become foreign, or obsolete. " The 
 stream of time, which is continually washing the disso- 
 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 its 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 its altar in the heart 
 of man, is extensive as the world, and imperishable as 
 humanity. The fame of Shakspeare has naturally sug- 
 gested an inquiry 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 won- 
 
 K
 
 74 LECTURES ON 
 
 ders ] \V herein did he surpass that world which has paid 
 him such extraordinary honours ? The answers to these 
 inquiries have been as various as the tastes and opinions of 
 readers. His wit, his imagination, his subhmity, have all 
 been suggested as the distinguished characteristics of his 
 mind; but the arguments which have been advanced in 
 support of these positions have proved only, that in these 
 particulars he excelled the rest of the world. In order to 
 answer this inquiry satisfactorily, we must also show 
 wherein he excelled himself. The most extraordinary 
 supposition, 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 con- 
 cerns of mankind, in order to describe with greater cor- 
 rectness 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 miglit hazard an 
 opinion, I should say that the master-feeling in the mind 
 of Shakspeare, and that which has enabled him to subju- 
 gate 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 feel- 
 ings, 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 susceptibiUty of his disposition, and his amiable man- 
 ners. 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 remarkable 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. 
 U is a common observation, that mirth begets mirth ; and
 
 '^f-. 
 
 ENGLISH POETRr. 70 
 
 on the other hand, an old Enghsh poet, Drayton, has 
 beautifally said, that, — 
 
 *' Tears, 
 Elixir-like, turn all to tears they touch." 
 
 The feelings of Shakspeare's mind produced correspond- 
 ent feelings in the minds of others ; like a precious 
 stone, which casts its 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 astonishing fame to the posses- 
 sion of any one peculiar quality, is erroneous. His dis- 
 tinguishing characteristic is the union of many excellen- 
 cies : each of which he possessed in a degree unequalled 
 by any other poet. Shakspeare will be found pre-eminent, 
 if we consider his sublimity, his pathos, his imagination, 
 his wit, or his humour ; his union in his own person of 
 the highest tragic and comic excellence, and his know- 
 ledge 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 
 Ihe ambition of highly favoured mortals; but to combine 
 all, as Shakspeare has done, in one tremendous 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 refe- 
 rence to that of any other poet ; for, with whom is he to 
 be compared ? Like his own liichard, — 
 
 " He has no brother, is like no brother, 
 He is himself alone !" 
 
 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 lightnings of creative Jove ; 
 and speaks the words that call spirits, and mortals, and
 
 70 LECTURES OX 
 
 •worlds, into existence. He has faults, douhtless ; 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 o])posed to his genius, would be likely to 
 condemn the Apollo Bclvidere, for a stain upo« the pe- 
 destal. The very brightness of transcendent excellence 
 renders its 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 I 
 
 It is, however, truly difficult to say anything on the sub- 
 ject of Shakspeare, which has not been said before. So 
 numerous, so ardent, and so discriminative, have been his 
 admirers, that almost every latent beaaty seems to have 
 been brought to light, and every once-obscure passage 
 surrounded by a blaze of illustration. There is, indeed, 
 hut 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 great and opulent. The glories of the motley 
 coat have passed away. A few faint vestiges of it arc pre- 
 served at wakes and village festivals, in the remote pro- 
 vinces of the island ; and some of its honours are yet di- 
 vided between the Clown and Harlequin of our modern 
 pantomime; but, alas! "how changed! how fallen!" 
 S?pirits 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 ancestors for the at- 
 tachment which they evinced for it ; for, if his portraits at 
 all resemble the originals, they must have been very de- 
 lightful personages indeed. As delineated by our author, 
 the character is a compound of infinite wit, with match- 
 less effrontery ; affecting folly, making itself the butt of 
 its 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 exercise of its humorous talents; yet liable to be
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 77 
 
 kicked and cudgelled, whensoever, and wheresoever, it 
 was deemed expedient. These are the general outlines ; 
 but these, Shakspeare has diversified with such varied and 
 admirable power, that, many as are the clowns introduced 
 in his plays, he has never repeated the same individual. 
 Like nature herself, who does not produce two blades of 
 grass exactly similar, so Shaksjieare makes the nicest dis- 
 crimination between personages which appro d.-nate, and 
 almost blend with each oiher. Even thie RuJJinns, who 
 are hired to murder the Infant Princes in ^'Richard the 
 Third,^^ and the Servants who are sjueading the table for 
 the banquet of the Yolscian 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 Laun- 
 celot Gohho, — " 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, philosopher, scholar, poet, 
 duellist, — the "unimitated, inimitable" Touchstone. The 
 clowns of Shakspeare, also, are not extraneous chaiacters, 
 introduced, like those in the plays of Marston, Beaumont 
 and Fletcher, and some others, merely for the purpose of 
 showing off their own humour. They are active person- 
 ages 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 Launcelot 
 Gobbo is a principal agent in the escape of Jessica, in the 
 «' JMerchant of Venice." The dialogues between Launce 
 and Speed, in the " Tico Gentlemen of Verona," and be- 
 tween the Dromios in the " Comedy of Erro'^s," are, on 
 this very account alone, sufficient to prove that those plays 
 are not icholly Shakspeare's. That tlie marks of his pow- 
 erful pencil may be sometimes recognised, cannot be 
 denied ; but, that the composition of the entire jjicture 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 charac-
 
 ?S LECTURES ON 
 
 ter 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 its omission in the acted 
 play. 
 
 I have already expressed my attachment to 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 1 
 Or, is there any one who will dispute his claim to a cour- 
 tier'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 one !'' Then, how richly is his mind 
 furnished ! Launcelol Gobho 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, moralizing on the time, and playing the logician 
 with the Shepherd, till he proves to his hearer's own satis- 
 faction, that he is incontestably damned ; and reading his 
 lectures on poetry to Jludrey ; and recounting his amours 
 with Jane Smile ; is entirely matchless and irresistible ; 
 and compels us to reiterate the exclamation of Jacques^ — ^ 
 
 " Oh noble fool ! 
 A worthy fool ! Motley's tlie only wear !" 
 
 Shakspeare in this play has very artfully and beautifully 
 shown, how two characters, which to the casual observer 
 appear diametrically opposed, may have latent resem-
 
 EWiiLiSH POETRY. <y 
 
 biances ; and may feel themselves irresistibly drawn to- 
 gether, by some inexpHcable link, so fine as to be invisible, 
 and yet so strong as to lorui an instant bond of union. 
 Of all the characters in this drama, those ot Jacques and 
 the Clown would seem to stand at the farthest distance 
 from each other ; but on their first interview, the former 
 becomes attached to Touchstone ; is ambitious of a motley 
 coat, and is wrapt in admiration, that " Fools should be 
 so deep contemplative." Yet Jacques is a gentleman of 
 polished mind and manners ; and Touchstone is a low do- 
 mestic. One is shy and reserved ; the other loquacious 
 and fond of society. One is of a mind sensitive and irri- 
 table, even to disease ; the other, the common butt at 
 which it is the chartered privilege ot all to level their 
 malice, or their wit. IJ, however, we examine these cha- 
 racters more closely, we shall find amidst all their contra- 
 rieties, many traits of resemblance. Both are nien of 
 strong sense and extensive observation ; both have a quick 
 talent for detecting the ridiculous ; but in the nervous 
 temperament of Jacques, this has produced 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 
 Odando^s verses : Jacques swears that the Duke, because 
 he kills venison, is a greater usurper than his brother ; 
 and Touchstone, because the Shepherd gets his living by 
 the increase of his flock, tells him that he lives by the in- 
 trigues 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 v^ith 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 committed an injustice in giving
 
 so LECTURES ON 
 
 any of the motley tribe precedence of the Fool in " LearJ^ 
 This is a tragic character ; not in itself, but in the way in 
 which it sets oil', and heightens the picture which is pre- 
 sented 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 ? 
 
 Leai'. No. 
 
 Fool. Nor I neither ; but I can tell why a snail lias 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 ! 
 
 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'sl 
 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 re-al insanity of the first, the assumed mad- 
 ness 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 its 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 gibberish, for the 
 purpose of supporting his assumed part; through which 
 his real character is every now and then seen, and dis- 
 covers itself in a sympathy for the unhappy king. The 
 conversatiou of the Fool, on the contrary, is composed of
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. SI 
 
 * 
 
 rscraps 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 beauties which 
 are so often passed over without couiment, that, as Learns 
 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 interlocu- 
 tor as Lear himself; but in that powerfully pathetic scene, 
 in which the distracted 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 after- 
 ward mute ; while, Edgar also, unable any longer to play 
 the maniac, exclaims : — • 
 
 ' ' My tears begin to take his part so much, 
 Thev '11 mar mv counterleitinw." 
 
 o 
 
 it is thus that genius effects its noblest triumphs, by iden- 
 tifying its actors with its auditors. 
 
 I have left myself very little space for discussing the 
 merits of the remaining worthies of this class. The 
 Clown In " Twelfth JVY^/ii" should occupy a very consi- 
 derable 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 
 among men. Both 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 com- 
 mon with them. They are "among them, but not of 
 them." But the Cloion in the play before us, can sing a 
 good song, can take his share of a stoop of wine ; can 
 join in the laugh whicii 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," hut this jovial Clown has much 
 more of mere flesh and blood in him : he aj)i)roximates 
 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 MalvoUo, is undertaken
 
 82 LEGTURES ON 
 
 simply for the love oi laughter, and without any desire io 
 give real j)ain to the fantastical steward. Nay, he at length 
 entertains sympathy for his persecutions, and endeavours 
 to use his good oftices in his favour. His joining in the 
 bitter laugh, and ironical compliments of his companions, 
 when impelled to it by the absurdities 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 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 perti- 
 nacity the most innocent word in the vocabulary, and 
 never parts with it till he has triumphed over its simplicity: 
 he is, indeed, as he describes himself, " 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 Greats in " Measure for Measure ;" and 
 Costard, who finds out, that remuneration is the Latin word 
 for three farthings ; and Launcelot Gohbo who was the 
 subject of that memorable warfare between the fiend and 
 his conscience ; and the SliephercPs Son, in the *' Winter^s 
 Tale,'''' the new made gentleman, or rather, " the gentle- 
 man 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 
 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 
 Shepherd''s Son, are not gratuitous, but involuntary blun- 
 derers. Pornpey Bum, however, is really a great man. 
 His narration of the amours o( Master Froth and Mistress 
 Elbow, is irresistibly comic ; and the arguments by which 
 he endeavours to convince Burnardine of the benefits of 
 being hanged, are almost worthy of Touchstone, himsflf.
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 83 
 
 Such was England's, Nature's Shakspeare ; — 
 
 " Each change of many-colour'd life he drew, 
 Exhausted worlds, and then iinagined new : 
 Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, 
 And panting Time toil'd after him in vain !" 
 
 Shakspeare's contemporaries have, since the publica- 
 tion 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 arc 
 entitled. Jonson's character has also been successfully 
 vindicated, by the last named gentleman, against the charge 
 of malignity and envy of Shakspeare ; but 1 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, he is to be sunk fathoms below Fletcher and Mas- 
 singer. In the last particular, 1 think that he excels them 
 both, and, indeed, ail his contemporaries, excepting Shaks>- 
 peare. 
 
 The strength of Jonson's style is undoubted, and there- 
 fore, his critics have chosen to deny him the merits of 
 elegance and gracefulness. The fact is, that in his trage- 
 dies, and the njetrical parts of his comedies, his versifica- 
 tion 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 of 
 " Diink 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 ; 
 Do but look on her hair, it is bright 
 
 As love's star when it riyeth ! 
 Do but mark her forehead, smoother 
 Than words that scjothe her ! 
 And from Iier arch'd brow such a grace 
 Sheds it?elf through the face,
 
 ^4 LECTURES ON 
 
 As alone thorc triumphs to the life, 
 
 All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. 
 
 Have you seen but a bright lily grow 
 
 Before ru<le Ijands have toucli'd it ? 
 Have you ii'iark'd but the fall of the snow 
 
 Before the soil hath stnutch'd it ? 
 Have you felt the wool of the beaver ? 
 Or the swan's down, ever ? 
 Or have sineit 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 I Oh ! so sweet is she !" 
 
 " Catiline^ his Conspiracy,''^ 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 Shakspeareari 
 force and truth. The piece opens with the denunciation 
 of Syllah Ghost ; after which Catiline enters, brooding 
 over his intemltd treason. The succeeding scene is very 
 artfully contrived to let us into the characters of the lead- 
 ing conspirators, by the account 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 
 fme, and contains a brief summary of his purpose and 
 character : — 
 
 " ft 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, sleep 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, Len- 
 iulus, who has been before described as addicted to 
 superstition, and a belief in omens, Jonson, like Shaks-
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 85 
 
 peare, does not indulge 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 debate, by this powerlul 
 description : — 
 
 " It is, methinks, a morninor full of fate ! 
 She riseth slowly, as her sullen car 
 Had all the weights of sleep and death hung at it. 
 She is not rosy-finger'd, but swoll'n black ! 
 Her face is like a water turn'd to blood, 
 And her sick head is bound about with clouds, 
 As if she threaten'd night ere noon of day ! 
 It does not look, as it would have a hail, 
 Or health wish'd in it, as on other morns." 
 
 This, besides being short, and highly characteristic of 
 the speaker, is connected with the business of the play 
 by the answer of Cethrgus : — 
 
 '* Why, all the fitter, Lentulus ; our coming 
 Is not for salutation, wc 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 gratitication of that passion depends 
 upon his assuming the appearance of subserviency to his 
 coadjutors ; and he tells them, — 
 
 " I am shadow 
 To honour'd 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 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 beautifully and truly illustrated by the poet. My limits 
 %vill, of course, not allow me to adduce many specimens 
 of the dramatic skill of Jonson, which cannot be siiown 
 by passages, or even by whole scenes. For this, I must
 
 86 LECTURES ON 
 
 refer to the plays themselves : the present object being 
 merely to prove that Jonson excelled in the lighter graces 
 and elegancies ol" poetry ; that he could describe power- 
 fully ; and that his vtrsification, 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 thiglis, 
 The gore he drew, flow'd up, and carried down 
 Whole heaps of lisnbs 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. 
 The maws and dens of beasts could not receive 
 The bodies that those souls were frighted from ; 
 And e'en the graves were till'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 characteristic of the strength and beauty of the 
 authors style, that I cannot persuade myself to txiwtx- 
 jate it : — 
 
 " The straits and needs of Catiline beins such, 
 
 That he must fight with one of the two armies 
 
 't! 
 
 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 
 J^acl left it to be inquired, what Rome was :
 
 ENGLISH FOETKS'. 
 
 87 
 
 And, as weought, 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 v/as a civil war itself; 
 
 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 fife ; 
 
 Which cut, it secm'd a narrow neck of land 
 
 Had broke between two mighty seas, and either 
 
 Flow'd into other ; tor so did the slaughter ; 
 
 And whirl'd about, as when two violent tides 
 
 Meet, and not yield. Tiie Furies stood on hills, 
 
 Circling the place, and trembling to see men 
 
 Do more than they ; whilst Piety lelt 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 i*p 
 
 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 Koman thought, 
 
 Which Catiline seeing, and that now his troops 
 
 Cover'd that earth they 'd fought on with their trunks, 
 
 Ambitious of gieat fame to crown iiis 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 down lives about him, 
 
 Till he had circled in himself with death ; 
 
 Then he fell too, t' embrace ii where it lay. 
 
 Minerva holding forth Medusa's head, 
 
 One of the giant brethren felt himself 
 
 Grow marble at the killing sight, and now, 
 
 Almost made stone, began t' iiujuiro 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 the tomb : yet did his look retain
 
 88 LECTURES ON 
 
 Some of liis fierceness, and his hands still moved, 
 As if he laboiir'd yet to grasp the state 
 With those rebellious parts." 
 
 It would be difilcultto find, in the whole range of Eng- 
 lish poetry, a more magnificent description than this. 
 The images are of a grandeur and sublimity correspond- 
 ent 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 certairdy somewhat too violent, 
 degenerate into turgidity and bombast. It is, however, 
 more epic than dramatic ; and if the action had been rep- 
 resented, 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 oriu;inal. 
 
 I have quoted so largely from " Catiliney" that I have 
 not any space for extracts from the rest of our author's 
 dramas. The most poetical among them are *' Sejanus" 
 " Cynlhia/s Revels,'"' the " Poetaster,''^ and the fine frag- 
 ments of the ^' Sad Shepherd,'''' m\(\ ^^ Morlimer'' s FalV 
 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 compositions 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 nature. 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, it' 
 any, humour. Sir Joseph Wittol and Captain Bluff may 
 seem exceptions to this remark ; but the former appears 
 to me to be not humorous, but fantastic and unnatural ; 
 and the latter is a compound plagiarism from Bessus and 
 the two Swordsmen of Beaumont and Fletcher. Con- 
 greve's most humorous 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 ''Mche- 
 ?'?isJ!," and " Every Man in his Humour."
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 Jonson's style had few imitators, while that of his illus- 
 trious rival Shakspeare, formed the taste, and fixed the 
 literary character, of his country. The best pupil of the 
 Jonsonian School was Cartwriglit, o( whom Jonson was 
 very proud, and used to call him his son ; and I give an 
 extract from the " Royal iS/are," to prove the truth of the 
 old bard's assertion, " My son Cartwright writes like a 
 man :" — 
 
 *' If they are Gods, Pity 's a ban(iuet to them. 
 Whene'er the innocent and virtuoua 
 l)o 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." 
 
 1 have entered thus largely upon the merits of Jonsdhj, 
 because I know, that, although much talked of, he is little 
 read. He has the reputation of being a humorous, 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 sufficiently 
 shown ; 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 stroncT touches of immortal Ben." 
 
 M
 
 90 LECTURES 01? 
 
 LECTURE THE FOURTH. 
 
 DRAMATIC POETRY CONTINUED. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher : — Massinger : — Ford : — Webster ;— * 
 Eftectsof the Civil War upon Dramatic Literature : — Milton, 
 Dryden, Otvvay, 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 : — Cumber- 
 land: — The German School : — Sheridan : — Present state oi" 
 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 contempora- 
 ries. Beaumont and Fletcher have given birth to many 
 admirable scenes of wit and humour ; and much lofty, 
 eloquent, and affecting poetry. Their powers, — I speak 
 of them Jo Jn^Zi/, for all the attempts to distinguish their pro- 
 ductions have ended in nothing but vain conjecture, — - 
 their powers were of a very high order ; not, however, as 
 some of their hdmirers assert, approachable to that of' 
 Shakspeare. They skimmed 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 show great fancy and 
 elegance, but nothing more. The madness of the Jailer's 
 daughter, in that part of the " Two JSCoble Kinsmen,''- 
 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 tlie latter are compounded of the
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 fl 
 
 elements of human nature. There is, however, great 
 beauty in the following passage from the " Queen of 
 Corinth :" — 
 
 " Wherefore sits 
 My Phoebe shadow'd in a sable cloud ? 
 Those pearly drops which thou lett'st fall hke 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, 
 StriTing to catch and drink the pearly drops." 
 
 Their use of imagery drawn from external nature, 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, 
 
 IIow modestly she blows, and paints the sun 
 
 With her chaste blushes ! When the north wind comes 
 
 near her. 
 Rude and impatient, then, like Chastity, 
 She locks her beauties in her bud again, 
 And leaves him to base briers." 
 
 Shakspeare is reported to have joined in the composi- 
 tion of the " Two J^oble Kinsmen,^'' from which this pas- 
 sage is taken ; and from the extreme beauty and delicacy 
 of the simile, I am half inclined to ascribe it to him. 
 Again, how exquisitely 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,
 
 93 LECTURES ON 
 
 Of tower, or defaced temple, than it docs 
 I'Manted by a new building ; so shall I, 
 Make rny adversity niy instrument 
 To wind me up into a full content." 
 
 The public are much better acquainted with the writirig^ 
 of Massinger than with those of most of his contempora- 
 ries : for which distinction he is mainly indebted to the 
 admirable manner in which he has been edited by Mr. 
 Gidbrd, 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, 
 Gifibrd, when he ranks this author immediately after 
 Shakspeare. He certainly yields in versatility 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 theirs, or to Ford's, or Wehster's. 
 Massinger excelled in working up a single scene forcibly 
 and effectively, rather than in managing his plots skilfully, 
 or in delineating characters faithfully, and naturally. His 
 catastrophes are sometimes brought about in a very impro- 
 bable 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 
 «' Jl neiv 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 ; but even if it be so, it is not 
 a probable and effective 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 Massinger 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 i 
 excepting that he is apt to pursue a favourite idea too long,
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 93 
 
 His descriptive powers were also very considerable, the 
 clearness and distinctness with which he places objects 
 before our eyes, might furnish models for a painter. In 
 single scenes too, as I before observed, his giniius is great 
 and original. The battle between the father ami son in 
 the " Unnatural 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 its fatdts, than in 
 any other. The character of Old J\falefort, although pos- 
 sessing all the defects which I have pointed out, is a mas- 
 terly delineation, and ably sustained. Like Ford's Gio- 
 vanni, 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 perpetrator 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 eftective in this play than in 
 some others, as it seems to harmonize 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 contemporaries. Jon- 
 son, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger, have, per- 
 haps, fewer faults than most of them ; but there are others 
 by whose excellencies they are rivalled, and evtn sur- 
 passed. Ford is the poet of domestic life ; the lord and 
 ruler of our sighs and tears. Nowhere, 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 »S'is/er." 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 cannot shower the sweet flowers of fancy over the 
 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 ; hut we 
 feel a disinclination to take up the volume again, and 
 undergo the same harrowing and unmitigated sensations. 
 }n Shakspeare, though we tremble as we reaid, we still
 
 i)4 LECTURES ON 
 
 clin^ to his pages with thrilling interest and unabated 
 delight, and recur to them with feelings of increased admi- 
 ration. 
 
 The same objections will apply to the dramas of Web- 
 ster; but his fancy had a far bolder wing than that of 
 Ford, and he, therefore, in that particular, approaches 
 near to the standard of Shakspeare. This author, with 
 whose name few persons are probably very familiar, 
 enjoyed a great and deserved reputation among his con- 
 temporaries, and will, doubtless, yet emerge from the tem- 
 porary oblivion in which the forgetful generations who 
 succeeded him have allowed him to sink. Ford, of whom 
 I have just been speaking, says, — 
 
 " Crown liim a poet, whom nor Greece nor Rome 
 Transcend ;" 
 
 and Middleton, another distinguished dramatic contem- 
 porary, speaking of his tragedy the " Dutchess of J)ia//j/," 
 says — 
 
 " Thy monument is raised in thy hfetime, 
 Each man is his own marble. 
 Thy epitaph only the title be, 
 Write Dutchess! that will fetch a tear for thee." 
 
 The tragedy here mentioned is certainly one of the most 
 extraordinary compositions inour language. With many 
 faults, and many extravagancies, 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 similes 
 will sufficiently show the originality and beauty of Web- 
 ster's imagery. The first illustrates the ingratitude dis- 
 played 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 co]<I, 
 Than when he first sat down."
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 95 
 
 The second is contained in the following lines : — 
 
 '•' An honest statesman to a prince 
 Is hke 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 Tour- 
 neur, occupy honourable stations in what may be called 
 the school of Shakspeare ; and Shirley gracefully closes 
 the list, not as one of the greatest, 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 Olym- 
 pus, to 
 
 " That small infantry 
 Warr'd on by cranes." 
 
 We liave now traced the history, and entered into a 
 brief review, of the merits of dramatic literature in Eng- 
 land, previous to the restoration ; we have seen its faint 
 and imperfect dawn in the authors of " Gorbodiic,'' and 
 Gammer Gurtori's Js'^eedle ;"" its morning light of rich pro- 
 mise in Peele, Lily, and Marlowe ; and its full meridian of 
 power and splendour, in Shakspeare and his contempora- 
 ries. We have now the less gratifying, but not less impe- 
 rative duty, of the historian and critic, to perform, to nar- 
 rate its degradation and debasement ; its decline and 
 lall : to watch its downward course from the proud pin- 
 nacle on which we have recently contemplated it, until 
 we find it in the present day, in a state where the oidy 
 consolation left us, is the conviction that it cannot possibly 
 sink any lower : when we find the national theatres, where 
 delighted and applauding audiences listened to the music 
 of Shakspeare, Fletcher, and Jonson, converted 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^' and " Hamlet''^ are 
 no longer attractive, unless aided by the contortions of 
 apes, and the mummeries of pantomime. 
 
 The deposition and death of Charles the First, as we
 
 OG LECTURES OX 
 
 have already had occasion to remark, were events, whlcri;i 
 however advantageous they may have proved to the hber- 
 tiesofthe nation, were deatli-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 
 religious 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 davs of Jack Cade seemed to have 
 returned, when a man was hanged for being able to write 
 his own name, histead 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 infamous, and abominable ; 
 and even Milton considered it necessary to excuse himself 
 to his sect, for writing the fine tragedy of " Sa'tnpson Jlgo- 
 nistesy^ 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 the Holy Scriptures : — 
 1 Corinthians, 1 5th chapter, 33d verse, " Be not deceived, 
 evil communications corru})t good manners." 
 
 Milton, as a dramatist, is the connecting fink 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 Jlgonistes,''^ 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 disappoint-
 
 ENtJ^LlSU I'OEIKV.. »f 
 
 ^<int, or levered by criticism, or embittered by political, 
 or polemical controversy. The second is as strongly 
 characteristic of its author when '• fallen on evil days, and 
 evil tongues ; with darkness anvi 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 unearth)) character, which 
 it derived from the sacred nature of its subject. Both 
 dramas are worthy of 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 auperb, and 
 imperishable materials. 
 
 The Restoration varied only the nature of the poisoa 
 with which the public taste was infected. The sour man- 
 ners and fanatical feelings of the puritans, were exchanged 
 for the licentiousness and frivohty of a depraved and dis- 
 sipated 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 refine- 
 ment, of the Tuilleries. The English stage, in like man- 
 ner, soon became a bad copy of the French ; and Cor- 
 neille, Racine, and Crevillon, are the literary parents oi 
 Dryden, Addison, Rowe, and Young. Dryden's tragedies 
 have some redeeming passages, but as a whole they are 
 essentially and utterly bad. For character, passion, ac- 
 tion, or interest, we search through them in vain. Their 
 author has, indeed, confessed bis own conviction that his 
 powers were not adapted for dramatic writing, and that 
 he had meditated the jiroduction of an epic poem, but that 
 the taste of the age atlorded him no encouragement ib.i'i 
 ytuch a task. 
 
 ''Dryden in immortal strain, 
 Had raised the 'ral)le Roiiixl airain. 
 but tl)at a ribald King and Court, 
 Hade liim toil on to make them sport -. 
 
 N ■ '
 
 yS LECTURES ON 
 
 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; although the plague-spots 
 of the age are upon him, licentiousness in his comic, and 
 bombast and turgidity in his tragic scenes. But hi 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," arid 
 ■" Orphan,^^ on the stage, when supported by histrionic 
 talent at all commensurate to their merits, is the most tri- 
 umphant 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. Otway is 
 not remarkable either for skillfulness in the construction 
 of his plots, or truth and force in the delineation of his 
 characters. The plot of the " O/p/ian" is as clumsy as 
 it is indelicate ; and that of " Venice Preserved'^ full of 
 glaring improbabilities. Of his characters, Pierre is the 
 only one which shows any thing like the finish of the mas- 
 ter. 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 despe- 
 ration 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 jmnciples 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 ni[»t, and with a careful, loving hand, 
 Tnlnsj)lanted her into your own fair garden, 
 Wl)ere the sun always shines. There long she flourish'd ;
 
 ENGLISH POETRr. 99 
 
 i 
 
 ' ■ Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye ; 
 Till at the last a cruel spoiler canne, 
 Cropt this fair rose, and rifled all its 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, 
 1 spied a wither'd hag, with age grown double, 
 Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself; 
 Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red. 
 Cold Palsy shook her head, her hands seem'd witlier'd, 
 And on ker 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 sus- 
 tain a comparison with the most celebrated efforts of the 
 Dutch and Flemish schools. 
 
 Nathaniel Lee's Dramas are full of faults ; faults of the 
 least venial nature ; but they are evidently the productions 
 of a man of genius, and do not betray a single indication 
 of imbecility or dulness. Their characteristics are summed 
 up in a saying of his own. When the unfortunate author 
 was conlined in a strait waistcoat in Bedlam, a scribbler 
 who went to visit him, had the cruelty to jeer at bis 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 ^^ Jihxander,''^ in his " Theodosiusy 
 and in his portion of " (Edipus,^^ — which he wrote in con- 
 junction with Dryden, — which are not unworthy of the
 
 100 LECTURES <fr? 
 
 brightest names in our dramatic annals. Occasionally 
 too, he conld touch a softer note, and waken the tender- 
 est and most pleasing emotions. The following lines on 
 the JNightingale are lull of sweetness and pathos : — 
 
 "Thus in some poplar shade the Nightingale, 
 Witti piercing nioaiis does her lost young l)ewail ; 
 Which the rough liind, observing as tliey lay 
 Warm in their riowny nest, had stolen away : 
 But she in mournful sounds does still complain, 
 Sings all the night, though all her songs arc vain, 
 And still renews her miserable strain." 
 
 John Crowne was an author of much repute at the pe- 
 riod in which he wrote, but, after a painful examination 
 of liis writings, I foimd very little which is worth remem- 
 bering. I have heard of a Fiench work, which consisted 
 of the witticisms 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." 
 
 Ofthe remaning tragedians ofthis school, Rowe, Hughes, 
 Aaron Hill, Phillips, and Young; the first, and the last 
 only, are worthy of our attention Rowe, though deeply 
 infected with the false French taste which was then fash- 
 ionable, was not unacquainted with the early English wri- 
 ters, and some beneficial eilfects from this acquaintance are 
 visible in all his dramas. Perhaps his versification 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 Dr}den, and the feebleness of Otway. His 
 *' Jane Shore," in which he professedly imitated Shak- 
 speare, and his " Fan- PenHent," which is an audacious 
 plagiarism from Massinger, are the best of his productions.
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 101 
 
 Although they do not speak much for his origlnalit}', they 
 are creditable to his taste ; and prove, I thinic, that it was 
 no defect in his own judgmt nt, but a compliance with the 
 popular opinion, that led him to French models for the 
 general cast and character of his works. 
 
 Young's Tragt^dies of the ^'Revenge" ^^ Busiris,^^ and 
 the *' Brothers,''^ are evidently the jiroduction-' ol no ordi- 
 nary miiid. For high and eloquent declamation, they are 
 equal to any thing which tht- French School has produced, 
 either in its native soil, or in our imitative country. 
 Though the first is the only one of these three tragedies 
 ■which keeps possession of the stage, )et ^^ Busiris^^ ap- 
 pears 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 its compo- 
 sition. Zanga is a fine poetical study ; the grandeur of 
 the conception, and the power of the execution, are equal; 
 but it has not much of truth or nature in its composition. 
 Compare it with the lago ot' Shaks|ieare, of which it is 
 evid( ntly a copy, and it is like comparing a la\ figuie 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 ; hut the other has the truth 
 and power of nature stamped upon eveiy limb. 
 
 But is not in the tragedy of this period that we are to 
 look for the dramatic genius of England. 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, Vanbrugh, 
 Ccmgreve, Hoadley, Cibber, and Gay ; these are names, 
 of which, notwithstanding their blemishes, our nation can- 
 not, and ought not to be otherwise than proud. The 
 dramas of the ages of Elizabeth and Charles, are diame- 
 trically opposite to each other, both in their excellencies 
 and their defects. The first are all nature, but nature in 
 her sweetest, truest, and most graceful forms : the second 
 are all art, but art in her most polished, pleasing, and ele- 
 gant costumes. The first painted passions ; the second 
 manners: the first led us through the mazes of the human 
 heart ; the second makes us acquainted with the modes 
 ■iof human society. In the (irst, we find geography, chro-
 
 102 LECTURES ON 
 
 nology, and propriety of costume and manners, set at defi- 
 ance. In the second we find unity of character, and na- 
 tural sentiment and passion, treated with equal indiffer- 
 ence. If Shakspeare can unlock the secrets of the human 
 heart, he cares not to shipwreck a vessel on the coast of 
 Bohemia, or to make Pundarus of Troy talk about Win- 
 chester 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, over- 
 whelmed with the sorrows of Hamlet, or of Othello, or of 
 Lear. We close the pages of the second, charmed with 
 the wit, the sprightliness, 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 
 its grand distinguishing 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 true, a natural, or even a perma- 
 jiently 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 charac- 
 ters are like himself, witty. They are, if I may borrow 
 an image from the Hindoo Mythology, all Avaters of the 
 author ; they have no individuality, no specific likenesSo 
 What Churchill said of Quin as an actor, may be applied 
 to Congreve 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 manner? and society, the writings 
 of Congreve, and his contemporaries, and immediate pre- 
 decessors, 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 
 ground. They have made the very air there, redolent of
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. lOS 
 
 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 Coi.greve, of Farquhar, 
 and of Vanbrugh. We expect to see Sir Fopling Flutter, 
 or Sir Harry fVildair on every bench. We tuarthe gay 
 laugh 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 bewitching as ever. 
 
 Congreve had, I think, high tragic powers, if he had 
 chosen to exert them, and to give them their full and na- 
 tural play. When he wrote the " Mourning Bride'' 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 seri- 
 ous scene in Vanbrugh's '■^Provoked Huaband" have been 
 much admired, but they are nothing in comparison with 
 those in which these characters appear ; and set of!' as 
 they are, by the broad comedy, and almost farce, of Lord 
 Frisk, Brisk, and Lady Pliant, they j)roduce an effect 
 which reminds us, " not to speak it profanel}'," of that 
 produced by the juxtaposition of the Fool and Lear. 
 
 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 constructed, but they have 
 more vitality in them ; they are brought about in a moi-e 
 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 cha- 
 racter, will apply less to the scenes of Farquhar, than to 
 those of any of his contemporaries. His characters are 
 often drawn iujprobably, and out of nature, but still they 
 are active personages, and agents in the drama, which 
 cannot be very often said of Congreve. He also pos- 
 sesses much genuine humour, as liis characters of Sir 
 Harry Wildair, Beau ClinQlier, and Sergeant Kite, suffi-
 
 104 LKCTURKS ON 
 
 ciently show. Farqulmr has more of the kindly spirit ot 
 the old English dramatists about him, than any writer of 
 his times : and is a less bitter satirist than either Congreve, 
 Wycherley, or Vanbrugb. His airows are bright and keen, 
 but those ot his contemporaries are poisoned : Farquhar 
 makes the sides ache, but Vanbrugh makt- s the heart ache 
 alsi>. 
 
 The last-mentioned author is as appalling a satirist as 
 Swift. His j)ictures of human nature are hideously hke; 
 they are true to the very wrinkle. Swift said that he 
 hated the Ourang Outang, becausi it was so like us; and 
 so we may say ol yanbrugh'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 uature picked out and separated from those re- 
 deeming 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 hu- 
 manity like the JMepkistoph'des of Goethe, and make its 
 weaknesses and its crimes the objects of their fiend-like 
 derision. 
 
 These three authors occupy the foremost places in that 
 school of comedy, which llourished in England from the 
 days of Charles the Second, to those of Anne. I have 
 endeavoured, briefly and succinctly, to sum up their merit? 
 and defects. They were certainly vastly inferior to the 
 dramatists of the Elizabethan age ; but, they were at 
 kast 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 hoHday 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, 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, betbre we 
 can gaze upon it again. 
 
 The attack of Jeremy Collier upon the profligacy anc] 
 liccntiousuess of the stage, although its effects were nqt
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. ' 105 
 
 hnmediately 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 sen- 
 timental 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 men- 
 tioned, and from which I have considered this school as 
 taking its rise ; nor to the comedies of Sir Richard 
 Steele, who may be ranked among its adherents. The 
 last-mentioned author had a quiet natural vein of humour, 
 and a delicate perception of the foibles of human cha- 
 racter, which give great zest and interest to his scenes : 
 though even in his works we find the comic muse some- 
 what abated 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 laugliter holding both his sides," 
 
 ave banished from the works of the sentimental writers* 
 A well-bred simper, or a demure dimple, is the utmost ex- 
 tent of hilarity in which tliey indulge. What an uproar, 
 what a devastation, would the introduction of such a 
 person as Sir John Falstaff among the dramatis pcrsonae 
 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 Dornton look, if he 
 found young JMaster Launcelot Gobbo capering about his 
 banking house 1 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 ; 
 hut 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 JSTalured ./l/an,'* 
 
 O
 
 lOG LECTURES ON 
 
 and " She Sloops to Conquer,''^ 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 JVakeJield ;" and to praise them more highly is impos- 
 sible. Wit, without licentiousness ; humour, without ex- 
 travagance ; brilliant and elegant dialogue ; and forcible 
 but natural delineations of character ; are the excellen- 
 cies with which his pages are prodigally strewn. 
 
 Cumberland was the last, and the best of the sentimen- 
 tal school. His genius was of too masculine a character 
 to submit entirely to the fetters which the popular preju- 
 dices 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 its place. " Bad begins, but worse remain be- 
 hind.'' Our present lecture has been a history of the 
 gradual declension of the British drama : 
 
 •' We have fallen upon our gloomy days, 
 Star after star decays ; 
 Every bright name tliat shed 
 Light o'er the land is fled'." 
 
 The Shakspearean school was succeeded by that of' 
 Congreve : there we sunk a step, but we were on a lofty 
 eminence still. The Congreve school gave place to that of 
 the sentimental artists. This was a more fearful declen- 
 sion : but even here we met with elegant writers, although 
 we looked in vain for skilful or interesting dramatists. 
 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 handkerchief; of the other the gory dagger. 
 Instead of high-flown sentiments of virtue and honour, we 
 have murderers and spectres ; trap-doors and long cor- 
 ridors ; 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 its day, and 
 fallen into the " sere and yellow leaf," to make way for 
 juvenile Roscii, elephants, and rope-dancers ! Various
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 107 
 
 entertainments have since been resorted to for the edifi- 
 cation and amusement of the enlightened public. Some- 
 times 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 rt fined amusements as these have we 
 exchanged the gtnius of oureaily dramatists: a jewel, 
 which, as Shylock 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, 
 show, amidst the surrounding mass of dulness and folly, 
 like the stars of heaven, more fiery by night's blackness. 
 Sheridan is, indeed, a golden link which connects 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 Utile forced and overstrained, but its root is 
 in Nature, whatever abberralions it may spread into in its 
 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, how- 
 ever, 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 excep- 
 tions, a compound of all the vices which characterized 
 the preceding schools ; excepting, I am happy to saj', 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 bom- 
 bastic as the tragedies which succeeded it ; mawkish as the 
 comedies of the sentimentalists ; and extravagant and out- 
 rageous as the maddest productions of Germany. The 
 works of Joanna Baillie — unquestionably tlie greatest 
 dramatist who has aj)peared here since the restoration, — 
 are driven from the stage ; and, although Shakspeare is 
 still endured, he is made to bow his " eminent tops to our
 
 108 LECTIIRP.S ON 
 
 low heads ;" his tragedies must have a happy ending, and 
 his comedies must be " interspersed with songs." But 
 then, the tricks ol Harlequin, tb.e niNsteriesofmelodrame, 
 the prancing ol" real horses, and the tumbling of real water, 
 these are surely enough to conij)ensate 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 dran)a ; but, we speak 
 it " more in sorrow than in anger." When we consider the 
 splendid heritage of talent and genius which we derive 
 from our ancestors ; when we recollect the immortal pro- 
 ductions which have been bequeathed to the English 
 stage, from the days of Shakspeare to those of Sheridan; 
 •when we mark, too, the energy and intelligence of the 
 present day, as shown in every other quarter, while the 
 stage alone is usurped by imhf rility and dulness ; the 
 mingled feelings of shame and astonishment are too pow- 
 erful for their expression to be repressed. The causes of 
 this national degredation are various. One of the most 
 obvious and powerful, unquestionably is the enormous size 
 of the theatres. Tl>e music of the voice, the magic of the 
 eye, the passion and propriety 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 unnatural attitudes ; and when it 
 is at length found that even these fail of producing the 
 requisite effect, then pomp and show, decoration and noise, 
 unmeaning bustle and preposterous parade, are called in 
 to fjll up the melancholy hiatus. 
 
 Accordingly, the managers and the public sustain a re- 
 action from each other ; the former create in the latter an 
 appetite for spectacle and show ; and the appetite thus 
 created in the latter, calls upon the former for fresh efforts 
 to gratify it. Thus the state of things may be prolonged 
 ad injinitum, 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 
 Qf the evil, The incompetency of the authors in whose
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 109 
 
 hands rests the task of winning the public taste back to 
 the legitimate drama, is another, and not less influential 
 cause. The spectacles and pagrants with which the 
 managers feast the eyes of iheir audiences, are, as nearly 
 as possible, perfect in their way. The tragedies and 
 comedies which are occasionally pioduced, are the far- 
 thest possible removed from the standard to which they'- 
 aspire. The public chooses between them ; and we can 
 ^•arcely blame its decision : — 
 
 " Now forced, at length, her ancient reign to quit, 
 Nature sees Dulness laytl.e ghost of Wit ; 
 Exulting Folly liails the joyous day, 
 And Pantomime and Song confirm her sway."
 
 110 LECTURES ON 
 
 LECTURE THE FIFTH. 
 
 DIDACTIC, DESCRIPTIVE, PASTORAL, AND SATIRICAL 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 Nature of Didactic and Descriptive Poefry : — Death and Life, 
 the earliest specimen of English Blank \erse : — Bishop 
 Hall's Satires: — Brown's Pastorals: — Donne: — Butler's 
 Hudihras : — Dryden, Pope, Akenside, Dyer, Armstrong, 
 Young, and Goldsmith : — Thomson's Seasons: — Cowper. 
 
 Our lectures have already exhausted the more interest- 
 ing topics, which a review of the history and merits of 
 English poetry presents to our consideration. The har- 
 vest is past ; and, we have now little more to do, than i& 
 garner in the comparatively 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 can- 
 not soar as high, she treads more firmly. She addresses 
 herself, not to the imagination and the heart, but to the 
 understanding. 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 grace- 
 fully with those gay " creatures of the elements," who 
 peopled the regions 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 unconstrainedness as they 
 do. She has not the real sober prose step of the histo- 
 rian and the essayist, any more than she has the bold and 
 fearless pinion of the epic poet, and the dramatist. She 
 lias not " angelic wings, nor feeds on manna." She has
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. Ill 
 
 rather the wings of the flying-fish, which, for a moment, 
 elevate her towards the heaven of poetr)-, 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 tiim and elegant flower- 
 garden is to the wildness and magnificence of unadorned 
 nature ; who is, " when unadorned, adorned the most.'* 
 The descriptive passages which spring up amidst all the 
 awfulness and sublimity of Shnkspeare and Milton, are 
 like the delicious fruits and fragrant flowers which are 
 found among the grandest and niost terrific passages of 
 Alpine scenery ; while the coniinuous descriptions of 
 Thomson and Cowper, are like flowers of every imagi- 
 nable form" and hue, exotic and native, got together and 
 crowded into one bed. They bring hoiije 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 prepared 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 Apennines. Then the pages of Goldsmith, and 
 Thomson, and Cowper, yield as much enjoyment to the 
 one, as the velvet lawn and the gaily ornamented parterre 
 do to the other. 
 
 English poetry has been, from the earliest period, as 
 rich in description as the English taste has been observed 
 to be particularly attached to external nature. The hum- 
 blest and most closely confined denizens of our English 
 cities have been remarked by foreigneis to cherish this 
 taste in the possession of a box of mignonette, a vase of 
 flowers, or a solitary myrtle, or geranium. So, 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 ob- 
 servers of nature. The touches of scenic description in 
 the ancient ballads are numerous and beautifiil ; and 
 Percy has preserved a fine relic of an old descriptive 
 poem, entitled " Deatli and Life,^' the beauties of which 
 cannot fail to be perceived, even through the veil of
 
 1 13 LECTURES ON 
 
 uncouth and antique 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 Langbaine ; 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 tlie bright sonne ; 
 Her nuld redder than the rose, that on the rise liangeth. 
 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 gray, greened behve." 
 
 But it is to that golden age of our literature, the reign of 
 Queen Elizabeth, that we must look for the earliest, and 
 some of the best, specimens of satire and pastoral ; con- 
 sidered as a class of poetry, distinct from, and unmixed 
 with, any other. I allude more particularly to the satires 
 of Bishop Hall, and the ^' Brilannia's Pastorals^' of Wil- 
 liam 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 atten- 
 tion to the beauties of Hall. This powerful and truly 
 original writer is the earlit^st 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 Hst, 
 And be the second English satirist." 
 
 o 
 
 His satires, besides their own intrinsic poetical excel-! 
 lencies, 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. Scrib- 
 blers, lawyers, parsons, physicians, all those unfortunate 
 classes of men, who have, from time immemorial, enjoyed
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. US 
 
 tli<j unenvied privilege of attracting the peciiiiar notice of 
 the satiric muse, are by him laid baro and shrinking to the 
 scorn and hatred of mankind. Hall is, 1 believe, well 
 known as a divine ; his sermons and meditations having- 
 procured him a high rank am.ong polemical writers. It 
 is my object, however, to notice him merely as a poet, 
 and I shall, therefore, make a i'ew extracts from his 
 satires. The following tirade against the legal profession 
 is a fair specimen of the force and fearlessness of hi^ 
 style : — 
 
 " Wo 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, gaily silver-strew'd. 
 Each home-bred science perchcth in the chair, 
 While sacred arts grovel on the groundsel! 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 tliee. 
 Though must he buy his vainer hope with price. 
 Disclout his crowns, and thaiik him for advice. 
 So liave I seen, in a tempestuous stowre, 
 Some brier bush show shelter Irom the showev 
 Unto the hopeful sheep, that fain would hide 
 His fleecy coat from that same angry tide : 
 The ruthless brier, regardless of Ins plight, 
 Lays hold upon the fle(3ce he should acquitc , 
 And takes advantage of the careless prey, 
 That thought she in securer shelter lay. 
 The day is fiir, the sheep would far to feed. 
 The tyrant brier holds fast his shelter's rneodj 
 And claims it for the fee of his defence, 
 So robs the sheep in favour's fair pretence ''
 
 114 LECTURES ON 
 
 The following lines are in ridicule of the amatory poetry 
 of the age, and of the exaggerated compliments which the 
 poets addressed to their mistresses : — 
 
 " As »vitty Pontan in great earnest said, 
 Ills mistress' breasts wen; like two weights of lead ; 
 Ancjllier thinks her teeth in;ght hkcri'd be, 
 To two fair ranks of pales of ivory ; 
 To fence in, sure, the wihl beast of her tongue, 
 Frf>m either going far, or going wrong ; 
 Her grmders hke two chalk-stones in a mill, 
 Wliieh shall witli time and wearing wax as ill 
 As old Calillas, who doth every nfght 
 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, 
 Her hands must hide it ; if slie 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 breeds, 
 Are daubed full of Venice chalk for need ; 
 Her eyes, like silver saucers fHir 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 fdl 
 The well of her fair mouth. Each hath his praise, 
 Who would not but wed Poets now-a-days !" 
 
 That Hall could compliment as elegantly ; as he could 
 satirize unsparingly, a short epigram will, however, amply 
 prove. It is entitled, — 
 
 "ON MR. GREENHAM'S BOOK OF THE SABBATH. 
 
 While Greenham writeth on the J^abbath'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 sliall be scanned by a thousand eyne. 
 This Sabbath's rest, or that Sabbath's unrest, 
 'Tis hard to say which is the happiest."
 
 ENGLISH POETRT. 1 1$ 
 
 Brown is one of the sweetest pastoral writers in the 
 ^vK)rld. It has been complained, that English literature, 
 however ricii in other respects, is very defective in pasto- 
 ral poetry ; but this is a com[)laint which can only be 
 made by crifics who are ignorant of the existence of such 
 a writer as Brown. Of the more popular pastorals, the 
 articial aftectations of Shcnstone, Phillips, Hammond, and 
 a thousand others, I wish to say little or nothing. The 
 tinsel is by this time pretty well rubbed oif the meretri- 
 cious baubles which so long pleased the public taste ; and 
 the trumjjery materials of which all their finery was com- 
 posed, is beginning to be properly appreciated. A poem 
 is no longer supposed to be wonderfully natural and pas- 
 toral, merely because it makes love rhyme to dove ; 
 breeze to trees ; and mountains to fountains. The shep- 
 herds and sheplierdppses, or rather the ladies and gentle- 
 men in disguise, like the Beef-eaier in Sheridan's "Critic,^^ 
 who sat upon green hiliocks, with pastoral pipes in their 
 hands, talking about love and Arcadia, have been dis- 
 covered 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 entirely English. His 
 scenery is English. He [taints not Arcadia, or Utopia ; 
 but he takes us to the leafy shores of Devon, and the fer- 
 tile banks of Tamar, and describes their beauties with the 
 ardour of a lover, and 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, minstrelsy rung out from beneath some neighbouring 
 spire. Shepherds piping all night under some hawthorn 
 bush are not often seen in our northern climate ; the 
 dryads, and nyni[)hs, and satyrs, harmonize as ill with the 
 features of English scenery, as Di'. Bentley, in the cele- 
 brated 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 sur-
 
 lib' LKCTUKES ON 
 
 round him. Brown confines himself to the scenery, and 
 to the manners, which he has seen and known. His 
 works, althou»h lull of truth and nature, are rich in poetry 
 and imaghiation : for to these naUirc and truth arc not 
 opposed, but arc the best and surest ins[)irers and auxilia- 
 ries. The poet's address to England is full of patriotisin 
 and feeling : — 
 
 " Hail ! thou my native soil, thou blessed spot 
 Whose equal all the world aftbrdeth not ; 
 Show me, who can, so many crystal nils, 
 Such well-clothed valleys, or aspiriiif^f 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-ruHn^ men."" 
 
 'o 
 
 Brown, however, in enumerating the excellent pro- 
 ductions of our native Island, has very ungallantly omitted 
 one, which did not escape the notice of Thomson, wherj 
 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 liis descriptive powers, 
 which is said, by those acquainted with the scenery de- 
 scribed, — the banks of the Tamar, in Devonshire, — to be' 
 an extraordinarily faithful delineation of the spot : — 
 
 " Between two rocks, immortal without mother, 
 Tiiat stand as if outfacing one another, 
 There ran a creek np, intricate and blind. 
 As if the waters liid them from the wind, 
 Which never wash'd, hut at a higher tide. 
 The frizzled cotes which do the mountains hide ; 
 Where never gale was longer known to stay, 
 Than from tiie smooth wave it had swept away 
 The new divorced leaves, that from each side 
 Left the thick boughs to dance out with the tide. 
 At further end the creek, a stately wood 
 *j}ave H kind shadow to the brackish flood ;
 
 ENGLISH POETKY. lit 
 
 Made up of trees, not less kenn'd by each skiff, 
 Than that sky-scaling peak ofTeneriffe ; 
 Upon whose tops tlie hernshaw bred her young, 
 And hoary moss upon their branches hung ; 
 Whose rugged rinds sufficient were to show, 
 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 rectoo:' 
 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 in)properly styled the metaphysical ; which at- 
 tained its greatest elevation in Cowley, and may be said 
 to have become extinct with Spratt. Donne is as full of 
 far-fetched conceits, and recondite illustrations, or rather 
 obscurations, as Cowley ; without, however, being pos- 
 sessed 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 lolly ; but holds them 
 up to derision, rather than overwhelms them with punish- 
 ment ; 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 its danger. One holds it up to derision; 
 the other to execration. One exposes it to the gibes and 
 jeers of the world ; the other devotes it to the axe, the 
 scourge, and the gibbet. 
 
 Butler's " Hudibras^' is a production of matchless wit 
 and fancy ; but the construction of the story, and the de- 
 lineation of the characters, have been praised far beyond 
 their merits. In these particulars it has very slender 
 claims to originality, Cervantes is evidently the model 
 which Butler followed ; and Hudibras is Don Quixote 
 turned puritan. He has exchanged the helmet of Mal- 
 brino for the close cap of Geneva. Instead of encounter- 
 ing giants and enchanters ; he wages war with papists and 
 pielatists. Instead of couching his lance at tilts and tour- 
 naments; 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^ 
 \m apprehension becomes wonderfully keener. Likfi
 
 118 LECTURES ON 
 
 Hamlet, he is but " mad north-north-west; when the wind 
 is southerly, he knows a hawk from a hantl-saw." Ralpho, 
 in Hke manner, is but a conventicle edition of Sancho ; 
 but who can wonder that Butler should have failed in 
 copyin;^ from such models as these ? The Knight of La 
 Mancha is, like Shakspeare's Richard, " himself — 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 n)atchless, it 
 is unimitated, 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 its subject is far more repulsive. 
 The knight*s greatest weaknesses are amiable, and of vices 
 he has none. We sympathize 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 fee! 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 observa- 
 tions 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 and 
 caustic ; his wit brilliant and delightful. His knowledge 
 of the arts and sciences appears to have been profound ; 
 and he has brought a wonderful 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 its 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."
 
 ENGLISH POETRT. 119 
 
 This, besides being poetically beautiful, is I'liilosophically 
 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 fort^ui.ist place in the foremost 
 ranks of English didactic writers. We have already had 
 occasion to speak of him as a narrative and dranriatic poet, 
 and shall, therefore, be proportionably brief in our obser- 
 vations upon his ui^'rits in the present instance. His 
 satire is appalling and tremendous ; and not the less so, 
 for its extreme polish and splendour. Ir excites our 
 indignation against its objects, not only on account of the 
 follies, or faults, which it imputes to them, but also on 
 account of their writhing beneath the intiiction of so 
 splendid a weapon. We forget the ofll't nder in the awful^ 
 ness and majesty of the power by which he is crushed. 
 Instead of shrinking 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 object which it destroys. He lias 
 immortalized the persons whom he branded with infamy 
 and contempt ; for who would have ren.embered 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 %vith 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. Diyden left our English versification at a point 
 from which it has sifice rather retrograded tlian advanced. 
 Pope polished and levelled it ; but he polibhed away much 
 of its grandeur, as well as of its roughness, and levelled 
 the rocks which impelled, as well as the stones which 
 impeded, its majestic current. Pope had fewer opportu-^ 
 nities for observation than Dryden, and perhaps improved 
 those which he had, less than he did. But he had a finer 
 fancy, and 1 am almost inclined to say, in opposition to 
 the popular opinion, that he possessed more genius. I 
 know of nothing so original and imaginative in the whole 
 range of Dryden's poetry as the " Rope of tlie Lock ;''^ 
 no descriptions of nature which can con^pare with those 
 in Pope's " Windsor Foreat ;" and nothing so tender ancj
 
 120 LECTURES Oi\ 
 
 feeling as many parts of the ''Elegy on the Death of 
 an unfortunate Lady,^^ and the " Epistle from Eloisa to 
 Jlbelard.^' Pope's satire, however, is neither so keen nor 
 so bright as that of Dryden ; whom he attacks, he butch- 
 ers ; whom he cuts, he mangles. He shows us not the 
 lifeless carcass of his victim, but the wiithings 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 dis- 
 ])ute. Pope exhibits more of the accuser than the judge. 
 Petty interests, and personal malice, instead of 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 
 blowr, but the deed, however righteous, inspires us with no 
 very a^ectionate feelings for his executioner. 
 
 Akenside's '' Pleasures of Imagination'^ is a very brilliant 
 and pleasing production. Every page shows 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 commonplace. They are 
 clothed, however, in elegant versification ; they are illus- 
 trated with much variety, and ingenuity ; and they invari- 
 ably tend to the advancement of good taste, and good 
 feeling. Occasionally, too, Akenside soars beyond his 
 ordinary height, as in his description of the soul: — 
 
 " The high born Soul 
 Disdains to rest her heav'n-aspiring wing 
 Beneath its 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 confusion of 
 metaphors of which Akenside is not very often guilty. 
 The " native quarry" of a wing would, 1 fear, very much 
 puzzle any painter to represent accurately. 
 
 His hymns and odes have long since fallen into oblivion, 
 and I do not feel inclined to disturb their rest. His 
 inscriptions, however, have an attic terseness and force, 
 r<.'^'iich are unequalled by any productions of the same
 
 ENr.LlSH i'OETRV. 121 
 
 class in our language, excepting, perhaps, by a few of our 
 contemporary, Soutliey's. One example of Akenside's 
 in:?criptions — that for a column at Hunnymede, — 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 
 ■^I'he 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 peculiarly qualified to lend 
 inspiration to the muse ; that of the first being Sheep- 
 shearing, and that of the second, Physic. They have 
 both, however, been more successful with those subjects 
 than coulil have been reasonably expected. Dyer is, 
 nevertheless, better, and deserves to be better remem- 
 bered, as the poet of " Grongar-Hill,'''' than of the 
 " Fleece ;" and Armstrong in his " ^drt of Preserving 
 IleahlC has done wonders with a somewhat repulsive 
 theme. He pleads hard in favour of its aptness for poet- 
 ical illustration, and reminds us that the ancients acknow- 
 ledged " one power of physic, melody, and song." This, 
 however, is, I fear, less calculated to allure than to repejL 
 the readers of poetry, and to have the same effect upoij 
 them, as Apollo's own enumeration of his accomplislb- 
 ments had upon Dajthne v\^hom he was pursuing ; — 
 
 "Stay, stay, gentle maiden, why urge thus your flight, 
 I 'rn the great god of song, and of pliysic, and light, 
 At the dreadful w(jrd |)hysic the nym[)h Ucd more fa^t^ 
 At the fatal word physic she doubled her hast'^."
 
 122 LECTURES 05 
 
 This poem contains one very noble passage, which would 
 do honour to any author, however illustrious : — 
 
 " What does not fate ? The tower that long had stood 
 The crushing thunder, and the warring winds, 
 Shook by tlie slow, hut sure destroyer, time, 
 Now hangs in doubtl'ul ruin o'er its 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." 
 
 Young is an author of a very extraordinary character, 
 and certainly of great powers. His imagery is bold and 
 original ; his sentiments expressed 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 its composition, than that of most 
 of his contemporaries. His genius, however, is only seen 
 to advantage amidst charnel houses and sepulchres. 
 When it is employed on lighter subjects, in satirical or 
 humorous delineations, it is unsuccessful ; it seems as if, 
 hke 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 Hijjpo- 
 crene, and mistakes the pale horse in thf Revelation for 
 Pegasus. 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 1 have already had occasion to mention 
 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 didactic poet, and what can I say of 
 him better than by repeating the true and eloquent eulo- 
 gium in his epitaph : — 
 
 "Nullum quod tetigit non ornavll!"
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 12o 
 
 The " Traveller,'''' and the " Deserted ViUage,"^ scarcely 
 'claim any notice from me. They are in every one's 
 hands ^ they i>ve in every one's memory ; they are felt in 
 every one's ht-iirt. They are daily the delight of millions. 
 The critic an ' the commentator are never asked their 
 opinion upon their merits. " Song," says Camphell, "is 
 but the eloquence of truth," and of this eloquence are 
 the writings of Goldsmith made up. Eloquence that will 
 be listened to ; truth that it is impossible to doubt. 
 
 Thomson is the first of our descriptive poets ; I had 
 almost said, the first in the world. He is one of the best 
 poets, and the worst versiliers, that ever existed. To 
 begin with the least pleasing part of our subject, his ver- 
 sification, it is artificial 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 versifi- 
 cation shrouds thein ; and, like the sun, impart a portion 
 of their own liiihtness 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 Indolence,'^ could describe 
 as naturally as he felt. The fact seems to be, that the 
 last-mentioned poem was a work of amusement, and the 
 " /S'easons" a work of labour. Thomson's ideas spring 
 up so naturally and unforced, that he seems to think him- 
 self bound to clothe them in a cumbrous and elaborate 
 versification, before he ventures to exhibit them to the 
 ■v\'orld. He could not believe that in their naked sim- 
 plicity and beauty they were fit for the public gaze. His 
 versification, 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 sunshine, and in the storm ; 
 in the smiling valleys of Arcadia, and in the icy wastes of 
 Nova Zembia ; amidst the busy hum ol' niankind, and 
 the solitude and silence of deserts. The following lines 
 present as jierfect and well-defined a {)ictme to the eye, 
 as ever was embodied on the canvass : —
 
 .13.4 tECTDliES OK 
 
 " Home from liis niorning task tlic swain retreats.- 
 His ilock before liiin steppinjr to the fold, 
 "While the full uddcr'd mother lows around 
 The cheerful cottage, then expecting food ; 
 The food of innocence and health. The daw, 
 The rook, and magpie, to the gray-grown oaks, 
 That the calm village in their verdant arms, 
 Sheltering, embrace, direct their lazy flight ; 
 Where on the mingling boughs they sit embowered. 
 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 Thorn- 
 jfeon generally is ; but even here it is loaded with exple- 
 tives ; such as the " mingling boughs," the " household 
 fowls," the " vacant grayhound," and the " gray-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 
 #nartlet, building his nest outside of Machethh 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 
 isleeping in the tower : 
 
 *'■ Their hps were four red roses on a stalk, 
 That in their summer beauty kiss'd each other." 
 
 Again, the following description, in the " Seasons,*^ of 
 that period of the year when the winter and the spring- 
 are contending for the mastery, is perfectly true an<l 
 featural : 
 
 " As yet the trembling year is unconfirm'd, 
 And winter oH. at eve resumes the breeze ;
 
 ENGLISH POETRV. 125 
 
 Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets 
 Deform the day dehghtless ; so that scarce 
 The bittern knows his time, with bill ingulf'd 
 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." 
 
 But how are the beauty and fidelity of the picture de- 
 formed by such harsh is'versions and tumid epithets as 
 " day delightless," and " bill ingulfed." 
 
 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 can- 
 not paint the plague at Caithagena, 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 
 liis fl nver garden, and where is the author who can com- 
 pare with him for a moment 1 The pictures 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 
 always succeeds. The grander features of nature are 
 beyond his grasp ; mountairs and cataracts, frowning 
 rocks, and wide-spreading seas, are not subjects for his 
 pencil : but the meadow and the 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 per- 
 sonification of winter is powerful, and even sublime ; — 
 
 "Oh Winter! ruler of the inverted year! 
 Thy scatter'd 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 its slippery way." 
 
 Cowper's minor poems are full of beauties ; and ot 
 beauties of the most versatile nature. For pathos and.
 
 126 LECTURES ON 
 
 feeling, liis lines " On his J\[olher^s Piclnre'^ are posi- 
 tively 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 tirrie, 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 its faults are of a totally opposite character. If 
 Thomson fails from too much effort, Cow per fails from 
 too little. If one is bombastic and turgid, the other is tame 
 and prosaic. English narrative blank verse is an instru- 
 ment 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 contained.
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. l^T 
 
 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 Llew- 
 ellyn : — Sir Walter Raleigh : — George Herbert : — Transla- 
 tions of the Psalms: — Modern Ballad-Writers: — Modern 
 Odes: — Dryden, Pope, Collins, Gray, Mason, and the War- 
 tons : — Conclusion. 
 
 We have already taken a brief review of English narra- 
 tive, epic, dramatic, descriptive, didactic, pastoral, and 
 satirical poetry. The subject of these lectures we shall, 
 therefore, now bring to a close by directing our inquiries 
 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 unfrequently been found to be instruments of incalcu- 
 lable power. "Give me," said a great statesman, "the 
 making of the national ballads, and I care not who makes 
 the laws." History })resents us with many proofs of the 
 tinth and wisdom of this remark. A iiunstrel who accom- 
 panied William the Conqueror to the invasion of England, 
 hy rushing into the enemy's ranks, chanting the song of 
 Hollo, led on his countrymen to the victory of Hastings; 
 the songs of the Welsh bards inspired such a S[»irit of 
 resistance to the authority o( the English, that Edward the 
 First caused the whole fraternity to be exterminated ; 
 which Hume has justly styled abaibarous, but not absurd 
 policy; the air of the '*Ranz des Faches'' has been forbid- 
 den to be played in the bands of the Swiss regtments on 
 foreign service, because it brought back the scenes of
 
 )2b LECTURES ON , 
 
 home to their vccollections, and inspired them with a 
 resistless wish to return to their native eonntry ; and Lord 
 Wharton's song of" Lillebulero,^^ — immortal as the favour- 
 ite of Uncle Toby, — is supposed to have had no slight 
 influence in promoting our English revolution. To cite 
 instances of a more modern date, the *^ Marsellois Hxjmn^'' 
 shook the Bourbons from their throne ; and Dibbin's 
 unrivalled naval songs were instrumental in quelling the 
 mutiny at the Nore. Songs and ballads, too, give us a 
 more certain and I'aithful 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 historians 
 and chroniclers : as " a straw thrown up into the air will 
 show 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 verses into artificial and elaborate 
 narratives, or to give them a dramatic form, they were 
 accustomed to express any ardent emotion, such as afTec- 
 tion, exultation, 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 ear- 
 liest 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 in our island : 
 these have been succeeded by the Saxon gleemen and 
 minstrels; the Proveni;al troubadours, and finally, by poets 
 of a more lofty and enduring reputation. 
 
 The troubadours are the fathers of modern literature. 
 The Provenc^al language in which they wrote, was the 
 general language of civilized 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, 
 tjie south of Germany, Flanders, and England. The 
 poets of those days, however, bore very little resemhance
 
 ENGLISH I'OETJiV. , V2^ 
 
 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 among 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 peranibulatory 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 Jiigh sense of honour, courtesy, 
 and devotion to the fair sex, which characterized the ages 
 of chivalry. A few specimens of their poetry, as far as qK 
 literal prose version can be called a specimen, will not be 
 irrelevant to the subject immediately before us. Geoffrey 
 Jludel, 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. 
 ^Vlien I behold the nightingale caressing his faithful mate, 
 who returns his tenderness in every look, and who sq 
 delightfully warble their pys in unison, I feel my soui 
 penetrated with delight ; 1 teel 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 
 anmse themselves 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 afterward Bishop ol 
 Thoulouse, in one of his poems, also makes use of a very 
 striking and original simile : — " I wi.sh 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 
 ^reat tower reflected from a small mirror !" 
 
 Bertrand le Bonn, who had been defeated and made 
 prisoner by our heroic monarch Cnuir-de-Lion, then count 
 of Poitou, who was himself a distinguished poet, thu^ 
 .addresses his con([ueror. " If Count Bichard will voi\c,l;'- 
 
 . R
 
 130 LECTURES ON 
 
 safe me liig grace, I will devote myself to his service, and 
 my attachment to him shall be as pure as the fiuest silver. 
 His high dignity shoidd cause him to resemble the sea, 
 which set- ms to retain all she receives within her bosom, 
 but casts it back on (he 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 extracts, which struck me as 
 possessing peculiar beauty. The first is from Geoffrey 
 Rudel : — 
 
 " 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. 
 
 Give me again that kiss so deai-, 
 
 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 supplicated as divinities 
 among the troubadours. 
 
 " Love ! thou hast done me wrong to wage 
 
 Thy war witliin 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 canst blend in union meek, 
 
 Things more opposed than they, 
 The white and red upon thy cheek, 
 
 In Love's own language say."
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. lol 
 
 by degrees, however, the Provcn(;al dechned into a 
 ^ead language ; the poets of Europe made use of the 
 tongues of tht'ir own respective countries; and lyrical and 
 narrative poe ry became closely connected. The old 
 English meti ;< al romances were composed ^vith a view to 
 a musical accompaniment ; 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 
 its ancient lyrical reliques, this nation is said to be richer 
 than all the rest of Europe combined. The fine old 
 ballads of " Chevy Cfiace'" 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 vSidney, no inroaipetent judge, has 
 said, " I never heard the old song of Ptrcie 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 ruile style ; which being so 
 evil a|»pandled, in the dust and cobweb of that uncivil age, 
 what would it work trimmed in the gor:-eous eloquence of 
 Pindar ]" " Old Robin Gray'"' also deserves our notice, 
 if it were onl^ on account uf these two lines :— 
 
 '•' My father argued sair, though my mither didna speak, 
 But slie looked in my face till my heart was like to break. 
 
 There is also in " Lady Ann BothicelVs Lament,^* a touch 
 ©f unaffected nature and pathos of the same kind : — 
 
 " Lie still, my darling ! sleep awhile, 
 And when thou wakest, sweetly smile ; 
 Hut smile not as thy father did, 
 To cozen maids ! — nay, God forbid !" 
 
 The early part of the reign of Henry the Eighth was 
 rich in lyrical poetry ; and indeed, wore an aspect of 
 great promise to the cause of literature and the arts. 1 
 am afraid that I shall be venturing a very unpopular 
 opinion, when I say, that I believe these propitious ap- 
 pearances were owing to the influence of Cardinal Wol- 
 sey ; for we lind tlie character of the king, and of the 
 nation, materially altered after that distinguished minister
 
 132 LECTURES orj 
 
 ^^as removed from the royal councils. Henry, who tlurPng- 
 ^Volsey's administration hold the balance of Europe, be- 
 came comparatively powerless and insignifieaut ; the love 
 of poetry and the arts was exchanged for controversial 
 subtleties, and for the more conelusive, if less logical 
 arguments, of the axe, the iagot, and the gibbet ; and 
 thus the budding s[)ring-time ol" English hterature, which 
 had produced such poets as Surrey, VVyatt, and Vaux, 
 was nipped untimely by the chilling breath of tyranny. 
 One extract from the productions of this period is all that 
 1 can find room for; and this I shall give not so much on 
 account of any clain)s to originality, or genius, which it 
 evinces, as lor the purpose of showing the strength and 
 sweetness, which the authors, even of that eaily age, 
 infused into their versificaton. It is by Sir Thomas AVyattj 
 and is entitled ^^ An earnest Suit to his Alistrcss not to foy. 
 > a/ce him ;"— 
 
 "And wilt tliou leave me thus? 
 Say nay, say nay, for shame : 
 'J'o save thee from the blame 
 Of all my grief and grame, 
 
 And wilt thot leave me thus? 
 Say nay, say nay. 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 That has loved (hee so long, 
 In wealth and wo 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. 
 
 And wilt thou leave me tims ? 
 And have no more pity 
 Of him who loveth thee ; 
 Alas ! thy cruelty ! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus f 
 Say nay, say nay."
 
 E^'GLISU POETftV. 18*? 
 
 The age of Queen Elizabeth, however, to which, ahnost 
 whatever class of poetry wc are discussing, we must revert 
 as the period in which it arrived at its greatest perfection, 
 is peculiarly rich in lyrical poems. From the writings of 
 the early dran)atisls alone, we may extract gems " of 
 purest ray serene," whosf brightu' ss 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 iu our language. 
 Shakspeare, Beaumont and Fletcher, Lylye, and Hey- 
 wood, also stand out from among the ranks of the drama- 
 tists, as elc2:ant and accomolished Ivrists ; and the follow- 
 ing song, from Beaun.ont and Fletcher, is evidently the 
 foundation on which Milton built that noble poetical struc- 
 ture, his " // Penseroso ;" — 
 
 " Hence ! all you vain delights^ 
 
 As short as are the nights, 
 
 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 fasten'd to the ground, 
 
 A tongue chain'd up, without a sound ; 
 
 Fountain-heads, and pathless groves, 
 
 Places which pale Passion loves ; 
 
 Moonlight walks, where all the fowls 
 
 Are warmly housed, save bata 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 ll.e age of Queen Elizabeth, are such that I cannot 
 attempt to give any adequate notion of them by extracts. 
 'J'heir grand distinguishing features are originality of 
 thought, and elegance of versification. Donne, Sydney, 
 llaleigh, Carew, Herrick, Crashaw, Suckling, Waller, 
 and others, form an unrivalleil school of lyrical poetry, 
 M'hifh exi'Jted in this country fron» the days of Elizabeth
 
 J34 LECTUllES ON 
 
 to those of Charles : and it is perfectly unaccountable, 
 that, possessing so many gems of the purest poetry, the 
 public taste should aft( rward have sunk into such a state 
 of utter debasement, as to be giatifieil hy the sickening 
 commonplaces of Lansdowne, Walsh, and H difax ; — 
 that it should " on that lair mountain l» ave 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 pbin, shall be taken from such 
 authors as are least generall) known. The first is by 
 Miartin Llewellyn : — 
 
 " I felt my heart, and found a flame, 
 That for relief and shelter came ; 
 I entertain'd the treacherous ijnest, 
 And gave it welcome in my breast : 
 Poor Celia ! whiiher 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 innnorta! tire, 
 Nor can in air, or ice, expire ; 
 Nor will that Phoetiix be supprest, 
 But with the ruin of its nest." 
 
 My second quotation is from the writings of one, whose 
 achievements and misfortunes have made him sufficiently 
 renowned ; but whose literary productions are compara- 
 tively unknown. I allude to that soldier, that sailor, that 
 statesman, that patriot, that poet, that hero, Sir Walter 
 Xlaleigh ! 
 
 "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.
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 135 
 
 Wrong not, sweet nnistress of my heart ! 
 
 The merit of true passion, 
 With thinking that lie 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. 
 
 Silence in love betrays more wo 
 
 Tlian words, though ne'er so witty : 
 
 A beggar that is dumb, you know, ' 
 May challenge double pity. 
 
 Then wrong not, dearesi 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 pro- 
 gress of the reformation in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, 
 gave a religious tinge to many of the lyrical writings of that 
 period, Crashavv, who translated Marino's " Sospetto d' 
 Jlcrode,^^ is a lyric poet of great sweetness and j)Ower ; 
 but his writings were not very popular, on account of the 
 religious tenets which he prtjfessed 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 liberality and 
 toleration, Queen Elizabeth. His works, both prose an<l
 
 136 LECTUKES OA 
 
 poetry, are full of deep and original tlioughts, Avbicii 
 iare, in general, charmingly expressed. George Herbert, 
 brother of the celebrated Edward, Lord Herbert, of Cher- 
 bury, was once an author of great reputation as a devo- 
 tional lyrist ; but his beauties of thought and diction arc 
 so overloaded with far-fetched conceits, and quaintnesses ; 
 low, and vulgar, and even indelicate imagery; and a per« 
 tinacious ap[)ropriation of Scripture language and fiuure, 
 in situations where they make a most unseemly exhibition, 
 that there is now very little probability of his ever regain- 
 ing the popularity which he has lost. That there was 
 much, however, of the real [)oetical temperament in the 
 composition of his mind, the following lines, although not 
 free from his characteristic blemishes, will abundantly 
 prove : — 
 
 " Sweet Day ! so cool, so calm, so brit.'ht5 
 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 its grave, 
 And thou must die ! 
 
 Sweet Spring ! full of sweet days and roses, 
 
 A box, where sweets compacted lie ; 
 My music shows you have your closes, 
 And all must die! 
 
 Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
 
 Like season'd timber never gives. 
 But when the whole world turns to coal 
 Then chiefly lives." 
 
 Francis Qiiarles is an author of the same stamj) ; with a 
 ilne genius, but the vilest taste in the world. His writings 
 are full of powerful effort, ill directed. His poetry, in all 
 its faults and merits, is well illustrated by his engravings, 
 -^rhere is much of what the artists call good intention in
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 137 
 
 both, but never was good intention so marred in the exe- 
 cution. His poetry is not more like Milton's, than his 
 pictures are like Ratfaelle's ; yet both are lull ot" origi- 
 nality and power : the mere chippings and parings of his 
 genius, combined with a little taste and judgment, would 
 have been sufficient to have lorined 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 J^a- 
 tivity" beginning, " It was the winter wild ;" the lines 
 " On a solemn Music," — " Blest pair of Sirens ! pledges of 
 heaven's joy !*' and the choruses of " Sampson Agonistesy'' 
 are altogether matchless. Like all the writings of Milton, 
 they are remarkable for their union of the sublimity and 
 daring of the Greek poets, with the holy fervour and 
 sanctity of the scriptural writers. He is, as it were, 
 Isaiah and Pindar combined. He soars on the pinions of 
 the The ban 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 sub- 
 jected to the inflictions of translators, certainly the royal 
 psalmist, David, has been treated with the greatest indig- 
 nity ; 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 ol the verses of that 
 most ancient and respectabli; parochial officer, the bell- 
 man ! The words which are feloniously attributed to the 
 " sweet singer of Israel," might, with greater probability, 
 be considered the authorship of the parish clerk, who 
 drawls theme out ; or of the charity children, who lend 
 their most " sweet voices" to grace them with appropriate 
 melody. 
 
 It is, certainly, most extraordinary, that a work which 
 is worthy of the highest poetical powers of any age, or of 
 
 S
 
 138 LECTURES ON 
 
 any country, should hitherto have been generally aban- 
 doned to the ignorant, the incapable, and the presump- 
 tuous. But the truth is, that so long as the purposes of 
 public worship are exclusively kept in view, and the 
 translator is coulined to the drawling long, and short 
 metres, the strait waistcoats oi verse, which are now 
 used, it will be impossible to infuse into an) English ver- 
 sion, the power and feeling, the spirit and em-rgy, 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 hu- 
 mility ; 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 
 1 forget thee, O Jerusalem ! may my right hand forget 
 her cunning ; if I do not remember thee, let my tongue 
 cleave to the roof of my mouth !" in the following man- 
 ner : — 
 
 '• If 1 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 1 642, the ^^J^ongs of iiion, 
 or certain Pslams of David, set to strange Tunes, and ren- 
 dered into a strange Tongue." Oi the tunes, 1 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 rigiitcous shall his sorrow scan, 
 And laugh at liim, and say, behold ! 
 What has become of tliis here man, 
 That on his riches was so bold I"'
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 139 
 
 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 which has fallen into 
 my hands, does not say much for the most reverend pre- 
 late's poetical talents. His version of the 1st verse of the 
 126th Psalm will suffice as a specimen of the entire vo- 
 lume. 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 suflered less 
 at the hands of versifiers than the Psalms ; for, in the 
 reign of Edward the Sixth, Dr. Christopher Tye turned 
 the whole " ,^cts of the Apostles'" into rhyme. His metre 
 is something like that of Mr. Moore's song of '""Fly from 
 the world, O 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 !" 
 
 Such, as Lord Byron truly said, arc some of the authors, 
 who, — 
 
 " Break into verse the Gospel of St. Luke, 
 Or boldly pilfer from the Pentateuch ; 
 And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, 
 Pervert the Propiiets, and purloin the Psalms !*' 
 
 One of the earliest complete versions of the Psalms, 
 and, perhaps, with all its faults, — for, alas ! we have but 
 a choice of evils, — one of the best, is that of Sternhold 
 and Hofikins. 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
 
 140 LECTURF.S ON 
 
 are a few Psalms which are rendered into English with 
 real poetical beauty, and feeling. Those which have the 
 signature N affix- il to them, are l>y far the best. They 
 are the production of Thomas Norton, who was, jointly 
 with Lord Buckhurst, author of the old play of " Gorhu- 
 duc,^^ which wr have had occasion to mention several times 
 in the course of these Lectures, as the first regular Eng- 
 lish 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 
 transmutation of some of the most magnificent poems in 
 the world. That of Dr. Watts, however respectable, is 
 not, and does not affect to be, a translation. It is a com- 
 mentary, or an exposition of the ailthor's own views and 
 fancies ; and, however acceptable to those who coincide 
 in his opinions, is worse than nothing, as a faithful and cor- 
 rect 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 attempt 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 sentitnents 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 
 of outlawry in all the courts of Parnassus. Dryden 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 " Mex- 
 ander^s Fcast,^^ is unquestionably the finest ode in our 
 language. Pope's on the same subject sinks infinitely in 
 the comparison. It is certainly not without merit ; but
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 141 
 
 Pope's pinions, strong and vigorous as they were, were not 
 peculiarly adapted for Pindaric flights. Rowe, who has 
 shown his taste, if not his hoiusty, in dirt-cting his atten- 
 tion to our old Eiiglsi) 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 num- 
 bered Tiek! 11, — whose fine and feehng " Elegy on the 
 death of Mdison " is very superior to the general tone of 
 Enslish poetry at that period ; — Mallet, Mickle, Glover, 
 — of whose ballcid of " Hosier's Ghost," Sheridan declared 
 he would rather be the author than of the Annals of Taci- 
 tus, — Gay, Percy, and Gddsmith. From such well- 
 known works as " Colin and Lucy." " William and Mav' 
 garet," Edwin and Emma,'"' " Black- Eyed Susan" the 
 " Friar of Orders Grey" and " Edwin and Sngelina" 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 ancient bal- 
 lad, with the more polished versification of modern times. 
 
 I cannot, however, close this part of my subject with- 
 out observing that there are several highly gifted ballad- 
 writers now living ; especially Mr. Coleridge, whose 
 " Genevieve" and the " Ancient 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 Britam 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. Milton still 
 continues in undisputed possession of the epic supremacy,
 
 142 LECTURES ON 
 
 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, never- 
 theless. There is more of art than nature in Gray ; 
 more of recollection than invention ; more of acquire- 
 ment than genius. If I may use a colloquial illustration, 
 I should say, that the marks of the tools are too evident 
 on all that he does. I do not object to effort and labour 
 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 perfec- 
 tion 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 its erection. One shows us the palette, and 
 the canvass, and the brush ; the other shows us the pic- 
 ture ; the production of the master mind, without whose 
 informing genius, the palette, and the canvass, and the 
 brush, are but idle and worthless toys. 
 
 Collins is, next to Jonson, Milton, and Dryden, the 
 finest lyrical poet which England has produced. Ele- 
 gance, 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 admira- 
 tion, Churchill, has said, — 
 
 " By curious art the brain too finely wrought. 
 Preys on itself, and is destroyed by thought." 
 
 Such was the fate of Collins ; the most accomplished 
 scholar, and the most original poet of his age. His mis- 
 fortunes, howevei, 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.
 
 ENtiLlSU POETRY. 143 
 
 whom it will be consistent with my plan to mention. The 
 first was certainly a man of considerable talent. His 
 " Elfrida" and " Caractacus,''* notwithstanding the tram' 
 mels in which he voluntarily chose to involve liimselt, show 
 much dramatic power, and the choruses in the last, parti- 
 cularly that beginning " Hark ! heard ye not yon lo. tstep 
 dread ?" venture almost on the pathless regions of sub- 
 limity. The Wartons, particular!) 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 complete.'' 
 For the attention which I have been fortunate enough to 
 command, I am indebted to the nature of the subject on 
 which I have been speaking. The situations of the painter 
 and the critic are singularly contrasted. In the one 
 instance, the canvass derives all its importance from the 
 artist ; in the other, the artist derives all his importance 
 fronj the canvass. The canvass on which I have been em- 
 ployed, 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 im- 
 mortal as that mind itself. Even now we see how far 
 the genius of England has extended 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 lan- 
 guage 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 the purj)oses of commerce, or of literature, or by 
 means of religious missionaries, it has been, more or less, 
 introduced into almost every realm, and state, and terri- 
 tory, on the face of the earth, wc may then indeed, venture 
 to call it the language of the world ! This language is 
 that mighty engine which our })oets have subdued to them-
 
 144 LECTURES ON ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 selves ; and on which they have stamped the impress 
 of their own unrividled genius: this is that flood which 
 shall spread ovei- the whole world ; and when Ui< dynas- 
 ties of the present period, and the "cloutl-capt tiiwcrs, 
 and the georgeous palaces," and the political ins itutions, 
 and the customs, and modes, and manners, which now 
 prevail, shall sink beneath it, like the citi( s and mountains 
 of the antediluvian world ; thtr- genius ol England, like the 
 ark of old, shall float proudly and secuely on its bosom, 
 and survive to delight new eras, and form the taste and 
 manners of nations yet unborn. 
 
 END OP THE LECTURES.
 
 '■^ 
 
 rAIiES, POEMS, Ace. 
 
 PKINTED FKOJI THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIITS. 
 
 T
 
 Th^ earth o' the grave hatli stopt his iieanng, Sir ^ 
 And praise and blame are now alike to him : 
 Yet, though his ear be dull, and his heart cold, 
 And all (kme's aspirations quench'd in deaths 
 Still let these reliques bear a charmed life. 
 And speak, though he be silent. 
 
 Old Play.
 
 THE OARTEll, 
 
 A ROMANCE OF ENGLISH HISTORY, 
 
 " Honi soit qui mal y pense." 
 
 England resumed her ascendancy over Scotland soon 
 after Edward the Third had commenced that brilUant reign 
 which was destined to attract the eyes of all Europe 
 towards him. Nature and fortune seemed to have con- 
 curred in distinguishing this prince from all other mo- 
 narchs. He was very tail, but well shaped ; and of so 
 noble and majestic an aspect, that his very looks com- 
 manded esteem and veneration. His conversation was 
 easy, and always accompanied with gravity and discre- 
 tion. 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, 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 Ed- 
 ward was unacquainted with love. He only aspired to 
 resume those conquests, which had escaped from the 
 feeble grasp of his unhappy father. He burned with the 
 desire of subjecting a neighbouring 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 
 destruction of the Scottish monarchy. 
 
 The Enghsh monarch was served by men who were 
 worthy of their master. William Montacute had fought
 
 148 ORIGINAL 
 
 with distinction and success, against the French and Scots, 
 and raised by the king to the rank of Earl of Salisbury, 
 he desired nothing but the continuance of his sovereign's 
 favour ; which Edward confirmed, by engaging the Baron 
 de Grandison, one of his ministers, to give his eldest 
 daughter to him in marriage. 
 
 Katherine 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 ma- 
 jestic gait, she added the most sylph-like grace, and light- 
 ness of figure. Her features were of that classical sym- 
 metry, 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 exquisitely 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 attached was his daughter ; and he 
 lost no time in acquainting Katharine with the wishes of 
 bis master, who demanded her hand for the Earl of Salis- 
 bury. The father did not observe the daughter's emotion, 
 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 entered it, and found her bathed in 
 tears. " Sweet sister," said Alice, " what mean these 
 tears "?" 
 
 " Alas !" returned the lady Katharine, " 1 am no longer 
 to be mistress of myself. Thy love and my father's pro-
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC. l4Ji 
 
 tection, were all I wished to form my happiness ; and 1 
 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 witn the king's favourite. " It is true," she rephed, 
 " that the Earl of Salisbury stands high in the favour of 
 the greatest monarch in Europe. But hast thou ever 
 seen the king, Alice 1 Is he not worthy of the homage 
 of all mankind .' Lives there any one who can so irre- 
 sistibly command our resjiect, our veneration, our love ? 
 I beheld him but once, at an entertainment 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 symptoms, the 
 day for the nuptials was immediately fixed ; as the old 
 lord never dreamed oi 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 warlike expedition to Flander&^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 soleinnly betrothed 
 to the lady Pliili[)pa of Hainatilt. 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 allifs of England on the conti- 
 nent, who had been mainly instrumental in rescuing it from 
 the tvrannv of Mortimer, Earl of March, and the old
 
 150 ORIGINAJ, 
 
 Queen Isabella, and thus securing the crown tor Edward 
 the Third. The Lord de Grandison, in particular, was 
 delii^hted b}' the prospect of a union between the houses 
 of England and llainault ; but no sooner was this news 
 communicated to the Countess of Salisbury, than she was 
 overwhelmed with the most poignant sorrow. Whether 
 the earl's captivity, or the king's marriage, had the great- 
 est 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 misfor- 
 tunes, 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, K.itharine," said Alice ; " you con- 
 ceal something from me ; for it is impossible that the 
 capture which has placed your lord in the hands of gene- 
 rous and magnanimous foes, can be the occasion of so 
 deep a grief as youis.' 
 
 " True, true, my sweet Alice," said the countess, throw- 
 ing herself in her sister's anus ; " 1 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, Kntharine, 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 hus- 
 band ! of his renown, his truth, his valour ! and 1 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 susceptible, but 
 boJd and firm ; and in the society of her sister, and in the
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC. ISl 
 
 active discharge of the various duties devolving upon her 
 elevated rank, she endeavoured to repress that fatal pas- 
 sion, which the recent intelligence had strengthened to a 
 height, almost bordering on insanity. 
 
 In the mean time 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, inspired 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 obtain. " I 
 know your loyalty and heartiness, as well as your affec- 
 tion 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, 1 will risk my life in endeavouring to make 
 the king acquamted 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 defend- 
 ers ; and at midnight Sir William left the fortress, happily 
 unobserved by the Scots. It was so pitiless a storm, that 
 he passed through their army without being noticed ; until 
 about daybreak, 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 Montacute 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 respectt?
 
 lol^ OHIUINAI. 
 
 to the Countess ; who went to meet him at the Uastle- 
 gates, and there gave him her thanks for his assistance. 
 They entered the Castle hand in hand ; and the king kept 
 his eyes so continually 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 Proissart 
 tells us, upon the Countess inquiring 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 ; for in truth, your perfections have so 
 surprised and atfected 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 extinguish." 
 
 " Sire,'' replied the Countess, " do not amuse yourself 
 by laughing at me ; for I cannot beheve, that you mean 
 what you have just said; oi;^ that so noble and gallant 
 a Prince would think of dishonouring 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 entirely laid open. " Alice," she said, 
 «' it is too true ; I do not love alone ! Edward returns 
 my fatal passion. But my mind is fixed. 1 will 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 pre- 
 vent the king, and me, from nursing a sentiment which 
 ought to be stifled in its 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 ;
 
 I 
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC." 153 
 
 ** 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 ex- 
 changed for the Earl of Moray. Check, then, this immo- 
 derate grief; Salisbury has sutTered defeat, but it is with- 
 out disgiace." 
 
 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 cha- 
 racters upon my brow.'' 
 
 Edward on his return to his capital, thoisgh surrounded 
 by the most dazzling splendour, and tiie most enticing 
 pleasures, could not chase from his mine' 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 daughter 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 
 the royal command, " will not the Earl come hither to 
 me ]" 
 
 "Katharine!" answered De Grandison, "the slight- 
 est wishes of the king it is our imperative duty to obey." 
 
 " My lord, if you knew — I am a stranger to tiie capital ; 
 does it not abound with dangers ? Is there not — ?" 
 
 " Nay, nay, my child ; you have wisdom, education, 
 and virtuous example to protect you. Once more, your 
 father and your king command you ; and you must ac- 
 company me.'' 
 
 De Grandison then made the necessary preparations 
 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 was quickly followed by a letter h-om 
 Salisbury himself, full of tlie 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 entreaty that her lord 
 
 U
 
 154 ORIGINAL 
 
 would hiiMself 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 solicitations of 
 the King. 
 
 This last letter had remained unanswered for a consi- 
 derable 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 ex- 
 pecting your husband ; and he was about to receive fur- 
 ther honours from his master ; but the King of kings 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 la- 
 mented by the Countess. Gallant, generous, and affec- 
 tionate, he had won her esteem ; and had she had an op- 
 portunity of knowing him longer, might have gained her 
 Jove. Her delicacy too, loaded her with self-reproaches, 
 from which she did not attempt 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 supporters of his 
 crown : and he regretted him not less as a useful citizen.
 
 TALES, fOEMtr, ETC. , loo 
 
 oi whom the nation was justly proud, than as a loyal ser- 
 vant, who was sincerely attached to his master. Love, 
 nevertheless, mingled with the King's regrets ; since he 
 could not hut be sensible that he was now without a rival ; 
 and that the Countess was free from constraint, which had 
 hitherto separated them from each other. The Earl died 
 without children ; and the law compelled his widow to re- 
 nounce the territorial possessions which were attached to 
 the title, and which now reverted to the crown. This 
 event, therefore, rendered her presence in London una- 
 voidable ; and, on her arrival in the metropolis, her father, 
 desirous to relieve her from the melancholy in which she 
 was plunged, wished to introduce her at court, and pre- 
 sent 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 inclinations 
 of his daughter ; and upon communicating the reasons of 
 her absence, the King affected to be satisfied with them. 
 He had, however, communicated his passion, which he 
 did not choose to avow to honester courtiers, to Sir Wil- 
 liam Trussell, one of the most artful intriguers, and insi- 
 nuating sycophants about his court; who, anxious only to 
 secure his place in the King's favour, had encouraged him 
 in the prosecution of this amour, and recommended him 
 to use stratagem, and even violence, should it be necessary 
 towards the attainment 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 
 v/ish 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, " it is compromising your 
 honour and your dignity, to submit to such audacity. The 
 daughter of de Grandison ought to feel but too much flat- 
 tered tiiat King Edward deigns to bestow a glance, or a 
 thought, upon her. Her husband is in the tomb ; she is
 
 loii OKIGINAL 
 
 free from all restraint; and you have tendered your love ; 
 what is it that she opposes to your oiler'? Her virtue ! Is 
 not obedience virtue 1 Is not compliance the first duty of 
 subjects to their sovereii^n 1 My Hege, 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 
 wljole gigantic frame treml)led like an aspen leaf ; " by 
 heaven, thou 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 
 command her to appear at court ; tell her that I will brook 
 no answer but com[)liance." 
 
 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 have yielded, then," 
 said he, "to the fiend's suggestions ; and thus abased my- 
 self to a level with the weakest, and most despicable, of 
 mankind. I am preparing to play the tyrant with my 
 subjects, and my fust 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, equippc' for 
 the errand he was about to undertake, " I have consulted 
 my heart ; 1 have lield communion 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." 
 
 " What, my liege !" said Trussell, " will you then sub- 
 mit V 
 
 " 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 show, that I possess the soul as well as 
 the station of King. Katherine 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."
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC- 157 
 
 The King congratulated himself on his heroic effort; 
 and it vvas one which cost him many pangs : nor was the 
 Countess without her struggles, and her anxieties ; for, 
 Avhile 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 hiin, but answered none ; and the pride of the 
 royal lover began to take fire again at the neglect and 
 contumely with which his mistress treated his addresses : 
 while Trussell used every means of nourishing this feel- 
 ing, and of insinuating that both the father and daughter 
 were anxious only to enhance the price, at which the 
 virtue of the latter was to be bartered. 
 ; D ' Grandison, who began to think that his daughter 
 carried her grief for her husband to an extravagant and 
 immoderate height, now remonstrated with her, somewhat 
 impetuously, on her absence from the court. 
 
 " Do you think," said he, " that 1 will willingly 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 1" ' 
 
 " 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 performs the contracts for which 
 his roya! word and your own are irrevocably given. See 
 that he weds, and that speedily, Phiiippa li- Hainault." 
 
 "Wherefore shou'd I doubt that he will do sol" said 
 de Grandison. " Is he no- pledged, in the face of all 
 Europe, to become her husband 1 and was I not the 
 bearer of his promise to the Earl of Hainault to that 
 effect 1" 
 
 " He will never wed her, my father," said the Countess ; 
 " you are yourself witness that from day to day he defers 
 the marriage, on the most frivolous pretexts." 
 
 " Nay, nay, sweet Katharme," said the old lord, 
 ■' wherefore should you take so tnucii interest in this mar- 
 riage ? This is but a stratagem to put mc'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 can- 
 not go."
 
 158 OKlUlNAJb 
 
 « I entreat, I command you," said de Grandison. « 1 
 have too long permitted your disobedience 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 mean this emotion, Katherine ?" said her father ; 
 " 1 find it diflicult to refuse you any thing. Do not forget, 
 however, that the delay which 1 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 masked 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 company, than 
 every eye was fixed upon her. Her tall and stately, yet 
 graceful figure, glided down the rooms like a visitant from 
 another sphere, when an unfortunate accident completely 
 disconcerted her. A mask, richly dressed, had long fol- 
 lowed 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 eagerly stooped down and 
 seized it, and she as eagerly, instantly demanded its resto- 
 ration. 
 
 *' Nay, gentle madam," said he, " this is a prize too 
 precious to be lightly parted with, and I " 
 
 " Discourteous knight !" said the lady, " know you 
 whom you treat with so much indignity ?" and at these 
 words she removed the mask from her face, hoping thus 
 to awe her persecutor into acquiescence. Her surprise, 
 however, was equal to that of any one present, when her 
 tormentor, removing his own visor, discovered the features 
 of KingEiiward ! The lady sank on her knee before the 
 monarch, and the whole company followed her example. 
 
 " Behold !" cried the King, holding up the ravished 
 garter, " a treasure, of the possession of which I own 
 myself unworthy; yet will 1 not part with it, for any ran- 
 som wealth or power can offer." An ill-suppressed burst 
 of laughter followed this speech, " Honi soit qui nal y
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC. 169 
 
 pense /" exclaimed the King-, " Laugh on, my lords and 
 gentlemen ! but in good time the merriest of ye, ay, and 
 the greatest sovereigns of Europe, shall be proud to wear 
 this garter." Thus saying the King whispered a few words 
 to the Countess, which seemed to occasion her considera- 
 ble embarrassment ; and then, making a lowly obeisance, 
 left the apartment. 
 
 The declaration which he had that night made, he 
 shortly afterward accomplished, by instituting the far- 
 renowned order of the Garter ; which, with the ceremo- 
 nies and entertainments consequent upon it, for some time 
 occupied the almost undivided attention of king Edward. 
 His love fo? 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 murmur 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 interests 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 complains 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 continued, "where- 
 fore, my liege, should this intelligence displease you ? I 
 perceive in your glance traces of indiflerence, and even ol 
 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 forbid it ; all consj)ire to hasten 
 your n)arriage with the Lady Philippa.'' 
 
 '• If you knew the beauty of my own court, who ha>;
 
 IGU OKIGINAJ- 
 
 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 frankness, but there 
 can be no motive of sufficient weight to occasion any 
 further delay." 
 
 "No motive, Lord de Grandison ? said Edward, and he 
 sighed. " Alas ! I see that age has chilled your blood, 
 and frozen uj) your heart." 
 
 " My liege, I burn more than ever with devotion to your 
 service. It this marriage be not solemnized, and speedih^ 
 you will offend a powerful prince, to whom you are in- 
 debted for many benetits, and also disappoint the fond 
 hopes of your loyal people. You forget yourself, my 
 liege ; remember that you are a king, and king of Eng- 
 land ! 1 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," said the King; 
 " but now leave me ; leave me." 
 
 The old Baron had no sooner left Edward, than the 
 King summoned Trussed to an audience, and informed him 
 of his recent interview, and of its unlavourable 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 Grandison's 
 affectation «f inflexibility and virtue ? Believe 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 undertake 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' Kmg, Tn sst^ll Si-eedily sought and 
 found the Baron alone in his aj)artrnent, perusing and 
 sighing over his despatches from the Count de Hainault. 
 De Grandison had that instinctive aversion for his visiter, 
 which was natural to a mind like his ; still he could not 
 refuse to listen to a messenger from the King; and Trus- 
 sell accordingly called up all the resources of an artful
 
 TALES, fOEMS, ETC. 1(51 
 
 genius, skilled in the deepest intrigues and subtleties of a 
 court, to explain the object of his visit with as much deli- 
 cacy as possible. The old Lord listened with a cold and 
 disdainful attention, till the conclusion of his harangue, 
 and then replied, " Sir WiUiam Trussell, you explain 
 yourself very clearly. The King loves my daughter, and 
 you come to persuade me to use ni} influence in inducing 
 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. You have been more than 
 fifty years a courtier, my Lord, and 1 cannot be speaking 
 a language which you do not understand. It is for your 
 Lordship, therefore, to decide what answer I shall bear 
 from you to the King." 
 
 " I will bear it myself. Sir William," said de Grandison, 
 rising from his seat ; " and that instantly." 
 
 " You cannot mean it, my Lord," said Trussell; "you 
 surely cannot " 
 
 " Any further conversation between us," said de Gran- 
 dison, " is quite unnecessary. His giace shall shortly 
 see me." 
 
 Scarcely was the unhappy father reUeved from the pre- 
 sence of Trussell, than he sank upon a seat in a state of 
 distraction. " This then was Edward'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 1 Can Katharine be an accomplice in 
 this amour 1 If but in thought she has dishonoured these 
 
 gray hairs !" his look grew black as midnight as he 
 
 grasped his sword, and rushed from the apartment. 
 
 The interview with his daughter at once removed the 
 most painful of the old man's suspicions, and with an 
 anxious, but determined heart, he then presented himself 
 before the King. 
 
 " 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 
 
 X
 
 iOi{ ORIGINAL 
 
 relied in vain upon 3 our friendship, and your loyalty ; yout 
 daughter " 
 
 " I have just left her, my liege ; and she has laid open 
 her whole heart to me." 
 
 *' And she hates me 1" said the King impatiently. 
 
 " 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, njy liege; truth, to whose accents your minions 
 would close your ears, but whom you hear speaking by 
 Jny mouth. My daughter is not fitted for the rival of the 
 
 Princess of llainault; and to be . If I offend, my liege, 
 
 my head is at your grace's disposal. 1 have finished my 
 course ; and shall soon be no longer in a condition to 
 serve you. Why then should 1 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 sovereign. Instantly command 
 your daughter's presence here, or pie[)are yourself for a 
 lodging in the Tower." 
 
 " The Tower, n)y liege," replied de Grandison ; " 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 ofJj closely 
 guarded ; and at that moment Sii' Neele Loring, a gallant 
 knight, who was one of the first invested with the order of 
 the garter, lushed into the royal presence, exclaiming, 
 «< what have I beheld, my liege 1" 
 
 " The puiiishment due to outraged majesty," replied 
 tlie Kini!:.
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC ICH 
 
 •' Nay, nay, my I'rege ; 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 Gran- 
 dison 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 fowards our royal person ; bu^ I am 
 weary of your boldness, Sir Knight ; I am the King of 
 England, and my subjects 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 dishe- 
 velled locks and streaming eyes, but still surpassingly 
 beautiful, the lovely Katharine threw herself at the King's 
 feet. 
 
 "Sire! Sire!" she shrieked, "give me back my fa- 
 ther !" 
 
 A blush of self-reproach mantled on the brow of Ed- 
 ward, as he extended his hand, and raised the lovely sup- 
 pliant 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 vhich 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 1 
 I am no longer able to impose laws on that passion which 
 you repay with ingratitude." 
 
 " I am no ingrate, most dread sovereign," replied the 
 Countess ; " would that you could see my heart. But, 
 my liege, can I, ought 1 to forget that ray aged father is 
 in fetters ?" 
 
 '-.' They shall bo broken,'' said the King ; " he shall
 
 id4 ORIGINAL 
 
 resume his station as my best trusted pounsellor, and his 
 daughter " 
 
 "Forbear, my liege, to finish what you would say. I 
 speak not of his daughter." 
 
 " Then her father, Katharine, — " 
 
 " My father can but die. Sire ; what right have I, my 
 jiege, 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 un- 
 happy Katharine never more shall trouble you. Restore 
 ray 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 considerable 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- 
 mauds 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 a magnificent saloon, 
 where she beheld Edward seated on his throne, sur- 
 rounded 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 Kmg 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 i-qiiallv 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 committed." 
 
 " Beauty, my liege," said Sir Neele Loring, " was 
 made to reign ; for it was man's first sovereign."
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC. 1^9 
 
 The Countess, overwhelmed with the suddenness of her 
 surprise, was scarcely able to articulate. " My liege,*' 
 said she, " the throne is not my place : the Princess of 
 Hdinault " 
 
 " Yf's," said the Lord de Grandison, bursting into the 
 apartment, " She only must sit there ! — 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 free- 
 dom purchased by dishonour !" 
 
 " My Lord de Grandison," said the King, " listen to me. 
 I have given your daughter my hand, she is my queen, and 
 wherefore would jou oppose our happiness 1" 
 
 " Aly daughter queen !" exclaimed the Baron ; " Katha- 
 rine,'' he added, addressing her in a tone of supplication, 
 " wilt thou lend thysellto the cause of falsehood and per- 
 jury 1 wilt thou aid thy King to break a promise plighted 
 in the face ol Europe ? listen to me and prove thyself my 
 daughter. Put off that diadem. Fat! at the King's feet 
 for pardon ; or, if thou canst not perform the dictates of 
 duty, then die, and heaven {)ardon 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 1 bury this dagger in her heart. Give 
 me thy royal word that she shall not be queen, or ^* 
 
 " My liege !" said the Countess, lilting the crown from 
 her brow, and falling at Edward's feet, " it must not be ; 
 your royal word is pledged ; the nation's honour is its 
 guarantee ; and war and desolation would follow the 
 violation of your plighted promise. I am Katharine of 
 Salisbury, 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 rtign. Rise, gracious madam ; rise, my 
 good L>rd de Giandison. 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 suffi r her to remain at my court, its 
 brightest and most distinguished oinament.'' 
 
 Thus ended the adventure of the garter, without any of 
 those disastrous consequences, which once seemed so 
 threatening. The Princess of Hainault filled the throne
 
 H)6 ORIGINAL TALES, POEMS, ETl . 
 
 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 testimony of the sentiments which he still enter- 
 tained 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 in the royal fa- 
 vour ; the Countess of Salisbury appeared at court as the 
 friend of Queen Philippa ; and long continued the object 
 of the respectful [lassion of the greatest monarch who har| 
 ever filled the throne of England.
 
 BLANCHK 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 earthly clod with pity. 
 
 COLMAK. 
 
 The accession of Don Pedro to the throne of Castile, 
 on the death of his father Alphonso, was speedily followed 
 by violent insurrectionary movements among all classes of 
 the people. Although Pedro was the only legitimate off- 
 spring 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 
 bis concubine, the beautiful Leonora de Guzman. This 
 prince had already distinguished himself by his valour and 
 wisdom ; 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 
 coniirm 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 ol "the Cruel," took the 
 earliest oppoitunity 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 lival in her p(jwer, than she caused her to be put to 
 a cruel and lingeiing death. All Castile was indignant at 
 ^his atrocity ; and [)on Henry flew to arms. Don Fre
 
 168 ORIOilNAL 
 
 dcrick, grand master ol' St. James, Don Tello, Lord oi 
 Aguilar, and Don Ferdinand. Lord of Lcdesne, his 
 brothers, the other sons of the unfortunate Leonora, im- 
 mediately joined him ; and having raised a considerable 
 force, took possession of the town of Gijon, and bade defi- 
 ance to the tyrant. 
 
 Intelligence of the revolt of the Princes was brought to 
 Don P»'dro as he was taking his evening promenade on the 
 terrace of the roval gardens of Valladolid, accompanied 
 by bis Prime Minister, Don Alphonso d'Albuquerque. 
 "Hearest thou this, Alphonso *?" said the king. "The 
 bastard Henry, and his brothers, have garrisoned the Cas- 
 tle of Gijon, and troops, headed by the discontented 
 nobles, are daily flocking to their assistance." 
 
 " I hear it, Sire," said the minister, " with sorrow and 
 alarm " 
 
 " And wherefore so, good Alphonso 1" replied Don 
 Pedro. " Let all the factions in Castile, and they are not 
 a few, rally round the hanner of the bastards ; let the 
 puling kings of Arragoii and Navarre, who have already 
 shown that they bear me no good will, join in the traitor- 
 ous league ; ay, let even the powers of France, and 
 the proud islanders of the West, for once agree for ray 
 destruction ; yet I fear not. I have allies, whose power 
 and influence, not all of these together banded, could 
 withstand." 
 
 " And who, Sire," inquired (he minister wonderingly ; 
 " who are the allies who could [lossibly defend your ma- 
 jesty against such a coniederacy ?" 
 
 " The Stars ! the Stars are with us, Albuquerque !" 
 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 beheld 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 re- 
 tained a portion of his declining glory, which, with a varied 
 line of deep red light, defined the summits of the distant 
 bills. Above them spread the deep blue sky, bespangled 
 ^vith innumerable starSj intensely bright ; among which the
 
 TALUS, POEMS, ETC. 16.9 
 
 largest and most resplendent was the planet Jupiter, which 
 shone over the palace of A'alladolid, and seemed to be 
 shedding its brightest beams ujion 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 ail others shrink their 
 beams before him. Even Mars, that lurid orb which now 
 threatens me, quails before his superior brightness. The 
 omens are most prophious !" 
 
 *' Even so. Oh King !" said a sharp, shrill voice behind 
 them ; and, turning round, they perceived an aged man, ot 
 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 was Simon Joseph, 
 the favourite Jewish physician, and astrologer to the king, 
 whom he kept constantly about his person. 
 
 "Sayestthou so, good Joseph!" said Don Pedro; "and 
 who shall gainsay thee, when thou hast read the stars 1 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 ; ay, and love was mentioned 
 in the starry prophecy. Ynn planet Jupiter is now lord 
 of the ascendant; Mars and Venus are in conjunction ; and 
 Saturn, dull and dim, is quenched beneath their over- 
 whelming 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 be- 
 hind the strong walls of Gijon. What would'st thou have 
 me do ?" 
 
 " On to the fight, sire V said the astrologer, and then 
 added, pointing to the planet Jupiter, "before that star 
 sets behind the western hills, let the king he on his march 
 to battle and to conquest. Don Pedro, do not hope for 
 ease and cjuietness, but thy reign shall be long and pros- 
 perous. Victory shall wait upon thy banners, and new
 
 170 ORIGINAL 
 
 kingdoms shall be added to Castile." Thus saying, and 
 drawing his robe moie closely round him, Simon Joseph 
 left the terrace, and tlie kuii^anl his minister speedily fol- 
 lowed him. Don Pedro, among whose vices cowardice 
 could not be numbered, determmed to adopt the advice of 
 the astrologer. Although he scoti'ed at all idea of religion, 
 he was a fervent believer in the occult sciences, and never 
 entered upon any pursuit of importance without consult- 
 ing the stars. That very evening, accordmgly, saw him 
 at the head of as many troops as could be mustered at so 
 short a notice, depait from Valladolid, having left instruc- 
 tions for a formidable force to follow him. 
 
 In a few days the King of Castile, with a numerous 
 army, had sat down belore the gates of Gijon. They had 
 already had various skirmishes on their march with de- 
 tached parties oi' the enemy ; and on their first attack 
 upon the town, they carried the most important out[)ost ; 
 so that ultimate success now appeared certain. In the 
 mean time, however, the heart of the monarch had sur- 
 rendered at the hrst 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 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 bewitchmg. Her 
 complexion was of the most dazzling lairness ; her eyes 
 black and sparkling ; and her features of a regularity, in 
 which the most fastidious connoisseur 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 dissimidation. Obdurate and san- 
 guinary as was the disj^osition ol' Don Prdio, he became 
 .deeply fascinated with the charms of Maria ; " and 
 TiOve," say the historians of that age, " held in his bosom 
 divided empire with cruelty." She, dazzled by the splen- 
 dour of royalty, and the prospect of power and greatness, 
 turned a deaf ear to the remonstrances of virtue ; and after 
 a very feeble and ill-counterfeited resistance, became the 
 mistress of the King of Castile. Don Pedro was now as 
 eager to conclude the war, as he had been to commence
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC. 17|: 
 
 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 the 
 occurrence ot these events. Dun Pedro had asked in 
 mariiage the hand of the beautiful Blanche de Bourbon, 
 sister of the Queen of France, and the Duke of Bur- 
 gundy ; 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 cessation of 
 hostilities, and the King commended his bride to the 
 especial attention of Don Ht nry, Count of Trastamare, 
 until his own return. The Count, on his arrival, found 
 that the French Princess, of whose beauty and accom^ 
 plishments the most glowing accounts had been generally 
 circulated, far surpassed all that rumour had spoken, or 
 imajiination 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 che< ks, which well 
 matched with the intense deep blue of her eyes, and the 
 jetty ringlets whieh fell in rich clusters down her neck. 
 Her pale high forehead and drooping eyelids, spoke of 
 pensiveness, and perhaps melancholy ; but the smile which 
 frequently illuminated all her features, 
 
 " As though her veins ran lightning," 
 
 was full of benevolent sweetness ; and told, not falsely, 
 the goodness of her heart. Her voice was low and gentle, 
 but its tones went to the heart of the listener ; and her 
 stately step, and majectic gait, while they befitted the 
 high station which she filled, were unmingled with the 
 slightest indication of arrogance, or pride. 
 
 As Don Hf-nry gaz«^d upon this enchanting being, he 
 could not but lament that she was destined to become the 
 bride of a man, who, although 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 bj many, that the beauty and 
 virtues of the Princess, could not but have a genial efiect 
 an the disposition of her husband, and be productive of
 
 172 ORIGINAL 
 
 important benefits, both to him and to the nation. The 
 Queen Mother had received her with the most flattering 
 distinction ; the grandees in Valladolid took every oppor- 
 tunity of testifying their devotion ; and, whenever she 
 appeared in i)ubiic, she vi'as greeted with the warmest 
 acclamations of the populace. Still, however, the King 
 remained at Torrejos, in the society of Maria de Padilla ; 
 and had~not even had the courtesy to send any communi- 
 cation to her, or to the queen. He would not listen to 
 any intelligence of his betrothed bride, or even to attend 
 to state affairs. The letters of his mother, expressing her 
 chagrin and indignation at his conduct, and the remon- 
 strances of his minister, who represented the impolicy of 
 this treatment of a princess of the blood royal of France, 
 were received with equal disregard. At length his cour- 
 tiers were constrained to be silent, for sonie 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 in- 
 creased daily ; and to such an extent, that it was very 
 generally believed she had established 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 of Toledo, and in its 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 [)hysicians ; though after a 
 long delay, the attentirms and medical skill of Maria dc 
 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 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 atfianced 
 husband's conduct, and jtity for her own forlorn situation, 
 were no unnatural harbingers of love in the bosom of Don
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC. 17S 
 
 Henry : while Blanche, as she gazed on his fine person, 
 and thought of his strontr 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 huw 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 
 afterward banif^hed even fn.m 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 couple was in the streets of 
 Valladolid, by torch-liaht The King entered the city on 
 horseback, attended b\ Don Fertlinand, and Don Juan of 
 Arragon, sons of bis aunt, the Queen Dowager of Arra- 
 gon ; the Grand Master of Calatrava, the Archbishop of 
 Toledo, Don Juan de la Cerda, Dim Alphonso d'Albu- 
 querque, and other great lords. The young Queen rode 
 between the Queen Mother and the Count of Trastan are ; 
 and was attended by the Grand Master ol St James, Don 
 Tello of Castile, and the municipal authorities of Valla- 
 dolid. 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 aiound her. As she approached the King, 
 the acclauiations of the people redoubled, but they were 
 frozen into wondering silence, as they observed the cold 
 and indifferent air with which he returned her salute. 
 She descended from her : alfrey, and it was naturally ex- 
 pected that he would have done the same ; but he merely 
 extended her his hand to kiss, wl.ile he contiiiued in con- 
 versation with his minister, Don Alj)h'iiiso. 
 
 "The monster!" muttered D 'U Henry between his 
 teeth, as he assisted Blanche to remount. 
 
 "Ay," whispered someone in his ear; "is this <he
 
 174 ORIGINAL 
 
 man to be King of Castile, and husband of Blanche qi 
 Bourbon 1" 
 
 H«^iiry turned round, but could perceive no one. His 
 own hear(, however, echoed the question ; and, silently 
 and moodily, he continued !o ride ou, until ihe palace gates 
 appeared befoie him, and he, together with the rest of the 
 procession, entered. 
 
 The next day was appointed for the celebration of the 
 marriage ceremony, an<i, with the earliest dawn of morn- 
 ing, all the bells in Valladohd were ringing a merry peal ; 
 and the citizens appeared in the streets in their holyday 
 garbs, and wearing white favours in honour of the event, 
 A pereniptory order from the King was, however, soon 
 issued for the silencing of the bells, and comtnanding every 
 one to return to hi-^ ordinary o(;cu|>ation, upon pain of 
 death. At the hour of noon the royal cavalcade was seen 
 moving towards the Catht dral, slo'ly and silently as a 
 funeral procession. The Kinij wore a look of dogged en- 
 durance ; and Blan* he was pale as death ; but there was 
 a forced smile upon her lip, which apjteared more melan- 
 choly than sighs and tears could [lossibly have done. The 
 Queen Mother's face glowed with resentment and chagrin; 
 and Don Henry kept his eyes fixed upon Blanche, with 
 an 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 assistants at a bridal. 
 
 Notwithstanding the ro* al mandate, the populace had 
 ventured again to assemble in the streets when the pro- 
 cession 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 (hey 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, however, instantly sup- 
 pressed ; 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 brightlier 
 c\s he passed ; but no one dared to give an open expression
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC. ( l'/5 
 
 to his leelings. One voire, however, which the Count 
 instantly recognised as the snnie wliicli had addressed him 
 on the preceding da\, vvas lit aid to shciut tioni amidst ihe 
 crowd, " God savt King Ht iip) !" 
 
 All were aghast at tliis 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 ot their surprise, cried out "Tieason! 
 treason !" 
 
 " Guards, seize the traitor !" exclaimed Don Alphohso 
 d' Albuquerque, ''and drug him hither." 
 
 A tall, stout- built man, but pale and squalid, whh an 
 extraordinary expression of resolution and deliance in his 
 countenance, was inunediately iorc^ d before the King, on 
 whose left hand rode Don Alphonso Don Pedro's O'lour 
 changed as he gazt-d upon him, but the ordinary malignant 
 expression of his ieatures was deepened tenfold as he ex- 
 claimed, " What do'st thou here, villain 1" 
 
 " What do'st thou here ?" returned the unshrinking 
 stranger; "thou man of lust and blood ! with yond< r fair 
 and hapless Princess in thy train ? How long is it since 
 you tore my sister trom hei abode, the most peaceful and 
 the happiest in all Castile, to lodgi her in ihy vile harem? 
 How long is it since th} steel drank the blood ol her indig- 
 nant husband ? How long- ?" 
 
 " Bind him ! gag him !" exclaimed the King, foaming 
 with passion. "Lend me thy axe, lellow!" continued he, 
 vaulting from his horse, and snatching a partizan from a 
 guard near him. The 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 botly. 
 
 A smile of grim delight played upon the tyrant's features 
 as he gazed uj)on the mutiiated tiunk before him ; and 
 listened to the tearful shri< k which buist from the assem- 
 bled crowd, who with startmg eyes and pallid cheeks 
 stared upon each other, as if to ask d 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, niotioning to his 
 attendants to move on, rode forward to the Cathedral.
 
 176 
 
 ORIGINAL 
 
 There, shortly afterward, the bride, or rather the victhii, 
 arrived more dead than alive ; and joining her hand with 
 that which was yet wet with the blood wliich it had shed, 
 this ill-omened marriage was solemnized, amidst the fear 
 and wonder o( 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 be- 
 come really and permanently attached : but on the third 
 he received letters from Maria de Padilla, who was at 
 Montalhan, in which she complained bitterly of his ab- 
 sence 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 mi- 
 nister, Don Alphonso, and commanded him to prepare for 
 their immediate departure to join his niistress. 
 
 " 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 com- 
 plain, and the factions who pretend to espouse he r cause, 
 would be unable to find the slightest ground lor censuring 
 the conduct of your Majesty." 
 
 " Peace, idiot I" cried the King furiously ; " have 1 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 theml" 
 
 " Sire," continued the Minister, " is it well to leave 
 Don Henry in the midst oi the discontented populace 
 of the Capital, while your Majesty is at Montalhan? 
 Already do dreams of power and sovereignty fill his ima- 
 gination, and " , 
 
 " What ! dares the bastard look so high as that?" said 
 Pedro, with a malicious grin : " well, well, his hour will 
 come, but not yet. Love and Maria are all that can en- 
 gage 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 »)ther 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
 
 «•" 
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC- 177 
 
 intention to quit Valladolid, it was supposed that lie was 
 merely going to enjoy the chase in the neighbouring torest. 
 Messengers, however, speedily arrived to Madanie d'AI- 
 buquerque from her husband, 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 hus- 
 band'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 infamous he might 
 be, that be could not persuade himself to encourage any 
 insurrectionary movement ; notwithstanding his own per- 
 sonal 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, contented him- 
 self 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 feel- 
 ings was unrestrained 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 acclamations. The King 
 in the mean time continued at Montalban, completely 
 fascinated with the attractions of Maria de Padilla ; all 
 public business was totally neglected by him ; and al- 
 rliough messenger after messenger arrived from Valladolid, 
 on the most urgent state affairs, he could not be per- 
 suaded to return there, or even to peruse the despatches 
 of which they were the bearers. The Queen Mother 
 re])eatedly wrote to him, reproacliing him with his base 
 conduct; and Don Alplionso, his favourite minister, 
 ceased not to urge the otlence which he was giving to his 
 subjects and to the neighbouring princes, until at length 
 he reluctantly consented to return to Valladolid ; l)ut 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
 
 178 ORIGINAI^ 
 
 capital, ov 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 witii irigid indifference 
 by Blanche. With matchless self-possession and effron- 
 tery, 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 theiv 
 devotion no constraint, or at any rate, rendered their chains 
 very light and easy to be worn. Among the numerous 
 grandees of Spain, she soon singled out Don Henry as 
 superior both in mind and person to all the others. Her 
 lieart even began to be treacherous to her royal paramour, 
 and she felt that her affections were fixing 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 mental suffering. 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 interview with him, v/sls, 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 possi- 
 bility 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 Uer. 
 
 She had observed that^he Count was in the habit of retir- 
 ing to the most solitary and unfrequented 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 incessantly 
 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, and, entering it, perceived Don Henry
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC. ' 179 
 
 stretched upon the moss in a tleep 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, " 1 may be the object 
 of it. Perhaps the studious manuer in which he avoids 
 me, aud 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 turn- 
 ing, 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 sparklin|T c^es ; 
 But cold as they are bright. Nor canst 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 parA." 
 
 The jealous suspicions which she had entertained were 
 now confirmed, and her whole frame shook with the vio- 
 lence of her emotions. So severe a respect as was here 
 expressed, could not have reference to her. " It is the 
 Queen ! 'tis Blanche !" 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. AV^ith 
 difhculty have I won the wittol King from her; and now, 
 where my very heart is treasured up, she has coiled herself 
 around its tendcrest fibres." Having carefully copied out 
 the verses, she then erased ihcm, and, in a feigned hand, 
 ■'vrote the following in their place ; — ,
 
 fSy UUiaiNAL 
 
 " ORACLE. 
 
 It is permitted to tlice to sigli, and to love, and to hope 5;- 
 
 To act, and to l)reak the seal of silence. 
 
 Be in no fear either of a sceptre, or of rivals. 
 
 INIy 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 meantime, Don Henry on awakening had missetJ 
 his treasure, and was much disconcerted in consequence- 
 He made a careful search, but, of course, his search was 
 unavailing. He inquired of the gardeners, if they had 
 seen any person enter, but they all replied in the negative. 
 He then retired in great dismay to his chamber, and was 
 wot seen again till the evening ; when he once more pro- 
 ceeded 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 v/as 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 pre- 
 cious 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 by 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 corri- 
 dors, met queen Blanche coming out of her apartments, 
 and leaning upon the arm of an esquire. He inmiediately 
 offered her his own, which she accepted with the utmost 
 frankness, 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 beside the Queen Mother, he took 
 Ijis station behind her chair. The whole court rose on the 
 entrance of Queen BlanchCjexcepting the King, who mani-
 
 TALES', POKMS, ETC. 181 
 
 iested some displeasure at the rising of Maria de Padilla, 
 who was seated next him. The latter did not fail to ob- 
 serve the delight which Ilenry evinced, as he entered with 
 his lovely escort, and whispered to the King, as sl)e glanced 
 towards Blanche and Henry, " these two |.ersons appear 
 to be on a remarkabl) good understanding with each 
 other, my liege. The Count of Trastamure appears to 
 hold a very high place in her majesty's esteem." 
 
 "Very possibly," answered the King; "but the par- 
 tizans of her immaculate virtue would institute a process 
 against us for daring to hold a doubt of its most perfect 
 purity." 
 
 " I should be rather difficult to convince, nevertheless," 
 replied Maria. " The French ladies are, as every one 
 knows, not only liberal, but even prodigal, when they 
 would secure a suiter. But you do not exhibit any symp- 
 toms of jealousy." 
 
 " I should exhibit enough of them," interrupted Don 
 Pedro, "if Henry were enamoured of 7/om; 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 dis- 
 turb my peace of mind for a moment." 
 
 While the king and his mistress were thus conversing^ 
 the whole court were astonished at the assurance and self- 
 possession of Maria de Padilla, who appeared to consider 
 herself as the most distinguished female present, and took 
 not the slightest notice of Queen Blanche, after having at 
 first risen upon her entrance. The two Queens were, how- 
 ever, engaged with each other, and seemed not to regard 
 either the neglect of Don Pedro, oi 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 ot Mai ia, who con- 
 tinued narrowly to observe him, easily detected the real 
 state of his feelings. The King, at length weary of the 
 restraint and formality to which he found himself obliged 
 to submit, arose, and taking no other notice ol" Blanche, 
 beyond coldly .saluting her as he past, left the court, fol- 
 lowed by his immediate retainers. Maria, [)artly out of 
 regard for a decorous appearance, and partly from the 
 ])leasure which she experienced in being in the presence 
 of Don Henry, remained lor a few moments, in tlu^
 
 i82 ORIGINAL 
 
 seat wliich she had occupied, and then also lollowcd the 
 kin;?. 
 
 Don Henry still stood behind the chair of Blanches 
 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 unhappy than 
 i had supposed ; for you are also jealous." 
 
 "Alas ! no, madam ; I am so far from jealousy, 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 before her, with the man with whose destiny her 
 own was so 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 injurious treatment of 
 the King." 
 
 " Nay," said Blanche, " his majesty, unkind as he ap- 
 pears, 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 ■
 
 TALES, FOEJIS, ETC. ISH 
 
 and Blanche proceeded, accompanied by a young French 
 lady, named Adelaide de Montauban, who was much in 
 her coniidence, 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 Tras- 
 tamare, and that she considered him the noblest and most 
 accom'jjished 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 doubt- 
 less enamoured of your majesty. His conduct towards 
 you has long convinced me of it ; and if you have not ob- 
 served 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, 
 shows 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 V 
 
 The interesting nature of their conversation had led 
 them much beyond their usual walk, and as they ap 
 preached the grotto, which has been already mentioned, 
 they heard voices in earnest conversation. 
 
 " Nay," said a voice, wiiich they immediately recognised 
 to be that of the Grand Master of St. James, the brother 
 of Don Henry, " wherefort; deny a fact so apparent to all ? 
 What else mean this abstracted carriage, these solitary 
 rambles, these sighs, and even tears 1 this refraining from 
 all puisuits consistent with your age, and character, and 
 rank V 
 
 *' And are not," said Don Henry, " the load of ills with 
 which Castile is distracted, and the injurious treatment 
 witli which our house is overwhelmed, 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 its own ?" 
 
 "Alas! my brother," replied the grand master, "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 work<'d very differ-
 
 IS4 omGiNAi, 
 
 ent effects upou you, from those which I now behold. 
 Then you were tlie Hon roused from his lair ; now you are 
 the sloth shrinUiuj^ to its hiding-place. You are in love, 
 Henry, and Queen Jilanche is tlie object of your misguided 
 passion." 
 
 " You hive probed me to the heart," exclaimed Don 
 Henry, " and extracted iVom it the secret which I thought 
 hidden in its deepest recesses." 
 
 The Queen now listened with the most intense and pain- 
 ful interest, hut the voices grew faint and indistinct, and 
 were soon lost in the distance. 
 
 "Unhappy that I am !" she cried, "hated where I ex- 
 pected to be beloved ; and beloved where love is crime, 
 and the parent not of delight, 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 its grandeur, and poison with its beauty ; 
 where the suns scorch not while they warm ; and where 
 hearts are the nurseries of feelings, fervent and passionate 
 as those that exist here, but unmixed with cruelty, and un- 
 stained with sorrow, or with crime." 
 
 By this time all the persons of whom this narrative treats 
 had nearly come to an eclaircissement with each other ; 
 excepting that Maria de Padilla had not yet had an oppor- 
 tunity of fully explaining to the Count of Trastamare the 
 sentiments which she entertained towards hint. That 
 opportunity was, however, very soon afterward afforded 
 her, on the occasion ot the marriage of his brother Don 
 Tello, the lord of Aguila, with the beautiful Donna Joanna 
 de Lara, heiress to the Signiory of Biscay. 
 
 As all the nobility of Valladolid were to be present at 
 the solemnization of this marriage, and the entertainment 
 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 show himself at the nuptial feast; although he, as usual, 
 stipulated for the presence of Muria de Padilla also. Don 
 Henry was, of course, of the party; but he continued to 
 wear that look of abstraction and melancholy, for which 
 he had lately become remarkable ; but his brother, the 
 .grand master, had told him that his every look and action
 
 TALES, rOEMS, ETC. Ivj5 
 
 v/eie minutely watched by Maria, and had, thereibre, con- 
 jured 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, tlie party diviJed into numerous groups ; 
 and, of the more distinguished personages present, Don 
 Pedro attached himself to the Queen Mother ; Blanche 
 conversed with the young biide; the bridegroom and Don 
 Alphonso d'Albuquerque were engaged in close conversa- 
 tion with each othei" ; and Don Henry found himself 
 obliged to S! bmit to the advances of Maria de Padilla. 
 
 " Count of Trastamare," said she, smiling, " it belongs 
 neither to your rank, nor to your age to appear to be thus 
 abstracted and pensive in so distinguished an assembly ; 
 and i^ y OUT 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 1 It 
 seems that you cannot prevail upon yourself to look upon 
 any thing else, and because that is mute, 1 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 perseverance and end, 
 which she had used in the course of her address to him, 
 and which he instantly recognised as having been con- 
 tained 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 V 
 
 "Then," returned Maria, "you should address your 
 vows to objects where you would meet with no competi- 
 tion, and where they would be favourably received. Have 
 you any difficulty in explaining the Oracle, or must I in- 
 terpret for you 1" 
 
 " Madam," answered the Count, " we have discon- 
 tinued the customs of antiquity, and I know not that 
 vou would be a just interpreter of the decrees of hea- 
 ven." 
 
 " It is only of the decrees of love that I would speak," 
 replied Maria ; " and if I were to interpret them to you 
 
 Aa
 
 186 ORIGINAL 
 
 HOW, perlKtps it would not bo for the first time, hfhoid," 
 she added, giviiiij him tlie verses which slie had copied from 
 his tablets, " ami tell me whether a heart which can thus 
 express itself staiuls in need of consolation ?" 
 
 The terrible words which Diinte 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 malignatit woman. Fear, scorn, and 
 indignation took by turns possession of his bosom. His 
 own sitiiati )n and that uf his brothers was sufliciently 
 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. 
 
 Maria perceived his agitation and exclaimed, — "You 
 fear me, and you have reason so to do ; because I can 
 make a very dlti'erent use of your secret from that which 
 I would wish. Although 1 aui not indebted to you for my 
 knowledge of that secret, yet will 1 put you in possession 
 of my own ; leaving the opjjosition of scruples to common 
 minds. What can you hope from the sentiments which 
 yon entertain for Blanche of Bourbon 1 Think you that 
 after discovering my own passion, 1 will suffer you to in- 
 dulge yours with nnpunity ? Speak then, Don Henry, is 
 my love returned? or, are we henceforth mortal enenjies? 
 for, after the pangs which this avowal costs me, 1 will ac- 
 cept of only love or enmity !" 
 
 That it had cost her mu(di was evident, from her tone 
 and manner ; for, while she spake, even the unabashed 
 front of Maria de Padilla was suffused with a crimson hue, 
 Her voice faltered ; her head drooped ; and the moisture 
 in her eyes tor once attested the sincerity of her expres- 
 sions. The Count was also sufficiently agitated. With ail 
 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 talents, suffeied, in his mind, in 
 comparison with those of the Queen. The idea, too, that 
 he had exposed the latter to the malignity of her rival, 
 overwhelmed him with teiror. 
 
 " 1 confess, madam," at length he answered, " that I 
 am the author of those love verses to which you replied
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC. 187 
 
 by an oracle : but what does tliat fact prove further, than 
 that I have an inclination for poetry 1 III were in love 
 with the queen, sliould I be insane enOLi«rh to discover it 
 •o rashl\ ? The sentiments towards me which you have 
 with so much deUcacy avoweil, bind me vouf grateful slave 
 forever. You are beautiful enough to drive a man of my 
 age mad with ecstacy. But I must preserve, for ! have 
 reason enough so to do, the respect which I owe the kinsr, 
 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 1 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 waiting for his 
 answer, and entered into conversation with Madame 
 d'Albuquerque. The rest of the evening passed off 
 gloomil) and heavily. The king sat mute and motionless; 
 the queen, after vaiidy endeavouring to rally her spirits, 
 sank at last into that listless melancholy which the pre- 
 sence of Don Pedro always inspired ; and the Count 
 relapsed into his usual abstractedness and silence, from 
 which he was only roused by the bieaking up of the party. 
 
 That night a thousand agitated feelitiirs 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 spleedily numbered 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. Tiien the hated image 
 of Blanche of Bourbon would occupy her nund : 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 serpent must be crushed," said 
 she ; " and who dare do it, it not 1 ? Yet, yet," she added,
 
 188 ORIGINAL 
 
 as something of woman's softness mingled with her hate 
 and jealousy, " even she mi ,ht 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 thf bolt fall !" 
 
 Thoughts like these so occupied her mind during the 
 whole of the night, as to chase away all slumber from her 
 ey« lids ; 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 
 not long ristn, an<l the night dews were still thick upon 
 the ground : when she arrived at the grott ■ she found that 
 some persons were there bef.re her, and h* ard voices in 
 earnest conversation. As she approached near enough to 
 be a')le to see who they were, she was astounded to 
 behold Q, leen Blanche, and Don Henry on his knees, 
 before her; and to hear the Count exclaim, as he seized 
 her hand and kissed if rapturously, " Fly, dearest madam ! 
 fly from a cruel tyrant, who hates you ; and a malignant 
 rival, who is plotting your destruction !" 
 
 At that moment the df^mons of jealousy and hatred 
 took full possession of the soul of Maria de Padilla; and, 
 as she gasped for breath, she was obliged to lean against 
 a tree, to support herself fiom falling. As soon, however, 
 as she recovered her bodily strength, she did not hesitate 
 for an instant as to the course which she should pursue, 
 but swiftly and silentl\ retracing her steps to the chamber 
 of the slumbering Knig, she there shrieked out, "Awake, 
 Don Pedro ! King of Castile, awake ! Treason and dis- 
 honour are in thy palace ! Awake I awake !" 
 
 The King started from his sleep, and seizing a dagger 
 which always hung beside him, stan d wildly in the direc- 
 tion 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 1 'twas but a hideous dream then. 
 Methought I lay, powerless and helpless, upon the earth, 
 while 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
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC. 189 
 
 life blood, when tby sweet voice awoke me. It was a silly 
 dream, love ! but " 
 
 " Y 'ur dream was true, my liege," replied Maria, inter- 
 rupting him; "arise, and I will show you its interpreta- 
 tion." 
 
 Hastily throwing a loose robe round bim, and seizing 
 his sword, the King accompanied Maria into the gardens ; 
 and two solditisof the royal guard, whom lie hastily sum- 
 moned, Ibllowed them. They were not long in reacbmg 
 the grotto, near which, listening with lowering brows, and 
 beating hearts, to the conversation within, we must for a 
 moment leave th<^ monarch and his paramour. 
 
 Don Henry ha'i, on the previous evening, left his 
 brother's nuMtial feast, full of soirowtcl lorebodingf. He 
 had discovered that th^- most precious secret of his heart 
 was in the poss; ssi'-n 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 danger*. us ground on which 
 he stood, at the cuurt of a cruel and treacherous prince 
 like Pedro ; and that his personal safet) could only be 
 secured by instant flight. Still tie could not leave the 
 Queen exposed to so many dangers ; sinc^ he well knew 
 her life was unsafe in the Iceeping of her husbnnd and of 
 Maria ; especially exasperated as the latter would feel at 
 his rejection, and his departure. As these thoughts cross- 
 ed his mi.d, Adelaide tie Montalban passed him in the 
 great corridor of the palace, and he at once unfolded to 
 her the enmity of Maiia, and the danger of her mistress. 
 
 " Alas," sail! Adelaide, *' (he goo(^ Queen ai d I have 
 long, long been convinced that her heart is full of hatred 
 and treachery towards her. But whither can she fly 1 
 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 sun- 
 rise ; for it is too hazardous to speak to her for a moment 
 when this she-devil, or her spies, are watching every move- 
 ment. The hour and place I have named will secure us 
 from interruption, and 1 may then be able ttj propose 
 some mode of rescuing her majesty from the i erils which 
 suriuund her. Piomise me that you will propose this to 
 her." 
 
 " I promise you faithfully, my lord." said Adelaide.
 
 190 ORIGINAL 
 
 "Then, fare thee well, pretty maiden," added Henry j 
 " for this conference has alread) lasted long enough for 
 our safety." 
 
 The next morning saw the Count de Tiasfatnare at the 
 rendezvous a the hour appnititrd ; and he had not long 
 to wait the arrival of Q ^ii-u Blanche. 
 
 " Count," said the Queen, '• b«fore we communicate 
 farther with each other, let nie exa''t a promise from you, 
 that, not now, nor ever, shall I hear from you any decla- 
 ration of such a passion as that which you rashly hinted at 
 in our last conversation; and the indulgence of which, 
 the laws of G >d and mnn alike prohibit." 
 
 " I own my fault Madam !" said Don Henry, " and 
 entreat your pardon for the inconsidetarion and rashness 
 of my conduct. My heart was full, and the conduct of 
 D.)n Pedro towards )Our Majesty stirred it to overflowing. 
 But I readil) promise all that you can -lemand ; you shall 
 perceive nothing in my conduct towards you, but the most 
 respectful deference, and the warmest solicitude for your 
 welfare. My purpose in soliciting this interview, is to 
 warn you that your life is in dang r, and 'o point out to 
 you the propriety of seeknig saleiy b\ iuimediate flight." 
 
 *' I know too well,'* she replied, " how precarious is 
 my situation among the hollow hearts, and hlood-stained 
 hands, which crowd this Couri ; but what new cause of 
 alarm have you discovered ?" 
 
 " Alas, Madam ! your bitt rest foe has not only made 
 me a tender of her atlections, which I rejected with scorn ; 
 but she has also discovered the iaial passion which already 
 occupied my heart, and has, in no equivocal terms, in- 
 formed me, that your Majesty's life is in her hands, and 
 threatened to exercise the povver which she possesses." 
 
 "Alas! alas !" said the Queen, "guiltless as I know 
 myself, how am I environed with dangers through the 
 crimes, and the indiscrttions 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
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC 191 
 
 at which he passes through it, and then join his escort ; 
 where I can ensure jou a hearty welcome. The King 
 concerns himselt so little al out }our niovtnients, that 
 before your tlight ran be diiscovt red, you will be beyond 
 the reach ol pursuit. Ai lived in tiie territories ol my 
 brother, the power of Don Pedro may b( defied, and 
 measures easily concerted lor sending your Majesty to the 
 Court of France." 
 
 "Dangers and ditficidties attend your plan, Count," 
 said the Queen, " but despair has seldom any alternative 
 but a choice of evils ; and I confess that I cannot dis- 
 cover any better mo-.le of eiiecting my escape from the 
 evils which surround me, than by the path which }ou have 
 pointed out." 
 
 " Then," said Don Henry, falling on his knees, and 
 pressing her ha; d to his lips, " do noi hesitate to pursue 
 that path which will lead }ou to peace and safety. 
 Fly, dearest Madam ! lly from a cruel tyrant, who hates 
 you ; and a malignant rival who is plotting your de- 
 struction !" 
 
 As he uttered this, a slight rustling was heard among 
 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 herseK as she retieated. All, however, was in 
 an instant perfect!} tranquil ; for with noiseless tread, and 
 a heart which, although nearly bursting with the violence 
 of itis emotions, she scarcely peimiited to beat, lest even 
 its throbbing should become audible, she had stolen away 
 to apprise the King ol' her discoveiy. 
 
 " Our untimely meeting, Count," said the Queen, " has 
 staith d even the leatlier«d race fiom their nests among 
 the bu^ll< s. As to the plan which you have devised lor 
 me, 1 will venture to pui>ue it, coine what, come may ; 
 it may perhaps had, as jou pn.mise me, to safety, but to 
 peace, never ! That is a w<>rd which hereafter riiiy 
 sound in the ear ol Blanche ol Bouibon, but to which her 
 heart must ever he a .stranger.'' 
 
 A deadlier paleness spread over the v/an features of the 
 Queen, as she uttered tliese words, and tears, not profns^ 
 and flowing, —
 
 192 OKIUINAI. 
 
 " Tlie 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 Valla- 
 dolid ; all hearts are not as coid and barbarous as Don 
 Pedro's. The vows which you have plighted to him, he 
 has himself rendered null and void, and in the co npass 
 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 Heaven 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. " Adulteress ! 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 unarmed, would have 
 rushed upon him, but was instantly made a prisoner by the 
 guard. With the cold, Gorgon-lik? 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 metamorphosis 
 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 vvith the blood of his Queen to 
 her lips, — " behold the traitor ! what shall be his doom "?" 
 
 " To the scaffold with him ! to the block instantly !" 
 
 '* Not so, my liege, not so ; the bastard's fate would 
 but excite too much sympathy in Valladolid, where he has 
 contrived to gain the people's hearts ; and his brother Don 
 Tello would not suffer his death to pass unrevenged. 
 ^trip him of his titles,, degrade him, banish him; and thus
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC. VJ3 
 
 prolong his pangs for years, instead of the brief interval 
 between the uplifting of the axe and its descent." 
 
 " Thou counsellest wisely, my sweet Maria," said the 
 King ; and then turning towards his prisoner, added, — • 
 " thank my mercy that I will not stain myself with thy 
 bastard blood, traitor ! but upon pain of death, instantly 
 begone ! nor let Castile be further polluted by thy pre- 
 sence. Depart not, however, as Count of Trastamare, 
 but 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 uninjured 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, how- 
 ever, fully and signally accomplished 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 ; while 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. 
 
 «b
 
 1^4 OHHilNAr- 
 
 »HAKSFJb]ARE'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 
 Tlie 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 ordi- 
 nary and every-day attire, yet that, when he gets " beyond 
 this visible, diurnal sphere," he surpasses all other writerSj 
 in the extraordinary power and invention which he displays 
 in the delineation of supernatural heings. 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 her. There is such an extraordinary pro- 
 priety and consistency in his supernatural beings,, and 
 every thing which they say and do, is in such strict accord- 
 ance with the character with which he has invested them, 
 that we at once become, as it were, denizens of the ima- 
 ginary world, which the potent art of the poet has con- 
 jured around us ; the marvellous merges into the probable ; 
 and astonishment and surprise are changed into intense 
 interest and powerful sympathy. Shakspeare is the only 
 poet who affects this ; at least, to the same extent. 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 ProsperOy as are 
 j3n«Z and Caliban ; the presence of the Weird Sisters on 
 the blasted heath, arrests our attention as strongly as it
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC IW 
 
 ^id that of Macbeth and Banquo ; and the predictions of 
 the prophetic spirits on the eve of the battle of Boswortb, 
 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 repre- 
 sentations of mere humanity. Ariel is as perfect and har- 
 monious a picture as Miranda^ or Ferdinand ; and, above 
 all, the fVitches in " Macbeth^'' are creations on which the 
 poet has lavished all hi* skill, and exhausted all his in- 
 vention. 
 
 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 among 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 indi- 
 vidual who was not, at some period or other, under the 
 influence of the feelings which such a belief excites. 
 
 The '< saint, the savage, and the sage," the man of let- 
 ters and the uninformed peasant ; the child of science., 
 who can explain the structure of the universe ; and even 
 the skeptic, — 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 mankind. 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 shajrgy wood, 
 Lands of the mountain and the flood," 
 
 where the phenomena of nature are such powerful auxili- 
 aries to a lively imagination, and a credulous understand- 
 ing, all these have delighted in breaking down the barrier
 
 196 OKIGlNAi. 
 
 between the corporeal and the s})iritual world, and in 
 shaking our dispositions, 
 
 " With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls." 
 
 The most distinguished writers of our own age have not 
 neglected to avail themselves of this popular superstition, 
 if such it must be called. Coleridge's ^^ Ancient Mariner ;'' 
 Lord Byron's " ./If an/re(i,'' and '' Siege of Corinth ;''^ and 
 that masterpiece of the mighty Wizard of the North, the 
 ^^ Bride oj Lammermoor" are proofs, among innumerable 
 others, of the ability which ^ur contemporaries have 
 evinced, when they have ventured to lift up the veil which 
 shrouds the secrets of the spiritual world. 
 
 It is, therefore, not surprising that Shakspeare should 
 have enrolled these shadowy beings among his dramatis 
 personam ; 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 ex- 
 cited by the narration of its appearance on the foregoing 
 evening the speaker is interrupted by "majesty of buried 
 Denmark" once more standing before him: — 
 
 '* The bell then beating one, 
 
 But soft, break off! — look where it comes again f 
 
 then the solemn adjurations to it to speak ; the awful si- 
 lence which it maintains; the impotent attempts to strike 
 it; and the exclamation of Horatio, when it glides 
 away, 
 
 '< We do it wrong, being so majestical, 
 To offer it the show of violence," 
 
 present to us that shadowy and indistinct, but at the same 
 time, appalling and fearfully interesting picture which con- 
 stitutes one of the highest efforts of the sublime. The in- 
 terview with Hamlet is a masterpiece. The language of 
 this awful visitant is admirably characteristic. It is not 
 of this world. It savours of the last long resting-place 
 of mortality; "of worms, and graves, and epitaphs." 
 It evinces little of human feeling and frailty. Vengeance is 
 the only passion which has survived the wreck of the
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC. 197 
 
 body ; and it is this passion which has burst the cerements 
 of the grave, and sent its occupant to revisit the " glimpses 
 of the moon." Its discourse is of murder, incest, suffering, 
 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 absent, we see it in its influence on the persons of 
 the drama, especially Harnkt. The sensations of horror 
 and revenge which at first possess the mind of this prince ; 
 then his tardiness and irresolution, which are chided by 
 the reappearance of the spectre ; and his fears, notwith- 
 standing 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 pictures iu 
 the whole range of Shakspeare's dramas. 
 
 The spirits of the murdered victims of the usurper 
 Richard, are also admirably intmduced ; but they do not 
 occupy so prominent a station in the drama as the Ghost 
 in '^^ Hamlet." The apparition oi Julius Ccesar 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 disordered mind 
 oi Macbeth ; and we think that the effect would be pro- 
 digiously increased if the managers 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 
 Sislers, and of their unutterable occupation ? 
 
 " How now, ye secret, black, and midnight hags, 
 VVhatis'tyedo?" 
 
 " A deed without a name !" 
 
 This is the true sublime ; it is composed of the essential 
 elements of sublimity ; and the most higly wrought de- 
 scription of their employment would produce an effect
 
 1^8 ORIRINAI, TALES, ETC. 
 
 infinitely inferior to the simple brevity of this reply. The 
 mintl wanders into the pathless field of horrible imaginings. 
 From the moment that Macbeth encounters them on the 
 * blasted heath, he is impelled along his inevitahle path by 
 their spells His mind is troubled with "thick-coming 
 fancies ;" his " lace is a book where men may read 
 strange matters ;" — " Things bad begun, make strong 
 themselves by ill :" until at length, he is 
 
 " in blood 
 Stept 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 ".^ Midsummer J^ight^s 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 Tilania, and all their elfish 
 troop, are untainted with an) fiendish attributes, and almost 
 ■without any touches of mortality. The "dehcate Jlriel" 
 is another still- varying creation of the same gifted pencil ; 
 made still more effective by its 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 couid control the moon, make ebbs and flows ; 
 And deal in her command, without her power." 
 
 But to do ample ju**tice to all the supernatural charac- 
 ters 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 hopless anguish dumb 
 Yields to Renown the centuries to come !"
 
 A JVIGHT AT THE MERMAID. 
 
 AN OLD ENGLISH TALE. 
 
 "'Tis 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, whither 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 
 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 hosj)itablc 
 city of London, and from so fair a host as thou art, beg- 
 in vain lor that favour which would freely be granted to 
 him by a wanderer ot the desert. May I crave of thee at 
 least this courtesy, to commend me to those gallants, and 
 say that a Kentish gentleman, whom nighttall 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 questioned on the outside, 
 while the host answered him through a small grating, 
 " They are not such churlish curs as to deny thee that,"
 
 200 OKiGINAL 
 
 said the latter, " although they have players, and poetS;, 
 antl ne'cr-do-wells of all sorts among them. They drink 
 too, plenty of sack and Rhenish : and the silver comes at 
 last, although sometimes it is over long in its 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 1 was about to crave of 
 thee. But first 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 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 had 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 ornamented 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 com- 
 pany of no common men. They were, for the most part, 
 plainly habited ; and many of them were now considerably 
 under the influence of the purple deity, to whom they had 
 been sacrificing. But amidst the wild jollity and obstrepe- 
 rous mirth in which they indulged, he detected 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 sud- 
 denly transformed into a man of brilliant genius; a dul'
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC. 201 
 
 person near him, whom his potations, and too great an indul- 
 gence in that fragrant weed which had recently been 
 imported from Virginia, seemed to havi- reduced to a state 
 of listlessness, at the inspiring call of some kindred spirit, 
 discovered himself to be an accomplished scholar, and an 
 observant and pholisophical traveller; while a third, after 
 singing a sfave of a dull and senseless madrigal, became 
 engaged in a discussion, which drew forth from him a dis- 
 play 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 president, to 
 whose peculiar care he was assigned, was a thick-set, and 
 rather clum-iily built person, with a round burly face ; a 
 high forehead ; and eyes whose uncommon expression of 
 keenness and intelligence was not impaired b} tiie circum- 
 stance of one being con-ideiably 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 
 table, he pulled from them us long, and as hearty a draught, 
 as any of the company ; and, apparently, with less eftecl 
 of ebriety than most of them. His conversational powers 
 seemed of the highest ordi r ; and the sly satire, the fine 
 humour, and the polished 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, doubtless, then," he 
 said, " fought against the Don, Sir, in the Netherlands V 
 
 *'l 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 Flanders, 1 was in good 
 old Sir Thomas Stanton's regiment." 
 
 "Indeed!" said the other, somewhat incredulously; 
 <'and may 1 ask your naine ?" 
 
 " You may, and learn it too," replied the dignitary of 
 the Mermaid : " 'tis Jonson." 
 
 " Jonson !" said the stranger, who now felt convinced 
 that he was either gravely iniposed upon by the chairman, 
 or that the wags of the hostelry were laugliing at him in 
 (heir sleeves ; "'tis strange, but 1 was well acquainted with 
 
 Cc
 
 202 ORIGINAL 
 
 every officer in that res^iment, and do not recollect 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 hoy's freak ; I thoutiht that I 
 should prt I'er hiiiulling a nuisket to a trowel, so I !• ft the 
 front of Lincoln's inn gate- way for the palisadoes of 
 Bruges." 
 
 A light broke in upon the stranger's mind, which in- 
 stantly brightened over his face ; " Can it he ?" fe said ; 
 *' I have heard of this story before ; can you be the poet, 
 the dramatist, Ben Jonson ?" 
 
 " Ay," exclaimed a dozen voices from all parts of the 
 room, " who hut Ben 1 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 coun- 
 tenance. His features, which were somewha* of an Italian 
 cast, indicated a fine intelligence, and a polished taste ; 
 but still there was soniething about thein which repelled 
 the advances of the most conlially disposed. He appeared 
 considerably okler than most of his compaiions; but 
 led by a similarity of testes and occupations, to rningle in 
 their society. They st emed to ngaid hiui with extraor- 
 dinary deference an<l respect, and to listen with attention 
 and even reverence to all that he utti-red ; although every 
 sentence which fell Iroui his lijis was itnhued wth the bit- 
 terest and most vitulent f»ersonal satire. The praises 
 and complinn nts which were heaped upon Jonson, in 
 consequence of the stranger's surprise, seemed greaily to 
 discompose this personage. He listened to ihem in si- 
 lence, and, after they had subsided, pursed his lips into a 
 sardonic grin, while he addressed the Chairman in these, 
 words : — 
 
 " Pray tell me, Ben, where does the mystery lurk ? 
 What others call a Play, you call a Work I^'
 
 TALES, POEiMS, ETC. 203 
 
 The sting- in this line consisted in the fact of Jonsori 
 having lately published a volume of Plays, entitled "The 
 Works of B njamin Jonson ;" which lertn was then con- 
 sidered ridiculously anogani and pompous, although it 
 has since been cominorily 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, hovvever, a lame man, at the 
 lower end of the ro 'm, exclaimed, while a good-humoured 
 smile mantled over his features, 
 
 " The Author's friend, thus for the Author says, 
 Ben's P. ays are works, while otiiers' Works are plays."* 
 
 The momentary damp which had hung upon the spirits of 
 the coujpany, vvas dispelled by this sally ; and one long 
 loud peal of laughter and applause cleared away the gloom 
 which had darkened round them. 
 
 "Thanks! Uncle VVdly !" said J ^nson ; "thanks, my 
 sweet Swan of Avon ! A mad wag, my friend," he con- 
 tinued, addressing the stranger; "he comnenced his 
 career with deer-stealing, and he has ever since continued 
 the pilfering trade, by stealing away the hearts of all who 
 know him." 
 
 " Is itShakspeare?" inquired the stranger, in a tremu- 
 lous tone. 
 
 " 'Tis none but he," returned Jonson ; " a kind youth, 
 and a clever. He lacks the ancient ton^iues though ; and 
 he doth take most irreverent liberties with the wise rules 
 of the Stagyri(e ; yet he knows in some sort to tickle the 
 popular ear ; and crowds will go to see his re[)resentation 
 of a Shipwreck, although it be upon the coast of Bohemia, 
 who do not comprehend a single one of the classical allu- 
 sions in m} Poetaster.'' 
 
 " Nay, nay, Ben," said a keen-eyed, good-looking strip- 
 ling by his side ; " tlij Poetaster hath its i-raise, but match 
 it not with the immortal works of my Go'lfather." 
 
 "I cry you mercy, young M.ister I)a\enant!" said 
 Jonson J " 1 knew not that thy quick ears were so close 
 
 ""' As both these joux d'csprit arc anonymous, I have consi- 
 dered myself privileged to appropriate them as 1 tlioug!it 
 proper.
 
 204 ORIGINAL TALES, litC. 
 
 to my hasty tongue. But William, friend, have a care iti 
 future, when thou speakest of Master Shakspeare, that 
 thou take not the name of God in vain." 
 
 Jonson had now turned ihe laugh against his defender, 
 who was supi osed by man} to be connected with Dave- 
 nant much more closely than by the spor»sorial tie. " But 
 ne'er mind, Master Sliakspeare," said Jonsun, " the lad 
 is a proper person , and hath more wit in his pate than 
 Avas ever inherited from an Oxford tapster. Bui tell me, 
 my heart of Warwickshire, when am 1 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 wh<) hath tho 
 tongues, and is skilled in the lore of ancient Greece and 
 Rome." 
 
 " Give her some lalten spoons," added Shakspeare ; 
 *' and then, Ben, thou canst translate them." 
 
 "A murrain upon thy word-torturing wit, W^illy," re- 
 plied Jonson ; " thou perverter of language, and destroyer 
 of the simplicity of syllables ! Bn\ a truce to these wit- 
 combatants, as Master Fuller calleth them, ami let us have 
 a catch. Here is Master Steph<'n Dowland justenteiing 
 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 wi'h Shakspeare, without 
 paying any attention to the call of the Cliairman. They 
 were conversing upon a subject deeply interesting not 
 only to themselves, but all posterity, for it was on the time 
 and manner of bringing out at the Globe Theatre, a tra- 
 gedy, which the latter had written, and [>arts of which the 
 ibrmer had set to music under thp title of " J)fac6e/A." 
 
 " He heeds me not, Master Dowland," said Jonson ; 
 " he and that Warwickshire carle are plotting some mis- 
 chief, for their heads have never been under the same 
 roof for the last six months, without coming into close 
 contact." 
 
 (Left unfinished,)
 
 THE TllEKSCHUIT, 
 
 It was in the Autumn of the year 1824, on my return 
 to England from a t ur along ht Rlihie, that I lound my- 
 self for the second time m the city of Ghent , and it was 
 not without a feeling of very c.)nsitieral)le interest and 
 pleasure, that I rewsited Flanders. 1 had seen most of 
 the finest tvvns of Geiniany and Fiance; but in pic- 
 turesque and antique biauty, they were none ol them 
 to be compared wiili Antwerp; Biussels, 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 residences of the nobility of 
 Flanders and Burgundy ; although now, alas ! let out into 
 tenements, and the ground floors occupied by pett) trades- 
 men ; the museums so ricid) adorned with the works of 
 native artists ; and the sad and melanchol) solitude of 
 those once thickly populated thoroughfares, which never- 
 theless retained, I thought, a solemn beaui^ af)out them; 
 made a deep impression on ni} minti. 1 will, however, 
 deal candidi} with my n aders ; and conless to them, that 
 ideas of a grosser, and less intellectual, chaiactei, mingled 
 with m) reveries, as 1 a|)proached Ghent. I had been 
 riding all day; it was long alter sunset , and I thought of 
 the Hotel des Pa}s Beis, and of the good cheer with which 
 JNI. Doublet, the worthy host, used to spread his table at 
 the patriarchal su[)per fiour of nine. Although the viands 
 were alwiiys 'xcellent, and the wines of the most tempting 
 quality, M. D mbh I's hours at hist puzzled me not a little. 
 Dinner at one, a id su|)pei at nine, were sucli plebeian 
 meals, that 1 should have hlusned to the very throat, had 
 certain of my acq .aintances detected me in the conmiis- 
 sion of such enoKuities. However, I recollected that if 
 I chose to christen the first re|jast, luncheon, and tiic 
 second, dinner, I should be sufhciently near to the hour?<
 
 SJUC ORIUINAL 
 
 set apart for such affairs in London ; where, as is welt 
 known, it is the hei}5ht of fashion to go without dinner, 
 and take a hot supper. 
 
 I arrived in Ghent just in time to allow my physical 
 organs to participate in ihe m' al, with which 1 had been 
 for Siime time past regaling my fancy. 1 sat down amidst 
 a parly of ten or twelve, and was received with that 
 courtesy and cordiality, which, whatever John Bull may 
 think of his own liospitality, a stranger never meets with 
 in such j)erfection, as on the contiuential side of the 
 channel. 
 
 " Monsieur is going to make some stay in this town ?' 
 said the person, who had been most assiduous in loading 
 my piate with the best ot every thing. 
 
 " No," I ref)Iied ; " 1 liave already seen all that is most 
 inte»esting in Ght-nt, and purpose starting for Ostend in 
 the morning, by ihc Tn khchuit " 
 
 " Ces^ bien lieureux.*^ answered the A' -be, 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, — lor ourselves; 
 and there is just accommodation for another passenger. 
 If Monsieur will join us, 1 think 1 shall do no more than 
 speak the sense of all, when 1 say that we shall be proud 
 of his company." 
 
 The Abbe's [)roposition was instantly and unanimously 
 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 sue, *' sh(juld 
 be made acquainted with the terms t)y whicli our party is 
 bound together. If h<- has ever sailed, or rather been 
 towefi, in the Trekschuit before," — I nodded an assent,— 
 *• he cannot have forgotten that, however pleasant he found 
 the journey at tirst, the noiseless monotonous progress of 
 the boat, and the Hut and unvaiied character of the scenery, 
 oppressed him with insufferable weariness and ennui, long 
 before he arrived at his destination." 
 
 " Of a surety," 1 replied, " I have not forgotten it; for 
 my last journey from Osiend to Brussels, wdl long be 
 remembered; though, at fnst, the Trekschuit pleased me 
 ^vell enousrh. Having been tossed about all the dav before
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC. SO-T 
 
 in a steam-boat, on the German Ocean, without being 
 quite sure that 1 should not make up my final bed there; 
 and the three things in the world, which, it I have any 
 choice, 1 like least, being s«^a-sickness, explosion, and 
 drowning, — I cannot decide which is the worst, — the 
 Trekschuit appeareil to mc a ver\ quiet and secure con- 
 veyance. B'lt the (la) wore on, and theie being still no- 
 thing to be seen, but ihe same straight banks of the canal ; 
 the same plantittions of caiibages and onions on each side 
 of it ; and the same dull tacitutri crew, whose wits, if they 
 had any, seemtd spell-bonnd by the genius of the place; 
 I even wished myself again bi-atiiig backwards and for- 
 wards off ihe Foreland. If then, ye have any divice for 
 mitigating the tedium of to-morrow's journey, there is no 
 one will co-operate with y^u more williiisily than I shall." 
 
 "Then it is even tliis expedient," said ni} pale-faced 
 companion, "which has been proposed b) our reverend 
 friend the Abbe, that each should narrate a tale tor the 
 entertainment of tlie company. This, with a plentiful 
 supply ot Rhenish and cigais; and such a dinner, to 
 divide the moiuiug from the evening, as even M. Doublet 
 would not blush to lay before us, will perhaps make the 
 Trekschuit to-morrow, a resi !ence at least as agreeable 
 as the Hotel d'Angleterre ai Boulogne " 
 
 As the allusion to th D mors' pris in, which is thus 
 designated, at B(nil )giie, on account of the number oi our 
 countrymen who do it the honour to take up their resi- 
 dence there, was intetuled to raise a laugh at my expense, 
 in which it was successful, 1 readily promised also to as- 
 sist in the plan ot amusement propostd, and then applied 
 m}self with becoming alacrit) to the completion of my 
 meal. 
 
 An early hour the next morning saw us on the deck of 
 La Vitle de Bruges As the reader is to accompany us 
 in our progiess down the canals, and as " all our tedious- 
 ness" is 'specially reserved for hitn, I thiidf it v\ill be only 
 seemly and decot.>us d I introduce him to our party First 
 then there is Mvself; — "fidclicet. myself," as iS'iV Hugh 
 Evans would say, — a beardless, brietless barrister ; — 
 
 " One foredoom'd his father's soul to cross 
 And pen a stanza when he should engross.'^
 
 208 ORIUINAL 
 
 I was ambitious to surmount my wig- with a wreath of 
 laiirt I ; to introduce ihe nine muses to the twelve judges ; 
 to invest Apo 1) with a silk gown; and harness Pegasus 
 to the Chief Justice's carriage. But I unfortunately 
 found, tliat the two occupations did not harmonize, and I 
 made all kinds of ridiculous lihinders. I sent an attorney 
 a volume of poems with the author's com[)liments ; and 
 despatched the case and Oj-inion. which should have filled 
 their place, to the editor of the ''J^ew Montlily" request- 
 ing an early and favotirahle review; the consequence of 
 wliich was, that the attorney sent me no more briefs, and 
 the next JVcto Monthly contained some mighty pleasant 
 verses, — to all but ttie subject of them, — entitled *' Verst' 
 atility of Talent at the Bar." I had resolved to spend my 
 long vacation en the continent this }ear, for the purpose 
 of viewing foreign courts of law, and getting some insight 
 into thi jurisprudence of other countries ; and after atten- 
 tively studying the works of Rub' ns and Vandyke, seeing 
 bow judges aiul barristers looked at the theatres, and 
 spiel-houses; and pondering deeply on those abstruse 
 legal questions which were suggested by the scenery on 
 the banks of the Rhine ; having accomplished all these 
 desiderata, I vvas now on my return to Westminster-hallj 
 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 poitl> 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 transnbstantiation He was a, 
 lively and merry, but withal, discreetly conducted person- 
 age ; evidently a man of learning and considerable talent ; 
 and one of the members of onr 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 his way to London. 
 He was tall and handsome ; but a close and unwearied 
 enthusiasm in his application to his art, had evidently
 
 ' TALES, POEMS, ETC. 209 
 
 impaired liis 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 nuvv journeying to London, 
 for the purpose of studying from the Elgin Marble?. ^ 
 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 ini})ulse. 
 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 charge- 
 able, 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. Ho had 
 proved himself a good soldier, and was withal a 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 Bliicher. He did not seem very fond of Catho- 
 lics, and at first eyed the Abbe somewhat askance ; but 
 the good humour and lively manners of the Pi iest speedily 
 triumphed over the reserve of the German, 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. 
 
 * r« * * * * * 
 
 The preceding Fragment, which is thus abruptly terminated 
 in the MS., was originally intended to have hod a second title, 
 and to have been called, either '■'•The Decameron of the 
 Canals,''' or '' Tales told in Flatiders ;" and to have intro- 
 duced about a dozen different narratives i several of whicli arc 
 contained in tlic present Volume, and the remainder arc in- 
 cluded in Mr. i\eele's last work, the " Romance of History." 
 — Editok. 
 
 Dd
 
 SJIO OKIttlNAi. 
 
 HYMNS FOR CHILDREN. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oil Tliou ! who sitt'st enthroned on higii, 
 Ancient of Days ! Eternal King ! 
 
 May Childhood and mortality 
 
 Hope thou wilt listen while 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 ! 
 
 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 canst see, 
 The falling Sparrow 's mark'd by thee. 
 Then, turning Mercy's ear to me. 
 Listen ! Listen ! 
 
 Listen to an Infant's prayer !
 
 TALRS, POEMS, ETC. 21 1 
 
 Oh Thou ! whose blood was spilt to save 
 Man's nature from a second grave ; 
 
 To share in whose redeeming care, 
 Want's lowliest cliild 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 ! wlio wilt from Monarchs part, 
 To dwell within the contrite heart, 
 
 And build thyself a Temple there ; 
 O'er all mv dull affections move. 
 Fill all my Soul with Heav'nly love, 
 And, kindly stooping from above, 
 Listen ! Listen '. 
 
 Listen to an Infant's prayer ! 
 
 in. 
 
 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 grows strong. 
 Take us, keep us, make us. Thine ! 
 
 When perple.x'd in danger's snare, 
 Thou alone our guide canst be : 
 
 When opprcss'd 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 bo no more. 
 JiOve, while endless ages roll.
 
 313 ORIGINAL 
 
 IV. 
 
 Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy yonih.—Eccles, xii. 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, tor 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 sick, restores the bUnd, 
 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 .' 
 
 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 claim'd, and made her all its 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 iioards grief enough for all : 
 
 Who, but for them, as he bends o'er this stone, 
 
 Would long to make her peaceful grave his own.
 
 I 
 
 TALES, FOEMS, ETC. 213 
 
 n. 
 
 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 : 
 
 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 sufiering Soul, and it was free I 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 On reading the Remains of the late IIenrt Kiree Wuite. 
 
 Yes, all is o'er ! the pangs which Nature felt, 
 
 Have thus subsided into dread repose ; 
 
 The feelings Genius only gives, and knows, 
 Nor sooth, nor sadden now ; nor fire, nor melt ; 
 How sadly and how soon Death's waltering wave 
 
 Closed o'er his honour'd head. Too lovely Rose, 
 
 Why in such open brilliancy disclose 
 Those buds condemned such cruel blight to brave ? 
 
 Was Genius', Virtue's, Learning's power too small 
 To snatch their votary from the silent s^rave ? 
 
 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.
 
 214 OHIUINAL 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 From the French. 
 
 (( 
 
 Feikndship ! to tliee I raise my voice. 
 
 Love cannot equal thee ; 
 Thou art the object of my choice, 
 
 Oh ! como and comfort me ! 
 Thou, hke the roseate break of day, 
 
 Shinest, but dost not burn ; 
 Peace dwells with (hee, and 'neatli thy sway. 
 
 True happiness we learn." 
 
 'Twas thus, when fifteen springs their braid? 
 
 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 buni'd there. 
 
 Only his features to express 
 
 A Statue was required ; 
 Had the Arts reach'd 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. 
 
 The Artist Friendship's statue show'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 ! 
 
 <' 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 !''
 
 TALES, POEMS, ETC. - 216 
 
 LOVE AND BEAUTY. 
 
 '' ' A Fragment. 
 
 Oh Love ! triumphant Love ! thy throne is built 
 Where tempests cannot shake it, or rude force 
 Tear up its strong foundations. In the heart 
 Thy dv^'elling is, and there thy potent spell 
 Turns its dark chambers into Palaces. 
 Thy power is boundless ; and o'er all creation 
 Works its miracles. So Pygmalion once 
 Woke the cold statue on its 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 its 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 th it soon shall rise, 
 
 And kindle all its passions. Then begin 
 
 Sorrow and joy : unutterable joy. 
 
 And rapturous sorrow. Then the world is nothing ; 
 
 Pleasure is nothing ; sufl'eriiig is nothing ; 
 
 Ambition, riches, praise, power, all arc nothing ; 
 
 Love rules and reigns despotic and alone. 
 
 Then, Oh ! the shape of majric loveliness, 
 
 He conjures up before us, in her form 
 
 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 
 
 fiOoks out ; and, like the topmost gem o' the heap, 
 
 Shows the Mine's wealth within. Upon her face., 
 
 As on a lovely landscape, shade and sunlight 
 
 Play as strong feeling sways ; now her eye flashe.s
 
 •ilS ORIGINAL TALES, POEMS, ETC. 
 
 A beam of rapture ; now, lets drop a tear ; 
 And now, upon her brow — as when the Rainbow 
 Rears its 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 its cares away ; 
 As Halcyons brood upon the troubled wave, 
 And charm it into calmness. When she weeps, 
 Iler 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 its sweotness ; as the wind that shakes 
 The cedar's boughs, becomes impregnated 
 With its celestial odours. 
 
 ****** 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 The shadow we pursue still flees us, 
 Fast pacing as we faster pace : 
 
 That which we flee from will not ease us, 
 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, 
 
 T love your fat cheeks and full face ; 
 
 Oh my heart ! your eyes enkindle love there^ 
 And 1 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 !
 
 
 FliOSK ANI> POETR\. 
 
 ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN VARIOUS PERIODICAL PUBLIC AXIOKi?, 
 
 I 
 AISD NEVER BEIORE COLLECTED. 
 
 Ec
 
 JV/iss VorUx. A charming nosegay ! All exotics, I declare i 
 
 Jessy. No, Madam, neglected wild-flowers ; I took them from their 
 bed of wieds, bestowed care on their culture, and by transplanting them 
 to a more genial soil, they have flourished 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 its chill 
 obscurity, that, like these humble flowers, it might grow rich in worth 
 and native energy." 
 
 Morton's " Cure for the heart-ague."
 
 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 canoi>ies. 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 tinglings 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 its kindliest feelings, and distils 
 Dews precious as the drops which fall from heaven. 
 
 Henky Neeie. 
 
 It was in the Summer of the year 1820 that, at the 
 close of a fine July day, I found myself, for 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 its name, in one of the 
 most romantic and secluded parts of Savoy. It is impos- 
 sible for language to do justice to the delightful and varied
 
 2^0 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 scenery which surrounds it. That peculiar characteristic 
 of Alpine views, the union of wildncss with fertility, is 
 here exhibited in a surprising degree. The valley seems 
 absolutely saturated with the sweetness and fecundity of 
 Nature. Flowers of the most brilliant hues and enchant- 
 ing (ragraiu-e, and iruits of the most delicious flavour, 
 abound in every part; in the middle is seen the river 
 Arve, in some places leaping and foaming over the rocks 
 by which its course is impeded, and in others quietly wa- 
 tering the valley. All around rise gigantic hills, the bases 
 of which are clothed with wines ; while midway extend 
 enormous forests, and on their sunnnits 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 England cannot have the faintest concep- 
 tion ; and the setting sun had thrown its own radiant hues 
 upon Mont Blanc ; whose summit, even while I gazed 
 upon it, berame suddenly changed from a brilliant white 
 to a gorgeous red, and *'sunset," 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 
 com[)ared to nothing so well as to molten silver, resumed 
 its original dominion. 
 
 There is much truth in the maxim of Rousseau, that 
 " Oil s'exerce a voir comme a sentir, ou plutot une vue 
 cxquise n'est qu'un sentiment delicat et fin." Certainly, 
 the same scenes excite veiy 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 vil- 
 lage inn, and the churchyard ; for ,fiom 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 
 (hem in the pleasures, and in the business of life ; and I 
 learn how they support the intrusions of death, and what 
 are their hopes beyond the regions of mortalitv. On this
 
 i-ROSE AND POETRY. 221 
 
 occasion, not finding much to interest me at the Inn, I 
 meiel} to>k some slight refreshment, and, disencumbering 
 myself lioin the staff an^l wallet with wljich I had per- 
 formed III} juiiine}, proceeded to take a ramble among 
 the tombs. Tht-y were many and interesting. Here 
 rested the patiiarch of the village, gathered full of years 
 and honours to his fathers. There, a modest stone told a 
 simple but melanchol} tale of an unfortunate traveller 
 ingulfed in a glacier, as he was travelling these lonely, 
 but dangerous, regi ns 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 me- 
 thought that there was a;; ong it food that might be whole- 
 some and invigorating for the mind. 
 
 Among those memorials ot 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 un- 
 distinguished 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 surround- 
 ed the grave. From them, and from others of the neigh- 
 bours, I gathepfd the history of this tomb. It was a sim- 
 ple tale : but I have seen tears raining plenteously at its 
 recital, from some of the brightest eyes which ever bor- 
 rowed Irom southern suns their lustre, and their warmth ; 
 and big drops roll down tiie 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 nevei' 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 biightness. Some of the rural 
 connoisseurs of tlie village considered her face too pale : 
 as it has been described to me, it must have been beauti- 
 fully fair ; but the sun of that climate, which usually marks 
 the daughters of the valley for his own, had so slightly 
 tinned her cheeks with the rose, that it was onlv in moments
 
 222 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 of extraordinary animation and feeling that it was percep- 
 tible ; and during the last year of her life it entirely va- 
 nished. 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 sel- 
 dom heard than Annette's. Still, she loved solitude and 
 seclusion ; and although literature had not at that time 
 unfolded its 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 con- 
 tinues to keep her memory jaously cherished to the pre- 
 sent 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 numerous. Her course of 
 studies not having included the science of coquetry, it was 
 not long before she avowed that her atfections 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 imanifnous in their approval of her choice. 
 Victor was Annette's senior by only a kw months, and his 
 taste and habits were, in most particulars, congenial with 
 her own. It is true that he possessed the more masculine 
 habits of enterprise and intrepidity : none could track the 
 chamois to his haunts 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 iaquired for a hardy and intelligent guide was always 
 recommended to Victor ; and when circumstances of dan- 
 ger or difficulty occasioned the villagers to rally together, 
 he was invariably among the foremost, 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 bv the avalanche, or lost amona: the torrents;
 
 PROSE ANL» fOETRi. 223 
 
 or, when he warbled, in unison with her, some of those 
 sweet Savoyard melodies which are often heard among the 
 valleys, the tears would rush into his eyes, and the hardy 
 mountaineer seemed metamorphosed into a " soft carpet 
 knight," One song which they used to sing njost fre- 
 quently 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 original, when accom- 
 panied by the simple and beautiful melody to which they 
 are sung, are irresistibly touching and affecting. The fol- 
 lowing version sinks infinitely below its prototype, but I 
 have endeavoured to preserve the sentiment : — 
 
 " For thee, Love ! for thee, Love ! 
 
 I '11 brave Fate's sternest storm ; 
 She cannot daunt, or chill the hearts 
 
 Which Love keeps bold and warm : 
 And when her cleuds are blackest, nought ^ 
 
 But thy sweet self I '11 see ; 
 Nor hear amidst the tempest aught, 
 
 But thee, Love ! only thee ! 
 
 For thee, Love ! for thee, Love 1 
 
 My fond heart would resign 
 The brightest cup that Pleasure tills, 
 
 And Pleasure's wealthiest mine ; 
 For Fortune's smiles are vanity, 
 
 And Fortune's fade or flee ; 
 There 's purity and constancy 
 
 In thee, Love! only thee ! 
 
 For thee. Love ! for thee, Love I 
 
 Life's lowly vale 1 '11 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 lives, 
 until the day arrived which had been fixed upon for their 
 union. In such a place as Servoz this was an incident of
 
 224 MlStEl.LAiNEOUS 
 
 considerable interest and importance ; and almost tlie. 
 whole population of the village, young and old, contrihuted 
 to swell the retinue, which proceeded with decorous 
 hilarity toward the simple, but venerable, (/hurch of St. 
 Pierre. A troop of young girls advanced first, strewing 
 flowers in the path of the joyous procession ; these were 
 succeeded by some youthful peasants of the other sex, who 
 fdled the air with rustic, but by no means tasteless, music ; 
 the bride followed, " blushing like the morning," sup- 
 ported 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 peasantry brought 
 up the rear. 
 
 This was on one of those bright summer mornings, 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 miridian heat, except the bridal party, 
 who were protected from it by the shadow cast by a 
 gigantic Alp acrosf^ thfir path. Suddenly a strange sound 
 was heard a'nove them, like the noise of an avalanche, and 
 a quantity of stones and rook descended up >n 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 tre- 
 mendous 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 its reach, it had precipitated itself into the valley, 
 and choked up a little lake which lay immediately under 
 its brow ; while huge blocks of granite were hurled about 
 in all directions, and the dust produced by rocks thus 
 dashed violently against each other, concealed for awhile 
 the extent of the calamity. Annette had instinctively 
 caught her mother's hand, and hurried her beyond the 
 reach of danger ; but when the party had arrived at a 
 ])lace of safety, and the tremendous convulsion of nature 
 liad subsided, the wailings of distress at seeing their habi- 
 tations crushed, and their fields and vineyards laid deso- 
 late, were many ; though more were the exclamations of 
 joy at beholding that their children and friends had escaped
 
 PROSE AND POETRr. , 225 
 
 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 cloud of 
 dust disappeared, had cast a hasty glance around, and 
 perceived, am mg 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 ornaments of Victor were found, while some 
 mangled reliques of his corpse told too soon, and too 
 ceitainly, his miserable fate. 
 
 Annette, who followed as fast as her failing limbs would 
 allow her, heard their acclamations of despair, and sank 
 senseless U[)on the earth. Every effort that kindness and 
 pity could suggest was used to recover her, but for months 
 they could scarcely he said to restore her suspended ani- 
 mation ; for the state of listless insanity 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 its 
 dwelling. She would often, after remaining inactive for 
 hours together, hurry suddenly to the church, and there, 
 standmg before the altar, repeat that part of the matrimo- 
 nial service which is uttered l)y the bride ; then she would 
 wait for a few moments silently, as if expecting to hear 
 another voice, and at lenj^ih, loolcing round on the empty 
 church, utter a dreadfil groan, and hurry away. At 
 other rimes she would wander through the churchyard, 
 count over the tombs 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 imi)art any tranquillity to her mind was singing, 
 or playing U|)on her lute, those little melodies which she 
 and Victor used to chant together. The song which I 
 have translated was her especial favourite ; and while 
 singing the last verse she would look upwards, and, after 
 she had finished it, remain silent for some time, as if she 
 
 r f
 
 22G MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 expected that the promise whieh it contains would be 
 literally fulfilled, and that she should hear her lover's voice 
 responsive to her own. In her wanderings she was con- 
 tinually 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 tra- 
 veller. At length she found a little valley, composed of 
 only one green field, and one gurgling rill which stole 
 through it, and surrounded by picturescjue rocks, which 
 were clothed with a profusion of beautiful trees; larches, 
 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 ele- 
 vated 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 its 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 !' 
 
 My love ! my life ! where art thon ? — I have sought thee 
 long ; my brain is strangely troubled, 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 Hea- 
 ven ; then sank upon the earth, and her Spirit fled for 
 ever !
 
 PKOSK AND POETKV. 227 
 
 Siuce 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 
 chamois which escapes mto tuis 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, aboe all, the echoes among 
 those rocks aie listened to with av/e, as the songs or the 
 conversations of Victor and Annette ! 
 
 "New European Magazine," 1822.
 
 THE POET'S DREAM, 
 
 Oh ! then 1 see Queen Mab hath been with yon.~ 
 
 ^»:akspeare. 
 
 It was in the forenoon of a sultry autumnal day, in the 
 year 1638, that a person apparent)} about five and thirty 
 years of a^^e, handsomely though noi 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 tra- 
 veller 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. Akhough 
 his complexion was considerably tinged by the southern 
 suns which he had encountered in the course of his travels, 
 it was evidently originally very fair, if not pale ; and, 
 together with the oval face and bright blue eyes, denoted 
 a native of a more northern region than that which he was 
 traversing. Mis countenance was singularly beautiful, 
 and its 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 njiddle stature ; and his foini 
 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
 
 PliOSE AiND roLIRi. 229 
 
 Apennines, the travellers appeared to experience consi- 
 derable 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 op[)ortunity of exijloring the 
 contents of their wallet, for the purpose 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 disappeared 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 pre- 
 vious to resuming his journey. 
 
 He had not long resigned himself to sleep before his 
 ever restless brain began to teem with eertam vague and 
 shadowy forms, which at length settled into a vision of 
 consummate beauty. He fancied that he beheld a beau- 
 tiful female figure bending over and gazing at him, while 
 her features were expressive of the utmost astonishment 
 and delight. Once she appeared to speak, and the wonder 
 with which he beheld the exquisite loveliness of her form 
 and features, was lost in that excited by the ravishing 
 melody of her voice. He extended his hand toward 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 etfort 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 per- 
 ceiving a scroll, exactly resembling that which he bad 
 seen in his dream, lying at his feet. He snatched it up 
 eagerly, and read the following lines : — 
 
 " Ocelli stclli morlali 
 Ministri di iniei inali 
 Che'n sogno anco mostratc, 
 Che'l inio morir bramate. 
 So cliiusi in' uccidete, 
 Aperti die farete !"
 
 230 .MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 which, ill 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 f owe, 
 If when closed ye 've power to slay, 
 Hide me from your opening ray !" 
 
 Douhting the evidence of his senses, he read the scroll 
 over again and again, before he thought of calling his ser- 
 vant, and endeavouring to gather from him such particu- 
 lars as might assist in unravelling the mystery. The ac- 
 count which he received 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^vhere his 
 master was sleeping ; that the youngest of the two, whose 
 description, as related by the servant, corresponded in the 
 most minute particulars with the figure which he had seen 
 in his dream, alighted ; and after gazing for some time 
 upon the handsome sleeper, addressed certain interroga- 
 tories to the domestic, which, from his ignorance of the 
 language in which they were conveyed, he was unable 
 either to comprehend, or answer ; that she then hastily 
 wrote some lines upon a scroll, which shejthrew at his 
 master's feet ; and, seeing the latter move, re-entered the 
 carriage, which immediately drove off with the utmost ra- 
 pidity. 
 
 " You would know her again, Horatio V inquired the 
 wondering traveller. 
 
 "Ay, Sir," returned the other, "even were her beautiful 
 face veiled ; let her but utter three words, and Tshall re- 
 member 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 invitation could be resisted, did I feel my soul 
 stealing out at my ears so delightfully ; for even she, cra- 
 ving your honour's pardon, was but a chirrupping wren to 
 this Italian nightingale."
 
 PKOSE AND I'OETRY. 2S1 
 
 " Saddle the mules instantly," interrupted his master, 
 " let us lose no time in ovcrtakins; her." 
 
 " Oh Sir ! that were a fruitlcs'^^ chase, for the carriage 
 has had a long start before us, besides being drawn by four 
 of the fleetest horses in haly." 
 
 " 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 tiie Cardinal Barberini's Concert to- 
 morrow evening." 
 
 They accordingly resumed their journey, the ci-devant 
 sleeper much marvelling at the extraordinary incident of 
 the day, and puzzling his brains, for he was deeply learned 
 in metaphysics, to account 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 satisfactory 
 conclusion than that contained in two lines of his favour- 
 ite 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, hut, as 
 our readers will have guessed from the information of 
 Horatio, without overtaking the fair and mysterious fugi- 
 tive. Nothing occurred during tlie remainder of their 
 journey beyond the usual routine of eating, drinking, 
 sleeping, and travelling; and sometini's the necessity, 
 however unpleasant, of dispensing with the three former 
 items, until they arrived at Rome. Here our traveller's 
 fust care was to (ind out the residence of his friend Hol- 
 stcnius, keeper of tho Vatican library, and with whom he 
 had become acquainted at Oxford, where the Italian had 
 resided for thre<' years 
 
 The meeting of the friends was cordial and affectionate. 
 " But we have no time to lose," said Holstcnius, " the 
 Cardinal's Concert has already commenced, and he is in 
 the utmost anxiety to see you : you will fmd there a distin- 
 guished party, who are drawn together principally in the 
 expectation of meeting you."
 
 232 JllSOELLANEOUS 
 
 " 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 atfect to feel, offended 
 at being made what they call " a show" of; " 1 fear that 
 the attraction will cease when the cause of it is seen and 
 known. But who are these, friend Hulstenius, to whom 
 I am to be exhibited this evening ?*' 
 
 "Among others, to the Marquis Villa, who has just 
 arrived from Na[)les,'' said the .stlier 
 
 "What! Manso?" exclaimed the Englishman, his 
 feature** brightening as he spoke, "the friend of the illus- 
 trious 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 Dakc 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 dispersed ; he 
 expressed the utmost delight at the prospect of mingling 
 with the lofty spirits who were assembled under the Car- 
 dinal 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 among 
 the crowd at the door for his transalpine guest. When 
 he recognised Holstenius and his friend, he darted out, 
 and 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 distinguished company were 
 assembled. Here, after a momentary pause, he elevated 
 his voice and announced in an exulting tone to the anxious 
 auditory, the presence of "il Signor Milton." 
 
 "Onor a I'altissimoPoeta!" exclaimed a hundred voices.
 
 ;■ 
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 233 
 
 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 : — 
 
 <i 
 
 Cede Meles ; cedat de{)ressa Mincius urna, 
 
 Sebetus Tassum desinat usque loqui. 
 At Thamesis victor curictis ferat altior undas ; 
 
 Nam parte, Milto, par tribus unus erit." 
 
 " Meles and Mincius ! now more humbly glide, 
 Tasso's Sebetus ! now resign thy pride ; 
 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 fiom the othei' 
 end of the room, which was recognised to be that oi the 
 Poet Selvaggi, exclaimed : — 
 
 " Gra^cia Maeonidem, 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 embarrassment, as to the 
 mode of returning such extraordinary and unexpected 
 compliments, when he was relieved by his entertainer, 
 begging him to seat himself by him, and entering into close 
 conversation 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 Ijave ever been pe- 
 culiarl} susceptible of its power, and have found my feel- 
 ings swayed by it in an extraordinarv manner, upon more 
 
 O "■
 
 234 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 than one occasion. To my father, who was deeply ac- 
 complished in the science, and to my friend and country- 
 man, Henry Lawes, whose fame, I believe, is not unknown 
 even in tliis classic land of song, I am indebted for what 
 Httle Icnowledne I may possess." 
 
 "Nay, nay, Mr. Milton, your knowledge is somewhat 
 greater than you will allow. The celebrated Leonora 
 Baroni, who has just left the room, but will soon re-enter 
 it, had, shortly before your arrival, delighted the company, 
 by the exquisite manner in which she sang a divine me- 
 lody composed by herself, to suit some still diviner words 
 of yours, which fully prove that you have the soul and the 
 feelings of the mosi inspired musician." He then recited 
 with energy and proprifty, although with a strong foreign 
 accent, the following lines : — 
 
 " Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy ! 
 
 Sphere-born harmonious sisters, voice and verse ! 
 Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power employ, 
 
 Dead thiiigfs with inbreath'd sense able to pierce ; 
 And to our liijjli- raised phantasy present 
 That undisturbed song of pure consent, 
 Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne 
 To him that sits thereon, 
 
 With saintly shout and solemn jubilee ; 
 Where the bright Seraphim in burning row. 
 Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow ; 
 And the cherubic host in thousand quires, 
 Touch their immortal harps of golden wires ; 
 With those just spirits that wear victorious palms, 
 Ilynms devout, and holy psalms, 
 
 Singing everlastingly !" 
 
 The conversation between the Cardinal and his illustri- 
 ous guest was here interrupted by the entrance of Adriana, 
 of Mantua, and her daughter, Leonora Baroni. Milton's 
 heart thiobbed, and he drew his breath thickly, as he 
 fancied that he recognised in the figure of the latter, the 
 fair one who had brightened his dreams among the Apen- 
 nines. 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 snings of which she was 
 trying, when a moment's reflection convinced him of the
 
 PROSE AND POETKV. 235 
 
 iinproprief^ of such a proceeding. The resemblance, 
 might be accidental, or it might be produced merel) by 
 his own heated imagination. At length she struck the 
 strings, and played a low sweet prelude with such exqui- 
 site delicacy, and yet such riiasteriy execution, that the 
 ■whole company were entranced in wonder, and none more 
 so than the poet. She then raised her voice, whose di- 
 vine tones thrilled to his very soul. The air was her own 
 composition, and of matchless beauty ; but what was his 
 astonishment at recognising in the poetry to which it 
 was adapted, the very words which were inscribed upon 
 the scroll. He rose from his seat, and ap|)roached the 
 beautiful songstress. Like his own Adam, he "bung over 
 her enamoured." He forgijt his h^-pes, his and)iiion, 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 I" - 
 
 and as she warbled the last line, turned her head, an(f 
 beheld the bright blue eyes of the poet, as though his 
 whole soul was concentrated in those two oibs, gazing 
 upon her. A slight tremor shook her frume ; a deadly 
 paleness overspread her face ; and she sank senseless upon 
 the ground. 
 
 This incident created general confusion. The whole 
 company crowded round the harp, and beheld the beautiful 
 Leonora, pale and senseless, in the arms of the poet, 
 while her mother was chafing her temples in fin agony of 
 distress. At length Milton and Adriana succeeded in 
 conveying her out of the room into the open air. It was 
 a blight 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 its banks, and the lolty sununiis of the 
 Apennines towering in the distance. The night-wind 
 crept from leaf to leaf, and gently agitated the waters of
 
 2S6 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 • 
 
 the river ; while from a neighbouring grove tlie notes of 
 the nii^htingale were borne upon the breeze. The genial 
 influence of the air, and the fragrance of a thousand odor- 
 ous flowers, which bloomed aiound 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, " ] 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 unsubstantial vision is corporeal, is 
 vital, and I hold it in my arms !" 
 
 We believe the lady blushed, and gently disengaged 
 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 thetn home, and to obtain permission to call 
 upon them on the following morning. 
 
 " And may I," said Ailriana, as the poet was taking his 
 leave, " may ! beg to know, Signer, 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 feeiitig of entluisiastic admiration, advanced, and 
 each took hold of one of his hands. A crimson blush 
 suflused the face of the beautiful Leonora at recognising, 
 in the handsome sleeper, the mighty bard, by whose 
 writing she had been s[)ell-bound for many an hour of 
 intense and delighted interest. He had not yet given to 
 the world his master-work, and thus rendeiied the high 
 encomiums of Selvaggi and Sai-illi no hyperbole ; but that 
 scarcely less glorious emanation of his genius, Comus, as 
 well as UJillegro, II Penseroso, Lycidas, and some of his 
 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
 
 PROSE AND POETRt. 23*? 
 
 between an injunction and a petition. He then took a 
 reluctant leave for the purpose of rejoining the assembly 
 at the Cardinal's, and apologizing for the absence of the 
 sirens, which was readily excused on the score of the ill- 
 ness of the younger one. 
 
 The remainder of the evening passed without the occur- 
 rence of any incident, the record of which would be likely 
 to interest our readers. 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 Apennines ; again the fairy 
 figure approached and dropped the scroll ; again he 
 stretched forth his hand, but more successfully than be- 
 fore ; 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. 
 
 He arose feverish and unre freshed ; 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 ROM.E CANENTEM. 
 
 Altera Torquatum cepit Leonora poetara, 
 
 Cujus ab insano cessit amore furens. 
 
 Ah miser ! ille tuo qiiaiito felicior scvo / 
 
 Perditus et propter te, Leonora foret ! 
 
 Et le Pierid sensisset voce cancntcm 
 
 Aurea maternan fila rnovere lyrtE ; 
 
 (^iiamvis Dircaeo torsisset limiina PentJieo 
 
 Saevior, aut totus desipuissst iners ; 
 
 Tu tamen erranles caca verti<,nne sensiis 
 
 Voce eadem poleras coiiipusuisse tuii ; 
 
 Et poteras, a;gro 3|)irans sub corde, quielem 
 
 Flexamino cantu restituisse sibi." ^ 
 
 Which have been thus translated by Dr. Symmons :— »•
 
 2Si> MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 ''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 tb' inspirer of his amorous rajre 
 
 Oh ! had he heard the wonders of your song, 
 
 As leads your voice its li(juid maze along ; 
 
 Or, seen you in your Motlier's nght command 
 
 The Lyre, while rapture wakes beneath your hand : 
 
 3y Penthens' wildness though his brain were tost, 
 
 Or his worn sense in sullen slumber lost. 
 
 His soul had chcck'd her wanderings at the strain ; 
 
 The soothing charm had lulTd his stormy brain ; 
 
 Or, breathing with creative power had driven 
 
 Death frou) his heart, and oj)en'd it to Heaven." 
 
 These lines were despatched by the poet early in the 
 morning to Leonora, and he himselt' was not long in lol- 
 lowing. His second interview with the fair siren 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 feel- 
 ings 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 qui(;kly succeeded by 
 another and another. The ladies shortly afterward 
 leaving Rome for Mantua, Milton escorted them to the 
 latter place, and fixed his temporary ab^de there, where 
 his attenti ns to Leonora became still more marked. The 
 keen apprehension of Adriana soon detected the state of 
 their hearts, but the feelings which the discovery awakened 
 in her own, were by no means of an unmingled character. 
 The accomplishments, both mmlal and personal, of her 
 daughter's suiter 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 ujembers of the family, and especially 
 by her son, who was an officer in the service of the repub- 
 lic of Venice, a bigoted adherent to the church of Rome :■
 
 FROJSE AND POETRY. 23B 
 
 Of tierce and ungovernable passions ; and accustomed to 
 rule with despotic auihoiity in all the concerns of the 
 family. When, theieibre, Milton formally announced him- 
 self to Adriana, as a suiter for her danj^htei's hand, she 
 did not affect to disguise her own ajiprobation of the pro- 
 posal, but informed him that it would be necessary that 
 Leonora's relations, and es|)ef'ially 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 
 immediately, for the purpose of advocating his suit in per- 
 son. The entreatif's of Adriana, who anticipated danger- 
 ous, if not fatal cnnsequenecs, fiom so abrupt a proceeding, 
 induced him to relinquish his design. She undertook to 
 break the matter to her S' n b}- degrees ; but, as she had no 
 doubt that the first intelligence would bring him, foaming 
 with fury, to Mantua, she advised Milton to withdraw him- 
 self for a short time from that city This advice 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 intervit w with Let-nora was 
 of the most tender description ; vows of eternal fidelity 
 were made on both sides; and sighs, and tears, and pro- 
 testations, 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 flat- 
 tering m.uks of distinction. He acted as his cicerone 
 during his stay in Nuph s ; conducting him through the 
 Viceroy's Palace, and all the other public i'uildings which 
 usually attract the notice of strangers ; and also intro- 
 duced him to the circle of his fiiends c.-niprising the 
 most illustrionn and distinguished men in N:tples. The 
 manners and conversation ol" Milton were such as to 
 make him a welcome guest wherever he went; and to 
 Manso in particular the Poet's society became eveiy 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 thaTi a crime. Manso's Epigram on this subject 
 js well known : —
 
 240 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 " Ut mens, forma, decor, facics, rnos, si pietas sic, 
 Non Anglus verum liercle Angelus ipse fores." 
 
 And though the pun in this distich seems to defy transla- 
 tion, yet as Dr. Symnions has attempted it, we give his 
 version for want of abetter: — 
 
 " 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, howf'ver, make Milton forgetful of Leonora. He 
 wrote to her often, and fervently; and it was from this 
 place that he addressed to her those beautiful Italian Son- 
 nets, which we find among his Poems. To these be 
 received the most tender replies ; accompanied, however, 
 with the unwelcome intelligence that her brother had de- 
 clared himself hostile to their union, and had uttered 
 threats of personal violence to Milton if he persisted in 
 his suit. The Poet, in answer, renewed his protestations 
 of unaltered love, and declared his determination never 
 to resign her but with his life. He told her that her bro- 
 ther's threats could not daunt him; and that his heart, 
 although easily subdued by love, was bold enough to 
 encounter any danger ; which sentiments we find beauti^ 
 fully expressed in the following Sonnet ; — 
 
 " Giovane piano e simplicette amanle, 
 
 Poi che fnggir mt' stesso in dubbio sono 
 Madonna a voi del mio cuor I'humil dono 
 
 Faro divoto ; io certo a prove tante 
 
 L'hebbi fedile, infrp[>ido, costante, 
 
 De pensieri legf^iidro, accorto e buono ; 
 Quando rugsre d gran mondo, e scocca il tuono, 
 
 S'arma di se e d'intero diamante. 
 Tanto del forse, e d'invidia sicuro, 
 
 Di tiniori, e speranze, al popol use, 
 
 Quanto d'ingegno, e d'altor valo vago, 
 
 E di cetra aonora e delle muse. 
 Sol troverete in tal parte men dure, 
 
 Ove Amor mise I'insanabil ago."
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 241 
 
 -' 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'o arduous part. 
 
 When shakes the world, 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 : 
 
 Unshaken, and entire, and only fouiid 
 
 Not proof against the shaft, when Love directs the wound." 
 
 jVlilton 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 Palace of the Marcpiis, he received a 
 wound in the back from a stiletlo. He hastily drew his 
 sword, and faced his adveisary, 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 assassin 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 over- 
 powered. The villain made one desperate, but unsuc- 
 cessful, aim at Milt<ni^s breast, and then fled with incredi- 
 ble speed. His pursuers were unable to overtake him, 
 but his mask having drop{)ed 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 
 thi«; encounter was a determination on his part, whenever 
 he ventured into the streets of Naples at so late an hour, 
 to go less ostentatiously ornamented ; lor he had worn, 
 suspended 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 ol" the robber. 
 
 Our Poet had passed a whole fortnight without receiv- 
 ing any letters fiom Leonora, although he had, during 
 that period, written repeatedly and anxiously to her ; 
 
 H h
 
 242 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 when, dreading the worst from her brother's violence, he 
 determined to proceed immediately to Mantua. He took 
 a sorrowful leave of his friends in Naples, especially of 
 Manso, with whom he left as a partinj? gift those fine 
 Latin verses, in which he has immortalized his noble 
 friend. 
 
 On his arrival at Mantua, he hastened to the residence 
 of Adriaiia. He inquired if Leonora was within, and 
 heard with rapture that she was in the little apartment, 
 which was called !ier Music-room. He resisted the anx- 
 ious importunities of the domestic, who admitted him, to 
 suffer him to announce him, determining to enjoy the sur- 
 prise wiiich hU arrival would occasion. He softly as- 
 cended the staircase, and arrived at the door of her apart- 
 ment. As he a|)proached, he heard sighs and v/eeping. 
 The door was half open, and as he leaned gently for- 
 ward, he was surprised at seeing a tall thin male figure 
 seated by the side of Leonora. His surprise was changed 
 into horror, when, on looking in his face, he recognised 
 the features 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 1 
 If you love me no longer, at least |.it\ uie !" 
 
 *' Pify you ! pity one so utterly lost ! Even Heaven 
 itself^ all-merciful as it is, withholds its pity from the 
 damned." 
 
 " Alas !" she sobbed, " I have committed no ciime." 
 
 " No crime !-' he exclaimed ; " call jou it no crime to 
 love a wretch like this ? an Englishman ! a heretic ! one 
 who has even visited the ir.famoun Galileo 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 
 a one, dear Brother .'" 
 
 Milton started ! Antonio turned round ; the poet, 
 placed in a dark recess, with his face and form muffled iri
 
 PROSE ANU POtTKV. 243 
 
 Ilis cloak, U'ould have escaped liis observation, but bis eyes 
 llashing witli the fiies of fury and horioi-, anestcd the 
 attention of the bravo. 
 
 "'Tis he! 'tis he," cxcUiimf d the latter: "I know 
 that fiend-like glare ; hell aiirl heresy arc in it. Unhand 
 me, sister, or, by heaven, the stiletto, when it enters his 
 breast shall be reeking warm from your own." 
 
 He sprang like an emanoi[)ated tiger from the grasp of 
 his sister, and rushed towards Milton, Oh ! s[)are 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 fatal 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 lace. She 
 fixed her eyes upon his until they closed. One gentle 
 pressure of his hand ; one slight quivering of the lips ; 
 and then the temple of the immortal spirit was an unin- 
 habited ruin. 
 
 Antonio fled howling from the chamber of death : and 
 Milton sunk upon the bosom of the murdered beauty. 
 We have but httle to add. 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. Milton, when the first paroxysm of 
 grief had subsided, resolved to travel into Italy and Greece, 
 in order to divert his melanclioly. The troubles, how- 
 ever, which just then broke out in England, made him 
 abandon this design and retuin to his native country ; 
 " For I esteemed it," said he, " dishonourable for me to 
 be lingering abroad, even for the improvement of my 
 mind, when my fellow-citizens were contending lor 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 fulfilment of the pro- 
 phecy contained in the verses which she had inscribed 
 upon the scroll. Tho<;e " stelli mortoli" had literally
 
 244 MISCELLANEOUS PROSE, ETC. 
 
 proved the cause of all her ills, and ultimately of her 
 death ; and the eyes of Milton were for a long time com- 
 pared to the heel of Achilles ; as the only part neglected, 
 and the part which was destined to prove fatal. 
 
 HoMMAGE Aux Dames," 1825.
 
 TOTTERIDGi: PRIORY. 
 
 A REVERIE IN HERTFORDSHIRE. 
 
 Were you evei', my dear reader, at the village of ToS- 
 teridge ? If not, put your horse to your gig this moment ; 
 drive past the pleasant villages of Holloway, Finchley, 
 2cnd 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. Sup- 
 posing neither of those interesting incidents 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 innova- 
 tion and improvement has found its way among them, 
 and a parcel of trim dapper brick and stone fronts, in the 
 modern style of building, have made their appearance, 
 and stare the ancient denizens of the place out of counte- 
 nance. The most interesting of the old houses is the 
 Priory; said by the inhabitants to be of an age which I 
 dare not mention to my incredulous readers. However, 
 it is certainly of no modern date, but a Gothic ecclesias- 
 tical structure, built in the style which was most prevalent 
 in this Island in the reign of Elizabeth, 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 rnmblinii' fiom the main object of my paper.
 
 24G MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 My indulgeut 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 
 celebrated Lord Chesierfitld, the piiiice of diplomatists 
 and dancing-mastf.rs. This information I acquired from 
 my worthy host, with whom I was sitting, tcte-n4ete, after 
 dinner. Strangely enouiji, its effect, aided, 1 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 weight of 
 lead upon them, but instantly " my mind's eyes'' opened, 
 and I found myself still occupying 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 aristo- 
 cratical-looking gentleman, ot fifty years of age, perhaps, 
 or, '* by'r lad;,, some threescore." 1 instantly knew this 
 person to be no other than my Lord Chesterfield. He 
 was dressed most fastidiousl}, 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 
 degenerate age, would be assigned only to persons of the 
 dimensions of Daniel Lambert ; and a frilled shirt, with 
 lace ruflies ; 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 1 returned his attention in the same man- 
 ner. He, however, continued 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 domi-= 
 oil for to-night." 
 
 " Exceedingl) happy to see you, Sir," he replied ; " but 
 you must be aware that this mansion is not your property." 
 
 " Nor yours, either, my Lord, 1 apprehend, now, what- 
 ever it may have been a century ago. I take the liberty 
 of presuming that it at present appertains to my friend, 
 Mr. Dashviile." 
 
 " And pray, Sir, who is Mr. Dashviile ?" said the spirit; 
 peevishlv.
 
 PROSE AND POETRr, Zil 
 
 " Will you taste this 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 y<-ars since 1 tiisted wine, and therefore it 
 is no wonder that I feel rather thirsty. — Excellent ! ex- 
 cellent !" he adde<J, after emptying his glass. " I have 
 no doubt that Mr. Dashville is a most worthy gentleman; 
 and, if you pU-ase, we'll drink his health." 
 
 We now got very sociable, and I could not help in- 
 forming his Lordship of my late interview with Ben 
 Jonson ; but it had not the cffifrct 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 Loni !" exclaimed I, in a tone of surprise, " 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 kept aloof from all such." 
 
 " Really, my Lord," said I, " I am surprised that a 
 fine gentleman like yourself, should have ever conde- 
 scended to put your foot into so unfashionable 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 mncl' like a jn ruqis- as possii.ie ; fi<n;g some 
 of his own powder upon it; ami then proceeded lo pull 
 my linen and waistcoat aboutj even to the operation of 
 tearing. 
 
 " Hold ! hold ! my dear Lord !" I exclaimed, in a tone 
 of supplication, " 1 shall never be able to show my face 
 in Hjde Park, or Bup.d-street, if you go on in this man- 
 ner. We dress in a very (Jifffrcnt style now, from what 
 you and your contemporaries did." 
 
 A smile of serene contempt passed over the features of 
 the defunct Peer, as I ruade this observuiiui', and 1 could 
 plamly perceive that all his dead blood was roused. lie, 
 nevertheless, miMngi^d to m;i,-<t' i his emotion as well as a 
 dead man could be expected to do it, and proceeded.
 
 :i4b MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 «' I dare say that is very true," said he ; " for 1 have 
 seen most awful changes in the fashions, as exemplified by 
 the various occupants of this house, who have usually 
 been persons of bon-ton. In the first family which suc- 
 ceeded me, the pink ol fashion was the heir. He was of 
 the real Mr. Jessainy breed. He had passed a twelve- 
 month in Paris, where he acquired a becoming contempt 
 for his own countiy and its 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 aft'ection 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 circum- 
 stance of a person in a wet great coat having sat down in 
 the same room with him. He was a gentleman of very 
 tender and sympathetic habits ; although he once dis- 
 charged his whole household, because he found a bottle, 
 containing a favourite cosmetic, broken, and could not 
 discover the individual 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 intiuiacy. 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 discover the difierence. 
 
 " By the time that the iiext tenant took possession, the 
 fashion had materially altered. L<igic and disputation 
 were the order of the day, and all our tine gentlemen 
 were infidels. The Bible was considered as the most 
 factitious 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 H ihbes, he paid the compliment to 
 those of others, by b<-lievinii that they revisited the earth 
 after death, and he was consequently most dismally afraid 
 of aj)paritions. He died one night of excessive terror, 
 caused by a friend who showed his kindness and his wit, 
 by arraying himself in a white sheet, plastering his face, 
 and proceeding, with a lighted taper in his hand, into his 
 bedchamber.
 
 ' I'KOSE AND rOETRY. 249 
 
 *"' The house was now shut up for some time, and re- 
 ported to be haunted ; nay, the ghost of our free-thinking 
 friend is said still to walk in its most ancient chambers. 
 At length it was bought cheap by a dashing young fellow, 
 who drove his own four-in-hand, at a time when that ac- 
 complistiment was considered the very acme of aristocrati- 
 cal education. The Coronet was not worthily surmount- 
 ed, except by a coachman's cap; the gold stick, the Field- 
 maishai'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 station neither so enviable, nor so honoura- 
 ble, 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 grays down 
 Totteridge-lane, he was thrown from < his high estate ;' 
 and picked up Ufeless, 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 1 I suppose some character of a 
 similar stamp ?" 
 
 "No, no," replied the loquacious ghost; "the cha- 
 rioteer had nearly outlived the tashion of which he was the 
 breathing mirror, and when the young Honourable Tom 
 Hardfist took possession of these 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 ribbon itself was 
 considered 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 Piiory was now converted 
 into a boxing arena. All the most eminent pugilists of 
 the day exhibited their science there to the great delight 
 of the proprietor ; until one day, Mr. Hardfist 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 agonv." 
 
 li
 
 250 MISCELLANEOUS PROSE, ETC. 
 
 "A most extraordinarily varied succession of tenants, 
 my lionl," said 1 ; " and although I am no great admirer 
 ol' your system of fashion and manners, still I cannot 
 liesitate in jrivin^ it the [)reference over all that you have 
 enumerated as following alter it. Hut pray, who tilled the 
 vacant seat of Mr. Hardfist?" 
 
 " Nay, Jiay," said the noble ghost, " we shall be getting 
 too near the present times, my friend ; and I do not like 
 to talk scandal even in m) grave ; so, good evening to 
 you." 
 
 " Nay, nay," said I, starting up, and knocking down 
 two or thn e glasses, " I cannot part with you so easily." 
 — This etfort 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 understand you ; 
 where 's Lord Chestei field ?" 
 
 " Lord Chesterfield !" was the ejaculation in reply; " I 
 have seen no such person " 
 
 By degrees I recovered my recollection ; and, as an 
 atonement for breaking the glasses, I was obliged to nar- 
 rate my dream at the tea-table. Such as it is, 1 told it; 
 and such as it is, I give it for the perusal of my fashiona- 
 ble readers. 
 
 "News op Liter.\ture," 1826.
 
 ». - V. »..>.'.,. ...<. 
 
 THt 
 
 SHARSPKAREAi^ J^LVSIUM. 
 
 A FEW evenings ago, after I had spent several hours in 
 the perusal of Shakspeare, and while my mind was occu- 
 pied 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 1" 
 
 " I have orders," said he, " to take you to the Shaks- 
 pearean Elysium." 
 
 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 reception, in 
 which, as in the other, there is both an Elysium and a 
 Tartarus. All the characters invented by the Poet arc 
 sent to Elysium ; excepting the very few that he has ill 
 drawn, which, together with his bad puns, his bombast, 
 and his indelicacies, arc despatched to Tartarus; and
 
 252 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 also, excepting his historical personages, who, being 
 natives of the real substantial world above, are, of course, 
 under the dominion of Pluto." 
 
 " Indeed,'' s;ud I, " this is a rare place to visit ; hut 
 although you, saving your presence, are marvtllouHly ill- 
 favoured, >()u tio not exacils .mswer the descriptions which 
 I have read of that grim lerryman, Charon." 
 
 " No," said he, sulkily; " 1 an) not exactly he, although 
 my occupation is similar: I am the Boatswain mentioned 
 in the " Tempest,^^ and fill this office at the instiiration of 
 an old brute of a Neapolitan 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. Alalaprop calls him, Cerberus. 
 Instead of him, however, 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 Geii- 
 tlemen of Verona." I soon afterward learned that Bot- 
 tom, the Weaver, whose fondness for volunteering 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 q-ialifications of 
 Crab were, however, considered superior, and Bottom was 
 dismissed to Elysium. 
 
 Seated upon the throne of these infernal regions, in- 
 stead of Pluto and Proserpine, I found Tragedy and 
 Comedy. The former saluted me with a very conde- 
 scending bend of the head ; and the latter, with a be- 
 witching smile, pointed out to me the gate of Elysium. 
 I entered, and after recovering from the rapture which 
 the delicious atmosphere, and the enchanting scenery 
 excited, I looked around in search of some human object 
 of curiosity. I found the place very thickly populated, 
 and the inhabitants split into various small groups and 
 parties. The first of these which I encountered, con- 
 sisted of six or seven persons who were seated round a
 
 PROSE AND POETUV. 253 
 
 table in an arbour, and were eating and drinking, and 
 making very merry. I soon found out that they were of 
 that class of characters, now no longer in existence, so 
 admirably portrayed by the iireat Poet, called Clowns, or 
 Fools. Touchstone, "one that had been a Courtier," 
 was in thecliuir; and around him were ranged Laun- 
 celol Gobbo ; the bitter and sarcastic, yet, withal, kind- 
 hearted Fool in '■'■King Lear;'''' the merry singing Clown 
 in " Twelfth ^ight.''^ wb » ma<)c snrb irreverent sport of 
 the cross garieis i.'t Alaholio ; Pompey Bunu in one par- 
 ticular, the greatest of them all; ihe i^hipherti's Son, and 
 Costard; besides several others ot inferior eminence. I 
 also found this company pestered by a troublesome fel- 
 low, whose object it evidently was to get admitted among" 
 them, but who took much pains to persuade them that he 
 despised them immensely, and considered himself infi- 
 nitely their superior. Tliis : eison, whom they at length 
 permitted to join them, I discovered to be Apemantus. 
 The Grave digger in " Hamlet"" I learned had long been 
 desirous of makmg one among ih( m ; and at last, having 
 made them a present of a goblet made out of the skull 
 of Yoricky the King of Denmark^s Jester, a noted nmn of 
 their fri'ternity in his time, he was voted in with acclama- 
 tion, I soon fouiid that Touchstone was the orstor and 
 oracle of the circle ; and he bad just finished his disser- 
 tation upon the seven causes, and was reading tin m a 
 lecture 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. Among them I found that mis- 
 chievous fellow Purk, 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 Hat's liver, baked ; which she proposed 
 that he should wash down with a cup of Baboon's blood. 
 The waggish Elf, however, was continually pestering her, 
 by pinching her hips, pulling her beard, and riding away 
 on her broom-stick. Caliban was sprawling on th« lap 
 of his mother Sycorax, who kissed his lips, patted his 
 checks, and fondled the foul monster like a baby. Tall 
 ladies are said to be fond of little gentlemen, and accord- 
 ingly I found that Ifccate had been a:uiltv of the abductior.
 
 "Z54 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 of Master Peashlossom, the favourite of <^ueen Titania, 
 and licad-scratcher to JYicholas Botlom. This small 
 Adonis seemed by no means proud of the lady's attach- 
 ment, and was, for a long time, vainly plotting his escape ; 
 until an humble-bee flying past them, he sprang upon its 
 back, and rode away merrily to Fairy-land. 
 
 I next met two ill-looking, yet evidently blustering fel- 
 lows, moving along at a quick, stealthy pace, and casting 
 many an alarmed look behind them ; and about a hundred 
 yards in the rear, I encountered a brace of sturdy-looking 
 old Gentlemen, one of whom carried a le<-k, and the 
 other a cudgel in his hand. These werp indications sulli- 
 cient to inform me that the first-mentioned |)air were those 
 valorous military gentlemen. Ensign Pislol, and Captain 
 Parolles ; and that their followers were the wholesome 
 disciplinarians, Lajeu and Fluellen. 
 
 Soon afterward 1 found two persons in close consul- 
 tation, whose scowling brows, darkened countenances, 
 and heaving bosoms, denoted much mental aflliction. 
 They were weighing clouds, and nie.isuiing ants' legs ; 
 casting up ciphers, fathoming 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, Leonies. 
 
 Lear, Hamlet, Jaqices, and Timon, seemed to be very 
 close associates. Timon was giving a vehement descrip- 
 tion 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 
 v/hich he stood. Slender thought he was laughing at him, 
 and said that he would have him up before his cousin, 
 Robert Shallow, Esquire, a Justice of the Peace, upon
 
 .1, PROSE AND FOETRy. 255 
 
 which Hamlet told him that he was " a very, very 
 
 peacock !" and bid him go to a Nunnery. 
 
 I continued ivalking on, and soon afterward found 
 myself on tlie hanks 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 brnnch 
 thereor, and I afterwcini learned that the latter had ori- 
 ginally been the case; but that such was the antipathy 
 between things Sliakspearean and Lethean, that as soon 
 as the first of our Author's characters entered these Ely- 
 sian fields, the rivet^shrunk from its channrl, and at 
 length left it completely dry. Every one was nmch 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 associates seated on its banks, with 
 wooden bowls in their hands, where they were joined by 
 several strangers, 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 remonstrated 
 on the dissoluteness ot their lives ; but finding that they 
 ^v'ould not leave their potations, he joined them, saying 
 that as he v/as in the Commission, he might probably be 
 useAil 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 1 thought that the gentle, though mirthful, spirit of 
 the former seemed occasionally to shrink at the bitterness 
 of her companion. Imogene and Viola were walking, 
 arm in arm, very lovingly ; as were also Juliet and Desde- 
 mona. J\Irs. Ford, Mrs. Page, Mrs. Fenton, late *^nne 
 Page, and numerous other gossips, were, seated round a 
 tea-table, and inhaling and distributing scandal from a 
 beverage, with whieh they had not the happiness to be 
 
 'i»
 
 256 MISCELLANEOUS PROSE, ETC. 
 
 acqiiainfed in the world above. Mrs. Quickly was attend- 
 ing upon them very busily, though she contrived to bear 
 as l;»rge a share in the conversation as the ladies them- 
 selves. Such a clatter and a din, F thought, I had never 
 heard raised before, even by female voices ; when sud- 
 denly awaking, 1 found ihat the noise proceeded from my 
 own sweet-voice 1 better-half, who told me that my fire 
 had hurnt out, mv caTtdlr was u,liu)meriiig in its socket, 
 and that, unless I speedily roused myself, I must go sup- 
 perless to bed. 
 
 "News of Literatuue," 1826.
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 257 
 
 THt; 
 
 WINNER- OF THE MONTHS. 
 
 Once upon a time, the Months detenuined 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 
 merrier, 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 
 years. Her objection, however, was overruled ; and 
 being seated at table between the smiling May, and that 
 merry old lellow October, she appeared to enjoy tlte 
 evening's entertainment us much as any of the company. 
 
 The dinner was a superb one ; all the company liaving 
 contributed to furnish out the table. January thought for 
 the thirtieth time what he should give, and then deter- 
 minfd to send a calf's head. February not being a very 
 productive month, was also a little pu/zled, but at length 
 resolved to contribute an enormous cake, which she 
 managed to manufacture in fine style, with the assistance 
 of her servant Valentine, \^ ho was an excellent fellow at 
 that sort of ware, but especially at bride-cake. March 
 
 Kk
 
 258 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 and April agreed to furnish all the fish ; May to decorate 
 the dishes with flowers; June to supply plenty of excel- 
 lent cider; July and August to provide the dessert! Sep- 
 tember a niaguifireiit coursf of all sorts of gan*, excepting 
 pheasants; wliich exception was supplied by October, 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 ttible, a slight squabble 
 arose about precedency ; sonie ot the company insisting 
 that the first in rank was January, and some that it was 
 March. The host, however, decided in favour of January, 
 whom he placed in the seat of honour, at his right hand. 
 November, a prim, blue-nosed old maid, sat at his left ; 
 and June, a pleasant, good-tempered fellow, although 
 occasionally rather too xoarm, sat opposite 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, oflftciated 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 behind 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 have mentioned, he drew the curtains, stirred the fire, 
 lighted and snuffed the candles, and, like all other little 
 jnen, 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
 
 PROSK AND POETRir. 259 
 
 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 tinding out, and restoring 
 them, January at length ceased to persecute her with 
 his attentions, and tranferred 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 senti- 
 mental swain April, began to tell her that he was abso- 
 lutely dying for her. This youth was one moment all 
 sunshine, and smiles, and rapture ; and the next he dis- 
 solved in tears, clouds gathered upon his brow, and he 
 looked a fitter suiter for November than for May ; who 
 having at last hinted as much to him. he It ft her in a huff, 
 and entered into close conversation with September, who 
 although much his senior, resembled him in many parti- 
 culars. ' • 
 
 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 pass- 
 ing 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 ejes of his accusers. July, however, 
 contrived to have his revenge ; for, being called upon for 
 a song, he gave " The dashing White Sergeant*^ in great 
 style, and laid a peculiar emphasis upon the words, 
 " March ! March ! at^ay /" at the same time motioning to 
 his antagonist to leave the room. 
 
 April having announced that it was raining hard, Janu- 
 ary 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 dis- 
 cover if there were any stars visible, October, at the sug- 
 gestion of May, asked him if he thought of borrowing 
 Charleses wain to carry him, as he had done so great a 
 kindness to its proprietor ? This put the old fellow into 
 such a passion, that he hastily seized his head-gear, a red 
 cap, sallied out through the rain, and would most likely
 
 260 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 have broken his neck in the daik, 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 distiriction 
 as an orator, began to return thanks for them in a very 
 flowery speech ; but was soon coughed down by Decem- 
 ber and March ; and March, by the by, 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 hloxcing they made among them. April, how- 
 ever, continued to drink Madeira ; while June, July, 
 and September, stuck, with exemplary constancy, to the 
 Burgundy. 
 
 After repeated summonses to the drawing-room, they 
 joined the Ladies at the tea-table. November drew her- 
 self 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. October 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 evening was much older ; 
 which, instead of annoying, would delight every body. 
 August, a grave stately matron of extraordinary beauty, 
 ahhough perhaps un peu passe, officiated as tea-maker. 
 Good-Friday, who by this time had recovered the fright 
 into which Shrove-Tuesday had thrown her, handed
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 261 
 
 about the toasted buns, and Swlthin, 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 Octobt r, who managed to hide his 
 years very successfully, to the Piano-forte. May was the 
 Prima Donna, and delighted every one, especially poor 
 April, who 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 melancholy 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 opposite direction to his own. May went 
 away in her own carriage, and undertook to set June 
 down, who lived very near her. The road was hilly and 
 steep, but her coachman, Ascension-day, got the horses 
 very well (o the top ; and July and August both walked 
 home, each preceded by a dog-day, with a lighted torch. 
 September and October, Avho were next-door neigh- 
 bours, went away in the same hackney-coach ; and 
 March departed as he came, on the back of a rough 
 Shetland pony. 
 
 " News of Literature," 1826. 

 
 EVBRY DAV AT BREAKFAST. 
 
 The Seven Days of the Week, hearing that the Months 
 bad 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 1" It was, therefore, 
 unanimously resolved, that they should have some meal 
 or other together, to show their spirit ; and, as a Dinner 
 was out of the question, it was at length determined that 
 they should have a Breakfast instead, and that Monday, 
 the 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 Break- 
 fast, I may as well introduce my dramatis persons to my 
 Readers. Monday, the Host, had the reputation, among 
 many persons, of being a /una-tic, an idea to which his 
 name gave some sort of countenance. He was, how- 
 ever, 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 drunkenness ; and was conse- 
 quently 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
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PROSE, ETC. 26^ 
 
 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 frequenter of 
 festivals ; and at Easter, Whitsuntide, and Shrovetide, 
 there was no one better known than she : especially as 
 she was also particularly celebrated for her skill in the 
 manufacture of pancakes. 
 
 Wednesday was an Irish Catholic Priest ; very zealous 
 and very scrupulous, but withal a merry, good-humoured 
 person. He was particularly anxious about the observa- 
 tion 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 character ; 
 he was a " fellow of no mark or likelihood ;'' one of 
 those harmless, innocent, insipid persons who are met 
 with at every table, whether it be at Breakfast, Dinner, 
 or Supper. Sometimes, 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 religious 
 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, carried his 
 liberality so far as to have no objection to take a Break- 
 fast 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 England ; 
 and most particularly orthodox, especially in his prefer- 
 ence 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 reasonably complained that its tenets are not 
 understood bv Protestants, and, had the worthy divine
 
 2()4 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 been a little more in the secret, 1 sus])ect that he woulil 
 not have found their fasts quite such self-denying ordi- 
 nances as he imagined. He moreover heartily despised 
 the Jews for iheir creed generally, but particularly be- 
 cause they disliked roasted pig, even though it should be a 
 a tithe-pig. He was, nevertheless, a person of great 
 learning, talent, and benevolence ; and took much pains 
 to instruct and edify the lower classes. Since the days 
 of CroniAvell, however, he had become a little puritanical. 
 He would sometimes take offence at being designated by 
 his right name, and insist upon being called the Sabbath : 
 a title, the possession of which, Saturday would always 
 dispute with him, and, in the opinion 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 vocation, as her burning cheeks and greasy 
 forehead demonstated. 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 occupied, the Catholics told their 
 beads ; the Jew put his tongue into his left cheek ; Mon- 
 day 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 
 't were done !" 
 
 The Dejennf was, of course d la fourchette. So dis- 
 tinguished a company could not be expected to sit down 
 to a dnary cockney breakfast, composed of a cup of 
 sugared slop, and a bit of grilled bread, smeared over with 
 butter. The fish, according to the French fashion, was
 
 PROSE AND POETRV. 266 
 
 not the first, but the third course ; an arrangement which 
 Wccinesday highly approved of, because, he said, it gave 
 him an opportunity of satisfying both his appetite and his 
 conscience ; as he could breakfast upon flesh and fowl 
 first, and fast upon the fish afterward ; whereas, a fast 
 once commenced, no Christian ought to break it until the 
 appointed period. 
 
 Friday, who, at the request of the host, occupied 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 appetite, 
 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 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 worshipped the fatted calf of good flesh and blood ; 
 and that they not merely coveted but got possession of 
 their neighbours' goods, as they cared more about the 
 tenth calf than the tenth commandment. The dispute 
 threatening to grow rather warm, the host, to put an end 
 to it, called upon Wednesday for a toast: not a very com- 
 mon thing, perhaps, to do at breakfast ; but this, you will 
 remember, gentle reader, was rather an uncommon break- 
 fast party. Wednesday, like a good Catholic, immediately 
 gave — "the memory of the Saints;'' upon which Monday 
 rose up and said, that, as he was the only Saint f)resent, 
 be begged leave to return thanks for the honour just con- 
 ferred. Friday looked very grave, and seemed shocked 
 at the impiety of the host ; but Wednesday only laughed, 
 and said they would dispense v/ith Monday's s])cech, if he 
 would favour them with a song. This proposal being 
 unanimously supported, Monday, after the usual apolo- 
 
 TJ "^
 
 266 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 gctic preliminaries, such as "bad cold, — can't remembei,. 
 -well, — ahem !" — began as follows : — 
 
 "Talk of (lays that arc ffone! 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 vpas lost, 'twas an awkward aflair. 
 
 liut '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 a sufficient portion of wine, began to 
 want punch, a wish which Wednesday observed was na- 
 tural enough in Judy (Jeiidi), as the French called him. 
 Coffee being handed about, he contented himself with that 
 beverage, 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 hie- 
 cuped out, the following Stanzas : — 
 
 " 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 brov/n bowl for me ! 
 
 Let old Time beware, for if he should dare 
 To intrude 'mong companions so blithe, 
 We '11 lather his chin with the juice of the bin, 
 j And shave off his beard with his scythe."
 
 PROSE AND POETRV. 267 
 
 This, however, was all of his song that poor Thursday 
 could remember ; and soon afterward he fell back in his 
 chair, and was carried out of the room on the shoulders 
 of the black butltr. 
 
 The Ladies, Tuesday and Friday, now looked at their 
 watches ; and although they knew perfectly well what the 
 time was before they looked, the} affecting to be vastly sur- 
 prised when they discovered that it was near two o'clock. 
 They, therefore, took iheir 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 feer his blessing. 
 
 Sunday now began to express very liberal sentiments as 
 the wine warmed within him. He said that we were in- 
 debted to the Catholics for M gna Charta, and the foun- 
 dation of those magnificent seats of learning and piety 
 which we now possessed ; and he talked to Saturday 
 about " God's ancient people, 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, Protestant, or 
 Israelite. Sunday, hov/ever, at length bethought himself 
 of his cloth, and of the time, and having mumbled a thanks- 
 giving grace, which was neither so long, nor so well arti- 
 culated, 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 op Literature," 1826.
 
 A YOUNG FAMIIiY. 
 
 You must know, most dear and courteous reader, that 
 I am a Bachelor : not an #ld 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 I 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 curtain-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 schoolfellows. He was 
 neither very wise nor very rich ; but he was merry, and 
 good tempered : qualities which I could then better ap- 
 preciate than the others, and which 1 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 soinebody 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, hke the Vicar of Wakefield's 
 parties, what we wanted in wit we made up in laughter ; 
 whicli, after all, 1 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 consequence of which was that all his 
 friends cut him, and none of his family would go within
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PROSE, ETC. 26i) 
 
 a mile of his residence. For my own part, I make it a 
 rule to cut all my friends as soon as they get married : I 
 do not like the transformation of a merry, frank, sociable 
 companion, into an important tamily man. Neither do I 
 like their invariable practice of laying every fault upon 
 the shoulders of their bachelor acquaintances ; for I have 
 known more than one man, who, when rated by his amia- 
 ble helpmate for his late hours, has excused himself by 
 saying, " My dear Mr. Wiggins would not let me come 
 away." Notwithstanding the tenacity with which I usu- 
 ally adhere to tiiis rule, 1 determined to make an exception 
 in favour of poor George. His grandfather had been a 
 butcher, and his father a master carpenter, and therefore 
 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 afiair 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 mar- 
 ried acquaintances. He was, nevertheless, constantly 
 expatiating on the joys of a married life, and especially of 
 seeing a young family growing up about you ; of " teach- 
 ing the young idea how to shoot ;'' and of watching the 
 archness, the vivacity, and 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 extoi ted from 
 me a promise to dine with him, that I might have the satis- 
 faction 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 gentility, 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.
 
 370 IMISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Madam," said I ; — Heaven forgive me lor the lie ! — point- 
 ing 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 mybacalarean blunders, 
 and the lady for some time regarded me with a coutt mpt, 
 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 participate in the 
 contents of my box, which they had no sooner done, than 
 every obstrepermis 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 indul- 
 gence, however, triumphed ; and every dirty pug-nose in 
 the room, was speedily made dirtier, at the expense of my 
 black rappee. The consequences maj easily be guessed : 
 a round of sneezing, sniveUing, 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 nothmg 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 children : 
 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 relieved me, 
 at least for a time, from my many miseries. While de- 
 scending the stairs, George whispered 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)
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. '271 
 
 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 
 delighteth to masticate, exhibited a profusion of would-be 
 French and Italian dishes. Of these I merely counter- 
 feited to eat, excepting one or two ; among which was a 
 fricassee, for so my hostess st}led 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 hold of, 
 was a bottle of their Champagne, which was really very 
 tolerable Perry. Our dinner did not, however, pass over 
 without the usual accompaniment of much uproariousness 
 from the room above, which the sweet young family 
 continued to occupy, and Betty was every five minutes 
 despatched from the dining-room to still " the dreadful 
 pother o'er our heads." 
 
 Lord By roB says, — i 
 
 a fine family "s a fine thing, 
 
 Provided they dont 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 possession of the better half of my 
 chair ; where she amused herself the greater part of the 
 evening by picking clerries 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 : putting their fingers into the preserves ; 
 drinking out of their father's wine-glass ; eating till their 
 stomachs were crammed to satiety, and bellowing out 
 bravely for more. As a variety, we were occasionally
 
 27)2 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 treated with crying, scolding, and threats of a whipping, 
 which operation I at one time positively expected to see 
 performed in my presence. At length the lady and the 
 « family" retireii, and amidst boasting of his happiness on 
 George's part, and felicitations on mine, wc continued to 
 ply the l)0ttle. Rather to my surprise, I found that the 
 port-wine was admirable, but poor George, as 1 afterward 
 learned, had sent for two or three bottles from a neigh- 
 bouring tavern, for which he had paid an admirable price. 
 After emptying the decanters on the table, I found that I 
 had had enough, aud proposed joining the interesting 
 domestic group upstairs. 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 astounding reply, " There is no 
 more, Sir." Although 1 told my friend that I was glad of 
 it, and that I had drunk 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 immediately avail our- 
 selves. To this, however, I positively objected, especially 
 as i knew that the ci-devant journey-woman milliner, con- 
 sidered smoking ungenteel. 
 
 I have but little more to tell you ; we adjourned to the 
 tea-table, where nothing passed worth recording. The 
 family was again introduced, for the purpose of kissing 
 all roimd, 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 requisite opera- 
 tion, I underwent the recjuired penance from one and all, 
 with the heroism of a martyr. Shortly alterward I took 
 leave of my worthy host and hostess, and experienced a 
 heartfelt 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 1 could not help feeling, that 
 few as were my positive causes of rejoicing, I was not de- 
 void of some negative ones ; and, above all, I felicitated 
 myself, that I was not the happiest fellow in the world ;
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 275 
 
 that I had not married a journey-woman milliner ; and 
 that 1 was not blessed with a sweet young famil)' : as my 
 recent experience of the latter comibri had induced me 
 to think that king Herod was really not quite so cruel as 
 I had hitherto considered him. 
 
 "News of Literature," 1826. 
 
 M iri
 
 THK COMET. 
 
 A FEW years ago at the little fishing town, or rather 
 tillage, of G., on the coast of Cornwall, resided a genllec 
 man, 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 gentleman ; 
 that is to say, no other than the Devil himself. 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 o»-cu|)»nt of the old manor-house, with the 
 enemy of mankind. In the first place, his dn ss bore no 
 sort of resemblance to that of Beelzr'bub. The last ()er- 
 son who had the g<tod fortune to get a glimpse of the real 
 Devil was the late Professor Porson, ar.-l he has taken the 
 pains to describe his apparel very minutely, so that I am 
 enabled to speak with some degree of confidenre upon 
 this part of the subjtct. 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 fonvards he switch'd his long tail, 
 
 As a gentleman switches his cane." 
 
 The " complement externe" of the old gentleman at G. 
 was quite the reverse of all these. In the first place, he 
 had no Sunday's best : the Sabbath and the working day 
 mm him in precisely the same habiliments, a circum-
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PROSE, ETC. 275 
 
 Stance which confirmed the towns-people in their opinion ; 
 whereas I have no less an authority than that of Porson 
 for deducing an opposite conclusion from the same pre- 
 mises ; because the Devil is scrupiilously 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 him ; for why should he always wear 
 that gown, unless it was for the purpose of hiding his tail 
 beneath its ample folds 1 The goodwives of the town were 
 especially pertinacious upon this point, and used to eye 
 the lower part of the old gentleman's garment very sus- 
 piciously as he took his morning's walk upon the beach. 
 As to his rambling over hill and dale, in the manner men- 
 tioned 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 : ob- 
 serving, that it was clearly a stratagem v/hich 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 wor- 
 ship within twenty miles : and after he left G. an ivory 
 crucifix vras 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 interrupted with a sneer, and 
 an exclamation of — " Where is the mighty difference ?" 
 
 He gave great offence at the hi>use of a Fisherman who 
 lived near him, and strongly confirmed the prejudices ex- 
 isting 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.
 
 276 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 The child was delighted with the glittering bauble ; but 
 having one day got it down its 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 hesi- 
 tate to term the old gentleman, 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 proceeding to the nearest Magistrate, and begging him 
 to issue his warrant to apprehend the stranger for murder. 
 To this, however, his worship demurred ; and the good 
 folks then changed their 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 wor- 
 ship 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 allegiance, and there- 
 fore could not 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 opi- 
 nion they were confirmed by a tallow-chandler, who was 
 the chief tradesman of the town, as well as a violent 
 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 illuminated his house, in- 
 side and out, in a strange and mysterious manner, by 
 some means, which, from the brimstone-like smell occa- 
 sionally 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 townsfolk gazed on in 
 wonder and terror, but at a careful 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 p'-rformed the work. At length, one night, 
 without any obvious cause, the lamp before the old gen- 
 tleman's door, that in his hall, anrl another in hifi sitting-
 
 FROSE AND POETRY. 277 . 
 
 room, were seen to spring into li?;ht as if" by magic. They 
 were also observed to go out in the same way; and there- 
 upon 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 of which were plain proofs thai it could be no 
 one hut the Devil who inhabited there. The good folks 
 of G. had never heard of ga^, 6r its 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 letters into the Post- 
 oflSce than all the rest of the inhabitants of G. together. 
 These were generally directed to Berlin, a town which, 
 after much inquiry, was ascertained to lie in a remote part 
 of Devonshire, and to be inhabhed by a horridly dissolute 
 and profane set of people. What was stranger still, no 
 part of the superscription could erer 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 Lunip' 
 kitiy or his aphorisms, knew that " the inside 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 superscription, I said 
 that it was adiiressed 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 aslced whether even I, 
 with all my scholarship, could read it .'' 1 candidly con- 
 fessed that I could not ; upon which I was asked, with a 
 sneer, whether I expected to persuade them that the Ger- 
 mans were such a nation of fools as to write in a hand 
 which nobody could read ; the good folks were also firmly 
 persuaded that, whatever 1 might say, I was in my con- 
 science of the same opinion with them, and my refusal to
 
 278 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 look at the inside of (he letter, was set down as a plain 
 proof that I was afraid of receiving some nnysterious injury 
 if I did. 
 
 My own opinions were so much oppost d to those of my 
 neighbours, that I felt rather a desire to he acquainted 
 with the stranger, whose manners appeared to he open 
 and good-humoured, although testy ;md eccentric. My 
 naturally shy disposition pr^^vented me, however, tiom 
 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. 1 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. 
 Whether I could have attained this wonderful height in 
 knowledge, I do not know ; for, having something else to 
 do, I never made the attempt. At length the old gentle- 
 man 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. A queer-looking, broad- 
 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 afterward that I continued at G. 
 I was subject to repeated lectures for n)y obstinate infi- 
 delity 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 be ?" 
 
 Many years rolled over my head, and the memory of 
 the mysterious inhabitant of G. had entirely 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
 
 PKOSE ANU POETRY. 2f9* 
 
 and 1 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 numbers which presented 
 themselves to my view. Some were far too magnificent 
 for my humble means, and the mere sight of their splen- 
 dour 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 1 had discovered one 
 which looked like the happy medium, and the whimsicality 
 of its sign determined me to put up there. The sign was 
 Der Teufbl; and since my departure from G. I had 
 acquired a sufficient master) of the German language to 
 know what those two words signified in English. I 
 entered, and, after taking all due precautions for the 
 accommodation and sustenance of the respectable quad- 
 ruped who had borne me upon his back for nearly half the 
 day, I began to think of satisfying that appetite which dis- 
 appointment, anxiety, and fatigue, had not been able 
 entirely to destroy. My worthy host, who did not seem 
 to bear any resemblance to his sign, unless 1 could have 
 the ingiatitude to ascribe his magical celerity and marvel- 
 lous good fare to the auspices of his patron saint, quickly- 
 covered my tabK' with a profusion of tempting viands : 
 while a flask of sparkling Hochheim towered proudly, like 
 a presiding deity, above the whole. My good humour, 
 however, was a little clouded when I saw plates, knives, 
 and forks, laid for two instead of one. " What means 
 thi^ ?" said I to the landlord. 
 
 "Mein Herr," answered he, submissively, "a gentl's- 
 man 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 intiuded upon by strangers. 
 
 " Pardon n)e, mein llerr," said the landlord with una- 
 bashed impudence, " 1 have told Herr von Schwartzmann 
 that dinner is ready. I am sure you will like his company, 
 lie is a gentleman of good fortune and family, and is more- 
 over " 
 
 <' I care not who he is," exclaimed I ; " but in order to 
 riit thy prating short, and to get my dinner, if I mus*?
 
 2bU iVlISCELLA^EOUS 
 
 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 mentioned, for the 
 room-door opened, and in walked the old gentleman who 
 had caused so much wonder and terror at G. The super- 
 stitions of the people of that town, the sign of the inn 
 where 1 now was, the old fellow's name, Schwartzmann, 
 Avhich being interpreted in English, meaneth black man, 
 my own petulant exclamatiou, and the sudden apparition 
 of this unaccountable person, were circumstances that 
 crowded my brain at once, and for an instant I almost fan- 
 cied 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, encouraged 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, mein Herr ; and I have often regretted 
 that, placed as we were among a horde of barbarous 
 peasantry, an opportunity never occurred for our better 
 acquaintance." 
 
 " 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 alacrityj 
 and it was not until the passage of the wine down my 
 throat had sealed me to it irrevocably, that I reflected 
 upon the sentiment to which I had drunk with so much 
 cordiality ; and was again shaken with doubts as to the 
 nature of the person with whom I had avowed my wish to 
 be long and intimately acquainted. 
 
 I looked upon his feet, " but that's a fable," and then I 
 looked upon the viands on which he was feeding lustily, 
 while I, although he had the courtesy to load my plate 
 with the best of every thing, was wasting the golden mo- 
 ments in idle alarms and superstitious absurdity. The 
 more reasonable man was roused within me, and I fell to
 
 PItOSE ANU POETRY. 281 
 
 the work of" mastication with a zeal and tervour that would 
 have done honour to Dr. Kitchener himself. 
 
 " Well, my fiiend," said my companion, after we had 
 pretty well satisfied the cravings of our stomachs, our 
 landlord has this day treated us nobly, and methiuks we 
 have not been backward in doing honour to his excellent 
 cheer. He is an honest fellow, who well deserves to pros- 
 per, and we will therefore, if you please, drink success to 
 Der Teufel /" 
 
 I had raised my glass to my lips when I found that the 
 old gentleman meant to propose a toast, but 1 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 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 pleasantly in the arbour." 
 
 He did not wait for my consent, but led me out ; and 
 our bottle and glasses wore very quickly arranged upon a 
 table in a leafy arbour, where we were sheltered from the 
 sun, and enjoyed the refreshing 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, they shrank from 
 me, as if I had been the Devil himself." 
 
 " And in truth, mein Herr," 1 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 the hour of 
 my birth, and in more countries than one." 
 
 " Indeed," said I, " you speak as if there were some- 
 thing in your history to which a stranger might listen 
 
 N n
 
 2^2 JVIlScELLANIiOiiS 
 
 with interest. May I crave the favour of you to be a 
 little more communicative 1" 
 
 « With all my heart I" 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 ge- 
 neral 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 Ilerr, 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 ex- 
 pected that the next child would be similarly endowed ; 
 but I was no sooner presented to my Father than he was 
 so startled at my surprising ugliness, that he retreated 
 several paces, and involuntarily exclaimed, ' The Devil !' 
 This was a Christian name which stuck to me ever after- 
 ward, and which, as you can bear witness, followed me 
 even into a foreign country. 
 
 " My Godfather and Godmother, however, treated nie 
 much more courteously than my own natural parent, and 
 bestowed upon me, at the baptismal font, the high-sound- 
 ing 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 general; only I grew 
 Tiglier, and justified the paternal benediction more and 
 more every day. In due time I was sent to a grammar- 
 school. As 1 had at home been accustomed to indepen- 
 dence and the exercise of my self-will, 1 soon became 
 the most troublesome fellow there ; and yet, I may now 
 say it without the imputation of vanity, 1 contrived, 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-
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 283 
 
 mann 'I One day I was publicly reprimanded and pu- 
 nished for some monstrous outrage, and the next re- 
 warded with all the honours of the School for my profi- 
 ciency in the Classics. In short, it was generally agreed 
 that there was not such another clever, pleasant, good- 
 tempered, good-for-nothing fellow in the School. ' Cer- 
 tainly,' the wise people would say, ' the Devil is in him /' 
 
 " And now," added the old man, smiling, but smihng, 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 
 incredulity. You, born in England perhaps some forty 
 years ago, can have but few superstitions in common 
 Avith one whose birthplace is Germany, and whose natal 
 Star first shone upon him above threescore years before 
 the time at which he is speaking. Observe that Comet," 
 said he, pointing towards the west ; " it is a very brilUant 
 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 Astronomers, 
 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 its visits. You 
 will smile, and think that 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 cas- 
 tle. There is, however, a tradition connected with this 
 Comet, which has sometimes made rnc uneasy. It runs 
 thus : — 
 
 ' The Comet that's bom in the belt of Orion, 
 Whose Cradle it gilds, gilds the place they shall die on.' 
 
 However, this is its 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, moans that I shall
 
 2S4 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 live on to the good old age of fourscore. Bat to return 
 to my history. I was a fervent believer in Astrology ; 
 nnd 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 desti- 
 nies must be indissolubly bound together. 1 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 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 1 saw a beautiful Comet, with a long and glit- 
 tering 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 exclama- 
 tion I was astonished to hear repeated as audibly and fer- 
 vently as it was made, and turning round, I beheld a 
 female within a few paces of me to my right. 
 
 *' She was tall, and exquisitely formed : her dress de- 
 noted extreme poverty ; and her eye, which for a mo- 
 jTient had been lighted up with enthusiasm, was down- 
 cast, and abashed with a sense of conscious inferiority, 
 when it met mine. Still I thought that I had never be- 
 held a face so perfectly beautiful. Her general com- 
 plexion was exquisitely fair, without approaching to pale- 
 ness, with a slight tinge of the rose on each cheek, which 
 I could not help thinking that care and tenderness might 
 be able to deepen to a much ruddier hue. Her eyes 
 were black and sparkling, but the long dark lashes which 
 fell over them seemed, 1 thought, acquainted with tears. 
 Her hair was of the same colour with her eyes, and al- 
 most of the same brightness. I gazed first upon her and 
 then upon the newly-risen Comet, and my bosom seemed
 
 PROSE ANn POETRl'. 285 
 
 bursting with emotions which I could not express, or 
 even understand. 
 
 " ' Sweet girl !' 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 !' pointing to it 
 with enthusiasm. 
 
 " * It is indeed a beautiful star,' I replied, and as I 
 gazed I felt as if 1 were the apostle of truth for so say- 
 ing, 'but here,' I added, pressing my lip to her white 
 forehead, ' is one still inore beautiful, but alas ! more 
 fragile, and which ought therefore not to be exposed to 
 danger,' 
 
 " * Ay,' she said, ' but it is the star which 1 have 
 been waiting to gaze upon for many a long year ; it 
 is the star that rules my destiny, my natal star ! Twenty 
 3'ears ago, and at this very 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 beau- 
 tiful lips which I saw moving, but 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 aflTectionate thought, 
 That in immeasurable height 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 desti- 
 nies ; 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 indissolubly 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.*
 
 286 MISCELT.ANEOUS 
 
 " « But I have wealth, sweet girl !' exclaimed I, ' sulli- 
 cient to remove all these evils; and here is an earnest of 
 it,' endeavouring to forct my purse into her hands. 
 
 " ' Nay, nay,' she said, thrusting it back, ' keep 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 sincerity 1 Would 
 you vainly endeavour to interi)ose a baiiicr against the 
 decrees of fate ? Believe that 1 love you, and say that you 
 love me in return,' 
 
 " ' It is the will of fate,' she said, sinking in my arms : 
 'Why should I belie what it has written in my heart? 
 Leopold, 1 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 jou born under yon star, 
 and know not the dark saying which is attached to it? — 
 
 ' The love that is born at the Comet's birth. 
 Treat it not like a thine of earth ; 
 Breathe it to none but the loved-one's ear. 
 Lest fate should remove what hope deeir.is so near ; 
 Seal it not till the hour and the day 
 When that star from the heavens shall pass away.' 
 
 " I instantly recollected the saying, and acquiesced 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 mother will have retired to rest. 
 Farewell, Leopold von Schwartzmann.'
 
 FliUSE AND rOETRY. . 2&7 
 
 *' ' 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.' 
 
 " Oui- parting was marked, as the partings of lovers 
 usually are, with sigiis, and tears, and embraces, and pro- 
 testations of eternal fidelity, and promises of speedily see- 
 ing each other again. 
 
 " The love thus suddenly lighted up within our bosoms, 
 I did not suffer to die away, or to be extinguished. Every 
 evening at the hour of nine, I was at the fair one's Cottage 
 door, and ever foui;d 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 
 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 {)urse, 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 1 could not help, at all ha- 
 zards, endeavouring to persuade her to consent to our im- 
 mediate 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. 
 
 " ' Say no m(jre, Leopold,' she said, one night, when I 
 had been urging this upon her more strenuously than ever, 
 * say no more, lest 1 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, therefore, I pray thee, see thee no more until the hour 
 •which is to make us one. I dread thy entreating 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, the tone and 
 manner in which she implored my acquiescence were irre- 
 sistible. 
 
 "' 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.'
 
 ,iii6 .MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 " TIlis was the most sorrowful parting which I had yet 
 experienced; but 1 bore it as manfully as I could. Three, 
 four, five, days, did I perform my promise, and never ven- 
 tured near the residence of Adefine. I shut myself up in 
 my own chamber, 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 Ilerr?" said the sen- 
 tinel 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 sentinel, « 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 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 band is not, methinks, an enemy which I 
 need greatly fear encountering.' 
 
 " The sentinel shook his head, but allowed me to pass 
 without further question. Love lent wings to my feet, 
 and already was Adeline's white cottage 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, »vhose 
 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 ; 1 am a student at Halle, 
 son of the Baron von Schwartzmann, Thou durst not 
 for thy head attempt my lile." 
 
 " ' That we shall soon see,' said the villain coolly ; and 
 my days had then certainly been numbered, had not three 
 men, springing from a neighbouring thicket, suddenly 
 seized the robber, disarmed him, and then proceeded very 
 quietly to bind his hands behind him. 
 
 " * Have we caught you at last, mein Herr Brandt ?' 
 said one of my deliverers. ' We have been a long time 
 looking ©ut for you. Now we meet to part only once, 
 and for ever.'
 
 PROSE AND POETRl'. 2S9 
 
 " 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 1 had 
 already passed, and were conducted before the Com- 
 mander of the garrison, who, as Brandt had been placed 
 by proclamation under military law, was the Judge ap- 
 pointed to decide upon his case. 
 
 "My evidence was given in a very few words, and, 
 corroborated as it was by that of the policemen, 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 Uves, were they numerous as the hairs 
 upon his head. Away with him, and hang him instantly 
 upon the ramparts.' 
 
 " ' 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 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 an- 
 nounced 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 received from the 
 Bandit, as well as the mental agony which I had under- 
 gone, 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 favoura- 
 ble. The fever left my brain, and the glassy glaze of my 
 eye was exchanged for its usual look of intelligence and 
 meaning. I turned round my head in my bed, and looked 
 towards the window of my chamber. It was evening ; 
 the arch of heaven was of one deep azure, and the T'omet 
 
 On
 
 8<K> MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 was shining in all its brightness. Its situation in the 
 Heavens, which was materially different from that which 
 it occupied when I was last conscious of seeing it, recalled 
 and fixed my wandering recollections of all that was 
 connected with it. 1 rang the bell violently, and was 
 speedily attended by my valet, who had watched over me 
 durmg my illuess. I interrupted the expressions of delight 
 which the sight of my convalescent state drew from him, 
 by eagerly inquiring what was the day of the month and 
 the hour. 
 
 " ' It is the eighth day of August, Sir ; and the cathe- 
 dral clock has just chimed seven.' 
 
 " ' Heavens 1' 1 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 thai^ 
 that on which I am about to go.' 
 
 " ' The good Curate, von Wilden, is below,' said Fer- 
 dinand, ' and told me that he must see you ; but I dared 
 not disturb you. He was just going away when you rang 
 the bell, and is now waiting to know the result.' 
 
 " I immediately remembered that I had appointed the 
 Curate to meet me at that hour, for the purpose of pro- 
 ceeding 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 
 traditionary verses. I lost no tim.e in joining him in the 
 hall, and proceeded to leave the house, accompanied by 
 him, with as much celerity as possible, lest the interven- 
 tion 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 its disappearing 
 before the ceremony of my nuptials could be accom- 
 plished. 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
 
 I'ROSE AND POETRY. / 291 
 
 had concealed it, and my heart felt reassured by the near 
 prospect of unbounded happiness. We approached the 
 door : it was on the latch, wliich I gently raised, and then 
 proceeded, as usual, up the stairs, I'ollowed by the Curate. 
 I thought I heard a low moaning sound as we approached 
 the ciiamber-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 H«^aven !' I exclaimed, < what new misery is there 
 in store for me ? 
 
 " The sound of my voice roused Adeline from her 
 death-lilce stupor. She raised her eyes, but closed them 
 again suddenly on seeing me, exclaiming, ' 'Tis he,' 'tis 
 he ! — the fiend ! — save me, save me !' The bitterness of 
 death seemed to invade my heart when I heard this unac- 
 countable exclamation. I gasped for breath, and cold 
 drops of agony rolled from my tem{)les. I ventured to 
 approach the bed. 1 tmk her burning hand within my 
 own, and pressed it to my heart. Siie again fixed her 
 eyes upon me solemnly, and said, ' Know you whom 3 ou 
 embrace 1 Miserable man, has not the universal rumour 
 reach<^d thine ear V 
 
 " ' Dearest Adeline,' I said, ' for the last ten days I have 
 been stretched upon the bed of delirium and insensibility. 
 Rumour, however trumpet-tongued to other ears, has 
 been dumb to mine.' 
 
 " ' You call me Adeline,' she said, * is that all V 
 
 " ' The hour,' I answered, ' is at length arrived, I 
 thought it would be a less melancholy one, when thou 
 ivert to tell me that other name, ere thou exchangedst it 
 for ever.' 
 
 " ' Know then,' said she, rising up in the bed with an 
 unusual ellort. in whifh all her remaining strength seemed 
 to be concentrated, ' that my name is Adeline Biandt !' .^ 
 
 " For an instant shf fixed her dark eyes upon tny face, 
 which grew cold and \>i\\\\'\ as her own ; then the film of 
 death came over them, and her head sank back upon her 
 pillow, from which it never rose again. 
 
 " Weak, and sickly, and stricken, as it were, with a 
 thunderbolt, I know not how I preserved my recollection 
 and reason at that moment. I rcmeniber, however, look-
 
 "■192 MISCEI.r-ANEOUS 
 
 iiig Iroin the cliamber 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, giltls the place they shall die on.' 
 
 I looked again, and the Comet was just departing from 
 the heavens ; its fiery train was no longer visible ; 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 unfortunate 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 perilous 
 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 happened ; 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 traditionary 
 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 following his lawless occupation. 
 Ill news is not long in spreading. Adeline heard of her 
 father's death, and that 1 was the occasion of it, a few 
 hours after it took place. The same cause which sent her 
 to 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 afterward, obliged 
 me to exert myself in the arrangement of my family affairs. 
 The lapse of years gradually alleviated, although itcould not 
 eradicate, my sorrow; but when I found myself approach-
 
 PROSE ANB POETRr. 293 
 
 o 
 
 iiig' my fortieth year, and knew that the comet would very 
 soon makn its reappearance, I could not bear the idea of 
 lookina: again upon the fatal planet, which had caused me 
 so much uneasiness. I thert-fore resolved to travel in 
 some country where it would not be visible ; and having 
 received a pressing invitation from a friend in England to 
 visit his native land, accompanied by an intimation that his 
 house, ai G., was entirely at my service, I did not hesitate 
 to accept his offer You know something of m\ adven- 
 tures there, esprciaily of the consrernation which I occa- 
 sioned bv laying down gas pipes round my friend's house, 
 in consequence of a letter which I had received from him, 
 requesting me to take the trouble to superintend th( wojk- 
 men. Twenty more \ears have now rolled over m> head ; 
 the comet ha<5 reappe;'.red, and I can gaze on it with com- 
 parative inditf^ rence ; and as it is just about taking its 
 leave of ns, suppose we walk out and enjoy the brightness 
 of its departing glory." 
 
 I accedf d to the old gentleman's proposal^ and lent 
 him the assistance o! my arm duriug our walk. "• Yonder 
 fence," said he, " s\u rounds my friend Berger's garden, 
 in which there is an eminence from which we shall get a 
 better view. The gate is a long w-.iy rovnd, but I hink 
 you, and even I, shall hnd but little difhculty in leaping 
 this fence ; 1 will indemnify you for the trespass :" and 
 he had scarcely spoken before he was on the other side of 
 it. 1 followed him, and we proceeded at a brisk pace 
 towards a beautiful shiubbery, 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 o iiis as-istance, and found him welterii.g in his 
 blood. I raised him, and su['ported him in my arms, but 
 he shook his head, saying, " No, no, my friend, it is all in 
 vain ! tlie inlluence of that nialigu'int 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 biearh 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, 
 
 "FoRGKT Me Not," 1827.
 
 THE MAGICIAN'S VISITER. 
 
 It was at the close of a fine autumnal day, and the 
 shades of evening' were beginninj^ to gather over the city of 
 Florence, when a low quick rap was heard at the door of 
 Cornelius Agrippa, and shortly afterward 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 indefmahle air of myster)- about 
 him, which excited awe, if, indeed, it iiad not a repellent 
 effect. His years it was difficult to s-ut-ss, for the marks 
 of youth and age were blen<led in his features in a most 
 extraordinary 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 vivacity of youth ; but 
 his stately figure was bent, a|)parently beneath the weight 
 of years , his hair, although thi< k and clustering, was 
 gray; and though his voice was ieehle and tremulous, 
 yet its tones were of the most ravishing and soul-searching 
 melody. Mis costume was that of a PMorentine gentle- 
 man ; but he held a staff like that of a Palmer in his hand, 
 and a silken sash, inscribed with oriental chaiactera, was 
 bound around his waist. His face was deadly pale, but 
 every feature of it was singularly beautiful, and its expres- 
 sion was that of profound wisdom, mingled with poignant 
 sorrow. 
 
 " Pardon me, learned Sir," said he, addressing the phi- 
 losopher, " but your fame has travelled into all lands, and 
 has reached all ears ; and I coidd not leave the fair 
 city of Florence without seeking an interview with one who 
 is its greatest boast and ornament." 
 
 " You are right welcome, Sir," returned Agrippa ; " but 
 I fear that your trouble and curiosity will be but ill repaid.
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 295 
 
 I am simply one, who, instead of devoting my days, as do 
 the wise, to the acquirenieiit of wealth and honour, have 
 passed long years in painful and unprofitable study ; in 
 endeavouring to iinravrl the secrets of Nature, and initia- 
 ting niyselt in ihr mysteries of the occult sciences." 
 
 ♦« Talkest thou of long years !" echoed the 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 feel- 
 ings and ideas which it awakened in the mind of the latter 
 were so different from any thing which he had himself 
 experienced, that he could not help, for a season, gazing 
 upon him in speechless wonder. His guest, however, 
 speedily resumed the discourse. 
 
 " But I trouble you, I trouble you ; then to 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 1. loks may see the dis- 
 tant, 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 its stream 
 every thing that once contributed to tny enjoyment. The 
 world is a vale of tears : but among 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 sec that eye
 
 296 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 more bright, and that step more stately, than the ante- 
 lope's ; ti)at brow, the bruad smooth page on which God 
 had inscribed his fuirest characters. 1 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 ! except the grave ! exce[)t the grave !'' 
 
 The passionate pleading ot the Stranger had such an 
 effect upon Agrippa, who was not used to exhibit his mira- 
 cle 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, that he readily consented to grant 
 the request of his extiaordinary visiter. 
 
 " Whom wouldst thou see ?" he inquir'^d. 
 
 " 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 ri^ht hand, and conmienced chanting, in 
 a low soft tone, and in a strange language, some lyrical 
 verses, to which the Stranger thought he heard occasion- 
 ally a response ; but it was a sound so faint and indistinct 
 thai he hardly knew whether it existed any where but in 
 his own fancy. As Cornelius continued his chant, the 
 room gradually became dlumiiiated, 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 ?" inquired Cor- 
 nelius. 
 
 " She was a virgin, spotless as the snow." 
 
 " How many years have passed away since the grave 
 closed over her ?" 
 
 A cloud gathered on the Stranger's brow, and he an- 
 swered somewhat impatiently, " Many, many ! more than 
 I have now tinje 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,"
 
 •PROSE AND FOETRY. 297 
 
 " ^Vave on, then," said the Stranger, and groaned bit- 
 terly, " wave on ; and take heed that thou be not weary." 
 Cornehus Agrippa gazed on his strange guest with some- 
 thing of anger, but he excused his want of courtesy, on 
 the ground of the probable extent of his calamities. He 
 then waved his magic wand many times, but, to his con- 
 sternation, it seemed to have lost its virtue. Turning 
 again to the Stranger, he exclaimed, " Who, and 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 mir- 
 ror experienced no alteration. Say, dost thou mock me, 
 and did no such person ever exist as thou hast described 
 to me ?' . 
 
 " Wave on, wave on !" was the stern and only reply 
 which this interrogatory extracted from the Stranger. 
 
 The curiosity of Agrippa, although he was himself a 
 dealer in wonders, began now to be excited, and a myste- 
 rious 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 hfteen hundred years, 
 the cloud cleared away from the surface of the mirror, and 
 the Stranger, with an exclamation of delight, arose, and 
 gazed rapturously upon the scene which was there repre- 
 sented. 
 
 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 
 foreground were seen camels grazing ; a rill trickling by, 
 in wliich 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 prevented by Corne- 
 lius, who said, — 
 
 " Forbear, rash man, to quit this spot ! with each step 
 that thou advancest towards the mirror, the image will 
 
 Pp
 
 ,^98 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 become iainter, and shouldst thou approach too near, it 
 will entirely vanish." 
 
 Thus warned, he resumed liis station, hut his agitation 
 was so excessive, that he was obliged to lean on the arm 
 of the philosopher for support ; while, from time to time, 
 he uttered incoherent expressions of wonder, delight, and 
 lamentation, "'Tis she! 'tis she! even as she looked 
 while living I How beautiful she is ! Miriam, my child ! 
 canst thou not speak to me ? B^ Ht aven, 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 remem- 
 brance of which a thousand years 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 its 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 imme- 
 diately rose on his feeJ, with restored strength, and, press- 
 ing the hand of his host, he said, '< Thanks, thanks, for 
 thy courtesy and thy kindness ; and for the sweet but 
 painful 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, 1 shall 
 esteem njyself sufficiently repaid, if thou wilt tell me who 
 thou art." 
 
 " Behold !" said the stranger, pointing to a large histo- 
 rical 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 resemblance which this
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 299 
 
 liguic 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 smote the divine Sufterer for not walking faster; 
 and was, therefore, condemned to walk the earth himself, 
 until the period of that sufterer'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.
 
 THE IIOIJRI. 
 
 A PERSIAN TALE. 
 
 In the 414th year of the Hegh'a, Shah Abbas Sehni 
 reigned in the kingdom of Iraura, He was a young and 
 an accomphshed prince, who had distinguished himself 
 alike by his valour in the field, and by his wisdom in the 
 cabinet. Justice was fairly and equally administered 
 throughout his dominions ; the nation grew wealthy and 
 prosperous under his sway; and the neighbouring poten- 
 tates, all of whom either feared his power, or admired his 
 character, were ambitious of being nunsbered among the 
 friends and allies of Abbas Selim, Amidst all these 
 advantages, a tendency to pensiveness and melancholy, 
 •which had very early marked his disposition, began to 
 assume an absolute dominion over him. He avoided the 
 pleasures of the chase, the banquet, and the harem ; and 
 would shut himself up for days and weeks in his library, 
 the most valuable and extensive collection of oriental lite- 
 rature 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 indiffer- 
 ence with which he regarded the beautiful females, Cir- 
 cassians, 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 hip
 
 MISCELLANEOUb TRUSE, ETC. 301 
 
 person, were deeply alllicted at the symptoms which they 
 observed, and feared that they indicated an aberration of 
 reason ; but when called upon to give any directions, or 
 to take any step for the management 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 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 malady. The only 
 occupations which seemed at all to sooth him, were 
 singing and playing on his dulcimer. 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 pri- 
 vacy as to be able to distinguish the words of a song, 
 which were to the foUov/ing effect : — " 
 
 " Sweet Spirit ! ne'er did T 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 ! 
 
 ■ ■ ,' 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 ; 
 
 And when the moonbeams softly fall 
 
 On hill, and tower, and flovvcr-crown'd waJIy 
 
 Methinks the patriarch's dream I see, 
 
 The ste{)s that lead to Heaven and thee I 
 
 I've heard thee wake, wiUi touch refined, 
 Tiie viewless liarp-strings of the wind :
 
 30^ MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 When on iny cars their soft tones fell, 
 Sweet as the voice of Israfel.* 
 I 'vc seen thee, 'midst the hffhtninff's sheen. 
 Lift up for ine 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 didst 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 ! 
 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 !' 
 
 I" 
 
 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 
 
 * The Angel of Music, t 'f he Angel of Peath, t A son* of rejoicing.
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 303 
 
 considerable value ; and bore a long white wand in his 
 hand. 
 
 " I have at length, Oh King !" said the minister, " met 
 with the famous Achmet Hassan, who professes, that if it 
 be in the power of any mortal to procure the gratification 
 of your Highness's wishes, that power resides in him." 
 
 " Let him enter," said the Shah. The Minister made 
 an obeisance, introduced the Sage, and retired. 
 
 " Old man," said Abbas Shah, " thou knowest where- 
 fore I have sought thee, and what i have desired of thee?" 
 
 " Prince," said Achmet, " thou wouldst see the Houri, 
 the Queen of thy B »vver of Paradise ; her who, in pre- 
 ference to all the other dark-eyed daughters of Heaven, 
 Avill greet thee there, and shall be thy chosen companion 
 in those blissful regions." 
 
 " Thou say est it !'' said the Shah. " Can thy boasted 
 Art procure me a sight, be it even transitory as the light- 
 ning's flash, of that heavenly bemg 1" 
 
 " King of Iraun !" said the Sage, " the heavenly 
 Houiis are of two different natures. They are, for the 
 most part, of a peculiar creation ibrnied to inhabit those 
 buwers ; but a itw are sinless and beautiful virgins ; 
 natives of this l(jwer world ; who, after death, are en- 
 dowed with tenfold charms, which surf)ass even those of 
 the native daughters of Paradise. If thy immortal Biide 
 be of the former nature, she is beyond the reach of my 
 Art ; 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 intense 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 ihcc any thing, — every thing ! But haste 
 thee, good Achmet, haste thee ; for my heart is full, even 
 to overflowing."
 
 304 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 The Sage with his wand then described a circle round 
 the I'liiice. within which ho placed several boxes of frank- 
 incense, and other preciijus spices ; and afterward kindled 
 them. A light thin cloud of the most odorous fragrance 
 began to diffuse itself over the apartment ; Achmtt bowed 
 his head to the ground repeatedi} during this ceremony, 
 and waved his wand, uttt ring many sounds in a language 
 with whii'h the Shah was unacquainted. At hngth, 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 composition, but was in the same unknown 
 language. It lasted several minutes; and while he was 
 pronouncing it, the cloiid, which was spread over the 
 whole apartment, seemed gradually gathering together, 
 and forming a condensed body. An unnatural, but bril- 
 liant light then pervaded the chamber, and the cloud was 
 seen resolving itself into the resemblance of a human 
 shape, until at length the Prince saw, or fancied that he 
 saw, a beautiful female figure standing before him. His 
 own surprise was no 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 
 llfteen years of age. She was tall, and her form exhi- 
 bited the most wonderful symmetiy. 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 perfection ; 
 and her long, dark hair was crowned with flowers, and 
 flowed in glossy ringlets down to her waist. She was 
 dressed in a long flowing lobe of dazzling whiteness; she 
 neither moved nor spoke : only once the Prince thought 
 that she smiled u|)on him, and then the figure instantly 
 vanished ; the preternatural light left the apartment, and 
 the mild moonbeams 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
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 30-5 
 
 my eyes only that thou might'st withdraw it immediately. 
 Call back that lovely form, or, by Mahomet I thou shalt 
 exchange thj head for the privilege which thou hast 
 chosen to exercise of tormenting Abbas Selim." 
 
 *' Is it thus, Oh King !'' said Acbmet, " that thou re- 
 wardest the efforts made by thy faithful subjects to fulfil 
 thy wishes "? I have tasked my Art to its 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 inhabitant of 
 this world !" said the Prince. 
 
 " Even so," returned the other. 
 
 " Then I'll search all Iraun ; I'll despatch emissaries 
 over all the world, that wherever she be, she may be 
 brought hither to fill up the vacuum in my heart, and to 
 share the throne of Abbas Selim !" 
 
 " The instant," said Achmet, " that your Highness's 
 eyes meet hers, her fate is sealed ; she will not long re- 
 main 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 1 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 bodil}^ 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 pos- 
 sessed some talent for drawing ; his remembrance of the 
 form and features was most vivid and distinct ; and, guid- 
 ing his pencil with his heart rather than his hand, he 
 succeeded in producing a most extraordinary likeness. 
 He then summoned into his presence a skilful and accom- 
 plished Funner, 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. 
 
 Qq •
 
 aOii MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 The Artist gazed upon the sketch, and listened to the 
 (lesciiption witli profound attention, and evident surprise. 
 " Surely," said he, " I have seen her whose features are 
 here delineated. Indeed they are features which are not 
 easily mistaken, 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 in- 
 estimable 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 Father is a poor 
 but learned man, who is constantly buried in his studies, 
 and is unconscious of the value of the gem which is hid- 
 den under his humble roof." 
 
 " Haste thee, good Ali, haste thee ! 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." 
 
 Ali 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, "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 I" she said, and her eyes sparkled with a 
 mysterious £xpression of intelligence and wonder ; but 
 she did not, extraordinary as was the information, appear 
 to entertain the slightest doubt of its veracity. " 'Tis 
 wondrous strange !" 
 
 " 'Tis true," said the limner. " He placed in my hands 
 a sketch for a female portrait, in which I instantly recog- 
 nised your features." 
 
 " It is but a ftw days ago," said she, " that 1 had an 
 extraordinary dream. Methought I was in an apartment 
 of surprising extent and magnificence. A cloud of fra- 
 grant 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
 
 ♦ PROSE AND POETRl. 307 
 
 I had never seen the Shah, I soon knew, by his pale, 
 proud brow, so sad and yet so beautiful ; his bright, 
 sparkling blue eye ; his tall, stately form ; and his regal 
 gait ; that this could be none other than Abbas Selini. 
 He smiled sweetly upon me ; he took my hand in his ; 
 but as his lips approached mine I awoke, and saw only the 
 cold moonbeams gilding my chamber." 
 
 " Sweet Selima ! why have I never heard of this before 1" 
 
 " 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 governs ; 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 immediately to the palace." 
 
 In the mean time the Shah paced his apartment in an 
 agony of in»patience. " Curse on this lingering 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 
 tormented with faint and momentary glimpses of the 
 heaven from which I am debarred ?" 
 
 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 encounter those of Selima, than he 
 instantly knew that he was in the real, substantial pre- 
 sence of her whose ])hantom he had beheld. His wonder 
 and delight knew no bounds, nor will the power of lan- 
 guage suffice to describe them. He pressed to his heart 
 the object for which he had so long panted. Health and 
 strength appeared to be suddenly 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
 
 308 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 to follow him into the mosque attaclied to the palace, for 
 the purpose of immediately celebrating- his nuptials with 
 Selima. 
 
 The 'Priest gazed intently on the Bride, and his features 
 became deadly agitated. " The will ol Abbas Stlim," he 
 said, "is the law of his faithful subjects; but if I have 
 read the Koraun aiight, and if m} studies have not been 
 idly pursued, the linger of Death is on yon fair maiden, 
 and her nuptial with the Shah will but accelerate the 
 approach of Azrael." 
 
 " Dotard !" said the Prince ; and he gazed upon Se- 
 Ihna, whose features glowed with all the hues of beauty and 
 health : " tell not to me thy idle dreams, but perform thine 
 office, and be silent.'' 
 
 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 celebration of these unexpected 
 nuptials. Heavily and faltering he pronounced the rites, 
 which were just on the point ol being concluded, when 
 a man rushed into the mosque, and, with frantic and 
 threatening gestures, placed himsell" 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 I 
 wouldst thou beard thy Sjvereign even at his nuptial 
 hour r 
 
 As he spoke, he unsheathed his scimitar, and rushed 
 towards Achmet, " Save him ; spare him !" shrieked the 
 Bride ; " it is my father !" and rushed 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 
 I'atal event. When they had somewhat 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 mouient of this fearful catastrophe. His 
 eyes glared fixedly and unmeaningly ; and his lips and 
 cheeks were of an ashy paleness. He returned no answer 
 to the inquiries which were made of him, and the import 
 of which it was evident that he did not comprehend. !u
 
 PROSE AND POETRk. 309 
 
 tact, 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-accompHshed princes who 
 had ever filled the throne of Ptrsia was terminated. 
 
 In a state of lisll»:'ssness and insanity he continued for 
 above a twelvf mouth A ttw apartments of the palace 
 were all that remained to him of his once might\ empire, 
 and the sceptre passed into the hand of his brother. His 
 most faithful and constant attendant was the unhappy 
 Achmet Hassan, whom he had rt ndereU childless ; and 
 on whose bosom he breathed his latest sigh. As the 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 pro- 
 nounce the name of Seliraa ; then a faint smile illumined 
 his features, while he pointed to the casement, and the 
 deep blue sky which was seen through it, and his enfran- 
 chised Spirit fled to the bowers of Paridise. 
 
 "Forget Me Not." 1829,
 
 STAJVZAS. 
 
 I wandew'd by her side in Life's sweet Spring ; 
 
 When all the world seein'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, 
 Alt bless'd her ! — she was lovely and beloved ! 
 
 I stood by her again, when her cheek bloom'd 
 Brighllicr than aye, but wore an ominous hue ; 
 
 And her eye's liglit 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 ; 
 
 And clasp'd her hand, but, as in days by-gone. 
 
 Her heart's thoughts from its 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 surpass d.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POETRY, &C. 311 
 
 '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.* 
 
 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 seenrd 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 seenti'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. 
 
 Tor Fancy's picture was a gleam. 
 
 Weak, faint, and shadowy ; 
 And brief and passing as a dream, 
 
 The gaze I bend on thee. 
 
 13ut now, thou art a thing enshrined 
 
 Withm my inmost heart ; 
 A part and portion of my mind, ~ 
 
 Which cannot thence depart. 
 
 ♦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 show thee tilings Avhichmust 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. 
 
 Kkvelatiok iv. 1, 2, 3, and 6«
 
 312 iMISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Deep woes may whelm, long years may roll. 
 
 Their course o'er inc in vain ; 
 But fix'd for ever in my Soul 
 
 Thine image shall remain. 
 
 " Monthly Magazine." 
 
 THE CRUSADER'S 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 kte 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 I Oh remember ! 
 
 Remember all the vows ye've sworn 
 
 At holy Becket's altar ; 
 Remember all the ills ye've borne, 
 
 And scorn'd to shrink or falter ; 
 Remember erery laurel'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 !
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. SIS' 
 
 By those, \vliose 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 ! 
 
 " MoNTULY Magazine." 
 
 A SEREiNADE. 
 
 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 its 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 night-air ; 
 
 Th" appointed hour is flown. 
 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 wreatli 
 Thy broad fair brow should rise beneath : 
 
 Rr
 
 314 MISCEIXANEOUS 
 
 1 Jiavc ling that must not sliinc 
 On any finger, liOvc ! 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 I 
 Nor pause to cast one look behind, 
 JJut swifter than the viewless wind, 
 
 Away ! away ! 
 
 " Monthly Magazine.'" 
 
 SIMILITUDES. 
 
 What can Love be liken'd to ? 
 To the glitering, 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 its sweetness soon is past, 
 And all its brightness fades at last.
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 31.5 
 
 And what are dreams, tliat liyht nioht's gloom ? 
 
 Doves that, like Noah's, (ro and conic, ' 
 
 To teach the Soul this orb of clay 
 
 Shall not its prison be for aye ; 
 
 That Time's dark waves shall soon subside, 
 
 And brighter worlds spread far and wide. 
 
 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 tiie 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. 
 
 " MoNTHiiY 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. 
 
 The flowers still flourish in our fields, 
 
 As beautiful as then they were : 
 The rose the same sweet odour yelds ; 
 The birds the same bright plumage bear : 
 Let us love, let us love, and again behold 
 The happy times of the Age of Gold.
 
 3H> MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Still in the spring the nightingale 
 
 Sings in the llovver-eiiamcird 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 
 Among the fair young lilies rove : 
 
 Let us love, let us love, and again behold 
 TJie happy times of the Age of Gold. 
 
 " Monthly Magazink. 
 
 QUESTIONS ANSWERED. 
 
 Oh ! what is pleasure, in whose chase, 
 Life's one brief day is made a race, 
 
 Of levity and lightness ? 
 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 its brightness. 
 
 And what is friendship ? but that flower, 
 Which spreads its leaves at daylight's hour, 
 
 And closes them at eve ; 
 Opening its 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 
 
 Melodiouslv to death.
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. ^l' 
 
 And what are hopes ? Gay butterflies. 
 That on the breath of f;incy rise, 
 
 Where'er the svinbeam 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. 
 
 And our aftections, what are they ? 
 Oh ! blossoms smiling on the spray, 
 
 All bea^lty, and all sweetness, 
 But which the canker may lay bare, 
 Or rude hands from the branches tear, 
 Or bhghting winds leave withering there. 
 
 Sad types of mortal lleetness. 
 
 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, 'whelin'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 its mother's breast ; 
 Feebly its meanings stammer'd out, 
 And totter'd tremblingly about, 
 And knew no wider world without 
 
 Its little home of rest. 
 
 There was a Boy, a light-heart Boy, 
 One whom no troubles could annoy, 
 Save some lost sport, or shattcr'd toy. 
 Forgotten in an hour ;
 
 318 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 No dark remembrance troubled him, 
 No future fear his path could dim, 
 But joy before his eyes would swim, 
 And hope rise hke a tower. 
 
 There was a Youth, an ardent Youth, 
 Full of hiijrh promise, courage, truth, 
 He felt no scathe, ho 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 liove's saddest sisrhs. 
 
 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 shming heap, 
 And how the wealth acquired, to keep 
 
 Secure within its fold. 
 
 There was an old, old, gray-hair'd one, 
 On whom had fourscore winters done 
 Their work appointed, and had spun 
 
 His thread of life so fine, 
 That scarce its thin line could be seen, 
 And with the slightest touch, I ween, 
 'Twould be as it had never been, 
 
 And leave behind no sig-n. 
 
 'O' 
 
 And who were they, those five, whom Fate 
 Seem'd as strange contrasts to create, 
 That each might in his diflferent state 
 
 The others' pathways shun? 
 I tell thee that, that Infant vain, 
 That Boy, that Youth, that Man of gain, 
 That Gray-beard, who did roads attain 
 
 So various, — They were One ! 
 
 " Monthly Magazine.'
 
 PROSE AND POETRF; 319 
 
 SUCH THINGS WERE. 
 
 I cannot but remember such things were, 
 And were most precious to me ! 
 
 SUAESPEARL. 
 
 Such things were ! such things were ! 
 False but precious, brief but fair ; 
 The eagle with the bat may wed ; 
 The hare may like the tortoise tread ; 
 The firmy tribe may cleave the air ; 
 Ere 1 forget that such tilings 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 iloor ; 
 
 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 ; 
 1 would not with my sorrows part. 
 For a more light, but colder heart ; 
 Nor barter for pomp's costlier fare, 
 The memory that such things were. 
 
 "Mo:nthly Magazine."
 
 320 MliiCELLANEOUS 
 
 THE HEAllT. 
 
 In iraUatiou of Francis Quarks. 
 
 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 its tide, 
 And on it reveli'd in its joyous pride. 
 As though no ice-touch e'er could bid it hide ; 
 
 How like, my fond, vain Heart ! how like to thee ! 
 
 I roam'd its banks once more, 'midst Summer's blaze, 
 
 Onward it rush'd to th' unfathoin'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 its 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 its bright waters stain, 
 And heavy pouring floods of falling rain, 
 Swell'd Its 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 : 
 Its 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 hke, my cold, false Heart ! how like to thee ! 
 
 And shall the Seasons only when they show 
 
 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."
 
 FKOSE^ AND I'OETUV. 321 
 
 xMADONNA. 
 
 Written ou seeing a Painting by Carlo Doi.ci, in a private Collection at 
 
 Antwerp. 
 
 Madonna ! sweet Madonna ! I could ga/.e 
 For ever on that heavenly face of thine ; 
 
 Albeit I do not worship as 1 praise, 
 
 Or bend my knee devoutly at thy shrine : 
 For surely there was something of divine, 
 
 AVithin the wondrous pencil that portray'd 
 The tender softness of that deep blue eyne. 
 
 That brow's wan beauty, those bright ringlets' brairt. 
 
 And the sweet Mother's smile upon those soft lips laid. 
 
 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 worsliipp'd, 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 I 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 Hoats upon the air, 
 
 And feelings sad, but sweet, my bosom swell, 
 
 And tears are in my eyes, Madonna ! Fare thee vi,e\i ! 
 
 " PAUTnENON." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Come, pledge, pledge the cup to me, Sweetheart ! 
 
 Oh ! pledge the cup to me ! 
 And I will show thee, ere we part, 
 
 How Wine resembles thee. 
 
 Ss
 
 S^Z -MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 And first, its 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 show 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 its blissful tide 1 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, Sweetlieart -- 
 
 Oh ! pledge the cup to me ! 
 And I will show 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 '11 do when I lose thee, — 
 
 My grief and care to smother, 
 I 'II bless its memory, and flee 
 For comfort to another ! 
 
 Then pledge the cup to me. Sweetheart t 
 
 Oh ! pledge the cup to me ! 
 And let 's drink deeply, ere we part, 
 Since Wine resembles thee. 
 • "New European Magazine." 182?-. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Suns will set, and moons will wane, 
 Yet they rise and wax again ; 
 Trees, that Winter's storms subdue. 
 Their leafv liverv renew-
 
 PROSE AND poetry: 323 
 
 Ebb and flow is Ocean's lot ; 
 But man lies down and rises not : 
 Heaven and eartli shall pass away, 
 Ere shall wake his slumbering clay ! 
 
 Vessels but to havens steer ; 
 Patiis 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. 
 
 Nile, whose waves their boundaries burst, 
 Slakes the torrid desert's thirst ; 
 Dews, descending on the hills, 
 Life in Nature's veins instils ; 
 Showers, that on the parch'd meads fall, 
 Tlieir 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 its 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 glpom, 
 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 clo«e, but ever nigh.
 
 324 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 I saw the dew-drop, gemininff the flowers, 
 
 Beautiful pearls by Aurora strung ; 
 But tlioy vanisli'd away in a few .-iliort hours, 
 As o'er them the Sun his lull radiance flunji. 
 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 its root. 
 And I thouglit 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 ? 
 
 "FoKGET 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 : 
 
 And Night's swarth cheek, 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 looks 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 its lingering echoes they ])rolong, 
 
 And tell to distant worlds the wondrous song !
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 325 
 
 And what that song whose numbers fill the ears 
 
 With admiration of surrounding spheres ? 
 
 " Honour and adoration. [)i)\v.r and praise, 
 
 To Him who tracks the ('oin-'t's patliless ways ; 
 
 Who to the stars has iheir bright courst'S given, 
 
 And to the Sun appoints hi-< place in Heaven ; 
 
 And rears for man a mansion more sublitne, 
 
 Not built with hands, not doom'd to stooj) to Time ; 
 
 W^hose strong foundations, unini[)air'd shall stay, 
 
 When Sims, and Cstars, and Worlds, and all things pass 
 
 a way !" 
 
 " Friendship's Offering!." 1326. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 SiTCCr me a Lay ! — not of knightly feasts, 
 
 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 ti.e passing bell ; 
 
 Of joys that have been, and have ceased to be. 
 
 That is the lay, the lay for me ! 
 
 'Twine me a Wreath, — but not of this vinej 
 Of primrose, or myrtle, or eglantine ; 
 Let not the fragrant rose breathe there. 
 Or the slender Idy her white bosum 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 wra[)S tin; 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 lor mo :
 
 326 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Oh ! for a rest !— not on Beauty's breast, 
 
 Not on the piUow by youii<,' Hope press'd ; 
 
 Not 'neath the canopy P()iii[> has spread ; 
 
 Not in the tent where shrouds Valour his head ; 
 
 Where Grief gnaws not the heart, though the worm may 
 
 feed there ; 
 VVlicre 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 ! 
 
 •■ FKiEJMDsiiir'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 httle 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 : 
 
 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, 
 
 Pull of sorrow, full of strife : 
 
 A tale that first enchants the ear, 
 
 Then fills the soul with grief and fear ; 
 
 At last with wo 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 :
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 32T 
 
 Wealth, pleasure, power at distance seen. 
 Shine brilliant as the glow-worm's sheen, 
 Life weds tliesc seemingf 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 ! 
 
 Yet what is Life ? A t-aper's light, 
 That feebly glimmers through the night. 
 And soon is quench'd in darkness quite : 
 Each wind that spreads its flame but hastes it, 
 Each touch that trims its splendour, wastes it ; 
 And brighter as its lustre plays, 
 Soon its fragile frame decays. 
 
 '^ Feiendship's Offeking." 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 mornnig's prime ; 
 And flowers across his path he threw, 
 
 And that child's name was Time. 
 
 1 saw a man, whose ample brow 
 Was furrow'd deep with care ; 
 
 And now despair, and rapture now, 
 I3y turns were pictured there :
 
 328 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 The song ha sang was " Heap and lioaru, 
 
 And scalo Ambition's lioiglit," 
 And his hand grasp'd a kccu-cdged sword 
 
 Of majesty and night. 
 Around him tlnong'ti a numerous train, 
 
 WeaUh, I'^ime, and Power subhme : 
 While his breast sweli'd with fancies vain, 
 
 And his name too was Time. 
 
 I saw an aged, shrivell'd form, 
 
 With hollow eyes and blind ; 
 He crouched 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 hourglass held. 
 
 Whose sands were ebbing fast. 
 Across his path dark phantoms roved, 
 
 Of Age, and Want, and Crime, 
 His wings seem'd dipt, 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 tliy mind still stored 
 
 With trifles such as these ? 
 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 1 
 Have left, 'midst my captivity, 
 
 To bid my heart good morrow.
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. , 32t^ 
 
 1 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 " Fkiendship's Offi^ino." 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 its 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 gray-beards, 
 And curious schoolmen. 
 
 Tt
 
 .'530 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Savona. Pr'ythee, my Rinaldo, 
 
 Unclose the casement, tliat 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. 
 
 [RiNAL»o opens the casement. 
 
 There, there they shine 1 
 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 its 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 accent strange to human ears were dropt 
 Prom 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 I 
 
 Rinaldo. Savona, cneck 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. Seest thou yon cluster 
 
 Of stars, that glitter right above that clump 
 Of stately pines ? 
 
 Rinaldo. I mark it steadfastly. 
 
 Savona. And mark'stthou in the midst one Star, that seem* 
 The centre of the group ? 
 
 Rinaldo. Yes ; 'tis a Star 
 
 Of a peculiar brightness, soft and mild
 
 PKOSE AND POETRY. Sol 
 
 Its liglit, yet beautiful as [lesper's, when 
 
 The rest fade from him ; yet the neighbouring orbs, 
 
 Larger, and all of gloomier disks, appear 
 
 T' overwhelm its 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 its head ; and one black cloud 
 
 Comes saihng towards it from the north, and soon 
 
 Will blot it from my sight. 
 
 Sarona. 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, 
 llain misery on my head ? and am I not, 
 Now, in the noontide of my life, Rinaldo, 
 Stretch'd with a broken heart, and faltering limbb, 
 Upon a bed of grief, while, rapidly, 
 Death like a monster, lured from far, comes on 
 To grapple with his prey 1 
 
 Rinaldo. Alas 1 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'ercharg'd pulse 
 Throbs high, and throbs no more 1 
 
 Rinaldo. Dear friend, I hoped 
 
 Your heart had mastered its 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. 
 
 Havana. Even so, Rinaldo ; 
 
 Jjut often, often is the visage masqucd 
 In smiles and revelry, when the heart's wounds 
 Rankle the sorest ; and, when we go forth 
 
 I
 
 SS'Z MISCELLAKEOU& 
 
 Into tlic cold and smiling world, and seem 
 
 The gayest of the gay, vvc do but bear 
 
 Our sorrows with us, as the stricken deer 
 
 Bounds on, through fields and thicket, with the arro\'v 
 
 Tiiat wounds it, in its side. 
 
 liinaldo. Dear friend, cheer up I 
 
 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. Ob Heaven ! it does, indeed, wane, and grow paie 1 
 And that black cloud is near approaching it ! 
 But this is idle, and but feeds the fancies 
 That prey upon your health. I '11 close the casement. 
 
 Savona. Oh ! no, no, no ! for Heaven's sweet sake, forbear I 
 That Star gazed on my birth, and on that Star 
 My dying eyes shall gaze. 
 
 Rinaldo. But not to-night, 
 
 I hope, Savona. Lend me thy hand. Ha ! 
 ■'Tis strangely hot and feverish ; but kind care, 
 And skill will work its cure. And yet I like not 
 That black and ominous cloud. Now it comes nearer . 
 It touches the Orb's disk. Thank Heaven I his hand 
 Is cooler now. It has o'erwhelm'd the Star 
 In its black mantle ! Why am I thus moved ? 
 I have no faith in these things, yet I 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 its ills. 
 
 [Turns towards hwu 
 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
 
 PROSE AND poetry: 33 
 
 L' AMORE DOMINATORE. 
 
 Who is the Monarch so mii^hty and bright, 
 Who comes triumphing on in Ins chariot of light? 
 The sceptre he be;irs is more rich to behold, 
 Than Samarcand's pearls, or Potosi's gold ; 
 His coronal glitters with many a }?»^m, 
 As though Beauty's bright eyes form'd his diadem, 
 And his waving wings round his hght form play, 
 Like the rambow's hues on a Siniuner'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 passiofiate hopes of my Soul ; 
 
 The wings that he flies on, Oh I this sweet kiss, 
 
 Dearest ! is one, and the other is this ; 
 
 And those soft lips are (he rosy gate 
 
 That leads young Love to his throne of state. 
 
 " HOMMAUE AUX DaMES," 182&. 
 
 n 
 
 GOODRICH CASTLE. 
 
 Thou sylvan Wye, since last my feet 
 Wander'd along thy margin sweet, 
 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 its regions wild :
 
 d34 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 But none to my delighted eye, 
 Seem'd lovelier than my own sweet Wye : 
 Through meads of living verdure driven, 
 Tvvixt hills that seem Earlirs 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 hves 'midst Art's decay ; 
 
 Or, like a Spectre, haunting yet 
 
 The spot where all its joys were set. 
 
 Time-hallow'd pile ! no more, no more, 
 Thou hear'st the hostile cannon roar ; 
 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 gaitar : 
 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. 
 
 " Ltterauy SouvE^'IR." 1827.
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. o35 
 
 THE CAPTIVE'S SONG. 
 
 Pharaphrased from the \31th 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 ; 
 
 For they who wrought our |»ains and wrongs, 
 
 Ask'd us for Sion's pleasant Songs. 
 
 How shall we sing Jehovah's praise 
 To those who Baals altars rdi>-e ? 
 How warble Judah's free-born hymns, 
 Witli Babel's fetters on our limbs ? 
 How chant thy lays, dear Father-land ' 
 To strangers on a foreign strand ? 
 Ah no ! we '11 bear griefs keenest sting, 
 But dare not Sion's anthems sing. 
 
 'is' 
 
 Place us where Sharon's roses blow, 
 Place us where Siloe's waters flow ; 
 Place us on Lebanon, that waves 
 Its cedars o'er our Fathers' graves ; 
 Place us upon that holy iiiount. 
 Where stands the Temple, gleams the fount ; 
 Then l.>ve and joy shall loose our tongues 
 To warble Sion's pleasant songs. 
 
 If r should e'er, Earth's brightest gem ! 
 Forget thee. Oh Jerusalem ! 
 May my rieht hand forget its skill 
 To wake the slumbering lyre at will : 
 If from my heart, e'en when most gay. 
 Thine image e'er should fade away, 
 May my tongue rest within my head, 
 Mute as the voices of the dead. 
 
 Remember, Oh ! remember. Lord 1 
 in that day Edom's sons abhorr'd; 
 When once again o'er Salem's towers, 
 The Sun of jov his radiance pours.
 
 386 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Forget not them, whose hateful cry 
 Rose loud and fiend-like to the sky : 
 " Be that unhallo\v'<l city rrush'd ! 
 Raze, raze it even to the dust!" 
 
 Daughter of Babylon ! the hour 
 Is cominjif, that shall bow thy power ; 
 The Persian sword shall make thee groan, 
 The Mede shall fill Belshazzar's throne ; 
 Blest siiall he be who bids thee sip 
 The cup thou hcld'st to Salem's lip ; 
 And mocks thee, weepuig o'er the stones 
 Red with thy chddren's mangled bones. 
 
 "Amulet." 1827. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Like the young Spring-buds sweet and bright. 
 And like the lark, and like the light, 
 And like the wind, and like ihe 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 harbour'd 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 thelast, 
 The taper 's spent, and Life is past ! 
 
 "AMUI.ET." 1828.
 
 FROSE AND POKTRV. ;337 
 
 MOUNT CARMEL. 
 
 .4 Dramatic Sketch from Scripture Historij. 
 
 Pekso.vs Represented. 
 
 The High Priest or Baal. 
 Elijah, the Prophet. 
 Ketjben, an Israelite. 
 MiKiAM, his Sister. 
 
 Attendants on Elijah, Priests, Crowd, t^n-. 
 ScEKE, Mount Carmel. Tisie, 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- 
 
 Reuh. See, see, the lligii Priest doth approach the Prophet. 
 
 High P. Where is thy God ? Wliat eye liath ever gazed 
 Upon his face ? What ear hath heard his voice ? 
 If there be such a one, ho loves to dwell 
 In darkness and obscurity ; he fears 
 To meet tlie 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 1 
 
 [Pointing to the Sun, 
 Baal ! the great, the bright, the wonderful ! 
 See how he traverses the boundless Heaven, 
 The azure place 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 ;
 
 338 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 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 I 
 How like a God he walks the fields of Heaven ; 
 Brother, I feur that he whom we adore 
 Is not so great as he is. 
 
 Rciib. Peace, doubting girl ; 
 
 The holy Prophet speaks. 
 
 Elijah, Fond, impious man I 
 
 My (iod 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, whieh ye adore 
 In Ignorance and sin ; on which I gaze 
 With wond< r and with humble thankfulness. 
 I see his wratii and terror in the b!ind, 
 Cold unbelief, which he permits to seal 
 Your senses and your hearts ; and I shall soon 
 Behold his goodness, and his love to tliose, 
 Who keep th(;ir Faith unspotted and unchnnged, 
 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 firefr<.m Heaven, should be acknowledged 
 The Lord above all Lord?;, and God indeed ? 
 Have ye not call'd upon your God since noon, 
 And has he answered ? 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. 
 
 Croivd. Baal requires 
 
 To be again invoked. 
 
 [Here the Priests of Bcial range themselves in a circle., and 
 chant the following incantation ; dancing round the altar at 
 the end of each stanza., and cutting themselves: with knive,') 
 and lancets as they chant the last.
 
 ^ 
 
 PROSE AND POETRV. 339 
 
 From thy bright throne, bow thine ear, 
 Biial ! Biial ! hear us, hear I 
 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 (hv briiiht 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' el?e barren earth, 
 Give wealth, and food, and beauty birth ; 
 From tliy bright throne, bow thine ear, 
 Biial ! Biial ! hear us, hear : 
 
 Now thine altar we array ; - 
 Now the sacrifice we slay : 
 Now his bleeding limbs recline, 
 Offerings on thy hallow'd shrme ; 
 Now with lancet and with knife, 
 We ope our own warm tides of life. 
 From thy bright throne, bow thme ear, 
 Baal' Baul ! hear us, hear ! 
 
 [Dunng this invocation, the sun gradually siwi* below the 
 horizon. - ' 
 
 High P. Wo ! wo ! wo ! 
 
 Leave us not, Biial ! leave us not unanswer'd : — 
 Unanswer'd and in darkness ! 
 
 Crowd. Wo! wo! wo! 
 
 Leave us not, Biial ! 
 
 Elijah. Ay ! 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 her'>, tour hundred priests of Biial! 
 And yet your many voices cannot pierce 
 His dull, cold car ? How, therefore, can I hope, 
 .Tehovah's one poor Prophet, that with these 
 My few attendants, I can make him bow 
 His ear to my complaints. Yet I '11 essay it.
 
 340 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 [ To his attendants. 
 Now what 1 bid perform ; and answer ye 
 The questions 1 propound. 
 
 Let twelve stones the numbers tell 
 
 Of the tribes of Israel ; 
 
 Build with them an altar straight 
 
 O 
 
 To our God, the good, the great : 
 Quickly answer every one ; 
 Is it done ? 
 Aiten. 'Tis done ! '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 carcass lay, 
 In bleeding fragments, one by one; 
 Is it done I 
 Atten. 'Tis done ! 'tia done ! 
 
 Elijah. Fill four barrels from the rill, 
 
 That streams down Carmel's 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 Jlame 
 descending on the altar., consumes the sacrifice., and dries 
 up the water in the trenches. 
 
 Mir. Wonderful ! wonderful ! Jehovah ! thou 
 Art God indeed I 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 ! 
 
 Reub. See, see. Heaven opens ! and the sacred fire 
 Consumes the offering ! it is as though 
 God stretch'd his own right arm down to the earth 
 To accept the service of his worshippers.
 
 PUOSE AND POETRY. oil 
 
 Elijah. The trenches are dried up ; the fire returns 
 Into its native Heaven. That last red streak 
 Just ghmmers faintly in the v/est, and now 
 'Tis gone, '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 I 
 
 CroTvd. 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 before the altar ; and the Priests 
 of Baal rush out tumultuoushj^ as the scene closes. 
 
 " Bijou." 1828. 
 
 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 sheathed 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 dimni'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 its brilhancy 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 Hed to a mansion more bright, 
 
 And shaken earth's stains from its wings. 
 
 " Morning CuuoNicLE." 1827. 
 
 THE EN1>.
 
 POPULAR WORKS, 
 
 Secently Printed by J. & J. HARPER, No. Si Cliff Street, New-York; 
 
 For Sale by the 
 
 prikcifal booesbllers in ths united states. 
 
 PELHAM; or, the ADVENTURES OF A GENTLE- 
 MAN. A Novel. In 2 vols. 12mo. [By the Author of " The 
 Disowned."] Se/:o>id Edition. 
 
 " If the most brilliant wit, a narrative whose interest never flags, and some 
 pictures ot' the most riveiiiig interest, can make a work popular, ' I'elliam' 
 will be as first rate iu celebtily as it is in excellence. The scenes are laid at 
 the present day, and iu I'asliioiiable hie;" — London Literary Gazette. 
 
 " The author, whoever he is, may justly pride liimself upon a performance 
 fuI»or amusing scenes, seasoned by frequent Hashes of sterling wit and genuine 
 humour, and remarkable for a polish and clt^;ance of style that well bears out 
 the word gentleman affixed to the titleoi the \Mok."—La>tiloii IVcehly Review. 
 
 " The work of a master— we know not hia name, but whoever he may 
 
 be, we offer hun our warmest admiration. With wit, with classical lore, 
 with a keen eye for penetrating passion in .ill its varieties— with genius, and 
 taste, and good sense, he is one ot the few who deserve rare praise in propor- 
 tion to the variety of their appearance. In the whole ranu£ of TUB 
 Waverley Novels, there is .not o.ne to be co.iirARED to Pelham." 
 
 J\i'. i'. Courier. 
 
 " Seldom have we risen from the perusal of any novel, romance, or memoir, 
 v.'ith such vivid emotions of gratified curiosity and delight as from that of 
 I'elham. For masterly and graphic delineation oi' human chaiacter in all 
 its phases, for picturesque gioupiiig of individuals, as collected in society, for 
 engrossing interest of incident and l^rilllng exhibition of passion, for skilful 
 devcloperaent of plot, spirited and natural dialogue, anil, finally, for philo- 
 sophical acumen and practical morality, this novel stands lnrivalled iv 
 THE present day. To point outinstiiuces of excellence would be an endless 
 task— tliey will force themselves on the observation of every unbiassed mind. 
 Were we inclined to select passages as more particularly evincing tlie superior 
 powers of the writer, we should quote half of the book." 
 
 JV. V. Mirror ^ Ladies' Lit. Gazette. 
 
 THE DISOWNED. By the Author of "Pelham." A 
 Novel. In 2 vols. 12ino. Hccoiid Edition. 
 
 " If Pelham justly raised for its author a very high character, The Disoaned 
 will raise it far higher." — Lon4on Literary Gazette. 
 
 " The great success of Pelham, and the high reputation it has acquired for 
 its author, increased our curiosity to peruse its successor. We have examined 
 The Disowned, and fijid it fully equal in plot, ch:iracler, and description to 
 Pdhiim; and vastly nine philosophic and reflecting. It is by far the most 
 intellectual fiction that we have seen for a long time ; aud in it may be loniid 
 some of the finest maxims, and f oin it may be drawn some ot the best 
 morals, for the guidance of the human heart."— j?/*iort. 
 
 "The Journals throughout this country and in Encland have perhaps 
 spoken more in praise of 'Pelham' than of any other novel that has issued 
 from the prcsfi in modern days— but all that lias been said in coinmeridulion 
 of tlial work, and much more in our opinion, may be rcpeau-d ol 'The 
 Disowned.' The author certainly possewsfw, to a surprising degree, boldne.w, 
 eneriiy of genius, originality, and' shrewdness of olwrvation. ' Pelham' and 
 'The Uiiowned' are not inVerior to Sir Walter Scott's novels."— C '/Vmc.r
 
 Popular Works Recmlly Printed. 
 
 DOMESTIC DUTIES ; or, Instructions to Young Married 
 Ladies, on tlic Management of their Household, and the Regu- 
 lation of their Conduct in the various relations .and duties of 
 Married Life. By Mrs. William I'arkes.— Fifth American from 
 the last London Edition, with Notes and Alterations adapted 
 to the American Reader. In 1 vol. 12rao, 
 
 This work lias received tlie approbaiioii of tlic principal literary publica- 
 tions in Great Btitaiu and iu the United States.— The follovviii;! aiebut a few 
 of (he expressions in its favour: — 
 
 " The volume before us is one of those practical works, which are of real 
 value and utility It is a perfect vade mccum for the young manii'd lady, 
 who may resort to it on all questions of household economy and etiquette.. . 
 There is nothing omitted witli which it behooves a lady to be acquainted." 
 
 JVeiB Monthly Magaiine of London. 
 
 " We have not space to notice this work as it deserves. We cannot, how- 
 ever, allow the present opportunity to pass without strongly recommending it 
 to the attention of the general reader, and to the housekeeper in particular. 
 It would be a useful as well as elegant holyday present — woitii all tue uiinual 
 gifts ever published."— .AT. y. Mirror <S- Ladtcn' Ut. Uazette. 
 
 " We do not hesitate to say, that the most fastidious and perfect mind can 
 find nothing in this book from which to dissent. It is an admirable condensa- 
 tion of the physical and intellectual duties of women ; and we willingly 
 lecommend it to all young lii<lies, inurriod or not." —JSnstun Statesman. 
 
 "This work appears to be particularly calculated to arrest the attention of 
 those young marneri ladies who wish to shine iu the domestic circle." 
 
 Com. Advertiser. 
 
 " Were the sentiments this book inculcates but understood and practised by 
 our ladies, it would be of more real advantage to them than all the fine theories 
 to be deduced from the collective wisdom of all the novels since the days of 
 chivalry. Domestic Duties ! The book verifies the title— it is an explanation 
 and enforcement of the duties incumbent more especially on married ladies, as 
 to them, in a peculiar manner, are committed those arrangements, on which 
 the domestic happiness of families must dt^iend. It contains many subjects 
 necessary to be considered by all ladies who are ambitious of deserving the 
 eulogy, more to be coveted by a married woman tlian the loudest psean from 
 the trump of fame, " Her children arise up and call her bles.sed ; her husband 
 also, and he praiseth het."— Ladies' Magazine [Boston]. By Mrs. Hale. 
 
 "We consider ' Domestic Duties' a very viiliiablework, and well calculated 
 to promote the object for which it was intended. It is one that we most cheer- 
 fully recommend to all young housewives, and to all who intend becoming so. 
 There are a very few whose education has been so complete as thai they will 
 not find much both novel and useful in this volume, written in a clear and 
 agreeable style, and luminously arranged. It ought to occupy a place in every 
 lady's library." — The Critic. 
 
 " Among the many intellectual treats which have recently been spread be- 
 fore the public, there has been none combining so many useful lessons as the 
 present work contains. It is the ladies' Fade Mtr.iim, in which every depart- 
 ment of domestic duties, of manners, temper, accomplishmonts, deportment, 
 the culinary art, visiting, drees, treatment of children, &c. &c. are embodied 
 in tlie most pleasing manner, and ia the most familiar style." 
 
 J\rewYork Enquirer. 
 
 " This book contains an amount of useful and interesting information rarely 
 Jo be met with.,. It ought to be included in the marriage portion of every lady." 
 
 Chronicle of the Times.
 
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