¥
J. J.A.A. Frantzon.
VOOR DE
VAN
TOT OP
© m f if
MET OPHELDERENDE WOORDENLIJSTEN, AANTEEKENING-EN, ENZ.
|
GERMANISTISCH INSTITUUT In Ou^ê'. |
BIBLIOTHEEK DER I rijksuniversiteit i UTRECHT I |
LEID E N,
D. NOOTHOVEN VAN GOOR,
,
1 'j 1
'
# s - i
*
_
:
w
I
I
A BRIEF SURVEY OF THE HISTORY OF ENGLISH POETRY.
English poetry occupies a proud station in the literature of modern Europe. From the sacred pages of the Bible were derived the first impulses of English genius: English literature has grown with pure religion , shared in its temporary obscurations, and participated in all its triumphs.
Wiekliffe (33), the great precursor of the Reformation, published his translation of the New Testament, and a dawn appeared, contending with the dark clouds that overspread, since many ages, and in his time, the land. Meanwhile Chaucer (6) was raising the dignity of his native language by practically showing its poetic capabilities. A convert to the faith of Wiekliffe, he studied the Bible carefully, and learned from it the sublime moral principles which his verses so studiously inculcate. Notwithstanding all the difficulties of obsolete language, quot;the Father of English poetryquot; is still read with pleasure. His works, though sullied by the coarseness of his age, show that, to the genius of the poet, the learning of the scholar, and the wisdom of the philosopher, he had also added the piety of the Christian.
Chaucer was not the first of the English poets who exposed the faults of the llomish church and its clergy. The author of Piers Plowman's Vision (4) vigorously exposes the follies and the crimes of the monks and friars, and prophesies that their conduct would inevitably produce the abolition of all monastic institutions. The popular ballads of the age preceding Chaucer, contain also strong evidence of the reluctance with which the English people bore the intolerant yoke of papacy.
In the civil wars between the houses of York and Lancaster, the good seed which Wiekliffe had sown was trodden down; religion and literature were equally unheard amid the din of arms , and the fierce contest of rival factions: after the accession of the house of Tudor, however, a new attack was made upon ignorance and superstition. During the reign of Henry the Eighth , the public mind was in a state of transition : the signs of improvement were manifest. The literary history of that rei gn proves that the awakening of the public mind to the important questions at issue between the reformers and the defenders of the papacy had not been without its effect on English poetry; the names of Wyat (15), Surrey (15), and Sir Thomas More (37), will ever be remembered among those who laboured for the refinement and improvement of the cnglish language.
In Edward's reign, little was done for the advancement of Literature, though mucli was planned and designed. His premature death, and the accession of his sanguinary sister, seemed to threaten the return of former darkness, and to menace destruction at onee to pure religion and enlightened Literature. Fortunately, her reign was brief; and the accession of Elizabeth realized for England the truth of that beautiful Oriental proverb, quot;the darkest hour in the twenty-four is the hour before day.quot;
And never did a brighter day open for any country, than dawned for England, when the virgin-queen ascended its throne. It was the age of Shakespeare (65) and of Spenser (53), and of countless other poets, who would, at any former period , have shone as lights , but who were now obscured by brighter luminaries. They were all the children of the Reformation; they all breathe the vigour of minds freshly emancipated , anxious to prove, to the utmost extent, their newly acquired freedom; sometimes, perhaps, hurried into extravagance by the stimulating effects of sudden liberty. Of Shakespeare, we will not speak; in the brief space of an Introduction , it would be impossible to do justice to one whom Milton (155) has happily termed quot;Fancy's child.,,
Spenser was the chief founder of what may be termed quot;the allegorical school of poetryquot;
10
iu England. Italy was the parent of allegorical poetry: precluded hy the eluireli, tlie Italian authors of the middle ages framed a figurative language, in which they eould declare to the initiated their hatred of corruption and their hopes of improvement. Dante, more especially, used a thick veil of allegory in announcing to the world its religious defections, and the means by which it might be regenerated. But the style which the Italians assumed from necessity , Spenser adopted from choice; a circumstance deeply to be regretted, as his poem has been thus deprived of all the interest that results from sympathy. But notwithstanding this great disadvantage, Tlie Faerie Q/ieene must ever be regarded as a poem of which a nation may be justly proud.
The great success of Spenser encouraged a host of imitators; but few of them merited or attained equal eminence. Of these imitations, the Furple Island was decidedly the best; but some of its allegories are so very extravagant, that the reader is deterred from the perusal of the entire poem.
The reign of James the First was, on the whole, not unfavourable to literature; but, towards the close of it, the clouds were collecting round the political horizon , which burst with such a fearful tempest on the head of his unfortunate successor. The civil dissensions in the reign of Charles the First, directed the attention of the public mind from poetry to politica; and when the Puritans triumphed, they , in the sternness of their fanaticism, proscribed the graces of literature as criminal. Yet, even in this age, did religion again prove the best ally of genius, and the Bible inspire the first of England's, perhaps of the world's, poets.
During the rancorous debates and fierce contests of the Civil War, men were in earnest; no matter to which side we assign the palm of the better cause, to neither can we refuse the praise of sincerity. The zeal of both factions may have been, indeed often was, mistaken ; but then it was certainly unfeigned. Milton was the poet of Christianity; but, in a stricter sense, he was the poet of English Christianity. In no other part of the world, and rarely at any other time, was the influence of Christianity so powerfully felt, as in England during the Civil Wars; and from its humanizing effects, an Englishman may point with something like pride to that portion of his annals, from the parallel of which the natives of less favoured lands must recoil with horror. The age of Cromwell displayed much error, much fanaticism, much hypocrisy; but it also displayed much of that holy zeal which equally seeks the honour of God and the good of man. With this better spirit Milton was deeply imbued; he was the poet of his country and his time.
The restoration of Charles the Second effected a great, but by no means a beneficial change in the literature of England. The stern rule of the Puritans had produced a dangerous reaction, and Religion suffered for the errors of the fanaticism that had usurped her name. It was the misfortune of Dryden (175) that he flourished in this unhappy period , and that he had not firmness to resist its seductions. He was , fortunately, educated in a more rigid school, and the religious instructions he had received were never wholly forgotten; but guilty compliances with prevailing profligacy weakened his intellectual strength, as much as it deteriorated his moral principle. While he defended the cause of good government, and directed his unrivalled satire against the weak Monmouth and the ambitious Shaftesbury, he shines as a poet; but when , to please James the Second he attempts to defend the Hornish Church, he proves a bad reasoner,and no very excellent versifier.
Dryden may be considered as the founder of the artificial school of poetry, or the school which describes the mixed modes of social life , and inculcates precepts of action: but Pope (244) must indisputably be regarded as its head. Sound commonsense, refined taste, almost bordering on the fastidious, and exquisite elegance, are his characteristics. The subjects, however, of artificial life are limited : the more mechanical part of versification is no very diflieult attainment, and the uniform harmony of the couplet becomes at last tiresome. On this account, the followers and imitators of Pope have sunk into neglect, which they did not all merit: and even his versification is found to cloy by its very sweetness, and to fatigue the ear by the unvarying monotony of its cadences.
The poetry of Queen Anne's reign will not bear comparison with that of Elizabeth: the truth is, that the compositions have too little in common to allow of a comparison being instituted. In prose, we should laugh at the person who dreamed of comparing John Locke (21 5) and Sir Walter Scoit (415) as writers, and metaphysical essays are scarcely more removed from novels, than is the poetry of nature from the poetrv of manners. The elder writers belonged to a school, of which strength, vigorous conception, and daring execution, were the charaeteristics; the
II
wits of Queen Anne's reign were, on the contrary, distinguished for delicaey, elegance, and polished ease. To borrow an illustration from the art of sculpture, .the one reitiinds us of the mighty Hercules; the other of the graceful Antinoiis. The disadvantage of the latter school was , that its range was bounded ; that its style was more easily imitated; and that from both causes, its resources were sooner exhausted.
In the interval between Pope and Cowper (3üG), few names can bo found likely to enjoy poetic immortality. The exquisitely simple beauty of Goldsmith (362) will always be appreciated , and Gray's (343) Odes possess inucb of (lie severe majesty of the ancient models; but Young (235), Thomson (320), and Akenside (353), severally labour under the charge of affeeiation ; they aimed rather to write eloquent language , than to form lofty conceptions. Hence their poems arc frequently turgid and bombastic; their expressions vague, obscure, and indefinite. English poetry seemed to bo about sharing the fate of Latin poetry; and the remarks of its decline might be traced in the pages of lioman history. A change in its constitution, or its speedy extinction, was the only alternative.
Cowper was sineerily religious. Ifc achieved a great revolution in the national literature and national taste; and ho weakened, if he did not destroy, that habit of judging of excellence by conventional standards, which is, at once, the sign and the cause of a nation's literary decay.
The last century was drawing to its close, when three young poets appeared, who completed the revolution that Cowper had commenced. They were unlike hira ; they were unlike each other; but they had, in common , an unaffected love of natural beauty, and, as a necessary consequence , a deep reverence for the older English bards, and a thorough contempt for all poetry that rested its claims on polished diction and smooth versification.
Coleridge (420). Wordsworth (409), and Southey (424), were of the favoured class that are born poets; they have lived to see themselves ranked among the standard writers of England , to know that their labours for the revival of British literature have been pre-eminently successful, and unfortunately to find that those who have profited the most by their toils are the last to acknowledge the obligation.
Scott came to share in the victory that had been achieved ; he revived the romance of chivalry, and united modern graccs to the wild achievements of the middleages.
AN INTRODUCTORY SKETCH OP THE PROGRESS OP PROSE UTERATURE IN ENGLAND
The history of English Literature affords many subjects for interesting consideration. It is strongly imbued with the characteristic spirit of the several ages in which it had its birth, and grew up into maturity and beauty. More than the literature of almost any other nation , also, it has been constantly conversant with the business of life: has drawn some of its finest qualities from the actual and the present; and while describing the passions of men, and recording the events which agitated the world at various periods, lias diffused lessons of truth and experience, which can never lose their value. Most of the different species of literature may bo easily traced to an origin found in some strong necessity, or ruling passion of mankind, lleligiou inspires the soul with the sublimest ideas that the human intellect can entertain, and the language and the form in which they arc expressed, partake generally of that sublimity. Thus poetry had its rise, and next to religion, as a source of the highest species of thought, is the recollection of the heroic deeds of our ancestors, by which the mind is led to brood on the past with intense interest and delight; and finding therein comfort and excitement , it learns to value every record of that vanished period as one of the most precious of its possessions. Hence poetry, and the sentiments by which it is inspired , conduct by an easy step , to the first attcmps at history, the utility of which being seen more distinctly, as eivilsation advances, it is soon established as a distinct, and systematic study.
The ma.rner in which the various branches of literature had their rise, points out also, the natural division of the different subjects between the poets and the writer of simple prose. 1'oetry was first cultivated because it is the language of passion and imagination, powers which
12
operate with intense energy wherever man exists in a state of health, vigour, and freedom. l?ut as the communieation andirooord o! ideas becomes a necessary part of tlie business of society, as knowledge accumulates, and systems are established the indefinite language of the poet is found inadequate to the purposes of intelligence, and the fervid phraseology of imagination is exchanged for the close and unornamental diction of literal truth.
On the first separation of written compositions into poetry and prose , the stylo of the latter is usually very stern and bare of decoration; nor is it till after several centuries have passed that prose literature can be said to exist. This was the case in England; nor was it till the sixteenth century that English prose began to acquire its characteristic excellence.
At the time of the lleformation the minds of all classes of men were directed with intense anxiety to the main objects of religious inquiry. Controversy was, for a time, the business of life: and it is not to be wondered at, therefore, that the scholars and writers of the day employed themselves in the close discussion of points of theology. Had this taste for disputation remained general, it would have produced few good effects, on the either opinions or the literature of the country. But operating as it did for a time, urging men to inquire into the principles of their faith, inclining them to refer perpetually to tlie Scriptures as the great store-house of all truth, it broke down that habit of unthinking indifference to the foundations of belief, which had so long oppressed the intellect of the country. Ceasing when it did, it left opinion well established, the doctrines of salvation ascertained by the pure light of Divine truth; and language and thought vastly benefited by the richness of Scriptural expression. The scholasticism of mere polemical theologians gradually gave way 10 the deep, affecting sentiment with which the love of doctrines pure, simple, and sublime, inspired good and holy men: what had formerly been tried only by the rule of logic, was now submitted to the measure of a lively faith ; and the minds of every order of men seemed to have tasted the graciousness and to be sensible of the beauty, of truth. Liierature, in returning into its ordinary channels, bore back with it much of the gold and balm of the shores it had thus watered. The themes with which it thenceforward became conversant had a flavour of those higher subjects of human interest, and it thus possessed a more majestic grace than the literature of most other countries. In poetry, this was conspicuously the case. When employed on matters which only bore remotely on religion, it yet drew from it some of its sweetest illustrations; its most significant epithets, ils fairest comparisons. The drama, though remaining subservient, as it always must, in a great degree, to popular caprice, to the fashions and laste of the day, acquired a force which remained to it as long as these bland influences of religious feeling were in operation. Shakespeare himself derived from this source a vast portion of his power. The ago in which he iivud was acutely sensible to high moral thoughts : whatever was true and elevated in sentiment could penetrate deep into the human heart, because the soil had been well prepared , well dug and turned up by the harrows of religious inquiry. lie could, therefore, employ the whole force of his noble genius, could be the moralist, could allude in every possible form to the mighty mysteries of our spiritual nature, without the fear of being misunderstood, or not relished; and redolent as were his thoughts with good and beauty, this was the advantage which, next to the original vigour of his genius, tended most to secure his immortality. The other poets of the age shared in the feelings thus awakened; and for a century after the lleformation , verse was more or less tinctured with tlie knowledge and the sentiments it had given.
Prose literature has always a natural support in the nature of the subjects with which it is oonversant; history, philosophy, and polities, inspire a style, and cannot be treated of by men tolerably well fitted for the task, without affording a certain degree of energy to their thoughts. They have a gravity which must give weight to expression; act as a protection against temptations to frivolous niceties and refinements, and bring into employment many of the objects on which the mind rests with equal pleasure, interest, and profit. In those periods, consequently, when great subjects have been agitated by society; when the fountains of thought and opinion are broken up, and men arc called upon to contemplate closely the things that must ultimately concern them, tlie prose compositions of contemporary authors have an earnestness about them, a freedom of expression, an integrity of language, if we may so speak, which is the best quality of the best style.
The reign of Elizabeth was full of literary splendour. To be learned , was a sure road to distinction and honour; and while Shakespeare and Speuser proved the exquisite sweetness of
genuinn cnp;lish verse, Sir Pliilip Sidney (134) evinced liow tlio praces ol' poetry miglit lie transfused tliroiigl1 the veins of rieli anti generous prose. .15iit generally there was, in the style of the prose writers of this age, a degree of harshness which, contrasted with the mellifluous flow of contemporary poetry, was singularly striking. This may bo accounted for in two ways, or rather, it resulted from two causes. The accumulation of knowledge was rapid and considerable in the sixteenth century; and learning gathered together in heaps is seldom at once wrought up with facility into the common forms of literature. Scholars are rarely what may be termed polished writers. They are often what is infinitely belter, both nervous and elevated writers: but it is otdy the very best of the class who are this; and, consequently, in a period when knowledge is delved for in the wide and solitary paths of erudition, prose literature advances with but slow steps. In the next place, the English language had at this time been only lately recognised by the learned as worthy of cultivation. It still retained its latin idiom; its lengthy and involved constructions; and was thus too weighty an instrument for every hand to wield with skill.
Elizabeth's successor, James, was a great favourer of learned men. The noblest genius of his time addressed him in terms, which, even making allowance for some degree of cour-tiership , prove that he was highly estimated for his pursuit of science, and the more cocentric species of knowledge.
Lord Bacon's (137) works maybe consulted, as affording a most admirable index to the true state of the different branches of knowledge in the age in which he lived. His Advancement of Learning affords, by implication, a view of the progress, which intellectual light had made at that period. He divides it into sections, cachot' which demonstrates some important truth in literary history; and, while it is of immense value as a line picce of discursive reasoning itself, it has a still greater one from the light which it reflects on the several subjects to which it alludes.
The influence which Bacon exercised over both literature and science, was felt in almost every province of human inquiry. His method of induction effected a complete revolution in the prevailing philosophical systems ; and no change has ever taken plaeo in systems , either of belief or of reasoning , without producing a considerable change in the stylo of written language. Thus, when science was removed from the elosct of the mere theorist, and, under the conduct of the experimentalist, passed through the heights and depths of nature, truth gradually revealed many a mystery, to the comprehension of which the general mind had never before made any approach. A wholly new class of objects was then added to those which formed the treasury of the author. He could now make allusions to the diversified appearances of nature, with the certainty that the allusion would be understood as referring to more than the mere surfaces of things. The minds of men received a disposition to try, prove, and compare; and writers, becoming less and less confident of being believed on their independent assertion, began to pile up fact after fact, as theologians had some time before been taught, that religious doctrines would not be received unless they could be supported by Scripture. Another step was thus gained ; and though poetry did not acquire much advantage from his reference of every phenomenon to the test of experiment, the style of our prose-writers was greatly helped thereby. and became every day more natural.
These effects, however, of the advancement of science, were not at first very conspicuous. To James the First succecded the most unfortunate of England's monarchs. The spirit of political contention not only cut the community into two factions, but drew a deep, broad line between mere scholars and the active-minded men who took an immediate part in the struggle. Partly disgusted, and partly alarmed at the aspect of affairs, a numerous class of sober thinkers embraced more earnestly than ever the opinions and maxims of their forefathers; and wedded to them , they loved to employ the language in which they had been originally sot forth ; to refer to the same authorities; build up and eulogize the same systems; anddovelopc, whatever variety of argument they indulged in , the same, or similar principles. Had not those extensive sources of information , therefore, been open , which had becomc the common property of the world at the Keformation , it is highly probable that the stern and rigid stylo of the early polemics would have still prevailed ; but there was too much feeling , too much of the knowledge which has an intimate relation to all our best sympathies, abroad , to allow of this being the case; even with the most retired of authors; and consequently, some of the boldest defenders of the former state of things exhibit in their writings a deep , affecting pathos, a richncss of thought, which diffuses a charm over all they say.
14
At llic head of tlic prose writers of this elianider , «as the admirable Jeremy Taylor (179), a man whose name is alike venerable for the genius he possessed , for the industry with which he laboured, and for the exalted piety of his opinions. What, in English prose, can be more beautiful than almost numberless passages in his works? Look at every chapter of his Life of Christ; what sweetness of thought, — what exquisite delicacy and variety of expression, always silvery and musical, but always forcible, does it not exhibit? How remarkably does he seem to cling to the latinisms with which the language abounded , and yet how pure and luminous does he appear, when the mind is willing to receive his inestimable moral. The passages we have chosen , will give a sufficient idea of his style. These passages are in the ordinary style of Jeremy Taylor; in other places it rises into sublimity, or flows like a beautiful stream, through banks covered with the most odorous flowers. But it is easy to learn from the above, how the English language still retained the spirit of the Latin; and how disposed the best writers in it were to follow classicfil models, and carry on their sentences by every possible means of connexion.
The busy and irritated supporters of the parliament had the strong desire of change to influence their minds, and wo might naturally look for an entire revolution in the modes both of thought and expression, on their gaining supreme authority. But instead of the language and literature of the country becoming infected with novelties, or losing their gravity, under the sway of the commonwealth-men, they were more strongly imbued than ever with the old theological spirit, which had originally given it so peculiar a character. Scripture now furnished the terms and phrases for almost every species of discourse: its comparisons, the incidents it records, the characters it describes, were perpetually alluded to, and the natural expression of thought was, except in some few instances, greatly injured by the too weighty application of so rich, so peculiar, and so solemn a language.
Foremost among the few who could keep their thoughts still flowing and natural, when such was the prevailing style, stood the immortal Milton. His genius, too sublime in itself to be subject, exQept willingly , to any modes or opinions , had been nourished by the deepest draughts that could be taken out of the ancient Helicon. The Greek and Latin Muse had dwelt with him from infancy, and the rosy bowers of Italy had fanned him with their most inspiring gales. He was, therefore, amply defended against receiving any injury from the character of the times; while all the good it was calculated to bestow on an intellect like his , filled and animated his heart with the grandest of impulses. Milton's prose is a magnificent demonstration that the prose of a true poet has excellencies unattainable by others; but it can hardly be regarded as having influenced the general style of his own, or any following age: the stream flows on majestically; bearing thought triumphantly on its broad, deep, and musical waves; nor does it ever fail to impress the reader with a strong sense of sublimity, except when, indulging in his stern power over sarcasm , the author lashes it, with a species of wanton indignation , into fury.
The Restoration left Milton alone. A greater and more sudden change was produced in the national literature than had ever before been experienced. Charles the Second , a gay, dissipated, unthinking sovereign, gathered around lum the favourites of fashion and pleasure ; they flattered his vanity and established luxury and levity as the foundation of their Epicurean system. Literature immediately felt the effects of this revolution in the character of the men in power. Poetry, but for Cowley and Dryden , would have forgotten its divine descent, and delighted itself only in the loosest species of composition: and prose would have shared the same fate, had it not been for these two circumstances. It is not so easily convertible to the purposes of the sensualist and the jester, and happily for the country, and the preservation of its literature, the church possessed men of profound ability, and accomplished in all the varieties of learning. Jeremy Taylor yet lived to delight the minds of thinking men with the beauty of religious eloquence; and next him stood Barrow (182), destined to carry English prose to its next stage in the progress of cultivation. This eminent man was less elevated , less original in thought, than Taylor, but he was clear-headed, energetic, and full to overflowing, with the various subjects which ho handled. Among writers of another class was the celebrated Hyde, Earl of Clarendon (202), whose historical works, abounding, though prejudiced, in political portraiture, and fixing the public attention on the study of national records, had, no doubt, considerable itifluenee on the future productions of literary men.
But, notwithstanding the exertions of these ornaments of their country, great mischicf had
been ilone by Uie loose wils and infidel writers, who nboundcd in the period of wliicii wc are speaking. At the commencement of the reiffn of William and Mary, the venom they had spread about was easily traceable, by its effects on large masses of the people. Leslie, the cieellent author of the Short and Easy Method with the Deists, lived at this lime, and lie has loft a striking account of the evils he deplored. In this work there is to bo found allusion to a circumstance which was about to produce a further change in the style of English prose. Periodicals, it informs us, were already common in the country (1): hitherto it appears, they had been ehicily devoted to purposes of evil; but they were now to be employed by the friends of licligion and good manners. Leslie himself was among the first to employ them for the purpose of correcting the bad principles which had, for so many years, been allowed to circulate through the ever-open channels of a cheap, as well as free, press; and his work called the Rehearsal, was productive of important benefits to the public (3).
But it was not till the appearance of Steele (300) and Addison (33G) that periodical literature appeared under the form , and in the spirit, which rendered it so generally acceptable to the world. It had hitherto been employed for a special and limited purpose ; and though the celebrated Defoe (349), Leslie, and some few others, had written with great vigour, they bad not been able to penetrate into the domestic retirement, or reform those corruptions of manners which had crept into every class of society. Steele started the Taller under the best circumstances for such an undertaking. The nation had been awakened to the feeling which renders literature acceptable, and, in some form or the other, necessary. Learning had come abroad; education was more attended to in the middle classes; and every tolerably well-informed person looked for novelties in information, or in wit. These were not to be searched for by the gay or the busy in bulky volumes, or grave treatises: the urbanity of literature was needed to make it relished, and much, consequently, had to be done, in point both of style and matter, before it could be brought into the forms adapted to popular tastes. Steele was eminently fitted to perform this work of remodelling — of throwing into short and sparkling sentences the wit and experience which might delight or improve the world. The Taller gained all the popularity which was to be expected; and it was followed by the Spectator which aided still more the cultivation of an elegant prose style. Addison possessed qualities which much better fitted him to write in prose, than to aim at the higher walks of poetry, lie was refined in thought, keenly alive to moral truth, and to propriety in manners. What imagination he had was, conversant with the milder images of nature, or with the objects which live in the pages of elegant literature, and he had spent his days in the enjoyment of the amenites of study and polished society. The Spectator became universally popular; and the national literature and language became imbued, through the means of this, and several other scries of essays, with a light and easy grace , hitherto unknown to it.
Thus the reign of Queen Anne was the third stage in the formation of English prose-literature. Since that period it has been subjected to all the influences of change; to varying tastes and fashion; to the power now of this, and now of that predominant genius: but it has not been so permanently affected as it manifestly was, first, at the Reformation; than, at the period of the Civil wars; and lastly, in the time of Addison, when it was broken up into the popular forms of which it has ever since retained the impression. Many, however, of the most valuable works in the language hove been produced since that age. The histories of Hume (383) and Gibbon(293), the learned researches of Warburton (1698—1779), and the productions, both
10
in history and pliilosopliy, of tlio present century (I), afford striking and most encouraging evidence, that while we still feel the good wrought for us by the elegant writers of Queen Anne's reign, we retain in the more serious departments of literature, at least some of the force of its earlier days.
Wo have thus briefly traced the progress of English poetry-, and prose literature, in order to afford the thinking and inquisitive reader some guide to future studies. However rich and noble English poetry, English prose, in its best forms, equals it both in vigour, grandeur, and variety. Grand and melodious in the pages of Jeremy Taylor, Hooker, and Milton, it is not less delicately elegant in those of Addison , nor less grave in those of Johnson , nor less admirably didactic in those of such writers as Locke, Biaekstone (2), and Paley (3).
(1) Not to forget the prose fictions of Walter Scott and those of our contemporaries Bulvver , Dickens , Douglas Jerrold , Thackeray, and a great many others; which had and have so great an effect on the general literature of England. The success of Walter Scott's works was marked by two effects onthegeneral literature of England. The old, foolish, gossiping stories, tasteless and dull as they were improbable, went entirely out of fashion: people couhl no longer read merely for a story, they required something more intellectual; so the silly absurdities of the quot;Minerva Pressquot; class of novels ceased. The second effect was, that numbers of writers who previously would have thought it degrading to compose novels, now that this department of literature was raised , turned their attention to it , and for a long time quot; fiction quot; to use the comparison of a celebrated female writer, was 44 the Aaron's rod of literature, swallowing up all the rest.quot; — The young reader should always bear in mind , that Sir Walter Scott would not be tied down in his historical studies to the actual chronology of history, and therefore introduced characters into some scenes that were dead before the event he described. He wrote to elucidate history by descriptions of costume, manners, and conversation — not to supersede it by an accurate narrative of events.
(2) To no writer on matters of public interest is England more indebted than to judge Biaekstone. This eminent civilian was born in London, in the month of July, 1723. He was made one of the judges of the land; and his conduct on the bench , and his Commentaries on the Lawn and Constit uiions of England i procured him the love and admiration of his country at large. He died in the month of February , 1780.
(3) This eminent divine and philosopher was born , in 1743. He obtained the distinction of being one of the clearest reasoners on the subject of religions evidence that the world had seen ; and his works , in this branch of inquiry, have given a permanency both to his usefulness and his reputation , which may be esteemed the best reward of a mind and labours like his. His death took place in May, 1805.
r
\
|
Athlison, Joseph , |
220 |
—227, 257—260 |
Cuiiiiinghum, Allan, |
. 4G3 |
—105 | |
|
Akensidc, Mark, . |
nr.a |
-354 |
Paries, John, . |
. GO— |
70 | |
|
Ainsworlh, W. II,, . |
500 |
-505 |
Defoe, Daniel, |
. 240 |
—25.1 | |
|
Ancient ballads of llic |
hor- |
Penliain, John, . |
• 172 | |||
|
defers of England |
and |
Dibdin, Gharles, |
. 404 |
-105 | ||
|
Scotland .... |
10- |
-23 |
Dickens, Charles, |
. 520 |
—525 | |
|
Ancient Scottish pojmlai |
hal- |
Disraeli, Benjamin, . |
. 107 |
—500 | ||
|
lads and sonjjs . . |
27- |
-2S) |
Disraeli, I saac, . |
. 533 |
—541 | |
|
Armstrong, John, . |
338 |
—3:!9 |
Donne, John. . . . |
. 70- |
-71 | |
|
Itacon, Lord, . . . |
137 |
—141 |
Douglas, Gawain, . |
. 27- |
-28 | |
|
Harhnur, John, . |
23— |
25 |
Draijloa , Michael, . . |
. G2- |
-05 | |
|
Ilarclut/, lloliert , . |
374 |
Drummond, William , . |
. 7i | |||
|
Burrow, Isaac, . |
1 82- |
— 18(5 |
Dri/dea, John, . . . |
. 175 |
— 179 | |
|
liaylij, '1'. II., . . |
452- |
— 453 |
Dunbar, AVilliam, . |
. 2Ü | ||
|
Bcullie, James, . . |
381 |
-38.1 |
Earle, John , . . . |
. 100 |
-197 | |
|
Beaumont, Krancis, |
127- |
— 12!) |
Eaily Scottish Poetiy . |
. 23- |
-27 | |
|
Blair, lliijjh , . . |
308 |
-317 |
h'rskine, T., . . . . |
. 574 |
— 578 | |
|
Blair, lluliert, |
32 G |
-329 |
Falconer, William, |
. 304 |
— 300 | |
|
11 loomf eld, Kohert, |
lt;908 |
Fergusson, Robert, . |
. 305 |
- 300 | ||
|
lioswcll, Alexander, |
4Ü1 |
Fieldiny, Henry, . . |
. 203 |
— 271 | ||
|
Brougham, I.ord, . |
570 |
Fletcher, John, . . . |
. 127 |
-12!) | ||
|
Bruce, Michael, . . |
3f)l- |
-305 |
Fo.r, C. J...... |
. 555 |
— 550 | |
|
Bulwcr, K. 1,., . . |
505 |
-511 |
Fuller, Thomas, . . . |
. 1!)7 |
—202 | |
|
Burke, K.. |
317- |
-321 |
Gall, Richard, . . . |
. 402 |
—'103 | |
|
Burnet, Thomas, |
188 |
— i!)0 |
tiafl, John, .... |
. 242 |
— 244 | |
|
Burnet, (iilhert, . |
218 |
Gibbon, Edward, |
. 293 |
—300 | ||
|
Bunts, Kohert, . . |
304 |
—401 |
Glossary and Notes . . |
. 30- |
-47. | |
|
Butler, Samuel, . . |
1 «5 |
-172 |
Goldsmith , ()., . |
. 280 |
-282 | |
|
Bi/ron, Lord, . . |
440 |
— 4 S (i |
Gower, John , . . |
4—0 | ||
|
£ o 5 |
427 |
—430 |
Grainger, Jarnes, |
350 |
—351) | |
|
Canning, G. , . . |
505 |
—5G8 |
Grut tan, II., . |
550 |
—55!) | |
|
Carleton, William, |
477 |
— 47!) |
Gray, Thomas, . |
. 343 |
—348 | |
|
Carlylc, T., . . . |
588 |
— 589 |
Hall, Joseph , . . . |
. 71- |
-72 , | |
|
Cawthorn, J., |
351 |
—351 |
Hallam, Henry, . . . |
. 532 |
- 533 | |
|
Chambers, and li |
54 i |
— 553 |
Hamilton, William, |
. 378 |
—37!) | |
|
Chnthavi, liarl of, . |
553 |
—555 |
Hazlitt, W., .... |
585 |
—588 | |
|
Chalterton, Thomas, |
370 |
—372 |
Heylin, Peter, |
. 104 |
— 190 | |
|
Chaucer, (lOcllVcy, . |
(j— |
13, 35—37 |
Hoej'j, James, |
. 450 |
—400 | |
|
Clarendon, lord, . |
202 |
—20U |
Hooker, Uichard , |
130 |
— 137 | |
|
Clarke, K. I)., . . |
578 |
—580 |
Howard, E;irl of Sum ■, |
15- |
-10 | |
|
Coleridge , S. T., . |
420 |
—424 |
Hume, David , . . . |
. 283 |
—280 | |
|
Collins, William, . |
348 |
—351 |
James, G. 1'. 1!. , . |
. 484 |
—400 | |
|
Congreve, William , |
227 |
—22!! |
James I, of Scotland, |
. 25 | ||
|
Cowley, Abraham, . |
172 |
— 1 7'lt; |
Jerruld, Douglas, . |
490 |
—407 | |
|
Cowpcr, William, . Crabhe. George. . |
3GG |
— 3711 |
\ Johnson, Samuel |
:i71 |
__•) | |
|
405 |
—401! |
! Joiison . I5cn |
. 72- |
-74 , | ||
|
Junius . Kails, JipIim, . /.iinib, diaries, Lungland, llulicrl or William, . . Ley den , Julin , l.inguril, .lolI ii, LocLe, Jolin, . Lyttlclon, Lord v .Viicatilay, Thoinus Jgt;. Mackintosh , James, Mucneill, Hector, . Aldcphersott, James, Malloch, or Mullet, Da\ M (in devil, John, Mdnilcvillc, ISernard de, Marlowe, C., . Marryat, 1''., . Marveil, Andrew, Massinger, P., . May lie , John , Miclde, W. J., . Milton, J., iMinot, Lawrence, Montgomery, James, Moor, James , Moore., Edward , . Moore, Thomas, . More, Thomas, . Motherwell, William, Vndie, U., . . Seville, Henry, . Nieoll, llohert. . 0'Council, D., . Olwny, Thomas, I'arnell, Thomas, Peel, I!..... Percy, Thomas, . I'/iili/is, Ambrose, I'h Hi/is, John, . P inker ton, John, Pitt, William, . Pom fret, John, . J'ope, Alexander, Prior, Mallhew , Procter, I!. W., . |
;}21—32(gt; 4r. 1 — 452 4—Ü 43G—438 529—532 215—217 333—33« 453—457. 541—514 526 -520 457-45» 383—304 33G—33« 30-33 300—304 7G—79 470—484 174—175 120—131 458 380—381 155—105, 20(i—208 1—2 412—415 377—378 339—341 430—430 37—38 405—466 580—581 208—210 400 568—570 194 232—233 573—574 359—362 224—220 229—230 525—520 550—505 230—232 244—248, 304 — 305 221—223 449—451 |
Haleiyh, Waller, . Ramsuij, Allan, . liobertson, William, Rogers , Samuel , . Hose (nit (lion , Karl of, lioss, Alexander, . Rone, Nicholas, , Saehville, Charles, Sackville, Thomas, . Scott, Walter, . Scottish ](oetry and |poets Shakespeare, William, Shelley, 1'. IS. , . . Shcnstone, William, Sidney, Philip, , . S kelt on , John, . . Skinner, John , . Smollett , T. (i., South, llohert, . Southey, llohert, . Spenser, lidmund, Stanhope, Earl of Ches field, ..... Steele, llichaid , . Sterne, Lawrence, . Swift, Jonathan , . TaniKihill, llohert, . Taylor , Jeremy , . Temple, William, . Thackeray , W. M. , Thomson, James, Tic I el I, Thomas , Tillotson, John, . . Waller, Edmund, . IVainer, William, . tVarren, Samuel, IValts , Isaac, . . IFebster, John , . . White, Henry K., . Wichliffe , John de , Ifilkie, William, Wither, George, . ITolcot, John , . Wordsworth, William W(j((t, Thomas, . Yoiiik/ , Ivlward , cr- |
132 loi 374—370 280-203 400—408 192—103 370 -377 228 193 51 415—420, 107 177 372—400 05—00, 70 123 440—450 341—343 134-135 13—15 396—308 279—280, 354 356 190—102 424—420 52—00 305—309 200—203 273—279 223—224 , 252- 257 400-461 170—182 210 -214 511—516 320—333 241—212 186—188 153—145 60—61 517—520 233—235 131—132 438—440 33—35 379—380 74—70 403—404 409—412 15 235—241 |
FIRST PERIOD.
CJIAUCJill AND II1S TIMES.
Leefde tot in (1 bekemle cngelscl Battle of Hnlid (1339); The Sea Wester-Sehelde) on his Expediti fight with the boven die van zi geest, welke het van vroegeren i moedelijk van ] sehillen om op allen gedrukt.
* Edward, In Braban With ui And in ih Ordains lie 7'o time
Now God, Grant liim His liori And Mary Save our 1 Fro sorr
Thus in li Wlierc lie For to I Now no la Hot. unto To coml
bekende0 ^ ^ ^
Battle of Kalidon Hill (1333); ï|le Hatüc r Bannnnkl.n^ /A ;,. J', dichtstnkkon: The
(1339); The Sea-fight in the Swine, or Zwi, (ten .Sn ^ I. -f' of V™lt;1
Wester-Sehelde) (1340); The Siege of Tournav fl'Um Th» T r iquot; . a^and ■ anl1 deu mond van de on his Expedition in 1346; The siege of dlMMÏköV Tt jtlfl, M Kiu« at La Horuo .
fight with the Spaniards off Winchelsea n350^ on t i - r o ■ Nev,Ile 3 Cross (1346); The Sea-boven die van zijn tijdgenooten en voorganquot;ers nit door kracii^vafi ■quot;tTtt,-1352^ 'i'0 Be(licllt(;n quot;mnten geest, welke het geheel doorstralen. zijn gelik aan die vï. tV = ''lt;= krügshaKige toon en
van vroegeren en eenigzins lateren tiid^ taal en stnl V bcWou-baHaden van de onbekende schrijvers moedelijk van 1333 tof 1352 . daar quot;ii in voi'm en ^^ ZU1Ve^r-^!110' sch™f do gedichten ver-
schillen om op een gelijken tijd geschreven te Win Zii l' ilS?quot; 1quot;^ te Zeel' vnn clklln'ler ver-allen gedrukt. fe J Jquot; gesenreven te zijn. Z.j werden m 1781 gedeeltelijk en in 1796 en 1823
Kdward's first
|
* Edward, owre comely king, In Brahand lias liis woning With Itiuny comely kniglil; And in that land, trucly to tell. Ordains lie still for to dwell To time lie tliink to figlit. Now God, that is of mightcs mast, Grant liim grace of the Holy Ghast His heritage to win; And Mary Moder, of mercy free. Save our king and his meny Fro sorrow, shame, and sin. Thus in Brahand has he heen Where he before was seldom s'een lor to prove f heir J ajn/s ■ Now no langer will he spare, Bot unto France fast will he faro To comfort him with grapes. |
Furth he fared into France, God save him fro mischance, And all his company.' The nohle Duke of Brahand With him went into that land, lieady to live or die. rhen the rich JJower de lice Wan there full little price; Fast he fled for feard: I lie right heir of that countree \s comen, with all his knightes free, To shake him hy the beard. Sir Philip the Valuys Wit his men in t/io days '1 o buttle hud he thought: He hade his men hem purvey Withouten langer delay ; But he ne held it nought. |
1
The spelling modernised , where it does not affect the rhyme or rvthrn.
|
Ho brought folk full great won, Aye seven agains one, That full well weaponod were , JJot soon when he licunl ascnj That king Edward was near thereby, Then durst he nought come near. In that morning fell a mist, And when our Englishmen it wist , It changed all their cheer ; Our king unto God made his hoon, And Cod sent him good comfort soon ; The wcader wex full clear. Our king and his men held the field Stalworthly with spear and shield , And thought to win his right; With lordes and with knightes keen , And oilier doughty men bydeen That war full frek to fight. When Sir I'hilip of France heard tell That king Edward in field wald dwell, Then gained him no glee; lie traisted of no better boot, Dot both on horse and on foot He hasted him to flee. It seemed he was feared for strokes When he did fell his greale oaks Oboat his pavilioun ; Abated was then all his pride , Kor langer there durst he nought hide; His boast was brought all down. |
The king of Bcme had cares cold, That was full hardy and bold A steed to umstride ; lie and the king als of Naverne War fair feared in the fern Their herids for to hide. Ami leves well it is no lie. Anil field hat Flemangnj That king Edward was in , AVilh princes that were stiff and hold. Anil dukes that were doughty told In battle to begin. The princes that were rich on raw Gert nahers strike , and trumpes hlaw. And made mirth at their might, Both alblast and many a bow War ready railed upon a row, And full frek for to fight. Gladly they gave meat and drink. So that they suld the better swink 1 The tuight men that there were. Sir Philip of France fled for doubt, Anil hied him hamc with all his rout , Coward! God give him care! For there then had the lily flower Lorn all halehj his honour. That so gat fled for feard ; Bot our king Edward come full still fVhi'n that he trowed no harm him till. And keejied him in the beard. |
Een monnik , woonde waarschijnlijk in het Wcslcn van Engeland nabij dc Malvern Hills (zic bladz. 3 , kol. 1, reg. 4); volgens anderen was hij leeranr le Oxford. Hij is de eerste hekeldichter en oorspronkelijke schrijver van Engeland. — Men heeft van hem: The Vision of William concerning Piers or Peter Ploughman (Visio Willielmi do Petro Plouhman). Piers Ploughman's Creed wordt door sommigen voor zijn werk gehouden j anderen schrijven dit stuk evenwel aan een onbekenden dichter toe. The Vision is eer een aaneenschakeling van verhalen, dan een geheel: des schrijvers doel was dc hinderpalen en verzoekingen , waaraan de mensch in dit leven is blootgesteld , aan tc toonen en dit vooral in hekelenden geest te doen. Mij valt de ondeugden en misbruiken van zijn tijd aan ; maar rigt zijn aanval hoofdzakelijk tegen dc kerk eu de geestelijke orden. Hij schreef vermoedelijk omstreeks en zijn stukken werden in
1550 (3 maal), 1561 en 1813 te Londen gedrukt.
The vision of William conccrning Piers or Peter Ploughman. (1)
As I a sheep were ; In habit as an hermit Unholy of werkes,
In a summer season ,
When soft was the sun, I shoop me into shrowds
The spelling modernised in all eases in which there can be no doubt that the pronunciation is not thereby alTecicd.
|
Went wide in this world Wonders to hear; Ac on a May morwening On Malvern hills Mc hefel a ferly. Of fairy mc thought. / was weanj f or-wandered , And w«nt me to rest Under a brood bank , By a burn's side ; And as I lay and leaned , And looked on the waters, I slombered into a sleeping, It swayed so mtinj. Then gan 1 meten A marvellous sweven, That I was in a wilderness , Wist I never where; Anil, as I hehcld into the cast On high to the sun , ƒ seiyh a tower on a loft Frieliche ymahed, A deep dale beneath , A donjon therein, Willi deep ditches and darke, And dreadful of sight. A fair field full of folk Found I there between , Of all manner óf men , The mean and the rich. Werking and wandering As the world asketh. Some putten hem to the plough, Play den full seld, In setting and sowing Swonlen full hard , And wonnen that wasters With gluttony destroyeth. And some putten hem to pride, Apparelled hem thereafter. In countenance of clothing Comen deguised, In prayers and penances Putten hem many, All for the love of our Lord Liveden full strait. In hope to have after Ileaven-riehe bliss; As anchors and hcremitcs That holden hem in Mr cells, And coveten nought in country To carryen about, For no Ulcerous liflode llir likame to please. And some chosen chaffer: They chevedeu the better. As it seemeth to our sight That stoich men thriveth, And some murths to malie As minslralles con , And yeten gold with liir ylee, |
Guiltless, 1 lieve. Ac japers and jauyellers Judas' children, Fcignen hem fantasies And fools hem iiiakelh. And hun hir wit at will To werken if they wold. That Poul preachcth of hem I wol vat jireve it here : Hut qui loquitur turpiloquium Is Jupiter's hine. Uidders and beggars Fast about yedc, AVith her bellies and hir hags Of bread full y-cramnicd, Puiteden for hir food, Foughten at the ale: In gluttony, God wot, Go they to bed , And risen with rihaadry , Tho liobcrd's knaves; Sleep and sorry slewth Suct'h hem ever. I'ilgrims and palmers Plighten hem togider Kor to seeken Saint Jame And saintes at Home: They went en forth in hir way With many wise tales. And hadden leave to lien All hir life after. I seiyh some that seiden They had y-soughl saints : 3o each a tale that they told llir tongue was tempered to lie More than to say sooth , It seemed by hir speech. Hermits on an heap, With hooked staves, Wenten to Walsingham , And hir wenches after; Great loobies and long, That loth were to swink , Clothed hem in copes To be knowen from other, And shopen hem hermits llir ease to have. I found there frcres, All the four orders. Preaching the people For profit of hem selve: Glosed the gospel As hem good liked; For coretise of copes Construed it as they would. Many of those master freres ISow clolhcn hem at liking For hir money and hir merchandize Marchen togeders. For sith charity hath been chapman, And chief to shrive lords , |
4
|
Many ferlie» hun fallen In a few years: But holy church and hi Hold heltcr tojjcdcrs, The most mischief on mould Is mounting well fast. There preached a pardoner, As lie a priest were; Broii(;lit forth a hull With many bishops' seals, And said tiiat himself might Assoilen hem all, Of falsehede of fasting , Of avowes y-hroken. Lcwed men leved it well , And liked his words; Cornen up kneeling To kissen his hulls: lie houehed hem with his brevet ^ And bleared hir eye», And rought with his ragman Hinges and brooches. * • Then turned I me forth, And talked to myself Of the falsehede of this folk , How faithless they weren. And as 1 went by the way Weeping for sorrow, I see a seely man me by Opon the plough hangen. Ills coat was of a clout That cury was y ealled; His hood was full of holes, And his hair out; AV ith his knopped shoon Clouted full thick. His ton toleden out As he the lond treated : |
His liosen overhongen his hoc-shynes On everich a side. All beslomered in fen As he the plough followed. Twct/ mittens as meter Made all of clouts. The fingers weren for-weard And full of fen honged. This whit wasled in the feen Almost to the ancle; Four rot he ren him beforn , That feeble were worthy ; Men might reckon each a rib So rent fid they weren. His wife walked him with , With a long goad, In a culled coat Cutted lull high , Wrapped in a winnow sheet To wearen her fro weders, Barefoot on the bare ice, That the blood followed. And at bet land's end lath A little crom bolle. And thereon lay a little child Lapped in clouls , And tucgn of Iwey years old Opon another side. And all they tongen o song , That sorrow was to hearen ; They erieden all o cry , A careful note. The seely man sighed sore, And said, quot;Children, beth still.quot; This man looked opmi me, And Icet the plough stonden ; And said, quot;Seely man, Why sighest thou so hard? Gif they lach life lode, Lene thee ich will Swich good as fiquot;d hath sent Go we , leve brother.quot; * |
Tijdgenoot van Chaueer. .net «ien hij te Oxford konnis mankte . werd vcmocrldakinmG uUeen oude familie, Ie Stitcnham of Sittenham, in Yorkshire, geboren en overleed in MOS of 140^. II lecme aan het hof van Richard II, en was , zoo als hieronder blijkt een vriend van Cj1'quot;quot;'cr,1°^riiver vim drie Gower scnoemd werd: onder dien naam is hl] later het meest bekend. Hij is ,(lc s :■ ,v groote dichtstukken: Speculum Meditantis (Kranscli); Vu* Clamantis (L,,tUn)'1^ — Ue Spe-
op verzoek van Richard II geschreven; voorts eenigo kleine stukken en 50 JJalladcn 0 lansch'. ue ^
culutn Meditantis is verloren geraakt Zijn fransche balladen zijn r^rAmintis is één nitvoc-
ten onzigte van zijn kennis der fransche taal m een zeer gunstig bekt De Gon fessio A man' 19'f^i u.t dat rige zatnenspra.ik tu scben een minnaar en diens bieclitvader. Do biechtvader gaat va „ „„pil menscb
elke onzedelijkheid onvermijdelijk gestraft wordt en dat icJquot; gebikkig mninnar noodzakelijk « , .
ru christen moet wezen. Van dat oogpunt beschouwt hij de gebreken van ^^fc Kebj-
het hart van zijn biechteling en heldert zijn betoogen op door een reeks van . ^cee quot;rvan Aris-
]lt;er lijd door zijn biechteling aanleiding, om hem onderngt m dc chemie en m do wJ^3,°n voldoende totcles te geven. Zijn arbeid liceft dus een geheel zedelijke strekking, „tS
iichterlijkc kleur; elke bladzijde draagt nogthans blijken van zijn gcleeidhcid. Hij
5
ballailen vermoedelijk omstreeks 1350; zij zijn in 1818 met eenige Intijnschen te Londen gedrukt. Do Confessie Amantis voltooide hij in 1393; dit werk werd reeds in 1483 en later herliaaldc mnleu uitgegeven.
{From his confessio amantis.) The tale of the coffers and caskets.
|
In a croniquo thus 1 read; Ahout a kinffe, as must need , There was of kniahtes and segniors Great rout and eke of officers : Some of long time liim hadden served , And thoughten that they have deservetl Avancement, and gone without; And some also heen of tlie rout That comen but a while agon , And they avanced were anon. There olde men upon this thing , So as they durst, again the king Among liemseK complainen oft: llut there is nothing said so soft That it ne cometh out at last : The king it wist, and ah so fast As he which was of high prudence: He shape therefore an evidence Of hem thatplainen in thecaf, To know in whose default it was ; And all within his own intent, That none may wiste what it meant. Anon he let two coffers make Of one semblance, and of one make, So Uch , that, no life thilke throw That one may fro that other know : They were into his chamber brought , J!ut no one wot why they he wrought; And not/icless the king hath bede That they he set in privy stede , As he that was of wisdom sly; JVhan be thereto his time si/, All privily , that none it wist, His owne hondes that one chest Of fine gold , and of fineyjerie , 1 he which out of his treasury Was take, anon he filled full ; That other coffer of straw and mull, With stones he filld also: Thus he they full both two. So that erlich upon a day He had within , where he lay, There should be to form his bed A hoard upset and faire spread : And than he let the colTers fct Upon the board , and did hem set. He knew the names well of tho 1 he which again him yrulched so , Both of bis chamber and of his hall; Anon and sente for hem all, And saide to bemin this wise: — There shall no man his hap despise : |
I wot well ye have longe served , And God wot w hat ye have deserved ; But if it is along on me Of that ye unavanccd be. Or dies if it belong on yow, The soothe shall be proved now : To stoppe with your evil word , I.o ! here two coffers on the hoard ; Chese which you list of botlie two , And wittelh well that one of tbo Is with tresor so full begon That T if ye happe therupon , Ye shall be riche men for ever : Now chese and take which yon is lever, But be ye well ware that ye take , For of that one I undertake There is no manner good therein Whereof ye mightcn profit win. Now goth together of one assent, And taketh your avisement; For , but I you this day avance , It stant upon your owne chance, All only in default of grace; So shall he showed in this place Opon you alle well afn That no defaulte shall be min. They kneelen all, and with one voice The king they thonken of ibis choice ; And after that they up arise , And gon aside and hern aviso; And at laste they accord (Whereof their tale to record To what issue they he fall) A knight shall spcake for hem all. He knccleth down unto the king. And saith that they upon this thing , Or for 1o win , or for to lese, Bean all a vised for to chese. Tho look this knight a ycrd on hotid And golh there as the coffers stond , And with assent of everich one He layeth liisyerde upon one. And saith the king how thilke same They chese in regnerdon by name, And prayeth him that they might it have. The king , which wold his honour save, When he had heard the common voice. Hath granted hem their owne choice. And took hem thereupon tho key, And , for he wold it were see What good they have as they suppose , He bade anon the cofl'cr unclose — |
6
|
Which was fulfilled with straw and stones! Thus he they served all at ones. The king then, in the same stede, Anon that oilier coffer undede, Whereas they sighen great richess , Well more than they eouthen guess. Lo! suith the king, now may ye see |
That there is no default in me; Forthj myself I wol aequite , Ami beareth ye your owne wife Of that fortune hath you refused. Thus was this wise king excused: And they left olï their evil speech . And mercy of their king beseech. ' |
|
*Antl greet well Chaucer when ye meet, As my disciple and my pocte; For in the ilonres of his youth, In sondry wise, as be well couth. Of dilties and of songes glade, The which be for my sake made, The land fulfilled is over all ; Whereof lo him in special , Above all other, I am most hold ; |
Forthtj now in his dayes old Thou shalle him tell quot;this message, That he upon bis latter age , To set an end of all bis wcrk , As be which is mine ownc clerk , Do make bis Testament of Love, As thou bast done thy shrift above , So that my court it may record. |
Do hervormer on vnder van do engelsche letterkunde, werd, zoonis hij ^
te Londen geboren (1328); hij studeerde eerst Ie Cambridge en daarna te quot;fXldre.rkwl «wschnn? aan bet liof verkeerd te hebben. Voor dien tijd bad bij zich als dicbtel , iuvoerl.et!ten 'der
lijk dnurdoor in gunst bij het hof. Hij was in do haven van \ P1 g . , ' trebruikt doch
wol , enz. onder Eduard 111. Door dien vorst werd bij in onderscheiden fcezan PP k eenoodzaakt geraakte later, doordien hij zich in cenige ongcreg^dhed™ ' .Iquot;0^j1''n ](eerdf toen naar
Engeland te verlaten. Hij begaf zich naar Holland, bield zich daar eemgen J P . betrekkinKen zijn vaderland terug. Later kwam hij weCr in gunst bij het bof, bcklceddc on ?rnle3 (27). Th(.
en overleed volgens zijn grafschrift in 1400. Hij schreef in poezie; ^ ; c ^. legendes (10); Romaunt of tbe Kose ; Troilus and Creseide , m 1'ive books; leslament of ' Chaucer's üreame •
A Praise of Women; La Belle Dame Sons Mercy. A Dialogue ; The assembte 0f L^lcSn ■ ,C.hquot;r7J The Assemble of Foules ; Of the Cuekowe and tbe N^btitignle ; How 1 yte 13 dc .
herte; Verses; Gode Counsaile of Chancer; Chaucer's A. B, C, ^Ltlpino The iVonVe
Queue Annelida and False Arcite; Complaints (4); The lamentacion of Mquot;' . iL j ' t in proza: aid the Leafe; Tbe Court of Love; The House of Fame in three 1)0Jk,3 iJnncfusmadefoi- hisCom-The Canterbury Tales (2); The Doke of Consolacion of Philosophic, which tlia Canterbury Tales in
forte and Consolacion; Treatise on tbe Astrolabe; The Testament of Love. lt; ,,, ] , mi Mer-
poëzie betwijfelt men of The Coke's tale of Oamelyn ; The Plowman's Prologu ^nl e of the Pa -chant's Second Tale, or Tbe History of Beryn ; tbe Prologue; 01'' Thlm:^nacJ0Ve3tukken wel door donere and Tapsterc at the Inn at Canterbury, benevens ecnige v!)n ornomen frasment)
beni geschreven zijn. The Romaunt of tbe Kose is (zie de noot bij het ^ nol
een vertaling nit het Fransch : The Troilus and Creseide; Ine Legend g gt; ,, • _
meer andere dichtstukken, zijn ook niet geheel oorspronkelijk , üf ^j6-1 na plc een vertaling van
ken der oudheid ontleend. In proza is The Poke of Consolacion of Philosop 11 , Mel.|j(;us cen vcrta]ing Boethius do Consolatione Philosophiai; in de Canterbury Tales is The Tale .u ^ Collsoiatione
nit het Franseh, cn The Testament of Love klaarblijkelijk een navolging , t t j Canterbury
Philospbi». The Coke's Tale; The Squire's Tale; The tale of Sir lhoPns
Talcs, in poëzie) zijn slechts of gedeeltelijk oHen halven afgewerkt. Door de Cant y verhcvene en roerendc
den mcesten roem ; bij voltooide ze , zooals zij thans zijn , omstreeks USd. /^ zijn . , ijn in zijn
tnferielcn, en dc schrijver toont dat hem satire, humor en menschenkennisnictvreemü zyn. in^y verbeeldingskracht, schildering en kleuring van tafcreelen en geest van quot;P'quot;quot;1' J.hrevcn Qyer llcl aigc-diebters overtroffen. The House of Fame werd vermoedelijk omstieeks 1. 7 g toeschrijven
meen is Chauccr zeer kieseh ; het onkiesehe dat men bij hem mogt aantreffci , ^ ^ acoltelyk
aan do eeuw, waarin hij leefde, dan aan zijn levenswijze, /ijn quot;quot;ken r, ,
herhaalde malen gedrukt: onder anderen in 1475 of 1470, 1491 , 1490, • , gt;
1C02 , 1721 , 1775 , 1778 , 1793 , 1853.
7
The Prologue to the tDantcrhury tnle^
|
Wlianne that April wltli liis shores sote TJiedroughte of March liath perccd to tlie rote , And hallicd every veine in swiche lieour , Of wliiehe vertuc engendrcd is tlie flour; Wlian /.npliirus eke with his sole lirelhe Enspired hath in every holt and hethe The tendre croppes , and the yonge sonnc Hath in the Kam his halfe cours i/roune, And snialeyou/f.? maken melodie , That slepen alle night with open eye, So priketl) hem nature in hir coragcs. Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages, And palineres for to seken strange strondes. To servv hahrcs coat he in sondry londes; And specially from every shire's ende Of Engielond to Cantcrhiiry they wende, The holy lilissful martyr for to scke That hem hath holpen whan that they were seke, Uefelle that in that scson on a day, In Southwerk at the Tahard as 1 lay, Rcdy to wenden on my pilgrimage To Canterbury with devoute courage, y\t night was come into that hostelrio Wei nine-and-twenty in a compagnie Of sondry folk, hy aventure yfullc In felawship, and pilgrimes were they alle That toward Cantcrhiiry walden ride. The chamhres and the stables weren wide, And wel we weren escd at te beste. And shortly when the sonne was gon to reste , Sobadde I spoken with hem everich on, That I was of hir felawship anon, And made forword erly for to rise. To take oure way ther, as I you devise. But natheles while I have time and space , Or that I fortber in t his tale pace , I\Ie thinketh it accordant to reson To tellen you alle the condition Of eche of hem. so as it semed me , And whiche they weren , and of what degre, And eke in w hat araic that they were inne; And at a knight than wol I firstc beginne. A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man, That fro the time that he firste began To riden out, he loved cbivalrie, Trouthe and honour., fredorn and curtesie. Ful worthy was he in his lordes verrc, And therto hadde be ridden , no man fcrre As well in Cristendom as in Ilethenesse, And ever honoured for bis worthinesse. At Ahsandre he was when it was wonnc , Fill lt;gt;Jti n time he hadde the hord begonne Ahoven alle nations in 1'race : In Lettowe hadde he rejsed and in Uuce, No Crislen man so ofte of his degre: In Gernade at the siege eke hadde be he Of Algesir, and ridden in Belmarie: |
At Leijes was he, and at Satalie, Whan they were wonne; and in the Crete See At many a noble armee hadde bo be. At mortal batailles hadde he ben fiftene , And foughten for our faith at Tramissene In listcs thries, and aij slain bis fo. This illce worthy Knight hadde hen also Some time with the Lord of I'alatie Agon another llethen in Turkie, And evermore be hadde a sovereinejm'j, And though that he was worthy, he was wise, And of hisporf as meke as is a rnayde. lie never yet no vilanie ne fayde In alle his lif unto no inane re wight: lie was a veraij par fit gentil Knight. liutfor to tellen you of his araic. His hors was good , hut he ne was not gaie. Of fustian he wered a gipon Alle hesmotred with his hahergeon, For be was late ycotne fro his viage, And wente for to don his pilgrimage. With him ther was his sonc, a yonge SgoiER , A lover and a lusty bacbeler. With loekes crull as they were laide in presse; Of twenty yere of age he was, I yesse. Of bis stature he was of even lengthe. And wonderly deliver, and grete of strengtbe: And he hadde be sometime in chevachie In Flaunders , in Artois, and in Picardie, And borne him wel, as of a litel spare, In hope to stonden in his ladies grace. Emhrouded was he, as it were a mede Alle full of fresshe floures white and rede: Singing he was or Jioyting alle the day: lie was as fresshe as is the moneth of May: Short «as his youne, with sieves long and wide; Wel coude bositleon hors, and fayre ride: lie coude songes make, and wel endite. Juste and eke dance, and wel poiirtraie and write So bote he loved, that hy nightertale He slep no more than doth the nightingale: Carteis he was , lowly and servisablc, And carf before bis fader at the table. A Yeman hadde he, and servantes no mo At that time, for him laste to ride so. And be was cladde in rote and hade of grene ; A shefe of peacock arwes bright and kene Under his bell he hare full Ihriftihj: Wel coude he dresse bis takel yemanly : His arwes drouped not with fetberes lowe, And in his bond be bare a mighty bowc. A not-hed hadde be, with a broune visage: Ol wood craft eoade he wel alle the usage : Upon his arme he bare a gaie bracer, And by his side a swerd and a bokeler, And on that other side a gaie daggere , I/arneiscd wcl, and sharp as point of spere: |
8
|
V Cristofrc on liis brcst of silver shcnc. An borne lie bare, Uic baudrik was of grenc : A lorstcr was be sothehj, as 1 gcssc. Tber was also a Nonno, a 1'iuoresse , I'liat of bire siniliiijf was ful siniplc and coy , Hire irrelest otbe n'as but by Seint Eloy , And siic was clepcd Madam Eglentine; Ful wol sbe sange tbe service dcvine , Entuncd in bire nose ful swclely; And Froncbe sbe spake ful fayre and Ichshj, After tbe seole of Stratford atte liowe, For Frcncbe of Paris was to bire unknowe; At mete was sbe wel ytaugbte witballe, Sbe lette no morsel from bire lippes talle, Ne wette bire fingres in bire suuee dene; AVel coude sbe earie a morsel, and wel kepe, Tbatte no drope ne fell upon hire brcU: In curtesiewas sette ful mocbe lure lest: Hire over lippe wiped sbe so clene, Tbat in bire cuppe was no ferUiing sane Of prese wben siie dronken badde lure draught; Full scinely after bire mete sbe raughc : And sikerly sbe was of grete disport, And ful pleasant and amiable of port, And veined bire to contrefetan cbere Of court and ben estatelicb of manere, And to ben bolden digue of reverence. But for to spoken of biro conscience, Sbe was so cbaritable and so pilous Sbe wolde wepe if tbat sbesaw a mous Cauj'bte in a trappe if it were ded or bledde. Of smale boundes badde sbe, tbat sbe fedde With rested flesb , and milk , and wastel brede. But sore wept sbe if on of hem were dede, Or if men smote it with a yerde sinert; And all was conscience and tendre berte. Ful scmely hire wimple ypinehed was, Hire nose tret is, hire eyen grey as S'as ; Hire mouth full smale, and thcrfo solt and led , But sikerly sbe badde a fayre forehed r It was almost a spanne brode. I trowe, For hardily sbe was not undergrowe. Ful fetise was hire cloke , as 1 was ware. Of smale corall al.oute hire arm she bare A pair of bedes gauded all with grenc, And thereon heng a broche of gold ful shene On whiche was first ywritten acrouned A, And after Amor vinr.it omnia. Another Nonne also with hire badde she That was her chapclleine, and i'reestes thre, A MONK tber was, a faire for tbe matstne, An out-rider tbat loved venerie ; A manly man to ben an abbot able •, Ful many a deinte hors badde be in ^hlc , And whan be rode , men mighte his brulel here Gingeling in a whistling wind , as c ere And eke as londo as .loth the ehapell belle Tlmr ts this lord was keper ol the celle. The reule of Seint Maure and of Seint Beneit, Bccause tbat it was olde and somdetc strcit, This ilke monk lette oMe tbingespace , |
And belde after the newc world the trace. He yovc not of the text a pulled lien That saith that hunters ben not holy men , No tbat a monk whan be is rckkeles Is like to a fish that is waterles; This is to say , a monk out of his cloistre; This ilke text held be not worth an oistre; Audi say his opinion was good. What' shulde be studie and make bimselven wood Upon a hook in cloistre alway to pore. Or swinken with his hondes, and lahoure , As Austin bit? how shal tbe world he served ? Let Austin have his swink to him reserved: Therfore he was a prickasoure a right. Grcihoundes he badde as swiftasfoul of flight. Of pricking and of bunting for the hare Was all his lust; for no cost wolde he spare. I saw his sieves pnrfiled at the bond With sris, and that the finest of the lond 5 And for to fasten bis hood under his chinne He badde of gold ywrought a curious pinne ; ,V love knotte in the gretcr ende tber was : His bed was balled , and shone as any glas; And eke bis face, as it hadde ben anoint; He was a lord ful fat, and in good point: Ills eyen stepe, and rolling m his hed , That steined as a forneis of a led ; His bootcs souple, his hors in gret estat; Now certainly be was a fayre prelat: He was not pale as a/or;)in«/gost; A fat swan loved he best of any rost: His palfrey was as broune as is a bcry. A Frere tber was, a wanton and a mcry, A limitour, a tul solempne man ; In all tbe ordros foure is non that can So mocbe of daliance and fayre langage. He badde ymade ful many a manage Of yonge wimmen, at bis owen cost; Until his ordre he was a noble post. Ful wel beloved and familier was lie With frankeleins over all in h'scontrcc. And eke with worthy wimmen ol the I oun, For be had power of confession. As saide bimsclfe, more than a curat, For of his ordre he was a linccnciat. Ful swelely berde be confession , And plesant was his absolution. He was an esy man to give penance Tber as be wiste to han a good pitance , For unto a poure ordre for to give Is sifne tbat a man is wel yshnve ; For if he gave he dorste make avant He wiste that a man was repentant; For many a man so bard is of bis hcrte, He may not wepe although lum sore smcrte ; Therfore in stede of weping and praicres Men mote give silver to thepourcfrercs His tippet was ayfarsed ful of knives And pinncs for to given fayre wives: And certainly be badde a mcry note ; Wei coudc he singe and plaicn on a rote. |
9
|
Of yi'ddingt's ho bare utterly the (iris : His nekke was white us tlie Huur de lis; Tlierlo he stronjj was as a chain|)ioiin, And knew wel ihe tavernes in every toun . And every hosteler and gay tapsterc, lietter than a lazar or a hegjjerc ; For unto swiche a worthy man as he Aecordeth nought, as hy Ids faculte To haven with sike la/.ars acquaintance : It is not honest, it may not avance. As for to delen with no swiche pouraille, l!ut all with riche and sellers of vitaille. Anil over all, ther as profit shuld arise. Cnrteis he was, and lowly of servise : Ther n'as no man no wher so vertuous ; He was the hoste heggor in all his ho as , Ami gave a eertaine fcrme for the grant Non of his hretheren came in his haunt: Por though a widewe hadde hut a shoo , So plesant was his In priuci/no) (Tot wold he have a ferthing or lie went; Hispourchas was wel hotter than his rent: And rage he coude as it hadde hen a whelp ; In lovedayes ther coude he mochel help ; For ther was lie nat like a cloisterero, With thredhare cope , as is a poure scolerr, But he was like a maister or a pope : Of double worsted was his semicope, That round was as a holle out of thepresse. Somwhat lie lisped for his wantonnosse To make his English swete upon his tonge; And in his harping, whan that he hadde songe , His eyen twinkeled in liis hod aright As don the storrcs in a frostv night. This worthy limitour was clepod Huherd. a Merchant was ther with a forked herd , In mottelee, and highe on hors he sat, And on his lied a Faundrish hever hat. His hootes elapsed fayre and fetisly ; His resons spake he ful solempnely, Satining alway the enerese of his winning; He Avoid the see were kept for any thing Botwixen Middelhurgh and Orewell. Wei coud he in eschamjes .theides selle. This worthy man full wol his wit hesette ; Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, So stedefastly diddo lie his governance With his hargeines and with his chevisance. Forsotho he was a worthy man withalle, But soth to sayn 1 n'ot how men him calle. A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also, lhat unto logike Itadde long ygo. As lone was his hois as is a rake , And ho was not right fat 1 undertake , But lokeil holwe, and therto soberly. Ful thredhare was his orerest eourtepj, For he hadde goten him yet no benefice, No was nought worldly to have an olïice ; For him was lever ban at his beddos hed Twenty bokes clothed in blake or red Of Aristotle and his philosophic |
Then robes riche, or fidel of sautrie : But all he that be was a philosoplire Yet hadde he hut litel gold in cofre, Bui all that lie might of his frendes hente On bokes and on loming he it sponto , And hesily gan for tliesoules praio 01 hem that yave him whorwith to scolnic. 01 studio toke he moste cure and bode; Kol a word spake he more than was node. Am I that was said in forme and reverence, And short and quike, and lul of high sentence: Souning in moral vortuo was bisspoche, And gladly wolde ho lerne and gladly tecbo. a sergeant of the lawk ware and wise, That often hadde yben at I lie paruis. 1 hor was also , ful riche of excellence; Discrete be was, and of grete reverence ; Hi.1 seined swiche, his words were so wise: Justice he was lul often in assise By patent and hy ploino commissioun : For liis science and for liis high rcnoun 01 foes and robes had he many on : So grote a pourchasour was no w her nou. All was foe simple to him in effect, His pourchasing might, not ben in suspect. No whi r so besy a man as he ther n'as. And yet he semod hosier than he was. In tormes hadde he cas and domes Ma That fro the time of king Will, weren falie; Therto he coude endite and make a thing; Thor coude no night pine he at bis writing; And every statute coude he plaino by rote. He rode but homely in a medlee cote Girt v\ith a seint of silk with harres smalc. Of his array tell I no longer tale. A Fbahkelein was in (his compagnie; White was his herd as is the dayesie : Of his complexion he was sanguin ; Wei loved he by I he morwe a sop in win: To liven in delit was over his none , For be was Epicure's, owen sone , That bold opinion lhat plein dolit Was veraily folieito parfite. And bousholder, and that a grete was be ; Seint Julian he was in his contrce. His brede, his ale, was alway after on ; A hotter envy tied man was no wher non. Withouton hake mete never was bis bous Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous It snewed in his house of mote and drinke Of alio dointees that men coud of I hinke. After the sondry sesons of the ycro So changed ho his mete and bis soupere. Ful many a fat patrich hadde be in mcwe, And many a lireme, and many a luce in stowe. AVo was his coke but if his sauce wore Poinant and sharpe, and redy all bistere. His table dormaat in bis hallo alway Stodo redy covered alio the longo day. At sessions there was be lord and sire; Full often time bo was knight of the shire. |
2
10
|
An anelacc and a gipciere all of silk lien;; at his girdel white as morwe milk. A sherevc liadde he hen and a countour ; AVas no wher swichc a worthy vavasour. An Habeiidasher . and a CAi\pjj«teit, A AVeiibe , a Deter , and a Tapiser , Were alle yclotiied in o Uvcre Of a solempnc and jjrete fraternite. Ful freshe and newe hir gerc ypiked was ; llir knives were ychaped not with bras, But all with silver wrought ful elene and wel, llir girdeles and iiir poches every did; AVel semed cche of hern a fnyre burgeis To sitten in a gihl hallo on the dcis ; Everieh for the wisdom that lie can Was .shapelu ll for to hen an alderman. For catel hadden they ynough and rent, And eke hir wives wolde it wel assent; And eUes certainly they were to blame : Jt is ful fayre to hnn ycleped Madame, And for to {{on to visiles all before , And have a mantel reallich ybore. A Coke they hadden with hem for the nones , To hoile the ehikenes and the marie bones , And poudre marc haul, tart and galingale. AVel coude he knowe a draught ol London ale. He coude roste , and selhc , and hroile, and Irie, Maken morlrewes, and wel bake a pic ; But gret harm was it, as it lhougt;h te me , Thai on his shinne a mor mal hadde he. For blanc manger that made he with the best. A Shipman was ther wound fer by west; For ought I wolc he was of Dertomoutb : He rode upon a rouncie, as he conthc, All in a gounc of fahling to the knee. A dagger hanging by a /nshaddehec About his nckke under bis arm adoun ; The hole sonuner hadde made his hewe all broun : And ccrtaiidy he was a good felaw ; Ful many a draught of win he haddedraw From llurdeux ward while that the chapmen slope: Of nice conscience toke he no kepe. If that he faught and hadde the higher hand , By water he sent hem home to every land. But of his craft to reken wel his tides , His stremes and his slrandes him besides , His herberwe, his mone, and his lodemanage, Ther was non swiche from Hull nnto Cartage. Hardy he was, and wise , 1 undertake; With many a tempest hadde his herd lie shake: He knew wel alle the havens as they were Fro Gotland to (he Cape do Finislere, And every crekc in Bretagne and in Spaine : His barge ycleped was the Ma;;delaine. AA'itli us ther was a DoctoUR of I'nisiKE ; In all this world no was ther non him like To speke of phisike and of surgerie. For be was grounded in astronomic. He kept bis patient a ful grel del In houres by his magike naturel: Wel coude heforlunen the ascendent |
Of his images for his patient. He knew the cause of every maladie, Were it of cold , or bote, or moist, ordric. Anrl wher engendred , and of what humour; He wasaveray parfite practisour. The cause yknowe , and of bis arm theroie, Anon he gave to the sike uian his bote. Ful redy hadde he his apothecaries To send him dragges and bis leltuaries , For eche of hem made other for to winne; Hir frendship n'as not newe to beginne. AVel knew he the old Esculapius, And Dioscorides ivnd eke Rufus, Old Hippocrus, Jlali, and Gallien, Serapion, it (is is, and A vie en , Averrois. Damascene , and Constant! n , Bernard, and Gatisdcn, and Gibertin. Of his diete mesurable was he ; For it was of nosuperfluitee. But of grot nourishing and digestible t His stuilie was but litel on the liible. In sanguin and in perse he clad was alle Lined with t a flat a and with send alle. And yet he was hut esy of dispence ; He keptc that he wan in the pestilence ; For gold in phisike is a cordial, Therfore he loved gold in special. A good WiF was ther of beside Bathe , But she was soin del defe. and that was scathe. Of cloth making she hadde swiche an haunt, She passed hem of Ipres and of Gaunt. In all the parish w if no was ther non That to the offring before hire shulde gon , And if ther did, certain so wroth was she. That she was out of alle charitee. Hire coverchiefs weren ful line o(ground; I dorste swere they weyeden a pound That on the Sonday were upon hire bede: Hire hosen weren of fine scarlet rede, Ful slvehc yteyed, and slioon ful moist and newe liold was hire face, and fere and rede of hew. She was a worthy woman all hire live ; llousbondes at the chirche (lore had she had five , AVithouten other compagnie in youthe. But therof nedcth not to speke as nouthe; And tbries hadde she hen at Jerusaleme; She hadde passed many a strange streme; At Home she hadde ben , and at Boloine , In Galice at Seint James , and at Coloine: She coude moche of wandring by the way ; Gat tothed was she , sothly for to say ; Upon an ambler osily she sat, Yw impled wel, and on hire bode an hat As brode as is a hokcler or a targe, A sole mantel about hire bippes large, And on hire fele a pair ofsporres sharpe. In felawship wd coude she iaiighe and carpe; Of remedies of love she knew parchance, For of that arte she coude the olde dance. A good man ther was of religiouu That w as a pourc Parsone of a toun, |
1
|
But riclie he was of lioly thou/jli^ and werk ; He was also a lerned man, a Clerk, That Ci isles {jos|)el Ircwcly wolilc preclie; His parisliens devoutly wolrle lie teelie; Beuijjne lie was , and wonder diligent, And in adversite fill patient, And swiclie lie was ypmed often sillies ; Ful lolh were liim to cursen for his tithes. But ratlier wolde lie yeven out of doulc l!nlo iiis noure parisliens alionte Of his off ring , and (ke of liis substance ; lie coudc in litel tiling have suffisance : Wide was his parish, and houses for asonder. But lie ne left nought for no rain ne tlionder, In sikenesse and in rniscliief to visile The ferrest in his parish moche and lite Upon his fete , and in his hand a slaf: This nohle ensample to his sliepe he yaf, Thai first he wrought and aflcrviard he taught. Out of the gospel he the wordes caught, And this figure he added yet thereto That if gold ruste, was sliuld iron do For if a precst lie Joidv. on whom we trust No wonder is a lewed man to rust; And shame it is if that a prcest take kepe To see a shilten shepherd and clene shepe : Wei ought a preest ensample lor to yevo By his clenenesse how his shepe shulde live. He selte not his henefiee to hire, And lette his shepe accomhred in the mire. And ran unto London unto Seint Poules To scken him a chanterie for soules. Or with a hrotherhede to he wilhold , But dwelt at home and kepte wel his fold , So that the wolf ne made it not miscarie : He was a shepherd and no mercenarie; And though he holy were and vertuous He was to sinful men not dispitons , Ne of his speche dangerous no digne, But in his teching discrete and benigne. To drawen folk to heven \\\\\\ fairencsse ; By good ensample, was his hesinesse; But it were any persone ohstinat ; What so he were of highc or low estat, Him wolde he snibben sharply for the none.-; A better preest I trowe that no wher nor. is , He waited after no pompe ne reverence, Ne maked him no .v/nVerf conscience But Cristes lore , and his apostles twelve He taught, hut first he folwed himselve. With him ther was a Plowman, was his brother, Thathadde ylaid of dong ful juany a Jot/ier; A true swinkcr and a good was he , Living in pecs and parfite charitee: God loved he beste with alle his herte At alle times, were it gain or stnerle, And then his neighebour right as himselve. He wolde thresh , and therto dike and delve. For Cristes sake, for every poure wight Withouten hire, if it lay in his might. His tithes paied be ful fayre and wcl |
Both of his propre swinke and his eatcl. In a tabard he rode upon a mere. Ther was also a Keve , and a Miliere , A Sompnour , and a pandoner also, A Manciple , and myself; ther n'crc no mo. The Miller was a stout carl for the nones, Ful bigge he was of braun and eke of bones , That proved wel, fur over all ther he came, At wraslling be wolde here away the ram. He was short sliuldered , brode, a thikke^norrt' Ther n'as no dore that he n'oldebeve of barre Or breke it at Venning with his hede; His herd as any sowe or fox was redo. And therto brode as though it were a spade. Upon the cop right of his nose he hade A wert, and theron stode a tufte of heres Ucde as the bristles of a sowes eves; His nose-thirles blacke were and wide : A swerd and bokeler bare be by his side. His mouth as wide was as a forneis: lie was ajanylcr and a Goliardcis, And that was most of sinne and harlotries: Wei coudc he stelen cornc and tollen thries; And yet be bad a thornb of gold parde , A white cote and a blew bode wered he : A baggepipe wel coudc he blowe and soune, And therwithall he brought ns out of toune. A gentil Manciple was ther of a temple, Of which uchatours mighten take eusemplo For to hen w ise in bying of vitaille , For whether that he paide or toke by taille Algate he waited so in his achatc That be was ay before in good estate: Now is not that of God a ful fayre grace That swiche a lewed mannes wit shal pace The wisdom of an liepe of lered men ? Of maisters bud he rno than thries ten That were of lawe expert and curious , Of which ther was a dofein in that hous Worthy to ben stewardes of rent and lond Of any lord that is in Englelond, To maken him live by his propre good In honour dettehs, but if he were wood , Or live as scarsly as him list desire , And able for to helpen all a shire In any cas that inighte fallen or happe; And yet this Manciple sette hir aller cappe. The Ueve was a slendre colcrike man , His herd was shave as neighe as ever he can: His here was by his eres round yshorne; His top was docked like a preest beforne: Ful longewere bis legges and ful lone, Ylikc a stallquot;; ther was no calfysene : Wei coude be kepe a garner and a binne ; Ther was non auditeur coude on him winne; Wel wiste he by the drought and by the rain The yelding of bis seed and of his grain. His lordcs shepe , his nctc, and bis deirie, His swine, bis bors his store, and bis pul trie, Were holly in bis Hercs governing , And by his covenan t yavc he rekening, |
12
|
Sin that his lord was twenty ycre of ujje; Ther coudc no man hrin{f him in arcrugc. Ther n'as baililF. ne herde , ne other hinc, That he no knew his sleifjlit and his covine; They were adradde of iiiin as of tlie deli). His wonninji was ful fayre upon an licth; With grene trees ysliadewcd was his [dace ; He eoude hotter than his lord pourclmce ; Ful riche he was ystored privily: His lord wel eoude he ]ilesen suhtilly To yeve and lone him of his owcn ;;ooii, And have a thank and yet a cole and liood. In youthe he lerned hatldc a good mistere ; He was a wel goud wright, a earpentere. This lleve sate upon a right good stot That was all pomelce grey , and highte Scol: A long surcote of perse upon ho hade, And hy his side he hare a rusty hlade. Of Norfolk was this Rove of which I tell , Beside a toun men clepen Baldeswell. Tucked he was, as is a frere ahoute , And ever ho rode the hinderest of the route. A SojiPfiQDR was ther with us in that placc Thathaddc a lire-red cheruhinnes face, tor sausefleme he was, with eyen nurwe; As hote he was and likerous as a sparwe, Willi scalled hrowes hlake and pilled herd ; Of his visage children wei e sore afenl. Ther n'as quicksilver, litarge. ne brimslon, Boras , ceruse, ne oile of tartre non, Ne oincment, that wolde dense or liitc, That him might helpen of his whellces white, Ne of the knohhes sitting on his chekes: Wei loved he garlike , onions, and lekes, And for to drinkc strong win as redo as blood , Than wolde he speke and crie as he were wood : And whan that he wel dronken had the win , Than wold he spoke no word hut Latin : A fewe termes eoude he, two or throe, That he had lerned out of som decree; No wonder is, he heard it al I the day: And eke ye knowen wel how that a jay Can clcpen watte as wel as can the pope: But who so wolde in other thing him grope Than hadde he spent all his philosophic ; Ay Qucslio quid juris ? wolde he crie. lie was a gentil harlot and a kind ; A better felaw shulde a man not find : He wolde sullVe for a quart of wine A good felaw to have his concubine A twelvemonth, and excuse him at the full: Ful prively a finch eke eoude he pull: And if he found n where a good felawe He wolde tecben him to have non awe In swiche a cas of the archedekenes curve. But if a mannes soule were in his purse, For in his purse he shulde ypunished be; Purse is the archcdekens helle, said he, But wel 1 wote he lied right in dede; Of cursing ought eclic gilly man him drede , |
For curse wol sle right as assoiling saveth , And also ware him of a significavit. In danger hadde he at his owen gise The yonge gil les of the diocise . And knew hir counseil and was of hir rede. A gerlond hadde be sette upon his hede As grct as it were for an alestake; A bokeler hadde he made him of a cake. With him ther rode a gentil I'ardokere Of liounccvnll, bis friend and his compere. That streit was comen from the court of Home; Ful loude he sang, Come hither love lo me. This Soinpnour hare to him a still' hurdoun, W as never tronipe of half so gret a soun. This Pardoner had here as yelwe as wax. But smot h it hang as doth a strike of llax; By unces heng his lokkes that he hadde, And therwith be his slinlders overspradde: Full thinne it lay, hy culpous on and on , But bode for jolite ne wered he non. For it was trussed up in his wallet. Ilim thought lie rode all of the newe get, Dishevcle, sauf his cappe, be rode all bare : Swiche glaring eyen hadde he as an hare. A vernicle hadde he sewed upon his cappe ; His wallet lay beforne him in bis lappe Urel-ful of pardon come from Uome al hote; A vois he hadde as snialc as hath a goto: No herd hadde he, ne never non shulde have : As smolhe il was as it were newe shave: J trowc lie were a gelding or a mare. But of bis craft, fro Berwike unto Ware Ne was ther sw iche an other Pardonere, For in his male he hadde sxpilwehere Which as he saide, was oure Ladies veil: He saide be hadde a gobbet of the seyl Thatte Seint Peter had whan that he went Upon the sec till Jesu Crist him hent ■ Ho had a crois of lalou ful of slones, And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. But with these relikes whanne that he fond A poure persone dwelling up on lond , Upon a day lie gat him more moneie Than that the persone gat nionethes in tweie; And thus with faincd flatlcring imdjapes He made the persone and the peple his njiex. But trewcly to tellen atle last, He was in chirche a noble ecclesiast: Wei eoude he rede a lesson or storie, But alderbest he sang an offertorie; For wcl he wisto whan that song was songc lie mustc preacheand wcl afde his tone To winne silver, as he right wel eoude , Therforo be sang the mericr and loude. Now have I told you shortlcy in a clause Th'cstat, th'araie, the nomhre, and eke the cause, Why that assembled was ibis compagnie I In Southwerk at this genlil hostclrie ; That. higlUc The Tabard, fast, hy the Belle. * |
15
The Romaiint of the Hose. (1)
|
* That it was Mcy me thouyhtin tho, Jt is five yere or more ago, That it was Mey llius dremid me, In time of love and jolite, Tliat al thing ginnith waxin gay, For there is m illiir hnshe nor hay In Mcy that it n'lV/ shroudid bene, And it witli newe levis wrene; These wordis eke reeoveren grene That drie in winter hen to scne, And theerth woxilh proud withall For sole dewis that on it lall, And the povir estate forgette In whiche that winter had it sette , And than becometh the grounde so proudc That it wol have a newe shroude, And make so queint his rohe and fayre , That it had hewes an hundrid payre Of grasse and ilonris Inde and Pers, And many hewis full divers , That is the rohe J mene iwis Through whiche the ground to praisin is. The hirdis that han left I her songe While thei han sutfrld colde ful strongc In wethers grille and derke to sight, Ben in Mcy for the sunne bright So glad , that they shewe in singing That in ther herrt is suclie liking That thei mote singin and hen light; Than dothe the nightingale her might To maken noise and singen blithe, Than is blissful many a sithe, The chelandre' and the popingav. Than yonge folke entendin aye For to hen gaie and amorous, The lime is than so favorous. Harde is his liertothat lovith nought In Mcy, whan al this mirth is wrought, Whan he may on these hraunc.his here The smale hirdis singing clere Ther blisfull swete song pitous: And in this seson delitous. Whan love a^ïr«iilt;A alle thing. |
Me thought one night in my sleping, Right in my bed ful redily That it was by the' morowe erly. And up I rose and gan me clothe ; Anon I wishe mine hond is hot he, A silvir nedle forth I drowe Out of aguilcv queint inowe. And gan this nidill thredc anone, For out of toune me list to gone The soune of hriddis fur to here That on the buskis singin clere, In the swete seson that lefe is, With a thred bas tiny my slevis. Alone I went in my playing. The smale foulis songe herkening, That pained'hem ful mcny' a paire To sing on bowis blossomed faire; Jolife and gaie, full of gladnesse, Towardea river gan me dresse. Which that I berde renno faste by. For fairir playin non saugh I Than playin me by that rivere, For from an hill that xtodellipvu nure Come doune the strcim: full stille and hold, Clere was the watir, and as cold As any wclle is, .solhe to saine, And somdele lasse it was than Suine, l!ut it was straitir, wele away, And never saugh I er that daie The watir that so wele liked me. And wondir glad was 1 to se That lusty place and that rivere: With that watir that ran so clere My face I wishe, tho sawe I wele The botome ipaved everidele With gravell,full of stonis shene. The medowis softe, sote, and grene. Beet right upon the watir side; Ful clere was than the morowe tide, And ful uttempre out of drede ; Tho gan I walkin throwe the mede, Downwarde evir in my playing Nigh to tlie river's side coasting *. |
Werd waarschijnlijk geboren omstreeks 14G0 : hij studeerde aan de universiteit te Cambridge en welligt ook te Oxford , en begon zijn werken reeds tusschen 1480 en 1490 uit te geven. In 1498 werd hij tot
This book was begun in French verse by William de Lorris, and finished forty years after by
John Clopinell, alias John de Meune, born at Mowen upon the river of Loyer, not far from Paris,
and afterward translated, for tho most part into English metre bij Geoffrey Chaucer, but not finished.
14
geestelijke gewijd eu toen vermoedelijk tot onderwijzer van prins Hendrik, later Hendrik VIU, aangesteld. Later aanvaardde hij het rectoraat te Diss in Norfolk, en overleed in 1529, in de West-minster abdij , waarin hij gevlugt was om de wraak van kardinaal Wolscy te ontkomen. In zijn tijd had hij , als geleerde, een enropisehe vermaardheid en Erasmus noemde hem het licht en de sieraad der cn-gelsche letterkunde. Men heeft van hem : The Honge of Court; The Boke of I'hyllyp Sparowe , an elegy on the sparrow of faire Jane Scroop; Why come ye not to Court?; Spcake Parrot; enz., benevens eenige latijnsche verzen. Zijn engelsche poëzie is lang zoo verdienstelijk niet, als zijn latijnsche , welke zich door zuiverheid en klassieken geest onderscheidt. Skelton verwierf zijn vermaardheid vooral als hekeldichter ; als zoodanig is hij scherp, doch fantastisch en hier en daar onverstaanbaar door zijn oude taal. Door de Why come ye not to Court ? berokkende hij zich het misnoegen en de haat van kardinaal Wolsey, zijn vroegeren beschermer. The Boke of Phylypp Sparowe, etc. is een van zijn beste stukken.
From his Why come ye not to court f
|
* Our barons lie so bold Into a mouse-hole tbey wold Rin away and crcep, Like a meiny of sheep ; Dare not look out at dur For dread of the mast 1(1' cur, For dread of the butcher's dojj Wold wirry them like an hog. For an this cur do jinar They must stand all afar, To hold up their hand at the bar. For all their noble blood, lie plucks them by the hood. And shakes them by the ear. And brings them in such fear; He baiteth them like a bear, Like an oï or a bull : Their wits, he saith, are dull; He saith they have no brain Their estate to maintain , And makes them to bow their knee Before his majesty. 1 *ln the chancery where he sits, But such us he admits None so hardy as to speak : He saith, Thou huddypeke, Thy learning is loo lewd. Thy tongue is not well thewd, To seek (*) before our grace; And openly in that place He rages and he raves , And calls them cankered knaves. Thus royally dotb he deal Under the king's broad seal ; And in the Checker he them checks; In the Star Chamber he nods and bccks. And beareth him there so stout That no man dare rowt, Duke, earl, baron, nor lord, But to his sentence must accord ; Whether he he knight or squire. All men must follow bis desire. * |
* But this mad Amalek Like to a Mamelek, lie regardeth lords No more than potsherds; He is in such elation Of his exaltation. And the supportation 01 our sovereign lord, That, God to record, He ruling all at will. Without reason or skill; Howbeit the primordial Of his wretched original, And his base progeny. And his greasy genealogy, He came of the sank royal That was cast out of a butcher's stall. * * He would dry up the streams Of nine kings' reams All rivers and -wells. All water that swells; For with us he so mells That within England dwells , I wold he were somewhere else For else by and by He will drink us so dry. And snck us so nigh , That men shall scantly Have penny or halfpenny, God save his nóble grace. And grant him a place Endless to dwell With the devil of hell! For, an he were there, We need never fear Of the feindes blake ; For I undertake He wolk so brag and crake. That lie wold than make The devils to quake, To shudder and to shake, Like a fire-drake, |
In original spelling Seke. Perhaps a typographical error for Speke (or Speak)?
|
Ami with a coal rake Bruise them on a brake. And bind them to a stake, And set hell on fire At his own desire. He is such a grim sire , And such a potestolate (1), And such a potostate, That he wold brake the brains |
Of Lucifer in his chains, And rule them each one In Lucifer's trone. I wold he w ere {;one , For anion;} us is none That ruleth but be alone. Without all j[ood reason. And all out of season, quot; |
SIR THOMAS W Y A T , the elder ,
Vriend van den ongelukkigen graaf van Surrey, onderscheulde zich in het zede- en leerdicht. Wyat deed eenige reizen op liet vasteland, waardoor li ij een schat van kennis opdeed. Hij werd in 1503 op Allington Castle (Kent) geboren en overleed in 1541 , ten gevolge van een vermoeijende reis. Wynt leverde een vrij aanzienlijk getal Songes and Sonnets, meest allen aan de liefde gewijd : hij en zijn vriend Surrey waren de eersten, die ondernamen Viigillus in het engelseh over te brengen, lieider stukken verschenen het eerst in 1557, en later onder anderen in 1717 en 1793. Hij liet meer na dan zijn vriend, doch zijn sonnetten zijn lang zoo goed niet. Zijn taal is dikwijls hard en droog. Hij is de eerste, die brieven in dichtmaat geschreven heeft.
Of the mother that cat her child at the slc^e of •Temsalcni.
|
In doubtfull hrest whyles motherly pitty, AVith furious famine standetli at debate The mother sail h , O child unhappy, Return thy blood where thou hadst milke of late. |
Yeld me those lyrnmes that 1 made unto thee, And enter them where thou wer generate, For of one body ajfainst all nature , To another must I make sepulture. |
|
Tagds farewell that westward with thy stremes, | Turnes up the graines of golde already tryde. For 1 with spurre and saile j;o seke the Temmes , (iayneward the snnrie that shcwelblier welthy pride; |
And to the towne that Brutus sought by dreamcs , Like bended moon that leaves her lusty syde, My kinjj, my country , I seke for whom 1 live, O raijfhty Jove the wyndes for this me geve. |
Throughout the world if it were sought, Their substancc is hut only wynde :
Fayre words ynoughe a man shall fynde ; I But well to say, and so to meane,
They be good chcpe, they cost right nought, J That swete accorde is seldome sene.
HENRY HOWARD , Giuaf van Surrey,
In de geschiedenis bekend als het laatste slnglofTer van Hendrik VIII , werd geboren in 1520 en stierf, beschuldigd van hoog verraad, door beulshanden in 1547. Men hooft van hem een veertigtal Songes, Sonnets and Complaints; A Translation of the First and Fourth Books of the /Eneide , benevens die van eenige psalmen en den prediker van Salomo. De Songes, Sonnets and Complaints zijn voor het meerendeel gewijd aan dc liefde en den lof van een dame , die hij de schoone Geraldine noemde: zij stonden bij zijn tijdgenooten in booge waarde, en zijn vol gevoel en bevalligheid, doch thans weinig bekend. In 1793 verscheen daarvan nog met die van Wyat een uitgave. Howard is sedert Chaucer de eerste dichter, wien het geluklc, door navolging van de sonnetten van Pctrarcha de aandacht van zijn tijdgenooten tot zich te trekken . en werd daarom de engelsche Pctrarcha genoemd. Hij studeerde aau de universiteit te Oxford. Zijn dichterlijk talent ontwikkelde zich op een reis door Italië.
(1) It is supposed to be equivalent to «legale.quot;
16
Ucscrljitloii of spring, wherein cche thing rencwes, save only the lover.
|
The sootoseason that bud, ami hloorno fourth hrinjjcs, With grene lialh cladde the hyll, and eke the vale, The ni/jhtinijall with felliei's new she singes; The turtle loo her mate halli lold her tale; Somcr is come, for every spray now springes. The hart has hung hys olde head on the pale : The imcke in brake his winter ooate he flynges ; |
The fishes flcte with ncwe repayred scale: The adder all her slough away she flynges, The swift swallow pursuelh the flyes smalle, The busy hee her honey how she mynges ; Winter is worne that was the floures hall. And thus f see among these pleasant tliynges, Eche care deeayes, and yet my sorrow sprynges. |
Dido's passion and Its effectes on the Ryslnge cltlc ,
Iranslaled from the fourth book of Virgil's /Eneidc.
|
--And when they all were gone, And the diinme moon doth efte withohl her light; And sliding starres provoked unto slope, Alone she mourns within her palaee voide , And sits her downe on her forsaken hed : And absent him she heares, when hois gone , And seeth eke. Oft in her euppe she holdes |
A.icnnins, trapped by his father's forme. So lo begile the love cannot be lohl! The turrettcs now arize not, erst begonne: Neither the youth wehle arms , nor they avance The portcs, nor other mete defence for warr. Broken there hang ti e workes, and myhly frame Of walles high raised, thretening the skie. |
ANCIENT BALLADS OF THE BORDERERS OF ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND.
Op do grenzen van Sehotlanil en Engeland leefiln een tweevoudig strijdbaar geslacht, icgrensbewoners , die het land verdedigden tegen de naburen of ook op diens groiulgebicd stroopten. quot;De inwoners» zegt Walter Scott, quot;in een deels herderlijken , deels krijgshaftigen toestand levende . en gewoonte van gestadige rooftogton met den invloed van een ruwen riddergeest parende, leverden dikwijls tooneelen op, die zeer vatbaar waren voor dichterlijke sieraden.» Daar voornamelijk had men nog lang, tot diep in de zestiende eeuw , Mins/reis , zeer overeenkomende met de oude Troubadours , die als wellekomc gasten op dc kasteeleu der grensridders verschenen , hun geslachten en heldenfeiten . in do ridderzaal, voor den vuist bezongen , cn daarom geéerd en onthaald werden , terwijl zij ook meermalen den ridder te paard verzcl-den. Deze gevechten gaven inderdaad wel stof lot heldenzang. In 1388 werd onder anderen de geweldige slag tnsschen den naderhand zoo beroemden ilenrik Hotspur van Percy en Jacob, Graaf van Douglas, geleverd , waarin do Schotten zegevierden; doch hun braven veldheer Douglas verloren , dio sneuvelde, terwijl Percy gevangen werd. Dc lof van zulke dappcrcu werd vermeld door de zangers der grenzen in heldenballadcn , op ware gebeurtenissen gegrond, maar dichterlijk opgesierd.
|
The Perse (Percy), owt of Northombarlonde, And a vowe to God mayd he , That ho wolde huute in the mountayns OlfCheviat within dayes thre, In the maugre of doughte Doglas , And all that ever with him be. The fattiste harte in all Cheviat He sayd he wold Ityll, and carry them away: By my feth said the doughty Doglas agayn, 1 wyll let that hontyng yf that 1 may. Than the Perse owt of Banhorowe came, |
With fifteen hondrith archares bold ; The wear chosen out of sin/arcs thre. This begane on a Monday at morn lu Cheviat the billys so /ice; The chyld may rue that is unhorne. It was the more pitte. The dryvars thorowe the woodes went For to rouse the dear; Bomen bickarte uppone the bent With ther browd arros cleare, Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went On every syde shear; |
1
|
Greahomlcs thorowe tlie groves glent For to kyll tlie dear. The begane in Olieviat llie liyls above Ycr/ij on a monnyn day ; Be that it (I re we to the oware off none A bonflritb fat hartes (led tlier lay. Tbe blewea mort upponc the bent, Tlie semblyd on sydis shear; To ibe quyrry then the I'erse went To se the brytlynge off the deare. He sayd, quot;It was the Doglas promys This day to met me here ; But [ wyste be wold faylle wrameni.quot; A gret otb tbe Perse swear. At the letisle a squyar of Nortbambarlondecornynge: Lokyde at bis nande full nv, He was war at tbe dougbeti Doglas With bym a mygliti meany, Both with spear, /lt;////, and brande : Yt was a mygliti sight to see. Ilardgar men both off hart nar bande Were not in Christiante. Tbe wear twenty hondrith spearmen good AVithouten any^ayle. The wear borne along by tlie water of Twyde , Ylh bowndes of Tiviot dale. quot;Leave off tbe brytlyng of the dear, be sayde , And to your bowys look ye lay It good heed; For never si the ye wear on your motbars borne Had ye never sae mickle need.quot; The dougbeti Doglas on a stede He rode his men beforne; His armor glylteryde as dyd a glede j A bolder borne was never born. quot;Tell me what men ye ar, he says , Or whos men that yc be: Who gave youe leave to bunte in this Cheviat chays in the spyte of me?quot; Tbe first mane that ever bim an answere mayd , Vt was tbe goode lord Perse: quot;We wyll not tell thee what men we ar, he says, Nor whos men that we be; But we wyll hount here in this chays In tbe spyte of thyne , and of thee. The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat We have kyld , and cast to carry them away.quot; quot;By my trot he, sayd the dougbeti Duglas agayn , Tlicifor the ton of us shall dc this day.quot; Then sayd the dougbeti Doglas Unto the lord Perse: quot;To kyll all thes giltles men, Alas! it were gret pitte But, Perse, tbowe art a lord of lande , I am a yerle callyd within my centre; Let all our men uppone a parti stande ; |
And do the battell of thee and of me.quot; quot;Nowe Cristescors on his crowne, sayd the lord Perse, Whosoever therto says nay. By my troth, dougbeti Doglas , he sayd, Thowe shalt never se that day. Nethar in Ynglonde , Scottlonde, nar France, Nar for no man of a woman borne, But and fortune be my chance, I dar met bitn on man for man on.quot; Then bespayke a squyar of Nortbombarlonde, llie. Wytharynton was bis nam ; quot;It shall never be told in Sotbe-Ynglonde, ho says, To kyng Harry the fourth for sham. I wat youe byn great lordes twa, I am a poor squyar of lande, I will never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, And stande myselffe, and loke on, But whyll I may my weppone welde, 1 wyll not fayl both harte and bande.quot; That day, that day, that dredfull day, The first yit here I fynde. And youe wyll here any mor of the hountyng at tho Yet ys tber mor huhynde. (Cheviat, The Ynglishe men bade tber bowys yebent, The hartes were good yenonghe; The first of arros that the shote off. Seven score spearmen tbe sloughc, Yet hydys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent, A captayne good yenoughe, And that was sene verament, For he wrought hom both woo and wouche. The Doglas pertyd his ost in thre, Lyk a cheffe dieften off pryde, With suar sjH'ares off myghtte Ire Tbe cum in on every syde. Thrughe our Ynglyshe archery Gave many a wounde full wyde; Many a dougbeti i\\c garde to dy, Which ganyde thvm no pryde. Tbe Ynglishe men let thear bowys be , Andpulde owt brandes that wer bright; It was a bevy sight to se Bryght swordes on hasnites lyght. Thorowe ryche males and maniplie Many sterne the stroke downe streght: Many afreyke that was full free, Thor undur fool djd Jyght. At last the Doglas and the Perse met, Lyk to captaynes of myght and mayne. The swapte togetbar tyll the both swat With swordes, that wear of fyn myllan. Thes wort be freckys for to fyght Therto the wear full fayne, Tyll the Lloode owte off their basnites tprenle , As ever dyd heal or rayne. |
5
16
|
quot;Holde thee, Perse, saytl the Doglas, And i'fetli I slmlJ thee brynge Wlior tlioue slialle have a yerle's wagis OfYamcs or Scottish kynge. Tlioue filial Ie Iiave tliy ransom fre, I hight thee liear lliis lliinge , Fortlie manfullyste man yet art tlioue , That ever I conqneryd in fylde fightynge.quot; quot;Nay tlien, sayd tlie lord Perse, I tolde it tliee hcforne. That l volde never yeldyde he To no man of a woman home.quot; With that thercam an arrowe hastily Forth off a mighti wane, It hath slrelenc the yerlc Doglas In at the hrest bane. Thorowe lyvar and longs balhe. The sharp arrowe ys gnnc, That never after in all his lyffe days , He spayke no wordes hut ane, That wiis:quot;fyghleye,my merry men, whjlhjs ye may, For my ly 11'days hm gane,quot; The Perse Iftiydc on his hrande. And sawe the Doglas de ; lie looke the deil man he I he hande And sayd, quot;wo ys me for the! To have sayvde thy lylle I wold haycperlyd with My landes for years thre. For a better man of hart, nar of hande AV as not in all the north eonnlre.quot; Offal that sc a Scotlysheknyght. Was eallyd Sir Howe the Mongonbyrry, lie sawe the Doglas to the delh was dyyht; He spendyd a spear a trusli tre: Herod nppon acorsiare, Throughe a hondrith archery; He never slt/tilyde nar never hlane, Tyll he cam lo the good lord Perse. He set ii|gt;pone the lord Perse A dyule that was full snare; With a mar spear of a inyghti tre Clean thorow the body he the Perse bore, Athc tothar syrle, that a man myght se, A large cloth yard and marc : Towe bcltar caplayns wear nat in Crisliante, Then that day slain wear ther. An archar off Nurthomharlonde Saw sleun was the lord Perse, He liar a bende how in his hande, Was made off trusli Ire; An arrow , that a clot b yarde was lang, To the hard stele halyde he; A dynt, that was both sad and sore, lie sal on Sir Howe the Mongonbyrry. The dynt yt was holb sad and soar. That lie of Mongonbyrry sete: |
The swane fetiiars, that bis arrowe bar, With hishartblood the wear wete. Ther was never a freyke wone footwolde fie, But still in ^ourdyd stand, Heawyngon ychc olhar ,wbyll the myghte dre, AVith many a lialful hrande. ThiJbattel 1 begane in Cheviat An owar before the none, And when evensong bell was rang The batlell was not half done. The tooke on on ethar hand De the lyuht off the mone ; Many bade no strength for to stande , In Cheviat the hyllys ubonn. Of fifteen hondiith a re liars of Ynglonde Went away bul fifly and thre, Of twenty hondrith spearmen of Scottlonde , Hut even five and fifty : But all wear slayue Che* iat within : The hade no strengthe to stand on bee; The ehylde may rue that ys unborne , It was the mor pilte. Tbear w as slayne with the lord Perse Sir John of Agcrstone, Sir Uoge the kinde Hartly , Sir \\ yllyam tbc bolde Hearone. Sir Jory the wortbe Lovcle A knyght of great renowen , Sir Raff therych Rughe With dyntes wear beaten downe. For Wet harry ngl on my harte was wo. That ever ho slayne shuldc be ; For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to He Inyled and fought on hys kne. Ther was slayne wilh the dougheti Doglas Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry, Sir Davye Lewdale, that wortbe was, His sistars son was he: Sir Charles a Murre in that placc. That never a foot wolde fie; Sir Hewe Maxwell, a lorde he was. With the lord Doglas dyd he dey. So on the inorrowe the rnayde them byears Oil byrch, and bascll so gray; Many wedows with wepyng tears Cam \o fuck her matys away. Tivydale may curpe off care, Northonilmrlonde may mayk a mone, For towe such caplayns, as slayne wear tbear, On the iiiarc/i parti shall never be none. Word ys coninicn lo Kdenburrowe, To Jamy the Scollishe kyng. That dougheti Doglas, lyll'lcnantof thcMcrclies, lie lay slean Cheviat within. His hamles dyd he weal and wryng. He sayd, quot; Alas, and woe ys me! |
19
|
Such another oaptayn Scotland within , He sayd , y'feth sliuld never be.quot; Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone Till the fourth Harry our kyn(j. That lord Perse, lyfftennante of the Mcrches, lie lay slayne Ciieviat within. quot; God have merci on hys soli. sayd kyng Hai ry, Good lord , yf tliy will it he! 1 have a hondrith oaplayns iti Vnylonde, he ïayd, As good as ever was lice: But IV rse, and 1 brook my Iyll'e, Thy deth well quijte shall he.quot; As our nohle kyng made his avowa , I.ykc a nohle prince of renowen , For the deth of the lord Perse, He dyd the battel of Uomhylldown ; Wher syx and thrillc Scottish knyghtes, On a day wear beaten down : |
Glendalc {flylteryde on ther armor bryght, Over castell, towar, and town. This was the hontyngo of Choviat, That year begane this spurn; Old men thatknowen the grownde well yenoughe, Call it the liattell of Ottcrhourne. At Olterbourne began this spurne Uppon a monnyn day : Ther was the dougbeti Doglas slean, The Perse never went away. Ther was never a tyjn on the inarch paries Sen the Doglas and the Perse met, But yt w as marvele, and the redde bluderoonenot, As the rcane doys in the stret. Jhcsiie Crist our buli/x bele, And lo the blys us brynge I Thus was the hontynge of tlie Choviat: Goil send us all good endyng. |
|
Yt felle abowght the Lainasse tyde, When hnsbonds wynn her haye, The dowhtye Dowglass howynd hym to ryde, In Ynglond to take a praye : The yerlle of Fyflc , witliowghten strylFe, He howynd hym overSulway: The grete wolde ever together ryde; That race they may rue for aye. Over Ottercaphyll they came in , And so dowyn hy Rodelyftecraggc , Uppon Grene Leyton they lighted dowyn, Styrande many a stagge ; And boldely hrente Northumbarlonde, And harijcd many a towyn ; They ilyil owr Ynglyssh men grote wrange, To battell that were not bowyn. Than spuko a herno upon the bent, Of comfortc that was not colde , And sayd, quot;We have brent. Northombarlonde, We have all welth in holde. Now we have haryed all Bamboroweshyrc , All the wel lb in the worlde have wee; 1 rede we ryde to Ncwe Cnstclle, Soslyll and stalwurthlye.quot; Uppon the morowe , when it was daye, The standards schone fnlle bryght; To the Kewe Caslclle the toke the waye. And thether they cam fullc ryght. Sir Henry Percy laye at the Nowc Castellc, I telle yow witliowten drcde; He had byn a marchman all hys dayes, And keptc Barwyke upon Twedc. |
To the Newe Castclle when they cam , The Scottes they cryde on hyght, Syr Il.irye Percy , and thow byste within, Cum to the fyhle, and fyght : For wc have brenle Northombarlonde , Thy eritage good and ryght; And sijne my logeyng 1 have take. With my brande dubbyd many a knyght. Sir Harry Pcrcy cam to the walles, The Scuttyssh oste for to se; quot;And thow hast brcntn Northombarlonde , Full sore ilrcwyl/i me. Yf thou bast haryed all Bamborowcshyre , Thow hast dona me grete envye ; For the trespasse thow hast me done, The tone of us sch all dye.quot; quot;Were scball I byde the? Sayd the Dowglas, Or where wylte thou come lo me?quot; quot;At Ottcrhourne in the hygh way , Ther niaistthow well logecd be. The roo full rehelcs ther sche rinncs , To make the game and glee : The fawcon and the fesaunt both, Amongc on the holies on bee. Ther maist thou have thy welth at wyll, Well looged ther maist bo.quot; quot;Yt scball not be long, or I com the tyll,quot; Sayd Syr Harry Pcrcy. quot;Ther scball I byde tbe, sayd the Dowglas , By the fayth of my bodye.quot; quot;Thether scball I com, sayd Syr Harry Pcrcy ; My trowth I plygbt to the.quot; |
20
|
A pype of wyne lie gave llicm over the walles, For sotli, as I yow saye: Ther lie mayd the Dowglas drynke, And all liys oste that daye. Tlie üowjrlas turnyd liym liomewarde agayne, For solli withowglilen naye, He tooke his lojjcyiij; at Olterhourne Upjion a Wedynsday: And there Vcpyyht hys standerd dowyn , Hys gettyng more and lesse, And synu lie warned hys men to goo To chose ther geldyngs gresse. A Scottysshe knyght hored upon the bent, A waehe I dare well saye: So was he ware on the nohle Percy In the dawnynge of the daye. He pryeked to his pavylcon dore, As taste as he inyglit ronne, quot;Awaken, Dowglas, cryed the knyght, For hys love, that syltes yn trone. Awaken, Dowglas, cryed the knyght, Fir thow maiste waken wylh wynne: Yonder have 1 spyed the prowde Percy, And seven standardes wyth hym.quot; quot;Nay hy my trowth, the Dowglas sayed, Itys hut a fayned taylle: Ue durste not loke on my hred banner, For all Ynglomle so haylle. Was I not yesterdaye at the Newe Castelle, That stonds so fayre on Tyne ? F'or all the men the Percy hade, lie cowde not garrc me ones to dyne. lie stepped owt at hys pavelyon dore, To loke and it were lesse; Araye yow, lordyngs, one and all. For here hygynnes no peysse. The yerlle of Mentayne, thow arte my erne , The forwarde I gyve to the : The yerlle of lluntlay caivte and kene, lie schall wyth the he. The lorde of Bowghan in armnre bryght On the other hand he schall he; Lord Jhonstone and lorde Maxwell, They to schall ho with me. Swynton fayre fylde uppon your pryde: To balell make yow bowen : Syr Davy Scotte, Syr Walter Stewarde, Syr jfion of Agurstdne.quot; The Perssy came byfore hys oslc, Whych was ever a gentyll knyght, Uppon the Dowglas lowde gan he crye, quot;1 wyll bolde that I have byght; For thow haste brente Nortbombarlonde, And done me grete envye; For tbys trespasse thou bast mc clone, The tone of us schall dye.quot; |
The Dowglas answerde bym agayne With grete wurds up on hee. And sayd, quot;I have twenty agaynst thy one; Bybolde and thow maiste see.quot; Wyth that the Percye was grevyd sore, For solhc as I you saye: He lyjjbted dowyn upon his fote, And schoote his horsse clene away. Fverv man sawe that be dyd soo, That ryall was ever in rowght; Every man schoote hys horsse him froo, And lyght hym rowynde abowgbt. Thus Syr llary Perssy toke the fylde, For sith, as I yow saye: Jesu Crystc in hevyn on hygbt Dyd helpe hym well that daye. But nyne thowsand, ther was no moo; The eronykle wyll not layne: Forty thowsand Scottes and fowre That day fowght them agayne. But when the hattell byganne to joyne. In hast ther came a knyght. Then letters f.iyre furtb bath he tayne. And thus he sayd full ryght; quot;My lorde, your father be gretcs yow well, Wyth many a nohle knyght; He desyres yow tobyde That be may see tbys fyght. The Baron of Grastokeys com owt of the west, With him a noble cornpanye; All they loge at yonr father's tbys nyght. And the hattell fayne wold they sec.quot; '■For Jesus' love, sayd Syr Harye Perssy, That dyed for you and me. Wende to my lorde my father agayne. And saye thou saw ino nut with yec. My trowth ys plight to yonne Scottysh knyght, It neilcs me not to layne, That I schuhle hyde hym upon tbys bent. And I have hys trowth agayne: And if that l wende olTthys grownde For sotli unfoughten awaye. He wolde me call but a cowardc knyght In hys londe another daye. Yet had I lever to be rynde and rente, By Mary that mykel maye, Then ever my manhood schulde be reprovyd AVyth a Scotte another daye. Wberfore scbote, arcbars, for my sake, And let scharpe arrowes flee, Mynstrells, play up for your wary son, And well quyt it schall be Every man tbynkeon hys trewe love, And marke bym to thcTrenitc: For to God I make myne avowe Tbys day w yll I notfle.quot; |
21
|
Tlie blodye liarté in the Dowglas amies, Hys slanderde stode on hyo ; That every man myglit full well knowe; By syde stode Starres thre: The whyle Lyon on tlie Ynjjlysh parte, Forsolh as I yow sayne; The Lucetts and the Cressawnts both : The Scolts fanglit them agayne. Uppon Sent Andrewe lowde cane they crye, And thrysse they schowtcon hvght, And syne marked them one owr Ynglysshe men, As 1 have told yow ryght. Sent Georjje the bryght our ladies knyght, To name they wore full fayne, Our Ynglysshe men theyerydeon hyght. And thrysse the schowtte agayne. Wyth that scharpe arrowcs hygan to flee, 1 tell yow in sertayne; Men of amies byganne to joyne; Many a dowgbty man was ther slayne. The Perssy and the Dowglas mette, That etlier of other »as fayne; Thcyschapped together, why 11 that theswette, AVith swords of fyne Colluyne ; Tyll the hloode from ther bassonnets ranne, As the roke doth in the rayne. quot;Y'elde the to me, sayd the Dowglas Or els ihow schalt be slayne: For [ see, by thy bryght bassonnet, Tliow arte sum man of myght; And so I do by thy hurnysshed brande, Thow art an yerle , or ells a knyght.quot; quot;By my good faythe, sayd the noble Perssy , Now haste thou rede full ryght, Yet will I never yelde me to the, Why 11 I may stonde and fyght. quot; They swapped together, whyll that they s we lie, Wyth swordes scharpe and long; Yeh on other so faste they heette, Tyll ther helmes earn in pcyses dowyn. The Perssy was a man of strength, 1 tell yow in thys stounde, He smote the Dowglas at the swordes length. That lie felle to the growyndc. The sworde was scharpe and sore can byte, I tell yow in sertayne; To the harte , he cowde hym smyte, Thus was the Dowglas slayne. The stonderds stode slyll on eke syde. With many a grevous grone ; Ther the fowght the day , and all the nyght, And many a dowgbty man was slone. |
Ther was nofreke, that ther wolde flyc, But styffly in stowre can stond , Ychone hewyno on other whyll they myght dryc, AVyth many a bayllefull bronde. Ther was slayne upon the Seottes syde , For soth and sertenly, Syr James a Dowglas ther was slayne, That daye that he cowde dye. The yerlle of Mentaye be was slayne, Grysely groned uppon the growynd ; Syr Davy Seotte, Sir Walter Steward, Syr Jhou of Agurstone. Syr Charlies Morrey in that place, That never a fute wold flye; Sir Hughe Maxwclle,a lord he was, With the Dowglas dyd he dye. Ther was slayne uppon the Seottes syde, For soth as I yow saye , Of fowre and forty thowsand Scotts Went but eyghtene awaye. Ther was slayne upon the Ynglysshe syde, For soth and sertenlye, A gentell knyght, Sir John Fitihughe , Yt was the more petye. Syr James Harebotell ther was slayne , For hym ther hartes were sore , The gentyll Lovello ther was slayne. That the Perssy's standerd bore. Ther was slayne uppon the Ynglyssh perto, For soth as I yow saye : Of nyne thowsand Ynglyssh men , Fyve hondertcam awaye: The other were slayne in the fylde, Cnjste kepe their sowles from wo, Seyng ther was so few fryndes Against to many a foo. Then one the morne they mayd them beercii Of hyreh , and haysell graye; Many a wydowe with wepyng teyres Ther makes \]ii y fette awaye. Thys fraye hygan at Otlerbourne, Bylwene the nyghte and the day: Ther the Dowglas lost hys lyfe, And the Perssy was lede awaye. Then was ther a Scottyshe prisoner tayiie , Syr Hughe Mongomery was hys name , For sol h as J yow saye, He borowed the Perssy home agayne. Now let us all for the Perssy praye To Jesu most of mygh t, To bring his sowle to the hlysse of heven , For be was a gentyll knyght. |
22
On the Death of king Edward I.
|
Alle, that heoth of liuerlc Irewc, A stounde licrktiolli (o my son;; Of dad thai Deth lialh ilihl us newe, That makclli me syke, ant sorewe among; Of a knylit, that wos so strong, Of wham God hulli don ys wille ; Me-thuncheth that deth hath ilon ns wrong , That he so sone shall ligge slille. A1 Englond ahte for to knowe Of wham that song is, that y singe; Of Kdward kyng, that lilh so I owe, Zent a! this world is nome con springe : Trewest mon of alle (hinge, Ant in werre war ant wys, For him we ahte oure honnden wrynge, Of Christendome he her the prys. Byfore that oure kyng was ded , lie spek ase mon that wes in care -11 Clerkes, knyhles, harons, he sayde , Y charge you hy oure sware , That ye to Englonde he trewe. Y deze, y nc may lyven na more ; Helpeth mi sone, ant orouneth him newe, For he is nest to huen \jcore. Ich hiqneth myn herte arliyt. That hit he write at my ilevys, Over the see that line he diht, With fonrseore knyhtes al of prys, In werre that buen war anl wys, Azcin the hcthene for Xcfifhte , To wynne the croiz that lowe lys , Myself ycholde zef that y mythe. quot; Kyng of Fraunee, thou hevedest sinne. That thou the counsail woldest fonde, To latte the wille of Kdward kyng To wende to the holy londe. That oure kyng hedetakeon honde All Englonde to zeme ant wysse, To wenden in to tlieholy londe; To wynnen us heveriche hlisse. The messager to the pope com , And seyde that our kynge was ded : Ys oune hond the lettre he nom, Ywis his herte was full gret: |
The Pope him self the lettre redde , Ant spec a word of gret honour. quot; Alas I lie seid, is Edward ded ! Of Christendome he her the flour.quot; The Pope to hys chaumbre wende , For dol ne mihte he speke na more; And after cardinals he sende. That muehe rout hen of Cristes lore, Bothe the lasse, and eke the more, lied hem hothe rede and synge : Gret deol me myhte se thore, Mony mon hys honde wrynge. The Pope of Peyters stod at hys masse With ful gret solempnete, Ther ineenn the soule hlesse: quot; Kyng Edward honoured thou he : God love thi sone come after the , Brings to ende that thou hast hygonnc. The holy erois ymad of Ire, So fain thou wouhlest hit hav ywonne. Jerusalem , thou hast ilore The Hour of al ehivalrie Now kyng Edward livoth na more : Alas! that he y.et shuhle deye! lie woldeha rered up full heyze Oure banners, that brueth broht to grounde Wei! longc we tnowe elepe and erie Er we a such kyng ban yfounde.quot; Nou is Edward of Carnnrvan Ring of Engelond «/ a^lyht, God letebim tier he worse man Then his fader, ne lasse of rnyht, To holden hys pore men to ryht. And understonde good counsail, Al Englonde for to uyssc ant dyht; Of gode knyhles darh him noul fail. Thuh mi longe were mad of stel, Ant min herte yzotc of bras, The godness myhl y never telle, That with kyng Edward was: Kyng, as thou art clepedeonquerour, lnquot;nf/i bataille thou hadest prys; God hringe thi soule to the honour, That ever wes, ant ever ys. |
|
Of Brntus' blood, in Brittaine borne, King Arthur I am to name; Through Christendome, and Heathynesse , Well knowne is my worthy fame. In Jesus Christ I doe helceve; I am a Christyan bore: The Father, Sone, and Holy Gost One God, I doe adore. |
I In the four hundred ninetieth yeere , Over Brittaine 1 did rayne, 1 After my Savior Christ bis byrth ; What time I did maintaine. The fellowshipp of the table round , Soe famous in those dayes ; ! Whereatt a hundred noble knights And thirty sat alwayes; |
25
|
Who for llieir deeds and marliall feales, As books done yett record, Amongst all other nations AVer feared throw gh the world. And in the castle olFTyntagill King Ulher nice hegate Of Agyana a iiewtyous ladye, And come of hie estate. And when I was fifteen yeere old, Tlien I was crowned kinge: All Bi ittaine that was att an uprore I did to quiett htinge. And drove the Saxons from the realme, Who had opprest this land; All Scotland then thronghe manly feats I conquered with my hand. Ireland, Dcntnarke, Norway These countryes wan 1 all; Isoland , Gotheland, and Suethland ; And tnadc their kings my thrall. I conquered all Gallya, That now is called I'Vance; And slew the hardye Frul 1 in feild IHy honor to advance. And the njily gyant Dynabus Soe terrible lo vewe, That in Seint Barnard's mount did lye , Jiy force of amies I slew : And Luoyus, Ihe cmpmmr of Rome' 1 brought to deadly wracke ; And a thousand more of nohle knightcs For feare dilt;l tunic their hacke ■ Five lunges of paynims I did kill Amidst that hloody strife; Besides the Grecian einperour Who alsoe lost his lilfc. Whose carcassc 1 did send to Rome Cladd poorlye on a heere; And afterward I past Mount-Joye The next approaching yeere. Then 1 came to Rome , were I was mett Right as a conquerour, |
And hy all the cardinalls solempnelyc 1 was crowned an etnperour. One winter there 1 made ahode : Then word lo nice was brought HoweMordred had oppressd thecrowne: What treason be had wrought. Alt home in Brittaine with my queene; Therfore 1 came wilh speetje i To Brittaine hacke, wilh all my power, ! To quitt that traitorous deede : And soone at Sandwiche I arrivdc. Where Mordred me witbstoode: l!ut yett at last I landed there, Wilb effusion of much blood. For there my nephew Sir Gawainedyed , Being wounded in that sore. The w biebe Sir Lancelot in fight Had given him before. Thence chased [ Mordred away , Who fledd lo London right, From London lo Winchester, and To Cornewalle tooke his flyght. And slill 1 him pursued with speed Till at the last wee mett: Wherby an appointed day of fight Was there agreed and sett. Where we did fight, of mortal live Eebe other to deprive, Till of a hundred thousand men Scarce one was left alive. Tbereall the nohle ebivalrye Of Britlaine tooke their end. O see bow fickle is their state That doe on feales depend ! Tbereall the traitorous men wereslaine, Not one escnpte away , And there dyed all my vallyant knightcs Alas! that w oeful I day ! Two and twenty yeere I ware thecrowne In honor and great fame ; And thus hy death was suddenlye Deprived of the same. |
Een waardig tijdgenoot en mededinger van Clianeer, was omstreeks 1357 aartsdeken van Aberdeen, en werd vennoedelijk omstreeks 1320 geboren : hij overleed op het einde van 1395 of in het begin van 139G. Hij
24
«tudeerde te Oxford eu welligt ook in Frnnkryk. De bisschop van Aberdeen benoemde hem in 1357 tot rnnkeclastiedo om hem te Ediraburg te vertegenwoordigen bij de onderhnndellmg over het losgeld van David de liruco (David II). Hij ontving geldelijke ondersteuning om zijn letterkundig werk: The Bruce, beini.' the life and adventures of the famous Robert Bruce, King of Scotland te kunnen voortzetten. Ook wordt hem toegeschreven; The Broite, or The Brute, being a deduction of the Scottish kings from Brutus doch dit werk is vermoedelijk verloren geraakt. In de Bruce wordt verhaald de geschiedenis vau Schotland sedert den dood van Alexander III (1286) tot aan dien van Bruce (Robert I) in 1329 Dit werk beschouwt men thans nog als een geschiedkundig gedenkstuk en wordt, behalven eemge fabelachtige onsmukkingen, door iederen geschiedschrijver van lateren tijd als zoodanig gebruikt en aangehaald Het werk onderscheidt zich door helderen en krachtigen stijl en is ui hooge mate levendig pn schilderaehtia Men beschouwt hem te regt als den eersten dichter en geschiedschrijver van zijn land. Zijn werk verscheen in druk in 1670 , 1616, 1620, 1670, 1672, 1714, 1790 en ook nog in 1820, ta Edimburg, welke de besle van aile bestaande uitgaven is.
The oppressions endureil by tlie Scots during tlie occupation of thcir country by Edward I.
|
'And {rif that omj man tlicm by Had ony thini; tli.it wes worthy, As horse, or hund , or other tliinjj, That war plea^and to their likiiijf; With ri{;iil or wranj; it wald have they. And |;ifony wald tlieni withsay, They suld swa do, that they snld line Other land or life , or live in pine. For they dempt lliem efter tlieir will, Takund na Icepc to right na skill. Ah! what they dempt them felonly ! For gud linigliti'S that war worthy, For little enchesounor then (1) nane They hangit he the neckhaiie. Ah that fulk , that ever was free, And in freedom wont for to be , Through their great mischance and folly , Wor treated then sa wickedly, |
That their/ae^ their judges ware: What wretchedness may man have mair? Ah! Freedom is a noble thing! Freedom mays man to have liking ; Freedom all solace to man gues: He lives at ease that freely lives! A noble heart may have nane ease, No elles nought that may iiim please Giff freedom failye ; for free liking Is yarnit owerall othsr thing. Na he that aye has livit free May nought knaw well ihcproperty, The anger, na the wretched doom , That is couplit to foul thirldoom. But gif he had assayit it. Then all perquer he suld it wit; And suhl think freedom mair to prise Than all the gold in warld that is* |
|
♦All men lovit him for his bounty! For he wes of full fair effer, AVise, courtais, and deboner; Large and lovand als wes he, And ower all thing lovit lawty. Lawty to love is greatumly ; Through lawty lives men righteously: With a virtue and lawty A man may yet sulliciand he: And but lawty may nane have price, Whether he he wight, or he bo wise; For where it failics na virtue May be of price, na of value, |
To mak a man sa gud that he May simply callit gud man he. He was in all his deedes leal; For him dedeigned nought to deal I With treachery ; na with falset: His heart on high honour was set; j And him conteinit ou sic rnanere That all him lovit that were him near. But he wes nought so fair that we Suld speak greatly of bis beauty ; In visage wes he some deal grey , And had black hair, as le beard say ; But of limrnes he wes wcil made, |
Both the sense and the metre seem to require that this then (in orig. than) should bo transferred to the next line; -they hnngit then.»
25
|
With bancs groat, and shuldrcs braid. His body was ■wcil made and leanio, As tboy tbat saw liim said to me. Wbcn he was b/ythe be was lovely, And meek and sweet in company; But wlia in battle rnijjbt him see All otber countenance bad be. And in speek lit-pit lie some deal; But llial sat him rij[ht wonder wcil. Till gud lictor of Troy might he In mouy thinges liken I be. |
Ector had black hair, as he had ; And stark limmes, and right weil made; And lispit alsua as did be; And wes fulfillit of leanty; And was curlais, and wise, and wight. But of manlieid and mickle migh t Till Ector dar I nano compare Of all that ever in warbles ware. The whether, in bis time sa wrought ho Tbat he suld greatly lovit be. * |
Koning von Scliotlnnd , geboren in 1394 (volgens anderen 1393), werd in 1437 vermoord. Hij verdient reeds een eerste idnats onder de dichters van het begin der vijftiende eeuw door zijn werk: The King's Quair ; daarin behandelt hij zijn liefde voor Jane Beaufort , die hij voor het eerst zag door een venster van zijn gevangenis in den Ronden Toren van Windsor Castle. Verder wordt hem toeaesehreven ; Peblis to the Piny; Christ's Kirk on the Green; doch deze zijn vermoedelijk van zijn nakomeling James V (overleden 1513), hoewel anderen dit betwijfelen. De poëzie van .lames I is zneht en klagend, dikwijls warm en gloeiend ; ziju taal is zeer verouderd. Ilij schreef The King's Quair wanrsehijnlijk gedurende zijn gevangenschap in Engeland en vóór dat hij met Jane Beaufort in het huwelijk trad (1424). I)e eerste uitgave verscheen in 1783; later werd zij herhaalde malen herdrukt; de beste is die vun 1824 (Londen).
|
♦And therewith hest I down myn eyeageync, Qubare as I saw walltyng under tbc Touro, Full secretly, new cumyn hir to pbyne Tbc fairest or the frescbest young lloure Tbat ever I sawo, metlioght, before tbat houre; For which sorlayne abate, anon astert. The blude of all my body to my bert. And though I slood ahnisit tlio a hjte , No wonder was ; for quby ? my wittis all Were so ouereome with plcsance anil dclyte. Only Ibrough bitting of myn eyen fall, Tbat sudayuly my bert became hir thrall, For ever of free wyll, for of manaee There was notakyn in bir sucte face. And in my bede I drew ryl hastily. And cfl soncs 1 lent it out ageyne. And saw bir walk that verray womanly, With no wight mo, hot only women tiieyne: Than gan 1 stuilye in myself and seyne, quot;Ah, suetel are ye a warlilly creature, Or hcvitiyly thing in likenesse of nature? Or arc ye god Ciipitlis oviu princesse, And cumin are to lou-c me out ofband? Or are ye veray Nature the goddesse, Tbat have depayulit with your bevinly hand This gardin full ofjlouris, as they stand? Qubat sail 1 think, allacel quhat reverence Sail 1 mester to your excellence? Gi/fyc a goddesse be, anil that ye like To do me paync, t may it not astert; Girt ye be warldly wight, that doth me siko, Quby lest (Jod mak you so my dcrestbert |
To do a sely prisoner thus smert, Tbat hifis you all, and wote of noucbl but wo , And, therefore, merci suete, sen it is so.quot; Quben 1 a lylill thrawe had maid my mone. Bewailing myn inforlune and my chance, Unknawin how or quhat was best to done. So ferre I f.dlying into lufis dance. That sodeynly my wit, my contcnanec, !My bert,my will, my nature, and my mynd, Was changit elene rygbt in anc other kind? Of hir array the form gif I sal write, Toward hir goblin bairc, and rich atyre. In fretwise coucbit wilb pcrlis qubile. And grele Ixdus lemyiig as the fyre, AVitb many an emerant and fayre sapbire. And on hir bede a chaplet fresch of bewc. Of plnmys partit rede, and qnbite, and blewe. Full or quaking spangis bricbt as gold, Forgit of schap like to the amorettis, So new, so fresch, so pleasant to behold. The plnmys eke like lo the floureJonetlis, And other of schap, like lo the floure jonettis; And, above all this, there was, wele I wote, Beautee cneuch lo mak world to dote. About bir neck, quhite as the fyreamaillc, A gudelie cheyne of small orfeverye, Qubare by there hang a ruby, w ithout faille J,ike to anc herl scbapin verily, That, as a spei k of lowe so wantonly Scmyt birnyng upon hir quhite throte, Now gif there was gud pertye, God it wrote.* |
4
26
Leefde v»n 1465 tot 1520. Hij was gedurende een anntal jaren bedelmonnik, doch kwam later aan het hof. Men heeft van hem: The Thistle and the Rose; The golden Targe; The Dance; Songs: hij was een meester in de ernstige en vrolijke poëzie en wordt om zijn uitgebreid vernuft en uitstekenden stijl den Chaucer van Schotland genoemd. IJunbar overtreft alle dichters van Schotland van vroegeren en veel lateren tijd doot kracht en phantasie. De eenige uitgave van al zijn werken verscheen in 1834 te Edimburg.
|
A costly crown, witli clarefeid stonis liriclit, This etitnly Quone did on liir held inclose, Quhylk all the land illuniynit of the lyclit; Quhuirfoir metliocht tlie ilouris did rejose, Cryinjr, attnnis, quot; Haill he thou richest Kose, Haill huirbis Kmpryco, haill frcsclicst Queue of ilouris, To thee he jjlory and honour at all liouris. quot; Thane all the hirdis song with voice on hicht, Quhois mirtlifull soun was marvellus to heir; The mavis sang, quot; Haill Hose most riche atid richt, That dois upflureiss under Phebux speir! Haill plant of youth, haill prince's dochter deir, Haill blosome hreking out of the hlud royal), Quhois pretius vertew is imperial. quot; |
The merle sc/io sang, quot; Haill Rose of most delyt, Haill of all fluris quene and soverane.quot; Tlie lark schosang, quot;Haill Kose both reid and quhyt, Most pleasant flour, of michty colours twane. quot; The nichtingaill sang, 11 Haill Naturis suffragene In hewty, nurlour, and every nobilness, In riclie array, renown and gentilness.quot; The common voce upraise of burdis small Upon tliiswys, quot;0 blissit be the hour That thou wes chosen to be our principall; Welcome to be our I'rinces of honour. Our perle, our plesans, and our paramour. Our peace, our play, our plane felicite: Christ thee conserf from all adversite.quot; |
Bisschop van Dunkeld, werd geboren in 1475 en overleed in 1522; hij leverde: A Translation of the jEneide; King Hart; The Palace of Honour. De beide laatste stukken (allegoriën) zijn oorspronkelijk: het laatste behelst tnfereelen , welke onder de fraaije voortbrengselen der beschrijvende poëzie kunnen gerangschikt worden; het werd in 1827 te Edimburg herdrukt. The Translation of the jEneide verscheen daar ook in 1839.
[From the Prologue to the XIItii book of the jÏLveide,)
|
Welcam the lord of licht, and lampe of day; AVelrum fosterftre of tender herbis grene : Welcum quhikkinnnr of ilurlst Ilouris sebene; Welcum support of every rute and vane; Welcum comfort of all kind frule and grane ; Welcum the hirdis beild apoun thebrere; Welcum maister, and rculnre of the yere ; |
AVelcum wclefare of busbandis at the plewis; AVelcum reparare of wocldis, treis, and bewis ; Welcum depaynler of the bloniyt rnedis; Welcum the lyil'e of every thing that spreddis; AVelcum storare of all kynd bestial; AVelcum be thy bricht bemes gladand al. |
{From the Prologue to tue VIIth book of the Jïneide.)
|
The sary gled quhissils « itb mony ane pew, Quliarby I he day was dawing wide I knew; Bad bete the fyre, and ibe candyll aliehl, Syne blissit me, and in my wedis dicht; |
Ane schot wyndo unsehet ane litel on char, Persavit the mornyng bla, wan and bar AVyth cloudy gum and rack oucrqiilielmyt the are. The sulze stiche, liasard, rouch and hare; |
27
|
Branchis brattlying, and blaiknyt sohcw the brayis, With hirstis harsk of waggand wyndit strayis. The dew droppis congelit on stibhil and rynd, And scharp hailstanys mortfundyit of kind, |
Hoppand on the thak and on the causay bj The sehote I closit, and drew inwart in hy, Clieverand for cald, the sessoun was sa snell, Sciiupe with hait flainhis to Heme the fresing fell. |
ANCIENT SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS AND SONGS.
Zulk een schat van oude liederen vol gevoel f gelijk de Schotten die in hun taal bezitten t heeft geen ander volk. Uit het diepste van het hart opgeweld ; cnthous:astisch en toch eenvoudig even als do natuur zelf, spreken zij onmiddelijk tot liet hart en verrukken door aandoenlijke naïviteit.^ Nimmer heeft do liefde een hartstogtelijker taal gesproken , dan in deze oude liederen. Er behoorde weinig gava van vinding toe, om zulke gezangen te dichten , en toch zijn zij omtrent niet na te volgen (l).
Sir Hugh or the Jew's daughter»
|
The bonny hoys of merry Lincoln AVar playing at the bu'; And wi' them stmle the sweet Sir Hugh, The flower among tiiem a'. He kepped the ha' there wi' his foot And catchd it wi' his knee, Till in at the cruel Jew's window Wi' speid he garrd it flie. quot;Cast out the ba' to me, fair maid. Cast out the ha' to me: quot; — quot; Ye neir sail iiae it, my bonny Sir Hugh , Till yc cume up to me, Cumc up sweat Hugh, cume up deir Hugh, Cume up and get the ba' quot;1 winna cume up, 1 winna cum up Without my play feres a'.'' And she has gone to her father's garden Sae fast as she could rin ; ■*gt; Andpoicd an apple reid and white To wyle the young thing in. She wyled him sane throngb a chamber And wyled him sune through twa ; And neist ihey came to her ain chamber, The fairest o' them a. She has laid him on a dressing board yfhar she was ns'd to dine! And stuck a penknife to his heart, And dressd him like a swine. 0 waly waly up the bank, And waly waly down the brae , And waly waly yon burn side , Where I and my love were wont to gae. 1 leant my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd and syne it brake, Sae my true love did liyhtly me. |
She rowd him in a cake o' lead, And bade him lie and sleip; Sync threw him in the .lew's draw-well Fu' fifty fathom deip. Whan hells were rung and mass were sung , And ilka lady gaed hatne; Than ilka lady bad her young son , But lady Helen had nane. She rowd her mantel her about And sair, sair can she wcip ; She ran wi' speid to the Jew's castel When a' war fast asleip. quot; My bonny Sir Hugh your mithcr calls, 1 pray thee to her spcik. quot; quot; O lady rin to the deip draw-well, Gin ye your son wad seik. quot; Lady Helen ran to the deip draw-well, Ami kneel'd upon her knee; quot; Sly bonny Sir Hugh gin ye be here, I pray ye spcik to me Iquot; quot; The lead is wondrous heavy , mither, The well is wondrous deip , A kene penknife stiks in my hart, A word 1 dounae speik. Gae hame, gae hame, my mither deir, Fetch me my winding sheeti For again in merry Lincoln toun We twa sail nevir meit.quot; O waly, waly, gin love be bonny , A little time while it is new; But when 'tis auld , it waxeth cauld , And fades away like morning dew. O wherefore suld 1 busk my head ? Or wherefore suld I kame my hair 7 For my true love has me forsook , And says he'll nevir love me mair. |
(1) See F. Bouterweck : Geschichte der scböncn Wissenschaften. Göttingen tey .T. F. Rower. 1809, p. 10R etc
|
Now Artliur-scat sail be my bed , Tlieslicelssail nc'ir hefyVd by me: Saint Anions well sail be my drink , Since my true love lias forsaken me. Martinmas wind, whan wilt thou blow , Anil sbake the {jreenc leaves olF tlie tree ? O gentle death wban wilt tbou cum? For of my life I am wcarie. 'Tis not tbe frost, that freezes fell, Nor blowing snows inclemcneics, 'Tis no sic cnuld that makes me cry, But my love's heart's grown cauld to me. |
Whan we came iu by Glasgow town , AVe were a comely sight to see , My love was clad in th' black velvet, And 1 mysell in carmasie. But had I wisst, before ) kist, That love bad been sae ill to win , I hud lockt my heart in a case of gowd , And pinn'd it with a silverpinn. Oh, oh , if my young babe were borne And set upon the nurses knee, And myself were dead and gone, For a mayd agaync i'se never he. |
|
The king sits in Dunfermline town , Drinking the blude-red wine ; quot;0 wharc will I get a skcely skipper, To sail this new ship o' mine! quot; O up and spike an cldern knight, Sat at the kings right knee, — quot;Sir Patrick Spens is tbc best sailor, That ever sail'd the sea.quot; — Our king has written a braid letter. And scal'd it with his hand , And sent it lo Sir Patrick Spens, AVas walking on the strand. quot;ToNoroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem ; The king's dangliler of Noroway, 'T is tbou maun bring her hame.quot; — Tbe first word that Sir Patrick read , Sae loud loud laughed lie; The nei.it word I hat Sir Patrick read , The tear blinded his e'c. quot;0 wha is this lias done this deed , And tauld llie king o'me. To scud us out, at this time of tbe year. To sail upon the sea ? Be it wind , be it weet, he it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame. quot; — They hoy sod their sails on Monerulay morn , AVi' a' tbe speed they may ; They ha'e landed iu Noroway, Upon a Wodensday. They hadna been a week , a week In Noroway, but twnc. When that tbe lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say — quot;Ye Seottishmen spend a' our king'sgoud. And a' our queonis fee.quot; — quot;Ye lie, ye lie,ye liars loud ! Fu' loud I bear ye lie; |
quot;For I ba'e brought as much white monie. As gane my men and me, And 1 ba'e brought a half-fou of guile red goud. Out. o'er the sea wi' me. quot; Make ready, make ready , my merry men a' ! Our gude ship sails the morn.quot; quot; Now , ever alake, my master dear, 1 fear a deadly storm ! quot; I saw the new moon, late yestreen , AVi' the auld moon in her arm ; And , if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm.quot; They hadna sail'd a league, a league, A league but barely three, AA'hen the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud And gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak , and the topmasts lap , It was sic n deadly storm ; And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, Till a' ber sides were lorn. quot; O where will I get a gude sailor, To take my helm in band , Til I get up to the tall lo|)-mast, To sec if I can spy land ? quot; quot;0 here am F, a sailor gude. To take the belm in band. Till you go up to tbe tall top-mast; But 1 fear you'll ne'er spy land.quot; He hadna gane a step , a step , A step but barely ane, AVben a boult flew out of our goodly ship , And the salt sea it came in. quot; Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claitb , Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And let nae the sea come in. quot; — They fetch'd a web o' the silken claitb , Another o'the twine. And they wapp'd them round that gude ship's side But still the sea came in. |
29
|
O lailli, laitli, wereour (;uJe Scots lords To weet tlicir cork-licolM .t/100/1/ Hut lang or a' the play was pluy'd , Tlicy wal llieir Ijats aboon. Ami tnony was tlio feather hod , That filiated on the faem ; And mony was the glide lord's son , That never inair cam harne. The ladyos wrang their fingers white , The maidens tore llieir hair, A' for the sake of their true loves, — For them they'll see nae mair. |
O lang , lang , may the ladyes sit, AW their in fans into their hand , Before they see Sir Patrick Spcns Come sailing to the strand! And lang , lang , may the maidens sit, With their goud kaim's in llieir hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves! For them they'll see nae mair. Ilalfowre, halfowrc to Aberdour, 'T is fil'ty fathoms deep, And there lies gudc Sir Patrick Spcns, Wi' I he Scots lords at his feet! |
|
The pawkie auld carle came o'er the lea , Wi' mony gude e'ens and days to me, Saying , (judewife, for your courtesie, Will you lodge a silly poor man ? The nicht was cauld, I he carle was wat, And down ayont the inr/le he sat; My doujjhtcr's xhoulhers he 'gan to clap, And cadgily ranted and sang. O wow I quo' he, were I was free. As first when I saw this countrie , How hlylhe and merry wad I ho! And I wad never think lang. He grew canly, and she grew fain ; But little did her auld minny ken What thir slie together were say'ng. When wooing they were sae tliraug. And OI quo' he, an' ye were as black As e'er the crown of my daddy's hat, 'Tis I wad lay thee by my back. And awa' wi' me thou should gang. An O ! quo' she, an' I were as white. As e'er thesnaw lay on the dike, I'd deed me hraw and lady like, And awa' wi' thee I would gang. Between the twa was made a plot; They raise a wee before the cock, And wilily they shot the lock, And fast to the bent are they gane. Up in the morn the auld wife raise, And at her leisure pat on her claise ; Syne to the servant's bed she gaes. To speer for the silly poor man. She gaed to the bed where the beggar lay , The strae was cauld , he was away , She clapl her hands, cry'd , Waladay ! For some of our g.'ar will be gane. Some ran to colFer, and some to kist, But nought was stown that cou'd be mist, Shedanc'd her lane, cry'd , Praise be blosl! 1 have lodg'd a leal poor man. |
Since naething's awa', as wo can learn , The kirn's to kirn , and milk to earn , Gae butt the hou-e, lass, and waken my bairn, And bid her come quickly ben. 1 The servant gade where the donghtor lay. The sheets w ere cauld , she was away. And fast to the gudewife 'gan say. She's afl.quot; wi' the gaberlun/.io-man. Ofy gar ride , and fy gar rin , And haste ye find these traytors again , For she's be burnt, and he's be slain , The wearifu' gahcrlun/.ie-man. Some rade upo' horse, some ran a fit. The wife was wild, and out 0' her wit: She cou'd tia gang , nor yet cou'd she sit, But aye she curs'd and she bann'd. Mean time far hind out o'er the Ice, Fu' snug in a glen , where nane could see, The twa wi' kindly sport and glee, Cut frae a new cheese a w hang : The priving was good , it pleas'd them baith, To lo'e her fur aye, lieya'e her his aith , Quo' she, To leave ihcc I will bo laith , My winsome gaberlunzie-man, O kend my minny I were wi' you, 111-far'dly wad she crook her mou', Sic a poor man she'd .never trow , After the gaberlunzie-iuan. My dear, quo' he , ye're yet o'er young , And ha'e nae learn'd the beggars tongue. To follow me frae town to town , And carry thegaherlunzie on. Wi' cank and keel I'll win your bread , And spindles and whorles for them wbaneed, Whilk is a gentle trade indeed , To carry the gabei lun/.ie on. I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee. And draw a black clout o'er my e'lt;?, A cripple or blind they will cu' me , While we shall be merry and sing. |
Keerde naar men wil in 1356. na een reis van vier eu dertig jaar door Azië , in Engeland terug en overleed op een andere reis te Luik, in 1371. Hij werd omslreeks 1300 te St. Albans geboren (zie verder de Prologue). Mandevil is de oudste Engelsehe proza schrijver en leverde een verhaal van zijn eerste reis iu de tweede helft van de veertiende eeuw. Dit verhaal is bekend onder den titel: Voiage and Travayles of Sir John Mandevil, Knight, which teaehetli of the Mervayles of Inde, etc. Wanneer men zijn oude spelling eenigermate vernieuwt, zooals met zijn Prologue het geval is, is hij vrij wel verstaanbaar, liet tweede stuk is waarschijnlijk zijn eigen spelling : het is althans naar een handschrift vermoedelijk uit het laatst der veertiende eeuw. Hoe ongerijmd sommige gedeelten van zijn verhaal ook mogen wezen, mag men echter aannemen, dat de schrijver geheel ter goeder trouw handelt in het meêdeelen van do wonderen , die hij gezien en gehoord heeft. De beste uitgaven van die reis zijn verschenen in 1725 en in 183'J te Londen.
Prologue to hls Voyages anlt;l Travels-
|
And, for als mocli as it is long; time passed that there was no general passage ne vya;;e over the sea, and many men desiren for to hear speak of the Holy Lond , and han thereof great solaee and comfort, I, John Maundcville , knight, all ho it I be not worthy , that was horn in Englond, in the town ofSaint Alhons, passed the sea in the year of our Lord Jesu Christ 1322, in the day of Saint Michel; and hider-to have longtime over the sea, and haveseen and gone thorough many divers londs, and many provinces , and kingdoms, and isles, and liaNe passed thorough Tartary, Persie, Ermonie the Little and the Great; thorough Lihye, Chaldee, and a great part of Ethiop; thorough Amaioyn , Ind the Lass and the More, a great parly; and thorough out many other isles, that ben ahouten Ind; where dweilen many divers folks, and of divers manners and laws,and of divers shapps of men. Of which londs and isles I shall speak more plaitily hereafter. And I shall devise you some party of things that there hen, whan |
timeshall ben after it may best come to my mind; and specially for hem thatW/and are in purpose for to visit the Holy City of Jerusalem, and the holy places that are thereabout. And I shall tell the way that they should holden thider. For 1 have often times passed and ridden the way, with good company of many lords, God be thonked. And ye shull understond that I have put this book out of Latin into French , and translated it agen out of French into English, that every man of my nation may understond it. But lords and knights, and other noble and worthy men, that con Latin but little, and han ben beyond the sea, knowen and understonden gif I err in devising, for forgetting or else; that they mowe redress it and amend it. For things passed out, of long time, from a man's mind, or from his sight, turnen soon into forgetting; because that mind ofmanne may not ben comprehended ne withholden for the freclly of mankind. ami of the Holy Places thereahoute. |
|
*Aftcr for to speke of Jerusalem the holy cytee, zee schuil undirstonde that it stout full faire Letwene hilles, and there be no ryveres ne welles, but watar cometh by condyle from Ebron. And zee schulle nnderstonde that Jerusalem of olden tyme , unto the tyme of Melchisedeeb, was cleped Jehus: and after it was clept Salem, unto the tyme of Kyng David , that put these two names to gider, and cleped it Jcbusalem. And after that |
Kyng Salomon cleped it Jerosolomye. And after that men cleped it Jerusalem , and so it is cleped zit. And aboute Jerusalem is the kyngdom of Siirrye. And there besyde, is the lond of Pales-tyne. And besyde it is A sec I on. And besyde that is the lond of Maritanie. Hut Jerusalem is in the lond of Judee; and it is clept Jude, for that Judas Machabeus was kyng of that contree. And it marcheth cstward to the kyngdom of Arabye; on |
51
|
the south aylt;le to the lond of Egipt; and on the west syde to the grete see. On the north syde toward the kyngdom of Surrye, and to the see of Cypre. In Jerusalem was wont to be a Patriark and Erchchyssliopes, and Bisshoppes ahouten in the contree. Ahowte Jerusalem be iheise oylees; Ebron at seven myle, Jerico at six mylc, Bersahue at eyglit myle, Ascolon at xvii. myle, Jaft'at xvi. myle, Ramatha at iij. myle, and Belhleem at ij. myle. And a ij. myle from Ikthleem toward the southe is the cliirche of Seynt Kuritot that was abbot there, for whom thei maden meche doel amongs the monks when be seholde dye, and zit be in-moornynjie in the wise that thei maden her lamentacon for him the first tyme, and it is full gret pytee to beholdc. This eontree and lond of Jerusalem bath ben in many dyverse nacones hoiules. And often therfbrchath ihecontreesuffred meche trihulacion for I he synne of the people that duelle ther: for that contree hath be in the bonds of all nacyonns: that is to si'yne of Jewes, of Chananees , Assiryenes, Perses , Medoynes , Macedoynes, of Grekes, Romaynes, of Cristenc-inen, of Sarratines, Barharyenes , Turkes, Tar-taryenes,and ofmanye othere dyverse nacyotins. For God wole not that it be ionge in the honds of tray tours ne of synneres, be thei cristene or other. And now have the hethene men holden that lond in her bonds xl. zcr and more. But tiici schuil not holde it Ionge ïif God wold. |
And zee schuil undirstomle that whan men comen to Jerusalem her first pilgrymage is to the cbirche of the Holy Sopnlcr wher oure Lord was buryed , that is with oute the cytee on the north syde. But it is now enclosed in with the ton wall. And there is a full fair chirehe all rownd, and open above, and covered with leed. And on the west syde is a fair lour and an high for belles strongly made. And in the myddes of the cbirche is a tabernacle as it wer a lytyll hows, made with a low lityll dore; and that tabernacle is made in manor of a half a cotnpas right curiousely and ricbely made of gold and azure and othere riche coloures, full nobelycbe made. And intheryght syde of that tabernacle is the sepulcre of oure Lord. And tin'tabernacle is viij. fote long and v. fote wyde. and xj. fote in heghte. And it is not Ionge silhe the sepulcre was all open, that men niyghte kis=e it and lonrhe it. But for pilgrynies that comen tbider peyned hem to breke the ston in peces, or in poudr; therefore the Soudan hath do make a wall ahoute the sepulcr that no man may towebe it. But in the left syde of the wall of the tabernacle is well the heigh te of a man , is a gret ston, to the tjuanlytee of a mannes lied , that was of the holy sepulcr, and that ston kisien tlie pilgrymes that comen thider. In that tabernacle ben no wyndowes, but it is all made light with lampes that hangen befor (he sepulcr. And there is a lampc that bongeth befor the sepulcr that brennetb light, and on the Godc fryday it goth out be him self, at that hour that our Lord roos fro deth to lyve. Also within the cbirche at the right syde besyde the queer of the chirehe is the mount of Calvarye, wher our Lord was don on the cros. And it is a roche of white colour and a lytill inedled with red. And the cros was set in a morlnys in the same roche, and on that roche dropped the woundes of our Lord, whan be was pyned on the cros, and that is eleped Golgatha. And men gon up to that Golgatha be degrees. And in the place of that morteys was Adames bed found after Noes flode, in tokene that the synnes of Adam scbulde hen bought in that same place. And upon that roche made Abraham sacrifise to our Lord. And there is an Awter, and before that Awtier lyzn Godefray de Boleyne, and Bawdewyn , and othere cristene Kyngs of Jerusalem. And ther nygb wher our Lord was crucyfied is this writen in Greew, Olhcos basilion ysmon psiunus ergusu , sothias emesotis gyc, that is to seyuc in Latyn; 'Ilic Deus noster Rex, ante secula, opcratus el saluteiu in medio terre'; that is loseye, ' This God oure Kyng , before the worldes, bath wrought hele in mydds of the Ertbe.' And also on that roche where the cros was sett, is writen with in the roche these words, Cyos vujst ys basis toupisteos they thesmofy, that is to sayne in Latyn , 'Quod vides est fundameiilum tocius fidei Mundi hu-jus'; that is to seye, 'That thou seest is ground of all the world and of this feyth.' And zee schuil vndirstonde that whan oure Lord was don upon the cros, he was xxxiij. zerandiij. monethes of elde. And the prophecye of David sayth that, quot; Quadraginta annis proximus f ui yencracioni huic that is to seye, 'Forty zeer was I neigh-bore to this kynrede. ' And Ihus scholde it seme that the prophecyes ne wer not trewc, but thei ben bothe trevvc: for in old tyme men maden o zeer of x. monethes , of the wbiche March was the firste and Decembr was the last. But Gayus that was Emperour of Rome putten theise ij. inoneths there to Janyuer and Fevercr,anlt;l ordeyned the zeer of xij. monethes, that is to seyeccc.lxv. dayes, without leep zeer, after the projire cours of the Sonne. And therefore after rowntynge of x. monethes of the zeer, he dyede in the xl. zeer as the prophete seyde; after the zeer of xij. monethes he wasofagexxxiij zeer and iij. monethes. Also within the Mount of Calvarie, on the right side, is an Awter, wher the piler lyztb that oure Lord Jhesu was bounden to whan he was scourged; and there besyde iiij. fote, ben iiij. pilers of ston that allweys droppen water. And summe seyn that ihei wepen for our Lordes deth. And nyijli that awtier is a place under erlhe xlij. degrees of depnesse, wher the holy croys was founden be the wytt of Scynte Elyne, under a rochc wher the Jewes bad hidde it. And that was the verray croys assayed. For they founden iij. |
32
|
crosses, on of our Lord, and ij. of tlie ij.thefcs. And Seyntt; Elyne proved licrn on a ded horly that aros from delli to lyvo, whan that it was leyd on it that our Lord dyed on. And there hy in tlie wall is the place vvlicr (lie iiij. nayles of our Lord were hidd , for he had ij. in Ills honds, and ij. in his feet: and of on of theisc the Kmperour of Con-stantynople made a hrydill lohis hors, to her him in halaylle, and llior;;h vert ue t here of lie over-cam liisenemyes, and wan all thelondof Asye the lesse, that is to sye Turkye, Ermonye the lasso and the more, and. from Surrye to Jerusalem, from Arahye to Persie, from Mesopolayme to the kingdom of Ualappee, from Egypte the highe and the lowe, and all the othere kyn^domes unto the depe of Ethiope, and in to Ynde tlie lesse that thanne was cristerne. And there was in that tyrne many jjode holy mefi and holy llereniyt.es of whom the hook of Fadres lyfes spekcth and thei ben now in payntnncs and Sarazines bonds. And in mydds of that chirche is a compas, in the wbiche Joseph of Aramathie leyde the body of onr Lord whan he had taken him down of the eroys, and where he wassched the wounds of our Lord. And that compas, sey men is tlie mydds of the world. And in the Chirehe ot the Sepulchre on the north syde is tlie place wher oure Lord Mas put in preson. For he was in preson in many places. And ther is a partye ol the cheyne that lie was bounden witli. And ther he appered first to Marie Majjdaleyne, whan he was rysen, and sche wende that he had hen a {jardencr. In the chirche of Seynt Sepulcr was wout to he chanons ol the orrlr of Seynt Aujjustyn, and hadden a Priour, hut the Patriark was her sovereyn. And N\ith oute the dores of the chirche, on the right syde as men jjon upward xviij.^rcceA*, scyd our Lord to his moder, Mulier, ecre fill us lit hs\ that is to seye,t\N oman, lo thi sone.' And after that he seyde to John his disciple,4 Ecce Mater lua\ that is to sey tie , 'Lo behold thi moder.'And theisc words he seyde on the cros. And on theise reces went our Lord whan he bar the cros on his schulder. And under this grees is a chapell and in that chapeli syn^en prestes, yndyenes, that is to seye prests of Ynde, noght after oure law, hut after her and all wey thei maken her sacrament oftheawtier, seyen^e/^er and othere prayeres there with. With the wbiche preyeres thei seye the words that the sacrement is made of. For thei ne knowe not the addicions that many Popes ban made, but thei synjje with gode devocion. And there ner is the place where that oure Lord rested him whan he was wcry for heryngeof theeros. And zee schuil understonde that before the chirche of the Sepul-cre is the cytee more feble than in ony other par-tie. forthegrete playn that is betwene the chirche and thecitee. And toward the est syde, with oute the walles of the cytee , is the Vale of Josaphath , that toucheth to the walles as though itwera large dyeb. And above that vale of Josaphath out of the cytee is the chirche of Seynt Stevene wher he was stoned to deth. And there beside is the gilde ne zate that may not be opened , be the which zate our Lord en tred on Palmesonday upon an asse, and the zate opened azenst him whan he wolde go unto the Temple. And zit apperen the steppes of the asses feet in iij. places of the degrees that ben of full harde ston. And before the chirche of Seynt Sepulcr toward the south, a cc. paas is the gret Hospitall of Seynt John, of the wbiche the Hospitleres hadd here loundaeon. And with inne the Palays of the seke men of that Hospitall be sixe score and iiij. pileres of ston. And in the walles of the hows, with oute the nomhreabo-veseyd, there be liiij. pileres that heren up the hows. And fro that Hospitall to go toward the est is a full fayr chirche that is cb-pt Notre Dame la graund. And than is there another chirche right nygh that is dept Notre Dame de Latyne. And there were Marie Cleophes and Marie Magda-leyne and teren here heer, whan our Lord was peyned in the cros.* |
|
♦And zee schuil vnderstonde that Machomele was horn in Arahye , that was first a pore knaue that kept Cameles that wenten with Marcban-tes for marchandise , and so belell that he wente with the maichandes in to Egipt, and thei were thanne cristene in tho partyes. And at the desart-es of Arahye he wente in to a chapell wher a Eremyte duelte. And whan he entred in to the chapell, that was but a lytill and a low thing, and had but a lityll dor' and a low, than the entree began to wexe so gret and so large, and so hh'h, as though it had lie of a gret mynstr, or the zate of a paleys. And this was the first myraclc theSarazins seyn that Machomcte didc in his zout he. After began he for lo wexe wyse and riche; and he was a gret Astronomer; and, after, he was gouernor and prince of the loud of Cor-rodane, and he gouerned it full wisely, in such manere, that whan the prince was ded , he toke the lady to wyfe that highte Gadrige. And Machometc fell oilen in the grete sikeness that men callc the fallyn^e euyll. AV her fore the lady was full sory that cuere sche toke him to husbonde. But Machomete made hire to beleeue that all tymcs when he fell so, Gabriel the angel cam for to spoke with him , and for the grete light and bright nesse ol the angell , he inyghte not susteyne him frofallynge. And therefore the Sarazines seyn that Gabriel cam often to speke with him. This Machomete regned in |
O J
|
Arahyc, llic iecr of our Lont jlicsu Crist sixe hundred and ten, and was uf the generacion of Ysmael, that was Abrahanies sone that he {jat upon Af[ar his f/ia7«6er(?r, and tlierefore titer lie Sarrazines that lie clcpt Isinaelytencs ; and Arfar-zenes, of A{rar, and tlie otiiere propurly lie dept Sarrazines of Sarra ; and summe he clejit Moa-bytes, and summe Arnonytes, for the two sones of Loth, Moah and Amon, tliat he hegatt on his dauglitres, that were aftirward grete erthely princes. And also Maclioniete loued wel a gode Ijereniyte that duelled in the desertes, a myle from Mount Synay in the weye that men yon fro Arahye toward Caldee, and toward Ynde, « day iorney fro the Seu when the Alarchaunts of Venyse comen often for niarehandize. And so often wente Machomele to this hereinyIe that all his men were wrothe, for he wolde gladly here this hereinyte preche, and make his men wake all nyght; and therefore his men thoughten to putte the hereinyte to detli; and so hefell \pon a nyght that Machomele was dronken of god wyn and he fell on slope, and his men toko Macho-mete's swerd out of his schetho, whils he slepte, and there with thei slowgh this hereinyte and putte his swerd all Idody in his schetho azen. And at rnorwe whan he fond the hermeyte ded, he was fully sory and wroth, and wolde haue don his men to detli, hut thei all with on accord [said] that he him si lf hail slayn him whan he was dronken and schewed him his swerd all hlody, and lie trowed that thei hadden seyd so//i. And than he cursed I he wyn, and all tho that drynken it. And therefore Sarrazines that he deuout drynken neuer no wyn, hut sum drynkon it pnuyly, for zif thei donken it openly thei scholdc lien n proued. Kut they drynken gode heuerage , and swete and noryfshynge, that is made of fialamell, and that is that men maken sugr'of that is of right gode sauor, and it is gode for tho Incest. Also it hefallcth sumtyme that cristene men become Sarrazines outlier for pouerte or for symplcness, or dies for her owne wykkedness. And iherefore the Archiflamyn or the I'lamyn, os our Echehisshopp or Bisshopp, whan he resceyu-etli hem soyth thus: La eltcc ulld syla tVdcho-mcl rores alia, that is to seyo, quot; There is no God hut on and Machomete his messager. quot; |
Overleed op omtrent zestigjarigen leeftijd in 1384; Iiij voltooide de vertaling van den bijbel (lt;lo oudste, welke men in Engeland heeft) waarschijnlijk twee of drie jaren vóór zijn dood; bet oude testament bestaat nog, op eenige fragmenten na, in bandschrift; nlleen het nieuwe werd gedrukt te Londen in 1731, 1810 en 1841. Het Engelseb van Wieliffe, vergeleken met dat van Mandovil, is ruw en moeijelijk te verstaan. Hij leverde ook een groot aantal oorspronkelijke verhandelingen (men wil 160—200) ter verdediging van de beginselen , welke hij voor de hervorming van kerk en staat koesterde: eenigen daarvan «(ju gedrukt; doch bet meerendeel bestaat nog in handschrift.
A pari of the Fiitcciith Chapter of Exoilus.
|
* Thanne Moises song, and the sones of Israel, this song to the I.ord ; and thei seiden , Synge we to the Lord for ho is magnafied glorioujli; he castide down the hors and the sticre into the see. My strengthe and iny prcisyng is the Lord , and he is maad to me into heelthe, this is my God: y schal glorifie hy;n the God of my fadir: and y schall enhauncc hym: the Lord is as a man fiiten: his name is almizti. lie castide doun into the see the cbaris of Farao and his oost, his chosun princes weren drenchid in the reed see , the deepe watris hiliden them; thei zeden doun into the depthe as a stoon. Lord tiiy rizt hond is magnyfied in strengthe: Lord tin rizt hond smoot the cne-mye; and in the mythilnesse of I hi glorie thou hast put doun all thyn adversaryes; thou sentist thine ire that devouride hem as stobil: and watris weren gaderid in the spirit of thi wood nesse; llowinge watir stood ; dope watris weren gaderid in the middis of the see: the enemy seyde, V schall pursue and y sdiall take, y scliall departe spuylis , my soulo schall he flllid: y schall drawe out my swerde: myn bond schall sic hem. Thi spirit blew; and the see hilide hem, thei weren drenched as Iced , in gretc watris. Lord who is lyk thee in stronge men : who is lyk thee; thou art greet doere in lioolynesse; ferdful and p'isable, and doyng miracles; thou hcldist forth thin bond, and the erthedevouride hem : Thou were Iedere, in thi merci, to thi puplc, which thou azen houztest, and thou hast bore hym , in thi strengthe, to thin holi dwellyng place; puplis stieden and weren wroothe: sorewis helden the dwellerisofFlistiym ; thane the pryncis of Edom weren disturblid : trembling helde the stronge nien of Moah : all the dwelleris of Canaan weren Starke. Inward dredc fall on hem: and outward drcde in the greetnesse of thin arm. Be thei maad |
34
unmoovulilc as a stoon , til llii puple passe, lord , til this tlii puple passe. AVliom tliou wcklidist, thou schall brynge hem in and thou sclialt plaunte in the hil of thin eritage: in the moost stidefast dwcllyng place which thou hast wrod/.t, Lord, Lord, thi seyntuarie which thin hondis made stidefast. The Lord schall regne in to the world and ferth'c. Forsothe Farao a ridero cntride with his charis and knyttis in to the see: and j
the Lord hroiutu the watris of the su on hint ; sotlieli the sones of Israel zeden hi the drie place , in the myddis of the see.
Therefore Mario profetesse, the sister ol Aaron , tooke a tynipan in hir hond, and all the wymmen zeden out aftir hyr with tympans cunipanyes: to which sclie sotijf before and scide, 'Syiij[c we so the Lord: for lie is inajjnyfied jjloriousli. hncastidc i doun into thesee the iiors and the stiere of hyin. *
The last Chapter of :4t. Luke.
|
But in o day of the woke ful cerli thei cainen to the grave, and hroughten swete smelling spices that thei hadden arayed. And thei founden the stoon turnyd awcy fro thegraue. And thei geden in and foundun not the bodi of the Lord Jhcsus. And it was don, the while thei weren astonyed in thought of this thing, lo twey men stoden bisides hem iu schynyng clotii. And whanne thei dredden and bowiden her scmhlaunt into crthc, thei seiden lo hem, what sceken ye him that lYiieth with decde men? lie is not here: but lie is risun: haue ye minde how he spak to you whanne he was yil in Golilec, and seide, for it behoueth mannes sone to be hilakun into the hondis of synful man: and to he crucifyed: and the thridde day to rise agen? And thei hithought-en on hise wordis, and thei geden agen fro the graue: and teelden alle these thingis to the cllevenc and to alle otherc. And there was Marye Maudeleyn and .lone and Marye of James, ami othere wymmen that weren with hem, that seiden to Apostlis these thingis. And these wordis were seyn biforc hem as rnadnesse and thei bileueden not to hem; but Pelre roos up and ran to the grane, and he howide doun , and sigh the lynen clothis liynge aloone, and he wente by himsill wondryntre on that was done. |
And lo tweyneof hem wenten in that day into a castel, that was fro Jerusalem the space of sixty furlongis, by name Emaws. And thei spaken togidre of alle these thingis that hadden bifalle. And it. was don the while thei talkiden , and soughten by hemsilf: Jesus himsilf neighedc and wente with hem. I!ut her yghen weren holdun , that thei knewen him not. And lie seide lo hem , what hen these wordis that ye speken togidere wondringe : and ye hen sorcw Tiil ? And oon , whos name was Cleofas, answerde and seydc, Thou thi siif art a pilgrim in Jerusalem, and hast tliou not knowun what tliingis hen don in it these dayes? To whom he seydc, what thingis? and thei seiden to him, of Jhesus of Nazareth , that was a man piofele myghti in werk and word bifore God and al the puple. And how thehigheste prestis of oure Princis bitokun him in dampna-cioun of deeth : and rrucifiedcn him. Hut we hopiden that he schulde haue agen boughte Israël ; and now on alle these thingis, the thirddo day is to day that these thingis weren don. But also sumtnen wymmen of ouris maden us aferd w biche bifore day weren at the graue. And whan his bolt;li was not foimdun thei catnen and seiden that they sighen also a sight of aungels, which seyden that he lyueth. And suinme of ourcn wenten to tlie graue, and thei foundun so as the wyinnien seiden: but they foundun not him. And lie seide lo hem , A foolis and slowc of herte to hileue in alie thingis that he profetis ban spoken ; Wher it hihofte not Crist to sulfrc tliese thingis, and so to entre into his glorye? And he began at Moyses and at alio the profetis and declaride to hern in alle scripturis that weren of him. And tliey cainen nygli the castel whidir thei wenten: and he made countenaunce that be wolde go fer-thir. And they constreyneden him and seiden, Dwelle with us, for it draweth to nyght, and the day is now howed doun; and he entride with hem. And it was don the while he sal at the mete with hem, he took breed and hi isside and brak, and took lo hem. And the yghen of hem weren opened, and thei knewen him ; and lie vanyschide fro her yghen. And thei seiden togidere. wher oure herte was not biernynge in us, while he spak to us in the weye , and opened to us Scripturis? And thei risen up in the same our and wenten agen into Jerusalem, and foundun the ellevene gaderid togidre, and hem that weren with hem, seiynge, that the Lord is risnn verily: and appcrid to Symount. And thei tolden what thingis weren don in the weye, and how thei knewen him in the brakinge of bred. And the while thei spaken these thingis Jhesns stood in the myddil of hem and scide to hein ; 1'ees to you, I am, nyl ycdrede: but thei weren aflrayed and ngast and gessidcn him to be a spirit. And he seide to hem, what ben ye troubled: and thoughtis {■amen up into youre Ilei tis ? Se ye my hondis and my feet: for 1 my silf am , feele ye and se ye, for a spirit hath not tlesch and booties as ye seen that I bane. And whanne he haddeseid this thing; he scbewide hondis and feet to hem. And yet while the bileueden not and wondriden for joye: he |
at)
|
seide, lian yc here ony thinj; llial schal he ctun ? and thci profriilen to him a partof afisch roostyd, and a honycotnh. And whanno he haddu ctun biforc hcin, he toke thai that lefto and j;af to licm, and seydc to hem, These hen the wordis that I spak to you. whan no I was yit with you , lor it is nedc that alle thinijis hen fulfilled that hen writun in the Lawe of Moyses and in the profctis and in Salines of me; Tlianne he opcniile to hem with that thei sclmlden undirstonde Scripturis. And he seide to horn, [''or thusit is writun, and thus it bihofte Crist to suffre: and rise agen fro death in the thriddc day; and penaunce and remissioun ol synnis to he prcchid in his name into all folkis hiifynnynfte at Jerusalem. And yc hen witnessis of these thinjjis. And ( schall send the hiheest of my fadir into you, hut sitte ye in the citce till that yc hen clothed with vertu fro and hij;h. And he leddc hem forth inlo Bethanye ; and whan hisc hondes wcren lift up, he hlesside hem. And it was don the while he hlessid hem he departcde fro licm, and was horun inlo lievcne. And thci worsi.'ln'piden and wenlcn agen into Jerufalem, with grcl ioyc: and weren euer more in the temple hcriyngc and hlessingc God. |
{Zie hladz. G.)
Tale of Mclibcus. (1)
|
*Cerle3, quod Prudence, I graunteyou wel that overmiic/iel suffraunce is not good, hut yet ne folwelh it not llierof that every persone to whom men don vilanie shuld take of it vengeaunce, for that apperteinelh and longeth all only to the juges, for they shul venge (he vilanies and injuries; and therfore tho two auetoritecs that ye lian sayd ahovc hen only understonden in the juges , for whan they snfiVen overmuchel the wrouges and vilanies to be don withouten punishing, they sompne not a man all only for to do newe wronges, hut they coinmaunden it; al so as a wise man saylh, that the juge that correctelli not the sinner commaundeth and hiddeth him do sinnc; and the juges and sovoraines mighten in hir loud so muche suft're of the shrewes and mis-doers, that they shulden hy swiche suffraunce hy proces of lime wexen of swiclic power and might, that they shulde putte oul the juges and the soveraines from hir places, and atte laste maken him lesc hir lordshippes. But now let us putte that ye have levc to venge you ; I say ye ho not of might and power as now to venge you; for if yc wol maken comparison unlo tho might of youre adversaries, ye shuln linde in many thinges that I have shewed you er this that hir condition is heller than youres, and therfore say I that it is good as now that ye suffre and ho patient. |
Forlhcrmore, yo knowen wcl that after the commune saw it is a woodnesse a man lo strive with a stranger or a more mighty man than he is himself; and for to strive with a man of even strenghte, that is lo say, with as strong a man as he is, it is peril; and for to strive with a weker man it is folic; and therfore shulde a man lice striving as muchul as he inighte; for Salomon saylh, It is a gret worship lo a man to kepe him fro noise and strif. And if it so happe that a man of greler mighle and strcngthe than thou art do thee grevauncc, studie and hesie thee rather to stille the same grevauncc than for to venge thee; for Senek sayth, That he putteth him in a grcte peril that striveth with a greler man than he is himself; and Caron sayth. If a man ol higher eslat or degree, or more mighty than thou, do thee auoye or grevauncc, suffro him; for he that once has greved thee may another time rclcvc thee and hclpe thee. Yet sclte I cas yc have bothe might and licence for to venge you; I say that thcr hen ful many thinges that shuln rcstreine you of vengeaunce taking, and make you lortocncline to suffre and for to han patience in the wronges that han hen don to you. First and forward, if yc wol considre the defautcs that hen in youre owen persone , for which defauies God hath suffred you have this tribulation, as I have sayd loyouhere-heforne; for the poetc sayth, that we oughten patiently taken the tribulations that comen to us, whan that wc thinken anil considcren that wo han deserved to ban hem; and Seint Gregorie sayth , that whan a man considercth wcl the nombre of his defautes and of his sinncs, the pcines and tho tribulations that bo suffcreth semen the lesse unlo bim ; and in as muche as him ibinketh his sinncs more bevy and grcvous, in so muche semeth his peine the lighter and the esier unto him. Also ye owen to encline and howc youre hcrle lo take the patience of Oure Lord Jesu Crist, as sayth Seint Peter in his Epistles. Jcsu Crist (be sayth) bath suffred for us, and yereti ensample lo every man to folwc and sue bim, tor |
Prudence, the discreet wife of Mclibeus , pcrsaades her husband to ]inlienc» , and to rcceivo his fiieinics to mercy and grace. The Title is full of morality.
36
|
he did never sinne, no never came ther u vilains word out of his moutli. AVlian men cursed liim lie cursed hem nought, and whan men heten him he manaced hem nought. Also the giet patience which seintes that ben in Paradis han had in trihulations that they han suffred withouten liir desert or gilt, ouglite muchel stirre you to pa-tionce. Forthermore, ye shulde enforce you to have patience, considering that the trihulations of this world hut litel while endure and sone passed hen and gon, and the joye that n man seketh to han hy patience in trihulations is perdurable ; after that the apostle sayth in his epistle, The joye of fiod , he sayth, is perdurable, that is to sayn, everlasting. Also troweth and beleveth stedfastly that be n'is not wel ynorished ne wel ytaught that cannot have patience, or wol not receive patience; for Salomon sayth, that the doctrine and wit of a man is knowen hy patience; and in another place ho sayth, that he that is patient governeth him by gret prudence: and the same Salomon sayth, The angrie and wrathful man maketh noises, and the patient man attempt-eth and stllleth hem: be saith also, It is more worth to he patient than to he right strong; and he that may have the lordshlpe of bis owon berte is more to proise than he that hy his force or strengthe taketh greteitees: and therfore sayth |
Seint James in bis epistle, that patience is a gret vertue of perfection. Certes, quod Melibee, I graunte you. Dame Prudence, that patience is a gret vertue of perfection, but every man may not have the perfection that ye seken; ne I am not of the nomhrc of the right parfitmen, for min berte may never be in pees unto the time it ho venged. And al be it so that it was gret peril to min enemies to do me a vilanie in taken vengeaunce upon me, yet token they non hede of the peril, hut fulfilleden hir wicked will and hlscorage; and therfore me tbinketh men ougbten not repreve me though 1 put me in a litel peril for to venge me, and though I do a gret excesse, that is.to sayn, that I venge on outrage by another. A! quod Dame Prudence, ye sayn your will and as you liketh; but in no oas of the world a man shulde not. don outrage ne excesse for to vengen him; for Cassldoresayth, that as evil doth he that vengeth him hy outrage as he that doth the outrage; and therfore ye shuln venge you after the ordre of right, that is to sayn, by the lawe, and not hy excesse ne by outrage. And also if ye wol venge you of the outrage of your adversaries In oilier manere than right commaundetb ye sinnen ; and therfore sayth Senek , that a man shall never venge shrewednesse hy shrcwednesse*. |
Dc Scptcin Peccatis Moiritalilms.
|
Now it is behovely to tellen whiche hen dedly sinnes, tliat Is to say, chiefctaines of slimes, for as moche as all they ren in o lees, hut in divers maners. Now hen they clepod chiefctaines for as moche as they bo ehiefo, and of hem springen all other sinnes. The role of tblse sinnes than is pride, the general rote of all hannes, for of this rote springen certain braunches, as ire, envic, aciide or slouthe, avarice or coveitise (to common understonding) glolonie , and lecherie ; and eche of I bise chief sinnes hath his braunches and bis twigges , as shall he declared inhircha-pllrcs following. |
|
After avarice coineth glotonle, which is expresse ayensl thccommandement of God. Glotonle is unmesurable appetit to etc or to drlnke, or elles to do in ought to the unmesurable appetite and disordeined coveitise to etc or drlnke. This sinne corrupted all this world, as is wel shewed In the sinne of Adam and Eve. Lokealso what sayth Seint Poule of glotonle: Many (sayth he) gon, of which I have ofte said to you , and now I say it weping , that they ben the enemies of the crosse of Crist, of which the end is deth , and of which hir wombe is hir God and hir glorie. In l confusion of hem that to serven erthly thinges. i |
He that is usant to this sinne of glotonle, be no may no sinne withstood, he must he in servage of all vices, for it is the devils horde the he hideth him and rcsteth. This sinne has many spices: the first is dronkenesse, that Is the horrible sepulture of mannes reson, and therfore whan a man is dronke he hath lost his reson ; and this is dedly sinne ; but sothly whan that a man is not wont to strong drinkes, and peraventure ne knoweth not the strength of the drlnke, or hath feblenesse In his hed, or has travallled, thurgh which he drlnketh the more , al be he sodenly caught with drlnke, It is no dedely sinne hut venial. The |
37
|
second spice ofplotonic is, that the spirit ol a man wexeth all trouble for dronkenesse, and berevetii a man the discretion of his wit. The thridde spice of jjlotonie is wliau a man devouretli his mete, and hath not rightful mauer ofetinj. The fourtho is, whan thurfjh the j;ret ahundance of his mete the humours in his hody hen distempered. The fifthe is foryetfulncsse hy to mochc drinking, for which sometime a man forgeteth hy the morwe what lie did over eve. |
In other manor ben distinct the spices of glot-onie , after Seint Gregorie. The first is for toete before time; the second is whan a man getetb him to delicate mete or drinke; the thridde is whan men taken to moche over mesurc; the fourth is curiositee , with grot entent to maken and appareille his mete ; the fifth is for to etc fjredily. Thisc bin the five finders of the devils hond, by which he draweth folk to the sinne. |
Ayonst glotonie the remedie is abstinence, as | sayth Oalien ; but that 1 holde not meritoric, if • he do it oidy for the hele of his body.Seint Augustine wol that abstinence be don for vertue , and with patience. Abstinence (sayth he) is litel worth hut ii'a man have gooil will therto, and but it he enforced by patience and charitcc , and (hat men don it for Goddes sake, and in hope to have the hlisse in hoven.
The fclawes of abstinence hen attemperance,
I that holdeth I ho mene in alle thinges; also shame. ; that nschcwoth all dishoncstee; suillsance, that seketh no riche metes no dritikes, ne doth no force of non outrageous appareilling of mcto; mesure also, that restreineth by reason I he un-mesurahle appelit of eting; sobernosse also, that restreineth the outrage of drinke; sparing also , that restreineth the delicat ese to sit longat mete, wherfore som folk standen of hir owen will whan they etc, because they wol etc at lesse leisor.
Dezo schrijver werd to Londen geboren in 1480 j hij stndeordo to Oxford, was onder Hendrik Vlll kanselier en stierf door do moordbijl in 1535. Hij ondorsoheidde zich als geschiedschrijver vooral door zijn life and Reign of King Edward V, and of his Brother, and of Richard II[ (omtrent 1513 geschreven) , welke zeker het eerste engelsche geschiedkundig werk is , dat meer dan den naam van kronijk verdient. Hij leverde bovendien Dialogue concerning heresies (omtrent 1528); Utopia, een wijsgeerig werk, in het latijn geschreven; een brief, welken hij aan zijn echtgenoot schreef, nadat een brand zijn woning te Chelsea had verwoest (1528), en oen aantal andere schriften over godsdienstige geschilpunten : deze , slechts van tijdelijk belang , plaatsen den anders zoo gunstig bckondcu schrijver in een hatelijk daglicht door de hevige partijzucht . welke daarin doorstraalt.
Oialoguc conccriiin» Heresies.
|
*Sonio priest, to bring up a pilgrimage in his parishe, may devise some false fclowe fayning himselfe to come soke a saint in bis chyrch, and there sodoinly say, that ho has gotten hys syght. Than shall ye have the belles rong for a miracle. And the fondc folke of the countrcy soon made foles. Than women commynge thither with thevr candels. And the Person hyenge of some lame bcgjjcr in or nil payre of theyr olde crutches, with xii ponnes spent in men and women of wex, thrust thorowe divers places, some with arrowes. and sonic wyth rusty knyves, wyll make his oflbrynges for one vij. yore worth twise hys tythes. |
Thysis, quoth I, very trouth that snehethyng-es may be, and sometime so be in dede. As I remember me that I have hard my father tell of a hegger, that in Kyng Henry his daies the sixt cam with his wife to Saint Alhonis. And there was walking about the towne begging, a five or six dayes before the kinges commynge thither, saienge that he was borne blinde, and never sawe in hys lyfe. And was warned in hys dreame, that he shoulde come out of lierwyke , where he said he had over dwelled , to soke Saynt Alhon , and that ho had hen at his shryne, and had not bene holpen. And therefore he woulde go seke hym at some other place, for he had hard some say sins he came that Sainct Alhonys horlyshold heat.Colon, |
38
|
and in dcilo such a contencion lialli ihcr ben. l$ut of troth, as I am surely informed, he llcth hero at Saint Alhonis, saving some reliques of him, which thei there show shrined. But lo trll you forth, whan the liyn;; was comen, and the towne full, sodaynlye thys hlind man, at Saint Alhonis shryne had iiis sijjht a;;ayne, and a myracle solemply rongen, and Te Deum songen, so that nothyng was talked of in al the towne, hut this myracle. So happened it than that duke llumfry of Gloccstcr, a great wyse man anil very wel lerncd, having great joy lo so such a myracle, called the pore man unto hym. And first shewing him self joyouse of Goildes glory so shewed in the getting of his sight, and exortinge hym to ineke-nes, and to none ascribing of any part the worship to him self nor to ho proude ot the peoples prayse, which would call hym a good and a godly man tiierhy. At last he loked well upon his eyen, and asked whythcr he could never se nothing at al , in all his life before. And whan as well his wyfe as himself affcrmed fastely no , than lie loked advisedly upon his eicn again , and said , I believe you very wel, for me thinketh that ye cannot se well yet. Yea syr, quoth he, I tharike God and bis holy marter , I can se nowe as well as any man. Ye can, quoth the Duke; what colour is my gowne? Then anone the begger told him. What colour, quoth he, is this man's gowne? He told him also; and so forthe, without any sticking, he told him the names of all the colours that coulde he shewed him. And whan my lord saw that, he bad him quot;walke faytourequot;, and made him bo set openly in thestocki's. For though he could have sene soudenly by miracle the dyffer-ence betwene divers colours, yet couldc he not by the syght so sodenly tcl the names of all these colours, but if he had known them before, no more than the names of all the men that he should sodenly so. I.o therfore I say , quod your frende, who may bee sure ot such thyngea whan such pagoautes he played before all the towne ? * |
|
Maistres Alyce, in my most barty wise I re-cominend me toyou; and whereas I am enfourmed by my sou Heron of the losse of our barnes and of our neighbours also, with all the corn that was therein, albeit (saving God's pleasure) it is grct pitie of so much good corne lost, yet sith it hath liked hym lo sende us such a cbaunce, we must and are bounden, not only to be content, but also to he glad of bis visitacion. He sente us all that we have loste: and sitli he hath by such a chaunce taken it away againe, his pleasure be fulfilled. Let us never grudge ther at, but take it. in good worth, and hartely thank him, as wel for adversitie as for prosperitc. And peradvenlure we have more cause to thank him for our. losse, then for our winning; for his wisdomme better seeth what is good for vs then we do our selves. Therfore 1 pray you he of good chere, and take all the howsold with you to church, and there thanke God, both for that he bath given us , and that be hath taken from us, and for that he hath left us,which if it please hym he can cncreasc whenhe will. And if it pleasehym to leave us yet lesse, at his pleasure be it. |
I pray you to make some good ensearche what my poore neighbours have loste, and hid them take no thought therfore: for and I shold not leave myself a spone, there shal no pore neighbour of mine here no losse by any chaunce happened in my house, [pray you be with my children and your household merry in God. And devise some what with your frendes, what waye wcr best to take, for provision to be made for corne for our household, and for sede thys yere comming, if ye thinke it good that we kepethe ground stil in our handes. And whether ye think it good that we so shall door not, yet 1 think it were not best soden-lyc thus to leave it all up, and to put away our folk of our farrne till we have somwhat advised us thereon. Mow beil if we have more nowe then ye shall nede, and which can get them other maisters, ye may then discharge us of them. l!ut I would not that any man were sodenly sent away he wole nere wether. At my comming hether I perceived none other but that I shohl tary still with the Kinges Grace. But now I shal (I think) becausc of this chance, get leave this next weke to conic home and so you: and then shall we further devyse together uppon all thinges, what order shal he best to take. And thus as hartely fare you well with all our children as ye can wishe. At Woodestok the thirde daye of Septombre by the hand of your louing husbande Thomas More, Knight. |
|
A, A', Abaisit, Aboon , Aboun , Ac, Accide , Accorabrcii, Achate , Acbatours, Acjapers and jaugellers, Adradde, Afile, Aflirmith , Afm, Again , Agains , Agcn , Aguiler, Ahte, Ah! what they dempt fheiii fclonlj ! Aik, AI. Alblast , Alestake, Algcsir, Alisandre,
|
one. See Barbour: the reading seems doubtful. nil. abashed, confounded. above. above. and. negligence. encumbrcd. purchase. purchasers, caterers. IJut jesters and jugglers, afraid. polish. strenghthenes. in the end. against, toward. against. again. a needle-ease. ought. ah! how cruelly they judged them! oak. quite. arblast, or crossbow. alehouse sign. Algczir (Spain)? Alexandria in Egygt was won (and immediately after abondoncd) in 1365 by Pierre de Lusignan King |
Avicen, Avowe, Ayont Hie ingle , Azciu , Ba' , Bairn , Balas, Balled, Balys, Bar, Barne , Barres, Basnites, Bassonette, Basting, Bathe, Bede, Beet, Begon , Belmarie, Berne, Beroes , Ben, Bende , Bent, Beoth, Bernard , |
Ebn Sina , an Arabian physician of the 10th century, vow. ever, always. near the lire. against. ball. child. a precious stone. smooth as a ball, balled. Saviour. bore. man. small stripes. helmets. see, basnites. stitching, sewing slightly. both. bidden, offered. perhaps a misprint for been. begun, used in a general sense, nearly with the effect of made. Marbella (Spain),or Benama- rin (Maroco). Bohemia. beams, trumpets. been , be, are. bent, also a bend. field, dcclivity of a bill. are. St. Bernard, abbot of Clair-vaux in the 12th century; also a physician of Mont-pelier in the 13th century, employed , placed. bedaubed. smutted. be, prepare, heal, beat. be, be ye. skirmished. petitioners. bids. staid. bedimmed their eyes, cheerful, in good spirits. Bologna. pretty. prayer , request. Perhaps , rather, vow or bond. remedy, help, profit. stopped their mouth. goodness of nature and disposition. annplatcs. slope of hill. engine of torture. sword. brimful. little brief. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
40
|
Bi iildes, J3rood , Brook, Brouue, Uuen , Bui'dis, Burdoun , Burgeis, Burn's, buru, Busk, Buske nor hav, But, But holy church aud hi , Bydeen , Byll . Byu, Can , Cane , Carf, Cnrpe, Gary , Cas , Cas and domes, Cast, Catcl, Cauk , Cauld, Cawte and kenc. Chaffer , Chamberer, Chapmen, Chays , Cheffe. Cheften , Chelandre, Chose, Chevnehie , Chevcden , Chevisanoe, Claise , Cleped, Clout, Coloine, Come full still, Comen , Comen deguiscd , Con, Contrcfetan , Cop, Corages, Corsiare, Cote, Conde, Countour, Couplit, |
birds. broad. enjoy. brown. be. birds. the bass in musick, bumming burgher. (noise, stream's , rivulet. dress. bush nor hedgerow. without. unless holy church and they, perhaps quot;besidesquot;. The word is of common occurence , but of doubtful or various meaning. battle ux. knew. began. carved. talk , complain , lament. unknown. ease, chance. case, and decisions or judgments. cast, mean. goods, valuable things of all sorts. chalk. cold. cautions and active. merchandise. chambermaid. merchants or traders. chase. chief. chieftain. golufineh. choose. military expedition. achieved. agreement for borrowing money. clothes. callcd, named. cloth. Cologne. came back quietly, at his ease, come, come disguised. know. imitate. top. inclinations, hearts, spirits, courser. coat armuro, coat worn over armour , upon which the armorial ensigns of the wearer were usually embroidered. could, knew. compter—it is not dear what office is meaned here, coupled, attached. |
Couthe {coime) , Couthen, Coverchiefs, Covetise of copes, Covine, Coy, Crom-bolle, Cristofre, Crnll, Cryste kepe, Culpons. Cum , Cupidis, Cure , Curteis, Daddy's. Damascene, De, Deboner, Degrees, Deiutc, Deis, Del, Delit, Deliver, Delve , Dempt, Detteles, De Valays , Devise . Deze , Digne, Diht, Dike, Dioscorides , Dishevele. Dispencc, JJispitous , Doel, Done, Dong, Dormant, Dorste, Dounac, Dragges, Dresse, Drouped , Duel, Dyght, Dyht, Dyntc, Each a rib , |
known knew. headclothes. covetousness of copes or rich clothing. secret contrivances. quiet. crum-bowl (?) a medal with the image of St. Christopher. curled. Christ keep. shreds, logs. camo. son of Mars and Venus , the god of love , smiles , etc. care , courteous, well-bred. father's. Joannes Mesae Damascenus , an arabian physician in the 8th and 9tli ccnturics. die. courteous, gentle. steps. valuable, nice. a part of the hall, that was floored and set apart for a place of respect. way, part. delight. nimble, to dig. doomed , judged. free from debt. Philip VI de Valois, King of yrance. relate, direct, die. worthy, proud. put. to dig , to make ditches, a Greek writer on plants, whose work is extant. with hair hanging loose, expense. uncharitable, angry to cscess. dolour, sorrow. do. dung. fixed ready. make avant, dared , make a boast. dare not, may not. drugs. draw, adress, turn. dropped. grief. put. order. stroke. each rib. |
41
|
Retor, B'c, E'ens, Effer , Eke , Elles, Embroudcd , Enchcsoun , Endite, Eneuch, Eutendin , Envyned, Epicuro, Erd, Eres, Erlich, Ermouie, Escapte, Eschanges, Escheweth , Esculapius , Escd, Euer , Everich on, Evcridclc , Pack, Pars, Pairencsse, Paiteden, Palsehedo of fasting, Palsetj Parsed, Pcen , Pen , Perlies han fallen , Perly, Ferme, Perre, Perthing, Pet, Pette (offccche), Petisly, Fire-drake. Pit, Flemangry, Plouris, Flo wer de lice, Ployting, Fonde, For all Ynglond so hayllc , For nolikerous litiode hir likeame to please, Porpined , Forthy, Posterarc, |
Hector , a sou of Priam and Hccuba, and the most valiant of all the Trojans. Priam was the last king of Troy. eye. evenings. appearance , or rather , perhaps, demeanour, hearing, also. else. embroidered. cause , occasion. relate, tell talcs. enough. address themselves. stored with wine. a renowned philosopher at Athens in the fourth cen fetch. foes. good means. flattered. breaking fast-days. falsehood. stuffed. fen , mud. mud. wonders have happened, wonder , strange. farm. behaved, further. smallest spot. fetch. fetched. neatly. fiery dragon. devision of a poem or song, the village of La Plamengrie. flowers. fleur u« lis. playing on the flute or , perhaps , whistling. found. for the profit of all England. By no likerous living their body to please. tormented. therefore. to make fortunate. fosterer. |
Pother, Poule, Ponies, Prankeleins, Prekc , Frero, Preyke, Prieliebe ymaked , Pu', Full frek , Fill often time he hackle the bord begonne. tury before the christian I Pyl'd , era. Fythe, earth ears. early. Armenia. escaped exchanges. shews. a physician. accomodated. ever. every one. everywhere. Fv. Ga'e , Gaed , Gnlingale . Gal lien. Ganyde. Garde , Garner, Garre, Gat fled. Gatisdon , Gat-tothed, Geden , Gere, Gert, Gcsse, Geten, Gibertin , Gif thee lack lifclode , Giff, Gildenc zate, Gipeiere, Gipon , Gise, Gled, Glede, Glee , Glent, iGlotonie, Gnarro, Gobbet, Goliardeis, Goth, Goune, |
a carriage-load. sinful, bad. birds. eountry-gcntleman, also freeholders of considerable estate. man , person. friar. fellow , man. handsomely built. full. full eager. lie had been placed at the head of the table, the usual compliment to extraordinary merit, as the commentators very properly explain it. up, make haste defiled. tight. gave. went. sweet cypress. Galian , Galen. gained. made. granary or store-room, make. pot put to flight (?). John Gatesden , author of amp; medical work , entitled , Roso Anylicana, in the 14th century. with gaps in her teeth. went. all sorts of instruments ; of cookery, etc. ; fashion, caused. guess. get. an english physician of the 13th century. if livelihood lack, or be wanting to, thee. if. gilded gate. purse. short cassock. guise, fashion. kite. a red hot coal. minstrelsy. glanced. gluttony. hard knot in a tree. morsel. this jovial sect seems to have been so called from Golias, the real or assumed name of a man of wit toward the end of the 12th century. go- gown , coat. |
6
42
|
Go we, leve brother , Grane, Graue, Grcatnmely, Greces, Greew, Gris, Ground , |
Let ns go , dear brother, grain , a single seed, grave. great, magnanimous (?). steps. Greek. a species of fur. stuff. Hongen , Hons , Hoved, Huerte, |
hung. convent. heaved , hovered , hung moving. heart. |
|
Habergeon (Hnberjeon), Ilndna, Hnirbis, Malnppco, llalf-fou', llali, Halvvcs, , Ilalyde, Han, Hap, Harlot, Harlotries, Harneised , Harycd, Hat, Haunt, Ileal, lleaven-riehe bliai , Hee, Hem . Hent, Hente, Her. Herherwe , Heremiles, Hethe , He traisted of no belter boot Hevericho, Hevids, Hevingly. Hevyn , Howe, Heyzo , Hie, Higbt, Highte, Himconteinit, Him dedtigned (for), Hine, Hippoeras, Hir gere ypiked was. Hoc-shynes . Hode , Holt, Holtes , Holwe, Hondas , |
a diminutive of hauberg; ar mour covering the neck and breast, or covering the neck and shoulders, had not. herbes. Aleppo. bushel. an arabian physician, holidays. hauled , drew. have. fortune. this word was anciently applied to men as wel as to women. ribaldries. garnished , dressed. plundered. was called. custom. bail. the bliss of the kingdom of heaven. high. them. assisted, took hold. get, catch , take hold. their. inn. lodging, bntrather means here: harbour, hcrber. eremites or hermits. heath. , he trusted in no better expedient, or alternative. every. heads. heavenly. heaven. appearance, colour. high. high. bid, entreat. was called. contained, held him in (?). it deigned him. servant in husbandry, hind. Hippocrates, a physician. their. their gere was spruce, crooked shins, the shin towards the tod or ankle (?). hood , cap , hat. grove , or forest woods. hollow. hands. |
hear, In /ur way, Ire , I sboop me into shrowds, It suewed, In stour, In the maugre , Into.. It swayed so mury , Jangler, Japes, Jolife, Jove , Knylcd , Las , Lasse, Lath, Laton, Lawty, j Layne, I Lazar, iLeal, ! Leaste, I Lecherie , : Leet, 1 Lefe , iLekes, i Lemyng, |
der about the world to see and hear wonders. on their way. anger. I put myself into clothes, means: there was great abundance. in fight. in spite of. in to, asunder. it sounded so pleasant. I was weary for-wandered, I was worn ont with wandering. J. prater. tricks , jests. jolly. Jupiter, the highest god among the heathen deities. K. Kaim's, combs. Kccped him in the beard , perhaps , quot;kept his beard untouched.quot; Ken , know. Kepped, threw. Kept, guarded. Kirn, churn. Knopped shoon , knobbed shoes. kneeled. lace, snare. less. lieth (?). kind of mixed metal , of the colour of brass. loyalty. conceal. leper. honest, loyal , true , faithful. last. luxury. let. pleasing, leek , it is put for any thing of very small value. blazing. Ic, I. Ilka , ilke , every , same. Ilore, lost. Inde, Indian. In habit as an hermit unholy It is interpreted, In habit, of werkes, went wide in not like one of those this world , wonders to unholy hermits who wan- |
45
|
Lene thee ich will, Lenyde, Lesc, Lest, Let, Lettunries, Leved, Leves , Lever (him was), Lewed , Leyes, Lieh , Lift, liigge. Lightly, Liking , Limitour, Listes, Liveden full strait, Livere, Lodemanage, Lond's end, Lo'e, Lore, Lom al! haleiy, Lovedays , Luce , Lu fis, Lusle , Lusty, Lyte, Mair , Male, Males, Maistrie, Mamelok, Manciple, Maniplie , March-parti , Ma rie-bones , Mavis , Mayd , Maye, Maya , Meany, Mede , Medlee'Coto, Melis, Meny. M eten, Me we, Meynd , Miekle, Mightes mast. Minny, Mistere, Mither, Mo, |
give or lend thee I will. leaned. lose. pleasure. hinder. electuaries. loved. believe. rather, he would rather have. ignorant. Layas (Armenia). like. sky. lie, to lie down. slight. pleasure. a friar licensed to beg within a certain district. places enclosed for combats, lived full strictly. livery. pilotship, pilotage. the end of the field. love. doctrine, knowledge. lost wholly. days appointed for the amicable settlement of diücreu-ces, were called lovedays, pike. loves. pleased. pleasant. a short while. more. budget, or portmanteau, mails, harnes. mastership, to lord over others. Mameluke. oiliccr who had the care of furnishing victuals for an inn of court. coat of mail (?). bordermeetings. marrow bones. thrush. made. maid. makes. company, train. meadow, reward. coat of mixed stuff. meddles. followers. meet. secret. mingled. much. most of might, mother. trade, occupation. mother. more. |
Moche and lite , Mochel, Moist, Mon, Monnyn-day, Mony, Mormal, Morowe-tidc, Mort, Mortrewes, Morwe, Mote, Mou', Mo we , Mull, Myllau , Nakcrs, Narwe, N'as {ne was) , Nathcless , nathelcsse, Naverne , Ne, Ncist, Ner, N'ere {71e were), Nete , Nicht, Nisrhtcrtale, N'ill shrouded bene , Nones, Nom , Nose-thirles, N'ot {ne wot) , Not-hed , Not well thewd , Nouthe , Now clot hen hem at liking Nowwer, No wight pinche, Obout, Offring , Offertorie, On , On an heap, |
great and little. much. fresh, new. man. monday. many. a kind of cutaneous disease , or gangrene. Perhaps we should read ; on his chinne a mormal. . . . , and take mormal in the sense of moedervlek. morning. the death of the dear (See Chevy Chase). seems to have been a rich broth of soup , in the preparation of which the llesh was stamped , or beat in a mortar, from whence it probably derived its name, morning. must. mouth. may, to bo able, rubish. Milan steel, tymbals close. see ne. not the loss , nevertheless. Navarre. no, nor, not; in many a case equivalent to thefrench w/?, and therefore not to bo translated, next. never, near, see ne. neat cattle. night. night- time. will not be shrouded or covered. for the purpose. took. nostrils. know not; see «6?. a head like a nut. not well mannered. now. clothe themselves to their liking. no where. no one could lay hold of any Haw in his writings. one. about. offring at mass, a part of the mass owing to. in a crowd. |
44
|
One that, Ones, Ony , O on , Or, Os, Oste, Other, OucrquliDlrnyt, Ounu , Out of drede, Overest-courtepy, Overmuohel, Owar , oware, Owin , Pace, Palmerea, palmers, Pardoner , Parsone, Paruis, Paynemea, paynims , Pees, Pcined , Pcrie, Pcrquer. Perse, Pers, Perse, Pertyd, Peyscs, Phebus. Pilwe-bcre, Playden full sold , Play feres, Plighten hem togider, Pomelee, Port, Poudrc-mnrehaut, Pouvaille, Pourehas, Poure, Pourtraie, Povir, Powd, Presse, Priekasoure , Pricking, Pris, Progeny , Property , Pniee , Pulde, Purliled , Putten hem many Pyght, |
the one. once. any. one. before, ere. us. host. either. overwhelmed. own. without donlit. uppermost cloak of coarse cloth. too much, too great. hour. own. P. pass away, pilgrims to foreign parts, seller of pardons, or indul- geneies. parson. portleo before a chureh — a ])laee frequented by lawyers. pagans, infidels. peace. took pains. jewellery. exactly. sky-coloured , of a blueish- grey. Persian, Persia. parted. pieces. Phcebus, a title of Apollo, the god of music. covering of a pillow. played full seldom. playmates , gather them together, dappled. behaviour, bearing. what ingredient this was is nowhere explained ; per haps it is as much as poultry-merchant, poor people , rabble, purchase. poor. to draw a picture. poor. plucked. crowd. hard rider. spurring , hard riding, praise. progeniforship (?). the quality, the peculiar state, or condition (?) Prussia, Prussian. drew, pulled. worked upon t'.c edge. many put them, applied themselves to, engaged in pitched. |
Railed , Ram , Rasis, Raught, Realiich yborc, Reams , Record , Rede, Rcguerdon , Keid, Rejose, Rekeles, Rckkeless , Rcnne, Renning , Rentfal, Reule, Reve, Roves, Rewyth . Reysed , Ribaudry, Risen, Roberd's knaves, Rost, Rote, Rought with his Rotheren, Kouncevall, Rouncie, Rowd, Rowght, Rowt, Rufus, Ryall, öae , Saine, Saine, Saith , Sanguin . Quhairfor, Quhat, Quhikkinar ; |
why. quarry. paid, revenged. placed. prize. an arabian physician of the 10 th century. rose. royally supported. realms. to witness. advised , explained, in guerdon , reward. red. rejoice. regardless. negligent of the dnties of his ordre, absent from his cloistre; out of the rules by which the monks were bound. run. running. meagre (?). rule. steward , or bailifT. steward's , or bailiff's. repents. travelled. ribaldry. rise. Robertsmen — a class of malefactors mentioned in several statutes of the four teenth century. It is con jectured the name may have meant originally lio bin IloocFs men. roasted meat. rout, stringed instrument. ) reached , drew in , with his catalogue or roll of names (?) oxen (The Four Evangelists), supposed to be Runceval- liall , in Oxford, hackney-horse. rolled. rout. snort. a greek physician, of whose works some are extant, royal. so. the river Seine. for seine, part. pa. of Se, v. Sax. Seen. telleth, saith so. blood-red colour a. wherefore. what. quickener, refresher. Qui loquitur turpiloquium, whoso speakes ribaldry. (iu'iy. Quyrry. Quyte, |
45
|
Sank , Sary, Satalie, Sausellemc, Sautrie, Scallcd, Scathe, Scho, Schootc, Scolaie, So, See, Scely, Seidcn , Seigh, Scik. Seint, Seint Eloy, Seint Julian , Seke, Seke, Sely, Semblyd, Semicope, Sendalle, Sen , Sene , Serapion , Serve, Sette hir aller cappe , Shapelich, Shefe, Shelde3, Shene, Shereve, Shilten , Shoon , Shope, Shopen hem, Shoulhers , Shy ars , Sike , Sithe, Sillies, Skill, Sle, Slean , Slevvth , Slonghe, Smcrt, Smerte , Smerte, Snibben (snibbe), Soil, Somdele lasse , Sorndele streit , Sompnour , |
blood. sorrowful. the ancient Attalia. red-pimpled face ; a compo-siton of which two of the ingredients are brimstone and quicksilver. lute. scabby , scurfy, pity , harm , damage, so. shot, let go. study. saw. seen (?). simple. said. saw. seek. girdle. St. Eloy or Eligius. celebrated in his legends for providing his votaries with good lodging and fare, sick , to seek. seek. simple , harmless. assembled. a half ur short cloak. thin silk. since. seen. Joannes Serapion, an ara-bian physican of the 11th century. keep. made a fool of them all. fit. bundle. shields, french crowns. shone, shining, blighting. sheriff. dirty. shoes. contrived, made themselves. shoulders. shires. such. time. times, since. reason , also quot;regard to proprietyquot; Sec Skclton. to kill, to slay. slain. sloth. slew. smartly. loss. smarts. to snub, to reprove. soul. somewhat less. somewhat straight, severe, oflicer employed to summon delinquents in ecclesiastical courts, now called an ap-;; ariior. |
Songen , Sop in win , Sote (swo(e) Sote-mantel, Soth , Sothe to saine, Sothely , Soudan , Souning, So, welc liked, Space, Speek, Speid, Speik, Spendyd, Spiced , Sprente, Spurn, Stalwurthlye, Stede, Stede , Stepc, Stod , Stode , Stonden , Stounde, Stour, stowre. Strae, Strekene, Styntyde , Suar. Suarc , Sueth, Suld the better swink , Sune, Surrye, Swa, Swapte, Swat, Swear, Sweven , Swich, swiche. Swinken , Swonkcn , sy. Syne, Takand na kepe, Takel, Tapiser , Tapstere, |
sang, a pieeo of bread dipped in wine. sweet. probably a riding petticoat. sooth , true. sooth to say. truly, indeed. sultan. sounding , boasting. so well pleased. age, time. speech. speed. speak. grasped. nice, in an alFectcd sense sprung. kick. stoutly, place. steed. sunk deep in the head probably for slocl. stood. stand. moment. straw. struck. stopped. heavy. sure. pursue. should the better labour. soon. Syria. sway, so. struck, swept. sweat. swore. dream. corruption of swilke m such, toil, labour, work. laboured , worked. Saw. — The old spelling is slih and sih. then, afterward. taking no heed, paying no regard. arrow. maker of tapestry. woman who has the carc of the tap in tlio public house; that ofBco was usualy executed by women. taken. take. tore their hair. The greatest mischief on earth. than. The meaning seems to be, quot;then no glee , or joy , was given himquot;. Tayne, Tayk , Teren here heer, The most mischief on mould. Then, Then gained him no glee , |
4G
|
Uch, Umslride , Undede, Undergrovve, Underlnko, Unknawin , Until, Unto no mnncre wight, Uppone a parti standc , Vavasour, Venerie, Verament, Vcray parllt, Verray, Wagis, W aid, AValy , Wan , Wane = ane, War , War, Ware , War fair feared, AVasled , Wastel-brede , Wat, Wat, |
each. bestride. undid. of low stature, promise, assure you. unknown. to, unto. to no sort of person. stand apart. probably a meddling landlord, hunting. truly, indeed. very perfect. very. wages. would. woe. gained. one. were. aware of. cautious. were fairly frightened, dirtied himself. cake-bread, bread made of the finest flour. know. wet. Tho which again him grut- (hose who against him yrnd- ched so , qed or grumbled 30. Thilke, this. Tho, than, then, those. Thomb of gold parde, means: he «as as honest as other millers though , he had, aecording to tho proverb , like every miller a thumb of gold. Thriftily (full), carefully (very). Thriveth, thrive. Thritto, thirty. Tine , lose. To each n talc that they told In every tnle that they told hir tongue was tempered their tongue was trained to to lie. ,:- To lien , To praisin is , Toft, Told, Ton , Tone, To swink , Tot eden, To time, Trctis (nose), Trone, Trow , Twa , Twey , Tvveyn , lie to lie. is to bo pleased. an elevated ground. reckoned. toes, one. see ion. to labour. peeped. till the time. nose long and well proportioned. throne. trust. two. Two. see twey. |
Waxeth, Weal, Wearen her fro weders (to), Webbe , Weet, Weip, Wele away, Wende, Wenden , wenten , Wered , Weren for- weard, Were rich on raw , Werre, Wert, Werking , Weyedeu, Whan, whanne, Whar, Whare, Whelkes , When that he trowed no harm him till, Whereas they sighen , Whether , Whit, quot;Whyllys , Wight, Will, Winna , Winnow , Wishe, Wisst, Wiste, Wite, Wit his men in tho days to battle had he thought ; Witteth , Woddis , Wol, Wol den, Wol nat prove' Won , Wone , Woned , Woning, Wonnen that wasters , with gluttony destroyeth , Wood , Wouche , Wud , Wrene , Wrynge , Wynne , Wysse , Wyste , |
grows. wail. The meaning seems to be, quot;protect her from the weather.quot; weaver. wet, to wet. weep. well-away, well-a-day, alas. weened , thought. went. wore. were worn out. apparently, arranged richly clad in a row. war. wart. working. weighed. Chaucer , and the other writers of his time has whan , w/ianne , and than, thanne% where now is used when , and then. where. where. spots. When he percoived there wai no hnrm intended him. where they saw. however. wight. whilst. person , stout. wish , Sec Mandevil. will not. winnowing. wash. known. knew. blame. The meaning seems to be , informed his men in those days that he had a design to fight. Unless, indeed, wit be a mistranscription of with. know , understand ye. woods will. would. will not prove. number, wont, custom. lived. dwelling. wan that which wasters with gluttony destroy, mad , violent. mischief. mad. hide , or perhaps rather , re-lleetively , become hidden , cover itself. wring. joy- govern. knew. |
47
|
Yarnit ower, Yave, Ycleped , Ycome , Ycoro, Yeddinges, Yede, Yeo, Yelding , Yeman, Yerde. |
ycanied for, desired. gave, called. come. chosen. this word being not understood has been changed in sonic copies into tiding as and weddimjes. It probably means a king of song, from the Saxon gecldian orgid-dian: to sing. went. eye. yielding. yeoman. earth , stick , rod. |
Yerd ou hond, Yerlo, Yerly, Y'evcn , Yfallo, Yndycncs , You is lever , Ypreved, Yronno, Yshrivc, Ytb, Ytcyed , Ywis , Yzote. Zef, Zour, |
yard, rod, stick in hand. earl. early. give, given, fallen. Indians, to you is more agreeable. proved. run. shriven, gospelled. in the. tied. verily. molten, melted. if. yonr. |
•Mm®* -
..........
SECONO PERIOD.
THE ELIZABETHAN ERA.
Deze stantsman en dicliter behoort lot hen, die het eerst de dichtkunst bevorderd en tevens beoefend hebben. Hij studeerde wnarschijnlijk aanvankelijk in de regtsgeleerdheid , doch onderscheidde zich later als staatsman cn verwierf toen de titels van lord Buckhurst en graaf vau Dorset. Hij werd geboren in 1527 (anderen willen in 1530 of 1536) en overleed in 1G08. Aan de hoogeschool onderscheidde hij zich reeds als dichter, zoowel in het lalijn nis in het engelsch. Men heeft van hem: The Tragedy of Ferreï and Porrex, dat in 1590 (ten derde male herdrukt) onder den tilel van Gorboduc verscheen. Voorts leverde hij; A Myrroure for Mngislrates , wherein may be seen, by example of others, with howe greuous plages vices are punished and how frail and unstable worldly prospcritie is founde, even of those whom fortune seemeth most highly to favour, met een Induction, liij ontwierp het plan tot dit werk vermoedelijk in 1557 , doch bragt het slechts gedeeltelijk ten uitvoer; het werd herhaalde malen, met hetgeen er door ander» schrijvers bijgevoegd is, gedrukt: o. a. nog te Londen in 1815.
Induction to a niirrour for magistrates.
|
*Alas I I wretchc whom thus thou scest distrevned With wasting woes that never shall aslakn, Sorrowe I am , in cndeles tormentcs payneil, Among the furies in I tie infemall lake: Where Pluto, god of hel, so gricsly blacke Doth hold his throne , and Letheus deadly taste Doth rieve remembraunce of echo tliyng forepast. Whence come I am , the drery destiny And luckeleslot for to hemone of those , Whom fortune in this maze of miserie Of wretched chaunce most wofull myrrours chose That when thou seest how liglitly they did ioso (sure Theyr pope, tlieyr power, and that they thought most Thou mayest soone decme no earthly joy may dure. Whose rufull voyee no sooner had out brayed Those woful woordes wherewith she sorrowed so, But out alas! she shryyht and never slayed , Fell downe, and all to dasht herselfe for woe. The cold pale dread my lymes gan overgo And I so sorrowed at hersorowes eft, That what with griefe and feare my wittes were reft. I strecht my selfe, and slrayt my heart revives , That dread anil dolour erst did so appale ; Lyke him that with the fervent fever stryves When sicknes seekes his castcl) health to skale: With gathered spirites so forst 1 feare to availe: And rearing her with anguishe all fordone , My spirits return'd , and then I thus begonne. O Sorrowe , alas! sith sorrowe is thy name, And that to thee this drerc doth well pertayne , In vayne it were to seeke to ceas the same; But as a man hym selfe with sorrowe slayne, So I, alas! do comfort thee in payne, That here in sorrowe art forsonke so depe That at thy sight I can hut sigh and wepc. |
I had no sooner spoken of a stike. But that the storm so rumbled in her brest, As Eolus could never roare the like , And showers downe rayncd from her {yen so fast, That all beclrcynt the place, till at the last Well eased they the dolour of her minde, As rage of rayne doth swage the stormy wynde. For furlh she placed in her fearfull tale: Cum , cum , (quod she) and see what I shall shewe, Cum heare the playning , and the bytter bale Of worthy men , by fortune overtbrowe. Cum thou and see them rewing all in rowe. They were but shades that erst in minde thou rolde. Cum, cum with me, thine eyes shall them beholde. What could those wordes hut make me more agast: To heare her lell w heron I mnsde while eare: So was I mazed therewyth , tyll at the last, Musing upon her wurdes, and what they were. All sodaynly well lessoned was my feare: For to my minde returned howe she telde Both what she was, and where her wun she helde. Whereby 1 knewe that shea goddesse was. And therewithal! resorted to my minde My thought that late presented me the glas Of brittle state , of cares that here we finde, Of thousand woes to silly men assynde: And howe she nowe hyd me come and beholde , To see with iye that erst in thought I rolde. That downe 1 fell, and with al reverence Adored her, perceyving nowe that she A goddesse sent by godly providence. In earthly shape thus showed herself to me, To wayle and rue ihis worldes uncertayntye: * |
111
Van de leveusgeschicdenis van dien dichter is weinig bekend : in 1569 kwam hij als student te Cambridge (Pembroke Hall), en werd vermoedelijk toen reeds in staatsaangelegenheden gebruikt. Hoewel zijn grafsteen in de Westmiuster-abdij aanwijst, dat hij in 1510 geboren werd, is dit cijfcr echter als onjuist aan te nemen; het is waarsehijnlijker , dat hij kort voor 1553 te Londen werd geboren. Toen hij Cambridge verliet, leefde hij cenigen tijd in het noorden van Engeland; daarna bekleedde hij eenige geringe staatsambten en begaf zich , nadat hij eenige landgoederen had gekregen , naar Ierland , van waar hij , toen een brand zijn woning had vernield , naar Londen terugkeerde: daar overleed hij in 1599. In 1579 leverde hij de Shepherd's Calendar , dien grooten populariteit te beurt viel . en gedurende zijn leven zelfs viermaal gedrukt werd: hij behoort echter tot zijn mindere stukken. The visions of Petrarch; The visions of Bellay en Visions of the World's Vanity werden vermoedelijk reeds vroeger door hem geschreven , benevens een begin v;in de l'aery Queene. Men wil ook , dat hij omtrent dien tijd negen tooncelspelen vervaardigd of ten minste daaraan gewerkt heeft. In 1590 verschenen de drie eerste boeken van de Faery Queene, terwijl hij vroeger Muiopotmos, or the fate of the Butterlly had uitgegeven. Ten gevolge van de vermaardheid, die hij door de eerste boeken van de Faery Queene verwierf, verschenen nu onder den titel van Complaints; containing sundry small poems of the World's Vanity : The Kuins of Time; The Tears of the Muses; A irgil s Gnat; Mother llubberd's Tale; The Kuins of Rome (naar het fransch van Bellay), Muiopotmos; 1 he visions of Petrarch (alien in 1591), enz. Weldra verscheen zijn Daphnaida (1592) en in 1595: Colin ('lout's Come Home Again; Astrophel ; The Mourning Muse of Thestylis en een en tachlig sonnetten. In 159G leverde hij weer drie nieuwe boeken van de Faery Queene en Four Hymns — in honour of Love, of Beauty, of Heavenly Love en of Heavenly Beauty ; de twee eerste hymnen vervaardigde hij in zijn jeugd : dit was het laatste , dat van zijn werken bij zijn leven gedrukt werd. In 1009 verschenen nog, ten vervolge op de laery Queene, twee cantaten en twee stim/.as van een derde cantate (of Mutability en de legende of Constancy). De Brit-tain's Idea, hem toegeschreven, is waarschijnlijk het werk van een ander dichter. Hij vervaardigde ook nog een aantal andere stukken, die echter voor het meerendeel verloren zijn geraakt. De strekking van de Faery Queene is, volgens de eigen woorden van den dichter, in een brief aan Sir Walter Raleigh: to fashion a gentleman or noble person in virtuous and gentle discipline , welke strekking de dichter aan dat werk dan ook met uitnemendheid gaf. De Prosopopoia, or Mother Hubberd s Tale is een zeer verdienstelijk stuk en werd door Spenser vermoedelijk in zijn jeugd geschreven , ofschoon de geest daarvan verraadt, dat het op rijperen leeftijd voltooid werd. Het is een bijtend hekeldicht op de middelen , die men aanwendde om in kerk en staat tot aanzien te geraken. Over het algemeen is zijn taal verheven en zuiver, en kwetst de dichter nergens de zedelijkheid. Van zijn proza stukken verscheen in 1033 een verhandeling: A view of the State of Ireland, written dialogue-wise between Eudoxus and Irenaeus : ook moet hij nog een andere verhandeling in proza (The English Poet) geschreven hebben , doch zy is waarschijnlijk verloren geraakt.
TllU LEGEND OF Slit CaLIDOBE , OR OF COURTESIE.
|
Of court it scenies molt coiirlcsic doo cüII , For lliut it tliorc most nsclli to nhoimd ; And well Lcseciiietli llmt in piiuccs liull That vertue sliould In: plcnl il'iillv found , Which of all ;;oodly manners is the ground , And rooto ofcivill conversation : lii;gt;ht so in Kacry Court it did redound , Where curtcous kni;;hls and hidies most did won Ofall on earth , and madea inatchlesseparagon : lint ?«())!quot;.v( thcmall was none morn conrteona Itnight Then Calidore , helovcd over all, In whom itsecincs that {fcnllenesseofsprijfht And manners tnylde were |danlcd nalurall; To which he addin;; comelv ni/.e wilhall, And jjrarious spcach , did sleale mens hearts away : Nathlesse thereto ho was full stout and tall, And well approv'd in hatleillous afl'ray , Thai him did much renowme, and far his fame display iVe was there kninhl, nc was there ludv found . |
Calidore saves from Maleffort A damzell used vyMe , Doth vanquish Cruder; and doth make Bi'iaua wese more mj'lde. In Faery Court, hut him did deare embrace For his faire usafje and conditions sound , The which in all mens liking gayned place. And with the ;;rcalest purchast {[reatesl grace, Which he could wisely use and well apply , To please the best, and th' evill to emhase; For he loathd leasing anil base flattery , And loved simple truth and stedfast honesty. And now he was on traveil on his way, Uppon an hard adventure sore bestad, Whenas hy chaunce he met uppon a day With Arlegall, returning yet halfe sad From his late conquest which he gotten had ; A\ ho whenas each o( other had a sight. They knew themselves, and holh there persons md; AV'hcn Calidore thus first; quot;llailc, nulilest Knight quot;Of all this day on ground that hreathen livingspright! '\\n\v toll, if please you , of the good successe quot;Which ye have had in your late cnterpri/.e.quot; |
|
To whom Sir Arlefjall grin to expresse Mis wliole exploile and valorous emprize In order as it did to liim arize. quot;Now iiappy manquot; . said lln'n Sir Calidore, quot;Which have ^o goodly as ye can devize, quot;Alcliiev'd so hard a quest as few before, quot;Thai shall you most renowmed make for evermore. quot;Hut where ye ended have , now I liejfifi quot;To tread an endlesse trace, withouten {juyde quot;Or (food direction how to enter in , quot;Or how to issue forth , in waies untryde, quot;In perils strange, in labours Ion;; and wide, quot;In which although [food fortune me hefall , quot;Yet shall it not hy none he tcstifyde.quot; quot;What is that quest, quoth then Sir Arte;;,'ill , quot;That you into such perils presently doth call ?quot; quot;The Blutlant Beastquoth he, quot;I doe pursew, quot;And through the world incessantly doe chase. quot;Till I him overtake or else snhdew ; quot;Yet know I not or how or in what place quot;To find him out. yet still I forward trace.quot; quot;What is that Blattant Ucast?quot; then hercplide: quot;It is a monster hred of hellislie race Then answered he, quot;which often hath annoyd '■Good knighlsanil Indies true,and many else destroyd. '•Of Cerberus whilome he was hejjot, quot;And fell Chimaera \n her darkesome den, quot;Through fowle commixture of his filly hlot. quot;Where he was fostred long in Stygian fen , quot;Till lie to perfect ripenesse grew, and 1 hen quot;Into this wicked world he forth was sent quot;To he the plague and scourge of wretched men , quot;Whom with vile tongue and venemous intent quot;llesore doth wound, and hile, and cruelly torment.quot; quot;Then since the Salvage Island I did leave Said Artegall, quot;I such a heast did see, quot;The which did seeme a thousand tongues lo have, quot;That all in spight aid malice did agree ; quot;H ith which he bayde and loudly harkt at mec, quot;As if that he altonce would me devoure ; quot;But I , that knew myselfe from perill free : quot;Did nought regard his malice nor his powrc, quot;But he the mure his wicked poyson forth didpourc.quot; •'That surely is that heast,quot; saide Calidore, quot;Which I pursue, of whom lam right glad quot;To heare these tidings, of none afore quot;Through all my weary traveil I have had , quot;Yet no« some hope your words unto me add.quot; quot;Now God you speed quoth then Sir Artegall, quot;And keepe your hody from the daungcr dracl; quot;For ye lune much adoe to deale withall.quot; So hotli tooke goodly leave, and parted severall. Sir Calidore ihence travelled not long, Whenas hy cliaunce a comely squire he found , That thourough some more mighty enemies wrong Both hand and foote unto a tree was bound ; M ho seeing liim from farre, with piteous sound Of his shrill cries him railed to his aide ; |
To whom approching in that painefull stouml, When he him saw , for no demannds he staide , j But first him losde, and afterwards thus to him saide; quot;Unhappy Squire ! what hard mishap thee brought quot;Into this buy of perill and disgrace ? , quot;What cruell hand thy wrelched thraldome wrought, I '■Anil thee captived in this shainefull place?quot; j To whom he answered thus: quot;My liaplesse case quot;Is not occasioned thiough my mis-desert, quot;But through inisfortuue, which did me abase quot;Unlo this shame , and my young hope subvert. quot;lire that 1 her guilefull traines was well expert. quot;Not farre from hence , uppon yond rocky hill, '' Hard by a slreight there stands a castle strong, quot;Which doth observe a custome lewd and ill, quot;And it hath long mayntaind with mighty wrong; quot;For may no knight nor lady passe along quot;That way, (and yet they needs must passe that way, quot;By reason of the streight and the rocks among) quot;But they that ladies lockes doc shave away, quot;And that knights herd for toll, which they for pas- (sage pay.quot; quot;A shainefull use as ever I did heare,quot; Sayd Calidore, quot;and to be overthrowne ; quot;But by what means did they ad first it reare, quot;And for what cause? tell if thou have it knowne. Said then that squire; quot;ihe lady which doth owne quot;This castle, is by name Brian a bight, quot;Then which a prouder lady liveth none; quot;She long time hath deare lov'd a doughty knight. quot;And sought lo win his love by all I he mcanes she might. quot;His name is Crudor, w ho through high disdaino quot;And proud despight of his self-pleasing niynd , quot;llefused hath toyeeldher love againe, quot;Untill a mantle she for him doe fynd quot;With beards of knights and lockes of ladies lyud ; quot;Which to provid e she hath this castle dight, quot;And therein has a seneschaU assynd , quot;Cahl Maleft'ort, a man ofmicklc might quot;Who exerutesher wicked will with worse despight. quot;Mi' this same day, as I that way did come quot;With a faire dain/.ell, my beloved deare , quot;In execution of her lawlesse doomc , quot;Did set uppon us Hying both for feare, quot;Nor little bootes against him hand to reare : quot;Me first he tooke unliable lo withstond , quot;And whiles he her pursued every w here, quot;Till his ri'turne inlo this tree he bond, quot;Ne wote I surely whether her he yet have fond,quot; Thus whiles they spake they heard a ruefull shrieke Of one loud crying, w hich they strcightway gAeii That it was she the which for helpe did sceke ; Tho looking up unlo the cry to lest, They saw that carle from farre, wilb hand unblest, llayling that mayden by the yellow heare. That all her garments from the snowy hrest, And from her head her lockes, he nigh did teare iVe would he spare for pitty , nor refraine for feare , |
|
Wliich liyynous sijjlit when Caliilore beheld, Eftsooncs lie loose! that squire;, aiilt;l so him left, With heart's dismay and inward dolour qucld, For to pursue that villaine which had reft That piteous spoile by so iniurious theft; Wl lotn overtaking, loude to him he eryrle, quot;Leave, Faytor! quickely that inis;|otten weft -To him thai hath it better iustifyde , (fy'0'quot; quot;And turne they soorie to him of whom thou art de- Who hearkning to that voice himselfe upreard. And seeing bim so fiercely towardes make. Against him stoutly ran, as nonght afl'eard , But rather more enrag'd for those words sake, And with slerne count'nance thus unto him spake; quot;Art thou the caylivc that defyest me, quot;And for this mayd , w hose parly lliou doest take , quot;Wilt give thy heard , though it hut little bee? quot;Yet shall it not her lockes for raunsome fro me free.quot; With that he fiercely at him flew, ami layd Ou hideous strokes with mosl importune might, That oft' he made him stagger us unstayd , And oft recuile to shunne bis sharpe despigbt; But Cal idore, that was well skill'din fight, Him long forbore, and si ill his spirite spar'd , Lying in waite how him he damadgc might. But when he felt him shrinke and come to ward , He greater grew . ami gan to drive at him more hard. Like as a water-streame, whose swelling sourse Shall drive a mill, within strong hancks is pent, And long restrayned of his roadie course, So scone as passage is unto him lent Breakes forth , and makes his way more violent; Such was the fury of Sir Cal idore; When once he felt his foe-man to relent, lie fiercely bim pursu'd and pressed sore , Who as be still decayd, so he encreased more. The heavy burden of whose dreadfull might, Whenas the earle no longer could sustaine, His Heart gan faint, and strcighl he tooke bis flight Toward the Castle, where if need eonstraine His hope of refuge used to remaine; Whom Calidore perceiving fast to Ilic, He him pursu'd and ebneed through the plaine. That be for dread of death gan loude to crie Unto the ward to open to him bastilie. They from the wall bim seeing so aghast, The gate soone opened to receive him in. But Calidore did folow him so fast. That even in the porch he him did win , And cleft his head asunder lo his chin ; The carkasse tumbling downe within the (lore Did shoke the entrannce w ith a lutnpe of sin , That it could not be shut, whilest Calidore Did enter in, and slew the porter on the flore With that the rest the which the castle kept About him flockt, and hard at bim did lay , But he them all from bim full lightly swept. As doth a steare. in heat of sornmers'dav. »i; ■ |
With hilh long taile the bryies brush away: Thence passing forth, into the ball he came. Where of the lady selfe iu sad dismay He was ymctt, who with uncomely shame Gan him salute, and fowle uphrayd with faulty blame. «•False traylor knightquot;, said she , quot;no knight at all, quot;But scorne of armes, that bast with guilty band quot;Murdred my men. and slaine my senescball; quot;Now comest thou to rub my house unmand quot;And spoile mysclfe, that cannot thee withstand? quot;Yet doubt lliou not but that some better knight quot;Then tlion , that shall thy treason understand, quot;Will it avenge, and pay thee with thy right; quot;And if none do, yet shame shall thee wit shame re- (quight.quot; Much was the knight abashed at thatword. Yet answer'd thus; quot;Not unto me the shame, quot;But to the shamcfull doer it afford ; quot;Bloud is no blemish : for it is no blame ' To punish those do deserve the same; quot;But they that breake bands of civilitie, quot;And wicked customes make, those doe defame quot;lioth noble amies and gentle curtesie : '■No greater shame to man then inhumanitie. quot;Then doe yourselfe for dread of shame forgoe quot;This evill manner, which ye here maintaine, quot;And do instead thereof mild curt'sie showe '•To all that passe, that shall your glory gaine quot;More then his love, wich thus ye seeke t'ohtaine.quot; Wherewith all full of wrath she thus replyde; quot;Vile Recreant! Kno that 1 do much disdaine quot;Thy courteous lore , that doest my love deride ''Whoseornes thyydlescoffe, and bids thee hedefyde.quot; quot;To take defiaunce at a ladies word,quot; Quoth be, quot;I hold it no indignity; quot;But were be here, that would it with his sword quot;Abett, perhaps be mote it deare aby.quot; (fly quot;Cowherd,quot; quot she, quot;where not that thow wouldst quot;Ere he do come, be should be soone i n place.quot; quot;If I doe so,quot; said he, quot;then liberty quot;I leave to yon for aye me to disgrace (face.quot; With all those shames , that erst yon spake me tode- With that a dwarfe she cald into her hast. And taking from her hand a ring of gould , (A privy token which hetweene them past) Bad bim to flie with alle tbc speed be could To Cruder , and desire him that he would Vouchsafe to reskue her against a knight Who,through strong powrc,had now berselfein hould. Having late slaine her senechall in fight, And all her people murdred with outragious might, The dwarfe his way did bast, and went all night; But Calidore did with her there abyde The comming of that so much threadned knight; Where that discourteous dame with scornfull prydc And fowle entreaty him indignifyde. That yron heart it hardly could sustaine ; Yet be that could his wrath full wiselv guvde . |
|
Dill well endure her womanish disilaine , And did himselfe from fraile impatience refraine. The morrow next, before the latnpe of light Above the oarlh upreard his llaminjf head , Tlie dwarf whieii bore tiiat message to her knigiif Brought answere backe, that ere he tasted bread lie would her succour, and alive or dead Her foe deliver up into her hand ; Therefore he wild her doe away all dread , And that of him she mote assured stand , He sent to her his basenct as a faithful band. Thereof full blyth the lady streight became, And gan t'augment her bitternessc muuli more: Vetnoro/iilt; more appalled for the same, Ne ought dismayed was Sir Calidore , But rather did more chearefull seeme therefore; And having soonc his armes about birn dight, Did issue forth to meet bis foe afore; Where long he stayed not, whenas a knight Hespidecomepriekingon with all his powreand might. Well weend he streight that he should be the same Which tooke in hand her quarell lo mainlaine. Ne staid to aske if it were he by name, He coucht his speare, and ran at him ainaine. They bene yinett in middest the plaine With so fell fury and dispiteous forse, That neither could the other's stroke sustaine , Bat rudely rowld to ground both man and horse. Neither of other taking pitty nor remorse But Calidore uprose againe full light, Whiles yet his foe lay fast in sencelesse sound ; Vet would he not him hurt, although he might; For shame be weend a sleeping wight to wound. But when Briana saw that drery stound , There where she stood uppon the castle-wall. She dcem'd him sure to have bene dead on ground , And made such piteous mourning therewithal!, That from the battlements she ready sceni'd io fall. Nathlcsse at length himselfe he did upreare In lustlesse wise, as if against his will , Ere he had slept his fill, he wakened were. And gan to stretch his limbs ; which feeling ill Of his late fall, awhile, be rested still; But when he saw his foe before in view , He shooke of luskishnesse, and courage chill Kindling afresh, gan battell to renew , To prove if better foote then horsebacke would ensew. There then began a fearefull cruell fray Betwixt them two for maystery of might; For both were wondrous practicke in that play, And passing well expert in single fight. And both inflam'd with furious despight; Which as it still increast, so still increast Their cruell strokes and terrible aflight; Ne once for ruth their rigour they rcleast, Ne once to breath a while their anger's tempest eeast. Thus long they trae'd and traverst to and fro, |
And tryde al waies how each mote entrance make Into the life of his malignant foe ; They hew'd their helmes, and dlates asunder brake , As they had pot-shares bene; for nought mote slake Their greedy vengeaunees but goary blood ; That at the last like to a purple lake Of Moudv gore congeal'd about them stood , Which from their riven sides forth gushed like a flood At length it chaunst that both their hands on hie At once did heave with all their powre and might, Thinking the utmost of their force to trie , And prove the small fortune of theflght; But Calidore, that was morequicke of sight, And nimbler-handed then hisenemie, Prevented him before his stroke could light. And on the helmet smote him formerlie, (litie That made him stoupe to ground with meekehumi And ere he could recover foote againe , He following that faire advantage fast, His stroke redoubled with such might and maine, That him upon the ground he groveling cast. And leaping to him light, would have unlast Mis helnie, to make unto his vengeance way ; Who seeing in what daungerhe was plust, Crydeout. quot;Ah ! mcrcie , Sir, doe me not slay, But save my life, which lot before your foot doth lay.' With that his mortall hand awhile he stayd. And having somewhat calm'd his wrathfull heal With goodly patience, thus he to him sayd : quot;And is the boast of that proud ladies threat, quot;That menaced me from the field to beat, quot;Now brought to this? by this now may ye learne quot;Strangers no more so rudely to entreat; quot;But put away proud lookeand usage Sterne, (yearne: quot;The which shall nought to you but foule dishonour quot;For nothing is more blamefull to a knight, quot;That court'sie doth as well as armes professe, quot;However strong and fortunate in fight, quot;Then the reproch of pride and cruel nesse : quot;In vaine he seeketh others to suppresse , quot;Who has not learnd himselfe first to snbdew : quot;All flesh is frayle, and full of ficklenesse, quot;Suhiect to Fortune's chance, still chaunging new quot;What haps to day to me, to-morrow may to you. quot;Who will not mercie unlo others shew , quot;How can he mercy ever hope to have? quot;To pay each with his owne is right and dew ; quot;Yet since ye mercie now doe need to crave, quot;1 will it graunt, your hopelesse life to save, quot;With these conditions which J will propound; quot;First, that ye better shall yourselfe behave quot;Unto all errant knights, whereso on ground ; quot;Next, that ye ladies ayde in every s teat and stound.quot; The wretched man, thatal this while did dwell In dread of death , liif hcusts did gladly heare, And promist lo performe his precept well, And whatsoever else he would requere: |
aü
|
So suffring him to rise, lie miide tiiin swoare By liis own sword , and iiy llie crosse thereon , To lakeBriana for his loving/ere Withouten dowrc or composition , 15iil to release liis former i'oule condition. All wfflih accepting;, and with faithful! uth livndinjj himsclfe most finnely to obay lie up arose , however liefe or loth , And swore to him true feallie for aye; Then forth he cahl , from sorrowfull dismay , The sad Brian a, which all I his beheld , Who cumming forth , yet full of late affray, Sir Calidore up-cheard , and to her teld All this accord to which he Crudor had compeld. Where of she now more jjlad then sory earst, All overcome with infinite afleet For his exceeditijj courtesie, that penr.il ller stuhhorne heart with inward deepe effect, Before his feet hcrselfe she did proiect, And him adoring as her live's deare lord , With all due thankes and dutifull respect |
Herselfe aeknowledg'd hound for that accord , By which he had to her both life and love restord. So all returning to the castle glad, Mo-it ioyfully she them did entertaine , Where goodly ylee and feast to lliem she made , To shew her tliankefull mind and meaning faine, By all llie meanes she mote it best explainc; And after all, unto Sir Calidore She freely gave that castle for his paine , And herselfe hound to him for evermore ; So wondrously now chaungM from that she was alore But Calidore himselfe would not retaine , Nor land nor fee for hyre of his good deede , But gave them streight unto that squire againc, AVho from her seneschall he lately freed , And to his danuell, as their rightfull meed, Kor recompence of all their former wrong : There he remaind with them right well agreed , Till of his wounds he wexed hole and strong. And then to his first quest, he passed forth along. |
|
Will. Thomalm, why sittcn we so , As weren overwent with woe, Upon so fair a morrow ? The joyous time now nigheth fast, That shall alegg this bitter blast, And slake the winter sorrow. Thomaiin. Siker, Willy , thou warnest well, For winter's wrath begins to quell, And pleasant spring appeareth ; The grass now 'gins to he refresht, The swallow peeps out of her nest, And cloudy welkin clearcth. WlUY. Seest not tMli same hawthorn stud , llow brughj it begins to hud And utter his tender head ? Flora now calleth forth each flower. And bids make ready Main's bower , That new is uprist from bed : Tho shall we sporten in delight, And learn with Lettice to we.v light, That scornfully looks askauncc; Tho will we little love awake That now sleepeth in Lei he lake, And pray him leaden our daunco. |
Two shepherds take occasion , from (he approach of spring, to discourse of love, describ'd here ns a person. One of them relates a story of his having discovered him lately hid in a bush, and of his being wounded by him. Thobuiin. Willy, 1 uieen tbou beasot, For lusty Love still sleepeth not. But is abroad at bis game. wiu.y. How heust tbou that he is awoke ? Or hast thyself his slumber broke ? Or made privy to the same ? Thomaiin. No; but happily I bim spide, Where in a bush he did him bide. With wings of purple and blue; And were not that my sheep would stray , The privy marks I would bewray , I Whcrebv bv chaunce I him knew. Willy. Thomaiin , have no care for-thy , My self will have a double eye, Ylike to my flock and thine; For, alas! at home I have a sire, A stepdame eke, as hot as fire, That duly adays counts tnine. Thomalin. Nay but ihy seeing will not seive , My sheep for that may chaunce to swerve, And fall into some mischief; For sithens is hut the third morrow |
|
That I chaunat to fall asleep with sorrow , And waked ajfaiti with (pief; The ■while thilk same unhappy owe, Whose clouted leg; her hurt doth shew , Fell headlong into a dell, And there uiijointed both her hones: Moufjht her ncek been jointed attoncs She should have need no more spell; Th'elf was so wanton and so wood , (Hut now 1 trow can better jjood) She inoujjlit ne gang on the green. AVilly. Let be as may be tbat is past; That is to eome let be forecast: Now tell us what thou bast seen. TnOMALIN. Jt was upon a holy-day, When shepherds grooms han leave to play I cast to go a shooting ; Long wandring up and down tbe land , With how and holts in either band, For birds in bushes tooting, At length within the ivy tod , (There shrouded was tbe little god) I heard a bnsie bustling; I bent my holl against the bush ; Listning if any tiling did rush , liut then heard no more rustling. Tho peeping close into the thick , Might see the moving of some quick , Wbose shape appeared not; But were it fairy, fiend, or snake, i\Iy courage eavit'd it to awake, And manfully thereat shot: With that sprang forth a naked swain, With spotted wings like peacock's train , And laughing lope to a tree ; Ilis gilden quiver at his hack , And silver how, w hicb was but slack, Which light ly he bent at me : |
That seeing 1 level'd again , And shot at him with might and main, As thick as it had hailed. So long I shot, that all was spent, Tho purny stones I hastily heut, And threw , but nought availed: lie was so wimble and so wight, From bough to hough ho leaped light, And oft the pumies lulched: Therewith afraid I ran away, liut be that curst sceni'd hut to play, A shaft in earnest snatched, And bit me running in the heel; For then 1 little smart did feel, liut soon it sore increased; And now it rankleth more and more And inwardly it festreth sore, Ne wote 1 how to cease it. Wll.l.T. Thomalin, I pity thy plight, Perdy with love thou diddest fight, I know him by a token ; For once I heard my father say How we him caught upon a day, (Whereof be will be wroken) Kntanglcd in a fowling net Which be for carrion-crows had sot. That in our pear-tree haunted I Tho said he was a winged Lid, Hut bow and shafts as then none had , Else had bo sore he daunted. Bnt see, the welkin thieksapace, And stooping Phcebus steeps his face i It's time to haste us homeward. WlLtY's EMtltEM To he wise and eke to love, Is graiinted source to gods above. Tjiomaun's emblem. Of honey and of gall in love there is store / The honey is much , but the gall is more. |
|
♦But tbat eternal fount of love and grace , Still flowing forth bis goodness nnlo all , Now seeing left a waste and empty placc In his wide palace, 1 brough those angels' fall, Cast to supply the same, anil to enstall A now unknowen eolonio therein , (begin. | Whose root from earth's base ground-work should Therefore of clay, base, vile, and next to nought. Yet form'd by wondrous skill, and by bis might, According to an heavenly pattern wrought, Which he bad fashion'd in his wise foresight, He man did make, and brcatli'd a living spright into hi.s face , most beautiful and fair, Endew'd with w isdoni, riches heavenly rare. |
Such be him made, that he resembled might. Himself, as mortal thing immortal could ; Him to be lord of every living wight Ho made by love out of his own like mould, In whom he might his mighty self behold; For Love doth love the thing belov'd to see, That like it self in lovely shape may be. But man , forgetful of his maker's grace No less than angels, whom he did ensue. Fell from tbe hope of promis'd heavenly place, Into the mouth of Death, to sinners due. And all his offspring into thraldom threw , Where they for ever should in honds remain Of never-dead yet ever-dying pain. |
88
|
rill that great Lord of Love, which him at first Made of incer love, and after liked well, Seciii;; him lie like creature lonjj accurst In that deep horror of despaired hell, Him , wretch, in dool would let no longer dwell, I!ut cast out of that bondage to redeem , And pay the price, all were his duht extreem. Out of the bosom of eternal bliss, In which he reigned with his glorious sire , lie down descended, like a most deiniss And abject thrall, in flesh's frail altire. That he for him might pay sin's deadly hire. And him restore unto that happy state In which he stood before his hapless fate. In flesh at first ihe guilt committed was, Therefore in flesh it must be satisfide; Nor spirit, nor angel, though they man surpass, Could make amends to God for man's misguide. But only man himself, whose self did slide: So taking Heshof sacred virgin's womb. For man's dear sake he did a man become. And that most blessed body, which was born Without all blemish or reproachful blame, He freely gave to be both rent and lorn Of cruel hands, who withdespighlful shame Reviling him , that lliem most vile became. At length him nayled on a gailow-tree. And slew the Just by most unjust decree. O huge and most unspeakable impression Of Love's deep wound , that pierst the piteous heart Of that dear Lord with so entire affection, And sharply launcing every inner part, Dolours of death into his soul did dart, Doing him die that never it deserved , To free his foes , that from his hea.it had swerved ! |
What heart can feel least touch of so sore launch , Or thought can think the depth of so dear wound ? Whose bleeding source their streams yet never stanch, But still do flow, and freshly still redownd , To heal the sores of sinful souls unsound , And cleanse the guilt of that infected crime Which was enrooted in all fleshly slime. O blessed Well of Love! O Flow re of Grace! 0 Glorious Morning-Star ! O Lamp of Light! Most lively image of thy Father's face, Kternal King of Glory , Lord of Might, Meek Lamb of God, before all worlds belucht, How can we thee requite for all this good ? Or what can prize that thy most precious blood ? Yet nought thou ask'st in lieu of all this love , But love of us, for guerdon of thy pain : Aye me! what can u^ less than that behove ? Had he required life for us again , Had it be wrong to ask his own with gain ? He gave ns life, he it restored lost ; Then life were least, (bat us so little cost. But ho our life hath left unto us free, Free that was thrall, and blessed that was band, Ne ought demands hut that we loving be, As he himself hath lov'd us afore-hand , And hound thereto with an eternal hand. Him first to love that was so dearely bought , And next our brethren , to his image wrought. Him first to love great right and reason Is, Who first to us our life ami being gave , And after, when we fared had amiss, Us wretches from the second death did save ; And last, the fool of life , which now we have, Even he himself, in his dear sacrament. To feed our hungry souls, unto us lent.* |
The Visions olquot; retrarcli.
|
'At last, so fair a lady did f spy, That thinking yet on her I burn and quake; On herbs and llowres she walked pensively, Mild,hut yet love she prondlydid forsake: Whiteseem'd her robes, yet woven as they were. As snow and gold together had been wrought. Above the waste a dark cloud shrouded her, A stinging serpent by the heed her cauhgt. Wherewith she languishtas thegather'd flowrc. And well assur'd she mount'd up to joy. Alas! on earth so nothing doth endure, But bitter grief and sorrowful annoy , Which make this life wretched and miserable, Tossed with storms of fortune variable. |
When I beheld this tickle trustless stale Of vain world's glory, flitting to and fro. And mortal men tossed by troublous Fate, In restless seas of wretchedness and woe, 1 wish I might this weary life forego , And shortly turn unto my happy rest, Where my free spirit might not any mo Be vext w ith sights that do her peace molest. And ye, fair Lady! in whose bounteous brost All heavenly grace and virtue shrined is, AVhen ye these rimes do read, anil view the rest. Loath this base world, and think of heaven's bliss: And though ve he the fairest of God's creatures. Yet think that death shall spoil your goodly features. |
59
l*rn«oigt;opola : or , Mother iliiblicriTs Talc.
|
•Tin: lion sleeping lay in secret shade, His crown ami sceptre lyinj; liim licsidc.* *Aii! liiil (said tlie Ape) wlio is so bold a wretcli That dure his hardy hand to those out-stretch , When as he knows his mued, if lie he spide, To lie a thousand deaths, and shame beside ? Fond Ape (said then the fox) unto whose brest Never crept thought of honour nor brave gest, Who will not venture life a king to be, And rather rule and raign in suvcraign see , Than dwell in dust inglorious and base , Where none shall name the number of bis place? Onejoyous hour in blissful happiness 1 chuse before a life of wretchedness: Be therefore councelled herein by me, And shake off this vile hearted cowardee, If he awake yet is not death the next, I'or we may colour it with some pretext Of this or that, that may excuse the crime ; lilse we may lly ; thou to a tree mayst clime , And 1 creep under ground , both from bis reach : Therefore he rul'd to do as I do leach. The Ape, that earst did nought hut chill and quake, ;\ow gan some courage unto him to take, And was content to attempt that enterprise. Tickled with glory and rash covetise; But first 'gan question whether should assay Those royal ornaments to steal away. Marry that, shall yourself, (quoth he thereto) For ye he fine and nimble it to do ; Of all the beasts which in the forests be. Is not a fitter for this turn than ye ; Therefore, mine own dear Itrother! lake good hart. And ever think a kingdom is your part. Loth was the Ape (though praised) to adventure, Vet faintly 'gan his work to enter. Afraid of every leaf that stirr'd him by, And every stick that underneath did lie : Upon his tiptoes nicely he up went, For making noise, and still his car he lent To every sound that under heaven blew; Now went, now slept, now crept, now backward drew, Tnat il good sport had been him to have ej'd : Yet. at the last (so well he him apply'd) Through his fine handling and his cleanly play, lie all those royal signs had stoln away. And with the Fox's help them horn aside Into a secret corner unespide ; Whether whenns they came , they fell at words. Whet her ( I them should he the lord of lords? For tb'Ape was strifeful and ambitious , And the Fox guileful, and most covetous, That, neither pleased was to have t he rein Twixt them divided into even twain , But either (algutcs) would be lords alone; I'or love and lordship hide no paragone. |
I am most worthy (said the Ape) sith I For it did put my life in jeopardy ; Thereto I am in person and in stature Most like a man, the lord of every creature, So that it seemeth i was made to raign, And born to be a kingly soveraign: Nay (said the Fox) Sir Ape, you are astray ; For though to steal the diadem away Were the w ork of your nimble hand , yel I Did first devise the plot by policy. So that it wholly springeth from my wit, For which also I claim myself more fit Than you to rule: for government of state Will without wisdom soon be ruinate ; And where ye claim your self for outward shape Most like a man , man is not like an Ape Jn his chief parts, that is , in w it and spirit, But 1 therein most like to him do merit, For my sly wyles and subtil craftiness, The title of the kingdom to possess. Nath'less (my Brother) since we passed are Unto this point, we will appease our jar And I with reason meet will rest content, That ye shall have both crown and government, Upon condition that ye ruled he In all affairs, and councelled by me. And that ye let none other ever draw Your mind from me , but keep this as a law , And hereupon an oath unto mo plight. The Ape was glad to end the strife so light, And tbere-toswore; for who would not oft swear. And oft nnswear , a diadem to hear? * *The Ape thus seized of the regal throne , liftsoons by counsel of the Fox alone , 'Gan to provide for all things in assurance, That so his rule might longer have endurance. First to his gate he pointed a strong guard, That none might enter but with issue hard ; Then fur the safeguard of his personage, lie did appoint a warlike equipage Of forraign beasts, not in the lorrest bred, But part by land and part by water fed ; For tyranny is with strange aid supported. * ♦Then 'gan he rule and tyrannize at will , Like as the Fox did guide his graceless skill, And all wild beasts made vassals of his pleasures, And with their spoiles cnlarg'd his private tresures. No care of justice, nor no rule of reason, No temperance, nor no regard of season . Did thenceforth ever enter in his mind ; But cruelty, the sign of currish kind. And 'sdainful pride and wilful arrogaunce; Such follows those w hom Fortune doth advaunce: * *Now when high Jove, in whose almighty band 1 The care of kings and power of empires stand , 1 Silling one day within his turret hie. |
60
|
From whence lie views with his hlack-liddud eye, What-so the heaven in his wide vault contains, And all that in the deepest earth remains, And troubled kingdom of wild heasls heheld, Whom not their kindly sovereifrn did weld, • * Forth-with he Mercury unto him call'd And hade him lly with never rcstinj; speed Unto the forrest, where wild beasts do breed, And there enquiring prively, to learn What did of late chance to the lion stearn , That he rul'd not the empire as he oujfhl ? And whence were all those plaints unto him brought, Of wrongs and spoils by salvaffe beasts committed ? Which done, be bade the linn be remitted Into his seat, and those same treachours vile Be punished for their presumptuous guile.* * lie [Mercury] Van inquire of some, in secret wi/.e, Colli of the kin;} and of his {jovernment, And of the Fox, and his false blandishment; And evermore he heard eaeh one complain Of foul abuses in realm and raijjn ;* *At last, he found where sleeping- he [lion] did lie.* * Arise , (said Mercury) thou slu;f;;ish beast, That here liest senseless , like the corps deceast, The whilst thy kingdom from thy head is rent, And thy throne royal with dishonour blent; Arise, and do thyself redeem from shame, |
And be aveng'd ou those that breed thy blame. * quot;But the false Fox when he the lion heard , Fled closely forth, straightway of death afear'd , And to the lion came full lowly creeping , With fa i ned face, and watry vi/u half weeping, T'excuse his former treason and abusion, And turning all unlo the Ape's confusion : Nath'less th' royal beast forbore believing , But bade him stay at ease till further/jm'i'tni/. Then when he saw no entraunce to him jrraunted , Roaring yet louder , thntal hearts it daunted , Upon those gates with force he fiercely flew , And rending them in pieces, felly slew Those warders strange, and all that else he met. But th' Ape still flying, he no where miglitget; From room to room , from beam lo beam he fled, All breathle-s, and for fear now almost ded : Yet him at last the lion spide and caught. And forlh with shame unlo his judgment brought. Then all the beasts he caus'd assembled be , To hear thcirdoom , and sad ensamplesee. The Fox, first author of that treachery. He did uncase, and then away let fly ; l!ut th' Ape's long tail (which then he had) he quit« Cutoir, and both ears parted of their behight; Since which all apes but half their ears have left. And of their tails arc utterly bereft. quot; * |
|
SONNET XXVI. Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere ; Sweet is thejnniper, but sharp his hough ; Sweet is the eglantine, hul pricketb near ; Sweet is the firbloom, but his branches rough ; Sweet is the cypress, but his rind is tough ; Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill, Sw eet is I he broom-flowre, but yet sour enough ; And sweet is moly, hut his root is ill : So every sweet withsouris tempred still. That maketh it be coveted the more ; For easy things , that may he got at will , Most sorts of men do set but little store. Why then should I account of little pain , That endless pleasure shall unto me gain ? |
Since 1 did leave the presence of my love, Many long weary days I have out-worn , And many nights, that slowly seeni'd to move 'Their sad protract from evening until morn: For when as day the heaven doth adorn . I wish that night the voijohs day would end ; And whenas night hath us of light forlorn , I wish that day would shortly re-asccnd. Thus I the Iime villi expeclalion spend , And fain my grief with changes to beguile , That further seems his term still to extend, And maketh every minute serin a mile So sorrow still doth seem too long to hist , But joyom hours do flyaway too fast. |
Werd geboren te Londen vermoedelijk in 1558 on stierf in 1C09 : hij is vooral bekend door zijn Albion's England , welk werk bij het leven van den schrijver zeer populair was, doch na zijn dood in vergetelheid raakte. Het is in den vorm een geschiedenis van Engeland, of Zuid-Brittannie, sedert den zondvloed tot op de regering van Jacobus I en behoort tot een van de levendigste en aangenaamste dichtstukken van dien tijd. Elke merkwaardige gebeurtenis of legende van de oude kronijkschrijvers is daarin opgenomen en wordt duidelijk voorgesteld. Ook is de dichter hier en daar oorspronkelijk in het meedeelen van feiten : hij is bijzonder meester van de taal der geringere volksklassen , waarom hij waarschijnlijk in zijn tijd zoo zeer bewonderd en spoedig vergeten werd. Zijn Albion's England verscheen het eerst in dertien
6!
boeken in 1686 en werd herdrukt in 1589 , 159^, 1596, 1597 en 1602; in 1006 verscheen een andere uitgave, waarin nog drie boeken werden opgenomen, en in 1612 weer een herdruk van de deltien eeisle boeken. Eindelijk werd daarvan voor eenigen tijd nog een nieuwe uitgave bewerkt. Tn proza heeft men van hem: Syrinx, or a Sevenfold History, pleasant and profitable, comical and tragical, vermoedelijk omstreeks 1584 gedrukt, doch waarvan alleen een uitgave van 1597 bekend is,
|
*IIis aged eyes pour out tlieir tears, when, holding up (liis hands, He said, Ü (Sod! whoso thou art that my good hap (w ithstnnds, Prolong not life, defer not death; myscdf I overlive When those that owe to me their lives to me my death (■would give. Thou town, whose walls rose of my wealth, stand (evermore to tell Thy founder's fall, and warn that none do fall as Leir fell. Bid none affy in friends; for say. His ehildren wrought (his wrack; ♦Now Richard heard that Richmond was assisted, and (on shore, And like unkenneled Cerberus the crooked tyrant (swore. And all complexions act at once confusedly in him ; He studieth, strikcth, threats, entreats, and lookcth (mildly grim ; Mistrustfully he trusteth,and he dreadingly (/iV/dare, And forty passions in a trice in him consort, and (square. But when, hy his convented force, his foes increased (more, He hastened hattle, finding his eorrival apt therefore. When Richmond orderly in all had hattailed hisaid, Enringed by his complices, their cheerful leader said: Now is the time and place , sweet friends, and we the (persons he That must give England breath, or else unbreathe for (her must we. No tyranny is fabled, and no tyrant was indeed, Worse than our foe, whose works will act my words if («ell he speed. For ills to ills superlative are easily enticed. But entertain amendment as thefiergesitesdid Christ. Be valiant then; he biddeth so that would not be (outbid For courage, yet shall honour him , though base, that (better did. |
Yea, those that were to him most dear did loath and (let him lack, Cordelia, well Cordelia said, she loved as a child ; liut sweeter words we seek than «ooth, and so are men (beguiled. She only rests untried yet ; Imt what may I expect From her, to whom I nothing gave, when these do me (rejcct? Then die: nay, try; the rule may fail, and nature may (ascend; Nor are thev ever surest friends on whom we most do (spend.* I am right heir Lancastrian, he in York's destroyed (right Usurpeth ; hut, through either source, for neither (claim 1 fight. But for our country's long lacked weal, for England's (peace, I war; Wherein He speed us, unto whom I all events refar. Meanwhile bad iurious I! iehard set his armies in array, And then , with looks even like himself , this or the like (did say ; —*• Why, lads? shall yonder Welshman, with his strag- (glers, overmatch ? Disdain ye not such rivals, and defer ye their dispatch ? Shall Tudor from Plantagenet the crown hy craking (snatch ? Know Richard's very thoughts (he touched the diadem he wore) Be metal of this metal; then believe I love it more. Than that for other law than life to supersede my claim; And lesser must not bo his plea that counterpleads the (same. The weapons overtook bis words , and blows they (bravely change. When like a lion thirsting blood , did uioody Richard (range, And made large slaughters where he went, till Rich- (mond he espied, Whom sinfilinf!, after doubtful swords, the valorous (tyrant died.* |
62
Werd wnnrschynlijk in 15B3 in liet graafscliap Warwick geboren en overleed in 1031. Reeds op lienjarigcu leeftijd moet liij opmerltelijke vorderingen in de kennis der latijnsche taal gemaakt hebben. Hij studeerde volgens sommigen to Oxford, doch anderen willen aan een andere universiteit. Ook bekleedde hij waarschijnlijk do ceil of andere militaire betrekking te Dover. Tu 1593 leverde hij: Idea: The Shepherd's Garland fashioned in nine Eclogues; en kort daarna ïho Harons' Wars (IB'JG); England's Heroical lipisllcs and Legends (1508). In 1G12 verschenen de eerste achttien boeken van den l'oly-Olbion en in 1022 nog twaalf; voorts in 1037: ISattlo of Aginconrt; Miseries of Queen Margaret; Nymphidia, The Court of Fairy; Quest of Cynthia; Shepherd's Sirena; Elegies en The Moon-calf; in 1031 Noah's Flood; Moses's Birth and Miracles en David and Goliath. Bovendien heeft men van hem nog; The Owl; Odes; with other Eyrio poesies; The Muses Elysium en cenige kleine stukken. The Uaron's Wars, in 1590 onder den titel van Mortimeriados verschenen , England's llcroieal Epistles en Poly-Olbion zijn drie werken van grooten omvang. Door bet laatste vooral verwierf hij zijn roem; het is een omvangrijke en naanwkeurige, topographiesche beschrijving van Engeland en zoowel om de geleerdheid, daarin ontwikkeld, als om de dichterlijke verdiensten zeer merkwaardig. Ziju bcvalligste poëzie is echter waarschynlijk te vinden in de Pastorals, het levendig gedichlje Nymphidia, or the Court of Fairy en in de Verses on Poets and Poesy. Zijn taal is eenvoudig en zuiver. Veel van zijn pennevruchten zijn bij zijn leven herhaalde malen herdrukt en zijn ge-zaïnenlijko werken verschenen geheel of gedeeltelijk in 17'18, 1753 en 1793.
IVympIsidia : The Court of Fairy.
|
quot;Tliis palace standelli in tlie air. By necromancy placed there. That it nu tempests needs to fear, Which way soe'or it Mow it: And somewhat southward tow'rd the doom, Whence lies a way up to I lie moon, And I hence the Fairy can as soon Pass to the earth helow it. The walls of spiders legs are made, Well morticed and finely laid , He was the master of the trade, It curiously that huilded : The windows of the eyes of cats And for the roof, instead djtals, Is cover'd with the skins of hats, With moonshine that arc gilded. Hence Oheron, him spoil to make. (Their rest when weary mortals take. And none Imt oiil\r Fairies wake) Descendetli for his pleasure : And Mali, his merry Queen, hy night Bestrides young folks thai lie upright, (In elder times the Mare that iiight) Which plagues them out of measure. Ilenen shadows, seeming idle shapes, Of little frisking elves and apes, To earth do make their wanton scapes, As hope of pastime hastes them : Which maids think on the hearth tlicv see. When fires well-near consumed he, There dancing liayes hy two and three, Just as their fancy casts them. These make our girls their flutt'ry rue, By pinching them hoth hlack and hlue. And puta penny in their shoe, The house for clcanly sweeping : |
And in their courses make that round , In meadows and in marshes found . Of them so call'd the Fairy ground, Of which they have the keeping. Those, w hen a child haps to he got, Which aflcr proves an idiot, When folk perceive it thriveth not. The fault, therein to smother : Some silly donting brainless calf, That understands things hy the half, Say, that the Fairy left this aulf, And took away the oilier. But listen , and 1 shall you tell . A chance in Fairy that hefel , Which certainly may please some well , In love and arms delighting : Of Oheron , that jealous grew Of one of his own Fairy crew, Too well (he fear'd) his Queen tiiat knew , His love but ill requiting. Pigwiggen was this Fairy Knight One wond'rous gracious in the sight Of fair Queen Mah, which day and night lie amorously observed : quot;Wliicli made Kiri'j Oheron suspeet His service took loo jjood effect, nis sauciness and often checkt, And could have wish'd him starved. Pigwiggen gladly would commend Some token to Queen Mah to send . If sea or land him ought could lend , W ere worthy cf her wearing ; At length this lover doth devise, A hracclet made of emmets eyes , A tiling he thought that she would pri/.e , A'o whit her state impairing. |
üö
|
And to the Queen a letter writes, AVIiieli lie most curiously indites , Conjuring licr by all tiie riles Of love , she would he pleased : 'Jo meet him her true servant, where They might wiliiout suspect or fear Themselves to one another clear. And have their poor hearts eased. '•At midnight the appointed hour , quot;And for the Queen a filtinn how'r, quot;(Quoth he) is that fair cowslip ilow'r, quot;Oa Ilipcut-hill that groweth : quot;In all your train there's not a Fay, quot;That ever went lo gather May, quot;But she hath made it in her way, quot;The tallest there that gruweth.quot; When by Torn Thum a Fairy page lie sent it, and doth him engage, By promise of a mighty wage, It secretly to carry: Which done, the Queen her maids doth eall, And bids them to he ready all, She would go see her summer hall, She could no longer tarry. Her chariot ready strait is made, Each thing therein is fitting laid. That she by nothing might he stay'd , For naught must her ho letting: Four nimble gnats the horses were , Their harnesses ofgossamere, Fly Cranion, her charioteer. Upon the coach-box getting. Her chariot of a snail's fine shell, AVIiich for the colours did excel 1; The fair Queen Mab becoming well. So lively was the limning: The seat the soft woll of the bee , The cover (gallantly to see) The wing of a py'd butler llee, I trow,'t was simple trimming. The wheels compos'd of crickets hones, And daintily made for the nonce, For fear of rattling on the stones , AVith thistle-down they shod it: For all her maidens much did fear, IfOberon had chanc'd to bear. That Mab bis Queen should have been there , lie would not have abode it. She mounts her chariot with a trice , Nor would she slay for no advice. Until her maids, that were so nice. To wait on her were filled , But ran herself away alone ; AVIiich when they heard , there was not one But basted after to be gone, As she had been disvvitlcd. Hop, and Mop, and Drap so clear, I'ip , and Trip, and Skip , that were |
To Mab their sovereign dear, Her special maids of honour; Fib , and Tib, and Pinck , and Pin, Tick , and Quick , and Jill, and Jin, Tit, and Nit, and AVap anil Win , The train that wait upon her. Upon a grashoppcr they got, And what with amble and with trot, For hedge nor ditch they spared not. But after her they hie them. A cobweb over them ihey throw, To shield the wind if it should blow , Themselves they wisely could bestow , Lest any should espy thein. But let us leave Queen Mali a while Through many a gate, o'er many a stile. That now had gotten hy this wile. Her dear Pigwiggen kissing; And tell how Oberon doth fare, Who grew as mad as any bare. When he bad sought each place with care. And found his Queen was missing. By griesly Pluto he doth swear, He rent his clothes, and tore his hair. And as he runneth here and there. An acron-cup he getteth ; Which soon he takes by the stalk. About his head he lets it walk , Kor doth he any creature baulk , But lays on all he mceleth. The Tuscan poet doth advance The frantic Paladineof France, And those , more ancient do inhance Alcides in his fury , And others Ajax Telamon : But to this time there has been none So Bedlam as our Oberon, Of which I dare assure ye. And first encount'ring with a wasp. He is his arms the lly doth clasp , As though bis breath he forth would grasp, Him for Pigwiggen taking: quot; Where is my wife, thou rogue? (quoth he) quot; Pigwiggen, she is come to thee: quot; Restore her, or thou dy'st hy me. quot; Whereat the poor wasp quaking. Cries, quot;Oberon, great Fairy King, quot;Content thee, I am no such thing; quot; I am a wasp, behold my sting Iquot; At which the Fairy starled. AVhen soon away the wasp doth go. Poor wretch was never frighted so, He ihoiight his wings were much loo slow , O'eijoy'd they so were parted. He next upon a glow-worm light, (A'ou must suppose it now was night) Which, for her hinder part was bright, He took lo he a devil; |
|
Ami l'uriüii-ly dolli lier assail Kor carrying fier in lipr tail; lie thrasM lier roujjli coat witli liis flail , The mail Kinj; foai 'il no evil. quot;Oli ! ((juolli tlic j;low-worm) liold liiy hand , quot;Thou puissant Iviiij; of I'airy lanil, •'Thy niijjhty strokes who may withstand ? ■'Hold, or of life despair 1.quot; Together then herself doth roll, And Imnhlinjj down into a hole. |
•She seem'd as blaek as any coal, Which vext away the Fairy. From thence he ran into a hive, Amonjjst the bees lie leltelh drive. And down their combs begins to rive, All likely to have spoiled: Which with their wax his face hesmear'tl, And with their honey daub'd his beard ; It would have made a man alTear'd , To see how he was moiled. * |
|
I ever love, where never hope appears. Yet hope draws on my never-boping care, And my life's hope would die, hut fur despair. My never-certain joy breeds evcr-ccrlaiii fears, Uncertain bread gives wings unto my hope ; Yet my hope's wings are laden so wilh fear , As they cannot ascend to my hope's sphere; |
Though fear gives them more than a heav'nly scope. Vet this large room is bounded with despair, So my love is still fettcr'd with vain hope, And liberty deprives him of his scope, And thus am I imprison'd in the air: Then , sweet Despair, a while hold up thy head , Or all my hope for sorrow will be dead. |
|
Why do I speak of joy , or write of love , When my heart is the very den of horror, And In my sonl the pains of hell 1 prove. With all his torments and infernal terror ? What should I ^ay ? what yet remains to do? My brain is dry with weeping all too long, IMy sighs be spent in utt'ring of my woe , |
And I want words, wherewith to tell my wrong ? lint still distracted in love's lunacy, And bedlam like thus raving in my grief. Now rail upon h 'rhair, then on her eye; Now call , her goddess, then I call her thief: Now I deny her, then I do confess her, Now do I curse her , then again I bless her. |
To THE CAMBRIO-BniTO.NS, AND THEIR HahV.
|
Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance. Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry: Bnt putting to the main. At Kaux , the month of Seine , With all his martial train , Landed King Harry. And taking many a fort, Fnrnish'd in warlike sort. Marched toward Agincourt In happy hour; Skirmishing day by day With those that stop'd his way, Where the French gen'ral lay With all his power. |
Which in his height of pride , King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the king sending. AVhich he neglects the while, As from a nation vile Ye I with an angry smile. Their fall portending. And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then, Though they to one be ten lie not ama/.ed. Yet, have we well begun Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been praised. |
|
And for myself, quotli ho, Tliis my full rest shall he. England ne'er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me. Vietor I will remain , Or on tliis earth lie slain , Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me. Poitiers and Cressy tell, AVlien most their pride did swell. Under our swords they fell, No less our skill is, Tl lan when our grandsirc great, Claiming the regal seat , By many a warlike feat, Lop'd the French lilies. The Duke of Vork so dread, The eager vaward led ; With the main Henry sped , Amongst his henchmen. Kieester had the rear , A braver man not, there , () Lord how hot they were On the false Frenchmen ! They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour shone. Drum now to drum did groan , To hear , was wonder ; That with cries they make, ■ The very earth did shake. Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder. Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham , Which did the signal aim To our hid forces; When from a meadow by. Like a storm suddenly The English archery Stuck the French horses. With Spanish yew so strong. Arrows a cloth yard long, That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather; |
None from his fellow starts. Hut playing manly parts, And like true English hearts, Stuck close together. When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilbows drew. And ou the French they flew; Not one was tardy; Arms were from shoulders sent. Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went. Our men were hardy. This while onr noble king. His broad sword branduhing , Down the French host did ding, As to o'erw bel in it; And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent. And many a cruel dent liruised his helmet. Glo'ster, that Duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For fainons England stood. With his brave brother, Clarence, in steel so bright. Though but a maiden knight. Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another. Warwick in blood did wade, Oxford the foe invade. And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up; Suffolk his axe did ply, lieauinont and Willonghby Hare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope. Upon Saint Crispin's day Fought was this noble Iray, Which fame did not delay. To England to carry; O, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry? |
Werd geboren te Stratford-on-Avon , in 't graafschap Warwick (1504—1010). llij trad reeds op zijn achttiende jaar (1582) in 't huwelijk en vertrok in 1580 of 1587 naar Londen, waar hij goede zaken duor middel van't looncel maakte. In 1012 zeide hij het tooneel vaarwel en begaf zich naar zijn geboortestad terug , waar hij zijn overige levensdagen sleet. Voor zoo ver plaatsruimte het veroorloofde, hebben wij getracht, een degelijke bloemlezing uit de werken van dien grootcn dichter te geven. Ken breedvoerige of maar eenig-zins ruime behandeling van zijn werken en van zijn leven kan men hier niet wel van ons verwachten. Is dit wel mogelijk van iemand, over wiens lettervruchten zooveel geschreven is, dat men er een geheele boekerij van zon kunnen opnoemen ? Men leze tot staving daarvan, o. a. quot;Omtrekken eener algemeene litteratuur over William Shakspeare en deszei I's werken; Tweede stuk, door Jurriaan Moulin.quot; Het zij voldoende hier uit bovengenoemd werk te vinden het volgende van Lord Lyttleton :
quot;No author had ever so copious, so bold, so creative an imagination, with so perfect a knowledge of
i)
quot;tlio passions, the humours mul sentimrnts of mankind. Ho painted all characters, from heroes and quot;kings, down to innkeepers and peasants, with equal truth, and with equal force. If human uaturc was »quite destroyed, and no monument left of it, except Lis works, other beings might learn what man he «was, from those writings.»
Of van Nkkle t. a. p.
«His was the master spirit : at his spells, I »Of Horeb, smitten by the prophets rod,
«The heart gave up its secrets: like the mount | «Its hidden springs gushed forth.»
Terwijl wij er van Dr. Jounsoj* nog bijvoegen :
■/AVhen learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes //TMrst rcar'd the stage, immortal Shakespeare rose;
•Each scene of many-eolour'il life he drew,
Pe l'oeins zijn; Venus and Adonis (1503); The llape of Lucreee (IG'J/M; 154 Sonnets (1C09); The passionate Pilgrim; The Lover's Complaint; de Plays: Tempest; Two gentlemen of Verona; Merry wives of Windsor ; Twelfth Night: or, What you will; Measure fur Measure; Much Ado about Nothing; Midsummer-Night's Dream; Love's Labour's Lost; Merchant of Venice; As you like it; All's Well that Ends Well; Taming of the Shrew, Winter's Tale; Comedy of Errors; Macbeth; King John; King Richard II; King Henry IV. Part I.; King Henry IV. Part II.; King Henry V.: King Henry VI. Part I. j King Henry VI. Part II. ; King Henry VI. Part III.; King Eichard HI.; King Henry VIII.: Troilus and Cressida; Timon of Athens; C'oriolanus , Julius Crasar; Antony and Cleopatra; Cyiubeline ; Titus Andronicus ; Pericles, Prince of Tyre; King Lear; Romeo and Juliet; Hamlet, Prince of Denmark; Othello, the Moor of Venice; terwijl sommige uitgevers van zijn werken onder deze nog rangschikken, hoewel anderen het op goede gronden wederleggen: Locrino; 'Ihe Londen Prodigal; The Puritan, or lbo Widow of Watliug-Street ; Lorei Cromwell; Sir John Oldcastle ; The Yorkshire Tragedy, enz. Het is schier onmogelijk op te geven hoeveel malen zijn werken , gezamenlijk of gedeeltelijk , in Engeland of door geheel Europa ziju uitgegeveu, weshalve wy dau ouk daarover noch in bijzonderhoden treden willen, noeh eenigo namen kunnen opgeven. Ook is het niet wel mogelijk den tijd op te geven, wanneer ziju tooucelspelen het eerst verschenen , daar de geleerdste navorschers daarover met elkander iu strijd zijn.
• Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new; //ExistcDce saw him spnrn her bounded reign, »And panting Time toil'd after him in vain!«
|
quot;quot;rislnic,'t is true, thus was slain ; llo ran upon the boar with Lis sharp spear, Who wou'd not whet his teeth at him again , lint hy a kiss thought to persuade him there; And nuzzling in his flank , the loving swine Sheath'd , unaware , his tusk in his soft groin. Had 1 been tooth'd like him, I must confess, With kissing him, 1 should have kill'd him first. But he is dead, and never did lie hless My mouth with his ; the more I am aecurs'd, itb tiiis she falleth in the plaee she stood , And stains her face with bis congealed blood. Stie looks upon ids lips. and they are pale ; She takes him by the band , and that is told ; She whispers in his ear a heavy tale , As if he hoard the woeful words she told: She lifts the cofl'er-lids that close bis eyes, Where , lo ! two lumps burnt out in darkness lies. Two glasses where her self herself beheld A thousand times , and no more reflect; Their virtue lost, wherein they lateexcell'd , And every beauty robb'd of bis effect Wonder oflime ! quoth sbe, this is my sjilghl, That, you being dead , the day shou'd yet he light. ■Since thou art dead , lo ! here I prophesy, Sorrow, on love, hereafter shall attend; Itsball be waited on with jealousy, |
Find sweet beginning but unsavoury end, Ne'er settled equally too high or low ; That all Love's pleasures shall not match his woe. It shall he fickle, false, and full offraud, And shall be blasted in a breathing while; The bottom poison , and the top o'erstraw'd With sweats , that shall the sharpest sight beguile. The strongest bodyshall it make most weak , Strike the wise dumb, and teach the fuol to speak. It shall be sparing, and too full of riot, Teaching decrepid age to tread the measures; The staring ruflian shall it keep in quiet, 1'luck down the rich , enrich the poor with treasures; it shall be raging-mad , and silly mild. Make the young old, the old bccome a child. It shall suspect , where is no cause of fear ; It shall not fear, where it should most mistrust; It shall be mercifull, and too severe, And most deceiving, when it seems most just: Perverse it shall be, when it seems most toward , Put fear to valour, courage to the coward. It shall be theeause of war, and dire events, And set dissention 'twit the son and sire; Subject and servile to all discontents. As dry eombustious matter is to fire. Sith in bis prime, death doth my Love destroy , They that love best, their Love shall not enjoy. |
67
|
lly lliis , the lioy tliut liy lier side lay kill'il, Was melted like a vapour from lier sight, And in liis lilood , that un the ground lay spill'd , A purple llower sprung up, chequer'd with while , Resembling well his pale checks , and (he hlood, Which in round drops upon their w hi ten ess stood. She hows her head , the new-sprung flower to smell, Comparing it to her Adonis' breath : And says, within ber bosom it shall dwell, Since be himself is reft from ber by death : She crops the stalk , and in the breach appears Creen dropping sap , which she compares to tears. Poor Flower! quoth she, this was thy father's guise, (Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelting sire) l''or every little grief to wet his eyes : |
To grow unto himself was his desire, And so 'tis lliine ; but know , it is as goud •J'o wither in my breast, as in bis blood. Here was thy father's bed , here is my breast; Thou art the next of blood, and 't is thy right; Low in this hollow cradle take thy rest, My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night: There shall not he one minute of an hour. Wherein 1 will not kiss my sweet Love's llower. Thus weary of the world , away she hies , And yokes her silver doves , hy whose swift aid , Their mistress mounted, through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is convey'd ; Holding ibeir course to Paphos, where their Queen Means to immure herself, and not he seen. |
|
*0! opportunity ! thy guilt, is great; 'Tis thou, that eiecut'st the traitor's treason ; Thou sct'st the wolf where he the lamb may get; Whoever plots the sin , thou point'st the season : 'Tis thou that sparn'st at right, at law , at reason; And in thy shady cell. where none may spy him , Sits sin , to seize the souls, that wander hy him. Thou mak'st the vestal violate her oath ; Thou blow'st the fire when temperance is thaw'd : Thou smother'st honesty, then murder'st troth ; Thou foul abettor, thou notorious bawd! Thou plantest scandal, and displaccst laud : Thou ravisher, thou traitor , thou false thief! Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief. Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame ; Thy private feasting to a public fast Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name ; Thy sugar'd tongue to bitter wormwood taste: Thy violent vanities can never last. How comes it then , vile Opportunity , Being so had , such numbers seek for thee? When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend , And bring him where bis suit may he obtained ? When w ilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end ? Or free that soul, which wretchedness has chain'd ? Give physic to the sick , ease to the pain'd ? The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee; But they ne'er met with Opportunity. The patient dies while Ibe physician sleeps; The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds: Justice is feasting while the widow Meeps; Advice is sporting while infection breeds: L. How heavy do I journey on the way , When what I seek , — my weary travel's end, — |
Thou granl'st no lime for charitable deeds. Wrath , envy. treason , rape, and murders rages, Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages. When Truth and Vcrtue have to do with thee, A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid ; They buy thy help: hut sin ne'er gives a fee; He gratis comcs, and thou art well apuy'd, As well to hear, as grant what he has said. My Collatine would else have come lo me. When Tarquin did, but he was staid by thee. Guilty thou art of murder and of theft; Guilty of perjury and subornation ; Guilty of treason , forgery, and shift; Guilty of incest, that abomination; An accessary by thine inclination To all sins past, and all that are to come , Fom the creation to the general doom. Misshapen Time, copcsinate of ugly Kight; Swift sublle Post, carrier of grisly Care; Eater of youth , false slave to false Delight, Base watch of woes. Sin's pack-horse, Vertue's snare; Thou nursest all, and murderest all that arc. 0! bear mo then , injurious shifting Time! Be guilty of my death , since of my crime. Why bath thy servant Opportunity Bctray'd the Hours, thou gav'st me to repose? Cancel'd my fortunes, and enchained mo To endless date of never-ending woes ? Time's olllee is to find the hate of foes ; To cat up I'.rror by Opinion bred ; Kot spend the dowry of a lawful bed. * Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, quot;Thus far the miles are measur'd from thy friend The beast that hears me, tired with my woe. |
68
|
PloJs dully on , to liear that weight in me , As ifhy some instinct the wretch did know His rider lov'd nut speed, being made from thee: The hloody spur cannot provoke him on That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, AVhich heavily he answers with a groan , More sharp to me than spurring to his side ; For that same groan doth put this in my mind , My grief lies onward , and my joy behind. CXXIII. No! Time thou shall not boast that 1 do change: Thy pyramids built up with newer might |
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange ; They arc but dressings of a former sight. Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire What thou dost foist upon us that is old , And rather make lliom horn to our desire, 'I ban think that we before have heard them told. Thy registers and thee I bulb defy, i\ot wondering at the present nor the past; Fur thy records and what we see doth lie. Made more or less by thy continual haste: This I do vow, and this shall ever be , 1 will be true, despite thy scythe and thee. |
|
Crabbed age and youth , Cannot live together; Youth is full of pleasancc, Age is full of care: Youth like summer morn , Age like winter weather ; Youth like summer brave. Age like winter hare. Youth is full of sport. Age's breath is short, |
Youth is nimble , age is lame ; Youth is hot and bold, Age is weak and cold ; Youth is wild, and age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee; Youth , I do adore thee; 0, my love, my love is young: Age , 1 do defy thee; O sweet shepherd , hie thee, For methinks thou stay'st loo long. |
|
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good , A shining gloss, that fadeth suddenly ■, A flower that dies , when first it 'gins to bud ; A brittle glass, that's broken presently : A doubtful good , a gloss , a glass, a flower , Lost, faded , broken , dead within an hour. |
And as good lost are scld or never found , As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh , As flowers dead , lie wither'd on the ground , As broken glass no cement can redress , So beauty blemish'd once , for over's lost , In spite of physic, painting , pain , and lost. |
A friend in need is a friend in deed.
|
As it fell upon a day. In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade AVhich a grove of myr tles made , Beasts did leap, and birds did sing , Trees did grow , and plants did spring : Every thing did banish moan. Save the nightingale alone: She, poor bird , as all forlorn , Lean'd her breasl up-till a thorn, And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it wa« gr at pitty: |
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry. Tern, Tcru, by and by: That to hear her so complain , Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs, so lively shown, Made mo think upon my own. Ah ! (thought I) thou tnourn'sl in vain; None lake pity on thy pain : Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee ; Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee , King Pandion , he is dead ; All thy friends are lapp'd in lead ; |
69
|
All thy fellow liirds do sini;, Careless of lliy sorrowin;;. Even so, pooi- bird, like thee, None alive will pity me. Whilst as fiekle forinnesmil'd, Thou and I were both bejjnil'd. Every one that flatters thee , Is no friefid in misery. Words are easy like the wind ; Faithful friends are hard to find. Every man will he thy friend. Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend : Hut if store of crowns be scant, No man will supply thy want. If that one he prodigal, Bountiful they w ill him call; And with such like flattcrin/;. |
quot;Pity hut he were a kin|[.quot; 11 he he addict to vice, Quickly him they will entice ; If to women ho he bent, They have him at commandment; I!ul if fortune oncc do frown ; Then farewell his great renown : They that fawn'd on him before , Use his company no more. lie that is thy friend indeed, He w ill help tine in thy need ; If thou sorrow, he will weep; II thou wake, he cannot sleep: Thus of every grief in heart He with thee doth hear the part. These are certain signs to know Faithful friend from fluttering foe. |
|
*0 father, what a hell of witeberaft lies In the smal 1 orb of one particular tear ? But with the inundation of the eyes What rocky heart to water will not wear? What breast so cold that is not warmed here ? O daft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath , Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath ! For lol his passion , but an art of craft, Even there resolv'd my reason into tears ; There my white stole of chastity 1 daft, Shook oft'my sober guards, and civil fears , Appear to him , as he to me appears , All melting; though our drops this diflcrencc bore , His poison'd me, and mine did him restore. In him a plenitude of subtle matter. Applied to caulels, all strange forms receives, Of burning blushes, or of weeping water. Or swooning paleness; and be takes and leaves , In either's aptness as it best deceives, To hi ush at speeches rank, to weep at woes, Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shews. |
That not a heart which in bis level came. Could 'scape the hail ol his all-hurting aim , Shewing fair Nature is both kind and tame ; And veil'il in them, did win whom he would maim : Against the thing he sought, he would exclaim ; When he most burnt in heart-wish'd luxury, He preaeb'd pure maid, and prais'd cold chastity. Thus merely with the garment of a Grace The naked and concealed fiend he covcr'd , That th' unexperiene'd gave the tempter place, Which like a cheruhim above them bover'd ; Who, voting and simple, would not he so lover'd Ab me! I fell ; and yet do question make What i .should do again for such a sake. Oh! that infected moisture of bis eye! Ob ! that false fire which in his cheek so glow'd , Ob ! that fore'd I bunder from bilt; heart did fly! Ob ! that sad breath bis spuntiy lungs beslow'd ! Oh ! all l/iut borrowed motion, seeming ow'd! Would yet again betray the fore-hetray'd , And new pervert a reconciled maid. |
Deze dichter werd geboren in 1570 cn overleed in 1026: hij studeerde in tie regtspjelecrdlieid, man/ onderscheidde zich gedurende zijn studiejaren meer door bekwaamheden dan door een regelmatig leven. Ui) was eenmaal spreker in het iersche huis der gemeenten, bekleedde aanzienlijke staatsbetrekkingen in Ierland en werd in 1007 tot ridder geslagen. Zijn werken werden eerst in 1702 onder een verzameling van klassieke dichters opgenomen. Hij vestigde zijn roem als dichter door het wijsgeerig dichtstuk Nosce Teipsum, This oracle expounded in two elegies: of human knowledge: of the soul and the immortality thereof. Ook heeft men van hem Orchestra , or a poem of dancing , in a dialogue between Penelope and One of her Wooers (1590); Hymns of Astrea, in Acrostic verse cn eenige kleine gedichten, welke zich allen door levendigheid en naauwkeurigen stijl onderscheiden. Zijn naamgediehten rangschikt men onder die van dc bcsle dichters. Nosce Teipsum (Ken n zeiven) verscheen het eerst in 15(J(J.
70
Of tlic soul of man • and the fmniortality thereof
Wit , Reason, Understanding, Opinion, Judgment, Wisdom.
|
'Die Wit, the pnpil of the Soul's clear eye, And in man's world the only shining star, Looks in the mirror of the fantasy. Where all the gath'rings of the senses are. From thence this pow'r the shapes of things abstracts, And them within her passive parts receives, Which are enlight'ned hy that part which acts; And so the iorms ol single things perceives. But after, hy discoursing to and fro, Anticipating, and comparing tilings, Shedolh all universal natures know. And all effects into their causes hring. When she rales things, and moves from ground to (ground, The name of lieason she obtains hy this: |
Cut when hy Reason she the truth hath found , And standeth fix'd , she Understanding is. When her assent she lightly doth incline To cither part, she his opinion's light: But when she doth by principles define A certain truth , she hath true Judgment's sight. And as from senses Reason's work doth spring, So many Reasons Understanding gain ; And many Understandings knowledge hring; And hy much knowledge, Wisdom wcobtain. So, many stairs we must ascend upright, Kre we attain to Wisdom's high degree: Sodoth thisearth eclipse our Reason's light, W Inch else (in instants) would like angels see. |
|
Earth now is green , and heaven is blue, I, ively spring which makes all new, lolly spring doth enter; s weel young sun-beams so subdue Angry, aged winter. u lasts are mild , and seas are calm , Every meadow flows with balm , I he earth wears all her riches ; Ev'ry night from ev'n to morn, Love's chorister amid the thorn I s now so sweet a singer, s o sweet, as for her song I scorn A polio's voice and finger. u ut nightingale, sitb you delight £ ver to watch the starry night, Tell all the stars of heaven , |
n armonious birds sing snch a psalm , a s ear and heart bewitches. n cserve (sweet spring) this nymph of ours, E ternal garlands of thy flow'rs , c reen garlands never wasting; in her shall last our stale's fair spring, Now and for ever flourishing, a s long as beav'n is lasting. neaven never bad a star so bright , a s now to earth is given. n oyal Astrea makes our day Eternal with her beams, nor may G ross darkness overcome her ; I now perceive why some do write , No country hath so short a night, a s England hath in summer. |
Deken van St. Paul, werd reeds in 1584 nnnr de universiteit te Oxford gezonden, van waar hij zich drie jaren later naar Trinity College, te Cambridge, begaf. Na den dood van zijn vader legde hij zich op de godgeleerdheid toe en gin^ van de roomsch katholijke tot de protcstantsche Kerk over. Door z\jn verschillende betrekkingen was hij in de gelegenheid Spanje, Italic, Trankrijk en Duitschland te bezoeken, in welke lauden hij, door den omgang met de geleerdste mannen van zijn tijd, veel kennis opdeed. In zijn jeugd wijdde hij zich aan het liefdedicht, doch op rijperen leeftijd werd hij een zeer ernstig en godvruchtig dichter. Hij werd geboren in ] 573 en overleed in 1G31. Men heeft van hem Songs and Sonnets; Epithalamions, or Marriage songs; Funeral and other Elegies; Satires; Epistles and Divine Poems. Men wil dat hy reeds voor het einde der zestiende eeuw
71
iliclitte , doch zijn lettervruchten wcnlcn eerst iu het Inntst vnn Je regering van Jacobus I uitgegeven. In proza heeft hij nngelateu een folio-deel met leerredenen j ïhe Pseudo-Martyr, een verhandeling tegen de roomscbe kerk ; Hiathanatos , een werk ter bestrijding van het algemeen denkbeeld van de noodzakelijke zonde van den zelfmoord. In al die werken is zeer veel goeds en de schrijver spreidt daarin groote geleerdheid ten loon. Zij verseheneu het eerst gezamerilijk in 1719.
|
AViiot if lliis present were the world's last ni{;lit ? Mark in my liart, O.Soul! where thou dost dwell, The picture of Christ crucify'd , and tell Whether his countenance can lliee aflright; Tears in his eyes quench the ania/ln;^ lijjht; lilood iills his frowns, w hich from his piere'd head fell. And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell |
Which pray'd forgiveness for his foes' fierce spite ? Ko , no; hut as in my idolatry 1 said to all my profane mistresses, Beauty of pity, foulness only is A sign of rigour, so I say to thee: To wicked spirits are hoi rid shapes assign'd , This beauteous form assumes a piteous mind. |
|
Vengeance will sit above our faults; hut llll She there do sit Wesee her not nor them. Thus hliml, yet still We lead her way; and thus whilst we do ill We suiler it. Unhappy he whom youth makes not heware Of doing ill: Knough we labour under age and care : In number th' errors of the last place arc The greatest still. |
Yet we, that, should the ill we now begin As soon repent, (Strange lb in];!) perceive not; our faults are not seen, ISut past us ; neither felt, but only in The punishment. lint we know ourselves least; mere outward shews Our minds so store , That our souls, no more than our eyes, disclose lint form and colour ; only he who knows Himself knows more. |
|
1. *IInw over Sion's daughter hath God bung His wrath's thick cloud! and from heaven bath flung To earth the beauty' of Israel, and hath Forgot his footstool in the day of wrath! 2. The Lord unsparingly hath swallowed All Jacob's dwellings, and demolished To ground the strength of.luda, and profan'd The princes of the kingdom and the land. In beat of wrath the horn of Israel he llalb clean cut olF; and, left the enemy Be hinder'd, bis right hand he doth retire, But is t'wards Jacob all devouring fire. |
4. Like to an enemy he bent bis bow, His right band was in posture of a foe; To kill what Sion'sdaughter did desire, '(«ainst whom bis wrath he poured forth like fire. 5. For like an enemy Jehovah is , Devouring Israel and bis palaces; Destroying holds, giving additions To Juda's daughters lamentations. G. Like to a garden hedge he bath cast down The place where was his congregation , And Sion's feasts and Sabbaths are forgot; Her king, her priest, his wrath regarded not.* |
Eerst bisschop van Exeter, en daarna van Norwich, werd in 1574 tc Bristow Park, in Leicestershire, geboren, en overleed op tweeentachtipjarigen leeftijd , ten gevolge van behoeftige omstandigheden. Hij verwierf den bijnaam van den engelschen Seneca. Hij opende zijn loopbaan als schrijver door de uitgave der drie eerste boeken van zijn Satires (1597), toen hij nog to Cambridge studeerde. Hij leverde; Virgidemiarnm; Satires, in six Books, waarvan de drie eersten verdeeld zijn in Toothless Satires, Poetical, Academical, Moral, en de drie laatsten in Biting Satires. Hehalvcn nog eeuige kleinere gedichten schreef hij in proza: Sermons; Polemical tracts; Paraphrases of Scripture; over Casuistical divinity en cenige stukken over Practical religion , waarvan de Contemplations ; Art of Divine Meditation en Enochismns — of; Treatise on the Mode of Walking with God do merkwaardigste zijn. Mij was een vrij groot hekeldichter en onderscheidt zich , zoowel in proza als poëzie , door zijn vurige godvrucht en de kracht en den dikwijls 8childerachtigen aard van zijn stijl.
72
satire vi. Yoiifliiul desire of Travel.
|
*Tlic liniin-sick youtli, thai feeds lii.-t liekled rare Willi sweet-sanc'd lies of sume false traveller, Wliicli lialli I lie Spanislt deeades read awhile, Or «het stone leasitijjs of old Mandeville; Now with discourses hreakes his midiiijiht slecpe, Of his adventures lliroii;;h the Indian deepe, Of all llieir massy heaps of {jolden mine , Or of the antique loomhes ol Palestine, Or of Damascus' majjic wall of |jlasse; Of Solomon hissweatinjj piles of hrasse, Of the hird Hue t hai hears an elephanl, Of mermaids that the southern seas dohaunt, Of headlesse men, of savajje cannihals, The fashions of their lives and governals; AV'lial monstrous cities therecreclcd he, Cayro, or the city of the Trinity ; |
Now are they dunghill cocks that have not seene The hordering Alps , or else the neighhour Rhine: And now he plies the news-full jjrasshopper , Of voyajjes and ventures lo inquire. His land mortgaged, he, sea-heal in the way. Wishes for home a thousand sighs a day : And now he deems his home-bred fare as leafe As his pandit hiske, or his harrell'd heefe. 'Mongst all these slirs of disconlenled strife, O lot me lead an academic life ; To know much , and lo think we nothing know ; Nothing to have, ycl think we have enow ; In skill lo want. and wanting seek for more ; In weale nor want, nor wish for greater store. Knvy, ye inonarchs, with your proud excesse, Al our low saile, and our high liappincsse. |
|
quot;The courteous citizen bade me to his feast, Willi hollow words, and overly request: quot;Come, will ye dine with me this holy day?quot; 1 yiiddcd , though he hoped I would sav nay: For iiad I mayden'd it. as many use; Loath for to grant, hut loalher lo refuse — quot;Alaekesir, I were loath; another day,— I sliouhl but trouble you ; — pardon me if you mayquot; No pardon should 1 need ; for, lo depart He gives me leave, and ibanks loo , in his heart. Two words for monie, Darbishirian wise, (Thai's one too manie) is a naughlic guise. Who looks for double biddings lo a feast. May dine at home for an importune guest. J went, then saw, and found the great cxpencc ; The fare and fashions of our citizens. |
Oh , Cleoparical I what wantclh there For curious cost and wondrous choice of cheere ? Heefe, that ersl Hercules held for finest fare■ Porke for the fet Boentian , or the hare l''or Martial; fish for the Venetian , Goose-liver for the likorous Itomane , Tli'Allienian's goale ; quaile, lolan's cheere ; The hen for Esculnpe, and the Parthian dcerc ; Grapes for Arcesilas , figs for Plato's nioulh , And chesnuls faire for Amarillis' loolli. Iladst thou such cheere? wert thou cverc there before? Never. — 1 thought so : nor come there no more. Come there no more; for so meantall lhatcost: Never bonce lake me for thy second host. For w hom be means lo make an oflen guest, One dish shall serve; and welcome make the rest.* |
15 E IN' J A M 1 N , O 11 B EN JOHNSON.
Volgens hot algtmecn govoelon werd deze mededinger van den groeten Shakspenre in 1574 geboren , hoewel men dit niet met zekerheid kan opgeven. In het beroep van metselaar opgeleid , vlugtte hij op zijn veertiende jaar (de gewone tijd , waarop men zich toen naar de universiteit begaf) naar Cambridge , doch moest, door behoeftige omstandigheden genoodzaakt, naar zijn vader terugkeeren. Daarop was hij achtereen metselaar (tot zijn 19de jaar), krijgsman en tooneelspeler, waarna hij zich op het schrijven van tooneelspclen toelegde. Zoo men wil , heeft hij zijn roem gedeeltelijk aan Shakspeare te danken , die na do lezing van een zijner tooneelspclen, den dichter en zijn werk, het publiek aanbeval. Hij schreef zeer veel, doch zijn pennevrnchlen kunnen niet met die van Shakspeare wedijveren , hoewel hij zich zeer verdienstelijk in't drama heeft gemaakt. Door een tweegevecht in de gevangenis geraakt, ging hij tot de roomsch katholijke kerk over, doch bekeerde zich inter. Hij overleed in 1037. Behalven zijn kleinere gedichten, waaronder zeer verdienstelijke zijn; Epigrams; The Forest, Underwoods, Consisting of divers Poems, enz., schreef hij meer dan vijftig stukken voor het tooneel, waaronder de voornaamste zijn: bet eerste stuk: Every Man in his humour (1596); de drie volgende: Volpone or the l'ox ; Epicoene or the Silent woman; the Alchemist en de Court Masques. Zijn herdersdicht, 'I he Sad Shepherd, verdient vooral vermelding, als een van zijn beste werken. Dit stnk is echter niet door hem voltooid.
73
All men are worms: but this no man. In silk | Where, afterwards, it grew a butterfly:
quot;f wasbroughttocourtfirstwraptandwhitcaamilk;! Wiiich was a caterpillar. So 'twill die.
|
BiNK feels no lameness of his knotty gout, His monies travel fur him, in and out! |
And though the soundest legs go ev'ry day , Ue toils to be at hell as soon as they. |
|
Would you believe, when you this monsieur see, That his whole body should speak French , nol he, That so much scarf of France, and hat, and feather. And shoe, and tie, and garter should come hither? And land on one, whose face durst never he Toward the sea , farther than half-way tree ? That he, untravell'd, should bo French so much, As Frenchmen in his company should seem Dutch? [ |
Or had his father, when be did him get, The French disease, with which he labours yet? Or hung some monsieur's picture on the wall, liy which his dam conceiv'd him, clothes and all? Or is it some French statue ? no:'t doth move, And sloop, and cringe. O then, it needs must prove The new French taylor's motion, monthly made, Daily to turn in Paul's, and help the trade. |
|
Good and great God ! can I not think of thee. But it must straight my melancholy be? Is it interpreted in me disease, That, laden with my sins, I seek for case ? O he thou witness, that the reins dost know , And hearts of all, if I be sad for show; And judge me after: if I dare pretend To ought but grace , or aim at other end. As thou art all, so be thou all to me. First, midst. and last, converted one and three , My faith , my hope, my love; and in his stale. My judge, my witness, and my advocate. Where have 1 been ibis while exil'd from thee ? |
And whither rapt, now thou bot stoop'st to me? Dwell, dwell here still: 0, being ev'ry where, How can I doubt to find thee ever here ? I know my state, both full of shame and scorn , Conceiv'd in sin , and unto labour horn , Standing with fear, and must with horror fall. And destin'd unto judgment after all. 1 feel my griefs loo, and there scarce is ground Upon my flesh to inflict another wound. Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath Of discontent: or that these prayers be For weariness of life, not love of thee. |
[To the Right Honourable the Lord High Treasurer of England.)
|
My Lord, Poor wretched states, prest by extremities, Are fain to seek for succours and supplies Of princes aids, or good mens charities. Disease the enemy, and his engineers, Want, with the rest of his conceal'd compeers, Have cast a trench about me, now five years ; And made those strong approaches by false brays, |
Redoubts, half-moons, born-works, and such close The muse not peeps out. one of hundred days, (ways. But lies hlock'd up, and straitned, narrow'd in , Fix'd to the bed and boards , unlike to win Health, or scarce breath, as she had never been. Unless some saving honour of the crown , Dare think it, to relieve, no less renown , A bed-rid wit, than a besieged town. |
10
74
Een van de bevalligsle schrijvers tijdens do regering van Jakob I, werd geboren in 1585 , te Hawthornden , nabij Ediraburg en overleed in 1649. Hij is de eerste Schot, die 't engelsch zuiver schreef, studeerde voornamelijk in de regten , doch oefende de regtsgelcerdheid niet uit. In Duilschland, Ifrankrijk en Italië, waar hij met de geleerdste mannen van zijn tijd kennis maakte, reisde hij gcruimen tijd, doch vertoefde meestentijds in Parijs en Komc. Hij is een zeer verdienstelijke dichter en leverde ook een goede geschiedenis vau Schotland. Zijn dichtwerken zijn verdeeld in : Poems; Madrigals and Epigrams; Epitaphs; Divine Poems.
The Flowers of ülon t or §plrl(ual Poems.
|
*Tlie grief was common , common were tlie cries , Tears , sobs, and ((roans of that afflicted train, AVhicli of God's chosen did the sum contain , And earth rebounded ■with them, piere'd were skies; All good had left the world, cach vice did reign In the most monstrous sorts liell could devise, And all degrees and each estate did stain , |
Nor further had to go whom to surprise ; The world beneath the prince of darkness lay, And in each temple had himself install'd , Was sacrific'd unto, by prayers call'd , Responses gave, which (fools) tiiey did obey ; When (pitying man) God of a virgin's womb Was born , and those false deities struck dumb.* |
|
XIV. The king gives yearly to his senate gold, Who can deny but justice then is sold ! |
XV. Here Rixus lies, a novice in the laws, W ho 'plains he came to hell without a cause. |
HYMN FOR SUNDAY.
|
O blest Creator of the ligbt, Who bringing forth the light of days With the first work of splendor bright, The world didst to beginning raise. Who morn with evening join'd in one Commandest should be call'd the day; The foul confusion now is gone, O hear us when with fears we pray; Lest that the mind with fears full fraught, Should lose best life's eternal gains, |
While it hath no immortal thought, But is inwrapt in sinful chains, O may it beat the inmost sky, And the reward of life possess; May we from hurtful actions ily , And purge away all wickedness. Dear Father, grant what we entreat, And only Son who like power hast, Together with the Paraclete, Reigning whilst times and ages last. |
Leefde van 1688 tot 1G67 ; hij studeerde to Oxford en had door zijn staatkundige en godsdienstige gevoelens , een zeer wisselvalligen levensloop. Hij schreef zoowel in proza als poëzie een aantal stukken , die beiden buitengewoon uitmunten door het zuiver engelsch, waarin ze geschreven zijn. Hij is nu en dan bij nitnemendheid bevallig. The Stedfast Shepherd, The Shepherd's Hunting (1615, volgens een ander schrijvcr in 1633), enz., rukten na verloop van meer dan een eenvv dezen verdienstelijken dichter uit de vergetelheid, waarin hij waarsehijiilijk door de nederlaag van zijn partij, was geraakt. Zijn voornaamst werk en eersteling in poëzie is; Abuses Stript and Whipt (1611 volgens een ander schrijver in 1613); voorts heeft men van hem Songs and Hymns of the Church (1624); Amygdala Britanniea; etc. in 1647 naamloos verschenen, enz. In proza The Scholar's Purgatory, enz.
71»
|
•The lime draws near, ami Imsleth on , In which strange works shall lie begun ; Ami prosecutions, whereon shall Depend much future bliss or bale. If to the left hand you decline. Assured destruction they divine ; But, if the rigbt hand course ye take , This island it will happy make. A lime draws nigh iu which you may As you shall please the chess-men play ; Remove, confine, check, leave, or take, Dispose, depose, undo, or make , Pawn, rook, knight, bishop, queen , or king , And act your wills in every thing : But, if that time let slip you shall, For yesterday in vain you call. A time draws nigh in which the sun Will give more light than he hatb done: Then also you shall see the moon Shine brighter than the sun at noon ; And many stars now seeming dull (iive shadows like the moon at full. Yet than shall some, who think they see, Wrapt in Egyptian darkness be. A lime draws nigh when with your blood You shall preserve the viper's blood, And starve your own; yet fancy than That you have played the pelican ; But when you think the frozen snakes Have changed their natures for your sakes, They, in requital, «ill contrive Your mischief who did them revive. A time will come when they that wake Shall dream ; and sleepers undertake The grand allairs: yet, few men know Which are the dreamers of these two; And fewer care by which of these They guided be , so they have ease : But an alarum shall advance Your drowsy spirits from that trance. Lord, should the sun , the clouds, he wind, The air, and seasons be To us so froward and unkind As we are false to thee; All fruits would quite away be burned , Or lie in water drowned , Or blasted be or overturned, Or chilled on the ground. But from our duty though we swerve , Thou still dost mercy show , And deign thy creatures to preserve. That men might thankful grow: Yea . though from day to day we sin , |
A time shall come ore long in which Mere beggars shall grow soonest rich ; The rich with wants be pinched more Than such as go from door to door; The honourable by the base Shall be despited to their face; The truth defamed be with lies; The fool preferred before the wise; And he that flghteth to be free , By conquering enslaved shall be.* *A time will come when see you shall Toads fly aloft and eagles crawl; Wolves walk abroad in human shapes; Men turn to asses , bogs, and apes: But, when that cursed time is come. Well's he that is both deaf and dumb ; That nothing speaketh , nothing hears. And neither hopes, desires, nor fears.* •When men shall generally confess Their folly and their wickedness ; Yet act as if there neither were Among them conscience, wit, or fear; When they shall talk as if they had Some brains , yet do as they were mad ; And nor by reason , nor by noise, By human or by heavenly voice, By being praised or reproved, Bv judgments or by mercies , moved : 'ffien look for so much sword and fire As such a temper doth require.* *Ere God his wrath on Balaam wreaks. First by bis ass to him be speaks ; Then shows him in an angel's hand A sword, his courses to withstand ; But, seeing still ho forward went. Quite through his heart a sword he sent. And God will thus, if thus they do. Still deal with kings, and subjects too ; That, w here his grase despised is grown , He by his judgments may he known. And thy displeasure gain , No sooner we to cry begin But pity we obtain. The weather now thou changed hast That put us late to fear. And when our hopes were almost past Then comfort did appear. The heaven the earth's complaints hath heard They reconciled be; And thou such weather hast prepared As we desired of thee. For which , with lifted hands and cycJ To thee we do repay |
76
|
The due and willing sacrifice Of giving tlumks to-day ; Because sucli oirerings we should not |
To render thee he slow , Nor let that mercy he forjjot Which thou art pleased to show. |
Thanksgiving for Victory. Song 88.
|
We love thee, Lord , we praise tliy name, Wlio, by thy great almighty arm , Hast llt;ept us from the spoil and shame FOf those that sought our causeless liaroi: Thou art our life, our triumph-song, The joy and comfort of our heart; To thee all praises do belong. And thou the God of Armies art. We must confess il is thy power That made us masters of the field ; Thou art our bulwark and our lower , Our rock of refuge and our shield : Thou taught'st our hands and arms to fight; With vigour thou didst gird us round ; Thou mad'st our foes to take their flight, And thou didst beat them to the ground. |
With fury came our armed foes, To blood and slaughter fiercely bent; And perils round did us inclose, liy ■whatsoever way we went. That, hadst not thou our Captain been , To lead us on, and oil again , We on the place had dead been seen , Or masked in blood and wounds had lain. This son/y we therefore sinjy lo thee, And pray that lliou for evermore Wouldlst our Protector dei^n to he, As at this time and heretofore; Thai thy continual favour shown May cause us more to thee incline, And make it through the world he known That such as are our foes arc thine. |
De beroemdste en grootste engelsche dramnsehrijver vocir Shahpenrp, werd vermoedelijk jreborfn in 1562 en overleed in '1583. Zijn levenswandel was zeer berispelijk. Hij schreef onderscheiden dramas, waaronder er zijn, die tafereelcn behelzen , welke met die van sommige vnn Shukspearo's dramas kunnen mededingen. Men vindt die vooral in zijn Edward TT. Het grootste gebrek in zijn werken is het gczwollene van zijn stijl en de opeenstapeling van misdaden , waarvan men nu en dan afkeer heeft. Zijn eerst drama , ïambur-laine the Great, werd waarschijnlijk reeds voor 1586 ten tooneele gevoerd; voorts heeft men van hem: The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doclor 1'austus; Edward the Second, zijn twee beste stukken; The Massacre of Paris; The Jew of Malta; Lust's Dominion, or the Lascivious Queen, dat echter zeer waarschijnlijk van andere tooneelschijvers is.
The Tragical history of Dr. Faiistus,
|
{How Facstüs fell to the stud)/ of magic.) *born of parents base of stock In Germany, within a town called Rhodes; At riper years to Wirtemberg lie went, Whereas his kinsmen chiefly brought him up. So much he profits in Divinity, That shortly he was graced with Doctor's name. Excelling all, and sweetly can dispute In the heavenly matters of theology: Till swoln with cunning and a self-conceit. His waxen wings did mount above his reach. And melting, heaven conspired his overthrow; For falling to a devilish exercise , And glutted now with Learning's golden gifts, He surfeits on the cursed necromancy. |
Nothing so sweet as magic is to him , Which be prefers before his chicfest bliss. (Faustus, in his study, runs through the circle of the sciences; and being satisfied with none of them, determines to addict himself to magic.) Fadstds. Settle thy studies , Fanstus , and begin To sound the depth of that thou will profess : Having commenc'd , be a Divine in show. Yet level at the end of every art, And live and die in Aristotle's works. Sweet Analytics, 't is thou hath ravish'd me. Bene disserere est finis l.ogires. Is, to dispute well, Logic's chicfest end ? Affords this art no greater miracle ? Then read no more ; thou hast attain'd that end. |
77
|
A greater subjpcl fittetli Ffiiistus' wit. Bid Economy farewell: and Galen come. Be a physical!, Fauslus, heap up quot;oh], And be elerniz'd for some wond'rous cure. Summum bonum medicina; snnitas: The end ot pliysic is our hodies' health. Why , Faust us , jiast thou not attain'd that end ? Are not thy hills hunff up as monuments, AVherehy whole cities have escap'tl the plague, And divers desperate umlailies heen cured ? Vet art thou still hut Kaustus , and a man Couldst thou make men but live eternally, Or hein;; dead raise men to life again , Then this profession were lo be esteem'd. I'hysic, farewell. AVliere is Justinian? Si una cademquc res Ici/dlnr daohus Alter rem, alter valorem rei, lt;J c. A pelly ease of paltry legacies. E.rhereditari filiuin non potest pater, nisi, fyc. Such is the suhiect of I he Institute, And universal body of the I,aw. This study fils a mercenary drudge , Who aims at nothing but eternal trash , Too servile and illiberal for me. When all is done. Divinity is best. Jerome's Bible , Faustus : view it well. Stipendium peccati mors est: ha! Stipendium, The reward of sin is death : that's hard. Si peceasse negamus. fallimur, et nulla est in nohis [vcritus. If we say that we have no sin , we deceive ourselves, (and there is no truth in us. Why then belike we must sin, and so consequently die. Aye, we must die an everlasting death. What doctrine call you Ibis gt; Che sera sera: What will be shall he. Divinity adieu. These Metaphysics of Maeicians, And necromantic hooks , are heavenly. Lines, Circles, Letters, Characters: Aye, these are those that Faustus most desires. O what a world of profit and delight, Of power, of honour, of omnipotence , Is promised to the studious arli/an ! All things that move between the quiet poles Shall be at my command. Emperors and Kings Are but obey'd in their several provinces ; But his dominion that exceeds in this. Stretehelb as far as doth the mind of man : A sound Magician is a Demigod, Here lire my brains to gain a deity.* *iIow am I glutted with conceit of this! Shall 1 make Spirits fetch me what 1 please? Resolve me of all ambiguities ? Perform what desperate enterprises I will ? I'll have them fly lo India for gold , Ransack the ocean for orient pearl. And search all corners of the new-found world For pleasant fruits and princely delicates. I'll have them read me strange philosophy ; And tell the secrets of all foreign kings: I'll have them wall all Germany with brass, |
And with swifl Rliiue circle all Wirtemherg: ' I'll have them fill the public schools with skill, Wherewilh tbe students shall be bravely clad: I'll levy soldiers w ith tbe coin they bring , And chase the Prince of Parma from our land; And reign sole king of all I he provinces; Yea , stranger engines for the hrunt of war , Than was the fiery keel al Antwerp bridge, I'll make my servile Spirits lo invent. Come, German Valdes,and Cornelius, And make me wise wilh your sage conference. Enter VaIDES and cornei.ids. Faustus. Valdes, sweet Valdes and Cornelius, Know I hat your words have won me at the last. To practise magic and concealed Arts. Philosophy is odious and obscure : Roth Law and Physic are for petty wits: 'Tis Magic, Magic, that hath ravish'd me. Then gentle friends aid me in ibis altempt: And I that have wilh subtil syllogisms Gravell'd the Pastors of the German Church , And made the flowering pride of Wirtemherg Swarm to my problems, as lb' infernal Spirits On sweet Musaeus when he came lo hell. Will he as cunning as Agrippa was, Wh(*e shadow made all Europe honour him. valdes. Fauslus, these hooks, thy wit, and our Shall make all nations canonize us. (experience, As Indian Moors obey their Spanish Lords, So shall the Spirils ofetery Element Be always serviceable lo us llirec : Like Lions shall they guard us when we please ; Like Almain Butlers w ilh their horsemen's staves , Or Lapland Giants trotting by our sides: Sometimes like Women , or unwedded Maids, Shadow ing more beauty in their airy brows Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love. Cornelius. The miracles that magic will perform. Will make thee vow lo study nothing else. He that is grounded in astrology , Euricht with tongues, well seen in minerals, Hath all the principles magic doth require. Faustus. Come, show me some demonstrations ma-That I may conjure in some bushy grove , (ü'0quot;!» And have these joys in full possession, Valdes. Then haste thee to some solitary grove, And hear wise Bacon's and Alhanus' works , The Hebrew Psalter, and New Testament; And whatsoever else is requisite We will inform ihce, ere our conference cease. (Faustus being instructed in the elements of magic by his friends Valdes nr.d Cornelius, sells his soul to the devil, lo have an Evil Spirit at his command for twenty-four years. — When the years are expired, the devils claim his soul.) faustus — the night of his death. Faustus. Say, Wagner, thou hast perused my will How dost thou like it ? AVagner. Sir, so wondrous well , As in all humble duty I do yield |
78
|
My life and hislin/f service fur your love. I'jxil. Three Scuoiars enter. KiDSTDS. Grnmercy , AVajjner. Welcome, Gentlemen. First Scuoiar. Now, worlliy Faustus, methinks your looks are changed. F'adstüs. Oli, Gentlemen. Second Scholar. What ails Fnustns ? Facsti.'s. All, my sweet cliamlier-fellow, had I lived with ihee, then had I lived still, but now must die eternally. Look, Sirs , eomcs he not ? comes he not ? First Sciioiar* Oh, my dear Faustus, what imports this fear ? Second Scholar. Is all our pleasure turned to melancholy ? Third Scholar, lie is not well with heinjjover solitary. Second Scholar, If it he so, ■we will have physicians, and Faustus shall he cured. First Scholar. 'Tis hut a surfeit, sir; fear nothing. Faustus. A surfeit of a deadly sin, that hath damn'd hoth hoijy and soul. Second Scholar. Yet, Faustus, look up to heaven , and reinenher mercy is infinite. Faustus. But Faustus' ollence can ne'er he pardoned. The serpent that tempted live may be saved, but not Faustus. O jjcntlemen, hear me with patience, and tremble not at my speeches. Though my heart pant and quiver to remember that I have been a student here these thirty years. Oh, would I had ne' er seen Wirtem-herij, never read book 1 and what wonders have 1 done, all Germany can witness, yea, all the world: for which, Faustus hath lost hoth Germany and the world; yea . heaven itself, heaven the scat of God, the throne of the blessed , the kingdom of joy , and must remain in hell for ever. Hell, Oh hell, lor ever. Sweet friends , what shall become of Faustus being in hell for ever ? Second Scholar. Vet, Faustus, call on God. Faustus. Oh God, whom Faustus hath abjured ? Or. God, whom Faustus hath blasphemed? Oh, my God , I would weep, hut devil draws in my tears. Gush forth blood instead of tears, yea, life andsoul. Oh , he stays my tongue: I would lift up my hands, hut see , they hold'em , they hold'cm ! Scholars. Who, Faustus? Faustds. Why, Lucifer and Jlepbostophilis. Oh, gentlemen , I gave them my soul for cunning. Scholars. Oh, God forbid. Faustus. God forbid it indeed, but Faustus bath done it: for the vain pleasure of four-and-twenty years hath Faustus lost eternal joy and felicity. I writ them a bill with mine own blood ; the date is expired: this is the time, and he will fetch me. First Scholar. Why did not Faustus tell us of this before, that divines might have prayed for thee? Faustus. Oft have I thought to have done so ; but the devil threatened to tear me in pieces if 1 named God; to fetch me body and soul if 1 once gave ear to divinity, and now it is too late. Gentlemen, away, lest you perish with me. Sec. Schol. Oh , what may we do to save Faustus? FAUSTUs.Talk not of mc,but save yourselves and depart. |
Third Scholar. God will strengthen me, I will stav with Faustus. First Scholar. Tempt not God , sweet friend, but let us into the next room and pray for him. Faustus. Ay, pray for me, pray for me ; and what, noise soever you bear, come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me. Second Scholar. Pray thou, and wc will pray, that God may have mercy upon thee. Faustus. Gentlemen , farewell; if I live till morning, I'll visit you ; ifuot, Faustus is gone to hell. Scholars. Faustus, farewell. Faustus alone. — The elock strikes eleven. Faustus. Ob, Faustus, Now hast thou hut one bare hour to live, And then thou must be damn'd perpetually. Stand still you ever-moving spheres of heaven , That time may cease, and midnight never come. Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again , and make Perpetual day: or bet this hour be but A year, a month, a week, a natural day , That Faustus mav repent. and save his soul. O lente lente enrrite, hoc tis erjui. The stars move still, time runs , the clock will strike, The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd. Oh, I will leap to heaven , who pulls mc down ? Sec where Christ's blood streams in the firmament: One drop of blood will save me: Ob, my Christ, llend not my heart lor naming of my Christ. Yet will I call on hirn : O spare me, Lucifer. Where it is now ?'t is gone! And see a thrnat'ning arm , and angry brow. Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me. And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven. No ? then I will headlong run into the earth : Gape earth. Oh no , it will not harbour me. You stars that reign'd at my nativity, Whose influence have allotted death and bell, Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud ; That when you vomit forth into the air. My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths, But let my soul mount, and ascend to heaven. The wutch strikes. Oh, half the hour is past:'t will all he past anon. Ob, if my soul must suffer for my sin , Impose some end to my incessant pain. Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, A hundred thousand , and at the last be saved : No end is limited to damned souls. Why wert thou nut a creature wanting soul ? Or why is this immortal that thou bast ? Oh, Pythagoras, Metempsycosis, were that true. This soul should IIy from me, and 1 be chang'd Into some brutish beast. All beasts are happy , fur when they die, Their suuls are soon dissolv'd in elements : liut mine must live still to bo plagued in bell. Curst be the parents that engender'd me : No Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer, That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven. |
|
The clock strikes twelve. It strikes, it strikes ; now , body , turn to air, Or Lucifer will liear thee quick to hell. Oil soul, be tbaiijj'd into small water drops, And fall into the Occan : ne'er be found. Thunder and enter the Devils. Oh mercy iieaven, look not so fierce on me. Adders and serpents, let mc breathe a while: Ufjly hell gape not; come not. Lucifer • I'll burn my books; Oli, Mepbostophilis! * Enter Scholars. First Scholar. Come gentlemen, let us go visit For such a dreadful night was never seen (Faustus, Since first the world's Creation did begin; Since fearful shrieks and cries were never heard. Pray heaven the Doctor have escaped the danger. Second Scholar. O help us heavens! see here are Faus-All torn asunder by the hand of death. (tus' lirnhs Third Scholad. The devil whom Faustus serv'd bath (torn him thus: |
For 'twixt the hours of twelve and one, methought 1 heard him shriek and call aloud for help; At which same time the house seem'd all on fire With dreadful horror of these damned fiends. Secoku Scholar. Well, gentlemen, though Faustus' (end be such As every Christian heart laments to think on ; Yet, for he was a scholar oncc admired For wondrous knowledge in our German schools, Wc 'II give his mangled limbs due burial: And all the scholars, cloth'd in mourning black, 'Shall wait upon his heavy funeral. Chords. Cut is the branch that might have grown j And burned is Apollo's laurel hough (full straight. That sometime grew within that leartied man : {Faustus is gone ! Itegard his hellish lall. Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise Only to wonder at unlawful things; j Whoso deepness doth entice such forward w its To practise more than heavenly power permits.* |
(Zie bladz 65).
quot;In a single drama nre here exhibited prinee», courtiers and sailors all speaking in their real cliaraeters.quot; — Jounson,
Act V.
|
Enter PnosrEno in his magick robes; and Ariel. Pros. Now does my project gather to a bead : My charms craok not; my spirits obey ; and lime Goes upright with his curriaye. How's the day ? Ari. On the sixth hour ; at which time, my lord , You said our work should cease. Pros. I did say so. When first 1 rais'd the tempest. Say , my spirit. How fares the king and his ? Ari. Confin'd together In the same fashion as you gave in charge; Just as you left them , Sir ; all prisoners In the lime-grove which weather-fends your cell; They cannot budge , till your release.. The king His brother , and yours, abide all three distracted ; And the remainder mourning over them , Brim-full ofsorroiv and dismay ; but chiefly Him you terrn'd , sir , the good old lord, Gomalo ; His tears run down his beard , like winter's drops From eaves of reeds: your charm so strongly works That if you now beheld them , your affections (them. Would become tender Pros. Dost thou think so, spirit ? Ari. Mine would, sir, were I a human. Pros. And mine shall. Hast thou , which art but air, a touch, a feeling Of their afflictions ? and shall not myself, |
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply, Passion as they , he kindlier inov'd than thou art ? Though with their high wrongs lam struck to the quick, Yet, with my nobler reason 'gainst my fury Do I take part: the rarer action is In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent, The sole drift of my purpose doth extend Not a frown further: Go, release them Ariel ; My charms I'll break , their senses I'll restore, And they shall be themselves. Ari. I'll fetch them , sir. Exit, pros. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and And ye . thaton the sands with printless foot (groves; Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do (ly him , When be comes back ; you domy-puppets, that By moon-shine do tiie green-sour ringlets make, Wh ere of the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime Is to make midnigbt-mushroonis ; that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew ; by whose aid (tVeak masters though ye be), I have be-dimm'd The noon-tide sun , call'd forth the mutinous winds, And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire , and rifted Jove's stout oak With his own bolt: the strong-bas'd promontory Have I made shake ; and by the spurs pluck'd up |
80
|
The pine and ccdar; graves, at my coenmiiml, Have waked their sleepers; oped , and let them forth By my so potent art: But this roujjh magiok I here abjure: and when 1 huve requir'd Some heavenly musick (which even now 1 do) To work my end upon their senses, that This airy charm is for , I'll break my stall', Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my hoolc. (Solemn musick.) Re-enter Kw\ti ■. etc. A solemn air, and the best comforter To an unsettled fancy , cure thy brains Now useless, boil'd w ithin thy skull I There stand, For you are spell-sloppM.-- Huly Gomalo, honourable man, Mine eyes, even sociable to the shew of thine, Va\\fellowty drops. — The charm dissolves apace ; And as the morning steals upon the night. Melting the darkness, so their rising senses liegin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle Their clearer reason. — 0 my good (ionzalo, My true preserver, and a loyal sir To him thou follow'jt; 1 will pay thy graces Home, both in word and deed. — Most cruelly Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter: Thy brother was a furtherer in the act; — Tliou'rt pinch'dfor't now, Sebastian.—Flesh and blood, You brother mine, that entertain'd ambition , |
Kxpell'd remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian , (Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong,) Would here have kill'd your king; I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art! — Their understanding Begins to swell ; and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shores , That now lie foul and muddy. Not one of them , That yet looks on me , or would know me: Ariel, Fetch me the bat and repier in my cell; Exit ARIEL. 1 will dis-case me, and myself present, As 1 was sometime Milan: — quickly, spirit; Thou shalt ere long he free. am el re-enters, singing, and helps to attire Phospeho. Aki. IF here the bee tucks, there suck I; In a cowslip's bell I lie : There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat'sback I do fly After summer merrily, Merrily, merrily, shall I live now. Under the blossom that hangs on the hough. Pros. Why, that's my dainty Ariel: I shall miss thee; But yet thou shalt have freedom : so, so, so. — To the king's ship, invisible as thou art: There shalt thou find the mariners asleep Under the hatches; the master and the boatswain , Being awake, enforce them to this place; And presently 1 pr'y thee. ARI. ƒ drink the air before me, and return Or e'er your pulse twice beat.* [Exit AniEl.) |
quot;It is observable (I know not for whnt cause) that the style of this comedy is less figurative, and more natural and unaffected, than the greater part of this author's, though supposed to be one of the first ho wrote. quot; — Pope.
|
julia. But say, Lucctta, now we arc alone, Would'st thou then counsel me to fall in love ? Lucetta. Ay, madam; so you stumble not unhecd-Julia. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen, (fully. That every day w ith parlc encounter me, In thy opinion, which is worthiest lo\e? Ldcetta, Please you , repeat their names I'll shew According to my shallow simple skill, (my mind. Julia. What tbink'st tliouofthe fair sir Eglamour? I.ucet. As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine; But were 1 you, he never should be mine. Julia. What tbink'st thou of the rich Mercatio ? Lucetia. Well of his wealth ; but of himself, so, so. Julia. What tbink'st thou of the gentle Proteus ? |
Lucetta. Lord I lord I to see what folly reigns in us.' Julia.How nowlwhat means this passion at hisname? Lucetta. Pardon, dear madam; 't is a passing shame. That I, unworthy body as I am , Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen. Julia. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest ? Lucetta. Then thus,--of many good I think Julia. Your reason? (him best. Lucetta. 1 have no other but a woman's reason; I think him so, because I think him so. Jul. And would'st thou have me cast myloveon him -' Lucetta. Ay, if you thought your love not cast away. Julia. Why, he of all the rest hath never mov'd me. lucetta. Yet he of all the rest, I think,best lovesye. Julia. His little speaking shews his love but small. Lucetta. Fire that is closest kept,burns most of all. |
81
|
Jdlia. Thy do nol love, that ilo not show their love. i.ucetta. o. llicy love least, lliat let men know llieir •Idiia. I would 1 knew Ms mind. (love Lucetia. Peruse this pajior, tnadum. Julia. To Julia — say. from whom ? Ldceiia. That the rollen Is will shew. Julia, Say, say ; who (;ave it thee ? Loceita. Sir Valentine's page; and sent, I ihink, (from Proteus; lie would have {[iven it you, hut I, heiriff in the way. Did in your name rccive it: pardon iho fault, I pray. Julia. Now, hy my tnodosly, a goodly hrohcr! Dare you to presume to harhour wanton lines ? To hisper and eonspire ajrainst my yuulh ? Now, trust me, 'tis an office of ;;reat worth, And you an officer fit for the place. There, take the paper, see it lie return'd ; Or else return no more into my sight. Lucet. To plead for love deserves more fee than liate. Julia. Will you he gone? Lucetta. That you may ruminate. [Exit. Julia. And yet 1 would, I had o'erlook'd the letter. It were a shame to call her hack again , And pray her to a fault for which 1 chid her. What fool is she, that knows 1 am a maid . And would not force the letter to my view ? Since maids, in modesty, say tio, to I hat Which they Mould have (he proiT'erer construe. Ay. Fie, lie! how wayward is this foolish love, That, like a tcsly hahe, will scratch the nurse, And presently, all liumliled, kiss the rod ! How clmrh'shly I chid Lneetla hence, When willingly I would have had her here! How angerly 1 taught my hrow to frown, When inward joy enfore'd my heart to smile! My penance is to call Lucetta hack. And ask remission for my folly past: — What ho ! Lucetia ! lie-enter L'jcetta. Lucetia. What would your ladyship ? Julia. Is it near dinner time ? Lucetta. I would it were; That you might killyour stomach on your meal, And not upon your maid. Julia. What is't you look up So gingerly ? Lucetta. Nothing. Julia. Why didst thou stoop then ? Lucetta, To take a paper up that 1 let fall. Julia. And is that paper nothing? Lucetta. Nothing concerning me? Julia. Then lot. it lie for those thai it concerns. I.uciiTTA. Madam, it w ill not lie w here it concerns, Unless it have a false interpreter. Julia. Some love of yours hath writ I o you in rhyme. Lucetta. I hat I might sing it, madam , to a tune : Give me a note : your ladyship can set. Julia. As little hy such toys as may be possible ; l$est sing it to the t une of L i g h I o' I o ve. Lucetta. It is too heavy for so light a tunc. Julia. Heavy ? belike, it hath some burden then. |
Lucetta. Ay; and melodious were it, would you ♦ Julia. And why not you ? (sing it. Lucetta. 1 cannot reach so high. Julia. Let's see your song; — How now, minion? Lucetta. Keep tune there still, so you will sinquot; And yet, rnethinks, I do not like this tune, (it out: Julia. You dot not? Lucetta. Ao, madam ; it is too sharp. Julia. You , minion , are too saucy. Lucetta. Nay, now you are too flat. And mar the concord with too harsh a descant ; 1 here wanteth but a mean to till your song. Julia, ihe mean isdrown'd w ith your unruly base. Lucetta. Indeed , [ bid the base lor Proteus, Julia, Jhis haldde shall not henceforth trouble me. Here is a coil with protestation!— [Tears the letter. Go , get you gone ; and let the papers lie: You would he fingering them , to anquot;er me. Lucetta. She makes it strange; but she would be (hestpleas'd To he so anger'd with another letler. [Exit. Julia. Nay, would I were so anger'd with the same! 0 hateful hands, to tear such loving words! Injurious wasps! to feed on such sweet honey. Ami kill ihe bees, that yield it, with your stings! I'll kiss each several paper for amends. And here is writ — ki nd J u 1 i a; •— unkind Julia! As in revenge of thy ingratitudo, 1 throw thy name against the bruising stones , Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. Look, here is writ—1 o v c-w o u n d ed P r o t e u s:— Poor wounded name! tnv bosom , as a bed , Shall lodge thee, I ill thy wound he throughly heal'd; And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss. ISut twice, or thrice, was Protens w ritten down : I!e calm , good wind , blow not a word away, Till I have found each letter in the letler, I'.xcept mine own name; that some whirlwind bear I nto a ragged , fearful, hanging rock , And throw it thence into the raging sea ! I.o! here in one line is his name twice writ, — Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus, To the sweet J ul ia; that I'll tear away; And yet I will not, sith so prettily lie couples it to his complaining names; 1 bus will 1 fold them one upon another ; Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will, lie-enter Lucetta, Lucetta, Madam , dinner's ready, and your father (stavs, Julia. Well. let us go. Lucetta. What, shall these papers lie like telltales here ? Julia. If you respect them , best to take lliem up. Lucetta. i\ay, I was taken up for laying them down: ^ el here t hey shall not lie, jor cutehiny cold. Julia. I sec, you have a jno/i/AV hij'h*/to them. Luc. Ay, madam , you may say w hat sightsyou see; I see things too , although you judge I wink. Julia. Come, come, will't please you go? [Exeunt, |
11
82
quot;This comedy is remarkable for the variety and numbers of the personages, who exhibit more characters appropriated and discriminated , than perhaps can be found in auy other play.quot;— JqunsoiS.
Enter Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page.
Mrs. Ford. What, John ! what, Robert!
Mrs. Page. Quickly, quickly: Is the buck basket —
Mrs. Ford. 1 warrant: — what, Robin, I Say.
Enter Servants with a Basket.
Mrs. Page. Come, come, come.
Mrs. Ford. Here, set it (lown.
Mrs. Page. Give your men the charge; we must he brief.
Mrs. Ford. Marry, as I told you before, Jolin and Robert, he ready here hard by in the brewhouse; and when 1 suddenly call you, come forth, and (without any pause, or staggering.) take this basket on your shoulders: that done , trudge with it in all haste, and carry it among the ivhitsters in Datchet mead, and there empty it in the muddy ditch, close hy the Thames side.
Mrs. Page. You will doit?
Mrs. Ford. I have told them over and over; they lack no direction: Re gone, and come when you are called.* {Exeunt Servants )
Enter Faistait.
*Fai.staff. Havel caught thee, my heavenly jewel? Why, now let me die , for I have lived long enough ; this is the period of my ambition; 0, this blessed hour!
Mrs. Ford. 0 sweet sir John !
Falstaff. Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate, mistress Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish; 1 would thy husband were dead ; I'll speak it before the best lord , I would make thee my lady.
Mrs. Ford. I your lady, sir John ! alas, I should he a pitiful lady.
Falstaff. Let the court of France show me such another ; I see bow thine eye would emulate the diamond : Thou hast the right arched bent of the brow that becomes ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire vf Venetian admittance,
Mrs. Ford. A plain kerchief, sir John : my brows bccome nothing else; nor that well neither.
Falstaff. Thou art a traitor to say so: thou would'st make an absolute courtier; and the firm fixture of thy foot would give an excellent motion to thy gait, in a semicircled farthingale. I see what thou wert, if fortune thy foe were not; nature is thy friend; Come, thou canst not hide it.
Mrs. Ford. Relieve me, there's no such thing in mc.
Filstaff. What made me love thee? let that per
suade thee, there's something extraordinary in thee. Come, I cannot cog, and say, thou art this and that, like a many of these lisping haw-thorn buds, that come like women in men's apparel I, and smell like Buckler's-hnnj in simple time; 1 cannot: but 1 love thee , none but thee; and thou deservesl it.
Mrs. Ford. Do not betray me, sir; I fear you love mistress Page.
Falstaff. Thou mighl'st as well say, I love to walk by the Counter-gate; which is as hateful to me as the reek of a lime-kiln.
Mrs. Ford. Well, heaven knows, how 1 love you; and you shall one day find it.
Falstaff. Keep in that mind ; I'll deserve it.
Mrs. Ford. Kay, I must tell you, so you do ; or else 1 could not he in that mind.
Robin [Within.'] Mistress Ford, mistress Ford! here's mistress Page at the door , sweating, and blowing, and looking wildly, and would needs speak with you presently.
Falstaff. She shall not sec me; I will ensconce mc behind the arras.
Mrs. Ford. Pray you, do so: she's a very tattling woman. — (Falstaff hides himself.)
Enter Mrs. Page and Horin.
What's the matter? how now ?
Mrs. Page. 0, mistress Ford, what have you done? You're shamed , you are overthrown , you are undone for ever.
Mrs. Ford. What's the matter, good mistress Page?
Mrs. Page. O well-a-day, mistress Ford! having an honest man to your husband; to give him such cause of suspicion!
Mrs. Ford. What cause of suspicion ?
Mrs. Page. What cause of suspicion I — Out upon you ! how am 1 mistook in you!
Mrs. Ford. Why. alas! What's the matter?
Mrs. Page. Your husband's coming hither, woman, w ith all the olTicers in Windsor, to search for a gentleman, that, he says, is here now in the bouse, by your consent, to take an ill adventage of his absence: you arc undone.
Mrs. Ford. Speak louder. — [Aside] — ' Tis not so, I hope.
Mrs. Page. Pray heaven it be not so, that you have such a man here; but't is most certain your husband's coming with half Windsor at his heels, to search for
83
such a one. I come before to tell yon: If you know yourself clear, wljy I am glad of it: but if you have a friend liere, convey, convey him out. He not amazed : call all your senses lo you; defend your reputation, or bid farewell to your jjood life for over.
Mrs. Ford. What shall I do? —There is a jjentle-man, my dear friend; and 1 fear not mine own shame so much as his peril: I bad rather than a thousand pound, he were out of the bouse.
Mrs. I'iGE. For shame, never stand you had rather , and you had rather; your husband's here at hand, bethink you of some conveyance; in the bouse you cannot hide him. — 0, how have you deceived me!—Look, here is a basket: if he be of any reasonable stature, lie may creep in here; and throw foul linen upon him, as if it were goinjj to bucking;: Or, it isluhitiny-time, send him by your two men to Datchet mead.
Mi s.Fobd. lie's loo big to go in there: What shall 1 do?
Re-enter Falstaff.
Faisiaff. Let me see't, let me see't! 0 let me see't!
I'll in, I'll in: follow your friend's counsel; I'll inn. *
[Hegoes into the basket they cover him with foul linen.)
Mrs. Page, Help to cover your master, boy: Call your men, mistress Ford: — Vou dissembling knight!
Mrs. Ford. What John, Robert, John! [Exit IIouin. lie-enter Servants.] Go take up these clothes hero, quickly; where's the eowl-staj] 1 look, how you druin-hle; carry them to the laundress in Datchet mead ; quickly, come, *
[Exeunt Seuvants xvith the Basket.)
* Mrs. Ford. lam half afraid be will have need of washing; so throwing him into the water will do him a benefit.
Mrs. Page. Hang bim, disbonest rascal! I would all of the same strain were in the same distress.
Mrs. Ford. I think, my busband hath some special suspicion ol FalstalPs being bere ; for I never saw binx so gross in hisjealousy till now.
Mrs. Pace. I will lay a plot to try that: And we will yet have more tricks with Falstaft': his dissolute disease will scarce obey this medicine.*
Scene V.
A Room in the Garter Inn.
Enter Faistaff and Kardolpd
Falstaff. ISardolph, I say, —
liARDOiru. Here, sir.
Falstaff. Go fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast ia 't. [Exit. Hard.] Havel lived to be carried in a basket like a barrow of butcher's oll'al; and to be thrown inlo the Thames? Well, if 1 be served such another trick, I'll have my brains ta'en out, and butler'd, and give them to a dog for a new-years's gift. The rogues slighted me into the river with as litlle remorse as they would have drowned a bitch's blind puppies, fifteen i'thelitter;and you may know by my size, that I have a kin 1 ol alacrity in sinking; if the bottom were as deep as hell, I should down. I bad been drowned, but that the shore was shelvyand shallow; a death that I abhor; for the water swells a man ; and what a thing should I have been, when 1 bad been swelled! 1 should have been a mountain of mummy, *
|
* MaiVoiio. By my life, this is my lady's hand: these be her very C's, her U's, nndherT's; and tl.us makes she her great P's. It is, in contempt of question , her hand. Sir Andrew Ague-chlek. Her C's, her U's, her T's: why that? MalvOUO. ( Reads lo the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes: her very phrases! — l!v your leave, wax. — Soft! and the impressure her Lucreee, with which she uses to seal : 't is my lady : To whom should this he ? F'arian. This wins bim , liver and all. Maivoho. {Reads Jove knows, I love: But who ? Lips do not move. No man must know. |
quot;This play is in the graver part elegant and ensy , and in some of the lighter scones exqaisately humorous.quot; — Johnson. iVo man must know. — What follows ? the numbers altered ! — iVo man must know: If this should be (bee , Malvolio? Sir Tony IIelcu. Marry, bang thee, brock! MaivOIIO. I may command, where I adore: But silent, like a Lucrece knife, fVith bloodless stroke my heart doth M , O, V, I, dath sway my life, [yore; Fabian. A fustian riddle! Sir ToRV IIei.cu. Excellent wench , say I. Malvolio. M , 0, A , J , doth sway my life. — Nay, but first, let me see, — let me see, — let me see. Fabian. What a dish of poison has she dressed him ! Sir Tory liELcn. And w ith what wing the stannyel checks at it ! Malvolio. I may command where I adore. Why , |
84
|
she may commanrl mo, I serve her, she is my latly. Why, this is evident to any yornm^ capacity. There is no obstruelion in this; — And the end , —What should that alpliahetieal position portend? If I cunid make that reseinhle soinelitinjr in me,— Softly! — M , O, A , 1, Sir Toby Hei.cii. O, ay! make up that: — he is now at a cold scent. Fabian. Sowlcr will cry upon't, for all this, though it be as rank as a fox. maivolio. m, — Mnlvolio; — m, —why, that begins my name, Fabian. Did not I say, be would work it out ? the cur is excellent at faults. Maivolio. M, — But then there is noconsonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation: A should follow, but O does. Fabian. And O shall end, I hope. Sir Toby Beixu. Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry, Ü. lUAtvoi.iD. And then I comes behind. Fabian. Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you mijjht see more detraction at your heels, than fortunes before you. |
Maivolio. M, 0, A, I;—This simulation is notas the lliy h!and and spirit embrace them. Anil. to inure Ihiff-If to what thou art like to be, cast thij humble slough, and appear fresh. Be opposite with a Lins-iii(nt, surli/ with servants; let t/n/ tongue lung arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singular-ill/: She thus advises thee, that sii/hs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockinys; and wished to see thee ever cross gartered: I say, remember. Go to ; thou art made, ij thou rlesirest to be so ; if not, let me sec thee a steward still. t/ie fellow of servants, and not wort/n/ to touch fortune's f nyers. farewell. 'She that would alter services with thee , The fortunate unhappy. Day-light and champian discovers not more; this is open. I will he proud , I will read politic authors, I will hnflle Sir Toby, I w ill wash off jp ossacquaintance, I w ill he. point-de-rice, the very man. 1 do not now fool mvself, to let ima;;ination jade me; for every reason excites lo this, that my lady loves me. She did commend my yellow stui kinjjs of late, she did praise my lej; beinjf cross-yarterod ; and in this she manifests herself to my love, and with a kind of injunction, drives me to the.-e habits of her likinjj. I thank my stars, I am happy. I will bestrange, stout, in yellow stockings , and cross-gartered , even with the swiftness former: — and yet, to crush this a little, it would,of putting on. Jove, and rny stars he praised I — llrre bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my is yet a poslcript. J'hoii canst not. choose but know name. Soft; here follows prose. — If this fall into who [ am. If thou entertainest my love, let it appear thij hand, revolve, hi my stars I am above thee; hat in thy smiliny ; thy smiles become thee well; there-be not afraid of greatness: Some are horn yreatMore in my presence still smite, dear rny sweet, I some achieve greatness, and some have greatness pra'ythee. Jove, I thank thee.—1 will smile; I will thrust upon them. Thy fates open their hands ; letAo every thing thai thou will have me.* {Exit.) Measure lor Measure. |
quot;Of this play, the light or comic part is very natural and pleasing......quot; — Johnson.
|
A Room in the Prison. Enter I'novosi and Clown. I'ltovOST. Come hither, sirrah; Can you cut of a man's head. Clown. If the man he a bachelor, sir, I can: hul if he be a married man, he is his wife's head , and I can never cut oil'a woman's head. I'bovost. Come, sir, leave me vnur snatches , and yield me a direct ansvvi;r. To-morrow morning are lo die Claudio and Barnardine: Here is in our prison a common executioner , who in his ollice lacks a helper: if you will take it ou yon to assist him, it shall redeem you from your gyves; if not, you shall have your ful 1 lime of imprisonment, and your deliverance with an unpiticd whipping; for you have been a notorious bawd. |
Clown. Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd , time out of mind; but yet I will he content lo hea lawful hangman, I would he glad to rcceive some instruction from mv fellow partner. I'liovoST. AVhut ho, Ahhorson ! Where's Ahhorson , there? Enter ABnonsDN. AnnonsoN. Do you call, sir ? I'liovosT. Sirrah, here's a fidlow will hel|) you tomorrow in yonr execution: If you think it meet, compound with him by the year, and let him abide here with you; if not, use him for the present, and dismiss him: lie cannot plead his estiination with you ; he bath been a bawd. AbuüRsON. A bawd, sir? Fvc upon him, he will discredit our myslery. |
83
|
Provost. Go to, sir; you weigti equally;a fcallier will turn tlie scale. [Exit. Clown. Pray, sir, liy your (jood favour (for, surely, sir, rt goorl favour you liave, hut lliat you liave a lianjfing look.) do you call, sir, your occupation a mystery ? AnnonsoN. Ay, sir; a mystery. clown. Painlinff, sir, i have heard say, is a mystery; and your whores, sir, heinfl memhers of my oecupation , usinff paiutinff, do j)rovc my occupation a mystery: hut what mystery there should he in hang-ing,'11 should he haujjM, I cannot imagine. Aiiiiorson. Sir, it is a mystery. Clown. I'roof, Adhorson. Every true man's apparel fits your thief; If it he too little for your thief, your true man thinks it hijr enouifh ; if it ho loo liig for yuur thief, your thiol thinks it lil tie enough; so every true man's apparel fits your thief. lic-cntcr Provost. Provost. Are you agreed ? Clown. Sir, 1 will serve him; for I do find, your hangman is a more penitent trade than your hawd ; he doth oftener ask forgiveness. Provost. You , sirrah, provide your hlock and your axe , to-inonow four o'clock. Ariiorson. Come ou, bawd; I will instruct thee in my trade; follow. Clown. I do desire to learn, sir; and, I hope, if you have occasion to use me for your own turn, you shall find me yarc: for, truly sir, for your kindness, J owe you a good turn. Provost. Call hither Barnardine and Claudio. [/'J.Tcunt Clown and Abuorson.] Scene iii. Another room in the same. Enter Clown. Clown. I am as well acquainted here, as I was in our house of profession; one would think, it were mistress Overdone's own house, for here he many ol her old customers. First, here's young master Hash; lie's in for a eommodity of hrown paper and old ginger, nine score and seventeen pounds; of which he made five marks, ready money; marry, then, ginger was not much in request, for the old women were all dead. Then is there here one master Caper, at the suit of master Fhree-pile the mercer, for some four suits of peach-colour'd satin, which now peaches him a beggar. 1 hen have we here young 1)i/.y, and young master Deep-vow, and master Copper-spur, and masterStarvc-lackey, the rapier and dagger man and young Drop-heir that killed Lusty-pudding, and master Forthright the til ter , and hrave master Shoe-t ie the great t ravel-ler, and wild Half-can that stahhed Puts, and, I think, forty more; all great doers in our trade, and, arc now for the Lords sake. |
F.nter ARnCRSoN. Abuorson. Sirrah, hring Barnardine hither. Ci.own. Master Barnardine! you must rise and he hang'd, master Barnardine! Ahiiorson. What, ho, liarnardiiie! Barnardine [within.'] A pox o'ynur throats ! Who makes that noise there? What are you? Clown. Your Iriend , sir; the hangman ; you must he so good, sir, to rise and he put to death. Barnardine IVilhin.'] Away , you rogue, away; I am sleepy. Abuorson. Tell him, he must awake, and that quickly too. Clown. Pray, master Barnardine, awake till you arc executed , and sleep afterwards. AtlllORSOiN. Co in to him, anil fetch him out. Clown. He is coming , sir , he is coining ; I hear his straw rustle. Enter Barnardine. Aiiiiorson. Is the ax upon the hlock, sirrah ? Clown. Very ready, sir. Barnardine. How now, Ahhorson ? What's the news with you ? Aiiiiorson. Truly, sir, \ would desire you to clap into your prayers; for, look von, the warrant's come. Barnardine. You rogue, 1 have been drinking all night, I am not filled for't. Clown. (), the better, sir; for he that drinks all night, and is hang'd helimes in the morning, may sleep the sounder all the next day. Enter Duke. [Vicentio Dnte of Vienna.] Abuorson. Look you, Sir, here comes your ghostly father; Do we jest now, think you ? Duke. Sir, induced hy my charity, and hearing how bast ily you arc to depart, I am come to advise you, comfort you , and pray with you. Barnardine. Friar, not I; I have been drinking hard all night, and I will have more time to prepare me, or they shall beat out my brains with billets: I will not consent to die this day, that's certain. Duke. Ü, sir, you must; and therefore, I bescech you, Look forward on the journey you shall go. Barnardine. 1 swear, I will not die to-day for any man's persuasion. Duke. But hear you ,-- Barnardine. Not a word; if you have any thing to say to me, come to my ward ; for thence will not 1 today. [Exit. Enter Provost. Duke. Unfit to live, or die; Ü , gravel heart! After him, fellows; hring him to the block.* {Exeunt ABnoRSQN and Clown.) |
quot;The wit, tho hnmoavist, (he gcnllemmi , and the soldier, are combined in lienedick.quot; — Steevens.
|
(Leonato's Garden) Benedick and a Coy. Henedick. Boy, — Benedick. Jn my clmmber-window lies a book ; briiif; it hillicr to me in llie orcliard. Benedick. 1 know that; — but! would have tbee hence, and here ;i;;ain. [Exit Mo v.] — I do much wonder, tliat one man, seeing liow much another man is a fool when ho dedicntes his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at siioli shallow follies in others , become the arjjument of his own scorn , by falling in love: And sucli a man is Claudio. 1 have known , Avhcn tbere was no music with bim but the drum and fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe: 1 have known, when be would have walked ten mile a fool, to see a good armour; and now will he lieten iiifjhls awake, carvinjf the fashion of a new doublet, lie was wont to speak plain, and to the purpose, like an honest man, and a soldier; and now he is turned 0rtli0{;ru|iher; bis words arc a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted : and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; 1 think not: 1 will not be sworn , but love may transform me to an oyster ; hut J'll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he sball never make me such a fool. One woman is fair; yet I am well; another is wise; yet 1 am well: another virtuous; yet I am well: but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Uich , she shall he, that's certain ; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on ber; wild, or come not near mc; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what co-lour it please God. Ha! the Prince and monsieur Love! I will bide me in the arbour.* [Withdraws. Enter Don I'Eono, I.eonato nm/Claudio. *Ciaddio. Hero thinks surely, she will die: for sbn says, she will die if be love her not; and she will die ere she makes her love known: ami she will die if lie woo her, rather than she will 'bate one breath of her accustofned crossness. Don Pedro. She dolb well : if she should make tender of her love, 'tis very possible be'll scorn it; for the man, as you know all, hath a contemplihle spirit. Claudio. He is a very proper man. Don Pedro, lie hath, indeed, a good outward happiness. Claudio. 'Fore God, and in my mind , very wise. Don Pedho. He doth , indeed, show some sparks that arc like wit. |
Leonato. And I take him to be valiant. Don Pedro. As Hector, I assure you: and in the managing of quarrels you may say he is wise; for eilber he avoids theiii wilb great discrelion, or undertakes them with a most christian-like fear.* [IC.vcnnt Don Pedro, Claddio and Leonato. Benedick advances from the Arbour. Benedick. This can be no trick: The conference was sadly borne. — 'hey have the truth ot this from Hero. They seem to pity tbc lady; it seems, her allec-tions have their full bent. Love me! why it must be requited. I bear how 1 am censured; they say, I will bear myself proudly, if 1 perceive the love come from her; they say too, that she will rather die than give any sign of allection. — I did never think to marry — 1 must not seem proud : — Happy are they that near their detractions, and can put them to mending. The the lady is fair; 'tis a truth, 1 can bear them witness: and virtuous — 'tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, hut for loving me: — Hy my troth , it is no addition to her wit; — nor no great argument of her folly , for I will be horribly in love with her. — I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage: But doth not the appetite alter ? A man loves the meat in his youth, that be cannot endure in his age; Shall quips, and sentences, and these paper bullets ol (he brain, awe a man from the career of his humour No : ibe world must be peopled. When 1 said , 1 would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married. — Here comes Beatrice: By thh day , she's a fair lady: 1 do spy some marks of love in her. Enter Beatrice. Beatrice. Against my will, I am sent to bid you come in to diner. Benedick. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. Beatrice. I took no more pains for those thanks, than you take pains to thank mc; if 't bad been painful, I would not have come. Benedick. You take pleasure in the message? Beatrice. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's point, and choke a daw withall: — You have no stomach, signior; fare you well. Benedick. Hu! Against mij mill /am sent to hid you come to dinner— there's a double meaning in that. / took no more pains for those than/is, than you took pains to thank me — that's as much as to say, Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks: — If I do not take pi'y of her , I am a villain ; if I do not love her, I am a Jew : I will go get her picture. [ Exit, |
quot;Wild nnJ fantastical as tliis play is, all (he );arts In the various modes are well written , and give the kind of pleasure, which the author designed.quot; — Johnson.
|
/swprpdck. PUCK. Now the hnnjjry lion roars, And tlie wolf l)('t( owls tlie moon: Whilst the heavy ploughman snores , All with weary task fordone Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the scritch-owl, sOritehinjj louil, Puts the wretch , that lies in woe , In rememhrance of a shroud. Now it is (lie time of night, That the graves, all gaping wide , Every one let's forth his sprite, In the church-way paths to glide: And we fairies , that do run Hy the triple Hecat's team , From tlie presence of the sun , Following darkness like a dream , Now are frolic ; not a mouse Shall disturhthat liallow'tl house: lam sent, wit/i broom, before, To sweep the dust beliinil the door. Enter Oberon and Tiiama with their Train. Obehdn. Through this house give gl immering night. By the dead and drowsy fire: Every elf. and fairy sprite, Hop as light as hird from brier; And (his ditty after me. Sing, and dance it trippingly. Titania. First, rehearse this song hy rote: To each word a warhling note, Hand in hand, with fairy grace. Will we sing, and hlass this place. Song, and Dance. Oderon. Now, until the break of day, Through this house each fairy stray. To the best bride-bed will we, |
Which hy ns shall blessed be ; And the issue, there create, Ever shall he forluuate. So shall all the couples three Ever true in loving he; And the Idols of nature's hand Shall not in their issuestaml; Never mole, hare lip, nor scar Nor mark jirodiyions, such as are Despised in nalivety, Shall upon their children be. — With this field-dew consecrate, Every fairy take his gait; And each several chamber bless, Through this palace with sweet peace: E'er shall it in safely rest, And the owner of it blest. Trip away; Make no slay; Meet me all by break of day. [Exeunt Obehon . Titania , onrfTrain Puck, If we shadows have oiFended, Think but this, (and all is mended,) That you have hutslumher'd here. While these visions did appear, And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding hut a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend ; If you pardon we will mend. And, as I'm an honest Puck. If we have unearned Inch, Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, We will make amends , ere long : Else the Puck a liar call. So , good night unlo you all. Give me your hands, il we bo friends, And Robin shall restore amends. [Exit. |
quot;... . there are scattered througli the whole many sparks of genius.....quot; — Johnson.
Enter Dun , with a letter, and Costard. his grace's thnrhorongh: but I would see bis own per-Duil. Which is the duke's own person ? son in flesh and blood.
IfiRON. This , fellow ; what wonldst? JilRON. This is he.
Doll. 1 myself reprehend bis own person, for I am Ddli. Signior Arme — Arme commends you.
88
villainy abroad; this Idler will tell you
There'!
more.
Costard. Sir , the contempts thereof arc as touch ing me.
King. A letter from the magnificent Armado.
lllRON. How low soever the matter, 1 hope in God for high words.
Longavilie. A high hope for a low having; Cod grant us patience!
lilRON. To hear? or forbear hearing?
Longaviue. To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately; or to forbear both.
lilRON. Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to elirnh in the nierriness.
Costard. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner.
Bikon. In what manner?
Costard. In manner and form following, sir; all those three: I was seen with her in the manor house,
sitting with her upon the form, and taken following her into the paik ; which , put together, is in manner and form following. Now, sir , for the manner, —il is the manner of a man to speak to a woman : for the form ,— in some form.
BlRON. For the following, sir?
Costard. As it shall iollow in my correction; And God defend the right I
King. Will you hear this letter with attention ?
Biron. As we would hear an oracle.
Costard. Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh.
King. [Heads.} Great deputy, the welkin's vicegerent. , and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul's earth's God, and body's fostering patron , —
Costard. Not a word of Costard yet.
King. So it is,—
Costard. It may be so: but if he say it is so, he is,
in telling true, but so, so.
King. Peace.
Costard — be to me, and every man that dares not fight!
King. No words.
Costard — of other men's secrets, I beseech you.
King. So it is, besieged with sable-colourrd'pte-lancholy.f (lid commend the black-oppressing humour to the most tcholeome physic o/ thy heal thriving air;
and as I am a gentleman, betook inysel/ to walk. The time when? About, the sixth hour; when beasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down to that nourishment which is called supper. So much for the time fast a week with bran and water.
when: Row for the yround which; which , I mean , I. Costard. I had rather pray a month with mutton walked upon: it is ycleped thy park. Then for the and ponidge.
place where; where , I mean, I did encouter that King. And Don Armado shall be your keeper. —
obscene, and most preposterous event, that draweth U\ lord Uiron , see him delher'd o'er. —
from my snow white pen t he ebon-coloured ink, which And go we, lords , to put in practice that
here thou vie west, beholdest, sarreyest, o;-sc-Mi; Which each to other has so strongly sworn.
But to the place, where, — Il standeth north-north ^ [lixeunt King . l.ung a v ii.le and Duma in.*
east and by east from the west corner of thy curious]
knottcd-ffardcn. There did I sec that low spirited swain, that base iniiiiiow of lliy mii'th,
Costahd. Me.
ki no. — I lilt; if. uiiletter'd small knowing soul,
Costard. Me.
kiing. — thnl shallow rassal,
Costahd. Still me.
King. — which , as I remember, hight Costard,
Costard. Ome!
King. — sorted and consorted, contrail/ to Ihij established proclaimed edict and continent canon, with, — with , — Ü with, — h'ti with this f passion to say wherewith ,
Costard. Willi a wcne.li.
KlKG.—with ft child of our (jrandmother Eve,a female; or, for thy more sweet understandiny, a woman. Him [ [as my ever-esteemed duty pricks me on) have sent to thee, to receive the meed of punishment, by thy sweet grace's officer, Antony Dull; a man of yood repute , carriaye , bearing , and estimation. Diui. Me, an'lshall please you ; I am Anlony Dull. KlKG. For Jarjuenetta, [so is the weaker vessel called, which I apprehended with the aforesaid swain ,) I keep her as a vessel of thy law's lury; and shall at the least of thy sweet notice , bring her to trial. Thine, in all compliments of devoted and heart-barnimj heat of duty,
Dun Adiuano de Armado.
limON. Tin's is not so well as 1 look'dfor, but the be.-.t that ever I heard.
King. Ay, the best for the worst. But, sirrah , what say you to this ?
Costard. Sir, I confess the wcnch.
King. Did you hear i he proclamation ?
Costard. 1 do confess much of the beaiinij it, but little of the marklnj; of it.
King. It was proclaimed a year's imprisonment to he taken with a wench.
Costard. 1 was taken with none, sir, I was taken with a dainosel.
King. Well , it was proclaimed dainosel.
Costard. This was no dainosel neither , sir; she was a virgin.
King. It is so varied too ; for it was proclaimed, vii'jjin.
Costard. If it were, I deny her virginity ; I was taken with a maid.
King. This maid will not serve your turn, sir. Costard. This maid will serve my turn , sir.
King. Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: You shall
89
quot;The comic pni t raises liuiHWcr , and the serious fixes exiicctation.quot; — Johnson.
|
Enter old Gonno, with a BasLet. ♦Gobbo. Master, younj; man, you, I pray you; wliioli is the way to master Jew's ? Launceiot [Aside] Ü lioavens, tliis is my true lie-(rotten father! who, lioing more than saud-Lliiul, hi{;li-gravel hlind, knows me not: — I will try conclusions with him. Gobbo. Master young (jcntlemnn, I pray you, ■whicli is the way to master Jew's ? I,ai;ncei,ot. Turn up on your rijjht hand, at the next turning, hut, at the next turning of all , on your left; marry, at the \ory next lurninjf, turn of no hand, hut turn down indirectly to the Jew's house. Gobbo. By God's sonties, 't will he a hard way to hit. Can you tell me •whether one Launceiot that dwells with him , dwell with him, or no? Laukcelot. Talk you of young master Launceiot?— Mark me now ; [(m'fiV] now will I raise the waters: — Talk you of young master Launceiot? Gobbo. No master, sir, but a poor man's son; his father, though 1 say it, is an honest exceeding poor man , and, God he thanked, well to live. Ladnceloi. Well, let his father he what he will, we talk of young master Launceiot. Gobbo. Your worship's friend , and Launceiot, sir. Launcelot. liut I pray you ergo , old man , ergo , I beseech you: Talk you of young master Launceiot ? Gobbo. Of Launceiot, an't please your inaslerhip. Laukcelot. h'rgo, master Launceiot; talk not of master Launceiot, father; for the young gentleman (according to fates and destinies, and such odd sayings, the sisters three, and such branches of learning,) is, indeed, deceased; or, as you would say, in plain terms, gone to heaven. Gobbo. Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very stallquot; of my age, my very prop. Launcelot. Do 1 look like a cudgel, or a hovel-post, a stair, or a prop ? — Do you know mo, father ? Gobbo. Alack the day, 1 know you not, young gentleman: but, I pray you, tell me, is my hoy (God rest his soul!) alive or dead. Launcelot. Do you not know me , father? Gobbo. Alack, sir, 1 am sand-blind, I know you not. Launcelot. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father, that knows his own child. AVell, old man, 1 will tell you news of your son: Give me your blessing: truth will come to light; murder caimot be hid long, a man's son may ; but, in the end truth will out. Gobbo. Pray you, sir, stand up; I am sure, you are not Launcelot, my boy. Launcelot. Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, hut give me -your blessing; I am Launcelot, |
your boy that was, your son that is , your child that shall be. Gobbo. I cannot think , you are my son. Launcelot. I know not w hat I shall think of that: hut I am Launcelot, the Jew's man ; and , 1 am sure, Margery, your w ifc , is my mother. Gobbo. Her name is Margery, indeed : I'll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art my own llesh and blood. Lord worshipp'd might he be! what a heard bast thou got! thou hast more hair on thy chin, than Dobbin my thill horse, bason bis tail. Launceiot. It should seem then, that Dobbin's tail grows backward; 1 am sure he had more hair on his tail, than I have on my face, when I last saw him. Gobbo. Lord , how art thou changed! how dost thou and thy master agree? 1 have brought him a present, Uow 'groe you now ? Launcelot. Well, well;but, for mine own part, as I have have set up my rest to run away, so 1 will not rest till I have run some ground: my master's a very Jew ; Give him a present! give him a halter : I am famished in his service; you may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, 1 am glad you are come; give me your present to one master Bassanio, who, indeed, gives rare new liveries ; if 1 serve not him , I will run as far as God has any ground. — O rare fortune! here comes the man; — to him, father; for I am a Jew, if X serve the Jew any longer.* Act. IV. — Scene I. *Poi\tia. Do you confess the bond ? Antonio. 1 do. Portia. Then must the Jew be merciful. Suylock. On what compulsion must 1? tell me that. Poutia. The quality of mercy is not strain'd ; It droppetb , as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd ; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: 'T is mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown ; His scepter shows the force of temporal power. The attribute to awe and majesty, Wl lerein doth sit the dread and lear of kings; Uut mercy is above this scepter'd sway , It is enthroned in the hearts of kings , It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice. Therefore , Jew, Though justice be thy plea , consider this , — That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teaeh us all to render The deeds of mercy, i have spoke thus much , To mitigate the justice of thy plea; |
12
90
|
Which if tliou follow , this strict court of Vcnice Must needs {jive sentence 'gainst the merchant there. SliYlQOK. My fleerls upon my licatl! I crave the law, The penalty and lorfeit of my hond. I'oiitia. Is lie not aide to diseharne the money? ISassamo. Yes, here I lender it for him in the court; Yea, twice the sum : if thai will not sulllce, I will lie hound to pay it ton times o'er. On forfeit of my hands, my head , my heart: If that will not suffice, it must appear That malice hears down truth. Ami 1 beseech you Wrest once the law to your authority: To do a great right, do a little wrong •, And curh this cruel devil of his will. Portia. It must not he ; there is no power in Vcnice Can aller a decree cstnhlislied : 'T will he recorded for a precedent; And many an error, hy the same example, Will rush into I he stale: it cannot he, SnYLOCK. A Daniel come to jndginent! yea, a Daniel! O wise young judge, how do I honour thee! Portia. I pray you, let me look upon the hond. Siivi.gck. Here't is , most reverend doclor.here it is. Portia. Shy lock, ther's thrice thy money ollei'd thee. SnYLOCK. An oath, an oath, 1 have an oath in heaven; Shall I lay perjury upon my soul ? No , not for Venice. Portia. why, this hond is forfeit; And lawfully hy this the Jew may claim A pound of ilesh , to ho hy him cut olF Nearest the merchant's heart: He merciful ! Take thrice thy money ; hid me tear the bond. |
SimoCK. When it is paid according to the tenonr.— It doth appear, you are a worthy judge; You know the law , your exposilion Hath been most sound ; I charge you hy the law , Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar. Proceed to judginent: hy my sonl 1 swear. There is no power in the tongue of man To aller me: I slay here on my bond. Antomo. Most heartily 1 do beseech the court To give the judgment. Portia. Why then , thus it is. You must prepare your bosom for his knife. Siiyiock. Ü noble judge! O excellent young man ! Portia. For ihe inlent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to thepenaltv. Which here appeareth due upon I he bond. Sbvlock. 'Tis very true: O wigt;e and upright judge! How much more elder art ihou than thy looks ! Portia. Therefore, lay hare your hosoui. Siiyiock. Ay, bis breast: So says the bond ; — Doth it not, noble judge? Nearest his heart, those are I he very words. Portia. It is so. Are there balance here , to weigh The llesh ? Siiyiock. I have them ready. Portia. Have hysomesurgeon Shylock, on your charge, To stop his wounds , lost he do bleed to death. Shylock. Is it so nominated in the bond? Portia. It is not so express'd ; But what of that? 'T wore good you do so much for charily. SuvtOCK. I cannot lind it;'t is not in the boud. Portia. Come, merchant, have you any thing to say?* |
quot;The comic dialogue is very sprightly, with loss mixtur of low Imtroonery than in some other plays ; and the grave part is elegant and harmouious.quot; — Johnson.
|
Enter Corin ami ToucnsTONE. *C0RIN.And how like you this shepherd's life, master Touchstone ? ïotrCDSTQNE. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; hut in respoct that it is a shepherd's life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, 1 like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now iu respect it is in the fields, it pleasetb me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my bu-monrwcll; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd? Corin. No more, but that I know, the more one sickens, the worse at ease beis; and that he that wants money, means , and content, is without three good friends: — That the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn: That good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a great cause of the night, is lack of the sun: |
That ho, that hath learned no wit hy nature nor art, ■nun/ rotnphiin of good breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred. Touchstone. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever iu court, shepherd? Corin. No , truly. Touciistoke. Then thou art darnn'd. Corin. Nay, I hope,-- Touchstone. Truly, thou art darnn'd; like an ill-roastod egg , all ou one side. Corin. For not being at court ? Your reason. Touchstone. Why. if thou never wast at court, thou never saw'st good manners; if thou never saw'st good manners, then thy manners must hewieked;auu wickedness is sin , and sin is damnation : Thou art in a parlous slate, shopberd. Corin. Nota whil, Tonchstonc; those, that are good manners at the court, are as ridiculous in the country , as the behaviour of the country is most niockablc |
91
at llie court. You told me , you salute noi at the court,
Imt you llt;iss your liands; tliat courtesy would lie uti-clcanly, iCcourticrs were slieplicrds.
'i'üuciistoms. Instance , liriefly; come, instance.
ConiN. Why, we are still handling our ewes ; and their fells , you know , are greasy,
'J'otcusTOiNE. AVhy, do not your courtier's hands sm cat ? and is not the jjrease of a multon as wholesome as the sweat of man ? Shallow , shallow : A belter instance, I say; come.
Coiiin. Besides our hands are hard.
Touchstone. Your lips will feel them the sooner.
Shallow , again : A more sounder instance, conic.
Con IN, Anil they are often tarr'd over w ith the surgery of our sheep; And would you have us kiss tar?
The courtier's hands are perfumed with civct.
TouensTOME. Most shallow man! Thou worms-meal,
in respect of a good peace of flesh : Indeed I — Learn of the wise and perpend: Civet is ofa haser hirth than tar;
the very uncleanly flux uf a cat. Mend the instance,
shepherd.
Coiun. You have loo courtly a wit for mc ; I'll rest.
ToucnsiOiNE. Wilt thou rest damn'd? God help thee,
shallow man I God malic incision in thee! thou art raw.
Coiiin. Sir , I am a true labourer ; I cam that I eat,
get that I wear; owe no man hate; envy no man's happiness; glad of other men's good, content with my harm;
and the greatest of my pride is, to see my ewes grate ,
and m y lambs suck.
Todchstone. That is another simple sin in you; to,
Lring the ewes and the rams together, and to oiler to tree.
Enter Uosai ino , reading a paper,
llosalind./'Vom the east to western Cud,
No jewel is like Rosalind Jlcr worth, being mounted on the wind, Through (ill the world bears liosalind, AH the pictures, fairest lin'd,
Are but black to Rosalind.
Let no face be kept in mind,
But the fair of Rosalind.
Todciistone. I'll rhymeyouso, eight years together; dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted; it is the right butter woman's rank to market.
Rosalind. Out, fool!
Touchstone. Kor a taste:--
If a hart do lack a hind.
Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the cat will after kind,
So, be sure, will Rosalind.
Winter garments must be lin'd,
So must slender Rosalind.
Theij that reap, must sheaf and bind, Then to cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest nnt hath sowrest rind,
Such a nut is Rosalind.
He that sweetest Rose will find,
Must li n d I o ve's p r i ck, and Rosali n d. This is the very false gallop of verses; why do you infect yourself with them ?
Rosalind. I'cacc, you dull fool; I found them on a
get your living by the eopiUation of calllc: to be bawdj TOUCHSTONE. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit, to a bell-wether-, and to betray a she-lamb of a twelve Rosaukd. I'll grail: it with you, anil then I shall month, to a crooked-paled, old cuckobly ram , out of.^rafl'it with a medlar; then it will be the earliest fruit
in the country: for you'll be rotten e'er you be half ripe , and that's the right virtue of the medlar.
Touchstone. You have said ; but wether wisely or no, let the forest judge.*
all reasonable match. If thou be'sl notdaran'd fortius, the devil himself will have no shepherds; Icannolsce else how thou should 'scape.
Coiiin. Here comes young master Ganymede, my new mistress' brother.
quot;Parolles is a boaster and a coward, such as has always been the sport on the stage, but [perhaps never raised more laughter or contempt than in the hands of Shakspeare.quot; — Johnson.
|
Enter first i.ord, with five or six Soldiehs in ambush. 1 Lord. He can coinc no ol her way but by this hedge' corner : When you sally upon him, speak what terri-| ble language you will : though you ninlcrstand it not Yourselves, no iiiatter; for wc must not seem to understand him ; unless some one among us, whom we produce for an interpreter. 1 SoLDtEit. Good captain , let me be the interpreter. 1 Lonn. Art not acquainted with him ? knows he nol thy voice? |
1 Soldier. No, sir, I warrant you. 1 Lord, liut what linsy-woolsy bast thou to speak to ns again ? 1 Soldier, liven such as you speak to me. 1 Lord. he must think us ioine Jnwrf o/ i'the adversnrifs entertainment. Now he bath a smack of all neighbouring languages; therefore we must every one bo a man of his own fanry. not to know what we speak to one another; so we seem to know, is to know straight our purpose: chough's language, gab- |
92
We enuiijjli, ami good enoujjli. As for you, interpreter,
you must seem very politic. But coucli, ho! here he comes; to beguile two hours in asleep, ami then to return and swear the lies he for;;es.
Enter Pjinou.es.
Parohes. Ten o'clock; within these three hours't will he time enough to go home. What shall I say I have done? It must he a very plausive invention thai carries it: They begin to smoke mo: and disgraces have of late knocked too often at myiloor. I find , my tongue is too fool-hardy; hut my heart hath thefearo Mars before it, and of this cicaturcs , not daring the reports of my tongue.
1 I,dud. This is the first truth that e'er thine own tongue was gull ty of. \Aside.]
1'aiioi.les. What the devil should moveme to undertake the recovery of this drum ; being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing 1 had nosuch purpose?
I must give myself some hurts, and say, I got them in exploits: Yet slight, ones will not carry it: They will say , Came you oil'wi lb so little and great ones I dare not give. Wherefore? what'sl/tviuslance. Tongue,
I must put you in a butter woman's mouth , and buy another of Uajazcl's mule, if you prattle me in this perils.
1 LORD. Is it possible, bo should know what be is.
and he that he is ? Aside.]
i'aboiies. 1 would the cutting of my garments would serve the turn; or the breaking of my Spanish sword.
1 Lord. We cannot alford you so. [Aside.]
Parches. Or the baring of mi/ heard; and to say,
it was in stratagem ?
1 Lord. It would not do. [Aside.]
Paroiles. Or to drown my clothes, and say, I was stripped.
1 Lord. Hardly serve. [Aside.]
Paroiles. Though I swore I leaped from the window
of the citadel--
1 Lord. How deep ? [Aside.]
Parolles. Thirty fathom.
1 Lord. Three groat oaths ■would scarce make that be believed. [Aside.] I inform 'cm that
Parolles. A drum now of the enemy's!
[Alarum within.] 1 Lord. Throca movouses, cargo, cargo, c a rgo.
All. Cargo, cargo, v i I 1 ia n d a pa r corbo ,
c a r g o.
Paroli.es. O! ransom, ransom: — Do not hide mine eyes. [ Thetj seize him and blindfold him.]
I Soldier. Boskos thromuldo hoskos. Parolles. ! know you arc the Huskos' regiment. \nd ! shall lose my life for want of language:
'lure be here German , or Dane , low Dutch ,
llalian , or French , let him speak to mo,
i will discover that which shall undo The Florentine.
1 Soldier. Boskos vauvado:
I understand tbee, and can speak your tongue:
K ere I y bon to:--Sir,
Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards Are at thy bosom.
Parolles. Oh!
1 Soldier. 0, pray, pray, pray.--
HI a nk a r e von i a d u 1 c h c.
1 Lord. Oscorbi dulchos volivorca.
1 Soldier. The general is content to spare thee yet;
And, hood-w ink'd as thou art, will lead thee on
To gather from thee: haply thou may'st inform
Something to save thy life.
Parolles. O, let me live.
And all the secrets of our camp I'll show,
Their force, tbeir purposes: nay, I'll speak that
Which you will wonder at.»
1 Soldier. But wilt thou faithfully?
Parolles. If I do not damn me.
1 Soldier. Acordollnta.--
Come on, thou art granted space.
[Exit, with Parolles lt;j)iarded]
1 Lord. Go , ti ll the count liousilbm, and my brother, We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him Till we do hear from them. {muffled,
2 Soldier. Captain, I will.
1 Loud, lie will betray us all to ourselves; —
So I will, sir.
1 Lord. Till then, I'll keep him dark, and safely lock'd. (Exeunt.
Paroiles. 1 would, 1 had any drum of the cnemy's;!2 Soldier.
1 would swear, I recovered it.
1 Lord. You shall hear one anon. [Aside.]
faming of dlic Sisrew.
quot;The part between Katharine and Petruehlo is eminently spritely and diverting.quot; — Johnson,
Enter Peirociiio and Katiiarima. Servants. Here, here, sir; here , sir.
'Petruchio. Where be these knaves? What, no man atPETRücnio. Here, sir! here sir ! here, sir! here sir! To hold my stirrup, nor to take my horse! (door ,|You loggerbeaded and unpollsb'd grooms!
W here is Nathaniel, Gregory, Pbili)' ?— iwhat, no attendance ? no regard? noduty?
Scene i.
93
Where is the foolish knave I soul Lcfore ?
Grumio. Here, sir; as foolish as I was before. PETRDCnio. You jieasant swain! you whoreson malt-Did I not hid thee meet mc in the park, (horse drudge! And hrinjf alonjj these rascal knaves with thee? Grumio. Nathaniel's coat, sir, was not fully made, And Gabriel's pumps were all unpink'd i'the heel; There was no link to colour Peter's hat,
Anil Walter's dafjffer was not come from sheathing;: There were none fine, but Adam, Halph, and Gregory; The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly ;
Yet, as they are, here are thee come to meet you. Petbuchio. Go, rascals, go, and feteb my supper in.-\Exenut some of the Servants.] [Sings.
Where is the life that lute I led —
Where are those ---sit down, Kate, and welcome.
Soud, soud , soud, soud !
lie- vnt tr Si: R v a NTs ivith supper.
by, when, I say? — Nay, good sweet Kate, he merry. OHquot; with my hoots, you rogues,jyoii villains; When? It was the friar of orders greij,
/Is he forth walked on his way: — Out, out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry:
Take that, and mend the plucking of the other. —
I Strikes him] Be merry, Kate: some water, here; what, ho! — Where's my spaniel Troilus ? Sirrah , get you hence , And hid my cousin Ferdinand come hither;
[Exit Servant.] One, Kate, that you must kiss, aud bo acquainted with. Where are my slippers? —Shall I have some water ?
[A bason is presented to him.] Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily! — [Servant lets the ewer fall] You whoreson villain ! will you lei it fall ?
[Strikes him.] (ling. Katiiarina. Patience, J pray you; 't wasa fault unwil-Petrcciiio. a whoreson, beetle-beaded,llap-car'd kna-Come, Kate, sit down; 1 know you have astomaeb. (ve! Will you give thanks, sweet Kate; or else shall I ? What is this mutton ? mutton ?
1 Servant. Ay
Petruchio. Who brought it ?
1 Servant. 1.
Petruciiio, 'T is burnt; and so is all the meat:
What dogs are these ? — Where is the rascal cook ? Mow durst you , villains, bring it from the dresser, And serve it thus to me that love it not ?
There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all:
[Throws the meat. amp;c. about the stage.] You heedless joltbeads, and unmanner'd slaves!
What, do you grumble? I'll be with you straight. Katiiarina. I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet; The meat was well, if you were so contented. Petruciiio. I tell thee, Kate, 't was burnt and dried And I expressly am forbid to touch it, (away:
For it engenders choler, planteth anger;
And better't were that both of us did fast, —
Sincc, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric, —
Then feed it with such over-roasted flesh
Bo patient; to-morrow it shall he mended,
And , for this night, we'll fast for company: —
Come, I'll bring thee to thy bridal chamber,
{/■.'.reunt Petrdciiio , Katiiarina and Cortis.) Natiianiei, [ Advancing). Peter, didst ever see the like? Peter. He kills her own humour.
Re-enter Curtis.
Grumio. Where is lie?
Curtis. In her chambcr.
Making a sermon of continency to her:
And rails, and swears, and rates; that she, poor soul; Knows not which way to stand , to look, to speak ; And sits as one new-risen from a dream.
Away, away ! for he is coming hither. [Exeunt.]
lie-enter Petruroiiio.
Petrdcuio. Thus have I politically begun my reign, And't is my hope to end suecesfully:
My falcon now is sharp , and passing empty :
And , till she stoop, she must not be full-yort/d, For then she never looks ujion her hire.
Another way I have to man my haggard.
To make her come, and know her keeper's call,
That is , to watch her, as we watch these kites,
That bate, and beat, and will no be obedient.
She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat;
Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not; As with the meat, some undeserved fault I'll find about the making of the bed ;
And here I'll fling the pillow, there the bolster.
This way the coverlet, another way the sheets: — Ay, and amid this burly, I intend.
That all is done in reverend care of her;
And, in conclusion , she shall watch all night: And, if she chance to nod, I'll rail, and brawl, And with the clamor keep her still awake.
This is a way to kill a wife with kindness ;
And thus I'll curb her mad ami headstrong humour:— lie that knows better how to tame a shrew,
Now let him sneak ;'t is charitv to show.
[Exit.]
Act V, Scene II.
Petruohio. ...
He enter Katiiarina , with ISianca and Widow. See, where she comes: and brings you froward wives As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. —•
Katharine, that cap of yours becomes you not;
Offwith that bauble, throw it underfoot.
[Katiiarina pulls of her cap, and throws it down.] Widow. Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh,
Till I be brought to such a silly pass!
üianca. Fye! what a foolish duty call you this? Lucentio. I would, your duty were as foolish too: The wisdom of your duty fair liianca.
Hath cost me an hundred crowns since supper-time. JtlANOA. The more fool yon , for laying on my duty. Petruciiio. Katharine, I charge thee, tell these
(headstrong women What duty they do owe their lords and husbands. Widow. Come, come, you're mocking; we will have
(no telling.
I'Einocnio. Conic on, I say;— aud first begin with her.
94
|
Katiiaiuna. r'yo, fye! unknit that llircal'ninj; unkind And dart not scornlul {jlances from lliosc eyes, (brow; To wound tliy lord, tliy liinj;, thy jjovcrnor : It Idots t liy lieanly, as frosls !liIlt;■ llie meads ; Confounds tliy fame, as whirl winds shake fair buds; And in no siMice is meet or amiable. A woman mov'd, is like a founlain troubled , Muddy , ill-sccminff, Ihick, bereft of beauty; And, while it is so, none so dry or tbirsly AVill dcijjn to sip, or lourb one drop ol it. Thy husband is thy lord ; iby life, thy keeper. Thy bead , thy somcreinn ; one that cares fur tbec, And for thy inaintcnance ; eommils his boily To painful labour, both by sea and land ; To walch the nijjbl in slortus , ihe day in cold , IVbib; thou licst warm at home, sccurcaud safe; An I craves no ulher tribute at thy hands , I!ul love, fair looks, and true obedience ; — Too little payment for so jjreat a debt. Such duty as the subject owes the prince, liven such, a woman oweth to her husband: And , when she's froward , peevish , sullen , sour, |
And not obedient to bis honest will, What is she, but a foul contendinjj rebel, And graceless traitor to her loving lord ? — I am asbam'd , that woman are so simple To oflcr war, where they should kneel for peace; Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway, When thy arc bound to serve, and obey. \\ by are our bodies, suft., and weak , and smooth , Unapt to toil and trouble in the world; But thai our soft conditions, and our hearts, Should well agree with our external parts? Come , come, you froward and unable worms I II y mind bath been as big as one of yours, lly heart is great; my reason , haply, more. To bandy word for word, and frown for frown. But now , I sec our lances are but straws ; Our strength as weak, our wcaknesl past compare, — That seeming to be most, w Inch we least arc. Than rail your stomachs, for it is no boot; And place your hands below your husband's foot: In token of which duly, if be please, My hand is ready , may it do him ease.* |
quot;The character of Autolycus is naturally coiiccival , and strongly reprcsealetl,quot; — Johnson.
but that I may beg ; —four pound of prunes, and us iiKDii/ of raisins o'lhc sun.
Adjtlocus. Ü, that ever I was born 1
[Grovelling on the ground.
CtOWN. 1'the name of me,--
Adtolycos. O, help inc, help me! pluck hut oil'
Clown. Alack, poor soul I thou bast need of more rags to lay on thee, rather than have these oil.
Autolycus. 0 sir, the loat hsomencss of them oflends me more then the stripes I have received; which are mighty ones, and millions.
Clown. Alas, poor man! a million of beating may come to a great matter.
Autolycus. I am jobbed, sir, and beaten: my money and apparel ta'cn from me, and these detestable things put upon mc.
Clown. What, by a horse-man , or a foot-man ? Autolycus. Foot man , sweet sir, a foot-man. Clown. Indeed, he should be a foot-man, by the father hath made her mistress of the feast, and she garments be bath left with thee; if this he a horse-
Later AdtOIYCUS singing.
*My traffic is shccls; when the kite builds, look to lesser linen. Sly father named me Autolycus; who,
being, as 1 am , littered under Mercury , was likewise a snapper up of nmonsidcred trifles: with die and drab, I piircliused this caparison; and my revenue is the sil/i/ clival: Hallows, and knock, arc ton powerful these rags; and then death , deal h ! on the highway : beating, and banging , are terrors to me; for the life to come, I sleep out the thought of it. —_A prue! a prize !
Enter Clown.
Clown. Let mc see : — every 'leren wether-tods every tod yields—pound and odd shilling: fifteen hundred shorn , — what comes the wool to ?
Aetolycüs. If the springe hold, the cock's mine.
[Aside.]
Clown. I cannot do it without counters — let me see; what am 1 to buy for our sheep-shearing feast ?
Three pound of sugar; five pound of currants; rice what w ill this sister of mine do with rice? liut my
lays it on. She hath made me four-and-twenty nose-jman's coat, it hath seen very iiot service. Lend mc thy gays for the shearers: three-man song-men all, and .hand, I'll help tbee : come lend me thy hand.
[Helping him it/;.] Autolycus. O ! good sir, tenderly , oh!
Clown. Alas, poor soul.
Autolycus. O, good sir, softly, good sir: I fear, sir, my shoulder-blade is out.
very good ones; but they arc most, of them means and bases: but one Puritan amongst them, and be sings psalms to horn-pipes. 1 inu^t have sdjjrou , to colour the warden pies; mace, — dates, — none; that's out of my note : nutmegs, seven; a race, or two of ginger;
9 li
|
Clown. How now ? cans't stand ? Aüiolycüs. Solïly, dear sir; [picks his poclcct] good sir, softly; yon ha' done me a cliaritablo olfico. Clown. Dosl lack any money ? 1 have a Hulemonoy foi' tliec. al'tolycds. No, good sweet sir; no, I bcseecli you sir; I liave a kinsman not past three f|tiarters of a mile lience, unto whom 1 was goin;;; 1 sliall tiiere liave money, or any tiling I want: oiler me no money ? I pray yon ; that kills my heart. Clown. What manner of fellow was lie that rohlied yon ? Adtolvcds. A fellow, sir, that I have known to go ahont with fro/-nnj dames: I knew him once a servant of the prince ; I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his virtues it was, 1ml he was certaintly whipped out of the court. Clown. His vices , yon would say ; there's no virtue whipped out of the court; they cherish it, to make it slay there ; and yet it will no more hut ahide. aotolyous. Vices I would say, sir. I know this man well : he hath heen since an ape-hearer; then a process-server, a hailiflquot;; then he compassed a motion of the prodigal sou, and married a tinker's wile within a mile where my land and living lies; and, having flown over many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue; Some call him Autolycus. Clown. Out upon him 1 Prig , for my life', prig: he haunts wakes, fairs, and hearhaitings. A in olycüs. Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that's the rogue that put me into his apparel. Clown. Not a more cowardly rogue in all Itohemia; if you had hut looked big, and spit at him, he'd have run. Adtolycus. I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter; I am false of heart that way; and that he knew , F warrant him. Clown. How do you now? Adtolycds. Svveet sir, much hetler then I was; I |
can stand and walk ; I will even take my leave of you , and pace softly towards my kinsman's. Clown. Shall I hring thee on the way? Autolycus. No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir. Clown. The n fare thee well; I must go hny spices for our sheep-shearing. autolycus. Prosper you, sweet sir! —[A'.fi/clown.] Vonr purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I'll he with you at your sheep-shearing too: If I make not this cheat hring out another, and the shearers prove sheep, let mo he enrolled, and my name put in the hook of virtue!1 [_Exit.~\ Scene III. Enter Autolycus. *Adtoiycus. Ila, ha! what a fool honesty island trust, his sworn lirother, a very simple gentleman ! I have sold all my trumpery; not a counterfeit stone, not a riband, glass, poiiiandcr, brooch , tahle-hook, ballad, knive, tape, glove, shoe-lye, bracelet, horn- ring, to keep my pack from fasting: lliey throng who should hny first; as if my trinkets had been hallowed, and brought a benediction to the buyer: by which means, I saw whose purse was best in picture; and, what I saw, to my good use 1 remernhered. Aly clown , (who wants but something to be a reasonable man ,) grew so in love with the wenches'song. that, he would not stir his pettitoes, till he had hot h tune and words; which so drew the rest of the herd to me, that all their senses stuck in ears: you might have pinched a placket, it was sensed ess; 'twas nothing to geld a codpiece ofapurse;! would have filed keys oil', that hung in chains: no hearing, no feeling, but my sir's song, and admiring the nothing of it. So that, in ibis time of lethargy, 1 picked and cut most of their festival purses: and had not the old man come in w ith a whoohub against his daughter and the king's son, and scared my choughs Iroin the chall', 1 had not left a purse alive in the whole army.* quot;In this eomedy we find more intricacy of plot than distinctiou of chnrncter ;. . — Stuevens. Antifholus of Kjt/icsus. I came from Corinth, my (most gracious lord. Diiomio of lip hes us. And I with him. AM' of E. lirought to this tow n by that most famous Duke M iiapbon, your most renow ned uncle, (warrior Vdhiasa, wife lo Ant. of /i. Which of you two did Ant. of .9. I, gentle mistress, (dine with me to day ? Adriana. And arc not you my husband? A.nt. of E. \o, I say nay to that. Ant. of S. And so do I , yet did she call me so; 1 And this fair gentlewoman , her sister here. |
S0lims, Duke of Ephestis. Why , here begins his
(morning story right; These two Anlipholus's, these two so like ,
And these two Dromio's, one in semblance, —
Besides her urging of her wreck at sea , —
These are the parents to these chihlren ,
Which aecidcntaly arc met together.
Antipholus, thou cain'st from Corinth first, ? Antifholus of Syracuse. No, sir, not I ; I came from
(Syracuse.
Duke. Stay, stand apart; I know not which is which.
96
|
Did call mo liroUicr : — what 1 told you then , 1 hopo, I shall have leisure to make good ; If this be not a dream I see and hear. Angeio [« Goldsmith.] That is the chain , fir, which (you had of me. Ant. of S. 1 think it he, sir ; I deny it not. Ant. of E. And you, sir, for i Ids chain arrested inc. Angeio. I think I did, sir ; I deny it not. Auiuana. 1 sent you money, sir , lo ho your hail, By Dromio; hut 1 think ho brought it not. Dromio of li. No , none by mn. Ant. of S. This purse of ducats I rooeiv'd from you ; And Dromio my man did !gt;rin(j tlieni me: 1 see, we slill did meet each other's man , And I was ta'cn for him, and ho for mo. Anil thereupon those errors are arose. Ant. of E. These ducats pawn 1 for my father here. Duke, It shall nut need, thy father bath his life. Courtezan. Sir, I must have tliat diamond from you Ant. o//i. There, take it; and much thanks for my {■food cheer. Aemiiia Uenowned duke, vouchsafe lo lake To go with us into the abbey here, (the pains And hear ul large discoursed all our fortunes : — And all that are assembled in ibis place, That by this symphatiied one day's error Have snller'd wrong, go, keep us company, And we shall make foil satisfaction. — Twenty-five years have I but gone in travail Of you, my sons; nor, till this present hour, My heavy burdens are delivered : — |
The duke, my husband, and my children both And you the calendars of their nativity , Go to a gossip's feast, and go with me; After so long grief, such nativity! Duke. With all my heart. I'll gossip at this feast. [E-reunt Duke, Audess, Aegean, Courtezan, Merchant, Angeio and Attendants.] Dromio of Syracuse. Master, shall I fetch your slufiquot; (from shipboard? Ant. of E. Dromio , what slufTof mine hast lliou em- (bark'd ? Dromio o/ Your goods, that lay at host, sir, in the (Centaur. Ant. of S. lie speaks to me; I am your master, Dromio: Come, go with us; we'll look to that anon : Kmbraee thy brother there, rejoice with him. [Exeunt Antiphohjs of S. and /1'., Adriana and Luciana.) »• Dromio of S. There is a fat friend at your master's That kitchen'd me for you to day at dinner; (house, She now shall be my sister not my wife. Dromio of E. Metbinks, you are my glass, and not my I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth. (brother? Will you walk in to see theirgossipping? Dromio of S. Kot I, sir; you are my elder. Dromio of E. That's a question: how shall we try it ? Dromio of S. AVe w ill draw cuts for the senior: till then Dromio of E. Nay, then thus: (lead thou first. We came into the world , like brother and brother ; And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another [Exeunt.'] |
quot;The danger of ambition is well describedLady Macbeth 13 merely detested ; and though the courage of Macbeth preserves some esteem, yet every reader rejoices at his fall,quot; — Johnson.
|
Enter Lady Macbeth. Lady Macbetd. That which hath made them drunk, (bath made 1110 bold : What hath quench'd them , hath given me fire: — Harki — Peace! It was the owl that shriek'd , the fatal bellman , Which gives the stern'st good-night, lie is about it: The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores: I liuvo drudg'd their Thatdcalb and nature do contend about tlicm, (possets. Whether they live, or die. Macbetii [ft'ithin.^ Who's there? — w]iat,ho? Lady Macbeth. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd. And't is not done: the attempt, and not the deed , Confounds us: — Hark ! — I laid their daggers ready, He could not miss them. — Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done't. — My husband? |
Enter Macbeth. Macbeth. I have done the deed: — Didst thou not (hoar a noise? Lady Macbeth. I beard the owl scream, and the Did not you speak ? (crickets cry. Macbeth. When? Lady Macbeth. Now. Macbeth. As I descended ? Lady Macbeth. Ay. Macbeth. Hark! — Who lies i'the second chamber? Lady Macbeth. Donalbain. Macbeth.This is a sorry sight. [Looking on his hands,] Lady Macbeth. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. Macbeth. There's one did laugh in his sleep, and one (cried, murder! ^ That they did wake each other; I stood and heard them: |
97
|
But they did say their prayers, and adrcss'd tlioni Aj;ain to sleep. Lady Macbeth. There are two lodg'd together. Macbeth. One cried , God bless us ! and Amen, the (oilier; As theij had seen mc, with these hangman's hands Listening their fear , I could not sav , amen, When they did say, God hless us. Lady Macbetu. Consider it not so deeply. Macbetu. Hut wherefore could not I pronounce,amen? I had most need of blessing , and amen Stuck in my throat. Lady Macbeth. Those deeds must not he thought After these ways; so , it will make us mad. Macbetu. Melhought, I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more Macbeth does murder sleep, the innocent sleep , Sleep that bails up the rnvoll'd sleave of care The death of each day's (ife, sore labour's balk , Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast! Lady Macbeth. AVhat do you mean ? Macbeth. Si ill it cried. Sleep no morel to all the house, G la mis hath murder'd sleep; and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more! Lady Macbeth, Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy You do unbend your noble strength, to think (thane. So brainsickly of things: — Go, get some water, And was this filthy w itness from your hand. — Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: Go, carry them ; and smear The sleepy grooms with blood. |
Macbeth. I'll go no more: J am afraid to think what 1 have done ; Look on't again, I dare not. Lady Macbeth. Infirm of purpose! Give mo the daggers: The sleeping, and the dead , Arc but as pictures:'t is the eye of childhood , That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed , I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt. \Exit, Knocking within. Macbeth. Whence is that knocking? How is't with me, when every noise appals me? What hands arc here? Ua! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand ? No; this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnardine, Making the green — one red. Re-enter Lady Macbeth. Lady Macbeth. M y bands are of your colour; hut 1 shame To wear a heart so white. [Knock'] I hear a knocking At the south entry; — retire we to our chamber: A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it then ? your constancy (knocking: Hath left you unattended. — [Knocking.] Hark! more Get on your nightgown , lest occasion calls us, And show us to be watchers: — Be not lost So poorly in your thoughts. (myself. [Knock. Macbeth. To know my deed, — 'twere best not know Wake Duncan with thy knocking! Ay, 'would thou (couldst! |
quot;The tragedy of King John.... is varied with a very pleasing interchauge of incidents and characters.quot; —
Johnson.
Northampton, A Boom in the Castle.
|
Enter Hubert and two Atteniunts. Hdbebt. Heat me these irons hot; and, look thou stand Within the arras: when I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground , rush forth : And bind the boy , which you shall find with me , Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch, (deed. 1 Attendant. 1 hope, your warrant will bear out the Hubert. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you; look to't. [Exeunt Attendants. Young lad , come forth ; 1 have to say with you. Enter AnTHun. Authur. Good morrow, Hubert. Hubert. Good morrow, little prince. Arthur. As little prince (having so great a tillo To be more prince,) as may be. — You are sad. Hubert. Indeed , I have been merrier. Arthur. Mercy on mc! Mcthinks, nobody should be sad but 1: |
Yet, [ rernemher, when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness, liy my christendom , So I were out of prison , and kept sheep, I should be merry as the day is long; And so I would be here, hut that I doubt My uncle practises more harm to me: He is afraid of me, and I of him : is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son ? No, indeed , is't not; And I would to heaven, I were your son , so you would love me, Hubert. Hubert. II I talk to him , with his innocent prate He will awake my mercy, which lies dead : Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. [Aside.] Arthur. Are you sick, Hubert ? you look pale today, Iti sool h , I would you were a little sick; That I might sit all night, and watch with you: I warrant, I love you more than you do mc. |
13
98
|
IIdbert. His words do take possession of my bosom. — Head here, younjj Arthur. [Showing a paper.] How (now , I'oolisli rlicurn! [Aside. Turninjj dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief; lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.-- Can you not read it ? is it not fair writ ? Artudr. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul efiect; Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ? Hdbert. Young boy, I must. Arthur. And will you? Hubert. And I will. Arthur. Have you the heart? When your head did (but ake, T knit my handkerchief about your brows, (The best I had, a princess wrought it me,) And I did never ask it you again: And with my hand at midnight held your head ; And , like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time; Saying, What lack you ? and , where lies your grief? Or, What good love may I perform for you? Many a poor man's son would have lain still, And ne' cr have spoke a loving word to you ; ]!ut you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think , my love was crafty love ; And call it, cunning; Do, an if you will: If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me 111, Why, then you must. — Will you put out mine eyes? These eyes, that never did , nor never shall, So much as frown on you ? Hubert. I have sworn to do it: And with hot irons must I burn them out. Arthur. Ah , none , but in this iron age, would do it I The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, And quench his fiery indignation , Even in the matter of mine innocence: Nay , after that, consume away in rust , But for containing fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron ? An if an angel should have come to me. And told me , Hubert should put out mine eyes, [ would not have believ'd no tongue, but Hubert's. Hubert. Come forth. [Stamps. Re-enter Attendants , with cords, irons, lt;)■ e. Do as I bid you do. Arthuii. o, save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out. Even wiib the lierce looks of these bloody men. Hubert. Give me the iron , Isay, and hind him here. Arthur. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough ? 1 will not struggle: J will stand stone-still. For Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! Nay ! hear me, Hubert, drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word , Nor look upon the iron angerly: Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, |
Whatever torment you do put me to. Hubert. Go , stand within; let me alone with him. 1 Attendant. I am best pleas'd to he from sueh a deed. .remit Attendants. Arthur. Alas! I then have chid away my friend ; He hath a stern look , hut a gentle heart: — Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours. Hubert. Come, boy, prepare yourself. Arthur, is there no remedy ? Hubert. None, but to lose your eyes. Arthur. O heaven ! — that there were but a mole in A grain , a dust, a gnat, a wand'ring hair, (yours , Any annoyance in that precious sense ! Then , feeling what small things arc boist'rous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. Hubert. Is this your promise? goto, hold your tongue. Arthur. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes : Let me not hold my tongue; let me not. Hubrrt! Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue ; So I may keep my eyes; O , spare mine eyes ; Though to no use , hut still to look on you! Lo, by my troth , the instrument is cold , And would not harm me. Hubert. 1 can heat it, boy. Arthur. No, in good sooth ; the fire is dead with grief, Being create for comfort, to be us'd In undeserv'd extremes: See else yourself: There is no malice in this burning coal: The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, And strew'd repentant ashes on his bead. Hubert. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. Arthur. And if you do, yuu will but make it blush, And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert: i\ay , it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes, And like a dog tliat is compell'd to fight. Snatch at bis master that doth tarre him on. All things, that you should use to do me wrong , Deny their oiIlce:only you do lack That mercy , which fierce fire, and iron , extends, Creatures of note, for mercy-lacking uses. Hubert. W i ll, see lo live: 1 will not touch thine eyes For all the treasure that thine uncle owes: Yet am I sworn , and 1 did purpose, hoy, With this same very iron to burn them out. Arthur. 0, now you look like Hubert! all this while Yuu were disguised. Hubert. Peace: no more. Adieu; Your uncle must not know but you are dead : I'll fill the dogged spies with fal-e reports. And, pretty child , sleep doubtless, and secure, That Hubert, for the wealth ol all the world , Will not offend theet Arthur. O heaven ! — I thank you, Hubert. Hubert. Silence; no more: Go close/ij in with me. Much danger do I undergo for tliee. [Exeunt. |
|
*Kin(j iilcilAHD. Too well, loo well, tliou lell'statale Where is the curl of Wiltshire? where is I!a;;ot? (so ill. What is become of liushy? where is Green ? That they have let the danjjerous enemy Measure our confines with such peaceful steps? If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it. 1 warrant, they have made peace with Bolinghroke. Sckoop. Peace have they made with him, indeed, my (lord. Kinjj Riciurd. Ü villains, vipers, damn'd without I)o;;s, easily won to fawn on any man ! (redemption ! Snakes, in my hcart-ldood warm'd, thatstin;; my heart! Three .Indasses, each one thrice worse than Judas I W ould tliey make peace? terrihle hell make war Upon their spoiled souls for this oltence ! Scroop. Sweet love, 1 see, ohanjjin» his property. Turns to the sourest and most deadly Late : — Ajj.'iiti uncurse their souls; their peace is made AVith heads, and not with hands: those whom youeurse. Have felt the worst of death's deslroyinjf wound , And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground. ACMERI.i:. Is liushy. Green , and the earl of Wiltshire, (dead? Scroop, Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads. Aujieri.e. Where is the duke my father with Lis power? King UlcnARD. No matter where; of comfort no man Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ; (speak ; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Wrile sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Lei's choose executors , and talk of wills: And yet not so , — for what can we hequeatL , Save our deposed bodies to the ground ? Our lands , our lives, and all are Lolingbroke's, And nothing can wo call our own, but death ; And that shall model of the barren earth, Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For heaven's sake , let us sit upon the ground , And tell sad stories of the death of kings; — How some have been depos'd , some slain in war, Some haunted hy the ghosts they have depos'd ; Some poison'd hy their wives, some sleeping kill'd ; All mnrder'd : — For within the hollow crown. That rounds the mortal temples of a king, Keeps death his court: and there the untie sils, Scoflin;; bis state, and grinning at bis pomp ; Allowing him a breath, a little scene To monurchiz.e, be fear'd, and kill with looks; Infusing him with self and vain conceit, — As if this flesh , which walls about our life, W ere brass impregnable; and, Lumour'd tbus. Comes at the last, and with a little pin Uores through his castlc wall, and — farewell king I Cover your heads, and mock not llesb and blood With solemn reverence; throw away respect, |
Tradition , form, and ceremonious duty , For you have hut mistook me all this while: I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief, Need friends ; — Subjected thus , How can you say to me — I ijm a king?* * King ulcdard. What must, the king do now ? Must The king shall do it. Must be he depos'd ? (he submit? The king shall be contented: Must he lose The name of King ? o' God's name-, let it go: I'll ('ive my jewels, for a set of beads; gorgeous palace, for a hermitage; My gay apparel, for an alms-man's gown ; My ligur'd goldels, for a dish of wood; My scepter , for a pul liter's walking stalT; My subjects , for a pair of carved saints ; And my large kingdom fora little grave, A little little grave, an obscure grave : — Or I'll be buried in the king's highway, Some way of common trade , where subjects' feet May hourly trample on their sovereign's bead : Kor ou my heart they tread , now whilst I live; And , buried once, why not upon my head ?-- Aumerle, thou weep'st; My tender-hearted cousin I — We'll make foul weather with despised tears; Our sighs, anil t hey , shall lodge the summer corn , Ami make a dearth in this revolting land. Or shall we play the wantons with our woes. And make some pretty match with shedding tears? As thus; — To drop them still upon one place, Till they have fretted us a pair of graves Within the earth ; and , therein laid, — There lies Two kinsmen, digg'd their graves with weeping eyes ? Would not this ill do well ? — Well, well, 1 see I talk but idly, and you mock at me. — Most mighty prince, my lord Northumberland, What says king Uolingbroke? will bis majesty Give lliehard leave to live till Richard die? You make a leg , and liolingbroke says — ay. (attend iVoRTntJMBERl.AM). My lord, in ihchase court he doth To speak wilh yon ; may't please you to come down ? King Ricuard. Down , down , I come: like glistering Wanting the manage of unruly jades. (1'hacton , [NOBTUOMItERLAND retires to kolikcbroke.] In the base court ? Itase court, where kings grow base, To come at traitors' calls , and do them grace, In the base court? Come down? Down, court! down (king! For night-owls shriek, where mounting larks should (sing. [Exeunt from (ihove, Bouncbroke. What says his majesty? Northdmberlakb. Sorrow and grief of heart Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man : Vet he is come. * |
100
quot;He [FalstalT] is a thief and glutton, a coward and a boaster always ready to cheat the weak, and prey upon the poor; to terrify the timorous, and insult the defenceless.quot; — Johnson.
night in £astcheap; we may do it as secure as sleep; I f them in the wood ; our visors we will change, after we
(uphold
Falstaff. Well, may'st thou have the spirit of per suasion , and he the ears of profiting, that what thouj Being wanted , he may he more wonder'd at, speakest may move, and what he hears may he believed,i By breaking through the foul and ugly mists that the true prince may (for recreation sake) prove a Of vapours , that did seem to strangle him.
Ifall the year were playing holidays, o sport would he as tedious as to work ;
false thief; for the poor abuses of the time want countenance. Farewell: You shall find me in Kastcheap.
Prince Henry. Farewell, thou latter-spring! Fare- But, when they seldom come, they wish'd-for come, well, All-hallown-summer. [Exit Faistaff. |And nothing plcaseth but rare accidents.
Poins. Now, my good sweet honey lord, ride with usISo, when this loose behaviour I throw off, to-morrow; I have a jest to execute, that I cannot man- And pay the debt 1 never promised ,
age alone. Falstaff, Bardolph , Peto and Gadsliill, shall liy how much better than my word I am ,
rob those men that we have already way-laid; yourself. By so much shall I falsify men's liojgt;cs ;
and I, will not be there: and when they have the booty, And, like bright metal on a sullen ground,
if you and I do not roh them, cut this bead from myiMy reformation, glittering o'er my fault,
shoulders. Shall show more goodly, and attract more eyes,
Prince Henry. But how shall we part with them in Than that which hath no foil to set it oilquot;.
I'll so offend, to make offence a skill ; liedeeming time, when men think least I will
[ Exit.
you •will go, I will stull'your purses full of crowns; if you will not, tarry at home, and he hang'd.
Falstait. Hear me, Ycdward; Ifl tarry at home, and go not, I'll hang yon for going.
i'oins. You will, chops?
Falstaff. Hal, wilt thou make one?
I'rinee llEKlir. Who, I roh ? I a thief? not I, hy my faith.
Falstaff. There's neither honesty, manhood, noi good lellowship in thee, nor thou earnest not of the blood royal, if thou davest not stand for ten shillings
I'rinee Henry. Well. then, once, in my days I'll he a madcap.
Falstafy, Why, that's ■well said.
Prince Henry. Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home.
Falsiaff. By the Lord, I'll he a traitor then, when thou art king.
Prince Henry. I care not.
Poins. Sir John, I pr'ythee, leave the prince and me alone; I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure , that he shall go.
Toins. I!ut, my lads, my liuls, lo-morrow morning, liy four o'clock, early at Gadsliill: There are pilgrims goinjf to Canterbury witli rich offerings, and traders ridinf; to London wilh fat purses : I have visors for you all, you have horses for yourselves; Gadsliill lies to-night in Uochesler; I have hespoke supper to-morrow
setting forth ?
Poins. Why, we will set forth before or after them , and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail; and then will they adventure upon
leave them; and, sirrah, 1 have cases of buckram for the nonre, to immask our noted outward garments.
Prince Henry. But, 1 douht, they will be too hard for us.
I'd ins. Well, for two of them , I know them to be as true-bred cowards as ever turned back; and for the third , if be fight longer than he sees reason, I'll forswear arms. The virlue of this jest will be, the incoin-prehensihle lies that this same fat rogue will tell us, when we meet at suppir: how thirty, at least, he fought with ; what wards , what blows , what extremities he endured; and, in the reproof of this, lies the jest.
Prince Henry. Well, I'll go with thee; provide us all things necessary , and meet me to-morrow night in Eastcheap, there I'll sup. Farewell.
Poins. Farewell, my lord. [Exit Poins.
Prince Henry. I know you all, and will a while The unyok'd humour of your idleness;
Yet herein will I imitate the sun:
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world,
That, when be please again to be himself,
the exploit themselves: which they shall have no sooner achieved, hut we'll set upon I hern.
Prince Henry. Ay, but, 'tis like, that they will know us, hy our horses, hy our habits , and hy every other appointment, to be ourselves.
I'oins. Tut! our horses they shall not see. I'll tie
101
|
Act. ii. Scene ii. * luiter Tuaveilers. 1 Thavehek. Como, neighbour; tlie boyshall lead our liorses down the hill: we'll walk a foot awhile, and case our letjs. Thieves. Stand. Tkavei.iers. Jesu bless us! Faistaff. Strike; down with them; cut the villains' throats: Ah! whorson caterpillars I bacon-fed knaves! they hate us youth: down with them; fleece them. 1 Tiiavelier. 0, we are undone, both wo and ours, for ever. Faistaff. Ilanj ycgorbctlied knaves ; Arc ye undone? No, yc fat villi (Js : I would, your store were here ! On, bacons, on ? What, ye knaves? younif men must live: You arc (frand-jurors; are ye? We'll jure ye, i'faith. [Exeunt F'alsiaff amp; c. (hiring the Tisaveliers out.} Ka-enter Prince Henrit and PoiNS. Prince Henry. The thieves have hound the true men: Now could thou and I rob the thieves, and go merrily to London, it would be argument for a week , laughter , for a month , and a ;;ood jest for ever. Poiks. Stand close, 1 hear them coming. Re enter Thieves. Faistaff. Come, my masters, let us share, and then to horse before day. And the prince and Poins be not two arrant cowards, there's is nu equity stirring: there's no more valour in that Poins, than in a wild-d uck. PrineellEiNRY. Your money.[/?«out upon them. 1'oifis. Villains. [As they are sharing, the Prince and Poiks set upon them. Faistaff, a fter a blow or two , and the rest, run away, leaving their hootij behind them.] * Scene IV. Falstaff. A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects a fori; thee like a Hock of wild geese. I'll never wear hair on my face more. You prince of Wales! Pri nee Henry. VVhy, you whoreson round man! what's the matter ? Falstaff. Are you not a coward? answer me to that; and Poins there ? Poins. 'Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, I'll stab thee. Falstaff. I call thee coward! I'll see thee damned ere I call thee coward: but I would give a thousand pound, I could run as fast as thou canst. You arc straight enough in the shoulders, you care not who sees your back: Call you that, hacking of your friends? A plague upon such hacking! give me them that will face me. Give me a cup of sack: — I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day. Prince Henry. O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunk'st last. Falstaff. All's one for that. A plague of all |
cowards, slill say I. [fie drinLs. Prince Henry. What's the matter? Faistaff. What's the matter? there be four of us here have ta'cn a thousand pound this morning. Prince Henry. Where is it, Jack? Where is it? Faistaff. Where is it? taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four us. Prince Henry. What, a hundred, man ? Falstaff. lam a rogue, if I were not a half-sword with a do/,en of them two hours together. I have 'scap'd by miracle. 1 am eight times thrust through the doublet; four, through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hack'd like a band-saw, ecce sinnnm. 1 never dealt better since I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all cowards! — l.ct them speak: if they speak more or less than truth, they arc villains, and the sons of darkness. Prince Henry. Speak, sirs, bow was it? (jADSDU. We four set upon some dozen,-- Falstaff. Sixteen, at least, my lord. Gadsdu. Anil bound them. Peto. No, no, they were not bound. Falstaff. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them ; or I am a Jew else, an Kbrew Jew. Gaiisiiil. As we were sharing , some six or seven fresh men set upon us,-- Faistaff. And unbound the rest, and then come in the other. Prince Henry. What, fought ye with them all ? Falstaff. All? 1 know not what ye call, all; but if I fought not with fifty of tbcin , 1 am a bunch of radish: if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack , then am I no two-legged creature. POIKS. Pray God, you have not murdered some of them. Falstaff. Nay, that's past praying for: I have peppered two of tliem : two, lain sure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal * Prince Henry. How now, woolsack ? what mutter if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou you ? knowest my old ward ; — here I lay, and thus 1 bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me,— Prince Henry. What, four ? thou said'st but two, even now. Faistaff. Four, Hal; I told thee four. Poins. Ay , ay, he said four. Falstaff. These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made mc no more ado, hut took all their seven poinls in my target, thus. Prince Henry. Seven? why, there were but four even now. Falstaff. In buckram. Poins. Ay, four in buckram suits. Falstaff. Seven by these hilts, or I am villain else. Prince Henry. Pr'ythce let him alone; we shall have more anon. Falstaff. Dost thou hear me, Hal ? Prince Henry. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. Falstaff. Do so, for it is worth the listening to- These nine in buckram, that I told thee of,-- Prince Henry. So two more already. Falstaff. Their points being- broken ,-- |
102
|
i'oins. Down fell their hose. Kalstaff, llojjan to jjivc me (jround: But I followed me close, came in foot and hand; and, with a thought, seven of the eleven [ paid. Prince Henry. O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two! Faistaff. Igt;ut,asthc devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves, in Kendal jjreen, came at my back , and let drive at me ; — for it was so dark, Hal, that thou could'st not see thy hand. Prince Hemiv. These lies are like the father that be;;els them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Wiy , thou clay-brained guts; tliou knotty pated fool: thou whoreson, obscene, greasy trillow-kiech,— Falstaff. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth , the truth ? Prince Henry. Why, how could'st thou know those men in Kendal green, when it was so (lark thou could'st not see thy hand? come tell us your reason; what sayest thou to this? Poins. Come, your reason , Jack , your reason. Faisiaff. What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the strappado , or all the racks in the world , I would not tell you on compulsion! if reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion , I. Prince llENtiy. I'll he no longer guilty of tliis sin ; this bed-presser, this sanguine coward, thishorsc-back-breaker, this huge hill ofllesh;— — Faistaff. Away , you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's-tongue, hull's pwzle, you stock-fish, —O. for breath to utter what is like thee! —you tailor's yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck ;-- Prince Henry. Well breathe a while, and then to it Enter King Henry IV in his nightgown, with a Pace. King Henry. Go, call the carls of Surrey and of Warwick; But, ere they come, bid them o'er-read these letters. And well consider of them : Make good speed.--- [Exit Page. How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! — Sleep , genilc sleep , Nature's soft nurse, how have 1 frighted thcc , That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids dow n , And steep my senses in forgetfuluess ? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs , Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And husb'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber ; Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great. Under the canopies of costly state. And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody ? |
again: and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this. poins. Marck, Jack. Pri nee henry. We two saw you llmr set on four ; yon bound them , and were masters of their wealth.-- Mark now, how plain a talc shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four: and, with a word, outfaced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house; — and, Faistaff, you carried your guts away as ninihly, with as quick dexterity , anil roared f r mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done; and then say, it was in fight? What trick, what device, what starting-hole, canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame? PoiNS. Come, let's hear Jack; What trick hast thou now ? Falstaff. By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters ; was it for me to kill the heir apparent? Should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules: but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter ; I was a coward on instinct. 1 shall think the better of myself, and thcc, during my life; i, for a valiant lion ; and thou, for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money.--Hostess, clap to I he doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. — Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, All the titles of good fellowship come to you! What,shall we he merry? shall we have a play extempore? Prince Henry. Content;— and the argument shall be, thy running away. Faistaff. Ah! no more of that, Hal, and thou lo-vest ine.*® 0 thou dull god, wdiy liest thou with the vile , In loathsome beds; and leav'st the kingly couch , A watch-case , or a common 'larum-bell ? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge; And in the visitation of thew inds. Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstroas heads, and hanging them AVith deaf'ning clamours in the slippery clouds. That, with the hnrlij, death itself awakes ? Can'st thou , 0 partial sleep! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude; And in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to the king ? Then , happy low, lie down I Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. * |
quot;This play has ninny scencs of high dignity, and many of easy merriment.quot; — Johnson.
|
Knlcr the English IIosl; G1.osier , lisdford, Exeteh, Salisbury and Wbstmobeiand. Gioster. Where is the kin;;? liedford. The kinjf himself is rode to view their lialtie. Westmoreland. Of fijjlitin;; men tliey have full three- (score thousand. Exeter. There's five lo one; besides, lliey all are fresh. Salisbury. God's arm strike willi us! 't isa fearful odds, (iod lie \\ i' you, prinees all, I'll to my charge: If v\e no more meet, till' we meet in heaven, Then joyfully, — my noble lord of Bedford, — My dear lord Gloster, — and my good lord Exeler, — Ami my kind kinsman , — warriors all, adieu! Bedford. Farewell, good Salisbury; and good luck go (with tbec! Exeter. Farewell, kind lord, fight valiantly to-day ; And yet I do Ibee wrong, lo mind thee of it, For tbou art fram'd of I be firm, truth of valour. [li.rit Salisbury. Bedford, lie is as full of valour, as of kindness; Princely in both. Westmoreland. O that we now bad here. Enter King Henry. But one ten thousand of those men in England , That do no work to-day ! King Henry. What's be that wishes so? iMy cousin Westmoreland ? — No, my fair cousiu : If we are mark'd to die, we are enough To do our country loss ; and if to live. The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold ; Nor care 1, who dolh feed upon my cost; II yearns me nol, If men my garments wear; Such outward tbingsdwell not in my desires: But, if it be a sin to coved honour, I am the most oiFcnding soul alive. No, 'faith, my co/,, wish not a man from England : |
God's peace! 1 would not lose so great an honour, As one man more, mctbinks, would share from mc, Kor the best hope 1 have. 0, do not wish one more : liatberproclaim it, Westmondaud , through my host, That be, which hath 110 stomach to this fight, Lethim depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for comoy put into bis purse : U e would not die iu that man's company, Thai fears bis fellowship to die with us. This day is cal I'd — the feast of Cris/rian: lie that outlives this day, and comes safe borne. Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, And rose him at the name of Crispian, lie, that shall live this day,and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his friends. And say, —to-morrow is Saint Crispian ; Then w ill he strip his sleeve, and show his scars , And say, — these wounds I had on Crispin's day. Old men forget ; yet all shall he forgot. But he'll remember, nnl/i iidvanlages , What feats be did that day: Then shall our names. Familiar in their mouths as household words, — Harry I be king, Bedford, and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster, — Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd: This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by. Front this daij lu the ending of the world, But we in itshall be rememherd ; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers ; For he, to-day tbat sheds his blood with mc. Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile. This day shall gentle his condition : And gentlemen in England , now a-hed. Shall think themselves accurs'd , they were now here; And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks, That fought with us upon saint Crispin's day. |
..... many of the characters are well discriminated.quot; — Johnson.
|
Enter Talbot and John his son. Talbot. 0 young John Talbot ! I did send for thee, To tutor thee in stratagems of war ; That Talbot's name might be in thee rcviv'd, |
When sapless age, and weak unable limbs , Should bring thy father to his drooping chair. Hut, — 0 malignant and ill-boding stars! Now tbou art come unto a feast of death. |
104
|
A terrible and unavoided danger; Tlierefore, dear hoy, mount on my swiftest liorsc; And I'll direct thee liow tliou slialt escape By sudden tlij[lit,: come , dally not, hegone. John. Is my name Tal ho i ? and am 1 your sou ? And shall Illy ? 0, if you love my mother , Dishonour not her hoiionrahle name , To make a hastard, and a slave of me; The world will say , — lie is not Talhot's hlood , That haselyfled, when nohleTalhot stood. Talbot. My, lo revenge my death, if I he slain. John. He that Hies so, will ne'er relurn again. Talbot. If we hoth stay, we holh are sure to die. John. Then let me slay ; and , father, do you Jly: Your loss is great, so your regard should he; My worth unknown, no loss is known to me. Upon my death the French can litle boast; In yours they w ill, in you all hopes are lost. Flight cannot slain the honour you have won ; But mine it will, that no exploit, have done : You lied for vantage, every one will swear; But, if 1 how, they'll say — it was for fear, There is no hope thai ever 1 will slay. If, the first hour, 1 shrink, and run away. Here, on my knee, 1 heg mortalily, |
Rather than life prescrv'd with infamy. Talbot. Shall all thy mother's hopes lie in one tomb ? JoUN. Ay, rather than I'll shame my mother's womb. Talbot. Upon my blessing I command thee go. john. To fight I will, but not to lly the foe. Talbot. Part of thy father may he sav'd in thee. John. No part of him , but will be shame in me. Talbot. Thou never had'st renown, nor canst notlose it. John. Yes. your renowned name; shall flight abuse it? Talbot. Thy father's charge shall clear thee from that John. You cannot w itness for me, being slain, (stain. If death he so apparent. I lien Igt;ol!i fly. Tal bot. And leave my follow ers here, to fight, and die ' My age was never tainted with such shame. John. Ami shall myyouth he guilty of such blame? No more can 1 be sever'd from your side , Than can yourself yourself in twain divide: Slay, go, do what you will, the like do 1; For live I will not, if my father die. Talbot. Then here I take my leave of thee,fair son, Horn lo eclipse thy life this afternoon. Come , side by side together live and die ; And soul with soul from France to heaven fly. |
|
♦King Henry. I thank thee, Margaret; there words eon (tent me much. — lie-Enler SvtroiK. How now? why look's! thou pale? why tremblest thou? Where is our uncle? what is the matter, Sullolk ? ♦Suffolk. Dead in bis bed, my lord ; Glostcr is dead. *Sdffolk. Com fort, my sovereign! gracious Henry, com- (fort! King IlENItr. Wbat,doth my lord ofSulFolk comfort me? Came he right now to sing a raven's note , Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers; And thinks be , that the chirping of a wren , By crying comfort from a hollow breast, Can chase away the first-conceived sound? Hide not thy poison with such sugar'd words. Lay not thy hands on me; foi bear, 1 say; Their touch affrights me , as a serpent's sting. Thou baleful messenger , out of my sight! Upon thy eye-balls murderous tyranny Sits in grim majesty, to fright the world. Look not upon me, for thine eyes are wounding : — Yet do not go away; — come, basilisk. And kill the innocent ga/.er with thy sight: For in the shade of death I shall find joy , In life, hut double death , now Gloster's dead. Queen Mahcaret. Why do you rate my lord of Suffolk Although the duke was enemy to him , (thus ? Yet ho , most christian-like, lamenst his death : And for myself — foe as he was to me, |
Might liquid tears , or heart-offending groans , Or blood-consuming sighs recall his life , f would be blind with weeping, sick with groans. Look pale as primrose, with blood-drinking sighs, And all to have the noble duke alive. What know 1 how the world may deem of me? For it is known , we were but hollow friends ; It may be judg'd . I made the duke away : So shall my name with slander's tongue he wounded, And princes' courts he lill'd with my reproach This get I by his death : Ah me, unhappy I To he a queen , and crown'd with infamy I King Hen 11Y. Ah, w oe is me for Glostcr, wretched man! Queen Mabcaret. lie woe for me, more wretched man (than he is. What, dost thou turn away, and hide thy face ? I am no loathsome leper, look on me. What, art thou, like the adder, waxen deaf? Be poisonous too, and kill thy forlorn queen. Is all thy comforl shut in Gloster's tomb? Why , then dame Margaret was ne'er thy joy ; Erect bis statue then , and worship it, And make my image but an alehouse sign. Was I , for this, nigh wreck'd upon the sea ; And twice by awkward wind from England's bank Drove hack again unto my native clime? What boded this, but well-forewarning w ind Did seem to say, — Seek not a scorpion's nest, Nor set no footinjron Ibis unkind shore ? |
105
|
What did I llion, hut cura'd the jjnntlc gusts, And lie that loos'd them from their lirazen caves; And hid tiiern Mow towards Kngland's Idcssed shore, Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock? Yet ./T''olus would no he a murderer, But left that hateful office unlo thee : The pretty vaulting sea refus'd to drown me; Knowing, that thou would'sthave me drown'd on shore. With tears as saltas sea through thy unkindncss: The splitting rocks cow'rd in the sinlung sands, And would not dash me with their ragged sides; Because thy llinty heart, more hard than they, Might in thy palace perish Margaret. |
As far as I could ken thy chalky clilfs. When from the shore the tempest heat us hack , I stood upon the hatches in the storm : And when the dusky sky hegan to roh My earnest-gaping sight of thy land's view , I took a costlyjewel from my neck , — A heart it was, hound in with diamonds , — And threw it towards thy land ; — the sea receiv'd it; And so, 1 wish'd, thy hody might my heart: And even with this, i lost fair England's view And hid mine eyes he packing w ith my heart. And call'd them Wind and dusky spectacles, For losing ken of Albion's wished coast. |
|
*Riciui\d of Gr.DSTEn. Ay, Edward «ill use woman (honourably. Would he were wasted, marrow, hones, and all, That from his loins no hopeful hraneh may spring, To croïs me from the golden time I look for! And yet, hetween my soul's desire, and me, (The lustful Edward's title huried,) Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward , And all the unlook'd-for issue of their bodies. To take their rooms, ere I can place myself: A cold premeditation for my purpose! Why, then I do but dream on sovereignty ; Like one that stands upon a promontory. And spies a far-oil'shore where he would tread , Wishing his foot were equal with bis eye; And chides the sea that sunders him from thence. Saying — he'll lade it dry to have his way : So do I wish the crown , being so far oil'; And so I chide the means thai keep me from it; And so I say — I'll cut the causes oil'. Flattering me with impossibilities.— My eye's to quick, my heart o'erweens too much. Unless my hand and strength could equal them. Well, say there is no kingdom then for llichard , What other pleasure can the world afFord ? I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap. And deck my body in gay ornaments, And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks. O miserable thought! and more unlikely, Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns! Why , love forswore me in my mother's womb: And , for I should not deal in her soft laws, She did corrupt frail nalure with some bribe To shrink mine arm up like a witber'd shrub; To make an envious mountain on my hack, Where sits deformily to mock my body; To shape my legs of an unequal size; To disproportion me in every part, Like to a chaos, or an unlicli'd bcdr whclp, That carries no impression like the dam. |
And am 1 then a man to be belov'd ? O, monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought Then , since this earth allbrds no joy to me. But to command , to check , tu o'erhear such As arc of belter person than myself, I'll make my heaven — to dream upon the crown ; And , whiles I live, to account this world but hell, Until my mis-shap'd trunk that hears this head , He round impaled with a glorious crown; And yet I know not how to get the crown. For many lives stand between me and home : And I, — like one lost in a thorny wood , Thai rents the thorns, and is rent with the thorns; Seeliing a way, and straying from the way: Not knowing how lo find the open air, Hut toiling desperately to liml it out, — Torment myself lo catch the English crown : And from that torment I will free myself. Or hew my way out witb a bloody axe. Why, I can smile, and murder while 1 smile; And ery , content, to that which grieves my heart; And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face lo all occasions. I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall ; I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk ; I'll play the orator as well as Neslor, Deceive more slily than Ulysses could , And, like a Sinon , take another Troy: I can add colours to the camelcon , Change shapes, with Proteus, for advantages. And set the murd'rous Machiavel to school. Can I do this. and cannot get a crown ? Tut I were it further oilquot;, I'll pluck it down. [Exit. Act V. — Scene VI. King IlENiir is discovered silling with a Hooi' in his Hand, the Lieutenant attending. Enter ulchard of (jLOSTER. (bard? Gloster. Good day, my lord ! what, at your book so King IIeniiy. Ay, my good lord : My lord, i should 'Tis sin to Halter, good was little belter : (say rather: |
14
106
|
(«ood Gloslcr, and (rood devil, were alike, And bolli preposterous ; therefore, not [»ood lord. (ïlOSTEB. Sirrah , leave uslo ourselves: we must confer [Exit Lieulenant ] King Henry. So Jlics llie reckless shepherd from the So first the harmless sheep dolh yield his flecce, (wolf: And next liis throat unto the huteher's knife. — What scene of death hath Uoseius now to act ? Gi.ostei\. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind ; The thief doth fear each hush an ollicer. King Henry. The bird, that hath heen lim'd in a hush, AVitli trembling wings inisdoubteth every hush : And 1 the hapless mule to one sweet bird, Have now theiatal object in my eye , Where my poor young was I irn'd, was caught, and kili'd. Giosteh. Why, w liat a peevish fool was that of Crete , That taught his sou the office of a fowl ? And yet, for all his wings , the fool was drown'd. King Henry. I, Daedalus ; my poor boy, Icarus; Thy father, Minos , that denied our course: The sun that sear'd the wings of my sweet boy, Thy brother Edward ; and thyself tlie sea , Whoso envious gulf did swallow up his life. Ah , kill me with thy weapon , not with words! My breast can better brook thy dagger's point, Than can my ears that tragic history. — But wherefore dost thou come? Is'l for my life? Oldster. Think'st thou, I am an executioner? King Henry. A persecutor, I am sure thou art; If murdcrinn- innocents he executing , Why, than thou art an executioner. Gloster. Thy son 1 kili'd for his presumption. King Henry. Hadst thou been kili'd, when first thou Thou hadst not liv'd to kil la son of mine.((lidst presume. And thus I prophesy, — that many a thousand , Which now mistrust no pared of vnj fear ; And many an old man's sigh , and many a widow's, And many an orphan's water-standing eye, — Men for their sons , wives for I heir husband's fate. And orphans for their parents' timeless death, Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born. The owl shriek'd at thy birth , an evil sign ; The night-crow cried, ahoding luckless time; Dogs howl'd , and liideous tempests shook down trees ; 'Ihe raven rook'd her on the chimney's top. And chattering pies in dismal discords sung. Thy mother felt more than a mother's pain , |
And yet brought forth less than a mother's hope; To wit, — an indigest deformed lump, Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. Teeth hadst thou in thy bead , when thou wast born , To signify, thou cam'st to bite the world : And , if the rest he true which I have heard, Thou cam'st — Giocester. I'll hear no more ; — Die, prophet. in thy (speech: [Stabs hint,. Kor this, amongst the rest, I was ordain'd. King Henry. Ay, and for much more slaughter after this. O God ! forgive my sins, and pardon thee ! Gloster. What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster Sink in the ground ? I tbongh t it would have mounted. See, bow my sword weeps for the poor king's death ! 0 , may such purple tears be always shed Krom those that wish the downfall of our house! — If any spark of life he yet remaining, Down , down to bell ; and say — I sent thee thither, IStiths him again.'] ï, that have neither pity, love , nor fear. — Indeed 'I is true , that Henry told me of; Kor 1 have often heard my mother say, 1 came into the world with iny legs forward : Had I not reason , think ye, to make haste , And seek their ruin thai usurp'd our right? The midwife wondcr'd : and the women ci icd , Ü, Jesus bless us, be is born with teeth And so I was ; which plainly signified — That 1 should snarl, and bite, and play the dog. Then, since the heavens have shap'd my body so, Let hell makecrook'd my mind to answer it. 1 have no brother, I am like no brother; And ibis word — love, which grey beards call divine , lie resident in men like one another, And not in me; I am myself alone. Clarence, beware ; thou keep'st me from the light; But I will sort a pitchy day for thee; Kor I will but abroad such prophecies, That lidward shall be fearful of bis life; And then . to purge bis fear, I'll he thy death. King Henry, and the prince his son , are gone: Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest; Counting myself but bad , till 1 be heat. — I'll throw thy body in another room , And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom. [Exit. |
|
*DccnESS of York. Art thou my son ? King UicnARD. Ay; I thank God, my father, and your-Ddciiess. Then patiently bear my impatience. (self. King lilCHARi). Madam , I have u touch of yourrondi-That cannot brook the accent of reproof. {lion, Duchess. 0, let mc speak. King IUcuard. Do, then; but I'll not hear. |
DtrcnESS. I will be mild an gentle in my words. King UicnARl). And brief, good mother; for I am in Ddcdess. Art thou so hasty? I liave staid lor thee, (haste God knows, in torment and in agony. King It icuARi). And came I not at last to comfort you? Duchess. No, by the holy rood, thou knowest it well , Thou cam'st on earth to make the earth my hell. |
107
|
A grievous Imrdcu was thy birlli to me; Tetchi/ ami wayward was thy infancy; (rious; Tliy school-days, frightful, desperate, wild, and fu-Thy prime of manhood , darinjj, lioldand venturous; Thy age confirm'd, proud , subtle, sly, and hloody; More mild , hut yet more harmful , kind in hatred : What comfortahic hour canst thou name, 'I'licit ever grae'd me in tliy company ? King Uiciiahd. 'Faith, none, hut Humphrey I/uur, (that cal I'd your grace, To breakfast once , forth of my company. If I be so disgracious in your sight. Let me march on, and not oflend you, madam. — Strike up the drum. Ddciiess. J pr'ytbee, hear me speak. King lliCUAlU). Vou speak too bitterly. Duchess. Hear me a word, For I shall never speak to thee again. King IliCDAlU). So. Ddciiess. Either thou wilt die, by God's just ordinance, Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror; Or 1 with grief and extreme age shall perish , And never look upon thy face again. Therefore , take with Ihee my most heavy curse; Which, in the day of battle, tire thee more. Than all the complete armour that thou wcar'st! My prayers on the adverse party fight; And there the little souls of Edward's children Whisper the spirits of thine enemies, And promise them success and victory. lil oody thou art, bloody will be Ihy end ; Shame serves thy life, and doth tliy death attend. Queen Eiiz.abetii (Widow of KingKflWARD IV).TIiougb (fur more cause, yet iiiuch less spirit to cursc |
Abides in me; I say amen to her. [Going.* Act. V. — Scene III. *( The Ghosts vanish,. King liicuARD starts out of his dream.) King UiciiAliD. Give me another horse, — bind up my (wounds, —■ Heave mercy, Jesu! — Soft; I did hut dream. — 0 coward conscience, how dost thou afllict me; — The lights burn blue. — It is now dead midnight. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling llcsh. What do I fear? myself? there's none else by: Richard loves Richard ; that is, 1 am £. Is there a murderer here ? iXo; — Yes ; I am : Then fly, — What, from myself? Great reason : Why ? Lest 1 revenge. What? llyselfon myself? 1 love myself. Wherefore? for any good. That I myself have done unto myself ? 0, no: alas, J rather hate myself. For hateful deeds committed by myself. lam a villain: Yet I lie, I am not. Fool, of thyself speak well: — Fool, do not flatter. My conscience hath a thousand several tongues. And every tongue brings in a several tale. And every talc condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree; Murder, stern murder, in the dir'st degree; All several sins, all us'd in each degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, — fiuilty! guilty I I shall despair. — There is no creature loves me ; And, if I die, no soul will pity me; — l\ay , wbcrefore should they ? since that I mysel f Find In myself no pity to myself. Melhonght, the souls of all that I had murder'd Came to my tent: and every one did threat Tomorrow's vengeance on the head of Richard.* |
quot;The meek sorrows and virtuous distress of Katharine have furnished soaic scones, which may bo justly nnmbered among the greatest efforts of Iragedy.quot; — Johnson.
|
♦Katharine. Sick], Sir, I most humbly This to my lord theking. (pray you to deliver Capucids [Ambassador from the emperor Charles V]. (Most willing, madam. Katharine. In which I have commended tohis goodness The model of our chaste lores, his young daughter;— The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her! — Besecching him , lo give her virtuous breeding ; (She is young, and of a nobel modest nature; 1 hope, she will deserve well ;) and a little To love her for her mother's sake, that lov'd him, Heaven knows bow dearly. My next poor petition Is , that his noble grace would havo some pity Upon my wretched women, that so long , Have follow'd both my fortunes faithfully ; |
Of which there is not one, I dare avow, (Ami now I should not lie,) but will deserve. For virtue, and true beauty of the soul, For honesty , and decent carriage, A right good husband, let him be a noble; And, sure, those men are happy that shall have them. The last is, for my men: — they are the poorest, But poverty could never draw them from me ; — Tiiat they may have their wages duly paid I hem , And something over to remember me by; If heaven had pleas'd to have given me longer life, And able means, we bad not parted thus. These are the whole contents: — And , good my lord , Ry that you love the dearest in this world , As you wish christian peace to souls departed , |
108
|
Stand llicse jioor people's 1'i'iciul, and nrjjc llie kin^ To do tnc tins last rijjht. CirDcms. Dy heaven, 1 will; Or let me lose the fashion of a man ! Katharine. I thank yon, honest lord. Remember me In all humility unto his highness: Say, his lonjj trouble now is passin;; Out of this world : tell him in death I bless'd him, I'or so I will. — Mine eyes grow dim. — Farewell, iUy lord. — GrifRlh, farewell. — Nay, Patience, Enter Ajax and Tiiersites. Ajax. Thersites,-- Tuersites. Agamemnon — how if he had boils? full all over, generally? Ajax. Thersites,-- Tuersites. And those hoilsdid run? — Say ■so,— did not the general run , then ? were not that a hotchy core? Ajax. Dog,-- Thersites. Then would come some matter from him; I sec none now. Ajax. Thou hitch-wolf's son , canst thon not hear ? Feel then. [Strikes /awi.J Thersites, The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mongrel beef-witted lord! Ajax. Speak then, thou unsalted leaven, speak: I will beat thee into handsomeness. Thersites. 1 shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness: hut, I think, ihy horse will sooner con an oration , than thou learn a prayer without book. Thou canst strike, canst thou ? a red murrain o'thy jade's tricks! Ajax. Toads-stool, learn me the proclamation. Thersites. Dost thou think, I have no sense, thou strikest me thus ? Ajax. The proclamation,-- Thersites. Thou art proclaimed a fool , I think. Ajax. Do not, porcupine, do not; my fingers itch. Thersites. I would, Ihon didst itch from head io toot, and I bad the scratching of thee; I Mould make thee the loathsomest scab in Greece. When thou art forth in the incursions, thou strikest as slow as another. Ajax. I say the proclamation,--- Thersites. Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles; and thou art as full of envy at his greatness as Cerberus is at Proserpina's beauty, ay, that thou harkest at him. Ajax. Mistress Thersites! Thersites. Thou sbouldcst strike him. Ajax. Coblouf/ |
Yon must not leave me yet. I must to bed ; Call in more women. — When I am dead, ;;ood wench, Let mo be us'd with honour; strew me over With maiden flowers, that all the world may know 1 was a chaste wife to my grave: embalm me , Then lay me forth : although unqueen'd, yel like A queen, and daughter to a king , inter me. I can no more.--- \Eu:cuiit, leading katharine. he comic charnijtcrs seem to Lave !)eeii the luvourites of the writer.quot; — Johnson. Thersites. lie would /gt;uii thee inlo shivers with his list, as a sailor breaks a biscuit. Ajax. You whoreson cur! f lleatiny him.] Thersites. Do, do, Ajax. Thou stool for a witch! Thersites, Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witled lord I thou bast no more brain than I have in my elbows; an assinego may tutor thee: Thou scurvy valiant ass! thou art here put to trash Trojans; and tbou art bought and sold among those of any wit, like a Barbarian slave. If thou use to heat me, I will begin at thy heel, and tell what thou art by inches, thou tiling of no bowels, thou! Ajax. You dog! Thersites. Y'ou scurvy lord! Ajax. You cur I [ Heating him. Thersites. Mars his idiot! do, rudeness; do, camel; do, do. Enter Aciiiues and patrocids. Achilies. Why, bow new. Ajax? wherefore do you thus? How now, Thersites? what's the matter, man ? Thersites. You sec him there, do you? Achuies. Ay; what's the matter? Thersites. Way, look upon him. Achuies. So 1 do; what'sthematter? Thersites. Nay, but regard him well. Acuuies. Well, why I do so. Thersites. But yd you look not well upon him: for, whosoever you take him to be, he is Ajax. Achuies. I know that, fool. Thersites. Ay, hut that fool knows not himself. Ajax. Therefore I beat i bee. Thersites. I.o, lo, lo. Io, what modicums of wit he utters! his evasions have ears th us long. I have bobbed his brain, more than lie has heat my bones; I will buy nine sparrows fora penny, and bis pi a inciter is not worth the ninth part of a sparrow. This lord . Acliilles, Ajax,— who wears his wit in bis belly, and his guts in his bead , — I'll tell you what i say of bini. |
109
|
Acuiiles. What V 'J'iiersiies. 1 say , tliis Ajax-- Acuiiles. Nay, fjood Ajax. [Ajax offers to strike him, Acuuies interposes.] Tbersites. lias not so much wit-- Acuili.es. Nay, I must hold you. XnEHSlTES. As will stop the eye of Helen's needle . for whom he comes to figl.t. Acuilles. Peace, fool! Tiieiisites. I would have peace and quietness, liut the fool will not; he there; that he; look you there. Ajax. O thou damned cur! I shall-- Aciiili.es. Will you set your wit to a fool's ? tnehsltes. No, I warrant you ; for a fool's will shame it. Patboclds (jood words, Thersites. Achilles. What's the quarrel ? Ajax. I hade the vile owl , (jo learn me the tenour of the proclamation , and he rails upon me. Thersites. 1 serve thee not. Ajax. Well, f;o to, jjo to. Thersites, 1 serve here voluntary. Achilles. Your last service was sufferance,'t was not voluntary; no man is heaten voluntary ; Ajax was here the voluntary, and you as under an impress. Thersites. Even so? — a (jreat deal of your wit too lies in your sinews, or else there he liars. Hector shall have a {jreat catch , if he knock out either of your brains; 'a were as good crack a fusty t;ut with no kernel. |
Acuilles. What, wilh mc too, Thersites? Thersites. There's Ulysses, and old Nt.slor, — whose wit was mouldy ere your grandsires had nails on their toes, —yoke you like draught oxen, and make you plough up the wars, Aciiili.es. What, what ? Thersites. Yes, good sooth; To Achilles! to Ajax! to! Ajax. I shall cutout your tongue. Thersites. 'Tis no matter; 1 shall speak as much as thou, afterwards. 1'atiioci.us, Ko more words, Thersites ; peace. Thersites. I will hold my peace when Achilles' braclt hids me, shall I ? AcniLlES. There's for you , Palrodus. 'fHEnsiTES, I will see you hanged, like clolpoles, ere I corno any more to your tenls. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction ot fools. [/la'i't. Patroclus. A. good riddance. Achilles. Marry, this , sir, is proclained through That Ilcclor. by the firsl hourofthe sun , (all our host; I Will, with a trumpet, 'twixt our tent and Troy, 'To-morrow morning call some knight to arms, That bath a stomach ; and such a one, that dare Maintain — I know not what; 'tis trash: Farewell. Ajax. Farewell. Who shall answer him? Acuilles. 1 know not, it is put to lottery; otherwise. He knew his man. Ajax. 0, meaning you : — I'll go learn more of it. [Exeunt. |
quot;.....a very powerful warning against that ostentatious liberality , which scatters lionnly , but confers no benefits, and buys flattery, but not frioudship.quot; — Johnson.
Act III,
|
Music, Tables set out; Servants attending, Enter divers Lords ut several doors. 1 Lord. The good time of day to you, sir. 2 Lord. I also wish it to you. I think this honourable lord did but try us this other day. 1 Lord. Upon that were nuj thoughts tiring, when we encountered ; I hope it is not so low with him, as be made it seem in the trial of his several friends. 2 Lord. It should not be, by the persuasion of his new feasting. 1 Lord. 1 should think so: lie hath sent mc an earnest inviting, which many my near occasions did urge mo to put oil; but be bath conjured me beyond them, and 1 must needs appear. 2 Lord. In like manner was I in debt to my importunate business, but be would not bear my excuse. I am sorry, when be sent to borrow of mc, that my provision was out. 1 Lord. I am sick of that grief too, as I understand how all things go. 2 Lord. Every man here's so. What would he have borrowed of vou? |
1 Lord. A thousand pieces. 2 Lord. A thousand pieces! 1 Lord. What of you ? 3 Lord. He sent to me, sir, — Here be comes. Enter T151 on and Attendants. TimON. Wilh all my heart, gentlemen both: — And bow fare you ? 1 Lord. Ever at tbc best, bearing well of your lordship. 2 Lord. The swallow follows not summer more willing, than we your lordship. Timon [Aside.'] No more willingly, leaves winter; such summer-birds are men. — Gentlemen, our dinner will not recompense this long slay; feast your cars wilh tbc music awhile: if they will fare so harshly on the trumpet's sound: we shall to't presently. 1 Lord. I hope , it remains not unkindly with your lordship, that 1 turned you an empty messenger. Timon. 0, sir, let it not trouble you, 2 Lord. My noble lord,-- Timon. Ab , inv good friend ! what cheer? I /Vic fiiiiiqiiet bronijhi in J |
110
|
2 LOHD. My rno4 honourable lord , I am e'en sick ol' shame, that, when your lorclsliip this oilier day sent to me, 1 was .'o nnfoitunate a beggar. Timon. Think not on't, sir. 2 Loud, if you had sent hut two hours before, •— TlMOK. Let it not cumber your heller remembrance. — Come, bring in all together. 2 Lord. All covered dishes! 1 Loud. Uoyal cheer, I warrant you. 3 Lord. Doubt not that, if money, and the season can yield it. 1 Lord. How do you ? What's the news ? 3 Lord. Alcibiades is banished: Hear you of it ? 1 amp; 2 Lord. Alcibiadcs banished! 3 Lord. 'ïis so, bo sure of it. 1 Lord. How ? how? 2 Lord. I pray you upon quot;what? Timon. My worthy friends, will you draw near. 3 Lord. I'll tell you morcanon. J/ore'sa noble feast toward. 2 Lord. This is the old man still. 3 Lord. AVill't hold , will't bold ? 2 Lord. It does: but time will — and so-- 3 Lord. I do conceive. Timon. Kacb man to his stool, with that spur as he would to the lip of his mistress: your diet shall be in all places alike. Make not a city feast of it, to let the meet cool ere wo can agree upon the first place : Sit, sit. The gods require our thanks. You great henefactors, sprinlde our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts , make yourselves praised: but reserve still to give, lest your deities be despised. Lend to each man enouyh, that one need not lend to another: for were your godheads to borrow of men , men would forsake the gods. Make the meat be beloved, more than the man that yires it. Let no assembly of twenty be wil hout a score of villains: If there sit twelve women at the table, let a dozen of them be — as they are. The rest of your fees, O gods, — the senators of Athens, together ult;ith the coimnon lag of people, —what is amiss in them, you gods, make suitable for destruction. For these my present |
friends , — as they are to me nothiuy , so in uothiny bless them, and to nothing they are welcome. Uncover , dogs, and lap. [ The Dishes uncovered, are full of warm water.quot;] Some Speak. What does his lordship mean ? Some Other. I know not. Timon. May you a better feast never behold , You knot of mouth-friends! smoke, and luke-warm Is your perfection. This is Timon's last; (water Who stuck and spangled you with flatteries, Washes it oil', ami sprinkles in your faces [ Throwiny water in their faces.] Vour reeking villainy. Live loath'd, and long. Most smiling, smootli, detested parasites , Courteous destroyers, aflable wolves, meek bears. You fools of fortune, trencher friends, time's flies. Cap and knee slaves, vapours, and minute-jacks, Of man , and beast, the infinite malady Crust you quite o'er! — What dost thou go? Soft, take thy physic first—thou too, — and thou; (Throws the Dishes at them, and drives them out.) •Stay, I will lend tliec money, borrow none. What, all in motion ? Henceforth be no feast, Whereat a villain's not a wclcnme guest. Burn, house; sink, Athens! henceforth hated ho Of Timon , man, and all humanity. [/i.rtV. Re-enter //ie Lords, huV/j oiAer Lords ««(/Senators. 1 Lord. How mow , my lords ? 2 Lord. Know you the quality of lord Timon's fury? 3 Lonn. 1'ish ! did you see my cap ? 4 Lord. I have lost my gown. 3 Lord. He's hut a mad lord, and nought hut humour sways him. Hu gave me a jewel the other day , and now be has heat it out of my bat; Did you see my jewel ? 4 Lord. Did you see my cap? 2 Lord. Here 'tis. 4 Lord. Here lies my gown. 1 Lord. Let's make no stay. 2 Lord. Lord Timon's mad. 3 Lord. I feel't upon my bones. 4 Lord. One day he gives us diamonds, next day stones. [Exeunt. |
quot;The old man's merriment in Menenius......make
a very pleading and interesting variety:.....quot; — Johnson,.
|
Enter Menenius, SlCINIos, and liRtlTCS. Menenius. The augurer tells inn, wo shall bavc news to night. JillüTüS. Good , or bad? Menenius. j\'ol according to tbo praver of the people, for they love not Marcius. Sicinios. Nature tcachcs beasts to know their friends. |
Menenius. Pray you, who docs the wolf love ? Sioinius. The lamb. MenëMUS. Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the noble Marcius. Iïrdtüs. He's a lamb indeed. that baes like a bear. Menenius. lie's a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two arc old men; tell me one thing that I shall ask yon. |
|
linlh Tribunes. Well, sir. Menenius. In what enormity is Marcius poor, that you Iwo liave not in abundance? Brutus, lie's poor in no one fault, liut stored with all. Sicimus. Es|icciiilly. in pride. liiiUTUS. Ami topping all others in lioasting. Menenius. This is strange now: Do you two know how you are censured here in the city, I mean of us o'tlie right hand file ' Do you ? liolh Tribunes. Why, how are we censured ? Menenius. Because you talk of pride now , — Will you not he angry ? Both Tribunes. Wel I, well, sir, well. Menenius. Why,'tis no jjreat matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience: give your disposition the reins, and he angry at your pleasures; at the least , if you take it as a pleasure to you, in being so. You blame Marcius for being proud? Bbutus. AVe do it no alone, sir. Menenius. I know you can do very little alone; for your helps are many ; or else your act ions would grow wondrous single: your abilities are too infant I ike, for doing much alone. You talk of pride: O, that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of yoiirnecks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O, that you could ! Bbutus. What then, sir? Menenius. Why, then you should discover a brace of unmcriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates, (alias fools,) as any in Home. Sicinius. Menenius, you are known well enough too. |
Menenius. 1 am known to he a humorous patrician , and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tyber in't; said to be something imperfect, in favouring the first com plaint: hasty, and tinder-like, upon to trivial motion ; one that converses more with, the buttock of the night, than with the forehead of the morning. What I think, I utter; and spend my malice in my breath: Meeting two such weals-men as you are (I cannot call you Lycurguses) if the drink yon give me, touch my palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. i cannot say, your worships have delivered the matter well, when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables: and though 1 must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men; yet they lie deadly, that tell, you have good faces. I f you sec this in the map of my microcosm, follows it, that I am known well enough too. What harm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this character, if 1 he known well enough too? Brutus. Come, sir, come, we know you well enough. Menenius. You know neither me, yourselves, nor any thing. You are ambitiousyorknaves* caps and legs; you wear out a good wholesome forenoon, in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a fosset-seller; and then rejourn the controversy of three-pence to a second day of audience. —• When you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to be pinched with the cbolic, you make faces like mummers ; set up the bloody flag against all patience; and, in roaring lor a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing: all the peace you make in their enuse, is, calling both the parties knaves: You are a pair of strange ones. Brutus. Come, come, you are well understood to he a perfecter giber for the table, than a necessary bencher in the Capitol. Menenius. Our very priests must become mockers, if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your beards; and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave, as to stuff a botcher's cushion , or to be entombed in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must he saying. Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors, since Deucalion; though, perad ven lure, some of the best of them were hereditary hangmen. Good e'en to your worships; more of your conversation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of lbo beastly plebeians: I will be bold to take my leave of you. [Brutus and Sicinius retire to the hack of the Scene.~\* |
quot;Of this trngedy many particular passages deserve regard , and the contention and reconcilement of lirutus and Cassias is universally ccleljeated;.......quot; — Johnson.
|
Act. 1. — Scene ii. ^CassiDS, Will you go see the order of the course ? Brutus. Wot I. Cassius. I pray you, do. Brutus. I am not gamesome; I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not binder, Cassius, your desires; I'll leave you. |
Cassius. Brutus, I do observe younowoflale: 1 have not from your eyes that gentleness, And show of love, as I was wont to have : You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. Brutus. quot; Cassius, Be not deceiv'd : If I have vcil'd my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am, I Of late, with passions of some difference , |
112
|
Conceptions only proper lo my.-elf, Wliidi j;ive some soil, pcrlmps , to my hcliaviours : I5ut let not therefore tny gooj friends be jjriev'il; (Amon^; which number, Cassius. he you one;) Nor construe any further my neglcct, Than that poor lirulus. with liimsclfat war, Forgets the siiows of love to other men. [passion ; Cassids. Then, lirulus, 1 have much mistook your By means whereof, this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogilations. Tell me, good Brutus , can you see your face ? Brutds. No Cassius: for llie eye sees not itself, But by reflection , by some other things. Cassius. 'Tisjust; And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors, as will turn Your bidden worthiness into your eye. That you might sec your shadow. I have heard , Where many of the best respect in Rome , {Except immortal Caesar) speaking of Brutus, And groaning underneath this age's yoke. Have wish'd that noble lirulus had bis eyes. BnuTDs. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself. For that which is not in me ? Cassids. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepar'd to hear : And , since you know you cannot see yourself So well as by reflection , i, your glass, Will modestly discover lo yourscll That of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous of me, gentle lirulus : AVere I a common laugher, or did use To stale with ordinary oaths my love To evcrij new protester; if you know That f do fawn on men, and bug them bard , And after scandal them ; or if you know That I profess myself in banqueting To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. [Flourish, and shout. BntlTUS. What means this shouting? I do fear the Choose Caesar for their king, (people Cassids. Ay, do you fear it ? Then must I think you would not have it so. BiiüTDS. I would not, Cassius; yet f love him well: — But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would imparl to me ? If it be aught toward ihe general good. Set honour in one eye , and death i'the olber , And I will look on both indiflerently: For . let the gods so speed me, as I love T1 ic name of honour more then ! fear death. Cassids. I know that virtue to he in you , lirulus, As well as 1 do know your outward favour. Well, honour is the subject of my story. — I cannot tell , what you and other men Think of this life : hut, for my single self, I had as lief not be, as live to lie In awe of such a thing as 1 myself. I was horn free as Caesar , so were you : AVe both have fed as well; and we can both Kudu re the winter's cold . as well as he. |
For once, upon a raw and gusty day , The troubled Tyber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to mc , Dar'st I hou, Cassius, noiv Leap in with me into this angry flood, And swim lo yonder point? — Upon the word , Aceouter'd as I waï, I plunged in , And bade him follow; so , indeed, he did. The torrent roar'd : and we did bullet it AVilh lusty sinews; throwing it aside And stemming it with hearts of controversy. But ere we could arive the point propos'J, Caesar cry'd , Help me, Cassius, or I sink. I, as /Eneas, our great ancestor , Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anehises bear, so from the waves of Tyber Did I the tired Caesar : And this man Is now become a god ; and Cassius is A wretched creature , and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly hut nod on bim. He bad a fever when he was in Spain , And , when the fit was on him , I did mark, How he did shake: 't is true, this god did shake: His coward lips did from their colour fly. And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world , Did lose his lustre: I did hear him groan : Aye, and that, tongue of his , that bade the Romans Mark him , and write his speeches in their books, Alas! it cried , Give me some drinl:, Titinius , As a sick girl. Ye gods, it dolh ama/.c me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the slai t of the majestic world , And bear the palm alone. [Shout. Flourish. Brdtds. Another general slioul! I do believe that these applauses are For some new honours that are heap'd on Caesar. Cassids. AV'hy, man, he dolh bestride the narrow Like a Colossus; and we petty men (world. Walk under his huge legs, and peep about To find ourselves dishonourable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus , is not in our slars , But in ourselves , I hut we are underlings. Brutus, and Caesar : what should be in I bat Caesar ? Why should that name be sounded more than yours ? Write them togcllier. yours is as fair a name; Sound them, il doth become the mouth as well : Weigh thcm,il is as heavy: conjure with them, Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. [Shout. Now in the names of all the gods at once. Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed , That he is grown so great ? Age, thou art sham'd : Borne, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods I When went there by an age, since the great flood , But it was fam'd with more than with one man ? AVhen could they say, till now , that talk'd of Home, That he wide walks cncompass'd but one man ? Now is it Rome indeed , and room enough , AVhen there is in it but one only man. O! you and I have heard or fathers say, There was a Brutus once , that would have brook'd The elernel devil to keep his state in Rome, |
-
|
As easily as a king. üliüTDS. That you do love mc, I am rioUiingjealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim; How 1 have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter; for this present; I would not, so with love I might entreat you, Be any further mov'd. What you have said , 1 will consider: what you have to say, I will with patience hear: and find a time Both meet to hear, and answer, sucii high things. Till then, my nohle friend , chew upon this; Brutus had rather he a villager , Than to repiite himself a son of Rome Under these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us, Cassius. I am glad, that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus. * Act. IV. — Scene III. Lucius and Titimus tif some distance from it. luitcr Brutus and Cassids. Cassius. That you lia\e wrong'd me, dolh appear in You have comlemn'd and noted Lucius I'ella, (this; For taking brihes here of the Sardians ; Wherein . my letters . praying on his side. Because 1 knew the man , were slighted oil'. BrotUS.You wrong'd yourself, to write in such a case. Cassius. In such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should hear his comment. Brutus. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemn'd to have an ilchingpalm ; To sell and mart your offices for gold , To undeservers. Cassius. I an itching palm ? You know that you are Brutus that speak this. Or, by the goils, this speech were else your last. Brutus. The name of Cassius, honours this corrup-And chastisement doth, therefore hide his head, (lion, Cassius. Chastisement! Bbutus. Remember March . the ides of March re-Dili not great Julius bleed for justice'sake? (member! What villain touch'd his body, that did xtah, And not for justice? What, shall one of us , That struck the foremost man of all this world, But for supporting robbers ; shall we now Contaminatc our fingers with base bribes? Ami sell the mighty space of our large honours. For so much trash as may be grasped thus? — I had rather be a dog , and bay the moon , Then such a Bomean. Cassius. Brutus. hay not me, I'll not endure it ; you forget yourself. To hedge me in; I am soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To male conditions. Brutus. Go to: you're not, Cassius. Cassius. I am. Brutus. I say, you are not. Cassius. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; Have mind upon your health , tempt me no further. Brutcs. Away, slight man! |
Bhutus. Hear me, for 1 will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? Shall I be frigthed when a madman stares ? Cassius. O ye gods! ye gods! Must I endure all this? Brutus. All this? ay, more: Fret, till your proud Go, show your slaves how choleric you are,(heart break; And make your bondmen tremble. Must 1 budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humour? By the gods, Y ou shall digest the venom of your spleen ; rhough it do split you: for, from this day forth , I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish. Cassius. Is't come to this? , Bhutus. You say, you are a better soldier: Let it, appear so; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well: For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of nohle men. Cassius. You wrong mc every way; you wrong me, I said , an elder soldier, not a better: (Brutus; Did I say, better ? Brutus. If you did, I care not. Cassius. When Caesar liv'd, be durst notsohave (mov'd me. Brutus. Peace, peace; you durst notsohave tempted Cassius. I durst not? (bim. Brutus. iVo. Cassius. What? durst not tempt him? Brutus. For your live you durst not. Cassius. Do not presume loo much upon my love, I may do that I shall be sorry for. Brutus. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats; For I am arm'd so strong in honesty, That they pass by me, as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold , which you deny'd me; — For I can raise no money by vile means: By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash , l!y any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions , Which you denied me: Was that done like Cassius? Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends. Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts. Dash him to pieces. Cassius. I denied you not. Brutus. You did. Cassius. 1 did not; — he was but a fool, That brought my answer back. — Brutus bath riv'd V friend should bear his friend's infirmities, (myheart: But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. Brutus. [ do not. till you practise them on me. Cassius. You love me not. Brutus. 1 do not like your faults. Cassius. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Brutus. A flatterer's would not, though they do As huge as high Olympus. (appear |
15
114
|
Cassiüs. Conic, Antony, and young Oclavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is aweary of the world: Hated by one lie loves; brav'd by bis brotber; Cheek'd like a bondman; all bis faults observ'd, Set in a note-book , learn'd , and conn'd by rote, To east into my teetb ! O, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes! — There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within a heart Dearer tban 1'lulus' mine, richer than gold: If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth; J, that denied tbee gold , w ill give my heart: Strike as thou didst at Caesar; for, I know, When tbou didst bate him worst, thou lov'dst him Tban ever thou lov'dst Cassius (better liBDTUS. Sbeath your dagger: lie angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonour shall he humour. |
0, Cassius; you are yoked with a lamb That carries anger, as the flint bears fire , Wbo, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again. Cassids. llath Cassius liv'd To be but mirth and laughter to his lirutus , When grief, and blood ill temper'd vexelh him? linDTUs. When I spoke that, I wns ill-temper'd too. Cassius. Do you confess so much ? Oive me your JiliUTDS. And my heart too. (hand. Cassiüs. 0 Brutus I — Brdtds. What's the matter? Cassius. Have you not love enough to hear with me. When that rash immour, which my mother gave me. Makes me forgetful ? Urutus Yes, Cassius; and , henceforth , When you are over-earnest, with your lirutus llc'll think your mother chides, and leave yon so. * |
quot; This play keeps curiosity always busy, and the passions always interested. quot; — Johnson.
|
Re-enter Kros. ■quot;Eros. What would my lord ? Anionï. Since Cleopatra died , I have liv'd in such dishonour , that the gods Detest my baseness. I, that with my sword Quarter'd the world , and o'er green Neptune's hack With ships made cities, condemn myself, to Jack The courage of a woman ; less noble mind Than she, which , by her death , our Caesar tells , I am conqueror of myself. Thou art sworn, Kros, That, when the exigent should come, (which now Is come, indeed ,) when I should see behind me The inevitable prosecution of Disgrace and horror that, on my command , Thou then would'st kill me: do'l ; the time is come: Thou strik'st not me, 'tis Caesar thou defeat'st. 1'ut colour in thy cheeks. Eros. The,gods withhold me! Shall 1 do that, which all the Parthian darts, Though enemy, lost aim , and could not? Antony. Eros, Would'st thou be window'd in great Home, and see Thy master thus with pleach'd (inns bending down His corrigible neck, his face subdued To penetrative shame , whilst the wheel'd scat Of fortunate Caesar, drown before him, branded His baseness that ensued? Eros. I would not see't. Antony. Come then; for with a wound I must bocur'd Draw that thy honest sword , which thou bast worn Most useful for thy country. Eros. O, sir, pardon me. |
Antony. When I did make thee free, swor'st thou not To do ibis when I bade thee? Do it at once ; (then Or thy precedent services are all lint accidents unpurpos'd. Drow , and come. Eros, Turn from me then that nolde countenance, Wherein the icorship of the whole world lies. Antony, l.o thee! [Turning from him.'] Kros. My sword is drawn. Antony. Then let it do at once The thing why thou hast drawn it. Kros. My dear master. My captain , and my emperor ! let me say. Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell. Antony, quot;i'issaid , man : — and farewell. Kros. Farewell, great chief. Shall I strike now ? Antony. Now, Eros. Ktios. Why, there then: — [Fulls on his sword] Thus do I escape the sorrow Of Antony's death. [Dies] Antony. Thrice nohler than myself! Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros , what I should, and thou could'st not. My queen and Eros Have , by their brave instruct ion , ||ot upon me \ nobleness in record : lint I will he A bridegroom in my death, and run into't As to a lover's bed. Come then : and, Eros, Thy master dies thy scholar ; to do thus [Falling on his sword.1] I learn'd of thee. How ? not yet dead ? not dead ? — The guard! — ho! —0, despatch inc.* Act v. — Scene II. * He-enter Guard, with ti Clown bringing a Basket. |
115
|
üdaiib. This is the man. ClEOPATiu. Avoid, and leave liim. \Exit Guard.] Hast lliou the pretty worm of Kilus there, That kills and pains not? ClOWN. Truly I have him : hut I would not be the party that should desire you to touch him , for his biting is immortal; those, thntdo die of it, do seldom or never recover. Cieopatra. Remember'st thou any that have died on't? Ci.own. Very many, men and women too. I heard of one of them 110 longer than yesterday : a very honest woman, but some thin;; jjiven to lie; as a woman should not do, but in the way of honesty: how she died of the biting of it. what pain she felt, — Truly, she makes a very good report o'the worm : Bui he that will believe all that they say, shall never he saved by half that they do; Hut this is most fallible, the worm's an odd worm. Cieopatra. Get thee hence : farewell. Ci.own. I wish you all joy of the worm. Cleopatra. Farewell. (Clown sets down the haslcet. Clown. You must think this, look you, that the worm will do his hind. Cleopatra. Ay, ay; farewell. Clown. Look yon, the worm is not to be trusted , hut in the keeping of wise people: for, indeed, there is no goodness in the worm. Cleopatra. Take thou no care; it shall be heeded. Clown. Very good: give it nothing, 1 pray you, for it is not «orth the feeding. Cleopatra. Will it eat me? Clown. You must not think I am so simple, hut I know thedevil himself will not eat a woman : 1 know, that a woman is a di«h for the gods, if the devil dress her not. liut., truly, these same whoreson devils do the gods great harm in their women; for in every ten that they make , the devils mar five. Cleopatra. Well, get thee gone; farewell. Clown. Yes, forsooth ; [ wish you joy of the worm. [ Exit. Re-enter Iras , with a Hole. Crown. amp; c. |
Cleopatra. Give me my robe, put on myerown, 1 Immortal longings in me: Now no more (have The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip: — Tare , yare, good Iras ; quick. — Mcthinks, I hear Antony eall; I see him rouse himself To praise my noble aet; I hear him mock The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men To excuse their after wrath : Husband, I come: i\ovv to that name my courage prove my title! I am fire, and air; my other elements I give to baser life. — So, — have you done? Come then, and lake the last warmth of tnylips. Farewell, kind Charmian; — Iras, long farewell. [Kisses them. iiias fidls and dies;] Hare / the (ispicL in my lips ? Dost fall? If thou and nature can so gently part. The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch. Which hurts, and is desir'd. Dost thou lie still? If thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world It is not worth leave-taking. CuAitMian. Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain ; that I The gods themselves do weep! (may say Cleopatha. This proves me base: If she first meet the curlcd Antony , He'll malic demand of her ; and spend that kiss. Which is my heaven to have. Come, mortal wretch , [To the Asp, which she applies to her breast. With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate Of life at once imtie : poor venomous fool, Be angry , and despatch. O , could'st thou speak! That I might hear thee call great Caesar, ass Unpoliced ! Cu armi an. O eastern star I Cleopatra. Peace, peace! Dost thou not see my baby at my breast. That sucks the nurse asleep ? Charmian. 0, break! 0, break! Cleopatha. Assweetashalm, as soft as air, as gentle, — 0 Antony! — Nay, I will take thee too: —• Applying another Asp to her arm. What should I stay — [Falls on a bed, and dies.] |
quot; This play has many just sentiments, somo natural dialogues, and some pleasing scenes, but they are obtMncd at the expence of much incongruity.quot; — iToiinson.
|
^Bei.ariüs. Have at it then. — By leave; Thou hadst, great king, a subject, who Was call'd Bclarius. Cïmreline. What of him? he is A hanisb'd traitor. Belarids. He it is , that hath Assum'd this age: indeed , a banish'd man; I know not how , a traitor. |
Cymdeune. Take him benee; The whole world shall not save him. Beiarius. Not. too hot: First pay me for the nursing of thy sons; And let. it be confiscate all, so soon As 1 have receiv'd it. Cymbeline. Nursing of my sons ? Belariits. I am too blunt, and saucy: Here's my knee; |
116
|
1m ■c 1 arise, I will prefer my sons; Then, spare not the old father. Mighty sir. These two younij (jentlemen , ihut call me father , And think they are rny sons, are none of mine; They are the issue of your loins, my liege, And blood of your begetting. CïMBElINE How ! my issue ? Beiabios. So sure as yon your father's. I, old Morgan Am that lielarius whom you sometime banish'd : Your pleasure was viij mere offence, my punishment Itself, and all my treason , that 1 suller'd , Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes. (For such, and so they are,) those twenty years Have 1 train'd up; those arts lliey have, as I Could put into them ; my breeding was, sir, as Your highness knows. Their nurse, Eariphile, Whom for the theft 1 wedded, stole these children Upon my banishment: 1 mov'd her to't; Having receiv'd the punishment before. For that which I did then ; Beaten for loyally. Excited me to treason : Their dear loss. The more of you't was felt, the more it shap'd Unto my end of stealing them. I!ut, gracious sir. Here are your sons again ; and [ mii't lose Two of the sweet'sl companions in the world : — The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew ! for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars. CïMUEUNE. Thou weep'st and speak'st. The service, that you three have done, is more |
Unlike than this thou tell'st: 1 lost my children ; If these be they, I know not how to wish /V pair of worthier sons. ÜUABlüs Be plcas'd a while. — This gentleman, whom I call 1'olidore. Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius: This gentleman , my Cadwal, Arviragus, Your younger princely son ; he, sir, was lappM In a most curious mantle, wrought by the hand Of his queen mother, which , for more probation , I can with ease produce. cnideline. Guiderius had Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star; It was a mark of wonder. üeiaiuüs. This is he; Who hath upon him still that natural stamp : It was wise nature's end in the donation. To be his evidence now. Cï.mfieiine. 0,whalatnl A mother to the birth of three ? Ne'er mother Uejoic'd deliverance more: — Bless'd may you be, That, after this strange starting from your orbs, You may reign in them now ! — O Imogen , Thou hast lost by this a kingdom. Imogen. No, my lord ; 1 have got two worlds by't. — O my gentle brothers. Have we thus met? O never say , hereafter, lint I am truest speaker: you call'd me brother. When 1 was but your sister ; I you brothers , When you were so indeed.1 |
quot; Tbc barbarity of the spectacles, and the general uiassncre, which arc here eshibltcd, can scarcely be conceived tolerable to any audience;....quot;—(*) Johnson.
Act III.
|
!low Mould he hang his slender gilded wings. And but lamenting doings in the air ? Poor harmless fly! That with his pretty buzzing melody, Came here to make us merry; and thou hast kill'd him. Marcus. Pardon me, sir ; 'twas a black ill-favour'd Like to the empress'Moor; of llicrefore 1 kil I'd him. (lly, TITUS. 0,0,0, Then pardon me for reprehending thee. For thou bast done a charitable deed. Give me thy knife, I will insult on him ; Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor, Conic hither purposely to poison inc. — There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora. — Ah Sirrah! Yet I do think we are not brought so low , But that. between us, we can kill a fly |
(*) Nevertheless, mothinks, some particular passages, and especially the above, deserve somo regard.
young IjDCJus. Good grandsiiv, leave these hitler deep
(laments:
Make my aunt merry with some pleasing talc.
MaBCUS. Alas, the tender boy , in passion mov'd , Doth weep to see Ills grandsire's beavlnesj,
Titus. Peace, tender sapling; thou arl made of tears, And tears will quickly melt tliy life away. —
[MaBCUS strikes the dish with a knife.] AVhat dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife ? Marcos. At that that I have kill'd , rny lord ; a lly. Titos. Out on thee, murderer! thou kill'st my heart; Mine eyes arc cloy'd with view of tyranny :
A deed of death, done on the innocent,
liecomes not Titus' brother : Get thee gone:
I see thou art not for my company,
Marcus. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a lly.
Titus. But how, if that lly had a father and mother?
117
That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor. Sad sitorics, ctianced in llic times of old. —
Marcos. Alas , poor man ! griof lias so wrought on Come, boy, and go with me; thy sight is yourijj, He takes false shadows for true substances. (him, And thou shall read , when mine begins to da/./.le.
Titüs. Come, take away. — Lavinia, go with me: [Exeunt.]
I'll to thy closet; and go read with thee
quot;. .. . anil in various places the colour of tho style , all these comliiue to sot the seal of Shakspeare ou the play before us.....quot; — Malone.
|
IIeucancs. Peace, peace,my lords, and give expedience longue. They do abuse the king, that flatter him : For llattcry is the bellows blows up sin ; The thing the which is flatlcr'd, but a spark , To which that breath gives beat and stronger glowing; Whereas reproof, obedient, and in order, Fits kings, as tbey are men, for they may err. When signior Sooth here does proclaim a peacc, He fla Iters you, makes war upon your life: Prince, pardon me, or strike me , if you please; I cannot he much lower than my knees. Peiiici.es. All leave us else; but let your cares o'erlook What shipping, and wiiat lading's in our haven , And then return to us. [Exeunt Lords.] llelicanus, llast moved us; what scest thou in our looks ? (thou Heiicakus. An angry brow, dread lord. |
] Pericies. If there lie such a dart in princes' frowns, How durst thy tongue move anger to our face? IIei.icanus. How dare the plants look up to heaven , They have their nourishment ' (from whence Perici.es. Thou know'st I have power To take thy life. IIelicands. [KnceUng\. I have ground the axe tny-Do you but strike the blow. (self: Pericies. Ilisc, 'pr'ytbee, rise; Sit down, sit down ; thou art no llaltcrer: I thank thee for it; and high heaven forbid , That kings should let their ears hear their faults hid.' Fit counsellor, and servant fora prince. Who by thy w isdom mak'st a prince thy servant, What would'st thou have me do ? Helicamjs. With patience bear Such griefs as you do lay upon yourself.* |
quot; There is perhaps no play which keeps the ntlention so strongly fixed; which so much agitates our passions , and interests onr euriositv.quot; — Johnson.
Enter Lear and Fool. 1 tax not you, you elements, with unkindness,
Lear. Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks I rage I 1 never gave you kingdom, call'd you children , You cataracts, and hurricanoes , spout (blow! You owe me no subscriptionwhy then let fall
Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks! Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave. You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, A poor, infirm , weak , and despis'd old man ; —
Vaunt couriers to oak-cleaving thunder-bolts, l!ul yet I call you servile ministers ,
Singe my white-bead! And thou, all-shaking thunder. Thai have with two pernicious daughters join'd Strike flat the thick rotundity o'the world! jYour bigh-engender'il battles, 'gainst a head
Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once, So old and while as this. O! O! 'I is foul!
That make ingrateful man ! I Foor,. lie that has a bouse to put his head in , has a
Fooi. O, nuncle, court hohj-water in a dry house is good head-peace.
better than this rain-water out o'door. Good nuncle, in.
7'he cod-piece that will house Before the head has am/ . The head and lie shall louse; -So beggars marry many.
and ask thy daughters'blessing; here's a night pities neither wise men nor fools.
Lear. Rumble thy bellyfull! Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind , thunder, fire, arc my daughters:
Act III.
118
|
The man thul makes his toe M l'af tie his heart should make , Shall of a corn era woe, And turn his steep to wake. — for there was never yet fair woman, hut she rnaile mouths in a ;;lass. Enter Kent. Lear. No, 1 will he the |)attcrn of all patience, 1 will say nothing. Kem. Who's there? Fool. Marry, here's grace, and a cod-piecc; that'sa wise man, and a fool. Kent. Alas, sir, ore you here? things that love night. Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark , And make then» keep their caves: Since I was man. Such sheets of fire , such hursts of horrid thunder , Such groans of roaring wind ami rain. I never llcmeniher to have heard : man's nature cannot carry The allliclion, nor the fear. Lear. Let ihe great gods, That keep liiis dreadful pother o'er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Trenihle, thou wretch , That hast within tliee undivulged crimes, Unwhipp'd of justice: Hide thee, thou hloody hand ; Thou perj ur'd, and t hou simular man of virtue Thou art incestuous: Caitiff, to pieces shake, fhat under covert and convenient seeminp* Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That's sorry yet for thee. FOCI, lie that has a little tiny wit, IVUh heigh, ho, the wind and the rain , — Must make content with his fortunes fit; For the ruin it raineth every dat/. Lear. True, my good hoy. — Come, bring us to this (hovel. [Exeunt Lear and Kent.]* Act. IV. — Scene VI. *Enter Lear, fantastically dressed up with Howers. *Lear. No , they cannot touch me for coining ; I am (the king himself Edgar. O, thou side-piercing sight! Lear. Nature's above art in that respect. — There's |
your jiress-money. That fellow handles his how like a crow-keeper: draw me a clothier's yard. — Look, look, a mouse! Peace, peace;— this piece of toasted cheese will doit. — There's my gauntlet; I'll prove it on a giant.—Bring up the brown bills.— 0, well-flown, bird! i'the clout, i'tlie clout; hewgh ! — Give the word. Edgar. Sweet marjoram. Lear. Pass. Gloster. I know that voice. Lear. Ila! (ioueril! — with a withe heard! They llat-ter'd me like a dog ; and told me, 1 had while hairs in my heard, ere the black ones'were there. To say ay and no, to every thing I said ! — Ay and no too was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once ,and the wind to make me chatter; when the thunder would not peace at my bidding; there 1 found them, there I smelt them out. Go to, they are nol men o'their words : they told me 1 was every thing ;'t is a lie; 1 am not ague-proof. Gloster. The trick of thuf. I du well reniein-Is't not the king ? (her: Lear. Ay , every inch a king : When 1 do stare, see, how the subject quakes. I pardon that man's life: What was thy cause ? Adultery. Thou shalt not die: Die for adultery ! No: The wren goes to't. and the small gilded lly Hast practis'd on man's life! — Close pent-up guilts, Docs 1,,cl'er mJ f'quot;1^ igt;:....... .........../.*.......«• . 1 lof crmi 11 ;■ t inn I li n vn. fnp Kive your concealing continenls, and cry 'These dreadf ul sammoners grace. I am a man , More sinn'd against, than sinninc. Kent- Alack , hare-headed! Gracious my lord , hard by here is a hovel; Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest; Repose you there: -while 1 to this hard house, (More hard than is the stone whereof 'tis rais'd ; Which even but now , demanding after you , Denied me to come in,) return, and force Their scanted courtesy. Lear. My wits begin to turn. — Come on , my hoy ; How dost, my hoy ? Art cold ? J am cold myself. — Where is this straw, my fellow ? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel,icorlsuquot;'l,l'0,) l.et copulation thrive, for, Gloster's bastard son Was kinder to his father , than my daughters Got 'tween the lawful sheets. To't, luxury, pell-mell, for J lack soldiers.— Behold you' simpering dame. Whose face between her forks presageth snow ; That minces virtue , and does shake the head To hear of pleasure's name. The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to't With a more riotous appetite. Down from the waist, they are centaurs , Though women all above: Jjut to the girdle do the gods inherit, Beneath is all the fiends', there's hell, there's darkness, there is the sulpborous pit, burning, scalding, steneli, consumption; — Fye, fye, lye! pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination : there's money for thee. Gioster. O , let me kiss that hand! Lear. Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality. Gioster. O ruin'd piece of nature! This great world Shall so wear out to nought. Dost thou know me ? I,ear. I remember thine eyes well enough. Dost thou squiny at me? No , do thy worst, blind Cupid ; I'll not love. — Read thou this challenge; mark hut the penning of it. Gioster. AVhcre all the let ters suns. I could not see (one. Edgard. I would not take this from report; — An d my heart breaks at it. (it is, Lear. 'lead. Gioster. What, with the case of eyes ? |
119
|
Lear. O, lio, arc you there with me? No eyes in your head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a liylit: Yet you see how this world j;oi s. Gloster. I see it feelingly. Lear. What, art mad? A man may see how this world {joes , with no eyes. Loult with thine ears : see how yon' jusliee rails upon yon' simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: Cliange places; and, liandydandy, wliicli is the justice, which is the thief? —Thou hast seen n farmer's dog- hark at a heggar? Gioster. Ay, sir, Lear. And the crealnre run from the cur? There thou miglit'sl hcliohl the gn at image of authority; a dog's obeyed in office. — Thou rascal headle, hold ihy hlooily hand : Why dost thou lash thatwhorc? Strip thineown back; Thou hotly lusl'st to use her in that kind , Kor which thou whipp'st her. The usurer hangs ihe co-Through tatter'd clothes small vices tloappear: (zener. Kohes, and furr'd gowns, hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the stronge lance of justice hurtless breaks: |
Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw dot pieree it. None does offend, none, I say, none; I'll able 'cm : Take that of me, my friend, who have the power To seal the accuser's lips. Get thee glass eyes; And, like a seruvy politician, seem To see the things thou dost not. — Now , now , now. Pull oil'my bools: — Harder, harder; so. (now ; Kiigard. Ü, matter and impertinency rnix'd ! Iteason in madness! Lear. If thou vilt weep my forlnnes, take my eyes. I know thee well enough ; thy name is Gloster: Thou must he patient; we came crying hither. Thou know'st, the first lime that we smell the air , We wawl. and cry;— i will preach to thee; mark me. Gloster. Alack , alack the day ! Lear. When we are born, we cry , that we are come To this great stage of fools ;--This a good block ? It were a delicate stratagem , lo shoe A troop of horse with felt: I'll put It iu proof; And when 1 have stolen upon these sons-in-law. Then, kill, kill, kill,kill,kill, kill. * |
quot; The scenes arc busy and various, the incidents numerous and important, the catastrophe irresistibly affecting, and the process of the action carried on with such probability , at least with such congruity to popular opinions, as tragedy requires.quot; — Johnson
|
^Romeo. I dreamt a dream to-night. Mercüiio. And so did 1. Homed. AVell, what was yours ? Mercutio. That dreamers often lie. Romeo. In bed, asleep, while they do dream things (true. Mercutio. 0, then, I see, queen Slab hath been She is ihe fairies' midwife; and she comes (with you. In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman , Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's n^ses as they lie asleep: Iler waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; The traces, of the smallest spider's web ; The col bars , of the moonshine's wat'ry beams: Her whip, of cricket's heme ; the lash of film: Her waggoner , a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Priek'd from the lazy finger of maid; Her chariot is an empty hazed nut, Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, Timconl ol mind the fairies'enaeb makers. And In thisstate shegallnps night by night Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love: |
On courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight: O'er lawyer's fingers, who straight dream on fees: O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream; Which olt the angry Mab with blisters plagues. Because their breaths with sweet-meats tainted are. Sonietime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose. And then dreams he of smelling out a suit : And somelimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail , Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep , Then dreams he of another benefice: Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck , And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches , ambuscadoes , Spanish blades , Of healths five fathom deep: and then anon Drums in bis car ; at which he starts , and wakes; And , being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two , And sleeps again. This is that very Mab, That plats the manes of horses in the night; And bakes the elf locks in fonl sluttish hairs. Which , once untangled , much misfortune bodes. This is the bag, when maids lie on their backs, That presses them , and learns tbein first to bear, Making them w omen of good carriage. This, this is she — 1!omeo. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace; |
120
|
Tliou talk'st of nutliiiifj. HIercdtio. Truc, 1 talk of dream?; Wliicli are tlie childeren of an idle bruin, Begot of nolliinijs l)iit vain fantasy;* Aci 11. — Scene II. Müliet. 'Tis hut tliy name, that is my enemy ; Thou art thyself though , not a Monlajjne. What's Montague ? it is nor hand, nor foot, Kor arm, nor face, nor any oilier part Belonging to a man. O, he some oilier name! What's in a name ? that which we call a rose , By any other name would smell assweet; So Romeo would , were he not llomeo eall'd, Retain that dear perfection which lie owes, Wilhout that title ; — llomeo , doll'thy name ; And for that name, which is no part of thee. Take all myself. Romeo. I take thee at thy word. Call me hut love, and I'll he new haptiz'd ; Henceforth I never will llomeo. Jdiiet. What man art thou, that, thus hescreen'd So stumhlcst on my counsel? (in night, Romeo By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am: My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Because it is an enemy to thee ; Had 1 it written, 1 would tear the word. Jui.iet. My cars have not yet drrmk a hundred words Of that tongue's utterance , yet I know the sound ; Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague ? Romeo. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. Jui.iet.IIow eam'sl thou hitlier, tell me ?and where-The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb ; (fore? And the place death,considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find t bee here. IIomeo. Willi love's light wings did 1 o'er-perch For stony limits cannot hold love out; (these walls; And what love can do, that dares love atlcnipt; Therefore thy kinsmen arc no let to me. .Juliet. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. Romeo. Alack I there lies more peril in thine eye, Than twenty of their swords ; look thou hut sweet, And I am proof against their enmity. Jui.iet. I w ould not for the world; they saw thee here. RoMEO. I have night's clonk to hide mc from their And, but Ihon love me , let them find me here: (sight: My life were better ended lgt;y their hate. Than death prorogued , wanting of thy love. Juliet. By whose direction found'st thou out this (place? Romeo. By love, who first did prompt metoinquire; lie lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot ; yet, wert thou as far As that vast shore wasb'd with the furthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise, Juliet. Thou know'st, the mask of night is on my Else would a maiden blush hepaint my cheek (face ; For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. Fain would I dwell on form , fain, fain deny What I have spoke ; but farewell, compliment I Dost thou love me? I know , thou wilt say—Ay; |
And 1 will take thy word : yet, if thou sweur'st, Thou may'st prove false, at lover's perjuries, They say , Jove laughs. O, gentle itorneo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully; Or if thou tbink'st I am too quickly won, I'll frown , and he perverse , and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo ; hut, else , not for the world. In truth , fair Montague, I am loo fond ; And therefore thou may'st think my haviour light: But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess. But that thou over-heard'st, ere I was ware. My true love's passion ; therefore pardon mc ; And not impute this yielding to light, love, Which the dark night hath so discovered. Romeo. Lady, hy yonder blessed moon I swear. That tips w hith silver all these fruit-tree tops, — Juliet. O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant That monthly changes in her circled orb, (moon , Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. IlOMEO. What shall I swear hy? Juliet. Do not swear at all; Or if thou wilt, swear hy thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry. And I'll believe thee. Romeo. If my heart's dear love — Juliet. Well, do not swear: although 1 joy in thee , I have no joy of this contract to-night : It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden ; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be. Ere one can say — It lightens. Sweet, good night 1 This hud of love, by summer's ripening breath. Slay prove a beauteous llower when next, we meet. (jood night, good night! as sweet repose and rest. Come to thy heart, as that within my breast! IlOMEO. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? Juliet. What satisfaction canst thou have to night? Romeo. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow lor (mine. Juliet. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it And yet I would it were to give again. Romeo. Would'st thou withdraw it ? for what pur- (pose love? Juliet. Rut to be frank, and give it thee again. And yet I wish hut for the thing I have : i\Iy bounty is as boundless as the sea , My love as deep; the more I give to thee The more 1 have , for both are infinite [Nurse calls within.'] I hear some noise within; Dear love , adieu! A non, good nurse! —Sweet Montague, he true. Slay hut a little, 1 will come again. Romeo. O blessed, blessed night! I am afcard, Being in night, all this is but a dream, Too liattering-sweet to be substantial. Re-enter Juliet above. Juliet. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night If that thy bent of love be honourable, (indeed. Thy purpose marriage, sand me word to-morrow, Bv one that I'll procure to come to thee, |
121
|
Where, and what lime, thou vilt perforin the rite : And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay, And follow thee,my lord, throughout the world : IN'ükse. [Within.'] Madam! .luliet. By and hy, I come: — To cease thy suit. and leave me to my grief: To-morrow will I send. Uomeo. So thrive my soul,— Juliet. ,V thousand times good night! [Exit.'] Uomeo. A thousand times the worse, to want ihv (light. — i.ove goes toward love, as school-hoys from their hooks; liut love from love, toward school with heavy looks. [Retiring slowhj.] Re-enter JcUET, above. Juliet, llisl! Romeo, hist! — o, fur a falconer's voice, To lure this tassel-gentle back again ! liondage is hoarse, and itmy not speak aloud ; Klse would I tear the cave w here echo lies , And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine With repetition of my llomeo's name. Romeo. 11 is my soul, that calls upon my name : llow silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues hy night, Like softest music to attending ears! Juliet. Uomeo! Romeo. My sweet I |
Juliet. At what o'clock to-morrow Shall I send to thee ? Romeo. At the hour of nine. Juliet. I will not fail; 't is twenty years till then. I have forgot why I di'1 call thee hack. Romeo. J.et me stand here till thou remember it. Juliet. 1 shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Rcmemh'ring how 1 love thy company. Romeo. And I'll slill slay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home hut Ibis. Juliet, quot;lis almost morning, 1 would have thee gone: And vd no further than a wanton's bird ; Who lets it hup a liltle from her baud , Like a poor prisoner in bis twisted gyves, And w ith a silk thread plucks it hack again , So loving-jealous of his liberty. Romeo. 1 would, 1 were thy bird. Juliet. Sweet, so would I. Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night , good night I parting is such sweet sorrow , That I shall say — good night, till it be morrow. [Exit.] Romeo. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! (breast! Hence will 1 to my ghostly father's ccll; His help lo crave, and my dear bap to tell. [Ëa-tV.] |
ftlniKlct, i'i-incc lt;gt;S' Bïeiiinark.
quot; The sccnes are interchangeably diversified with merriment and solemnity ; with merriment that includes judicious and instructive observations ; and solemnity not strained by poetical violence above the natural sentiments of man.quot; — .Toiinson.
Act 11!.
|
j Rut that the dread of something after death , — The undiseover'd country, from whose bourn fio traveller returns, — pu/./.les the will; And makes us rather hear those ills we have. Than llv lo others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale ('ast of thought; And entei pri/.es of great pith and moment, With ibis regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of act ion. —Soft you, now 1 The fair Ophelia: — Piymph , in thy orisons Be all my sins rememher'd.1 Scene ii. Enter Hamlet, and certain Piayeks. Hamlet. Speak thespeceb, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth il, as niimy of our players do, 1 had as lief the town-erier spoke my lines. l\or do not saw the air too much with your hand , thus: but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind ol your passion, you must acquire and beget a 1G |
I1AM1ET. To he, or not lo be.that is the question : — Wbclher 'I is nobler in the mind to suffer The stings and arrows of outrageous fori une;
Or to lake arms against a sea of troubles ,
And. hy opposing, end them ? — To die, — to sleep,— No more ; — and, by a sleep, to see we end The beart-aeh, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir lo, — 't is a eonsurnmatiou Devoutly to he wish'd. To die; -— to slc i); —
To sleep ! perchance lo dream ; — av, there's the rub; For in thai sleep of death what dreams may come. When we have slmjjli d ojj'this mortal coil,
Must give us pause ; There's the respect ,
That makes calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the whips and scons of lime, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay. The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes ,
When he himself niight his nnietusmahe With a hare hodLin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life;
122
tcmperance, that may give it smootliness. O, it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious, periwiy-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split theearsof the groundlings ; who, for the most part, are capable of nolhinjf hut inexplicable dumb shows, and noise; I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoin;; Icrmayant ; it out-hcrods Herod: Pray you, avoid it.
1 ptater. 1 AVarrant your honour.
Hamiet. Be not too tame, neither, hut let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to t lie word , the word to the action ; with this special observance , that you o'er-step not the modesty of nature ; for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as 't were, the mirrour up to nature ; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and hody of the time, his form and pressure: i\ow this, overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh , cannot hut make the judicious grieve; the censure of which one, must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. 0, there be players, that I have seen play, — and heard others praise, and that highly, — not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of christians, nor the gait of christian , pagan , nor man , have sostrutted, and bellowed, that 1 have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.
1 Plater. I hope, wo have reformed that indifferently with us.
Hamlet. 0, reform it altogether. And let those, that play your clowns, speak no more than is set down for them: for there be of them, that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too; though , in the mean lime, some necessan question of the play be then to be considered : that's villainous ; and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go, make you ready, f li.reunt Platers.]**
Act. V. Scene J. — A Church-yard.
Enter two Ciowxnwith Sj)ades c,,.... Enter Hamlet Horatio, at a distance.
Clown. Cudgel thy brains no more about it; for your dull ass will not rnend hi-; pace with heating: and when you are asked this question next, say, a grave-maker; the houses that he makes, last till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan, and fetch meastoup of liquor.
[E.ril 2 Clown.^ 1 Clown digs, and sings.
In youth, when [did lore, did lore Methought, it was very sweet.
To contract, 0, the time, for, ah, my behove 0, methought, there was nothing meet.
Hamlet. Has this fellow no feeling of his business? he sings at grave making.
Horatio. Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.
Hamlet. 'T is e'en so: the hand of Httlecmployment hath the daintier sense.
1 clown. But age, with his stealing steps,
Hath claw'd me in his clutch ,
And hath shipped me into the land.
As if I had never been such..
[ Throws up a skull.]
Hamlet. That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: How the knave jowls it to the ground,as ifit were Cain's jawbone, that did the first minder! This might be the pate of a politician , which this ass now o'cr-reaches; one that would circumvent God, might it not ?
Horatio. It might, my lord.
Hamlet. Or of a courtier; which could say, Good-morrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, yood lord! This might be my lord Such-a one, that praised my lord Such-a-one's horse, when he meant to beg it; might it not ?
Horatio. Ay, my lord.
Hamlet. Why e'en so; and now my lady Worm's; chapless, and nocked about the ma/./.ard with a sexton's spade: Here's fine revolution, an we bad the trick to see't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at loggats with them? mine ache to think on't.
1 Clown. A pick-axe, andaspade, a spade, [.sim/,s] For — and a shrouding sheet :
O, a pit of clay for to he made For such a guest is meet.
[Throws up a skull.]
Hamlet. There's another: Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where he his fjtiiddits now. his quillets, his cases, his tenures , and his tricks? Why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Humph! This fellow might he in's time a great buyer of land , with its statutes, his reeog-ni/.ancis, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries: Is this the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have is fine pate full of fine dirt? will his vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases , and double ones too, than thelength and breadth ofa pair of indentures? The \ery conveyances of his land will hardly lie in thisboxiand must the inheritor himself have no more ? ha ?
Horatio. Not a jot more, my lord.* (rot?
*Hamlet. How long willa man liei'theearth ere be
1 Clown. Faith, if he he not rotten before he die, (as we have many pocky corses now-a-days, that w ill scarce hold the laying in ,) he will last you some eight year, or nine year: a tanner will last you nine year.
Hamlet. Why he more than another?
1 Clown. Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with bis trade, that he w ill keep out water a groat while; and your water is a sore decaycr of your whoreson dead hody. Here's a skull now hath lain you i'the earth Lhree-and-twenty years.
Hamlet. Whose was it?
1 Clown. A whoreson mad fellow's it wns;Whosedo you think il was?
Hamlet. Nay, I know not.
1 Clown. A pestilence on him fora mad rogue! he poured a ilaggon of Ulienish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yoriek's skull, the king's jester.
Hamlet, This ? [Takes the skull.
I Clows, fi'en that.
|
Hamlet. Alas, poor Yorick! — I knewliim, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest,of aiost excellent fancy:ho liatli born(gt; me on liis hack a thousand times; and now liow abhorred in my iniaj;ination it is! my j[orlt;;c rises at it. Here hunj; those lips, that 1 have kissed I know not how oft. Where lie your gihcs now? your gambols? |
your songs? your Hashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar ? Not one now, to mock your own grinning ? quite chap-fallen ? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch ihiclt, to this favour she must como; make her laugh at that. — * |
|
*ÜTnEU,0. Soft you; a word or two , before you go. i have done the slate some service , and they know it; No more of that; — I pray yon . in your letters; Wh on you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am : nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak Of one, that lov'd not wisely, but too well ; Of one, not easily jealous, but, being wrought, Perplex'd in the extreme; of one, whose hand. Like the base Judean, threw a pearl away , Richer then all his tribe; of one, whose subdu'd eyes. Albeit unused to the melting mood , |
Drop tears as fast as Arabian trees Their medicinal gum: Set you down this: And say, besides, — that in Aleppo once. Where a malignant and a turban'd Turk Boat a Venetian, and tradue'd the state, I took by the throat the circumcised dog , And smote — thus. [Stabs himself.] Lonovico. O bloody period ! (ilUTUNO. All, that's spoke, is marr'd. Othello. I kiss'd thee, ere I kill'd thee ; — No way but ibis, [Fa/Zirtg'Desdemona.] Killing myself, to die upon a kiss. [Dies* |
(Zie blad/.. 72.)
The Old Jewry. A Jlull in Kitely's House.
Enter Kitely, Cash , and Dowmbigdt.
Kitbly. Thomas, come hither.
I'here lies a note within upon my desk;
Here take my key ; it is no matter neither. —
Where is the boy ?
Casu. Within, sir, in ihe warehouse.
Kitely. Let him tell over straight that Spanisli gold, And weigh i I, with the pieces of eight. Dj you See the deli\ery of those silver stull's To Master Lucar: tell him , ifhe will,
He shall have the grograns . at the rate I told him, And 1 will meet him on the Exchange anon.
Cash. Good , sir [Exit.']
Kitely. Do you see that fellow, brother Downright DoWNKlGflT. Ay, what of him ?
Kitely. He is a jewel, brother.
i took him of a child up at my door ,
And christen'd him,gave him mine own name,Thomas; Sincc bred him at the Hospital; where proving A toward imp , I call'd him home, and taught him So much, as 1 have made him my cashier,
And giv'n him, who had none, a surname, Cash : And find him in his place so full of faith,
That I durst trust my life into his hands.
Downiugdt, So would not I in any bastard's, brother,
As it is like he is, although I knew Myself his father. But you said you had somewhat To tell me, gentle brother; what is't, whatis't?
Kitely. Faith, I am very loath to utter it. As fearing it may hurt your patience:
Hut that I know your judgment is of strength , Against the nearness of affection —
Dowmugut. What need this circumstance? pray voti, he direct.
Kitely I will not say how much I do ascribe Unto your friendship, nor in what regard I hold your love ; but let my past behaviour. And usage of your sister, [both] confirm How well I have been affected to your--
Downbigut. Youare too tedious;comc to the matter, the matter.
Kitely. Then, without furlher ceremony, thus. Mv brother Wellbred, sir, I know not how.
Of late is much declined in what he was.
And greatly alter'd in his disposition.
When he came first to lodge here in my house,
Ne'er trust me If I were not proud of him :
Methought be bare himself in such a fashion ,
So full of man , and sweetness in his carriage. And what was chief, it show'd not borrow'd in him , But all be did became him as his own,
124
And seem'd as perfect, proper, and posscst,
As breath with life, or colour with the blood.
But now, his course is so irregular.
So loose, alTerlfd, and deprived of {;racc ,
And he himself willial so far fallen ofl'
From that first place, as scarce no note remains
To tell men's judgments where lie lately stood.
He's grown a stranger to all due respect ,
Forgetful of his friends; and not content
To stale himself in all societies,
Jle makes my house here common as a marl ,
A theatre , a public receptacle
For giddy humour , and diseased riot;
Ami hero, as in a tavern or a slews ,
lie and his wild associates spend their hours .
In repetition of lascivious jests ;
Swear , leap , drinlt, dance, and revel night by night. Control my servants ; and , indeed , what not ?
Downright. 'Sdeins I know not what J should say to him, in the whole'worhl I lie values meat a crack'd ihree-farthings, for aught I see. It will never out of the llcsh that's bred in the bone, ll have toM him enough, one would think, if that would serve; but
counsel to liim is as good as a sboulder of mutton to a'grace. — The time of day to you, gentleman o' the sick horse. Well! be knows what to trust lo, for|liouse. Is master Wellbred stirring?
George: let him spend, and spend,and domineer, tillj Downright. How then ? what should he do ? his heart ake; an he think to be relieved by me, when! liOBADltr.. Gentleman of the house, it is to yon: is lie is got in to one o'yonr cily pounds, the counters , be he within , sir ?
has the wrong sow by the car, i'fiith ; and claps hisj KlTEtr. He came not to bis lodging to-night, sir, I dish at tlie wrong man's door: I'll lay my bandon mv.assure you.
halfpenny, ere I part with it to fetch bim out, I'lll Downright. Why, do you hear ? yon !
assure him. Bobadui. The «[entlcnian citi/.en bath satisfledme:
KlTElï.iVay,good brother,let. it not trouble you thus
Downbigut. 'Sdealh! be mads me; 1 could eat very spur-leatliers for anger! But, why are you lame? Why do you not speak to him, an '
bow be disquiets your house?
Kitelv. O, there aredivers reasons to dissuade nif But, would yourself vouchsafe to travail in il, (Though but with plain and easy circumstance,) It would both come much better to bis sense.
Anil savour less of stomach , or of passion.
You are bis elder brother, and that tille Bolh gives and warrants your authority.
Which , by your presence seconded , must breed A kind of duly in him, and regard :
Whereas, if I should intimate the least,
It would but add contempt to bis neglect.
Heap worse on ill, make up a pile of hatred ,
That in the rearing would conic tottering down , And in the ruin bury all our love.
Nay, more than this, brother: if I should speak , lie would be ready, Irorn his heat of humour, And overflowing of the vapour in him,
To blow the ears of his familiars,
With the false breath of telling what disgraces. And low disparagements, I had put upon him.
Whilst they, sir , to relieve him in the fable ,
Make their loose comments upon evorv word , Gesture, or look , I use; mock me all over ,
From my flat cap unto mv shining shoes;
my
I'll talk lo no scavenger.
[ii.rcunt. Bobadui and Mathew.]
Downright. Howl scavenger I stay, sir, stay!
Kitelv. Kay, brother Dow nright.
Downright. ' 11 carl I stand you away,an yonlove me.
Kiteltt. You shall not follow him now, I pray you, brolher, good faith you shall not: 1 will overrule you.
Downright. Ha! scavenger! well, go to, I say little, but, an I swallow this, I'll ne'erdraw my sword in the sight of Fleet-street again while 1 live; I'll sit in a barn with madge-howlet, ami catch mice first. Sea-UMiger! heart! — and I'll go near to till that huge tumbrel-slop of yours wilb somewhat, an I have good luck; your Garagantua breech cannot carry it, away so.
Kiteev. Oh, do not fret yourself thus; never think on't.
Downright. These are my brother's consorls, these! these are bis cameradcs, bis walking mates! he's a gallant, a cavaliero too, right hangman cut! Let me not, live, an I could not liiid in my heart to swinge the «holegang of 'cm, one after another, and begin with him first. I inn grieved it should bo said lie is my brother, and take these courses: Well, as be brews, so shall he drink, for George, again. Yet ho shall hear on't, and that tightly too, au 1 live, i'faitb.
Kiteiy. But, brother, let your reprehension, then , tun in an easy current, not. o'er high Carried with rashness, or devouring choler ;
But rather use the soft persuading way.
And , out of their impetuous rioting pbant'sies ,
Beget some slander that shall dwell with me.
And wliat would tbat be, think you ? marry, tbis:
Tbey would give out, because mv wife is fair.
Myself but lately married, and my sister
Here sojourning a virgin in my house.
That I were jealous! — nay, as sure as death ,
That I hey would say: and , how that I had quarrell'd
Sly brother purposely, tbereby to find
\n apt prelext In banisb Ibem my house.
Dow MUG nr. Ma-s, perhaps so; they're like enough to do it,
Kitei y, Brother, they would, believe il; so should I, Like one of ibese penurious quack-salvers ,
Bui set Ibe bills up to mine own disgrace,
And try experiments upon myself;
Lend scorn and envy opportunity To stab my reputation and goud name--
Enter Master Maiiiew struggling xoith Bobadiu..
Hatdew. I will speak to him.
Bobadul. Speak to him! away! By the foot of Pbaraob , \ou shall not! you shall not do him tbat
|
Whoso powors will work more {;ciitly, anil compose The imperfect thoughts you labour to reclaim : More winning, then enforcing the consent. Dowkhigiit. Ay, ay, let mealone for thai, I xwir-rant you. Kitf.LV. Mow now I [Bell rings.] Oil I the hell rings to breakfast. lirolher, I pray you j[oin, and hear my wife company till I come : I II hut give order for some despatch of hufiness to my servants. Enter Con , with his tankard. Kiteiy. What, Cohl our maids will have you hy the back, i'faith, for coming so late this morning. Con. Perhaps so, sir. [Exit.'] Kiteit. Well; yet my troubled spirit's somewhat Though not reposed in that security {eased, As I could wish ; hut I must he content, Howe'cr 1 set a face on't to the world. Would I had lost this finger at a venture. So Well bred had ne'er lodged within my house. Enter Danw Kiteiv, Bridget. Dame K uLI.v. Sister üridgel, pray you fetch down the rose-water above in the closet; [Exit Biiidgei]. — Sweet-heart, will you come in to breakfast? Kiteiy. An she have overheard me now ! — Dame KllEir. 1 pray thee, good uaiss, we stay for you. Kiteiy. l!y heaven , I would not for a thousand angels, Kitei.Y. What ail you, sweet-heart ? arc ^ou not well ? speak, good muss. Kitely. Troth my head akes extremely on a sudden. Dame Kitely. [putting her hand to his forehead.] 0, the bord! Kiteiy. How now i What? „ Dame Kitei.Y. Alas,how it burns! Muss, keep you warm; good truth it is this new disease, there's a number aretrouhlcd withal. For love's sake, sweetheart, come in , out, of theair. Kitely. How simple, and bow subtle are her answers i A new disease, and many troubled with it ? Why true; she heard me, ail the world to nothing. Dame Kitely. I pray thee, good sweet-heart, come in; the air will do you harm, in troth. Kitely. The air! She has me In the wind, — Sweet heart, I'll come to you presently;'t will away, I hope. Dame Kitely. Pray Heaven it do. [Exit]. K itely. A new disease! 1 know not , new or old, liut it may well be call'd poor mortals plague ; for, like a pestilence , it doth infect The houses of the brain. First it begins Solely to work upon the phantasy, Filling her seat with such pestiferous air. As scon corrupts the judgment; and from thcnce, Sends like contagion to the memory: Still each to other giving the infection, Which as a subtle vapour spreads itself Confusedly through every sensive part, Till not a thought or motion in the mind lie free from the black poison of suspect. Ah ! but what miserv is it to know this ? |
yet the lie, to a man of my coat, is as ominous a fruit as the fico. 0, sir, it holds for good polity ever, to have that outwardly in vilest estimation, that inwardly is most dear to us: so much for my borrowed shape. Well, the troth is, my old master intends to follow my young master, dry-loot, over Moorfields to London , this morning ; now , I knowing of this hunting-match, or rather conspiracy, and to insinuate with my young master (fur so must we that arc blue waiters, and men of hope and service do, or perhaps we may wear motley at the year's end , and who wears motley, you know), have got me afore in this disguise, detcrmiuing here to lie in ambuseado, and intercept him in the mid way. If I can hut get his cloke, his purse, bis hat, nay, any thing to cut him oil', that is to stay his journey, Feni, vidi, vici, I may say with captain Caesar, I am made for e'er, i'faith. Well, now must I practise to get the true garb of one of these lance-knights, my arm here, and my-- Odso! my young master, and bis cousin, master Stephen , as 1 am true counterfeit man of war , and no soldier! Enter I',, Knowell and Stephen. li. Kkowell. So, sir! and how then , co/, ? Stephen.'Sfoot! I have lost my purse, i think. K. Knowell. Howl lost your purse? where? when had you it ? Stephen. 1 cannot tell ; stay. Uiuinworm. 'Slid, I am afeurd they will know me: would I could get by them ! li. Knowell. What, have you it ? Stephen. No; 1 think I was bewitched , I-- [CV/ci]. K. Knowell. Nay, do not weep the loss; hang it, let i t go. Stephen. Oh, it's here: No, an it had been lost, I had not cared , but for a jet ring mistress Mary sent me. fi, Knowell. A jet. ring! 0 thepoesic, the poesie? Stephen. Pine i'faith. — Though Fancy sleep, My love is deep. Meaning, that though 1 did not fancy her, yet she loved me dearly. Knowell. Most excellent! Stephen. And then I sent her another, and my poesie was, The deeper the sweeter , I'll be jndg'd hy St. Peter. li. Knowell. How, by St. Peter ? I do not conceive that. Or , knowing it, to want the mind's erection In such extremes? Well, I will once more strive, In spite of this black cloud , myself to he. And shake the fever oil' that shakes thus me. [Exit Scene 11, — MooiiriELDS. Enter ürainwohm disguised, tile a maimed Soldier. Uiuinworm. 'Slid, I cannot choose but laugh to see myself translated thus, from a poor creature to a creator; for now must I create an intolerable sort of [Hxit Downiugiit.] lies, or my present profession loses the grace: and |
126
SiEl'nEN. Marry, Si. reter, lo make up the metre.
E. Knoweii. Well, there llie saint was your good patron, lie holp'd you at your need ; tliank liim, tliank him.
Brainworm. I cannot take leave on 'cm so; I will venture come what will, [Comet forwaril.\ Gentlemen , please you change a few crowns for a very excellent good hlade here ? I am a poor gentleman, a soldier; one that, in the better state of my fortunes, scorned so mean a refuge; hut now it is the humour of necessity to have it so. You seem to hu gentlemen well affected to martial men, else 1 should rather die with silence, than live with shame: however, vouchsafe to remember it is my want speaks , not myself; this condition agrees not with my spirit---
E. Knoweii. Where ha-t thou served ?
Brainworm. May it please you , sir, in all the late wars of Bohemia , Hungary, Dalmatia , Poland , where not, sir? I have heen a poor servitor liy sea and land any time this fourteen years,and followed the fortunes of the best commanders in Christendom. 1 was twice shot at the taking of Aleppo, once at the relief of Vienna; 1 have been at Marseilles, Naples, and the Adriatic gulf, a gentleman-slave in the gallics, thrice; where I was most dangerously shot in the heatl, through both the thighs; and yet, being thus maimed, 1 am void of maintenance, nothing left me but my scars, the noted marks of my resolution.
Stepiien. How will you sell this rapier, friend ?
Brainwobm. Generous sir, I refer it. lo your own judgment; you are a gentleman, give me what you please.
.Stepiien. True, 1 am agontleman, I know that, friend ; but what though! I pray you say , what would you ask ?
Brainworm. I assure you, the blade may become the side of the best prince in Europe.
E. Knoweii. Ay, with a velvet scabbard , I think.
Stephen. Nay. an't he mine, it shall have a velvet scabbard , cor., that's flat: I'd not wear it as it is , an you would give me an angel.
Brainworm. At your worship's pleasure, sir: nay, 't is a most pure Toledo.
Stephen. I had rather it were a Spaniard. But tell me, what shall I give you for it? An it had a silver hilt —
E. Knowell. Come, come, you shall not buy it; hold , there's a shilling, fellow; take thy ropier.
Stephen. Why, but I will buy it now, because von say so ; and there's another shilling, fellow : I scorn to be out-bidden. What, shall I walk with a cudgel like Higginbottom , and may have a rapier for money I
E. Knoweii. You may buy one in the city.
■Stephen. Tut! I'll buy this i'the field , so I will; 1 have amindto't, because 'tis a field rapier. Tell mo your lowest price.
E. Knowell. You shall not buy it, I say.
Stephen, By this money , hut 1 will, though 1 give more than 'tis worth.
E. Knowell. Come away, you are a fool.
Stephen. Friend, I am a fool, that's granted; but
I'll have it, for that word's sake. Follow me for your money.
Brainworm. At your service, sir. [JSxeunt].
Scene 111. — Another Pari o/'Moohkielbs.
Enter KnOWELI.
Knoweii.. I cannot lose the thoughtyet of this letter. Sent to my son ; nor leave 1'admirc the change Of manners, and the breeding of our youth AVithin the kingdom , since myself was one. —
When I was young , ho lived not in the stews Durst have conceived a scorn , and utter'd it, On a gray bead ; age was authority Against a buffoon , and a man had then /V certain reverence paid unto his years.
That had none due unto his life: so much The sanctity of some prevail'd for others.
But now we all are fallen ; youth from their fear , And age, from that which bred it, good example. Nay, would ourselves were not the first, even parents, That did destroy the hopes in onrown children ; Or I hey not I earn'd our vices in their cradles, Vnd suck'd in our ill customs with their milk ;
lire all their teeth he horn , or tbev can speak , \\ ü make their palates cunning; the first words We form their tongues with , are licentious jests: A witly child ! can't swear ? the father's darling!
Give it two plums. Nay , rather than't shall learn i\o bawdysong, the mother herself will teach it? — But this is in the infancy, the days Of the long coal; when it puts on the breeches,
It will put offall this: Ay, it is like,
When It is gone into the bone already!
No , no; this dye goes deeper than the coat,
Or shirt, or skin ; it stains into the liver And heart, in some: and , rather than it should not, Note what we fathers do ! look bow we live!
What mistresses we keep! at what expense ,
In our sons' eyes! where they may ban lie our gifts. Hear our lascivious courtships, sec our dalliance. Taste of the same provoking meats with us ,
To ruin of our states! Nay, when our own Portion is lied , to prey on their remainder ,
We call them into fellowship of vice ;
And leach 'cm all bad ways to buy afiliction.
This in one path; hut there are millions more. In which we spoil our own, with leading them.
Well, I thank heaven, 1 never yet was he That travell'd with my son. before sixteen ,
To shew him the Venetian courtezans;
Nor read the grammar of cheating I had made ,
To my sharp hoy, at twelve; repeating still The rule. Get money; still. tjet money boy ; No matter by what means; money will do More, boy , than my lord's letter. Neither have 1 Drest snails or mushrooms curisusly before him , Perfumed my sauces, and taught him to make them ; Preceding still, with my gray gluttony,
At all tho ord'naries, and only fcar'd His palate should degenerate , not his manners.
These are the trade of fathers now ; however.
My son, 1 hope, bath met within my threshold
127
But men of thy condition feet on sloth ,
As doth the beetle on the dung she breeds in ;
Not caring how the metal of your minds
[s eaten with the rust of idleness.
Now, afore me, whate'er he he, that should
Ilelieve a person of thy quality ,
While thou insist'st in this loose desperate course,
I would esteem the sin not thine, but his.
Brainworm. Faith, sir, I would gladly find some I other course, if so--
Knoweli. Ay,
You'd gladly find it , hut you will nut, seek it.
Brainworm. Alas, sir, where should a man seek in the wars, there's no ascent by desert in these days;
hut--and for service, would it were as soon
purchased, as wished for! the air's my comfort. — [.SV^A,v.] — 1 know w hat I would say.
Knoweu,. What's thy name?
Brainworm. Please you , Fiu-Sword, sir.
Knoweu. FiU-Sword!
Say that a man should entertain thee now,
Wouldst thou be honest, humble, just, and true?
Brainworm. Sir, by the place and honour of a soldier --
Knowell. Nay, nay, I like not these alFcctcd oaths; Speak plainly , man, what think'st thou of my words?
Brainworm. Nothing, sir. but wish my fortunes were as happy as my service should be honest.
Knowell. Well, follow me; up I'll prove thee, if Will carry a proportion of thy words. (thy deeds
[ /'-./■it.
Brainworm. Yes, sir, straight: I'll butgartermy hose. Oh that my belly were hoop'd now, forlam ready to burst with laughing! never was bottle or bagpipe fuller.'Slid, was there ever seen a fox in years to betray himself thus! now shall I be possest of all his counsels, and by thateonduit, my young master. Well, be is resolved to prove my honesty : faith, and I'm resolved to prove his patience: Oh, I shall abuse him intolerably. This small piece of service will bring him clean out of love wilh the soldier for ever. He will never come within the sign of it, the sight of a cassock, or a musket-rest again, lie will hate the musters at Mile-end for it. to his dying day. It's no matter, let the world think me a hail counterfeit, if I cannot give him the slip at an instant: why, this is better than to have staid his journey: well I'll follow him. Oh, how 1 long to he employed ! [/ixit.
FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1586—1615) en JOHN FLETCHER (1576—1625).
Beiden bewerkten nis getrouwe vrienden immer te znmon de dramas, die hun toegeschreven worden. Voor zoover men weet, werd Beaumont het eerst als diehter hekend in 1602, door de verlaliriff van de geschiedenis vnn Salmacis en Hermaphroditus , uit 't vierde bock van de Gedaantever wisselingen van Ovidius. Voorts schreef hij alleen . The Masque of the Inner Temple en Gray's Inn (1012). Fletcher leverde alleen hel herdersdrnma The Faithful Shepherdess en vormoodolijk no^ dorticn aminre dramas, waaronder écn , dat hij met Kowley schreef; het beste van die tooneeIs|iquot;!fMi is; The Will Goose ' hase, dat in 1002 af/.ondei lijk werd uitgegeven. Hun eerste werk is The Woman 1 hl or (lOO?).* beiden leverden bovendien nog zeven of acht en dertig dramas. Hun werk, dat hier en daar de kennelijkste blijken van overhaasting draagt, wordt bovendien ontsierd door
None of llicse liouscliold precedents, wliicli are slronj;
And swift, to rape youth to their precipice.
But lot the house at home he ne'er so clean
Swept, or kept sweet from filth, nay dust and cobwebs.
If lie will live abroad with his companions,
In dun;; and leystals , it is worth a fear;
Nor is the danger of conserving less.
Than all that I have mention'd of example.
Knicr IJrainworm, disguised as before. Brainworm. My master! nay, faith, have at you am flesli'd now, I have sped so well. [imJc] Worshipful sir, I beseech you, respect the estate of a poor soldier; lam ashamed of this base course of life, —God's my comfort — hut extremity provokes me to't : what Knowell. I have not for you , now. (remedy ?
Brainwoh.m. By the faith I hear unto truth , jjentle-inan it is no ordinary custom in me, but only to preserve manhood. I protest to you, a man I have been ; a man I may he, by your sweet bounty.
Knowei.i. Pray thee, good friend, be satisfied. Brainworm. (jood sir, hij that hand , you may do the part of a kind jjentleman, in lendinj; a poor soldier the price of two cans of beer, a matter of small ■value; the king of heaven shall pay you. and I shall rest thank full: Sweet worship.
Knowei.i,. Nay, an you he so importunate.--
Brainworm. Oh. tender sir ! need will have its course: I was not made to this vile use. Well, the edge of the enemy could not have abated me so much: it's hard when a man hath served in his prince's cause, and he thus [ivec/js.J Honourable worship, let me derive a small piece of silver from vou, it shall not he given in the course of time. liy this good ground, I was fain to pawn my rapier last night for a poor supper; I had suck'd the hilts long before, I am a pagan else: Sweet
honour--
KnowELl. IJelievo me, I am taken with some wonder. To think a fellow of thy outward presence.
Should, in the frame and fashion of his mind,
Be so degenerate, and sordid-base.
Art thou a man ? and sham'st thou not to bog, To practise such a servile kind of life ?
Why, were ihy education ne'er so mean ,
Having thy limbs, a thousand fairer courses Oiler themselves, to thy election.
Either the wars might slill supply thy wants, Or service of some virtuous gentleman ,
Or honest labour; nay, what can I name.
But woulil become thee better than to beg:
128
grove dubbelzimiighoilen en zedelooze voorslellingeu : ongeveer de belft van hmi stukken wordt gerangschikt onder de minste voortbrengselen van 't drama. Uier en daar treft men echter meesterlijke tafereelen aan. Hoenel beiden zeer poctiesch en vindingrijk in bet drama zijn, staan zij echter verre beneden Shakspeare. Men beeft van ben; The Woman-Hater; The Knight of the Burning Pestle; The Scornful Lady ; The Elder lirother; Monsieur Thomas; Wit Without Money; The Coronation ; Rule a Wife and have a Wife; The Night Walker ; The Spanish Curate; The Little French Lawyer; The noble Gentleman; The Captain ; The Beggar's Bush ; The Chances; The Maid of the Mill; The Sea Voyage; The Pilgrim; The Woman's Prize; Love's Cure; Wit at Several Weapons; Love's Pilgrimage; Four Plays in one ; The Wild Goose Chase (bldz. 127); Cupid's üevenge ; A King and no King; The Maid's Tragedy; Philaster; Thierry and Theodoret; The Two noble Kinsmen, Kollo; The Mad Lover ; The Custom of the Country; The False one ; The Loyal Subject; The Laws of Candy ; The Lover's Progress; The Island Princess; Humorous Lieutentut; The Nice Valour; The Prophetess; Bonduca ; The Double Marriage; The Knight of Malta ; The Honest Man's Fortune; The Queen of Corinth; Women Pleased ; A Wife for a Month ; Valentiuian ; The fair Maid of the Inn , cnz.
Caratacli, E'rincc of the ISritons, with his nephew llengo asleep.
|
•Caratacd. Si.ef.p still, sleep sweetly, child; '1 is all (thou foed'sl on : No gentle llrlton near, no valiant charity To bring tliee food. Poor knave, tliour't sick, extreme (sick . Almost grown wild for meat, and yet thy goodness AVill not confess or show it. All the woods Are double lined with soldiers, no way left us To make a nohle 'scape. I'll sit down by thee, And when thou wakest either get meat to save Or lose my life i'the purchase. Good gods comfort thee, Enter ('Alt atacii und IIekco on tin: rod;. Cakatach, Courage, my hoy, I've found meat: look, (HengoJ Look, where some Idessed ISriton, to preserve thee. Has hung a little food and drink. Cheer up hoy! Uo not forsake me now. IIenco. Oh! uncle, uncle, I feel I cainot stay long; yet I'll fetch it To keep your nohle life. Uncle, I'm heart whole. And would live. Caratacb. Thou shall, long, I hope. IIekgo. But — my head, uncle — Melliinks the rock goes round. Enter Mac Eli and Judas, Uomuns. Macer. Mark 'em well, Judas. Judas. Peace, as you love your life. Hengg. Do not you hear The noise ol hells I Caratacü. Of hells, boy? 'tis thy fancy. Alas! thy body's full of wind. IIengo. Methinks, sir. They ring a strange sad knell, a preparation To some near funeral of state. Nay, weep not. Caratacii. Oh ! my poor chicken. IIenco. Fye, faint-harled uncle; Come, tie me in yonr bell, and let me down. Caratacii. I'll go myself, hoy. Hengo. No ; as you love me, uncle, I will not eat it if 1 do not fetch it. The danger only I desire ; pray tic me. CaiiataCII. I will, and all my care hang o'er thee. My valiant child. IIengo. Let me down apace, uncle, |
And you shall see how like a daw I'll whip it From all their policies; for 'tis most certain A Iloman train. And you must hold me sure too. You'll spoil all else. When I have brought it uncle. We'll be as merry — Caratacii. Go i'the nanicof heav'n, hoy. Hengo. Quick, quick , uncle, I have it. Oh I [Judas shoots Hengo.] Cataracii. AVhatail'st ibou? Hengo. 0! my best uncle, I am slain. Caratacii. I see you — [Kills Judas with a stone.] And heav'n direct my hand ! Destruction Go with thy coward soul! How dost thou , hoy ? Oh! villain — Hengo. Oh! uncle, uncle! Oh ! how it pricks me; extremely pricks inc. Cakatach. Coward rascal! Dogs eat thy llesb. Hengo. 0, I bleed hard — I faint loo — outupon't! How sick, I am — the Icon rogue, uncle! Caratacii. Look, hoy, I've laid him sure enough. Hengo. Have you knock'd out bis brains? Caratacii. I warrant thee, for stirring more. Cheer up, child. Hengo. Hold my sides hard; slop , stop; oh ! wretched fortune — Must we part thus? Still 1 grow sicker, uncle. Caratacii. Heav'n look upon this nohle child. Hengo. I once hoped I should have lived to have met thecse bloody Homans Vt my sword's point, to have revenged my father. To have beaten'cm. — Oh! hold me hard ;— but, (uncle-- Caratacii. Thou shall live still, I hope, boy. Shall I draw it ? IIenco. You draw away my soul then. 1 would live, A lillle longer (spare mo, heav'n !) but only To thank you for your tender love, good uncle. Good, noble uncic, weep not. Caratacii. Oh! my chicken! My dear boy! what shall I lose? Hengo. Why, a child. That must have died however, had this 'scaped mc, |
129
|
Fever or famine. I was born to die, sir. Cahaiach. But thus unblown, my boy — Hengü. I go the stroigbter, My journey to the gods. Sure 1 shall luiow you When you come, my uncle. Caratacd. Yes, hoy. IIengo, And I hope We shall en joy together that great blessedness You told me of. Caratach. Most certain, child. IIengo. I grow cold ; Mine eyes are going. CARATAcn. Lift'em up. Hengo. I'ray for me. And, noble uncle, ■when my bones arc ashes, |
Think of your little nephew. Mercy ! Caratach. Mercy I You blessed angels take him. IIengo. Kiss me! so — Farewell! farewell! Caratach. Farewell the hopes of Britain : Thou royal graft, farewell for ever! Time and Death , You've done your worst. — Fortune, now see, now (proudly Pluck off thy veil, and view thy triumph. Look, Look what tii'hast brought this land to. Ob! fair flower, How lovely yet thy ruins show ! how sweetly , Ev'n death embraces thee! The peace of heav'n — 'J'he fellowship of all good souls be with thee!* |
Ptolemy , King of Egypt, having secured the head of I'ompey , comes with his friends to present it to Cresar.
C/ESAn's ADDBESS TO THE HEAt).
|
Cjesar. Oh thou conqueror. Thou glory of the world once, now the pity; Thou aw e of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus? What poor fate follow'd thee and pluck'd thee on To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian ? The life anil light of Home to a blind stranger, That honourable war ne'er taught a nobleness, Nor worthy circumstance sbou'd what n man was ? That never heard thy name sung but in banquets. And loose lascivious pleasures ? to a hoy. That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness, No study of thy life to know thy goodness ? And leave thy nation , nay thy noble friend, |
Leave him distrusted , that in tears falls with thee, In soft relenting tears? Hear mc, great Pompey; If thy great spirit can bear, I must task thee! Th'bast most unnobly robh'd mc of my victory , My love and mercy.* Egyptians, dare ye think your highest pyramids, Built to outdare the sun, as you suppose. Where your unworthy kings lie rak'd in ashes. Are monuments fit for him ? No; brood of Nilus , Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven, No pyramids set oil'his memories, But t be eternal substance of his greatness, To w hich I leave him.* |
Werd geboren omstreeks ISamp;l en overleed in Maart Ifilfl. Hij ontving epn geleerde opvoeding even als Johnson , maar heeft niet zooveel oorspronkelijk vernuft als deze. Massinger is zeer welsprekenil, doeh neemt geen zeer hooge vlugt in zijn verbeeldingskraeht of pathos: hij verdient echter bijzondere melding om de zuiverheid van zijn taal en de bijzondere goede inaehtucming van 't plan zijner stukken. Van de acht en dertig dramas, die hij, naar men wil, schreef, zijn slechts achttien bewaard gebleven; achttien anderen werden in manuscript door de vlammen verteerd. Tot zijn beste stukken behooren; A New Way to Pay Old Debts; The City Madam. Voorts schreef hij; The Virgin Martyr; The Duke of Milan; The Bondman; The Roman Actor; The Henega-do's Picture; The Emperor of the East; The Maid of Honour; The Fatal Dowry; The Great Duke of Florence; The Unnatural Combat; The Bashful lover, or Alexas; The Guardian; A Very Woman; The Old Law, The Parliament of Love.
|
Luke , from a state of indigencc and dependence is suddenly raised into immense affluence hij a deed of gifts of the estates of his brut her sir John Fiiügai, a merchant^ retired from the world. He enters, from taking a simey of his new riches, Ldke. 'Twas no fantastic object hut a truth, A real truth , no dream. I did not slumber; And could wake ever with I brooding eye To gaze upon't! it did endure the touch , |
I saw, and felt it. Yet what 1 beheld And handled oft, did so transcend belief (My wonder and astonishment pass'd o'er) I faintly could give credit to my senses. Thou dumb magician, [To the Key. That without a charm Didst make my entrance easy, to possess AVhat wise rneu wish and toil for. Hermes' Moly; Sybilla's golden bough; the great elixir ; |
17
130
Imiijjin'd only by tlie alchymisl;
Compar'd with thee, arc sliaclow?, thou the substance Anrl jjuardian of felicity. No marvel,
My brother made thy place of rest his bosom,
Thou being the keeper of his heart, a mistress To be hujfij'd ever. In by-corners of This sacred room, silver, in bags beap'd up,
Like billets saw'd and ready for the fire ,
Unworthyto hold fellowship with bright gold ,
That llow'd about the room , coneeal'd itself.
There needs no artificial light, the splendour Makes a perpetual day there, night and darkness ]?y that still-burning lamp for ever banish'd, But when, guided by that, my eyes had made Discovery of the caskets , and they open'd,
Each sparkling diamond from itself shot forth A pyramid of flames, and in the roof Fix'd it a glorious star, and made the place Heaven's abstract, or epitome: Rubies, sapphires. And ropes of orient pearl, these seen, I could not But look on gold with contempt. And yet ( found, What weak credulity could have no faith in ,
A treasure far exceeding these. Here lay A manor bound fast in a skin of parchment;
The wax continuing- hard , the acres melting.
Here a sure deed of gift for a market town ,
If not redeem'd this day; which is not iu The unthrift's power. There being scarce one shire In Wales or England where my monies arc not Lent out at usury, the certain hook To draw in more.
The extravagance of the City Madams aping court fashions reprehended.
LüKE, having come Into the possession of his brother Sir John Fhücal's estates. Lady, wife to Sir .]oun FrüGAI, and two daughters^ in homely attire,
Ldke. Save you, sister;
I'now dare style you so. Vou were before Too glorious to he look'd on : now you appear Like a city matron, and my pretty nieces Such things
As they were born and bred there. Why should you ape The fashions of court ladies, whose high titles And pedigrees of long descent give warrant For their superfluous bravery? 'twas monstrous.
Till now you ne'er look'd lovely.
Ladï. Is this spoken In scorn?
Luke. Fie, no; with judgment, [ make good My promise, and now shew you like yourselves,
In your own natural shapes.
Lady. We acknowledge lye have deserv'd ill from you, yet despair not. Though we're at your disposure, you'll maintain us Like your brother's wife and daughters.
Luke. 'T is my purpose.
Lady. And not make us ridiculous.
Luke. Admir'd rather.
As fair examples for our proud city dames And their proud brood to imitate. Hear Gently, and in gentle phrase I'll reprehend
Your late disguis'd deformity.
Your father was
An honest country farmer, Goodman Humble,
liy his neighbours ne'er call'd master. Did your pride
Descend from him ? but let that pass. Y'our fortune,
Or rather your husband's industry, advane'd you
To the rank of merchant's wife. lie made a knight,
And your sweet mistress-ship ladyfy'd, you wore
Satin on solemn days, a chain of gold,
A velvet hood , rich borders, and sometimes
A dainty miniver cap, a silver pin
Headed with a pearl worth threepence; and thus far
You were privileg'd, and no man envied it:
It being for the city's honour that
There should be distinction between
The w ife of a patrician and a plebeian.
But when the height
And dignity of London's blessings grew
Contemptible, and the name lady mayoress
Became a by-word , and you seorn'd the means
By w hich you were rais'd (my brother's fond indulgence
Giving the reins to't) and no object pleas'd you
But the glitt'ring pomp and bravery of the court;
What a strange nay monstrous metamorphosis follow'd!
No English workman then could please your fancy;
The French and Tuscan dress , your whole discourse ;
This bawd to prodigality entcrtain'd ,
To buz into your ears , what shape this countess
Appear'd in , the last mask ; ami how it drew
The young lord's eyes upon her: and this usher
Succeeded in the eldest 'prentice's place,
To walk before you. Then , as I said ,
(The reverend hood east oil') your borrow'd hair
I'owder'd and curl'd , was by your dresser's art
Form'd like a coronet, liang'd with diamonds
And the richest orient pearl: your carkanets,
That did adorn your neck , of equal value;
Your Hungerland hands, and Spanish Qucllio rulls:
Great lords and ladies feasted, to survey
Embroider'd petticoats; and sickness feign'd ,
That your nightrails of forty pounds a-piece
Might bo seen with envy of the visitants:
llicb pantahlcs in ostentation shewn ,
And roses worth a family. You wercserv'd
In plate;
Stirr'd not a foot without a coach ; and going To church , not for devotion, hut to shew Your pomp, you were tickled » hen the beggars cried Heaven save your honour. This idolatry Paid to a painted room. And when you lay In childbed, at the christening of this minx,
I will remember it, as you had been An absolute princess (since they have no more)
Three several chambers hung: the first with arras , And t hat for waiters; the second, crimson satin , For the meaner sort of guests; the third of scarlet Of he rich 'J'yrian dye: a canopy To cover the brat's craddle; you in state.
Like Pompey's Julia. r Lady. Ko more, I pray you,quot;
Luke, Of this be sure yon shall not. I'll cut oft'
151
|
Wlialcver is exorbitant in you, Or in your daughters; and reduce you to Vour natural forms and habits: not in revenge Of your base usage of me ; but to fright Otiiers by your example.* COMPASSION FOIl MISFORTUNE. Ldke. Wo word, sir, I liope, sliall give offence: nor let it relish Of flattery, though 1 proclaim aloud , I glory in the bravery of your mind , To which your wealth's a servant. Not that riches Is, or should be, contemn'd, it being a blessing Deriv'd from heaven, and by your industry Pull'd down upon you ; but in this, dear sir, You have many equals: such a man's possessions Kxlend as far as yours; a second bath His bags as full; a third in credit flies As high in the popular voice: but the distinction And noble difference by which you are Divided from them, is, that you are styled Gentle iu your abundance, good in plenty; And that you feel compassion in your bowels Of others' miseries (I have found it, sir; Heaven keep me thankful for't!), while they are curs'd As rigid and inexorable.* Your affability and mildness, clothed. In the garments of your thankful debtors' breath Shall everywhere, though you strive to conceal it, lie seen and wonder'd at, and in the act With a prodigal hand rewarded. Whereas, such As are horn only for themselves, and live so. Though prosperous in wordly understandings. Are but like beasts of rapine, that, by odds Of strength, usurp and tyranise o'er others Brought under their subjection.* |
Can you think, sir, In your unquestion'd wisdom , I bcseech you, The goods of this poor man sold at an outcry, His wife turn'd out of doors , bis children fore'd To beg their bread ; this gentleman's estate liy wrong extorted , can advantage you I Or that the ruin of this once brave merchant, For such he was estcem'd, though now decay'd , Will raise your reputation with good men ? i!ut you may urge (pray you, pardon me, my zeal Makes me thus hold and vehement), in this You satisfy your anger, and revenge For being defeated. Suppose this, it will not Repair your loss, and there was never yet liut shame and scandal in a victory, When the rebels unto reason, passions, fought it. Then for revenge, by great souls it was ever Contcmn'd , though offer'd; entertain'd by none Rut cowards, base and abject spirits, strangers To moral honesty, and never yet Acquainted with religion.* Sir John. Shall I he Talk'd of my money? Luke. No, sir, but intrcatcd. To do yourself a benefit; and preserve What you possess entire. Sir .lonN, Ilow, my good brother ? Ldke. By making these your beadsmen. When they eat. Their thanks, next heaven, will be paid to your mercy; When your ships are at sea, their prayers will swell The sails with prosperous winds, and guard them from Tempests and pirates; keep your warehouses From fire, or quench them with their tears. |
Kleermaker te Loiuleii , behoort tot de dramaschrijvers uit den tijd van Shakespeare , dioeenigen naam verdienen , hoewel zijn voortbrengselen lang niet kunnen vergeleken worden met die van dezen grooten (lichter. Hij schreef alléén vier dramas, doch arbeidde met Rowley aan twee en met Decker insgelijks aan twee stukken. The Duchess of Malfy en The White Devil zijn de twee besten van zijn dramas; de plannen dier tooneelstukken zijn echter, tven als dit 't geval is bij de meeste schrijvers van zijn tijd, onregelmatig en verward; de karakters worden daarin dikwijls verminkt, cn in 't algemeen zijn de stukken eenigorinate gebrekkig. Hier en daar zijn echter tafereelcc , welke met die van de stukken der beste dramaschrijvers kunnen wedijveren. Als schrijver was hij een geheel oorspronkelijk vernuft; hij schijnt evenwel in al wat verschrikkelijk is, al grensde 't ook aan 't overdrevene, groot vermaak gevonden te hebben. Hij schreef tussehen 1612 en 1061.
Beath of The llïuclic.ss of Slalfy.
|
Ducuess. Is be mad too ? iï0s0la. i am come to make thy tomb. Ddciiess. Ha! my tomb? Thou speak'st as if 1 lay upon my deathbed , Gasping for breath: Dost thou perceive me sick? Rosoia. Yes!.... Duchess. Who am I? Rosoia. Thou art a box of w orm seed ,* Dücuess. I am Duchess of Malfy still. Rosoia. That makes thy sleeps so broken. |
Glories, like glow-worms, af.ir off shine bright; Rut, look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. Duohess. Thou art very plain. Rosola. My trade is to Hatter the dead, not the living. I am a tomb-maker. Ducuess. And thou comest to make my tomb? Rosoia. Yes! Duchess. Let me be a little merry: Of what stuff wilt thou make it? Rosoia. Nay, resolve me first; of what fashion ? |
152
|
Düoiiess. Why du wc grow fantastical in our deathbed ? Do we affect fashion in the grave ? Bosoia. Most amhitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not lie as they were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven; hut with their hands under their cheelts, (as if tliey died of the tooth ache): They arc not carved ■with their eyes fixed upon the stars; hut as their minds were wholly bent upon the world, the self-same way they seem to turn their faces. Dcchess. Let me know fully, therefore; the ellcct Of this thy dismal preparation ! This talk, fit for a charnel. Bosoia. Now I shall. (/1 coffin, cords , and a hell.) Here is a present from your princely brothers ; And may it arrive welcome, for it brings Last benefit, last sorrow. Docilliss. Let me see it.* Bosoia. This is your last presence chamber.* Duchess. Peace! itaU'riglits not me. Bosola. 1 am the comnion bellman , That usually is sent !o comlemu'd persons The night before they sulïer. Ddcuess. Even now thonsaidst Thou was a tomb-maker. Bosoia. 'T was to bring you By degrees to mortification: Listen. Dirye. Hark! now every thing is stiil; The screech-owl, and the whistler shrill , Call upon our dame aloud , And bid her quickly don her shroud. Much you had of land and rent; Voiir length in clay's now competent. |
A long war disturb'd your mind ; Uere your perfect peace is sign'd. Of what is't fools make such vain keeping ? Sin, their conception ; their, birth weeping: Their life, a general mist of error, Their death , a hideous storm of terror. Strew your hair with powders sweet, Don clean linen, bathe your feet. And (the foul fiend more to check) A crucifix lot bless your neck. 'T is now full tide, 'tween night and day, End your groan , and come away. CAniotA. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers: alas! What will ye do with my lady ? Call for help. Ddcuess. To whom ? to our next neighbours? they (are mad-folks. I pray thee, look thou givest my little hoy Some syrup for his cold , and let the girl Say her prayers ere she sleep. — l\'ow what you please ? What death ? BosoiA. Strangling. Here are your executioners. Execdtiokers. We are ready.* Duchess. Dispose my breath how please you ; hut Bestow upon my women. Will you ? (my body Executioners. Yes! Duchess. *Pull, and pull strongly, for your able Must pull down heaven upon me. (strength Yet slay , heaven gates are not so highly areh'd As princes' palaces; They that enter there Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death, Serve for Mandragora to make me sleep. Go tell my brothers, when 1 am laid out, They then may sleep in quiet. (T/tc'/ strangle her, [kneeling. |
S i U W A L T E R R A L E I ü II.
Deze aU krijgsman, staatsman, geschieilsoluijver, dichter en reiziger Leroemdo man, werd in 1553 geboren. Zijn History of the world bleef onvoltooid, maar is niet te min zijn belangrijkst werk: hij schreef 't in de gevangenis. waarin hij twaalf jaar doorbragt. Do geschiedenis begint met de schepping van do wereld en eindigt met den val van het macedonische rijk omstreeks honderd en zeventig jaar vóór Christus : zij werd in 1C14 uitgegeven. Voorts zijn er nog van hem ecnige staatkundijjo verhandelingen en kllt;yue gedichten. Hij viel door den moovdbyi op 't schavot in Kil8.
|
Providence, which the Greeks call 1'ronoia, is an intellectual knowledge, holli fore-seeing, caring for, and ordering all things, and dolh not only heboid all past, all present, and all to come, but is the causc of their so lining, which prescicnse, simply taken, is not: and therefore rrovidencehy the Philpsophers, saith St. |
Augustine, is divided into memory, knowledge, and care : memory of the past, knowledge of the present, and care of the future : And we ourselves account such a man for provident, as remembering tilings past, and observing things present, can by judgment, and comparing the one with the other, provide for the future |
155
It is not therefore, as aforesaid, by reason ol immor-talitv, nor in reason , nor in dominion , nor in any one of these by itself, nor in all these joined, by any of which , or by all which we resemble , or may be called the Shadow, of God , though by reason and understanding, with the other faculties of the soul, we are made capable of this print; hut chiefly, in respect of the habit of original righteousness, most perfectly infused hy God into the mind and soul of man in his first creation. For it is not by nature, nor by her liberality, that we arc printed with the seal ofGod's image, though reason may be said to he of her gift, which , joined to the soul, is a part uf the essential constitution of our proper species, but from the bountiful grace of the Lord of all goodness , w ho breathed life into earth , and contrived within the trunk of dust and clay the inimitable ability ofhis own piety and righteousness.
So long tnerefore, for that resemblance w hich dominion hath , do those that are powerful retain the image of God, as according to his commandments they exercise the olïice or magistracy to which they are called, and sincerely walk in the ways of God , which in the Scriptures is called quot;walking with Godquot;; and all other men so long ictain this image, as they fear , love, and serve God truly , that is for the love oi' God alone, anil do not bruise and deface his seal by the weight of manifold and voluntary offences, ami obstinate sins. For the unjust mind cannot be after the image of God, seeing God is justice itself ; the blood-thirsty bath it not, for God is charily and mercy itself; falsehood, cunning practice , and ambition , are properties of Satan , and therefore cannot dwell in one soul together with God: And, to he short, there is no likelihood between pure light and black darkness, between beauty and deformity, or between righteousness and reprobation. And though nature, according to common understanding, have made us capable by the power of reason, and apt enough to receive this image of God's goodness, which the sensual souls of beasts cannot perceive; yet were that aptitude natural more inclinable to follow and embrace the false and dureless pleasures of this stage-play world, than to become the shadow of God , by walking after him, hail not the exceeding workmanship of God's wisdom , and liberality of his mercy, formed eyes to our souls as to our bodies; which piercing through the impurity of our flesh , behold the highest heavens, and thcncc bring knowledge and object to the mind and soul, to contemplate the ever-during glory, and termless joy, prepared for those which retain the image and similitude of their creator, preserving undefilcd and unrent the garment of the new man , which , after the image of God, is created in righteousness and holiness , as sailb St. Paul. Now whereas it is thought by some of the fathers , as by St. Augustine, with whom St. Ambrose joincth , That by sin the perfection of the image is lost, and not the image itself: both opinions by this distinction may be well reconciled , to wit, that the image uf God , in man , may he taken two ways; for, either it is considered according to natural gifts, and consisteth therein, namely, to have a reasonable and nmlcrstanding nature, amp;c.; and in
and times eucceetliiijj. 'J'tiat sucti a thin»; there is ns Providenee, tlioScripturesevery where teaeli us; Moses in many places, the Prophets in their predictions, Christ liimselt and his Apostles assure us hereof; and 'jesides the Scriptures,Hermes, Orpheus, Kuripides, Pythagoras, Plato, Plotinus, and , in effect, all learned men uclcnowlcdjje the Providence of God; yea, the Turks themselves are so confident therein, as they refuse not to accompany and visit each other in the most pestilent diseases, nor shun any peril ■whatsoever, though death therein do manifestly present itself.
The places of Scripture proving Providence are so many, hoth in jjencral and particular, as I shall need to repeat hut a few of them in this place ; quot;Sinjj unto Godquot; saith David, quot;which covereth the lleavcnswith clouds, and prepareth rain for the earth, and maketh the grass to grow upon the mountains; which giveth the lieasts their food, and feedeth the young raven that crics ; All these wait upon thee, that thou mayestgive them food in due seasonquot;: quot;And thou shalt drink of the river Cherithquot;, saith God to Eliah, quot;And 1 have commanded the ravens to feed thee there.quot; quot;Behold the fowls of the air, they sow not, nor reap, and yet your heavenly father feedeth them.quot; Again, quot;Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of thcmshallnot fall on the ground without your father : Yea, all the hairs of your head are numheredquot;. And St. Peter, quot;Cast all your care on him , for he carcth for you.quot; quot;And his judgments are writtenquot;, saith David.
God therefore, Tvlio is every where present, quot;who fllleth the heavens and the earth, whose eyes are upon the righteous, and his counlenance, against them that do evil; was therefore, by Orpheus, called ociilns infi-nitus, an infinite eye, hcholding all things; and cannot therefore he esteemed as an idle looker on, as if he had transferred his power to any other; for it is contrary 10 his own word, Gloriam meam altcri 71011 daho; I will not give my glory to another. No man comman-deth in the King's presence, hut hy the King's direction : hut God is every where present, and King of Kings. The example of God's universal providence is seen in his creatures. The father provideth for his children; heasts and birds, and all livings, for their young ones. If Providence he found in second fathers, much more in the first and universal : and if there he a natural loving care in men and beasts, much more in God, who hath formed this nature, and whose divine love was the beginning, and is the bond of the universal : Amor divinus rerum omnium est prinripium amp; vinculum univcrsi, saith Plato, Amor dei est nodus perpetuus, Mundi copula pnrtiumque ejus immobile sustentaculum, ac universal machina: fundamcn-ium j The love of God is the perpetual knot, and link, or chain of the world, and the immoveable pillar of every part thereof, and the basis and foundation of the universal. God therefore who could only he the cause of all, can only provide for all, and sustain all; so, as to absolute power, to every-where presence, to perfect] goodness, to pure and divine love, this attribute transcendent ability of Providence is only proper and he-longing.
154
tliis sense, tho image of God in no more lost hy sin, and lieavenly jjlory, which is indeed the perfection than the very reosonahle or understanding nature amp;c., and accomplishment of tlie natural image; and this is lost, for sin doth not aholish and take away these manner of similitude and image of God is wholly blot-natural gifts; or, the image of God is considered, accor- ted out , and destroyed hy sin.
ding to supernatural gifts, namely, of divine grace,
In 1554 geboren , overleed in 1580 voor Zutpben (Nederland); maar werd te Londen in de St. 1'aulskerk ter aarde besteld. Hij was in Nederland gunstig bekend door zijn ridderlijk gedrag en rondborstigheid tegenover zijn bloedverwant Leicester, en in Engeland, waar hij bovendien zeer geacht was ora de bescherming, die hij er aan do dichtkunst verleende. Men heeft van hem in proza : The Oefcnce of l'oesy; The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia, proza met poëzie afgewisseld (zijn verdienstelijkst werk); Astropbel and Stella, een verzameling van 108 sonnetten; een tooneelspcl, enz. The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia, verscheen het eerst gedeeltelijk in 1590 en compleet in 1593: Astrophel and Stella in 1590 en The Defence of l'oesy, zijn voornaamste prozawerk, in 1595. Zijn proza is bet vloeijendst en dichterlijkst dat tot dien tijd geschreven was.
|
There is no art delivered unto mankind, that hath not the works of nat ure for his principal object, without which they could not consist, and on which they so depend , as they become actors and players, as it were, of what nature wiil have set forth. So doth the Astro, nomer look upon the stars , and by that lie seetb , set down what order nature hath taken therein. So doth the Geometrician and Arithmetician, in their divers sorts of quantilies. So dolh the Musician , in times, tell you, «hicii hy naturagree, whidi not. The natural Philosopher thereon hath his name, and the moral Philosopher standetli upon the natural virtues, vices, or passions of man: and follow nature, saith he, therein, and thou shalt not err. The Lawyer saith what men have determined. The Historian what men have done. The Grammarian speaketh only of the rules of speech, and the Rhetorician and Logician, considering what in nature will soonest prove, and persuade thereon, give artificial rules, which still are compassed within the circle of a question, according to the proposed matter. The Physician weigheth the nature of man's body, and the nature of things helpful or hurtful unto it. And the Metaphysic, though il he in the second; and abstract notions, and therefore he counted supernatural , yet doth he, indeed , build upon the depth of nature. Only the Poet, disdaining to be tied to any such subjection, lifted up wilh the vigour of his own invention, doth grow, in effect, into another nature: in making things either better than nature liringetb forth, or quite anew, forms such as never were in nature, as the Heroes, Demi-gods, Cyclops, Ciiimoeras, Furies, and such like; so as he goeth hand in hand with nature, not inclosed within the narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely ranging wil bin the zodiac of bis ow n wit. Nature never set forth the earth in so rich tapestry as divers poets have done; neither with so pleasant rivers, fruitful trees, sweet-smelling flowers, nor whatsoever else may make the too much loved earth more lovely; her world is brazen, the poets only deliver a golden. But let, those things alone, and go to Man, fur whom, as the oilier things are. so it seemeth in him her uttermost, cunning is employed, and know, w hether she have brought forth so true a lover as Theagenes, so constant a friend as Pylades, so valiant a man as Orlando, so right a prince as Xenophon's Cyrus, and so excellent a man every way as Virgil's /lineas ? Neither let this he jestingly conceived, because the works of the one be essential, the other in imitation or fiction ; for every understanding knoweth the skill of each artificer stan-deth in that idea , or fureconceit of the work , and not in the work itself. And that the poet hath that idea, is manifest, hy the delivering them forth in such excellency as In; had imagined them; which delivering forth, also, is not wholly iniaginative, as we were wont to say by them that build castles in the air; hut so far suhslantially it worketh, not only to make a Cyrus, which had been but a particular excellency, as nature mighthave done, hut to bestowa Cyrus upon the world to make many Cyrusses, if they will learn aright, why, and how that Maker made him. Neither let il. bedeemed too saucy a comparison, to balance the highest point of man's wit with the eflicacy of nature, but rather give right honour to the heavenly Maker of that maker, who having made man tobisown likeness, set bim beyond, and over all the works ol that second nature, which in nothing he shewed so much as in poetry, when , with the force of a divine breath, he bringeth things forth surpassing her doings, with no small arguments to the incredulous of that first accursed fall of Adam, since our erected wit inakoth us know what perfection is , and yet our infected will keepeth us from reaching unto il. Jfut these arguments will by few he understood, and by fewer granted : thus much I hope will be given me, that, the Greeks, with some probability of reason, gave him the name above all names of learning. Now let us go to a more ordinary opening of bim , that the truth may be the more palpable; and so, I hope, though we get not so unmatched a praise as the e/jy-molugy of his names will grant, yet his very description, which no man will deny, shall justly be barred |
was directed, yet want there not idle tongues to bark at them,
i\ow, therein, of all Sciences, I speak still of human, ane, according to the human conceit, is our Poet the monarcb. For he doth not only shew the way, hut giveth so sweet a prospect into the way, as will iiitice any men to enter into it: nay, ho doth, as if your journey should lie through a fair vineyard, at the very first, give you a cluster of grapes, that full of that taste, you may long to pass farther. He beginneth not with obscure definitions, which must blur the margin witb-interpretations, and load the memory with doubtfulness; but be cometh to you with words set in delight-full proportion, either accompanied with , or prepared for thewell-enehanting skill of vmsic,and with a talc, forsooth, he cometh unto you with a tale, which holdetb children from play, and old men from the chimney corner; and, pretending no more, doth intend the winning of the mind from wiekedncss to virtue;even as the child is often brought to take most wholesome things by hiding them in such other as have a pleasant taste: which, ifone should begin to tell them the nature of I he Aloes or llbaharharum thoy should rcceive, w ould sooner take their physic at their cars than at their mouth : so is it in men, most of which arc childish in the best things, till they be cradled in their graves, glad they will be to hear the tales of Hercules, Achilles, Cyrus, ylincas, and bearing them, must needs hear the right description of wisdom, valour and justice; which, if they had been barely, that is to say. philosophically set out, they would swear they be brought to school again. That imitation whereof Poetry is, hath the most conveniency to nature of all other: insomuch that, as Aristotlesaith, those things which in themselves are horrible, as cruel battles, unnatural monsters, are madc,inpoetical imitation, delightful. Truly 1 have known men, that even with reading Amadis de Gaul; which , God knowcth, wantcth much of perfect Poesy, have found their hearts, moved to thccierciseof courtesy , liberality, and especially courage. Who readeth /Eneas carryingold Anchises on bis back, that wisb-etb not, it were his fortune to perform so excellent an act?* Where the Philosophers, as they think , scorn to delight, so rnucb they be content little to move, saving wranglingwhcthcr Virtus he thechiefor theonlygood; w hether the contemplative or the active life do excel: which Plato and Bontius well knew; and therefore made mistress Philosophy very often borrow the masking raiment of Poesy. For even those hard hearted evil men, who think virtue a schoolnatnc, and know no other good hut iudulgcr? genio, and therefore despise the austere admonitions of the Philosopher, and feel not the inward reason, Ihry stand upon, yet will lie content to he delighted, which isall thegood fellow Poet seems to promise ; and so steal to see the form of goodness, which seen, they cannot hut love, e'er themselves he aware, as if they took a medicine of cherries.
from a principal commendation, i'oesy therefore is an urt of imitation ; for so Aristotle tenncth it in llic word lliatis to say, a representing, countcr-
terfeitiiij;, or figuring forth, to speak rnetopliorically. A speaking picture, with this end, to leacli and delight. Of this Iiave heen t hrec general kinds; the chief, holli in antiquity and excellency , were lliey that did imitate the unconceivable cïcllcncies of(gt;oil; such were David in his Psalms; Solomon in his Song of Songs, in liis Ecclesiastes and Proverbs; Moses and Deborah in their hymns; and the writer of Job: which, besides others, the learned Kmmanuel Tremellius, and L'r. Junius do intitle, the poetical part of the Scripture ; against these none will speak that hath the Holy (jhost indue holy reverence. In this kind, though in a full wroitg divinity, Tvere Orpheus , Amphion , liotner in bis Hymns, and many others, both Greeks and Koinans. And this Poesy must lie used hy whosoever will follow St. Paul's counsel, in singing psalms when they are merry; and 1 know is used with the fruit of comfort by some, when, in sorrowful pangs ol their death quot;bringing sins, they find the consolation of the never-leaving goodness. The second kind, is of them that deal with matter philosophical; either moral, as 1 yrta;us. Pho-cylidcs, Cato; or natural, as Lucretius, and Virgil's Georgics; or astronomical, as Manilius and Pontanus; or historical, as Lucan ; which who mislike, the fault is in their judgment, quite out of taste, and not in the sweet food of sweetly uttered knowledge, liut because this second sort is wrapped within the fold of the proposed subject, and takes not the free course of his own invention, whether they properly be Poets, or no , let Grammarians dispute, and go to the third , indeed right Poets, of whom chiefly this question ariseth : betwixt whom and these second is such a kind of difference, as betwixt the meaner sort of Painters, who counterfeit only such faces as are set before them ; and the more excellent, w ho having no law but wit, bestow that in colours upon you which is fittest, for the eye to sec, as the constant, though lamenting look of Lucretia , when she punished in herself, another's fault: wherein be painteth not Lucretia, whom he never saw, but painteth the outward beauty of such a virtue. For these three he they which most properly do imitate to teach and delight;and toimitate borrow nothing of what is, bath been, or shall he , hut range only, reined with learned discretion, into the divine consideration of what may he, and should he. These he they, that, as the first and most noble sort, may, justly he termed Vales: so these are waited on in the excellentest languages and host understandings with the fore-described nan.e of Poets. For these, indeed , do merely make to imitate, and imitate both to delight and teach, and delight to move men to take that goodness in hand which , without delight, they would fly as from a stranger, and teach to make them know that goodness whercunto they arc moved ; which being the noblest scope to which ever any learning
LccfJc va» omstreeks 1553 lot IGOO; hij is de grootste godgeleerde van zijn tijd, en verwierf zijn roem door de Eight Hooks of the Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity, waarvan de vier eersten verschenen in 1594, bet vijfde in 1527 en do drie laatstcn eerst in 1G22. Hij munt vooral uit door de nanuwkeurigheid en zuiverheid van zijn stijl en de helderheid en 't logische van zijn redeneringen.
But so it is, the name of tlio light of nature is rnafle hateful with men ; the slar of reason and learninjr, and all other such like helps, heginneth no otherwise to be thought of, than if it were an unlucky coinct; or as ifGoil had so accursed it, that it should never shine or give light in things concerning our duty any way towards him, hut he esteemed as that star in the revelation, called Wormwood , which, heiug fallen from heaven, inaketh rivers and waters in which it falleth so hi Iter , that men tasting them die thereof. A number there arc who think they cannot admire as they ought the power and authority of the word o! God. if in things divine ihey should attribute any force to man's reason; for which cause they never use reason so willingly as to disgrace reason. Their usual and common discourses are unto this ellcct. First, Hlie natural man perceiveth not the things of the spirit of God, for they are foolishness unto him; neither can he know them , because they are spiritually discerned' amp; c. amp; c. Igt;y these and the like disputes, an opinion hath spread itself very far in the world ; as if the way to he ripe in faith, were to be raw in wit and judgment ; as if reason were an enemy unto religion , childish simplicity the mother of ghostly and divine wisdom.*
To our purpose , it is sudlcicnt that whosoever doth serve, honour, and obey God , whosoever believeth in him, that man would no more do lliis than innocents and infants do but for the light of natural reason that shinelh in him, and inaketh him apt to apprehend those things of God , which being by grace discovered , are effectual to persuade reasonable minds, and none other, that honour, obedience, and credit, belong aright unto God. No man comelh unto God to oiler him sacrifiec, to pour out supplications and prayers before hirn, or to do him any service, which dolh not
first believe him both to be, and to be a rcwarder of them who in such sort seek unto him. I.et me be taught this , either by revelation from heaven , or by instruction upon earth ; by labour, study, and meditation, or by the only secret inspiration of the Holy Ghost; whatsoever the means he Ihey know it by, if the knowledge thereof were possible without discourse of natural reason , why should none be found capable thereof hut oidy men , nor men till such time as they come unto ripe and full ability to work by reasonable understanding? The whole drift of ihe Scripture of God, ■what is it, but only to teach theology? Theology, what is it but the science of things divine? What science can he attained unto, without the help of natural discourse and reason ? Judge you of that which I speak, saith the apostle. In vain it were to speak any thing of God, but that by reason men are able somewhat to judge of that they hear, and by discourse to discern how consonant it is to trulh.Scripture, indeed, teacheth things above nature, things which our reason by itself could not reach unto. Yet those also we believe, knowingby reason thatlbeScripturcis the word of God.* The thing we have handled according to thequcstion moved about it, which question is, whether the light of reason he so pernicious, that, in devising laws for the church , men ought not by it to search what may be fit and convenient ? For this cause, therefore, we have endeavoured to make it appear, how, in the nature of reason itself, there is no impediment, hut that the self-same spirit which rcvealeth the things that God hath set down in his law , may also be thought to aid and direct men in finding out, by the light of reason , what laws are expedient to be made for guiding of bis church, over and besides them that arc in Scripture.
Slusfc.
|
Touching musical harmony, w hetber by instrument or by voice, it being hut of high and low in sounds a due proporlionable disposition, such notwithstanding is the force thereof, and so pleasing effects it hath in that very part of man which is most divine , that some have been thereby induced to think that the soul itself by nature is, or hath in it, harmony; a thing which delighteth all agequot;, and beseemeth all states; a thing as seasonable in grief as in joy; as decent, being added unto actions of greatest weight and solemnity, as hi ing used when men most sequester themselves from action. The reason hereof is an admirable facility which music hath to express and represent to the mind , more inwardly than any other sensible mean , the very standing, rising, and fidliug, the very steps and inilect ions every way, the turns and varieties of all passions whereunto the mind is subject; yea, so to iniilatc lliein, that, whether it resemble unto us the |
|
same state wliereiu our minds already are, or a clean contrary, we are not more contentedly by tlie one confirmed, than changed and led away by the other. In harmony, the very image and character even of virtue and vice is pcrceived, the mind delighted with their resemblances, and brought by having them often iterated into a love of the things themselves. For which cause there in nothing more contagious and pestilent than some kinds of harmony; than some, nothing more strong and potent unto good. And that there is such a diflerence of one kind from another, we need no proof but our own experience, inasmuch as we ore at the hearing of some more inclined unto sorrow and heaviness, of some more mollified and softened in mind; one hind apter 1o stay and settle us, another to move and stir our alfcclions; there is that draweth to a marvellous grave and sober mediocrity; there is also that carrietb, as it were, into ecstaeies, filling the mind with a heavenly joy, and for the time in a manner severing it from the body; so that, although we lay altogether aside the consideration of ditty or matter, the very harmony of sounds being framed in due sort, and carried from the ear to the spirit ual faculties of our souls, is, by a native puissance and eflicacy, greatly available to bring to a perfect temper whatsoever is there troubled: apt as well to quicken the spirits as to allay that which is too eager; sovereign against melancholy and despair; forcible to draw forth tears of devotion, if the mind be such as can yield them; able both to move and to moderate all affections. The prophet David having, therefore, singular knowledge, nol in poetry alone, but in music also. |
judged them both to he things most neccssary for the house of God, left behind him to that purpose a number of divinely-indited poems, and was furtlier the author of adding unto poetry melody in | ublic prayer; melody, both vocal and instrumenlal, for the raising up of men's hearts , and the sweetening of their affections towards (jod. in which considerations the church of Christ doth likewise at this presentday retain it as an ornament to God's service , and an help to our own devotion. They which, under pretence of the low ceremonial abrogated: require the abrogation of instrumental music, approving, nevertheless, the use of vocal melody to remain, must show some reason wherefore the one should be thought a legal ceremony, and not the other. In church music, curiosity, or ostentation of art, wanton , or light, or unsuitable harmony, such as only pleaseth the car, anil doth not naturally serve to the very kind and degree of those impressions which the matter that go th with itleaveth, or is apt to leave, in men's minds, doth rather blemish and disgrace that we do, than add either beauty or furtherance unto it. On the other side, the faults prevented, tiie force and efficacy of the thingitself, when it drown-eth not utterly, hut filly suiteth with matter altogether sounding to the praise of God , is iu truth most admirable, and doth much edify, if not the understanding, because it teacheth not, yet surely the affection, because therein it worketh much. They must have hearts very dry and tough , from whom the melody of the psalms doth not sometime draw that wherein a mind religiously affected delighteth. |
Lord Vernlnm , bekend als de grootste wijsgeer van zijn lijd, werd geboren in 1501 en overleed in 1G20. Hij was lórd-kanselier van Engeland, doch werd uit die betrekking ontslagen. Zijn stijl is dichterlijk, helder en krachtig, en hij ondersebeidt zich in den rnimsten zin door zijn diep denkvermogen en schitterende verbeeldingskracht. De eerste uitgave van zijn Essays verscheen in 1597 ; twee boeken van do Advancement of Learning in 1605; Wisdom of the Ancients (latijn) in 1010; twee boeken van de Novum Organum or Second Part of tho Instouratio Magna, welk werk uil zes deelen zou bestaan, ook in bet latijn, in 1020; The History of the reign of Henry Vilt, in 1022; de negen boeken De Augmcntis Seientiarum , een vertaling in het latijn en uitbreiding van The Advancement of Learning, in 10213. Voorts heeft men van hem; Observations on the general State of Europe, hot resultaat van zijn waarnemingen op een reis door Frankrijk, die hij op zeer jeugdigen leeftijd deed.
Ol' Studies.
|
Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight, is in privatencss, and retiring; for ornament, is in discourse; and for abilitv, is in thejudgment and disposition of business ; for expert men can execute,and perhaps judge of particulars, one by one; but the general counsels, and the plots and marshalling of affairs, come best from those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies, is sloth, to use them too much for ornament, is affectation; to make judgement w holly by their rules, is the humor of a scholar : they perfect nature, and are perfected by experience: for natural abilities are like natural plants, that need pruning by study ; and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at large, except they he hounded in by experience. Crafty men contcmn studies,si triple men admire litem,arrd wise men use them; for they teach not their own use; hut that is a wisdom without them, and above them, wort by observation. Head not to contradict and confute, nor lo believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some hooks are to he tasted , others to be swallowed , and some few to |
18
158
|
be clicwed and digested; that is , some Uooks are to he read only in parts; others to lie read, but not curiously; and some few to he read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some boolts also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of tbem by others ; hut that would be only in the less important arguments, and the meaner sort of boohs; else distilled books arc like common distilled waters, flashy things. Heading mahcth a full man; conference a ready man; and writing an eiact man; and therefore, if a man write little, he bad need have a great memory: if he confer little he had need have a present wit: and if he read little, he bad need have, much cunning, to seem to know that the doth not. Histories make men wise, poets, witty , the mathematics,subtle; natural-philosophy, deep; moral What is truth? said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer. Certainly there be that delight in giddiness, and count it a bondage to fix a belief; aftect-ing free-will in thinking, as well as in acting: and though the sects of philosophers of that kind he gone, yet there remain certain discoursing wits,which arc of the same veins, though there be not so much blood in them as was in those of the ancients. But it is not only the difficulty and labour which men take in finding out of truth ; nor again , that when it is found , it 1111-poseth upon men's thoughts, that doth bring lies in favour; but a natural , though corrupt love of the lie itself. One of the latter schools of the Grecians examin-eth the matter, and is at a stand to think what should he in it, that men should love lies; where neither they make for pleasure , as w ith poets ; nor for advantage, as ■with the merchant; but for the lie's sake. But 1 cannot tell: this same truth is a n iked and open day light, that doth not show the masques, and mummeries, and triumphs of the world, half so stately and daintily as candle-lights. Truth may, perhaps, come to the price of a pearl, that showeth best by day ; hut it will not rise to the price of a diamond or carbuncle, that showeth best in varied lights. 4 mixture of a lie doth ever add pleasure. Doth any man doubt, that if there were taken out of men's minds vain opinions, flattering hopes, false valuations, imaginations as one would, and the like, but it would leave the minds of a number of men poor shrunken things, full of melancholy, and indisposition , and unpleasing lothemselves ? One of the fathers called poesy rinum diemonum, because it filleth the imagination, and yet it is but the shadow of a lie. But itis not the lie that pnsseth through the mind , but the lie that sinketh in, and settleth in it, that doth the hurt, such as we spoke of before. But howsoever these things are thus in men's depraved judgments and alFections , yet truth, which only doth judge itself, teacheth that the inquiry of truth , which is the love-making, or wooing of it; the knowledge of truth, which is the presence of it; and the believe of truth , grave; logic and rhetoric, able to contend; quot;Abeunt sludia in moresquot;; nay, there is no stand or impediment in the wit, but may be wrought out by fit studies: like as diseases of the body may have appropriate exercises; how ling is good for the stone and reins; shooting for the lungs and breast; gentle walking fur the stomach; Hiding for the head, and the like — so, if a man's wits he wandering, let him stuily the mathematics; for in demonstrations, if bis «it he called away never so little, be must begin again ; if his wit he not apt to distinguish or find dilFerences, let him study the schoolmen; if he he not apt to heat over matters, and to call upon one thing to prove and illustrate another, let him study the Lawyers'cases; so, every defect of the mind may have a special receipt. |
which is the enjoying of it; is the sovereign good of human nature. '1 he first creature of God, in the works of the days , was the light of the sense; the last was the light of reason; and his sabbath-work, ever since, is the illumination of his Spirit. First he breathed light upon the face of the matter, or chaos; then he breathed light into the face of man; and still he breatheth and inspireth light into the face of bis chosen. The poet that beautified the sect, that was otherwise inferior to the rest, saith yet, excellently well, quot;It is a pleasure to stand u[on the shore, and to see ships tossed upon the sea: a pleasure to stand in the window of a castle, and to see a battle, and the adventures thereof below; but no pleasure is comparable to the standing upon the van-tiige ground of truth (a hill not to be commanded, and where the air is always clear and serene), and to see the errors, and wanderings, and mists, and tempests in the vale below:quot; so always that this prospect he with pity, and not with swelling or pride. Certainly it is heaven upon earth , to have a man's mind move in charity, rest in providence, and turn upon the poles of truth. To pass from theological and philosophical truth to ihe truth of civil business, it will he acknowledged, even by tbosethat practise it not, that clear and round dealing is the honour of man's nature, and that mix lure of falsehood is like alloy in coin of gold and silver, which may make the metal work the better, but it embaseth it; for these winding and crooked courses ure the goings of the serpent, which goeth basely upon the belly, and not upon the feet. There is no vice that doth so cover a man with shame, as to be found false and perfidious; and therefore Montaigne saith prettily, when he inquired the reason why the word of the lie should be such a disgrace, and such an odious charge? Saith he, '-If it be well weighed, to say that a man lieth , is as much as to say, that he is brave towards God, and a coward towards men : for a lie faces God, and shrinks from man'. Surely the wickednes of falsehood and breach |
139
of faith, cannot possibly be so highly «pressed, as in that when quot;Christ comethquot;, be shall quot;not find faith that it shall be the last peal to call the judgments of upon tlie earthquot;.
God upon the generations of men: it being foretold
|
It had been hard fur him that spake it, to have put more truth and urilrnth together in few words, than in that speech, quot;Whosoever is delighted in solitude , is either a wild beast or a god for it is most true, that a natural and secret hatred and aversation towards society in any man, hath somewhat of the savage beast; but it is most untrue, that it should have any character at all of the divine nature, except it proceed, not out of a pleasurein solitude, hut out of a love and desire to sequester a man's self for a higher conversation , such as is found to have been falsely and feignedly in some of the heathens; as Epimenides, the Candian, i\uma,the Iloman, Einpedocles, the Sicilian; and Appollomus,of Tyana;and truly, and really, in divers ol the ancient hermits and holy fathers of the ehurcii. But little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it exteml-etb : fora crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery ol pictures, and talk hut a tinkling cymbal where there is no love. The Latin adage meeteth with it a little; magna civitas, magna solitndo; because, in a great town friends are scattered , so that there is not that fellowship, for the most part, which is in less neighbourhoods: but we may go farther, and aiïlrii. most truly, that it is a mere and iniserahle solitude to want true friends, without «liich, the world is but a wilderness; and even in this scene also of solitude, whosoever, in the frame of his nature and aftections, is unfit for friendship, he taketh it of the beast and not from humanity. A principal fruit of friendship is the ease and discharge, of the fulnnss of the heart, which passions of all kinds do cause and induce. Wo know diseases of stoppings and sulFoeations are the most dangerous in the body; and it is not much otherwise in Hie mind: you may take sar/.a to open the liver, steel to open the spleen, flower of sulphur for the lungs, rastoreum for the brain; but no receipt openeth the heart but a true friend , to whom you may impart griefs, joys, fears, hopis, suspicions, counsels, and whatsoever lieth upon the heart to oppress it, in a kind of civil shrift or confession. It is a strange thing I o observe how high a rate great kings and monarchs doset upon this fruit of friendship whereof we speak , so great, as they purchase it many times at the hazard of their own safety and greatness: for princes, in regard of the distance of their fortune from that of their suhjects and servants, cannot gather this fruit, except) to make themselves capable thereof,) they raise some persons to be as it were companions, and almost equals to themselves, which many times sortcth to inconvenience. The modern languages give unto such persons the name of favourites or privadoes , as if it were matter of gracc or conversation ; hut the |
Roman name attained the true use and cause thereof, naming them participet curarum; for it is that which lieth the knot: and wc see plainly that this hath been done, not by weak and passionate princes only, but by the wisest and most politic that ever reigned, who have oftentimes joined to themselves some of their servants whom both themselves have called friends, ami allowed others likewise to call them in the same manner, using the word which is received between private men. I,. Sylla, when he commanded Uome, raised Poui-pey, (after surnamed the great,) to that height that Pompey vaunted himself for Sylla's over-match: for when he had carried the consulship for a friend of his against the pursuit of Sylla, and that Sylla did a little resent thereat, and began to speak great, Pompey turned upon him again , and in effect bade him be quiet, for that more men adored the sun-rising than the sun-setting. With Julius Caesar, Decimus lirutus had obtained that interest, as be set him down iu his testament for heir in remainder after his nephew ; and this was the man that had power with him to draw him lorth to his death : for when Caesar would have dischargerl the senate, in regard of some ill presages, and especially a dream of Calpurnia, this man lifted him gently by the arm out of his chair, telling him, he hoped he would not dismiss the senate till his wife had dreamed a betterdream , and it seemed his favour was so great, as Antonius, in a letter which is recited verbatim in one of Cicero's Philippics, called him venefica,—witchquot;; as if he bad enchanted Taesar. Augustus raised Agrippa, (though of mean birth,) to that height, as, when he consulted with Maecenas about the marriage of bis daughter Julia, Maecenas took the liberty to tell him, that he must either marry his daughter to Agrippa, or take away his life; there was no third way, be bad made him so great. With Tiberius Caesar, Sejanus had ascended to that height, as they two were termed , and reckoned as a pair of friends. Tiberius, in a letter to him, saith, Ifaec pro amicitia nostra nan occultari; and the whole senate dedicated an altar to friendship, as to a goddess, in respect of the great dearness of friendship between them two. The like,ormore, was between Septimus Severus and Plauti.inus; for he forced bis eldest son to marry the daughter of Plantianus, and would often maintain Plautianus in doing affronts to his son ; and did write also, in a letter to the senate, by thesewords : •'I lovetbeman so well as I wish be may over-live me.quot; Now, if these princes bad been as a Trajan, or a Marcus /Vurelius, a man might have thought that this had proeeeded of an abundant goodness of nature ; but being men so wise, of such strength and severity of |
140
|own thoughts to light, and whotteth hiswits as against a stone, which itself cuts not. In a word , a man were better relate himself to a statue or picture, than to suffer his thoughts to pass in smother.
And now, to make this second fruit of friendship complete, that other point which lieth more open, and falleth within vulgar observation; which is faithful counsel from a friend, lleraclilns saith well in one of hisenigmas,quot;Dry light isever the best,quot; and certain it is that the light that a man receiveth by counsel from another, is drier and purer than that which cometh from bis own understanding and judgment; which is ever infused and drenched in his affections and customs. So as there is as much difference between the counsel that a friend giveth, and that a man giveth himself, as there is between the counsel of a friend and of a llatterer, for there is no such llatterer as is a man's self, ami there is no such remedy against flattery of a man's self as the liberty of a friend. Counsel is of tw o sorts; the one concerning manners, the other concerning business: For the first, the best preservative to keep the mind in health is the faithful admonition of a friend. The calling of a man's self to a strict account, is a medicine sometimes too piercing and corrosive; reading good books of morality is a little flat and dead; observing our faults in others is sometimes improper for our case; hut the best receipt, (best I say to work,and best to take,) is the admonition ofa friend, it is a strange thing to behold what gross errors and extreme absurdities many, (especially of the greater sort,) do commit, for want ofa friend to tell them of them , to the great damage of both their fame and fortune ; for , as St. James saith, they are as men quot;that look sometimes into a glass, and presently forget their own shape and favour.quot; As for business, a man may think, if he will, that two eyes see no more than one; or, that a gamester seeth always more than a looker-on , or that a man in anger is as wise as he that bath said over Uie four and twenty letters ; or, that a musket may he shot, off as well upon the arm as upon a rest; and such other fond and high imaginations, to thinkhimself all in all. I!ut when all is done, the help of good counsel, is that which settetb business straight; and if any man think that he will take counsel, but it shall be by pieces; asking counsel in one business of one man, and in another business of another man;as it is well, (that is to say, better, perhaps, than ifhe had asked none at all,) but he runneth two dangers; one, that he shall not be faithfully counselled; for it is a rare thing, except it be from a perfect and entire friend, to have counsel given , but such as shall be bowed and crooked to some ends which he hath that giveth it; the other, that he shall have counsel given, hurtful and unsafe, (though w ith gooil meaning,) and mixed partly of mischief and partly of remedy ;even as if you would call a physician, that is thought good for the cure of the disease yon complain of, but is unacquainted with your body; and therefore may put you in way for present cure but overthroweth your health in some other kind , and so cure the disease and kill the patient: but a friend jthat is wholly acquainted with a man's estate will
mimi, and so extreme lovers ot themselves, as all lliesc| were, it provelh most plainly that they found their own felicity, (though as great as ever happened to mortal men,) but as a half-picce, except they might have a friend to make it entire;and yet, which is more, they were princes that had wives, sons, nephews; and yet all these could not supply the comfort of friendship.
His not to be forgotten , what Comineus observelli of his first master, Duke Charles the Hardy; namely, that he would communicate his secrets with none, ami least of all, those secrets which troubled him most. Whereupon he goelh on, and saith, that towards his latter time, that closeness did impair and a little perish his understanding. Surely Comineus mighl have made the same judgment also, if it had pleased him of his second master Louis XI, whose closeness was indeed his tormentor. The parable of Pythagoras is dark , hut true. Cor ne edilo, quot;Eat not the heart.quot; Certainly, if a man would give it a hard phrase, those that want friends to open themselves unto, are cannibals ol their own hearts: but one thing is most admirable, (wherewith 1 will conclude this first fruit offiieiulship,) which is, that this communicating of a man's self to his friend , works two contrary eirccts, for it redoublelh joys, and cuttetli griefs in halfs; for there is no man that imparteth his joys to his friend, but bejoyetli the more; and no man that imparteth his griefs to his friend, but he grieveth the less. So that it is, in truth, of operation upon a man's mind of like virtue as the alcbymists use to attribute to their stone for man's body , that it worketh all contrary effects, but still to the good and benefit of nature: hut yet, without praying in aid of alcbymists, there is a manifest image of this in the ordinary course of nature; for in bodies, union strengtheneth and cherishetli any natural action ; and, on the other side, weakeneth and dullethany violent impression ; and even so is it of minds.
The second fruit of friendship is healthful and sovereign for the understanding, as the first is for the affections; for friendship maketh indeed a fair day in the affections from storm and tempests, but it maketh day-light in the understanding, out of darkness and confusion of thoughts: neither is this to be understood only of faithful counsel, which a man receiveth from his friends; but before yon come to that, certain it is, that whosoever hath his mind fraught with many thoughts, his wits and understanding do clarify and break up, in the communicating and discoursing with another ; he to.-seth his thoughts more easily; he mar-shalleth them more orderly; ho seeth how they look when they are turned into words; finally, he waxeth wiser than himself; and that more by an hour's discourse, than by a day's meditation. It; was well said by Themistocles to the king of Persia,'quot;That spoecli was like cloth of Arras, opened and put abroad, wherehy the imagery doth appear in figure ; whereas, in thoughts, they lie hutas in packs. Neither is this second fruit of friendship, in opening the understanding, restrained only to such friends as are able to give a man onunsel; (they indeed are best,) hut even without that a man learneth of himself, and bringeth his|
141
|
beware, liy furtheritijf any present business, how lie daslicth upon other inconvenience. Am! therefore, rest not upon sea tiered counsels: for they will rather distract and mislead, thnn settle and direct. After these two noble fruits of friendship, (peace in the allections, and support oftliojudfjment,) followeth the last fruit, which is. like the pomegranate, full of many kcrnals; I mean, aid and bearing a part in all actions and occasions. Here, the best way to represent to life the manifold use of friendship, is to east and see how many tiiinjjs there are which a man cannot do himself; and then it will appear that it was a sparing speeeb of the ancients to say quot;that a friend is another himself; for that a friend is far more than himself.quot; Men have their time, and die many times in desire of some things which they principally take to heart; the bestowing of a child , the finisliing of a work, or the like. If a man have a true friend, he may rest almost secure, that the care of those things will continue after him ; so that, a man hath , as it were, two lives in his desires. (Zie bla |
A man bath a body, and that body is confined tu a place; but where friendship is, all olTiccs of live are, as it were , granted to him and his deputy, for be may exercise them by his friend. How many things arc there which a man cannot, with any face of comeliness, say or do himself? A man can scarce allege his own merits with modesty, much less extol them; a man cannot sometimes brook to supplicate, or beg, and a number of the like; but all these things are graceful in a friend's mouth , which are blushing iu a man's own. So again, a man's person hath many proper relations which he cannot put off. A man cannot speak to his son hut as a father ; to his wife, but as a husband ; to his enemy but upon terms; whereas, a friend may speak as the case requires, and not as it sorteth with the person: but to enumerate tiiesc things were endless : 1 have given the rule where a man cannot play his own part; if be have not a friend , be may quit the stage. dz. 71.) |
|
An hypocrite is the worstkindofplayer, by so much that be acts the better part, which has always two faces, oftentimes two hearts,that can compose bis fore-bead to sadness and gravity, while he bids his heart be wanton and careless within, and, in tbe mean time, laughs within himself to think bow smoothly he has cozened the beholder. In w hose silent face are written the characters of religion, which bis tongue and gestures pronounce, but his hands recant. That has a clean face and garment, with afoul soul; whose mouth belies his heart, and his fingers bely his mouth. Walking early up into the city, he turns into the great church, and salutes one of tbe pillars on one knee, worshipping that God which at borne be cares not for, while his eye is fixed on onewindow or some passenger, and his heart knows not whither his lips go. At church he will always sit where he may be seen best, and in the midst of the sermon pulls out his tables in baste, as if be feared to lose that note; when bo writes either his forgotten errand, or nothing. Then be turns bis bible with a noise, to seek an omitted quotation and folds the leaf as if he bad found it. He can command tears when be speaks of iiis youth , indeed , because it is past, not because it was sinful; himself is now better, but the times arc worse. All other sins he reckons up with detestation, while be loves and bides his darling in his bosom; all his speech returns toi himself, and every occurent draws in a story to his own praise. When be should gne, he looks about him , and says , who sees me? no alms nor prayers fall from him without a witness. With the superfluity of his usury be builds an hospital, and harbours them whom his extortion has spoiled; so when be has made many beggars, he keeps some, lie abhors more not to uncover at the name of Jesus than to swear by tbe name of God. There is nothing that lie dislikes in presence, that in absence be censures not. He comes to the sickbed of his stepmother and weeps, when he secretly fears her recovery. He greets his friend in the street with a clear countenance, that the other thinks he reads his heart in his face, and shakes hands with an in iefinitc invitation of — When will you come? and when his hack is turned, joys that be is so well rid of a guest; yet if thatguest visit him unfeared, he counterfeits a smiling welcome, and excuses his cheer, when closely be frowns on bis w ife for too much. He shows well , and says well, aivd himself is the worst thing be has. In brief, he is the stranger's saint, the neighbour's disease, the blot of goodness, a rotten stick in a dark night, the poppy in a cornfield, an ill-tempered candle with a great snuft', that in going out smells ill; an angel abroad, a devil at home; and worse when an angel than a devil. |
|
Adonis , Advice issporting while infection breeds ; Aeneas, Aeolus, A feast of death , After so long grief.snch nativity ] A good favour, A goodly broker! A high hope for a low having ; Ah, sirraA ! Algates , All-hallown summer, And, but thou love me, And time »Roes upright with his carriage , •Appalc, Appay'd , Applied to Cautels , Argument, Asknunce. A slake, Assay, Assinego, |
the incestuous offspring of Ciny ras and Myrrha, remarkably beautiful, beloved by Venus and Proserpine. While infection is spreading,the grave rulers of the state, that ought to guard against its further progress, are careless and inattentive. Advice was formerly used for knowledge and deliberation. Son of Anehises and Venus. God of the winds. To a feast where death will be feasted with slaughter. She has just said , that to her, her sous were not borti till now. A good countenance. A broker was used for matchmaker , sometimes for a procuress. Though you hopeforhigh words, and should have them, it will be but a low acquisition at best. In old plays this term is frequently addressed to women, and it was formerly not a disrespectful expression. Hy all means, all manner of ways, at all events, nevertheless (1). All-hallown is All hallow/L- ti/Ie, or All-saints' dag, which is the first of November. Shakespeare's allusion isdesignedto ridicule an old man with youthful passions. And so thou do but love mo. Or it may mean, unless thou love me. Alluding to one carrying a burthen. This critical period of ray life proceeds as I could wish. Time brings forward all the expected events, without faltering under his burthen. To make pale. Pleased. Applied to insidious purposes, with subtilily and cunning. Argument is subject matter for conversation or a drama. To look askance,enviously, obliquely, sideways, awry. To slacken, to abate. Essay, trial. A Portuguese word, meaning a young ass. Hence applied to a silly fellow , a fool. Shake- |
Ass • Unpolicied I As they had seen me , Astraea , Atomies , Attempt, A touch , a feeling , A touch of your condition , Attoncc , Aye, iiajazet's mule Hnse-cour, Base winnow of thy mirth, Basen et, Bayde (to bay), Bay not me , Bedlam , Bedreynt, Behight, or behote , Bell-wether, Bely, Bemone, Be opposite , Bo woo for mo , Bewray, Bid the base , Bisson , Blatant Beast, Bolt, Bootes, Brach, |
speare has the word in Troilos and Cressida, and it is not unfrequently found in the Elizabethan writers as a term of reproach. An ass without more policy than to leave the means of death within my reach, and thereby deprive his triumph of its noblest decoration. As if they had seen me. Goddess of justice. An obsolete substitute for atoms. Attack. A touch is a sensation. A si,ice or jtarticle of your temper 01 disposition, Once for all; at one and the same time. Ever ; against j fear , trouble. Parolles probably means, he must buy a tongue which has still to learn the use of speech, that he may run himself into no more ditlicultics by his loquacity. Bas-cour (French). The base minnow of thy mirth , is the contemptible little object that countributes to thy entertainment. Helmet. To bark , Faery Qucene B. I, Canto?, Stanza 3. It signifies : to bathe , cherish or foment. To hold or keep at bay, is the hunter's phrase of the stag, when the hounds arc baying or barking at him. Bait not me. Madhouse, hospital for lunatics. Drenched, thoroughly wetted. Called, named , and sometimes , bid , promised, gave. Wether and Ham had anciently the same meaning. Belie. To lament. Be advene, hostile. Let nut woo be to thee for Glos-ter, but for me. Discover, betray. Perhaps, to challenge to a contest. Blind. Detraction represented as a monster. arrow. Helps. The commentators are not agreed |
(1) This word is still in use in the North: it is a compound of all and (jalcs, or ways.
143
on the meaning of this word, the majority referring it to a species of dog , and some to an ornament called a broche, or broach.
Proudiy.
Badger; a term of contempt.
The meaning is this : I do not look fur your faults , I only see them into my notice, by practising them on me.
In the lime of Shakespeare, was chiefly inhabited by druggists , who sold all kinds of herbs, green as well as dry.
The mean is the tenor in music.
But I will choose out an hour whose gloom shall be as fatal to you. To sort is to select.
But is here used for only.
c.
Carcanets, chains or collars of jewels.
Cast means here, intend gt; thought.
Mean, vile, captivc, slave.
Dog with three heads and neoks, who guarded the gates of hell.
Consider this at leisure ; rumu nate on this.
Clamorous, scolds.
Civil formerly signified grave, decorous.
Secretly.
Clotpolls (?)
A crusly, uneven loaf with a round top to it.In some counties is it called by this name(l).
To falsify , to lie, to defraud.
It was the custom in Shakespeare's time,(and long before,) to wash the hands immediately before dinner and supper , as well as afterwards.
Continent stands for that which contains or incloses.
Contemptuous.
Companion.
A crown worn by the nobility ; an ornamental head dress.
Corrigible for corrected, and afterwards penetrative fox penetrating.
Fixed the spear in the rest, in the posture of attack.
Proverbial for fair words.
Coward.
To he strange, is to put on affected coldness, to appear shy.
Prospero does not desire Mm to cure their brains. His expression is optative , not imperative; and means : — May music cure thy brains ! i. e. settle them.
Curious küoiieü-garden,
Cynthia's ,
Daedalus,
Brngly .
Urock,
Beutus. I do not, till you/)rac/ise tliem on me.
Buckler's bury,
Dally,
Daylight and chnmpian, Deucalion ,
But n mean, amp;c.,
But I will sort a pitcliy day for thee :
But to the girdle, amp;c.
Dool, Dost fall ?
Carkanets,
Cast to go a shooting ,
Caytive,
Cerberus,
Chcvi upon this ;
Chides ,
Civil fears;
Closely,
Clotpoles ,
Cobloaf!
Drad , dread , dreed , Drumble,
Earn'd (earnc , erne), Ears! (erst), Eftsoones,
Emprize,
Every 'leven wether-tods,
cog.
Come, Kate, and wash ,
Concealing continents,
Contemptible, Copesmate,
Coronet,
Corrigible neck ,
Every nice offence , Eyu ,
Concht his speare,
Court holy-water, Cowherd,
Cunning to be strange , Cure thy brains, amp;c. ,
Faine,
Fair ,
Fairest lin'd , Fairies' midwife ,
Ancient gardens abounded with figures of which the lines intersected each other in many directions,
Diana's.
0.
An artificer ofAthens,who formed the Cretan labyrinth, and invented the au^er, axe, glue, plumbline , saw , and masts and sails fur ships.
Play or triile.
Broad day and an open country. Son of Prometheus, and king of Thessaly , who, with his wife Pyrrha , was preserved from the general deluge , aud re-peopled iho world.
Sorrow , pain , grief.
Iras must be supposed to have applied an asp toherarm while her mistress was settling her dress, or I know not why she should fall so soon. Stkkvens.
Dreaded ; to be feared ; honoured ; reverenced.
To drumble, in Devonshire, signifies to mutter in a sullen and inarticulate voice; but Mrs. Page may mean — how lazy and stupid you are ! be more alert.
E.
Yearned, moved with compassion.
First, first of all, at first, before,
formerly.
Again , presently , quickly ,
forthwith.
Enterprize , undertaking.
1. e. will produce a tod or twenty-eight pounds of wool: every tod yields a pound and some odd shillings; what then will the wool of fifteen hundred yield ?
Small, trifling offence.
Eyes.
F.
Desirous.
Vair is beauty, complexion.
Most fairly delineated.
Warton , apprehends , that by „the fairies' midwife,quot; the poet means, the midwife among the fairies , because it was her peculiar employment to steal the new born babe in the night, and to leave another in its place. The poet here uses her general appel-
^ (1) Loaves called cobbs are still made in Oxfordshire, quot;A'cobloaf'quot; says Minshen , in his dictionary, 1616, quot;is a little loaf made with a round head , such as cob-irons which support the fire.quot;
144
|
l'nir sou, «Boni to cclip- sc, amp;c., Falsify men's hopes: ïast, Fat chuffs ; Faytor, Fealtie , Feeble temper , Fellowly drops , Felly , Fere, Fier , Flora, Foe-man , For catching cold, Fordone, Formal capacity , For poor knaves' caps and legs; For the lord's sake , For the nonce, From this day to the ending, |
lotion , and character , which yet has so far a proper reference to the present train of fiction , as that her illusions were practised on persons in bed or asleep ; for she not only haunted women in child-bed , but was likewise the in-eubns or night-mare. Shakespeare , by employing her here, alludes at large to her midnight pranks performed on sleepers ; but denominates her from the most notorious one , of her personating the drowsy midwife , who was insensibly carried away into some distant water , and sub stitutiug a new birth in the bed or cradle. It would clear the appellation to read the fairy midwife. The poet avails himself of Mab's appropriate province , by giving her this nocturnal agency. A quibble, between son and sun. Glee, Gorbellied , Groundlings pZ., groundling, sing. Gyves, Han, Hapless male, Have I thy aspick in my lips ? 1least , Heasts (best, behest) , Heavy, He'll make demand of her , Hent, Here's a noble feast toward, His , His baseness that ensued ? His double vouchers,amp;c. To falsify hope is to exceed hope, to give much where men hoped for little. Fixed. This term of contempt is always applied to rich and avaricious people. Doer. Homage. Feeble temperament, constitu tion. Fellow drops. Fiercely, cruclly. Companion. Fire. The goddess of flowers. Enemy. Lest they should catch cold This mode of expression is not frequent in Shakespeare, but. occurs in every play of Beaumont and Fletcher. Overcome. I. e. auy one whose cir/MCiVy is not out of form. That is, for their obeisance showed by bowing to you. I.e. to beg for the rest of their lives. Is an expression in daily use amongst the common people in Suffolk, to signify on pur pose ; for the turn. |
This prediction is not verified ; the feast of Crispin passes by without any mention of Agin-conrt. St. Crispin and St Crispinian were Shoemakers, two brothers, who came from Komo to preach Christianity at Soissons , in France, quot;to wards the middle of the third century,quot; and suffered martyrdom quot;aboutthc year387quot;, under the government of Kictius Varus quot;the most implacable enemy of the Christian name.quot; St. Crispin's-day is yet a day of feasting and jollityamongthe Shoemakers and Cobblers in England. A hawk too much fed was never tractable. The lure was only a thing stuffed like that kind of bird which the hawk was designed to pursue. The use of the lure was to tempt him back after he had flown. Full-gorg'd , quot;For then she never looks upon her lure. Gallow , Gait, Gan (ginne) , Gentle his condition , Ghcst, Givcine your hands, Signifies, to scare or frighten. Way or steps. Began. This day shall advance him to the rank of a gentleman. Guessed. That is, clap your hands. Give us your applause. Mirth. F'at and corpulent, big-bellied. One that,in Shakespeare's time, was accustomed to take his stand on the (jroand of the theatre, then the lowest place in price as in situation. Generally, in contempt. Shackles. Have. The word male is hero used in a very uncommon sense, not for the male of the female , but for the male parent; the sweet bird is evidently hisson prince Edward. Are my lips poison'd by the aspiek, that my kiss has destroy'd thee ? See heasts. Commauds, precepts. Slow , mournful. He will enquire of her concerning me, and kiss her for giving him intelligence. Seized. Toward means , in a state of readiness. His followers. The poor conquered wretch that followed. A recovery with donile voucher is the usually suffered, and is so denominated from two persons (the latter of whom is always the common crycr , or some such inferior person ,) being successively voucher , or called upon, to warrant the tenant's title. 13oth fines and |
14!)
|
His (juillets, Humphrey Hour , llurly, lam sent, with broom , before, |lTo sweep the dust behind the door, learus, I drink the air , I have some aims, If that thou be'st rt llo-man, take it forth , If thou darest not stand for ten shillings, If thou use to boat me , Ignorant fumes, I'll able 'em: Intend, Is beaten voluntary , Is your perfection, It yearns me not, lyen , Jove, Kendal, |
recoveries are fictions of law, used to convert an estate tail into a fee simple. Statutes are (not acts of parliament, but) statutes-merchant and staple, particular modes of recoyni-zance or acknowledgment for securing debts, which thereby become a charge upon the party's land. Statutes and recognizances are constantly mentioned together in the covenants of a purchase deed. Quillets are nice and frivolous distinctions. Maione believes that nothing more than a quibble was meant. Hurly is noise, derived from the French hurler, to howl. Cleanliness is always necessary to invite the residence and the favour of the fairies. The son of Dscdalus, who flying with his father out of Crete , into Sicily , and soaring too high , melted the wax of his wings, and fell into the sea thence called the Icarian sea. To drink the air is an expression of swiftness. aim means guess, Johnson thinks he (Cassius) means only , that he is so far from avarice, when the cause of his country requires liberality , that if any man would wish for his heart, he would not need enforce his desire any otherwise, than by showing that he was a Roman. Falstafj? is quibbling on the word royal. The real or royal wasof the value of ten shil ling. Means, if thou continue to beat me , or make a practice of beating me. I . c. the fumes of ignorance. An old phrase signifying to qualify , or uphold them. This word is sometimes used by Shakespeare fox pretend. Shakespeare often uses adjectives adverbially. Your perfoction is ihn Jnyhnst of your excellence. To yearn, is to grieve or vex. Eyes. The son of Saturn and Ops, the supreme deity of heavens. Kendal, in Westmoreland , is a |
Kenst (ken , kenn ,), Kill your stomach on your meat, Latched , Leasing , Lethe , Liefe, Link , Luskisncsse (lusk, lus-kish), Maia's, Maine, Make incision , Mars , May complain of good breeding , Means, Meed, Mercury, Might his quietus make with a bare bodkin ? Miniver (meniver), Minos, Minx . |
place famous for making cloths , and dying them with several bright colours. Kendal green was the livery of Robert earl of Huntington and his followers, while they remained in a state of outlawry, and their leader assumed the title of Robin Mood. Stomach was used fox passion or obstinacy. Caught. Lying Lake , a river of hell, whose waters caused a total forget-fulnoss of things past. Dear. A torch of pilch. A lazy disposition. Main was loved by Jupiter, and by him turned into a star to avoid Juno's rage. Hand. Wa!ii!(jiiton says , to make incision was a proverbial expression then in vogue for to mate understand. But St key ens thinks the allusion is to that common expression, of cutting such a one for the simples. The god of war. May complain of a good education , for being so ineflieieut, of so little use to him. Means are tenors. Reward, prize. The messenger of the gods, inventor of lettres , and god of eloquence , merchandise , and robbers. The first expression probably alluded to the writ of discharge , which was formerly granted to those barons and knights who personally attended the kingon any foreign expedition; and were therefore exempted from the claims of scutage , or a tast on every knight's fee. This discharge was callcd a quietus. A bodkin was the ancient terra for a small dagger. The name of a small Muscovian beast, of a white colour , famous for the fineness of its fur ; the fur Itself. A king of Crete , made , for his extraordinary j ustice, a judge of hell. A young pert girl. |
Modicums, Mongst, Month's mind ,
Palmer,
Pantables,
Paragon ,
Parlous,
Passions of some difference ,
Pearst,
Perish Magaret, Pmwj-pated ,
Motion of the prodigal son ,
My thill-horse,
Phoebus , Pia mater
Nightrnils ,
No let, Northampton.
Piast ,
Pleach'd arms ,
Pluto ,
Poins. Down fell their hose,
Now to 'scapo
pent's tonguo, Noyous,
Nymph , in thy orisons amp;c. ,
Point-de-vice , Pomander ,
Pressure, Prig,
Prodigious, Proper man , Proserpina , Proteus,
Pan ,
O clcft oifcct!
Of Cnsjrian ,
One that converses more with the buttock of the night, than with the forehead of the morn-ing.
Or the baring of my beard, Oth,
Out soft conditions , Out-herods Herod,
Quell ,
Quest, Quiddits .
amp;c.
Rad,
Hank to market,
Overt test, Overwent, O , well-flown, bird !
—i'tho clout, amp;C..
Hecuile,
Remorse and nature,
Small portions.
Among.
A month's mind was an anniversary in times of popery. There was also a year's mind, a week's mind. But a month's mind, in the ritual sense , signifies not desire or inclination , but remembrance. The jmppet show , then called motions. A terra frequently occurring in Shakespeare. Thill ox fill means, the shafts of a cart or waggon.
Utf.
Loose covers thrown over the
dress at night.
No stop or hinderance.
The fact is, that Arthur was first confined at Falaise , and afterwards at Rouen, in Nor-ranndy, where he was put to death.
the ser- That is, if wc be dismissed , without hisses.
Hurtful or baleful.
This is a touch of nature. Hamlet , at the sight of Ophelia , docs not immediatly recollcet that he is to personate mad-iiess,but makes her an address grave and solemn, sueh as the foregoing meditation excited his thoughts.
o.
O divided and discordaat effect! O cleft, amp;c. is the modern correction. The old copy has. — Or cleft effect, from which it is ditlicult to draw any meaning.
The battle of Agincourt was fought upon the 25th. of October , St. Crispin's day. Rather a late lier down than an early riser.
That is , the shaving of my heard.
Oath.
The gentle qualities of our minds.
The character of Herod , in the nncic-nt mysteries, was always a violent one.
Open proofs, citemal evidence.
Overwhelmed.
Lear is here raving of archery , and shooting.
At buts , as is plain by the words i't/ie clout, that is , the white mark they sot up and aim at; heuco the phrase , to hit the white.
P.
Pilgrim to foreign pails, Pnntofles (Massingek). „
An example, pattern ; companion or fellow.
Keen , shrewd.
With a lluetuation of discordant opinions and desires.
Pea reed.
The perish is here used actively.
This is a ridicule on the quantity of false hair worn in Shakespeare's time ; for wigs were not in common use till the reign of Charles II.
A title of Apollo , the god of music.
The pia mater is a membrane that protects the substance of the brain.
Placed.
Arms folded in each other.
The god of hell.
To understand Poins's joke, the double meaning üïpoint must be remembered , which signi-lics the sharp end of a weapon, and the lace of a garment.
I. e. with the utmost possible exactness.
A.pomander ww a little ball made of perfumes and worn in the pocket, or about the neck , to prevent infection in times of plague.
Resemblance as in a print.
Filch.
Portentous.
Handsome man.
The wife of Pluto.
A sea-god who could transform himself into any shape.
Vim is the midland counties, the vulgar, and colloquial word for pound.
a.
Sometimes used by Spenser for to die.
Adventure, exploit.
Subtilities.
It.
For did read , or guessed.
Mai.onk adopts rate to market. The hobbling metre of these verses, (says Touchstone) is like tho amblinq, shuffling pace of a butter woman's horse going to market.
To recoil, go back , give way.
Remorse is by Shakespeare and the contemporary writers generaly used for or tenderness of heart. 'Nature is natural affection.
147
|
Reproof, Hight now , Ruth , Rowld , Say No to that, amp;o. Sec, Scneschall, Shame serves thy life . Should censure thus, amp;c., Shrouded, Shryght (shrich,) Shufllcd off this mortal coil, Siker, Sitheus . Slats , Smelliug out a suit: Some band of strangers i'the adversary's euter-tainmcut. Soud, So we seem to know, is to know straight our purpose , Sowler , Spanish blades, Speak no more than is set down for them , Spycd , Hquiny , Stannyel, Stead and stound , Steward, Strange a hand, Subseriplion , |
Confutation. Just now , even now. Pity. Rolled. A paraphrase on the old proverb , quot;Maids say nay , and take it. Scat, habitatiou. Governor. To serve is to accompany , servants being near the persons of their masters. To cerfture, in Shakespeare's time , generally signified to give one's judgment. Sheltered, covered. To shriek. Coil is turmoil gt; hustle. Sure, surely. Since that time. Slates. In Shakespeare's time, a court solicitation was called simply a suit, and a process , a suit at laio , to distinguish it from the other. That is , foreign troops in the enemy spay. Malone believes , it is a word coined by Shakespeare to express the noise made by a person heated and fatigued. Means, we must each fancy a jargon for himself, without aiming to be understood, that will be suflicient for the success ol our project. Sowter is here perhaps the name of a hound. A sword is called a tolcdo , from the excellence of the Toledan steel. The clown very often addressed the audience, in the middle of the play , and entered into a contest of raillery and sarcasm with such of the audience as chose to engage with him. It is to this absurd practice that Shakespeare alludes. Discovered. To squinny is to look asquint. The stannyel is the common stone-hawk, which inhabits old buildings and rocks. Place and time. President. Strange , is alien, unfamiliar such as might become a stranger. Subscription for ohediencc. I |
Take his gait, Taken with the manner, Tallow-keech, Tarrc, Tassel-gentic, Telde , Termagant; Tetchy , Tharborough, That hate, That becomes the ship-tire , tlie tire , or any tire of Venetian admittance. That borrow'd motion , seeming owW, rhat breath, That ever graced me , That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper : That kings should let their ears hear their faults hid ! That relish all as sharply, || Passion as they , |
Take his way or direct his steps. I.e. in the fact. A Iceech of tallow is the fat of an ox or cow rolled up by the butcher in a round lump, in order to be carried to the chandler. It is the proper word in use now. To stimulate , to excite , to provoke. The tassel or tiercel (for so it should be spelt) is the male of the goss-hawk; so called because it is a tierce or third less than the female. This is equally true of all birds of prey. Told. Term a gaunt (says Dr. Percy) is the name given in the old romances to the god of Saracens; in which he is con-stanty linked with Mahound or Mohammed. Is touchy , peevish , fretful , ill-tempered. I. e. thlrdborough, a peace of oflicer, alike in authority with a headborough or a constable. To bate is to flutter as a hawk does, when it swoops upon his prey. Head-dresses then in fashion , received or admitted from Venice. That passion which he copied from others so naturally that it seemed real and his own. Ow*d has here , as in any other places in Shakespeare's works, the signification of owned. J. c. the breath of flattery. To grace seems here to mean the same as to to make happy. So , gracious is kind , and graces are favours. In several counties, to this day , they call a stuffed figure, representing a man, and armed with a bow and arrow , set up to fright the crows from vlie fruit and corn, a crow-Iceeper, as well as a scare-crow. Heaven forbid, that kings should stop their cars, and so prevent them from hearing their secret faults ! — To let formerly signified to hinder. 1 feel every thinjf with the same quick sensibility, and am moved by the same passions as they are. |
148
|
The brown hills. The censure of which one, The common lag, The cowl-staff, The iufioitc malady , The instance, The model of our chaste loves , The mulliliidinous seas incarnadine, The pretty worm of Nilus, The raven rook\l her , The ravcll'd slcave of care. There's the respect, There the antic sits , There was a Brutus ouca, The sconce. These dreadful su?nmon' ers gracc. The silh/ cheat , The splitting rocks, amp;c. The trick of that voice , The true men : |
A hill was a kind of battle axe, affixed to a long staff. The meaning is, quot;the censure of which. Thc/^-cnd of a web of cloth is, in some places, called the /a^-end. Is a staff used lor carrying a large tub or basket with two handles. In Essex the word cowl is yet used for a tub. Every kind of disease incident to man and beast. The proof. Model is or representa tive. To incarnardine is to stain any thing of a liesh colour, or red. Car nar dine is the old term for carnation. 13y multiludi nous, the poet is supposed to mean seas of every denomination : or , the seas which swarm with inhabitants; or , perhaps, alludes to the multitude of waves. The commentators are not agreed on this point. Worm is the Teutonic word for serpent; the blind-worm and slow-worm is still in th english language, and the Norwegians call an enormous monster, seen sometimes in the northern ocean, the sea-worm. To rook, or rather to ruck is a north-country word, signifying to squat down, or lodge on anything. Sleave signifies the ravcll'd knotty part of the silk ; which gives great trouble and cm-barassment to the knitter or weaver. I. e. the consideration. J [ere is an allusion to the antic or fool of old farces, whose chief part is to deride and disturb the graver and more splendid personages. Lucius Junius Bkutus. The head. Simmoners are here the officers that sommon offenders before a proper tribunal. Cant term for picking pockets. The sense seems to be this : — The rocks hid themselves in the sands, which sunk to relieve them into their bosom. Trick is a word frequently used fur the air, or \ peculiarity iu a face, voice, or gesture, which distinguishes it from others. |
In the old plays * true man always set in opposition to a thief. The wips and scorns of time, The worship of the whole world, Thilk, This is my spite , Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name; Tho, Thou art ravj. Thought- executing. Thou stool for a witch ! Thou weep'st and speak'st Til! your release. Time's flies , To hedge me in , To malie conditions. To man my haggard, Too harsh a descant: To o'erbear such || As are of better person than myself, It may be remarked, that Hamlet, in his enumeration of miseries, forgets, whether properly or not, that he is a prince , and mentions many evils to which inferior stations only are exposed. The worship is the dignity , the authority. This, that. This is done purposely to vex and distress me. Thy flattering titles. A ragged name means a contempt-ibte, ignominious name. Then. Means, Thou art ignorant, nnexpericnced Doing execution with rapidity equal to thought. In one way of trying a , they used to placc her on a chair or stool, with her legs tied across, that all the weight of her body might rest upon her seat; and by that means, after some time, the circulation of the blood would be much stopped , and her sitting would be as painful as the wooden horse. .quot;Thy tears give testimony to the sincerity of thy relation , and I have the less reason to be incredulous, because the actions which you have done, within my knowledge are more incredible than the story , which yon relate. I. e. till you release them. Flies of a season. That is, to limit my authority by your direction or censure. That is, to know on what terms it is fit to confer the offices , which are at my disposal. A haggard is a wild hawk; to man a hawk is — to tame her. Descant is a term in music, signifying in general that sort of harmony in which one part is broken, and formed into a kind of paraphrase on the other. Richard speaks here the language of nature. Whoever is stigmatized with deformity has a constant course of envy in his mind, and would counterbalance by some other superiority those advantages which he feels himself to want. Bacon remarks that the deformed are commonly daring; and is almost proverbially |
149
|
observed that they are ill-natured. The truth is , that the deformed . like all other men , ore displeased with inferiority , and endeavour to gain ground by good or bad means , as they are virtuous or corrupt. Thisisthegamcplayed in several parts of England even at this time. A stake is fixed into the ground ; those who play , throw logyals or pins of wood at it, and he that is nearest the stake wins. To invite rvery new 'protester to my affection by the stale or allurement of customary oaths. I. e. to this countenance or complexion. To dance. The measures was a very stalely dance, and therefore was peculiarly suited to elders, if they engaged at all in such a kind of amusement. With allusion to the fable, which says , that every man has a bag lianging before him, in which he puts his neighbour's faults, and another behiud him , in which he stows his own.' The original meaning of trade is a course — a path traded or trodden continuously. This word seems here used for traditional practices : that is, established, or customary homage. Trou-madame , French. The old English title of this game was pigeon-holes ; as the arches in the machine through which the balls arc rolled, resemble the cavities made (ur pigeons in a dove-house. To try conclusions is to try experiments. For unavoidable. I.e. if we have better fortune , than we have deserved. It was an opinion which, in spite of its absurdity, prevailed long , that the bear brings forth only shapeless lumps of animated flesh, which she licks into the form of bears. To tire upon a thing is, to be idly employed upon it. To play at loggats, To stale with ordinary oathsmylovo ||ïoovcry new protester, To ihhfavour, To tread the measures , Towards llie nnpes of your necks, Trade , Tradition , Troll-my dames, Try conclusions, Unavoided, Unearned luck , Unlick'd bear-whelp, Upon that were thoughts tiring, my |
Vail your stomachs, Vantage, Vaunt-Couriers, Vylde, IFarden pics; Was sadly borne , (Weak masters though ye be ,) We're , Weend (weend, weenen), Weft (noun), We have deserved ill from you , Welkin , i W ex, What touch'd his body , thad did stab II Aud not for justice? Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear ; Whit, Whiting-time, Whitsters , Will do his kind. Wimble , With advantages, With die and drab , Wrokcn, |
I. e. abate your pride, your spirit. Advantage, convenience, opportunity. Avant-Couriers (French). Vile. Wardens arc a species of large pears. Was seriously carried on. The mcaniug of this passage may be , Though you are but inferior masters of these sxi-pernatural powers — though you possess them but in a low degree; or, quot;ye are powerful auxiliaries , but weak if left to yourselves ; — your employment is then to make green ringlets , and midnight mushrooms, aud to play the idle pranks mentioned by Ariel in the next song ; yet by your aid I have been enabled to invert the course of nature.quot; We are. Imagined , judged. A stray ; whatever wanders and is lost. In his dependent stale they had treated him very cruelly.They arc now dependent on him. Sky , firmament. Grow, increase. This question is far from implying that any of those who touch'd Caesar's body were villains. On the contrary , it is an indirect way of asserting that there was not one man among them who was base enough to stab him for any cause but that of justice. Who suspect no part of what my fears presage. Ijittle part. Bleaching-timc; spring. Blanchcrs of linen. The serpent will act according to his nature. Shifting to and fro. Old men , notwilhstanding the natural forgetfulncss of age, shall remember their feats of this day, and remember to tell them with advantage. Age is commonly boastful and inclined to magnify past acts and past times. I. e. with gaming and whoring. Kcvengcd, |
|
ïnre , Handy , nimble. ■Yare.Yare, I. e. iniiko haste , be nimble , be reaily. Yearne , Earn , get, proeure. Ymett, Met. Your JeMrremcrabrance, I. e. your //ood memory: the comjiarative for the positive degree. |
Xoar passion ; li e. the nature of the feelings from which you are now suffering. Your pleasure was my My crime, my punishment, and mere offence, amp;c. all the treason that I commit ted, orginated in , and were fonded on, your caprice only. Your regard. Your cave of your own safety. |
THIRD PERIOD.
THE AGE OP TRANSITION.
De lievelingsdichter van de engelsche natie, werd geboren in 1G05 en overleed op hvee-en-tnehligjarigen leeftijd; hij leefde onder de regeringen vim Jacobus I, Karei I, Cromwell, Karei II en Jacobus II. Hoewel naar ligchaam verzwakt, bleven hem zijn verstandelijke vermogens met bijna onverminderde kracht bij tot aan zijn overlijden. Als lid van het jiarlement was hij, door den woeligeu tijd. waarin hij leefde en de verschillende vorsten, die gedurende zijn leven regeerden, dikwijls in moeijelijkheden gewikkeld, waaruit hij zich echter immer wist te redden. Tijdens het prutectoraat in een zamenzwering voor de herstelling van het koningschap betrokken, was hij genoodzaakt Engeland tijdelijk Ie verlaten. Later kreeg hij echter verlof terug te keeren en vervaardigde toen een lofdicht op Cromwell, wiens overlijden hij vier jaren daarna verheerlijkte door een lijkzang, dien men als een meesterstuk beschouwt. Deze lijkzang (Upon the Death of the Lord Proteelor) wordt hieronder meegedeeld. Men verdeelt zijn dichterlijken arbeid in: Miscellanies. Epistles, Epitaphs, etc.. Songs, Prologues and Epilogues, Kpigrams and Divine Poems. Hij verdient als dichter bewondering om zijn zuiveren smaak en taal, indien men slechts in aanmerking neemt , welk ecu gering getal jaren er verliepen (slechls een twintigtal) tusschen de uitgave van Spenser's laatste werk, dat men niet gemakkelijk zonder ophelderende woordenlijsten begrijpen kan. Mij is een geestig dichter en zijn verbeeldingskracht is levendig, terwijl hij in 't parlement als redenaar boven zijn medeleden in welsprekendheid uitmuntte. lieeds voor 't einde der regering van Jacobus I , had hij zich als dichter bekend gemaakt door zijn verzen op de redding van prins Karei in de haven van San-Andero , in do baai van liiscaye , bij zijn terugkeer van Spanje in 1628.
Vpon the fBeatli of flic lord Protector.
|
We must resinn ! Ileav'n liis great soul doth claim in storms , as loud as liis immortal fame : His dyiti]; {jroans , his last brealli, shakes our isle , And trees uncut fall for liis fun'ral pile; About liis place their hroad roots are tost Into the air. — So Romulus (I) was lost! New Rome in such a tempest miss'd licrking; And from obeying fell to worshipping. On (Eta's top thus Hercules (2) lay dead , With ruin'd oaks and pines about iiim spread. Tbe poplar, too , whose bough ho wont to wear On his victorious bead, lay prostrate there. Those his last fury from the mountains rent: Our dying hero from the continent Ravish'd whole towns, and forts from Spaniards rofl, As liis last legacy to l!i itaiu left. Tbe ocean , ■which so long our hopes eonflu'd , |
Could give no limits to bis vaster mind ; Our bounds enlargement was his latest toil, Aor hath he left us pris'ners to our isle : Under tbe tropic is our language spoke. And part of Flandres hath rcceiv'd our yoke. From civil broils he did us disengage, Found nobler ohjects for our martial rage; And,with wise conduct, to bis country sliew'd The ancient way of conquering abroad. Ungrateful then I if we no tears allow To hirn, that gave us peace and empire too. Princes thai fear'd him grieve, conceru'd to see !Vo pitch of glory from the grave is free. i\at ure herself took notice of his death, Ami, sighing, swell'd the sea with such a breath. That to remotest shores her billows roll'd , Th'approaching fate of their great ruler told. |
ëon^ on tier Majesty's birth day.
|
This happy day two lights are seen A glorious Saint, a matchless Queen ; Both nam'd alike, both crown'd appear, The saint above, th'infanta here. May all those years which Catharine The Martyr did for beav'n resign , lie added to the line Of your blest life among us here! For all the pains ihat she did fi cl , |
And all the torments of her wheel, May you as many pleasures share ! May Heav'n itself content With Catharine the Saint! Without appearing old, An hundred times may you , With eyes as bright as now . This welcomc day behold ! |
(1) The first king of Rome.
(2) The son of Jupiter and Alemena, remarkable for his numerous exploits and dnngerons en'orpriecs
20
to the quot;Maid's Tragedyquot; of Beaumont and Fletcher.
|
Scarce should wc liavo I lie liolilness to pretend So Ion;; renown'd a tragedy to mend , Had not already some deserv'd your praise AVilli like altempl. Of all elder plays This and Philaster have the loudest fame : Great are tlieir faults, and jjlorious is their flame. In liotli our English genius is express'd ; Lofty and hold, hut ncglegently dress'd. Above our neigh hours our conceptions are; But faultless writing is th'effect of care. Our lines reform'd , and not compos'd in haste, Polish'd like marhle, would like marble last. But as the present, so the last age writ: In both we find like negligence and wit. Were we hut less indulgent to our faults , And patience had lo cultivate our thoughts, Our muse would flourish, and a nohler rage Would honour this than did the Grecian stage. Thus says our author, not content to see |
That others write as carelessl y as he; Though he pretends not to make things complete. Yet, lo please you, he'd have the poets sweat. In this old play, what's new we have exprest In rhyming verse, distinguish'd from the rest; That as the llhone its hasty way does make (Not mingling waters) through Geneva's lake , So having here the dilFrent styles in view , You may compare the former with the new. If we less rudely shall the knot, untie, Soften the rigour of the tragedy, And yet preserve each person's character , Then lo the other this you may prefer. 'T is left to you: the boxes and the pit Arc sov'reign judges of this sort of wit. In other things the knowing artist may Judge better than the people; hut a play, (Made for delight, and for no other use) If you approve it not, has no excuse. |
The lU'cfcrcnce ami love of lïort to mun In tlie creation.
[From The Divine Poems.) Canto If.
|
The fear of hellj, or aiming to he blest, Savours loo much of private interest. This raov'il not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends ahaiidon'd soul and all; A greater yel from heav'n to hell descends, To save and make his enemies his friends. What line of praise can fatboin such a love, Which reach'd the lowest bottom from above? The royal prophet (1), that extended grace From heav'n to earth, mensur'd but half thatspaee. The law was regnant, and confln'd his thought; Hell was notconquer'd when that poet wrote : Heav'n was scarce heard of until He came down , To make the region where love triumphs known. That early love of creatures yet unmade. To frame the world th'Almighty did persuade ; For love it was that first created light, Mov'd on the waters, chas'd away the night From the rude Chaos , and bestow'd new grace On things dispos'd of to their proper place : Some to rest here, and some to shine above. Earth, sea, and heav'n, were all th'efTccts of love. And love would be return'd : hut there was none That to themselves or others yet were known ; The world a palace was without a guest. Till one appears that must excel the rest: One! like the Author , whose capacious mind |
Might by the glorious work , the Maker find ; Might measure heav'n , and give each star a name; With art and courage the rough ocean tame; Over the globe with swelling sails might go. And that't is round by his experience know ; Make.strongest beasts obedient to his will, And serve his use, the fertile earth to till. When by his Word God had accomplish'd all , Man lo create he did a council call: Employ'd his hand , to give the dust be took A graceful figure and majeslic look ; With his own breath convey'd into bis breast Life, and a soul fit to command the rest, Worthy alone to celebrate his name For such a gift, and tell from whence it came. Birds sing his praises in a wilder note, But not'with lasting numbers and with thought, Man's great prerogative! hut above all His grace abounds in his new fav'rite's fall. If he create, it is a world he makes; If he he angry, the creation shakes: From his just wrath our guilty parents fled ; He curs'd the earth, but bruis'd the serpent's head. Amidst the storm his bounty did exceed, In the rich promise of the Virgin's seed : Though justice death , as satisfaction , craves, Love finds a way to pluck us from our graves. |
(1) Dnviil.
Werd tc Londeu geboren in 1G08 en overleed in 1674: reeds op zijn twaalfde jaar trok hij de aandacht van zijn onderwijzer door de vervaardiging van een treurzang. Op zijn zestiende jaar begaf hij zieh naar Christ's College (Cambridge), en vervaardigde daar 't mcerendeel van zijn latijnsehe gedichten in een stijl, die buitengewoon de beste modellen der oudheid nagevolgd was. De beroemde Dryden zeide van Milton :
quot;Three poets in three distant age* bern , The next in majesty; in both the last.
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The force of nature could no further go:
The first in loftiness of thought surpast; To make a third , she join'd the former two.quot;
Op zijn zeventiende jaar schreef hij een gedicht: On the Death of a Fair Infant, en twee jaren daarna College exercise, waaruit genoegzaam bleek wat hij zou worden. In IG37, vijf jaren na zijn vertrek van de universiteit, leverde hij zijn Comus, a Masque, en een jaar daarna Lycidas, een treurzang op den dood van een zijner vrienden en nog eenige andere dichtstukken. De Comus is een van zijn verdienstelijkste stukken ; het is een keurig fraai werk. In 1G38 bezocht hij Parijs , maakte er kennis met onzen onvergetclijken Huig de Groot en vertrok daarna naar Italië, waar hij door de beroemde geleerde wereld met buitengewone onderscheiding behandeld werd. In Engeland teruggekeerd, verscheen weldra (1645) L'Allegro en II Penseroso, die ongetwijfeld de beide beste beschrijvende dichtstukken zijn , welke ooit door eenig dichter geleverd werden. Nu schreef Milton geen nieuwe stukken in poëzie meer voor .1007; toen verscheen zijn Paradise Lost, waaraan hij in 1005 de laatste hand had gelegd: voor dit werk, dat den dichter vereeuwigd heeft, ontving hij slechts 15 pond sterling, terwijl zijn weduwe het kopicregt daarvan voor 8 pond sterling afstond. De weinige gebreken van de Paradise Lost worden ruimschoots vergoed door al 't verhevene en grootsche, dat het bevat. Ware hot 't eerste heldendicht geweest, 't zou dan den naam van 't grootste gekregen hebben. In 1071 verscheen de Samson Ago-nistes en Paradise Kegained , aan welk laatste stuk Milton alléén de voorkeur boven Paradise Lost gaf. In 1073 verscheen een nieuwe uitgave van zijn kleinere gedichten, vermeerderd met negen sonnetten en eenige andere stukken, terwijl in 1074 de tweede druk van Paradise Lost, toen in twaalf boeken verdeeld , werd uitgegeven. Ook in t proza heeft zich Milton , hoewel niet in die hooge mate als in zijn dichterlijke werken , onderscheiden en een welverdienden roem verworven. In 1041 verscheen van hem een verhandeling Of Reformation , in twee boeken ; de verhandelingen : Of Prelatical Episcopacy , Animadversions, The Reason of Church Government urged against Prelacy, in twee boeken; in 1042: Apology for Smcctymnuus ; wat later: Tractate of Education, Areopagitica , a Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing, Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce; Judgment of Martin Bucer concerning Divorce, in 1044; in 1645: Tetrachordon en Colasterion (beiden over 'tzelfde onderwerp); in 1649, na de onthoofding des konings: Tenure of Kings and Magistrates, Eikonoclastcs en ecu of twee andere traktaten; in 1051: Defence for the People of England en zijn antwoord aan Salmasius (Latijn), professor tc Leiden; The Second Defence (Latijn), in 1054 in antwoord op een werk van Peter du Moulin en nog twee andere latijnsehe traktaten; in 1059 do verhandelingen: Civil Power in Ecclesiastical Cases, The Means of Kemoving Hirelings out of Church, Letter Concerning the Ruptures of the Commonwealth, Brief delineation of a Free Commonwealth; en eindelijk Ready and Easy way to establish a Free Commonwealth en Brief Notes upon a Sermon preached by Dr. GriDith , in de lente van 1000. — Ook als geleerde en taalkenner was Milton zeer beroemd, daar hij volkomen meester was van 't H ebreen wsch, Latijn, Grieksch , Italiaansch , Fransch en Spaansch. Het is van algemeene bekendheid, dat deze uitstekende man reeds in 1000 blind was, en dus zijn heerlijkst werk gedurende zijn blindheid leverde, waarin hij door zijn dochters bijgestaan werd. Ofschoon met hart en ziel een republikein, wordt hij evenwel als zeer eigendunkelijk en streng in zijn huiselijken kring geschilderd.
|
SriRlT. To llic occan now I fly, And those iiappy climes Unit lie Where Day never shuts liis eye, Up in the hroud fields of llic sky: There 1 suck tlie liquid air |
All amidst the gardens fair Of llespprus(l) and his daughters three (2), That sing about the golden tree : A Ion;; the crisped shades and bowers Revels the spruce and jocund Spring, |
(1) Or Vesper , (lie eveninc star.
(2) Hesperides, the daughters of Hesperus j Aegle , Arethusa, and Mespeictlmsa, who had a garden bearing golden apples, watelied by a dragon, which Hercules slew, and bore away Ihe fruit.
|
The Graces (1), and tlie rosy-lmsoin'il Hours. ïliitlicr all tlieir bounties brinfj; That there denial summer dwells, And west-winds with mushy witij; About the cedarn alleys llinj; Nard and Cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow AVatcrsthe odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more minified hue Than ber purfled scarf can show , And drenches with Klysian dew (List mortals, if your cars be true) Beds of hyacinth and roses , |
Where youu;; Adonis oft reposes, Waxinjf well of his deep w ound In slumber soft, and on tbe ground Sadly sils th'Assyrian queen ; lint far above in spangled sheen Celestial Cupid (2) her fam'd son advane'd , Holds her dear Psycho (3) sweet intrane'd , After her wand'ring labours long, Till free consent the gods among Make her his eternal bride , And from her fair unspotted side Two blissful twins arc to be born. Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.* |
|
llonce loalhcd Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight burn , In Stygian cavc forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, anil sights un-Find out some uncouth cell, (bolv, W here brodding Darkness spreads his jealous wings. And the night raven sings; There under ebon shades and low brow'd rocks , As ragged as thy locks. In dark Cimmerian doscrt ever dwell. But come, thou goddess fair and free. In heaven yclc/il Euphrosyno (5), And by men , heart-easing Mirth , Whom lovely Venus (0) at a birth , With two sister Graces more To ivy-crowned Bacchus (7) bore; Or whether (as some sages sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring , Zephyr (8) with Aurora(9) playing. As be met her once a Maying , There on beds of violets bine. And fresh-blown roses wasb'd in dew , Fill'd her with th ee a daughter fair. So buxom , blithe, and dehonaire. Haste thee , nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips j and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods and becks, and wreathed smiles, Sucli as hang on Hebe's (10) cheek , And love to life in dimple sleek; |
Sport that wrinkled Care derides. And Laughter holding both bis sides. Come, and trip it as you go , On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right-hand lead with thee, The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; And if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew. To live with bur, and li*e with thee , In nnreproved pleasures free; To hear I be lark begin bis flight. And singing startle the dull Night, From bis watch-tower in the skies. Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; Then to come in spite of Sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow, Through tbe sweet-brier, or the vine. Or the twisted eglantine: While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of Darkness thin, And to tbe stack , or lbo barn-door. Stoutly struts his dames before; Oft list'ning bow the hounds and horn , Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring Morn , From the side of some boar bill, Through the high wood echoing shrill i Some time walking not unseen By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green , Uight against tbe eastern gate . Where tbe great Sup. begins bis state , |
(1) Aglaia , Thalia nnd Euphrosyne.
(2) Son of Jlnrs nnil Venus, the god of love, smiles, etc.
(3) Psyche , the goJiIess of pleasure.
(4) I'Allegro is tlic cheerful merry man ; anil in this poem he describes the course of mirth injthe country anil in the city from morning to noon , and from noon till night.
(5) She was one of the three graces, daughters of Jupiter and Euronyme ; attendants on Venus and the Muses.
(fi) The goddess of love , beauty , etc.
(7) The god of wine.
(8) Son of vEolus and Aurora, who passionately loved the goddess Flora — the west wind.
(9) The goddess of Ihe morning.
(10) The goddess of youth.
|
Uob'd in flames, and amber lijjlit, The clouds in thousand liveries dilt;;hl; While the plowujjli-man near at hand Whistles o'er the furrow'd land , And the milkmaid smj;eth hlithe, And the mower whets his soytho, And every shepherd tells liis tale Uniler the hawlhorn in the dale. Straight mine eye lialii eaujjlit new pleasures, Whilst tiie landskip round it measures, Hussel lawns, and fallows gray. Where the nihhling lloclss do stray, Mountains on whose harren hreast, The lah'rinj; clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow hrooks anil rivers wide: Towers and hattlements il sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees. Were perhaps sonic heauty lies, ThcCynosme (1) of neighh'rinjf eyes , Hard hy, a cot luge chimney snioaks, From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Cordyon (2) and Thyrsis (3) met, Are at their savory dinner set Of herbs, ami other country messes. Which the neat-handed I'liyllis (4) dresses; And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestylis (5) to bind the sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead , To the tami'd hayeoek in the mead. Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite. When I he merry bells ring round , And the jocund rebecs sound To many a youth , and many a maid , Dancing in the chequer'd shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sun shine holy-day, Till the liv .'-long day-light fail ; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, W ith stories told of many a feat, llow fairy Mab the junkets eat, She was pinch'd, and pull'd she said , And be by friar's lantern led , Tells bow the drudging goblin sweat, To earn his cream-bowl duly set, |
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn , His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn , That ten day-lab'rcrs could not end ; Then lies him down the luhbar-fiend. And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length, liasks at the fire his hairy strength , And crop-full out, of doors be flings, 1'lre tlic first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep , i!y whisp'ring winds soon lull'd asleep. Towered cities please us then , And the busy hum of men , Where throngs of knights and barons bold In -weeds of peace high Iriumphs hold. With store of ladies, w hose bright eyes Kain influence, and judge the pri/.e Of wit, or arms, while both contend To w in her grace , whom al I com mend. There let Hymen (C) oft appear In sallVon robe, with taper clear. And pomp, and feast, and revelry. With mask and ancient pageantry. Such sights as vouthful poets dream , On summer eves by h unted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon , If Johnson's learned sock he on , Of sweetest Shakespeare. Fancy's child , Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever against eating cares , Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse. Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness longdrnwn out, With wanton heed , and giddy cunning. The melting voice through mazes running. Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony; That Orpheus (7) self may heave his bead From golden slumber on a bed Of heap'd Elysian flow'rs, and bear Such strains as would have won the ear Of I'luto, to have quite set free His balfrcgain'd liurydicc (8). These delights, if thou canst give. Mirth, with thee I mean to live. |
|
(1) The north-star. (2) The namo of a shepherd of Thcoorit and Virgil. (3) The namo of a shepherdess. (4) The name of a girl in the poems of Virgil. (5) The name of a shepherdess of several poets. (6) Hymen, or Ilymcntens, the son of Bacchus and (7) Son of .Tupiter and Calliope, who had great skill for disliking the company of women after the death of (8) See 7. |
Venus, and the god of marriage. in music, and was torn in pieces by the Mtenndea, his wife Eurydice. |
160
|
Invoke thy aid to my ailvenl'rous song, That with no middle flight intends to soar Above th' Aonian mount, vliile it pursues Things unatteinpted yet in prose or rhyme. And ehielly thou , 0 Spirit! that dost prefer Before all temples tli' upright heart and pure, Instruct me, fur thon know'st: thou from the first Wast present, and, witli mighty wings outspread. Dove-like sat'st brooding on tlie vast abyss And inad'st it pregnant: what in me is dark illumine ! what is luw, raise and support; 'J'bat to the heigbt of ibis great argument I may assert eternal Providencc , And justify the ways of God to men. Say first, (for Heav'n hides nothing from thy view, Kor the deep tract of Hell ) say first what cause Mov'd our grand parents, in that happy state, Favour'd of Heav'n so highly, to fall oil' From their Creator, ami transgress his will , For one restraint, lords of the worlds besides? Who first sedue'd lliem to that foul revolt ? Th' infernal serpent! he it was, whose guile, Stirr'd up with envy and revenge , deceiv'd The mother of mankind, what time his pride Had cast him out from heav'n, with all iiis host Of rebel angels, by whose aid aspiring To set himself in glory 'hove bis peers, He trusted to have equall'd the Most High , II ho oppos'd ; and with ambitious aim , Against the throne and monarchy of God Rais'd impious war in heav'n, and battle prond , With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power Hurl'd headlong Jlaming from th' ethereal sky. With hideous ruin and combustion , down To bottomless perdition , there lo dwell In adamantine ebains and penal fire, AVbo durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms. Nine times the space that measures day and night To morlal men , he w ith bis horrid crew Lay vanqnisb'd , rolling in the fiery gulf, Confounded, though immortal ! But his doom Reserv'd him to more wrath : for now/he thought ]!olb of lost happiness and lasting pain Torments him. Hound he throws his baleful eyes, That witness'd huge aflliclion and dismay. Mixt with obdurate pride, and stedfast hate , At once, as far as angels' ken , bo views Thedismal situation waste and wild; A dungeon horrible, on all sides round As one great furnace flam'd : yet I'rom those flames No light, lint lather darkness v isible , Serv'd only lo discover sights of woe, [legions ol sorrow ! doleful shades 1 w here peace And rest can never dwell! hope never comes, That comes lo all; but torture without end Slill urges, and a fiery deluge, fed With ever-burning sulphur unconsnm'd! Such place eternal Justice had prepar'd For thuse rebellious; here their prison ordain'd , In utter darkness; and their portion set |
As far rernov'd from God aud light ol heav'n , As from the centre thrice to th'utmost pole. O how unlike the place from whence they fell! There the companions of his fall, o'erwbelm'd With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire, He soon discerns: and welt'ring by his side One next himself in pow'r, and next in crime, Long alter known in Palestine, and nam'd Beelzebub: 1 o whom the arch-enemy, (Aud thence in heav'n call'd Satan) with bold words Breaking the horrid silence , thus began: quot;If thou beest be—But 0 howfall'n! howchang'd From him , who, in the happy realms of light Cloth'd with transcendent brightness didst outshine Myriads though bright! If he whom mutual league. United thoughts and counscls'equal hope Anil hazard in the glorious enterpme, Join'd with me once, now misery bath join'd In equal ruin ! into what pit thou seest From what height fall'n;so much the stronger prov'd He with his thunder! aud till then who knew The force of those dire arms? yet not for those. Nor what the potent Victor in his rage Can else iullict, do I repent, or change, (Though chang'd in outward lustre) that fix'd mind, And high disdain from sense of injur'd merit, That with the Mightiest rais'd me to contend: And to the fierce contention brought along Innumerable force of spirits arm'd , That durst dislike his reign : and me preferring, His utmost pow'r with adverse pow'r oppos'd In dubious battle on the plains of Heav'n , And shook his throne. What though thcfield belost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge , immortal hate. And courage never to submit or yield ; (And what is else not lo be overcome?) That glory never shall his wrath or might Extort from me, to bow and sue for jjrace With suppliant knee, and deify bis power, AVbo frum the terror of this arm so late Doubted bis empire. That were luw indeed ! That were an ignoniiny and shame beneath This downfal I sim e (by fate) the strength of gods And this empyrial substance cannot luil; Since through experience of event, (In arms not worse, in foresight much advane'd,) We may, with more successful hope, resolve To wage by force or guile eternal war. Irreconcilable to our grand foe , AVbo now triumphs , and in th' excess of joy Sole reigning holds the tyranny of heav'n.quot; So spake the apostate angel, though in pain, Vaunliug aluud , but rack'd » ith deep despair ; And him thus answer'd soon bis bold compeer : quot;0 Prince! 0 Chief of in.my throned powers. That let tb'embattl'd seraphim to war Under thy conduet! and in dreadful deeds Fearless, endan;;er'd beav'n's perpetual King, And put to proof bis high supremacy: |
|
Wlicther upheld hy .vtrenylli, ur cliance , or fule, Too ■well I see and rue the dire event, That with sad overthrow and foul defeat Hath lost us heaven ; and all this mighty host In horrible destruction laid thus low, As far as flods, and heavenly essences, Can perish ; for the mind and spirit remains Invincihle, and vigour soon returns. Though all our glory extinct, and happy state Here swallow'd up in endless misery! But what if he our conq'ror (w hom 1 now Of force believe Almighty, since no less Than such could have o'erpower'd such force as ours) Have left us this our spirit and strength entire. Strongly to suffer and support our pains; That we may so sulGce his vengeful ire , Or do him mightier service, as his thralls Jiy right of war, whale'er his business be , Here in the heart of hell lo work in fire. Or do his errands in the gloomy deep? What can it then avail, though yet we feel quot;Strength undiminisb'J, or eternal being, To undergo eternal punishment ?quot; Whereto with speedy words th'arch-ficnd replied: quot;Fallen Cherub, to be weak is miserable. Doing or suffering: but of this bo sure. To do ought good never will be our task ; But ever lo do ill our sole delight: As being the contrary to bis high will Whom wc resist. Iftbin his providence Out of our evil seek to bring forth good , Our labour must be to pervert that end , And out of good still to find means of evil; Which oft-times may succeed , so as perhaps Shall grieve him , if I f.iil not, and disturb His inmost counsels from their destin'd aim. liut see ! the angry Victor hath reeall'd His ministers of vengeance and pursuit Back to the gates of heav'n : the sulph'rous hail Shot after us in storm , o'erblown , halh laid The fiery surge, that from the precipice Of heav'n recciv'd us falling : and the thunder, Wing'd with red lightning and impetuous rage, Perhaps hath spent his shafts , and ceases now To bellow through the vast and boundless deep. Let us not slip th'occasion , whether scorn , Or satiate fury, yield it from our foe. Seest thou yon (freary plain , forlorn and wild , The seat of desolation , void of light, Save what the glimmering of these livid (lames Casts pale and dreadful ? thither let us tend From off the tossing of these fiery waves; There rest, if any rest can harbour there: And re-assembling our alflictcd powers , Consult how we may henceforth most offend |
Our enemy ; our own loss how repair , How overcome this dire calamity; What reinforcement we may gain from hope; If not what resolution from despair.quot; Thus Satan , talking of his nearest mate, With head uplift above the wave, and eyes That sparkling blaz'd ; his other parts besides Prone on the Hood , extended long and large, Lay floating many a rood : in bulk as huge As whom the fables name of monstrous size, Titanian (1), or Earth-horn , that warr'd on Jove, liriareus, or Typhon (2), whom the den liy ancient Tarsus held ; or that sea-beast Leviathan , which God of all his works Created hugest that swim th' ocean stream : (Him haply slumb'ring on the Norway foam , The pilot of some small night-founder'd skiff. Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell, With fixed anchor in his scaly rind. Moors by his side under the lee, while night Invests the sea, and wished morn delays.) So stretcli'd out huge in length the arch-fiend lav, Chain'd on the burning lake : nor ever thence Had ris'n, or heav'd his head , but that the will And high permission of all-ruling Heaven, Left him at large to his own dark designs: That wilh reiterated crimes he might Heap on himself damnation , while he sought Evil to others ; and enrag'd might see. How all his malice serv'd but to bring forth Infinite goodness, grace, and mercy shown On man by him sedue'd; but on him self Treble confusion, wrath, and vengcange pour'd. Forthwith upright he rears from oil'the pool His mighty stature; on each hand the flames Driv'n backward slope their pointing spires, and roll'd In billows, leave i' th' midst a horrid vale. Then with expanded wings he steers his flight Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air, That felt unusual weight: till on dry land He lights, if it were land that ever burn'd With solid , as the lake with liquid fire ; And such appear'd in hue, as when the force Of subterranean wind transports a bill Torn from Pelorus, or the shatter'd side Of tbund'ring /Etna, whose combustible And fuel'd entrails thence conceiving fire, Sublim'd with mineral fury , aid the winds. Ami leave a singed bottom all involv'd With stench and smoke: such resting found the sole Of unblcss'd feet! Ilim followed his next mate, Uotb glorying to have 'scap'd the Stygian flood, As gods, and hy their own recover'd strength , Not by the sulPrance of supernal power. quot;Is this the region , this the soil, the clime,quot; |
(1) Son of Coilum nnd Term, and the elder brother of Saturn.
(2) A monstrous giant, sou of Titan and Terra; the poets feign him lo have had an hundred arms and fifty heads.
ü)
|
Sold then llic lost Arch-angel, quot;this the sent, That we must change for lleav'n? this mournful ([loom For that celestial lijjht? Be it so! since he Who now is sov'reign can dispose and hid , AVhat shall he right; farthest from him is host , Whom reason hatlicquall'd, force hal h made supreme Ahove his equals. Farewell, happy fields , Where joy for ever dwells! Hail, Horrors! hail , Infernal World ! and thou profoundesl Hell lleceive thy new possessor ! One, who brings A mind no to he cliang'd hy place or time. The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heav'n of hell , a hell of heav'n. What matter where, if I he still the same, And what I should he , all hnt less than lie |
Whom thunder hath made greater ? Here at least Who shall he free ; th' Almighty hath not hnilt Here for his envy ; w ill not drive us hence: Here we may reign secure : and in my choice To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell; Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav'n! But wherefore let we then our faithful friends, Th' associates and copartners of our loss, Lie thus astonish'd on th' ohlivious pool , And call them not to share with us their part In this unhappy mansion : or once more With rallied arms to try, what may he yet Regain'd in heav'n , or what more lost in hell?quot; So Satan spake..... |
(Samson bemoaning ms condition.)
|
A little onward lend thy guiding hand To these dark steps, a little farther on ; For yonder hank hulh choice of sun or shade : There I am wont to sit, when any chance Relieves mc fiom my task of servile toil, Daily' in the common prison elseinjoin'd me , AVhcre I a prisoner ehain'd , scarce freely draw The air imprison'd also, close and damp, Unwholesome draught: hut here I feel amends, The hreath of Heav'n fresh Mowing, pure and sweet. With day-spring horn ; here leave mc lo respire. This day a solemn feast ihe people hold To Dagon their sea-idol, and forhid Lahorious works; unwillingly this rest Their superstition yields me: hence with leave Retiring from the popular noise, I seek This unfrequented place to find some ease. Ease to Ihe body some, none to the mind From restless thoughts, that like a deadly sw arm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging , and present Times past, what once I was, and what am now. O wherefore was my hirlh from Heav'n foretold Twice hy an angel, who at last in sight Ofhoth my parents all in flames ascended From nd'tlie altar, where an oll'ering hurn'd , As in a fiery column charioting His godlike presence , and from some great act Or benefit reveal'd lo Aliraham's race? Why w as my breeding order'd and prescrih'd As of a person separate lo God, Design'd for great exploits : if I must die Betray'd, captiv'd, and hoth my eyes put out , Made of my enemies the scorn and gaze; To grind in brazen fetters under task Willi this hea v'n-gifled strength? O glorious streng I li^ Put to ihe labour of a beast , debas'd Lower than bondslave! Promise was that I Should Israel from Pbilistian yoke deliver: |
Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him F.yeless in Gaza at the mill with slaves. Himself in bonds under Pbilistian yoke: Vet stay , let me not rashly call in doubt Divine prediclion ; w hat if all forlold Had been fulfill'd but through mine own default Whom have 1 lo complain of but myself ? Who this high gift of strength committed to me, In what part lodg'd , bow easily bereft mc , Under the seal of silence could not keep, But weakly lo a woman must reveal it, O'ereome with imporlunity and tears , O impotence of mind , in body strong! But what is strength without a double share Of wisdom, vast, unwieldy, burdensome. Proudly secure, yel liable lo fall By weakest subtleties, not made to rule. But to subserve w here wisdom bears eommand ! God , when he gave me strength , to show withal How slight the gift was, hung il in my hair. But peace, I must nol quarrel with the will Of highest dispensation , which herein Haply bad ends above my reach to know : Sulllces that to mc strength is my bane. Ami proves the source of all my miseries ; So many, and so huge, that, each apart Would ask a life lo wail, but chief of all, O loss of sight, of thee I mo 4 complain ! Blind among enemies, O worse than chains , Dungeon , or beggary, or decrepit age ! Light the prime worls of God to me is extinct, And all her various objects of delight Annull'd , w bieb inighl in part my grief have eas'd, Inferior lo ibe vilest now become Of man or worm ; the vilest here excel me; They creep , yet sec , I dark in light expos'd To daily fraud , contempt, abuse, and wrong, Witbin doors , or without, slill as a fool, In power of others, never in my own ; |
165
|
.Scarce half 1 seem lo live, dead more than half. O dark , dark, dark, amid the Maze of noon , Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse Without all hope of day! O first created Benin , and thou jjreat Word , Let there he li;;lit, and liRht was over all ; Why am I thus bereav'd thy prime decree ? The sun to mc is dark And silent as the moon , When she deserts the ni;;hl ïlid in her vacant inlerlunar cave. Since light so necessary is to life , And almost life itself, if it he true That light is in the soul, She all in every part; why was the sight To such a tender ball as tli' eye confin'd , So obvious and so easy to he quench'd ? And not as feeling through all parts dilFus'd, |
That she might look at will through every pore? Then had I not been thus exil'd from light. As in the land of darkness yet in light; To live a life half dead , a living death , And buried : but Ü yet more miserable ! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave, liuri'd, yet not exempt l!y privilege of death and burial From worst of other evils, pains and wrongs. But made hereby obnoxious more To all I he misenes of 1 ife, Life in captivity Among inhuman foes. I!nt « bo arc these? for with join'd pace I hear The tread of many feet steering this way; Perhaps my enemies, who came lo stare At my alfliclion, and perhaps tu insult, Their daily practice to afllicl me more. * |
|
..............Satan now Quite at a loss, for all his darts were spent, Thus to our Saviour with stern brow repli'd : quot;Since neither wealth, nor honour, arms nor arts Kingdom nor empire, pleases thee , nor ought By mc propos'd in life contemplative. Or active, tended on by glory', or fame. What dost thou in this world? the wilderness For thee is fittest place ; 1 found thee there, And thither will return thee; yet remember. What I foretell thee; soon thou shall have cause To wish thou never hadst rejected thus Nicely or cautiously my ofTer'd aid , Which would have set thee in a short time with ease On David's throne, or throne of all the world , Now at full age, fulness of time, thy season , When prophecies of thee are best fulfill'd. Now contrary, if 1 read ought in beav'n, Or lleav'n write ought of fate, by what the stars Voluminous, or single characters , In their conjunction met, give me to spell , Sorrows , and labours, opposition , hate, Attends thee, scorns, reproaches, injuries, Violence and stripes, and lastly cruel death : A kingdom they portend thee, but what kingdom, Ileal or allegoric, I discern not. Nor when , eternal sure, as without end , Without beginning; for no date prefix'd Directs mc in the starry rubric set.quot; So say'ing, be took (for still he knew his power Not yet expir'd) and to the wilderness Brought back the Son of God , and left him there, Feigning to disappear. Darkness now rose, As day-light sunk , and brought in lowering night, Her shadowy olFspring, unsubstantial both , |
Privation mere of light and absent day, Our Saviour, meek, and with untroubled mind, After his airy jaunt, though hurried sore , Hungry and cold , betook him lo his rest, Wherever, under some concourse of shades, Whose branching arms thick inter twin'd might shield From dews and damps of night his shelter'd head, But shelter'd slept in vain ; for at his bead The Tempter wateb'd , and soon with ugly dreams IJisturb'd his sleep; and either tropic now 'Gan thunder, and both ends c£ beav'n, the clouds. From many a horrid rift abortive pour'd Fierce rain with lightning mix'd, water with lire In ruin reconcil'd ; nor slept ihe winds Within their stony eaves, but rush'd abroad From the four hinges of the world, and fell On the vex'd wilderness, whose tallest pines , Though rooted deep as high, and sturdiest oaks Bow'd their stillquot; necks , loaden with stormy blasts, Or torn up sheer; ill wast thou shrouded then, O patient Son of God , yet only stood'st Unshaken: nor yet slay'd the terror there. Infernal ghosts , and hellish furi.'s, round linviron'd thee; some howl'd , some yell'd. some (shriek'd, Some bent at thee their fiery darts, while thou Sats't unappall'd in calm and sinless peace. Thus pass'd the night so foul, till morning fair Came forth with pilgrim steps in amice gray. Who with her radiant finger still'd the roar Of thunder, chas'd the clouds, and laid the winds And grisly spectres, which the Fiend bad rais'd To tempt the Son of God with terrors dire. And now the sun with more elTeclual beams Had checr'd the face of earth , and dried the wet From drooping plant, or dropping tree; the birdsj |
164
|
Who all things now behold more fresh and {;rcen , After n night of storm so ruinous , Clcar'd up their choicest notes in hush anil spray To gratulate the sweet return of morn : Nor yet amidst this joy and brightest morn AVas absent, after all his mischief done, |
The Prince of Darkness; glad would also seem, Of this fair change, and to our Saviour came, Yet with no new device, they all were spent: Rather by this last affront resolv'd , Desp'rate of better course , to vent his rage, And mad despite, to be so oft repell'd. * |
|
Fly , envious Time, till thou run out thy race ; Call on the lazy, leaden-stepping hours , Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace ; And glut thyself with what thy womh devours. Which is no more than what is false anil vain , And merely mortal dross; So little is our loss, So little is ihy gain! For when as each thing had thou bast intomb'd , And last of all thy greedy self consum'd , Then long Eternity shall grcelour bliss |
AVith an individual kiss ; And Joy shall overtake us as a Hood , AVhen every thing that is sincerely good And perfectly divine, AVith Truth, and Peace, and Love, shall ever shine About the supreme throne Of him to whose ha^py-making sight alone AVhen once our beav'nly-guided soul shall climb; Then , all this earthly grossness quit, Attir'd with stars, we shall for ever sit, Triumphing over Death,and Chance,and theeOTiinel |
|
AA'hat needs my Shakespeare, for his bonour'd hones, The labour of an age, in piled stones ? Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid ? Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame, AVhat need'st thou such weak witness of thy name ? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a live-long monument. |
For whilst to th'shamc of slow-endeavouring Art Thy easy numbers flow ; and that each heart Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book. Those Delphic lines with deep impression took ; Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; And , so sepulcber'd, in such pomp dost lie. That kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die. |
To the Loud General Cromwell , May 1652.
|
Cromwell, our chief of men , who thro' a cloud Not of war only, but detractions rude. Guided by faith , and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast plough'd. And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued, AVbile Derwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued. |
And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud , And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still; Peace hath her victories No less renown'd than AVar: new foes arise Threat'ning to bind our souls with secular chains : Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. |
|
AV'hen I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker , and present My true account, lest he returning chide; Doth Goil exact day-labour , light, denied ? |
I fondly ask : but Patience , to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts, who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; bis state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed , And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also servo who only stand and wait. |
Werd geboren in Stresham, in Worcestershire, in 1012, cn overleed in 1080 te Londen: hij studeerde eenigen tijd nan do universiteit te Camhrigo, doch zijn bekrompen omstandigheden noodzaakten hem die universiteit te verlaten , nog voor dat hij zijn stndiön voltooid had. Hij bekleedde daarna omlerseheiden geringe betrekliingen en onder anderen ook ceno bij Sir Samuel Luke, eeu van de hoofdofficieren van Cromwell. Daar moet hij, zoo men wil, het plau van zijn onnavolgbaar werk, The Hudibras, ontworpen en gedeeltelijk uitgewerkt hebben, 'tgeen als zeer waarschijnlijk is aan te nemen, omdat hij er een uitstekende gelegenheid had om de karakters van de verschillende mensehen , die door hem geschilderd worden, te bestuderen. Na de Restauratie werd hij secretaris van den graaf van Carbery , president van het vorstendom Wales. Tn 1003 verscheen 't eerste gedeelte van The Hudibras en in 't volgende jaar 't tweedo gedeelte. Het trok weldra de aandacht van de geheele beschaafde wereld en werd aan het hof spoedig zoo bekend , dat de Koning er van sprak , do hovelingen 't bcstudeerdeu en de geheele wereld 't bewonderde. Op 't welslagen van dat dichtstuk had Hutier zijn hoop op een goede betrekking gevestigd , doch hij werd zoo zeer daarin teleurgesteld , dat hij op het eind van zijn leven met alle rampen van behoeftige omstandigheden had te kampen. Desniettemin verscheen in 1078 't derde gedeelte, waardoor 't werk echter nog niet voltooid was. De karakters, die in The Hudibras worden geschilderd, zijn verouderd, want do zeden , waardoor zij ontstonden , bestaan niet meer. Om dit meesterstuk van satire to verstaan , wordt tijd en studie gevorderd: 't zal evenwel een gedenkstuk van vernuft, gepaard met scherts cn geleerdheid, blijven , zoolang de engelsche taal bestaat. Kort na zijn dood werden nog drie kleine doelen uitgegeven , welke zijn vroeger werk bevatten , doch zij vergrootten den roem van den hekeldichter niet, zoodat men zo als onecht heeft beschouwd, In 1759 vorsehenen echter twee deeltjes met poëzie, die men voor echt houdt: daarin werden opgenomen: The Elephant in the Moon; The Elephant in the Moon in long verso ; The Elephant in the Moon , n Fragment; Satires, Ballades cn eenigo andere diohtstukjos.
The Argument.
Sir Hudibras his passing worth, The manner how he sally'd forth , His arms and equipage are shown , His horse's virtues and his own :
|
AVhen civil dudgeon first grow high, And men fell out, tlicy knew not why; When hard words , jealousies , and fears , Set folks together hy the ears. And made them fight, like mad ordrunfe, For Dame Ucligion as for punk ; AVhose honesty they all durst swear for , Though not a man of them knew wherefore ; When Gospel-trumpeter, surrounded With long car'd rout, to battle sounded ; And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic. Was beat with fist instead of a stick ; Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling, And out he rose a colonelling (1). A wight he was, whose very sight would Entitle him mirror of knighthood , That never bow'd his stubborn knee To any thing but chivalry, Nor put up blow, but that which laid Knight worshipful on shoulder blade ; Chief of domestic knights and errant, Either for chartel or for warrant; Great on the heneb , great in the saddle |
That could as well hind o'er as swaddle; Mighty bo was at both of these. And styl'd ol War. as well as Peace: (So some rats, of amphibious nature, Arc either for the land or water) But here our authors make a doubt Wbetbcr be were more wise or stout: Some bold the one, and some the other, But, bowsoe'er they make a pother , The dilT'renco was so small, bis brain Outweigh'd bis rage but half a grain: Which made some lake him for a tool That knaves do work with , call'd a Fool, For 't has been held by many, that As Montaigne, (2) playing with bis cat, Complains she thought him but an ass. Much more she would Sir Hudibras; For that's the name our valiant knight To all his challenges did write ; Bui they're mistaken very much ; 'T is plain enough be was not such. We grant, although he bad much wit, 11' was very shy of using it, |
(1) The knight (if Sir Samuel Luke was Mr. Butler's hero) was not only a colonel in the parliament army, but olso a scoutmastcr-gencral in the counties of Bedford, Surry amp;c
(2) This eminent French philosopher, died 1592.
166
|
As beingloalli to wear il out, And tlierefore liore it not about: Unless on holidays or so, As men their best apparel do. Beside, 't is known he could speak Greek As naturally as pigs squeak ; That Latin wis no more difficile. Than to a blackbird 't is to whistle: Being rich in both , he never scanted, His bounty unto such as wanted ; But much of either would allbrd To many that had not one word. For Hebrew roots, although they're found To flourish most in barren ground, He had such plenty as suffie'd To make some think him cirsumcis'd ; And truly so lie was perhaps, Not as a proselyte, but for claps. He was in logic a great critic , Profoundlyskill'd in analytic: He could distinguish , and divide A hair 'twixt south and south-west side : On either which he would dispute. Confute, change hands, and still confute He'd undertake to prove , by force Of argument, a man's no horse; He'd prove a bimard is no fowl , And that a lord may he an owl; A cal fan alderman (3), a goose a justice. And rooks comniittee-mcn and trustees. He'd run in debt by disputation, And bay with ratiocination : All this by syllogism true, In mood and figure he would do. For rhetoric, he could not ope His mouth, but out there flew a trope; And when he happen'd to break oilquot; 1' th' middle of his speech, or cough, 11* had hard words ready to shew why, And tell what rules he did it by ; Klse when with greatest art hu spoke. You'd think he talk'd like other folk ; For all a rhetorician's rules Teach nothing hut to name his tools. But, when he pleas'd to shew't, his speech , In loftiness of sound , was rich ; A Babylonish dialect, Which learned pedants much affect; It was a party-colour'd dress Ofpatch'd and py-hall'd languages ; 'T was English cut on Greek and Latin , Like fustian hereloforc on sattin ; It had an old' promiscuous tone, |
As ifh'had talk'd three parts in one; Which made some think, when be did gabble, Tb'had heard three labourers of Babel, Or Cerberus himself pronounce A leash of languages at once. This he was volubly would vent. As if his stock would ne'er he spent; And truly, to support that charge. He had supplies as vast and large ; For he could coin or counterfeit, New words, with little or no wil; AVords so debas'd and bard, no stone Was hard enough to touch them on ; And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em ; The ignorant for current took 'em ; That had the orator, who once Did fill his mouth with pebblestones AVhen he harrangu'd, but known his phrase, We would have us'd no other ways. In mathematics he was greater Than Tycho lirahe (4) or Erra Pater (5); For he by geometric scale, Could take the si/.e of pots of ale; Uesolve by sines and tangents straight If bread or butter wanted weight; And wisely tell what houro' th' day The clock does strike, by algebra. Beside he was a shrewd philosopher. And had read ev'ry text and gloss over ; Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath, He understood b' implicit faith : Whatever sceptic could inquire for, For ev'ry why bo had a wherefore ; Knew more than forty of them do , As far as words and terms could go ; All which he understood by rote , And, as occasion serv'd, would quote ; No matter whether right or wrong; They might be either saiil or sung. His notions fitted things so well, That which was which he could not tell, But oftentimes mistook the one For th'other, as great clerks have done. He could reduce all things to acts. And knew their natures by abstracts; Where Entity and Quiddity, The ghosts of defuuet bodies, fly ; AVI icrc truth in person does appear , Like words congeal'd in northern air. He knew what's what, and that's as high As metaphysic wit can fly: In school-divinity as able As he that bight Irrefragable (ü); |
(3) Such was Alderman 1'enuington , who sent a person to Newgate for singing (what ho called) a malignant psalm.
(4) An cmiHcnt Danish mathematician.
(5) William Lilly, the famons astrologer of those times.
(G) Alexander Hales , so called: he was an Englishman , born in Gloucestershire, and flourished about the year 123G, at the time when what was called school-divinity was rnueh in vogue; in which science he was so deeply read that he was called Voclor Irrefragabilis; that is , the Invincible Doctor , whoso arguments could not bo resisted.
|
A second 'J'liomas (7), or, at once To name tliem all, anolhor Dunce (8); Profound in all the Nominal And Ileal ways beyond tliem all (9): For lie a rope of sand could twist As toujjli as learned Sorbotiisl, And weave fine cobwebs, fit for scull Tbat 's empty when the moon is full; Such as take lodjjinffs in a head 'Dial's to be let unfurnished. lie could raise scruples dark and nicc, And after solve'em in a Irice; As in Divinity had catch'd ; The itch, on purpose to lie scratch'd ; Or, like a mountebank, did wound And stab herself with doubts profound, Only to shew with how small pain The sores of Faith arc cur'd ajfain ; Although by woful proof we find They always leave a soar behind He knew the seat of Paradise, Could tell in what decree it lies. And, as he w as dispos'd, could prove it lie low ihe moon, or else above it; 'What Adam dreamt of, when his bride Came from her closet in his side; Whether the devil Icinpted her By a high Dutch interpreter; If either of them bad a navel; AVI io first made music malleable; ■Whether the serpent, at the fall, Had cloven feet, or none at all: All this, without a ([loss or comment. He could unriddle in a moment, In proper terms, such as men smaller , When they throw ont, and miss the matter. For his religion, it was fit To inalch his learning and his wit; 'T was Presbyterian true blue (10); For bewas of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true church militant; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun ; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery; And prove their doctrine orthodox, liy apostolic blows and knocks; Call fire, and sword , and desolation, A godly, thorough lleformation. Which always must be carry'd on, |
And still be doing, never done ; As if relgion were intended For nothing else but lobe mended: A sect whose chief devotion lies In odd perverse antiphaties ; In falling out wilh that or this, And finding somewhat still amiss; More pecvi-b, cross, and splenetic. Than dog dislract, or monkey sick ; That with more carc keep holiday The wrong, than others the right way ; Compound for sins they are inclin'd lo, liy damning those I hey have no mind to: Still so perverse and opposite. As if they worsbipp'd Cod for spile : The self-same thing they will abhor One way, and long another fur ; Freewill they one way disavow , Another, nothing else allow : All piety consists llierein In them, in olher men all sin : lialher than fail, they will defy That which they lo\e most tenderly; Quarrel with mine'd pies, and disparage I Their best and dearest friend, plum porridge; Fat pig and goose it self oppose. And blaspheme cuslard through the nose. Th'apostles of ibis ficrey religion, Like Mahomet's, wore a^-s and w idgeon, To whom our knight, by fust instinct Of wit and temper, was so linkt. As if hypocrisy and nonsense Had got th' advowson of his conscience. Thus was he gifled and aceouter'd, o mean on lli'insido, nol the oulwanl; Tliat next of üll mu shall discuss; Then listen, Sirs, il Follows thus. His tawny heard was lli'equal «race Bolh of his w isdom and his face; in cut and die so like a tile, A sudden view it would beguile; The upper part quot;whereof w as whey, The nether oranoe, rnix'd with grey. This hairv meteor did denounce The fall of sceptres and of crow ns ; Willi grisly type did represent Declining age of governnienl, And tell, willi hieroglypliic spade, Its own grave and the Stale's were made: Like Samson's heart-hreakers, it grew In time to make a nation rue; |
(7) Thomas Aeqinnas, a Dominican friar, was born in 1224, studied at Cologne and at Paris. He new-modelled the school-divinity, and was therefore called the Angelic Doctor, and Eagle of divines.
(8) Johannes Dnnscotns was a very learned man , who lived about the end of the thirteenth , and beginning of the fourteenth centur)'. The English and Scots strive which of tliem shall have the honour of his birth. The English say he was born in IVorthumberland ; the Scots allege he was horn at Dunso in the Merse , the neighbouring county to Northumberland , and hence was called Dunscotuss
(9) Gulielmus Occham was the father of the Nominals, and Johannes Dunscotus of the Heals.
(10) Blue means here, gloomy, severe. Tn this sense it is applied especially to the Presbyterians, to denote their severe and mortified appearance.
168
|
Thougli it contrilmtcd its own fall, To wait upon the public dowtifal : It was monastic, and did (;row In holy orders liy strict vow; Of rule as sullen and severe, As that of rijjid Cordeliere: 'T was houud to suffer persecution , And martyrdom, with resolution ; T'oppose itself aj'ainst the liate. And vengeance of th' incensed state, In whose defiance it was worn , Still ready to he pull'd and torn , With red hot irons to he tortur'd , Revil'd , and spit upon, and martyr'd ; Maugrc (10) all which't was to stand fast As long as monarchy should last: But when the state should hap to reel, 'T was to submit to fatal steel, And fall, as it was consecrate, A sacrillee to full of state , Whose thread of life the Fatal sisters Dit twist together with it whiskers. And twine so close, that Time should never, In life or death , their fortunes sever. But with his rusty sickle mow Iloth down together at a Mow. So learned Taliacotius (11), from Tl ie hrawny part of Porter's hum , Cut supplemental noses, which w ould last as long as parent hrecch, But when the date of iVoek was out, OiTdropt the sympathetic snout: His hack, or rather hurthen , shew'd As if it stoop'd with its own load : For as y^ncas bore his sire Upon his shoulders through the fire, Our knight did bear no less a pack Of his own bullocks on his back ; Which now had almost got the upper-Hand of his head for want of crupper : To poise Ibis equally, be bore A paunch of the same bulk before, Which still he bad a special care. To keep well-crainm'd with tin ifty fare ; As white-pot, butler-milk, and curds, Such as a country house affords ; AVith other victual, which anon We farther shall dilate upon, When of his hose we come to treat, The cupboard where he kept his meal. His doublet was of sturdy huff, And though not sword, yet cudgel-proof, Whereby't was fitter for bis use, Who fcar'd no blows but such as bruise, His breeches were of rugged woollen, |
And bad been at the siege of Bullen ; To old King Harry so well known. Some writers held they were bis own : Through they were lin'd with many a piece Of ammunition bread and cheese. And fat black-puddings, proper food For warriors that delight in blood: For, as we said , he always chose To carry victual in his hose. That often tempted rats and mice The ammunition to surprise; And when he put a band but in The one or t' other magatine, They stoutly on defence on't stood , And from the wounded foe drew blood, And till they were storm'd, and beaten out, Ne'er left the fortify'd redoubt: And though knights errant, as some think , Of old did neither eat nor drink, Because when thorough deserts vast. And regions desolate, they past, Where belly-tiinber above ground, Or under, was not to be found. Unless they graz'd, there's not one word Of their provision on record; Which made some confidently w rite , They bad no stomachs but to fight. 'T is false ; fur Arthur wore in ball Hound table like a farlhingal, On which , with shirt pull'd out behind , And eke before, bis good knights din'd ; Though't was no table soine suppose But a huge pair of round trunk hose, In which he carry'd as much meat As be and all the knights could eat, When laying by their swords and truncheons , They took their breakfasts, or their luncheons. But let that pass at present, lest Wcshould forget where wedigrest. As learned authors use, to whom We leave it, and to the purpose come. His puissant sword unto his side, Near bis undaunted heart, was tied , With basket hilt that would bold broth , And serve for fight and dinner both , In it be melted lead for bullets To shoot at, foes, and sometimes pullets, To w hom be bore so fell a grutch. He ne'er gave quarter to any such. The trenchant blade , Toledo trusty. For want of fighting was grown rusty, And ale into itself, for lack Of some body to hew and back : The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt. The rancour of its edge bad felt; |
(10) From the French Malgré meaning, in s/jite of, or as a substantive, misfortune.
(11) Gasper Taliacotius was born at Bononia , A. D. 1553 , and was professor of physic and surgery there. He died 1599. His statue stands in the anatomy theatre, holding a nose in its hand, lie wrote a treatise in Latin , called Chirurgia Nota, in which he teaches the art of ingrafting noses, cars , lips, amp;c. with the proper instruments and bandages.
109
|
For of ihe lower end two handful It liad devour'd ,'t was so manful. And so mucli scorn'd to luik in case, As if it durst not shew his faec. In many desperate attempts Of warrants, exigents, contempts, It had appear'd with courage bolder Than Serjeant Bum invading shouliler: Oft' had it ta'on possession , And pris'ners loo, or made them run. I his sword a dagger had , his page, That was but little for his age. And therefore waited on bim so, As dwarfs upon knight errant du: It was a serviceable dudgeon , Either for lighting or for drudging: When it had stabb'd, or broke a head , It would scrape trenchers , or chip bread; Toast cheese or bacon, though it were To bate a mouse-trap, 't would not care; 'T would make clean shoes, and in the earth Set leeks and onions , and so forlb : It had been 'prcntice to a brewer, Where this and more it did endure, I5ut left the trade, as many more Have lately done on the same score. in tb' holsters , at bis saddle-bow , Two aged pistols he did stow, Among tlie surplus of such meat As in his hose be could not get: Those would inveigle rats with tb'scent, To forage when the coeks were bent, And sometimes catch 'em with a snap. As cleverly as the ablest trap: They were upon hard duty still, And cv'ry night stood centinel, To guard the magazine i' th' hose From two-legg'd and from four-legg'd foes. Thus clad and fortify'd , Sir Knight, From peaceful home, set fort to fight. But first with nimble active force lie got on th'outside of bis horse! For having but one stirrup ty'd T' his saddle on ihe further side. It was so short b' had much ado To reach it with his desp'rate toe ; But after many strains and heaves, lie got up to the saddle-caves, From whence he vaulted into th' seat With so much vigour, strength, and heal, That be had almost tumbled over With his own weight hut did recover. By laying bold on tail and main, Which oft' he used in stead of rein. |
Hut now we talk of mounting steed , üeforc we further do proceed, It doth behove us to say something, Of that which bore our valiant liumkin. The beast was sturdy, large, and tall. With mouth of meal, and eyes of wall ; I wou'd say eye; for h' had hut one, As most agree, though some say none. lie was well stay'd, and in his gait Preserv'd a grave, majestic state: At spur or switch no more bo skipt. Or mended pace, than Spaniard whipt; And yet so fiery he would bound As if he griev'd to touch the ground ; That Caesar's horse, who, as fame goes. Had corns upon his feet and toes. Was not by half so tender hooft, iVor trod upon the ground so soft; And as that beast would kneel and stoop (Some write) to take his rider up; So liudibrashis ('t is well known) W ould often do to set him down. We shall no need to say what lack Of leather was upon his hack ; For that was bidden under pad. And hrcech of Knight gall'd full as bad : His strutting ribs on both sides shew'd Like furrows he himself had plough'd ; For underneath the skirt of panncl, 'Twixt cv'ry two there was a channel; His draggling tail bung in the dirt, Which on his rider he would Hurt, Still as his tender side he prickt, ith arm'd heel, or with unarm'd, kickt; For liudibras wore hut one spur. As wisely knowing , could he stir To active trot one side of's horse, '1 he other would not hang an arse. A Squire be had , whose name was Ralph (12), That in ib'adventure went his half. Though writers, for more stately tone, Do call him Ilalpho, 'tis all one; And wen we can, with metre safe. We'll call him so; if not, plain lialph ; (For rhyme the ruder is of verses. With which, like ships, they steer their courses) An equal stock of wit and valour He had laid in, by birth a tailor. The mighty Tyrian queen, that gain'd, W ith subtle shreds, a tract of land, Did leave it with a castle fair To his great ancestor, her heir ; From him descended cross-legg'd knights , Fam'd for their faith and warlike fights |
(12) Sir Roger L'Eslrange (Key to liudibras) says , This famous Squire was one Isaac Uobinson , a zealous butcher , in Moorficlds, who was always contriving some new qucrpo cut in church governmcat; but, iu a Key at the end of a burlesque poem of Mr. Butler's. 1700, in folio, p. 12. it is observed, quot;That liudibras s Squire was one peiible , a tailor, and one of the Committee of Sequestrators.quot;
22
170
|
Against the bloody Cannibal, Whom ihcy deslroy'd holli great and small. This sturdy Squire he had as well As the hold Trojan knight, seen hell, Not with a counterfeited pass Of golden bough, but Irue gold lace : His knowledge was not far behind The knight's, but of another kind , And he another way came by't: Some call it Gifts, and some iVcw-light; A lih'ral art, that costs no pains Of study, industry, or brains; His wit was sent him for a token. But in the carriage crack'd and broken ; Like commendation nincpence crookt (13) AVith — To and from my love — it lookt He ne'er consider'd it, as loth To look a gift-horse in the mouth . And very wisely wou'd lay forth No more upon it than't was worth ; Kut as he got it freely, so He spent it frank and freely too: For saints themselves will sometimes be Of gifts that cost them nothing, free. By means of this, with hem and cough, Prolongers to enlighten'd stuflquot;. He could deep mysteries unriddle, As easily as tiiread a needle ; For as of vagabonds we say , That they are ne'er beside their way, What'er men speak by this new light. Still they are sure to be i' th' right. 'T is a dark lantern of the Spirit, Which none see by but those that bear it; A light that falls down from on high , For spiritual trades to cozen by; An {gnus fatuus, that hewitolies. And leads men into pools and ditches. To make them dip themselves , and sou nil For Christendom in dirty pond ; To dive, like wild fowl , for salvation, And fish to catch regeneralion. This light inspires and plays upon The nose of saint, like bagpipe drone. And speaks through hollow empty sonl, As through a trunk . or whisp'ring hole, Such language as no mortal ear But spirit'al eavesdroppers can hear ; So Phoebus, or some friendly muse, Into small pools song infuse. Which they at second-hand rehearse, Through reed or bagpipe, verse for verse. Thus Ralph became infallible As three or four legg'd oracle, The ancient cup, or modern chair ; |
Spoke truth point blank, though unaware. For mystic learning , wondrous able In magic, talisman , and cabal, Whose primitive tradition reaches As far as Adam's first green breeches; Deep-sighted in intelligences. Ideas, atoms, influences; And much of Terra Incognita , Th' intelligible world cou'd say; A deep occult philosopher , As learn'd as the wild Irish are, Or Sir Agrippa, for profound And solid lying much renown'd ; He Anthroposophus and Floud , And Jacob Behmen understood ; Knew many an amulet and charm. That would do neither good nor harm ; In Uosycrucian lore as learned , Ashe that Verè adeplus earned : lie understood the speech of birds As well as they themselTcsdo words! Could tell what subtlest parrots mean, That speak and think contrary clean; What member't is of whom they talk When they cry Rope, and Walk, Knave, Walk. He'd extract numbers out of matter. And keep them in a glass, like water. Of sov'reign power to make men wise; For, dropt in blear thick-sighted eyes , They'd make them sec in darkest night, Like owls, though purblind in the light, I!y help of these (as he profest) He had First Matter seen undrest He took her naked , all alone, Before one rag of form was on. The Chaos , too, he had desery'd , And seen quite through , or else he ly'd ; Not that of Pasteboard, which men shew For groats, at fair of Bartbol'mew ; But its great grandsire, first o' th' name. Whence that and Reformation came. Both cousin-germans, and right able T' inveigle andquot;draw in the rabble ; But Reformation was, some say , O' th' younger house to puppet-play. lie could foretel whats'ever was By consequence to come to pass: As death of great men, alterations. Diseases, battles, inundations: All this without th' eclipse of th' sun , Or dreadful comet, he hath done By inward light, a way as good , And easy to be understood: But with more lucky hit than those That use to make the stars depose. |
(13) Until the year 1G90, when all money, not milled, was called in, a ninepenny piece of silver was as common as sixpences or shillings; ami these ninepences were usually bent as sixpences commonly arc now , which bending was called , To my love, and from my love; and such nincpences the ordinary fellows gave or sent to their sweathearts, as tokens of love. A Complete Edition of the Foefs of Great Britain, Vol. V., p. 515, London, John amp; Arthur Arch, 1702.
171
|
I.ike Kuiijhts o'th' Posl, mul falsely charge Upon llicmsclvcs what otiiers forge ; As if tliey were eonsenling to All iniseliiefs in the worlil men do: Or, like the devil, did attempt and sway 'em To rogueries, and then hetray 'em. They'll search a planet's house, to know Who broke and rohb'd a house below; Examine Venus, and the Moon, AVbo stole a thimble or a spoon; And though ibey nothing will eonfess, Yet by their very looks can guess , And tell what guilty aspect bodes, Who stole , and who receiv'd the goods; They'll question Mars, and , by his look , Detcct who't was that nimm'd a cloke; Make Mercury confess, and 'peach Those thieves which ho himself did teach. They'll find, in tb' physiognomies O' th' planets, all men's destinies: Like him that took the doctor's bill, And swallow'd it instead o' tli' pill, Cast th' nativity o' th' question , And from positions to be gnest on , |
As sure as if they knew the moment Of Native's birth, tell what will come on't. They'll feci the pulses of the stars. To hnd out agues, coughs, catarrhs; And tell what crisis does divine The rot in sheep , or mange in swine; In men, whnt gives or cures the itch , quot;What makes them cuckolds, poor or rich ; What gains or losses, hangs or saves: What makes men great, what fools or knaves, lint not what wise, for only 'f those The stars (they say) cannot dispose, INo more than can the astrologians: There they say right, and like true Trojans, This Ilalplio knew , and therefore took The other course, of which we spoke. Thus was th' accomplish'd Squire endu'd With [jifts and knowledge per'lous shrewd: Never did trusty squire with knight, Or knight with squire, e'er jump more right. Their arms and equipage did fit, As well as virtues, parts, and wit: Their valours, too, were of a rate; I And out they sally'd at the gate.* |
UrON THE PARLIAMENT WHICH DELIDEIUTED ABOUT MAKING OLIVER KING.
|
As close as a goose Sat the Parliament-house, To batch the royal gull: After much fiddle-faddle. The egg prov'd addle. And Oliver came forth Nol. Vet old Queen Madge, Though things do not fadge. Will servo to bo queen of a May-pole ; Two princes of Wales, For Whitsun ales, And her Grace Maid-Marion Clay-pole. In a robe of cow-bide Sat yesty Pride, With b is dagger and his sling; lie was the pertinent'st peer Off all that were there, T' advise with such a king. |
A groat philosopher Had a goose for his lover , That follow'J him day and night: If it he a true story. Or but an allegory , It rnay he both ways right. Strickland and his son , Both cast intoone, Were meant for a single baron ; Uut when they came to sit, There was not wit Knough in them both to serve for one. Wherefore't was thought good To add Honey wood ; But when they came to trial, Each one prov'd a fool, Yet three knaves in the whole. And that made up a Pair-royal. |
|
A country that draws fifty foot of water , In which men live as in the hold of Nature, And when the sea does in upon them break, And drowns a province, does but spring a leak ; That always ply the pump, and never think They can ho safe, but at the rale they stink ; |
That live as if they bad been run aground, And , when they die, are cast away and drown'd; That dwell in ships , like swarms of rats, and prey Upon the goods all nations' fleets convey; And when their merchants are blown up andcrackt Whole towns arc cast away in storms , and wreekt |
172
|
ï'lmt feed, like Cannibals, on oilier fishes, And serve their cousin-germans up in dislics; |
A luml that rides at anchor , and is moor'd , In wliioli they do not live, hut go aboard. |
een der uUstekeiidsto en gnlnkkigslo beoefenani's van de beschrijvende poëzie , word geboren to Dublin , in 1615 en stierf in IOCS. Door zijn gcbeohtbeid aan 't koninklijk huis werd bij in onderscheiden moeije-lijkbeden gewikkeld, waardoor bij zelfs gedeeltelijk van zijn vermogen werd beroofd, dat reeds veel door zijn zucht tot bet spel had geleden. Bij de herstelling van 't koningschap werd hij om zijn trouw, daar hij Karei I en de koningsgezinden gedurende de tusscbenregering vele diensten had bewezen , tot opzigter van do koninklijke gebouwen , en bij de krooning van Karei IT lot ridder van de Bath-orde benoemd. In 1630 vertaalde bij het tweede boek der jEneide ; in 1041 verscheen van hem The Sophy, een treurspel en in 1643 Cooper's Hill, een beschrijvend dichstuk, dat den naam van den dichter onsterfelijk heeft gemaakt. Vroeger had hij nog gnscbreven An Essay on Gaming, om zijn vader, die hem onterven wilde, een bewijs te leveren, dat hij niet meer aan het spel verslaafd wns, doch waartoe bij na diens dood weer verviel. Zijn werken worden doorgaans verdeeld in Miscellanies; Epistles j Songs, Translations, enz. De Cato Major een vertaling, verscheen in lO-lS. Na de herstelling van 't koningschap schreef hij 't meerendeel van zijne kleinere stukken. Hoewel zijn songs en eenige kleinere stukken zeer verdienstelijk zijn , werden zij door den roem van zijn Cooper's Mill iu do schaduw gesteld.
|
* My eye descending from iho Hill, surveys Where Thames among the wanton vullies strays. Thames! the most lov'd of all the Ocean's sons By his old sire, to his embraces runs , Hasting tu pay his tribute to the sea, Like mortal life to meet eternity; Though with those streams he no rosemhlancc hold , Whose foam is amher, and their gravel gold; His genuiuc and less guilty wealth t'cxplore, Search not his bottom , hut survey his shore, O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing , And hatches plenty for Ih'ensuingspring; Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, Like mothers which their infants overlay: Kor with a sudden and impetuous wave, Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth lie gave. j\o unexpected inundations spoil The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil , But godlike his unweary'd bounty flows ; First loves to do, then loves the good he docs. Nor are his blessings to his hanks confin'd, But free and common as the sea or wind; When ho, to boast or to disperse his stores, |
Full of the tributes of bis grateful shores. Visits the world, and in his Hying tow'rs I!i ings home to us , and makes both Indies ours ; Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants , Cities in deserts, woods in citics, plants. So that to us no thing, no place, is strange, While his fair bosom is the world's exchange. 0 could I How like thee ! and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme ; Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull ; Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full. Hcav'n her Eridanus no more shall boast, W hose fame in thine, like lesser current,'s lost; Thy nobler streams shall visit Jove's abodes , To shine among the stars, and bathe the gods. Here iNature, whether more intent to please 1 s for herself with strange varieties, (For things of wonder give no less delight To the wise Maker's than hebolder's sight; Though these delights from several causes move , For so onr children, thus our friends , we love) Wisely she knew the harmony of things, As well as that of sounds , from discord springs.* |
Werd geboren te Londen in 1G18 en overleed in 1067. Tu 1630 bcgof hij zich naar de universiteit te Cambridge, in 1043 naar Oxford, 't hoofdkwartier van de koningsgezinden, wier partij hij met hart en ziel was toegedaan. Van deze universiteit volgde bij do koningin naar Parijs als secretaris van den graaf van St. Albans, en was daar belast met 't schrijven en ontcijferen van do brieven, die do koning en do koningin met elkander wisselden. Gedurende twaalf jaar deelde bij in 't buitenland in de ellende vau de koninklijke partij cn bezocht voor haar Holland , Vlaanderen , Schotland , Jersey en andere oorden. In 1656 keerde bij naar Engeland terug om er voor zijn partij werkzaam te zijn. Na den dood van Cromwell vertrok hij naar Frankrijk en keerde mtt den koning in zijn vaderland terug, die aanvankelijk zijn diensten vergat, welk verzuim echter weldra vergoed werd. Zijn werken worden verdeeld in Epistles ; Eligiac Poems ; Prologues and Epilogues; The Mistress, or Several Copies of Love Verses: Odes; Pindaric Odes; Anacreontics; Of Plants ; Davideis (onafgewerkt); Imitations; Fragments. Kecds in 1633 verscheen z(jn eerste
175
werk Poetic Blossoms, waarin werden opgenomen; The Tragical History of Pyrnmus and Thisbe (vervaardigd in 1C28); Constantia and Pliiletus (1G30) en eenige andere stukjes. Deze stukken werden door den dichter niet veranderd op rijperen leeftijd. De vier boeken van het heldendicht Uavideis vervaardigde hij voor 't grootste deel tijdens zijn verblijf te Cambridge, liet herdersdrama Love's Kiddle (gesehreven toen hij nog op school was) en het tooneelspel Naufragium Joculnre verschenen in 1038. In 1047 leverde hij The Mistress; in 1653 het tooneelspel Tho Guardian, later en thans, hoewel weinig, bekend als Tho Cutter of Coleman Street, welks opvoering verboden werd; en iu 1057 de zes boeken Of Plants. Tho Odes, Pindaric Odes en Anacreontics zijn do beste stukken , die hij geleverd heeft, en bezitten thans nog een welverdienden naam, hoewel de dichter lang zoo vermaard niet is , als gedurende zijn leven : hij was toen zoo populair en zoo algemeen geacht, dat zijn werken twaalf maal in dien tijd herdrukt werden.
|
Oli, Life I lliou Nothing's younger brother! So like , that one rnijjlil take one for the other What's Sotnehmly , or Nobody ? In all the cobwebs of the schoolmen's trade, We no sueb nice distinction woven see As't is to be, or Not to be. Dream of a shadow! a reflection made From the False ({lories of tbo quot;ay-reflected bow , Is a more solid thinjj than thou. Vain , weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up betwixt two eternities. Yet canst not wave nor wind sustain, (meet again. Kut, broken and o'envhelm'd, the endless oceans And with what rare inventions do we strive Ourselves tlicm to survive ? Wise subtle arts, and such as well befit That nothing, man's no wit; Some with vast costly tombs would purchase it, And by the proofs of death pretend to live. Here lies the great. — False Marble ! where? Nothing but small and sordid dnst lies llinre, Some build enormous mountain-palaces. The fools and architccts to please; |
A lasting life in well-hewn stone they rear : So be who on the Egyptian shore Was slain so many hundred years before , Lives still, (oh ! life most happy and most dear ! Ob ! life that Epicures envy to bear!) Lives in the dropping ruins of his amphitheatre. His father-in-law an higher place does claim In tbe seraphic entity of Fame: He, since that toy his death , Does fill all mouths, and breathes in all men's breath. 'T is time the two immortal syllables remain, But, oh ! ye learned Men ! explain , What essence , what existence this, What substance, what subsistence, what hypostasis, In six poor letters is ? In those alone does the great Ctcsar life, 'T is all the conquer'd world could give. We poets madder yet than all, With a refin'd fantastic vanity, Think we not only have, hut give eternity. Fain would I see that prodigal, Who his to morrow would bestow, For all old Homer's life e'er since he dy'd till now. |
|
Liberal Nature did dispense To all things arms for their defence: And some she arms with sin'wy force , And some with swiftness in the coursc; Some with hard hoofs, or forked claws. And some w ith horns , or tusked jaws ; And some with scales, and some with wings, And some with teeth, and sotne with stings: Wisdom to man she did afford , Wisdom for shield , and wit for sword : What to beauteous womankind , What arms, what armour, has she assign'd ? |
Beauty is both ; for with the fair What arms , what armour, can compare? What steel, what gold , or diamond , More impassible is found ? And yet what flame, what lightning e'er So great an active force did bear? They are all weapon , and they dart, Like porcupines, from ev'ry part. Who can, alas ! their strength express, Arm'd, when they themselves undress, Cape-a-pc with nakedness. |
174
|
A iiii;;lity pain to love it is, And 't is a pain that pain to miss; But of all pain the greatest pain It is to love, hut love in vain. Virtue now, nor nohle blood , Nor wit, by love is understood ; Gold alone does passion move, Gold monopolucs love! A curse on her, and on the man, Who this traffic first began ! A cyrse on him who found the ore! |
A curse on him who digg'd the store! A curse on him who did refine it! A curse on him who first did coin it! A curse , all curses else above, On him who us'd it first in love! Gold begtts in brethren bate. Gold in families debate ; Gold does friendship separate; Gold does civil wars create; These the smallest harms of it! Gold , alas! does love beget. |
|
Fill the bowl with rosy wine, Around our temples roses twine. And let us cheerfully awhile. Like the wine and roses smile ; Crown'd with roses we contemn Gyges' wealthy diadem. |
To-day is ours; what do we fear ? To day is ours, we have it here ; Let us treat it kindly, that it may Wish , at least, with us to stay : Let ns banisb bus'ness, banish sorrow ; To the gods belongs to-morrow. |
(1620—1078.)
Ofschoon de werken vnn dien dichter lang in de vergetelheid waren gedompeld, heeft men daarop thans weer de aandacht gevestigd Hij werd geboren te Hull , en was tijdens de omwenteling lid van^ liet parlement, en een vriend van Milton, wiens staatkundige gevoelens hij deelde. Men heeft van hem in poëzie: To his Coy Mistress; Song of the Exiles; A poem on the death of the Lord Protector; Satires, and other Poems. Hoewel deze weikeu vol gehrekeu /.iju , komen daarin echter hier en daar veel fraaije tafereelen voor. Zijn eerstelingen zijn bevallig en vol gevoel; de hekeldichten vol vernuft, maar dikwijls ruw en ongekuiseht. Ook in 't proza, dat in zijn lijd zeer populair was, heeft hij zich onderscheiden, en is daardoor meer bekend , dan (ioor zijn poezie. Men heeft van hem onder onderen in proza: The Rehearsal Transposed (1073); An Account of the Growth of Popery and Arbitrary Government in England.
The plcturc of T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers.
|
Sec with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden clays! In the green grass she loves to lie. And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flowers, and gives them names; Hut only with the roses plays, And them does tell What colour best becomes them, and what smell. Who can foretell for what high cause This darling of the gods w as born ? See this is she whose chaster laws The wanton Love shall one day fear. And , under her command severe, See his bow broke and ensigns torn. Happy who can Appease this virtnous enemy of man! |
O then let me in time compound , And parley with those conquering eyes ; Ere they have tried their force to wound , Ere with their glancing wheels they drive In triumph over hearts that strive. And them that yield but more despise. Let me he laid Where I may see the glory from some shade. Meantime, whilst every verdant thing Itself does at thy beauty charm , Reform the errors of the spring: Make that the tulips may have share Of sweetness, seing they arc fair; And roses of their thorns disarm : But most procure Thy violets may a longer nge endure. |
170
|
But oh , younj; beauty of the woods, Whom nature courts with fruits and flowers, (Jatlier the flowers, but spare the buds; Lest Flora (1), angry at iby crime |
To kill her infants in their prime, Should quickly make the example yours; And , ere we see, Nip in the blossom all our hopes in thee. |
The JVymph's Description on ker fawn.
|
*With sweetest milk and sugar first I it at mine own fingers nurs'd ; And as it grew so every day It wax'd more while and sweet than they. It had so sweet a breath ! and oft I hlush'd to see its foot more soft, And white, shall I say ? than my hand — Than any lady's of the land! It was a wondrous thing how fleet 'T was on those little silver feet. With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race; And when't had left me far away, 'T would stay, and run again , and stay; For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds. I have a garden of my own , But so with roses overgrown , And lilies, that you would it guess |
To be a little wilderness; And all the spring time of the year It loved only to be there. Among the beds of lilies I IlaTe sought it oft, where it should lie; Yot could not, till itself would rise, Find it, although before mine eyes; For in the flaxen lilies' shade. It like a bank of lilies laid. Upon the roses it would feed, Until its lips ev'n scem'd to bleed; And then to me't would boldly trip. And print those roses on my lip. Hut all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill; And its pure virgin lips to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Had it liv'd long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within. |
|
When plate was at pawn, and fob at an ebb, And spider might weave in bowels its web, And stomach as empty as brain ; Then Charles without acre Did swear by his Maker, If e'er I see England again, I'll have a religion all of my own , Whether I'opisb or Protestant shall not be known, And , if it prove troublesome, I will have none. I'll have a long parliament always to friend, And furnish my treasure as fast as I spend ; And , if they will not, they shall have and end. I'll have a council that sit always still, And give me a licence to do what f will; And two secretaries.... My insolent brother shall bear all I lie sway: If parliaments murmur, I'll send liiin away , And call him again as soon as 1 may. I'll have a rare son, in marrying though marred , Shall govern, if not my kingdom , my guard , |
And shall be successor to fne or Gerrard. I'll have a new London instead of an old , With wide streets and uniform to my own mould ; But, if they build too fast, I'll bid 'em bold. The ancient nobility 1 will lay by. And new ones create , their rooms to supply; And they shall raise fortunes for my own fry. Some one I'll advance from a common descent So high that he shall hector the parliament, And all wholesome laws for the public prevent. And I will assert him to such a degree. That all his foul treasons, though daring and iiigb, Under my hand and seal shall have indemnity. * I'll wboly abandon all public affairs. And pass all my time with buffoons and players, And saunter to Nelly when 1 should he at prayers. I'll have a fine pond with a pretty decoy, Where many strange fowl shall feed and enjoy. And still, in their language, quack Vive le Roy. |
do vnder van do cngclsche kritiek, word geboren te Oldwincle, imbij Oundle, een dorp in Northamptonshire, in 1G31 , en overleed te London in 1701. Hij studeerde te Cambridge en werd na verloop van eenige
(1) The goddess of flowers.
176
jaren tot hofdichter benoemd. Men heeft vnn hem in proza en poëzie i The third Satire of Persius (IC49) (1) ; On the Death of Lord Hastings (1649); Heroic Stanzas on the late Lord Protector (1058); Astrcea Rednr; A Panegyric to his Majesty on his Coronation (1GC0); A Satiro on the Dutch, enz. (1662); Annus Mirabilis: the Year of Wonders MDCLXVI (1C67); Essay on Dramatic Poetry (16G8); Essay on Satire (1679); A Translation of Ovid's Epistles (16S0); Absalom and Achitopel, a Satiro (1081); Medal, a Satire against Sedition (1681); Religio Laici (1682); A Translation of Maiinbourg's History of the League (1684); A Defence of the Papers written by the late King, and found in his Strong-Uox (1686); The Hind and Panther (1087); Britannia Ucdiviva (1088); Mac-Flccknoe, a Satiro op Siiauwell, die, toen Dryden tot do roomsch-katholijke kerk overging, in zijn plaats tot hofdichter benoemd werd; A Translation of Fresnoy's Art of Painting (1095); A version of the Works of Virgil (1697); Alexander's Feast, An ode on St. Cecilia's Day (1G99) en nog een aantal andere stukken , in proza en poëzie , die hij van tijd tot tijd vervaardigde en uitgaf. Voorts schreef hij nog een dertigtal treur- en tooneelspelen en opera's ; hij schreef 't eerste : The Kival Ladies (1661); The Indian Emperor {1007); Secret Love, or the Maiden-Queen; Sir Martin Mar-all (1668); The Tempest van Shakespeare omgewerkt (1670); An Evening's Love, or the Mock Astrologer (1671); Tyrannic Love, or the Virgin Martyr (1672); Marriage il la Mode; The Assignation, or Love in a Nunnery; Amboyna (1673); The State of Innocence, or the Fall of Man (1674); The Mistaken Husband (1675); Anrengzebe (1676); All for Love, or the world well Lost (1678); Oedipus; Troilns and Cressida, or Truth Found out too late, van Shakespeare omgewerkt (1679); Liuibcrbain, or the Kind Keeper (1680) ; Spanish Friar , or the double Discovery (1081); The Duke of Guise (1083) ; Albion and Albanius (1685); Sebastian (1690); Amphytrion ; King Arthur (1691); Cleomencs (1692); Love Triumphant (1094). Jiij zulk cen verscheidenheid van stukken, zoowel in proza als poëzie, is't niet mogelijk hier in bijzonderheden te treden. Do dichter toonde reeds veel aanleg te bezitten door zijn vers Ou the Death of Lord Hastings (1049) j The Heroic Stanzas on the Death of Oliver Cromwell; The Astresca Redux en nog nicer in Annus Mirabilis en Absalom and Aclntopel. In plaats dat zijn talenten bij het toenemen der jaren verzwakten, ontwikkelden zij zich al meer tot aan zijn Alexander's Feast , dat in 1700 verscheen , en waardoor ziju naam vereeuwigd werd. Zijn tooneelspelen zijn meest allen in proza , de treurspelen en opera's in poëzie , en hoewel ten deze meer van hoeveelheid, dan van hoedanigheid kan gezegd worden, ziju er sommigen, die zeer schitterende tafereelen behelzen.
(1) Do hier opgegevene jaartallen duiden het jaar der uitgave of der vervaardiging aan ; om niet te uitvoerig to worden kan dit, bij zulk een verscheidenheid van stukken . niet in het bijzonder aangetoond worden.
An ode in honour of st. cecilia's day.
|
'T was at tlie royal least, for Persia won , By Philip's warlike son : Aloft, in awful state, Then god-like hero sate, On his imperial throne: His valiant peers were plao'd around ; Their brows with roses and witii myrtles bound, (So should desert in arms be crown'd ;) The lovely Thais, by his side Sate like a blooming Eastern bride, In flower of youth and beauty's pride; Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave. None but the bravo deserves the fair. Timotbeus, placed on high , Amid the tuneful quire. With Hying fingers touched llio lyre ; The trembling notes ascend the sky, And iieavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove, Who left his blissful seats above , (Such is the power of mighty love.) A dragon's fiery form belied the god : Sublime on radiant spires he rode. When he to fair Olytnpia pressed , |
And while be sought her snowy breast : Then , round her slender waist ho curl'd, Andstamped an imageofliimself,asovereino of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound ; A present deity , they shout around : A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound : AVith ravished cars. The monarch hears, Assumes the god , Afl'ects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus then, the sweet musician sung Of Bacchus ever fair, and e'ver young ; The jolly god in triumph comes ; Sound the trumpets ; beat the drums; Flushed with a purple grace. He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comcs. Bacchus , every fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain: Bacchus' blessings are a treasure. Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; ilich the treasure. Sweet the pleasure; Sweet is pleasure after pain. Soothed with the sound , the king grew vain ; |
177
|
Fought oil his battles o'er again; (slain. And thrice lie routed all his foes; and thrice slew the The master saw the madness rise ; His glowing cheeks, his anient eyes ; And while he heaven and eurth defy'd , Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride. He ehose a mournful muse Soft pily lo infuse: He si/ng Darius great and good, liy loo severe a fate , Fallen I fallen ! fallen I fallen ! Fallen from his high estate, And wellring in his blood ; Deserted at his utmost need ]!y those his former bounty fed ; On the hare earth exposed ho lies, With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast look the joyless victor sate llcvolving in his altered soul, The various turns of chance below ; And now and then , a sigh he stole; And tears began lo ilow. The mighty master smil'd , lo see That love was in the next degree: quot;f was but a kindred sound to move , For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honor but an empty bubble; Never ending , still beginning. Fighting still, and still destroying: If the world be worth thy winning, Think , O think , it worth enjoying : Lovely Thais sits beside thee. Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause ; So Love was crown'd, but Music won tbc cause. Tl ie I'rince , unable to conceal his pain , Ga/.'d on the Fair W ho caused his care. And sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd and look'd, 1 Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again ! At length w ith love and w ine at once oppressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. |
Now strike the golden lyre again : And louder yet , and yet a louder strain. Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse bin), like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark , bark , the horrid sound [his raised up his head : As awaked from the dead , And amazed , he stares around. Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries , See the furies arise: See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in their hair. And the sparkles that flash from their eyes I Behold a ghastly band , Kacli a torch in his hand I These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain : Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew. Behold how they loss their torches on high , How they point to the Persian abodes, Ami gliltering temples of their hostile gods. The princes applaud, with a furious joy ; And theKing seized a flambeau, with z.eal to destroy ; Thais led the way To light him to his prey , And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. Thus, long ago, Kre heaving bellows learn'd to blow , While organs yet were mute ; Timotheus , lo his breating flute And sounding lyre Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame ; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds . And added length to solemn sounds, AV'ith nature's mother-w it, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize , Or both divide the crown ; He raised a mortal lo the skies ; She drew an angel down. |
Annus Mlrabilis : 4he year of wonder.
Holland in the seventeenth CENTunv.
|
In thriving arts long time had Holland grown Crouching at home and cruel when abroad : Scarce leaving us the means to claim our own ; Our king they courted , and our merchants aw'd. Trade, which like blood should circularly flow, Slopp'd in their channels, found its freedom lost: Thither the wealth of all the world did go, And seem'd but shipwrcck'd on so base a coast. |
For them alone the heavens had kindlv heat; In eastern quarries ripening precious dew : For them the idumscan halm did sweat. And in hot Ceylon spicy forests grew. The sun but seem'd the labourer of the year; Each waxing Moon rupply'd her watery store. To swell those tides which from the line did bear Their brim-full vessels to the Belgian shore. |
23
178
|
Tims, niifjlily in lier ships, stood Carthage long, And swept the riches of the world from far; Yet stoop'd to lioine, less wealthy, hut more strong: Anil this may prove our second Punic war. * London , thou great emporium of our isle, 0 thou too-hountcous , thou too fruitful Nile! How shall 1 praise or curse to tliy desert ? Or separate thy sound from I hy corrupted part? 1 call'd thee Nile ; the parallel will stand : Thy tides of wealth o'erllow the futlen'd land : Yet monsters from thy large increase we find , Engendcr'd on the slime thou leav'est behind. Sedition has not whollyseited on thee, Thy nohler parts are from infection free. Of Israel's trilie thou hast a numerous band , But still the Canaanitc is in the land. Thy military chiefs are brave and true; Nor arc thy disenchanted burghers few. The head is loyal w hich thy heart commands , But vliat's a head with two such gouty hands ? The wise and wealthy love the surest way , And are content to thrive and to obey. But w isdom is to slolh too great a slave ; None are so busy as the fool and knave. Those let me curse; what vengeance will they urge, Whose ordures neither plague nor fire can purge ? Nor sharp experience can to duly bring , Nor angry heaven , nor a forgiving king ! In gospel-phrase their chapmen they betray ; Their shops are dens, the buyer is their prey. The knack of trades is living un the spoil; They boast e\'n when each other tin y beguile. Customs lo steal is such a trivial thing , That 'tis their charter to defraud their king. All hands unite of every jarring sect; They rbeat the country fic-1, and I hen infect. They for God's cause Ineir mouarchs dare dethrone. And they'll be suie to make his cause their own. Whether the plotting Jesuit laid Ihe plan Of murdering kings, or the French puritan , Our sacrilegious sects their guides outgo. And kings and kingly power would murder loo. What means that traitorous combination less. Too plain t'invade, too shameful to confess? Itnt treason is not own'd when 'I is descried ; Successful crimes alone are just i lied. The men who no conspiration «onld find Who doubts? but had it taken, they hadjoin'd, Join'd in a mutual covenant of defence; |
What peace can he, w here both to one pretend ? (But thev more diligent, and we more stong) Or if a peace, it soon must have an end; For they would grow too powerful were it long. * At first without, at last against, their prince. Ifsovereign right by sovereign power they scan , The same bold maxim holds in (iod and man : fiod were not safe, his thunder could they shun ; lie should be forced to crown another son. Thus, when the heir was from the vineyard thrown, The rich possession was the murderer's own. In vain to sophistry they have recourse: By proving tbeir's no plot. they prove 'tis worse — Uninask'd reliellion , and audacious force; Whith though not actual, yet all eyes may see 'T is working in th' immediate power to he; For from pretended grievances tlioy rise, First to dislike, and after to despise Then cyclop-like in human flesh to deal, Cliop up a minister at every meal : Perhaps not wholly to melt down the king; But clip his regal rights within the ring. From thence t' assume the power ofpeace and war; And ease him hy degrees of public care. Yet, to consult bis dignity and fame, lie should have leave lo exercise the name; And bold the cards while commons play'd the game. For what can pow'r give more than food and drink, To live at ease, and not to be bound lo think ? The: e are the cooler methods of their crime , But their hot /.ealots think't is loss of time ; On ulmost bounds of loyally they stand , And grin and whet like a Croatian band , That waits impalienl for the last command. Thus outlaws open villany maintain , They steal not, but iti squadrons scour the plain : And if their power Ihe passengers subdue, The most have right, the wrong is in the lew. Such impu.us axioms foolishly they show, For in some soils republics will not grow : Our temperate isle will no extremes sustain , Of popular sway or arbitrary reign : ISul slides between them both into the best. Secure in freedom , in a monarch blest. And though Ihe climate vex'd with various winds. Works through our yielding bodies on our minds , The wholesome tempest purges what it breeds, To recommend the calmness that succeeds. |
179
|
Ev'n when llie farmer, now secure of fear, Sends in the swains to spoil the finish'd year, Ev'n when the reaper (ills his {frecdy hands. And hinds the golden sheaves in brittle bands, Oft have 1 seen a sudden storm arise From all the warrinj; winds that sweep the skies. The heavy harvest from the root is torn , And whirl'd aloft the lighter stuhhle horne ; With such a force the llying rack is driv'n , And such a winter wears the face of heav'n : The lofty skies at once come pouring down ; The promis'd crop and golden lahours drown. The dikes arc fill'd , and with a roaring sound The rising rivers float the nether ground ; |
And rocks the hel lowing voice of hoi ling seas rebound. The father of the gods his glory shrouds, I nvolv'd in tempests and a night of clouds; And from the middle darkness Hashing out, II y fits he deals his fiery holts about. Deep horror seizes ev'ry human breast, Their pride is humbled, and their fear confcst, While he from high his rolling thunder throws. And fires the mountains with repeated blows; The rocks are from their old foundations rent: The winds redouble , and the rains augment: The waves in heaps arc dasb'd against the shore, And now the woods and now the billows roar. |
Werd geboren te Cambridge in 1613 en overleed als bisschop van Down en Connor ia 1007. Ilij is de Spenser volgens anderen de Shakespeare van de theologische letterkunde en zijn proza is dikwijls zeer muziekaal Men heeft van hem Sermons; Golden (irove ; lloly Living; Holy Dying; — Contemplations on the State of Man , welke allen tafereelen behelzen , wier fraaiheid en pracht ter naanwernood in eenig prozaschrijver te vinden zijn. Voorts Thculogia Ecleetica , a Discourse of the Liberty of Prophesying (in 1647 verschenen), welk werk aan de godsdienstvrijheid een even groote dienst bewees, als do Areopagitica van Milton (zie bldz. 155 regel 2U)'t aan do drukpersvrijheid deed. liet mcercndcel dier werken werd vóór do herstelling van het koningschap geschreven en uitgegeven.
|
Seneca said well, 'There is no science or art in the world so bard as to live and die well: the professors of other arts arc vulgar and many': but ho that knows bow to do this business, is certainly instructed to eternity. Hut then let me remember this, that a wise person will also put mo-t upon the greatest interest. Common prudence will teach us this, No man will hire a general to cut wood, or shake hay with a scoptrc, or spend his soul and all bis faculties upon the purchase ofa cockleshell ; but ho will fit instuments to the dignity and exigence of the design: and therefore since heaven is so glorious a state, and so certainly designed for us, if wc please, let us spend all that we have, all our passions and allections, all our study and industry, all our desires and stratagems, all our witty and ingenious faculties, towards the arriving thither; whither if we do comc, evei'v minute will infinitely pay for all the troubles of our whole life; if we do not, we shall have the reward of fools, an unpitied and an upbraided misery. |
To this purpose I shall represent the state of dying and dead men in the devout words of some of the fathers of the church, whose sense I shall exactly keep, but change their order; that by placing some of their dispersed meditations into a chain or sequel of discourse, I may, with their precious stones, make a union, and compose them into a jewel: fur thou;;h the meditation is plain and easy, yet it is affectionate, and material, and true, and necessary. The circuinstunccs of a (lying man's sorrow and dtinyer. When the sentence of deatli is decreed, and begins to he put in execution, it is sorrow enough to see or feel respectively the sad accents of the agony and last contentions of the soul , and the reluctances and unwillingnesses of the body: the forehead washed with a new and stranger baptism, besmeared with a cold sweat, tenacious, and clammy, apt to make it cleave to the roof of bis coflin ; the nose cold and undiscerniug, |
180
|
nol pleased with perfumes, nor sullerim; violence witli a clouil of unwholesome smoke; the eves dim as a sullied mirror, or the faen of heaven, when God shews his anjjer in a prodigious storm ; the feel cold , the hands still', the physicians despairing, our friends weepinji, the rooms dressed with darkness and sorrow , and the exterior parts lietrayiiig what are the violences, Mhich the soul and spirit suffer 5 the nobler part, like the lord of the house, heinn; assaulted hy exterior rudenesses, and driven from oil the outworks, at last faint and weary with short and frequent breathinjjs, interrupted with the lonijer accents of sijjhs, without moisture, hut the excrescences of a spilt humour, when the pitcher is broken at the cistern , it retires to its last fort, the heart; whither it is pursued, and stormed, and beaten out, as when the barbarous Thracian sacked the {[lory of the Grecian empire. Then calamity is great, and sorrow rules in all the capacities of man : then the mourners werp, because it is civil, or because they need thee, or because they fear; hut who sullers for thee with a compassion sharp as is thy pain? Then the noise is like the faint echo of a distant valley, and few hear, and they will not regard thee, who secmest like a person void of understanding and of a departed interest. But these accidents are common to all that die; and when a special Providence shall distinguish them, they shall die with easy circumstances ; but as no piety can secure it, so must no confidencc expert it; hut wait for the time, and accept the manner of the dissolution. Hut that which distinguishes them is this: lie that hath lived a wickedlife, if his conscience be alarmed, and that he does not die like a wolf or a tiger, without sense or remorse of all his wildness and his injury, his beastly nature, and desert and untilled manners, ifhe have but sense of what he is going to suffer, or what he may expect to be his portion ; then we may imagine the terror of their abused fancies, how they see affrighting shapes, and because they fear them , they feel the gripes of deiils, urging the unwilling souls from the kinder and fust embraces of the body, calling 1o the grave and hastening to judgment, exhibit-ing great bills of uncancelled crimes, awakening and umaïing the conscience, breaking all their hopes in pieces, and making faith useless and terrible, bccause the malice was great, and the charily was none al. all. Then they look for some lo have pily on them, but there is no man. No man dares lie their pledge: no man can redeem their soul, which now feels what it never feared. Then the treinhlings and I he sorrow, the memory of the past sin, and the fear of future pains, and the sense of an angty God, and the presence of some devils, consign him lo the eternal company of all the damned and accursed spirits. Then they want, an angel lor their guide, and the HolySpirit for their comforter, and a good conscience for their testimony, and Christ for their advocate, and they die and are left in prisons of earth or air, in secret and undiscerned regions, to weep and tremble, and infinitely to fear the coming of the day of Christ; at which time they shall he brought forth to change their condition into a worse, where they shall lor ever feel more than we can believe or understand. |
But when a good man dies, one that bath lived innocently, or made joy in heaven at his timely and effective repentance, and in whose behalf the holy Jesus hath interceded prosperously, anil for whose interest the spirit makes interpellations with groans and sighs unutterable, anil in whoso defence the angels drive away the devils on his death-bed, because his sins are pardoned, and because be resisted the devil in his lifetime , and fought successfully, and persevered unto the end ; then the joys break forth through the clouds of sickness , and the conscience stands upright, and confesses the glories of God , and owns so much integrity, that it can hope for pardon, and obtain it lo: then the sorrows of the sickness, and the llames of the fever, or the fainlnessof the consumption, do but unlie the soul from its chain , and let it go forth , first into liberty, and iben lo glory : for it is hut for a little while that the face of the sky was black, like the preparations of the night, but quickly the cloud was lorn and rent, the violence of thunder parted it into little portions , that the sun might look forth for a watery eye, and then shine without a tear. But it is an infinite refreshment lo remember all the comforts of his prayers, the frequent victory over his temptations , the mortification of his lust, the noblest sacrifice to God , in which he most delights, that we have given him our wills, and killed our appetites for the interests of his services: then all the trouble of that is gone; and what remains is a portion in the inherilanee of Jesus, of which he now talks no more as a thing al distance, but is entering into the possession. When the veil is rent, and the prison-doors are open at the presence of God's angel, the soul goes forth full of hope, sometimes with evidence, hut always with certainly in the thing, and instantly it passes into the throngs of spirits, where angels meet il singing, and the devils llock with malicious and vile purposes, desiring to lead il away w ith them into their houses of sorrow: there they see things which they never saw, and hear voices which they never heard. There the devils charge them with many sins, and the angels remember that lliemselves rejoiced when they were repented of. Then the devils aggravate and describe all the circumstances of the sin . and add calumnies; and the angels hear the sword forward still, because their Lord doth answer for them. Then the devils rage and gnash their teeth; they see the soul chaste and pure , and they are ashamed ; they see il penitent, and llicy despair; they perceive, that the tongue |
181
|
was refrained and sanctified , and tlien hold llieir peace. Then the soul passetli forlli and rejoices, passing hy tlie devils in scorn anil triumph, being securely carried into ihe liosorn of the Lord, where they shall rest, till their crowns arc finished, and their mansions are prepared ; and then they shall feast and sing, rejoice and worship, for ever and ever. Fearful and formidalilo to unholy persons is the first meeting with spirits in their separation. But the victory, which holy souls receive hy the mercies of Jesus Christ and the conduct of angels, is a joy that we must not understand till wc feel it: and yet such which hy an early and a persevering piety we may secure: hut let us inquire after it no further, because it is secret. |
Wealth not productive of a iiroportlonate degree of enjoyment.
|
First, then, suppose a man gets all the world, what is it that he gets ? It is a buhhlc and a fan-tasm , and hath no reality beyond a present transient use; alhing that is impossible to he enjoyed , because its fruits and usages are transmitted to us hy parts and by succession. He thai bath all the world (if we can suppose such a man) cannot have a dish of fresh summer fruits in the midst of winter, not so much as a green fig: and very much of its possessions is so hid , so fugacious, and of so uncertain purchase, that it is like the riches of the sea to the lord of the shore; all the fish and wealth within all its bollownesses are his, but he is never the better for what he cannot get: all the shell fishes that produce pearl, produce them not for him; and the bowels of the earth shall bide her treasures in undiscovered retirements: so that it will signify as much to this great purchaser to be entitled to an inheritance in the upper region of the air ; he is so far from possessing all its riches, that he does not so much as know of them, nor understand the philosophy of her minerals. ] consider thai be that is the greatest possessor in the world, enjoys its best and most noble parts, and those which are of most excellent perfection, hut in common with theinferior persons, and the most despicable of his kingdom. Can the greatest prince enclose the sun, and set one little star in his cabinet for his own use, or secure to himself the gentle and benign intluence of any one constellation? Are not his subjects' fields bedewed with the same showers thai water bis gardens of pleasure? Kay, those things which he esteems his orna-menl, and the singularity of his possessions, are they not of more use to others than to himself? For suppose his garments splendid and shining, like the robe of a cherub, or the clothing of the fields, all thai be that wears them enjoys is, that they keep him warm, and clean, and modest; and all this is done hy clean and less pompous vestments; and the beauty of them, which distinguishes him from others, is made to please the eyes of the beholders; and be is like a fair bird, or the meritricious painting ofa wanton woman , made wholly to be looked on, lhal is, to be enjoyed hy every one but himself: and the fairest face or the sparkling eye cannol perceive or enjoy their own beauties hut by reflection. It is I that am pleased with beholding bis gaiety; and the gay man, in his greatest bravery, is only pleased because I am pleased with the sight; so borrowing his little and imaginary complacency from the dcligbl that I have, not from any inherency in his own possession. |
The poorest artisan of Home, walking in Caesar's gardens, had the same pleasures which they ministered to their lord : and although, it may he, be was put to gather fruits to eat from another place, yet his other senses were delighted equally with Cajsar's: the birds made him as good music, the flowers gave him as sweet smells; he there sucked as gooil air, and delighted in the beauty and order of the place , for the same reason and upon the same perception as the prince himself; save only that Csesar paid , for all that pleasure, vast sums of money, the blood and treasure of a province, which the poor man had for nothing. Suppose a man lord of all the world (for still we are hut in supposition), yet since every thing is received , not according to its own greatness and worth, but according to the capacity of the receiver, it signifies very little as to our content or to the riches of our possession. If any man should give to a lion a fair meadow full of bay, or a thousand quince trees; or should give to the goodly bull, the master and the fairest of the whole herd,a thousand fair stags; ifa man should present to a child a ship laden with Persian carpets, and the ingredients of the rich scarlet, all these, being disproportionate cither to the appetite or to the understanding, could add nothing of content, and might declare the frecness of the presenter, but they upbraid the incapacity of the receiver. And so it does if God should give the whole world to any man. Ho knows not what todo with it ; he can use no more, but according to the capacities of a man ; he can use nothing but meat, and drink, and clothes; and infinite riches, that can give him changes of raiment every day and a full table, do but give him a clean trencher every bit he cats; it signifies no more but wantonness and variety, to the same, not to any new purposes. He to whom the world can be given to any purpose greater than a private estate can minister, must have new capacities created in him: he needs the understanding of an angel . to |
182
|
tuke tlio accounts of liisestate; lie luid need Imvc ii stomach like fin; or tlie ;;i'avo, for else lie can eat no more lliati one of liis healtliful sulijecls; and unless lie lialli an eye like the sun, and a motion like that of a tlioujjlit, and a bulk as hig as one of the orbs of heaven, the pleasures of his eye can he no {jreatcr than to lieliold the heauly of a little prospect from a hill, or to look upon the heap of gold packed up in a little room, or to dote upon a cabinet of jewels, better than which there is no man that sees at all, hut sees every day. For, not lo name the beauties and sparklinjf diamonds of heaven , a man's, or a woman's, or a hawk's eye, is more beauteous ami excellent than all the jewels of his crown. And when we remember that a beast, who hath quicker senses than a man , yet hath not so ijreat delight in the fruition of any object, because he wants under-s I and in;; and the power to make reflex acts upon his perception; it will follow,that understanding and knowledge is the greatest instrument of pleasure, and he that is most knowing hath a capacity to become happy which a less knowing prince, or a rich person , hath not; and in this only a man's capacity is capable of enlargement. Uut then, although they only have power lo relish any pleasure rightly, who rightly understand the nature, and degrees, and essences, and cuds of things; yet they that do so, understand also the vanity and unsatisfyingness of the things of this w ui Id , so that the relish , which could not be great but in a great understanding, appears contemptible, bccause ils vanity appears at the same time; the understanding sees all, and sees through if. |
Het grootste vernuft onder de godgeleerde schrijvers van zijn tijd, leefde van 1030 tot 1677. Hij studeerde als godgeleerde te Cambridge , maar zet die stadiën vaarwel, toen zij voor licm , wegens de staatkundige en godsdienstige beroeringen van dien tijd, een hinderpaal werden , om tot aanzien te geraken. In 1055 verliet hij tengevolge van teleurstelling in 't verkrijgen van een betrekking 't moederland , en bezocht toen Frankrijk , Italiii, Smyrna, Konstantiuopel, Duitsehland en Holland. In 1659 keerde hij terug in Engeland, en kreeg er eene aanzienlijke betrekking, die hij in 1603 opgaf voor een hoogere , waarvan hij in 100U ten behoeve van Tsaae Newton afstand deed. Weldra werd hij geestelijke van den koning, en in 1075 onder-kanselier van Trinity College. Hij was vooral populair door zijn redevoeringen en is in de geschiedenis der wetenschappen vermaard, daar hij naast Newton de grootste mathematicus van zijn tijd is. Zijn slijl is echter minder poëtisch dan die van Jeremy Taylor.
|
A good governanceofspccch isastrougevidcnce of a good mind ; of a mind pure from vicious desires, calm from disorderly passions, void of dishonest, intentions, For since speech is a child of thought, which the mind always travaileth and teemeth with, and which, afterits birth, is wont in features to resemble ils parent; since every man naturally is ambitious to propagate his conceits, and without a painful force cannot smother his resentments; since especially had allections, like stum or poison, are impetuous and turgid, so agitating; all the spirits, and so swelling the heart, that it cannot easily compose or contain them ; since a distempered constitution of mind , as of body, is wont to weaken the retentive faculty, and to force an evacuation of bad humours; since bo that wantelh the principal wisdom of well ordering his tliongjlits, and mastering bis passions, can hardly he conceived so prudent, as long to refrain, or to regulate their dependence, speech ; considering these things, I say, it is scarce possible that he which rominonly thinks ill, should constantly either he well silent, or speak well. To conceal fire, to check lightning, to confine a whirlwind, may perhaps be no less feasible, than to keep within due compass the exorbitant motions of a soul, wherein reason bath |
lost its command , so that qua data porta , where the next passage occurs, they should not rush forth, and vent themselves. A vain mind naturally will bubble forth or ilyout in frothy expressions; w rath burning in the breast will flame out, or at least smoke through the mouth; rancorous impostbumes of spite and malice will at length discharge purulent matter; lust boiling within will soon foam out in lewd discourse. If the fountain itself is polluted or infected, how can the streams be clear or wholesome? 'How can ye, being evil, speak good things? saith our Lord ; 'for from the abundance of the heart the mouth spcaketh. A good man', addcth he, 'out of the good treasure of the heart bringeth forth good tilings; and an evil man out of t!ie evil treasure bringeth forth evil things': eK(2a,?.?.Sl 'be castethforth ill things', as a fountain doth its waters by a natural and necessary ebullition. It is true, that in some particular cases, or at some times, a foul heart may bedisguised by fair words, or covered by demure reservedness; shame, or fear, or crafty design, may often repress the declaration of ill thoughts and purposes. Hut such fits of dissimulation cannot hold ; man cannot abide quiet under so violent conslraints; the intestine jars , or unkindly truces, between heart |
185
|
ami longue, tliosc natural friends, cannot lie per-jietual, or very durable: no man can hold liis lireath lori(j, or live without evaporalinjj thruujjh Iiis mouth those steams of passion which arise from Jlcsh and lilood. 'My heart was hot within mc, while 1 was musirijf, the fire burned ; then spake I with my tonjyue', saitli David , expressing the difficulty of ohstrucling ills eruption of our nfl'cclion into language. Hence it is that speech is commonly judged the truest character of the mind, ami the surest test of inward worth; as that which discloselh the 'hidden man of (he heart', which unlocketh the closets of the breast, which draws the soul out of her dark recesses into open light and \iew, which rendereth our thoughts visible, and our intentions palpable. Hence, Loqucre, id te vidcarn, speak, lhat I may see you, or know what kind of man you are, is a saying which all man , at first meeting, do in their hearts direct one to another : neither commonly doth any man require more to ground a judgment upon concerning the worth or ability of another, than opportunity of hearing him to discourse for a competent time: yea , oflen before a man bath spoken ten words, his mind is caught, and a formal sentence is passed upon it. Such a strict affinily and connection do all men suppose between iboiigbt and words. |
From hence, that the use of speech is itself a great ingredient into our practice, and hath a very general influence upon whatever we do, may lie inferred , that whoever governeth it well, cannot also but well order bis whole life. The extent of speech must needs be vast, since it is nearly commensurate to thought itself, which it ever closcy tracelh, widely ranging through all the immense variety of objects ; so that men almost as often speak incogitantly, as they think silently. Speech is indeed the rudder that stcereth human affairs, the spring that settetb the «heels of action on going; the hands work, the feet walk, all the members and all the senses act by its direction and impulse; yea, most thoughts arc begotten , and most aflcclions stirred up thereby : it is itself most of our employment, and what we do beside it, is, however, guided and moved by it. It is the profession and trade of many , it is the practice of all men , to be in a manner continually talking. The chief and most considerable sort of men manage all their concernments merely by words; by them princes rule their subjects, generals command their armies, senators deliberate and debate about the great matters of state: by them advocates plead causes, and judges decide them ; divines perform their offices, and minister there instructions; merchants strike up their bargains, and drive on all their trailic. M hatever almost great or small is done in the court or in the hall, in the church or at the exchange, in the school or in the shop, it is the tongue alone that doeth it; it is the force ol this little machine, that tnrnetb all the human world about. It is indeed (he use of this strange organ which rendereth human life, beyond the simple lilt- of other creatures, so exeeed-iugly various and compounded; which creates such a multiplicity of business, and which transacts it; vihilc by it we communicate our secret conceptions, transfusing them into others; while therewith we instruct and advise one another; while we consult about what is to be done, contest about right, dispute about truth ; while the whole business of conversation , of commerce, of government and administration ol j nstice, (if learning, and of religion , is managed thereby; yea. while it stoppeth the gaps of time, and fillcth up the wide intervals of busi-siness, our recreations and divertisemenls, the which do consli(u(o a great portion of our life, mainly consisting therein , so that, in comparison thereof, the execution of what wo determine and all other action do take up small room: and even all that usually dependeth upon foregoing speech, which pcrsuadeth , or counsclleth, or commandeth it. V/hence (he province of speech being so very large , it being so universally con-corned, either immcdiatly as the matter, or by coiisequencc as the source of our actions , lie that constantly governeth it well may justly be esteemed to live very excellently. |
|
But first it may be demanded what the thing we speak of is, or what this facetionsness dotb import? To which question I might reply as De-mocritus diil to him that asked the definition of a man , 'It is that which we all see an.I know' : any one better apprehends what it is by acquaintance, than I can inform him by description. It is indeed a thing so versatile and multiform, appearing in so many shapes, so many postures, so many garbs, so variously apprehended by several eyes and judgments, that it seemeth no less bard to settle a clear and certain notion thereof, than to make a portrait of Proteus, or to define the figure of the fleeting air. Someiimes it lies in pat allusion to a known story, or in seasonable application of a trivial saying, or in forging an apposite tale: sometimes it playeth in words and phrases, taking advantage from the ambiguity of their sense, or the affini(y ol their sound : sometimes it is wrapped iti a dress of humorous expression : sometimes it lurketh under an odd similitude: sometimes it is lodged in a sly question , in a smart answer, in a quirkish reason, in shrewd intimation, in cunningly diverting, or cleverly retorting an ob- |
184
|
jection; sometimes it is couclied in a hold scheme of speech, in a tart irony, in a lusly hyperbole in a startling metaphor, in a plausible reconcilinj; of conliiiiliclions, or in acute nonsense: sometimes a scenical representation of persons or things, a counterfi'it speech, a mimical look or j;esluro passeth for il; sometimes an alTeoted simplicity , sometimes a presumplnous hluntness jjivelh it hein;; : somelimes it riseth from a lucky hitling upon what is strange, somelimes from a crafty wresting obvious matter to the purpose : often it consistetli in one knows not what, and springcth up one can hardly tell how. Us ways are unae-counlahlc and inexplicable, being answerable to the numberless rovings of fancy and windings of language. It is, in short, a manner of speaking out of the simple and plain way, such as reason tcaebeth and provetb things by, which by a pretty surprising uncouthness in conceit or expression doth affect and amuse the fancy, stirring in it sonic wonder, and breeding some delight thereto. It raiseth admiration, as signifying a nimble sagacity of apprehension, a special lelicity of invention, a vivacity of spirit, and reach of wit more than vulgar: it seeming to argue a rare quickness of parts, that one can fetch in remote conceits applicable; a notable skill, thathecan dexterously accommodate them to the purpose he-fore him; together with a lively briskness of humour, not apt to damp those sportful flashes of imagination. Whence in Aristotle such personsare named sziBs^lOl, dexterous men; anil iuTfOTTOI, men of facile or versatile manners, who can easily turn themselves to all things , or tnrn all things to themselves. It also procureth delight, by gratifying curiosity with its rareness or semblance of dilliculty ; as monsters , not for their beauty, hut their rarity; as juggling tricks, not fur their use, but their abstruseness, are beheld with pleasure; by diverting the mind from its road of serious thoughts ; by instilling gaiety and airiness of spirit; by jirovoking to such dispositions of spirit in the way of emulation or complaisance; and by seasoning matters , otherwise distasteful or insipid , with an unusual, and thence grateful tang. |
|
If we desire to live peaceably with all men , we are to he equal in censuring men's actions , candid in interpreting their meanings, mild in reprehending, and sparing to relate their misear-riagos; to derive their actions from the best principles, from which in the judgment of charity they may be supposed to proceed, as from casual mistake rather than from malicious design; to construe ambiguous expressions to the most favourable sense they may admit; not to condemn men's practices without distinct knowledge of the case , and examining the reasons , which possibly may absolve or excuse them ; to extcnuale their acknowledged faults by such circumstances as aptly serve that purpose, and not to exaggerate them by strained consequences, or uncertain conjectures, to rebuke them, if need be, so as they may perceive we sincerely pity their errors, and tender their good, and wish nothing more than their recovery, and do not design to upbraid , deride, or insult over them, being fallen; and finally, not to recount their misdeeds over frequently, unseasonably, and with complacence. He that thus demcanetb himself, manifestly sheweth himself to prize his neighbour's good will, and to be desirous to continue in amity with him; and assuredly obliges him to be in the same manner affected toward him. But he that is rigidly severe and censorious in his judgments, blaming in them things indifferent, condemning actions allowable, detracting from qualities commendable, deducing men's doings from the worst causes, and imputing them to the worst ends, and representing them under the most odious appellations ; that calls all impositions of superiors which he dislikes, tyranny, and all maimers of divine worship that suit not to his fancy, superstition , and all pretences to conscience in those that dissent from him , hypocrisy, and all opinions different from bis, heresy; that is snspiscious of ill intention without sufficient ground , and prej u-dicatcs men's meanings before he wellapprehends them , and captiously perverts sayings capable of good construction; that is curiously inquisitive into bis neighbom's life, and gladly observes failings therein, and upon all occasions recites stories to his disgrace and disadvantage; that is immoderately bitter, fierce, and vehement in accusing and inveighing against others, painting such as be assumes to impugn, with the blackest colours , in the most horrid shape, and ugly dress , converting all matter of discourse, though never so unseasonably and impertinently, into declamation, and therein copiously expatiating; in line, employing his utmost might of wit and clo-i quence and confidence, in rendering them to ! others as hateful as be signifies they are to himself, such men , what do they else hutloudly proclaim that they despise their neighbour's good will, purposely provoke his anger, and defy his utmost enmity ? For it is impossible such dealing should not by them , who are therein concerned , be accounted extremely unjust, and to proceed from desperate hatred. |
He that would effectually observe this apostolic rule, must be disposed to overlook such lesser |
|
faults coinmiUcd against liim . as make no [jrcat broach u]ion liis interest or credit, yea to forget or foraive tlie greatest and most grievous injuries; to excuse the inislukes, and connive at the ne gleets, and bear patiently the hasty passions of liis neiglibour, and to embrace readily any seasonable overture, and accept any tolerable conditions of reconcilement. For even in common life that observation of our Saviour most exactly bolds, 'it is impossible that offences shoub! not come'; tbe air may sooner bccome wholly fixed , and the sea continue in a perfect rest, without ■waves or undulations, than human conversation be altogether free from occasions of distaste, which lie that cannot cither prudently dissemble, or patiently digest, must renounce all hopes of living peaceably here, lie that like tinder is inflammable by the least spark, and is enraged by every angry -word, and resents deeply every petty affront, and cannot endure the memory of a past unkindness should upon any terms be defaced, resolves surely to live in eternal tumult and combustion , to multiply daily upon himself fresh quarrels, and to perpetuate all enmity already hegun. Whenas hy total passing by those little causes of disgust, the present contention is altogether avoided, or instantly appeased; our neigbhour's passion suddenly evaporales and consumes itjelf; no remarkable footsteps of dissension remain; our neighbour, reflecting upon what is past, sees himseir obliged by our discreet forbearance ; however all possible means arc used to prevent trouble and preserve peace. To this purpose, 'the discretion of a man deferreth his anger, and it is his glory to pass over a transgession', sailh Solomon: and 'lie that eovereth a transgression seeketh love' , saith the same wise Prince. Now briefly to induce us to tbe practice of this duty of living peaceably, we may consider, |
1. 'How good ami pleasant a thing it is,' as David saith, 'for brethren' and so we are all at least by nature, 'to live together in unity'. How that, as Solomon siiitb, 'better is a dry morsel and quietness therewith, than a house full of sacrifices with strife.' How delicious that conversation is, which is accompanied with a mutual confidence, freedom, courtesy, and complacence; how calm the mind , how composed the affections, bow serene the countenance , how melodious the voice, bow sweet theslecp, how contentful the whole life is of him, that neither devisetb mischief against others, nor suspects any to be contrived against himself; and contrariwise, bow ingrateful and loathsome a thing it is to abide in a stale of enmity, wrath , dissension ; having the thoughts distracted with solicitous care, anxious suspicion , envious regret; the heart boiling with choler, the face overclouded with discontent, the tongue jarring and out of tune, the ears filled ■with discordant noises of contradiction, clamour, and reproach ; tbe whole frame of body and soul is distempered and disturbed with the worst of passions. How much more comfortable it is to «alk in smooth and even paths , than to wander in rugged ways, overgrown with briars, obstructed with rubs, and beset with snares; to sail steadily in a quiet, than to be tossed in a tempestuous sea; to behold the lovely face of heaven smiling with a cheerful serenity, than to see it frowning with clouds, or raging with storms; to hear harmonious consents, than dissonant jangl-ings; to see ohjccls correspondent in graceful symmetry, than lying disorderly in confused heaps; to bo in health, and have the natural humours consent in moderate temper, than, as it happens in diseases, agitated with tumultuous comniotions: how all senses and faculties of man unanimously rejoice in those emblems of peace, order, harmony, and propoilion; yea , how nalure universally delights in a quiet stability, or undisturbed progress of motion ; the beauty , strength, and vigour of every thing requires a concurrence of force, co-operation, and contri-bulion of help ; all things thrive and flourish by communicating reciprocal aid, and the world suhsists hy a friendly conspiracy of its parts ; and especially that political society of men chiefly aims at peace as its end, depends on it as its cause, relics on it as its support. How much a peaceful state resembles heaven , into which neither complaint pain,nor clamour,quts TrévÓ07,0VT£ 7rÓV0?,CVT£ xOxvyy, as 's the Apocalypse, do ever enter; but blessed souls converse together in perfect love, and in perpclual concord: and howacon-dilion of enmity represents the stale of hell, that black and dismal region of dark hatred, fiery wrath, and horrible tumult. How like a paradise the world would be, flourishing in joy and rest, if men would cheerfully conspire in affection , and helpriilly contribute to each other's content: and how like a savage wiMerness now it is, when, like wild beasts, tiny vex and persecute, worry and devour each oilier. How not only philosophy bath placed the supreme pilch of happiness in a calmness of mind, and tranquil lily of life, void of care and trouble, of irregular passions and pcr-turbalions; hut thut Holy Scriplure itself in that one term of peace most usually com prebends all joy and content, all felicity and prosperity; so that the heavenly consort of angels, when they agree most highly to bless, and to wish the greatest happiness to mankind, could no better expre.-s their sense than by saying, 'be on earth peace, and good will among men.' II. That as nothing is more sweet and delightful, so nc.thing more comely and agreeable to human nature than peaceable living; it being, as Solomon saith, 'an honour to a man to cease from strife', and consequently also a disgrace to him to continue therein: that rage and fury may he the excellences of beasts, and the exerting heir |
24
186
|
natural aniinosily in strife and combat may become them ; but reason and discretion are the singular eminences of men, and the use of these the most natural and commcndabic method of decidin;; controversies among tbern: and that it extremely misbeeomes them that are endowed with those excellent faculties, so to abuse them , as not to apprehend each other's meanings, but to ground vexatious quarrels upon the mistake of them ; not to be able by reasonable expedients to compound differences, hut with mutual damage and inconvenience to prorogue and increase them; not to discern how exceedingly better it is to be helpful and beiiencial, than to be mischievous and troublesome to one another. How foolishly and unskilfully they judge, that think by unkind speech and harsh dealing 1o allay men's distempers , alter their opinions, or remove their prejudices; as if they should attempt lo kill by ministering nourishment, or to extinguish a flame by pouring oil upon it. How childish a thing it is eagerly to contend about trifles, for the superiority in some impertinent contcst, for the satisfaction of some petty humour, for the possession of some inconsiderable toy; yea, how barbarous and brul ish a thing it is to be fierce and impetuous in the pursuit of things that please us, snarling at, hi ting,and tearing all com pcli tors of our game, or opposers of our undertaking, liut how divine and amiable, how worthy of human nature, of civil breeding, of prudent consideration ills, to restrain partial desires, to condescend to equal terms, to abate from rigorous prelenccs, to appease discords, and vanquish enmities by courtesy and discretion; like the bestand wisest commanders, who by skilful conduct and patient attendance upon opportunity, without striking or stroke, or shedding of blood , subline their enemy. |
III. How that peace with its near alliance and concomitants, its causes and effects, love, meekness, gentleness and patience, are in sacrcd writ reputed the genuine fruits of the Holy Spirit, issues of divine grace, and offsprings of heavenly wisdom ; producing like themselves a goodly progeny of righteous deeds. Hut that emulation , hatred, wrath, variance, and strife derive their extraction from fleshly lust, hellish craft, or beastly folly; propagating themselves also into a like ugly brood of wicked works. |
Werd geboren in 1830 te Sowerby , nabij ITalifax. Ofsclioon hij door lijn Iiuwdijk nan Cromwell ver-inaagschapt was, werd hij echter tengevolge van zijne gematigde beginselen , aartsbisschop van Canterbury, in welke waardigheid hij de misbruiken . die in de kerk ingeslopen waren , poogde uit den weg to ruimen. Hij was evenwel slechts drie jnnr aartsbisschop geweest, toen hij overleed (1094). Het eenigo wat hij ziju weduwe naliet, bestond inde handschriften van zijne precken , die een boekverkooper voor niet minder dan vijftien honderd guinies kocht , dat voor dien tjjil p»n zeer hoogo som is. Ziju prtêkcii worden zelfs thans nog hoog geacht en ofschoon op den stijl nog al iets aan te merken valt, zijn zij , in weerwil van hare gebreken , de aandacht overwaardig.
Advantages of Truth an«l Sinceriiy.
|
Truth and reality have all tbc advantages of appearance, and many more. Jf the show of any thing he good for any thing, 1 am sure sincerity is belter: for why does any man dissemble, or seem to be that which he is not, hut because he thinks it good to have such a quality as he pretends to? for to counterfeit and dissemble is to put on the appearance of some real excellency. Now the best way in the world fora man to seem to be anything, is really to he what he would seem to be. Besides, that it is many times as troublesome to support the pretence of a good quality, as to haveit;and if a man have it not, it is ten to one but he is discovered to want it, and then all bis pains and labour to seem to have it arc lost. There is something unnatural in painting, which a skilful eye will easily discern from native beauty and complexion. |
It is hard to personate and act a part long; for where truth is not at the bottom , nature will always he endeavouring lo return, and will peep ont and betray herself one time or other. Tl icre-fore if any man think it convenient to seem good , let him bo so indeed , and then his goodness will appear lo every body's satisfaction ; so that, upon all accounts, sincerity is true wisdom. Particularly as to the allairs of this world, integrity bath many advantages overall the fine and artificial modes ol dissimuliition and deceit; it is much the plainer and easier, much the safer and more secure way of dealing in the world; it has less of troubleand dilliculty, of entanglement and perplexity, of danger and hazard in it; it is the shortest and nearest May to our cud, carrying ns thither in a straight line, and will bold out and last longest. The arts of deceit and cunning do continually grow weaker, and less efl'ectual and serviceable to them that use them ; whereas integrity gains strength by use, and the more and longer any man practiseth it, the greater service it docs him. |
187
|
by confirming his reputation, and encouraging those with whom lie liatli to do to repose the greatest trust and confidence in liim , which is an un-spealtahln advantage in the business and tlic affairs of life. * A disse.'nlilcr must always lie upon his guard, and watch liimself carefully, that lie do not contradict liis own pretensions ; for lie acts an unnatural part, and therefore must put a continual force and restraint upon himself. Whereas lie that acts sincerely hath the easiest task in the world ; hccause he follows nature, and so is put to no trouhle and care aliout his words and actions; he needs not invent any prcteuces beforehand, or malie excuses afterward, for any tiling he has said or dune. But insincerity is very troublesome to manage; a hypocrite hath so many things to attend to, as make his life a very perplexed and intricate thing. A liar hath need of a good memory, lest ho contradict at one time what he said at another : but truth is always consistent with itself, and needs nothing to help it out; it is always near at hand, and sits upon ourjips; whereas a lie is troublesome, and needs a great many more to make it good.* |
Add to all this, that sincerity is the most com-pcmlious wisdom, and excellent instrument for the speedy dispatch of business; it creates confidence in those we have to deal with, saves the labour of many inquiries, and brings things to an issue in few words; it is like travelling in a plain beaten road, which commonly brings aman sooner to his journey's end than by-ways, in which man often lose themselves. In a word, whatsoever convenience may be thought to be in falsehood and dissimulation , it is soon over; but the inconvenience of it is perpetual, hccause it brings aman under an everlasting jealousy and suspicion, so that he is not believed when he speaks truth , nor trusted perhaps when he means honeslly. When a man bath once forfeited the reputation of bis integrity, be is set fast, and nothing will then serve his turn, neither truth nor falsehood. * Indeed, if a man were only to deal in the world for a day, and should never have occasion to converse more with mankind, never more need their good opinion or good word, it were tiien no great matter (speaking as to the concernments of this world) if a man spend bis reputation all at once, and ventured it at one throw: but if he be to continue in the world, and would have the advantage of reputation whilst be is in it, let bim make use of truth and sincerity in all his words and actions, for nothing hut this willlastand bold out to the end; all other arts will fail, but truth and integrity will carry a man through, and bear him out to the Jast. |
|
/V state of sin and holiness are not like two ways that are just parted by a line , so as a man may step out of the one full into I he other; but thoy arc like two ways that lead to very distant places, and consequently are at a good distance from one another; and the farther a man has travelled in the one, the farther he is from the other ; so that it requires time and pains to pass from one to the ether. |
Commencement of a vleions Course.
|
At first setting ont upon a ucious course, men area little nice and delicate,like young travellers, who at first are olFended at every speck of dirt that lights upon them ; hut after they have heen occustomed to it, and have travelled a good while in font ways, it ceases to be troublesome to them to he dashed and bespattered. * When we bend a thing at first,it will endeavour to restore itself; but it may be held bent so long, till it will continue so of itself, and grow crooked ; and then it may require more force and violence to reduce it to its former straightness than wc used to make it crooked at first. |
The Advunfages of early Piety.
|
Consider, If we will deny God the hearty and vigorous service of our best da vs, how can we expect that lie will accept tbefaintand flattering devotions of old age? wise men are wont to provide some stay and comfort for themselves against the infirmities of that time; that they may have something to lean upon in their weakness, something to mitigate the afflictions of that dark and gloomy evening ; that what they cannot enjoy of present pleasure, may in some measure he made up to them iu comfortable reflections upon the past actions of a holy well-spent life. |
188
|
But on Uie olhcr liatid, if we liave negleclol religion days williout number; if we have lived n vicious life; weliave foolishly contrived to make our burden then heaviest, when we are least aide to stand under it; we have provided an infinite matter for repentance, when there is hardly any space left for the exercise of it; and whatever is done in it will, 1 fear, he so done, as to signify Iml very little, either to our present coniforl, or to our future happiness. |
Consider this, O young man, in time; and if | thou wouldst not have God'cast thee off in thine j old age, and forsake thee when thy strength fail, do thou remeintier him in the days of thy youth ; for this is the acceptable time, this is the day of salvation'. Acquaint thyself with him , and remember him now ; defer not so necessary a work , no not for a moment: begin it just now; that so thou mayst have made some good progress in it before the 'evil days come', before the'sun , and the moon, ami the stars he darkened', and all the comforts and joys of life be lied and gone. |
Leefde van 1635 tot 1715; Iiij is vermnard door zijn Telluris Sacra Theoria (Sacred Theory of the Earth), die in 1G80 in 't Latijn verscheen, doch waarvan de geleerde schrijver in 1092 een engclsche vertaling aitgaf. Na zijn dood verschenen nog van hem twee of drie andere verhandelingen ia 't Latijn: zijn engelsche stijl ia bijzoncier vloeijend, wellaidcnd, duidelijk en levendig.
|
Certainly there is nothing in the whole course of nature, or of human affairs, so great and so extraordinary as the two last scenes of them, The Coining of our Saviour, and the Burning of the World! If we could draw in our minds the pictures of these in true and lively colours , we should scarce be able to attend any thing else, or ever divert our imagination from these two objects: for what can more affect us than the greatest glory that ever was visible upon earth , and at the same time the greatest terror; — a God descending at the head of an array of Angels, and a burning World under bis feet ? .... As to the face of nature just before the coming of our Saviour, that may be best collected from the signs of his coming mentioned in the precedent chapter. Those, all meeting together, help to prepare and make ready a theatre fit for an angry God to come down upon. The countenance of the heavens will be dark anil gloomv; and a veil drawn over the face of the sun. The earth in a disposition every where to break into open flames. The tops of the mountain smoking; the rivers dry; earthquakes in several places; the sea sunk and retired into its deepest channel, anil roaring as against some mighty storm. These things will make the day dead and melancholy; but the night scenes will have more of horror in them, when the bla/ing stars appear, like so many furies with their lighted torches, threatening toset all on fire. For 1 do not doubt nut the comets will bear a part in ibis tragedy , and have something extraordinary in them at that time, cither as to number or bigness, or nearness to the earth. Besides the air will he full of flaming |
meteors, of unusual forms and magnitudes; balls of fire rolling in the sky, and pointed lightnings darted against the earth, mixed with claps of thunder and unusual noises from the clouds. The moon anil the stars will be confused and irregular, both in their light and motions; as if the whole frame of the heavens was out of order, and all the laws of nature were broken or expired. When all things are in this languishing or dying posture, and the inhabitants of the earth undertbe fears of their last end,the heavens will open on a sudden and the glory of God will appear. A glory surpassing the sun in its greatest radiancy ; ■which though we cannot describe, we may suppose it will bear some resemblance or proportion with those representations that are made in Scripture of God upon his throne. This wonder in the heavens , whatsoever its form may be, will presently attract the eyes of all the Christian world. Nothing can more affect than an object so unusual and so illustrious, and that probably brings along with it their lasl destiny, and will put a period to all human affairs....... As it is not possible for us to express or conceive the dread and majesty of bis appearance, so neither can we, on tbe other hand , express the passions and consternation of the people that behold it. These things excced the measures of human affairs, and of human thoughts: we have neither words nor comparisons to make them known by. The greatest pomp and magnificence ol the Emperors of the East, iti their armies, in their triumphs, in their inaugurations, is but the sport and entertainment of children , if compared with this solemnity. When God condescends to |
189
|
an external {jlory with a visible train and equipage; when, from all the provinces of his vast and boundless einpite, he summons bis nobles, as I may so say — I be several orders of angels and arclianj'cls — to attend his person, llioujjb we cannot tell the form or manner of bis appearance, we know tbere is nothing in our experience, or in tbewbole history of this world, than can be a just representation of the least part of it. No armies so numerous as the host of Heaven; and, instead of the wild noises of the rabble, which makes a great part of our worldly state, this blessed company will breathe their hallelujahs into the open air, and repeated acclamations of salvation to God, which sits upon the throne, and to the Lamb......... Imagine all Nature now standing in a silent expectation to receive its last doom ; the tutelary and destroying anjjels to have their instructions; every thinjf to be ready for the fatal hour; and then, after a little silence, all the host of heaven to raise their voice, and sin# aloud: Let God arise; let his enemies he scattered ; as smoke is driven away , so drive them away; As wax melteth before the fire, so let the wicked perish at the presence of God. And upon this, as upon a signal (jiven , all the sublunary world breaks into flames, and all the treasures of fire are opened in heaven and in earth. Thus the conflagration begins. !f one should now lt;»0 about to represent the world on fire, with all the confusions that necessarily must be in nature and in mankind upon that occasion, it would seem to most men a romantic scene. Yet we arc sure there must be such a scene. The heavens will pass away with a noise, and the elements will melt with fervent heal, and alltheworks of the earth will 1«; burnt up; and these things cannot come to pass without I he greatest disorders imaginable, both in the minds of man and in external nature, and the saddest spectacles that eye can behold. We think it a great matter to see a single person burnt alive; here are millions shrieking in the flames at once. It is frightful to us to look upon a great city flames, and to see the distractions and misery of the people; here is an universal fire through all the cities of the earth, and an universal massacre of (heir inhabitants. A\ hatsoever the prophets foretold of the desolations of Judea, Jerusalem, or Hahylon, in the highest strains, is more than literally accomplished in this last and general calamity, and those only that are spectators of it can make its history. |
The disorders in nature and llie inanimate world will be no less, nor less strange and unaccountable. than those in mankind. Every element, and every region, so far as the hounds of this fire extend, will be in a tumult and a fury , and the whole habitable world running into confusion. A world is sooner destroyed than made; and nature relapses hastily into that chaos state out of which she came by slow and leisurely motions, as an army advances into the field by just and regular marches; but, when it is broken and routed, it Hies vvilb precipitation, and one cannot describe its posture. Fire is a barbarous enemy; it gives no mercy; there is nothing, hut fury and rajfc, and ruin , and destruction vvliere-soever it prevails. Astorm, or hurricane, though it be but the force of air, makes a strange havoc where it comes; but devouring flames , or exhalations set on fire, have stil a far greater violence, and carry more terror along with them. Ihundcr and earthquakes are the sons of fire; and we know nothing' in all nature more impetuous or more irresistibly destructive than these two. And, accordingly, in this last war of the elements , we may be sure they will bear their parts,and do great execution in the several regions of the world. Earthquakes and subterraneous eruptions will tear the body and bowels of the earth ; and thunders and convulsive motions of the air rend the skies. The waters of the sea w ill boil and struggle with streams of sulphur that run into them ; which will make them fume, and smoke, and roar, beyond all storms and tempests ; and these noises of the sea will be answered again from the land by falling* rocks and mountains. Tins is a small part of the disorders of that day.. •.. But if we suppose the storm over, and that the fire hath got an entire victory over all other bodies, and bath subdued every thing to itself, the conflagration will end in a deluge of fire, or in a sea of fire, covering the whole globe of the earth; far, vhen the exterior region of the earth is melted into a lluor, hke molten glass or running metal, it will according to the nature of other (luids, fill all vacuities and depressions, and fall into a regular surface, at an equal distance every where from its centre. '1 his sea of fire, like the first abyss, will cover the face of the whole earth ^ make a kind of second chaos, and leave a capacity for another world to rise from it. Uut that is not our present business. Let us only, if you ])lease to take leave of this suljeel, reilect, upon this occasion, on the vanily and transient glory of all this habitable world ; how , by the force of one element breaking loose upon the rest, all the varieties of nature, all the works of art, all the labours of men , are reduced to nothing; all tiial we admired and adored before as great and magnificenI. is obliterated or banished; and another form and face of things, plain, simple, and every where the same, overspreads the whole earth. Where are now the great empires of the world, and their great imperial cities ? Their pillars, trophies, and monuments of glory? Show me where they stood; read the inscription; tell me the victor's name. What remains, what impressions , what difi'erence or distinction , do you see in this mass of fire? Rome itself, eternal Rome , the great city, the Empress of the world , |
190
|
vliose iloniinalion and snperstilion , ancient and modern, innkc a great part of the history of this earth, what is hecomo of her now ? She laid her foundations deep, and her palaces were slrorifj and sumptuous; she {jloii/icd herself and lived deli-ciously, and saitl in her heart. I sit a (jueeu . and shall see no sorrow. Hut her hour is conic , she is wiped away from the face of the earl h, and huricd in perpetual oblivion. /Jut it is not cities only, and works oi men's hands, hut the everlastinj;' hills and mounluins and roellt;s of the earth are melted as wax before the sun; and there place is nowhere found. Mere stood the Alps, a prodigious range of slone, the load of the earth, that covered many countries, and reached their arms from the ocean to the Mack Sna : this huge ina-s of stone is softened and dissolved, as a lender cloud into rain. Here stood the African mountains, and Atlas with his top above the clouds. There was frozen Caucasus, and Taurus, and Imaus, and (he mountains of Asia. And yonder, towards the north, stood llio Kiphacan Hills, cloliicd in iccanrl snow. All these are vanished, dropt away as the snow upon their heads, and swallowed uj) in a red sea of liro. Great and marvellous arc thy works, Lord Cod Almighty; just and true are thy wavs, thou Kin^ of Saints ! llallclujah. |
en nv0nn?l!.«iri,;'ain7^CSlr!nSfCr T' .''T1quot;1,;1' C',,-ht C,'quot;r!' lquot; quot;^ord , word geboren to Hackney in 1033, en o\ 171»; luj o|ieiiile zijn ioopbnan als schrijver tijdens 't iirotectorant. Zijn pr-êken waren gedurende
zijn leven zeer vermaard en hel.ben tlians nog een foeden „nam; hij bezat vele lioedanighcden om popii-quot;quot;uquot; 'iquot; 'i verdieiistcdijkor diu. Tilletson en Harrow. Hij was 't meest cuthonsias-
tiLseli ondei de nltra-loya e godgeleerden van de engelscbe kerk van dut tijdperk, en bijgevolg een iiveriquot; verdediger van passive gehoorzaamheid en t goddelijk regt van souvereineu. a =■ j d
Parngrnidis froisj a Discourse against long crsfl CEicinjsorc Prayers.
|
quot;Bo not rash with ihj mouthquot; Eeclcsiastcs V. 2. was a master cf what be wrote, and bad a clear notion and a full comprehension of tbe subject before him. For the reason of tilings lies in a little compass, if the mud could at any time be so happy as lo light ?: i)0'\ if Most of tbe writings and discourses in ibe world are but illustration and rhetoric. which signifies as much as nothing to a mind eager in pursuit after the causes and philosophical truth of things. It is the work of fancy to enlarge, but of judgment to shorten and contract ; am' therefore this must needs he as far ahove the c'.^er as judgment is a greater and a nohler facn'ty than fancy or imagination. All philosonhy is reduced to a few principles, and those princij; es comprised in a few propositions. And , as the whole structure of speculation rests upon three or four axioms or maxims, so that of practice also bears upon a very small numher of rules. And surely there was never yet any rule or maxim that filled a volume, or took up a week's time to be got by heart. No, these are the apices rcrum1 the tops and sums, the very spirit and life of things extracted and abridged; just at all the lines drawn from the vastest circumference do at length meet and unite in the smallest of things, a point: and it is but a very litle piece of wood with whicb a true artist will measure all ibe timber in the world. Tbe truth is , there could he no such thing |
And, thus having shown how the Almighty -utters himself when he speaks, ami that upon the greatest occasions. Jlt;?t us now descend from heaven to earth, from God lo man, and show that it is no presumption for us lo conform our words, as well as our act ions, to the supreme pattern; and according to our poor measmvs, to imitate (he wisdom that we adore. And for this, has it nol hoon noted l»y the best ohservers and the ahlcsl judges, holh of things and persons, that the wisdom of any people or nation has heen most seen in the proverbs and short sayings commonly received amongst thorn? And what is a proverb, hut the experience and observation of several ajjes, {{quot;ather-C(i and summod up into one expression ? The Scripture vouches Solomon for the wisest of men ; and they are his Proverbs that prove him so. The seven wise men of Greece, so famous for their wisdom all the world over, acquired all that fame, cacb of them by a single sentence consisting of two or three words; and yvüöl (TSXUtIv (Know thyself) still lives and ilourishes in the mouths of all, while many vast volumes arc extinct, and sunk into dust and utter oblivion. And then, for books: we shall generally find that the fnost ex-cellent, in any art or science, have been still the smallest and most compendious: and this not without ground; (or it. is an argument that tbeautlior
191
|
as art or scioncn, could not Uie mind of man gather the general natures of things out oflhe numberless heap of particulars, and then hind them up into such short aphorisms or propositions, that so they may lie made porlahle to the memory, and thereby become ready or at hand for the judgment to apply and make use of, as there shall be occasion. In fine, brevity and succinctness ofspeceh is that which, in philosophy or speeuldtion, we call maxim, and first principle ; in the counsels and resolves of practical wisdom, and the deep mysteries of religion , oniricj and lastly, in matters ol wit, and ihe finenesses of imagination, epigram. /VII of them , severally and in Iheir kinds, the greatest and the noblest things that ihe mind of man cati show the force and dexterity of its faculties in. And now, if this be the highest excellency and perfection of speech in all other things, can we assign any true, solid reason why it should not be likewise in prayer? Nay, is there not rather the clearest reason imaginable why it should he much more so; since most of the forementioned things are hut addresses to an human understanding, which may need as many words as may fill a \o-lume to make it understand the truth of oneline? Whereas prayer is an address to that Eternal Mind, which, as we have shown before, such as rationally invocate pretend not to inform. Nevertheless, since the nature of man is such that, while we are yet in the body , our reverence and worship of God must of necessity proceed in some anology to the reverence that we show to the grandees of this world , wo will here sec what the judgment of all wise men is concerning fewness of words when we appear as suppliants before our earthly superiors; and we shall find that they generally allow it to import thesethree things: 1, Modesty ; 2, Discretion; and 3, Height of respect to the person addressed to. And first, for modesty. Modesty is a kind of shame or ba-hfulness, proceeding from the sense a man has of hisown defects, compared with the perfections of him whom he comes before. And that which is modesty towards man is worship and devotion towards God. Itis a virtue that makes a man unwilling to he seen, and fearful lo be heard ; and yet, for that very cause, never fails to make him both seen with favour and heard w ith attenlion. I! loves not many words, nor indeed needs them. For modesty, addressing to any one of u generous worth and honour, is sure, to have that man's honour for its advocate and his generosily for its intercessor. And bow, then , is it possible for such a virtue to run out, into words? Loquacity storms the ear, but modesty takes Ihe heart; that is troublesome, this gentle but irresistible. Much speaking is always the cfleet uf confidence 5 and confidence still persupposes, and springs from, the persuasion that a man has of bis own w orth : both of them, certainly, very unfit qualifications for a petitioner. |
Secondly. The second thing that naturally shows ilsell in paucity of words is discretion; and parliculary that prime and eminent part of it that consists in a care of olïending, which Sulo-mon assures us that in much speaking it is hardly possible for us lo avoid. In Prov. X. 10 , In the viullitudc of words, says he, there wunlelh not sin. It requires no ordinary skill for a man to make bis longue run by rule, and at ihe same time to give it bolh ils lesson and its liberty loo. For seldom or never is there much spoke, but something or oilier had better been not spoke, there being nothing that Ihe mind of man is so apt to kindle and take distaste at as at words ; and, therefore, whensoever any one comes to prefer a suit to another, no doubt the fewer of them the better, since, where so very lillleia said , it is sure lo he eilher candidly accepted, or, which is next, e.-Mly excused; but at the same time to petition and lo provoke loo is certainly very preposterous. Thirdly. The third Ihing that brevity of speech commends itself in all petitioning addresses is, a peculiar respect to I lie person addressed to; for ■whosoever petitions bis superior in sueha manner docs, by his very so doing, confess him better able to undcrsland, than he himself can be to express, his own case. He ow ns hirn as a patron of a prevcnlingjudgment and goodness, and , upon that account, able not only to answer but also to anticipate his requests. For, according to the most natural interpretation of things, ibis is to ascribe to him asagaeily so quick and piercing that it were presumption to inform, and a henignily so great that it were needless to importune, him. And can there be a greater and more w inning deference to a superior than to treat him under such a character? Or can anything beiina-gined so naturally fit and cfllcacions, both to enforce the petition and to endear the petitioner? A short petition to a great man is not only a suit to him lor his favour, but also a panegyric upon bis parts. |
192
POETS, PHILOSOPHICAL, HISTORICAL,
Onder do dichters van minderen mng, die zich evenwel een gunstigen nanm hebben weten te verwerven , bekleeden do eerste plants: 1°. Wentwoktii Dillon, Earl of Roscommon (1C33—1G84) , die door Dryden, Pope, Addison en Johnson gunstig beoordeeld werd [voornaamst werk: Essay on Translated Verse]; 2°. Chahlks Sackvillu , Earl of Dorstt (1037—1700), — bekend om de ondersteuning, die bij jVIathew Prior verleende ,—van wien de hieronder mede te deelen zang als de voornaamste van zijn gedichten beschouwd wordt; 3°. Thomas Otway , een der beste dramaschrijvers, die in 1051 geboren, reeds in 1085 overleed [zoo men wil , tengevolge van gebrek ann de noodzakelijkste levensbehoeften]. Hij verscheen in 1072 ais acteur op 't tooneel , waar hij veel kennis als dramaschrijver schijnt opgedaan te hebben. Van zijn drama's zijn eenigen , als 't ware, geheel vergeten, door hun minder zedelijke strekking, doch zijn treurspel Venice Preserved , in 1082 door den druk bekend geworden , heeft hem vereeuwigd. Zijn tooneelwerken zijn; Alcibiades; Don Carlos; Titus and Berenice j Caius ^larcius; The Orphan , beiden in 1080 verschenen en The Soldier's Fortune in 1081.
WENTWORTH DILLON, Earl of Roscommon.
quot;He improved taste, if ho diJ not enlarge knowledge, and may be numbered among (he benefactors of English literature.quot;
|
The day of wrntli, tlmt drcatlful day, Shall tlic wliole world in ashes lay, As David and llie Sybils say. AVhat horror will invade I he mind , ■\Vhen the slrict Judjje , «ho would he kind , Shall have few venial faults to find ! The last, loud trumpet's wondrous sound Shall throuj'li the rendinjj loinlis rehouud , And wake the nations under ground. Nature and Death shall. with surprise, Behold the paleoiïender rise, And view the Judge with conscious eyes. Then shall, with universal dread, The sacred mystic hook he read , To try the living and the dead. The Judge ascends his awful throne ; lie makes each secret sin he known ; And all with shame confess their own. 0 llien ! what interest shall I make , To save my last important stake , When the most just have cause to quake? Thou mighty, forrnidahleKing, Thou mercy's unexhausted spring. Some conifortahle pity bring! |
Forget not wbat my ransom cost; Nor let my dear hought soul he lost, In storms of guilty terror tost. Thou who for me didst feel such pain , M I rose precious blood the cross did slain , Let not those agonies be vain. To whom avenging powers obey, Cancel my debt (loo great to pay) Before the sad accounting day. Surrounded with amazing fears, Whose load my soul with anguish bears, I sigh , I weep : Accept my tears. Thou who wert niov'd with Mary's grief, And , by absolving of the thief, llast given me hope, now give relief, reject not my unworthy prayer; Preserve me from that dangerous snare Which death and gaping licll prepare. Give my exalted soul a place Among thy chosen riglit-lianil race, The sons ol God , and hairs of grace. From that insatiable abyss , Where ilanics devour and serpents hiss, Promote me to thy seat of bliss. |
193
|
Prostrate my contritc lieart 1 rend , My God, my Father, and my Friend ; Do not forsake me in my end. |
Well may tliey curse tlieir second Lrcatli, Who rise to a revivin;; death : Thou {jreat Creator of mankind. Let guilty man compassion find ! |
CHARLES SAGKVILLE, Earl of Dorset.
§Ollg j
written at sea, in the first dutch war, 1GG5, the night before the engagement.
|
To all yon ladies now at land , We men , at sea , indite; But first would have you understand. How hard it is to write; The Muses now , and Keptunc too, We in list implore to write to you , AVilh a fa , la , la, la , la. For though the Muses should prove kind , And fill our empty brain ; Yet if rough Neptune rose the wind, To wave the aiure main, Our paper, pen and ink. and we, Roll up and down our ships at. sea. AVilh a fa, amp;c. Then if we write not hy each post, Think not we are unkind ; Nor yrt conclude your ships are lost, By Dutchmen , or by w ind : Our tears we'll send a speedier way, The tide shall bring them twiee-a-day. With a fa, amp;c. The king, with wonder and surprise, Will swear the seas grow bold ; Because the tides will higher rise , Than e'er I hey us'd of old : But let him know, it is our tears Bring Hoods of grief to Whitehall stairs. AVilh a fa, amp;e. SliouM foggy Opdam chance to know Our sad and dismal story; The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, And quit tlieir furt at Goree ; For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind ! AVilh a fa , amp;e. Let wiml and wealherdo its worst. Be you to us but kind ; Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find : |
'T is then no matter how things go, Or who's our friend , or who's our foe, AVitb a fa, amp;c. To pass our tedious hours away, AVe throw a merry main ; Or else at serious ombre play: But, why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue? AVe were undone when we left yon. AVitb a fa, amp;c. But now our fears tempestuous grow. And cast our hopes away; AVhilst you, regardless of our woe, Sit careless at a play: Perhaps, permit some happier man To kiss your band , or flirt your fan. AVith a fa, amp;e. AVhen any mournful tune you hear, That dies in every note; As if it sigh'd with each man's care, For being so remote; Think how often love we've made To you, when all those tunes were play'd. AVith a fa, amp;c. In justice yon cannot refuse, To think of our distress ; AA'hen we for hopes of honour lose Our certain happiness; All those designs arc but to prove Ourselves more worthy of your love. AVith a fa. amp;c. And now we've told you all our loves And likewise all our fears ; In hopes this declarntion moves Some pity from your tears ; Let's hear of no inconstancy, AVe have too much of that at sea. AVith a fa, la, la, la, la. |
25
194
|
I diil hut look aiullovc a-while, 'T was liul for om; half hour ; Then to resist I had no will, And now I have no power. To sij;h, anil wish, is all my ease; Siylis, which do heat impart, |
Enough to melt the coldest ice, Yet cannot warm your heart. O! would you pity give my heart One corncr of your hreast, 'Ï would learn of yours the winning nrt. And quickly steal the rest. |
|
1 love, I doal, I raTC with pain, No quit's in my mind, Though ne'er could he a happier swain, Were Sylvia less unkind. For when , as long her chains I've worn , I ask relief from smart, She only gives me looks of scorn ; Alas! 't will break my heart! My rivals, rich in worldly slore, May offer heaps of gold, But surely 1 a heaven adore , Too precious to he sold ; Can Sylvia such a coxcornh prize , Fur wealth , and not desert; And my poor sighs and tears despise ? Alas! 'twill hreak my heart! Wl len, like some panting, hovering dove, J for my bless contend , And plead the cause of eager love , She coldly calls me friend. Alas! Sylvia! thus vain you strive To act a healer's part, 'Ï will keep but lingering pain alive, Alas! and break my heart. |
When, on my lonely, pensive bed 1 lay me down to rest, In hope to calm my raging head , And cool my burning breast. Her cruelty all ease denies: With some sad dream 1 start. All drown'd in tears I iind my eyes, Anil breaking feel my heart. Then rising, through the path I rove, That leads me where she dwells , Where to the senseless waves my love Its mournful story tells: With sighs 1 dew and kiss the door, Till morning bids depart; Then vent len thousand sighs and more: Alas! 't will hreak my heart! But, Sylvia, when this conquest's won , And I am dead and cold , Renounce the cruel deed you've done, Nor glory when 'tis told; For every lovely generous maid Will take my injur'd part. And curse thee, Sylvia, I'm afraid, For breaking my poor heart. |
Werd geboren in 1G00 nabij Oxiord ; hij was geestelijke en aaidianger van den koning, dat 't verlies van al zijn eoederen voor lieni tenstevolge had. Hij deed zich bij üe letterkunde kennen ah aardrijkskundige, godgeleerde, dicliler en gescliiedsehrijwr en schreef niet minder dun zeven-en-dertig werken, waarvan de Mierocosinos, or a Description of tiie Great World, in 1031 't eerst verschenen, een vnn do bekeml-te is. Als geschiedschrijver is hij te zeer partijganger en bigot en wordt hij onder do verdedigers van civile en geestelijke tirannij gerangschikt. Ofschoon zijn werken thans bijna vergeten zijn , werden zij in de zeventiende eeuw veel gelezen , en veel daarvan kan nog menig aangenaam uur verschaffen. Na do restauratie leed hij zoo zeer tengevolge van teleurstellingen in 't verkrijgen van een betrekking, dat hij in 1062 aan do gevolgen overleed.
llollanil and its Inhabitants.
|
The country for the most part lies very low,insomuch that they are fain to fence it with banks and ramparts, to keep out the sea, and to restrain rivers within their bounds : so that in many places one may see the sea far above thcland, and yet repulsed with those banks: and is withal so fenny and full of marshes, that they are forced to trench it with innumerable dikes and channels, to make it firm land and fit for dwelling; yet not so firm to bear either trees or much grain. But |
195
|
such is tlie industry of the people, and the trade they drive, that liavinjr lillle or no corn of their own growth, they do provide themselves elsewhere; not only sufficient for their own spending, but wherewith tosupply their neighbours; having no timber of their own, they spend more timber in building ships,and fencing their watercourses, than any country in the world : having no wine , they drink more than the people of the country where it grows naturally ; and, finally, having neither flax nor wool, they make more doth , of both sorts, than in all the countries in the world, except 1''ranee and England. The present inhahilants are generally given to sea-faring lives, so that it is thought that in llul-land, /ealand, and Wcst-Friesland, there are 2500 ships of war and burden; the women for The present Frenchman is nothing but an old Guul, moulded into a new name : as rash he is , as headstrong, and as hair-brained. A nation whom you shall win with a feather, and lose with a straw; upon the first sight of him, you shall have him as familiar as your sleep , or the necessity of breathing. In one hour's conference you may endear him to you, in the second unbutton him , the third pumps him dry of all his secrets, and he gives them you as faithfully as if you were his ghostly father, and hound to conceal them 'Sub sigilloconfessionis' ['under I he seal ofconfession']; when you have learned this you may lay him aside, for ho is no longer serviceable. Jfyou have any humour in holding him in a furlher acquaintance (a favour which he confesseth , and I believe him, he is unworthy ofj , himself will make the first separation : ho has said over his lesson now unto you, and now must find nut somebody else to whom to repeat it. Fare him well ; ho is a garment whom 1 would be loath to wear above two days together , for in that time he will be threadbare. 'Familiare esi hominis omnia sibi remillere' — ['It is usual for men to overlook their own faults'], sailh Velleius of all ;it holds most properly in ibis people, lie is very kind-hearted to himself, and thinks himself as free from wants as he is full ; so much he basin him the nature of a Chinese, that he thinks all men blind hul himself. lo this private self conceiledness he hates the Spaniard, loves not the English, and contemns the German; himself is the only courtier and complete gentleman, but it is his own glass which he sees in. Out of this conceit of his own excellency, and partly out of a shallowness of brain, beis very liable to exceptions; the least distaste that can be draws his sword , and a minute's pause sheathes it to your hand; afterwards, if you heat him in to belter manners, he shall take it kindly, and cry, Ser-vitcur. in this one thing they arc wonderfully the most part laborious in making stuffs. Nay, you will hardly see a child of four years of age that is not kept to work, and made to earn its own living, to the great commendation of their government. The greatest of their natural commodities is butter and cheese; of which, besides that infinite plenty which they spend in theirown houses , and amongst their garrisons , they sell as much unto other countries as comes to ten thousand crowns per annum. l!y which means, and hy the greatness of their fish trade, spoken of before, they are grown so wealthy on the land, and so powerful at sea, that as Flandres heretofore was taken for all the Netherlands, so now Holland is taken for all the provinces confederated in a league against the Spaniard. |
like the devil; meekness or submission makes them insolent; a little resistance puts them to their heels, or makes them your spaniels. In a word (fori have held him too long), he is a walking vanity in a new fashion. 1 will give you now n taste of lis table, which you shall find in a measure furnished (1 speak not of the peasant), but not with so full a manner as with us. Their beef they cut on t into such chops, that that which goes there for a laudable dish , would he thought here a university commons, new served from the hatch. A loin of mutton serves amongst them for three roastings, besides the hazard of making pottage with tlie rump. Fowl, also, they have in good plenty, especially such as the king found in Scotland ; to say truth , that which they have is sufficient for nature and a friend , were it not for the mistress or the kitchen wench. I have heard much fame of the French cooks, but their skill lies not in the neat handling of beef and mutton. They have (as generally have all this nation) good fancies, and are special fellows for the making of puff-pastes, and the ordering of banquets. Their trade is not to feed the belly, but the palate. It is now time you were set down, where the first thing you must do is to say your grace ; private graces are as ordinary there as private masses, and from thence i think they learned them. That done, fall to where you like best; they observe no method in their eating, and if ynu look for a carver, you may rise fasting. When you are risen, if you can digest the sluttish ness of t he cookery («Inch is most abominable at first sight), I dare trust you in a garrison. Follow him to church, and there he will show himself most irreligious and irreverent: I speak not of all, hut the general. Ata mass, in Cordeliers' Church in Paris, 1 saw two french papists, even when the most sacred mystery of their faith was celebrating , break out into such a blasphemous and atheistical laughter, that even an Llbnic |
196
|
would have liated it; it was well tliey wore Catholics, otherwise some french hothead or other would have sent them laughinjj to I'luto. |
The french language is , indeed, very sweet and delectable: it is cleared of all li irshness, hy the cutting and leaving out the consonants, which makes it fall off the tongue very volubly; yet, in my opinion , it is rather elegant than copious; and, therefore, is much troubled for want of words to find out paraphrases. It expresses very much of itself in the action, the head, body, and shoulders, concur all in the pronouncin g of it; and he that hopes to speak it with a good grace, must have sornethiug in him of the mimic. It is enriched with a number of significant proverbs, which is a great help to the french humour in scoffing; and very full of courtship, which makes all the people complimental. |
Dezo schrijver was na de restauratie eerst bisschop van quot;Worcester en vervolgens van Salisbury. Zijn Microcosmography, or a Piece of the World Discovered, in Essays and Characters, werd eerst aan een ander tocgoschreven : 't werk werd onderscheidene malen gedrukt; de eerste uitgave verscheen in 10^8 en de achtsteen IG50, toen 't langzanierbond vergeten werd. In 1788 en 1811 [Londen] verscheen daarvan nogmaals een uitgave Daarin worden niet minder dan acht-cn-zeventig karakters, uit het begin der zeventiende eeuw geschilderd', weshalve men het als een niet onbelangrijke bijdrage tot de Kennis van de verschillende standen van dien tijd kan beschouwen. De schrijver bragt buitendien nog eenige werken in t latijn over , welke niet van belaug ontbloot zijn: hij leefde tot 1005 en werd vermoedelijk omstreeks 1G01 in lork geboren.
Mlcrocosmography , or a Piece of the world discovered , In Essays and Cliuracters.
|
lie is venerable in his gown , more in his board, wherewith he sets not forth so much bis own as the face of a city. You must look on him as one of the town gates, and consider him not as a body, hut a corporation. His emincncy above others h,is made him a man of worship, for be had ncTer heen preferred but that he was worth thousands. He oversees tbecommonwealth as bisshop, and it is an argument ofhis policy that he has thriven by his craft. He is a rigorous magistrate in bis ward ; yet his scale of justice is suspected, lest it belike the balances in his warehouse. A ponderous man he is, and substantial, for his weight is commonly extraordinary, and in his preferment nothing rises so much as bis belly. His bead is of no great depth, yet well furnished ; and, when it is in conjunction with his brethren, may bring forth a city apophthegm , or some such sage matter. He is one that quot;will not hastily run into error; for he treads with great deliberation , and bis judgment consists much in his pace. Mis discourse is com-munly the annals ofhis mayoralty, and what good govern ment there was in the days of bis gold chainquot; though the door-posts were the only things that sullered refonnation (1). lie seems most sincerely religious, especially on solemn days; for he comes often to church, to make a show, and is a part of the quire hangings. He is the highest stair ofhis profession, and an example to bis trade what in time they may come to. lie makes very much of bis authority, hut more of his satin doublet, which, thougli of good years, bears its age very well, and looks fresh every Sunday, but his scarlet gown is a monument, and lasts from generation to generation. |
She is a non-conformist in a close stomacber | sista much in her linen.... Her devotion at the and rulTof Geneva print (2), and her purity con- I church is much in the turning up of her eye, and
(1) It was usual for public officer, to have painted or guilded posts at their doors 0quot; ^ich proclama-tions, and other documents of that description were placed, in older o c reai y i pi reformation means that thev were, in the language of our modern church wardens, repaned and bSauti-
^ofneva print meansquot;,quot;probably, a olcelyfoUel r»ffs which was the distinotion of
a non-conformist.
197
|
turning down the leaf in her book when she hears named chapter and verse. When she comes home she commends the sermon for the Scripture and twohours.She loves proachinjjhetler than prayingt;|, and , of preachers, lecturers; and thinks the weekday's exercise far morcedifyinjrthan theSunday's. Her ofiest {[ossipinjs are Sahhath-day's journeys, where (thoujjh an enemy to superstition) she will jjo in pili;rimaj[e five mile to a silenced minister, when there is a hetter sermon in her own parish. She douhts of the Virgin Mary's salvation; hut. knows her own place in heaven as perfectly as the pew she has a key to. She is so taken up with faith she lias no room for charity, and understands no good works hut what are wrought on the sampler... She rails at other women hy the names of Jeiehd and Delilah; and calls her own daughters Ueheoca and Ahi{;ail,ancl not Ann hut Hannah.She suHers them not to learn on the virginals, because of their affinity with organs; hut is reconciled to the hells for the chimes sake, since they were reformed to the tune of a psalm. She overflows so with Hilde, that she spills it upon every occasion , and will not cudgel her maids without Scripture. It is a question whether she is more troubled with the devil, or the devil with her: she is always challenging and daring him, and her weapon is The Practice of Piety. Nothing angers her so much as that women cannot preach, and in this point only [she] thinks the Urownists erroneous; hut what she cannot at the church she docs at the lahle, where she prattles more than any against sense and Antichrist, till a capon's wing silence her. She expounds the priests of Baal reading ministers , and thinks the salvation of that parish as desperate as the Turks. She is a main derider, to her capacity, of those that are not her preachers, and censures all sermons hut had ones. |
|
The plain country fellow is one that manures his ground well, hut lets himself lie fallow and until led. lie has reason enough to do his business, and not enough to bo idle or melancholy, lie seems to have the punishment of Nehuehadncf.ar, for his conversation is among beasts, ami bis talons none of the shortest, only he cats not grass, because he loves not sallets. His hand guides the plough, and the plough bis thoughts, and his ditch ami landmark is the very mound of bis meditations. lie expostulates with his oxen very understandingly, and specks gee, and ree, better than Knglish. Ills mind is not much distracted with objects ; hut if a good fat cow come in his way, bestands dumb and astonished , and though his haste fe never so great, will fix here half an hour's contemphition. His habitation is some poor thatched roof, distinguished from his barn by the loop-holes that let out smoke, which the rain had long since washed through , hut for the double ceiling of bacon on the inside, which has hung there from his grand-sire's time, and is yet to make rashers for posterity. His dinner is his other work, for he sweats at it as much as at his labour ; ho is a terrible fastener on a piece of beef, and yon may hope to stave the guard off sooner. Ilis religion is a part of his copyhold, which be t^kes from his landlord, and refers it wholly to bis discretion: yet if be give him leave, be is a good Christian, to his power (that is), comes to church in his best clothes, and sits there with bis neighbours, where he is capable only of two prayers, for rain and fair weather. He apprehends Ood's blessings only in a good year, or a fat pasture, and never praises him but on good ground. Sunday he esteems a day to make merry in , and thinks a hag-pipe as essential to it as evening prayer, where he walks very solemnly after service with his hands coupled behind him, and censures the dancing of his parish. His compliment with his neighbour is a good thump on the back , and his salutation commonly some blunt curse. He thinks nothing to he vices but pride and ill husbandry, from which he will gravely dissuade the youth, and has some thrifty hob-nail proverbs to clout his discourse. He is a niggard all the week, except only market-day , where, if bis corn sell well, he thinks be may he drunk with a good conscience, lie is sensible of no calamity , hut the burning a stack of corn, or the overflowing of a meadow, and thinks Noah's Hood the greatest plague that ever was, not because it drowned the world, but spoiled the grass. For death he is never troubled , and if be get in but his harvest before, lot it come when it will , be cares not. |
Was een godgeleerde van de gcvesligde kerk en sotirijver van History of the Worthies of England , in 16G0 voltooid, een van de eerste belangrijke biogrnphische werken, welke in Engeland werden uitgegeven. Op de nanuwkenrige behandeling van alle daarin voorkomende onderwerpen kan men geen staat maken ; eenige kostbare bicgraplusche byzonderbeden, die anders zouden verloren geraakt zijn, heeft men hem echter to danken. Eerst iu het jaar na zyn dood werd dit werk uitgegeven. Verder schreef hij History of
198
the Holy War; A Church History of Britain from tho Birth of Jesus Christ until the year 1G48, verschenen in 1C5G; The Holy State and tho Profane State; A Pisjjah View of Palestine, en eenige andere stukken. Mij behoort zeker tot de grootste en meest waarheullievemle schrijvers, die ooit leefden; hij ia als 't ware tegen wil eu dank geestig, doch zijn scherts, hue die ouk zij, goed of kwaad, wel geplaatst of verkeerd , behelst niets bitters of onverschilligs. Tu The Holy State and the Profane State is hij welsprekender en treft hij meer dan iu een van zijn andere werken, lïij was een van de incest populaire schrijvers, zoo niet de meest populaire schrijver van zijn tijd: zijn werken werden met graagte gelezen cu herhaalde malen gedrukt. Volgens sommigen werd hij srehoren in 1G04, doch liet raeerendeel van de schrijvers stelt zijn geboortejaar in 1008 : hij overleed in 1001.
History of the worthies of England.
|
Cliapter I. The Design of the ensuing work. — England may not uti fitly he compared to mi House, not very (peat, hut convenient; and the several Shires may properly be rcsemliletl to the rooms thereof. Now. as learned master Camden, and painful Master Speed, with others, have descrihed the rooms the nselves; so it is our intention , God willinjf, to describe the furniture of those rooms ; such eminent commodities whicli every county doth produce, witii the persons of quality hred therein, and some other ohservables coincident with the same subject. Cato, that great and (gt;ravo pbilosopber, did commonly demand, when any new project was propounded untobim, quot;Cui hone ? quot; What ;;ood would ensue in case the same was effected. A. question more fit to be asked than fieile to be answered, in all undertakings, especially in the setting forth of new books, insomueh that tliey themselves who complain that tliey are too many already help daily to make them more. Know, then, I propound five ends to myself in this book. First, to gain some glory to (iod. Secondly, to preserve the memories of t hiquot; Dead. Thirdly, to present examples to the Living. Fourthly, toentertain the Ucaderwith delight. And lastly (which I am not ashamed publicly to profess), to procure some honest profit to Myself. It is not so happy to obtain all, I will be jcyful to attain some ; yea , contented . and thankful too, if gaining any (especially the first) of these ends, the motives of my endeavours. First,glory to God, which ought to be the aim of all our actions , though loo often our bow starts, our hand shakes, and so our arrow misses the mark. Yet I hope that our describing so good a land, w ith the various fruits and fruitful varieties therein, ■will engage both writer and reader in gratitude to that God who hath been so bountiful to our nation. In order w hereunto, I have not only always taken, but often sought, occasions tu exhort to thankfulness; hoping the same will be interpreted no straggling from my subject, but a closing with my calling. |
Secondly, to preserve the memories of the Dead. A good name is an ointment poured out, smelt where it is not seen. It balh been the lawful desire of men in all ages to perpetuate their memories , thereby in some sort revenging themselves of mortality, though few have found out effectual means to perform it. For monuments made of wood are subject to be burnt; of glass, to be broken; of soft stone, to moulder; of marble and metal (if escaping the teeth of time), to be demolished by the hand ofcoveteousness; so that, in my apprehension, the safest way to secure a memory from oblivion is (next his own virtues) by committing the same iu writing to posterity. Thirdly, to present examples to the Living; having here precedents of all sorts and sizes; of men famous for valour, wealth, wisdom, learning, religion, and bounty to the public, on which last we most largely insist.The scholar,beingtaxed by his writing-master for idleness in his absence , maid a fair defence when pleading that bis master .had neither left him paper whereon, nor copy whereby, to write. liut rich men will be without excuse, if not expressing their bounty in some proportion ; God having provided them paper enough (•' The poor you have always with you quot;), and set them signal examples, as in our ensuing work will plainly appear. Fourthly, toentertain the Reader with delight. I confess the subject is but dull in itself, to tell the time and place of men's birth and death, their names, wit b the names and number of their books; and therefore this bare skeleton, of time, place, and person, must belleshed with some pleasant passa-ges.To this intent I have purposely in terlaced( not as meat, but as condiment) many delightful stories, that so the Header, if he do not arise (which I hope and desire) religiosior or doctior, with more piety or learning, at least he may depart j ii c u n d i o r , with more pleasure and lawful delight. Lastly, to procure moderate profit to Myself, in compensation of my pains. It was a proper question which plain-dealing Jacob pertinently propounded to Laban, his father-in-law: quot;And now when shall I provide for mine house also ? quot; Hitherto no stationer hath lost by me; hereafter it will be high time for me (all things considered) to save for myself. |
199
|
Leather. — This, lliougli common to all countries, is entnretl urul(;r t lie manufactures of Middlesex, becausc London tlierein is the staple place of slaughter; and the hides of hcasts there hou ; lit are generally tanned about Enfield in thiscounty, A word of the antiquity and usefulness of this commodity. Adam's first suit, was of leaves, his second of leather. Hereof girdles, shoes, and many utensils (not to speak of whole houses of leather , I mean coaches) are made. Yea , 1 have road how Frederick the Second , Emperor of Germany , distressed to pay bis army, made monetam coriaceam, coin of leather, making it current by his proclamation;and al'lerward, when his soldiers repaid it into his exchequer, they received so much silver in lieu thereof. Many good laws are made (and still one wanting to enfore the keeping of them) for the making; of this merchantable commodity; and yet still much unsaleable leather is sold in our markets. The Lord Treasurer Burleigh, who always consulted artificers in their own art, was indoctrinated by a cobbler in the t rue tanning of leather. This cobbler, taking a slice of bread , toasted it by degrees at some distance from the fire, turning it many times till it became brown and hard oti both sides. 'This, my lord', saith he, 'we good fellows call a tanned toast, done so well that it will last many mornings'draughts ; and leather thus leisurely tanned , and turned many times in the fat (vat), will prove serviceable, which otherwise will quickly fleet and rag out'. And, although that great statesman caused statutes tu be mudo according to his instructions, complaints in this kind daily continue and increase. Surely, were all that occupation as honest as Simon the Tanner, the entertainer of Simon Peter in Joppa, they would he more conscientious in their cal ling1. Letmeadd, whatexperience proveth true, lliougli it be bard to assign the true cause thereof, that, when wheat is dear, leather always is cheap ; and when leather is dear, then wheat is cheap. The Buildings. —.....Osterly House, now Sir William Waller's, must not be forgotten , built in a park by Sir Thomas Gresham, who here magnificently entertained and lodged Queen Elizabeth. Her majesty found fault with the court of this house as too great; afllrming that it would appear more handsome if divided with a wall in the middle. What doth Sir Thomas, hut in the night-time sends for workmen to London (money commands all things), whosospeedilyand silently apply their business that the next morning discovered that court double, which the night had left single before. It is questionable whether the Quceu nest day was more contented with the conformity to her fancy, or more pleased with the surprise and sudden performance thereof; whilst her courtiers disported themselves with their several expressions; some avowing it was no wonder he could so soon change a building who could build a change; others (reflecting on some known difFerences in this knight's family) allirmcd that any house is easier divided than united. |
London. — It oweth its greatness, under God's divine providence, to the well-conditioned river of Thames, which doth not, as some tyrants rivers in Europe, abuse its strength in a destructive way, hut employeth its greatness in goodness, to he beneficial tocominerce by the reciprocation of the tide therein. Hence it was that, when King James, ofl'ended with the cily, threatened to remove bis court to anotbor place, the Lord Mayor (boldly enough) returned , that be might remove bis court at his pleasure, but could not remove the river of Thames. Needles. — The use hereof is right ancient, though sewing was before needles; for we read that our first parents made themselves aprons by sewing fig-leaves together, either fastening them wilh some glutinous matter, or with some sharp thingjoining liiem together. A pin is a blind needle; a needle, a pin with an eye. What nails do in solid, needles do in supple bodies, putting them together ; only they remain not there formally hut virtually in the thread which they leave behind them. It is the woman's pencil; and embroidery (vestts ueu pic la) is the master-piece thereof, 1 say embroidery, much used in former, neglected in our age, wherein modern gallants, allecting variety of suits, desire that their clothes should be known by them, and not, as our ancestors , they by their clothes, one suit of state serving them for several solemnities. This industrious instrument, Needle (quasi ne idle, as some will have it), mainluineth many millions. Yea, ho who desireth a blessing on the plough and the needle (including that in the card and compass), comprehendeth most employments at homeand abroad, by land and by sea. All 1 will add is this: that the first Spanish needles in England were made in the reign of Queen Mary, in Cheap ide, by a negro; but such [was]hisenvy that be would teach arttonone,so that it died with him. More charitable was Elias Crowse, a German , who, coming over into England about the eighth of Queen Elizabeth, first taught us the making of Spanish needles; and since we have taught ourselves the using of them. |
200
|
William Slialtespeare was horn at Stratford on Avon in this comity [Warwicksliirc] ; in whom tlircc eminent poets may seem in some sort to he compounded; 1. Martial, in the warlike sound of his surname (whence some may conjecture him of a Persius n CrabstaiT, Bawdy 3. Plautus, who was an exact comedian, yet never any scholar; as our Shakespeare, if alive, would confess himself. Add to all these, that, though his genius generally was jocular, and inclining liim to festivity, yet he could , when so disposed, he solemn and serious, as appears hy his tragedies; so thad lleraclitus himself (I mean if secret and unseen) might allbrd to smile at his comedies, they were so merry ; and Democrilus scarce for-hear to sigh at his tragedies,they were so mournful. He was an eminent instance of the truth of that rule, Poeta non fit, sed nascitur; one is not made, hut horn a poet. Indeed his learning was very little, so that, as Cornish diamonds are not jiolishcd hy any lapidary, but are painted , and |
military extraction), hastivibrans, or Shakespeare. 2.0vid, the most natural and wilty ofall poets; and hence it was that Queen Elizabeth, coming into a grammar school, made this extemporary verse, Martial, Ovid a fine wag. smoothed even, as they are taken out of the earth, so nature itself was all the art which was used upon him. Many were the wit combats betwixt him and Ben Jonson. Which to 1 behold like a Spanish great galleon and an English man-of war. Master Jonson, like the former, was built far higher in learning; solid, hut slow, in his performances. Shakespeare, with the English man-of war, lesser in hulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about, and take advantage of all winds, hy the quickness of his wit and invention, lie died anno Domini 1G.., and was buried at Stratford upon Avon, the town of his nativity. |
The holy state and the profane state.
|
a soldier is one of a lawful, necessary, commendable, and honourable profession ; yea, God biinself may seem to he one free of the company of soldiers, in that he styleth himself a quot;Man of Warquot;. Now, though many bate soldiers as the twigs of the rod war, wherewith God scourgeth wanton countries into repentance, yet is their calling so needful that, were not some soldiers , we must be «//soldiers, daily employed to defend our own, the world would grow so licentious. Maxim /. He keepcth a clear and quiet conscience in his breast, which otherwise will gnaw out the roots of all valour. — For vicious soldiers are compassed, with enemies on all sides; their foes wilhont them , and an anihush within them of fleshly lusts, which , as St. Peter saith, '-fight against the soul.quot; None fitter to go to war than those who have made their peace with God in Christ. For such a man's soul is an impregnable fort. It cannot be scaled with ladders, for it reacheth up to heaven ; nor be broken with batteries, for it is walled wilh brass; nor undermined with pioneers, for it is founded on a rock ; nor betrayed hy treason , for faith itself keeps it; nor lie burnt by granadoes, for he can quench the fiery darts of the devil ; nor be foiced by famine , for quot;a good conscience is a continual feastquot;. |
Maxim III. He counts his prince's lawful command to be his sufficient warrant to fight. — In a defensive war, when his country is host-ilely invaded , it is pity but his ncck should hang in suspense with his conscience, that doubts to fight. In oirenshe war, though the case be harder, the common soldier is not to dispute, but do, bis prince's command. Otherwise princes, before they leiy an army of soldiers, must first levy en army of casuists and confessors to satisfy each scrupulous soldier in point of right to the war ; and the most cowardly will be the most conscien-tous, to multiply doubts eternally. Besides, causes of war are so complicaled and perplexed, so many things falling in the prosecution , as may alter the original state thereof; and private soldiers have neither calling nor ability to dive into such mysteries. But, if the conscience ofacoun-sellor or commander in chief remonstrates in himself the unlawfulness of this war, be is bound humbly to represent to his prince bis reasons against it. Maxim [P. He esteemeth an bardship easy, through hopes of victory. — Moneys are the sinews of war; yet, if tliese sinews should chance to be shrunk, and pay casually fall short, he lakes a fit of this convulsion patiently. He is contented though in cold weather his hands must be their own fire, and warm themselves with working ; though he be better armed against their enemies than the weather, and his corslet wholler than his clothes; though be has more fasts and vigils in his almanac than the llomish church did ever |
201
|
etijoin. Ilfi patiently onduretli drought, for desire of honour; and one thirst quencheth another. In a word, though much indeblnd to his own hack and helly, and unahle to pay tliern, yet he hath credit himself, and confidently runs on ticket with himself, hopinj; the next victory will dis-charjjo all scores with advantage. |
The Churcli jlistory of Knglaml.
|
That wo may the more freely an fully pay the tribute of our thanks to God's goodness, for the gospel which we now enjoy, let us recount the sad condition of the Britons our predecessors, he-fore the Christian faith was preached unto ihem. 'At that time they were without Christ, being aliens from the commonwealth of Israel, and strangers from the convenants of promise, having no hope, and without God in the world.' They were foul idolaters, who, from misapplying that undeniable truth of 'God's being in eiery thing', made every thing to be their Got!; trees, rivers, bills, and mountains. They worshipped devils, whose pictures remained in the days of Gildas, within and without the decayed walls of their cities , drawn with deformed faces, no doubt done to the life, according to their terrible apparitions, so tbat such ugly shapes did not woo, hut fright people into adoration of them. Wherefore il any find in Tully that the Britons in his time had no pictures, understand him , they were not artists in that mystery, like the Greeks and Itomans , they had not pieces of proportion, being rather dauhers than drawers, stainers than painters, though called Piclifrom their self-discolouration. Three paramount idols they worshipped abuve all the rest, and ascribed divine honour unto them : Apollo, by them styled Belinus the Great, Andraste, or Andate, the goddess of victory; Diana, goddess cf the game. This last was most especially reverenced, Britain being then all a forest, « here hunting was not the recreation but the calling, and venison not the dainties but the diet of common people. |
T«o sorts of people were most honoured amongst the Britons: Druids, who where their philosophers, divines, lawyers; Bards, who where there prophets, poets, historians. The former were so called from Sl'D? , signifying generally a tree, and properly an oak , under which they used to perforin their rites and ceremonies. An idolatry whereof the Jews themselves had been guilty, for which the prophet threatenetb them ; 'they shall be ashamed of the oaks which they have desired'. But the signal oak which the Druids made choice of, was such a one on which mis letoe did grow ; by which privy token they conceived God marked it out as of sovereign virtue for bis service. Under this tree , on the sixth day of the moon , whereon they began their year, they invocated their idols, and offered two white bulls, filleted in the horns, with many other ceremonies. These Pagan priests never wrote any thing, so to procure the greater veneration to their mysteries ; men being bound to believe that it was some great treasure , which was locked up in such great secrecy. The bards were next the Druids in regard and played excellently to their songs on the harps; whereby they had great operation on the vulgar , surprising tliern into civility unawares, they greedily swallowing whatsoever was sweetened with music. These also, to preserve their ancestors from corruption, embalmed their memories in rhyming verses, which looked both backward, in their relations, and forward, in their predictions ; so that, th ir confidence meeting with the crednlityof others, advanced their wild conjectures to the reputation of prophecies. The immortality of the sou! they ilid not llatly deny, but falsely believe, disguised under ihe opinion of Iransanimation, conceiving that dying men's souls afterward passed into other bodies, either preferred to better, or condemned to worse, according to their former good or ill behaviour. This made ihem contemn death , anil always maintain erected resolutions, counting a valiant death the best of bargains, wherein they did not lose, hut layout their lives to advantage. Generally they were great magicians; in oniuch that Pliny saith, that the very Persians, in some sort might seem to have learnt their magic from the Britons. |
|
In this sad condition God sent England a deliverer, namely. King Alfred or Aimed , horn in England, bred in Piome, where, by a prolepsis, bewas anointed King by Pope Leo, though then hut a private prince , and his three elder brothers alive, in auspicium faluri regni, in hope that hereafter he should come to the crown. Nor did this unction make Alfred ante-date his kingdom, who quietly waited till his foresaid brolhers successively leigned , and died before him , and then took his turn in the kingdom of the West Saxons. The worst was, his condition was like a bridegroom who, though lawfully wedded, yet might not bed his bride, till first he had conquered his rival; |
26
202
|
and must rcilucm England, before lie could reign over it. Tlie Danes liad London , many of llie inland, most of the maritime towns, and Alfred only three cU'ectual sliires, Somerset, Dorset, and Wills; yet liy God's blessing on bis valour, be got to be monarch of all Jingland. Yea, consider him us a king in bis court, as a general in bis camp, as a Christian in bis closet, as a patron in the ehureb , as a founder in his college, as a father in his family ; bis actions will every way appear no less excellent in themselves, than exemplary to others. His most during design was, when lying bid about Athelney, in Somersetshire , and disguised under the habit of a fiddler, being an excellent musician, be adventured into the Danish camp. Had not bis spirit been undaunted, the sight of bis armed foes hail been enough to have put bis instrument out o[ tune. Here, going unsuspected through their army, be discovered their condition, and some of their intentions. Some would say, that the Danes deserved to be beaten indeed, if they would communicate their counsels to a fiddler. But let such know, Alfred made Ibis general discovery of them , that ibey were remiss in their discipline, l.iy idle and careless; and security disarms the best appointed army. Tlic-inistodes said of himself, • that be could not fiddle, but be knew how to make a little eily great', lint our Alfred could (Mdlc, and make a little cily great loo; yea, enlarge a petty and contracted kingdom into a vast and absolute mo-narcby. |
But, as thepoels feign of Antajus, the son of the Earth, who, fighting with Hercules, and often worsted by him , recovered his strength again every time lie touched the earth, revived with an addition of new spirits: so the Danes, who may seem the sons of Neptune, though often beaten by the Kngiisb in hind battles, no sooner recovered their ships at sea, but presently recruiting themselves, they returned from Denmark, more numerous and formidable than before. But at last, to follow the poeliciil fancy, as Hercules , to prevent Antoeus further reviving, hoisted him aloft, and held him strangled in his arms, till be was stark dead , and utterly expired : so, to secure the Danes from returning to the sea, who out of the Thames bad with their fleet sailed up the river I.cy, betwixt Hertfordshire and iissex, Alfred, willi pioneers, divided the grand stream of l ey into several rivulets; so that their ships lay water-hound, leaving their mariners (o shift for themselves over land , most of which fell into the bands of (heir Knglish enemies; so this proved a mortal defeat to llie Danish insolence. Alfred having thus reduced England to some tolerable terms of quiet, made most of the Danes bissubjeets by conquest, and (be rest bis friends by composition, encountered a fiercer foe, namely, ignorance and barbarism, which had generally invaded the whole nation. Insomuch that be writetb, that south of Thames be found not any that could read English. Indeed, in these days all men turned students ; but what did they study; Only to live secretly and safely from the fury of the Danes. And now, that the next age might bo wiser than this, Alfred intended the founding of an university at Oxford. |
Grnnf vnn Clarendon , werd geboren in 1008 en overleed in 1G74. Volgens zijn eigene verklaring hnd hij zijn kennis te dunken aan 't verkeer met een aiuilal vermaarde mannen van dien tijd , wier karakters hij zeer goed besehreven heeft. Als regtsgeleerde trok hij tie niindacht van bisschop Lmul ; nmar reeds in 1610 betrad hij de staalkundige loopbaan. Aanvankelijk wilde hij zich aan geene partij sluiten , doch bij werd weldra een gematigde koningsgezinde. Hij werd wegens bewezene diensten lot kanselier van de schatkist benoemd en lot ridder geslagen. In weerwil van de tegenspoeden van 't koninklijk huis bleef liij zijn vorst trouw en voegde zich in 1048 bij Karei II in Holland. Hij leed in 1052 verschrikkelijke armoede tengevolge van zijn trouw aan 't vorstelijk luns; maar werd daarvoor door do benoeming van lord kanselier schadeloos gesteld, terwijl hij in 1001, bij do krooning van Karei II, mot 't graafschap Clarendon en een aanzienlijk geschenk begil'ligd werd. Zijn maatregelen waren echter zoo in strijd met den volksgeest, dat bij in 1605 genoodzaakt was zijn land to verlaten. Als prozaschrijver bekleedt hij een eerste plaats onder de vermaarde mannen van dien tijd , ofschoon zijn groot werk, History of the Kebellion and Civil Wars, niet voor 1707 en zijn Levensgescliiedeuis en Vervolg op zijn geschiedenis niet voor 1759 werd uitgegeven. Hoewel men zijn stijl niet kim aanbevelen om netheid en hij dikwijls regtstreelcs in strijd handelt met de regelen van de woordvoeging , is hij evenwel nimmer onduidelijk of duister. De geschiedkundige waarde van zijn werk is, niet groot, daar hij ten opziute van bijzonderheden vooral zeer onnaamvkeurig is. fn 't algemeen is zijn werk meer een groot letterkundig stuk, dan een zeer kostbar,r geschiedkundig gedenkteeken. Men heeft nog van hem; Essay on an Active and Contemplative Life, and why the One should be preferred before the other, waarin hij groote menschen-kennis ontwikkelt, terwijl in 1811 van hem voor 't eerst verscheen: lieligion and Policy, and the Countenance and Assistance they should give lo each other; with a survey of the Power anil Jurisdietion of the Pope in the Dominions of other Princes.
ÜOquot;)
|
''To speak first of his private qualifications as a man, hcfore the mention of his princely anil royal virtues; ho was , if ever any, the most worthy of the title of an honest man ; so {jreat a lover of j us-tice, that no templation coulil dispose him to a wrongful action, except it was so (lis;)uise(l to him that lie helieved it to hejust. He hail a tonilernpss anil compassion of nature ■which restraineil him from ever doinj; a haid-liearted thing, and, therefore, he w as so ajit to jjraml pardon to malefactors, that the Juiljjes of the land represented to him the damajje and insecurity to the puhlic , that flowed from such his indulgence. Anil then he restrained himself from pardoning cither murders or highway rohheries, and quickly disrerned the fruits of his severtty hy a wounderful reformation of those enormities. He was very punctual and regular in his devotions; he was never know n to enter upon his recreations or sports, though never so early in the morning, before ho had heen at puhlic prayers; so that on hunting days his chaplain were hound to a very early attendance, lie was likewise very strict in observing the hours of bis private cabinet devotions , and was so severe an exacter of gravity and reverence in all mention of religion, that be could never endure any liyht or profane word , with what sharpness of wit soever it was covered; and though he was well pleased and delighted with reading verses made upon any occasion, no man durst bring before him anything that was profane or unclean. That kind of w it had never any countenance thi n, lie was so great an example of conjugal al'tVctiou, that they who did not imitate him in that particular , durst not brag of their liberty ; and he did not only permit, hut direct his bishops to prosecute those scandalous vices, in the cccleciasti-cal courts , against persons of eminence, and near relation to his service. His kingly virtues had som ' mixture and allay that hindered them from shining in full lustre, and from producing those fruits they should have been attended with. He was not in his nature very bountiful, though be gave *cry much. This appeared more after the Duke of lluckinghain's death , after which those showers fell *ery rarely; and be paused too long in giving, which made those to whom hp gave less sensible of the benefit. Hekeptstatc to tiie full, which made his court very orderly, no man presuming to he seen in a place where he had no pretence to he. He saw and observed men long, before he received them about his person ; and did not love strangers nor very confident men. He was a patient hearer of causes, which he frequently accustomed himself to at the council board; and judged very well, and was dexterous in the mediating part ; so that he often put an end to causes by persuasion , which the stuhhorness of men's humours made dilatory in com ts of justice. |
He was very fearless in his person ; hut, in his riper years, not very enterprising. He had an ex-ccllent understanding, hut was not confident enough of it; which made him uftcntimes change his own opinion for a worse, and follow the ad-\ ice of men that did not judge so w ell as himself. This made him more irresolute than the conjuncture of his affairs would admit. If he had heen o! a rougher and more imperious nature, be would have found more respect and duly. And his not applying some severe cures to approaching evils, proceeded from the lenity of bis nature, and the tenderness of his conscience , which , in all cases of blood, male him choose the softer way, and not hearken to seven: counsels, how reasonably soever uryed. This only restrained him from pursuing his advantage in the first Scottish expedition, when, humanly speaking , he might have reduced that nation to the most entire ohedicnee that could have been wished. I!ut no man can say he bad then many who advised him to it, but the contrary, by a wonderful indisposition all his council had to the war or any other fatigue. He quot;as always a great lover of theScoltish nation, having not only he born there, hut educated by that people, and besieged by them always, having few Knglish about him till he was king ; and the mayor number of his servants being still of that, nation , who he thought could never fail him. And among these, no man had such an ascendant over him, by the humblest insinuations, as Duke Hamilton had. As be excelled in all other virtues, so in temperance he was so strict, that ho abhorred all de-haiichery to that degree , that, at a great festival solemnity where be once was. when very many of the nohility of the English and Scots were entertained, being told by one who withdrew from theurc, what vast draughts of wine they drank, and 'that there was one carl who had drank most of the rest down , and was not himself moved or altered', the king said , 'that he deserved to be handed'; and that carl coming shortly after into the room where his maje.-ty was in some gaiety, to show how unhurt he was from that battle, the king sent one to hid him withdraw from his ma-jesty's presence; nor did he in some days after appear before him. So many miraculous circumstances contributed to his ruin, that men might well think that, heaven and earth conspired it.Though he was, from the first declension of his power ,so much betrayed hy his own servants , that there were veiy few who remained faithful to him, yet that treachery proceeded not always from any treasonable purpose to do him any harm , but from particular and personal animosities against other men. And afterwards , the terror all men w ere under of the Parliament, and the guilt they were conscious of themselves, made them watch all opportunities |
204
|
lo tnako lliemsiilvcs gracious lo lliosi; «iio could do tliein good ; and so tlicy bccame spies u| ou their master, and from one piece of knavery were iiardened ami confirmed to under lake iino-tlier; till at last tlicy had no hope of preservation but hv the destruction of tlieir master. And aflcr all this, when a man might reason ddy believe that less than a universal defection of three nations could not have reduced a great king to so ugly a fate , it is most certain that, in that very hour, when he was thus wickedly murdered in the sight of the sun, be had as great a share in the hearts and affections of his subjects in general, was as much beloved , esteemed , and longed for by the people in general of the three nations, as any uf his predecessors had ever been. To conclude, he was the worthiest gentleman, the best master, the best friend, the best husband, the best father , and the best Christian , that the age in which be lived produced. And if he were not the greatest king , if he were without some parts and qualities which have madesome kings great and happy, no other prince was ever unhappy who was possessed of half his virtues and endowments, and so much without any kind of vice. |
Cliarnctcr of Oliver Cromwell , diccl 1058.
|
lie was one of those men, quos vitnjicrarc ue int mirt quidem possuiit, nisi ut simul laudent; whom his very enemies could not condemn witli-out commending him at the same time: for he could never have done half that mischief without great parts of courage, industry and judgment. He must have had a wonderful understanding in the natures ami humours of men, and as great a dexterity in applying them ; who, from a private and obscure birth (though ofa good family), without interest or estate, alliance or friendship, could raise himself to such a height, and coin-pound and knead such opposite and contradictory tempers, humours, and interests into a consistence that contributed to his designs and to their own destruction: whilst bimselfgrew insensibly powerful enough to cutoff those by whom he had climbed , in the instant that they projected to demolish their own building. What was said of Cinna may very justly be saiil of him, nnsiim cum. qnmnemo anderet bonus; pcrfccissc, r/uu; a nulla, nisi fortissimo. perfici possent: be attempted those things which no good man durst have ventured on ; anil achieved those in which none but a valiant and great man could have succeeded. Without doubt, no man with more wickedness ever attempted any thing, or brought to pass what ho desired more wickedly, more in the f.ice and con-tempt of religion and moral honesty; yet wickedness as great as his could never haveaccomphished those designs, without the assistance of a great spirit, and admirablecircumspection and sagacity, and a most magnanimous resolution. When he appeared first in the parliament, he seemed to have a person in no degree gracious, no ornament of discourse, none of those talenlswhieh used lo conciliate the affections of the stander by: yet as he grew into place and authority, his parts seemed to be raised as he had occasion tousetbeni; and when bewas to act the part of a great man, be did it without any indecency, notwithstanding the want of custom. |
After he was confirmed and invested Protector by the humble Petition and Advice, be consulted with very few upon any action of importance, nor comrnunicated any enterprise be resolved upon, with more than those who were to have principal parts in the execution of it; nor with them sooner than was absolutely necessary. What he once resolved, in which be was not rash, hewould not he dissuaded from, nor endure any contradiction of his power and authority ; but extorted obedience from them w ho were not willing to yield it. Onetime, when he had laid some very extraor-ilinary tax upon the city, one Cony, an eminent fanatic, and one w ho had heretofore served him very notably, positively refused to pay his part; and loudly dissuaded others from submitting to it,'as an imposition notoriously against the law, and the property of lbo subject, which all honest men were bound to defend.' Cromwell sent for him, and cajoled him with the memory of 'the old kindness and friendship thad bad been between them ; and that of all men be did not expect this opposition from him, in a matter that was so necessary for the goo ! of the commonwealth. It had been always his fortune lo meet with the most I ude and obstinate behaviour from thosquot; wdio had formerly been absolutely governed hy liim; and they coinmonly put him in mind of some expressions and sayings of his own, in cases of the like nature;so this man remembered him how greatan enemy he had expressed himself tosueb grievances , and bad declared , 'that all who submitted to them,and paid illegal taxes, were more lo blame, and greater enemies lo their country, than they w ho had imposed them, and that the tyranny of princes could never he grievous, but by the tameness and stupidity of the people'. When Cromwell saw that he could nol convert him, he told him, 'that he bad a will as slubborn as his, and he would try which of them two should be master. Thereupon, with some expressions of reproach and contempt, he committed the man to prison ; whose courage was nothing abated by it; but as soon as the term came, he brought bis lla- |
-205
|
iwas Corpus in ihe Kina's Bcnch, wliich lliey llien called tlie Upper Bench. Haynard , wlio was of council with the prisoner, derrianded liis liberty witli {jreat confidence, lgt;olli upon the illegality of the commitinenf, and the illegality nf tlie imposition, as heinjf laid without any lawful autliority. The judges could not maintain or defend citlier, and enough peclared what tlieir sentence would he: and therefore the protector's attorney required a further day, to answer what had heen urged, liefore that day, Maynard was committed to the Tower for presuminjf to question or makedoubt of his authority; and I lie judges were sent for, and severely reprehend for sufl'erinjf that licence ; when they, with all humility, mentioned the law and Magna Charla, Cromwell told them, with terms of contempt and derision, 'their Magna I1' — should not control his actions; which he knew were for the safety of the commonwealth'. Ho asked them, 'who made them judges? whether they had any authority to sit there, hut what he gave them? and if his aulhorily were at an end, they knew well enough what would become of themselves; and therefore advised them to he more tender of that which could only preserve them' : and so dismissed them with caution 'that they should not suffer the lawyers to prate what it would not become them to bear'. Thus he subdued a spirit that had been often troublesome to the most sovereign power, and made Westminster-Hall as obedient and subservient to his commands as any of the rest of his quarters. In all other matters, which did not concern the life of bis jurisdiction, be seemed to have great reverence for the law, rarely interposing between party and party. As be proceeded with this kind of indignation anil haughtiness with those w ho wore refractory and durst contend with his greatness, so towards all who complied with his good pleasure,and courted his protection , he used great civility, generosity . and bounty. To reduce three nations, which perfectly hated him, to an entire obedience to all bis dictates; to awe and govern those nations by an army thai was iudevoted to him, and wished his ruin, was an instance of a very prodigious address. Hut his greatness at home was hut a shadow of the glory be bad abroad. Il was hard to discover which feared him most, France, Spain, or the Low- Countries, where his friendship was current at the value be put upon if. As they did all sacrifice their honour and their interest to bis pleasure, so there is nothing he could have demanded that cither of them would have denied him. To manifest which there needs only two instances. The first is, when those of I he valley of Lucerne had unwarily risen in arms against the DukeofSavoy, which gave occasion to the Tope and the neighbouring princes of Italy to call and solicit for their extirpation, and their jirince positively resolved upon it, Cromwell sent his agent to the |
Duke of Savoy, a prince with whom he had no correspondence or commerce, and so engaged the cardinal,and even terrified the popebimself,without so much as doing any grace to the English Ilornan Catholics (nothing being more usual than his saying, 'that bis ships in the Mediterranean should visit Cmta Vecchia; and that the sound of his cannon should be heard in liome)', that the Duke of Savoy thought it. necessary to restore all that he bad taken from them, and did renew all those privileges they had formerly enjoyed and newly forfeited. The other instance of bis authority was yet greater, anil more incredible. In the city of i\is-mes, which is one of the fairest in the province of Languedoc, and where those of I lie religion do most abound , there was a great faction at that season when the consuls (w ho are the chief magistrates) were to be chosen. Those of the reformed religion bad the confidence to set up one of themselves for that rnajjistracy; which they of the Uoman religion resolved to oppose with all their power. The dissension between them made so much noise, that the intendant of I be province, who is the supreme minister in all civil affairs throughout the whole province, went thither to prevent any disorder that might happen. When rhe day of election came, those of the religion possessed ihemselves with many armed men of the town-bouse, where the election was to he made. The magistrates sent to know what their meaning was: to which they answered, 'They were there to give their voices for the choice of the new consuls, and to he sure that the election should he fairly made'. The bishop of the city, tbc intendant of the province, with all the ofli-cers of the church, and the present magistrates of the town, went together in their robes lo be present at the election, without any suspicion that there would be any force used. When they came near the gate of the tovm-bouse, w hic h was shut, and they supposed would be opened when they came, they within poured out a volley of musket-shot upon them, by which the dean of the church, anil two or three of the magistrates of the town, w ere lulled upon the place, and very many others wounded, where ofsomedied shortly after. In this confusion, the magistrates put themselves inlo as good posture to ilefend tliemselves as they could, without any purpose of offending the other, till they should be belter provided ; in order to which they sent an express to the court, with a plain relation of the w hole matter of fact ; 'And that there appeared lo be no manner of combination with those of the religion in other places of the province; hut that it was an insolence in those of the place; upon the presumption of their great numbers, which were little inferior to those of the Catholics.' The court was glad of the occasion, and resolved that this provocation, in which other places were not involved, and |
206
|
which nohoily could eicusc, should warrant all kind of severity in that city , even to the pulling down their temples, and expellin-r many of them for cverout of the city; which, with the execution and forfeiture of many of the principal persons, would he a jjeneral mortilication to all the reli-;;ion in France; with whom they were heartily offended : and a part of the army was forthwith ordered to inarch towards l\ismes , to see this executed with the utmost rigour. Those of the relijjiini in the town were quickly sensihle into what condition they had brought themselves; a'ld sent with all possible submission to the magistrates to excuse themselves, and to impute w hat ha l heen clone to the rashness of particular men, who iiad no order for what they did. The magistrates answered, 'That they were glad they were sensible of their miscarriage; hnt they could say nothing upon the subject, till the king's pleasure should he known; to whom they had s;nta full relation of all that had passed.' The others very well knew what the king's pleasure would be, and forthwith sent an express, one iWoulins, who had lived many years in that place, and in Alonlpclier, to Cromwell, (o desire his proleclion anil interposition. The express made so much haste, and found so good a reception the first hour he came, that Cromwell, after he had received the whole acconnl, bade him, 'refresh himself after so long a journey, and he would lake such care of his business that l y the time he came to Paris ho should find it dispatched'; and, that night, sent away another messenger lo his ambassador Lockhart; who, by the time Aloulins came thither, had so far prevailed with the cardinal, that orders were sent to stop the troops, which were upon their march towards Mi sines ; and within a few days after, Mon-lins returned with a full pardon and amnesty from the king, under the great seal of France, so fully confirmed with all circumstances, that there was never further mention made of it; but all things passed as if there bad never been any such thing. So that nobody can wonder that his memory remains still in those parts, and with thosa people, in great veneration. |
lie would never suffer himself lo he denied any thing he over asked of the cardinal, alleging, 'that the people would not he otherw ise satisfied'; which the cardinal bore very heavily , and complained of to those with w hom he would he free. One day he visited Madam Turenne, and when he took his leave of her, she, according to her custom, besought him to continue gracious to the churches. Whereupon the cardinal told her, 'That he knew not how lo.hehave himself; if he advised the king to punish and suppress their insolence, Cromwell threatened him to join the Spaniards: and if he showed any favour to them , at Home they accounted him a heretic'. To conclude his character, Cromwell was not so far a man of blood as to follow Machiavcl's me-thoil; which prescribes, upon a total alteration of government, as a thing absolutely necessary , to cut oil all the heads of those, and extirpate their families, who are lriendslotheolilone.it was confidenlly reported that, in the council of officers, it was more than once proposed, 'That there might he a general massacre of all the royal parly, as the only expedient lo secure the government'; hut that Cromwell would never consent to it, it maybe, ont of too great a contempt of bis enemies. In a word , as he was guilty of many crimes, against which damnation is denounced, and for which hell-fire is prepared, so he had some good nualilies which have caused the memory of some men in all ages to he celebrated ; and he will be looked upon by posterity as a brave wicked man. |
[Zic hid/,. 155.) Lillicrty «f the prcsst
|
1 deny not hut that it is of the greatest concernment in the church and coininonwealth , to have a vigilant eye how hooks demean ibemselves as well as men; and thereafter to confine, imprison , and do sharpest justice on them as malefactors ; for books are not absolutely dead things, hut do contain a potency of life in them, lobe as active as that soul whose progeny they are; nay, they do preserve, as in a vial, the purest cfficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them. I know Ihey are as lively, and as vigorously productive, as those fabulous dragons' teelh ; and being sown up and down , may chance to spring np armed men. And yet, on the oilier hand, nnloss wariness be used, as good almost kill a man as kill a good book : who kills a man kills a reasonable crcalnre, Cod's image ; hut he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye. Many a man lives a burden to I he earth; but a good hook is the precious life-blood of a masterspirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life. 'Tis true no age can restore a life, whereof perhaps there is no great loss: and |
207
|
revolutions of ages do not oft recover the loss of a rejected trutli, for tlie want of which Avhole nations faro the worse. We should he wary, llie-refore, what perseculion we raise against the living lahoursofpuhlic men. howspill that seasoned life of man , preserved and slored ii]) in hooks ; since we see .1 kind of liomicido may l)e thus committed, sometimes a kind of rnarlyrdom; and ifil; extend to the whole impression , a kind of massacre, whereof thor execution ends not in the slaying of an elemental life, hutslrikes at that ethereal and soft essence, ihe breath of reason itself, slays an immortalily rather than a life. * Wholesome meats to a vitiated stomach differ litlle or nothing from unwholesome; and hest hooks to a naughty mind arc not unapplieahle to occasions oi evil. Had meals will scarce hreed good nourishment in the healthiest concoction; hut herein the diffeience is of had hooks, that they to a discreet and judicious reader serve in many respects to discover, to confute, to forewarn, and to illustrate.* — Good and evil, we know, in the field of this world grow up together almost inseparably; and the knowledge of good is so involved and interwoven with the knowledge of evil,and in so many cunningresemhlances hardly to he .discerned, that those confused seeds which were imposed upon Psyche as an incessant labour to cull out, and sort asunder, were not more intermixed. It was from out the rind of one apple tasted, that the knowledge of good and evil, as two twins cleaving together, leaped forth into the world. And perhaps this is that doom which Adam fell into o( knowing good and evil, that is to say. of knowing good by evil. As therefore the state of man now is, what wisdom can there be to choose, what continence to forbear, without the knowledge of evil? Me that can apprehend and consider vice, with all her baitsand seeming pleasures, and yet abstain, and yet dislinguish, and yet prefer that which is truly hitter, beis the true war-faring Christian. 1 cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised an 1 unbreath-ed , that never sallies out and sirs her adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat. Assuredly we bring not innocence into the world, we bring impurity much rather: that which purifies us is trial, and trial is by what is contrary. That virtue, therefore, whiehishuta youngling in the contemplaiion of evil, and knows not the utmost that vice promises to her followers, and rejects it, is but a blank virtue, not a pure ; her whiteness is but an cxcremental whiteness: which was ihe reason why our sa;;e and serious poel, Sp',ns',r (whom I d.ire be known to think a hi tler teiid- r tl .iii Scotosor Aquin.is), describing Iru'' teo»pi*i ance under I he person of Guion, brings him in with his Palmer ihrouyji the cave of Mammon and the bower ot earthly bliss, that he might see and know, and yet abstain. Since, therefore, the quot;knowledge and survey of vice is in this world so necessary to the constituting of human virtue, and the scanning of error to the confirmation of truth, how can we more safely, and wilh Irss danger, scout into the regions of sin and falgt;ily, than by reading all manner of tractates, and hearing all manner of reason ?* |
i lastly proceed, from the no good it can do, to the manifest hurt in causes, in being first the greatest discouragement and aflVont that can bo ollered to learning ami to learned men. It was a complaint and lamentation of pre-lates, upon every least breath of a motion to remo-' vepluralities,and distribute more equally church revenues, that then all learning would be for ever dashed and discouraged. Bui as for that opinion, I never found cause to think that the tenth part of learning stood or fell with the clergy; nor could I ever but hold it for a sordid and unworthy speech of any churchman who had a competency left him. If, therefore, ye belualb to dishearten utterly and discontent, not the mercenary crew and false pretenders to learning, but the free and ingenuous sort of such as evidently were born lo study and love learning for itself, not for lucre, or any other end, but the service of God and of truth , and perhaps that lasting fame and perpetuity of praise which God and gooti men have consented shall be the reward of those whose published labours advance the good of mankind ; then know, that so far to distrust the judgment and honesty of one who hath but a common repute in learning, and never yet ollended, as not to count him fit to print his mind without a tutor and examiner, lest he should drop a schism, or something of corruption, is the greatest displeasure and indignity , lo a free and knowing spirit, that can be put upon him. What advantage is it lo be a man , over it is lo he a hoy at school, if we have only escaped the ferula to come under the fescue of an imprimatur? — if serious and elaborate writings, as if I hey were no more than the theme of a grammar lad under his pedagogue, must not he uttered wil bout the cursory eyes of a temporising and extemporising licenser? He who is not trusted with his own actions, his drift not beim; known to he evil, and standing to the hazard of law and penalty, has no great argument to think himself rcpuled in the commonwealth wherein he was horn for other than a fool or a foreigner. When a man writes lo the world, he summons up all his reason and deliheraliou to assist him ; he searches, medilates, is industrious, and likely consul tgt; and confers wilh his judicious fri(gt;nds; after all w hich is done, he takes himself lo he infor ned in what be w rites, as well as any that writ before him; if in tbi ,, the most consuui-maleaet of his fidelily ami ripeness, no years, no industry, no former proof of his abilities can bring him to that state of maturity, as not to be still |
208
|
mistrusted and suspccled, unless lie carry all Ins considerate diligence, all his midnight watcliinjfs and expense of Palladian oil, to the hasty view of an utdeisnred licenser,perhaps much hisyounjf-er, perhaps far his inferior in judgment, perhaps one who never knew the labour of hoolc-writing and if he he not repulsed, or slighted,must appear in print like a puny with his {{uardiau , and his censor's hand on the hack of his title; to he iiis hail and surety that he is no idiot or seducer; it cannot he hut a dishonour and derogation to the author, to the hook, to the privilege and dignity of learning. 1 And how can a man teach with authority, which is the life of teaching; how can he he a doctor in his hook, as he ought to he, or else had better he silent, whenas all he teaches, all he delivers, is hut under the tuition, under the correct Ion of his patriarchal licenser, lo hlot or alter what precisely accords not with the hidehound humour which he calls hisjuiigment? When every acute reader, upon the fust sight of a pedantic license, will he ready with these like works to ding the book a quoit's distance from him, I hate a pupil teacher, I endure not an instructor that comes to me under the wardship of an overseeing fist. * And lest some should persuade ye, Lords and |
Commons, that these arguments of learned men's discouragement at this your order are mere flourishes, and not real. I could recount what 1 have seen and heard in other countries, where this kind of inquisition tyrannises; when I have sat among their learned men {for that honour 1 had), and been counted happy to he born in such a place op philosophic freedom, as they supposed England was, while themselves did nothing but bemoan the servile condition into ■which learning amongst them was brought; that this was it which had damped the gluiy of Italian wits; that nothing had been there written now these many years but flattery and fustian. There it was that I found and visited the famous Galileo, grown old, a prisoner to the inquisition, for tliinking in astronomy otherwise than the Franciscan and Dominian licensers thought. And though 1 knew that ling-land then was groaning louilest under the prelati-cal yoke, nevertheless I look it as a pledge of future happiness that other nations were so persuaded of her liberty. Yet it was beyond my hope that those worthies were then breathing in her air, who should be her leaders to such a deliverance, as shall never he forgotten lgt;y anv revolution of time that this world hath lo linisli. * |
Werd geboren in 1C20 en leefde tot IGSM. l)e Plato lledivivus , or a Dialogue concerning Government verscheen eerst in 1081 , en er bestnnt ook een latere uitgave. He schrijver toont daarin dat 't eigendomsregt noodzakelijk ten grondslag moet dienen van elk duurzaam bewind. Ofschoon dit werk in lateren tijd herdrukt weid, is 't evenwel weinig bekend: 't verdient echter de aandacht om den stijl, de denkwijze, enz. van dien lijd. Vooral is in 't oogvallend, dat er volgens de beginselen vau den schrijver kan aangenomen worden, dat in Frankrijk vroeg of laat een omwenteling moet uitbreken. Het werk is gekleed in den vorm van ecu gesprek, tussehen een edelman uit Venetië. een engelsch geneesheer en een heer.
Plato lledivivus, or A. MlalogMc conccruing Government.
|
have grown to what they are at this day: there being left but a shadow of the three States in any of these monarchies, and so no hounds remaining to the regal power. But, since property remains still to the subjects, these governments may he said to be changed, but not founded or established ; for there is no maxim more infallible and holding in any science than this in politic. That empire is founded in property. Force or fraud may alter a government; but it is property that must found and eternise it. Upon this undeniable aphorism we are lo build most of our subsequent reasoning: in the mean lime we may suppose that hereafter the great power of the King of France may diminish much, when his enraged and oppressed subjects come lo be commended by a prince of less courage, wisdom, and |
Enlt;jlish Gcnllcmnn. The modern dcspotical powers have been acquired by one of these two ways; —either by pretending by the first founder there of that lie had a divine mission, and so gaining not only followers, but even easy access in some places without force to empire, and afterwards dilating their power by great conquests (thus Mahomet anil Cingis Can began and established the Saracen and Tartarian Kingdoms); or liy a lom' scries of wisdom in a prince, or chief magistrate of a mixed monarchy, and his council, who, by reason of the sleepiness and inadvertency of the people, have been able to extinguish the great nobility, or render them inconsiderable; and, so by degrees taking away from the people their protectors, render them slaves. So the monarchies of France, and some other countries,
209
|
military virtue, when it will ho very hard forany such kinff to govern tyrannieally a country wliicli is not entirely his own. Doctor. I'ray, Sir, give me leave to ask you, hy the way , what is the reason that here in our country , where the peerage is lessencil sulli-ciently, the king has not gotten as great an addition of power as accrues to the crown in France? English Gentleman. You will understand that, Doctor, before I have finished this discourse ; hut, to stay your stomach till then , you may please to know that in France the greatness of the nobility, which has been lately taken from them, did not consist in vast riches and revenues, but in great privileges and jurisdictions, which obliged the people to obey them ; whereas our great peers in former times had not only the same great dependences, but very considerable revenues besides, in demesnes and otherwise. This vassalage over the people, which the peers of France bad , being abolished, the power over those tenants, which before wasinlheir lords, fell naturally, and of course, into the crown, although the lands and possessions, divested of those dependences, did and do still remain to the owners; whereas here in England, though the services are for the most part worn out and insignificant, yet, for want ofprovidence and policy in former kings, who could not foresee the danger afar oilquot;, entails have been suffered to be cut off; and so two parts in ten of all those vast estates, as well manors as demesnes, by the luxury and folly of the owners, have been within these two hundred years purchased hy the lesser gentry and the commons ; whirh has been so far from advantaging the crown, that it lias made the country scarce governable by monarchy.* * Doctor. You are pleased to talk of the oppression of the people under the King of France, and for that reason call it a violent government , when, if 1 remember, you did once to-day extol the monarchy of the Turks for well-founded and natural: arc not, the people in that empire as much oppressed as in France ? I'jnylish Gentleman. By no means; unless you will call it oppression for the Grand Sinnior to feed all his people out of the produce of his own lands. And, though thev serve him for it, yet that docs not alter the case; for, if you set. jjoor men to work and pay them for it, are you a tyrant, or rather are you not a good common-wealths'man, by helping those to live who have no other way of doing it but bv their labour? But the King of France, knowing that his people have , and ought to have , properly , and that he has no right to their possessions, yet takes what he pleases from them , without their consent, and contrary to law ; so that, when be sets them on work, he pays them what he pleases , ami that be levies out ol their own estates. I do not affirm that there is no government in the world but where rule is founded in property; but I say there is no natural, fixed government but where it is so; and, when it is otherwise , the people are perpetually complaining, and the king in perpetual anxiety, always in fear of his suhje cts, and seeking new ways to secure himself; God having been so merciful lo mankind that he has made nothing safe for princes hut what is just and honest. |
Noble Venetian. But you were saying just now that this present constitution in France will fall when the props fail: we in Italy , who live in perpetual fear of the greatness of that kingdom , would be glad to bear something of the decaying of those props; what are they, 1 bescech you ? English Gentleman, The first is the greatness ofthepresent king, whose heroic actions and wisdom have extinguished envy in all his neighbour princes, and kindled fear, and brought him to be above all possibility of control at home; not only because his subjects fear bis courage, hut because they have his virtue in admiration , and , amidst all their miseries, cannot choose but have something of rejoicing to see how high he hath mounted the empire and honourof their nation, The next prop is the change of their ancient constitution, in the time of Charles the Seventh, hy consent; for about that time, the country being so wasted hy the invasions and excursions of the English, the States then assembled petitioned the King that he would give them leave to go home, and dispose of affairs himself and order the government for the future as be thought fit. Upon this his successor , Lewis the Eleventh , being a crafty prince, took an occasion to call the States no more, hut to supply them with an Assemblee des Notables, which wnre certain ii.en of his own nomination , like ISarebonc's parliament here, but that they were of better qualitv. These in succeeding reigns {being the best men of the kingdom) grew troublesome and intractable; so that for some years the edicts have been verified (that is, in our language, bills have been passed) in the Grand Chamber of the Parliament at Paris, commonly called the Clunnhre lt;VAudioivc , who lately and since the imprisonment of President Broussellcs and others during this king's minority, have never refused or scrupled any edicts «hatsoevcr. Kow, whenever this great kingdics, and the States of the kingdom are restored , these two great props of arhitary power arc taken away. Besides these two, the constitution of the government of France itself is somewhat better fitted than ours to permit extraordinary power in the prince ; for the whole people there possessing lands arc gentlemen , that is, infinitely the greater part; which was the reason why in their Assembly of Estates the deputies of the provinces (which wo call here knights of the shire) were chosen by and out of the gentry, and sat with the peers in the same |
27
|
chatiibcr, asrcprtsciiling tlie {jentry only , callod petite noblesse. AVlicrcas our knights here(wliüt-ever llicir blood is) are rljoscn by commoners, and are commoners; our laws and government taking no noticc of any nobility but ibe persons of the peers, ■wbose sons arc likewise commoners , even tbeir eldest, wbilst their father lives. Now gentry are ever more tractable by a prince thana wealthy and numerous commonalty; out of which our gentry (at least those we call so) arc raised from time to time; for whenever either a merchant, lawyer, tradesman, grazier, farmer, or any other, gets such an estate as that lie or his son can live upon bis lands, without exercising of any other calling, he hecotncs a gentleman. I do not say but that we have men very nobly descended amongst these; bnt they have no pre-eminence or distinction by the laws of governmciit. Beside this, the gentry in France are very needy and very numerous ; the reason of w hich is, that the elder brother, iti most parts of that kingdom, has no moie share in the devision of the paternal estate than the cadets or younger brothers, excepting the principal house with the orchards and gardens about it, which they call Pol tie cha/jon, as who should say, As far as a capon can fly at once. This house gives him the title his father had , who was called Seignior, or Baron , or Count of that place; which, if he sells, he parts with his baronship, and , for aught I know, becomes in time roturier , ur ignoble. This practice divides the lands into so many small parcels that the possessors of them, being noble, and having little to maintain thcirnohility,are fain to seek their fortune, which they can find no where so well as at the court, and so become the king's servants and soldiers, for they are generally courageous, hold, and of a good mien. None of these can ever advance themselves but by their desert, which makes them hazard themselves very desperately, by which means great numbers of the mare killed, and the rest come in time to he great officers, and live splendidly upon the king's jiurse, w bo is likewise very liberal lo them, and, according lo their respective merits, gives them often, in the beginning of a campaign , a considerable sum to furnish out their equipage. These are a great prop to the regal power, it being their interest to support it, lest their gain should cease, and they he reduced to be poorprovinddux, that is country gentlemen, again. Whereas, if they had such estates as our country gentry have, they would desire to be at home at tbeir ease ; whilst these (baling ten times as much from the king as their own estate can yield them, which supply must fail if the king's revenue were reduced) are perpetually engaged to make good all exorbitances. |
Doctor. This is a kind of governing by property too; and it puts nic in mind of a gcnlleman of goud estate in our country, who took a tenant's son of his to be his servant, whose father not long after dying bft him a living of about ten pound a-ycar: the young man's friends came to him, and asked him why he would serve now he had an estate of his ow n able to maintain him. His answer was , that bis own lands would yield him hut a third part of w hat his service was worth to him in all ; besides, that he lived a pleasant life, wore good clothes, kept good company, and had the conversation of very pretty maids that were his fellow servants, which made him very well digest the name of being a servant. Enylish Geutlnman. This is the very case. But yet service (in both these cases) is no inheritance; and, when there comes a peaccablc king in France, who will let his neighbours be quiet, or one that is covetous, these fine gentlemen will lose their employments, and tbeir king this prop; and the rather hecauso these gentlemen do not depend (as was said before) in any kind upon the great lords (whose standing interest is at court), and so cannot in a change be by them carried over to advance the court designs against their own good and that uf their country. And thus much is sufficient lo be said concerning France. * |
Oolc in ile geschiedenis van ons land wel hekend, werd, in 1628, te Londen geboren. In 1665 werd hij voor een ge'eime zending rniar den bisschop van Munster gezonden, welke hij üoo goed vulbrngt, dat hij bij zijn terugkeer met den titel van baronet werd vereerd. In 1668 bragt hij de Triple Alliantie tussehen Engeland, Holland en Zweden tot stand, en werd daarna tot .engelsehcn gezant te 's Ilage aangesteld, waar hij met de Will en den jongen prins van Oranje [later William III] op verlrouwelijken voet leefde. In 1669 teruggeroepen , keerde hij niet voor 1074 (erug als gezant te 'sllage, waar hij in 1677 't huwelijk tusselien Maria, oudste dochter van den hertog van York, en den prins van Oranje tot stand bragt. In 1681 verliet hij zijn staatkundige loopbaan, ging rustig leven en oveileed in 1698. Zijn «eiken zijn meestal kleine stukken over verschillende onderwerpen; 't grootste dat hij geleverd heeft, is; Observatiuns n|ion the United Provinces of the Netherlands en Essay on the Original and Nature of Oovermnenl. 11ij schreef nog een aantal kleine verhandelingen, enz., en zijn blief aan de gravin van Esse! , die als een meesterstuk nmg beschouwd worden. Zijn stijl is eenvoudig, duidelijk en bevallig, maar hier en daar van onnaauwkeurigheid niet vrij te pleiten.
211
A DRESSED TO THK COUNTKSS OF ESSIiX IN 1071, AFTER THE DEATH O* HER ONLT DAUGHTER.
|
The lionour whicli I receivcil by a letter from your ladysllip was tooijrcat not to be acknowledjj-cd ; yet I doubted whelber that occasion could bear mc out in the confidence of jpvinjf your ladyship any further trouble. Hut I can no longer forbear, on account of the sensible wounds that have so often of late been given your friends here, by the desperate expressions in several ofyour letters respecting your temper of mind, your heallh, and your life; in nil which you must allow tbem to he extremclyooncerned. Perhaps none can he,at heart, more partial than 1 am to whatever regards your ladyship, nor more inclined to defend you on this very occasion, bow unjust and unkind soe-veryou are to yourself. liul when you throw away your health, or your life, so great a remainder of your own family, and so great hopes of lhat into which you are entered, and all by a desperate melancholy, upon an event past remedy, and to which all the mortal race is perpetually subject, give me le«ve to toll you, madam, that what you do is not at nil consistent either with so good a Christian, or so reasonable and great a person, as your ladyship appears to the world in all other lights. I know no duly in religion more generally agreed on, nor more justly required by God Almighty, than a perfect submission to his will in all things; nor do I thinkany disposition of mind can either please him more, or becomes us better, than tli.it of being satisfied with all he gives, and contented with all be takes away. None, Iain sure, can be of more honour to God, nor of more ease to ourselves. For, if wc consider him as our Maker, we cannot contend with him; if as our Father, we ought not to distrust him; so that we may be confident, whatever he does is intended for good; and whatever happens that we interpret otherwise, yet we can get nothing by repining, nor save anything by resisting. |
But if it werefit for us to reason with God Almighty, and y our ladyship's loss were acknowledged as great as it could have been to any one, yet, I doubt, you would have but ill grace to complain at the rate you have done, or rather as you do; for the first emotions or passions may bo pardoned ; it is only the continuance of tbem whicli makes them inexcusable. In this world, madam, there is nothing perfectly good; and whatever is called so. is but either comparatively with other things of its kind, or else witli the evil that is mingled in its composition ; so be is a good man who is hotter than men commonly are, or in whom llie good qualities are more than the bad; so, in the coursc of life , his condition is esteemed good, which is better than that of most other men, or in which the good circumstances are more than the evil. Ky this measure, I doubt, madam, your complaints ought to be turned into acknowledgments, and your friends would have cause to rejoice rather than to condole with you. When your ladyship has fairly considered how God Al-mighty has dealt with you in what he has given, you may he left to juilge yourself how you have dealt with him in your complaints for what he has taken away. If you look about you , and consider olher lives as well as your own, and what your lot is, in comparison with those that have been drawn in the circle of your know ledge; if you think bow few arc born with honour, how many die without name orehildren. how little beauty we sec, how few friends we hear of, how much poverty, and how many diseases there are in the world, you will fall down upon your knees, and instead of repining at one aflliction, will admire so many blessings as you have received at the hand cfGod. To pul your ladyship in mind of what you are, and of the advantages which you have, would look like a design to flatter you. But this I may say, that we will pity you as much as you please, if you will tell us who they are whom you think, upon all circumstances, you have reason toenvy. Now, if I bad a master who gave me al I I could ask, but thought fit to take one thing from me again, cither because I used it ill, or gave myself so much over lo it as to neglect what I owed to him, or to the world; or, perhaps, because he would show his power, and put me in mind from whom I held all the resl, would you think I had much reason to complain of hard usage, and never to remember any more what was left me, never lo forget what was taken away ? It is true you have lost a child, and all that could be lost in a child of thai age; but you have kept one child, and you are likely to ilo so long ; you have the assurance of another, and the hopes of many more. You have kept a husband, great iu employment, in fortune, and in the esteem of good men. You have kept your heauly and your heallh, unless you have destroyed them yourself, or discouraged them lo stay with you by using them ill. You have friends who are as kind to you as you can wish, or as you can give them leave to be. You have honour and esteem fiom all who know you; or if ever it fails in any degree, it is only upon that point of your seeming to be fallen out with God and the whole world, and neither lo care for yourself, nor anything else, after w hat you have lost. You will say, perhaps, that one thing was all lo you, and your fondness of it made you indilfe-rent to everything else. But this, I doubt, will be so far from justifying you, thai it will prove to |
212
|
liu your fault ns well as your misforluno. God Al-iniijiily jfavi! you all tlii! blessings of life, and you set your heart wholly upon one, and despise or undervalueall the rest: is this his fault or yours? Nay, is it not to be very unthankful to Heaven, as well as very scornful to the rest of the world ? is it not to say, because you have lost one tiling God has given, you thank him fur nothing he has left, and care not what he takes away? is it not to say, since that one thing is gone out of the-world , there is nothing left in it which you think can deserve your kindness or esteem? A friend makes me a feast, and places before me all that his care or kindness could provide: but [ set my heart upon one dish alone, and , if that bap-pens to be thrown down , [ scorn all the rest; and though be sends for another of the same kind , yet 1 rise from the table in a rage, and say, 'My friend is becomc my enemy, and be has done me the greatest wrong in the world.' Havel reason, madam , or good gracquot; in what 1 do? or would it become me belter to eat of the rest that is before me, and think no more of what bad happened, and could not be remedied ? Christianity tenches and commands ns to moderate our passions; to temper our affeclions towards all things below; to be thankful for the possession, and patient under the loss, whenever UE who gave shall see fit to take away. Your extreme foundness was perhaps as displeasing to God before as now your extreme nfiliction is ; and your loss may have been a punishment for your faults in the manner of enjoying what you had. It is at least pious to ascribe all the ill that befalls us to our own demerits, rather than toinjusticc in God. And it becomes us better to adore the issues of bis providence in the effects , than to in-qnire into (lie causes; for submission is the only way of reasoning between a creature and its Maker; and contcntrnent in his will is the greatest duty we can pretend to, and the best remedy we can apply to all our misfortlines. But, madam, though religion wore no parly in your ease , and for so violent anil injurious a grief you had nothing to answer to God, but only to the world and yourself, yet I very much doubt bow you would he acq nil ted. AVe bring into the ■world with us a poor, needy, uncertain life; short at the longest, and unquiet at the best. All the imaginations of ihe witty and the wise have been perpetually busied lo find out the ways to revive it with pleasures, or to relieve it with diversions ; to compose it with ease, and settle it with safety. To these ends have been employed the institutions of lawgivers, the reasonings of philosophers, lbo inventions of poets, the pains of labouring, and the extravagances of voluptuous men. All the world is perpetually at work that our poor mortal lives may pass the easier and happier for that little time we possess them, or else end the belter, when we lose them. On this account riches and honours are coveted , friendship and love pursued, and the virtues themselves admired in the world. Now , madam , it is not to bid defiance to all mankind, to con deinn their universal opinions and designs, if, instead of passing your life as well and easily, you resolve to pass it as ill and miserably as you can? You grow insensible to the conveniences of riches, the delights of honour and praise, the charms of kindness or friendship; nay, to the observance or applause of virtues themselves ; for who can you expect, in these excesses of passions, will allow that you show either temperance or fortitude, either [irudcnce or justice? And as for your friends, J suppose you reckon upon losing their kindness, when you have sulliclently convinced them they can never hope for any of yours, since you have left none for yourself,or anything else. |
Passions are perhaps the stings without which, it is said , no honey is made. Yet I think all sorts of men have ever agreed, they ought lo be our servants and not our masters; lo give us some agitation for entertainment or exercise, but never to throw our reason out of ils seat. It is better to have no passions at all, than lo have them too violent; or such alone as, instead of beigbten-ing our pleasures, afford us nothing but vexation and |mn. In all such losses as your ladyship's has been , there is something that eommon nature cannot be denied ; there is a great deal that good nature may he allowed. But all excessive and outrageous grief or lamenlal ion for the dead was accounted, among ihe ancient Christians, to have something heathenish ; and , among the civil nations of old, to have something harliarous : and therefore it has been the care of the fust to moderate it by their laws. When young children are laken away, we are sure they arc well, and escape much ill. which would, in all apparance. have befallen them if liiey bad stayed longer with us. Our kindness to lliem is deemed to proceed from cominon opinions or fond imaginations, not friendship or esteem ; and to be grounded upon entertainment rather than use in the many offices of life. Nor would it pass from any person besides your ladyship , to say you lost a companion and a friend of nine years old ; tlioir;li you lost one, indeed, w ho gave the fairest hopes that could be of being both in time and everything else that is estimahleand good. I!ut yet that itself is very uncertain , considering the chances of time, the infection of company , the snares of the world , and the passions of youth: so that ihe most excellent and agreeable ercature of that tender age might, by the cours of years and accidents, heconie the most miserable herself; and a greater trouble to her friends by living long, than she could have been by dying young. |
215
|
Vut aflci' all, madam , I ihmk your loss so great, and some measure of your grief so deserved, that, woulil all your passionate complaints, all the anguish of your heart, do anything to retrieve it; could tears water the lovely plant, so as to make it grow again after once it is cut down; could sighs furnish new breath , or could it draw life and spirits from the wasting of yours , I am sure your friends would he so far from accusing your passion, that they would encourage it as much , and share it as deeply, as they could. I!ut alas I the eternal laws of the creation extinguish all such hopes, forbid all such designs; nature gives us many children and friends to take them away, hut takes none away to give tliein to us again. And this makes the excesses of grief to he universally condemned as unnatural , because so much in vain; whereas nature does nothing in vain : as unreasonable, because so contrary to our own designs; for we all design to he well and at ease, and by grief we make ourselves troubles most properly out of the dust, whilst our ravings and complaints are but like arrows shot up into the air at no mark, and so to no purpose, but only to fall back upon our own heads and destroy ourselves. Perhaps, madam, you will say this is your design, or, if not, your desire ; but I hope you are not yet so far gone or so desperately bent. Your ladyship knows very well your life is not your own, but His who lent it you to manage and preserve in the best way you can , and not to throw it away , as if it came from some common hand. Our life belongs, in a great measure, to our country and our family: therefore, by all human laws, as well ns divine , self-murder has ever been agreed upon as the greatest crime; and it is punished here with the utmost shame, which is all that can be inflicted upon the dead, lint is the crime much less to kill ourselves by a slow poison than by a sudden wound? Now, if wo do it. and know we do it, by a long and continual grief, can we think ourselves innocent ? What great difference is there, if we break our hearts or consume them, if wo pierce them or bruise them ; since all terminates in the same death , as all arises from the same despair? But what if it does not go so far; it is not, indeed, so had as it might be, hut that does not excuse it. Though I do not kill my neighbour, is it no hurt to wound him , or to spoil him of the conveniences of life? The greatest crime is fora man to kill himself: is it a small one to wound himself by anguish of heart, by grief, or despair ; to ruin bis health, to shorten his age, to deprive himself of all the pleasure , ease, and enjoyment of life? |
Next to the mischiefs which we do ourselves, are those which we do our children and our friends, who deserve best of us, or at least deserve no ill. The child you carry about you, what has it done that you should endeavour to deprive it of life almost as soon as you bestow it? — or, if you suffer it to be born . that you should , by your ill-usage of yourself, so much impair the strength of its body, and perhaps the verv temper of its mind, by giving it such an inlusion of melancholy as may serve to discolour the objects and disrelish the accidents it may meet with in the common train of life? Would it he a small injury to my lord Capell to deprive him of a mother, from whose prudence and kindness be may justly expect the care of his health and education , the forming of his body, and the cultivating of his mind ; the seeds of honour and virtue, and the true principles of a happy life ? Mow has l ord Kssex deserved that you should deprive him of a wife whom be loves with so much passion, and, which is more, with so much reason; who is so great an honour and support to his family, so great a hope to his fortune, and comfort to bis life? Are there so many left of your own great family that you should desire in a manner wholly to reduce it, by suffering almost the last branch of it to wither away before its time? or is your country, in this age, so stored with great persons, that you should envy it those whom we may justly expect from so noble a race? Whilst 1 had any hopes that your tears would case you , or that your grief would consume itself by liberty and time, your ladyship knows very well I never accused it, nor ever increased it by the common formal ways of attempting to assuage it: and this, 1 am sure, is the fust office of the kind 1 ever performed , otherwise than in the most ordinary forms. I was in hopes what was so violent could no be long ; but when 1 observed it to grow stronger with age, and increase like a stream the further it ran: when I saw it draw out to such unhappy consequences, and threaten not less than your child , your health . and your life, I eoubl no longer forbear this endeavour, IVor can I end it without begging of your ladyship, for fioil's sake, for yonr own , for that of your children and your friends, your country and yonr familly, that you would no longer abandon yourself to so disconsolate a passion; hut that you would at length awaken your piety, give way to your prudence, or , at least, rouse up the invin-cihle spirit of the 1'crcies, which neveryet shrunk at any disaster; that you would sometimes remember the great honours and fortunes of your fiimily , not always the losses; cherish those veins of good humour that are so natural to you, and scar up those of ill , that w ould make you so unkind to your children and to yourself; and, above all, that yon would enter upon the cares of your health and your life. For my part, 1 know nothing that could be so great an honourand a sat isfaetiou to me, as if your ladyship would own mc to have countrihuted towards this cure; but, however, none can perhaps more justly pretend your pardon for the attempt, since there is none,! am |
214
sure , who lias always liail at liearl a greater lio- | more esteem for you, llian , inadam , your most nour for your ladyship's family, nor can have j obedient an most humhle servant.
(Zie bldz. 175.)
X Comparison between Ovid and Chaucer.
From the preface prefixed to the fables.
|
*1 proceed to Ovid and Chaucer; considering the former only in relation to the latter. With Ovid ended the golden age of the lloman tongue: from Chaucer the purity of the English tongue hegan. The manners of the poets were not unlike : hoth of them were well hred, well-natured, amorous, and libertine, at least in their writings, it tnay he also in their lives. Their studies were the same, philosophy and philology. Both of them were known in astronomy, of which Ovid's hooks of the Roman feasts, and Chancers treatise of the Astrolabe, are sulllcicnt witnesses, (inl Chaucer was likewise an astrologer, as were Virgil,Horace, Persius, and Manilius. Itoth writ with wonderful facility and clearness ; neither were great inventors: for Ovid only copied the Grecian fables; and most of Chaucer's stories were taken from his Italian contemporaries, or their predecessors. Uoc-cace's Decameron was first published; and from thence our Knglisman had borrowed many of his Canterbuy tales: yet that of Palamon and Arcite was written in all probability by some Italian wit,ina former age; as I shall prove hereafter: the tale of Gri/.ild was tlie invention ofl'ertrach; by him sent to Boecace; from whom itcame to Chaucer; 'J'roilus and Cressida was also written by a Lombard author; lint much amplified by our English translator, as well as beautified; the genius of our contrymen in general being rather to improve an invention, than to invent themselves; as iscvident not only in our poetry, hut in many of our manufactures. I find I haveantici' pated already, and taken up from Iloccace before I come to him; but there is so much less behind; and I am of the temper of most kings, who love to be in debt; are all for present money, no matter how t hey pay it afterwards; besides, the nature ofa preface is rambling; never wholly out of the way, nor in it. This I have learned from the practice of honest Honlaign, and return at my pleasure to Ovid and Chancer, of whom I have little more to say. Both of them built on the inventions of other men; yet since Chancer had something of his own, as The AVife of Bath's Tale, The Cock and the Fox, which I have translated, and some others, I may justly give our countryman the precedence in that part; since I can remember nothing of Ovid which was wholly ii is. Both of I hem understood the manners underwhieh name I comprehend the passions, and in a larger sense, the descriptions of persons, and their very habits; for an example , 1 sec Baucis and Philemon as per-lectly before me, as if some ancient painter had drawn them; and all the pilgrims in the Canterbury tales, their hnmours, their featn-tures, and the very ilrcss, as distinctly as if i had hepped with them at the Tabbard in Sonthwark; yet even there too the figures in Chaucer are much more lively, and set in a better light: which though I have not time to prove; yet I appeal to the reader, and am sure he will elear me from partiality. The thoughts and words remain to he considered in the comparison of the two poets; and I have saved rnyselfone halfof that labour, by owning that Ovid lived when the Roman tongue was in its meridian ; Chaucer, in the dawning of o. ir language: therefore that part of the comparison stands not on an equal foot, any more than the diction of Ennius and Ovid ; or of Chaucer and our present English.1 |
from the preface prefixed to the translations from theocritus, lucretius and horace.
|
digesting of those few good authors we have amongst us, the knowledge of men and manners, the freedom of hahitndes and conversation with the best of company of both sexes; and, in short, without wearing oil'the rust which he contracted while he was laying in a slock of learning. |
There are many who understand Greek and Latin, and yet are ignorant of their mother tongue. The proprieties and delicacies of the English are known to few : it is impossible even for a good wit to understand and practise them, without the help ofa liberal education , long reading, and
21gt;gt;
|
Thus (liflicult it is to umlerstaml the purity of English, and critically tinlisrern not only (jood writers from bad, and - i i.-jc r slylc Inun a ror-rupt, hul also lodisii h tiiai wInch is pure in a {joo»l iiullior, fio ». ili i wiiicii is \icious and corrupt in him. Ami for waul of all llicserequisites, or the greatest part of them , most of our ingenious younj; men take up some cryM-up Knjj-ligt;h j)0('l for their model « adore him, and imitate him,as they thiuK, i I liout knowing; w in rein he is defective, where he is hoyish and triilinjf, wherein either his thought are improper to his subject, or his expressions unworthy of his thoughts, or the turn of hoth is uniiarrnonious. ' |
Thus it appears neeessary, that a man should he a nice critic in his mother tongue, before he attempts to translate a foreign lan{|ualt;;c. i\either is it suilicient, that he he aide to judfje of words and style ; hut he must he a master of thcin loo: he nm.-t perfectly umlei stand his author's tongue, and ahsolutely eommand his own. So that , to he a thorou;;h translator, he must he a thorough poet. Keiiher is il enou;;h to {;ive his author's sense m yood Kn»|lish , in poetical expressioris and iti musical numhres; for, iliou^h all these are exceeding didieult to perform, there yet remains an harder task; and it is a secret of which few translators have sulïicicntly thought.* |
Do grootste wijsgeer van zijn tijd, beoefende aanvankelijk de geneeskunile, doch zijn ziekelijke toestand noodzaakte hem die studiën te staken. Hij begon zich nu toe te leggen op de beoefening van do natuurlijke ea bespiegelenJo wijsbegeerte. 1 lij leefde van 1632 tot 1704. Behalven zijn Adversariorum Methodus, or New Method of a Common-Place- Book, voor 1086 verschi nen, en zijn bekende verhandeling en First letter Concerning Toleration (in Holland in't latijn geschreven en in 1689 te Gonda uitgegeven), werd in 'l engelsch of met zijn naam niets voor 1690 uitgegeven ; in dal jnar verscheen zijn zoowel in Engeland als in andere landen zoo zeer van hem bekende verhandeling Essay concerning Human Understanding (te Amsterdam voltooid), die'tzelfdo jaar nog gevolgd werd van een Second Letter on Toleration en twee Treatises on Civil Government. Daarna verschenen achtereen van hein: Considerations on Lowering the Interest of Money (1691); Third Letter on Toleration (1692) ; Thougbls concerning Education (1G93) ; The Reasonableness of Christianity (1095); en verschillende tractaten sedert dat jaar tot aan zijn duud. Daarna weiden vau hem uitgegeven Un the Conduct of the Understanding en verscheidene theologische verhandelingen.
|
We are born willi faculties anil powers capable of ulmost any ibin/r, such at least as would carry us furlber than can be easily imagined; but it is only tbc exercise of tbese powers w bicb gives us ability and skill in anything, and leads us towards perfection. A middle-aged ploughman will scarce ever be brought to the carriage and language ofa gentleman , though bis body be as well-proportioned , and his joints as supple, and bis natural parts not any way inferior. The legs of a dancing-master, and the fingers of a musician, full, as it were, naturally without thought or pains, into regular and admirable motions. Bid tbem change their parts, and they will in vain endeavour to produce like motions in the members not used to llicrn,niid it will require length of lime and long practice to attain but some degrees ofa like ability. AVhat incredible and astonishing actions do we find rope-dancers and tumblers bring their bodies to! not but that sundiy in almost all manual arts are as wonderful; but 1 name those ■which the world takes notice of for such, because, on I bat very account, I hey give money to see t hem. All these admired molions, beyond the reach and almost the conception of unpractised spectators, are nothing but the mere eft'ects of use and industry in men , whose bodies have nothings peculiar in them from those of I he amazed lookerson. |
As it is in the body, so it, is in the mind , practice makes it what it is; and most even of those excellencies which are looked on as natural endowments, will be found , when examined into more narrow ly, to he the product of exercise, and to be raised to that pitch only by repeated actiuns. Some men are remarked for pleasantness in raillery; others for apologues and apposite diverting stories. This is apt to be taken for the clFect of pure nature, and that the rather, because it is not got by rules, and those who excel in cither of them, never purposely set themselves to tbestudy of il as an art to he learnt. I!ul yet it is true, that at first some lucky bit which took with so-mebody, and gained bun commendation, encouraged him to try again , inclined his thoughts and endeavours that way, till atlasthe insensibly got afacllity in it withoutperceivinghow; and thatis attributed wholly to nature, which was more the effect of use. and practice. I do not deny that natural disposition may ollen give the first rise to it; but that never carries a man far without use and exercise, and it is practice alone that brings the powers of the mind as well as those of the body to their perfection. Many a good poe- |
216
|
lie vuin is buricl under a trade, and never pro-(1 uers any thing for want of improvement. AV'e seethe ways of discourse and reasoning are very different, even concerning the fame matter, at court and in the university. And lie that will go from Westminster Hall to the Kxcliange, will find a different genius and turn in their ways of talking; and one cannot think that all whose lot fell in the city were horn with different parts from those who were bred at the university or inns of court. |
To what purpose all this, lint to show that the difference, so observable in men's understandings and parts, does not arise so mucli fiom the natural faculties, as acquired liabits ? He would be laughed at who should go about to make a line dancer out of a country hedger at past fifty. And be will not have inucb better success who shall endeavour at that age to make a man reason will, or speak handsomely, who has never been used to it, though you should lay before him a collection of all the best precepts of logic or oratory. Nobody is made any thing by bearing of rules, or laying them up in his memory; practice must settle the habit of doing without reflecting on the rule; and yon may as well liope to make a good painter or musician, extempore, by a lecture and instriiction in the arts of music and painting, as a coherent thinker, or strict reasoner, by a set of rules, showing him wherein riijbt reasoning consists. Th is being so , that defects and weakness in men's understandings, as well as other faculties, come from want of a right use of their own minds, I am apt to think the fault is jjenerally mislaid upon nature, and there is often a complaint of want of parts, when the fault lies in want of a due iniproveinenl of them. AVe see men frequently dexterous and sharp enough in making a bargain , who, if you reason with them about matters of religion, appear perfectly stupid. |
|
Those who have read of every tiling arc tbougbt to understand every thing too, but it is not always so. Heading furnishes the mind only with materials of knowledge: it is thinking makes what we read ours. Wc are of the ruminating kind, an 1 it is not enough to cram ourselves with a great load of collections; unless we chew them over again, tliey will not give us strength and nourishment. There are indeed in some writers visible instancesofdeep thoujjht, close and acute reasoning, and ideas well pursued. The light these would give, would be of great use, if their readers would observe and imitate them : all the rest, at best are but particularly (it lo be turned into knowledge; but that can be done only hy ourown meditation , and examining ihe reach , force, and coherence, of what is said ; and then, as far as we apprehend and see the connexion of ideas, so far is it ours ; without that, it is but so much loose matter floating in our brain. The memory may be stored, but the judgment is lilllc better, and the stock of knowledge not increased by being able to repeat what others have said , or produce the arguments we have found in them. Such a knowledge as this is but knowledge by hearsay, and the ostentation of it is at best but talking by rote, and very often upon weak and wrong principles. For all that is to be found in books , is not be built upon true foundations,nor always rightly deduced from the principles it is pretended to built on. Such an examen as is requisite to discover that, every reader's mind isnotfoward lo make; especially in those who have given themselves up to a party, and only huut for w hat they can scrape together, that may favour and suji-port the tenets of it. Such men willfully exclude themselves from truth, and from all true benefit to be received by reading. Others of more in-diffcrency often want attention and industry. The mind is backward in itself to be at ihe pains to trace every argument to its original, and lo see upon what basis it stands, and how firmly; but yet it is this that gives so much the advantage to one man more than another in reading. The mind should , hy severe rules, be tied down to this, at first uneasy, task; use and exercise will give it facility. So that those who are accustomed lo it, readily, as it were with one cast of the eye, take a view of the argument, and presently, in most cases, see where it bottoms. Those who have got ibis faculty, one may say, have got the true key of books, and the clue lo lead them through the mi/.mate of variety of opinions and authors to truth and certainty. This young beginners should be entered in ,and shewed ,1 he use of, that they might profit by their reading. Those who are strangers to it, will be apt to think it too great a clog in the way of men's studies; and they will suspect they shall make but small progress, if, in the books they read, they must stand to examine and unravel every argument, and follow it step by step up to its original. |
1 answer, this is a good ohjeclion, and ought lo weigh with those whose reading is designed for much talk and little knowledge, and 1 have nothing lo say to it. But I am here inquiring into the conduct of the understanding in its progress towards knowledge; and to those w ho aim at that, I may say, that lie who fair and softly goes steadily forward in a course that points right, will sooner be at his journey's end , than he that runs |
|
after every one lie meets, though he gallop all day fullspeeil. To gt;\hieh let me add, that this way of thlnk-iiiff on and profiling hy what we read, will he a clog and ruh to any one only in the heginning ; when custom and exercise has made it familiar, it will he dispatched, in Hie most occasions, without resting or interruption in the course cf our reading. The motions and uews of a mind exer- The infinitely wise Author of our being, having given us the power over several parts of our hollies, to move or keep tliemat rest, as wc think fit; and also, hy the molioii of them, to move ourselves and contiguous bodies, in which consists all the actions of our body; having also given a power toouimind, in several instances, to choose amongst its ideas which it will think on, and to pursue ihe inquiry of this or that subject with consideration and attention; lo excite us to these actions of thinliing and motion thai wear1 capable of, lias been pleased to join lo several ihoughts, and several sensations, a perception of delight. If this weie wholly separated from all our outward sensations and inward thoughts, we should have no reason to prefer one thought or action to another. negligence to attention { or innlion to rest. And so we should neither stir our bodies nor employ our minds; but let our thoughts (if I may so call it) run adrift, without any direction or design ; and suffer the ideas of our minds, like unregarded shadows, to make their appearances there, as it happened , wilhout attending lo them. In which stale, man, however furnished wiili the faculties of understanding and will, would be a very idle inactive creature, and pass his time only in a la/.y lethargic dream, II has, therefore, pleased our wise Crcalor to annex loseveral ohjccls, and the ideas which we rccehe from them , as also to several of our ihoughts, a eon coin it.ml pleasure, and that in several objects lo several degrees, that those faculties which he had endowed us with might not remain wholly idle and unemployed by us. Pain has the same efficacy and use to set us at work that pleasure has; we being as ready to employ oui faculties to avoid that, as to purpose this; only this is worth our consideration , 'that pain is often produced by the same objects and ideas that produce pleasure in us.' This, their near conjunction , which makes ns often feel pain in the sensations where we expected pleasure, gives us new occasion of admiring the wisdom and goodness of our Maker, who, designing the preservation of our being, has annexed pain to |
cised that way, are wonderfully quick; and a man used to such sort of reflections, sees as niuch at one glimpse, as would require a long discourse to lay before another, and make onl in an entire and gradual deduction. Besides, that when the first difficulties are over, the delight and sensible advantage it brings, mightily encourages and enlivens the mind in reading, which, without this, is very improperly called study. the application of many things lo our bodies, lo warn us of the harm that they will do, and as advices lo withdraw from lliem. lint lie, not designing our preservation barely, but the preservation of every pari and organ in its perfection, bath, in many cases, annexed pain lo ihosevery ideas, which delight us. Thus heal, thai is very agreeable lo us in one degree, by a little greater increase of it, proves no ordinary torment; and the most pleasant of all sensible objects, light itself, if there be too much of it, if increased beyond a due proportion to our eyes, causes a very painful sensation ; which is wisely and favourably so ordered by nature, that when any object does, by the vehemency of its operation, disorder the inslrumenls of sensation, whose structures cannot hut he very nice and delicate, we might, by the pain, be warned lo withdraw, before the organ be quite put oul of order, and so he unfilled for ils proper function for ihe future. The consideralion of those ohjccls that produce it may well persuade us, that this is the end or use of pain. For though great light be in suflerable to our eyes, yet the highest degree of daikness docs not at all disease them; because I hal causing no disorderly motion in it, leaves that cuiious organ unharmed in its natural stale. But yet excess of cob!, as well as heat, pains us; because it is equally destructive lo thai temper, which is necessary lo ihe preservation of life, and the exercise of ihe several functions of the body, and which consists in a moderate degree of warmth, or, if you please, a motion of the insensible parts of our bodies, confined within certain hounds. Beyond all this, we may find another reason why (iod hath scattered uj) and down several degrees of pleasure and pain in all the things that cm iron and a 1 Feel us, and blended them together in alinost all lhal our thoughts and senses have to do willi;lhat we finding imperfection, dissalis-faction, and want of complete happiness, in all theeiijoymciits which the creatures can afford us, might he led lo seek it in the enjoyment of Him 'with whom there is fulness of joy, and at whose righl hand are pleasures for ever more'. |
218
Bisschop van Salisbury, overlceil op twee-en-zeventipjnrigen leeftijd, in 1715. Van de 145 verschillende stuliken , die zijn vruclilbnre pen leverde, tnssehen 1009 en 1715, schreef hij 71 (21 (jeschiedkundige geschriften, en 50 prefiken en trnkta(en) vóór de omwenteling, 30 (5 geschiedkundige stukken en 31 preêken en trnktakcn), tot nan do regering van Willem 111, 38 (I geschiedkundig werk en 37 vlug-schriften) na dien tijd. Hij leverde echter slechts drie ecschiedkundige werken van omvang: Memooirs of the Dukes of Hamilton (1070); History of the reformation of ihe Church of England, 3 vol. fol. (1079, 1081, 1714), History of my own Time, 2 vol. fol. (1723, 1724). Tot de helnngrijksle en meest bekende van zijn kleinere stukken behooren: An Account of the Life and Death of the Right Hounorable John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1080); Life of Sir llallhcw Male (1083); Life of Bishop Bedell (1085); Travels through France, Italy, Germany and Switzerland (1085); Exposition of the Thirty-Nine Articles of the Church of England (1099). Vooral zijn drie hierboven genoemde werken zullen , om hun geschiedkundige waarde , den naam van den schrijver voor de nakomelingschap bewaren , daar zij immer onder de oorspronkelijke bronnen der geschiedenis van Engeland zullen gerangschikt worden ; zijn stijl heeft echter geringe verdiensten.
I'IIOM TUE HISTORY Of MI OWN TIMKS.
|
*He was the {;rcalest instancn in history of tlie various revolutions, of'wliicli any one man seemed capable, lie was bred tip the first twelve years of bis life witli tbe splendour that became the licir of so great a crown. After that be passed througb eighteen years of great inequalities; un-bappy in the war, in tbe loss of his father, and of tbe crown of England. Scotland did not only receive him,though upon terms hard of digest ion, but made an atlempt u|ion England for him , though a feeble one. He lost tbe battle of W orcester with too much indifference*. He wandered about England for ten weeks after that, hiding from place to place. But, under all tbe apprehensions be had then upon him, he showed a temper so careless, and so much turned to levity, that he was then diverting himself with little household sports, in as unconcerned a manner as if lie had made no loss, and bad been in no danger at all. lie got at last out of Kngland*. While be was abroad at Paris, Cologne , or Brussels, he never seemed to lay anything to heart. He pursued all his diversions and irregular pleasures in a free career, and seemed to be as serene under tbe loss of a crow n as the greatest philosopher could have been*. That in which beseemed most concerned was to find money to support his expense*. During his exile, he delivered himself so entirely to his pleasures, that bo became incapable of application. He spent little ol bis time in reading or study, and yet less in thinking*. And he bad so ill an opinion of mankind , that he thought the great art of living and governing was, to manage all things and all persons with a depth of craft and dissimulation. And in that few men in the world could put on tbe appearances of sincerily better than he could ; under which so much artifice was usually bid, that in conclusion he could deceive none, for all were become mistrustful of him.* He was, (luring the active part of life, given up to sloth and lewdness to such a degree, that be baled |
business, and could not bear the engaging in anything that gave him much trouble, or put him under any constraint. And though he desired to become absolute, and to overturn both our religion and our laws, yet he would neither run the risk, nor give himself tbe trouble, which so great a design required*. He was opt toforgiveall crimes, even blood itself, yet he never forgave anything that was done against himself.... *Wben he saw young men of quality, who had something more than ordinary in them , he drew them about him , and set himself to corrupt them both in religion and morality; in which he proved so unhappily successful, that he left England much changed at bis death from what be had found it at bis restoration (ICtJO).* His person and temper, his vices as well as bis fortunes, resemble the character of Tiberius so much , that it were easy to draw the parallel between them. Tiberius's banishment, and his j coming afterwards to reign,makes the comparison in that respect come pretty near. His hating of business, and his love of pleasures; bis raising of favourites, and trusting them entirely; and bis pulling them down, and bating them excessively; bis art of covering deep designs, particularly of revenge, with an appearance of softness, brings them so near a likeness, that I did not wonder much to observe tbe resemblance of their faces and persons. At Home, I saw one of the last statues made for Tiberius, after be had lost his teeth. But bathing the alteration which that made, it was so like king Charles, that Prince Borghese and Signior Doininico, to whom it belonged, did agree with me in thinking, that it looked likea statue made for him.* His ill conduct in the first Dutch war, and those terrible calamities of the plague and fire of London, with that loss and reproach which be suffered by the insult at. Chatham, made all people conclude there was a curse upon his government.* |
FOURTH PERIOD.
PROM THE REIGN OP QUEEN ANNE TILL THE YEAR 1780.
' ■ • ■ ■ ■ • • . ■ ■ .........
DRAMATISTS AND WITS OF THE LATTER PART OF THE I7TH CENTURY
Van dezen staatsman en (lichter bestonden reeds in 1083 latijnsche en in 1088 engolsche verzen in druk; terwijl hij zich in 1087 onderscheiden had door The Hind and Panther, transverted to the Story of the Conntry-inouae and City-u.ouse. waardoor hij 't gedicht The Hind and Panther van Dryden in een bespottelijk licht stelde. Na 't uitgeven van zijn Ode presented to the King on his Majesty's arrival in Holland (1095) bekleedde hij zeer aanzienlijke staatsambten, In 1700 schreef hij zijn Carmen Secu-lare, een van zijn grootste en verdienstelijkste stukken; vervolgens zag van hem't licht: Letter to Mr. Boileau, occasioned by the victory of Hlenheim, (1701); Ode on the glorious success of her Majesty's Arms, in 1706, terwijl hij van 1715 tot 1717 om den tijd in zijn gevangenis te korlen, zijn Alma, or the Progress of the Mind schreef: daarna leverde hij zijn Solomon , or the Vanity of the world en besloot hij tot de uitgave van al zijn dichtwerken. Kort voor zijn overlijden (1001—1721) arbeidde hij aan een History of his Own Times, doch voltooide haar niet. Zijn werken worden verdeeld in Tales, Love Verses, Occasional Poems, Alma, or the Progress of the Mind, and Solomon, or the Vanity of the World. Zijn Tales zijn zeer populair en geestig; en do versmaat is vloeijend. Zijn Love Verses zijn van minder dichterlijke waarde; van do Occasional Poems , die door den tijd natnurlijkerwijs hun populariteit moesten verliezen , verdienen thans evenwel nog de boertige Letter to nir. Boileau amp;c. ; de Odes to the King , de Ode on the glorious success of her Majesty's Arms, in 1700 , en 't Carmen Scculare bijzondere vermelding. Onder zijn Epigrams zijn er, die zeer bevallig geschreven zijn. Do paraphrase On St. Paul's exhortation to Charity is uitnemend fraai. De Alma, een navolging, naar men wil, van den Hudibras, is volgens Pope een van ziju beste stukken, terwijl de Solsmon , hoewel veel goeds behelzende, door eentoonig-heid den lezer vermoeit.
|
Hans Carvel, impotent and old , Married a lass of London mould: Handsome ? cnoult;;li; extremely (jay; Lov'd music , company, and play ; High llijjlits she had , and wit and will; And so her tongue lay seldom still: For in all visits would hut she , To argue, or to repartee ? She made it plain , that human passion Was order'd hy predestination; That, if weak women went astray, Their stars were more in laull than they; Whole tragedies she had hy heart; Enter'd into Uoxana's part: To triumph in her rival's hlood , The action certainly was good. How like a vine young Amnion curl'd ! Oh that dear conqueror of the world I She Bcttcrton in age , 1 hat ridicul'd the god-like rage. She , first of all the town , was told, Where newest India things were sold : So in a morning, without bodice. Slipt some times out to Mrs. Thody's ; To cheapen tea , to huy a screen : What else could so much virtue mean ' |
For , to prevent the least reproach , lietty went with her in the coach. But, when no very great affair lixcited her peculiar care. She without fail was wak'd .it ten ; Drank chocolate, then slept again : At twelve she rose ; with much ado Her clothes were huddled on hy two ; Then , does my lady dine at home? Yes, Sure! — But is the Colonel come ? Next, how to spend the afternoon , And not come home again loo soon ; The Change , the City, or t lie Play, As each was proper for the day: A turn in summer to Hyde-Park , When it grew tolerably dark. Wife's pleasure causes husband's pain ; Strange fancies come in Ilans's brain : He thought of what he did not name ; And would reform , but durst not blame. At first he therefore preaeh'd his wife The comforts of a pious life : Told her, how transient beauty was; That all must die , and flesh was grass; He bought her sermons, psalms, and graces; And doubled down the useful places. |
222
|
But still the wuijrht of woi-Mlj caie Allow'd lier littlu time for prayer : And Cleopatra was read o'er ; While Scot, and WaKe , and twenty more, That teach one to deny one's self. Stood unmolested on the shelf. An untouch'd hihle grae'd her toilet : No fear that thumb of hers should spoil it. In short, the trade was still the same: The dame went out: the colonel came. What's to he done? poor CarTel cry'd ; Another battery must be try'd: What if to spells 1 had recourse? 'Tis hut to hinder something worse. The end must justify tbe means ; He only sins w ho ill intends : Since therefore't is to combat evil; 'T is lawful to employ the devil. Foi thwitli the devil did appear (For name him, and he's always near); Not in the shape in which he plies At Miss's elbow when she lies; Or stands before tbe nursery doors, To take the naughty boy that roars: But, without fawcer eye or claw. Like a grave barrister at law. Hans Carvel, lay aside your grief, Tbe devil says; I bring relief. Relief ! says Hans: pray , let me crave Your name. Sir —Satan —Sir, your slave; I did not look upon your feet: You'll pardon me: — Ay, now 1 see't: And pray, Sir , when came you from hell? Our friends there, did you leave them well ? |
All well; but pr'ytbee, honest Hans , (Says Satan) leave your complaisance : Tbe truth is this : I cannot stay Flaring in sun-sbine all tbe day : For , cntre nous , we hellish sprites Love more the fresco of the nights , And oftener our receipts convey In dreams , than any other way. I tell you therefore as a friend , Ere morning dawns, your fears shall end Go then tbis evening, master Carvel, Lay down your fowls, and broach your barrel; Let friends and wine dissolve your care; Whilst I the great receipt prepare: To-night I'll bring ic, by my faith ! Kelievc for once what Satan saith. Away went Hans, glad ? not a little ; Obey'd the devil to a title:; Invited friends sonic half a dozen , Tbe colonel and my lady's cousin. Tbe meat was serv'd; the bowls were crown'd ; Catches were sung; and healths went round Barhadoes waters for the close ; Till Hans had fairly got bis dose : The colonel toasted 'lto tbe best:quot; The dame mov'd off, to be undrcst: The chimes went twelve: the guests withdrew: But, when, or bow , Hans hardly knew. Some modern anecdotes aver , He nodded in his elbow chair; From thence was carried oil' to bed : John held his heels, and Nan his bead. My lady was disturb'd : new sorrow ! Which Hans must answer for to-morrow.* |
A I'AIIAPIIRASE ON TUE TIIIUÏEENTH CHAI'TEB OF TUE FIRST EFtSTLE TO TUE COBINTIIIANS.
|
Did sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue, Than ever man pronouno'd, or angels sung; Had I all knowledge, human and divine. That thought can reach, or science can define; And had 1 power to give that knowledge birth , In all the speeches of the babbling earth; Did Shadracb's zeal my glowing breast inspire, To weary tortures, and rejoice in fire ; Or bad 1 faith like that which Israel saw When Moses gave them miracles and law: Yet, gracious Charity, indulgent guest, Where not thy power exerted in my breast. Those spccches would send up unheeded prayer ; Tbat scorn of life would be but wild despair; A tymbal's sound were better than my voice ; My faith were form, my eloquence were noise. Charity, decent, modest, easy, kind, Softens the high, and rears the abject mind, Knows with just reins and gentle band to guide. |
Betwixt \ile shame and arbitrary pride. Not soon provok'd , she easily forgives ; And much she suffers, as she much believes. Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives; She builds our quiet, as she forms our lives ; Lays tbe rough paths of peevish nature even, And opens in each heart a little heaven. Each other gift, which God on man bestows. Its proper bound and duo restriction knows; To one fixt purpose dedicates its power, And, finishing its aet, exists no more. Thus in obedience to what Heaven decrees , Knowledge shall fail, and prophecy shall ccase ; But lasting Charity's more ample sway , Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay , In happy triumph shall for ever live, And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive. As, through tbe artist's intervening glass , Our eye observes the distant planets pass. |
225
|
A little we discover, luit allow. 'J'liat more remains unseen, than art can show : So, wliilst our mind its knowledge would improve. (Its fecl)lc eye intent on things above), High as we muy, we lift our reason up, liy faith directed, and confirm'd hy hope: Yet we are aide only lo survey Dawning of hcams, and promises of day. Heaven's fuller iflluenee mocks our da/./.led sight: Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light. ISut soon the mediate clouds shall he dispcll'd ; The sun shall soon he face to face beheld , |
In all his robes, with all bis glory on, Seated sublime on his meridian throng. Then constant faith and holy hope shall die, One lost in certainly , and one in joy ; Whilst thou, more happy power, fair Charity. Triumphant sister, greatest of the three, Thy olliceand thy nature still the same. Lasting thy lamp, and unconsum'd thy llame , Shalt still survive — Shall stand before the host of heaven confest, For ever blessing, and for ever blest. |
Is ongetwijfeld de grootste satiricus van zijn tijd. Ofschoon hij in den beginne weinig aanleg toonde to bezitten , bragt hij -'t echter weldra zeer ver. Keeds op zijn negentiende jaar schreef hij The Tale of the Tub, dat echter eerst in IVO'! door den druk bekend werd. Omstreeks IfiUü voltooiile hij Rattle of tho Dooks en in 1701 verscheen A Discourse of the Contests anil Dissentions in Athens and Koine, 't cenig werk, dat hij voor 't zijne verklaarde [al zijn werken versebeneii naamloos]. Aehtervolgens zagen nu 't licht: The Chureh-of-Eugland Man amp;e. (1708); l'ioject for tbc advaueenuMit of religion, (1709); Tbo Examiner , (1710); Lctler to tbc October Club, (1711) en zijn vermaarde staalkundige verhandeling: Tbo Conduct of the Allies [in ccne maand werden niet minder dan 11000 exemplaren daarvan verkocht], welke gevolgd werd door een Harrier Treaty en Hemtirk on tbc Bishop of Surom's Introduction to the third volume of his History of the Reformation. Zijn satire The Windsor Prophecy kostte hem een bisschopszetel. Ziju fraai dichtstuk Cadenus and Vanessa schreef hij in 1713, teruijl hij na den dood van koningin Anna zijn History of tbc four last years of Queen Anne voltooide , die eebter niet aan de daarvan gekoesterde verwachting voldeed. Reeds iu 1720 was er een staatkundig vlugschrifi over Ierland vertellenen doch in 1724 werd door den druk bekend Tbc Drapiers Letters, een werk, dat hem de voldoening deed smaken . dat zijn vaderland voor cene overstrooming van lint kopergeld bewaard bleef. Zijn Gulliver's Travels, in 1726 verschenen , maakten zóóveel opgang, dat de prijs van 't werk nog vóór den uitverkoop van den eersten druk yerhoogd werd. Buvendien zijn or o. a. nog van hem Polite Conversations; Directions lor servants; amp;e, , meest allen sitinschc werken. Van zijn Poems verdienen o. a. bijzonder vermelding: An Epistle to a Lady, A Rhapsody on Poetry; The death of Dr. Swift amp;c. Ziju mindere bekendheid als dichter is aan zijn roem als prozaschrijver te wijten.
|
*Your secret kept ,your poem sunk , And sent in quires to line a trunk , If still you he dispos'd to rhyme. Go try your hand a second time. Again you fail : yet Safe's the word ; Take courage , and attempt a third. But first with care employ your thoughts Where critics mark'd your former faults ; The trivial turns, the borrowM wit. The similes that nothing fit; The canl which every fool repeats, Town jests and colTcc-liouse conceits ; Descriptions tedious , flat, and dry , And introdue'd tbc Lord knows why: Or where we find your fury set Against the harmless alphabet; And A's and li's your malicc \ent, While readers wonder whom you meant; A public or a private robber, A Statesman , or a Sou lb-sea jubher ; |
\prelate v* bo no fiod believes ; A parliament, or den of thieves ; A pick-purse at the bar or bench ; A duchess , or a suburb wench : Or oft', when epithets you link In gaping lines to fill a chink ; Like slepping stones lo save a stride, In streets where kennels arc to wide; Or like a heel-piece, to support A criple with one foul loo short; Or like a bridge, that joins a inarish To moorhiud of a different parish. So have 1 seen ill-counled hounds Drag diflerent ways in miry grounds. So geographers in Afric maps With savage piel ure- fill their gaps, And o'er unbabilahle downs Place elephants for want of towns. liut, though you miss your third essay, You need not throw your pen away. |
»224
|
Lay mow aside all thoughts of fame, To spring more profitalile (jamc. From party-merit seek support; The vilest verse thrives best at court. A pamphlet in sir Bolt's defence Will never fail to liring in pence : Aor he concern'd about the sale. He pays bis workmen on the nail. A prince, the moment he is crown'd , Inherits every virtue round, As emblems of the sovereign power. Like other baubles in the Tower; Is generous, valiant, jnsl, and wise, And so conlinues till ho dies: His humble senate this professes. In all their speeches , votes , addresses. But once you fix him in a tomb, His virtues fade , his vices bloom ; And each perfection, wrong imputed, Is fully at bis death confuted. The loads ol poems in bis praise , Ascending. make one funeral blaze : As soon as you can bear bis knel I, This god on earth turns devil in hell: And lo! his ministers of state , Transform'd loiinps, bis levee wait; Where, in tbc scenes of endless wue , They ply their former arts below; And as they sail in Charon's boat. Contrive to bribe thejudge's vote; To Cerberus they give a sop. His triple-barking mouth to slop; Or in the ivory gate of dreams Project excise and South-sea sebemes ; Or iiire their parly pamphleteers To set Elysium by llic ears. |
Then , poet, if you mean to thrive Employ your muse on kings alive; With prudence gathering up a cluster Of all the virtues you can muster , Which , form'd into a garland sweet. Lay liumbly at your monarch's feet; Who ,%s the odours reach his throne, Will smile, anil think them all bis oun For law and yospel both determine All virtues lodge in royal ermine: (I mean the oracles of both , Who shall depose it upon oath.) Your garland in the following reign , Charge but the names, will do again. But, if you think this trade too base, (Which seldom is the dunce's case) Put on the critic's brow and sit At Will's the puny judge of wit. A nod , a shrug, a scornful smile. With caution us'd , may serve a while. Proceed no further in your part, Before yon learn the terms of art; For you can never he too far gone In all our modern critics'jargon : Then talk with more authentic face Of unities, in lime and place ; Gel scraps of Horace from your friends , And have them at your fingers' end ; Learn Aristotle's rules by rote. And at all hazards boldly quote; Judicious Uymer oft' review , Wise Dennis, and profound ISossu ; Bead all the prefaces of Drydcn , For these our critics much confide in (Though merely wrilal first for filling To raise the volume's price a shilling.)* |
lleze Idylleudichter schrccf Six Pastorals, waarvan de eerste en vijfde zeer verdienstelijk zijn, 'teeen men ook zeggen kan vim zijn Eiiistle from Copenhagen , van zijn Ode on the Death of Earl (.'owner , van zijn vertalingen van twee Odes of Sappho en van de twee eerste Olympic Odes of Kudar. Van zijn tooneelspelen zijn de besten : The Distrest Mother, een navolging, zoo niet een vertaling van 1! lie in es Andromache, en The Briton, dat, ofschoon vergeten, du üu..dacht vcidient. Verder heeft men van hem nog cenige kleinere gedichten, die van minder dichterlijke waarde zijn.
|
In rurnl strains wc first our music try. And bashful inlo woods and thickets fly, Mistrusting then our skill; yet if through time Our voice, improving, gain a pilch sublime. Thy growing virl ues , Sackville , shall engage My riper verse, and more aspiring age. The sun , now mounted lo the noon of day. |
Began to shoot direct his burning ray; When, with the flocks, their feeders soughllhe shade A venerable oak wide-spreading made: What should they do lo pass the loitering time ? As fancy led , each form'd his talc in ihyme: And some the joys, and some the pains ol lo\e. And some to set out strange adventures, strove; |
|
The trade of -wiiards some, and Merlin's skill , And whence, to cliarms, sucli empire o'er llie will. Then Cuddy last{wlio Cuddy can excel In neat device ?) his I ale hejfan to tell. quot;When she|)lierds fluurish'd in Eliza's reign, quot;Thereliv'd in liij;h repule a jolly swain , quot;Younj; Colin Cloul, who well could pipe and sing, quot;And hy his notes invite the hijjfjinj; spring. quot;He , as his custom was, at leisure laid quot;In woodland howcr , without a rhal play'd , quot;Soliciting his pipe to warble clear, quot;Enchantmenl sweet as ever wont lohear quot;Belated wayfarers, from wake or fair quot;Detain'd hy music, hovering on in air : quot;Drawn hy the magic of th' enticing sound , quot;What troops of mute admirers llock'd around I quot;The steerlings left their lood ; and creatures, wild quot;By nature form'd , insensihly givw mild. quot;lie makes the gathering hirds almul him throng, quot;And loads the neighbouring hranches with his song: quot;There, with the crowd , a nightingale of fame, quot;Jealous, and fond of praise, to listen came: quot;She turn'd her eiir, and pause hy pause, with pride, quot;Like echo to the shepherd's pipe reply'd. quot;The shepherd heard with wonder, and again, quot;To try her more, rencw'd his various strain: quot;Toall the various strain she plies her hroat, quot;And adds peculiar grace to every note. quot;IfColin , in cotnplainiti;; accent grieve , quot;Or brisker inolion lo his measure give , quot;If gentle sounds he modulate , or strong , quot;She, not a little vain , repeats the song; quot;But so repeats , that Colin half despis'd quot;His pipe and skill, around the country priz'd: quot;And sweetest songster of the w inged kind, quot;What thanks , sail! he, what praises, shall 1 find quot;To equal thy melodious voice? In thee quot;The rudeness of my rural rife I see ; quot;From thee I learn no more to vaunt my skill: quot;Aloft in airshe sate , provoking still quot;The vanquish'd swain, l'ioudi'd , at last, he strove quot;To show the little minstrel of the grove quot;His utmost powers, delermin'd once to try quot;How art, exerting, might with nature vie; quot;For vie could none with either in their part, quot;With her in nature , nor w ith him in art. quot;He draws-in breath , his rising hreath to fill: quot;Throughout I he wood his pipe is heard to shrill. quot;From note to note, in haste, his fingers ily ; quot;Still more and more t he numbers multiply: quot;And now they trill, and now they fall and rise, quot;And swift and slow they change with sweet surprise. quot;Attentive she doili scarce the sounds retain ; quot;But to herself first cons the pu/,/ling strain , quot;And tracing, heedful , note by note repays quot;The shepherd in his own harmonious lays, quot;Through every changing cadence runs at length, quot;And adds in sweetness what he wants in strength. quot;Then Colin threw his fife disgrae'd aside. |
quot;While she loud triumph sings, proclaiming wide quot;Her mighty conquest, and within her throat quot;Twirls many a wild, unimitahle note, quot;To foil her rival. What could Colin more ? quot;A little harp of maple ware he bore: quot;The little hurpwas old , but newly strung, quot;Which , usual, be across bis shoulders hung. quot;Now take, delightful bird , my last farewell , '•He said , and learn from hence thou dost excel quot;No trivial artist : and anon he wound quot;The ninnnuring strings, and order'd every sound : quot;Then earnest to his instrument he bends , quot;And both hands pliant nn the strings extends; quot;His touch the strings obey , and various move, quot;The lower answering still to those above: quot;His fingers, restless, traverse lo and fro, quot;As in pursuit of harmony they go: quot;iWw , lightly ski mining , o'er the strings they pass, ''Like winds which gently brush the plying grass, quot;While melting aiis arise at their command : quot;And now , laborious, with a weighty hand '•He sinks into the cords with solemn pace, quot;To give the swel 1 ing tones a holder grace; '■And now the li ft , and now by t urns the right, quot;Each other chase, harmonious both in llight: quot;Then his whoh' fingers blond a swarm of sounds, quot;Till the sweet tumult through the harp rebounds, quot;Cease, Colin , cease, thy rival cease to vex; quot;The mingling notes, alas! her ear perplex: quot;She warbles, dillident, in hope and fear, quot;And hits imperfect accents here and there , quot;And fain would utter forth some double tone, quot;\\ hen soon she falters, and can utter none; quot;Again she tries, and yet again she fails; '•Kor still the harp's united power prevails. quot;Then Colin play'd again , and playing sung: quot;She, with tin; fatal love of glory stung, quot;Hears all in puin ; her heart begins to swell: quot;In piteous notes she sighs, in notes which toll. quot;Her bitter anguish : he still singing plies quot;His limber jninls : her sorrows higher rise. '•How shall she beara conqueror, who, before, quot;No equal through the grove in music bore ? quot;She droops, she hangs her flagging wings, she moans, quot;And fi tchelh from her breast melodious groans. quot;Oppress'd with grief at last too great lo quell, quot;Down , breathless, on the guilty harp she loll, quot;Then Colin lond lamented o'er the dead, quot;And unavailing tears profusely shed , quot;And broke bis wicked strings, and curs'd his skill; quot;And best to make atonement lor the ill, '■If, for such ill, atonement might he made, quot;He builds her tomb beneath a laurel shade, quot;Then adds a verse, and sets with flowers the ground, quot;And makes a fence of winding osiers round. quot;A verse and tomb is all I now can give; quot;And here thy name at least, he said , shall live.quot; Th ns ended Cuddy with the set ting sun, And , by this tale, unenvy'd praises won. |
29
226
Een van de voornaamste mannen in do engelsclie letterkunde en stnotsman , word in 1G72 geboren , io Milston (Wiltshire), en overleed in 1719. Zijn lalijnsche verzen On the Innugiiration of King Will'iam and Queen Mary bragten hem in 1089 reeds in gunst bij hoog geplaatste personen. In 1090 mankte hij _ weêr eenige lalijnsche en in 1093 zijn eerste engelsche verzen. Van 1094 —1097 vloeiden eenige kleinere gedichten en An Aecmmt of the greatest English l'oels uit zijn pen. Op zijn reis duor Italië vervaardigde hij de vier eerste bedrijven van zijn treurspel Cato (in 1718 't eerst opgevoerd) en zijn Letter from Italy, to Charles Lord Halifax, 1701, beiden de besle voortbrengselen van zijn dichterlijke lettervruchten, en bij zijn teruukeer in 1702 verschenen zijn Travels Het dichtstuk The ( ampaign, op de zegepraal bij Blenheim vervaardigd, werd levendig begroet en met een aanzienlijke betrekking beloond. Zijn opera Hosamond , hoewel mede een van zijn beste voortbrengselen, werd niet zeer gunstig ontvangen il707). Hij schreef ook een tooneelspel , The Drummer, or the Haunted House, door Steele na zijn duod ten tooneele gevoerd. Door Steele om zijn bijdragen in The Tatler reeds hoog geprezen , werd zijn roem echter weldra gevestigd door de uitgave van The Spectator, een volksblad in den strikslen zin van 't woord , dat bijna twee jaren onafgebroken dagelijki verscheen en waarvan telken male 20,000 esem-plaren verkocht werden. Later leverde hij eveneens bijdragen tot The Guardian van Steele en van 1715 — 1710 zijn tijdschrift The Freeholder. De Evidences of the Christian Religion , die hij uiel voltooide, en Dialogue on Medals verschenen eerst in 1721. Zijn kleinere gedichten zijn incerendcels zeer verdienstelijk en hij onderscheidt zich in alles door zuivere, bevallige, naauwkeurigc , verheven stijl en taal, waarin hij door weinigen op 't geheelo gebied van de engelsche letterkunde geëvenaard wordt.
|
Cato Solus. Silting in a thoughtf ul posture: In his hand Plato's hook on the immortality o f the soul. A drawn sword on the tabic by him. It must be so — I'lalo, t hou reason'st well! — Else whence this pleasiii'f hope, this fund desire, This lonrriiijr after iminor tality? Or whence this secret dread , and inward horror, Of falling into nought ? Why shrinlis the soul liack on herself, and startles at destruction? 'T is the divinity that stirs within us ; 'T is lieaven itself, that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man, Eternity! ihou pleasing, dreadful thought! Throujjh what variety of untry'd being. Through what new scenes and changes must we pass! The wide, th'unhounded prospect, lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it. Hero will I hold. If there's a power above us, (And that there is all nature cries aloud Through all her works) he must delight in virtue; And that which ho delights in must be happy. |
I!ut when! or where!—This world was made for Csesar. I'm weary of conjectures— This must end them. [Laying his hand upon his sword.'] Thus am I douldy ann'd: my dealh and life. My bane and antidote, are both before me: This in a moment brings me to an end , lïnt this informs me I shall never die. The soul, sccur'd in her existence , smiles At the drawn dagger , and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, (be sun himself Grow dim with age, and nal nre sink in years ; lint thou shalt flourish in immortal youth , Unhurt amidst ihe war of elements, -The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds. hat means this heaviness that hangs upon me? This lethargy that creeps through all my senses? Nat ure opprcss'd, and harass'doul with care. Sinks down to rest This oncc I'll favour her , That my awaken'd soul may take her flight, UenewM in all her strength , and fresh with life. An ofleriug (it fur heaven. Let guilt or fear Disturb man's rest ; Cato knows neither of them , Indifferent in his choicc, to sleep or die. * |
|
Rosamond. From walk to walk, from shade to shade, From stream to purling stream convey'd , Through all the mazes of the grove. Through all the mingling tracts I rove, Turning, Burning, Changing, Ranging |
Full of grief and full of love. Impatient for my Lord's return I sigh, I pine, I rave,! mourn, 'as ever passion eross'd like mine? To rend my breast. And break my rest. A thousand thousand ills combine. Absence w ounds me, Fear surrounds me, Guilt confounds me, |
227
|
Was ever passion crossM like rniuo ?* How docs my constant jjrief deface Tlic pleasures of this liappy place! In vain the spring my senses greets , In all her colours, all her sweets; To me the rose Ko lonjjer glows, Every plant Has lost his scent; The vernal lilooms of various line , The lilossoms fresh with morning dew , The Lireeie , that sweeps these fragrant bowers |
Fill'd with the breath ofop'ning How'rs, Purple scenes, Winding greens, Glooms inviting, Birds delighting, (Nature's soflest, sweetest store) Chiirm my tortur'd soul no more. Ye powers , 1 rave, I faint, 1 die : Why so slow ! great Henry, why Krom death and alarms Fly, lly to my arms, Fly to my arms, my monarch, lly. |
Schreef reeds op zijn zevcnlientle jaar (1G72—1728) een novelle: Fncognita, or Love and Didy recon-cileil. In 1C93 werd zijn eerst drama The ulil Bachelor, in Drury Lane, met gunstig gevolg opuevoerd : in 't volgcmlo jaar schreef hij The Double Dealer, die miinler gunstig ontvangen werd: in 1095 verscheen zijn Love for Luve , een stuk, dat treffende tooneelen van mcnschkundige opmerkingen bevat eu beter dan zijn voorgaande htiikkeu gesclireven is. Twee jaren later leverde hij: The Mourning liride , een Ireiirspol, (lat weldra onder de lievelingsstukken van de engelsehe natie behoorde. In Tiie Way of the World, in 1700 ten tooneele gevoerd, doch minder gunstig dan de andere stukken ontvangen, zijn taal, vernuft en karakter voortreffelijk. In 1701 vervaardigde hij The Judgment of Paris, a masque, en Seraela, eea opera , welke nimmer opgevoerd werd , een llynin to Harmony , en later nog eenige kleinere gedichten (in 1710 verschenen), die echter uiet veel dichterlijke waarde bezitten. Ook leverde hij eenige bijdragen tot The Tatler.
|
Almeiua. It was a fancy'd noise, for all is luish'd Leonoha. Il hore I he accent of a human \oico. Almeru. It was thy fear, or else some transient wind Whistling thro' hollows of this vaulted Me. We'll listen. Leonora. Hark! (dreadful! Almeiua. Mo, all is liush'd and still as death. — 'T is How reverend is the face of this tall pile, Whoseaucient pillars rear their marhleheads |
To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof, I!y its own weight made stedfastand immoveable, Looking tranquility I It strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold , And shoot a cdiillness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand , and let me bear thy \oicc; Nay, quickly speak to mo , and let me hear Thy voice — my own affrights mo with its echoes. |
in honour op St. Cecilia's day , mucci.
|
0 harmony, to thee we sing, To thee the grateful trihutc bring Of sacred verse , and sweet resounding lays; Thv aid invokinjt while thy power we praise. All bail to thee , All-powerful Harmony! Wise nature owns lliy undisputed sway, Her wondrous works resigning to thy care: The planetary orbs thy rule obey. And tuneful roll, unerring in their way. Thy voice informing each melodious sphere. Chorus. All bail to thee. All powerful Harmony! Thy voice, 0 Harmony, with awful sound |
Could penetrate lb' abyss profound , Explore the realms of ancient night. And search the living source of unborn light. Confusion heard thy voice, and fled , And Chaos deeper plung'd his vanqiiish'd bead. Then didst thou. Harmony, give birth To this fair form of heaven and earth ; Then all those shining worlds above In mystic dance began to move Around the radiant sphere of central fire, A never-ceasing, never-silent choir. Chorus. Confusion heard thy voice and fled , And Chaos deeper plung'd his vanquisb'd bead. V. Begin the powerful song, ye sacred nine, Your instruments and voices join ; |
228
|
Harmony, peace, and sweet desire, In every breast inspire. Revive llie melnncholy droopinjf heart, And soft repose to restless tlioiights imparl. Appease the wrathful mind , To dire revcnjje, and death inclin'd : With halmy sound his hoiling lilooil assuage. And melt to mild remorse his burning rage. 'Tis done; and now tumultuous passionsceasej And all is hush'd, and all is peace. The weary world with welcome ease is blest, liv music 1 ulI'd to pleasing rest. 'T isdone; and now tumultuoui: passions cease; And all is liusb'd, and all is peace. The weary world with welcome ease is bleat, |
By music lull'd to pleasing rest. VI. Ah , sweet repose, too soon expiring! Ah, fuolish man, new toils requiring! Curs'd ambition, strife pursuing, M akes the world to war and ruin. See, see , the battle is prepar'J! Behold the bero conies! Loud trumpets with shrill fifes are heard ; And hoarse ri'sonndim; drums. War, with discordant notes andjarring noise, The harmonv of peace destroys. CnoRDS. War, with discordant notes and jarring noise, The harmony of peace destroys. |
De eerste uitgever van de gezamenlijke werken van Shakespeare, werd in 1073 geboren en overleed in 171S. Hij behoort tot de beste dratnnsehrijvers van zijn tijd. Zijn treurspelen ; The Ambitions Step-mother (dat grooten bijval vond); Tamerlane; The Fair Penitent; Ulysses; The Royal Convert; Jane Shore en Lady Jane Gray, zijn zeer gunstig ontvangen ; zijn blijspel The Biter verwierf echter geen bijval. Do vertalingen van Lucanns worden voor klassiek gehouden. Van zijn kleinere gediehlen verdient Colin's eomplaint, als een van de beste , vermelding.
|
Despairing beside a clear stream , A shepherd forsaken was laid ; And while a false nympb was his theme, A w illow supported bis head. The wind tbat blew over the plain, To bis sighs with a sigh did reply ; And the brook , in the return to bis pain , Kan mournfully murmuring by. Alas, silly swain tbat I was ! Thus sadly complaining, he cry'd, When first I beheld that fair face, 'Twere better hy far I hail dy'd. Sbe talk'd , and 1 Idcss'd the dear tongue; Wb en she smil'd , 'twas a pleasure too great. 1 listen'd , and cry'd , when sbe sung, Was nightingale ever so sweet ?, How foolish was I to believe She could doat on so lowly a clown , Or that her found heart would not grieve, To forsake the line folk of the town ? To think that a beauty so gay. So kind and so constant would prove; Or go clad like our maidens in grey, Or live in a cottage on love ? What though 1 have skill to complain, Though the muses my temples have crow n'd; What though, when they hear my soft strain , The virgins sit weeping aroufid. |
Ah , Colin , thy hopes are in vain, The pipe and thy laurel resign; Thy false one inclines to a swain , Whose inusic is sweeter than thine. And you, my companions so dear , Who sorrow to see me hetray'd , Whatever I sulfer, forbear, Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should range, 'T is in vain from my fortune to ily; 'T was hers lo be false and to change, 'T is mine lo he constant and die. if while my bard fate I sustain , In her breast any pily is found , Let her come with the nymphs of the plain , And sec me laid low in the ground. The last bumble boon tbat I crave; Is to shade me with cypress and yew; Anil w hen she looks down on my grave. Let her own that her shepherd was true. Then to her now love let her go, And deck her in golden array , Be finest at every fine show , And frolic it all the long day; While Colin , forgotten and gone, Ko more shall he talk'd of. or seen; Unless when beneath the pale moon. His ghost shall glide over the green. |
229
Milton was do lievelingsilichter van dezen Leoefenaar van 't Icerdicht. Hij sctireef naar 't voorbeeld van dien beroemden dichter. In 3703 verscheen The Splendid Shilling, in 1705 zijn Blenheim en in 1700 het beschrijvend dichtstuk Cider; 't eerste en laatste vestigde zijn roem als dichter. Voorts heeft men van hem nog eenigo kleine gedichten.
|
Happy the man , who, void of cares and strife, In silkon or in Iratlicrn purso retains A Splendid Sliillinj;: he nor hears with pain IV'ew oysters ery'd , nur sighs for cheerful ale ; But with his friends, when nijjhtly mists arise, To Juniprr's Slii;;pyi!, or Town hall (1) repairs : Where, mindful ol the nymph, whose wanton eye Transfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames , Cloe or Phyllis, he eaeli circling- jjlass Wisheth her iiealth , and joy, ami equal love. Meanwhile, he smokes, and lauijlis at mery talc, Or pun amhl[gt;nons, or enniindnmi ijuaint. But I , whom {jripiiij; penury surrounds. And hunger, sure attendanl upon want, AVith scanty cd'.ils, and small acid li(F, (Wretched repast !) my meagre (Corpse sustain : Then solitary walk, or do/e at homo In garret vih^, and with a wanning puff Regale chilI'd lingers; or from tuheas hlack As winter-chimney, or well-pollsh'd jet. Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent: Not lilackcr tuhe, nor of a shorter size. Smokes Cainhro-Bnton (vers'd in pedigree. Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic talc) when he O'er many a craggy hill and harren clilT, Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese, High over shadowing rides, with a design To vend his wares, or at th' Arvonian mart. Or Maridununi, or the ancient town Yclep'd Brcchinia , or where Vaga's stream Encircles Ariconium , fruitful soil I Whence flow ncctareous w ines, that well may Tie With Massic , Selin , or renown'd Falcrn. Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, AVith looks demure , and silent pace, a Dun , Horrible monster! hated hy gods and men , To my aerial citadel ascends. With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, AVith hideous accent thrice he calls; I know The voice ill-hoding , and the solemn sound. What should I do ? or whither turn? Amaz'd , Confounded , to the dark recess I fly Of wood-hole; straight my hrislling hairs ercct Through sudden fear; a chilly sweet hetlews My shuddering limhs, and (wonderful to tell!) My tongue forgets her faculty of speech ; |
So horrildc lie seems! His faded brow Entrench'd with many a frown , and conic heard , And spreading hand, admir'd hy modern saints, Disastrous acts forhode ; in his righl hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, Willi characters and figures dire inscrih'd. Grievous to mortal eyes; (ye gods , avert Such plagues from righlcous men!) !!• hind liim stalks Another monster, mil unlike himself. Sullen of aspect , hy the vulgar cal I'd A Catch pole, whose |)ol luted hands the gods Willi force incredible, and magic charms, First have endued : il he his ample palm Should haply on 111 -Oil ed shoulder lay Of debtor, strait his ho ly , lo the touch Ohse(|uious (as whilom knights were wont) To some enchanted castle is convey'd , Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains. In durance strict detain him , till, in form Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. Beware ye debtors! w hen ye walk , beware. Be circumspect; oft wiih insidious ken The cailiU'cycs your steps aloof, and oft I.ics perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, Prompt lo incbant some inadvertent wretch AVilb bis unballow'd touch. So (poets sing) Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn An everlasting foe, with walchful eye Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap. Protending her fell (daws, to thoughtless mice Sure ruin. So her disemhowel'd web Aracbne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Obvious to vagrant Hies : she secret stands AVitbiu her woven cell; the humming prey, Ueg ardless of their fate, rii«h on this toils Inextricable, nor wil aught avail Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue ; The wasp insidious, and the hu/zing drone, And butterfly proud of expanded wings Distinct with gold , entangled in her snares. Useless resistance make : with eager strides. She lowering flics to her expected spoils; Then, wilh envenom'd jaws, the vital blood Drinks of reluctant foes , and to her cave Their bulky carcases triumphant drags. So pass my days. But, when nocturnal shades This world invelop. and th'inclement air |
(1) Two noted alehouses in Oxford, 1700.
|
Persuades men to repel benutnbinj frosts With pleasant wines, and cracklinjj lilazo of wood; Me, lonely sil ling, nor tlie glimmering light Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk Of loving friend, delights; distress'd forlorn , Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, Darkling I sigh, and feed wilh dismal thoughts My anxious mind ; or sometimes mournful verse Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, Or desperale lady near a purling stream, Or lover pendent on a willow-tree. Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought. And restless wish, and rave; my parched throat Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose: But ifaslumher haply dues invade My weary limhs, my fancy's still awake, Thoujjhlful of drink , anil eager, in a dream. Tipples imaginary pots of ale. In vain ; awake I find the settled thirst Still gnawing , and the pleasant phantom curse. Thus do I live, from pleasure nuito deharr'd, Nor laste the fruits that the sun's genial rays Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, Kor walnut in rough-furrow'd coal secure, Nor medlar fruit delicious in decay ; |
AlHietions great! Yet greater still remain: My Galligaskins, that have long withstood The winter's fury.and encroaching frosts, liy time suhdued (what will not time suhduel) An horrid chasm disclo'sd with orifice Wide discontinuous; at which the winds Kurns and Auster, and the dreadful force Of lioreas, that congeals the Cronian waves. Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, Portending agues. Thus a well.frnught ship, f.ong sail'd secure, or through tliMigean deep. Or the Ionian, till cruising near. The Lilyhean shore, wilh hideous crush On Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks!) She strikes rebounding; whence the shattcr'd oak, So fierce a shock unable to withstand, Admits the sea ; in at the gaping side 'I lie crowding waves gush with impetuous rage, Itesistless, over« helming ; horrorssei/e The uiarincrs ; (Jcatli in their pyes iippoars, Tlioy slarc, llicy lave, tlicy pump, tlicy swoar, they (Vain cfloiis.'jsl ill llio hallerinjf wjivcs rush in, (pray Imphicahle, till, del U'jM hy the foam, The ship sinks foundering in the vast ahjss. |
LecWe van 1607 tot 1703. Po eerste uitgave van zijn Poems had plaats in 1099, terwijl in eene uitgnve van 1724 zijn migelaten gedichten: Reason, n Satire en Dies Novissiina. a Pindaric Ode opgenomeii werden. Zelfs nog in 't laatst van de vorige eeuw was hij bekend door zijn gedicht The Choice, waarin over de keuze der beste en aangenaamste levenswijze wordt gehandeld. Zijn stukken worden verdeeld in Occasional Poems en Pindaric Essays.
|
If Heaven the grateful liberty would give. That I might choose my method how to live; And all (hose hours propitious Fate should lend, In blissful ease and salisfaction spend ; Near some fair town I'd have a private seat, Built uniform , not little, nor too great; Better, if on a rising ground it stood ; On this side fields , on that a neighbouring wood. It should within no oi her things contain, But what are useful, necessary, plain : Melhinks 'tis nauseous; and I'd ne'er endure The needless pomp of gaudy furniture. A little garden, grateful to the eye; And a cool rivulet run murmuring by: On whose delicious banks a stately row Of shady limes, or sycamores , should grow. At tli'end of whicli a silent study plac'd. Should be with all the noblest authors grae'd : Horace and Virgil, in wb ise mighty lines Immortal wit, and solid learning, shines ; Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too , Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew : He that with judgment reads bis charming lines. |
In which strongart with stronger nature joins. Must grant bis fancy does the hest excel; His thoughts so tender, and express'd so well : With all those moderns, men of steady sense , Esteem'd for learning, and f )r eloquence. In some of these, as fancy should advise, I'd always lake my morning exercise: For sure no minutes bring us more content, Than those in pleasing, useful studies spent. I'd have a clear and competent estate. That I might live genteely, hut not great: As much as 1 could moderately spend ; A little more, sometimes t'ohligc a friend. Nor should I he sons of poverty repine, Too much at fortune, they should taste of mine; And all that object of true pity were, Should be reliev'd with what my wants could spare; For that our Maker has too largely given , Should be rcturn'd in gratitude to Heaven. A frugal plenty should my table spread ; With healthy, not luxurious, dishes spread; Enough to satisfy, and somethinjj more, To feed the stranger, and the neighbouring poor. |
251
|
Strong meat indulges vice, and pampering food Creates diseases, and inilanies llie Idood. But what's sufficient to initke nature strong, And tlie bi ijilit lamp of life continue long , I'd freely lake ; and as I did possess , The liounleous Aullior of my plenty bless. I'd have a little vault, hut always slor'd With the hest wines each vintage could afford. Wine whels llie wil, improves its native force, And gives a |deasant flavour to discourse: liy inalung all our spiiits dehonair, Tniows oil' the lees, the sedimi'iit of care. But as the greatest blessing heaven lends May be debaueh'd, and serve ignoble ends; So, but loo of!, the grape's refreshing juice Does many mischievous elleets produce. My house should no such rude disorders know , As from high drinking consequcnl ly flow ; Nor would I use what was so kindly given , To the dishonour of indulgent Heaven. If any neighbour came, he should be free, Us'd «ilb respect, and not uneasy he , Jn my retreat, or to himself or me. AVhal freedom , prudence, and right reason gave, All men n.ay , with im|iunily, receive : But the least swerving from ibeir rule's too much ; I''or wbal's forbidden us, 't is death to toueli. 'Jhat life may he more comfortable yet, And all my joys lefin'd, sincere, and great; I'd cliose two friends, whose company would be A great advance to my fi Iieity: Well-born, of humours suited lo my own , Discrect, and men as well as books have known: Brave, generous, wilty, and exactly free From loose behaviour, or formality: Airy and prudent; merry, but not light; Quick in discerning , and in judging right: Secret lliey should lie, failhlul to their Irnst; In reasoning cool, slnmg, temperate, and just; Obliging , open , without hulling, brave ; Brisk in gay talking,and in sober, grave: Close in dispute, but not tenacious ; try'd By solid reason, and let that decide: Not prone lo lust, revenge, or envious hate; Nor busy medlers vvilh ill I rig lies of .slate : Strangers to slander, and sworn foes lo spile; Not quarrelsome, but stout enough lo fight; Loyal, and pious, friends to Cscsar ; true As dying Martyrs, to their Maker too. In their society I could not miss A pennanent, sincere, substantial bliss. Would bounteous Heaven once more indulge, I'd (For who would so much satisfaction lose, (choose As wit ly nymphs, in conversation , give) Kear some obliging modest fair lo live: For there's that sweetness in a female mind, Which in a man's we cannot hope lo find ; That, by a secret, but a powerful art, Winds up the spring of life, and does impart Fresh vital heat to the transported heart. |
I'd have her reason all her passion sway: Easy in company, in private gay : Coy to a fop , to the deserving free; Still constant lo herself, and just to me: A soul she should have forgreut actionsflt; Prudence and w isdom to direct her wit: Courage lo look bold danger in llie face; No f ar, hut only lo be proud , or base; Quick to advise, by an emergence prest, To give good counsel, or to lake the best. IM have lb' expression of her thoughts he such. She might not seem reserv'il, nor talk too much : Thatshewsa want of judgmeiit, and of sense; More than enough is but impertinence. Her conduct regular, her mirlh rcfin'd; Civil lo strangers , to her ueiglibours kind : Averse to vanity, revenge, and pride; In all the methods of deceit unlry'd. So faithful to her friend , and good lo all. No censure might upon her actions fall: Then would ev'n envy be compell'd to say , She goes the least of womaiikind astray. To Ibis fair crealure I'd sometimes retire; Her conversation would new joys inspire; Givn life an edge so keen , no surly care Would venture to assault -iiy soul, or dare. Near my retreat, to hide one secret snare. But so divine, so noble a repast I'd seldom, and wilh moderalion, taste: For highest cordials all their virlue Iokc, By a loo frequenl and too bold a use ; And what would cheer the spirits in distress , Huins our heallh, when taken to excess. I'd heconcein'd in no litigious jar; Belov'd by all, not vainly popular. Whate'er assistance I bad power lo bring, T'oblige my country, or lo serve my king. Whene'er lliey call, I'd readily afford My tongue, my pen, my counsel, or my sword. Law suits I'd shun. w ilh as much sludious care, As I would dens where hungry lions are; And rather put up injuries, than bo A plague to him , who'd be a plague to me. I value quiet at a price too great, To give fur my revenge so dear a rale: For what do we by all oor bustle gain, Bui counlerfeil delight for real pain ? I f Heaven a date of many years would give , Thus I'd in pleasure, ease, and plenty live. Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife) Should lake upon him all my worldly care. Whilst I did fora better stale prepare, Then I'd not be wilh any trouble vex'd, Nor have the evening of my days perplex'd; Bnl by a silent and a peaceful death, Wilhoul a sigh , resign my aged breath. And when coininitled to the dust, I'd have Few tears, bnl friendly , dropt into my grave, Then would my exit so propitious be. All men would wish to live and die like me. |
232
Hoewel deze dichter zelden tot 't verhevene en grootsehe stijft, behoort hij evenwel om 't vloeijende en welluidende van zijn verzen, onder de voorname dichters een plaats te helileeden. Zijn stijl is gcmakkeli|k, zijn beelden en vergelijk ngeii bevallig , cn de door hem behandelde onderwerpen boeijen de aandacht. Hij was een van de medearbeiders aan de bladen: The Spectator en The Guardian, waarin hg waarschijnlijk meer schreef dan bekend is. Een van zijn eerste voortbrengselen was Hesiod : or , The KUe of Women. Tot zija vertalingen, die niet van verdienste ontbloot zijn, behooren : 't eerstgenoemde; Homer's Datrachornnonia-ehia: or. The battle of the Frogs and .Mice, die zelfs de verwachting van 1'ope overtrof; Bacchus; or the drunken Metamorphosis, waarvan 't laatste gedeelte oorspronkelijk is; The Bookworm, enz. Onder zijn beste oorspronkelijke of ontleende stokken worden gerangschikt The Fairy Tale; The Epistle to Pope; Eclogue on health; Allegory on Man; Night-piece on Death; The Hermit; terwijl zijn Essay on the different Styles of Poetry en Vision of Piety niet van verdieusten ontbloot zijn.
|
By tlie Mnfi taper's tremhling liflht, No more 1 waste the wakeful niylit, Intent with endless view to pore The sclioolinen and the sa;;('s o'er : Their liooks from wisdom widely stray, Or point at best the lonjjest way. I'll seek a readier path , arid ;;o Where wisdom's surely taiijjht helow. How deep yon am re dyes the sky ! Where orbs of jjold unnnmher'd lie , While tliroii||li their ranks in silver pride The netlicr crescent seems to /'liile. The slumhcritijr breeze forjjels to broathe, The lake is sinootb and clear beneath , Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The grounds, which on the riglitaspire, In dimness from the \iew retire: The left presents a place of graves, Whose wall the silent water laves. That steeple guides thy doubtful sight Among tbe Imd gleams of night. There pass with melancholy slate By all tbe solemn heaps of fate, And think , as softly-sad you tread Abo»e tbe venerable dead, Time was, like I/ice, tiny life posxe.it,, And time shall be, that lliuu shall rest. Those with bending osier bound. That nameless have the crumbled ground , Quick to tbe glancing thought disclose, Where loll and poverty repose, Tin'Hat smooth stones that bearananie, Tbe chi sel's slender help to fame (Which ere our set of friends decay Their frequent ,-lcps may wear away); A middle race of mortals ow n , Men , balf ambitious, all unknown. The marble tombs that rise on high. Whose dead in vaulted arcbes lie. Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stones. Arms, angels, epitaphs, and hones, |
These, all the poor remains of state. Adorn the rich, or praise the great; Who, while on earth in fame tbey live. Are senseless of the fame tbey give. Ila! while I ga;e, pale Cynthia fades, The bursting earth unveils tbe shades! All slow, and wan , and wrap'd with shrouds, They rise in visionary crowds, And all with sober accent cry, J hi ft li, mortal, what it is lo die. Now from you black anil funeral yew That bathes the charnel-house with dew, Metbinks, I bear a voice begin; (Ye ravens, cease your croaking din, Yc lolling clocks, to time resound O'er tbe long lakeand midnight ground!) It sends a peal of hollow groans. Thus speaking from among tbe bones. When men my scytbe and darts supply. How great a king of fears am 11 They view me like the last of things; They make , and then tbey draw , my strings. Fools ! if you less proiok'J your fears, Ko more my spectre form appears. Death's but a path that must he trod, If men would ever pass to God: A port of calms, a state to case From tbe rough rage of swelling seas. by then thy flowing sable stoles. Deep pendant cypress, mourning poles, Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds. Long palls , drawn hearses, coier'd steeds , And plumes of black , t hat . as t bey tread , Nod o'er the 'scutcheons of tbe dead? Nor can the parted body know. Nor wants tbe soul these forms of woe; As men who long in prison dwell, itb lamp'- that glimmer round the cell, bene'er tbeir snll'i'i ing years are rnu , Spring forth to greet t be glit tering sun : Sneb joy, tbougii far transcending sense, Have pious souls at, parting hence. |
|
On earth, ami in the body plac'd, A few, and evil years , tlicy waste: But when their chains ore east aside, |
See the glad scene unfolding wide, Clap the glad wing, and tower away, And mingle with the blaze of day. |
|
Do voortbrengselen van dien dichter zijn meest a aard. Zijn poëzie wordt verdeeld in: Horas Lyricio, Piety; het tweede Sacred lo Honour, Virtue, and 1' thnns nog in Engelnnd voel gele/.on worden , en . werken zijn, onder anderen; I'Ogio, or the liight U nog zeer geprezen worden. Hij werd geboren in 10 Song VIif. Praises to God for learning to read. The praises of my tonjjiio I offer to the Lord, That I was taujiht, and learnt so young To read his holy word. That I am brought lo know The danger I was in , liy nature and by practice too, A wretched slave to sin. That I am led lo see 1 can do nothing well ; And whither shall a sinner flee To save himself from hell ? Dear Lord, this booh of Ihine Informs me where lo go, For grace to pardon all my sin , And make me holy too. Here 1 can read , and learn How Christ, the Son of God, Has undertook our great concern; Our ransom cost bis blood. And now be reigns above, He sends bis Spirit down To sbow the wonders of bis love, And make bis gospi I known. O may that Spirit teach, And make my heart receive Those Irulbs which all thy servants preach, Atid all Iby saints believe. Then shall I praise the Lord In a more cheerful strain , That I was taught to read bis word. And have not learnt in vain. Song 1\. The all-seeiiiy (lad. Almighty God , thy piercing eye Strikes ibrongh tbe shades of night, Anil our most secret actions lie All open to I by sight. There's not a sin that we commit, |
Icn , zoowel in poczio als proza , van godsdienstigen in tweo boeken ; het eerste Sacred to Devotion and riendship ; verder Divine Songs for Children , welko L Slight Specimen of moral Songs. Zijn prozawerken se of Reason (1724.); Improvemeut of the Mind, die '4 en overleed in 1748. j\or wicked word we say, But in tby dreadful book 'lis writ, Against the judgement-day. And must the crimes that I have done lie read and punlisli'd tbere ? Be all expos'd before the sun , While men and angels hear ? Lord , at tby foot asbam'd I lie ; Upward 1 dare not look; Pardon my sins before I die. And blot them from tby book. Uemember all the dying pains That my Kedeemer felt, Ami lei bis blood wash out my stains. And answer for my guilt. 0 may I now for ever fear T'indulge a sinful thouglit Since the great God can see and bear, And wiiles down every fault. Song XXL Against evil company. Why should I join wbich those in play, In whom I've no delight; Wbo curse and swear but never pray ; Who call ill names and fight ? 1 bale to hear a wanlon song : Their words off'iid mine ears; 1 should not dare defile my tongue. With language sucb as theirs. Away from fools I'll I urn mine eyes, Nor with tbe scoffers go; I would be walking with the wise, That wiser I may grow. From one rude boy that ns'd to mock. They learn the wicked j 'st: One sickly sheep infects the Hock , And poisons all the rest. My God I bate lo walk, or dwell With sinful children here; Then let me not be sent to hell, Where none but sinners are. |
254
|
song XX11I. Obedience to parents. I,el children that w'oulil fear llic I.oid Hear what their teachers say ; With reverence meet their piirents won), And willi delight olicy. Have you not heard what dreadful plagues Are threaten'd hy (he Lord , To him that breaks his father's law , Or mocks his mother's word. What heavy guilt upon him lies! How cursed is his name! The ravens shall [tick out his eyes , And eagles eat the same. Hut those who worship God . and give Their parent honour clue, Hereon this earth they long shall live, And life hereafter too. The child's complaint. Why should I love my sport so well, So constant at my play , And lose the thoughts of heaven and hell And then forget to pray ? What do I read my Bilde for. But, Lord, to learn thy will; And shall 1 daily know thee more. And less ohey lliee si ill ? How senseless is my heart and wild ! How vain are all my thoughts! Pity the weakness of a child. And pardon all my faults! Make me thy heavenly voice to hear, And let me love to pray; Since God will lend a gracious ear To what a child can say. 4 morning .long. My God , who makes the sun to know His proper hour to rise. And to give light to all helow . Doth send him round the skies. When from the chamhers of the cast His morning race begins, He never tires, nor stops to rest; But round the world lie shines. So like the sun , would I fulfil The business of the day; Begin my work betimes , and still March on my heavenly way. Give me, o l ord , thy early grace, Nor let my soul complain H |
That the young morning ol my days Has all been spent in vain. An evening sang. And now another day is gone, I'll sing my Maker's praise; My comforts every hour make know n His providence and grace. But how my childhood runs to waste! My sins , how great their sum! Lord, give me pardon for the past, And strength for days to come. 1 lay my body dow n to sleep; Let angels guard my bead , And through the hours of darkness keep Their watch around my lied. With cheerful heart I close my eyes. Since thou wilt not remov ■; And in the morning let me rise Rejoicing in thy love. A cradle hymn. Hush ! my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed ! Heavenly blessings witliout number Gently falling on thy head. Sleep , my babe; thy food and raiment, House and home thy friends provide; All without thy carc or payment. All thy wants arc well supply'd. How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of God could be. When from heaven be descended. And became a child like thee? Soft and easy is thy craddle; Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay : When bis birth-place was a stable , And his softest bed was hay. Blessed babe ! what glorious features. Spotless fair, divinely bright! Must he dwell with brutal creatures ! How could angels bear the sight ? Was there nothing but a manger Cursed sinners could afford , To receive the heavenly stranger! Did they thus all'ronI their Lord ? Soft, my child ; I did not chide thee, Though my song my sound too bard ; 'T is thy Mother (1) that sits beside thee, And her arms shall be thy guard. Yet to read the shameful story. How the Jews abus'd their King , How they serv'd the Lord of glory , Makes me angry while I sing. |
(1) Here may be used the words; Nurse, Brother. Sister, Neighbour, Friend amp;c.
|
Sec the kinder sheplieid-s rouinl liim . Tellinn wonders from llie sky ! Wheretlicysought him. there they found him, With his virgin mother hy. See the lovely hahc a-dressin;;; Lovely infant, how he stnil'd ! When he wept, the mother's hlessinjf Sooth'd and hush'd the holy child. Lo, he slumbers in his manger, Where the horned oxen fed ; Peace, my darlin/f, here's no danger, Here's no ox a-near ihy bed. |
'T was to save thee , child, from dying , Save my dear from burning flame, Hitter groans and endless crying. Thai thy blest Kedecmer came. Hay'st ihou live lo know and fear him , Trust and love him all thy days; Then go dwell for ever near him , See his face , and sing his praise! I could give thee thousand kisses , Hoping what 1 most desire; Not a mother's fondest wishes Can lo greater joys aspire. |
De werken van dezen bij ons door zijn The Complaint; or. Night Thoughts zoo zeer bekenden dichter worden in Essays, Plays ami Poems verdeeld. Van de eerste behooren de Centaur not Fabulous en Conjectures on Original Composition, tot zijn beste stukken. In het drama overtreft hij in zijn Busiris, Tho Kevenge (vooral iu dit stuk) en The Brothers lloive en Cougreve somtijds , doch hij heeft daarentegen daarin fouten, welke deze beide dramaschrijvers niet hebben. Als dichter is hij zoo oorspronkelijk, dat men moeijelijk een regel of uitdrukking zou kunnen vinden , welke hij aan zijn voorgangers ontleende, liet denkbeeld van zijn Night Thoughts heeft hij noch aan de dichters der oudheid, noch aan die van den nieuweren tijd ontleend. Van zijn eerste stukken verwierven The Last day, Vanquished Love en Paraphrase on Tob de grootste populariteit. Zijn satire Universal Passion — the Love of Fame, is zeer verdienstelijk. Van zijne kleinere gedichten verdienen bijzonder vermelding, de Epistles to Pope; The Epitaph on Lord Aubrey Beauclerc; Ocean, an Ode; eeu van zijn laatste stukken, llesignation, verdient de aandacht. Hij was een groot genie in het zede- en leerdicht en bezit een alleen hem eigene versmaat.
Concluding with a wish.
|
Sweet rural scene ! Of flocks and green ! At careless ease my limbs are spread ; All nature still, But yonder rill; Ami listening pines nod o'er my head ; In prospect wide, The boundless tide! Waves cease of foam , and winds to roar ; Without a breeze, The curling seas Dance on , in measure, to the shore. Who sings ibe source Of wealth and force? Vast field of commerce and big war: Where wonders dwell I Where terrors swell I And Neptune thunders from bis car? Where ? where are they , Whom P.xan's ray Has toueb'd , and bid divinely rave ? |
quot;Let the sea make a noise, let the floods clap their hands.quot; Psalm XCVIII. What. none aspire? I snntcb the lyre, And plunge into the foaming wave. The vafe resounds! The rock rebounds! The Nereids lo my song reply ! I lead the choir, And they conspire With voice and shell lo lift it high ; They spread in air Their bosoms fair; Their verdant tresses pour behind. The billows beat With nimble feet, With notes triumphant swell the wind. Who love the shore. Let those adore The god Apollo , and bis Nine, Parnassus' bill And Orpheus' skill; But let Arion's harp be mine. |
256
|
The main! the main! Is Britain's rcijjn ; Her slrenjjtli, lior ijlory, is lier fleet! The main! iFic main! Bo Britons' strain ; As Tritons' slronj, as Syrens' sweet. Tlirouj;li nature wide, Is nouijlil descry'd So rich in pleasure, or surprise; When all serene, How sweet tlie scene I How dreadful, when tlie billows rise. And storms deface The fluid (('ass, In which ere-while Britannia fair I.ook'd down with pride. Like Ocean's hrido. Adjusting her majestic air. When tempests cease, And liusli'd in peace The flatten'd surges smoolhly spread, Deep silencc keep, And seem to sleep Recumbent on their oozy bed ; With what a I ranee The level glance, Unbroken , shoots alonjj the seas! Which tempt from shore The painted oar; And every canvas courts the breeze ! When rushes forth The frowniiifr North On blaekeninjj billows, with what dread My shuddering soul Beholds them roll, And hears their roarings o'er my head ! With terror mark Yon flying bark ! Now, cent re-deep descend the brave; Now toss'd on high It takes the sky, A feather on the towering wave! Now, spins around In whirls profound; Now, whelm'd ; now, pendant near the clouds; Now, stunn'd , it reels Midst tbnndcr's peals ; And, now, fierce lightning fires the shrouds. All ether burns! Chaos returns! And blends once more the seas and skies; No space between Thy bosom green , O deep! and the blue concave, lies. Tlie northern blast, The sbatter'd mast, The syrt, the whirlpool, and the rock, |
The breaking sprout. The stars gone out. The boiling streight, the monsters shock. Let others fear; To Britain dear Whate'er promotes her daring claim ; Those terrors charm, Which keep her warm In chase of honest gain or fame. The stars are bright To cheer the night. And shed, through shadows temper'd fire; And Pboobus flames With burnish'd beams, Which some adore , and all admire. Are then the seas Outshone by these? Bright Thetis! thou art not outshone; With kinder beams, And softer gleams, Thy bosom wears them as thy own. There , set in green , Gold-stars are seen,-A mantle rieb ! thy charms to wrap; And when the sun His race has run , lie falls enainour'd in thy lap, Those clouds, whose dyes Adorn the skies, That silver snow, that pearly rain ; lias Phoebus stole To grace the pole. The plunder of th' invaded main ! The gaudy bow, Whoso colours glow, AVhosearcli with so much skill is bent. To Phoebus' ray, Whieli paints so gay, By thee the watery woof was lent. In chambers deep, Where waters sleep. What unknown treasures pave the floor! The pearl in rows Pale lustre throws; The wealth immense, which storms devour. From Indian mines, With proud designs. The merchant, swoln , digs golden ore. The tempests rise, And seize the prize, And toss him breathless on the shore. His son complains In pious strains quot; Ah! cruel thirst of gold ! quot; he cries ; Then ploughs the main , In zeal for gain, The tears yet swelling in bis eyes. |
257
|
Thou watery vast What mounds arc cast To bar thy dreadful flowings-o'er ? Thy proudest foam Must know its home; But rage of {[old disdains a shore. Gold pleasure huys; But pleasu re dies, Too soon the [fross fruition cloys: Though raptures court, The sense is short; But virtue kindles living joys ; Jovs felt nlone! Joys ask'd of none Which time and fortune's arrows miss; ,Ioys that subsist, Though fates resist, And unprecarious endless hliss ! The soul refm'd Is most inclin'd To every moral excellence; All vice is dull, A knave's :i fool; And virtue is the child of sense. The virtuous mind Nor wave, nor wind, Nor civil rage, nor lyrants's frown , The shaken hall, Nor planets fall, From its firm basis can dethrone. This Britain knows, And therefore glows With generous passions , and expends Her wealth and zeal On public weal, And brightens both by godlike ends. What end so great, As that which late Awoke the genius of the main, Which towering rose With George to close . And rival great liliza's reign? A voice has flown From Britain's throne To rcinflame a grand design; That voice shall rear Yon (1) fabric fair, As nature's rose at the (levinc. When nature sprung, Blest angels sung. And shouted o'er the rising ball; For strains as high As man's can fly , These sea-devoted honours call. |
From boisterous soas, The lap of ease Receives our wounded and our old ; High domes ascend ! Slretch'd arches bend! Proud columns swell! vv ide gates unfold So sleeps the grain , In fostering rain, And vital beams, till Jove descend; Then bursts the root! The verdures shoot! And earth enrich, adorn , defend! Here, soft reclin'd From wave , from -wind , And fortune's tempest safe ashore, To cheat their care , Of former war They talk the pleasing shadows o'er. In lengtben'd talcs, Our fleet prevails; In tales the lenitives of age! And , o'er the bowl, They fire the soul Of listening youth to martial rage. The story done Their setting sun , Serenely smiling down tbe west, In soft decay. They drop away; And honour leads tbem to their rest. Unhappy they! And falsely gay Who hasli forever in success; A constant feast Quite palls tbe taste, And long enjoyment is distress. What charms us most, Our joy. our boast. Familiar, loses all ils gloss; And gold refin'd The sated mind Fastidious turns to perfect dross. When , after toil, His native soil The painting mariner regains. What transport flows From bare repose! We reap our pleasure from our pains. Ye warlike slain ! Beneath the main, Wrapt in a watery winding sheet; Who bought with blood Your country's good , Your country's full-blown glory greet. |
(1) Greenwich,
238
|
Wliat powerful eluirin Can death disarm V Your lon^, your iron slumbers break ? By Jove, lgt;y Fame , l!y George's name, Awake! awake! awake ! Our joy so proud , Our sliout. so loud , Williout a charm the dead miglit bear : And see, lliey rouse! Tlieir awful brows, Deep- scar'd, from oo/y pillows rear ! Willi spiral sbell , Full-blasted, lell That all your watery realms should ring ; Your pearl alcoves, Your coral groves. Should echo theirs and Britain's king. As long as stars Guide mariners, As Carolina's virtues please , Or suns invite The ravish'd sight. The British flug shall sweep the sea-. Peculiar both ! Our soil's strong growth , And our bold natives hardy mind; Sure (leaven bespoke Our hearts , and oak , To give a master to mankind. That noblest birth Of teeming earth, Of forests fair that daughter proud , To foreign coasts Our grandeur boasts, And Britain's pleasure speaks aloud. Now big with war Sends fate from far, If rebel realms llieir fate demand •, Now sumptuous spoils Of foreign soils Pours in the bosom of our land. Hence Britain lays In sealcs, and weighs The fates of kingdoms and of kings; And as she frowns Or smiles, on crowns A niglit or day of glory springs. Thus Ocean swells The streams and rills , And to their borders lifts them high, Or else withdraws The mighty cause And leaves their famisb'd channels dry. How mix'd , bow frail, How sure to fail, Is every pleasure of mankind ! |
A damp destroys My blooming joys, While Britain's glory fires my mind. For w ho can ga/.e On restless seas, Unstruck with life's more restless state ? Where all are toss'd , And most are lost. By tides of passion , blasts of fate ? The world's the main , How vex'd ! how vain ! Ambition swells , and anger foams ; May good men find , Beneath the wind, A noiseless shore, unruffled homes ! The public scene Of harden'd men Teach me, o teach me to despise ! The world few know , But to their woe , Our crimes with our experience rise. All tender sense Is bauish'd thence, All maiden nature's first alarms What shock'd before Disgusts no more. And what disgusted has its charms. In landscapes green True bliss is seen , With innocence, in shades, she sports ; In wealthy towns Proud labour frowns. And painted sorrow smiles in courts. These scenes untry'd Seduc'd my pride, To fortune's arrows bar'd my breast, Till wisdom came, A hoary dame! And told me pleasure was in rest. quot;0 may { steal quot; Along the vale quot;Ofburnhle life, seeurefrom foes! quot; My friend sincere, quot;My judgment clear, quot;And gentle business my repose. '• My mind he strong quot; To combat, wrong ! quot;Grateful , 0 King! for favours shown! quot;Soft to complain 11 For others' plain, quot;And bold to triumph o'er my own I quot;(When Fortune's kind) quot; Acute to find , quot; And warm to relish every boon , quot; And wise to still quot;Fantastic ill, quot; Whose frightful spectres stalk at noon. |
259
|
quot;No frmlliibs toils, quot;No brainless broils, quot;Each moment levcll'd at tbc maik! quot;Our day so short ''Invites no sporl; quot; lie sail and solemn wben't is dark. 11 Yet prudence still quot; Ucin ibou my will! quot;Wbal's most importanl make tnost dear; quot;Kor it is in ibis quot; llesides true bliss, quot; True bliss , a deity severe ! quot;When temper leans quot;To gayer scenes, quot; And serious life void momenls spares , quot; The sylvan chace quot;My sinews braec! quot; Or song unbend my mind from cares ! quot; Nor shun . my soul! quot;The genial bowl, quot;Where mirth, good-nature, spirit, (low I quot; Ingredients these quot; Above to please quot; The laughing gods, the wise below. quot; Though rich the vine, 14More wit than wine, quot;Moresense than v it ; good-will than art, quot; May I provide! quot; Fair truth , my pride! quot; My joy, the converse ol the heart! |
quot; The gloomy brow quot; The broken vow , quot;To distant climes, ye gods remove! quot;The nobly-soul'd quot;Their coininercc bold quot;With words of trulb , and looks of love! quot;O glorious aim ! 110 wealth supreme! quot; Divine benevolence of soul! quot;That greatly glows, quot; And freely flows, quot;And in one blessing grasps tbe whole! quot; Prophetic scliemes, quot; And golden dream , quot;May I unsanguinc cast, away! quot; Have what I have, quot;And live, nol leave, quot; KnamourM of the present day! '• My hours my ow n , quot; My faults unknown, quot;My cliicf revenue in content ! quot;Then leave one beain quot;Of bonest fame, quot;And scorn the labour'd monument! quot;Unhurt my urn, quot;'('ill that great turn , quot;When mighty nature's self shall die, quot;Time cease to glide, quot; Willi human pride, quot;Sunk in the ocean of i ternity.quot; |
TJbc: complaint : or, IVlglit TlioiiglMs.
Night IV.
Containing our only cure for lite fear of death; and proper sentiments of that inestimable blessing.
|
*Wby start at dealh ? Where is be ? Death arriv'd , In I )ast ; not. come or gone , he's never here. Ere hope, sensation fails ; black-boding man Receives, not suffers , death's tremendous blow. The knell, the shroud, ibe matlock, and the grave; Tbe deep damp vault, the darkness , and the worm ; These are ibe bugbears of a m i liter's eve, The terrors of the living, not the dead. Imagination's fool, and error's wretch , Man makes a death , which nature never made ; Then on the point of his own fancy falls; And feels a thousand deaths, in fearing one. Bnl were death frightful, what bas «ye lofear? If prudent, age should meet the friendly foe, And shelter in his hospitable gloom. 1 scarce can meet a monument, but holds My younger; every date cries — quot;Come away.quot; |
Ami w hat recalls me ? Look t he world around ; And tell me what: the wisest cannot tell. Should any born of women give his thought Full range of just dislile's unbounded field ; Of things, the vanity; of men , the (laws; Flaws in the best; the many, flaw all o'er; As leopards spoiled, or as Elhiops dark ; Vivacious ill; good dying immature; (How immature, Narcissa's marble tells!) And at his death bequeathing endless pain ; His heart, though bold , would sicken at the sight, And spend itself in sighs for future scenrs. ISutgranl to life (and just it is to grant To lucLy life) some perquisites of joy ; A time there is, when , like a llince- told tale, Long-rilled life of sweet can yield no more. Hut from our comment on the comedy, |
-240
|
Pleasing reflections on paris well sustain'd , Or purpos'il emendations where we fail'd , Or liopes of plaudits from our candid judge, When on their exit, souls are bid unrobe. Toss fortune hack her tinsel, and her plume. And drop this mask of flesh behind the scene. With me, that time is come; my world is dead ; A new world rises, and new manners reign : Foreign comedians , a spruce band ! arrive, To push me from the scene, or hiss me there , What a pert race slarts up! the strangers gaze, And I at them ; my neigbhonr is unknown; Nor that the worst: Ah me! the dire elFect Of loitering here, of death defrauded long ; Of old so gracious (and let that suffice). My very master knows me not. — Shall I dare say, peculiar is the fate ? I've been so long rcmember'd, I'm forgot. An object « ver pressing dims the sight, And hides behind its ardour to he seen. When in his courtiers ears I pour my plaint, Thev drink it as the nectar of the great: And' sqeeie my hand , and beg me come to morrow. Refusal! canst thou wear a smoother form ? Indulge me, nor conceive 1 drop my theme ; Who cheapens life, abates the fear of death : Twice told the period spent on stubborn Troy , Court favour, yet untaken, I besiege; Ambition's ill-judg'd eflbrt to be rich. Alas! ambition makes my lillle less; Kmbit tering the possest: Why wish for more ? Wishing , of all employments, is the worst; Philosophy's reverse; and health's decay! quot;Were I as plump as stall'd theology, Wishing would wast me to this shade again. Were 1 as wealthy as a South-sea dream , Wishing is an expedient to he poor. Wishing , that constant hectic of a fool; Caught at a court; purg'd oil'by purer air. And simpler diet; gifts of rural life! Blest he that hand divine, which gently laid My heart at rest , beneath this bumble shed. The world's a stately baik , on dangerous seas. With pleasure seen, but hoarded at our peril; Here, un a single plank , thrown safe ashore, 1 hear the tumult of I he distant throng , As that of seas remote , or dying storms : And meditate on scenes, more silent still: Pursue my theme, and fight the fear of death. Here, like a shepherd gazing from bis hut. Touching bis reed , or leaning on bis stall, Eager atnbilion's a fiery chase I see; I see the circling hunt , of noisy men , Burst law's enclosure, leap the mounds of right, Pursuing, and pursued , each others's prey; As wolves, for rapine; as the fox , for wiles; Till death, that miglby hunter, earths them all. AVby all ibis toil for tMiimphs i.f an hour? What though we wade in wealth, or soar in fame? Earth's highest station ends in, quot;Here he lies,quot; And quot;dust to dustquot; , concludes her noblest song. |
If this song lives, posterity shall know One, though in Britain horn, with courtiers bred , Who thought ev'n gold might come a day too late; Nor on his subtle death-bed plann'd his scheme For future vacancies in church or slate ; Some avocation deeming it — to die, Unhit by rage canine of dying rich Guilt's blunder! and the loudest laugh of bell. O my coevals! remnants of yourselves I Poor human ruins , tottering o'er the grave! Shall we , shidl aged men , like aged trees. Strike deeper tlieir vile root, and closer cling, Still moreenamour'd of this wretched soil ? Shall our pale, wither'd hands , be still strech'd out. Trembling at once with eagerness and age? With avarice and convulsions grasping hard ? Grasping at air! for what has earth beside? Man wants but little ; nor that little long; How soon must he resign his very dust, Which frugal nature lent liim for an hour! Years unexperiene'd rush on numerous ills; And soon as man , expert from time, has found The key of life, it opis the gates of death. When in this vale of years I backward look , And miss such numbers, numbers too of such , Firmer in health , and greener in their age , And stricter on their guard, and filter lar To play life's subtle game , 1 scarce believe I still survive: and am I fond of life , Who scarce can think it possible 1 live , Alive by miracle! or what is next. Alive by Mead I if 1 am still alive. Who long have bury'd what gives life to live. Firmness of nerve, and energy of thought. Live's lee is not more shallow than impure And vapid; sense and reason show tin? door Call for my bier, and point me to the dust. 0 thou great arbiter of life and death! Nature's immortal; immaterial sun ! Whose all-prolific beam late c.dl'd me forth From darkness, teeming darkness, w here 1 lay The worm's inferior, and in rank beneath The dust I tread on , high to bear my brow. To drink the spirit of the golden day, And triumph in existence; and could know No motive, but my bliss; and bast ordain'd A rise in blessing! with the patriarch's , Thy call I follow to the land unknown; I trust in thee , and know in whom I trust; Or life, or death , is equal; neither weighs : All weight in this — 0 let me live to thee! Though nature's terrors thus may he reprcst; Still frow nsgrim(/ea//i; guilt points the tyrant's spear. And whence all human guilt? From death forgot. Ah me! loo long 1 set at nought the swarm Of friendly warnings, w hieh around me flew; Ami smil'd unsmitten : small my cause lo smile! Death's admonitions, like shafts upwards shot. More dreadful by delay . the longer ere They strike our hearts, the de.'per is their wound. 0 think how deep , I.orcn/.o! here it stings : |
241
|
Who can appease its anguish? how it burns! What hand the barb'cl,invcnoin'd, thought can draw? AVhat healing hand can pour the halm of peace, And turn my sight undaunted on the tomh ? With joy — with grief that healiny hund I see; Ah , too conspicuous! it is fix'd on higli. On hiyh? — what means my plircnzy? I blaspheme; Alas, how low! how far heneflth the skies! The skies it fonn'd ; and now it bleeds for me — But bleeds the balm I want — yet still it b/ceds; Draw the dire steel — ah no ! the dreadful blessing AVhat heart or can sustain , or dares forego? There hangs all human hope; that nail supports |
The falling universe: that gone, wo drop; Horror receives us , and the dismal wish Creation had been smother'd in her birth — Darkness is his curtain, and his bed the dust; When stars and sun arc dust beneath his throne! If heaven itself can such indulgence dwell ? O what a groan was there! a groan not /lis. He seiï'd our dreadful right; the load suslain'd ; And heav'd the mountain from a guilty world. A thousand worlds so bought, were bought loo dear; Sensations new in angels bosoms rise ; Suspend their song; and make a pause in bliss.* |
In 1GG8 geboren, overleed in 1740. Do verzen van dien dichter zijn vloeijend , bevallig, nntmirlijk eu zuiver. The Prospect of Pence; The Koyal Progress; An Imitation of the Prophecy of Nereus; An Epistle from a Lady in England to a Gentleman at Avignon zijn stukken , die den levendigsten bijval verwierven en herhaalde malen herdrukt werden. Bovendien heeft men van hem o a. Oxford ; Epistle to a Lady before marriage; 'Ihe Elegy on the Death of Addisou ; Colin and Luey ; Kensington Gardens; To Mr. Addison, on his Opera of Kosamond, waarin dit stuk, behalveu op 't eind, zonder overdrijving bezongen wordt; een vertaling van The First book of Homer's Iliad ; To Apollo making Love aan I'on-tenelle ontleend, enz. liy was bovendien een medearbeider aan The Spectator en The Guardian, en bezorgde een levensgeschiedenis en uitgave van de werken van zijn vriend en beschcrraer Addison.
|
Of Lcinstcr, fatn'd for maidens fair, Bright Lucy was the grace; Nor e'er did Lilly's limpid stream Ili llect so sweet a face : Till luckless love, and pining care, impair'd her iogt;y hue, llcr coral lips, ami damask chceks, And eyes of glossy hlue. Ob , have you seen a lilv pale , Wl icn beating rains descend ? Soo droop'd the slow-consuming maid , llcr life near its end. By Lucy warn'd , of Mattering swains Take heed , ye easy fair : Of vengeance due to broken vows, Ye perjur'd swains, beware. Tbree times, all in the dead of night, A bell was heard to ring; And shrieking at her window thrice, The raven ilap'd his wing. Too well the love-lorn maiden knew The solemn boding sound ; And thus, in dying words, bespoke The virgins weeping round. quot; I hear a voice, you cannot hear, quot;Which says, I must not stay; quot; I see a hand, you cannot see, quot;Which beckons me away. |
quot; By a false heart, and broken tows, quot; In early youth I die; quot;Was I to blame, because bis bride quot; Was thrice as rich as 1 ? quot;Ah , Colin ! give not her thy vows , quot; Vows due to me alone; quot;Nur thou, fond maid, receive bis kiss, quot; Nor think him all thy ow n. quot;To morrow, in tbenbureb to wed , quot;Impatient, both prepare! quot;But know,fond maid;and know, false man, quot;That Lucy will be there! quot;Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear, quot;This bridegroom blithe to meet, quot;He in his wedding-trim so gay, quot;I in my winding sheet.quot; She spoke, she dy'd , her corse was borne. The bridegroom blithe to meet, ,Hc in his wedding-trim so gay, She in her winding-sheet. Then what were perjur'd Col in's thoughts? How were these nuptials kept? The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead , And all the village wert. Confusion , shame, remorse, despair. At once his bosom swell: The damps of death bedew'd bis brow, He shook, he groan'd , he fell. |
31
242
|
From the vain bride, all, bride no more! The varying crimson fled , Wben, slreteli'd before her rival's corse, Sbe saw ber busband dead. Tbcn to bis Lucy's new-made grave , Convcy'd by lreml)lin{|; swains, On mould wilb ber, beneatb one sod , For ever bo remains. |
Oft at liis grave, tbe constant bind And plighted maid are seen; AVitb garlands gay, and true-love knots, ïbi y deck the sacrcd green; But, swain forsworn , whoe'er thou art, This hnllow'd spot forbear; Remember Colin's dreadful fate. And fear to meet him there. |
De pen van dien Fnbel- cn Opera-dichfer was zeer vruchtbaar. Zijn werken worden verdeeld in Poems: The Rural Sports, in twee zongen (1711): The Fan, in drie boeken; The Shepherds' Week (1713); Trivia; or, the Art of Walking the streets of London (1712), een van de stukken, die zeer veel bijval vonden ; Epistles on Several Occasions; Eclogues; Elegies; Songs and Ballads; Miscellanies; Translations; Tales; Fables, in two parts, waarvan 't tweede deel eerst na zijn dood verscheen, en de opera's cn tooneelspelen : The Mohocks; What-d'ye-enil it, waarin een heerlijke ballade; The Three Hours after Marriage ; Oione ; The Captives ; Beggar's Opera ; Polly, een vervolg daarop , dat echter niet opgevoerd mogt worden ; Acis and Galatea, a Screnoto ; The Distrest Wife en The Itehearsal at Gotham. Zijn roem heeft hij aan zijn Fables en Beggar's Opera te danken : hij leverde ook bijdragen tot The Guardian.
|
Upon a time a neighing steed , Who graz.'d amongn numerous breed. With mutiny bad fir'd the train, And spread dissension through the plain. On matters thatconcern'd the state, Tbe council met in grand debate. A colt, whose eye-balls ihmi'd with ire , Elate with strenglh and youthful fire, In baste stept forth before the rest, And thus the listening throng addrest. quot;Good Gods, how abject is our race , Condemn'd to slavery and disgrace! Shall we our servitude retain , Because our sires have borne the chain ? Consider, friends! your strength and might; 'T is conquest to assert your right. How cumbrous is tbe gilded coach! The pride of man is our reproach. Were we design'd for daily toil, To drag the ploughshare through the soil, To sweet in harness through the road, To groan beneath the carrier's load ? How feeble are the two-legg'd kind! What force is in our nerves eomhin'd ! Shall then our nobler jaws submit To foam and champ tbe galling hit? Shall haughty man my hack bestride? Shall the sharp spur provoke my side? Forbid it, heavens! reject the rein ; Your shame, your infamy, disdain. Let him the lion first contronl, And still the tiger's famisb'd growl. |
Let us , like tbem , our freedom claim , And make him tremble at our name.quot; A general nod approv'd the cause. And all tbe circle ncigh'd applause. When , lo! with grave and solemn pace , A steed advane'd before the race. With age ami long experience wise; Around lie cast his thoughtful eyes, And , to the mnrrnors of the train , Thus spoke the Nestor of the plain. quot;AVben I bad health and strength , like you , The toils of servitude I knew ; Now grateful man rewards my pains. And give me all these wide domains. Atwill I crop the year's increase; My latter life is rest and peace. I grant, to man we lend our pains. And aid bim lo correct the plains; But doth not he divide the care, Through all the labours of the year? How many thousand structures rise. To fence us from inclement skies! For us he bears the sultry day. And stores up all our winter's hay. He sows , he reaps the harvest's gain ; We .'■bare the toil, and share tbe grain. Since every creature was decreed , To aid each other's mutual need, Appease your discontented mind, And act the part by heaven assign'd.quot; The tumult eeas'd. Thccolt submitted. And, like bis ancestors, was bitted. |
245
|
To lordlitigs proud I tune my lny , Who feast in bower or hall : Tliough dukes ihey he, to dukes I say, Thut pride will have a fall. Now that this same it is right sooth , Full plainly doth appear , From what hefidl John Duke of Guise (t), And Nic of Lancasterc (2). When Richard Coeur-de-Llon reijjn'd , (Which means a lion's heart) Like him his barons rajj'd and roar'd ; Each play'd a lion's part. A word and blow was then enough : Such honour did them nrick, If you bul turn'd your cheek , a culF; And, if your a—se, a kick. Look in their face, they tweak'd your nose. At every turn fell to't; Come near, they trod upon your toes; They fought from head to foot. Of these the Duke of Lancastore Slood paramount in pride: lie kick'd and cuff'd , and tweak'd and I rod His foes, and friends beside. Firm on his front his beaver sale; So broad , it bid his chin : For why? be deern'd no man bis mate, And fear'd to tan his skin. With Spanish wool he dy'd his cheek , With essence oil'd his hair; No vixen civet-cat so sweet, Nor could so scratch and tear. Right tall he made himself to show, Though made full short by God : And , when all other dukes did bow. This duke did only nod. Yet courteous, blithe and dehonnair. To Guise's duke was he: Was ever such a loving pair? How could they disagree? Oh , thus it was: he lov'd him dear, And cast how to require him ; And having no friend left but this , He deem'd it meet to fight him. Forthwith he drench'd his desperate quill, And thus he did endite ; quot;This eve at whist ourself will play, quot;Sir Duke! be here to-night.quot; 41 Ah no! ah no ! quot; the guileless Guise Demurely did reply; |
quot; I cannot go, nor yet can stand , quot; So sour the gout have I.quot; The duke in wrath cal I'd for his steeds ,, And fiercely drove them on ; Lord! lord! how rattled then thy stones, O kingly Kensington! (3) All in a trice he rush'd on Guise, Thrust out his lady dear; He tweak'd his nose, trod on his toes , And smote him on the ear. Rut mark, liow midst of victory Fate plays ber old dog trick ! Up leap'd Duke John, and knock'd him down, And so fell down Duke Nic. Alas, oh Nic! oh Nic , alas! Right did thy gossip call thee ; As who should say, alas, the day, When John of Guise shall maul thee! For on thee did he clap his chair, And on that chair did sit; And look as if he meant therein To do — what was not lit. Up didst thou look, oh woful duke! Thy mouth yet durst not ope, Certes fur fear of finding there At t—d instead of trope. quot;Lie there, thou caitillquot; vile I'' quoth Guise, quot; No sheet is here to save thee : quot;The casement it is shut likewise; quot; Beneath my feel I have thee. quot; If thou liast aught to speak , speak out Then Lancasterc did cry, 11 Know'st thou not me , nor yet thyself? quot; Who thou, and who am I ? quot;Knows'tthou not me, who (God be prais'd) quot; Have hrawl'd and quarrell'd more, quot; Than all the line of Lancasterc , quot;That battled heretofore? quot;In senates fam'd for many a speech , quot; And (what some awe must give ye, quot;Though laid thus low beneath thy brcach) quot;Still of the council privy ; quot;Still of the duchy chancellor : quot;Durante life 1 have it; quot; And turn , as now thou dost on me, quot;Minea—e on them that gave it.quot; Rut now the servants they rush'd in ; And Duke Nic, up leap'd be: quot; I will not cope against such odds, quot; But, Guise! I'll fight with thee.quot; |
(1) Sir John Guise.
(2) Nicolas Lord Lechmcre, Chancelloi' of the daohy of Lancaster.
(3) Lord Lechmcre lived at Camdcn-house near Kensington.
244
|
quot;To-morrow with tliee will 1 fijjlit quot;Under tlicgreen-wood tree. quot;No , not to-morrow , hut to-niglitquot; (Quoth Guise) quot;I'll fight with tliee.quot; And now the sun declining low Bestreak'd with blood the skies; When , vv i th h is sword at saddle-how , Rode forth the valiant (Juise. Full gently pranc'd he o'er the lawn , Oft rollM his eyes around, And from the stirrup streteh'd to find Who was not to be found. Long brandish'd he the blade in air, Long look'd the field all o'er: At length he spy'd the merry-men brown , Anil eke the coach and four. From out the hoot bold Kicholas Did wave bis wand so white, As pointing out the gloomy glade Wherein he meant to fight. All in that dreadful hour so calm Was Lannastere to see , As if he meant to take the air, Or only take a fee : |
And so be did — for to New Court His rolling wheels did run : No that he shunn'd the doubtful strife ; But business must be done, Back in the dark , by Brarnpton-park , He turn'd up through the Gore ! So slunk to Camden-house so high , All iti his coach and four. Man while Duke Guise did fret and fume , A sight it was to see, Benumb'd beneath the evening dew Under the green-wood tree. Then , wet and weary, home he far'd, Sore muttering all the way, quot;The day I meet him , Nic shall rue quot;The cudgel of that day. quot; Mean time on every pissing post '■Paste we this recreant's name, quot; So that each pisser-by shall read quot;And piss against the same.quot; Now God preserve our gracious king , And grant his nobles all May learn this lesson from Duke Nic. That pride will have a fall. |
Stond in hct begin der achttiende eeuw nan 't hoofd van alle dichters. Hij werd geboren in 1688 en overleed in 174!4. Nadat hij den ouderdom van twaalf jaar bereikt had, bezocht hij geene school meer. In 1709 verscheen zijn eerste gedicht, dat hij op zestienjarigen leeftijd had voltooid. Vroeger had hij reeds geschreven: Ode on Solitude; Verses upon Silence, Translations ol the first Book of the Thebais en On Ovid's Epistle from Sappho to Phaon , en zijn Paraphrases of Chaucer's January and May on the Prologue to the Wife of Bath's Tale. I)e Essay on Criticism (geschreven, naar men wil, in 1709) verscheen in 1711 , en 't herdersdicht Messiah in den Spectator; The Rape of the Lock; The Temple of ïame (1712); Windsor Forest (op zeventienjarigen leefiijd begonnen) (1713); de eerste vier boekeu van een vertaling der Iliade (1715); Epistle from Eloisa to Abelard, waarschijnlijk in 1717, toen ook een uitgave van al zijn gedichten verscheen ; de overige stukken van de Iliade en 't laatste stuk in 1720 ; The Odyssey Translated , waaraan twee van zijne vrienden medewerkten (1725) ; de eerste drie boeken van de Dunciade (1728); Epistle on Taste (1731); Essay on Man (1733, 1734); Imitations ot Horace, verschillende andere hekeldichten; The Prologue and Epilogue to the Satires; Moral Epistles, enz., tus-schen 1730 en 1740 en 't vierde boek van do Dunciade in 1742. Voorts verschenen , behalven al die poëzie, in proza: Narrative of the Frenzy of John Dennis (1713); Preface to Shakespeare, met ecu uitgave van de werken van dien grooten dramaschrijver (1721) ; Treatise of the Bathos, or Art of Sinking in Poetry en Memoirs of P.P., Clerk of this Parish (om the History of my Own Time van Burnet te rediculiseren (zie bldz. 218.) (1727). Door deze weinige prozawerken, behoort hij reeds tot de beste proza-schrijvers van Engeland, Een menigte dichters vormde zich naar zijn poëzie en als dichter staat hij geheel alleen in zijn tijd. Behalven de stukken , die uitgegeven zijn , schreef hij nog een aantal kleinere stukken , te veel om hier op te sommen; ook zijn er twee door hem zeiven vernietigd en een onafgewerkt gebleven.
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HTS SOUL.
|
Vital spark cl: heavenly flame! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame : Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying! Oh the pain , the bliss of dying! |
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life. Hark! they whisper ; Angels say ; Sister Spirit, come away. |
24!)
|
Wliat is this ahsorbs me quite ? Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me , my soul, can this he death ? III. The world recedes; it disappears! |
Heaven opens on my eyes! my cars With sounds seraphic ring : Lend , lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave I where is thy victory? O Death! where is tiiy sling ? |
OF THE NATURE AND STATE OP MAN, WITH RESPECT TO HtMStl.F , AS AN INDIVIDUAL.
I. The business of man not to pry into God, but to study himself. His middle nature; his powers and frailties, ver. 1 to I'J. The limits of his capacity, ver. 19 Sec. II. The two principles of man, self-love and reason, bolh necessary, ver. 53 amp;o Self-love the stronger, and why ver. G7 amp;e. Their end the same, ver. 81 amp;c. III. The passions, and their use, ver. 9a to 130. The predominant passion, and its force, ver 133 to 100. Its necessity, in directing men to different purposes, vcr. 165 See. Its providential use, in fixing our principle, and ascertaining our virtue, vcr. 177. IV. Virtue and vice joined in our mixed nature j the limitis near, yet the things separate and evident; what is the oflice of reason, ver. 202 to 216. V. How odious vice in itself, and how we deceive ourselves into it, ver. 217. VI. That, however, the ends of providence and general good arc answered in our passions and imperfections, ver. 238 amp;c. How usefully these are distributed to' all orders of men, ver 241. How useful they aro to society, ver. 251. And to individuals, ver. 263. In every stale, and every age of life, ver, 273 amp;c.
|
I. Know then thyself, presume not God to scan , The proper study of mankind is man. riae'd on this isthmus of a middle slate, A being darkly wise, and rudely great: With too much knowledge for the sceptic side. With too much weakness for the stoic's pride, He hangs between , in doubt to act, or rest; In doubt to deem himself a god , or beast, In doubt his mind or body to prefer; Born but to die , and reasoning but lo err ; 10 Alike in ignorance , his reason such , Whether he thinks loo little, or loo much : Chaos of thoughl and p.-ission , all confus'd ; Still by himself abus'd or disahus'd ; Created half to rise . and half to fall; Great lord of all things, yet a prey lo all ; Sole judge of truth . in endless horror hurl'd: The glory, jest, and riddle of the wold ! Go, wondrous creature! mount where science guides. Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides; 2G Instruct the planets iti what orbs to run. Correct old time, ami regulate the sun ; Go, soar with I'lalo lo th'empyrial sphere. To the first good , first perfect, and iirst fair; Or tread the ma/.y round his followers trod, And quitting sense call imitating God ; As eastern priests in giddy circles run , And turn their heads to imitate the sun. Go, leach Eternal Wisdom how to rule — Then drop into thyself, and be a fool! 30 Superior beings, when of late they saw A mortal man unfold all nature's law , Admir'd such wisdom in an earthly shape. And shew'd a Newton as we shew an ape. Could he, whose rules tho rapid comet bind, |
Describe or fix one movement of his mind? Who saw its fires here rise, and there descend, Explain his own beginning or his end ? Alas, what wonder I Man's superior part Uncheck'd my rise, and climb from art to art; 40 But when his own great work is but begun, What reason •vreaves, by passion is undone. Trace science I hen , with modesty thy guide; First, strip off all her equipage of pride ; Deduct what is but vanity or dress. Or learning's luxury, or idleness ; Or tricks to show the stretch of human brain , Mere curious pleasure , or ingenious pain; Expunge the whole, or lop th'excrescent parts Of all our vices have created arts ; 50 Then sec how little the remaining sum , Which serv'd the past, and must, the times to come! II. Two principles in human nature reign; Self love, to urge, and reason , to restrain; Nor this a good , nor that a had we call , Eaoh works its end , lo move or govern all : Ami to their proper operation still, Ascribe all good , to their improper ill. Self love , the spring of motion , acts the soul; Reason's comparing balance rules the whole. GO Man , but for that, no action could attend, And, but for this , were active to no end: Fix'd like a plant on his peculiar spot. To draw nutrition , propagate, and rot; Or, meteor-like, flame lawless throuqb the void , Destroying others, by himself destroy'd. Most strength the moving principle requires ; Active its task , it prompts, impels, inspires. Sedate and quiet the comparing lies. Form'd hut to check, deliberate, and advise. 70 |
246
|
Self-lofe, still stronger, as ils olijeols nigh; Reasons at distance, and in prospect lie: That sees immediate good by present sense; Reason the future and tlie consequence. Tliielter tlian arguments, temptations throng. At hest more walchful this , but that more strong. The action of the stronger to suspend, Reason still use, to reason still attend. Attention , hahit, and experience gains; Eeach strengthens reason, and self-love restrains. 80 Let subtle schoolmen teach these friends to fight, More studious to divide than to unite; And grace and virtue, sense and reason split, With all the rash dexterity of wit. Wits, just like fools, at war about a name, lia ve full as oft no meaning, or the same. Self-love and reason to one end aspire, Pain their aversion, pleasure their desire; But greedy that, its object would devour, Th is taste the honey, and not wound the flower: 90 Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, Our greatest, evil or our greatest good. III. Mod es of self-love the passions we may call; 'T is real good , or seeming, moves them all : But since not every good we can divide, Antl reason bids us for our own provide; Passions, though selfish, if their means be fair, List under reason, and deserve her care; Those, that imparted , court a nobler aim , Exalt their kind, and take some virtue's name. 100 In lazy apathy let stoics boast Their virtue lix'd :'t is flx'd as in a frost; Contracted all, retiring to the breast; But strength of mind is exercise, not rest : The rising tempest puis in act the soul; Parts it may ravage, but preserves the whole. On life's *ast ocean diversely we sail. Reason the card, but passion is the gale; Nor God alone in the still calm we find , He mounts the storm and walks upon the wind. 110 Passions , like elements, though born lo fight. Yet, mix'd and soften'd, in his work unite: These, 't is enough to temper and employ ; But what composes man , can man destroy ? Suffice that reason keep to nature's road, Subject, compound them, follow her and God. Love, hope, and joy, fair pleasure's smiling train ; Hate, fear and grief, the family of pain; These mix'd with art, and to due bounds confin'd , Make and maintain the balance of the mind; 120 The lightsand shades, whose well-accorded strife Gives all the strength and colour of our life. Pleasures arc ever in our hands and eyes: And, when in act they cease, in prospect rise: Present to grasp, and future still lo find. The whole employ of body and of mind. All spread tbcircharms, but charm not all alike; On different senses, different objects strike; Hencc different passions more or less inflame, As strong or weak, the organs of the frame; 130 And hence one master passion in the breast, |
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest. As man, perhaps, the moment of bis breath. Receives the lurking principle of death; The young disease, which must subdue at length , Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his-So, cast and mingled with his very frame, (strength: The mind's disease, its ruling passion came; Each vital humour, which should feed the whole, Soon flows to thilt;, in body and in soul : 140 Whatever warms the heart, or fills the head , As the mind opens, and its functions spread , Imagination plies her dangerous art. And pours it all upon the peccant part. Nature its mother, habit is its nurse; Wit,spirit, faculties, but make it worse; Reason itself but gives it edge and power ; As heaven's blest beam turns vinegar more sour. We, wretched subjects though to lawful sway. In this weak queen, some favourite still obey: 150 Ah ! if she send not arms, as well as rules. What can she more than tell us we are fools? Teach us to mourn our nature, not to mend; A sharp accuser, but a helpless friend ! Or from a judge turn pleader, to persuade The choice we make, orjustify it made; Proud of an easy conquest all along. She but removes weak passions for the strong : So, when small humours gather to a gout. The doctor fancies he has driv'n them out. 160 Yes, nature's road must ever be preferr'd ; Reason is here no guide, but still a guard; quot;I'is hers to rectify, not overthrow. And treat this passion more as friend than foe; A mightier power the strong direction sends. And several men impels to several ends: Like varying winds, bv other puseions tost, This drives them constant to a certain coast. Let power or knowledge, gold or glory, please. Or (oft more strong than all) the love of ease; 170 Through life 'I is follow'd ev'n at life's expence; The merchant's toil, the sage's indolence, The monk's humility, the hero's pride, All, all alike, find reason on their side. Th'eternal art, educing good from ill. Grafts on tiiis passion our best principle: Tis thus the mercury of man is lix'd , Strong grows the virtue with his nature mix'd ; The dross cements what else were too refin'd , And in one interest body acts with mind. 180 As fruits, ungrateful to the planter's care. On savage stocks inserted learn to bear; The surest virtues thus from passions shoot , Wild nature's vigour working at the root. What crops of wit and honesty appear From spleen , from obstinacy, hate, or fear ! See anger, zeal and fortitude supply ; Ev'n avarice, prudence ; sloth , philosophy ; Lust, through some certain strainers well refin'd , Is gentle love, and charms all womankind ; 190 Envy , to which th'ignoble mind's a slave, Is emulation in the learn'd or brave ; |
247
|
Nor virtue, male or female, can we name, But what will grow on pride , or grow on shame. Thus nature gives us (let it check our pride) The virtue nearest to our vice ally'd ; Iteason the bhis turns to gnoil froin ill, And Nero reigns a Tilus, if he will. The fiery soul ahhorr'd inCatnlinc, In Decius charms, in Curlius is divine : 200 The same anihition can destroy or save, And makes a patriot as it makes a knave. This light and darkness in our chaos join'd. What shall divide? The God within the mind. Extremes in nature equal ends produce, In man they join to some mysterious use; Th ough each hy turns the other's hound invade. As, in some well-wrought picture, light and shade, And oft so mix , the difference is loo nice Where ends the virtue, or begins the vice, 210 Fools! who from hence into the notion fall, That vice or virtue there is none at all. If while and black blend , soften , and unite A thousand -ways, is there no black or while? Ask your own heart, and nothing is so plain ; 'T is to mistake them , costs the time and pain. Vice is a monster of so frightful mien , As, to be hated , needs hut to he seen ; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace. 220 lint where th' extreme of vice , was ne'er agreed : Ask where's the north; at York, 't is on the Tweed ; In Scotland , at the Oreades; and there, At Greenland, Zembla , or the Lord knows where. No creature owns it in the first degree, But thinks bis neighbour further gone than he: Ev'n those who dwell beneath its very zone. Or never feel the rage, or never ow n ; AVhat happier natures shrink at with affright. The hard inhabitant contends is right. 230 Virtuous and vicious every man must be. Few in th' extreme, hut all in the degree ; The rogue and foul by fits is fair and wise; And ev'n the best, by fits, what they despise. 'T is hut by parts we follow good or ill ; For, vice or virtue, self directs it still ; Each individual seeks a several goal; But heaven's great view, is one, and that the whole. That counter-works each folly and caprice, That disappoints th' effect of every vice : 240 That, happy frailties to all ranks apply'd ; Shame to the virgin , to the matron pride ; Fear to the stateman , rashness to the chicf; |
To kings presumption , and to crowds belief: That virtue's ends from vanity can raise, Which seeks no interest, no reward but praise; Ami build on wants, and on defects of mind, The joy, the peace, the glory of mankind. Heaven forming each on other to depend , A master, or a servant, or a friend , 250 Bids each on other for assistance call. Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all. Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally The common interest, or endear the tie. To these we owe true friendship, love sincere, Each home-felt joy that life inherits here; Yet from the same we learn , in its decline, '1 hose joys, those loves, those interests, to resign; Taught half by reason, half by mere decay, To welcome death , anil calmly pass away. 2G0 Whate'er the passion , knowledge, fame, or pelf. Not one will change bis neighbour with himself. The learn'd is happy nature to explore, The fool is happy that he knows no more; The rich is happy in the plenty given. The poor contents him with the care of heaven. See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing, The sot a hero, lunatic a lung; The starving chemist in his golden views. Supremely blest, the poet in his muse. 270 See some strange comfort every state attend , And pride hestow'd on all, a common friend: See some fit passion every age supply ; Hope travels through , nor quits us when wo die. Behold the child , by nature's kindly law, Pleas'd with a rattle, tickled with a !,traw: Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, A little louder, but as empty quite; Scaifs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage. And heads and prayer-books are the toys of age: 280 Pleas'd with this bauble still, as that before; Till tir'd he sleeps , and life's poor play is o'er. Meanwhile opinion guilds w ith varying rays Those painted clouds that beautify ourdays; Each want of happiness by hope supply'd , And each vacuity of sense hy pride: These build as fast as knowledge can destroy; In folly's cup still laughs the bubble, joy; One prospect lost, another still we gain; And not a vanity is giv'n in vain ; Ev'n mean self-love becomes, by force divine, 'I hese ale to measure others wants by thine. See! and confess, one comfort still must rise; 'T is this. Though man's a fool, yet God is wise. |
|
Father of all! in every age, In every clime ador'd, By saint, hy savage, and hy sago , Jehovah , Jove, our Lord! |
Thou Great First Cause, least understood ; Who all my sense confin'd To know but this, that thou art good , And that myself am blind; |
0
248
|
Yet gave mc, in this darkc slate, To see the good from ill ; And, binding nalure fast in fate , Left free the human will: What conscience dictates to be done , Or warns me not to do, This, teach me more than hell to shun, That, more than heaven pursue. What blessings thy free bounty gives, Let me not cast away; For God is paid when man receives, T'enjoy is to obey. Yet not to earth's contracted span Thy goodness let me hound , Or think thee Lord alone of man, When thousand worlds are round : Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume thy bolls lo throw , And deal damnation round the land, On each I judge thy foe. If I am right, thy grace imparl, Still in the right to stay: |
If 1 am wrong, oh, teach ray heart, To find that better way! Safe me alike from foolish pride. Or impious discontent, At aught thy wisdom has deny'd, Or aught thy goodness lent. Teach me to feel another's woe, To hide the fault 1 see; That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to mc. Mean though I am , not wholly so , Since quicken'd by thy breath ; O, lead me where soe'er I go, Through this day's life or death. This day , be bread and peace my lot: All else henealh the sun , Thou know'st if best beslow'd or not. And let thy will be done. To thee, whose temple is all space, Whose altar, earth , sea, skies! One chorus let all being raise! All nature's incense rise! |
|
In beauty, or wit No mortal as yet To question your empire has dar'd ; But men of discerning Have tboujjht I hat in learning. To yield to a lady was hard. Impertinent schools, With iniisly dull rules. Have reading In females deny'd: So Papists n fusc The Bible to use, Lest flocks should he wise as their guide. 'T was a woman at first, (Indeed she was curst) In knowledge that tasted delight, To Lady Mary |
And sages agree The laws should decree To the first of possessors the right. IV. Then bravely, fair dame, Resume the old claim, Which to your w hole sex does belong ; And let men receive. From a second bright live. The knowledge of right, and of wrong. V. But if the first Eve Hard doom did receive. When only one apple had she, What a punishment new Shall he found out for you. Who lasting, have robb'd the whole tree? |
■%
249
THE GREAT NOVELISTS AND ESSAYISTS.
l)c vader van do engelsche novellcnschrijvers, verd geboren in 16S3 (volgens anderen in 1601) en overleed in 17IU, Hij onderscheidde zieh zeer waarschijnlijk reeds in 1683 als schrijver, door een satire in poëzie (True-born Englishman), ter verdediging ran Willem III. Gedurende een tijdvak van ruim dertig jaren liet hij uit zijn pen zoowel in proza, als poèzie, een aantal staatkundige geschriften, te veel om ze allen op te sommen , vloeijen : zij behandelen bijna elk gewigtig onderwerp , dat gedurende die reeks van jaren , voor het volk eu dc maatschappij van eenig belang was. Vele van die stukken hebben nog een aanzienlijke waarde , waaronder vooral zijn History of the Union van het hoogste belang voor de wetenschap is. Hier en daar dragen sommige van zijn stukken wel de sporen van overhaasting, doch zij ver-ralnderen de waarde van zijn werk niet. Na jaren arbelds sloeg deze verdienstelijke schrijver een voor hem geheel nieuwen weg in ; toen vloeide een reeks van werken uit zijn pen , waarvan eenigen in omtrent elke europische taal populair werden. Achtereen verschenen; Robinson Crusoe en The Dumb Philosopher (1719); Captain Singleton en Duncan Campbell (1720); Moll Flanders (1721); Colonel Jacqne; The Journal of the Plague, en waarschijnlijk ook The Memoirs of a Cavalier (1722); The Fortunate Mistress, or Rosanal (1724); New Voyage Round to World (1725); Memoirs of Captain C'arleton (1728), welke hij alleen tot uitspanning schijnt geschreven te hebben. Hij leverde ook nog: Political History of the Devil ; A System of Magic ; The Complete English Tradesman ; A Tour through Great Britain, Van 1719 tot 1731 schreef bij nog een twintigtal andere stukken van verschillenden inhoud. Onder zijn verhandelingen verdient vooral genoemd le worden : The Shorlcst Way with the Dissenters. Hij leverde ook gedurende zijn gevangenschap, hem tengevolge van staatkundige geschriften herhaalde malen te beurt gevallen , in Newgate eeu tijdschrift, The Review, dat tweemaal 's weeks verscheen. Niemand wist zóó als hij den schijn van waarheid aan verdichting le geven. De stijl van zijn staatkundige geschriften is nu en dan zeer verheven ; zij zijn echter thans meest allen vergeten : die van zijn verdichte werken onderseheidt zich door eenvoudigheid en helderheid.
Advlcc to a Youth of Rambling Disposition.
(From quot;Robinson Ciiusoe.quot;)
|
Bcinj; the third son of the family, and not hred lo any trade, my head bejjan to he filled very early with ramhlin^ tiiou^lits. My father, who was very ancient , had yiveii me a competent share of leurninif, as fur as house education and a country frecschool jjencrally jjo, and designed me for the law: hut I would be satisfied with nothing hut {join;; to sea; and my inclination lo this led me so strongly against the will — nay, the commands — of my father, and against all the intreaties and persuasions of my mother and other friends, that there seemed to be something fatal in that propension of nature, tending directly to the life of misery which was to he-fall me. |
My fatlier, a wise and grave man, gave me serious and excellent counsel against what he foresaw was my design, lie called me one morning into his chamber, where he was confined by the gout, and expostulated very warmly with me upon this subject. He asked me what reasons, more than a mere wandering inclination , 1 bad for leaving my father's house and my native country, where 1 might be well introduced, and bad a prospect of raising my fortune by application and industry, with a life of ease and pleasure. He told me it was only men of desperate fortunes on one hand, or of aspiring luperior fortunes on the other, who went abroad upon adventures, to rise by entreprise, and make them-scItcs famous in undertakings of a nature out of the common road; that these things were all either too far above me, or too far below me; that mine was the middle state, or what might be called the upper station of low life, which he had found , by long experience, was the best state in the world — the most suited to human happiness; not exposed to the miseries and hardships, tbe labour and sufferings, of the mechanic part of mankind, and not embarrassed witb the pride, luxury, ambition and envy, of the upper part of mankind, lie told me I might judge of the happiness of this state by this one thing, namely, that this was tbe state of life which all other people envied ; that kings have frequently lamented the miserable consequences of being born to great things, and wished they had been placed in tbe middle of the twoextremes, between tbe mean and the great; that the wise man gave bis testimony to this, as tbe jnst standard of true felicity, when |
32
|
tie prayed to liavc; neilher poverty nor riches. He bade me observe it, and I should always find that the calamities of life were sliared amorij; tbe upper and lower part of man'iind ; but that the middle station bad the fewest disasters, and was not exposed to so many vicissitudes as tbe higber or lower part of mankind ; nay, they were not subjected to so many distempers and uneasinesses, either of body or mind, as those were who, by vicious living, luxury, and extravaijan-ces on one band, or by hard labour, want of necessaries, and mean or insufTicient diet on the oilier band, bring distempers upon themselves by the natural consequences of their way of living; that the middle station of life was calculated for all kind of virtues, and all kind of enjoyments; that peace and plenty were the handmaids of a middle fortune; that temperance, moderation, quietness, health, society, all agreeable diversions, and all desirable pleasures, were the blessings attending lite middlestation of li'e ;that this way men went silently and smoothly through the world, and comfortably out of it; not emba-rassed with the labours of the bands or of the head; not sold to a life ofslavery for daily bread , or harassed with perplexed circumstances, which rob the soul of peace and tbe body of rest ; not enraged with the passion of envy, or the secret burning lust of ambition for great things — but in easy circumstances, sliding gently tlirough tbe world, and sensibly tasting the sweets of living without the bitter; feeling that they are happy, and learning, by every day's experience, to know it more sensibly. |
After this be pressed me earnestly, and in tbe most affectionate manner, not to play tbe young man, or to precipitate myself into miseries, which nature, and the station of life I was horn in, seem to have provided against; that [ was under no necessity of seeking my bread ; that he would do well for me, and endeavour to enter me fairly into the station of life wliich he bad been just recommending to me ; and that, if 1 was not very easy and happy in the world, it must he my meru fate, or fault, that must binder it; and that he should have nothing to answer for, having thus discharged his duty, in warning me against measures which he knew would be to my hurt. In a word , that as he would do very kind things for me, if I would stay and settle at home as he directed , so he would not have so much hand in my misfortunes as to give me any encouragement to go away ; and , to close all, he told me 1 had my elder brother for my example, to whom be had used the same earnest persuasions to keep him from going into the Low-Country «urs, but could not prevail, his young desires prompting him to run into the army, where he was killed ; and though be said lie would not cease to pray for me, yet be would venture to say to me, that, if I did take this foolish step, God would not bless me — and I would have leisure hereafter to reflect upon having neglected his counsel, when there might be none to assist in my recovery. |
|
Much about tbe same time 1 walked out into the fields towards How , for 1 had a great mind to sen how things were managed in the river, and among the ships ; and as I had some concern in shipping, I had a notion that it had been one of the best ways of securing one's self from tbe infection , to have retired into a ship; and musing bow to satisfy my curiosity in that point, 1 turned away over the fields, from Bow to Bromley, and down to lilackwall, to the stairs that are there for landing or taking water. Here I saw a poor man walking on the bank or sea-wall, as they call it, by himself. I walked a while also about, seeing tbe houses all shut up; at last I fell into some talk, at a distance, with this poor man. First I asked him how people did . there-abouts? 4las! Sir, says he, almost desolate; ( all dead or sick: Here arc very few families in 1 this part, or in that village pointing at Poplar, i where half of them are not dead already, and the restsick. Then he, pointing to one house. There they are all dead , said he, and the house stands open; nobody dares go into it. A poor thief, says |
he, ventured in to steal something, but he paid dear for his theft, for he was carried to the churchyard too, last ni;;ht. Then he pointed to several other houses. There, says he, they are all dead , the man and bis wife and live children. There, says he, they are shut up; you see a watchman at the door; and so of other houses. Why, says I, what do you here all alone? Why, says he, I am a poor desolate man; it hath pleased God I am not yet visited, though my family is, and one of my ehildren dead. How do you mean then, said I, that you are not visited? Why, says lie, that is my house, pointing to a very little low boarded house, and there my poor wife and two children live, said he, if they may be said to live; for my wife and one ol the ehildren are visited . hut I do not come at them. And with that word I saw the tears run very plentifully down his face; and so they did down mine too, 1 assure you. But, said I, why do you not come at them ? How can you abandon your own flesh and blood ? Oh, sir, says he, the lord forbid; I do not abandon them; I work for them as much as I am able; |
251
|
and, Llcssnd he the Lord, I keep them frum want. And with that I ohserved he liflcd iij) his eyes to heaven with a counlenaneo that presently told me I had happened on a man that «as no hypocrite, hut a serious, rcj;ilious, (|ood man; and his ejaculation was an expression of thankfulness, that, in such a condition as he was in, he should he ahle lo say his family did not want. Well, says 1, honest man, that is a jjreal mercy, as thiK^s ;;o now with the poor. liul how do yon live then, and how are yon kepi from ihe dreadful calamity that is now upon us all ? Why, sir, says he, 1 am a waterman , and there is my hoat, says he, and the hoat serves mo for a house; I work in it in the day, and 1 sleep in it in the night, and what I get 1 lay it down upon that stone, says he, showing me a broad slone on the other side of the street, a {;ood way from his house; and then, says he, I halloo and call to them till 1 make them hear, and they come and fetch it. Well, friend, says I, hut how can yon get money as a waterman? Does anybody go by water these times 7 Yes, sir, says he, in the way 1 am employed there does. Do you see there, says he, five ships lie at anchor? pointing down the river a good way below the town ; and do you see, says be, eight or ten ships lie at the chain there , and al anchor yonder ? pointing above the town. All those ships have families on board, of their merchants and owners, and such like , who have locked themselves up, and live on hoard, close shut in, for fear of the infection; and 1 tend on them to fetch things for them, carry letters, and do what is absolutely necessary, that they may not be obliged lo come on shore; and every ni dil. I fasten my boat on hoard one of the ship's boats, and there I sleep by myself; and blessed be God, 1 am preserved hitberlo. Well, said I . friend, but will they let you come on board after yon have been on shore here, when this has been such a terrible place. and so infected as il is? Why, as to that, said be, I very seldom go up the ship-side, but deliver what. 1 bring to their boat, or lie by the side, and they hoist it on board ; if 1 did , I think they are in no danger from me , for I never go into any house on shore, or touch anybody, no, not my own family; but I fetch provisions for them. Nay, says I, but that may be worse, for you must have those provisions of somebody or other; and since all this part of the town is so infected , it is dangerous so much as to spe.di with anybody; for the village, saidl, is, as it were, the beginning of London, though it he at some distance from it. |
That is true, added he , hut you do not understand me right, i do not buy provisions for them here; I row up lo Greenwich, and buy fresh meat there, and sometimes I row down the river toAVoolwich, and buy there; then I go to single farmhouses on the Kentish side, where I am known, and buy fowls, and eggs, and butter, and bring to the ships, as they direct me, sometimes one, so-netirnes the other. I seldom come on shore here; and 1 came only now to call my wife, and hear bow my little family do, and give them a little money which I received last night. Poor man! said I, and how mneh hast thou gotten fur them ? 1 have gotten lour shillings, said he, which is a great sum , as things go now with poor men ; but ibev have given me a hag of bread loo, and a salt fish, and some flesh ; so all helps out. Well, said 1, and have you given it them yet'J Wo, saiil he, hut I have called, and my wife has answered that she cannot come out yet, but in half an hour she hopes to come, and I am waiting for her. Poor woman I says he, she is brought sadly down ; she has bad a swelling, and il is broke, and I hope she will recover, but I fear the child will die; hut it is the Lord I Here he stopt, and wept very much. Well, honest friend, said 1, thou hast a sure comforter, if thou hast brought thyself to he resigned to the will of God ; be is dealing with us all in judgment. Oil, sir, sais he, it is infinite mercy if any of us are spared ; and who am I lo repine! Siiy'st thou so, said I; and bow much less is my faith than thine! And here my heart smote me, suggesting how much heller ibis poor man's foundation was, on which he staid in the danger, than mine; that he bad nowhere to ily; that he had a family lo bind him to attendance, which I had not; and mine was mere presumption , his a li ue dependence and a courage resting on God ; and yet. that he used all possible caution for bis safely. I turned a little way from the man while these thoughts engaged me; for indeed, I could no more refrain from tears than be. At length, after some farther talk, the poor woman opened the door, and called liobert, Robert; he answered, and bid her slay a few moments and he would come; so be ran down the common stairs to bis boat, and fetched up a sack in which was the provisions be bad brought from the ships; and when be returned, he hallooed again; than he went to the great stone which be showed me, and emptied the sack, and laid all out, everything by themselves, and then retired; and his wife came with a little boy lo fetch them away ; and he called , and said , such a captain bad sent such a thing, and such a captain such a thing; and at the end adds, God has sent it all, give thanks to him. When the poor woman had taken up all, she was so weak, |
252
|
she could not carry it at once in, though the weight was not much neither; so she left the hiscuit, which was in a little ba{;, anil left a little hoy to watch it till she came agüin. Well, hut, says I to him, did you leave her the four shillings too, which you said was your week's pay ? Yes, yes, says he, you shall hear her own it. So he calls again, Rachel, Rachel, which, it seems, was her name, did you take up the money? Yes, said she. llow much was it? Said he. Four shillings and a groat, said she. Well, well , says he, the Lord keep you all; and so he turned to go away. |
As I could not refrain contributing tears to this man's story, so neither could I refrain my charily for his assistance: so I called him. Hark thee, friend, said I, come hither, for 1 helieve thou art in health, that I may venture thee; so 1 pulled out my hand, which was in my pockct before. Here, says I, go and call thy Rachel once more, and give her a little more comfort from me; God will never forsake a family that trust in him as thou dost: so I gave him four other shilling, and bid him go lay them on the stone, and call his wife. 1 have not words to express the poor man's thankfulness, neither could he express it himself, but by tears running down bis face. lie called his wife, and told her God had moved the heart of a stranger, upon hearing their condition, to give them all that money; and a great deal more such as that he said to her. The woman, too, made signs of the like thank-fnllnes. us well to Heaven as to me, and joyfully picked it up; and I parted with no money all that year that i thought better bestowed. |
{Zie bldz, 223.)
Overstrained Politeness or Vulgar Hospitality.
|
Those inferior duties of life which the French call les petites morales, or the smaller morals, are with us distinguished by the name of good manners or breeding. This I look upon, in the general notion of it, (o be a sort of artificial good sense, adopted to the meanest capacities, and introduced to make mankind easy in their commerce with each other. Low and little understandings, without some rules of this kind, would he perpetually wandering in a thousand indecencies anil irregularities in behaviour; and in their ordinary conversation, fall into the same boisterous familiarities that one observes amongst them, when a debauch has quite taken away the use of their reason, fn other instances, it is odd to consider, that for want of common discretion, the very end of good breeding is wholly perverted; and civility, intended to make us easy, is employed in faying chains and fetters upon us, in debarring us of our wishes, and in crossing our most reasonable desires and inclinations. This abuse reigns chiefly in the country, as 1 fouml to my vexation, when I was last there, in a visit I made to a neighbour about two miles from my cousin. As soon as I entered the parlour, they put me in to the great chair that stood close by a huge lire , and kept, me there by force, until I was almost stifled. Then a boy came in great hurry to pull oil'my boots, which I in vain opposed, urging, that I must return soon after dinner. In the mean time the good lady whispered her eldest daughter, and slipped a key into ber hand. The girl instantly returned with a beer glass half full of (lipid inirabilis and syrup of gilliflower. 1 took as much as I bad a mind for, but Madam vowed I should drink it off (for she was sure it would do me good , after coming out of the cold air), and I was forced to obey ; which absolutely look away my stomach. When dinner came in, I had a mind to sit at a distance fro n the fire; hut they told me it was as much as my life was worth; and set me with my back just against it. Although my ajipetile was quite gone, I resolved to force down as mueh as 1 could, and desired the leg of a pullet. Indeed, Mr. Bickerstaff, says the lady, you must eat a wing to oblige me, and so put a couple upon my plate. I was persecuted at this rote during the whole meal. As often as I called for small hear, the master tipped the wink, and the servant brought me a brimmer of October. Sometime after dinner, I ordered my cousin's man , who came with me , to gel ready the horses, but it was resolved I should not stir that night; and when I seemed pretty mueh bent upon going, they ordered the stable door to be locked; and the children hid my cloak and boots. The next question was , what I would have for supper? I said I never eat anything at night; but was at last, in my own defence, obliged to name the first thing thai came into my head. After three |
253
|
Iiours spent chiefly in apologies for my entertainment, insinuating to inc that this was the worst time of the year for provisions, that they were of a great distance from any market; that tliev were afraid I should he starved, and that they knew they kept me to my lossquot;, the lady went and left me to her husband (for (hey took special care I should never he alone). As soon as her back was turned , the little misses ran backwards and forwards every moment ; and constantly as they camc in or went out, made a curtsy directly at me, which in good manners I was forced to return with a bow, and, quot;your bumble servant, pretty Miss. quot; Exactly at eight the mother came up, and discovered by the redness of her face that supper was not far off. It was twice as large as the dinner, and my persecution doubled in proportion. I desired at my usual hour to go to my repose, and was conducted to my chamber by the gentleman, his lady, and the whole train of children. They importuned me to drink something before I went to bed ; and upon my refusing, at last left a bottle of stingo, as they called it, for fear I should wake and be thirsty in the night. I was forced in the morning to rise and dress myself in the dark , because they would not suffer my kinsman's servant to disturb me at the hour I desired to he called. I was now resolved to break through all measures to get away; and after sitting down to a monstrous breakfast of cold beef, mutton, neat's-tongues, venison-pasty and stale beer, look leave of the family. Hut the gentleman would needs see me part of my way, and carry me a shorl cut through his own grounds, which he told me would save half a mile's riding. This last piece of civility had like to have cost me dear, being once or twice in danger of my neck , by leaping over bis ditches, and at last forced to alight in the dirt; when rny horse, having slipped his bridle, ran away and look us up more than an hour to recover him again. It is evident, that none of the absurdities I met with in this visit I proceeded from an ill intention , but from a wrong judgment of complaisance , and a misapplication in the rules of if. |
Qulllver's Voyage to Lllliput.
|
Mr. LemuelGulli ver was the third son of a gentleman in Nottinghamshire. At the age of fourteen he was sent to Cambridge, where he studied very closely for three years : but the charge of maintaining him beingtoogreat for his father's narrow fortune, he was bound apprentice to Mr. Bates, a surgeon in London. What little money lie got, he laid out in learning navigation and other parts of mathematics as he always fancied lie should he a great traveller. When his time was expired , he left Mr. Bates and studied physic two years at Leyden, in Holland. Soon after his return from Leyden, he was recommended to he surgeon to the Swallow , cap tain Abraham I'arnell commander, with whom he made a voyage or two into the Levant, and other parts. He then resolved to settle in London , and his old master, Mr. Bates , recommended him to several patients. He took a house in the Old Jewry, and being advised to marry, he espoused Miss Polly Burton , daughter of a hosier in Now-gatestreet, with whom lie received a portion of four hundred pounds. But Mr. Bates dying in two years after and Mr. Gulliver having few friends, his business fell off very much; and therefore, having consulted his wife, he determined to go to sea again. He was surgeon successively in two shi|)s , and made several voyages to the East and West-Indies, by which he made some addition to his fortune. The last of these voyages not proving very fortunate he grew weary of the sea ; and intending to stay at home with his wife and family , he first took a house in Fetter-Lane and afterwards in Wapping, hoping to get business among the sailors; but this did not answer his expectation. After wailing in vain for three years , in hopes that things would mend, he accepted of an advantageous ofter from captain Pritchard, of the Antelope, who was making a voyage to the Southern Seas. |
They sailed from Bristol on the 4lli of May 1C99. Their voyage was at first very prosperous; till leaving these seas and steering llieir course towards the East-Indies they were driven by a storm to the northward of Van Diemen's Land. Twelve of the crew were dead by hard labour and bad food , and the rest were in a very weak condition. On the 5ih. of November (the beginning of summer in those parts) the weather being hazy, they espied a rock within a cable's length of the ship, and the wind being strong, they immediately split upon it. Mr. Gulliver and five of the crew, heaved out the boat, and made a shift to get clear of the ship and the rock. They rowed till they could work no longer ; and then, trusting to the mercy of ihe waves , in about half an hour the boat wasoversel by a sudden squall from the north. What became of the other seamen Mr. Gulliver knew not; but he swam with wind and tide, and often in vain lei his legs drop in hopes of feeling the bol torn ; at last when he was almost ready to expire, he found himself within his depth. And the storm being greatly abated, be walked above a mile before he reached the shore ; he then advanced near half a mile up the country, but |
|
could not discover cillier houses or inliabitanls. He laid liimsclf down on the grass, which was very short and soft, and slcpl about nine hours. He awoke just at daybreak and upon alteinptinjj to rise , he founil tliat he could not slir; for as lie Jay on his hack , he fuund his arms and legs fastened to llie ground , and his hair, which was long and thick, tied in the same manner. In u little time he felt sornothing alive moving on liis left leg, which advanced almost up to his chin, when bending his eyes downwards , he perceived it to he a human creature not six inches high , with a how and arrow in his hand and a quiver at his hack, lie then fell at least forty more following the first; and heing greatly a-tonishi'd, he roared so loud , that they all ran hack in a fright; and some of ihem hroke their limhs hy leaping from his sides to the ground. They soon after returned ; and one of them who ventured lo (jet a full sight of his face, with the greatest astonishment cried out: llekinak Degul. He did nol understand their language, anil hy often slrnggling to get loose, he at last wrenched out the pegs and strings hy which he was fastened to the ground, and so far released his hair, that he could turn his head sideways; upon which the creatures ran oil' a second time , with a great shout. Soon after one of them cried aloud Tolgo Phonak; wdien instantly Sir. Gulliver perceived some hundreds of arrows discharged upon his hands and face, which pricked him like so many needles, and gave him so much pain, that he strove again to get loose. Some of them attempted to stab him in the side with theirspears, but they could not pierce his hull' waistcoat. When the people observed that he lay quiet they discharged no more arrows, lie saw them busy in erecting astage at a little distance, about a foot and a half high, which they had no sooner finished, then four of ihem ascended it by a ladder. One of them who seemed to be a person of quality, was taller than those who attended him. one of whom held up bis train, and was about four inches high, lie cried out three times: Langro Dehul San; on which they cut the strings that hound the left side of his head. The little monarch made an oration, not one word ol which Mr. Gulliver could understand ; be observed however many signs of threatening, and others of promises, pity and kindness and he answered by motions of submission and friendship. Being almost famished with hunger,he put his finger frequently lo his mouth, to signify of them that be wauled food. The JIurgo (for so they call a great Lord) undorstood him very well; he descended from the stage, and ordered several ladders to be placed against Mr. Gulliver's sides, hy which above a hundred of the people mounted and walked towards his month, laden with baskets of meal; there were shoulders, legs and loins, shaped like those of multon, but smaller than the wings of a larlt. |
lie cat two or three of ihem at a mouthful, and took three of the loaves which were as big as a musket-bullet at a time. The inhabitants were astonished at his hulk and appetite; and, on his making a sign for drink, they slung up one of their largest hogsheads, rolled it towards his hand and heat out the top. He drank it olF at a draught, for it did not hold half a pint and tasted like Burgundy. They afterwards brought a second hogshead which be also dispatched; and calling for more, found they hail no more to give him. When he had done these wonders, they shouted for joy, and after warning the people on the ground , the king desired be would throw the empty barrels as far as be could ; and when they saw the vessels in the air, there was an universal shout of Jlekinak Degul. Mr. Gulliver could not help wondering at the intrepidity of these diminutive mortals, who ventured to mount and walk upon his body, while one of his hands was at liberty, without trembling at the sight of so prodigious a creature as he must appear lo them. After some time an ambassador hom the king appeared before him, who, producing his credentials under the royal seal spoke about ten minutes without any sign of anger, and yet with great resolution ; pointing often towards the metropolis which was distant about half a mile, whither it was his majesty's pleasure that be should be conveyed. Mr. Gulliver made signs that he should bo glad to be released; and the ambassedor understood very well what be meant, for he shook his head hy way of disapprobation , and signified that he must be carried as a prisoner; be therefore gave tokens that they might do what they would with him; whereupon the I/urgo and bis train withdrew with cheerful countenances. Soon after the people shouted out Pep lorn Selau, and be felt the cords so far relaxed that he was able to turn upon bis right side. They then rubbed his hands and face with an ointment which look off the smart of their arrows, and this circumstance, added to the plentiful meal ho had made caused him lo fall fast asleep. The natives ofbilliput arc excellent mathematicians and mechanics; and the king immc-diatidy set five hundred carpenters to work, to prepare an engine by which he might be conveyed to the capital. It was a wooden frame, three inches high , seven feet long and four broad and moved upon twenty two wheels. It was brought close lo Mr. Gulliver's side as he lay. To raise so immense a creature upon this vehicle, eighty poles each of a fool high were erected and very strong ropes, of the bigness of packthread , were fastened hy hooks lo many bandages which the workmen bad girl round his neck, hands, body and legs. Nine hundred of the strongest men were employed to draw up these cords by pullies fastened on the poles, and in a few hours he was |
|
raised and slunjj into the engine and tied down. All this I\Ir. Gulliver was told afterwards; for, wliile llic whole operation was performinjf, lie lay fast asleep, by the force of a medicine that had heen purposely infused in the wine lie had drunk. Fifteen hundred strong horses, ahout four inches and a half hijjh, were yoked to the machine, and had much ado to drag it along. They made a long march this days, ami Mr. Gulliver was guarded iu the night hy live thousand men on each side, one half ol them with torches, anil the other half with hows and arrows, ready to shoot him if he oll'ered to slir. Karly the next morning they continued their inarcli and at noon arrived within two hundred yards of the city gates. The carriage slopt near an old temple, the largest in the kingdom , hut which on account of a murder having heen committed therein was never frequented. In this edifice it was agreed Mr. Gulliver should lodge. The gate was four feet high and two feet wide and on each side were four windows. To this temple he was fastened hy ninety one chains, which were fixed to his neck with thirty-six; padlocks. Just opposite stood a famous turret, live feet high, to the top of which the Emperor and many lords ascended, for the sake of seeing so large a monster ; vast numhers of people came also upon the same errand; and when the workmen found thai they had thoroughly secured him , tlicy cut all the strings with which he was hound, and upon his rising upon his L gs they shewed the greatest marks of wonder and astonishment. Mr. Gulliver was no sooner on his legs , than he was pleased at hi holding the prospect of the country , large fin Ids of forty feet square; woods , at least sixteen feet long ; and tall trees, almost seven feet high ; and the city on the left hand , which looked like the view of Londen in a ra-reeshow. The emperor, having descended from thu tower , came forward with the queen and many ladies, to examine Mr. Gulliver more minutely. He had ordered his cooks and huilers to prepare ten waggon-loads of meat and ten of wine ; and he and his atlendants sat at some distance to seehitndine. With regard to the emperor'sperson, he is taller hy a quarter of an inch than any of hissuhjects, which is enough to strike them all with awe. His dress was plain and simple, hut he wore a golden helmet on his head . adorned , with jewels and a plume of feathers, lie suflered Gulliver to take him upon the palm of his hand , after having drawn his sword to defend himself if he should not he used kindly. The Kmperor spoke often to Mr. Gulliver, and .Mr. Gulliver as often answered him , hut all to no purpose, for they could not understand one another. When the court withdrew, he was left with a strong guard, to prevent the inipertincncc of the rabble, many of whom , supposing he would devour all the country had the audacity to shoot their arrows at him, hut the colonel ordered six of them to be sei/.ed and delivered into his hands; they were immediately bound and pushed towards liim. He placed them upon his right hand and made a sign as if he would eat them up alive; they were greatly alTrighted and squalled terribly when they saw liim take out bis knife; hutafter-wards looking inihlly and cutting the strings with which tluv were bound he placed them gently on the ground , and away they ran as fast as they were able. This mark of clemency was represented much to bis advantage at court. |
Fora fortnight he lay upon the naked pavement of his bouse, which was smooth stone; during which time six hundred beds were brought in carriages and worked up in the building; one hundred and fifty were sown together in breadth and length; and these were four-double , which however was barely sullicient to relieve him from the hardness of tbelloor; and in the same manner also he was provided with sheets, blankets and coverlets. The Emperor however had frequent councils concerning him; thecourt apprehended his breaking loose, that his diet would he very expensive and might cause a famine. Sometimes they determined to starve liim , or to shoot him iu the face and hands with poisoned arrows ; hut again they foresaw that the stench of so large a carcase might produce a plague in the land. In one of these consultations an ollicer of the army went to the Council-Chamber, and gave an account of his behaviour tothe six criminals just mentioned, which worked so favourably on the mind of his Majesty , that he issued orders for all the villages within nine hundred yards romid the city, to deliver in every morning six beeves, lour sheep and a proper quantity of bread and wine lot his subsistence, fur all which t'iey were to he paid hy tin; treasury-board. Six hnnilred dnmestics wore al^o allowed him , upon board wages, who lived in tents on each side of the door of his house. Three hundred tailors were employed in making hi in a Mill of cl oaths. Six men of learning attended to teach him their language ; and the Emperor's horses and troops frequently exercised near him, to accustom tliem to so huge a sight, lie soon learned enough of the language to acquaint the king of his great desire of liberty which he repeated on his knees; but the mighty monarch informed him that bis request could not be granted without the advice of council, and that be must swear peace with him and his Kingdom; and further advised that by his discreet behaviour he might obtain the good opinion of him and all his subjects. * Mr. Gulliver's gentle behaviour gained the good opinion of the e.nperor, the army and the people in general. They became less apprehensive |
206
|
of danger from him, and at last llie boys ami girls would dance country-dances on the palm of his hand as he lay on the ground, or play at hide and sccU in his hair. The emperor had a mind one d.iy to entertain him with several shews, with none of which he was so much diverted as thai of the rope-dancers , who performed upon a slender while thread , about two feet lonjj, and raised twelve inches from the ground. This diversion is only practised by the nobility and men of liberal education who are candidates for the high employments of the state. When any great oflice becomes vacant, five or six of these candidates petition the king to entertain his Majesty with a dance on the rope, and whoever jumps the highest is to succeed. These diversions however are often attended writh fatal accidents; Mr. Gulliver himself saw two or three people break their limbs; and when the ministers themselves are commanded toper-form, they frequently strain so far, that there is hardly any of them «ho have not received a fall and some of them two or three. There is another diversion, which is peculiar to the Lilliputians : it is as follows. The emperor lays on a table three silken threads, one blue, the other red , and the third green. These threads are intended for such noblemen, as arc to he distinguished by a particular mark ol favour. The emperor holds a stick in his hand , and the candidates leap over or creep under it, backward and forward: and whoever holds out longest in leaping and creeping is honoured with the blue silk; the red is given to the next and the green to the third. The emperor at length mentioned his intentions of releasing Mr. Gulliver in the cahincl, where after some opposition, the following preliminaries were drawn up for their mutual interest and security. |
'The most mighty emperor of Lilliput, delight and terror of the universe, whose dominions extend 5,000 Elustrogs (about twelve miles) to the extremities of the globe; monarch of all monarchs, taller than the sons of men; whose feet press down to the centre, and whose head strikes against the sun ; at whose nod the nations tremble; pleasantas the spring, comfortable as the summer, fruitful as autumn, dreadful as winter. — His sublime Majesty proposeth to the Manmountain the following articles, which by a solemn oath he shall be obliged to perform. 1. He shall not depart without licence. 2. He shall not come into the metropolis without leave. 3. He shall confine his walks to the high roads, and not lie down in any meadow or cornfield. 4. Ho shall lake care not to trample upon any of our subjects, their horses or carriages. 5. if an express requires extraordinary dispatch, he shall be obliged to carry in his pocket the messenger and boise, and return them safe and sound. G. He shall he our ally against our enemies. 7. He shall he aiding and assisting our workmen, in raising certain great stones for coverinj; the park walls and other royal buildings. Lastly, that upon the ratification of these articles he shall have a daily allowance of moat and drink , sufficient for the support of seventeen hundred and twenty four men. As soon as Mr. Gulliver bad sworn to, and subscribed these articles, his chains were unlocked; and be was at full liberty. He immediately made his acknowledgements by prostrating himself at his majesty's feet. The emperor graciously ordered him to rise, and afler many expressions of friendship, told him, that he hoped he would prove an useful servant and deserve the favour he had already or might hereafter confer upon him.* |
|
We have just religion enough to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another. When we desire or solicit anything, our minds run wholly on the good side or circumstances of it; when it is obtained, our mind runs only on the had ones. When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this infallible sign , that the dunces are all in confederacy against him. |
1 am apt to think that, in the day of judgment, there will he small allowance given to the wise for their want of morals , or to the ignorant for their want of faith, because both are without excuse. This renders the advantages equal of ignorance and knowledge. But some scruples in the wise, and some vices in the ignorant, will perhaps he forgiven upon the strength of temptation to each. It is pleasant to observe how free the present age is in laying taxes on the next: quot;Futureages shall talk of this; this shall be famous to all posterity :quot; whereas their time and thoughts will be taken up about present things, as ours arc now. It is in disputes as in armies, where the weaker side sets up false lights, and makes a great noise, that the enemy, may believe them |
|
to he more numerous and strong than they really are. I have known some men possessed of {;ood qualities, which were very serviceahle to others , but useless to themselves; like a sun-dial on the front of a house, to inform the neighbours and passengers, hut not the owner witiiin. If a man would register all his opinions upon love, politics, religion , learning, etc., beginning from liis youth, and so go on to old age, what a bundle of inconsistencies and contradictions would appear at last! The stoical scheme of supplying our wants lopping off our desires, is like cutting oil' our feet when we want shoes. The power of fortune is confessed only by the miserable, for the happy impute all their success to prudence and merit. Ambition often puts men upon doing the meanest offices : so , climbing is performed in the same posture with creeping. Censure is the tax a man pays to the public for being eminent. No wise man ever wished to be younger. An idle reason lessens the weight of the good ones you gave before. Complaint is the largest tribute heaven receives, and the sincerest part of our devotion. The common fluency of speech in many men and most women, is owing to a scarcity of matter and scarcity of words: for whoever is a maste r of language, and has a mind full of ideas, will be apt, in speaking, to hesitate upon the choice of both; whereas common speakers have only one set of ideas , and one set of words to clothe them in, and these are always ready at the mouth. So people come faster out of a church when it is almost empty, than when a crowd is at the door. |
Tu be vain is rather a mark of humility than pride. Vain men delight in telling what honors have been done them, what great company they have kept, and the like; by which they plainly confess that these honours were more than their due, and such as their friends would not believe if they had not been told: whereas a man truly proud thinksthegreatesthonours below his merit, and consequently scorns to boast. 1 therefore deliver it as a maxim, that whoever desires the character of a proud man, ought to conceal his vanity. Kvcry man desires to live long, but no man would he old. If hooks and laws continue to increase as they have done for fifty years past, I am in some concern for future ages, how any men will be learned , or any man a lawyer ? A nice man is a man of nasty ideas, f How true ofSwift himself.] If man makes me keep my distance, the comfort is, he keeps his at the same time. Very few men, properly speaking, live ut present, but are providing to live another time. Praise is the daughter of present power. The humour of exploding many things under the name of trifles, fopperies, and only imaginary goods, is a very false proof either of wisdom or magnanimity, and a great check to virtuous actions. For instance, with regard to fame; there is in most people a reluctance and unwillingness to be forgotten. We observe, even among the vulgar, how fond they are to have an inscription over their grave. It requires but lit! le philosophy to discover and observe that there is no intrinsic value in all this; however, if it be founded in our nature, as an incitement to virtue, it ought not to he ridiculed. |
[Zie hldz. 226.) The Political Upholsterer.
|
There lived someyears since, within my neighbourhood, a very grave person, an upholsterer, who seemed a man of more than ordinary application to business, lie was a very early riser, and was often abroad two or three hours before any ofhis neighbours. He had a particularcarefulncss in the knitting of his brows, and a kiml of impatience in all his motions, that plainly discovered he was always intent on matters of importance. Upon my inquiry into his life and conversation, I found him to he the greatest newsmonger in our quarter; that he rose before day to read the Postman; and that he would take two or three turns to the other end of the town before his neighbours were np, to see if there were any Dutch mails come in. He had a wife and several children ; but was much more inquisitive to know what passed in Poland than in his own family, and was in greater pain and anxiety of mind for King Augustus's welfare than that of his nearest relations. He looked extremely thin in a dearth of news, and never enjoyed himself in a westerly wind. This indefatigable kind of life was the ruin of his shop; for about the t inie that his favourite prince left the crown of Poland, he broke and disappeared. |
258
|
This man and his affairs had been long out of my mind, till about three days ago, as I was walking in St. James's Park, 1 heard somebody at a distance hemming after mc: and who should it be but my old neighbour the upholsterer? I saw he was reduced to extreme poverty, by certain shabby superfluities in his dress: for notwithstanding that it was a very sultry day for the time of the year, he wore a loose great coat and a muff, with a long campaign wig out of curl: to which he had added the ornament of a pair of black garters buckled under the knee. Upon his coming up to me, I was going to inquire into his present circumstances, but was prevented by his asking me, with a whisper, whether the last letters brought any accounts that one might rely upon from Bender? 1 told him, none that I heard of; and asked him , whether he had yet married bis eldest daughter? lie told me no. But pray, says he, tell me sincerely, what are your thoughts of the King of Sweden ? for tliough his wife and children were starving, I found his chief concern at present was for this great monarch. I told him, that 1 looked upon him as one of the first heroes of the age. But pray, says he, do you think there is any thing in the story of his wound ? And finding me surprised at the question. Nay, says he, I only propose it to you. I answered, that I thought that there was no reason to doubt of it. But why in the heel, says he, more than in any other ])art of the body ? Because, saidl, the hullet chanced to light there. This ext raordinary dialogue was no sooner ended , but he began to launch out into a long dissertation upon the affairs of the north ; and after having spent some time on them , he told me, he was in a great perplexity how to reconcile iheSup-plernent with the Knglish Post , and had been just now examining what the other papers say upon the same subject. The Daily Courant, says lie, has these words, We have advices from very good hands, that a certain prince has some matters of great importance under consideration. This is very mysterious; hut the Postboy leaves us more in the dark, for he tells us , that there are private intimations of measures taken by a certain prince, ■which time will bring to light. Now the Postman , says ho, who used to be very clear, refers to the same news in these words: The late conduct of a certain prince affords great matter of speculation. This certain prince, says the upholsterer, whom they are all so cautious of naming, I take to be--. Upon which , though there was nobody near us, he whispered something in my ear, which I did not hear, or think worthy my while to make him repeat. (1) |
Wc were now got to the upper end of the Mall, where were three or four xery odd fellows sitting together upon the bench. These 1 found were all of them politicians, who used to sun themselves in that place everyday aboutdinner time.Observ-ing them to he curiosities in their kind, and my friend's acquaintance, I sat down among them. The chief politician of the bench was a great asserter of paradoxes. He told us , with a seeming concern, that by some news he had lately read from Muscovy, it appeared to him that there was a storm gathering in the Black Sea, which might in time do hurt to the naval forces of this nation. To this he added, that for his part, he could not wish to see the Turk driven out of Europe, which be believed could not be hut prejudicial to our woollen manufacture. He then told us, that he looked upon those extraordinary revolutions, which had lately happened in those parts of the world, to have risen chiefly from two persons, who were not much talked of; and those, says he, are prince MedzikofT, and the Duchess of Mirandola. He backed his assertions with so many broken hints, and such a show of depth and wisdom, that we gave ourselves up to his opinions. The discourse at length fell upon a point which seldom escapes a knot of true horn Englishmen: rohether, in ease of a religions war, the Protestants would not be too strong for the Papists ? This we unanimously determined on the Protestant side. One who sat on my right hand, and, as 1 found by his discourse, had been in the West-Indies, assured us that it would be a very easy matter for the Protestants to heat the pope at sea; and added , tiiat whenever such a war does break out, it must turn to the good of the Leeward Islands. Upon this, one who sal at the end of the bench , and, as 1 afterwards founds was the geographer of the company, said, that in case the Papists should drive the Protestants from these parts of Europe, when the worst came to the worst, it would he impossible to heat tliein out of Norway and Greenland, provided the northern crowns hold together, and the C/.ar of Muscoty stand neuter. He further told us for our comfort, that there were vast tracts of lands about the pole, inhabited neither by Protestants nor Papists, and of greater extent than all the Homan Catholic dominions in Europe. When wc had fully discussed this point, my friend the upholsterer began to exert himself upon the present negociations of peace in which he deposed princes, settled the hounds of kingdoms, and balanced the power of Europe, with great justice and impartiality. |
(1) The prince here alluded to so mysteriously was the so-called Pretender, James Stuart, son of King James U.
259
|
I at length took my leave of the company, and was going away; hut had not gone thirty yards, before tiie upholsterer hemmed again alter me. Upon his advancing towards me with a whisper, I expected to hear some secret piece of news,which he hail not thought fit to communicate to tiie bench ; but instead of that, he desired me in my ear to lend bim half-a crown. In compassion to so needy a statesman,and to dissipate the contussiou I found he was in, I told him if he pleased, 1 would give him live shillings, to receive five pounds of bitn, when the great Turk was driven out of Constantinople; ■which he very readily accepted, but not before he had laid down to mo the irnposihility of such an event, as the ail'airs of Europe now stand. |
|
On the fifth day of the moon , which according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and oller-ed lip my morning devotions, 1 ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As 1 was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell inlo a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; and passing from one thought to another. Surely, said T, man is hut a shadow, and life a dream. Whilst I was thus musing, 1 cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discoverei one in the habit of a shepherd,.,, *but who was in reality a being of superior nature.* I drew near with profound reverence,... and fell down at bis feet.... The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability, that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lilled me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, 'Mirza', said he, 'I hare heard thee in thy soliloquies ; follow me'. lie then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock; and placing me on the top of it, 'Cast thine eyes eastward', said be, 'and tell me what thou seest'. '1 see', said I, 'a huge valley , and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it'. 'The valley, that thou seest', said he, 'is the vale of misery; and the tide of water that thou seest, is part ol the great tide of eternity'. 'What is the reason', said 1, 'that ibe tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end , and again loses itself in a thick mist at the ol her?' 'What thou seest', said he, 'is that portion of eternity which is called Time, measured out by the sun , and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now', said he, 'this sea that is bounded with darkness at both ends and tell me what thou disco-verest in it'. 'I see a bridge', said I, 'standing in the midst of the tide'. 'The bridge thou seest', said he, is Human Life; consider it attentively'. Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the number to about a hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches, hut that a greal flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in theruinous condition I now beheld it. 'But tell me further', said he, 'what thou discover-est on it'. '1 see multitudes of people passing over it, said I, and a black cloud hanging on each end of it. As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that ilowred underneath it; and, upon further examination, perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pitfalls w ere set very thick at the entrancce of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud but many of them fell inlo them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were entire. |
There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk. 1 passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy, to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at everything that stood by them to save themselves. Some were looking up towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and, in the midst of a speculation , stumbled, and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles, that glittered in their eyes, and danced before them; but often when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects, I observed some with scimitars in their hands, and others with urinals, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way , and w hich they might have escaped had they not hen thus forced upon them. The genius seeing me indulge myself on this melancholy prospect, told me Iliad dwelt long enough upon it. 'Take thine eyes off the bridge'. |
|
said he, 'and tell me if tliou yel scest any lliinjj thou dost not comprehend'. lI|ion looking up, •what mean', said 1, 'those great flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, nnd settling upon it from time to time? 1 see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and, among many other feathered creatures, several little ■winged hoys that perch in great numbers upon llie middle arches'. 'These', said the genius, Mrc Knvy, Avarice, Superstition, Despair, I.ove, •with the like cares and passions that infest Human Life'. |
I here fetched a deep sigh. 'Alas', said 1, 'jnan was made in vain I - how is the given away to misery and mortality! - tortured in life, and swallowed up in death!' The genius being moved with compassion towards me , bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. 'Look no more', said he, 'on man in llie first stage of his existence, in his setting out of eternity; but cast thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall into it'. 1 directed my sight as I was ordered, and (whether or not the good genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, or dissipated part of ihe mist that was before too thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the farther end , and spreading forth into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and 'dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch that J could discover nothing in it; but ihe other appeared to me a vast ocean , planted with innumbruhlc islands, that were covered wilh fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas that ran among them. 1 could see persons dressed in glorious hahits, with garlands upon their heads, pa-sing among the trees, lying down by the sides of foun -tains, or resting on beds of flowers, and could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments. Gladness grew in me at the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats, but the genius told me there was no passage to them except through the Gates of Death that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. 'The islands', said he, 'that lie so fresh and green before thee, and with which the w hole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in number than the sands of the sea shore. There arc myriads of islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching further than thine eye, or even thine imagination, can extend itself. These are the man -sions of good men after death, who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which they eicelled, are distributed among these several islands, which abound wilh pleasures of dilTerent kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of those who are settled in them: every island is a paradise accomodated to its respective inhabitants. Are not these , O Mirza! habitations worth contending for? Does live appear miserable, that givestbec opportunities of earning such a reward ? Is death to he feared, that will convey thee to so happy an existence ? Think not man was made in vain , who has such an eternity reserved for him'. — 1 gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happy islands. At length, said I, 'Show me now, 1 beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds, which cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant'. The genius making no answer, 1 turned abnut to address myself to him a second time, but I found that he had left me. 1 then turned again to the vision which I had been so long contemplating, hut instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge and the happy islands, 1 saw nothing hut the long hollow valley of liagdat, with oxen , sheep, and camels, grazing upon the sides of it. |
Werd geboren in 1670 en overleed in 1739. IIij trad op negentienjarigen leeftijd in de krijgsdienst, doch gaf zich daarin aan allerlei uitspattingen over. Dit gedrag stond licm weldra tegen en hij sehrecf als waarschuwing voor iedereen, The Christian Hero. Zijn blijspelen toen weinig opgang makende, gaf hij een blad uit (The Tatler, 1709), waarin hij zijn landgenooten in onderhoudenden trant de waarheid zei. Hij
gaf dat blad uit onder den naam van Isaae Biekerstaff, welken naam hij aan een vlugschrift van Swift ontleende;
maar werd weldra als de schrijver bekend. Het uitmuntende tijdschrift The Spectator (zie Addison) en ihe Guardian, werden insgelijks door zijn bijdragen en die van anderen (zie hierover onder de dichters) verrijkt. The Lover, The Header, enz., bladen, die een meer staatkundige strekking hebben, deden hem aanzienlijke betrekkingen verwerven. Zijn drama's zijn : The Funeral, or Grief ik la Mode (1701); Ihe lender Husband (1703); The Lying Lover (1704); The Conscious J,over (1722). Het eerste en tweede vonden grooten bijval, doch 't derde viel niet in den smaak van 't volk; maar t vierde stnk werd met onbegrensde too-juiching ontvangen.
Agreeable Comipaiiiiions and Flatterers.
|
Au old acquaintance who met me this morning si'cmcd overjoyed to see mc, nnd told me I looked |
as well as he had known mo do these forty years; hut, continued he, not quite the man you were |
|
when wc visited togotlier al Lady Briglilly's. Oh! Isaac, those days are over. Do you think there are any such fine creatures now livinj; as we then conversed with ? lie went on with a thousand incoherent circumstances, which, in his imajpna-lion, must needs please me; but they had the quite contrary effect. The llattery witii which he hegan, in telling me how well I wore, was not disagreeable; but his indiscreet mention of a set, of acquaintance we had outlived, recalled ten thousand things to my memory, which made me reflect upon my present condition with regret. Had be indeed been so kind as, after a long absence, to felicitate me upon an indolent ami easy old age, and mentioned how much he and I had to thank for, who at our time of day could walk (irmly, eat heartily, and converse cheerfully, he had kept up my pleasure in myself. ISut of all mankind, there are none so shocking as these injudicious civil people. 'J'hey ordinarily begin upon sorne-thing that ibey know must be a satisfaction ; but then, for fear of the imputation of flattery, they follow it with the last tiling in theworld of which you would be reminded. It is this that perplexes civil persons. The reason that there is auch a general outcry among us against flatterers, is that there are so very few good ones. Is is the nicest art in this life, and is a part of eloquence which does not want the preparation that is necessary to all other parts of it, that your audience should be your well-wishers, for praise from an enemy is the most pleasing of all commendations. It is generally to he observed, that the person most agreeable to a man for a constancy , is he that has no shining qualities, hut is a certain degree above great imperfections, whom ho can live with as his inferior, and who will either overlook or not observe his little defects. Such an easy companion as this, citlier now and then throws out a little fliittery , or lets a man silently flatter himself in bis superiority to him. If you take notice, there is hardly a rich man in the world who has not such a led friend of small consideration , who is a darling for bis insignificancy. It is a great ease to have one in onr own shape a species below us, and who, without being listed in our service, is by nature of onr retinue. These dependents are of excellent use on a rainy day, or when a man has not a mind to dress; or to exclude solitude, when one has neither a mind to that or to company. There are of this good-natured order who are so kind to divide themselves , and do these good ollices to many. Five or six of them visit a whole quarter of the town, and exclude the spleen, without fees, from the families they frequent. If they do not prescribe physic, they can be company when you take it. Very great benefactors to the rich, or those whom they call people at their ease, are your persons of no consequence, f have known some of them , by the help of a little cunning, make delicious flatterers. They know the course of the town, and the general character of persons; by this means they will sometimes tell the most agreeable falsehoods imaginable. They will acquaint you that such a one of a quite contrary party said, that though you were engaged in different interest, yet bo had the greatest respect for your good sense and address. When one of these has a little cunning, be passes bis time in the utmost satisfaction to himself and his friends; for his position is never to report or to speak a displeasing thing to bis friend. As for letting him go on in an error, be knows advice against them is the office of persons of greater talents and less discretion. |
The Latin word for a flatterer [a.t sent at or) implies no more than a person that barely consents; and indeed such a one, if a man were able to purchase or maintain him. cannot he bought too dear. Such none never conlradicts you. but gains upon you, not by a fulsome way of commending you in broad terms, but liking whatever you propose or utter; at the same time is ready to beg your pardon, and gainsay you if you chance to speak ill of yourself.* Terence introilucea a flatterer talking to acox-comb , whom be cheats out of a livelihood, and a third person on the stage makes on him this pleasing remark 'This fellow has an art of making fools madmen.' The love of flattery is indeed sometimes the weakness of a great mind; but you see it also in persons who otherwise discover no manner of relish of any thing above mere sensuality. These latter it sometimes improves, hut always debases the former.* It is, indeed, the greatest of injuries to flatter any but the unhappy, or such as are displeased with themselves for some infirmity. In this latter case we have a member of our club, that when Sir .leffrey falls asleep, wakens him with snoring. This makes Sir Jeffrey bold up for some moments the longer, to see there are men younger than himself among us, who are more lethargic than he is. When flattery is practised upon any other consideration, it is the most abject thing in nature; nay, I cannot think of any character below the flatterer, except be that envies him. You meet with fellows prepared to be as mean as possible in their condescensions and expressions; but they want persons and talents to rise up to such a baseness. A.s a coxcomb is a fool of parts, so a flatterer is a knave of parts. The best of this order that I know, is one who disguises it under a spirit of contradiction or reproof, lie told an arrant-driveller the other day, that he did not care for being in company with him , because he heard he turned his absent friends into ridicule. And upon Lady Autumn's disputing with him about something that happened at the Revolution, be replied with a very |
262
angry lono, l'ray, madam, give me leave to j conceined , tlian you who were then in your know more of a tiling in wliich 1 was actually 1 nurse's arms.
|
The envious man is in pain upon all occasions ■which oupht (ogive him pleasure.The relish of his life is inverted; and the ohjecls which administer the highest satisfaction to those who arc exempt from this passion, give the quickest pangs to persons who are subject to it. All the perfection of their fellow-creatures are odious: youth, beauty, valour, and wisdom are provocations of their displeasure. What a wretched and apostate state is this! To he oiFendcd with oxeellence and to hate a man because we approve him! The condition of the envious man is the most emphatically miserable; he is not only incapable of rejoicing in another's merit or success, hut lives in a world wherein all mankind are in a plot against his quiet, by studying their own happiness and ndvantape. Win Prosper is an honest tale- bearer, he makesit his business to join in conversation with envious men. He points to such a handsome young fellow, and whispers that he is socrctly married to a great fortune: when they doubt, he adds circumstances to prove it; and never fails to aggravate their distress, by assuring 'cm, that, to his knowledge, he has an uncle will leave him some thousands. Wm has many arts of this kind to torture this sort of temper, and delights in it. When he finds them change colour, and say faintly they wish such a piece of news is true, he has the malice to speak some goods or other of every man of their acqaintance. The reliefs of the envious man are those little blemishes and imperfections that discover themselves in an illustrious character. It is matter of great consolation tn an envious person , when a man of known honour does a thing unworthy himself. Or when any action which was well executed, uppon hotter information appears so altered in its circumstances, that the fame of it is divided among many, instead of attrihuted to one. This is a secret satisfaction to these malignants, for the person whom they before could not but admire, they fancy is nearer their own condition as soon as his merit is shared among others. I remember some years ago there came out an excellent poem without the name of the author. The little wits, who were incapable of writing it, began to pull in pieces the supposed writer. When that would not do, they took great pains to suppress the opinion that it was his. That again failed. Tcre next refuge was to say it was overlooked by one man, and many pages wholly wrilten by another. An honest fellow |
who sat among a cluster of them in debate on his subject, cried out, Gentlemen, if you, are sure none of you yourselves had a hand in it, you are hut where you were, whoever writ it. liut the most usual succour to the envious, in cases of nameless merit in this kind, is to keep the property, if possible, unfixed, and by that means to hinder the reputation of it from falling upon any particular person. You see an envious man clear up his countenance, if in the relation of any man's great happiness in one point, you mention his uneasiness in another. When he hears such a one is very rich he turns pale, but recovers when you add that he has many children. In a word, the only sure way to an envious man's favour is not to deserve it. But if we consider the envious man in delight, it is like reading the seat of a giant in a romance; the magnificence of his house consists in the many limbs of men whom he has slain. If any who promised themselves success in any uncommon undertaking miscirry in the attempt, or he that aimed at what would have been useful and laudable, meets with contempt and derision, the envious man, under the colour of hating vainglory, can smile with an inward wantonness of heart at the ill eflect it may have upon an honest ambition for the future. Having throughly considered the nature of this passion, I have made it my study to avoid the envy that may accrue to mc from these my speculations, ami if I am not mistaken in myself, I think I have a genius to escape it. Upon hearing in a colTee-house one of my papers commended, I immediately apprehended the envy that would spring from that applause; and therefore gave a description of my face the next day; being resolved, as I grow in reputation for wit, to resign my pretensions to beauty. This, I hope, may give some ease to these un-happy gentlemen, who do mc the honour to torment themselves upon the account of this my paper. As their case is very deplorable, and deserves compassion, I shall sometimes be dull, in pity of them, and will from lime to time administer consolations to them by further discoveries of my person. In the mean while , ifany one says the SpïCTlTOR has wit, it may be some relief to them , to think that he docs not shew it in company. And if any one praises his morality, they may comfort themselves by considering that 1 his face is none of the longest. |
265
Begon reeds op twintigjarigen leeftijd zijn loopbaan als schrijver : hfj behoort tot do eerste schrijvers van den familie-roman, waarvan de beste is zijn Tom Jones, die treffende karakterschilderingen behelst. Jammer maar, dat zijn werken hier eu daar, waarschijnlijk door zijn losbandig leven in zijn jeugd, niet al te kiesch zijn , daar er over 't algemeen diepe menschenkeiinis in doorstraalt. Men heeft van hem de roinams: The History of Joseph Andrews (1743); History of Jonathan Wild (1743); Tom Jones, or the history of a foundling (174U) ; A Journey from this World to the Next j Amelia (1751); A Voyage to Lisbon; en zijn dramas, die echter weinig opgang maakten, waarschijnlijk door den afkeer, welken men tengevolge van zijn losbandig leven van hem had: Love in Several masques; The Old man taught wisdom; The Universal Gallant, Tumble Down Dick en eeuige anderen. Hij werd geboren in 1707 en overleed in 1754 te Lissabon.
|
I was born in a village of Somersetshire, called Mark, in the year 1G57; tny father was one of those whom they call gcnlleinen-f.inners. He had a little estate of about 300 1, a year of his own, and rented another estate of near the same value. He was prudent and industrious, and so i;ood a husbandman, that be miyhl have led a very easy and comfortable life, had non an arrant vixen of a w ife soured his domestic quiet. But though this circumstance perhaps made him miserable, it did not make bim poor: for lie confined her almost entirely at home, and rather chose to bear eternal upbraidings in his own bouse, than to injure his fortune by indulging her in the extravagances she desired abroad. By this Xanthippe he had two sons, of which I was the younger. He designed to give us both a good education ; but my elder brother, who , unhappily for him, was the favourite of my mother, utterly neglected bis learning; insomuch that after having been five or six years at school with little or no improvement, tny father being told by bis master, that it would be to no purpose to keep him longer there, at last complied with my mother in taking him home from the hands of that tyrant, as she called his master; though indeed he gave the lad much less correction than his idleness deserved, but inuol] more it seems, than the young gentleman liked, who constantly complained to bis mother of his severe treatment, and she as constantly gave him a hearing. My brother now, at the age of fifteen, bid adieu to all learning, and to every thing else but his dog and gun, with which latter be became so expert, that, though perhaps you may think it incredible, he could not only hit a standing mark with great certainly, hut hatb actually shot a crow as it was flying iti tbc air. lie was likewise excellent at findinga hare sitting, and was soon reputed one of the best sportsmen in the country. A repnlutinn which both he and bis mot her enjoyed as much as ifhe had been ihougbt the finest scholar. |
The situation of my brother made me at first think my lot the harder, in being continued at school: but 1 soon changed my opinion , for as I advanced pretty fast in learning, my labours became easy, and my exercise so delightful, that holidays were my most unpleasant time: for my mother, who never loved me, now apprehending that I had the greater share of my father's affection, and finding, or at least thinking, that I was more taken notice of by some gentlemen of learning, and particularly by the parson of the parish, than my brother, she now hated my sight, and made home so disagreeable to me, that what is called by schoolboys Ulack Monday, was to me the whitest in the whole year. Having, at length , gone through the school at Taunton, I was thence removed to lixeter College in Oxford , where J remained four years; at the end of which an accident took me olF entirely from my studies; and hence 1 may truly date the rise of all which happened to me afterwards in life. There was at the same college with myself one Sir George Gresham, a young fellow who was entitled to a very considerable fortune; which ho was not, by the will of bis father, to come into full possession of, till he arrived at the age of twenty-five. However, the liberality of his guardians gave him little cause to regret theabun-dant caution of his father: for they allowed bim five hundred pounds a year while he remained at the university, and lived as wicked and as profligate a life, as he could have done, bad be been never so entirely master of his fortune; for besides the five hundred a year which be received from his guardians, he found means to spend a thousand more, lie was above the age of twenty-one , and had no dilliculty in gaining what credit he pleased. This young fellow, among many other tolerable bad qualities, hail one very diabolical. He bad i great delight in destroying and ruining the youth of inferior fortune, by drawing them into ex pen ces which they could not afford so well as himself; and the better, and worthier, and soberer any young man was, the greater pleasure and triumph had be in bis destruction , thus acting the character which is recorded of the devil, and going about seeking whom be might devour. |
264
|
It was my misfurlune to fall into an acquaintance and intimacy wilh this gentleman. My reputation of ililigence in my studies made me a desirable object of fiis miscbievous intention; and my own inclination made it sufficiently easy for bim to eft'eet bis purpose; for tbough 1 had applied myself with much industry to books, in which I took great delight, there were other pleasures in which 1 was capable of taking much greater. I bad not long contracted an intimacy with Sir George, before ! became a partaker of all bis pleasures, and when J was once entered on that scene , neither my inclination nor my spirit, would suHVr me to play an under-part. I was second to none of tbe company in any acts of debauchery; nay, 1 soon distinguished myself so notably in all riots and disordres, that my name generally stood first in the roll of delinquents; and, instead of being lamented as the unfortunate pupil of Sir Georj'e. I was now accused as the person who bad misled and debauched that hopeful young gentleman ; for though he was the ringleader and promoter of all the mischief, he was never so considered. 1 fell at last under the censure of tbe vice-chancellor , and very narrowly escaped expulsion. You will easily believe that such a life as I am now describing, must be incompatible with my further progess in learning; and that in proportion as I addicted myself more and more lo loose pleasure,! must grow more anil more remiss in application to my studies. This was truly the consequence; but ibis was not all. My expences now greatly exceeded not only my former income, but those additions whicb 1 extorted from my poor generous father, on pretences of sums being necessary for preparing for my approaching degree of bachelor of arts. These demands, however, grew at last so frequent and exorbitant that my father, by slow degrees, opened his ears lo the accounts which he received from many quarters of my present behaviour: and which my mother failed not lo echo very faithfully and loudly, adding : 'Ay, this is the fine gentleman , tbe scholar who doth so much honour to his family, and is not to he the making of il. I thought what all this learning would come to. He is to be the ruin of us all, 1 find, after his elder brother had been denied necessaries for his sake, to perfect his education forsooth, for which he was to pay us such interest: I thought what the interest would come to'. My father, therefore, began now to return remonstrances, instead of money, to my demands, which brought my all'uirs perhaps a little sooner to a crisis; hut bad he remitted me his whole income, it could have sufficed a very short time to support one who kept pace with the expences of Sir George Gresham. |
It is more than possible, that the distress I was now in for money, and the impracticability of going on in this manner, might have restored me at once to my senses and to my studies, had I opened my eyes, before I came involved in debts, from which I saw no hopes of ever extricating myself. This was indeed the great, art of Sir George,and by which he accomplished the ruin of many, whom he afterwards laughed at as fools and coxcombs, for vying, as he called it, with a man of his fortune. To bring this about, he would now and then advance a little money himself, in order to support the credit of tbe unfortunate youth with other people; till, by means of that very credit, he was irretrievably undone. My mind being, by these means, grown as desperate as my fortune, there was scarce a wickedness which I did not meditate, in order for my relief. Self-murder itself became the subject of my serious deliberation; and 1 had certainly resolved on it, had not a more shameful, though perhaps less sinful thought expelled it from my head. 1 protest, so many years have not washed away the shame of this tact, and I shall blush while I relate il. 1 bad a chum, a very prudent, frugal young lad, who, though he bad not very large allowance, had hy his parsimony heaped up upwards of forty guineas, which I knew he kept in his escritoire. I tonk therefore an opportunity of purloining his key from his breeches pocket while he was asleep, and thus made myself master of all his riches. After which J again conveyed his key into his pocket, and counterfeiting sleep, though I never once closed my eyes, lay in bed till after he arose and went to prayers , and exercise to which I had long been unaccustomed. Timorous thieves, hy extreme caution, often subject themselves to discoveries, which those of a holder kind escape. Thus it happened to me; for had 1 boldly broke open bis escritoire, 1 had , perhaps, escaped even his suspicion, hut as it was plain that the person who robbed him had possessed himself of his key, he had no doubt, when be first missed his money, but that liis chum was certainly the thief. Now as he was of a fearful disposition, and much my inferior in strength, and I believe, in courage, he did not care to confront me with my guilt, for fear of worse bodily consequences, which might happen lo him. He repaired therefore immediately to the vice-chancellor, and, upon swearing to the robbery , and to the circumstances of il, very easily obtained a warrant against one w ho had now so had a character through the whole university. Luckily for me, 1 lay out of the college the next evening; for that day 1 allenled a young lady in a chaise to Whitney, wtiere we staid all night: and in our return the next morning to Oxford , 1 met one of my cronies, who acquainted me with sufficient news concerning myself to make me turn my horse another way. Having now abandoned all thoughts of return- |
|
ing to Oxford, tlio next thing which oü'eied itself was a journey to London. 1 imparted this intention to iny companion, who at first remonstrated against it; but upon producing my wealth, slieimmcdiatply consented. AV'e ihcii struck across the country into the great Cirencester Road , and made such haste, that we spen t the next evening, save one in London. I was now reduced to a much higher degree of distress than before ; the necessaries of life began to be numbered among my wants; and what made my case still the more grievous, was , that my paramour, of whom I was now grown immoderately fond, shared the same distresses with myself. To see a woman you love in distress, to he unable to relieve her, and at the same time, to reflect that you have brought her into this situation, is, perhaps, a curse of which no imagination can represent the horrors to those who have not felt it. This circumstance so severely aggravated the horrors of my present situation, that they became absolutely intolerable. J could with less pain endure the raging of my own natural unsatisfied appetites, even hunger or thirst, than 1 could submit to leave ungratified the most whimsical desires of a woman, on whom I so extravagantly doated, that I firmly intended to marry her. But the good creature was unwilling to consent to an action which the world might think so much to my disadvantage. And, as possibly, she compassionated the daily anxieties which she must have perceived me suffer on her account, she resolved to put an end to my distress, She soon indeed found means to relieve me from my troublesome and perplexed situation; for while 1 was distracted with various inventions tosupply her with pleasures, she very kindly — betrayed me to one of her former lovers at Oxford, by whose care and diligence 1 was immediately apprehended and committed to gaol. Here 1 first began seriously to reflect on the miscarriages of my former life, on the errors I bad been guilty of; on the misfortunes which I had brought on myself; and on the grief which I must have occasioned to one of the best of fathers. When I added to all these the perfidy of my mistress, such was the horror of my mind, that life, instead of being longer desirable, grew the object of my abhorrence; and 1 could have gladly embraced death, as my dearest friend . if it had offered itself to tny choice unattended by shame. The time of the assi/.cs soon came, and I was removed by Habeas Corpus to Oxford, where I expected certain conviction and condemnation; but, to my great surprise , none appeared against me, and 1 was, at the end of the sessions, discharged for want of prosecution. In short, my chum had left Oxford, and whether from indolence, or from what other motive, I am ignorant, had declined concerning himself any further in the affair. |
1 had now regained tny liberty, but I had lost my reputation : for there is a wide difference between the case of a man who is barely acquitted of a crime in a court of justice, and of him who is acquitted in his own heart, and in the opinion of the people. 1 was conscious of my guilt, and ashamed to look any one in the face, so resolved to leave Oxford the next morning, before the day-light discovered me to the eyes of any beholders. When I had got clear of the city, it first entered into my head to return home to my father, and endeavour to obtain his forgiveness; hut as I had no reason to doubt his knowledge of all which had past, and as 1 was well assured of his great aversion to all acts of dishonesty, I could entertain no hopes of being received by him, especially since I was too certain of all the good offices in the power of my mother: nay, had my father's pardon been as sure, as I conceived his resentment to be, I yet question whether J could have had the assurance to behold him, or whether I could , upon any terms, have submitted to live and converse with those, who, I was convinced , knew me to have been guilty of so base an action. I hastened therefore back to London, the best retirement of cither grief or shmne, unless for persons of a very public character; for here you have the advantage of solitude without its disadvantage, since you may he alone and in company at the same time ; and while you walk or sit unobserved, noise, hurry, and a constant succession of objects, entertain the mind, and prevent the spirits from preying on themselves, or rather on grief or shame, which are the most unwholesome diet in the world; and on which (though there are many who never taste either but in public) there are some who can feed very plentifully, and very fatally, when alone. But as there is scarce any human good without its concomitant evil, so there are people who find an inconvenience in this unobserving temper of mankind , — I mean persons who have no money ; for as you are not put out of countenance, so neither are you clothed or fed by those who do not know you. And a man may he as easily starved in Leadcnhall-market, as in the deserts of Arabia, It was at present my fortune to he destitute of that great evil, as it is apprehended to be by several writers, who, 1 suppose, were over-burthened with it, namely, motiey. One evening, as 1 was passing through the Inner Temple very hungry, and very miserable, I heard a voice on a sudden , bailing me with great familiarity by my christian name: and upon my turning about, I presently recollected the person who so saluted me, to have been my fellow-collegiate; one who had left the university above a year. |
34
26«
|
and loiij; before any of my misforlunes had ho* fallen inc. This gentleman, whose name was Watson, shook me heartily by the hand , and cxpressinif great joy at meeting mc, proposed our immediately drinking a holtlc together. I first declined the proposal, and pretended business; hut as he was very earnest and pressing, hunger at last overcame my pride, and I fairly confessed tohiin I had no money in my pocket ; yet without framing a lie for an excuse, and imputing it to my having changed my breeches that morning.Mr. Watson answered,11 tbouglit, Jack , you and 1 had been loo old acquaintance lor you to mention such a matter'. He then look me by the arm , and was pulling mo along; but I gave bim very little trouble, for my own inclinations pulled mc much stronger than he could do. We then went into the Friars, which is the scene of all mirth and jollity. Here, w hen wc arrived at the tavern , Mr. Watson applied himself to the drawer only, without taking the least notice of the cook ; for he had no suspicion hut that J had dined long since. However, as the case was really otherwise, I forged another falsehood, and told my companion , 1 had been at the further end of tin; cily on business of consequence, and had snapt up a multonehop in haste ; so that i was again hungry and wished he would add a beef-steak to his bottle. I began nowto feel myself extremely happy. The meat and wine soon revived my spirits to a high pitch, and J enjoyed much pleasure in the conversation of my old acquaintance, the rather as I thought him entirely ignorant of what had happened at the university since bis leaving it. But he did not sufler me to remain long in this agreeable delusion ; for taking a bumper in one hand, and holding me by the other : 'Here, my boy', cries he, 'here's wishing you joy of your being honouraldy acquitted of that alFair laid to your chargeI was thunder-struck with confusion at those words, which Watson oh.'erving, proceeded thus — ' Kay, never he ashamed , man ; thou hast been acquitted , and no one now dares call thee guilty; hut prithee do tell me, who am thy friend , i hope thou didst really rob him ; for rat mc, if it was nol a meritorious action to strip such a sneaking pitiful rascal : and instead of the two hundred guineas, i wish you had taken as many thousands. Come, conic, my hoy, don't he shy of confessing to me; you arc not now brought before one of the pimps. I)..n me, if I don't honour you for il ; for, as I hope for salvations, I would have made no manner of scruple of doing the same thing.' This declaration a little relieved my abashmont; and as wine had now opened my licarl, I very freely acknowledged the robbery, hut acquainted him, that he hail heen misinformed as to the sum taken, which was little more than a fifth part of what he had mentioned. |
'1 am sorry for it with all my heart,' quoth he, 'and I wish thee better success another time. Though, if you will lake my advice, you shall have no occasion to run any such risk. Here, said he, taking some dice out of his pocket, here's the stuff. Here arc the little doctors which cure the distempers of the purse. Follow hut my counsel and I will shew you a way to empty the pocket of a queer cull, without any danger of the nubbing cheat'. We had now each drank our bottle , when Mr. Watson said , the board was sitting, and that ho must attend, earnestly pressing me, at the same time, to go with him and try my fortune. I answered, he knew that was at present out of my power, as I had informed bim of the emptiness of my pocket. To say the truth, I doubted nol, from his many strong expressions of friendship, hut that he would offer lo lend me a small some for that purpose; hut he answered: 'never mind that, man. e'en boldly run a levant, but he circumspect as to the man. I will tip you the proper person, which may he necessary, as you do not know the town, nor can distinguish a rum cull from a queer one.' The bill was now brought, when Watson paid bis share, and was departing. I reminded him, not without blushing, of my having no money. He answered: 'that signifies nothing, score it behind the door, or make a hold brush , and take no notice. — Or — slay, says he, I will go down stairs first , and then do you take up my money, and score the whole reckoning at the bar, and I w ill wait for vou at the corner'. I expressed some-dislike at this, and hinted my expeclation that he would have deposited the whole; but he swore he had not imotlier six-pence in his pocket. He then went down, anil I was prevailed on to take up the money and follow him, which 1 did close enough to hear him tell the drawer the reckoning was upon the table. The drawer passed by me up stairs; but I made such baste into the street, that 1 beard notliing of his disappointment, nor did I mention a syllable at the bar, according to my instructions. We now went directly to the gaming table, where Mr. Watson to my surprise, pulled out a large sum of money, and placed il before him , as did many others; all of them, no doubt, considering their own heaps as so many decoy birds, which were to intice and draw over the neaps of their neighbours. Here it would be tedious to relate all the freaks which fortune, or rather the dice, played in this her temple. Mountains of gold were in few moments reduced lo nothing at one part of the table, and rose as suddenly in another. The rich grew in a mument poor, and ihe pour us suddenly became rich, so that it seemed a philosopher could nowhere have so well instructed his pupils in the contempt of riches, at least be could nowhere |
267
|
liaTO botter inculcalcd the iiicci tuinty of' tlieir duration. For my own part, aflor having coii kleralily improved my small estate , 1 at last entirely demolished it. Mr. Watson loo, after much variety of luclt, rose from the table in some heat, and declared ho had lost a cool hundred, and ■would play no longer. Then coining up to me, lie aslicd me lo return with him lo lite tavern; hut 1 positively refused, saying, 1 would not bring myself a second time into such a dilemna; and especially as he had lost all his money, and was now in my own condition. 'Pooh,' says ho, '1 have just borrowed a couple of guineas of a friend, and one of them is at your service.' lie irniiiedia-tely put one of them into my hand, and I no longer resisted Ins inclination. 1 was at first a little shocked at returning lo the same house whence we had departed in so unhandsome a manner: hut when the drawer, with very civil address, told us, 'he believed we had forgot to pay our reckoning,' I became perfectly easy, and very readily gave him a guinea , bid him pay himself, and acquiesccd in the unjust charge which had been laid on my memory. Mr. Watson now bespoke the most extravagant supper he could well think of; and though lie had contented himself with simple claret before, nothing now but the most precious Burgundy would serve his purpose. Our company was soon encreased by the addition of several gentlemen from the gamingtable: most of whom, as I afterwards found, came not lo the tavern to drink, hut in the way of business; for the true gamesters pretended to ho ill, and refused their glass, while they plied heartily two young fellows, who were to he afterwards pillaged, as indeed they were without mercy. Of this plunder I bad the good fortune lo be a sharer, though I was not yet let into the secret. There was one remarkable incident attended this tavern play; for the money, hy degrees, totally disappeared, so that though at the beginning the table was half covered with gold, yet before the play ended, which it did not till the next day, being Sunday, at noon , there was scarce a single guinea to be seen on the table; and this was the stranger, as every person present, except myself, declared he bad lost; and what was become of the money, unless the devil himself carried it away, is didicult to determine. My fellow collegiate bad now entered mo in a new scene of life. I soon became acquainled with the fraternity of sharpers, ant was let into their secrets; 1 mean into the knowledge of those gross cheats which are proper to impose upon the raw and unexperienced: for there are some tricks of a finer kind , which are known only to a few of the gang, who arc at the head of their profession; a degree of honour beyond my expectation ; for drink, to which I was immoderately addicted and the natural warmth of my passions, prevented me from arriving at any great success in an art, which requires as much coolness as the most austere school of philosophy. |
Mr. Watson, with whom I now lived in the closest amity had unluckily the former failing to a very great excess; so that, instead of making a fortune hy his profession, as some others did , he was allcrnately rich and poor, and was often obliged to surrender to his cooler friends, over a bottle which they never lasted, that plunder which he bad taken from culls at the public table. However, we both made a shift to pick up an uncomfortable livelihood, and for two years 1 continued of the calling, during which lime 1 tasted nil the varieties of fortune; sometimes flourishing in aflluencc, and at others being obliged to struggle with almost incredible difll-culties. To-day swallowing in luxury, and to-morrow reduced to the coarsest and most homely fare; my fine clothes being often on my back in the evening, and at the pawn-shop the next morning. One night, as I was returning pennyless from the gaming-table, 1 observed a very great disturbance, and a large mob gathered together in the street. As I was in no danger from pickpockets, [ ventured into the crowd, where, upon enquiry, I found that a man had been robbed and very ill-used hy some rudians. The wounded man appeared very bloody, and seemed scarce able to support himself upon his legs. As 1 had not therefore been deprived of my humanity by my present life and conversation, though they bad left me very lit tie of either honesty or shame, J immediately olTered my assistance to the unhappy person, who thankfully accepted it, and putting hi nself under my conduct, begged me lo convey him to some tavern , where be might send for a surgeon, being, as be said , faint with loss of blood. Ho seemed indeed highly pleased at findingono who appeared in the dress of a gentleman : for as to all the rest of the company present, their outside was such that he could not w isely place any confidence in lliem. I took the poor man by the arm , and led him lo the tavern where wo kept our rendei-vous, as it happened to ho the nearest at hand. A surgeon happening luckily to be in the house, immediately attended, and applied himself to dressing his wounds, which I bad the pleasure to hoar were not likely to be mortal. The surgeon having very expeditiously and dexterously finished bis business, began lo enquire in w hat part of the town the wounded man lodged : who answered, ' that he was come to town that very morning; that his horse was at an inn in Piccadilly, and that he had noother lodging, and very jit lie or no acquaintance in town'. |
268
|
This surgeon, wliose name 1 liavc forgot, tlioii(;li 1 remember it began wilb an 11., bad tbc first cbaracler in his profession and was serjeant-surgeon to tbe King. lie bad moreover good qualities, and was a very generous, good-natured man, and ready lo do any service tobisfellow-crealmes. He offered bis patient tbe use of bis cbariot to carry bim lo bis inn and at tbe same time whispered in bis ear, tint if be wanted any money, be would furnish bim. The poor man was not nowcapaldeofrelurning thanks for this generous offer: for having liad his eyes for some time stedfastly on me, he threw himself back in his chair, crying: '0, my son! my son !' and then fainted away. Many of tbe people present imagined this accident had happened through his loss of blood ; hut J, who at the same time began to recollect tbe features of my father, was now confirmed in my suspicion, and satisfied that it was lie himself who appeared before me. I presently ran to bim, raised bim in my arms, and kissed bis cold lipswitb the utmost eagerness. Here I must draw a curtain over a scene whicb I cannot describe: for though I did not lose my being, as my father for a while did , my senses were however so overpowered with allright and surprise, that 1 am a stranger to what passed flaring some minutes, and indeed till my father had again recovered from bisswoon; and 1 found myself in his arms, both tenderly embracing each other, while the tears trickled apace down the cheeks of each of us. Most of those present seemed affected by this scene, which, we who might be considered as the actors in it, were desirous of removing from the eyes of all spectators as fast as wecould: my father therefore accepted the kind offer of tbe surgeon's cbariot, and 1 attended him in it to bis inn. When wo were alone together, ho gently upbraided me with having neglected to write to bim during so long a lime; hut entirely omitted t he mention of that crime which had occasioned it. lie then informed me of my mother's death , and insisted on my returning home with him, saying; 'that be bad long suffered the greatest anxiety on my accounl; that he knew not whether be had most feared my death or wished it; since ho had so many more dreadful apprehensions for me. At last be said, a neighbouring gentleman , who bad just recovered a son from the same place, informed hirn where I was; and that to reclaim me from this course of life, was the sole cause of his journey to London. He thanked heaven he had succeeded so far as to find me out by means of an accident which bail like to have proved fatal lo him; and had the pleasure to think be partly owed bis preservation to my humanity, with which be professed himself to be more delighted than he should have been with my filial piety , if I had known that the object ofall my care was my own father. |
Vice had not so depraved my heart, as lo excite in it an insensibility of so much paternal affection, though so unworthily bestowed. I presently promised to obey bis commands in my return home with him , as soon as he was able to travel, which indeed he was in a very few days, by the assistance of that excellent surgeon who had undertaken his cure. The day preceding my father's journey (before which time I scarce ever left him) I went to take my leave of some of my most intimate acquaintances, particularly of Mr, Watson, w ho dissuaded me from burying myself, as he called it, out of a simple compliance with tbe fond desires of a foolish old fellow. Such solicitations, however, had no effect, and I once more saw my own home. My father now greatly solicited me to think of marriage: but my inclinatlonswere utterly averse to any such thoughts. Tiring now provided with all the necessaries of life, 1 betook myself once again to study, and that with a more ordinate application than 1 had ever done formerly. The hooks ■which now employed my time solely were those, as well ancient as modern which treat of true philosophy, a word whicb is hy many thought to be the subject only of farce and ridicule. 1 now read over the works of Aristotle and Plato, with the rest of those incstimahle treasures which ancient Greece hath bequeathed to tbe world. To this I added another study, compared to which all the philosophy taught by the wisest heathens is little heller than a dream, and is indeed as full of vanityas the silliest jester ever pleased lo represent it. This is that divine wisdom which is alone to be found in the holy scriptures: for those impart lo us the knowledge and assurance of things ni neb more worthy our a lien t ion , than all whicb this world can offer to our acecp-tance; of things which heaven itself hath condescended t o reveal to us,ami to the smallest knowledge , of which the highest human w it unassisted could never ascend. 1 began now lo think all the time I had spent with the best heathen writers , was little more than labour lost: for however pleasant and delightful their lessons may he, or however adequate lo the right regulation of our conduct with respect to this world only, yet, when compared with the glory revealed in scrip-lure, their highest documents will appear as trifling, and of as little consequence as the rules by which children regulate their childish little games and pastime. True it is, that philosophy makes us wise, but Christianity makes us better men. Philosophy elevates and steels the mind, Christianity softens and sweetens. The former makes us the objects of human admiration, tbe latter of divine love. That insures us a temporal , but this an eternal happiness. — I had spent about four years in tbe most delightful manner of myself, lotally given up to |
269
|
contemplation, and cnlirely uiicmhurassoil witli the affairs of tlie world, -wtien 1 lost tlie best of fathers, and one whom I so cnlirely loved , that my grief at his loss exceeds all description. I now ahandoned my hooks, and gave myself up for a whole month to the efforts of melancholy and despair. Time, however, the best physician of the mind, at length brought me relief. I then betook myself again to my former sludics, which I may say perfected my cure; * My circumstances were now greatly altered by the death of that best of men : for my brother, who was now become master of I be house, differed so widely from me in his inclinations, ami our pursuits in life bad been so very various, that we were the worst company to each other; but what made our living together slill more disagreeable, was the little harmony which could subsist between the few who resorted lo me, and the numerous train of sportsmen who olten attended my brother from the field to the table: for such fellows, besides the noise and nonsense w ilh which they persecute the ears of sober men , endeavour always to attack them with affront and contempt. This was so much the case, that neither I myself, nor my friends, could ever sit down lo a meal with them, without being treated with derision, because we were unacquainted with the phrases of spoilsmen. For men of true learning, and almost universal knowledge, always compassionate the ignorance of others; but fellows who excel in some little, low, contemptible art, arc always certain to despise those who are unacquainted wilh that art. In short, we soon separated , and I went by the advice of a physician lo drink the B:itli waters : for my violent affliction, added lo a sedentary life, had thrown me inlo a kind of paralytic disorder for which those waters are accounted an almost certain cure. The second day after my arrival, as I was walking by the river, thesun shone so intensily hot, (though it was early in the year) that J retired to the shelter of some willows , and sat down by the river-sidc. Here I bad not been seated long, before] heard a person on the other side of the willows, sighing and hemooning himself bitterly. On a sudden, having uttered a most impious oath, lie cried: 'I am resolved to bear it no longer', and directly threw himself into the water. I immediately started, and ran towards the place, calling at the same time as loudly as I could for assistance. An angler happened luckily to he afishinga little below me, though some very high hedge had bid him from my sight. Ho immediately came up, and both of us together, not without some hazard of our lives, drew the body to the shore. At first Wu peiccived no sign of life remaining; hut having held the body up by the heels , (for we soon had assistance enough) it discharged a vast quantity of water at the inoutb , and at length began to discover to me symptoms of breathing, and a little afterwards to move both its hands and its legs. |
An apothecary, who happened lo be present among others, advised that the body, which seemed now to have pretty well emptied itself of water, and which began to have many convulsive motions, should he directly taken up, and carried into a warm bed. This was accordingly performed; the apothecary and myself attending. As wo were going towards an inn , for wo knew not the man's lodgings, luckily a woman met us, who after some violent screamings, told us, that the gentleman lodged at her bouse. When I had seen the man safely deposited there, I left him lo the care of the apothecary, who, I suppose, used all the right methods with him ; for the next morning 1 heard be had perfectly recovered bis senses. I then went lo visit bini, intending to search out, as well as 1 could, the cause of his having attempted so desperate an act, and lo prevent, as far as I was able, his pursuing such wicked intentions for the future. I was no sooner adrnitled inlo his chamber, than we both in-stanllv know each other; for who should this person be but my good friend Mr. Watson ! Here I will not trouble you w ith what past at our first interview; for 1 would avoid prolixity as much as possible. Mr. Watson very freely acquainted me, that tlie unhappy situation of his circumstances, occasioned by a tide of ill luck, bad in a manner forced him lo a resolution of destroying himself, 1 now began lo argue very seriously with him, in opposition to ibis heathenish, or indeed diabolical principle of the lawfulness of self-murder; and said every thing which occured lo me on the subject; but lo my great concern , it seemed to have very little cllect on him. He seemed not at all to repent of what be had done, and gave me reason lo fear, he would soon make a second attempt of the like horrible kind. When I had finished my discourse, instead of endeavouring lo answer iny arguments, he looked me steadfastly in the face, and with a smile said: gt; You are strangely altered , my good friend , since I remember you. I question whether any of our bishops could make a better argument against suicide than you have entertained mo with ; but unless you can find somebody who will lend me a cool hundred, I must either hang, or drown , or starve ; and in my opinion the last death is the most terrible of the three.' I answered him very gravely, that I was indeed altered since 1 had seen him last; that I bad found leisure to look inlo my follies, and to repent of them. I then advised him to pursue the same steps: and at last concluded with an assurance, that I myself would lend him a hundred pounds, if it would he of any service to his affairs, and bo would not put it into tho power of a die to deprive him of it. |
270
|
Mr. Wutson, who seemed almost composed in slumber by the former part of my discourse, was roused by the latter. He sei/.ed my hand eagerly, jjave me a thousand thanks, anil declared 1 was a friend indeed; addinjj that he hoped I had a better opinion of him , than to imagine he had profitted so little by experience, as to put any confidence in those damned dice, which had so often deceived him.'No, no', cries he,'let me but once handsomely he set up again , and if ever fortune makes a broken merchant of me afterwards, I will forgive her.' 1 very well understood the language of setting up, and broken merchant. I therefore said to him with a very grave face : Mr. Watson , you must endeavour to find out some business, or employment, by which you may procure yourself a livelihood : and I promise you, could I sec any probability of being repaid hereafter, I would advance a much larger sum than what you have mentioned , to equip you in any fair and bonour-able calling; but, as to gaming, besides the baseness and wickedness of making it a profession, you are really, to my own knowledge, unfit for it, and it will end in your certain ruin. 'Why now, that's strange', answered he, 'neither you, nor any of my friends, would ever allow me to know any thing of the matter, and yet, I believe, 1 am as good a hand at every game as any of you all; and I heartily w ish I was to play with you only for your whole fortune; 1 should desire no better sport, and I would let you name your game into the bargain : hut come, my dear boy, have you the hundred in your pocket?' I answered I had only a hill for 50 1. which I delivered him, and promised to bring him the rest next morning; and, after giving him a little more advice, took my leave. I was indeed better than my word : for J returned to him that very afternoon. When 1 entered the room , I found him sitting up in bis bed at cards with a notorious gamester. This sight, you will imagine, shocked me not a little; to which I may add the mortification of seeing my bill delivered by him to his antagonist, and thirty guineas only given in exchange for it. The other gamester presently quitted the room, and then Watson declared he was ashamed to see me: 'bul', says he, '1 find luck runs so damnably against me, that I will, resolve to leave off play for ever. I have thought of the kind proposal you made me ever since, and I promise you there shall be no fault in me , if f do not put it in execution.' Though I had no great faith in his promises, I produced him the remainder of the hundred in consequence of my own ; for which ho gave mo a note, which was all I ever expected to see in return for my money. |
Wo were prevented from any further discourse at present, by the arrival of the apothecary, who, with much joy in his countenance , and without even asking his patient bow be did, proclaimed there was great news arrived in a letter to himself, which he said would shortly be public; 'that the Duke of Monmouth was landed in the west with a vast army of Dutch: and that another vast fleet hovered over the coast of Norfolk , and was to make n descent there, in order to favour the Duke's enterprizo with a diversion on that side.' This apothecary was one of the greatest politicians of iiis time. He was more delighted with the most paltry packet, than with the best patient; and the highest joy he was capable of he received from having a piece of news in bis possession an hour or two sooner than any other person in the town. His advices, however, were seldom authentic, for he would swallow almost any thing as a truth, a humour which many made use of to impose npon him. Thus it h.ippened with what he at present communicated ; for it was known within a short time afterwards, that the Duke was really landed; but that his army consisted only of a few attendants; and as to the diversion in Norfolk, it was entirely false. The apothecary staid no longer in the room than while bo acquainted us with bis news; and then without saying a syllable to his patient on any other subject, departed to spread bis advices all over the town. There was a considerable rising in favour of Monmouth; and, my principles strongly inclining me to take the same part, 1 determined to join him;and Mr. Watson, fromdifl'erent motives concurring in the same resolution , we soon provided ourselves with all necessaries, and went to the Duke at Bridgewater. The unfortunate event of this cnterprize you are as well acquainted w ith as myself. I escaped, together with Mr. Watson, from the battle at Sedgmore, in which action J received a slight wound. We rode near forty miles together on the Exeterlioad, and, then abandoning our horses, scrambled as well as we could through the fields and by-roads, till we arrived at a little wild but on a common, where a poor old woman took all the care of us she could, and dressed my wound with salve, which quickly healed it. Here Mr. Watson left me the next morning, in order , as be pretended, to get us some provision from the town ofCullumpton— but— can 1 relate it? or can you believe it? —This Mr. Watson, this friend, this base, barbarous, treacherous villain , betrayed me to a part y of horse belonging to King James,and, at his turn, delivered me into their hands. The soldiers, being six in number, had now seized me, and were conducting me to Taunton gaol ; hut neither my present situation, nor the |
271
|
apprehensions of what rnijrlit happen to mo, were half so irlisomo to my mind, as the company of my false friend, who, havin;; surrendered himself, was likewise considered as a prisoner, Ihough he was hctler treated, as beinj; to make his peace at my expence. lie at first endeavoured to excuse . his treachery; hut when he received nothing hut scorn anil uphraidinjj from me, he soon changed his nole, ahused me as ihe most atrocious and malicious rebel, and laid all his own guilt to my charge, who, as he declared, had solicited, and even threatened him, to make him take up arms against his gracious, as wel as lawful ^vereign. This false evidence (for in reality, he had been much the forwarder of the two), slung me to the quick . and raised an indignation scarce conceivable hy those who have not felt it. However, fortune at length took pity on me : for as we were got a little beyond Wellington, in a narrow lane , my guards received a false alarm, that near fifty of the enemy were at hand, upon which they shifted for themselves, and left me and my betrayer to do the same. That villain immediately ran from me, and I am glad he diil, or I should have certainly endeavoured , though 1 had no arms, to have executed vengeance on his baseness. I was nowoncemoreatliherty^ind immediately withdrawing from the highway into the fields, I travelled on , scarce knowing which way I went, |
and making it my chief care to avoid all public roads, and all towns, nay, even the most homely houses; for I imagined every human creature «hom I saw, desirous of betraying me. At last, after ramliling several days about the country, during which the fields aflorded me the same bed, and the same food, which nature bestows on our savage hrotbi rs of the creation, I at length arrived at this place, w here the solitude and wild-ness of the country invited me to fix my abode. The first person with whom I took up my habitation, was the mother of this old woman, with whoml remained concealed, till the news of the glorious revolution put an end to all my apprehensions of danger, and gave me an opportunity of once more visiting my own home, and of enquiring a little into myail'airs, which I soon settled as agreeably to my brother as to myself; having resigned every thing to him , for which he paid me the sum of a thousand pounds, and settled on me an annuity for life. His behaviour in this last instance as in all others, was selfish and ungenerous. I could not look upon him as my friend, nor indeed did he desire that 1 should ; so I presently took my h'ave of him, as well as of my other acquaintance; and from that day to this, my history is little better than a blank. |
Werd geboren te LichHeld, in 170'j, co leefde tot in 1784: reeds op jeugdigen leeftijd leverde hij vertalingen en bijdragen in tijdschriften. In 1737 begaf hij zich naar Londen en begon toen meer als schrijver op te treden. Men heeft van hem een aantal en verscheidenheid van werken, welke van tijd tot tijd door hem werden uitgegeven. De hier opgenoemde behooren tot de voornaamste voortbrengselen der engelsche letterkunde en worden nog als zoodanig beschouwd ; A Poem of London , een navolging van de derdo Satire van Juvenalls (1738); Life of Savage (174lt;1) — dut vroeger recils in een tijdschrift verschenen was; — The Vanity of Human Wishes, een navolging van de tiende Satire van .fuvenalis (1749); The liambler (tusschen Maait 1750 en Maart 1752); Dictionary of the English Language (1755), waaraan hij zeven jaar werkte; The Idler (tusschen April 1758 en April 1700): Hasselas (1759) ; Thoughts on the late Trniisactions respecting Falkland's Islands (1771); Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland (1775) on Lives of the Poets (1781), een van de verdienstelijkste en belangrijkste werken voor dc beoefenaars van de Letterkunde van Engeland. Bij al die omvangiijke werken schreef hij nu en dan verschillende bijdragen in tijdschriften (Gentleman's Magazine, enz), verzen en pamphletten , te veel om op te sommen. Hij had een stijl, die hem bijzonder eigen was cn een grootcn invloed had op de volgende schrijvers.
The wants of him that wants nothing.
(The history of Rasselas, prince of /Vbyssinia.)
|
On the next day his old instructor, imagining that he bad now made himself acquainted with | bis disease of mind, was in hope of curing it by counsel, and ofTiciously sought an opportunity of conference, which the prince, having long considered him as one whose intellects were exhausted, was not very willing to afford. Why, said be, does this man thus intrude upon me? Shall I never be suffered to forget those lectures which pleased only while they were new, and to become new again must be forgotten ? He then walked into the wood, and composed himself |
to bis usual meditations; when, before his thoughts had taken any set tied form, he perceived his pursuer at his side; and was at first prompted by his impatience to go hastily away ; but, being unwilling to offend a man whom he had once reverenced and still loved, be invited him to sit down with him on the hank. The old man thus encouraged, began to lament the change which had been lately observed in the prince, and to inquire why he so often retired from the pleasures of the palace to loneliness and silence. '•I fly from pleasurequot;, said the prince, quot;because |
272
|
pleaBuro tins coasod to jilcase; 1 am lonely hecausc I nm miserable, anil am unwilling to cloud with my presence tlie happiness of others.quot; quot;You, sirquot;, said the sajjp, quot;are the first who has complained of misery in the happy valley. 1 hope to convince you that your complaints have no renl cause. You are here in fullpojsession of all that the emperor of Ahyssinia can bestow; here is neither labour to be endured, nor danger to be dreaded, yet here is all that labour or danger can procure or purchase. liGok round you, and tell me which of your wants is without its supply; if you want nothing how are you unhappy ?quot; — quot;That I want nothingquot;, said the prince, quot;or that 1 know not what I want, is the cause of my complaint; ifl had any known •want, I should haveacertainwish;tbat wish could eseite endeavour, and 1 should not then repine to see the sun move so slowly towards the western motintain,or lament when the day breaks, and sleep would no longer hide mo from myself. When 1 see the kids and the lambs chasing one another, 1 fancy that I should he happy if 1 had something to pursue. But possessing all that L want 1 find one day and one hour exactly like another, except that the latter is still more tedious thiin the former. Let your experience inform me how the day may now seem as short as in my childhood, while nature was yet fresh , and every moment showed me what Iliad never observed before. I havealready enjoyed too much —give me some-thhiy lo desire! |
On the knowledge of the World.
|
Nothing has so much exposed men of learning lo contempt and ridicule,a^their ignorance of things which arc known to all but themselves. Those, who have been taught to consider the institutions of the schools as giving the last perfection to human abilities , are surprised to see men wrinkled with study , yet wanting to be instructed in the minute circumstances of propriety, or the necessary forms of daily transaction ; and quickly shako oil their reverence for modes of education , which they find to produce no ability above the rest of mankind. Books, says Bacon, can never teach the use of books. The student must learn by commerce with mankind to reduce his speculation to practise, and accomodate his know ledge to the purposes of life. It is too common for those who have been bred to scholastic professions, and passed much of their time in academies, where nothing hut learning confers honours, to disregard every other qualification, and to imagine, that they shall find mankind ready to pay homage lo their k«owledge, and to crowd about them for instruetion.They therefore step out from their cells into tbcopen world, with all the confidence of authority, and dignity of importance; they look round about them at once with ignorance and scorn on a race of beings, lowborn they are equally unknown and equally contemptible, but whose manners they must imitate, and with whose opinions they must comply, if they desire lo pass their time happily among them. |
To lessen that disdain with which scholars are inclined to look in the common business of the world , and the unwillingness with which they condescend to learn what is not to be found in any system of philosophy, it may ho necessary to consider , that though admiration is excited by abstruse researches,and remote discoveries, yet pleasure is not given, or affection conciliated, but by softer accoinplisbnients, and qualities more easily communicable lo those about us. He that can only converse upon questions, about which only a small kind of mankind has knowledge sullicient to make them curious, must losehis days in unsocial silence, and live in the crowd of life without a companion. lie that can only he usefulon great occasions niuy die without exerting his abilities and stand a helpless spectator of a thousand vexations, which fret away happiness, and which nothing is required to remove but a little dexterity of conduct and readiness of expedients. No degree of knowledge attainable by man is able to set him above the want of hourly assistance, or lo extinguish the desire of fond endearments, and tender ofiieiousness; and therefore no one should think it unnecessary to learn those arts, by which friendship may be gained. Kindness is preserved by a constant reciprocation of benefits, or interchange of pleasures; but sucb benefits only can be bestowed, as others are capable of receiving, and such pleasures only imparled , as others arc qualified lo enjoy. 15y his descent from the pinnacles of art no honour will he lost; for the condescensions of learning are always overpaid by gratitude. An elevated genius employed in little tilings appears, lo use the simile of Longinus, like the sun in his evening declination ; he remits bis splendour , but retains his magnititude: and pleases more, though he dailies less. |
273
|
• The ccnsuro which he [Shakespeare] has incurred by mmiig comic and lra;gt;ic scenes, as it extends to all his works, deserves more consideration. Let the fact be first slated , and then examined. Shakespeare's plays are not in the rigorous and critical sense either tragedies or comedies, but compositions of a dislinct kind; exhibiting'the real elate of sublunary nature, which partakes of good and evil, joy and sorrow , mingled with endless variety of proportion and innumerable modes of combination ; and expressing the course of the ■world , in which the loss of one is the gain of another; in which, at the same time, the reveller is hasting to his wine, and the mourner burying his friend; in which the malignity of one is sometimes defeated by the frolic ofanolher; and many mischiefs and many benefits are done and hindered without design. Out of this chaos of mingled purposes and casualties, the ancient poets, according to the laws which cuslom had prescribed , selected some the crimes of men, and some their absurdities; some the momentous vicissitudes of life, and some the lighter occurences; some the terrors of distress, and some the gayeties of prosperity. Thus rose the two modes of imitation, known by the names of tragedy and comedy , compositions intended to promote different ends by contrary means, and considered as so little allied , that I do not recollect among the Greeks or Romans a single writer who attempted both. Shakespeare has united the powers of exciting laughters and sorrow not only in one mind , but in one composition. Almost all his plays are divided between serious and ludicrous characters, and, in the successive evolutions of the ilesign , sometimes produce seriousness and sorrow, and sometimes levity and laughter. |
That this is a practice contrary to the rules of criticism will bo readily allowed; but there is is always an appeal open from criticism to nature. The end of writing is to instruct; the end of poetry is to instruct by pleasing. That the mingled drama may convey all the instruction of tragedy or comedy cannot he denied , because it includes both in its alternations of exhibition, and approaches nearer than cither to the appearance of life, by showing how great machinations and slender designs may promote or obviate one another, and the high and the low co-operate in the general system by unavoidable concatenation. It is objected , that by this change of scenes the passions are interrupted in their progression, and that the principal event, being not advanced by a due gradation of preparatory incidents, wants at last the power to move, which constitutes the perfection of dramatic poetry. This reasoning is so specious, that it is received as true even by those who in daily experience feel it to be false. The interchanges of mingled scenes seldom fail to produce the intended vicissitudes of passion. Fiction cannot move so much , but that theattention maybe easily transferred; and though it must be allowed that pleasing melancholy may be sometimes interrupted by unwelcome levity, yet let it be considered likewise, that melancholy is often not pleasing , and that the disturbance of one man may be the relief of another ; that diflcrcnt auditors have dlircrent habitudes; and that, upon the whole], all pleasure consists in variety. |
Werd geboren in 1713 en overleed in 1768. Hij zelf leverde een geschiedinis van zyn leven , waarin hij ten slotte zegt: quot; I have set down these particulars relating to my family and self for ray Lydia, in case hereafter she might have a curiosity, or a kinder motive to know them.quot; Zijn Life and opinions of Tristram Shandy. Gentleman; A Sentimental Journey through Krance and Italy: en meest al ziju werken onderscheiden zich door humor, satire en gevoel; do beide eerste zijn in de meest bekende europisehe talen overgezet en worden thans nog veel gelezen. Ue Tristram Shandy behelst een aaneenschakeling van tafereelen , welke beurtelings de lachspieren in beweging brengen of een diepen indruk op 't hart maken. In de Sentimental Journey, waarin gevoelvolle ernst en geestige scherts vereenigd zijn , heeft nogthans 't gevoel de overhand. Verder heeft men van hem nog o. a. A political Komance j Yoriek's Sermons, welke persoon waarschijnlijk de hofnar uit den Hamlet van Shakspeare is (Men leze zijn Tristram Shandy, waarvan 't eerste en tweede gedeelte verscheen ia 1759 ; 't derde en vierde in 1701 ; 't vijfde en zesde in 1762; 't zeveude en achtste in 1765 en 't negende ia 1767. De Sentimeotal Journey gaf hij in 1768 nit);
The life and opinions of Tristram Shandy , Gentleman.
Chap. vi. which Dendermoiid was taken by tlic allies,—
The Story of Le Fevre. ■which was about seven years before my father
It was some time in the summer of that year in came into the country, and about as many after
35
274
|
the time tliat my uncloTohy and Trim had privately dccamped IVorn my father's house in town , in order to lay some of the finest sieges to some of the finest fortified cities in Europe;—wlien my uncle Tohy was one eveiiiii|{ gettiiiff his supper, with Trim sitting hehind him at a small sideboard, — 1 say, sitting , — for in consideration of the Corporal's lame knee (which sometimes gave him exquisite pain) — when my uncle Tohy dined or supped alone, he would never suffer the Corporal to stand ; and the poor fellow's veneration for his master was such, that, with a proper artillery,my uncle Tohy could have taken Dender-moiul itself with less trouble than he was ahle to gain his point over him; for many a time, ■when my uncle Tohy supposed the Corporal's leg was at rest, he would look hack, and detect him standing hehind him with the most dutiful respect, this hred more little squahhles helwixt them,than all other causes forfiveand twenty years together. — But this is neither here nor there — why do I mention it? — Ask my pen; — it governs me, — I govern not it. lie was one evening silting thus at his supper, when the landlord of a little inn in the village, came into the parlour with an empty phial in his hand , to heg a glass or two of sack. — 'Tis fur n poor gentleman, I think, of the army, said the landlord, who has heen ta'icn ill at my house four days ago, and has never held up his head since, or had a desire to taste any thing, till just now, thai he has a fancy for a glass of sack, and a thin toast. — [ think, says he, taking his hand from his head, it would comfort me. If 1 could neither heg, borrow, or huy such a thing,added the landlord, 1 would almost steal it for the poor gentleman . bo is so ill. I hope in God he will still mend, continued he ; we arc all of us concerned for him. — Thou art a good-natured soul I will answer for thee, cried my uncle Toby; and thou shalt drink the poor gentleman's health in a glass of sack thyself, — and take a couple of bottles, with my service, and tell him be is heartily welcome to them, and to a dozen more if they will do him good. Though i am persuaded , said my uncle Tohy, as the landlord shut the door, be isa very compassionate fellow. Trim, yet I cannot help enter-taininga high opinion of his guest too.Tbcremust be something mojrc than common in him , that, in so short a time, should win so much upon the alïections of bis host; — And of his whole family, added the Corporal, for they are all concerned for bim. — Step after-bim , said my uncle Tohy , do, Trim ; and ask if be knows bis name. — J have quite forgot it truly, said the landlord, coming back into the parlour with the Corporal ; — but I can ask his son again. — Has be a son with him, then? said my uncle Toby. — A boy replied the landlord , of about eleven or tnelve years of age; — hot the poor creature has lasted almost aslittlcas his father: be docs nolhing but mourn and lament for him night and day. He has not stirred from the bedside these two days. |
My uncle Tohy laid down his knife and fork, and thrust his plate from before him, as the landlord ga\e him the account; and Trim, without being ordered, look it away without saying a word, and, in a few minutes after, brought him his pipe and tobacco. — Stay in the room a little, said my uncle Toby. Trim 1 — said my uncle Tohy. after he lighted his pipe, and smoked about a doien whiffs.— Trim came in front of his master and made bis how; — my uncle Toby smoked on, and said no more. — Corporal! said my uncle Tohy; — the Corporal made his bow — My uncle Toby preceded no farther, but finished bis pipe. Trim! said my uncle Tohy, I have a project in my bead, as it is a bad night, of wrapping m yself up warm in my roqnelaure, and paying a visit to this poor gentleman. — Your Honour's roqnelaure replied the Corporal , has not once been bad on , since the night before your Honour received your wound, when we mounted guard in the trenches before the gale of St. Nicholas; and besides , it is so cold and rainy a night, that what with the roquelaure, and. what with the weather, 'twill be enough to give your honour your death , and bring on your Honour's torment in your groin. — I fear so, replied my uncle Toby; hut lam not at rest in my mind , Trim, since the account the landlord has given me. — I wish I had not known so much of this affair, added my uncle Toby, or that I had known more of it. — How shall we manage it? Leave it,an' please your Honour, tome, qnolh the Corporal. I'll take in y bat anil stick . and go to the house and reconnoilre, and act accordingly ; and I will bring your Honour a full account in an hour. — Thou shallgo, Trim, said my uncle Toby, and here's a shilling for tbcc to drink with his servant.— 1 shall get it all out of him, said the Corporal, shutting the door. My uncle Toby filled his second pipe; and had it not been that he now and then wandered from the point, with considering whether it was not full as well to have the curtain of the tónaille a straight line, as a crooked one, — he might be said to have thought of nothing else but poor Le Fcvre and his boy the whole time he smoked it. CnAP. VII. 'I he story of le Fcvre continneil. — It was not till my uncle Toby had knocked the ashes out of his third pipe, that Corporal Trim returned from the inn, and gave bim the following account: — I despaired first, said the Corporal of being |
27»
|
alilc to liring hack your Honour any kind of in-tcllijjcncc concerninf; the poor sick lieutenant.— Js he in the army then ? said my uncle Toby.— lie is, said the Corporal. — And in what regiment? said my uncle Toby. — I'll tell your Honour, replied the Corporal, every tiling straight forwards, as 1 learnt it. —Then, Trim, I'll fill another pipe, said my uncle Toby, and not interrupt thee, till thou hast done; so sit down at thy ease. Trim, in the window-seat, and begin thy story again. — The Corporal made his old how, which generally spoke as plain as a bow could could speak it — your Honour is good: — And having done that, he sat down, as he was ordered , and began the story to my uncle Toby over again, in pretty near the same words. 1 despaired at first, said the Corporal, of being able to bring back any intelligence to your Honour, about the lieutenant and his son ; — for, when I asked wdiere his servant was, from whom 1 made myself sure of knowing every thing which was proper to he asked , — (Thai's a right distinction, Trim, said my uncle Toby) — I was answered , an' please your Honour, that he had no servant with him; — that he had come to the inn with hired horses , which, upon finding himself unable to proceed, (to join, I suppose, the regiment) lie had dismissed the morning after he came. — If I get better, my dear, said be, as he gave his purse to his son to pay the man , — we can hire horses from hence. — Hut alas I the poor gentleman will never go from hence, said the landlady to me, — for I heard the death watch all night long;—and, when be dies, the youth his son, will certainly die with him ; fur lie is broken hearted already. I was hearing this account, continued the Corporal , when the youth came into the kitchen , to order the thin toast the landlord spoke of; — but I will do it for my father, myself, said the youth. — I'ray let me save you the trouble young gentleman, said I, taking up a fork for the purpose, and offering him my chair to sit down 111)011 by the fire, whilst 1 diil it. — I believe. Sir, said be, very modestly, I can please him best myself. — 1 am sure, said I, his Honour will not like the toast the worse for being toasted by an old soldier. — The youth took hold of my hand and instantly hurst into tears. — Poor youth! said my uncle Toby ; — he has been bred up from an infant in the army; and the name of a soldier. Trim, sounded in his ears like the name of a friend I — I w ish I had him here. — 1 never in the longest march, said the Corporal, had so great a mind fur my dinner, as I had to cry with him for company : — What could be the matter with me, an' please your honour? Nothing in the world. Trim, said my uncle Toby, blowing his nose, — but that thou art a good-natured fellow. |
— When I gave him the toast , continued the Corporal, I thouglit it was proper to tell him, 1 was Captain Shandy's servant, and that your Honour (though a stranger) was extremely concerned with his father; — and that if their was any thing in your house or cellar — (And thou might'st have added my purse too , said my uncle Toby) — he was heartily welcome to it. — He made a very low how (which was meant to your Honour) but no answer ; — for his heart was full; — so he went up stairs with the toast. —1 warrant you, my dear, said I, as 1 opened the kitchen-door, your father will be well again. — Mr. Yorick's curate was smoking a pipe by the kilchen-fire, — but said not a word, good or bad, to comfort the youth. — 1 thought it wrong, added the Corporal. — I think so too, said my uncle Toby. When the lieutenant had taken his glass of sack and toast, bo felt himself a little revived, and send down into the kitchen, to let me know, that in about ten minutes, he should be glad if I would step upstairs. —1 believe, said the landlord, he is going to say bis prayers,— for there was a book laid upon the chair by his bedside, and as I simt the door, I saw his son take up a cushion. — I thought, said the curate, that you gentlemen of the army, Mr. Trim, never said your prayers at all. — I heard the poor gentleman say his prayers last night, said the landlady, very devoutly, and with my own ears,or I could not have believed it. — Are you sure of it? replied the curate. — A soldier, an' please your Ilevcr-ence, said I, prays as often (of his own accord) as a parson; antl when he is fighting for his king, and for his own life, and for his honour too, he has the most reason to pray to God of any one in the whole world. — 'Twas well said of tliee. Trim, said my uncle Toby. — But when a soldier, said I, an' please your Reverence, has been standing for twelve hours together in the trenches, up to his knees in cold water, —or engaged , said I, for months together, in long and dangerous mar-elies; — harassed , perhaps, in his rear to day; — harassing others to morrow; — detached here; — countermanded there; — resting this night out upon his arms; — heal up in his shirt the next; —benumbed in his joints ; perhaps without straw in his tent to kneel on; — must say his prayers how and when he can. — I believe, said I, for I was piqued , quoth the Corporal, for the reputation , of the army. — I believe , an' please your Reverence , said 1, that when , a soldier gets time to pray, he prays as heartily as a parson — though not with all bis fuss and hypocrisy. — Thou shouldest nol have hart said that, Trim, said my uncle Toby, for God only knows who is a hypocrite, and who is not: — At the great and general review of us all, Corporal, at the day of judgment (and not till then) — it will he seen |
2'
|
who have done their duties in this world, — and who have not; and we shall he advanced, Trim , accordingly. — 1 hope we shall, said Trim. — It is in the scripture, said mj uncle Tolgt;y;andl will shew it thee to-morrow. — In the mean time we may depend upon it. Trim , for our comfort, said my uncle Tohy, that God Almighty is so good and just a governor of the world, that if we have hut done our duties in it, — it will never be inquired into , whether we have done them in a red coat or a black one. — 1 hope nut, said the Corporal. But go on. Trim, said my uncle Tohy, witli thy story. — When 1 went up, continued the Corporal, into the lieutenant's room , which J did not do till the expiration of the ten minutes, — be vas lying in bis bed, with his head raised upon bis hand, with bis elhow upon the pillow, and a clean white cambric handkerchief beside it. — The youth was just stooping down to take up theeusnion, upon which, I supposed, behad been kneeling; (he book was laid upon the bed ; — and as he rose, in taking up the cushion with one band, he reached out his other to take it away at the same time. — Let it remain there, my dear, said the lieu tenant— He did not offer to speak to me, till I had walked up close to his bed-side. — If you are Captain Shandy's servant, said he, you must present my thanks to your master, with my little boy's thanks along with them, for his courtesy to me. —If he was of Levens's, — said the lieutenant. I told him your humour was. — Then, said he, I served three campaigns with him in Flanders, and remember him, but't is most likely, as I had not the honour of any acquaintance with him, that he knows nolhing of me. — You will tell him , however, that the person his good nature has laid under obligations to him, is one Le Fevre, a lieutenant in Angus's ; — but lie knows me not, — said be, a second time, musing; — possibly he may my story, added he. — Pray, tell the captain, I was liieensign at Breda, whose wife was most unfortunately killed, with a musket-shot, as she lay in my arms in my tent. — 1 remember the story, an' please your honour, said I, very well. — Do you so? — said be, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, — then well may I. — In saying this, lie drew a little ring out of his bosom, which seemed tied with a black ribband about his neck, and kiss'd it twice. —Here, Billy, faid he; — the hoy flew across the room to the bed-side, — and falling down upon his knee, took the ring in his band , and kissed it (oo, — then kissed his father, and sat down upon the bed and wept. I wish , said my uncle Toby, with a deep sigh, I wish , Trim, I was asleep. Your Honour, replied the Corporal, is too much concerned. — Shall I pour out your Honour a glass of sack to your pipe? — Do, Trim, said my uncle Tohy. — |
•I remember, said my uncle Toby, sighing again, the story of the ensign and his wife, with a circumstance his modesty omitted; — and particularly well that he, as well as she, upon some account or other, (I forget what) was universally pitied by the whole regiment; — but. finish the story thou art upon.— 'Tis finished already, said the Corporal , — for I could stay no longer; — so wished his honour a good night. Young Le Fevre rose from off the bed, and saw me to the bottom of the stairs ; and as we went down together, told me, they had come from Ireland, and were on their route to join the regiment in Flandres. — But alas! said the Corporal, — tho lieutenant's last day's march is over I — Then what is to'hccome of his poor hoy ! cried my uncle Toby. Ch A P. VIII. The story of Le Fevre continued. It was to my uncle Toby's eternal honour, — though I tell it only for the sake of those who, when coop'd in hetwixt a natural and a positive law , know not for their souls, which way in the world to turn themselves. — That notwithstanding my uncle Tohy was warmly engaged at that time in carrying on the siege of Uemlermond , parallel with the allies, who pressed theirs so vigorously, that they scarce allowed him time to get his dinner:— that nevertheless he gave up Dendermond, though he had already made a lodgment upon the counterscarp; — and bent bis whole thoughts towards the private distresses at the inn; and, except that he ordered the garden-gate to be bolted up, by which he might be said to have turned the siege of Dendermond into a blockade, — he left Dendermond to itself, — to he relieved or not by the French king, as the French king thought good ; and only considered how he himself should relieve the poor lieutenant and his son. — That kind Being, who is a friend to the friendless, shall recompense thee for this. — Thou hast left this matter short, said my uncle Tohy to the Corporal, as he was putting him to bed, and I will tell thee in what. Trim. — In the first place, when thou mad'st an offer of my services lo Le Fevre ,— as sickness ancl travelling are both expensive, and thou knew'st he was but a poor lieutenant with a son to subsist as well as himself, out of his pay, — that thou didst not make an oiler to him of my purse; because, bad be stood in need, thou knowest, Trim, he had been as welcome to it as myself. — Your honour knows, said the Corporal, I had no orders. — True, quoth my uncle Toby, — thou didst very right. Trim, as a soldier, — but certainly very wrong as a man. In the second place , for which , indeed, thou hast the same excuse , continued my uncle Toby, when thou offeredst him whatever was in my house, thou shouldst have offered him my house |
277
|
loo. — A sick brother officer should have the best quarters , Trim ; and if we had him with us , — we could tend and look to him. — Thou art an excellent nurse thyself, Trim, ami what with thy care of him , and the old woman's and his boy's, and mine together, we inijjht recruit him again at once, and set him upon his legs.— — In a fortnight or three weeks, added my uncle Toby, smiling , — he might inarch. — lie will never march, an' please your Honour, in this world , said the Corporal. Ho will march, said my uncle Toby, rising up from the side of the bed with one shoe oft'. — An' please your Honour, said the Corporal, be will never march , but to bis grave. — He shall march, cried my uncle Toby, marchingthefootwbicb bad a shoe on, though without advancing an inch, — be shall march to his regiment. — He cannot stand it, said the Corporal. — He shall be supported, said my uncle Toby. — He'll drop at last, said the Corporal, and what will become of his boy? — He shall not drop, said my uncle Toby, firmly. — A-well-a-day ! do what we can for him , said Trim, maintaining bis point, — the poor soul will die. — He shall not die, by G —, cried ^ny uncle Toby. — The accusing spirit which Hew up to Heaven's chancery with the oath, blush'd as he gavo it in; and the recording angel as he wrote it down dropp'd a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever. Chap. IX. — My uncle Toby wont to his bureau , — put bis purse into his hrecchcs pocket, and having ordered the Corporal to go early in the morning for a physician, — he went to bed, and fell asleep. Cuap. X. 7 he story of Le Fevre concluded. |
The sun looked bright the morning after, to every eye in the village but Le Fevre's and his afflicted son's; the hand of death press'd heavy upon his eye-lids ; — and hardly could the wheel nt the cistern turn round its circle, — when my undo Toby, who had rose up an hour before his wonted time, entered the lieutenant's room , and without preface or apology, sat himself down upon the chair by the bed-side, and, independently of all moties and customs, opened the curtain in the manner an old friend and brother officer would have done it, and asked him how he did, — how he had rested in the night, what was his complaint, — where was his pain , and what he could do to help him : — and without giving him time to answer any one of the inquiries , went on and told him of the little plan which be had been concerting with the Corporal the night before for him. — You shall go home directly, Le Fevre, said my uncle Toby, to my house, and we'll send for a doctor to sec what's the matter, — and we'll have an apothecary, and the Corporal shall he your nurse, — and I'll be your servant, Le Fevre.— There was a frankness in my uncle Toby,— not the effect of familiarity, — but the cause of it, — which let you at once into his soul, and showed you the goodness of his nature. To this, there was something in bis looks, and voice, and manner, superadded, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take shelter under him, so that before my uncle Toby had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father had the son insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and bad taken hold of the breast of bis coat, and was pulling it towards him. — The blood and spirits of Le Fevre, which were waxing cold and slow within him, and were retreating to their last citadel, the heart — rallied back, the film forsook his eyes for a moment; — he looked up wishfully in my uncle Toby's face ; then cast a look upon bis boy; — and that ligament, fine as it was, was never broken. Nature instantly ebb'd again ; — the film returned to its place; — the pulse fluttered,— stopp'd , — went on, — throbb'd , — stopp'd again, — mov'd,— stopp'd, — shall 1 goon? No. |
A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy.
|
Mouuices. J never felt wbat the distress of plenty was in any one shape till now , — to travel through the Bourbonnois, the sweetest part of France, — in the heyday of the vintage, when Nature is pouring her abundance into every one's lap, and eye is lifted up, —a journey through each step of which Music heats time to Labour, and all her children are rejoicing as they carry in their clusters ; — to pass through this with my affections flying out, and kindling at every group before me, — and every one of them was pregnant with adventures , — |
Just Heaven!- it would fill up twenty volumes; — and alas! I have but a few small pages left of this to crowd it into, — and half of these must be taken up with the poor Maria my friend Mr. Shandy met with near Moulines. The story he bad told of that disorder'd maid affected mc not a little in the reading ; but when 1 got within the neighbourhood where she lived, it returned so strong in my mind , that 1 could |
278
|
not rusisl on impulse whicli prompted me to go half a leajjue out of the road, to the village where her parents dwelt, to inquire after her. 'Tis going, I own, like the Knight of the AVoful Countenanco, in quest of melancholy adventures; — hut I know not how it is, hut I am never so perfectly conscious of the ciistonce of a soul wiliiin me , as when I am entangled in tliem. The old mother came to the door; her looks told me the story before she open'd her mouth. She had lost her hus'iand ; lie had died , she said , of anguish, for the loss of Maria's senses, about a month before. — She had feared at first, she added, that it would have plundered her poor girl of what little understanding was left; but, on the contrary , it had brought her more to herself; — still she sboubl not rest. — Her poor daughter, she said , crying, was wanderingsomewhere about the road. — Why does my pulse heal languid as I write this? and wlii\t made La Fleur, whose heart seeni'd only to be timed to joy, to pass the back of bis hand twice across his eyes, as the woman stood and told it? I beckoned to the postilion to turn hack into the road. When we had got within half a league of Hou-lines, at a little opening in the road , leading to a thicket, I discovered poor Maria sitting under a poplar. —She was sitting with hor elbow in her bead leaning on one side within her band : — a small brook ran at the foot of the tree. 1 bid the postillion go on with the chaise to Moulincs; — and La Kleur to bespeak my supper;— and that 1 would walk after him. She was dress'd in white, and mjich as my friend described her, except that her hair bung loose, which before was twisted within a silken net. — She bad supperadded likewise to her jacket, a pale green riband , which fell across her shoulder to the waist; at the end of wbieh hung tier pipe. — Her goat had been as faithless as her lover: and she had got a little dog in lieu of him, which she bad kept tied by a string to her girdle. As I look'd at her dog, she drew him towards her with the string. —quot;Thou slialt not leave me, Sylvio,quot; said she. I look'd in Maria's eyes, and saw she was thinking more of her father than of her lover, or her little goat; for as she utter'd them , the tears trickled down her cheeks. J sat down close by her, and Maria let me wipe them away as they fell, with my band-kerchief.— 1 then steep'd it in my own, — and then in hers, — and then in mine, — and then 1 wip'd hers again ; — and as I did it, I felt such nndescribahle emotions within me, as I am sure could not he accounted for from any combinations of matter and motion. I am positive I have a soul ; nor can all the books, with which materialists have pestered the world , ever convince me to the contrary. |
Maria. When Maria had come a little to herself, I ask'd her if she remembered a pale thin person of a man, who had sat down betwixt her and her goat about two years before? — She said, she was unsettled much at that time, but remember'd it upon two accounts: — That ill as she was she saw the person pitied her; and next, That her goat had stolen her handkerchief, and she bad beat him for the theft: — she bad wash'd it she said, in the brook, and kept it ever since in her pocket, to restore it to him , in case she should ever see him again ; which, she added, he had half promised her. As she told me this, she took the handkerchief out of her pocket, to let me see it; she had folded it up neatly in a couple of vine-leaves, tied round with a tendril. — On opening it, I saw an S. marked in one of the corners. .— She had since that, she told me, strayed as far as Iloine, and walk'd round St. Peter's once, — and return'd back : — that she found her way alone across the Apennines, — had travell'd over all Lombardy without money, — and through the flinty roads of Savoy without shoes: — how she had borne it and bow she had got supported, she coul I not tell; — but God tempers the wind, saiil Maria, to the shorn lamb. — Shorn indeed ! and to the quick , said I: — and wast thou in my own land , were I have a cottage, I would take tine to it, and shelter thee: thou shouldst cat of my own bread and drink of my own cup ; — 1 would be kind to thy Sylvio;— in all thy weaknesses and wanderings 1 would seek after thee, and bring thee back ; —when tbo sun went down I would say my prayers, and when I had done, thou shouldst play thy evening song upon thy pipe; nor would the incense of my sacrifice be worse accepted for entering Heaven along with that of a broken heart! Nature melted within me as I utter'd this; and Maria observing, as I took out my handkerchief, that it was steep'd too much already to be of use , would needs go wash it in the stream. —And where w ill you dry it Miiria ? Said I. — I'll dry it in my bosom , said she ; — 't will do me good. — And is your heart still so warm, Maria? said I. I touched upon the string on which hung all her sorrows; she look'd with wistful disorder for some time in my face; and then , without saying any thing, took her pipe, and play'd her service to the Virgin. — The string I bad touched ceased to vibrate, — in a moment or two Maria returned to herself, — led her pipe fall, — and rose up. — And where are you going, Maria? said 1.— She said, to Moulincs. — Let us go, said I, together. — Maria put her arm wilbin mine, and lengthening the siring to let the dog follow , — in that order we enter'd Sloulines. Maria. — Modunes. Though I bate salutations and greetings in the maikcl-plnce, yet when wn got into the middle |
279
|
of I stoppM to take my lust look and last farewell of Maria. Maria, though not tall, was nevertheless of the first order of line forens: — nflliction had touch'd her looks with something that was scarco earthly; — still she was feminine; — and so much was there about her of all that the heart wishes, or the eye looks for in woman, that could the traces he ever worn out of her hiain , and those of Eliza out of mine, she should not only eat of my bread and drink of my own cup, hut Maria should lie in my hosom , and he unto me as a daughter. |
Adieu, poor luckless maiden! — Imhihu the oil and wine which the compassion of a stranger, us lie journcyeth on his way, now pours into thy wounds; the Being who has twice bruised thee can only hind them up for ever. |
Werd geboren, in 1721, in Dalquburn-housc, nabij Uenton (Dumbartonshire) on overleeil, in 1771, te I/ivorno: hij beoefende aanvankelijk do heelkunde en bekleedde als zoodanig een betrekking op de vloot. Ilij onderscheidde zich in de poëzie, in den familie-roman, iu 't drama en als gesehiedsohrüver. Zijn eerste vruchten, dia van do pers kwamen, ziju vermoedelijk: ïbe Tears of Scotland (1740); do twee Satires: Advice eu Reproof (1747), terwijl later ook nog oenige nadere stukken vnu hem versohenen. In den familie-roman onderscheidde hij zich door: Adventures of Koderiok Random (1748); Adventures of Peregrine Pickle (1751) ; Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom (1754); A Translation of Dun Quixote (1755); Adventures of Sir Launcolot Greaves (zie hier beneden); An account of his Travels (17GC); The Eipedition of Humphry Clinker (1771); The Adventures of an Atom. In 1747 werd van hem opgevoerd en in 1749 gedrukt: The Regicide, eeu treurspel; in 1757 The Reprisal, or the Tears of Old England, een tooncelspel. In 't geneeskundige vak leverde hij: An Essay on the csternal use of water (1752); van 1756 tot 1703 schreef hij een Critical Review en was in 1700 cu 1701 met de redactio van de British Magazine belast, waarin hij zijn Sir Lnuncclot Greaves leverde, terwijl hij tevens aan nog andere tijdschriften medewerkte. In 1758 gaf hij uit Complete History of England, deduced from tbc Descent of Julius Ca:sar to tho Treaty of Aix-la-Cbnpclle met ceno Continuation, van 1703 tot 1785 verscheuen. Na zijn overlijden werden under zijn naam uitgegeven: A Translation of Telemachus (1770) en nog eenige andere stukken. Hij hield zich in zijn laatste levensjaren bezig met een nieuwe uitgave van ecu Oude cn Nieuwe Algcmccue Geschiedenis . waartoe hij zelf die van Frankrijk , Dnitschlnnd on Italic bijdroeg. Nog een aantal andere stukken zijd door hem znmengesteld , vertaald of geschreven, doch deze werden zonder zijii naam uitgegeven. Hij verwierf zijn grootsten roem als romanschrijver, doch staat daarin verre beneden zijn tijd-genooten , om de overvloedige lage en gemecne voorstellingen. Zijn Plays cn I'ocms verschenen gezamenlijk in 1784 en in 1790, doch toen werden zijn Kovels ook daarbij uitgegeven: latere uilgaven van do Novels worden zeer veranderd. Ook ziju History of England, met tbe Continuation , werd herhaalde malen herdrukt.
|
We set out from Glasgow , by the way of Lanark, the county town of Clydesdale, in the neighbourhood of which the whole river Clyde , rushing down a steep rock, forms a very noble and stupendous cascade. Next day we were obliged to halt in a small borough, until the carriage, which had received sonic damage, should be repaired; and here we met with an incident which warmly interested the benevolent spirit of Mr. Bramble. As we stooil at the window of an inn that fronted the public prison , a person arrived on horseback , gentccly though plainly dressed in a blue frock , with his own hair cut snort, and a gold-laced bat upon his head. Alighting, and giving his horse to the landlord , he advanced to an old man who was at work in paving the street, and accosted him in these words — 'This is hard work for such an old man as yon'. So saying, he took the instrument out of his hand, and began to thump tbc pavement. After a few strokes, 'Hud you never a son,' said he, 'to case you this labour?' 'Yes, an'please your honour ,' replied the senior, 'I have three hopeful lads, but at present they are out of tho way.''Honour not me,' cried the stranger; ' it more brcomes me to honour your gray hairs. Where are those sons you talk of ? ' The ancient paviour said , his eldest son wbs a captain in the East Indies, and the youngest had lately enlisted as a soldier, in hopes of prospering like his brother. The gentleman desiring to know what was become of the second, he wiped bis eyes, and owned he had taken upon him his old father's debts, for which be was now in the prison hard by. |
The traveller made three quick steps towards thejail; then turning short, ' Tell me,'said he, ' has that unnatural captain sent you nothing to relieve yonr distresses?' 'Call him not unnatural ,' replied the oilier, 'God's blessing he upon him! he sent me a great deal of money, but I made a bad use of it; I lost it by being security for a gentleman that was my landlord , and was stripped of all I bail in the world besides.' At that instant a young man, thrusting out his |
|
head and ncck between two iron liars in the prison-window, cxclairned , 'Father ! father! if my brother William is in life, that's he.' '1 am! I am!' cried the stranger, clasping the old man in his arms, and shedding a Hood of tears, 'I am your son Willy, sure enough!' Before the father, who was quite confounded, could make any return to this tenderness, a decent old woman, bolting out from the door of a poor habitation , cried, 'Where is my bairn? Where is my dear Willy?' The captain no sooner beheld her than he quilted his father, and ran into her embrace. I can assure you, my uncle who saw and hoard everything that passed, was as much moved as any one of the parties concerned in this pathetic recognition. He sobbed, and wept, and clapped his hands, and hollowed, and finally ran down into the street. By this lime the captain had retired whit his parents, and all the inhabitants of the place were assembled at the door. Mr. Bramble, nevertheless, pressed through the crowd, and entering the house, 'Captain,' said he, 'I hog the favour of your acquaintance. 1 would have travelled a hundred miles to see this affecting scene; and I shall think myself happy if you and your parents will dine with me at the public house.' The captain thanked him for his kind invitation , which, he said, he would accept with pleasure; hut in the meantime he could not think of eating or drinking while his poor brother was in trouble. He forthwith deposited a sum equal to the debt in the hands of the magistrate, who ventured to set his brother at liberty without further process; and then the whole family repaired to the inn with my uncle, attended by the crowd , the individuals of which shook their townsman by the hand , while he returned their caresses without the least sign of pride or affectation. |
This honest favourite of fortune, whose name •was Brown, told my uncle that he had been bred a weaver, and about eighteen years ago had, from a spirit of idlenes and dissipation, enlisted as a soldier in the service of the East India Company; that in the course of duty he had the good fortune to attract the notice and approbation of Lord Clive, who preferred him from one step to another till he had attained the rank of captain and paymaster to the regiment, in which capacities he had honestly amassed twelve thousand pounds, and at the peace resigned his commission. He had sent several remittances to his father, who received the first only, consisting of one hundred pounds; the second had fallen into the hands of a hankrupt; and the third had been consigned to a gentleman in Scotland, who died before it arrived, so that it still remained to be accounted for by his executors. He now presented the old mati with fifty pounds for his present occasions, over and above hank notes for one hundred , which he had deposited for his brother's release. lie brought along with him a deed, ready executed, by which lie settled a perpetuity of fourscore pounds upon his parents, to he inherited, by the other two sons after their decease. lie promised to purchase a commission for his youngest brother; to take the other as his own partner in a manufacture which he intends to set up to give employment and bread to the industrious; anil to give five hundred pounds to the poor of the town where he was horn, and feasted all the inhabitants without exception. My uncle was so charmed with the character of captain Brown, that he drank his health three times successively al dinner, llesaid he was proud of his acquaintance; that be was an honour to his country, anil had in some measure redeemed human nature from the reproach of pride, selfishness, and ingratitude. Kor my part I was as much pleased with the modesty as with the filial virtue of this honest soldier, who assumed no merit from his success, and said very little of his own transactions, though the answers he made to our inquiries were equally sensible and laconic. Mrs. Tabitha behaved very graciously to him , until she understood that he was going to make a tender of his hand to a person of low estate, who been his friend, while he worked as a journeyman weaver. Our aunt was no sooner made acquainted with this design, than she starched up her behaviour with a double portion of reserve; and when the company broke up, she observed with a toss of her nose, that Brown wasa civil fellow enough, considering the lowness of his origin ; but that fortune, though she had mended bis circumstances, was incapable to raise his ideas, which were still humble and plebeian! |
Werd geboren te Pallns, (Ierland) in 1728 on overleed in 1774; hij studeerde to Dublin, Edimburg en Leiden. Men heeft van hem don eersten zuiveren roman uit het huiselijk leven , The Vicar of Wakefield (1766); daardoor verwierf hij zich een roem cu een vermaardheid, welke beiden thans nog door geheel Europa voortleven. De meeste karakters in dien roman zijn uit 't werkelijk leven genomen : jammer maar dat hij door eenige ongerijmdheden ontsierd wordt. Hij verwierf bovendien een verdienstelijken nanm in do beschrijvende poëzie en vooral in de ballade, waarin hij met de beroemdsteu van zijn tijd kan wedijveren. Zijn dichtstuk The deserted Village (1770) (door landverhuizing) is zeer verdienstelijk en een geschiedknn-dige waarheid, zoo als de dichter 't in een brief verklaart. Verder schreef hij nog in proza; Chinese lettres, or the Citizen of the World; An Inquiry into the Present State of polite Learning in Europe
281
(1T59); Life of Heau Nash; History of Englnndi History of Greece; History of liome (1768) (welke historiën, hoewel beknopt, nog veel als leerboehen gebruikt worden); de tooneelspelen : The good natured Man (1767); She Stoojis to Conquer (1773); in poëzie nog : The Traveller, or, a Prospect of Society (1765) en cenige kleine stukken. Het leven van Goldsmith werd beschreven door Prior, Washington Irving, Forster cn Douglas Allport. Ook leverde hij een aantal stukken voor de Monthly and Critical Reviews, The Lady's Magazine, The British Magazine, enz.
The Description of the Family of Wakefield.
|
I was ever of opinion that the honest man who married, and hrouj;ht up a larfje family, did more service than he who continued single, and only talked of population. From this motive, I had scarcc taken orders a year, before 1 hegan to think seriously of matrimony, and chose my w ife as she did her wedding-gown, not for a line glossy surface , hut such qualities as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good-natured notahlc woman ; and , as for breeding there were few country ladies who at that time could shew more. She could read any English hook without much spelling; but for pickling, preserving, and cook-cry, none could excel her. She prided hcrselfmuch also upon being an excellent contriver in housekeeping ; yet I could never fitid that we grew richer with all her contrivances. However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness cncrcased with age. There was in fact nothing that could us make angry with the world or each other. We had an elegant house, situated in a fine country, and a good neighhour-hcod. The year was spent in a moral or rural amusement; in visiting our rich neighbours, and relieving such as were pour. We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo; all our adventures were by the fire-side, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the brown. As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry wine, for which we had great reputation ; and I profess with the veracity of an historian, that 1 never knew one of them find fault with it. Our cousins too, even to the fortieth remove, all remembered Ibeir affinity, w ithout any help from the Herald's office (1), and came very frequently to see us. Some of tbcm did us no great honour by these claims of kindred ; for, literally speaking, webad the lame, the blind, and the halt,amongst the number. However, my wife always insisted , that, as they were the same flesh and blood , they should sit with us at the same table. So that if wo had not very rich, wo generally bad very happy friends about us; for this remark will bold good through life, that the poorer the guest, the better pleased he ever is with being treated : and as some man gaze with admiration at the colours of a tulip, and others are smitten with the wing of a butterfly, so I was by naturean admirer of happy human ftiees. However, when any one of our relations was found to be a person of a very bad character, a troublesome guest. or one we desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my house for the first time, J ever took care to lend him a riding-coat , or a pair t f boots, or sometimes a horse of small value; and I always had the satisfaction of finding he never came back to return them. By this the house was cleared of such wo did not like; hut never was the family of Wakefield know n to turn the traveller or the poor dependant out of doors. |
Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness; not but that we sometimes had those little rubs which providence sends to enhance the value of its favours. My orchard was often robbed by school-boys, and my wife's custards pi undered by the cats or the children. The 'Squire (2) would sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his lady return my w ife's civil-eties at church with a mutilated curtesy. But we soon gotover the uneasiness caused by such acci-dents, and usually in three or four days wo began to wonder how they vext us. My children, the oll'spring of temperance, as they were educated without softness, so they were at once well formed and healthy, my sous hardy and active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. When I stood in the midst of the little circle, which promised to be the supports of my declining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story of count Abensherg, who, in Henry H's progress through Germany , while other courtiers came with their treasures, brought his thirty two children, and presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had to bestow. In this manner, though I had hut six , 1 considered them as a very valuable present made to my country, and consequently looked upon it as my debtor. Our eldest son was named George, after his uncle, who left ns ten thousand pounds. Our second child , a girl, 1 intended to call, after her aunt, Grissel ;butmy wife, who, during her pregnancy, bad been reading romances, insisted |
(1) In the Herald's Office are registered the genealogies, armorial sings, ctc. of most of the families in Kngland.
(2) Squire means in this and many parts of the history the gentleman of the greatest consideration in the parish.
3G
282
|
upon her being railed Olivia, fn less llian anotiicr I year we had a daugliter again, and now I was determined lliat Grissel should be her name; lint a rich relation taking a fancy to ttand godmother, the girl was, hy her directions, called Sophia; so that we had two romantic names in the family; hut I solcmnlcy protest I had no hand in it. Moses was our next; and , after an interval of twelve years, we had two sons more. It would he fruitless to deny my exultation when I saw my little ones ahout me; hut the vanity and the satisfaction of my w ife were even greater than rniiie. When our visitors would usually say : '■ Well, upon my word , Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest children in the whole country.quot; quot;Ay neighhour, she would answer, they areas heaven made them, handsome enough, if they he good enough ; for handsome is that handsome docs.quot; And then she would bid the girls hold n|i their heads; who, to conceal nothing, were certainly very handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling a circumstance with me, that I should scarce have remembered to mention it, had it not heen a general topick of conversation in the country. Olivia, now about eighteen, had that luxuriancy of beauty with which painters generally draw llehe; open, sprightly, and commanding. Sophia's features were not so striking at first; hut often did more |
certain execution, for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one vanquished hy a single blow, the other by efforts successively repeated. The temper of a woman is generally formed from tho turn of her features; at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers; Sophia to secure one. Oln ia was often allVct-ed from too great a desire to please ; Sophia even represt excellence from her fears to offend. The one entertained mc with her vivacity, when I was gay; the other with her sense, when 1 was serious. But these qualities were never carried to excess in either; and 1 have often seen them exchange characters for a whole day together. A suit of mourning bas t rans formed my coquet into a prude, and a new set of ribands has given her younger sister more than natural vivacity. 31 y eldest son George was bred at Oxford , as I intended him for one of the learned professions. My second boy Moses, whom I designed for business, received a sort of miscellaneous education at home, liut it would be needless to attempt describing the particular characters of young people that had seen hut very little of the world, in short, a family likeness prevailed through all ; and , properly speaking, they had hut one character, that of being all equally generous, credulous , simple, and inoffensive. |
|
Once upon a time, a giant and a dwarf were friends , anil kept together. They made a bargain that they would never forsake each oilier , but go seek adventures. The first battle they fought was with two Saracens, and the dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt one of the champions a most angry blow. It did the Saracen but very little injury, who lifting up his sword, fairly struck off the poor dwarf's arm. lie was now in a woeful plight; but the giant coming to his assistance, in a short time left the two Saracens dead on the plain, and the dwarf cut oil the dead man's head out of spite. They then travelled on to another adventure. This was against three bloody-minded Satyrs, who were carrying away a damsel in distress. The dwarf was not quite so fierce now as before ; hut for all that, struck the first blow; which was returned by another, that knocked out his eye: the giant was soon up with them , and had they not lied , would certainly have killed ihem every one. They were all very joyful for this victory, and the damsel who was relieved fell in love with the giant, and married him. They now travelled far, and farther than 1 can tell, till they met with a company of robbers. The giant, for the first time, was foremost now ; but the dwarf was not far behind. The battle was stout and long. Wherever the giant came , all fell before him ; hut the dwarf had like to have been killed more than once. At last the victory declared for the two adventurers: but the dwarf lost his leg. The dwarf bad now lost an arm , a leg , and an eye , while the giant was without a single wound. Upon which he cried out to his little companion. 'My little hero, this is glorious sport; let us get one victory more, and then we shall have honour forever.' — 'No,' cries the dwarf, who was by this time grown wiser, 'no, I declare off, I'll fight no more: for 1 find in every battle that you get all the honour and rewards, but nil tho blows fall upon me.' |
I)c ocrsto klossike gesdiiDdschryvor van Eiigclnnd , word in 1711 te EJimburg geboren en overleed in 177() ; met weinige middelen bedeeld, studeerde hij zninigbeidshnlve in Frankrijk en schreef er zijn Essay on Human Nature, welke hij twee jaar na de terugkomst in zijn vaderland (1739) te Londen uitgaf. Nadat hij zich door het schrijven van eenige verhandelingen had bekend goinaakt(1740—42), werd hij tot opzigler van de bibliotheek te Edinibnrg benoemd. Nu legde hij zich met hart en ziel toe op 't onderzoeken der bronnen voor de geschiedenis van zijn land, en ontevreden over 't verkregen resultaat besloot hij zelf ecu geschiedenis daarvan te schrijven, waarin hij bij uitnemendheid slaagde. Op vijftigjarigen leeftijd werd hij tot geznntscliaps-secretaris te Parijs benoemd , en bekleedde er eenigen tijd met roem den post van zaakgelastigde. Kort voor zijn dood schreef hij zelf zijn levensgescbiedcuis. — Het eerste deel van de History of Great liritain , (behelzende de regeringen van Karei II en Jakob II) verscheen te Londen (I7B4); verder twee deelen (handelende over de regeringen der vorsten uit 't huis der Tudors), in 1757 en 1759); en de laatste twee deelen , (de geschiedenis van Engeland sedert den inval van Julius Ciesar tot aan de troonsbestijging van Hendrik VII) in 17(53. Deze geschiedenis heeft, in weerwil van eenige gebreken, die door den tijd en de wetenschap grooter of meer ingezien werden, cn eenige andere zulke hooge verdiensten, dat zij immer een eerste plaats zal blijven bekleeden onder de klassieke, geschiedkundig* werken van de engelsehe letterkunde. Hij schreef verder nog: An Iquiry concerning the principles of morals, Natural History of lleligion en Dialogues On Natural Religion. Zijn beste wijsgeerige en staatkundige geschriften zijn herhaalde malen gedrukt onder den titel van Essays and Treatises , waarvan 't tweede deel bevat Inquiry Concerning the Human Understanding (1708) , een omwerking van de Treatise on Human Nature.
|
'J hero arc few j;reat personages in history who have been more exposed to the calumny of enemies, and the adulation of friends, than Queen lilizaheth ; and yet tliere is scarce any whose reputation has lieen more certainly determined hy the unanimous consent of posterity. Ihe unusual length of her administration, and the strong- features of her character, were able to overcome all prejudices; and, ohliging her detractors to abate much of their invectives, and her admirers somewhat ol their panegyrics, have at last, in spile ol political factions, and , what is more, of religious animosities, produced and uniform judgment with regard to her conduct, Ilor vigour, her constancy, her magnanimity her penetration , and vigilance, are allowed to merit the highest praise, and appear not to have been surpassed by any person who ever filled a throne. A conduct less vigorous, less imperious, more sincere, more indulgent to her people, would have been requisite to form a perfect character. By tbc force ol her mind, she controlled all her more active and stronger qualities, and prevented them, from running into excess. Her heroism was exempt from all temerity, her frugality from avarice, her friendship from partiality, lieraclive spirit Irom turbulency and a vain ambition. She guarded not herself with equal care, or equal success, from lesser infirmities ; the nvalsbip of beauty, the desire of admiration , the jealousy of love, and the sallies of anger. |
Her singular talents for government were founded equally on ber temper and on her capacity. Endowed with a great command of herself, she obtained an uncontrolled ascendant over her people; and, while she merited all their esteem by ber real virtues, she also engaged their affection by ber pretended ones. Few sovereigns of England succeeded to the throne in moredifficult circumstances; and none ever conducted the government with such uniform success and feli-cily. Though unacquainted with the practice of toleration, (the true secret for managing religions factions,) she preserved her people, hy ber superior prudence, from those confusions in which theological controversy bad involved all the neighbouring nations; and though ber enemies were the most,powerful princes in Europe, the most active, the most enterpriiing, the least scrupulous, she was able by ber vigour to make deep impressions on their state; her own greatness meanwhile untouched and unimpaired. The wise ministers and brave warriors, who llourisbed during her reign, share the praise of her success; hut instead oflesssning the applause due toiler, they make great addition to il. They owed all of them their advancement to her choice; they were supported hy her constancy; and, with all their ability, they were never able to acquire any undue ascendant over ber. In her family, in her court, in her kingdom, she remained equally mistress. The force of the tender passions was |
284
|
grcalover lier, bilt the force of her mincl wasstill superior; and the combat, wliich lier victory visibly cost lier, serves only to display the firmness of lier rosolution, and the loftiness of tier ambitious sentiments. |
The fame of this princess, though it has surmounted the prejudices both of faction and bigotry, yet lies still exposed to another prejudice which is more durable, because more natural, and which, according to the different views in which we survey her, is capable either of exalting beyond measure, or diminishing, the lustre of her character. This prejudice is founded in consideration of her sex. When we contemplate her as a woman, we are apt to be struck with the highest admiration of her great qualities and extensive capacity: but we are apt also to require some more softness of disposition, some greater lenity of temper, some of those amiable weaknesses by which her sex is distinguished. But the true method of estimating her merit is, lo lay aside all those considerations, and consider her merely as u rational being placed in authority, and entrusted with the government of mankind. \Vc may find it difficult to reconcile our fancy to her as a wife or u mistress; but her qualities as a sovereign, though with some considerable exceptions, are the object of undisputed applause and approbation. |
Irish Insurrection and IHaesacrc.
|
There was a gentleman, called Hoger More, who, though of a narrow fortune, was descended from an ancient Irish family, and was much celebrated among bis countrymen for valour and capacity. This man first formed the project of expelling the English, and asserting the independence of bis native country, lie secretly went from chieftain to chieftain , and roused up every latent principle of discontent. He maintained a close correspondence with Lord Maguirc and Sir 1'helim O'Neale, the most powerful of the old Irish. By conversations , by lettres, by his emissaries, he represented lo his countrymen the motives of a revolt, and he engaged all the heads of the native Irish in the conspiracy. The English of the pale, as they were called, or the old English planters, being all catholics, it was hoped, would afterwards join the parly, which restored their religion lo its ancient, splendour and authorily. The intention was, that Sir Phe-lini O'Neale, and the other conspirators, should begin an insurrection on one day, throughout the provinces, and should attack all the English .settlements; and that, on the very same day. Lord Magnire and Roger More should surprise ihe Castle of Dublin. The commencement or this revolt was fixed on the approach of winter, that there might be more difficulty in transporting forces from England. Succours to themselves and supplies of arms they expected from France, in consequence of a promise made them by Cardinal Ricbclicu ; and many Irish officers, who served in the Spanish troops, bad engaged to join them, as soon as they saw an insurrection entered upon by their catholic brethren. News, which every day arrived from England , of the fury expressed by the Commons against all papists, struck fresh terror inlo the Irish nation, and both stimulated the oonspira-lors to cxccule their fatal purpose, and gave them assured hopes of the concurrencc of all their ountrymcn. |
Such propensity to revolt was discovered in all the Irish, that it was deemed unnecessary, as it was dangerous, to entrust the secret to many bands; and the appointed day drew nigh, nor had any discovery heeti yet made to the government. The king indeed , had received information from bis ambassadors, that something was in agitation among the Irish in foreign parts; but though he gave warning to the administration in Ireland, the intelligence was entirely neglected. Secret rumors, likewise, were heard of some approaching conspiracy; but no attention was paid to them. The Earl of Leicester whom the king bad appointed lieutenant, remained in London. The two justices. Sir AVilliam Parsons and Sir John Burlace, were men of small abilities; and by an inconvenience, common to all factious times, owed their advancement to nothing but their zeal for that parly, by whom every thing was now governed. Tranquil from their ignorance and inexperience , these men indulged themselves in the most profound repose on the very brink of destruction. But they were awakened from their security, on the very day before thai which was appointed for the commencement of the hostilities. The Ca-tlc of Dublin, by which the capital was commanded , contained arms for 10,000 men , with thirty-five pieces of cannon, and a proportionable quantity of ammunition ; yet was this important place guarded, and that too without any care, by no greater force than fifty inen. Magnire and More were already in town with a numerous band of their retainers; others were exuected that night, and next morning they were to enter upon what they esteemed the easiest of all enterprises, the snrprisal of the castle. O'Conolly, an Irishman, but a protestant, betrayed the conspiracy lo parsons. The justices and council fled immediately , for safety, inlo the castel, and reinforced the guards. The alarm was conveyed to the city, and all the prolnslonts prepared for dofence. More |
,86
|
escaped : Mufluire was taken: and Malicme, one of llie consjtirators, lieinjj likewise seized, first discovered lo tlie justices the project of a general insurrection , and redoubled the apprehensions which were already universally dillnsed throughout Duldiu. Hut tlioujjh O'ConolIy's discovery saved the castle from a surprise, the confession extorted from Mahonecame too late toprevent the intended insurrection. 0'i\eale and his confederates had already taken arms in Ulster. The Irish, every where intermingled with the English, needed but a bint from their leaders and priests to begin hostilities against a people, whom they hated on account of their religion, and envied for their riches and prosperity. The houses, cattle, and goods, of the unwary English were first seized. They who heard of the commotions in their neighbourhood , instead of deserting their habitations, and assembling together for mutual protection, remained at home, in hopes of defending their property; and fell thus separately into the hands of their enemies. After rapacity had fully exi'rted itself, cruelly, and the most barbarous that ever, in any nation , was known or heard of, began its operations. A universal massacre commenced of the English, now defenceless, and passively resigned to their inhuman foes. No age, no scxe, no condition was spared. The wife weeping for her butchered husband , and embracing her helpless children, was pierced with them, and perished by the same stroke. The old , the young, the vigorous, the infirm, underwent a like fate, and were confounded in one common ruin. In vain did flight save from the first assault: destruction was everywhere let loose, and met the hunted victims at every turn. In vain was recourse had to relations, lo companions, to friends. All connexions were dissolved, and death was dealt by that hand, from which protection was implored and expected. Without provocation, without opposition, the astonished English, living in profound peace ami full security, were massacred by their nearest neighbours, with whom they had long upheld a continued intercourse of kindness and good offices. Hut death was the lightest punishment inllict-ed by those enraged rebels: all the tortures, which wanton cruelty could devise, all the lingering pains of body, the anguish of mind, the agoniesofdespair, could not satiate revenge excited without injury, and cruelty derived from no cause. To enter into pnrtienlars would shock the least delicate humanity. Such enormities, though attested by undoubted evidence, appear almost incrcdiblc. Depraved nature, even perverted religion , encouraged by the utmost licence, reaches not to such a pitch of ferocity; unless the pity inherent in human breasts be destroyed by that contagion of example which transports men beyond |
all the usual motives of conduct and behaviour. The weaker sex themselves, naturally tender to their own sufferings, and compassionate to those of others, here emulated their more robust companions in the practise of every cruelty. Even children , taught hy the example, and encouraged by the exhortations of their parents, essayed their feeble blows on the dead carcasses or defenceless children of the English. The very avarice of the Irish was not a sufficient restraint to their cruelty. Such was their fren/.y, that the cattle, which they had seized, and by rapine made their own, yet, because they bore the name of English, were wantonly slaughtered , or , when covered with wounds, turned loose into the woods and deserts. The stately buildings or commodious habitations of the planters, as if upbraiding the sloth and ignorance of the natives, were consumed with fire, or laid level with the ground. And where the miserable owners, shut up in their houses, and preparing for defense, perished in the flames, together with their wives and children , a double triumph was afforded to their insulting foes. If any where a number assembled together, and , assuming courage from despair, were resolved to sweeten death by revenge on their assassins; they were disarmed by capitulations and promises of safety, confirmed by the most solemn oaths. Hut no sooner had they surrendered, than the rebels, with perfidy equal to their cruelty made them share the fate of their unhappy countrymen. Others, more ingenious still in their barbarity, tempted their prisoners, by the fond love of life, to embrue their hands in the blood of friends, brothers, and parents; and having thus rendered them accomplices in guilt, gave them that death which they sought to shun by deserving it. Amidstall these enormities,the sacred name of religion resounded on every side, not to stop the hands of these murderers , but to enforce their blows, and to steel their hearts against every movement of human or social sympbaty. The English, as heretics, abhorred of God, and detestable to all holy men, were marked out by the priests for slaughter; and, of all actions, to rid the world of these declared enemies to catholic faith and piety, was represented as the most meritorious. Nature, which, in that rude people, was sufficiently inclined lo atrocious deeds, was farther stimulated by precept; and national prejudices were empoisoned by those aversions, more deadly and incurable, which arose from an enraged superstition. While death finished the sufferingsofeach victim, the bigoted assasins, with joy and exultation, still echoed in his expiring ears, that these agonies were, but the commencement of torments, infinite and eternal. |
286
Even als Hume eon geboren Schot, leefde van 1731 tot 1793; hij wijdJo zieh den geestelijken stand en werd in 1751) in zijn geboortestad geroepen om er een geestelijk ambt te bekleeden ; in 1763 werd hij tot eersten bibliothcenris aan de universiteit aldaar benoemd. He werken vau dien grooten geschiedschrijver zijn: 1°, History of Scotland daring the reigns of Queen Mary and King James VI, till his accession to the crown of England (1759); 2°. History of tiie Reign of the Emperor Charles V; with a view of the State of Society in Europe, from the Subversion of the Uoman Empire to the lieginning of thel6th. Century (1769); S3. History of America (1777); d!0. Historical Disquisition un Ancient India (1791). Het eerste is, zoo als al zyn werken . streng onzedig geschreven ; het tweede, tot wel verstand van den beoefenaar der geschiedenis door een degelijke inleiding voorafgegaan , is een rijke bron van kennis; in het. derde, hoewel niet. voltooid, wordt de geschiedenis afgewisseld met beschouwingen van de afkomst, 't karakter, do levenswijze en de zeden van de oorspronkelijke bewoners van dat werelddeel, hetgeen oolc van het vierde, doch, in algemeene trekken, gezegd kan worden. Hij is over 't algemeen onpartijdig en onzijdig en heeft een bevalligen en boeijeuden stijl. Zijn geschiedenis van Schotland werd reeds in 179'! voor de dertiende maal herdrukt.
|
To all the cliantis oflieauty, and theulmost cle;;nnce of external form, Mary adding those accomplishments which render their impression irresistible, was polite, alFahle, insinnaling, sprijjhlly, and capable of speakinj'and writinjj, with equal ease and dignity; sudden , however, and violent in all lior attachments, because her heart was warm and unsuspicious; impatient of contradiction , becauso she had been accustomed from her infancy to he treated as a queen ; no stranijcr, on some occasions, to dissimulation, which, in that perfidious court where she received her education, was reckoned among I be necessary arts of government; not insensible to flattery, or unconscious of that pleasure with wbicli almost every woman beholds the influence of her own beauty. Formed with the qualities that we love, not with llie talents that we admire, she was an agreeable woman rather than an illuslrious queen. The vivacity of her spirit, not sufficiently tempered with sound judgment, and in the warmth of her heart, which was not at. all times under the restraint of discretion, betrayed her both into errors and crimes. To say that she was most unfortunate , will not account for that long and almost uninterrupted succession of calamities which befell her; we must likewise add, tbnt she was ofien imprudent. Her passion for Darnley was rash, youthful, and excessive. And through the sudden transition to the opposite extreme was the natural effect her ill requited Inve, and of bis ingratitude, insolence, and brutality; yet neither these, nor Botliwell's artful address and important services, can justify her attachment to that nobleman. Even the manners of the age, licentious as they were, are no apology for this unhappy passion : nor can they induce us to look on that tragical and infamous scene which followed upon it, with less abhorence. Humanity will draw a veil over this part of her character, which it cannot aprove, and may, perhaps, prompt some to impute her actions to her situation , more than to her disposition ; and to lament the unhappiness of the former rather than accuse the perverseness of the latter. Mary's sufferings exceed, both in degree and duration, those tragical distresses which fancy has feigned to excite sorrow and commiseration; anil while we survey tlieni, wo arc apt altogether to forget her frailties; we think of her faults with less indignation . and approve of our tears, as if they were shed for a person who had attained much nearer to pure virtue. |
With regard to the queen's person, a circumstance not to be omitted in writing the bislory of a female reign, all contemporary authors agree in ascribing to Mary the utmost bcauly of countenance and elegance of shape of which the human form is capable. Her hair was black; though, according to the fashion oftbeage, she frequently wore borrowed locks, and of different colours. Her eyes were a dark grey, her complexion was exquisitely fine, and her bands and arms remarkably delicate, both as to shape and colour. Her stature was of a height that rose to the majestic. She danced , walked , and rode with equal grace. Her tast for music was just, and she sang and played upon the lute with uncommon skill. Towards the end of her life she began to grow fat; and her long confinement, and the coldness of the house iu which she was imprisoned, brought on a rheumatism, which deprived her of the use of her limbs. |
287
|
On Tuesday, tlje 7lli of February 1542, llie two carls arrived al Fotlieiinyay, und demanded access to the queen, read in her presence llie warrant for execution, and required lier to jire-jiare to die next uiorninjj. Mary heard tlicm to the end without emotion ami crossing herself in tiie name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, 'That soul', said she, 'is nut worthy the joys of heaven , which repines hecause the body must endure the strolte of the executioner; and though I did not expect that the Queen of England would set the first example of violating the sacred person of a sovereign prince, [ willingly submit to that which i'iovidenee has decreed to be my lot.' And laying her band on a Bible, w hich happend to be near her, she solemnly protested that she was innocent of that conspiracy which Bahington bad carried on against Elisabeth's life. (She then mentioned the request contained in her letter to Mi/.abelb , hut obtuineil, no satisfactory answer.) She entreated with particular earnestness, that now in her Inst moment, her almoner might he si.Hered to attend her, and that she might enjoy the consolation of those pious institutions prescribed by her religion. Even this favour, which is usually granted to the vilest criminal, was absolutely denied. |
Her attendants, during this conversation, were bathed in tears and so overawed by the presence of the two earls , with difiiculty suppressed their anguish; but no sooner did Kent and Shrewsbury withdraw, than they ran to their mistress, and hurst out into the most passionate expressions of tenderness anil sorrow. Mary, however, not only retained perfect composure of mind , but endeavoured to moderate their excessive grief. And falling on her knees, w ith all her domestics round her, she thanked Heaven that her sullcrings were now so near an end, and prayed that she might be enabled to endure what still remained with deccncy and with fortilude The greater part of the o\i;ning she employed in settling her worldly ail'airs. She wrote her testament with her own hand. Her money, her jewels, and her clothes, she distributed among her servants, according to their rank or merit. She wrote a short letter to the King of France, and another to the i)uke of CJuise, full of tender hut magnanimous sentiments, and reeoinmended her soul to their prayers, and her afflicted servants to their protection. At supper, she ate temperately, as usual, and conversed not only with ease, but with cheei fullness; she drank to every one of her servants, and asked their forgiveness, if ever she bad failed in any part of her duty toward them. At her wonted time she went to bed, and slept calmly a few hours. Early in the morning she retired into her closet, and employed a considerahlo time in devotion. At eight o'clock, the high-sberilT and his officers entered her chamber, and fonnil her still kneeling at the altar. She immediately started up, and with a majestic mien, and a countenance undismayed, and eten cheerful, advanced towards the place of execution , leaning on two of Paulet's attendants. She was dressed in a momning habit, hut with an elegance and splendour which she bad long laid aside, except on a few festival days. Au Agnus Dei bung by a pomander chain at her ruck ; her beads at her girdle, and iu her hand she carried a crucifix ol ivory. At the bottom of the stairs the two carls, attended by several gentlemen from the neighbouring countries, received her; and there Sir Andrew Mehil, the master of her household , who bad been secluded, for some weeks, from her presence , was permitted to take his last farewell. At the sight of a mistress whom be tenderly loved, in such a situation, he melted into tears: and as be was bewailing her condition , and complaining of bis own hard fate in being appointed to carry the account of such a mournful event into Scotland, Mary replied, 'Weep not, good Mclvil, there is at present greater cause for rejoicing. Thou shall this day see Mary Stewart delivered from all her cares, and such an end put to her tedious sufferings, as she had long expected. Bear witness, that 1 diecun-stant in my religion ; firm in my fidelity towards Scotland ; and unchanged in my a flection to France. Connnenn me to my son , tell him I have done nothing injurious to bis kingdom, to his honour, or to his right; and God forgive all those who have thirsted , without cause, for my blood'. With much difficulty, and after many entreaties, she prevailed on the two earls to allow Melvil, together with three of her man-servants, and two of her maids, to attend her to the scaffold. It was erected in the same hall wbereshe bad been tried, raised a little above the floor, and covered , as well as a chair, the cushion , and block, with black cloth. Mary mounted the steps with alacrity, beheld all this apparatus of death with an unaltered countenance, and signing herself with the cross, she sat down in the chair. Beale read the warrant for execution with a loud voice, to which she listened with a careless air, and like one occupied in other tlioughts. Then the Dean of Peterborough began a devout discourse, suitable to her present condition , and offered up prayers to Heaven in her behalf; hut she declared that she could not in eon-science hearken to the one, nor join with the other; and falling on her linees, repeated a latin prayer. When the dean had finished his devotions, she, with audible voice, and in the English tongue, recommended unto God theafflictcd state of the church, and prayed for posterity to her |
288
|
son, and for a long life and poaceublu reign to Elizabrtli. She declared that slie lio|icd for mercy only tlirouijli the deatli of Christ at the foot of whose image she now willingly slied herhlood; and lifting up, and kissing the crucifix, she thus addressed it: 'As thy arms, Ü Jesus, were extended on the cross; so with the outstretched arms of thy mercy receive me. and forgive my sins.' She then prepared for the hlock hy taking ofF her veil, and upper garments; and one of the executioners rudely endeavouring to assist, she gently checked him, and said, with a smile, that she had not been accustomed to undress be- : fore so many spectators , nor to be served hy such I |
valets. With calm but unilaunted fortitude, she laid her neck on the block ; and while one executioner held her hands, the other, at the second stroke, cut off her head , which falling out of its attire, discovered her hair already grown quite grey with cares and sorrows. The executioner held it up still streaming with blood, and the Dean crying out, 'so perish all Queen Elizabeth's enemies,' the Karl of Kent only answered Amen. The rest of the spectators continued silent, and drowned in tears, being incapable , at that moment, of any other sentiments hut those of pilv or admiration. |
A view of the revolutions in the constitution of Scotland, since the accession of James VI.
|
The Scots had so long considered their monarcbs as next heirs to the English throne, that they had full leisure to reflect on all the consequences of their being advanced to that dignity, lint, dazzled with the glory ofgiving asovereign to their powerful enemy, relying on the partiality of their native prince, and in full expectation of sharing liberally in the wealth and honours which he would now he able to bestow, they attended little to the most obvious consequences of that great event, and rejoiced at bis accession to the throne of England , as if it had been no less beneficial to the Kingdom, than honourable to the King. They soon had reason, however, to adopt very different sentiments; and from that period we may date a total alteration in the political constitution of Scotland.* The feudal aristocracy, which had been subverted in most nations of Kurope by the policy of their princes, or had been undermined by the progress of commerce, still subsisted with full forcc in Scotland. Many causes had contributed gradually to augment the power of the Scottish nobles; and even the reformation, which, in every other country where it prevailed, added to the authority of the monarch, had increased their wealth and inlluence. A king, possessed of a small revenue, with a prerogative extremely limited, and unsupported hy a standing army, could not exercise much aulhorily over such potent subjects. He was obliged to govern hy expedients; and the laws derived their forcc not from his power to execute them, hut from the voluntary submission of the nobles. Uut though this produced a species of government extremely feeble and irregular; though Scotland , under the name, and with all the outward ensigns of a monarchy , was really subject to an aristocracy, the people were not altogether unhappy; and, even in this wild form of a constitution, there were principles which tended to their security and advantage. |
The king, checked and overawed by the nobles, durst venture upon no act of arbitrary power. The nobles, jealous of the king, whose claims and pretensions were many, thouyb his power was small, were afraid of irritating their dependents , by unreasonable exactions , and tempered the rigour of aristocratical tyranny, with a mildness and equality to which it is naturally a stranger. As long as the military genius of the feudal government remained in vigour, the vassals both of the crown and of the barons were generally not only free from oppression, but were courted by their superiors, whose power and importance were founded on llieir attachment and love. But, hy his accession to the throne of England, James acquired such an immense accession of wealth, of power, and of splendour, that the nobles, astonished and intimidated, thought it \ain to struggle for privileges which they were now unable to defend. Nor was it from fear alone that they submitted to the yoke: James, partial to his countrymen , and willing that they should partake in bis good fortune, loaded them with riches and honours; an the hope of his favour concurred w ith the dread of his power, in taming their fierce and independent spirits. The will of the prince became the supreme law in Scotland ; and the nobles strove, with emulation, who should most implicitly obey commands, which they had formerly been accustomed to contemn. Satisfied with having subjected the nobles to the crown, the king left them in full possession of their ancient jurisdiction over their own vassals. The extensive rights, vested in a feudal chief, became in their hands dreadful instruments of oppression ; and the military ideas, on which these rights were founded, being gradually lost or disregarded, nothing remained to correct or to mitigate the rigour with which they were exercised. The nobles, exhausting their fortunes by the |
289
|
expense of frequent attendance upon the linjflish court, ami !iy attempts to imitate the manners and luxury of their more wealthy neij;lil)Oiirs, multiplied exactions upon the people, who durst hardly utter complaints which they knew would never reach the ear of their sovereign , nor move him to grant them any redress. From the union of the crowns to the revolutioti in one thousand six hundred and eighty-eight, Scotland was placed in a political situation, of all others the most singular and the most unhappy ; suhjected at once to the absolute will of a monarch , anil to the oppressive jurisdiction of an aristocracy, it suilered all the miseries peculiar to hoth those forms of government. Its kings were despotic; its nobles were slaves and tyrants; and the people groaned under the rigorous domination of hoth. During this period, the nobles, it is true made oneclFort to shake off the yoke, and to regain their ancient independency. After the death of James, the Scottish rration was no longer viewed by our monarchs with any partial affection. Charles the first, educated among the English, discovered no peculiar attachment to the kingdom of wich he was a native. The nobles, perceiving the sceptre to he now in hands less friendly, and swayed by a prince whom they had little connexion, and over whose councils they had little iniluence. no longer submitted with the same implicit obedience. Provoked by some encroachments of the king on their order, and apprehensive of others, the remains of their ancient spirit began toappear. They complained and remonstrated. The people being, at the same time violently disgusted at the innovations in religion, the nobles sccretly heightened this disgust; and their artifices, together with the ill-conduct of the court, raised such a spirit, that the whole nation look arms against their sovereign, with n union and animosity of which there had formerly been no example. Charles brought against them the forci s of England, and, notwithstanding their own union, anil the zeal of the people, the nobles must have sunk in the struggle. But the disaffection which was growing among his English subjects, prevented the king from acting with vigour. A civil war broke out in hoth kingdoms; and after many battles and revoluiions, which are well known, the Scottish nobles , who first began the war, were involved in the same ruin with the throne. At the restoration, Charles the second regained full possessions of the royal prerogative in Scotland; and the nobles, whose estates were wasted, or their spirit broken , by the calamities to which they had been exposed, were less able and less willing than ever to resist the power of the crown. During his reign, and that of James the seventh, the dictates of the monarch were received in Scotland with most abject submission. The poverty to which many of the nobles were reduced, rendered them meaner slaves and more intolerant tyrants than ever. The peojde, always neglected, were now odious, and loaded with every injury, on account of their attachment to religious and political principles, extremely repugnant to those adopted by their princes. |
The revolution introduced other maxims into the government of Scotland. To increase the authorily of the prince, or to secure the privileges of the nobles, had hitherto been almost the sole object of our laws. The rights of the people were hardly ever mentioned, were disregarded, or unknown. Attention began, henceforward, to be paid to the welfare of the people. By tho 'claim of right', their liberties were secured; and, the number of their representatives being increased, they gradually acquired new weight and to form more extensive plans of commerce, of industry, and of police. But the aristocratieal spirit, which still predominated, together with many other accidents, retarded the improvement and happiness of the nation. Another great event completed wdiat the revolution had begun. The political power of tho nobles, already broken by the union of the two crowns, was almost annihilated by the union of the two kingdoms. Instead of making a part, as formerly, of the supreme assembly, of the nation, instead of hearing the most considerable sway there, the peers of Scotland are admitted into the British parliament by their representatives only, and form but an inconsiderable part of one of those bodies in which the legislative authority is vested. They themselves arc excluded absolutely from the house of commons, and even theireldest sons arc not permitted to represent their couu-trymen in that august assembly. Nor have their feudal privileges remained, to compensate for this extinction of their political authority. As commerce advanced in its progress, and government attained nearer to perfection, these were insensibly circumscribed, and at last, by laws no less salutary to the public, than fatal to the nobles, they have been almost totally abolished. As the nobles were deprived of power, the people acquired liberty. Exempted from burthens, to which they were formerly subject; screened from oppression , to which they had been long exposed, and adopted into a constitution whose genius and laws were more liberal than thi ir own, they have extended their commerce, refined their manners, made improvements in the elegancies of life, and cultivated the arts and scicnces. This survey of the political slate of Scotland, in which events and their causes have been mentioned rather than developed , enables us to point out three aeras, from each of which we may date some great alteration in one or other of the three different members of which the supreme legislative assembly in our constitution is composed. At their ' accession' to the throne of England, the kings of Scotland, once the most limited, became, |
37
290
|
in an instant, the most altsolule princcs in Earope, and exorcised a despotic authority, which their parliaments were unable to control, or their nobles to resist. At the ' union' of the two kingdoms the feudal aristocracy which had subsisted so many ages, and with power so exorbitant, was overturned, and the scottisli nobles, having surrendered rights and pre eminences peculiar to their order, reduced tiiemselves to a condition which Is no longer the terror and envy of other subjects. 'Since the union', the commons, anciently neglected by their kings, and seldom courted by the nobles, have emerged into dignity; and, being admitted to a participation of all the privileges which the English bad purchased at the expense of so much blood , must now be deemed a body not less considerable in the one Kingdom , than they have been in the other. The church felt the effects of the absolute power which the king acquired by bis accession ; and its revolutions, too, arc worthy of notice. James, during the latter years of bis administration in Scotland, had revived the name and office of Lisbops. But I hey possessed no eccleciastical jurisdiction or prc-cininence; their revenues were inconsiderable, and they were scarcely distinguished by anything but by their seal in parliament, and by being the object of the clergy's jealousy, and the people's hatred. The king, delighted with the splendour and authority which the English bishops enjoyed , and eager to effect a union in the ecclesiastical policy, which he had in vain attempted in the civil government of the two kingdoms, resolved to bring both churches to an exact conformity with each other. Three Scotsmen were consecrated bishops at London. From them their brethren werecommcnded to receive orders. Ceremonies unknown in Scotland were imposed; and though the clergy, less obsequious than the nobles , boldly opposed these innovations, James, long practised, and well-skilled in the arts of managing them, obtained at length their compliance. But Charles the first, a superstitious prince, unacquainted with the genius of the Scots, imprudent and precipitant in all the measures he pursued in that kingdom, pressing too eagerly the reception of the English liturgy, and indiscreetly attempting a resumption of church lands, kindled the flames of civil war; and the people being left at liberty to indulge their own wishes, the episcopal church was overturned, and the prcshyterian government and discipline were reestablished with now vigour. Together with monarchy , episcopacy was restored in Scotland. A form of government, so odious to the people, required force to uphold it; and though not only the whole vigour of authority, but all the barbarity of persecution, were employed in its support, the aversion of the nation was insurmountable, and it subsisted with dillicully. At the revolution, the inclinations of the people were thought worthy the attention of the legislature, the presbyterian was again established, and being ratified by the union, is still maintained in the kingdom. |
Nor did the influence of the accession extend to the civil and cccleciastical constitutions alone; the geniusof the nation, its tasteand spirit, things ofa naturestill morcdelicatr, were sensibly affected by that event. When learning revived in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, all the modern languages were in a state extreiijcly barbarous, devoid of clegancc, of vigour, and e* en of perspicuity. No author thought of writing in languages so ill adapted to express and embellish his sinti-ments, or of erecting a work for immortality with such rude and perishable materials. As the spirit, which prevailed at that time, did not owe its rise to any original cftort of the human mind, but was excited chicfly by admiration of the ancients, which began then to be studied with attention in e\ery part of Europe, there compositions were deemed not only the standard of taste and of sentiment, but of style; and even the languages in which they wrote were thought to be peculiar, anil almost consecrated to learning and the muses. Not only the manner of the ancients was imitated. but their language was adopted, and, extravagant as the attempt may appear to write in a dead tongue, in which men were not accustomed to think, and which they could not speak, or even pronounce, the success of it was astonishing. As they formed their style upon the purc.-t models : as they were uninfected with those barbarisms, which the inaccuracy of familiar conversation, the affectation of courts, intercourse with strangers, and a thousand other causes, introduce into living languages, many moderns have attained to a degree of deganco in their Latin compositions, which the Romans themselves scarce poscssed beyond the limits of the Augustan age. While this w as almost the only species of composition, and all authors, by using one common language, could he brought to a nearer comparison, the Scottish writers were not inferior to those of any other nation. The happy genius of Buchanan, equally formed to excel in prose and verse, more original, and more elegant, than that of almost any other modern who writes in Latin, reflects, with, regard to this particular, thegrcatest lustre on his country. But the labour attending the study of a dead tongue was irksome; the unequal return for their industry which authors met with, w ho could be read and admired only within the narrow circle of the learned, was mortifying; and men, instead of wasling half their lives in learning the language of the Romans, began to refine and to polish their own.The modern tongues were found to besusccpt-ihle of beauties and graces, which, if not equal to those of the ancient once, were at least more attainable. The Italians having first set the exam- |
291
|
pie, Latin was no longer used in works of taslc; it was confined to books of science, and the politer nations have banished it even from these. The Scots, we may presume, would have bad no cause to regret this change in the public taste, and would still have been able lo main tain some equality with other nations, in tlieir pursuit of literary honour. The Knglisb and Scottish languages, derived from the same sources, were, at the end of the sixteenth century, in a state nearly similar, differing from one another somewhat in orthography, though not only the words, but the idioms were much the same. The lettres of several Scottish statesmen of tbat age are not inferior iu elegance, or in purity, to those of the English ministers with whom they corresponded. James himself was master of a style far from contemptible ; and, by his example and encouragement, the Scottish language might have kept pace with the English in refinement. Scotland might have had a series of authors iu its own,as well as in the Latin language, to boast of; and the improvements in taste, in the arts, and in the sciences, whicji spread over the other polished nations of Europe, would not have been unknown there. But, at the very time when other nations were beginning to drop the use of Latin in works of taste, and compass of their own languages, Scotland ceased to be a kingdom. The transports of joy, which the accession at first occasioned, were soon over: and the Scots, being at once deprived of all the objects that refine or animate a people ;ofthe presence of their prince; of the concourse of nobles ; of the splendour and elegance of a court, an universal dejectionofspiritscems tohaveseized ihe nation. The court being withdrawn, no domestic standard of propriety and correctness of speech remained ; the few compositions that Scotland produced were tried by the English standard,and every word or phrase that varied in the least from tbat, was condemned as barbarous; whereas, if the two nations bad continued distinct,each might have retained Hiomsaml forms of speech peculiar to itself; and these, rendered fashionable by the example of a court, and supported by the authority of writers of reputation, might have been viewed in the same light with the varieties occasioned by the different dialccts in the Greek tongue; they even might have been considered as beauties; and in many cases might have used promiscuously by the authors of both nations. But, by the accession, the English naturally became the sole judges and lawgivers in language, and rejected, as solecisms, every form of speech to which their ear was not accustomed. Nor did the Scots, while the intercourse between the two nations was inconsiderable, and ancient prejudices were still so violent as to prevent imitation, possess the means ofrefinlng their own tongue according to the purity of the English standard. On the contrary, new corruptions llowed into it from every different source. The clergy of Scotland, in that age, were more eminent for piety than for learning; and though there did not arise many authors among them, yet being in possession of the privilege of discoursing publicly to the people; and their sermons being too long, and, perhaps, too frequent, such hasty productions could not be elegant, and many slovenly and Incorrect modes of expression may be traced back to that original. The pleadings of lawyers were equally loose and inacurate; and that profession having furnished more authors, and the matter of which they treat mingling daily in common discourse and business, many of those vicious forms of speech, which are denominated 'Scotticisms', have been introduced by them into the language. Nor did either the language or public taste receive any improvement in parliament, where a more liberal and more correct eloquence might have been expected. All business was transacted there by the lords of articles; and they were so servilely devoted to the court, that few debates arose; and prior to the revolution, none were conducted with thespiritand vigour natural to a popular assembly. |
Thus, during the whole seventecth century, the English were gradually refining their language and their taste: in Scotland the former was much debased, and the latter almost entirely lost. In the beginning of that period, both nations were emerging out of barbarity; but the distance between them, which was then inconsiderable, became, before the end of it, immense. Even after science had once dawned upon them, the S«ols seemed to be sinking back into ignorance and obscurity; and, active and intelligent as they naturally are, they continued, while other nations were eager in the pursuit of fame and knowledge, in a state of languor. This, however, must be imputed to the unhappiness of their political situation, not to any defect of genius; for no sooner was the one removed in any degree, than the other began to display itself. The act ablishing the power of the lords of articles, and other salutary laws passed at the revolution, having introduced freedom of debate into the Scottish parliament, eloquence, with all the arts that accompany or perfect it, became immediate objects of attention: and the example of Fletcher ofSaltou, alone, is sufficient to show that the Scots were still capable of generous sentiments, and, not withstanding some peculiar idioms, were able to express themselves with energy, and with elcgancc. At length, the union having incorporated the two nations, and rendered them one people, the distinctions which had subsisted for many ages gradually wear away; peculiaritiesdissappear; the same manners prevail in both parts of the island ; the same authors are read and admired ; the same entertainments are frequented by the elegant and polite; and the same standard of taste and of purity in language, is established. The Scots after |
292
|
being placed, during a whole century, in a situation no less fatal to the liberty than to the taste and genius of the nation, were at once pat in possession of privileges more valuable than those which their ancestors had formei lv enjoyed; and every obstruction that had retarded their pursuit or prevented their acquisition of literary fame, was totally removed. |
The resignation of the emperor Charles V.
|
Charles resolved to resign his kingdoms to his son, with a solemnity suitable to the importance of the transaction ; and to perforin tills last act of sovereignty wilh sueli formal pomp, as might leave an indelible impression on the minds, not only of his subjects, hut of his successor. With this view, he called Philip out of England, w here the peevish temper of his queen, which increased with her despair of having issue, rendered him extremely unhappy; and tliejealousy of the English left him no hopes of obtaining the direction of their aflairs. Having assembled the stalesof the Low Gentries, at Brussels, on the 25th of October, 1555, Charles seated himself, for the last time, in the chair of states: on one side of which was placed his son, and on the other his sister, the Queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands: wilh a splendid retinue of the grandees of Spain , and princes of the empire, standing behind him. The president of the council of Flanders, by his command explained in a few words , his intention in calling this extraordinary meeting of the states, lie then read the instrument ol resignation, by which Charles surrendered to bis son Philip, nil bis territories, jurisdiction, and authority in the Low-countries; absolving bis subjects there from their oath of allegiance to him, which he required them to transfer to Philip his lawful heir, and to serve him with the same loyalty and zeal which they bad manifested, during so long a course of years, in support of his government. |
Charles then rose from his seat, and leaning on the shoulder of the Prince of Orange, because he was unable to stand without support, he addressed himself to the audience, and, from a paper which he held in hand, in order to assist liis momcry, he recounted with dignity, hut without ostentation, all the great things which he had undertaken and performed since the commencement of his administration. He observed , that, from t he seven teeth year of his age be had dedicated all his thoughts and attention lo public objects; reserving no portion of his lime for the indulgence of his ease, and very little for the enjoyment of pmale pleasure; that, either in a par-cilic or hostile manner, he had visited Germany nine times, Spain six times, France four times, Italy seven times. The Low-countries ten times, England twice, Africa as often, and hail made eleven voyages by sen: that while his health permitted him to discharge his duly, and the vigour of his const i tul ion was equal, in any degree, to the arduous office of governing such extensive dominions, he had never shunned labour, nor repined under fatigue: that now, when his health was broken, and his vigour exhausted hy the rage of an incurable distemper, his growing infirmities admonished him to retire ; nor was he so fond of reigning, as to retain the sceptre in an impotent hand, which was no longer able to protect his subjects, or to render them happy: that, instead of a sovereign worn out w ith diseases,and scarcely half alive, he gave then one in the prime óf life, accnstomed already lo govern, and who added to the vigour of youth, all the attention and sagacity of maturer years: that if, during the course of a long administration, he had committed any material error in government; or if, under the pressure of so many and great aflairs, and amidst the attention which be bad been obliged to give to them, he had either neglected , or injured any of his subjects; he now implored their forgiveness; that for his part, he should ever retain a grateful sense of their fidelity and attaebmeut, and would carry the reniembranec of it along w ith him to the place of his retreat, as his sweetest consolation, as well as the best reward for all his services; and in his last prayers to Almighty God , would pour forth his ardent wishes for their welfare. Then turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees and kissed his father's band, 'If, says be, '1 had lefl you, by my death, ibis rich inheritance, to which I have made such large additions, some regard would have been justly due lo my memory on that account: but now, when I voluntarily resign toyou what I might still have retained, I may well expect 'he warmest expressions oflhankson your pari. With these, however, 1 dispense ; and shall consider your concern for the welfare of your subjects, and your love of them, as the best and most acceptable testimony of your gratitude to inc. It is in your power, by a wise and virtuous administration, lo justify the extraordinary proof which I this day give of my paternal afleclion, anil lo demonstrate that you are worthy of the confidence which 1 repose in you. Preserve an inviolable regard for religion ; maintain the Catholic faith in its purity; let the laws of your country be sacred in your eyes ; encroach not on the rights and privileges of your people; and if the lime shall ever come, when you shall wish lo enjoy the- tranquility of private life, may you have a son endowed with such qualities, that you can resign your sceptre to him w ith as much |
295
|
satisfaction as 1 lt;;ivc up mine to you'. As soon ns Charles had finished this long ail-dress to his subjects, and to Uieir new sovereign, he sunk into the chair exhausted, and ready to faint with the fatigue of such an extraordinary clFort. During his discourse, the whole audience melted into tears; some, from admiration of his magnanimity, others, softened hy the expressions of tenderness towards his son, and oflovc to liis people; and all were affected with the deepest sorrow, al losing a sovereign who had distinguished the Netherlands, his native country, with particular marks of his regard and attachment. A few weeks afterwards, Charles, in an assembly no less splendid, and with a ceremonial equally pompous, resigned tohissons the crowns of Spain, with all the territories depending on them, both in the Old and in the New World. Of all these vast possessions he reserved nothing for himself, hut an annual pension of a hundred thousand crowns, to defray the charges of his family, and to afford him a small sum foractsofhenificence and charity. |
The place he had chosen for his retreat, was the monastery of St. Justus, in the province of listra-madura. ft was seated in a vale of no great extent watered hy a small brook, and surrounded by rising grounds, covered with lofty trees. From the nature of the soil, as well as the temperature of the climate, it was esteemed the most healthful and delicious situation in Spain, Some months before his resignation, ho had sent an architect thither, to add a new apartment to the monas-tary, for bis accomodation: but he gave strict orders that the style of the building should be such as suiti-d his present situation, rather than his former dignity. It consisted only of six rooms; four of them in ihe form of friar's cells with naked walls; the other two, each twenty feet square, were bung with brown cloth, and furnished in the most simple manner. They were all on a level with the ground, with a door on one side into a garden, of which Charles himself had given the plan, and which lie had filled with variousplants, intending to cultivate them with his own hands. |
De derde van 't klaverblnil van klassieke Reschicdschrijvcrs in Engelnml , werd geboren te Putney in 1737 en overleed in 17(J4. In January 1753 roomseh-katholijk geworden, zond hem z(ju vader naar Lausanne (Zwitserland), waar hij zich de fransehe taal eigen maakte, aan de franschc zeden gewende en zieh geheel en al vormde als een franseh wereldburger. In 1754 keerde hij echter terug tot de protestant-sehe kerk. In 1774 werd hij tot lid van 't parlement gekozen. Zijn eerste werk, Kssai sur l'ntude de la littérnturo, schreef hij in de fransehe taal. Op een reis door Italië kwam bij hein het denkbeeld op om het groote historiselio werk, dat hem door geheel Europa zou beroemd maken, te sehrijven. Dit werk. History of the Decline and Eall of the Roman Empire, begint met keizer Marcus Aurelius (180) en eindigt met de inneming van Konstantinopcl door de Turken (1453). Gibbon ontwikkelt daarin een buitengewone taaien oudheidkennis cn toont op elke bladzijde, dat hij de bronnen, voor de zamcnstelling van dat omvangrijk werk noodzakelijk, met ijzeren vlijt onderzocht had. Do stijl van 't geheelc werk is over't algemeen voortreffelijk ; kort na zijn terugkomst verscheen daarvan het eerste deel (1776); doch do andere deelen werden veel later uitgegeven (het tweede en derde in 1781 en de drie laatste deelen in 1788). Het werd in de meeste beschaafde ciiropesche talen overgezet en in Duitseldand nagedrukt. Voorts heeft men van hem: Rlciuoirs of his life and writings (door hem zelf geschreven), een verzameling van brieven en de hier luviiii opgegeven verhandeling, welke gezamenlijk in 179G door een van zijn vrienden werden uitgegeven,
Olisevvatloivs on the Savngc Tribes of Mankind; On lie Food of I'astoral Nations; Their Habitations and Kncncsi»:-ments 1 Their Exercises.
|
The different characters that mark thecivilizcd nations of the globe, may bcascrihcd to tbc use, and the abuse, of reason; which so variously shapes, and so artificially composes, the manners j and opinions of an Kuropcan , or ,1 Chinese. But i the operation of instinct is more sure and simple than that of reason : it is much easier to ascertain the appetites of a quadruped, than the speculations of a philosopher; and the savage tribes of mankind, as they approach nearer to the condition of animals, preserve a stronger resemblance to themselves and to each other. The uniform stability of their manners is the natural consequence of the imperfect ion of their faculties. Ued need to a similar |
situation, their wants, their desires, their enjoy-ments,still continue the same: and the influence of food or climate, which, in a more improved state of society,issuspended,or subdued, hy so many moral causes, most powerfully contributes to form , and to maintain , the national character ot the Barbarians. In every age, the immense plains of Scytlii,i,or Tartary, have been inhabited hy vagrant tribes of hunters and shepherds, whose indolence refuses to cultivate the earth, and whose restless spirit disdains the confinement of a sedentary life. In every age, the Scythians and Tartars, have been renowned for their invincible courage, and rapid conquests. The thrones of Asia |
294
|
have hoon repeatedly overtnrncil by tlie shepherds of the North ; and their arms have spread terror and devastation over the most fertile and warlike countries of Europe. On this occasion , as well as on many others, the sober historian is forcibly awakened from a pleasing vision; and is compelled, with some reluctance, to confess, that the pas toral manners, which have been adorned with the fairest attributes of peace and innocence, are much better adapted to the fierce and cruel habits of a military life. To illustrate this observation, I shall now proceed toconsidera nation of shepherds and of warriors, in the three important aitides of, F. Their diet; II. Their habitations; and , III. Their exorcises. The narratives of antiquity are justified by the experience of modern times; and the banks of the Borysthenes , of the Volj;a, or of the Selin{;a, will indifferently present the same uniform spectaclc of similar and native manners. I. The corn, or even the rice, which constitutes the ordinary and and wholesome food ofa civilized people, can be obtained only by the patient toll of the husbandman. Some of the happy savages, who dwell between the tropics, are pleiitifully nourished by the liberality of nature , hut in the climates of the North, a nation of shepherds is reduced to their flocks and herds. The skilful practitioners of the medical art will determinr (if they are able to determine) how far the temper of tbehuman mind may he affected by the useof animal, or ofa vegetable, food ; and whether the common assoelationof carnivorous and cruel, deserves to be considered in any oilier lijfht than that ofan innocent, perhaps a salutary, prejudice ofhuman-ity. Yet if it be true, that the !-entiment of compassion is imperceplibly weakened by the sight and practice of domestic cruelty , we may observe that the horrid objects which arc disguised hy the arts of European refinement, are exhibited in their naked and most disgusting simplicity, in the tent ofa Tartarian shepherd. The ox or the sheep, are slaughtered by the same hand from which they were accustomed to receive their daily food ; and the bleeding limbs are served, with very little preparation, on the table of their unfeeling murderer. In the military profession, and especially in the conduct of a numerous army, the exclusive use ofanimal food appears to he productive of the most solid advantages. Corn is a bulky and perishable commodity; and the large magazines, which are indespensably necessary for the sahsistenee of our troops, must be slowly transported by the labour of men, or horses. But the flock % and herds, which accompany the march of the Tartars, afford a sure and increasing supply of flesh and milk; in the far greater part of the usncultivnted wa-t. the vegetation of the grass i quick and luxuriant; and there are few places so extremely barren, that the hardy cattle of the North cannot find some tolerable pasture. The sunolv is multiplied and prolonged, by the un-distinguishing appetite, and patient abstinence, of the Tartars. They indifferently feed on the flesh of those animals that have been killed for the table or have died of disease. Uorse-flesh, which in every age and country has been proscribed hy thecivilized nationsofEuropeand Asia, they devour with peculiar greediness; and this singular taste facilitates the succes of their military operations. The active cavalry ofScythia is always followed, in their most distant and rapid incursions, hy an adequate number of spare horses, wha may he occasionally used, either to redouble the speed, or to satisfy the hunger, of the Barbarians. Many are the resources of courage and poverty. When the forage round a camp of Tartars is almost consumed, they slaughter the greater part of their cattle, and preserve the flesh, either smoked, or dried in the sun. On the sudden emergency of a hasly march, they provide themselves witli a sufficient quantity of little halls of cheese, or rather of hard curd, which they occasionally dissolve in water ; and this unsubstantial diet will support, for many days , the life, and even the spirits , of the patient warrior. But this extraordinary abstinence, which the Stoic would approve, and the hermit might envy, is commonly succeeded by the most voracious indulgence of appetite. The wines of a happier climate are the most grateful present, or the most valuable commodity, that can be offered to the Tartars; and the on'y example of their industry seems to consist in the art of extracting from mare's milk a fermented liquor, which possessesa very strong power of intoxication. Like the animals of prey , the savages, both of the old and new world, experience the alternate vicissitudes of famine and plenty; and their stomach is inured to sustain, without much inconvenience, the opposite extremes of hunger and of intemperance. |
II. In the ages of rustic and martial simplicity, a people of soldiers and husbandmen are dispersed over the face of an extensive and cultivated country; and some time must elapse before the warlike youth of Greece or Italy could he assembled under the same standard, either to defend iheir own confines, or to invade the territories of the adjacent tribes. The progress of manufactures and commerce insensibly collects a large multitude within the walls ofacity: but these citizens are no longer soldiers; and the arts which adorn and improve the state of civil societies, corrupt the habits of the military life. The pastoral manners of the Scythians seem to unite the different advantages of simplicity and refinement. The individuals of the same tribe are constantly assembled, but they are assembled in a camp; and the native spirit of these dauntless shepherds is animated by mutual support and emulation. The houses of the Tartars are no more than small tents, of an oval form, which afford a cold and dirty habitation, for the promiscuous youth of |
|
both sexes. The palaees of the ricli consist of wooden huts, of such a size that they may be conveniently fixed on large waggons, and drawn by a team perliaps of twenty or lliirly ojen. The flocks and herds, after graiiug ail day in the adjacent pastures, retire, on the approach of night, within the protection of the camp. The necessity of preventing the most mischievous confusiun, in such a perpetual concourse of men and animals, must gradually introduce, in the distrulmtion , the order, and the guard, ofthecncanipmcnt, the rudiments of the military art. As soon as the forage of a certain district is consumed , the tri he, or rather army, of shepherds, makes a regular march to some fresh pastures; and thus acquires, in the ordinary occupations of the pastoral life, the practical knowledge of one of the most important and dilUcnlt operations of war. The choice of stations is regulated by the diflcrence of the seasons: in the summer, the Tartars advance towards the North, and pitch their tents on the banks of a river, or, at least, in the neighbourhood of a running stream, llut in the winter they return to the South, and shelter their camp, behind some convenient eminence, against the winds, whieh arc chilled in their passage oxer the bleak and icy regions of Siberia. These manners are admirably adapted to diffuse, among the wandering tribes, the spirit of emigr.ition and conquest. The connection between the people and their territory is of so frail a texture, that it may be broken, by the slightest accident. The camp, and not the soil, is the native country of the genuine Tartar. Within the precincts of that camp, his family , his companions, his properly are always included; and in the most distant marches, he is still surrounded by the objects which are dear, or valuable, or familiar in his eyes. The thirst of rapine, the fear, or the resentment of injury, the impatience of servitude, have, in every age, been sufficient causes to urge the tribes of Scythia boldly to advance into some unknown countiies, where they might hope to find a more plentiful subsistence, or a less formidable enemy. The revolutions of the North have frequently determined the fate of the South ; and in the conflict of hostile nations , the victor and the vanquished have alternately drove, and been driven, from the confines of China to those of Germany. These great emigrations, which have been sometimes executed with almost incredible diligence, were rmdcred more easy by the peculiar nature of the climate. It is well known , that the cold of Tartary is much more severe than in the midst of the temperate zone might reasonably be expected: this uncommon rigour is attributed to the height of the plains, which rise, especially towards the East, more than half a mile above the level of the sea; and totheqnan-tity of saltpetre, with which the soil is deeply impregnated. In the winter-season, the broad and rapid rivers, that discharge their waters into the Euxine, the Caspian or the Icy Sea, are strongly frozen ; the fields are covered with a bed of snow; and the fugitive, or victorious, tribes may securely traverse, with their families, their waggons, and their cattle, the smooth and hard surface of an immense plain, |
111.The pastoral life, compared with the labours of agriculture and manufactures, is undoubtedly a life of idleness; and as the most honourable shepherds of the Tartar race devolve on their captives the domestic management of the cattle, their own leisure is seldom disturbed by any servile and assiduous cares. But this leisure, instead of heingdevoted to the soft enjoyments of loveand harmony, is usefully spent in the violent and sanguinary exercise of the chase. The plains of Tartary are filled with a strong and serviceable breed of horses, which are easily trained for the purposes of war and hunting. The Scythians of every age have been celebrated as bold and skilful riders: and constant practice had seated them so firmly on horseback, that they were supposed by strangers to perform the ordinary duties of civil life, to eat, to drink, and even to sleep, w ithout dismounting from their steeds. They excel in tho dexterous management of the lance; the long Tartar how is drawn with a nervous arm; and tho weighty arrow is directed to its objects with unerring aim, and irresistible force. These arrows arc orten pointed against the harmless animals of the deserts, which increase and multiply in the absence of their most formidable enemy; tho hare, the goat, thcroehuck, the fallow-deer, the stag, the elk, and the antelope. The vigour and patience both of the men and horses are continually exercised by the fatigues of the chasc ; and the plentiful supply of game contributes to the subsistence, and even luxury, of a Tartar camp. But the exploits of the hunters of Scythia are not confined to the dctruclion of timid or innoxious beasts; they boldly encounter the angry wild-boar, when be turns against his pursuers, excite the sluggish courage of the bear, and provoke the fury of the tiger, as he slumbers in the thicket. Where there is danger, there may be glory: and the mode of bunt ing, which opens the fairest field to theexertions of valour, may justly he considered as the image, ami as the school, of war. The general hunting matches, the pride and delight of the Ti irtar princes, compose an instructive exercise for their numerous cavalry. A circle is tlrawn , of many miles in circumference to encompass the game of an extensive district; and the troops that form ihecircle regularly advance towards a common centre ; where the captive animals, surrounded on every side, are abandoned to the darts of the hunters. Iti this march, which frequently continues many days, the cavalry are obliged to climh the hills, to swim the rivers, and to wind through the vallies, without |
290
|
iutcrruptino the prcsnrilicd order of their gradual progress. Tlioy acquirc the liahit of dirocling their eye, and their steps, to a remote object, of preserving their intervals ; of suspending, or accelerating, their pace, according to the motions of the troops on their right and left; and of watching and repealing the signals of their leaders. Their leaders study, in this practical school, the most important lesson of the military art; the prompt and accurate judgment of ground, of distance, and of time. To employ agains a human enemy the same patience and valour, the same skill and discipline, is the only alteration which is required in real war, and the amusements of the chase serve as a prelude to the conquest of an empire. |
Third Siege of Konie ; Respect or the («otlis for the Christian Religion: Their Cruelty and some Instances of Their Cienerosity ; Pillage and Conilagration of Rome ; Kencvoience and Fate of 1'roba ;
Refuge of the Emigrants ; ISeflcctions.
|
The degradation of Attains removed the only real obstacle to the conclusion of the peace; and Alaric advanced within three miles of Ravenna, to press the irresolution of the Imperial ministers, whose insolence soon returned with the return of fortune. His indignation was kindled hy the report that a rival chieltain, that Sams, the personal enemy of Adolphus, and the hereditary foe of the house of Balti, had been received into the palace. At the head of three hundred followers, that fearless Barbarian immediately sallied from the gales of Ravenna ; surprised , and cut in pieces , a considerable body of (Joths ; re-entered the city in trimpli; and was permitted to insult his adversary, by the voice of a herald, who publicly declared that the guilt of Alaric had for ever excluded him from the friendship and allianceof t he emperor.The crime and folly of the court of lla-venna was expiated , a third time, by the calamities of Rome. The king of the Goths, who no longer dissembled bis appetite for plunder anil revenge, appeared in arms under the walls of the capital; and the trembling senate, without any hopes of relief, prepared, by a desperate resistance, to delay the ruin of their country. But they were unable to guard against the secret conspiracy of their slaves and domestics, who, either from birth or interest, were attached to the cause of the enemy. At the hour of midnight, the Salarian gale was silently opened, and the inhabitants were awakened hy the tremendous sound of the Gothic trumpet, Kleven hundred and sixty three years after the foundation of Rome, the Imperial city, had subdued and civilized so considerable a partof mankind, was delivered to the licentious fury of the tribes of Germany and Scythia. The proclamation of Alaric, when he forced his entrance into a vanquished city, discovered, however, some regard for the laws of humanity and religion. He encouraged his troops boldly lo seize the rewards of valour , and to enrich themselves with the spoils of wealthy and elTeminatc people: but he exhorted them , at the same time, to spare the lives of the unresisting citizens, and to respect the churches of the apostles St, Peter and |
St. Paul, as holy anil inviolable sanctuaries. Amidst the horrors of a nocturnal tumult, several of the Christian Goths displayed the fervour of a recent conversion; and some instances of their uncommon piety and moderation are related, and perhaps adorned, by the zeal of the ecclesiastical writers. While the Barbarians roamed through the city in quest of prey, the humble dwelling of an aged virgin, who had devoted her life to the service of the altar, was forced open by one of the powerful Goths, He immediately demanded, though in civil language, all the gold and silver in her possession ; and was astonished at the readiness with which she conducted him toa splendid hoard of massy plate, of the richest materials, and the most curious workmanship. The Barbarian viewed with wonder and delight this valuable acquisition, till he was interrupted by a serious admonition, addressed lo him in the following words: quot;These,quot; said she, quot;are the consecrated vessels belonging to St. Peter ; if yon presume to touch them, the sacrilegious deed will remain on your conscience. For my part, I dare not keep what 1 am unable to defend,quot; The Gothic captain, struck with reverential awe, dispatched a messenger to inform the king of the treasure which he had discovered ; and received a peremptory order from Alaric , that all the consecrated plate and ornaments should he transported, without damage or delay, to the church of the apostle. From the extremily, perhaps, of the Quirinal hill, to the distant quarter of the Vatican, a numerous detachment ofGoths, marcbingin order of battle through the principal streets, protected , with glittering arms, the long train of their devout companions, who bore aloft, on their heads, the sacred vessels of gold and silver; and the martial shouts of the Barbarians were mingled with the sound of religious psalmody. From all the adjacent houses, a crowd of Christians hastened to join this edifying procession ; and a multitude of fugitives, without destinction of age, or rank, or even of sect, had the good fortune lo escape lo the secure and hos-pitablc sanctuary of the Vatican, The learned |
297
|
work, concortiin;; the City of God. wasproscssed-]y composed liy St. Auguslin, to justify the ways ol' I'rovidcnce in the destruction of the Iloman {jreatness. He celebrates, with peculiar satisfaction, this mcmorahlc triumph of Christ; and insults his adversaries, hy challenging them to produce some similar example, of a town taken lgt;y storm, in which the fabulous gods of antiquity had heen ahle to protect either themselves, or their deluded votaries. |
In the sack of Home, some rare and extraordinary examples of Barbarian virtue had been deservedly applauded. Itut the holy precincts of the Vatican, and the apostolic churches, could receive a very small proportion of the Roman people: many thousand warriors, more especially of the Huns, who served under the standard of Alaric, were strangers to the name, or at least to the faith, of Christ; and we may suspect, without any hrcach of charity or candour, that, in the hour of savage license, when every passion was inflamed, and every restraint was removed, the precepts of the gospel seldom inilueneed the behaviour of the Gothic .Christians. The writers, the best disposed to eiaggerate their clemency, have freely confessed , that a crucl slaughter was made of the Romans ; and that the streets of the city were filled with dead bodies, which remained without burial during the general consternation. The despair of the citizens was sometimes converted into fury ; and whenever the Barbarians were provoked by opposition, they extended the promiscuous massacre to the feeble, the innocent,and the helpless. The private revenge of forty thousand slaves was exercised without pity or remorse; and the ignominious lashes which they bad formerly received, were washed away in the blood of the guilty, or obnoxious, families. The matrons and virgins of Rome wore exposed to injuries more dreadful, in the apprehension of chastity, than death itself; and the ecclesiastical historian has selected an example of female virtue, for the admiration of future ages. A Iloman lady, of singular beauty and orthodox faith, had excited the impatient desires of n young Goth, who , according to the sagacious remarks of So/.omen, was attached to the Arian heresy. Exasperated hy her obstinate resistance, he drew bis sword, and, with the anger of a lover, slightly wounded her neck. The bleeding heroine still continued to brave his resentment, and to repel his love, till the ravisher desisted from his unavailing efforts, respectfully conducted her to the Sanctuary of the Vatican, and gave six pieces of gold to the guards of the church, on condition that they should restore her inviolate to the arms of her husband. Such instances of courages and generosity were not extremely common. The brutal soldiers satisfied their sensual appetites, without consulting either the inclination, or the duties, of their female captives; and a nice question of casuistry was seriously agitated. Whether those tender victims, who bad inflexibly refused their consent to the violation which they sustained, had lost, by their misfortune, the glorious crown of virginity. There were other losses indeed of a more substantial kind, and more general concern. It cannot he presumed, that al the Barbarians were at all times capable of perpetrating such amorous outrages; and the want of youth, or beauty, or chastity, protected the greatest part ofthe Roman women from the danger of a rape. But avarice is an insatiate and universal passion; since the enjoyment of almost every object that can afford pleasure to the different tastes and tempers of mankind, may he procured hy the possession of wealth. In the pi I lage of Rome, a j ust preference was given to gold and jewels, which contain the greatest value in the smallest compass and weight: but, alter these portable riches had been removed by the more diligent robbers, the palaces of Rome were rudely stripped of their splendid and costly furniture. The sideboards of massy plate, and the variegated wardrobes of silk and purple, were irregularly piled in the waggons, that always followed the march of a Gothic army. The most exquisite works of art were roughly handled, or wantonly destroyed: many a statue was melted for the sake of the precious materials; and many a vase in the division of the spoil, was shivered into fragments by the stroke of the battle-axe. The acquisition of riches served only to stimulate the avarice of the rapacious Barbarians, who proceeded, by threats, hy blows, and by tortures, to force from their prisoners the confession of hidden treasure. Visible splendour and expence were alleged as the proof of a plentiful fortune: the appearance of poverty was imputed to a parsimonious disposition; and the obstinacy of some misers, who endured the most cruel torments before they would discover the secret object of their affection, was fatal to many unhappy wretches , who expired under the lash, for refusing to reveal their imaginary treasures. The edifices of Rome, though the damage has been much exaggerated, received some injury from the violence of the Goths. At their entrance through the Sala-rian gate, they fired the adjacent houses to guide their march, and to distract the attention of the citizens; the flames, which encountered no obstacle in the disorder of the night, consumed many private and public buildings; and the ruins of the pallace of Sallust remained, in the age of Justinian, a stately monument of the Gothic conflagration. Yet a contemporary historian has observed, that fire could scarcely consume the enormous beams of solid brass, anil that the strength of man was insulficient to subvert the foundations of ancient structures. Some truth may possibly be concealed in his devout assertion, that the wrath of Ucavcn supplied the imperfections of hostile rage; and that the proud Forum of Rome, dcco- |
38
298
|
rated with tlic statues of so many floils and licroes, was levelled in tlic dust by tlic stroke of liglitninjr, AVliatever might he the numbers, ofequestriau or plebeian rank, who perished in the massacre of Koine, it is confidently affirmed, that only one senator lost his life by the swonl of the enemy. But it was not easy to compute the mullitu-des, who, from an honourable stalion, and a prosperous fortune, were suddenly reduced to the miserable condition of captives and exiles. As the Barbarians had more occasion for money than for slaves, they fixed, at a moderate price, the redemption of their indigent prisoners; and the ransom was often paid hy the benevolence of their friends, or the charity of strangers. The captives, who were regularly sold, either in open market, or hy private contract, would have legally regained their native freedom, which it was impossible for a citizen to lose, or to alienate. But as it was soon discovered, that the vindication of their liberty would endanger their lives; and that the Goths, unless they were tempted to sell, might be provoked to murder, their useless prisoners ; the civil jurisprudence had been already qualified hy a wise regulation, that they should he obliged to serve the moderate term of five years, till they had discharged by their labour the price of their redemption. The nations who invaded the Roman empire, had driven before them, into Italy, whole troops of hungry and aflrighted provincials, less apprehensive of servitude than of famine. The calamities of Rome and Italy dispersed the inhabitant to the most lonely, the most secure, the most distant places of refuge. While the Gothic cavalry spread terror and desolation along the sea-coast of Campania and Tuscany, the little island of Igilium, separated by a narrow channel from the Argentarian promontory, repulsed, or eluded, their hostile attempts ; and at so small a distance from Rome, great numbers of citizens were securely concealed in the thick woods of that sequestred spot. The ample patrimonies, which many senatorion families possessed in Afiica, invited them, if they had time, and prudence, to escape from the ruin of their country; to embrace the shelter of that hospitable province. The most illustrious of these fugitives was the noble and pious Proha, the widow of the praefeel Petronius. After the death of her husband, the most powerful subject of Rome, she had remained at the head of the Anician family, and successively supplied, from her private fortune, the expence of the consulships ofher three sons. When the city was besieged and taken hy the Goths, Proha supported, with Christian resignation, the loss of immense riches ; embarked in a small vessel, from whence she beheld, at sea, the flames of her burning palace, and fled with her daughter Laeta, and her grand-daughter, the celebrated Virgin, Demetrias, to the coast of Africa. The benevolent profusion with which the | |
matron distributed the fruits, or the price, of her estates, contributed to alleviate the misfortunes of exile and captivity. But even the family of Proha herself was not exempt from the rapacious oppression of count lleraelian, who basely sold, in matrimonial prostitution, the noblest maids of Rome, to the lust or avarice of the Syrian merchants. The Italian fugitives were dispersed through the provinces along tlie coast of ligypt and Asia, as far as Constantinople and Jerusalem; and the village of Rethlem, the solitary residence of St. Jerom and his female converts, was crowded with illustrious beggars of either sex, and every age, w ho excited the public eompassiun hy the remembrance of their past fortune. This awful catastrophe of Rome filled the astonished empire with grief and terror. So interesting a contrast of greatness and ruin disposed the fond credulity of the people to deplore, and even to exaggerate the afflictions of the queen of cities. The clergy, who applied to recent events the lofty metaphors of oriental prophecy, were sometimes tempted to confound the destruction of the capital, and the dissolution of the globe. There exists in human nature a strong propensity to depreciate the adventages, and to magnify the evils, of the present times. Yet, when the first emotions bad subsided, and a fair estimate was made of the real damage, the more learned and judicious contemporaries were forced to confess, that infant Rome had formerly received more essential injury from the Gauls, than she bad now sustained from the Goths, in her declining age. The experience of eleven centuries has enabled posterity to produce a much more singular parallel; and to affirm with confidence, that the ravages of the Rarharians, whom Alaric had led from the banks of the Danube, Mere less dc-structhe than the hostilities exercised by the troops of Charles the fifth, a Catholic prince, who styled himself limperor of the Romans. The Goths evacuated the city at the end of six days, but Home remained above nine months in the possession of liie Imperialists; and every hour was stained by some atrocious act of cruelly, Inst, and rapine. The authority of Alaric preserved some order and moderation among the ferocious multitude, which acknowledged him for their leader and king: but the constable of Rourbon bad gloriously fallen in the attack of the walls ; and the death of the general removed every restraint ofdiscipline,from an army which consisted of three independent nations, the Italians, the Spaniards, and the Germans. In the beginning of the sixteenth century, the manners of Italy exhibited aremarkablescene of the depravityofinankiud. They united the sanguinary crimes that prevail in an unsettled state of society, with the polished vices that spring from the abuse ofart and luxury: and the loose itdventurers, who had violated every prejudice of patriotism and superstition to assault |
299
|
tlic palace of llic lloinan pontid', innsl dosprve to lie considered as the most profligate (if the tlaHans, At tlic satne aera , the Spaniards were the terror both of the Old and New World : but their high spirited valour was disgraced hy gloomy pride, rapacious avarice, and unrelenting cruelty. Inde-fatigahle in the pursuit of fame and riches, they had improved, hy repeated practice, the most exquisite and effectual methods of torturing their prisoners; many of the Castilians, who pillaged Konie , were familiars of the holy inquisition; and some volunteers, perhaps, were lately returned from the conquest of Mexico. The Germans were less corrupt than the Italians, less cruel than the |
Spaniards; and the rustic, or even savage, aspect of those Tramontane warriors, often disguised a simple and merciful disposition. But they had imhihed, in the first fervour of the reformation, the spirit, as well as the principles, of Luther. It was their favourite amusement to insult, or destroy, the consecrated ohjects of Catholic superstition : they indulged, without pity or remorse , a devout hatred against the clergy of every denomination and degree, who form so eonsiderahle a part of the inhabitants of modern Home; and their fanatic zeal might inspire to subvert the throne of Antichrist, to purify, with blood and fire, the abominations of the spiritual Uuhylon, |
|
At the conclusion of the life of .Mahomet, it may perhaps he expected, that 1 should balance Ins faults and virtues , that 1 should decide wliether the title of enthusiast or impostor more properly belongs to that extraordinary man. Had 1 been intimately conversant with the son of Ahilallab , the task would still bediflleult, and the success incertain: at the distance of twelve centuries i darkly contemplate his shade through a ( loud of of religious incense; and could I truly delineate the portrait ofan hour, the fleeting resemblance would not equally apply to the solitary of mount Uera,to the preacher of Mecca,an(l to the conqueror of Arabia. The author of a mighty revolution appears to have been endowed with a pious and contemplative disposition: so soon as marriage bad raised him above the pressure of want, he.avoided the paths of ambition and avarice; and till theage of forty, he lived with innocence and would have died without a name. The unity of God is an idea most congenial to nature and reason; and a slight conversation with the Jews and Christians would teach bim to despise and detest the idolatry of Mecca. It was the duty of a man and a citizen to impart the doctrine of salvation, to rescue bis country from the dominion ot sin and error. Th; energy of a mind incessantly bent on the same object, would convert a general obligation into a particular call; the warm suggestions of the understanding or the fancy, would be felt as tbc inspirations of iieaven; the labour of thought would expire in rapture and vision ; and the inward sensation, the invisible monitor, would he described with the form and attributes ofan angel of God. From cntbousiasm to imposture, the step is perilous and slippery : the daemon of Socrates affords a memorable instance, how a wise man may deceive himself, bow a good man maydcceive others,how the conscience may slumber in a mixed and middle slate between self-illusion and voluntary fraud. Charity may believe that the original motives of Mahomet werethoseof pure and genuine benevolence; but a human missionary is incapable of cherishing, the obstinate unbelievers who reject his claims, despise bis arguments, and persecute his life; he might forgive his personal adversaries, bo may lawfully bate the enemies of God ; the stern passions of pride and revenge were kindled in the bosom of Mahomet, and he sighed like the prophet of Niniveb , for the destruction of of the rebels whom he had condemned. The injus-tieeof Mecca, and the choice of Medina, transformed the citizen into a prince, the humble preacher into the leader of armies; but his sword was consecrated hy the example of the saints; and the same God who afflicts a sinful world with pestilence and earthquakes, might inspire for their conversion or chastisement the valour of bis servants. In the exercise of political government, he was compelled to abate of the stern rigour of fanaticism , to comply in some measure with the prejudices and passions of his followers, and to employ even the vices of mankind as instruments of their salvation. The use and fraud of perfidy, of cruelty and injustice, were often subservient to the propagation of the faith ; and Mahomet commanded or approved the assassination of the Jews and idolatres who bad escaped from the field of battle. I!y the repetition of such act, the character of Mahomet must have been gradually stained ; and the influence of such pernicious habits would be poorly compensated by the practice of the personal and social virtues which are necessary to maintain the reputation of a prophet among his sectaries and friends. Of bis last years , ambition was the ruling passion ; and a politician will suspect, that be secretly smiled (the victorious impostor!) at the enthusiasm of bis youth and the credulity of his proselytes. A philosopher will observe, that their cruelty and his success would tend more strongly to fortify the assurance of his divine mission, that his interest and religion were inseparably connectcd , and that bis conscience would be soothed by the persuasion , that he alone was |
300
|
absolved by the Deity from the ohlijjation of positive and moral laws. If lie retained any vestijji: of his native innoconee, tlic sins of Mahomet may be allowed as an evidence of his sincerity. In the support of truth, the arts of fraud and fiction may be deemed less criminal; and be would have started at the foulness of the means, had he not. |
been satisfied of the important and justice of the end. Even in a conqueror or a priest, I can surprise a word or action of unaffccted humanity; and the decree of Mahomet, that, in the sale of captives, the mothers should never he separated from their children, may suspend or moderate the censurc of the historian. |
in Neilerland in 1670 geboren, begaf zich, nadut hij er als geneesheer den duotoralen graaJ verworven had, naar Engeland, waar hij in 1733 overleed. Men heeft van hem Fable of the Bees, een dichtstuk in nchtlettcrgrepige versmaat, in 170S ouder den titel van The grnrnbliug Ifive, or Knaves turned Honest verschenen , en acht jaar later en iu 1723 herdrukt met een aantal aar.teekeningen in proza, welke het grootste gedeelte van dat werk beslaan. In 1729 verscheen daarvan een tweede deel, in zes zamen-spraken , onder den titel van Private vices. Public Benefits. Mandevilles stelsel in dat werk is , dat noch de zachte huedanigheden of de goede neigingen, welke den menseli eigen zijn, noch de wezenlijke deugden, die hij door verstand en zelfverloochening kan verkrijgen, tot grondslag van de maatschappij dienen; maar dat 'tgeen men op aarde zoowel zedelijk als natuurlijk kwaad noemt, 't groote beginsel is, dat ons tot gezellige wezens, de vaste grondslag, de ziel en steun van alle beroepen eu bezigheden in 't algemeen, vormt, terwijl do maatschappij moet bedorven raken, zoo zij al niet vernietigd wordt, zoodra dat kwaad bij haar ophoudt te bestaan. l)c waarde van zullio beginselen en gevolgtrekkingen ter zijde stellende, moet men erkennen, dat 't werk geen onzedelijke strekking heeft en menigvuldigo, belangrijke stof behelst en in krachtige taal geschreven is. Hij vleit dc mensohelijke natuur geenszins, en schrijft in een niet slechts hekelenden, maar ook schimpenden geest. Ook heeft men van hem Lettres to Dion, ten gevolge van een aanval op zijn werk geschreven , Free Thoughts on Kcligion, Inquiry into the Origin of Honour, and the Usefulness of Christianity in War.
The evil and the good of gin-drinHilng (1).
|
Nothinjj is more destructive, cither in rojjard to the health or the vigilance and industry of the poor, than the infamous liquor, the name of which , derived from juniper berries in Dutch , is now by frequent use, and the laconic spirit of the nation,from a word of middlinfj length shrunk into a monosyllable, intoxicating Gin, that charms the inactive, the desperate and crazy of either sex, and makes the starving not behold bis rags and nakedness with stupid indolence, or banter both in senseless laugbler and more insipid jests : it is a fiery lake, that sets the brain in flame, burns up the entrails, and scorches every part within; and at the same time a Lethe of oblivion, in which the •wretch immersed drowns his most pinching carcs, and, with bis reason, all anxious reflection on brats that cry for food, hard winters, frosts, and horrid empty home. |
In hot and adust tempers, it makes men quarrelsome, renders 'em brutes and savages, sets 'em on to fight for nothing, and has often been the cause of murder. It has broke and destroyed the strongest constitutions, thrown 'em into consumptions, and been the fatal and immediate occasion of apoplexies, frenzies, and sudden death. Igt;ut, as these latter mischiefs happen hut seldom, they might be overlooked and connived at; but this cannot be said of the many diseases that are familiar to the liquor, and which are daily and hourly produced by it: such as loss of appetite, fevers, Idack and yellow jaundice, convulsions, stone and gravel, dropsies, and lencophlegmacies. |
(1) Gin-drinking, an English popular vice, was carried in that day (o a much greater cicess than at present, whatever certain modern iuilioatious, viewed by themselves, might lead as to think.
301
|
Among llic iloatiiijf admirers of this liquid jioison, many of lie meanest rank, from a sincere affection to the commodity itself, hecotne dealers in it, mid take delight to help others to what they love themselves* But, as these starvelings commonly drink more than their gains, they seldom by selling mend the wretchedness of condition they laboured under whilst they were only buyers. In the fag-end and outskirts of the town, and all places of the vilest resort, it is sold in some part or other of almost every bouse, frequently in cellars, and sometimes in the garret. The petty traders in this Stygian comfort are supplied by others in somewhat higher station , that keep professed brandy shops, anil are as little to he envied as the former; and among the middling people I know not a more miserable shift for a livelihood than their calling. Whoeverwouhl thrive in it must, in the first place, he of a watchful and suspicious as well as a bold and resolute temper, that he may not be imposed upon hy cheats and sharpers, nor out-bullied by the oaths and imprecations of hackney-coachnicn and foot-soldiers; in the second , he ought to be a dabster at gross jokes and loud laughter, and have all the winning ways to allure customers, and draw out their money, and be well versed in the low jests and railleries the mob make use of to banter prudence and frugality.IIe must be affable and obsequious to the most despicable; always ready and officious to help a porter down with his load, shake hands with a basket-woman , pull off his hat to an oyster-wench, and he familiar with a beggar; with patience and good humour he must be able to endure the filthy actions and viler language of rusty drabs and the loudest rake-hclls , and without a frown or the least aversion bear with all the stench and squalor, noise and impertinence, that the utmost indigence, laziness, and chriety can produce in the most shameless and abandoned vulgar. The vast number of the shops 1 speak of tbrough-out the city and suburbs ure an astonishing evidence of the many seducers that in a lawful occupation are necessary to the introduction and increase of all the sloth, sotlishncss, want, and misery, which the abuse of strong waters is the immediate cause of, to lift above mediocrity perhaps half a score men, that deal in the same commodity by wholesale; whilst among the retailors, though qualified as 1 required , a much greater number are broke and ruined , for not abstaining from the Cireean cup they hold out to others, and the more fortunate are their whole life-time obliged to take the uncommon pains, endure the hardships, and swallow all the ungrateful and shocking things I named, for little or nothing beyond a bare sustenance and their daily bread. |
The shortsighted vulgar, in the chain of causes, can seldom see further than one link; hut those who can enlarge their view, and will give themselves the leisure of gazing on the prospect of concatenated events, may, in a hundred placcs, see good spring up and pullulate from evil, as naturally as chickens, do from eggs. The money that arises from the duties upon malt is a considerable part of the national revenue; and , should no spirits be distilled from it, the public treasure would prodigiously suffer on that head. Rut, if we should set in a ti ue light the many advantages, and large catalogue of solid blessings, that accrue from and are owing to the evil t treat of, wo are to consider the rents that are received, the ground that is tilled, the tools that are made, the cattle that are employed; and , above all, the multitude of poor that are maintained hy the variety of labour required in husbandry, in malting, in carriage, and distillation , before wo can have that produce of malt which we call Low Wines, and is but the beginning from which the various spirits are afterwards to be made. Besides this, a sharp-sigbted good-humoured man might pick up abundance of good from the rubbish which i have all flung away from evil, lie would tell me, that, whatever sloth and sottish-ness might he occasioned hy the abuse of malt spirits, the moderate use of it was of inestimable benefit to the poor, who could purchase no cordials of higher prices; that it was a universal comfort, not only in cold and weariness, but most of the afflictions that are peculiar to the necessitous, and had often to the most rlestitute supplied the placcs of meat, drink, clothes, and lodging. That the stupid indolence in the most wretched condition occasioned by those composing draughts, which 1 complained of, was a blessing to thousands; for that certainly those were the happiest who felt the least pain. As to diseases, he would say that, as it caused some, so itcured others, and that, if the excess in those liquors had been sudden death to some few , the habit of drinking them daily prolonged the lives of many whom once it agreed with; that for the loss sustained from the insignificant quarrels, it created at home, we were overpaid in the adventage wo received from it abroad, hy upholding the courage of soldiers and animating the sailors to the combat; and that in the two last wars no considerable victory had been obtained without it. |
Clothes were origially made for two ends; to | against the weather and other outward injuries, hide our nakedness, and to fence our bodies I To these our boundless pride has added a third ,
302
|
which is ornament; for what else hut an excess of stupid vanity could have prevailed upon our reason to fancy that ornamental which must continually put us in mind of our wants and misery beyond all other animals, that are ready-clothed by nature herself? It is indeed to head-mired how so sensible a creature as man that pretends to so many fine qualities of his owns, should condescend to value himself upon what is robbed from so innocent and defenceless an animal as a sheep, or what he is beholden for to the most insignificant thing upon earth, a dying worm; yet, whilst he is proud of such trilling depredations, he has the folly to laugh at the Hottentots on the farthest promontory of Africa, who adorn themselves with the guts of their dead enemies, without considering that they are the ensigns of their valour those barbarians are line with , the true spolia ojrima, and that, if their pride be more savage than ours, it is certainly less ridiculous because they wear the spoils of the more noble animal * Whoever takes delight in viewing the various scenes of low life may, on Easter, Whitsun , and other great holidays, meet with scores of people, especially women, of almost the lowest rank, that wear good and fashionable clothes : if, coming to talk with them , you treat them more courteously and with greater respect than what they are conscious they deserve , they Ml commonly be ashamed of owning what they are ; and often you may, if you are a little inquisitive, discover in them a most anxious care to conceal the business they follow, and the places they live in. The reason is plain: whilst they receive those civilities that are not usually paid them , and which they think only due to their betters, they have the satisfaction to imagine that they appear what they would he, which to weak minds is a pleasure almost as substantial as they could reap from the very accomplishments of their wishes; this golden dream they are unwilling to be disturbed in ; and , being sure that the meanness of their condition, if it is known, must sink 'em very low in your opinion, they hug t hemselves in their disguise, and take all imaginable precaution not to forfeit by a useless discovery the esteem which they Hatter themselves that their good clothes have drawn from you*. |
The poorest labourer's wife in the parish, who scorns to wear a strong wholesome frieze, as she might, will half starve herself and her husband to purchase a second-hand gown and petticoat, that cannot do her half the service; because, forsooth, it is more genteel. The weaver, the shoemaker, the tailor, the barber, and every mean working fellow that can set up with little , has the impudence, with the first money he gets, to dress himself like a tradesman of substance. The ordinary retailer, in the clothing of his wife, takes pattern from his neighbour that deals in the same commodity by wholesale, and the reason he gives for it is, that twelve years ago the other had not a bigger shop than himself. The druggist, mercer, draper, and other creditable shopkeepers can find no difference between themselves and merchants,and therefore dress and live like them. The merchant's lady, who cannot bear the assurance of those mechanics , Hies for refuge to the other end of the town, and scorns to follow any fashion but what he takes from thence. This haughtiness alarms the court; the women of quality are frightened to see merchant's wives and daughters dressed like themselves; this impudence of the city, they cry, is intolerable; mantua-makers are sent for, and the contrivance of fash iuns bccomes all their study, that they may have always new modes ready to take up as soon as those saucy cits shall hejjin to imitate those in being. The same emulation is continued through the several degrees of quality to an in-crcdihle expence , till at last the prince's great favourites, and those of the first rank of all, having nothing else left to outstrip some of their inferiors , are forced to lay out vast estates in pompous equipages, magnificent furniturc,sump-tuous gardens, and princely palaces * The choleric city-captain seems impatient to come to action , and , expressing his warlike genius by the firmness of his steps, makes bis pike , for want of exercise, tremble at the valour of his arm: his martial finery, as he marches along, inspires him with an unusual elevation of mind, by which , endeavouring to forget bis shop as well as himself, be looks up at the balconies with the fierceness of a Saracen conqueror; whilst the phlegmatic alderman , now become venerable both for his age and his authority, eontents himself with being thought a considerable man ; and, knowing no easier way to express bis vanity, looks big in bis coach, where, being known by bis pallry livery, he receives, in sullen state, the homage that is paid him bv the meaner sort of people. The beardless ensign counterfeits a gravity above bis years , and , with a ridiculous assurance , strives to imitate the stern countenance of his colonel, flattering himself all the while that by his daring mien you'll judge of his powers. The youthful fair, in a vast concern of being overlooked , by the continual changing of her posture betrays a violent desire of being observed , and , catching, as it were, at every body's eyes, courts, with obliging looks, the admiration of her beholders. The conceited eoxeomb, on the contrary, displaying an air of suflleieney , is wholly taken np with the contemplation of his own perfections, and in public places discovers such a disregard to others that the ignorant must imagine be thinks himself to be alone. These and such like arc all manifest, though different, tokens of pride, that are obvious to all |
303
|
the world; hut man's vanity is not always so soon found out. Wlicn we pcrccivc an air oClm-manily, and men sneni not to be employed in ndmirinjf themselves, nor altogether unmindful of otliors, we are apt to pronounce 'ern void of pride, wlicn perliaps tliey are only fatigued witli gratifying their vanity, and heconie languid from a satiety of enjoyments. That outward show of peace within, and drowsy composure of careless negligence, with which a great man is often seen in his plain chariot to roll at case, are not always so free from art as they inny seem to be. Nothimj is more ravishing lo thu proud than to be thought happy. The well-hred gentleman places liis greatest pride in the skill he has of covering it with dex-' tcrity, and some are so expert in concealing this frailty , that when they are the most guilty of it, the vulgar think them the most exempt from it Thus, the dissembling courtier, when he appears in state, assumes an air of modesty and good bnmour; and, whilst he is really to hurst with vanity, seems to he wholly ignorant of his greatness; well knowing that those lovely qualities must heighten him in the esteem of others, and bean addition to that grandeur which the coronets about his coach and harnesses , with the rest of his equipage, cannot fail to proclaim without bis assistance. And, as in these pride is overlooked because industriously concealed, so in others again it is denied that they have any when they show, or at least seem to show . it in the most public manner. The wealthy parson , being, as well as the rest of bis profession, debarred from the gaiety of laymen, makes it bis business to look out fur an admirable black and the 11 nest cloth that money can purchase, and distinguishes himself by the fulness of his noble and spotless garment; his wigs are as fashionable as that form he is forced to comply with will admit of; but, as be is only stinted in their shape, so he takes care that for goodness of hair and colour few noblemen shall be able to match 'em ; his body is ever clean, as well as bis clothes; bis sleek face is kept constantly shaved, and his handsome nails arc diligentlv pared ; bis smooth white hand and brilliant of the lirst water, mutually becoming, honour each other with double graces; what linen he discovers is transparently curious, and he scorns ever to bo seen abroad with a worse beaver than what a rich hanker would bo proud of on his weddingday; to all these niceties in dress he adds a majestic gait, and expresses a commanding loftiness in his carriage; yet common civilly, notwithstanding tbc evidence of so many concurring symptoms , won't allow us to suspect any of bis actions to be the result of pride; considering the dignity of his office, it is only decency in him what would be vanity in others; and, in good manners lo his calling , we ought to believe that the worthy gentlemen , without any regard to his reverend person, put himself to all this trouble and expcnce merely out of a respect which is due to the divine order he belongs to, and a religious zeal to preserve bis holy function from the contempt of scoffers. With all my heart: nothing of all this shall be called pride; let me only be allowed to say that to our human capacities it looks very lihe it. |
liut, if at last i should grant thattherearc men who enjoy all the fineries of equipage and furniture, as well as clothes, and yet have no pride in them, itis certain that, if all should be such, that emulation I spoke of before must cease, and consequently trade, which has so great a dependence upon it, sulfer in every branch. For tosuy that, if all men were truly virtuous, they might, without any regard to themselves , consume as much out of zeal to serve their neighbours and promote the public good, as they do now out of self-love and emulation, is a miserable shift and an unreasonable supposition. As there have been good people in all ages, so, without doubt, we are not destitute of them in this; but let us inquire of the periwig-makersand tailors in what gentlemen , even of the greatest wealth and highest quality, they ever could discover such public-spirited views ^ Ask the laeeinen, the mercers, and the linen-drapers, whether the richest, and , it you will, the most virtuous ladies, if thev buy with ready money, or intend to pay in any reasonable time, will not drive from shop to shop, to try the market, malic as many words, and stand as hard with them to save a groat or sixpence in a yard, as the most necessitous jilts in town. If if be urged that, if there are not, it is possible there might he such people, I answer that it is possible that cats, instead of killing rats and mice, should feed them, and go about the house to suckle and nurse their young ones; or that a kite should call the hens to their meat, as the cockdocs. and sit brooding over their chickens instead of devouring 'em ; but, if they should all do so, they would cease to be cats and kites : it is inconsistent with their natures; and the species ol creatures which now we mean when wc name cats and kites would be extinct as soon as that could come to pass. |
504
(Zie bliU. 244.)
DESCniPTlOiN OF AN ANCIENT ENGLISH COUNTRY SEAT.
(A Letter io Lady Mary Wortley Montague.
|
Dear Madam — It is nol possible to express the least part of the joy youi return {'ives me; time only and experience will convince you liow very sincero it is. I excessively long to meet you, to say so much, so very much to you, that 1 liolieve 1 shall say notliinjj. I am four score miles from London , a short journey compared to that I so often thoujjht at least of undcrtaldnfj, rather than die ■without seeinj; you again. Thougli the place I am in is such, as 1 would not quit for the town, if 1 did not value you more than any, nay, every i)ody else there; and you will be convinced how little the town has engaged my allections in your absence from it, when you know what a place this is which I prefer to it; 1 shall therefore describe it to you at large us the true picture of a genuine ancient country-seat. |
You must expect nothing regular in my description of a house that seems to be built before rules were in fashion : the whole is so disjointed . and the parts so detached from each other, and yet so joining again, one cannot tell how, that (in a poetical fit) you would imagine it had been a village in Amphion's time, where twenty cottages had taken a dance together, were all out, and stood still in amazement ever since. A stranger w ould be grievously disappointed who should ever think to get into this house the right way. One would expect, after entering through the porch , to be let inlo the hall: alas I nothing less, you find yourself in a brew house. From the parlour you think to step into the drawing-room; hut upon opening the iron-nailed door, you are convinced by a flight of birds about your ears, and a cloud of dust in your eyes, that it is the pigeon-bouse. Over to the parlour-window bangs a sloping balcony, which time has turned to a very convenient penthouse. The top is crowned with a very venerable tower, so like that of the church just by, that the jackdaws build in it as if it were the true steeple. The great hall is high and spacious, flanked with long tables, images of ancient hospitality; ornamented with monstrous horns, about twenty broken pikes, and a matchlock musket or two, which they say were used in the civil wars. Here is one vast arched window, beautifully darkened with divers scutcheons of painted glass. There seems to he groat propriety in this old manner of blazoning upon glass, ancient families being like ancient windows; in the course of generations seldom free from cracks. One shining pane bears dale 1286. Who can say after this that glass is frail, when it is not half so perishable as human beauty or glory ? For in another pane you see the memory of a knight preserved, whose marble nose is mouldered from his monument in the church adjoining. And yet, must not. one sigh to reflect that the most authentic record ot so ancient a family •should lie at the mercy of every boy that throws a stone, in this hall, in former days, have dined gartered knights and courtly dames, with ushers, sewers, and senescals; and yet it was hut the other night that an owl flew in thither, and mistook it for a barn. This ball lets you up (and down) over a very high threshold, into the parlour. It is furnished with historical tapestry, whose marginal fringes do confess the moisture of the air. Ihe other contents of this room are a broken-bellied virginal, a couple of crippled velvet chairs , with two or three mildewed pictures of mouldy ancestors, who look as dismally as if they came fresh from hell with all their brimstone about them. These are carefully sat at the further corner; for the windows being every where broken , make it so convenient a place to dry poppies and mustard-seed in , that the room is appropriated to that use. Next to this parlour lies the pigeon-house, by the side of which runs an entry that leads , on one hand and the other, into a bedchamber, a buttery,anda small hole, called the chaplain's study. Then follow a brew-house, a little green and gilt parlour, and the great stairs, under which is the dairy. A little further on ihe right, the servant's hall, and by the side ofit, up six steps, the old lady's closet, which has a lattice into the said hall that, while she said her prayers, she might cast an eye on the men and maids. There are upon this ground-floor in all twenty-four apartments, hard to be distinguished by particular names. Our best room above is very long and low, of the exact proportion of a band' box; it has hangings of the finest work in the world; those J mean, which Arachne spins out of her own bowels: indeed iheroofisso decayed, that after a favourable shower of rain, we may ( with God's blessing) expect a crop of mush-roorns between the chinks of the floors. All this upper story has lor many years had no other inhabitants than certain rats, whose very age renders them worthy of this venerable mansion: they have still a small subsistence left them in the few remaining books of the library. 1 bad never seen half what I have described , hut for an old starched, grey-headed steward , who is as |
|
iimcli an antiquity as any in tlic place, and looks like an old family picture walked outofils frame, lie failed not, as we pass from room to room : to relate several memoirs of the family; but his observations were particularly curious in the cellar: he showed where stood the triple rows of hutts of sack, and where were ranged the hottles of tent for toasts in the morning, he pointed to the stands that supported the iron-hooped hogsheads of strong heor ; he could not pass hy a hro-ken hotlle without taking it up to show us the arms of the family on it. He then led me up the tower, hydark winding stone-steps, which landed us into several little rooms, one above another, one of these was nailed up, and my guide whispered to me the occasion of it. The ghost of Lady Frances is supposed to walk here; some prying maids of the family formerly reported that they saw a lady in a fardingale through the keyhole. |
I must needs have tired you with this long letter; hut what engaged me in the description was, a general principle to preserve the memory of a thing that must itself soon fall to ruin. 1 have found this house an excellent place for retirement and study, where no one who passes hy, can dream there is an inhabitant. You will not wonder I l ave translated a great deal of Homer in this retreat; any one that sees it will own , I could not have chosen a litter or more likely place to converse with the dead. As soon as I return to the living, it shall be to converse with the best of them. I hope therefore very speedily to tell you in person how sincerily and unalterably I am, madam, your etc. |
Earl of Chesterfield,
Werd geboren in 1C9-1 en overleed in 1773; hij had een roemrijke loopbnnn als lid van 't parlement, builenlandseh gezant, onderkoning van Ierland en als sekretaris van staat. Zijn brieven, die onlangs hier te lande nog zijn vertaald, zijn bij iiilnetnendheid gesehikt om iemand tot mensehenkenner, hoveling en een aangenaam liil van een gezelschap te vormen, en in een boeijenden, vertrouwelijken en vloeijenden stijl geschreven. Zij waren aan zijn oneehten zoon Thilip Stanhope gerigt, die echter daarvan niet zeer veel nut trok.
|
Dear hoy. Pleasure is the rock which most young people split upon: they launch out with crowded sails in quest of it, hut without a compass to direct their course, or reason sulficient to steer the vessel; for want of which ]iain and shame,instead of pleasure are the return of their voyage. Do not think that I mean to snarl at pleasure, like a stoic, or to preach against it, like a parson; no, 1 mean , to point it out and recommend it to you, like an Epicurian , 1 wish you a great deal, and my only view is to hinder you from mistaking it. The character which most young men first aim at, is that of a man of pleasure; hut they generally take it upon trust; and instead ofconsullingtheir own taste and inclinations, they blindly adopt whatever those,with whom they chii lly converse, are pleased 1o call hy the name of pleasure; and a man of pleasure, in the vulgar acceptation of that phrase, means only a beastly drunkard , and a profligate swearer and eurser.As it may be of use to you, lam not unwilling, thoiinh at the same time ashamed, to own, that the vim of my youth |
proceeded much more from my silly resolution of being what I beard called a man of pleasure, than from my own inclinations. 1 always naturally bated drinking; and yet I have often drunk, with disgust at the time, attended by great sickness the next day, only because I then considered drinking as a necessary qualification for a fine gentleman and a man of pleasure. The same us to gaming. 1 did not want money and consequently had no occasion to play for it: but I thought play another necessary ingredient in the composition of a man of pleasure, and accordingly 1 plunged into it without desire at first, sacrificed a thousand real pleasures to it, and made myself solidly uneasy by it, for thirty the best years of my life. 1 was even absurd enough , fora little while, to swear, by way ol adorning and completing the shining character which 1 affected; but this folly I soon led aside, upon finding both the guilt and the indeccnce of it. Thus seduced by fashion , and blindly adopting nominal pleasures I lost real ones;and my fortune j impaired and my constitution shattered are, I must confess, the just punishment of my errors. |
39
II.
|
Take warning then by tliem; choosp your pleasures for yourself and do not let tliem lie imposed upon you. Follow nature and not fashion ; weigh the present enjoyment of your pleasures , against the necessary consequences of them , and then let your own common sense determine your choice. Were I to hegin the world again , wilh the ex- fierience which 1 now have of it, I would lead a ife of real, not of imaginary pleasure. 1 would not, at twenty years, he a preaching missionary of abstemiousness and sobriety ; and 1 should let other people do as they would, without formally and sententiously rebuking them of it ; but I would be most firmly resolved not to destroy my own faculties and constitution , in complaisance to those who have no regard to their own. I would play to give me pleasure, hut not to give me pain; that is, I would play for trilles, in mixed companies, to amuse myself, and conform to custom ; but I would care not to venture for sums which, if I won , I should not be the belter for; hut, if I lost, should be under a difficulty to pay, and, when paid, would oblige me to retrench in several other articles. Not to mention the quarrels w hich deep play commonly occasion.ierience which 1 now have of it, I would lead a ife of real, not of imaginary pleasure. 1 would not, at twenty years, he a preaching missionary of abstemiousness and sobriety ; and 1 should let other people do as they would, without formally and sententiously rebuking them of it ; but I would be most firmly resolved not to destroy my own faculties and constitution , in complaisance to those who have no regard to their own. I would play to give me pleasure, hut not to give me pain; that is, I would play for trilles, in mixed companies, to amuse myself, and conform to custom ; but I would care not to venture for sums which, if I won , I should not be the belter for; hut, if I lost, should be under a difficulty to pay, and, when paid, would oblige me to retrench in several other articles. Not to mention the quarrels w hich deep play commonly occasion. I would pass some of my time in reading, and the rest in the company of people of sense and learning, and chielly those above me; and I would frequent the mixed companies of men and women of fashion , which, though of ten frivolous, yet unbend and refresh the mind not uselessly, because they certainly polish and soften the manners. These would be my pleasures and amusements, if 1 were to life the last thirty years over again; they are rational ones; and moreover I will tell you, they are really the fashionable ones; fur the others are not, in truth, the pleasures of what [ call people of fashion , but of those who only call themselves so. Docs good company care to have a man reeling drunk among them? or to see another tearing his hair, and blaspheming, for having lost, at play, more than be is able to pay ? No, those who practise, and much more those, who brag of them, make no pail of good company; and are most unwillingly, if ever, admitted into it. A real man of fashion and pleasure observes decency, at least neither borrows nor affects vices; and if ho unfortunately has any, he gratifies them with choice, delicacy and secrecy. 1 have not mentioned the pleasures of the mind (which are the solid and permanent ones) because they do not come under the head of what people commonly call pleasures; which they seem to confine to the senses. The pleasure of virtue, of charity and of learning is true and lasting pleasure , with wicb I hope jou will be long and well acquainted. Adieu. |
Dear Boy, People of your age have commonly an unguarded frankness ahout them , which makes them the easy prey and bubble of the artful and the experienced ; they look upon every knave or fool, who tells them, that bo is their friend, to be really so; and pay that profession of simulated friendship, with an indiscreet and unbounded eonfidence, always to their loss, often to their ruin. Beware, therefore, now, that you are coming into the world , of these proffered friendships. Receive them with great ciulity, hut with great incredulity too; and pity them with compliments, hut not with confidence. Do not lot your vanity, and self-lo\e, make you suppose, that people become yonr friends at first sight, or even upon a short acquaintance. Ileal friendship is a slow grower, and never thrives, unless ingrafted upon a stock of known and reciprocal merit. There is another kind of nominal friendship among young people, which is warm by the time, hut hy good luck of short duration. This friendship is hastily produced, by their being accidentally thrown together, and pursuing the same course of riot and debauchery. A fine friendship, truly! and well cemented by drunkenness and lewdness. It should rather be called a conspiracy against morals and good manners, and be punished as such by the civil magistrate. However, they have the impudence and the folly to call this confederacy a friendship. They lend one another money for bad purposes; they engage in quarrels, offensive and defensive, for their accomplices; they tell one another all they know, and often more too, w hen, of a sudden , some accident disperses them, and they think no more of each other, unless it be to betray and laugh at their imprudent confidence. Ilememher to make a great difference between companions and friends; for a very complaisant and agreeable companion may he, and very often, proves a very improper, and a very dangerous friend. People will, in a great degree, and not without reason, form their opinion of you, upon that which they have of your friends; and their is a Spanish proverb, which says very justly, 'Tell me whom you live wilh , and I will tell you who you are.' One may fairly supposigt;, that a man, who makes a knave or a fool bis friend, has something very bad to do or to conceal. But, at the same time that you carefully decline the friendship of knaves and fools, if it can be called friendship, there is no occasion to make cither of tliem your enemies, wantonly and unprovoked; for they arc numerous bodies; and 1 would rather choose a secure neutrality, than alliance or war with cither of tliem. You may be a declared enemy to their vices ami follies, without being marked out by them as a personal one. Their enmity is the next dangerous thing, to |
507
|
their friendship. Have a real rcigt;crve with almost every hody; and have a secmiii;; reserve with almost nobody; for it is very disagreehle to seem reserved, and very dangerous not to he so. Few people find the true medium ; many are ridiculously mysterious and reserved upon trifles, and many imprudently communicate of all they know. The next to the choioe of your friends is the choice of your com|)any. Endeavour, as much aj you can , to keep company with people above you. There you rise, as much as you sink will» people below you ; for (as 1 have mentioned before) you are, whatever the company you keep is. Do not mistake, when I say, company above you , and think that 1 mean wilb regard to their birth ; that is the least consideration; hut I mean, with regard to their merit, and the light in which the world considers them. Tliere are two sorts of good company; one which is called the beau monde, and consists of those people who have the lead in courts and in the gay part of life: the other consists of those who are distinguished by some peculiar merit, or who excel in some particular and valuable art or science. For my own part, I used to think myself in company as much above me, when I was with Mr. Addison and Mr, Pope, as if I had been with all the princes in Europe. What I mean by low company, which should by all means be avoided , is the company of those, w ho absolutely insignificant and contemptible in themselves, think they are honoured'by being in your company, and who Hatter every vice and every folly you have, in order to engage you to converse with them. The pride of being the first of the company, is but loo cominun; but it is very silly and very prejudicial. Nothing in the world lets down a character more, than that wrong turn. You may possibly ask me, whether a man has it always in his power to get into the best company ? and bow ? I say, yes, he has, by deserving it; provided, be is but in circumstances which enable him to appear upon the footing of a gentleman. Merit and good-breeding will make their way everywhere. Knowledge will introduce him, and good-breeding will endear him to the best companies; for, as I have often told you , politeness and good-breeding are absolutely necessary to adorn any orall other good qualities or talents. quot;Without them, no knowledge, no profession whatsoever, is seen in the best light. The scholar without a good breeding is a pedant; the philosopher, a cynic; the soldier, a brute; and every man disagreeable. I long to hear, from my several correspondents at Leipsig of your arrival there; and what impression you make at them at first; for 1 have Arguses, with an hundred eyes each, who will watch you narrowly, and relate to me faithfully. My accounts will certainly he true; it depends upon you, entirely, of what kind they shall be. Adieu. |
My dear friend , Very few people are good economists of their fortune, and still fewer of their time; and yet, of the two, the latter is the most precious. I heartily wish you to be a good economist of both; and you arc now of age, to begin to think seriously of these two important articles. Young people are not to think they have so much time before them , that they may squander what they please of it, and yet have enough left; as very great fortunes have frequently seduced people to a ruinous profusion. Fatal mistakes, always repented of, but always too late! Old Mr. Lowndes, the famous Secretary of the Treasury in the reigns of King William, Queen Anne and King George the first, used to say, 'take care of the pence, and the pounds will take care of themselves.' To this maxim, which he not only preached, but practised, bis two grandsons, at this time, owe the very considerable fortunes that he left them. This holds equally true as to time; and I most earnestly recommend to you the care of those minutes and quarters of hours, on the course of the day, which people think too short to deserve tbeir attention; and yet, if summed up at the end of the year, would amount to a very considerable portion of time. For example, you arc to be at such a place at twelve, by appointment; you go out at eleven, to make two or three visits first; those persons are not at home; instead of sauntering away that intermediate time at a coU'ee-hoiise and possibly alone, return home, write a letter before-hand for the ensuing posl , or take up a good book, 1 do not mean Descartes, Malle-brancbe, Locke or Newton, by way óf dipping, but some book of rational amusement, and detached pieces, as Horace, Boileau, Waller, La Bruyère, etc. This will be so much time saved, and by no means ill-employed. Many people lose a great deal of time by reading; for they read frivolous and idle books, such as the absurd romances of the two last centuries where characters, that never existed , are insipidly displayed , and sentiments, that were never felt, pompously described. Slick to the best established books in every language; the celebrated poets, historians, orators, or pliilosophers. By these means (to use a city metaphor) you will make fifty per cent of that time, of which other do not make above three or four, or probably nothing at all. Many people lose a great deal of their time by laziness; they loll and yawn in a great chair, tell themselves that they have not time to begin any thing then and that it will do as well another time. This is a most unfortunate disposition , and the greatest obstruction to both knowledge and |
308
|
Imsinoss. At your age you have no riylil nor claim to laziness; I have, if I please, being emeritus. You are hut just listed in the world, and must he active, diligent and indefatigahle. If ever you propose commending with dignity, you must serve up to it with diligence. Never put oil'till to-morrow what yon can do to-day. Dispatch is the soul of business; and nothing contributes more to dispatch than method. Lay down a method for every thing, and slick to it inviolably as far as unexpected incidents may allow. Fix one certain hour and day in the week for your accompls, and keep them logetber in their proper order; by which means they will require very little time and you can never he much cheated. Whatever letters and papers you keep, docket and tie them up in their respective classes, so that you may have instantly recourse to any one. Lay down a method also for your reading, for which you allot a certain share of your mornings. Let it be in a consistent and consecutive course, and not in that desultory and immethodical manner, in which many people read scraps of different authors , upon different subjects. Keep a useful and short common-place hook of what you read to help your memory only, and not fur pedantic quotations. Never read Ills- -tory without having maps, and a chronological hook or tables, lying by you and constantly recurred to, without which history is only a confused heap of facts. One method more 1 reeommend to you, by which 1 have found great benefit, even in the most dissipated part of my life ; this is, to rise early, and at the same hour every morning, how late soever you may have set up the night before. This secures you an hour or two, nt least, of reading or reflection, before the common interruptions of the morning begin; and it will save your constitution, by forcing you to go to bed early, at least one night in three. You will say, it may be, as many young people would, that all this order and method is very troublesome, only fit for dull people, and a disagreeable restraint upon the noble spirit and fire of youth. I deny it; and assert, on the contrary, that it will procure you, both more time and more taste for your pleasures; and so far from being troublesome to you, that after you have pursued it a month, it would be troublesome to you to lay it aside. Business whets the appetite, and gives a taste to pleasures, as exercise does to food ; and business can never he done without method; it raises the spirits for pleasures; and a spectacle, a ball, an assembly will much more sensibly affect a man who has employed , than a man who has lost the preceding part of the day, nay I will venture to say, that a fine lady will seem to have more charms to a man of study or business, than to a saunterer.'J'hesame list-lessness runs through his whole conduct, and be |
is as insipid in his pleasures, as inefficient in every thing else. I wish to ttod that you had as much pleasure in following my advice, as I have in giving it von! and you may the more easily have it, as I give you none that is inconsistent with your pleasure. In all that 1 say to you it is your interest alone that 1 consider; trust to my experience, you know you may to my affection. Adieu. IV. Dear boy, I direct Ibis letler to Berlin, where I suppose it will either find you, or at least wait hut a little time for you. I cannot help being anxious for your success, at this your first appearance upon the great stage of the world; for, though the spectators are always candid enough to give allowances, and to shew great indulgence lo a new actor: yet, from the first impression which he makes upon them , they are apt to decide, in their own mindsat least, whether be will ever be a good one or not. If be seems to understitnd what he says, by speaking it properly; if he is attentive lo his part, instead of staring negligently about; and if, upon the whole, he seems ambitious to please ; they willingly pass over little aw kwardnesses and inaccuracies, whicli they ascribe to a commendable modesty in a young and inexperienced actor. They pronounce that he w ill be a good one in time; and, by the encouragement they give him, make him so the sooner. This, I hope w ill be your case: you have sense enough to understand your part: a constant attention and ambition lo excel in it, with u careful observation of the best actors, will inevitably qualify you , if not for the first, at least for considerable parts. Your dress (as insignificant a tiling as dress is in itself) is now become an object worthy of some attention; fur, I confiss, 1 cannot help forming some opinion of a man's sense and character from his dress; and, I believe most people do, as well as myself. Any affectation whatsoever in dress, implies, in my mind a flaw in the understanding. Most of our young fellows, here, display some character or other by their dress; some affect the tremendous, and wear a great and fiercely cocked hat, an enormous sword, a short waistcoat, and a black cravat; these 1 should be almost tempted to swear the peace against, in my own defence , if 1 was not convinced that they are but meek asses in lion's skins. Others go in brown frocks , leather brccchcs , great oaken cudgels in their bands, their hats uncocked , and their hair unpowdered; and imitate grooms,stage-coachmen, and country-bumbkins, so well in their outsides, that I do not make the least doubt of their resembling them equally in their insides. A man of sense carefully avoids any particular character in his dress; he is accurately clean for bis own sake, |
309
|
liul all the rest is for oilier people's. He dresses as well, and in llie same manner, as the people of sense and fashion in the place where he is. If he dresses better, as he thinks, that is more than they , he is a fop; if lie dresses worse, he is unpar-doimhly negligent: but, of the two, I would rather have a younf; fellow too much than loo little dressed; the excess on that side will wear off, with a litlle age and reflection ; but , if ho is negligent at twenty, he will he a sloven at forty, and stink at fifty years old. Dress yourself fine, where others are line; anil plain where others are plain; hut take care, always, that your clothes are well made, and fit you ; for, otherwise they will give you a very awkward air. When you are once well dressed for the day, think no more of it afterwards; and without any sliffness for fear of discomposing that dress, let alle your motions he as easy and natural as if you had no clothes on at all. So much for dress, which 1 maintain to he a thing of conscquenee in the polite world. As to manners, good-hreeding, and the graces, 1 have so oflen entertained you upon these important subject, thai I can add nothing to what I have formerly said. Vour own good sense will suggest to you the substance of them ; and observation, experience, and good company, the several modes of them. Your great vivacity, w hich I hear of from many people, will he no hindrance to yonr pleasing in good company; on the contrary, will be of use toyou, if tempered by good-hreeding and accompanied by the graces. Jint, then, 1 suppose your vivacily to be a vivacity of parts, and not a constitutional restlessness: for, the most disagreable composition that I know in the world , is that of strong animal spirits with a cold genius. Such a fellow is Irotiblcsomely active, frivolously busy, foolishly lively; talks much, with little meaning, and laughs more, with loss reason; whereas, in my opinion, a warm and lively genius, with a cool constitution , is the perfection of human nature. |
Do what you will at Berlin, provided you do but do something all day long. All I desire of you is , that you will never slattern away one minute in idleness and in doing nothing. When you arc not in company, learn what either hooks, masters, or Mr. Harte, can teach you; and, when you are in company, learn (what company only can teach you) the characters and manners of mankind. I really ask your pardon for giving you this advice; because, ii you are a rational creature, and a thinking being, as 1 suppose, and verily believe you are, it must he unnecessary, and to acertain degree, injurious. If I did not know, by experience, that, some men pass their whole time in doing nothing, I should not think it possible for any being, superior lo Monsieur Descartes' automatons, to squander away in absolute idleness one single minnteof lhatsniall portion of timewhich is allotted us in this world. I send you, my dear child , (and you will not doubt) very sincerily. the wishes of the season. May you deserve a great number of happy new years! and, if yon deserve, may you have them. Many now years, indeed , you may see, hut happy ones you cannotsee without deserving thcm.These, virtue, honour, and knowledge, alone can merit, alone can procure. Diilibi dent annosJ de tc nam cuelera sumes, was a pretty piccc of poetical flattery where it was said; I hope that, in time, it may he no flattery when said to yon. lint 1 assure you, that, whenever 1 cannot apply the latter part of the line to you with trutli, 1 sail neither say, think , nor wish, the former. — Adieu I |
een van de populairste en i ivloedrijkste sohofsohe geestelijken van zijn tijd, in Edimbnr» geboren, leefde ynn 1718 lot 1800; hij bekleedde, in weerwil van zijn geestelijke waardigheid, de betrekking van professor in de welsprekendheid aan de universiteit te Elimbnrg. Hij maakte zieh vooral verdienstelijk door zijn iiitimmtende letterkundige werken; Lectures on Rhetoric and Helles lettres, die bij in 1739 begon voor te lezen , waardoor zijn letterkundigen naam grooter werd (hij gaf ze eehter eerst jaren daarna uit) en A Critical Dissertation on the Poems of Ossian (zie Maepherson en 't hier meegedeelde stuk) in 17G3 uitgegeven. Ook als kanselredenaar is hij zeer bekend door zijn Sermons, waarvan in 1777 't eerste deel verscheen, dat zoo goed ontvancien werd, dat hij nog vier deelen sohrccf, waarvan 't laatste na zijn dood werd uitgegeven, en die zich door zedoknnde en diepe mensclicnkennis zeer onderscheiden.
A parallel between Homer and Ossian,
|
11 is necessary here to observe, that the beauties ofOssian's writings cannot bo felt by those who have given tbcni only a single or a hasty perusal. |
His manner is so difl'erenl from thai of the poets lo whom wenre most accustoined ; bis style is so concise, and so much crowded with imagery; |
510
|
tlic mind is kept at sucli a stretch in aecompa-nyinjr thenuthor: that an ordinary reader is at first apt to bedazzled and fatigued , rather than pleased. His poems require to be taken up at intervals, and to bo frequently reviewed ; and then it is impossible but Ins beauties must open to every reader who is capable of sensibility. Tbose who have the highest degree of it, will relish tbcm the most. As Homer is, of all the great poets, tbe one whose manner and whose times come the nearest to Ossian's , we arc naturally led to run a parallel in some instances between the Greek and the Celtic bard. Kor though Homer lived more than a thousand years before Ossi.m, it. is not from tbc age of the world, but from tbe slate of society, that we are to judge of resembling times. Tbe Greek has, in several points, a manifest superiority. He introduces a greater variety of incidents ; he possesses a larger compass of ideas; has more diversity in his characters, and a much deeper knowledge of human nature. It was not to be expected then in any of these particulars Us-sian could equal Homer. For Homer lived in a country where society was much further advanced; be bad beheld many more objccts; cities built and Jlourisliing; laws instituted; order, discipline, and arts, begun. His field of observation was much larger and more splendid; bis knowledge, of course, more extensive; his mind also, it shall be granted, more penetrating. But if Ossian's ideas and objects be less diversified than those of Homer, they are all, however, of the kind (itfest for poetry; the bravery and generosity of heroes, tbe tenderness of lovers, tbe attachments of friends, parents and children. In a rude age and country, though tbe events that happen may lie few, the undissipated mind broods over tbcni more; they strike tbe imagination , and fire tbe passions in a higher degree; and of consequence become happier materials to a poetical genius, than the same events when scattered through the wide circle of a more varied action ami cnltivated life. |
Homer is more cbccrful and sprightly poet than Ossian. You discern in him all the Greek vivacity, where as Ossian uniformly maintains the gravity and solemnity of a Celtic hero. This too is in a great measure to be accounted for from tbe different situations in which tbey lived , partly personal and partly national. Ossian had survived all his friends , and was disposed to melancholy by the incidents of bis life. But besides this, cheerfulness is one of the many blessings which we owe to formed society. The solitary wild state is always a serious one. Bating the sudden and violent bursts of mirth , which sometimes break forth at their dances and feasts, tha Savage American Tribes have been noted by all travellers for their gravity and taciturnity. Somewhat of this taciturnity may be also remarked in Ossian. On all occasions he is frugal of bis words; and never gives you more of an image, or a description, than is just suflioient to place it before you in one clear point of view. It is a blaie of lightning, which flashes and vanishes. Horner is more extended in bis descriptions; and fills tbcm up with a greater variety of circumstances. Both the poets are dramatic; that is , they introduce their personages frequently speaking before us. But Ossian is concise and rapid in his speeches, as be is in every other thing. Homer, with tbe Greek vivacity, had also some portion of the Greek loquacity. His speeches indeed arc highly charac-teristical, and lo them we are much indebted for that admirable display be has given of human nature. Yet, if be bo tedious anywhere it is in these; some of them are trifling, and some of them plainly unseasonable. Both poets are eminently sublime; but a difference may be remarked in the species of their sublimity. Homer's sublimity is accompanied with more impetuosity and fire; Ossian's with more of a solemn and aw ful grandeur. Homer hurries you along; Ossian elevates and fixes you in astonishment. Homer is most sublime in actions and battles; Ossian, in description and sentiment. In the pathetic, Homer, when he chooses to exert it, has greater power; but Ossian exerts that power much oft-ener, and has the character of tenderness for more deeply imprinted on bis works. No poet knew better how to seize and melt the heart. With regard to dignity of sentiment, the pre-eminence must clearly be given to Ossian. This is, indeed, a surprising circumstance, that in point of hn-inanitv. magnanimity, virtuous feelings of every kind, our rude Celtic bard should bo distinguished to such a degree, that not only the heroes of Homer, but even ihose of tbe polite and refined Virgil are left far behind by tbose of Ossian. After these general observations on the genius and spirit of our author, I now proceed to a nearer view and more accurate examination of bis works; and as Fingal is the first great poem in this collcetion , it is proper tu begin with it. To refuse tbc title of an epic poem to Fingal, because it is not, in every little particular, cxactly conformable to the practice of Homer and Virgil, were the mere squcamisbnessand pedantry of criticism. Examined oven according to Aristotle's rules, it will be found to have all the essential requisites of a true and regular epic; and to have several of them in so high a degree, as at first view to raise our astonishment on finding Ossian's composition so agreeable to rules of which be was entirely ignorant. But our astonishment will cease, when we consider from what service Aristotle drew those rules. Homer know no more of tbe laws of criticism than Ossian. But, guided by nature, be composed in verse a regular story, founded on heroic actions, which all posterity admired. Aristotle, with great sagacity and penetration |
511
|
traced the causes of lliis j;encral admiralion. Ho observed what it was in Homer's corn position, and in the conduct of his story, which gave it such power to please; from tiiis ohservatiun lie decudcd the rules which poets ought to follow, who would write and please like Homer; and toacomposition formed according to such rules, he gave the name of an epic poem. Hence his whole system arose. Aristotle studied nature in Homer. Homer and Ossian holh wrote from nature. No wonder that among all the three, there sould be such agrco-mcnt and conformity. The fundaincntnl rules delivered by Aristotle concerning an epic poem, are these: That the action which is the groundwork of the poem, should be one, complete and great; that it should ho feigned, not merely historical; that it should bo enlivened with characters and manners, and heightened by the marvellous liut before entering on any of ihesr, it may perhaps be asked, what is the moral of Fingal ? For, according to M. Bossu, an epic poem is no other than an allegory contrived to illustrate some moral truth. The poet, says this critic, must begin with fixing on some maxim or instruction which he intends to inculcate on mankind. He next forms a fable, like one of jïisop's, wholly with a view to the moral: and having thus settled and arranged his plan he then looks into traditionary history for names, and incidents, lo give bis fable some air of probability. Never did a more frigid, pedantic notion, enter into the mind of a critic. We may safely pronounce, that he who should compose an epic poem after this manner, who should first lay down a moral and contrive a plan before he had thought of his peisonages and ac(ors, might deliver indeed very sound instruclion, but will find few readers. There cannot be the least doubt, that the first object which strikes an epic poet, which fires his genius, and gives him any idea of his work, is the action or subject be is to celebrate. Hardly is there any tale, any subject a poet can choose for such a work, but will afford some general moral instruction. 4quot; epic poem is, by its nature, one of the most moral of all poetical compositions; hut its moral tendency is by no means to he limited to some common place maxim, which may be gathered from the story. It arises from the admirations of heroic actions, which such a composition is peculiarly calculated to produce; from the virtuous emotions which the characters and incidents raise, whilst we read it: from the happy impression which all the parts separately as well as the whole taken together leave upon the mind. However, ifa general moral be still insisted on, Fingal obviously furnishes one, not inferior to that of any other poet, vi/,: That wisdom and bravery always triumph over brutal force; or another, nobler still: That the most complete victory over an enemy is obtained by that moderation and generosity which convert him into a friend. |
The unity of the epic action, which, of all Aristotle's rules, is the chief and most material, is so strictly preserved in Fingal, that it must he per-ceivcd by every reader. It is a more complete uuity than what arises from relating the actions of one man, which the Greek critic justly censures us imperfect, it is the unity of one cntreprise, the deliverance of Ireland from theinvasion ofSwaran; an enterprise which has surely the full heroic dignity. All the incidents recorded bear a constant reference lo one end; no double plot is carried on; but the parts unite into a regular whole: and as the action is one and gn at, so it is an entire and complete action. For wo find, as the critic farther requires, a beginning, a middle, and an end; a nodus, or inti iguo in the poem; diineultics occurring through Cuthullin's rashness and bad success; those difficulties gradually surmounted; and at last the work conducted to that happy conclusion which is held essential to epic poetry. Unity is indeed observed with greater exactness in Fingal, than in almost any other epic composition. For not only is unity of subject maintained, but that of time and placfi also. The Autumn is dearly pointed out as the season of the action ; and from beginning to end the scene is never shifted from the heath of Lena , along the Sea-shore. The duration of the action in Fingal, is much shorter than in the Iliad or j®tieid, but sure there may be shorter as well as longer heroic poems ; and if tho authority of Aristotle be also required for ibis , he says expressoly, that the epic composition is indifi-mte as to the lime of its duration. Accordingly the action of the Iliad lasts only furty-seven days, whilst that of tbc jïneid is continued fur more than a year Throughout the whole of Fingal, there reigns that grandeur of sentiment, style and imagery, which ought ever to distinguisli this high species of poetry. The story is conducted with no small art. The poet goes not hack lo a tedious recital of tho beginning of the war with Swaran ; but hastening to the main action, he falls in exactly, by a most happy coincidence of thought, with the rule of Horace.* He invokes no muse, for ho acknowledged none; but his occasional addresses to Malvina have a finer effect than tho invocation of any muse. He sets out with no formal proposition of his subject; but the subject naturally and easy unfolds itself; the poem opening in an animated manner, with the situation of Cuthullin and the arrival of a scout who informs him of Swaran's landing. Mention is presently made of Fingal , and of the expected assistance from the ships of the lonely isle, in order lo give further light to the subject. For the poet often shows his address in gradually preparing us for the events he has to introduce; and in particular the preparation for the appearance of Fingal, the previous expectations that are raised, and the extreme |
312
|
mafjnificcnce, fully answering llicsc expectations, with «hicli llie ti 10 isal lenjjtli presented to us, arc all worked up w ith sueli skilful conduct us ■would do honour to any poet of the most refined times. Homer's art in magnifying the chiiracter of Acliillcs 1ms been universally admired. Ossian certainly shows nolessart in oggrandi/ing Fingal. Nothing could he more happily imagined for this purpose than the whole inanageinent of (he last liattle, wherein Gaul, the son of Jlorni, had besought Fingal to retire , and to leave to him and his other chiefs the honour of the day. The generosity of the king in agrceingto this pioposal; the majesty with which lie retreats to the hill; from whence he was to hehuhl the engagement, attended hy his hards and waving the lightning of his sword; his perceiving the chiefs overpowered hy numbers, but, from unwillingness to deprive them of the glory of victory hy coining in person to their assistance, first sending Ullin, the bard, to animate their courage; and at last, ■when the danger becomes more pressing, his rising in bis might, ami interposing, like a divinity, to decide the doubtful fale of the day; are all circumstances contrived with so inuch art as plainly discover the Celtic bards to have liecn not unpractised in heroic poetry. The story whii h is tbe foundation of the Iliad is in itself as simple as that of Fingal. A'quarrel arises between Achilles and Agamemnon concerning a female slave; on which Achilles, apprehending himself to be injured, withdraws bis assistance from the rest of the Greeks. The Greeks fall into great distress, and beseech him to beiecon-ciled to them. He refuses to fight for them in person, but sends bis friend Patroelus; and upon his being slain goes forth to revenge his death,and kills Hector. Tbe subject of Fingal is this: Swaran comes to invade Ireland: Cutliullin, the guardian of the young king had applied for assistance to Fingal, who reigned in the opposite coast of Scotland. but before Fingal'sarrival, he is hurried by rash council to encounter Swaran. He is defeated ; he retreats; and desponds. Fingal arrives in this conjunct ure. Tbe battle is for some time dubious; but in the end he conquers Swaran ; and tbe remembrance ofS\varan's being the brother of Agen-decea, who bad once saved his life, makes him dismiss him honourably. Homer it is true, has filled up bis story with a in neb greater variety of particulars than Ossian; and in this has shown a compass of invention superior to that of tbe other poet. liut it must not be forgotten, that though llomer be more circumstantial, his incidents however are less diversified in kind than those of Ossian. War and bloodshed reign throughout the Iliad; and, notwithstanding all the fertility of Homer's invention, there is so much uniformity in bis subjects, that there are few readers who, before the close, arc not tired with perpetual fighting. Whereas in Ossian, the mind is relieved hy a more agreeable diversity. There is u finer mixture of war and heroism, with love and friendship, of martial with tender scenes , than is to be met with perhaps in any other poet. The episodes too have great propriety; as natural, and proper to that age and country: consisting of the song of hards, which arc known to have been the great entertainment of the Celtic heroes in war, as w ell as in peace. These songs are not introduced at random: if you except the episode of Ducbómar and Morna, in the first hook, which, though beautiful,is more unartful than any of the rest, they have always some particular relation to the actor who is interested, or to the events which aro going on; and, whilst they vary tbe scene, they preserve a sufileient connection with the main subject, by the fitness and propriety of their introduction. |
As Fingal's love to Agandecca influences some circumstances of tbe poem , particularly the ho-nourable dismission of Swaran at the end , it was necessary that we should be let into this part of the hero's story. But as it lay without the compass of the present action , it could be regularly introduced nowhere, except in an episode. Accordingly the poet, with as much propriety as if Aristotle himself had directed tbe plan has contrived an episode for this purpose in the song ofCar-ril, at the beginning of the third book. Theconclusion of the poem is strictly according to rule; and is every way noble and pleasing. The reconciliation of the contending heroes, the consolation of Cutliullin, and the general felicity that crowns the action, soothe tbe mind in a very agreeable manner, and form that passage from agitation and trouble, to perfect quiet and repose, which critics require as the proper termination of the epic work. quot;Thus they passed the night in song, and brought back the morning with joy. Fingal arose on tbe heath; and shook his glittering spear in his hand. He moved first to the plains of Lena ; and we followed like a ridge of fire. Spread the sail, said the king of Morven , and catch the,winds that pour from Lena. We rose on tbe wave with songs; and rushed with joy through the foam of tbe ocean. quot; So much for the unity and general conduct of the epic action in Fingal. With regard to the properly of the subject which Aristotle requires, that it should be feigned not historical, he must not be understood so strictly as if he meant to exclude all subjects which have any foundation in truth. For such exclusion would both be unreasonable in itself, and, what is more, would be centrary to tbe practice of Homer, who is known to have founded bis Iliad on historical facts concerning tbe war of Troy, which was famous throughout all Greece. Aristotle means no more than that it is tbe business of a poet not to be a mere annalist of facts, but to embellish truth with beautiful, probable , and useful fic- |
315
|
liona; lo copy nature, as he himself explains it, like painter.», who preserve a likeness, hut exhibit their objects more «rand and beautiful than they are in reality. That Ossian lias followed this course, and huildinjj upon true history, has sufficiently adorned it with poetical fiction for ajjürandmiij; his characters and facts, will not, I believe, he questioned by most readers. At the same time, the foundation which those poets and characters had in truth , and the share which the poet himself had in the transactions which he records, must be considered as nosmnll advantage to bis work. For truth makes an impression on the mind far beyond any fiction; and no man, let bis imagination be ever so strong. relates any events so feelingly as those in which he has been interested; paints any scene so naturally as one which be has seen; or draws any characters in such strong colours as those which be has personally known. It is considered as an advantage of the cpic subject to be taken from a period so distant, as by being involved in the darkness of tradition, may give license to fable. Though Ossian's subject may at (irst view appear unfavourable in this respect, as being taken from his own times, yet when wc reflect that be lived to an extreme old age; that the relates what bad been transacted in another country , at the distance of many years, and after all that race of men who had been the actors were gone oil' the stage; we shall find the objection in a great measure obviated. In so rude an age, when no written records were known, when tradition was loose, and accuracy of any kind little attended to, what was great and heroic in one generation , easily ripened into the marvellous in the next. The natural representation ofhnman characters in an epic poem is highly essential loits merit, and in respect of this, there can be no doubt of Horner's excelling all the heroic poets who have ever wrote. But though Ossian he much inferior to Homer in this article, he will be found to be equal at least if not superior to Virgil; and has indeed given all the display of human nature, which the simple occurrences of his limes could be expected to firnisb. No dead uniformity of character prevails in Fingal; but,on the contrary, the principal characters are not only clearly distinguished , bul sometimes artfully contrasted , so as to illustrate each other. Ossian's heroes are like Homer's, all brave; but their bravery, like those of Homer's too, is of different kinds. For instance, the prud'nt, the sedate, the modest, and circumspect Connal is finely opposed to the presumptuous, rash, overhearing, but gallant and genernus C'almar. Calmar hurries Cutbullin into action by bis temerity ; and when be sees the bad effect of his counsels, he will not survice the disgrace. Conn.d , like another Ulysses, attends Cutbullin to bis retreat, counsels and comforts him under bis misfortune. The fierce, the proud, the high-spirited Swarnn is admirably contrasted with the calm, the moderate and generous Fingal. The character of Oscar is a favourite one throughout the whole poem. The amiable warmth of the young warrior; his eager impetuosity in the day of action; his passion for fame; bis submission to his father; his tenderness for Maivina ; are the strokes of a mastery pencil; the strokes are few ; hut it is the hand of nature, and attracts the heart. Ossian's own character, the old man, the hero and the bard, all in one, presents to us, through he whole work, a most respectable and venerable figure, which we always contemplate with pleasure. Cutbullin is a hero of the highest class: daring, magnanimous and exquisitely sensible to honour. We become attached to his interest, and are deeply touched with his distress; and after the admiration raised for him in the first part of the poem , it is a strong proof of Ossian's masterly genius that he durst adventure to produce to us another hero, compared with whom, even tbc great Cutbullin should be only an inferior personage; and who should rise as far above him, as Cutbullin rises above the rest. |
Here indeed, in the character and description of Fingal, Ossian Iriuinphs almost unrivalled ; for we may boldly defy all antiquity to show us any hero equal to Fingal. Homer's Hector possesses several great and amiable qualities; bul Hector is a secondary personage in the Iliad, not the hero of the work. We see him only occasionally; we know much less of him then we do of Fingal; who nol only in this epic poem , but in Tcmora, and trougbout the rest of Ossian's works, ispresented in all that variety of lights which give the full display of a character. And though Hector faithfully discharges his duty to his country, his friends, and his family, he is tinctured, however, with a degree of the same savage ferocity which prevails among all the Homeric heroes. For we find him exulting over the fallen Patroclus with the most cruel taunts, and telling him , when he lies in the agony of death , that Achilles cannot help him now ; and that in a short time his body stripped naked, and deprived of funeral honours, shall he devoured by the vultures. Whereas in the character of Fingal concur almost all the qualities that can ennoble human nature; that can either make us admire the hero, or love the man. He is not only unconquerable in war, but he makes bis people happy by his wisdom iu tbedays ol peace. He is truly the father of his people. He is known by the epithet of quot;Fingal of the mildest lookquot; ; anil distinguished , on every occasion, by humanity and generosity. He is merciful to his foes; full of affection to his children; full of concern about his friends; and never mentions Agandecca, bis first love, without the utmost tenderness. He is the universal protector of the distressed ; quot;None ever went sad from Fingal. — 0, Oscar! bend thestrong in arms; but spare the |
40
314
|
feeble hand. Be tliou a stream of many tides against the foes of thy people; hut like the gale that moves the grass, to those who ask thine aid. SoTrenmor lived; such Trathal was; and such has Fingal heen. My arm was the support of the injured ; the weak rested behind the lightning of my steel.quot; These were the maxims of true heroism, to which he formed his grandson. His fame is represented as every where spread ; the greatest heroes acknowledge his superiority; his enemies tremble at his name; and the highest encomium that can be bestowed on one whom the poet would most exalt, is to say, that his soul was like the soul of Fingal. To do justice to the poet's merit in supporting such a character as this, I must observe, what is not commonly attended to, that there is no part of poetical execution more dirticult, than todraw a perfect character in such a manner as to render it distinct and affecting to the mind. Some strokes of human imperfection and frailly are what usually give us the most clear view, and the most sensible impression of a character ; because I hey present to us a man such as we have scan ; they recall known features of human nature. When poets attempt to go beyond this range, and describe a faultless hero, they for the most part set before us a sort of vague uudistingui-halde character such as the imagination cannot lay buhl of or realize to itself, as the object of affection. We know how much Virgil has failed in this particular. His perfect hero, jïineas, is an unanimated insipid personage, whom we may pretend to admire, but whom no one can heartily love. But what Virgil has failed in, Ossian , to our astonishment , has successfully executed. Ilis Fingal , though exhibited without any of the common human failings, is nevertheless a real man; a character which touches and inlerests every reader. To this it has much contributed, that the poet has represented him as an old man, and by this has gained the advantage of throwing around liitn a great many circumslances, peculiar lo that ago, which paint him lo the fancy in a more distinct light, lie is surrounded by his family; he instructs his children in the principles of virtue; he is narrator of his past exploits; he is venerable with the grey locks ofage; ho is frequently disposed to moralize, like an old man, on human vanity, and the prospect of death. There is more art, at least more fclicilv in this, than may at first he imagined. For youlb anil old age are the two states of human life, capable of being placed in the most picturesque lights. Middle age is more general and vague, and has fewer circumstances peculiar to the idea of it. And when any object is in a situation that admits it to he rendered particular, and to be clothed with a variety of circumstances, it always stands out more clear and full in poetical description. |
Besides human personages, divine or supernatural agents are often introduced into epic poetry; forming what is called the machinery of it; which most critics bold to be an essential part. The marvellous, it must he admitted, hasalways a great charm fur the bulk of readers. It gratifies the imagination, and allurds room for striking and sublime description. No wonder, therefore, that all poets .should have a strong propensity towards it. But 1 must observe, that nutliing is more difficult than to adjust properly the marvellous with the probable. 11 a poet sacrifice probability, and fill bis work with extravagant supernatural scenes, he spreads over it an ap-pearance of romance and childish fiction ; he transports his reader from this world into a fantastic visionary region ; and loses that wight and dignity which should reign in epic poetry. No work, from which probability is altogether banished , can make a lasting and deep impression, Human manners and actions are always the most interesting objects which can be presented to a human miud. All machinery, therefore, is faulty which withdraws these tuo much from view, or obscures them under a cloud of incredible fictions. Besides being temjierately employed , machinery ought always to have some foundation in popular belief. A poet is by no means at liberty to invent what system of the marvellous he pleases: he must avail himself either of the religious faith , or the superstitious credulity of the country wherein he lives, so as to give an air of probability to events which are most contrary to the common course of nature. In these respects, Ossian appears to me to have been remarkably happy. He has indeed followed the same course with Homer. For it is perfectly absunl to imagine, as some critics have done, that Homer's mythology was invented by him, in consequence of profound reflections on the benefit it would yield to poetiy. Homer was no such refining genius. He found the traditionary stories on which he built his ifiad mingled with popular legends concerning the intervention of the gods, and he adopted these because they amused the fancy. Ossian , in like manner, found the tales of his country full of ghosts and spirits : it is likely he believed them himself; and he introduced them because they jjave his poems that solemn and manellous cast which suited his genius. This was the only machinery be could employ with propriety, because it was the only intervention of supernatural beings, which agreed with the common belief of the country. It was happy; because it did not interfere in the least with the proper displ iy of human characters and actions; because it bad less of the incrcdible lhan most other kinds of poetical machinery ; and because it served to diversify the scene, and to heighten the Mibjocl by an awful grandeur, which is the great design of machinery. As Ossian's mythology is peculiar to himself, |
315
|
and makes a considerable figure in his oilier poems, as well as in Fingal, it may lie proper to mnke some observations on it, independent of its subserviency to epic composition. It turns, for tbe most part, on the appearance? of departed spirits, Tbese, consonantly lo the notions of every rude age, arc represented not as purely immalc-rial, but as tbin airy forms, wbicli can he visible or invisible at pleasure; ibeir voice is feeble, their arm is weak ; but they are endowed with knowledge more than human. In a separate state, they retain the same dispositions which animated them in this life. They ride on the wind; they bend their airy hows, and pursue deer formed of clouds. The ghosts of departed bards continue to sing. Tbe ghosts of departed heroes frequent the fields of their former fame. quot;They rest together in their eaves, and talk of mortal men. Their songs are of other worlds. They come sonietimes to t he ear of rest, and raise their feeble voiccquot;. All this presents to us much the same set of ideas, concerning spirits, as we find in tbe eleventh book of tbc Odyssey, where Ulysses visits tbe regions of tbe dead; and in the twenty-third hook of the Iliad, the ghost of Patroelus, after appearing to Achilles, vanishes precisely like one ofOssinn's, emitting a shrill feeble cry, and melting away like smoke. lint though Homer's and Ossian's ideas concerning ghosts were of tbe same nature, we cannot but observe, that Osssian's ghosts are drawn with much stronger and livelier colours than those of Homer. Ossian describes ghosts with all the particularity of one who had seen and conversed with them , and whose imagination was full of the impression they had left upon it. Ileealls up those awful ami tremendous ideas which the — Simulacra modis pallcntia miris are fitted to raise in tbe human mind; and which, in Shakspeare's style, quot;harrow up the soul.quot; Crugal's ghost, in particular, in the beginning of the second hook of Fingal, may vie with any appearance of this kind , described by any epic or tragic poet whatever. Most poets would have contented themselves with telling us, that he resembled n every particular, the living Crugal; that his form and dress were the same , only bis face more pale and sad ; and that he bore the mark of the wound by which befell. But Ossian sets before our eyes a spirit from the invisible world, distinguished by all those features which astrong astonished imagination would give to a ghost. quot;A dark red stream of fire comes down from the hill. Crugal sat upon the beam ; be that lately fell by the band of Swaran , striving in the battle of heroes. His face is like the beam of the selling moon. His robes are of the clouds of the hill. His eyes are like two decaying flames. Dark is the wound of his breast. —The stars dim-twinkled through his form; and his voice waslike thesound of a distant stream.quot; The circumstance of the stars being beheld, quot;dim-twinkling through his formquot;, is wonderfully picturesque, and conveys the most lively impression of his thin and shadowy substance. The attitude in which he is afterwards placed , and the speech put into his month , are full of that solemn and awful sublimity which suits the subject. quot;Dim, and in tears, he stood, and stretched his pale hand over the hero. Faintly he raised his feeble voice, like the gale of the reedy Lego. — My ghost, o Connal! is on my native hill*; but my corse is on the sands of Ullin. Thou shalt never talk w ith Crugal, or find his lone sleps in the heath, f am light as the blast of Cromla ; and I move like the shadow of mist. Connal, son of ColgarI I see the dark cloud of death. It hovers over the plains of Lena. The sons of green Erin shall fall. Uemove from the field of ghosts. Like the darkened moon he retired in the midst of the whistling blast.quot; |
Several other appearances of spirits might be pointed out, as among the most sublime passages of Ossian's poetry. The circumstances of them are considerably diversified; and the scenery always suited lo the occasion. quot;Oscar, slowly ascends the bill. The meteors of nightset on the heath before him. A distant torrent faintly roars. Unfrequent blasts rush through the aged oaks. The half-cnllghtened moon sinks dim and red behind the hill. Feeble voices are heard on the heath. Oscar drew his sword.quot; — Nolbing can prepare the fancy more happily for the awful scene that is to follow. '•Trenmor came from his hill, at the voice of his mighty sou. A cloud , like the steed of tbe stranger, supported his airy limbs. His robe is of the mist ofLano, that brings death to the people. His sword is a green meteor, half-extinguished. Mis face is without form and dark. He sighed thrice over the hero; and thrice tbe winds of the night roared around. Many Mere his words to Oscar. — He slowly vanished , like a mist that melts on the sunny hillquot;. quot;To appearances of this kind we can find no parallel among the Greek or Roman poets. They bring to mind that noble de-scrlplion in the hook of Joh: quot;Inthoughls from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men, fear came upon me, and trembling , which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed before my face. The hair of my flesh stood up. It stood still; hut I could not discern the form thereof. An image was before mine eyes. There was silence; and I heard a voice— Shall mortal man he more just than God ?quot; As Ossian's supernatural beings arc described with a surprising forcc of imagination , so they are introduced with propriety. We have only three ghosts in Fingal: that of Crugal, which comes to warn the host of impending destruction and lo advise them lo save themselves by retreat; that of Evirallin, the spouse of Ossian, which calls him to rise and rescue their son from danger; and thai of Agandecca, which, just before the last |
316
|
engagement with Swaran , moves Fin gal to pity , I)y mourning for ihc approacliing destruction of lier kinsmen and people. In tlie other poems, ghosts sometimes Appear whem invoked 1o foretell futurity; frequently, according to the notions of these times, they come as forerunners of misfor-tune or death to those whom they visit ; sometimes they inform their friends at a distance of their own death; and sometimes they are introduced to heighten the scenery on some great and solemn occasion. quot;A hundred oaks burn to the wind ; and faint light gleams over the heath. The ghosts of Ardvcn pass through the heam ; and show their dim and distant forms. Cotnala is half-unseen on her meteor; and llidallan is sullen and dim.quot; — quot;The aw ful faces of other times looked from the clouds of Ciona.quot; — quot;Fercuth I I saw the ghost of night. Silent he stood on that hank ; his rohe of mist Hew on the wind. I could behold his tears. An aged man he seemed , and full of thought.quot; The ghosts of strangers mingle not with those of the natives. quot;She is seen; but not like tlie daughters of tlie hill. Her robes are from the stranger's land ; and she is still alone.quot; When the ghost of one whom we had formerly known is introduced , the propriety of the Imng character is stil preserved. This is remarkable in the appear-unco of Calinar's ghost, in the poem entitled, The death of Cuthullin. He seems toforhodeCuth-bullin's death, and to beckon him to his cave. Cuthullin reproaches him for supposing that he could he intimidated by such prognostics.''Why dost thou bend thy dai k eye on me, ghost of the car-borne Cal mar ? Won hist thou frighten me, O Malha's son I from the battles of Cor mac ? Thy hand was nol feeble in « ar; neither was thy voice for peace. How art thou changed, chief of l.aral if now thou dost advice tolly. Retire thou to thy care; thou art not Calinar's ghost; he delighted in battle; and his arm was like the thunder of heaven.quot; Calmar makes no return to this seeming reproach ; but'' lie retired in his blast withjoy; for he bad heard the voice of his praisequot;. This is precisely the ghost of Achilles in Homer; who, notwithstanding all the dissatisfaclion he expresses' w ith bis state in the region of the dead, as soon as he had heard his son Neoptolemus praised for his gallant bi baviour, strode away with silent joy to rejoin the rest of the shades. |
It is a great advantage of Ossian's mythology that it is not local and temporary, like that of most other ancient poets, which, of couise, is apt to seem ridiculous after the superstitions have passed away on which it was founded. Ossian's mythology is, to speak so, the mythology of human nature; for it is founded on what has been the popular belief, in all ages and countries, and nndcr all forms of religion, concerning the appearances of departed spirits. Homer's machinery is always lively and amusing ; but far from being always supported with proper dignity. The indecent squabbles among his gods surely do no honour to epic poetry. Where as Ossian's machinery has dignity upon all occasions. It is indeed a dignity of the dark and awful kind ; but this is proper; because coincident with the strain and spirit of the poetry. A light and gay mythology , like Homer's, would have been perfectly unsuitable to the subject on which Ossian's genius was employed. But though his machinery he always solemn, it is not, however, always dreary or dismal; it is enlivened , as much as the subject would permit, by those pleasant and beautiful appearances, which be sometimes introduces, of the spirit of the hill. These are gentle spirits; descending on sun-beams , fair-moving on the plain; their forms white and bright; their voices sweet; and their visits to men propitious. The greatest praise that can be given to the beauty of a living woman, is to say; quot;she is fair as the ghost, of the hill, when it moves in a sun-beam at noon , over tbc silence of Morvenquot;The hunter shall hear my voice from his booth. He shall fear, but love my voice. For sweet shall my voice bo for my friends; for pleasant were they to me Kcsides ghosts, or the spirits of departed men, we find in Ossian some instances of other kinds of machinery. Spirits of a superior nature to ghosts are sometimes alluded to, which have power to embroil the deep — to call forth winds and storms, and pour them on the land of the stranger — to overturn forests, and to send death among the people. We have prodigies too ; a shower of blood ; and when some disaster is he-falling at a distance; the sound of death heard on the strings of Ossian's harp: all perfectly consonant, not only to the peculiar ideas of northern nations, hut to the general current of a superstitious imagination in all countries. The description of Fingal's airy hall, in the poem called Berratbon . and of the ascent of Malvina into it, deserves particular notice, as remarkably noble and magnificent. But above all, the engagement of Fiugal with the spirit of Loda, in Carrie thura, cannot he mentioned without admiration. 1 forbear transcribing the passage, as it must have drawn the attention of every one who has read the works of Ossian. The undaunted courage of Fingal, opposed to all the terrors of the Scandinavian god — the appearance and the speech of that awful spirit — the wound which he receives, and the shriek which be sends forth, quot;as, rolled into himself, be rose npon the wind quot; ; are full of the molt;t amn/.ing and terrible majesty. 1 know no passage more sublime in the writings of any uninspired author. The fiction is calculated to aggrandize the hero, which it does to a high di gree; nor is it so unnatural or wild a fiction as might at first be thought. According to the notions of those limes, supernatural beings were material, anil consequently, vulnerable. The spirit of Loda was not acknowledged as a deity by |
517
|
ringal; lie did not worship at tiie stonn of his power; lie plainly considered him as the pod of his cncmii'S alone; as a local deity, whose dominion extended no farther than to the regions where he was worshipped ; who had , then-fore no title to threaten him, and no claim to his suh-mission. We know there are poetical precedents of great authority for fictions fully as extravagant; and if Homer he forgiven for making Dioined attack and wound in haltle the gods whom that chief himself worshipped , Ossian is surely pardonable for making his hero superior to the god of a foreign territory. |
Notwithstanding the poetical advantages which 1 have ascribed to Ossian's machinery , I acknowledge it would have heen much more heantiful and perfect had the author discovered some knowledge of a Supreme Itcing, Also his silence on this head has been accounted for by the learned and ingenious translator in a very probable manner, yet still it must be held a considerable disadvantage to the poetry. For the most august and lofty ideas that can cinbellish poetry are derived from the belief of a divine administration of the universe : and hence the invocation of a Supreme Being, or at least some superior powers who arc conceived as presiding over human affairs, the solemnities of religious worship , prayers preferred, and assistance implored on critical occasions, appear with great dignity in the works of almost all poets as chief ornaments of their compositions. The absence of all such religious ideas from Ossian's poetry is a sensible blank in it; the more to be regretted, as we can easily imagine what an illiislrious figure they would have made under the management of such a genius as his; and how finely they would have been adapted to many situations which occur in his works. |
Deze redenaar, stnalsman en schriiver werd geboren te Dublin in 1730, maar begaf zicb in 1750 nanr Londen en overleed in 1797 ; vóór zijn lidmnatschap in liet lagerhuis zijn van hem verschenen : Vindication of Natural Society cn Philosopliieal Inquiry into the origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful (beiden ia 1756); Account of the European Settlements in America (naamloos in 1757); The Annual Resister (1739), waarvan hij later de hoofdre-daktie op zieh nam of daaraan medewerkte. Gedurende zijn loopbaan als lid van 't lagerhuis (1706—1794) ondcr-Bcheidde hij zich door zijn welsprekendheid , door 't vuur van zijn redevoeringen en maakte zich door de uitgave van zijn staatkundige schriften vermaard; de voornaamste daarvan zijn: Thoughts on te Cause of the present Discontents (1770); Reflections on the Revolution in France (1790); Appeal from the New to the Old Whigs (1792); Letter to a Noble Lord on his Pension (1790); Letters on the Proposals fur Pence with the Regicide Directory of France (1796 en 1797); Observations on the conduct of the Minority (1797) ; behalven zijn groote redevoeringen, welke hij zelf ter perse zond, waarvan de voornaamste zijn t Ou American Taxation (1775); On the Economical Reform Bill (1780) ; On Mr. Fox's India Bill (17B3); On the Nabob of Arcot's Debts (1785); Oa the impeachment of Mr. Hustings (1789), cnz. llij was de eerste en is thans nog de grootste schrijver over de wijsbegeerte der praktische staatkunde en maakte zich ook vermaard op 't gebied van de cngelsche letterkunde door zijn andere werken.
Reflections on the revolution In France.
|
Vouwill observe, that from the Magna Charta to the declaration of right, it has been the uniform policy of our constitution lo claim and assert onr liberties , as an entailed inheritance derived to us from our forefathers, and to be transmitted lo our posterity; as an estate specially belonging to the people of this kingdom, without any reference whatever to any other more general or prior right. By this means our constitution preserved an unity in so great a diversity of its parts. We have an inheritable crown ; an inheritable peerage ; and a house of commons and a people inheriting privileges, franchises, and liberties, from a long line of ancestors. This policy appears to me to be the result of profound reflection ; or rather the happy effect of following nature, which is wisdom without rc-fleclion , and above it. A spirit of innovation is generally the result of a selfish temper and confined views. People will not look forward lo posterity, who never look backward to their ancestors. |
Besides the people of England well know, that the idea of inheritance furnishes a sure principle of conservation , and a sure principleof transmission ; without at all excluding a principle of improvement. It leaves acquistjon free; but it secures what it acquires. Whatever advantages arc obtained by a state proceeding on these maxims, are locked fust as in a sort of family settlement; grasped as in a kind of mortmain for ever. By a constitutional policy, working after the pattern of nature, we receive, we hold , we transmit our government, and our privileges, iu the same manner in w hich we enjoy, transmit our property and our lives. The institiilionsof policy, the goods of fortune, the gifts of Providence, are handed down , to us and from ns, in the same course and order. Our political system is placed in a Just correspondence and symmetry with the order of the world, and with the mode of existence decreed to a permanent body composed of transitory parts; wherein , by the disposition of a stupendous wis- |
518
|
dom, moulding together the great mysterious incorporation of the human race, the whole, at one time, is never ohl, or middle-aged, or yoiing, but in a condition, of unchangeable constancy, moves on through the varied tenor of perpetual decay, fall, renovation, and progression. Thus, by preserving the method of nature in the conduct of the state, in what we improve we are never wholly new; in what we retain, we are never wholly obsolete. By adhering in this manner and on those principles to our forefathers, we are guided not hy the superstition of antiquarians, bnt hy the spirit ofphylosophicanalogy. In this choice of inheritance we have given loonr frame of polity the imageof a relation in blood; binding up thcconslilution of our country with our dearest domestic ties; adopting our fundamental laws into the bosom of our family affections ; keeping inseparable, and cherishing wit h the warmth of all their combined and mutually reflected charilies, our state, our hearths, our sepulchres, and our altars. Through the same plan of a conformity to nature in our artificial institutions, and by calling in the aid of her unerring and powerful instincts, to fortify the fallible ami feeble contrivances of our reason, we have derived several other, and those no small benefits, from considering our liberties in the light of an inheritance. Always acting if in the presence of canonized forefathers, the spirit of freedom, leading in itself to misrule and excess, is tempered with awful gravity. This idea of a liberal descent inspires us with a sense of bubitual native dignity, which prevents that upstart insolence almost inevitably adhering toand disgracing those who are the first acquirers of any distinction. By this means our liberty becomes a noble freedom. It carries an imposing and majestic aspect. It has a pedigree and illustrating ancestors. It has its bearings and its ensign armorial. It has its gallery of portraits, its monumental inscriptions, its records, evidences, and titles. We procure reverence to our civil institutions on the principle upon which nature tenches us to revere individual men; on acconnt of their age; and on account of those from whom they are descended. All your sophisters cannot produce any thing better adapted to preserve a rat ional and manly freedom than the course that we have pursued, who have chosen our nature rather than our speculations, our breasts rather than our inventions , for the great conservatories and magaiines of our rights and priveleges. |
Whilst they are possessed , by these notions, it is vain to talk to them of the practice of their ancestors, the fundamental laws of their country, the fixed form of a constitution, whose inerils are confirmed hy the solid test of long experience, and an increasing public strength and national prosperity. They despise experience as the wisdom of unlettered men; and as for the rest, they have wrought under-gronnd a mine that will blow up at one grand explosion, all examples of antiquity, all precedents, charters, and acts of parliament. They have 'the rights of menquot;. Against these there can he no prescription; against these no argument is binding: these admit no temperament, and no compromise: any thing withheld from theirfull demand is so much of fraud anil injustice. Against these their rights of men let no go\erniiient look for security in the length of its continuance , or in the justice and lenity ofits administration.The objections of these spcculatists, if its forms do not quadrate with their theories, are as valid against such an old and beneficent government as against the mo-t violent tyranny, or the greenest usurpation. They are always at issue with governments, not on a question of abuse, but a question of competency, and a question of title. I have nothing to say to the clumsy suhtilty of their political metaphysics. Let them be their amusement in the schools. — '•Ilia se jactat in aula — jEoIhs , et clan so ventorum carcere regnet,' — But let them not break prison to hurst like a Levanter, to sweep the earth with their hurricanc, and to break up the fountains of the great deep to overwhelm us. Far am I from denying In theory; full as far is my heart from withholding in practice, if I wereof power to give or to withhold , the real rights of men. In denying their false claims of right, 1 do not mean to injure those which are real andaresuch as their pretended rights would totally destroy. If civil society be made for the advantages of man , all t he advantages for which it is made become bis right. It is an institution of beneficence ; and law itself is only henificence acting by a rule. Men have a right to live hy that rule; they have a right to do justice; as between their fellows, whether their follows arc in politic function or in ordinary occupation. They have a right to the fruits of their industry, and to the means of making their industry fruitful. They have a right to the acquisitions of their parents; to the nourishment and improvement of their offspring ; to instruction in life and to consolation in death. Whatever each man can separately do, without trespassing upon others, he has a right to do for himself; and he has a right to a fair portion of all which society , with all its combinations of skill and force, can do in his favour. In this partnership all men have equal rights; hut not to equal things. He that has but five shillings in the partnership, has as gooil aright to it, as be that lias five hundred pounds to bis larger proportion. Bnt he has not a right to an equal dividend in the product of the joint stock; and as to the share of power , authority and direction which each individual ought to have in the management of the stale, that I must deny to he amongst the direct original rights of man in civil society; for I have in my contern- |
519
|
plation the civil social man, .nul noollicr. ]t is a thing; to be seltloil by convention. If civil society be the oil'sprinjj of convention, that convention must be its law. That convention must limit and modify nil the descri|)tionR of constitution which are formed under it. Every sort of lejjii-laturc, judicial, or executory power, are its cieatures. They can have no beinj; in any other stale of ihingsi and hovv can any man claim, under the conventions of civil society, rights which do not so much as suppose its existence? Rights which are absolutely repugnant to il? One of the first motives to civil society, and which becomes one of its fundamental rules, is, 'that no man should he judge in his own cause. By this each person has at once divested himself of the first fundamental right of uncovenanted man, that is. to judge for himself, and to assert his own cause. He abdicates all right to he his own governor. He inclusively, in a great measure abandons the right of self-defence, the first law of nat lire. Man cannot enjoy the rights of an uncivil and of a civil state together. Thai he may obtain justice, he gives up his right of determining, what it is in points the most essential to him. That he may secure some liberty, he makes a surrender in trust of the whole of it. Government is not made in virtue of natural rights, which may and do exist in total independence of it; and exist in much greater clearness, and in a much greater degree of abstract perfection : but tiieir abstract perfection is their practical defect. By having a right to every thing they want every thing. Government is a contrivance of human wisdom to provide for buinan wants. Men have a right that these wants should be provided for by this wisdom. Among these wants is to be reckoned the want, out of civil society, of a sul'fi-eientrestraint upon their passions. Society requires not only that the passions ofindividualsshould he subjected, but that even iu the mass and body as well as in the individuals, the inclinations of men should frequently be thwarted . their will controlled, ami their passions brought intosubjec-tion. This can only be done ny a power out of themselves; and not, in theexercise of its function, subject to that will and to those passions which it is its ollicc to bridle and subdue. In this sense the restraints on men as well as their liberties, are to be reckoned among their rights. But as the liberties and the restrictions vary with times and circumstances, and admit of infinite inodifiea-tions, they cannot be settled upon any abstract rule; and nothing is so foolish as to discuss them upon that principle. |
The nioment you abate any thing from the full rights of men, each to govern himself, and sufTer any artificial pusitive limitation upon those rights, from that moment the whole organization of government becomes a consideration of convenience. This it is which makes the constitution of a state, and the due distribution of its powers, a matter of the most delicate and complicated skill. It requires a deep knowledge of human nature and human necessities, and ol the things which facilitate or obstruct the various ends which are to be pursued by the mechanism of civil institutions. The stale is to have recruits to its strength, and remedies to its distempers. What is the use of discussing a man's abstract right to food or medicine? The question is upon the method of procuring and administering them. In that deliberation I shall always advise to call in the aid of t be farmer and the physician , rather than the professor of metaphysics. The science of constructing a commonwealth, or renovating it, or reforming it, is, like every other experimental science, not to be taught a priori. Nor is it a short experience that can instruct us in that practical science; because the real eflVcts of moral causes are not always immediate; bul that which in the first instance is prejudicial may be excellent in its remoter operation; and its excellence may arise even from the ill effects it produces in tbo beginning. The reverse also happens; and very plausible schemes, with very pleasing commencemciits, have often shameful and lamentable conclusions. In states there are often some obscure and almost latent causes, things which appear at first view of little moment, on which a very great part of its prosperity or adversity may most essentially depend. The science of government being tbi reforc so practical in itself, and intended for such practical purposes, a matter which requires experience, and even more experience than any person can gain in his whole life, however sagacious and observing he may be, it is with infinite caution that any miin ought to venture upon pulling down an edifice which has answered in any tolerable degree for ages the common purposes of society, or on building it up again, without having models and patterns of approved utility before his eyes. These metbaphysic rights entering into common life, like rays of light which pierce intoa dense medium, are, by the laws of nature, refracted from their straight line. Indeed in the gross and complicated mass of human passions and concerns, the primitive rights of men undergo such a variety of refract ons and reflections, that it becomes absurd to talk of ihem is if they continued in thesimplicity of their original direction. The nature of man is intricate; the objects of society are of the greatest possible complexity: and therefore no simple disposition or direction of power can be suitable cither to man's nature, or to the quality of his affairs. When I hear the simplicity of contrivance aimed at and boasted of in any m w political constitutions, i am at no loss to decide that the artificers are grossly ignorant of their trade, or totally negligent of their duty. The simple governments are fundamentally |
320
|
defective , to say no worse of them. If you were to contemplate sociely in bnt one point of view, all tliese simple modes of polity are infinitely cap-tivatinj;. In effect each would ans«er its single end mncli more perfectly tliiin the more complex is ahle to attain all its complex purposes. But it is hatter that the whole should he imperfectly and anomalously answered, than that, while some parts arc provided for with p/eat exactness , others mijjht he totally nojjiected , or perhaps materially injured, hy the over-care of a favourite inemher. The pretended rights of these theorists are extremes; and in proportion as they are metaphysically true, they are morally and politically false. The rijjhts of men are in a sort of middle, incapable of definition, hut not impossible to he discerned. The rights of men in governments are their advantages; and these are often in balances between differences of good; in compromises sometimes between good and evil , and sometimes between evil and evil. Political reason is a computing principle; adding, subtracting, multiplying, and dividing morally and not metaphysically or mathematically, true moral deno^ mi nat ions. |
By these theorists the right of the people is almost always sophistically confounded with their power. The body of the community. whenever it can come to act, can meet with no effectual resistance ; but till power and ri;)bt are the same, the whole body of them has no right inconsistent with virtue, ami the first of all virtues, prudence. Men have no right to what is not reasonable, and to what is not for their benefit; for though a pleasant writer said, Liceat jterire jjoetis, when one of them , in cold blood , is said to have leaped into the flames of a voleanie revolution , Arden-tem frigidus jEtnam insiluit, I consider such a frolic rather as an unjustifiable poetic licence, than as one of the franchises of Parnassus; and whether he were poet or divine or politician , that chose to exercise this kind of right, I think that more wise, because more charitable though ts would urge me rather to save the man , than to preserve his hraien slippers as the monuments of his folly. |
Effccfs of Sympathy In the Distresses of Others.
|
To examine this point concerning the effect of tragedy in a proper manner, we must previously consider, bow we are affected by the feelings of our fellow-creatures in circumstances of real distress. 1 am convinced we have a degree of delight, and that no small one, in the real misfortunes and pains of others; for, let the affect ion be what it will in appearance, if it does not make us shun such objects, if, on the contrary, it induces ua to approach them, if it makes us dwell upon them, in this rase, I conceive we must have a delight or pleasure of some species or other, in contemplating objects of this kind. Do we not read the authentic histories of scenes of this nature with as much pleasure as romances or poems, where the incidents arc fictitious? The prosperity of no empire, the grandeur of no king, can so agreeably affect in the reading, as the ruin of the state of Macedon, and the distress of its unhappy prince. Such a catastrophe touches us in history, as much as the destruction of Troy does in fable. Our delight in cases of this kind is very greatly heightened, if the sufferer he some excellent person who sinks under an unworthy fortune. Scipio and Cato arc both virtuous characters; but we are more deeply affected by the violent death of the one, and the ruin of the great cause he adhered to, than with tt e deserved triumphs and uninterrupted prosperity of the other; for terror is a passion wInch always produces delight when it does not press too close, and pity is a passion accompanied with pleasure, because it arises from love and social affection. Whenever we are formed by nature to any active purpose, the passion which animates ns to it is attended with delight, or a pleasure of some kind let the subject-matter he what it will; and as our creator has designed we should be united together by so strong a bond as that of sympathy, he has therefore twisted along with it a proportionable quantity of this ingredient; and always in the greatest proportion where our sympathy is most wanted, in the distresses of others. If this passion was simply painful, we should shun, with the greatest care, all persons and places that could excite such a passion , as some, who are so far gone in indolence as not to endure any strong impression, actually do. IJut the case is widely different with the greater part of mankind ; there is no spectacle we so eagerly pursue, as that of some uncommon and grievous calamity; so that whether the misfortune is before our eyes, or whether they are turned hack to it in history, it always touches with delight; but it is not an unmixed delight, hut blended with no small uneasiness. The delight wo have in such things, hinders us from shunning scenes of misery; and the pain we feel, prompts us to relieve ourselves by relieving those who suffer; and all this antecedent to any reasoning, by an instinct that works us to its own purposes, without our concurrence. |
321
Reeds in 1810 (in een work getitelJ : Junius IdentiGeil with a celebrated living character) werd beweerd, dat de schrijver van deze brieven , altijd alleen onder den naam van Junius bekend , Sir Philip Francis (een schrijver en staatsman van eenipen naam 1740—181S) zon zijn, hetgeen men in 1825 en 1842 wederom met veel grond heeft trachten te weerleggen: eeu vergelyk van handschriften heeft echter 't eerst vermoeden al meer en meer waarschijnlijkheid gegeven; doch het is hier de plaats niet, en wij achten ons ook daartoe niet bevoegd, om als sclieidsrcgters op te treden. Het eerste stuk van den schrijver der brieven, wie hij dan ook z\jn moge, verscheen in 1767 , doch zijn negen-en-zestig brieven van 21 January 1769 tot 2 November 1771; er zijn ook brieven van hem, die gedurende 1772 en 1773 geschreven werden. In die staatkundige brieven werd George III en zijn ministerie met do scherpste wapens, scherts gepaard met welsprekendheid , bestreden : zij behooren in IDugelaDd tot de meest bekende stukken en tot de beste voortbrengselenquot; van 't engelsch proza.
To the Printer of The Public Advertiser.
|
Sir, When llie complaints of a bravo and powerful people arc observed lo increase in proportion to the wrongs they have sufl'ercd , wlien, instead of sinking into submission , they arc roused to resistance the time will soon arrive, at whicb every inferior consideration must yield lo tbe security of tbe Sovereign, and to tiie general safely of the state. There is a moment of dilFiculty and danger, at which flattery and falsehood can no longer deceive, and simplicity itself can no longer be misled. Let us suppose it arrived ; let us suppose a gracious, well intentioned prince, made sensible, at last, of the great duly lie owes lo bis people, and of bis own disgraceful situation ; that lie looks round him for assistance, and asks fur no advice, but bow to gratify the wishes and secure tbe happiness of his subjects. In these circmn-stancis, it may be matter of curious speculation to consider, if an honest man were permitted to approach a king, in what terms be would address himself lo his sovereign. Let it be imagined, no matter bow improbable, that the first prejudice against bis character is removed; that the ceremonious difTicuIliesof an audience are surmounted ; that be feels himself animated by tbe purest and most honourable afiections to bis king and country ; and that tbe great person whom he addresses, has spirit enough to bid him speak freely, and understanding enough to listen to him with attention. Unacquainted with the vain impertinence of forms, lie would deliver his sentiments -wilh dignity and firmness, hut not without respect. Sir, |
It is tbe misfortune of your life, and originally tbe cause of every reproach and distress whicb has attended your government, that you should never have heen acquainted with the language of truth, until you heard it in the complaints of your people. It is not, however, too late to correct tbe error of your education. We are still inclined to make an indulgent allowance for the pernicious lessons you received in your youth, and to form the most sanguine hopes from the natural benevolence of your disposition. We are far from thinking you capable of a direct, deliberate purpose to invade those original rights of your subjects, on which all their civil and political libe rties depend. Had it been possible for us to entertain a suspicion so dishonourable to your character, we should long since have adopted a style of remonstrance very distant from the humility of complaint. Tbe doctrine inculcated by our laws, that the King can do no wrong, is admitted without reluclance. We separate the amiable, good-natured prince, from the folly and treachery of his servants, and the private virtues of the man from tiie vices of his government. Were it not for this just distinction , I know not whether your Majesty's condition, or that of tbe English nation, would deserve most lo he lamented. I would prepare your mind fora favourable reception of truth, by removing every painful, ofl'ensive idea of personal reproach. Your subjects, Sir, wish for nothing, but that, as they are reasonable and affectionate enough to separate your person from your government, so you, in your turn , should distinguish between the conduct which becomes tbe permanent dignity of a King, and that which serves only to promote tbe temporary interest and miserable ambition of a Minister. You ascended the throne with a declared, and , I doubt not, a sincere resolution of giving universal satisfaction to yonr subjects. You found them pleased with the novelty of a young prince, whose countenance promised even more than bis words; and loyal to you, not only from principle, but passion. It was not a cold profession of allegiance to the first magistrate, but a partial, mil- |
41
522
|
mated attachment to a favourite princo , the native of llieir counlry. They did not wait lo examine your conduct nor to lie determined hy experience, hut gave you a generous credit for the future hicsfings of your reign , and paid you in advance the dearest tribute of their affections. Sucii, Sir, was once tiie disposition of a people, who now surround your throne with reproaches and complaints. — Do justice to yourself. Banish from your mind those unworthy opinions, with which some interested persons have laboured to possess you. — Distrust the men who tell you that the English are naturally light and inconstant; that they complain without a cause. Withdraw your confidence equally from all parties; from minister, favourites, and relations; and let there be one moment in your life, in which you have consulted your own umlerstanding. When you affectedly renounced the name of Englishman , believe me, sir, you were persuaded to pay a very ill-judged compliment lo one part of your subjects, at the expense of anolher. While the natives of Scotland are not in actual rebellion, they are undoubtedly entitled lo protection : nor do I mean to condemn the policy of giving some encouragement to the novelty ot their affictions for the House of Ilauovcr. 1 am ready to hope for everything from their new-born zeal, and from the future steadiness of their allegiance; hut, hitherto they have no claim to your favour. To honour them with a determined predilection and confidence, in exclusion of your English subjects, who placed your family, and, in spite of treachery and rebellion, have supported it upon the throne, is a mistake too gross even for the unsuspecting generosity of youlh. In his error, we see a capital violation of the most obvious rules of policy and prudence. We trace it, however, to an original bias in your education, and are ready to allow for your inexperience. To the same early iniluenc we attribute il, that you have descended to take a share, not only in the narrow views and interests of particular persons, but in the fatal malignity of their passions. At your accession to the throne, the whole system of government was altered, not from wisdom or deliberation, but because it had been adopted by your predecessor. A little personal motive of pique and resentment was sufficient to remove the ablest servants of the Crown ; but it is not in this country. Sir, that such men can bo dishonoured hy the frowns of a King. They were dismissed but could not he disgraced. Without entering into a minuter discussion of the merits of the peace, we may observe, in the imprudent hurry with which the first overtures from Fiance were accepted , in the conduct of the negociation , and terms of the ticaly, the strongest marks of that precipitate spirit of concession, with which a certain part of your subjects have been at all times ready to purchase a peace with the natural enemies of this country. On your part we are satisfied, that every thing was honourable and sincere; and, if England was sold to France, wo doubt not that your Majesty was equally betrayed. The conditions of the pence were matter of grief and surprise lo your subjects, but not the immediate cause of their present discontent. |
Hitherto, Sir, you bad been sacrificed to the prejudices and passions of others. With w hat firmness will you bear the mention of your own ? A man , not very honourably distinguished in the world, commences a formal attack upon your favourite, considering nothing but how lie might best expose his person and principles to detestation, and the national cbaractcr of his countrymen to contempt. The natives of that country, Sir, are as much distinguished by a peculiar character as by your Majesty's favour. Like another chosen people, they have been conducted into the land of plenty, where they find themselves effectually marked, and divided from mankind. There is hardly a period at which the most irregular character may not be redeemed. The mistakes of one sex find a retreat in patriotism , those of the other in devotion. Mr. Wilkes brought with him in politics the same liberal sentiments hy which his private conduct had been directed; and seemed to think , that, as there arc few excesses in which an English gentleman may not be permitted to indulge, the same latitude was allowed him in the choice of bis political principles, and in the spirit of maintaining them. I mean loslate, nutentirely lo defend, bis conduct. In the earnestness of his zeal, he suffered some unwarrantable insinuations to escape him. He said more than moderate men would justify; but not enough to entitle him to the honour ol your Majesty's personal resentment. The rays of royal indignalion, collected upon him, served only lo illuminate, and could not consume. Animated by the favour of the people on the one side, and healed by persecution on ibe other, his views and sentiments changed wilh his situation. Hardly serious at first, be is now an enthousiast. The coldest bodies warm wilh opposition , the hardest sparkle in collision. — There is a holy mistaken zeal in politics, as well as religion, liy persuading others, we convince ourselves. The passions are engaged, and create a maternal affecton in the mind, «bieb forces us lo love the cause for which we suffer. Is this a contention worthy of a king? Are you not sensible how much the meanness of the cause gives an air of ridicule to the serious diflienllies into which you have been betrayed ? The destruction of one man has been now, for many years, the sole object of your government ; and , if there can be anylhing still more disgraceful, we have seen, for such an object, the utmost, influence of the executive power, and every ministerial artifice, exerted without success. IVor can you ever succeed , unless he should ho imprudent enough to |
325
|
forfeit tlie protection of those laws lo wliicli you owe your crown ; or unless your minister should persuade you lo make it a question of force alone, and try ihe whole strengt li of governrnent in opposition lo the people. The lessons he lias received, from experience, will probably guard him from such excess of folly; and, in your Majesty's virtues, we find an unquestionable assurance, that no illegal violence will he attempted. Far from suspecting you ofso horrible a design, we would attrihute his continued violation of the laws, and even the last enormous attack upon the vital principles of the constitution, loan ill-advised, unworthy, personal resentment. From one false step, you have been betrayed in to another; and, as the cause was unworthy of you, your ministers were determined that the prudence executed should correspond with the wisdom and dignity of the design. They have reduced you to the necessity of choosing out of a variely of dillTi-cullies; to a situation so unhappy, thai you can neither do wrong without ruin , or right without affliction. These worthy servants have undoubtedly given you many singular proofs of their abilities, Not contented w ith making Mr. Willies a man of importance, they have judiciously transferred the question from the rights anil interests of one man, to the most important right ami interests of the people: and forced yoursuhjecta, from wishing well to the cause of an individual, lo unite with him in their own. Let them proceed as they have begun, and your Majesty need not doubt that tho catastrophe will do no dishonour to the comluct of the piece. The circumstances lo which you are reduced , will not admit of a compromise with the English nation. Undecisive, qualifying mciisnrcs, will disgrace your government still more than open violence; and, wilbout satisfying the people, will excite their contempt. They have loo much understanding and spirit to accept of an indirect satisfaction for a direct injury. Nothing less than a repeal, as formal as the resolution itself, can heal the wound which has been given lo the constitution, nor will any thing less he accepted. I can readily believe, that there is an influence sufficient lo recall that pernicious vote.The House of Commons undoubtedly consider their duty to the Crown, as paramount lo all other obligations. To us they are only indebted for an accidental existence, and have justly transferred their gratitude from their parents to their benefactors; from those who gave them birth to the minister , from whose benevolence they derive the comforts and pleasure of their political life; who has laken the tenderest care of their infancy, and relieves their necessities, without offending their delicacy. — But, if it were possible for their integrity lo he degraded to a condition so vile and abject, that compared with it, the present estimation they stand in is a state of honour and respect, consider. Sir, in what manner you will afterwards proceed. Can you conceive that the people of ibis country w ill long submit to be governed by so flexible a House of Commons? It is not in the nature of human society, that any form of government, in such circumstances, can long be preserved. In ours the general contempt of the people is a fatal as their detestation. Such, I am persuaded, would be the necessary effect of any base concession made by the present House of Commons; and , as a qualifying measure ■would not he accepted, it remains for you lo decide, whether you will, at any hazard, support a set of men who have reduced you to ibis unhappy dilemna, or whether you will gratify the united wishes of the w hole people of England , by dissolving the parliament. |
Taking it for granted, as I do very sincerely, ibat you have personally no design against tlie constitution , nor any view, inconsistent with the good of your subjects, I think you cannot besilalc upon the choice which il equally concerns your interests and your honour to adopt. On one side you ha/.ard the alïuction of all your Iinglish subjects; you relinquish every hope of repose to yourself, and you endanger the establishment of your family for ever. All Ibis you venture fur no object whatsoever; or, for such an object as it would bo an affront to you lo name. Men of sense will examine your conduct with suspicion ; while those, who arc incapable of comprehending to what degree they are injured, afllicl you with clamours equally insolent and unmeaning. Supposing it possible that no fatal struggle should ensue, you determine , at once, lo he unhappy, without the hope of a compensation, cither from interest or ambition. If an English King be hated or despised , he must be unhappy : and ibis, perhaps , is the only political truth which ho ought to be convinced of, without experiment. But if the English people should no longer confine their resentment to a submissive representation of their wrongs; if, following the glorious example of their ancestors, they should no longer appeal lo the creature of the constitution , but to lhat high Being, who gave them the rights of humanity, whose gifts it were sacrilege lo surrender, let me ask you , Sir, upon what part of your subjects would you rely for assistance ? The people of Ireland have heen uniformly plundered and oppressed. In return , they give you every day fresh marks of their resentment. They despise the miserable governor you have sent them , because he is the creature of Lord Bule: nor is il from any natural confusion in their ideas, that ihcy are so ready to confound the original of a King, with the disgraceful representation of him. The distance of ibe colonies would make it impossible for them to lake an active concern in your affairs, if they were as well ulFucted lo your |
324
|
{jovernment, as they oncc pretended to he to your })crsori. They were ready enough to distinguish letween you and your ministers. They complained of an act of the legislature, but traced the origin of it no higher than to tlie servants of the crown : they pleased themselves with the hope that their Sovereign if not favourable to their cause, at least was impartial. The decisive personal part you took against them has ciTeclnally banished that first distinction from their minds. They consider you as united with your servant against America; and know how to distinguish the Sovereign and a venal parliament on one side, from the real sentiments of the English people on the other. Looking forward to independence, they might possibly receive you for their King : but, if ever you retire to America, he assured , they will give yon such a covenant to digest, as the presbytery of Scotland •would have been ashamed to oiler to Charles the Second. They left their native land in scareh of freedom, and found it in a desert. Divided as I hey are into a thousand forms of policy and religion , there is one point in which they all ajjree: th y equally detest the pageantry of a king, and the supercilious hypocrisy of a bishop.)crsori. They were ready enough to distinguish letween you and your ministers. They complained of an act of the legislature, but traced the origin of it no higher than to tlie servants of the crown : they pleased themselves with the hope that their Sovereign if not favourable to their cause, at least was impartial. The decisive personal part you took against them has ciTeclnally banished that first distinction from their minds. They consider you as united with your servant against America; and know how to distinguish the Sovereign and a venal parliament on one side, from the real sentiments of the English people on the other. Looking forward to independence, they might possibly receive you for their King : but, if ever you retire to America, he assured , they will give yon such a covenant to digest, as the presbytery of Scotland •would have been ashamed to oiler to Charles the Second. They left their native land in scareh of freedom, and found it in a desert. Divided as I hey are into a thousand forms of policy and religion , there is one point in which they all ajjree: th y equally detest the pageantry of a king, and the supercilious hypocrisy of a bishop. It is not, then, from the alienated affections of Ireland or America, that vou can reasonably look for assistance: still less from the people olEngland , who are actually contending for their rights, and in this great question are parties against you. You are not, however, destitute of every appearance of support; you have all the Jacobites, Non-jurors, lloman Catholics, ami Tories of this country, and all Scotland, without exception. Considering from what family you are descended, the choice of your friends has been singularly directed; and truly. Sir, if you had not lost the whig interest of England, 1 should admire your dexterity in turning the hearts of your enemies. Is it possible for you to place any confidence in men, who, before they are iaithfol to you, must renounce every opinion , and betray every principle, both in church and state, which they inherit from their ancestors, and are confirmed in by their education? whose numbers are so inconsiderable, that they have long since been obliged to give up the principles and language which distinguisb them as a party, and to fight under the banners of their enemies? Their seal begins with hypocrisy, and must conclude in treachery. At first they deceive — at last they betray. As to the Scotch I must suppose your heartand understanding so biassed, from your earliest infancy, in their favour, that nothing less than your own misfortunes can undeceive you. You will not accept of the uniform experience of your ancestors ; and , when once a man is determined to believe, the very absurdity of the doctrine confirms him in his faith. A bigoted understanding can draw a proof of attachment to the House of |
Hanover, from a notorious zeal for the House of Stuart, ami find an earnest of future loyalty in former rebellions. Appearances are. however, in their favour : so strongly, indeed, that one would think they had forgotten that you are llieirlawful King , and had mistaken you for a Pretender to the Crown. Let it he admitted, then, that the Scotch are as sincere in their present professions, as if you were, in reality not an Englishman, hut a Briton of the North. You would not he the first prince, of their native country, against whom they have rebelled , nor the first whom they have basely betrayed. Have you forgotten. Sir, or has your favourite concealed from you, that part of our history, when the unhappy Charles (and he, too, had private virtues) fled from the open , avowed indignation of his English subjects, and surrendered himself at discretion to tliegood faith of his own countrymen ? Without looking for support in their affections as subjects, he applied only to their honour, as gentlemen , for protection. They received him , as tliey would your Majesty, with hows , and smiles, and falsehood , and kept him, until they had settled their bargain with the English parliament; then basely sold their native King to the vengeance of his enemies. This, Sir, was not the act of a few traitors, hut the deliberate treachery of a Scotch parliament, representing the nation. A wise prince might draw from it two lessons of equal utility to himself. On one side, he might learn to dread the undisguised resentment of a generous people, who dare openly assert their rights, and who , in a just cause, are ready to meet their Sovereign in the field. On the oilier side, he would he taught to apprehend something far more formidable; a fawning treachery, against which no prudence eau guard , no courage can defend ? The insidious smile upon the cheek would warn him of the canker in the heart. From the uses to which one part of the army has been too frequently applied, you have some reason to expect that there are no services tbey would refuse. Here, too, we trace the partiality of your understanding. You take the sense of the army from the conduct of the guards, with the same justice with which you collect tiiesenseof the people from the representation of lbo Ministry. Your marching regiments. Sir, will not make the Guards their example, either as soldiers or subjects, They feel, and resent, as they ought to do, that invariable, undistinguishing favour with which the Guards are treated; while those gallant troops, by whom every hatardous, every laborious service is performed, are left to perish in garrisons «broad, or pine in quarters at home, neglected and forgotten. If they had no sense of the great original duly they owe their country, their resentment would operate like patriotism, and leave yonr cause to be defended by those on whom you have lavished the rewards and honours of their |
325
|
profession. ïlio Pralorian hands, enervated anil debauclicd as thpy were, liadslill slrenglli enough to awe the Roman populace; hut when tliedistant legions took the alarm, they marched to Home, and gave away the empire. On this side, then, -whichever way you turn your eyes, you see nothing hut perplexity and distress. You may determine to support the very Ministry who have reduced your affiiirs to this deplorable situation; you may shelter yourself under I he forms of a parliament, and set the people at deHance; hut, he assured. Sir, that such a resolution would he as imprudent as it would he odious. If it did not immediately shake your establishment, it would rob you of your peace of mind for ever. On the other, how different is the prospect! How easy, bow safe and honourable, is the path before you! The English nation declare they are grossly injured by their representatives, and solicit your Majesty to exert your lawful prerogative, and give them and opportunity of recalling a trust, which they find has been seamlalously abused. You are not to he told , that the power of the House of Commons is not original, hut delegated to them for the welfare of the people , from whom they received it. A question of right arrives between the constiluent and the representative body, liy what authority shall it be decided? Will your Majesty interfere in a question , in which you have, properly, tio immediate concern ? It would he a step equally odious and unnecessary. Shall the Lords he called upon to determine the rights and privileges of the commons ? They cannot do it, without a flagrant breach of the constitution. Or, will you refer it to the judges? They have often told your ancestors, that the law of parliament is above them. What part then remains, but to leave it to the people to determine for themselves? They alone are injured; and since there is no superior power to which the rni)«p can be referred, they alone ought to determine. I do not mean to perplex you with a tedious argument upon a subject, already so discussed, that inspiration could hardly throw a new light upon it. There are, however, two points of view in which it particularly imports your Majesty to consider the late proceedings of the House of Commons. By depriving a subject of his birthright, they have attributed to their own vote an authority equal to an act of the whole legislature; and though , perhaps, not with the same motives, have strictly followed the example of the Long Parliament, which first declared the regal ofUce useless, and soon after, with as little ceremony , dissolved the House of Lords. — The same pretended power which robs an English subject of his birth-right,may roban EnglishKing of his Crown. In another view, the resolution of the House of Commons, apparently not so dangerous to your Majesty, is still more alarming to your people. |
Not contended with divesting one man of his right, they have arbitrarely conveyed that right to another. They have set aside a return as illegal, without daring to censure those officers who were particularly apprised of Mr. Wilkes's incapacity, not only by the declaration of the House, but expressly by the writ directed to them , and who, nevertheless, returned him as duly elected. They have rejected the majority of voles, the only criterion hy which our laws judge of the sense of the people; they have transferred the right of election from the collective lo the representative body; and by these acts, taken separately or together, they have essentially altered the original constitution of the House of Commons. Versed . as your Majesty undoubtedly is, in the English history, it cannol escape you , how uiuuh it is your interest, as well as your duly, to prevent one of the three estates from encroaching upon the province ofthe other two, or assuming the authority of them all. When once they have departed from the great constitutional line by which all their proceedings should be directed , who will answer fur their future moderation? Or what assurance will they give you, that, when they have trampled upon their equals, they will submit to a superior? Your Majesty may learn hereafter, how early the slave and tyrant are allied. Some of your council, more candid than the rest, admit the abandoned profligacy of the present House of Commons, but oppose their dissolution, upon an opinion, I confess, not very unwarrantable, that their successors would be equally at the disposal of the treasury. 1 cannot persuade myself that the nation will have profited so little by experience. But, if thai opinion were well founded , you might then gratify our wishes at an easy rate , and appease the present clamour against your government, without ollering any material injury to the favourite cause of corruption. You have still an honourable part to act. The affeclions of your subjects may still be recovered. But, before you subdue their hearts, you must gain a nohle victory over your own. Discard those little, personal resentments, which have too long directed vour public conduct. Pardon this man the remainder of his punishment; and, if resentment still prevails, make it, what it should have been long since, an act, not of mcrcy, but of contempt. He will soon fall back into his natural station ; a silent senator, and hardly supporting the weekly eloquence of a newspaper. The gentle breath of peace would leave him on the surface, neglecled and unremoved. It is only the tempest that lifts him from his place. Without consulting your Minister, call together your whole council. Let it appear to the public , that you can determine and act for yourself. Come forward to your people. Lay aside the wretched formalities of a King, and speak to your sub- |
326
|
jncts with the spirit ola man , and in tlio lan;ju-njje of a gcntlcinnn. Toll llicm you have liccn fatally deceived. The acknowledjjement will heno disgrace, hut rather an honour, to your under-standing. Tell Ihem yon are determined toremove every cause of complaint against your government; that you will give your confidence to uo man , who does nol possess the confidence of your suhjccls; and leave it to themselves to determine, hy their conduct at a future election , whether or not, it he, in reality, the general sense of the nation, that their rights have heen arbitrarily invaded hy ihe present House of Commons, and the constitution hetrayed. They will then do justice to their representatives and to themselves. These sentiments. Sir, and the style they are conveyed in , may heoflensive, perhaps, because they are new to you. Accustomed to the language of courtiers , yon measure their affections hy the vehemence of their expressions; and when they only praise you indifferently, you admire their sincerity. But this is not a time to trifle with your fortune. They deceive you , Sir, who tell you that you have many friends, whose afl'ections are founded upon a principle of personal attachment. The first foundation of friendship is not the power of conferring benefits, hut the equality witfi which they are received, and may he returned, flic fortune wliich made you a Kinjj, forhade you to have a friend. It is a law of nature which cannot he violated with impunity. The mistaken Prince, who looks for friendship, will find a favourite, and in that favourite the ruin of his alFairs. |
The people of England are loyal to the House of Hanover; not from a vain preference of one family to another, hut from a conviction , that the establish ment of that family was necessary to the support of their civil and religious liberties. J his. Sir, is a principle of allegiancce equally solid and rational; fit for Englishmen to adopt, and well worthy of your Majesty's eiiGourageinent. We cannot long he deluded hy nominal distinctions, riic name of Stuarl., of itself, is only contemptible; armed wilh the sovereign authority, their principles are formidable. The prince who imitates their conduct, should be warned by their example; and, while he plumes himself upon the security of his title to the crown, should remember, that, as it. was acquired by one revolution, it may be lost by another. |
Werd vermoedelijk in 't Inntst van de zeventiende of 't begin van de aclittiende eeuw geboren en overleed in 1746; hij studeerde te Edinbnrg in de godgeleerdheid en werd in 1731, nn volbragte studiën, in den geestelijken stand opgenomen. Hij bezat een veelzijdige kennis. Het dichtstuk: The Grave, waardoor bij zich naam ouder de voornaamste dichters verwierf, werd 't eerst in 1743 uitgegeven; daarna werd het menigvuldige kecren herdrukt, en het wordt thans nog veel iu Engeland gelezen. Voorts heeft men van hem: A Poem, dedicated to the memory of the learned and eminent Mr. IjOW en nog een paar stukjes.
The House appointed for all living. — Jon.
|
*Wcll do I know thee hy thy trusty yew. Cheerless, unsocial plant; that loves to dwell 'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs, and worms: Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades , Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports) Kmhody'd, thick, perform their mystic rounds. No other merriment, dull tree, is thine. |
See yonder hallow'd fane; —the pious work Of names once fam'd , now dubious or forgot, And hury'd midst the wreck of things which were ; There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. The wind is up: hark ! how it howls Mcthinks Till now I never heard a sound so dreary ; Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul hird, |
527
|
Rook'i! in llie spire, screams luud : llic (;lootny ailes Black plastcr'd, and liunj; round willi sliredsof 'sent-And tatler'd coats of arms, send liacli tlicsound (clieons Laden with heavier airs , from the low vaults, (hers. The mansions of I he dead. — Rous'd from their sluin-In ;;rin array the jjrisly spectres rise, Grim iiorrihle , obstinately sullen , Pass and repass, hnsh'd as the foot ofnijjlit. Anain the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound! I'll hear no more ; it makes one's hlood run ehiil.* ♦Oft, in the lone ehurch-yard at nijjht I've seen , By glimpse of moon-shine chequering through the The school-hoy with his satchel in his hand, (trees, Whistling aloud to hear his courage up, And lightly tripping o'er the long Hat stones, (With nettles skirted , and with moss o'ergrown), That tell in homely phrase who lie below. Sudden he starts, and bears, or thinks be bears. The sound of something purring at his heels; Full fast bellies, and dares not look behind him. Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows; Who gather round, and wonder at the tale Of horrid apparition , tall and ghastly. That walks at dead of night, or takes bis stand O'er some new open'd grave ; and (strange to tell!) Vanishes at crowing of the cock. The new-made widow, too, I've sometimes'spy'd. Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead ; Listless she crawls along im doleful black , Whilst bursts of sorrow gush from either eye. Fast lallingdown her now untasted cheek. Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man She drops; whilst busy meddling memory, In barbarous sucecssion musters up The past endearments of their softer hours, Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks She sees him , and , indulging the fond thought, Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf. Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way. *Oh! when my friend and 1 In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on. Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us dow n Upon thcsloping cowslip hank. Where the pure limpid stream has slid along In grateful errors through the under-wood, (Ihrnsb Sweet murmuring; inethought the shrill-tongu'd Mended his song ot love ; the sooty hlaek-hird Mellow'd bis pipe, and soften'd every note; The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose Assum'd a dye more deep; w hilst ev'ry floW( r Vied with its fellow plant in luxury Of dress. — Oh ! then the longest summer's day Seem'd too, too much in haste: still the full heart Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness Too exijuisite to last. Of jnvs departed, Not to return, bow painful the remembrance I (hlood. Dull grave! thou spoil'st the dance of youthful Strik'st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth , And ev'ry stnirking feature from the face; Branding our laughter with the name of madness. Where are the jesters now? the men of health |
Complexionally pleasant ? Where the droll, Whose ev'ry look and gesture was a joke To clapping theatres and shouting crowds. And made cv'n thick-lip'd musing melancholy To gather up her face into a suiile Before she was aware ? Ah ! sullen now , Anil dumb as the green turf that covers them.* *Butseel the well-pluni'd bearse comes nodding Stately ami slow ; and properly attended By the whole sable trible, that painful watch The sick man's door, and live upon the dead , l!y letting out their persons by the huur. To mimic sorrow , when the heart's not sad. How rich the trappings! now they are all unfurl'd. And glittering in the sun ; triumphant entries Of conquerors, and coronation-pomps. In glory scarce exceed. Great gluts of people Retard th' unwieldy show; whilst from tbccasemenls And houses lops, ranks behind ranks close wedg'd Hang bellying o'ver. But tell us, why this waste, \\ by this ado iu earthing up a carcase That's fall'n into disgrace , and in the nostril Smells boirible! —Ye undertakers, tell us, Amidst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit, Why is the principal conceal'dj, lor which You make t his mighty stir. — 'Tis wisely done: What would oH'end the eye iu a good picture, The painter easts discreetly into shades. *llere all the mighty troubles of the earth, Who swam to sov'reign rule through seas ol blood ; Th'oppressive. sturdy, man destroying villains, Whoravag'd kingdoms, and laid empires waste, And in cruel wantonness of power Tbinn'd stales of half their people, and gave up To want the rest; now, like a storm that's spent, Lie hushed, and meanly sneak behind the covert. Vain thought! lohide them from .the gen'ral scorn That haunts and doggs them like an injur'd ghost Implacable. — Here too the petty tyrant, Whose scant domains geographer ne'er notie'd, And, well fur neigbouring grounds , of arm as short, Who fix'd his iron talons on the poor. And gripp'd them like some lordly beast of prey; Deaf to the forceful cries ofgnawing hunger, And piteuus plaintive voiceof misery ; (As if a slave was not a shred of nature, Of the same common nature with his lord); Now tameand humble,like a child that's whipp'd. Shakes bands with dust,and calls the worm his kinsman Nor pleads bis rank and biitbrigbt. Under ground Precedency's a jest; vassal and I on I, Grossly familiar, side by side consume. quot;Beauty — thou pretty play-thing, dear deceit, That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart, And gives it a new pulse, unknown before, The grave discredits thee: I by charms expung'd , Thy roses faded, and thy lilies soil'd , What hast thou more to boast of? Will thy lovers Flock round thee now to gaze and do thee homage ? Methinks I see thee with thy bead low laid , Whilst surfeited upon thy damask cheek |
528
|
Tlic high fed worm , in l.r/.y volumes roll'd , Uiols unscur'd. — For this , was all thy caution ? T'lmjirove those charms, and keep them in repair, For which the spoiler thanks ihee not. Foul feeder, Course fare and carrion please thee full as well, And leave as keen a relish on the sense. Look on the fair one weeps! — the conscious tears Stand thick as dew-drops on the hells of flow'rs: Honest efl'iision ! the swoll'n lieait in vain Works hard to put a jjloss on its distress. Strength too — thou surly, and less gentle boast Of those that louil laugh at the village ring; A fit of common sickness pulls thee down With greater ease, than e'er thou didst the stripling That rashly dar'd thee to th'unequal fight. What groan was that 1 heard 7—deep groan indeed! With anguish heavy laden; let me trace it: From yonder hed it comes, whore the strong man , By stronger arm helahour'd , gasps for hreath Like a hard-hunted heast. How his great heart Beats thick ! his roomy chest by far too scant To give the lungs full play. — What now avail (ders The strong-huilt sinewy limbs, and well-spreadshoul-See bow hetugs for life, and lays about him, Wad with bis pain I — liager he catches bold Of wat comes next to hand , and grasps it hard . Just like a creature drowning ; hideoussight! Ob! bow bis eyes stand out, anil stare full ghastly! While the distemper's rank and deadly venom Shoots like a burning arrow cross bis bowels, And drinks his marrow up. — Heard you tbatgroan? It was his last. — See how the great Goliah, Just like a child that brawl'd itself to rest, (boaster, Lies still. — What mean'st thou then, O mighty To vaunt of nerves of thine ? what means the hull, Unconscious of his strength, to play the coward, And flee before a feeble thing like man ; That, knowing well the slackness of bis arm , Trusts only in the well-invented knife? With study pale, and midnight vigils spent, The star-surveying sage elo^ to his eye Applies the sight-invigorating tube; And travelling through the houndlesslengtb of space, Marks well the courses of the far-seen orbs That roll with regular confusion there, lu ecstacy of thought. But ah I proud man , Great heights are liaiardous to the weak head ; Soon , very soon thy firmest footing fails; And down thou dropp'st into that darksome place, Where nor device, nor knowledge ever came. *Here the great masters of the healing art, These mighty mock defrauders of the tomb, Spite of their juleps and cat hoi icons. Resign to fate — Proud TEsculapius' son ! W here are thy boasted implements of art, And all thy well-cramm'd magazines of health? Nor bill nor vale , as far as ship could go , Kor margin of the gravel-hollorn'd bronk , Escap'd thy rifling hand ; — from stubborn sbruhs Thou wrung'st their sky-retiring virtues out, And vex'd iheim in the fire: nor fly nor insect, |
Nor writhy snake, escap'd thy deep research. But why this apparatus ? why tiiis cost ? Tell us, thou doughty keeper of the grave. Where are thy recipes and cordials now. With the long list of vouchers for thy cures? Alas! thou speakest not. — The hold impostor Looks not more silly, whet: the cheat's found out. •Death's sbaftslly thick: —Here fa lis the village-swain, And there is painper'd lord. — The cup goes round : And who so artful as to put it by ! 'Tis long since death had the majority; Yet strange! the living lay it not to heart. Sec yonder maker of the dead man's bed, The Sexton , hoary-headed chronicle, Of bard unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole A gentle tear; with mattock iti his band Digs through w hole rows ofkindred and acquaintance, By far hisjuniors. — Scarce a skull's cast up. But well he knew its owner, and can tell Some pasage of bis life. — Thus hand in band The sot has walk'd with death twice twenty years ; And yet ne'er yonker on the green laughs-louder, Or clubs a smuttier tale: — When drunkards meet. None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand More willing to his cup. — Poor wretch! be minds not, That soon some trusty brother of the trade Shall do for him what he has done for thousands. On this side , and on that, men see their friends Drop off, like leaves in autiinim ; yet launch out Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers In the world's hale and undegen'rate days Could scarce have leisure for. — Fools that we are. Never to think of death and of ourselves At the same time: as if to learn to die Were no concern of ours. — Oh ! more thou sottish, For creatures of a day in gamesome mood, To frolic on eternity's dread brink Unapprehensive ; when , for aught we know , The very first swoll'n surge shall sweep us in. Think we, or think we not, time hurries on With a resistless unremitting stream ; Yot treads more soft than e'er did midnigbl-lhief, That slides his band under the miser's pillow. And carries of bis priie. — What is this w orld ? What? but a spacious burial field unwall'd, Strew'd with death's spoils, the spoils of animals Savage and tame , and full of dead men's hones. The very turf m which we tread onee liv'd ; And we that live must lend our carcases To cover our own offspring: In their turns They too must cover theirs. — 'Tis here all meet The shiv'ring Icelander , and sunburn'd Moor; Men of all climes, that never met before; And of all creeds, the Jew , the Turk, the Christian. Here the proud prince , and favourite yet prouder. His sovereign's keeper, and the people's scourge. Arc huddled out of sight. — Here lie abash'd The great negotiators of the earth , And celebrated masters of the balance. Deep read in stratagems, and wiles of courts. Now vain their treaty-skill: — Death scorns to treat; |
529
|
Here the o'erloaded slave flings down liis burden From his gnll'd shoulders; and when llicstern tyrant, With all his guards arid loolsof power about hi in, Is meditating new unheurd-of hardships, Mocks his short arm, — and quick as thought escapes Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest. Here the warm lover , leaving the cool shade. The tell-tale echo, and the hahhling stream, (Time out of mind the fav'rite seats of love,) Fast hy his gentle mistress lays him down, Unhlasted hy foul tongue.— Here friends and foes Lie close; unmindful of their former feuds. The lawn-roh'd prelate and plain presbyter, E'er while that stood aloof, as shy to meet, Familiar mingle here, like sister streams That some rude interposing rock has split. Here is the large-limh'd peasant: — Here the child Ofaspan long, that never saw the sun, Nor press'd the nipple, strangled in life's porch. Here is the mother, with her sons and dau{;hlcrs ; The harren wife, and long demurring maid, Whose lonely unnppropriated sweets Srnil'd like yon knot of cowslips on the cliiT, Not to he come at hy the willing hand. Here are the prude, severe, and gay coquette The sober widow, and the young green virgin, Cropp'd like a rose before't is fully blown, Or half its worth disclos'd. Strange medly here! Here garrulous old age winds up his tale; And joiial yuulb, of lightsome vacant heart. Whose ev'ry-day was made of melody. Hears not the voice of mirth.— Theshrill-tongu'd Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding, (shrew. |
Here are the wise, the generous, and the brave ; The just, the good , the worthless, and profane. The downright clown , and perfectly well-bred ; The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean, The supple statesman, and the patriot stern; The wrecks of nations, and the spoils of time, With all the lumber of six thousand years. — 'Besides, there's no bye road To hi iss, — Then why like ilI conditiou'd children , Start we at transient hardships in the way That leads to purer air, and softer skies. And a ne'er-setting sun' — Fools that we are! We wish to be, where sweets unwith'ring bloom ; But strait our wish revoke, and will not go. So have 1 seen , upon a summer's ev'n , Vast hy the riv'let's brink , a youngster play: How wishfully he looks to stem the tide! Tiiis moment rosolute, next unresolv'd; At last he dips his foot; but as he dips, His fears redouble, and he runs away From th' inolFensivc stream, unmindful now Of all the fluw'rs that paint the farther bank, And smil'd so sweet of late. — Thrice welcome death! That after many a painful bleeding step Counducts us to our home, and land us safe On the long-wish'd for shore. — Prodigious change! Our bane lurn'd to a blessing! — Death, disarm'd, Loses its fellness quite. — All thanks to him Who scourg'd the venom out. — Sure the last end Of the good man is peace! How calm his exit! Nighudews fall not more gently to the gromd, Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft.* |
Werd geboren tegen 't einde van 1700, te Ednara, in Eoxbnrghshiie, en overleed in 1748. Heeds in zijn jeugd vcrvnnrdigde hi], ter gelegenheid van nieuwjaarsfeesten, dichtstukjes, welke hij echter eiken nieuwjaarsdag vernietigde: hij werd te Edimburg aanvankelijk als geestelijke opgeleid, doch kreeg een afkeer vnn rlien stand, toen hij eens om een verklaring, welko hij van een psalm gaf, scherp doorgehaald weid. Hij vertrok kort daarop naar Londen en fraf er langzamerhand zijn werken uit. The Seasons, zijn meest bekend werk, vervaaidigde hij van 1725—17:t0 (eerst verscheen Winter (1726), vervolgens Summer (17^7), daarna Spring (1728) en eindelijk A itumn (1730)). Door de Seasons vestigde hij zijn roem als dichter: de vrolijkheid der lente, de piacht van den zomer, 't rustige van den herfst en 't schrikwekkende van den winter maakt daarin , elk op zijn beurt, indruk op 't gemoed. De dichter werpt een blik op de natuur en 't leven, waardoor hij omringd wordt, met 't oog , waarmee hij alléén door haar wurdt be);ifligd j 't oog, dat in alles, wat 't ontmoet, onderscheidt, hetgeen er in is om de verbeeldingskracht geboeid te houden. Voorts beeft men van hem: Castle of Indolence, an Allegorical poem (1746); Liberty, A Poem in five parts; Elegies, Songs en een aantal kleinere stukken, welke zijn roem niet weinig vergroot hebben. Voor 't tooneel leverde hij: Sophonisba; Agamemnon (1738); Edward and Eleonore (1731); Tancred and Sigismunda (1745); Coriolanus (eerst na zijn dood in 1749 opgevoerd) allen treurspelen en The Masque of Alfred,
|
IllTMAKING AND SflEEPSnEARING. Now swarms the village o'er the jovial mead : |
The rustic youth , brown with meridian toil, Healthful and strong; full as the summer rose Blown hy prevailing suns, the ruddy maid, |
42
530
|
Half naked, swelling on tlir sight, and all Her kindled graces burning o'er lier cheek. E'en stooping age is here; and infant-hands Trail the long rake, or, with the fragrant load, O'ercharged, amid the kind oppression roll. Wide flies the tedded grain, all in a row Advancing broad , or wheeling round the field , They spread the breathing harvest to the sun, That throws refreshful round a rural smell; Or, as they rake the green-appearing ground , And drive the dusky watc along the mead , The russet haycock rises thick behind , In order gay. While heard from dale to dale, Waking the breeie, resounds the blended voice Of happy labour, love, and social glee. Or rushing thence, in one diiTusive band. They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog Compell'd, to where the muzy-running brook Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and high , And that fair-spreading in u pebbled shore. Urg'd to the giddy brink, much is the toil The clamour much , of men , and boys, and dogs], lire the soft fearful people to the flood Commit tbeir woolly sides. And oft the swain , On some impatient seizing, hurls them in : DmboMeiiM then , nor hesitating more. Fast, fast, they plunge amid the Hashing wave, And panting , labour to the furthest shore. Repeated this, till deep the well wasb'd fleece Has drunk the flood , and from his lively haunt The trout is banish'd by the sordid stream ; Heavy, and dripping, to the breezy brow Slow move the harmless race; where, as they spread Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray , Inly disturb'ed and wondering what this wild Ouirageous tumult means , their loud complaints The country fill; and, toss'd from rock lo rock, Incessant bleatings run around the! ills. At last, of snowy white, the gather'd flocks Are in the wattled pen iniiiiinerons press'it, Head above head : and ranged in lusty rows The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding shears. The honsw ife waits lo roll ber fleecy stores, With all her gay-dress'd maids attending round. One, chief, in gracious dignity cntbroned , Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen , and rays Her smiles, sweet beaming on her shepherd king ; AVbilc the glad circle round liiem yield their souls To festive mirth , and wit that knows no gall. Meantime, their joyous task goes on a pare ; Some mingling stir the melted tear, and some , Deep on tbe new-shorn vagrant's heaving side, To stamp the master's cipher ready stand ; Others th' unwilling wether drag along; And , glorying in bis might, the sturdy hoy Hold by the twisted horns tb' indignant ram. Behold where bound, and of his robe bereft, By needy Man, that all-depending lord. How meek, bow patient, the mild creature lies What softness in lis melancholy face. What dumb complaining innocence appears.' |
Fear not, ye gentle tribes, 't is not the knife Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you waved ; No, 't is the tender swain's well guided shears, Who having now , to pay bis annual care, Borrow'd your fleece, to you a cumbrous load , Will send you bounding lo your hills again. NOQNDAr. 'Tis raging noon; and , vertical, the sun Darts on the bead direct his forceful rays. O'er heaven and earth , far as the ranging eye Can sweep, a da/.zling deluge reigns ; and all From pole to pole is undislingiiish'd blaze. In vain the sight, dejected , to the ground Sloops for relief; thence hot ascending steams And keen reflection pain. Deep to the root Of vegetation parch'd, the cleaving fields And slippery lawn an arid hue disclose. Blast Fancy's bloom, and wither e'en tiie soul, Kcho no more return» tbe cheerful sound 01 sharpening scythe: the mower sinking heaps O'er him the hiiinid bay, with flowers perfumed; And scarce a chirping grasshopper is heard Through the dumb meail. Distressful IVaturc pants. The very streams look languid from afar: Or, through tb' unsheller'd glade, impatient seem To burl into the covert of ihe grov.-. All conquering Heat, oh , intermit thy wrath ! And on my throbbing temples potent thus Beam not so fierce! incessant still you flow, And still another fervent flood succeeds, Pour'd on the head profuse. In vain I sigh. And restless turn, and look around for night; Night is far oft ; and bolter hours approach. Thrice happy be! who on the sunless side Of a romantic mountain , forest crown'd, Beneath the whole collected shade reclines: Or in tbe gelid cavet ns, woodbine-wrought, And fresh bedew'd w ith ever spouting streams. Sits cool Iy calm ; while all the world without. Unsatisfied , and f-ick, losj-es in noon, Kinblem instructive of tbe virtuous man, W bo keeps his temper'd mind serene and pure, And eveiy passion aptly harmonized. Amid a jarring world with vice inflamed. SlOBM Oï TItüNDE11 AM) LIGHTNING. Behold . slow-settling o'er the lurid grove Unusual darknes broods; and growing gains Tb' full possession of the sky, surcharged With wrathful vapour, from the secret beds. Where sleep the mineral generations, drawn. Thence nitre, sulphur, and the fiery spume Offal bitumen, steaming on tbe day. With various tinctured trains of latent flame, Pollute the sky , and in yon baleful cloud , A reddening gloom, a magazine of fite Ferment, till, by the touch etberial roused, The dash of clouds, or irritating war Of lighting winds, while all is calm below. |
331
|
They furious spring, A lioding silence reigns, Dread through the dun expanse; save the dull sound That from the mountain , previous to the storm , Rolls o'er the muttering earth, disturbs the flood , And shakes the forest-leaf without a breath. Prone, to the lowest vale , the aerial tribes. Descend : the tempest-loving raven scarce Dares wing the dubious dusk. In rueful gaze The catlle stand, and on the scowling heavens Cast a deploring eye; by man forsook , Who to tbe crowded cottage hies him fast, Or seeks the shelter of the downward cave. 'Tis listening fear, and dumb amazement all; When to tbe startled eye the sudden glance Appears far south, eruptive through the cloud ; And , following slower, in explosion vast, Tbe Thunder raises his tremendous voice. At first, heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven , Tbe tempest growls ; but as it nearer comes, And rolls its awfnl burden on the wind , The lightnings iladi a larger curve, and more The noise astounds; till overhead a sheet Of livid flame discloses wide; then shuts, And opens wider ; shuts and opens stilt Expansive, wrapping ether in a blaze. Follows the loosenM aggroTated roar, Enlarging , deepening , mingling ; peal on peal CrushM horrible , convulsing heaven and earth. Down comes a deluge of sonorous hail, Or prone descending rain. Wide-rent, the clouds Pour a whole flood ; and yet, its flame unqueneb'd, Tbe unconquerable lightning struggles through , Ragged and fierce, or in red whirling balls. And fires the mountains with redoubh il rage. Black from the stroke, above, tbe smouldering pine. Stands a sad shatter'd trunk ; and , stretch'd below, A lifeless group the blasted cattle lie: Here tbe soft flocks, with that same harmless look They wore alive, and ruminating still In fancy's eye; and there tbe frowning bull, And ox half-raised. Si ruck on the castled cliff, The venerable tower and spiry fane Resign their aged pride. Tbe gloomy woods Start at the flash, and from their deep recess, Wide-flaming out, their trembling inmates shake. Amid Carnarvon's mountains rages loud The repercussive roar: with mighty crush. Into the flashing deep, from the rude rocks Of Penmanmaur heap'd hideous to the sky. Tumble the smitten clills : and Snowdeu's peak, Dissolving , instant yields his wintry load. Far seen tbe lu ights of healthy Cheviot blaze. And Thulc bellows through her utmost isles. Guilt hearsappall'd,with deeply troubled thought; And yel not always on the guilty head Descends the fated flash. A Taie. — Young Celadon And his Amelia were a matchless pair; |
With equal virtue form'd, and equal grace, The same , distinguish'd by their sex alone: Hers the mild lustre of the blooming morn , Anil his the radiance of the risen day. They loved : hut such the guileless passion was, As in the dawn of time infonu'd the heart Of innocence, and umlissembling truth. 'Twns friendship hcightcn'd by the mutual wish ; The enchanting hope and sympbatic glow licarn'd from the mutual eye. Devoting all To love, each was to each a dearer self; Supremely happy in the awakrn'd power Of giving joy. Alone, amid the shades, Still in liarinonious intercourse they lived The rural day, and talk'd the flowing heart, Or sigh'd and look'd unutterahle things. So pass'd their life, a clear united stream , Ily care unruflled; till, in evil hour. The tempest caught them on the tender walk, Heedless how far and w here its mazes stray'd, While, with each other hless'd , creative love Still bade eternal Eden smile around. Presaging instant fate her bosom heaved Unwonted sighs, and, stealing oft a look Of the big gloom, on Celadon her eye Fell tearful, wetting her disorder'd cheek. In vain , assuring love and confidence In Heaven repress'd her fear ; it grew , and shook Her frame near dissolution. He percei ved The unequal conflict; and as angels look On dying saints, his eyes compassion shed , With love illumined high. '-Fear not,quot; he said , quot;Sweet innocence! thou stranger to offence, And inward storm I He, who yon skies involves In frowns of darkness , ever smiles on thee With kind regard. O'er thee the secret shaft That wastes at midnight, or tbe undreaded hour Of noon, flics harmless; and that very voice, Which thunders terror through the guilty heart, With tongues of seraphs whispers peace to thine. 'Tis safety to be near thee sure, and thus To clap perfection !quot; From his void embrace , (Mysterious Heaven !) that moment, to the ground, A blaeken'd corse , was struck tbe beauteous maid. But who can paint the lover , as he stood , Pierced by severe amazement, hating life, Speechless, and fix'd in all the death of woe I So , faint resemblance I on the marble tomb , The well dissembled mourner stooping stands , For ever silent, and for ever sad. As from tbe faec of heaven the shatter'd clouds Tumultuous rove, the interminable sky Suhlimer swells, and o'er the world expands A purer a/.urc. Through the lighten'd air A higher lustre and a clearer calm , Diffusive, tremble ; while, as if in sign Of danger past, a glittering robe of joy , Set off abundant bythc yellow ray. Invests the field; and nature smiles revived. 'Tis beauty all, and grateful song around, Join'd to the low of kine, and numerous bleat |
|
Of flocks thick-nibbling throagh the clover'd vale. And shall the hymn he marr'd by thankless Man , Most faiour'd! who with voice articulate Shotihl lead the chorus of this lower world ; Shall he, so soon furjjetful of the Hand That hush'd the t blinder, and serenes the sky, Exlingnisli'd feel that spark the tempest waked , That sense of powers exceeding far his own , Ere yet his feeble heart has lost its fears? Cheer'd by the milder beam, the sprijjhtly youth Speeds to the well known pool, whose crystal depth A sandy bottom shows. Awhile be slnmis Gating the inverted landscape, hidfafraid To mediate the blue profound below ; Then plunges headlong down ibe circling flood. His ebon tresses and bis rosy cheek Instant emerge; and through the obedient wave, |
At each short breathing by his lip repell'd, With arms and legs aocording well, be makes, As hiimour leads, an easy-winding path ; While, from his polish'd sides, a dewy light Eduses on the pleased spectators round. This is the purest exercise of health , Thekind refresher of thesuminer heats; Nor w ben cold Winter keens the brightening flood , Would I weak-shivering linger on the brink. Thus life redoubles, and is preserved , By the hold swimmer, in the swift elapse Of accident disastrous. Hence the limbs Knit into force ; and the same Roman arm , That rose victorious o'er the conquer'd earth, First learn'd , while tender, to subdue the wave. Even from the body's purity , the mind Receives a secret sympathetic aid. |
|
A traveller lost ik the snow. As thus the snows arise; and foul, and fierce. All Winter drives along the darken'd air ; In his own loose revolving fields , the swain Disaster'd stands; sees other hills aseend , Of unknown joyless brow , and other scenes. Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid Reneath the formless wild, but wanders on From hill to dale, still more and more astray ; Impatient flouncing through the drifled heaps, Stnng with the thoughts of home; thetliounhtsofhome Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul I What black despair, what horror fills bis heart! When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd His tufled collage rising through the snow , He meets the roughness of the middle waste , Far from the track and bless'd abode of man I While round him night resistless closes fast, And every tempest, howling o'er his bead, Renders the savage wilderness more wild. Then throng the busy shapes into his mind |
Ofcovcr'd pits, unfathomably deep, A dire descent! beyond the power of frost! Of faithless hogs ; of precipices huge, Smoolh'd up with snow; anil, what is land, unknown, What water, of the still unfro/.en spring. In the loo^c marsh or solitary lake. Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. These check his fearful steps; and down ha sinks Benealh the shelter of the shapeless drift. Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, Mix'd with the tender anguish Nature shoots Through the wrung bosom of the dying man, His wife . his children , and his friends unseen. In vain for him the ofliciuns wife prepares The fire fair-bhi/ing , and the vestment warm ; In vain his little children , peeping out Into the mingling storm , demand their sire. With tears of artless innoccnse. Alas! Nor wife, nor children . more shall he behold , Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve The deadly Winter seizes ; shuts up sense; And , o'er her inmost vitals creeping cold. Lays bim along the snows, as stiflen'd corse , Stretch'd out, and bleaching in the northern blast. |
|
These, as they change, Aimichtï Fatiier , these Are hut the varied God. The rolling year Is full of Tdee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Tht beauty walks, Tnï tenderness , and love. Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm , Echo the mountains round : the forest smiles , And every sense, and every heart is joy. Then comes Tnï glory in the Summer months, AVith light and heart refulgent. Then Tar sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; |
And oft itr voice in dreadful thunder speaks: And oft at dawn , deep noon , or falling eve, By brooksand groves, in hollow-whispering gales. Tnr bounty shines in Autumn unconfined. And spreads a common fea^t for all that lives. In winter awful Tnon! with clouds and storms Around Thee thrown , tempest o'er tempest roll'd. Majestic datkness ! on the whirlwind's wing , Riding sublime, Thoü bidst the world adore, And bmnhlest Nature with tht northern blast. |
333
|
Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine, Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train , Yet so delifjhlful niix'd wilh such kind art, Such lieauty and hencficence comhincd ; Shade, unperccived, so softenitijf into shade; And all so forming an hurmoniocis whole; That, as they still succeed , they ravish still. Eul wanderinj; oft, with hrute miconscious jja/.e, Man marks not'J'nee, marks noth the mijjhly hand. That, ever busy, wheels thee silent spheres; Works, in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring : Flings from the snn direct the ilaming day ; Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forlh; And , as on earth this grateful change revolves , With transport touches all the springs of life. Nature, attend .'join, every living soul Beneath the spacious temple of the sky. In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise One general song! To Him , ye vocal gales. Breath soft, whose, spirit in vuur freshness breathes: Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms! Where, o'er the rock , the scarcely waving pine Fills the brown shade wilh a religious awe. And ye, whose holder note is heard afar. Who shake the astouish'd world, lift high to heaven The impetuous song , and say from whom you rage. His praise , ye brooks , attune, ye trembling rills ; And let me catch it as 1 muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound ; Yesofler floods, that lead the humid maie Along the vale; and thou, majestie main , A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound His stupendous praise; whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers. In mingled clouds to HIM ; whose sun exalts. Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. Ye forests, bends; ye harvests, wave to Him; Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. Ye thai keep watch in heaven , as earth agt;leep Unconscious lies, ell'use your mildest beams. Ye constellations , while your angels strike , Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day I best image here below Of thy Creator , ever pouring wide. From world to world, the vital ocean round , On nature write with every beam His praise. |
The thunder rolls: be hush'd the prostrate world, AVbile cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills: ye mossy rocks , Ketain the sound : the broad responsive low. Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Sdepiierd reigns; And his nnsull'cring kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song Burst from the groves! and when the restless day. Expiring , lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds! sweet Philoinela, charm The listening shades, ami teach the night His praise. Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, At once the bead , the heart, and tongue of all, Crown the great hymn ; in swarming cities vast, Assembled men to the deep organ join The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear, At solemn pauses, through the swelling base; And, as each mingling flame increases each , In one united ardour rise to heaven. Or if you rather choose the rural shade. And hud a fane in every sacred grove ; There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay. The prompting seraph , and the poet's lyre, Still sing the God of stasons as they roll! — For me, when I forget the darling theme. Whether the blossom blows , the summer ray Uu«sets the plain , inspiring Autumn gleams, Or Winter rises in the blackening east; Be my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more, And , dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! Should fate commend me to the furthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes , Ilivers unknown to song : where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on the Atlantic isles; 't is nought to me: Since Goo is ever present, ever fell, In the void waste as in the city full; And where He vital breathes there must be joy. When even at last the solemn hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey; there wilh new powers. Will rising wonders sing: 1 cannot go Where Universal Love not smiles around. Sustaining all you orbs , and all their suns; From seemin ; Kul still educing Good , And better thence again . and better still, In infinite progression. Bul I lose Myself in Him , m Light iueflahle ! Come then, expressive Silence, muse His praise. |
Werd geboren in 1709 en overleej in 1773; hij stmlrerde eenipen tijd te Oiford, doch begnf zich reeds in 1728 op reis nnnr Frnnkrijk en Italië. In Engelnnd terafiKekeerd , werd hij weldra tot lid van 't parlement gekozen en tot oanzienlyke staatsbetrekkingen geroepen. Behnlven zijn stantkimdigen loop-bnan , welke hij met roem bewandelde, onderseheidde bij zich ook als dichter en prozasehnjver gunstig. Men heeft van hem in poëzie: The Progress of Love, in four Eclogues en een aantal kleinere stukken. The Progress of Love en de Persian lettres sehreef hij op zeer jeugdigen leeftijd. IJc werken in proza zijn: Observations on the life of Cicero j Letters from a Persian in England, to his friend at Ispahan
554
(Montesquieu imitated); Observations on the Conversion and Apostleship of St. Paul (1747); Dialoguei of the dead; History of the reign of Henry It, (versohenen in 1764, 1767, 17G8 en 1771), enz.
|
I now may give my hurden'd heart relief. And pour forth all my stores of grief; Of grief surpassing every other woe, Far as the purest hiiss, the happiest love Can on th' ennobled mind bestow. Exceeds the vulgar joys that move Our gross desires, inelegant and low. Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills, Ye high o'ersbadowing hills. Ye lawns guy-smiling with eternal green , Oft have you my Luey seen ! But never shall you now behold them more: Nur will she now with fond delight And taste refin'd your rural charms explore, Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night. Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd lo shine Beason's pure ligbl and virtue's spark divine. Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice To hear her heavenly voice; For her despising, wln-n she deign'd to sing. The sweetest songsters of the spring: The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more ; The nightingale was mute , And every shepherd's flute Was cast in silent scorn away. While all attended to her sweeter lay. Ye larks and linnets, now resume your song And thou, inelodious Philomel Again thy plaintive story tell; For death has stopt that tuneful tongue. Whose musiecould aloneyour warbling notes excel. Jn vain I look around O'er all the well-known ground, quot;yL ucy's wonted footsteps to descry ; Where oft we us'd to walk , Where oft in tender talk We saw the summer sun go down the sky; Nor by yon fountain's side, Nor where its waters glide Along the valley, can she now be found: In all the wide stretch'd prospects ample bound No more my mournful eye Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie |
O shades of Hagley, where is is now your boast? Your hrlglit inhabitant is lost. You she preferr'd to «II the gay resorts Where female vanity might wish to shine. The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts. Her modest beauties shunn'd the public eye: To your sequester'd dales. Ami flower embroider'd vales , From an admiring world she chose to fly: With nature there retir'd , and nature's God, The silent paths of Wisdom trod , And banish'd every passion from her breast, But those, the gentlest and the best, Whose holy ilames with energy divine The virtuous heart enliven and improve, The conjugal and the maternal love. Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns. Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns By your delighted mother's side, Who now your infant steps shall guide ? Ah! where is now the band whose lender care To every virtue would have furni'd your youth. And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of truth? O loss beyond repair! O wretched father! left alone. To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own ! How shall thy weaken'd mind,oppress'd with woe, And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave. Perform the duties that you doubly owe! Now she, alas ! is gone, From folly and from vice their helpless age to save? Where were ye, Muses, when relentless fate From these fond arms your fair disciple tore; From these fund arms, that vainly strove With hapless ineiTectual love To guard her bosom from the mortal blow ? Could not yonr favouring power, Aonian maids. Could not, alas! your power prolong her date. For whom so oft in these inspiring shades. Or under Camden's moss-clad mountains hoar, You open'd all your sacred store. What 'er your ancient sages taught, Your ancient hards suhlimely thought, And bade her raptur'd breast w ith all your spirit glow? Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain Or Aganippe's fomt your steps detain , Nor in the Thespian vallies did you play v Nor then on Mincio's (1) hank Beset with osiers dank , lo the memory of Lady Lucy Fortescue, /u's wife, died in childbed. At length cscap'd from every human eye, From every duly , every enre , That in tpy mournful tliouglits might olame a share, Or force my tears their flowing stream toilry; Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade, This lone relrcat, for tender sorrow made. |
(1) The Mintio runs by Mantua , the birth-place of Virgil.
|
NorwliereClitimnns rolls (1) his gentle stream, Nor where throiijjh lianginjf woods , Steep Anio ('2) pours his floods, Nor yet where Meles (3) or Jli»sus (4) stray. Ill does it now heseem , That, of your guardian care bereft, To dire disease and death your darling should be left. Now what avails it that in early bloom , When light fantastic toys Areall her sex's joys. With you she seareb'd the »it of Greece and Rome; And all that in ber lattrr days To emulate heraneient praise Italia's happy genius could produce ; Or what tbc Gallic lire Bright sparkling could inspire. By all the Graces temper'd and refin'd ; Or what in Britain's isle. Most favour'd with your smile, The powers of reason and of fancy join'd To full perfection ba\e conspir'd to raise? Ab I what is now the use Of all these treasures that enrich ber mind, To black oblivi ;n's gloom for ever now consign'd. At least, y r ne, her spotless name 'Tis yo -s from death to save. And in the ' em, 'e of immortal fame With golden cna. 'ts her worth engrave. Come then, ye .'rgin lers.^-'ne, And strew with choicest How I In- .lallow'd tomb: But foremost tbou, in sul !_ vestment clad , With accents sw oi «ril sad , Tbou , plaintive mi .ie, v.1 jm o'er his Laura's urn Unhappy IVti arch lt;• ll'd to mourn ; O come, and to tb 5 fairer Laura pay A more impassion'd 17ar. . more pal hetic lay. Tell how each beauty of her mind and face Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar grace! How ehii|nent in every look Through her expressive eyes her soul ilislinetly spoke! Tell bow her manners, by the world refiu'd , Left all the taint of modish viee behind. And made each charm of polish'd courts agree With candid truth's simplieity, And uncorrupted innocence! Tell how to more than manly sense She join'd the softening iniluence 01 more than female tenderness : llow, in I be ihougbt less days of weall h and joy, Which oft the care of other's good destroy, Her kindly-melting heart To every want and every woe, Tognill itself when in distress. The balm of pity would impart, |
And all relief that bounty could bestow! Ev'n for the kind or lamb that pour'd its life Beneath the bloody knife. Her gentle tears would fall, Tears from sweet vitue's source, benevolent to all. Not only good anil kind , But strong and elevated was her mind ; A spirit that with noble pride Could look superior down On fortune's smile or frown ; That could vvilbont regret or pain To virtue's lowest duly sacrifice Or interest or ambition's highest prize; That, injur'd ur oilended , never tried Its dignity by vengeance to maintain. But by magnanimous disdain. A wit that, temperately bright, With inoffensive light All pleasing shone; nor ever past The decent bounds that wisdom's sober hand, And sweet benevolence's mild command. And hasbfull modesly , before it cast. A prudence undeceiving, undceeiv'd. That nor too little nor too much ludiev'd, Thai scorn'd unjust suspicion's coward fear, And without weakness knew to be sincere. Sneb Lucy was, when , in her fairest days. Amidst tb' acclaim of universal praise , In life's and glory's freshest bloom , Death came remorseless on, and sunk ber to the tomb. So, w here tbe silent streams of Liris glide. In ihesoft bosom of Campania's vale. When now the wintery tempests all are fled , And genial summer hrelitbes her gentle gale, Tbe verdant orange lifts its heauteous head : From every branch the balmy flowerets rise. On every bough the golden fruits are seen ; With odours sweet it fills the smiling skies, Tbe wood nymphs lend , and th' Idalian queen. But, in the midst of all its hlooming pride, A sudden blast from Apenninus blows, Cold wilb perpetual snows: The tender blighted plan I shrinks up its leavesand dies. Arise, 0 Petrarch, from th' Klysian howers, With never-fading myrtles twin'd. And fragant with ambrosial flowers , Whereto iby Laura thou again art join'd ; Arise, and hither bring I be silver lyre, Tun'd by tby skillnl hand , To the soft notes of elegant desire; With which o'er many a land Was spread the fame of ihy disastrous love ; To me resign the vocal shell. And leach my sorrows to relate |
The Clltumnus is a river of Umbrin, the residence of Propertius.
336
|
Their mulancholy talc so well, As may cv'n ihinvs inanimato, Rough inoiiiilain oaks,and deserts rocks, to pity move. AVIiat were, alas! tliy woes comparM to mine? To thee lliy mistress in the lilissful liand Of Hymen never ||ave her hand ; The joys of welded love were never thine: In thy domeslic eare Slie never liore a share; Nor with cndeariii({ art Would heal lliy wounded heart Of every secret grief I hat fester'd there: Nor did her fond afieclion on the lied Of siokness walch thee, and lliy languid head Wholenijjhis on her unwearied arm sustain, And eharni away the sense of pain : Nor did she crow ti your mutual flame With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name. O hest of wives! O dearer far to me Than when lliy virgin charms \\ ere yielded lo my arms, How can my soul endure the loss of ihee? How in the world, to me a desert grown , AliandonM and alotio, Without my sweet companlon can I live? Withoul thy lo\ely Miiile, The dear reward of every \irliious toil , What ph'aMirivs now can pall'd amhition give? Ev'n the delighlful sense of well-earn'd praise, (se. UnsharM hy ihee, no more my lifeless thoughts could rai- For my distracted mind Whal succour can I find? On w lioin for consolation shall I call? Support me every friend ; Your kiml assistance lend , To hear t he weight of I h is oppressive woe. Al as! each friend of mine. My dear departed love, so much was thine, That none has any comfort to bestow. My I looks, I he hest relief In every otin r grief, Are now with your idea sailden'd oil: |
Each favourite author we together read My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Locy dead. We were the happiest pair of human kind; The rolling year its varying course perforin'd, And hack return'd again ; Aniither and another smiling came, And saw our happiness unchang'd remain: Still in her golden chain Harmonious concord did our wishes hind: Our studies. pleasures, (aste, the same. O fatal, fatal stroke, That all this pleasing fabric love had rais'd Of rare felicity, On which ev'n wanton vice with envy gai'd , And every scheme of hliss our hearts had form'd, Willi soothing hope, for many a future day , In one sad moment broke! — Yet, O my soul , thy rising inurmers stay; Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign, Or against his supreme decree Willi impious grief complain, That all thy full - blown joys at once should fade; Was his most righteous will —and be that will obey'd. W ould thy fond love his grace to her controul, And in these low abodes of sin and pain Her I ure exalted soul Unjustly for thy partial good deta n ? No — rat her strive tliy groveling mind to raise Up lo that unclouded bla/e. Thai heavenly radiance of eternal light, Jn which cnlhron'd she now with pity sees How frail, how insecure, how slight, Is every mortal bliss; Ev'n love itself; if rising by degrees Bey ond the bounds of this imperfect state, Whose fleeting joys so soon must end , It does not to its sovereign good ascend. Rise then , my soul , with hope elate. And seek those regions of serene delight, Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate No feet but those of hanb ri'd guilt shall miss. There death hiinsi If thy Lucy shall restore. There yield up all his puw'r ne'er to divide you more. |
Deze niet onverdienstelijke trearspelJiehler , vriend en meile-arbeider vnn Thomson nnn diens Masque of Alfred (1740), werd geboren in 170 1 en overleed in 1705. Als verhalend dichter en prozaschrijver heeft hij nansprnak op een vrij nnpzienlyke plants in de enpelsehe letterkunde Zijn voornaamste stukken zijn : William and Margaret (1724); Excursion (1728): Verbid Critiusm (1733); Amyntor and Theodora (1747); de treurspelen: Enrydice (1731); Masiapha (1739,1; en Elvira (1763); Britannia, a Masque (1740); ia proza: life of Bacon; Life of Marlborough, enz.
Far in the windings of a vale, There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair,
Fast by a sheltering wood , Ber.ealh a mother's eyi';
The safe retreat of health and peace , Whose only wish on earth was now
An humble cottage stood. To see her blest j and die.
337
|
The softest Mush that nature spreads Gave colour to her cheek : Such Orient colour smiles through heaven When vernal mornings break. Nor let the pride of great-ones scorn This charmer of the plains : That sun, who hids their diamonds hlaze, To paint our lily deigns. Long had she fill'cl each youth with love, Each maiden with despair; And though by all a wonder own'd , Yet knew not she was fair. Till Edwin came, the pride of swains, A soul devoid of art ; And from whose eye, serenely mild, Shone forth the feeling heart. A mutual flame was quickly caught: Was quickly too reveal'd : For neither bosom lodg'd a wish, That virtue keeps conceal'd. What happy hours of home-felt bliss Did love on both bestow! But bliss too mighty long to last. Where fortune proves a foe. His sister, who, like envy form'd, Like her in mischief joy'd. To work them barm, with wicked skill, Each darker art employd. The father loo, a sordid man. Who love nor pity knew, AVas all-unfeeling as the clod, From whence his riches grew. Long iiad he seen their secret flame, And seen it long umnov'd ; Then with a father's frown at last Had sternly disapproval. In Edwin's gentle heart, a war Of differing passions strove: His heart, that durst not disobey. Yet could not cease to love. Deny'd her sight,lie oft behind The spreading hawthorn crept. To snatch a glance, to mark the spot Where Emma walk'd and wept. |
Oft toStanmore's wintery waste. Beneath the moonlight shade , In sighs to ponr bis soften'd soul, The midnight mourner stray'd. Ilis cheek, where health with beauty glow'd, A deadly pale o'ercast; So fades the fresh rose in its prime. Before the northern blast. The parents now, with late remorse, Hung o'er his dying bed ; And weary'd Heaven with fruitless vows, And fruitless sorrows shed. 'Tis past! he cry'd—but if your souls Sweet mercy yet can move, Let these dim eyes once more behold. What they must ever love! She came; his cold hand softly touch'd. And bath'd with many a tear: Fast falling o'er the primrose pale. So morning dews appear. But oh I his sister's jealous care, A cruel sister she I Forbade what Emma came to say; quot;My Edwin, live for me!'' Now homeward as she hopeless wept The church-yard path along. The blast blow cold, the dark owl scream'd Her lover's funeral song. Amid the falling gloom of night , Her startling fancy found In every bush his hovering shade, His groan in every sound. Alone, appal I'd, thus had she pass'd The visionary vale-- When lo! the death-bell smote her ear. Sad sounding in the gale! Just then she reach'd, with trembling step, Her aged mother's door-- He's gone! she ory'd ; and I shall see That angel-face no more. I feel, I feel this breaking heart Beat high against my side-- From her white arm down sunk her head ; She shivering sigh'd, and dy'd. |
|
'T was at the silent, solemn hour. When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stooil at William's feet. Her face was like an April-morn, Clad in a wintery cloud ; And clay-cold was her lily hand, That held her sable shroud. |
So shall the fairest face appear, When youth and years arc flown : Such is the robe that kings must wear. When death has reft their crown. Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew ; The rose was budded in her cheek , Just opening to the view. |
43
358
|
Bat love had, like the canker-worm, Consum'd lier early prime; The rose grew pale, and left her eiieek ; She dy'd before her time. Awake! she crj'd, thy true-love calls , Come from her midnight grave , Now let thy pily hear the maid, Thy love refus'd to save. This is thedambnnd dreary hour, When injur'd ghosts complain ; When yawning graves give up their dead ; To haunt the faithless swain. Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge and broken oath! And give me back my maiden vow. And give me back my troth. Why did you promise love to me, And not that promise keep! Why did you swear my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep ? How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake ? How could you win my virgin-heart, Yet leave that heart to break? Why did you say my lip was sweet. And made the scarlet pale ? |
And why did [, young witless maid! Believe the flattering talc? That face, alas! no more is fair , Those lips no longer red : Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death. And every charm is fled. The hungry worm my sister is; This winding sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night , Till that last morn appear. But, hark! the cock has warn'd mehencp, A long and late adieu ! Come, see, false man, how low she lies. Who dy'd for love of you. The lark sung loud ; the morning smil'd, With beams of rosy red; Pale William quak'd in every limb, And raving left his bed. He hy'd him to the fatal place Where Margaret's body lay ; And stretch'd him on the green-grass turf, That wrapp'd her breathless clay. And thrice beeall'd on Margaret's name. And thrice he wept full sore; Then laid his cheek to her cold grave. And word spoke never more! |
Leefde van 1709 tot 1779: hij studeerde in de geneeskunde aim de universiteit te Edlmburg, van waar hij zich (Is geneesheer naar Londen begaf; daar was hij evenwel gelukkiger als schrijver, dan als geneesheer. Ilij leverde zonder of mot zijn naam in proza: An Essay lor abridging the stmly of Physic, etc.; An Epistle from Usbeck (lie Persian to Joshua Ward (1735); A Synopsis of the History and Cureofthe Veneral Diseases (1737); Sketches and Essays on various subjects, by Launeelot Temple (1758); A short llamble through some parts of France and Italy, by Launeelot Temple (1758); A short Ramble through some parts of France and Italy, by Launeelot Temple (1771), Medical Essays (1773); — in poesic: Ihe Economy of Love (1737); The art of preserving health ^744); On ISencvoleiice (1751); Taste, an Epistle to a young Critic (1753); Day, an Epistle etc. (1761); Imitations of Shakespeare and Spenser ; Universal Almanack by Nouraddiu Ali (1770) en The Forced Marriage, een treurspel , behalven nog eenige kleinere dichtstukje». lu /.ijü schetsen ontwikkelt hg een groot verstand en goedsn smaak en als dichter beeft hy zijn naam door The Art of Preserving Health gevestigd. Zijn werken en ook vooral dit dichtstuk zijn herhaalde malen gedeukt.
|
The Sweating Sickness. *First through the shoulders, or whatever part Was sei/.'d the first, a fervid vapour sprung. With rash coinhustion thence, the quivering spark Shot to the heart, and kindled all within ; And soon the surface caught the spreading fires. Through all the yielding pores, the melted blood Gush'd out in smoky sweats; but nought assuag'd The torrid head within, nor aught relicv'd |
The stomach's anguish. With incessant toil Desperate of case, impatient of their pain , They toss'd from side to side, lu vain the stream Ran full and clear, they burnt, and thirsted still. The restless arteries with rapid blood Beat strong and frequent. Thick and pantingly The breath was fetch'd , and with huge lab'rings At last a heavy pain oppress'd the head , (hcav'd. A wild delirium came; their weeping friends Were strangers now, and this no home of theirs. |
339
|
Harass'd with toil on toil, llie sinking powers Lay prostrate and o'ertlirown ; a ponderous sleep Wrapt all the senses up: they slept and died. In some a gentle horror crept at first O'er all the limhs; the sluiees of the skin With-held their moisture , till hy art provok'd The sweats oVrflow'd ; but in a clammy tike: Now free and copious, now restrain'd and slow ; Of tinctures various, as the temperature Had mix'd the hluud ; and rank with fetid streams; As if the pent-up humours hy delay Were grown more fell, more putrid, and malign. Here lay their hopes (though little hope rcuiain'd); With full effusion of perpetual sweats To drive the venom out. And hero the fates Were kind , that long ihey linger'd not in pain. For , who surviv'd the sun's diurnal race , Kose from the dreary gates of hell redeem'd : Some the sixth hour oppress'd , and some the third. Of many thousands few untainted 'scap'd ; Of those infected , fewer 'scap'd alive; Of those w ho liv'd , some felt a second blow ; And w hom the second spar'd , a third deslrov'd. Frantic with fear, they sought hy flight to shun The fierce contagion. O'er the mournful land Th'infected city pour'd her hurrying swarms: Ilous'd hy the flames that fir'd her seals around, Th'infected country rush'd into the town. |
Some, sad at home, and in the desert some Ahjnr'd the fatal commerce of mankind ; In vain : where'er they fled , the fates pursu'd. Others, -with hopes more specious, cross'd the main, To seek protection in far distant skies; But none they found. Itseem'd the general air, From pole to polo, from Atlas to the east, Was then at enmity with English blood. For, but the race of England, all were safe In foreign climes; nor did this fury taste The foreign blood which England then contain'd. Where should they fly ? The circumambient heaven Involv'd them still; and every breeze was bane. Where find relief? The salutary art Was mute , and startled at the new disease, In fearful whispers hopeless omens gave. To Heaven with suppliant rites they senttheirprayers; Heaven heard them not. Of every hope depriv'd; Fatigu'd with vain resources ; and subdued With woes resistless, and enfeebling fear; Passive they sunk beneath the weighty blow. Nothing but lamentable sounds was heard ; Nor aught was seen, but ghastly views of death. Infectious horror ran from face to face. And pale despair. 'T was all the business then , To tend the sick , and in their turns to die. In heaps they fell; and oft one bed, they say. The sickening, dying, and the dead contained.* |
Geboren te Abington , in Berkshire, overleed in 1757 : hij bekleedt onder de dichters vooral een eerste plaats door zijn fabelen, die hij uitsluitend voor de sehoone kunne schreef; zij zijn bekend onder den titel von Tables for the Female Sex (1744); voorts leverde hij: The trial for Selim the Persian, for high Crimes and Misdemeanours (1748); The Trial of Sarah**, alius Slim Sal en eenigo kleine stukken. Voor het tooneel heeft men van bem de tooneelspelen : The Foundling (1748); Gil Bias (1751) en The Gamester (1768), een treurspel. Van 1763 tot 1767 schreef hij een tijdschrift The World, hy Adam Fitz Adam, waarin een aantal letterkundigen stukken leverden. Zijn werken, vooral de fabelen, werden herhaalde malen herdrukt.
|
Fable III. The nigbtingai.e and glowwohm. Tbc prudent nymph , whose cheeks disclose The lily, and the blushing rose, From public view her charms will screen , And rarely in the crowd be seen ; This simple truth shall keep her wise, quot;The fairest fruits attract the flies.quot; One night a glowworm , proud and vain, Contemplating her glitt'ring train, Cry'd , sure there never was in nature So elegant, so fine a creature. All other insects that I see , The frugal ant, industrious bee, Or silk-worm, with contempt I view ; With all that low, mechanic crew , Who servilely their lives employ |
In business, enemy to joy. Mean , vulgar herd! yo are my scorn, For grandeur only I was born, Or sure am sprung from race divine, And plac'd on earth , to live and shine. Those lights that sparkle so on high , Are hut the glowworms of the sky. And kings on earth their gems admire , Because they imitate my fire. She spoke. Attentive on a spray, A nightingale forbore bis lay ; He saw the shining morsel near. And flew, directed hy the glare; A while he gaz'd with sober look, And thus the trembling prey bespoke. Deluded fool, with pridoelate, Know't is thy beauty brings thy fate: Less daziling, long thou might'st have lain |
340
|
Unheeded on the velvet plain ; Pride, soon or lale, degraded mourns, And beauty wrecks whom she adorn?. Fable IV. Hymen and oeatu. Sixteen, d'ye say ? Nay, then't is time; Another year destroys your prime. But stay. — The settlement! Thai's madequot;. Why then's my simple {;irl afraid ? Yet hold a moment, if you can , And heedfully the fable scan. The shades were fled , the morning blush'd , The winds were in the caverns hush'd , When Hymen, pensive and sedalo, Held o'er the fields his musing gait Behind him, through the green-wood shade. Death's meagre form I be god survey'd. Who quickly, witli gigantic stride. Out-went bis pace, and join'il his side. The chat on various subjects ran, Till angry Hymen thus began. Belentless Death , whose iron sway Mortals reluctant must obey. Still of thy pow'r sbal I I complain, And thy too partial band arraign? When Cupid brings a pair of hearts All over stuck with cqunl darts, Thy cruel shafts my bopos deride. And cut the knol that Hymen ty'd. Shall not the bloody and the bold , The miser, hoarding up his gold , The harlot, reeking from the slew. Alone thy fell revenge pursue? But must the genlle, and the kind , Thy fury, undistinguish'd j find? The monarch calmly thus reply'd: Weigh well (because, and then decide. That friend of yours , you lately nam'd, Cupid , alone is to be blam'd ; Then let the charge be justly laid; That idle boy neglects his trade . Aud liufdly once in twenty years A couple to your temple bears. The wretches, w bom your ofiicc blends, Silenus now, or Plutus sends; Hence care, and bitterness, and strife Are common to the nuptial life. Believe me, more then all mankind, Yourvot'ries my compassion find; Yet cruel am I call'd . and base. Who seek the wretched lo release ; The captive from bis bonds to free. Indissoluble but for me. 'Tis I entice him to the yoke; By me, your erowded altars smoke : For mortals boldly dare the noose. Secure that death will set them loose. |
Fable IX. The farmer, the spaniel, and tde cat. Why knits my dear her angry brow ? What rude oflenee alarms you now ? I said, that Delia's fair, 't is true, But did I say she equall'd you? Can't 1 another's facecominend , Or to her virtues bo a friend, But instantly your forehead lours , As if her merit iessen'd yours? From female envy never free , All must he blind , because you see. Survey the gardens, fields and bow'rs. The buds, the blossoms, and tbc flow'rf. Then tell me where the woodbine grows. That vies in sweetness with the rose ? Or where the lily's snowy white , That throws such beauties on the sight? Yet folly is it to declare, That these are neither sweet, nor fair. The crystal shines with fainter rays Before the di'mond's brighter blaze ; And fops will say, tbedi'inond dies. Before the lustre of your eyes: But I, who deal in truth , deny That neither shine when you are by. When /.ephyrs o'er the blossoms stray, And sweets along the air convey, Sha'n't 1 the fragrant breeze inhale. Because you breatbe a sweeter gale ? Sweet are the flow'rs, that deck the field ; Sweet is the smell the blossoms yield ; Sweet is the summer gale that blows; And sweet, though sweeter yon the rose. Shall envy then torment your breast. If you are lovelier than the rest ? For while I give to each her due, By praising them I Hatter you ; And praising most, I still declare You fairest, where the rest arc fair. As at his board a farmer sate, Beplenlsh'd by bis homely treat, His fav'ritc spaniel near him stood , And with his master sliar'd the food ; The crackling bones bis jaws devour'd, His lapping tongue the trenchcrs scour'd ; Till sated now, supine he lay , And snor'd the rising fumes away. The hungry cat, in turn , drew near, And humbly crav'd a servant's share ; Her modest worth the master knew. And straight the fatt'ning morsel threw: Enrag'd the snarlinjj cur awoke. And thus, with spiteful envy , spoke. They only claim a right lo cat, Who earn by services their meat. Me. zeal and industry inflame To seour the fields, and spring the game; Or, plunging in the wint'ry wave. |
541
|
Kor man tho wounded bird lo save. Willi watcliful diliijencc I kcop From prowl in jf wolves, liis fleecy slieej); At liome liis midnight hours secure, And drive llie robber from ihe door. For tliis, his breast with kindness glows; For this, bis hand the food bestows; And shall tliy indolence impart A warmer friendship lo his heart, That thus he robs me of my due , To pamper such vile things as you ? I own (with meekness puss reply'd) Superior merit on your side; Nor does my breast with envy swell, |
Yet [, in what my nature can , Contribute lo the good of man. Whose claws deslroy the pilf'ring mouse ? W ho drives the vermin from the bouse? Or , watcliful for the lab'ring swain , From lurking rats secures the grain? From hence, ifbe rewards bestow, Why should your heart with gall o'erllow ? Why pine my happiness to sec, Since there's enough for you and me? Thy words are just, the farmer cry'd , And spurn'd thesnarler from his side. |
In November 1714 te Leasowes, in Shropshire, geboren, overleed in Febriiar(j 1763. Hij studeerde te Oxford (Pembroke College), waar bij met ijver studeerde. Zijn eerst dichtstuk The Diamond, een navolging van Pope's Rape of the Look, eu een ander The Snuff-box, schreef hij op negentienjarigen leeftijd; beiden zijn evenwel zonder verdienste. Men heeft van hem in poezie; Elegies (XXVI); Odes; Songs (XIX) : Ballads etc.; Levities ; or pieces of humour ; Moral pieces; Inscriptions. Ook schreef hij eenigo verhandelingen in proza, waarvan velen onvoltooid bleven : de meest bekende zijn die Ou publications; On allowing merits in others; The Impromptu; or gardening; On Men and Manners. Do algemceuc aanbeveling voor aijn dichtstukken is gemakkebjldieid en eenvoudigheid van uitdrukking; zijn Pastoral Ballad; Schoolmistress en een paar elegien hebben hem 't meest als dichter ccn verdienstelijken naam doen verwerven. Ook zijn verhandelingen in proza zijn niet van verdienste ontbloot.
liiLLAD AUDDING TO A STOflï RECORDED OP HER, WHEN SUE WAS PfitSGNER AT WOODSTOCK, 155^.
|
Will you hear bow once repining Great Eliza captive lay ? Each ambitious thought resigning. Foe lo riches, pomp, and sway. W hile Ihe nymphs and swains delighted Tript around in all their pride; Envying joys by others slighted, Thus the royal maiden cry'd. quot;Bred on plains, or born in vallies, Who would bid those scenes adieu ? Stranger to the art of malice, Wl 10 would ever courts pursue ? Malicc never taught to treasure , Censure never taught to hear: Love is all the shepherd's pleasure; Love is all the damsel's care. How can they of bumble station Vainly blame the power above ? Or accuse the dispensation Which allows them all to love? Love like air is widely given ; Power nor chance can these restrain; Truest, noblest gifts of heaven ! Only purest on the plain 1 Peers can no such charms discover , Ail in stars and garters drcst, |
As, on Sundays, docs the lover With b is nosegay on bis breast. Pinks and roses in profusion , Said lo fade when Chloe's near; Fops may use the same allusion ; But the shepherd is sincere. Hark to yonder milk-maid singing Cbeerly o'er Ihe brimming pail. Cowslips all around her springing Sweetly paint the golden vale. Never yet did courtly maiden Move so sprightly, look so fair; Never breast with jewels laden Pour a song so void of carc. Would indulgent heaven had granted Me some rural damsel's part! All the empire I bad wanted Then had been my shepherd's heart. Then, with him, o'er hills and mountains, Free from fetters, might I rove: Fearless taste the crystal fountains ; Peaceful sleep beneath the grove. Rustics had been more forgiving; Partial to my virgin bloom : None bad envy'd mo when living ; None bad triumph'ri o'er my tomb.quot; |
342
The sKï-iAnK.
|
Go, tuneful bird, that glad'st the skies, To Dap lino's window speed thy way; And there on quivering pinions rise , And there thy vocal art display. And if she deign thy notes to hear, And if she praise tiiy matin song, Tell her the sounds that sootli her ear. To Damon's native plain belong. |
Tell her, in livelier plumes array'd , The bird from Indian groves may shine 15ut ask the lovely partial maid What are his notes compar'd to thine? Then bid her treat yon witless beau And all hisflounting race with scorn ; And lend an ear to Damon's woe, Who sings her praise, and sings forlorn |
|
'T was in a land of learning, The muses favourite city, Such pronks of late Where play'd by a rat, As—tempt one to be witty All in a college study, Where books were in great plenty ; This rat would devour More sense in an hour. Than I could write—in twenty. Corporeal food,'t is granted, Serves vermin less rcfin'd sir ; Rut this, a rat of taste, All other rats surpass'd; And he prey'd on the food of the mind , Sir. His breakfast, half the morning , He constantly attended; And when the hell rung For evening song His dinner scarce was ended ! He spar'd not ev'n heroics, On which we poets pride us ; And would make no more Of King Arthur's (1) by the score Than all the world besides does. In books of geography. He made the maps to flutter ; A river or a sea Was to him a dish of tea : And a kingdom, bread and butter. But if some mawkish potion Might chance to over-dose him, To check its rage, He took a page Of logic—to eotnposc him — A trap in haste and anger , AVas bought, you need not doubt on't; And,such wosthegin. Where a lion once got in , He could not, I think, get out on't. |
With cheese, not hooks, 't was baited , The fact I'll not belye it — Since none — I'll tell you that — Whether scholar or rat, Mind books, when he has other diet: But more of trap and bait. Sir, Why should I sing or either? Since the rat, who knew the slight, Came in the dead of night, Anddragg'd them away together; Both trap anil bait were vanish'd. Through a fracture in the flooring; Which though so trim It now may seem, Had then — a doien or more in. Then answer this, ye sages! Nor deem a man to wrong ye, Had the rat which thus did seize on The trap, less claim to reason , Than many a skull among ye? Dan Prior's mice, I own it, AVere vermin of condition ; But this rat who merely learn'd AVhat rats alone concern'd, AVas the greater politician. That England's topsy-turvy, Is clear from these mishaps, Sir; Since traps we may determine , AA'ill no longer take our vermin , But vermin (2) take our traps, Sir. Let sophs, by rats infested , Then trust in cats to catch 'em ; Lest they grow as learn'd as we, In our studies; where d'ye see, No mortal sits to watch 'em. Good luck betide our captains; Good luck betide our cats, Sir: And grant that the one May quell the spanish Don, And the other destroy our rals, Sir. |
(2) Written at the time of the Spanish depredations
(1) By Blackmore.
345
Werd geboren in December 1716 te Londen, en overleed in 1771 : hij legde zich nanvankelijk toe op de regtsge-leerdheid , doch zng vnn |die studiën af, toen hij zicü naar 't vasteland begaf, om er do voornaamste landen en steden to bezoeken. Behalven zijn vermaardheid als lierdichter, was hij bovendien bekend om zijn kennis van de oudheid, de algemeene en natuurlijke geschiedenis. Mij beproefde ook als tooneel-dichter op te treden, doch zijn eerste stuk , benevens eenige andere stukken in poëzie bleven onafgewerkt. Men heeft van hem een annlal Poems, waaronder de thans nog zoo algemeen bekende Elegy written in a Conntry-Church-yard (1749) zijn naam vereeuwigt. Ook de Ode on Eton Cullege{17lt;li7); The Long Story, eenige vertalingen eu andere kleine stukken verhoogden niet weinig zijn roem. Zijn lat(|nselic verzen en brieven in proza, waarin hij op vele plaatsen verslag van zijn reis gcoft, en andere prozastukken zijn niet van verdienste ontbloot. Zijn werken werden herhaalde malen gedrukt en het Is schier een onmogelijkheid om op te geven, hoeveel malen zijn Elegy written on a Country-Church-Yard In Engeland eu op 't vasteland is nitgegeven. Zijn Pindaric Odes verschenen In 1757 ; daaronder munten uit The Progress of Poesy en The Bard.
A rnAGMENi.
|
Hail, horrors hail! ye ever gloomy bowers, Ye jjothic fanes, and antiquated towers , Where rushy Camus' slowly-windiiij; flood Perpetual draws his humid train of mud : Glad 1 revisit thy ncglected reign, Oh take me to thy peaceful shade again. But chiefly thee, whose influence breath from high, Augments the native darkness of the sky; Ah ignorance! soft salutary power! Prostrate with filial reverence I adore. Thrice has Hyperion roll'n his annual race, Since weeping I forsook thy fund embrace. Oh say, successful dost thou still oppose Thy leaden jEgis 'gainst our ancient foes ? Still streacb, tenacious of thy right divine, The massy sceptre o'er thy slumbering line ? And dews Lethean thrungh the land dispense To sleep in slumbers cach benighted sense? |
If any spark of wit's delusive ray ISreak out, and Hash a moinenlary day With damp , could touch forbid it to aspire, And huddle up in fogs the dangerous fire. Oh say — she hears me not, but careless grown, Lethargio nods upon her ebon throne. Goddess I awake , arise , alas my fears ! Can powers immortal feel the force of years? Not thus of old, with ensigns wide unfurl'd. She rode triumphant o'er the vanquished world ; Fierce nationsown'd her unresisted might. And all was ignorance; and all was night. Oh sacred age! Ob times fur ever lost! (The school-man's glory, and the churchman's boast.) For ever gone-yet still to fancy new , Her rapid wings the transient scene pursue, And bring the buried ages back to view. |
JKIcgy written In a Country-Cliurch-lTariiL
|
The curfew (1) tolls the knell (2) of parting day. The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea , The plowman homeward plods his weary way. And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight , And all the air a solemn stillness holds ; Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds— Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, f he moping owl docs to the moon complain |
Of such as wandering near the secret bower, Molest their ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in iiiany a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell, forever laid , The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn , The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion (3), or the echoing horn (4), No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. |
(1) The bell that was formerly rung at sun-set. (2) Death-bell, but here, the close, the end.
(o) A trumpet, but here, the Crowing of the cock. (4) The echoing lluntmau'a bugle.
ii'T
|
For lliem no inoro llic lilating licartli shall Imrn , Or busy liousowif(! jily Iilt evening carc: No children run to lisp their sire's return , Or climb bis knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield , Their furrow oft the stubborn jjlcbo has broke; How jocund did they drive their I earn afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their botnelyjoys, and destiny obscure; Kor jjrandeur bear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. Await alike the inevitable hour : The paths of glory lead but to the grave! Nor you, ye proud ! impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tombs no trophies raise. Where through the long-drawn aisle (1) and fretted The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.(vault(2) Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting (3) breath ? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust ? Or flattery sooth the dull, cold car of death ? Perhaps in this neglected spot'is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd , Or waked lo ecstasy the Ining lyre. But knowledge, to their eyes, her ample page. Rich with the spoils of lime, diil ne'er unroll; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage , And froie the genial current of their soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene. The dark unfatbom'd caves of ocean bear : Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, Ami wast its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Uampden, that with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. Some Cromwell guiltless of bis country's blood. Tb'applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise. To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. Or read their history in a nation's eyes. Their lot forbade ; nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd ; Forbade lo wade through slaughter to a thronei And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. |
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide , To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride , With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife , Their sober wishes never learned lo stray; Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life. They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult lo protect. Some frail memorial [i) still erected nigh , With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelled by th'unlitter'd The place of fame and elegy supply: (muse. And many a holy text around she strews (5), That teach the rustic moralist lo die. For who, to dumb forgetfulncss a prey j This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd , Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Kv'n from the tomb the voice ol nature cries ; Kv'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who mindful of ib'unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless laic relate ; If chance, by lonely contemplation led , Some kindred spirit should inquire thy fate. Haply some hoary-beaded swain may say , quot;Oft have I seen him , at the peep of dawn , Brushing with harty steps the dews away , To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech , Which wreathes its old fantastic, roots so high , His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that bubbles by; Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn , Muttering bis wayward fancies, he would rove ; Now drooping woful wan , like one forlorn , And cra/.'d with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. One morn I missed him on the accustom'd hill, Along the heath and near his favourite tree ; Another came (U); nor yel beside the rill, Nor up the lawn , nor al the wood was he ; The next (7), with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through theoliurcb-way path we saw him borne; Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone, beneath yon aged thorn.quot; |
(1) Esletulcd walks, or passages in churches. (3) Ornamented arched ceiling.
(3) Means here: already lied. (4) Monument of Wood.
(5) It is customary to carve some passage of Scripture on ihe grave stone.
(0) Another morning arrived. (7) The following day.
I' ' ■ —-i
A Pindario Ode.
The following ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward the first, when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bard» that fell into his hands, to he jmt to death.
|
'Ruin seize tlice, ruthless king! 'Confusion on tliy banners wait, 'Thouijli fnnn'd by conquest's crimson wing, 'Tliey mock tlic air witli idle slate. 'Helm, nor hauberk's (1) twisted mail, 'Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail 'To save tliy secret soul from nijjhtly fears, 'From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears! Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdcm's (2) shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Olo'ster (3) stood aghast in speechless trance : To arms! cried Mortimer (4), and couch'd bis quivering lance On a rock , whose haughty hrow Frown's o'er old Conway's foaming flood , Roh'd in the sahle garb of woe. With huggard eyes the poet stood ; (l.oose his heard, and hoary hair (5). Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air), And with a master's hand , and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 'Hark how each giant oak , and desert cave, 'Sighs to the torrents awful voice hcncath ! 'O'er thee, oh king ! their hundred arms t hey weave, 'Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; 'Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day , To high-born llocl's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. J. 3. 'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue. |
'That hush'd the stormy main ; 'Urave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : 'Mountains, ye mourn in vain 'Modred , whoso magic song 'Made huge Plinliimnon bow his cloud-top'd head. 'On dreary Arvon's shore (6) they lie, 'Smear'd with gore , and ghastly pale: 'Far, far aloof th' ailrighted ravens sail: 'The famish'd eagle (7) screams and passes by. 'Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, 'Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, 'Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, 'Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — 'No more I weep. They do not sleep. 'On yonder clifl's, a griesly band, 'I see them sit, they linger yet, 'Avengers of their native land : 'With me in dreadful harmony they join , 'And weave (8) with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. II. 1. quot;Weave the warp , and weave the woof, quot;The winding-sheet of Edward's race, quot;Give ample room , and verge enough quot;The characters of hell to trace. quot;Mark the year, and mark the nigiit, quot;When Severn (9) shall re-echo with aflright, quot;The shrieks of death through Berkeley's roofs that quot;Shrieks of an agoniiing king; (ring: quot;She-wolf of France (10), with unrelenting fangs, '•That tears the bowels of thy mangled mate, quot;From thee be born (11), who o'er thy country hangs, quot;The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him wait! quot;Amazement in his van , with flight combin'd : quot;And sorrow's faded form , and solitude behind. |
(1) Tlio hauberk was a textarc of steel ringlets , or rings interwoven , forming a coat of mail, that sat close to the body, and adapted itself to every motion. (2) SnowJon was a name given by the Saxons to that mountainous tract, which the Welsh themselves eall Oraigian-eryri: it included all the highlands of Caernarvonshire and Merionethshire, as far east as the river Conway. (3) Gilbert de Clare , surnamed Vie Red, Earl of Gloucester and Hertford, son-in-law to king Edward. (4) Kdmond de Mortimer, Lord of Wigmore. They both were Lords-Marchers, whoso lands lay on the borders of Wales, and probably accompanied the king in his expedition. (5) 'I he image was taken from the well-Itnown picture of llsphael, representing the Supreme lieing in the vision of Ezekiel. (6) The shores or Caernarvonshire opposite to the isle of Anglesey. (7) It is observed , by several authors , that eagles used annimlly to build their aerie nests among the rocks of Snowdon , which from thence (as some think) were named by the Welsh Craigian-everi, or the crags of the eagles. (8) See the Norwegian Ode that follows. (U) Edward the Second, cruelly butchered in Berkeley-castle. (10) Isabel of France, Edward the Second's adulterous queen. (11) Triumphs of Edward the Third in Frauce.
44
546
|
quot;Mighty victor, mighty Lord, quot;Low on his fnnural coucli he lies (1)! quot;No pitying heart, no eye afford quot;A tear to grace his obsequies. quot;Is the sahle warrior (2) tied ? quot;Thy son is gone, lie rests among the dead. quot;The swarm, that in the noon-tide beam were home; quot;Gone to salute the rising morn. quot;Fair laughs (3)the morn, and soft the zephyr hlows, quot;While proudly riding o'er the azure realm quot;In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes: quot;Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm ; •'Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, quot;That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey. II. 3. quot;Fill high the sparkling bowl (4), quot;The righ repast prepare ; quot;Reft of a crown , ho yet may siiare the feast: quot;Close by the regal chair quot;Fell thirst and famine scowl quot;A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. quot;Heard ye the din of battle (5) bray, quot;Lance lo lance and horse to horse! quot;Long years of havoc urge their destin'd course, quot;And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. quot;Ye towers of Julius (6), London's lasting shame, quot;With many a foul and midnight murder fed. quot;Revere his consort's (7) faith , his father's (8) fame, quot;And spare the meek usurper's (0) holy head. quot;Above, below , the rose of snow (10), quot;Twin'd with her blushing foe we spread : quot;The bristled (11) boar in infant gore quot;Wallows beneath the thorny shade. quot;Now , brothers, bending o'er th'accursed loom, quot;Stamp we our vengeance deep , and ratify his doom. UI. 1. |
quot;Edward , lo! to sudden fate '(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun). quot;(12) Half of thy heart we consecrate. quot;The web is wove. The work is done.)quot; 'Stay, oh stay ! nor thus forlorn 'Leave mc unbless'd , unpitied , here to mourn : 'In yon bright track , that fires the western skies , 'They melt ■, they vanish from my eyes. 'But oh ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 'Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ? 'Visions of glory , spare my aching sight, 'Ye unborn ages , crowd not on my soul I 'No more our long-lost (13) Arthur we bewail. 'All-hail (14)yegenuine kings; Britlania's issue, hail 'Girt with many a baron bold 'Sublime their starry fronts they rear; 'And gorgeous dames and statesmen old , 'In bearded majesty, appear. 'In the midst a form divine ! (15) 'Her eye proclaims her of the Briton .line 'Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, 'Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. 'What strings sympbonious tremble in the air, 'What strains of vocal transport round her play ; 'Hear from the grave . great Talicssin (10), hear; 'They breathe a soul lo animate thy clay, 'Brgiht rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, 'Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour'd wings. 'The verso adorn again 'Fierce war, and faithful love, 'And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. 'In buskin'd measures (17) move 'Pale grief, and pleasing pain , 'With hoiror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 'A voice (ligt;), as of the cherub-choir, 'Gales from blooming Fden bear; 'And distant (19) warblings lessen on my ear, |
(1) Denlh of king Edward the Third, abandoned liy his children, and even rnWicd in his Inst moments by his courtiers and his mistress. (2) Edward the Black Prince , dead some time before his father. (3) Magni-fieence of Richard the Sec6mrs reign. (4) Richard the second was starved to death (as wo are told by Archbishop Scroop and the confederate Lords in their manifesto by Thomas of Walsingham , and all the older writers). The story of his assassination by Sir Piers of Exon , is of much later date. (5) Ruinous civil wars of York and Lancaster. (6) Henry the Sixth , George duke of Clarence, Edward the Filth, Richard Duke of York , etc. believed to he murdered in the Tower of London. The oldest part of that structure is vulguarly attributed to Julius Caesar. (7) Margaret of Anjou , a woman of heroic spirit, who struggled bard to save her husband and her crown. (8) Henry the Fifth. (9) Henry the Sixth very near being canonized. The line of Lancaster had no right of inheritance to the crown. (10) The wdiite and red roses, devices of York and Lancaster. (11) The silver-boar was the badge of Richard the Third ; whence he was usually known in his own time by the name of The Roar. (12) Eleanor of Castile died a few years after the conquest of Wales. (13) It was the common belief of the Welsh nation, that King Arthur was still alive in Fairy-laud, and should return again to reign over Britain. (14) Both Merlin and Taliessin had prophesied, that (ho Welsh should regain their sovereignty over this island; which seemed to bo accomplished in the bouse of Tudor. (15) Queen Elizabeth. (10) Talicssin, Chief of the Bards, flourished in the sixth century. (17) Shakespeare. (18) Milton. (19) 'fho succession of poet's after Milton's time.
547
|
'Tlial lost in long futurity expire. 'Fond impious man, tliink'st ttiou,yon sanguine cloud, 'Rais'd hy tliy brealli, has quencli'd llie orb of day ? 'To-morrow lie repairs the golden flood , 'And warms tlie nations with redoubled ray. |
'Enough for me; with joy I see 'The cliflcrcnl doom our fates assign. 'lie thine despair, and scepter'd care; 'To Triumph , and to die, are mine.' He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night. |
An ode.
(From the nokse tongde.)
PnEFACE.
|
In the elevenlh ccntary, Sigurd , Earl of tlio Oi-k-ncy-islmids, went with a fleet of ships and a considerable body of troops into Ireland, to the assistance of Sictryg with the Silken Beard, who was then making war on his father-in-law Brian, King of Dublin; the Earl and all his forces were cut to pieces; and Sictryg was in danger of a total defeat; but the enemy had a greater loss, by the death of Brian, their king, who fell in the action. On Christmas day (the day of the battle), a native of Caithness, in Scotland saw at a distance, a number of persons on horseback, riding full speed towards a hill, and seeming to enter into it. Cariosity led him to follow them, till, looking through an opening in the rocks, he saw twolfe gigantic figures, resembling women: they were all employed about a loom: and as they wove, they sung the following dreadfnl song j which when they had finished, they tore the web into twelve pieces, and (each taking her portion) galloped six to the north, and as many to the south. |
|
Now the storm begins to lour, (Haste, the loom pf bell prepare), Iron fleet of arrowy shower Hurtles in the darken'd air. Glittering lances are the loom , Where the dusky warp we strain , Weaving many a soldier's doom , Orkney's wo, and Randver's bane. See the griesly texture grow , ('Tis of human entrails made) , And the weights that play below. Each a gasping warrior's head. Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore. Shoot the trembling cords along ; Sword, that oncc a monarch bore, Keep the tissue close and strong. Mista black, terrific maid, Sangrida, and Hilda see, Join the wayward work to aid : 'Tis the woof of victory. Ere the ruddy sun bo set, Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, Blade with clattering buckler meet, Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. (Weave the crimson web of war), Let us go and let us fly , Where our friends the conflict share, Where they triumph , where they die. As the paths of fate we tread , Wading through th'ciisanguin'd field |
Gondula , and (Jeira spread O'er the youthful king your shield. AVe the reins to slaughter give, Ours to kill, and ours to spare: Spite of danger he shall live. (Weave the crimson web of war). They, whom once the desert-beach Pent within its bleak domain , Soon their ample sway shall stretcli O'er the plenty of llie plain. Low, the dauntless Earl is laid , Gor'd with many a gaping wound : Fate demands a nobler head; Soon a king shall bite the ground. Long his loss shall Eirin weep, Ne'er again his likeness see ; Long her strains in sorrow steep, Strains of immortality. Horror covers all the heath , Clouds of carnage blot the sun. Sisters, weave the web of death ; Sisters, cease , the work is done. Hail the lask , and hail the hands! Songs of joy and triumph sing ! Joy to the victorious hands, Triumph to the younger king. Mortal. thou that hcar'st the tale, Learn the tenour of onr song, Scotland, through each winding vale. Far and wide the notes prolong. |
348
|
Sisters, heiicc, witli spurs of speed: EacL lier thundering faulchion wield ; |
Each bestride lier sable steed. Hurry, hurry to the field. |
|
From tiie Had I but t!io torrent's might, AVith headlong rage and wild affright Upon Deïra's squadrons hurl'd , To rush, and sweep tiiem from the world ! Too, too secure in youthful pride. By them my frieml , my Hoel, died. Great Cian's son, of Madoe old ; He ask'd no heaps of hoarded gold ; Alone in nature's wealth array'd. He ask'd and had the lovely maid. To Cattraeth's vale, in glitt'ring row. Twice two hundred warriors go ; |
Every warrior's manly neck Chains of regal honour deck , Wreath'd in many a golden link: From the golden cup they drink Nectar, that the bees produce, Or the grape's ecstatic juice. Flush'd with mirth and hope they burn ; But none from Cattraeth's vale return , Save Aëron bravo, and Comin strong, (Bursting through the bloody throng) And I, the meanest of them all, That live to weep, and sing their fall. |
Leefde van 1720 tot 1756: hij was in zijn tijd de grootste vnn allo dichters, die, door 't gering aantal of de beknoptheid van hun stukken, de Kleine Dichters genoemd worden: 't mcerendeel van zijn pennevruchten leverde hij tien jaar vóór zijn overlijden. Hij bezat een uitgebreide kennis ca wat hij schreef is vol levendige verbeeldingskrncht en welluidendheid. Gedurende zijn leven werden zijn verdien» s en echter miskend ; de diehter trok zich dit zoo nan , dat hij aanvankelijk tot uitspattingen oversloeg cn later krankzinnig werd. Men heeft van hem: Oriental Eclogues, in 1742 verschenen, toen hij nog to üiforu studeerde ; Odes, descriptive and allegorical (1740); The Passions, nn Ode, en eenige kleine stukken. Ie Ode on the Popular Superstitions of the Highlanders schreef hij in 1749, doch werd eerst na zijn dood 'n süjn papieren gevonden. In The Passions vooral toonde hij hoezeer hij zijn poëzie bezielen en welk een uitgebreide en voortdurende populariteit hij zich verwerven kon. Zijn werken werden herhaalde malen gedrukt. J
|
To Piiï. O Thou, the friend of man assign'd, With balmy hands bis wounds to bind , And charm his frantic woe: When first distress, with dagger keen , Broke forth to waste his destin'd scene, His wild unsatcd foe ! By Pelln's hard , a magic name. By all the griefs his thought could frame, UcceiTe my humble rite: I.ong , Pity, lot the nations view Thy sky worn robes of tendcrest blue. And eyes of dewy light! But wherefore need I wander wide The old llissus' distant side, Deserted stream, and mute? |
Wild Arun (2) too has heard thy strains, And echo, 'midst my native plains , Been sooth'd by Pity's lute. There first the wren thy mirtles shed , On gentlest Otway's infant head , To him thy eell was shown ; And while he sung the female heart, With youth's soft notes nnveil'd by art. Thy turtles mixed their own. Come , Pity, come,, by fancy's aid, Ev'n now my thoughts, relenting maid, Thy temple's pride design: Its southern site, its truth complete Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat, In all who view the shrine. There picture's toil shall well relate. |
(1) Of Aneurim, styled the Monarch of the liardg. He flourished about the time of Taliossin, A. D. 570,
(2) A river in Sussex.
349
|
How diance, or hard involving fate, O'er mortal bliss prevail: The buskin'd muse (1) shall near her sland , And sijjhinfj prompt her tender hand . Willi each disastrous tale. There let me oft, retir'd hy day , In dreams of passion melt away, Allow'd with thee to dwell: There waste the mournful lamps of night, Till, virgin , thou again delight To hear a British shell! To feah. Thou to whom the world unknown With all its shadowy shapes is shown ; Who seest appal I'd, th'unreal scene, While fancy lifts the veil hetwecn: Ah , Fear! ah , frantic Fear! I see, I see thee near. 1 knew thy hurried step, thy haggard eye I Like tliee 1 start, like thee disorder'd fly , For ■, lo , what monsters in thy train appear ! Danger, whose limbs of giant mold What mortal eye can fix'd heboid ? Who stalks bis round , an hideous form, Howling amidst the midnight storm , Or throws him on tbc ridgy sleep Or some loose banging rook to sleep : And with him thousand phantoms join'd, Who prompt lo deeds accurs'd the mind: And those, the fiends, who near allied , O'er nature's wounds and wrecks preside; While vengeance in the lurid air , Lifts her red arm , expos'd and hare: On whom that ravening brood of fate. Who lap the blood of sorrow, wait; Who , Fear, this ghastly train can see. And look not madly wild, like thee ? Kpode. In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice. The grief-full muse addrest her infant tongue; The maids and matrons, on her awful voice. Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung. Yet he , the hard (2) \rbo first invok'd ihy name, Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel For not alone he nurs'd the poet's flame, But reaeb'd from virtue's hand the patriot's Steele. But who is he whom later garlands grace , Who left a while o'er Iljld a's dews to rove. With trembling eyes thy dreary steps lo trace , Where thou and furies shar'd tbe baleful grove? Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th'incestuons queen (3) Sigb'd the sad call her son and husband heard , |
When once alone it broke the silent scene , And be the wretch of Thebes no more appoar'd. O Fear , I know thee hy my throbbing heart, Thy wintering power inspir'd each' mournful line. Though gentle pity claim her mingled part, Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine. To SlMMICITr. O Thou hy nature taught, To breathe her genuine thought. In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong: Who first on mountains wild , In fancy loveliest child , (song! Thy babe , and pleasure's, nurs'd the powers of Thou, who with hermit heart Disdain'st tbe wealth of art, And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall: But com'st a decent maid , In Attic, robe array'd , 0 chaste , unboastful nymph , to thee I call! By all the honey'd store On Hybla's thymy shore, By all her blooms, andquot;mingled murmurs dear. By her , whose love-lorn woe, In evening musings slow, Sooth'd sweetly sad Electra's poet's car: By old Cephisus deep, Who spread his wavy sweep In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat. On whose cnamell'd side. When holy freedom died. No equal haunt allur'd thy future feet. 0 sister meek of truth , To my admiring youth . Thy sober aid and native charms infuse! The flowers that sweetest breathe. Though beauty cull'd tbe wreathe. Still ask thy band lo range their order'd hues. While Rome could none esleem , But virtue's patriot theme , You lov'd her hills, and led her laureate band ; But staid to sing alone To one dislinguish'd throne , And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land. No more, in ball or bower. The passions o« n thy power , Love, only love, her forceless numbers mean : For tbou hast left her shrine, Nor olive more, nor vine , Shall gain thy feet lo bless the servile scene. Though taste , though genius bless To some divine excess, Faint's the cold work till thou inspire the whole; |
(i) See p. SIC , nolo 17. (2) /Eschylus. (3) Jocasla.
|
Whatcacli, what all supply, Maj court, may charm our eye, Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul! Of these let others ask, To aid some mighty task, I only seek lo find thy temperate vale: Where oft my reed might sound To maids and shepherds round , And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale, The Passions. When Music, heavenly maid , was young , While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell, Exulting, tremhling, raging , fainting, Possest hcyond the muse's painting ; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb'ddelighlcd , rais'd , refin'd. Till once, 'tis said , when all were fir'd , Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd, From the supporting myrtles round They snateli'd her instruments of sound, And as tliey oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for madness rul'd the hour. Would prove iiis own expressive power. First Fear his hand , its skill to try, Amid the chords hewilder'd laid , And hack recoil'd , he knew not why, Ev'n at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd , his eyes on lire , In lightnings own'd his secret slings. In one mile clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woeful measures wan Despair — Low sullen sounds iiis grief heguil'd , A solemn, strange,and mingled air, 'T was sad hy fits, hy starts 'twas wild. I!ut thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair. What was thy delighted measure? Still it whisper'd promis'd Pleasure, And hade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong, And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. She call'd on Echo still through all the song; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close. And Hope enchanted smil'd.and wav'd her golden hair. And longer had she sung—hut, with a frown , Revenge impatient rose. He threw his hlood-stain'd sword in thunder down, And, with a withering look , The war-denouncing trumpet took , And hlew a hlasl so loud and dread , Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. And ever and anon he heat The doubling drum with furious heat. And though sometimes, cach dreary pause between, |
Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied. Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, Wbileeach strain'd ball of sight seeni'd bursting from Thy members, .Jealousy, to nought werefix'd (his bead. Sad proof of thy distressful state. Oft differing themes the veering song was mix'd , And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd , (Hate. Pale Melancholy sat rctir'd , And from her wild seqnester'd seat. In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And dashing soft from rooks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, .Round an holy calm diiFusing, Love of peace and lonely musing. In hollow murmurs died away. But ,0, bow alter'd was its sprightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue! Her how across her shoulder flung. Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew. Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known ; The oak-crown'd sisters , and their chaste eyed Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen , (queen , Peeping from forth their alleys green ; Brown Exercise rejoie'd to bear. And Sport leapt op, and seu'd his beocben spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial, He . with viney crown advancing. First to the lively pipe his hand addresst, But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice be lov'd the best. They ■would have thought, who beard the strain, They saw in Tempo's vale her native maids, Amidst the festal sounding shades , To some unwearied minstrel dancing. While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round, Loose were her tresses seen , her zone unbound, And ho, amidst bis frolic play , As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. O Music, sphere-descended maid , Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid , Why, goddess, why to us denied ? Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? As in that lov'd Athenian bower. You learn'd in all-commanding power , Thy mimic soul , 0 nymph endear'd , Can well rccal what then it heard. Where is thy native simple heart. Devote to Virtue, Fancy Art ? Arise , as in that elder lime . Warm, energie , chaste, sublime ! Thy wonder, in thatgodlike age , Fill thy recording sister's page — 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, |
|
Tliy humblest reed oould more prevail, Had more of strength, diviner rage. Than all which charms this laggard age, Ev'n all at once together found Cecilia's mingled world of sound — |
O, hid our vain endeavours ceasc, Hers are the just designs of Greecc, Return in all tliy simple state! Confirm the tales her sons relate! |
Werd geboren in 1721 in Yorkshire en overleed in 17fil ; hij was als dichter zeer gunstig bekend en verdient eeu vrij aanzienlijke plaats onder zgn vermaarde tijdgonooten ; sommige van zijn kleine stukken dichtte hij reeds in 1735. llij leverde: The Equality of Human Conditions en Ahel/ird to liloisa (beiden in 1740); Eidstle on the Vanity ot Human Enjoyments (WJ); The Kegulalion of the Passions, tho source of human happiness, a moral Essay; On Taste, an Essay ; Elegy on Captain Hughes en mcer andere stukken. Ofschoon zijn poëzie niet zonder gebreken is, onderscheidt hij zich evenwel in vele stukken door kracht van uitdrukking en welluidendheid.
The regulation of lt;Iie l'asslons.
|
Tde End of Sdffolk. *Stretch'd on high-tow'ring Dover's samly bed, Without a coffin, and without a head ; A dirty sail cloth o'er his body thrown, By marks of misery almost unknown , quot;Without a friend to pily, or to save, Without a dirge to consecrate the grave, Great Suffolk lies — he who for years had shone, England's sixth Henry! nearest to thy throne! Whats boots it now, that list'ning senates hung All ear, all rapture on his angel tongue? Ah ! «bat avails th'cnurmous blaze between His dawn of glory, and his closingscene! When haughty France his beav'n-born pow'rs ador'd. And Anjou's princess shealh'd Brittannia's sword ! Ask ye what hold conspiracy onprest A chief so hononr'd, and a chief so blest ? Why lust of power, that wrcck'd his rising fame On courts' vain shallows, and the gulf of shame: A (ilo'stcr's murder, and a nation's wrongs, Cali'd loud for vengeance with ten thousand tongues; And hnsten'd death, on Albion's chalky strand, To end the exile by a pirate's hand. C0NCI.DDINS IMAGES. 'Passions, like colours, have their strength and ease, Those too insipid, and too gaudy these — |
Some on the heart, likeSpagnoletti's, throw Fictitious horrors, and a weight of woe; Some, like Albano's, catch from cv'ry ray Too strong a sunshine, and too rich a day; Others, with Carlo's Magdalens, require A quicker spirit, and a touch of fire; Or want, perhaps, though of celestial race, Corregio's softness, and a Guiilo's grace. AV ou'dst thou than reach what Uetnbrandt's genius And live the model that bis pencil drew, (knew, Form all thy life with all his warmth divine. Great as liis plan, and faultless as his line : Let all thy passions, like his colours, play. Strong without harshness, without glaring gay : Contrast them, curb them, spread them, or confine, Ennoble these, and those forbid to shine; With cooler shades ambition's fire allay, And mildly melt the pomp of pride away ; Her rainbow-robe from vanity remove, And soften malice with the smile of love; Bid o'er revenge tlio charities prevail, Nor let a grace he seen without a vail. So shalt thou live as heav'n itself design'd. Each pulse congenial with th' informing mind, Each action station'd in its proper place, Each virtue blooming with its native grace, Each passion vig'rous to its just degree, And tbc fair whole a perfect symmetry. |
|
Well — though our passions riot, fret, and rave. Wild and capricious as the wind and wave. One common folly, say whate'er we can. Has fix'd at last the mercury of man; And rules, as sacred as bis father's creed. O'er every native of the Thames and Tweed. |
Ask ye what pow'r it is that dares to claim So vast an empire, and so wide a fame ? What God unsbrin'd in all the ages past? I'll tell you, friend ! in one short word — 't is Taste; Taste that, without or head, or car, or heart, One gift of nature, or one grace of art, |
|
Ennobles riches, sanclifies cxpcnce, And taken the place of spirit, worth, and sense. In elder time, ere yet onr fathers knew Rome's idle arts, or panted for Virlu, Or sat whole nights Italian son^s to hear, Without a {;enius, and without an car; Exalted sense, to warmer climes unknown. And manly wit, was nature's and our own. But when our virtues, warp'd hy wealth and peacc, liejjan to slumber in the lap of ease — When Charles return'd to his paternal reign, AVith more than fifty tailors in his train, Wc felt for Taste — for then obliging Trance Taught the rough Briton how to dress and dance ; Politely told him all were brutes and fools. But the gay coxcombs of her happier schools; That all perfection in her language lay. And the best author was her own Ralielais. Hence by some strange malignity of fate, HVe take our fashions from the land we bate : Still slaves to her, howe'et her taste inclines , Wc wear her ribbands, and we drink her wines; Eat as she eats, no matter which or what, A roasted lobster, or a roasted cat; And fill our houses with an hungry train Of more then half the scoundrels ol the Seine. Time was,a wealtliy Englishman would join A rich plumb-pudding to a fat sirloin ; Or bake a pasty, whose enormous wall Took up almost the area of his ball: But now, as art improves, and life refines, The demon Taste attends him when he dines ; Ser'ves on bis board an elegant regale. Where three stew'd iniisbrooms 11,ink a larded quail ; Where infant turkeys, half a month rcsign'd To the soft breathings ol a southern wind, And smother'd in a rich ragout of snails, Outstink a lenten supper at Versailles. Is there a saint that would not laugh to see The good man piddling with his fricassee ; Forc'd by the luxury of laste to drain A flask of poison, which he calls champagne ! While he, poor idiot I though he dare not speak, Pines all the while for porter and ox-cheek. Sure 'tis enough to starve for pomp and show. To drink, and curse the clarets of liourdeaux : Yet such onr honour, such our skill to hit Excess of folly through excess of wit, We plant the garden, and wc build the seat, Just as absurdly as we drink and eat. For is there aught that nature's hand has sown To bloom and ripen in the hottest tone? Is there a shrub w hich, ere its verdures blow, Asks all the suns that beam upon the Po ? Is there a llowret whose Vermillion hue Can only catch its beauty in Peru? Is there a portal, colonnade, or dome, The pride of Naples , or the boast of Rome ? We raise it here, in storms of wind and bail, On the bleak bosom of a sunless vale ; Careless alike of climate, soil and place, |
The cast of nature, and the smiles of grace. Hence all onr stucco'd walls, Mosaic floors, Palladian windows, and Venetian doors; Our Gothic fronts, whose Attic wings unfold Flute pilasters tippVl with leaves of gold; Or mossy cielings, grae'd with gay festoons, The weeping marbles of our damp saloons. Lawns fring'd with citrons, amaranthine bow'rs, Expiring myrtles, and unop'ning flow'rs Hence the good Scotsman bids th' anana blow In rocks of crystal , or in Alps of snow ; On Oreus' steep extends his wide arcade, And kills his scanty sunshine in a shade. One might expect a sanctity of style August and manly in an holy pile. Ami think an architect extremely odd To build a playhouse for the church of God ; \ et half our churches , such the mode that reigns, Arc Roman theatres , or Grecian fanes ; Where broad-arcli'd windows to the eye convey The keen difl'usion of too strong a day ; Where, in the luxury of wanton pride , Corinthian columns languish side by side, Clos'd by an altar exquisitely fine , Loose and lascivious as a Cyprian shrine. Of late ,'t is true, quite sick of Rome and Greece , We letch or models from the wise Chinese; European arti-ts are too cold and chaste, For Mand'rin only is the man of taste ; Whose bolder genius , fondly wild to see, His grove a forest, and his pund a sea. Breaks out — and whimsically great, designs Without the shackles or of rules or lines. Form'd on his plans, our farms and seats begin To match the boasted villas of Pekin. On every bill a spire-crown'd temple swells. Hung round w ith serpents, and a fringe of bells : Junks and halons along our waters sail. With each a gilded cock-boat at his tail; Our choice exotics to the breeze exhale Within th'enclosurc ofa zig-zag rail; In Tartar huts our cows and horses lie, Our bogs are fatted in an Indian style; On ev'ry shelf a joss divinely stares , Nymphs laid on chintzes sprawl upon our chairs ; \V bile o'er our cabinets Confucius nods, 'Midst porcelain elephants, and China gods. Peace to all such — but you whose chaster fires True greatness kindles, and true sense inspires, Or ere you lay a stone, or plant a shade. Bend the proud arch, or roll the broad cascade. Ere all your wealth in mean profusion waste, Examine nature with the eye of taste; Mark where she spreads the law n, or pours the rill. Falls in the vale, or breaks upon the hill; Plan as she plans, and where genius calls. There sink your grottos, and there raise your walls. Without this taste, beneath whose magic wand Truth and correctness guide the artist's band , Woods, lakes, and palaces, are idle things. The shame of nations, and the blush of kings.* |
Leefde van 1721 (ot 1770 hij wns de zoon van oen vlccschhouwcr. Akenside begaf zich naar de universiteit te Edimburg, om er op kosten van zijn gemeente in do godgeleerdheid te studeren ; doch werd weldra afkeerig van die studiën en gaf 't geld terug, en logde zich nu toe op do beoefening der geneeskunde, waartoe hij ook naar Loijden (1741) vertrok. Hij moet zijn leerdicht; The Pleasures of Imagination, in 1744 verschenen , dat hij bij een tweedon druk omwerkte. reeds vroeg vervaardigd hebben ; het behoort, hoewel niet zonder gebreken, tot do voortritTolijksto leerdichten van do engelsche letterkunde. Vorder heeft men van hom i Odes, in two Books (1745); Inscriptions; Epistles; etc., die oohter lang zoo verdienstelijk niet zijn, en zijn roem, door het lierdicht verkregen, behalvon de hier medegedeelde, oor verkleinen , dan vergrooten. Over zijn vak moot hij voor zijn tijd zeer goede werken in proza, zoowel in 't latijn als in 't engolseh, geschreven hebben. Zijn Dissertatio de Uysentem, die hij to Leijden had geschreven, werd tweemaal in 't engelsch vertaald.
|
IIow tliick the shades of evening close! How pale the shy with weight of snows! Haste, light the tapers, uryo the fire, And hiil tlic joyless day retire. — Alas, in vain I try within To hrijjhten the dejected scene, While rous'd hy grief these fiery pains Tear the frail texture of my veins : AVhilo ■winter's voice, that storms around , And yon doe]) death-hell's (jroaniiij; sound Renew my mind's oppressive gloom. Till starting horror shakes the room. Is there in nature no kind power To sooth affliction's lonely hour ? To Munt the edge of dire disease, And teach those wintcry shades to please? Come, cheerfulness, triumphant fair. Shine through the hovering cloud of care. O sweet of language, mild of mien, 0 virtue's friend and pleasure's queen, Assuage the flames that hurn my breast, Compose my jarring thoughts to rest; And while thy gracious gifts I feel, My song shall all thy praise reveal. As once ('t was in Aslrea's reign). The vernal powers renew'd their train , It happen'd that inwnortal love Was ranging through the spheres ahove, And downward hither cast his eye The year's returning pomp to spy. lie saw the radiant god of day , Waft in his car the rosy May ; The fragrant airs and genial hours Were shedding round him dews and flowers; Uofore his wheels Aurora pass'd , And Hesper's golden lamp was last. I!ut, fairest of the blooming throng, When health majestic mov'd along, Delighted to survey below The joys which from her presence flow. While earth enliven'd hears her voice, And swains, and flocks, and fields rejoice; Then migthy love her charms confess'd , And soon his vows inclin'd her breast, And , known from that auspicious morn , |
Thee pleasing cheerfulness, was horn. Tbou cheerfulness, hy heaven design'J To sway the movements of the mind, Whatever fretful passion springs, Whatever wayward fortune brings To disarrange the power within, And strain the musical machine; Thou , Goddess, thy attempering hand Doth each discordant string command, Refines the soft, and swells the strong ; And, joining nature's general song. Through many a varying tone unfolds The harmony of human souls. Fair guardian of domestic life, Kind banislicr of home-bred strife, Nor sullen lip, nor taunting eye. Deforms the scene where thou art by; Ko sickening husband damns the hour Which bound his joys to female power ; No pining mother weeps the cares Which parent's wast on thankless heirs; The officious daughters pleas'd attend ; The brother adds the name of friend ; By tlioe with flowers their board is crown'd , With songs from thee their walks resound ; And morn with welcome lustre sbincs, And evening unpercciv'd declines. Is there a youth , whose anxious heart Labours with love's unpitied smart? Though now be stray hy rills and bowers. And weeping waste the lovely hours. Or if the nymph her audience deign , Debase the story of his pain With slavish looks, dissolour'd eyes, And accents faltering into sighs; Vet tbou, auspicious power, with ease Canst yield him happier arts to please. Inform his mien with manlier charms, Instruct his tongue with noble arms. AVith more commanding passion move. And teach the dignity of love. Friend to the muse and all her train For thee I court the muse again : The muse for thee may well exert Her pomp, her charms, her fondest art. |
45
354
|
Who owes to ihce llmt pleasing sway Wliich carlli and peopled lieaven obey. Let melancholy's plaintive tongue Repeat, what later hards have sung ; But thine was Homer's ancient might. And thine victorious Pindar's flight : Thy hand each Lesbian wreath uttirM : Thy lip Sicilian reeds inspir'd: Thy spirit lent the glad perfume Whence yet the flowers of Teos bloom ; Whence yet from Tilmr's Sabine vale Delicious blows the enlivening gale. While Horace calls thy sportive choir. Heroes and nymphs, around his lyre. But sec where yonder pensive sage (A prey perhaps to fortune's rage, Perhaps by tender griefs oppre.-s'd . Or blooms congenial to his breast) Retires in desart scenes to dwell And bids the joyless world farewell. Alone he treads the autumnal shade, Alone beneath the mountain laid He sees the nightly damp ascend , And gathering storms aloft impend ; He hears the neighbouring surges roll , And raging thunders shake the pole: Then struck by every object round, And stunn'd by every horrid sound , He asks a clue for nature's ways; But evil haunts him through the maze: He sees ten thousand demons rise To wield the empire of the skies , And chance and fate assume the rod , And malice blot the throne of God. — O thou, whose pleasing power I sing, Thy lenient influence hither bring; |
Compose the storm , dispel the gloom, Till nature wear her wonted bloom , Till fields and shades their sweels exhale. And music swell cach opening gale; Then o'er his breast thy softness pour, And let him learn the timely hour To trace the world's benignant laws, And judge of that presiding cause, Who founds on discord beauty's reign , Converts to pleasure every pain , Subdues each hostile form to rest, And bids the universe be blcss'd. O thou whose pleasing power I sing , If right 1 touch the votive string, If equal praise I yield thy name, Still govern thou thy poet's flame; Still with the muse my bosom share , And sooth to peace intruding care. But most eicrt thy pleasing power On friendships consecrated hour; And while my Sophron points the road To godlike wisdom's calm abode , Or warm in freedom's ancient cause Traccth the source of Albion's laws, Add thou o'er all the generous toil The light of thy unclouded smile. liut, if by fortune's stubborn sway , From him and friendship torn away, 1 court the muse's healing spell For griefs that still with absence dwell, Do thou conduct my fancy's dreams To such indulgent placid themes , As just the struggling breast may cheer And just suspend the starting tear. Yet leave that sacred sense of woe Which none but friends and lovers know. |
|
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels lorn ! Thy sons, for valour long renown'd. Lie slaughter'd on their native ground ; Thy hospitable roofs no more, Invite the stranger to the door; In smoky ruins sunk they lie, The monuments of cruelly. The wretclied owner sees afar His all become the prey of war ; Bethinks him of his babes and wife. Then smites his breast, and curses life. Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks: Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ; Thy infants perish on the plain. |
What boots it then , in every clime. Through the wide spreading waste of time. Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise. Still shone with undiminish'd hla/.e? Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke , Thy neck is bended to the yoke. What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage , and rancour fell. The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day: No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night. No strains but those of sorrow flow, And nought be heard but sounds of woo. While the pale phantoms of the slaiu. Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. |
|
O l)aiiolul cause, oil! fatal morn , AccursM to ages yet unborn ! Tlie sons against their father stood , The parent shed his children's hlood. Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd, The victor's soul was not appeas'd : The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring ilames, and murd'rinjj steel! The pious mother, doom'd to death, Forsaken wanders o'er the heath, The bleak wind whistles round her head , Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; |
Bereft of sbelter, food, and friend , She views the shades of night descend ; And stretch'd beneath the inclement skies , Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. While the warm blood bedews my veins , And unimpair'd remembrance reigns, Resentment of my country's fate, Whithin my filial breast shall beat; And , spite of her insulting foe, My sympathizing verse shall flow: quot; Mourn , hapless Caledonia, mourn quot;Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels lorn.quot; |
|
SiRornE. Thy spirit, Independence, let me share Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye, Thy steps I follow w ith my bosom bare, Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky. Deep in the frozen regions of the north, A goddess violated brought thee forth , Immortal liberty, whose looks sublime lias bleaeb'd the tyrant's cheek in every varying What time the iron-hearted Gaul (clime, With frantic supersilion for his guide, 10 Arm'd with the dagger and the pall, The sons of Woden to the field defy'd ; The ruthless hag, by Weser'sflood , In Heaven's name urg'd the infernal blow ; And red the stream began to flow : The vanquish'd were baptized with blood I Aniisihopiie. The Saxon prince in horror fled From altars stain'd with human gore ; And liberty bis routed legions led In safely to the bleak Norwegian shore. 20 Therein a cave asleep she lay, Lulled by the hoarse-resounding main ; When a bold savage past that way, Impell'd by destiny, bis name disdain. Of ample front the portly chief appear'd : The hunted bear supply'd a shaggy vest; The drifted snow hung on bis yellow beard ; And his broad shouldiers, brav'd the furious blast. He stopt; lie gaz'd ; his bosom glow'd , And deeply felt the impression of her charms: 30 He seiz'd the advantage fate allow'd : |
And straight compressed her in his vigorous arms. SmopnE. The curlien scrcam'd , the tritons blow Their shells to celebrate the ravish'd rite ; Old time exulted as be flew ; And independence saw the light. The light he saw in Albion's happy plains , Where under cover of a flowering thorn , While Philomel renewed her warbled strains , The auspicious frait ofstol'n embraee was born — The mountain dryads seized with joy, 41 The smiling infant to their charge consign'd ; The Doric muse caress'd the favourite hoy, The hermit wisdom stor'd bis opening mind^ As rolling years matured his age, He flourished hold and sinewy as bis sire ; While the mild passions in his breast assuage The fiercer flames of his maternal sire. Aniistropiie. Accomplished thus, he winged his way, And zealous roved from polo to pole, 50 The rolls of right eternal to display . And warm with patriot thoughts the aspiring soul, On desert isles it was he that rais'd Those spires that gild the Adriatic wave, Where tyranny beheld amazM Fair freedom's temple, where he tnark'd her grave. He steeled the blunt Batavian's arms G1 To burst the Iberian's double chain ; And cities rear'd , and planted farms , Won from the skirts of Neptune's wide domain. |
Ver, 26. Charlmagne obliged four thousand Saxon prisoners to embrace the Christian religion , and immediately after they were baptized , ordered their throats to bo cut. — Their prince Vitikind fled for shelter to Gotriek, king of Denmark.
Ver. 53. Although Venice was build a considerable time before the acra hero assigned for the birth of Independence. the republic had not yet attained to any grent degree of power and splendour.
Ver. 58. The Low Countries wore not only oppressed by grievous taxations, but likewise threatened with the etablishment of the Inquisition, when the Seven Provinces revolted, and shook off the yoke of Spain.
Ver. 62. Alluding to the known story of William Tell and his associates, the fathers and founders of the coufoderaey of the Swiss Cantons.
|
Like llic (Ircail crash of tumtiliiijr plancis, roars. AVIicn tremhle llius the pillars of the glohe, Like the tall coco hy tlie fierce north blown; Can the poor, brittle , tenements of man Withstand the drealt;l convulsions? Their dear homos, (Which shakinfj, tolterin;;, crashing, bursting fall), The boldest fly ; and , on the open plain Appal'd , in agony the moment wait, When , with disrupture vast, the waving earth Shall whelm them in her sea-disgorging womb. Nor less affrighted arc the bestial kind. The hold steed quivers in each panting vein , And staggers, batli'd in deluges of sweat: Thy lowing herds forsake their grassy food , And send forth frighted , woeful, hollow sounds : |
The dog, thy trusty sentinel of night, Deserts bis post assign'd ; and, piteous, bowls. — Wide ocean feels: — The mountain-waves, passing their enstom'd bounds, Moke direful, loud incursions on the land , All-overwhelming : Sudden they retreat, With their whole troubled waters ; but, anon , Sudden return, with louder, mightier force; (The black rocks within, the veit shores resound) ; And yet, more rapid , distant they retire. Vast coruscations lighten all the sky With volutn'd flames; while thunder's awful voicc From forth his shrine, by night and horror girt, Astounds the guilty, and appals the good;* |
A West Indian ballad.
|
The north-cast wind did briskly blow, The ship was safely moor'd , Yonng Bryan thought the boat's crow slow , And so leapt over-board. Pereene, the pride of Indian dames , His heart did long intbrall , And whoso his irnpatiencc blames, I wot (1), ne'er lov'd at all. A long, long year, one month and day , He dwelt on English land , Nor once in thought or deed would stray, Tho' ladies sought his band. For Bryan he was tall and strong, Right blytbsome roll'd his een (2), Sweet was his voice whene'er be sung , He scant bad twenty seen. But who the countless charms can draw. That grae'd his mistress true ; Such charms the old world never saw, Nor oft I ween (3) the new. Her raven hair plays round her neck , Like tendrils of the vine; Her cheeks red dewy rose buds deck, Her eyes like diamonds shine. Soon as bis well-known ship she spied, She cast her weeds away. And to the palmy shore she hied , All in her best array. |
In sea-green silk to neatly clad , She there impatient stood; The crew with wonder saw the lad , Ilepell the foaming flood. Her hands a handkerchief display'(1, Which he at parting gave; AVell pleas'd the token he survey'd , And manlier beat the wave. Iler fair companions one and all, Hejoicing crowd the strand ; For now her lover swam in call, And almost touch'd the land. Then through she while surf did she haste, To clasp her lovely swain ; When , ah ! a shark hit through his waste f4) : His heart's blood dy'd the main! He shriek'd ! bis half sprang from the wave, Streaming with purple gore, And soon it found a living grave , And, ah I was seen no more. Now baste, now haste, ye maids, I pray, Fetch water from the spring , She falls, she swoons, she dies away , And soon her knell they ring. Now each May morning round her tomb, Ye fair, fresh flow'rets strew. So may your lovers 'scape his doom. Her hapless fate 'scape you. |
(1) Know. (2) Eyes. (3) Think. (4) Waist.
Later bisschop van Dromore , gaf in 17C5 zijn Keliques of Ancient Poetry uit, waarin verscheiden uit-muntendo oude zangen en balladen weer in 't leven werden geroepen, en ecu bloemlezing werd opgenomen van de beste lyrischo stukken , die men in de werken van de moderne schrijvers vindt. Do geleerdheid eu bekwaamheid, waanncê hij zijn taak vernette en do ech te waarde van zijn bouwstolTen , deden zijn werk zeer welkom wezen en bijna in ieders handen komen. Zijn Reliques deden een liefde ontstaan voor al wat natuurlijk , eenvoudig en ongekunsteld is, cn hadden een algemeenen en groeten invloed op 't volk , dien men zelfs bij latere groote schrijvers en dichters opmerkt. Hij was zelf ook dichter en vervaardigde eenige stukken, die van smaak en talent getuigen. Hij werd geboren te Bridgnorth, Shropshire 1728, en overleed in 1811. (üe hieronder tneêgedeelde stukken zijn genomen uit don derden druk vau 1775.)
|
mv wind to me a kingdom is. My minde to mc a kingdome is; Such perfect joy tlierin I fimlo As farre excecds all earthly hlisse, That God or Nature liath assiynde j Thougli much F want, that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave. Content I live, this is my stay; I seek no more than may suftice; I pressc to heare nohaughtie sway; Look what 1 lack my mind supplies, Loe! thus 1 triumph like a king , Content with that my mind doth hring. 1 sec how plentie surfets oft, And hastic clyinhers soonest fall: I see that such as sit aloft Mishap doth threaten most of all: These get with toile, and keep with feare: Such cares my mind could never beare. No princely pompc, nor wclthie store, No force to winne the victorie, No wylie wit to salve a sore. No shape to winne a lovers eye ; To none of these I yeeld as thrall (1), For why my mind dispiseth all. Some have too much, yet still they crave, I little have, yet seek no more: They are hut poore , tho' much they have; And I am rich with little store: They poor, I rich ; they heg, I give ; They lacke, I lend ; they pine , I live. 1 laugh not at anothers losse , I grudge not at anothers gaine ; No worldly wave my mind can tosse, I hrooke (2) that is anothers banc; 1 feare no foe, nor fawne on friend ; I loth not life , nor dread my end. My weltli is health, and perfect case; My conscience clere my chief defence : I never secke by brvhes to please. Nor by desert to give offence ; Thus do £ live , thus will I die ; Would all did so as well as I. |
Sir Lanceiot dü Lake. When Arthur first in court began , And was approved king , By force of amies great victoryes wanne, And conquest home did bring. Then into England straight became With fifty good and able Knights, that resorted unto him , And were of his round table: And he bad justs and turnamcnts, Wherto were many prest, Wherein some knights did far cxcell And fur surmount the rest. But one Sir Lancelot du Lake, Who was approved well, He for bis deeds and feats of annes All others did cxcell. When he had rested him a while , In play, and game, and sportt, lie said he wold goe prove bimselfc In some adventrous sort. lie armed rode in forrest wide. And met a damsell faire, AVbo told him of adventures great, Wherto lie gave good care. Such wold 1 find , quoth Lancelot I: For that cause came 1 liitber. Thou scemst, quoth she , a knight full good, And I will bring thee thither. Whcrus a mighty knight doth dwell, That now isol great fame: Therfore tell me what wight thou art, And what may he thy name. ''My name is Lancelot du Lake.quot; Quoth she , it likes me than : Here dwelles a knight who never was Yet rnatcht with any man : Who has in prison threescore knights And four, that he did wound ; Knights of King Arthurs court they be, And of his tabic round. |
(1) Captive. (2) Bear, endure.
560
|
She brought liim to a river side, And also to a tree, Whereon a copper bason hunj;, And many shields to see. lie struck soe hard , the hason broke ; And Tarquine soon lie spyed : Who drove a horse before him fast, Whereon a knight lay tyed. Sir knight, then sayd Sir Lancelott, Bring 111« that horse-load hither. And lay him downc , and let him rest; Weel (1) try our foree together: For, as 1 ui id erst and , thou hast, Soe far as thou art able , Done great despite and shame unto The knights of the Round table. If thou be of the 'fable Hound , Quoth Tarquin speedilye. Both thee and all thy fellowship I utterly defye. That's over much, quoth Laimelott ; Defend thee by and by. They sett their speares unto their steeds , And cache att other flyc. They coucht thciro speares, (their horses ran, As though there had heen thunder) And strucke them each ammidst their shields, Wherewith they broke in sunder. Their horses backes brake under them , The knights were both astound (2): To avoyd (3) their horses they made baste And light upon the ground. They tooke them to their shields full fast, Their swords they drew out than , With mighty strokes most cagerlye Each at the other ran. They wounded wore, and bled full sore. They both for breath did stand , And leaning on their swordes awhile , Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand , And tell lo me what I shall aske , Say on, quolh Lancelott (ho. Thou art, quoth Tarquine, the best knight That ever I did know ; And like a knight, that I did hate. Soe that thou be not lice, 1 will deliver all the rest, And eke (4) accord with thee. That is well said , quoth Lancelött; But silh (5) it must be soe. What knight is that thou batest thus? I pray thee to me show. His name is r,ancelot du Lake, lie slew my brother deere ; |
Him I suspect of all the rest: 1 would I had him here. Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne, I am Lancelot du Lake, Now knight of Arthurs Table Round ; King Mauds son of Schuwake ; And 1 desire thee lo thy worst; Ho, ho, quoth Tarquin tho , One of us two shall end our lives Before that we do go. If thou he Lancelot du Lake, Then welcome shalt thou bee. Wherefore see thou thyself defend , For now defye I thee. They buckled then together so , Like unto wild hoares rushing ; And w ith their swords and shields they ran At one another slashing : The ground besprinkled was with blood: Tarquin began lo yield ; For he gave baeke for wearinesse , And lowe did hcare bis shield. This soone Sir Lancelot espyde , He leapt upon him then , He pull'd him downe upon bis kueo , And rushing olF his helm. Forthwith he strucke his necke in two , And , when he had soe done , From prison threescore knights and four Delivered everye one. Gehnuius thk Jew of Vekice. The first j)art. In Venice towne not long agoe A cruel Jew did dwell. Which lived all on usurie. As Italian writers tell. Gernutus called was the Jew , Which never thought to dye. Mor ever yet did any good To them in streets that lie. His life was like a barrow hogge. That liveth many a day , Yet never once dot b any good , Until men will him slay. Or like a filthy heap of dung , That lyeth iu a whoard (6); Which never can do any good , Till it be spread abroad. So fares it with the usurer, He cannot sleep in rest, |
(1) We'll will, we'll. (2) Stunned, astonished, confounded. (3) Void, vacate. (4) Also. (5) Sinee, (0) Hoard.
|
For fcare the thicfe will him pursue Toplacke liim from Ins nest. His licart dolli lliinke on many a wile , How to deceive the poore; Ilis month is almost ful of mucke, Yet still ho gapes for more. Ilis wife must lend a shilling, For every weeke a penny , Yet hring a pledge, that is doable worth , Jf that you will have any. And sec, likewise, you keepe your day, Or else you loose it all: This was the living of the wife , Her cow she did it call. Within that citie dwelt that time A marchant of great fame. Which heing distressed in his need, Unto Gernutus came; Desiring him to stand his freind For twelve month and a day. To lend to him a hundred crownes: And ho for it would pay. Wh atsoever he would demand of him, And pledges he should have. No, (quoth the Jew with flearing lookes,) Sir.aske what you will have. No penny for the loane of it For one year you shall pay ; You may do me as good a turne, Before my dying day. liutwe will have a merry jeast, For to he talked long: You shall make me a hond , quoth he, That shall he large and strong : And this shall be theforfeyture; Of your owne fleshe a pound , If you agree, make you the bond, And bereis a hundred crownes. With right good will! the marchant says: And so the bond was made. When twelve month and a day drew on That baeke it should be payd. The marchants ships were all at sea. And money came not in ; Which way to take, or what to doc To tbinke he doth becin ; o And to Gernutus strait he comcs AVith cap and bended knee. And sayile to him , Ofcurtesie I pray you bear with mec. My day is come, and J have not The money for to pay : And 'ittle good theforfeyture Will do you, I dare say, (1) Tried. (2) The Jew who was thirsty after |
With all my heart, Gernutus sayd, Comniaund it to your minde : In things of bigger waight then this You shall me ready finde. He goes his way; the day once past Gernutus doth notslacko To get a sergiant presently And clapt him on the backo: And hivd him into prison strong , Ami sued his bond witball; And when the judgement day was come , For judgement be did call. The marchants friends came thither fast With many a weeping eye. For other means they could not find , But he that day must dye. The Seoond Pam. Some offered for bis hundred crownes Five hundred for to pay; And some a thousand, two or three, Yet still he did denay. And at the last ten thousand crowncs They ofl'ered , him to save. Gernutus sayd , I will not gold : My forfeite I will have. A pound ofiloshe is my demand , And that shall be my hire. Then sayd the judge. Yet, good my friend. Let me of you desire. To take the /lesh from such a place, As yet, to let him live: Do so , and lol an hundred crownes To thee here will I give. No: no: quoth he; no; judgment here; For this it shall be tride (1), For I will have my pound of fleshe From under his right side. It grieved all the companie Ilis crueltie to see, For neither friend nor foe could helpe Hut he must spoyled bee. The bloudic Jew (2) now ready is With whetted hlade in band, To spoyle the bloud of innocent, By forfeit of his bond. And as he was ahont to strike In liim tbii deadly blow: Stay (quoth the judge) thy crueltie; I charge thee to do so. Sith needs thou wilt thy forfeit have. Which is of flesh a pound : See that thou shed no drop of bloud, Nor yet the man confound. is blood. |
562
Either take your pound of flesh , quolb he,
Or caneoll me your hond.
Ocruell judge then quoth the Jew,
That doth against me stand !
And so with griping grieved mind
He biddeth them fare-well.
'Then' all the people prays'd the Lord ,
That ever this heard tell.
Good people, that doe heare this song.
Fur Iriii'th I dare we II say,
That many a wretch as ill as hoe Dotli li\e now at this day;
That seekoth nothing but the spoylo
Of many a wealtbey man ,
And for to trap the Innocent Deviseth what they can.
From wliome the Lord deliver me ,
And every Christian loo.
And to thoin like sentenee eke That meaneth so to do.
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed. These were thy channs—But all these chaims are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn. Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green ;
One only master grasps the whole domain ,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ;
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall: And , tremlding, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to bast'nlng ills a prey,
AVhere wealth accumulates, and men decay; Princes and lords may flourish , or may fade , A breath can make them . as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their countiy's pride.
When once destroy'd, can never hesupply'd.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began. When every rood of ground maintain'd its man; For him light labour spread her wholesome slore Just gave what life requir'd , but gave no more :
Ilis best companions, innocence and health ,
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are alter'd: trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ;
For if thou doe, like mnrdcrcr,
Thou here shall hanged he:
Likewise of flesh see thai, thou cut No more than lonjjes (1) to thee :
Ilt;'or if thou take either more or lesse
To the value of a mite ,
Thou shalt he hanged presently,
As is hoth law and right.
Gernutus now wait frantieke mad,
And wotes (2) not what to say ;
Quoth he at last, Ten thousand erownes,
1 will that he shall jiay ;
And so I grautit to set him free.
The judge doth answere make ;
You shall not have a penny given;
Your forfeyture now take.
At the last he doth demaund But for to have his owne.
No quoth the judge, doe as you list; Thy judgement shall heshowne.
0 L I V E R G C
[Zie hid
The deserted
Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain.
Whereiiealth and plenty cheer'd the lahouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid.
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd;
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease.
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please;
How often have 1 loiter'd o'er thy green.
Where bumble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often liavel paus'd on every cliann,
The shelter'd col, the cultivated farm.
The never-failing brook, the busy mill.
The decent church that topt the neighb'ring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade.
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!
ilow often have 1 blest the coining day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play.
And all the village train, from labour free.
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade.
The young contending as the old survey'd ;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground ,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still'as each repealed pleasure ,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd.
The (lancing pair, that simply sought renown
J!y holding out to tire each other down ;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face ,
While secret laughter tilterM round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:
These were thy charms , sweet village! sports like
With sweet succession,taughtev'n toil to please,(these,
(1) Belongs. (2) Knows.
563
|
Along lliu lawn, where seatlci'M liamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cnmh'rous pomp repose; And every want to luxury ally'd , And every pnnjj that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty hade to bloom , Those calm desires that nsk'd hut lil tie room , Those healthful sports that grae'd the peaceful scene, Liv'd in each look , and hrighten'd all the green ; These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auhurn I parent of the hlis^ful hour. Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I lake my solitary rounds. Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds, And , many a year ejnps'd , retur n to view Where once the cottage slood, the hawthorn grew, llemembrance wakes with all her husy train. Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wand'rings round this world of care. In all my griefs—and God hasgiv'n my share— I stiII had hopes, my latest, hours (o crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the dose. And keep the flame from wasting by repose: I still had hopes, for pride attends us still. Amidst the swains to show my book learn'd skill, Around my lirean evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; And, as a bare, whom bounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first be ilew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return—and die at home at last. O Mest retirement! friend to life's decline, lletreats from care that never must be mine. How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease; no quits a world where strong temptations try. And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no w retches, born to work and weep. Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep; j\o surly porter stands in guilty slate, To spurn imploring famine from the gate; But on be moves to meet his latter end. Angels around befriending virtue's friend; Sinks to the grave with nnperceiv'd decay, While resignation gently slopes the way ; And, all his prospects brigbt'ning lo the last. His heaven commences ere the world he past! Sweet was the sound, when, oft at ev'ning's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose : There, as I passed with careless sleps and slow, The mingling notes camesoflen'd from below; The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, i lie sober herd that low'd to meet t heir young. The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, '1 lie watch-dog's voice that bay'd the w hisp'ring wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. And lill'd each pause the nightingale had made. Tiut now the sounds of population fail, |
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread. But all the bloomy Hush of life is lied. All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, That feeblv bends beside the plashy spring; She, wretched matron, fore'd, in age, for bread. To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread. To pick her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; She only left, of all the harmless train. The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd. And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forly pounds a year ; Remote from towns he ran his godly race. Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion'd lo the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prke. More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. Ilis house was known lo all the vagrant train , He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain ; The long-rememhcr'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud , Claim'd kindred there , and had his claims allow'd ; The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay. Sat by his fire, and talk'd tbenight away; Wept o'er his wounds , or, tales of sorrow done , Slionlder'd biscrutch,and show'd how fields were won Pleas'd wilh his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan , His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride , And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side; But in bis duty prompt at every call. He wateb'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all. And , as a bird each fond endearment tries , To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reprov'u each dull delay , Allnr'd lo brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parling life was laid. And sorrow , guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, The rev'rend champion stood. At his controui Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; Comfort came down the trembling wretch lo raise. And his last fault'ring accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace. His looks adorn'd the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway. And fools, who came to scoff, retnain'd to pray. The service past, around the pious man , With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; Even children follow'd with endearing wile, And pluck'd hisgown , to share Ihe good man's smile. Ilis ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleas'd him , and their cares distrest; To them his heart, bis love, his griefs were given, |
564
|
JJut all liis serious tliouftlits had rest in lieaven: As some tall clilT that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves thestorm j Though round its hreast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, AVith hiossom'd furze unprofitable gay , There, in his noisy mansion skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew ; AVell had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Fu II well the busy whisper circling round , Oon vey'd the dismal tidings when he frowu'd ; Yet he was kind , or if severe in aught. The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declarM how much he knew; 'Twas certain he could write , and cypher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And even the story rati thai he could guage: In arguing too, the parson own'il his skill, For even though vanquis'd, be could argue still; While wordsoilearned length, and thund'ring sound, Ama/.'d the gazing rustics rang'd around, And still they ga/.'d, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. lint past is all his fame. The very spot AVhere many a time he triuinph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, AVhere once the sign-post caught the passing eye, l.owlies that bouse where nut-brown draughts inspii 'd, Where gray-beard mirlh, and smiling toil retir d ; AVhere village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went rjund. imngination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place; |
The white-wasli'd wall, the nicely-sanded floor. The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; The chest, contriv'd a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; The pictures plae'd for ornament and use. The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, AVitb aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay, AVhile broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, llang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. Vain transitory splendour! could not all Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall! Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. Thither no more the peasant shall repair. To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale. No more the woodman's ballad shnll prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear ; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to «ee the mantling bliss go round ; Nor the coy maid, half willing to he prest. Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yet! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. These simple blessings of the lowly train ; To me more dear, congenial to my heart. One native charm, than all the gloss of art. Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-horn sway : Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, UnenvyM. unmolested, unconfin'd. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, AVith all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd. In these, ere trillers half their wish obtain. The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy. The heart distrusting asks if this he joy ?* |
AVijdde zich in zijn beroep als zeeman aan den zangberg. De gevaren , die hij op zee doorstonil bij een schipbreuk , waarbij slechts drie man van de bemanning gered werden , gaven aanleiding tot 't dichtstuk The Shipwreck, a l'oem, in three Cantos, in 1763 vei schenen , waardoor bij zich een zeer goeden naam onder de dichters verwierf. Vroeger was reeds van hem verschenen A l'oem sacral to the memory of Frederik Prince of Wales en bovendien heeft men van hem, behalven nog eenige kleinere gedichten , A Marine Dictionary. Waarheid , kracht en oorspronkelijkheid zijn in zijn gedichten te vinden cn hebben hem een welverdiende, groote populariteit in Engeland doen verwerven, doch zijn Odes en andere stukken zijn allengs vergeten. Hij werd geboren in 1730, vertrok in 17C!) naar Oost-Indië, op welke reis bij zeker verging, want noch van hem noch van 't scheepsvolk of 't schip is sinds dien tijd iets vernomen.
|
A avaier-sroDT. (Canto 11.) Tall Ida's summit now more distant grew . And .love's high hill was rising on the view ; AVlien, from the loft approaching, they descry A liquid column towering shoot on high. |
The foaming base an angry whirlwind sweeps, AVhere curling billows rouse the fearful deeps. Still round and round the fluid vortex flics , Scattering dim night and horror through the skies. The swift volution . and th' enormous train , |
56;»
|
Let sages versM in nature's lore explain ! The horrirl apparition still draws nigh, And white with foam the whirling surges fly! — The guns were prim'd ; the vessel northward veers Till her black battery on the column hears. The nitre fir'd ; and while the dreadful sound Convulsive shook the slmnhering air around, The wat'ry volume, trembling to the sky, Burst down a dreadful deluge from on high Th' affrighted surge, recoiling as it fell, Rolling in hills disclos'd th' abyss of hell. ]!ut soon , this transient undulation o'er, The sea subsides, the whirlwind's rage no more. AVhile soutiiward now tb' increasing breeies veer. Dark clouds incumbent on their wings appear. A dying dolphin. A shoal of sportive dolphins ibey disccrn. From burnisb'd scales they beam refulgent rays , Till all the glowing ocean seems to blaze. Soon to the sport of death the crew repair. Dart the long lance, or spread the bated snare. One in redoubling mazes wheels along. And glides unhappy near the triple prong. Rodmond unerring o'er his head suspends The barbed steel, and every turn attends ; Unerring aim'd, the missile weapon flew, And , plunging, struck the fated victim through. Th' upturning points his ponderous bulk sustain ; On deck he struggles wil b convulsive pain. Rut while his heart the fatal javelin thrills, And flitting life escapes in sanguine rills. What radiant changes strike th' astonish'd sight! What glowing hues of mingled shade and ligbt! Not equal beauties gild the lucid west, With parting beams all o'er profusely drest. Not lovelier colours paint Ibe vernal dawn. When orient dews impearl th' cnamcll'd lawn , Than from his sides in bright sull'usion flow , That now with gold empyreal seem to glow ; Now in pellucid sapphires meet the view , And emulate the soft celestial hue; Now beam a flaming crimson on the eye, And now assume the purple's deeper dye. Rut here description clouds each shining ray; What terms of art can nature's power display ? i-'odr seamen lost. A sea (I) up surging with tremendous roll, To instant ruin seems to doom the whole. O friends , secure your bold ! Arion cries: — Tt comes all dreadful, stooping from the skies! Uplifted on its horrid edge , she feels The shock , and on her side half-bury'd reds ; The sail half-bury'd in the whelming wave , |
A fearful warning to the seamen gave : While from its margin , terrible to tell! Three sailors with their gallant boatswain fell. Torn with resistless fury from their hold , In vain their struggling arms the yard enfold : In vain to grapple flying cords they try; The cords, alas, a solid gripe deny ! Prone on the midnight surge, with panting breath 'J'hey cry for aid , and long contend with death. High o'er their heads the rolling billows sweep; And down they sink in everlasting sleep. — liereft of power to help , their comrades see The wretched victims die beneath the lee ; With fruitless sorrow their lost slate bemoan; Perhaps a fatal prelude to their own! Tempest, darkkess, iiciitning, and thunder. (Canto III.) The pilots, as the waves behind her swell, Still with the wheeling stern their force repel. For this assault should either quarter (2) feel Again lo flunk the tempest she might reel. The steersmen every bidden turn apply; To right and left the spokes alternale lly. Then when some conquer's host retreats in fear, The bravest leaders guard the broken rear; Indignant they retire and long oppose Superior armies that around them close ; Still shield the flanks; the routed squadrons join ; And guide the flight in one embodied line; So they direct the flying bark before Th' impelling floods that lash her to the shore. As some benighted traveller, through the shade, Explores the devious path with heartdisinay'd; \V bile prowling savages behind him roar. And yawning pits and quagmires lurk before — High o'er the poop th' audacious seas aspire , Uproll'd in hills of fluctuating fire. As some fell conqueror, frantic with success, Shed? o'er the nations ruin and distress; So, while the wat'ry wilderness he roams , Incens'd lo sevenfold rage the tempest foams; And o'er the trembling pines, above, below , Shrill through the cordage howls, with notes of woe. Now thunders, wafted from the burning zone, Growl from afar a deaf and hollow groan ! The ship's high hatllements, to either side For ever rocking, drink the briny tide : Her joints unhing'd, in palsied languors play, As ice desolves benealh the noon-tide ray. The skies, asunder torn , a deluge pour ; The impetuous bail descends in whirling shower. High on the masts, with pale and livid rays , Amid the gloom portentous meteors blaze. Th' etherial dome, in mournful pomp array'd , |
566
|
Now lurks beliinil impenotralile sliadc; Now , llashinj; round intolerable Redoublos all tho terrors of tbe nijjbt. Sucb terror Sinai's quaking bill o'erspread , AVlien Heaven's loud trumpet sounded o'er bis bead. Itseein'd tbe wrathful anjjel of the wind Had all the horrors of tbe skies cotnbin'd ; At onee tbe dreadful majfa/,ine diselos'd. And lo I tremendous o'er tbe deep be springs , Th' enflaming sulphur flashiiij; from bis wings! — Hark! bis slronj; voiee the dismal silence breaks ; Marl chaos from tbe ebains of death awakes! Loud and more loud tbe rolling peals enlarge. And blue on deck their blazing sides discbarge: While chill suspense and fear congeal'd their blood. Now in a deluge bursts the living ilame , And dread concussion rends tb'elberial frame; Sick earth convulsive groans from shore to shore, Atid nature shuddeiing feels the horrid roar. The smr stiukes a bock. Uplifted on the surge , to heaven she flies , Her shatter'd top half buried in the skies, Then headlong plunging thunders on the ground, Earth groans! air trembles ! and the deeps resound ! Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels , And quivering with tbe wound , in torment, reels. So reels, convnls'd with agonizing throes , The bleeding bull beneath tbe inurd'rer's blows. — Again she plunges ! bark ! a second shock Tears her strong bolloin on the marble rock ! Down on the vjile of death, with dismal cries, The fated victims shuddering roll their eyes In wild despair; while yet another stroke , With deep convulsion , rends the solid oak ; Till Id.n the mine, in whose infernal cell The lurking demons of destruction dwell, At length asunder torn her frame divides, And crashing spreads in ruin o'er tbe tides. Tate of the crew. As o'er the surge the stooping main-mast hung. Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung : Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast, And there by oo/y tangles grappled fast: Awhile they bore th' o'erwhelming billows rage, Unequal combat with their fate towage; Till all benumb'd and feeble they forego Their slippery hold, and sink lo shades below. Some, from the main-yard arm impetuous thrown |
On marble ridges, die without a groan . Three with I'alenion on their skill depend , And from tbe wreck on oars and rafts descend. Now on the mountain—wave on high they ride, Then downward plunge beneath tb'involving tide ; Till one, who seems in agony to strive. The whirling breakers heave on shore alive; The rest a speedier end of anguish knew , And prest tbe stony beach, a lifeless crew ! Sad Albert feels tbe dissolution near. And strives in vain his fetter'd limbs to clear ; For death bids every clinching joint adhere. All-saint, to Heaven be throws bis dying eyes, And, 'O protect my wife anil child !quot; be cries: The gushing streams roll hack th'unfinish'd sound ! He gasps! hedies.'and tumbles to the ground 1 Five only left of all the perish'd throng, Yet ride the pine which shoreward drives along ; With these Arioti still bis hold secures , And all the assaults of hostile wave endures. O'er the dire prospect a* for life be strives , He looks if poor I'alemon yet survives. Ah, wherefore, trusting lo unequal art. Didst ibou, incautious! from tbe wreck depart? Alas ! these rocks all human skill defy. Who strikes them once beyond relief must die: And now, sore wounded, thou perhaps are tost On these, or in some oo/y cavern lost. Thus thought Arion, anxious gazing round In vain, his eyes no more I'alemon found. The demons of destruction hover nigh. And thick their mortal shafts eommission'd fly. And now a breaking surge, with forceful sway, Two next Arion furious tear away Hurl'd on tbe crags, behold, they gasp! they bleed ! And, groaning, cling upon th'elusive weed ! — Another billow bursts in boundless roar! Arion sinks land memory views no more! Ha! lolal night and horror here preside! My stunn'd ear tingles lo the whi/./.ing tide ! It is tbe funeral knell I and , gliding near , Melbinks the phantoms of the dead appear! But lo! emerging from the watery grave, Again they float incumbent on tbe wave! Again the dismal prospect opens round, The wreck, the shores, the dying, and the drown'd ! And see! enfeebled by repealed shocks, Those two who scramble on th'adjaeent rocks , Their faithless bold no longer can retain. They sink o'erwhclm'd and never rise again ! |
Leefde van 1731 lot 1800. Hij werd geboren to Great Borkliatnslend in Herfordahirc ea was de zoon van een geestelijke, die hem voor regtsgeleerde liet si aderen. Er was ook nog een ander dichter van zijn naam. John Gilbert Cowper, die echter verre beneden hem staat en van 1723 tot 1709 leefde. William Cowper was een echt, maar zonderling genie, waarschijnlijk onder den invloed van een ongelukkige liefde
507
i
en afkeer van den regtsgeleerden stand. Zijn taal is net, kracliti|i; eu ongedwongen , maar nu en dan wat triviaal; en zijn stijl is natuurlijk. Hij wordt onder de dichters van den eersten rang geplaatst. Men heeft van hem; Table talk; The Progress of Error; Truth, Espostulation ; Hope; Charily; Conversation; Ketire-ment; The Task; Tirocinium, or the Review of the Schools; John Gilpin, a ballad.
|
Happy, if full of ilays , — but happier far , If, ere we yet discern life's eveninj; star, Sick of a service of a world that feeds lis patient drudjjes with dry chaff and weeds, W ecan escape from custom's idiot sway , To serve tlic Sovereign wo were horn t'ohey, Then sweet to muse upon his skill displayed , (Infinite skill,] in all that he lias made ! To trace , in Nature's most minute design , The sij;natureand stamp of power Divine; Contrivance intricate , expressed with ease. Where unassisted sijjht no beautysces. The shapely limb, and lubricated joint, Within the small dimensions of a point, Muscle and nerve miraculously spun , His inijjhly work , «ho speaks and it is done, Tbc Invisible, in things scarce seen revealed. To whom an atom is an ample field : To wonder at a tbousand inseet forms. These hatched, and those resnsciated worms. New live ordained anil liri}|liler scenes to share, Once prone on earlh , now buoyant upon air ; Whose shape would make them , had they hulk and. More hideous foes than fancy can devise; (si/.c With helmet-heads and dragon-seales adorned , The mighty myriads, now securely scorned , Would mock the majesty of man's high birth. |
Then with a glance of fancy to survey , Far as the faculty can stretch away, Ten thousand rivers poured at his command. From urns that tieicr fail, through every land; These like a deluge with impetuous force , Those winding modestly a silent course; The cloud-surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales ; Seas on which every nation spreads her sails; The sun, a world w hence other worlds drink lijht; The crescent moon, the diadem of night; Stars countless; each in his appointed place. Fast anchored in the deep abyss of space: At such a sight to catch the poet's flame, And with a rapiure like his own exclaim. These arc thy glorious works, thou source of good! How dimly seen, how faintly understood ! Thine,and upheld, by thy paternal care. This universal frame, thus wondrous fair; The power divine, and hounly heyond thought. Adored and praised in all lhat thou hast wrought, Ahsorhed in that immensity 1 see, 1 shrink aliased, and yet;spire lo thee; Instruct me, guide me lo lhat heavenly day, Thy words, more clearly than thy works, display That, whileThy Irulhs my grosser thoughts refine, f may resemble thee, and call thee mine ! |
|
How blest the creature is, O fiod, When w ith a single eye He views the lustre of ihy word. The day-spring from on high. Through all the storms lhat veil the skies. And frown on earthly things. The Sun of liighteousness he eyes With healing on his wings. Struck by that light the human heart, A barren soil no more, |
Sends the «mell nf grace abrnadj Where serpents lurked before. The glorious orb , whose golden beams The fruitful year control. Since first, obedient to thy word lie starled from the goal. Has cheered the nations with the joys His orient rays impart; But, Jesus, 't is thy light alone Can shine upon the heart. |
The JHverting history of Joim (üllpin,
SHOWIKG HOW IIL WEM FARTHER TIUN DE IKTENDU) , AM) CAME SAFE IIOME AOAIN.
|
John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown , A train-hand captain eke was lie Of famous London lown |
John Gilpin's spouse said lo her dear. Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years , yet w c No holiday have seen. |
568
|
To-morrow is our wedding-day, And wo will then repair Unto the Bell at Lldmonton All in a chaise and pair. My sister, and my sister'schild , Myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we. lie soon replied , I do admire Of womankind hut one , And you are she , my dearest dear , Therefore it shall he done. I am a linen-draper hold , As all the world doth know , And my good friend the calender Will lend his horse to go. Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, That's well said ; And , for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own , Which is both bright and clear. John Gilpin kissed his loving wife ; 0'ei'ji jyed was be to find That, thoujjb on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind. The morning came, the chaise Mas brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the dour, lest all Should say that she was proud. So three doors oft' the chaise was stayed. Where they did all get in ; Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin. Smack wend the whip, round went the wheels) AVere never folk so glad. The stones did rattle underneath. As if Cheapside were mad. John (iilpin at his lior«f's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again ; For saddle-tree scarce reach'd bad be, His journey to begin, Wben, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in. So down be came ; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore ; Yet loss ol pence, full well he knew, AVould trouble him much more. 'Twas long before tbe customers AVere suited to their mind, Wben Betty screaming came down stairs, quot;The wine is li ft behind Iquot; Good luck ! quoth be—yet bring it me, My leatlnrn belt likewise, In which I hear my trusty sword AA'bon I do exercise. |
Now mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) Had two stone bottles found , To bold the liquor that she loved , And keep it safe and sound. Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew; And hung a battle on each side, To make bis balance true. Then over all, that he might be Equipped from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, lie manfully did throw. Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, full slowly pacing o'er the stones, AVitb caution and good heed. But finding soon a smoother road Beneath bis well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, AVbich galled him in his seat. So, fair and softly, John he cried, But John he cried in vain ; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein. So stooping down , as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, lie grasped the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might. His liorse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, AVbat thing upon bis back had got Did wonder more and more. Away went Gilpin , neck or nought; Away went bat and wig; He liltledreamt when he set out, Of running such a rig. The wind did blow , tbe cloak did lly Like streamer long and gay. Till , loop and button failing both , At last it llevv away. Then might all people well discern The bottles be bad slung ; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath heen said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children screatncd. Up ftew the windows all; And every soul cried out, Well done! As loud as be could bawl. Away went Gilpin—who but be ? His fame soon spread around, He carries weight! he rides a race ! 'Tis for a thousand pound I And still , as fast as be drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw. |
569
|
Anil now, as lie went bowing down His reeking head full low, The holtles twain behind his back Were slialtered at a blow. Down ran ibc wine into the road, Most piteous to he seen , Which made his liorse's Hanks to smoke, As they had basted been. But still he seemed to carry ■weight, With 1 eathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle-necks Still dangling at bis waist. Tims all througii merry Islington These gambols he did play. Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay : And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play. At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband , wondering much To sec how he did ride. Stop, stop, John Gilpin !— Here's thebouse— They all at once did cry; The dinner waits , and we are tired : Said Gilpin — So am 1! But yet his horse was not a w hit Inclined to tarry there; For why ? — his owner bad a house Full ten miles oil', at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew , Shot by an archer strong ; So did be fly — which bring me to The middle of my song. Away went Gilpin out of breath , And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender's His horse at last stood still. The calender , amazed to see His neighbour, in such trim , Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate. And thus accosted him. What news ? what news ? your tidings tell ; Tell me you must and shall — Say why bare-headed you arc come , Or why you come at all ? Now Gilpin bad a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke: I came because your horse would come; And , if I well forbode, My hat and wig will soon be here — They arc upon the road. |
The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, ricturned him not a single word , But to the house went in ; Whence straight be came with hat and wig; A wig that flowed behind , A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind. lie held them up , and in his turn Thus showed bis ready wit. My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit. But let me scrape the dirt away That bangs upon your face ; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case. Said John , it is my wedding-day, And all the world would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton , And I should dine at Ware. So turning to his horse, be said , I am in haste to dine ; quot;I'was for your pleasure you came here. You shall go back for mine. Ah luckless speech , and bootless boast! For which he paid full dear: For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear; Whereat his horse did snort, as be Had heard a lion roar , And galloped oil' with all his might , As he had done before. Away went Gilpin , and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig. He lost them sooner than at first, For why ? — they were loo big. Now mistress Gilpin , when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pulled out half a crown ; And thus unto the youth she said, That drove them to the Bell, This shall ho yours when you bring back My husband safe and well. The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain ; Whom in a trice be tried to stop, By catching at his rein ; But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done , The frighted steed he frighted more , And made him faster run. Away weni Gilpin , and away Went post-hoy at his heels, The post-boy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels. |
47
370
|
Six genllcmen upon tlie road Tlins scein;; Gilpin fly , Willi post-hoy scnnipcriiijj in the rear , They raised the liuc and cry: — Slop tliief! slo]) tliicf! — a lii{;Iiwayinnn.l Not ono of tlicm was mule; And all and eacli that passed lliat way Did join in llie pursuil. And now llie turnpike jfales again Mew open in short space ; |
The toll-men thinking as before That Gilpin rode a race. And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town ; i\oi' stopped till where he had got up lie did again get down. Now let us sing, long live the king. Ami Gilpin long live he ; And , when he next doth ride abroad , May I he there to see! |
|
Once on a time a paper kilo Was mounted to a wondrous heiglit, Where giddy with its elevation, It thus expressed self admiration : ' See how yon crowds of gating people Admire my flight above the steeple ; How would they wonder, if they knew All that a kite like me can do! Were 1 but free, I'd take a flight, And piercc the cloud beyond their sight, Cut oh ! like a poor pris'ner hound. My string confines me to the ground: I'd brave the eagle's tow'ring wing. Might I but fly without a string. It tngg'd , and pull'd , while thus it spoke , To break the string—at last it broke. Deprived at once of all its stay. |
In vain ittry'd to soar away; Unable ils own weight to hear, It flutlcr'd downward through the air; Unable ils own course to guide. The winds soon plunged it in the tide. Ah I foolish kite, thou bast no wing, How couldst ihou fly without a string! My heart replied , oh Lord, I sec! How much this lule resemldes me! Forgetful that by thee I stand. Impatient of thy ruling hand ; How oft I've wish'd to break the lines, Thy wisdom for my lot assigns ! Uow oft indolg'd a vain desire, For something more, or something higher! And hut for grace and love divine, A fall thus dreadful bad been mine. |
|
Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, AVe love the play-place of our early days; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill, The very name we carved subsisting still ; The bench on which we sal w hile deep employed, Though mangled, hacked, and hewed, not yet lt;Ie-The little ones, unbuttoned, glowing hot, (stroyed; Playing our games, and on the very spot; As happy as we once, to kneel and draw |
The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw; To pitch the ball into the grounded hat. Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat; The pleasing spectacle at once excites Such recollection of our own delights. That viewing it, we seem almost t'ohtain Our innocent, sweet, simple years again. This fond attachment to the well known place, When ce first we starled into life's long race. Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, Wro feel it even in age, and at our latest day. |
T JI 0 M A S C II A T T E II T 0 N,
De zoon van een schoolmeester te Bristol, werd in 1752 geboren en stierf door zelfmoord in 1770, Nadat hij een openbare school had bezocht, werd hij bij een attorney als klerk geplaatst. Weldra kwam hij te voorschijn met oude gedichten, volgens zijn voorgeven in de vijftiende eeuw door Rowley, een geestelijke geschreven: die gedichten trokken buitengewoon de aandacht. Kort daarna begaf hij zich naar Londen, met de hoop van bij Sir Horace Walpole in gunst te komen , doch in deze hoop werd hij te leur ge-gesteld. Intusschen is gebleken, dat hij zelf de vervaardiger van die stukken was, maar hij is zulk een voortreffelijke navolger van de oudheid , dat zelfs de grootste oudheidkenners er aanvankelijk door misleid werden. Bovendien is zijn arbeid merkwaardig door oorspronkelijkheid , rijkheid vau gedachten en diepe
571
poëtische la-acht. ZonUerliiig is het, ilat alle godichtcu , dio hij in 't cngolsch van zijn tijJ schreef (Miscellanies iu prose and verse), slechts den naam van middelmatig verdienen ; maar waarschijnlijk deed hij dit met opzet. Zijn werken zijn herhaalde malen herdrukt en de beste uitgave is die van 1803, in Londen verschcuen.
|
O C'liryste, it is fjrief for me to telle, How inaiiio a noble erle anti val i ons knyghte [ii fy;jlityii[;e for Kyiigo llarrold noblieiell. Al sleynge in Haslyngs feeld in bloudic fyglite. O sca-o'erteeming Dover! Iian lliy lloudc, llan anie fructuous entenflemcnt, (liloucli; Tlion wouldst have rose and sank wyth tydes of Before Duke Wyllyam's knyghts han hintlier wenl ; AVhose eowart arrows manie erlcs sleyne, And brued tbe feeld wytbe bloudeas season rayne. And of liis knygbtcs did eke full manie die, All passini; hie, of micklc mygbte eelione. Whose poygnantc arrowes, typp'd with destynie, Caused many wydowes to make niyckle nione. Lordynges, avaunt, that eliycken-harted are, From oute of bearynge quieklie now departe; Full well I wote, to synge of bloudie warre Will greeve your tenderlie and mayden barte. Go do the weaklie wominan inn man's geare. And second your mansion if grymm war come there. Soone as the erlie maten helle was tolde, And sonne was come to byd us all good daie, Both armies on the feeld, both brave and bolde, Prepared lor fyghtc in cbampyon arraie. As wben two bulles, destyndefor Uocktide fygbte |
Are yoked bie the necke within a sparre, Tiieie rend the ertlie, and travellers allryghlc, Laekynge to gage the sportive hloudie warre ; Soe lacked Harroldes menne to come to blowes, The Normans lacked for to wielde their bowes. Kynge Ilarrolde turnynge to his leegcmen spake: My merrie men, be not caste downe in mynde ; Your onlie lode for ay to mar or make , llefure yon sunne has donde his welke you'll fynde Your lovyng wife, who erst dyd rid the londe Of Lurdanes, and the treasure that you han, Wyll falle into the Normanne robber's honde, Unlessc wyth honde and barte you plaie tbe mannc. Cheer up your hartes, chase sorrow farre awaie, Codde and Seyncto Cuthbert be the worde todaic. And thenne Duke Wyllyam to his knightesdid sayc: My merrie menne, be bravelie evcriclie ; (■if 1 do gayn the honore of the daie, Fch one of you I will make myckle riche. Beer you in mynde, we for a kyngdoinni fygthe ; Lordsliippes and honores echone shall possesse; Be this the worde to daie, Ood and my ryghte; No double but God wylle our true cause blcsse. The clarions then sounded sharpe and shrille; Deathdoeynge blades were out intent to kille. |
A Fragment.
|
Curse onne mie tardie woundes! brynge mec a stede! ! wyllo awaie to Birtha bie thys nyghte ; Alheyttc fro mio woundes mie soul doe blnde, I wylle awaie, and die wythyime lier svghte. Brynge mee a stede, wythe eagle wyngës for flyghle, Swefte as mie wyshe, and, as mie love ys strongc. TbcDanes have wrought mee myckle woeynne fygbte, lime kepeynge mee from Birtha's amies so longc, 0! wbatte a dome was myne, sytlie masterie Canne yeve nc pleasaunce, nor mio londes goode leme • (myneeie! |
Yeegoddes, bowe ys a loverres temper formed! (hlessc? Some tyincs the samme thynge wyll both bane and On tynie erica lede, yanne bie the same thynge warm-Fstroiighted foorthe, and yanne ybrogbten less, (ed, 'Tys Birtha's loss whyche doe mie thonghts possesse; I wylle, i must awaie: whie stales mie slede ? Mie huscarles, hytlier basta ; prepare adresse, Whyche couracyrs yn hastie journies nede. 0 heavens! I most awaie to Byrtha's eyne , For yn her looks I fynde mie beynge doc entwyne. |
|
O God , whose thunder shakes the sky ; Whose eye this atom globe surveys; To thee, my only rock. Illy, Thy mercy in thy justice praise. The mystic mazes of thy will, The shadows of celuglial light, |
Are past the power of human skill, — But what th' Eternal acts is right. O teach me in the trying hour, When anguish swells the dewy tear, To still my sorrows, own thy pow'r, 1 Thy goodness love, tiiyjusticu fear. |
372
|
If in this bosom auglil but thee Encroacbing sought a boundless sway, Omniscicnce could the danger see, And mercy look the cause away. Then why, my soul, dost thou complain ? Why drooping seek the dark recess ? Shake off the melancholy chain, For God created all to bless. Hut ah ! my breast is human still , The rising sigh , the falling tear, |
My languid vitals' feeble rill. The sickness of my soul declare. But yet, with fortitude rcsign'd , I'll thank th' inilicter of the blow; Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, Kor let the gush of mis'ry How. The gloomy mantle of the night, Which on my sinking spirit steals, AVill vanish at the morning light, Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals. |
{Zie Percy Reliques of ancient poetry, v. 1, p. 324, 1/95.)
|
Gilderoy was a bonnie boy, Had roses tull his shoone. His stockings were of silken soy , Wi' garters hanging doune: It was, I weene, a comelie sight, To see sae trim a boy; He was my jo and hearts delight, My handsome Gilderoy. Oh ! sike twa charming een he had, A breath as sweet as rose. He never ware a Highland plaid, Bnt costly silken clothes; Hegain'd the luve of ladies gay: Wane eir tull him was coy. Ah! wae is mee ! I mourn the day, For my dear Gilderoy. Uy Gilderoy and 1 were horn, quot;Baith in one toun together. We scant were seven years heforn, We gan to luve each other; Onr dadies and onr mammies thay, Were fill'd wi' micklejoy. To think upon the bridal day, Twixt me and Gilderoy. For Gilderoy that luve of mine, Gude faith, I freely bought A wedding sark of holland fine, AVi' silken flowers wrought; And he gied me a wedding ring. Which I receiv'd wi'joy, Nae lad nor lassie eir could sing, 1 .ike me and Gilderoy. |
AVi' micklejoy wc spent our primo. Till we were baith sixteen. And aft we past the langsome time, Among the leaves sae green ; Aft on the banks we'd sit us thair, And sweetly kiss and toy, AA'i' garlands gay wad deck my hair My handsome Gilderoy. Oh ! that be still had been content, AA'i' me to lead bis life, But, ah ! his manfu' heart was bent. To stir in feat.es of strife: And he in many a venturous deed, His courage hauld wad try. And now this gars mine heart to bleed, For my dear Gilderoy. And when of me his leave he tuik. The tears they wat mine ec, I gave tull him a parting luik, ■•My henison gang wi' thee! God speed the well, mine ain dear heart, For gane is all my joy ; My heart is rent sitli we maun part. My handsome Gilderoy.quot; My Gilderoy baith far and near, Was fear'd in every lonri, And bauldly hare away the gear , Of many a lawland loun ; Nane eir durst meet him man to man , lie was sae brave a hoy, At length wi' numbers he was tauc , My winsome Gilderoy. |
575
|
Wae worlli llie loun that made the laws, To liaiifj a man for gear , To 'reave of life for ox or ass, For sheep, or liorse, or mare: Had not their laws been made sae striek, I neir liad lost my joy, Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek , For my dear Gilderoy. GilTGilderoy had done amisse, lie mougnt hae hanisht heen , Ah I what sair cruelly is this , To hangsike handsome men : To hanjj (lie flower o' Scottish land, Sae sweet and fair a boy ; Nae lady had sae while a hand , As thee , my Gilderoy. |
Of Gilderoy sae fraid they wore, They bound him mickle strong, Tull Edcnhurrow they led him thair, And on a gallows hung; They hung him high ahoon the rest, He was sae trim a hoy ; Thair dyed the youth w hom I lued best. My handsome Gilderoy. Thus having yielded up his breath , 1 bare his corpse away, Wi' tears, that trickled for his death, I washt bis comelye clay ; And siker in a grave sae deep, 1 laid thedear-lued boy, And now for cvir maun I weep , My winsome Gilderoy. |
|
(Zie Pcrcy D. Ve highlands, and ye lawlands, Oh ! quhair hae ye been ? They haeslaine the Earl of Murray, And hae laid him on the green. Now wae he to tliee, Huntley! And quliairfore did you sac ! 1 bade you bring him wi' you , liul forbade you him to slay. He was a braw gallant. And he rid at the ring; And the bonny Earl of Murray , Ob! be might hac been a king. (Zie Pcrcy I). About Zule (2), quhen the wind blew cule , And tbc round tables began , A'! there is cum to our kings court Mony a well-favourd man. The queen luikt owre the castle wa (3), Beheld baith dale and down , And then she saw y.ung (4) Waters Cum riding to the town. His footmen they did rin before , His horsemen rade behind. Ane mantel of the burning gowd Did keip him frae the wind. Gowden graith'd his horse before And siller shod behind , The horse zoung Waters rade upon Was lleeter than the wind. |
II hldz. 213.) He was a braw gallant, And he playd at the ba' ; And the bonny Earl of Murray Was the llower among them a'. He was a braw gallant. And he playd at the gluve; And the bonny Earl of Murray , Oh I he was the Queenes luve. Oh ! lang will his lady Luke owre the castle downe (1), Ere she see the Earl of Murray Cum sounding throw the lowne. II, bldz. 214.) liut than spake a wylie lord , Unto the queen said he, O tell me qbua's (5) the fairest face Rides in the company. I've sene lord, and I've sene laird. And knights of high degree; Bot a fairer face than 7.oung Waters Mine eyne did never see. Out then spack the jealous king, (And an angry man was he) O, if be had been twice as fair, Zou micht have excepted me. Zon're neither laird nor lord , she says , Bot the king that wears the crown ; Theris not a knight in fair Scotland Bot to tbee maun bow down. |
(1) Castle downe here has been thought to mean the Castle of Downe, a seat belonging to the family of Murray, (3) Christmas. (3) Wall. (4) Young. (5) What is.
574
|
Fur a' that slio could do ur say , Appcasd lie wad nae heo; Uot for the words which she had said Zoung Waters he maun dee. They liae taen zouiijj AVaters. and Put fetters to his feet; They hao taen zouhj; Waters, and Thrown him in dungeon deep. Aft 1 have ridden thro' Stirling town In the wind both and the weit; Bot 1 neir rade thro' Stirling town Wi' fetters at my feet. |
Alt have 1 ridden thro' Stirling town In the wind both and the rain ; Bot 1 neir rade thro' Stirling town Neir to return again. Tlieyhae taen to the hciding-hill (1); His zoang son in his craddle, And they hao taen to the hciding-hill, His horse both and his saddle. They liae taen to the hciding-hill His lady fair to sec. And for the words the Queen had spultc, Zoutig Waters he did dee. |
Men weet niet zeker, in welk jaar deze dichter werd geboren of wanneer hij stierf. Hij moet center geboren zijn omtrent de tweede helft van de zeventiende eeuw, want in 1CS9 leverde hij A Description of Uiclvoman Catholic Chureh (in 1679 geschreven), «waarin do gebruiken van 't bof, de beginselen en leerstellingen, do godsdienst en kerkdienst, de godsdienstige gestichten en verschillende doeleinden en prattijken van die kerk in een visioen worden voorgesteld». Het is een satire op de praktijken der roomsehe kerk. Barclay was geestelijke te Crudcu.
On the alTcctatlon of despising the vanities of the world.
|
'Tis easy when a man's in solitude To slight the gawdy world , and lo conclude That all its pomp and riches arc but lies, A heap of gilden worthless vanities; And to contemn the lljtt'ring breath of fame, Ihe foolish whistlings of an honour'd name; And hate that wild ambition, which , with forcc, Doth ride and spur us like unruly horse; |
And those imperious lusts, which often cause Men break all bonds , and trample on all laws ; But things we at a distance can despise , When they approach us, do bewitch our eyes , And charm our hearts; so strong's the snare , So weak our mind , so faint our carc , So soon our resolutions do impair, That we're entangled ere we are aware. |
De hersteller van de schotscho poëzie werd don vijftienden October 108G te Lcadhills geboren cn ovcr-eed den zevenden Jaiiuarij 1758. Aanvankelijk als pruikemakersleerling geplaatst, kwam hij later in den boekhandel te Jidimburg. Hij is de eerste dichter, die zijn stukken in zijn moedertaal schreef. Kamsay trad in 1/^1, nadat hij oude, zeldzaam erewordon. scholsnlin irmlinlilpn liml nifirn.founn mot. «,lt;.11™ i,» vn,.,io
vroeg n gelezen
'Ü',-.- .....«enen gcuiimi., icguu ecu sunver i smis nei verKOopen cn zien aiuus
dij t yoik bekend gemaakt. Voor zijn eerst eigen werk, dat in 1721 verscheen, Imd hij in 1720 een in-ckciimgslyst gapend. Tot grondslag van zijn Geutle Shepherd dienden Patio and Hoger (1721) en Jennie and Maggie (1723), welke beide stukken hem grooten naam deden verwerven. De overige gedichten van liamsay zijn meest allen vergeten; maar '1 he Gentle Shepherd, The Tea-Table Miscellany (1724) en e liivcrgrccn (1724) (beide laatsten verzamelingen van onde schotschc liederen) zullen zijn naam altijd doen bekend blijven. In 1728 gaf hij een tweede kwarto deel met gedichten nit en in 't volgend jaar de-zclfde gedichten in oktavo; weldra verscheen van hem een dichtbundel The Fables (1730) en in 1736 stichtte hij een nieuwen schouwburg, welk gebouw evenwel moest gesloten worden ingevolge een beper-Kingswet, die kort daarna werd uitgevaardigd. Hij leverde ook nog Songs, Epistles , Elegies, enz.
Personal appearance and Character of Jamp;amsay.
|
♦Imprimis then for tallness, I Am five feet and four inches high ; |
A black-a-vic'd, snod , dapper follow , Nor lean nor overlaid wi' tallow, |
hil/u ckquot;0'1^quot;^quot;'1'quot;' C!quot; '1Crquot;''n^ [Sheading] hill. The place of escculion was ancicutly an artificial
575
|
Wi' fililz of a Morocco cul, Picscniblinff a late man of wit; ^uld gahbct .Spec, vlia was sac ciitinin;j, To 1)0 a (lumtnie ten years running. Tlicn for llio fahric of my mind , quot;fis mair to mirth tlian grief inclin'd; In rather cliusc to laugh at folly , Than shew dislike by melancholy ; Weel judging , a sour heavy face Is not (he truest mark of grace, 1 hate a drunkard or a glutton , Yet I'm nae fae to wine and mutlon : Great tables ne'er cngag'd my w ishes When crowded with o'er inony dishes ; A healthfu' stomach , sharply set, Prefers a back-sey(l), pipin bet. 1 never could imagin't vicious Of a fair fame to he ambitious : Proud to he thought a comic poet, And let a judge of numbers know it; |
1 court occasion thus to shew it. Second of thirdly — Pray take heed, \ e s pet a short swatch of my ereed. To follow method negatively Ye ken takes place of positively: Weel then , I'm neither Whig nor Tory, Nor credit give to purgatory.* Know positively, I'm a Christian, Believing truths, and thinking free. Wishing Ihrawn parties wad agree. Say wad ye ken my gate o' lending. My income, management, and spending ? Born to nae lairdship, mair's the pity ! Yet denizen o' this fair city, 1 tnak what honest shift I can. An' in my ain houseam gudeman.* Contended I hae sic a sliair As does my business to a hair. An' fain wad prove to ilka Scot, That j)00rti th's no the poet's lot. |
|
% is a young thing , Just enter'd in her teens , Fair as the day , and sweet as May , Pair as the day, and always gay : My Peggy is a young thing, And I'm nae very auld , Yet weel 1 like to meet her at The wauking (2) o' the fauld. My Peggy speaks sac sweetly Wh ene'er we meet alane, Ï wish nae mair to lay my care, 1 wish nae rnair o' a' that's rare: My Peggy speaks sac sweetly, To a' the lave I'm cauld ; But she gars a' my spirits glow At wauking o' the fauld. |
My Peggy smiles sae kindly Whene'er I whisper love. That I look down on a' the town , That I look down upon a crown : My Peggy smiles sae kindly, It makes me blytbeand bauld , And naetbing gi'es me sie delight. As wauking o' the fauld. SIy P«ggy sings sae saftly , When on my pipe I play ; By a' the rest it is confest, By a' the rest that she sings best. My Peggy sings sae saftly , And in her sangs are tanld , Wi' innocence the wale o' sense, At wauking o' the fauld. |
A Scottish Ballad.
From Allan Ramsay''s 'lea Table tniscellauy, (Zie Percy t. a. p. D. Ill, p. 127 en volgg.)
There came a ghost to Margaret's door,
With many a grievous gronc,
And ay he tilled at the pin ;
But answer made she none.
Is this my father Philip ?
Or is 't my brother John?
Or is't, my true love Willie,
I is not my lather I'Jiilip;
Nor yet thy brolher John :
But 'tis thy true love Willie From Scotland new come home.
O sweet Margret! 0 dear Margretl
1 pray thee speak to mee:
Give me my faith and troth , Margret,
From Scotland new come home ?
(1) Sirloin, (3) Watching.
576
|
Thy faith ami Irolh ihou'se nevir get, 'Of mc shalt ncvir win Till that lliou come within my bower, And kiss my cheek and chin. If I should come within thy bower, 1 am no earthly man : And should 1 kiss thy rosy lipp , Thy days will not he lung. O sweet Margret, O dear Margret, I pray thee speak lo mee: Give me my faith and troth , Margret, As 1 gave it to thee. Thy faith and troth thou'sn nevir get, 'Of mc shall ncvir win ,' Till thou take me to yon kirk yard, And wed me with a ritig. My hones are buried in a kirk yard Afar beyond the sea. And it is but my sprite, Margret, That's speaking now to thee. She stretched out her lilly white hand, As for to do her best: llae there your faith and troth, Willie, God send your soul good rest. |
I Now she has killed her robes of green, A piece below her knee: And a' the live-lang winter night The dead corps followed slice. Is there any room at your head, Willie? Or any room at your feet ? Or any room at yourside, Willie, Wherein that I may creep? There's nae room at my head, Margret, There's nae room at my feet, There's nae room at my side, Margret, My coflln is made so meet. Then up and crew the red cock. And up then crew the gray; 'Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margret, That '1' were gane away. No more the ghost to Margret said, But, with a grievous grone, Evanish'd in a cloud of mist, And left her all alone O stay, my only true love, stay. The constant Margret cried : Wan grew her checks, she clos'd her ecn , Strelch'd her saft limbs, and died. |
Werd omtrent 1700 geboren in 't graafschap Aberdeen, en overleed ia Mei 1783. Hij werd schoolmeestsr in 't kerspel Birse, nadat bij eenigen tijd te Aberdeen had gestudeerd. Kijn stukken hebben zeer veel seboons en schilderachtigs. Heienore of The Fortunate Shepherdess is 't grootste stuk, dat hij geleverd (1708), en hem 't meest beeft bekend gemaakt. In dat stuk vindt men een aantal zangen. In 1778 verscheen daarvan etn tweede druk, en nu maakte het zulk een opgang, dat daarvan herbaalde raaien nieuwe uitgaven moesten geleverd worden.
The Penury of Boss' Condition.
{Written hy himself.)
|
Come, Scota, thou, that anes upon a day Garr'd Allan Ramsay's hungry heart-strings play The merriest sangs that ever yet were sung. Pity anes mair, for I'm outtbrow as clung. 'Twas that grim gossip, chandler-chaftcd want 4 With tbrei d-bair claithiug and an ambry scant. Wade him cry on thee, to blaw throw his pen Wi' leed (1) that well might help him to come hen, |
And crack amo' the best o' ilka sex, And shape his houghs to gentle hows and bccks. He wan thy heart, well wordy o't, poor man : Tak yet anither gangrell hy the ban , As gryt's my mister, an' my duds as bare, And I as sib as he was, ilka hair, Mak me but half as canny, there's no fear, Tho' I be auld, but I'll yet gather gear. |
|
Of all the lads that be On Flaviana's braes, 'Tis Colin bears the grcc, An' that a thousand ways; |
Best on the pipe be plays , Is merry, blyth, an' gay, 'An' Jeany fair,' he says , 'lias stown my heart away. |
(1) Language.
377
|
llnd i ten tlioasaml jiounds, I'd all to Jeany jjeo, I'd lliolea tlioiisand wounds To keep my Jeany free: For Jeany is to me. Of all the maidens fair. My jo, and ay shall he, With her I'll only pair. Of roses 1 will weave For her a ilow'ry crown , All other cares I'll leave, An' busk her liaflets round ; |
I'll buy her a new flown , AVi' strips of red an' blow, An' never mair look brown , For Jeany'll ay be new. My Jeany made reply ; 'Syn ye ha'e chosen me, Then all my wits I'll try , A loving wife to be. If I my Colin sec, I'll lanjj for nacthinij mair, AVi' bim I do agree In weal an' wae to share.' |
Men weet niet in welk jaar deze dichter geboren of gestorven is. Moor was professor in ile griekseho taal aan de universiteit te Glasgow. Als dichter is hij ook weinig bekernl, maar verdient niot te min wel ouder zijn tljdgenootcu opgenomen te worden. Zijn stukken verschenen in een tijdschrift; zij bezitten meer dan gewone verdiensten en geven hem regt op een plaats bij do dichters, die slechts weinig, maar goeds leverden. Als grieksche taalbeoefenaar bekleedt hij oen eervolle plaats onder zijn tijdgeneoteu.
|
(IVnttcii Here lye the bones of Dr. Moor, AVbo lived contented, tboujjb but poor. I'iece of a poet he was once, lly inspiration or by change; Nor was he very far to seek Either in Latin or in Greek ; And what is more rage 'mon;j men of letters, lie was well vers'd in tbe Greek Geometers; Knew too the Rules and the Reductions Of Algebra, Fluents and Fluxions ; Could penetrate into tbc natures |
himself.) Of Curves, their Tangents and Quadratures, And bring to Fluxional Equation Problems of Curve-Rectification. Friend of the fatherless and poor, AVho wail the death of Dr. Moor. Know that these verses, ye who see'ern, AVcre by himself wrote—ante-diem. quot;Himself too much he praises.quot; Hush! Or ye will make his nshes blush : Hail he himself not done it, Rrother, it ne'er had been done by another. |
Spirit of the Scots' ami English Rebels In characterised.
Scots' Sfirit.
|
The Scots, warm in mistake, too high of spirit. Think, if they die, 'tw ill he with Heaven a merit; Forsake wife, children, fortune, nay, their reason. Rather than not be guilty of high treason. Driven like the hogs, w hen hurried by the devil; Thoughtless of success; right, wrong ; good or evil ; Run furious on, precipitately brave. Madly to meet the gallows, or the grave. Yet many were inveigled, many cheated. By words of honour given and oaths repeated AA'bo had resolv'd before at home to stay, And leave to fools the fortune of the day. Those wept for anguish, to be thus outwitted. Yet, for their word was given, not one man quitted. |
O Gothic Honour ! thy unnatural rules. Thy tyrant customs, make even wise men fools. Mad, honest, luckless, brave men ! God nor Man, Nor Law, nor Reason, can approve your plan. Nay, not yourselves at bottom. Reason thus. And one example will the point discuss. — — You'll play at hazard , will you, sir ? Yes. Come — You sit. play, lose, and instant pay the sum ; AVhy so? liecause you think he play'd you fair. You're wrong,sir! try, you'll find some false dice there Agreed ; you try and find out in a trice. He palm'd upon you full four loaded dice; That moment you compell him to repay, And swear w ith such you ne'er again shall play. |
578
|
The application may 1)0 made with ease, 1 shall not mention it, execpt you please. Some few there were, ■whose deeds of honor tell, Their hearts of brass were cast in hottest hell; Monsters confest, but soon they met their match |
From victor-monsters, who made quick dispatch; In cold, cold blood, to kill each man they met, Such easy slaughter did their swords but whet; And wanton show'd (let us to both be just) Of savage butchery, the raging lust. |
Tune — quot;Days o' iang syne.1'
|
When war bad broke in on the peace of auld men. And frac Chelsea to arms they were summon'd again. Twa vet'rans grown grey.wi' their musketssair soil'd, With a sigh were relating how hard they had toil'd ; The drum it was beating, to fight they incline. But ay, they look'd back to the days o' lang syne ! Eh, Davie man, weil thou remembers the lime, When twa brisk youngcaiians, and justinour prime, The Duke led us conq'rors, and sliew'd us Ibe way, And mony braw cheilds we turn'd cawld on that day; Still again I would venture this auld trutdt o'mine. Could our general but lead, and we fight, as lang syne! |
But garrison-duty is a' we can do, Though our arms are grown weak, our hearts are still We car'd na for dangers by land or by sea. (true ; But Time is turn'd coward, and not you and me; And tlio' at our fate we may sigh and repine, Youth winna return, nor the strength o' lang syne! When after our conquest, it joys me to mind How Janet caress'd thee, and my Meg was kind; They shar'd q' our danger; tho' never so hard. Nor car'd we fnr plunder when sic onr reward. E'en now they're rcsolv'd baith their barnes to resign. And will share the hard fate they were us'd to lang (syne. |
|
Gude honest Davie and his wife Led lang and easy kindly life; When hogtnaiKiy came round, at night. Tin: year was done, and a' was right; And up they raise, on New Year's day, Life to begin, new hode, new play. Thus on they liv'd, and on they lov'd, lie weil content, and she Weill woo'd By him w hen be came home at e'en , Then life »as like an ever green. A nihour chield, w ha bad some spunk, Contrives lo play them a begank : Comes lang before the break o' day. And sleeks their winnock up wi' clay. They, waken'd at their usual time, liook'd up, but cou'd na see a styme; Their wcary'd limbs were weel content. And sac to sleep again they went; |
Their ecu, glad of a hearty dose. Took their ain sweet fill o' repose. Seldom they could sic dainties get. And now the sun began to set; The w ife got up, ran to the door And saw—what ne'er was seen before! Ka, what was never yet seen since, Nowther by subject nor by prince, Nor ever will he seen again By daughters nor by sons o' men; She saw, and troth it is nae jest, A sight that kopt her mind frae rest; To tell ibe ferlie, in she ran, AVi' pegbing heart, lo her gude man : quot;0 Davie, Davie, man I come here, The like was not this thousand year! See, but say nought—silence is best; Sec the sun rising in the West!quot; |
Van Baogour werd in 1704 geboren en slierf in 1754 to Lyon. Daar hij bij de landing van den pretendent t regerend huis verliet, was hij, tengevolge van den ongelukkigen alloop dier expeditie, genoodzaakt in Schotland rond te zwerven. Hij vlugtle naar 't buitenland, doch kreeg Inter verlof om terug te keeren. Zijn geviel had echter zooveel geleden , dat liij gezondheidshalve in een zachter klimaat moest leven. Zijn verschillende gedichten verschenen in 1748. Hij behoort niet onder de dichters van den eersten rang; maar zijn smaak , bevalligheid en naauwkeurigheid geven hem 't regt op een eervolle plaats onder zijn tijdge-nooten. Men heeft van hem; The Braes of Yarrow (dat een schotsch volkslied werd), The Triumph of Love, Epistles, Odes , enz.
379
|
Now in liis artful liand llic l)agj)i|ie licld , Elate , llic jiiper wide surveys the licld. O'er all he throws his quick discomin;; eyes, And views their hopes and fears alternate rise. Old Glendernle, in Gallowshiels long fam'd For works of skill, the perfect wonder fratn'd ; His shining steel first lopp'd, with dexterous toil, From a tall spreading elm the branchy spoil. The clouded wood he next divides in twain , And smoothes them equal to an oval plane. Six leather folds in still connected rows To cither plank conformed, the sides compose; The wimlile perforates the buse with care, A destin'd passage opening to the air; But once inclosed within the narrow space. The opposing valve forhids the backward race. Fast to the swelling bag, two reeds combin'd , Receive the blasts of the melodious wind. Hound from the twining loom, with skill divine Embost, the joints in silver circles shine ; In secret prison pent, the aeecnts lie, Until his arm the lab'ring artist ply: Then duteous they forsake their dark abode, Fellows no more, and wing a sep'rate road. These upward through the narrow channel glide In ways unseen , a solemn murmuring tide; Those thro' the narrow part, their journey bend Of sweeter sort, and to the earth descend. O'er the small pipe at equal distance, lye Eight shining boles o'er which his fingers lly. From side to side the aerial spirit hounds: The flying fingers form the passing sounds, That, issuing gently thro' the polish'd door, |
Mix with the common air and charm no more; This gift long since obi Glenderule eonsign'd, The lasting witness of his friendly mind , To the fam'd author of the piper's line. Each empty space shone rich in fair design : Himself appears high in the sculptur'd wood. As bold in the Harlean field be stood. Serene, amidst the dangers of the day , Full in the van you might behold him play; There in the humble mood of peace be stands. Before him pleas'd arc seen the dancing bands. In mazy roads the flying ring they blend , So lively fram'd they seem from earth t'aseend. Four gilded straps the artist's arm surround , Two knit by clasps, and two by buckles bound. His artful elbow now the youth essays, A tuneful squeeze to wake the sleeping lays. With lab'ring bellows thus the smith inspires To frame the polish'd lock , the forge's fires , Conceal'd in ashes lie the flames below , 'Till the resounding lungs of hel lows blow ; Then mounting high , o'er the illumin'd room Spreads the brown light, and gilds thedusky gloom ; The bursting sounds in narrow prisons pent, Rouse, in their cells, loud rumbling for a vent. Loud tempests now the deafen'd car assail; Now gently sweet is hreath'd a sober gale: As when the hawk his mountain nest forsakes, Fierce for his prey his rustling wings he shakes ; The air impcll'd by th'unharmonious shock. Sounds clattering and abrupt through all the rock. But as she flies, she shapes to smoother space Her winnowing vans, and swims the aerial spacc.* |
Was de zoon van een landman in 't graafschap Linlithgow en werd geboren 5 Octolicr 1721. Tengevolge van 't vroegtijdig overlijden van zijn vader, moest hij zich met 't beheer van landerijen belasten en Icon dus geen genocgzamcn tijd aan zijn studiën besteden. Hij was met de grootste geleerde laudgenooten van zijn lijd bevriend en het gelukte hem na veel tegenspoeden eindelyk tot prediker benoemd te worden. In 1759 werd hij benoemd tot professor in de natuurlijke wijsbegeerte aan de universiteit St. Andrew en in 17G6 met den titel van I)r. in de Godgeleerdheid vereerd. VVilkie overleed 11 October J772. Zijn eerste omvangrijk dichtstuk, The EpigoniaJ, in Nine Hooks, werd in Schotland zeer gunstig ontvangen, doch vond in Engeland weinig lezers en werd er door de kritiek scherp doorgehaald. Uet voornaamst gebrek daarin is 't ongelukkic: gekozen onderwerp. In 1759 verscheen daarvan echter een tweede druk, vermeerderd met een stuk A Dream, een soort van apologie voor The Bpigoniad. In 17^8 verscheen een bundeltje fabelen , navolgingen van Gay , die beter zijn dan zijn Epigoniad. De minder gunstige ontvangst van zijn werken door 't volk is zeer te wijten aan zijn verbolgenheid over de beoordeelaars, welke hij in die Fables genoeg to kennen gaf.
|
■quot;Ye bae my moral, if I am able I'll fit it nicely wi' a fable. A bare, ae morning cbanc'd to see |
A partan creeping on a lee, A fishwife wba was early oot (2) Had drapt (3) the creature thereabout. |
(1) Urab. (2) Out. (3) Dropped.
580
|
Mawlun barnbasM and frighled sair To see a tiling but hide and hair (1) , Wbich if it stnr'd not, might he tacn For naclbinjj ither than a stanc , A squnt-wise -wanihlinj, sair beset Wi' j[crse and raslies like a net, First thought to rin for't (for hi kind A hare's nae fechter ye maun mind), Lut seeing tiiatwi' a' its strength It scarce could creep a tolher length , The hare grew baulder and cam near, Turn'd playsome , and fargat her fear. Quoth Mawkin, quot;AVas there ere in nature Sae feckless and sae poor a creature ? It scarcely kens, or I'm mistacn , The way lo gang or stand its lane. See how it slcitters (2); I'll be bund To rin a mile of up-hill grund |
Before il gels a rig-braid frae The place its in, though doon the brae.quot; Mawkin wi' this began to frisk , An' thinkin there was little risk, Clapt baith her feet on partan's back, And lurn'd him awald (3) in a crack. To see the creature sprawl, her sport firew twice as good , yet prov'd but short, For, patting wi' her lit in play , Just whar the partan's nippers lay , Ilegript it fast, which made her squeel And think she buurded wi' the ileil ; She strave to rin, and made a fistic. The tither catch'd a tough bur thrisle Which held them baith till o'er a dyke A herd came stending (4) wi' his lyke (5), And fell'd poor Mawkin , sarely ruing Whan fore'd lo drink of her ain brewin'. |
Zoon van een gecslclijke, werd in 1731 geWen , to Langholm, van waar zijn familie naar Edimbiirg vertrok. Daar werd hij bierbrouwer, doch legde zich niet met ijver toe op zijn zaak, hem door familieomstandigheden opgedrongen. Tengevolge van 't verval, waarin de brouwerij geraakte, vlnglte hij in 1703 naar Londen, üooh ook hier ontmoette hij niet dan teleurstellingon, weshalve hij in 1765 naar Oxford als korreklor aan een drukkerij vertrok, welke betrekking hij in 1771 neerlegde, lii 1779 werd hij tot lid van de Koninklijke Akndemle van Portugal gekozen, tijdens zijn verblijf te Lissabon. Hij overleed in 1788. Hij schijnt 't meest naam gemaakt te hebben door een vertaling van Os Lusiadas van Luis do Camoens, den beroemden dichter van Portugal (vermoedelijk «eboren in 1525 en overleden in 1579). In 1771 verscheen 't eerste boek van die vertaling en in 1775 't geheele werk, terwijl hij reeds in 1778 daarvan een tweede druk beleefde. Hij leverde een groot aantal kleine dichtstukken en ook eenige vlugschriften in proza , die hoofdzakelijk godsdienstige onderwerpen behandelen, ca van tijd tot tijd in tijdschriften verschenen.
{The (inlujue spelling is dropped.)
|
Tbc dews of Summer night did fall, Tbc moon , sweet regent of the sky, Silver'd the walls of Cumnor Hall, And many an oak that grew thereby. Now, nought was board beneath the skies , The sounds of busy life were still , Save an unhappy lady's sighs, That issued from that lonely pile. quot;Leicestershe cried , quot;is ibis the love quot;That thou so oft hast sworn to me ? quot;To leave me in this lonely grove, quot;Immur'd in shameful privity ? quot;No more thou com'st with lover's speed, quot;Thy once beloved bride to see ; quot;But, be she alive, or be she dead, quot;I fear, stern Earl's the same to thcc. quot;Not so the usage I received, quot;When happy in my father's hall ; |
quot;No faithless husband then me grieved , quot;No chilling fears did me appal. quot;1 rose up with the cheerful morn , quot;No lark more hlythe, no llow'r more gay ; And like the bird that haunts the morn , quot;So merrily sung the live long day. quot;If that my beauty is but small, quot;Among court ladies all despised ; quot;Why didst thou rend il from that hall, quot;Where , scornful Earl , il well was prized ? quot;And when you first lo me made suit, quot;How fair I was , you oft would say I quot;And , proud of conquest—pluck'd the fruit; quot;Then left the blossom lo decay, quot;Yes, now, neglected add despis'd , '•The rose is pale, the lily's dead ; quot;But he that once their charms so pru'd , quot;Is, sure, tbocause those charms arc lied. |
(1) Without hide and hair. (2) Staggers. (3) Topsy turvy. (4) Leaping. (5) Dog.
581
|
quot;For liiiuw , \\ lion sickeiiinjj griof dotl] prey , •'And tonder love's rejjaid with scorn , quot;The sweetest beuuty will d('ciiy—• quot;What flow'ret can endure the storm ? quot;Atcourt, I'm told , Is beauty's throne, •'Where every lady's passing rare ; quot;That eastern flowers, that shame the sun , quot;Are not so glowing—not so fair. quot;Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds quot;Where roses and where lilies vie, •■To seek a primrose, whose pale shades quot;Must sicken when those gaudes are hy ? quot;Mong rural beauties, I was one: quot;Among the fields, wild flowers are fair, quot;Some country swain might me have won, quot;And thought my beauty passing rare. quot;But. Leicester, or I much am wrong, quot;Or'tis not beauty lures thy vows; quot;Rather ambition's gilded crown, quot;Makesthee forget thy humble spouse. quot;Then, Leicester, why, again I plead, quot;(The injured surely may repine), quot;Why didst thou wed a country maid, quot;When some fair princess might be thine? quot;Why didst thou praise my humble charms, quot;And, oh, then leave them to decay? quot;Why didst thou win me to tliy arms, quot;Then leave me to mourn the live-long day? quot;The village maidens of the plain quot;Salute me lowly as they go; quot;Unvious, they mark my silken train, quot;Nor think a Countess can have woe. quot;The simple nymphs! they little know, quot;How far more happy's their estate ; quot;To smile for joy—than sigh for woe, quot;To he content—than to he great. quot;llow far less blest am I than them ! quot;Daily to pine and waste with care! quot;Like the poor plant, that from its stem quot;Divided, feels the chilling air. quot;Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy quot;The humble charms of solitude; |
quot;Your millions proud , my peace destroy , quot;iiy sullen frowns , or pratings rude. quot;Last night, as sad , I chanc'd to stray , quot;The village death-bell smote my ear ; quot;They wink'd aside and seemed to say, quot;Countess, prepare—thy end is near. quot;Ami now , while happy peasants sleep, quot;Here I sit lonely and forlorn, quot;Noone to soolhu me as I weep, quot;Save Philomel on yonder thorn. quot;My spirits flag, my hopes decay, quot;Still that dread death-hell smites my ear, quot;And many a boding seems to say, quot;Countess , prepare—thy end is near.quot; Thus , sore and sad , that lady griev'd , In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear ; And many a heartfelt sigh she heav'd, And let fall many a bitter tear. And ere the dawn of day appeard , In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear , Full many a piercing scream was heard , And many a cry of mortal fear. The death-hell thrice was heard to ring, And aiirial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapp'd its wings Around the tow'rs of Cumnor Hall. The mastill'bowl'd at village door. The oaks wi re shatter'd on the green , Woe was the hour , for never more That hapless Countess e'er was seen. And , in that manor, now no more Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; For ever , since that dreary hour . Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. The village maids, with fearful glance, Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall. Nor ever lead the merry dance Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. Full many a traveller oft hath sigh'd , And pensive wept the Countess' fall, As wandering onwards, they've espied The haunted low'rs of Cumnor Hall: |
Deze zoo zeer gevierdo dichter werd geboren in 1735 in Kincardine Comity en overleed in 1803. Keeds onder zijn meilescholicren in zijn geboorteplaats (Lawrencekirk) kreeg hij den bijnaam van dichter en toonde 't talent te bezitten, waarvan The Minstrel, een stuk, waardoor zijn naam welligt altijd bekend zal blijven, getuigt. In 1753 werd bij in 't kerspel Fordoun tot schoolmeoster aangesteld en in 17G0 tot hoog-leeraar aan Mnrischal College. Hij werd in 1773 door de universiteit van Oxford met den titel van Dr. in de regten vereerd en knoopte vriemlsebappelijke betrekkingen met de geleerdste mannen van zijn tijd te Londen aan. Tot zijn kleine stukken bebooren The Declaration of War, (1750); The Campaign. In 1701 gaf hij met zijn naam een dichtbundeltje, Original Poems and Translations nit, waarvan reeds velen in Scots Magazine waren verschenen, en nu buitengewoon gunstig werden ontvangen. De dichter zelf was later zoo ontevreilcn over dat werk , dat bij alle exemplaren , die hij mngtig kou worden , vernietigde en bij The Miustrel slechts vier stukken daarvan liet opnemen. In 1705 verscheen Judgment of Paris. Hij leverde nog
382
m, aantiil audoro stukken ca ook ceuigo proza-worken , waarvan do Essay on Truth ook InitcnKcwoon gunstig werd ontvangen. In 1774 verscheen een verbeterde uitgave van The Minstrel first book waorbii iij tevens t Second book leverde. In 1770 gaf hij een reeks van Essays uit On Poetry and Music quot; On laughable and Ludicrous Composition , Ou the Utility of Classical learning, later Dissertations Moral
Meats of'Moral Sciences (1793)!!nCe8 0f ^ Rcligi0n' bl'icüy aDd ^ ^ ('786)'en Bio-
|
(Select *WIich the lonjj-sonndinjf carfew from afar Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star. Lingering and listening, wander'd down the valo. There would he dream of graves and corses pale; And ghosts that to the charnel dungeon throng, And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail. Till silenced hy the owl's terrifia song, (along. Or blast that shrielis by fits the shuddering aisles Or, when the setting moon, in crimson dyed. Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep, To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied, Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep ; And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep A vision hrought to bis entranced sight. And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright, With instantaneous gleam, illum'dthe vault of night. Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch Arose; the trumpet bids the valves unfold ; And forth an host of little warriors march, Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold. Their look was gentle, their demeanor bold. And green their helms, and green their silk attire ; And here and there, right venerably old, The long-rob'd minstrels wake the warbling wire, And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire. With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear, A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance The little warriors dofïthe targe and spear. And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance. They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance; To right, to left, they thrill the flying maze; Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance Rapid along : with many-colour'd rays Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze.* But who the melodies of morn can tell ? The wild brook babbling down the mountain's side; The lowing herd ; the slieepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along theclilFs above; The hollow murmur of the oceaU'tide; The hum ol bees, the linnet's lay of love. And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottagc-curs at early pilgrim bark; Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks a field ; and, hark ! |
passages.) Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rinquot;s ; Through rustling corn the hareastonisb'd springs ; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour ; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; Deep mourns the turtle in sequesler'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour. O Nature, bow in every charm supreme ! Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new! 0 for the voice and fire of seraphim. To sing thy glories with devotion due ! Blest he the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew , From Pyrrho's maze , and Epicurus' sty ; And held high converse with the godlike few , Who to th' enraptur'd heart, and ear, and eye. Teach beauty , virtue, truth , and love , and melody. Hence! ye , who snare and stupefy the mind, Sophists , of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane ! Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind , Who spread your fillliy nets in Truth's fair fane , And ever ply your venorn'd fangs amain ! Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slime I'irst gave you form! Hence! lest the Muse should deign (Though loth on theme so mean to waste a rhyme ,) With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious crime. But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay, Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth ! Whoso song,sublimely sweet, serenely gay, Amus'd my childhood, and inform'd my youth. O let your spirit still my bosom soothe. Inspire my dreams , and my wild wanderings guide ; Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth , For well 1 know wherever ye reside. There harmony, and innocence abide. Ah me! neglected on the lonesome plain , As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore , Save when against the winter's drenching rain, And driving snow, the cottage shut the door, Then . as instructed by tradition boar , Her legends when the heldamc 'gan impart, Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er , Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart; Much he the tale admir'd , hut more the tuneful art. Various and strange was the long-winded tale; And halls , anil knights, and feats ofarms, display'd ; Or merry swains, who quail'the nut-brown ale , And sing enamour'd of the fairy glade ; Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood , And ply iu caves th'imutlcrablc trade. |
383
His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute: Of elegance as yet he took no care ;
For this of time and culture is the fruit;
And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare :
As in some future verse I purpose to declare.
Meanwhile, wbate'er of beautiful, or new,
Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky,
Ify chance, or search, was offer'd to bis view, lie seann'd with curious and romantic eye.
Wbate'er of lore tradition could supply From gotbic tale, or song, or fable old,
Koused him, still keen to listen and to pry.
At last, though long by penury controll'd , And solitude, her soul his graces 'gan unfold.
Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,
For many a long month lost in snow profound ,
When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland ,
And in their northern cave the storms are bound ; From silent mountains,straight,with startlingsound, Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and lo , The trees with foliage, clifl's with flow ers are crown'd; I'ure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love,andjoy,thepeasant'shearto'ei'flow.
Mere pause , my gotbic lyre , a little while; The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim.
But on this verse if Montague should smile New strains ere long shall animate thy frame; And her applause to me is more than fame ;
i For still with truth accords her taste refin'd.
At lucre or renown let others aim ,
I only wish to please the gentle mind ,
Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of human
(kind.
Zoo nlgemcen in Europa bekend om zijn vertaling van Ossian's Poems, word in 1738 te Kingussie, in Inverness County, geboren. Hij was de zoon van een landman en kwam in 1751 te Aberdeen om er aan King's College le studeren. Daar werd Iiij reeds bekend om de voorkeur , die bij aan de beoefening van de dichtkunst boven andere studiën gaf. In 1764 begaf hij zich naar Amerika , doch keerde spoedig terug, llij leefde in onniin met S. Johnson, die de echtheid van Ossian's Poems 't hevigst bestreed. In 1780 werd hij lid van 't Huis der Gemeenten en in 1784 en 1790 herkozen, en overleed in Februari) 1796. In 1758 gaf hij The Highlander , een heldendicht in zes zangen uit, doch 't was , ook volgens den dichter, van verdiensten ontbloot. In 1700 verraste hij de wereld met Fragments of Ancient Poetry, collected in the Highlands of Scotland, and translated from the Gaelic or Erse language, die door zijn geleerdste tijdgenooten , tevens de beste beoordeelaars, met den grootsten bijval werden begroet, en zoo algemeenen bijval vonden, dat men den schrijver aanzocht en ondersteunde tot 't opsporen van moer dergelijke slnkkcn. Tengevolge van zijn nasporingen vond hij Fingal, an Epic Poem, in six books, Temora , in eight books, en van 't eerste verscheen weldra (1702) en 't tweede (1703) een vertaling, waarbij hij ongeveer vijftien duizend gulden won. Hoewel de echtheid der stukken aanvankelijk bestreden werd, gelooft men thans vrij algemeen, en niet zonder grond, dat Maepherson eenige oude handschriften vond, de zangen, uit den mond van de Highlanders opgevangen, boekte, veel wat hem daarin ruw voorkwam polijste en gapingen met zijn eigen bloemrijke taal aanvulde. Zeker is het, dat de gedichten, zooals men ze thans heeft, onmogelijk een geheel getrouwe vertaling van Ossians stukken kunnen zijn. Na 1704 leverde hij An Introduction to the History of Great Britain and Scotland, welk werk echter geen waarde heeft en alleen dienstig is, om den lezer te vermaken. In 1773 leverde Maepherson , een vertaling van de llliade van Homerus en twee jaren later History of Great Britain , from the Kestoration to the Accession of the House of Hanover, 11 vols. -Ito. en om de daarin voorkomende feiten , die door anderen geheel anders werden voorgesteld , te bewijzen , gaf hij twee kwarto doelen uit, bevattende: Original Papers, containing the Secret History of Great Britain, from
'Midsl fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood, Yell in the midnight storm, or rideth' infuriate Hood.
liut when to horror his amazement rose,
A gentler strain the beldame would rehearse,
A tule of rural life, a tale of woes,
The orphan-babes : and guardian uncle fierce.
() cruel! will no pang of pily pierce
That heart, by lust of lucre sear'd to stone 7
I''or sure, if aught of virtue lasl, or verse ,
To latest times shall tender souls bemoan
Those hopeless orphan babes by thy fell arts undone.*
Uespomive to the sprightly pipe, w hen all
In sprightly dance the village youth were joinM
lidwin, of melody aye held in thrall.
From the rude gambol far remote reclin'd,
Sooth'd with the soft notes warbling in the wind.
Ab then, all jollity seem'd noise and folly.
To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refin'd,
Ab, what is mirth but turbulence unholy, (cboly!
When with the charm compai 'd of heavenly nielan-
Ts there a heart that music cannot melt ?
Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn ;
Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt
Of solitude and melancholy horn ?
lie needs not woo the Muse ; he is her scorn.
The sophist's rope of cobw eb be shall tw ine ;
Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page ; or mourn.
And delve for live in Mammon's dirty mine ; (swine.
Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton
For Kdw in Fate a nobler doom had plann'd ;
Song was his favourite and first pursuit.
The w ild harp rang to his advent'rous hand. And languish'd to his breath the plaintive llule.
384
the Rcstoralion to the Acccssion of the House of Hanover, met Exlrncts from the Life of James II, as written by himself. Die geschiedenis veroorzaakte hem moeijelijkheden, omdat zij to veel waarheid behelsde en de gebleken van de omwenteling in hun waar kleed hulde. Tengevolge van een ander vestigde 't gouvernement de aau-daeht op hem en het gebruikte hem om de betoogeu van de Amerikanen voor de Onafhankelijkheidsverklaring te bestrijden , waardoor van hem verschenen The Rights of Great liritain asserted against the Claims of the Colonies, being au answer to the Declaration of the General Congress (1776); A Short History of the Opposition dining the last Session of Parliament (1779), die om haar stijl voor 't werk van den bekenden geschiedschrijver Gibbon werd gehouden. Voorls leverde hij o. a. nog The History and Mnuage-ment of the Hast India Company from its origin in 1600 to the present times (1779).
|
AliGÜMEM. I'ingal, returning from an expedition which he had made into the Roman province, resolved (o visit Cathulla. king of Inistore, and brother to Co-mala, whose story is related at large in a preceding dramatic poem. Upon his coming in sight of Carrio-thura, the palace of Cathulla, he observed a flame on its top, which, in those days, was a signal of distress. The wind drove him into a bay, at some distance from Carric-thura, and he was obliged to pass the night on the shore. Next day he attacked the army of Frothal, king of Soia, who had besieged Cathulla in his palace of Carric-thura, and took ïrothal himself prisoner, after he had engaged him in a single combat. The deliverance of Carric-thura is the subject of the poem ; but several other episodes are inlerwoven with it. It appears, from tradition, that this poem was addressed to a Culdee, or one of the first Christian missionaries, and that the story of the Spirit of Locla,s\x\t\msci.iu be the ancient Odin of Scandinavia, was introduced by Ossian in opposition (o the Culdee's doctrine. Be this as it will, it lets us into Ossian's notions of a superior being ; and shows that he was not addicted to the superstition which prevailed all the world over, before the introduction of Christianity. Hast tliou left tliy hlue course in lienven, golden haired son of llie sky! The west lias opened its gates; tlie bed of lliy repose is there. The waves come to lieliold lliy iieimly. They lift their tremliliiij; heads. Tliey see tliee lovely in ihysleep; they shrink away with fear. Ilest, in lliy shadowy cave, O sun ! let thy return he in joy. But let a thonsaiul lights arise to the sound of the harps of Selinn; let the heani spread in the ball, the Ifing of shells is returned ! The strife of Carun is past, like sounds that are no more. Raise the song, O bards ! the king is returned with his fame! Such were the words of Ullin, when Fingal returned from war; when ho returned in the fair blushing of youth, with all his heavy locks. Ills blue arms were on the hero ; like a light cloud on the sun, when he moves in his robes of mist, and shows but half his beams. His heroes followed the king: the feast of shells is spread. Fingal turns to his bards, and bids the song to rise. |
Voices of echoing Cona! he said, O bards of other times ! Ye, on whose souls the blue hosts of our fathers rise ! strike llie harp in my hall; and let me bear the song. Pleasant is the joy ol grief: it is like the shower of spring when it softens the branch of the oak, and the young leaf rears its green head. Sing on, O hards! to-morrow we lift the sail. My blue course is through the ocean, to Carric-thura's walls; the mossy walls of Sarno, where Comala dwelt. There the noble Cathulla spreads the feast of shells. The boars of his woods are many ; the sound of the chase shall arise ! Cronnan, son of the song I said Ullin ; Minona, graceful at the harp! raise the tale of Shilrie, to please the king of Morven. Let Vin vela come in her beauty, like the showery bow, when it shows its lovely head on the lake, and the setting sun is bright. She conies, O Fingal ! her voice is soft hut sad. Vinvela. My love is a son of the bill, lie pursues the flying deer. His grey dogs arc panting around him ; his bow-string sounds in the wind. Dost thou rest by the fount of the roek , or by the noise of the moimtain-stream ? llie rushes arc nodding to the wind , the misl Hies over the hill. I will approach my love unseen; I will behold him from the rock. Lovely 1 saw thee first by the aged oak of Branno; thou wcrt returning tall from the chase ; the fairest among thy friends. Shilrie. What voice is that I hear? that voice like the summer wind ! I sit not by the nodding rushes! 1 bear not the fount of the rock. Afar, Vinvela, afar, I go to the wars of Fingal. My dogs attend me no more. No more I tread the hill. No more from on high 1 see thee, fair moving by the stream of the plain ; bright as the how of heaven ; as the moon on the western wave. Vinvela. Then thou art gone , O Shilrie! 1 am alone on the hill! The deer are seen on the brow ; void of fear they graze along. No more they dread the wind ; no more the rustling tree. The hunter is far removed ; he is in the field of graves. Strangers ! sons of the waves! spare my lovely Shilrie! Shilrie. If fall I must in the field , raise high my grave. Vinvela. Grey stones , and heaped up earth , shall mark me to future times. When the hunter shall sit by the mound , and produce liis food at noon , quot;Some warrior rest here ,quot; be will say; and my fame shall live in his praise. Re-member me, Vinvela, when low on earth I lie! Vinvela. Yes; i will remember tbec! alas! my Shilrie will fall! What shall I do, my love! when thou art for ever gone? Through these hills 1 will |
58!gt;
|
go at noon: I -will go through the silent heath. There I will see the place of thy rest, returning from the chase. Alas! my Shilric will fall ; hut I will remeniber Shilric. Anil 1 reineinhcr the chief, said the king of woody Morven; he consumed the hattle in his rage. But now my eyes behold him not. I met him, one day, on the hill; his cheek was pale; his brow was dark. The sigh was frequent in his breast: his steps were towards the desert. But now he is not in the crowd of my chiefs, when the sounds of my shields arise. Dwells he in the narrow house (t), the chief of high Carmora ? Cronnan! said L'llin of other times, raise the song uf Shilric; when he returned to his hills, and Vinvela was no more. He leaned on her grey mossy stone; he thought Vinvela lived. He saw her fair-moving on the plain; but the bright form lasted not: the sunbeam fled from the field, and he was seen no more. Hear the song of Shilric, it is soft, hut sad ! 1 sit by the mossy fountain ; on the top of the bill of winds. One tree is rustling above me. Dark waves roll over the heath. The lake is troubled below. The deer descend from the hill. No hunter at a distance is seen. It is mid-day: but all is silent. Sad are my thoughts alone. Didst thnu hut appear, O my love! a wanderer on the heath ! thy hair floating on the wind behind thee; thy bosom heaving on the sight; thine eyes full of tears for thy friends, whom the mist of the hill had concealed ! Thee 1 would comfort, my love and bring thee to my father's house! But is it she that there appears, like a beam of light on the heath? hrightastbe moon in autumn, as the sun in a summer-storm comest thou, Ü maid, over rocks, over mountains, to me? She speaks : but how weak her voice! like the breeie in the reeds of the lake. Returnest thou safe fiom the war? Where are thy friends, my love? I heard of thy death on the hill; 1 heard and mourned thee,Shilric!quot; Yes, my fair, 1 return ; hut I alone of my race. Thou shalt see them no more: their graves I raised on the plain. But w hy art thou on the desert hill ? \\ by on the heath alone? quot;Alone i am , O Shilric! alone in the winter-house. With grief for thee 1 fell. Shilric, I am pale in the tomb.quot; Sb''flcels, she sails away; as mist before the wind I And will thou not slay, Vinvela ? Stay and behold my tears! Fair thou appearest, Vinvela! fair thou wast, when alive! By the mossy fountain 1 will sit; on the top of the hill of winds. When mid-day is silent around, O talk with me, Vinvela! come on the light-winged gale! on the breeze of the desert, come! I.et me bear thy voice as thou passest, when midday is silent around! |
Such was the song of Cronnan , on the night of Selma's joy. But morning rose in the east; the blue waters rolled in light. Fingal bade his sails to rise; the winds came rustling from their hills. Inistore rose to sight, and Carric-thura's mossy towers! But the sign of distress was on their top : the warning flame edged with smoke. The king of Morven struck his breast: he assumed at once his spear. His darkened brow bends forward to the coast: he looks back. The silence of the king is terrible! Night came down on the sea; Botha's hay received the ship. A rock bends along the coast with all its echoing wood. On the top is the circle of Loda, the mossy stone of power? A narrow plain spreads beneath, covered with grass and aged trees, which the midnight winds, in their wrath, bad torn from the shaggy rock. The blue course of a stream is there ! the lonely blast of ocean pursues the thistle's beard. The flame of three oaks arose: the feast is spread around; but the soul of the king is sad, for Carric-thura's chief is distrest. The wan cold moon rose in the east. Sleep descended on the youths! Their blue helmetsglitter to the beam ; the fading fire decays. But sleep did not rest on the king: he rose in the midst of bis arms, and slowly ascended the hill, to behold the flame of Sarno's tower. The flame was dim and distant; the moon hid her red face in the east. A blast came from the mountain, on its wings was the spirit of Loda. lie came to bis place in his terrors, and shook his dusky spear, llis eyes appear like distant thunder. Fingal advanced his spear in night, and raised bis voice on high. Son of night, retire: call thy winds, and fly! Why dost thou come to my presence with thy shadowy arms? Do I fear thy gloomy form, spirit of dismal Loda? Weak is thy shield of clouds: feeble is that meteor, I by sword! The blast rolls them together; and thou thyself art lost. Fly from my presence, son of night! call thy winds and fly! Dost thou force me from my place? replied the hollow voice. The people bend before me. 1 turn the battle in the field of the brave. I look on the nations , and they vanish : my nostrils pour the blast of death. I come abroad on the winds : the tempests are before my face. But my dwelling is calm, above the clouds ; the fields of my rest are pleasant. Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king: Let Comhal's son be forgot. Do my steps ascend from |
(1) The grave.
49
|
my hills into thy peaceful plains ? Do I meet tliee Willi a spear on thy cloud , spirit of dismal Loda ? Why then dost lliou frown on me? why shake thine airy spear? Thou frownest in vain: 1 never fled from the mighty in war. And shall the sons of the wind frighten tlm hing of Morven ? No : he knows the weakness of llieir arms ! Fly to thy land, replied the form : receive tliy wind ,and llylThe lilasls are in the hollow of my hand : the course of the storm is mine. The king of Sora is my son, he hends at the stone of my power. His haltle is around C.inic-thnra; and he will prevail! Fly to thy land , son of Comhal, or feci my flaming wrath I He lifted high his shadowy spear I He hent forward his drearfnl liei;;ht. Fingal , advancing, drew his sword , the blade of dark-hrown Luno. The gleaming path of llie sleel winds through the gloomy ghost. The form fell shapeless inlo air, like a column of srnoki', which the slafFof the hoy disturbs as it rises from the half-extinguished furnace. The spirit of Loda shrieked, as, rolled inlo himself, he rose on the wind. Inistore shook at the sound. The waves heard it on the deep. They stopped in their course with fear.The friends of Fingal started at once, and took their heavy spears. They mi.^sed the king ; they rose in rage; all their arms resound ! The moon came forth in the cast. Fingal returned in the gleam of his arms. The joy of his youths was great, their souls settled as a sea from a storm. Ullin raised the song of gladness. The hills of Ini-store rejoiced. The flame of the oak arose ; and the talcs of heroes are told. But Frothal, Sora's wrathful king, sits in sadness beneath a tree. The host spreads around Car-ric-thura. He looks towards the walls with rage, lie longs for the blood ofCathulla, who once overcame him in war. When Annir rcijined in Sora, the father of sea borne Frothal, a storm arose on the sea, and carried Frothal to Inistore. Three days he feasted in Sarno's balls, and saw I he slow-rolling eyes of Comahi. He loved her in the flume of youth, and rushed to seise the while-ar.ned maid. Calhull/i met the chief. The gloomy battle rose. Frothal was hound in the ball: threedays he pined alone. On the fourth Sarno sent him to his slup, and he rclurned to his land, lint wrath darkened in his soul against the nohle Cathulla. When Annir's stone of fame arose, Frot bal came in his strength. The b.itlle burned round Carric-thnra and Sarno's mossy walls. Morning ro-e on Inislore. Frolhal struck his dark-brown shield. His chiefs started at I he sound; they stood, hut their eyes were turned to the sea. They saw Fingal coming in his strength; and first the noble Thuliar spoke. quot;Whocomes like the stag of the desert, wilh all his herd behind j him? Frothal, it is a foe I I see his foward spear. Perhaps it is the king of Morven, Fingal the first i |
of men. His deeds arc well known in Lochlin; the blood of bis foes is in Starno's halls. Shall 1 ask the peace of kings? His sword is the bolt of heaven Iquot; Son of the feeble band, said Frothal , shall my days begin in a cloud ? Shall I yield before 1 have conquered , chief of streamy Tora ? The people would say in Sora, Frothal flew forth like a meteor; but a darkness has met him , and bis fame is no more. No, Thuhar , I will never yield ; my fame shall surround me like light. No; I will never yield , chief of streamy Tora ! He went forth wilh the stream of his people, but they met a rock : Fingal stood unmoved, broken they rolled back from his side. Nor did they safely fly; llie spear of the king pursued their steps. The field is covered with heroes. A rising hill preserved the foe. Frothal saw their flight. The rage of bis bosom rose. He benl Ins eyes to the ground, and called the noble Thuhar. Thuhar I my people are fled. My fame has erased lo arise. I will fight the king ; 1 feel my burning soul! Send a hard to demand the combat. Speak not against Frothal's words! But,Thuhar! 1 love a maid; she dwells by Thano's stream, the white-bosomed daughter of Herman, Utha , with soft-rolling eyes. She feared the low-laid Comala ; her secret sighs rose when I spread the sail. Tell to Utha of harps that my soul dc-lighted in her. Such were his words, resolved to fight. The soft sigh of Utha was near! She had followed her hero in the armour of a man. She rolled her eye on the ynntb, in secret, from beneath her sleel. She saw Ibebard as he went; the spearfell thrice from her hand! Her loose hair flew on the winil. Her white breast rose with sighs.She raised her eyes to the king. She would speak, but thrice she failed. Fingal heard the words of the bard , he came in tlie sirength of his steel. They mixed theirdeath-ful spears: they raised the gleam of their arms. But she sword of Fingal descended and cut Frothal's shield in twain. His fair side is exposed ; half bent be foresees his death. Darkness gathered on Ulha's soul. The te.ir rolled down her cheek. She I ushed Io cover the chief w ith her shield ; hut a fallen oak met her step;-. She fell on her arm of snow; her shield, her helmet, flow wide. Her white Ito-om heaven lo the sight; her dark-hrown hair is spread on earth. Fingal pilied the w hile armed maid ! he stayed the uplifted sword. The tear was in the eye of the king, as, bending forward, bespoke. quot;King of streamy Sora! fear not theswordofFingal.lt was never stained wilh the blood of the vanquish* ed ; it, never pierced a fnllen foe. Let thy people rejoici: by their native streams. Let the maids of thy love be glad. Why shonhlest thou fall in thy youth, king of streamy Sora ? Frothal heard the words of Fingal, and saw the rising maid: |
087
|
they (1) stood in silenco in tiieir beauty; lilic two younj» trees of the plain, when tlie shower of spring is on their leaves , and the loud winds are laid. Daughter of Herman, said Frothal, didst thou come from Tora's streams? didst thou romein thy heanty to behold Ihy warrior low ? But he ■was low before the mij'hly, maid of the sluw-rol-linfj eye! The feeble did notovcrcomc the son of car-borne Annir! Terrible art thou, O kin}; of Morven! in battles of the spear. But, in peace, thou art like the sun, ndien lie looks througli a silent shower; the flowers lift llieir fair heads before him; the gales sliake their rustling winjjs, O that Ibou wert in Sora I that my feast were spread ! The future kings ol Sora would see thy arms and rejoice. They would rfjniee at the fame of their fathers, who beheld ihe mighly Fingal I Son of Annir, replied the kin;;, Hie fame of Sora's race shall be heard ! When chiefs are strong in war, then does the song arise! But if their swords are stretched over ihe feeble; if llie blood of the weak has slained I heir arms; the bard sbal I forget them in the song, and their tombs shall not be known. The stranger shall come and build there, and remove the heaped-up earlh. An half-worn sword shall rise before him ; bendin;; above it, he will say, '-These are the arms of the chiefs of old, but their names are nol in song.quot; Come thou, O Frothal! lo the feast oflnistore; let the maid of thy love he there : let our faces brighten ■with joy! Fingal look his spear, moving in the steps of his might. The gates of Carric-tbura are opened wide. The feast of shells is spread. The soft sound of music arose. Gladness brightened in the hall. The voice of Ullin was heard ; the harp of Selma was strung, Utha rejoiced in his presence, and demanded the song of grief; the big tear hung in her eye when ihe soft Crimora spoke, Crimora the daughter of Uinval, who dwelt at Lotha's roaring stream! The tale was long, but lovely; and pleased the blushing Utha, Crimora. Who comelh from the hill, like a cloud tinged with the beam of the west? Whose voice is that, loud as the wind , but pleasant as the harp of Carril ? Itismy love in the light of steel; but sad is his darkened brow I Live the mighly race of Fingal ? or what darkens in Con-nal's soul! Connal. They live. They rel urn from the chase like a stream of light. The sun is on their shields. Like a ridge of fire they descend the hill. Loud is the voice of the ynutli ! Tlie war, my love, is near! To-morrow the dreadful Dargo comes to try the force of our race. The race of Fingal he defies ; the race of bal I le and wounds, |
Crimora. Connal, I saw his sails like grey mist on the dark-brown wave. They slowly came to land, Connal , many are the warriors of Dargo! Connal. Bring me thy father's shield, the bossy iron shield of Rinval! that shield like the full-orbed moon when she moves darkened through heaven, Crimora. That shield I bring, O Connal I but it did not defend my father. By the spear of Gor-mar he fell. Thou may'st full, O Connal! Connal. Fall 1 may! hut raise my tomb, Crimora I Grey stones, a mound of earth, shall send my name to other times. Bi nd thy red eyeover my grave, beat ihy mournful heaving breast. Though fair thou arl, my love, as the light; more pleasant than the gale of the hill ; yet I will not here remain, Uai-e my tomb, Crimora. Crimora. Then give me I hose arms that gleam; that sword and that spear of steel. I shall meet Dargo with Connal, and aid him in the fight. Farewell, ye rochlt; of Ardven! ye deer! and ye streams of the bill! We shall return no more. Our tombs are distant far! quot;And did they return no more?quot; said Utha's bursting sigh, quot;Fell the mighty in battle, and did Crimora live? Her steps were lonely ; her soul was sad for Connal. Was he not young and lovely; like ihe beam of tlie setling sun ?quot; llllin saw the virgin's tear, he took the soflly-lremhliug harp: the song was lovely, but sad, and silence was in Carrie-thu ra, Aulunin is dark on the mountains ; grey mist rests on ihe hills. The whirlwind is beard on the hi'alh. Dark rolls the river throiigh the narrow plain. A Iree slands alone on the bill, and marks the slumbering Connal. The leaves whirl round with the wind, and strew the grave of the dead. At times are seen here ihe ghosts of the departed, when I he musing hunter alone stalks slowly over the heal h. Who can reach the source of ihy race, O Connal? who recount thy fathers? Thy family grew like an oak on ihe mountain , which mectelh the wind wilh ils Infly bead, Bui now it is lorn from the earth. Who shall supply the place of Connal ? Here was the din of arms; here I he groans of the dying. Bloody are Ihe wars of Fingal, O Connal! it was here thou didst fall. Thine arm was like a storm ; ll v sword a beam of the sky ; thy height a rock on the plain; thine eyes a furnace of fire. Louder than a storm was thy voice in the battles of thy slcel. Warriors fell by ihy sword, as the thislle by the staff ofa hoy. Dargo the mighty came on , darkening in his rage. Ilis brows were gathered into wrath. His eyes like two caves in a rock. Bright rose their swords on each side; loud was Ihe clang of their steel. The daughter of Rinval was near ; Crimora bright in the armour of man ; her yellow hair is |
388
|
loose behind, lier bow is in her hand. Shefollowod the youth to the war, Connal her much-beloved. She drew the strinf; on Darjfo; but erring slie pierced her Connal. lie falls like an oak on the plain; like a rock from the shaggy hill. What shall she do, hapless maid ! lie bleeds; her Connal dies! All the night long she cries, and all the day, quot;O Connal, my love, and my friend!quot; With grief the sad mourner dies! Earth here encloses the loveliest pair on the hill. The grass grows between the stones of the tomb ; I often sit in the monrnful shade. The wind sighs through the grass; their memory rushes on my mind. Undisturbed you now sleep together ; in the tomb of the mountain you rest alone ! |
And soft be their rest, said Utha, hapless children of streamy Loda 11 will remember them with tears, and my secret song shall rise; when the wind is in the groves of Tora, when the stream is roaring near. Then shall they come on my soul, with all their lovely grief! Three days feasted the kings: on the fourth their white sails arose. The winds of the north drove Fingal to Morven's woody land, liut the spirit of Loda sat in his cloud behind the ships of Frothal. He hung forward with all bis blasts, and spread the white-bosomed sails. The wounds of his form were not forgot! he still feared the hand of the king! |
A I'OEM.
|
ARCUMEMT. Gaul, the son of Morni, attended Lathmon into his own country, after his being defeated in Morven , as related in a preceding poem. Uo was kindly entertained by Nuiith , the father of Latlimop, and fell in love with his daughter Oitlioua. The lady was no less enamoured of Gaul, and a day was fixed for their marriage. In the mean time I'ingal, preparing for an expedition into the country of the Uritons, sent for Gaul. He obeyed, and went; but not without promising to Oithona to return, if he survived the war, by a certain day. Lathmon too was obliged to attend his father Nuiith in his wars, and Oithona was left alone at Dunlathmon, the seat of the family. Uunronimath, lord of Uthal. supposed to be one of the Orkueys, taking advantage of the absence of her friends, came, and carried off, by force, Oithona, who had formerly rejected his love, intoTromathon, a desert island, where he concealed her in a cave. Gaul returned on the day appointed, heard of the rape, and sailed to Tromuthon, to revenge himself on Diinrommath. When he landed, he found Oithona disconsolate, and resolved not to survive, the loss of her honour. She told him the story of her misfortunes , anil she scarce ended, when Diinrommath with his followers appeared at the further end of the island. Gaul prepared to attack him , recommending to Oithona to retire, till the battle was over. She seemingly obeyed; bat she secretly armed herself, rushed into the thickest of the battle, and was mortally wounded, Gaul pursuing the flying enemy, found her just expiringon theficld; he mourned over her, raised her tomb, and returned to Morven.— Thus is the story handed down by tradition ; nor is it given with any tnalerial difference in the poem , which opens with Gaul's return to Dunlathmon, after the rape of Oithona. |
Darkness dwells around Dunlathmon, tliough the moon shows half her face on the hill. The daughter of night turns her eyes away; she beholds she approaching grief. The son of Horni is on the plain: there is no sound in the hall. No long-streaming beam of light comes trembling through the gloom. The voice of Oithona is not heard amidst the noise of the streams of Dnvranna. quot;Whither art thou gone in thy beauty, dark-haired daughter of Nuatb? Lathmon is in the field of the valiant, but thou didst promise to rernaiti in the hall till the son of Morni returned. Till he returned from Strumon, to the maid of his love! The tear was on thy cheek at his departure ; the sigh rose in secret in thy breast. But thou dost not come forth with songs, with the lightly trembling sound of the harp!quot; Such were the words of Gaul, when he came to Dunlathmon's towers. The gates were open and dark. The winds were blustering in the hall. The trees strewed the treshold with leaves; the murmur of night was abroad. Sad and silent, at a rock, the son of Morni sat: his soul trembled for the maid; hut he knew not whither to turn biscourse! The son of Leth stood at a distance, and heard the wind in his bushy hair. But he did not raise his voice, for he saw the sorrow of Gaul! Sleep descended on the chiefs. The visions of night arose. Oithona stood, in a dream, before the eyes of Morni's son. Her hair was loose and disordered ; her lovely eye rolled deep in tears. Blood stained her snowy arm. The robe half-hid the wound of her breast. She stood over the chief, and her voice was feebly heard. quot;Sleeps the son of Morni, he that was lovely in the eyes of Oithona ? Sleeps Gnu! at the distant rock, and the daughter of Nuiith low? The sea rolls round the dark isle of Tromathon ; I sit in my tears in the cave I Nor do I sit alone, O Gaul! the dark chief of Cuthal is there. He is there in the rage of his love. What can Oithona do?quot; A rougher blast rushed throngb the oak. The dream of night departed. Gaul took bis ashen |
389
|
spear. He slood in the rage of his soul. Often did his eyes turn to the east. He accused the lading lijjht. At length the morninjf came forth. The hero lifted up liie sail. The winds came rusllin;; from the hill; he hounded on the waves of the deep. On the third day arose Tromfilhon, like a 1)1ue shield in the midst of the sea. The white wave roared against its rocks; sad Oithona sat on the coast! She looked on the rolling waters, and her tears came down. But when she saw Gaul in his arms, she started, and turned her eyes away. Her lovely cheek is bent and red ; her while arm trembles hy her side. Thrice she strove to fly from his presence; thrice her slops f.iiled as she went! quot;Daughter of Nualh,quot; saiil the hero,quot;why dost thou fly from Gaul ? Do my eyes send forth the flame of death ? Darkens hatred in my soul? Thou art to me the beam of the east, rising in a land unknown. But thou coverest thy face with sadness, daughter of car-borne Nuiith ! Is the foe of Oithona near ? My soul burns to meet him in fight. The sword trembles by the side of Gaul, and longs to glitter in his hand. Speak, daughter of Nuiith! Dost thou not behold my tears?quot; quot;Young chief of Strumon ,quot; replied the maid , quot;why comest thou over the dark-blue wave , to Nuiitn's mournful daughter ? Why did 1 not pass away in secret, like the flower of the rock, that lifts ils fair head unseen, and strews its withered leaves on the blast? Why didst thou come, O Gaul! to bear my departing sigh? 1 vanish in my youth ; my name shall not be heard : or it will be heard with grief; the tears of Nuiilh must fall. Thou wilt be sad , son of Morni I for the departed fame of Oithona. But she shall sleep in the narrow tomb, far from the voice of the mourner. Why didst thou come, chief of Strumon! to thesea-heat rocks of Tromatbon ?quot; quot;1 came to meet thy foes, daughter of car-home Nuath! The death ofCuthal's chief darkens before me; or Morm's son shall fall! Oithona! when Gaul is low, raise mv tomb on that oo/.y rock. When the dark-bounding ship shall pass, call the sons of the sea; call them, and give tin's sword, to bear it hence to Morni's ball. The grey-haired chief will then cease to look towards the desert for the return of bis son Iquot; |
quot;Shall the daughter ofNuath live?quot; she replied, with a bursting sigh. quot;Shall I live in Tromatbon, and the son of Morni low ? My heart is not of that rock; nor my soul careless as that sea, which lifts its blue waves to every wind , and rolls beneath the storm! The blast which shall lay thee low, shall spread the branches of Oithona on earth. We shall wither together, son of car-borne Morni! The narrow house is pleasant to me , and the grey stone of the dead : for never more will I leave tliy rocks, O sea-surrounded Tromatbon! Wight came on with her clouds, after the departure of Lathmon , when be went to the wars of his fathers, to the moss covered rock of Duthor-inoth. Night came on. 1 sat in the hall, at the beam of I lie the oak ! The wind was abroad in the trees. I heard the sound of arms. Joy rose in my face, I thought of lliy return. It was the chief of Cuthal, the red-haired strength of Dunrommath. His eyes rolled in fire, the blood of my people was on bis sword. They w ho defended Oithona fell by the gloomy chief! What could 1 do ? .My arm was weak. I could not lift the spear. He took me in my grief, amidst my tears he raised the sail. He feared the returning Lathmon, the brother of unhappy Oilhona! — But behold becomes with his people! the dark wave is divided before him! Whither wilt thou turn thy steps, son of Morni ? Many are the warriors of thy foe Iquot; quot;My steps never turned from battle,quot; Gaul said, and unsheathed his sword. quot;Shall I then begin to fear, Oithona ! when thy foes are near? Go to thy cave, my love, till our battle cease on the field. Son of Loth, bring the hows of our fathers! the sounding quiver of Morni! Let our throe warriors bend the yew. Ourselves will lift the spear. They are an host on the rock! our soulsare strong in war!quot; Oithona went to the cave. A troubled joy rose on her mind, like the reil path of lightning on a stormy cloud ! Her soul was resolved ; the tear was dried from her wildly-looking eye. Dunrommath slowly approached, lie saw the son of Morni. Contempt contracted Ijis face, a smile is on bis dark-brown cheek; bis red eyes rolled, half-concealed beneath his shaggy brows! quot;Whence are the sons of the sea?quot; begun the gloomy chief. quot;Have the winds driven you on the rocks of Tromatbon ? or come you in search of the white-handed-maid ? The sons of the unhappy, ye feeble men, come to the hand of Dunrommath! His eye spares not the weak; he delights in the blood of strangers. Oilhona is a beam of light, and the chief of Cuthal enjoys it in secret; wouldst thou come on its loveliness, like a cloud, son of the feeble hand ! Thou mayest come, but shalt thou rel urn to the balls of thy fathers ?quot; quot;Dost thou not know me,quot; said Gaul, quot;red-haired chief of Cuthal? Thy feet were swift on the heath, in the battle of car-borne Lathmon; when the sword of Morni's son pursued his host, in Morven's woody land. Dunrommath! thy words are mighty, for thy warriors gather behind thee. But dol fear them, son of pride ? I am not of the race of the feeble! Gaul advanced in his arms; Dunrommath shrunk behind his people. But the spear of Gaul pierced the gloomy chief: his sword lopped oil'his bead, as it bended in death. The son of Morni shook it thrice hy the locks; the warriors of Dunrommath fled. The arrows of Morven pursued them: ten fell on the mossy rocks. The rest lift thesounding sail, and bound on the troubled deep. Gaul advanced towards the cave of Oithona. He beheld a youth leaning on a rock. An arrow had pierced |
590
|
iiis side; ilis eye rolled faintly hcncatli his helmet. The soul of Morni's son was sad ; he came and spoke the words of peace. '•Can the hand of Gaul heal thee, yonth of the mournful hrow? 1 have searched for the herbs of the mountains; I have jjathered them on the secret banks of their streams. My hand has closed the wound of the brave, their eyes have blessed the son of Morni. Where dwelt thy fathers, warrior? Were they of ihe sons of the ml;[lily ? Sadness shall come, like night, on thy nativestreams. Thou art fallen in thy youlh Iquot; quot;iMy fathers,quot; replied the stranger, quot;were of the raeeof the mijjhly; but they shall not he sad; for my fame is depai ted like morning mist. High •walls rise on the banks of Duvranna, and see their mossy lowers in the stream ; a rock ascends behind them with its bending pines. Thou mayest behold it far distant. There my brother dwells. He is renowned in battle : give him this glittering helm.quot; |
The helmet fell from the hand of Gaul. It was the wounded Oithona I She had armed herself in the cave, and came in search of death. Her heavy eyes are half closed; ihe blood pours from her heaving side. quot;Son of Morni Iquot; she said , quot;prepare the narrow tomb. Sleep grows, like darkness , on my soul. The eyes of Oithona are dirn! U had 1 dwell at Duvranna, in the bright beam of my fame! then had my years come on wilh joy; the virgins would then bless my steps. Bul I fall in youlh, son of Morni! iny father shall blush in his hall Iquot; She fell pale on the rock of Tromdtbon. The mournful warrior raised her lomb. He came to Morven : we saw the darkness of his soul. Ossian look the barp in the praiseofOithona. The brightness of the face of Gaul returned. But his sigh rose, at times, in the midst of his friends ; like blasts that shake their unfrequent wings, after the stormy winds are laid ! |
|
ARGUMENT. jRcflectioiis on the poet's youlh. An apostrophe to Selnm. Oscar oblnins leave lo go to Inis thona , an islnnd of Scandinavia. The mournfid slory of Argon and Kuro , the Iwo sons of Ihe king of Inis-lhona. Oscar revenges their dealh and rel urns in triumph to Sclma. A soliloquy by the poet himself. Our youth is like the dream of the hunter on the hill of heath. He sleeps in the mild beams of the sun ; he awakes amidst a storm ; the red lightning flies around; the trees shake their heads to the wind! Ho looks back wrlhjoyon the day of the sun; and the pleasant dreams of his rest! When shall Ossian's youlh return? When his ear delight in the sound of arms? Wlii'n shall I, like Oscar, Iravel in the light of myslcel ? Come, wilh your streams, ye hills of Cona! listen lo the ■voice of Ossian. The song rises, like the sun, in my soul, I feel the joys of oilier times. I heboid thy lowers, O Selina! the oaks of thy shaded wall : thy streams sound in my ear: thy heroes gather around. Kin gal sits in ihe midst. He leans on the shield of Trenmor: his spear stands against the wall; he lislens lo the songs of his hards. The deeds of his arms are heard ; the actions of thn king in his youlh ! Oscar had re-turned from lhecha«e, and heard the hero's praise. He took the shield of Branno(l) from the wall ; his eyes were filled wilh tears. Red was the check of youlh. His voice was trembling low. My spear shook its bright head in bis hand ; he spoke lo Morven's king. |
quot;Fingal! thou king of heroes! Ossian, next lo him in war! ye have fought In your youlh; your names are renowned in song. Oscar is like the mist of Cona; I appear, and I vani-h away. The bard will not know my name. The hunter will not search iu the heath for my tornh. Let me fighl, O heroes, in the battles of In-s-thona. Distant is ihe land of my war ! ye shall not hear of Oscar's fall! some bard may find me there ; some hard may give my name lo song. The daughter of the stranger shall see my tomb, and weep over the yonib that came from afar. The bard shall cry, al I he feasl, Hear the song of Oscar from the distant land !quot; quot;O-car,quot; replied ihe king of Morven, ''thou shall fi;|hl , son of my fame! Prepare my dark-hosumedsliip lo carry my hero lo Inis-thona. Son of inv son , reaard our fame ; thou art of the race of renown; let not ihe children of strangers say , Feehlo are ihe sons of Morven ! Be thou , in battle, a roaring storm: mild as Ihe evening sun in peace! Tell, Oscar, lo Inis-thona's king, that Fingal remembers his youth; when we strove in the combat, logelher. in Ihe days of Aganderca.quot; They lifted up the sounding sail ; the wind whistled through the thongs (2) of their masts. Waves lash the ooiy rocks: the slrcngth of ocean |
(1) The father of Everallin, and grnudfather to Oscar. (2) Leather thongs were used among the Celtic nations, instead of ropes.
591
|
roars. My son belield, from the wave, the land of groves. He ruslied into Kuna's sounilitiff buy, and sent Ills sword to Annir of spears. The grey-lmircd hero rose, when lie saw the sword of Finjjal. Ills eyes were full uf tears; he reniemhered his haltles in youlh. Twice had they lifted the spear before the lovely Agandecca : heroes slood far d slant, as if two spinls were striving in winds. '•But now,quot; began the king, quot;I am old; the sword lies useless in my ball. Thuu, who art of Morven's race! Annir has seen the hatlle of spears; lint now he is pale and withered , like the oiik of J,ano. 1 have noson to meel thee with joy lo bring thee lo the halls of his fathers. Argon is pale in thetomli, and Ruro is no more. My daDgbler is in the hall of slrangeis: she longs lo behold my tomb. Her spouse shakes ten thousand spears; he comes a cloud of death from Lfino. Come to share the feast of Annir , son of echoing Morven !quot; Three days they feasted together; on ihe fonrlh, Annir heard the name of Oscar. They rejoiced in the shell (1). They pursued the boars of Runa. Beside the fount of mossy slones the weary heroes rest. The tear steals in secret from Annir: be broke the ri-ing sigh, quot;lli're darkly rest,quot; the hero said, quot;ihe children of my youth. Tliis stone is the tomb oflluro; that tiee sounds over the grave of Argon. Do ye hear my voice , O my sons, within your narrow house? Or do ye speak in these rustling leaves , when the winds of the desert rise ?quot; '•King of Inis'thona,quot; said Oscar, quot;how fell the children of youth ? The wild boar rushes oier their tombs , hnt tie does not disturb their repose. They pursue deer f rmed ofclouds, and bend their airy bow. They still love the sport of their youth; and mount •bewind with joy.quot; quot;Cormalo,quot; replied the king, quot;is a chief of ten thousand spears, lie dwells at the waters of Lano(2J, wbieb sends forth the vapour of death. He eame lo Runa's echoing balls, and sought the honour of the spear (3). The youth was lovely as the first beam of the sun; few were tbey who could meet him in fight! My heioes yiililed to Goruiiilo: my daughter was seized in his love. Argon and Ruro returned from the chase: the tears of their pride descend ; they roll their silent eyes on Buna's heroes, w bo bad yielded to a stranger. Three days they feasted with Cornialo: on tin: fourth young Argon fought. But who could fight with Argon? Cormalo is overcome. His heart swelled with the grief of pride ; he resolved, in secret, to behold the death nf my sons. They went to the lulls of Rnna: they pursued the dark-brown hinds. The arrow of Cormalo flew in secret; my children fell in blood, lie came to the ma;d of his love; to Inis-thona's long-haired maid. |
They fled over the desert. Annir remained alone. Night came on, and day appeared : nor Argon's voice, nor Ruro's came. At length their much-loved dog was seen ; the fleet and hounding Runar. He came into the hall and howled ; and seemed to look towards the place of their fall. We followed him; we found them here : we laid them by this mos'iy stream. This is the haunt of Annir, when the chase of the binds is past. 1 bend like the trunk ofan aged uuk ; my tears forever flow !quot; quot;0 Konnan!'' said the rising Oscar, quot;Ogar king of spears! call my heroes to my side, the sons of streamy Morven. To-day we go lo Lano's water, that sends forth the vapour of death, Cor-malo will not Jong rejoice: death is often at the point of our swordslquot; They came over the desert like stormy clouds, when the winds roll them along the heath ; their edges arc tinged with lightning; the echoing groves foresee the storm I The horn of Oscar's battle is beard; Lano shook over all its waves. The children of the lake convened around the sounding shield of Cormalo. Oscar fought as he was wont in war. Cormalo fell beneath his sword: the sons of dismal Lano fled to their secret vales! O.icar brought the danghter of Inis-thona to Annir's echoing balls. The face of age is bright with joy ; he blest the king of swords. How great was the joy of Ossimi, when he 1 -In Id the distant sail of Ins son I It was likea' ioud of light that rises in the east, when the t aveller is sail in a land unknown; and dismal night, wi;h her ghosts, is sitting around in sha les! We brought him with songs to Selma's halls. Fingal spread the feast ofslndls. A thousand hards raised the name of Oscar: Morven answered to the sound. The daughter of'i'osear was there; her voice was like the harp, when the distant sound comes, in the evening, on the soft rustling breeze of the vale I O lay me, ye that see the light, near some rock of my bills! let the thick hazels be around , let the rustling oak be near. Green he the pi ace of my rest; let the souml of the distant torrent be beard. Daughter ofToscar , take the harp, and raise the lovely song of Sclina; that sleep may overtake my soul in the midst of joy; that ttie dreamsof my youth may return, and the days uf the mighty Kingal. Selma! 1 behold thy towers, thy trees, thy shaded wall! I see the heroes of Morven ; [ hear the songs of bards ! Oscar lifts the sword of Cor-nial..';a thousand youths admire its studded thongs. They look with wonder on my son : they admire the strength of his arm. They mark thejoy of his father's eyes; they long for an equal lame. And |
(1) 'To rejoice in the shell,' is a phrase for feasting sumptuously and drinking freely. (2) Lano was a lake uf Scandinavia, remarkable, in the days uf Ossian, for emitting a pestilential vapour in autumn. (3) Dy 'the honour of the spear,' is meant the tournament, practised among the ancient northern nations.
392
|
ye shall liavc your fame, 0 sons of streamy Mor-ven ! My soul is ofloti brightened with song; I rcmeinher the friencls of my youth. liut sleep descends in the sound of the hai'|)! pleasant dreams begin to rise! Yc sons of the chase, stand far distant, nor disturb my rest. The bard of other times holds discourse with his fathers the chiefs of the days of old I Sons of the chase, stand far distant! disturb not the dreams of Ossian! |
A Poem.
|
jvrgdbient. Cuthiillin, after the arms of Fingal had expelled Sna-ran from Ireland, continued to roaniige the affairs of that kingdom as the guardian of Cormac, the young king. In the third year of Cuthullin's administration, Torlath, the son of Cantéla, rebelled in Connaught; nnd advanced to Teraorn to dethrone Corranc. Cut-hullin inarched against him , came up with him at the lake of Lego , and totally defeated his forces. Torlath fell in battle by Cuthullin's hand; but as he too eagerly pressed on the enemy , he was mortally wounded. The affairs of Cormac, though, for some time, supported by Nathos, as mentioned in a preceding poem , fell into confusion at the death of Cuthullin. Cormac himself was slain by the rebel Cairbar; and the re-establishment ofthe royal family of Ireland, by l''ingal, furnishes the subject of the ■pic poem of Temora. Is the wind on the shield of Fingal ? Or is the ■voice of past times in my hall ? Sing on, sweet voice ! for thou art pleasant. Thou carriest away my night with joy. Sing on, O liragéla, daughter of car-liorne Sorglan! quot;It is the white wave of the rock, and not Cuthullin's sails. Often do the mists decche mo for the ship of my love! when they rise round some ghost, anil spread their grey skirts on the wind. Why dost thou delay thy coming, son of the generous Semo? Four limes lias autumn returned with its winds, and raised the seas of Togorma (1), since thou hast been in the roar of battles, and Braijéla distant fur! Hills of the isle of mist! when will yi' answer to his hounds ? But ye are dark in your clouds. Sad Bragéla calls in vain! Night comes rolling down. The face of ocean fails. The heath cock's head is beneath his wing. The hind sleeps with the hart of the desert. They shall rise with inoruing's light, and feed by the mossy stream. But my tears return with the sun. Mv sighs come on with the night. When wilt thou come in thine arms, O chief of Erin's wars ?quot; I'leasant is thy voice in Ossian's car, daughter of car-borne Sorglan! But retire to the hall of shells; to the beam of the burning oak. Attend to the murmur of the sea: it rolls at Dunsciii's walls: let sleep descend on thy blue eyes. Let tbe hero arise in thy dreams ! |
Cuthullin sits at Lego's lake, at the dark rolling of waters. Night is around the hero. His thousands spread on the heath. A hundred oaks burn in the midst. The feast of shells is smoking wide. Carril strikes the harp beneath a tree. His grey locks glitter in the beam. The rustling blast of night is near, and lifts his aged hair. His song of the blue Togornia, and of its chief, Cuthullin's friend. quot;Why art thou absent, Connal, in the day of the gloomy storm ? The chiefs of the south have convened against the car-borne Cormac. The winds detain thy sails. Thy blue waters roll around thee. But Cormac is not alone. The son of Semo fights his wars! Semo's son his battles fights! the terror of the stranger ! lie that is like the vapour of death, slowly borne by sultry winds. The sun reddens in its presence : the people fall around.quot; Such was the song of Carril, w hen a son of the foe appeared. He threw down bis pointless spear. He spoke the words of Torlath; Torlath, chief of heroes, from Lego's sahle surge ! He that led his thousands to battle, against car-borne Cormac. Cormac who was distant far, in Temora's echoing halls : he learned to bend the bow of his fathers; and to lift the spear. Nor long didst thou lift the spear, mildly-shining beam of youth! death stands dim behind thee, like the (lai kened half of the moon behind its growing light! Cuthullin rose before the bard that came from generous Torlath. lie od'ered him the shell of joy. He honoured the son of songs. quot;Sweet voice of Lego!quot; he said, quot;w hat are the words of Torlath '/ Conies he to our feast or battle, the car-borne son of Cantéla !quot; quot;He comes to thy battle,quot; replied the hard, quot;to the sounding strife of spears. When morning is grey on Lego, Torlath will fight on the plain. Will thou meet him in thine arms, king of the isle of mist? Terrible is t be spear of Torlath ! it is a meteor of night. He lifts it, and the people fall! death sits in the lightning of his sword !''— quot;Do 1 fear,quot; replied Culbullin, quot;the spear of |
(1) Togonna, i. e. 'the island of blue wavesone of the Hebrides.
393
|
car-home Torlatli ? lie is brave as a thousand heroes : but my soul delijjhls in war ! The sword rests not hy the side of Cuthullin, bard of the times of old! Morning shall meet me on the plain, and jjlcain on the blue arms of Semo's son. liut sit thou on the heath, O bard! and let us hear thy voice. Partake of tiiejoyful shell; and hear the songs of Temora !quot; quot;This is no time,quot; replied ihe bard, quot;to hear tbe sonjj of joy : when the mighty are to meet in battle, like the strength of the waves of Lego. Why art tliou so dark, Slimora! with all thy silent woods? Ko star trembles on thy top. Ko moon-beam on thy side. But the meteors of death are there : the grey watery forms of ghosts. Why art thou dark, Slimora! with thy silent woods ?quot; He retired , in the sound of his song. Carril joined his voice. The music was like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful lo the soul. The ghosts of departed hards heard on Slimora's side. Soft sounds spread along the wood. The silent valleys of night rejoice. So, when he sits in the silence of the day, in tbe valley of his breeze, the humming of the mountain bee comes to Ossian's car: the gale drowns it in its course; but the pleasant sound returns again ! Slant looks the sun on the field! gradual grows the shade of the bill! quot;Raise,quot; said Cuthullin, to his hundred bards, quot;the song of the noble Fingal: that song which be hears at night, when the dreams of liis rest descend : when the hards strike the distant harp, and the faint light gleams on Selma's walls. Or let the grief of Lara rise : the sighs of the mother of Calmar, when be was sought , in vain, on his bills ; when she hcbeld his bow in the hall. Carril, place the shield of Caithbat on that branch. Let the spear of Cuthullin be near: that the sound of my battle may rise, with the grey beam of the east.'' The hero leaned on his father's shield : the song of Lara rose! The hundred bards were distant far: Carril alone is near the chief. The words of the song were his: the sound of his harp was mournful. quot;Alcletha with the aged locks! mother of car-borne Calmar! why dost thou look toward the desert, to behold tbe return of thy son ? These are not his heroes, dark on the heath ; nor is that the voice of Calmar. It is but the distant grove, Alcletha! hut the roar of the mountain-wind ! — (l)1Who bounds over Lara's stream, sister of the noble Calmar? Does not Alcletha behold hisspear? But her eyes are dim ! Is it not the son of Matha, daughter of my love?' |
quot;It is but an aged oak, Alcletha!' replied the lovely weeping Alona. 'It is but an oak, Alcletha, bent over Lara's stream. Cut «ho comes along the plain? sorrow is in his speed, lie lifts high the spear of Calmar. Alcletha, it is covered with blood!' — (1) 'But it is covered with the blood of foes, sister of car-borne Calmar! His spearnever returned unstained with blood ; nor his bow from the strife of the mighty. The battle is consumed in his presence: he is a Ihme of death, Alona! — Youth of the mournful speed ! where is the son of Alcletha? Does he return with his fame, in the midst of his echoing shields ? Thou art dark and silent! Calmar is then no more! Tell me not, warrior, how befell. I must not bear of his wound!' AVhy dost thou look towards tbe desert, mother of low-laid Calmar ?quot; Such was the song of Carril, when Cuthullin lay on his shield. The bards rested on their harps. Sleep fell softly around. The son of Semo was awake alone. His soul was fixed on war. The burning oaks began to decay. Faint red light is spread around. A feeble voice is heard I The ghost of Calmar camel He stalked dimly along the beam. Dark is the wound in his side. His hair is disordered and loose. Joy sits pale on his face. He seems to invite Cuthullin to his cave. quot;Son of the cloudy night!quot; said tbe rising chief of Erin ; quot;why dost thou bend thy dark eyes on me, ghost of the noble Calmar? Wouldst thou frighten me, O Matha's son! from the battles of Cormac ? Thy hand was not feeble in war; neither was thy voice for peace. How art thou changed, chief of Lara! if thou now dost advise to ily. liut Calmar, I never fled : 1 never feared the ghosts of night. Small is their knowledge, weak their hands; their dwelling is in tbe wind. But my soul grows in danger, and rejoices in the noise of steel. Retire thou to thy cave. Thou art not Cal-mar's ghost. He delighted in battle. His arm was like the thunder of heaven!quot; He retired in his blast with joy, for he bad heard the voice of bis praise. The faint beam of the morning rose. The sound of Cuithhat's buckler spread. Green Erin's warriors convened , like the roar of many streams. The horn of war is heard over Lego. The mighty Turlath came! quot;Why dost thou come with thy thousands, Cuthullin?quot; said the chief of Lego. quot;I know the strength of thy arm. Thy soul is au unextinguished fire. Why fight we not on the plain, and let our hosts behold our deeds! Let thorn behold us like roaring waves, that tumble round a rock ; the mariners hasten away and look on their strife with fear.quot; quot;Thou risest, likethesun, on my soul,quot; replied the son of Semo. quot;Thine arm is mighty, O Tor-lath ! and worthy of my wrath. Retire, ye men of Ullin, to Slimora's shady side. Behold the chief of Erin, in the day of his fame. Carril! tell lo mighty Connal, if Cuthullin must fall, tell him 1 accused the winds, which roar on Torgorma's |
50
Alcletha speaks.
394
|
wavcj. Never was lie absent in battle, when the strife of iny fame arose. Let his sword be before Cormac, like the beam of heaven. Let his counsel sound in Temora, in tbc day of danger!quot; lie rushed, in the sound of his arms, lilte the terrible spirit of Loda, when he comes, in the roar of a tiiousand storms, and scatters battles from his eyes. He sits on a cloud over Lochlin's seas. His ini{gt;hty hand is on his sword. Winds lift his flaming locks! The waning moon half lights its dreadful facc. llis features blended in darkness arise to view. So terrible was Cut hull in in the day of his fame. Torlath fell by his hand. Lego's heroes mourned. They gather around the chief, like the clouds of the desert. A thousand swords rose at once; a thousand arrows flew; but he stood like a rock in the midst of a roaring sea. They fell around. Ho strode in blood. Dark Slimora echoed w ide. The sons of Ullin came. The battle spread over Lego. The chiei of Lrin overcame. lie returned over the iicld with his fame. But pale he returned! The joy of his face was dark. He rolled his eyes in silence. The sword hung, unsheathed, in his hand. His spear bent at every step! quot;Carril,quot; said t he chief in secret, quot;the strength of Cuthullin fails. .My days are with the years that arc past. No morning of mine shall arise. They shall seek me at Temora, but 1 shall not be found. Cormac will weep in his hall, and say. Where is Erin's chief? But my name is renowned! my fame in the song ol hards! The youth will say in secret, Ü let me die as Cuthullin died ! Uenown clothed him like a robe. The light of his fame is great. — Draw the arrow from my side. Lay Cuthullin beneath that oak. Placc the shield of Caithbat near, that they may behold me amidst the arms of my fathers !quot; quot;And is the son ol Semo fallen ?quot; said Carril with a sigh, quot;Mournful are Tura's walls. Sorrow dwells at Dunseiii; Thy spouse is left alone in her |
youth. The son of thy love is alone! He shall comc toBragéla, and ask her why she weeps? He shall lift his eyes to the wall, and see his father's sword. Whose sword is that? he will say. The soul of his mother is sad. AVho is that, like the hart of the desert, in the murmur of his course? His eyes look w ildly round in search of his friend. Connal, son of Culgnr. where hast thou been, when the mighty fell ? Did the seas of Torgorma roll around thee? Was the wind of the south in thy sails ? The mighty have fallen in battle, and thou wast not there. Let none tell it in Selma, nor in Morven's woody land. Fingal w ill bo sad , and the sons of the desert mourn Iquot; By the dark rolling waves of Lego they raised the hero's tomb. Luath, at a distance, lies. The song of bards lose over the dead. (1) quot;Ulesl be thy soul, son of Semo! Thou wort mighty in battle. Thy strength was like the strength of a stream; thy speed like the eagle's wing. Thy path in battle was terrible: the steps of death were behind thy sword, lilest be thy soul, son uf Semo, car-borne chief of Dunseiii. Thou hast not fallen by the sword of the mighty, neither was thy blood un the spear of the brave. The arrow came, like the sting of death in a blast; nor did the feeble hand, which drew the how, perceive it. Peace to thy soul, in thy cave, chief of the isle of mist! quot;The mighty are dispersed at Temora ; there is none in Cortnac's hall. The king mourns in his youth. He does not behold thy return. The sound of thy shield is ceased: his foes are gathering round. Soft he thy rest in thy cave, chief ofiirin's wars! Bragéla will not hope for thy return, or see thy sails in ocean's foam. Her steps are not on the shore; nor her ear open to the voice of thy rowers. She sits in the ball of shells. She sees the arms of him thai is no more. Thine eyes are full of tears, daughter of ear-borne Sorglau! Blest be I thy soul in death, Ü chief of shady Tura!quot; |
Werd geboren in Maart 174G te Kinesswood (Kinrossshire) en overleed den vijfden Jul ij 17C7. Hij behoort tot die dicliters , wier aanleg buitengewoon groot was, doch die daarvan door hun behoeftige omstandigheden en vroegen dood geen inenigvulaige blijken konden geven. Door moed en volharding en eenige ondersteuning was hij eehter in slaat een drietal jaren aan de Universiteit te Kdimburg door 1c brengen. Tot zijn fraaiste stukken behooren : The Cuckoo , Alexis (een herdersdicht) en Lochleveu. Ken eerste druk van zijn nagelaten stukken verscheen in 1770, een tweede in 1784, een derde in 1791, die ten behoeve van zijn arme moeder werd uitgegeven , een vierde in 1807 en een vijfde in 1837.
Now spring returns, hut not to «10 returns [ Starting and sliivVing in th'inconstanl wind,
Tlic vernal joy my heller years have known 5 | Meagre and pale, the {jliosl of wliat f was, Dim in my breast life's dyiny taper burns, ' Beneath some blasted tree 1 lie reclin'd.
And all ilie joys of life w ith liealtli are flown : ' And count tbc silent rnoinents as tl'ey pass.
(1) This is the song of the bards over Cutthullin's tomb.
393
|
The winged iiioincnls, wljose unslajing sjiccd No art can stop, or in their course arrest; W hose ilight shall shortly count me with the dead, And lay me down in peace with them that rest. Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate, And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true: Led hy pale ghosts, I enter death's dark gate. And hid the realms of light and life adieu! Farewell, ye blooming fields ! ye cheerful plains I Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound, |
Where Melalncholy with still silence reigns. And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground; There let rnc wander at the close of eve. When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes, The world and all its busy follies leave. And talk with wisdom where my Daphnis lies. There let mo sleep forgotten in the clay, When death shall shut these weary aching eyes, Uestin the hopes of an eternal day, Till the long night is gone and the last morn arise. |
Deze dichter word geloren te Edimburg den vijfden Septetnl)ei'1750. In zijn jeugd was zijn gestel zoo zwak, dat men er aan twijfelde of hij den maunelijken leeftijd zou bereiken. In weerwil van die zwakheid ontwikkelde zijn vlugheid van geest bijzonder, eu had hij op zijn elfde jaar reeds een goede kennis van 't latijn. Op zijn veertiende jaar was hij aan de universiteit St. Andrew, en gaf ook daar schitterende bewijzen van zijn vlugheid van geest en kennis. Hij verviel eeliter op zeer jeugdigen leeftijd tot eon verschrikkelijk losbandig leven , dat eerst een krankzinnigen toestand en eindelijk zijn doud ten gevolge had , in 1771. 1'VTgusson werd echter algemeen bemind door zijn vrienden, waarvan men in zijn menigvuldige grafschriften de treffendste blijken ziet. llij moet reeds zeer vroeg do dichtkunst beoefend hebben , doch van zijn eerste stukken is The Decay of Friendship niet voor 1772 , dus vermoedelijk eenige jaren na do vervaardiging , verschenen. In 1773 leverde hij A Poetical account of the expedition to Fife and do Island May , en tegen 't einde vat» dat jaar een verza.neling van zijn stukken , waarin allen , die vroeger in Ruddiman's Magazine waren geplaatst, werden opgenomen. Zijn uitgebreidst stuk is Auld Keekie , en zijn beste stukken zijn in 't schotseh geschreven. liehalven zijn Last Will, Epilogue of the Edinburgh liuck en Verses, written at the hermitage of Braid, verdienen zijn engelsche stukken slechts den naam van middelmatigheid. De populariteit van zijn schotsche stukken pleiten voor innerlijke verdienste. The Farmer's Ingle is 't beste s(uk, dat hij in die taal schreef. Voorts heeft men van hem o. a. Doft Days, King's Birthday, Election, Leith Races, The Hallow Fair, Hame Content, een satire, meest allen zeer verdienstelijke stukken.
(1) Hamilton of Bangour, See p. 878,
396
Exonliuni of the hallow (l) fair.
|
quot;Upon a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature's face is fair, i walked forlh lo view the corn, An' snuff tlic caller (2) air. The risitijj sun o'er Galslon rnuirs, Wi' (jlorious light was glintin (3); The hares were hirplin down the furs, The lav'rocks (4) ihey war chantin, Fu' sweet that day. quot;And wha are ye, my winsome dear, That takes the gate sae early ? Whare do ye win, gin ane may speir ? For I right micklc ferly. That sic hraw huskit laughing lass, Her honny blinks should gie. An' loup, like Ilehc, o'er the grass. As wanton and as free, Frac dule this day. quot;T dwall amang the caller springs, That weet (5) the Land o' Cakes, An' aften tune my canty strings. At hridals and late wakes. They ca' mo Mirth ; I ne'er was kend |
As lifjhtsoinely ? jylowr'd abroad. To see n scene sae {jay. Three hi/.ïies, early at the road, Cam skelpin up the way ; Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, But ane wi' lyart lining, The third that gacd a wee a hack, Was in the fashion shining, Fu' gay that day, amp;c.quot; To grumhlc, or look sour; l!ut hlyth wad he a lift to lend, Gif ye wad sey my pow'r. An' pith, this day.quot; quot;A bargain be't, and by my fegs, ftif ye will he my male, Wi' you I'll screw the cheery pegs; Ye shanna find ine blate ; We'll reel and ramble thro' the sands, And jeer wi' a' we meet. Nor hip the daft and gleosomc bands. That fill Edina's sheet. Sac thrang this day.quot; |
Al wat wij aangaande tic bijzonilerheilen van't leven en den poëlischen aanleg van den dichter van Tullochgorum, John o'Badnyon en verscheiden andere zeer populaire zangen konden te weten komen, is een fragment van een brief, dien hij den veerticnilen November 1787 aan lïurns schreef. quot;A small portion uf taste this way I have had almost from childhood, especially in the old Scottish dialect; and it is as old a thing as I remember, my fondness for Christ's Kirk o'the Green, which I had by heart ere I was twelve years of age, and which, some years ago, I attempted to turn into Latin verse. While I was young 1 dabbled a good deal iu these things; but, on getting on the black gown, I gave it pretty much over, til! my daughters grew up, who, being all good singers , plagued me for words to some of their favourite tunes, and so extorted those effusions , which have made a public appearance beyond my expectations and contrary to my intentions; at the same time, that I hope there is nothing to be found in them uncharacteristic or unbecoming the cloth , which I would always wish to see respected.quot; Hij leefde van 1731 tot 1807,_ en was zes-en-vijftig jaar aaneen geestelijke te Longside in Aberdeenshire. Behalven zijn vertalingen in latijnsehe verzen leverde hij ook nog een Ecclesiastical History of Scotland.
|
O I why should old age so much wound us , O? There is nothing in 't all to confound us, O ; For how happy now am I, With my old wife sitting by, And our bairns (6) and our oyes all around us, 0. We began in the world wi' naething, O, And we've jogged on and toiled for the ao thing, 0; Wo made use of what we had , And our thankfu' hearts were glad , When we got the bit meat and the claithing , O. |
Whe have lived all our lifetime contented , 0. Since the day we became first acquainted , 0 ; It's true we've been put poor, And we are so lo this hour. Yet we never pined nor lamented , O. W e ne'er thought o' schemes lo be wealthy, O, By ways that wore cunning or stealtbie . O; But we always bad the hliss — And what farther could we wish ? — To ho pleased wi' ourselves and be balthy , O. |
(!) Holy. (3) Cooler. (3) Glittering. (4) Larks,
(5) Wet. (C) Children
597
|
Wliat lliouj;li wc conna hoast of our guineas, O, We have plenty of Jockies and Jennies, O; And these. I'm certain , are More dfsirabl»! by far, Than a pock full of poor yellow stoenies, O. We have seen many a wonder and ferlie (1), O, Of changes that almost are yearlie , O, Among rich folks up and down , Both in country and in town , Who now live hut scrimply and harely, 0. Then why should people brag of prosperity , 0 ? A straitened (2) life, wee see, is no rarity, 0; Indeed , we've hcen in want. And our living hcen hut scant j Yet we never were reduced to need charily, 0. |
In this house we first came together, O, Where we've lang been a father and mother, 0; And though not of stone and lime , It will last us a' our time j And 1 hope we shall never need anither, 0. And when we leave this habitation, 0 , We'll depart with a good commendation, O ; We'll go hand in hand , I wiss, To a better house than this, To make room for the next generation, O. Then why should old age so much wound us, O ? There is nothing in 't all to confound us, O ? For how happy now am I , With my auld wife sitting by, And our bairns and our oyes all around us O! |
|
Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cricd, And lay your disputes all aside ; What signifies't for folks to chide For w hat's been done before them ? I.et Whig ami Tory all agree Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, Let Wb ig and Tory all agree To drop their Whigmcgmorutn. Let Whig and Tory all agree To spend this night with mirth and glee, And cheerfii' sing alangwi' me The reel of Tullocbgorum. O, Tullochgomm's my delight; It gars us a' in ane unite ; And ony snmph that keeps tip spite. In conscicnce 1 abhor him. Blithe and merry we's he a'. Blithe and merry, blithe and merry. Blithe and merry we's he a'. And mak' a cheerfu' quorum. Blithe and merry we's he a'. As lang as we ha ' breath to draw, Anil dance, till we he like to fa'. The reel of Tullocbgorum. There need na be sac great a phrase Wi' dringing dull Italian lays ; I wadna gic our ain strathspeys For half a hundred score o' 'em. They're douff and dowie at the best, DonfF and dowie, douff and dowie, They're douff and dowie at the best, Wi' a' their variorums. They're douff and dowie at the best, Their allegros, and a' the rest. They canna please a Highland taste, Compared wi' Tullocbgorum. |
Let warldly minds themselves oppress Wi' fear of want, and double cess, And sullen sols ibemselvcs distress Wi' keeping up decorum. Shall we sac sour and sulky sit. Sour and sulky,sour and sulky. Shall we sac sour and sulky sit. Like auld Philosopliorum ? Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, And canna rise to shake a fit At the reel of Tullocbgorum ? May choicest blessings still attend Each boncst-hearlod open friend ; And calm and quiet be his end. And a' that's good watch o'er him ! May peace and plenty he his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty. May peace and plenty he bis lot. And dainties, a great store o' em I May peace and plenty be bis lot, Unstained by any vicious blot; And may he never want a groat, That's fond of Tullocbgorum. But for the discontented fool. Who wants to he oppression's tool, May envy knaw bis rotten soul. And discontent devour him! Mav dool and sorrow ho his chance. Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow. May dool and sorrow he bis chance, And nane say, Wae's me for 'im ! May dool and sorrow be his glance, And a' the ills that come frae France, Whae'er he be that winna dance The reel of Tullocbgorum ! |
(I) Wonder. (2) Miserable,
396
Zoon van een scliotsclicn boer, William Uurnes of Uurns, werd geboren 25 Januarij 1759 nabij Ayr. In zijn jeugJ was Burns lang niet bemind tengevolge van ?.ijn onverdragelijk karakter. Reeds op twaalfjarigen leeftijd moest hij achter don ploeg loopen , en drie jnren later was hij de beste arbeider van zijn vader. Op zestienjarigen leeftijd werd hij verliefd , en dezo liefde spoorde hem aan zijn cersto verzen te maken, en had later altijd invloed op hem. Drie jaren later kwam hij in aanraking met smokkelaars, en woonde hun drinkpartijen en togtcn bij om quot;den mensoh te bestuderen.quot; Hij legde zieh op de beoefening van verschillende wetenschappen toe , doch moest ten gevolge van den dood zijus vaders (1783) den landbouw weêr ter hand nomen , maar ondervond niet anders dan tegenspoeden, weshalve hij op 't punt van vertrek naar West-lndië stond, waartoe hem een ongelukkige omstandigheid in zijn liefde nog meer dreef. A'an dat plan zag hij echter af tengevolge van de gunstige ontvangst van zijn Poems, chiefly in the seotlisli dialcct (1780), waarvan reeds in 1787 een tweede uitgave (2800 exemplaren) te Edimburg versoheen. 15ij zijn aankomst te Edimburg vond hij, dat zijn naam hem reeds was vooruit gcloopen; want zijn poézie had er ten gevolge van een aanbeveling in Ihe Lounger , welk tijdschrift door de geletterde wereld veel werd gelezen, buitengewoon opgang gemaakt. Hij werd alom gunstig ontvangen, onthaald en gevleid. Hoe meer men hem leerde kennen, hoe meer men hem als dichter en mensch van zamenleving begon lief te hebben. Hij liet zich echter door al dien glans niet verblinden , maar toonde tot aan zijn dood (1796) een eenvoudig mannelijk en onafhankelijk karakter te bezitten. Hij had wel een zekere mato van zelfbewustzijn van zijn genie en waarde als dichter, doch daarin was noch trotseh, noch aanmatiging, noch ijdelheid te bespeuren. In Junij 1787 deed hij een grootc reis door een deel van zijn geboorteland , en maakte toon onder den indruk der natuurtooncelen een aantal stukken. Hij was overal welkom. In 1788 had hij reeds 500 pond sterling overlegd, waarvan hij 200 pond aan zijn broeder voorschoot om hem te helpen. Hij was een groot mcnschcnvriend, en ondersteunde velen met raad en daad. In 1788 wijdde hij zieh weer aan den landbouw , doch werd spoedig ambtenaar bij de accijnsen. Van 1793 tot 1793 leverde hij 't moerendeel van zijn beste zangen , op aanzoek van een uitgever te Edimburg. Op 't laatst van zijn leven verkeerde hij evenwel in behoeftigo omstandigheden , zonder echter iemand iets schuldig te zijn. Burns is een natuurdichter in den volsten zin van 't woord : diep gevoel, levendige verbeeldingskracht, ondervinding . hartelijkheid , gezond verstand , treffende voorstelling en oorspronkelijke frischheid stralen door in zijn poëzie. Zij schenken hem een onvergankelijke waarde en hebben hem tot dichter van 't volk gemaakt, dat thans nog zijn grootheid erkent. Een beste uitgave van zijn werken is bezorgd door Allan Cunningham te Londen, in 1834, doch die van 1800 door Dr. Currio (4 doelen) is de beste.
(On turning one down with the plough in April 178G.)
|
W ee (1), modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Them's (1*) met mn in an evil lionr; For I maun (2) crush among (3) the store (4) Tliy slender stern: To spare thee now in past my pow'r, Tliou lionio (5) gem. Alas! its no (5*) tliy neelior (C) sweet The honnie lark, companion meet! Bonding Ihee 'niang the dewy weet! Wi' (7) spreckl'd (8) breast. When upward springing, l)lytlie(9), to greet The purpling East. Cauld (10) Mew the hitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth ; Yet chearfully thou glinted (11) forth Amid tile storm , Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth Tliy tender form. The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield , High shellring woods and wa's maun (12)sliield; But thou, beneath the random hield (13) |
O (14) elod or stane (15), Adorns the histio (lö) stibble (17) field , Unseen , alane (18). There, in tliy scanty mantle clad , Thy snawie (19) bosom sun-ward spread , Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptcars tliy bed , And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless maid , Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! By love's simplicity hetray'd. And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd , is laid Low i' (20) the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard , On life's rough ocean luckless starv'd ! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. And whelm him o'er ! |
(1) Little. (1*) Thou hast. (2) Must. (3) Among, (4) Dust. (5) Lovely, handsome, beautiful. (5*) Not. (6) Neighbour. (7) With. (8) Speckled. (9) Glad. (10) Cold. (II) Glanced, peeped. ^2) Walls must. (13) Shelter. (14) Of, (15) Slonc. (Hi) Dry and rugged. (17) Stubble. (18) Alone. (19) Snowy. .(30) In.
599
|
Such fate to suffering; worlli is giv'en, M'lio lun;; \vitli wants and woes has striv'n, Dy liuman pride or cunning driv'n To misery's hi ink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry slay but Ilcav'n , lie, ruin'd, sinlt! |
Ev'n thou who mourn'sl the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine — no distant date ; Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate. Full on thy hloom , fill, crusli'd henealh the furrow's weight, Shall he thy tlooni! |
|
Should auld acquaintance ho forgot And never hrought to min' (2) Should auld acquaintance he forgot, And days o' lang syne ? chorus. For auld lang sync, my dear, For aahl lang sijne, IVe'll tak a cup o' Idudncxs yet, For auld lang syne. We twa hae run ahout the braes. And pu'd the go wans (3) fine; liul we've wandered mony a weary fit (4) Sin' auld lang syne. For auld lang sync, amp;c. |
AVe twa hae paidelt (5) i' the burn, Frao mornin'sun till dine; But seas between us braid bae roar'd, Sin' auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, amp;c. And here's a band, my trusty fiere (6), And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll talc a right gude willie-waught (7), For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, amp;c. An' surely ye'11 bo your pint-stoup (8), As sure as I'll he mine ; And well'd talt a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld lang sync amp;c. |
|
Ve banks and and braes (9) o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sac fresh and fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary , fu' o' care? Thou'lt break my heart thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : Thou minds me o' departed joys , Departed never to return. |
Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka (10) bird sang o' ils luve. And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon it's thorny tree ; And my fause luver stole my rose. Cut, ah! be left the thorn mi' mo. |
Am. Humours of Glen.
|
Their groves o'sweet myrtle, let foreign lands reckon. Where bright beaming summers exalt the perfume: Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan , Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. Far dearer to me are yon bumble broom bovvers, AVere Ibe blue bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen ; For there , lightly tripping . amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. |
Tho' rich is the breeie iti their gay sunny valleys. And eauld Caledonia's blast on the wave; (palace, Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud What are they?—thehauntoftbetyrantand slavel -The slave's spicy forests, and gold bnhbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save luve's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. |
(1) Long since. (2) Mind. (3) Daisy. (4) Blockhead. (5) Paddled. (0) Friend. (7) Draught. (8) Jus. (9) Slope of a hill. (10) Every. fa v ; fa
|
Islliere for honest ])ovcrly, Wlia han;;s liis head, and a' that? The coward slave we pass liim hy, And dare be poor for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Our toils ohscurc and a' that; The rank is hut the j;iiinea stamp, The man's thcfjowd fora' that. What tho' on hamely fare we dine. Wear hodden {jrey (1), and a' that; Gie (2) fools their silks, and knaves their wine , A man's a man , for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel shew , and a' that; The honest man , the' ne'er sae poor, Is kinjj o' men fora' that. Ye see yon hirkie (3), ca'd (3*) a lord , Wha struts, and stares , and a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word ; He's hut a coof (i) for a' that. |
For a' that, and a' that, Ilis rihhand, star, and a that ; The man of independent mind. Can look and lau^h at u' that. The king can mak a helted knight, A marquis, duke, anil a' that. An honest man's ahoon his might, Gude faith, he mauna (5) fa' that: For a' that, and a' that. Their dignities, and a' that; The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth. Are grander far than u' that. Then let us pray, that come it may. As come it will, for a' that, That sense and worth , o'er a' the earth , May hear the gree (0), and a' that. For a' that, and a that. It's comin' yet, for a' that. When man an' man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers he for a' that. |
|
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands, a chasing the deer: Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North , The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; Wherever 1 wander, wherever 1 rove. The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. |
Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; Farewell to straths (7) and green valleys below: Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands, a chasing the deer ; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe , My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. |
Kobert Krcce's address to nis amiï.
|
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Brnce has often led ; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorius victorie. Now's the day, and now's the hour ; Sec the front o' battle lovier ; See approach proud Edward's power — Edward ! chains ! and slavery ! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave ? AVba sae base as be a slave ? Traitor! coward ! turn and flee! |
Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw ? Freeman-stand, or free-man ia', Caledonian ! on w i' me! By oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains I Wc will drain onr dearest veins, But they shall he—shall he free ! Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty's in every blow ! Forward ! let us do or die! |
(1) Coarse grey cloth. (2) Give. (3) Coxcomb. (3*) Called. (4) Blockhead. (5) Cannot. (6) Prize. (7) Anarrow valley.
FROM 1780 TILL THE PRESENT TIME.
quot;
■ ■ •
. , . , . , .. • . . . ■
.....
* .■.......
■ ■ - '■ .....
Meer algemeen nis Peter Pindar, zijn dichterlijke nnnin, bekend, werd geboren in 1738 te Dodbrock, in Devonshire en overleed veertien Jannnrij 1819. Hij beoefende de peneeskundo en vertrok in 1707 ala geneesheer naar Jainaïca, waar hij eehtïr geestelijke werd. Later keerde hij naar Engeland terng, en zette zich te Truro (Corn-wallis) als geneesheer neêr. In 1780 begaf hij zich met der woun naar Londen, wijdde zich geheel aan de beoefening der letterkunde, en verwierf nu vooral groeten naam door The Lousiad , een heldendicht, waarvan een Inis, die de kuning op zijn bord vond , 't onderwerp van behandeling is. Met dat heldendicht beoogt hij do vernedering van den koning, zijn hovelingen en staatslieden. Voorts heeft men van hein o. a.: Lyric odes to the Academicians for 1782, waarvan in 1783 en 1784 wederom een verzameling verscheen; The progress of Curiosity, or a Royal visit to Whitbread's Brewery j Tho King and the Briekmaker en vele andere satires, meest allen op de koninklijke familie; The Fall of Portugal, a tragedy (1808). Zga gedichten verschenen in 1794, 1797 (3 deelen) en in 1816 (4 deelen). Do dichter bezit een hooge mate van geestigheid , doch besteedt haar slecht. Zijn stukkeu zijn meest allen van boertigen of hekelenden aard, maar dikwijls ruw en gemeen , en hebben voor 't mecrendeel slechts een tijdelijke waarde.
|
Economy's a very useful broom, Yet should not ceaseless limit about the room To catch each straggling pin to make a plumb ; Too oft economy's an iron vice. That squeezes e'en the little j;uts of mice. That peep with fearful eyes, and ask a crumb. Proper economy's a comely thing; Good in a subject, — better in a king: Yet push'd too far, it dulls each finer feeling — Most easily inclin'd to make folks mean ; Inclines them, too, to villainy to lean. To over-reaching, perjury, and stealing. E'en when the heart should only think of grief, It creeps into the bosom like a thief; And swallows up th' affections all so mild, — AVitness the Jewess, and her only child. Poor Mistress Levi had a luckless son. Who, rushing to obtain the foremost seat. |
In imitation of th' ambitious great, High from Ibe gall'ry, ere the play begun. He fell all plump into the pit, Dead in a minute as a nil: In short, he broke his pretty Hebrew neck ; Indeed, and very dreadful was the wreck ! The mother was distracted, raving, wild, — Shriek'd, tore her hair, embrae'd and kiss'd her Afflicted every heart with grief around ; (child ; Soon as the show'r of tears was somewhat past. And moderately calm th' hysteric blast, She cast about her eyes in thought profound ; And being with a saving knowledge bless'd. She thus the playhouse manager address'd : quot;Slier, I'm de moder ofde poor Chew lad, Dat meet mishfarten here so bad ; Slier, I muss hafde shilling back, you know, Ass Moses'haf nat sec de show.quot; |
|
Bright stranger, welcome to my field , Here feed in safety, here thy radiance yield ; To me, oh nightly be thy splendour given : Oh, could a wish of mine the skies command, Iluw would I gem thy leaf with liberal baud , AVith every sweetest dew of heaven I Say, dost thou kindly light the fairy-train , Amidst their gambols on the stilly plain , Hanging thy lamp upon the moistened blade ? AVhat lamp so fit, so pure as thine. Amidst the gentle elfin blind to shine, And chase the honors of the midnight-shade ? |
Oh ! may no feathered foe disturb thy bower. And with barbarian beak thy life devour: Oh I may no ruthless torrent of the sky, O'erwhelming, force thee from thy dewy scat; Nor tempests tear thee from thy jjreen retreat. And bid thee'midst the humming myriads die! Oueen of the insect-world , what leaves delight? Of such these willing hands a bowershall form , To guard thee from the rushing rains of night. And hide thee from the wild wing of the storm. Sweet child of stillness, 'midst the awful cilm Of pausing Nature thou art pleased to dwell |
404
|
Ju happy silence to enjoy thy halm , And slied , llirougli life, a lustre round thy cell. How (lifTerenl man, the imp of noise and SiriTc, Who courts the storm that tears and darkens life; |
Iflessed when the passions wild the soul invade How nobler far to bid those whirlwinds cease ; To taste, like thee, the luxury of peace , And shine in solitude and shade ! |
Werd geboren in 1745 of 1748, te Southampton. Dibdin zou geestelijke worden, doch begaf zich reeds vroeg naar Ijonden , waar hij akteur (1762) en schrljvcr werd. Spoedig legde hij zich op 't tooneeldlcht toe en leverde in korten tijd meer dan honderd stukken voor 't tooneel. Hij overleed in 1814. Voorts schreef hy National and Nautical songs (ongeveer 1200), waarvan er velen door 't volk en vooral de zeelieden werden aangenomen, en waardoor hem ten laatste een rijkspensioen van 200 pond sterling ie beurt viel; The Harmonie Preceptor (hij was zelf muziekmeester) en in proza The Devil; Anne Hewitt, or the female Robinson , en verscheiden verhandelingen over de raujiek en de kunst om haar te onderwijzen. Zijn volkszangen zijn rijk aau degelijken, vaderlandslievendcu zin , eenvoudig, warm , natuurlijk, gevoelvol , en bezitten aldus al wat men in volkspoëzie vordert.
|
Sweet is the ship that under sail Spreads her bosom to the j;ale: Sweet, oh ! sweet's the ilowing can ; Sweet to poise the labourinjj oar, That tugs ns to our native shore. When the boatswain pipes the barge to man Sweet sailing with a fav'rite breeze; But, oh ! miich sweeter than all these, Is Jack's delight, — his lovely Nan. The needle, faithful to the north, To shew of constancy the worth, A curious lesson teaches man ; The needle, time may rust, — a squall Capsize the binnacle and all. Let seamanship do all it can : My love in worth shall higher rise,— Nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize .My faith and truth to lovely Nan. |
When in the bilboes I was penn'd For serving of a worthless friend, And ev'ry creature from me ran ; No ship, performing quarantine, W as ever so deserted seen ; None hailed me,—woman,child, nor man: But though false friendship's sails were furl'J Though cut adrift by all the world, I'd all the world in lovely Nan. I love my duty, love my friend, Love truth and merit to defend, — To mourn their loss who baiard ran ; I lo*e to take an honest part. Love beauty and a spotless heart, — By manners love to show the man : To sail through lifehy honour's breeze, 'Twas all along of loving these First made me doaton lovely Nan. |
|
Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear The main-mast by the hoard ; My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear. And love well stor'd, Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, The roaring winds, the raging sea. In hopes on shore. To be once more Safe moor'd with thee. Aloft, while mountains high we go, The whistling winds that scud along, And the surge roaring from below. |
Shall my signal be To think on thee. And this shall ho my song, — Blow high, blow low, etc. And on that night, when all thecrew The niem'ry of their former lives O'er flowing cans of flip renew. And drink their sweethearts and their wives, I'll heave a sigh, and think on thee; And as the ship rolls through the sea, The burthen of my song shall bo,— Blow high, blow low, etc. |
H hile up the shrouds (he sailor goes, | The landsman, who no better knows,
Or ventures on the yard; I Believes his lot is hard,
405
|
liold Jurk, with smiles, cacli dun^ur niccls, Casts anchor, heaves the lo^, Trims all the sails, belays the sheets, Ami drinks his ean oFjirojj. When mountains high the waves that swell The vessel rudely hear, Now sinking in a hollow dell, — Now quiveringin the air: Bold Jack, with smiles, etc. When waves' gainst rocks and quicksands roar, |
You ne'er hear him repine; Freezing near Greenland's icy shore. Or hurtling near ihe line; Bold Jack, with smiles, etc. If to engage they give the word, To quarters all repair ; While splinter'd masts go hy the hoard, And shot sing through llieair : Bold Jack, with smiles, ele. |
Was de zoon van een kummics, eu werd geboren te Alileburgh in Siiffollc ().754i). Zijn opvoeding had grooten invloed op de rigting , die zijn poëzie heeft. De gewelddadigheid van zijn vader en de angst van de arme moeder droegen daartoe niet weinig bij. Ciabbc sleet zijn jeugd nis leerknaap bij een chirurgijn. Terwijl hij nis leerknaap te Woodbridue was, vond hij reeds een uitgever voor zijn eerste stuk, Inebriety. Hij had echter een afkeer van de chirurgie, en keerde in 1779 naar zijn geboorteplaats terug. Nu ging Crabbe met zijn stukken naar Londen , om daanneê zyn geluk te beproeven , doch had er aanvankelijk met verschrikkelijk gebrek te worstelen. Hij vond er ten laatste beschermers eu verkondigers quot;an zijn lof in Bnrke, Horace Wnlpole en l)r. Johnson, wiens lof hem roem deed behalen. lu 1782 ging hij tot den geestelijken stand over, en overleed in 18l!3 als predikant te Frow-bridge in Wiltshire. Men heeft van hem o. a. The Library (1781); The Village (1783); The Newspaper (1785); in de negentiende eeuw : The Parish Register (1810) ; The Borough; Tales of the Hall; Tnles in Verse. I)c beste uitgave van zijn poëzie bezorgde zijn zoon : Tbc Poetical works of the Kev. George Crnbbe with his letters and Journals of his life, London 1834. Wij laten hier een beknopt oordcel van een bevoegde schrijfster volgen: quot;If originality mean not only something new, but something distinct from every thing else, Crabbo may well be regarded ns truly original. Neither before nor since hai there been any poetry like his. He has been said to have founded a school: but though there have been many students in that school, none have practised its rules, or imitated its master in those distinctive peculiarities that make at once the power and the pain of his poetry. He is indeed quot;The Bard of Truth and Nature.quot; But it is rugged truth aud unlovely nature. Imagination , that to other poets gives the wings by which they soar aloft to purer regions , gave to him the staff by which he steadied his steps in those murky glooms and pitfalls of this world that he so minutely explored. Human nature in its darkest, meanest, dreariest aspects, was his study. And beennse he had the heart of a philantlnopist and the brain of a poet, and his terrible matter-of-fact characters are withal intensely human , his descriptions take firm hold of the reader, and we are compelled to believe, and tremble, and pity, even while we shudder and turn away. Crabbe delighted to describe whatever other poets would have left undescribed , and regarded as utterly incapable of poetic description — an unpieturesque town, a llat, dreary sea - coast , a barren moorlandquot;.
|
Topompand pageantry in nought allied, A nohle peasant, Isaac Ashford , died. Kohle he was , contemning all things mean , Ill's truth unquestioned , and his soul serene: Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid , At no man's question Isaac looked disnia yd: Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace; Truth , simple truth , was written in his face ; Yet while the serious thought his soul approved , Cheerful he seemed , and gentleness he loved : To Miss domestic he his heart resigned , And , with the firmest, had the fondest mind : Were others joyful, he looked smiling on , And gave allowance where he needed none : Good he refused with future ill to huy, Nor knew a joy that caused relied ion's sigh ; |
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast No envy stung, no jealousy distressed ; (Bane of the poor ! it wounds their weaker mind, To miss one favour which their neighhonrs find :) Yet far was he from stoic pride removed ; He felt humanely, and he warmly loved : 1 marked his action when his infant died , And his old neighbour for offence was tried ; The still tears, stealing dow n that furrowed cheek, Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak. If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride. Who, in their base contempt, the great deride; Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed , If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed; Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew None his superior, and his equals few: |
400
|
But if that spirit in liis soul liail place, Jt was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace; A pride in honest fame, hy virtue {jained , In sturdy hoys to virtuous labours trained ; Pride in the power that guards his country's coast, And all that Knlt;rlishmcn enjoy and hoast; Pride, in a life that slander's tongue defied , In fact, a nohle passion , misnamed pride. I feel his ahsence in the hours of prayer, And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there ; |
1 sec no more those white locks thinly spread Round the bald polish of that honoured head ; Nor more that awful glance on playful wight , Compelled to kneel, and tremhle at the sight, To fold his fingers all in dread the while , Till Master Ashford softened to a smile 5 No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, Nor the pure faith , (to give it force,) are there , But he is hlessed , and 1 lament no more , A wise good man , contented to be poor. |
|
Place the white man on Afric's coast. Whose swarthy sons in blood delight, Who of their scorn to Europe boast, And paint their very demons white: There, while the sterner sex disdains To soothe the woes they cannot fool, Woman will strive to heal his pains, And weep for those she cannot heal. Hers is warm pity's sacred glow, — From all her stores she hears a part; And bids the spring of hope reflow. That languish'd in tile fulnling hear!. quot;What though so pale his haggard face. So sunk and sad his looks,quot;— she cries; quot;And far unlike our nobler race, With crisped locks and rollingeyes ; Yet misery makes him of our kind, —• We see him lost, alone, afraid ! And pangs of body, griefs in mind. Pronounce him man, and ask our aid. quot;Perhaps in sonic far distant shore. There are who in these forms delight; Whose milky features please them more Than ours of jet, thus hnrnish'd bright: Of such may be his weeping wife. Such children for their sire may call : And if we spare his ebbing life, Our kindness may preserve them all.quot; Thus her compassion woman shows, Beneath the line her acts are these; Nor the wide waste of Lapland snows |
Can her warm flow of pity freeze; — quot;From some sad land the stranger comes. Where joys like ours are never found ; Let's soothe him in our happy homes, \V here freedom sits, with plenty crown'd. quot;Tis good the fainting soul to cheer, To see thefamish'd stranger fed ; To milk for him the mother-deer, To smooth for him the furry bed. The powers above our Lapland bless With good no other people know; T' enlarge the joys that we possess, By feeling those that we bestow Iquot; Thus in extremes of cold and heat. Where wandering man may trace bis kind ; Wherever grief and want retreat. In woman they compassion find : She makes the female breast her seat. And dictates mercy to the mind. Man may the sterner virtues know, — Determined justice, truth severe ; But female hearts with pity glow, And woman holds affliction dear: For guiltless woes her sorrows How. And suffering vice compels her tear, — 'Tis hers to soothe the ills below, And hid life's fairer views appear. To woman's gentle kind we owe What comforts and delights us here ; They its gay hopes on youth bestow. And care they soothe — and ago they cheer. |
De vader van dien dichter was bankier, en gaf hein een zorgvuldige opvoeding. Nadat zijn opvoeding voltooid was deed hij groote reizen, en trad bij zijn terugkomst in de zaak van ziju vader. Zijn grootste werk is't dichtstuk On Italy, welks uitgave hom aan drukloon, plaatwerk en uitvoering honderd twintig duizend gulden moet hebben gekost. In 1822 verscheen daarvan 't eerste deel, en in 1830 bereids een vijfde druk. Zijn eerste werk is een Ode to Superstition, and other Poems (1787); vijf jaar later verscheen van hem The Pleasures of Imagination, waardoor zijn naam als dichter werd gevestigd. Voorts gaf hij uit: Epistle to a friend, and other Poems (1798); quot;Vision of Columbus, en Jacqueline (1814) en Human Life (1819). Byron stelt hern op gelijken voet met Crabbo cu Campbell, en zijn groolc verdiensten als dichter worden algcmcou erkend.
407
Written In the llighlanils of Scotland (
|
lilue was the locli, lliu clouds were gone, Ben-Lomond in his fjlory shone, When , Luss, I left thee ; when the breeze liore me from thy silver sands, Thy kirkyard wall anion;; the trees , AVherc , gray with age, llie dial stands; That dial so well known to me! Though many a shadow it hath shed , lieloved sisler, since with thee The legend on the stone was read. The fairy isles fled far away ; That with its woods and uplands green , Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen , And songs are heard at close of day; That, too, the deer's wild covert lied, And that, the asylum of the dead : While, as the heat went merrily. Much of Rob Roy the boatman told ; ilis arm that fell below bis knee. His cattlc ford and mountain hold, Tarbat{l), thy shore I climbed at last; And , thy shady region passed , Upon another shore I stood , And looked upon another llood (2), (Jroat Ocean's self! ('tis he who Tills That vast and awful depth of hills;) Where many an elf was playing round , Who treads unshod his classic ground ; And speaks , his native rocks among. As Fingal spoke, and Ossian sung. Night fell, and dark and darker grow That narrow sea, that narrow sky, |
As o'er the glimmering waves we llew , The sea bird rustling, wailing by. And now the grampus, half descried , Black and huge above the tide ; The clifts and promontories there. Front to front, and broad and bare ; Each beyond each , with giant feet Advancing as in haste to meet; The shattered fortress , whence the Dane lilew his shrill blast, nor rushed in vain , Tyrant of the drear domain ; All into midnight shadow sweep . When day springs upward from the deep ! Kindling the waters In its flight, The prow wakes splendour, and the oar. That rose and fell unseen before, Flashes in a sea of light; Glad sign and sure, for now we hail Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale; And bright indeed the path sould be. That leads to friendship and to thee! Ü blest retreat, and sacred loo! Sacred as w hen the hell of prayer Tolled duly on the desert air, And crosses decked thy summits blue. Oft like some loved romantic tale. Oft shall my weary mind recall, Amid the hum and stir of men, Thy heechen grove and waterfall, Thy ferry with its gliding sail, And her — the Lady of the Glen ! |
|
The lark has sung his carol in the sky; The bees have hummed their noon-tide lullaby; j Still in the vale the village-hells ring round , Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound; For now the caudle-cup is circling there , Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, Anil, crowding, stop the cradle to admire The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. A few short years — and then these sounds shall hail The day again , and gladness fill the vale ; So soon the child a youth . the youth a man, Eager to run the race his fathers ran. Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ; j The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine: And, basking in the chimney's ample bla/.e, 'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days , The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, quot;Twas on these knees be sate so oft and smiled.' And soon again shall music swell the breeze! Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns besting, |
And violets scattered round ; and old and young. In every cottage-porch with garlands green , Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene; While, her dark eyes declining, by his side Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride. And once, alas! nor in a distant hour. Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weeping's heard where only joy has been ; AVh en by his children borne, and from bis door Slowly departing to return no more, lie rests iu holy earth with them that went before. And such is Human Life; — so gliding on, Itgl immers like a meteor, and is gone! Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange. As full methinks of wild and wondrous change , As any that the wandering tribes require, Stretched in the desert round their evening fire; As any sung of old in hall or bower To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour! |
(1) Signifjlng in the Gaelic languaae an isthmus. (2) Loch Long.
408
Iiceftlo van 17G6 tot 1823 , en werd geboren in Honington (Suffolk). Ten gevolge van 't overlijden van zijn vader, werd hij door zijn moeder naar een oom, die pachter was, gezonden om er den landbouw te leeren ; maar hij was voor dat beroep te zwak , weshalve hij zich begaf naar zijn broeders, dio schoenmakers waren te Londen , waar hij een aantal jaren ala gezel werkte. Hij schreef een dichtstuk naar een oud lied, en zond het kort daarna op aanbeveling naar The London Magazine, waarin het werd opgenomen (1783). Weldra trad hij in den echt, cn schreef in zijn vrijen tijd The Farmer's Boy (1800), dat na veel moeijelijkheden in 't licht werd gegeven. Nu was de aandacht van een ieder op hem gevestigd, en werd hem algemeen lof toegezwaaid, üij werd echter spoedig vergeten, en stierf arm, ziekelijk, ter neergedrukt en verlaten door degenen , die hem lof hadden toegezwaaid. Men heeft nog van hem The Milkmaid, or the first of May j The Tailor's Keturn ; News of the Farm ; Tales, Ballads and Songs (1803); Wild Flowers, or Pastoral and Local Poems (1813); May day with the Muses. Eenvoudigheid, waarheid en warmte van gevoel zijn de hoofdtrekken van zijn poëzie, en hij verdient een eervolle plaats onder zijn tijdgenooteu.
|
Where's the Wind oliild, so admirably fair, With guileless dimples, and with llaxen hair That waves in ev'ry brcc/.e? lie's often seen Beside yon cottage wall, or on the green, With others match'd in spirit and in size. Health on their cheeks, and rapture in their eyes. That full expanse of voice to childhood dear, Soul of their sports, is d uly cherish'd here : And, hark, that laugh is his, that jovial cry ; •— He hears the ball and trundling hoop hrnsfi hy. And runs the giddy course with all his might, A very child in every thing hut sight; With circumscribed, hut not abated powers, Play, the great object of his infant hours. In many a game be takes a noisy part. And shows the native gladness of his heart; But soon he bears, on pleasure all intent, The new suggestion and the quick assent; Come, friend, I'll turn thee up again ; Companion of the lonely hour! Spring thirty times bath fed with rain And cloth'd with leaves my humble bower, Since thou hast stood Jn frame of wood, On chest or window by myside : At every birth still thou wert near, Still spoke thine admonitions clear — And, when my husband died. I've often watch'd thy streaming sand And seen the growing mountain rise. And often found life's hopes to stand Ün props as weak in Wisdom's eyes : Its conic crown Still sliding down, Again heap'd up, then down again ; The sand above more hollow grew. Like days and years still filt'ring through, And mingling joy and pain. |
The grove invites, delight fills every breast — To leap the ditch, and seek the downy nest. Away they start; leave balls and hoops behind, And one companion leave — the boy is blind ! His fancy paints their distant paths so gay, That childish fortitude awhile gives way : He feels his dreadful loss ; — yet short the pain Soon he resumes his cheerfulness again. Pondering how best his moments to employ, Ho sings his little songs of nameless joy ; Creeps on the warm green turf for many an hour, And plucks by chance the white and yellow flower; Smoothing their stems , while resting on his knees, He binds a nosegay which he never sees; Along the homeward path then feels his way, Lifting his brow against the shining day. And , with a playful rapture round his eyes , Presents a sighing parent with the prize. While thus 1 spin and sometimes sing (For now and then my heart will glow). Thou measur'st Time's expanding w ing; By thee the noontide hour 1 know : Though silent thou , Still shalt thou flow , And jog along thy destin'd way. But when I glean the sultry fields, When earth her yellow harvest yields , Thou get'st a holiday. Steady as truth, on either end Thy daily task performing well, Thou'rt Meditation's constant friend, And strik'st the heart without a hell: Come, lovely May ! Thy lengthen'd day Shall gild once more my native plain ; Curl inward here, sweet Woodbine llower; — Companion of the lonely hour, I'll tnrn thee up again. |
409
W 1 L L I AM WO U 1) S W O R T 11 ,
De vriend van Colcriilgo en Southey, werd geboren in 1770 te Cockesmouth , studeerde te Cambridge, deed een voetreis door Frankrijk, Zwitserland en Italië, waarvan hij in 1793 een dichterlijk verslag gaf. Aanvankelijk voor de studiën in de godgeleerdheid opgeleid, zei hij ze vaarwel, legde zich op de dichtkunst toe en werd 't hoofd van een nieuwe school der poëzie, de zoogenaamde Lake School. Wordsworth is voor eenige jaren (waarschijnlijk eerst na 1850) overleden. Hij is een van de verdienstelijkste engelsche dichters dezer eeuw en heeft o. a. nagelaten : An Evening Walk ; An Epistle in verse to a Young Lady ; Descriptive Sketches, taken during a pedestrian tour in the Alps, beiden in 1793; Lyrical Ballads 1798 en 1800; The Excursion; The White Doe of Kylstone (1814). De uitgaven van zijn verschillende stukken zijn talrijk en een van zijn bloedverwanten heeft een geschiedenis van zijn leven uitgegeven, quot;lie is a great poet, and has enriched our literature, with much beautiful and noble writing. He may not have succeeded in every instance, in which he has tried to glorify the familiar and elevate the low, but lio has nevertheless taught us, that the domain of poetry is much wider and more various, than it used to be deemed , that there is a great deal of it to be found, where it was formerly the fashion to look for anything of the kind, and that the poet does not absolutely require for the exercise of his art, and the display of his powers what are commonly called illustrious or distinguished characters, and an otherwise dignified subject auy more than long and learned words.quot;
quot;Through no dislui ltance of my soul.
Or stronj; compunction in me ■wrought, I supplicate fur thy conlroul;
But in the quietness of thought ;
Me this uncharterM freedom tires ;
I foci the weight of chance-desires :
My hopes no more must change their name,
J long fora repose which ever is the same.
''Yet not the less would i throughout Still act according lo ihe voice Of my own wish ; and feel past doubt.
That my sulunissiveness was choice :
Not seeking in the school of pride For 'precepts over dignified,'
Denial i.nd restraint 1 prize, (wise.
No farther than they hreed a second Will, more
quot;Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear 'J'lie Godhead's most henignant grace ;
Nor know we any thing so fair As is the smile upon thy face ;
Klowers laugh before thee on their beds; And Fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through thee, arc
(fresh and strong.
quot;To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend Unto tby guidance from this hour;
Ob! let my weakness have an end !
Give unto me, made lowly wise.
The spirit of self-sacrifice ;
The confidcnce of reason give;
And in I lie lijdit of truth tbv bondman letmelivclquot;
quot;An Orpheus! an Orpheus! — yes, Faith may grow! quot;His station is there; — and be works on the crowd'
And take to herself all the wonders of old ; — (bold,! He sways them with harmony merry and loud ;
Near the stalely Pantheon you'll meet with the same lie fills with his power all theirhearts to the brim —
In the street that from Oxford hath borrow'd its name.1 Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and bitn ?
quot;Stern Daughter of the Voice of God !
0 Duty ! if that name thou love,
Who art a Light to guide, a Rod To check the erring, and reprove ;
Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost Set free,
From strife and from despair ; a glorious ministry.
quot;There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them ; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth.
Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot Who do thy work, and know it not:
May joy be theirs while life shal I last I (stand fast! And Thou, if they should totter, teach them to
quot;Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
Anil joy its own security.
And bless'd are they who in the main.
This faith, even now, do entertain ;
Li ve in the spirit of this creed ; (need.
Yet find that other strength, according to their
quot;I, loving freedom, and untried ;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have repos'd my trust:
Kesolv'd that nothing e'er should press
Upon my present happiness,
1 shov'd unwelcome tasks away;
But thee 1 now would servemore strictly, if I may
52
410
|
quot;Wliat an eaper assembly! wliat an empire is this! The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss; The mourner is cheered, the anxious have rest; And the guilt-harthen'd soul is no longer opprest. quot;As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the So he, where he stands, is a centre of light; (night, It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-fac'd Jack, And the pale-visag'd Baker's, with basket on back. quot;That errand-hound 'Prentice was passing in haste— What matter! he'scaugbt-and his time runs to waste-The Newsman is stopp'd, though he stops on the fret, And the half-hreathlcss Lamp-lighter he's in the net! ''The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore ; The Lass with a barrow wheels hither her store; — Ifa Thief could be here be might pilferwith ease; She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees! quot;He stands, back'd by the wall; — he ahales not his His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in, (din; In youth from rock to rock I went. From bill to hill, discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent, Most pleas'd when most uneasy ; But now my own delights I make, — My thirst at every rill can slake. And gladly Nature's love partake Of thee, sweet Daisy! When soothed a while by milder airs. The Winter in the garland wears That thinly shades his few gray hairs ; Spring cannot shun thee; Whole summer-fields are thine by right; And Autumn, melancholy wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee. In shoals and bands, a morrice-train , Thou grcetst the Traveller in the lane; If welcotn'd once ihon counts it gain ; Thou art nol daunted. Nor car'st if thou he set at naught: And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought. When such are wanted. Be Violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton Zephyrs chase; Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling; Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou art indeed by many a claim The Poet's darling. If to a rock from rains he fly. Or, some bright day of April-sky, Imprison'd by hot sunshine lie Near the green holly. |
From the old and the young; the poorest—and there! The one-pennied hoy has his penny to spare. quot;0 blest are the hearers, and proud he the hand Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a hand; I am glad for him, blind as he is! — all the while If they speak 'tis topraise, and they praise with a smile. '•That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height. Not an inch of his body is free from delight; Can he keep himself still, if he would ? oh, not be! The music stirs in him like wind through a tree. quot;There's a Cripple that leans on hiscrutch; like a tower That long has lean'd forward, leans hour after hour!_ A Mother whose spirit in fetters is bound. While she dandles the babe in her arms to thesound. quot;Now, Coaches and Chariots! roar on like a stream ; Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream : They are deaf to your murmurs — they care not for Nor what ye are flying, or what ye pursue!quot; (you, And wearily at length should fare; He need hut look about, and there Thou art! — a Friend at hand, to scare Ilis melancholy. A hundred times, by rock or bower, Kre thus I have lain couch'd an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension ; Some steady love ; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy wrong or right; Or stray invention. If stately passions in me burn , And one chance look to Thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life , our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure. When, smitten by the morning-ray, 1 see thee rise alert and gay, Then , cheerful Flower! my spirits play With kindred gladness: And when , at dusk, by dews opprest Thou sinkst, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness. And all day long I number yet. All seasons through , another debt. Which I , wherever thou art met, To thee am owing ; An instinct call it, a blind sense ; A happy, genial influence: Coming one knows not how nor whence, Nor whither going. |
411
|
Child of llic Year! thai round dosl run Thy course, bold lover of llic sun , And cheerful when the day's begun As morning Leveret, Thy long-lost praise thou shalS regain ; Dear slialt thou he to future men As in old time ; — thou not in vain Art Nature's Favorite. With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be , Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee, For thou art worthy. Thou unassuming Common-place Of Nature, with that homely face , And yet with something of a grace, Whicb Love makes for thee! Oft do I sit by thee at ease, And weave a web of similies , Loose types of Things through all degrees , Thoughts of thy raising; And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame. As is the humour of the game, While I am gazing. A Nun demure, of lowly port, Or sprightly Maiden, of Love's Court, In thy simplicity the sport Of all temptations; A Queen in crown of rubios drest, A Starveling in a scanty vest, Are all, as seem to snit thee best, Thy appelations. A little Cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy, That thought conies next — and instantly The freak is over. The shape will vanish , and behold ! A silver Shield with boss of gold , That spreads itself, some Fairy bold In fight to cover. I see thee glittering from afar ; — Aud then thou art a pretty Star, Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou secmst to rest; — May peace come never to his nest. Who shall reprove thee! Sweet Flower ! for by that name at last, When all my reveries are past, I call thee, and to that cleave fast, Sweet silent Creature! That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou , as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature I Bright Flower, whose home is every where! A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care, |
And all the long year through the hoir Of joy or sorrow, Metbinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity. Given to no other Flower I see The forest thorough! Is it that Man is soon deprest ? A thoughtless Thing! who, once unhlest. Does little on his memory rest. Or on his reason ; And Thou wouldst teach him how to llnd A shelter under every wind , A hope for times that are unkind And every season ? Thou wanderest the wide world about, Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt, With friends to greet thee, or without, Yet pleased and willing; Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, And all things suffering from all, T/iy function apostolical In peace fulfilling. Sweet Flower, belike one day to have A place upon thy Poet's grave, I welcome thee once more : Hut He, who was on land, at sea. My Brother, too, in loving thee. Although he loved more silently, Sleeps by bis native shore. Ah ! hopeful, hopeful was the day When to that Ship he bent bis way To govern and to guide: His wish was gained : a little time Would bring him back in manhood's prime, And free for life, these hills to climb With all his wants supplied. And full of hope day followed day While that stout Ship at anchor lay Beside the shores of Wight; The May had then made all things green , And, floating there in pomp serene, That Ship was goodly to be seen His pride and his delight! Yet then, when called ashore, he sought The tender peace of rural thought; In more than happy mood To your abodes, bright Daisy-flowers! He then would steal at leisure-hours And loved you glittering in your bowers, A starry multitude. But hark the word! — the Ship is gone; — From her long course returns: — anon Sets sail: — in season due Once more on English earth they stand: But, when a third time from the land They parted , sorrow was at hand For Him and for his Crew. Ill-fated Vessel! — ghastly shock! — |
412
|
At length delivered from tlie rock Tlie deep she hath regained ; And through the stormy night they steer, Lahouring for life, in hope and fear, Towards a safer shore — how near. Yet not to he attained ! Silence! the hrave Commander cried ; To that calm word a shriek replied , It was the last death-shriek. — A few appear hy morning-light, Preserved upon th« tall mast's height; Oft in my soul I see that sight; But one dear remnant of the night — For him in vain 1 seek. Six weeks hcneatli the moving sea lie lay in slumber quietly; Unforced by wind or wave To quit the Ship for ■which he died , (All claims of duly satisfied) |
And there they found him at her side; And bore him to the grave. Vain service! yet not vainly done For this, if other end were none , That he, wiio hail been cast Upon a way of life unmeet For such a gentle soul and sweet, Should find an undisturbed retreat Near what he loved , at last; That neighbourhood of grove and field To Him a resting-place should yield , A meek man and a brave! The birds shall sing and ocean make, A mournful murmur for his sake ; And Thou, sweet Flower, shalt sleep and wake Upon his senseless gravel |
Ofschoon deze dichter, even nis Walter Scott, een Schot van geboorte is (hij werd geboren te Irvine, in Ayrshire) plaatsen wij hem onder de engelsche dichters, omdat ons geen stukkeu van hem iu zijn moedertaal bekend zijn. Zijn vader was een zendeling van de moravische broeders en liet zijn zoon in Yorkshire, om er zijn opvoeding te laten voltooijen. Zijn ouders overleden in West-Indie. Montgomery gaf reeds op een leeftijd van twaalf jaren blijken van zijn dichterlijken aanleg, doch werd niet te min als bediende in een winkel geplaatst. Dat beroep verveelde hem en op een goeden dag vertrok hij met twee-en-veertig stuivers op zak naar Londen , ten eindo er zijn geluk te beproeven. Aanvankelijk kon hij geen uitgever voor zijn werk vinden, doch werd door een boekhandelaar als bediende opgenomen. De fortuin was hem evenwel spoedig gunstiger gezind , want in 1792 werd hij bij den uitgever van 't SlielUeld llegister , een nieuwsblad, waaraan hij con amort- meêwerkte, geplaatst. Weldra werd de uitgever, wegens druk-persdelikten vervolgd, genoodzaakt 't land te verlaten, en Montgomery zelf eigenaar van dat blad , dat bij onder den titel van SbelKeld Iris uitgaf. Daarin was hij een voorstander van staatkundige en godsdienstvrijheid , en dit berokkende hem spoedig vervolging, boete en gevangenisstraf: een en ander had hij aan do poëzie The Fall of the Hastile en een verhaal van een oploop in Sheffield te danken. Naauivelijks op vrije voeten gesteld , verdedigde hij do zaak , waarvoor hij had geleden , met nog meer warmte, 'tgeen met den tijd deze dichter hoe langer hoe meer in achting deed komen. Men heeft van hem : Prison Amusements (1797); The Ocean (1808); Wanderer in Switseiiand (1809); The West Indies (1809); The World before the Flood (1812); Thoughts on Wheels (1817); The Climbing ISoy's Soliloquies ; Greenland (1819); The Pelican Island (1828). Bovendien leverde hij nog een aantal bijdragen in dagbladen en tijdschriften. In 1811 verscheen een verzameling van zijn werken; in 1851 al zijn werken in 8vo, waarvan twee edition ■bestaan, en iu 1853 Original Hymns, for Public, Private and Social Devotion. Van 1833 tot aan zijn dood heeft deze dichter een aanzienlijk jaargeld genoten. Zijn poczie moet men niet beoordeelen naar de Edinburgh Review, maar naar do ontvangst, die zijn werken te beurt viel bij 't algemeen, zegt Allan Cunningham, wien wij onder de schotsche dichters van dit tijdperk zullen behandelen. quot;A tone of generous and enlightened morality pervades all the writings of the poet. He was the enemy of the slave trade and of every form of opposition, and the warm friend of every scheme of philanthropy and improvement. The pious and devotional feelings displayed in his early effusions have grown with his growth, and form the staple of bis poetry. In description, however, he is not less happyquot;......
|
Friend after friend departs ; Who hath not lost a friend ? There is no union here of hearts, That finds not here an end : Were this frail world our only rest, — Living; or dying , none wore blest. |
Beyond the flight of time, Beyond this vale of death , — There surely is some blessed clime, Where life is not a breath , Nor life's affections transient fire. Whose sparks lly upward to expire. |
415
|
There is a world above, Wliere parting is unknown , — A whole eternity of love, FormM for the jjood alone; And faitli beholds thedyin;; here Translated lo that happier sphere. |
Thus star hy star declines, Till all are pass'd away. As niorning high and higher shines To pure and perfect day; Nor sink ihosestars in empty nij;ht, — They hide themselves in heaven's own light. |
|
Night is the time for rest; llow sweet, when labours close. To gather round an aching hreast The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams ; The gay romance of life , When truth that is and truth that seems , Blend in fantastic strife ; Ah! visions less beguiling far Than waking dreams by daylight are! Night is the time for toil; To plough the classic field, Intent to find the buried spoil Its wealthy furrows yield ; Till all is ours that sages taught, That poets sang or heroes wrought (1). Night is the time lo weep ; To wet with unseen tears Those graves of memory where sleep The joys of other years; Hopes that were angels in their birth , Hut perished young like things on earth ' Night is the time to watch ; On ocean's dark expanse To hail the Pleiades , or catch There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found , They softly lie and sweetly sleep Low in the ground. The storm that wrecks the winter sky No more disturbs their deep repose , Than summer evening's latest sigh That shuts the rose. 1 long to lay this painful bead And aching heart beneath the soil, |
The full moon's earliest glance , That brings unto the home-sick mind All w e have loved and left behind. Night is the time for care; lirooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of despair Come to our lonely tent; Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, Startled by Caesar's stalwart ghost. Night is the time to muse ; Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and with expanding views Beyond the starry pole; Descries athwart the abyss of night The dawn of uncreated light. Night is the time to pray; Our Saviour oft withdrew To desert mountains far away ; So will his followers do; Steal from tbe throng to haunts untrod, And bold communion there with God. Night is the time for death ; When all around is peace , Calmly to yield the weary breath, From sin and solFeringcease: Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends—such death he mine I To slumber in that dreamless bed From all my toil. For misery stole me at my birth , And cast me helpless on the wild: I perish : 0, my mother earth! Take borne thy child ! On thy dear lap these limbs reclined , Shall gently moulder into thee; Nor leave one wretched trace behind Ucsernbling me. |
|
(1) Without any wish to make pednntie objections, inconsistent with natural truth anil a just economy proper for repose, and, if spent in mental labour, in must redound to the injury of health. Chambers. |
we may be allowed to remark, that this stanza is of life. Day is the time for toil — night is more addition to other duties pursued during the day, |
414
|
Hark! a strange sound alïriglits mine car; My pulse, my brain runs wild—I rave: All! who art thou whose voice I hear ? 'I am the Grave! The Grave, that never spake before, Hath foand at length a tongue to chide; 0 listen ! I will speak no more: Be silent, pride! Art thou a wretch , of hope forlorn , The victim of consuming care ? Is thy distracted conscience torn By fell despair ? Do foul misdeeds of former times Wring with remorse thy guilty breast ? And ghosts of unforgiven crimes Murder thy rest ? Lashed by the furies of the mind , From wrath and vengeance wouldst thou flee? Ah ! think not, hope not, fool! to find A friend in me. By all the terrors of the tomb, Beyond the power of longue to tell! By the dread secrets of my womb! By death and hell! 1 charge thee live I repent and pray; In dust thine infamy deplore; There yet is mercy; go thy way, And sin no more. Art thou a mourner? Hast thou known The joy of innocent delights ? Endearing days for ever flown , And tranquil nights ? O live! and deeply cherish still The sweet remembrance of the past: Rely on Ueavcn's unchanging will For peace at last. Art thon a wanderer ? Hast thou seen O'erwhelming tempests drown thy bark ? A shipwrecked sufFerer, hast thou been Misfortune's mark ? Though long of winds and waves the sport, Condemned in wretchedness to roam. Live! thou shalt reach a sheltering port, A quiet home. To friendship didst thou trust thy fame ? And was thy friend a deadly foe, Who stole into thy breast, to aim A surer blow ? Live! and repine not o'er his loss, A loss unworthy to be told : |
Thou hast mistaken sordid dross For friendship's gold. Go, seek that treasure , seldom found , Of power the fiercest griefs to calm , And soothe the bosom's deepest wound With heavenly halm. Did woman's charms thy youth beguile, And did the fair one faithless prove? Had she betrayed thee with her smile , And sold thy love? Live! 'twas a false bewildering fire : Too often love's insidious dart Thrills the fond soul with wild desire, But kills the heart. Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how dear, To gaze on listening beauty's eye ! To ask—and pause in hope and fear Till she reply! A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, A brighter maiden faithful prove; Thy youth , thine age, shall yet be blest In woman's love. Whate'er thy lot, whoe'er thou he. Confess thy folly—kiss the rod. And in thy chastening sorrows see The band of God. A bruised reed he will not break ; Afflictions all his children feel; He wounds them for his mercy's sake ; He wounds to heal! Humbled beneath his mighty hand, Prostrate his Providence adore: 'Tis done!— Arise! He bids thee stand, To fall no more. Now , traveller in the vale of tears! To realms of everlasting light, Through time's dark wilderness of years, Pursue thy flight. There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found; And while the mouldering ashes sleep Low in the ground ; The soul, of origin divine, God's glorious image , feed from clay , In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine A star of day! The sun is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky ; The soul, immortal as its sire , Shall never die.' |
|
Prayer is the soul's sincere desire Uttered or unexpressed ; |
The motion of a hidden fire That trembles in the breast. |
415
|
l'rayer is the burtlien of a sigli, The falling of a tear; The upward glancing of an eye , When none but God is near. Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try; Prayer the suhlimest strains that reach The Majesty on high. Prayer is the Christian's vital breath , The Chrislian's native air; His watchword at the gates of death : He enters heaven by prayer. Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice Returning from his ways; |
While angels in their songs rcjoicc, And say, 'Behold he prays!' The saints in prayer appear as one, In word , and deed , and mind , When Vfilh the Father and his Son Their fellowship they find. Nor prayer is made on earth alone: The Holy Spirit pleads ; And Jesus, on the eternal throne, For sinners intercedes. O Thou , by whom wc come to God , The Life, the Truth , the Way, The path of prayer thyself hast trod ; Lord, teach us how to pray! |
Even als Montgomery in Schotland geboren (1771), verdient hij ook even als deze onder do engelsohe dichters, en vooral om zijn prozawerken onder do engelsche prozaschrijvers te worden opgenomen. HIJ sleet zijn eerste levensjaren tengevolge van zijn ziekelijk gestel bij zijn grootvader op 't land, dat op do rigliiiH van den dichter (diiiir door geschiedkundige gidenkteekens en natuurtooneelen omringd) grooten invloed had. Hij maakte aan de universiteit to Edinburgh groute vorderingen , doch had een afkeer van de grieksche taal. Duitseh, Franseh, Italiaansch en Spaansch kende hij vrij wel en hij legde zich met goeden uilslag op de beoefening der regtsgelecrdheid toe. Scott had op zijn een-en-twintigste jaar zijn gezondheid volkomen terug en was een krachtvol eu stevig man. Zijn innemende manieren deden hem overal welkom zijn. Door toevallige otnslandigheden kreeg hij bijzonder lust om de zangen , die aan de grenzen nog bij overlevering bestonden , bijeen te verzamelen , van welke weldra de uitslag gunstig bleek te zijn door zijn Minstrelsy of the Scottish liorder (1802), waarin een aantal stukken werden opgenomen , die vroeger niet in 't licht waren gegeven. In 1803 verscheen een derde deel met een aantal navolgingen van hem en zijn vrienden. Vervolgens verschenen van hem: Lay of the Last Minstrel (1805); Marmion (1808); Lady of the Lake (1810); The Vision of don Roderick (1811); Rokeby en The Bridal of Trier-main (1813); The Lord of the Isles (1814); The Field of Waterloo (1815); Harold the Dauntless (1817) en nu en dan dramas , die echter zeer goed hadden kunnen achterwege blijven. Ook waren zijn laatste werken niet zoo goed ais zijn eerste. Zijn stijl was nu algemeen bekend en men begon hem moede te worden, liyron was als dichter opgetreden en nu wendden zich de lezers van poëzie naar dien talentvollen dichter, om hem te aanbidden. Scott was echter te onverschrokken en onbevangen om zich te laten afschrikken. quot;If Scott's own genius, says Craik, indeed, were to be described by any single epithet, it would be called a narrative genius. Hence when he left off writing verso, be betook himself to the production of fictions in prose , which were really substantially the same thing with his poems , and in that freer form of composition succeeded in achieving a second reputation still more brilliant than his first.quot; quot;As the old mine gave symptoms of exhaustion, says Bulwer , the new mine, ten times more affluent, at least in the precious metals, was discovered ; and just as in Uokeby and Triermain the Genius of the Ring seemed to ling in its powers , came the more potent Genius of !he Lamp in the shape of Waverley (1814). De Waverley, zonder zijn naam verschenen nit vrees, dat zijn roem als diebter daardoor zou worden benadeeld, werd echter algemeen buitengewoon gunstig ontvangen Weldra verschenen nu Guy Mannering (1815); The Antiquary; The Black Dwarf; Old Mortality alle drie 1816; Rob Hoy en The Heart of Midlothian beiden in 1818; The Bride of Lanimermoor en The Legen I of Montrose in 1819; Ivanboe (1820) en The Monastary en Abbot (beiden in 't jaar vim Ivanhoe); The Fortunes of Nigel ^1822): Peveril of the Peak; Quentin Durward en St. Roman's Well (1823); Rcdgaunlet (1824); Tales of the Crusaders (1825); Life of Napoleon (1827); The Chronicles of the Canongate (1828), in two series, Tales of a grandfather; History of Scotland; Lettres on Demonology; Anne of Geirstein (182'J). Van 1811 tot 182G had Scott grooten voorspoed; maar toen trof hem een gevoelig verlies, door zijn boekhandelaar , in wiens handel hij deelgenoot was. Reeds in 1829 had hij echter zijn schuldeischers 70,000 pond sterling van 't tekort afgedaan. In 1830 werd Scott door een beroerte getroffen, welke terugkwam in 1831 , in weerwil van een groote reis, die hij tot herstel van gezondheid had ondernomen, en hij overleed eindelijk na een langdurig doch zacht lijden den een-en-twintigsten September 1832. Gaarne zouden wij hem uitvoerig behandelen , maar we moeten ons vergenoegen beknoptheidshalve van hem te zeggen , dat hij de grootste Novelist was, die 't Vereenigd Koningrijk, ja, geheel Europa, vóór hem mogt aanschouwen. Scott was de stichter van een romantische school en zijn romans onderscheiden zich door uitvoerige beschrijving, getrouwheid in 't schetsen van zijn karakters, gemakkelijke en levendige dialoog en de kiesche behandeling van liefdeshistoriën. Tot dat alles was natuurlijk een uitgebreide kennis van de zeden en gewoonten en bekendheid van de oude kronijken van Engeland en Schotland noodzakelijk eu beiden bezat hij in ruime mate. Als dichter is hij groot, doch zijn romans en Byron hebben zijn poétischen naam in de schaduw geplaatst.
416
|
Lochinvar. {Lady Heron's Song.) O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Tiirougli all the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good hroad-sword, lie weapons had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war , There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. lie staid not lor brake, and he stopped not for stone, lie swam the Esko river where ford there was none; But j ere he alighted at Nclherhy gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came laic : Fora laggard in love, and a dastard in war. Was to wed the fair Ellen of bravo Lochinvar. So boldly be entered the Netherby Hall, (all: Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword. (For tlie poor Graven bridegroom said never a word.) quot;0 come ye in peace liere, or come ye iti war , Or to danceat our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?quot; — quot;Ilongwoo'd your daughter, my suit you denied; — Love swells like the Solway , but ebbs like its tide— And now lam come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, Thut would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.quot; The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up , Ilequafl'ed oilquot; the wine, and he threw down the cup. She loolied down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — quot;Now tread we a measure!quot; said young Lochinvar. So stately his form , and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume , And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and (plume ; And the bride-maidens whispered,'quot;Twere bet ter by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Locliin- (var.'' One touch to her band , and one word in her ear , When they reached the bal I-door,and thecharger stood So light to the croupe the fair lady he swunu, (near; So light to the saddle before her be sprung! quot;She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow,quot; quoth young (Lochinvar, There was mounting 'mong Grames of the Netherby (clan ; Forstcrs, Fenwieks, and Musgraves, Ihcy rode and (they ran! There was racing, and chasing, on Cnnnohie Lee , But the lost bride of Netherby n'er did they see. |
So daring in love , and so dauntless in war. Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? the battle. Even so it was; — from Klodden ridge The Scots beheld the English host Leave Barmore-wood , their ev'ning post, And heedful watched them as they crossed The Till by Twisel Bridge. High sight it is, and haughty, while They dive into the deep defile; Beneath the caverned cliflquot; they fall ■, Beneath the castle's airy wall. By rock , by oak , by hawthorn tree, Troop after troop are disappearing ; Troop after troop their banners rearing. Upon the eastern bank you see. Still pouring down the rocky den. Whore flows the sullen Till, And rising from the din-wood glen , Standards on standards, men on men. In slow succession still, And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch , And pressing on , in ceaseless march , To gain tbe opposing hill. That morn , to many a trumpet-clang, Twisel ! thy rock's deep echo rang ; And many a chief of birth and rank , Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank. Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see In spring- tide bloom so lavishly , Had then from many an axe its doom , To give the marching columns room. And why stands Scotland idly now , Dark Floddeu ! on thy airy hrow , Since England gains tbe pass tbe while. And struggles through the deep defile ? What checks the fiery soul of James? Why sits that champion of the Dames Inactive on his steed, And sees , between him and his land , Between him and Tweed's southern strand , His host Lord Surrey lead ? What vail« the vain knight crrant's bran;!? — O, Douglas, for ihy leading wand ! Fierce Randolph , for thy speed ! O for one hour of W.illace wight , Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight, And cry— quot;Saint Andrew and our right!quot; Another sight had seen that morn. From Fate's dark book a leaf been lorn . And Flodden had been Bannock-burn I — The precious hour has passed in vain , Anil England's host has gained the plain ; AV heeling their march .and circling still, Around the base of Floddon-hill. |
417
|
lire yol the bands met Marmion's eye, Fill-Eustace shouted loud and high, — •'Flarlt! hark ! my lord , an English drum ! And seeascendiiij; squadrons come Between Tweed's river and the hill, Foot, horse, and cannon : — hap what hap , My basnet to a 'prentice cap, Lord Surrey's o'er the Till I — Yet more I yet more! — liow fair arrayed They file from out the hawthorn shade , And sweep so gallant by ! With all their banners bravely spread , And all their armour flashing high, Saint George might waken from the dead. To see fair England's standards fly.quot; — quot;Stint in thy prate quoth lilount; 'quot;thoud'st best. And listen to our lord's behest.quot; — ■\Vitl] kindling brow Lord JIarmion said, — quot;This instant he our band arrayed ; The river must be quickly crossed, That vie may join Lord Surrey's host. If fight King James, — as well I trust, That fight he will , and fight he must, — The Lady Clare behind our lines Shall tarry, while the battle joins. quot; — Himself he swift on horseback threw, Scarce to the Abbot hade adieu; Far less would listen t gt; his prayer, To lca\e behind the helpless Clare. Down to the Tweed his hand he drew , And muttered , as the flood they view, quot;The pheasant in the fal ;on's claw, lie scarce will yield to please a daw : • Lord Angus may tlie Abbot awe , So Clare shall bide with me.quot; Then on that dangerous ford , and deep , Where to the Tweed Leat's eddies crcep, He ventured desperately; And not a moment will he hide. Till squire, or groom , before him ride; Headmost of all he sti'rns the tide, And stems it gallanty. Eustace held Clare npon her horse, Old Hubert led her rein , Stonily they braved the current's course. And, though far downward driven per force, The southern hank they gain ; Behind t hem , straggling , came to shore. As best they might, the train : Each o'er his head his yew-how bore, A caution not in vain ; Deep need that day that every string. By wet unbanned, should sharply ring. A moment then i.ord Marmion staid , And breathed hissteed, his men arrayed , Then forward moved his hand. Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won , He halted by a cross of stone. That, on a hillock standing lone, Did all the field command. |
Hence might they see the full array Of either host, for deadly fray; Their marshalled lines stretched cast and west, And fronted north and south, And distant, salutation past From the loud cannon mouth ; Not in the dose successive rattle. That breathes the voice of modern battle , But slow and far between. — The hillock gained. Lord Marmion staid: ■'Here, by this cross ,quot; he gently said , '•You well may view the scene. Here shalt thou tarry . lovely Clare j O! think of Marmion in thy prayer ! — Tliou wilt not? — well . — no less my care Shall, watehfull, for thy weal prepare.— You, Blount and Eustace, are hor guard , With ten picked archers of my train; With England if the day go hard. To Berwick speed amain.— But, if weconquer, cruel maid ! My spoils shall at your feet be hiid , When here we meet again.quot; — He waited not for answer there, And would not mark the maid's despair. Kor heed the discontented look From either sqnire; hut spurred amain , And, dashing through the battle-plain , His way to Surrey took. quot;—The good Lord Marmion, by my life! Welcome to danger's hour! Short greeting serves in time of strife : — Thus have 1 ranged my power: Myself will rule ibis central host, Stout Stanley fronts their right; My sons command the vanward post. With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight; Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light, Shall be in rear-ward of the fight, Ami succour those that need it most. Now , gallant Marmion , well I know. Would gladly to the vanguard go ; Kdmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there, With thee their charge will hliihely share; There fight thine own retainers too. Beneath De Burg, thy steward true.quot; — quot;Thanks, noble Surrey!quot; Marmion said. Nor further greeting there he paid ; But, parting like a thunder-holt, First in the vanguard made a halt, Where such a shout there rose Of''Marmion 1 Marmion 1quot; that the cry Up Flodden mountain shrilling high , Startled the Scottish foes. lilount and Fiti Eustace rested still With Lady Clare upon the hill; On which, (for far the day was spent.) The western sun-beams now were bent. The cry they heard , its meaning knew, |
418
|
Coulil plain tlicir (listanl comradcs view : Sndly to Blount did Etislace say, quot;Uiiworlliy oifice hero to stay ! No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — But, see! look up—on Flodden hent, Tile Scottish foe lias fired liis tent.quot; — And sudden , as he spolie, From (he sharp ridges of the hill, All downward to the hanks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke; Voluincd and vast, and rolling far, 'J'he cloud envelopped Scotland's war, As down thctiill they broke; Nor marlial shout, nor minstrel tone. Announced their march ; their Head alone , At times one warning trumpet blown , At times a stifled bum , Told England, from his mountain-tbrono King James did rushing come. — Scarce could they bear , or see their foes, Until at weapon-point they close. — They close, in clouds of smoke and dust , With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust; And such a yell was there. Of sudden and portentous birth, As if men fought upon the earth, And fiends in upper air. Long looked the anxious squires ; their eye Could in the darkness nought descry. At length the freshening western blast Aside the shroud of battle cast; And, first, the ridge of mingled spears Above the brightening cloud appears: And in the smoke the pennons flew , As in the storm the white sea-mew. Then marked they, dashing broad and far , The broken billows of the war, And plumed crests of chieftains brave , Floating like foam upon the wave; But nought distinct they see; Wide raged the battle on the plain ; Spears shook, and faulchions flashed amain ; Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; Crests rose, and stooped , and rose again , AVihl and disorderly. Amid the scene of tumult, high Tliey saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly : And stainless Tnnstall's banner while , And Edmund Howard's lion hrigbt, Still hear tliein bravely in the fight; Althoiigh against them come, Of gallant Gordons many a one. And many a stubborn Higblandman , And many a rugged Border clan , With Huntley, and with Home; Far on the left, unseen the while, Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle; Though there the western rnonntaineer Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, And flung the feeble large aside, |
And with both hands the broad-sword plied 'Twas vain. — But Fortune, on the right. With fn klesmile, cheered Scotland's fi'dit. Then fi ll that spotless banner white, The Howard's lion fell; ^et still Lord Marmion's falcon flew With wavering flight, while fiercer grew Around the battle yell. The Border slogan rent the sky ! A Home! a Gordon ! was the cry; Loud were the clanging blows; Advanced,—forced hack, — now low , now The pennon sunk and rose; As bends the bark's mast in the gale, When rent are rigging, shrouds , and sail, It wavered mid the foes. No longer Blount the view could bear: — quot;By heaven, and all its saints! I swear, 1 will not see it lost! FiU-Euslace, you with Lady Clare May bid your beads, and patter pravcr, — 1 gallop to I he host.quot; And to the fray he rode amain , Followed by all the archer train. The fiery youth, with desperate charge. Made, for a space, an opening large, — The rescued banner rosi-, — But darkly closed the war around , Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, It sunk among the foes. Then Eustace mounted too ; — yet staid , As loth to leave the helpless maid , When, fastasshaft can Blood shul Ins eyes, liis nostrils spread , The loose rein dan^lini» from liis liearl, Housing and saddle Moody red , Lord Marmion's steed rushed by ; And Eustace, maddening at the sijjht, A look and si{jn to Clara cast, To murk he would return in haste, Then plunged into the fijjht. Ask me not what the maiden feels, Left in that dreadful hour alone; Perchance her reason stoops, or reels; Perchance a courage, not her own , Braces her mind lo desperate lone — The scattered van of England wheels; — She only suid , as loud in air The tumult roared, uls Wilton there?quot; They fly , or, maddened hy despair , I Fiijht hut to die. — l,ls AVilton there Iquot; 1 With that, straight up the hill there rode ! Two horsemen drenched with {;ore. And in their arms, a helpless load, A wou rider! knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand ; His arms were smeared with blood , and sand Dra^jjed from among Hie horses' feet, With dinted shield , and h 1 met heat, The falcon-crest and plumage /;orie , |
419
420
|
The war, llial for a space did fall, Now tidily thundering swelled the jjale, Atid — Stanley! was the cry ; — A liylit on Marmion's \isa(;e spread, And fired his gla/iny eye : |
With dyin|{ hand, above his head lie shook the frajjment of his blade, Anil shouted quot;Victory ! — quot;Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on !quot; Were the last words of Marmion. |
Deze dichter werd geboren te Ottery St. Mary (Devonshire), ontving zijn eerste leiding te Londen en daarna te Cambridge, van waar hij zich naar Londen (na verloop van drie joar) terugbegaf, en er als dragonder dienst nam. Door den invloed van zijn vrienden kreeg hij evenwel op hun verzoek spoedig ontslag , maar wilde nu met Sontbey en een ouderen vriend naar Amerika vertrekken , om er een republiek, op de beginselen van algemeene gelijkheid gegrondvest, Ie stichten. Liefde en geldgebrek waren echter een te fjroote hinderpaal voor de uitvoering van dat plan , weshalven hij daarvan afzag, in den echt trad en de letterkundige loopbaan kous. In 1798 begaf hij zich naar Duitschland , keerde in 1800 naar Engeland terug en vertrok in 1804 naar Malta, met een staatsbetrekking vereerd; maar hield zich steeds met letterkundige en dichterlijke werkzaamheden bezig , en was reeds in 1805 op reis naar Ilaliè, van waar hij naar Engeland terugkeerde. quot;Visions of grace, tenderness, and majesty seem ever to have haunted him. Some of these he embodied in exquisite verse ;quot;.... quot;of Coleridge's poetry, in its most matured form and in its best specimens , the most distinfruisbing characteristics are vividness of imagination and subtlety of thought, combined with unrivalled beauty and expressiveness of diction, and the most exquisite melody of verse. With the exception of a vein of melancholy and meditative tenderness, flowing rather from a contemplative survey of the mystery — the strangely mingled good and evil , — of all things human , than connected with any individual interests, there is not in general much of passion in his compositions, and he is not well fitted, therefore, to become a very popular poet, or a favourite with the multitude. His love itself, warm and tender as it is, is still Plntonic and spiritual in tenderness, rather than n thing of flesh and blood.quot; — Men hecft van hem o. a. in poëzie: Juvenile Poems (1796); Ode to the Departing Yenr (1796); France, an Ode (1797); Fears in Solitude (1798); Christabel , first part (1797), doch eerst in 181G met't Second part verschenen ; The Rime of the Ancient Mariner; Foster Mother's Tale; Nightingale (1800) — opgenomen in de Lyrical Uallads van Wordsworth; — de dramas: The Fall of Kobespierre (1796); Zapoyla (IS16) en 't treurspel Remorse; een vcrtaliuff van Schiller's Wallenstcin , enz.; — in proza, o. a.; The Statesman's Manual, or the Bible the best Guide to Political Skill and Foresight; a Lay Sermon (1816); a Second Lay Sermon, addressed to the Higher and Middle Classes on the Distresses and Discontents (1817); Kiographia Literaria (18!7); Aids to Reflection (1825); On the Constitution of the Church and State (1830). In een werk Biographical Sketches of my literary life and opinions by S. ï. C., London 1817 geeft hij zelf een beschrijving van zijn leven.
Tlie rime of tlic ancient inariucr.
|
Part i. It is an ancient mariner, And he stoppcth one of I hree ; 'By 'liy loi'ir g'ay beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'sl thou me ? The bridegroom's doors arc opened wide, And I am next of kin ; The guests are met, the feast is set; Mayst hear the merry din.' He holds him with his skinny baud ; 'There was a ship,' quoth be. 'Hold off; unhand me, gray-heard loon ;' Eftsoons his hand dropt he. He holds him with his glittering eye — The wedding-guest stood still. And listens like a three-years' child ; The mariner hath his will. The wedding-guest sat on a .-tone. |
lie cannot choose but bear ; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed mariner. The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, Merrily diil wc drop Ifelow the kirk, below the hill. Below the lighthouse top. The sun camc up upon the left, Out of the sea came he; And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sen. Higher and higher every day. Till over the mast at noon — The wedding-guest here beat his breast, For be heard the loud bassoon. The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy. |
421
|
The wcddiiijf-jjuesl lie heal liis Nreast, Yet lie cannot choose but lieiir ; Ami thus spake on that ancient man, The hright-eyed mariner. Anil now the storm-blast came, anil he AVas tyrannous and strong ; He struck with bis o'ertakinj; wings, And chased us south along. With sloping masts and dripping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his bead, The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast. And southward aye we fled. And now there came both mi.^t and snow. And it grew wondrous cold ; And ice mast-high came floating by. As green as emerald. And through the drifts the snowy clills Did send a dismal sheen ; Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — The ice was all between. The ice was here, the ice was there. The ice was all around ; it cracked and growled, and roared and bowled, Like noises in a swound ! At length did cross an albatross, Thorough the fog it came ; As if it had been a Christian soul. We bailed it in God's name. It ate the food it ne'er had eat. And round and round il flow; The ice did split with a thunder-fit; The helmsman steered us through ! And a good south wind sprung up behind. The albatross did follow, And every day for food or play, Came to the mariner's hollo ! In mist or cloud, or mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine; Whileall the night, through fog-smoke white Glimmered the white moonshine. 'God save thee, ancient mariner, from the Jicnds that plague thee thus ! Why look'st thou so? With my cross-bow I shot the albatross. The sun now rose upon the right, Out of the sea came be; Still bid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea. And the good south-wind still blew behind, l!ud no sweet bird did follow ; Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariner's hullo ! And I had done a hellish thing. And it would work 'em wo; |
Kor all averred 1 had killed the bird That made the bree/.e to blow. Ah wretch, said they, the bird to slay That made the breeie to blow! Nor dim nor red, like God's own bead, The glorious sun uprist; Then all averred I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist, 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay That bring the fog and mist. The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. Drow n dropt I he bree/.e, the sails dropt down 'Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea ! All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody sun at noon Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the moon. Day after day, day after day We si lick, nor breath nor motion; As iille as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. Water, water everywhere. And all the boards did shrink ; AValer, water everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot ; O Christ! That ever this should be ! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea. About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue, and white. And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We bad been choked with soot. Ah, well-a-day ! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of I he cross the albatross About my neck was hung. There passed a weary time. Each throat AVas parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time! How glazed each weary eye ! AA'hen looking westward I beheld A something in the sky. |
422
|
At first it seemed u liltle speck, Arul tlien it sccirictl a mist: It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist. A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! And still it neared and noared : As if it dodged a water-sprite. It plunged, and tacked, and veered. With throats unslaked, with hlack lips halted. We could nor laugh nor wail ; I hroagh utter drought all dumh we stood ; 1 hit my arm, I sucked the blood. And cried, A sail! a sail I With throats unslaked, with hlack lips halted. Agape they heard me call; Gramercy they for joy did grin. And all at once their breath drew in, As they were drinking all. See! see ! I cried, she tacks no more. Hither to work us weal; Without a breeze, without a tide. She steadies with upright keel. The western wave was all a-flaine. The day was well nigh done, Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright sun ; W hen that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the sun. And straight the sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's mother send us grace!) As if through a dungeon-grate he peered With broad and burning face. Alas! though 1, and my heart beat loud. How fast she ncars and nears; Are those her sails that glance in the son Like restless gossamercs? Are those her rihs through which the sun Did peer, as through a grate; And is that woman all her crew ? Is that a death, and arc there two ? Is death that woman's mate ? Her lips were red, her looks were free. Her locks wore yellow as gold ; Her skin was as white as leprosy. The nightmare Life-in-deatb was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold The naked hulk alongside came. And the twain were casting dice; 'The game is done ! I've won, I've won !' Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 1 he sun's rim dips, the stars rush out, At one stride comes the dark ; With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea Oilquot;shot the spectre-bark. We listened and looked sideways up; I'car at my heart, as at a cup. |
My life-blood seemed to sip. The stars were dim, and thick the night. The steersman's face by his lump gleamed white; From the sails the dew did drip — Till cloinh above the eastern bar The horned moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip. One after one, by the star-dogged moon, Too quick for groan or sigh. liacb turned his lace w ith a ghastly pang, And pursued me with bis eye. ' Four times fifty living men (And I heard nor sigh nor groan), W ith heavy thump, a lifeless lump. They dropped down one by one. The souls did from their bodies fly — They fled to bliss or wo ! And every soul it passed me by Like the whizz of my cross-how. Part it. '1 fear thee, ancient mariner, I fear thy skinny hand ! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand. I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand so brown.' Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest. This body dropped not down. Alone, alone, all, all alone. Alone on a wide wide sea ! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. The rn.my men so beautiful! And they all dead did lie : And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on, and so did I. I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away ; I looked upon the rotting deck. And there the dead men lay. I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer bad gushed, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. I closed my lids, and kept them close. And the balls like pulses heat; For the sky anil the sea, and the sea and the sky, Lay like a load on my weary eye. And the dead were at my feet. The cold sweat melted from their limbs. Nor rot nor reek did they ; The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away. An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high ; liutoh I more horrible than thai |
425
|
Is a curse in a dead man's oye ! Seven days, seven nijjlils, 1 saw (hat curse. And yet 1 could not die. The niovin;; moon went up the sky, And nowhere diil abide: Softly slie was goinj; up, And a star or two heside. Her beams beinoeked the sultry main, Like April hoarfrost spread ; But where the ship's huge shadow lay. The elianned water burnt alway A still and awful red. Beyond the shadow of the ship I watched the water snakes: They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light |
Fell offin hoary flakes. Within the shadow of (he ship I watched their rich attire: Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam ; and every track Was a flash of golden fire. O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare: A spring of love gushed from my heart. And I blessed ibein unaware: Sure my kind saint look pity on me. And 1 blessed them unaware. The self-same moment I could pray ; And from my neck so free The albatross fell ofl', and sank Like lead into the sea. |
|
•'AH thoughts, all passions, all delights. Whatever stirs Ibis mortal frame, Are all hut ministers of Love, And feed bis sacred flame. quot;Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour. When midway on the mount I lay. Beside the ruin'd tower. quot;The moonlight stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy. My own dear Genevieve ! quot;Slie leant against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight; She stood and listen'd to my lay. Amid the lingering light. quot;Few sorrows hath she of her own. My hope, my joy, my Genevieve! She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. quot;I play'd a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story — An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary, quot;She listen'd with a flitting blush. With downcast eyes and modest graco. For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the kniglit that wore Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he woo'd The lady of the land. quot;I told her how be pin'd, and — ah ! The deep, the low, the pleading tone Willi which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own. |
•'She listen'd with a flitting blush. With downcast eyes anil modest grace. Anil she forgave me, that 1 ga/.'d Too fondly on her face 1 quot;But when I lold I be cruel scorn That cra/'d that hold and lovely knight. And that heeross'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night; quot;That sometimes from the savage den. And sometimes from the darkest shade. And sometimes, starting up at once In green and sunny glade, quot;There came and look'd him in the face. An angel beautiful and bright; And that be knew it was a fiend. This miserable knight! quot;And that unknowing what he did, lie leap'd amid a murderous band. And sav'd from outrage worse than death The lady of the land ! quot;And how she wept and claspt his knees. And how she tended him in vain — And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crat'd bis brain ; quot;And that she nurs'd liim in a cave; Anil bow bis madness went away. When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay ; — quot;His dying words — but w hen I reach'd That tenderest strain of all the dilty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturb'd her soul with pity, quot;All impulses of soul and sense Mad tbrill'd my guileless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve ; |
424
|
quot;And hopes, and fears that kind c hope, An undistinfjuisliable ihronfj, And ([i1 iitin wishes loiijf sulidu'd, Suhdu'dand cherish'd lonjj. quot;She wept with pily and delijjht, She hlush'd with love and virgin shame; And like the murtnur of a dream, 1 heard her breathe my name. quot;Her bosom heav'd — she slept aside, As conscious of my look she slept — Then suddenly, with timorous eye, She fled to me and wept. |
quot;She half enclos'J me in her arms. She press'd me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, look'd up, And {jat'd upon my face. quot;Twas partly love and partly fear. And partly 'twas a bashful art. That I mijjht rather feel than see The swelling of her heart. quot;I calm'd her fears, and she was calm. And told her love with virgin pride ; And sol won my Genevieve, My own, my beauteous bride.quot; |
Werd geboren den twaalfden Augustus 1774, te Bristol, en overleed den een-en-twintigsten Maait 1843. Hij was dichter , geleerde , oudheidkundige , kritikus en gesehiedsehrijver, en verbrandde van zijn twintigste tot zijn dertigste jaar meer van zijn stukken, dan hij gedurende zijn leven heeft uitgegeven. Southey wijdde zich geheel aan de letterkunde en is daarin bekend als dichter, geschiedschrijver en dour werken van verschillenden inhoud. Als dichter onderscheidt hij zich dour een rijke verbeeldingskracht, geest, levendigheid , scherpzinnigheid en gevoel, doch hij laat zich te zeer wegslepen , maakt in den beginne een te grooten indruk en is over 't geheel genomen niet van gebreken vrij te pleiten. Omstreeks 1794 verscheen van hem Wat Tyler (een niets heieekenend stuk); Juan of Are, an epic poem (17'J6); Minor poems, eerste deel (1707) ; Thalaba the Destroyer, an epic poem (1801); Metrical Poems (1804)1 Mailoe, an epic poem (1805); The Curse of Kehama , an epic poem (1810); Roderick, the Last of Ihe Guths ^1814); Carmen Triumphale ; The Vision of Judgment. Als gesehiedsehrijver kent men hem gunstig door zijn History of Brazil (1810); History of the Peninsular War (1823 — 1828); Life of Nelson (een van de beste populaire engelsehe biographiën) en Life of Wesley , de bekende stichter van de sekte der Methodisten. quot;The miscellaneous writings of Mr. Southey arc numerous, and all are marked by an easy flowing stylo, hy extensive reading, a strain of thought and rellexion simple and antiquated, occasional dialogues full of quaint speculation and curious erudition, and a vein of poetical feeling that runs through the whole , whether critical, historical, or political. De voornaamste werken , onder die klasse te rangschikken, z\)n o. a ; Letters from England, by Don Manuel Alvarez Espriclla (1807); Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society (1829); Letters from Spain; A Short Kesidence in Portugal; Omniana cn The Doctor.
|
Man bath a weary pilgrimage As through the world he wends, On every stage from youth to age Still discontent attends; With heaviness he casts his eye Upon the road before. And still remembers with u sigh The days that are no more. To school the little exile goes , Torn from bis mother's arms, — What then shall soothe his earliest woes , When novelty hath lost its charms ? Condemn'd to suffer tbiougb tlie day llestraints which no rewards repay. And cares where love has no concern : Hope lengthens as she counts the hours Before his wish'd return. From hard controul and tyrant rules. The unfeeling discipline of schools , In thought he loves to roam, And tears will struggle in his eye |
While he remembers with a sigh The comforts of his home. Youth comes ; the toils and cares of life Torment the restless mind ; Where shall the tired and barass'd heart Its consolation find? Then is not Youth . as Fancy tells, Life's summer prime of joy ? Ah no! for hopes too long delay'd , And feelings blasted or hetray'd, The fabled bliss destroy ; And Youlh remembers with a sigh The careless day of Infancy. Maimer Manhood now arrives. And other thoughts come on , But with the buseless hopes of Youth lis generous warmth is gone : Cold calculating cares succeed , The timid thought, the wary deed, '1 he dull realities of truth ; Back on the past he turns bis eye; |
425
|
Keinemlicriiig with an envious sigli The happy dreams of Youth. So reaches he the latter stajje Of this our rnorlai piljjrimajje, With feeble step and slow ; New ills that latter stage await, |
And old lixperience learns too late That all is vanity below. Lite's vain delusions are gone by, Its idle hopes are o'er, Yet Age remembers with a sigh The days that are no more, |
|
Slowly thy flowing tide Came in , old Avon ! scarcely did mine eyes, As watchfully I roam'd thy green-wood side , Behold the gentle rise. With many a stroke and strong The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars, And yet the eye beheld them labouring long Between thy winding shores. Now down thine ebbing tide The unlabour'd boat falls rapidly along: The solitary helmsman sits to guide, And sings an idle song. Now o'er the rocks that lay So silent late the shallow current roars ; |
Fast flow thy waters on their sea-ward way , Through w ider-spreading shores. Avon ! I gate and know '1 be lesson ernblem'd in thy varying way; It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, So rapidly decay. Kingdoms which long have stood, And slow to strength and power attain'd at last Thus from the summit of high fortune's Hood Ebb to their ruin fast. Thus like thy flow appears Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage Alas ! how hurryingly the ebbing years Then hasten to old age! |
|
The Maiden through the favouring night From Granada took her flight, She hade her father's house farewell, And fled away with Manuel. No Moorish maid might hope to vie With Lai I a's cheek or Laila's eye, No maiden loved with purer truth, Or ever loved a lovelier youth. In fear they fled across the plain, The father's w rath , the captive's chain, In hope to Murcia on they flee. To Peace, and Love, and Liberty. And now they reach the mountain's height. And she was weary wilh her fliijht, She laid her head on Manuel's breast, And pleasant was the maiden's rest. But while she slept, the passing gale AVaved the maiden's flowing veil, Her father, as he crost the height , Saw the veil so long and white. Young Manuel started from his sleep, He saw them hastening up the steep. And Laila shrick'd , and desperate now They climb'd the precipice's brow. They saw him raise his angry hand , And follow with his armed band , They saw them climbing up the steep. And heard his curscs loud and deep. |
Then Manuel's heart grew wild with woe , He loosen'd stones and roll'd below , He loosen'd crags, for Manuel strove For life, and liberty, and love. The ascent was steep, the rock was high , The Moors they durst not venture nigh , The fugitives stond safely there, They stood in safety and despair. The Moorish chief unmoved could see His daughter bend the suppliant knee; He heard bis child for pardon plead , And swore the offenders both should bleed. He bade the archers bend the bow, And make the Christian fall below , He bade the archers aim the dart. And pierce the Maid's apostate heart. The archers aim'd their arrows there, She clasp'd young Manuel in despair, Death , Manuel, shall set us free! Then leap below and die wilh inc. He clasp'd her close and cried farewell, In one another's arms they fell ; They leapt adown the craggy side, In one another's arms they died. And side by side they there are laid , The Christian youth and Mcorish maid But never Cross was planted there , Because they perish'cl for despair. |
54
420
|
Yd every Murcian maid can tell Where Laila lies who luveci so well, |
Ami every youth who passed there Says for Manuel's soul a prayer. |
Wien wij onder de Miscellaneous Writers van dit tijdvak insgelijks opnemen zullen , werd geboren den achttienden Februarij 1775 en overleed September 1835. Zijn warme beivondering voor de drainnsclinjvers uit 't tweede tijdvak der engclsche letterkunde gaf aanleiding tot de vervaardiging van zijn John Woodvil (1801), a tragedy, waarvoor hij echter scherp werd doorgehaald; dit stuk kan men ouk als een mislukte proeve beschouwen. In 1804 leverde hij Mr. H—, welk stuk echter op 't looncel niet genoeg bijval vond, om een tweede opvoering wensehelijk te achten. In 1807 verscheen van hem Specimens of English Dramatic Poets who lived about the time of Shakspeare (de laatste uitgave van dit werk is verschenen te Londen (Edward Moion , Dover street) 1844); Elia ; een aantal proza verhandelingen, vroeger van tijd tot tijd in The London Magazine verschenen; Album Verses (1830); en Tales from Shakespeare (proza), waaraan zijn vrouw meewerkte en welk werk , aanvankelijk voor de jeugd bestemd , thans algemeen bekend en , als 't ware , in ieders handen is. quot;The peculiarities of his stylo were doubtless grafted upon him by his constant study nud life-long admiration of the old English writersquot;.
|
When maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try , With vain endeavour. A month or more hath she hecn dead, Yet cannot 1 by force be led To think upon the wormy heel, And her together. A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rale, That fluah'd her spirit. 1 know not by what name beside I shall it call: — if'twas not pride, It was ajoy to that allied. She did inherit. |
Her parents held the Quaker rnle , Which doth the human feeling cool, But she was train'd in Nature's school, INanute had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind , A heart that stirs, is bard to bind , A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind , Ye could not Hester. My sprightly neighbour, gone before To that unknown and silent shore. Shall we not meet, as heretofore Some summer morning. When from thy cheerful eyes a ray llalh struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet fore-warning ? |
On an Infant dying as soon as born.
|
1 saw where in the shroud did lurk A curious frame of Nature's work. A flow'ret crushed in the bud , A nameless piece of babyhood , Was in her cradle-coffin lying : Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying : So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb For darker clo-els of the tomb! She did but ope an eye, and put Aclearbeam forth, then straight up shut For the long dark : nev'r more to see Through glasses of mortality. Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below ? Shall we say, that Nature blind Check'd her hand , and changed her mind, Just when she had exactly wrought |
A finish'd pattern without fault? Could she flag , or could she tire. Or lack'd she the Promethean fire (With her nine moons'long workings sicken'd) That should thy little limbs have quicken'd? Limbs so firm , they seern'd to assure Life of heallh , and days mature: W Oman's self in miniature I Limbs so fair, they might supply (Themselves now but cold imagery) The sculptor to make beauty by. Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry. That babe, or mother, one must die ; So in mercy left the stock , And cut the branch ; to save the shock Of young years widow'd ; and the pain , When single state comes back again To the lone man , who, 'reft ol wife. |
|
Tlienceforward drags a niaiwcd life? The ccoDomy of Heaven is dark ; And wisest clcrks liave miss'd the mark, Why human huds, like this , should fall, More hrief than fly ephemeral, That has his day ; while shrivel'd croncs Stillen with age to stocks and stones ; And crahhed use the conscience sears In sinners of an hundred years. Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, Baby fond , thou ne'er wilt miss. Kites, which custom does impose , Silver hells and baby clothes; Coral redder than those lips, |
Which pale death did late eclipse ; M usie framed for infants' glee, Wistle never tuned for thee; Though thou want'st not, thou shalt havetbem Loving hearts were tliey which gavetbeoi. Let not one be missing; nurse, See them laid upon the hearse Of infant slain by doom perverse. AVhy should kings and nobles have Pictured trophies to their grave, And we, churls, to thee deny Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, A mure harmless vanity ? |
Onderscheidde zich Ms dichter en prozaschrijver. Ilij werd geboren te Glasgow (27 Julij 1777) en overleed in 1841. Daar hij ons slechts als eugelseh dichter bekend is, plaatsen .wij hem in deze afdeeling. Hij doorliep zijn nkademische loopbnan met roem en onderscheiding , en bad zich reeds vroeg als dichter bekend gemaakt door zijn Love and Madness en verscheiden andere stukken, waarop hij later geen prijs stelde. In 1799 maakte hij zich bekend door zijn Pleasures of Hope, dat zeer gunstig werd ontvangen , waarna hij een reis op 't vasteland deed. Op die reis schreef Campbell een aantal kleine stukken en daaronder Tho Battle of llohenlinden ; Exile of Erin , Ye Mariners of England, Hatile of the Baltic. Hij keerdo spoedig naar Engeland terug en schreef bij zijn terugkeer ïijn Loehiel's Warning, welk stuk Walter Scott van buiten leerde, loen het hem in handschrift werd ter inzage gegeven. Nu versehenen van hem ill proza en poézie: Annals of Great Britain, from the Accession of George 111 to the peace of Amiens, III vol.; Gertrude of Wyoming, a Peunsylvanian Tale (1809); Tho New Monthly Magazine (1820—1830), waarin hy o. a. zijn Last Man leverde; Specimens of the British Poets (1818 en 1841); Theodric , and other Poems (1824); Pilgrim of Gleocoe, and other Poems (1842); Life of Mrs. Siildons ; Life of Petrarch; Letters from the South (1837). quot;With all his classic taste and careful finish, Campbell's writing, especially in his early poetry , is rarely altogether free for any considerable number of lines from something
hollow and falsequot;...... quot;The genius and taste of Campbell resemble those of Gray. He displays
the same delicacy and purity of sentiment, the same vivid perception of beauty and ideal loveliness, equal picturesqueness and elevation of imagery , and the same lyrical and concentrated power of expression. The diction of both is elaborately choice and select. Campbell has greater sweetness and gentleness of pathos, springing from deep moral feeling, and a refined sensitiveness of nature;... Campbell possesses snblimcty in various passages of the 'Pleasures of Hope', and especially in his warsongs or lyrics, which form the richest offering ever made by poetry at the shrine of patriotism.quot;
(The Pleasures of Hope.)
|
Tby pencil traces on the lover's thought Some oottage-home , from towns and toil remote, Where love and lore may claim alternate hours , With pr ace embosomed in Idaliau bowers! Remote from busy life's bewildered way , O'er all bis heart shall Taste and Beauty sway ; Free on the sunny slope or winding shore, Willi bennit steps to wander and adore I There shall he love, when gonial morn appears, Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears. To watch the brightening roses of the sky , And muse on nature with a poet'scyel And when the sun's last splendour lights the deep , The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep, When fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail, And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale, His path shall he where streamy mountains swell Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell; Where mouldering piles and forests intervene , |
Mingling with darker tints the living green ; No circling hills his ravished eye to hound , Heaven, earth , and ocean hlating all around I The moon is up—the watch-tower dimly burns — And down the vale his sober stop returns: But pauses oft as winding rocks convey The still sweet fall of music far away ; And oft he lingers from his home awhile, To wateh the dying notes, and start, and smile! Let winter come ! let polar spirits sweep The darkening -world , and tempest-troubled deep; Though boundless snows the withered heath deform And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm Yet shall the smile of social love repay, AVith mental light, the melancholy day ! And when its short and sullen noon is o'er, The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore , How bright the faggots in his little hall Blaie on the hearth , and warm the pictured wall! |
428
|
How hlost he names, in love's familiar tone, The kind fair friend by nature marked liis own ; And , in tlie waveless mirror of his mind , Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind , Since when her empireo'er his heart bejran_ Since first he called her his before ihe holy man! Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome, And lij;ht the w intry paradise of home ; And let the half-uncurtained window hail |
.Some wayworn man benighted in the vale! Now. while the moaning night-wind rages high , As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky ; While fiery hosts in heaven's wide circle play , And bathe in lurid light the milky way ; Safe from the storm , the meteor, and the shower, Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour ; With pathos shall command, with wit beguile A generous tear of anguish ,or a smile! |
|
On Susquehana's side, fair Wyoming! Although the wild-flower on tby ruined wall And roofless homos a sad remembtance bring Of what thy gentle people did befall; Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. Sweet land ! may I tby lost delights recall, And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore , Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore! Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies , The happy shepherd-swains had nought to do Jiut feed their flocks on green declivities. Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe. From morn till evening's sweeter pastime grew , With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown , Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew; And aye those sunny mountains half-way down Would echo flagelct from some romantic town. Then , where of Indian hills the daylight takes His leave, bow might yon the flamingo see Disporting like a meteor on the lakes. And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree: And evtry sound of life was full of glee, From merry mock-bird's song , or hum of men ; While hearkening, fearing nought their revelry, The wild deer arched bis neck from glades, and then, Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness aquot;ain. And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime Heard but in transatlantic story rung, For here tbeexile met from every dime, And spoke in friendship every distant tongue: Wen from the blood of warring Europe spruiiquot;. Were bnt divided by ihe running brook ; And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung. On plains no sieging mine's volcano shook , (hook. The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning-Nor far some Andalusian saraband Would sound to many a native roundelay_ But who is he that yet a dearer land Remembers, over hills and far away ? Green Alhin, what though he no tnore survey Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore, Thy pellochs rolling from the mountain-bay, Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor. And distant isles that hearthcloud Corbrechtan roar! Alas! poor Caledonia's mountaineer, |
That want's stern edict e'er, and feudal grief. Had forced him from a home he loved so dear! Yet found he here a home, and glad relief. And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf. That fired his Highland blood with rnickle glee : And England sent her men , of men the chief, Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be, To plant the tree oflife, — to plant fair freedoms tree! Here was not mingled in the city's pomp Of life's extremes the grandeur and the gloom ; Judgment awoke not here her dismal trump , Nor sealed in blood a fellow-creature's doom , Nor mourned the captive in a living tomb. One venerable man , beloved of all, Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom , To sway the strife, that seldom might befall : And Albert was their judge in patriachal hall. How reverend was the look , serenely aged , He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire, Where all hut kindly fervors were assuaged. Undirnmed by weakness'shade, or turbid ire! And though , amidst the calm of thought entire. Some high and haujihty features might betray A soul impetuous once , 'twas carthly fire That fled composure's intellectual ray. As Aetna's fires grow dim before the rising day. I boast no song in magic wonders rife. But vet, oh . Nature! is there nought, to priie , Familiar in thy bosom-scenes of life? And dwells in day-light-truth's salubrious skies No form with which the soul may sympathise ? Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise. An inmate in the home of Albert smiled , Or blest bis noonday walk — she was his only child. The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude's cheek — What though these shades bad seen her birth, her sire A liriton's independence taught to seek Far western worlds; and there bis household-fire The light of social love did long inspire. And many a halcyon day he lived to see Unbroken but by one misfortune dire , When fate bad reft his mutual heart—but she (knee Was gone—and Gertrude climbed a widowed father's A loved bequest,, — and I may half impart, |
429
In vain the desolated panther ilics,
And howls, amidst bis wilderness of fire ;
Alas I too late we reached and smote those llurons dire!
But as the fox beneath the nobler bound.
So died their warriors by our battle-brand ;
And from the tree we, with her child , unbound
A lonely mother of the christian land :
Her lord — the captain of the British hand —
Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay.
Scarce knew the widow our delivering hand ;
Upon her child she sobbed , and swooned away.
Or shrieked nnlotbeGod to whom the Christians pray,
Our virgins fed her with their kindly howls
Of fever-halm and sweet saganiilé :
But she was journeying to the land of souls ,
And lifled up her dying head to pray
That we should hid an ancient friend convey
Her orphan to his home of England's shore;
And take , she said , this token far away
To one that will remember us of yore , (wore.
When he behoWs the ring that Waldcgrave's Julia
And I, the eagle of my tribe, have rusb'd AVith this lorn dove. — A sage's self-command Had quelled the tears from All)crt's heart that gushed: But yet bis cheek — bis agitated band ,
That showered upon the stranger of the land No common boon , in grief but ill beguiled A soul that was not wont to be unmanned;
And stay , be cried , dear pilgrim of the wild I Preserver of my old, my boon companion's child! —
Child of a race whose name my bosom warms.
On earth's remotest bound bow welcome here!
\\ hose motberoft, a child , has filled these arms.
Young as thyself, and innocently dear,
Whose grandsire was my early life's compeer.
Ah happiest home of England's happy clime!
llow beautiful ev'n now thy scones appear,
As in the noon and sunshine of my prime!
How gone I ike yesterday these thrice ten years of time!
And , Julia! when thou wert like Gertrude now
Can I forget thee , favourite child of yore ?
Or thought I, in thy father's house, when thou
Wert lightest hearted on his festive floor.
And first of all his hospitable door
To meet and kiss me at my journey's end ?
But where was I when Waldegrave was no more ?
And thou didst pale thy gentle head extend .
In woes, that even the tribe of desarts was thy friend
He said — and strained unto his heart the boy : Far differently, the mute Oneyda took His calumet of peace, and cup of joy ;
As monumental bronze unchanged bis look:
A soul that pily touched , but never shook ;
Trained , from his tree-rocked cradle to his bier. The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook Impassive — fearing hut the shame of fear — i A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. ; Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock j OfOutalissi's heart disdained to grow ;
To llictn lliat feel the strong paternal tie ,
llow like a new existence to his heart
That livinff flower uprose henealh his eye,
Dear as she was from cheruh infancy ,
From hours when she would rouml his garden play,
To time when as the ripening years went hy,
Her lovely mind could cull ure well repay,
And more engaging grew , from pleasing day to day.
I may not paint those thousand infant charms ;
(Unconscious fascination , undesigned!)
The orison repeated in his arms,
For God to hless her sire and all mankind ;
The honk , the bosom on his knee reclined,
Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard hereon ,
(The playmate ere the teacher of her mind):
All uticompanioned else her years had gone (shone.
Till now in Gertrude's eyes their ninth blue summer
And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour,
When sire and daughter saw, with fleet dcsccnt,
An Indian from his hark approach their hower.
Of hnskined limh, anil swarthy lineament;
The red wild feathers on his hrow were blent;
And bracelets bound the arm that helped to 'light
A boy, w bo seemed , as he beside him went,
Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright.
Led by hisdusky guide, like morning brought by night.
Yet pensive seemed the boy for one so young —
The dimple from his polished cheek bad fled ;
When , leaning on his forest-bow unstrung ,
Th' Oneyda warrior to the planter said ,
And laid his hand upon the stripling's bead :
Peace be to thee! my words this belt approve;
The paths of peace my steps have hither led :
This little nursling, take him to ihy love, (dove.
And shield the bird unfledged , since gone the parent
Christian ! I am the foeman of ihy foe ;
Our wampum-league thy hretliern did embrace;
Upon the Micbagan, three moons ago ,
We launched our pirogues for the bison-chacc,
And with the llurons planted fora space,
With true and faithful bands, the olive-stalk ;
But snnkes are in the hosorns of their race.
And though they held with us a friendly talk .
The hollow peace-tree fell beneath their tomahawk I
It was encamping on I he lake's far port,
A cry of Areou.-ki broke our sleep ,
Where stormed an ambushed foe thy nation's fort.
And rapid , rapid whoi'ps came o'er I he deep;
liut long thy country's war-sign on the steep
Appeared through ghastly intervals of light;
And deatbfnlly their thunders seemed to sweep ,
Till utter darkness swallowed up the sight,
As if a shower of blood had quenched the fiery fight!
It slept — it rose again — on high their tower
Sprung upwards like a torch to light the skies ,
Then down again it rained an ember-shower,
And louder lamentations heard we rise: i
As when the evil danitou that dries
Th' Ohio woods consumes them in his ire,
430
|
As lives the uak unwillicrcd on tbp rock By slonns aliovi;, anil liarennes helow, He scorned his own who felt another's woe ; And ere the wolf-skin on his hack lie Hung , Or laced his mocasins , in act to go , A song of parting to the hoy he sung, (tongue. Who slept on Albert's couch, nor heard his friendly Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreaming land Sliouldst thou lo-morrow with thy mother meet. Oh ! tell her spirit that the white man's hand Hath plucked the thorns of sorrow from thy feet; While I in lonely wilderness shall greet Thy little foot-prints — or hy traces know The fountain, where at noon 1 thought it sweet To feed thee with the quar ry of my how, And poured the lotus-horn, or slew the mountain-roe, Adieu ! sweet scion of the rising sun ! But should affliction's storms thy hlossom mock. Then come again — my own adopted one I And I « ill graft thee on a nohle stock ; The crocodile , the condor of the rodi, Shall he the pastime of thy sylvan wars ; |
And I will tcach thee, in the battle's shock. To pay with Huron blood thy father's scars, And gratulate his soul rejoicmf; in the stars! So finished he the rhyme (howe'er uncouth) That true to nature's fervid feelings ran ; (And gt;ong is but the elocjuence of truth) Then furth uprose that lone way-faring man ; Itut dauntless he, nor chart, nor journey's plan In woods required , whose trained eye was keen As eagle of the wilderness , to scan His path , hy mountain , swamp, or deep ravine, Or ken far friendly huts on good savannahs green. Old Albert saw him from the valley's side — His pirogue launched — his pilgrimage begun — Far, like the red-bird's wing he seemed to glide; Then dived and vanished in the woodlands dun. Oft, to that spot by tender memory won , Would Albert climb the promontory's height, If but a dim sail glimmered in the sun ; But never more, to bless his longing sight, Was Outalissi hailed, w ith bark and plumage bright. |
Werd den acht-en-twinti^sten Mei 1780 in Dublin geboren en is, meenen wij, in 1855 overleden. Moore moet reeds op zijn veertiende jaar een poëtische bijdrage in The Dublin Magazine hebben geleverd. In 1799 vertrok hij naar Londen , om er zijn studiën te voitooijen en een vertaling van Anaereon bij intee-kening uit te geven , die in 1800 verscheen met een opdragt aan den prins van Wales. Hij reeds in 1806 twee deelen poëzie (Odes and Epistles) int en in 1808 onder den naam van Thomas Little een anderen dichtbundel. Hij werd nu satirist, leverde een aantal stukken, als Two-penny Post bag; The Fudge Family in Paris ; Fables of ihe Holy Alliance (onder den naam van Thorns Brown uitgegeven), die allen echter meer gelegenheidsstukken waren. In 1813 maakte hij een begin met zijn Irish Songs, vaderlandsche liederen , en toonde daarin gronfer dichter te zijn , dan tot nog toe van hem was gebleken. Vervolgens gaf hij negen stukken Irish Melodies uit en in 1817 zijn Lallah Kookh, an Oriental Komanee , quot;the accuracy of which, as regards topographical, antiquarian, and characteristic details, has been vouched by numerous competent authoritiesquot;. Van de vier verhalen , waaruit 't stuk is zaïlmgesteld , is Paradise and the Peri 't eenvoudigste; 't eerste verhaal, The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan is ook zeer verdienstelijk. In 1819 deed Moore een reis met Lord John Russell en leverde dien ten gevolge Rhymes of the Road en wat later Loves of the Angels, een dichtstuk, dat hein binnen korten tijd twaalfduizend gulden opbragt. Hij onderscheidde zich ook zeer gunstig in 't proza, als door zijn : Life of Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1825); Notices of the Life of Lord Byron (1830); Memoirs of Lord Edward Fitzgerald (1831); The Epicurean. quot;The first of these prose works is the most valuable; the second the most interesting. His Notices of the life of Lord Byron aie written with taste and modesty, and in very pure and unaffected English. quot;Rarely has there been seen so i;ay, nimble, airy a wonderworker in verse as Moore ; rarely such a conjuror with words, which lie makes to serve rather as wings for his thoughts than as the gross attire or embodiment with which they must be encumbered to render them palpable or visible. His wit is not only the sharpest and brightest to be almost anywhere found , but is produced apparently with more of natural facility, and shapes itself into expression more spontaneously, than that of any other poet. But there is almost as much humour as wit in Moore's gaiety; nor are his wit and humour together more than a small part of his poetry, which, preserving in all its forms the same matchless brilliancy , finish, and apparent ease and fluency, breathes in its tenderer strains the very soul of sweetness and pathos.
|
Fallen is lliy Throne .oh Israel! Silence is o'er tliy plains; Thy dwellings all lie desolate, Thy children weep in chains. |
Where are the dews that fed thee On Elham's barren shore ? That fire from Heaven which led thee, Now lights thy path no more. |
451
|
Lord! thou didst love Jerusalem — Once she was all thy own ; Her love thy fairest lieritajje, Her power thy glory's tlirone: Till evil rame , and lilijjhted Tliy lonj;-lo»eil olive-tree; — And Salem's slirines were lighted For other gods than Thee ! Then sunk the star of Solyma — Then pass'd her ['lory's day, .Like heath that, in the wilderness, The wild wind whirls away. |
Silent arid waste her Lowers, Where onee the mighty trod , And sunk those guilty towers, While Baal reign'd as God ! quot;Go— said the Loud — quot;Ye Conquerors! quot;Steep in her Mood your swords , quot;And raze to earth her battlements , quot;For they are not the Lord's ! quot;Till Zion's mournful daughter quot;O'er kindred hones shall tread , quot;And Hinnom's vale of slaughter quot;Shall hide but half her dead!quot; |
|
Weep not for those w hom the veil of the tomb , In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, lire sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or Karth had profaned what was born for the skies. Death chill'd the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stain'd it. 'Twiis frozen in all the pure light of its course, And hut sleeps till tiie sunshine of Heaven has unchain'd To water that Eden where first wasits source! (it, Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb , In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for theskies. |
Mourn not for her, the young l!i ide of the Vale, Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now, Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale. And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow! Oh! then washer nioment,dearspiril forflying (known-Froni this gloomy world, while its gloom was un-AiiiI the wild hymns she warbled sosweelly, in dying, Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own! Weep not for her, — in her spring-time she flew To that land where the w ings of the soul are unfurl'd, And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew, Looks radiantly down on the tears of Ibis world. |
|
Thou art, O God, the life and light Of all tins wondrous world we see ; Its glow by day, its smile by night. Are but reflections caught from Thee. Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are Thine! When Day, with farewell beam, delays Among the openins; clouds of Even, And we can almost think we gaze Through golden vistas into Heaven — Those hues, that make the Sun's decline So soft, so radiant, Lord! are Thine. |
When Night, with wings of starry gloom, O'ershadows all the earth and skies, Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume Is sparkling with unnumberM eyes — That sacred gloom, thoseflri s divine. So grand, so countless, Lord! are Thine. When youthful Spring around us breathes. Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh : And every flower the Summer wreathes Is born beneath that kindling eye. Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all thinjjs fair and brijjht are Thine. |
|
Awake, arise, thy light is come ; The nations, that before outshone thee. Now at thy feel lie dark and dumb — The glory of the Lord is on thee! Arise — tiro Gentiles to thy ray. From ev'ry nook of earth sholl rluster; And kings and prince; haste to pay Their homage to thy rising lustre. |
Lift up thine eyes around, and sec. O'er foreign fields, o'er farthest waters. Thy exiled sons return to thee, To thee return thy home-sick daughters. And camels rich, from Midian's tents. Shall lay their treasures down before thee; And Saba bring her gold and scents. To fill thy lair, and sparkle o'er thee. |
452
|
Scb, wlio are tliese that, like a cloud, Are gatlierinij from all earlli's ilominions, Like doves, lon[j absent, when allow'd Homeward to sliool their tremhliny pinions. Surely the ish's shall wait for me, The ships of Tarshish round will hover. To hring thy sons across the sea. And waft their lt;;old and silver over. And Lebanon thy pomp shall grace — The fir, the pine, the palm victorious Shall beautify our Holy Place, And make the ground I tread on glorious. No more shall Discord haunt thy ways. Kor ruin waste thy cheerless nation ; |
But thou shalt call thy portals. Praise, And thou shalt name thy wails, Salvation. The suu no more shall make thee bright. Kor moon shall lend her lustre to thee; But God, Himself, shall he thy Light, And Hush eternal glorv through thee. Thy sun shall never more go dow n; A ray, from heav'n itself descended. Shall light thy everlasting crown — Thy days of mourning all are ended. My own, elect, and righteous Land! The Branch, for ever green and vernal. Which 1 have planted with this hand — Live thou shalt in Life Eternal. |
1 saw thy form In youthful prime.
|
I saw thy form iu youthful prime. Nor thought that pale decay Would steal before tlie steps of lime. Anil waste its hloom away, Mary ! Yet still thy features wore that light Which fleets not with the breath ; Ami life ne'er look'd more truly bright Than in thy smile of death, Mary! As streams that run o'er golden mines. Yet humbly, calmly glide. Kor seem to know the wealth that shines Within their gentle tide, Mary! |
So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise. Thy radiant genius shone. And that which charm'd all other eyes, Seein'd worthless in thy own, Mary! If souls could always duel I above, Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere; Or, could we keep the souls we love. We ne'er bad lost thee here, Mary ! Though many a gifted mind we meet, Though fairest forms we see. To live with them is far less sweet Than to remember thee, Mary! |
|
From ifliss Biddy Fudge to Miss Dorothy — of Clous kilty, in Ireland, Amiens. Dear Doll, while the tails of our horses are plaiting. The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door, Into very bad French is, as usual, translating His English resolve not to give a sou more, 1 sit down to write you a line — only think ! — A letter from France,withFrench pensand French ink. How delightful! I hough, wou Id you believe it,my dear? I have seen nothing yet very wonderful here; No adventure, no sentiment, far as we've come, But the corn-fields and trees quiteas dull as at home; And butiur the post-hoy, his bootsand his queue, I mightyasi as well be at Clonskilty with you! In vain, at Dessein's, did I take from my trunk That divine fellow, STERtili, and full reading quot;The lu vain did I think of hischarming Dead Ass, (Monkquot;; And rcmemher the crust and the wallet — alas I No monks can he had now for love or for money, (All owing, Pa says, to that infidel Bonet ;) |
And, though one little Neddy we saw in our drive Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive! By the by, though, at Calais, Papa had a touch Of romance on the pier, which affected me much. At the sight of that spot, where our darling Dixhüit, Set the first of bis own dear legitimate feet, (Modell'd out so exactly, and — God bless the mark! 'Tis a foot, Dolly, worthy so Grand a Monarijuc) [eye, lie exclaimed „Oh mon Hoi .quot;'and, with tear-dropping Stood to gaze on the spot—while some Jacobin, nigh Mutter'd out with a shrug (what an insolent thing !) „Ma foi, be be right — 'tis de Englishman's King; And dat gros pied de cochoii — begar, me vil say Dat de foot look mosb better, if lurn'd toder wayquot;. There's the pillar, too—Lord ! I bad nearly forgot — What a charming idea! — rais'dclose to the spot ; The mode being now (as you've beard, 1 suppose,) To build tombs over legs, and raise pillars to toes. This is all that's occurr'd sentimental as yet; Except, indeed, some little flow'r nymphs we've met. Who disturb one's romance with pecuniary views. Flinging Jlowr's in your path, and then — bawling (for sons ! |
|
And some piet uresqiiol)cn:|;ars,wlio5e multitades seem To reoall the j;oolt;1 days of tlm ancien regime , All as ragged and brisk , you'll be happy to learn, And as thin as they were in the time oi dearSiEBKE. Our party consists, in a neat Calais joh, Of Papa and myself, Mr. Connor and Bob. You remernher how sheepish I!ob louli'd ut Kilrandy , liut, Lord ! he's quite alter'd — they've made him a {Dandy; A thing, you know, whisker'el,great-coated, and lao'd. Like an hour-glass , exceedingly small in the waist: Quite a new sort ofcreatures, unknown yet io sehnlais, With heads, so immoveahly stuck in shirt-collars , That scats like our niusic stools soon must he found (them, To tw irl, when the creatures may wish to look round (them ! In short; dear, quot;a Dandyquot; describes what 1 mean , And lion's far the best of the yenus I've seen : An improving young man, fond of learning,ambitious. And goes now to Paris to study French dishes, (pat, Whose names— think, bow quick!—be already knows A la hraise,peiitspatés, and—what d'yecall that They inflict on potatoes ? — oh maltre d'hotel — I assure you , dear l)oli.v, he knows them as well As if notliing but these all his life he had cat, Though a bit of them lioBBr has never touch'd yet; liutjnst knows the names of French dishesand cooks, As dear Pa knows the titles of authors and hooks. As to Pa, what d'ye think?—mind, it's all cnlrc nous, But you know, love, I never keep secrets from vim — Why, lie's writing a hook — what! a tale ? a romance ? No, ycGods, would it were!—but his Travels in France; At the special desire (be let out t'other day) Of his friend and his patron, my Lord —STt-R on , Who said, quot;My dear Fubge—'•! forget th'exact words, And, it's strange, no one ever remembers my Lord's; I!ut 'twas something to say that, as all must allow A good orthodox work is much wanting just now , Toexpound to the world the new — tbinguinmie — (science, Found out by the—what's-its-name — Holy Alliance, And prove to mankind that their rights are hut folly, Their freedom a joke (whieb it is. you know, Doij.y) quot;There's none,quot; said his Lordship, quot;if/may bejudge. Half so fit for this great undertaking as Fudge !quot; The matter's soon settled — Pa flies to the Ito id , (The ƒ r.ti stage your tourists now usually go) Settles all for bisquarto — advertisements, praises — Starts post from the door,— with his tablets—French (phrases — quot;Scott's Visit of course—in short, ev'ry thing he And author can want, except words and ideas:— (has And , lo! the first thing, in the spring of the year, Is Pun,. Fubge at the front of a Quarto, my dear ! But, bless me, my paper's near out, so I'd better Draw last lo a close :— ibis exceeding long letter You owe to a déjeuner a la foiirchelle, Which Bobby would have, and is bard at it yet. — What's next ? ob , the tutor, the last of the party , |
Young Connor ; — they say he's so like Bonaparte , His nose and bis chin , — which Papa rather dreads, As the Bourbons, you know, are suppressing all heads That resemble old Nap's, and who knows but their (honours May think, in their fright, of suppressing poor Con- (nor's ? An rente. (as we say) the young lad's well enough, Only talks much of Athens, Rome, virtue, and stuff; A third cousin of ours , by the way — poor as Job, (Though of royal descent by the side of Mamma) And for charity made private tutor to Bob — lint re nous , too, a Papist — how lib'ral of Pa! This is all, dear, — forgive me for breaking oil'thus ! Hut Bob's dejetiner's done, and Papa's in a fuss. P. S. Mom provoking of Pa I be will not let me stop Just to run i n and rummage some milliner's shop ; And my debut in Paris, I blush to think on it, Must now, Don, ho made in a hideous low bonnet. But Paris , dear Paris I — oh , there will be joy, And romance, and high bonnets, and Madame j.e Roi, From Mr. Bob fudge to Richard —, esq. On Dick ! yon may talk of your writing and reading. Your Logic and Greek,but there's nothing like feeding; And this is the place for it, Dicky, you dog, Of all places on eattb — the bead quarters of Prog! Talk of Hngland—her fam'd Magna Charta, I swear, is A humbug, a flam, to the Carle at old Véry's ; And as for your Juries — who would not set o'er 'em A Jury of Tasters, with woodcocks before 'em ? Give Cariwrigbt his Parliaments, fresh every year— But those friends of .vAoci Cohit/ioii^ would never do And,letBoMiLi.T speakas be will on thequcstion,(here; No Digest of Law's like the laws of digestion ! By the by, Dick, I fatten — but n'importe for that, 'Tis the mode — your Legitimatesalways get fat.(too, There's the R—G—T, there's Louis—and Boney tried But, tho' somewhat imperial in paunch,'t wouldn't do: Heirnprov'd, indeed, much in this point, when be wed, But he ne'er grew right royally fat in the head. Dick, Dick, what a place is this Paris! — but stay — As my raptures may bore you, I'll just sketch a Day, As we pass il, myself and some comrades I've got, All thorough-bred Gnostics, who know what is what. After dreamimg some hours of the land of Cocaigne, That Elysium of all that is friand and nice, Where for bail they have bon bons, and claret for rain, Ami the skaiters in winter show off on cream-ice, Where so ready all nature its cookery yields, Macaroni an parmesan grows in the fields; Little birds fly about with the true pheasant taint, And the geese are all born with a liver complaint! I rise—put on neck-cloth—stiff, tight, as can be — For a lad who^'oci into the world. Dick, like me. Should have bis neck tied up, you know —there's (no doubt of it — |
454
|
Almost as tight as some lads «liogo out of it. With whiskers well oil'd, and with boots that quot;hold quot;The mirror to naturequot;—so bright you could sup (up Oilquot; the leather like china; willi coals, too, that draws On the tailor, who suffers, a martyr's applause! —■ With head bridled up , like a four-in-hand leader. And stays — devil's in them — too tight for a feeder, 1 strut to the old Café Hardy, which yet Heats the field at a dejeuner d la fourchette. {ghost There , Dick, what a breakfast! — oh, not like your Of a breakfast in England , your curst tea and toast ; But a side-board, you dog, where one's eye roves (about. Like a Turk's in the Haram, and thence singles out One's pate of larks, just to tune up the throat One's small limbs of chickens, done en papillate, One's erudite cutlets, drcstall ways hut plain , Or one's kidnies — imagine, Dick — done with (champagne! Then , some glasses of Benutte , to dilute or, mayhap, Chambertin, which you know's the pet tipple of NAP, And which Dad ; by theby, lhatlegitinialcstickler. Much scruples to toste, but/'in notso partie'lar.— Your coffee comes next, by prescription ; and then (Dick,'s The coffee's ne'er-failing and glorious appendix, (If books had but such , my old Grecian, depend on't, I'd swallow ev'n \v -tk-ns' , for sake of the end on't); A neat glass of parfait-amour, which one sips Just as if bottled velvet tipp'd over one's lips! This repast being ended, and paid for — (how odd! Till a man's us'd to paying, there's something so queer in't I) The sun now well out , and the girls all abroad, (in't, And the world enough air'd for us, Nobs, to appear AVe lounge up the lioulcvards, where-— oh, ijtck, (the phy/.zes, The turn-outs, we meet— what a nation of quizzes ! Here toddles along some old figure of fun , With a coat you might date Anno Domini 1 ; A lae'd hat, w orsted stockings, and—noble old soul ! A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-bole; Just such as our PR—E,w ho nor reason nor fun dreads. Inflicts, without ev'n a court-martial, on hundreds. Here trips a grisette, with a fond , roguish eye, (Rather eatable things these yrisetiei by the by); And there an old demoiselle , almost as fond , In a silk that has stood since the time of the Fronde. There goes a French Dandy— ah, Dick! unlikesome (ones We've seen about A\'uite's — the Mounseersare but (rum ones; Such bats! — fit for monkies —I'd hark Mrs Drupo To cut neater w beater-boards out of brown paper; And coats— bow I wish, if it wouldn't distress'em ! They'd club for old li—M—l,froiii Calais, to dress 'cm! The collar sticks out from the neck such a space, That vou'd swear'twas the |)lan of this heaclopping To leave there behind thema snug liuleplace(nation. For the head to drop into, on decapitation ! in short,what with mountebanks,Counts, and friseun, |
Some mummers by trade, and the rest amateurs — Wh at with captains in new jockey-boots and silk hree-Old dustmen with swinging great opera-bats, (ches And shoeblacks reclining by statues in niches. There never was seen such a race of Jack Sprats! From the Boulevards — but hearken! — yes—as I'm (a sinner, The clock is just striking the half-hour to dinner : So no more at present! — short time for adorning — My Day must he finish'd some other fine morning. Now, hey for old BEAüVtlllEn's larder, my boy! And, once there, if the Goddess of Beauty and Joy Were to write „Come and kiss me, dear Bob !quot; I'd not Not a step, Dick, as sure as my name is (budge — R. Fudge, From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Dorothy —. What a time since 1 wrotel — I am a sad, naughty Though, like a tee-tot iini, I'm all in a twirl, (girl — Yet ev'n (as you wittily say) a tee-totum Between all its twirls gives a letter to note 'em. But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dou.Y, my dresses. My gowns,so divine!- there's no language expresses, Except just the two words quot;superbe;quot; quot;magnilique,quot; The trimmings of that which I had home last week ! It is call'd—I forget—a la—something which soun-Like alicampan*—but, in truth, I'm confounded (ded Ami botber'd, my dear,'twixt that troublesome (BOB's)cookery language,and Madame ie Rot's :(hoy's What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal, Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel. One's hair and one's cutlets both en papillate, And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote, I can scarce tell the diff'rence, at least as to phrase. Between beef a. la Psyche and curls d la braise. — But,in short, dear,I'm trick'd out quite a la Franijaise, With my bonnet—so beautiful!—high up and poking, Like things that are put to keep cbimnies from smok-Where shall I begin with the endless delights (ing. Of this Eden of milliners, monkies, and sights — This dear busy place, where there's nothing transact-But dressing and dinnering, dancingand acting ? (ing Imprimis, the Opera — merry, my ears! (one ; — Brother liCBDï's remark, t'other night, was a true quot;This must be the music,quot; said be, quot;■of the spears, For I'm curst if each note of it doesn't run through (one Iquot; Pa says (and yon know, love, his Book's to make out 'Twas the Jacobins brought every mischief about) That this passion for roaring has come in of late. Since the rabble all tried for a voice in theState. — What a frightful idea , one's mind to o'erwhelm ! What a chorus, dear Deny, would soon belet If. when of age, every man in the realm (loose of it. Had a voice like old Lais, and chose to make use iVo — never was known in this riotous sphere (of it! Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear So bad too, you'd swear that the God ol both arts, Of Mmic and Physic, bad taken a frolic For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts. |
|
And composing a fine runinlinjj base lo a cliolic ! But, the dancing — ahparlez-moi, Dolly, tie fn— Tliore, indeed, is a treat that charms all hut Papa. Such beauty — such {jrace— oh ye sylphs of romance! My, fly to ïitania, and ask her if s h e lias One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dancc Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fannï Bias 1 Fannt Bias in Flora — dear creature! you'd swear, AVhcn her delicate fi-et in the dance twinkle round, That her steps areuf light, that her home is the air, And sheonly/KH' complaisance touches the ground And when Bigottini in Psïche dishevels Her Mack flowing hair, and by daemons is driven, Oh! who docs not envy those rude lit tie devils,(heaven? That hold her and bug her, and keep her from Then, the music —• so softly its cadences die. So divencly — oh, Deny! between you and I, It's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh To make love to me then—you've a soul, and can judge What a crisis 'twould be for your friend Biddy Fudge! The nextplace(whicb üobbï lias near lost his heart in) They call it tbc Play-hou e— I think—of St.Marl in; Quite charming — and v ry religious — what folly To say that the French are not pious, dear Doily, When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly. The Testament turn'd into rnclo-drames nightly ; And, doubtless, so fond they're of scriplural facts, They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts. Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids hold defiance To JVebucdadnezzar and all his stulT'd lions. While pretty younglsraelites dance round the Prophet, in very thin clothing, and hut little of it; — Here ISéghand, who shines in this scriptural path, As the lovely Susanna, without ev'n a relic Of drapery round her, comes out of the hath In a manner that, Bob says, is quite Eve-angelic i But in short, dear, 'Ivvould take me a month to recite All the exquisite places we're at, day and night ; And besides, ere I finish, I think you'll he glad Just lo hear one delighlful adventure I've had. I,ast night, at the Beaujon, a place where — I doubt Ifl well can describe—there are cars, that set out From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air. And rattle you down, Doll,—you hardly know where. These vehicles, mind me, which you go through This delightfully dangerous journey, hold two. Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether (match; You'll venture down with him—you smile—'tis a In an instant you're seated: and down both together Go tbund'ring, as if you went post to old Scratch ! Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remark'd On the looks and odd ways of the girls whocmbark'd. The impatience of some for the perilous flight. The fore'd giggle of others, twixt pleasure and fright,-That there came up—imagine, dear Doll, if you can— |
A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Wcrter-fac'd man. With mnstachios that gave (what we read of so oft) The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft. As Hyaenas in love may he fancied to look, or A something between ABELARD and old BhiCHER ! Up he came, DotL, to me, and, uncovering bis head, (Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said, quot;Ah ! my dear — if Ma'msollc vil be so very good — Just for von litti.'l coursequot; - though Iscarce understood What he wish'd me todo, I said, thank him, I would. OiT we set—and, though 'faith, dear, I hardly knew (whether My bead or my heels were the uppermost then, For 'twas like heav'n and earth, Dolly, coining to-Yet, spite of the danger, we dar'd it again, (gether,-And oh lasl gai'd on the features and air Of the man, who for me all this peril defied, I could fancy almost he and 1 were a pair Of unhappy young lovers, who thus , side by side , Were taking, instead of rope, pistol , or dagger, a Desperate dash down the Falls of Niagara I Thisachiev'd, through the gardens wesaun ter'd about. Saw the fire- works , exclaim'd quot; magnifique ! quot; at (each cracker, And , when 'twas all o'er , the dear man saw us out With the air , I will say, of a Prince , to our fiacre. Now, - bear me - this Stranger - if may be mere folly-But who do you think we all think it is, Dolly ? Why, bless you, no less than the great King ol Prussia, Who's here now incog,—he, who made such a fuss, you Remember, in London, with Bldcueh and I'latokf, When Sal was near kissing old ItiuonEn's cravat oil'! Pa says he's come here to look after his money, (Not taking things now as be us'd under Boney) Which suits with our friend, for Hob saw him, he Looking sharp lo the si I ver receiv'd at the door, (swore. Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen (Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen) Requires such a stimulantdose as this car is, Us'd three times a day with young ladies in Paris. Some Doctor, indeed, has declar'd that such grief Should—unless'twould to utter despairing its folly Flv to the Beaujon, and there seek relief (push — By rattling, as Bob says^'lilic shot through a hol- (lybush.quot; I must now bid adieu — only think, Dolly, think If this should be the King—I havescarceslept a wink With imagining how it will sound in the papers, And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge, When they read that Count Rdppin, to drive away (va hours, lias gone down the Beaujon with Jliss Biddy Fudge, Nota bene. — Papa's almost certain 'tis he — For he knows the Legitimate cut, and could see, In the way he went poising and manag'd to tower So erect in the car, the true Balance of Power. |
Een verdienstelijk oostersche geleerde en iliohter, Schot van geboorte (Denliolin, Roxburghshire), leefde van 1775—1811. Op zijn vijftiende jaar bezocht hij 't college te Edimburg en bestudeerde er met vrucht: Latijn, Grieksch , Frnusch, Spaansch, Italiaansch en Hoouduitsch , benevens Hebreeuwseh , Arabieseh en Ferzieseh. Ook beoefende hij met eenigen goeden uitslag de natuurlijke historie en verliet reeds zeer vroeg Edimburg om linisondervvijzer te worden. In 179U verscheen van hem , in proza ; Discoveries and settlements of the Europeans, in Northern ami Western Afrika; hij werd in 1800 in den geestelijken stand opgenomen en bezorgde nu ecu nieuwe uitgave van The Complaint of Scotland , omtrent 1548 uitgegeven. Leyden w»s Walter Scott ook behulpzaam in 't opsporen van oude balladen en zangen en werd door hem zeer op prijs gesteld. Zijn zucht om vreemde landen te bezoeken , deed hem een betrekking van 't gouvernement vragen in verband met zijn studiën, doch hij slaagde op dat punt niet. Nu legde hij zich op de chirurgie toe en met zulk goed gevolg, dat hij na verloop van zes maanden een diploma als assistent chirurgijn kreeg en in 1802 naar Indie onder zeil giug. Hij kon in ludië echter het klimaat niet verdragen , werd spoedig ziekelijk en overleed na weinige jaren. Men heeft onder anderen van hem : The Scenes of Infancy , The Mermaid , The Cout of Kccldar, OJe to an Indian Gold Coin en cenige andere stukjes, waaronder die in The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border van Walter Scott quot;Among these, the Mermaid is certainly the most beautiful , in it he has shewn all the creative fancy of a real genius.quot; Zijn nagelaten gedichten werden met zijn levensgeschiedenis, door James Norton, in 1819 uitgegeven.
|
On Jura's lieatli Jiow sweetly swell The murmurs of tlie mountain hee ! (low softly mourns the writhed sliell Of Jura's sliore, its parent sea ! liul softer floating o'er the deep. The Mermaid's swrct sea-soolliinjj lay, That charmed the dancing waves to sleep, Before the hark of Colonsay. Aloft the purple pennons wave, As, parting gay from Oinan's shore. From Morven's wars , the seamen hrave Their gallanl chieftain homeward bore. In youth's gay bloom, the hrave Macpliail Still blamed the lingering bark's delay ; For her he chid the flagging sail, The lovely maid of Colonsay. 'And raise,' he cried , 'the song of love, The maiden sung with tearful smile. When first, o'er Jura's hills to rove, Wc left afar the lonely isle ! 'When on this ring of ruby red Shall die,' she said, 'thecrimson hue, Know that thy favourite fair is dead. Or proves to thee and love untrue.' IVow, lightly poised, the rising oar Disperses wide the foamy spray, And echoing far o'er Crinan's shore. Resounds the song of Colonsay. 'Softly blow, thou western breeze , Softly rustle through the sail! Soothe to rest the furrowy seas, liefore my love, sweet western gale! Where the wave is tinged with red , And the russet sea-leaves grow, Mariners, with prudent dread , Shun the shelving reefs below. |
As you pass through Jura's sound , quot;lien(I your course by Scarba's shore ; Shun , O shun , the gulf profound , Where Corrievreckin's surges roar I If from that unbotlomed deep. With wrinkled form and wreathed train , O'er the verge of Scarba's steep , The sea-snake heave his snowy mane, Unwarp, unwind his ooiy coils , Sea-green sisters of the main. And in the gulf where ocean boils, The unwieldy wallowing monster chain. Softly blow, thou western breeze, Softly rustle through the sail! Soothe to rest the furrowed seas , liefore my love, sweet western gale!' Thus all to soothe the chieftain's wo, Far from the maid he loved so dear, The song arose, so soft and slow , He seemed her parting sigh to hear. The lonely deck he paces o'er , Impatient for the rising day, And still from Crinan's moonlight shore. He turns bis eyes to Colonsay. The moonbeams crisp the curling surge, That streaks with foam the ocean green ; While forward still the rowers urge Their course, a female form was seen. That sea-maid's form of pearly light, Was whiter than the downy spray, And round her bosom . heaving bright, Her glossy yellow ringlets play. liorncon a foamy crested wave. She reached amain the bounding prow , Then clasping fast the chieftain brave , She, plunging, sought thcdcop below. |
457
|
All! long besiili; lliy feigncil liier, TIic monks the prayer of ileal li shall say, And long for llioe, the fruitless trar, Shall weep the maid of Colonsay! But downward like a powerless corse, The eddying waves the chieftain hear ; lie only heard the moaning hoarse Of waters murmuring in Ins ear. The murmurs sink hy slow degrees, No more the waters round him rave; Lulled hy the music of the seas , lie lies within a coral cave. In dreamy mood reclines he long, Nor dares his tranced eyes unclose , Till, warhling wild , the sea-maid's song Far in the crystal cavern rose. Soft as that harp's unseen control, In morning dreams which lovers hear, Whose strains steal sweetly o'er the soul, But never reach the waking ear. As sunbeams t hrough the tepid air, When clouds dissolve the dews unseen, Smile on the flowers that hloom more fair , And fields that glow with livelier green — So melting soft the music fell; It seemed to soothe the fluttering spray — 'Say, heard'st thou not these wild notes swell ? All! 'tis the song of Colonsay.' Like one that from a fearful dream Awakes, the morning light to view. And joys to see the purple beam, Yot fears to find the vision true. He heard that strain , so wildly sweet, Which bade his torpid languor fly ; lie feared some spell had bound his feet, And hardly dared his limbs to try. 'This yellow sand , this sparry cave , Shall bend thy soul to beauty's sway ; Can'st thou the maiden of the wave Compare to her of Colonsay ?' Roused hy that voice of silver sound, From the paved floor he lightly sprung , And glancing wild bis eyes around Where the fair nymph her tresses wrang, No form he saw of mortal mould ; It shone like ocean's snowy foam ; Her ringlets waved in living gold , Her mirror crystal, pearl tlie comb. Her pearly comb the siren took, And careless bound her Iretses wild; Still o'er the mirror stole her look , As on the wondering youth she smiled. Like music from the greenwood tree , Again she raised the melting lay ; 'Fair warrior, wilt thou dwell with me , And leave the maid of Colonsay! |
Fair is the crystal hall for rnc With rubies and with emeralds set; And sweet the music of the sea Shall sing , when we for love are met. How sweet to dance with gliding feet Along the level tide so green , Responsive to the cadence sweet That breathes along the moonlight scene! And soft the music of the main Rings from the motley tortoise-shell , AVhile moonbeams o'er the watery plain Seem trembling in its fitful swell. How sweet, when billows heave their head, And shake their snowy crests on high , Serene in Ocean's sapphire-bed Beneath the tumbling surge to lie; To trace, with tranquil step, the deep , Where pearly drops of frozen dew In concave shells unconscious sleep, Or shine with lustre, silvery blue! Then all the summer sun , from far, Pour through the ware a softer ray; While diamonds in a bower of spar, At eve shall shed a brighter day. Nor stormy winds, nor wintry gale, That o'er the angry ocean sweep , Shall e'er our coral groves assail, Calm in the bosom of the deep. Through the green meads beneath the sea, Enamoured we shall fondly stray — Then, gentle warrior, dwell with me, And leave the maid of Colonsay I' 'Though bright thy locks of glistering gold , Fair maiden of the foamy main! Thy life-blood is the water cold , While mine beats high in every vein : If 1, beneath thy sparry cave. Should in thy snowy arms recline, Inconstant as the restless wave, My heart would grow as cold as thine.' As cygnet down , proud swelled her breast, Her eye confessed the pearly tear : His band she to her bosom pressed , 'Is there no heart for rapture here? These limbs, sprung from the lucid sea , Docs no warm blood their currents fill, No heart-pulse riot, wild and free, To joy, to love's delicious thrill ?' 'Though all the splendour of the sea Around thy faultless beauty shine, That heart,that riots wild and free, Can hold no sympathy with mine. These sparkling eyes, so wild and gay, They swim not, in the light of love; The beauteous maid of Colonsay, Her eyes arc milder than the dove! |
458
|
K*cn now, within the lonoly isle, Her eyes arc dim with tears for me ; And canst thou think that siren smile Can lure my soul to dwell with thee?' An oojy film her limbs o'erspread , Unfolds in length her scaly train ; She tossed in proud disdain her head , And lashed with wehhed fin the main. 'Dwell here alone!' the Mermaid cried, 'And view far off the sea-nymphs play; The prison-wall, the aiurc tide, Shall har thy steps from Colonsay. Whene'er, like ocean's scaly hrooil, I cleave with rapiil fin the wave, Far from the daughter of the flood , Conceal thee in this coral cave. 1 feel my former sou! return , It kindles at thy cold disdain ; And has a mortal dared to spurn A daughter of the foamy main !' Shelled , around the crystal cave The rolling waves resume their road ; On the broad portal idly rave. But enter not the nymph's abode. And many a weary night went by. As in the lonely cave he lay; And many a sun rolled through the sky, And poured its beams on Colonsay. And oft beneath the silver moon , He heard afar the Mermaid sing ; And oft to many a meting tune. The shell-formed lyres of ocean ring. And when the moon went down the sky, Still rose, in dreams, his native plain , And oft be thought his love was by, And charmed him with some tender strain. And heart-sick, oft he waked to weep , When ceascd that voice of silver sound , And thought to plunge him iu the deep That walled his crystal cavern round. But still the ring , of ruby red , Retained its vivid crimson hue. And each despairing accent fled, To find his gentle love so true. |
When seven long lonely months were gone , The Mermaid to his cavern came , No more misshapen from the /.one, But like a maid of mortal frame, 'Ogive to me that ruby ring , That on thy finger glances gay, And thuu shalt hear the Mermaid sing The song thou lov'st of Colonsay.' 'This ruby ring, of crimson grain, Shall on thy finger glitter gay, If thou wilt hear me through the main Again to visit Colonsay.' 'Except thou quit thy former love. Content to dHell for aye with me , Thy scorn my finny frame might move To tear thy limbs amid the sea.' 'Then hear me swift along the main , The lonely isle again to see, And when 1 here return again , 1 plight my faith to dwell with thee.' An oozy film her limbs o'erspread , While slow unfolds her scaly train ; With gluey fangs her hands were clad ; She lashed with webbed fin the main. He grasps the Mermaid's scaly sides , As with hroad fin she oars her way ; Beneath the silent moon she glides. That sweetly sleeps on Colonsay. Proud swells her heart! she deems at last To lure him with her silver tongue , And , as the shelving rocks she passed, She raised her voice, and sweetly sung. In softer, sweeter strains she sung , Slow gliding o'er the moonlight bay, When light to land the chieftain sprung , To hail the maid of Colonsay. O sad the Mermaid's gay notes fell, And sadly sink remote at sea I So sadly mourns the writhed shell Of Jura's shore, its parents sea. And ever as the year returns, The charm-bound sailors know the day ; For sadly still the Mermaid mourns The lovely chief of Colonsay. |
Werd den een-en-twintigsten Manrt 1785 te Noltinghnm geboren en overleed in 1800. Hoe jong ook gestorven , heeft hij zich toch gunstig onder zijn tljdgenooten als dichter onderscheiden. Zijn vroeï overlijden is hoofdzakelijk aan overspanning toe te schrijven. Men heeft van hem ouder anderen Clifton Grove ; Time; a poem; The Christiad; Childhood. quot;His principal poetic efforts are quot;Clifton Grovequot; and quot;Gon-dolinequot; , both showing great descriptive and imaginative power. His shorter poems, particularly his sonnets , are, perhaps, the most knownquot;. Zijn eerste dichtbundel verscheen in 1803, terwijl Southey in 180G zijn Remains en levensgeschiedenis uitgaf.
459
|
quot; Genlly , most gently, on ihy victim's licaii, Consuiupllon , llt;iy lliy haml! Let me decay, l.ikc the ex)iirinjf lamp, unseen away, And softly jjo to slumher with the (lead. And if'lis ti uc what holy men have said, That strains anj;elic oft foretel the day Of death , to those good men who fall thy prey, |
O lel the aerial music round my bed, Dissolving sad in dying symphony, Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear, That I may hid my weeping friends good bye Ere I depart upon my journey drear ; Anil smiling faintly on the painful past, Compose my decent head , and breathe my last.'' |
|
quot;Ye unseen spirits! Whose wild melodies At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear, Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear, As by the wood-spring streteb'd supine he lies. When he who now invokes you low is laid , His tir'd frame resting on the earth's cold bed , Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head |
And chant a dirge to his reposing shade I l''or he was wont to love your madrigals. And often by the haunted stream that laves The dark sequester'd woodland's immost eaves , Would sit and listen to the dying falls, 'Till the full tear would quiver in his eye, And his big heart would heave with mournful exstasy.quot; |
|
quot; Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Whose modest form , so delicately fine. Was nurs'd in whirling storms. And cradled in the winds. quot;Th ee, when young Spring first qucstion'd Winter's Anddar'd thesturdy blusterer to the fight — (sway. Thee, on Ibis bank he threw To make his victory. 14 In this low vale, the promise of the year Serene, thou opencst to the nipping gale, |
Unnotic'd and alone, Thy tender elegance. quot; So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity, in some lone walk Of life she rears her head , Obscure and unobserv'd, quot;AVile every bleaching breeze that on her blows Chastens her spotless purity of breast. And hardens her to bear Serene — the ills of life.quot; |
|
Yet once more, and once more, awake, my Harp, From silence and neglect — one lofly strain , Lofly, yet w ilder than the winds of Heaven , And speaking mysteries more than words can tell, J ask of thee, for I, with bymnings high , Would join tlie dirge of the departing year. Yet with no wintry garland from the woods , Wrought of the leafless branch of i\y sear , Wrealbe I thy tresses , dark December ! now ; Me higher quarrels call, with loudest song , And fearful joy to celebrale the day 01 the Redeemer..— Near two thousand suns Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse Of generations, since the day-spring first lieam'd from on high ! — j\ow to the mighty mass Of that increasing aggregate we add One unit more. Space, in comparison , How small, yet mark'd with bow much misery ; Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence, Over the nations banging her dread scourge; |
The oppressed too, in silent bitterness , Weeping their sufFeranee; and the arm of wrong , 1 Forcing the scanty portion from the weak , And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears, : So has the year been character'ii with woe In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes Yet 'twas not thus He taught — not thus He lived , Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer And much thanksgiving. — lie , a man of woes , Went on the way appointed, — path, though rude , Yet borne with patience still; — He came to cheer The broken-hearted , to raise up the sick. And on the wandering and benighted mind To pour the light of Irutli. — O task divine ! 0 more than angel teacher ! He had words To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds; And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas, Wrapt in thick darkness and the howling storm , He, pointing to the star of peace on high , Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and hacic it smile |
440
|
At the surroundinj; vrrcck. — AVIicn with dccj) agony liis heart was rackM, Not for himself tlie tem -ilroi) dew'd his cheek , For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd , His persecutors — quot;Father , pardon them , They know not what they do.quot; Angels of Heaven, Ye who hehcld Him fainting on the cross , And did him homage, say , may mortal join The hallelujahs of the risen God ? |
Will the faint voicc and grovellinjj song he heard Amid the seraphim in light divine ? Yes, He will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign , For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith , I.ow tliouyh it be and humnle. — Lord of Life , The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now Fills my uprising soul. 1 mount. I fly Far o'er the skies , heyond the rolling orhs : The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes , And care ; and pain , and sorrow are nu more. |
Werd den twee-cn-twingsten January 1788 te Londen geboren en overleed Jen neftentienden April 1821. Van 1809 tot 1811 bezocht hij Portugal, Spanje en Griekenland. In 1815 trad liyron in den echt, doch scheidde neldra, en vertrok toen naar 't buitenland. 11 ij bleef gedurende zijn reizen aan 't meer van Geneve, bezocht Ravenna, Pisa en Genua en ning in 1823 naar Griekenland, waar hij als vrijwilliger dienst nam onder iie Grieken. Hij overleed te Missolonghi. Het ia zeer moeijelijk. zoo niel onmogelijk, in weinige woorden Lord liyron als mensch en dichter te schetsen ; we bepalen ons derhalve tot 'Igeen we hierboven van hem meêdeelden, en laten een opgave van zijn werken volgen (Zie ook bldz. 415). Het eerste deel van zijne poezie, Hours of Idleness, verscheen in 1807. Vervolgens gaf hij in t licht English Hards and Scotch Reviewers; Childe Harold (1812) twee cantos; The Giaour; Hride of Abydos (1813); The Corsair; Lara (1814); Siege of Corinth; Parisina, Childe Harold, third Canto; Prisoner of Chillon ; Manfred en The Lament of Tasso (1817); Childe Harold, laatste gedeelte, Beppo (1818); Mazeppa ; Don Juan, five cantos; Marino Faliero; Sardanapalus ; The two Fosrari ; Werner; Cain; The Deformed Transformed; Don Juan (1822), voor zoover hij dat stuk afwerkte, en nog een aantal andere stukken, liet is bijna ondoenlijk de verschillende uitgaven in Engeland en op 't vasteland verschenen, mee te deelen. Hen van de beste oplagen is echter do engelschc uitgave vau 1837 , te Londen bij Murray verschenen.
I would 1 were a carclcss child.
|
1 would I were a careless child , Still dwelling on my Highland cave , Or roaming through the dusky wild , Or bounding o'er the dark bine wave ; The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride Accords not with the freeborn soul, Wbicb loves the mountain's craggy side. And seeks the rocks where billows roll. Fortune! take back these cultured lands. Take back this name of splendid sound ! I hate the touch of servile hands, I hate the slaves that cringe around. Place me among the rocks I love. Which sound to ocean's wildest roar ; I ask but this — again to rove Through sccnes my youth bad known before. Few are my years, and y.'t 1 feel The world was ne'er designed for me ; Ah ! w by do dark'ning shades conceal The hour when man must cease to be? Once 1 beheld a splendid dream, A visionary scene of bliss ; Truth ; — wherefore did thy baled beam Awake mc to a wot Id like this ? I loved — but these I loved are gone; Had friends— my early friends arc fled ; How cheerless feels the heart alone When all its former hopes are dead ! |
Though gay companions o'er the bowls Dispel awhile the sense of ill; Though pleasure stirs the maddening sould, The heart — the heart — is lonely still. How dull! to hear the voice of those Whom rank.or chance, whom wealth, or power. Have made though neither friends or foes, Associates of the festive hour. Give me again a faithful few, Jn years and feelings still thesame, And 1 will fly the midnight crew. Where boisterous joy is hut a name. And woman, lovely woman I thou , My hope, my comforter, my all; How cold must be my bosom now, When e'en thy smiles begin to pall! Without a sigh would I resign This busy scene of splendid woe. To make that culm contentment mine. Which virtue knows, or seems to know. Fain would 1 fly the haunts of men — I seek to shun, not hate, mankind ; My breast requires the sullen glen , Whose gloom may suit a darkened mind, Oh! that to me the wings were given Which bear the turtle lo her nest! Then would 1 cleave the vaults of heaven , To flee away and he at rest. |
|
Wlien Fricndsliip or love our sympatliies move, AVIicn Truth in a glance should appear; The lips may beguile wilh a dimple or smile, l!ut the test of affection's a Tear. Too oft is the smile but the hypocrite's wile, To mash detestation or fear : Give me the soft sigh , whilst the soul telling-eye Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear. Mild Charity's glow , to us mortals blow , Shows the soul from barbarity clear, Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused in a Tear. The man doom'd to sail with the hlast of the gale, Through hillows Atlantic to steer. As he bends o'er the wave which may soon he bis grave, The green sparkles bright with a Tear. The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath In glory's romantic career; 15ut he raises the foe whi n in battle laid low. And bathes every wound with a Tear. If wilh high bounding pride be returns to his hride, Renouncing the gore crimsoned spear. All his toils are repaid, when embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. |
Sweet scene of my youth! seal ofFriendship and Truth, Where lovechas'd eajli fast fleeting year, Loth to leave thee, 1 mourned, for a last look I turn'd Bui thy spire was scarce seen through a tear, Though my vows I can pay to my Mary no more, iMy Mary to love once so dear, In the shade of her bower 1 remember the hour She rewarded those vows with a Tear. By another possest, may she live ever blest; Her name my heart still must revere; With a sigh I resign w hat I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a Tear. Ye friends of my heart, ere from yon I depart, This hope to my breast is more near ; If again we shall meet in this rural retreat. May we meet as we part, with a Tear, When my soul wings her flight to the regions ofnight. And my corse shall recline on its bier. And ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume. Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. May no marble bestow the splendour of woe Which the children of vanity rear; No fiction of fame shall hldnon my name, All I ask — all 1 wish — is a Tear. |
Vliildc Harold's adieu to England.
|
quot; Adieu , adieu ! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue : The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild searnew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land — Good Night! quot;A few short hours and lie will rise To give the Morrow birth ; And 1 shall hail the morn and skies Hut not my mother Earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate : Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My dogs howl at the gate. quot; Come hither, hither, my little page ! Why dost thou weep and wail ? Or dost thou dread the billows rago ? Or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear drop from thine eye; Our ship is swift and strong: Our swiftest falcon scarce can ily Mure merrily along. quot; Let winds be shrill, let winds roll high , I fear not wave nor wind , Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that 1 Am sorrowful in mind! |
For I have from my father gone, A mother whom 1 love, And have no friend save these alone, But thee — and one above. ' My father bless'd me fervently, Yet did not much complain : But sorely will my mother sigh Till I came back again ' — quot;Enough, enough, my little lad! Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had, Mine own would not bedry. quot;Come hilher, hither, my slannch yeoman. Why dost thou look so pale? Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? Or sbi\er at the gale?quot; — 'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; But thinking on an absent wife Will hlanchc a faithful cheek. 'My spouse and hoys dwelt near the hall, Along the bordering lake. And when they on their father call, Wh at answer shall she make?' — '■ Enough , enough , my yeoman good Thy grief let none gainsay: But I who am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away. |
440
|
At tlie surroundinj; ■wreck. — AVhcn with lt;lcr|) «{jotiy liis heart was rack'd , Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his check , For them lie wept, for them lo Heaven He pray'd , His persecutors — quot;Father . pardon them , They know not what tlicy do.quot; Angels of Heaven, Ye who beheld Ilitn fainting on the cross , And did him homage, say, may mortal join The hallelujahs of the risen God ? |
Will the faint voicc and grovelling song he heard Amid the seraphim in light divine? Yes, He will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign , For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith , I.ow though it he and humhle. — Lord of Life, The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now Fills my uprising soal. 1 monnt. I fly Far o'er the skits , heyond the rolling orhs : The honds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes. And care ; and pain , and sorrow arc no more. |
Werd den twee-en-twlngsten January 1788 te Londen geboren en overleed den negentieuden April 1821. Van 1809 tot 1811 bezocht liij Portugal, Spanje en Griekenland. In 1815 trad Uyron in den echt, doch scheidde weldra, en vertrok toen naar 't buitenland. Hij bleef gedurende zijn reizeu aan 't meer van Geneve, bezocht Kavenna, Pisa en Genua en ging in 1823 naar Griekenland, waar hij als vrijwilliger dienst nam ouder de Grieken. Hij oierleed te Missolonghi. Het is zeer moeijelijk. zoo niel onmogelijk, in weinige woorden Lord liyron als mensch en dichter te schetsen ; we bepalen ons derhalve tot 'tgeen we hierboven van hem mcêdeelden, en laten een opgave van zijn werken volgen ^ie ook bldz. 415). Het eerste deel van zijne poëzie, Hours of Idleness, verscheen in 1807. Vervolgens gaf hij iu 't licht English Hards and Scotch Reviewers; Childe Harold (1812) twee cantos; The Giaour; lïride of Abydos (1813); The Corsair; Lara (1814); Siege of Corinth; Parisina , Childe Harold, third Canto; Prisoner of Chillon ; Manfred en The Lament of Tasso (1817); Childe Harold, laatste gedeelte, Beppo (1818); Mazeppa ; Don Juan , five cantos; Marino Faliero; Sardanapalus ; The two Foscari; Werner; Cain; The Defonned Transformed; Don Juan (1822), voor zoover hij dat stuk afwerkte, en nog een aantal andere stukken. Het is bijna ondoenlijk de verschillende uitgaven in Engeland cn op 't vasteland verschenen, meê te deelen. Een van de beste oplagen is echter de engelsche uitgave van 1837 , tc Londen bij Murray verschenen.
1 would I were a careless child.
|
1 would I were a careless child, Still dwelling on my Highland cave , Or roaming through the dusky wild , Or hounding o'er the dark hlue wave; The cutnhrous pomp of Saxon pride Accords not with the I'reehorn soul , Which loves the mountain's craggy side, And seeks the rocks where hillows roll. Fortune! lake back these cultured lands, Take back this name of splendid sound ! I hate the touch of servile hands, 1 hate the slaves that cringe around. Place me among the rocks I love. Which sound to ocean's wildest roar ; 1 ask hut this — again lo rove Through scenes my youth had known before. Few are my years, and yt 1 feel The world was ne'er designed for me; Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal The hour when man must cease to be? Once 1 beheld a splendid dream, A visionary scene of bliss ; Truth; — wherefore did thy haled beam Awake mc to a woi Id like this ? I loved — but these I loved are gone; Had friends — my curly friends arc fled ; How cheerless feels the heart alone When all its former hopes are dead 1 |
Though gay companions o'er the bowls Dispel aw bile the sense of ill; Though pleasure stirs the maddening sould, The heart — ibe heart — is lonely still. How dull! to bear the voice of those Whom rank, or chance, whom wealth, or power. Have made though neither friends or foes, Associates of the festive hour. Give me again a faithful few, In years and feelings still the same. And 1 will fly the midnight crew, Where boisterous joy is hut a name. And woman , lovely woman 1 thou , My hope, my comforter, my all ; How cold must he my bosom now, When e'en thy smiles begin to pall! Wit bout a sigh w ould i resign This busy scene of ■''pleiKlid woe. To make that calm contentment mine, Which virtue knows , or seems lo know. Fain would I lly the haunts of men — I seek to shun, not hale mankind; My breast requires the sullen glen , Whose gloom may suit a darkened mind, Oh 1 that lo me the «ings were given Which hear the lurlle to her nest! Then would 1 cleave the vaults of heaven, To flee away and be at rest. |
441
|
When Friondship or love our sympathies move, When Truth in a glance should appear; The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile, But the lest of affection's a Tear. Too oft is the smile hut the hypocrite's wile, To mask detestation or fear: Give me the soft sigh , whilst the soul telling-eye Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear, Mild Charity's glow , to us mortals blow , Shows the soul from barbarity clear, Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused in a Tear. The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale. Through billows Atlantic to steer. As he bends o'er the wave which may soon he his grave. The green sparkles bright with a Tear. The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath In glory's romantic career; But be raises the foe when in battle laid low. And bathes every wound with a Tear. If with high hounding pride he returns to his bride. Renouncing the gore crimsoned spear. All his toils are repaid, when embracing the maid. From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. |
Sweet scene of my youth! seat of Friendship and Truth, Where love chas'd each fast fleeting year, Loth to leave thee, I mourned, for a last look I turn'd But thy spire was scarce seen through a tear. Though iny vows I can pay to my Mary no more. My Mary to love once so dear, In the shade of her bower I remember the hour She rewarded those vows with a Tear. By another posscst, may she live ever blest; Her name my heart still must revere; With a sigh I resign what 1 once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a Tear, Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart, This hope to my breast is more near: If again we shall meet in this rural retreat. May we meet as we part, with a Tear, When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night. And my corse shall recline on its bier. And ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume, Oli ! moisten their dust with a Tear. May no marble bestow the splendour of woe Which the children of vanity rear; No fiction of fame shall blazon my name. All I ask — all I wish — is a Tear, |
|
quot;Adieu , adieu ! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue : The night-winds sigh , the breakers roar. And shrieks the wild searnew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee. My native Land — Good Night! quot;A few short hours and He will rise To give 1 he Morrow birth ; And 1 shall hail the morn and skies But not my mother Karth, Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate : Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My dogs howl at the gate. quot; Come hither, hither, my little page ! Why dost thou weep and wail i Or dost thou dreail the billows rage ? Or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear drop from thine eye; Our ship is swift and strong; Our swiftest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along, quot; Let winds be shrill, let winds roll high, I fear not wave nor wind , Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind! |
For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend save these alone, But thee — and one above. 'My father bless'd me fervently. Yet did not much complain : But sorely will my mother sigh Till I came hack again ' — quot;Enough , enough, my lit!le lad ! Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had , Mine own would not be dry. quot;Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman. Why dost thou look so pale? Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? Or shi\er at the gale?quot; — 'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe , I'm not so weak ; But thinking on an absent wife Will blanche a faithful cheek. 'My spouse and hoys dwelt near the hall, Along the bordering lake. And when they on their father rail. What answer shall she make?' — '■Knougli, enough , my yeoman good Thy grief let none gainsay: liut I who am of lighter mood. Will laugh lo (lee away. |
442
|
quot;For who would tmet the seeming siglis Of wife or paramour? Fresh fears will dry the briglil blue eyes We late saw streaming o'er. F'or pleasures past 1 do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear. quot;And now I'm in the world alone. Upon the wide, wide sea: But why should I for others groan , When none will sigh for me ? |
Perchance my dog will whine in vain , Till fed by stranger bands; But long ere 1 come back again , He'd tear me where he stands. quot;With thee , my hark, I'll swiftly go , Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care what land thou bear'st me to , So not again to mine AVelcome ; welcome, ye dark blue waves! And when you fail my sight, Web ;otne , ye deserts , and ye caves! My native Land'—Good night!quot; |
|
Tbet make obedience, and retire in haste, Too soon to seek again the watery waste : Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides , And who dare question aught that be decides; That man of loneliness and mystery. Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh: Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew , And tints each swarthy cheek wilh sallow hue; SUM sways their souls with that commanding art That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. What is that spell , that thus his law less train Confess and envy, yet oppogt;c in vain ? What should it lie , that thus their faith can bind ? The power of thought — the magic of the mind ; Link'd with success , assum'd and kept with skill, That moulds another's weakness to his will ; Wields with their bands, hut, still to these unknown, Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. Such bath been — shall he — beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one.' 'Tis nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils Accuse not, hate not Aim who wears the spoils. Oh ! if be knew the weight of splendid chains , How light the balance of his humbler pains! Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, Demons in act, hut gods at least in face. In Conrad's form seems little to admire , Though his dark eyebrows shade a glance of lire: Robust but not Herculean — to the sight No giant frame set forth his common height; Yet, in the whole, w ho paused to look again , Saw more than marks I lie erowd of vulgar men : Tliey gaze and marvel bow — and still confess That thus it is, but why they cannot guess, Sun-burnt his cheek , his forehead high and pale The sable curls in high profusion veil; And oft perforce his rising lip reveals The haughtier thought it cui bs but scarce conceals. Though smoothe his voice, and calm his gentle mien, Still seems there something be would not have seen : His features' deepening lines and varying hue At times attracted , yet perplexed the view , As if w ithin that muskmess of mind W ork'd feelings fearful , and yet undefined ; Such might it be — that none can truly tell — To close inquiry bis stern glance would quell. |
There breathe but few, what aspect might defy The full encounter of his searching rye; lie had the skill, when cunning's gaze would seek To probe bis heart and watch his cbanging cheek, At once the observer's purpose to espy. And on himself roll back his scrutiny. Lest he to Coniad rather should betray. Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day. There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, That raised emotions both of rage and fear; And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, Hope withering fled — and mercy sigb'd farewell I Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, Within — within — 'twas there the spirit wrought; Love shows all changes — Hate, Ambition , Guile , Betray no further than the hitter smile; The lips least curl, the lightest paleness thrown Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone Of deeper passion, and to judge their mien , Ho who would see, must be himself unseen. Then with the hurried tread the upward eye. The clenched hand , the pause of agony, That listens , starting , lest the step too near Approach intrusive on that mood of fear: Then — with each future working from the heart, With feelings loused to strengbten — not depart; That rise—convulsive—contend—that freeze, or glow Flush in the cheek . or damp upon the brow : Then — Stranger! if thou canst, and tremblest not Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot! Mark — bow that lone and blighted bosom sears The scathing thought of execrating years! Behold — but who hath seen , or e'er shall see, May as himself — the secret spu it free! Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument — His soul was ehang'd, before his deeds had driven Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. Warp'd by the w orld in Disappointment's school , In words loo wise , iu conduct there a fool ; Too firm to yield , and far too proud to sloop , Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe , He eurs'd those virtues as the cause of ill , And not the traitors who betray'd him still: Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men Hud left him joy , and means to give again. |
443
|
Fear'd —slionnetl — belied —cro youth had lost her He hated man too much to feel remorse , (force, And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call To pay the injuries of some on all. He knew himself a villain — hut he decin'd The rest no better than the thing he seein'd , And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. He knew himself detested , but he knew The hearts that loath'd him,crouch'd and dreaded too, Lone, wild, and strange, be stood alike exempt From all alTeclion, and from all contempt; Uis name could sadden, and his act surprise , But they that fear'd him dared not to despise , Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere be wake The slumbering venom of the folded snake; The first may turn — but not avenge the blow : The last expires — hut leaves no living foe; Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings. And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings! None are all evil —quickening round his heart. One softer feeling would not yet depart; Oft would he sneer at. others as beguiled liy passions worthy of a fool or child; |
Yes 'gainst that passion vainly still be strove. And even in him it asks the name of Love! Yet, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged, Felt hut for one from whom he never ranged ; Though fairest captivcs daily met his eye. He shunned nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by ; Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower, None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. Yes, — it was Love — if thoughts of tenderness, Tried in temptation, strengthen'd in distress, Unmov'd by absence, firm in every clime. And yet — Oh more than all I — untired by time ; Which nor defeated hope nor baffled wile. Could render sullen were she near to smile. Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent On her one murmur of his discontent; AVbich still would meet with joy, with calmness part Lest that bis look of grief should reach her heart: Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove — If there he love in mortals — this was love! He was a valiant — ay — reproaches shower On him — but not the passion, nor its power, Which only proved all other virtues gone. Not guilt itself could quench this lovely one. |
|
Fare thee well, and if for over — Still for ever, fare Ihcc well — E'en though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy bead so oft bath lain, When that placid sleep came o'er thee AVbich thou ne'er canst know again: Would that breast by thee glanc'd over, Every inmost thought could show ! Then thou would'st at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so — Though the world for this commend thee •— Though it smile upon the blow , Even its praises must offend thee , Founded on another's woe — Though my many faults defae'd me , Could no other arm be found , Than the one which once embrae'd me , To inflict a cureless wound ! Yet—oh, yrt— thyself deceive not— Love may sink by slow decav , But by sudden wrench believe not, Hearts can thus he torn away ! Still thine own ils life retaineth — Still must mine—though bleeding—heat , And the undying thought which paincth Is—that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead ; |
liolh shall live—hut every morrow — Wake ns from a widow'd bed. And when thou would'st solace gather — When our child's first accents flow — Wilt thou teach her to say—Father ? Though his care she must forego ? When her little hands shall press thee — When her lips to thine are prest — Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think ofhim thy love hath bless'd. Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more may'st sec — Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse still true to me. All my faults — perchance thou knowest. All my madness — none can know ; All my hopes — where'er thou goest. Whither — yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaken ; Pride, which not a world could bow, bows to thee — by thee forsaken , Even my soul forsakes me now. But 'tis done — all words arc idle — Words from me are vainer still; For the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will. Fare thee well! — thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie — Seared in heart — and lone — and blighted. More than this, I scarce can die. |
444
|
When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken hearted, To sever for years, 1'ale grew thy cheek and eold ■ Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on thy hrovv — ll fell like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, Anil light is thy fame, 1 hearthy name spoken. And share in its shame, |
They name thee before me — A knell in mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me — Why wert thou so dear ? They know not I knew thee. Who knew thee too well; Long, long shall I rue thee , Too deeply to tell. In secret we met — In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget , Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee , After long years , How should 1 greet thee ! With silence and tears. |
The destruction of §ennachcrlb.
|
The Assyrian came down like a wolf in the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And thesheen of their spears was I ike the stars on thesea When the blue wave rolls lightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banner at sun-set were seen : Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay witber'dand strewn. For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast. And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd : And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill. And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew (still! |
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide , lint through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride And the foam of his grasping lay white on the surf. And cold as the spray on the rock-beating turf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale , With the dew on his brow , and the rust on his nail , And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances nnliftcd, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur were loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temples of Haal: And the might of the Gentile, nnsmote by the sword. Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord. |
Wapoleon's farewell in France.
|
Farewell to the land, where the gloom of my glory Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name She abandons me now, but the place of her story, The brightest or blackest, isflll'd with my fame. I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me thus (only When the meteor of concjuest allur'd me too far. I have coped with the nations which dread me lonely The last singlecaptivc to millions in war. Farewell to thee, France,—when thy diademcrown'd 1 made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, (me. liut thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth, (thee, |
Oh ! for the veteran hearts that were wasted (won,— In strife with the storm, when their battles were When thceagle,w hose gaze in that moment was blasted Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun I Farewell to thee, France, but when liberty rallies Once more in thy regions, remember me then — The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys, Though wither'd, thy tears will unfold itagain— Yet, yet 1 may baffle the hosts that surround us. And yet may thy heart leap awake to thy voice — There are links which must break in the chain that (has hound us. Then turn thee and call on the chief of thy choice. |
|
But he the favourite and the flower, Most cherijliei! since his natal hour, |
His mother's image in her face , The infant love of all his race , |
|
His inartyrM fatlier's dearest tlioujjlit, My latest care, for whom I soujlit To hoard my life, that his might he Less wretched now , and one day free, lie, too , who yet had held unlired A spirit natural or inspired — He, too, wasstruolc, and day hy day Was withered on the stalk away. Oh Goil! It is a fearful thing To sec the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood: I've seen it rushing forth in hloofl, I've seen it on the breaking ocean Strive with theswoll'u convulsive motion, I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of sin, delirious with its dread: Hut these were horrors — this was woe Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow , lie faded, and so culm and meek, So softly worn, so sweetly weak, So tearless, yet so tender — kind. And grieved for those he left behind. With all the while a check whose bloom Was as a mockery of the tomb. Whose tints as gently sink away As a departing rainbow's ray — An eye of most transparent light, That almost made the dungeon bright. And not a word of murmur — not A groan o'er his untimely lot, — A little talk of better days, A little hope my own to raise. |
Fur I was sunk in silence — lost In th is sad loss, of all the most; Ami then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting nature's feebleness, More slowly drawn, grew less and less ; I listened but 1 could not hear — 1 called, for I was wild with fear; I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonished ; I called, and thought I heard a sound — I hurst my chain with one strong hound, And rushed to him ; — I found him not, I only stirred in this black spot. I only lived — I only drew The accursed breath of dungeon dew; The last, the sole, the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink, Which bound me to my falling race, AVas broken to this fatal place. One on the earth, and one beneath — jMy brothers — both have ceased to breathe I took that hand which lay so still, Alas ! my own was full as chill; I had not strength to stir or strive, But felt that I was still alive — A frantic feeling,— when we know That what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why I could not die, I had no earthly hope — but faith. And that forbade a selfish death. |
All Is vanity, salth the preaclicr.
|
Fame, wisdom , love , and power were mine , And health and youth possess'd me; My goblets hlush'd from every vine. And lovely forms caress'd me; I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes. And felt mysoul grow tender; All earth can give, or mortal priie, Was mine of regal splendour. 1 strive to number o'er what days Remembrance can discover. Which all that life or earth displays Would lure me to liveover. There rose no day, there roll'd no hour Of pleasure unembitter'd ; And not a trapping deck'd my power That gall'd not while it glittcr'd. The serpent of the field, by art And spells , is won from harming ; But that which coils around the heart, Oh ! who hath power of charming ? It will not list to wisdom's lore. Nor music's voice can lure it; But there it slings for evermore The soul that must endure it. |
When coldness wraps this suffering clay, Ah, whither strays the immortal mind? It cannol'die, it cannot stay. But leaves its darken'd dust behind. Then , unembodied, doth it trace By steps each planet's heavenly way ? Or fill at once the realms of space, A thing of eyes, that all survey ? Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, A thought unseen , but seeing all, All, all in earth , or skies display'd , Shall it survey, shall it recal: Each fainter trace that memory holds , So darkly of departed years, In one broad glance the soul beholds, And all , that was, at once appears. Before Creation peopled earth , Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; And where the furthest heaven had birth , The spirit trace its rising track. And where the future mars or makes , Its glance dilate o'er all to be , While sun is queneh'd or system breaks , Fis'd in its own eternity. |
446
|
Above or love, hope , hale, or fear, It lives all passionless and pure : An ajje shall fleet like earthly year; Its years as moments shall endure. |
Away, away, without a wing , O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly ; A nameless and eternal thing , Forgetting what it was to die. |
|
The King was on liis throne. The Satraps throng'd the hall; A thousand bright lamps shone O'er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold. In Judah deem'd divine — Jehovah's vessels hold The godless heathen's wine! In that same hour and hall, The fingers of a hand Came forth against the wall, And wrote as if on sand: The fingers of a man ; — A solitary hand Along the letters ran , And traced them like a wand. The monarch saw , and shook. And hade no more rejoice ; All bloodless wax'd his look And tremulous his voice. 'Let the men of lore appear, The wisest of the earth , And expound the words of fear, AVhich mar our royal mirth.' |
Chaldea's seers are good , But here they have no skill: And the unknown letters stood Untold and awful still. And Babel's men of age Are wise and deep in lore; But now they were not sage. They saw — but knew no more. A captive in the land, A stranger and a youth , He beard the king's command , He saw that writing's truth. The lamps around were bright. The prophecy in view ; He read it on that night, — The morrow proved it true. 'Belsbazzar's grave is made. His kingdom pass'd away. He, in the balance woigh'd, Is light and worthless clay. The shroud , his robe of state, His canopy, the stone; The Mede is at his gate ! The Persian on bis throne !' |
Deze (lichter word geboren te Field Place (Sussex), en verdronk in de baai van Spezzia. Uit 't volgende zal men zijn leven vrij wel loeren kennen. quot; His life was a dream of romance — a tale of mystery and grief. That he was sincere in his opinions, and benevolent iu bis intentions, is now undoubted. Ho looked upon the world with the eyes of a visionary, bent on unattainable schemes of intellectual excollonce and supremacy. Uis delusion led to misery, and made him, for a time, nnjust to others. It alienated him from his family and friends, blasted his prospects in life, and distempered all his views and opinions.quot; Dat een on ander van invloed op zyn rigting als dichter bad, zal wel geen betoog bebooven. quot;What Sbolley produced, says Cralk, during the brief term allotted to him on earth , much of it passed in sickness and sorrow, is remarkable for its quantity, but much more wonderful for the quality of the greater part of it. His ' Queen Mab', written when bo was eighteen, crudc and defective as it is, and unworthy to be classed with what he wrote in his maturer years, was probably tbo richest promise that was over given at so early uu age of puetie power, the fullest assurance that the writer was born a poet. From the date of his 'Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude', the earliest written of the poems published by himself, to his death, was not quite seven years. 'The Revolt of Islam', in twelve cantos, or books, the dramas of ' Prometheus Unbound ', ' The Cenciand ' Hollas ', the tale of ' Rosalind and Helen ', ' The Masque of Anarchy', 'The Sensitive Plant', 'Jullian and Maddalo', 'The Witch of Atlas', ' Epipsychidion 'Adonnis', quot;fho Triumph of Life', the translations of Homer's 'Hymn of Mercury', of the 'Cyclops' of Euripides, and of the scones from Calderon and from Goethe's 'Faust', besides many short poems, wore the additional produce of this springtime of a life destined to know no summer. So much poetry, so rich in various beauty, was probably never poured forth with so rapid a flow from any other mind. Nor can much of it bo charged with either immaturity or carelessness ; Shelley, with all his abundance and facility , was a fiistidious writer, scrupulously attentive to the elfect of words and syllables , and nccustomcd
447
to elabornte whatevor he wrote to the utmost; and, although it is not to be doubted that if ho had lived longer he would have developed new powers and a still more masterly command over the several resources of his art, anything that can properly be callcd unripeness in his eomposition had, if not before, ceased with his ' Kevolt of Islam', the first of his puems which he gave to the world, as if the exposure to the public eye had burned it out. Some haziness of thought and uncertainly of expression may be found in some of his later, or even latest, works; but that is not to be confounded with rawness; it is the dreamy ecstasy, too high for speech, in which his poetical nature, most subtle, sensitive, and voluptuous , delighted to dissolve and lose itself. Yet it is marvellous how far he had succeeded in reconciling even this mood of thought with the necessities of distinct expression. quot; — Zijn weduwe gaf zijn werken uit onder den titel The Poetical Works of P. 15. Shelley, edited by Mrs. Shelley.
|
quot;Hail to tliee, Millie spirit! Bird thou never wert, That frotn heaven , or near it, Pourest ihy full heart In profuse strains of unprunicditatcd art. quot;Higher still and higher. From the earth thou springes!, Like a cloud of fire I The blue deep thou w ingest, And singing, still dost sour, and soaring, ever singest. quot;In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun , O'er which clouds are hright'ning , Thou dost float and run ; Like an embodied joy , whose race has just begun. quot;The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight. Thou art unseen , but yet I hear I by shrill delight. quot;Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere V\ hose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear , Until we hardly see, we feel ibal it is there. quot;All the earth and air With thy voice is loud , As, when night is hare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams,and heaven isoverflow'd. quot;What thou art we know not: What is most like thee ? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright lo sec. As from ihy presence showers a rain of melody, quot;Like a poet hidden In tlx; lighi of thought . Singing hymns unbidden , Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: quot;Like a high-horn maideti in a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour , Willi music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: |
quot;Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue (view: Among the flowers and graslt;,which screen it from the '•Like a rose emhowcr'd in its own green leaves, By warm winds deflower'd , Till the scent it gives (thieves. Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged quot;Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd iluwers, All ihut ever was Joyous, and clear, anil fresh, thy music dolh surpass. quot;Teach me , sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine; i have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. quot;Chorus hymeneal , Or Iriiimplial chant, Match'd with thine would he all But an empty vaunt — A thing wherein we feel there is some bidden want. quot;What objects are the fountains 01 thy happy strain ? What fields , or waves, or mounlains ? What shapes of sky or plain ? What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain? quot;With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot he; Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee : Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. ''Waking or asleep. Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream , Or how con Id thy note flow in such a crystal stream ? quot;We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught ; (thought. Our sweetest songs are those which tell of saddest |
448
|
quot;Yot if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; ]f we were ihinjjs horn Kot to slied a tear, I know not liow tliyjoy we ever slionld come near. quot;Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Belter than all treasures |
That in hooks are found , Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! quot;Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know , Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow , The world should listen then as 1 am listening now. |
|
I hring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I hear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams, From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet birds every one. When rocked to rest on llieir mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of (ho lashing hail. And whiten the green plainsunder; And then again ƒ dissolveit in rain, And laugh as J pass in thunder. I soft the snow on the mountains below. And theirgreat pines groan aghast; And all the night 'lis my pillow white. While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skicy bowers Lightning, my pilot, sits; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder. It struggles and howls at Ills; Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of ibe genii that move In the depths of the purple sea ; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. Over the lakes and the plains. Wherever be dream, under mountain or stream: The Spirit be loves, remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine sunrise, with bis meteor eyes. And bis burning plumes outspread. Leaps on the back of my sailing l ack When the morning star shines dead. As on thejagofa mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit, one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings; And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea beneath, lis ardours of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above. |
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest. As still as a brooding dove. That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, l!y tiie midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. Which only the angels hear. May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof. The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. Like a swarm of golden bees. When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent. Till the calm river, lakes, ami seas. Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. Are each paved with the moon and these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone. And the moon's w ith a girdle of pearl ; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. Over a torrent sea. Sunbeam proof! hang like a roof. The mountains its columns he. The triumphal arch through which I march. With hurricane, fire, and snow. When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-coloured how ; The sphere'fire above, its soft colours wove. While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of the earth and water, And the nursling of the sky; 1 pass through the pores of the ocean and shores, 1 change , but 1 cannot die. For after the rain , when, with never a stain , The pavilion of heaven is bare , And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex Build up the blue dome of air, (gleams, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph , And out uf the caverns of rain. Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the 1 rise and upbuild it again, (tomb, |
449
|
How wonderful is Dealli, Deatli and Ills brother Sleep! One, pale as yonder waning moon, Willi lips of lurid blue; The other, rosy as the morn When, throned on oeean's wave, ll blushes o'er the world : Yet both so passing wonderful! llalh then the gloomy Power, Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres, Seized on her sinless soul ? Must then that peerless form Which loveand admiration cannot view AVithout a heating heart, those a/.ure veins Which steal like streams along a field of snow, That lovely outline, which is fair As breathing marble, perish ? Must putrefaction's breath Leave nothing of this heavenly sight Uut loathsomeness and ruin ? Spare nothing but a gloomy theme On which the lightest heart might moralise ? Or is it only a sweet slumber Stealing o'er sensation, Wl lich the breath of roseate morning Chaselh into darkness ? Will lantbc (1) wake again , And give that faithful bosom joy Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch Light, life, and rapture from her smile? Her dewy eyes are closed. |
And on their lids, whose texture fine Scarce hides the dark hiueorbs beneath, The baby Sleep is pillowed : Her golden tresses shade The bosom's stainless pride. Curling like tendrils of the parasite Around a marble column. Hark ! whence that rushing sound ? 'Tis like the wondrous strain That round a lonely ruin swells. Which, wandering on the echoing shore. The enthusiast hears at evening: quot;fis softer than the west wind's sigh ; 'Tis wilder than the unmeasured notes Of that strange lyre whose strings The genii of the bree/.es sweep: Those lines of rainbow light Are like moonbeams when they fall-Through some cathedral window, but the tcints Arc such as may nol find Comparison on earth. liehold the chariot of the fairy queen ! Celestial coursers paw the unyielding air; Their filmy pennonsat her word they furl, And stop obedient to the reins of light: These the queen ofspellsdrew in; She spread a charm around the spot, And leaning graceful from the ethereal car. Long did she gaze, and silently, Upon the slumbering maid. |
Als dichter boter onder den nnam van Barry Cornwall bekend, weid in 1790 te Londen geboren, waar hij in 1853 nog als advokaat praktiseerde. Hij gaf in 1815 zijn eerste werk uit en sinds dat jaar: Dramatic Secnes; Diego de Monlilla, a Sicilian Story; Marcian Colonna, a tragedy (1821), quot;which being played at Covent Garden Theatre, enjoyed a temporary successquot;; The Flood of Thessaly; Mirandola; quot;and a number of songs; which latter arc, in truth bis most sueccssful, and will probably be bis most lasting, productionsquot;. quot;His poetical style seems formed on that of the Elizabethan dramatists, and some of his lyrical pieces arc exquisite in sentiment and diction
|
Here's a health to thee, Mary Here's a health to thee ; The drinkers arc gone, And I am alone , To think of home and thee, Mary. There arc some who may shine o'er thee, Mary , And many as frank and free ; And a few as fair, — Rut the summer air Is not more sweet to me , Mary. |
I have thought of thy last low sigh , Mary, And thy dimm'd and gentle eye ; And I've call'd on thy name When the night w inds came , And heard my heart reply , Mary. lie thou lint true to me , Mary , And I'll he true to thee ; And at set of sun , When my task is done , üesure that I'm ever with thee, Mary. |
(1) Iimlhe, the beautiful wife of Iphis , a prince of Cyprus, who hanged himself for love.
57
450
|
Gamarra is a dainty steed , Slrong , hlack , and of a noble breed ; Full of fire, and full of bone , With all bis line of fathers known : Fine bis nose, bis nostrils tbin , But blown abroad by the pride wilbin ; His mane is like a river flowin;;, And bis eyes like embers plowing In tbe darkness of tbe ni;;bt, And bis pace as swift as ligbt; Look! — bow round bis straining tbroat Grace and shifting beauty float; Sinewy strength is on bis reins And the rod blood gallops through bis veins; Richer, redder never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher King Death was a rare old fellow ! He sat where no sun could shine; And be lifted his hand so yellow, And pour't] out his coal-black wine. Hurrah ! for the coal-black wine! There came to him many a maiden. Whose eyes had forgot to shine; And widows, with grief o'erladen, Kor a draught of his sleepy wine. Hurrah ! for the coal-black wine ! The scholar left all his learning, — |
Than tbe Kourbon dare aspire , — Douglas, Guzman , or the Guelph , Or O'Brien's blood itself! lie *— w ho bath no peer — was born Here , upon a red March morn ; But his famous fathers, dead , Were Arabs all , and Arab bred : And the last of that great line Seemed as of a race divine! And yet — he was but friend to one Who fed him at the set of sun , By some lone fountain fringed with green : With him , a roving Bedouin , He lived — (none else would lie obey Through all the hot Arabian day) — And died untamed upon the sands Where Balkii amidst the desert stands! Tbe poet bis fancied woes; And the beauty her bloom returning, Like life to the fading rose. Hurrah ! for tbe coal-black wine! All came to the royal old fellow. Who laugh'd till bis eyes dropp'd brine; As he gave them his band so yellow, And plegged them in death's black wine. Hurrah! hurrah ! Hurrah! for the coal-black wine! |
|
Awake ! — the starry midnight hour Hangs charmcd , and pausctb in its flight; In its own sweetness sleeps the flower , And the doves lie hushed in deep delight ! Awake! awake I Look forth , my love, for love's sweet sake! Awake! — soft dews will soon arise From daisied mead , and thorny brake ; Then , sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes , And like the tender morning break ! Awake I awake! Dawn forth , my love, for love's sweet sake ! |
Awake! — within the musk-rose bower I watch , pale llower of love, for thee ; All, come and shew the starry hour What wealth of love thou hidest from me ! Aw ake ! awake ! quot; Shew all thy love , for love's sweet sake! Awake 1— ne'er heed, though listening night Steal music from thy silver voice; Uncloud thy beauty rare and bright. And bid the world and me rejoice! Awake! awake! She comes, at last, for love's sweet sake ! |
|
We are born ; we laugh, we weep, We love , we droop, wc die ! Ah ! therefore do we laugh , or weep ? |
Why do we live , or die ? Who knows that secret deep ? Alas , not I ! |
|
Why dotli lliu violcl spring Unseen by human eye ? Why do the radiant seasons hrinjf Sweet thoujilits that qniekly fly ? Why d o our fond hearts cling To things that die ? |
We toil — through pain and wrong ; We fight, and Hy ; We love, we lose — and then , ere long, Stone-dead wc lie. O life ! is all thy song quot;Endure and — die ?quot; |
|
Come, all ye feathery people of mid air, Who sleep'midst rocks, or on the mountain summits Lie down with the wild winds; and ye who huild Your homes amidst green leaves hy grottos cool, And y«, who on the flat sands hoard your eggs For suns to ripen, come! O phoenix rare! Ifdeath hath spared, or philosophic search Permit thee still to own thy haunted nest, Perfect Arabian, — lonely nightingale! Dusk creature, whoart silent all day long, liutwlien pale eve unseals thy clear throat, loosest Thy twilight music on the dreaming houghs, |
Until thoy waken ; and thou, cuckoo bird, Whoart the ghost of sound, having noshape Material, hul dost wander far and near. Like untouch'd echo whom the woods deny Sight of her love, comeall to my slow charm Come thou, sky-climbing bird, wakenerof morn, Who springest like a thought unto the sun, And from his golden Hoods dost gather wealth (Epithalatnium and Pindarique song). And with it enrich our cars; come all to me, lleneath the chamber where my lady lies, And, in your several musics, whisper — I.ovc! |
Word den negen-en-tivintlgsten October 1790 te Londen geboren. Hij oidvlng een goede opvoeding en werd, toen zij voltooid was, bij een chirurgijn in do leer gedaan. Hij zei dat beroep echter spoedig vaarwel, tengevolge van een aanzienlijke erfenis, die hem ten deel viel. Keats gnf in 1818 zijn Kndyraion uit en zijn Lamia , Isabella, The Kve of St. Agnes en Hyperion in 1820, in welk werk tevens eenige kleine stukken werden opgenoinon. Een scherpe recensie in dc Quarterly lleview berokkeude hein zooveel leed, dat hij de tering kreeg en in 1821 te Uome stierf, waarheen hij tot herstel van gezondheid was gereisd. In weerwil van de gebreken in zijn poëzie dragen zijn nagelaten stukken toch menigvuldige blijken , dat hij bij een langer loven zeker een groot dichter zou geworden zijn.
|
My heart aches , and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. But being too happy in thy happiness, — That thou , light-winged dryad of the trees , In some melodious plot Of bcechen green , and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated case. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green , Dance, and Provencal song ,nnd sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South , Full of the true, the blushful llippocrene. With beaded hubbies winking at the brim , And purple-stained mouth ; That I might drink , and leave the world unseen , And with thee fade away into the forest dim : Fade far away , dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known , |
The weariness, the fever , and the fret Here, ■where men sit and hear each other groan ; Where palsy shakes a few, sad , last grey hairs. Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin,and dies; Where but to think is to he full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs , Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away ! for 1 will fly to thee, IVot charioted by Bacchusand bis pards, But on the viewless w ings of Poesy, Though thedull brain perplexes and retards : Already with thee! tender is the night. Ami haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clnster'd around by all her starry fays; But here there is no light. Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy (ways. 1 cannot see what flowers are at my feet. Kor what soft incense bangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet |
|
AVliorewilh tlio scasonalilc monlh endows ïhn jjrass, llie lliickct, anti the i'ruit-lrcc wild ; AVhite liawtliorn, and tlie pastoral eglantine; Fast-fad in;; violets cover'd up in leaves ; And mid-May's eldest cliild, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, Tlie murmurous liaunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling 1 listen : and, fur many a time, 1 havo heen half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die. To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstacy! Slill wouldst thou sing, and 1 have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! No hungry generations tread thee down ; |
The voice 1 hear this passing night was beard In ancient days by emperor and clown : Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home. She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; The same that oft times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu I adieu! ihy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream. Up the hill side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? Fled is that music: — Do I wake or sleep ? |
I)c»e Jicliler werd geboren te Bath, stadeerue nnnvankelijk als geestelijke; maar zei ile godgeleerde studiën spoedig vaarwel en wijdde zich aan de beoefening der letterkunde. quot;He was next to Moore, the most sncceasful song-writer of our agequot;. Hij is insgelijks bekend door eenige dramatisehe werken.
|
Think not of the future, the prospect is uncertain ; Laugh away the present, while laughing hours (remain : Those who gaze too boldly through Time's mystic (curtain , Soon will wish to close it, and dream of joy again. I, like thee, was happy, and, on hope relying, Thought the present pleasure might revive again : Hut receive my counsel — Time is always flying ; Then laugh away the present , while laughing (hours remain. |
I have felt unkindness, keen as that which hurts (thee; I have met with friendship , fickle as the wind ; Take what friendship oilers, ere its warmth deserts (thee; Well I know thekindest may not long be kind. Would you waste the pleasure of the summer-season. Thinking that the winter must return again ? If our summer's fleeting , surely that's a reason For laughing off the present, while laughing hours (remain. |
|
Why curls the blue smoke o'er the trees? What words are borne upon the breeze? Some cottage in yon lonely glen Lies nestled from the eyes of men ; Unconsciously we've wandered near Some rural play-place, for I hear The sound in which my heart rejoices, — The melody of infant voices. Alas! in that green nook wo see No dwelling-place of industry; No dame, intent on household cares, 'J'he neat but frugal meal prepares; |
No sire, his labour o'er, will come To brighten and losbare her home; No children from their mother learn An honest way their bread to earn. The gipsies, wild and wandering race, Are masters of the sylvan chase; Beneath the boughs their tents they raise, Upon tbeturf their faggots blaze: In coarse profusion they prepare The feast obtained, — how, w hen, and where? Wh ilcswariliy forms, with clamour loud, Arouml the smoking cauldron crowd, |
|
Forth trips u liiujiliiiijjdark-eyoil lass, To intercept us as we pass; Upon your rijjht hand let her look, And there she'll read, as in a hook. |
Your future fortune ; and reveal Thejoy or woe you're doorn'd to feel : Your course of love she will unfold, If you the picture dare behold ! |
|
1 never was a favourite, My mother never smiled On me, with halfthe tenderness That hlessed her fairer child : I've seen lier kiss my sister's cheek. While fondled on her knee ; I've turned away, to hide my tears, — There was no kiss for me! And yet I strove to please with all My litl 1c store of sense ; I strove to please, — and infancy Can rarely give offence: But when my artless efforts met A cold, nngcntlo cheek, 1 did not dare to throw myself In tears upon her neck ! How hlessed are the beautiful ! Love watches o'er their birth ; Oh, beauty! in my nursery 1 learned to know thy worth: For even there I often felt Forsaken and forlorn; And wished — for others wished it too -I never had been born ! I'm sure I was affectionate; But in my sister's face There was a look of love, that claimed A smilo or an embrace : |
But wiion I raised my lip to meet The pressure children prize. None knew the feelings of my heart, — They spoke not in my eyes. But, oh ! that heart too keenly felt The anguish of neglect ; I saw my sister's lovely form With gems and roses decked: 1 did not covet them ; but oft. When wantonly reproved, 1 envied her the privilege Of being so beloved. But soon a time of triumph came, — A time of sorrow too; For sickness o'er my sister's form Hcrvenorned mantle threw ; The features, once so beautiful. Now wore the hue of death ; And former friends shrank fearfully From her infectious breath. 'Twas then, unwearied, day and night, I watched beside her beil; And fearlessly upon my breast I pillowed her poor head. She lived ! — anil loved me for my care, • My grief was at an end ; I was a lonely being once. But now I have a friend. |
Poet, Historian, Essayist, and Politician, born in 1800, is the son of Zacliary Maeaulay, a wealthy African merchant, who , against his interests, was an energetic ailvocato for the abolition of slavery in the colonies. The younger Maeaulay studied at Trinity College, Cambridge, and distinguished himself thero by gaining some of the highest honours the university could bestow. He took his bachelor's degree in 1822, and obtained a fellowship at the October competition open to the graduates of Trinity. Ou leaving Cambridge, ho studied at Lincoln's Inn, and was called to the bar^by that Society in 1820. Some of his earliest poetical pieces appeared in quot;Knight's Quarterly Magazine , about J831). In 1826 , his essay on Milton appeared in the quot;Edinburgh Reviewquot;, tbo first of (he series, which have rendered him one of the most distinguished supports and ornaments of tbut work. By the Whig Government he was made a Commissioner of Bankrupts, and shortly did good service to bis party in the House of Commons, to which he was returned by the constituency of Calne in the reformed parliament of 1832. In 1834 he was elected member for Leeds, at which time he «as Secretary to the India Hoard. In the same year he resigned his appointment, with his seat, to proceed tot India as member ol the Supreme Council of Calcutta—a lucrative post, which he held for three years. In 1S3S he returned to England, and shortly afterwards was electcd member for Edinburgh. In 1839 ho was appointed Secretary at War, and in the general election of 1817, was rejected bv that constituency iu favour of Mr. Cowan , whose tiieolugical leanings were more distinctly marked thanquot; those of his rival. Mr. Macaulay's high literary capacity made itself apparent during his coliegiate days, when be bad already written that spirited ballad, quot; Ibe War of the Leaguequot;. Ilia quot;Lays of Ancient Ronioquot;, founded on the heroic and romantic incidents related by
404
Livy, are rouiarknblc fur their striking pictures of life and manners, the abrupt energy of their style , and the rapid progress of their narrative. Macaulay is, however, best known by his critical and historical essays contributed to the quot;Edinburgh Reviewquot;, which have been collected in several forms, both in this country, in America, and Germany, and have enjoyed a high degree of popularity. The field choscn by the author ïs of the widest range: his success is, however, most marked in the department of literary and historical criticism. Mere, his vast erudition, his command of details, and brilliant style, place him above every iival. On this subject a recent writer says, quot;In authorship there is a school exactly analogous to the class of painters who excel principally in effect. Macaulay is the Tintoretto of historians. His touch is singularly free, his colour is rich and deep, and his mind is never fatigued. There is in all that comes from his pen a remarkable facility of illustration , if he rarely produces original thoughts or profound views of life. A more brilliant and interesting writer of English prose could not bo named. Macaulay's greatest distinction, considered critically, is found in his invention of a new prose style, which is decidedly his own, whatever be its merits or its faults. Without violating the properties of the English tongue, Macaulay has added some peculiar graces to his style , which give it originality , and increase , by the charm of novelty, the power of his effect. Of all English writers, Macaulay is the most Italianised. If Carlyle thinks in German , Macaulay may be said to compose according to Italian notions of grace. His style has the faults along with the merits of the genius of the Italian tongue. Sentences are softened and lengthened for the beauty of the cadences, as if the sound were fully of as much consequence as the sense. He employs, as the Italians do , too many diminutives and superlatives; and if his style be more musical than his comtemporaries, it is much less muscular and nervous than many of them. The merits of Macaulay are the vigour of his manner, his picturesque brilliancy of effect, his airy, animated , and splendid diction. His defects are the profusion of his ornaments , his composition being spangled all over with sparkling sentences and vivid points, and his constant use of literary artifice. In morals, Macaulay is a Conventiounlist. There is no profound originality of conception in his views of life. His morality is of that kind current in a select London club-house. Me wants classic simplicity of personal character, and a lofty moral purpose. Hence his rhetoric is captivating, while his thinking is commonplace. Too often, when he attempts to be profound , he thinks by proxy , and clothes in his own words some idea of an unnamed intellect, more sagacious and penetrating thans his own. The critic who would class Macaulay with^ Hume ^ or Gibbon, would rank quot;Tintoretto with Angelo and Kaphael Mr. Macaulay's *• History of England ' is marked by all the peculiarities of his writing , which the essays have made familiar. It has had a popularity far beyond any publication of modern times, having in a few weeks run through several large editions. The parliamentary career of the author disappointed the expectations of his friends. On this subject an able journali-t wrote in the quot;Spectatorquot;, on Macaulay's retirement from public life: quot; His spoken essays have deceived us all: extorting admiration for their literary merits , they reflected credit on the party in whose behalf they were uttered; the 'Edinburgh Review' was in presence, delivered orally, in sheets pro re nafa; and the special publication made no small sensation in club and drawing-room. But how little weight it had! how little it told upon the debate, the vote, the relations of parties, the public without! Because the effect of literature on the English mind is seldom direct, always cumulative ; and Mr. Macaulay's best effusions were always literature. Nay , it was a breach of privilege for literature to exceed its province and intrude into the legislature. Dull voting-machines resented the being outdone by a penman, and would fain have voted that he 'stranger' be ordered to withdraw; only that, in violation of the division of employments, he was both writer and senator. Ministries, no doubt, were hampered by the exigencies of a colleague who was bound , even in these degenerate days, ' to profess the noblest sentiments, and act up to the sentiments he professes ', with some eye at least to keeping up appearances that would accord with the dignity of history. A perverse dislike to confess the influence of literature in the presence of its personages, has induced our parliament to thwart its literary members. To be the titled author of a staid book on the shelves is a grace allowed; but to be a popular author, read everywhere, is to be ostracisedquot;. So far the journalist. The author whom we first quoted, however, places the reasons of this failure in a different light. quot;In parliamentquot;, he says, quot;there was the same want of moral earnestness in the speeches of Macaulay as there is in his brilliant writings. The rhetorician never rose into the orator. He lectured on the subject in a general, formal, and sonorous style ; but he never crushed an adversary by his logic, or carried away his audience like Plunket or Canningquot;. Having, as already stated , been unseated for Edinburgh at the general election in 1847, after spending five years in literary retirement, during which he gave to the world the first two volumes of his quot;History of England quot;, he was , without solicitation , re-elected on the dissolution In 1852. — Thans zijn er wederom vijf deelen van zijn historiesch werk verschenen en nu onlangs heeft hij voor zijn lidmaatschap in 't parlement bedankt. Zijn landgenooten hebben hem, na de verschijning van de vijf onlangs verschenen deelen, in beeldtenis verbrand, omdat hij hun geschiedenis wat te waar heeft geboekt.
The Desolation of the Cities whose Warriors have marehed
|
'Jail arc the oaks whose acorns Drop in dark A user's rill ; Fat are the stags that champ the houghs Of the Ciminian hill; |
Beyond all streams, Clitumnus Is to the herdsimiii dear ; Best of all pools the fowler loves , The yrcat Volsinian mere. |
400
|
Bul now no stroke o( woodman Is heard by Auscr's rill; No hunter tracks the stag's green path Up the Ciminian hill ; Unwatched along Clituinnus Grazes the milk-white steer ; Unharmed the water-fowl rnay dip In the Volsinian mere. The harvests of Arretiuin , This year old men shall reap; This year young hoys in Umhro Shall plunge the struggling slice)); And in the vats ofl.una , This year the must shall foam Hound the white feet of laughing girls , Whose sires have inarched to Homo. HonATIDS OFFERS TO DEFEND HIE lilUDGE. Then out spake brave Horalius, The captain of the gale : 'To every man upon this earth Death comelli soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers , And the temples of his gods , And for the tender mother Who dandled h im to rest, And for the w ife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens AVho feed the eternal flame , To save them from false Sexlus That wrought the deed of shame ? Hew down the bridge , Sir Consul , With all the speed ye may ; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play. In yon straight path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now , who will stand on either band, And keep the bridge with me ?' Then out spake Spurius Larlius ; A Ilamnian proud was he ; lLo, I will stand at thy right band , And keep the bridge with thee.' And out spake strong Herminius ; Of Titian blood was he ; 'I will abide on thy left side , And keep the bridge with thee.' 'Horatius', quoth the Consul, 'As thou say'st, so lot it be.' And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless three. For Romans in Home's quarrel Spared neither land nor gold , Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the bravo days of old. |
Then none was for a party ; Then all were lor the stale ; Then the great man helped the poor , And the poor man loved the great; Then lands were fairly portioned ; Then spoils were fairly sold ; The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old. Now Roman is to Roman More hatefull than a foe , And the tribunes beard (ho high , And the fathers grind the low. As we wax hot in faction , In battle we wax cold ; Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old. The Fate of tub fiksi Thbee who advance AGAINST THE HEROES OK liOME. Aunus from green Tifernum , Lord of the Hill of Vines ; And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves Sicken in Ilva's mines ; And Picus, long to Clusium , Vassal in peace and war, AV ho led to fight his Umbrian powers From that gray crag where, girt with towers, I he fortress of Nequinuiii lowers O'er the pale waves of Nar. Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus Into the stream beneath, Herminius struck at Seius, Anil clove him to the teeth ; At I'icus brave Horatius Darted one fiery thrust; And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms Clashed in the bloodydast. Then Ocnus of Falerii Hushed on the Roman Three ; And Lausulus of Urgo, The rover of the sea; And Arunsof Volsinium, Who slew the great wild hoar, The great wild boar that had his den Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, And wasted fields, and slaughtered men. Along Albinia's shore. Herminius smote down Arnns: Larlius laid Ocnus low : Right to the heart ofLausulus Horatius senta blow. 'Lie there,' he cried, 'fell pirate! No more, aghast and pale, From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark The track of the destroying hark. No more Campania's hinds shall lly To woods and caverns when then they spy Thy thrice accursed sail.' |
|
IIoraïius, woiiNBiin nr Astdii, r,evences himseif, He reeled , nml on Herniinius lie leaned one brealliinjj space ; Then, like a wild cat mad willi wounds, Sprang right at Aslur's face. Througli teelli , and skull, and liclmct, So fierce a llirusl lie sped , Hie good sword stood a liandlireath out llcliind the Tuscan's head. And the great Lord of Luna Fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus A thundcr-sniiUen oak. Far o'er the crashing forest The giant arms lie spread ; And the pale augurs, muttering low , Gaze on the blasted head. On Astur's throat Iloratius Right firmly pressed his heel, And thrice and four times tugged amain , Ere he wrenched out the steel. 'And see', he cried ,' the welcome. Fair guests, that waits you here! W hat noble Lucurno comes next To laste our Iloinan cheer? ' The liniDGE falls, and Horaiius rs alone. Alone stood brave Iloratius, l!ut constant still in mind ; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. 'Down with him !' cried false Sextus, With a smile on his paleface. 'Mow yield thee,' cried Lars i'orsena, 'Now yield thee to our grace.' Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see; Nought spake he to Lars I'orsena, To Sextos nought spake he; But he saw on I'alalinus The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome. '0, Tiber, Father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray , A Roman's life, a Roman's arms. Take thou in charge this day !' So he spake, and speaking sheathed , The good sword by his side, And, with his harness on bis back. Plunged headlong in the tide. No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank ; Rut friends and foes in dumb surprise. With parted lips and straining eyes. |
Stood gazing where be sank ; And when above the surges They saw bis crest appear. All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry. And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. How IlonATIDS was REWAnDED. They gave him of the corn-land, That was of public right, As much as two strong oxen Could plough from morn till night , And they made a molten image. And set it up on high. And there it stands unlo this day To witness if I lie. It stands in the Comitium , Plain for all folk to sec ; Iloratius in his harness. Halting upon one knee : And underneath is written. In letters all of gold , How valiantly he kept the bridge In the bravo days of old. And still his name sounds stirring Unto the men of Rome, As the trumpet-blast that cries to them To charge the Volscian home: And wives still pray to Juno For boys with hearts as bold As his who kept the bridge so well In the brave days of old. And in the nights of winter. When the cold north winds blow, And the long howling of the wolves Is heard amidst the snow; When round the lonely cottage Roars loud the tempest's din , And the good logs of Algidus Roar louder yet within ; When the oldest cask is opened. And the largest lamp is lit. When the chestnuts glow in theembers, And the kid turns on the spit; When young and old in circle Around the firebrands close ; When the girls are weaving baskets. And the lads are shaping bows ; AVhen tbegoodman mends his armour. And trims bis helmet's plume ; AVhen the goodwife's shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the loom ; With weeping and with laughter Still is the story told , How well Iloratius kept the bridge In the brave days of old. |
Deze (lichter werd geboreu te Kosebank, nabij EJimburg. quot;He owed his first poetical mspiralions, like Hums, to the tender iiassion. Of his amatory etTusious, it is not clear that any have been preserved.quot; llet ineereudeel van zijn liefdezangen is in den schotschen tongval geschreven, doch hij trad daarmeê eerst laat te voorschijn. quot;Like all poetical lovers, ho avoided the throng, and delighted in the solitary contemplation of the beautiful scenery , by which the place of bis education was every where surrounded.quot; Zijn eersto stuk vau omvang was The Harp, a legandary talc, in two parts, waarvan hij een deel op zijn terugreis van Jamaika , waarheen hij zich voor zaken had begevcu , schreef. Weldra begaf hij zich , met een aanzienlijke betrekking bekleed, naar Indië, van waar hij spoedig terugkeerde , tengevolge van een verandering van bestuur in 't moederland. quot;On returniug to Scotland once more , Mr. Macneill, for the first time, attempted song-writing in his native dialect, and succeeded so well, as to obtain, what some have been inclined to regard as the highest of all poetical honors, that of having his songs adopted, sung , and admired , by all classes of the people.quot; De populairste zangen daarvan zijn The Lammie; O Tell me how for to woo ; 1 loo'd ne'er a laddie but nne; Jeanie's black ee; Come under my plaidy. Later werd hij ziekelijk en was hij niet meer in staat te schrijven, doch zijn geheugen was zoo sterk, dat by Scotland's Scaitli, or the History of Will and Jean (1795); The Wacs o' War; The Links o' l'orth (17U9), en The Scottish Muse vervaardigde, zonder daarvan een regel te schrijven, en daaronder verwierf't eerste stuk nog meer populariteit, dan zijn verzen tot dien lijd was te beurt gevallen. Het werd in minder don zeven weken vijf maal herdrukt. In 1796 vertrok Macneill tot herstel van gezondheid naar Jamaika, doch keerde in 1800 terug, zonder geheel hersteld te zijn. In 1801 gaf hij zijn gezamenlijke werken in twee deelen uit, waarvan in 1812 een derde druk, met The Battle of Barrosa vermeerderd, verscheen. Van 1811—1812 leverde hij een reeks van stukkeu, waaronder in poëzie Uygane Times, and late-come Changes, Town Fashions en The Scottish Adventurers, or the Way to llise proza waren, klaarblijkelijk geschreven met 't doel quot;to shew that, with quot;bygane times,quot; much good sense and morality had departed the land, and that with quot;late-come changes,quot; nothing but folly and corruption had been introduced.quot;
From llw Ifaes o' Ifar,
|
Baltic, fast, on battle raging , Wed our stalwart youths awa'; Day by day, fresh faes engaging, I'orc'd the weary, back to fa'! Driven at last frae post to pillar. Left by friends wba ne'er prov'd true; Trick'd by knaveswba poueb'd our siller (I), What could worn-out valour do? |
Myriads dark, like gathering thunder, Bursting spread owr land and sea; Left ulane, alas! nae wonder Britain's sons were fore'd to flee. Cross the Waal and Yssel frozen, Deep tbrougb hogs and driven snaw; Wounded , weak, and spent! our chosen Gallant men now faint and fa'! |
Say ye my wee thing, say ye my ain thing. Her hair it is lint-white, lier skin it is inilk-white,
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea — i Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e ;
Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming. Bed, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses. Sought she the burnie where flowers the baw-lree;| Where could my wee tiling wander frae me ?
(U Prussian fidelity.
458
|
I saw nae your wee tiling, 1 sawnae yourain thing, Nor saw I your true love down hy yon lea; But I met my honnie thin»; late in the gloaming, Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tree: Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-white, Dark was the blue of her soft rolling e'e; Red were her ripe lips and sweeter than roses — Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me. It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain tiling. It was nae my true love ye met by the tree: Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature, She never loved ony till ance she loed inc. Her name it is Mary, she's frae Castle-Cary, Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee: Fair as your face is, wert fifty times fairer. Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to then. |
It was then your Mary ; she's frae Castle-Cary, It was then your true love 1 met hy the tree ; Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature. Sweet were the kisses that she gave to inc. Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew. Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e: Yc'se rue sair this morning your boasts and your seor-Defend ye, fause traitor, fu' loudly yc lie. (ning Away wi' beguiling, cried the youth smiling — Oil'went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee. The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing, Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e. Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing, Is it my true love here that I see? O Jamie, forgie me, your heart's constant to tne, I'll never inair wander, dear laddie, frae thee. |
Werd in 1761 te Dumfries geboren en overlscd in 1836 te Londen. Hij was zettersleerling, quot;when he published the germ of his 'Siller Gun' in a quarto page nf twelve stanzas (1777). igt;c dieliter werkte tot zijn dood aan de verbetering en uitbreiding van The Siller Gun, waarvan in 1780 drie zangen verschenen in Ruddiman's Magazine en vier zangen in 1808 te Londen , terwijl dnt stuk in 183G voor de vijfde maal, met een zang vermeerderd, werd uitgegeven. Behalven The Siller Gun heeft men nog een aantal andere stukken van Mayne , die bovendien eigenaar van een tijdschrift was. quot;The author is a shrewd and lively observer, full of glee , and also of gentle and alTeelionnte recollections of his native town, and all its people and pastimes.quot;
|
'By Logan's streams that rin sac deep, Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep; Herded sheep, or gathcr'd slaes, AVi' my dear lad , on Logan braes. But wae's my heart! thae days are gane, And I, wi' grief, may herd alane ; While my dear lad maun face his fues, Far, far frae me , an' Logan braes. 'Nae mair at Logan kirk will ho Atween the preachings meet wi' me; Meet wi' me, or when it's mirk , Convoy mc hame frae Logan kirk. I weel may sing thae days are gane — Frae kirk an' fair I come alane, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me, an' Logan braes! 'At e'en , when hope amaist is gane, I dauner out, or sit alane. Sit alane beneath the tree Where aft he kept his tryst wi' me. O ! cou'd I see thae days again , My lover skaithless, an' my ain ! Belov'd hy frien's, rcver'd by faes. We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.' |
While for her love she thus did sigh , She saw a sodger passing by. Passing by wi' scarlet claes. While sair she grat on Logan braes : Says he, 'What gars thee greet sae sair, \\ bat fills thy heart sae fu' o' care? Thae sporting lambs hae hlythsomc flays, An' playfu' skip on Logan braes ?' 'What can I do hut weep and mourn ? I fear my lad will n'er return. Ne'er return to ease my wacs. Will ne'er come hamc to Logan braes.' Wi' that he clasp'd her in his arms, And said,'I'm free from war's alarms, 1 now ha'e conquer'd n' my faes, We'll happy live on Logan braes,' Then straight to Logan kirk they went, And join'd their hands w i' one consent, Wi' one consent to end tliei r days , An' live in bliss on Logan braes. An' now she sings, thae days an; gane. When 1 wi' grief did herd alane. While my dear lad did figl L his faes, Far, far frae mc an' Logan braes.' |
459
Dun vijf-ca-twintigstcii January 1772 geborcu in ccn hut, nan den ocvcr van do Ettrick in Selkirkshire, was de zoon van een ichaapherder, wiens beroep hij volgde. Daaraan heeft hij zijn bijnaam The Ettrick Shepherd te danken. Hij genoot slechts eenigo maanden onderwijs , doch gaf reeds in 1790 zijn eerste poëzie uit, waarop evenwel niet bijzonder werd gelet. Met zijn beroep ging het slecht, zoodat hij met armoede te worstelen had, tot dat Sir Walter Scott zich zijner aantrok. Hij gaf nu o. n. nit The Queen's Wake (1813); Mador of the Moor; The Pilgrims of the Sun; The Poetical Mirror; Queen Hynder; en in proza: The Wool Gatherer; Winter evening Tales; The Brownie of Hodsbeek ; The Three Perils of Man ; The Three Perils of Woman ; The Confessions of a Sinner. In 1801 verscheen een deel poëzie van hem en kort daarna een ander onder den titel The Mountain Bard en wat later The Forest Minstrel en een tijdschrift The Spy. Hij overleed in behoeftige omstandigheden den een-en-twintigsten November 1835.
|
Come all yo jolly slieplierils That wliisl le tlirough tlie j;lcn, I'll tell ye of a secret That courtiers ilinnu ken ; What is the greatest bliss That the tongueo' man can name? 'Tis to woo a honnie lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame. 'Tween the gloamin and the mirk, When the kye comes hame. 'Tis not heneath the corotiel, Nor canopy of state, 'Tis not on couch of velvet. Nor arbour of the great — 'Tis beneath the spreading hirk, In the glen without the name, Wi' a honnie, honnie lassie, When the kye comes hame. There the blackbird bigs his nest For the mate he lo'cs lo see. And on the topmost hough, O, a happy bird is he! Then he pours his melting ditty. And love is a' the theme. And he'll woo his honnie lassie. When the kye conies hame. When the blewart bears a pearl. And the daisy turns a pea. And the honnie lucken gowan Has fauldit up her ce. |
Then the lavrock frao the blue lift, Draps down, and thinks nae shame To woo his honnie lassie When the kye comes hame. See yonder pawky shepherd That lingers on the hill — Mis yowes are in the fauld, And his Iambs arc lying still; Yet he downa gang to bed, For his heart is in a flame To meet his honnie lassie When the kye comes hame. When the little wee bit heart Rises high in the breast. And the little wee bit starn Rises rest in the east, O there's a joy sae dear, That the heart can hardly frame, Wi' a honnie, honnie lassie, When the kye comes hame. Then since all nature joins In this love without alloy, 0, wha wad prove a traitor To nature's dearest joy ? Or wha wad choose a crown, Wi' its perils and its fame, And miss his honnie lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, AVhen the kye comes hame, 'Twcen the gloamin and the mirk, When the kye comes hame. |
|
I like thee weel, my wee auld house, Though laigh thy wa's an' flat the riggin'; Though round thy lum the sourock grows , An' rain-draps gaw my cozy biggin'. Lang hast thou happit mine and me. Myh end's grown grey aneath thy kipple And aye thy ingle cheek was free Hailh to the blind man an' the cripple |
What gart my ewes thrive on the bill , An' kept my little store increasin'? The rich man never wish'd me ill. The poor man left me aye his blessin'. Troth I maun greet wi' thee to part. Though lo a better house I'm flittin'; Sic joys will never glad my heart As I've had by thy Italian sittin' |
460
|
My bonny bairns around mc smiled , My sonsy wife sat by me spinning, — Aye lilting o'crber ditties wild, In notes sae artless an' sae winning. Our frugal meal was aye a feast, Our e'ening psalm a bymn of joy ; Sae calm an' peacefu' was our rest, Our bliss, our love, without alloy. 1 canna help but hand thee dear, My auld , storm-batter'd bamely shieling ; Thy sooty lum , an' kippies clear, I better love than gaudy ceiling. |
Thy roof will fa', thy rafters start, How damp an' cauld thy hearth will be ! Ah I sae will soon ilk honest heart, That erst was blithe an' bauld in thee ! I thought to cower aneatb thy wa', Till death should close my weary een ; Then leave thee for the narrow ha' , AVi' lowly roof o' sward sae green. Farewell, my bouse an' hurnie clear. My hour tree hush an' howzie tree I The wee while I maun sojourn here , I'll never find a hame like thee. |
Aalhor of quot;Jessie the Flower of Umnblane,quot; and several other popular love ditties, which entitle him to rank with the very best song writers in tlie Scottish language, not even excepting Hums, was born at Paisley, on the 3rd of June, 1774. His parents were poor, and unable to give him more than the most ordinary school education. At an early age he was bound apprentice to a weaver, and followed that occupation till his death. As soon as he became known for the possession of poctical talents, his acquaintance was courted by many who were much his superiors in station ; but nothing was ever done to raise him above the obscurity and hardship of his original condition. A collection of his pieces was published at Paisley, and such profit as may have accrued to him from its sale, was all the reward ever conferred on a bard whose strains were soon on every tongue. The neglect of the world appears to have weighed heavily on a mind naturally of strong sensibility; and, producing a hopelessness of ever emancipating himself from circumstances so ill suited to his genius, ended in a confirmed melancholy. While in this low situation, he received a visit from the celebrated Mountain Hard, Mr. Hogg (see the preceding page), who had made a long pilgrimage to see and converse with one who, like himself, was a chilil of poverty and song. After a night spent in the most delightful communion of sentiment, Mr. Hogg took his departure, and Tannahill accompanied him half the way to Glasgow. The parting was mournfull: quot;Farewell!quot; said Tannahill, quot;we shall never meet again.quot; The words were prophctio ; the heartstruck bard had already taken that resolve which was too surely to bring about their accomplishment. Poor Tannahill was not long after found drowned. Mc had reached the thirty-sisth year of his age. quot; I he Poems of this ill-starred son of genius are greatly inferior to his songs. They have all a commonplace artificial character. His lyrics on the other hand , are rich and original both in description and sentiment. His diction is copious and luxuriant;... his simplicity is natural and unaffected , and often tender and pathetic.
Tlic Kracs o'ISallt;|uIiltlicr.
|
Let us go, lassie, go. To the braes o' ISalqubithcr, AVhcre the blac-berricsgrow 'Mang tbe bonnic Highland bvatber; Wbcre tbe deer and tbe roe. Lightly bounding together. Sport the lang summer day On thchracs o' Ballt;|uliilhcr. ] w ill twine thee a bower By the clear siller fountain. And I'll cover it o'er Wi' the flowers of the mountain ; I will range through the wilds, And the deep glens sac drearie, And return wi' the spoils To the bower o' my dearie. |
When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling. And the roar of the linn On the night breeze isswelling. So merrily we'll sing, As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear shieling ring Wi' the light lilting chorus. Now the summer's in prime Wi' the flowers richly hlooining. And tbe wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming ; Tooiir dear native scenes Let us journey together. Where glad innocence reigns 'Mang the braes o' Balqnhithcr. |
461
|
Thou boiinie wood of Craijjlc-lea, Thou bonnicwood of Crai|jie-lea, Near thee I pass'd life's early day. And won my Mary's heart in thee. The broom, the brier, the birken bush, Bloom boiinie o'er the flowery lea, An' a' the sweets that ane ean wish Frae nature's hand, are strew'd on thee. Thou honnie wood, amp;c. Far ben thy dark-j;recn planting's shade, The cushat croodles am'rously. Tile mavis, down thy buchted j;lade, Gars echo ring frae every tree. Thou honnie wood, amp;c. |
Awa', ye tliou;;litIess, murd'ring gang, AVha tear the nestlings ere they flee ! They'll sing you yet a canty sang. Then, 0 in pity let them be! Thou bonnie wood, amp;c. When winter blaws in sleety showers, Frae allquot; the Norlan' hills sac bie, He lightly skiffs thy honnie bowers. As laith to harm a flower in thee. Thou bonnie wood, amp;c, Though fate should drag rue south the line, Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea: The happy hours I'll ever min' That 1 in youth ha'e spent in thee. Thou bonnie wood, amp;e. |
|
(«loomy winter's now awa'. Suft the wesllin' breezes blaw ; 'Man;; the birlis o' Stanley-shaw The mavis sings fu' cheerie, O. Sweet the craw-flower's early bell Decks Glenifler's dewy dell, lilooming like thy bonnie sel', My young, my artless dearie, O. Come, my lassie, let us stray O'er Glenkillocli's sunny brae, lilythly spend the gowden day 'Midst joys that never wearic, O, |
Towering o'er the New ton woods, Laverocks fan thesnaw-white clouds; Siller saugbs, wi' downic buds, Adorn the banks sae brierie, 0. Round the sylvan fairy nooks, Feath'ry braikens fringe lbo rocks, 'Neath the brae the linrnie jouks, And ilka thing is cheerie, O. Trees may bud,and birds may sing. Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, Joy to me they canna bring. Unless wi' thee, my dearie, 0. |
Sill ALEXANDER BOSWELL Clï?5-1888).
Leverde ecnige zangen , die nog zeer populair zijn : hij verzamelde zo allen bijeea en gaf ze uit onder den titel: Songs chiefly in the Scottish Uialect, in 1803, terwijl in 1810 van hein verscheen Edinburgh , or the Ancient lloyally ; a Sketch of Manners, by Simon Gray, waarin echter vele gebreken zijn. Zijn Songs ebidly in the Scottish Dialect quot;display considerable comic humour, and coarse but characteristic paioting.quot;
|
At Willie's wedding nn the green , The lassies , bonny witches ! Were a' dressed out in aprons clean , And braw white Sunday mutches : Auld Maggie bade the lads tak' tent. But Jock would not believe her; But soon (be fool bis folly kent, For Jenny dang the weaver. And Jenny dang , Jenny dang, Jenny dang the weaver ; lint soon the fool his folly kent, For Jenny dang the weaver. |
At ilka country dance or roc! , Wi' her he would be bobbing; When she sat down , be sat down , And to her would be gabbing ; Where'er she gaed , haith butt and ben , The eoof would never leave her; Ayokcckling like a clocking ben , But Jenny dang the weaver. Jenny dang, amp;o. Ouo' he , My lass , to speak my mind , In troth 1 nccdna swithcr; |
|
You'ïc bouny een, and if you're kiml, I'll never seek anitlier: He hummed and hawed, the lass cried, Peujjh, And hade the coof no deave her; Sync snapt her fingers, lap and leiigh , |
And danjf the silly weaver. And Jenny dang, Jenny dang , Jenny dang the weaver ; Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh , And d ang the silly weaver. |
|
1 met four chaps yon hirks amang, Wi'hingin' lugs,and faces lang; I speered at neihour Bauldy Strang, Wha's thae I see ? Quo' lie, ilk cream-faced, pawky cliiel , Thought hinisel' cunnin' as the de'il, And here they cam , awa to steal Jenny's hawhee. The first, a captain till his trade , Wi' skull ill lined , and hack weel clad , Marched round the barn, and by the shed , And pappit on his knee. Quo' he, 'My goddess, nymph , and queen , Your beauty's dazzled baith my een'; But de'il a beauty he had seen But—Jenny's bawbee. A lawyer neist, wi' bletherin' gab, AVha speeches wove like ony wab , In ilk ane's corn aye took a dab , And a' for a fee : Accounts he had through a' the town , And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown ; llaith now he thought to clout his gown Wi' Jenny's bawbee. |
What's gowd to me ? — I've walth o' lan'; Bestow on ane o' worth your ban'; He thought to pay what he was awn Wi' Jenny's bawbee. A' spruce frae ban'boxes and tubs, A Thing cam neist (but life has rubs). Foul were the roads, and fou the dubs. Ah ! waes nic I A'elatty, squintin' through a glass, lie girned, 'I'faith a bonnie lass!' He thought to win, wi' front o' brass, Jenny's bawbee. She hade the laird gang comb his wig. The sodger no to strut sac hig, The lawyer no lo be a prig, The fool cried, 'Tehee, I kent that I could never fail!' She prined the dish-clout till his tail, And cooled him wi'a water-pail, And kept her bawbee. •Icnny's Bawbee. A Norland laird neist trotted up, Wi' hawsened naig and siller whup. Cried, 'There's my heast, lad, haud the grup, Or tie't till a tree. |
Was born at Linkhonsc, near Uunbar, in 1770. His father was a Notary Public, but being in circumstances far from affluent, was unable to give his son more than the most ordinary education. At an early age, Richard was bound apprentice to Mr. David Ramsay, Piinter in Edinburgh. On the conclusion of his apprenticeship, Mr. Ramsay employed him as traveller for the Edinburgh Euening Courant newspaper, of which he was proprietor; and the greater leisure afforded by this change, as well as the better society into which it introduced bim, favoured the developement of a taste for poetry and literature which he had from bis boyhood displayed. Among the eminent men of genius , whom ho had now the honour to rank among his friends, were three of the greatest poets of their age, Burns , Maeneill, and Campbell ; but while making rapid advances lo be their rival in reputation , he was seized with a fatal and lingering illness, of which he expired on the 10th of May, 1801, in the twenty-fifth year of his age. About twenty years after, his productions were collected and published with a Memoir of his Life, prefixed. The longest is a poem in three cantos , descriptive of the romantic scenery to be seen from quot;Arthur's Seat ,quot; uear Edinburgh , and of the reflections , which the many interesting objects it embraces are fitted to call up. Many of its passages are distinguished by great tenderness and beauty, and throughout the whole, a fine vein of poetic feeling predominates. The quot;Tint Quey,quot; which follows , is a tale of very considerable humour. The rest Of the volume is made up of short lyrical pieces, of which it is no small praise to say, that several of them have been ascribed to Burns. The quot;Farewell to Ayrshire,quot; in particular, has been actually published in Dr. Currie's edition of Burns's work, as one of the genuine effusions of that bard. The mistake is at the same time satisfactorily explained. The poem was sent by Gall himself to the Scots Poetical Museum with Burns's name affixed to it, in the hope that it would, by that means, cxeitc a degree of attention which it might otherwise fail to produce.
465
|
ïliy check is o' the rose's liue , My only jo and dearie O ; Thy neck is like the siller-dew Upon llie hanks sue hriery O ; Thy teeth are o' the ivory , O sweet's the twinkle o' liiine ee ! Riae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me , My only jo anil dearie 0. The birdie sings upon the thorn Ms san;; o'joy, fu' cheerie O, Rejoicing in the summer morn, Nae care lo niak it eerie 0; But little kens the sangster sweet Aught o' llie eares I bae to meet, That gar my restless bosom heat, My only jo and dearie 0. |
Whan we were bairnies on yon brae, And youtb was blinking bonnie O, Aft wc wad daftquot; thee lee-lang day. Our joys fu' sweet and inony O, Afl I wad chase thee o'er the lea, And round about the thorny tree, Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee, My only jo and dearie O. I bae a wish I canna tine, 'Hanga' the cares that grieve me O; 1 wish thou wert forever mine, And never mair to leave me 0: Then I wad daut thee night ami day. Nor ither warldly care wad bae, Till life's warm stream forgot to play. My only jo and dearie O. |
[This snug of Call's has been often pnnled—in consequence of its locality—as the
composition of Burns.)
|
LScenes of wo and scenes of pleasure. Scenes that former thoughts renew ; Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, Now a sad and last adieu ! Bonny Doon , sae sweet at gloaming, Fare thee weel before I gang —. Bonny Doon, where, early roaming, First 1 weaved the rustic sang ! Bowers adieu ! where love decoying. First enthralled this hearto' mine; There the saftest sweets enjoying. Sweets that meniorv ne'er shall tine! |
Friends so dear my bosom ever. Ye bae rendered moments dear; But, alas! when forced to sever. Then the stroke , oh ! how severe! Friends, that parting tear reserve it. Though 'lis doublydear to me ; Could I think I did d eserve it, How much liappior would 1 be! Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, Scenes thai former thoughts renew; Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, Now a sad and last adieu ! |
Leefde van 1784 tot 1842. Hij werd geboren te Blackwood, nabij üalswinton, Dumfriesshire ^7 December) en overleed te Londen (29 October). Nadat Cunninghani eenigen tijd nis leerling bij zijn oom, een metselaar, had doorgebragt, bej,'nf hij zich naar Londen, en werd daar medewerker aan een tijdschrift en in 1814 klerk bij den bekenden beeldhouwer Sir Francis Chantrey, in wiens dienst hij tot nan zijn dood bleef. Nadat hij reeds van tijd tot tijd navolgingen van oude zangen, quot;who are inimitable for natural grace and tenderness, and rich Doric simplicity and fervourquot;, naamloos had uitgegeven, verscheen van hem Sir Marmaduke Maxwell (1822) en daarna Traditional Tales, terwijl in 1832 door hem in 't licht werd gegeven The Maid of Ehar. Ook heeft men van hem Paul Jones, Sir Michael Scott en Lord Koldan, terwijl hij zich door zijn Lives of eminent liritish Painters, Sculptors, and Architects (zes deelen) en Life of Sir David \\ ilkie (drie deelen), 't laatste twee dagen voor zijn dood voltooid, ook grooteu naam verwierf,
'Where gang ye , thou silly auld carle? Ac stride or twa took the silly auld carle,
And what do ye carry there ?' An' a gude lang stride took he:
'I'm gaun to the bill-side, thou sodger gentleman , 'f trow thou to be a feck auld carle,
'lo shift my sheep iheir lair.' Will ye shaw the way to me?'
404
|
Ami lie lias ganc w i' llic silly aulil carle, Adown by llic {jreenwood side; quot;IJfrlit down and gang, lliou sodgcr gentleman, For here ye canna ride.' He drew tlie reins o' liis lionnie gray steed, An' lightly down lie sprang; Of the comeliest scarlet was liis weir coat, Wliare the gow den tassels hang. lie has thrown aff his |ilai(I, the silly auld carle, An1 his honnet frae 'boon his hree : An' wlia was it but the young Maxwell! An' bis gude brown sword drew he! |
'Thou killed my father, thou vile South'ron ! An' ye hilled my brethren three! Whilk brake the heart o' myae sister, 1 loved as the light o' my ee! Draw out yere sword, thou vile South'ron ! Red wal wi' blude o' my kin I That sword it crapped the bonniest flower li'er lifted its bead to the sun! There's ae sad stroke fur my dear auld father! There's twa for my brethren three! An' there's aiie to thy heart for my ae sister, Wham 1 loved as the light o' my ee.' |
|
IIatne,liamc, harne, hamc fain wad 1 be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! (tree, AVhen the flower is i' the bud , anil the leaf is on the The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countrie ; Ilamc, hame, hame, hame fain wad 1 be , O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! The green leaf o' loyalty's begun for to fa'. The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a'; But I'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannic. An' green it will grow in my ain conntric. Ilamc, hame, hamc, hamc fain wad 1 be, O hame, hamc , hame , to my ain countrie ! |
O there's naught frae ruin my country can save. But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave. That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie , May rise again and fight for their ain countrie. Hame, liainc,hame, bam fain wad I he, Ü hamc , hame, hame, to my ain countric! The great are now ganc, a' wha ventured to save. The new grass is springing on the tap o' their graves ; Hut the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e, 'I'll shine on ye ycl in yere ain countrie.' Ilamc, hamc, hame, hamc fain wad 1 be, llame, bainc, hamc, to my ain countric! |
She's ganc to dwall In heaven.
|
She's gane to dwall in heaven , my lassie , She's ganc to dwall in heaven : Ye're owre pure , quo' the voice o' God, I'or dwalling out o' heaven ! O what'1 shedo in heaven, my lassie? 0 what'1 she do in heaven ? She'll mix her ain thoughts w i' angels' sangs. An' make them mair meet for heaven. She was beloved by a', my lassie, She was beloved by a'; But an angel fell in love wi' her. An' took her frae us a'. Low there thou lies , my lassie , Low there thou lies; A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird , Kor frae it w ill arise! Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie, Fu' soon I'll follow thee; |
Thou left me nought to covet ahin', But took gudeness sel' wi' thee. I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie, I looked on thy death-cold face; Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud, An' fading in its place. 1 looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, I looked on thy death shut eye; An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven Fell time shall ne'er destroy. Thy lips were ruddy and calm , my lassie. Thy lips were ruddy and calm ; But ganc was the holy breath o' heaven To sing the evening psalm. There's naught but dust now mine, lassie. There's naught but dust now mine; My saul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave, An' why should I stay hebin' |
X Wet sheet and a flowing sea.
|
A wet sheet and a flowing sea , A wind that follows fast. And fills the white and rustling sail And bends the gallant mast; |
And bends the gallant mast, my hoys, AVhile. like the eagle free. Away the good ship flies, and leaves Oh! England on the lee. |
|
0 for a soft and jrentle wind ! 1 lirard a fair one cry; But (;ive to me the snortinjj breeze, And white waves heaving high ; And white waves heaving high, my hoys, The good ship tight and free — The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. |
There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud ; And hark the music, mariners, The wind is piping loud ; The wind is piping loud, my hoys. The lightning flashing free — While the hollow oak our palace is. Our heritage the sea. |
|
Red rows the With 'tween hank and hrae, Mirk is the night and rainie O, Though heaven and earth should mix in storm, I'll gang and see my Nanie O; My Nanie O, my Nanie O; My kind and winsome NanieO, She holds my heart in love's dear hands. And nane can do't hut Nanie 0. In preaching timesae meek she stands, Sae saintly and sac honnie O, I cannot gel ae glimpse of grace. For thieving looks at Nanie 0 ; My Nanie O, my NanieO ; The world's in love with Nanie O; That heart is hardly worth the wear That wadna love my Nanie 0, |
My breast can scarce contain my heart, When dancing she moves finely O ; I guess what heaven is by her eyes, They sparkle sae divinely O; My NanieO, my NanieO; The flower o' Nitbsdalc's Nanie 0 ; Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair, And says, I dwell with Nanie 0. Tell not, thou star at gray daylight. O'er Tinwald-top so honnie O, My footsteps 'inang the morning dew When coming frae my Nanie 0 ; My Nanie O, my Nanie O; Kane ken o' me and Nanie O; The stars and moon may tell't aboan. They winna wrang my Nanie 01 |
Werd geboren te Glascow (1797) en maalde zich reeds op jeugdigen leeftijd bekend door zijn Harp of Renfrewshire (1819) en in 1827 door Minstrelsy Ancient and Modern, een verzameling van schotsehe balladen. In 1832 bezorgde hij een uitgave van al zijn werken. Motherwell overleed in 1835. quot;As a poet, he was happiest in pathetic or sentimental lyrics, though his own inclinations led him to prefer the chivalrous and martial style of the old minstrelsquot;.
|
I've wandered east, I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The luve of life's young day ! The fire that's hlawn on Beltane e'en, May well he black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. O dear, dear Jcanie Morrison, The thochts o' hygane years Still fling their shadows owre tny path, And blind my een wi' tears ! They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine. As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 'Twas then we luvit ilk itber weel, 'Twas then we twadid part; * |
Sweet time!—sad time!—twa bairns at schtile, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigb hink, To lear ilk itber lear; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Kememhcred ever mair. I wonder, Jcanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Chei:k touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof. What our wee heads could think. When baith bent doun owre ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee. Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in I bee. 0 mind ye how we bung our heads. How cheeks brent red wi' shame. Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said, We cleeked thegitherhame? |
59
466
|
And mind yc o' llie Salnrdays (The schul» then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the hracs — The hrootny braes o' June ? My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thochts rush back O' schule-time and o' thee. Oh, niornin' life! oh, mornin' luve; Oil, iijibtsonie days and lang, When hinnicd hopes around our hearts, I,ike simmer blossoms, sprang! O mind ye, luve, how aft we left Thedeavin' dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its water croon? The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the ;;loamin' o' the wud The throssil whusslit sweet. The th rossil whusslitin the wud, The burn sung to the trees. And we with Nature's heart iu tunc, Conci rted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thogithersat In the silentness o'joy, till baith W i' vera gladness grat! Aye, aye, near Jcanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your check, |
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak I That was a time, a blessed time, AVhen hearts were fresh and young. When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled —■ unsung! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin 1 hae been to thee Asclosely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me? Oh! tell my gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine; Oh ! suy gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi'd reamings o' langsyne ? I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot, The fount that first burst frae this heart, Still travels on its way ; And channels deeper as it rins, The luve o' life's young day. O dear, dear Jcanie Morrison, Since we were sindcred young, I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue ; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could 1 dee. Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' bygane days and me I |
Een veelbelovend (lichter, werd geboren te Anchtergnven , in Pertshire. Hij werd nitgever van een weekblad I.eeds Times, dat de vrijzinnige partij wns toegeJnnn. Zijn dichtstukken zijn korte gelegenheids-verzen en zangen, waarin veel goeds is te vinden.
|
A liappy hit hame this auld world would be. If men, when they're here, could make shift to agree, An' ilk said to his neighbour, in collage an' lia', 'Come, gi've rue your hand — wc are brethren a'.' 1 ken na why ane wi' anither should fight, AVhen to'gree would make a'hody cosiean' right. When man meets wi' man , 'tis the best «ay ava, To say, 'Gi'e me your hand — wc are brethren a'.' My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours n.ay be fine, And 1 maun drink water, while you may drink wine; But we baith ha'e a leal heart, unspotted to shaw : Sac gi'e me your hand — we arc brethren a'. The knave ve would scorn ,lhe unfaitlifn' deride; Yc would stand like a rock, wi'the truth on yonr side; Sac would I, an' nought else would I value a straw ; Then gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. |
Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman or man ; ƒ band by the right aye, as wed as I can ; We are ane iu our joys, our aflections, an' a'; Come, gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. Your mother bus lo'ed you as milhers can lo'e; An* mine has done for me what mil hers can do; We are ane high an' laigh , an' we shoiildna betwa Sac gi'e me your hand — we arc brethren a'. We love the same simmer day, sunny and fair; Uamc! oh , bow wc love it, an' a' that are there! Frae the pure air of heaven the same life we draw Come, gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. Frail shakin' auld age will soon come o'er us baith, An' creeping alang at his back w ill he death ; Syne into the same mither-yird «ewill fa': Come, gi'e m^your hand — we are brethren a'. |
467
Amidst I lie general calitinoss of tlio political almospliero, wc have l)enn stunned, from another quarter, hy one of tliose death-notes which are pealed at intervals, as from an archangel's trumpet, to awaken the soul of a w hole people at once. Lord Byron, who has so long and so amply filled the highest place in the public eye, has shared the lot of humanity. His lordship died at Misso-longhi, on the nineteenth of April. That mighty genius, which walked amongst men as smne-thing superior to ordinary mortalily, and whose powers were heheld with wonder, and something approaching to terror, as if wc knew not whether they were of good or of evil, is laid ns soundly to rest as the poor peasant whose ideas never went beyond bis daily task. The voice of just blame and of malignant censure are at once silenced ; and wc feel almost as if thegreat luminary of heaven bad suddenly disappeared from the sky, nt the moment when every telescope was leveled for the examination of the spots which dimmed its brightness. It is not now the question what were Byron's faults, what his mistakes ? hut how is the blank which be has left in British litera- i ture to be filled up? Nol, we fear, in one generation, which among many highly gifted persons, lias produced none who approach Byron in oaiGi-NALlTT tile first attribute of genius. Only thirty-seven years old: — so much already done for immortality — so much time remaining, asit seems to us shortsighted mortals, to maintain anil lo extend his fame, and toatone forerrors in conduct and levities in composition: who will not grieve that such a race has been shortened, though not always keeping the straight path; such a light extinguished, though sometimes flaming to dazzle and to bewilder? One word on this ungrateful subject ere we quit it for ever.
Ibe errors of Lord Byron arose neither from depravity of heart, — for nature had not committed the anomaly of uniting to such extraordinary talents an imperfect moral sense, — nor from feelings dead to the admiration of virtue. No man bad ever a kinder heai t for sympathy, or a more open hand for the relief of distress ; and no mind was ever more formed for theenthusiastic admiration of noble actions, providing he was
convinced that the actors had proceeded on disinterested principles. Lord Byron was totally free from the curse and degradation of literature,— its jealousies, we mean, and its envy; but his wonderful genius was of a nature which disdained restraint, even when restraint was most wholesome. When at school, the tasks in which he excelled were those only which he undertook voluntarily ; and his situation as a young man of rank, with strong passions, and in the uncontrolled enjoyment of a considerable fortune, added to that impatience of strictures or coercion which was natural to him. As an author, he refused to plead at the bar of criticism ; as a man, he would not submit lo he morally amenable to the tribunal of public opinion, llemonstrances from a friend , of whose intentions and kindness he was secure, had often great weight with him ; but there were lew who could venture on a task so diflicult. Reproof he endured with impatience, and reproach hardened him in his error, — so that he often resembled the gallant war-steed , who rushes forward on the steel thai wounds I him. In the most painful crisis of his private life, hecvinced this irritability and impatienceofcensure in such a degree, as almost lo resemble the noble victim of the bull-fight, which is more maddened by the squibs, darts, and petty annoyances of the unworthy crowds beyond the lists, than by the lanee of his nobler, and, so to speak, his more legitimate antagonist. In a word, much of that in which he erred was in bravado and scorn of his censors, and was done with the motive of Dryden's despot, quot;lo show his arbitrary power.quot; It is needless to say that bis wasa false and prejudiced view of such a contest; and if the noble bard gained a sort of triumph, hy compelling the world to read poetry, thougli mixed with baser matter, because it was hit, he gave, in return, an unworthy triumph to the unworthy, besides deep sorrow to those whose applause, in his cooler moments he most valued.
It was the same with his politics, which, on several occasions, assumed a tone menacing and contemptuous to the constitution of his country; while, in fact. Lord Byron was in his own heart sulficicnlly sensible, not only of his privilege as
468
|
a Briton, but of tlic distinction attending his high birth and rank, and was peculiarly sensilive of those shades which constitute what is termed the manners of a gentleman. Indeed, nolwilli-standing his having employed epigrams,and all the petty war of wit, when such would have been much better abstained from, he would have been found, had a collision taken place bclwecntlic aristocratic parties in the state, exerting all his energies in defence of that to which he naturally belonged. We are not, however, Byron's apologists; f«r now, alas! he needs none. His excellencies «ill 71010 he universally acknowledged, and his faults (let us hope and believe) not remembered in liis epitaph. It will he recollected w hat a part be has sustained in British literature sincethc first appearance of quot;Childe Harold ,quot; a space of nearly sixteen years. There has been no reposing under the shade of bis laurels, no living upon the resource of past reputation; none of that coddling and petty precaution which little authors call quot;taking care of tbeir fame.quot; Byron let his fame take care of itself. His foot was always in the arena, his shield bung always in the lists; and although bie own gigantic renown increased the dittlculty of the struggle, since be could produce nothing, however groat, which exceeded the public estimates of his genius, yet he advanced to the contest again and again and again, and came always oflquot; with distinction , almost always with complete triumph. As various in composition as Shakspcarc himself (this will be admitted by all who are acquainted with his quot;Don Juan,quot;) he bas embraced every topic of human life, and sounded every string on the divine harp, from its slightest to its most powerful and heart-astounding tones. There is scarce a passion or a situation which has escaped bis pen and he might he drawn, like Garrick, between the weeping and the laughing muse, although his most powerful efforts have certainly heen dedicated to Melpomene. His genius seemed as prolific as various. The most prodigal use did not exhaust his pow ers, nay, seemed rather to increase their vigour. Neither quot;Childe Haroldquot;, nor any of the most beautiful of Byron's earlier talcs, contain more exquisite morsels of poetry than are to he found scattered through the cantos of quot;Don Juanquot;, amidst verses with the author appears to have throw n off with an efforts as spontaneous as that of a tree resigning its leaves to the wind. But that noble tree will never more bear fruit or blossom I It has been cut down in its strength , atid the past is all that remains to ns of Byron. We c.in scarce reconcile ourselves to the idea — scarce think that the voice is silent for ever, which , bursting so often on our ear, was ofU'n beard with rapturous admiration, sometime» with regret, but always with the deepest interest: — |
All that's bright must fade , The brightest still the fleetest. With a strong feeling ofawfnl sorrow, we take leave of the subject. Death creeps upon our most serious as well as upon our most idle employments ; and it is a reflection solemn and gratifying, that be found our Byron in no moment of levity, but contributing bis fortune and hazarding his life, in behalf of a people only endeared to him by their past glories, and as fellow creatures suffering under the yoke of a heathen oppressor. To have fallen in a crusade for freedom and humanity, as in olden times it would have been an atonement for the blackest crimes, may in the present be allowed to expiate greater follies than even exaggerated calumny has propagated against Byron. |
|
Dick Tinto, when he wrote himself artist, was wont to derive bis origin from the ancient family of Tinto, of that ilk, in Lanarkshire ; and occasionally hinted that he had somewhat derogated from his gentle blood , in using the pencil for his principal means of support. But if Dick's pedigree was correct, some of bis ancestors must bave suffered a heavy declension , since the good man his father executed the necessary, and, I trust, the honest, but certainly not very distinguished employment, of tailor inordinary to the village of Langdirdurn in the west. Under his humble roof was Richard born ; and to bis father's humble trade was Richard , greatly contrary to his intention, early indentnred. Old Mr. Tinto had, however, no reason to congratulate himself upon having compelled the youthful genius of his son to forsake its natural bent. He fared like the school boy, who attempts with his finger to slop the spout of a water cistern , while the stream , exasperated at this compression , escapes by a thousand uncalculahle spirts, and wets him all over for his pains. Even so fared the senior Tint o, when bis hopeful apprentice not only exhausted all the chalk in making sketches upon the shop-hoard , hut even executed several caricatures of his father's best customers, who began loudly to murmur, that it was too bard to have their persons deformed by the vestments of the father, and to be at the same time turned into ridicule by the pencil of the son. This led to discredit and loss of practice, until the old tailor, yielding to |
469
|
destiny, and lo tlic cntronlies of his son, permitted him lo altcmpt liis forlmie in a line for wliicli he was belter qualified. There was ahont this lime, in the villa™ of Lanjjdirduin , a peripateliv lirollier of the hnish , wlio exercised his vocation sub Jorc frigirlo, the ohjecl of adiniration lo all llie hoys of the villafjc, hut especially to Dick Tinto. The aj;e had not yet adopted, amongst other unworthy retrenclimcnls, that iliiheral tneasnre of economy, which, supplying by written characters the laeli of symho-Jical representation, closes one open and easily aceessihle avenue of instruction and emolunicnt against the students of the fine arts. It was not yet perniitled to write upon the plastered door of an alehouse, or the suspended sign of an inn , quot;The Old Magpie,quot; or quot;The Saracen's Head,quot; substituting that cold description fnr the lively elTigies of the plumed chatterer, or the^turhaned frown of the terrific soldan. That early and more simple age considered alike the necessities of all ranks, and depicted the symbols of good cheer so as lo be obvious lo all capacities: well judging, that a man, who could not read a syllable, might nevertheless love a pot of good ale as well as bis better educated neighbours, or even as the parson himself. Acting upon this liberal principle, publicans as yet hung forth the painted emblems of their calling, and sign painters, if they seldom feasted, did not at least absolutely starve. To a worthy of this decayed profession , as wc have already intimated, Dick Tinto became an assistant; and thus, as is not unusual among heaven-born geniuses iti this department of the fine arts, began to paint before he had any notion of drawing. His natural talent for observing nature soon induced him to rectify llie errors, and soar above the instructions, of his teacher. He particularly shone in painting horses, that being a favourite sign in the Scottish,villages ; and, in tracing his progress, it is beautiful to observe, how by degrees be learned to shorten the backs, and prolong the legs, of these noble animals, until they came lo look less like crocodiles, and more like nags. Detraction, which always pursues merit with strides proportioned to its advancement, has indeed alleged that Dick once upon a time painted a horse with five legs, instead of four. I might have rested his defence upon the licence allowed to that branch of the profession, which, as it permits all sorts of singular and irregular combinations, may be allowed lo extend itself so far as to bestow a limb supernumerary on a favourite subject. But the cause of a deceased friend is sacred; and I disdain to boltom it superficially, I have visited the sign in question, which yetswings exalted in the village of Langdirdum, and lam ready todepose upon oath, that what has been idly mistaken , or misrepresented , as being the j fifth leg of the horse, is , in fact, the tail of that |
quadruped, and, considered with reference to the posture in which be is delineated, forms a circumstance introduced and managed with great and successful though daring art. The nag being represented in a rampant or rearing posture, the tail, which is prolonged till it touches the ground appears to form a jioinl d'ap/jui, and gives the firmness of a tripod to the figure: w ithout which it would he ililbcult lo conceive, placed as the feel are, how the courser could maintain bis ground without tumbling backwards. This bold conception has fortunately fallen intolhecustody of one by whom it is duly valued; for, when Dick, iu his more advanced stale of proficiency , became dubious of the propriety of so daring a deviation from the established rules of art, and was desirous to execute a picture of the publican himself in exchange for this juvenile production , the courteous offer was declined by his judicious employer, who had observed , It seems, that when his ale failed lodo its duty in concili-al ing his guests, one glance at his sign was sure to put them in good humour. It would be foreign lo my present purpose to trace the steps by which l)ick Tinto improved his touch , and corrected , by the rules of art, the luxuriance of a fervid imagination. The scales fell from his eyes on viewing the sketches of a contemporary, the Scottish Teniers , as Wilkie has been deservedly styled. He threw down the brush, took up the crayons, and, amid hunger and toil, suspense and uncertainty, pursued the path of his profession under better auspices than those of bis original master. Still the first rude emanations of his genius (like the nursery rhymes of Pope, could these be recovered) will he dear to the companions of Dick Tinto's youth. There is a tankard and gridiron painted over the door of an obscure change bouse in the Baek-wynd of (landercleugh. — But I feel I must tear myself from the subject, or dwell on it too long. Amid his wants and struggles, Dick Tinto bad recourse, like his hrelhern, lo levying that tax upon the vanity of mankind which he could not extract from their taste and liberality — in a wonl, he painted portraits. It was in ibis more advanced slate of proficiency, when Dick had soared above his original line of business, and highly disdained any allusion to it, that, after having been estranged for several years, we again met in the village of Ganderdeugh, I holding my present situation, and Dick painting copiesof the human face divine at a guinea a head. This was a small premium, yet, in the first burst of business, it more than sufficed for all Dick's moderate wants; so that he occupied an apartment at the Wallace Inn, cracked his jest with impunity even upon mine host himself, and lived in respect and observance with the chambermaid, ostler, and waiter. These halcyon days were loo serene lo last long. |
470
|
When liis lionuiir tiiu Lain! ot Ganilcrclcujgt;li, with liis wife and three daughters, the minister, the ganger, mineosteenied patron Mr. Jedediaii Cleith-botliam, and some round dozen of the fenars and fanners, had heen consigned to immortality hy Tinto's brush, custom hegan to slacken, and it was impossible to wriii;; more than crowns and half crowns from the hard hands of the peasants, whose anihition led them to F)ick's painting room. Still, though the horizon was overclouded , no storm for some time ensued. Mine host had Christian faith with a lodger who had heen a good paymaster as long as he had the means. And from a portrait of our landlord himself, grouped with his wife and daughters, in the style of Rubens, which suddenly appeared in the best parlour , it wasevident that Dick had found some mode of bartering art for the necessaries of life. Nothing, however, is more precarious than resources of this nature. It was observed, that Diek became in his turn the whetstone of mine host's wit, without venturing either at defence or retaliation; that bis easel was transferred to a garret room, in which there was scarce space for it to stand upright; and that he no longer ventured to join the weekly club, of which be bad been once the life and soul. In short, Dick Tinto's friends feared lhat he had acted like the animal called the sloth , which having eaten up the last green leaf upon the tree where it has established itself, ends by tumbling down from the top , and dying of inanition. I ventured to hint this to Dick, recommending bis transfeiring the exercise of his inestimable talent to some other sphere, and forsaking the common which be might be said to have eaten bare. quot;There is an obstacle to my change of residence,quot; said my friend, grasping my hand with a look of solemnity. quot;A bil I due to my landlord, I am afraid,quot;replied I, with heartfelt sympathy, quot;if any part of my slender means cuu assist in this emergence—.quot; quot;No, by the soul of Sir Joshua,quot; answered the generous youth, quot;I will never involve a friend in the consequences of my own misfortune. There is a mode by which I can regain my liberty ; and to creep even through a common sewer is better than to remain in prison.quot; I did not perfectly understand what, my friend meant. The muse of painting appeared to have failed him; and what other goddess he could invoke in his distress was a mystery tome. We parted, however, without farther explanation,and I did not again see him until three days after, when he summoned me to partake of the/bj/, with which bis landlord proposed to regale him, ere his departure for Edinburgh. I found Dick in high spirits, whistling while he buckled the small knapsack, which contained his colours, brushes, pallets, and clean shirt. That he parted on the best terms with mine host was |
obvious from the cold beef set forth in the low parlour, flanked by two niugsofadmirablebrown stout; and I own my curiosity was excited concerning the means through which the face of my friend's allairs bad been so suddenly improved. I did notsuspect Dick of dealing with the devil; and hy what earthly means he had extricated himself thus happily, I was at a total loss to conjecture. He perceived my curiosity, and took me hy the hand, quot;My friend,quot; he said, quot;fain would I conceal, even from you,thedcgradation to which it has been necessary to submit, in order to accomplish an honourable retreat from Gandercleugh. But what avails attempting to conceal that, which must needs betray itselfeven by its superior excellence? All the village — all the parish — all the world — will soon discover to what poverty has reduced Richard Tinto.quot; A sudden thought here struck me—1 bad observed lhat our landlord wore, on that memorable inorning', a pair of bran new — velveteens, instead of bis ancient thicksets. quot;What,quot; said I, drawing my right hand, with the fore-finger and thumb pressed together, nimbly from my right haunch to my left shoulder , quot;you have condescended to resume paternal arts to which you were first bred—long stiches , ha, Dick ?quot; lie repelled this unlucky conjecture with a frown anil a pshaw, indicative of indignant contempt ; and, leading me into another room, showed me, resting against a wall , the majestic head ofSir William Wallace, grim as when severed from the trunk by the orders nf the felon Edward. The painting was executed on boards of a substantial tbickness, and the top decorated with irons, for suspending the honoured effigy upon a sign post. quot;There,quot; he said, quot;my friend, stands the honour of Scotland, and my shame — yet not so — rather the shame of those, who, instead of encouraging art in its proper sphere, reduce it to these unbecoming and unworthy extremities.quot; I endeavoureil] to smooth the ruffled feelings of my misused and indignant friend. 1 reminded him that he ought not, like the slag in the lahle, to despise the quality which had extricated hitn from difficulties, in which his talents, as a portrait or landscape painter, bad been found unavailing. Above all , I praised the execution, as well as conception, of his painting, and reminded him, that, far from feeling dishonoured by so superb a specimen of his talents being exposed to tbc general view of the public, he ought rather to congratulate himself upon the augmentation of his celebrity, lo which its public exhibition must necessarily give rise. i quot;You are right, my friend—you are right,quot; j replied poor Dick , his eye kindling with entbu-( siasm; quot;why should 1 shun the name of an — |
471
472
|
when earl.li and nil its treasures were gliiling from before his eyes, and when his heart, ihongli hard as a nellier millstone, hccame appalled as he gated forward into the waste darkness of futurity. The fever of his hody aided theimpatienee and agony ofhis mind, and his deathbed exhibited a mixture of the newly awakened feelings of remorse, combating with the fixed and inveterate obstinacy of his disposition ; — a fearful state of mind , only to be equalled in those tremendous regions, where there are complaints without hope, remorse without repentance, a horrid sense of present agony, and a presentiment that it cannot cease or he diniinisbed I quot;Where be these dog priests now,quot; growled the baron quot;who set such a price on their ghostly mummery? — where be all those unshod Carmelites, for •whom old Front lt;le Boeuf founded the convent of St. Anna, robbing his heir of many a fair rood of meadow, and many a fat field and close—.tberc be the greedy hounds now? Swilling, I warrant me, at the ale, or playing theirjuggling tricks at the bedside of some miserly churl. Me, the heir of their founder—me, ■whom their foundation binds them to pray for — me—ungrateful villains as they are!—theysuffer to die like the houseless dog on yonder common , unshriven and unhouseled!—Tell the Templar to come hither—be is a priest, and may do something.— Hut, no ! — as well confess myself to the devil as to Brian de Bois Guilberl, who recks neither of heaven nor of hell. — I have heard old men talk of prayer—prayer by their own voice— such need not to court or to bribe the false priest — but 1 — I dare not! quot; quot;Lives Ueginald Front de licenf,quot; said a broken and shrill voice close by his bedside, quot;to say there is that which be dares not?quot; The evil conscience and the shaken nerves of Front de Boeuf heard, in this strange interruption to his solilnquy, the voice of otic of those demons who, as the superstition of the times believed, beset the beds of dying men, to distract their thonglits, and turn them from the meditations which concerned their eternal welfare, lie shuddered , and drew himself together; hut, instantly summoning up his resolution , he exclaimed, quot;Who is there? — What art thou, that darest to echo my words in a tone like that of the night raven? — Conic before my couch, that I may see thee.quot; quot;I am thine evil angel, Reginald Front de Boeuf,quot; replied the voice. 'Let me behold (bee then in thy bodily shape, if thou beest indeed a fiend,quot; replied the dying knight; quot; think not that. I will blench from thee! By the eternal dungeon, could I but grapple w ith these horrors that hover round me, as I have done with mortal dangers, heaven nor hell should say that 1 sinunk from the conflict! quot; quot;Think on thy sins, Ueginald Front do Boeuf |
— on rebellion, on rapine, on murder! who stirred up the linccntious John to war against his gray headed father — against his generous brother?quot; quot; Be thou fiend, priest, or devil,quot; replied Front de Boeuf, ';thou liest in thy tliroat! Not I stirred John to rebellion — not I alone — there were fifty knights and barons, the flower of the midland countics— better men never laid lance in rest—and mnstl answer for the fault done by fifty ? False fiend , I defy thee! Depart, and haunt my couch no more—let me die in peace, if thou be mortal—if thou be a demon , thy time is nut yet come.quot; quot;In peace thou shall nol die,quot; repeated the voice, quot;even in death shalt thou think on thy murders—on the groans which this castle has echoed—on the blood that is ingrained in its floors.quot; quot;Thou canst not shake me by thy petty mal ice,quot; answered Front de Boeuf, with a ghastly and constrained laugh.quot;The infidel Jew—it was merit with heaven to deal with him as I did, else wherefore are men canonited who dip their hands in the blood of Saracens? —The Saxon porkers whom I have slain , they were the foes of my country , and of my lineage, and of my liege lord , — llo! bo ! thou seest there is no crevice in my coat of plate, —Art thou lleil ? — art thou silenced ?quot; quot;No, foul parricide!quot; replied the voice;quot;think of thy father! think of his death ! —think ofhis banquet room , flooded with bis gore , and by the hand of a son Iquot; quot;Ha !quot; answered the baron , after a long pause, quot;an thou knowest that, thou art indeed the author of evil, and as omniscient as the monks call thee! — That secret 1 deemed locked in my own breast, and in but, one beside—the temptress, the partaker of my guilt. —Go, leave me, fiend ! and seek the Saxon witch Ulrica , who alone could tell thee what she anil I alone witnessed. — Go, I say, to her, who washed the wounds, and straiglitcd the corpse, and gave to the slain man the outward show of one parted in time and in the course of nature. — Go to her — she was my temptress, the foul provoker, the more foul rewarder of the deed — let her, as well as I, taste of the tortures which anticipate hell!quot; quot;She already tastes them,quot; said Ulrica, stepping before the coueh of Front de Bcmif, quot;she hath long drunken out of this cup, and its bitterness is sweetened to see that thou dost partake it. — Grind not thy teeth. Front de Boeuf — roll not thine eyes — clench not thy hand , nor shako it at me with that gesture of menace! The hand which, like that of thy renowned ancestor who gained thy nami', could have broken with one stroke the skull of a mountain bull, is now unnerved anil powerless as mine own Iquot; quot;Vile, murderous bag .'quot;replied Front de Boeuf, |
|
quot;ck'lcslalile screcdiowl! is il. llicn thou wlio art comc to exult over the ruins thou iiast assisted to lay low?quot; quot;Ay, lleginald Front do Boeufanswered she, quot; it is Ulrica! it is the daughter of tlie murdered Torquil Wolfgangcr! — it is the sister of his slaughtered sons! — it is she who demands of thee, and of thy father's house, father and kindred , name and fame — all that she has lost hy the name of Front de Kieuf! — Think of my wrongs, Front dc Boeuf land answer me, if 1 speak not truth. Thou hast heen my evil angel, and I will be thine — I will dog thee till the very instant of dissolution.quot; quot;Detestable fury Iquot; answered Front de Boeuf, quot;that niomont shalt thou never witness. — IIo! Giles, Clement, and Kustaoel Saint Maur and Stephen ! seize this damned witch , and hurl her from the battlements headlong—she has betrayed us to the Soxou. — IIo! Saint Maur! Clements! false hearted knaves, where tarry ye?quot; quot;Call on them again, valiant baron ,quot; said the bag, with a smile of grisly mockery; quot;summon thy vassals around thee, doom them that loiter to the scourge and the dungeon. — But know, mighty chief,quot; she continued, suddenly changing her tone, quot;thou shalt have neither answer, nor aid , nor obedience at their hands. — Listen to these horrid sounds,quot; for the din of the recommenced assault and defence now rung fearfully loud from the batllemenls of the castle ; quot;in that war-cry is the downfall oflhy house.—Theblood-cemented fabric of Front de Boeuf's power totters to the foundation, and before the foes he most despised! The Saxon, Reginald I the scorned Saxon assails thy walls! — Why liest thou here, like a worn out bind, when the Saxon storms thy place of strength ?quot; quot;Gods and fiends! exclaimed the wounded knight; quot;0 for one moment's strength , to drag myself to the mellay , and perish as beconics my name!quot; quot;Think not of it, valiant warrior!quot; replied she; •'thou shalt die no soldier's death, hut perish like the fox in his den, when the peasants Jiave set fire to the cover around il.quot; quot;Hateful hag! thou liest,quot; exclaimed Front de Bccuf, quot;my followers bear them bravely—my walls are strong and high — my comrades in arms fear not a whole host of Saxons, were they beaded by Hengist and Horsa! The war-cry of the Templar and of the Free Companions rises high over the conflict! and by mine honour, when we kindle the blazing beacon , for joy of our defence , it shall consume thee, body and bones; and I shall live to hear thou art gone from earthly fires to those of that hell, which never sent forth an incarnate fiend more utterly diabolical! quot; |
quot;Hold thy belief,quot; replied Ulrica, quot;till the proof reach thee. — liut no!quot; she said, interrupting herself, quot;thou shalt know, even now, the doom, which all thy power, strength, and courage is unable to avoid , though it is prepared for thee hy this feeble hand. — Markest thou the smouldering and suflocating vapour which already eddies in sable folds through the chamber ? — Didst thou think it was but the darkening of thy bursting eyes — the difliculty of thy cumbercd breathing? — iVo! Front de Bceuf, there is another cause — llemembercst thou the magazine of fuel that is stored beneath these apartments ? quot; quot;Woman!quot; he exclaimed with fury, quot;thou hast not set fire to it? — By Heaven thou hast, and the castle is in flames!quot; quot;They are fast rising at least,quot; said Ulrica, with frightful composure, quot;and a signal shall soon wave to warn the besiegers to press hard upon those who would extinguish them. Farewell, Front de Bceuf! — May Mista, Skognla, and Zernobock, gods of the ancient Saxons — fiends, as the priests now call them — supply the place of comforters at your dying bed, which Ulrica now relinquishes!— But know, if il will give thee comfort to know it, that Ulrica is bound to the same dark coast with thyself, the companion of thy punishment, as the companion ofthy guilt —And now, parricide, farewell for ever! May each stone of this vaulted roof find a tongue to echo that title into thine ear!'' So saying, she left the appartment; and Front de Bccuf could hear the crush of the ponderous key as she locked and double-locked the door behind her, thus cutting oil' the most slender chance of escape. In the extremity of agony he shouted upon his servants and allies— quot;Stephen and St. Maur! — Clement and Giles! — I burn here unaided! — To the rescue — to the rcscue, brave Bois de Gilbert, valiant Do Bracy. — It is Front de Boeuf who calls! — It is your master , ye traitor squires! —Your ally—your brother in arms, ye perjured and faithless knights!—all the curses due to traitors upon your recreant heads, do you abandon me to perish thus miserably! — They hear me not — they cannot hear me — my voice is lost in the din of battle.— The smoke rolls thicker and thicker— the fire has caught upon the lloor below. — O for one draught of the air of heaven, were it to he purchased by instant annihilation !quot; And in the mad frenzy of despair the wretch now shouted with the shouts of the fighters, now muttered curses on himself, on mankind, and on Heaven itself. quot; The red fire flashes through the thick smoke!quot; he cxclaimed , quot;the demon marches against me under the banner of his own element. — Foul spirit, avaunt! I go not with thee without my comrades — all, all arc thine, that garrison thesewalls. — Think-est thou Front de Boouf will be singled out to go alone ? — No — the infidel Templar, the licentious De Bracy — Ulrica, the foul mur- |
474
|
(lering strnnipet — llie men wlio aided my enterprises the dog Snxons, and acenrsed Jews, wlio are my prisoners — all, all sliall altend me — a goodly fellowship as ever took the downward road — Ila, ha, ha!quot; and he laughed in his fremy till the vaulted roof rung again. quot;Who laughed there?quot; exclaimed Front de lioeuf, in altered mood , for the noise of the conflict did not prevent the echoes of his own frenzied laughter from returning upon his ear.— quot; Who laughed there? Ulrica, was it thou? Speak, witch, and J forgive thee — for, only thou or the fiend of hell himselfconld have laughed at such a moment. Avaunt!avauntIquot; |
But it were impious to trace any farther the picture of the Ma.spheiner and parricide's deathhed. |
A. fox chasc on the Scottish border.
|
On their return to the house, where the good wife presided over an ample breakfast, she heard news of the proposed fox-hunt, not indeed with approbation, hut without alarm or surprise. ''Dand! ye're the auld man yet—naething will make ye take warning till ye're brought hame some day wi' your feet foremost.quot; quot;Tut, lass! ye ken yoursell, 1 am never a prin the waur o' my rambles.quot; So saying, be exhorted Brown to be hasty in dispatching his breakfast, as quot;the frost having given way, the scent would lie this morning primely.quot; Out they sallied, accordingly, for Ottersco-pescaurs , the farmer leading the way. They soon quitted the little valley, and involved themselves among hills as steep as they could be without being precipitous. The sides often presented gullies, down which, in the winter season, or after heavy rains, the torrents descended in great fury. Some dappled mists still floated along the peaks of the bills, the remains of the morning clouds, for the frost had broken up with a smart shower. Through these fleecj' screens were seen a hundred little temporary streamlets, or rills descending the sides of the mountains like silver threads. By small sheep-tracks along these steeps , over which Dinmont trotted with the most fearless confidence, they at length drew near the scene of sport, and began to see other men , both on horse and foot, making towards the place of rendezvous. Brown was puzzling bimseir to conceive how a fox-chase could lake place among bills, where it was barely possible for a pony, accustomed to the ground, to trot along, but where quitting the track for half a yard's breadth , the rider might be either bogged , or precipitated down the bank. This wonder was not diminished when the came to the place of action. |
They had gradually ascended very high, and now found themselves on a mountain ridgu over-banging a glen of great depth, but extremely narrow. Here the sportsmen had collected, with an apparatus which would have shocked a member of the Pychely Hunt; for the object being the removal ol a noxious and destructive animal, as well as the pleasures of the chase, poor reynard was allowed much less fair play than when pursued in form through an open country. The strength of his habitation, however, and the nature of the ground by which it was surrounded on all sides, supplied what was wanting in the courtesy of his pursuers. The sides of the glen were broken hanks of earth, and rocks of rotten stone, which sunk sheer down to the little winding stream below, afi'ording here and there a tuft of scattered brush-wood, or a patch of furze. Along the edges of this ravine, which, as we have said, was very narrow, but of profound depth, the hunters on horse and foot ranged tbcniselves; alrnostevery farmer bad with him atleasta brace of large and fierce greyhounds, of the race of those deer-dogs which were formerly usedin ibatcoiin-try, but greatly lessened in size from being crossed with the common breed. The huntsman, a sort of provincial officer of the district, who receives a certain supply of meal, and a reward for every fox he destroys, was already at the bottom of the dell, whose echoes thundered to the chiding of tw o or three brace of fox bounds. Terriers, including the whole generation of Pepper and Mustard, were also in attendance, having been sent forward under the care of a shepherd. Mongrel, whelp, and cur of low degree filled up the burthen of the chorus. The spectators on the brink of the ravine, or glen, held their greyhounds in leash, in readiness to slip them at the fux, as soon as the activity of the party below should force him to abandon his co»er. The scene, though uncouth to the eye of a professed sportsman, had something in it wildly captivating. The shifting figures on the mountain-ridge, having the sky for their background, appeared to move in the air. The dogs, impatient of their restraint, and maddened with the baying beneath, sprung here and there, and strained at the slips which prevented them from joining their companions. Looking down, the view was equally striking. The thin mists were not totally dispersed in the glen, so that it was often through their gauzy medium that the eye strove to discover the motions of the hunters below. Sometimes a breath of wind made thescene visible, the blue rill glittering as it twined itself |
475
|
through its nulc and solitary dell. They llicn could see the shepherds springiiij; with fearless activity from one dangerous point to another, and cheering the dogs on the scent; the whole so diminished hy depth and distance, that they looked like pigmies. Again the mists closc over them, and the only signs of their continued exertions arc the lialloos of the men, and the clamours of the hounds, ascending, as it were, out of the bowels of the earth. When the fox, thus pcrse-cuti.'d from one strong hold to another, was at length obliged to abandon his valley, and to break away for a more distant retreat, those who watched his motions from the top slipped their greyhounds, which, excelling the fox in swiftness, ami equaling him in ferocity and spirit, soon brought the plunderer to his life's end. |
[n this way, without any attention to the ordinary rulesand decorums ofsport, but apparently as much to the gralification both of bipeds and quadrupeds as if all had been followed, four foxes were killed on this active morning; and even Brown himself, though he had seen the principal sports of India, and ridden a tigerhunting upon an elephant with the nabob of Arcot, professed to have received a morning's excellent amusement. When the sport was given up for the day, most of the sportsmen, according to the established hospitality of the country, went to dine at Charlies-hope. |
The parting of IVaverlcy and Fergus Mac Ivor.
|
After a sleepless night, the first dawn of morning found Waverley on the esplanade in front of the old Gothic gate of Carlisle Castle. But he paced it long in every direction before the hour when , according to the rules of the garrison , the gates were opened, and the drawbridge lowered, lie produced his order to the Serjeant of the guard, and was admitted. The place ofFergus'sconfinement wasa gloomy and vaulted apartment in the central part of the castle: a huge old tower, supposed to be of great antiquity, and surrounded by outworks, seemingly of Henry VHI.'s time, or somewhat later. The grating of the large old fashioned bars and bolts, withdrawn for the purpose of admitting Kd ward, was answered hy theclashof chains, as the unfortunate chieftain, strongly and heavily fettered , sbufiled along the stone floor of his prison to fling himself into his arms. quot;My dear Edward,quot; he said, in a firm and even cheerful voice, quot;this is truly kind. I heard of your approaching happiness with the highest pleasure. And how docs lloje ? And how is our old whimsical friend the baron ? Well, 1 am sure, from your looks — and how will you settle precedence between the three ermines passant and the bear and hoot-jack ? quot; quot;How, O how, my dear Fergus, can you talk of such tilings, and at such a moment?quot; quot;Why, we have entered Carlisle with happier auspices, to be sure — on the sixteenth of November last, for example , when wo inarched in , side by side, and hoisted the white flag on these ancient towers. But I am no boy, to sit down and weep because the luck has gone against me. I knew the stake which I risked ; we played the game boldly, and the for feit shall be paid manfully. And since my time is short, let me come to the questions that interest me most — the prince ? has he cscapcd the bloodhounds?quot; quot; He has, and is in safety.quot; |
quot;Praised be God for that! tell me the particulars of his escape.quot; Waverley communicated that remarkable history, so far as it had then transpired , to which Fergus listened with deep interest. He then asktd after several other friends , and made minute inquiries concerning the fate of bis own clansmen. They had suffered less than other tribes who bad been engaged in the affair ; for, having in a great measure dispersed and returned home after the captivity of their chieftain , as was a universal custom among the Highlanders, they were not in arms when the insurrection was finally suppressed , and consequently were treated with less rigour. This Fergus heard with great satisfaction. quot;Youare rich,quot; he said, quot;Waverley, and you are generous. When you hear of these poor Mac Ivors being distressed about their miserable possessions by some harsh overseer or agent of government, remember you have worn their tartan, and are an adopted son of their race. The baron, who knows our manners , and lives near our country, will appme you of the time and means to be their protector. Will you promise this to the last Vich Ian V'ohr?quot; Edward, as may well be believed , pledged his word ; which he afterwards so amply redeemed, that his memory still lives in these glens hy the name of the Friend of the Sons of Ivor. •'Would to God,quot; continued of chieftain, quot;I could bequeath you my rights to the love and obedience of this primitive and bravcrace: — or at least, as I have striven to do, persuade poor Evan to accept of his life upon their terms, and be to you what he has been to me, the kindest, — the bravest, — the most devoted.—quot; The tears which his own fate could not draw forth , fell fast for that of his foster-brolher. quot;But,quot; said be, drying them, quot;that cannot be. You cannot be to them Vich Ian Vohr; and these three magic words,quot; said he, half smiling, quot;are |
476
|
tlic only open sesame to their feelings anil sympathies, and poor Evan must attend his foster-hrother in death, as he has done through his whole life.quot; quot;And I am sure,quot; said Mac Comhich, raising himself from the floor, on which, for fear of interrupting their conversation, he had lain so still, that, in the obscurity of the apartment, Edward was not aware of his presence,— ''lam sure Evan never desired nor deserved a better end than just to die with his chieftain.quot; quot;And now,quot; said Fergus,''while we are upon the subject of clanship — what think you now now of the prediction of the Bodach Glas ?'' — Then, before Edward could answer, quot;1 saw him again last night—he stood in theslipof moonshine which fell from that high and narrow window, towards my hed. Why should I fear him ? 1 thought—to-morrow, long ere this time, I shall be as immaterial as he. 'False spirit,' I said, 'art thou comc to close thy walks on earth, and to enjoy thy triumph in the fall of thn last descendant of thine enemy ?' The spectre seemed to beckon and to smile as lie faded from my sight. What do you think of it? — I asked the same question of the priest, who is a good and sensible ninn; he admitted that the church allowed that such apparitions were possible, but urged me not to permit my mind to dwell upon it, as imagination plays us strange tricks. What do you think ofit?quot; '•Much as your confessor,quot; said Waverley , willing to avoid dispute upon such a point, and at such a moment. A tapat the doornow announced that good man , and Edward retired while he administered to both prisoners the last rites of religion in the mode in -which the church of Home prescribes. In about an hour he was readmitted; soon after a file of soldiers entered with a blacksmith , who struck the fetters from the legs of the prisoners. quot;You see the compliment they pay to our Highland strength and courage — we have lain chained here like wild beasts, till our legs are cramped into palsy , and when they free us , they send six soldiers with loaded muskets, to prevent our taking the castle by storm Iquot; Edward afterwards learned that these severe precautions had been taken in consequence of a desperate attempt of the prisoners to escape, in which they had very nearly succeeded. Shortly afterwards the drums of thegarrison heat to arms. quot;This is the last turn-out,quot;said Fergus, quot;that I shall hear and obey. And now, my dear, dear Edward, ere we part, let ns speak of Flora — a subject which awakens the tenderest feeling that yet thrills within me.quot; quot;We part not here,quot; said Waverley. quot;0 yes, we do; you must come no further. Not that I fear what is to follow for myself,quot; he said proudly; quot;Nature has her tortures as well as art. |
and how happy should we think the man who escapes from the throes of a mortal and painful disorder in the space of a short halfhour? And this matter, spin it out as they will, cannot last longer. Uut what a dying man can suffer firmly may kill a living friend to look upon. — This same law of high treason,'' be continued with astonishing firmness and composure, quot;is one of the blessings, Edward, with which your free country has accommodated poor old Scotland— her own jurisprudence, as I have heard, was much milder; but I suppose one day or other — when there are no longer any wild Highlanders to benefit by its tender mercies — they will hlot it from their records, as leveling them with a nation of cannibals. The mummery of exposing the senseless head — they have not the wit to grace mine with a paper coronet; there would besome satire in that, Edward. I hope they will set it on the Scotch gate though, that I may look, even after death, to the blue hills of my nativeeoun-try, which I love so dearly. The baron would have added,— Moritur, et morieus dalces reminis citur Argos ! A bustle, and the sound of wheels and horses' feet, were now heard in the courtyard of the castle. quot;As 1 have told you why you must not follow me, and these sounds admonish me that my time flies fast, tell me how you found poor Flora ?quot; AVaverley, with a voice interrupted by suffocating sensations, gave some account of the state of her mind. quot;Poor Flora Iquot; answered the chief, quot;she could have borne her own death, hut not mine. You, Waverley, will soon know the happines ofmutual affection in the marriage stale—long, long may Rose and you enjoy it! — But you can never know the purity of feeling which combines two orphans, like Flora and me, left alone, as it were, in the world , and being all and all to each other from our very infancy. But her strong sense of duly, and predominant feeling of loyalty, will give new nerve to her mind after the immediate and acute sensation of this parting has passed away: she will then think of Fergus as of the heroes of our race, upon whose deeds she loved to dwell.quot; quot;Shall she not see you, then? She seemed to expect it.quot; quot;A necessary deceit will spare her the last dreadful parting. I could not part with her without tears, and I cannot bear that these men should think they have power to extort them. She was made to believe she would see me at a later hour; and this letter, which my confessor will deliver , will apprize her that all is over.quot; An officer now appeared, and intimated that the high sheriff and his attendants waited before the gate of the castle, to claim the bodies of Fer- |
477
|
gus Mac Ivor and Evan Mac Comhich; quot;I come,quot; said Fergus. Accordingly, supporling Edward by the arm, and followed hy Evan Dim and tlie priest, he moved down the stairs ofthe lower, the soldiers bringing up the rear. The court was occupied hy a squadron of dragoons and a hatln-Iion of infantry, drawn up in hollow square. Within their ranks was the sledge, or hurdle, on which the prisoners were to he drawn to the place of execution, a hout a mile distant from Carlisle. It was painted black, and drawn by a white horse. At one end of the vehicle sat the executioner, a horrid looking fellow, as beseemed his trade, with the broad axe in his hand ; at the other end, next the horse, was an empty seat for two persons. Through the deep and dark Gothic archway that opened on the drawbridge were seen on horseback the high sheriff and his attendants, whom the etiquette betwixt the civil and military power did not permit to come farther. quot;This is well got. up for a closing scene,quot; said Fergus, smiling disdainfully as he gazed around upon the apparatus of terror. Evan Dhu exclaimed with some eagerness, after looking at the dragoons, quot;These are the very chields that galloped off Gladsmuir, before we could kill a dozen of them. They look bold enough, now, however.quot; The priest entreated him to he silent. The sledge now approached, and Fergus , turn-inj; round , embraced Waverley, kissed him on each side of the face, and stepped nimbly into his place. Evan sat down by his side. The priest was to follow in a carriage belonging to his patron, the Catholic gentleman at whose house Flora resided. As Fergus waved his hand to Edward the ranks closed around the sledge, and the whole procession began to move forward. Ihere was a momentary stop at thegateway, while the governor ofthe castle and the high sherilTwent through a short ceremony, the military officer there delivering over the persons of the criminals to the civil power. quot;God save king George!quot; said the high sheriff. When the formality concluded , Fergus stood erect in the sledge, and , with a firm and steady voice, replied, quot;God save King James]quot; These were the last words which Waverley heard him speak. |
The procession resumed its march , and the sledge vanished from beneath the portal , under which it had stopped for an instant. The dead inarch was then heard, and its melancholy sounds were mingled with those of a mullled peal, tolled from the neighbouring cathedral. The sound of the military music died away as the procession moved on ; the sullen clang of the bells was soon heard to sound alone. The last of the soldiers had now disappeared from under the vaulted archway, through which they had been filing for several minutes; the courtyard was now totally empty, but Waverley still stood there as ifstupified, hiseyesfixed upon the dark pass where he had so lately seen the last glimpse of his friend. At length, a female servant of the governor, struck with compassion at the stupified misery which his countenance expressed, asked him if he would not walk into her master's house and sit down? She was obliged to repeat her question twice ere be comprehended her, hut at length it recalled him to himself. Declining the courtesy by a hasty gesture, he pulled his hat over his eyes, and, leaving the castle, walked as swiftly as he could through the empty streets, till he regained his inn, then threw himself into an apartment, and bolted the door. In about an hour and a half, which seemed an age of unutterable suspense, the sound of the drums and fifes, performing a lively air, and the confused murmur of the crowd which now filled the streets, so lately deserted, apprized him that all was finished, and that the military and populace were returning from the dreadful scene. I will not attempt to describe his sensations. |
Irish Novelist, born at Clogher, Tyrone, ia 179S. His father was a peasant, but described as a man remarkable for his knowledge of the traditions of his country , and from him the future author appears to have early imbibed the cliaraeteristie prejudices , feelings , and superstitions of his country. Carleton displayed an early taste for reading, and became what is known in Ireland as a poor scholar — a charaetcr he has himself described in one of his most popular fictions. When old enough , ho became a tutor in a village school; but, wandering olf to Dublin in search of fortune , a publisher was induced to speculate upon two anonymous volumes from his pen, entitled quot;Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry.quot; These appeared in 1830, and decided his fate: he was henceforth to be an author, and in that character has since wrought, sometimes with more, sometimes with less, success. His productions include a second series of quot;Traits and Stories (1832),quot; quot;Fardorougha the Miser or the Convicts of Lisnamona (1839),quot; and quot;The Pawn of Spring Vale,quot; quot;The Clarionet,quot; and other talcs (184,1). Mr. Carletou is now in the enjoyment of a pension of 200/. a-ycar.
Picture of an Irish Village and Sciiool-house.
The village of Findramorc was situated at the I formed alow arch, as it rose to the eye against fool of a long green hill, the outline of which I the horiiou. This hill was studded with clumps of
478
|
bcoclies, and sometimes eneloscd as a meadow. In llie month of July, when the grass oti it was lonfj, many an hour have I spent in solitary enjoyment, watching the wavy motion produced upon its pliant surface hy the sunny winds, or the flight of the cloud shadows, like gigantic phantoms, as they swept rapidly over it, whilst the murmur of the rocking trees, and the glancing of their bright leaves in the sun, produced a heartfelt pleasure, the very memory of which rises in my imagination like some fading recollection of a brighter world. At the foot of this bill ran a clear deep-banked river, bounded on one side by a slip of rich level meadow , and on the other by a kind of rommon for the village geese, whose white feathers during the summer season lay scattered over its green surface. It was also the play-ground for the boys of the village school; for there ran that part of the river which, with very correct judgment, the urchins had selected as their bathing-place. A little slope or wateringground in the bank brought them to the edge of the stream, where the bottom fell away into the fearful depthsof the whirlpool under the hanging oak on the other bank. Well do 1 remember the first time 1 ventured to swim across it, and even yet do I see in imagination the two bunches of water flagons on which the inexperienced swimmers trusted themselves in the water. About two hundred yards above this, the bo-reen (1) which led from the village to the main road crossed the river by one of those old narrow bridges whose arches rise like round ditches across the road—an almost impassable barrier to horse and car. On passing the bridge in a northern direction, you found a range of low thatched houses on each side of the road ; and if one o'clock , the hour of dinner, drew near, you might observe columns of blue smoke curling up from a row of chimneys, some made of wicker creels plastered over with a rich coat of mud, some of old narrow bottomless tubs, and others, with a greater appearance of taste, ornamented with thick circular ropes of straw sewed together like bees' skeps with the peel of a brier; and many having nothing but the open vent above. But the smoke by no means escaped by its legitimate aperture, for you might observe little clouds of it bursting out of the doors and windows ; the panes of the latter being mostly stopped at other times with old hats and rags, were now left entirely open for the purpose of giving it a free escape. Before the doors, on right and left, was a series of dunghills, each with its concomitant sink of green rotten water; and if it happened that a stout-looking woman with watery eyes, and a yellow cap hung loosely upon her matted locks. |
came, with a chubby urchin on one arm and a pot of dirty water in her hand, its uncerimonious ejection in the aforesaid sink would he apt to send you up the village with your finger and thumb (for what purpose you would yourself perfectly understand) closely, but not knowingly, applied to your nostrills. But, independently of this , you would bij apt to have other reasons for giving your horse, whose heels are by this time surrounded by a doien of barking curs, and the same number of shouting urchins, a pretty sharp touch of the spurs, as well as for complaining bitterly of the odour of the atmosphere. It is no landscape without figures; and you might notice—if you are, as I suppose you to be, a man of observation — in every sink as you pass along a 'slip of a pig' stretched in themiddle of themud, the very bean ideal of luxury, giving occasionally a long luxuriant grunt, highly expressive of his enjoyment; or perhaps an old farrower , lying in indolent repose, with half a dozen young ones jostling each other for their draught, and punching her belly with their little snouts, reckless of the fumes they arc creating; whilst the loud crow of the cock, as he confidently flaps his wings on his own dunghill, gives the warning note for the hour of dinner. As you advance, you will also perceive several faces thrust out of the doors, and rather than miss a sight of you, a grotesque visage peeping by a short cut through the paneless windows, or a tattered female flying to snatch up her urchin that has been tumbling itself heels up in thedust of the road, lest 'the gintleman's horse might ride over it;' and if you happen to look behind, you may observe a shaggy-headed youth in tattered frize, with one hand thrust indolently in bis breast, standing at the door in conversation with the inmates, a broad grin of sarcastic ridicule on his face, in the act of breaking a joke or two upon yourself or your horse; or perhaps your jaw may be saluted with a lump of clay, just bard enough not to fall asunder as it flies, cast by some ragged gorsoon from behind a hedge, who squats himself in a ridge of corn to avoid detection. Seated upon a hob at the door you may observe a toil-worn man without coat or waistcoat, his red muscular sunburnt shoulder peering through the remnant of a shirt, mending his shoes with a piece of twisted flax, called a lingel, or perhaps sewing two footless stockings, or martyeens^ to his coat, as a substitute for sleeves. In the gardens, which are usually fringed with nettles, you will see a solitary labourer, working with that carelessness and apathy that characterise an Irishman when he labours for himself, leaning upon his spade to look after you, and glad of any excuse to be idle. |
(1) A little road.
479
|
The houses, however, arc not all such as I have described - far from it. You see here and there, helweeti the more huinhle cabins, astoutcom-fortahlc-looking farm-house with ornamental thatching and welljjlaxnd windows ; acljoininj; to which is a hay-yard with five or six large stacks of corn, well-trimmed and roped, and a fine yellow weather-beaten old hayrick, half cut—not taking into account twelve or thirteen circular strata of stones that mark out the foundations on which others had been raised. Neither is the rich smell of oaten or wheaten bread, which the good-wife is baking on the griddle, unpleasant to your nostrills ; nor would the bubbling of a large pol, in which you might see, should you chance to enter, a prodigious square of fat, yellow, and almost transparent bacon tumbling about, to he an unpleasant object; truly, as it hangs over a large fire, with well-swept hearthstone, it is in good keeping with the white settle and chairs, and the dresser with noggins, wooden trenchers, and pewter dishes, perfectly clean, and as well polished as a French courtier. As you leave the village, you have,to the left, a view of the hill which 1 have already described, and to the right a level expanse of fertile country, hounded by a good view of respectable mountains peering decently into the sky ; and in a line that forms an acute angle from the point of the road where you ride, is a delightful valley, in the bottom of which shines a pretty lake ; and a little beyond, on the slopeof a green hill, rises a splendid bouse, surrounded by a park well-wooded and stocked with deer. You have now topped the little hill above the village, and a straight line of level road, a mile long, goes forward to a country town which lies immediately behind that white church with its spire cutting into the sky before you. You descend on the other side, and having advanced a few perches, look to the left, where you see a long thatchcd chapel, only distinguished from a dwelling-house by its want of chimneys, and a small stone cross that slnndson the top of the eastern gable; behind it is a graveyard, and beside it a snug public-house, well whitewashed; thei, to the right, you observe a door apparemly in the side of a clay hank, which rises considerably above the pavement of the road. What! you ask yourself, can this be a human habitation ? liut ere you have time to answer the question, a confused hu/.7, of voices from within reaches your ear, and the appearance of a little gossoon with a red close-cropped head and Milesian face, having in his hand a short white slick, or the thigh-bone of a horse, which you at once recognise as 'the pass' of a village school, gives you the full information. He has an ink-born, covered with leather, dangling at the buttonhole (for he has long since played away the buttons) of his frue jacket—his mouth is circumscribed with a streak of ink — his pen is stuck knowingly behind his ear—his shins are dotted over with fire-blisters, black, red, and blue—on each heel a kibe — his'leather crackers' — videlicet, breeches — shrunk up upon him, and only reaching as far down as the caps of his knees. Having spied you, he places his hand over his brows, to throw back the da/zling light of the sun, and peers at you from under it, till he breaksout into a laugh, exclaiming, half to himself, half to you— |
'You a gintleman ! — no, noroneofyour breed never was, you procthorin' thief you I' You are now immediately opposite the door of the seminary, when half a doien of those seated next it notice you. ■Ob, sir, here's a gintleman on a horse! — masther, sir, hert's a gintleman on a horse, wid hoots and spurs on him, that's looking in at us.' 'Silence!' exclaims the master; 'back from the door — boys rehearse — every one of you rehearse, I say, you Bceolians, till the gintleman goes past!' 'I want to go out, if you please, sir.' 'No, you don't, Pheliin.' 'I do, indeed, sir.' 'What! is it afther conthradictin' me you'd be? Don't you see the quot;porter'squot; out, and you can't go.' 'Well, 'tis Mat Median has it, sir; and he's out this half-hour, sir ; I can't stay in, sir!' quot;You want to be idling your time looking at the ginlleman, Pbelim.' 'No, indeed, sir.' 'Phelim, 1 know you of ould—go to your sate. I tell you, Phelim , you were born for the encouragement of the hemp manufacture, and you'll die promoting it.' In the meantime the master puts his head out of the door, bis body stooped to a 'half-bend' — a phrase, and the exact curve which it forms, I leave for the present to your own sagacity —and surveys you until you pass. That is an Irish hedge-school , and the personage who follows you with his eye a hedge-schoolmaster. |
This departed popular naval writer — the best painter of sea characters since Smollett — commenced what has proved to bo a busy and highly successful literary career iu 1829, by the publication of The Naval Officer, a nautical tale , in three volumes. This work partook too strongly of the free spirit of the sailor, but amidst its occasional violations of taste and decorum , there was a rough racy humour and dramatic live-
480
liness lliat ntoncil for ninny faults. In Hie following yenr Hie captnin was ready with other three volumee, more carefully finished, and presenting a well-compacted story , entitled The King's Own. Though ocea-bionnlly a little awkward on land, Captain Rlarryat was nt home on the sea, and whether serious or comic — whether delineating a captain , midshipman , or common tar , or even a earpeuter , he evinced a minute practical acquaintance with all on board ship, and with every variety of nautical character. His vidid and striking powers of description were also displayed to much advantage in this novel. Newton ï'oster, or the Merchant Service, 1832, was our author's next work, aud is a tale of various and sustained interest. It was surpasse I. however, by its immediate successor, Peter Simple, the most amusing of all the author's works. His naval commander. Captain Savage, Chucks the boatswain, O'Urien the Irish lieutenant, aud Muddle the carpenter, are excellent individual portraits — as distinct and life-like as Tom Howling, Hatchway, or Pipes. The scences in the West Indies display the higher powers of the novelist, and the escape from the French prison interests us almost as deeply as the similar eiforts of Caleb Williams. Continuing his nantieal scenes and portraits, Captain Marryat has since written about thirty volumes — as Jacob Faithful (one of his best productions), The Phantom Ship, Mr. Midshipman Easy, The Pacha of Many Tales, Jnphet in Search of a Father, Poor Jack, Joseph llushbrook the Poacher, Masterman Heady, Percival Keene, amp;o. In the hasty production of so many volumes, the quality could not always be equal. The nautical humour and racy dialogue could not always he produced at will, of a new and different stamp at each successive effort. Such, however, is the fertile fancy and active observation of the author, and his lively powers of amusing and describing, that he has fewer repetitions and less tediousness than almost any other writer equally voluminous. His last work, 'Percival Keene' (1842), betrays no falling-ofi1, hut, on the contrary, is one of the most vigorous and interesting of his 'sea changes.' 'Captain Marryat,' says a writer in the Quarterly Review, 'stands second to no living novelist but Miss F.dgeworth. His happy delineations and contrasts of character, and easy play of native fun, redeem a thousand faults of verbosity, clumsiness, and coarseness. His strong sense aud utter superiority to affectation of all sorts, command respect; and in his quiet effectiveness of circumstantial narrative , he sometimes approaches old Defoe. There is less of caricature about his pictures than those of any contemporary humorist — unless, perhaps, Morier; and ho shows far larger and matnrer knowledge of the real workings of human nature than any of the band, except the exquisite writer we have just named, aud Mr. Theodore Hook, of whom praise is equally superfluous.' This was written in 1839, before Charles Dickcns had 'gathered all his fame;' and with all our admiration of Marryat, we should be disposed at present to claim for the younger novelist an equal, if not superior — as clear, and a more geneal — knowledge of human nature — at least on land. To vary or relieve his incessant toils at original composition Captain Marryat made a trip to America in 1837 , the result of which he gave to the world in 1839 in three volumes, entitled A Diary in America, with Kemnrks on its Institutions. This was flying at higher game than any ho had previously brought down ; but the real value of these volumes consists in their resemblance to parts of his novels — in humorous caricature and anecdote, shrewd observation, and lively or striking description. His account of the American navy is valuable ; and so practical and sagacious an observer could not visit the schools, prisons, and other public institutions of the New World , without throwing out valuable reflections, and noting what is superior or dtfcctive. He is no admirer of tho democratic government of America: indeed his Diary is as unfavourable of the national character as tho previous sketches of Mr. Trollope or Captain Hall. Hut it is in relating trails of manners, peculiarities of speech, and other singular or ludicrous characteristics of the Americans, that Captain Marryat excels. These are rich as his fictitious delineations, and , like them , probably owe a good deal to the suggestive fancy and love of drollery proper to the uovclist. The success of this Diary induced tho author to add three additional volumes to it in the following year, but the continuation is greatly inferior.
|
Cecilia returned to the caliin , to ascertain whether her nunt was more composed ; hut Mrs. Lasculles remained on deck. She was much pleased with Pickersijill ; anil they continued their conversation. Pickersgill entered into a defence of his conduct to Lord B.;nnd Mrs. Lascelicscould not hut admit the |irovocation. Aftera lonjf conversation, she hinted at his profession, and how superior he appeared to he to such a lawless life. 'You may he incredulous, madam,' replied Pickersgill, 'if I tell you that 1 have as j;ood a right to quarter my arms as Lord B. himself; and that ] am not under my real name. Smuggling is, nt all events, no crime; and 1 infinitely prefer the wild life 1 lead at the head of my men, to being; spurned hy society hecanse I am poor. The greatest crime in this country is poverty. I may if I am fortunate, some day resume my name. You may, perhaps, meet me.' |
'That 1 should not be likely to do,' replied the widow;'hut still I regret tosee a pcr.son,cvidently intended for lietter things, employed in so disreputable a profession.' '1 hardly know, madam, what is and what is not disreputable in this conventional world. It is not considered disreputable to cringe to the vices of a court, or to accept a pension, wrung from the industry of the nation, in return for base servility. It is not considered disreputable to take tithes, intended for the service of God, and lavish them away at watering-places or elsewhere, seeking pleasure instead of doing God service. It is not |
481
|
considered disreputable to take fee after fee to uphold injustice, to plead against innocence, to pervert truth, and to aid the devil. It is not considered disreputable to gamble on the stock-ex-change, or to corrupt the honesty of electors by bribes, to doing which the penalty attached is equal to that decreed to the offence of which I am guilty. All these, and much more, are not considered disreputable ; yet, by all these are the moral bonds of society loosened, while in mine we cause no guilt in others-' 'Rut still it is a crime.' 'A violation of the revenue laws, and no more. Observe, madam, the English government encourage the smuggling of our manufactures to the Continent, at the same time that they take every step to prevent articles being smuggled into this country. Now, madam, can that he a crime when she steers the opposite way ?' 'There is a stigma attached to it, you must allow.' •That I grant you, madam; and as soon as I can quit the profession 1 shall. No captive ever sighed more to be released from his chains; hut I will not leave it, till I find that I am in a situation not to be spurned and neglected by those with whom I have a right to associate.' At this moment, the steward was seen forward making signs to Mrs. Lascèlles, who excused herself, and went to him. 'For the love of God , madam,' said Maddox, 'as he appears to be friendly with you , do pray find out how these cutli'ls are to be dressed ; the cook is tearing his hair , and we shall never have any dinner; and then it will all full upon me, and 1—shall be tossed overboard.' Mrs. Lascèlles desired poor Maddox to wait there while she obtained the desired information. In a few minutes she ret urned to him. 'I have found it out. They are first to he boiled in vinegar; then fried in butter, and served up with a sauce of anchovy and Malaga raisins.' 'First fried in vinegar; then boiled in butter, and served up with the almonds and raisins.' 'No—no!' Mrs.Lascèlles repeated the injunction to the frightened steward ; and then returned aft, and re-entered into a conversation w ith Pickers-gill .in which, for the first lime, Corbett now joined. Corbett had sense enough to feel, that the less he came forward until his superior had established himself in the good graces of the ladies, the more favourable would he the result. In the mean time Cecilia had gone down to her aunt, who still continued to wail and lament. The young lady tried all she could to console her, and to persuade her lliat if they were civil and obedient they had nothing to fear. 'Civil and obedient, indeed I'cried Miss Ossul-ton, 'to a fellow who is a smuggler and a pirate. J, the sister of Lord B. Never! The presumption of the wrctch!' |
'That is all very well,aant; bat recollect, we must submit to circumstances. These men insist upon our dining with them ; and we must go , or we shall have no dinner.' 'I sit down with a pirate! Never! I'll have no dinner—I'll starve—I'll die!' 'But, my dear aunt, its the only chance we have of obtaining our release; and if you do not do it, Mrs. Lascèlles will think that yoi^wish to remain with them.' 'Mrs. Lascèlles judges of other people by herself.' 'The captain is certainly a very well behaved , handsome man. lie looks like a nobleman in disguise. What an odd thing it would be, aunt, if this should he all a hoax ?' 'A hoax, child ?' replied Miss Ossulton, sitting1 up on the sofa. Cecilia found that she bad bit the right nail, as the saying is; and she brought forward so many arguments to prove that she thought it was a hoax to frighten them, and that the gentleman above was a man of consequence, that her aunt began to listen to reason, and at last consented to join the dinner party. Mrs. Lascèlles now came down below; and when dinner was announced, they repaired to the large cabin , where they found Pickersgill and Corbett waiting for them. Miss Ossulton did not venture to look up, until she heard Pickersgill say to Mrs. Lascèlles: 'Perhaps, madam, you will do me the favour to introduce me to that lady, whom I have not had the honour of seeing before '' 'Certainly, my lord,' replied Mrs. Lascèlles; 'Miss Ossulton, the aunt of this young lady.' Mrs. Lascèlles purposely did not introduce his lords/ii]) in return, that she might mystify the old spinster. '1 feel highly honoured in finding myself in the company of Miss Ossulton,' said Pickersgill. 'Ladies, we wait hut for you to sit down. Ossulton , take the head of the table and serve the soup.' MissO-sulton was astonished; she looked at the smugglers, and perceived two well-dressed gentlemanly men, one of whom was apparently a lord, and the other having the same family name. 'It must he all a hoax,' thought she; and she verv quietly look to her soup. The dinner passed off very pleasantly; Pickersgill was agreeable, Corbett fnnny. and Miss Ossulton so far recovered herself as to drink wine with his lordship, and to ask Coi bctt what branch of their family he belonged to. 'I presume it's the Irish branch,' said Mrs. Lascèlles, prompting him. 'Kxaclly, madam,' replied Corbett. 'Have you ever been to Torquay, ladies?'inquired Pickersgill. 'No, my lord,' answered Mrs. Lascèlles. 'AVe shall anchor there in the course of an hour, |
|
and probably remain there till to-morrow. Steward, bring coffce. Tell the cook tlieso cutlets were remarkably well dressed.' Tbe ladies retired to tbe cabin. Miss Ossulton was now convinced that it was all a hoax; 'but' said sbe, 'I shall tell Lord B. my opinion of their piratical jokes when be returns. What is his lordship's nHiie who is on board ?' 'He wmi't tell us,' replied Mrs. Lascèllos;'but I think I know ; it is Lord Blarney.' 'Lord Blaney you mean , 1 presume said Miss Ossulton; 'however, the thing is carried too far. Cecilia, we will go on shore at Torquay, and wait till tbe yacht returns with Lord B. 1 don't like these jokes: they may do very well for widows, and people of no rank.' JVow, Mrs. Lascèlies was sorry 1o find Miss Ossulton so much at her ease. She owed her no little ypite, and wished for revenge. Ladies w ill go very far to obtain this. How far Mrs. Lascèlies would have gone, 1 will not pretend losay, but this is certain, that the last innendo of Miss Ossulton very much added to her determination. She look her bonnet and went on deck, at once told I'ickersgill that he could not please her or Cecilia more titan by frightening Miss Ossulton, who, under the idea that it was all a hoax, had quite recovered her spirits; talked of her pride and ill* nature, and w ished her to receive a useful lesson. Thus, to follow up her revenge, did Mrs. Lascèlies commit herself so far, as to be confidential with the smuggler in return. 'Mrs. Lascèlies, I shall be able to obey you, and, at tbe same time , to combine business with pleasure.' After a short conversation, the yacht dropped her anchor at Torquay. It was then about two hours before sunset. As soon as the sails were furled , one or two gentlemen, who resided there, came on hoard to pay their respects to Lord li; and, as Pickersgill had found out from Cecilia that her father was acquainted with no one there, he received them in person ; asked them down in the cabin; called for wine ; and desired them to send their boat away, as his own was going on shore. The smugglers look great care, that the steward , cook , and lady's maid, should have no communication w ith the guests; one of them , by Corbelt's direction, being a sentinel over each individual. The gentlemen remained about half-an-bour on hoard, during w hich Corbelt and tbe smugglers had filled the portmanteaus found in the cabin with the lace; and ibey wore put in the boat. Corbett then landed the gentlemen in the same boat, and went up to the hotel, the smugglers following hirn with tbe portmanteaus, without any suspicion or interruption. As soon as he was there, he ordered post horses, and set off for a town close by, were be had corrcsponlt;lents; and thus the major part of the cargo was secured. Corbett then rrti'irned in the night, bringing with bim people to receivc the goods; and the smugglers landed the silks, teas, etc., with the same good fortune. Every thing was out of the yacht except a portion of the lace, which the portmanteaus would not hold. Pickersgill might easily have sent this on shore; but to please Mrs. Lascèlies , be arranged otherwise. |
The next morning, about an hour after breakfast was finished, Mrs. Lascclles entered the cabin pretending to he in the greatest consternation, and fell on the sofa , as if she were going to faint. 'Good heavens! what is the matter?' exclaimed Cecilia, who knew very well what was coming. 'Oh, the wretch! he has made such proposals.' 'Proposals! what proposals? what! Lord Blarney ?' cried Miss Ossulton. 'Oh, he's no Lord; lie's a villain and a smuggler: and be insists that we shall both fill our pockets full of lace, and go on shore with him.' 'Mercy on me! then it is no hoax after all; and I've been sitting down to dinner with a smuggler!' 'Sitting down , madam ! — if it were to be no more than that — but we are to take his arm up to the hotel. Oh, dear I Cecilia, 1 am ordered on deck, pray come with me.' Miss Ossulton rolled on the sofa, and rang for Phcebe; she was in a state of great alarm. A knock at the door. 'Come in,' said Miss Ossulton, thinking it was Phoebe; when Pickersgill made his appearance. 'What do you want, sir? go out, sirlgoout directly, or I'll scream.' '[t is no use screaming, madam ; recollect that all on hoard are at my service. You will oblige me by lislening to me, Miss Ossulton. I am, as You know, a smuggler, and I must send this lace on shore. You will oblige me by putting it into your pockets, or about your person, and prepare to go on shore with me. As soon as we arrive at the hotel, you will deliver it to me, and 1 then shall reconduct you on hoard of the yacht. You arc not the first lady who has gone on shore with contraband articles about her person. 'Me, sir, go on shore in that way? no, sir, never! what will the world say? the Hon. Miss Ossultun walking with a smuggler! No, sir, never!' 'Yes, madam, walking arm-and arm with a smuggler; 1 shall have you en one arm, and Mrs. Lascèlies on the other ; and I would ad\ise yon to take it very quietly, for, in the first place, it will be you who smuggle, as the goods will be found on your person, and you will certainly be put in prison, for, at the least appearance of insubordination. we run and inform against you and, further, your niece will remain on board as hostage for your good behaviour, and if you have any regard for her liherly, you will consent immediately.' |
483
|
Pickersgill left llie cabin, and shortly allcr-wards Cecilia and Mrs. Lascèlics entered, !i|i-parently innch distressed.They had hoen informed of all, and Mrs. Lascilles declared, that, for her part, sooner than leave her uoor Cecilia lo the mercy of such people, she had made up her mind to submit lo the smuggler's demands. Cecilia also begged so earnestly, that Miss Ossulton, who had no idea that it was a trick, with much sobbing and blubbering, consented. When all was ready, Cecilia left the cabin; Pickersgill came down, banded up the two ladies, who had not exchanged a word with each other during Cecilia's absence: the boat was ready alongside, they went in, and pulled on shore. |
livery thing succeeded lo the smuggler's satisfaction. Miss Ossullon, frightened out of her wits, look his arm ; and, wilh Mrs. Lascèlles on the other, they went up to the hotel, followed by four of his boat's crew. As soon as iboy were shewn inloarooin, Corbett, who was already on shore, asked for Lord It., and joined them. The ladies retired to another appartment, divested themselves of their contraband goods, and, afl^ calling for some sandwiches and wine, Pickersgill waited an hour, and then returned on board. Mrs. Lascèlles was triumphant; and she rewarded her new ally, the smuggler, with one of her sweetest smiles. Community of interest will sometimeo make strange friendships. |
A. Prudent Sea Captain — Abuse of ship Stores.
|
'Well, Mr. Cheeks, what arc the carpenters about ?' 'Weston and Smallbridge arc going on with the chairs — the whole of them will he finished to-morrow.' 'Well?' 'Smith is about the chest of drawers, to match the one in my Lady Capperbar's bed-room.' 'Very good. Ami what is Hilton about ?' 'He has finished the spare-leaf of (be dining-table, sir; lie is now about a little job for the second-lieutenant.' 'A job for the second lieutenant, sir I How often have I told you, Mr. Cheeks, that the carpenters are not to he employed, except on ship's duty, without my special permission.' 'His standing bed-place is broke, sir ; he is only getting out a chock or two.' 'Mr. Cheeks, you have disobeyed my most positive orders. By the by, sir, 1 understand you •were not sober last night ?' 'Please your honour!' replied the carpenter, 'I wasn't drunk—I was only a little fresh.' 'Take you carc, Mr. Checks. Well, now, what are the rest of your crew about ?' 'Why, Thomson and Waters are cutting out the pales for the garden out of the jibboom ; I've saved the heel to return.' 'Very well; but there wont be enough, will there ?' 'No, sir; it will take a hand-mast to finish the whole.' ■Then we must expend one when we go out again. We can carry away a top-mast, and make a new one out of the hand-mast at sea. In the meantime, if the sawyers have nothing to do, they may as well cut the palings at once. And now, let me see-—oh, the painters must go on shore lo finish the attics.' |
'Yes, sir; hut my Lady Capperhar wishes the jea tow tecs lo be painted vermilion: she says it will look more rural.' 'Mrs. Capperhar ought to know enough about ship's stores by this time to be aware that we are only allowed three colours. She may choose or mix them as she pleases; but as for going lo the expense of buying paint, I can't afford it. What arc the rest of the men about ?' 'Repairing the second cutter, and making a new mast for the pinnace ' 'By the by—that puts me in mind of it—have you expended any boat's masts ?' 'Only the one carried away, sir.' 'Then you must expend two more. Mrs. C-- has just sent me off a list of a few things that she wishes made while we are at anchor, and I see two poles for clothes-lines. Saw olT the sheave-boles, and put two pegs through at right angles —you know how I mean ?' 'Yes, sir. What am I lo do, sir, about the cucumber frame? My Lady Capperhar says that she must have it, and 1 haven't glass enough. They grmnhled at the yard last time.' 'Mrs. C- must wait a little. What arc the armourers about?' 'They have been so busy wilh your work, sir, that the arms are in a very had condition. The firsl-lieutenant said yesterday that they were a disgrace to the ship.' 'AVho dares say that?' 'The first-lieulenant, sir.' 'Well, then, let them rub up the arms, and let me know when they arc done, and we'll get the forge np.5 'The armourer has made six rakes and six hoes, and the two little hoes for the children ; but ha 1 says lhal he can't make a spade.' |
484
'Then I'll take liis warrant away, l)y licavens, I Mr. Cheeks. I shall overlook your liciiij; in liquor since he docs not know his duty. That will do, | this time; hut takecurc.Send the boatswain to me.'
Novcli|f, was bom iu London about 1800. He begnu his career ns n reporter fur the press, but giving early evideuce of talent for romantic writing , soon found a public willing to appreciate and reward his exertions. He has been a most prolific author, as a list of his works will prove. These include a quot; Life of Edward the Black Prince,quot; published about 1822, quot;Richelieu,quot; 1829, quot;Darnley, or the Field of the Cloth of Gold,quot; and quot; De I/'Orinc,quot; 1830; quot;Philip Augustus,quot; 1831; quot; History of Charlemagne,quot; and a novel, quot;Henry Masterton ,quot; in 1832; quot;Mary of Burgundy, or the Revolt of Ghent,quot; in 1833; quot;The Life and Adventures of John Marston Hall,quot; in 1834; and so in quick succession, year by year, the following additional works; — quot; Oue in a Thousand, or the Days of Henri yuatre ,quot; quot;The Gipsy,quot; a tale, both in 1835; quot;Attila,quot; a romance, quot;The Life and Times of Louis XIV,quot; both in 1837; quot;The Hnguenot,quot; a tale of the French Protestants, quot;The Robber,quot; both in 1838; quot;Henry of Guise,quot; quot;A Gentlemau of the Old School,quot; both in 1839; quot;The King's Highway,quot; quot;The Man at Arms,quot; both in 1810 ; quot;Corse de Leon,quot; quot;Jacquerie, or the Lady and (he Page,quot; quot;The Anrieut Regime,quot; quot;A History of the Life of Richard Cocur de Lion,quot; all in 1841; quot;Morley Krnstein,quot; 1842; quot;Forest I'Jnys,quot; quot;Eva St.Clair,quot; quot;The False Heir,quot; quot;Anibelia Stuart,quot; all in 1843; quot;The Forgery,quot; quot;Dark Scenes of History.quot; The Stepmother; The Old Oak-chest, and Ticondcroga; or The Black Eagle, 1854. Altogether his books must number something very like a hundred volnmes. An American biographer says, — quot;Mr. Washington Irving having seen one of his early productions, slromjy advised the author to attempt something more important. The result of this encouragement was the novel of 'Richelieu,' which was completed in the year 1825. The death of Lord Liverpool, who was a friend of his father's and on whom Mr. James's prospects greatly depended , induced him to make an attempt to open a way for himself. The manuscript of 'Richelieu' was shown to Sir Walter Scott, and met with the approbation of the great noielist and poet, who strongly advised the publication of the work. It accordingly appenred about 1828 , and met with great success. This decided Mr. James's literary career. 'There seems,' says a lively writer, 'to be no limit to his ingenuity, his faculty of getting up scenes and incidents, dilemmas, artifices, contratemps, battles, skirmishes, disguises, escapes, trials, combats, adventures. He accumulates names, dresses , implements of wars and peace, olflcial retinues, and the whole paraphernalia of customs and costumes, with astounding alacrity. He appears to have exhausted every imaginable situation , and to have described every available article of attire on record. What he raust have passed through — what triumphs he must have enjoyed — what exigencies he must have experienced — what love ho must have suffered — what a grand wardrobe his brain must bel He has made some poetical and dramatic efforts, but this irresistible tendency to pile up circumstantial particulars is fatal lo those forms of art which demand intensity of passion. In stately narratives of chivalry and feudal grandeur, precision and reiteration are desirable rather than injurious — as we would have the most perfect accuracy and finish in a picture of ceremonials; and here Mr James is supreme. One of his court romances is a book of brave sights and heraldic magnificence — it is the nest thing lo moving at our leisure through some superb and august procession.quot; — About five years since he removed with his family to the United States, which country he has now made his home. He is residing in Berkshire county, Massachussets.quot;
•i8ü
|
oliildren. Tlicy require sleep when the sun is higli.quot; Another voice repeated the same advice 5 and , springing; one hy one from tlie trail into tlie thicket, they gathered together under a wide-spreading hemlock, where the ground was free from snow, and seated themselves in a circle beneath the hranches. There they passed their time nearly in silence. Some food was produced , and also some rum , the fatal gift of the English ; hut very few words were uttered, and the only sentences worth recording were — quot;Art thou quite sure of the spot, brother?quot; quot;Certain,quot; answered the one who had been leading; quot;the intelligence was brought by an Albany runner, a man of a true tongue.quot; From time to time, each of the different members of the group looked up towards the sky ; and at length one of them rose, saying, quot;it is noon let us onward. We can go forward for an hour, and then shall be near enough to reach the place, and return while the shadows are on the earth.quot; quot;We were told, to spread out and enter by several trails, quot; said the elder man of the parly. ''It is not needful now,quot; observed the one who seemed the leader ; quot;when it can all be done between sun and sun.quot; His words seemed conclusive; and they resumed the path again, walking on stealthily in a single file as before. They had gone about three miles more, when a wild, fearful yell, such as no European would believe a human throat could utter, was heard near upon their right. Another rose up on their left, the instant after, and then another in their front. Each man stopped in breathless silence, as if suddenly turned to stone; but each with the first impulse had laid his hand upon his tomahawk. All listened for a repetition of the well-known war-whoop, and each man asked himself what such a sound could mean in a land where the Indians were all at peace amongst themselves, and where no tidings had been received of a foreign foe; hut no one uttered a word, even in a whisper, to the man close to him. Suddenly, a single figure appeared upon the trail before them , tall. powerful], commanding ; one well known to all there present. It was that of the Black Eagle, now feathered and painted for battle, with his rifle in his hand, and his tomahawk ready. quot;Are ye Mohawks ?quot; he demanded , as he came nearer ; quot;are we brethren ?quot; quot;We nre Mohawks and brethren,quot; replied the leader of the party; quot;we arc hut wandering through the forest, seeking to find sometbinjj whieli has been lost.quot; quot;What is it?quot; asked Black Eagle,somewhat sternly; quot;nothing is lust that cannot be found. |
Snow may cover it for a lime; hut, when the snow melts, it will come to light.quot; quot;It is a young lad's coat,quot; said the cunning Mohawk; quot;but why is Black Eagle on the war path ? Who has unburied tlie hatchet against the Oneidas ?quot; quot;The Black Eagle dreamed a dream,quot; replied the chief, round whom numerous Oneidas, fully equipped for war , had hy tiiis time gathered; quot;and in his dream he saw ten men come from the midday into the land of the Oneida, and ten men from the side of the cold wind. They wore the garb of peace, and called themselves brothers of the children of the Stone. But the eyes of the Black Eagle were strong in his dream, and he saw through their bosoms, and their hearts were black; and a voice whispered to him they came to steal from the Oneida that which they cannot restore, and to put a burden upon the children of the Stone that they will not carry.quot; quot;Was it not the voice of the singing bird?quot; asked the young Mohawk chief. quot;Was the dream sent hy the bad Spirit ?quot; quot;I know not,quot; answered the Black Eagle. quot;Say ye! But the Black Eagle believed the dream , and , starting up, he called his warriors round him, and he sent Lynx-eyes, the Sachem of the Bear, to the north , and led his own warriors to the south , saying,' Let us go and meet these ten men , and tell them , if they be really brethren of the Oneida, to come with us and smoke the pipe of peace together, ami cat and drink in our lodges, and return to their own land when they are satisfied; but, if their hearts are black and their tongues double, then let us put on the warpaint openly, and unbury the long-buried hatchet, and take the war-path like men and warriors, and not crcep to mischief like the silent copperhead.' quot; The last words were spoken in a voice of thunder, while his keen black eye Hashed, and his whole form seemed to dilate with indignation. The Mohawks stood silent before him , and even the young chief, who had shown himself the boldest amongst them , bent down his eyes to the ground. At length , however, after a long pause, he answered — quot;The Black Eagle has spoken well ; and he has done well , though he should not put too much faith in such dreams. The Mohawk is the brother of the Oneida: the children of the Stone and the men of blood are one, though the Mohawk judges the Oneida hasty in deeds. Heisa panther that springs upon his prey from on high, before he sees whether it be not the doc that nourished his young. Ho forgets hospitalityquot; — The eyes of the Black Eagle flashed fiercely for a moment, but then the fire went out in them, and a grave, and even sad, look succeeded. |
486
|
The young man went on boldly, liowevcr, S^yinjF — quot;He forgeis liospilallty. He takes to dcatli the son of his brother, anil slieils the hlooil of him who has eaten of the same meat with him. He wails not to punish the guilty, hut raises bis tomahawk against bis friend. The Five Nations are an united people : that which brings lt;4iame upon one, brings it upon all. The Mohawk's eyes are full of fire, and his head bends down, when men say,'The Oneida is inhospitable : the Oneida is hasty to slay, and repays faith , and trust, and kindness, by death.' What shall we say to our white Father beyond the salt waters, wdien be asks us, 'Where is my son Walter who loved the Oneidas, who ■was their brother, who sat by their council-fire, and smoked the pipe of peace with them?' Shall we say, 'The Oneidas have slain him, because he trusted to the hospitality of the Five Nations, and did not fly?' When he asks us, 'What was his crime? and did the Oneidas judge him for it like calm and prudent men?' shall we answer, 'He had no crime, and the Oneidas took him in huste without judgment. He was full of love and kindness towards them — a maple tree overrunning with honey for the Oneidas ; but they seiied him in baste when, in a few moons, they could have found many others?' If we say thus, what will our great Father think of bis red children ? Black Eagle, judge thou of this; and, when thou dreamest another dream, see thou forked-tongued serpents hissing at the Five Nations, and ask, 'Who made them hiss?' — 1 have spoken.quot; The feelings excited by this speech in all the Oneida warriors who heard it, would be dimeuit to describe. There was much anger; but there was more shame. The latter was certainly predominant in the breast of Black Eagle. He put his hand to his shoulder, as if seeking for bis mantle to draw over his face; and, after a long pause, be said, quot;Alas, that I have no answer! Thou art a youth, and my heart is old. My people should not leave me without reply before a boy. Go in peace. I will send my answer to him who sent thee; for our brethren, the Mohawks, have not dealt well with us in using subtlety. There are more of you, however. Let them each return to his home; for the children of the Stone are masters of themselves.quot; quot;Of us there are no more than thou seest,quot; returned the young man. Black Eagle gazed at him somewhat sternly, and then answered, quot;Six men have entered the Oneida lands from this side, since morning yesterday, by separate ways. I.et them go back. We give them from sun to sun, and no one shall hurl them. But if they |
be found here after that, their scalps shall hang upon the warpost.quot; Thus saying, he turned and withdrew with bis warriors, while the young Mohawk and his companions glided back through the woods , towards their own district, almost as silently as they came. The returning path of the great Oneida chief was pursued by him and his companions with a slow and heavy tread. Not a word was spoken by any one, for deep grief and embarrassment were upon each; and all felt that there was much justice in the reproof of the young Mohawk. They bad come forth with feelings of much indignation and anger at the intelligence which bail been received of the interference of other tribes in the affairs of the Oneida people, and they still felt much irritation at the course which had been pursued ; but their pride was humbled, and their native sense of justice touched by the vivid picture which had been given of the view which might be laken by others of their conduct towards Walter Prevost. They know, indeed, that that conduct was mainly attributable to one family of one Totem , hut they felt that the shame fell upon the whole nation, and would be reflected to a certain degree upon the confederacy generally. Nothing grieved or depressed the Indian so much as the sense of shame. It was produced, of course, by very different causes from those which affected an European : still it was very powerful ; and Black Eagle felt that, in the ease of AValler Prevost, the customs of his own people bad been violated by his hasty seizure, and that he himself, the chief of the nation, was in some degree responsible in |thc eyes of all men for an act which be had permitted if he bad not done. At this lime, while the confederacy of the Five powerful Nations remained entire , and a certain apprehensive sense of their danger from the encroachments of the Europeans was felt by all the Indian tribes, a degree of power and authority had fallen to the great-chiefs which probably had not been accorded to them in earlier and more simple times. The great chief of the Mohawks called himself King, and in some degree exercised the authority of a monarch. Black Eagle, indeed , assumed no different title than the ordinary Indian appellation of Sachem ; but his great renown, and his acknowledged wisdom , had perhaps rendered bis authority more generally reverenced than that of any other chief in the confederacy. The responsibility, therefore, weighed strongly upon him ; and it was with feelings of deep gloom and depression that be entered the great Oneida village shortly before the hour of sun-lt; set. |
467
|
The women and children were all assembled to see the warriors pass; all, cxccptiii{[ Olaitsa, who sat before the door of black Eajjle's great lodge, with her head bent down under an oppressive sense of the difficulties and dangers of her coining task. Black Eagle saw her well, and saw that she was moved by deep grief; hut be gave no sign even of perceiving her; and, movinj; slowly and with an unchanged countenance lo (he door, he seated himself beside her, while his warriors ranged themselves around, and the women and young people formed another circle beyond the first. It was done without concert and without intinialion; but all knew that the chief would speak before they parted. Otaitsa remained silent, in the same posi lion , out of reverence for her father ; and, after a pause, the voice of itlaek Eagle was heard , saying — quot;My children , your father is grieved. Were he a woman , he «ould weep. 'J'he reproach of bis people, and the evil conduct of his allies, would bring water into the eyes that never were moist. But there it a storm upon us—the heaviest storm that ever has fallen. The waters of our lake are troubled, and we have troubled them ourselves. We must have counsel. We must call the wisdom of many men to avert the storm. Let , then, three of my swiftest warriors speed away lo the heads of the eight tribes , and tell them to come bither before the west is dark to-morrow, bringing with them their wisest men. Then shall my children know my mind, and the Black £aglcshall have strength again.quot; He paused; and Otaitsa sprang upon her feet, believing that intelligence of what she bad done had reached her father's ears. '•Ere thou sendest for the chiefs, hear thy daughter.quot; Black Eagle was surprised ; but no sign of it was apparent on his face, lie slowly bowed his head ; and the blossom went on — |
quot;Have I not been an obedient child to thee? have I not loved thee, and followed thy lightest word ? I am thy child altogether. Thou hast taken mc often to the dwelling of the white man, because he is of my kindred. Thou hast often left me there, whilst thou host gone upon the war-path, or hunted in the mountains. Thou bast said , 'They are of our own blood. My wife — my beloied — was of high race amongst the pale-face people of ihe east, the daughter of a great rhief. 1 served her in the day of battle, and she hecatne mine; and true and faithful, loving and just, w as the child ot the white chief to the great Sachem of the Oneidus. Shall I keep her daughter from all communication with her kindred?quot; Young was I, a mere child, when first thou tookest me there; and Edith was a sister, Walter a brother, to me. They both loved me well, and I loved them; hut my love for the brother grew stronger than for the sister, and his for me. We told our love to each other; and he said—'When 1 am old enough to go upon the war-path, 1 will ask the Black Eagle to give me Otaitsa ; and the red chief and the white chief shall again he united, and the bonds between the Oneidas and the English people shall he strengthened. And we dreamed a dream that all this would be true, and pledged ourselves to each other for ever. IVow what have I done, my father? The brethren of the Snake and the chief Apukwa , contrary to the customs of the Oneida , seized upon my betrothed, carried off my husband captive •within four days after their brother was slain by a white man, but not by my Walter. It is not for me to know the laws of the Oneidas, or to speak of the traditions of our fathers ; but in this, at least, I knew that they had dune evil: they had taken an innocent man before they had sought for the guilty. I found the place where they had did him. I climbed to the top of the rock above the chasm : 1 descended the face of the precipice. I tied ropes to the trees for his escape. I loosened the thongs from his hands, and from his feel; and 1 said, 'This nij;ht thou shalt flee, my husband , and escape the wrath of thine enemies.' All this 1 did; and what is it? It may be against the law of the Oneidas, hut it is the law of a woman's own heart, placed there by the Great Spirit. It is w hat my mother would have done for thee, my father , hadst thou been a captive in the hands of thine enemies. Had I not done it, I should not have heen thy child ; J should have been unworthy to call the Black Eagle my father. The daughter of a chief must act as the daughter of a chief. The child of a great warrior must have no fear. If I am to die, I am ready.quot; She paused for a moment; and black Eagle raised his head , which had been slightly bowed, and said , in a loud , clear voice — quot;Thou hast done well, my child. So let every Indian woman do for him to whom she is bound. The women of the children of the Stone are not as other women. Like the stone, they are firm; like the rock, they are lofty. They bear warriors for the nation. They teach them lo do great deeds. quot; quot;Yet bear with me a little, my father, rejoined Otaitsa; quot;and let thy daughter's fate he in thy hand before all the eyes here present. Apukwa and the hrethren of the Snake bad set a watch, and stole upon me and upon my white brother, and mocked thy daughter and her husband, and hound his hands and feet again, and said that he should die. quot; |
488
|
It is rare lliat an Indian intcrrupU llic speech of any one; but the heart of the chief had been altogether w ith Olailsa's enterprise ; and he now exclaimed, with great anxiety — quot;Then lias ho not escaped ?quot; quot;He has not,quot; replied Olaitsa; quot;it went as 1 have said. Waller Provost is still in the hands of the brethren of the Snake, and of Apukwa; and he is not safe, my father, even until the nation shall have decided what shall be his fate. When the nation speaks,quot; she continued, cinholdened by her lather's approbation, quot;then will Olaitsa live or die; for 1 tell thee, and I toll all the warriors here present, thai if my husband is slain for no offence by the hand of an Oneida , the daughter of the chief dies too. '* quot;Koné, Roué!quot; murmured the chiefs, in a low, sad tone, as they fjuted upon her, standing in her great beauty by her father's side, while the setting sun looked out from beneath the edge of the snow-cloud , and cast a gleam of rosy light around her. quot;He is not safe, even till the word is spoken,quot; said Olaitsa; quot;for they are bad men that bold him. They took him contrary to our customs. They despise our laws. They are Honontkoh, and fear nothing but the tomahawk of the Black Kagle. They drink blood. They slay their mothers and their brethren. They are Honontkoh !quot; A murmur of awe and indignation at the hated name of the dark, secret order existing amongst the Indians, hut viewed -with apprehension and hatred by all the nobler warriors of the tribes, ran round the circle; and lilack Eagle rose, saying — quot;Let them be examined; and, if the stripe he found npon them, set honest men to guard the lad. To morrow, at the great council , we will discuss bis fate; and the Great Spirit send us dreams of what is right ! Come with me , my child. The Blossom is ever dear.'' Thus saying, he turned and entered the lodge. The great council. — The rescue. |
It was a sad and weary day to poor Walter Prevost, for he was without his consolation. The time of his long imprisonment, indeed, had heen less burdensome than might have been supported, although, during the first two or three weeks, many a fruitless effort to escape had wearied his spirits. He learned, however, that escape was impossible ; he was too closely and too continually watched. There was nothing to prevent his quilting the hut; hut the moment be did so, whether night or day, he was met by two or three armed Indians. They were kind and courteous to him, though they suffered him not to bend his steps in the direction of their Castle or village, nor to approach the lake, to the banks of which many a canoe was moored. Sometimes one of them would take him to hunt; but two or three others followed , and never separated from his side. They were not fond of speaking of his probable fute, and generally avoided the subject with true Indian skill; hut once a young warrior, less experienced than the rest, related to him the messages which the great chief had sent by the runner Proctor, and AValter learned the decision regarding his own fate, and the chances on which it hung. That young Indian was never seen near him more. Jt was evident that he was looked upon as having betrayed counsel, and that he was removed. But, about ibat time , the greatest solace and balm he could receive was alForded him. Olaitsa suddenly appeared in the hut, and told him that , by promising to make no personal clïort for bis rescue, and to take no advantage of the freedom granted her, to facilitate his escape by his own efforts, she had obtained permission to visit him for two hours each day. She bad explained to him , however, that others, in whom she trusted, were busy in bis cause; and that the Grey Dove herself, on whom all her people looked wilh the greatest reverence, bad positively assured her be should not die. At first, their interviews were sad enough. Hope and fear kept up their battle in the heart; but in time those emotions passed away, and love and happiness were all that remained; or, if aught of fear mingled with those blessings, it was but enough, as it were, to sanctify their intercourse, to purify it of some portion of earthly passion, gt;o that, even while they sat twined in each other's arms, their conversation would often be of death and future life and happiness unniinglod. She often called him quot;husbandquot; to her father; but it was always quot; brotherquot; when they were there alone. Day after day, beneath the sunshine or the cloud, over the snow or the green earth , Olaitsa visited the hut. But she had grown anxious as the days rolled on. She bad not calculated the time accurately; hnl she knew the appointed day was near: and Walter was not delivered. She accused herself of folly in having trusted to others; though she saw not how, watched as he was, his deliverance could he effected by herself. But she resolved now to bestir herself, and, if she lost her life in the altempt, to make one last great effort toset him free. Such was her resolution on the preceding day , when , on parting with him , she whispered in his ear , lest any one should he listening without; quot;1 shall not come to you again , my brother , till I come to save you. I know not how it |
48«
|
will be ; but, if 1 fail, Walter will not he long in Heaven ere Otaitsa seeks him there.quot; He hardly believed she could keep her resolution of abstaining from, at least, one more inlerview. But the weary day passed by ; the Indians who brought him food and ilre, appeared and disappeared ; the rain fell heavily; the wind shook the hut; and Otaitsa did not come. At length, the night began to fall, stern, gloomy, dark ; a rayless sunset, a brief twilight, and then utter blackness. His spirit sank low, indeed; his heart felt heavy and oppressed: be bent him down, stirred up the embers of bis fire, piled more wood upon it, and kindled a bright, cheerful bla?.e. But it had no elfect in raising his spirits or wanning his heart. All within him was cheerless. He sat and gazed into the fire, and thought of his absent home, and of ibe pleasant days of youth, and of the sweet dreams he had once cherished — the hopes that hung like faded pictures upon the wall of memory. A thousand liltle incidents, a thousand delighlful recollections, came back upon him, while be sal and meditated, as if merely to make life more dear; when, suddenly, on the olher side of the hut, a dark figure crossed the fire light, and then another, and another, and another, till they numbered six. They were all chiefs,and men oflofty mien; but stern and grave, and silent. They seated themselves in a semicircle at the very farther part of the hut, and for several minutes remained profoundly still. He understood, at once, what it meant. The last hour of life was come ; and the dead, heavy sinking of the heart which the aspect of death suddenly presented loan unprepared and unexcit-ed mind, was the first sensation. True, the door stood at a little distance, on his right hand, and they were at the other end of the hut, with no one between him and the means of egress; but be knew their swiftness of foot and deadly aim too well. Ft «as bet ter to Slav and to meet the worst there, than to fall by the thrown tomahawk in inglorious ilight. He rallied his spirits; he called all his courage to his aid; he bethought him of bow an Indian would die, and resolved to die boldly and calmly likewise. Silting still in silence, he gaied over the countenances of the chiefs, scanning their stern, bard features thoughtfully. Only two were there whom he knew; lllack Eagle himself, and an old man, with a white scalp-lock, whom he recollected having comforted and supported once when he found him ill and exhausted near bis father's house. The others were all strangers to him ; and nothing could he read upon their faces hut cold, rigid determination. No passion, no anger, no emotion, could be traced; but there was something inexpressibly dreadful in gazing on those still, quiet countenances, with a knowledge of the bloody purpose of the men. To have died in |
I battle—to have struggled with them fiercely for life—would have been nothing; hut to sit there, I coldly awaiting the moment of the ruthless blow, and to know that they expected it to be 1 borne with the same quiet, stoical apathy with which it was dealt, was very, very terrible to I the young European. Yet Walter tried to nerve himself to the utmost against any sign of fear, and strove for resolution not to disgrace himself, his name, and family, even in the opinion of those wibl Indians. There must have been apprehension in his eyes—in the straining eagerness with which he scanned them ; but there was no other mark of alarm: not a muscle moved: the lip did not quiver: the brow was not contracted. At length , after that long, solemn pause, the voice of Black Eagle was heard speaking low and softly. quot;My son, thou must die,quot;' be said. ''Thou art dear to me as a child ; thy father is my brother ; but thou bast drawn an evil lot, and thou must die. The morning of thy days has been short and bright; the night comes for thee before the day is well begun. The blood of our brother who was slain must be atoned for by the blood of one of the race that slew him— the white man for the red man. We have sought in vain for the murderer of our brother, or for some one who might have been a substitute for him whom we love. Each man here would have perilled his own head to find another in thy place; but it could not be. The pale-faces took fright at the news of what had been done, and none has been found within our territory. We know that the man who did the deed has been here. We fancied that be had come generously to pay the penalty of his ow n act; hut fear was in bis heart, and twice he escaped us. He is as cunning as the fox, and as swift to llee. Now, oh thou son of my brother! thou must die; for the time has gone by that was given thee in the hope of sonic deliverance: the hours have run swiftly and in vain; and the last has come. We know that it is the custom of thy people to sing no war-song at their death; but lo pray to their Good Spirit to receive them speedily into the happy hunting-grounds. We shall not think it want of courage if thou prayest; for the soti of our brother Prevost will not disgrace his name at his death. Pray, therefore, to thy God; thy prayer shall he as it were a war-song, and, strengthened by it, thou shall die as a man and a warrior.quot; Walter remained silent for a moment, while a terrible struggle went on in bis heart; hut resolution conquered, and ne rose from the ground on which he was silting, erect and firm; and, stretching forth his hand, he said — quot;Chiefs of the Oneidas, you are unjust. At this hour of my death, I tell you, you know not equity. Your laws arc not of the Good Spirit, but of the bad ; for it is evil to kill an innocent man, black |
02
490
|
and (laslardly to slay a helpless man, who trusted you and loved you; and, if il is hy your law you do it, your law is bad, and the (iood Spirit will condemn it. My father eame and planted his tree amongst you; we grew up, my sister and myself, loving and confiding in your people. We made your tongue our tongue, and my heart became one with the heart of the daughter oF your chief. Lo, now, how ye repay kindness, and love, and truth, with falsehood, cruelty, and death! You are great warriors, but you are not good men. In this last hour, I reproach you; and 1 tell you, with the voice of a dying man , as with the voice of one from the land of spirits, that, sooner or later, the great God of all men will make you feel that you have done an evil thing in my death.quot; He passed suddenly; for his eyes, turning somewhat in the direction of the door, saw a female figure enter , wrapped in the peculiar blanket or mantle of the Indian women. Another and another entered; and one by one the shadowy forms ranged themselves in line along the side of the hut, their faces hut faintly seen by the flicker- ! ing fire-light. They were all as silent as death ; 1 and there they stood as solemn witnesses of the dreadful scene about 10 he enacted. The eyes of all the chiefs were turned in the same direclion as bis own, and a moment or two of wonder and embarrossrneut passed; but then the voice of Black Kagle was raised loudly and sternly, saying— quot;Gel you home to the Castle, Oneida women. This is no place for you. Meddle not wilh the business of warriors and of men. Dare not to intrude upon the sacrifice of atonement for our brother's blood.quot; quot;Who is il that speaks?quot; said the dear, shrill voice of the Grey Dove. quot;Is it the man of the black heart who slays the son of his brother? Who is it that dares to speak thus to her who sees the Great Spirit in her visions, and holds communion with the souls of the dead ? Is it a man pure in heart and hand —a man whose purposes ate good in the sight of the Great Spirit, and who is doing a deed pleasing in his sight ? Is he taking the life of an enemv in the battle? Is he scalping a foe with whom he has fought and conquered? Lo, now, this is a biave deed, to slay the son of a friend, and a hoy who has no power lo resist. But ihe boy shali not die. If a pale-face has killed one of the |
children of the Stone, this boy has saved the life of more than one. His hand has been free, and bis heart open to the Oneida, and bis good deeds are more than enough to atone for the evil deeds of another. The ashes of thy pipe. Black Kagle, upon the hearth of Prevosl, call out shame upon the murderer of his son.quot; quot;Get you hence, woman!quot; vociferated another chief, quot;We are not soft as water, to be turned in what course you will; we arc the children of the Stone, and our heart is the rock.quot; quot;Be it so then,quot; cried Black Eagle's sister. quot;Look upon us now,oh, chiefs! We are here, your mothers , your sisters , your daughters , your wives; those you love best, those who best love you. See now what we are commanded lo do by the voice of the Good Spirit. If you slay the youth, you slay us. Every lodge shall be left desolate; there shall be wailing through the village, and through the land. Now, my sisters, if their heart be a stone, let our heart be soft, and let the knife find il easily.quot; As she spoke, every mantle was llirown hack, and every arm raised, and in every hand was seen the gleam of a knife. Black Eagle covered bis eyes with bis mantle, but sat still. Walter sprang across, and cast himself at the feet of Otaitsa, exclaiming— quot;Hold, bold! for God's sake bold, iny Blossom !quot; quot;Back, back!quot; cried the girl, vehemently; quot;if thou diest, I die.quot; quot;All, all!quot; exclaimed the women, in the same determined tone. At this moment, the old priest rose, and stretched forlh his hands. quot;It is the voice of the Great Spirit,quot; he ejaculated, in the tone of one inspired. quot;He speaks to us by their tongue; he tells us to forbear. The deed is evil in his sight ; we must not do it. The blood of onr brother is atoned for. It is the voice of the Great Spirit!quot; quot;It is the voice of the Great Spirit, it is the voice of the Great Spirit!quot; exclaimed eachoflhe chiefs. And Black Eagle, casting from him the tomahawk, took Walter in his arms, saying , in a low voice— quot;My son, my son 1quot; Olaitsa advanced a step towards them ; hut, before she reached her father, her sight grew dim, and she fell fainting at bis feet. |
Author; Journalist; one of the chief writers in quot;Punch,quot; was horn at Shèerness, about 1802. His father was mannger of Ihe theatre there: and thus, in his earliest (Inys , Ihe future successful dramatist obtained an icqnaintanee with quot;things theatrical.quot; When old enough, he was bitten by the sea-side mania, and quot;would bo a sailorquot; — a taste which he was allowed lo indulge for a short time on board a man-of-wnr. In his new chnracler of midshipman the romance of the snit water quickly evaporated , and the delicate lad was glad to get on shore again. He soon aflerwards conimenced the struggle of literary life In London. He courted the Muses, and did battle wilh publishers and manageis. Perhaps the literary world may
lie sonic day interesled by our author's own account o the earlier efforts of the future winner of popularity. At present little is known of them. A writer who has ventured upon a sketch of Jerrold says: — quot; Let it not be supposed by sonnet-writing young men , that he achieved this distinction easely : no one leap into the seat of honour was his; but a painful, heart breaking, toiling up that hill, which always reminds us of the labour of Siiyphus: how often when we believe we have rolled the stone to the top docs it slip from us, and roll down thundering to the base I So with Jerrold ; dread was his fight, but his heart held out, and he triumphed. His greatest first success was the drama of 'The Rent Day.' This was so true a picture , that all felt it go to the heart, and the author was installed a master of smiles and tears on the spot. To this succeeded many a soul-stirring piece of dramatic life, all calculated to fill the house, and render the writer popular with audience and manager. A curious rencouuter happened to Jerrold on the first night of 'The Rent Day.' When he was a midshipman on board a man-of-war, he met in the same capacity a lad named Clarkson Stanfield. Sixteen years after, these two sailor boys met on the boards of a London theatre, — one the great scene painter, and the other a successful dramatist. Here, however, he might have remained to the end of the chapter, merely considered as a prolific writer of farces , two-act comedies, and domestic melodramas; fortunately , however, ' Punch ' was started , and after a few numbers Jerrold became one of its leading spirits. The after success of that publication it is unnecessary to revert to; it is well known all over the world. In this Jerrold first became the 'observed writer, and every paper he wrote was eagerly perused. A circulation of sevenly thousand copies soon made the chief writer one of the most popular authors of the time. ' The Story of a Feather' was first published hero ; so also were ' The Caudle Lectures ' and gave ample scope for the peculiarities of his style and thought. Shortly after the establishment of 'Punch' he commenced a monthly review, called the ' Illuminated Magazine; ' in this first appeared his ' Clovernook,' one of the best written of his works. After a year or so he discontinued this publication, and started another, called 'Douglas Jer-rold's Shilling Magazine.' In this first appeared the tale of 'St. Giles's and St. James's.' In July, 1846, he commenced a weekly newspaper, which he afterwards sold; and now devotes himself to'Punch,'quot; to dramatic authorship, and to the edilorship of a cheap weekly newspaper of very large circulation. Besides domestic dramas, satires, and fictions, Mr. Jerrold has produced some dramatic works of a high order of merit; amongst which quot;Time Works Wondersquot; and quot;The Bubbles of the Dayquot; stand preeminent. Probably, however, his efforts which have been most completely enjoyed by the public are those productions of humbler literary rank , quot; The Rent Day quot; and quot; Black-eyed Susan — dramas which long enjoyed and still enjoy a solid popularity in the minor theatres of England. The titles of some of his other pieces may be added, — quot;The Catspawquot;Retired from Business,quot; quot;The Prisoner of War,quot; quot;King Cupid.quot; We have also The Writings of Douglas Jerrold, in a collected edition, 8 vol. Londen, 1854. quot; A re-perusal of his collected works, says a writer, serves to confirm our original opinion , that their object is to advance the good of mankind ; that to this object there has been a devotion of rare skill, undoubted oriuinalty, imperturbable good temper, — concealed, perhaps, occaslonnally under an apparent fierceness of phrase and a force and flash of wit at once dazzling and delightful. A body of works more original, cither In the artistic construction or in the informing spirit has not been added to the national literature in our time. An especial charm in these works is, the visible earnestness of purpose of their author.quot;
The man ulVho died rich.quot;
|
It was noon , and the citizens of learned i I'atlna swarmed towards the Palay.zo de Kagione. ^ It was plain , there was some show afoot: some i quacksalver hot from Venice; or, perhaps, some healific Filippo Neri , quot;with new-made relics, fresh from Home. Of a surety, it was something rare and strange that drew hundreds as one man towards the same spot. 'quot;I is forty years since such a thing was seensaid an old man whose shaking hand grasped a slafF, and who, leaning on the shoulder of his grandson , hohhled onwards as though he hastened to a shrine where youth and health might he had for kneeling. quot;l!a! ha! that I should Jive to see this!quot; crowed a withered heldam, and she clapt her hands and sprang forward like a witcii to her Sabhatli. quot;Could any man have looked for it?quot; asked a grave tradesman of his neighhour, as they both went with the crowd. It seemed that all the people of Padua were assembled at the Hall. It was with much la- I |
hour that the city-guards kept back the multitude close-wedged , so vigorously did every one press to behold — what ? A criminal , in shameful nakedness , seated on a low, round stone at the end of the Hall — on the Stone of Infamy. The culprit was an old man, with that in his face which makes old age terrible. Years lay heavily upon bis back, but a defying scorn had, for a time, flung off the load, and he sat upright as a staff. He sat, and his eyes glowed like burning coals upon the crowd that pressed to stare at him. Ho looked hack the looks of hundreds , who quailed from his eyes as from the eyes of a snake. Many a rejoicing foe who came to chuckle at the sight shrank back, still fearful of his ancient enemy. There was a tumult in the heart of the old man — a fire in bis brain — as he caught the eager face of many a fellow-citizen: and he would tighter, his arms across his breast as though holding in a passion that swelled to burst it. Old Creso Quuttrino sat nakedly upon the stone of in- |
492
|
fainy — his {jrave was dug at liis foot — and et no despot from liis tlirono could liavc loo-cd more fiercely, more contemptuously around liirn. 'J'lie crowd lieeded not the fate of the victim , hut — his grave was dug at his living foot. Creso Quattrino was the youngest son of a noble, though impoverished, house. Mis elder brothers talked of glory, and cut their daily bread with hired-out swords. One hy one» they died in their vocation, and still the eulogy that Creso utti?red over each was — quot;fool.quot; Creso, in early life, became a trader; it was his one hope to quot;die rich;quot; it would be bis glory to quit life leaving heavy coft'crs. Fortune smiled upon his desire; and ere the mouth of his first brother was stopped with the bloody mire of fame, Creso could have thrice outweighed the helm, cuirass, and sword of the immortal warrior with merchant's gold. His four brothers, hired by four diflferent states, died in battle. quot;They have their laurels,'' Creso would cry, with a sneering Im-mility, — quot;1 have only ducats. They are sleeping on the wide bed of glory, and when the historian shall some day make know that in such a skirmish such a king was repulsed, such a duke was victorious, such a count kept his ground with a trifling loss, he will write in everlasting words the glowing epitaphs of my happy brothers.quot; This humour increased with the wealth , with the years of Creso. With him, gold was power — was reputation: no strength could overcome it — no shame could tarnish it. lie looked upon his ducats as kings look upon their mercenaries — the instruments of his will , the sure doers of his behests, however vile and ruthless. He was that squalid despot— a tyrannous miser. And he would die rich! Creso was past forty, when, with his gold bo bought himselt a wife — a creature of lustrous beauty — the eldest child of Marco Spori, a poor trader of Padua. Marco was doomed for a petty sum in the books of the man of wealth ; early and late he toiled to pay his creditor, and still some new misfortune made the labour vain. Creso, with a grim smile, would profl'er further aid, and then would praise the gentle looks of Marianna. quot;No, Messer Quattrino,quot; cried Marco, awakening to the meaning of his patron, quot;Marianna is wedded.quot; quot;Wedded!quot; exclaimed Quattrino, and his face darkened — quot;wedded 1quot; quot;In promise,quot; said Marco; quot;'tis all as one, Messer Quattrino.quot; '■ Bet rol bed ? To whom , friend Marco?quot; asked Quattrino, with constrained composure; for love, before unknown to the miser, had made him like otic possessed. |
quot;To 1'ielro Leti.quot; quot;Doubtless, some wealthy merchant? No? Humph! A scholar, perhaps, with a tongue silvery as Satan's ? Is your future son-in-law , good Marco Spori, of the 'Inflammati,' orquot; — quot;He rents a little vineyard,quot; replied Marco, unmoved by the malignant banter of his creditor. quot;His father lived and died upon it — a happy old man. Why should not I'ietro?quot; quot;•And you will give your child — the tender, the beautiful Marianna , to hopeless poverty? You will blast that beauty with early care? You will fling her a prey to the tooth of want ?quot; said Creso. quot;She will he poor—granted. Wherefore should she not be happy ?quot; asked Marco. quot;The poor cannot be happy. Never open your eyes, man; 1 speak a plain truth — a truth the rich well know, hut never preach. No; it is their trick, folding their purple round them, to hymn the praise of low estate — to paint the happy carelessness of rags — the cucellence of appetite begotten by bard drudgery. Poverty! Of all tiie arrows shot at our miserable nature, is there one that is not made the keener if whetted on the poor marl's hearth?quot; •'That is true,quot; said Marco, despnndingly — quot;too true, Messer Quattrino.quot; quot;What is your stale now, while I speak, Marco Spori? Are you not. hunted — even as a wild beast, hunted? Have you a tranquil thought? Is there one fibre of your heart that is nut pulled at by a care? You bave children, too — things sent, they say, to bless and crown you. But, then, good Marco, they sometimes want a supper: and oh! the blessing.quot; quot;Do not, Messer Quattrino — for the saints' sake! do not,quot; exclaimed Marco, lifting his clasped hands entreatingly. quot;There is no physician, but gold; trust me, there is not; and when gold fails, believe it, there is no comforter but death.quot; Such was the creed of Creso Quattrino. Marco sought his desolate home. As he lifted the latch, his heart quailed at the laughing voiccs of his younger children. Marianna read the thoughts of her father in his eyes. He sank upon a stool, and for a moment, placed his face in his hands ; then , looking vacantly at his daughter, he uttered — quot;Yes; 't will be the best — that I should have thought of it! — it w ill he the best.quot; quot;What, father? Tell me, what?quot; asked Marianna, winding her arms about his neck. quot;To end this, — and there is but one way. Yes, 1 will make myself a show for the people of Padua — what matters it? 'T is but an hour — and shall I not he free?quot; quot;Father!quot; — quot;Every hope has left me, Mariaiiua; turn |
497.
|
where I will , I tneel with scornful or tlirea-tening faces. But llicro is yet a law in Padua, a kind law for tlic bankrupt,quot; said Marco, shuddering, '•AVliat law ? You do not mean ?quot; — quot;The Stone of Infutny,quot; cried the father, hisilesh quivering as he spoke. quot;'T is hut to sit an hour there — to sit and he stared at, and such is the good law, my creditors are paid.quot; (1) quot;And you will sit upon that stone?quot; asked Marianna. quot;1 must—1 will,quot; groaned Marco. quot;When , father — when ?quot; cried the girl. quot;To-morrow — if heaven will make rnc live — to-morrow,quot; said Marco, and his head fell upon his bosom. Marianna quitted lier home, but in less than two hours returned. Her father spranj; to his feet, as at the coming of a ghost. quot;Blessed Mother! Marianna!quot; cried Marco, staring at the white face, the cold eyes of his child. quot;What is this?quot; he exclaimed, as she held a purse towards him. quot;Gold, father! gold,quot; said Marianna. quot;How got — how come by?'' raved the father, for suddenly the wildest fears possessed him. quot;You are saved from shame,quot; — said the girl — -'from worse than death.quot; quot;How! Speak! Marianna; how?quot; exclaimed Marco. quot; f am the wife of Creso Qnattrino,quot; answered Marianna; and as she spoke, she fell like a dead thing to the ground. From the night Marianna hccame the wife of Quattrino, she smiled hut once: it was when she kissed her new-born girl — a babe that, in one brief hour, was motherless. For three years, had Marianna lived a life of silent anguish. Her husband loathed her for tbc in-diffejrencc with which she looked upon his wealth — for the coldness ■with which she list ned to bis golden schemes — his bargains made upon ignorance or want. He felt — and the thought haunted him like a demon — that he had bought a victim, not wedded a partner. He felt himself, with all his wealth, humbled before the simple nature of Marianna. Her gentleness — her meek endurance — galled , enraged him: there was one to whom his golden pieces were but as hoarded ashes. Reproach at. length subsided into neglect, then turned into disgust; and, when the miser looked upon the dead face of his wife, he smiled in sullen satifaetion. There was an intruding, though a silent, witness taken hence: even inthechain-ber of the dead, Quattrino breathed more freely. For the child , that should he to him a blessing , he would mould it to his own heart: there was no mother, no Marianne, with her speechless lips, yet cold, accusing eyes, to thwart the lessons of a thrifty father. The girl should wed a prince; yes , he had already gold sulTl-cient, — and time could not but treble it — to buy a throne. Auretta was scarcely three days old when, in the imagination of her parent, vain-glorious, drunk with wealth, she was a royal bride. |
Years passed , and every year , Creso Quattrino became more hardened with his wealth. Fortune seemed his handmaid , so constantly did he prosper. His dealings were with men of all nations; he scrupled not to furnish the Infidel with arms , heedless of the penalty; for Mother Church denied the Christian rites of burial to such ingrate traders. quot;It matters not,quot; thought Creso, quot;so that I die rich, I am well content to risk the rest.quot; quot;So! where shall we meet to talk of this?quot; Thus one day spoke Quattrino to Jacob, the travelled Jew of Padua, with whom our Christian merchant was wont to have many dealings. quot;Why not at your house, good signor ?quot; asked Jacob. quot;Ere this, we have driven a bargain there.quot; quot;It has been noted: therefore, 'tis fit wc deal more privily. Art thou not a Jew?quot; quot;I thank Abraham ! yes. 1 am a branded , despised Jew : I thank Abraham !quot; quot;And I — I am a Christian ; is it not so, Jacob?quot; asked Quattrino, a smile curling his lip. quot;I have heard that you were baptised, Signor Quattrino, replied the Jew. quot;And our close and frequent communing may damage inquot; in the confessional ,quot; said Creso, and still he sneered. quot;Thy confessional ! Where may that place be found ?quot; inquired Jacob. quot;Where I lay by my ducats, Jew. Understand me ; our Chiireh hath eyes , and ears , and — hands ; and long ones.1' •'All this I know —all this I have felt,'' replied the Hebrew. quot;This war with the Turk — if't were known that thou and I helped the wicked Infidel to out good Christian throats — dost know what, might happen, Jew? Thy hones would crack for it.quot; quot;Ugh!quot; and the Jew shuddered. quot;Nay, more and worse; my coin would shrink : the priestly hand — thou knowest bow huge its clutch is — would he among it. 1 thank my good god Plutus! the war flourishes. 'T was a hot fight the last — there arc widows wailing in Venice , Jew.quot; |
See Moieri.
494
|
quot;I tliatik my God ! the Goil of Abraham , for il!quot; cried the Jew with deep devotion ; quot;I have cause to hale thy brethren — God knows it !quot; quot;Saidst thou brethren, Je»? To me all men are brethren — 't is the {jood creed tatjjjbt me by my gold, ülossed talisman ! Glorious properly! softening the haughty — strengthening the weak ; giving to him , who rightly knows its use, a power and mastery beyond all other might. The Turk bills for my aid: I sell him arms, wherewith he cuts a thousand Christian throats making Christian cbildren fatherless. And why is this? I will tell you. AVhy is the Christian slaughtered ? The goodly, peaceful creature covets a fair patch of earth — a glittering city — the dominion of a stranger's river, lie is an infidel who holds it — it is enough; the unbeliever's land is soaked with human blood; the city is besieged — a bell of flames is roaring round its walls — the breach is made; rapine, murder, and lust whoop through the streets — and tbe flag of victory flies over blood and ashes. The Christians have conquered ; and with sweet humility, and deep thanksgiving, they make the church roof echo with a loud 7'e Deum! With hra/.en face and iron heart, they | thank their God, that they have prospered in a work, that devils might have blenched at.quot; quot;Do I hear Creso Quattrino, the merchant of Padua?quot; asked the Jew, looking astonishment. quot;These hideous mockeries, good Jacob — ! this wanton tyranny of tbe strong — have made me look upon tbe doings of this world as n grim, fantastic, wicked, foolish mask. Virtue, justice, honour! What are they? Words, tinkling syllables for sweating slaves, like bells to drudging camclf. There is but one thing certain — gold! Grasp that — you grasp power; a power, that though the poor may hate, they must acknowledge. Grasp gold, and you pull the heart-strings of that godlike creature, man , as boys work puppets.quot; quot;1 love my ducats, good Signor Creso; and yet, amongst my own people, there is , ( J tbink , soniething I love more,quot; said Jacob. quot;More — more than thy ducats, Jew?'* | asked Quattrino. quot;Aye; the respect of men — their kindly greetings; need I add, the smiles of my children?quot; said the Jew, and Creso bit his lip. quot;The stniles of children I'' and as Creso spoke, a sudden desolation stared from his eyes. quot;That is a wealth!quot; cried the Jew; quot;that is as wealth!quot; quot;Can it he tested?quot; exclaimed Creso; quot;tell cue, Jacob ■— tell me, how?quot; |
quot;Von are yourself a father, Signor Quattrino — I he father of a beautiful maiden ; a thing of goodness, of gentleness.quot; quot;Thou (iidst know her mother, Jacob?quot; asked the merchant. quot;Auretta is her mother's self — her very self,quot; cried the Jew. quot;'T is twenty-three years ago — alack! time slides! Hut 1 have tarried long. Where shall we meet to-night, since to thy hearth the Jew brings peril?quot; quot; Uy tbe Palazzo dc Uagione — by the Slone. Humph! See you not, Jacob, that I preacli truly? The Stone of Infamy ! Poverty, at the fount of this world , is christened infamy. Christened , branded with a burning brand. The Stone of Infamy \ Right — very right,— 't is fitly called ; for did a glistening angel sit there, men would loathe it.quot; quot;I5y the Stone; good. The hour?quot; and tbe Jew prepared to depart. quot;The hour?quot; quot;Slay: not there. There is thanksgiving at St. Antony's for our victory, for we claim it, over the infidel ; I must be there.'' quot;You, there?*' and the Jew gaied and then smiled grimly. quot;You at the thanksgiving?quot; '•Aye; beitig beaten, the Infidel hath greater need of arms. You lhank at the synagogue — I at the cathedral. Meet me at nine,quot; and Creso Quattrino turned to seek his solitary home— solitary though a daughter dwelt there. '■The muther's self — her very self,quot; he muttered as he took his way — quot;would she were not so!quot; On tbe marriage of Ularianna , Pietro Leti i)uit(cd his native Padua for floronce, where he found a wife in the daughter of a thrifty vine-grower, who, dying, bequeathed his son-in-law a small estate; and in a few years Pietro became a prosperous man , with wealth enough to send Luigi, his only child, to study at the school of Padua. It was to give a meeting to the young scholar that the Jew had hastened from Quattrino. quot;I have waited Jacob,quot; said Luigi, with an impatient look, as the old man entered his dwelling. quot;I crave your pardon, gentle Sir - suilden business with Signor Quattrino held me.quot; quot;Ha Quattrino. Thou knowest him, then? I bad heard so. Thou art friends ? added Luigi, earnestly. '• We sometimes trade together — nothing more: our friendship is bounded by our ducats,quot; said the Jew. quot; Dost know his daughter —hast ever seen the beautiful Auretta ? quot; and the youth coloured , and his voice trembled. quot; Seen her ? Aye, a thousand times. Thou mayest have heard thy father speak of her mother?quot; said tbe Jew fixing his eyes upon Luigi. quot;Aurutta's mother? Never. Why should he |
|
speak of her ? quot; inquired l.uij'i, moved hy the scrutinising glance of the Jew. quot;I'll toll tliec. The story, youlh , may haply save thee much misery — may profit the hcautifui Auretla.quot; quot;Oh, speak! good Jacoh — speak!quot; exclaimed the impatient hoy. quot;Thy father was to havu wedded the mother of Auretta — they were betrothed.quot; quot; Betrothed ! 'T is strange I never heard of this. Betrothed ! What harred the inatcli?quot; a»ked Luigi. quot;Poverty. To i-avc her father from the direst shame, poor Marianna became the wife of the rich Quattrino. Her daughter — 1 have heard the merchant vaunt as much — is destined for a prince.quot; quot;A prince!quot; cried l.uigi. '•No less: and he sure of it, young Sir, Quattrino's wealth may make even princes stoop to wed Auretla. quot;Stoop to wed her — stoop, Jew ?quot; quot;But we did not meet to talk of this,quot; said the obi Jew, marking the earnestness of Luigi — quot;we met not for this.quot; quot;True. Well, Jew, shall 1 have the money?quot; asked Luigi. quot;A thousand ducats — and the security?quot; and Jacob paused, and stared in the face of the scholar. '-The security?quot; quot;Thou knowest 1 am my father's heir. Thou knowest he has no child save me. Draw what bond thou wilt, i am content to sign it. quot;Death is a slow pay-master,quot; sail! the Jew. '•But the surest, Jacoh,quot; replied Luigi. quot;A thousand ducats? 'T is a large sum for a scholar! Truly, what need hast thou, a bookman. of a thousand ducats?quot; quot;Say , to spend in a revel — to buy a gondola — to purchase music — a sparkling stone— nay, tocast into the Adriatic, — what matters it to thee? Shall i have the money, or shall I seek a readier merchant?quot; asked the youlh , and he rose lo depart. quot;Stay, gentle Sir — thou shalt have money. This night at nine — I'll have the deed prepared.quot; quot;Where shall we meet?quot; quot;Here,quot; replied the Jew, and the youlh took bis way from the house, and with hurried steps, sought the mansion of Quattrino. quot;Blessed St. Mary!quot; cried Anretla's nurse, as she met Luigi at the door; quot; my master — know you not he is at home? — should he see you— quot;Go — say I beg some words with him,quot; said Luigi. quot;Are you mad, young master? — Are you mad ? quot; quot;Fear not, good nurse — I have conned my lesson; fear nothing. Say, a sludent craves I |
a meeting wilh the merchant.quot; The nurse obeyed, and the young scholar stood in the presence of the haughty, purseproud Quattrino. quot;Now youth,quot; said Creso,'• what trade would you drive with me?quot; quot; I would purchase your dearest treasure, Signor Quattrino,quot; replied the simple-hearted youlh. quot;Aye? thou art young for a merchant. What treasure, child?quot; asked Creso. quot;Thy daughter,quot; answered l.uigi; and the obi man gasped at the word. quot;My daughter? Truly: thou wouldst buy the heiress of Creso Quattrino? Doubtless, thou comest to market with a ducal crown, a countship, — nothing less ? Thou wouldst buy my daughter — thou, — a student, but 1 err — 1 sec, thou art a prince, n noble gentleman, jesting in the bare gown of a poor scholar.quot; quot;I am called Luigi Xieti,quot; answered the boy. quot;Leti!quot; exclaimed the merchant. quot;Son of Pietro Leti, once of Padua, now of Florence. You may have heard of him, Signor Quattrino ?quot; •'And thou dost love my daughter — thou dosl love Auretla ?quot; asked Quattrino, waiving an answer. quot;And would win her — win her at thy bands,quot; replied Lingt. quot;Knows she of this meeting? Doth she sanction thy request — hast thou,quot; asked the merchant, with deeji dissimulation , quot;bast thou her heart? Thou hast? And what — what may Luigi Leti offer a doating father for this priceless gem ?quot; quot;The harvest of my sword, answered Luigi. quot;Thy sword? A student's sword ?quot; '•Creso Quattrino, my soul abhors deceit: 'I is possible I might have won the jewel of thy bouse despite ihy will.quot; quot;Is it so?quot; cried Quattrino, and his heart laboured with hale — with thoughts of ruthless vengeance. 'My daughter would have flown from me — would have wedded with a poor scholar? Thou art a brave, a noble youth, Luigi; thou hast rightly said , thy heart abhors deceit. 1 read that glad assurance in thine eyes: give me thy band,quot; and the subtle merchant pressed the palm of Luigi, smiling in his face. quot;1 see thy purpose, youth — thou wouldst not rob an old man of his only joy, thou comest to tell me this?quot; quot; 1 come to ask a promise,quot; said Luigi. quot;Speak; the openness of thy nature hath won me: my heart yearns towards thee, Luigi; trust me, it does. Humph!quot; and still Creso smiled upon bis victim — quot;thy features make me think of days, that — well, wi ll, they're past. How is the good Pielro? He wedded happily — very happily. I have heard much |
|
of the virtuos of thy (jooil mother, lint thou comest to ask a hoon ? Name it, good Luigi — name it.quot; quot;I have closed my hook — have thrown aside my student's gown ; and in three days take ship from Venice,quot; said Luigi. quot;Take ship — whither?quot; asked the gladdened merchant. quot;For the war against the Turk,quot; replied the youth. quot;A brave lad! a pious lad! Ha! ha! thou'lt make rare work among the heathen. 'T is a pious purpose.quot; quot;Wilt thou promise me. Signer Quattrino, if I return to Venice with an honoured name — with glory won upon the infidel — wilt thou promise me Auretta?quot; quot;Thy laurels 'gainst her ducats? Thou'lt prove a lucky champion, if thou dost compass it.quot; quot;Shall I have thy word , Signer Quattrino?quot; asked Luigi. quot;Thou hast her word already — is it not so?quot; questioned the smiling merchant. quot;Nay, 1 warrant me, 't was not the timid girl who put such hard conditions? Duuhtless, Auretta would wed thee, though thou shouldst never cleave a lurh:m?quot; quot;Shalll have thy promise?quot; pressed the youth. quot;Thou hast made me thy friend for ever, Luigi. Like a thief thou mightest have rohhed me of my dearest wealth — nay , more, have laughed at the old man thy wit had beggared. Nota gallant in all Padua, save thyself, good Luigi, would have dealt thus openly. Well , simplicity should win simplicity. When dost thou purpose to depart?quot; quot;In three days.quot; quot;Thou art equipped then— everything prepared ?quot; quot;I have secured the means. At nine to-night I meet Jacol) the Jew,'' — quot;Though an Israelite, an honest man. And he advances thee the means? To-night, at his house? — aye, indeed,quot; said the crafty merchant. quot;Well, thou must sup with me tonight; say, at ten, good Luigi; then we can talk of Auretta. Thou wilt not fail — nay, I must see thee to the door;quot; and Quattnno, with well-acted courtesy, attended the duped Luigi to the threshold. As the merchant stood at his door , a messenger from Venice arrived , hearing a letter for Quattrino. quot;I pray, signor,quot; said the man, quot;that it may hring good news — hut there are grievous rumours in Venice.quot; A moment Quattrino glared at the messenger; then hurriedly broke the seal. Another moment, and he staggered like a drunken man. quot;Gone! lost! sunk!quot; he screamed, and his face grew livid. |
quot;Signor — good signor!quot; cried Luigi, grasping the arm of Creso. quot;'T is true, then?quot; asked the messenger. quot;My argosy, — worth a princedom —and sunk!quot; — groaned Quattrino. quot;Say not so, good signor; hope the hest,quot; said Luigi. Quattrino looked as one stunned at Luigi, and then grasped his hand, and with a forced smile, said — quot;No matter: the loss shall not spoil our supper. Mind — at ten to-night, Luigi; at ten to-night,quot; he repeated, the messenger standing by, quot;I shall expect you. The news shook me a little — but 't is over. Romein her, Luigi — at ten and Quattrino, followed by the messenger, turned into his house. As the clock struck nine, Luigi knocked at the door of the .lew. The deed was speedily signed, and Luigi, with the counted ducats, bade the Jew gooil night. Ere the Jew could place the deed in his chest, he heard the cries of Luigi and a noise of struggling men. The Jew rushed into the street, when Luigi , making fur the house, fell into the old man's arms. quot;Holy Abraham! what has happened ?quot; exclaimed the Jew. quot;A villain set upon me — I am slain!quot; cried the youth , and he slipped from the feeble hold of the Jew, and fell dead upon the earth. The neighbours ran into the street — the watch came up — the Jew was seized on suspicion of the murder, no man save himself being found near the body. His creed was sufficient evidence of his wickedness — he was a Jew, and that of itself was witness against him. His house was ransacked by the officers of justice, and all his papers seized. quot;Thou art innocent of the murder?quot; said the officer; quot;well, it matters not; thou wilt have work enough to answer for thy treasons.quot; quot;I will confess all — everything — but spare mv life — let me bo saved from torture,quot; cried the Jew; and he tore his heard, and howled in agony, when he beheld the discovered papers proving his correspondence with the agent of the Turk. quot;I— I was not alone in the bargain,quot; — exclaimed the Jew — quot;the Christian merchant — there is proof of it — Creso Quattrino was my partner.quot; Ere midnight, Creso Quattrino and the Jew Jacob were fast in gaol — prisoners to the state. The assassin, hired by the merchant, had done his work; hut the blow that did a murder, helped to reveal a treason. The wretched Jew was doomed to the wheel — the Christian merchant obtained his freedom , hut only with the loss of all his wealth, lie was fined for his treasons to an amount that absorbed his every possession, leaving him |
497
|
a dolUor to many, who, in tlioir time, tliwarteil and oppressed by Qnatlrino, resolved lo revenue ihernselves of liis ])nst tiranny. Quattrino stood in tke streets of Padua without a home, without a meal, save at tlie liands of charity. quot;And it is come to this? And 1 shall die poor, — after all, — a hogjjar!quot; he cried, half resolved to end his miserable life; and then the hope, vain as he ihoujjht it, the hope of future fortune, made him bear the load of life — no, he could not die a pauper. quot;And now, signor? The five thousand crowns between us—1 have need of them,quot; said a creditor to the broken merchant. quot;Give me time — a little time, good Baltista,quot; solicited the humble Creso. quot;Aye, and more than thou bast given to any man : my crowns to-morrow, or the gaol,quot; answered the creditor. quot;The gaol! What — a felon debtor! Thou dog — thou cur, thatquot; — quot;Isitso?quot; said the creditor. quot;Well, then, tomorrow look thou to lie in debtor's straw.quot; All night Qualtrino wandered through the streets. His reason reeled beneath bis misery. Mo passed before the Palazza di Ragione; and as he stood, a monk — who had been lo confess a dying man — approached him. quot;Blessed St. Antony!quot; cried the friar, quot;is it the merchant — is it Signor Quattrino?quot; quot;iVo. The merchant is dead — I am his ghost, damned to wander where the rich man lived in glory,quot; answered Cieso. quot;What was thy wealth? — perishable «lust ? My son, there is better wealth hoarded for thee.quot; ■'Where, monk— where?quot; asked Quattrino. quot;Wealth eternal,quot; replied the friar. quot;Can'st lend me ten thousand present ducats?quot; demanded Creso. quot;Look there! Is not that the Stone of Infamy? And now, see,quot;—and Quattrino griped the arm of the friar, — quot;see, who j stands there and beckons me to it! Dost not sec : him? Look — 'l is young Luigi—be, the scholar, who was slain. He beckons me to sit there: me, 1 Creso Quattrino, the princely merchant of Padua, throned on the Stone of [nfumy! Ha! ha!quot; And with a yell, liie pauper Creso rushed from the shuddering friar. The next day, Quattrino encountered ISal tista. :-INow , merchant,quot; said the creditor — ''my \ |
ducats, my ducats good Messer Creso—my ducats, or the gaol. There — for who in Padua bath not felt the bitterness of thy oppression? — there thou sbalt rot and die my debtor.quot; quot;Die thy debtor' Thy debtor! — a crawling chapman ! — thou, who, in my days of wealth, didst cringe before me like a beaten hound ? — I defy, and spit at thee!quot; — exclaimed old Creso. quot;Arrest iiim ^t my suit; to the gaol with him,quot; cried Battista to a ready officer. quot;Hold! — hold!quot; shouted Creso — quot;I — I claim my privilege •— the privilege of a citiien of Padua !quot; '•What privilege?quot; asked the officer. quot;The— thequot; — Creso stooil convulsed with passion — quot;I will not die thy debtor — I will sit upon the Stone !quot; The crowd that were gathered about Creso and his creditor, echoed quot;the Stone!quot; and looked astonished in each other's faces — and then, as rejoicing at a promised feast, whooped and shouted — quot;Quattrino on the Stone of Infamy!quot; quot;Creso a bankrupt!quot; The next morning, Creso, the golden merchant, as he was called, became a spectacle of shame and wretchedness to the men of Padua. For one hour be sat upon the Stone of Infamy ! quot;Mow, Quattrino, the time is up — thou hast sat the hour — thy debts arc paid,quot; said the officer. '•I am no debtor, by the law of Padua ?quot; asked Quatlrino, and with an effort ho rose from his ignominious seat, and griping the artn of one of the guards with the gripe of death, be looked as ono risen from his collin. quot;I die no debtor!quot; be gasped, and fell, huddled, lo the earth. quot;Santa Maria ! he's dead !quot; exclaimed Battista. quot;Ha! ha ! lie's dead 1quot; screamed an old croue. Ere the beggar Quattrino was borne from the Hall, there was heard a cry of quot;The argosy! the argosy Iquot; — and a messenger fiom Venice hurried through the crowd to the self poisoned criminal. Quattrino'» vessel, rumoured as lost, rode in the Adriatic, freighted with unbounded wealth. quot;She's safe! — she's here!quot; exclaimed Quattrino, and be writhed with the poison, quot;in port! safe in port! Ha! ha! I die no pauper — I diequot; — and, with bis eyes glaiing upon the messenger of fortune, the miserable Creso quot;died rich.quot; |
A polilical Leader and Author, born in London, December 1805, is a son of the eelelirated author of the quot;Curiosities of Liternture.quot; At the age of eijjhteeu he visited Germany , and on returninR to England published, while yet a minor, his first work, called quot;Vivian Grey.quot; In 1826 he visited Italy and Greece, and was in Albania during the civil war. He passed the winter of 1829—30 in Constantinople, and in the spring travelled in Syria, Egypt, and Nubia. Returning to England in 1831 , he found the nation in
G3
498
all the cxcilcmont of Hie Kcform agitation. Amious to obtaiu a sent in parliament, cntcrtaiumg n ']'orj-|)arl)' halroil of the Whigs, then in the ascendant, and not naturally illiberal, Uisraeli detennined to consult the temper of the times; and accordingly , in becoming a candidate for the borough of Chipping Wycombe, ho put forward a strong case against the Whigs, in the form best calculated to secure the suffruges of tho Kadical parly, to whom he had obtained a recommendation from Mr. Joseph Hume, and, in addition, spoke in favour of short parliaments and vole by ballot He lost the election in two contests, — the Radicals very properly distrusting their candidate. In 1833 he published the novel quot;Contarini Fleming,quot; which ho called a psychological romance; and in the following year, a quot;Vindication of the British Constitution.quot; In 1835, when the Conservative party had been restored to office, Disraeli turned his cuat, and became a candidale for the borough of Taunton , renouncing vote by ballot and short parliaments as unneeessary , and declaring himself a supporter of Sir Robert Peel. This change brought down upon him the attacks of the opposite party , and he was fiercely denounced as a political renegade. In the course of oue of his speeches at Taunton he made an nneomplimentary reference to Daniel O'Connell , then in the zenith of his fame. The Agitator, a few days after, returned his invective with interest, and declared, — alluding to Mr. Disraeli's Hebrew origin — that quot;he made no doubt that, if his genealogy could be traced, he would be found to be the true heir-at-law of the impenitent thief on the cross.quot; The reply to this outrage was a challenge, not to the speaker, who was known uniformly to decline quot;duelling , but to his son. No duel , however, took place. A published letter, written to O'Connell by Uisraeli, concluded by the innguiloqucnt boast, quot;We shall meet at Philippi.quot; This prophecy was fu'filled in 1837 , by the return of Disraeli, as a Tory , for the borough of Maidstone. He sought an early opportunity of addressing the House; but having neglected to study the tastes of his new andience as to the temper and stylo of oratory, his first attempt was one of the most egregious failures on record, and he sat down amid the derisive cheers of the members, consoling himself by exclaiming, quot;The time will come when you will hear me Iquot; — a prediction which has proved truer than the greater number uttered under such discouragements. At the general election of 1841 he was returned for Shrewsbury , and in the course of the session spoke several times, with a self-possession and business-like aim which showed that he had profited by his first unplerisant lesson, and won him the car of the House. During the year 1843 he supported Peel; but in 1844, perceiving the growing developement of that policy of the great minister which ended in free trade, Disraeli receded from his side to become a leader of the Protectionist party , and commenced upon his former chief a aeries of most vindictive personal attacks. For three sessions the House listened wilh surprise and alarmed attention to speeches delivered at intervals, in which the solemn mysteriousness, the pompous commonplace, the high disdain, and, lastly, the imputed treachery of the minister, were alternately mocked or denounced with indignation. The retreat of Peel removed the occasion of these displays, and the triumph of free trade left Disraeli the champion of a hopeless and worthless cause. When Lord Derby formed his ministry in February, 1852, Mr. J)is-raeli was made Chancellor of the Exchequer — a post which brought no increase to his reputation. His Budget was a most melancholy failure, and broke up the last Protectionist ministry. It has hitherto been Mr. Disraeli's lot to cxcite expectations by his talents which have ended in disappointmen*. Emancipated from the association of a narrow-minded parly, he may, however, yet do the State gjod service, in following his naturally liberal inclinations. Besides the novels already mentioned, Mr. Disraeli has written three works, quot;Coniugsby,quot; quot;the Sybil,quot; and quot;Tancred,quot; full of graphic sketches of character; but chiefly remarkable as the vehiclo of the writer's political and social views. He now sits for the county of liucks.
The tlcath of Contarinl's father.
|
Onr passage was tedious, Tlie captain was afraid of pirates, and, alarmed in the nijjht, suddenly ulianged his course, and made fur the Barhary coast, hy whicli we lost our wind. We were he calmed offCandia. I once more beheld Mount Ida. I induced the Captain to run into port, I landed once more on that fatal coast. The old Consul and his family were still there, and received me with a kindness which reminded me of our first happy meeting. 1 slept in the same rhamher. I woke in the morning; the sun was still shining, the bright plants still quivering in its beams. But the gaielle had gone, the white gazelle had died. And my gazelle — where was she? I beheld our home, our once happy home. Spiro only was with me, and his family came forth with joy to greet him. 1 left them. 1 hastened with tremulous steps to the happy valley. I passed by the grove of orange trees. My strength deserted me. I leant nearly fainting against a tree. At last, I dared to advance a step, and look forward. |
1 beheld it. Yes! 1 beheld it, green and verdant, and covercd with white roses, hut I dared not approach. I wafted it an einbrace and a blessing, and rushed to the shore. At Ancona, I entered the Lazaretto to perform a long quarantine. I instantly wrote to my father, and 1 dispatched a courier to my banker at Florence. 1 received from hirn in a few days a packet. I opened it with a sad foreboding. A letter in my father's hand-writing reassured me. I tore it open; I read. quot;My beloved Contarini, the hand of death is upon me. Each day my energies decrease. I can conceal from others, but not from myself, my gradual but certain decay. We sball not meet again, my child, I have a deep conviction we |
499
|
sliali not meel aguin. Yet I would not (tic without exprossinj to you my love, without yielding to feelings whicli I have loo long suppressed. quot;ChiM of my alFectijns! reecive my blessing. Oflspring of my young passion I let me press you, in imagination, to my lone bosom I quot;Ah! why arc you not with me, why is not my hand in yours! There is much to say, more than i can ever cjpress — yet I must write, for 1 would not die without my son doing justice to his father. quot;As a child you doubted my love ; as a man, in spite of all your struggles, ! am conscious you never divested yourself of the agonmng idea. What is this life, this life of error and misconccp-tion and woe! quot;My feehle pen trembles in my hand. There is much to write, mueh alas! that never can be written. Why arc we parted ? quot;Vou think me cold; you think me callous; you think me a hollow-hcarled worldling. Con-tarini, recall the doubt and misery of your early years, and all your wild thoughts, and dark misgivings, and vain efforts —recall all these, and behold the boyhood of your falher! quot;I, too, believed myself a poet — I, loo, aspired to emancipate my kind — I, too, looked forward to a glorious future, and the dazzling visla of eternal fame. The passions of my heart were not less violent than yours, and not loss ardent was my impetuous love. quot;Woe! woe! the falher and the son have been alike stricken. I know all, I know all, my child. I would have saved you from the bitter lot— I alone would have borne tbc deep despair. quot;Was she fair ? Was she beautiful ? Alas! there was once one as bright and as glorious — you knew not your mother. quot;I can remember the day but as yesterday when 1 first gazed upon the liquid darkness of her eye. It was at that fatal city I will not name — horrible Venice! quot;1 found her surrounded by a thousand slaves — 1 won her from amid this band; — aoainst the efforts and opposition of all her family, I won her. Yes! she was my bride — the beautiful daughter of this romantic land — a land to which I was devoted, and for w hich 1 would have perilled my life. Alas! I perilled my love! My imagination was fired by that wondrous and witching city. My love of freedom, my hatred of oppression, burned each day with a brighter and more vehement flame. 1 sighed over its past glory and present degradation, and, when 1 mingled my blood with the veins of the Contarini, I vowed I would revive the glory they had themselves created. quot;Venice was at that time under the yoke of the French. The recollection of the Republic was still fresh in men's minds; the son of the last Doge was roy relative and my friend. Unhappy Manini! thy memory demands a tear. |
quot;We conspired. Even now my blood seems to flow with renewed force, when I recall theeicile-ment of our secret meetings in the old Palazzo Contarini, on the Grand Lagune. Flow often has daylight on the waters reminded us of our long councils! quot;We were betrayed. Timely information permitted me to escape. I bore away my wife. AVe reached Mantua in safety. Perhaps it was the agitation of the event and the flight; since the tragedy of Candia, I have sometimes thought it might have been a constitutional doom. But that fatal night, why, why recall it! We have both alike suffered. No, not alike, for I bad my child. quot;My child, my darling child, even now your recollection maintains me, even now my cheek warms, as I repose upon the anticipation of your glory. quot;1 will not dwell upon what 1 now endured. Alas! I cannot leave it to your imagination. Your reality has taught you all. I roved a madman amid the mountains of the Tyrol. But you were with me, my child, and I looked upon your mild and pensivceyes, and the wildness of my thoughts died away. quot;1 recurred to those hopes of poetic fame which had soothed the dull wretchedness of my boyhood. Alas! no flame from heaven descended on my lyre. I experienced only mortification, and, so complete was my wretchedness, so desolate my life, so void of hope and cheerfulness, and even the prospect of that common ease which the merest animals require, that, had it not been for you, I would have freed myself from the indescribable burden of my existence. My hereditary estates were confiscated ; my friends, like myself, were in exile. We were, in fact, destitute, and I had lost all conlldence in my energies. quot;Thus woe-begone, 1 entered Vienna, where 1 found a friend. Mingling in artificial society of that refined city, those excited feelings, fed by my strange adventures and solitary life subsided. I began to lose what was peculiar in me and to share much that was general. Worldly feelings sprang up. Some success brought hack my confidence. 1 believed that I was not destitute of power, but had only mistaken its nature. It was a political age. A great theatre seemed before me. I bad ever been ambitious. 1 directed my desires into a new channel, and I determined to be a statesman. quot;1 bad attracted the attention of the Austrian minister. 1 became his secretary. You know the rest. quot;I resolved that my child should be happy. 1 desired to save him from the misery that clouded my own youth. I would have preserved him from the tyranny of impetuous passions and the harrowing woe that awaits an ill-regulated mind. I observed in him a dangerous susceptibility that I alarmed me. ( studied to prevent the indulgence |
|
of his feeling;. I was kind, liut 1 was culm. His imaginative temperament did not escape me. 1 perceived only lieredilary weakness, and would have prevented hereditary woe. It was my aim to make him a practical man. Contarini, it was the anxiety of affection that prevented me from doing justice to your genius. quot;My son, could 1 hut once press you in my arms, 1 should die happy. And even now the future supports me and 1 feel the glory of your coming fame irradiating my tornh. quot;Why cannot we meet! 1 could say so much, although I would fay only 1 loved you. The pen falls from my hand, the feeble pen, that has signified nothing. Imagine what 1 would express. Cherish my memory, while you receive my blessing.quot; |
quot;Let me lly, let me fly to him instantly!quot; I fell the horrors of my imprisonment. I wrung my hands, and stamped from helplessness. There was a packet. I opened it: a lock of rich, ilark hair, whose colour was not strange to me, and a beautiful miniature, that seemed a portrait of my beloved, yet 1 gated upon the countenance of my mother. There was yet a letter from my banker, which I long neglected to open. I opened it at last, and learned the death of my remaining parent. The age of tears was past. That relief was denied me. 1 louked up to Heaven in despair. I flew to a darkened chamher. I buried my face in my hands, and, lone and speechless, I delivered myself up for days to the silent agony of the I past. |
VV. HARRISON A I N S W O R T II ,
Novelist, born in 1805 , and originally intended for the prufeasion of the law, he, ia 182G , when only twenty-one years old, changed the eurreot of his fate by publishing a novel, entitled quot;John Chever-ton ,quot; which was read and eoiumended by Sir Walter Seolt. Having thus become an author, and having taken as a wife the daughter of a publisher, he thought it would be well to sell his own productions without the intervention of another between himself and the public , and accordingly he turned publisher. Eight years after the appearance of his first book he issued a second , called quot; Kookwood ,quot; which was at once sueecssful , and gained for its author the credit of bei.ig a very clever writer, who had founded n new school of fiction , of which malefactors were to be the heroes , and in which , as a climax , the gallows and Tyburn were to supply the place of the old-fashioned marriage that usually wound up old-fashioned novels. Turpin the highwayman was painted in glowing colours , and the apocryphal story of the highwayman's ride from London to York at one heat on one horse became , in the pages of Mr. Ainsworth's novel, a glowing literary reality. The cleverness and vitality of the narrative attracted a large number of readers to this Komance of Felony, and the stage reproduced the hash of false sentiment and doubtful morality which the press had given forth, until the more thoughtful portion of book-readers began to lament deeply that the talents of a writer like Mr. Ainsworth should have been employed on such subjects. Another novel, entitled •'Crichtor. ,quot; next appeared, followed by another infinitely more mischievous than quot;Kookwood.quot; It raised into a hero the house-breaker Sheppard , as a sort of companion atrocity to the romantic highwayman Turpin. .Tack Sheppard, having robbed bis way through three clever volumes, and after having had his criminalities illustrated by George Cruiksbank, is hanged at Tyburn kefuro a large and admiring crowd. This book must have been very profitable to its author's purse, whatever it may have been to his reputation ; but since its publication, Mr. Ainsworth seems not to have been tempted to repeat his glorification of felons or his fancy-paintings of thief-life. With better jugdment and more wholesome taste, he has carried his admitted talents to fields equally rich in dramatic effects and comparatively free from objection ; and his later works of fiction , quot; The Tower of London ,quot; quot;Old St. Paul's,quot; quot;Windsor Castle,quot; quot;St. James's Palace,quot; quot;The Star-Chamber,quot; The Flitch of Bacon,quot; have shown how graphically he can weave around a thread of romance a series of historical uucncs and characters , full of value and of absorbing interest. The Star-Chamber, however one of bis latest produc-tium, is of little value. Ainsworth lives in a pleasant cottage in the neighbourhood of Kilburn , a^d varies his literary labours by editing the Magazine which bears his name, and the quot; New Monthly Magazine.quot;
|
As soon as he was liberated by his persecutors, Mr. Wood set off at full speed from the Mint , and , hurrying he scarce knew whither (for there was such a continual buzzing in his cars and dancing in his eyes , as almost to take away the power of reflection), lie held on at a brisk pace till his strength ■completely failed him. |
On regaining his breath , he began tu consider whither chance bad l«l liini;and, nibbing his eyes to clear bis sight, he perceived a sombre pile, with a lofty tower and broad roof, immediately in front of him. This structure at once satisfied him as to where he stood. He knew it to be St. Saviour's Church. As he looked up at the massive lower, the clock tolled forth the hour of midnight. The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a mul- |
|
tiluilo of cliiiiies, sounding ocross llio Tlmnics, amongst wliicli llie deop note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguisliable. A feeling of inex-jilicalile awe crept over the carpenter as the sounds died away. He tromliled, nol, from any superslitious dread , but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. The peculiar appearance of the sky was not without some influence in awakening these terrors. Overone of the pinnacles of the tower n speck of pallid light marked the position of the moon . then newly horn and newly risen. M was still pio-foundly dark; hut the wind, which had hegun to hlow with some violence, chased the clouds rapidly across tlie heavens, and dispersed the vapours hanging nearer the earth. Sometimes the moon was totally eclipsed; at others, it j shed a wan and ghastly glimmer over the masses rolling in the firmament. Not a star could he discerned, hut, in their stead, streaks j of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossihle to determine, shot ever and anon iilhwurt the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night. Alarmed hy these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot. Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself. With this view he struck oil' into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the quot;Welsh Trumpeter.quot; quot;Let me have a glass of hrandy,quot; said he, addressing the host. '•Too late, master,quot; replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; quot;just shut up shop.quot; quot;Zounds! David Pugh, don't you know yonr old friend and countryman?quot; exclaimed the carpenter. quot;Ah ! Owen Wood; is it you ?quot; cried David in astonishment. quot;What the devil makes you out so late ^ And what has happened to you , man , eh ? — you seem in a queer plight.quot; i quot;Give me the brandy, and I'll tell yon,quot; replied Wood. quot;Here, wife—hostess—fetch me that hottle from the second shelf in the corner cupboard.— ihere, Mr. Wood,quot; cried David, pouring out a gla«s of the spirit, and offering it to the carpenter, quot;that 'II warm the cockles of your ' heart. Don't he afraid, man, — off with it. w It's right Nantz. I keep it for my own drinking,'' he added in a lower lone. Mr. Wood having disposed of the hrandy, and pronounced himself much better, hurried «•lose to the fire-side, and informed his friend in a few words of the inhospitable treatment |
he had experienced from the genllcuien ol the Mint; where upou Mr. I'ugh, who, as well as the carpenter, was a descendant of Cadwalla-der, waxed extremely wrath; gave utterance to a number of fierce-sounding imprecations in the Welsh tongue; and was just beginning to express the greatest anxiety to catch some of the rascals at the Trumpeter, when Mr. Wood cut him short hy stating his intention of crossing the river as soon as possible in order to avoid the storm. quot;A storm!quot; exclaimed the landlord, quot;(iad-7.ooks! 1 thought something was coming on ; for when I looked at the weather-glass an hour ago, it had sunk lower than I ever remember it!quot; quot;We shall have a durty night on it, to a sartinty, landlord,quot; observed an old one-eyed sailor, who sat smoking his pipe by the fireside. quot;The glass never sinks in that way, d'ye see, without a hurricane follerin', I've knowed it often do so in the West Injecs. Moreover, a couple o'porpnsses came up with the tide this mornin', and ha' bin flounderin' about i' the Tames abuv l.unnun Hridge all day long ; and them say-monsters, you know, always proves sure fore runners of a gale.quot; quot;Then the sooner I'm off the belter,quot; cried Wood ;'what's to pay, David'quot; quot;Don't affront me, Owen, by asking such a question,quot; returned the landlord; quot;hadn't you better slop and finish the bottle?quot; quot;Nol a drop more,quot; replied Wood. quot;Enough's as gooil as a feast. Good night Iquot; quot;Well, if yon won't he persuaded , and must have a boat, Owen,quot; observed the landlord, quot;there's a waterman asleep on that bench will help you to as tidy a craft as any on the Thames. Halloa, Ben!'' cried be, shaking a broad-hacked fellow , equipped in a short-skirted doublet, and having a badge upon his arm,— quot;scullers wanted.quot; quot;Holloa! my hearty!quot; cried lion, starling to bis feet. quot;This gentleman wants a pair of oars,quot; said the landlord. quot;Where to, master?quot; asked Ben, touching bis woollen cap. quot;Arundel Stairs,quot; replied Wood , quot;the nearest point to Wych Streetquot; quot;Come along, master,quot; said the watennan. quot;Hark'ee, Ben.quot; said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the bob; quot;you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night.quot; quot;And why not, old saltwater?quot; inquired Ben , turning a quid in his mouth. quot;Cos there's a gale a-getting up as 'II per-went you, young freshwater,quot; replied the tar. quot;It must look sharp then , or 1 shall give ll the,slip,quot; laughed Ben: quot;the gale nevei |
|
yet tilowcd as could pcrwcnt my crossing iIjc Tliamcs. The weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, hut I've never turned my back upon it.quot; quot;May he not,quot; replied the old sailor, drily; quot;but you'll find it too stiff for you to-night, anyhow. Howsomdever, if you should reach t'other side, take an old feller's advice, and don't be foolhardy enough to venter back again.quot; quot;I tell'ee what, saltwatersaid Ben, quot;I'll lay you my fare — and that '11 be twosbil-lin' — I'm back in an hour.quot; quot;Done!quot; cried the old sailor. quot;But vcre 'II be the use o' vinnin' ? you von't live to pay me.quot; •'Never fear ,quot; replied lien . gravely ; quot;dead or alive I'll pay yon . if I lose. There's my thumb upon it. Come along, master.quot; quot;I tell'ee what, landlord,quot; observed the old sailor, quietly replenishing his pipe from a huge pewter tobacco-box, as the waterman and Wood quilted ihc house, quot;you've said good-h'ye to your friend.quot; quot;Odd's me I do you think so?quot; cried the host of the Trumpeter. quot;I'll run and bring him back. He's a Welshman, and I wouldn't for a trifle that any accident befel him.quot; quot;Never mind,quot; said the old sailor, taking up a piece of blazing coal wilh the longs, and applying it to his pipe; quot;let 'em try. They 'II be back soon enough — or not at all.quot; Mr. AVood and the waterman, meanwhile, proceeded in the direclion of St. Saviour's Stairs. Casting a hasty glance at the old and ruinous prison belonging to the liberty of the Bishop of Winchester (ttliose palace formerly adjoined the river), called the Clink, which gave its name to the street, along which be walked; and noticing, wilh some uneasiness, the melancholy manner in which the wind whistled through its barred casements, the carpenter followed bis ronipanion down an opening to the right, and presently arrived at the waterside. Moored to the steps, several wherries yverc dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. Into one of these the waterman jumped, and, having assisted Mr. Wood to a seat within it, immediately pushed from land. Ben had scarcely adjusted his oars, when the gleam of a lantern was seen moving towards the bank. A shout was heard at a little distance, and, the next moment, a person rushed with breathless haste to the stair-head. quot;Boat there!quot; cried a voice, which Mr. Wood fancied he recognised. quot;You '11 find a waterman asleep under his tilt in one of them ere craft, if you look about, Sir,quot; replied Ben , hacking water as he spoke. |
quot;Can 't Y'Ju take me with you ?quot; urged the voice; quot;I 'II make it well worth your while. I 've a child here whom I wish to convey across the water without loss of time.quot; quot;A child!quot; thought Wood; ''it must he the fugitive Darrell. ''Hold hard,quot; cried he, addressing the waterman ; quot;I 'II give the gentleman a lift.quot; quot;Unpossihle, master,quot; rejoined Ben; quot;the tide's running down like a mill-sluice, and the wind 's right in our teeth. Old saltwater was right. We shall have a reg'lar squall afore we gets across. D'ye hear how the wanes creaks on old Winchester House? We shall have a touch on it ourselves presently. But 1 shall lose tny wager if I stay a moment longer — so here goes.quot; Upon which, bo plunged his oars deeply into the stream , and ihe bark shot from the strand. Mr. Wood's anxiety respecting the fugitive was speedily relieved by bearing another waterman busy himself in preparation for starting; and, shortly after, the dip of a second pair of oars sounded upon the river. quot;Curse me, il' 1 don't think all the world means to cross tlie Thames this fine night,quot; observed Ben. quot;One'd think it rained fares, as well as hlowed great guns. Why , there's another parly on the stair-head inquiring arler scullers; and , by the mass I they appear in a greater hurry than any on us.quot; His attention being thus drawn to the hank, the carpenter beheld three figures, one of whom bore a torch, leap into a wherry of a larger site than the others, which immediately put off from shore. Maimed by a couple of watermen who rowed wilh great swiftness, this wherry dashed through the current in the track of the fugitive, of whom it was evidently in pursuit, and upon whom it perceptible gained. Mr. Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. But he could only discern a black and shapeless mass, floating upon the water at a little distance, which, to his bewildered fancy, appeared absolutely standing still. To the practised eye of the waterman matters wore a very different air. He perceived clearly enough , that ihe chnse was moving quiokly; and be was also aware, from the increased rapidity wilh which the oars were urged, that every exertion was made on board to get out of the reach of her pursuers. At one moment, it seemed as if the flying bark was about to put to shore. But this plan (probably from its danger) was instantly abandoned ; not, however, before her momentary hesitation had been taken advantage of by her pursuers, who, redoubling their efforts at this juncture, materially lessened the distance between them. Hen watched these manoBiivrcs with great |
•;()5
|
interest, and strained every sinew in liis frame to keep nliead of tlie other boats. . quot;Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?quot; he ohserved. quot;Something worse , I fear,quot; Wood replied. quot;Why, you don 't think as how they 're crimps, do you?quot; Ben inquired. quot;I don 't know that 1 think,quot; answered Wood sulkily; and he hent his eyes upon the water, as if lie «islied lo inert liis atlenlion forcibly from the scene. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. The sounds that reach the ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a train of sad and serious contemplation. The ripple of the water against the boat, as its keel cleaves through the stream — the darkling current hurrying by — the indistinctly-seen craft, of all forms and all sizes, bovenng around, and making their way in ghost-like silence, or warning each other of their approach by cries, that, heard from afar, have something doleful in their note — the solemn shadows cast by the bridges — the deeper gloom of the echoing arches — the lights glimmering from the banks — the red reflection thrown upon the waves by a fire kindled on some stationary barge — the tall and fantastic shapes of the houses, as discerned through the obscurity ; — these, and other sights and sounds of the same character, give a sombre colour to the thoughts of one who may choose to indulge in meditations at such a time anil in such a place. But it was otherwise with the carpenter. This was no night for the indulgence of ilreumy musing. It was a night of storm and tenor, vhich promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. Not a bark could be decerned on the river, except those already mentioned. The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled. It was a dead calm. But this calm was more awful than the previous ruanng of the blast. Amid tbis portentous bush, the report of a pistol reached the carpenter's aars ; and, raising his head at the sound , be beheld a sight which filled him with fresh apprehensions. By the light of a torch borne at the stern of the hostile wherry, he saw that the pursuers had approached within a short disiance of the object of tln-ir quest. The shot bad taken effect upon the waterman who rowed the chase. He had abandoned his oars, and the boat was drifting with the stream towards the enemy. Escape was now impossible. Darrell stood erect in the hark, with his drawn sword in hand; prepared to repel the attack of his |
assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver him into their power. They had not to tarry long. In another instant, the collision took place. The watermen, who manned the larger wherry, immediately shipped their oars, grappled with the drifting skiff, and held it fast. Wood, then, beheld two persons, one of whom he rccognised as Rowland, spring on board the chase. A fierce struggle ensued. There was a shrill cry, instantly succeeded by a deep splash. '•Put about, waterman, for God's sake!quot; cried Wood, whose humanity got the better of every personal consideration ; quot;some one is overboard. Give way, and let us render what assistance we can to the poor wretch.quot; quot;It's all over with him by this time, master,quot; replied Ben, turning the head of his boat, and rowing swiftly towards the scene of strife; quot;but d—n him, he was the chap os hit poor Bill Thomson just now , and 1 don't much care if he should be food for fishes.quot; As Ben spoke , they drew near the opposing parties. The contest was now carried on between Rowland and Darrell. The latter had delivered himself from one of his assailants, the attendant, Davies. Hurled over the sides of the skiff, the ruffian speedily found a watery grave. It was a spring-tide at half ebh ; and the currcnt, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instanily away. While the strife raged between the principals, the watormen in the larger wberry were occupied in stemming the force of the torrent, and endeavouring to keep the boats, they had lashed together, stationary. Owing to this circumstance , Mr. Wood's boat, impelled alike by oar and tide, shot past the mark at which it aimed ; and before I it could he again brought about, the struggle i had terminated. For a few minutes, Darrell seemed to have the advantage in the conflict. IVeither combalant could use his sword; and in strength the fugitive was evidently superior to his antagonist. The boat rocked violently with the struggle. Had it not been lashed to the adjoining wherry, it must have been up-gt;ct, and have precipitated the opponents into the water. Rowland felt himself sinking beneath the powerful grasp of his enemy. He called to the olher attendant, who held the torch. Understanding the appeal, the man snatched his master's sword from his grasp, and passed it through Darrell's body. The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves. Darrell, however, rose again instantly; and though mortally wounded, made a desperate effort to regain the boat. quot;My child!quot; he groaned faintly. quot;Well reminded,quot; answered Rowland, who |
|
Iiail wilnefsoil liis sti'U|;(jle3 with n snillc of ([ratified vengcance; quot;1 liad formol Ion tlii; accursed imp in this confusion. Take it,quot; he cried, lifliiij; the bnhe from the bottom oFthe boat, and llinyin;; it towards its unfortunate father. The child fell within a short dislance of Darrell, who, hearing, the splash , struck out in that direction, and caught it before it sank. At tins juncture, the sound of oars reached his ears, and be perceived Mr. AVood's boat bearing up towards him. '■Here lie is, waterman,quot; exclaimed the benevolent carpenter. quot; 1 see him! — row for jour life!quot; quot;That 's the way to rni«s him, master,quot; replied Ben coolly. -'We must keep still. The tide 'II bring liim to us fast enough.quot; Ben judged correctly. Borne along by the current, Darrell wasinslantly at the boat's side. quot;Seize this oar,quot; vociferated the waterman. quot;First take the child,quot; cried Darrell, holding up the infant, and clinging to the oar with a dying elfort. quot;Give it me,quot; returned the carpenter; quot;all's safe. Now lend me your own hand.quot; quot;My slrcngtb fails me,quot; gasped the fugitive. quot;I cannot climb the boat. Take my child to — it is — oh God! — 1 iim sinking — take it — lake il Iquot; quot;Wbere? shouted Wood. Darnell attempted to reply. But be could only utter an inarticulate exclamation. The next moment his grasp relaxed , and he sank to rise no more. Rowland , meantime , alarmed by the voices, snatched a torch from bis attendant, and holding it over the side of the wherry, witnessed the incident just described. quot;Confusion!quot; cried he; quot;there is another boat in our wake. They have rescued the child. Loose the wherry, and stand to your oars— quick—quick!quot; These commands were promptly obeyed. The boat was set free, and the men resumed their seals. Rowland's purposes were, however, defeated in a manner as unexpected as appalling. During the foregoing occnrrenccs a dead calm prevailed. But as Rowland sprang lo the helm, and gave the signal for pursuit, a roar like a volley of ordnance was heard aloft, and the wind again hurst its bondage. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enonnous cauldron. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. The gale had become a hurricane: that burricanc was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. Destruction everywhere marked its course. Steeples toppled, and lowers reeled beneath its fury. Trees were lorn up by the roots; many houses were levelled to the ground ; others were unroofed ; the leads on the churches were ripped off, and quot;shrivelled up like scrolls of parchment.quot; Nothing on land or water was spared by the remorseless gale. Most of the vessels lying in the river were driven from their moorings, dashed tnmul-tuously against each olbor, or blown ashore. All was darkness , honor, confusion , ruin. Men fled from their loitering habilalions, and returned lo them scared by greater dangers. The cud of the world seemed at band. |
At this time of universal havoc and despair, — when all l.ondon quaked at the voice of the storm, — the carpenter, who was exposed lo its utmost fury, fared beller than might have been anticipated. The bont in which he rode was not overset. Fortunately , her course had been shifted immediately alter the rescue of the child; and, in consequence of this movement, she received the first shock of the hurricane, which blew from the southwest, upon her stern. Her head dipped deeply into the current, and she narrowly escaped being swamped. Bigliling, however, instantly afterwards, she scudded with the greatest rapldily over the boiling waves, to whose mercy she was now entirely abandoned. On this fresh outburst of llie storm, Wood threw himself instinctively into the bollom of the boat, and clasping the little orphan lo his breast, endeavoured lo prepare himself lo meet his fate. While he was thus occupied, he felt a rough grasp upon his arm, and presently afterwards Ben's lips approached close to bis ear. The waterman sheltered bis mouth with his baud while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast. quot;It 's all up master,quot; groaned Ben , quot;nolbin' short of n merracle can save us. The boat 's sure to run foul o' the bridge; and if she 'scapes slavin' above, she '11 he swamped to a sartainly below. There '11 be a fall of above twelve fool o' water, and think o' that on a night as 'ud blow a whole fleet lo the devil.quot; Mr. Wood did think ofit, andgroaned aloud. ' Heaven help us!quot; he exclaimed; quot;we were mad to neglect the old sailor's advice.quot; '•That 's what troubles me ,quot; rejoined Ben. quot;I tell 'ec what, master, if you 're more for-linale nor I am , and get ashore, give old saltwater your fare. I pledged my thumb that, dead or alive, I 'd pay the wager if 1 should like to he as good as my word.quot; quot;I will — 1 will,quot; replied Wood hastily. quot;Was lt;Aalt; thunder ?quot; he faltered, as a terrible clap was heard overhead. quot;No; it's only a fresh gale,quot; Ben returned: quot;bark! now it comes.quot; |
|
quot;Lord have inorcy upon us , miscrahlc sinners 1quot; ejacnlatccl Wood, as a fearful gust dashed the water over the side of the boat, deluging him with spray. The hurricanc had now readied its climax. The hlast shrieked , as if eiulting in its wrathful mission. Stunning and oontinuous, the din seemed almost to lake away the power of hearing, lie, who had faced the gale, would have heen instantly stifled. Piercing through every crevice in the clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the wearer's limbs, or from his grasp. It penetrated the skin ; henumhed the flesh; paralysed the faculties. The intense darkness added to the terror of the storm. The destroying angel hurried hy, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice. Imagination, coloured hy the ohscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. Ten thousand steeds appeared to he trampling aloft, charged with the work of devastation. Awful shapes seemed to flit hy, home on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. The actual danger was lost sight of in these wild apprehensions; and many timorous heings were scared heyond reason's verge hy the excess of their fears. |
This had well nigh heen the case with the carpenter, lie was roused from the stupor of despair into which he had sunk hy the voice of Ben, who roared in his ear, quot;The bridge! — The bridge!quot; |
EDWARD LYTTON BULWEK LYTTON, DULWER BART.,
Novelist and Poet. According to strict legality, Bnhver the Novelist is now Sir E. L. Bulwer Lytton , Bart. But whatever the heralds and the legalists may say or arrange to the contrary, the English will ever call the books that have made the author's reputation , and which give him a place in the present list and in other pages where ''Nature's nobilityquot; are chronicled , quot;Bulwer'squot; Novels. Who would think of asking for quot;Pelham ,quot; by Lytton ? or quot;llienzi ,quot; by Lytton ? No. Bulwer will be his name in literature , whatever it may be in baronetages and acts of parliaments. Bulwer the Novelist is the son of the late General Bulwer, of Heydon Hall, Norfolk, by Elizabeth, daughter and heiress of Richard War-burton Lytton, Esq., of Knebworth Park, Herts. The registers of the English nobility and gentry will tell those curious in pedigrees with how many ancient and noble houses these families are connected; but it must suffice us to record the fact, that Sir Edward's maternal grandfather was a remarkable scholar, the intimate friend of Sir William Jones, the best Hebraist of his time; and in further confirmation of those who believe all intellectual superiority to be derived from the mother, we may add, that the daughter of this gentleman inherited a turn for elegant literature, and that Sir Edward, deprived of his father at an early age, wrote his first verses , when five or six years old , for her pleasure : some of these being imitations of Percy's ballads, which was a favourite book of his infancy. Wo cannot but enlarge this scanty notice , by pointing to the author's own charming and heartfelt picture of one residence of his boyhood, in the paper called quot;Knebworth,quot; in the quot;Student.quot; Bulwer was placed at several private schools (never, we believe, at a public one), subsequently under two private tutors, and his education completed , as far as routine studies are concerned , at Cambridge. Whilst there he wrote a prize poem on Sculpture , and occupied the long vacation by wandering over a large part of England and Scotland on foot; and it is more than probable that the humours and adventures of such a journey , and those gathered and experienced during a subsequent ramble through Prance on horseback, first gave rise to the idea of his presenting himself to the public as a novelist, a painter of many-coloured life as it is. But his first literary efforts were in verse. We may mention quot;Weeds and Wild Flowers,quot; a collection of fugitive Poems , printed only for private circulation amongst the author's private friends, and bearing the date of 1820. To these succeeded quot;O'Neil the lleber* (1827). In this year, too, quot;Falkland,quot; his next work , was published anonymously. This cost its author, it is stated , more trouble than any of his novels, and is probably the least known among them In 1828 quot;Pelhamquot; made its appearance, and the busy career of authorship was commenced in good earnest. To estimate its fruits rightly , it should be borne in mind that they are not the only offspring of their writer's youth ; that the practical duties of manhood and citizenship have not been sacrificed to the studies and fancies they record. Bulwer has acted, as well as thought and written ; he has taken his part in society as a member of parliament, at first for St. Ives, and when that borough lost a member, for the ancient city of Lincoln. It must not be forgotten how worthily he has linked his literary and parliamentary career by his exertions in favour of a law for the protection of dramatic copyright, and for releasing the press from the burden of the stamp-laws. quot;Pelhamquot; was the first work which awakened the public to perceive that a new author of power was abroad in the world. The book was severely criticised, one party being liberal in their praises, and another as fruitful in abuse. There was an intolerable air of superiority in the hero , which critics chose to extend to his creator, and, according to their usual justice, the identification being once made, the cry of quot;Anathemaquot; was raised by a hundred voices. quot;Pelhamquot; was succeeded by quot;The Disownedquot; (1828), a more hastily-written work, with more romance and less worldly wisdom than its predecessor, and , as a whole , less uniformly sustained , though containing many scenes and episodes , brimful of the peculiar poetry and passion for which this young writer was then distinguished — a poetry akin in
C4
igt;OÜ
Bpiiit to that which had been so popular in the works of Byron. Bulwor's genius was evidently tinclureci ly the unhealthy tones of his lonlly literary predecessor, nud it would havu been well for his ultimate fame if the author of quot;Pelhamquot; b;id never read one line of Byron. Bulner has genius enough to have been quite independent of the inoekheroic and really bilious school of puetry and romance, and could havu written books in which crime was not necessary for quot;spice,quot; nor misanthropy for imprcssiveness. The next tale was quot;Deverenx,quot; a novel (183'J) ; then came quot;Paul Cliffordquot; (1830), a clever eilrava-gauce, with a highwayman for a hero, and which, by ils very talent and power, was calculated to bo injurious to the public taste. This work, which evinced on the part of ils author an increasing mastery over the most terrible passions, and strongest and most secret workings of the mind, was followed by one published a few months afterwards, entitled, quot;Eugene Aram,quot; with another criminal for hero, and the hangman for a climax. Of the quot;Siamese Twins,quot; a serio-comic poem , published before quot;Eugene Aram,quot; we need only speak as evidencing the eagerness with which ils author has tried to make every field his own , sometimes without sutiiciently weighing the worth or practicability of his subject. There was a pause then in the novelist's labours; and Bulwer nest appeared before the public as the Edi:or of tlie quot;New Monthly Magazine,quot; in which the poet Campbell had already laboured; and to which he contributed a series of papers, quot;The Conversations of an Ambitions Student,quot; full of fine passages and lofly aspirations. The choicest of these essays have been since published in a collectcd form , under the title of quot;The Student.quot; All this time (while, also, be it remembered, Mr. Bulwer was zealously fulfilling his parliamentary duties), he was at work upon his quot;England and the Englishquot; (1833), a clever and somewhat caustic anatomy of our national character. Scarcely had this essay run the gauntlet of abuse and popularity, when, the rod being laid down and the wand taken up again, the quot;Pilgrims of the Khinequot; made their appearance; a capriccio in which the poet, with the freest-winged imagination, sports between elfiu frolics and human sorrows, and carries us at his will from the airy revels, quot;where too much May-dew was drunk out of buttercups,quot; to the chamber of the dying girl, with her impenetrable father, and her eager, passionate lover. His next work again showed Bulwer in a new light; as a romancer of ancient days, — the limner of quot;The .Last Days of Pompeii,quot; the fruit of an Italian journey; and soon after a yet nobler work, quot;llienzi,quot; followed, and etablished Bulwer firmly high in rank amongst our novelists. The former tale was not one of mere glow and gorgeousness — of the banquets and the triumphs, the festivals and the processions, of old times. So strong a human interest, so vivid a display of character, was thrown into the restored ruins of the quot;Silent City,quot; that, while reading, we felt as if mingling in its crowds, as if we knew Nydia the^ blind flowergirl, and Lydon the stalwart, true hearted gladiator; as if we heard the high-pitched voice of the woman , who cared for nothing but that quot;there should be one man for the lion , and another for the tiger,quot; and whose rhyme about quot;the merry showquot; mingles like an omen with the small clond arising from the sea, with the scarcely-felt trembling of the earthquake, which announces to the doomed city that
quot;Kate hangs like a shadow o'er her feasts.quot;
Nothing is neglected, nothing hurried in the working up of this mngnifioent tale, which fascinates us with as breathless an interest as if the end of the story were not proclaimed in its title. But his stirring story of quot;llienzi has yet a higher merit. The strength of the quot;Pompeiiquot; lies in ihe management of incident, illustrated by beautiful and breathing characters; the strength of quot;Ricnziquot; lies in the mastery of character — that complete mastery which, in portraying a hero, dares to show the llaws and blemishes which mingle with his noblest efforts; enough of what is small, and unworthy, and personal, to prevent his wielding omnipotence over the destinies of an inferior race, and which can slill enchain our sympathies for him to the last. Never was ihe rise and progress of a revolution more cleverly sketched — never the balance more evenly held between a righteous cause and unrighteons means; and this by fresh, vivid dialogue, and in scenes that thrill ns with their interest. The characters, too, are bolder and brighter than in any previous works. We need hardly instance Kionzi's high-hearted and haughty wife, and^tho Provencal knight, with his tender, romantic, troubadour spirit, breaking out from under his warriors snit of mail , and the crew of corrupt Koman nobles, and the citizens, with Cccco del Vecchio, the sturdy and selfish smith, at their head. It would be dinicult to name a work of its class higher in conception, or more exquisite in artistic treatment, than quot;Kienzi.quot; In the interval between the quot;Last Days of Pompeiiquot; and quot;llienzi,quot; Sir Edward published a political pamphlet called quot;The Crisis,quot; which ran through more than twenty editions in a short time, during the excitement of tho general election which followed Sir Robert Peel's first accession to power as Prime Minister. A further proof of the industry, versatility, and aspiration , which eminently characterise Bulwer, w'as given by him early in 1837 , in the production of the play quot;The Duchess de La Vallièro ,quot; at Covent Garden. He had won fame as a novelist and a poet , and a satirist of manners, and he now desired to shine upon the stage; but in his first dramatic effort he was not successful. The failure of this drama is easily understood. The story was one in which it was difficolt to enlist the sympathies of an English audience — it was denounced as immoral; and, as if to lessen the chance of its success, the actors seemed to have studied how ])athos might be exaggerated into rant, and lively dialogue degraded into burlesque, ft is unequally written ; the concentration eminently required for the stage — and which may be attained without assuming the quips and qnaintuesses of a bygone day — was wanting to its dialogue , especially in the portions which connected its striking situations and its great speeches. His other dramas , the quot;Lady ol Lyons, quot;Richelieu,quot; and quot;Money,quot; have had a more fortunate fate. quot;Ernest Maltravers ,quot; another of his morbid novels, appeared in 1837, and was followed by a continuation of the same thread, entitled quot;Alice, or the Mysteries, neither of them worthy the author of quot;llienzi.quot; But failures may bo
overlooked — especially such brilliant ones as these — when their parent, with unflagging industry, goes on striving nobly for fame, nnk ever ami anon produces such works as his next effort —- linllquot; historical half philosophical — like quot;Athens.quot; This was planned when its author was at college, and was wrought upon, at intervals, for five years. The result is well worth the time and thought bestowed. The author has turned the full strength of a mind, at once shrewd, enthusiastic, ami daring, upon his subject, and embellished it with all the graces of an ornamented style. Next came quot;Lelia , or the Siege of Granadaquot; (18ÜS), and quot;Calderon the Courier;quot; followed by quot;Night and Morning,quot; quot;Day and Night,quot; quot;Last of the Barons,quot; quot;Zanoniquot; (18'li2), quot;Eva, the 111-Omened Marriage,quot; and other Tales and Poems (1842), quot;Harold, or the Last of the Saxon Kings,quot; quot;Lucretia,quot; quot;The Caxtons,quot; quot;My Novel.quot; The mere list of all he has done would make n long catalogue of itself. If in some cases Hulwer has wasted power and beauty upon sin and unworthiness , or lias allowed a prurient imagination to run wild in embellishing crime, it will be admitted he has displayed wonderful versatility and industry, and undoubted genius. The volumes in which he has wrought with the purest models in his quot;mind's eye,quot; are surely his most excellent productions, and those on which his fame will hereafter most securely rest. The quot;New Timon,quot; and quot;King Arthur,quot; two clever poems, were published anonymously. A writer in quot;Bentley's Miscellanyquot; gives us some interesting hints about the habits which have enabled Bulwer to produce the host of book that bear his name. quot;Bulwer worked his way to eminence — worked it through failure, through ridicule. His facility is only the result of practice and study. He wrote at first very slowly, and with great dilHculiy; but he resolved to master the stubborn instrument of thought, and mastered it. He has practised writing as an art, and has re-written some of his essays (unpublished) nine or ten times over. Another habit will show the advantage of continuous application. He only works about three hours a-day — from ten in the morning till one — seldom later. The evenings, when alone, are devoted to reading, scarcely ever to writing. Yet what an amount of good hard labour has resulted from these three hours! He writes very rapidly, averaging twenty pages a-day of novel print.quot; Bulwer's latest publications, of a miscellaneous character, have included a pamphlet on the Corn-laws, entitled, quot;Letters to John Bull,quot; recommending Protection , and a drama , quot;Not so Bad as we Seem ,quot; written for the amateur company of whom Charles Dickens is the chief; and generously given , and as generously acted , for the benefit of the new Guild of Literature and Art. Sir Edward was returned to Parliament in 1852 , after an interval of eleven years, and sits for the county of Hertford, which his ancestors had at various times, for several centuries, represented before him.
|
At ten years old 1 went to Kton. I had been educaled till that period l»y my mother, who, being distantly related to Lord-, (who had published 'lliiits upon the Culinary Art') imagined she possessed an hereditary claim to literary distinctions. History was ber fjreat/or/e; for she bad read all the historical romances of the flay, and history accordingly I bad been carefully taught. I think at this moment I see my mother before me, reclining on ber sofa, and repeating to me some story about Queen Eluabetb and Lord Essex; then telling me, in a languid voice, as she sank back with the exertion , of the blessing of a literary taste, and admonishing me never to read above half an hour at a time for fear of losing my health. Well , to Eton I went; aiilt;l tiiu sccoml day I had been there, 1 was half killed for rcfusinj;, with all the pride of a 1'clharn , to wash tea-cups. I was rescued from theclutches of my tyrant hy a hoy not rniieh hiinjer than myself, hut reckoned the Lest fijjhler, for his size , in the whole school. His name was Reginald Glanvillo : from that period, we heeame inseparable, and our friendship lasted all the lime he stayed at liton , which was wilhin a year of my own departure for Cam-britlfje. |
Ilii father was a baronet, of a very ancient and wealthy family ;and his mother was a woman of some talent and more ambition. She made ber house one of tho most rcclwrchee in London. Seldom seen at large assemblies, she was eagerly sought after in the welt winnowed soirees of the elect. Her wealth, great as it was, seemed the least prominent ingredient of her establishment. There was in it no uncalled-for ostentation—no purse-proud vulgarity—nocringing to great, and no patronizing condeseension to little people; even the Sunday newspapers could not find fault will) her, and the querulous wives of younger brothers could only sneer and be silent. 'It is an excellent connexion ,' said my mother, when I told ber of my friendship with Reginald Glauville, 'and will he of more use to you than many of greater apparent consequence. Ilemem-ber, my dear, that in all the friends you make at present, vou look to the advantage you can derive from them hereafter ; that is what we call knowledge of the world, atid it is to get the knowledge of the world that you are sent to a public school.' I think, however, to my shame, that notwithstanding my mother's instruction , very few prudential considerations were mingled with my friendship for Reginald Glauville. I loved him with a warmth of attachnient, which has since surprised even myself. He was of a very singular character: he used to wander by the river in the bright, days of summer, when all else were at play, without |
|
any coin|iaiiiun hul his own lliuu;;l]ls; and lliesc were tinged , oven al lliat early aoe, witli a deep and impassioned mclanclioly. lie was so reserved in liis manner, that it was luolied upon as coldness or pride, and was repaid as such hy a pretty general dislike. Yet to thosi; he loved, no one could be more open and warm; more watchful to gratify others, more indille-rent to gratification for himself: an utter ah-sence of all selfishness, anil an eager and active benevolence, were indeed the distinguishing traits of his character. I have seen him endure with a careless goodnature the most, provolung affronts from boys much less than himself; but directly F, or any other of his immediate friends, was injured or aggrieved, his anger was almost implacable. Although he was of a slight frame, yet early exercise had brought strength to bis niusclcs, and activity to his limbs; and bis sltill in all athletic exercises, whenever (which was but rarely) he deigned to share them, gave alike confidence and success to whatever entreprise his lion-like courage tempted him to dare. Such, briefly and imperfeelly sketched, was the character of lleginahl Ghmville — the one, who of my early companions differed the most from myself; yet I he one whom J loved the most; and the one whose future destiny was the most intertwined with my own. I was in the head class when I left Eton. As t was reckoned an uncommonly well-educated hoy, it may not. be ungratifying to the admirers of the present system of education to pause here fora moment, and reeall what I then knew. I could make twenty (.«tin verses in half an hour; I could construe without an English translation , all the easy Latin authors, and many of the diffieult ones, vtt/i it: I could read Greek fluently, and even translate it through the medium of a F.alin version at the bottom of the )age. 1 was thought exceedingly clever, for I ind only been eight years acquiring all this fund of information, w hich, as one can never recall it in the world, you have every right to suppose that 1 had entirely forgotlen before I was five-and-twenly. As I was never taught a syllable of English during this period; as when 1 once attempted to read Pope's poems, onl of school hours, I was laughed at, and called snpf as jny mother, when I went to school, renounced her own instructions; and as, whatever schoolmasters may think to the contrary, one learns nothing now-a-days hy inspiration: so of every thing which relates toEnglish literature, English laws, and English history (with the exception of the said story of Queen Eli/.a both and Lord Essex), you have the same right to suppose that 1 was, at the age of eighteen, when I left Eton, in the profoundest ignorance. |
At this age, Ï was transplanted to Cambridge, where I bloomed for two years in the blue and silver of a fellow commoner of Trinity. Al tlicend of that time (being of royal descent) J became en titled loan honorary degree. I suppose the term is in conlradislinction to an honourable decree, which is obtained hy pale men in spectacles and cotton stockings, after thirty six months of intense application. I do not exnctly remember how I spent my lime at Cambridge. I had a pianoforte in my room , and a private billiardroom at a villagelwo miles oil'; and betweon these resources, I managed to improve inv mind more than could reasonably have been expected. To say truth, the whole place reeked with vulgarity. The men drank beer hy the gallon, and eat cheese by the bundled weight — wore jockey-cut coats , and talked slang — rode for wagers, and swore when they lost — smoked in your face, and expectorated on the flour. Their proudest glory was to drive the mail —their mightiest exploit to box with the coachman — their most delicate amour to leer al the bar-maid. It will be believed, that I felt little regret in quilling companions of this description. I went to take leave of our college tutor. 'Mr. Pelbam,' said he, affectionately squeezing me by the band , 'your conduct has been most exemplary; you have not walked wantonly over the college grassplals , nor set your dog at the proctor — nor driven tandems by day, nor broken lamps by night— nor entered the chapel in order to display your intoxication — nor the lecture-room , in order to caricature the professors. This is the general behaviour of young men of family and fortune; hut it has not been yours. Sir, you have been an honour to your college.' Thus closed my academical career. He «ho does not allow that it passed creditably to my teachers, profitably to myself, and beneficially to the world, is a narrow-minded and illiterate men, who knows nothing of the advantages of modern education. I left Cambridge in a very weak state of health; anil as nobody had yet come to London, i accepted the invitation of Sir Lionel Garrett to pay him a visit at his country seat. Accordingly, one raw winter's day, full of the hopes of the reviving influence of air and exercise , I found myself carefully packed up in three great coats, and on the high road to Garrett Park. Sir Linncl-Garrell was a character very common in England, and, in describing him, 1 describe the whole species, lie was of an ancient lainily, and bis ancestors had for centuries resided on their estates in Norfolk. Sir Lionel, who came to his majority and his fortune al the same time, went up to London al the age of twenty-one, a raw, uncouth sort of young man, in a green coat, and lank hair. His friends in town were of that set whose members arc above ton, whenever they |
;i(ll
|
do nol jjrasi) ut ils possession, liul wlio, vhonevcr lliey ilo, loso »1 oncu llicir nlm andtlieir equilibrium, ami fall immeasurably below it. I mean that set which 1 call 'the respectable,' consisting of old pours of an old school; country (jentlemen, who still disdain not to lovo their wine and to hate the French; generals who have served in the army; elder brothers who snccced to somc-thing besides a mortgage; and younger brothers, who do not mistahe their capital for tlieir income. To this set you may add the whole of the barom tajje — for 1 have rcinarlied that baronets bang together like bees or Scotcbmcn ; and if I go to a baronet's house, and sjiealt lo some one whom I have not the happiness to know, I always say '«Sir John-.' It was no wonder, then, that to this set belonged Sir Lionel Garrett— no more the youth in a green coat and lank hair, but pinched in, and curled out — abounding in horses nnd whiskers — dancing all night — lounging all day — the favourite of the old ladies, the Philander of I he young. One unfortunate evening Sir Lionel Garrett was introduced to the celebrated Duchess of I), j From that moment his head was turned. Before then, he had always imagined that he was somebody — that he was Sir Lionel Garrett, with a good-looking person and eight thousand a-ycar ; he now knew that be was nobody unless he went to Lady G.'s, and unless be bowed to l.ady S. Disdaining all importance derived from himself, it became absolutely necessary to his happiness, that all his importance should be derived solely from bis acquaintance wiln others, lie cared not a straw that be was a man of fortune, df family, of consequence ; be must be a man of ton; or he was an atom, a non-entily, a very worm, and no man. Ko lawyer at Gray's Inn, no galley slave at the oar, ever worked so hard at his task as Sir Lionel Garrett at his. Ton , to a single man , is a thing attainable enough. Sir Lionel was just gaining the envied distinction, when be saw , rourlcd, and married Lady Harriett Woodstock. His new wife was of a modern and nol very rich family , and striving like Sir Lionel for the notoriety of fashion ; hut of this struggle be was ignorant, fie saw her admitted into good society — he imagined she commanded it: she was a hanger-on — be bedieved she was a leader. Lady Harriett was crafly and twenty-four— had no objection tu be niarrird , nor to change the nnme of Woodstock for Garrett. She kept up the baronet's mistake till it was too late to repair it. Marriage did not bring Sir Lionel wisdom. His wife was of the same turn of mind as himself; they might have been great people in the country — they preferred being little people in lowti. They might have chosen frienrls among prirsons |
of respectability and rank —they preferred being chosen as acquaintance by persons of ton. Society was their being's end and aim, and the only thing which brought them pleasure was the pain of attaining it. Did 1 not say truly that I w ould describe individuals of a common species? Is there one who reads this, who does not recognize that overflowing class of the English population, whose members would conceive it an insult to be thought of sufllcient rank to ho respectable for w hat they are ? — w bo take it as an honour that they are made by their acquaintance? — who renounce the ease of Ihing for themselves, for the trouble of living for persons who care not a pin for their existence — who are wretched if they are not dictated to by others — and who toil, groan , travail, through the whole course of life, in order to forfeit their independence? I arrived at Garelt. Park just time enough to dress for dinner. As I was descending the stairs after having performed that ceremony, I beard my own name pronounced by a very soft, lisping voice, 'Henry Pclham ! dear, what a pretty name. Is be handsome?' 'Uatber distingue than handsomewas tbe unsatisfactory reply, couched in a slow . pompous accent, which I immediately recognized to belong to Lady Harriett Garrett. 'Can we make something of him ?' resumed the first voice. 'Something !' said Lady Harriett, indignantly: 'he will he Lord Glenrnorris! and be is son to Lady Frances Pelham.' 'Ah,' said tbc lisper, carelessly; 'but can be write poetry, and play prnverhes? 'Ko, Lady Harriet,' said I, advancing; 'but permit, me, through you, to assure Lady Ncl-thorpe that be can admire those who do.' 'So you know mo then ?' said the lisper : 'I see we shall be excellent friends;' and disengaging herself from Lady Harriett, she look my arm, and began discussing persons and things, poetry and china, French plays and music, till I found myself beside her atdinner, and most assiduously endeavouring to silence her by the superior cn-grossments of a Be'cltamelle dc poisson, I took the opportunity of the pause, to survey the little circle of which Lady Harriett was the centre. In the first place, tlrere was Mr. Davison, a great political economist, a short, dark, corpulent gentleman, with a quiet, serene, sleepy countenance, which put me exceedingly in mind of my grandmother's arm-chair; beside him was a quick. sharp little woman, all sparkle and bustle, glancing a small, grey, prying eye round the table, with a most restless activity: this, as Lady Nelthorpe afterwards informed nre, was a Miss TralTord, an excellent person for a Christmas in the country, whom every body was dying to have : she was an admirable mimic, an admirable actrcss, and an admirable reciter; made poetry |
|
and shoes, and lold forluiios hy the cards, whicli came actually true. There was also Mr. Wormwood, the noli-me-lt;anjere of litorary lions — an author who sowed his conversation not with flowers fiul thorns. Nohody could accuse him of the llatlery generally imputed to his speci 'S; through the course of u long and varied lift1, he had never once heen Itnowti to say a civil thing. lie was too much disliked not to ho recherché; whatever is once notorious, even for licing disagrecahle, is sure to he courted in England. Opposite to him sal the really clever, and affccledly pedantic Lord Vincent, one of those persons who have been'/jro-mising young men' all their lives ; who are found till four o'clock in the afternoon in a dressing-gown, with a quarto hofore them ; who go down into the country for six weeks every session, to cram an impromptu reply ; and who always have u work in the press which is never to he published. Lady Neltborpe herself I had frequently seen. She had some reputation for talent, w;is exceedingly affected . wrote poetry in albums , ridiculed her husband , who was a fox-hunter , anil had a great penchant pour les beaux arts et les beaut; homines. There were four or five others of the unknown vulgar, younger brothers, who were good shots and bad matches; elderly ladies, who lived in Baker-street, and liked long whist; and young ones, who neier took wine, and said '■Sir.' I must, however, among this number, except the beautiful I.ady Roseville, the most fascinating ■woman, perhaps, of the day. She was evidently lt;/ie great person there, and, indeed, among all people who paid due deference to ton, was always sure to be so every » here. She was very fond of the society of literati, though without the pretence of belonging to their order. But her manners constituted her chief attraction: while they were utterly different from those of every one else, you could not. in the least minutlaj, discover in what the difference consisted: this is, in my opinion, the real test of perfect breeding. While you are enchanted with the effect, it should possess so little prominency and peculiarity, that you should never be able to guess the cause. ■Pray,' said Lord Vincent to Mr. Wormwood, 'have you been to P-this yc:ir ?' 'No,' was the answer. 'I have, my lord,' said MissTrafford, who never lost an opportunity of slipping in a word. 'Well, and did they make you sleep, as usual, at the Crowu, with the same eternal excuse, after having brought you llfly miles from town, of small house — no beds — all engaged — inn close by ? Ah, never shall I forget that inn, with its royal name, and its hard beds — quot;Uneasy sleeps a lienii beneath the Crowu !quot; |
'lla,ha! Kicellentl' cried Sliss Trafford, who was always the first in at the death of a pun. 'Yes, indeed they did: pnor old Lord Belton, with his rheumatism ; and that immense General Grant, with his asthma; together with three 'single men', and myself, were safely conveyed to that asylum for the destitute.' 'Ah! Grant, Grant!' said Lord V incent, eagerly, who saw another opportunity of whipping in a pun. 'He slept there also the same iii|ihl I did; and when I saw his unwieldy person waddling out of the door the next morning, I said to Temple, 'Well, that's the largest Grunt I ever saw from the Crown.' 'Very good,' said Wormwood, gravely. 'I declare Vincent, you are growing quite witty. Do you remember Jekyl ? Poor fellow, what a really good punster he was — not agreeable though — particularly at dinner— no punsters are. Mr. Davison, what is that dish next to you?' Mr. Davison was a great gourmand. Salmi de penlreau.v lt;iux truffes , ' replied the political economist. 'Truffles! said Wormwood, 'have you been eating any ?' 'Yes,* said Davison, with unusual energy, 'and they are the best I have tasted for a long time.' 'Very likely,' said Wormwood, with a dejected air. '1 am particularly fond of them, but I dare not touch one—truffles are so very apoplectic — you, I make no doubt, may eat them in safety.' Wormwood was a tall, meagre man, with a neck a yard long. Davison was, as I have said , short and fat, and made without any apparent neck at all — only head and shoulders, like a cod-fish. Poor Mr. Davison turned perfectly white; he fidgeted about in his chair; cast a look of the most deadly fear and aversion at the fatal dish he had been so attentive to before; and, muttering 'apoplectic', closed his lips , and did not open them again all dinnertime. Mr. Wormwood's object was effected. Two people were silenced and uncomfortable, and a sort of mist hung over the spirits of the whole party. The dinner went on and oilquot;, like all other dinners; the ladies retired, and the men drank, and talked indecorums. Mr. Davison left the room first, in order to look out the word 'truffli-,' in the Encyclopsedia; and Lord Vincentaml I went next, 'lest (as my companion characteristically observed) that d---d Wormwood should, ifwestay- ed a moment longer, quot;send us weeping to our beds.quot; All the men at Sir Lionel Garrett's were keen sportsmen. Now, shooting is an amusement I was never particularly partial to. I «as first disgusted with that species of rational recreat ion at a battue, where, instead of bagging any thing, /was nearly bagged, having been inserted, like wine in an ice pail, in a wel ditch for three hours, during which |
|
lime my hat had hecn twice shot at for a pheasant, and my leather {jnitors once for a hare; and to crown all , when those several mistakes were discovered, my inlendcd exterminators, instead of apologi/injj for havinj; shot at me, wore quite disappointeil at having missed. Seriously, that same shootinjf is a most har-barons amusement, only fit for majors in the army, and royiil dukes, and that sort of pi'ople; the mere walking is had enoiijjh, hut enilgt;arrass-inj; one's arms moreover, with a gun , and one's legs with turnip-tops, exposin|f otieself to the merry of had shots and the atrocity of good , seems to me only a state of painful fatigue, enlivened hy the prohahility of heing killed. This digression is meant to signify, that 1 never joined the single men and double Mantons that want in atid off among Sir Lionel Garrett's preserves. 1 used, instead, to take long walks hy myself, and found, like virtue, my own reward, in the additional health and strength these diurnal exertions produced on inc. |
One morning, chance threw into my way nnc bonne fortune, which 1 took care to improve. From that time the family of a farmer Sinclair (one of Sir Lionel's tenants), was alarmed hy strange and supernatural noises: one apartment in especial, occupied hy a female memher of the household , was allowed , even hy the clerk of the jiarish, a very hold man, and a hit of a sceptic, lo he haunted; the windows of that ehamher were wont lo upon and shut, thin airy voices confabulate therein, and dark shapes hover thereout, long after the fair occupant had , with the rest of the family, retired to repose. Uut the most unaccountable thing was the fatality which attended tne, and seemed to mark meout, nolens volcns, for an untimely death, ƒ, w ho had so carefully kept out of the way ol gunpowder asa sportsman, very narrow ly escaped being twice shot as a yhost. 'i his was but a poor reward for a w alk more than a mile long, in nights hy no means of cloudless clinics and starry skies; accordingly I resolved lo 'gne up the gho-l' in earnest rather than in metaphor, and tn pay my last visit and adieus to the mansion of Farmer Sinclair. |
Author, wns born in India, in 1811, He is of pood family, and was originally intended for the bar, of which he is now a niemher. lie kept seven or eight terms at Cambridge, but left the University without taking a degree, for the purpose of becoming an artist. Afu-r about three years' desultory practice he devoted himself to literature, abandoning the design of making a position as a painter, and only employed his pictorial talents in illustration of his own writings. For a short time he conducted a literary and artistic review, similar in plan to the quot;Alhrnrenm but the new juurnal, although characterised by grent ability, perished in competition with established rivals, lie also, with the assistance of Dr. Maginn, started a newspaper; but this was unsuccessful. His lirst distinction wns won as a writer in quot;Eraser's Magazine,quot; quot;Punch and other periodicals of character. In the latter amusing periodical appeared his quot;Jeames's Diary,quot; a clever satire on the follies of the railway mania, exposing the hollow foundation upon which railway fortunes and reputation were made His quot;Snob Papers,quot; published in the same manner, have since been collected and reprinted with great success. His satire is as keen as that of Fielding. His quot;Paris Sketch-Book ' appeared in 1810. His quot;Irish Sketch-Book,quot; with nuiiierous engravings drawn by the author, wns published in 1845. In the next year appeared his quot;Notes of a Journey from Cornhill to Grand Cairo;quot; and in 184)7 the lirst numbers of quot;Vanity Fairquot; appeared, in the proper name of their author. This, Thackeray's tirst fully developed novel, has been followed by quot;Arthur Pendennis,quot; completed in 1851 , and by his highly-finished and admirable novel, quot;Esmond.quot; Ilia Christmas-book, entitled quot;The Kickleburies on the Khine,quot; was attacked by a writer in the quot;Times;quot; whereupon Mr. Thackeray replied in a very unmislakenble way, in a preface to the second edition of the work. The critic fared very badly in the contest. This is not the only occasion in which our author has had to take up the cudgels in his own behalf. It must be mentioned, that the signature under which he usually wrote in quot;Fraserquot; was Michael Angelo Titmnrsh , and that in addition to the books narmd in this slight sketch of his literary career, |»e is the author of quot;The Great Hoggarty Diamond,quot; quot;Dr, Birch and His Young Friends,quot; quot;Our Street, and quot;Mrs. Perkins's Ball.quot; At the end of 1852 he crossed the Atlantic, lo repeat in America a series of literary lectures which had previously met with great success in England. His reception has been everywhere of the most successful and gratifying description.
|
It was hiyh time, indeed, that I should make my appearanre. Waving my sword with one hand, and sei/.inft my telescope with the other, 1 at one? frightened and examined the enemy. Wei they knew when they saw that flamingo-plume floating in the hrcezc — that awful figure standing in the breach — that waving war-sword sparkling in the shy — well, I say, they knew the name of the Immlde individual who owned the sword, the plume, and (he figure. The rulliuns were mustered iu front, the cavalry behind. The flags were flying, the |
«12
|
tlniais, goii([S, tamliourines, violoncellos, iiinl other inslruments of Easlcrn music, raised in llic air a shanjje, liarharic melody; the officers (yatalinls), mounted on white dromedaries, were seen galloping to and fro, carrying to the advancing hosts the orders of Holkar. You sec that two sides of the fort of Futtyghur (rising at it does on a rock thai is almost per-pendieularj, are defended hy the Biirrumpooter river, two hundred feet deep at this point, and a thousand yards wide, so that I had no fear about them attacking me in thul quarter. My guns, therefore (with their six-and-tliiity miserable charges of shot) were dragged round to the point at which I conceived Ilolkar would he most likely to attack me. 1 was in a situation that I did not dare to (ire, except at such times as I could kill a hundred men by a single discharge of a cannon ; so the attacking parly marched and marched, very strongly, about a mile and a half off, the elephants inarching without receiving the slightest damage from us, until they had come lo w ithin four hundred yards of our walls, (the rogues knew all the secrets of our weakness, through the betrayal of the dastardly Ghorumsaug, or Ihcy never would have ventured so near). At that distance — it was about the spot where the Kuttyghur hill began gradually to rise — the imading force stopped; the elephants drew up in a line, at right angles with our wall (the fools; they thought they should expose theniscl\cs to much by taking a position parallel to it!); the cavalry halted too, a,|d — after the deuce's own flourish of trompets, and banging of gongs, to be sure, somebody, in a llame-coloured satin dress, with an immense jewel blazing in his pngree (that looked through my- telescope like a small hut Very bright planet), got up from the back of one of the very biggest elephants, and began a speech. The elephants were, as I said, in a line formed with admirable precision, about three bundrcd of them. The following little diagram will explain matters : — K, is the line of elephants, i' is the wall of the fort. G a gun in the fori, iïow the reader will see what 1 did. The elephants were standing, their trunks waggling to and fro gracefully before them ; and I with superhuman skill and activity, brought |
1' is the fort, as before. G is the gun , as before. K, the elephan Is, as we have previously seen them. What then is ? -f- is the line taken by the bull fired from G, which took off one hundred and thirty-four elephants1 trunks, and only spent itself in the tusk of a very old animal, that stood the hundred and thirty-fifth ! I say that such a shot was never fired before or since; that a gun was never pointed in such away. Suppose I had been a common man, and contented myself with firing bang at the head of the first animal ? An ass would have done it, prided himself had he hit his mark , and what would have been the consequence? Why, that the ball might have killed two elephants and wounded a third; but here, probably, it would have slopped , and done no further mischief. The trunk was the place , at which to aim ; there are no bones there; and away, consequently, went bullet, shearing, as 1 have said, through one hundred and thirty-five probosces. Heavens I what a howl there was when the shot took ellect 1 What a sudden stoppage of Uolkar's speech ! What a hideous snorting of elephants I What a rush backwards was made hy the whole army, as if some demon was pursuing them ! Away they went. No sooner did I see them in full retreat, than, rushing forward, myself t shouted lo my men, quot;My friends, yonder lies your dinner Jquot; We flung open the gates — we tore down to the spot where the elephants had fallen: seven of them were killed; and of I hose that escaped In die of their hideous wounds elsewhere, most had left their tusks behind them. A great quantity of them we seized; and I my-self, cutting up with my scimetar a couple of the fallen animals, as ;gt; butcher would a calf, motioned to the men to lake the pieces back to the fort, where barbacucd elephant was served round for dinner, instead of the miserable allowance of an olive and a glass of wine, which I had promised lo my female friends, in my speech to them. The animal reserved for the ladies was a young white one — the fattest and tenderest 1 ever ale in my life; they are very fair eating, hut the flesh has an India-rubber flavour, which, unlil one is accustomed to it, is unpalatable. It. was well that I had obtained this supply, the gun (i (a devilish long brass gun) to hear upon them. I pointed it myself; bang it. went, and what was the consequence? Why this:—• |
15
|
for, ilurinj' my nlisonceon llie works, Mrs. Van-dcgohlilcscliroy and one or I wo others had forced their way into the supper-room, and devoured every morsel of the garrison larder, with the exception of the chccses, the olives, and the ■wine, which were locked up in my own apartment, before which stood a sentinel. Disgusting Mrs. Van ! AVhen I heard of her gluttony , I had almost a mind to eat her. However, we made a very comfurtahle dinner o(F the har-hacued steaks, ami when everybody had done, had the comfort of knowing that there was enough for one meal more. The next day, as I expected, the enemy attacked us in great force, attempting to escalade the fort; but by the help of my guns, and my good sword , by the distinguished bravery of Lieutenant Macgillicuddy and the rest of the garrison, we beat this attack oft'completely, the enemy sustaining a loss of seven hundred men. We were victorious ; hut when another attack was made, what were we to do? We had still a little powder left, but had fired oil'all the shot, slones, iron-bars, amp;c., in the garrison! On this day, too, we de\oured the last morsel of our food ; 1 shall never forget Mrs. Vandegobblesehroy's despairing look, as I saw her sitting alone, attempting to make some impression on the little white elephant's roasted tail. The third day the attack was repeated. The resources of genius are never at an end. Yesterday I had no ammunition ; to-day, 1 discovered charges suilicient for two guns, and two swivels , which were much longer, hut had bores of about blunderbuss size. This time my friend Loll Mohammed , who had received . as the reader may remember, such a bastinadoing for my sake, headed the attack. The poor wretch could not walk, but he was carried in an open palanquin, and came on waving his sword, and cursing horribly in his Uindoustan jargon. Behind him came troops of matchlock men, w ho picked olFevery one of our men who showed their noses above the ramparts ; and a great host of blackamoors with sealing ladders, bundles to fill the ditch, fascines, gabions, culverins, demilunes, counterscarps, and all the other appurtenances of offensive war. On they came; my guns and men were ready for them. You will ask how my pieces were loaded? 1 answer, that though my garrison were without food, I knew my duty as an officer, and had put the two Dutch cheeses into the two guns, and had crammed the contents of a hoitle of olives into each swivel. They advanced, — whish! went one of the Dutch cheeses — bang! went the other. Alas! they did little execution, in their first contact with an opposing body, they certainly floored it; but they becanic at once like so much Welsh-rabbit, and did no execution beyond the man whom they struck down. |
quot;llogree, pogrec , wongrec-fum(praise to Allah , and the forty-nine Imaums!) shouted out the ferocious Loll Mabomrned, when he saw the failure of my shot. quot;Onward, sons of the Prophet! the infidel has no more ammunition — a hundred thousand lakhs of rupees to the man who brings me Gahagan's head!quot; His men set up a shout, and rushed forward — he, to do him justice, was at the very head, urging on bis own palanquin bearers, and poking them with the tip of bis scimetar. They came panting up the hill: 1 was black with rage, but it was the cold, concentrated rage of despair. quot;Macgillicuddy,quot; said I, calling that faithful ofllcer, quot;you know where the barrels of powder ate?quot; He did. quot;You know the use to make of them? He did. He grasped my hand. quot; Goliab ,quot; said he, quot;farewell! 1 swear that the fort shall be in atoms, as soon as yonder unbelievers have carried it. Oh, my poor mother!quot; added the gallant youth , as sighing, yet fearless, he retired to bis post. I gave one thought to my blessed, my beautiful lielinda , and then, stepping into the front, took down one of the swivels; — a shower of matchlock halls came whizzing round my bead. I did not heed them. 1 took the swivel, and aimed coolly. Loll Mohammed, his palanlt;|uin , and bis men, were now not above two hundred yards from the fort. Loll was straight before me, gesticulating and shouting to his men. 1 fired — bang!!! I aimed so hui;, one hundred and seventeen best Spanish olives were lodged in a lump in the face of the unhappy Loll Mohammed. The wretch, uttering a yell the most hideous and unearthly 1 ever heard, fell back dead — the frightened hearers flung down the palanquin and ran — the whole host ran as one man ; their screams might he heard for leagues. quot;Tomasba, tomasha,quot; they cried, quot;it is enchantment!quot; Away they fled, and the victory a third time was ours. Soon as the fight was done, I Hew back to my Belinda — we had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours, but 1 forgot hunger in the thought of once more beholding her! The sweet soul turned towards me with a sickly smile as I entered, and almost fainted in my arms; but, alas! it was not love which caused in her bosom an eniolion so strong — it was hunger! quot;Oh! my Goliab,quot; whispered she, quot;for three days 1 have not tasted food — 1 could not eat that horrid elephant yesterday; hut now — oh ! heaven !quot; She could say no more, hut sunk almost lifelesson my shoulder. I administered to her a trifling dram of rum, which revived her for a moment, and then rushed down-stairs , determined that if it were a piece of my own leg, she should still have something |
05
|
to satisfy lier hunger. Luckily I reincmhercd thai three or four elephants were slill lying in the field, having been killed by us in the first action, two days before. Necessity, thought I, has no law ; my adorable girl must eat elephant , until she can get something better. 1 rushed into the court where the men were, for the most part, assembled. quot;Men,quot; said I, quot;our larder is empty; we must fill it as we did the day before yesterday; who will follow Gabagan on a foraging parly ?quot; I expecteil that, as on former occasions, every man would offer to accompany me. To my astonishment, not a soul moved — a murmur arose among the troops; and at last, one of the oldest and bravest came forward. quot;Captain,quot; he said, quot;it is of no use, we cannot feed upon elephants for ever; we have not a grain of powder left, and must give up the fort when the attack is made to-morrow. We may as well be prisoners now as then , and we won't go elephant-hunting any more.quot; quot;Ruffian Iquot; 1 said, quot;bo who first talks of surrender, dies!quot; and 1 cut him down, quot;is there any one else who wishes to speak?quot; No one stirred. quot;Cowards! miserable cowards!quot; shouted I; quot; what, you dare not move for fear of death , at the hands of those wretches who even now lied before your arms — what, do 1 say i/owr arms?— before mine! —alone 1 did it; and as alone I routed the foe, alone 1 will victual the fortress! Ho! open the gate!quot; |
1 rushed out; not a single man would follow. The bodies of the elephants that we had killed still lay on the ground where they had fallen, about four hundred yards from the fort. I descended calmly the hill, a very steep one, and coming to the spot, took my pick of the animals, choosing a tolerably small and plump one, of about thirteen feet high, which the vultures had respected. 1 threw this animal over my shoulders, and made for the fort. As I marched up the acclivity, whizz — piff — whirr! came the balls over my bead; and pitter-patter, pitter-patter! they fell on the body of the elephant like drops oï rain. The enemy were behind rnc; I knew it, and quickened my pace. I beard the gallop of their horse: they came nearer, nearer; 1 was within a hundred yards of the fort — seventy —fifty! I strained every nerve; 1 panted with the superhuman exertion — 1 ran — could a man run very fast wilh such a tremendous weight on bis shoulders ? Up came thd enemy; fifty horsemen were shouting and screaming at my tail. Oh, heaven! five yards more — one moment — and I am saved ! — It is done — I strain the last strain — 1 make the last step — 1 fling forward my precious burden into the gate opened wide to receive me and it, and — I fall! The gate thunders to, and I am left on the outside! Fifty knives are gleaming before my bloodshot eyes — fifty black hand are at my throat, when a voice exclaims, quot;Slop; — kill him not, it is Gujputi!quot; A film come over my eyes — exhausted nature would hear no more. |
|
I said that my master was adoared by every person in my Lady Griffin's establishmint. I should have said by every person excep one, — a young French gnlinn, that is, who, before our appearants, had been mighty partiklar with my lady, ocknpying hy her side exackly llie same position, which the Uonrahle Mr. Deuceace now held. It was hewtiffleand headifying to see bow coolly that young nobleman kicked the poar She-valliay do L'Orge out of his shoes, and how gracefully he himself stept into 'em. M miseer de L'Orge was a smart young French jentlcman , of about my master's age and good looks, but not possest of half my master's iinpidince. Not that that |
?iuallaty is uncommon in France ; but few, very ew, had it to such a degree as my exlent employer , Mr. Deuceace. Besides De L'Orge was regarly and reely in love with Lady Griffin , and master only pretending: he had. of coars, an advantitcb, which the poar Frentchinan never could git. He was all smiles and gaty, while Delorge was ockward and melumcolly. My master had said twenty pretty things to Lady Griffin, hefor the shevalicr had finished smoothing bis hat, staring at her, and sighing fit to bust bis weskit. O liiv, luv! 7/iuallaty is uncommon in France ; but few, very ew, had it to such a degree as my exlent employer , Mr. Deuceace. Besides De L'Orge was regarly and reely in love with Lady Griffin , and master only pretending: he had. of coars, an advantitcb, which the poar Frentchinan never could git. He was all smiles and gaty, while Delorge was ockward and melumcolly. My master had said twenty pretty things to Lady Griffin, hefor the shevalicr had finished smoothing bis hat, staring at her, and sighing fit to bust bis weskit. O liiv, luv! 7/hj is'nt the way to win a woman , or my name's not Fit/.roy Yellowsplush ! Myself, when I begun my carear among the fair six, I was always sighing and moping, like this poar Frenchman. What was the consquinU ? The fuar fust women I adoared lafft at me, and left mc for something more lively? Wilh the rest I have edopted a diffrent game, and wilh tolrahle suxess, I can tell you. But this is eggatism, which 1 aboar. Well, the long and the short of it is, that Munsecr Ferdinand Ilyppolite Xavier Stanilas, Shevalier de L'Orge, was reglar cut out by Munsecr Algernon Percy Deuceace, Kiquire. Poar Ferdinand did not leave the house—he hadn't the heart to do that — nor had my lady the desire to dismiss bim. lie was usefle in a thousand different ways, gitting oppra boxes, and invitations to Frentch swarries , hying gloves, and O |
|
de Colon);. writing 1'Vcncli noats, and suchlike. Always I«l ine rccornincnd an Englisli famly , goiiijj lo l'aris, to have at least one young man of the sort ahout them. Clever mind how uKI your ladyshiji is , ho will make lo\e to you; never mind what errints you send him upon, he'll trot oil and do them. Besides, he's always quite and well-dresst, and never drinx moar than a pint of wine at dinner, which (as 1 say) is a pint to consider. Such a convcniants of a man was Munseer de L'Orge — the grcalest use and comfort to my lady poshil]; if it was hut lo lalTat his had pro-nunciatium of Knglish, it was soniethinlc amu-sink: the fun was to pit him against poar Miss Kickscy, she speakin French, and he our naylif liiitish tong. My master, to do him justace, was porfickly sivvlc lo this poar young I'Venchinan ; and having kicked him out ol the plucc which he occupied , sertingly treated his fallen anyrny with every respect and consideration. Poar niodist downhearted little Ferdinand adoared my lady as a goddice ; and so he was very polite, likewise, to my master —never ventring once to he jellows of him , or to question my Lady Griffin's right to change her lover, if she choase to do so. J'hus, then, matters stood; master had two strinx to his ho, and might take either the widdo or the orfn , as he preferred ; com hony Iwcc som-bluj , as the Frcntch say. His only pint was to discover how the money was disposed off, which evidently belonged to one or other, or hoath. At any rale he w as sure of one; as sure as any morlial man can he in this suhlimary spear, where no-think issutln except unserlnly. A very nnixpccted insdint here took place, which in a good deal changed my master's calkylalions. One night, after conducting the two ladies to the oppra , after suppink of white soop, sammy-deperdrow , and shainpang glassy (which means, eyced) , at their house iti the Phis Vandom , me and master droav lioam in the cab , as happy as posshill. quot;Chawls , you d—d scoundrelsays he lo me (for he was in an exlent burner], quot;when I'm married, I'll dubhil your wagis.quot; This he might do, lo be sure, without injaring himself, seing that be had as yet never paid me any. But, what then? Law bless us! things would he at a pretty pass if we suvvants only lived on our wagis; our puckwisils is the thing , and no mistake. I ixprest my grataludeas best I could; swoar thai it wasnt for wagis [ servid him — that I would as leaf weight upon him for nolhink; and that never, never, so long as I livd, would I, of my ow n accord , part from such an exlent master. By the time these two spitches had been made — my spitch and bis — we arrived at the Hotel Mi rabeu ; which, as every body knows, aint very distant from the Plas Vandome. Up we marched to our aparlmince , me carrying the light and the cloax , master huminink a hair oul of the oppra , as merry as a lark. |
1 opened the door of our salong. There was lights already in the room ; an empty sbampang bottle roaling on the iloar , another on the table, near which the sofy was drawn, and on it lay a sloul old genlmn, smoaking seagars as if he'd bean in an inn tap-room. Deuoeace (who abotnmanales seagars, as I've already shown) bust into a furious raige against the genlmn, whom he could hardly see for the smoak ; and , with a number of oaves quite unnecessary lo repeat, asked him what bisniss he'd there. The smoaking chap rose, and , laying down bis seagar , began a ror of lallln, and said, quot;What Algy ! my boy ! don't you know me?quot; The reader may, praps reckiect a very affecting letter which was published in the last chapter of these memoars; in which the writer requested a loan of five hundred pound from Mr. Algernon Deuceace, and which boar the respected signalur of the Earl of Crabs, Mr. Deuceace's own father. It was thai distinguished araslycrat who was now smokin and laffin in our room. My Lord Crabs was, as i preshumcd , about GO years old. Astowt, burly, red-faced , bald beaded nobleman, whose nose seemed blushing at what his mouth was continually swallowing; whose band, praps, trembled a little; and whoso thy and legg w as not quite so full or as steddy as they bad been in former days. But he was a respeck-tabble, fine-looking, old nobleman ; and though it must be confest, | drunk when we fust made our appearance in the salong, yet by no means moor so than a reel noblemin ought lo be. quot;What, Algy! my hoy !quot; shouts out bis lordship, advancing and seasing master by the hand , quot;doan't you know your own father?quot; Master seemed anythink but overhappy. quot;My Lord,quot; says he, looking very pail, and speakin rayther slow , quot;I didn't — I confess — the unexpected pleasure — of seeing you in Paris. The fact is , sir,quot; said he , recovering himself a little ; quot;the fact is, there was such a confounded smoke of tobacco in the room , that I really could not see who the stranger was who bad paid me such an unexpected visit.quot; quot;A bad habit, Algernon; a bad habit,quot; said my lord, lighting another seagar: quot;a disgusting and filthy practice, which you, my dear child, will do welltoavoid. Itisat best, dear Algernon but a nasty, idle pastime, unfitting a man as well for mental exertion as for respectable society; sacrificing, at once, the vigour of the intellect and the graces of the person. By-tbe-by, what infernal bad tobacco they have, too, in this hotel. Could not you send your servant to get mc a lew |
l(i
|
seajjarsal llieCafc de l'aris? Give liiin a five-franc piece, and lel him go at once, that's a good fellow.quot; Here his lordship hiccupt, and drank oftquot; a fresh turnhlcr of shampang. Very sulkily , master drew out the coin, and si-nt tne on the errint. Knowing the Café de Paris to be shut at that hour, I didn't say a word , hut quietly estahlislit myself in the anteroom; where, as it happened hy a singler coinstindts, I could hear every word of the conversation between this exlent pair of re-latifs. ''Help yourself, and get another bottle,'' says my lord, after a solium paws. My poor master, the king of all other compnies in whicli he moved seamed here but to play secknd fiddill, and went to the cubbard,from which his father had already igstracted two hottils of his prime Sillary. He put it down before his father, coft, spit, opened the windows, stirred the fire, yawned, clapt bis hand to bis forehead, and suttnly seamed as unee/.y as a genlmn could be. But it was of no use; the old one would not budg. quot;Help yourself,quot; says be again, quot;and pass me the bottil.quot; quot;You arc very good, father,quot; says master; quot;but really, 1 neither drink nor smoke,quot; quot;Right, my hoy: quite right. Talk about a good conscience in this life—a good stomach is every think. No bad nights, no headachs — eh? Quite cool and collccled for your law studies in the morning? — eh?quot; And the old nobleman here grinned, in a manner which would have done creddit to Mr. Grimoldi. Master sate pale and wincing, as I've seen a pore soldier under the cat. He didn't anser a word. His ex lent pa went on, warming as he continued lo speak, and drinking a fresh glas at evry full stop. quot;How you must improve, with such lalentsand such principles! Why, Algernon , all London talks of your industry and perseverance: You're not merely a philosopher, man ; hang it! you've got the philosopher's stone. Fine rooms, fine horses , champagne, and all for 200 a-year!quot; quot;1 presume, sir,quot; says my master, quot;Ibat you mean the two hundred a-year which you pay me?quot; quot;The very sum . my boy ; the very sum Iquot; cries my lord, laflin as if he would die. quot;Why, that's the wonder! I never pay the two hundred a-year, and you keep all this state up upon nothing. Give me your secret, 0 you young Trismegistus I Tell your old falher how such wonders can be worked, and 1 will — yes, then, upon my word, I will — pay you your two hundred a-year!quot; quot;Enfin, my lord,quot; says Mr, Deuceace, starling up, and losing all patience, quot;will you have the goodness to tell me what this visit means ? You leave me to starve, for all yon care; and you grow mighty facetious because I earn my bread. You find me in prosperity, and —quot; |
quot;Precisely, my boy ; precisely. Keep your temper, and pass that bottle. I find you in prosperity; and a young gentleman of your genius and ac-quirementsasks me why I seek your society? Oh, Algernon! Algernon! this is not worthy of such a profound philosopher. Why do I seek you? Why, because you are in prosperity , O my son! else, why the devil should I bother myself about you? Did I, your poor mother, or your family, ever get from you a single aftcctionate feeling? Did we, or any other of your friends or intimates, ever know you to be guilty of a single honest or generous action? Did we ever pretend any love for you, or you for us? Algernon Deuceace, you don't want a falher to tell you that you are a swindler and a spendthrift! I have paid thousands for the debts of yourself and your brothers ; and , if you pay nobody else, 1 am determined you shall repay me. You would not do it hy fair means, when I wrote to you and asked you for a loan of money. I knew you would not. Had 1 written again to warn you of my coming, yon would have given me the slip ; and so I came, uninvited , to force you to repay me. That's why I am here, Mr. Algernon ; and so help yourself and pass the bottle.quot; After this speach, the old genlmn sunk down on the sofa, and puffed as much smoke out of his mouth as if he'd been the chimley of a steam-injian. I was pleased , I confess, with the sean, and liked to sec this venrable and virtuous old man a nocking his son about the bed ; just as Denceace had done with Mr. Richard Blewitt, as I've before shown. Master's face was, fust, red-hot; next, chawk-white; and then, sky-blew. He looked , for all the world, like Mr. Tippy Cooke in the tragady of Frankinstang. At last, he mannidged lo speek. quot;My lord ,quot; soys he, quot;1 expecled when 1 saw you that some such scheme was on foot. Sw indler and spendthrift as I am, at least it is but a family failing ; and I am indebted for my virtues to my father's precious example. Your lordship has, I perceive, added drunkenness to the list of your accomplishments; and, 1 suppose, under the influence of that gentlemanly excitement, has come lo make these preposterous propositions lo me. When you are sober, you will , perhaps , be wise enough to know, that, fool as 1 may he, I am not such a fool as you think me ; and that if 1 have got money , I intend to keep it — every farthing of it, though you were to be ten times as drunk , and ten times as threatening , as you are now. quot;Well, well, my hoy,quot; said Lord Crabs , who seemed to have been half asleep during his son's oratium , and received all his sneers and surcasms with the most complete good-humour; quot;well, well, if you will resist—iant pis pour toi — I've no desire to ruin you , recollect, and am not in the slightest degree angry ; but I must and |
|
will liavc a lliousaml pounds. You Imd better giro me the money at once; it will cost yon more if you doti'l.quot; •'Sir,quot; says Mr. Dcuceace , quot;I will he equally candid, I would not give you a farthing to save you from —quot; Here I thought proper to open the doar, and , touching my hat, said , '•! have been to the Café de Paris, my lord , hut the house is shut.quot; quot;Bon; there's a good lad; you may keep the five francs. And now , get me a candle and show me down stairs.quot; |
Ilul my master siiizcd the wax taper, quot;Pardon me, my lordsays he. quot;What! a servant do it, when yonr son is in the room ? Ah, par exemple, my dear fathersaid he, laughing , ';yon think there is no politeness left among us.quot; And he led the way out. quot;Good night, my dear hoy,quot; said Lord Crabs. quot;God hless you , sir,quot; says he. quot;Are you wrapped warm? Mind the step 1quot; And so this afFcckshnate pair parted. |
This author — born in 1807 — first appeared before the public in the year 1837, when he publisbec] in Blackwood's Magazine some tales under the title of ' Passages from the Diary of a late Physieian '. In these stories Warren has with great success taken the disguise of a medical man, and vividly described many cases, which he pretends to have eome within his eiperience. His next publication was 'Ten Thousand a Year', in which he gives «3 the history of a young ignorant coxcomb who, having been brought up for station of a shopkeeper, inherits a fortune of L. 10,000 a year. Mony of the characters iu this book are admirably pourtrayed, and the work contains some excellent descriptions of different ranks of society. lie has also written a work entitled: 'Now and Then', which is the history of a murder, and a detailed account of a trial.
From quot;i\ow and then.quot;
|
On the suggestion of Mr. Mylton the Chaplain withdrew, as also did the turnkeys, rlosing the door behind them ; and then Mr. Hylton was alone with the condemned. Tor some time his solemn admonitions were lost upon AylifTe ; whose first connected words were — quot;The curse of God be on them that have condemned the innocent, for the guilty—ay , a curse!quot; he added , almost gnashing his teeth. quot;Adam!quot; said Mr. Hylton, solemnly, quot;you are too near the immediate presence of the judgment-seat of the Eternal , to be indulging in these unholy thoughts.quot; The condemned man glared at him wildly, evidently making a mighty eflort to keep silent. quot;Your father is waiting to see you — heartbroken , yet bowing in reverent submission before God ; hut so long as you cherish such resentful feelings , I cannot bring him to this cell.quot; Mr. Hylton saw a change corning over his miserable companion , who seemed terribly agitated , and about to weep. quot;Does not your heart yearn after the sight of that saintly father of yours?quot; continued Mr. Hylton , gently. The son raised his hand to his eyes, sighed heavily, and shook his head bitterly. |
quot;God is softening your heart, Adam,quot; said Mr. Hylton, faltering with his own strong emotions ; quot;yield to His holy influences ! From Him hath come all this that has happened to thee I Oh ! let not Satan now steel thy heart, and close thine cars, that he may have thee presently his for ever! Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right? Kneel down with me, my fellow-sinner, and let us humble ourselves before God , and beseech bis forgiveness and support!quot; The prisoner's tears flowed fast; and, sobbing convulsively , he permitted Mr. Hylton to incline him gently on his knees. Mr. Hylton uttered a short, solemn , and fervent prayer, in which Ayliffe evidently joined ; and presently rising, assisted by Mr. Hylton, began to exhibit an approach towards composure, Mr. Hylton speaking to him gently and soo-thingly. quot;You have much work to do, Adam , and little time to do it in ! Will you listen to me for a moment ?quot; The convict sadly bowed his head , and grasped the hand of Mr. Hylton in silence. quot;Do you from yonr heart forgive all who you believe may have injured you, as you wonld he yourself forgiven by God?quot; Ayliffe paused. quot;No — not yet! I cannot truly say I do: — but, with God's help, I will try.quot; quot;He is at this moment helping yon , in uttering these last pious words of yours. Within a few hours, Adam, how plainly may you |
«18
|
mm' the justiuv, and mercy, ami wisilom uf all lliat now appears llie contrary! Prepare!— prepare, Ailam, to moot your God! Confess your sins, if you would have tlinm forffi von! Oh, how many have they heen! How many things have you done during your life, that will not now hear examination ! yet all must he examined , and judged hereafter! How much have you omilted to do, that ought to have heen done! — and all these things are noted against you, hy an eye that sleepeth not! And in this very matter — why, Ailam ! rouse yourself — stir up your soul within you ! — reflect! — consider! — what have you not confessed this day in open Court, before your earthly judge — before all mankind? What, hut the deadly malignity and revenge that you bad long cherished in your heart against your enemy ! — whom the Gospel told you lo forgive ! — hut whom you — oh , Adam 1— went, under a liollish impulse, secretly to he revenged on! If God should enter into judgment against you, what have you to say? Look at the very root of this matter: concerning the hare which (small cause of so much evil!) led to all this. Did you not then stifle your conscience, which condemned you when first you were templed lo do wrong ? Oh ! where was then your fiihle ? Where were your father's warnings ? where were my humble teachings? Had you but resisted at the first — at tho very first — would you now have been here, Adam ? And was not Providence opening for you, through my unwoithy exertions, a way fir yon out of your troubles? Think, Adam, of the steps hy which you have gone wrong, and done deliberate wickedness, and brought yourself directly hither! I say not this, Adam, believe me, to eliiile and trouble you in so awful a moment as this; but am only striving to set you right witli your conscience, that when 1 am gone, and before we meet again on earth, and while your precious moments ebb fast away,quot; — here Mr. Hylton was greatly moved, — quot;you may think of your sins, and humble yourself under the mighty hand of God , ami give ear to no temptings of the fiend who would seduce and delude you !quot; Ayliffe clasped his bands together, and gazing upwards, said tremulously, quot;I do confess my many and grievous sins , Oh God ! and more |
now they seem, than ever seemed they before!quot; quot;The world in which you still, for a little, live,'' continued Mr. Hylton, '-is fading fast from before your eyes, Adam! It passeth away ! It perisheth! From you within a few hours does it disappear , and is only somewhat more slowly vanishing from me , and from all living ! Hither were we sent for trial only, and but for a brief space ! — then return we to Him who sent ns, who is eternal, omnipotent, omniscient, just, and merciful; and who will assuredly, as he had distinctly told us, render to every man according to his deeds!quot; Mr. Hylton uttered all this with thrilling solemnity; and, as be closed, the condemned man sunk again on bis knees, in an attitude of profound devotion. Thus he remained for some minutes, neither he nor Mr, Hylton speaking. At length Ayliffe rose slowly, and resumed his seal. quot;Adam , let me ask you a great question — one that 1 will never ask a second time, be your answer what it may. Tell me, who am a minister of that God before whom you are so soon to appear, and now that all earthly hope is over — are you innocent or gniltly of the crime for which you are to die?quot; The condemned man calmly elevated his hands and his eyes towards heaven, and with awful solemnity replied, quot;God knoweth that I am as innocent as the child that bath not been born ; anil may He reconcile me to die for that which I never did, nor know who did , nor why. May I, before I depart , cease lo think it hard that the innocent should die for the guilty!quot; Mr. Hylton gazed at him in troubled silence. quot;Do you believe, Sir, that I am innocent of this murder?quot; Ayliffe suddenly inquired , turning to Mr. Hylton a face that wore an awful expression — having no anger or sternness in it, hut being, in a manner, radiant with truth from heaven, which seemed to lighten into the mind of Mr. Hylton; who replied solemnly , quot;As J live before God , Adam Ayliffe , I do!quot; quot;I am! I am! and, now that you believe me, i feel a great change here,quot; striking bis breast gently, — quot;1 feel free and light; and and that I may die in full piety, truth, and hope, and he forgiven all my many sins, for His sake, who died the just for the unjust!quot; |
|
Feeling it quite impossible to ask the miserable convict such questions as he had wished. Mr. Hylton resolved not lo make the aUeinpt,hnl to do it as prudently and as early as might bi', through old Ayliffe, or the Chaplain or governor of the gaol. He was just about to leave, and was considering in what terms be could the most effcclually address himself to Ayliffe, |
319
|
when, witliout any summons liavlnn i-^sucil from wilhin, thn dour was unlockod, and tl»! turnkey, tlirustin;; in liis head, said. quot;I say , my man , here's the woman come vvilh thy child, that thun'st hecn asking for. They'll come in when the gentleman goes.quot; Ayliffi: started up from his seat, with an eager motion towards the door, hut was suddenly jerked down again, having forgotten in his momentary extacy that his irons were attached to a staple in the floor. quot;Come, come, my man,quot; said the turnkey, sternly, quot;thou must he a hit quieter, I can tell thee, if this child is to come to thee.quot; quot;Give me the lad I give me the lad ! give me the lad Iquot; said Aylifl'e, in a hoarse whisper, his eyes straining towards the approaching figure of the good woman, who, with a very sorrowful and apprehensive look, now came in sight of the condemned man. quot;Lord hless thee, Adam Aylifle!quot; she hegan, liursting into tears, quot;Lord love thee and protect thee. Adam!quot; quot;Give me the lad! — show me the lad Iquot; he continued, gazing intently at her, while she tremblingly pushed aside her cloak, and, behold, there lay. simply and decently clad, bis little hoy, awake, and gazing, apparently apprehensively, al the strange wild figure whose arms were extended to reeeiYe it.quot; quot;Adam , father of this thy dear child,quot; said Mr. Hylton, interposing for a moment between Aylifle and the child , not w ithout some alarm , quot;wilt thou handle it tenderly, remembering how feeble and small it is?quot; On this, poor Aylifle gazed at Mr. Ilylton with a face of unspeakable agony, weeping lamentably; and still extending his arms, the passive child , gazing at him in timid silence, was placed within them. lie sat down gently, gazing «t bis child for some moments, with a face never to be forgotten by those who saw it. Then he brought it near to his face, and kissed incessantly, but with unspeakable tenderness, its tiny features, which were quickly bedewed with his tears. |
quot;His mother! — his mother! — his mother!quot; be exclaimed, in heart-rending tones, still gazing intently at its face, which was directed towards his own with evident apprehension. Its li tile hand for a moment clasped one of the irons that hound its father, hut removed it immediately, probably from the coldness of the metal. The father saw this, and seemed dreadfully agitated for some moments; and Mr. Hylton, who also had observed the little circumstance, was greatly affected, and turned aside his head. After a while, quot;How easily, my little lad, could 1 dash out thy brains against these irons,quot; said AylifFe, in a low desperate tone of voice, staring into the child's face, quot;and save thee from ever coming to this unjust fate that thy father hath!quot; Mr. Ilylton was excessively alarmed but concealed his feelings, preparing, nevertheless, for some perilous and insane action endangering the safety of the child. The gathering cloud, however, passed away, and the manacled father kissed his unconscious child with all his former tenderness, quot;They'll tell thee, poor lad, that I was a murderer! though it be false as bell! They'll shout after thee, There goes the murderer's son!quot; He paused — and then with a sudden start, said — quot;There will he no grave fur thee or thy mother to come and cry over!quot; quot;Adam jquot; said Mr. Hylton, very anxiously, quot;weary not thyself thus — alarm not this poor child, by thus yielding to fear and despair; but rather, if it can hereafter remember what passeth here this day, may its thoughts be of thy love, and of thy gentleness! If it he the will of God that thou must die, and that unjustly, as far as men are concerned. He will watch over and provide for this little soul, whom lie, foreseeing its fate, sent into the world.quot; Ayliffe lifted the child with trembling arms, and pressed its checks to his lips. The little creature did not cry, nor appear likely to do so, hut seemed the image of mute apprehension. The whole scene was so painful, that Mr. Hylton was not sorry when the Governor of the gaol approached , to mtiinale that the interview must cease. The prisoner, exhausted w ith violent excitement, quietly surrendered his child to his attendant, and then silently grasped the hand of Mr. Hylton, who thereupon quitted the cell; the door of which was immediately locked upon its miserable occupant: who was once again alone! |
Coniniunicatlon to AylilTe of his son's Innoccncc.
|
So then , poor Adam AylilTe was innocent! innocent as the unborn child! The discovery, together with the reflections wliich it occasioned, was to Mr. Hylton perfectly overwhelming. It was, indeed, an awful mystery; an inscrutahlc dispensation of Providence; one which baflled the impious daring of human conjecture; hut was assuredly reconcilable, though our limited and disturbed faculties should he unable to perceive it, with the ineffable wisdom and justice of the Almighty maker and governor of the world. When , on the ensuing morning, Mr. Hylton wenttoOld AylilTe to communicate to him this extraordinary and most affecting intelligence, he greatly feared the effect which it might produce upon |
|
llie vciicralilc snAercr of nearly a twenty years' marlyrdom. Ho fuund the old man alone in his cottage, reading that Book whieli had been long the only solace of his life ; one which either gave him a clue to the course of God's Providence in human affairs, or conferred upon him the Messing of a composed resignation , an implicit faith and confidence that one day would make it known that He had done all things well. Dei p in that old man's heart were engraved the solemnizing and consolatory words of the Apostle; For now we see through a glass, darkly ; but then, face to face: now I know in part ; hut then shall I know, even as also 1 am known. God and his doings are at present surrounded with darkness, often impenetrable: hut otherwise shall it be hereafter — when He shall be seen to have here been, where lie was not known to he! — Therefore the old man received this amazing intelligence, the first shock over, with calmness and dignity. quot;God is good,quot; said he, quot;thathath given me to see this day, to bear these tidings, as a ray of sunshine on the short path which leads me to my home yonderand he pointed, tbrongh his little window, to the churchyard. quot;It will not shorten, nor could the want of it have lengthened, my sleep in the dust. This old body of mine hath increasing attraction to the dust: 1 feel the hour coming when it most drop, when the earthly house of this tabernacle shall be dissolved: and I leave it cheerfully here, to enter a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this tabernacle,quot; continued he solemnly, quot;I do groan, being hurthened: not for that I would be unclothed, hut clothed upon, that mortality may be swallowed up in life! Links have I that yet bind me to this earth, hut they will presently melt and dissolve away, and I escape. My son, mine only son, whom I loved, hath been offered up this twenty years upon my heart, an offering unto God: when he unlooseth him , I will receive him back thankfully, be it hut far a moment. Ay, let me see my son , my son Adam , and 1 depart in peace, knowing that God hath heard my prayer. His mother bath long been dust ; so will be soon his father ; so ere long will be be.'' |
The most popular Writer of his time, was bora in February 1812, at Lnadport, Portsmouth. His father, the late Mr. John Dickens, in the earlier part of his life, enjoyed a post in the Navy Pay Departmeiit, the duties of which required that he should reside from time to time in different naval stations, — now at Plymouth, now at Portsmouth, and then at Sheerness and Chatham. quot;In the glorious daysquot; of the war with France , these towns were fall of life , bustle, and character ; and the father of quot; Boz quot; was at times fond of dilating upon the strange scenes he had witnessed. One of his stories described a sitting-room he once enjoyed at lilne Town, Sheerness, abutting on the theatre. Of an evening he used to sit in (his room, and conld hear what was passing on the stage, and join in the chorus of quot;God save the King,quot; and quot; liritannia rules the Waves,quot; — then the favourite songs of Englishmen. The war being at an end, amongst those who left the public service with a pension was the father of our novelist. Coming to London , he subsequently found lucrative employment for his talents on the press as a reporter of parliamentary debates. Charles Dickens may, therefore, be said to have been in his youth familiarised with, quot;copy;quot; and when his father, with parental anxiety for his future career, took the preliminary steps for making his son an attorney , the dreariness of the proposed occupation fell so heavily upon the mind of the future author, that he induced his father to permit him to resign the law and join the parliamentary corps of a daily newspaper. His first engagement was on quot;The True Sun.quot; an nltra-Liberal paper, then carrying on a fierce struggle for existence, from the staff of which he afterwards passed into the reporting ranks of the quot; Morning Chronicle.quot; On that paper he obtained reputation as a first-rate man — his reports being exceedingly rapid, and no less correct. In the columns of the quot;Chroniclequot; ho soon gave proofs of other talents than those of a reporter; for in the evening edition of that journal appeared the quot;Sketches of English Life and Chaiacter,quot; afterwards collected to form the two well-known volumes of quot;Sketches by Boz,quot; published respectively in 1836 and 1837. A passenger by the Britannia says, quot;Having crossed the Atlantic in the Britannia with Mr. Dickens, 1 recollect a few of his observations made to me on the passage. I asked him the origin of the signature 'Boz.' He said that he had a little brother, who resembled so much the Moses in the ' Vicar of Wakefield ,' that he used to call him Moses also ; but a younger girl, who could not then articulate plainly, was in the habit of calling him Bozie or Boz. This simple or natural circumstance made him assume that name in the first article he risked to the public , and therefore he continued the same, as the first effort was approved of.quot; The quot;Sketches by Bozquot; at once attracted considerable notice, and obtained great success. Another publisher came to an arrangement with Mr. Dickens and Seymour, the comic draughtsman , the one to write and the other to illustrate a book which should exhibit the adventures of a party of Cockney sportsmen. Hence the appearance of quot;Pickwick,quot; a book which made its author's reputation and the publisher's fortune. After the work had cominenccd poor Seymour committed suicide.
anil Mr. Uablot K. lirowne was solected to continue the illustrations, wbich lie did under the signature of quot; Phiz.quot; Meanwhile Mr. Dickens had courted and innrricd the daughter uf Mr. George Hogarth , thou — and now — a musical writer, a man of considerable attainments, and who , in his earlier days, whilst a writer to the signet in Edinburgh , enjoyed the intimate friendship of Sir Walter Scott (whose law agent he was), Jeffrey , and the other literary notables at that day adorning the Modern Athens. The great success of quot; Pickwick quot; brought down upon its author demands from all sides for another work , and quot; Boz quot; agreed to write quot;Nicholas Nickleby to be published in monthly parts. quot;Nicholas Nick-lebyquot; was followed by quot;Oliver Twist,quot; which) originally appeared in quot; Bentley's Miscellany,quot; which Dickcns undertook to edit, and which, under his hands, rose to a very large circulation. The publisher entertaining the opinion usual amongst his class as to the minor share which the author ought to receive in such cases, Dickens subsequently gave up his editorship of a magazine whose chief boast it must ever be that quot;Bozquot; was once its conductor. In quot;Oliver Twistquot; Dickens gave tokens of other talents than those for the display of humour. He painted scenes of deep pathos , and evinced strong sympathy for the poor, the suffering, and the oppressed, and showed the world a literary champion in the field ready to do battle in the cause of virtue and humanity. The pen of quot; 15oz ,quot; urged by kindly sympathies, has exposed many a phase of cruelty and wrong, and has eicited the desires of good men to lessen the amount of evil and of suffering existing in society. Me has been , indeed , the author of many social ameliorations and reforms. Whilst he has amused, he has improved us. After quot;Oliver Twistquot; came quot;Master Humphrey's Clock,quot; in which Dickens endeavoured to realize a long cherished plan of supplying the public with the best writing at the smallest possible price; and the new work was, accordingly, published in weekly numbers of low cost as well as in monthly parts. quot; Humphrey's Clock quot; was the general title of a collection of tales joined by a connccting narrative. In the first of these, called quot;The Old Curiosity Shop,quot; Dickens introduced the character of quot;Little Nell,quot; perhaps the most beautiful he has ever drawn; and the pathos and simplicity of which has made it a universal favourite. The story of quot; Barnaby Kudgequot; was the second of the same work, and contains, among other specimens of remarkable descriptive power, a vivid picture of the Lord George Gordon riots. In the preface to the new and cheap edition of quot; Barnaby Kudge,quot; the author lets us have a glimpse of his own life. On the completion of quot;Humphrey's Clock,quot; Dickens set sail for America, where ho accumulated materials for his quot;American Notes for General Circulation , published on his return in 1842. In the course of the year 1843 he commenced his quot;Martin Chuzzlewit,quot; which appeared, like his earlier works, in monthly parts. In the middle of 1844 he went to Italy, where he spent about a year. In 1845 he proposed to found a new morning newspaper, the quot; Daily News,quot; of which he was to be the editor. He organiied a large literary staff, and surrounded himself with the most popular writers of the day. Money was abundant, the project was warmly applauded, and on the Slst of January, 1840, the first number of the new journal appeared. In it Dickens commenced his sketches, entitled quot; Pictures of Italy.quot; Expectation had been su highly excited, that the first number of the newspaper — (though probably full fifty times as good as any first number of a daily newspaper that ever before appeared) — and because in its very first infancy it did not utterly eclipse its rivals that had been organised for half a century — many people professed to be disappointed. This public disregard for the new journal, and the constant heavy labour of editing a morning newspaper, combined, probably, to induce Dickens to withdraw from so troublesome a task. Since then he has delighted the world in his own peculiar fashion with his quot; Dombcy and Sonand quot;David Copperfield ; quot; has written several Christmas books, and has established the weekly paper called quot; Household Words,quot; to which he and other writers have attracted a host of supporters, numbering, it is understood, somewhere about sixty thousand per week. At times, Dickcns, excited by the flngrance of some public wrong, launches a letter from the newspapers, which finds its way through the whole kingdom. Next he wrote quot;Hard Times.quot; quot;The purpose of this work is to show that Fact is not everything to man; and that the spiritual longings of our nature are not to be neglected with impunity. That 'Hard Times' like everything that Mr. Dickens writes, is full of humour, observation, knowledge of manhood, will not be gainsaid. It has the beauties and the vices of his style. It abounds in passages bright and glowing — delicate in their humour — and subtle in their fancy; but these passages are found in great relationship to others coarse, violent, and awkward. — Dickcns has, like others in this world, been made to suffer every now and then for his good nature. High up on a list, taken from the pocket of a begging-letter writer, of persons easily induced to give money to those who pleaded distress, was found the name of Charles Dickcns, in company with that of an equally kindly , but more wealthy , charitable person , Miss Bnrdett Coutts. His own account of how he has been victimised by the clever tales of systematic impostors has been told in his own inimitable way in quot; Household Words.quot; Other experiences of a kindred character have also been his , where patronage and kindness have been repaid by slanderous statements published beyond the reach of English law.
From quot;Liitie Dorrit.quot;
|
Thirty years ago, Marseilles lay Imrning in the sun, one day. A blazing sun upon a fierce August day was no greater rarity in soutliern Franco then, than |
at any other time, liefore or since. Every thing in Marseilles, anil ahout Marseilles, hail stareil at the fervid sky, and heen staredat in return, until a staring habit had hecomc universal |
|
llicrc. Strunjjcrs were stared out of countcnance by staring white houses, staring white walls, staring white streets, staring tracts of arid road, staring hills from which verdure was burnt away. The only things to he seen not fixedly slaring and glaring were the vines drooping under their load of grapes. These did occasionally wink u little, as the hotj air barely moved their faint leaves. There was no wind to make a ripple on the foul water within the harbor, or on the beautiful sea without. The line of demaieation between the two colors, black and blue, showed the point which the pure sea would not pass; hut it lay as quiet as the abominable pool , with which it never mixed. Boats without awnings were too hot to touch; ships blistered at their moorings; the stones of the quays had not cooled, night or day, for months. Hindoos, Russians, Chinese, Spaniards, Portugese, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Genoese, Neapolitans, Venetians, Greeks, Turks, descendants from all the builders of Babel, come to trade at Marseilles, sought the shade alike — taking refuge in any hiding-place from a sea too intensely blue to be looked at, and a sky of purple, set with one great flaming jewel of fire. The universal stare made the eyes ache. Towards the distant line of Italian coast, indeed, it was a little relieved by light clouds of mist, slowly rising from the evaporation of the sea; but it softened nowhere else. Far away the staring roads, deep in dust, stared from the |
hill-side, stared from the hollow, stared trom the interminable plain. Far away the dusty vines overhanging wayside cottages, and the monotonous wayside avenues of parched trees without shade, drooped beneath the slaro of earth and sky. So did the horses with drowsy bolls, in long files of carts, creeping slowly towards the interior; so did their recumbent drivers, when they were awake, which rarely happened; so did the ejhausted laborers in the fields. Everything that lived or grew, was oppressed hy the glare; except the lizard, passing swiftly over rough stone walls, and the cicala, chirping his dry hot chirp, like a rattle. The very dust was scorched brown , anil something quivered in the atmosphere as if the air itself were panting. Blinds, shutters, curtains, awnings, were all closed and drawn to keep out the stare. Grant it hut a chink or keyhole, and it shot in like a white-hot. arrow. The ehurcbes were the freest Irorn it. To come out of the twilight of pillars and arches — dreamily dotted with winking lamps , dreamily peopled with ugly old shadows piously dozing, spitting, and begging — was to plunge into a fiery river, and swim for life i to the nearest strip of shade. So, with people lounging and lying wherever shade was, with hut little hum of tongues or barking of dogs, with occasional jangling of discordant church bells, and rattling of vicious drums, Slarseil-les, a fact to be strongly smelt and lasted, ■ lay broiling in the sun one day. |
|
quot;What an infernal hole this is!quot; said Monsieur Rigaud , breaking a long pause. quot; Look at the light of day. Day ? The light of yesterday week, the light of six months ago, the light of six years ago. So slack and dead!quot; It came languishing down a square funnel thai blinded a window in the staircase wall, through which the sky was never seen — nor anything else. •'Cavalletto,quot; said Monsieur Rigaud, suddenly withdrawing his gaze from this funnel , to which they had both involuntarily turned their eyes, quot;you know me for a gentleman quot;Surely, surely!quot; quot;How long have we been here?quot; quot;I, eleven weeks, to-morrow night at midnight. You, nine weeks and three days, at five this afternoon.quot; quot;Have i never done anything here? Ever touched the broom, or spread the mats, or rolled them up, or found the draughts, or collected the dominoes, or put my hand to any kind of work ? quot; quot;Never!quot; |
quot; Have you ever thought of looking to mc to do any kind of work?quot; John Baptist answered with that peculiar haek-handed shake of the right forefinger which is the most expressive negative in the Italian language. quot;No! You know from the first moment, when you saw me here, that I was a gentleman ? ' quot;Altro!quot; returned John Baptist, closing bis eyes and giving his head a most vehement toss. The word being, according to its Genoese emphasis, a confirmation, a contradiction, an assertion, a denial, a taunt, a compliment, a joke, and llfly other things, became in the present instance, with a significance beyond all power of written expression, our familiar English quot;I believe yon!quot; quot; Haha! You are right! A gentleman I am ! And a gentleman I 'II live, and n gentleman I'll die! It's my intent to he a gentleman. It's my game. Death of my son!, I play it out wherever I go!quot; lie changed his posture to a sitting one, crying with a triumphant air; |
|
I am! Sei! mee! Sliaken oul of ilcs-liny's (iicclmx into tlie lt;;oiiij)any of a mere smuggler; — slml up with a poor liltle contraband trader, whose papers are wrong, and whom the police lay hold of, hesides, for placing his heat (as a means of getting beyond the frontier) at I be disposition of other little people whose papers are wrong; and be instinctively recognises my position, even by this light and in this place. It 'swell done! I!y Heaven! I win, however the game goes.quot; Again his moustache went up, and his nose came down. quot;What's the hour, now?quot; be ashed, with a dry hot pallor upon him, rather dilficult of association with merriment. quot;A little balf-bonr after mid-day.quot; quot;Good! The {'resident will have a gentleman before him soon. Come! Shall I tell yon on j what accusation? It must be now, or never, lor I shall not return here. Either 1 shall go free, or I shall go to be made ready for shaving. You know where they keep the rator.quot; Sigiior Cavalletlo look his cigarettc from between his parted lips , and showed more momentary discomfiture than might have been expected. quot;I am aquot; — Monsieur liigaud stood up to say it — quot;f am a cosmopolitan gentleman. I own no particular country. My father was Swiss — Canton de Vaud. My mul her was French by bloud, English by birth, f myself was born in Belgium. I am a cili/.en of the world.quot; His theatrical air , as be stood with one arm on bis hip, within the folds of bis cloak, together witb his manner of disregarding his companion and addressing the opposite wall instead, seemed to inlimatc that be was rehearsing for the President, whose examination he was shortly to undergo, rather than troubling himself merely to enlighten so small a person as .lohn Baptist Cavalletlo. quot;Call me iive-aml-lliirly years of age. I have seen llie world. I have lived here, and lived Ih ere, and lived like a gentleman evervwhere. the I ha\e been treated anil respected as a gentleman universally. If you try to prejudice inc , by making oul. that I have lived by my wits — how do your lawyers live — your politicians — your intriguers — your men of the Kxehunge ?'' He kept his small smooth band in constant requisition, as if it were a witness to his gentility, that bad often done him good service before. quot;Two years ago I came to Marseilles. I admit that I was poor; I had been ill. When your lawyers , your politicians , your intriguers, your men of the Exchange, fall ill, and have not scraped money together, lt;/ic»/ hccomc poor. |
1 put up at the Cross of Gold , — kept then by Monsieur Henri Itarronneau — sixty-five at least, and in a failing state of health. I had lived in the house some four montlis, when Monsieur Henri Barronneau had the misfortune to die; — at any rate, nota rare misfortune, that. It happens without any aid of mine, pretty often.quot; John Baptist having smoked his cigarette down lo his fingers' ends, Monsieur Bigaud had the magnanimity to throw him another, lie lighted the second at the ashes ol the first, and smoked on , looking sideways at his companion , who, pre-oecupied with his own case, bardly looked at him. quot;Monsieur Barronneau left a widow. She was two-and-twenty. She had gained a reputation for beauty, and (which is often another thing) was beautiful. I continued lo live at the Cross of Gold. 1 married Madame Barronneau. It is not for me to say whether there was any great disparity in such a match. Here I stand , with the contamination of ujail upon me; but it is possible that you may think me better suited to her than her former husband was.quot; He bad a certain air of being a handsome man — which he was not; and a certain air of being a wellbred man — which he was not. It was mere swagger and challenge; but in this particular, as in many others, blustering assertion goes for proof, half over the world. quot;lie it as it may, Madame Barronneau approved of me. That is not to prejudice ine I hope ? ' liis eye happening to light upon .lohn Baptist with this inquiry, that little man briskly shook bis head in the negative, and repeated in an argumentative tone under his breath, altro, altro, altro, allro, altro —an infinite number of times. quot;Now came the difliculties of our position. I am proud. I say nothing in defence of pride, but I am proud. It is also my character to govern. I can't submit; I must govern. Unfortunately, the property of Madame liigaud was settled upon herself. Such was the insane act of her late husband. More unfortunately still, she bad relations. When a wife's relations interpose against a husband who is a gentleman, who is proud, and who must govern, the consequences are inimical to peace. There was yet another source of difference between ns. Madame Bigaud was unfortunately a liltle vulgar. I sought lo improve her manners and ameliorate her general tone; she (supported in this likewise by her relations) resented my endeavours. Quarrels began to arise between us; and, propagated and exaggerated by the slanders of the relations of Madame liigaud , lo become |
• )_4
|
noturioiis tu llic nciglihourü. II lias licun said llial I treated Madame Kifjaud with cruelly. I may liave heen seen to slap her face — notliinw more. 1 have a light hand; and if 1 have heen seen apparently to correct Madame Rigaud in that manner, I have done it almost playfully.1' If the playfulness of Monsieur lligaud were at all expressed hy his smile at this point, the relations of Madame Rigaud might have said that they would have much preferred his correcting that unfortnnate woman seriously. |
quot;[ am sensitive and bravo. I do not advance it as a merit to be sensitive and brave, but it is my character. If the male relations of Madame Rigaud had put themselves forward openly, 1 should have known how to deal with them. They knew that, and their machinations were conducted in secret ; consequently, Madame Rigaud and I were brought into frequent and unfortunate collision. Even when I wanted any little sum of money for my personal expenses, 1 could not obtain it without collission—and I too, a man whose character it is to govern! One night, Madame Rigaud and myself were walking amicably — I may say like lovers — on a height overhanging the sea. An evil star occasioned Madame Rigaud to advert to her relations; I reasoned with her on that subject, and remonstrated on the want of duty and devotion manifested in her allowing herself to be influenced by their jealous animosity towards her husband. Madame Rigaud retorted, I retorted. Madame Rigaud grew warm ; I grew warm , and provoked her. I admit it. Fiankness is a part of my character. At length, Madame Rigaud , in an access of fury that I must ever deplore, threw herself upon me with screams of passion (no doubt those that were overheard at some distance), tore my clothes, tore my hair, lacerated my hands, trampled and trod the dust, and finally leaped over, dashing herself to death upon the rocks. Such is the train of incidents which malice has perverted into my endeavouring to force from Madame Rigaud a relinquishment of her rights ; and , on her persistence in a refusal to make the concession I required, struggling with her — assassinating her!quot; |
|
Ir was a Sunday evening in London, gloomy, close and stale. Maddening church bells of all degrees of dissonance, sharp and flat, cracked and clear, fast and slow , made the brick and morlar cchoes hideous. Melancholy streets in a penitential garb of soot, steeped the souls of the people who were condemned to look at them out of windows, iu dire despondency. In every thoroughfare, up almost every alley, and down almost every turning, some doleful hell was throbbing, jerking, tolling, as if the Hague were in the city and the dead-carls were going round. Everything was bolted and barred that could by possibility furnish relief to an overworked people. No pictures, no unfamiliar animals, no rare plants or flowers, no natural or artificial wonders of the ancient world — all taboo with that enlightened strictness, that the ugly South sea gods in the British Museum might have supposed themselves at home again. Nothing to see but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to breathe but streets , streets, streets. Nothing to change the brooding mind , or raise it up. Nothing for the spent toiler to do, but to compare the monotony of his seventh day with the monotony of his six days, think what a weary life he led, and make the best of it — or the worst, according to the probabilities. |
At such a happy lime, so propitious to the interests of religion and morality, Mr. Arthur Clennarn, newly arrived from Marseilles by way of Dover, and by Dover coach the Blue-eyed Maid, sat in the window ofacoflee house on Ludgate Hill. Then thousand responsible houses surrounded him, frowning as heavily on the streets they composed , as if they were every one inhabited by the ten young men of the Calender's story, who blackened their faces and bemoaned their miseries every night. I'ifty thousand lairs surrounded him where people lived so unwliolesomcly, that fair water put into their crowded rooms on Saturday night, would ho corrupt on Sunday morning ; albeit my lord, their county member, was amazed that they failed to sleep in company with their butcher's meat. Miles of close wells and pits of houses, «here the inhabitants gasped for air, stretched far away towards every point of the compass. Through the heart of the town a deadly sewer ebbed and flowed, in the place of a fine fresh river. What secular want could the million or so of human beings whose daily labor , six days in the week , lay among these Arcadian objects, from the sweet sameness ol which they had no escapc between thecradle and the grave — what secular want could they possibly have upon their seventh day? Clearly they could want nol hing hut a stringent policeman. |
John Pinkerlou dislinguishei] himself by the fierce controversial tone of his historical writings , ami by the violence of his prejudices, yet was a learned and industrious eollector of forgotten fragments of ancient history ami of national antiquities. lie was a native of Edinburgh, and bred to the law. The latter, however, he soon forsook for literary pursuits. He commenced by writing imperfect verses, which, in his peculiar antique orthography, he styled 'Rimes,' from which he diverged to collecting Select Scottish liallads (1783) and inditing an Essay on Medals (1784). Under the name of Heron, ho published some Letters on Literature, and was recomnicndud by Gibbon to the booksellers as a fit person to translate the Monkish Historians. He afterwards (1780), published Ancient Scottish Poems, being the writings of Sir Richard Maitland and others, extracted from a manuscript in the Pepys Library at Cambridge. His first historical work was A Dissertation on the Origin and Progress of the Scythians, or Ooths , in which he laid down that theory which he maintained through life, that the Celts of Ireland, Wales , and Scotland , are Savages , and bave been savages since the world began ! His next important work was an Inquiry into the History of Scotland Preceding the Reign of Malcolm III, or 105G , in which he debates at great length, and, as Sir Walter Scott remarks, with much display of learning, on the history of the Goths, and the conquests which he states them to have obtained over the Celts in their progress through all Europe. In 1790 ho published a History of Scotland During the Reign of the Stuarts, the most laborious and valuable of his works. He also compiled a Modern Geography, edited a Collection of Voyages and Travels, was some time editor of the Critical Review, wrote a Treatise on Rocks, and was engaged on various other literary tasks. Pinkerton died in wnnt and obscurity in Paris.
|
After two weak and inactive reigns, and two regencies of no superior cliaructer, a monarch is to succeed, whose jjovernment is to lie distinj'ui.'hcd for its novelty and vigour; and tin; house of Stuart is at fast to know a soverei;;n. Jaincs had now attained his thirtieth year; and his prime of life was yet further rccomineuded by every advantage which natural talents and a complete education could licstow. In person lie was rather under the middle size, lint endued with such firmness and ayility as to excel in every manly exercise. In wrestling, in the manageinent of the bow or the spear, in throwing the quoit, in run-ning, in liorsemanship, he yielded to none. Hut his mental ahilities were yet morecunspi-cuons. A man of science and learning, an excellent poet, a master of music, the fame o[ his accomplishments reflected glory even on the throne. Illustrious in every personal virtue, Iree from any personal vice, his very amusements adorned his character; his hours of leisure heing frequently dedicated to elegant writing, and ininiature painting, to mechanical arts, and to the cultivation of the garden and the orchard. |
The feat ures of his government it is more dif-licult to discriminate. If we helicve some writers, not less than three thousand men were put to death in the two lirst years of his reign; and after the inroad of Donald Balloch, three hundred highland banditti met with the same fate. Happily these matters arc quite unknown to contemporary and authentic monuments of our history: the justice of James fell only on a few nobles and some chiefs of elans ; but bet numerous dependents of those victims of equitable severity embraced every occasion to excite discontents, and propagate falsehoods against the government, falsehoods which have even passed into the page of history, for one of the misfortunes of the house of Stuart has consisted in the prejudices of several Scottish historians. If any blame must fall, let it fall where it ought, upon the misrule of the house of Albany. To a people who had lived half a century under a loose and delegated government, and who bad been accustomed to regard licence as liberty, it Is no wonder that the punishment of crimes seemed quite a new and strange cruelty : that a salutary strength of government appeared despotism ; that a necessary and legal taxation assumed the shape of tyrannic extortion. The commons , led by the nobles, adsuredly regarded the cause of the latter as their own , and saw not that the king in crushing the aristocracy was doing the most essential service to his people. The plans of James were sagacious and profound, but sometimes incur the charge of temerity ; and while they partake of the greatness of genius, |
|
llit'y «ie 11miilcil liy llir want ui .'i siifllriciil j)0\V('r in llic Seottisli inonnrcliy for (lii.'ii'cofiiplctc execution. In a wonl, James is fully cnlilleil to li»! |
uncommou oliaracler of a (jroat sovcrcin;!! in the arts of govemiuenl and of peace. |
|
His actions proclaim liiin a prince of decisive, and soinelimcs even violent spirit. In war he was a valiant and popular leader : and surpassed nis father in a marked attention to military discipline. Negligent of pomp, the equal of every soldier, he shared the mean repnst of the march, confident that poison is seldom administered in vessels of wood, add reposing absolute faith on the love of his people. The power of his abilities, the excellence of his intentions in peace, are best displayed hy the laws of his reign, always the most instructive and valuable portion of history. His wisdom appears conspicuous, in his revereuee for the counsels of the wise, in jjuiding his most important actions hy the experience of Crichton, and the henign and patriotic prudence of Kennedy. The perdition of the aristocratic and tyrannic house of Douglas was to be a spirited exertion of justice to himself and to his people. lint that any fixed plan yet existed , for the destruction of the aristocracy, seems a refined theory , incongruous with the ignorance and spirit and manners of the times; and is best confuted by the plain facts, that the families abased are ever remarkable for important crimes, and that the property and power, which were withdrawn from one bouse . were ever to be bestowed on another. Even when Louis XI. and Henry VII. were, towards the termination of this cent ury, in countries of greater civilization, and political science, to bumble the aristocracy, an unprejudiced reader will be ready to infer that the events proceed rather from chance and circumstances, and the rotation of society, than from design. As to the person of the second James, we only know that it was robust; and tiiat a red tinge, which deformed one of his cheeks, gave him the vulgar appellation of James with the fiery face. |
As a philosophical historian, critic, and politician , Sir James Mackintosh deserves honourable mention, lie was also one of the last of the Scottish metaphysicians, and one of the most brilliant conversers of his times—qnalilications apparently very dissimilar. His candour, benevolence, and liberality, gave a grace and dignity to his literary speculations and to his daily life. Mackintosh was a native of Inverness-shire, and was born at Alduurie-honse, on the banks of Loch Ness, October 24, 17C5. His father was a brave Highland officer, who possessed a small estate, called Kylachy, in his native county, which James afterwards sold for 9,000 pound. From his earliest days James Mackintosh had a passion for books; and though all his relatives were Jacobites , he was a stanch Whig. After studying at Aberdeen (where he had as a companion and friend the pious and eloquent Robert Hall), Mackintosh went to Edinburgh, and studied medicine. In 1788 he repaired to LoiHon , wrote for the press, and afterwards applied himself to the study of law. In 1791 he published his Vindicite Gallicic, a defence of the French devolution, in reply to JJurke, which, for cogency of argument, historical knowledge, and logical precision, is a remarkable work to be written by a careless and irregular young man of twenty-six. Though his bearing to his great antagonist was chivalrous and polite , Mackintosh attacked his opinions with the ardour and impetuosity of youth, and his work was received with great applause. Four years afterwards he acknowledged to Burke that he had been the dupe of his own enthusiasm , and that a 'melancholy experience' had undeceived him. The excesses of the French Revolution had no doubt contributed to this change, which , though it afterwards was made the cause of obloquy and derision to Mackintosh , seems to have been adopted with perfect sincerity and singleness of purpose. He afterwards delivered and published a series of lectures on the law of nature and nations, which greatly extended his reputation. In 1795 he was called to the bar, and in his capacity of barrister, in 1803, he made a brilliant defence of M. Peltier, an emigrant royalist of France, who had been indicted for a libel on Napoleon, then first consul. The forensic display of Mackintosh is too much like an elaborate essay or dissertation, but it marked him out for legal promotion, and he received the appointment (to which his poverty, not his will, consented) of Recorder of Bombay. He was knighted , sailed from England in the beginning of 1804 , and after discharging faithfully his high offlcial duties, returned at the end of seven years, the earliest period that entitled him to his retiring pension of 1200 pound per annum. Mackintosh now obtained a seat in parliament, and stuck faithfully by his old friends the Whigs, without one glimpse of favour, till in 1827 his friend Mr. Canning , on the formation of his administration , made him a privy councillor. On the accession of the Whig ministry in 1880 , ho was appointed a commissioner for the affairs of India. On questions of criminal law and national policy Mackintosh spoke forcibly , but he cannot be said to have been a successful parliamentary orator. Amid the bustle of public business ho did not neglect literature, though he
wanted resolution for eontiniious and severe study. The charms oi' society, the interruptions of puhlie business, and the debilitating effects of his residence in India, also co-operated with his constitutional indolence in preventing the realisation of the ambitious dreams of his youlh. He contributed, however, various articles to the Edinburgh Keview, and wrote a masterly Dissertation on the Progress of Ethical Philosophy for the Encyeloptedia llritannica lie wrote three volumes of a compendious and popular History of England for Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopicdia, which, though deflcient in the graces of narrative and style, contains some admirable views of constitutional history and antiquarian research. Ilis learning was abundant; he wanted only method and elegance. He also contributed a short but valuable life of Sir Thomas More (which sprung out of his researches into the reign of Henry VIII, and was otherwise a subject congenial to his taste) to the same miscellany; and he was engaged on a History of the Revolution of 1088, when his life was somewhat suddenly terminated on the 30th of May 1832. The portion of his history of the Ilevolution which he had written anil corrected (amounting to about 850 pages) was published in 1834, with a continuation by some writer who was opposed to Sir James in many essential points. In the works of Mackintosh we have only the fragments of a capacious mind ; hut iu all of them his learning, his candour, his strong love of truth, his justness of thinking and clearness in perceiving, and his genuine philanthropy , are conspicuous. It is to be regretted that he had no Boswell to record his conversation.
Chivalry and modern Itlanners.
From the Vindicia'. Gallicw.
|
The collision of armed mnltil udes [in Paris] terminated in unforeseen excesses and execrable crimes. In the eye of Mr. Burke, however, these crimes and excesses assume an aspect far more important than can he communicated lo them by their own insulated jjuilt. They form, in his opinion, the crisis of a revolution far more important than any change of jjovernment — a revolution in which the sentiments and opinions that have formed the manners of the European nations are to perish. 'The ajje of chivalry is {jone, and the glory of Europe extinguished for ever.' He follows this exclamations hy an eloquent eulogium on chivalry, and hy gloomy predictions of the future state of Europe, when the nation that has heen so long accustomed to give her the tone in arts and manners is thus debased and corrupted. A caviller might remark, that ages much more near the meridian fervour ol chivalry than ours have witnessed a treatment of queens as little gallant and generous as that or the Parisian mob. He might remind Sir. liurhe that, in the age and country, ol Sir Philip Sidney, a queen of Kranee, whom no blindness to accomplishment, no ma-iignity of detraction, could reduce to the level of Maria Antoinetta, was, by 'a nation of men of honour and cavaliers,' permitted lo languish in captivity, and expire on a scullold; and ho might add, that Ihn manners of a country arc more surely indicated by the systematic cruelty of a sovereign, than by the licentious frenzy of a mob. He might remark, that the mild system of modern manners which survived the massacres with which fanaticism bad for a century desolated and almost barharised Europe, might perhaps resist the shock of one day's excesses committed by a delirious populacc. But the subject itself is, to an enlarged thinker, fertile in rcllections ofa different nature. |
That system of manners which arose among the Gothic nations of Europe, of which chivalry was more properly the effusion than the source, is, without doubt, one of the most peculiar and interesting appearances in human affairs. The moral causes which formed its character have not perhaps been hitherto investigated with the happiest success. But to confine ourselves to the subject before us, chivalry was certainly one of the most prominent features and remarkable eJl'ects of tbis system of manners. Candour must confess that tbis singular in-stitution is not alone admirable as a corrector of the ferocious ages in which it flourished. It contributed to polish and soften liurope. It paved the way for that diffusion of knowledge and extension of commerce which afterwards in some measure supplanted it , and gave a new character lo manners. Society is inevitably progressive. In government, commerce has overthrown that 'feudal and chivalrous' system under whose shade it first grew. In religion, learning has subverted that superstition whose opulent endowments had first fostered it. Peculiar circumstances softened the barbarism of the middle ages lo a degree which favoured the admission of commerce and the growth of knowledge. These circumstances were connected with the manners of chivalry ; but the sentiments peculiar lo that institution could only be preserved by the situation which gave them birth. They were themselves enfeebled in the progress from ferocity and turbulence, and almost obliterated by tranquillity and refinement. But the auxiliaries w hich the manncrsof chivalry had in rude ages reared, gathered strength from its weakness, and flourished in its decay. Commerce and diffused knowledge have, in fact, so completely assumed the ascendant in polished nations, that it will he difficult to discover any relics of |
|
Gotliic inannnrs l)ul in a lanlastii; cxU'iior, wliioli has surviveil the generous illusions that made these manners splendid and seductive. J heir direct influence has long ceased in Europe; but their indirect influence, through the medium of those causes, which would not perhaps have existed hut for the mildness which chivalry created in the midst of a barbarous age, still operates with increasing vigour. The manners of the middle age were, in the most singular sencc, compulsory. Enterprising benevolence was produced by general fierceness, gallant courtesy by ferocious rudeness, and artificial gentleness resisted the torrent of natural barbarism. But a less incongruous system lias succeeded , iu which commerce, which unites men's interests, and Knowledge, which excludes those prejudices that tend to embroil them, present a broader basis for the slahility of civilised and beneficent manners. |
Mr. Rurke, indeed, forebodes the most falal consequences to literature, from events which he supposes to have given a mortal blow to the spirit of chivalry. I have ever been pro-tecled from such apprehensions by my belief in a very simple trulh — that difl'uscd knowledge immortalises itself. A lilerature which is confined to a few, may he destroyed by the massacre of scholars and the conflagration of libraries, but the diffused knowledge of the present day could only he annihilated by the extirpation of the civilised part of mankind. |
Extract fioies Ihc JSiieeck In IScfencc of Mr. i'cltler , for a lllicl on IVapolcon Bonaparte , February 1803.
|
(Jentlemen — There is one point of view in which this case seems lo merit your most seiious attention. The real prosecutor is the master of the greatest enipirc the civilised world ever saw—the defendant is a defenceless proscribed exile. I consider this case, therefore, as the first of a long series of conflicts between the greatest power in tbc world, and the Ofü,Y free rnsss remaining in Europe. Gentlemen , this distinction of llie English press is new— it is a proud and a melancholy distinction. Before the great earthquake of the French Revolution had swallowed up all the asylums of free discussion on the conlinent, we enjoyed that privilege, indeed, more fully than others , but we did not enjoy it exclusively. In Holland, in SwiUerland, in the imperial towns of Germany, the press was either legally or practically free. Holland and SwiUerland are no more; and, since the commencement of ibis prosecution, fifty imperial towns have been erased from llie list of independent states by one dash of the pen. Three or four still preserve a precarious and trembling existence. I will not say by what compliances they must pur-o.hase Us continuance. 1 will not insult the feebleness of states whose unmerited fall I do most bitterly deplore. Tluse governments were, in many respects, one of the most interesting parts of the ancient system of Europe. The perfect security of such inconsiderable and feeble states, their undisturbed tranquillity amidst the wars and conquests that suriounded them, attested, beyond any other part of the European system , the moderation, the justice, the civilisation, lo which Christian Europe had reached in modern times. Their weakness was protected only by the |
habitual reverence for justice which, during a long series of ages, had grown up in Christendom. This was the only fortification which defended them against those mighty monarchs to whom they offered so easy a prey. And, till the French Revolution , this was sufficient. Consider, for instance, the republic of Geneva; think of her defenceless position in the very jaws of France; but think also of her undisturbed security, of her profound quiet, of the brilliant success with which she applied to industry and literature «bile Louis XIV. was pouring bis myriads into Italy before her gates; call to mind, if ages crowded into years have not effaced them from your memory, that happy period when we scarcely dreamed more of the subjugation of the feeblest republic in Europe than of the conquest of her mightiest empire, and tell me if you can imagine a spectacle more beautiful to the moral eye, or a more striking proof of progress in the noblest principles of civilisation. These feeble states, these monuments of the justice of Europe, the asylum of peace, of industry, and of literature: the organs of public reason , the refuge of oppressed innocence and persecuted truth, have perished with those ancient principles which were their sole guardians and protectors. They have been swallowed up by that fearful convulsion which \ has shaken the uttermost corners of the earth. They are destroyed, and gone for ever! One asylum of free discussion is still inviolate. There ' is still one spot in Europe where man can 1 freely exercise his reason on the most important concerns of society, where be can boldly publish his judgment on the acts of the proudest and most powerful tyrants. The press of England is still free. It is guarded by the free consti- |
|
tulion ot our forefulliers. It is guardud Ity llic liearls and arms of Englishmen, and I trust 1 may venture to sny, that if it be to fall, it will fall only under the ruins of the British empire. It is an uwful consideration, gentlemen. Everv other monument of European liberty lias perished. That ancient fabric which has heen gradually reared by the wisdom and virtue of our fathers, still stands, It stands, thanks he God! solid and entire — but it stands alone, and it stands in ruins ! Believing, then , as I do, that we are on the eve of a great struggle, that this is only the first battle between reason and power — that von have now in your bands, committed to your trust, the only remains of free discussion in Europe, now confined to this kingdom; addressing you, therefore, as the guardians of the most important interests of mankind ; convinced that the unfettered exorcise of reason depends more on your present verdict than on any other that was ever delivered by a jury, I trust I may rely with confidence ou the issue—I trust that you will consider yourselves as the advanced guard of liberty — as having this day to fight the first battle of free discussion against the most formidable enemy that it ever encountered! |
Was born at Winchester on the 5th of February, 1771, of an humble stock, which is said to have been driven from Ciaiby, in Lincolnshire, by religious prosecution. Being a promising joutb , he was scut by the Roman Catholic liishop Talbot to Douay for education. Driven thence by the revolutionary troubles of France, the Community of Douny found shelter, after several intermediate removals, at Crook Hall, and afterwards at Ushaw, in the north of England. Liagard followed the college in its wanderings, and fdicd various otllces in the litlie community. Active-minded and persevering, clear in inlellect and kindly in manner, he is described as having been an eicellent preceptor. His public reputation procured bim uflers of the Presidency of Maynooth, and other similar establishmentsj but his mind was fixed upon literature, and in order to indulge his tastes and complete his history, ho quot;withdrew to the secluded mission at Hornbyquot;, where he continued till his death on the 18th of July, 1851. The latter years of his loug life were rendered easy by the profits of his works and a puusiou of 3(JO pound from the Queen. His works were various — controversial, religious, historical , — but one character of mind reigns throughout them all. As the lloman Catholic historian — the stater, the very able stater, of their historical case — Lingard filled a vacant niche in the English Literature.
|
A contemporary writer has left us the character of Henry as it was dilFercntly drawn by his friends and enemies after his death. Uy the former he was ranked among the wisest, richest, and bravest of our monarchs: the latter loaded his memory with the reproach of cruelly, avarice, and incontinence. To an imlilTerent observer at the present day his reign wi II oflcr little worthy of praise, unless it he the severity with which he punished oftences. This was a real benefit to his people, as it not only contributed to extirpate the robbers by profession , but also clieckfitl the rapacity and violence of the barons. Still his merit will he very equivocal. As long as each conviction brought with it a fine or forfeiture to the royal exchequer, princes were stimulated to the execution of the laws by a sense of personal interest. Henry, at the same lime that he visited the injustice of others, scrupled not to commit injustice himself. Probably in both eases he had in view the same object, his own emolument. |
The great aim of his ambition was to aggrandize his family by augmenting his possessions on the continent. His success in this favourite project obtained for him the reputation of wisdom; but it was purchased at the expense of enormous sums wrung from a suffering and impoverishi'd people. If, however, the English thus paid for acquisitions in which they had little interest, tliey derived from them one advantage; the king's attention to foreign politics rendered him anxious to preserve peace with his more immediate neighbours. He lived on the most friendly terms with Alexander and David, successively kings of Scotland, The former had married his natural daughter Syhilla: both were the brothers of his wife Matilda. It was more diificiilt to repress the active and predatory disposition of the Welsh: hut as often as he prepared to chastise this presumption, they pacified bis resentment by submission and presents. As a check to his restless people, he planted among them a powerful colony of foreigners. Many natives of Flanders had found settlements in England, under the protection of his mother Matilda; and the number was now doubled hy a crowd of emigrants, who had heen driven from their homes by an inundution of the |
07
|
Itliinr. Henry planed lliem at first on llic riglit hank of tlic Tweed ; hut afterwards, collecling the old and new corners into one body, allotted to tliem for their residence the town of Haverfordwest, with the district uf Ross in Pem-hrokesliirc. They were a martial and industrious people: hy attention to the cultivation of the soil, and the inanufactnrc of cloth , they grew in numbers anil opulence : and under the protection of tlin Enjjlisb kings, to whom they always remained faitliful, defeated every attempt of the Welsh princes to root them out of tlic country. Henry was naturally suspicious; and his disposition had been greatly encouraged hy his knowledge of the clandestine attempts of his enemies. On one occasion the keeper of his treasure was convicted of a design on his life: on another, while he was marching in the midsl of bis army towards Wales, an arrow from an unknown hand struck him on the breast, hut was repelled by the temper of his cuirass. Alarmed by these incidents, be always kept on his guard, frequently changed his apartments, and, when be ictiicd to rest, ordered sentinels to be stationed at the door, and his sword and shield to be placed near bis pillow. Tbe suspieions arc generally dissembling anil revengeful. Henry seldom forgot an injury, though be would disguise his enmity under tbe mask of friendship. Fraud, and treachery, and violence, were employed lo ensnare those who had greatly offended him; and their usual portion was death, or blindness, or perpetual imprisonment. After his decease it was discovered that his cousin the Marl of Moretoil, whom be had long kept in confinement, had also been deprived of sight. Luke de üarré, a poet, who had fought against him, was made jjrisoner at the dose of the last war, and sentenced hy the king to lose his eyes. Charles tbe (iood , earl of Flanders, was present, and remonstrated against so direful a punishment. It was not, he observed, the custom of civilized nations to inilict. bodily punishment on knights who had drawn the sword in the service of their lord. |
'It is not,' replied Henry, 'the first time that he has been in arms against me. Rut what is worse, be has made me the subject of his satire; and in his poems has held me up to the derision of my enemies. From his example let other versifiers learn what they may expect, if they oflfend the king of England.' The cruel mandate was executed: and the troubadour, in a paroxysm of agony, bursting from the hands of the officers, dashed out his brains against the wall. His dissimulation was so well known that he-was mistrusted even by his favourites. When lilott, bishop of Lincoln, who had for many years been one of his principal justiciaries, was told that the king had spoken of him in terms of the highest commendation: 'Then,' he replied, '1 am undone; for I never know him praise a man whom he did not intend lo ruin.' The event justified his apprehensions. In an unguarded moment the' prelate had boasted that the monastery which he was building at liyrsbam should equal that which Henry had founded at Reading. The words were carried to the king, and the fall of the favourite was consummated. He was immediately deprived of the office of justiciary ; vexatious prosecutions were commenced against him ; hy fines and extortions all bis wealth was drawn to the royal exchequer: and the bishop would probably have been compelled to resign bis dignity, bad he nut died by a sudden fit of apoplexy, as he was speaking to Henry. Malmesbury has allotted to ibe king the praise of temperance and continency. Perhaps his claim to the first, certainly his claim lo the second , of these virtues, rests on no other ground than the partiality of his panegyrist. If, as many writers affirm, his death was occasioned hy tbe excess with which he ate of a dish of lampreys, we may fairly doubt of his temperance, nor can the continency of that man he much commended , who is known to ha\e been attached lo several mistresses; and of whose illegitimate children no fewer than sewn sons and eight daughters lived to the age of puherty. |
|
Gentle and credulous, warm in bis attachments, and forgiving in bis enmities, without •vices, hut also without energy, he was a good man, and a weak monarch. In a more peaceful age, when tbe empire of the laws had been strengthened hy habits of obedience, he might have filled the throne with decency, perhaps with honour: but his lot cast him into one of the most turbulent periods of our histoiy, without the talents to command respect, or the authority to enforcc submission. Vet his incapacity was productive rather of inconvenience to himself than of misery to his subjects. Under his weak hut pacific sway the nation grew more rapidly in wealth and piospel'ity than it had done under any of his military progenitors. Out of tbe fifty-six years, through w bich he extended his reign, hul a very small portion was marked by thecala-milies of war: the tenants of tbe crown were seldom dragged by him into foreign countries |
|
or impuvenslicd liy soulagcs for llic support of mercenary armies; tlio propridors, (lc])riv(iil of two sourocsof wealth , the plunder of an enemy, and tiin ransom of captives, turned tliclratlention to tlic improvement of their estates: salutary enactments invigorated the spirit of commerce: and there scarcely existed n port from the coast of Norway to the shores of Italy that was not annually visited hy Enjjlisli inorclmnts. This statement may perhaps surprise those «ho have listened only to tlio remonstrances of factious harons, or tlio complaints of discontented historians : hut the fact is, that of all the kings since the conquest, Henry received the lea?t money from the tenants of the crown. Aecord-inij to t he most accurute calculation, the average amount ol his expenses diil not exceed twenty-four thousand marks per nnnuin : and we arc Kdward (at his accession] had now reached his thirty-sixth year. In his person he was tall, hut well proportioned: the length of his arm gave additional force to his stroke; and when he was once phiced in his saddle, no struggle of his horse, no violence of the enemy could dislodge him from his seat. In temper he was warm and irascible, impatient of injury, and reckless of danger: hut his anger might he disarmed hy submission, and his temerity seemed to bo justified by success. During the late contest with the barons he had proved the solidity of his judgment, and the resolution of his mind: and his reputation had been established among the admirers of |
assured that in the course of a reign which continued half a ccntury, the only extraordinary aids levied hy him on the nation were two fifteenths, one thirtieth, and one fortieth for himself, and one twentieth for the relief of the Holy Land. His great resource was the tenth of the ecclesiastical revenues, which be received for some years; an impost which, though in-sulficient to rescue him from the pressure of poverty, was calculated from its pai tial operation to exasperate the minds of those who were compelled to pay it. The clergy struggled in vain to shako ofl' the burden ; their writers have laboured more successfully to interest in their favour the feelings of posterity by the description , probably (he exaggerated description , of their wrongs. I'd 1. chivalry by his prowess in battles, in tournaments , and in his expedition to Palestine. In ambition he did not yield to any of his predecessors: but bis ambition aimed at a very diflerent object. They had exhausted their strength in attempting conquests on the continent, which might be wrested from them at any time hy a fortunate neighbour: be aspired to unite in himself the sovereignty of the whole island of Great Britain. Nor was he entirely disappointed. Wales was incorporated with England: and the independence of Scotland sought an asylum in the midst of morasses , forests, and mountains. |
|
The first Edward had heen in disposition a tyrant. As often as he had dared , ho had trampled on the liberties, or invaded the property of his subjects; and yet be died in his hed, respected hy his barons and admired hy his contemporaries. His son, the second Edward was of a less injurious characler: no acts of injustice or oppression were imputed to him hy his greatest enemies: yet he was deposed from the throne, and murdered in a prison. Of this diftcrcnce between tlic lot of the father and the son, the solution must he sought in the manners and character of the age. They both reigned over proud and factious nobles, jealous of their own liberties, hut regardless of the liberties of others; and who. though they respected the arbitrary sway of a monarch as haughty and violent as (hcmsclvcs, despised the milder and more equitable administration of his successor. That successor, naturally easy and indolent, fond of the pleasures of the table and tlic amusements of the chases willingly devolved on others the cares and labours of government. But in an age unacquainted with the more modern expedient of a responsible minister, the barons considered the elevation of the favourite as their own depression, bis power as the infringement of their rights. The result was what we ba\e seen, a scries of associations, having for their primary object the removal of evil counsellors, as they were called, from the person of the princc, but which gradually invaded the legitimate rights of the crown, and terminated in the dethronement and assassination of the sovereign. |
|
(n personal accomplishments Ivlwanl is said to liavc been superior, in mental powers to have been equal, to any of bis preilecossors. More than usual care had been bestowed on his education: and he could not only speak the English and French, but also understand the Gorman and Latin languages. His elocution was graceful; bis conversation entertaining; his behaviour dignified, but also attractive. To the fashionable amusements of hunting and hawking he was nincli addicted: hut to these be preferred ibe more warlike ciercise of the tournament: and bis subjects, at the conclusion of ibe exhibilion, oflen hurst into transports of applause, when they found that the unknown knight, whose prowess they bad admired, proved to be tlieir own sovereign. Of his courage as a combatant, and bis abilities as a general, the reader will have formed a competent opinion from the preceding pages. The astonishing victories. |
which cast so much glory on one period of his reign, appear to liaie da/.tled the eyes both of his subjects and foreigners, who placed him in the first rank of conquerors: but ibe disasters, which clouded the evening of bis life, have furnished a proof that bis ambition was greater than his judgment. He was at last convinced that the crowns of France and Scotland were beyond bis reach ; but not till be bad eiliausted the strength of the nation by a scries of gigantic but fruitless efforts. Before his death all his conquests, with the exception of Calais, bad slipped from his grasp: the greater part of his hereditary dominions on the continent bad been lorn from birn by a rival, i whom he formerly despised : and a succession I of short and precarious truces was sougbt and I accepted as a boon by the monarch , who in his more fortunate days had dictated the pcace i of Bretigni. |
Author of several elaborate works, is one of the greatest historians of Engeland. His first work was a View of the State of Europe during the Middle Ages, two volumes quarto, lbl8, being an account of the progress of Europe from the middle of the fifth to the end of the fifteenth century. In 1827 he imblished The Constitutional History of England from the Accession of Henry Vll .to tue Death of George II, also in two volumes; and in 1837—38 an Introduction to the Literature of Europe in the Kiftecnth , Sixteenth, and Seventeenth Centuries, in four volumes. With vast stores of knowledge , ami indefatigable application, Mr. Hallam possesses a clear and independent judgment, and a style grave and impressive, yet enriched with occasional imagery and rhetorical graces. His introiluction to ttic 'Literature of Europe' is a great monument of his erudition. His knowledge of the language and literature of each nation is critical and profound , and his opinions are conveyed in a stylo remarkable for us succinctness and perspicuous beauty. Id his two first works, Mr. Hallam's views of political questions are those generally adopted by the Whig party, but are stated with calmness and moderation. He is pcculiai y a supporter of principles, not of men, and he judges of chnractcrs without party prejudice or passion.
|
From the 'View of It is the previous state of society, under the grand children of Charlemagne, which we must always kccji in mind , if wc would appreciate the cllccls of the feudal system upon the welfare of mankind. The institutionsof tbeeleventb century must be compared with those of the ninth, not ■with the advanced civilisation of modern times. The state of anarchy which we usually term feudal, was the natural result of a vast and barbarous empire feebly administered, and the causc, rather than the cllect, of the general establishment of feudal tenures. These, by pre-toe Middi.e Ages.' |
serving the mutual relations of the whole, kept alive the feeling of a common country and common duties; and settled , after the lapse of ages, into the free constitution of England, the firm monarchy of France, and the federal union of Germany. The utility of any form of policy may be estimated hy its efFects upon national greatness and security, upon civil liberty and private rights, upon the tranquillity and order of society, upon the increase and diffusion of wealth lt; or upon the general tone ol moral sentiment and energy. I he |
|
fi'Uiliil ('on^litiiliuri was liltlc iiiliiiiluil fur llio ilefoncp ol a njijjlily kingdom, far less for sclicmcs of conqiicst. But as it niovailed nllki; in sovcral ill!jjici'iit, countries, none liail anytliinj; to fear from the inililary superioiily of its neijjlibours. It was this inefficiency of the feudal militia, perhaps, that saved Europe, ilurinj; the middle ages, from the danger of universal monarchy. In times when princes had little notions of confederacies for iniitnal protection, it is hard to say what might not have heen the successes of an Otho , a Frederic, or a Philip Augustus, if they could have wielded the whole force of their suh-jects whenever their nmhition required. If an empire equ illy extensive with that of Charlemagne, and supported hy military despotism, had heen formed about the twelfth or thirteenth centuries, the seeds of commerce and liherty, just then heginning to shoot, would have perished; and linrope, reduced to a harharous servitude, might have fallen before the free barbarians of Tartary. If we look at the feudal polity as a scheme of civil freedom, it bears a noble countenance. To the feudal law it is owing that the very names of right and privilege were not swept away, as in Asia, by the desolating band of power. The tyranny which, on every favourable moment, was breaking through all barriers, would have rioted without control, if, when the people were poor and disunited, the nobility had not heen brave and free. So far as the sphere of feudality extended, it diffused the spirit of liberty and the notims of private right. Every one will acknowledge this who considers the limitations of the services of vassalage, so cautiously marked in t hose law-books w hich arc the records of customs; the reciprocity of obligation between the lord and his tenant; the consent required in every measure of a legislative or general nature; the security, above all, which every vassal found in the administration of justice hy his peers, and even (we may in this sense say) in the trial by combat. The bulk of the people, it is true, were degraded by servitude ; but this bad no connexion with the feudal tenures. |
The peace and good order of society were not promoted hy this system. Though private wars did not originate in the feudal customs, it. is ! impossible to doubt that they were perpetuated by so convenient an institution, wbieh indeed owed its universal estahlisbment to no other j cause. And as predominant habits of warfare are totally irreconcilable with those of industry, not merely by the immediate works of destruction which render its ellorts unavailing, but through tbat contempt of peaceful occupations which they produce, the feudal system mn^t have been intrinsically adverse to the accumulation ol wealth ; and the improvement of those arts which mitigate the evils or abridge the labours ol mankind. But, as a school of moral discipline, the feudal institutions were perhaps most to be valued. Society had sunk, for several centuries after the dissolution of the Roman empire, intoa condition of«utter depravity; where, if any vices could he selected as more eminently characteristic than others, they were falsehood, treachery, and ingratitude. In slowly purging off the lees of this ! extreme corruption, the feudal spirit exerted its nmeliorating influence. Violation of faith stood first in the catalogue of crimes, most repugnant, to the very essence of a feudal tenure, most severely and promptly avenged , most branded hy general infamy. The feudal law-hooks breathe thronghont a spirit of honourable obligation. The feudal course of jurisdiction promoted , what trial hy peers is peculiarly calculated to promote, a keener feeling , as well as readier perception , of moral as well as of legal distinctions. In the reciprocal services of lord and vassal, there was ample seope for every magnanimous and disinterested energy. The heart of man , when placed in circumstances that have a tendency to excite them, will seldom be deficient in such sentiments. No occasions could he more favourable than the protection of a faithful supporter, or the defence of a beneficent sovereign, against such powerful aggression as left little prospect except of sharing in bis ruin. |
One of Ihc most laborious and successful of modern miscellaneous writers, and who has tended in a material degree to spread a taste for literary history and anecdote, is Isaac Disraeli, author of the Curiosities of Literature, and other works. The first volume of the Curiosities was published in 1791; a second appeared a few years afterwards, and a third in 1817. A second series has since been published in three volumes. The other works of Mr. Disraeli are entitled Literary Miscellanies; Quarrels of Authors; Calamities of Authors; Character of .James !• and The Literary Character. The whole of these are now printed in one large volume. Fn IS-ii this author, though labouring under partial blindness, followed up the favourite studies of his youth by another work in three volumes, entitled The Amenities of Literature, consisting, like the Curiosities and Miscellanies, of detached papers and dissertations on literary and his-lorical subjects, written iu a pleasant philosophical style, which presents the fruits of antiquarian research and careful study, without their dryness and general want of connexion.
|
ïliero whs an ititcrvul, a short interval, liclween llii' dissolulion of the third Parliament in 1628, anil the rising troubles in Scotland in 163U, when we may (leserihn the Kiiiff as at peace ■with himself, as no longer daily harassed hy a discontended Parliament, and as yet a stranger to adversities unparalleled in the history of princes. During these ten years , Charles indulged more uninterruptedly a passion for the arts of imagination. Picture, sculpture, architecture, and music, and not less literature, oliarmed these few happier years. Nor were these tastes a late acquirement with Charles the First: they were no fechle pursuit, taken up as the resource of the idler; — no cold reflected taste, caught up from others. They were the virgin fancies of his studious days ; and when banisl^d from them, in his wanderings, and in the camp or in the prison, they still occupied his musings. Many evidences of such recollections still exist. 1 have seen a written order hy Charles the First, when in confinement in the Isle of Wight, addressed to the learned Patrick Young, his librarian, about the books at St. James's, and to the great antii|nary, Sir Sy-monds D'Ewes, the keeper of his medals, concerning their respective objects; so intent was his elegant mind on those treasures of literature and art, of which being deprived, ho accounted these deprivations not among the last of the many he now endured, Mr. Upeolt has also a note of Charles to Secretary iNicholas, at the time the King was with the Scots, in which he orders certain volumes to be sent to him, and points out their particular situation in one of bis apartments at Whitehall. The domestic habits of this Sovereign seem ennobled by their intellectual relincment. Ingenious himself in all the arts of ingenuity, bis sensibility to art was that of an artist, bis critical discernment that of the connoisseur. With some Monarchs, pride or pomp have shed a golden patronage over Art, as over one of their lesser glories: with Charles the First, the passion was the devotion of a votary, loving Art only for itself. Though avowedly neither a painter nor a poet, be could handle the pencil and compose a verse, lie suggested subjects to the two great painters of his age, to bis great architect, and to dramatic poets. Secret history only reveals this softening feature in the grave and king-like character of Charles the First. A prince without art and literature is only one of the people on the throne. |
Charles the First unquestionably was the first Knglisb monarch who opened galleries of paintings and statues; domiciliated the genius of Italian architecture; and in the ardour of his capacious designs, meditated at no distant day, to call around his throne, what lay scattered in Europe, a world of glory as yet uncou-quered hy his people. To have overcome the difficulties which the ellurts of this Prince had to contend with, is not less admirable than the grand object w hich he did realise, and the still grander ones which ho has left to our imagination. Had Whitehall Palace been completed as it was contcmpbited by Charles the First, and conceived by Inigo Jones, the l.ouvre and the Fscnrial would have found in our calumniated island, among ' the clouds of the North ,' a more magnificent rival. The ceiling of the lianqueting-room, at Whitehall, was painted by Ruhens; and it was the intention of Charles that Vandyke should have covered the walls with the history of the order of the Garter, in a friendly emulation with his master. This hall of audience for ambassadors, is stated to he only the fiftyfifth part of this gorgeous palacc. Hut the paintings of Vandyke for the edifice of Inigo Jonis exist only in a sketch in chiaro-scuro; by the civil wars the nation lost the glory of the paintings and the palace. The first collector of the productions of the fine arts in our country, was that Karl of Arundel, whose memorable marbles perpetuate bis name. Before his day we cannot discover in England any single gallery of pictures and statues, nor cabinets of medals and engraved gems. A collection of Queen Elizabeth's rarities, exhibited the lowest tastes of elaborate toys and frivolous curiosities. This travelled Earl, who bad repeatedly visited the Continent , and more particularly the laud of his admiration and bis love, Italy, exhausted Ins wealth and his magnificenec in the prodigality of his fine tastes. Of this father of our arts, Walpole tells, that 'lie wns the first who discovered the genius of Inigo Jones; and in his embassy to Vienna, he found Hollar at Prague' —and did not leave him there! To this Earl, as Peacham has felicitously expressed it, 'This angle of the world oweth the first sight of Grecian and lloman statues,' and l.ily notices, that 'this Earl brought the new way of building with brick in the city.' The tastes of the noble collector were caught by tbe aspiring genius of Prince Henry, who left a considerable collection of medals. Thus the germs of a cultivated taste for the arts were first scattered in the gardens and the galleries of Arundel house. Charles succeeded to his brother with a more decided propensity, and with a royal decision, that all the arts of invention, |
|
or üi' iniaginalion, should no longer he foreiVn to Knglnnd. We discover Charles mIieti Prince of Wales deeply husied willi the arls; and at that early period, lie designed invitiii'j; {;reat artists to England. Offers of this nature lie never ceased to make to those great foreigners whose immortal names still attest that there Mas no mediocrity in the Koyal taste. The history of a manufacture of fine gold and silver tapestry shows this early ardour. This manufacture introduced into this eountry hy Sir Francis Crane, and established at Wort lake, in Surrey, the young Prince not only patronised , hut conceived the idea of improving the splendid material by finer designs. Sir Henry AVotton , our ambassador al Venice, hy order of the Prince, procured Clcyne, the painter, to reside in England, for the purpose of inventing the designs. Charles built a residence for the artist, whose subjects, both in history and grotesque , were a great impro\cment on the rude gothic figures which they had hitherto worked on. Fine and rich tapestries were the most valued of domestic ornaments, and to raise to the utmost perfection the Mortlake tapestry, was so favourite an object with the young Prince, that when al Madrid, amidst love and revels, the Woi tlake tapestry was still in nis thoughts, lor he wrote to his council to pay 700 /. fur some Italian drawings for tapestry. The taste of the youthful patron was rising faster than the genius of Clcyne could advance; for Charles now sought for subjects which were of a higher character of art than the grotesque fancy of Cleyne invented. Rubens i was afterwards employed, when Charles was j King, in painting sketches of the history of 1 Achilles, to he copied in tapestry al Mort lake, and Charles purchased the seven Cartoons of j Kaphacl for the purpose of supplying more elevated subjects fur this tapestry. It was no fault of Charles the first that we did not anticipate the gobelins of Louis XIV. It was on the accession to his throne that Charles made the greatest eilurt for the acquisition of pictures and statues. The sum may seem to us trivial for a royal purchase, yet it was an eflort which the King could never repeal. Charles purchased the entire cabinet of Duke of Mantua fur a sum supposed to be under twenty thousand pounds : which , Mr. Dallaway observes, the King found up very easy business to pay. It should, however, he observed , that such noble productions of art bad nut then reached the large prices which afterwards the possessors, never the artists, could obtain. It was the taste of Charles the First, and the splendour of Philip the Fourth of Spain, which first raised their value in the estimation of Furupe. At the dis* persion of the eollec tiuu of paintings of Charles |
the First, their number amounted to about five hundred pictures, besides many which had been embe/fclcd. When we consider the straitened means of the King, and the short space of fifteen years in which that collection bad been formed, we have evidence how earnestly it occupied the Royal attention, and the whole may be considered as his own creation. The foundation of this royal collection of pictures was a few Italian and Flemish paintings, which, in the days of Henry the Khjhth , had been scattered among our palaces, lying unregarded as old furniture, and which, we are told, had received scarcely a single accession in the succeeding reigns. At all times Charles had in his mind his collection, and called the attention of his friends, or his agents to his aid. When the Marquis of Hamilton was acting under the King of Sweden, in a campaign in Germany, the King adds this postscript to one of his letters, 4 I hope shorily you will he in a possibility to perform your promise concerning pictures and statues of Muncken; therefore now in earnest do not forget it/ Kor was the Monarch less careful in their preservation; fur when the Queen's great masque was to be performed at Whitehall, Charles ordered a temporary building to be erected lor this spectacle at a considerable charge, lest his pictures in the Ranqueting-house should be damaged by the lights. Charles the First acknowledged that be had learned much hy conversation. It is certain that he encouraged a familiar intercourse ïrith travellers, artists, mechanics, and men of science. With such persons be threw oft' the habitual reserve of his character. The good sense of his inquiries inspired the confidence of comm unica-tion, and this Monarch rarely left ingenious men, without himself contributing some information on the objects of their own pursuits. Charles could su»'{jest a touch; even a hint to the unfinished canvass of Rubens and Vandyke. The King himself pursued with delight the arts of design , and it has been recorded that Rubens corrected some of his drawings, and that the King handled, not without skill, the pencil of lhat great master. The libellous author of the Nune-such Charles,' notices his general inclination to all arts and sciences; 'his excelling so far in them as that he might have {;ot a livelihood by them.' I.ily contents himscH with telling us that Charles was not unskilful in music — the truth is, that his ear and his hand were musical. The King bad been taught the Viol di Gamba, and was a pupil of Coperario, or John Cooper, a celebrated linglish musician, who, on his return from Italy, assumed this fantastic appellative. Playford, who had frequent opportunities to observe the delight of Charles the First in music, tells us, that the King would often |
|
npiioiiU tlic service and anlliems himself, and accompany tlicin , 'especially tliose incomparable fancics of Mr. Coperaiio lo the organ. Charles could plan a palace wilh Inigo Jones, and decidc on tlic ajje of a medal with Selden. .Such, indeed, had heen his early studies, that a learned man has described him as 'that {jreat antiquary Charles the Kirsl.' The illustrious Harvey in one of his writings , rucouiits with sinnular gratification the delight Charles received from observations made by that great anatomist, while dissecting before the King the deer in Hampton-court. The numerous works which this King suggested to authors , and the critical judgment with which he decided on works of literature, place Charles the First among the most literary monarchs. His critical conceptions were quick ; for when Sir Edward Walker was reading his manuscript Memoirs lo the King, in recording an incident of the soldiers stripping some of the Parliamen- | tarv troopers of their clothes, be bad expressed himself with levily 'Our soldiers freed them of the burthen of their clothes.' the King instantly interrupted the reader, observing,^'Fie. that is ill said, and it was worse done!' We know that the King read the manuscript plays, and once corrected a rant which Massinger had putin the mouth of a tyrant against the freedom of his subjects. The folio Shakespeare ot Charles, with the motto he frequently wrote in bis books, has at length become the possession of his present Majesty; the King altered some of the titles of the plays, and the motto, Vum Spiro Spcro, was prompted at moments, perhaps, «hen the Monarch, in trouble, or in prison, indulged some bright vision, He was fond of leaving lliesc testimonies of his elevated feelings among bis hooks, for another has been noticed — lichus in adversis facile est contemnere vilam ; Forliler ille facit qui miser esse potest. Charles suggested to the poet Shirley the plot of 'The Gamesters.' May's version of Lucan was received with all the favour of Royalty, a circumstance alluded lo by lien Jonson by comparing the fate of the English bard Willi Lucan's — 'Thy fame is enual, happier is thy fate. Thou hast got Charles's love, he, Nero shale. There are some delightful literary anecdotes of Charles. The King had heen harassed by the zealot Ohadiah Sedgwick repeatedly pressing the King for his opinion on his fanatical 'Leaves of the Tree of Life;' a mystical explanation of the second verse of the twenty-second chapter of the Uevelations. .1 he King , having read part of the manuscript, returned it, with his opinion , that,'After such a work , be believed the composer stood in some need |
of sleep.' The happy ambiguity of this playful criticism, accepted in the better sense, gratified this Parliamentary preacher. There was some Cervanlic humour in Charles's gravity. When pressed hy a Parliamenlary Commissioner lo conclude the' treaty , the King ingeniously replied, 'Mr. Buckley, if you call this a treaty, consider if it be nut like the fray in the comedy, where the man conies out, and says , There has been a fray, and no fray ; and hi in;; asked how that could be. Why, says be , there hath been three blows given, and I bad them all 1 Look, therefore, if this he not a parallel case.' The conversation of Charles, on many occasions, shows that be was a far superior man than bis enemies have chosen to acknowledge. The famous Oceana Harrington , when commissioned hy Parliament , attending on the King, his ingenuousness and his literature attracted the King's notice. Harringlon was a Republican in principle, and the King and he often warmly disputed on the principles of a good Government. One day Charles recited to him some well-known lines of Claudian , descriptive of the happiness of the Government under a just King. Harrington was struck by the King's abilities, and from that moment never ceased admiring the man whom he bad so well known. Charles displayed the same ahilily at the Treaty of the Isle of Wight, where he conducted the negotiation alone, bis lords and gentlemen standing behind his chair in silence. That occasion called forth all his capacity, and it was said, that the Earl of Salisbury, on the Parliament's side observed, that 'the King was wonderfully improved :'to which Sir Philip Warwick replied, 'No. my Lord! the King was always the same, hut your Lordship has loo late discovered it-' We can-! „ot doubt thai Charles the First possessed a ! rate of talent and intellectiial powers, to which his historians have rarely alluded. In a conversation on writing plays in rhyme, one parly allinning that the bondage of rhyme would confine the lancy , am! Lord Orrery being of a contrary opinion, as arbiter, Charles commanded his Lordship loemploy some of Ins leisure in a dramatic composition, in rhyme, whicli produced 'The Black Prince.' But il was not only in the lighter graces of poesy that the fine taste of Charles delighted: more serious and elevated objects equally engaged his attention. Charles was desirous that the national history should be composed hy a man of genius. He had been pleased with the historical Essay of Lord Bacon's Henry VII. With great judgment he fixed on Sir Henry Wolton for a complete history: and so stimulate that \eiy elegant writer, granted him a munificent pension of five hundred pounds. Charles unquestionably was himself a writer of the history of his own |
|
limes; ami liuwcvcr wu inay deloniiine on llio | aullienlicily ul the iiuieli (lispulcd loon Basilike, lliore will he foiirid soin» jioi lions, anti some peculiar expressions, wliicli, it is nol probable, perhaps possible, thai any one couhl have written but himself. Certain it is, thai the manuscripts of the Kinjj were numerous. No Monarch has had his pen so constantly in his band. During bis Ion;; confinement at Carishrooke Caslle, his life offers a beautiful picture of the imprisonment of a literary character. The Kinj; had bis constant hours fur writing, and he road inucb. Wo have an interesting catalogue of the books he called for during this period. Yet there exist no autographs of Charles, except some letters. This seems to indicate some purposed destruction. We know that the King revised the folio Memoirs of Sir Iv 1 ward Walker, and that he supplied Clarendon, from his own memorials and journals, willi two manuscripts, fairly written, on the transactions of the years 1055 and What became of these origi nals, with others, which were soiled in the royal cabinet taken at Naseby ? If it be true, as it appears , that Charles instigated Clarendon to compose his history, posterity may admire the King's exquisite discernment. There , was not iinolber man of genius in the Royal ' circle, who could have been more happily selected. Charles appears to have designed that bis Court should resembled the literary Court of the Medici. He assembled about him the great masters of their various arts; and while they acquired the good fortune of the royal patronage, and were dignified by bis honours, they more largely participated in this sort of affection which the real lovers of art experience fur the persons of great artists. We may rate Charles's taste at the supreme degree, by observing, that this Monarch never patronized mediocrity: the artist who was honoured by his regard was ever a master-spirit. I'atlier of art in our country, Charles seemed ambitious of making English denizens of every man of genius in liurope; and of no monarch bavo been recorded such frequent instances of the deep personal interest entertained for individuals. Charles, with bis own hand, wrote to Albano, to invite that joyous painter of childhood to reside at the Court of fOngland. When an other artist, Ter-rentius, was condemned to perpetual imprisonment, Charles, in the excess of his admiration for bis works, interceded fur the wretched man ; pleading only for ibe artist, the rarily and excellence ol bis works were alone dwelt on by ibe King. Unbens and Vandyke, wich other illustrious names, Charles bad made his own; and we cannot read a history of foreign art without meeting with the name of Charles the First , — so closely had bis patronage |
or bis kindness connected ibis Monarch with his contemporary artists in every country. No royal history opens domestic scenes of equal fascination with those w hich occurred in the constant intercourse of the grave and stately Charles with his favourite companions, the artists themselves. His conversations with them were familiar and unreserved. In the breakfast-room of Charles the First were bung, by bis special order, the portraits of his three favourites, Rubens, Mytens and Vandyke. Vandyke, by the desire of Charles, married an Knglish lady and resided in England. The King would frequently go by water to the painter's house in iilacklriars to bis studio, and olten sitting to Vandyke himself, would commission the Queen, his family, and his courtiers, to allow no ri st to his facile and uvvearied pencil ; they delighted to view themselves in the unshadowy splendour of his portraits. A traditional slory was floating in the last century, the probability of which seems to authenticate the fact. Vandyke was painting the portrait of Charles the First, while the Monarch was complaining in a low voice to the Duke of Norfolk of the state of bis finances. The King perceiving that Vandyke was listening, said to him laughingly, 'And you , Sir ! do you know what it is to want live or six thousand pounds?' 'Yes, Sir', Vandyke replied ; an artist who keeps open house for his friends, and whose purse is always at the command of mistressesfeels too often the emptiness of his strong box.' In this unreserved manner Charles indulged himself with the artists. Beck, whose facility in composition was extraordinary, was aptly complimented, by Charles familiarly observing to him, 'Faith, Beck! I believe that you could paint riding!' It is not wonderful that a Monarch, who so well knew bow to maintain bis personal dignity, and was even coldly formal in the court circle, should have been tenderly remembered by every man of genius, who had enjoyed the flattering equality of this language of the heart, and this sympathy of companionship. A celebrated performer on the llule, who afterwards became so eminent during the Protectorate, as to be appointed music professor at the University of Oxford, Dr. Thomas Wilson, with equal pride and affection, remembered, that be was olten in attendance on Charles, who. in the intensity of bis delight, used to lean over his shoulder while be played. Old Nicholas Laniere, who subscribed one of his plates as being 'done in my youthful age of 74,' was one of those artists, as Lord Oxford designates them .'whose various lalents were so happy as to suit the taste of Charles the First, musician, painter, and engraver.' Laniere was one of the King's active agents for the selection of works of art, while he himself could add to them, lie outlived |
08
|
tlic perscculion of tliut political period , and shed tears many years after in llie funeral hymn on his royal master, set hy himself. Uut if it ho delightful to view Charles the First indulging the most kindly feelings to artists, it is more so to find that he knew and entered into their wounded feelings, and could even forgive their caprices. The King's earliest 'Picturcr,' as he is styled in the royal warrant, was Daniel Mytcns, a Flemish artist, who has left us one of the finest heads of Charles the first in his happier days , ere care and thought had stamped their traces on his majestic countenance. On the arrival of Vandyke, great as was Mytcns' reputation and the favour he enjoyed, the artist fancied that his snn had set, his 'Occupation had gone!' In a sullen humour, Mytens requested his Majesty's permission to retire to his native home. Charles having learned the cause of this sudden attack of spleen, used the wayward genius with all a brother's tenderness. The King healed the infirmity of genius, assuring the jealous artist, that 'He could find sufficient employment hoth for him and Vandyke.' It was no donht after this, that Charles hung the portrait of his old artist hetween the two greatest masters of art ; and It is pleasing to record , that the brothers in art, with the Monarch as their common friend, liecame brothers in their affections ; for Vandyke painted the portrait of Mytcns. The King's constant attendance on Rubens, the honours he bestowed on him, and the noble offers he made him , are not sufficiently known. This great painter found , and felt in Charles the First, a congenial spirit. Having painted the history of St. George, representing Charles, 'wherein, if it be possible, he had exceeded himself, as a contemporary writer/; Rubens would not part with the original, till he had finished a copy . for himself, that, as he said, the picture might remain in his bouse of Antwerp,'as a perpetual monument of his affection for the English King.' This interesting anccdotc seems authenticated by the circumsiance that such a picture appears in the mortuary catalogue of the collection of U ubens. |
This deep sympathy for arts and artists, flowed from the truest source, that of consummate knowledge. Charles the First possessed that refined discernment which is the faculty of 'the Few,' in detecting the rrtanner, and the habitual work of any individual master. Painters call this 'a knowledge of bands.* Lord Orford gives a remarkable story of Charles the First inspecting a collection of portraits at which were present several 'picturedrawers.' The King enquired of whose hand was a particular picture? Some attempted to guess, none were positive. The Kirtg declared it to be the work of such a man's hand. 'I know it,' saiil Charles, 'as well as if I had seen Itirn draw it; but is there but one man's hand in this picture?' They did not discover this, while the King persisted in asserting that ' there were two hands in it; for I know the hand which drew the heads, hut the hand which drew the rest 1 never saw before.' it appears afterwards that a gentleman, who had been at Rome, mentioned that he had seen this very picture with the heads, but the rest unfinished, for the painter dying, the widow procured another to complete the work for sale, the best way he could. This is but a blind story, and the gentleman was, no doubt, a good courtier, observes our polished cynic, though not unwilling to allow that Charles, at least, was an excellent judge of the style of the great masters. The story is probably true ; for Charles was an admirable connoisseur, as well as an antiquary. Another incident will confirm the probabilrly of this story. In one of his unhappy flights, when passing a night at the singular monastic institution of the family of the Ferrars at Gidding an illustrated Bible containing a vast collection of prints, was placed before the King and the Palsgrave. The latter had more curiosity than knowledge. Even at a moment when the mind of Charles could have little case, and when the business of tho early morning was an early flight, Charles largely descanted on the invention of the masters, and the characters of the engravers. Their works had long been lost to him; but these departed enjoyments of his cultivated tastes lingered in his fond recollections, and could steal an hour from five years of his sorrows. This fervid devotion to art in Charles the First was acknowledged abroad, as well as at home. Cardinal Barberini , in his character of the protector of the English at Home, conceived a project of obtaining, by the novel and silent bribery of works of art , those concessions in favour of the English Catholics from Charles the First, which the King is his political capacity had denied, it was on this occasion that Panzani, the secret agent of tho Court of of Rome, was introduced to the King, as an agent for procuring him pictures, statues, and curiosities; ami the earnest enquiries and orders given by Charles the First, evince bis perfect knowledge of the most beautiful existing remains of ancient arts. Once Charles expressed a wish to purchase a particular statue of Adonis, in the villa Ludovisia. As the statue could not be obtained for money, every exertion was made to procure it for the protestant Monarch. But the possessor, tire Duchess ol Fiano , was as inexorable as might have been Venus herself to preserve her Adonis , and even the chance-conversion of a whole nation of heretics was considered hy her as not tant- |
|
ninuuiil to liiu (luprivatioM of lier enamouring statue. Hail the reign of Cliarles llie First proved as peaceful as that of his father, this monarch , in 1640, would have anticipated those tastes, and inspired that enthusiasm for the world of art, which were so long foreign to the nation, and which have not yet reached to those ranks of society, where they ought to be familiar; however Institutions have hcen nohly opened for the public. The mind of Charles the First was moulded hy the graces. His favourite Bnclt-ingham was probably a greater favourite from cherishing those congenial tastes. He courted his monarch and bis friend , by the frequent exhibitions of those splendid masques and entertainments, which delighted by all the rivalries of the most beautiful arts: combining the picture of ballet-dances with the voice of music, the most graceful poetry of Johnson, the scenic machinery of Inigo Jones, or the fanciful devices of Gerbier, the Duke's architect, the pupil and friend of Rubens, and the confidential agent of Charles the First. The costly magnificence of the fêles at Yorkbouse, the Duke's residence, eclipsed the splendour of the French court ; for Bassompicrre confesses that he had never witnessed a similar niagnificonce. The King himself delighted in them, but this monarch was too poor to furnish those splendid entertainments. They were not unusual with the great nobility. The literary Duchess of Newcastle mentions one, which the Duke gave to Charles the First, which cost five thousand pounds. The ascetic Puritan in those peevish times, as in our own, would indeed abhor these scenes, but the emulous encouragement they offered to some of the great artists, could not fail to have infused into the national character more cultivated feelings, and more elegant tastes. They charmed even those fiercer llepuhlican spirits themselves in their ingenious youth. Milton owed his Arcades and bis Comus to a masque at Ludlow Castle, and Whitelocke, who hail been himself an actor and a manager in 'a splendid royal masque of the four Inns of Court joining together' to go to court, at a latter day when drawing up his 'Memorials of the English affairsand occupied by far graver concerns, dwelt with all the fondness of reminiscence on these stately shows and masques; and in a chronicle which contracts many an important event into a single paragraph , has poured forth six folio columns of a minute description of 'these dreams passed, •: and these vanished pomps.' |
After reading these anecdotes of the private life of Charles the First, and recollecting the great national design which he had already commenced, we must rccolleet the limited means which contracted these noble efforts. The King, from the earliest period of bis reign, was denied the personal enjoyments of a nobleman: and the truth is, that it was only by economical contrivances, with the aid of occasional presents, that Charles the First obtained that fine collection, which was so barbarously inventoried at his death, sulTered to he pillaged hy the meanest hands, and dispersed at most blundering estimates, to furnish the cabinets of France and Spain. Snch often was the exhausted state of the exchequer, that it is a curious fact, that when Inigo Jones was appointed Master of the Board of Works, the funds were so low, that the great architect nobly remitted his own pay ; nor is it less curious, that Charles, amidst his distress for money, condescended to enter into partnership for the small purchase of some pictures. This singular document is an evidence not only of his prudential expedients, but of his love of the arts. The monarch who entered into this humble contract, and adopted such equality of conditions, must have had some notion of that justice which has been loo often denied him. Charles the First was here,at least, a lion who abstained from portioning out a lion's share. lint it was not for this unfortuiiatc Prince, with all these finer tastes, to mitigate the growing barbarism of the times hy one short age of taste. We bad not yet emerged from our rude and neglected state of the elegant arts. Among the list of the grievances of the Commons in 1625, we find one complaint of 'the building of all houses in London in one uniform way, with a face of brick towards the streets.' To this grievance Charles replied , that a reformation in buildings was a good reformation , and he was resolved to proceed with that work. No doubt the good eitiiens of London were then destitute of any architectural taste; since even the decent appearance of bricking their fronts, and improving the salubrity of the city, where wooden bouses were huddled together in all inconvenient forms, nests for their scourge the plague, which was so often breathing in their faces, was considered as a national grievance. The penurious and grave citiien, the ascetic puritan, felt no ambition to leave their city of brick , which they bad found a city of timber. Palladian streets never entered in their imagination. An affection for the fine arts was yet entirely confined lu Charles's own court. Scotland, by her vulgar notions of 'superstition' and idolatry, seemed to have exiled the arts from her bleak clime. The elegant poet Drummond, in his history of Scotland, (Bishop llacket insinuates,) had in view Charles the First, when he drew the character of James the Third. The passage will attest that even the imagination of a Scotch poet, formed too on the most fanciful models of Italian poesy , could not conceive any thing higher of art or its curiosities, than an idling amusement.'It is allowable in men that have not much lodo, tc |
,.40
|
lie liikflii willi adjiiiniliün of walclics, docks, (Muls, niilomatos, pictures, slalucs; luit tlicart of princes is to {;i\e laws, mid (joveiri ilieii' people with wisdom in peace, and fjlory in war; lo spare tlie liunible, and prostrate (lie proud.' 'J'lie public mind was vulgar, and even the genius of tlie poet, wliich confounds tlie knick-knacks of a virtuoso with pictures and statues, had not advanced much beyond it. Druniinond migbt have learnt in better times, that the arts would not incapacitate a great military character, or a great legislator from excelling in their talent; since some of the most illustrious have been among the earliest collectors of the works of art. lint it was now still worse nt London than at Edinburgh. Among the barbarians, who, like a second irruption of the Goths and Vandals, became those of England, theavowed enemies ofartand artist; the Puritans on one side, and the Levellers on the other, excitc our indignation as much for their In ula-Using ignorance, as their calumnies. In that remarkable, yet curious libel on Charles the First, entitled 'the None-snch Charles,' the writer accuses his late Sovereign, among other onormilies, of 'squandering away millions of pounds on braveries and vanities, on old rotten pictures and broken-nosed marbles.' Millions of pounds! Charles was never master of a quarter of one! Such was the style and grossness of the times, and of that people who were now to be the rulers England! Even in the King's lifetime , a puritan expressed bis uneasiness that Con, n Scolchman, called the Pope's Legate, was enticing Charles with many various baits, and whom he sought to delude 'with gifts of pictures, antique idols, and such like trumperies brought from Koine.' Alas! bow painful will it ever be in noticing vulgar spirits as these, to add the great name of Wilton! In 'evil times' only, indeed, would that illustrious man have seemed lo reproach the King of England, for having for his 'closet-companion,' the great Hard of the nation. Milton, in his Iconoclastes insolently wrote: 'I shall not instance an abstruse author , wherein the King might be less conversant, but one whom wo well know was the closet companion of these his solitudes, AVilliam Shakespeare.3 Little did Milton imagine that what at the time seemed to cast contempt on the character of te King, would be cited, at a more enlightened period , as a certain evidence of the elegance of the mind of Charles the First. It has been said that Charles the First was adapted lo be greater as a private gentleman than a Sovereign. There may be some truth in the observation; yet it is not so evident that the domestic virtues of the man, are insufiicient to constitute an excellent Monarch. Unquestionably, bad not peculiar difficulties iirisen in bis reign, Charles the First would have been that monarch. IVor can wc justly conclude that he was destitute |
of Kingly qualities, who so long and so aiiiy contended, for what he deemed his kingly rights; and voluntarily perhhed to vindicate bis sovereignly. Charles, indeed, loved the privacy of domestic life, and the quiet occupations of study and art. When his troubles began, in 1G37, Garrard, the correspondent of the Earl of Strafford, kissed hands on his election to the Mastership of the Charterhouse. The King bade him be a good Governor, and impressively assured him that he considered him the happiest man in England. Charles appears to have alluded to his own situation, deeming the Government of the Charter-liouse, in its dominion of obedient subjects, and in its business of literature, ollered a more enviable life, than the days which were clouding over his throne. — — the pangs that rend the royal breast , Those wounds that lark beneath tlie tissueil vest: or, as Sir Philip Sidney first expressed it: — 'Tragedy openeth the greatest wounds, and sheweth forth the ulcers that are covered with ! tissue.' The observation of Addison, that a reader is delighted to learn whether the person whose story is engaging his attention , be either a brown or a fair man, with other personal peculiarities, was new in its day, and since the philosophy of biography has been carried to a perfection unknown to lhat pleasing writer, its truth has often been confirmed. Nothing is trivial in ihc narrative of history which assists the reality of its scene, and places its personage by our side. l!y these natural touches something of the charm of fiction is thrown into the historical composition. There is a fine and large portrait of Charles the First, by his first favourite My tens, splendidly engraved by Delpbius, the King's engraver. In that portrait, as well as in a miniature which I had copied from a large picture by Vandyke, now in the Pitt! Palace at Florence, the expression is quite of another character from the portraits taken at a later period. No secret sorrows, no deepened melancholy, had yet left the traces of painful thoughts over the countenance whose peculiar expression afterwards was so faithfully, perhaps so religiously, transmitted to us. Contrast this portrait of Mytcns on Charles's accession lo the throne, with the one so care-worn,so haggard and lean, when the ill-fated Sovereign appeared at his trial, and you touch both the extremities of his life, — the whole history ol Charles seems told ! The inter mediate period in this Monarch's life is equally remarkable. Vandyke painted in one picture the head of Charles in three positions. This was sent by the Queen to llernini, in order to model his celebrated bust. The well-known anecdolc of lire sculptor is autlienlic. |
|
Huniini «iis u grnal pliysio|;iioiiiisl, and aller conlfinplaliiii; Uic purlrails, fur a while, lie ciolaimoil llial lie had never seen a portrait, whose counlenance showed so much jjreatness and such marlis of sadness; the man w ho was so strongly charactered, and whoso dejection was so visible, was doomed to he unfortunate I Had the physiognomical predicter examined the two portraits of the happier days of (diaries, lie might have augured a happier falc. It is therefore evident that w hat was peculiar in the countenance of Charles was nol discoverable till after his thirlielh year. Charles the First was of a middle stature, his complexion hiown, 'inclined to a paleness,' his forehead not wide, his hrows large, his eyes grey, they were qniek and penetraling, and their vivacious glances were remarked on the opening of his trial, for Charles, considering himself to he « sliilful physiognomist, was a keen ohserver of persons: his nose was somewhat large and rallier round at the tip. The visage on the whole was long, and the lips seem to have heen thick. His stammering was a defect which he could never entirely get rid of, though at his trial, the intensity of his feelings carried on his voice without faltering. His hair was of a chcsnut colour, falling on his shoulders in large curls, and when young he nonrislied one luxuriant lock on Ins left side which floated there; this natural ornament was a fashion abhorred by the puritanic Honndheads ; who, having read in the Testament 'If a man have long hair it is a shame,' cut their hair short. This unlucky tress of royalty, excited I'rynne's invective against 'lovelocks.' His heard curtailed of ancient dimensions, he wore peaked, w ith moiistachios, but in his troubles, negligent of exterior ornament, his heard covercd much of his face. His pace in walking was quick and hniriod, souicwbat indicative of the usual condition of his mind. In going from St. James's through the park to the scaffold at Whitehall, one of the papers of the day notices that the King • pleasantly' called to the guard 'March apace I It is said he was not graceful in his motions : a coarse libeller tells us, that 'He did not ride like a I'rince, but like a post-hoy.' There was a good deal of earnest inipetuosity in his temper, and he seems to have preserved his personal dignity, by a rigid dccency in the gravity of bis manners and the measured style of his speech , sparing of words. |
There was a family likeness in the Stuarts, even to their long fingers, but there was no Stuart whose countenance resembled that of Charles the First. Whence then the elïect which is still produced by contemplating the pensive ami inelanchoiy physiognomy of this Monarch ? It seems an i.leal head. Parallels have been more than once drawn between the tragical afflictions of the inartyreil Monarch and the tribulations of the Saviour' when on earth. In human records, no princely names could be found but which seemed too low to rival bis magnanimous siilleri rigs. Stricken by sympathies, stronger and more elevated than they had ever experienced, sonic divines dared to compare Charles to Christ. Tickcll has happily alluded to tbeir disturbed piety. They found. 'All parallels were wrong, or blasphemy.' The difficulty of combining the ideas of a human with a divine nature, has formed the despair of tbc greatest artists. The pencil has never yet poin t rayed the celestial bead of'the Saviour' in the form of humanity. It is, however, singular that the head of this Monarch is the only portrait which they could venture to place before them, as a model for the head of Christ, so peculiar is its mixture of majesty and sadness. Thus it happens that in looking on the portrait of Charles, with all its numerous associations, whelber some behold 'the King in chains, and the Prince bound in fetters,' or others 'a man of sorrows acquainted with grief,' t here is no portrait of any other Sovereign, which awakens such powerful emotions as docs the head of Charles the First. |
T II 0 M A S B A 151 IN G T 0 N M A G A U L A Y.
{Zie bid/.. 453.)
tlANIStt INVASIONS. — THE NORMANS. — THE NOHMAN CONQUEST. — SEPAHAItON OF ENCI.AN1) AND N0RMANDÏ. —- A Jl AI.G AM ATION OF 11 ACES.
During several generations Denmark and Scan ■ I pirates, distinguished by strength, by valour, linavia continued to pour forth innumcrahle by merciless ferocity, and by hatred of tbc Chris-
£gt;42
|
tian name. No country suffere)! so niuch from these invaders as Englnnd. Her coast lay near to the pons whence they sailed ; nor was any purl of our island so far distant from the sea as to he secure from attack. The same ntrocilies which had attended the victory of the Saxon over the Celt were now, after the lapse of ages, suffered hy the Saxon at the hand of the Dane. Civilisation, jnst as it hegan to rise, was met hy this hlow , and sank down once more. Large colonies of adventurers from the Baltic estahlished themselves on the eastern shores, spread gradually westward, and, supported by constant reinforcements from lieyond the sea, aspired to the dominion of the whole realm. The struggle between the two fierce Ientonic breeds lasted during six generations. Each was alternately paramount. Cruel massacres followed hy cruel retribution , provinces wasted, convents plundered , and cities rased to the ground , make up the greater part of the history of those evil days. At length the North ceased to send forth a constant stream of fresh depredators, and from that time the mutual aversion of the races began to subside. Intermarriage became frequent. Ihe Danes learned the religion of the Saxons; and thus one cause of deadly animosity was removed. The Danish and Suxon tongues , both dialects of one wide-spread language, were blended together. But the distinction between the two nations was hy no means effaced, when an event took place which prostrated both, in common slavery and degradation , at the feet of a third people. |
The Normans were then the foremost race of Christendom. Their valour and ferocity had made them conspicuous among the rovers whom Scandinavia had sent forth to ravage Western Europe. Their sails were long the terror of both coasts of the channel. Their arms were repeatedly carried far into the beurt of the Carlovingian empire, anil were victorious under the walls of Maestricht and Paris. At length one of the feeble heirs of Charlemagne ceded to the strangers a fertile province, watered by a noble river, and contiguous to the sea which was their favourite element. In that province they founded a mighty state, which gradually extended its influence over the neighbouring principalities of Britanny and Maine. Without laying aside that dauntless valour which bad been the terror of every land from the Elbe to the Pyrenees, the Normans rapidly acquired all, and more than all, the knowledge and refinement which they found in the country where they settled. Their courage secured their territory against foreign invasion. They established internal order, such as had long been unknown in the Frank empire. They embraced Christianity, and with Christianity they learned a great part of what the clergy had to teach. They abandoned their native speech , and adopted the French tongue, in which llic Latin was the predominant elenicnt. They speedily raised their new language to a dignity and importance which it had never before possessed. They found it a barbarous jargon ; they fixed it in writing; and they employed it in legislation, in poetry, and in romance. They renounced that brutal intemperance to which all the other branches of the great German family were too much inclined. The polite luxury of the Norman presented a striking contrast to the coarse voracity and drunkenness of his Saxon and Danish neighbours. He loved to display his magnificence , not in huge piles of food and hogsheads of strong drink , but in large and stately edifices, rich armour, gallant horses, choice falcons, well ordered tournaments, banquets delicate rather than abundant, and wines remarkable rather for their exquisite flavour than for their intoxicating power. That chivalrous spirit, which has exercised so powerful an influence on the politics, morals, and manners of all the European nations, was found in the highest exaltation among the Norman nobles. Those nobles were distinguished by their graceful bearing and insinuating address. They were distinguished also by their skill in negotiation, and by a natural eloquence which they assiduously cultivated. It was the boast of one of their historians that the Norman gentlemen were orators from the cradle. But their chief fame was derived from their military exploits. Every country, from the Atlantic Ocean to the Dead Sea, witnessed the prodigies of their discipline and valour. One Norman knight, at the head of a handful of warriors, scattered the Celts of Connaught. Another founded the monarchy of the Two Sicilies, and saw the emperors both of the East and of the West fly before his arms. A third, the Ulysses of the first cnisadc, was invested hy his fellow soldiers with the sovereignty of Antioch ; and a fourth, the Tancred whose name lives in the great poem ofTasso, was celebrated through Christendom as the bravest and most generous of the champions of the Holy Sepulchre. The vicinity of so remarkable a people early began to produce an effect on the public mind ol England. Before the Conquest, English princes received their education in Normandy. English sees and English estates were bestowed on Normans. The French of Normandy was familiarly spoken in the palace of Westminster. The court of Rouen seems to have been to the court of Edward the Confessor what the court of Versailles long afterwards was to the court of Charles the Second. The battle of Hastings, and the events which followed it, not only placed a Duke of Normandy on the English throne, but gave up the whole population of England to the tyranny of the Norman race. The subjugation of a nation by a nation has seldom , even in Asia , been more |
!147)
|
coniplctp. Tlio country was porlionctl out anion;; lhe captains of the invaders. Strong military institutions, closely connectod with the institution of properly, enabled the foreign conquerors to oppress tlie children of the soil. A cruel penal code, cruelly enforced, guarded the privileges, and even the poets, of tlic alien tyrants. Yet the subject race, though beaten down and trodden under foot, still made ils sting felt. Some bold men, the favourite heroes of our oldest ballads , betook theinselves to the woods, and there, in defiance of curfew laws and forest laws, waged a predatory war against their oppressors. Assassination was an event of daily occurrence. Many Normans suddenly disappeared leaving no trace. The corpses of many were found bearing the marks of violence. Death by torture wasdenonn-ced against the murderers, and strict search was made for them, but generally in vain; for the whole nation was in a conspiracy to screen them. It was at length thought necessary to lay a heavy fine on every Hundred in which a person of French extraction should be found slain ; and ibis regulation was followed up by another regulation, providing that every person who was found slain should be supposed to be a Frenchman, unless he were proved to be a Saxon. During the century and a half which followed the Conquest, there is, to speak strictly, no English history. The French Kings of England rose, indeed, to an eminence which was the wonder and dread of all neighbouring nations. They conquered Ireland. They received the homage of Scotland. By their valour, by their policy, by their fortunate matrimonial alliances, they became far more powerful on the Continent than their liege lords the Kings of France. Asia, as well as Europe, was dar/.led hy the power and glory of our tyrants. Arabian chroniclers recorded with unwilling admiration the fall of Acre, the defence of Joppa, and the victorious march to Ascalon; and Arabian mothers long awed their infants to silcnce with the name of the lion hearted Plantagenet. At one time it seemed that the line of Hugh Capet was about to end as the Merovingian and Carlovingian lines had ended, and that a single great monarchy would spiead from the Orkneys to the Pyrenees. So strong an association is established in most minds between the greatness of sovereign and the greatness of the nation which he rules, that almost every historian of England has expatiated with a sentiment of exultation on the power and splendour of her foreign masters, and has lamented the decay of that power and splendour as a calamity to our country. This is, in truth , as absurd as it would he in a Haytian negro of our time to dwell with national pride on the greatness of Lewis the Fourteenth, and lo speak of ISIcnheini and Ramilies with patriotic regret and shame. The Conqueror and his descendants to the fourth generation were not Englishmen: most of them were born in Franco: they spent the greater part of their lives in France: their ordinary speech was French: almost every high office in their gift was filled hy a Frenchman : every acquisition which they made on the Continent estranged them more anil more from the population of our island. One of the ablest among them indeed attempted lo win the hearts of his English subjects hy espousing an English princess. I!ut, hy many ot his barons, this marriage was regarded as a marriage between a white planter and a quadroon girl would now he regarded in Virginia. In history he is known by the honourable surname ol Iteauclerc; hut, in his own time, his own countrymen called him by a Saxon nickname, in contemptuous allusion to bis Saxon connection. |
Had the Plantagenets, as at one time seemed likely, succeeded in uniting all France under their government, it is probable that England would never have had an independent existence. Her princes, her lords, her prelates, would have been men diifcring in race and language from the artisans and the tillers of the earth. The revenues of her great proprietors would have been spent in festivities and diversions on the banks of the Seine. The noble language of Milton and Burke would have remained a rustic dialect, without a literature, a fixed grammar, ora fixed orthography, and would have been contemptuously abandoned to the use of boors. IVo man of English extraction would have risen to eminence, except hy becoming in speech and habits a Frenchman. England owes her escape from such calamities In an event which her historians havquot; generally represented as disastrous. Her interest was so directly opposed lo the interest of her rulers that she had no hope hut in their errors and misfortunes. The talents and even the virtues of her six first French Kings «ere a curse to her. The follies and vices of the seventh were her salvation. Had John inherited the great qualities of his father, of Henry Beauclerc, or of the Conqueror, nay, had he even possessed the martial courage ol Stephen or of llichard , and had the King of France at the same time been as incapable as al the other successors of Hugh Capet had heen, the House of Plantagenet must have risen to unrivalled ascendency in Europe. Hut, just at this conjuncture, France, for the first time since the death of Charlemagne, was governed by a prince of great firmnes and ability. On the other hand England which, since the battle of Hastings, bad been ruled generally by wise statesmen, always by bravo soldiers, fell under I he dominion of a triller and a coward. From that moment her prospects brightened. John was driven from Normandy. The Norman nobles were compelled to make their election |
|
l,,! I ween llic islnml and tin; continent. Slmlii)) liytliesea villi tlie people wliom tliey liail liitlier-tu oppressed unci dospif-ed , tliey {jriuluülly cuine to regard Knglund as llieir country, and the Knglisli as their eountrytnen. The two races so lon([ liostilc, soon found that they had coinnion interests and coinnion enemies. ISolh were alike aggrieved l)y the tyranny of a bail liing. Both were alike indignant at the favour shown hy the court to the natives of 1'oiton and Aqmlaine. The great grandsons of those who had iuuglit under William and the great grandsons of those who had fought under Harold began to draw near to each other in Iriendship; and the first pledge of their reconciliation «as the Great Charter, won by their united exertions, and framed for their common benefit. Here eommences the history of the English nation. The history ol the preceding events is the history of wrongs inflicted and sustained by various tribes, which indeed all dwelt on English ground , but which regarded each other with aversion such as has scarcely ever existed hi'tween communities separated by physical barriers, tor even the muual animosity ol countries at war ■with each other is languid when compared wilh the animosity of nations which, morally separated , arc yet locally intermingled. In no country has the enmity of race been carried farther than j in England. In no country has that enmity been j more completely cllaeed. 'Ibe stages of the process by which the hostile elements were melted dow n into one homogeneous mass are not accurately known to ns. lint it is certain that, when John became King, the distinction between j Saxons and Normans was strongly marked , and that before the end of the reign of his grandson it had almost disappeared. In the time ol Richard the First, the ordinary imprecation of a Norman gentleman «as ''May i become an Englisliman 1 His ordinary form of indignant denial was''Do you take me for an Englishman ?quot; i lie descendant of such a gentleman a hundred years later was proud ol the English name. The sources of the noblest rivers which spread fertility over continents, and hear richly laden fleets to the sea, are to be sought in wild and barren mountain tracts, incorrectly laid down in maps, and rarely explored by travellers. To such a tract the histoiy of our country during |
I he thirteenth cenlnry may nnl unaptly he compared. Sterile and ohseure as is that portion ol our annals, it is there that we must seek for the origin of our freedom, our prosperity, and our glory. Then it was that the great English people was formed, that the national character began to exhibit those peculiarities which it has ever since retained , and that our fathers became emphatically islanders, islanders not merely in geographical position, hut in their politics, their feelings, and their manners. Then first appeared with distinctness that constitution which has ever since, through all changes, preserved its identity ; that constitution of which all the other free constitutions in the world are copies, and which, in spite of some defects, deserves to he regarded as the best under which any great society has ever yet existed during many ages. Then it was that the House of Commons, the archetype of all the representative assemblies which now meet, either in the old or in the new world, held its first sittings. Then it was that the common law rose to the dignity of a science, and rapidly became a not unworthy rival of the imperial jurisprudence. Tlien it was that the courage of those sailors who manned the rude barks of the Cinque Ports first made the flag of England terrible on the seas. Then it was that the most ancient colleges which still exist at both the great national seals of learning «ere founded. Then was formed that language , less musical indeed than the languages of the south , but in force, in riebness, in aptitude for all the highest purposes of the poet, the philosopher, an the orator, inferior to Hie tongue of Greece alone. Then 100 appealed ihu fii.-L iiiint dawn of that noble literature, the most splendid and the most durable of the many glories of England. Early in the fourteenth century the amalgamation of the races was all but complete; and it «as soon made manifest, hy signs not to be mistaken , that a people inferior to none existing in the world had been formed by the mixture ol three branches of the great Teutonic family with each other, and with the aboriginal Britons. There was, indeed, scarcely any thing in common between the England to which John had been classed by I'hilip Augustus, and the England from which the armies of Edward the Third went forth to conquer Eranee. |
av i l l i a m and kobe ii t c h a m b e b s ,
Popular Publishers and Aiilbors, arc natives of Peebles, and were born, the first about 1800, and the second two years later. Having; been thrown, while yet in boyhood, upon their own resources for support, they opened t«o bookshops in Leilh Wnlk, Edinburgh, «'»1 the time when the novels of the still anonymous nnthor of quot;Wnverley ,quot; the critiques of Jeffrey, and the airy sketches of Christopher North , were making Edinburgh the literary capital of the country. By slow degrees they increased their business, and with it their acquaintance with literary people. William, the elder, had meanwhile learnt the art of
priuting , and, tu okii uut tlic profits of liis slemier tnule, he workoil at case anil press. It is relaleJ of liiin , that being in want of some large type , which were beyond his means of purchasing , he cut the letters in wood ; and on auolher occasion bound with his own bands the whole impression of a small volume, which he had first printed on his own account. Robert, not less assiduous than his brother, and sharing in the enthusiasm which was then making the national element so powerful in Scottish literature, applied himself to collect materials for his first work, the quot;Traditions of Edinburgh,quot; which appeared at the conimcncemeut of 1824, a work which, happily combining humour and romance with accurate detail, speedily became a universal favourite, and has since run through many editions. In 1826, Robert followed up his first volume by publishing the quot;Popular Rhymes of Scotland ,quot; which added greatly to his rising popularity. In the following year he published his quot;Picture of Scotland ,quot; and shortly produced, in rapid succession, three volumes of histories of tho quot;Scottish Rebellions,quot; two of a quot;life of James 1quot;, and three volumes of quot;Scottish Ballads an Songs.quot; His quot;Biographical Dictionary of Eminent Scotchmen,quot; in four large volumes, was commenced in 1832, and concluded In 1835. William had meauwhile not been idle. In 1830 he gave to the world the quot;Book of Scotland,quot; intended to furnish to strangers and others a connected and comprehensive account of the distinctive usages, laws , and institutions of that part of the United Kingdom ; the social system of Scotland, its courts, and laws of marriage and divorce, its schools, and religions and municipal organisation, are described in a vivid style, and with all the amorjoo/ria» of a true Scotehmaii In 1829 the brothers, for the first time , united in a joint enterprise, well suited to their peculiar talents, viz. the production of a quot;Gazetteer of Scotland.quot; The work was completed anil published in 1832 , having been , it is said, written for the most part on the counter in the momentary intervals of retail business, in 1832 the famous quot;Edinburgh Journalquot; was projected by the elder brother, to quot;supply,quot; in the words of the first number, quot;iutellectual food of the best kind, and in such a form and at such a price as must suit tho convenience of every man in the British dominions.quot; On the 4th of February—six weeks before the appearance of the quot;Penny Magazinequot; — the Journal was to be seen in the hands of the public, whose appreciation and favour gave it an immediate circulation of 50,000. It gradually increased to 72,000, when, in 1844, its Scottish peculiarities having been gradually toned down to adapt it to the taste of a wider public, the quot;Journalquot; underwent a change of form, the folio being, in 1844, exchanged for the octavo sheet. The circulation again rose: in this, the twenty fourth year of its existence, it still retains h high rank in periodical literature. The success of the quot;Journalquot; induced the Messrs. Chambers to join in partnership. Fur some time their premises were in Waterloo Place, Edinburgh ; but in the end they fixed upon High Street as a place of business, where their handsome priating-ollico and warehouse stands, one of the best-visited sights of the northern capital. Still aiming at the objects for which the quot;Journalquot; had been projected, the brothers commenced, in 1834, the publication of quot;Information for the People,quot; a series of popular, scientific, and historic treatises. On a similar plan they published the quot;Cyclopaedia of English Literature,quot; a most valuable work to the class for whose use it was designed , combining n survey of our literature from the earliest times to the present day , with biographical notices of authors , and extracts from their works. quot;Tho People's Edition of Standard English Works,quot; quot;The Educational Course,quot; Chambers' quot;Miscellany,quot; and, lastly. Chambers' quot;Papers for the People,quot; and Chambers' quot;Tracts,quot; have since borne witness to the boldness, shrewd iutelligence, and liberal aims of these remarkable men. At the present time, tho establishment at Edinburgh employs nearly two hundred hands. Mr. Robert Chambers usually resides there , enjoying , in comparative wealth , the esteem of his fellow-citizens. The elder brother recently purchased a beautiful smalt estate in his native county, and there he spends a considerable part of his time. The perseverance of these brothers is well illustrated by the energy with which they have, amidst innumerable ditliculties, brought their quot;Eduoationnl Coursequot; to its present stote of completeness. It began, about eighteen years ago, with a sixpenny quot;First Book for Children,quot; and now includes works adapted for every state of pupilage , on almost every branch of knowledge, from the alphabet to the highest classics — from the multiplication-table to Euclid. It consists of nearly fifty volumes, all published at a law price.
Present State of the British Empire.
|
The British empire, as nt present constituted, i is universally acknowleilged to be one of the ([icatest that exists, or ever lias existed, on tlie face of the jjlolie. Its territories are of vast extent; cmhracinjj England, Scotland, and Ireland, which form wiiat is termed the mother-country, and a range of colonies and dependencies in all quarters of the world. The total area of the British islands is about 77 millions of acres, of which 17 mtllionsarc ' under cultivation. The population is estimated at about 28 millions. |
The metropolis of the empire is LONDON, with a population [in 1851] of above two millions ; and here arc situated the palaces of the sovereign and royal family, the Houses of Parliament, the chief law-courts, and numerous institutions of a national character. Edinhurgli, the capital of Scotland , and Dublin , the capital of Ireland, have been only of secondary importance since the union of these countries with England. Both arc still, however, the seals of their respective national law-conrts; the latter, moreover, exhihiting a rellet of the royal presence , in the person of a viceroy or lord-lieutenant, who, assisted by a privy-council and chief secretary, maintains a certain amount of state dignity. ÜU |
|
Tlie supurficial features of England, tliou|jli nol devoid of variety and picturesque heauty, are, upon the wliole, less varied than those of Scotland and Irela/d. Generally speaking, its western side — as in Cuinherland, Westmoreland, Wales and Cornwall — is hilly, while the eastern side, sloping from these heights down to the German Ocean (as evidenced hy the direction of its principal rivers), is of an undulating, flat, and sotneli'nos monotonous character. On the whule, the surface presents much amenity, heing diversified hy trees and hedgerows, well-cultured fields and rich pastures, sunny slopes and fertile river-valleys. The country abounds likewise with nohleinen and gentlemen's seals of handsome architecture ; old castles, cathedrals, and churches; and its cottage-homes and hamlets are considered more neat and attractive than those of any other nation. No country of the same extent possesses such a number of busy, populous towns; and these, especially in the manufacturing districts, are increasing with astonishing rapidity. Scotland, or the northern part of liritain , is more rugged and hilly than England, much indented by arms of the sea, studded with lakes, and intersected by numerous glens or mountain-valleys, lis naturally inferior soil has been prodigiously improved hy art in modern times, and the surface greatly beautified by plantations, and the operations of the agriculturist. It is allowed that the Lowland Districts, latterly, have advanced in social and physical improvement at a more rapid pace than any other part of the civilised world, some of the states of the North American Union alone excepted. Ireland, which, from the introduction of steani-navigation, is now within a few hours' sail of the west coast of Great Britain , is a moderately hilly and beautiful green island. Though disfigured in many places by extensive hogs and morasses, the soil, generally speaking, is extremely fertile, and only wants drainage and culture to render superior even to that of England. The country possesses many excellent harbours, and is finely situated for trade either with the continent of Europe or America. All that is wanting to give to Ireland the same degree of prosperity enjoyed by the other parts of the empire, appears to he energy, industry, enterprise, and a spirit of self-reliance on the part of the people. The people of England, Scotland, and Ireland , respectively, possess certain national peculiarities ol character ; hut these, from the general intercourse «hicii now prevails, arc gradually disappearing, and a uniform British character is becoming daily more apparent. In this general and happy assimilation, the English qualities of mind and habits predominate. |
The chief feature in the English character is an ardent love of liberty, which renders the people extremely tenacious of their civil rights, stern advocates of justice, and patriotic in the highest degree. In their manners they are grave rather than gay, blunt rather than ceremonious. In their habits, they are enterprising, industrious, and provident; in their feelings, humane. In all mercantile transactions the greatest integrity exists, and promises arc faithfully performed. In the middle and upper classes, the highest civilisation prevails, and all the social virtues and comforts of domestic life are sedulously cultivated. There are somo favourite field-sports and boisterous amusements; but the enjoyments of the English arc chiefly within doors, in their own well-regulated homes. A love of home is a marked peculiarity in the aireclions of the British. The eminent importance attained by llic British in the scale of nations, appears to depend mainly upon two features of the com-inon character — the high moral and intellectual inclination of the people at large, anil their extraordinary skill in producing articles of necessity and luxury, as well as their dexterity in the commerce by which these arc diffused over the woild. About one-third of the population is agricultural , and it is believed that the annual value of the produce ol fluids, gardens, pas-ture, and woodlands, in nearly 220 millions sterling. The farmers or leasers of the ground are in general much superior in wealth and style of living to the farmers of any other country in the world; being generally, to a ccrtilin extent, capitalists, who employ labourers to perform the actual business of rural economy. In manufactures and commerce, Britain has long enjoved a superioiity over all other conn-tries. For this the people are indebted not only to their naturally industrious dispositions, and to the enlightened men who have in the course of time invented machinery for increasing and cheapening the products of labour, hut to the extraordinary abundance of mineral substances requisite for manufactures, and to the insular nature of the country, which admits of ready maritime communication with other regions. In consequence of these advantages combined, Britain has for a long time furnished articles of clothing and household convenience to many parts of the world , ic-ceiving in exchange either money or raw produce which its own soil and climate do not permit of being grown. The commeice of Britain is conducted by vessels belonging to private parties within the realm, or in other countries. In ISif), the mercantile navy of the home country and its colonies consisted of above tliirtyfour thousand |
|
vessels, ol more than four millions of aggregate tonnage. We obtain, however, a more distinct idea of the extent of the national oommeri'e, Irom a calculation of the numner of vessels, IJiitish and foreign, which in 1847 entered and departed from British harbours. These were: of liritish, twenty-four thousand ; of foreign, nearly fifteen thousand; comprehending an aggregate of ahoven seven millions of tonnage. The chief mercantile port of Britain is London; after which, Liverpool, Dublin, Bristol, Leitii , Hull, Glasgow, Newcastle, (ireenock . Belfast, Cork, and Limerick, rank in succession. Duties exceeding eleven millions are annually paid to government for goods imported into London; and harbour-dues, to the amount of Sterl. 224,000, were collected in IBlt) for vessels in the docks at Liverpool , which have a water-room of one hundred and eleven acres , and a quay-space of eight miles. Besides tea, wine, and sugar, the imports of Britain consist chielly of raw materials for manufactures, while the exports are almost exclusively manufactured goods. The greatest quantity of imports is from America ; the greatest quantity of exports lo the same part of the world. Ten, to the weight of fourty-four million lbs., is obtained from China. Wine, to the amount of nearly eight millions of gallons (in 1849), chiefly from I'or-tugal and Spain. Sugar, to the value of seven millions sterling, is exclusively imported from the West Imlies. Cotton, in its raw state, is obtained ebielly from the United States, and in smaller quantities from Brazil, the East Indies, and Egypt. Of wool, the coarser kind is obtained at home, while the finer kinds are imported from Germany and the colonies of Australia. Tallow, hemp, and timber, lo the value of above four millions, are imported from llussia. The government of this large, industrious, and wealthy empire, is conducted according lo reforms and principles which have come into operation in the course of the events detailed in the earlier part of the present volume. The executive — that is, the power by whicb the laws are enforced — is insl rusted by tbe nation to a hereditary monarch, who rules under considerable limitations, and form only one branch of tbe legislature. The legislature ■— that is , the power by which the laws are created — consists of throe distinct hut combined powers: (1.) A House of Commons, composed of six hundred and fifly-six gentlemen, elected by certain portions of the people to serve for a period not exceeding seven years; (2.) A House of Peers, composed of the hereditary nobles of England, the English archbishops and bisbcips, a certain numher of lords representing the Scottish and Irish peerage, |
and u certain number of spiritual lords representing tbe Irish hierarchy; and, finally , (3.) The King or Queen. The Houses of Commons and Peers, otherwise styled ibe Lower and Upper Houses, form a compound deliberative body called Parliament, which is liable to be called together, and prorogued or dissolved at the sovereign's pleasure. These law-giving and law-executing powers combine, in one system called the British Constitution, a variety of political principles, which elsewhere are oftener found acting singly. The House of Commons, as a representation of the people, may be said to be founded on the principle of democracy, or people sovereignty; tbe House of Peers , which is independent ol direct popular control, presents the principle of aristocracy, or noble-sovereignty; while the king contributes the monarchical principle, or sovereignty of one. It must be allowed, in explanation of a system so extraordinary, that the particular portions of the constitution have not always borne the same relative power, and that principles naturally so inconsistent could never perhaps have been combined at all, except by a progress extending over many ages. In early times, tbe king possessed the chief influence, while the Parliament, in general, was rather an obsequious council of the sovereign than an independent body. At the Bevolution of 1688, tbe strength of the monarchy was diminished by a breach of the hereditary line, and the Parliament became tbe predominant power. As the nobility and superior gentry had then the chief influence in both Houses ol Parliament, it might be said that the aristocratic principle had become ascendant. It continued to he so till the passing of the Reform Bill in 1832 , when the power of elecling the majorilv of the House of Commons being extended to tbe middle-classes of the people, the democratic principle was, for tbe first time, brought into any considerable degree ol force. The number of members in the House of Lords I (1852) is 448; namely , 3 princes of the blood-royal, 20 dukes, 21 marquises, 114 earls, 22 viscounts, 194 barons, 16 peers of Scotland , 28 ! peers of Ireland , 2G English prelates, and 4 Irish representative prelates. I The House of Commons consists of 656 members; of whom 253 are chosen by counties, 6 by universities, and 397 by cities, boroughs, and towns. England returns 469 members , Wales ! 29, Ireland 105, and Scotland 53. The number i of persons entitled to vole in the election ol these ; members in somewhat above a million ; ol whom about 620,000 vote for county members, 5,000 [ for representatives of universities , and 440,000 1 for members of cities, boroughs, and towns. |
,448
|
The qualiflcdtioD of an doctor for a mcinher of the House of Commons in coanties, is tlic having; been entitled to vole on a freeliold qualification before the passing of the Reform Act (1832); or the holding land in ropyhold of the clear annual value of ten ponnds; or the possessing land or houses of ten pounds annual value in property, or on a lease of not less than sixty years in England, and fifty-seven in Scotland; or the occupation of lands or tenements in England for any period , and in Scotland fur nineteen years, at an annual rent of not less than fifty pounds. The qualification of a borough elector, is the occupation of u bouse of ten pounds annual rent; the resident freemen in English and Irish boroughs being also allowed to TOte. The utmost duration t j wbicb a Parliament can extend , is seven years; and a new House of Commons must be elected within six months after the commencement of every new reign. The king, however, frequently exercises his prero-gative of dissolving Parliament a considerable time before the expiration of the full time allowed to it by law. The members of the House of Lords enjoy their seals from hereditary privilege. The sovereign possesses the power of creating peers, and of nominating bishops. The Scottish repre-sentnlive peers are elected by the whole body of the peerage of that country, at the commencement of every new Parliament, or on the occurence of a vacancy; the Irish representative peers are elected also by the whole body of the peerage uf their country, but for life. The Irish spiritual peers sit in rotation. Several of the Scotch and Irish peers are also peers of England, by virtue of which they enjoy seats in the House of Lords, at the same time that they exercise their elective functions in Scotland or Ireland , as the case may be. The king is not only at the head of the executive; he is also the bead of the church, the commander of the army, the dispenser of all titles of honour, and even, by a fiction of the law, the person of whom all the landed property in his dominions is held. In the right of appointing the bishops, the judges, the lords-lieutenant and justices of peace of counties, the olDcers of the army and navy, and many other officers and public servants, be possesses a large amount of patronage, which conduces in no small degree , to the maintenance of bis authority. He has also the sole right of declaring war, though he is effectually controlled by the House of Commons, which 1 may give or withhold the requisite funds , as it seems proper. Out of respect for the hereditary principle and the royal character, it is held that the king cannot of himself do any wrong, or be personally called to account for his actions. The responsibility for the perfor- ! |
mance of his functions rests with a body of servants, chosen by himself, and designated his Ministers, who cannot continue in that character without the approbation of Parliament, and are liable to be impeached by that body if they commit any grievous error. Twelve of these officers, named the First Lord of the Treasury, the Lord Chancellor, the Lord Privy Seal, the President of the Council, the Secretary of State for the Home Department, the Secretary of State for the Foreign Department , the Secretary ofState for the Colonies, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the First Lord of tbe Admiralty, the Master-General of tbe Ordnance , the President of the Board of Control, and the Chancellor of the Dutoby of Lancaster, usually constitute what is called the Cabinet Council, or Council of the King's Cabinet, to deliberate upon all matters of importance. Besides this body, the king has a Privy Council, consisting of persons eminent from rank, ollice , or personal character, who may be at variance with the Cabinet Council, but take no share in the government, except when summoned by tbe royal authority. They are then in the same situation with the Cabinet Ministers, and responsible for the advice they give. The two Houses of Parliament usually ait, during a considerable portion of every year , in deliberation upon tbe affairs of tbe country , and for the enactment of new, or tbe repeal of old laws. Any member of either House may propose a new law; but this duty is chiefly undertaken by tbe king's ministers, and it is to the Lower or Commons' House that new laws are usually first proposed. When a proposed law has been introduced in the shape of a bill, and sanctioned in one House, it passes on to the other, which may receive, reject, or modify it. If it passes both , it is submitted to the king, who may give or withhold his approbation. When it has received the sanction of all the three branches of the legislature, it is called an Act of Parliament, and becomes part of the laws of the country. The bills for the pecuniary supplies necessary for the public service, are introduced exclusively by the House of Commons : they may be rejected by the House of Lords; hut for that House to alter them, or to introduce any bill which involves pecuniary supply to the government, is considered a breach of the privileges of the Lower House. The public revenue of the United Kingdom is at present derived principally from five sources — namely customs, excise, stamp-duties, assessed taxes, and property and income tax. Custom-duties are charged on most articles imported into, or exported from, the country. Excise-duties are charged on certain commodities produced or manufactured at home. Stamp duties are mostly laid on the parchment |
|
or paper on whiclt certain deeds , receipts, newspapers, bills, and promissory-notes, arc written or printed , and derive tlieir name from the parchment or paper being impressed with a stamp, statiiijj the amount of tbc duty. Assessed taxes include the duties on various thiiij;» of personal possession and use, from lands and bouses to dogs and bair-powdcr. There are some other inferior sources of revenue, such as the Post-oiTice. The revenue of the United Kingdom amounted in the year ending Aprils, 1851, to upwards of Sterl. 52,000,000, and the expenditure to a somewhat smaller sum. The public expenditure is made up of avast variety of items, the most important of which are the interest of the National Debt, and the maintenance of the army ami navy. The amount of the debt in 185t was nearly Sterl. 800,000,000, chiefly composed of various stocks, or loans at certain rates of interest. Lenders of money to the public are called stock or fund holders. The interest payable on the debt in 1851 was above Sterl. 28,000.000. Tlio home territories of the empire are alone concerned in maintaining and controlling the government. It has been seen that an attempt to raise taxes in the colonies of North America, which sent no pirliamenlary representatives to join in imposing tbem , was the means of separating these colonies from the parent state. Since then , no similar attempt has been made in any other colonies of Great Britain. The most important of these, exclusive of India, are managed under the supreme direction of the British government, by governors appointed by the king, and by legislative bodies, raised within themselves, and resembling the British Parliament. The revenue of the home-coiintry is, nevertheless, employed in protecting and fostering these dependencies, which have been ascertained to cost considerably more, year by year, than any direct profit which can be derived from the commerce which they carry on with British merchants. The army of Great Britain has always main-tened a high reputation for good conduct, valour, and fortitude; and her navy, unequalled in the annals of the world , has afforded the means ol protecting her commerce, and securing her possessions in the most distant quarters of the globe. The average annual expense of the army is Sterl. 7.500.000; and that of the navy, Sterl. 8,000.000. |
The British army numbers nearly 130,000 men; the fleet is composed of CJS vessels, with 180,000 guns. Of the land-forces, a fifth is employed in the Kast. Indies, the rest in the Uniled Kingdom and on foreign stations. Though the navul-force is always kept in an efficient state to tlio extenl mentioned, only a small proportion of it is employed in tima of peace. Ships of the first rale all three-decked, and carry at least 100 guns, and 800 men; those of the second rate carry at least 80 guns, and 700 men; the third at least 70 guns, and UOO men ; the fourth at least 50 guns, and 400 men, the fifth at least 86 guns, and 250 men; and the sixth at least 24 guns, and under 250 men. A distinguishing feature in the organisation of the British army and navy, is the care taken of the men. Few nations so generously as Britain clothe, feed, and pay their soldiers and sailors, and otherwise render them so comfortable. Justice, civil and criminal, is administered in England and Ireland according to laws and forms which took their rise in the former country, ami were in time extended to the latter. The English law, as it is compreben-sivrly termed, is of two kinds — written or statute law, consisting of tbc law etablisbed by acts of Parliament , and consuetudinary law, consisting of customs which have existed from time immemorial, and have received the sanction of the judges. Consuetudinary law is again divided into common law and equity — the former is administered by courts which profess to adhere strictly to the old laws of England, except in so far as they are altered by statute; the latter was founded upon the principle that the king, in cases of bardsbip, was entitled to give relief from the strictness of the common law. Equity, tbongb thus originated, has now become also a fixed kind of law, and is administered in courts ■which decide according to established rules. The peculiar boast of the criminal law of the British empire is Trial hij Jury. In England and Ireland , where the principle of the criminal law requires the injured party or his representative to prosecute, he can only do so by permission of a jury of accusation, called the Grand .lury; another jury sits for the purpose of deciding whether the evidence against the accused ha'» etablisbed the guilt. These juries consist in England of twelve men, whose verdict must he unanimous. In Scotland , there is no grand jury, and there the jury upon tiie charge consists of fifteen men, who decide by a majority of votes. The jury is an institution of Scandinavian origin, transmitted to Britain tbrongli the Danes and Saxons, and it is justly considered as a most efficient protection of the subject from the vindictiveness of power. Civil cases, turning upon matters of fact, arc also decided by juries in all parts of the United Kingdom. The House of Lords, as the great council of the sovereign, acts as a court of final appeal fiom ihe civil trihunsls of Britoin and Ireland. |
|
Practically , tlie business of tlie licariiij; lliese appeals in undertaken by some law lord, sucli as the Lord Chancellor, ■who, as there must be three persons present, is usually accompanied by a temporal peer and a bishop. Before deciding, the House sometimes demands the opinions of the English judges. Next in point of value to the privilege of trial by jury, the British subject places the right of petition to the Houses of Parliament, either for an improvement in the laws, or a redress of grievances. As this involves the right of assembling publicly in a peaceful manner, or of mcetimj conslitutionully , to discuss iiicasures of government and legislation, it is allowed to form the impregnable bulwark of British political freedom. All classes of religions thinkers receive toleration from the British government, except those who openly ofTimd against public decency and the public peace. In England and Ireland, the Protestant Episcopalian form of church govern men land worship is established in intimate alliance will) the state, the sovereign being its supreme head, with a hierarchy composed of archbishops, bishops, deans, archdeacons, and other clergy: in Scotland, the established rclijjion is the Protestant Presbyterian, the clergy of which are all equal in status, and have no authorities but those which they form collectively in their own courts. In England , the Established Church comprehends above 12,000 places of worship. The church in Ireland numbers nearly 1400 benefices, distributed over above 2001) parishes; while the Scottish Presbyterian establishment embraces above 1200 churches, in about 1000 parishes. The established clergy of the three kingdoms are supported by public funds, chiefly arising from the fruits of the earth ; hence their congregations, in general , enjoy their ininislrations gratuitously. Nevertheless, a large proportion of the middle and lower classes of the people in the three kingdoms prefer supporting, by voluntary contribution, religious ministrations more accordant with their peculiar opinions. The chief institutions for education in England arc — the ancient national universities of Oxford and Cambridge; the more recent colleges of London, Durham, and Lampeter in Wales; the classical schools of Eton, Westminster, Winchester, Harrow, Charterhouse, and llugby; the military college of Sandhurst; and the Kast India Company's seminaries at llailey-bury and Addiscombe; the colleges of various dissenling denominations; and the elementary schools of the National and British and Foreign Societies. There are numerous schools for elementary instruction, which are conducted by private exertion, and supporled by fees, along with, in some instances, aid from the state. After I |
all that is done, however, there is still a great and lamentable deficiency in educational establishments. Latterly, some Schools of Design, for conferring instruction in regard to ornamental drawing, have been instituted in the chief towns, and are supported by government. Much useful instruction is also now imparted by Mechanics' Institutions, through the agency of public lectures. Ireland possesses six collc;;iate establishments, in which the higher departments of science and literature are taught — namely, Trinity College, Dublin; the Roman Catholic College of Maynooth ; and three provincial Queen's Colleges, with their common central University, erected under a recent act of Parliament, unrestricted by religious tests, and open to students of every denomination. The elementary schools consist chiefly of the superintended by government commissioners, and supported by parliamentary grants. The chief educational cstahlishments in Scotland are — the universities of St. Andrews, Aberdeen , Glasgow , and lidinburjjb , open to students of all denominations; the recent and minor colleges connected with the Episcopalian, Catholic, and Free churches; a number of academies and grainmarschools established in the cities and boroughs; several excellent institutions endowed by private bequests; and the elementary schools which have long been established in every parish. These parish schools are considered an important feature in the system of public instruction in Scotland. Britain possesses upwards of thirty dependencies in different parts of the world, which it acquired by virtue of discovery or conquest. The dependencies are of two kinds— military establishments, useful for the concentration of naval forces, such as Gibraltar, Helgoland, Bermuda, and St. Helena; and colonial possessions, valuable for trade and the reception of emigrant settlers, but still more important as the means of extending the English language, arts, and civilised usages. The chief colonies, are geographically connected with America and the West Indies, and with Australasia. The Spaniards and Portuguese were the first European nations that colonised the New World, and, when the native Indians perished before them, itnporled negroes from Africa to perform the agricultural labour as slaves. The English were not slow to follow in their steps. Sir Walter Ilaleigh formed a settlement in North America about the year 1Ü07. and called it Virginia, in honour of Queen Elizabeth. Two companies of merchants enlarged the British territory, part of which received the name of New England; and, subsequently, numerous bands uf religious and political refugees sought « home on its shores; but, as has already |
|
Iiecn inenl ioncd, wlicn these colonics rose in wcallli anil slrcnglli, llicy found llienisclves in a position to maintain tlieir indcpcmlcnce of the mother-country, ami before the close of the last century, achieved that independence; so that they arc now no lonjjer known to us as our colonics, hut us the independant republic of the United Slates of America. The seltlements in the West Indian Islands began tu llourish in the half of the seventeenth century, when factories were established by private companies in Barbadocs and St. Christ-ophci's, and the culture of the sugar-cane, transplanted from lira/.il, was found to succeed. During the Protectorate of Cromwell, Jamaica was conquered from Spain, and opened a new source of wealth. Trinidad ; the smaller islands ; the district of Honduras or Belize, on the adjacent coast of l\'orlh America; and Guiuna, in South America, have been acquired at various periods since , and chiefly by conquest from Spain, llollanil, and France. Ail these territories are together denominated the British West Indies. They are the oldest of our existing colonies, and arc rich in every tropical product, yielding sugar, coffee, tobacco, cotton , cabinet timber, spices, fruits, drugs, and dye-stuffs. Jamaica, the largest and most important of the islands, has an area of more than five thousand square miles, wilh a population of more than four hundred thousand, of which only about thirty-eight thousand are whites, the majority being negroes, most of whom were originally slave labourers. Trinidad, Si. Lucia, Dominica, Barbadocs, and the olher islands belonging to Brilain . may contain an aggregate area of eighty-three thousand square miles, with a population of about four hundred an sixty thousand, of which the greater proportion are negroes and Creoles. Bel lie is comparatively a small lenitory ; hut Guiana has ati area of siïly seven thousand square miles, wilh a population of more than one hundred thousand. Since the abohlion of slavery by the British government, the want of labourers has been severely felt, the coloured population being generally disinclined to hired labour, and the work to be done being unsuitable to European constitutions. These colonies arc, therefore, somewhat on the decline. Since the independence of the North American slates in 1770, the British possessions in that continent have been wholly in thenorlhern section, embracing the pro\ince of C/nui'la, the colonies of Nova Scotia, Cape lire!on. Prince Edward's Island, New Hrunswick, and Newfoundland; and the vast region stretching to the Arctic Ocean, at present occupied by savage tribes and the trappers of the Hudson's Bav Company. The whole population amounts to nearly three millions. |
India is not, slriclly speaking, a colony; il is a groat military possession under the immediate government of the Kast India Company, who retain il for purposes of revenue and trade. The crown, however, exercises a certain control over the affairs of India : and from lime to time gives the Company a charter which defines its privileges and authority. The rise of the British power in India is reckoned one of the most surprising things in history. It originated in a charter granted iu 16(10 by Queen Elizabeth lo a body of English merchants, since known as the East India Company. In 1011, they received permission from the native government at Delhi to establish factories at Surat, anil other spots in Eastern Hindostan. About the middle of the seventeenth century, a settlement was formed at Madias; and by the marriage of Charles H, with a princess of Portugal, the valuable position of Bombay was also obtained. At the beginning of the eigbtecntb century, the French influence in India was considerable, and their settlements superior to the English; but from ahoiit the year 1750, when the forces of the two nations came into collision, the French gradually gave way. while our territories rapidly cxtemleil; and a succession of conquests, almost forced upon us, placed one district of India after another in our power. In 1773, it was deemed proper lo place a check on the rapidly increasing power of the Company, by the appointment ol a governor-general on behalf of the Crown. At a later period , a council and a Board of Control were added. In 1780, llyder Ali, the sultan of Mysore, suildenly burst into the Carnatic with an overwhelming force, and ravaged all before him. The war, which was continued with various success under his son, TippooSaib, terminated at length in (be capture of Serin-gapalam and the death of Ti|ipoo, whose kingdom became the spoil of the English. Early in the present century, the jealousy of some of the Mabratta rulers led (o anotlicr war of conquest, wbieii gave the victor extensive territories in Central India , including Delhi, the Mogul capital, anil Agra, with the custo ly of the Mogul emperor. A war provoked by the Burmese government in 182G, added Assam and other provinces east of the Buy ul Bengal lo British India. During the war with Affghanislan, which lasted from 1839 till 1842, it was felt lobe very desirable for the British lo coiiioiand (he navigation of ibe Indus; and Lord Ellen borough was induced tu attempt the acquisition of territory in Scirnlia. Here, also, the natives were forced to yield before ihe superior prowess of Britain. In the adjacent kingdom of the Punjaub, events were still more remarkable. A number of chiefs among the Sikhs contending for the vacant |
|
tlironc, provoked u collision with tliu Kn^lisli forces in 1845. The war terminated in 1849, by their unconditional surrender, and the Pun-jaub was hy proclamation annexed to British India. The fxtent of country now under the immediate control of the liast India Company is upwards of 1,000,000 square miles — nearly four times the area of France, and containin;; a population of above 140 millions. The Company's exclusive rii;hl of trading to India was abolished at the expiration of their charter in 1833; but by an act which remains in force till 1854, they still enjoy the revenue, and hold the patronage of the civil and military appointments connected with the government of the country. This revenue, which amounts to about 21 millions sterling, is almost wholly derived from assessments on the land; and though these are so high as to bear hard on the cultivators of the soil, yet the condition of the people is said to he much better than it was under the unsteady governments of their native princes. The army, which is mainlaiued by the Company, is composed partly of British troops, and parly of native sepoys with British officers. Besides the above, a very large portion of Hindostan is under the protection, though nut the direct government, of the Company. The Island of Ceylon, situated off the southern promontory of Hindostan, and containing an area of 24,(i(i4 square miles , with a population of nearly a million and a half, is now one of the most valuable of British possessions, ll received European colonists first from Portugal in 1520. These were superseded by the Dutch in the seventeenth century, and tluse and the French settlers hy the English towards the close of the eigliteenlb. Finally, in 1815, the British government, at the invitation of the native chiefs, assumed the sovereignty of the whole island. It is a free colony, not connected with the East India Company, but administered by officers of the British crown. It is eelohrated for its extensive cinnamon and coffee plantations, and its valuable pearlfishery. The gross revenue in Sterl. 408,000. The whole of these territories lying in or near Hindostan, are known hy the common appellation of East Indies; and from their geographical position, yield every species of tropical produce, as sugar, coffee, tea, ricc, silk, cotton, hardwoods, ivory, spices, fruits, drugs, dye-stuffs, and other similar commodities. Goods to the value of more than eight millions sterling are annually exported from Britain to the East Indies; while goods to the value of more than fourteen millions are imported from the East Indies to Britain. |
In Australasia, the British settlements are those of New South Wales, of which that of Sydney, on the south shore of Port Jackson, was established in 1788, Western Australia or Swan River, of which the capital is Perth, in 1829; South Australia, of which Adelaide is the capital; and Port Philip, or Victoria, of which Melbourne is the capital, established in 1837, North Australia was colonised in 1838, and Austra-lind, on the western coast, about eighty miles south of Swan Uiver, was settled in 1841, The Colonisation of this part of the world began hy the practice of depositing criminals on the coast of Australia, after the American war of independence put a stop to their being transported to the plantations of the New AVorld, One spot, from the profusion of flowers found on it, was called Botany Bay, long used as a penal settlement; and thus the town of Port Jackson or Sydney bad its origin. But the advantages of the place tempted free emigrants to settle in it, and Van Diemen's Land became the penal settlement instead of New South Wales. Many of the inhabitants of Sydney removed to other parts of the coast, and were joined hy new emigrants. Thus arose the settlement of Port Philip, at the southern extremity; of Swan River, far to the west; and Adalaide, with many smaller ones between them. Still more recently, Port Essington became the nucleus of settlements in the north, but they have not succeeded like the rest. The staple productions have hitherto been the wool, tallow, and hides of the numerous flocks of sheep fed on the natural pasture. But the recent discovery of gold is likely to change the aspect of alFairs. The adjacent island of Va7i Diemen's Land (which contains 24.000 square miles, or somewhat less than Ireland) is the seat of another liritish colony, planted in 1824, and is altogether a thriving settlement — being more hilly and better watered than Australia. Us principal towns are Ilobart-Town, the capital, and Launccston. New Zealand, composed of three contiguous islands, ranging from 1100 miles in length, with a breadth varying from 5 to 200, is also the scat of a British colony; and if its internal management were once fairly adjusted, it would probably rise to first-rate importance. Two centuries have passed since the«e islands were first discovered hy the Dutch; but little was known of the natives till the voyages of Captain Cook. They were fierce, warlike, cannibal tribes, wlum Europeans cared not to meddle with. In 1837, boweier, a New Zealand Company was formed, and land bought from the chiefs. The mother-country has since provided means of protection and government for the colonists. At the Cape of Good Hope, Sierra Leone, Cape Const, and other parts of Africa, Britain possesses upwards of 200,000 square miles, with |
|
a populalion of 400,000. Cape Colony , taken from the Dulcli in 100G, has been a thriving settlement, and the recent colony at Port Nalal gave high promise; but a recent war with the Caflres has been productive of much injury. The Mauritius, and some minor islands in the Indian Ocean; the rocky islets of St. Helena and Ascension, in the Atlantic; and Fernando Po, in the Gulf of Guinea, complete thesum of liritish possessions connected with Africa. Their principal products are ivory, gold, hides, horns, sugar, coiFee, palm-oil, teak wood, aloes, and articles of minor importance. Oilier less extensive colonies and dependencies of Great Britain are the Ionian Islands, the isles of Malta and Gozzo, and the town and fortress of Gibraltar, in the Mediterranean; the islet of Helgoland, in the German Ocean; the peninsula of Aden, on the south coast of Arabia; the islet of Hong-Kong, at the mouth of the Canton River, in China ; Z,aamp;«nn, oft'the coast of Borneo; and the Falkland Islands, in the South Atlantic. The laws and judicial usages of England are extended to the chief colonial possessions, along with all the rights and privileges which arc common to British subjects. Hence the inhabitants of the most distant part of the empire, whatever he their origin, rank, or colour, are entitled by the constitution to enjoy the same degree of civil and religious liberty, ami the same careful protection of life and property as their fellow-subjects in the mother-country. This is an invaluable boon, for in no nation do the people practically enjoy greater rational liberty of speech or action, and in none is the press more free. In India, the natives arc subject to their own laws, and in this privilege they are carefully protected by the British authorities. Uninterrupted, likewise, in the exercise of their own peculiar religious usages, sheltered from the oppression of native chiefs, and instructed at schools which have been recently planted amongst them, the inhabitants of India arc really more happy and prosperous under a foreign rule than they were under the dominion of the former sovereigns of the country. |
According to the constitution, wherever Britain establishes her civil authority, there also is established the Protestant Episcopalian form of church government and worship, except in eases where provision to the contrary has been made by terms of capitulation. Practically, however, thi-re is perfect freedom in the exercise of religious belief and worship in all parts of the empire. In Lower Canada and Malta, Roman Catholicism; in Hindostan, Brahminism and Mohammedanism; and in Ceylon, the religion of Buddha, prevail. The Protestant Presbyterian form of church government and worship, similar to that of Scotland, predominates in the Cape of Good Hope, according to agreement with the former Dutch occupants. In all the colonial possessions, much is done by means of missionaries, to introduce a knowledge of Christianity among the natives. The English language now predominates over the whole United Kingdom, with the exception of a portion of the Highlands of Scotland, part of Ireland, part of the Isle of Man, ami Wales; but in all these places it is gradually superseding the native Celtic dialects. It has been extended, by means of numerous dependencies abroad, over nearly the whole of North America and the West India Islands; also the Australian continent and islands, the Cape of Good Hope, part of Hindostan and Ceylon, and various other places, including several islands in the Pacific. This dillusion of the English tongue, and with it the Christian religion , as well as English literature and habits of thought, over so large a portion of the earth's surface, is perhaps the most extraordinary fact connected with the history of modern civilisation. |
Wns bora on the 15lh of November 1708. He was educated at Elou, whence he removed to Trinity college, Oxford. He was afterwards a cornet in the Blues! His military career, however, was of short duration; for, before he was quite twenty-one, he had a seat in parliament. His talents for debate were soon conspicuous; and on the occasion of a bill for registering seamen in 1740, be made bis memorable reply to Mr. Walpole , who had taunted him on account of bis youth. Hia style of oratory was of the highest class, rapid, vehement, aud overpowering, and it was adorned by all the graces of
70
action mid delivery. Ilis public conduct wns singularly pure ond disinterested, considering the venalüy of the times in which he lived; but as n statesman he was often inconsistent, haughty, and impracticable. His acceptance of a peerage (in 17CG) hurt his popularity with the nation , who loved and reverenced him as 'the great commoner;' but he still 'shook the senate' with the resistless appeals of his eloquence. His speech — delivered when he was upwards of sixty, and broken down and enfeebled by disease — against the employment of Indians in the war with America, is too characteristic, too noble, to be omitted. He expired May 11 , 1778 , in the 70th year of his age.
Slpccch of Cliatham against the cmploynient of Intlians of the
|
1 cannot, my lords, I will not, join in oongrutulation on misfortune and disgrace. This, inv lonls, is a perilous anil tremendous moment; it is not a time for adulation; the smoothness of flattery cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the throne in the language of truth. We must, if possihle, dispel the delusion and darkness which envelope it, and display, in its full danger and genuine colours, the ruin which is brought to our doors. Can ministers still presume to expect support iu their infatuation? Can parliament he so dead to their dignity and dutv, as to give their support to measures thus obtruded and forced upon them ; measures, my lords, which have reduced this late flourishing empire to scorn and contempt? But yes-terdaYi and England might have stood against the ■world ; now, none so poor as to do her reverence! The people whom we at first despised as rebels, but whom we now acknowledge as enemies, are abetted against you, supplied with every military story, have their interest consulted , and their ambassadors entertained, by your inveterate enemy ; and ministers do not, and 1 dare not, interpose with dignity or efl'ect. The desperate state of our army abroad is in part known. No man more highly esteems and honours the English troops than 1 do; I know their virtues and their valour; I know they cati achieve anything but impossibilities; and I know that the conquest of Knglish America is an impossibility. You cannot, my lords, yon cannot conquer America. What is your present situation there? We do not know the worst; hut we know that in three campaigns we have done nothing and suffered much. You may swell every expense, accumulate every assistance, and extend your trallic to the shambles of every German despot; your attempts will he for ever vain and impotent — doubly so, indeed , from this mercenary aid on which you rely; for it irritates, to an incurable resentment, the minds of your adversaries, to overrun them with the mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their possessions to the rapacity of hireling cruelty. If I were an American, as 1 am an Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms: Never, never, never! But, |
my lords, who is the man that, iu addition to the disgraces and mischiefs of the war, has dared to authorise and associate to our arms the tomahawk and scalping-knife oflbe savage; to call into civilised alliance the wild and inhuman inhabitant of the woods ; to delegate to the merciless Indian the defence of disputed rights, and to wage the horrors of his barbarous war against onr brethren? My lords, these enormities cry aloud for redress and punishment. lint, my lords, this barbarous measure has been defended , not only on the principles of policy and necessity, hut also on those of morality; 'for it is perfectly allowable,' says Lord Suffolk, 'to use all the means which God and nature have put into our hands.' I am astonished , I am shocked , to hear such principles confessed; to bear them avowed in this bouse or in this country. My lords, I did not intend to encroach so much ou your attention ; but I cannot repress my indignation — 1 feel myself impelled to speak. My lords, we are called upon as members of this house, as men, as Christians, to protest against such horrible barbarity! That God and nature have put into our hands ! What ideas of God and nature thiit noble lord may entertain I know not; but 1 know that such detestable principles are equally abhorrent to religion and humanity. What! to attribute the sacred sanction of God and nature to the massacres of the Indian scalping-knife! to the cannibal savage, torturing, mnrderi'ig, devouring, drinking the blond of his mangled victims! Such notions shock every precept of morality, every feeling of humanity, every sentiment of honour. These abominable principles, and this more abominable avowal uf them , demand the most decisive indignation. I call upon that right reverend , and this most learned bench , to vindicate the religion of their God, to support the justice of their country. I call upon the bishops to interpose the unsullied sanctity ol their laws; upon the judges to interpose the purity of their ermine, to save us from this pollution. I call upon the honour of your lordships to reverence the dignity of your ancestors, and to maintain your own. I call upon the spirit and humanity of my country to vindicate the national character. I invoke the |
|
fitiiiius of the (.onslilulion. From llie tapestry that adorn those walls, the immortal ancestor ot this noble lord frowns with indignation at the disgrace of his country. In vain did he defend the liherty and establish the religion ol Britain against the tyranny of Rome, if these worse than Popish cruelties and ifir|tiisi-torial practices are endured among us. To send forth the merciless cannibal, thirsting for blood ! against whom? your Protestant brethren! to lay waste liieir country, to desolate their d«cll-'quot;8s. !jnlt;' I'Xtirpate their race and name by the aid and instrumentality of these horrible hell-hounds of war! Spain can no longer boast preeminence in barbarity. She armed herself with blood-bounds to extirpate the wretched natives of Mexico; wc, more ruthless, loose these dogs of war against our countrymen m America, endeared to us by every tie that can sanctify humanity. I solemnly call upon your lordships, and upon every order of men in the stale, to stamp upon this infamous procedure the indelible stigma of the public abhorrence. More particularly I call upon the holy prelates of our religion to do away this iniquity, let them perform a lustration, to purify the country from this deep and deadly sin. Aly lords, I am old and weak, and at present unable to say more; but my feelings and indignation were too strong to have said, less. 1 could not have slept Ibis night in my bed, nor even reposed my head upon my pillow, without giving vent to my clernal abhorrence of such enormous and preposterous principles. |
I ho celebrated statesman and orator, during his intervals of relaxation from public lite, among other literary studies and occupations eorainenced a history of the reign of King James II , intending to continue it to the seltleiiient at (he revolution of 1088. An introductory chapter, giving a lapul view of our constitutional history from the time of Henry VII , he completed, lie wrote also some chapters of his history, but at the time of his death he had made but little progress in his work. Public affairs, and a strong partiality and attachment to the study of the classics, and to works of imagination and poetry, were continually drawing him oif from his historical researches, added to which he was fastidiously scrupulous as to all the niceties of language , and wished to form his plan exclusively on the model of ancient writers, without note , digression , or dissertation. 'He once assured me says Lord Holland, 'that he would admit no word into his book for which he had not the authority of Dryden, We need not wonder, therefore, that Mr. Fox died before completing his historical work. Such miuute attention to style , joined to equal regard for facts and circumstances , must have weighed down any writer even of uuinterrnpted and active application. In 1808 the uufiuished composition was given to the vvoild by Lord Holland, under the title of quot;A History of the Karly Part of the Ileign of James the Second, with an Introductory Chapterquot;. An appendix of original papers was also added. The history is plainly written , without the slightest approach to pedantry or pretence; but the style of the great statesman, «ith all the care bestowed upon it, is far from being perfect. It wants forcc and vivacity, as if, in the process of elaboration, the graphic clearness of narrative and distinct perception of events and characters necessary to the historian had evaporated. The seutiinents and principles of the author arc, however, worthy of his liberal and capacious mind.
|
You have now two wars before you, of which you must choose one; for, both you cannot support. The war against America has hitherto been carried on against her alone, unassisted by any ally whatever: notwithstandinn- she stood alone, you have been obliged uniformly to increase your cxerlions, and to push your eflorls in the end to the extent of your power, without being able to bring it to an issue: you have exerted all your force hitherto without effect, and yoci cannot now divide a force found already inadequate to its object. My opinion is for withdrawing your forccs' from America entirely; for, a defensive war you can never think of there of any sort; a defensive war would ruin this nation at any time, and m any circumstances: offensive war is pointed out as proper for this country; our situation points it out, and the spirit of the nation impels us to attack rather than defence : — attack France then, for she is your object. The nature of the wars is quite different: the war against America is against your own countrymen — you have stopped me from saying against your fellow-subjects; that against France is against your inveterate eneniy and rival. Every blow you strike in America is against yourselves; it is against all ideas of reconciliation ; and against your own interest, though you should be able, as you never will, to forcc them to submit. Every stroke against France is of advantage to you: the more you lower the scale in which France lays in the balance, the more your own rises, and the more the Americans will be |
|
«lolaclieil from lier us useless lo them. Even your own victories over America are in favour of France, from what they must cost you in men anil money: your victories over France will be felt by Iter ally. America must be conquered in France: France never can be conquered in America. The war of tbe Americans is a war of passion ; it is of sucb a niilure as to be supported by tbe most powerful virtues — love of liberty and of tbeir country; and, at tbe same time, bv tbose passions in tbe banian beart, wbicb give courage, strengtb, and perseverance to man — tbe spirit of revenge for tbe injuries you have done them; of retaliation for the hardships you have inflicted on them; and of opposition lo the unjust powers you have exercised over them. Every thing combines to animate them lo this war, and such a war is without end; for, whatever obstinacy, enthusiasm ever inspired man with, you will now find it in America; no matter «hat gives birth to that enthusiasm, whether the name of religion or of liberty, tbe effects are the same; it inspires a spirit that is unconquerable, and solicitous to undergo difficulty, danger, and hardship; and as long as there is a man in America, a being formed such as we are, you will have him present himself against you in the field. The war of France is a war of another sort; the war of France is a war of interest: it was her interest first induced her to engage in it, and it is by that interest that she will measure its continuance. Turn your face at once against her; attack her wherever she is exposed, crush her commerce wherever you can, make her feel heavy and immediate distress throughout the nation: the people will soon cry out lo their government. Whilst the advantages she promises herself are remote and uncertain, inflict present evils and distresses upon her subjects: the people will become discontented and clamorous: she will find it a bad bargain, having entered into this business; and you will force her to desert any ally that brings so much trouble, and distress, and misfortune, the advantages of whose alliance may never take effect; or, if they should, be subject always to disturbance from this country, which it always ought to be, and which I know you are able to give, if you once get your hands clear of America. What is become of the ancient spirit of this nation? Where is the national spirit that ever did honour to this country? Have the present ministry spent that too, with almost the last shilling of your money? Are they not ashamed of the temporizing conduct they have used towards France? Her correspondence with America has been clandestine: compare that with their conduct towards Holland some time ago; — but it is the characteristic of little minds to be exact in little things, whilst they shrink from their rights in great ones. |
The conduct of France is called clandestine: look hack but a year ago to a letter from one of your secretaries of state to Holland; 'it is with surprise and indignation' your conduct is seen, in something done by a petty governor of an island, while they affect to call the measures of Francc clandestine. This is the way that ministers support the character of the nation, and the national honour and glory! But, look again how that same Holland is spoken of to-day : even in your correspondence with her your littleness appears: — ---Pauper et exnl uterque, Projecit ampullas , et sesquipedalia verba. From this you may judge of your situation, from this you may know what a state you are reduced to. How will the French party in Holland exult over you, and grow strung! She will never continue your ally when you meanly crouch to France, and do not dare to stir in your defenoe! But it is nothing extraordinary that she should not, while you keep the ministers you have: no power in Europe is blind; there is none blind enough to ally itself with weakness, and become partner in bankruptcy; there is no one blind enough to ally themselves to obstinacy, absurdity, and imbecility. |
Henry Gratlan was a native of Ireland, and highly estimated by his eonntrymen as their supporter in the cause of freedom. In 1782 having addressed the king of England respecting the rights of his country and its oppressions, he had the pleasure of exciting the English parliament to remove an obnoxious statute of George I, thus freeing Ireland from foreign jurisdiction. This event was received with so much joy by the nation and gratitude to Grattan, that the Irish parliament immediately granted him fifty thousand pounds as a reward for his untiring exertions. He continued many years in the English parliament exerting himself for the good of his impoverished country.
|
Tlio propusitiun that wc ^liunld not inlcrferu willi the government of olhcr nations is true, hut true with (jualidcalions. If the jjovern-inent of any other country contains an insurrectionary principle, as France did, when she offered to aid till) irisurreclion of her neigh-hours , your interference is warranted ; if the ('overninerit of anollier country contains the principle of universal empire, as France did, and promulgated , your inlerference is justi-ilahle. Gentlemen may call this internal government, hul I call this conspiracy. If llie government of another country maintains a predatory army, such as Buonaparte's, with a view to hostility and conquest, your interference is just. He may call this internal government, hut 1 cull this a preparation for war. No doubt he will accompany this with offers of peace, hut such offers of peace are nothing more than one of the arts of war, attended, most assuredly, hy charging on you the odiuni of a long and protracted contest, and with much common place, and many good saws and sayings of the miseries of bloodshed , and tlie savings and jjood husbrandry of peace, and the comforts uf a quiet life: but if you listen to this, you will be much deceived; not only deceived, hut you will be beaten. Again, if the government of another country covers more ground in Europe, and destroys the balance of power, so as to threaten the independence of other nations, ibis is a cause of your interference. Such was the principle upon which we acted in the best times: such was the principle of the grand alliance; such was the triple alliance, and such the qnadrnplc ; and by such principles has Europe not only been regulated, hut protected. If a foreign governement does any of those acts 1 have mentioned . we have a cause of war; hut if a foreign power does all of them , — forms a conspiracy for universal empire, keeps up an army for that purpose, employs that army lo overturn the balance of power, and attempts the conquest of Europe, — attempts do I say? in a great degree achieves it, (for what else was Buonaparte's dominion before the battle of Lcipsic?) and then receives an overlhrow; owes its deliverance to treaties which give that power its life, and these countries their security, (for what did you get from France but security?) — if this power, 1 say, avails itself of the conditions in the treaties, which give it colonies, prisoners, and deliverance, and breaks those conditions which give you security, and resumes the same situation which renders this power capable of repeating I be same atrocity, — has England, or has she nol, a right, of war? |
Having considered the two questions, that of ability and that of right, anil having shown that you are justified on either consideration to go lo war, let me now suppose that you treat for peace. First, you will have peace upon a war eslablishment, and then a war without your present allies. It is not certain that you will have any of them, hut it is certain that you will not have the same combination , while Buonaparte increases his power by contirmation of bis title, and by further preparation ; so that you will have a hail peace and a bad war. Were I disposed lo treat for peace I would not agree to the amendment, because it disperses your allies anil strengthens your enemy , and says lo both , we will quit our alliance to confirm Napoleon on the throne of France . that he may hereafter more advantageously fight us. as he did before, for the throne of England. (ientlemen set forth the prelenlions of Buonaparte; gentlemen say, that he as given liberty lo the press; be has given liberty to publication, to be afterwards tried and punished according to the present constitution of France, at a military chief pleases; that is to say, be has given liberty to the French to hang themselves. Gentlemen say, he has in his dominions abolished the slave trade; I am unwilling to deny hirn praise for such an act; but if wc praise him for giving liberty to the African, let us not assist him in imposing slavery on the European. Gentlemen say, will you make war upon character? hut the question is, will you trust a government without one? What will you do if you are conquered , say gentlemen ? I answer, the very thing you must do, if you treat, — abandon the Low Countries. But the question is, in which ease are you most likely to be conquered, with allies or without them. Either you must abandon the Low Countries, or you must preserve them hy arms, for Buonaparte will not be withheld by treaty. If you abandon them, you will lose ■your situation on the globe; and instead of being a medium of cummunication and commerce between the new and the old, you will become an anxious station between two fires,— the continent of America, rendered hostile by the intrigues of France, and the continent of Europe, possessed by her arms. 11 then remains for yon to determine, if you do not abandon the Low Countries, in what way you mean to defend them, alone or with allies. Gentlemen complain of the allies, and say, they have partilioned such a country, and transferred such a country, and seiied on such a country. What! will they quarrel with their ally, who has possessed himself of a part of Saxony, and shake hands with Buonaparte, |
|
who proposes lo take possession of b)nglatid ? If a prince takes Venice, we are indignant; but if lie sciics on a [[real part of Europe, and stands covered with the Mood of millions and the spoils of half mankind, our indignation ceases; vice hecoincs jjijjanlic, conquers the understanding, and mankind liegin lgt;y wonder, and conclude hy worship. The character of Bnonapartu is admirably calculated for this cffect: he invests himself with much theatrical grandeur; he is a great actor in the tragedy of his own government; ihe fire of his genius precipitates on universal eaipire, certain to destroy his neighbours or himself;— better formed to acquire empire than to keep it, he is a bero and a calamity, formed to punish France and to perplex Europe. The authority of Mr. Fox has been alluded to; a great authority, and a great man; his name excites tenderness and «onder. To do justice to that immortal person, you must not limit your view to this country : his genius was not confined to England , it acted three hundred miles olF, in breaking the chains of Ireland ; it was sei ii three thousand miles olif, iu communicating freedom to the Americans ; it was visible, I know not how far oil', in ameliorating the condition of the Indian; it was discernible on the coast of Africa, in accomplishing the aholition of the slave trade. You are to measure the magnitude of his mind by parallels of latitude. His heart was as soft as that of a woman, bis intellect was adamant; his weaknesses were virtues,— they protected him against the hard habit of a politician, and assisted nature tu make him amiable and interesting, The question discussed by Mr. Fox in 17!)2 was, whether you would treat with a revolutionary government; the present is, whether you will confirni a military and a hostile one. You will observe, that when Mr. Fox was ready to treat, the French, it was understood , were ready to evacuate the l.ow Countries. If you confirm the present government, yon must expect to lose them. Mr. Fox objected lo the idea of driving Franco upon her resources, lest you should make her a military government. The question now is, whether you will make that military govern-jnent perpetual. 1 therefore do not think the theory of Mr. Fox can he quoted against us; and the pratioe of Mr. Fox tends tu establish our proposition , for he treated with ISuona-parte, and failed. Mr. Fox was tenacious of England, and would never yield an iota of her superiority; hut the failure of the attempt to treat was to he found, not in Mr, Fox, but in lluonaparte. |
On the French subject, speaking of authority, we cannot forget Mr. Burke, — Mr. Burke, the prodigy of nature ami acquisition! He read every thing, he saw every thing, he foresaw every thing. His knowledge of history amounted to a power of foretelling; and when he perceived ihe wild work that was doing in France, that great political physician, intelligent of symptoms, distinguished between the access of fever and the force of health; and what other men conceived to he the vigour of her constitution, he knew to be no more than the paroxysm of her madness; and then, prophet-like, he pronounced the destinies of France, and in his prophetic fury admonished nations. Gentlemen speak of the lionrhon family. I have already said, we should not force the Bourbon upon France; hut we owe it to departed {I would rather say to interrupted) greatness to observe, that the House of Bourbon was not tyrannical : under her, every thing, except the administration of the country, was open to animadversion; every subject was open to discussion, philosophical, ecclesiastical. and political, so that learning, and arts, and sciences, made progress. Even England consented to borrow not a little from the temperate meridian of that government. Her court stood controlled by opinion , limited by principles of honour, and softened by the influence of manners; and, on the whole, there was an amenity in the condition of France, which rendered the French an amiable, an enlightened , a gallant and accomplished race. Over this gallant race you see imposed an oriental despotism. Their present court (Buonaparte's court) lias gotten the idiom of the East as well as her constitution ; a fantastic and barbaric expression, an unreality, which leaves in the shade the modesty of truth, and states nothing as it is, and every thing as it is not. The attitude is affected, the taste is corrupted, and the intellect perverted. Do you wish lo confirm this military tyranny in the heart of Europe? A tyranny founded on the triumph of the army over the principles of civil government; tending lo universalize throughout Europe the domination of the sword , and to reduce to paper and parchment Magna Charta and all our civil constitutions? An experiment such as no country ever made, and no good country would ever permit — lo relax the moral and religious influences; to set heaven and earth adrift from one another; and make God Almighty a tolerated alien in his creation; an insurrectionary hope to every bad man in the community, and a frightful lesson of profit and power, vested in those who have pandered their allegiance from king to emperor, and now found their pretensions lo domination on the merit of breaking their oaths and deposing their sovereign. Should you do any thing so monstrous as lo leave your allies in order to confirni such a system ; should you forget your ancestors, and I lie inhcrilance they have left |
|
you of moralily and renown; sliould you iistonisli Kuropc, hy quitting your allies to render immortal such a coiij posit ion ; would not the nations exclaim, 'You liave very providently watched over our interests, and very jjenerously liave you contributed to our service, and do you falter now? In vain have you stopped in your own person the flyinj; fortunes of Europe, in vain have you taken the eagle of Napoleon, and snatched invincibility from his standard; if now, when confederated Kurope is ready to inarch, you take the lead in the desertion, and preach the penitence of Buonaparte and the poverty of Knjjland.' As to her poverty, you must not consider |
the money you spend in her defence, hut the fortune you w ould lose if you were not defended ; and further, you must recollect you will pay less to an immediate war, than to a peace with a «ar establishment, and a war to follow it. Recollect further, that whatever he your resources, they must outlast those of nil your enemies; and further, that your empire cannot be saved by a calculation. Besides, your wealth is only a part of your situation. The name you have established, the deeds you have achieved, and the part you have sustained, preclude you from a second place amonj; nations; and when you cease to he the first, you are nothing. |
Second son of the immortal Earl of Chatham, became Chancellor of the Exchequer at twenty-three years of age, and continued prime minister until his death. He cmbracedthe opinions of the Tories, and displnyed his talents against Lord North and the American war; in his speeches he so convinced his hearers , as to make them fancy they were only following the impulse of their own reason: while Eox, his rival, exercised his itiflueuce upon the heart. Very different opinions exist upon the subject of the policy of Pitt's administration , but of the absence of all selfish views there can be no doubt, for although he had it in his power to accumulate riches at the public expence, he left debts to the amount of 40,000 pound which Parliament gratefully paid , besides bestowing upon his remains the honour of a public funeral,
On the aliofiUlcm of the slavctraclc.
|
*1 come to Africa. That is the ground on winch I rest, and here it is that 1 sav my rifjlit honourahle friends do not carry their principles to their full extent. Why ou«;lit the slave-trade to be aholislicd ? Because it is incurable injustice. How mucb stronger then is the ar|[urncnt lor iinnicdiate than gradual abolition! By allowing it to continne even for one bour, do not my rigbt honourable friends weaken, do not tbey desert tbeir own aripmient of its injustice? If on the ground of injustice it ought to be abolished at last, why ought it nol now ? VI'by is injustice to be suflcred to remain for a single hour? From what I bear without doors, it is evident that there is a general conviction entertained of its being far from just; and from that very conviction of its injustice, some men have been led, I fear, to the supposition, that tbc slave-trade never could have been permitted to begin, but from some strong and irresistible necessity; a necessity, however, which, if it was fancied to exist at first, I have shown cannot bethought by any man whatever to exist now. This plea of necessity thus presumed, and presumed, as I suspect, from the circumstance of injustice itself, has caused a sort of acquiescence in the continuance of this evil. Men bave been led to place it among the rank ol those necessary |
evils, wbicb are supposed to be the lot of human creatures, and to be permitted to fall upon some countries or individuals rather than upon others, by that Being, whose ways aro inscrutable to us, and whose dispensations, it is conceived , we ought not to look into. The origin of e\il is indeed a subject beyond the reach of human understanding; and the permission of it by a Supreme Being, is a subject into whifh it belongs not to us to inquire. But where the evil in question is a moral e\il which a man can scrutini/.e, and where that moral evil has its origin with ourselves, let us not imagine that we can clear our consciences by this general, not to say irreligious and impious way of laying aside the question, if we reflect 1 at all on this subject, we must see that every j necessary evil supposes that some other and greater evil would be incurred were it removed ; I therefore desire to ask, what can he that greater evil, which can be stated to overbalance the one in question ? — I know of no evil that ever has existed, nor can imagine any evil to exist, worse than the tearing of seventy or eighty thousand persons annually from their native land by a combination of the most civilized nations inhabiting the most enlightened part of the globe, but more especially under the sanction of the laws of that nation which |
|
calls licrsfilf llie most Free am) tlio most linppy of tlicrn all. Kvon if tlieso miserable beings were proved Ruilty of every crime before you take tbein off, (of wliicb, bowever, not a single proof is aililnced). oujjiit we to take upon ourselves tbe office of executioners? And even if we eon-desccnd so far, still can we be justified in taking tbem, unless we bave clear proof that tbey are criminals? But if we (jo much further, — if wc ourselves tempt them to sell their fellow-crealures to us, we may rest assured, that tlioy will take care to provide hy every method , by kidnapping, by village-breaking, by unjust wars, hy iniquitous condemnations, by rendering Africa a scene of bloodshed and misery, a supply of victims increasing in proportion to our demand. Can we then hesitate iti deciding whether the wars in Africa are their wars or ours? It was our arms in the river Cameroon put into the bands of the trader, that furnished him with the means of pushing his trade; and I have no more doubt that they are British arms, put into the hands of Africans, which promote universal war and desolation , than I can doubt their having done so in that individual instance. |
i have shown how great is the enormity of this evil, even on the supposition that we take only convicts and prisoners of war. But take the subject in the other way; take it on tbe grounds staled hy the right honourable gentlemen over tbe way , and how does it stand ? Think of eigiitï ti10^;sa^d persons carried away out of their country hy we know not what means! for crimes imputed! for light or inconsiderable faulls; for debt perhaps I for the crime of witchcraft ! or a thousand other weak and scandalous pretexts; besides all the fraud and kidnapping, tbe villanies and perfidy, by which the slave-trade is supplied! Rellcct ou these eighty thousand persons thus annually taken off! There is something in the horror ol it that surpasses all the bounds of imagination. Admitting that there exists in Africa something like to courts of justice; yet what an office of humiliation and meanness is it in us, to take upon ourselves to carry into execution tbe partial, the cruel, iniquitous sentences of such courts, as if we also were strangers to nil religion, and to tbe first principles of justice! But that country, it is said, has been in some degree civilized, and civili/.ed by us. Jt is said tbey have gained some knowledge of the principles of justice. What, sir, have tbey gained principles of justice from us? Their civilization brought ahcnit hy us! Yes, we give them enough of our intercourse to convey to them the means, and to initiate them in the study, of mutual destruction. M'e give them just enough of the forms of justice to enable them to add the pretext of legal trials to their other modes of perpetrating the most atrocious iniquity. AVe give tbem just enough of European improvements to enable them the more effectually to turn Africa into a ravaged wilderness. Some evidences say that the Africans are addicted to the practice of gambling; that tbey even sell their wives and children, and ultimately themselves. Are these then tbe legitimate sources of slavery? Shall we pretend that we can thus acquire an honest right to exact the labour of these people ? Can we pretend that we have a right to carry away to distant regions men of whom we know nothing by authentic inquiry, and of whom there is every reasonable presumption to think, that those who sell them to us, have no right to do so? But the evil does not stop here. 1 feel that there is not time for me to make all the remarks which the subject deserves, and I refrain from atiempting to enumerate half tbe dreadful consequences of this system. Do you think nothing of the ruin and the miseries in which so many other individuals, still remaining in Africa, are involved in consequence of carrying off so many myriads of people? Do you think nothing of their families which are left behind ? of the connexions which are broken? of the friendships, attachments, and relationships that are burst asunder? Do you think nothing of the miseries in consequence, that are felt from generation to generation ? of the privation of that happiness which might be communicated to them by the introduction of civilization, and of mental and moral improvement? A happiness which you withhold from them so long as you permit the slave-trade to continue. What do you know of the internal state of Africa? You have carried on a trade to that quarter of the globe from this civilized and enlightened country; hut such a trade, that, instead of diffusing either knowledge or wealth, it has been the check to every laudable pursuit. Instead of any fair interchange of commodities; instead of conveying to them, from this highly favoured land, any means of improvement; you carry with you that noxious plant hy which every thing is withered and blasted; under whose shade nothing that is useful or profitable to Africa will ever flourish or tuke root. Long as that continent has been known to navigators, tbe extreme line and boundaries of its coasts is all with which flu-rope is yet become acquainted; while other countries in the same parallel of latitude, through a happier system of intercourse, have reaped the blessings of a mutually beneficial commerce. But as to the whole interior of that continent you arc, by ymir own principles of commerce, as yet entirely shut out: Africa is known to you only in its skirts. Yet even there you arc able to infuse a poison that spreads its |
Ül) I
|
conlagioiis ullccls from one end ol ll to the olhcr, whicli pcnelrales to its very centre, cor-rupting every part to wliich it reaches. You lliere subvert the whole order of nature; you aggravate every natural barbarity, and furnish to every man living on that continent, motives for committing, under the name and pretext of oominerce, acts of perpetual violence and per-fuly against his neighbour. Thus, sir, has the perversion of ISritisb commerce carried misery instead of happiness to one whole quarter of the globe. False to the very principles of trade, misguided in our policy, and unmindful of our duty, what astonishing — I bad almost said, what irreparable mischief, have we brought upon that Continent! I would apply this thought to tbe present question. Uo« shall wo ever repair this mischief? llow shall we hope to obtain, if it he possible, forgiveness from Heaven fur those enormous evils we have committed, if we refuse to make nse of those means which the mercy of Providence hath still reserved to us for wiping away the guilt and shame with which we are now covered ? If we refuse even this degree of compensation , if, knowing the miseries we have caused , we refuse even now to put a stop to them, bow greatly aggravated will be tbe guilt of Great Britain! and what a blot will the history of these transactions for e^er hein the history of this country! Shall we then delay to repair these injuries, and to begin rendering this justice to Africa? Shall we nut count the days and hours that are sullered to intervene and to delay tbe accomplishment of such a work? Reflect, what an immense object is he-fore you — what an object for a nation to have in view, and to have a prospect, under the favour of Providence, of being now permitted to attain! 1 think the house will agree with me in cherishing the ardent wish toenler without delay upon the measures necessary fur these great ends: and 1 am sure that the immediate abolition of the slave-trade is the fust, the principal, tbe most indispensable act of policy, of duty, and of justice, that the legislature of this country has to take, if it is indeed their wish to secure those important objects to which I have alluded , and which we arc hound lo pursue by the most solemn obligations. |
There is, however, one argument set up as an universal answer to every thing that can be urged on our side; whether we address ourselves to gentlemen's understandings, or to their hearts and consciences, ll is necessary 1 should remove this formidable objection: for though not often stated in distinct terms, I fear it is one which has a very wide inlluenee. The slave-trade system, it is supposed, has taken so deep root in Africa, that it is absurd to think of its being eradicated ; and the abolition of that share of trade carried on by Great Britain (and especially if her example is not followed by other powers) is likely to be of very little service. Give me leave to say , in answer to so dangerous an argument, that we ought to he extremely sure indeed of the assumption on which il rests , before we venture to rely on its validity ; before we decide that an evil which we ourselves contribute to inflict is incurable, and on that very plea, refuse to desist from bearing our part in tbe system which produces it. You are not sure, it is said, that other nations will give up the trade, if you should renounce it. I answer, if this trade is as criminal as it is asserted to he, or if it has in it a thousandth part of the criminality, which 1, anil others, after thorough investigation of the subject, charge upon it, God forbid that we should hesitate in determining to relinquish so iniquitous a trafEc ; even though it should be retained by other countries! God forbid, however, that we should fail to do our utmost towards inducing other countries to abandon a bloody commerce which they have probably been in great measure led by our example to pursue! God forbid, thai we should he capable of wish-ing to arrogate to ourselves the glory of being singular in renouncing il! 1 tremble at the thought of gentlemen's indulging themselves in this argument (an argument as pernicious as il is futile) which lam combating. 'We are friends,' say they, 'to humanity. AVe are second to none of you in our ical for the good of Africa, — but the French will nut abolish, — the Dutch will not abolish. We wait, therefore, on prudential principles, till they join us, or set us an example.' llow, sir, is this enormous evil ever to be eradicated, if every nation is thus prudentially lo wait till the concurrence of all the world shall have been obtained? — Let me remark too, that there is no nation in Europe that has, on the one band, plunged so deeply into this guilt as Britain; or that is so likely, on tbe other, to he looked up to as an example, if she should have the manliness to be the first in decidedly renouncing it. But, sir, does not ibis argument apply a thousand times more strongly in a contrary way? llow much mure justly may other nations point to us, and say, •Wliy should we abolish the slave-trade when Great Britain has not abolished? Britain, free as she is, just and honourable as she is, and deeply also involved as she is in this cominercu above all nations, not only has not abolished, but has refused to abolish. — She has investigated it well; she has gained the completest insight into its nature and clTecls; she has collected volumes of evidence on every branch |
71
l'iGi
|
of llio ?nl)jci:l. lier sonnlc lias dcliheralcil — lias dclibeialed again anti again — and «lial is tlie result? She lias gravely and solemnly determined to sanction tlie slave-trade. She sanctions it at least for a while — her legislature, therefore, it is plain, sees no guilt in it, and has thus furnished us with the slrong-est evidence that she can furnish , — of the justice unquestionably, — and of the policy also, iti a certain measure and in certain cases at least , of permitting this trafTic to continue.' This, sir, is the argument with which we furnish the other nations of Kurope, if we again refuse to put an end to the slave-trade. Instead, therefore, of imagining, that hy choosing to presume on their continuing il, weshallhave exempted ourselves from guilt, and have transferred the whole criminality to them 5 let us rather reflect that, 011 the very principle urged against ns, we shall henceforth have to answer for their crimes, as well as our own. \\ e have strong reasons to helieve that il depends upon us, whether oilier countries will persist in this hloody trade or not. Already we have sullered one year to pass away, and now that the question is renewed, a proposition is made for gradual, with the view of preventing immediate abolition. I know the dimculty that exists in attempting to reform long-established abuses; and 1 know the danger arising from the argument in favour of delay, in the case of evils which nevertheless are thought too enormous to he borne, when considered as perpetual. But by proposing some other period than the present, by proscribing some condition, hy waiting for some contingency, or hy relusing to proceed till a thousand favourable circumstances unite together; perhaps unlil we obtain the general concurrence of Jiuropn (a concurrence which I believe never yet look place at the commencement of any one improvement in policy or in morals); year after year escapes, and the most enormous evils go unredressed. AVe see this abundantly exemplilied , not only in public, but in private life. Similar observations have been applied to the ease of personal reformation. If you go into the street, it is a chance but the llrst person who crosses you is one, '■Vivendi rcclc qui prorogat horatn.' We may wait; we may delay to cross the stream before us, till it has run down ; hut we shall wait for ever, for the river will still flow on, without being exhausted. We shall be no nearer the object which we profess to have in view, so long as the slop, which alone can bring us to it, is not taken. Unlil the actual, the only remedy is applied, we ought neither to flatter ourselves that we have as yet thoroughly laid to heart the evil we a fleet to deplore; nor that there is as yet any reasonable assurance |
of its being brought to an actual termination. It has also been occasionally urged, that thm; is somelliing in the disposition and nature of the Africans themselves, which renders all prospect of civilization on that continent extremely unpromising. 'It has been known,' says Mr. Frazer, in his evidence, 'that a hoy has been put to death, who was refused to he purchased as a slave.' This single story was deemed hy that gentleman a suflicient proof of the barbarity of lbo Africans, and of the inutility of abolishing the slave-trade. My honourable friend, however , has told you, that this boy had previously run away from his master three several limes; that the master had to pay his value, according to the custom of his country, every time he was brought back; and that, partly from anger at the hoy for running away so frequently, and partly to prevent a still further repetition of the same expense, he determined to put him to death. Such was ihe explanation of the story given in the cross-examination. This, sir, is the signal instance that has been dwelt upon of African barbarity. — This African, we admit, was unenlightened, and altogether barbarous: hut let us now ask what would a civilized and enlightened West-Indian, or a body of West-Indians, have done in any ease of a parallel nature? 1 will quote you, sir, a law passed in the West-Indies, in the year 1722, which, in turning over the book, I happened just now to cast my eye upon, by which law, this very same crime of running away, is, by the legislature of the island, — by the grave and deliberate senlence of that enlightened legislature, punished with death: and this, not in Ihe case only of the third offence, but even in the very first instance. It is enacted, 'that if any negro or other slave shall withdraw himself from his master, for the term of six months; or any slave that was abs'tit shall not return within that time, it shall he adjudged felony, and every such person shall suiter death.' There is also another West-Indian law, hy which every negro's hand is armed against his fellow negroes, by his heing authorised lo kill a run-away slave, anil even having a reward held out to him for doing so. Let ihe house now contrast the two eases. Let them ask themselves which of the t«o exhibits the greater barbarity ? Let them reflcct, with a litlle candour and liberality, whether on the ground of any of those facts, and loose insinuations as to the sacrifices to he met with in the evidence, they can possibly reconcile lo themselves the excluding of Africa from all means of civilization ? whether they can possibly vote for the continuance of the slave-trade upon the principle, that the Africans have shown themselves lo he a race of incorrigible barbarians? |
7)
|
I liupc, llicioforo, mc slitil I licar no more of llio moral impossibility of civili/.injf liic Africans, nor have our understandings and consciences ajfain insnitorl , liy beinjf called upon to sanction tlie slave-lrade, until other nations shall have set the oxample of abolishing it. While we have been dclihoratinjj upon the subject, one nation, not ordinarily taking the leail in politics, nor by any means rernarUable for the boldness of its councils, has determined on a gradual abolition ; a determination, indeed whiHi, since it permits for a time the existence of the slave-rade, would be an unfortunate pattern for our imitation. Franco, it is said , will take up the trade, if we relinquish it. What? Is it supposed that in the present situation of St. Domingo, of an island which used to take three-fourths of all the slaves required by the colonies of France, she, of all countries, will think of taking it up ? What countries remain? The Portuguese, the Dutch, and the Spaniards. Of those countries let me declare it as my opinion, that if they see ns renounce the trade, after full deliberation , they will not he disposed , even on principles of policy, to rush further into it. But I say more; How are they to furnish the capital necessary for carrying it on? If there is anv aggravation of our guilt, in this wretched business, greater than another, it is that we have stooped lo be the carriers of these miserable beings from Africa to the West Indies for all the other powers of Kuropc. And now , sir, if we retire from the trade altogether, I ask, where is that fund which is to he raised at once by other nations , equal lo the purcbasse of 30 or 40,000 slaves? A fund which, if we rate them at 40 /. or 50 /. each, cannot make a capital of less than a million and a half, or two millions of money. From what branch of their commerce is it that these European nations will draw together a fund to feed this monster gt; — to keep alive this detestable commerce? And even if they should make the attempt; wil not, that immense chasm, which must instantly be created in the other parts of their trade, from which this vast capital must be withdrawn in order to supply the slave-trade, ho filled up by yourselves? — Will not these branches of commerce which they must leave, and from which they must withdraw their industry and their capitals, in order to apply them to the slave-trade , be then taken up by British merchants? — Will you not even in this case find your capital How into these deserted channels? — Will not your capital be turned from the slave-trade lo that natural and innocent commerce from which they must withdraw their capitals, in proportion as they take up the traffic in the flesh and blood of their fcllow-crealurcs ? |
The committee sees, I trust, how little ground of objection lo our proposition there is in this part of our adversaries' argument. Having now detained the house so long, all that f will furlher add, shall be on that important subject, the civilization of Africa, which I have already shown that I consider as the leading feature in this question. Grieved am I to think that there should he a single person in this country, much more that there should be a single member in the British parliament, who can look on the present dark, uncultivated, and uncivilized state of that continent, as a ground for eonlinuinj! the slave-trade, — as a ground not only for refusing to attempt the improvement of Africa, hut even for hindering and intercepting every ray of light which might otherwise break in upon her, — as a ground for refusing to her the common chance and the common means with which other nations have been blessed , of emerging from their native barbarism. Here, as in every other branch of this extensive question, the argument of our adversaries pleads against them; for, surely, sir, the present, deplorable state of Africa, especially when we reflect that her chief calamities are to be ascribed lo us, calls for our generous aid, rather than justifies any despair on our part of her recovery, and still less any further repetition our injuries. 1 will not much longer fatigue the attention of the house; but this point has impressed itself so deeply on my mind , that 1 must trouble the committee with a few additional observations. Arc we justified, I ask, on any one ground of theory, or by any one instance to be found in the history of the world, from its very beginning to this day, in forming the supposition which I am now combating? Are we justified in supposing that the particular practice which we encourage in Alrica, ol men's selling each other lor slaves, in any symptom of a barbarism that is incurable? Are we justified in supposing thai even the practice of offering up human sacrifices proves a total incapacity for civilization? I believe it will he found, and perhaps much more generally than is supposed, that both the trade in slaves, and the still more savage custom of offering human sacrifices, obtained in former periods throughoul many of those nations which now, by the blessings of Providence, and by a long progression of improvements , are advanced the farthest in civilization. I believe, sir, thai, if we will reflect an instant, we shall find that this observation conies directly home to our own selves; and that, on the same ground on which we are now disposed to proscribe Africa for ever from all possibility of improve-inenl, we ourselves might, in like inanuer, |
|
have licen proscribed and for ever sliul out from all the blessings which we now enjoy. There was a time, sir, which it may befit sometimes to revive in the remembrance of our countrymen, when even human sacrifices are said to have been offered in this island. But I would peculiarly observe on this day, for it is a case precisely in point , that the very practice of the slave-trade once prevailed among us. Slaves, as we may read in Henry's History of Great Britain , were formcly an established article of our exports. 'Great numbers,' he says, 'were exported like cattle, from the British coast, and were to be seen exposed for sale in the Roman market.' It does not distinctly appear by what means they were produced; but there was unquestionably no small resemblance, in this particular point, between the case of our ancestors and that of the present wretched natives of Africa — for the historian tells you that 'adultery witchcraft, and debt were probably some of the chief sources of supplying the Roman market with British slaves — that prisoners taken in war were added to the number — and that there might be among them some unfortunate gamesters, who, after having lost all their goods, at length staked themselves, their wives, and their children.' Every one of these sources of slavery bus been stated, and almost precisely in the same terms, to be at this hour a source of slavery in Africa. And these circumstances, sir, with a solitary instance or two of human sacrifices, furnish the alleged proofs, that Africa labours under a natural incapacity for civilization ; that it is enthusiasm and fanaticism to think that she can ever enjoy the knowledge and the morals of Europe; that Providence never intended her to rise above a state of barbarism ; that Providence has irrevocably doomed her to be only a nursery for slaves for us free and civilized Europeans. Allow of this principle, as applied to Africa, and I should bo glad to know why it might not also have been applied to ancient and uncivilized Britain. Why might not some Roman senator, reasoning on the principles of some honourable gentlemen, and pointing to British barbarians, have predicted with equal boldness, 1 7/iere is a people destined never to be frcc _ a people without the understanding nccessary for the attainment of useful arts; depressed by the band of nature below the level of the human species; and created to form a supply of slaves for the rest of the world.' Might not this have been said, accord-inquot; to the principles which we now hear stated, in all respects as fairly and as truly of Britain herself, at that period of her history, as it can now he said by us of the inhabitants of Africa? |
We, sir, have long since emerged from barbarism — we have almost forgotten that we were once barbarians —• we arc now raised to a situation which exhibits a sti iking contrast to every circumstance by which a Roman might have characterized us, and by which we now characterize Africa. There is indeed one thing wanting to complete the contrast, and to clear us altogether from the imputation of acting even toquot; this hour as barbarians ; for wc con-tinue to this hour a barbarous traffic in slaves; we continue it even yet in spile of all our great and undeniable pretensions to civilization. We were once as obscure among the nations of the earth, as savage in onr manners, as debased in our morals, as degraded in our understandings, as these unhappy Africans are at present. But in the lapse of a long series of years, by a progression slow, and for a time almost imperceptible, we have bccoine rich in a variety of acquirements, favoured above measure in the gifts ol Providence, unrivalled in commerce, preeminent in arts, foremost in the pursuits of philosophy and science, and established in all the blessings of civil society : We arc in the possession of peace, of happiness, and of liberty; we are under the guidance of a mild and beneficent religion; and we are protected by impartial laws, and the purest administration of justice: we arc living under a system ol government, which our own happy experience leads us to pronounce the best and wisest which has ever ■yet been framed; a system which has become the admiration of the world. From all these blessings wc must for ever have been shut out, had there been any truth in those principles which some gentlemen have not hesitated to lay down as applicable to the case of Africa. Had those principles been true, we ourselves had languisbed to this hour in that miserable state ignorance, brutality, and degradation, in which history proves our ancestors to have been immersed. Had other nations adopted these principles in their conduct towards us; had other nations applied to Great Britain the reasoning which some of the senators of this very island now apply to Africa ; ages might have passed without our emerging from barbarism ; and wo, who are enjoying the blessings of British civilization, of British laws, and British liberty, might at this hour have been little superior, either in morals, in knowledge, or refinement, to the rude inhabitants of the coast of Guinea. If then we feel that this perpetual conUne-nient in the fetters of brutal ignorance would have been the greatest calamity which could have befallen us; if we view with gratitude and exultation the contrast between the peculiar blessings we enjoy, and the wretchedness ol |
;;()5
|
tlic aiiciciil inliahilans of Brilain; if we sluulücr lo think of the misery which would slill have ovcnvhelincil us, had Great llriluin continued to the present times to he the mart for slaves to the more eivili/.ed nations of the world, through some cruel policy of theirs, God forhid that we should any longer suhjeet Africa lo the same dreadful scour);c, and preclude the light of knowledge, which has reached every other quarter of the glohe, from having access to her coasts! I trust we shull no longer continue this commerce, to the destructions of every improvement on that wide continent; and shall not consider ourselves as conferring too great a hoon, in restoring its inhahitants to the rank of human heiligs. I trust we shall not think ourselves loo liberal, if, hy abolishing the slave-trade, we give them the same common chance of civiliiation wilh other parts of the world, and that we shall now allow to Africa the opportunity — the hope — the prospect of atlainiiig to the same hlessings which we ourselves , through I he favourable dispensations of Divine Providence, have been permitted , at a much more early period , lo enjoy. If we listen lo the voice of reason and duly, and pursue Ibis night the line of conduct which they prescribe , some of us may live lo see a reverse of that picture, from which we now turn our eyes wilh shame and regret. We may liie to behold the natives of Africa engaged in the calm occupations of industry , in the pursuits of a just and legitimate commerce. We may behold the beams of science and philosophy breaking in upon their land, which, at some happy period in slill later limes, may blaze wilh full lustre; and joining their influence lo that of pure religion, may illuminate and invigorate the most distant extremities of that immense continent. Then may we hope that even Africa , though last of all the quarlers of tbeglobe, shall enjoy at length, in the evening of her days, those blessings which have descended so plentifully upon us in a much earlier period of the world. Then also will Kurope, participating in her improvement and prosperity, receive an ample recompense for tbe lardy kindness, (if kindness it can he called) to no longer hindering that continent from extricating herself out of tbe darkness which , in other more furlunatc regions, has been so much more speedily dispelled. |
— Nos prhnns equia oriens afllnvit anhelis; Illie sera nibens nceenilil luuiina Vesper. Then, sir, may be applied lo Africa those words, originally used indeed wilh a different view . Ills ilemum exactis-— Devenere loeos lietos, et ameenn vireta Kortanatonim Qemorum, sedesque benlns: I.ai'gloi' liie campus iElbor, el luiaine vestit Piirpurco. It is in this view, sir, — it is in alone-ment fur our long and cruel injnstieo towards Africa, lhal the measure proposed by my honourable friend most forcibly recommends itself lo my mind. The great and happy change lo be expected in tbe state of her inhabitants, is , of all the various and important benefits of the abolition, in my estimation, ineom-parably tbe most extensive and important. I shall vole, sir, against the adjournment; and I shall also oppose lo the ulmost every proposition, which in any way may leiul either lo prevent, or even to postpone for an hour tbe tolal abolition of the slavc-radc: a measure which, on all tbe various grounds which 1 have stated, w'e are honnd by ibe most pressing and indispensable duty lo adopt. |
Canning's fnme ns nn orator and statesman fills a large spnee in the modern history of Britain. Without family distinction or influence, he relied on his talents for future advancement; and from interest, no less than feeling and principle, the exerted them in support of the existing administration. Previous to this he had distinguished himself at Eton school for his classical acquirements and literary talents. Entering parliament in 171)3, he was, in 1796, appointed under secretary of stale, and it was at the close of the following year that the Anti-Jacobin, a weekly paper, was commenced. The contributions of Mr. Canning consist of parodies on Southey and Darwin, the greater part of The Hovers (a burlesque on the sentimental German drama), and New Morality, a spirited and caustic satire, directed against French principles and their supporters in England. As parly clTusions, these pieces were highly popular and effective ; and that they are still read with pleasure on account of their wit and humour is instanced by the fact that the Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin, collected and published in a separate form, has attained to a sixth edition. The genius of Canning found afterwards a more appropriate field in parliament. As a statesman, 'just alike to freedom and the throne and as an orator, eloquent, witty,
iinJ of cousuimnulc lasle, Iiis reputation is established. He had, however, a slrotij; bias in favour of ek'Kaut literature, and would have liecome no mean poet and author, had he not embarked so early on public life, and been so incessantly occupied with its cares and duties.
On airuidin^ aid to Poi-fngal, Ucc. 13 , 1S3G.
|
Sir, the present state of Portugal is so unusual in the liislory of nations, its history is crowileil with ovents so extraordinary, that 1 lio]gt;c 1 shall not lie considered as unnecessarily wasting the time of the House, if I enter shortly, and as succinctly as possible, into a detail of a few of its leadinj; facts, and their effects upon the present position of Europe. It is generally known, thai the kin,j of Portugal was anxious to raise llra/il from a colony to metropolitan condition, and that upon his majesty's return to Portugal, that colony he-came anxious to achieve her independence, anil it was apprehended that the two crowns would he separated. The king of Portugal therefore dctcrinined lo settle Ihe sovereignly of Brazil upon his eldest son. This was hardly done, ihe ink with which the deed was made out was hardly dried, when the premature death of the king of Portugal again united boih crowns upon one head. The aduce of this country, and another nation connected with ISnuil, was tendered upon the occasion , and not before Ihe king of Porlugal had delennincd to ahdieate the crown of Portugal in favour of his eldest daughter. This ahdieation was accompanicd with the oiler of a free constitutional charter. It was stated that this had heen done by the advice of Great Britain. It was no such thing — Unglaud gave no such advice; not because ministers approved or disapproved of such a measure, hut hecanse they felt that it formed no part of the duty of an English ministry lo interfere with the internal regulations of that or any other country. (Hear, hear.) It is certainly true, lhat that charter was hrought from Brazil hy a gentleman who has filled, and continues to 1111, an office of high trust from this country. Sir Charles Stewart happened to beat Bra/.il at that time, and he was requested hy the king of Portugal to take that charier to Lisbon as he was returning home. Sir Charles Stewart did bring it to Portugal; hut no blame whatever attached lo that gentleman in consequence of having done so. But he was ordered to return to England, in order to prevent the suspicion that that charter was advised hy British councils or supported hy British agency. With respect to that charter, I do not feel called upon to give an opinion — I certainly entertain an opinion upon it; hut as an English minister, all I shall say is. May God prosper that attempt at ihe extension of constitutional liberty ; and may ihe nation to which it is extended prove as lit tu receive and cherish it as she is to discharge her other duties amongst Ihe other nations of Europe! (Cheers from holh sides of the House.) It is impossible that we can desert onr aneient allies — hut at the same time, it is impossible that we eonld support the Portuguese, if there existed a schism amongst the conslitutcd authorities. We do, however, go to Portugal in faith of onr treaty; when there, we shall do nothing forcibly; hut we shall, at the same time, take care that nothing is done hy other nations, lo prevent the freest action of the constitution there esta-hlished. (Cheers.) So much I have felt it necessary to say, relative to the case of Portugal; internally, it is not our intention to interfere with that country, hnt external violence shall not he used against her while Great Britain has the power to wield an arm in her defence. (Cheers.) External forccj strictly speaking, has not yet been used; hut other channels have been tried, and persons who belonged to the internal have now become external assailants, through the instrumentality of another power in their endeavours to attain their ends. Whether the aggression complained of was a defect in the government, or arises from the machinations of faction and fanaticism, which defies power in the capital or disobeys it it on the frontier. 1 will not now stop to inquire; hut this I shall state — that any country which has the honour and happiness of being the ally of Great Britain is entitled to her protection, and shall not be assailed, either hy rcnegailocs or external enemies of whatever deseriplion. (Cheers.) The question, then, is, has any sueh conduct heen pursued by Spain ? lias any force been used by that country, no matter whether directed hy faction or fanaticism, tending to interfere with the freedom and independence of Portugal 7 It would, perhaps, be unjust in me to say that there exists in Spain an unconquerable hatred of the existence of free institutions. However incredible the phenomenon may appear in this country, I am persuaded that there exists in a vast majority of the Spanish nation a decided love of arbitrary power, and a preference for absolute government. The more liberal institutions of countries in their neighbourhood have not yet extended their inllucnce into Spain; and whether the public authorities there do or do not partake of the same sentiment , no exertion is required to exeite and lo call it into action among Ihe people. Without blame, therefore, lo the government of Spain, out ol the natural anlipalhy between the two nations |
|
— tlie one pilxin;; its IVecdom, ami I lie oilier Iiujfging its servitude — iniiv have arisen llic inulnat inroads, iiinlual jirovocations , and mutual aggressions which, perhaps, even the most active and vigilant ministry could not altogether restrain. I am inclined lo helieve tliat su'.'h was, in fact, the origin of these differences between Spain and Portugal; lhat in their progress they have been adopted, matured, methodiied, comhined, and brought into more perfect action, by some authority more united and more powerful than the mere feeling dis-seminated tbrough the mass of the community, is certain; but I do believe their origin to have been as much in the real sentiment of the Spanish population, as in the opinion or force of the government itself. That is precisely the question between us and Spain, with respect to this message from his majesty regarding our relations with Spain. If, though partaking in the feelings of the Spanish nation, the Spanish government has never intended lo embody and give them effect — if its vigilance has been surprised, ils confidence betrayed, and its orders neglected — if the repeated and shameless violations of ils engagements have been occasioned , not by its own good-will, but against its recommendation and desire — let us see some symptoms of disapprobation, some signs of repentance; let us witness some measures to establish ils sorrow and ils sincerity. In that case the message to which 1 propose this night to return a reply wil remain only a measure of defence to Portugal, and not necessarily a measure of war against Spain. With these explanations and qualifications, let us now proceed to ihe facts. Great desertions took place from the Portuguese army into Spain, and some desertions tonk place from the Spanish army into Portugal. At our earnest advice and ex-bortalion, Portugal refused all countenance to the latter. In the first instance, however, with regard to a few of them, the Portuguese authorities were taken by surprise; but as soon as they had an opportunity of exercising a discretion, it is but justice to say, that they have uniformly and manfully iliscouraged the desertions of the Spanish soldiery; where they could do so without giving up the individuals themselves, and without betraying misplaced confidence, they have given cautions against carrying such an intention into effect. There exist between Spain and Portugal specific treaties, stipulating the mutual surrender of deserters; Portugal had, therefore, a right lo claim of Spain that every such deserter should he forthwith returned. 1 hardly know whether by its own impulse or by our advice, for they were nearly concurrent in point of time, the Portuguese government waved its right under those treaties; it very wisely considered that it would he inconvenient to have those deserters restored, and to be placed, in the dillicult alternative of either granting a dangerous amnesty, or of ordering numerous and exemplary executions, it therefore took a middle course, and signified lo Spain that it would he entirely satisfied if, instead of returning the deserters, il would send back their arms, horses. Dud equip, menls; and, separating the men from their ofll-cers remove both from the frontiers into the interior. A solemn engagement Was entered into by the Spanish government to this effect — first with Portugal, next with Franco, and afterwards with England. That undertaking having been concluded one day, was abandoned on the next; and this not only once, hut the violation was repeated at least in six or seven different instances. The deserters, instead of being disarmed and dispersed, were allowed lo remain together iti their depots — they were enrolled, trained, disciplined, and preperated for action; in fact, they were fitted for the expedition they have since undertaken. I say, that with respect to this proceeding, there was perfidy somewhere; and it rests with the Spanish nutbóritics lo show that it was not with them. (Cheers.) It rests with them to prove, lhat if their engagements have not been fulfilled — if their intentions have been diverted and unexecuted, the faull has not been with them, and that they are ready to make every reparation for the breach of treaty which the case admits, i have mentioned that these promises were made to Portugal and lo France, as well as lo Great liritain ; and 1 should do an act of injustice to France, if I were not lo add, that the representations of lhat government upon this point have been as urgent, and, alas! as fruitless, as those of the Jlritifh ministry. (Hear, hear.) Upon the first irruption into the Portuguese territory, the French government, lo testify its displeasure, recalled ils ambassador, and directed its chargé d'affaires lo signify to his catholic majesty that Spain was to look for no support from France against the consequences of his aggression, and again lo recommend lhat he should retrace the steps already taken. I am hound in justice to the French government to stale, that with this object it exerted itself to the utmost. I have no right whatever to impute any want of sincerity or good faith to the exertions made by France to force Spain to the execution of her engagement. It will be for Spain, upon a communication of the step now taken liy his majesty, lo consider in what way she will meet the call. My earnest hope and wish is, that she may meet it in such a manner as to avert the consequences of the message before us. To those consequences I only allude, and beyond that point I will not |
|
luirsuo lliciit, in llic liope tlial llioy iiuiy nol Ijc nccesauiy. I scl oul willi sayinjj lliuio were iiiiiny rensuns which iniluoed mu lo think thai nolliinjr short of a point of national faith or national honour — I will not say, would justify, but would make desirable, any approximation lo the possibility of a dangerous war. Let me be understood, however, distinetly, as not incaninj; that 1 dread a war in a yood eause (and in no olhcr may it he the lot of this country lo engage!) from a distrust of the strength of the countiy lo coinmenee il, or of her resources lo maintain it. I dread il, indeed, but upon far olhcr {jroumls; I dread it from a consciousness of the tremendous power Great Britain possesses of pushing; hostilities in which she may be engaged to consequences which I shudder to conlemplate. Some years ago, in the discussion of the negotiations with Spain, I took the liberty of adverting to a topic of this nature — thai the position of this country was one of neutrality, not only between contending nations, bul between contending principles; and that it, was in lbo position of neutrality alone we could maintain that balance, the preservation of which 1 believed to be essential to the peace and safety of the world, four years' experience (it is now more than three years and a half from that date) has confirmed rather than altered my opinion. I fear that the next war lo be kindled in Europe, if il spread beyond the narrow limits of Spain and Portugal, will he a war of a most tremendous character — a war nol merely of conflicting armies, but. conflicting opinions, I know that if into that war this country enters (and if she do engage, 1 trust it will be with a most sincere desire (o mitigate rather than exasparale, and to contend with arms rather than with the more fatal artillery of popular excitation), she will see under her banners, arrayed for the contest, all the discontented and restless spirits of the age — all those who, whether justly of unjustly, are dissatisfied with the present state of their own countries. The consciousness of such a situation excites all my fears; for il shows that there exists a power, to be wielded by Great Urilain, more tremendous than was, perhaps, ever yet brought inlo action in the history of mankind. |
Rut thougli it may be 'excellent to have a giant's strength,' it may bo 'tyrannous to use it like a giant.' The knowledge that we possess this strength is our sccnrily; and our business is not lo seek opportnnilies of displaying it, but by a partial and half-shown exhibition of it, to make il fell that it is the interest of exaggeralors, on both sides, lo drink from converting their umpire into their competitor. The situation of this country may he compared to that of the ruler of llie winds, as described by the poet; - Celsa seJcl iEolus arce Seeptra tenens: mullitque animos el temperat iras : Ni facial, marla ac terras ccelumque profundum Qaippe ferant rapid! sccum, vetraulqne per auras. The consequence of letting loose the passions at present chained and conllned , would be the production of a scene uf desolation which no man can contemplate wilbout horror; and I should nol sleep easy on my couch if I thought by a single moment I had partici-pated it. Tin's, then, is the reason — a reason the reverse of fear, — a reason the contrary of disability — why I dread the recurrence of a war. That this reason may be felt by those who are acting on opposite principles, before the time for using our power shall arrive, I would hear much, and 1 would forbear long; [ would almost put up with any thing that did not touch our national faith anil national honour, rather that let slip the furies of war, the leash of which is in our hands, while vve know not whom they may reach , and doubt where the devastation may end. Such is the love of peace which the British government acknowledges, and such the duly of peace which the circumstances of the world inculcate. In obedience to this conviction, and with the hope ofavoiding extremities, I wil push no farther the topics of this part of the address. Let us defend Portugal, whoever may be tbc assailants , because it is a work of duly: and let us end where that duly ends. We go to Portugal, not to rule, not to govern, not to dictate, not to prescribe — but lo plant our standard, and to secure her independence. Where I he standard of England is planted, there foreign dominion shall not conic. |
Dnnie O'Connell was born in 1774; his forefathers llie kings of Kerry (Ireland) were among the last patriots who surrendered lo conquering England. O'Connell , being a Koman Catholic was not admitted into the English parliament but merely allowed to occupy the otlicc of pleader at the bar , and he exerted all his power lo procure the emancipation of the people of his own religion. He entered so firmly into this undertaking, that all Ihe dilHeulty he met with, seemed only to strengtheu his purpose; in IS23 he
formcil tlie catholic Associndoii. Through hu cxoiliuna (fur which he was calloJ 'liic great Agitator') the Catholics hccaine more and more discontented with their lot, and in a short time procured the object they had so much at heart. At the transactions on Parliamentary reform, his opinious inclined to the Uadical parly. In 1838 he spoke in favour of the Emancipation of slaves, and did much towards reducing the severity of the laws respecting the Irish disturbances. As an orator O'Connell ranked next to Brougham (see the next page); his addresses to the people were enthusiastic, admirably patriotic, and worthy of the gratitude of his country. lie was the editor of the Dublin Review, and died in 1847.
On clmrch rates and I'aiish cess.
|
Al the reformation this laml was replenished with chinchos. You cannot now stroll for a mile amidst our {jiei'ii and ncgleeted plains , without sceimj the ruins of the ancicnt cliurch of sonic parish or monastery. At the time the baleful rcforinatioti readied our shores, they «ere all flourishinw and full. No tax was levied to liuild or sustain llieiti. The revenues of the ehurcli supplied an ample and uiijjrudged fund, liul the plundering reformation camc. The revenues ol the church passed into other hands. — Those who then took to themselves the revenues of the church, let the churches j;o to ruin , and liavinf; first allowed the catholic churches to j'o to ruin , they then turn round on the catholics, and liy act of parliament make us rebuild them. Was there over in any country under the sun an evil like this? The reformation was, in my bumble judgment, one of the most horrible calamaties that ever alllicted the human race. [ do not allude to the new articles of faith , or the fantastic doctrines it might have introduced ; I speak of it as a political and moral event. It was a monstrous evil; for, in the first place, it corrupted the corc of public and private morals. The deluge of immorality and vice that followed it, was its immediate and most striking feature — profligacy and perfidy and crime. The disregard of every law of man, and the contempt for every restraint of the law of God, characterized its infancy and an-nonnced its progress. These are truths to which all the leading and prominent reformers bear the most distinct, though unwilling testimony. Luther mid 7,ninglius , Melancthon, Hoja nnd Calvin, dillering as they do in every thing else, all agree in this fact. It is true that they lamented and deplored the spread of im-inoralily amongst the followers of the reformation . and slated, that as men became better in faith they grew worse in works. The reformation did not stop here — it took away the reTenues of the church, and appropiated tbem to lay-hands — it robbed the people of their rights— it robbed the poor of their property — it destroyed the funds to relieve the indigent, to solace the sick, to clothe the children of properly, to sustain the wretched orphan, and to r.omfurt the desolate widow. It applied to the purposes of laymen the property of the church and of charity. In short the reformation gave to a married and heartless clergy, and to a profligate gentry, who controlled that clergy, the inheritance of the Lord and his poor, and entailed new burdens on the people.... |
[The bouse of commons, on Sir John Newport's motion , directed returns to be made of pnroehial-rates levied in Ireland. O'Connell , after enumerating several gross and illegal charges made by the vestries, resumes ] You perceive that Sir John Newport accused the Irish vestries of corruption , of profligate extortion and of a daring violation of every law. He established these charges to the entire conviction of the house of commons, lie reduced the supporters of that system to total silence, and the vestries could not find a single advocate. Here they are speculating, and plundering, and robbing. Yes, it was robbery I The poor were robbed to feed the sexton and fatten the orga iist — to replenish the cellar of the powerful vestryman — and adorn the pew of the wealthy parish lordling. Yes, these men, who, thus extorted, were the guardians of the land. I think I sec them in holy horror punishing the vices of the lowly and the bumble — transporting the pick-pocket — hanging the sheepstealer — and then returning 10 their vestry — and there turning the chalice of their sacrament into a receptacle for pilfered property, and an instrument to extort the money of their poor catholic neighbours. There is no act of parliament to make their crime felony; hut is it more or less culpable, is it less robbery in the eyes of morality and religion ? This was a frightful picture of the vestries of the estahlished church in Ireland — traced with her own hand — exhihited by her own returns. Whatl the most awful ceremonies and rites of religion made subservient to corrupt and profligate extortion!!! Hut let it pass, it isafactofa family; and the sad story of Ireland's woes is full of many and many an illustration of the effects of that system which makes a political religion the chief instrument for whic and by which the state is ruled. Let me not be misunderstood — or rather let me not be misrepresented. My heart tells me, that I mean |
72
1170
|
no (lisrcspecl to my protestant conntrynicn. Some of my near relations, many of my most lovctl anil valued friends arc protestants. I therefore cannot intend to insult protestantism, «hen I refer to those tacts; hut 1 call on every honest protestant in the land to hlusli at this profanation of sacred thinjjs, hy eniploy-inquot; them as the tools of extortion — thiscon-vertiiijj of the house, which onco was dedicated to (iod, into a den of rapacious thieves---- [Here, O'Connell proceeded to state that catholics were exchiileil by this act from voting at all at vestries, and that the power of taxation given to the protestants was unlimited. He animadverted at considerable length upon the illegal charges pointed out by Sir John Newport which were legalized by this act. After showing that the catholic, under this act, was in the state of a man who had his hands pinioned behind his back , his pockets nnbottoned , and was simply surrounded by pickpockets O'Connell proceeded.] |
But this aol , j'rievons as it is in point of vexation, is still more aliominahle in point of principle. It oulrages every notion of justice and common sense, to take away from us the power of pioteetin;; our own properties, ll is had enunjdi to make us , catholics, huild and re-huild churches, and furnish wine for the sacrament, and pay oflicers for the regulation of protestant worship. It is doubly severe, when our ancestors dedicated ahundant property lo these purposes, and that such property is devoted to other and hostile hands. Bui it is the consummation of cruelty to leave it in the power of a few to say, how much of our property they will vouchsafe to leave us. The first principle of common honesty is the sacred rij|ht of private and individual property. The first principle of the British constitution is the sacred right of the individual control of every man over his own properly , to the exclusion of every other interposition. A national tax on any article is lawful only because the owners of property are supposed to assent to it by their representatives in parliament. Without that assent, it would be palpable and avowed robbery. It was the violation of this principle that brought one British monarch to the scaffold, and would, it is said by our writers on public law, justify revolution. Yet common honesty and constitutional principle are, in this act of parliament, violated and trampled under foot. We have no control over our own. It is no longer onr own. We are the serfs, the slaves of onr masters — the protestants, in vestry assembled. For them we plough — for them we reap— or if any part shall hereafter he allowed to us lo use, we will owe it to the courtesy or contempt of the vestry, |
Lawyer, Philosopher, Statesman, and Critic, was born in Sept. 1778. He received his preliminary education at the High School of his native city, and at the early age of fifteen entered its University. He devoted himself with great ardour to the study of mathematics, and in about a year after his matriculation transmitted to the Royal Society a paper on an optical subject, which that learned body adjudged worthy of a place in its quot; Transactions.quot; This paper was succeeded by others, the originality of which touched the sensibilities of some foreign professors, wiih whom Brougham was speedily involved in a Latin correspondence. After leaving the University, he made a tour in Holland and Prussia, and on his return settled down for n time in Edinburgh, practising, till 1807 , at the Scottish bar, and enlivening his leisure by debating at the Speculative Society. He wrote in the quot;Edinburgh Keviewquot; from the beginning ; but the other contributors did not at first take him into their secrets, from a dread of his indiscretion. When that work had proceeded about five years, Brougham wrote to Mr. Constable for a thousand pounds, telling him he would quickly clear it oft' by writing for the quot;Review.quot; In making good this promise, lie actually wrote all excepting two articles. While thus nerving himself for greater efforts, he was called to appear before the House of Lords as one of the counsel for Lady Essex Ker, whose family laid claim to the dukedom of Roxburgh. In 1807 he permanently left his native city, was shortly called to the bar by the Society of Lincoln's Inn, and soon acquired a considerable practice. In 1810 he addressed the House of Lords for two days as counsel for a body of English merchants , who were aggrieved by the orders in council issued in retaliation of Napoleon's Berlin and Milan decrees. The damage done to commerce by insisting upon the validity of a mere paper blockade, which only the loyal observed, was insisted on with all the force of Mr. Brougham's vehement oratory, but the orders were not rescinded until after the minister, Mr. Perceval's death. In 1810 he entered Parliament for the borou«ii of Camelford, then under the influence of the Earl of Darlington , and attached himself to the Whig opposition. Here his energies were directed chiefly to the Slavery question, in conjunction with Clarkson , Wilberforce, and Grenvillc Sharpe. In 1812 Parliament was dissolved , and on contesting Liverpool with Mr. Canning he lost the election. In 1810 the Earl of Darlington's influence was again employed to procure him a seat in Parliament, this time for the borough of Winchelsea. He now gallantly opposed the dragooning policy pursued by ministers towards the thousands of hungry men and women who met at Manchester and elsewhere to protest against the starvation
laws Inlely cuacted ; bui the Six Acta passoil, ami tho voico of disconlent was for the moment stilled. In 1820 an event took place which was to put Mr. Brougham in a position more conspicuous, and by far more popular , than he had yet occupied. The arrival in England of Caroline of Brunswick to claim the crown which was the right of the King of England's wife, led to the well-known proceedings before the House of Lords. During the troubles which befell the unhappy lady while Princess of Wales, Mr. Brougham had been her adviser; and now, appointed her majesty's attorney-general, it was for him to vindicate her before the highest court of the realm. The occasion was of the highest degree favourable to his audacious oratory. In the end the object of the king was defeated , and Mr. Brougham became a popular idol. In 1820 he introduced a bill to provide gratuitous education for the poor of England and Wales, the provisions of which have not yet ceased to excite discussion , from the general power they were designed to give to the clergyman of every parish in the direction of free education. Mr. Brougham's relations to the clergy assumed a very different aspect in the following year, when he was called to defend Ambrose VViliiams, proprietor of the quot;Durham Chronicle,quot; in an action of libel brought by the ministers of the Established Church in that city for an article on their refusal to allow the church bells to be tolled for the death of Caroline. In his memorable speech on that occasion he brought the bitterest irony, and the most cutting gibes, to the task of aggravating the luxury, profusion, and worldliness of the hierarchy, ihe verdict went against Williams, but he was never called up to receive judgment. Two years later, the facility of language and power of invective, which had so often won him plaudits, was near bringing him into a position personally and extremely unpleasant. Believing when Mr. Canning (565) took otlice, in the spring of 1823, that he had resolved to sacrifice the cause of Catholic Emancipation, which he had always maintained in wor Is, Mr. Brougham accused him in the House, on the 17th of April, of tlie quot;most monstrous truckling for otlice that the whole history of political tergiversation could present.quot; At the sound of these words, Canning started to his feet, and cried, quot;It is false Iquot; A dead calm ensued, which lasted some seconds. The Speaker interposed his authority , the words were retracted , with the aid ot friends the quarrel was composed, and both gentlemen were declared to have acted magnanimously, as they shortly after shook hands in the House. From this period until the Reform crisis of 1830 , Mr. Brougham laboured energetically and fearlessly in the cause of freedom and the rights of conscience; whether these were represented for the hour by the case of Smith of Demerara , the disfranchised Catholics of Ireland, or the victims of the Holy Alliance. In the struggle of 1829, which ended in the Emancipation Act, he bore an honourable part; and in supporting the Wellington and Peel cabinet on this question increased still more his popularity. He was member for Knaresborough when the death of (jeorge IV, occasioned a general election, and he had suflicicnt confidence in public opinion to offer himself to the constituency of the great county of York , a body whose favours it had been the custom to believe were not to be accorded to any candidate not boasting high birth or splendid connexions. He was triumphantly returned to Parliament, and took his seat the acknowledged chief of the Liberal party in the House of Commons. Hushed with success, he vigorously attacked the cabinet. The scene which followed was terminated in the usual parliamentary manner. The Tory ministry was very shortly compelled to resign. In the new Whig cabinet which was to succeed, it was naturally expected that Brougham would find a place; the country was, therefore, somewhat mystified by several eager and uncalled-for declarations on his part, that under no circumstances would he take otTice , and particularly by his notice in the House, that he would bring on his reform motion whoever might be in power. It was asserted by his enemies that he was standing out for terms. His name, however, appeared duly in the ministerial list, and great was the astonishment of Whigs and Tories that the tribune of the people had become at once a lord and a chancellor. I he appointment was attacked with vigour by Mr. Croker, and as heartily defended by Sir James Mackintosh (526) and Mr. Macaulay (453). In the debates on the Reform Bill he found many oportunities of inveighing against prescription to an audience every member of which sat in his place by hereditary privilege, and it was with peculiar unction he told them more than once that the aristocracy, with all their castles , manors , rights of warren and rights of chase , and their broad acres , reckoned at fifty years purchase, quot;were not for a moment to be weighed against the middle classes of England.quot; This declaration is the key to his political career; it was the power of the middle classes rather than the multitude that he sought to raise. During , and after the passing of tlie Reform Bill, he exerted himself to realise a favourite idea of law reform , which has since found its nearest expression in the County Courts now established. In June, 1830, he introduced a measure, the declared object of which was to uriquot;? J'lstice home to every man's door at all times of the year, by the establishment of local courts. By this bill the law of arbitration was to be extended , a general local jurisdiction established , and courts of reconcilement were to be introduced. A succession of bills for reforming proceedings in bankruptcy were afterwards introduced by Brougham, who, from his accession to the House of Lords to the last session of Parliament, has laboured lor the improvement of the law with a zeal almost reaching enthusiasm. From 1830 to 1834 he shared the early popularity and subsequent discredit of the Whig cabinet, but in the Poor-law debate drew upon himself a peculiar measure of reprobation by a frequent, minute, and evidently complacent iteration of the Malthusian doctrines embodied in the new bill, and was attacked with vigour and virulence by quot;The Times.quot; He denounced in the most explicit terms all establishments offering a refuge and solace to old age , because that is before all men. The energetic repressive policy pursued towards Ireland, and the prosecution and transportation of the Dorchester labourers, were defended by Brougham, and drew down much unpopularity upon the Whigs, and on the 4th of November, 1834, upon the death of Earl Spencer, the king took advantage of the altered public feeling to dismiss the Whig cabinet. On the construction of the Melbourne cabinet Brougham was left out. of the ministerial combinatiou , and has never since served the Crown in the capacity of an adviser. His parliamentary
carcer was henccforlli one of desullory «nifnvoj nt one moment ho was carrying cotifusion into the ranks of his old friends, the Whigs, — at another, attacking the close Tory jihalanx. Ho several times brought forward the subject of the Corn-laws, whoso iniquity ho exposed with great power and fcrvency, and fought the battle of repeal with eagerness and irregularity to the last. The session of 1850 exhibited his lordship as the same eccentric , inscrutable speaker as ever. He both supported and attacked the Exhibition, deprecated the Commission of Inquiry into the state of the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge, and attacked with almost wild fury those who were seeking to abolish expensive sinecure appointments. Inconsistency is the first feature in this statesman's charaeter , which the brilliancy of his talents only makes more apparent. He has written to depreciate the negro's capacity of civilisation, and yet toiled for years to procure his freedom. In 1816 he endorsed the Protectionist fallacy, and wailed over the ruin resulting to agriculture from an abundant harvest; in 1835 he was opposing the Corn-laws, and in 1845 again inveighing against the League, and calling for the prosecution of its chief members. In 1823 he hurled the thunder of his eloquence upon Austria and Kussia, quot;the eternal and implacable enemies of freedom,quot; and in 1850 was praising their clemency, and even urging an alliance with the Czar. He is now the champion of aristocracies, but in 1848 sought lo become a citizen of republican France. His literary and scientific labours can only be lightly sketched. Having, as we have seen, in boyhood enrolled his name with the elite of scientific writers, in 1802 he became a contributor to the quot;Edinburgh Review,quot; then just started by Jefi'rcy and Smith, and continued for many years some of the most pungent criticisms in that renowned work. In 1803 he published his treatise en the Colonial Policy of the European Powers, a brilliant performance, to which the progress of events has left but one utility, that of a way-mark in the developement of lirongham's opinions. In 1821 he took a very prominent part in the movement originated by Dr. Birkbeek for naturalising the Mechanics' Institutes in England, speaking and writing in their favour. He was the principal founder of the Society for tho Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, and composed several of the treatises in the series, as well as articles for its quot;Penny Magazine,quot; with a special view to tho wants of tho million. On his loss of office in 1834, ho bethought himself of making a reputation in metaphysical as well as natural science, and undertook to illustrate and expand Paley's great work on Natural Theology, with less success than his talents had justified tho world in expecting, lie has further published quot;Lives of the Statesmen of the Reign of George III,quot; in which the affected dignity of the style is not sustained by the excellence of the matter; and also three or four volumes called quot;Political Philosophy,quot; now generally forgotten, A volume of quot;Speeches at the 15ar and in the Senate,quot; belongs rather to oratory than literature. His lordship, except during the sitting of Parliament, resides chiefly at Cannes, in the South of France, where he has a chdieau.
|
It is now three years since the nbominalilc trallir. lias ceased to lie sanctioned liy the law of the land; and, I thank God, I may therefore now induljje in expressiuj» feelings towards it, which delicacy, rather lo the law than the trafiTic, might, hefore that period, have rendered it proper to suppress. After a long and most unaccoiintahle silence of the law on this head, which seemed to protect, by permitting, or at least hy not prohibiting the traffic, it has now spoken out; and the veil which it appeared to interpose being now withdrawn, it is fit to let our indignation fall on those who still dare lo trade in human flesh , not merely for the frauds of common smugglers . hut for engaging in crimes of the deepest die; — in crimes always most iniquitous, even when not illegal; hut which are now as contrary lo law as they have ever been to honesty and justice. I must protest loudly against the abuse of language, which allows such men to call themselves traders or merchants. It is not commerce, but crime, that they are driving. I too well know and too highly respect that most honourable and useful pursuit, that commerce , whose province it is to humanize and pacify the world. So alien in its nature to violence and fraud , — so formed to flourish in prucc and in honesty, — so inseparably connected with freedom , and good will , and fair dealing, 1 deem too highly of it to endure that its name should, by a stran{jc perversion, he proslituUnl to the use of men who live hy treachery, rapine, torture ami murder! I spoke literally ami advisedly ; I meant lo use no figurative phrase; and I know I was guilty of no exajmeration: 1 was speaking of the worst form of that crime. For ordinary murders there may even he some excuse. Revenge may have arisen from the excess of feelings honourable in themselves. A murder of hatred or cruelty, or mere hlood lhirsliness, can only he imputed to a deprivation of reason; hut here we have to do \\itli cool, deliberate, mercenary murder! nay, worse than this; for the ruftians who go on the high way, or the pirates who infest the seas, at least expose their persons, and, hy their courage, throw a kind of false glare over their crimes. But these wretches durst not do this; they employ others, as base as themselves, only that they are less cowardly : they set on men to rob and kill , in whose spoils they are willing lo share, though not in their dangers. Traders or merchants do they presume to call themselves? and in cities like London and Liverpool, the very creations of honest trade? J, at length, will give them the right nume, and call them |
ii7quot;)
|
rowarilly suliornei's of piracy and mnrcenary murder! Wlial lias the divine Legislator said on this subject? There is a most false and unfounded notion , tiiat the sacred writings are silent upon it: — I shall prove the contrary. 'Whosoever,' says the scripture, ' straleth a man and selleth him, or iu whose hands he shall he found, shall surely he put to death.' |
And what is our gloss or application on this divine text? 'Whosoever,' says the English law, ' stealeth a man, and tortureth him, and killelh him, or selleth him into slavery for all the days of his life, shall surely — pay twenty pounds.' 1 Irnst that this grievous incongruity will at length he done away. |
liorn in 1788 , was for many years an ornament to the English parliament, his orations there were distinguished fur their impressive and eonvincing qualities. He studied r.t Cambridge and was there celebrated for his great classical acquirements. Ia 183G upon receiving a high otlice in llic university of Glasgow , he delivered a noble speech expressing the principles of the conservative party iu England. Those paragraphs in which he compares the aristocratic and democratic forms of government and gives his opinion concerning their respective advantages fur England, and those in which he declares himself to defend the laws and constitution to which the country is indebted for its grandeur and glory, attest him to have been one of the most skilful orators of his time. After spending several years in the service of his country he died in 1850.
[Inlrodnction of a specc/i against Parliamentary reform.)
|
Sir, there is one advantage resulting from the present system of llepresentation, which has not been prominently referred lo in dehate — I mean the advimlage of ensuring to the minority its fair influence on the pnldie councils. As this House is at present constituted, no opinion, however unpopular, is excluded; nor can any degree of pnldie excitement and enthusiasm , har altogether the avenues, through which those who are uninfected hy the prevailing fear, and arc prepared to struggle against the current of popular clamour, can ensure accc.'S to the deliherations of Parliament. — Of that advantage I now avail myself — and as a memher of that minority, ridiculed as a despairing, and denounced as an unpopular minority, I claim the privilege of heing heard with attention — a privilege which ought to he conceded with an indulgence proportioned to the comparative sniallness of our numbers, and hopelessness of our cause. I am swayed hy no motives of self-interest to take my present course , — 1 have no borough to protcct, — I have contracted no obligation to those who possess that influence which the present measure is intended to destroy, and I am about lo resist the wishes of a great and overpowering majority, backed hy the support of an united Government, — and acting in conformity with the supposed wishes and opinions of the King. ■My opinions therefore — erroneous thoiijib they may he — cannot be influenced hy considerations of personal or political advantage. While I have been listening to this debate, and have heard the cheers echoed and re-echoed from each side of the House, on the introduction of some topic involving personal allusions, or party criminations, 1 have more than once lamented , that we allowed ourselves to he diverted by matters of such trilling concern, from the mighty subject of our deliberations, and that we forgot, even for a moirent,amidst the excitement of party conflict, that we are occupied in the establishment of a new system of llepresentation , involving in its issue the highest and most permanent interests of the country. That is the great question which I wish to discuss, and lo which I would willingly confine myself. 1 rejoice that I did not follow last night the learned member for Calne, [Mr. Macaulay], that I was not betrayed by the just provocation to hitter and acrimonious reply, which that speech afforded, a speech commencing with pious exhortations to forbearance, with solemn inculcations of the necessity of temper and moderation , of the oblivion of all party interests and party resentments , but ending with a bitter Philippic (1) against the late Administration (2), and taunts and insinuations directed against individuals who formed a part of it. Let the honourable Gentleman select some other occasion for preferring his charges, and he shall then have our defence, and we shall expect some better proof than bis mere unsupported assertion, that we have been the enemies of public liberty. I never made frothy declamations about liberty, but 1 deny that any act of mine violated that liberty, or diminished the security of its continued enjoyment. Why did the honourable Gentleman, after preaching on the necessity of suspending, at least for the present, all party animosities, and enlarging |
(I) Jnvective dcclamalion. (2) Wellington's administration.
4
|
and oxalllnf; our minds to a Invcl with (lie jjreat question of domestic Ueforin, — wliydid lie select this occasion to institute an invidious comparison between the failures of the late , and the success of the present Administration? All was confusion and discord under the late Government! Under the present, says the honourable Gentleman, there is universal tranquillity and contentment. I liopo it is so. Painful as the contrast inijjht he, in some respects, to the laic Government, I shall cordially rcjoice if the honourable Gentleman can prove, thai his compliments to the present are well merited. But, in the absence of that proof, J protest against the justice of the learned Gentleman's condemnation. This, and this only, will I state in my own vindication, that duiin;; the short period of the last six weeks —since the boasted restoration of tranquillity, long after the Day star of Reforni had glittered above the horizon, many more lives of Ibe King's subjects have been sacrificed in conflicts with the military and police, than were lost durinj; the whole period of six years which I presided over the Home Department [lii22—U(27J. I blame not the military nor the police. I blame not those who were compelled by necessity to resort to the least dreadful means of protecting the public peace; but it is too much to expect, with these undeniable and notorious facts, that. I should acquiesce in the justice either of the honourable Gentleman's satire or his praise. Ireland, too! The honourable Gcnlleman takes credit for the restoration of peace in Ireland. Let him wait a few short days, and lie will bear a proposal, founded on the disturbed state of Ireland , for increasing the powers of the Government, and adding to the severity of the law. lie may then discover, that when he shall be next appointed to chant the hymn of triumph over the predecessors of the present Govern-ment — it will be well for him to omit the strophe which celebrates the tranquillity of Ireland, [ turn from topics of this nature, into which I was compelled by the learned Gentleman reluctantly to enter — and will confine myclf exclusively to the great question before us. |
Thomas Erskine, born in Seotlnnd 1748, was one of Ihe greatest orators of England. His speeches were strong, earnest, and intent, anil his arguments very powerful. He wrolo a work entitled quot;Considerations on the onuses and eonscquences of Ihe present war with France' in whieh he protests against England's interference with the Frcueh alTnirs and declares himself to hold the some opinions of the French patriots at Ihe comniencement of the lirst revolution. Ilis speeches have been colleeted and published in 5 volumes; he has also composed several poems of some merit. He died in 1823.
Ou the origin of tkc Euglisli House of' Conunon*.
|
The linglish House of Commons arose gradually out of the feodal tenures, as introduced at the Conquest. Many of the wisest and warmest assei'tors of equal government have been fond of looking back to the Saxon annals for Ibe origin of the English constitution ; and, without the warrant of history or tradition, have considered the rise of our liberties under the Konnaus, as only the restoration of immunities subverted by the Conquest. This opinion, however, has been propagated by its authors, neither from a decided conviction on the one band, nor a blind admiration of antiquity on the other: a very generous, but mistaken motive has oflcn rendered it popular and energetic; it has been opposed in time ol public danger to the arguments of tbose enemies to their country, and indeed to all mankind, who have branded I lie sacred privileges w rested by our patriot ancestors from the first Norman princes, as the fruits of successful rebellion. |
But, allhongh the principle is to be applauded, the error can not, in this cnlighlened age, happily need not, he defended : the rights of mankind can never be made to depend on the times of their being vindicated with success; they are sacred and immutable; they are the gift of Heaven; and wbetlier appropriated for the first time to-day, or enjoyed beyond the reach of annals, the title to them is equally incontrovertible: one individual may forfeit his property to anolbcr from supineucss, and usurpation may |
|
slrengllu'ii into right liy prescription, lull liuman privileges in llie gross cannot lie so snatched away; there is no statute of limitation to bar the claims of nature: let us not, therefore, from a patriot /.eal, involve ourselves in the faint evidenijès of probahility, hut he contented to trace our political constitution from a source within the reach of moral demonstiation. There is more honour in having freed ourselves from tyranny than in always having been free. We know villi certainty that the Saxons had parliaments, but we know with equal certainty that the people at large had no representative share in tliein : the bulk of the nation were either vassals under the leodal lords, or allodii under the king's government: the first, being absolute slaves to their masters, could not pretend to become political rulers; and the last, being nut even unite.1 by the feudal hond to tliecommu-Inly , could have no suftVages in the feudal councils: the Saxon lords indeed were free, but, for that very reason, there was no public liberty ; the government was highly arislocratieal, there was no shadow of that equal commuuion of pi i-vilcges founded on legislative institutions, which constitutes freedom upon English principles, by which all, who are the objects of the law, must, personally or by representation, he the makers of the laws: this principle, which may justly be denominated the very essence of our present governoient, neither did not could possibly exist till the proud feudal chieftains, bending under an accidental pressure, were obliged to sacrilice their pride to necessity, and their tyranny to self-preservation. Hut before our inquiries can bo properly begun, at the period I have fixed, — before 1 can exhibit the elastic force of freedom rebounding under the pressure of the most absolute government,— 1 must call your attention to the genealogy of our feudal ancestors. They issued from the northern hive of fierce warriors who overran all Kurope at the declension of the Roman empire: a race of men the most extraordinary that ever marked or distinguished the stale of nature; a people who, in the absence of every art and science, carried the seeds of future perfection in their national genius anil characteristic; visible even then in an unconquerable fortitude of mind, in an inherent idea of human equality, tempered with a voluntary submission to the most rigid subordination. The trial by juiy too was understood and revered by all the northern inhabitants pf Europe, when they first appeared among the degenerate nations that had lost it. Liberty, driven from the haunts of science and civilization, seems to have lied with this talisman to the deserts, and to have given it to barbarians, to revenge her injuries, and to redeem her empire. In marking the process of the constitution through the furnace of slavery, it must never he forgotten thai such were our ancestors. |
When William had gained the victory of Hastings, he marched towards Loudon with his victorious Normans, and found (like other conquerors) an easy passage to the throne when the prince is slain and his army defeated. The English prollered him the peaceable possession of a kingdom which he was in a conditiou to have seized by force; rather choosing to see the brows of a victor encircled with a crown than with a helmet, and wishing rather to be governed by the sceptre than by the sword. lie was therefore installed with all the ceremonies ol the Saxon coronation, and immediately afterwards annihilated all those laws which these solemnities were instituted to perpetuate: he established his own feodal system (the only one he understood); he divided all the lands of England inti) knights' fees, to he bolden ol bimsell by military service ; and as few or none of the English had any share in this general distribution, their estates being forfeited from their adhercnee to Harold , and by suhsequent rebellions, it is plain they could have no political consequence, since none but vassals of the crown had seals in the feodal parliaments. Could William have been contended thus to have shared with his Nornian barons the spoils of the conquered English, and merely to have transferred his feodal empire from Normandy to (jrcat Itritain, the sacred sun of freedom had probably then set upon this island, never to have arisen any more; the Norman lords would have established that aristocracy which then distinguished the whole feudal world ; and when afterwards, by the natural progression of that singular system — when, by the inevitable operation of escheats and forfeitures, the crown must have attracted all that property which originally issued from it; when the barons themselves mu-t have dropped like falling stars, into the centre of power, and aristocracy been swallowed up in monarchy; the people, already trained to subjection, without rights, and without even similar grievances to unite them, would have been an easy prey to the prince in the meridian of his authority; and despotism, encircled with a standing army, would have scattered terror through a nation of slaves. lint, happily for ns, William's views extended with his dominion : he forgot that his barons (who were not hound by their tenuros to leave their own country) had followed him rather as companions in enterprise than as vassals; he confided in a standing army of mercenaries, which be recruited on the continent; riveted even on his own Normans the worst feodal severities; and before the end of his reign, the English saw the oppressors themselves among the number of the oppressed. |
|
'J'liis plan, pursued anil n^gravalml liy liis descendants, assiniihitcil the licteiogeneous bodies üfwhieli lite kingdom was composed; Normans and English, harons and vassals, were obliged to unite in a common cause. Mr. Do Lolme, citizen of Geneva, hy comparing the rise of liberty in Kngland with the fall of il in France, has so clearly and ingeniously proved, that Magna Charla was obtained from this necessity which the barons were under of forming an union with the people, that I shall venture to consider it as a fact demonstrated , and shall proceed to an inquiry no less curious and important, where he and other «rilers have left a greater field fur originality; I mean, the rise of the English House ot Commons, to its present distinct and representative stale. 'flic statute of Magna Charta so often evaded, and so often solemnly re-established, disseminated (it must bo confessed) those great and leading maxims on which all the valuable privileges of civil government depend ; indeed the twenty-ninth chapter contains every absolute right for the security of which men enter into the relative obligations of society. But privileges thus gained, and only maintained by the sword, cannot be called a constitution. Alter bearing a summer's blossom, they may perish as they grew, in the field of battle. Uf little consequence are even the most solemn charters, confirmed hy legislative ratifications, if they who arc the objects of them do not compose part of that power without whose consent they cannot be repealed ; if they have no peaceable way of preventing their infringement, nor any opportunity of vindicating their claims, till they have lost the benefit of possession. Liberty, in this stair, is not an inheritance; it is little better than an alms from an indulgent or a cautious administration. It remains, therefore, to show by what steps ihe people of England, without being drawn forlli into personal action, were enabled to act with more than personal forcc; in what manner they acquired a political scale, in which they could deposit the privileges thus bravely and fortunately acquired, and into which every future accumulation of power flowing from the increase of property and the thriving arts of peace, might silently and imperceptibly f.d I ; bringing downthoscale without convulsing the balance. And here those historians must he followed with caution, who have made ibis new order of the stale to slait up at the anod of Monfort or of Edward: neglecting the operations of the feodal system, as thinking them, perhaps, more the province of the lawyer than the historian, | they have taken the eflect for the cause, and i have ascribed this memorable event to a sudden political necessity, which was in reality pre- 1 pared and ripened by a slow and uniform |
progression. This truth may he easily illustrated. The law of Edward I, still remains on the records of parliament, by which the crown and the barons, in order to preserve for ever their fond feodal rights, restrained the creation of any new superiorities, liy this act, the people were allowed to dispose of their estates , hut the original tenure was made to follow the land through all its alienations; consequently, when the king's vassal divided his properly, by sale, into smaller baronies, the purchaser had from thcnceforlh no feodal connexion with the seller, but hold immediately of the king, according to the ancient tenure of the land; and if these purchasers alienated to others the lands so purchased, still the tenure continued and remained in the crown. Now, when we reflect that every tenant of a barony bolden of the king in capite had a scat in parliament, wc see at once the striking operation of this law; we see bow little the wisest politicians foresee the distant consequences of ambition: Edward and his barons, by this device, monopoliied, it is true, the feodal sovereignties, and prevented llicir vassals from becoming lords like themselves, but they knew not what they were doing; they knew not that, in the very act of abridging the property of the people, they were giving them a legislative existence, which at a future day would enable them to overthrow whatever stood in the way of their power, and to level that very feodal system which they were thus attempting to perpetuate: for the tenants in cujjite who had a right to he summoned to parliament, soon became so numerous by the alienation of the king's vassals (whose immense territories were divisible into many lesser baronies), that they could, nor indeed wished, any longer to assemble in their own rights: the feodal peers were, in fact, become the people, and the idea of representation came forward by a necessary consequence: parliament, from being singly composed of men who sat in their own rights to save the great from the oppression of the crown, and not the small from the oppression of the great, novv began to open its doors to the patriot cili/.en; the feodal and personal changed into natural and corporate privileges; and the people, for the first time in the history ol the world, saw the root of their liberties iixed in the centre of the constitution. As the multiplication of royal tenures for the enfranchisement of boroughs (but chiefly from the operation of this law) first gave rise to popular representation; so il is only in the continued operation of these principles, that we can trace the distinct existence and growing power of the House of Commons: we know that they assembled for a long time in the |
ii7quot;
|
same olianilior willi ihn poors; tliat tlic sojiara-tion was not prcconceivcd hy llic founders of the constilulion , Iiut arose frorn necessity, wlien their numbers became too great to form one assembly; and we know that they never tbuught of assuminj; popular legislative privileges, till by this necessary division they became a distinct body from the Lords. This, though a political accident, brought the English Commons forth into action ; their legislative existence was the natural birth of the feodal system , compressed by the crown. To prove these truths, we have only tocon-teuiplate the history of our sister kingdom of Scotland, governed at that time by the same laws; there being very little difference between the Regiam Majestalem, the Scotch code of those days , and the work compiled by Glan-ville, chief justice to Henry II. The law of Edward I., which produced these great changes in England , was transcribed by the Scotch parliament into the statute book of their Robert i., but the king of Scotland bad not conquered that country as William bad subdued England , consequently he was rather a feudal chieftain than a monarch, and had no power to carry this law of Edward's into execution; for the Scotch barons, although they would not allow their vassals to subinfeud, yet when they sold tbeir own lands, they would not sufler the crown to appropriate the tenure; but obliged the purchasers to hold as vassals to themselves: by this weakness of the Scotch crown, and power of the nobles, the tenancies in capita were not multiplied as in England ; the right to sit in parliament was consequently not much extended beyond the original numbers; and Scotland neier saw a bouse of commons , nor ever tasted the blessings of equal government. When the boroughs, indeed, in latter days, were enfranchised, they sent their representatives; but their numbers being inconsiderable, they assembled in the same house with the king and the peers ; were awed by the pride of the lords, and daitled by the splendour of the crown; they sat silent in parliament, representing the slavery and not the freedom of the people. But this dissemination of property, which in every country on earth is sooner or later creative of fr. edom , met with a severe check in its early infancy from the statute of entails. In this instance even the crown of England bad not sulllcicnt strength to ripen that liberty which bad sprung up from the force of its rays; for if Edward 1. could have resisted this law, wrested from him by his barons to perpetuate their estates in their fiiinilics, the English constitution , from an early equilibrium of property, had suddenly risen to perfection , and the revolution in the reign of |
Charles I. had probably happened two centuries higher in our history, or, perhaps, from the gradual circulation of that power which broke in at last with a sudden and projectile force, had never happened at all; but the same cll'ectB had been produced without the effusion of civil blond : for no sooner was the statute of entails shaken, in the reign of Henry VII. aud Anally destroyed by his successor, than we see the popular tide which had ebbed so long, begin to lift up its waves, till the mighty fabrics of prerogative and aristocracy passed away in ruin together. This crisis, which shallow men then mistook, and still mistake, for anarchy, was but the fermentation of the unconquerable spirit of liberty, infused as early as Magna Charta, which, in working itself free from the impurities that oppressed it, was convulsing every thing around; when the fermentation ceased, the stream ran purer than before, after having, in the tumult, beaten down every bank that obstructed its just and natural course. The consummation of these great events is too recent and notorious to demand further illustration ; their best commentary is the happiness and freedom which we enjoy at this day. The subject proposed is, therefore, brought to its conclusion; hut it is a subject too dear and important to be concluded without a reflection that arises very strongly out of it. The English constitution will probably never more be attacked iti front , or its dissolution attempted, by striking at the authority of the laws; and if such attack should ever be made, their foundations arc too deeply laid, and their superstructures too firmly cemented, to dread the event of the contest: but the constitution is not therefore immortal, and the sentinel must not sleep: the authority of the laws themselves may be turned against the spirit which gave them birth; and the English government may be dissolved with all the legal solemnities which its outward form prescribes for its preservation. This mode of attack is the more probable, as it affords respect and safety lo the besiegers, and infinitely more dangerous to the people, as the consciences of good men are ensnared by it. The virtuous citizen , looking up with confidcnce to the banners of authority, may believe be is defending the constitution and the laws, while he is trampling down every principle of justice on which both of them are founded. It is impossible, therefore, to conclude, without expressing a fervent wish, that every member of the community (at the same time that he bows with reverence to the supremacy of the state and the majesty of the laws) may keep his eyes for ever fixetl on the spirit of the constitution manifested by the Revolution, as the pole star of his political course; that while he pays the tribute of |
73
igt;78
|
iluly and olgt;cili(!nec lo government, lie may know when llie reciprocal duly is paid hack to the public and lo himself. |
The concluding wish is, I trust, not misplaced when delivered within these philosophical walls : the sciences ever flourish in the train of liberty, the soul of a slave could never have expanded itself like Newton's over infinite space, and sighed in captivity at the remotest barriers of creation : in no other country under heaven could Locke have unfolded with dignity the operations of an immortal soul , or recorded with truth the duties and privileges of society. |
One of the moat original and interesting of modern travellers vvns Dr. Edward Daniel Clarke, a fellow of Jesus college, Cambridge, and the first professor of mineralogy in that university. In 175)9 Dr. Clarke set off with Mr. Malthas, and some other college friends, on a journey among the northern nations. He travelled for three years and a half, visiting the south of Russia, part of Asia, Turkey, Egypt, and Palestine. The first volume of his travels appeared in 1810, and included llusaia , Tartary, and Turkey. The second, which became more popular, was issued in 1812, and included Grcece , Egypt, and the Holy Land; and three other volumes appeared at intervals before 1819. The sixth volume was published after his death, part being contributed by Mr. Walpole, author of travels in the Levant, Dr. Clarke received from his publuhers the large sura of 7000 pound for his collection of travels. Their success was immediate and extensive. As an honest and accomplished writer , careful in his facts, clear and polished in his style, and comprehensive in his knowledge and observation , Dr. Clarke has not been excelled by any general European traveller.
|
We were roused as soon as the sun dawned by Antony, our faithful Greek scnant and interpreter, with the intelligence that the pyramids were in view. We hastened from the cabin; and never will the impression made by their appearance be obliterated. Ily reflecting the sun's rays, tliey appear as while as snow, and of such surprising magnitude, that nothing we had previously conceived in our imagination had prepared us lor the spectacle we beheld. The sight instantly convinced us that no power of description, no delineation, can convey ideas adequate to the efl'cct produced in viewing these stupendous inonumcnts. The formality of their construolion is lost in their prodigious magnitude; the mind, elevated by wonder, feels at once the force of an axiom, which, however disputed, experience confirms — that in vasl-ness, whatsoever be its nature, there dwells sublimity. Another proof of their imlescribahle power is, that no one ever approached them under other emotions than those of terror, which is another principal source of the sublime. In certain instances of irritable feeling, this impression of awe and fear has been so great, as to cause pain rather than pleasure; hence, perhaps, have originated descriptions of the pyramids which represent them as deformed and gloomy masses, without taste or beauty. Persons who have derived no satisfaction from the contemplation of them, may not have been conscious that the Uneasiness they experienced was a result of their own sensibility. Others have acknowledged ideas widely dinercnt, excited by every wonderful circumstance of character and of situation — ideas of duration, almost endless ; of power, inconceivable; of majesty, supreme; of solitude, most awful; of grandeur, of desolation , and of repose. |
Upon the '23d of August 1802 we set out for the pyramids, the inundation enabling us lo approach within less than a mile of the larger pyramid in our djenn (I). Messrs. Hammer and Hamilton accompanied us. We arrived at Djiza at daybreak, and called upon some Knglisb officers, who wished to join our parly upon this occasion, From Djua our approach lo the pyramids was through a swampy country, by means of a narrow canal, which, however, was deep enough; and we arrived without any obstacle at nine o'clock at the bottom of a sandy slope leading up lo the principal pyramid. Some Bedouin Arabs, who bud assembled to receive us upon our landing, were much amused by the eagerness excited in our whole party to prove who should first, set his foot upon the summit of tins artificial mountain. With what amazement did we survey the vast surface that was presented to us when we arrived at this stupendous monument, which seemed lo reach the clouds. Here and there appeared some Arab guides upon ibe immense masses above us, like |
(1) liont of the Nile.
|
so many piginiei, wailing to show the way to the suimnit. Now and then we thought we heard voices, and listened; hut it was the wind in powerful gusts sweeping the immense ranges of stone. Already some of our parly had begun the a?ccnl, and were pausing at the tremendous depth which they saw helow. One uf our military companions, after having surmounted the most diflicult part of the undertaking, hecainc giddy in consequence of looking down from the elevation ho lia(f attained; and heing compelled to abandon the project, he hired an Aral) to assist him in cU'ecting his descent. The rest of us, more accustomed to the business of climbing heights, with many a halt for respiration, and many nn exclamation of wonder, pursued our way towards the summit. The mode of ascent has been frequently described ; and yet, from the questions which arc often proposed to travellers, it does not appear to be generally understood. The reader may imagine himself to be upon a staircase, every step of which, to a man of middle stature, is nearly breast high, and the breadth of each step is equal to its height, consequently the footing is secure; and although a retrospect in going up be sometimes fearful to persons unaccustomed to look down from any considerable elevation, yet there is little danger of falling. In some places, indeed, where the stones are decayed, caution may be required, and an Aral) guide is always necessary to avoid a total interruption ; but, upon the whole, tlie means of ascent are such that almost every one may accomplish it. Our progress was impelled by other causes. Wo carried witii us a few instruments, such as our boat-compass, a thermometer, a telescope, amp;c.; these could not be trusted in the hands of the Arabs, and they were liable to be broken every instant. At length we reached the topmost tier, to the great delight and satisfaction of all the party. Ucre we found a platform thirty-two feet square, consisting of nine large stones, each of which might weigh about a ton, although they are much inferior in size to some of the stones used in the construction of this pyramid. Travellers of all ages, and of various nations, have here inscribed their names. Some are written in Greek, many in French, a few in Arabic, one or two in English, and others in Latin. We were as desirous as our predecessors to leave a memorial of our arrival; il seemed to be a tribute of thankfulness duo for the success of our undertaking; and presently every one of our party was seen busied in adding the inscription of his name. |
Upon this area, which looks like a point when seen from Cairo or from the Nile, it is extraordinary that none of those numerous hermits fixed their abode who retired to the tops of columns and to almost inaccessible solitudes upon the pinnacles ol the highest rocks. It offers a much more convenient and secure retreat than was selected by an ascetic, who pitched his residence upon the architrave of a temple in the vicinity of Athens. The heat, according to Fahrenheit's thermometer at the time of our coming, did not exceed 81 degrees; and the same temperature continued during the time we remained, a strong wind blowing from the north-west. The view from this eminence amply fulfilled our expectations; nor do the accounts which have been given of it, as il appears at this season of the year, exaggerate the novelty and grandeur of the sight. All the region towards Cairo and the Delta resembled a sea covered with innumerable islands. Forests of palm-trees were seen standing in the water, the inundation spreading over the land where they stood, so as to give them an appearance of growing in the flood. To the north, as fur as the eye could reach, nothing could he discerned but a watery surface thus diversified by plantations and by villages. To(tlie south we saw the pyramids ofSaccira; and upon the east of these, smaller monuments of the same kind nearer to the Nile. An appearance of ruins might indeed ho traced the whole way from the pyramids of Djiza to those of Saccara, as if they had been once connected, so as to constitute one vast cemetery. Beyond the pyramids of Saccara we could perceive the distant mountains of the Said; and upon an eminence near the Libyan side of the Nile, appeared a monastery of considerable size. Towards the west and south-west, the eye ranged over the great Libyan Desert, extending to the utmost verge of the horizon, without a single object to interrupt the dreary horror of the landscape , except dark floating spots causcd by the shadows of passing clouds upon the sand. Upon the south-east side is the gigantic slatuc of the Sphinx, the most colossal piece of sculpture which remains of all the works executed by the ancients. The French have uncovered all the pedestal of this statue, and all the cumbenl or leonine parts of the figure; these were before entirely concealed by sand, instead, however, of answering the expectations raised concerning the work upon which it was supposed to rest, the pedestal proves to he a wretched substructure of brickwork and small pieces of stone put together, like the most insignificant piece of modern masonry, and wholly out of character both with respect to the prodigious labour bestowed upon the statue itself, and the gigantic appearance of the surrounding objects. Beyond the Sphinx we distinctly discerned amidst the sandy waste the remains and vestiges of a magnificent building, perhaps the Serapeuni. Immediately beneath our view, upon the east- |
|
ern and western side, we saw so many lomlis llial we were nnalile to count them, some hein^ lialf l)urie(l in the sand, otliers risin;; considerably above it. All these are of an oblong form, with sides sloping like the roofs of European houses. A plan of their situation and appearance is given in 1'ocock's Travels. The second pyramid, standing to the south-west, has the remains of a covering near its vertex, as of a plating of stone which had oncu invested all its four sides. Some persons, deceived by the external hue of this covering, have believed it to be of marble; but its white appearance is owing to a partial decomposition a fleeting the surface only. Not a single fragment of marble can be found anywhere near this pyramid. U is surrounded by a paved court, having walls on the outside, and places as for doors or portals in the walls; also an advanced work or portico. A third pyramid, of much smaller dimensions than the second, appears beyond the Sphinx to the south-west; and there are three others, one of which is nearly buried in the sand, hetween the large pyramid and this statue to the south-east. |
An indefatigable writer, solf-edueated, was a native of Forfarshire, and for some time connected with the London press. lie wrote and eoinpiled altogether about ninety volumes, including Babylon the Great, a Picture of Men and Things in London; Modern Athens, a sketch of Edinburgh society; The British Naturalist; The Feathered Tribes of Great Britain; A Popular Guide to the Observation of Nature; two series of four volumes cacb , entitled The Heavens, the Earth, tbe Sea, and the Air; and Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter; and next, Man: Physical, Moral, Social, and Intellectual; The World Described amp;c. He furnished the letter-press to Gilbert's Modern Atlas, the 'Natural History' to tbe British Cyclopedia, and numerous other contributions to periodical works. Mudie was a nervous and able writer, deficient in taste in works of light literature and satire, but an acute and philosophical observer of nature, and peculiarly happy in his geographical dissertations and works on natural history. His imagination could lighten up tbe driest details; but it was often too excursive and unbridled. His works were also hastily produced , 'to provide for the day that was passing over him;' but considering these disadvantages, bis intellectual energy and acquirements were wonderful.
|
The imprint upon John is as deeply stamped ns upon a Greek medal; and w herever you find him, whether in London or Calcutta, whatever be his rank , and whether be commands or obeys, lie ne^cr can he mistaken. lively where lie is a blunt matter of fact sort of being, very honest, but cold, and repulsive withal, lie has the solidity of a material substance all over; and you can never fail to observe, that wherever ho is, or with whomsoever he associates, John always considers himself the foremost man, — nor will he take an advice or a lesson from any body that previously gives him a hint that be needs it. Wherever he is, too, you can perceive that his own comfort — his own immediate personal comfort — is the grand object of all bis exertions, and all his wishes. |
John Hull, if he thinks there is any chance of making a profit by it, will bargain with you at first sight; but before you can make an intimate of him , you must court him as you would a lady; and even then, if you he romantic in your friendships, you soon discover that his friendship, like the love of a coquette, is not much worth the having, lie gives you cold and polite civility before his courting, and he has not much more to give you after. There is such a mechanical formality, and such a frank avowal of that selfishness which other people may feel just as strongly, but which they are more careful to conceal, that you do not enjoy tbe luxury of an Englishman's feast with half the zest that you would a handful of dates with the Bedouin in tbe desert. Hut, while he is thus the coldest friend that you can imagine, he is the safest neighbour, and tbe most fair-dealing and generous enemy: while be keeps bis own castle like a bashaw, he never thinks of invading yours. Comfort — meaning thereby the capacity of purchasing whatever he thinks will render himself snug; and independence — that is , feeling that ho can do whatever he wishes, and say whatever be thinks, — being the grand objects with him, he cares not a straw for those adventitious, and perhaps ideal distinctions, that so much plague the rest of the world. His pride — and pride be has in great abundance — is not the pride of llainan : be cares not a straw though Mordccai the lew should sit ever |
|
so lon(; al liis {;alc, Ills only solicitude licing that the said Mordccai shall not come within it, without the special permission of the owner, and that granted for somethinj; that shall con-duoe to the said owner's advantage or comfort. Ills selfishness is not like the selfishness of most other nations : It docs not go out after ideal whims and visionary fancies, hut remains constant and attentive to himself. No mnn can devote himself more entirely or more successfully to the accumulation of wealth than John Jiull, nor is any nation so little careful of kicking away and despising the ladder (If an unseemly one) hy which he climhs to opulence, as the English. Let it he the humblest profession in the world — the sale carrion, or the collecting of rags or ruhhish, and that in consequence of success in it he is able to retire to his box, and set up his equipage in the purlieus of the metropolis: — John liull never despises the carrion or the dust: they are the best of all possible things, and , in his estimate, for the best of all possible reasons, ' they made him a warm man, and he is now as snug as a lord.' |
Ills pride, too, is a plant of English growth; and though he boasts a good deal , his boasts are not of the kind met with in the rest of the world. You never hear him giving himself airs on account of his ancestry; for il John he what he calls warm, he cares not a straw whether bis grandfather was a duke or a dustman. 'Every man is himself, and no man is his father,' is John's theory; and upon this theory be aets very steadily. It Is true that he does boast of being an Englishman, — that be does reckon his being horn somewhere between Lowcstoflquot; and St. David's, and between Penzance and Berwick, as being a much more fortunate circumstance than it he had drawn his fiist breath in any other locality in the solar system. Old England is his, and be is Old England's, there is nothing like it in all the world; it can enrich the world, instruct the world, and, if properly provoked , conquer the world! |
|
When Duncan the Meek reigned king of Scot-laud , there lived a great thane, or lord, called Macbeth. This Maeheth was a near kinsman to the king, and in great esteem at court for bis valour and conduct in the wars; an example of which he had lately given, in defeating a rebel army assisted by the troops of Norway in terrible numbers. The two Scottish generals , Macbeth and Ban-quo, returning victorious from this great battle, their way lay over a blasted heath, where they were stopped by the strange appearance of three figures like women , except that they had beards, and their withered skins and wild attire made them look not like any earthly creatures. Macbeth first addressed them, when they, seemingly ollended, laid each one her choppy finger upon her skinny lips, in token of silence; and the first of them saluted Macbeth with the title of thane of Glamis. The general was not a little startled io find himself known by such creatures; but how much more, when the second of them followed up that salute by giving him the title of thane of Cawdor, to which honour he bad no pretensions, and again the third bid lilin quot;All hail! king that shalt be hereafter !quot; Such a prophetic greeting might well amate him , who knew that while the king's sons lived he could not hope to succeed to the throne. Then turning to Banquo, they pronounced him, in a sort of riddling terms, to be lesser than Macbeth cnid greater.' not so happy, but much happier! and prophesied that though he should never reign, yet his sons after him should be kings in Scotland. They then turned into air and vanished ; by w hich the generals knew them to be the weird sisters, or witches. |
While they stood pondering on the strangeness of this adventure, there arrived certain messengers from the king , who were empowered by him to confer upon Macbeth the dignity of thane of Cawdor: an event so miraculously corresponding with the prediction of the witches astonished Macbeth , and be stood wrapped in amazement, unable to make reply to the messengers ; and in that point of time swelling hopes arose In his mind , that the prediction of the third witch might in like manner have its accomplishment, and that he should one day reign king in Scotland. Turning to Banquo, he said, quot;Do you not hope that your children shall be kings, when what the witches promised to mc has so wonderfully come lo pass?quot; quot;That hope,quot; answered the general, quot;might enkindle you lo aim |
|
«l tlic tlirunc; Iml oftentiinvs tliese ministers of ilurkness tell us trutlis in liltlo tliinj'S, to betray us into deeds of jjreatcsl eonse-quence.quot; But the wieked suggestions of tlie witclies liad sunk loo deep into the mind of Macbeth to allow him to attend to the warniiii;s of the good Banqno. From Ihat lime he bent all his ihonjjhls how to compass the tlironc of Scotland. Machclh had a wife, to whom he communicated the strange prediction of the weird sisters, and its partial accomplishnient. She was a had ainhitious woman, and so as her busbaud and herself could arrive at greatness, she cared not much by what means. She snurrcd on the reluctant purpose of Macbeth, who felt compunction at the iboughls of blood, and diil not cease to represent the murder of the king as a step absolutely necessary to the fulfilment of the ilatlering prophecy. it happened at this time that the king, who out of his royal condescension would oftentimes visit bis principal nobility upon gracious terms, came to Macbeth's house, altended by bis two sons, Malcolm and Doualbnin. and a numerous train of thanes and attendants, the more to honour Macbeth for ihe triumphal success of his wars. The castle of Macbelb was pleasantly situated, and the air about it was sweet and wholesome, which appeared by the nests which the marllel, or swallow, bad built under all the jutting friezes and buttresses of the building, wherever it found a place of advantage; for where those birds most breed and haunt, the air is observed to he delicate. The king entered well pleased wilh the place, and not le-s so with the attentions and respect of his honoured hostess,lady Macbeth, who had the art of covering treacborous purposes wilh smiles; and could look like the innocent flower, w hile she was indeed the serpent under it. The king, being tired with his journey, went early to bed , and in his state-room two grooms of his chambiT (as was the custom) slept beside him. lie had been unusually pleased with bis reception, and had made presents before be retired to his principal o/Ticers; and among the rest, had sent a rich diamond to lady Macbeth, greeting her by the name of his most kind hostess. Now was the middle of night, when over half the world nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse men's minds asleep, and none but the wolf and the murderer is abroad. This was tbe lime when lady Maeheth waked to plot the murder of the king. She would not have iinderlaken a deed so abhorrent to ber sex, but that she feared her husband's nature, that it was too full of the milk of biiman |
kindness to do a contrived murder. She knewr him to be ainhitious, but withal tobescrnp-ulous, and not yet prepared for that height of crime which commonly in the enil accompanies inordinate ambition. She bad won him to consent to the murder, hut she doubled his resolution; and she feared that the natural tenderness of his disposition (more humane than her own) would come between, and defeat the purpose. So with her own bands armed with a dagger, she approached the king's bed; having taken care to ply the grooms ol his chamber so with wine, that they slept intoxicated, and careless of their charge. There lay Duncan, in a sound sleep after the fatigues of bis journey, and as she viewed him earnestly, there was something iu his f.iee, as he slept, which resembled her own father; and she had not the courage to proceed. She returned to confer with her husband. His resolution hod begun to stagger, lie considered that there were strong reasons against the deed. In the llrst place, lie was not only a subject, but a near kinsman to the king; and he bad been his host, and entertainer that day, whose duty, by the laws of hospitality, it was to shut tbe door against bis murderers, not bear the knife himself. Then he considered bow just and merciful a king this Duncan hail been, how clear of oiTence to bis subjects, bow loving to bis nobility, and in particular to him; that such kings are the peculiar care of Heaven, and their subjects doubly bound to revenge their deaths. Besides, by the favours of tbe king, Macbeth stood high in the opinion of all sorts of men , and how would those honours be stained by the reputation of so foul a murder! In these conflicts of the mind lady Macbeth found her husband , inclining to the better part, and resolving to proceed no further. But she being a woman not easily shaken from her evil purpose, began to pour in at his ears words which infused a portion of ber own spirit into his mind , assigning reason upon reason why be should not shrink from what he had undertaken ; how easy tbe deed was ; how soon it would he over; and how tbe action of one short night would give to all their nights and days to come sovereign sway and royalty! Then she threw contempt on bis changc of purpose, and Bcc.used him of fickleness and cowardice; and declared that, she bad given suck , and know how tender it was to love the babe that milked ber; hut she would, while it was smiling in ber face, have plucked it from ber breast, and dashed its brains out, if she had so sworn to do it, as be bad sworn to perform that murder. Then she added, how practicable it was to lay the guilt of the deed upon the I drunken sleepy grooms. And with tbe valour o! |
|
lier tongue she so cliaslised lus sluggish resulti-tions, that lie once more summoned up courage to the bloody business. So, taking the dagger in his band, he soflly stole in the dark to the room where Duncan lay ; and as he went, he thought lie saw another dagger in the air, wilii the handle towards him, and on the blade and at the point of its drops of blood; hut when he tried to grasp at it, il was nothing hut air, a mere phantasm proceed* ing from his own hot and oppressed brain and the business he had in band. Gelling rid of lliis fear, he entered the king's room, whom he dispatched with one stroke of his dagger. Just as be had done the murder, one of the grooms, who slept in the chamber, laughed in bis sleep, and the other cried, quot;Murder!quot; which woke them both; but they said a short prayer; one of them said, 44God bless us!quot; and the other answered u Amen ;quot; and addressed themselves to sleep again. Macbeth, who stood listening to them, tried to say, quot;Amen,quot; when the fellow said, uGod bless us!quot; hut, though lie bad most need of a blessing, the word stuck in bis throat, and be could not pronounce it. Again he thought he beard a voice which cried quot; Sleep no more: Machetb doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, that nourishes lile.quot; Still it cried, quot;Sleep no more,quot; to all the bouse. uGlamis bath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more.quot; With such horrible imaginations Macbeth returned to bis listening wife, who began to think he had failed of his purpose, and that the deed was somehow frustrated. He came in so distracted a stale, that she reproached him with his want of firmness, and sent him to wash bis hands of the blood which stained them , while she look his dagger, with purpose so slain the cheeks of the grooms with blood , to make il seem their guilt. Morning came, and with it the discovery of the murder, which could not be concealed ; and though Macbeth and bis lady made great show of grief, and the proofs against the grooms (the dagger being produced against them and their faces smeared with blood) were sulïieicnlly strong, yet the entire suspicion fell upon Macbeth , whose inducements to such a deed were so mueh more forcible than such poor silly grooms could he supposed to have; ami Duncan's two sons fled. Malcolm, the eldest, sought for refuge in the English court; and I he youngest, Donalhain , made his escape to Ireland. The king's sons, who should have succeeded him, having thus vacated the throne, Maeheth as next heir was crowned king, and thus the prediction of the weird sisters was literally accomplished. |
Though placed so high , Macbeth and his queen could not forget the prophecy of the weird sisters, that, though Macbeth should be king , yet not his children , but the children of Banquo, should be kings after him. The thought of this, and thai they had defiled their hands with blood, and done so great crimes, only to place the posterity of Banquo upon the throne, so rankled within them, that they determined to put to death both Banquo and his son , to make void the predictions of the weird sisters, which in their own case had been so remarkably brought to pass. For this purpose they made a great supper, to which they invited all the chief thanes ; and, among the rest, with marks of particular respect, Banquo and his son Fleance were invited. The way by which Banquo was to pass to the palace at night, was beset by murderers appointed by Macbeth, who stabbed Banquo; but in the scuflle Fleance escaped. From that Fleance descended a race of monarchs who afterwards filled the Scottish throne, ending with James the Sixth of Scotland and the First of England, under whom the two crowns of Eng' land and Scotland were united. At supper the queen, whose manners were in the highest degree affable and royal, played the hostess with a gracefulness and attention which conciliated every one present, and Macbeth discoursed freely with his thanes and nobles, saying, that all that was honourable in the country was under his roof, if he had but his good friend Banquo present, whom yet he hoped lie should rather have to chide for neglect, than to lament for any mischance. Just at these words the ghost of Banquo, whom he bad caused to be murdered, entered the room , and placed himself on the chair which Macbeth was about to occupy. Though Machetb was a bold man, and one that could have faced the devil without trembling, at this horrible sight his cheeks turned white with fear, and he stood quite unmanned with his eyes fixed upon the ghost. His queen and all the nobles, who saw nothing, but perceived him ga/.ing (as they thought) upon an empty chair, look it for a fit of distraction ; and she reproached him, whispering that it was but the same fancy w hich had made him see the dagger in the air, when he was about to kill Duncan. But Macbeth continued to see the ghost, and gave no heed to all they could say, while he addressed it with distracted words, yd so significant, that his queen , fearing the dreadful secret would he disclosed , in great haste dismissed the guests, excusing the infirmity of Macbeth as a disorder he was often troubled with. To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was subject. His queen and he had their sleeps afflicted with terrible dream*, and the blood of Banquo troubled |
|
tiiom nol more llian the cscape of Flcance, wliuin now llicy loolicd upon «s fallier to a line of liinjfs, who should keep iheir posterity out of the throne. With these miserable thoughts they found no peace, and Macbeth determined once more to seek out the weird sifters, and know from them the worst. He sought tlreni in a cave upon the heath, were they, who knew by foresight of his coming, were engaged in preparing their dreadful charms, by which they conjured up infernal spirits to reveal to thcin futurity. Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and serpents, the eye of a newt, and the tongue of a dog, the leg of a lizard, and the wing of the night owl, the scale of a dragon, the tooth of a wolf, the maw of the ravenous salt sea shark, the inutniny of a witch, the root of the poisonous hemlock (this to have cilect must be digged in the dark), the gall of a goat, and the liver of o Jew, with slips of the yew tree that roots itself in graves, and the linger of a dead child: all these were set on to boil in a great kettle, or caldron, which, as fast as it grew too hut, was cooled with a baboon's blood : to these they poured in the blood of a sow that had eaten her young, and they threw into the flame the grease that had sweaten from a tnur-derer's gibbet. Uy these charms they hound the infernal spirits to answer their questions. It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he •would have his doubts resolved by them , or by their masters, the spirits. He, nothing daunted by the dreadful ceremonies which he saw, boldly answered, quot;Where are they? let me see tlicm.quot; And they called the spirits, which were three. And the first arose in the likeness of an armed head, and he called Macbeth by name, and bid him beware of the thane ol Fife; for which caution Macbeth thanked him; for Macbeth had entertained a jealousy of Macduir, the lhane of Fife. And the second spirit arose in the likeness of a Moody child , and he called Macbeth by name, and bid him have no fear, but laugh to scorn the power of man, for none of woman born should have power to hurt him; and be advised him to bo bloody, hold, and resolute. quot;Then live, Macduff!quot; cried the king;''what need I fear of thee? hut yet 1 will make assurance doubly sure. Thou shalt not live; that I may tell pale-hearted Fear it lies, and sleep in spite of thunder.quot; |
That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the form of a child crowned, with a tree in his hand. He called Macbeth by name, and comforted him against conspiracies, saying, that be should never be vanquished, until the wood of liirnam to Uunsinanc Hill should come against him. quot;Sweet bodements! good!quot; cried Macbeth; quot;who can unfix the forest, and move it from its earth-bound roots? I see I shall live the usual period of man's life , and not be cut off by a violent death. Hut my heart throbs to know one thing. Tell me, if yonr art can tell so much , if Hanquo's issue shall ever reign in this kingdom?quot; Here the caldron sunk into the ground , and a noise of music was heard, and eight shadows, like kings, passed by Macbeth, and Banquo last, who bore a glass which showed the figures of many more, and Banquo all bloody smiled upon Macbeth, and pointed to them; by which Macbeth knew that these were the posterity of Banquo, who should reign after him in Scotland; and the witches, with a sound of soft music, and dancing, making a show of duty and welcome to Macbeth , vanished. And from this time the thoughts of Macbeth were all bloody and dreadful. The first thing be heard when be got out of the witches' cave, was that Macduff, thane of Fife, had iled to England, to join the army which was forming against biin under Malcolm, the eldest son of the late king, with intent to displace Macbeth, and set Malcolm, the right heir, upon the throne. Macbeth, stung with rage, set upon the castle of Macduff and put his wife and children , whom the thane bad lelt behind, to the sword, and extended the slaughter to all who claimed the least relationship to Macduff. These and such-like deeds alienated the minds of all his chief nobility from him. Such as could, fled to join with Malcolm and Macduff, who were now approaching with a powerful army which they had raised iu England; and the rest secretly wished success to their arms, though for fear of Macbeth they could take no active part. His recruits went on slowly. Every body hated the tyrant, nobody loved or honoured him; but all suspected him, and be began to envy the condition of Duncan , whom he had murdered, who slept soundly in his grave, against whom treason had done its worst: steel nor poison, domestic malice nor foreign levies, could hurt him any longer. While these things were acting, the queen, who had been the sole partner in bis wickedness, in whose bosom he could sometimes seek a momentary repose from those terrible dreams which afflicted them both nightly, died, it is supposed by her own hands, unable to bear the remorse of guilt, and public hate; by which event he was left alone, without a soul to love or care for him, or a friend to whom be could confide his wicked purposes. He grew careless of life , and wished for death ; but the near approach of Malcolm's army roused in him what remained of his ancient courage, and he determined to die (as he expressed it) quot;with armour on his back.quot; Besides this, the hollow promises of the witches bad filled him |
|
Nvitli f.ilsp confiili'iiro, anil lie rpmonilmrcd llilt;! sayings of the spirits, llial none of woman liorn was lo Imrt liim , and that lie was ncuT to lie vanquished till Ilirnani-wood shouhl come to Dunsinane, which he thought could never he. So he shut himself up in his castle, «hose iinpregnalde strength was such as defied a siege; here he sullenly waited the approach of Malcolm. When, upon a day, there came a messenger to him, pale and shaking with fear, almost unnhle to report that which he had seen; for he averred, that as he stood upon liis watch on the hill, he looked towards Bir-nam, and lo his thinking the wood hegan to move! quot;Liar and slave,quot; cried Macheth ; quot;if lliou sponkest false, thou shall hang alive upon the next tree, till famine end thee. If thy tale be true, 1 care not if thou dost as uiucli hy me:quot; for Macheth now began to faint in resolution, and to douht the equivocal speeches of the spirits, lie was not to fear till Birnam-wood should come to Dunsinane; and now 4 wood did ino\e! quot; lIo«ever,quot; said he, quot;if this which lie avouches be true, let ns arm and out. There is no flying henec, nor staying here. ] begin lo be weary of the sun, and wish my life at an end.'' Willi these desperate speeches lie sallied forth upon the besiegers, who had now come up to the castle. The strange appearance which had given the messenger an idea of a wood moving is easily solved. When the besieging army marched through the wood of Birnatn , Malcolm , like a skilful general , instructed his soldiers to hew down every one a bough, and hear it before him, hy way of concealing the true nu in hers of his host. This marching of the soldiers with houghs had at a distance Ihe appearance which bad frightened the messenger. Thus were the words of the spirit hroughl to pass, in a sense different from that in which Macbeth had understood them , and one great hold of his confidence was gone. |
And now a severe skirmishing took place, in which Macheth, though feebly supported by those who called themselves his friends, but inreality hated the tyrant and inclined to the party of Malcolm and Macduff, yet fought with the extreme of rage and valour, cutting lo pieces all who were opposed to him, till he name to where Macduff was fighting. Seeing Macduff, and remembering the caution of I he spirit «ho had counselled him to avoid Macduff above all men, he would have turned, bnt Maedull , w ho had been seeking him throiigh the whole fight, opposed his turning, and a fierce contest ensued : Macduff giving him many foul reproaches for the murder of his wife and children. Macbeth, whose soul was charged enough with blood of that family already, would still have declined the combat , but Maedull' still urged him to it, calling him tyrant, murderer, hell-houud, and villain. Then Macbeth remembered the words of the spirit, how none of woman horn should hurt him; and smiling confidently he said lo Macduff, quot;Tliou losest thy labour, Macduff. As easily thou mayst impress the air wilh thy sword , as make me viilncrahle. I bear a eharmed life, which must not yield to one of woman horn.quot; quot;Despair thy charm,quot; said Macduff, quot;and let that lying spirit, whom thou hast served, tell thee, that Maedull' was never horn of woman , never as the ordinary niannrr of men is to he horn, but was untimely taken from his mother.quot; quot;Accursed be the tongue which tells me so,quot; said the tremhliug Macbeth, who felt his last hold of confidence give «ay; quot;and let never man in future believe the lying equivocations of witches and juggling spirits, who deceive us in words which have double senses, and while they keep their promise literally, disappoint our hopes with a different nieaning. J will not fight with thee.quot; quot;Then live!quot; said the scornful Macduff; •'we «ill have a show of thee, as men show monsters, and a painted board , on which shall he writlen, 'Here men may see the tyrant! quot;Never,quot; said Macheth, whose courage relumed with despair; quot;I will not live to kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, and to be bailed wilh the curses of the rabble. Though Birnam-wood he come to Dunsinane, and thou opposed to me, who wast never horn of woman , yet will 1 try the last.quot; AVith these frantic words he ihrcw himself upon Macduff, «ho, afler a severe struggle, in the end overcame him and culling oil' his head, made a present of it to the young and lawful king, Malcolm; «ho took upon him Ihc government « bieb, by the niaehinalions of the usniper, he had so long been deprived of, and ascended the throne of Duncan the Meek . amid the acclamations of the nobles and the people. |
One of the most remarkable of the miscellaneous writers of this period was William Hazlitt, whose hold anil vigorous tone of thinking , and acute criticism on poetry, the drama, and Due arts, found many
admiral's, espocinlly nmmig young minds, lie was a man of dccided genins, but prone to pnrndoi, and swayed by prejudice. Uc was well rend in the old Knglish authors, and bad in general a just and delicate perception of tbeir beauties. His style was strongly tinged by the peculiarities of his taste and reading; it was often sparkling, pungent, and picturesque in expression. Hazlitt wns a native of Shropshire, the son of a Unitarian minister, lie began life as a painter, but failed in attaining excellence in the profession, though he retained through life the most vivid and intense appreciation of its charms. His principal support was derived from the literary and political journals, to which he contributed essays, reviews, and criticisms. He wrote a inetaphysieal treatise on the Principles of Human Action ; Characters of Sbnkspeare's 1'lays ; A View of the English Singe; two volumes of Table Talk; The Spirit of the Age (containing criticisms on eminent public ehnrneters); Lectures on the English Poets , delivered at the Surrey Institution ; Lcctures on the Literature of the Elizabethan Age; and various sketches of the galleries of art in England. He was author also of Notes of a Journey through Franco and Italy, originally contributed to one of the daily journnls; an Essay on the Fine Arts for the Encyelopredia liritannica ; and some articles on the English novelists and other standard authors, first published in the Edinburgh Keview. His most elaborate work was a Life of Napoleon, in four volumes, which evinces nil the peculiarities of his mind and opinions, but is very ably and powerfully written. Shortly before his death (which took plnce in London on the IStli of September 1830) he hnd committed to the press the Conversations of Jnmcs Nortlieoto, Esq. containing remarks on arts and artists. The toils, uncertainties, and disappointments of a literary life, and the contests of bitter political warfare, soured and wnrpel the mind of Hazlitt, and distorted his opinions of men and things ; but those who trace the passionate flights of his imngination , his aspirations after ideal escellence and beauty , (he brilliancy of his Inngnnge while dwelling on some old poem , or picture , or dream of enrly days, and the undisguised freedom with which he pours out his whole soul to the reader, will readily assign to him holh strength and versatility of'genius. He had felt more than he had reflected or studied ; and though proud of his acquiretneuls as a metaphysicinn , he certainly could paint emotions better than ho could unfold principles. The only son of Mr. Hazlitt has, with pious diligence and with talent, collected and edited his father's works in a series of handsome portable volumes.
|
The true Cocknoy lias never travelled beyond the purlieus of the metropolis, either in the ))ody or the spirit. Primrose Hill is the ultima Thule of liis most roniiiiitlcdesires; Gieenwiili Park stands liiiu in the stead of the Vales of Aready. Time and space are lost tolilin. He Is confined to one snot, and to the present ino-inent. He sees every tliinj near, superficial, little, In liasty succession. The world turns round, and his head w ith It, like a roundal)out at a fair, till he becomes stunned and giddy with the motion. Kigures (jlide by as in a camera obscura. There Is a glare, a perpetual liuhhuh, a noise, a crowd about him ; he sees and hears a vast number of things, and knows nothing. He is pert, raw, ignorant, conceited, ridiculous, shallow, contemptible. Ills senses keep him alive; and he knows, inquires, and cares for notbing farther. He meets the Lord Mayor's coach , and, without ceremony, treats bimself to an imaginary ride in it. He notices the people going to court or to a city feast, and is satisfied with the show. He takes the wall of a lord, and fancies himself as good as be. He sees an Infinite quantity of people pass along the street, and thinks there is no sucli thing as life or a knowledge of character to be found out of London. quot;Beyond Hyde Park all is a desert to him.quot; He despises the country , because be is ignorant of It; and the town, because he is familiar with it. He is as will acquainted with St. Paul's as if he had built it; and talks of Westminster Abbey and Poets' Corner with great indifference. The King, the |
House of Lords and Commons, are bis very good friends. He knows the members for Westminster or the city by sight, and bows to the sheriU's or sheriffs' men. He is band and glove with the chairman of some committee. He is. In short, a great man by proxy, and comes so often in contact with fine persons and tilings, that he rubs oil' a little of the gilding, and is surcharged with a sort of second-band, vapid , tingling, troublesome self-importance. His personal vanity is thus continually flattered and perked into ridiculous self-complacency, while Ids imagination is jaded and impaired by daily misuse. Every thing is vulgarised in his mind. Nothing dwells long enough on It to produce an interest; nothing is contemplated sufllclently at a distance to excite curiosity or wonder. Your true Cockney is your only true leveller. Let him he as low as he will, lie fancies beis as good as any body else. He has no respect fur himself, and still less (if possible) for you. He cures little about bis own advantages. If be can only make a jest at yours. Every feeling comes to him through a medium of levity and impertinenec; nor does be like to have this habit of mind disturbed by being brought into collision with any thing serious or respectable. He despairs (in sneb a crowd of competitors) of distinguishing himself, but laughs heartily at the idea of being able to trip up the heels of other people's pretensions. A Cockney feels no gratitude. This is a first principle with him. Ho regards any obligation yon confer upon him as a species of imposition, ol a ludicrous |
|
MsuinplioM of faucicd supcriorily. lie talks aboul cvory tiling;, for liu lias hoard soinetliiiij; aliout it; and, understanding nolliinjj of tlie matter, concludes lie has as good a rijjht as yon. Hi; is a politician, for he lias seen the Parliament House; he is a critie, liecansc he knows the principal actors hy sijjlit; has a taste for mu.-ic, liecause he hclongs to a glee club at the AVest Knd; and is gallant, in virtue of sometimes frequenting the lobbies at half-price. A mere Londoner, in fact, from the opportunities be has of knowing something of a number of objects (and those striking ones) fancies himself a sort of privileged person , remains satisfied with the assumption of merits, so much the more unquestionable as they are not bis own; and from being dazzled with noise and show and appearances, is less capable of giving a real opinion, or entering into any subject than the meanest peasant. There arc greater lawyers, orators, painters, philosophers, players, in l.ondon, than in any oilier part of the United Kingdom: he is a Londoner, and therefore it would he strange if be did not know more of law, eloquence, art, philosophy, acting, than any one without bis local advantages, and who is merely from the country. This is a von sequitur, and it constantly appears so when put to the test. A real Cockney is lbo poorest creature in the world; the most literal, the most mecbanical, and yet he too lives in a world of romance — a fairy land of bis own. lie is a citizen of London : ami Ibis abstraction leads his imagination the finest dance in the world. London is the first city on the habitable globe; and therefore he must be superior to every one who lives out of it. There arc more people in London than any where else; and though a dwarf in slature, his person swells ont and expands into ideal importance and borrowed magnitude. He resides in a garret or in a two pair of stairs' back room; yet be talks of the magnificence of London, and gives himself airs of consequence upon it, as if all the houses in Portman ur in Grosvenor Square were his by right or iu reversion. quot;He is owner of all he surveys.quot; The Monument, the Tower of London, St. James's Palace, ihe Mansion House, Whitehall, are part and parcel of his beino. Let us suppose him to he a lawyer's cleric at balf-a-guinea a week: but be knows the Inns of Court, the Temple Gardens, and Gray's Inn Passage; sees the lawyers in their wigs walking up and down Chancery Lane; and has advanced within half a dozen yards of the chancellor's chair: — who can doubt that he understands (by implication) every point of law (however intricate) belter than the most expert country practitioner? He is a shopman, and nailud all day behind the counter; but he sees |
hundreds and thousands of gay, well dressed people pass — an endless phantasmagoria — and enjoys their liberty and gaudy fluttering pride. He is a footman — hut be rides behind beauty, through a crowd of carriages, and visits a thousand shops. Is he a tailor? The stigma on his profession is lost in the elegance of the patterns he provides, and of the persons he adorns; and he is something very different from a mere country botcher. Nay, the very scavenger and nightman thinks the dirt in the street lins something precious in it, and his employment is solemn, silent, sacred, peculiar to London ! A barker in Monmouth Street, a slopsellei' in Ratcliffe Highway, a tapster at a night cellar, a beggar in St. Giles's, a drah in Fleet Ditch, live in lbo eyes of millions, and ekn out a dreary, wretched, scanty, or loathsome existence from the gorgeous, busy, glowing scene around them. It is a cominou saying among sneb persons, that quot;they had rather he banged in London than die a natural death out of it any where else.quot; Such is the force of habit and imagination. Even the eye of ebildliood is dazzled and delighted with the polished splondour of the jewellers' shops, the neatness of the turnery ware, the fesloons ol artificial flowers, the confectionery, the cby-misls' shops, the lamps, the horses, the carriages, the sedan-chairs: to this was formerly added a set of traditional associations — Whit-tinglon and bis Cat, Guy Faux and the Gunpowder Treason, the Fire and the Plague of London, and the Heads of Ihe Seotch Uebels that were stuck on Temple Bar in 1745. These have vanished ; and in their stead the curious and romantic eye must be content to pore iu Pennant for the site of old London AVall , or to peruse the sentimental mile-stone that marks the distance to the place quot;where llicks's Hall formerly stood.quot; The Cockney lives in a go-cart of local pre-jadiees and positive illusions; and when he is turned out of it, he hardly knows how to stand or move. lie ventures through Hyde Park Corner as a cat crosses a gutter. The trees pass by the eoach very oddly. The country has a strange blank appearance: it is not lined with houses all the way, like London, lie comes to places he never saw or heard of. lie finds the world is bigger than be thought it. He might have dropped from the moon, for any thing he j knows of the matter. lie is mightily disposed to laugh, hut is half afraid of making some blunder. Between sheepisbness and conceit, ho is in a very ludicrous situation. He finds that the people walk on two legs, and wonders to I bear them talk a dialect so different from his \ own. lie perceives London fashions have got down into the country before him, and that some of the better sort are dressed as well as |
|
lie is, A drove of pijs or uatllo stopping llie road is a very troublesome inlerruption: a crow in a field, a magpio in a hedge, are to Iiim very odd animals — lie can't tell what to inal(e of lliein, or how they live. He does not altogether like the acconimolation at the inns — it is not what he has hecn used to in town. He begins to he communicativc—says lie was quot;born within the sound of l!ow hell;quot; and attempts some jokes, at which nobody laughs, lie asks the coachman a question, to which be receives no answer. All ibis is to him very unaccountable and unexpected. He arrives at his journey's end ; and instead of being the great man he anticipated among his friends and country relations, finds that they are bandy civil to him, or make a butt of him; have topics of their own which he is as completely ignorant of as they are indillercnt to what he says, so that lie is glad to get hack to London again, where he meets with his favourite indulgences and associates, anil fancies the whole world is occupied with what he hears and sees. |
A Cockney loves a tea-garden in summer, as he loves a play or the cider-cellar in winter; «here he sweetens the air with the fumes of tobacco, and makes it echo to the sound of bis own voicc. This kind of suburban retreat is a most agreeable relief to the close and confined air of a city life. The imagination, long pent up behind a counter or between brick walls, with noisome smells and diugy objects, cauuot hear at once to launch into the boundless expanse of the country, hut quot;shorter excursions tries,quot; coveting something between the two, and finding it at White Conduit House, or the Rosemary Branch, or Bagnigge Wells. The landlady is seen at a bow-window in near perspective, with punch-bowls and lemons disposed orderly around — the lime-trees or poplars wave overhead to quot;catch the breezy air,quot; through which, typical of the huge dense cloud that hangs over the metropolis, curls np the thin, blue, odoriferous vapour quot;of Virginia or Oronooko; the benches arc ranged in rows, the fields and hedge-rows spread out their verdure; Hump-stcad and Highgato arc seen in the background; and contain the imagination within gentle limits — here the holiday people are playing hall — here they are playing bowls — here they are quaffing ale, there sipping lea—hero the loud wager is beard, there the political debate. In a sequestered nook a slender youth, with purple face and drooping bead, nodding over a glass of gin toddy, breathes in tender accents — quot;There's nought so sweet on earth As Love's joung dream.quot; While quot;Rosy Annquot; takes its turn ; and quot;Scots wbabnewi' Wallace bledquot; is thundering forth in accents that might wake the dead. In another part sits carpers and critics, who dispute the score of the reckoning or the game, or cavil at the taste and execution ot the would-bo Brahams and Durusets. |
The quot;Censor of Ihc Ago,quot; was born in 1795 , at Ecclcfechan , iu Dumfriesshire, where, or in which neighbourhood, his fallier, an earnest, religious, and industrious man, distinguished for probity and natural energy of intellect and characler, was a small farmer. He received the rudiments of a classical education at a school in Annan, where the since celebrated Edward Irving, and probably Clapperton the traveller, natives of the places, had already been. About 1810 he proceeded to the University of Edinburgh , where he remained seven or eight years , spending the vacations under his father's roof. At college he was distinguished for nothing so much as his attachment to the study of mathematics, then taught there by Leslie. He appears at this time to have proposed to himself the christian ministry in the church of his fathers. After teaching mathematics at a school in Vive for about two years , he devoted himself, in 1823, to the profession of literature; and in the following year contributed to BicWotei a quot;Edinburgh Euc^clopieiliaquot; the articles quot;Montesquieu,quot; quot;Montaigne,quot; quot;Nelson,quot; quot;Norfolk, and those on the two quot;Pitts;quot; and to the quot;New Edinburgh Review,quot; an quot;Essay on Joanna Baillie's Plays of the Passions.quot; In the same year be completed a translation of Legendre's quot;Geometry ,quot; to which he prefixed an quot;Essny on Proportion ,quot; and also published his translation of Goethe's quot;Wilhelm Meister,quot; a work which bel rayed a direction of reading destined to influence materially his future career. On the completion of this translation ho commenced his quot;Life of Schiller,quot; which appeared by instalments in the quot;London Magazine,quot; then sustained by the talents of Lamb, Hazlitt, and Cunningham. About 1830 , he returned to London, and became an important contributor to quot;Eraser's Magazine,quot; in which his portrait was twice given. Here appeared his quot;Sartor,quot; a succession of chapters of strange interest, depicting and portraying the inward struggles of a soul stirred to its depths by contemplating the great problems of human life. In 1837 he published his quot;French devolution a series of paintings, grand, terrific, and ghastly. -Two years after , his quot;Chnrtism*' appeared , and with it his quot;Critical and Miscellaneous Essays,quot; collected and republished, in five volumes, from reviews and magazines. In 1840 he delivered a series of lectures on Hero Worship at the west end of London , which he published in the following year. His quot;Past ami
Presentquot; was publislied iu ISIS. 't'Lc pjciicral conviclion of moil's minds after Ibe Ëuropeau convulsions of I8lt;18 offered an occasion for expressing his views on Hie aspect of the times, and the quot;Latter-day I'nni-phlctsquot; were written , full of lofty rebuke of the hollow statesmnnship which conceals the truth until it blazes out amid the honors of revolution. The latest work of Ibis writer is his quot;Life of John Sterling once his intimate friend. His great characteristic is a rugged earnestness of thought and expression, and a range of thought widened and deepened by this acquaintance with the writings of the great German thinkers. Shallowness, insincerity , and pretension , have never had a more formidable enemy than they encounter in him. In the midst of bis anger he, however, gives so many proofs of a humble, trutli-loving, and oven kind spirit, that ho is allowed to speak severe truths with a freedom which the age could scarcely permit to another man living. For some years Mr. Carlyle has lived in dignitted simplicity at Chelsea , in a house whioh looks immediately on the Thames.
[From the work on the French Revolution.)
|
All inorniiijr, since nine, there lias liccn a cry everywhere, 'To the IJastille!' Kepeated '(le|iutatlons of citiiens' have been here, passionate for arms; whom De Launay has/;ot dis-inissed hy soft speeches through port-holes. Towards noon Elector Thuriot de la Rosière pains admittance i finds De Launay indisposed for surrender; nay, disposed for blowing up the place rather, Thuriot mounts with him to the battlements: heaps of pavinjj-stones, old iron, and missiles lie piled : cannon all duly levelled ; in every cmhrasure a cannon — only drawn hack a little! But outwards, behold, O Thuriot, how the multitude flows on, welling through every street; tocsin furiously pealing, all drums beating the generale: the suliurh Sainte-Antoine rolling hitherward wholly as one man! Such vision (spectral, yet real) thou, O Thuriot! as from thy Mount of Vision, beholdest in this moment: prophetic of other phuntasmagories, and loud-gibbering spectral realities which thou yet beholdest not, but shall. 'Que voulez-vous?' said De Launay, turning pale at the sight, with an air of reproach, almost of menace.'.Monsieur,' said Thuriot, rising into the moral sublime, 'what mean you? Consider if I could not precipitate both of us from this height' — say only a hundred feet, exclusive of the walled ditch I Whereupon De Launay fell silent. Wo to thee, De Launay, in such an hour, if thou canst not, taking some one firm decision, rule circumstances I Soft, speeches will not serve; hard grape-shot is questionahe; but hovering between the two is ««-questionable. Kver wilder swells the tide of men; their infinite bum waxing ever louder into imprecations, perhaps into crackle of stray musketry, which latter, on walls nine feet thick, cannot do execution. The outer drawbridge lias been lowered for |
Thuriot; now deputation of citi/.ens (it is the third and noisiest of all) penetrates that way into the outer court: soft speeches producing no clearance of these, De Launay gives fire; pulls up his drawbridge; A slight sputter, whicli has kindled the too combustible chaos; made it a roaring fire-chaos! Bursts forth insurrection, at sight of its own blood (for there were deaths by that sputter of fire) , into endless rolling explosion of musketry, distraction, execration; and overhead, from the fortress, let one great gun, with its grape-shot, go booming, to show what we could do. The Bastille is besieged! On, then, all Frenchmen that have hearts in their bodies! Roar with all your throats of cartilage and metal, ye sons of liberty; stir spasmodically whatsoever of utmost faculty is in you, soul, body, or spirit; for it is the hour! Smite, thou Louis Tournay, cartwright of the Marais, old soldier of the Regiment Dauphiné; smite at that outer drawbridge chain, though the fiery bail whistles round thee! Never, over nave or felloe did thy axe strike such a stroke. Down with it, man; down with it to Orcus: let the whole accursed edificn sink thither, and tyranny be swallowed up for ever! Mounted, some say, on the roof of the guard-room, some 'on bayonets stuck into joints of the wall,' Louis Tournay smites, brave Aubin Bonncmère (also an old soldier) seconding him : the chain yields, breaks; the huge drawbridge olums down, thundering {avec fracas). Glorious; and yet, alas! it is still but the outworks. The eight grim towers with their Invalides' musketry, their paving-stones and cannon-mouths still soar aloft intact; ditch yawning impassable, stone-faced; the inner drawbridge with its back towards us: the Bastille is still to take! |
THE END.
■' '■ /. •' •. ' ■ * / ■ ■quot; )-!quot;gt;
„
■
____