THE LITERARY REMAINS OF THE LATE HENRY NEELE (2024)

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The Literary Remains of the Late Henry Neele (1828)

LONDON:MARCHANT, PRINTER, INGRAM- COURT.

Archer pinx.byAlleNeele sculptLondon Published by Smith Elder & Co 65 Cornhill Nov. 25 th 1828.THE6. C...LITERARY REMAINSOF THE LATEHENRY NEELE:AUTHOR OF THE " ROMANCE OF HISTORY," ETC. ETC.CONSISTING OFLECTURES ON ENGLISH POETRY,TALES, AND OTHER MISCELLANEOUS PIECES,IN PROSE AND VERSE.Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon,Adeathless part of him who died too soon.LORD BYRON'S MONODY ON SHERIDAN.LONDON:SMITH, ELDER, AND CO. 65, CORNHILL.1829.vi INTRODUCTION.an act of duty to prefix some few particulars ofhis writings, and of their Author: and thoughthis tribute to the departed comes late and unavailing; though, like the custom of placingflowers in the cold hands of the dead, Praise nowbut wastes it's sweetness upon ears which can nolonger listen to it's melody; still, to give perpetuity to the memory of Genius is one of themost grateful offices of humanity; nor does manever seem more deserving of immortality himself,than when he is thus endeavouring to confer itworthily upon others.The late Henry Neele was the second Son of ahighly respectable map and heraldic Engraver inthe Strand, where he was born January 29th,1798; and upon his Father removing to KentishTown, was there sent to School, as a dailyboarder, and continued at the same Seminary untilhis education was completed. At this Academy,though he became an excellent French scholar,yet he acquired " little Latin, and less Greek;"INTRODUCTION. viiand, in fact, displayed no very devoted application to, or even talent for, study of any sort: withthe exception of Poetry; for which he thus earlyevinced his decided inclination, and producedseveral specimens of extraordinary beauty, for sojuvenile a writer. Henry Neele's inattention atSchool was, however, amply redeemed by his unassisted exertions when he better knew the valueof those attainments which he had neglected; andhe subsequently added a general knowledge ofGerman and Italian, to the other languages in whichhe became a proficient. Having made choice ofthe profession of the Law, he was, upon leavingSchool, articled to a respectable Attorney; and,after the usual period of probationary experience,was admitted to practice, and commenced business as a Solicitor.It was during the progress of his clerkship, inJanuary, 1817, that Henry Neele made his firstappearance as an Author, by publishing a Volumeof Poems; the expenses of which were kindly de-X INTRODUCTION.and amply merited the very general approval withwhich they were received .Ardent and enthusiastic in all his undertakings,Mr. Neele's Literary industry was now amplyevidenced by his frequent contributions to the66 Monthly Magazine," and other Periodicals; aswell as to the " Forget Me Not," and several ofit's contemporary Annuals; the numerous Talesand Poems for which, not previously reprinted byhimself, are all included in the present Volume.Having been long engaged in studying the Poetsof the olden time, particularly the great mastersof the Drama of the age of Queen Elizabeth, forall of whom, but more especially for Shakspeare,he felt the most enthusiastic veneration, he waswell qualified for the composition of a series of" Lectures on English Poetry," from the days ofChaucer down to those of Cowper, which he completed in the Winter of 1826; and delivered, firstat the Russell, and subsequently at the WesternINTRODUCTION. xiLiterary, Institution, in the Spring of 1827.These Lectures were most decidedly successful;and both public and private opinion coincided indescribing them as " displaying a high tone ofPoetical feeling in the Lecturer, and an intimateacquaintance with the beauties and blemishes ofthe great subjects of his criticism ." Althoughwritten with rapidity, and apparent carelessness,they were yet copious, discriminative, and eloquent; abounding in well- selected illustration , andinculcating the purest taste. From the originalManuscripts these compositions are now first published'; and deeply is it to be deplored, that theduty of preparing them for the Press should havedevolved upon any one but their Author: since inthat case alone, could the plan which he had evidently proposed to himself have been fully completed; and where, in many instances, his intentionscan now but be conjectured only, from the tracesof his outline, his design would then have beenfilled up to it's entire extent, and harmonised inall it's proportions of light and shadow.xii INTRODUCTION.In the early part of 1827 Mr. Neele publisheda new Edition of all his Poems, collected into twoVolumes; and in the course of the same year produced his last and greatest Work, the " Romanceof English History," which was dedicated, by permission, to His Majesty; and though extendingto three Volumes, and, from it's very nature, requiring much antiquarian research, was completedin little more than six months. Flattering as wasthe very general eulogium which attended thispublication, yet the voice of praise was mingledwith the warnings of approaching evil; and, likethe lightning which melts the sword within it'sscabbard, it is but too certain that the incessantlabour and anxiety of mind attending it's completion, were the chief sources of that fearful maladywhich so speedily destroyed him." "Twas his own genius gave the final blow,And help'd to plant the wound that laid him low;So the struck Eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,No more through rolling clouds to soar again,INTRODUCTION. xiiiView'd his own feather on the fatal dart,Which wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart!Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feelHe nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel;While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest,Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast!"Of the work itself, which comprises a series ofTales, founded on some Romantic occurrences inevery reign, from the Conquest to the Reformation, it is difficult to speak accurately. The subject, excepting in it's general outlines, was one towhich Mr. Neele was confessedly a stranger; andas he had to search for his materials through theobscure Chronicles of dry antiquity, and actuallyto " read up" for the illustration of each succeeding narrative, his exertions must have been equallytoilsome and oppressive; and the instances of hasteand inaccuracy, which, it is to be regretted, areof such frequent occurrence, are thus but tooreadily accounted for. On the other hand, the'Tales are, in general, deeply interesting and effective; the leading historical personages all cha-XIV INTRODUCTION.racteristically distinguished; and the dialogue,though seldom sufficiently antique for the perfectvraisemblance of History, is lively and animated.The illustrations of each reign are preceded by abriefchronological summary of it's principal events;and amusem*nt and information are thus most happily and inseparably united.The " Romance of History" was very speedilyreprinted in a Second Edition, and one Tale," Blanche of Bourbon," (inserted at page 254of this Volume, ) was written for it's continuation;as Mr. Neele would most probably have preparedanother series; though it was the Publisher's original intention that each Country should be illustrated by a different Author.With the mention of a new edition of Shakspeare's Plays, under the superintendence of Mr.Neele as Editor, for which his enthusiastic reverence for the Poet of " all time, " peculiarly fittedhim , but which, from the want of patronage, ter-INTRODUCTION. XVminated after the publication of a very few Numbers, closes the record of his Literary labours, andhastens the narration of that " last scene of all,"which laid him in an untimely grave. All thefearful details of that sad event it were too painfulto dwell upon; and if the curtain of oblivion evenfor a moment be removed, it is to weep over themin silence, and close it again for ever. HenryNeele fell by his own hand; the victim of an overwrought imagination: —" Like a tree,That, with the weight of it's own golden fruitage,Is bent down to the dust."On the morning of Thursday, February 7th,1828, when he had scarcely passed his thirtiethbirth-day, he was found dead in his bed, with buttoo positive evidences of self- destruction. Theunhesitating verdict of the Coroner's Inquest wasInsanity, as he had exhibited unquestionablesymptoms of derangement on the day preceding.And thus, in the very Spring of life, with Fameand Fortune opening their brightest views beforexvi INTRODUCTION .him, he perished under the attacks of a disease,from which no genius is a defence, and no talenta protection; which has numbered amongst it's victims some of the loftiest Spirits of humanity, andblighted the proudest hopes that ever waked theaspirings of ambition.-" Breasts, to whom all the strength of feeling given,Bear hearts electric, charged with fire from Heaven,Black with the rude collision, inly torn,By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne,Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurstThoughts which have turn'd to thunder, scorch and burst!"In person, Mr. Neele was considerably belowthe middle stature; but his features were singularlyexpressive, and his brilliant eyes betokened ardentfeeling and vivid imagination. Happily, as it hasnow proved, though his disposition was in thehighest degree kind , sociable, and affectionate, hewas not married. His short life passed , indeed, almost without events; it was one of those obscureand humble streams which have scarcely a name inINTRODUCTION. xviithe map of existence, and which the traveller passesby without enquiring either it's source or it's direction . His retiring manners kept him comparativelyunnoticed and unknown, excepting by those withwhom he was most intimate; and from theirgrateful recollection his memory will never beeffaced. He was an excellent son; a tenderbrother; and a sincere friend. He was belovedmost by those who knew him best; and at hisdeath, left not one enemy in the world.Of his varied talents this posthumous Volume willafford the best possible estimate; since it includesspecimens of nearly every kind of compositionwhich Mr. Neele ever attempted. The Lectureswill amply evidence the nervous eloquence of hisProse; and the grace and tenderness of his Poetryare instanced in almost every stanza of his Verse.Still, with a mind and manners so peculiarlyamiable, and with a gaiety of heart, and playfulness of wit, which never failed to rouse the spiritof mirth in whatever society he found himself, it' xviii INTRODUCTION.is, indeed, difficult to account for the morbidsensibility and bitter discontent, which characteriseso many of his Poems; and which were so stronglyexpressed in a contribution to the "Forget MeNot" for 1826, ( vide page 514 of these " Remains,") that the able Editor, his friend, Mr.Shoberl, considered it his duty to counteract it'sinfluence by a " Remonstrance," which was inserted immediately after it. This is a problem,however, which it is now impossible to solve;and, with a brief notice of the present work, thisIntroduction will, therefore, at once be closed.The following pages contain all the unpublishedManuscripts left with Mr. Neele's family; as wellas most of those Miscellaneous Pieces which werescattered, very many of them anonymously, throughvarious Periodicals, several of which are nowdiscontinued; though the Tales and Poems alludedto were never printed in any former collectionof his writings. From the facility with whichMr. Neele wrote, the ready kindness with whichINTRODUCTION. xixhe complied with almost every entreaty, and hiscarelessness in keeping copies, it is, however,highly probable, that numerous minor Poems mayyet remain in obscurity. It would, indeed, havebeen easy to have extended the present Volume,even very far beyond it's designed limits, but thefailure of more than one similar attempt was acaution to warn from the quicksand on which theywere wrecked; and to contract, rather than to extend, the boundaries previously prescribed. TheSatire of the Reverend Author of " Walks in aForest" has, unluckily for it's objects, been buttoo frequently deserved: -" When Genius dies,I speak what Albion knows, surviving friends,Eager his bright perfections to displayTo the last atom, echo through the landAll that he ever did, or ever said,Or ever thought: —Then for his writings, search each desk and drawer,Sweep his Portfolio, publish every scrap,And demi- scrap he penn'd; beg, borrow, steal ,XX INTRODUCTION.Each line he scribbled, letter, note, or card,To order shoes, to countermand a hat,To make enquiries of a neighbour's cold,Or ask his company to supper. Thus,Fools! with such vile and crumbling trash they buildThe pedestal, on which at length they rearTheir huge Colossus, that, beneath his weight,'Tis crush'd and ground; and leaves him dropt aslant,Scarce raised above the height of common men!"Here, then, this Introduction terminates. Tothose who loved him living, and who mourn himdead, these Remains of Henry Neele are dedicated; in the assured conviction that his Geniuswill long " leave a mark behind," and not withouta hope, that even this slight Memorial will serve" To pluck the shining page from vulgar Time,And leave it whole to late Posterity. "INTRODUCTIONCONTENTS..Page VLECTURES ON ENGLISH POETRY.Lecture the First, Introductory Analysis 3Second, Epic and Narrative Poetry ....... 41Third, Dramatic Poetry 78Fourth, Dramatic Poetry continued ........ 126Fifth, Didactic, Descriptive, Pastoral, andSatirical Poetry 159Sixth, Lyrical and Miscellaneous Poetry .... 187ORIGINAL TALES, POEMS, ETC.The Garter, a Romance of English History ... 219Blanche of Bourbon, a Romance of Spanish History .... 254Shakspeare's Supernatural Characters .....A Night at the Mermaid, an Old English Tale..TheTrekschuit...... 301... 310321xxii CONTENTS.Hymns for ChildrenEpitaphs..Page 330...... 334Sonnet on reading the Remains of the late HenryKirke White ....FriendshipLove and Beauty..AThoughtEpigram ...335336337340340MISCELLANEOUS PROSE AND POETRY,NOW FIRST COLLECTED.The Valley of Servoz, a Savoyard Tale.....The Poet's Dream ....Totteridge Priory, a Reverie in Hertfordshire ......The Shaksperean Elysium ....The Dinner of the Months ...Every Day at Breakfast ..AYoung Family.....The CometThe Magician's VisiterThe Houri, a Persian TaleStanzas343357384394... 404412422432468... 478495Lines written after visiting a scene in Switzerland ...... 496The Crusaders' SongA Serenade.... 498500CONTENTS. xxiiiSimilitudes ...... .Page 502The Return of the Golden Age……….. 503Questions Answered 504Time's Changes 506Such Things were 508The Heart...MadonnaSongStanzasThe CometStanzas510511512514516518ThoughtsWhat is Life?Time515519... 521Love and Sorrow....The Natal Star, a Dramatic Sketch523524L'Amore Dominatore ....Goodrich CastleThe Captives' Song..529530532Stanzas ...Mount Carmel, a Dramatic Sketch from Scripture History 536... 534A Royal Requiem 543To develope the dawnings of Genius, and to pursue the progress of our own National Poetry, from a rude origin andobscure beginnings, to it's perfection in a polished age, mustprove an interesting and instructive investigation.T. WARTON.Authentic History informs us of no time when Poetry wasnot; and if the Divine Art has sometimes sung it's own nativity, it is in strains which confess, while they glorify ignorance. The Sacred Annals are silent, and the Heathens, byreferring the invention of Verse to the Gods, do but tell usthat the mortal inventor was unknown." BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE," NOVEMBER, 1828.XXVLECTURESONENGLISH POETRY.DELIVERED AT THE RUSSELL INSTITUTION, INTHE MONTHS OF MARCH, APRIL,AND MAY, 1827.BHAIL Bards triumphant! born in happier days!Immortal heirs of universal praise!Whose honours with increase of ages grow,As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow;Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound,And Worlds applaud that must not yet be found.POP E.XVIILECTURESONENGLISH POETRY.LECTURE THE FIRST.INTRODUCTORY ANALYSIS.General Historical Summary: -The Age of Edward the Third:-Chaucer:-The Ages of Henry the Eighth and Elizabeth:-Coincidences in the Literary Histories of Englandand Spain:-The Age of Charles the First: -Milton:-The New School of Comedy:-The Age of QueenAnne -Compared with the Age of Elizabeth: -TheDidactic Writers:-Improvement in the Public Taste:-Modern Authors to the time of Cowper.Ir may appear somewhat presumptuous to hope tointerest your attention, by a series of Lecturesupon English Poetry, after the power and abilityB 24 LECTURES ONwith which the Mechanical and useful Arts haveso recently been discussed and explained , on thesame spot, and the wonders and mysteries of thoseSciences laid open, which contribute so much tothe happiness, the comforts, and even the necessities, of ordinary life. In introducing Poetry toyour notice, I am constrained to confess that it isa mere superfluity and ornament. As Falstaffsaid of Honour, " it cannot set to a leg, or anarm, or heal the grief of a wound; it has no skillin Surgery." Still, within the mind of man thereexists a craving after intellectual beauty andsublimity. There is a mental appetite, which it isas necessary to satisfy as the corporeal one. Thereare maladies of the mind, which are even moredestructive than those of the body; and which, asthe sound of the sweet Harp of David drove thedemon out of Saul, have been known to yield tothe soothing influence of Poetry. The earliestaccomplishment of the rudest and wildest stages ofsociety, it is also the crowning grace of the mostpolished and civilized . Nations the most illustriousin Arts and arms, have also been the most celebrated for their cultivation of letters; and when themonuments of those Arts, and the achievements ofthose arms, have passed away from the face of theearth, they have transmitted their fame to theENGLISH POETRY. 5remotest ages through the medium of Literaturealone. The genius of Timanthes lives but inthe pages of Pliny; and the sword of Cæsar hasbeen rendered immortal only by his pen.The canvas fritters into shreds, and the columnmoulders into ruin; the voice of Music is mute;and the beautiful expression of Sculpture a blankand gloomy void: the right hand of the Mechanistforgets it's cunning, and the arm of the Warriorbecomes powerless in the grave; but the Lyre ofthe Poet still vibrates; ages listen to his song andhonour it and while the pencil of Apelles, andthe chisel of Phidias, and the sword of Cæsar,and the engines of Archimedes, live only in thebreath of tradition, or on the page of history, orin some perishable and imperfect fragment; thepen of Homer, or of Virgil, or of Shakspeare, isan instrument of power, as mighty and magical aswhen first the gifted finger of the Poet grasped it,and with it traced those characters which shall remain unobliterated, until the period when this greatglobe itself,-" And all which it inherit, shall dissolve,And, like an insubstantial Pageant faded,Leave not a rack behind! "The history of the Poetry of England exhibits6 LECTURES ONchanges and revolutions not less numerous and remarkable than that of it's politics; and to a briefgeneral summary of these, I propose to confinemyself in this Introductory Lecture. I shall afterwards take a more detailed review of the meritsof the individual Authors, who distinguished themselves at various periods; and in drawing your attention to particular passages in their works, Ishall select from such writers as are least extensively known.English Poetry may be said to have been born inthe reign of Edward the Third. The Monkishrhymes, the Troubadour Poems, the MetricalRomances of Thomas the Rhymer, Piers Plowman, and others, and the clumsy Translationsfrom the Latin and the French, which were produced prior to that period, have but slenderclaims upon our attention; except as affording, bytheir dulness and their gloom, a contrast to the extraordinary blaze of light which succeeded them,when Chaucer appeared in the Poetical hemisphere.At that period, the eyes of all Europe were turnedtowards England, who, perhaps, never in any agemore highly distinguished herself. She then produced a Monarch who was the greatest Statesmanand Warrior of his age, and to whom we are indebted for the foundation of many of the most im-ENGLISH POETRY. 7portant of the free Institutions, under which wenow flourish; she produced a Divine, who hadthe boldness to defy the spiritual and temporalauthority of Rome, and who struck the first blowat that colossal power, -a blow, from the effectsof which we may say that she has never yet recovered; and now she produced a Poet, of whomit is scarcely too much to assert, that he was thegreatest who had then appeared in modern Europe.Chaucer's genius was vast, versatile, and original. He seems to have been deeply versed inclassical, in French, and in Italian Literature, aswell as in the Sciences, so far as they were knownin his day, and in the polemical and theologicalquestions which were then the favourite andfashionable studies. His knowledge of human nature was profound . The Knights, the Monks,the Reves, the Prioresses, which he has painted,have long since disappeared; but wherever welook around, we recognise the same passions, andfeelings, and characters; the features remain, although the costume is altered; manners vary, butman remains the same: Human nature, howeverchangeable in fashion, opinion , and outward appearance, is immutable in it's essence. Such asis the Monarch on his throne, such is the peasant8 LECTURES ONin his cottage; such as was the ancient Egyptian wandering among the Pyramids, such is themodern Englishman making the tour of Europe,and the Poet, who " dips"-as Garrick said ofShakspeare, " his pencil in the human heart,"will produce forms and colours, the truth and beautyof which will be recognised, wherever such a heartbeats. Chaucer's versatility was most extraordinary. No English Poet, Shakspeare alone excepted,exhibits such striking instances of Comic and Tragicpowers, united in the same mind. His humourand wit are of the brightest and keenest character;but then his pathos is tremendous, and his descriptive powers are of the highest order.His diction and versification must be looked atwith reference to the age in which he lived, andnot to the splendid models which we now possess.He has been much censured by modern critics fora too liberal use of French and Norman words inhis Poems; but Mr. Tyrwhitt, in his learned dissertation on the subject, has shewn most satisfactorily, that, as compared with his contemporaries,his diction is remarkably pure and vernacular; andSpenser has emphatically called him " a well ofEnglish undefiled." His verses have also been saidto be imperfect, and sometimes to consist of ninesyllables, instead of ten. This is, I think, an equallyENGLISH POETRY. 9unfounded accusation; and, if the Reader willonly take the precaution to make vocal the e final,whenever he meets with it, he will find few linesin Chaucer which are not harmonious and satisfactory to the ear.I have, perhaps, spoken more at large of themerits of Chaucer than is consistent with my planin this Introductory Lecture, but his writings formso important an era in the history of English Poetry, that I feel myself justified in making an exception in his favour. Chaucer died, and left nothing that resembled him behind him. Those Authors who formed what is called the School of Chaucer, are in no particular entitled to the name, excepting that they professed and entertained theprofoundest veneration for their illustrious Master.Gower, although senior both in years and in authorship to Chaucer, and although he claims thelatter as his scholar, -" Grete well Chaucer, when ye meteAs my disciple and Poete,"did not begin to write English Poetry until afterhim, and is therefore placed in his School. He is atame and mediocre writer, but every page displayshis erudition, and shews that he possessed all thelearning and accomplishments of his age. NeitherB 310 LECTURES ONcan much be said in favour of Occleve, or ofLydgate. The former, perhaps possessed moreimagination, and the latter was the better versifier;but both are remembered only in the absence ofsuperior talent.From the death of Chaucer to the middle of thereign of Henry the Eighth, the history of EnglishLiterature is one dull and gloomy blank. Thecivil disturbances by which the kingdom was thenconvulsed, are probably the principal cause of this.While men were trembling for their lives, theywere not likely to occupy themselves greatly eitherin the production, or the perusal, of Literature.The Sceptre first passed from the strenuous graspof Edward the Third into the feeble hands of hisgrandson. Then came the usurpation of Bolingbroke; the rebellion of Northumberland; andafterwards the long and bloody wars of the Roses.Henry the Eighth mounted the throne with anundisputed title. He himself possessed someLiterary talent, and made a shew-probably inemulation of his. illustrious contemporary Francisof France, of patronising letters and the Arts.Hence his reign was adorned by the productionsof some men of real taste and genius, particularlyby those of Lord Surrey, and Sir Thomas Wyatt.Neither of them were men of very commandingjENGLISH POETRY. 11powers, but they were both elegant and accomplished writers, and did much, at least to refineour English versification . Surrey is also distinguished as the first writer of narrative blankverse in our language, although he principallywrote in rhyme. Lord Vaux was also a veryelegant lyrical writer, and some verses from oneof his Songs are quoted by Shakspeare in thegrave-digging scene in " Hamlet." Lord Buckhurst was-in conjunction with Thomas Norton, -the Author of the first English Tragedy, " Gorboduc;” a heavy, cumbrous performance, of butlittle value, except as a curious piece of antiquity.The noble Poet's fame is much better supportedby his " Induction to the Mirror of Magistrates,”a production of great power and originality. Thetyrannical temper of the Sovereign, however, soonbecame manifest; and, together with the contestsbetween the Papists and the Reformers, divertedthe attention of the nation from Literature. Thenoblest and the best were seen daily led to thescaffold; and, among them, Surrey, the accomplished Poet whom I have just mentioned. Thebarbarous feuds stirred up by political and polemical animosity, which now again deluged thenation with blood, did not subside until Elizabethascended the throne. The Reign of Queen Eliza-12 LECTURES ONbeth is the most illustrious period in the Literaryhistory of modern Europe. Much has been saidof the ages of Leo the Tenth, of Louis theFourteenth, and of Queen Anne, but we areprepared to shew that the Literary trophies of thefirst mentioned period , are more splendid andimportant, than those of all the other three united.We are not alluding merely to what passed in ourown country. The superiority of the literary effortsof that age to all the productions of English geniusbefore or since, is too trite a truism to need ouradvocacy. But it is not so generally known, or,at least, remembered, that during the same periodthe other nations of Europe produced their masterSpirits; and that Tasso, Camoens, and Cervantes,were contemporary with Shakspeare. Weigh thesefour names against those of all who have everwritten, since the revival of Learning, to the presenttime, and the latter will be found to be but asdust in the balance. The accomplished scholarsand elegant writers who adorned the Courts ofLeo, of Louis, and of Anne, enjoy and deservetheir fame; but they must not be put in competition with the mighty geniuses, who each, as itwere, made the Literature of their respective countries; whose works are columns " high o'er thewrecks of Time that stand sublime; " and whoseENGLISH POETRY. 13reputations are independent of all the adventitiousadvantages of Schools and Courts, and are theself-reared monuments of great and original minds,which no time shall ever be able to disturb.But though we have named only the four masterSpirits of that period, yet that there is a troopbehind, more numerous than those which wereshewn in Banquo's glass. Spenser, Ben Jonson,Fletcher, Massinger, Lope de Vega, Calderon,Marino, these are bright names, which cannot belost, even in the overwhelming splendour of thosewhich we have already mentioned. In Spain andEngland, Literature, and especially Dramaticl*terature, flourished simultaneously; and a similarity of taste and genius appears to have pervadedboth Nations. The same bold and irregular flightsof Fancy, the same neglect of all classical rules ofcomposition, more than atoned for by the sameoriginal and natural beauties of thought and diction; and the same less venial violations of time,place, and costume, characterise both the Castilianand the English Muses. There appears then tohave existed an intercourse of Literature and intellect between the two Nations, the interruption ofwhich is much to be deprored. The Spanish language was then much studied in England; Spanishplots and scenery were chosen by many of our14 LECTURES ONDramatists, and their dialogues, especially thoseof Jonson and Fletcher, were thickly interspersedwith Spanish phrases and idioms. The marriageof Philip and Mary might probably conduce greatly to this effect; though the progress of the Reformation in England, and the strong political andcommercial hostility, which afterwards existed between the two nations, appear to have put an endto this friendly feeling. English Literature thenbegan to be too closely assimilated to that ofFrance, and sustained, in my opinion, irreparableinjury bythe connection. Spain appears to be ourmore natural ally in Literature; and, it is a curiousfact, that after the Poetry of both nations had fora long period been sunk in tameness and mediocrity, it should at the same time suddenly springinto pristine vigour and beauty, both in the Islandand in the Peninsula; for Melandez, Quintana,and Gonsalez, are the worthy contemporaries ofByron, Wordsworth, Scott, and Moore.Two great Authors of each nation, have also exhibited some curious coincidences, both in thestructure of their minds, and in the accidentsof their lives. Ben Jonson fought in the EnglishArmy against the Spaniards in the Netherlands,and Lope de Vega accompanied the Spanish Armada for the invasion of England. ShakspeareENGLISH POETRY. 15and Cervantes, the profoundest masters of thehuman heart which the modern world has produced,were neither of them mere Scholars, shut up in theseclusion of a study; both were busily engaged .in active life, although one merely trod the mimicstage, and the other acted a part on the World'sgreat Theatre; both were afflicted with a bodilyinfirmity; Shakspeare was lame, and Cervanteshad lost a hand; and, a still stranger coincidenceremains, for both died upon the same day. If itbe indeed true then, that," they do not errWho say that when the Poet diesMute Nature mourns her worshipper,And celebrates his obsequies,"-how shall we be able to estimate the grief whichpervaded Spain and England, on the 12th of April,1616?Elizabeth was unquestionably the first and mostimportant person of the age in which she lived;and, although she was, as Voltaire has somewherecalled her, " Mistress of only half an Island,"still she managed to humble the gigantic power ofSpain; to afford important succour to Henry, theFourth of France; and to lay the foundation ofthat maritime superiority, which has given England,16 LECTURES ONinsignificant as it is in extent and population, soimportant an influence over the destinies of theGlobe. But besides this, she was a munificentand discriminating Patron of letters and literarymen; was herself an accomplished linguist; and,according to Puttenham, " a Poetess of tolerablepretensions." Her Court was thronged with menof letters and of genius. Her Chancellor was theimmortal Bacon, the father of modern Philosophy;among her most distinguished Captains, wereRaleigh and Sidney; among her Peers, were LordBrooke, Vere, Earl of Oxford, and Herbert, Earlof Pembroke, all distinguished Poets; among herPrelates and dignified Divines, were Hall, the firstand best of English Satirists, and Donne, thefounder of what has been called the MetaphysicalSchool of Poetry; and whatever honours she distributed, lawn sleeves, or robes of ermine, Coronets,or badges of Knighthood, they were rarely, ifever, given without reference to the learning andgenius of the receiver.James the First was destitute of the taste andtalent of his great predecessor, but still he wasdesirous of being reputed a Patron of letters;and, by virtue of some stiff, pedantic, and absurd productions of his pen, styled himself an Author. Literature rather advanced than retrogradedENGLISH POETRY. 17under his rule; and indeed, something like thatmighty engine which is now of such enormouspower, Public opinion, began to form in the nation; taking Literature under it's protection, andthus rendering it less dependant, than heretofore,upon the Monarch and the Court. Of the Sovereign, however, who sent Raleigh to the block,no Literary man, or lover of letters, can speakwith respect. The Authors who flourished in hisreign were for the most part those who adornedthat of Elizabeth.The accession of Charles the First seemed anauspicious event for the cause of Literature, andthe Arts. The Sovereign was himself a Prince ofmuch learning, and of a refined and elevatedtaste. To him this nation is indebted for the acquisition of the Cartoons of Raphael; he invitedVandyke, Rubens, Bernini, and other foreignArtists into this country; was the liberal patron ofBen Jonson, Inigo Jones, and other native Poetsand Artists; and, amongst the crimes with whichhe was charged by his enemies, was one which, atthe present day, we cannot judge to be quite unpardonable, namely,-that the volumes of Shakspeare were his companions day and night. ThePoets who flourished in his reign, in addition tothose who survived the reigns of his predecessors,18 LECTURES ONalthough they possessed not the commanding genius, and the wonderful creative powers of the Bardsof the Elizabethan age,- " for there were Giants onthe earth inthose days,"-were yet amongthe mostpolished and elegant writers which the nation hasproduced. The sweetness of their versificationwas not of that tame and cloying nature, which theimitators of Pope afterwards introduced into ourLiterature; smooth to the exclusion of every boldand original thought.The writings of Carew, Crashaw, Waller, Herrick, and Suckling, sparkling with the most brilliant and original ideas, expressed in the mostelegant versification, shine out like precious gemsrichly cased. The favourite amusem*nt of thisperiod was the Dramatic entertainments calledMasques. These were got up at Court with an extraordinary magnificence, which, we are told, modern splendour never reached even in thought;and that the taste in which they were producedwas equal to the splendour, we may rest assured,when we know that Ben Jonson commonly wrotethe Poetry, Lawes composed the Music, and InigoJones designed the decorations. Had Charleslong continued to sway the English sceptre, thereis no doubt that Literature and the Arts, but especially the latter, would have been materially ad-ENGLISH POETRY . 19vanced. To them the establishment of a Commonwealth, whatever it may have effected for thecivil and religious liberties of the country, gave ablow from which they have scarcely yet recovered.The Theatres were kept closed; Stage Plays wereconsidered impious and profane; the Altar- pieceswere torn down, and the statues broken in ourCathedrals, as idolatrous and encouraging theimage-worship of the Papists. Music, which waswont to give so solemn and impressive an effectto the service of the Church, was abolished as oneof the most odious among the abominations of Popery; and Chaucer, Spenser, and Shakspeare,were exiled from the libraries of the orthodox tomake way for Withers, Quarles, and Herbert!Nay, if we are literally to believe the assertion ofan old Author, every thing which bore the slightestresemblance to the popish symbol of the Crucifixwas held in such detestation, that even tailors wereforbidden to sit cross-legged! The King's Paintings, we are told by Whitelocke, were sold atvery low prices, and enriched all the collectionsin Europe; and, but for the tact and managementof Selden, the library and medals of Saint James'swould have been put up to auction, in order to paythe arrears of some regiments of Cavalry, quar-20 LECTURES ONtered near London. Poets, and other literary menwere not only disturbed in their studies by theclang of arms, but many of them exchanged thepen for the sword, and mingled actively in thecontest which raged around them.1 Still, the most stirring and turbulent times arenot the most unfavourable to the productions ofPoetry. The Muse catches inspiration from thestorm, and Genius rides upon the whirlwind, whileperhaps it would only slumber during the calm.Chaucer wrote amidst all the irritation and furyexcited bythe progress ofthe Reformation; Spenserand Shakspeare, while the nation was contendingfor it's very existence against the colossal powerof Spain; and it was during the political andreligious frenzy of the times of which we are nowspeaking, that Milton stored his mind with thosesublime imaginings, which afterwards expandedinto that vast masterpiece of human genius, the" Paradise Lost." There can be but little doubtthat when this illustrious Poet, a man so accomplished in mind and manners, joined the Parliamentary party, he made many sacrifices of tasteand feeling, for what he considered-whethercorrectly or not, it is not now my province toenquire, —the cause of civil and religious liberty.ENGLISH POETRY . 21Neither, vulgar and tastless as was the mass ofthat party, was he without associates of whomeven he had reason to be proud:—" Great men have been among us, hands that penn'd,And tongues that utter'd wisdom: better none;The later Sydney, Marvell, Harrington,Young Vane, and others, who call'd Milton friend."Lycidas," andIn early life he published his charming " Comus,”" L'Allegro," " Il Penseroso,'others of his minor Poems. During the war, hisactive engagements, as Latin Secretary to theProtector, and, generally, as a political partisan,occupied him almost exclusively; although, hehas himself told us, that, even then his mind wasbrooding over the production of something " whichthe world should not willingly let die." It wasnot, however, until " fallen on evil days, andevil tongues," when the once celebrated LatinSecretary, and the future Poet of " all time,” wasonly known as the blind old Schoolmaster of Artillery-walk, that he produced his immortal Epic.The present Introductory Lecture being, as Ihave already stated, rather historical than critical,I shall not here enter into any examination of themerits of " Paradise Lost." I would, however,say a few words as to it's effects upon the Literature22 LECTURES ONof the time. It is a very common error to supposethat it fell almost still- born from the press; or, atleast, that it was generally received with extraordinary coolness and neglect. That it was not atfirst acknowledged to be entitled to occupy thatproud station on the British Parnassus, which isnow universally conceded to it, is unquestionable;but it is equally certain, that when first published ,it was hailed with admiration and delight, by menof the highest talent; and that even throughoutthe nation at large, the circ*mstances of the Author,and the spirit of the times considered, it was farmore successful than could have been reasonablyexpected. The Author was a democrat and adissenter, and the age was ultra-loyal and ultraorthodox: the Poem was thoroughly imbued witha religious feeling and sentiment, and the publicto which it was addressed , was more profligate andirreligious than it had been known to have everbeen before. " Paradise Lost" was moreoverwritten in blank verse; a new, and strange, and,to many ears, an unpleasing style of metre, and ,the purity and severity of taste which reignedthroughout it, was opposed to the popular admiration of the far-fetched conceits and the tawdryornaments ofCowley, and the Metaphysical School.Notwithstanding all these disadvantages, the PoemENGLISH POETRY. 23received extraordinary homage, both from thelearned and the public. Andrew Marvell andDr. Barrow addressed eulogistic verses to theAuthor; and Dryden, the Laureate, and thefavourite Poet of the day, when Milton's Epicwas first introduced to his notice by the Earl ofDorset, exclaimed, " This man cuts us all out,and the ancients too." He also complimentedMilton with the well known Epigram, beginning" Three Poets, in three distant ages born;" andafterwards, with his consent, constructed a Dramacalled " The State of Innocence; or, the Fall ofMan," founded upon " Paradise Lost."dience let me find, though few," says Milton, andhis wish was more than gratified; for above 1300copies a very great number in those days, -ofhis Poem were sold in less than two years; and3000 more in less than nine years afterwards. Itwas not, however, until the celebrated critique ofAddison appeared in the " Spectator," that theEnglish nation at large became aware that itpossessed a native Poet " above all Greek, aboveall Roman fame, " and that it fully rendered himthe honours which were so unquestionably his due." Fit auThe publication of " Paradise Lost" was soonfollowed by that of " Paradise Regained," and"Sampson Agonistes." Neither of the latter works24 LECTURES ONcan be said to have advanced the fame ofthe Authorofthe former; but for any other author they wouldhave assuredly won the wreath of immortality. Theydo not appear to have had any decided influenceupon the taste and spirit ofthe time. The favouritePoets were Butler, Otway, and Dryden: and, ifwe can once forget the sin of overlooking Milton,we must admit that the judgment of the age cannot be very severely arraigned for it's choice offavourites. The matchless Wit of the first, notwithstanding his occasional grossnesses, and histoo general obscurity; the profound pathos, andsweet versification of the Second, notwithstandinghis wretched ribald attempts at wit and humour,his imperfect delineation of character, and thewicked sin of bombast, of which he is always guiltywhen he wishes to be sublime; and the polish,elegance, and majestic flow of versification, thekeen and indignant Satire, and the light and airyfancy of the last, notwithstanding his want of everything that can be strictly called originality or invention; I say that these brilliant endowments of theillustrious. Triumvirate which I have named, aresufficient to eclipse all their imperfections, and tojustify to the utmost, the eulogiums oftheir warmestadmirers. About this period, too, began that brilliant, but profligate School of Comedy, which, inENGLISH POETRY. 25time, could number in it's ranks Wycherley, Etherege, Farquhar, Vanbrugh, Congreve, Centlivre,and, last and least, Cibber. This School has been,strangely enough, termed a French School ofComedy: though all it's characteristics, both ofmerit and defect, appear to me to be perfectlynational. The great stain of profligacy, which isunhappily impressed upon all it's productions, iscertainly not to be traced to the example of ourneighbours: for no one, even with the mostthorough conviction of the superiority of our ownLiterature to their's, can pretend to point out inthe scenes of French Comedy, any thing like theunblushing and shameless indelicacy which disgraces the masterpieces of English wit and humour. I fear that it is to that highly gifted duumvirate, Beaumont and Fletcher, that we must assign the " bad eminence" of having originallygiven to English Comedy this unfortunate characteristic. In the writings of Shakspeare, Jonson,and others of their contemporaries, we meet withoccasional instances of this fault, but in none ofthem is it mixed up so essentially with the entirestamina and spirit of the Drama, as it is in Beaumont and Fletcher. The domination of the Puritansafterwards checked this vitiated taste: but at theRestoration it broke out again in more than pris-•C26 LECTURES ONtine vigour, and continued so long to infect Dramatic Literature, that, with the exception of the" Provoked Husband " of Vanbrugh and Cibber,it would be difficult to point out a single Comedybetween the times of Dryden and Steele, whichcould possibly now be read aloud in reputablesociety. Decency afterwards reigned upon theStage; but, unfortunately, she brought dulnessand imbecility along with her.The reign of Queen Anne, to which our enquiries have now brought us, is a very celebratedperiod in the annals of English Literature, and hasbeen generally styled it's Augustan age. I amnot disposed to quarrel with names. As far asProse Literature is concerned, I am willing toadmit that English Authors, during the reign ofAnne, surpassed all their predecessors . The language certainly then possessed a higher polish, andwas fixed upon a more durable basis, than it hadever attained before; a taste for Literature wasvery generally diffused, and Authors were mostmunificently patronized. Indeed this may ratherbe styled the Golden age for Authors; for eminencein polite Literature was then a passport to wealth,and honour, and sometimes to the highest officesof the State. Rowe was under Secretary for publicaffairs; Congreve enjoyed a lucrative post in theENGLISH POETRY. 27Customs; Swift exercised great authority andinfluence in the Tory cabinet; Prior was Ambassador to the Court of France; and Addison was aSecretary of State; but if, by styling this theAugustan age, it is meant to affirm that it's Poeticalproductions are of a higher order of merit thanthose of any former period of our literary history,then I must pause before I admit the propriety ofso designating it. Grace, fluency, elegance, andI will venture to add, mediocrity, are the characteristics of the Poetry of this age, rather thanstrength, profundity, and originality. True it is,that there are splendid exceptions to this rule, andthat Swift, Pope, and Gay brightened the annalsof the period of which I am speaking; but whatare it's pretensions, when compared with the ageof Queen Elizabeth? What are even the greatnames which I have just mentioned, when weighedagainst those of Jonson, Fletcher, Massinger,Spenser, and Shakspeare? and as to the minorwriters of the two periods, who would dream ofinentioning Donne, Drummond, Brown, Carew,and Herrick, in the same breath with Duke, King,Sprat, Tickell, Yalden, and Hughes? I musteven deny the boasted . refinement of versificationin the latter age; unless to refine be to smooth,and level, and reduce all to one tame and insipidC 228 LECTURES ONequality. Leaving originality out of the question,I will ask, what Lyrical pieces of the age of QueenAnne, can, in mere elegance of diction, and flowof versification, be compared to the Lyrical partsof Jonson's and Beaumont's Dramas, and the sweetSongs of Carew and Herrick? The following isa once much admired Song, by Lord Landsdowne,who was Comptroller of the Household to QueenAnne:-" Thoughtful nights, and restless waking,Oh! the pains that we endure!Broken faith, unkind forsaking,Ever doubting, never sure.Hopes deceiving, vain endeavours,What a race has Love to run!False protesting, fleeting favours ,Every, every way undone.Still complaining, and defending,Both to love, yet not agree;Fears tormenting, passion rending,Oh! the pangs of jealousy.From such painful ways of living,Ah! howsweet could Love be free!Still preserving, still receiving,Fierce, immortal ecstasy!"To these Verses, which, I admit, are exceed-ENGLISH POETRY. 29ingly smooth and flowing, I will oppose some bythe supposed rugged old bard, Ben Jonson; andI will then ask, for I do not wish to bear unreasonably hard upon the noble Poet of the Augustanage, -I say, I will then ask, not which has themost sense, the most meaning, the most Poetry,but which of the two Songs possesses the noblestmusic in the versification?" Oh! do not wanton with those eyes,Lest I be sick with seeing;Nor cast them down, but let them rise,Lest shame destroy their being.Oh! be not angry with those fires,For then their threats will kill me,Nor look too kind on my desires ,For then my hopes will spill me.Oh! do not steep them in thy tears,For so will sorrow slay me,Nor spread them as distract with fears,Mine own enough betray me!"When it is remembered, that these latter verseswere written one hundred years before the former,I think that I shall not excite any surprise, when Isay that I cannot discover in what consists the wonderful refinement, and improvement in versifica-30 LECTURES ONtion, which is boasted to have taken place duringthat period.Pope was the great Poet of that age, and it isto him alone that English versification is indebtedfor all the improvement which it then received;an improvement which is confined to the heroicmeasure of ten syllables . That noble measurehad hitherto been written very lawlessly and carelessly. Denham and Dryden alone, had reducedit to any thing like regularity and rule, and eventhey too often sanctioned, by their example, theblemishes of others. Of Pope, it is scarcely toomuch to say, that there is not a rough or discordant line in all that he has written. Histhoughts, so often brilliant and original, sparklemore brightly by reason of the elegant and flowingrhymes in which they are expressed; and evenwhere the idea is feeble, or common place, themusic of the versification almost atones for it: theear is satisfied , although the mind is disappointed .Still, it must be confessed , that Pope carried hisrefinements too far; his sweetness cloys at last;his music wants the introduction of discords togive full effect to the harmony. The unpleasanteffect produced upon the ear by the frequentlyrunning of the sense of one line with another, andespecially of continuing the sentence from the lastENGLISH POETRY. 31line of one couplet to the first line of the next,Pope felt, and judiciously avoided. Still, for thesense always to find a pause with the couplet, andoften with the rhyme, will necessarily producesomething like tedium and sameness. SucceedingAuthors have been conscious of this fault in Pope'sversification, and have, in some measure, revertedto the practice of his predecessors. Lord Byronespecially, has, by pauses in the middle of the line,and by occasionally, but with judgment and caution, running one line into another, ―enormities,at which the Poet of whom we are now speakingwould have been stricken with horror, -has frequently produced effects of which the well tuned,but somewhat fettered, Lyre of Pope was utterlyincapable. It is, however, injustice to Pope, tospeak of him so long as a mere versifier; great asbis merits were in that respect, his Poetry, as weshall hereafter show, more at length, possessedrecommendations of a higher and nobler order;keen Satire, deep pathos, great powers of description, and wonderful richness and energy ofdiction.At this period, no attempt, worthy of our notice,was made at Epic Poetry, and the leaden sceptreof French taste was stretched over the TragicDrama, and over Lyric, Pastoral, and descriptive32 LECTURES ONPoetry. The Tragedies of Shakspeare weredriven from the Stage, to make way for those ofAddison and Rowe; such Songs as my LordLansdowne's, of which I have given a specimen,were thought wonderfully natural and touching;and Pastoral and descriptive Poetry was in thehands of such rural swains as Ambrose Phillips,and others, who were called men of wit abouttown; who painted their landscapes after themodel of Hyde Park, and the squares; and drewtheir sketches of rural life and manners from whatthey observed at the Levees and the Drawingrooms of the great. Mere unsophisticated simpleNature was considered low and vulgar, and whenGay wrote his " Eclogues," which he intendedshould be burlesque, he went to the furthestpossible remove from the fashionable and elegantway of writing Pastoral Poetry, and so, unconsciously produced a real and natural likeness ofrustic scenery and society. There is a well knownpicture of day- break by Shakspeare, which,although comprised in two lines, possesses moreofreality and vividness than can be found in wholevolumes of diffuse description which I could name:" Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund DayStands tiptoe on the misty mountain's top."ENGLISH POETRY. 33This passage would have been considered vile andvulgar by the critics of those days: the word" candles" would have been voted low and unpoetical, and " torches ," perhaps, substituted forit; " Day" would never have been described asstanding " tiptoe ," but as with " foot upraised,"or " proudly advancing;" and what gentlemanwho walked about the Strand and the Mall, writingPastoral poetry, would, when speaking of " mountain tops," have thought of the mists which sometimes envelope them, or would have dreamedthat such ugly accompaniments could possibly addto their sublimity and beauty? Shakspeare hasso little idea of what is regal and Roman, that heshews us Lear, tottering about amidst the peltingof the storm, and taking shelter with a madmanand a fool in a hovel; and describes Julius Cæsaras once shivering with an ague- fit; —Aye, and that tongue of his, that bade the RomansMark him, and write his speeches in their books,Alas! it cried, ' give me some drink, Titinius,'Like a sick girl!"In the Augustan age, however, things were orderedvery differently; -" On avoit changé tout cela. "Alexander could not appear upon the Stage untilc 334 LECTURES ONone of the persons of the Drama exclaims, " Behold! the master of the world approaches!" Cato,when for the first time he sees the dead body ofhis son, does not as Shakspeare, in his ignorance,would have probably made him do, -" Shed some natural tears, but wipe them soon, "but merely exclaims, " What a pity it is that onecan die but once to serve our country!" and, whenthe heroine of the " Cid" learns that her Father hasbeen slain by her lover, what does she do? Innature, she would faint, or at any rate she wouldcertainly not think of ceremony, but in the Drama,she makes the politest of all possible curtsies tothe company, and begs that they will excuse herretiring for a few moments!The fact is, that the age of Anne rendered itselfillustrious by it's Prose writings. It's Poetry is,withfewexceptions, exceedingly mediocre. Pope,Gay, Swift, Steele, Shaftsbury, Addison, andBolingbroke, are it's foremost Authors. Of these,the first alone is entitled to the rank of a greatPoet, and the Poetry of the last five is too triflingand unimportant to be taken into the account.The history of English Poetry for a long periodafterwards presents a very dreary and melancholyENGLISH POETRY. 35prospect. It is in the Didactic walk alone, whichis the nearest allied to Prose, that we meet withany production approaching to excellence, withthe exception of the beautiful Odes of Collins.Thomson, Akenside, Goldsmith, Young, andDyer, are men to whom English Literature isgreatly indebted, and who distinguished themselvesas much as the narrow walk in which they choseto be confined would allow them . Thomson especially did much to bring back the artificial taste ofthe public to a just appreciation of natural scenesand sentiments, naturally described and expressed.His exclamation on the publication of Glover's" Leonidas," " What! he write an Epic Poemwho never saw a mountain! " shews that he wellknew that Nature was the only school in whichtrue Poetry is taught. Yet even Thomson himselfwas somewhat infected with the taste of the age,and is too fond of pompous and high- soundingdiction, in which we frequently find his beautifulthoughts obscured, instead of being adorned.This objection, however, does not apply to the" Castle of Indolence," the most delightful production of it's age. Akenside wrote elegantly andclassically, with precision, and with energy. Goldsmith is perfection in every thing that he hasdone the only thing to regret is, that he has done36 LECTURES ONso little. Young, so often turgid and declamatory,is not, I confess, much to my taste, although hehas doubtless many bold and original thoughts,which he expresses very powerfully. Dyer, inhis long Poem upon Sheep-shearing has made asmuch of so unpoetical a theme as could possiblybe expected; but the theme, after all , had betterhave been let alone. The Epics of Blackmore,of Wilkie, and of Glover, once enjoyed considerable popularity. They have now passed intocomparative oblivion; and, with the exception ofthe " Leonidas" of the last, they have achievedonly the destiny which they merited. Gloverwas a Scholar, and a man of taste. His Poem ischaste, classical, and elegant; but at the sametime, defective in action, character, passion , andinterest. The sentiments are just, and eloquentlyexpressed, and the imagery and descriptions arein strict congruity with the classical nature of thesubject; but still the effect of the entire Poem issuch, that we rather approve than admire. WhatDr. Johnson said of his Dramatic namesake, may,with much more truth and propriety, be appliedto Glover:--" Cold approbation gives the lingering bays,And those who dare not censure, scarce can praise. "ENGLISH POETRY. 37But brighter days were about to dawn on EnglishPoetical Literature. The public became satiatedwith the mediocrity with which their poetical caterers gorged them, and they began to turn theireyes upon the elder writers, whose traditionaryfame still survived, and whose works were muchtalked of, although they were little read. Johnsonand Steevens published their edition of Shakspeare;and so laid the foundation of that general knowledgeand due appreciation of the merits of the greatDramatist, which forms so distinguishing and creditable a feature in the public taste at the presentday. Percy gave to the world those invaluableliterary treasures, the " Reliques of Ancient English Poetry," which, although at first receivedwith coolness and neglect, eventually, by theirsimplicity and beauty, extorted general admiration;and, as Mr. Wordsworth has said, " absolutelyredeemed the Poetry of this country."-" I donot think," adds this distinguished Author, " thatthere is an able writer in verse of the present day,`who would not be proud to acknowledge hisobligations to the Reliques.' I know that it is sowith my friends; and for myself, I am happy tomake a public avowal of my own. " The newEdition of Shakspeare turned the attention of thepublic to the works of his contemporaries, and'38 LECTURES ONBeaumont and Fletcher, Ford, Massinger, andJonson, with all the world of literary wealth whichtheir works contain, were given to the public bythe successive labours of Seward, Whalley, Coleman, Weber, and Gifford. Ellis and Headleyalso published their " Specimens ofthe Ancient English Poets;" and Dr. Anderson sent forth into theworld his Edition of the English Poets, includingall those mighty Bards who were omitted in Dr.Johnson's Edition, by reason of the strange planwhich he imposed upon himself, or which wasdictated to him by others, of beginning that collection with the works of Cowley. An Author too,of a far higher character for originality of mind,purity of taste, simplicity of thought and expression, and deep observation of nature, than hadcome before the public for many years, appearedin the person of the highly-gifted, but ill-fatedCowper. The success of his exquisite " Task"was so rapid and brilliant, as to shewthat the tasteof the public had undergone a great revolution,since the time when the Pastorals of Phillips, theHeroics of Blackmore, and the Lyrics of Lansdowne, were it's favourite studies.Into the merits and the authenticity of two works,which created an extraordinary sensation about thistime, I shall have a more convenient opportunityENGLISH POETRY. 39of enquiring in a subsequent Lecture. I meanthe Poems attributed to Rowley the Saxon, and toOssian the Celtic, Poets. The authenticity of theformer appears to be a point which is now verygenerally given up; but that of the latter is aquestion with which the literary world is stillagitated, and with which it will probably continueto be agitated, as long as the Poems themselvesare extant.Having thus endeavoured to lay before you thehistory of the rise and progress of English Poetry,from the days of Chaucer to those of Cowper, Ido not intend to bring the enquiry down to a'laterperiod, or to venture upon any discussion of themerits of the writers of the present day. There is,however, one omission in my Lecture which mayperhaps require an explanation. I have not directedyour attention to the Scottish Poets who flourishedduring the period which has been embraced by ourenquiries. This omission has occurred, not, Itrust, from any insensibility to the merits of thosedistinguished writers, but from a consciousness ofmy own inability to speak critically upon thesubject. To select a few names at random ,Dunbar, the northern Chaucer; James the First,the only Monarch whose poetical laurels have beenlarge enough to hide his diadem; and Burns, the40 LECTURES ONmost exquisite Lyrical Poet which this nation or anyother has ever yet possessed, are Authors whosemerits, although they may be universally felt andappreciated, can only be critically expounded andpointed out by a native of the country to whichthey belong.Here, therefore, must we pause for the present:the illustrious names which have " been familiar inour mouths as household words," carry their owneulogy along with them; and I will venture toassert, that there are few persons who will refuseto echo the sentiment of a distinguished livingwriter;-" Blessings be on them, and eternal praise,The Poets!"ENGLISH POETRY. 41LECTURE THE SECOND.EPIC AND NARRATIVE POETRY.

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Epic Poetry in general: -Epic and Dramatic Poetry compared:-Critical distinction between Taste and Genius:-Chaucer, Spenser, and Milton compared:-The Mirrorfor Magistrates: -Lord Buckhurst:-Drayton: -Chamberlain's Pharonnida: -Chapman's Homer, and other oldEnglish Translations of Epic and Narrative Poetry: -Milton:-Influence of Paradise Lost on the NationalTaste:-Paradise Regained: -Cowley's Davideis: -Davenant: -Dryden: -The Translations of Rowe, Pope, &c.-Authenticity of Macpherson's Ossian: -Chatterton.HAVING already treated the subject of EnglishPoetry historically, and endeavoured to give asketch of the revolutions in Public taste andopinion, I shall not consider myself any longerbound to speak of the Authors who may comeunder our review in any Chronological order, butshall classify them according to the nature of thesubjects on which they have written. I shall,therefore, devote this, and the remaining Lectures, to the consideration, -First, of Epic and42 LECTURES ONNarrative Poetry; Secondly, of Dramatic Poetry;Thirdly, of Descriptive and Didatic Poetry; including Pastoral and Satire; and Fourthly, ofLyrical and Miscellaneous Poetry. In pursuanceof which arrangement, we shall at present confineour attention to the subject of Epic and NarrativePoetry..Poems haveThe production of a standard Epic Poem hasbeen generally considered the highest effort ofhuman genius, and so seldom has such an effortbeen made, that the rarity of such an occurrencealone, would seem to justify the very high estimatewhich has been formed of it's value. I will not attempt to say how many, or how few,been produced, which are really and truly of anEpic character. Some Critics maintain that thereis only one, the production of the immortal Fatherof Poetry; others admit the " Eneid" into thelist; Englishmen struggle to obtain the Epic baysfor Milton; and the Italians, the Portuguese,and the Germans are equally strenuous in theiradvocacy of the rights of Tasso, of Camoens, andof Klopstock. Even granting all these claims,and I am not aware of another which is deservingof a moment's consideration , we shall find that theWorld has, during the Six thousand years of it'sexistence, produced only six Epic Poets.

ENGLISH POETRY . 43I know that there are Critics who consider theDrama entitled to a higher rank than the Epopée.For my own part, I would rather" Bless the Sun, than reason how it shines: "-I would rather enjoy the beauties of the Epic andthe Dramatic Muses, than oppose them to eachother, and awaken controversy as to their relativeexcellencies. As the subject, however, forcesitself upon us, and as I mean to touch it reverently, for,-" We do it wrong, being so majestical,To offer it the shew of violence,"I will venture a few observations upon it. TheDrama is to Epic Poetry, what Sculpture is toHistorical Painting. It is, perhaps, on the whole,a severer Art. It rejects many adventitious aidsof which the Epic may avail itself. It has moreunity and simplicity. It's figures stand out moreboldly, and in stronger relief. But then it has noaerial background; it has no perspective of enchantment; it cannot draw so largely on the imaginationof the spectator; it must present to the eye, andmake palpable to the touch, what the Epic Poetmay steep in the rainbow hues of Fancy, and veil,44 LECTURES ONbut with a veil of light, woven in the looms of hisImagination. The Epopée comprises Narrationand Description, and yet must be, in many parts,essentially Dramatic. The Epic Poet is theDramatic Author and the Actor combined. Thefine characteristic speech which Milton puts intothe mouth of Moloch, in the Second Book of" Paradise Lost," proves him to have been possessed of high powers for Dramatic writing; andwhen, after the speech is concluded, the Poetadds, -“ He ended frowning, and his look denouncedDesperate revenge, and battle dangerousTo less than Gods:"-he personates the character with a power andenergy worthy of the noblest Actor. I have saidthat the Epic Poet is the Dramatist and the Actorcombined; but he is more. He must not onlywrite the Dialogue, and create the Actors who areto utter it, but he must also erect the Stage onwhich they are to tread, and paint the scenes inwhich they are to appear. Still, the Drama, bythe very circ*mstances which condense and circ*mscribe it's powers, becomes capable of excitinga more intense and tremendous interest. Hencethere are pieces of Dramatic writing which, evenENGLISH POETRY. 45in the perusal only, have an overwhelming power,to which Epic Poetry cannot attain. The ThirdAct of " Othello," the Dagger scene in " Macbeth," and the interview between Wallensteinand the Swedish Captain, may be adduced as instances. Perhaps, to sum up the whole question,what the Epic Poet gains in expansion and variety,the Dramatic Poet gains in condensation and intensity. When Desdemona says to Othello, -" And yet I fear,When your eyes roll so;"we have as vivid a portrait of the Moor's countenance, as the most laboured description couldgive us. Again, how powerfully is the frown onthe features of the Ghost in " Hamlet" picturedto us in two lines:-" So frown'd he once, when in an angry parle,He smote the sledded Polack on the ice."Such descriptions would be meagre and unsatisfactory in Epic Poetry; more diffuse ones wouldmar the interest, and impede the action in theDrama. In the Drama the grand pivot uponwhich the whole moves is Action; in Epic Poetryit is narration. Narration is the fitter medium forrepresenting a grand series of events; and action,46 LECTURES ONfor exhibiting the power and progress of a passion,or the consequences of an incident. Hence, thesiege of Troy, the wanderings of Ulysses, andthe loss of Paradise, are Epic subjects; and thejealousy of Othello, the ambition of Macbeth, andthe results of the ill-grounded partiality of Lear,are Dramatic ones. The Epic Poet takes a loftierflight; the Dramatist treads with a firmer step.The one dazzles; the other touches. The Epic iswondered at; the Drama is felt. We lift Miltonlike a conqueror above our heads; we clasp Shakspeare like a brother to our hearts!Before I proceed further, it will be requisite tostate the sense in which I shall use two words,which will necessarily occur very frequently in thecourse of these Lectures; -namely, Genius andTaste. Genius, I should say, is the power ofproduction; Taste is the power of appreciation.Genius is creation; Taste is selection . HoraceWalpole was a man of great Taste, without anatom of Genius. Nathaniel Lee was a man ofGenius, without Taste. Dryden had more Geniusthan Pope. Pope had more Taste than Dryden.Many instances may be adduced of obesity ofTaste in men of Genius; especially with referenceto their own works. Milton, who had Geniusenough to produce " Paradise Lost," had notENGLISH POETRY. 47Taste enough to perceive it's superiority over" Paradise Regained." Rowe, who produced somany successful Tragedies, all of which- althoughI am no violent admirer of them, -possessed acertain degree of merit, valued himself most uponthe wretched ribaldry in his Comedy of the" Biter." Dr. Johnson was proud of his Dictionary, and looked upon the " Rambler” as atrifle of which he ought almost to be ashamed.The timidity and hesitation with which manyjuvenile Authors have ventured to lay their worksbefore the public, and their surprise when publicopinion has stamped them as works of high merit,have been attributed to humility and bashfulness.The fact, however, is often otherwise; it is nothumility, but want of Taste. Genius, or thepower of producing such works, is not accompanied by Taste, or the power of appreciating them.Taste is of later growth in the mind than Genius;and the reason is, I think, obvious. Genius isinnate; a part and portion of the mind; born withit; while Taste is the result of observation, andenquiry, and experience. However the folly andvanity of ignorance and presumption may havedeluged the public with worthless productions,there can be no doubt that the deficiency of Tastein men of Genius, has deprived the world of many48 LECTURES ONa work of merit and originality. Genius is oftenstartled at the boldness of her own ideas; while," Fools rush in, where Angels fear to tread."Having said thus much in explanation of thesense in which I shall use two words, which are sooften employed in a vague and indefinite manner,let us return to the immediate subject before us.It has been said that English Literature cannotboast of the possession of any work which is strictlyentitled to be denominated an Epic Poem. Iknow not exactly what this assertion means. If itmean that the works of the English Poets are notcuriously and exactly modelled after the exampleof classical writers, then I admit and I glory in it'struth. The great characteristic of English Literature, from the days of Chaucer to the present time,has been it's originality. Words are arbitrary, andI care not greatly whether the specific term Epiccan be appropriately applied to the works ofChaucer, or of Spenser, or of Milton. If theCritics who are such strenuous advocates for theexclusive possession of the Epic bays by Homerand Virgil, will be conciliated by such a concession, I will be content that " Paradise Lost " shallbe called a Divine Poem; the " Fairy Queen," a•ENGLISH POETRY. 49Romantic Poem; and the " Canterbury Tales," aNarrative Poem. If original Genius, if severeTaste, if profound knowledge of human nature,if a luxuriant imagination, and a rich and copiousdiction, entitle a Poet to the highest honours of hisArt, then are the three illustrious Englishmenwhom I have named, whether I may call themEpic Poets, or not, eminently and incontestiblyentitled to those honours.IThese three Poets have not many points ofcomparison. They are each original and great. Ifmay. be allowed to illustrate my opinions by areference to the sister art, I should say, thatChaucer's outlines are more spirited and graceful;but that Spenser is the finer colourist. ChaucerIshould compare to Raffaelle; Spenser to Rubens:but then Chaucer combined with all his eleganceand beauty, many laughing graces which neitherhis brother bard, nor the illustrious artist whom Ihave just named, possessed. If one could supposea congruity in such a combination, I should saythat Chaucer was Raffaelle and Teniers combined:Raffaelle, perhaps, a little lowered from his pinnacle of dignity and elegance, and Teniers certainly much elevated above his vulgarity and grossFor the genius of Milton, I can hardlyfind a fitting comparison. When he sets the Deitynesses.D50 LECTURES ONin arms, when he marshals myriads of malignantSpirits in battle array against Omnipotence, whenhe paints the bliss of Heaven, and the horrors ofHell, he reminds me of the power and sublimityof Michael Angelo: when he shews us our firstParents, sinless, artless, and endowed with godlikebeauty;-" Adam the goodliest Man of men since bornHis sons; the fairest of her daughters, Eve; "he exhibits all the grace and beauty of Raffaelle:when he paints the happy fields of Paradise, whereNature played at will her virgin fancies, he seemsto have caught the pencil of Claude Lorraine; andwhen we listen to the solemn and majestic flow ofhis verse, and the ear dwells on the rich harmonyof his periods, we are reminded of another Art,and feel that neither Mozart, nor Handel, couldproduce Music so perfect and soul- stirring as thatof Milton.In the former Lecture I discussed, as fully asmy limits would permit me, the merits of Chaucer,the Father of English Poetry. Spenser is anAuthor of a very different stamp . To Wit orHumour, he has no pretensions. Neither are hisdelineations of human character at all comparableENGLISH POETRY. 51to those of his great predecessor. Chaucer'sknowledge of the heart of man was almost Shakspearean. Spenser had, however, a richer imagination. He was a greater inventor, although aless acute observer. Chaucer was incapable ofcreating such original imaginary beings as theFays, Elves, Heroes, and Heroines of Spenser;and Spenser was equally incapable of the exquisitetruth and fidelity of Chaucer's portraitures fromreal life. There is also a fine moral and didactictone running through the " Fairy Queen," whichwe look for in vain, in the “ Canterbury Tales.”Spenser's imagery is magnificent. His descriptivepowers are of the highest order. Here the twoPoets approximate more than in any other particular: yet, even here they essentially differ.Spenser paints Fairy haunts, enchanted Palaces,unearthly Paradises, things such as Caliban sawin his sleep, and, " waking, cried to dream again."Chaucer's pencil depicts the smiling verdant English landscape, which we see before us everyday; the grass, the flowers, the brooks, the bluesky, and the glowing sun.When we open the volumes of Spenser, weleave this " working- day world, " as Rosalind callsit, behind us. We are no longer in it, or of it.We are introduced to a new creation, new scenes,D 252 LECTURES ONnew manners, new characters. The laws of Nature are suspended, or reversed . The possible,the probable, and the practicable, all these arethrown behind us. The mighty Wizard whosespell is upon us, waves but his wand, and a newWorld starts into existence, inhabited by nothingbut the marvellous and the wild. Spenser is thevery antipodes of Shakspeare. The latter is of theearth, earthy. His most ethereal fancies havesome touch of mortality about them. His wildestand most visionary characters savour of humanity.Whatever notes he draws forth from his Harp, itis the strings of the human heart that he touches.Spenser's Hero is always Honour, Truth, Valour,Courtesy, but it is not Man. His Heroine isMeekness, Chastity, Constancy, Beauty, but it isnot Woman;-his landscapes are fertility, magnificence, verdure, splendour, but they are notNature. His pictures have no relief; they are alllight, or all shadow; they are all wonder, but notruth. Still do I not complain of them; nor wouldI have them other than what they are. They aredelightful, and matchless in their way.dreams: glorious, soul- entrancing dreams. Theyare audacious, but magnificent falsehoods. Theyare like the Palaces built in the clouds; the domes,the turrets, the towers, the long- drawn terraces,They areENGLISH POETRY. 58the aërial battlements, who does not knowthat theyhave no stable existence? but, who does not sighwhen they pass away?The " Mirrorfor Magistrates " was a work towhich many ofthe most eminent Writers in Elizabeth's Reign contributed . It consists of Narratives of the adventures of certain Princes, andother great characters in English history, whoselives had been unfortunate. It's incidents arefounded on the old Chronicles, which, indeed, arefollowed so servilely in general, as to give to thework a very prosaic character, and to take fromit all claim to originality. The most valuable portion of it is the Induction, by Lord Buckhurst.The Poet supposes himself to be led, like Dante,to the Infernal Regions, under the conduct ofSorrow; where he meets with the Spirits of thosepersons, alike distinguished for their high station,and their misfortunes, whose narrations composethe Volume. He also meets with various Allegorical characters: such as Fear, Sorrow, Old Age,Sleep, and Death; and it is in the wonderful powerand spirit with which the Poet personifies theseallegorical beings, that the great merit of his workconsists. What, for instance, can be finer, ortruer, than the following picture of Old Age?—54 LECTURES ON" And next in order sad Old Age we found;His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind,With drooping cheer still poring on the ground,As on the place where nature him assign'dTo rest, when that the Sisters had untwinedHis vital thread, and ended with their knife,The fleeting course of fast- declining life.Crookback'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear- eyed,Went on three feet, and sometimes crept on four;With old lame bones that rattled by his side,His scalp all piled, and he with eld forlore;His wither'd fist still knocking at Death's door.Trembling and drivelling as he draws his breath,In brief, the shape and messenger of Death."Sleep is also delineated with the pencil of amaster:-" By him lay heavy Sleep, Cousin of Death,Flat on the ground, and still as any stone;Avery corpse, save yielding forth a breath;Small keep took he, whom Fortune frowned on,Or whom she lifted up into the ThroneOf high renown; but as a living death,So dead alive, of life he drew the breath.The body's rest, the quiet of the heart,The travail's ease, the still Night's fere was he,And ofour life in earth the better part;Rever of sight, and yet in whom we seeThings oft' that ' tide, and oft' that never be.ENGLISH POETRY. 55Without respect, esteeming equallyKing Croesus' pomp, and Irus' poverty."The following description of Night may likewisechallenge a comparison with any thing on the samesubject in the language:-" Midnight was come, when every vital thingWith sweet, sound sleep their weary limbs did rest;The beasts were still, the little birds that sing,Now sweetly slept beside their mother's breast,The old and all were shrouded in their nest;The waters calm, the cruel seas, did cease,The woods, and fields, and all things held their peace.The golden Stars were whirl'd amid their race,And on the Earth did laugh with twinkling light;When each thing nestled in his resting place,Forgot Day's pains with pleasure of the Night:The hare had not the greedy hound in sight;The fearful deer of death stood not in doubt;The partridge dreamt not of the falcon's foot."I have not time to dwell at large upon the meritsof the other Narrative Poets of the Elizabethanage. Drayton was a man of real genius; but,like many of his contemporaries, he was a badeconomist of his powers. He wasted them uponunworthy subjects; and often exhibits feebleness,on occasions where the exertion of his highest56 LECTURES ONpowers is demanded and deserved. Warner inhis " Albion's England " has preserved many ofour old national traditions, and embellished themwith much truth, nature, and simplicity. TheBallad stanza, however, in which he writes, becomes tedious and fatiguing, when excruciated tothe length in which he employs it. Chamberlain's" Pharonnida” is a very noble work. The characters are drawn and supported with great truthand force; the action of the Poem is eventful andinteresting, and the images bold, natural, andoriginal. A very few instances will suffice toshew how rich the Poem is in the latter particular.Joys not yet mature, or consummated, are elegantlysaid to be" Clothed in freshBlossoms of Hope, like Souls ere mix'd with flesh:"and Hope is styled" That wanton bird that sings as soon as hatch'd. "The agitation of Pharonnida, when discoveredby her Father with her Lover's letter in her hand,is thus described: —" She standsAburthen to her trembling legs, her handsENGLISH POETRY. 57Wringing each other's ivory joints, her brightEyes scattering their distracted beams. "May wrote the Histories of Henry the Second,and of Edward the Third, in verse. He alsotranslated the " Georgics " of Virgil, and the"Pharsalia" of Lucan. The last is a performanceof great merit; as is also the continuation of thePoem to the death of Julius Cæsar, by the translator. The Reign of Queen Elizabeth was peculiarly rich in Poetical translations. Fairfax's Tasso,which was so long and so strangely neglected, isnow recovering it's popularity. Of all the strangecaprices of the Public taste, there is none morestrange, than the preference which was given tothe rhyme-tagged prose of Hoole, over this spiritedand truly poetical production of Fairfax. Chapman's Homer, with all it's faults, is also a production of great value and interest. The " Iliad " iswritten in the cumbrous and unwieldly old Englishmeasure of fourteen syllables , which, however, theAuthor had the judgment to abandon in the 66 Odyssey," for the heroic measure of ten. Thefollowing description from the Thirteenth Book ofthe " Iliad," of Neptune and his chariot, will,notwithstanding it's occasional quaintness, sufficiently prove the power and energy of the Translator:-D 358 LECTURES ON" He took much ruth to see the Greeks from Troy receivesuch ill,And mightily incenst with Jove, stoop'd straight from thatsteep hill;That shook as he flew off, so hard his parting press'd theheight,The woods and all the great hills near, trembled beneath theweightOf his immortal moving feet: three steps he only took,Before he far off Egas reach'd; but with the fourth itshookWith his dread entry. In the depth of those seas he didholdHis bright and glorious Palace, built of never- rusting gold;And there arrived , he put in coach his brazen footed steeds,All golden- maned, and paced with wings, and all in goldenweedsHe clothed himself; the golden scourge, most elegantly done,He took, and mounted to his seat, and then the God begunTo drive his chariot through the waves. From whirlpitsevery wayThe whales exulted under him, and knew their King; theSeaFor joy did open, and his horse so light and swiftly flew,The under axle-tree of brass no drop of water drew. "Chapman is remarkable for translating literallythe compound epithets of the Greeks, which areso very striking and powerful in the original; butwhich, unhappily, cannot be transferred to ourlanguage with the same felicity. Pope calls JunoENGLISH POETRY. 59"the Goddess of the large majestic eyes," whichis certainly a somewhat too free amplification ofthe original epithet. Chapman more literally, butI am afraid not more happily, calls her " the coweyed Queen.'""Crashaw's Translation of Marino's " Sospettid' Herode" is the best, or, I believe the only,version in our language, of a work of singularbeauty and originality; to which Milton is clearlyindebted for hints for some of the finest passagesin " Paradise Lost," These works, togetherwith Harrington's Ariosto, and other translationsof the same period from the classical and ItalianPoets, deserve to be much better known to thepublic, at least in the shape of extract and specimen . We have been regaled with Specimens ofold English Ballads, of old English Metrical Romances, and of old English Dramatists, and Ihope that it will not be long before some Editor ofcompetent taste and research, will present us withSpecimens of the old English Translators.The Second great name in the annals of EnglishPoetry is Milton: which is the First, of course, Ineed not say. Many other Poets have excelledhim in variety and versatility; but none ever approached him in intensity of style and thought,in unity of purpose, and in the power and grandeur60 LECTURES ONwith which he piles up the single monument ofGenius, to which his mind is for the time devoted.His Harp may have but one string, but that issuch an one, as none but his own finger knows howto touch. " Paradise Lost " has few inequalities;few feeblenesses. It seems not like a work takenand continued at intervals; but one continuingeffort; lasting, perhaps, for years, yet never remitted: elaborated with the highest polish, yetwith all the marks of ease and simplicity in it'scomposition. To begin with the least of Milton'smerits, what Author ever knew how toup" Untwist all the links that tieThe hidden soul of Harmony,"as he did? Whence came his knowledge? Whatrules or system did he proceed upon, in buildingup his magnificent Stanza? And what has becomeof the discovery which he made? for assuredly ithas not been preserved by his successors. Thereis no blank verse worthy of the name, -- realverse ", not measured prose, but the legitimate medium for the expression of the thoughts and feelings of Poetry, -beyond the volumes of Milton.The peculiar distinguishing feature of Milton'sPoetry is it's Sublimity. The sublime is reachedENGLISH POETRY. 61by other Poets when they excel themselves, andhover for a moment amidst unusual brightness;but it is Milton's native reign. When he descends,it is to meet the greatness of others; when hesoars, it is to reach heights unattainable by anybut himself. The first two Books of " ParadiseLost " are one continuous effort of unmitigatedsublimity. I know of no spot, or blemish, or inequality, or falling off, from the beginning of theFirst Book to the close of the Second; and then,how wonderfully fine is the contrast, whenthe ThirdBook opens with that inimitably pathetic addressto Light, in which the Poet alludes, with a pardonable egotism, to the calamity under which heis himself suffering:-“ Hail holy Light! offspring of Heaven first-born,Or of th' eternal co-eternal beam!"Because Milton is universally admitted to excelin sublimity, some Critics have chosen to deny himpathos: but this is the very cant of Criticism, whichwill insist upon it that the faults of every Authormust balance his excellencies, and which delightsin nothing but antithesis. Thus Shakspeare we aretold, is a great but irregular Genius; Jonson is apowerful but a rough and coarse writer; and Mil-62 LECTURES ONton is a sublime but not a pathetic Poet: whereasthe plain fact, obvious to all who take the troubleto examine it, is, that Shakspeare is not an irregular Genius, that Jonson is not a rough or coarsewriter, that Milton is a pathetic Poet, and a writerof powerful, of tremendous pathos.Need I, to prove my last assertion, do morethan direct your attention to Adam's lament afterhis fall; to Eve's farewell to Paradise; or to Satan,when about to address his adherents, and endeavouring to assume the tone and aspect of a God,bursting involuntarily into tears, " tears such asAngels shed," as the remembrance of the heightfrom which he has fallen, forces itself upon hismemory, and compels this evidence of his weakness. Milton's descriptive powers are also of thehighest order. Whether he paints landscape, orhistory, it is with the pencil of a master. Theburning lake, the bowers of Paradise, Angelsand Demons, Humanity and Deity, all are pourtrayed with unerring fidelity and truth. There areindeed few things by which a writer of real Geniusis more easily known, than by his descriptions.This is the most difficult, and the most delightfulchord of the Poet's harp; and there is perhapsnothing in the whole range of Poetry which givesso much unmixed pleasure, as that descriptive ofENGLISH POETRY. 63natural objects; while, at the same time, in nothing is a depraved taste, or a defect of genius,sooner discovered, or more intolerable. A greatfault into which descriptive writers too commonlyfall, is the vagueness and indistinctness of theirpictures: they have no specific likeness. Everything is described in generals. No new ideas areconveyed to the mind; but a dim and shadowyphantom seems to haunt the brain of the writer.This arises, either from ignorance of the objectsdescribed, or from a want of Taste to seize andappropriate their characteristic features. Whoeverenjoys but faint and imperfect conceptions himself,must fail in presenting any very vivid or strikingpictures to others. If we were to cause the representations of many of our modern Poets to befaithfully transferred to the canvas, we shouldquickly discover how defective and unnatural, howutterly shapeless and monstrous, some of theirmost celebrated delineations are.Opposed to this fault, is another equally fatal,which descends so minutely and curiously into particulars, neither governed by taste in the selection,or judgment in the appropriation of circ*mstances,that, instead of a noble picture, we are presentedwith a piece of fantastical patchwork. Suchwriters stand in much the same relation to the64 LECTURES ONmasters of descriptive Poetry, as a book of theroads in the neighbourhood of Claude's most celebrated scenes, to his enchanting paintings. Thefollowing extract from Cowley will sufficiently illustrate what I mean. It is a description of theAngel Gabriel, as he appeared to David:-"He took for skin, a cloud most soft and bright,That ere the mid-day Sun pierced through with light;Upon his cheeks a lively blush he spread,Wash'd from the Morning's beauties' deepest red;An harmless flaming meteor shone for hair,And fell adown his shoulders with loose care;He cuts out a silk mantle from the skies,Where the most sprightly azure pleased the eyes;This he with starry vapours sprinkles all,Took in their prime, ere they grow ripe and fall;Of a new rainbow ere it fret or fade,The choicest piece cut off, a scarf is made."Dr. Johnson justly says, that " Cowleycould notlet us go till he had related where Gabriel got firsthis skin, and then his mantle, then his lace, and thenhis scarf, and related it in the terms of the Mercerand Tailor." But how happily, on the contrary,has Milton described the same object, " a Seraphwinged:"-" Six wings he wore to shadeHis lineaments divine. The pair that cladENGLISH POETRY. 65Each shoulder broad , came mantling o'er his breastWith regal ornament; the middle pairGirt like a starry zone his waist, and round,Skirted his loins and thighs with downy gold,And colours dipt in heaven; the third his feetShadow'd from either heel with feather'd mail,Sky-tinctured grain. Like Maia's son he stood,And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance fill'dThe circuit wide. "The same immortal master has touched with a yetfiner and more delicate pencil, the persons of ourfirst parents in Paradise:-" Two offar nobler shape, erect and tall,Godlike erect, with native honour clad,In naked majesty, seem'd lords of all;And worthy seem'd; for in their looks divineThe image of their glorious Maker shone;Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure,Severe, but in true filial freedom placed,Whence true authority in men; though bothNot equal, as their sex not equal seem'd:For contemplation he, and valour form'd;For softness she, and sweet attractive grace;He for God only, she for God in him.His fair large front, and eye sublime, declaredAbsolute rule; and hyacinthine locksRound from his parted forelock manly hungClustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad;She as a veil, down to her slender waist,Her unadorned golden tresses wore66 LECTURES ON;Dishevell❜d, but in wanton ringlets waved,As the vine curls her tendrils."Cowley is one of the earliest names of eminencein the history of English Lyrical Poetry, and it isprincipally in reading his Odes that we lamentthose metaphysical conceits, which obscure thereputation of a genius of first-rate ability. But"the light that led astray was light from Heaven."His very faults are the offspring of Genius; theyare the exuberances of a mind " o'er- informedwith meaning;" the excrescences of a tree, whosewaste foliage, if properly pruned and arranged,would form an immortal wreath on the brows ofany humbler genius. But he now claims ournotice in another character, that of a NarrativePoet, as the Author of the " Davideis; or, theTroubles of David," a Sacred Poem; a characterin which it must be confessed he appears to farless advantage than as a Lyrical Poet. The"Davideis" is muchmore disfigured byfar-fetchedconceits than even his Odes; and they offend stillmore against good Taste, when we find themmixed up with the sobriety of narration, than whenthey mingle in his Pindaric ecstacies. The narrative itself is also heavy and uninteresting; there areno strongly drawn or predominating characters;ENGLISH POETRY. 67and the Allegorical personages, who are the chiefactors, do not, of course, excite any strong interest, or greatly arrest the attention. Still thereare many scattered beauties throughout the Poem.;many original ideas, and much brilliant versification. The following is very sweetly expressed:-" Upon their Palace' top, beneath a rowOf lemon trees, which there did proudly grow,And with bright stores of golden fruit repayThe light they drank from the Sun's neighbouring ray,A small but artful Paradise, they walk'd,And hand in hand, sad, gentle things they talk'd ."The account of the Creation is also full ofeloquence and Poetry: -" They sung how God spoke-out the World's vast ball,From nothing; and from nowhere call'd forth all.No Nature yet, or place for't to possess,But an unbottom'd gulph of emptiness;Full of himself, th' Almighty sate, his ownPalace, and without solitude, alone.But he was goodness whole, and all things will'd;Which ere they were, his active word fulfill'd:And their astonish'd heads o' th' sudden rear'd;An unshaped kind of something first appear'd,Confessing it's new being, and undrest,As if it stepp'd in haste before the rest;Yet, buried in this matter's darksome womb,Lay the rich seeds of every thing to come;68 LECTURES ONFrom hence the cheerful flame leap'd up so high,Close at it's heels the nimble air did fly;Dull Earth with his own weight did downwards pierceTo the fix'd navel of the Universe,And was quite lost in waters; till God saidTo the proud Sea, ' Shrink in your insolent head;See howthe gaping Earth has made you place! 'That durst not murmur, but shrunk in apace:Since when, his bounds are set; at which in vainHe foams and rages, and turns back again.With richer stuff he bade Heaven's fabric shine,And from him a quick spring of light divineSwell'd up the Sun, from whence his cherishing flameFills the whole world, like him from whom it came.He smooth'd the rough-cast Moon's imperfect mould,And comb'd her beamy locks with sacred gold:<' Be thou,' said he, Queen of the mournful Night!'And as he spake, she rose, clad o'er in light,With thousand Stars attending in her train,With her they rise, with her they set again.Then Herbs peep'd forth, now Trees admiring stood,And smelling Flowers painted the infant wood;Then flocks of birds through the glad air did flee,Joyful, and safe before Man's luxury;Singing their Maker in their untaught lays:Nay the mute Fish witness no less his praise;For those he made, and clothed with silver scales,From Minnows to those living islands, Whales.Beasts, too, were his command; what could he more?Yes, Man he could, the bond of all before;In him he all things with strange order hurl'd,In him that full abridgment of the World!"ENGLISH POETRY. 69There are likewise many beautiful Lyrical piecesintroduced. The following in which David speaksof his love for Saul's daughter is a perfect gem:-" Awake, awake my Lyre!And tell thy silent master's humble tale,In sounds that may prevail;Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:Though so exalted she,And I so lowlybe,Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony!Hark! how the strings awake!And though the moving hand approach not near,Themselves with awful fearA kind of numerous trembling make:Now all thy forces try,Now all thy charms apply,Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.Weak Lyre! thy virtue sureIs useless here, since thou art only foundTo cure, but not to wound;And she to wound but not to cure:Too weak too wilt thou proveMy passion to remove,Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to Love.Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!For thou can❜st never tell my humble tale,In sounds that will prevail;Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;All thy vain mirth lay by,Bid thy strings silent lie;

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Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! and let thy master die!"70 LECTURES ONUnhappily, however,---" Men's evil manners live in brass,Their virtues we write in water;"-The " Davideis" is now seldom quoted; andwhen it is noticed, it is not for the purpose of recalling to our recollection the brilliant passageswhich I have just cited. If the Poem live at allin the memory of the general reader, it is by reason of two ridiculous lines, descriptive of thesword of Goliath:-" A Sword so great, that it was only fitTo cut off his great head that came with it!"In discussing the merits of our remaining Narrative Poets, I shall be necessarily brief. Davenant's " Gondibert" is very defective both in interest and passion. As a Narrative, it is not entitledto any high praise; though there are passages init replete with beautiful imagery, and genuineand unaffected sentiment. We have not, however, space for any quotations; and Dryden's" Fables," and his " Eneid," are too generallyknown to need any. That Author's fame as aNarrative Poet rests upon these. The matter isall borrowed. The " Fables" are as much translations from Boccacio, and Chaucer, as hisENGLISH POETRY. 71" Eneid" is from Virgil. The matter, I havesaid, is not Dryden's, but the manner is all hisown; and in that their great charm consists. Theenergy, the beauty, the power, the majesty, andthe delicacy of his style, are unrivalled. Hisversification is even now, notwithstanding theefforts of his successors, Pope, Goldsmith, Campbell, and Byron, the noblest and most perfect inour language.As Milton in blank verse, soDryden in the heroic rhymed measure, is withouta competitor or even an approximator." Waller was smooth, but Dryden taught to joinThe varying verse, the full resounding line,The long majestic march, and energy divine."The Translations of Rowe, Pitt, Pope, andMickle, have enriched our language with thenoblest monuments of the genius of foreign nations.To Rowe and Pitt may be assigned the merit offidelity, and of considerable powers in versification.Pope and Mickle, the former especially, are verysplendid writers: though the latter must rankamong the most unfaithful of translators. Of PopeI have already spoken at some length, and we shallhereafter have occasion to consider his merits as aDidactic, and Descriptive Poet. I shall therefore,not now enter into any discussion of the subject.72 LECTURES ONGlover's " Leonidas" I have also already noticed; and the Epics of Wilkie and Blackmore,are really not worth our attention. The latter hasmade himself immortal by two memorable lines,which will suffice as a specimen of his merits:-" Apainted vest Prince Vortigern had on,Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won!"The authenticity of the Poems ascribed to Ossian,is a subject full of doubt and intricacy, into themazes of which it is not my intention to enter. Itis difficult to believe that Poems formed so nearlyupon the Aristotlean rules, should have beenproduced in an age, and amongst a people, wherethose rules were totally unknown: it is still moredifficult to believe that such Poems, never havingbeen written, should have been preserved throughso many ages, by oral tradition alone: but, perhaps, an attentive reader would declare that, allcirc*mstances considered, it would be the greatestdifficulty of all to believe, that the whole is amodern invention. The absence of all traces ofReligion, however, in these Poems, is a verysingular fact, and strikes me as a strong argumentagainst their authenticity; as the Poetical compositions of all other nations are so closely connectedENGLISH POETRY. 73with their mythology. The rocky steeps of Morventoo, do not seem to be a very appropriate scenefor the exploits of " car-borne " heroes; and Mr.Wordsworth adds his own personal experience,and it is a high authority, against the probabilityof the genuineness of Ossian's Poems, by saying,that no man who has been born and bred upamong mountain scenery, as Ossian was, woulddescribe it as he has done. This objection, however, cuts both ways. These Poems were written,if not by Ossian, by Macpherson, and Macphersonwas himself an Highlander. I have also heardmore than one Landscape Painter of eminence,well acquainted with the scenery of the Poems,-and such evidence I cannot help considering ofconsiderable weight, -bear testimony to the powerand fidelity of Ossian's descriptions. The beautyand merit of the Poems is, however, a questionquite independent of their authenticity. For myself, I confess that the most popular and mostoften quoted passages are not my greatest favourites. Ossian's most laboured efforts do notstrike me as his best. It is in a casual expression,in a single simple incident, that he often startlesus by the originality and force of his ideas. Whata picture of desolation does he force upon ourimagination when describing the ruins of BalcluthaE74 LECTURES ONby that one unlaboured, but powerful incident: -" The fox looked out from the window. " Theghost of Crugal, the dim and shadowy visitantfrom another world, is also painted by a singlestroke of the pencil: -" The stars dim twinkledthrough his form: " and the early death of Cormacis prophesied in a simile as original, as it is powerful:-" Death stands dim behind thee, like thedarkened half of the moon behind it's growinglight. " Had Ossian, or the Author of the piecesascribed to him, written nothing but the threepassages which I have just cited, he would haveproved himself a genuine Poet.-The grand characteristic of Ossian is pathos, asthat of Homer is invention, and that of Milton issublimity. Whether he describes scenery, or delineates character, or narrates events, tenderness isthe predominating feeling excited in the mind.His battle- pieces impress us more with compassionfor the vanquished, than admiration for the victor.We feel more sympathy for the sufferings of hisheroines, than we do of delight at their beauty.His heroes, if young, are cut off before their fameis achieved; or if old, have survived their strengthand prowess. Even Fingal himself, is at lastshewn to us as a feeble ghost, lamenting the lossof his mortal fame and vigour.ENGLISH POETRY. 75I have placed Chatterton amongst the narrativePoets, although he also wrote Dramatic, lyrical,and didactic pieces. Perhaps there never was amore slender veil of forgery attempted, than thatwhich he threw around his pretended ancient productions. He has written in the language of noone age, but in a piebald diction of all; made upof the phrases and idioms of various periods, andthe reader has often nothing to do, but to strip hisverses of their antique spelling, and he finds thelanguage precisely that which is used in the presentday. Take for instance, the opening of the Songof Ella:-"When Freedom drest in blood- stain'd vest,To every land her War- song sung;Upon her head wild weeds were spread,Agory anlace by her hung."The Poems themselves bear internal evidence oftheir being the productions of a boy; of a marvellous boy indeed, but still of a boy. There areno traces of experience, of long observation, of aknowledge of Human nature, and indeed of acquirement of any sort. Of strong natural powers,of talent, of genius, every page furnishes us withabundant instances. Chatterton's forte I thinkE 276 LECTURES ONwas pathos; and had not his mortal career closedso prematurely, he would probably have devotedhimself to Lyrical Poetry. What he has leftbehind him, is full of genius; but full of inequalities and faults . We have hardly sufficient datato enable us to judge what Chatterton's real character, moral or literary, —and it is difficult to separate them in our enquiry, -was, or would havebeen. I, for one, cannot help thinking, that thevices of the former were adventitious, and that theimperfections of the latter would have been obviated, or removed . His tale is but half told .Had not the curtain dropt so abruptly on the heroofthe Drama, succeeding scenes might have shewnhim triumphing over all his follies, and atoningfor all his faults. His ruling passion was the loveof fame. The progress of Fame is like the courseof the Thames, which in it's native fields willscarcely float the toy-ship which an infant's handhas launched, but when it has once visited themetropolis, mighty vessels ride upon it's bosom,and it rolls on irresistibly to the ocean.Chatterton knew; and, in a blind confidence onhis own unaided powers, rushed to the capital inpursuit of fame and competence. The result we allknow was neglect, penury, and self- destruction .1ThisNarrative Poetry has of late been a favouriteENGLISH POETRY. 77and popular study, and has employed the pens ofall the most eminent of our living writers. Althoughthe limits which I have prescribed to myself inthese Lectures, do not permit to discuss theirmerits, I may be allowed to say, that the Narrative writers of the present day, have done muchto wean the public taste from the meretriciousschool by which it was directed half a century ago,and bring it back to a wholesome appreciation ofthe powers of those genuine old English Poets,whose teacher was Nature, and whose study wasthe human heart.78 LECTURES ONLECTURE THE THIRD.DRAMATIC POETRY.Origin ofthe Drama: -Old English Mysteries and Moralities:-Gorboduc and Gammer Gurton's Needle, the first EnglishTragedy and Comedy: -The Predecessors of Shakspeare:-Dramatic Writers of the Reigns of Elizabeth and Jamesthe First:-Shakspeare: -Dissertation on the excellenceof his Female Characters and Clowns:-Jonson:-TheBeauty of the Lyrical parts of Jonson's Dramas: -HisTragedy of Catiline: Cartwright: - Beaumont andFletcher:-Massinger: -Ford and Webster.-My last Lecture treated of the Epic and Narrative Poets; I shall now briefly review the meritsof the Dramatic Poets who flourished previous tothe Restoration. Although, in a period of eleganceand refinement, there is not a more certain “ signof the times" than a taste for Dramatic entertainments, yet the fact is, that these had their originin the rudest, and most uninformed ages of society.In ancient Greece, Thespis, the Father of Tragedy,represented his Dramas on a sort of cart, ormoveable stage, which was drawn from place toENGLISH POETRY. 79place; and his Actors sang and danced alternately,with their faces smeared with wine-lees: ---6< Ignotum Tragicæ genus invenisse camœnæDicitur, et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis,Quæ canerent agerentque peruncti fœcibus ora."HOR. ART. POET.In England, in the same manner, the originalof those magnificent structures which are nowdedicated to the Dramatic Muses, were moveablepageants, drawn about upon wheels; after which,the court-yards of inns and hostelries were chosenfor Dramatic representations; the floor forming whatwe now call the Pit of the Theatre, and the Balconies, or galleries around, being occupied as the Boxesand the Stage; and public Theatres do not appearto have been regularly erected till about the beginning of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. The Drama,it is also worthy of remark, although it has becomethe theme of constant depreciation among modernPuritans, as it was formerly among the ancientPhilosophers, had it's origin in Religious ceremonies. The Hymns, or Odes, sung in honour ofBacchus, and other Deities in Greece, and theMysteries and Moralities of Monkish times inEngland, were the rude foundations on which80 LECTURES ONwere erected the splendid superstructures of Æschylus, and Euripides, and Sophocles; of Shakspeare, of Fletcher, and of Otway. In the housesof the great it was as much the custom of theChaplain to compose Plays for the families, as itnow is to write Sermons; and Sunday was a dayfrequently appropriated for the representation ofdramatic entertainments. Modern readers shudderat the impiety of the ancients, who representedtheir Gods in propria persona upon the Stage,while it is not less true, although less generallyknown, that in our own country, the Divine persons of the Trinity, the good and evil Angels,the Prophets, and the Apostles, were in the samemanner personated in the English Theatres.་匦The first regular Comedy which appeared inEngland was " Gammer Gurton's Needle." Theprecise time of it's representation is unknown,but an edition of it is said by Chetwood, to havebeen printed in 1551; and the copy which Dodsleyused for his collection of Old Plays was printedin 1575. " In this Play," says Hawkins, " thereis a vein of familiar humour, and a kind ofgrotesque imagery, not unlike some parts ofAristophanes; but without those graces of languageand metre, for which the Greek Comedian is soeminently distinguished. " There is certainly muchENGLISH POETRY. 81whim and wit in many of the situations; andthe characters, although rudely, are very forciblydelineated. The plot is simple and coarse enough.Gammer Gurton has lost her needle, and, justwhen she despairs of ever finding it, it is discovered sticking to part of her servant Hodge'sbreeches, which she had been lately employed inmending. The fine old Song, beginning " Backand sides, go bare, go bare," with which theSecond Act of this Play opens, is of itself sufficient to rescue it from oblivion.Lord Buckhurst's " Gorboduc ” is the first regular Tragedy which ever appeared in England.The plot is meagre and uninteresting; the diction cumbrous and heavy; and the characters illconceived, and hastily drawn. The dawn ofEnglish Tragedy was, therefore, as gloomy asit's meridian was splendid. George Peele, theAuthor of " The Loves of King David and FairBethsabe," was a Writer of a very different stamp;and, although not possessing much force andoriginality, there is a vein of pathos and unaffectedfeeling in this Play, and a sweetness and flow ofversification, which we look for in vain in thewritings of his contemporaries. Lily, who turnedthe heads of the people by his Euphuism, whichhas been so happily ridiculed by Sir Walter Scott,E382 LECTURES ONin his character of Sir Piercie Shafton, inthe "Monastery," was nevertheless an Author of distinguished merit; and in his " Cupid and Campaspe,"especially, we find touches of genuine Poetry,and unsophisticated nature. " The Spanish Tragedy, or, Hieronimo is mad again, " by ThomasKyd, is valuable for one Scene only, which issupposed to have been interpolated by a laterhand, and has been attributed by various commentators to Jonson, to Webster, and to Shakspeare. It is not unworthy of either of thosewriters; but is most probably the property of thefirst, to whom, as has been ascertained by a discovery made a few years since at Dulwich College,two sundry payments were made by the Theatre,for additions to this Tragedy. Hieronimo, whoseson has been murdered, goes distracted, andwishes a Painter to represent the fatal catastropheupon canvas. He finds that the Artist is sufferingunder a bereavement similar to his own; and thereis something powerfully affecting in the followingdialogue:-" The PAINTER enters.Paint. God bless you, Sir!Hieron. Wherefore? why, thou scornful villain!How, where, or by what means should I be blest?Isab. What would you have, good fellow?ENGLISH POETRY. 83Paint. Justice, madam.Hieron. Oh! ambitious fellow, would'st thou have thatThat lives not in the world?Why all the undelved mines cannot buyAn ounce of justice; ' tis a jewel so inestimable.I tell thee, God has engross'd all justice in his hand,And there is none but what comes from him.Paint. Oh! then I see that God must right me for my murder'd son!Hieron. How! was thy son murder'd?Paint. Ay, Sir; no man did hold a son so dear,Hieron. What! not as thine? That's a lieAs massy as the earth! I had a Son,Whose least unvalued hair did weighA thousand of thy Son's! and he was murder'd!Paint. Alas! Sir, I had no more but he.Hieron. Nor I, nor I; but this same one of mineWas worth a legion. "The nature and simplicity of this Scene is worthall the ambitious imagery, and rhetorical ornamentswhich modern Authors lavish upon their Drainas.It reminds us of that fine burst of natural passionof Lear,-" Lear. Did'st thou give all to thy daughters?Kent. He hath no daughters, Sir.Lear. Death, traitor! nothing could have reduced natureTo such a lowness, but his unkind daughters. "But by far the mightiest Dramatic Genius whopreceded Shakspeare, was Christopher Marlowe.84 LECTURES ONThis extraordinary Author is an anomaly in Literature. With innumerable faults, and those of theworst kind, frequently displaying turgidity andbombast in his Tragic scenes, and buffoonery andgrossness in his Comic ones, he nevertheless evincesin many places, not only powerful genius, but severe taste, and fastidious judgment. Nothingcan be worse than " Lust's Dominion," and " TheMighty Tamburlaine;" and nothing can be finerthan many parts of " Edward the Second," and" Doctor Faustus." Mr. Charles Lamb says,truly, that the former Tragedy furnished hintswhich Shakspeare scarcely improved in his" Richard the Second." We may say the samething of the latter, with reference to Goethe, andhis " Faust." The Tragedy of Goethe is moreconnected, and better sustained throughout, thanthat of Marlowe. It is not chargeable with thesame inequalities, and keeps up the character ofthe Hero, as a Soul lost by the thirst after knowledge, instead of representing him, as the EnglishAuthor too often does, in the light of a vulgarconjurer indulging in tricks of legerdemain; thoughwe doubt whether there is any thing in the GermanPlay, which approaches the sublimity and awfulness of the last scene in " Doctor Faustus. "1At length the great Literary era of ElizabethENGLISH POETRY. 85dawned upon Britain; and in the Dramatic annalsof the Nation, we no longer find a few stars faintlytwinkling amidst the surrounding darkness, but amagnificent constellation, composed of Shakspeare,Beaumont, Fletcher, Jonson, Ford, Webster, Mas+singer, Rowley, Chapman, Middleton, Dekker,Tourneur, Shirley, and others, brightening the wholeLiterature hemisphere with a blaze of glory.In addition to these names, which belong almostexclusively to Dramatic Literature, we may enumerate those of Spenser, Hall, Brown, Drummond,Sidney, and Raleigh, in other branches of Poetry.The period during which these illustrious menflourished has been distinguished by the name ofElizabeth, although it is only to the latter part ofher reign, and to those of her two immediate successors, that most of them properly belong.The merits of Shakspeare are now so well, andso generally appreciated, that it can scarcely benecessary to enter into any detail of them. It is,however, extraordinary, that in a Nation whichhas exulted so much in his genius, and has professed to derive so much of it's Literary glory fromhis fame, his merits should, until very recently,have been so imperfectly known. Steele, in oneof the " Tallers," bestows some very high encomiums upon a justly celebrated passage in86 LECTURES ON" Macbeth," and then gives a miserably erroneousquotation, from some garbled Stage Edition, thenextant.The opinion which prevailed until within thelast half century, that Shakspeare had failed in hisdelineation of Female Character, is also a strikingand decisive proof of the general ignorance respecting the real merits of our immortal Bard.On the Stage, and in quotations, he was wellknown, but it is only very recently, that Readershave taken the trouble to explore this vast mine ofintellectual lore for themselves; and though wenow rank those beautiful pictures, both seriousand comic, which the Poet has drawn in LadyMacbeth, Constance, Juliet, Imogen, Cleopatra,Rosalind, and Beatrice, as amongst the happiestefforts of his Genius, yet many years have notgone by, since it was a popular opinion, that hismind was of too masculine a structure to excel inpictures of Female grace and loveliness; and thatit was only in his Male characters, that his wonderful genius developed itself. This opinion, too,was not confined to the vulgar and uninformed .Men of taste and education were content to takeup the current opinion, without examining it'struth; and we accordingly find that even Collins,whose genius in some particulars discovered aENGLISH POETRY. 87strong affinity to that of Shakspeare himself, inhis " Epistle to Sir Thomas Hanmer," aftereulogizing the Female Characters of Fletcher,adds, —" But stronger Shakspeare felt for Man alone."In truth, Shakspeare's Females are creations ofa very different stamp from those which have beenimmediately popular in histrionic records. Theirsorrows are not obstreperous and theatrical, but, -" The still sad music of Humanity,"-as Wordsworth hath finely phrased it, —is heardthroughout all their history. The Poet's description of a Lover, —" All made of passion, and all made of wishes;All adoration, duty, and obedience;All humbleness, all patience, and impatience;All purity, all trial, all observance;"will apply as well to his delineations of Woman.Sighs, tears, passion, trial, and humility, are thecomponent parts of her character; and howeverthe Dramatic Writer may endeavour to " elevateand surprise," by pursuing a different course, these88 LECTURES ONare the materials with which Nature will furnishhim; and, if he really wish to follow her, " to thiscomplexion he must come at last. " Shakspearereconciled Poetry and Nature; he borrowed herwildest wing of Romance, and yet stooped to theseverest discipline of Truth; he revelled in theimpossible, without violating the probable; hepreserved the unity of character, while he spurnedthe unities of time, place, and action; and combined propriety, nature, truth, and feeling, withwildness, extravagance, and an unbounded licenseof Imagination.The general cast of character in Shakspeare'sFemales is tenderness and pathos; but this is notbecause our Author was unable to depict Womanin her more dignified and commanding, thoughless ordinary, attitude. Thus, there is nothingmore majestic, and, we may say, awful, on theStage, than Katharine defending herself againstthe malice and hypocrisy of Henry; and nothingmore fearful and appalling than the whole characterof Lady Macbeth, from the first Scene in whichher ambition is awakened, by the perusal of herHusband's letter, to the last, in which we discoverit's bitter fruits, in treason, murder, and insanity.Then there is the Lady Constance, a Woman, aMother, and a Princess; seen in all the fearfulENGLISH POETRY. 89vicissitudes of human life; hoping, exulting,blessing, fearing, weeping, despairing, and, atlast, dying. Shall we add the Weird Sisters,those " foul anomalies," in whom all that is malignant and base in the female character is exaggerated to an unearthly stature, and those gentlerbeings, such as Juliet and Desdemona, who, withfrailties and imperfections which ally them to earth,yet approximate to those superior and benevolentspirits, of whom we have such an exquisite picturein Ariel, and the Fairies in the " MidsummerNight's Dream?” Cleopatra, Volumnia, andIsabella, are further instances of Shakspeare'spower of exhibiting the loftier and stronger traitsof the Female character. His picture of thefascinating Egyptian Queen is, indeed, a masterpiece. In perusing it, we feel no longer astonishedthat crowns and empires were sacrificed for her."釁The soft Triumvir's fault" is easily " forgiven."We no longer wonder at, we scarcely pity him,so splendid is the prize for which he is content to-" Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide archOf the ranged empire fall!"The Reader- for this is not on the list of actingplays, is himself caught in the golden snare.90 LECTURES ONThe Play is occupied with battles and treaties,with wars and commotions, with the quarrels ofMonarchs, and the destinies of the world, yet allare forgotten when Cleopatra is on the Scene.We have many and splendid descriptions of herpersonal charms, but it is her mind, the strengthof her passion, the fervour and fury of her love,the bitterness of her hatred, and the desperationof her death, which take so strong a hold upon theimagination. We follow her, admire her, sympathize with her, through all, and when the Asp hasdone it's fatal work, who does not exclaim withCharmion?-" Nowboast thee, Death! in thy possession liesA lass unparallel'd!"How different a being from this , is the ill-fatedfair who slumbers in " the tomb of the Capulets. "She is all gentleness and mildness, all hiddenpassion, and silent suffering; but her love is asardent, her sorrows are as overwhelming, and herdeath as melancholy. " The gentle lady weddedto the Moor" is another sweet, still picture, whichwe contemplate with admiration, until Deathdrops his curtain over it. Imogen and Miranda,Perdita and Ophelia, Cordelia, Helen, and Viola,ENGLISH POETRY. 91need only be mentioned to recal to the mind themost fascinating pictures of female character whichhave ever been delineated . The last is a meresketch, but it is a most charming one; and it's bestdescription is that exquisite paraphrase, in whichthe character is so beautifully summed up:-" She never told her love,But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

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Feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought,And with a green and yellow melancholy,She sat, like Patience on a monument,Smiling at Grief."Of Shakspeare's Comic Female Characters, itwill be sufficient to adduce two, Rosalind andBeatrice. What a fascinating creature is the first!what an admirable compound of wit, gaiety, andgood humour! blended, at the same time, withdeep and strong passion, with courage and resolution; with unshaken affection to her Father, andconstant and fervent love for Orlando. Howextraordinary and romantic is this character, if wecontemplate it in the abstract, yet how beautiful andtrue to Nature, if we examine it in all it's details.Beatrice is a character of a very different stampfrom Rosalind, although resembling her in someparticulars. She has all her wit; but, it must be92 LECTURES ONconfessed, without her good humour. Her arrowsare not merely piercing, but poisoned. Rosalind'sis cheerful raillery, Beatrice's, satirical bitterness;Rosalind is not only afraid to strike, but unwillingto wound: Beatrice is, at least, careless of theeffect of her wit, if she can but find an opportunity to utter it. But Shakspeare has no heartlesscharacters in his Dramas, he has no mere " intellectual gladiators," as Dr. Johnson has well styledthe Actors in the witty scenes of Congreve. Beatrice has strong and easily excited feelings. Loveis called into action by the stratagem of the gardenscene; and rage, indignation, and revenge, bythe slanders cast upon her cousin. We haveheard the character called inconsistent, but whatis human nature but a tissue of inconsistencies? orrather, are not our hopes, fears, affections, andpassions, linked together by a thread so fine, thatonly the gifted eye of such a Poet as Shakspearecan discover it? The changes of purpose andpassion, as developed by him in the mind of Beatrice are anything but inconsistencies; abrupt andsurprising they certainly are, but they are accounted for by motives of extraordinary weight,and feelings of singular susceptibility.Before I close this subject, however, I wouldsay a few words upon the neglected Play ofENGLISH POETRY. 9366 Pericles;" first, because it contains a very sweetand interesting Female character, -that of Marina,the heroine, and, secondly, because it's authenticity has been questioned by the commentators.This Drama has always clearly appeared to me tobe a production of Shakspeare, although certainlya production of his earlier years . The inconsistency and confusion of the plot, and the inartificialmanner in which many of the events are broughtabout, prove it to be the work of a novice in theart; but the delicate touches of Nature, the beautiful delineations of character, the sweet flow ofit's verse, and the rich vein of poetry and imagination, which pervade the whole, betray the master'shand, and entitle it, in my opinion, to a high rankamong the works of Shakspeare. How fine, forinstance, is the following soliloquy of Pericles, ona Ship at sea:-" Thou God of the great vast! rebuke these surgesWhich wash both Heaven and Hell; and Thou, that hastUpon the Winds command, bind them in brass,Having call'd them from the deep! Oh! still thy deaf'ning,Thy dreadful thunders! gently quench thy nimble,Sulphureous flashes! Thou storm! thou, venomously,Wilt thou spit all thyself? The seaman's whistleIs as a whisper in the ears of death,Unheard. "94 LECTURES ONThe description of the recovery of Thaisa from astate of suspended animation, is also most powerfully eloquent:-" Nature awakes; a warmthBreathes out of her; she hath not been entrancedAbove five hours. See how she ' gins to blowInto life's flower again! -She is alive; behold,Her eyelids, cases to those heavenly jewelsWhich Pericles hath lost,Begin to part their fringes of bright gold,The diamonds of a most praised waterAppear to make the world twice rich."Marina, the daughter of Pericles, is born at sea,during a storm; and our Author, in this Drama,as in the " Winter's Tale," leaps over the intervening years, and shews her, in the fourth Act," on the eve of womanhood;" where her firstspeech, on the death of her Nurse, is sweetlyplaintive and poetical:-" No, no; I will rob Tellus of her weed.To strew thy grave with flowers! the yellows, blues,The purple violets, and marygolds,Shall as a chaplet hang upon thy grave,While Summer- days do last. Ah me! poor maid,Born in a tempest, when my mother died,This world to me is like a lasting storm ,Whirring me from myfriends."ENGLISH POETRY. 95In the course of the Play, Marina undergoesa variety of adventures, in all of which the mingledgentleness and dignity of her character is mostadmirably developed . The interview with herFather, in the fifth Act, is, indeed, one of themost powerful and affecting passages in the wholerange of the British Drama; and I earnestly recommend all who are unacquainted with this Playto peruse it immediately, and judge for themselves,whether the mighty hand of Shakspeare be notvisible throughout.The preceding observations have, I hope, sufficiently shewn, not only the great power and skillof Shakspeare in his delineation of Females, butalso that he exhibits as great resources, and asmuch fertility of genius in them, as in any of theother characters of his Dramas. The Championswho have hitherto broken a lance in favour of thiscause, have usually confined their observations tothe gracefulness and gentleness of Juliet, andImogen, and Desdemona, but when we rememberthat the same pencil has painted so many, andsuch diametrically opposite characters, then I say,that if Shakspeare had never given us a singlemasculine portrait, still he would have shewn apowerful and original genius, which, in fecundityand versatility, as well as in elegance and grace-96 LECTURES ONfulness, has never yet been equalled, and willcertainly never be surpassed.In addition to the neglect of his Female characters, another vulgar estimate of the powers ofShakspeare, was founded upon the idea, that hewas a great, but irregular genius, flourishing in abarbarous age, which was unenlightened, exceptingby the splendour which he himself threw around it;and which even over his own mounting Spirit"prevented it from66We now feel andhas cast it's gothic chains, andreaching it's natural elevation .know, that his judgment was as profound, as hisgenius was magnificent; that his skill in constructing his plots, and developing his characters,was not surpassed even by the splendour of hisimagination, and the richness of his diction; andthat, so far from shining a solitary star in themidst of Cimmerian blackness, he was surroundedby inferior, but still resplendent orbs, each ofwhich only waited the setting of his surpassingbrightness, to shine itself the Lord of the ascendant.The fame which this extraordinary man hasacquired, and which seems, to use a simile ofSchlegel's, " to gather strength, like an Alpineavalanche, at every period of it's descent, " is notthe least remarkable circ*mstance connected withENGLISH POETRY. 97our subject. It is not simply from the approvingjudgments, or the delighted fancies, of his partialreaders, that Shakspeare derives his reputationand his power. His writings " come home," asLord Bacon has expressed it, " to men's businessand bosoms." They teach us something of ourselves, and " of the stuff we're made of. " Likehis own Hamlet, -"They set us up a glass,Where we may see the inmost parts of us."Hence, it is not merely approval, or even delight, which is excited by his powers; it is " anappetite, a feeling, and a love." No Poet wasever so passionately admired; because none everso completely developed the springs of Humannature, and thus rendered himself intelligible, andinteresting to all. Hence too, the universality,and the perpetuity of his fame. He has paintedall the modes and qualities of human conditions;all the shades and peculiarities of human character.Wherever, therefore, those characters, and thoseconditions exist, the works of Shakspeare cannever become foreign, or obsolete. " The streamof Time, which is continually washing the dissoF98 LECTURES ONluble fabrics of other Poets, passes without injuryby the adamant of Shakspeare."66 Age cannot wither him, nor custom staleHis infinite variety."The surface of life may be altered, but the tideof human feelings and passions will continue it'sunalterable course beneath it . Reputation builtupon the ephemeral taste and fancies of a day,will vanish with the causes which produced it; butShakspeare's, with it's altar in the heart of man,is extensive as the world, and imperishable ashumanity. The fame of Shakspeare has naturallysuggested an enquiry as to the peculiar powers ofthat mind, which could acquire such an influenceover the minds of others. What was the talismanthat worked these wonders? Wherein did hesurpass that world which has paid him such extraordinary honours? The answers to these enquirieshave been as various as the tastes and opinions ofreaders. His wit, his imagination, his sublimity,have all been suggested as the distinguished characteristics of his mind; but the arguments whichhave been advanced in support of these positionshave proved only, that in these particulars heENGLISH POETRY . 99excelled the rest of the world. In order to answerthis enquiry satisfactorily, we must also shewwhereinhe excelled himself. The most extraordinary supposition, however, that we have heard started onthis point, is that he painted with truth and fidelity,because he divested himself of the common passionsand feelings of human nature; and stood alooffrom the ordinary concerns of mankind, in order todescribe with greater correctness and impartiality." Cold lookers- on, they say,Can better judge than those who play;"and the remark would apply to Shakspeare, if,indeed, he merely described; if the warm andglowing pictures which he exhibits could have beenthe effects of cold calculation, and unimpassionedobservations. If I might hazard an opinion, Ishould say that the master-feeling in the mind ofShakspeare, and that which has enabled him tosubjugate the hearts of all mankind, was Sympathy;for it has been well said, that " when words comefrom one heart, they cannot fail to reach another."Shakspeare's feelings, there can be no doubt, wereof the finest and acutest order. He is styled by hiscontemporaries " sweet Shakspeare," and " gentleShakspeare," as if to denote the susceptibility ofF 2100 LECTURES ONhis disposition, and his amiable manners. Hepainted correctly, because he felt strongly: and itseems to me impossible to account, in any otherway, for his excellence in both provinces of theDramatic art. It is well known that spirits remarkable for their mirth and hilarity, are mostsusceptible of tender and mournful passions; andit has been observed that the English, as a nation,are equally famous for wit, and for melancholy.It is a common observation, that mirth begetsmirth; and on the other hand an old English Poet,Drayton, has beautifully said, that, -Tears,Elixir-like, turn all to tears they touch. "The feelings of Shakspeare's mind produced correspondent feelings in the minds of others; likea precious stone, which casts it's brilliant hues overevery object that it approaches.But whatever may have been the strongestmarked feature in the mind of our Author, we areconvinced that the theory which refers his astonishing fame to the pòssession of any one peculiarquality, is erroneous. His distinguishing characteristic is the union of many excellencies: each ofwhich he possessed in a degree unequalled by anyENGLISH POETRY. 101other Poet. Shakspeare will be found pre- eminent,if we consider his sublimity, his pathos, his imagination, his wit, or his humour; his union inhis own person of the highest Tragic and Comicexcellence, and his knowledge of Nature, animate,inanimate, and human. To excel in any one ofthese particulars would form a great Poet; to unitetwo, or three of them, is a lot too lofty even forthe ambition of highly favoured mortals; but tocombine all, as Shakspeare has done, in one tremendous intellect, is, indeed, -"To get the start of the majestic World,And bear the palm alone!"The genius of Shakspeare cannot be illustratedby a reference to that of any other Poet; for, withwhom is he to be compared? Like his ownRichard,--" He has no brother, is like no brother,He is himself alone!"Geniuses of the most colossal dimensions becomedwarfed by his side . Like Titan, he is a Giantamong giants. Like him too, he piles up hismagnificent thoughts, Olympus high; he grasps the102 LECTURES ONlightnings of creative Jove; and speaks the wordsthat call Spirits, and Mortals, and Worlds, intoexistence. He has faults, doubtless; faults whichit is not my purpose either to extenuate, or todeny, but the Critic who thinks that such faultsare of much weight, when opposed to his genius,would be likely to condemn the Apollo Belvidere,for a stain upon the pedestal. The very brightnessof transcendent excellence renders it's faults andimperfections but the more visible; nothing appearsfaultless but mediocrity. The Moon and the Starsshine with unsullied brightness; the Sun aloneexhibits spots upon his disk!It is, however, truly difficult to say anything onthe subject of Shakspeare, which has not beensaid before. So numerous, so ardent, and sodiscriminative, have been his admirers, that almostevery latent beauty seems to have been brought tolight, and every once- obscure passage surroundedby a blaze of illustration. There is, indeed, butone class of characters which he has delineatedwith consummate power and excellence, which hasnot, I think, yet attracted that critical notice whichit merits, I mean the party- coloured Fool, orJester, whose gibes and jeers were wont to setthe tables of our ancestors in a roar. This characteris now no longer to be met with in the halls of theENGLISH POETRY. 103great and opulent. The glories of the motleycoat have passed away. A few faint vestiges ofit are preserved at Wakes, and Village festivals,in the remote provinces of the island; and someofit's honours are yet divided between the Clownand Harlequin of our modern Pantomime; but,alas! " how changed! how fallen!" Spirits ofTouchstone, Gobbo, and Pompey Bum! do yenot sometimes wander from your Elysium, tomourn over the imbecile efforts of these degeneratetimes?The sketches which Shakspeare has given us ofthis character, will sufficiently excuse our ancestors for the attachment which they evinced for it;for, if his portraits at all resemble the originals,they must have been very delightful personagesindeed. As delineated by our Author, the character is a compound of infinite wit, with matchless effrontery; affecting Folly, making itself thebutt of it's companions for their amusem*nt, yetfrequently turning the laugh upon themselves;generally escaping from the consequences of greatImpudence, and not a little knavery, by the exercise of it's humorous talents; yet liable to bekicked and cudgelled , whensoever, and wheresoever, it was deemed expedient. These are thegeneral outlines; but these, Shakspeare has diver-104 LECTURES ONsified with such varied and admirable power, that,many as are the Clowns introduced into his Plays,he has never repeated the same individual. LikeNature herself, who does not produce two bladesof grass exactly similar, so Shakspeare makes thenicest discrimination between personages whichapproximate, and almost blend with each other.Even the Ruffians who are hired to murder theInfant Princes in " Richard the Third," and theServants who are spreading the table for the banquet of the Volscian Lords in " Coriolanus," areall distinguished from each other, by the mostminute, and delicate traits of character..In Shakspeare's Clowns there is every varietywhich diversity of humour, talents, station, anddisposition, can give to them. From the witlessblundering Costard, -perhaps the lowest in thescale, we ascend by regular gradations throughthe half-starved , conscientious Launcelot Gobbo, —66-66young master Launcelot, ” —the merry chirpingClown in " Twelfth Night," and the bitter sarcastic Fool in King Lear," up to that veryPrince of Fools, -the Courtier, Lover, Philosopher, Scholar, Poet, Duellist, -the “ unimitated,inimitable" Touchstone. The Clowns of Shakspeare, also, are not extraneous characters, introduced, like those in the Plays of Marston, Beau-ENGLISH POETRY. 105ofThemont and Fletcher, and some others, merely forthe purpose of shewing off their own humour.They are active personages of the Drama, andoften contribute materially to the business of theScene. On the mistakes of Costard, hinges thewhole Plot of " Love's Labour Lost," and Launcelot Gobbo is a principal agent in the escapeJessica, in the " Merchant of Venice. "dialogues between Launce and Speed in the " TwoGentlemen of Verona," and between the Dromiosin the " Comedy of Errors," are, on this very account alone, sufficient to prove that those Plays arenot wholly Shakspeare's. That the marks of hispowerful pencil may be sometimes recognised ,cannot be denied; but, that the composition ofthe entire picture is his, is an opinion which notall the authorities in the world shall persuademe to adopt this feeling " fire cannot burnout of me; I will die with it at the stake!"The character of the Fool in " Lear," is one ofthe most effective even in that wonderful Drama,by the way in which it sets off, and relieves that ofthe King; and there cannot be a more strikingproof of the incapacity of Managers, and of themenders of Shakspeare, than it's omission in theacted Play.I have already expressed my attachment toF 3106 LECTURES ONTouchstone; and I hope that general opinion willcoincide with me. I would say, as Jacques saidto the Duke, " I pray you, like this Fool!" Heis indeed the very paragon of his tribe:-" Onethat hath been a Courtier; and says, if Ladies bebut young and fair, they have the gift to know it;and in his brain, which is as dry as the remainderbiscuit, after a voyage, he hath strange placescrammed with observation, the which he vents inmangled forms."Was there ever such matter in Folly? was thereever, as Jacques calls him, such " a materialfool?" Are all the wise treatises which were everwritten on the laws of Honour, comparable to hisdissertation on the seven causes? Or, is thereany one who will dispute his claim to a Courtier'srank, after having heard him plead his own cause?" I have trod a measure; I have flattered a lady;I have been politic with my friend; smooth withmine enemy; I have undone three tailors! Ihave had four quarrels, and like to have foughtone!" Then, how richly is his mind furnished!Launcelot Gobbo is an erudite man in his way, buthe is nothing to Touchstone. The former, it istrue, talks of " the Fates and Destinies, and suchodd sayings; the Sisters three, and such branchesof learning " but Touchstone, moralising on theENGLISH POETRY. 107time, and playing the logician with the Shepherd,till he proves to his hearer's own satisfaction, thathe is incontestibly damned; and reading his lectures on Poetry to Audrey; and recounting hisamours with Jane Smile; is entirely matchless andirresistible; and compels us to reiterate the exclamation of Jacques, -" Oh noble Fool!Aworthy fool! Motley's the only wear!"Shakspeare in this Play has very artfully and beautifully shewn, how two characters, which to thecasual observer appear diametrically opposed, mayhave latent resemblances; and may feel themselvesirresistibly drawn together, by some inexplicablelink, so fine as to be invisible, and yet so strong,as to form an instant bond of union. Of all thecharacters in this Drama, those of Jacques andthe Clown would seem to stand at the farthest distance from each other; but on their first interview,the former becomes attached to Touchstone; isambitious of a motley coat, and is wrapt in admiration that, " Fools should be so deep contemplative." Yet Jacques is a gentleman of polishedmind and manners; and Touchstone is a low domestic. One is shy and reserved; the other108 LECTURES ONloquacious and fond of society. One is of a mindsensitive and irritable, even to disease; the other,the common butt at which it is the chartered privilege of all to level their malice, or their wit. If,however, we examine these characters more closely,we shall find amidst all their contrarieties, manytraits of resemblance. Both are men of strongsense and extensive observation; both have aquick talent for detecting the ridiculous; but inthe nervous temperament of Jacques, this has produced misanthropy, and a sullen abjuration of theworld; while in the heartier humour of Touchstone,it has only added to his sources of enjoyment, byenabling him to laugh more frequently at the folliesof mankind. Both have been used to the Court;and, although in very different stations, have enjoyed equal opportunities of observing the world ,and it is clear that the good-humoured Fool hasarrived at much the same conclusion in his estimateof mankind, as the splenetic Recluse. They havethe same disposition to depreciate whatever is theadmiration, or the occupation of others. Jacquesadds a burlesque stanza to the Song of Amiens,and Touchstone produces a ludicrous parody onOrlando's verses: Jacques swears that the Duke,because he kills venison, is a greater Usurper thanhis brother; and Touchstone, because the Shep-ENGLISH POETRY. 109herd gets his living by the increase of his flock ,tells him that he lives by the intrigues of cattle,and the wickedness of bell-wethers.This isI find that by beginning with Touchstone, I havebeen guilty of a sad anti-climax . To descend withShakspeare is, however, a loftier occupation thanto rise with other writers. Indeed, I am not sure,when I reconsider the matter, that I have not committed an injustice in giving any of the motleytribe precedence of the Fool in " Lear."a Tragic character; not in itself, but in the way inwhich it sets off, and heightens the picture whichis presented of the misery of the King. It is likethe dark lights of Rembrandt; a gleam, a ray,showing, but not dispelling, the blackness whichsurrounds it. The following Scene is an example:" Fool. Can'st tell how an oyster makes his shell?Lear. No.Fool. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house.Lear. Why?Fool. Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to hisdaughters, and leave his horns without a case.Lear. I will forget my nature. -So kind a father! Be myhorses ready?Fool. Thy asses are gone about ' em. The reason why theseven Stars are seven, is a pretty reason.Lear. Because they are not eight?Fool. Yes, indeed . Thou would'st make a good Fool.Lear. To take it again perforce! Monster ingratitude!110 LECTURES ONFool. If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I'd have thee beatenfor being old before thy time.Lear. How's that?Fool. Thou should'st not have been old before thou had'stbeen wise.Lear. Oh! let me not be mad! not mad, sweet Heaven!Keep me in temper, I would not be mad."Howsubtle and fine was Shakspeare's knowledgeof the human mind! How beautifully has he, inthe three characters of Lear, Edgar, and theFool, discriminated between the real insanity ofthe first, the assumed madness of the second, andthe official buffoonery of the third. Lear's thoughtsare ever dwelling on his daughters; his mind is adesert, and that one idea, like the Banana tree, fixesinit it's thousand roots, to the exclusion of all others.Howdifferent is this from the wild farrago of MadTom, whois obliged to talk an unintelligible gibberish, for the purpose of supporting his assumed part;through which his real character is every now andthen seen , and discovers itself in a sympathy forthe unhappy King. The conversation of the Fool,on the contrary, is composed of scraps of oldSongs and sayings, which he applies with bittermirthfulness to the situation of his master. It isalso worthy of notice, among those minute beauties which are so often passed over without com-ENGLISH POETRY. 111ment, that, as Lear's misery deepens and increases,the witticisms of the Fool become less frequent;and, unable any longer to indulge in his jests, heshows his sympathy by his silence. This is finelyimagined, and worth all the eloquent sorrow thatan ordinary Play-wright would have indited . Inthe early part of the Tragedy, the Fool is asfrequent an interlocutor as Lear himself; but inthat powerfully pathetic scene, in which the distracted King imagines, that his daughters arebeing arraigned before him for their crimes, he indulges in only one sorry jest, at the beginning,and is afterwards mute; while, Edgar also, unableany longer to play the Maniac, exclaims: -" My tears begin to take his part so much,They'll mar my counterfeiting."It is thus that Genius effects it's noblest triumphs,by identifying it's actors with it's auditors.I have left myself very little space for discussingthe merits of the remaining worthies of this class.The Clown in " Twelfth Night" should occupy avery considerable place in our esteem. He hasless Poetry about his character than either of thoseof whom we have been speaking, but he is moreof a bon vivant, and a man amongst men. Both112 LECTURES ONTouchstone, and the Fool in " Lear," seem insome measure to stand aloof from the other personages, and to have but few feelings and objectsin common with them. They are " among them ,but not of them." But the Clown in the Play beforeus, can sing a good Song, can take his share ofa stoop of wine; can join in the laugh which he hasnot raised, and assist in the plot which others haveprojected. There is " a laughing devil in thesneer" of Lear's Fool, and even Touchstone" smiles in bitterness," but this jovial Clown hasmuch more of mere flesh and blood in him: he approximates nearer to Falstaff than his brethren do.There seems to be nothing of pure malevolence inhis wit. Even his share in the conspiracy againstMalvolio, is undertaken simply for the love oflaughter, and without any desire to give real painto the fantastical Steward. Nay, he at length entertains sympathy for his persecutions, and endeavours to use his good offices in his favour. Hisjoining in the bitter laugh, and ironical complimentsof his companions, when impelled to it by the absurdities of Malvolio, is the effect of long habit,and a naturally quick discernment of the ridiculous;and he no more evinces thereby a want of sympathyand good nature, than did Hogarth when he usedENGLISH POETRY . 113his pencil to depict the ludicrous expression of theboy's countenance whose head was broken at theTavern. He is a more inveterate punster thanany of his tribe. Words with him are the mostductile and pliable of all things; he can twist theminto any shape, and extort from them almostany meaning; he is a very despot over the Englishlanguage; he pursues with unconquerable pertinacity the most innocent word in the vocabulary,and never parts with it till he has triumphed overit's simplicity: he is, indeed, as he describes himself, " not his mistress's fool, but her corrupter ofwords." .These are the flower of the Clownish army; butthere are numerous, although inferior, worthies,behind. There is Pompey the Great, in " Measure for Measure;" and Costard, who finds out,that remuneration is the Latin word for three farthings; and Launcelot Gobbo who was the subjectof that memorable warfare between the fiend andhis conscience; and the Shepherd's Son, in the" Winter's Tale," the new made gentleman, orrather, " the gentleman born before his father."On the merits of these I have not time to descant:if not worthy to be compared with their brethren,whom I have noticed more at length, they are,nevertheless, fine creations in their way. They114 LECTURES ONare imbued with the genius of Shakspeare: his"image and superscription" is on them. Thereis, however, this distinction between them andthe others, that they seem rather to be qualifiedfor the motley- coated office, than to have everfilled that station; and Costard, and the Shepherd's Son, are not gratuitous, but involuntaryblunderers. Pompey Bum, however, is really agreat man. His narration of the amours of MasterFroth and Mistress Elbow, is irresistibly comic;and the arguments by which he endeavours to convince Barnardine of the benefits of being hanged,are almost worthy of Touchstone, himself.Such was England's, Nature's Shakspeare:-" Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new:Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,And panting Time toil'd after him in vain!"Shakspeare's contemporaries have, since thepublication of Mr. Lambe's Specimens, and theCritical labours of Seward, Whalley, Colman,Weber, and Gifford, begun to attract that portionof public attention to which they are entitled. Jonson's characterhas also been successfully vindicated ,by the last named gentleman, against the chargeENGLISH POETRY. 115of malignity and envy of Shakspeare; but I donot think that his Poetical merits are yet properlyappreciated. I cannot consent that the palm ofhumour alone shall be given to him; while, inwit, feeling, pathos, and Poetical diction, he isto be sunk fathoms below Fletcher and Massinger.In the last particular, I think that he excels themboth, and, indeed, all his contemporaries, excepting Shakspeare.TheThe strength of Jonson's style is undoubted,and therefore, his Critics have chosen to deny himthe merits of elegance and gracefulness.fact is, that in his Tragedies, and the metrical partsof his Comedies, his versification is peculiarlysmooth and flowing; and the Songs, and otherLyrical pieces, which he has sprinkled over hisDramas, are exquisitely elegant, and elaboratedto the highest degree of polish. The celebratedPoems of " Drink to me only with thine eyes,"and "Still to be neat, still to be drest," sufficientlyprove this assertion . I have already, in a formerLecture, given one of Jonson's Canzonets, but Icannot refrain from also quoting the followingbeautiful Madrigal: —" Do but look on her eyes, they do lightAll that Love's world compriseth;116 LECTURES ONDo but look on her hair, it is brightAs Love's star when it riseth!Do but mark her forehead, smootherThan words that soothe her!And from her arch'd brow such a graceSheds itself through the face,As alone there triumphs to the life,All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.Have you seen but a bright lily growBefore rude hands have touch'd it?Have you mark'd but the fall of the snowBefore the soil hath smutch'd it?Have you felt the wool of the beaver?Or the swan's down, ever?Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar?Or the nard i' the fire?Or have tasted the bag o' the bee,Oh! so white! Oh! so soft! Oh! so sweet is she!"" Catiline, his Conspiracy," is a fine Tragedy,full of passionate and animated action; but, at thesame time, displaying eloquent dialogue, powerfuldescription, and a sweet, yet vigorous versification;while the Characters are drawn, that of Catilineespecially, with Shakspearean force and truth.The piece opens with the denunciation of Sylla'sGhost; after which Catiline enters, brooding overhis intended treason. The succeeding Scene isvery artfully contrived to let us into the characters of the leading Conspirators, by the accountENGLISH POETRY. 117which Catiline gives of them to Aurelia; andthese characters are preserved , and acted up to,with uncommon skill throughout the whole Drama.The Imprecation pronounced by Catiline is fine,and contains a brief summary of his purpose andcharacter:-" It is decreed! Nor shall thy fate, Oh Rome!Resist my vow. Though hills were set on hills,And seas met seas, to guard thee, I would through:I'd plough up rocks, steep as the Alps, in dust;And lave the Tyrrhene waters into clouds ,But I would reach thy head, thy head, proud City!"The description of the morning on which thechief Conspirators meet together, in the followingScene, is highly poetical; and, as it is remarked byWhalley, in strict accordance with the character ofthe speaker, Lentulus, who has been before described, as addicted to superstition, and a belief inomens. Jonson, like Shakspeare, does not indulge in extraneous description; every thing inboth these great Authors is characteristic anddramatic; and, in the present instance, the mindis firely prepared for the fearfully interestingsubject on which the characters are about to debate, by this powerful description:-“ It is, methinks, a Morning full of Fate!She riseth slowly, as her sullen car118 LECTURES ONHad all the weights of Sleep and Death hung at it.She is not rosy finger'd, but swoll'n black!Her face is like a water turn'd to blood,And her sick head is bound about with clouds,As if she threaten'd night ere noon ofday!It does not look, as it would have a hail,Or health wish'd in it, as on other morns."This, besides being short, and highly characteristic of the speaker, is connected with thebusiness of the Play by the answer of Cethegus:--" Why, all the fitter, Lentulus; our comingIs not for salutation, we have business."The art and subtlety of Catiline's character isalso finely developed in this Scene; for thoughambition is his ruling passion, the gratification ofthat passion depends upon his assuming the appearance of subserviency to his coadjutors; andhe tells them, -" I am shadowTo honour'd Lentulus and Cethegus here,Who are the heirs of Mars. "And he is diligent in applauding, and coincidingwith, all their suggestions. Afterwards, however,when his power is consummated, in his address toENGLISH POETRY. 11966his soldiers, and in his conduct during the battle,he takes a loftier tone, and acts as one. havingauthority." This is human nature, and is beautifully and truly illustrated by the Poet. My limitswill, of course, not allow me to adduce manyspecimens of the Dramatic skill of Jonson, whichcannot be shewn by passages, or even by wholescenes. For this, I must refer to the Plays themselves: the present object being merely to provethat Jonson excelled in the lighter graces andelegancies of Poetry; that he could describepowerfully; and that his versification , instead ofbeing rugged and lame, is constructed upon thetruest principles of harmony. The following isanimated and striking ·-" Slaughter bestrid the streets, and stretch'd himselfTo seem more huge; whilst to his stained thighs,The gore he drew, flow'd up, and carried downWhole heaps of limbs and bodies through his arch;No age was spared, no sex, nay, no degree;Not infants in the porch of life were free.The sick, the old, that could not hope a dayLonger by Nature's bounty, not let stay:Virgins and widows, matrons, pregnant wives,All died! -The rugged Charon fainted,And ask'd a navy, rather than a boat,To ferry over the sad world that came.120 LECTURES ONThe maws and dens of beasts could not receiveThe bodies that those souls were frighted from;And e'en the graves were fill'd with men yet living,Whose flight and fear had mix'd them with the dead."The speech of Petteius, in the closing Scene ofthis fine Tragedy, is, perhaps, somewhat too longfor our purpose; but it is so full of noble andsublime images, gives so striking a picture of thechief personage of the Drama, and is so characteristic of the strength and beauty of the Author'sstyle, that I cannot persuade myself to mutilateit:-" The straits and needs of Catiline being such,That he must fight with one of the two armies,That then had near enclosed him, it pleased FateTo make us th' object of his desperate choice,Wherein the danger almost poised the honour:And as he rose, the day grew black with him,And Fate descended nearer to the earth,As if she meant to hide the name of thingsUnder her wings, and make the world her quarry.At this we roused, lest one small minute's stayHad left it to be enquired, what Rome was;And, as we ought, arm'd in the confidenceOf our great cause, in form of battle stood:Whilst Catiline came on, not with the faceOf any man, but of a public ruin:His countenance was a civil war itself;ENGLISH POETRY. 121And all his host had standing in their looksThe paleness of the death that was to come.Yet cried they out like vultures, and urged on,As though they would precipitate our fates:Nor stay'd we longer for them; but himselfStruck the first stroke , and with it fled a life;Which cut, it seem'd a narrow neck of landHad broke between two mighty seas, and eitherFlow'd into other; for so did the slaughter;And whirl'd about, as when two violent tidesMeet, and not yield . The Furies stood on hills,Circling the place, and trembling to see menDo more than they; whilst Piety left the field,Grieved for that side, that in so bad a causeThey knew not what a crime their valour was.The Sun stood still, and was behind a cloudThe battle made, seen sweating to drive upHis frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward:And now had fierce Enyo, like a flame,Consumed all it could reach, and then itself;Had not the fortune of the CommonwealthCome, Pallas- like, to every Roman thought,Which Catiline seeing, and that now his troopsCover'd that earth they'd fought on with their trunks,Ambitious of great fame to crown his ill ,Collected all his fury, and ran in,Arm'd with a glory high as his despair,Into our battle, like a Lybian lion ,Upon his hunters; scornful of our weapons,Careless of wounds, plucking down lives about him,Till he had circled in himself with death;Then he fell too, t' embrace it where it lay.Minerva holding forth Medusa's head,G122 LECTURES ONOne of the giant brethren felt himselfGrow marble at the killing sight, and now,Almost made stone, began t' enquire what flint,What rock, it was that crept through all his limbs,And ere he could think more, was that he fear'd;So Catiline, at the sight of Rome, in usBecame his tomb: yet did his look retainSome of his fierceness, and his hands still moved,As if he labour'd yet to grasp the stateWith those rebellious parts."It would be difficult to find, in the whole rangeof English Poetry, a more magnificent descriptionthan this. The images are of a grandeur andsublimity correspondent with the subject, yet dothey not, excepting perhaps that of the horses ofthe Sun being frightened at the noise of thebattle , which is certainly somewhat too violent,degenerate into turgidity and bombast. It is,however, more Epic than Dramatic; and if theaction had been represented, instead of beingdescribed, it would certainly have a more powerfuleffect upon the audience. For the honour of thePoet, we should add, that, much as he borrowedfrom the classics, this speech is original.I have quoted so largely from " Catiline, " thatI have not any space for extracts from therest of our Author's Dramas. The most poeticalamong them are " Sejanus," " Cynthia's Revels,"66ENGLISH POETRY. 123the " Poetaster," and the fine fragments of the" Sad Shepherd" and " Mortimer's Fall."But Jonson's fame rests principally upon hisComic powers. The great characteristic featureof his Comic genius is humour; an ingredientwhich seems to be entirely lost sight of in thecomposition of modern Comedies; the best, andmost successful of which are remarkable only forwit. Brilliancy of dialogue, and smartness ofrepartee, excellent things as they are, are but poorsubstitutes for character, action, and human nature. In the composition of a perfect Comedymust be united wit and humour. Jonson hadinfinite humour, without much wit. Congreve,on the contrary, had wit in abundance, with verylittle, if any, humour. Sir Joseph Wittol andCaptain Bluff may seem exceptions to this remark;but the former appears to me to be not humourous,but fantastic and unnatural; and the latter is acompound plagiarism from Bessus and the twoSwordsmen of Beaumont and Fletcher. Congreve'smost humourous Play is " Love for Love ," themost witty of Jonson's is, perhaps, Volpone,or, the Fox;" which is the most perfect of all hisworks. The next in merit are " Epicene, or, theSilent Woman," the " Alchemist," and " EveryMan in his Humour." ·6cG 2124 LECTURES ONJonson's style had few imitators, while that ofhis illustrious rival Shakspeare, formed the taste,and fixed the literary character, of his country.The best pupil of the Jonsonian School wasCartwright, of whom Jonson was very proud, andused to call him his son; and I give an extractfrom the " Royal Slave," to prove the truth ofthe old bard's assertion , "" My Son Cartwrightwrites like a man:"-" If they are Gods, Pity's a banquet to them.Whene'er the innocent and virtuousDo escape death, then is their festival:Nectar ne'er flows more largely than when blood'sNot spilt that should be saved. D'ye think the smokeOf human entrails is a steam that canDelight the Deities? Whoe'er did burnThe Temple to the honour of the Architect?Or break the tablet in the Painter's praise?'Tis Mercy is the sacrifice they like."I have entered thus largely upon the merits ofJonson, because I know, that, although muchtalked of, he is little read. He has the reputationof being a humourous, but rough and unpolishedwriter; exhibiting a rude strength in his Comicscenes, but without the feeling, elegance , or power,necessary for a Tragic, or Poetical Author. Howtrue such opinions are, my quotations have suffi-ENGLISH POETRY. 125ciently shewn; and for the number and length ofthose quotations, I need make no apology; forthey are, indeed," No weak efforts of a modern pen,But the strong touches of immortal Ben. "126 LECTURES ONLECTURE THE FOURTH.DRAMATIC POETRY CONTINUED.Beaumont and Fletcher:-Massinger: -Ford: -Webster: -Effects of the Civil War upon Dramatic Literature:-Milton, Dryden, Otway, Lee, Rowe, and Young: -Brilliancy and Licentiousness of the new School ofComedy:-Congreve, Farquhar, and Vanbrugh: -JeremyCollier:-Sentimental Comedy: -Sir Richard Steele: -Goldsmith: - Cumberland: -The German School: -Sheridan:-Present State of the Drama.My last Lecture attempted a Critical Review ofthe splendid Dramatic talents of Shakspeare, andJonson; I now proceed to notice some of theirgifted Contemporaries. Beaumont and Fletcherhave given birth to many admirable scenes of witand humour; and much lofty, eloquent, and affecting Poetry. Their powers, -I speak of themjointly, for all the attempts to distinguish theirproductions have ended in nothing but vain conjecture, their powers were of a very high order;not, however, as some of their admirers assert,approachable to that of Shakspeare. They skimmedENGLISH POETRY. 127the surface of life , and painted some of the lighterfeelings and passions, with much ability: but theycould not sound the depths of human nature likeShakspeare. When they venture into the higherregions of passion, they shew great fancy andelegance, but nothing more. The madness of theGaoler's daughter, in that part of the " Two NobleKinsmen, " which is ascribed to Fletcher, isprettily managed; but compare it for a momentwith Ophelia, or Lear, —the comparison with thelatter has been challenged, —and how infinite isthe disproportion: the first is not without thegraces of Poetry, but the latter are compoundedof the elements of human nature. There is,however, great beauty in the following passagefrom the " Queen of Corinth:"-" Wherefore sitsMy Phoebe shadow'd in a sable cloud?Those pearly drops which thou lett'st fall like beads,Numbering on them thy vestal orisons,Alas! are spent in vain; I love thee still.In midst of all these showers thou sweetlier scent'stLike a green meadow on an April day,In which the Sun and west wind play together,Striving to catch and drink the pearly drops. "Their use of imagery drawn from external na-128 LECTURES ONture, is in general peculiarly happy: the passagewhich I have just quoted is an instance of this,and that which follows is still more striking:-" 1. Of all the Flowers, methinks the Rose is best.2. Why, gentle Madam?1. It is the very emblem of a maid;For when the west wind courts her gently,How modestly she blows, and paints the SunWith her chaste blushes! When the north wind comesnear her,Rude and impatient, then , like Chastity,She locks her beauties in her bud again,And leaves him to base briars." ,Shakspeare is reported to have joined in thecomposition of the " Two Noble Kinsmen," fromwhich this passage is taken; and from the extremebeauty and delicacy of theinclined to ascribe it to him.simile, I am halfa*gain, how exqui-- sitely simple and natural is the following image: -" Though I have lost my fortune, and lost you,For a worthy Father, yet I will not loseMy former virtue; my integrityShall not forsake me: But, as the wild ivySpreads and thrives better in some piteous ruin,Of tower, or defaced temple, than it doesPlanted by a new building; so shall I,Make my adversity my instrumentTo wind me up into a full content."ENGLISH POETRY. 129The public are much better acquainted with thewritings of Massinger than with those of most ofhis contemporaries: for which distinction he ismainly indebted to the admirable manner in whichhe has been edited by Mr. Gifford, and to thecirc*mstance of some of his Plays having beenillustrated on the Stage by the talents of a popularActor. I cannot, however, quite agree with Mr.Gifford, when he ranks this Author immediatelyafter Shakspeare. He certainly yields in versatility of talent to Beaumont and Fletcher, whoseComic genius was very great; and in feeling andnature, I by no means think his Tragedies equalto their's, or to Ford's, or Webster's. Massingerexcelled in working up a single scene forcibly andeffectively, rather than in managing his plots skilfully, or in delineating characters faithfully, andnaturally. His catastrophes are sometimes broughtabout in a very improbable and unnatural manner;as in the " Bondman," where the Insurrection ofthe slaves is quelled by their masters merelyshaking their whips at them; and in “ A new Wayto pay old Debts," where Overreach, about tomurder his daughter, suddenly drops his weapon,and says, " Some undone Widow sits upon my arm ,. and takes away the use of' t." I am aware thatthe first incident is said to be an historical fact:G 3130 LECTURES ONbut even if it be so, it is not a probable and effective incident in a Drama. " Le vrai n'est pastoujours le vraisemblable. " His characters arecertainly drawn with amazing power, especiallythose in which the blacker passions are depicted;but they are generally out of nature. At least hewanted the art of shading his pictures: he givesus nothing but the bold, prominent features; wemiss all the delicate tints of the back ground.With all these drawbacks, the genius of Massinger is unquestionably great. The sweetnessand purity of his style, was not surpassed evenin his own days. His choice and management ofimagery is generally very happy; excepting thathe is apt to pursue a favourite idea too long. Hisdescriptive powers were also very considerable, theclearness and distinctness with which he places objects before our eyes, might furnish models for aPainter. In single scenes too, as I before observed, his genius is great and original. Thebattle between the Father and Son in the " Unnatural Combat," and the dreadful parley whichprecedes it, are as powerfully expressed, as theyare imagined. Indeed , the genius of Massingeris, perhaps, more conspicuous in this Play, with allit's faults, than in any other. The character ofOld Malefort, although possessing all the defectsENGLISH POETRY. 131which I have pointed out, is a masterly delineation,and ably sustained. Like Ford's Giovanni, he isthe victim of a guilty passion; but instead of anenthusiastic, romantic, and accomplished scholar,we have here a veteran warrior, and the perpetrator of many crimes. The flash of lightning bywhich he is destroyed is another of Massinger'sviolent catastrophes; but such a catastrophe is finerand more effective in this Play than in some others,as it seems to harmonise with the tremendous toneof the whole picture.I have not space to enter into a detailed reviewof the merits of the rest of Shakspeare's contemporaries. Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, andMassinger, have perhaps, fewer faults than mostof them; but there are others by whose excellencies they are rivalled, and even surpasssed. Fordis the Poet of domestic life; the lord and ruler ofour sighs and tears. No where, not even in thepages of Shakspeare himself, is there to be foundany thing more deeply pathetic, or more intenselyaffecting, than some scenes in the " Broken Heart,"and the " Brother and Sister." But his " web isof a mingled yarn." He delighted too much inviolent situations, and shocking catastrophes; andhis style is too bald and unornamented. He cannot shower the sweet flowers of fancy over the132 LECTURES ONgrave, and hide the horrors of his scenes of bloodunder the bewitching mantle of Poetry. This isthe grand secret with which Shakspeare was sowell acquainted. We weep and tremble over thescenes of Ford; but we feel a disinclination totake up the volume again, and undergo the sameharrowing and unmitigated sensations . In Shakspeare, though we tremble as we read, we stillcling to his pages with thrilling interest and unabated delight, and recur to them with feelings ofincreased admiration.The same objections will apply to the Dramas ofWebster; but his fancy had a far bolder wing thanthat of Ford, andhe, therefore, in that particular, approaches near to the standard of Shakspeare. ThisAuthor, with whose name few persons are probablyvery familiar, enjoyed a great and a deserved reputation among his contemporaries, and will, doubtless, yet emerge from the temporary oblivion inwhich the forgetful generations who succeeded himhave allowed him to sink. Ford, of whom I havejust been speaking, says, -" Crown him a Poet, whom nor Greece nor RomeTranscend; "and Middleton, another distinguished DramaticENGLISH POETRY. 133contemporary, speaking of his Tragedy the " duch*ess of Malfy," says" Thy Monument is raised in thy life time,Each Man is his own marble.Thy Epitaph only the title be,Write duch*ess! that will fetch a tear for thee."The Tragedy here mentioned is certainly one ofthe most extraordinary compositions in our language. With many faults, and many extravagances, it yet evinces so much sterling merit, sucha vivid Poetic fancy, and such power in movingterror and pity, that I know very few Dramaticpieces which are entitled to rank above it. Twosimilies will sufficiently show the originality andbeauty of Webster's imagery. The first illustratesthe ingratitude displayed to a faithful servant, whocontinued attached to his master during his fallenfortunes:-" Oh! th' inconstant,And rotten ground of service! You may see'Tis e'en like one, that on a Winter's nightTakes a long slumber o'er a dying fire,As loath to part from't; yet parts thence more cold ,Than when he first sat down."The Second is contained in the following lines:-134 LECTURES ON" An honest Statesman to a PrinceIs like a Cedar planted by a spring:The spring bathes the tree's roots, the grateful treeRewards it with the shadow."Chapman, Middleton, Heywood, Dekker, andTourneur, occupy honourable stations in what maybe called the School of Shakspeare; and Shirleygracefully closes the list, not as one of the greatest, but as the last, of an illustrious phalanx, whodisappeared, and left their ranks to be occupied bya body, to whom they bore no more resemblance,than did the Titans who assaulted Olympus, to" That small infantryWarr'd on by Cranes."We have now traced the history, and enteredinto a brief review, of the merits of Dramaticl*terature in England, previous to the Restoration; we have seen it's faint and imperfect dawnin the authors of " Gorboduc," and " GammerGurton's Needle;" it's morning light of rich promise in Peele, Lily, and Marlowe; and it's fullmeridian of power and splendour, in Shakspeareand his contemporaries. We have now the lessgratifying, but not less imperative duty, of theHistorian and Critic, to perform, to narrate it'sENGLISH POETRY. 135degradation and debasem*nt; it's decline and fall:to watch it's downward course from the proudpinnacle on which we have recently contemplatedit, until we find it in the present day, in astate where the only consolation left us, is theconviction that it cannot possibly sink any lower:when we find the National Theatres, where delighted and applauding audiences listened to themusic of Shakspeare, Fletcher, and Jonson, converted into booths for cattle, and puppet-boxes forPunch; when the boards where Garrick trod aredisgraced by hoofs; and when the natural emotionsof " Lear" and " Hamlet" are no longer attractive, unless aided by the contortions of Apes, andthe mummeries of Pantomime.The deposition and death of Charles the First,as we have already had occasion to remark, wereevents, which, however advantageous they mayhave proved to the liberties of the Nation, weredeath blows to Poetry, and the Arts. WhenCharles ascended the throne, above a Century hadelapsed since the civil commotions of the nationhad been quieted by the accession of the house ofTudor; and the Ecclesiastical persecutions ofHenry, Mary, and Elizabeth, had subsided intosomething like Religious toleration, if not Reli-136 LECTURES ONgious liberty. Charles the First, if the incidentsof his reign had not turned out so disastrous , bidfair to have proved to England, what Francis theFirst had been to France, the encourager of theArts; the munificent patron of their Professors;and an example in the highest station in the realm,of good taste and mental acquirement, which wouldhave been very generally imitated by all who lookedup to the Throne as the fountain of emolument andhonour.The triumph of the Puritans effected a sadRevolution in these matters. The days of JackCade seemed to have returned, when a man washanged for being able to write his own name,instead of having a mark to himself like an honest,plain- dealing citizen; and when the nobility wereproscribed as national enemies, because, as it wassaid, they thought it scorn to go in leathern aprons.Painting, Sculpture, Music, and Poetry, but aboveall Dramatic Poetry, were anathematised as infamous, and abominable; and even Milton considered it necessary to excuse himself to his sect,for writing the fine Tragedy of “ Sampson Agonistes," by citing the authority of St. Paul, whothought it not unworthy of him to insert a verse ofEuripides, the great Tragic writer of Greece, intoENGLISH POETRY. 137the Holy Scriptures: -1 Corinthians, 15th chapter,33d verse, " Be not deceived, evil communicationscorrupt good manners."66Milton, as a Dramatist, is the connecting linkbetween the writers who flourished previous, andsubsequent, to the Restoration: not that he hasmuch in common with either, but of his twoDramas, the first, " Comus," was written before,and the other, Sampson Agonistes," after, thatperiod; and they are each characteristic of thewriter at the different periods in which they werewritten. The first has all the buoyancy andvivacity of youth; is full of high aspirings; ofsplendid imaginings; the outpourings of a Poeticalspirit, before it was soured by disappointment, orfevered by Criticism, or embittered by political,or polemical controversy. The Second is asstrongly characteristic of it's Author when " fallenon evil days, and evil tongues; with darkness andwith dangers compassed round. " The utmostseverity of thought and diction is observable inthis Drama. There are no vagaries of fancy; nosymptoms of an unbridled imagination . In thought,expression, sentiment, it is Greek, attic Greek;tinged, however, with that solemn and unearthlycharacter, which it derived from the Sacred nature of it's subject. Both Dramas are worthy of138 LECTURES ONthe Author of " Paradise Lost." It is true thatthey are not structures of the same vastness andmagnificence, but they bear evident traces of themaster- mind of the same surpassing Architect;they are designed with the same consummate tasteand judgment; and are constructed of the samecostly, and superb, and imperishable materials.The Restoration varied only the nature of thepoison with which the public taste was infected .The sour manners and fanatical feelings of thePuritans, were exchanged for the licentiousnessand frivolity of a depraved and dissipated Court.The Monarch, who had been so long a dependenton the bounty of Louis the Fourteenth, broughtwith him a taste for French vices, and introducedinto the Court of St. James's all the profligacy,without the refinement, of the Tuilleries. TheEnglish Stage, in like manner, soon became a badcopy of the French; and Corneille, Racine, andCrevillon, are the literary parents of Dryden,Addison, Rowe, and Young. Dryden's Tragedieshave some redeeming passages, but as a wholethey are essentially and utterly bad. For character, passion, action, or interest, we searchthrough them in vain . Their Author has, indeed,confessed his own conviction that his powers werenot adapted for Dramatic writing, and that he hadENGLISH POETRY. 139meditated the production of an Epic Poem, butthat the taste of the age afforded him no encouragement for such a task,66 Dryden in immortal strain ,Had raised the Table Round again,But that a ribald King and Court,Bade him toil on to make them sport:Demanding for their nigg*rd pay,Fit for their souls, a looser lay,Licentious Satire, Song, and Play."Otway is a writer of a very different stamp;and, as a Dramatist, of a far higher order; although the plague- spots of the age are upon him,licentiousness in his Comic, and bombast and turgidity in his Tragic scenes. But in the latter,where he does not attempt to be sublime, wherehe confines himself to his own element, the pathetic,I know of no writer who can produce effects morepowerful than his. The reception of his " VenicePreserved," and " Orphan," on the Stage, whensupported by histrionic talent at all commensurateto their merits, is the most triumphant attestationof his pathetic powers that can be imagined .Mirth may be forced; rapture may be affected; buttears are unequivocal evidences of the intensityand genuineness of the feeling which they express.140 LECTURES ON66Otway is not remarkable either for skilfulness inthe construction of his plots, or truth and force inthe delineation of his characters. The plot of theOrphan" is as clumsy as it is indelicate; andthat of Venice Preserved" full of glaring improbabilities. Of his characters, Pierre is the onlyone which shews any thing like the finish of themaster. The best of the others are but sketches.Jaffier is intended by the Author for the likenessof a person of naturally virtuous disposition , drivenby the uncontrollable influence of oppression andmisfortune, to deeds of desperation and crime.But Jaffier, as delineated, is incapable of excitingany feeling but one of unmixed contempt. Hisaffection is puerile and drivelling; his friendship,perfidy and treachery; and what is meant to berepresented as his return to the principles ofhonour and virtue, is but the craven misgivings ofpusillanimity and fear.The beauty and delicacy of Otway's imagerywill be seen in the following example; which is,however, almost too trite for quotation:-" Youtook her up a little tender flower,Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frostHad nipt, and with a careful, loving hand,Transplanted her into your own fair garden,Where the Sun always shines. There long she flourish'd;ENGLISH POETRY. 141Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye;Till at the last a cruel spoiler came,Cropt this fair rose, and rifled all it's sweetness ,Then threw it like a loathsome weed away."That his descriptive powers were also of a highorder, one instance will suffice to prove:-" Through a close lane as I pursued my journey,And meditated on my last night's vision,I spied a wither'd hag, with age grown double,Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself;Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red, -Cold Palsy shook her head, her hands seem'd wither'd,And on her crooked shoulders had she wraptThe tatter'd remnant of an old striped hanging,Which served to keep her carcass from the cold;So there was nothing of a piece about her.Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patch'dWith different colour'd rags, black, red, white, yellow,And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness."The minute and powerful detail of this picturewould sustain a comparison with the most celebrated efforts of the Dutch and Flemish schools.Nathaniel Lee's Dramas are full of faults;faults of the least venial nature; but they are evidently the productions of a man of genius, and donot betray a single indication of imbecility or dulness. Their characteristics are summed up in asaying of his own.When the unfortunate Author142 LECTURES ONwas confined in a straight waistcoat in Bedlam, ascribbler who went to visit him, had the cruelty tojeer at his dreadful malady, by observing that itwas an easy thing to write like a madman: —-" No,"said Lee, " it is not an easy thing to write like amadman; but it is very easy to write like a fool. "Lee's scenes have nothing of the fool, but muchof the madman in them. They are full of strongand violent effort; sometimes well and powerfullydirected, but often falling short of the object atwhich it aims. There are passages in Lee's" Alexander," in his " Theodosius," and in hisportion of " dipus," —which he wrote in conjunction with Dryden, —which are not unworthy ofthe brightest names in our dramatic annals. Occasionally too, he could touch a softer note, andwaken the tenderest and most pleasing emotions.The following lines on the Nightingale are full ofsweetness and pathos: -" Thus in some poplar shade the Nightingale,With piercing moans does her lost young bewail;Which the rough hind, observing as they layWarm in their downy nest, had stolen away:But she in mournful sounds does still complain,Sings all the night, though all her songs are vain,And still renews her miserable strain."ENGLISH POETRY. 143John Crowne was an Author of much repute atthe period in which he wrote, but, after a painfulexamination of his writings, I have found verylittle which is worth remembering. I have heardof a French work, which consisted of the witticisms of persons who never said more than onegood thing in their lives. I have not found manymore in the works of John Crowne, but one is sogood that I cannot resist the quotation of it: -" Thy wit, thy valour, and thy delicate form,

-

Were mighty faults which the world could not pardon.No wonder the vile envy of the basePursued thee, when the noble could not bear thee:They cursed thee, as Negroes curse the Sun,Because thy shining glories blacken'd them. "Of the remaining Tragedians of this School,Rowe, Hughes, Aaron Hill, Phillips, and Young;the first, and the last only, are worthy of our attention. Rowe, though deeply infected with thefalse French taste which was then fashionable, wasnot unacquainted with the early English writers,and some beneficial effects from this acquaintanceare visible in all his Dramas. Perhaps his versification is the best part about him; and his blankverse has a flow and an easy sweetness, which areadvantageously contrasted to the tumidity of Dry-144 LECTURES ON" Buden, and the feebleness of Otway. His " JaneShore," in which he professedly imitated Shakspeare, and his " Fair Penitent," which is an audacious plagiarism from Massinger, are the bestof his productions. Although they do not speakmuch for his originality, they are creditable to histaste; and prove, I think, that it was no defect inhis own judgment, but a compliance with thepopular opinion, that led him to French models forthe general cast and character of his works.Young's Tragedies of the " Revenge,"siris," and the " Brothers," are evidently theproductions of no ordinary mind. For high andeloquent declamation, they are equal to any thingwhich the French School has produced, either init's native soil , or in our imitative Country. Thoughthe first is the only one of these three Tragedieswhich keeps possession of the Stage, yet " Busiris " appears to me to possess the most merit.The principal character is drawn with as muchforce and decision as Zanga, but has more of realhuman nature in it's composition. Zanga is a finePoetical study; the grandeur of the conception ,and the power of the execution, are equal; but ithas not much of truth or Nature in it's composition .Compare it with the Iago of Shakspeare, of whichit is evidently a copy, and it is like comparing aENGLISH POETRY. 145lay figure with a Statue. One is a fitting vehicleto convey to us the drapery of the Poet's fancy,and the folds and forms in which he chooses toarray it; but the other has the truth and power ofNature stamped upon every limb.But it is not in the Tragedy of this period thatwe are to look for the Dramatic Genius of England. She took refuge in the arms of Comedy.A race of brilliant, but profligate , Wits arose,whose powers are only eclipsed by those of theworthies of the Elizabethan age: Wycherley, Farquhar, Sedley, Etherege, Durfey, Centlivre, Vanbrugh, Congreve, Hoadley, Cibber, and Gay;these are names, of which, notwithstanding theirblemishes, our Nation cannot, and ought not to beotherwise than proud. The Dramas of the ages ofElizabeth and Charles, are diametrically opposite toeach other, both in their excellencies and their defects. The first are all Nature, but Nature in hersweetest, truest, and most graceful forms: the second are all Art, but Art in her most polished, pleasing, and elegant costumes. The first painted passions; the second, manners: the first led us throughthe mazes of the human heart; the second makesus acquainted with the modes of human society.In the first, we find Geography, Chronology, andpropriety of costume and manners, set at defiance.H146 LECTURES ONaIn the second we find unity of character, andnatural sentiment and passion, treated with equalindifference. If Shakspeare can unlock the secrets of the human heart, he cares not to shipwreck a vessel on the coast of Bohemia, or tomake Pandarus of Troy talk about Winchestergeese. If Congreve can dazzle by his brilliantdialogue, and his smart repartee, he does notshrink from putting the most splendid wit intothe mouths of his fools, and exhibiting characterswho are sunk in the depths of disaster, full ofsprightliness and merriment. Shakspeare makesus forget the Author; Congreve makes us thinkof no one else. We rise from the scenes of thefirst, overwhelmed with the sorrows of Hamlet,or of Othello , or of Lear. We close the pagesof the second, charmed with the wit, the sprightliness, and the vivacity of Congreve.I have chosen Congreve as the champion andexemplar of the second School, because he is,in many particulars, the most eminent Scholarwhich it has produced. Wit was it's grand dis<tinguishing feature, and Congreve was one of thewittiest writers that, perhaps, any age or nation hasgiven birth to. But the Dramatist has to paintcharacter, and he who has only one colour inwhich to dip his pencil, Wit, cannot produce aENGLISH POETRY. 147true, a natural, or even a permanently pleasingpicture. We may gaze upon the Sun till we seenothing but darkling motes; and so Congreve'sscenes fatigue us by their very brilliancy. All hischaracters are like himself, witty.may borrow an image from thelogy, all Avaters of the Author;dividuality, no specific likeness.They are, if IHindoo Mythothey have no inWhat Churchillsaid of Quin as an Actor, may be applied to Congreve as a writer: -" Self still like oil upon the surface play'd ,And marr'd th' impression that the Author made. "Still, as pictures of manners and society, thewritings of Congreve, and his contemporaries,and immediate predecessors, are invaluable. Theyhave made the age of furbelows and brocade,shoe-buckles and hoop-petticoats, live for ever.They have rendered the Parks classic ground.They have made the very air there, redolent ofwit and pleasantry. Rotten- Row, the MulberryWalk, and the Mall, are as immortal as the plainsof Troy, or the fields of Marathon. Every walk,every turning, is peopled with the gay creations ofCongreve, of Farquhar, and of Vanbrugh. Weexpect to see Sir Fopling Flutter, or Sir HarryWildair on every bench. We hear the gay laughH2148 LECTURES ONof Clarinda on every breeze; and the statelyfigures of Millamont, and Belinda, and Clarissa,glide past the mind's eye as youthful and as bewitching as ever.Congreve had, I think, high Tragic powers, ifhe had chosen to exert them, and to give themtheir full and natural play. When he wrote the 66 Mourning Bride" he thought it necessary tomount himself upon stilts. I do not, therefore,refer to that Play, when I allude to him as aTragedian. But there are touches of pathos, andeven of sublimity, in some of his Comic scenes,which show the hand of a master. The destitutecondition of Valentine in " Love for Love," isstrongly, and even powerfully, painted; and thecharacters of Maskwell, and of Lord and LadyTouchwood, in the " Way of the World," arefull of the Poetry of passion, and of interest.The serious scenes in Vanburgh's " ProvokedHusband" have been much admired, but they arenothing in comparison with those in which thesecharacters appear; and set off as they are, bythe broad Comedy, and almost Farce, of LordFrisk, Brisk, and Lady Pliant, they produce aneffect which reminds us, " not to speak it profanely," of that produced by the juxtaposition ofthe Fool and Lear,ENGLISH POETRY. 149Farquhar has not the wit of Congreve, but hehas more humour; and is, on the whole, a far betterDramatist. His Plots are not so elaborately constructed, but they have more vitality in them; theyare brought about in a more natural manner; and theCharacters contribute more to their developement.The observations which I have made on the want ofindividuality, and specific likeness of character, willapplyless to the scenes of Farquhar, than to those ofany of his contemporaries. His characters are oftendrawn improbably, and out of nature, but still theyare active personages, and agents in the Drama,which cannot be very often said of Congreve. Healso possesses much genuine humour, as his characters of Sir Harry Wildair, Beau Clincher,and Serjeant Kite, sufficiently shew. Farquharhas more of the kindly spirit of the old EnglishDramatists about him, than any writer of his times:and is a less bitter Satirist than either Congreve,Wycherley, or Vanbrugh. His arrows are brightand keen, but those of his contemporaries arepoisoned: Farquhar makes the sides ache, butVanbrugh makes the heart ache also.The last-mentioned author is as appalling a Satirist as Swift. His pictures of human nature arehideously like; they are true to the very wrinkle.Swift said that he hated the Ourang Outang, be-150 LECTURES ONcause it was so like us; and so we may sayof Vanbrugh's delineations of character. All thevices ofhumanity are treasured up in them; yet theyare not natural delineations. They are the bad partsof human nature picked out and separated from thoseredeeming qualities, which scarcely the vilest ofmankind are not without. Such writers as Vanbrughand Swift do not use the vices and follies ofmankindfor the purpose of instruction or amusem*nt; butstand aloof from humanity like the MephistophilesofGoethe, and make it's weaknesses and it's crimesthe objects of their fiend- like derision.These three Authors occupy the foremost places inthat School of Comedy, which flourished in Englandfrom the days of Charles the Second, to those ofAnne. I have endeavoured, briefly and succinctly,to sum up their merits and defects. They werecertainly vastly inferior the Dramatists of the Elizabethan age; but, they were at least as muchsuperior to any School which has succeeded them.The Elizabethan writers possessed great advantages from the character of the times in which theylived. They revelled in the holiday of intellect;in the sweet Spring morning of wit and genius,which dawned upon the world after the long andgothic darkness of the middle ages. The geniusof a Shakspeare cannot be expected to revisit us,ENGLISH POETRY. 151until after the concurrence of circ*mstances similarto those by which the age in which he existed waspreceded. Like the dew of the early morning,darkness and gloom must once more envelope theEarth, before we can gaze upon it again.The attack of Jeremy Collier upon the profligacyand licentiousness of the Stage, although it's effectswere not immediately felt, ultimately proved thedestruction of this School of Comedy. Congreveconfessed his fault; and Vanbrugh and Cibberwrote the " Provoked Husband," of which thetendency is unexceptionable, as an expiation forthe immorality of their former productions.This Comedy may be said to have given rise tothe Sentimental School; the most meretricious andcontemptible of all the demons of dulness whichever possessed the Stage. I do not, of course,mean to apply this censure to the very elegantproduction which I have just mentioned, andfrom which I have considered this School as takingit's rise; nor to the Comedies of Sir RichardSteele, who may be ranked amongst it's adherents.The last mentioned Author had a quiet naturalvein of humour, and a delicate perception of thefoibles of human character, which give great zestand interest to his scenes: though even in hisworks we find the Comic Muse somewhat abated ,152 LECTURES ONof those smiles which are hers by prescriptive right.She affects the grave airs of her Tragic Sister, andwears them, at the best, but awkwardly. She maysmile, but she never laughs: -" Mirth that wrinkled Care derides,And Laughter holding both his sides,"are banished from the works of the SentimentalWriters. A well-bred simper, or a demure dimple, is the utmost extent of hilarity in which theyindulge. What an uproar, what a devastation,would the introduction of such a person as SirJohn Falstaff among the Dramatis Personæ ofour modern playwrights, occasion! How wouldLady Elinor Irwin receive the addresses of sucha person as Sir Toby Belch? and how would OldDorntonlook, if he found young Master LauncelotGobbo capering about his banking house?truth, this Sentimental style of writing is the mostartificial and worthless that was ever imposed uponthe public, in the name of Comedy. Goldsmithwrote amidst the very hey-day of this fashionablefolly; but he rolled his own pure tide of wit andhumour through, and stainless and unmixed withthe surrounding vortex, as the River Rhone rushesthrough the Lake of Geneva. His two admirableComédies of the " Good Natured Man," andInENGLISH POETRY. 153" She Stoops to Conquer," are the greenest spotsin the Dramatic waste of the period of which weare speaking. They are worthy of the Author ofthe " Vicar of Wakefield;" and to praise themmore highly is impossible. Wit, without licentiousness; Humour, without extravagance; brilliantand elegant dialogue; and forcible but naturaldelineation of character; are the excellencies withwhich his pages are prodigally strewn.Cumberland was the last, and the best of theSentimental School. His Genius was of too masculine a character to submit entirely to the fetterswhich the popular prejudices would impose uponit; and his taste too pure, to relish the sicklyviands with which the public appetite was palled .But, even in the extinction of this School , wecannot congratulate ourselves in the elevation ofany thing better in it's place. " Bad begins, butworse remains behind." Our present Lecture hasbeen a history of the gradual declension of theBritish Drama:-"We have fallen upon our gloomy days,Star after star decays;Every bright name that shedLight o'er the land is fled!"The Shakspearean School was succeeded bythat of Congreve: there we sunk a step , but weH3154 LECTURES ONwere on a lofty eminence still . The CongreveSchool gave place to that of the SentimentalArtists. This was a more fearful declension: buteven here we met with elegant writers, althoughwe looked in vain for skilful or interesting Dramatists. The next " change that comes o'er thespirit of our dream," presents us with the ultraGerman horrors of Lewis, and his School. Thisis the very Antipodes of the Sentimental School:the badge and banner of one is the cambric handkerchief; of the other the gory dagger. Insteadof high flown sentiments of virtue and honour, wehave murderers and spectres; trap-doors and longcorridors; daggers andpoison- bowls; faces whitenedover with meal, and hands looking as sanguinaryas red paint can make them. This School has alsohad it's day, and- fallen into the " sere and yellowleaf," to make wayfor Juvenile Roscii, Elephants,and rope-dancers! Various entertainments havesince been resorted to for the edification andamusem*nt of the enlightened public . Sometimesit has been treated with the sight of a Monkeywhich can dance on the tight rope like a man; andat others, with a Man who can climb trees and cracknuts like a Monkey. For such refined amusem*nts as these have we exchanged the Genius ofour early Dramatists: a jewel, which, as ShylockENGLISH POETRY. 15566 says, we would not have given for a wildernessof monkeys." Occasionally, however, a gleam oflight has broken in upon the general gloom of theDramatic hemisphere; and the names of Foote,Garrick, Colman the Elder, and, " the greatest isbehind," Sheridan, shew, amidst the surroundingmass of dulness and folly, like the stars of heaven,more fiery by night's blackness.Sheridan is, indeed, a golden link which connects us with the Authors of better days. Hehas wit; pure, polished, genuine wit. He hashumour; not, perhaps, of quite so pure an order,a little forced and overstrained, but it's root is inNature, whatever aberrations it may spread intoin it's branches. His dialogue is of matchlessbrilliancy; so brilliant as to enchain the attention,and to blind us to the grand defect of his Plays,their want of action, and of what is technicallycalled, business. This defect alone shuts outSheridan from taking his place by the side of theelder Dramatists, and assigns him his situation astep lower among the writers of the age of Charles.He is, however, free from their impurities ofthought and language; their equal in wit, andtheir superior in genuine humour.The Drama of the present day is, with somefew exceptions, a compound of all the vices which156 LECTURES ONcharacterised the preceding Schools; excepting,I am happy to say, the profligacy of the writers ofthe Restoration. If we are dull, we are, at least,decent. The Dramas, however, which are nowproduced, are as lawless and irregular as thewriters of the Elizabethan School; turgid andbombastic as the Tragedies which succeeded it;mawkish as the Comedies of the Sentimentalists;and extravagant and outrageous as the maddestproductions of. Germany. The works of JoannaBaillie-unquestionably the greatest Dramatistwho has appeared here since the Restoration, —are driven from the Stage; and, although Shakspeare is still endured, he is made to bow his" eminent tops to our low heads;" his Tragediesmust have a happy ending, and his Comedies mustbe " interspersed with Songs." But then, thetricks of Harlequin, the mysteries of Melo Drame,the prancing of real horses, and the tumbling ofreal water; these are surely enough to compensatefor the absence of Shakspeare, and all his trumpery.We have passed, it may be thought, a severecensure upon the present state of the EnglishDrama; but, we speak it " more in sorrow than inanger." When we consider the splendid heritageof talent and genius which we derive from ourancestors; when we recollect the immortal pro-ENGLISH POETRY. 157ductions which have been bequeathed to the English Stage, from the days of Shakspeare to thoseof Sheridan; when we mark, too, the energy andintelligence of the present day, as shewn in everyother quarter, while the Stage alone is usurpedby imbecility and dulness; —the mingled feelingsof shame and astonishment are too powerful fortheir expression to be repressed . The causes ofthis national degradation are various. One of themost obvious and powerful, unquestionably is theenormous size of the Theatres. The Music of thevoice, the magic of the eye, the passion and propriety of the gestures, these are the true andlegitimate elements of Dramatic effect; but these,in the immense area upon which they are exerted,are lost to the largest proportion of the auditory.Hence, the actor distorts his features, strains hisvoice, and throws himself into violent and unnatural attitudes; and when it is at length foundthat even these fail of producing the requisiteeffect, then pomp and shew, decoration and noise,unmeaning bustle and preposterous parade, arecalled in to fill up the melancholy hiatus.Accordingly, the Managers and the public sustain a re-action from each other; the former createin the latter an appetite for Spectacle and shew;and the appetite thus created in the latter, calls upon158 LECTURES ONthe former for fresh efforts to gratify it. Thus thestate of things may be prolonged ad infinitum,unless some voice should be raised sufficientlypowerful to induce a change of system.But, potent as are the causes to which we havelast alluded, in promoting the degeneracy of theDrama, still it must not be disguised that these arenot solely the origin of the evil. The incompetency of the Authors in whose hands rests the taskof winning the public taste back to the legitimateDrama, is another, and not less influential cause.The Spectacles and Pageants with which theManagers feast the eyes of their Audiences, are asnearly as possible, perfect in their way. TheTragedies and Comedies which are occasionallyproduced, are the farthest possible removed fromthe standard to which they aspire . The Publicchooses between them; and we can scarcely blameit's decision: -" Now forced, at length, her ancient reign to quit,Nature sees Dulness lay the ghost of Wit;Exulting Folly hails the joyous day,And Pantomime and Song confirm her sway."ENGLISH POETRY. 159LECTURE THE FIFTH.DIDACTIC, DESCRIPTIVE, PASTORAL, ANDSATIRICAL POETRY.Nature of Didactic and Descriptive Poetry:-Death and Life,the earliest Specimen of English Blank Verse: -BishopHall's Satires:-Brown's Pastorals:-Donne: -Butler'sHudibras: -Dryden, Pope, Akenside, Dyer, Armstrong,Young, and Goldsmith: -Thomson's Seasons: -Cowper.OUR Lectures have already exhausted the moreinteresting topics, which a review of the historyand merits of English Poetry presents to our consideration. The Harvest is past; and, we havenow little more to do, than to garner in the comparatively scanty gleanings, which remain behind.The subject of the present Lecture is EnglishDidactic, and Descriptive Poetry; including Pastoral and Satire. The Didactic Muse has beencalled " the least attractive of the Nine;" but ifshe has less beauty, she has, perhaps, more truththan her sisters. If she cannot soar as high, shetreads more firmly. She addresses herself, not to160 LECTURES ON66the Imagination and the heart, but to the understanding. She seeks not to please the fancy, butto improve the mind. She is, in fact, however,scarcely a legitimate denizen of the world ofPoetry. She is too nearly allied to Prose, tomingle quite freely and gracefully with those gay" creatures of the elements," who people the regions of Fancy. She is an amphibious animal;' parcel woman, parcel fish." She has powerswhich those who are exclusively confined to eitherelement, do not possess; but then in neither doesshe move with the same freedom and unconstrainedness as they do. She has not the real soberprose step of the Historian and the Essayist, anymore than she has the bold and fearless pinion ofthe Epic Poet, and the Dramatist. She has not" angelic wings, nor feeds on manna." She hasrather the wings of the flying-fish, which, for atmoment, elevate her towards the heaven of Poetry, whence she soon sinks exhausted, into herown native element of Prose.The works of the Descriptive and PastoralMuses are to the Epic and the Drama, what atrim and elegant flower- garden is to the wildnessand magnificence of unadorned Nature; who is," when unadorned, adorned the most." The descriptive passages which spring up amidst all theENGLISH POETRY. 161awfulness and sublimity of Shakspeare and Milton, are like the delicious fruits and fragrantflowers which are found among the grandest andmost terrific passages of Alpine scenery; whilethe continuous descriptions of Thomson and Cowper, are like flowers of every imaginable formand hue, exotic and native, got together andcrowded into one bed. They bring home to thosewho cannot go in search of them, those treasuresof Nature, which bolder spirits are content toscale Alpine steeps, and dive amidst mountaintorrents to attain. The mind is not always prepared to accompany Shakspeare or Milton in theirdaring flights, any more than the body is alwaysat leisure to undertake a journey to the Andes, orthe Appenines. Then the pages of Goldsmith,and Thomson, and Cowper, yield as much enjoyment to the one, as the velvet lawn and the gailyornamented parterre do to the other.English Poetry has been, from the earliest period, as rich in description as the English taste hasbeen observed to be particularly attached to external Nature. The humblest and most closelyconfined denizens of our English Cities havebeen remarked by foreigners to cherish this tastein the possession of a box of mignonette, a vaseof flowers, or a solitary myrtle, or geranium. So,162 LECTURES ONtoo, in the most humble of our versifiers, if theypossess any Poetical powers at all, they will beroused into action by the inspiration excited onbeholding the face of Nature.The earliest English Poets were fond and acuteobservers of Nature. The touches of scenic description in the ancient Ballads are numerous andbeautiful; and Percy has preserved a fine relique ofan old descriptive Poem, entitled " Death andLife," the beauties of which cannot fail to be perceived, even through the veil of uncouth and antique language in which they are enveloped . ThePoem is supposed by Percy to have been writtenas early as, if not earlier than, the time of Langbaine; and it is curious, as the oldest specimenof Blank Verse in our language. The followingis an allegorical description of Life:-" She was brighter of her blee, than was the bright sonne;Her rudd redder than the rose, that on the rise hangeth.Meekly smiling with her mouth, and merry in her lookes;Ever laughing for love, as she the like wolde.And as shee came by the banks, the boughs eche oneThey lowted to that ladye, and lay'd forth their branches;Blossoms and burgens breathed full sweete:Flowers flourish'd in the frith, where she forth stepp'd;And the grass that was grey, greened belive. "But it is to that golden age of our Literature,ENGLISH POETRY. 163the reign of Queen Elizabeth, that we must lookfor the earliest, and some of the best, specimensof Satire and Pastoral; considered as a class ofPoetry, distinct from, and unmixed with, anyother. I allude more particularly to the Satiresof Bishop Hall, and the " Britannia's Pastorals”of William Browne; two names which, I believe,are still " caviare to the million;" are unknown tothe general reader; and are not admitted intomany of the collections of the general body ofEnglish Poetry. To Mr. Warton the public areindebted for having first drawn their attention tothe beauties of Hall. This powerful and truly original writer is the earliest professed Satiristamong our Poets; and he has himself alluded tothat fact with a proud and pardonable egotism: -" I first adventure, follow me who list,And be the Second English Satirist."His Satires, besides their own intrinsic Poeticalexcellencies, are valuable to the Antiquary aspresenting a most vivid and faithful picture of themanners of our ancestors; their fashions, follies ,vices, and peculiarities. These Hall has touchedwith a powerful and unsparing hand. Scribblers,Lawyers, Parsons, Physicians, all those unfortu-164 LECTURES ONnate classes of men, who have, from time immemorial, enjoyed the unenvied privilege of attracting the peculiar notice of the Satiric Muse,are by him laid bare and shrinking to the scornand hatred of Mankind. Hall is, I believe, wellknown as a Divine: his Sermons and Meditationshaving procured him a high rank among polemicalwriters. It is my object, however, to notice himmerely as a Poet, and I shall, therefore, make afew extracts from his Satires. The following tiradeagainst the Legal Profession is a fair specimen ofthe force and fearlessness of his style:-"Woe to the weal where many Lawyers be,For there is sure much store of malady:"Twas truly said, and truly was foreseen,The fat kine are devoured of the lean.Genus and species long since barefoot wentUpon their ten toes, in wild wonderment;Whiles Father Bartol on his footcloth rode,Upon high pavement, gayly silver- strew'd.Each home-bred Science percheth in the chair,While Sacred Arts grovel on the groundsell bare;Since pedling barbarisms ' gan be in request,Nor classic tongues, nor Learning found no rest.The crouching Client with low bended knee,And many worships and fair flattery,Tells on his tale as smoothly as he list;But still the Lawyer's eye squints on his fist;If that seem lined with a larger fee,Doubt not the suit, the law is plain for thee.ENGLISH POETRY. 165Though must he buy his vainer hope with price,Disclout his crowns, and thank him for advice.So have I seen, in a tempestuous stowre,Some briar bush shew shelter from the shower,Unto the hopeful sheep, that fain would hideHis fleecy coat from that same angry tide:The ruthless briar, regardless of his plight,Lays hold upon the fleece he should acquite;And takes advantage ofthe careless prey,That thought she in securer shelter lay.The day is fair, the sheep would far to feed,The tyrant briar holds fast his shelter's meed,And claims it for the fee of his defence,So robs the sheep in favour's fair pretence. "The following lines are in ridicule of the Amatory Poetry of the age, and of the exaggeratedcompliments which the Poets addressed to theirMistresses:-" As witty Pontan in great earnest said,His Mistress' breasts were like two weights of lead;Another thinks her teeth might liken'd be,To two fair ranks of pales of ivory;To fence in, sure, the wild beast of her tongue,From either going far, or going wrong;Her grinders like two chalk- stones in a mill,Which shall with time and wearing wax as illAs old Catillas, who doth every nightLay up her holy pegs till next daylight,And with them grind soft simp'ring all the day;When, lest her laughter should her mouth betray,166 LECTURES ONHer hands must hide it; if she would but smile,Fain would she seem all fire, and frolic still:Her forehead fair is like a brazen hill ,Whose wrinkled furrows which her age doth breed,Are daubed full of Venice chalk for need;Her eyes, like silver saucers fair besetWith shining amber, and with shady let;Her lids like Cupid's bow-case, where he'll hideThe weapon that doth wound the wanton eyed:Her chin, like Pindus' , or Parnassus' hill ,Where down descends the flowing stream, doth fillThe well of her fair mouth. Each hath his praise,Who would not but wed Poets now-a-days!"That Hall could compliment as elegantly, as hecould satirise unsparingly, a short Epigram will,however, amply prove. It is entitled, -" ON MR. GREENHAM'S BOOK OF THE SABBATH.While Greenham writeth on the Sabbath's rest,His Soul enjoys not what his pen exprest:His work enjoys not what itself doth say,For it shall never find one resting day.A thousand hands shall toss each page and line,Which shall be scanned by a thousand eyne.This Sabbath's rest, or that Sabbath's unrest,"Tis hard to say which is the happiest."Brown is one of the sweetest Pastoral Writersin the world. It has been complained, that English Literature, however rich in other respects,ENGLISH POETRY. 167is very defective in Pastoral Poetry; but this is acomplaint which can only be made by Critics whoare ignorant of the existence of such a writer asBrown. Of the more popular Pastorals, the artificial affectations of Shenstone, Phillips, Hammond,and a thousand others, I wish to say little or nothing. The tinsel is by this time pretty well rubbed off the meretricious baubles which so longpleased the public taste; and the trumpery materials of which all their finery was composed, is beginning to be properly appreciated . A Poem isno longer supposed to be wonderfully natural andPastoral, merely because it makes love rhyme todove; breeze to ees; and mountains to fountains.The Shepherds and Shepherdesses, or rather theLadies and Gentlemen in disguise, like the Beefeater in Sheridan's " Critic," who sat upon greenhillocks, with Pastoral pipes in their hands, talkingabout Love and Arcadia, have been discovered tobe veryinsipid and unnatural personages, ever sincereaders have made use of their eyes, looked intothe world and Nature for themselves, and foundthat no such society, or scenery, is, or ever was, inexistence. Brown is a writer thoroughly and entirely English. His scenery is English. He paintsnot Arcadia, or Utopia; but he takes us to the leafyshores ofDevon, and the fertile banks of Tamar and168 LECTURES ONdescribestheir beauties with the ardour of alover, andthe truth of a Painter. He does not introduce usto Naiads, or Dryads; to Pan, or to Apollo; butto the fair and smiling faces with which our owngreen fields are peopled, and to the rustic mannersof the English Villages. His Music is not of theoaten stop, or of the pastoral pipe, or of the wildharp of antiquity; but of the ploughman's whistle,the milkmaid's song, the sheep- bell, the minstrelsyrung out from beneath some neighbouring spire.Shepherds piping all night under some hawthornbush are not often seen in our northern climate;and Dryads, and Nymphs, and Satyrs, harmoniseas ill with the features of English scenery, as Dr.Bentley, in the celebrated picture which decoratesa certain public building in London, swimmingwith his wig and gown on, in the Thames, doeswith the water nymphs and tritons who surroundhim. Browne confines himself to the scenery, andto the manners, which he has seen and known.His works, although full of truth and nature, arerich in Poetry and imagination: for to these natureand truth are not opposed, but are the best andsurest inspirers and auxiliaries. The Poet's addressto England is full of patriotism and feeling: -" Hail! thou my native soil, thou blessed spotWhose equal all the world affordeth not;-ENGLISH POETRY. 169Shew me, who can, so many crystal rills ,Such well- clothed vallies, or aspiring hills;Such wood-grounds, pastures, quarries, wealthy mines;Such rocks, in whom the diamond fairly shines;And if the Earth can show the like again,Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men."Brown, however, in enumerating the excellentproductions of our native Island, has very ungallantlyomitted one, which did not escape the notice ofThomson, when making a similar enumeration:-" May my song soften, as thy daughters, I ,Britannia! hail, for beauty is their own."

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I subjoin one other instance of his descriptivepowers, which is said, by those acquainted withthe scenery described, -the banks of the Tamar,in Devonshire, —to be an extraordinarily faithfuldelineation of the spot:-" Between two rocks, immortal without mother,That stand as if outfacing one another,There ran a creek up, intricate and blind,As if the waters hid them from the wind,Which never wash'd, but at a higher tide,The frizzled cotes which do the mountains hide;Where never gale was longer known to stay,Than from the smooth wave it had swept awayThe new divorced leaves, that from each sideLeft the thick boughs to dance out with the tide.I170 LECTURES ONAt further end the creek, a stately woodGave a kind shadow to the brackish flood;Made up of trees, not less kenn'd by each skiff,Than that sky- scaling peak of Teneriffe;Upon whose tops the hernshaw bred her young,And hoary moss upon their branches hung;Whose rugged rinds sufficient were to shew,Without their height, what time they ' gan to grow."Donne is another of our best ancient Satirists,and was also, like Hall, a dignified Prelate;having been Rector of St. Dunstan's in the West,and Dean of St. Paul's. He was the founder ofthat School in Poetry which has been somewhatimproperly styled the Metaphysical; which attainedit's greatest elevation in Cowley, and may be saidto have become extinct with Spratt. Donne is asfull of far-fetched conceits, and recondite illustrations, or rather obscurations, as Cowley; without,however, being possessed of any thing approachingto the same genuine Poetical powers. Still he isa writer of great fancy and ingenuity. His Satiresare more remarkable for wit, than for severity.He laughs at Vice and Folly; but holds them upto derision, rather than overwhelms them withpunishment; and, in this respect, offers manypoints of contrast to his brother Satirist, Hall, ofwhom I have just been speaking. The first pointsout the deformity of vice; the other exhibits it'sENGLISH POETRY. 171danger. One holds it up to derision; the otherto execration. One exposes it to the gibes andthe jeers of the world; the other devotes it tothe axe, the scourge, and the gibbet.Butler's " Hudibras" is a production of matchless wit and fancy; but the construction of thestory, and the delineation of the characters , havebeen praised far beyond their merits. In thesepartiulars it has very slender claims to originality.Cervantes is evidently the model which Butlerfollowed; and Hudibras is Don Quixote turned Puritan. He has exchanged the helmet of Malbrinofor the close cap of Geneva. Instead of encountering Giants and Enchanters; he wages war withPapists and Prelatists. Instead of couching hislance at tilts and tournaments; he mounts thepulpit, and harangues the " long-eared " multitude.He is not quite so unsophisticated a Lunatic asQuixote. When his own interest is concerned,his apprehension becomes wonderfully keener.Like Hamlet, he is but " mad North-north-west;when the Wind is Southerly, he knows a hawkfrom a hand-saw. " Ralpho, in like manner, isbut a Conventicle edition of Sancho; but whocan wonder that Butler should have failed in copying from such models as these? The Knight ofLa Mancha is, like Shakspeare's Richard, " himI 2172 LECTURES ONself-alone!" The Book in which his adventuresare recorded, is-shall I say, perfect? Perhaps,I may not apply such an epithet to the productionof human Genius; but it is matchless, it is unimitated, it is inimitable. It is, however, possibleto be a great and powerful genius, and yet to beinferior to Cervantes: such is Butler. His Bookcannot be expected to be so fascinating, for it's subject is far more repulsive. The Knight's greatestweaknesses are amiable, and of vices he has none.We sympathise in all his misfortunes, and almostwish him success in his wildest enterprises. Wecan hardly help quarrelling with the Windmills forresisting his attack; and feel inclined to tilt a lancéin support of his chivalrous assault upon the flockof sheep. Butler certainly might have made thefanaticism of Hudibras more amiable, and moresincere, without at all weakening either the truthor the comic force of the picture. As it is, werather turn from it with disgust, than gaze upon itwith enjoyment. These observations, however,apply only to our Author's delineations of character,and not to the fine touches of Satire, and to thekeen and profound observations on morals andmanners, in which his work is so rich. His geniuswas not Dramatic, but didactic. He was not an•inventor, but an observer. His Satire is keenENGLISH POETRY. 173and caustic; his wit brilliant and delightful. Hisknowledge of the Arts and Sciences appears tohave been profound; and he has brought a wonderful variety of attainment and research to theembellishment of his Poem. He has also enrichedit with many beauties of thought and diction, whichform a strong contrast to it's general ludicrous castand character. Nothing, for instance, can befiner than the following lines:-" The Moon put off her veil of lightThat hides her by the day from sight;Mysterious veil! of brightness made,That's both her lustre and their shade.”This, besides being poetically beautiful, is philosophically true; the rays of the Sun being the causeof our seeing the Moon by night, and of our notseeing her by day.Dryden occupies the foremost place in the foremost ranks of English Didactic Writers. Wehave already had occasion to speak of him as aNarrative and Dramatic Poet, and shall therefore,be proportionably brief in our observations uponhis merits in the present instance. His Satire isappalling, and tremendous; and not the less so,for it's extreme polish and splendour. It excitesour indignation against it's objects, not only on174 LECTURES ONaccount of the follies, or faults , which it imputes tothem, but also on account of their writhing beneaththe infliction of so splendid a weapon. We forgetthe offender in the awfulness and majesty of thepower by which he is crushed. Instead of shrinking at the horror of the carnage, we are lost inadmiration of the brilliancy of the victory. Likethe lightning of heaven, the Satire of Drydenthrows a splendour around the objects which itdestroys. He has immortalised the persons whomhe branded with infamy and contempt; for whowould have remembered Shadwell, if he had notbeen handed down to everlasting fame as MacFlecnoe?Pope is usually ranked in the School of Dryden,but he has few either of the faults or excellenciesof his master. To begin with that for which hehas been most lauded, his versification is vastlyinferior to that of Dryden. What he has gainedin ease and sweetness, he has lost in majesty andpower. Dryden left our English versification at apoint from which it has since rather retrogradedthan advanced. Pope polished and levelled it;but he polished away much of it's grandeur, as wellas of it's roughness, and levelled the rocks whichimpelled, as well as the stones which impeded, it'smajestic current. Pope had fewer opportunitiesENGLISH POETRY. 175for observation than Dryden, and perhaps improvedthose which he had, less than he did. But he hada finer fancy, and I am almost inclined to say, inopposition to the popular opinion, that he possessedmore genius. I know of nothing so original andimaginative in the whole range of Dryden's Poetryas the " Rape of the Lock;" no descriptions ofNature which can compare with those in Pope's" Windsor Forest;" and nothing so tender andfeeling as many parts of the " Elegy on the Deathof an unfortunate Lady," and the " EpistlefromEloisa to Abelard." Pope's Satire, however, isneither so keen nor so bright as that of Dryden;whom he attacks, he butchers; whom he cuts, hemangles. He shews us not the lifeless carcass ofhis victim, but the writhing and tortured limbs.We never feel any thing like sympathy for theobject of Dryden's Satire. His seems to be thefiat of unerring justice which it would be almostimpiety to dispute . Pope exhibits more of theaccuser than the Judge. Petty interests, andpersonal malice, instead of a love of justice, anda hatred of vice, appear to be the powers whichnerve his arm. The victim is sure to fall beneathhis blow, but the deed, however righteous, inspires us with no very affectionate feelings for hisexecutioner.176 LECTURES ONAkenside's " Pleasures of Imagination” is avery brilliant and pleasing production. Every pageshews the refined taste and cultivated mind of theAuthor. That it can strictly be called a work ofgenius, I am not prepared to admit. The ideasare not generally new; and I am afraid that theyare often even common-place. They are clothed,however, in elegant versification; they are illustrated with much variety, and ingenuity; and theyinvariably tend to the advancement of good taste,and good feeling. Occasionally, too, Akensidesoars beyond his ordinary height, as in his description of the Soul: -" The high-born SoulDisdains to rest her Heav'n- aspiring wingBeneath it's native quarry. Tired of earth ,And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft;Through fields of air pursues the flying storm,And, yoked with whirlwinds, and the northern blast,Sweeps the long track of day."This passage, however, is remarkable for a confusion of metaphors of which Akenside is not veryoften guilty. The " native quarry" of a wing would,I fear, very much puzzle any Painter to representaccurately.His Hymns and Odes have long since fallenENGLISH POETRY. 177into oblivion, and I do not feel inclined to disturbtheir rest. His Inscriptions, however, have anattic terseness and force, which are unequalledby any productions of the same class in ourlanguage, excepting, perhaps, by a few of ourcontemporary, Southey's. One example ofAkenside's Inscriptions -that for a column atRunnymede, -will suffice:-“ Thou, who the verdant plain dost traverse here,While Thames among his willows from thy viewRetires, Oh Stranger! stay thee, and around,The scene contemplate well. This is the placeWhere England's ancient Barons, clad in arms,And stern with conquest, from the Tyrant King,Then render'd tame, did challenge and secureThe Charter of thy Freedom. Pass not onTill thou hast bless'd their memory, and paidThose thanks, which God appointed the rewardOf public virtue. And if chance, thy homeSalute thee with a Father's honour'd name,Go, call thy sons, instruct them what a debtThey owe their ancestors; and make them swearTo pay it, by transmitting down entire,The sacred rights to which themselves were born!"Dyer's and Armstrong's Didactic Poems arewritten upon subjects which do not seem peculiarly qualified to lend Inspiration to the Muse;that of the first being Sheep- shearing, and that ofI 3178 LECTURES ONthe second, Physic. They have both, however,been more successful with those subjects thancould have been reasonably expected. Dyer is,nevertheless, better, and deserves to be better remembered, as the Poet of " Grongar-Hill," thanof the " Fleece;" and Armstrong in his " Artof Preserving Health" has done wonders with asomewhat repulsive theme. He pleads hard infavour of it's aptness for Poetical illustration, andreminds us that the ancients acknowledged " onepower of Physic, melody, and song." This, however, is, I fear, less calculated to allure than torepel the readers of Poetry, and to have the sameeffect upon them, as Apollo's own enumeration ofhis accomplishments had upon Daphne whom hewas pursuing:-" Stay, stay, gentle Maiden, why urge thus your flight,I'm the Great God of Song, and of Physic, and Light,At the dreadful word Physic the nymph fled more fast,At the fatal word Physic she doubled her haste. "This Poem contains one very noble passage, whichwould do honour to any Author, however illustrious:-" What does not Fate? The tower that long had stoodThe crashing thunder, and the warring winds,ENGLISH POETRY. 179Shook by the slow, but sure destroyer, Time,Now hangs in doubtful ruin o'er it's base;And flinty pyramids, and walls of brassDescend. The Babylonian spires are sunk;Achaia, Rome, and Egypt moulder down;Time shakes the stable tyranny of Thrones,And tottering Empires sink with their own weight:This huge rotundity we tread grows old,And all those worlds that roll around the Sun.The Sun himself shall die, and ancient NightAgain involve the desolate abyss."Young is an Author of a very extraordinarycharacter, and certainly of great powers. Hisimagery is bold and original; his sentiments expressed with wonderful force and eloquence; andhis versification, although infinitely inferior to theexquisite music of Milton, yet has more ofreal poetical rhythm in it's composition, than thatof most of his contemporaries. His genius, however, is only seen to advantage amidst Charnelhouses and sepulchres. When it is employed onlighter subjects, in Satirical or humorous delineations, it is unsuccessful; it seems as if, likethe pictures of the Camera Obscura, it could notbe exhibited but in an apparatus of darkness.His Muse is a Mummy; his Apollo a Sexton;his Parnassus a Church-yard. He drinks fromthe River Styx instead of Hippocrene, and mis-180 LECTURES ONtakes the pale horse in the Revelations for Pegasus. The consequence is, that as far as a verylarge portion of his volume is concerned, it may bevery good Divinity, but it is not Poetry.Goldsmith I have already had occasion to mention several times in the course of these Lectures,as the various classes of English Poetry in whichhe has written, have come under our review. Henow appears before us in the character of a Didactic Poet, and what can I say of him betterthan by repeating the true and eloquent eulogiumin his Epitaph:-" Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit! "The " Traveller," and the " Deserted Village "scarcely claim any notice from me. They are inevery one's hands; they live in every one's memory; they are felt in every one's heart. Theyare daily the delight of millions. The Critic andthe Commentator are never asked their opinionupon their merits. "Song," says Campbell, " is butthe Eloquence of Truth, " and of this eloquenceare the writings of Goldsmith made up. Eloquence that will be listened to; Truth that it isimpossible to doubt.Thomson is the first of our Descriptive Poets;ENGLISH POETRY. 181I had almost said, the first in the world. He isone of the best Poets, and the worst versifiers ,that ever existed. To begin with the least pleasingpart of our subject, his versification , it is artificial and elaborate; timid and pompous; desertingsimplicity, without attaining dignity. It scornsthe earth, without being able to soar into the air.In the best passages of his Poetry, the power andsplendour of his thoughts burst through the cloudsin which his versification shrouds them; and , likethe Sun, impart a portion of their own lightnessto that which would obscure them. Strange, thathe who had such an eye for Nature, and had amind teeming with so many simple and beautifulimages, should choose language so artificial, inwhich to describe the one, and express the others.Thomson, when he wrote his " Castle of Indolence," could describe as naturally as he felt. Thefact seems to be, that the last mentioned Poemwas a work of amusem*nt, and the " Seasons" awork of labour. Thomson's ideas spring up sonaturally and unforced, that he seems to thinkhimself bound to clothe them in a cumbrous andelaborate versification, before he ventures to exhibit them to the world. He could not believethat in their naked simplicity and beauty theywere fit for the public gaze. His versification,182 LECTURES ONhowever, is but the husk and stalk; the fruitwhich grows up with them is of a delicious tasteand flavour. Thomson is the genuine child ofNature. He seems equally at home in the sunshine, and in the storm; in the smiling vallies ofArcadia, and in the icy wastes of Nova Zembla;amidst the busy hum of mankind, and the solitude and silence of deserts. The following linespresent as perfect and well-defined a picture to theeye, as ever was embodied on the canvas:-" Home from his morning task the swain retreats,His flock before him stepping to the fold,While the full udder'd mother lows aroundThe cheerful cottage, then expecting food;The food of innocence and health. The daw,The rook, and magpie, to the grey- grown oaks,That the calm Village in their verdant arms,Sheltering, embrace, direct their lazy flight;Where on the mingling boughs they sit embower'd,All the hot Noon, till cooler hours arise.Faint underneath the household fowls convene;And in a corner of the buzzing shade,The house-dog, with the vacant greyhound, liesOutstretch'd and sleepy."Here the versification is less stilted than that ofThomson generally is; but even here it is loadedwith expletives; such as the " mingling boughs,"the " household fowls," the " vacant greyhound,"ENGLISH POETRY. 183and the " grey-grown oaks." Thomson's epithetsare laboured, and encumber, instead of assistinghis descriptions. Shakspeare's, on the contrary,are artless, and seem scarcely sought for; but everyword is a picture. Instance his description of themartlet, building his nest outside of Macbeth'scastle:-" This guest of Summer,The temple-haunting Martlet, doth approve,By his loved mansionry, that the Heaven's breathSmells wooingly here."Or his description of the infant sons of Edwardthe Fourth sleeping in the Tower:-"Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,That in their Summer beauty kiss'd each other."Again, the following description, in the " Seasons," of that period of the year when the Winterand the Spring are contending for the mastery, isperfectly true and natural: -" As yet the trembling Year is unconfirm'd,And Winter oft' at eve resumes the breeze;Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleetsDeform the day delightless; so that scarceThe bittern knows his time, with bill ingulph'd184 LECTURES ONTo shake the sounding marsh, or from the shoreThe plovers when to scatter o'er the heath,And sing their wild notes to the listening waste. "But how are the beauty and fidelity of the picture deformed by such harsh inversions and tumidepithets as day delightless," and " bill ingulphed."his own.""Cowper has not Thomson's genius, but he hasmuch more taste. His range is neither so wide,nor so lofty, but, as far it extends, it is peculiarlyHe cannot paint the Plague at Carthagena, or the Snow-storm , or the Earthquake, asThomson has done; but place him by the banks ofthe Ouse, or see him taking his " Winter walkat Noon," or accompany him in his rambles throughhis Flower garden, and where is the Author whocan compare with him for a moment? The pictures of domestic life which he has painted areinimitable. It is hard to say whether his sketchesof external nature, or of indoor life, are the best.Cowper does not attempt the same variety of sceneas Thomson; but in what he does attempt, he always succeeds. The grander features of Natureare beyond his grasp; mountains and cataracts,frowning rocks, and wide- spreading seas, are notsubjects for his pencil: but the meadow and theENGLISH POETRY. 185hay-field, the gurgling rill, and the flower- crownedporch, he can place before our eyes with astonishingverisimilitude. Sometimes too he takes a flightbeyond his ordinary reach; and his personificationof Winter is powerful, and even sublime:-" Oh Winter! ruler of the inverted year!Thy scatter'd hair, with sleet- like ashes fill'd ,Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips , thy cheekFringed with a beard made white with other snowsThan those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds,A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throneA sliding car, indebted to no wheels,But urged by storms along it's slippery way.Cowper's minor Poems are full of beauties;and of beauties of the most versatile nature . Forpathos and feeling, his lines " On his Mother'sPicture" are positively unrivalled . His " ReviewofSchools," and his piece entitled " Conversation,"display an acute observation of men and manners,and are replete with the keenest, but at the sametime, the most polished Satire; while his " JohnGilpin" is a masterpiece of quiet and unforced,but, at the same time, strong and racy humour.His versification , like Thomson's, is not his bestquality; but it's faults are of a totally oppositecharacter. If Thomson fails from too much effort,186 LECTURES ONCowper fails from too little. If one is bombasticand turgid, the other is tame and prosaic. EnglishNarrative blank verse is an Instrument which fewknow how to touch. It is like wielding the bowof Ulysses. Milton, and Milton only, could drawfrom it all the ravishing harmony which it contained.ENGLISH POETRY. 187LECTURE THE SIXTH.LYRICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS POETRY.Ancient Minstrels , Troubadours, and Ballad- Writers: —Abundance and Beauty of the old English Lyrical Poems: -Sir Thomas Wyatt: -Beaumont and Fletcher: -MartinLlewellyn:-Sir Walter Raleigh: -George Herbert:-Translations of the Psalms: -Modern Ballad - Writers: —Modern Odes: -Dryden, Pope, Collins, Gray, Mason,and the Wartons:-Conclusion.WE have already taken a brief review of EnglishNarrative, Epic, Dramatic, Descriptive, Didactic,Pastoral, and Satirical Poetry. The subject ofthese Lectures we shall, therefore, now bring to aclose by directing our enquiries to English Lyricaland Miscellaneous Poetry.The value of a Song is a Proverbial saying toexpress something utterly worthless; and yet itis scarcely too much to assert, that the charactersof Nations have been moulded and fixed bytheir Songs and Ballads; which have not unfrequently been found to be instruments of incalcu188 LECTURES ONlable power. " Give me," said a great Statesman," the making of the National Ballads, and I carenot who makes the Laws." History presents uswith many proofs of the truth and wisdom of thisremark. A Minstrel who accompanied Williamthe Conqueror to the Invasion of England, byrushing into the enemy's ranks, chaunting the Songof Rollo, led on his countrymen to the Victory ofHastings; the Songs of the Welsh Bards inspiredsuch a spirit of resistance to the authority of theEnglish, that Edward the First caused the wholefraternity to be exterminated; which Hume hasjustly styled a barbarous, but not absurd policy; theair of the "Ranz des Vaches" has been forbidden tobe played in the bands of the Swiss Regiments onforeign service, because it brought back the scenesof home to their recollections, and inspired themwith a resistless wish to return to their nativecountry; and Lord Wharton's song of " Lillebulero,"-immortal as the favourite of UncleToby, -is supposed to have had no slight influence in promotingour English Revolution . To cite instances of amore modern date, the “ Marsellois Hymn" shookthe Bourbons from their throne; and Dibdin'sunrivalled Naval Songs were instrumental inquelling the Mutiny at the Nore. Songs andBallads, too, give us a more certain and faithful•ENGLISH POETRY. 189picture of the state of manners and society atthe periods in which they were written, than dothe more bulky and ambitious works of the historians and chroniclers: as "" a straw thrown up intothe air will shew which way the wind blows," whilea stone will return to the Earth, without giving usany such intelligence.Lyrical Poetry is the Parent of all others.Before men learned to construct their verses intoartificial and elaborate narratives, or to give thema Dramatic form, they were accustomed to express any ardent emotion, such as Affection, Exultation, or Devotion, by short metrical compositions, which were usually sung, and accompaniedbysome musical instrument. The praises of theirGods, the achievements of their warriors, andthe beauty of their mistresses, are the favouritetopics of the Poets in the earliest and rudeststages of society. Hence arose a class of men,whose peculiar province it was to compose andsing verses upon such subjects; men who unitedthe characters of Poet and Minstrel; who weretreated with extraordinary respect and reverence,and who could frequently number in their rankspersons of high station, and great power.

• The Bards of Druidical time form the earliest

class of this character of whom we have any record190 LECTURES ONin our Island: these have been succeeded by theSaxon Gleemen and Minstrels; the ProvençalTroubadours, and finally, by Poets of a morelofty and enduring reputation.The Troubadours are the fathers of modernLiterature. The Provençal language in whichthey wrote, was the general language of civilisedEurope; or, at least, of the educated classes ofsociety. At the period at which they flourished,it was very generally spoken in France, Italy, theSouth of Germany, Flanders, and England. ThePoets of those days, however, bore very little resemblance to those secluded and sedentary personswho now rule the world of Literature. They wereWarriors and Knights, Earls and Barons, Princesand Kings; although persons of the lowest stationsin society were numbered amongst them, and couldclaim all the honours and privileges which appertained to the character of the Minstrel; if theywere but accomplished in what was called, la gaieScience but these were also active and perambulatory persons, wandering from City to City, andfrom Castle to Castle, singing of Love, and War,and Glory. Many of their compositions teemwith the most beautiful and original imagery, andare full of expressions of that high sense of honour,courtesy, and devotion to the fair sex, which cha-ENGLISH POETRY. 191racterised the ages of Chivalry. A few specimensof their Poetry, as far as a literal Prose versioncan be called a specimen, will not be irrelevantto the subject immediately before us. GeoffreyRudel, whose life was as romantic as that of anyRomance which was ever invented, thus unburthensthe feelings of his heart: -" All Nature sets mean example of elegance and love. The treeswhen renewing their leaves, and their fruits, inviteme to adorn myself in my gayest apparel. WhenI behold the Nightingale caressing his faithfulmate, who returns his tenderness in every look,and who so delightfully warble their joys in unison,I feel my soul penetrated with delight; I feel myheart melt with tender love. Happy birds! youare still at liberty to express what you feel, whileI languish in silence. The Shepherds amuse themselves with their pipes, and Children with theirlittle labours. I alone rejoice not, for distant isthe object of my love.tender thoughts transport me to the blest mansions.When, whisper I, my Soul's delight! when shallI meet you there?"Day and night, a thousandFolquet de Marseilles, who was afterwards,Bishop of Thoulouse, in one of his Poems, alsomakes use of a very striking and original simile: -192 LECTURES ON" I wish only to express my feelings, but to doso would be an unpardonable boldness. How canmy heart contain so vast a love! It is like a greattower reflected from a small mirror! ”Bertrand le Bonn, who had been defeated andmade prisoner by our heroic Monarch Coeur- deLion, then Count of Poitou, who was himself adistinguished Poet, thus addresses his conqueror." If Count Richard will vouchsafe me his grace,I will devote myself to his service, and my attachment to him shall be as pure as the finest silver. Hishigh dignity should cause him to resemble the Sea,which seems to retain all she receives within herbosom, but casts it back on the shore. It befitsso great a Baron to restore what he has taken,from a vassal who humbles himself before him."But it is doing the Troubadour Poets manifestinjustice to pretend to give any idea of their meritsby a literal Prose version. I will therefore ventureto attempt a metrical translation of two short extracts, which struck me as possessing peculiarbeauty. The first is from Geoffrey Rudel:-" Once on my lip, my bliss to seal,Thine own a kiss imprest;And ever since that time I feelLove's pangs within my breast.ENGLISH POETRY. 193Give me again that kiss so dear,Which my heart's peace betray'd;That kiss which like Achilles' spear,Can heal the wound it made."The other is from Folquet de Marseilles; and Ishould premise that Love and Mercy were supplicated as Divinities among the Troubadours." Love! thou hast done me wrong to wageThy war within myheart;Not bringing Mercy to assuageThe rankling of thy dart.Where Mercy is not, Love is foundAtyrant haught and proud;Love, let thy knee salute the ground,At Mercy's footstool bow'd.Surely the greatest of the great,The best among the good,May bid those powers together mate,Oh Lady! calm their feud.That thou can'st blend in union meek,Things more opposed than they,The white and red upon thy cheek,In Love's own language say. "By degrees, however, the Provençal declinedinto a dead language; the Poets of Europe made useof the tongues of their own respective countries;and Lyrical and Narrative Poetry became closelyK194 LECTURES ONconnected. The old English Metrical Romanceswere composed with a view to a Musical accompaniment; and the old English Ballads, for themost part, contain some narration formed of twoor three striking incidents. In the number andbeauty of it's ancient Lyrical reliques, this nationis said to be richer than all the rest of Europecombined. The fine old Ballads of " Chevy Chace"and " Sir Cauline and King Estmere," aboundwith the most exquisite and original imagery, andwith touches of deep and genuine feeling. Ofthe first, Sir Philip Sidney, no incompetent judge,has said, " I never heard the old song of Percieand Douglas, that I have found not my heartmoved more than with a trumpet; and yet it is sungbut by some blind crowder, with no rougher voicethan rude style; which being so evil apparelled,in the dust and cobweb of that uncivil age, whatwould it work trimmed in the gorgeous eloquenceof Pindar?" " Old Robin Gray" also deservesour notice, if it were only on account of these twolines:•-" My Father argued sair, though my Mither didna speak,But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break. ”There is also in " Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament,"ENGLISH POETRY. 195a touch of unaffected nature and pathos of thesame kind:-" Lie still, my darling! sleep awhile,And when thou wakest, sweetly smile;But smile not as thy Father did ,To cozen maids; -nay, God forbid!"The early part of the reign of Henry the Eighthwas rich in Lyrical Poetry; and indeed, wore anaspect of great promise to the cause of Literatureand the Arts. I am afraid that I shall be venturinga very unpopular opinion, when I say, that I believe these propitious appearances were owing tothe influence of Cardinal Wolsey; for we find thecharacter of the King, and of the nation, materially altered after that distinguished Ministerwas removed from the Royal Councils. Henry, who during Wolsey's administration held thebalance of Europe, became comparatively powerless and insignificant; the love of Poetry and theArts was exchanged for controversial subtleties,and for the more conclusive, if less logical arguments, of the axe, the fa*ggot, and the gibbet;and thus the budding Spring time of English Literature, which had produced such Poets as Surrey,Wyatt, and Vaux, was nipped untimely by thechilling breath of tyranny. One extract from theK 2196 LECTURES ONproductions of this period is all that I can findroom for; and this I shall give not so much on account of any claims to originality, or genius, whichit evinces, as for the purpose of shewing thestrength and sweetness, which the Authors, evenof that early age, infused into their versification.It is by Sir Thomas Wyatt, and is entitled " Anearnest Suit to his Mistress not to forsakehim:"" And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay, say nay, for shame:To save thee from the blameOfall my grief and grame,And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay, say nay.And wilt thou leave me thus?That has loved thee so long,In wealth and woe among;And is thy heart so strong,As for to leave me thus?Say nay, say nay.And wilt thou leave me thus?That hath given thee my heart,Never for to depart,Neither for pain or smart:And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay, say nay.ENGLISH POETRY. 197And wilt thou leave me thus?And have no more pityOf him that loveth thee;Alas! thy cruelty!And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay, say nay."The age of Queen Elizabeth, however, to which,almost whatever class of Poetry we are discussing,we must revert as the period in which it arrived atit's greatest perfection, is peculiarly rich in LyricalPoems. From the writings of the early Dramatists alone, we may extract gems "" ofof purestray serene," whose brightness will shame the mostambitious efforts of subsequent periods. I havealready given some extracts from Ben Jonson;who is, perhaps, on the whole, the finest LyricalPoet in our language. Shakspeare, Beaumontand Fletcher, Lylye, and Heywood , also stand outfrom among the ranks of the Dramatists, as elegant and accomplished Lyrists; and the followingSong, from Beaumont and Fletcher, is evidentlythe foundation on which Milton built that noblePoetical structure, his " Il Penseroso:"-" Hence! all you vain delights,As short as are the nights,198 LECTURES ONIn which you spend your folly;There's nought in this life sweet,Ifmen were wise to see't,But only Melancholy.Oh! sweetest Melancholy!Welcome folded arms, and fixed eyes,A sigh that piercing, mortifies;Alook that fasten'd to the ground,Atongue chain'd up, without a sound;Fountain-heads, and pathless groves,Places which pale Passion loves;Moonlight walks, where all the fowlsAre warmly housed, save bats and owls;A Midnight bell, a parting groan,These are the sounds we feed upon:Then stretch our limbs in a still gloomy valley,Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely Melancholy."The number and beauty of the Lyrical Poemsproduced in the age of Queen Elizabeth, are suchthat I cannot attempt to give any adequate notionof them by extracts. Their grand distinguishingfeatures are originality of thought, and eleganceof versification. Donne, Sydney, Raleigh, Carew, Herrick, Crashaw, Suckling, Waller, andothers, form an unrivalled School of Lyrical Poetry,which existed in this country from the days ofElizabeth to those of Charles: and it is perfectlyunaccountable, that, possessing so many gems ofENGLISH POETRY. 199the purest Poetry, the public taste should afterwardshave sunk into such a state of utter debasem*nt,as to be gratified by the sickening commonplaces of Lansdowne, Walsh, and Halifax; -that itshould " on that fair mountain leave to feed, tobatten on this moor. " I cannot, however, dismissthis part of our subject, without giving an extractor two, which, in pursuance of my plan, shall betaken from such Authors as are least generallyknown. The first is by Martin Llewellyn:--" I felt my heart, and found a flame,That for relief and shelter came;I entertain'd the treacherous guest,And gave it welcome in my breast:Poor Celia! whither wilt thou go,To cool in streams, or freeze in snow?Or gentle Zephyrus entreat,To chill thy flames, and fan thy heat?Perhaps a taper's fading beamsMay die in air, or quench in streams;But Love is an immortal fire,Nor can in air, or ice, expire;Nor will that Phoenix be supprest,But with the ruin of it's nest."My second quotation is from the writings ofone, whose achievements and misfortunes havemade him sufficiently renowned; but whose Literary200 LECTURES ON•productions are comparatively unknown. I alludeto that Soldier, that Sailor, that Statesman, thatPatriot, that Poet, that Hero, Sir Walter Raleigh!" THE SILENT LOVER.Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams,The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;So, when affection yields discourse, it seemsThe bottom is but shallow whence they come;They that are rich in words must needs discoverThey are but poor in that which makes a lover.Wrong not, sweet Mistress of my heart!The merit of true passion,With thinking that he feels no smart,That sues for no compassion.Since, if my plaints were not t'approve ·The conquest of thy beauty;It comes not from defect of love,But fear t'exceed my duty. -For knowing that I sue to serveA Saint of such perfection,As all desire, but none deserveA place in her affection;I rather choose to want relief,Than venture the revealing;Where glory recommends the grief,Despair disdains the healing.ENGLISH POETRY. 201Silence in love betrays more woeThan words, though ne'er so witty:Abeggar that is dumb you know,May challenge double pity.Then wrong not, dearest to my heart!Mylove for secret passion;He smarteth most who hides his smart,And sues for no compassion."The excitement and partizanship produced by theprogress of the Reformation in the reign of QueenElizabeth, gave a religious tinge to many of theLyrical writings of that period. Crashaw, whotranslated Marino's " Sospetto d' Herode," is aLyric Poet of great sweetness and power; but hiswritings were not very popular, on account of thereligious tenets which he professed being RomanCatholic; and of his Poems being very deeplyimbued with them . The unfortunate RobertSouthwell, the Jesuit, was also doomed, not onlyto find his Poetry neglected, but to lay down hislife on account of his Creed; and this too, duringthe domination of that boasted advocate of liberality and toleration, Queen Elizabeth. HisWorks, both Prose and Poetry, are full of deepand original thoughts, which are, in general, charmingly expressed. George Herbert, brother of theK 3202 LECTURES ONcelebrated Edward, Lord Herbert, of Cherbury,was once an Author of great reputation as a devotional Lyrist; but his beauties of thought anddiction are so overloaded with far- fetched conceits,and quaintnesses; low, and vulgar, and even indelicate imagery; and a pertinacious appropriationof Scripture language and figure, in situationswhere they make a most unseemly exhibition, thatthere is now very little probability of his ever regaining the popularity which he has lost. Thatthere was much, however, of the real Poeticaltemperament in the composition of his mind, thefollowing lines, although not free from his characteristic blemishes, will abundantly prove: —" Sweet Day! so cool, so calm, so bright,The bridal of the Earth and sky;Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,For thou must die!Sweet Rose! whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;Thy root is ever in it's grave,And thou must die!Sweet Spring! full of sweet days and roses,Abox, where sweets compacted lie;My Music shews you have your closes,And all must die!ENGLISH POETRY. 203Only a sweet and virtuous Soul,Like season'd timber never gives,But when the whole world turns to coalThen chiefly lives. "Francis Quarles is an Author of the same stamp;with a fine genius, but the vilest taste in the world.His writings are full of powerful effort, ill directed .His Poetry, in all it's faults and merits, is wellillustrated by his engravings. There is much ofwhat Artists call good intention in both, but neverwas good intention so marred in the execution.His Poetry is not more like Milton's, than hispictures are like Raffaelle's; yet both are full oforiginality and power: the mere chippings andparings of his genius, combined with a little tasteand judgment, would have been sufficient to haveformed either an Artist, or a Poet, of no ordinaryrank.66The Odes and Choruses of Milton are perhapsthe most perfect Lyrics in our language. TheHymn on the Nativity," beginning, " It wasthe Winter wild;" the lines " On a solemn Music,”—“ Blest pair of Syrens! pledges of Heaven's joy!" and the Choruses of " Sampson Agonistes," are altogether matchless. Like all thewritings of Milton, they are remarkable for theirunion of the sublimity and daring of the Greek204 LECTURES ONPoets, with the holy fervour and sanctity of theScriptural writers. He is, as it were, Isaiah andPindar combined. He soars on the pinions of theTheban Eagle, yet his lips seem touched withthe same coal of fire from the Altar, as werethose of the inspired Prophet of Israel.Of all Authors, ancient or modern, whohave been subjected to the inflictions of Translators, certainly the Royal Psalmist, David, hasbeen treated with the greatest indignity; for, inno language in Europe, has justice been done tohim. He has been traduced into French, overturned into Dutch, and done into English, withequal beauty and felicity. In our own country,the Psalms, like every thing else appertaining tothe Church, seem to be considered Parish property,and to be under the control of a Select Vestry;every vestige of genius, or Poetry, in them, istherefore most carefully picked out, lest they shouldinterfere with the popularity of the Verses of thatmost ancient and respectable parochial officer,the bellman! The words which are feloniouslyattributed to the " sweet singer of Israel, " might,with greater probability, be considered the authorship of the Parish Clerk, who drawls them out; or ofthe Charity Children, who lend their most " sweetvoices" to grace them with appropriate melody.ENGLISH POETRY. 205It is, certainly, most extraordinary, that a workwhich is worthy of the highest Poetical powers ofany age, or of any country, should hitherto havebeen generally abandoned to the ignorant, the incapable, and the presumptuous . But the truth is,that so long as the purposes of Public worship areexclusively kept in view, and the Translator isconfined to the drawling long, and short Metres,the straight waistcoats of Verse, which are nowused, it will be impossible to infuse into anyEnglish version, the power and feeling, the spiritand energy, of the originals. It is obvious thatmany ofthese Psalms are not fitted for public use;and that the variety of their subjects, requires anequal variety of Metre. Some of them breatheall the ardour of triumph; some, all the dejectionof humility; some are sweet and gentle Pastorals;others are grand and melancholy Songs, which arefit to be warbled only amidst the scenes which theydescribe; in solitude, and captivity, amidst dangerand distress; by the rivers of Babylon, and amongthe tents of Kedar.One Translator has had the conscience to rendera part of that fine Lyric, the 137th Psalm, whichruns thus, " If I forget thee, Oh Jerusalem! maymy right hand forget her cunning; if I do not re-206 LECTURES ONmember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof ofmy mouth!" in the following manner: -" If I forget thee ever,Then let me prosper never,But let it causeMy tongue and jawsTo cling and cleave together!"William Slatyer published, in 1642, the “ Songsof Sion, or certain Psalms ofDavid, set to strangeTunes, and rendered into a strange Tongue." Ofthe Tunes, I can say nothing; but the tongue isstrange enough. For instance, a part of the 6thand 7th Verses of the 52d Psalm, -" The righteousalso shall see, and fear, and shall laugh at him:Lo! this is the man that made not God hisstrength; but trusted in the abundance of hisriches!" is thus versified:-"The righteous shall his sorrow scan,And laugh at him, and say, behold!What has become of this here man,That on his riches was so bold!"Archbishop Parker, in the year 1564, printed aVersion of the entire book of Psalms, for privatecirculation, which was never published; but a copyENGLISH POETRY. 207which has fallen into my hands, does not say muchfor the Most Reverend Prelate's Poetical talents.His version of the 1st verse of the 125th Psalmwill suffice as a specimen of the entire Volume.The Prose translation is as follows: -" They thattrust in the Lord shall be as Mount Zion, whichcannot be removed, but abideth for ever:" whichthe Archbishop versifies thus:-" Who sticketh to God in stable trust,As Sion mount he stands full just;Which moveth no whit, nor yet can reel,But standeth for ever, as stiff as steel . "Other parts of the Scriptures have scarcelysuffered less at the hands of versifiers than thePsalms; for, in the reign of Edward the Sixth, Dr.Christopher Tye turned the whole " Acts of theApostles" into rhyme. His Metre is somethinglike that of Mr. Moore's Song of " Fly from theworld, Oh Bessy, to me!" and the ReverendDoctor begins his task thus:-" In the former Epistle to thee,.Dear friend Theophilus,I have written the veritieOf the Lord Christ Jesus!"208 LECTURES ONSuch, as Lord Byron truly said, are some of theAuthors, who, —" Break into Verse the Gospel of St. Luke,Or boldly pilfer from the Pentateuch;And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms,Pervert the Prophets, and purloin the Psalms!”One of the earliest complete versions of thePsalms, and, perhaps, with all it's faults, -for,alas! we have but a choice of evils, -one of thebest, is that of Sternhold and Hopkins. It is byfar the most faithful version; and, although in theeffort to be scrupulously literal, the Authors haveso often fallen into absurdity, and bathos, yetthere are a few Psalms which are rendered intoEnglish with real poetical beauty, and feeling.Those which have the signature N affixed to them,are by far the best. They are the production ofThomas Norton, who was, jointly with Lord Buckhurst, Author of the old Play of " Gorbuduc,"which we have had occasion to mention severaltimes in the course of these Lectures, as the firstregular English Tragedy. The version of Tateand Brady is really beneath our notice. All theabsurdities of Sternhold and his coadjutors, arepreferable to this dull, sleepy, prosaic transmutation of some of the most magnificent Poems in theENGLISH POETRY. 209world. That of Dr. Watts, however respectable,is not, and does not affect to be, a translation. Itis a commentary, or an exposition of the Author'sown views and fancies; and , however acceptableto those who coincide in his opinions, is worsethan nothing, as a faithful and correct version ofthe Psalms. Perhaps, after all, the genius of thetwo languages, Hebrewand English, is so adverse,that it is not likely that any Metrical imitationcan give an adequate idea of the original. Thefine Prose version of the Translators of the Bible,is certainly infinitely more Poetical than any attempt which has yet been made at Versification .tLyrical Poetry, like almost all other Poetry,except the Comic Drama, seems to have made adead stop at the Restoration . The Love Songs,Pastoral Songs, Sentimental Songs, Loyal Songs,and Devotional Songs, which were then produced,now call upon us for no other expression of oursentiments and opinions, but that of peace be withtheir ashes! The stream from which those Poetsdrank was Lethe, and not Helicon; a wreath ofpoppy and nightshade, instead of laurel andbays, has now settled quietly on their brows;and the Critical resurrectionist who would raisethem from the oblivious grave in which they areso peacefully inurned , would deserve a sentence210 LECTURES ONof outlawry in all the Courts of Parnassus. Dryden is a solitary, but a magnificent, exception.His two splendid Odes on St. Cecilia's Day willlast as long as the language in which they arewritten. The Second, entitled " Alexander'sFeast," is unquestionably the finest Ode in ourlanguage. Pope's on the same subject sinks infinitely in the camparison. It is certainly not without merit; but Pope's pinions, strong and vigorousas they were, were not peculiarly adapted forPindaric flights. Rowe, who has shewn his taste,if not his honesty, in directing his attention to ourold English writers, has thus truly and energetically characterised the Authors of the ancientBallads:-" Those venerable ancient Song enditers,Soar'd many a pitch beyond our modern writers;With rough, majestic strength they touch'd the heart,And Truth and Nature made amends for Art."His own Poems are very pleasing imitations ofthe ancient Lyrists, and may be said to have givenrise to the School of Modern Ballad Writers; inwhich may be numbered Tickell, —whose fine andfeeling " Elegy on the death of Addison," is verysuperior to the general tone of English Poetry atthat period; -Mallet, Mickle, Glover, —of whoseENGLISH POETRY. 21166Ballad of " Hosier's Ghost," Sheridan declaredhe would rather be the Author than of the Annalsof Tacitus, -Gay, Percy, and Goldsmith. Fromsuch well known works as " Colin and Lucy,""William and Margaret," " Edwin and Emma,"Black-Eyed Susan," the " Friar of OrdersGrey," and " Edwin andAngelina, " it would be idlefor me to adduce any extracts . They form a veryagreeable variety in our Literature, and combinemuch of the native beauty and feeling of the ancient Ballad, with the more polished versificationof modern times.I cannot, however, close this part of my subject without observing that there are severalhighly gifted Ballad writers now living; especiallyMr. Coleridge, whose " Genevieve " and the " Ancient Mariner," are two of the most magnificentproductions in our language.Gray for a long time held undivided empire inthe world of English Lyrical Poetry. Mason saidof him:-" No more the Grecian Muse unrivall'd reigns,To Britain let the Nations homage pay;She boasts a Homer's fire in Milton's strains,A Pindar's rapture in the Lyre of Gray!"and the public eagerly echoed the sentiment.212 LECTURES ONMilton still continues in undisputed possession ofthe Epic Supremacy, but the Lyrical crown ofGray was swept away at one fell swoop by theruthless arm of Dr. Johnson . That the Doctor'scelebrated critique was unduly severe, must beadmitted; but the stern censor had truth on hisside, nevertheless. There is more of Art thanNature in Gray; more of recollection than invention; more of acquirement than genius. If Imay use a colloquial illustration , I should say,that the marks of the tools are too evident on allthat he does. I do not object to effort and labour being exercised on that which is intendedfor the public eye; but the highest effort, and themost successful labour, are those which producethe effects without exhibiting the means. Whocan doubt but that the works of Milton were theresult of long, and painful, and elaborate labour; but the only evidence of that labour is theperfection to which they are wrought. In Miltonwe see the Poet; in Gray, the Verse constructor.In Milton we see the stately edifice reared; inGray, the materials brought together for it's erection. One shews us the palette, and the canvas,and the brush; the other shews us the Picture;the production of the Master mind, withoutwhose informing genius, the palette, and the can-ENGLISH POETRY. 213vas, and the brush, are but idle and worthlesstoys.Collins is, next to Jonson, Milton, and Dryden,the finest Lyrical Poet which England has produced. Elegance, delicacy, refinement, pathos,sublimity, all are his. Had health of body, andsanity of mind been preserved to him, I knowscarcely any English Poet by whom he would havebeen surpassed. But, as an Author, whom Ihave not yet named in these Lectures, but forwhom, with all his faults, I take this opportunityof testifying my admiration, Churchill, has said, ---" By curious Art the brain too finely wrought,Preys on itself, and is destroy'd by thought."Such was the fate of Collins; the most accomplished Scholar, and the most original Poet of hisHis misfortunes, however, survived him;for his Epitaph was written by Hayley, who boreabout as much resemblance to him, 66 as I toHercules."Mason, and the Wartons, are the latest LyricalPoets, whom it will be consistent with my plan tomention. The first was certainly a man of considerable talent. His " Elfrida" and " Caractacus," notwithstanding the trammels in which he214 LECTURES ONvoluntarily chose to involve himself, shew muchdramatic power, and the Choruses in the last,particularly that beginning " Hark! heard ye notyon footstep dread?" venture almost on the pathlessregions of sublimity. The Wartons, particularlyThomas Warton, were men of cultivated minds,and refined taste, but to original genius they hadno pretensions.And now, " my task is done, my labour is complete." For the attention which I have been fortunate enough to command, I am indebted to thenature of the subject on which I have been speaking. The situations of the Painter and the Criticare singularly contrasted . In the one instance,the canvas derives all it's importance from theArtist; in the other, the Artist derives all hisimportance from the canvas. The canvas on whichI have been employed, has been the merits of thePoets of England; of those illustrious men who,more than her Monarchs, her Statesmen, or herWarriors, -great as they confessedly have been, —will transmit her fame to the most distant climes,and the remotest generations. The works of man'shand often perish before that hand has moulderedin the dust; but the vast productions of his mindare immortal as that mind itself. Even now wesee how far the genius of England has extendedENGLISH POETRY. 215beyond her territorial limits. Language is thetype of ideas, and the medium by which they areexpressed. Louis the Fourteenth boasted, thathe had made French the language of Europe; but,when we remember, that English is not only thelanguage of these realms, and their dependenciesin the four quarters of the world; but also ofanother mighty Empire beyond the wide Atlantic;and of the hundred realms of Hindoostan; andof that insular continent, which may be calledthe fifth division of the globe; and, moreover,that, for the purposes of Commerce, or of Literature, or by means of Religious Missionaries, ithas been, more or less, introduced into almost everyRealm, and State, and Territory, on the face ofthe earth, we may then, indeed, venture to call itthe language of the World! This Language isthat mighty engine which our Poets have subduedto themselves; and on which they have stampedthe impress of their own unrivalled genius: this isthat flood which shall spread over the whole World;and when the dynasties of the present period, andthe " cloud capt towers, and the gorgeous palaces," and the political Institutions, and thecustoms, and modes, and manners, which nowprevail, shall sink beneath it , like the Cities andMountains of the antediluvian world; the genius216of England, like the Ark of old, shall float proudlyand securely on it's bosom, and survive to delightnew eras, and form the taste and manners ofNations yet unborn.END OF THE LECTURES.TALES, POEMS, &c.PRINTED FROM THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPTS.LTh' Earth o' the grave hath stopt his hearing, Sir;And praise and blame are now alike to him:Yet, though his ear be dull, and his heart cold,And all Fame's aspirations quench'd in death,Still let these reliques bear a charmed life,And speak, though he be silent.OLD PLAY.THE GARTER.A ROMANCE OF ENGLISH HISTORY."Honi soit qui Mal y pense."ENGLAND resumed her ascendancy over Scotlandsoon after Edward the Third had commenced thatbrilliant reign which was destined to attract theeyes of all Europe towards him. Nature andFortune seemed to have concurred in distinguishingthis Prince from all other monarchs. He was verytall, but well shaped; and of so noble and majestican aspect, that his very looks commanded esteemand veneration. His conversation was easy, andalways accompanied with gravity and discretion.He was affable and obliging, benevolent and condescending; and although the most renownedPrince, Warrior, and Statesman, of the age inwhich he lived, his manners and conduct werecourteous, unaffected, and even humble. His heart,L 2220 ORIGINALfilled with visions of glory, was as yet ignorant ofa passion with which few men know howto combat;and which is equally the source of the greater partof all the virtues, and vices, of humanity: youngEdward was unacquainted with love. He onlyaspired to resume those conquests, which had escaped from the feeble grasp of his unhappy Father.He burned with the desire of subjecting a neighbouring kingdom, the conquest of which had everbeen a favourite project of England . RobertBruce was in his grave; and his successor, althoughhe inherited his courage, did but hasten the destruction of the Scottish monarchy.The English Monarch was served by men whowere worthy of their master. William Montacutehad fought with distinction and success, againstthe French and Scots, and raised by the kingto the rank of Earl of Salisbury, he desired nothing but the continuance of his Sovereign's favour; which Edward confirmed, by engaging theBaron de Grandison, one of his Ministers, to givehis eldest daughter to him in marriage.Katharine de Grandison had not yet appearedat Court, but lived in seclusion and solitude at herFather's castle in Gloucestershire. To a tall andstately form, and a majestic gait, she added themost sylph-like grace, and lightness of figure.TALES, POEMS, ETC. 221Her features were of that classical symmetry, andfaultless beauty, which we so often see in theGreek statues, and sigh over as if they were onlythe dreams of the inspired. Her face was exquisitely fair; her eyes of an intense blue; and hervoice surpassingly rich, powerful, and melodious.The accomplishments, both mental and acquired,with which she was endowed, were of as high anorder as those of her person; and to both, sheunited a sweetness and gentleness of disposition,which made her the idol of all who were acquaintedwith her.Her Father, the Lord de Grandison, was of alofty and imperious character. Neither very mild,or, what has been in modern times called amiable,he had a stern and inflexible spirit of justice, andprobity. Incapable of sycophancy, although heresided at Court, and adoring his Sovereignwithout being able to degrade himself to the rankof a flatterer, he would gladly have sacrificed hislife for the King, but his honour was dearer tohim even than Edward. Next to the Monarch,and the state, the object to which he was most attached was his daughter; and he lost no time in acquainting Katharine with the wishes of his Master,who demanded her hand for the Earl of Salisbury.The Father did not observe the Daughter's emo-222 ORIGINALtion, but retired, convinced that he should beobeyed, and that she knew no other law than herparent's will . He had, however, not long quittedthe apartment before her younger sister Alice entered it, and found her bathed in tears. " SweetSister," said Alice, " what mean these tears?"" Alas!" returned the lady Katharine, " I amno longer to be mistress of myself. Thy love, andmy Father's protection, were all I wished to form myhappiness; and I am now about to pass under theyoke of a husband, whom I have never seen, norever wish to see."It was in vain that Alice endeavoured to impressupon her Sister's mind the advantages which wouldattend her union with King Edward's favourite." It is true," she replied, " that the Earl ofSalisbury stands high in the favour of the greatestMonarch in Europe. But hast thou ever seen theKing, Alice? Is he not worthy of the homage ofall mankind? Lives there any one who can soirresistibly command our respect, our veneration,our love? I beheld him but once, at an entertainment to which my Father accompanied me: butone glance was sufficient! Oh! how happy willthat Princess be who calls him husband!"At these words the young lady paused, andblushed; yet notwithstanding such veryunpromisingTALES, POEMS, ETC. 223symptoms, the day for the nuptials was immediatelyfixed; as the old Lord never dreamed of asking hisDaughter if his own, and the King's choice wereagreeable to her. The Abbey of Westminster waschosen for the celebration; the Primate performedthe ceremony; the King gave away the bride; andKatharine, accompanied by her husband, and herSister, proceeded to spend the honeymoon at theEarl's Castle of Wark, in Northumberland. HisLordship had not, however, many weeks enjoyedthe society of his beautiful wife, before he wassummoned to attend the Earl of Suffolk on a warlike expedition to Flanders; on which occasion hisusual good fortune for the first time forsook him.Both the Earls were defeated in the first battle inwhich they engaged; and were sent prisoners to theCourt of France, until they could be either ransomed, or exchanged.This piece of intelligence was communicated tothe lady Katharine at the same time with another,by which she learned that King Edward had beensolemnly betrothed to the lady Philippa of Hainault.The Treaty for this Marriage gave general andunmixed pleasure to all his subjects; the Countof Hainault, the lady's Father, being one of themost powerful allies of England on the Continent,224 ORIGINALwho had been mainly instrumental in rescuing itfrom the tyranny of Mortimer, Earl of March, andthe old Queen Isabella, and thus securing theCrown for Edward the Third. The Lord deGrandison, in particular, was delighted by theprospect of an union between the houses of England and Hainault; but no sooner was this newscommunicated to the Countess of Salisbury, thanshe was overwhelmed with the most poignantsorrow. Whether the Earl's captivity, or theKing's marriage, had the greatest share in causingit, we must leave our fair readers to determine."Why, my sweet Katharine," said Alice, "whydo you take the Earl's captivity so much to heart?the Court of France must be the most agreeableprison in the world. There he will find everything to solace him in his misfortunes, and enablehim to sustain his separation from you."" Let him forget me; let him cease to love me;'tis no matter!" sighed the Countess.""" You deceive me, Katharine," said Alice;you conceal something from me; for it is impossible that the capture which has placed yourLord in the hands of generous and magnanimousfoes, can be the occasion of so deep a grief asyours. "TALES, POEMS , ETC. 225" True, true, my sweet Alice," said the Countess,throwing herself in her Sister's arms; " I am themost wretched of women; I love-" The Earl!" said Alice."" The King!" said Katharine; hiding her facein her Sister's bosom." Ha!" said the latter, " what is't I hear? Iam your friend, your Sister, Katharine, and wouldfain administer to your peace; but whither willthis fatal passion lead you?"" To death, sweet Alice! to death! or, at least,to a life made miserable by the consciousness ofnursing in my heart a sentiment, to which honourand virtue are alike opposed . And I have a rival,Alice! Oh! save me, save me from myself!Speak to me of Salisbury, of my husband! of hisrenown, his truth, his valour! and I will forgetthis King, whose conquests cannot be bounded byFrance and Scotland, but must include even theaffections of his subjects. "The heart of Katharine was tender and susceptible, but bold and firm; and in the society of herSister, and in the active discharge of the variousduties devolving upon her elevated rank, she endeavoured to repress that fatal passion, which therecent intelligence had strengthened to a height,almost bordering upon insanity.L3226 ORIGINALIn the meantime, King Edward openly declaredwar against the Scots; who, instead of waitingto be attacked, resolved to become themselvesthe assailants, and, with a large army, invadedEngland; ravaged the northern counties; attackedNewcastle; took and burned the City of Durham;and finally, laid siege to Wark Castle, which wasleft to the defence of the Countess of Salisbury,Sir William Montacute, the son of her Husband'ssister, and a very slender garrison . This heroicLady, however, by her beauty and firmness, inspired all with courage, and devotion to her cause;though the assault of the enemy was too fierceand unremitting for them to hope long to defendthe Castle, without assistance from King Edward;which Sir William Montacute volunteered to obtain. " I know your loyalty and heartiness, aswell as your affection for the Lady of this house,"said the gallant Knight to the beleagured garrison;" and so, out of my love for her, and for you,I will risque my life in endeavouring to make theKing acquainted with our situation; when I doubtnot to be able to bring back with me such succouras will effectually relieve us."This speech cheered both the Countess and herdefenders; and at midnight Sir William left thefortress, happily unobserved by the Scots.ItTALES, POEMS, ETC. 227was so pitiless a storm, that he passed throughtheir army without being noticed; until about daybreak, when he met two Scotsmen, half a leaguefrom their camp, driving thither some oxen.These men Sir William attacked, and woundedvery severely; killed the cattle that they might notcarry them to their army; and then said to them," Go and tell your leader, that William Montacute has passed through his troops, and is gone toseek succour from the King of England, who isnow at Berwick;" which intelligence being speedilycommunicated to the King of Scotland, he lost notime in raising the siege, and retreating towardsthe frontier.Within a very few hours, King Edward arrivedto the relief of the garrison, and proceeded topay his respects to the Countess; who went to meethim at the Castle-gates, and there gave him herthanks for his assistance. They entered the Castlehand in hand; and the King kept his eyes so continually upon her, that the gentle dame was quiteabashed: after which, he retired to a window,where he fell into a profound reverie; and, asFroissart tells us, upon the Countess enquiring thesubject of his thoughts, and whether it was publicbusiness on which he mused, the King replied," Other affairs, Lady, touch my heart more nearly;228 ORIGINALfor in truth, your perfections have so surprised andaffected me, that my happiness depends on mymeeting from you a return to that love with whichmy bosom burns, and which no refusal can extinguish. "" Sire," replied the Countess, " do not amuseyourself by laughing at me; for I cannot believe,that you mean what you have just said; or, that sonoble and gallant a Prince would think of dishonouring me, or my Husband, who now is in prisonon your account."The Lady then quitted the King; who, afterpassing the whole of that day, and a restless andsleepless night, at the Castle; at dawn the nextmorning departed in chase of the Scots. Upontaking leave of the Countess, he said, " DearestLady, God preserve you! Think well of what Ihave said, and give me a kinder answer." Herreply to which solicitation was, however, similarto all the former, though Edward would have beenamply revenged for the rejection of his suit, hadhe possessed the keen eyes of Alice de Grandison;for to their piercing scrutiny, her Sister's heart, withall the storm of passions by which it was agitated,was laid entirely open. " Alice," she said, " it istoo true; I do not love alone! Edward returnsmy fatal passion. But my mind is fixed . I willTALES, POEMS, ETC. 229behold him no more. Would to Heaven that myHusband were here!"66As she uttered these words the Countess sunkinto the arms of Alice; and almost at that moment,she received a letter from the Earl. Heaven bepraised!" said she, " Salisbury is on his return;and his arrival will alike prevent the King, and me,from nursing a sentiment which ought to be stifledin it's birth. " Upon the old Lord de Grandison'sarrival on a visit to his daughter, he failed not toobserve the profound sorrow in which she wasplunged; " Butrejoice, Katharine!" said he, “ yourHusband will soon be here. By an arrangementbetween King Edward and the Courts of Franceand Scotland, he has been exchanged for the Earlof Moray. Check, then, this immoderate grief;Salisbury has suffered defeat, but it is withoutdisgrace."The Countess felt all the pangs of consciousguilt, when she heard her Father attribute hergrief to the absence of her Husband. " Oh, myFather!" she said, when left to the companionshipof her own painful thoughts, " even thee too, do Ideceive! I am the betrayer of all who surroundme; and dare I meet the gaze of Salisbury?Alas! my misfortune and my crime are traced inindelible characters upon my brow. "230 ORIGINALEdward on his return to his capital, though surrounded by the most dazzling splendour, and themost enticing pleasures, could not chase from hismind the image of the Countess; and, unable anylonger to bear her absence, he wrote to the Lordde Grandison commanding him to bring his daughter to Court, for the purpose of awaiting the speedyarrival of her Husband. " My Father," said she,as soon as the old Lord had communicated to herthe royal command, " will not the Earl come hitherto me?"" Katharine!" answered De Grandison, " theslightest wishes of the King it is our imperativeduty to obey. "66 My Lord, if you knew—I am a stranger tothe capital; does it not abound with dangers? Isthere not-?"66 Nay, nay, my child; you have wisdom, education, and virtuous example to protect you. Oncemore, your Father and your King command you;and you must accompany me."De Grandison then made the necessary preparations for his own return to the Metropolis; andthe Countess, under the pretext of indisposition,was able to delay her own journey but for a shortperiod. News from her Father, however, speedilyinformed her of her Husband's arrival, and thisTALES, POEMS, ETC. 231was quickly followed by a letter from Salisburyhimself, full of the most passionate expressions ofattachment, and urging her immediate presence.To both these she answered by a plea of continuedillness; and to the latter, added an earnest entreaty that her lord would himself come to WarkCastle, where she had matter of importance tocommunicate to him; being resolved to explainthe cause of her reluctance to visit London, and,confidentially to acquaint the Earl with the solicitations of the King.This last letter had remained unanswered for aconsiderable time; and the Countess feared thatshe had given offence to both her Husband and herFather, when at length a messenger arrived fromLondon. The Countess snatched his paquet fromhis hand, and eagerly perused it; it was from herFather, and ran thus:-66 My dearest Daughter," The moment has arrived when you must armyourself with all that fortitude which you haveinherited from me. True grandeur resides in ourown souls; that which we derive from fortunevanishes with the other illusions, of which this lifeis compounded. You were anxiously expectingyour Husband; and he was about to receive furtherhonours from his master; but the King of Kings232 ORIGINALhas decreed that Salisbury should not live to enjoythe bounty of his Monarch. A sudden illness hasjust removed him from this world." Your affectionate Father," DE GRANDISON."The decease of the Earl of Salisbury was deeplylamented by the Countess. Gallant, generous, andaffectionate, he had won her esteem; and had shehad an opportunity of knowing him longer, mighthave gained her love. Her delicacy too, loaded herwith self-reproaches, from which she did not attempt to escape; and made her feel the loss shehad sustained still more acutely. " I will repairmy crime," she said; " I will revenge the manesof Salisbury. The King, although affianced, andby proxy espoused, to Philippa of Hainault, willrenew his suit to me; but he shall learn thatesteem and duty are sometimes as powerful aslove itself. "By the death of the gallant Earl, King Edwardfound himself deprived of one of the main supporters of his crown; and he regretted him notless as an useful citizen, of whom the nation wasjustly proud, than as a loyal servant, who was sincerely attached to his master. Love, nevertheless,mingled with the King's regrets; since he couldnot but be sensible that he was now without aTALES, POEMS , ETC. 233Thisrival; and that the Countess was free from a constraint, which had hitherto separated them fromeach other. The Earl died without children; andthe Law compelled his Widow to renounce theterritorial possessions which were attached to thetitle, and which now reverted to the Crown.event, therefore, rendered her presence in Londonunavoidable; and, on her arrival in the Metropolis,her father, desirous to relieve her from the melancholy in which she was plunged, wished to introduce her at Court, and present her to the King.This proposal, however, met her firm refusal." What is it that you propose to me, my Lord?"said she; " ere these mourning habiliments arewell folded round me, would you have me paradethem in solemn mockery at the foot of the Throne?Never! Leave me, I conjure you, my Lord;leave me to solitude and silence; to forgetfulnessand despair!"De Grandison wished not to constrain the inclinations of his daughter; and upon communicatingthe reasons of her absence, the King affected tobe satisfied with them. He had, however, communicated his passion, which he did not choose toavow to honester courtiers, to Sir William Trussell,one of the most artful intriguers, and insinuatingsycophants about his Court; who, anxious only to234 ORIGINALsecure his place in the King's favour, had encouraged him in the prosecution of this amour, andrecommended him to use stratagem, and evenviolence, should it be necessary towards the attainment of his object." The ingrate! " said the King, when he foundhimself alone with Trussell; " she refuses me eventhe innocent gratification of beholding her. I askbut an interview; I wish but to look upon herbeauty; and she refuses to grant me even thisnigg*rdly boon, for all that she has made mesuffer."66 My Liege," said Trussell, " it is compromisingyour honour and your dignity, to submit to suchaudacity. The daughter of de Grandison oughtto feel but too much flattered that King Edwarddeigns to bestow a glance, or a thought, upon her.Her husband is in the tomb; she is free from allrestraint; and you have tendered your love:what is it that she opposes to your offer? Hervirtue! Is not obedience virtue? Is not compliance the first duty of subjects to their Sovereign?My Liege, this daughter of de Grandison hidesintrigue under the name of virtue. Your Gracehas a rival."" Ha!" said Edward, while his lip quivered,and his whole gigantic frame trembled like anTALES, POEMS, ETC. 235aspen leaf; " by Heaven, thou hast it, Trussell!Fool that I was to feign that delicacy and reserve,for which this haughty minion now despises me!Fly to her, then; demand an audience, and command her to appear at Court; tell her that I willbrook no answer but compliance."" ITrussell hastened to execute the Monarch'sorders; and the King, left to himself, began toponder on the course which he was pursuing.have yielded, then," said he, " to the fiend's suggestions; and thus abased myself to a level withthe weakest, and most despicable, of mankind.I am preparing to play the tyrant with my subjects, and my first victim is an unhappy woman;whose only crime is the obstinacy with which sherepels my unworthy addresses. Hither!" he added,clapping his hands, and immediately one of hispages stood before him; " hasten after Sir WilliamTrussell: bid him attend me instantly."" Trussell," said the King, as he returned,equipped for the errand he was about to undertake,“ I have consulted my heart; I have held communion with myself; and I have learned, that itbefits not Edward of England to employ force orartifice to achieve the conquest of the heart ofKatharine: I will vanquish her obstinacy by othermeans. "236 ORIGINAL"6What, my Liege! " said Trussell,then submit -?"" will you" To any thing, rather than suffer the Countessof Salisbury to accuse me of despotism. "" In your Grace's place — " said Trussell." In my place," interrupted Edward, " youwould act as I do; I wish to shew, that I possessthe soul, as well as the station of a King. Katharine of Salisbury shall not be the victim of mycaprice. Go; and, in future, give me only suchcounsel as shall be worthy of both of us. "The King congratulated himself on this heroiceffort; and it was one which cost him many pangs:nor wasthe Countess without her struggles, and heranxieties; for, while the image of her lost husbandwas hourly becoming more effaced from her heart,that of the King was more deeply engraven therethan ever. She received many letters from him, butanswered none; and the pride of the royal loverbegan to take fire again at the neglect and contumely with which his mistress treated his addresses: whilst Trussell used every means ofnourishing this feeling, and of insinuating that boththe Father and Daughter were anxious only to enhance the price, at which the virtue of the latterwas to be bartered.De Grandison, who began to think that hisTALES, POEMS , ETC. 237daughter carried her grief for her Husband to anextravagant and immoderate height, now remonstrated with her, somewhat impetuously, on herabsence from the Court." Do you think," said he, " that I will willingly behold you in a state of eternal widowhood?or that I will suffer you to fail in the respect andduty which we owe the King? Is there a Monarchin the world so worthy of his subjects' love? of hissubjects' hearts?"" Alas!" said the Countess, " who can feelmore deeply than I do, how much we are indebtedto him! But take care, my Father, that he performs the contract for which his royal word andyour own are irrevocably given. See that he weds,and that speedily, Philippa de Hainault. "66 Wherefore should I doubt that he will do so?"said de Grandison. "Is he not pledged, in theface of all Europe, to become her husband? andwas I not the bearer of his promise to the Earl ofHainault to that effect?"" He will never wed her, my Father, " said theCountess; " you are yourself witness that fromday to day he defers the marriage, on the mostfrivolous pretexts."" Nay, nay, sweet Katharine, " said the oldLord, " wherefore should you take so much inte-238 ORIGINALrest in this marriage? This is but a stratagem toput me from my suit. I am going this evening toattend the King; you must accompany me."" Pardon me, my dearest Father; pardon me,but I cannot go."I entreat, I command you, " said de Grandison. " I have too long permitted your disobedience and now."" Father! behold me a suppliant on my kneesbefore you! defer, but for a few days defer thisvisit to the Court; and then I will obey you."" What means this emotion, Katharine?" saidher Father; " I find it difficult to refuse you anything. Do not forget, however, that the delaywhich I grant must be but a short one; in threedays you must accompany me."This interview, however, which the Baron hadbeen unable to effect, either by his commands, orhis entreaties, he at last managed to accomplishby a stratagem. He persuaded his daughter toconsent to accompany him to a Masqued Ball, towhich she had been invited by the Countess ofSuffolk, at her seat, a few miles distant fromLondon; and the fair and noble widow no soonermade her appearance among the assembled company, than every eye was fixed upon her. Hertall and stately, yet graceful figure, glided downTALES, POEMS, ETC. 239the rooms like a visitant from another sphere, whenan unfortunate accident completely disconcertedher. A Mask, richly dressed, had long followedher through all the apartments; when, as she wasendeavouring with some embarrassment to escapefrom his pursuit, by hurrying to a vacant seat, herGarter dropped upon the floor! The Mask eagerly stooped down and seized it, and she as eagerly, instantly demanded it's restoration." Nay, gentle Madam," said he, " this is aprize too precious to be lightly parted with, and """ Discourteous Knight!" said the lady, " knowyou whom you treat with so much indignity?" andat these words she removed the mask from herface, hoping thus to awe her persecutor into acquiescence. Her surprise, however, was equal tothat of any one present, when her tormentor,removing his own visor, discovered the features ofKing Edward! The Lady sank on her knee before the Monarch, and the whole company followed her example." Behold!” cried the King, holding up the ravished Garter, " a treasure, of the possession ofwhich I own myself unworthy; yet will I not partwith it, for any ransom wealth or power can offer."An ill-suppressed burst of laughter followed thisspeech. " Honi soit qui Mal y pense!" exclaimed240 ORIGINALthe King. " Laugh on, my Lords and Gentlemen!but in good time the merriest of ye, aye, and thegreatest Sovereigns of Europe, shall be proud towear this Garter. " Thus saying, the King whispered a few words to the Countess, which seemedto occasion her considerable embarrassment; andthen, making a lowly obeisance, left the apartment.The declaration which he had that night made,he shortly afterwards accomplished, by institutingthe far renowned order of the Garter; which, withthe ceremonies and entertainments consequentupon it, for some time occupied the almost undivided attention of King Edward. His love for theCountess of Salisbury was, however, now openlyavowed; and the arrival of the Princess Philippa ,to whom he had already been married by proxy,was delayed in consequence of his not sending thenecessary escort. The people soon began to murmur at this delay, since not only the honour of theKing, but of the nation also, was concerned inkeeping faith with the Count of Hainault, whosealliance was of such vital importance to the interests of England. It was at this juncture thatthe Lord de Grandison presented himself to theKing, and demanded a private audience." I have letters, my Liege," said the Baron," from the Count of Hainault, who bitterly com-TALES, POEMS, ETC. 241plains of the delay in executing the treaty, withthe conclusion of which your Grace was pleased tohonour me."At these words the King changed colour, whichthe Baron was not slow in observing, as he continued, " wherefore, my Liege, should this intelligence displease you? I perceive in yourglance traces of indifference , and even of dislike,towards this union, which all England expects withsuch impatience. "" De Grandison," said Edward, " Kings areformed of the same materials as other men: theyhave hearts, and mine is consumed by a passion,which makes me sensible that rank and power arenot happiness."" What, my Liege! have your eyes betrayedyour heart to another object? can you forswearyour royal word? Honour, fame, policy, all forbid it; all conspire to hasten your marriage withthe Lady Philippa."" If you knew the Beauty of my own Court,who has inspired my passion, my Lord, you wouldnot press this subject."" I know nothing but your Grace's interest andhonour," said de Grandison. " Pardon my frankness, but there can be no motive of sufficientweight to occasion any further delay."M242 ORIGINAL" No motive, Lord de Grandison?" said Edward, and he sighed . " Alas! I see that age haschilled your blood, and frozen up your heart."" My Liege, I burn more than ever with devotion to your service. If this Marriage be not solemnized, and speedily, you will offend a powerful Prince, to whom you are indebted for manybenefits, and also disappoint the fond hopes ofyour loyal people. You forget yourself, myLiege; remember that you are a King, andKing of England! I speak to Edward; who,stripped even of the splendours of Royalty, shouldstill be worthy of the respect and admiration ofmankind."“ We shall see, my Lord de Grandison, " saidthe King; " but now leave me; leave me. "The old Baron had no sooner left Edward, thanthe King summoned Trussell to an audience, andinformed him of his recent interview, and of it'sunfavourable result; adding, " I wished to speakto him of his daughter, and of my love for her;but I know not wherefore, I was unable to explainmyself. There is a fierce inflexibility about thatold man, which I admire, and yet which irritatesme. I reverence, and yet I fear him!"" And is your Grace deceived by this de Grandison's affectation of inflexibility and virtue? Be-TALES, POEMS, ETC. 243lieve me, my Liege, that the old lord and hisdaughter both have their price; although it is asomewhat extravagant one. But suffer me to undertake your Grace's suit; and doubt not I willso manage it, that the Baron himself shall be thefirst to give the lovely Countess to your arms."Upon leaving the King, Trussell speedily soughtand found the Baron alone in his apartment, perusing and sighing over his despatches from theCount de Hainault. De Grandison had that instinctive aversion for his visitor, which was naturalto a mind like his; still he could not refuse tolisten to a messenger from the King; and Trussellaccordingly called up all the resources of an artfulgenius, skilled in the deepest intrigues and subtleties of a Court, to explain the object of his visitwith as much delicacy as possible. The old Lordlistened with a cold and disdainful attention, tillthe conclusion of his harangue, and then replied ,66 Sir William Trussell, you explain yourself veryclearly. The King loves my daughter, and youcome to persuade me to use my influence in inducing her to yield to his Grace's wishes. "66 Nay, nay, my Lord," said Trussell, “ yourLordship misconceives me. I spoke merely ofmanagement and prudence; of modes of conductto be observed by your Lordship and the Countess.M2244 ORIGINALYou have been more than fifty years a Courtier,my Lord, and I cannot be speaking a languagewhich you do not understand. It is for yourLordship, therefore, to decide what answer Ishall bear from you to the King."" I will bear it myself, Sir William ," said deGrandison, rising from his seat; " and that instantly.""You cannot mean it, my Lord," said Trussell; " you surely cannot- "66 Any further conversation, between us, " saidde Grandison, " is quite unnecessary.shall shortly see me. "His GraceScarcely was the unhappy Father relieved fromthe presence of Trussell, than he sank upon a seatin a state of distraction . " This then was Edward's reason for désiring the presence of mydaughter, and he would! but he is incapableof such baseness; it is that villain Trussell whohas corrupted the princely current of his thoughtsand feelings. Or can my daughter be acquaintedwith the King's weakness? Can Katharine be anaccomplice in this amour? If but in thought shehas dishonoured these grey hairs— " his lookgrew black as midnight as he grasped his sword,and rushed from the apartment.The interview with his daughter at once re-TALES, POEMS, ETC. 245moved the most painful of the old man's suspicions, and with an anxious, but determined heart,he then presented himself before the King." Welcome, my Lord de Grandison, " said theMonarch; " my good friend Trussell has revealedto you the precious secret of my heart; and youcome to tell me I have not relied in vain uponyour friendship, and your loyalty; your daughter """" I have just left her, my Liege; and she haslaid open her whole heart to me.'" And she hates me?" said the King, impatiently."The most dutiful and loyal of your Grace'ssubjects, Katharine offers you a homage the mostrespectful and profound. But she is the Daughterof de Grandison; she is the Widow of Salisbury;and that neither of those names have yet beentainted with dishonour, is a truth of which theKing of England needs least of all men to be reminded. "" What have I heard?" said the King." Truth, my Liege; Truth, to whose accentsyour minions would close your ears, but whom youhear speaking by my mouth. My daughter is notfitted for the rival of the Princess of Hainault;and to be -If I offend, my Liege, my head246 ORIGINALis at your Grace's disposal. I have finished mycourse; and shall soon be no longer in a conditionto serve you. Why then should I care for thefew days which nature might yet permit me tolive? At least, I shall die with the assurance,that my daughter will cherish the memory of herFather, and of his honour. Dispose of me asyou please, my Liege; you are my master."" Yes, Traitor," answered Edward; " and Iwould be your protector, and your friend: but youcompel me to exhibit myself only as your Sovereign. Instantly command your daughter's presence here, or prepare yourself for a lodging inthe Tower."son;"The Tower, my Liege," replied de Grandi-" I will hasten thither with as much alacrityas I interposed my shield between your Grace'sbreast, and the arrow which was pointed at it, onthe field of battle."" Audacious traitor!" said the Monarch; " awaywith him to the Tower!"De Grandison was immediately hurried off,closely guarded; and at that moment Sir NeeleLoring, a gallant knight, who was one of the firstinvested with the order of the Garter, rushed intothe royal presence, exclaiming, " What have Ibeheld, my Liege?"TALES, POEMS, ETC. 247." The punishment due to outraged Majesty,"replied the King.66 Nay, nay, my Liege; wherefore depriveyour old and faithful servant of his liberty? andfor what crime? Can it be King Edward to whomI am speaking? Can it be Edward who wouldload the limbs of old de Grandison with fetters?But you relent, your Grace remembers-"At that instant Trussell entered: " My Liege,de Grandison vents his anger in violence andthreats; he would write to his daughter, but Ihave denied him permission so to do."" You hear, Sir Neele," said the King; "theold traitor indulges in threats towards our royalperson; but I am weary of your boldness, SirKnight; I am the King of England, and my subjects shall obey me."The bold Knight had no sooner disappeared,than an object of still greater interest presenteditself; it was the Countess of Salisbury. Paleand trembling, with dishevelled locks and streaming eyes, but still surpassingly beautiful, the lovelyKatharine threw herself at the King's feet." Sire! Sire!" she shrieked, " give me backmy Father!"A blush of self-reproach mantled on the brow248 ORIGINAL""of Edward, as he extended his hand, and raisedthe lovely suppliant from her knees. " Pardon,Madam," said he, pardon the acts to which alover's despair drives him. Remember that thefirst sight of you kindled in my breast a flamewhich yet I stifled during the lifetime of your gallant Husband. Salisbury, Heaven assoil his soul!is now in his grave; and yet now, when I acquaintyou with my sufferings, and my hopes, you answerme only with your reproaches and your tears."" Mytears, my Liege, are all that remain tome for my defence; and yet they touch you not. "" Say'st thou that they touch me not? Is itfor you, sweet Katharine, to doubt your empireover my heart? I am no longer able to imposelaws on that passion which you repay with ingratitude."" I am no ingrate, most dread Sovereign," replied the Countess; " would that you could seemyheart. But, my Liege, can I, ought I to forget that my aged father is in fetters?"" They shall be broken," said the King; " Heshall resume his station as my best trusted counsellor, and his daughter "" Forbear, my Liege, to finish what you wouldsay. I speak not of his daughter."TALES, POEMS, ETC. 249""Then her Father, Katharine, -"My Father can but die, Sire; what righthave I, my Liege, to entertain your Grace's love,when the Princess of Hainault is waiting to takeher seat beside you upon the throne of England.But release my Father, and I will wander fromyour presence, where the sight of the unhappyKatharine never more shall trouble you. Restoremy Father to me, and we will begone from hencefor ever!"" No, adorable Katharine!" said the King," your Father shall be free; and you shall stillknow your Sovereign your lover, and see himworthy of your love."Thus saying, he left the Countess alone in thePresence Chamber, where she remained a considerable time, much wondering at his behaviour,and suffering great uneasiness of mind. At lengthSir Neele Loring approached, and sinking on hisknee before her, said, -" Madam, permit me toconduct you to the place, which the King's commands have assigned for you. "The Countess much troubled and trembling,silently gavethe Knight herhand, and traversed withhim a vast suite of splendid apartments, until theyat length arrived at a door, which opening led intoM 3250 ORIGINALa magnificent Saloon, where she beheld Edwardseated on his Throne, surrounded by his Courtiers;all of whom, and even the Sovereign himself,were decorated with the insignia of the Garter.Upon her entrance, the King rushed towards her,and with one hand taking hold of hers, with theother placed the Crown upon her head.68 " and Approach, dearest Lady!" said he,share the Throne of the King of England, and thehomage of his subjects. Become my Consort; myQueen. Beauty, truth, and virtue call you to theThrone; and in placing you there I equally fulfilmy own wishes, and those of my people. Theywill applaud my choice, for it is worthy of me.Your Father is free; and, both to him and you,will I repair the injustice which I have com.mitted."Beauty, my Liege," said Sir Neele Loring,"was made to reign; for it was Man's first Sovereign."The Countess, overwhelmed with the suddennessof her surprise, was scarcely able to articulate .My Liege," said she, " the Throne is not myplace the Princess of Hainault ""Yes," said the Lord de Grandison, burstinginto the apartment, " She only must sit there! -TALES, POEMS, ETO. 251What, my Liege! my Daughter crowned, andabout to ascend the Throne! Is that the price atwhich my chains are broken? Back with me tothe Tower! Rather eternal slavery, than freedompurchased by dishonour!""My Lord de Grandison," said the King, "listen to me. I have given your daughter my hand,she is my Queen, and wherefore would you oppose our happiness?"66" My daughter Queen!" exclaimed the Baron;Katharine,” he added, addressing her in a toneof supplication, " wilt thou lend thyself to thecause of falsehood and perjury? wilt thou aidthy King to break a promise plighted in the faceof Europe? listen to me and prove thyself mydaughter. Put off that diadem. Fall at theKing's feet for pardon; or, if thou can'st not perform the dictates of duty, then die, and Heavenpardon thee!"66He drew a dagger from his bosom as he spoke,and as the King arrested his hand he continued,Approach me not, my Liege, or I bury thisdagger in her heart. Give me thy royal word thatshe shall not be Queen, or 66 "My Liege!" said the Countess, lifting theCrown from her brow, and falling at Edward's252 ORIGINALfeet, " it must not be; your royal word ispledged; the nation's honour is it's guarantee;and war and desolation would follow the violationofyour plighted promise. I am Katharine of Salisbury, your Grace's most faithful subject; butdare not be your Queen.""Generous beings!" said the King, " it is youwho teach me how to reign . Rise, gracious Madam; rise, my good Lord de Grandison. You,my noble friend, shall instantly proceed to theCourt of Hainault, to bring over my affiancedbride. Your lovely daughter must not be myWife; but you will suffer her to remain at myCourt, it's brightest and most distinguished ornament."Thus ended the adventure of the Garter, without any of those disastrous consequences, whichonce seemed so threatening. The Princess ofHainault filled the Throne to which she was called bythe voice of the nation, and won and merited thelove of her Royal consort. Anxious to give to thevirtuous object of his former passion a splendid testimony of the sentiments which he still entertainedtowards her, the King, on his marriage, renewedthe institution of the Order of the Garter. DeGrandison long continued to hold the highest placeTALES, POEMS, ETC. 253in the Royal favour; the Countess of Salisburyappeared at Court as the friend of Queen Philippa; and long continued the object of the respectful passion of the greatest Monarch who had everfilled the throne of England.BLANCHE OF BOURBON.A ROMANCE OF SPANISH HISTORY.At his birth, be sure on't,Some Devil thrust sweet Nature's hand aside,Ere she had pour'd her balm into his breast,To warm his gross and earthy clod with Pity.COLMAN.THE accession of Don Pedro to the throne ofCastile, on the death of his Father Alphonso, wasspeedily followed by violent insurrectionary movements amongst all classes of the people. AlthoughPedro was the only legitimate offspring of hisFather, the nation in general fondly wished thatthe sceptre might pass into the hands of DonHenry, Count of Trastamare, eldest son of thedeceased King by his Concubine, the beautifulLeonora de Guzman. This Prince had alreadydistinguished himself by his valour and wisdom;TALES, POEMS, ETC. 255his kind and condescending demeanour; and evenby his attachment and fidelity to the new King;since he laboured with the utmost solicitude notonly to confirm the allegiance of his own partizansto Pedro, but to discourage every attempt atdisturbing the peace of the Monarchy. Pedro,however, who by his conduct during his Reignacquired the surname of " the Cruel," took theearliest opportunity of seizing the person of DonHenry's Mother, Leonora, whom he immediatelycommitted to the custody of the Queen Dowager;who no sooner found her hated rival in her power,than she caused her to be put to a cruel and lingering death. All Castile was indignant at thisatrocity; and Don Henry flew to arms. DonFrederick, Grand Master of St. James' , Don Tello,Lord of Aguilar, and Don Ferdinand, Lord ofLedesne, his brothers, the other sons of the unfortunate Leonora, immediately joined him; and,having raised a considerable force, took possessionof the town of Gijon, and bade defiance to thetyrant.Intelligence of the revolt of the Princes wasbrought to Don Pedro as he was taking his evening promenade on the terrace of the royal gardensof Valladolid, accompanied by his Prime Minister,Don Alphonso d'Albuquerque. " Hearest thou256 ORIGINALthis, Alphonso?" said the King. " The BastardHenry, and his Brothers, have garrisoned theCastle of Gijon, and troops, headed by the discontented nobles, are daily flocking to their assistance."" I hear it, Sire," said the Minister, " withsorrow and alarm ."" And wherefore so, good Alphonso?" repliedDon Pedro. " Let all the factions in Castile, andthey are not a few, rally round the banner of theBastards; let the puling Kings of Arragon andNavarre, who have already shewn that they bearme no good will, join in the traitorous league; aye,let even the powers of France, and the proudislanders of the West, for once agree for mydestruction; yet I fear not. I have Allies, whosepower and influence, not all of these togetherbanded, could withstand ."66" And who, Sire, " enquired the Minister wonderingly; " who are the Allies who could possiblydefend your Majesty against such a confederacy?"The Stars! the Stars are with us, Albuquerque! " exclaimed the King. "Look yonder,"he continued, pointing to the sky; " and see howeven now, at the very instant that I receive thisnews, the Heavens are smiling on me."Albuquerque looked towards the sky, and be-TALES, POEMS, ETC. 257held indeed one of those evenings of surpassingbeauty, which are seldom seen even beneath theglowing atmosphere of Spain. The Sun had setsome time, but still the west retained a portionof his declining glory, which, with a varied line ofdeep red light, defined the summits of the distanthills. Above them spread the deep blue sky, bespangled with innumerable Stars, intensely bright;amongst which, the largest and most resplendentwas the planet Jupiter, which shone over thePalace of Valladolid, and seemed to be sheddingit's brightest beams upon the royal residence." That is my natal Star!" said the King; " thatnoble planet, or rather that other Sun, whichseems to traverse the system in rivalship, and notin the train of the great source of light and heat.See, how all others shrink their beams before him.Even Mars, that lurid orb which now threatensme, quails before his superior brightness. Theomens are most propitious! "" Even so, Oh King! " said a sharp, shrillvoice behind them; and, turning round, they perceived an aged man, of a noble and venerablecountenance, with a long white beard, and blackexpressive eyes, which rivalled in brightness eventhe Stars on which they had been gazing. Hewore a turban on his head, and was dressed afterthe Oriental fashion, in a white flowing robe. This-258 ORIGINALwas Simon Joseph, the favourite Jewish Physician,and Astrologer to the King, whom he kept constantly about his person." Sayestthou so, goodJoseph!" said Don Pedro;" and who shall gainsay thee, when thou hast readthe Stars? But whatbrings thee hither, at this hour?"" I came to tell thee, Sire, that this evening,as I drew thy Horoscope, I read the predictionof strange events. Danger, and contest, but, atthe same time, triumph and victory were foretoldthere; aye, and Love was mentioned in thestarry prophecy. Yon planet Jupiter is nowLord of the ascendant; Mars and Venus are inconjunction; and Saturn, dull and dim, is quenchedbeneath their overwhelming influence."" Thou read'st strange riddles, Simon Joseph,"said Don Pedro; " but a part, at least, of thyprophecy is true: for I hold here letters, whichinform me, that the sons of Leonora de Guzmanare in arms; and defy me from behind the strongwalls of Gijon. What would'st thou have me do?"" On to the fight, Sire!" said the Astrologer,and then added, pointing to the planet Jupiter," before that Star sets behind the western hills ,let the King be on his march to battle, and toconquest. Don Pedro, do not hope for ease andquietness, but thy reign shall be long and prosperous. Victory shall wait upon thy banners,TALES, POems, etc. 259and new kingdoms shall be added to Castile. "Thus saying, and drawing his robe more closelyround him, Simon Joseph left the Terrace, andthe King and his Minister speedily followed him.Don Pedro, amongst whose vices cowardice couldnot be numbered, determined to adopt the adviceof the Astrologer. Although he scoffed at allidea of Religion, he was a fervent believer in theoccult Sciences, and never entered upon any pursuit of importance without consulting the Stars.That very evening, accordingly, saw him at thehead of as many troops as could be mustered atso short a notice, depart from Valladolid, havingleft instructions for a formidable force to followhim.In a few days the King of Castile, with a numerous Army, had sat down before the Gates ofGijon. They had already had various skirmisheson their march with detached parties of theenemy; and on their first attack upon the townthey carried the most important outpost; so thatultimate success now appeared certain. In themean time, however, the heart of the Monarchhad surrendered at the first summons to the charmsof a beautiful young female, of a noble family,named Maria de Padilla, in the suite of Madamed'Albuquerque, who had followed her husband , to260 ORIGINALthe army. This young lady possessed numerousattractions, both of mind and person. Althoughnot tall, she was exquisitely formed; and herwhole form and manner were equally graceful andbewitching. Her complexion was of the mostdazzling fairness; her eyes black and sparkling;and her features of a regularity, in which the mostfastidious connoiseur in beauty could find nothingto object to. She possessed an infinite fund ofwit, and was of a gay and lively temper; but shewas, at the same time, vain and ambitious; and aperfect mistress of every species of dissimulation .Obdurate and sanguinary as was the disposition ofDon Pedro, he became deeply fascinated with thecharms of Maria; " and Love, " say the Historians of that age, " held in his bosom divided empire with cruelty. " She, dazzled by the splendourof royalty, and the prospect of power and greatness, turned a deaf ear to the remonstrances ofvirtue; and after a very feeble and ill counterfeited resistance, became the Mistress of the Kingof Castile. Don Pedro was now as eager to conclude the war, as he had been to commence it;and having made terms with the revolted Princes,he disbanded his forces, and retired with Mariato Torrejos, a little town near Toledo.It is necessary to state here, that previous to

TALES, POEMS, ETC. 261the occurrence of these events, Don Pedro hadasked in marriage the hand of the beautifulBlanche de Bourbon, Sister of the Queen ofFrance, and the Duke of Burgundy; who, duringthe King's absence on his expedition to Gijon, hadarrived in the city of Valladolid, and was thereawaiting the celebration of the nuptial contract.To that city the other Princes repaired on the cessation of hostilities, and the King commended hisbride to the especial attention of Don Henry,Count of Trastamare, until his own return. TheCount, on his arrival , found that the French Princess, of whose beauty and accomplishments themostglowingaccounts had been generally circulated ,far surpassed all that rumour had spoken, or imagination had portrayed. She was of a majesticfigure, tall, and finely formed. The mild butglowing Suns of France had given a dark tinge toher cheeks, which well matched with the intensedeep blue of her eyes, and the jetty ringlets whichfell in rich clusters down her neck. Her pale highforehead and drooping eyelids, spoke of pensiveness, and perhaps melancholy; but the smile whichfrequently illuminated all her features," As though her veins ran lightning,"was full of benevolence and sweetness; and told ,262 ORIGINALnot falsely, the goodness of her heart. Her voicewas low and gentle, but it's tones went to theheart of the listener; and her stately step, andmajestic gait, while they befitted the high stationwhich she filled, were unmingled with the slightestindication of arrogance, or pride.As Don Henry gazed upon this enchantingbeing, he could not but lament that she wasdestined to become the bride of a man, who, although of high talents, and of handsome and evenmajestic person, was stained with almost everyvice under Heaven. Still he indulged a hope,and that hope was shared by many, that thebeauty and virtues of the Princess, could notbut have a genial effect on the disposition of herHusband, and be productive of important benefits, both to him and to the nation. The QueenMother had received her with the most flatteringdistinction; the Grandees in Valladolid took everyopportunity of testifying their devotion; and, whenever she appeared in public, she was greeted withthe warmest acclamations of the populace. Still,however, the King remained at Torrejos, in the society of Maria de Padilla; and had not even hadthe courtesy to send any communication to her, orto the Queen. He would not listen to any intelligence of his betrothed bride, or even attend toTALES, POEMS, ETC. 263State affairs. The letters of his Mother, expressing her chagrin and indignation at his conduct,and the remonstrances of his Minister, who represented the impolicy of this treatment of a Princessof the blood royal of France, were received withequal disregard. At length his Courtiers wereconstrained to be silent, for some of them whohad ventured to speak their minds rather too freelyupon the subject, he had found himself under theawkward necessity of assassinating. The influenceof Maria increased daily; and to such an extent,that it was very generally believed she had established her dominion over him, by practisingthe art of Magic. He caused a Tourney to becelebrated in her honour; and compelled all theGrandees atToledo, and in it's neighbourhood, withtheir wives and daughters, to be present. Here hechanced to be so severely wounded in his hand,that his life was despaired of by his Physicians;though, after a long delay, the attentions and medical skill of Maria de Padilla wrought his completecure, to the infinite regret of the nation, and ofthe Court, but especially of Don Henry.This Prince was indefatigable in his attendanceupon the young Queen elect, and endeavoured, bythe most delicate attentions, to console her for theneglect of her betrothed Don Pedro. The Queen264 ORIGINALreturned his attentions by a gratitude which wasexpressed rather in her eyes, than with her lips;until at length a more tender feeling by degreesbegan to pervade the breasts of both; although theydared scarcely confess it, even to themselves, andmuch less to each other. Indignation at her affianced husband's conduct, and pity for her ownforlorn situation, were no unnatural harbingers oflove in the bosom of Don Henry: while Blanche,as she gazed on his fine person, and thought ofhis strong and polished mind; his military renown;and his high birth; for his illegitimacy was scarcelyconsidered a stain in those days, could not helpthinking how suitable their union would have been;and wishing, like Desdemona, -" That Heaven had made her such a man! "These, however, were thoughts, which theycarefully locked up within their own bosoms, andwhich were soon afterwards banished even fromthose secret sanctuaries, by the unexpected arrivalof the King.Don Pedro had at length yielded to the adviceof his wisest Counsellors; which was seconded byMaria de Padilla herself; and determined to paya visit to the Princess Blanche, whom, as yet, hehad not even seen. The meeting of the RoyalTALES, POEMS, ETC. 265couple was in the streets of Valladolid, by torchlight. The King entered the City on horseback,attended by Don Ferdinand, and Don Juan ofArragon, sons of his Aunt, the Queen Dowagerof Arragon; the Grand Master of Calatrava, theArchbishop of Toledo, Don Juan de la Cerda,Don Alphonso d' Albuquerque, and other greatlords. The young Queen rode between the QueenMother and the Count of Trastamare; and wasattended by the Grand Master of St. James' , DonTello of Castile, and the municipal authorities ofValladolid. The streets were crowded with thepopulation of the City, eager to see the meeting;but, above all, to catch a glimpse of the youngQueen, whose beauty was seen to great advantageby the light of the innumerable torches whichblazed around her. As she approached the King,the acclamations of the people redoubled, but theywere frozen into wondering silence, as they observed the cold and indifferent air with which hereturned her salute. She descended from herpalfrey, and it was naturally expected that hewould have done the same; but he merely extendedher his hand to kiss, while he continued in conversation with his minister, Don Alphonso.."The monster!" muttered Don Henry betweenhis teeth, as he assisted Blanche to remount.N266 ORIGINALAye," whispered some one in his ear; 66 isthis the man to be King of Castile, and husbandof Blanche of Bourbon?"Henry turned round, but could perceive no one.His own heart, however, echoed the question; and,silently and moodily, he continued to ride on, untilthe Palace gates appeared before him, and he,together with the rest of the procession, entered.The next day was appointed for the celebrationof the Marriage ceremony, and, with the earliestdawn of morning, all the bells in Valladolid wereringing a merry peal; and the citizens appearedin the streets in their holiday garbs, and wearingwhite favours in honour of the event. A peremptory order from the King was, however, soon issued for the silencing of the bells, and commandingevery one to return to his ordinary occupation,upon pain of death. At the hour of noon theRoyal cavalcade was seen moving towards theCathedral, slowly and silently as a Funeral procession. The King wore a look of dogged endurance; and Blanche was pale as death; but therewas a forced smile upon her lip , which appearedmore melancholy than sighs and tears could possibly have done. The Queen Mother's faceglowed with resentment and chagrin; and DonHenry kept his eyes fixed upon Blanche, with anTALES, POEMS, ETC. 267expression in which pity, and a still softer feeling,could be traced most legibly. The Nobles whoaccompanied the royal party, with heads depressed,and their arms folded sullenly upon their bosoms,looked more like mutes at an interment, than assistants at a bridal.Notwithstanding the royal mandate, the populace had ventured again to assemble in the streetswhen the procession passed; but pale and silent,each of them appeared to feel that he wascommitting a crime, and each look which was bentupon the personages as they passed , was stealthlike and timid. As Don Pedro rode by them,every head was bared, but not one voice was heardin gratulation. The approach of Blanche washailed with loud acclamations, which were, however, instantly suppressed; and every one lookedtimidly over his shoulder, and seemed to fear thathe had committed an offence, for which instantpunishment would follow. Every eye was fixedon the Count of Trastamare, and gleamed brightlier as he passed; but no one dared to give anopen expression to his feelings. One voice, however, which the Count instantly recognised as thesame which had addressed him on the precedingday, was heard to shout from amidst the crowd," God save King Henry!"N 2268 ORIGINALAll were aghast at this daring exclamation. Thepopulace shrank back with fear and horror; butthe nobles in the Procession, as soon as they hadrecovered from the stupor of their surprise, criedout " Treason! treason!"""Guards, seize the traitor! " exclaimed DonAlphonso d'Albuquerque, " and drag him hither. "A tall, stout-built man, but pale and squalid,with an extraordinary expression of resolutionand defiance in his countenance, was immediatelyforced before the King, on whose left hand rodeDon Alphonso. Don Pedro's colour changed ashe gazed upon him, but the ordinary malignantexpression of his features was deepened tenfoldas he exclaimed , " What do'st thou here, Villain?""What do'st thou here?" returned the unshrinking Stranger; " thou man of lust and blood! withyonder fair and hapless Princess in thy train?How long is it since you tore my Sister fromher abode, the most peaceful and the happiest inall Castile, to lodge her in thy vile Harem? Howlong is it since thy steel drank the blood of herindignant husband? How long?"66 " Bind him! gag him! " exclaimed the King,foaming with passion . Lend me thy axe, fellow! " continued he, vaulting from his horse, andsnatching a partizan from a guard near him. TheTALES, POEMS, ETC. 269victim was immediately bound, and thrown uponthe earth; when the King, lifting with his ownhand the fatal weapon, at one blow severed hishead from his body.A smile ofgrim delight played upon the tyrant'sfeatures as he gazed upon the mutilated trunkbefore him; and listened to the fearful shriekwhich burst from the assembled crowd, who withstarting eyes and pallid cheeks stared upon eachother, as if to ask if what they had just witnessedwas a reality. The unhappy Blanche had faintedin the arms of her attendants; but Don Pedro,without waiting for her recovery, with a yell ofsavage laughter again sprang into his saddle, and,motioning to his attendants to move on, rode forwards to the Cathedral. There, shortly afterwardsthe Bride, or rather the victim, arrived more deadthan alive; and joining her hand with that whichwas yet wet with the blood which it had shed, thisill-omened Marriage was solemnized, amidst thefear and wonder of all who were present at theceremony.Three days had elapsed after the nuptials, andDon Pedro was yet inseparable from his beautifulQueen; to whom, those about him began to hopethat he would become really and permanently attached but on the third he received letters from270 ORIGINALMaria de Padilla, who was at Montalban, in whichshe complained bitterly of his absence from her,and informed him that she found herself pregnant.On receiving this intelligence, the King's joyknew no bounds; and he immediately summonedhis Minister, Don Alphonso, and commanded himto prepare for their immediate departure to joinhis Mistress." Sire," said Don Alphonso, " to hear is toobey; but might the humblest of your subjectsventure to speak his mind, he would say, that ifthis journey were postponed for a short time, herMajesty would be less likely to complain, and thefactions who pretend to espouse her cause, wouldbe unable to find the slightest ground for censuring the conduct of your Majesty."" Peace, idiot! " cried the King furiously;" have I not already devoted three days to thisBourbon doll; and as for the factions are not theponiard, and the gibbet, and the axe, enough forthem? "66 Sire," continued the Minister, " is it well toleave Don Henry in the midst of the discontentedpopulace of the Capital, while your Majesty is atMontalban? Already do dreams of power andsovereignty fill his imagination, and-??" What! dares the Bastard look so high asTALES, POEMS, ETC. 271that? " said Pedro, with a malicious grin: " well,well, his hour will come, but not yet. Love andMaria are all that can engage my thoughts atpresent. See, then, that you provide for ourinstant journey."In less than an hour after this conversation, theKing, accompanied by Don Alphonso, and his otherimmediate favourites, and attended by the RoyalGuard, passed the City gates; but as he hadtaken no leave of the Queen, or of his Mother,and had given no previous intimation of his intention to quit Valladolid, it was supposed that hewas merely gone to enjoy the chase in the neighbouring forest. Messengers, however, speedilyarrived to Madame d'Albuquerque from her husband, to inform her that the King and he had setoff for Montalban, and that they had instructionsto escort her thither. The rage of the QueenMother was now ungovernable, and she couldscarcely be restrained from rushing forth to themarket-place, and rousing the populace. DonHenry, whose attachment to Blanche increasedin the same proportion with her husband's neglectand cruelty, felt his bosom agitated by love andindignation. Still he possessed so much of thechivalrous loyalty of those days, which bound thesubject to his Sovereign, however despicable or272 ORIGINALinfamous he might be, that he could not persuadehimself to encourage any insurrectionary movement; notwithstanding his own personal injuries,and although he knew that he had but to lift hisfinger, and the whole population of Valladolidwould espouse his cause. He, therefore, contented himself by paying the most delicate andrespectful attention to the young Queen; and thusendeavouring, as far as possible, to alleviate herneglected and forlorn condition. The people, also,now that the expression of their feelings was unrestrained by the presence of Don Pedro, tookevery opportunity afforded them by her appearanceat the windows of the Palace, or her riding out inpublic, to greet her with the most cordial acclamations. The King in the mean time continuedat Montalban, completely fascinated with the attractions of Maria de Padilla; all public businesswas totally neglected by him; and although messenger after messenger arrived from Valladolid,on the most urgent State affairs, he could not bepersuaded to return there, or even to peruse thedepatches of which they were the bearers. TheQueen Mother repeatedly wrote to him, reproaching him with his base conduct; and Don Alphonso,his favourite Minister, ceased not to urge theoffence which he was giving to his subjects andTALES, POEMS, ETC. 273to the neighbouring Princes, until at length he reluctantly consented to return to Valladolid; butonly on the condition , that Maria de Padilla shouldaccompany him, and should be received by thetwo Queens at Court.Behold then the Castilian Monarch once morein his Capital, or rather in the City which was thenusually the Royal residence, and in which thepublic business was transacted . His Mistress wasreceived with coldness and distance by the QueenMother, and with frigid indifference by Blanche.With matchless self-possession and effrontery,however, she continued to appear at Court; wherethe Nobles thronged around her, as the favouriteof the King, and her distinguished wit and beautysoon made their devotion no constraint, or at anyrate, rendered their chains very light and easy tobe worn. Amongst the numerous Grandees ofSpain, she soon singled out Don Henry as superiorboth in mind and person to all the others. Herheart even began to be treacherous to her Royalparamour, and she felt that her affections were fixing themselves upon the Count of Trastamare. Toher inexpressible chagrin also, she found that hestudiously avoided paying the slightest attention toher; that he was pensive and fond of solitude;and that he was evidently a prey to some intenseN3274 ORIGINALmental suffering. A feeling of compassion accordingly mingled with the sentiments which shealready entertained towards him, and confirmedin her bosom the existence of the tyrant passion,Love. The difficulty of obtaining a private interview with him, was, however, extremely great,as the King required her to be constantly abouthis person; and the Count shunned her like a pestilence. Could she but once acquaint Don Henrywith her attachment, she could scarcely anticipatethe possibility of his not returning it; and evenshould he refuse, she felt assured that she couldwin him to her embraces by the consideration ofthe precarious situation of himself and his brothers;who were detested alike by the Queen Mother,and the King; and of the importance of theirmaking a friend of her.She had observed that the Count was in thehabit of retiring to the most solitary and unfrequented parts of the Royal gardens, and resolved,therefore, one morning, to endeavour to trace himto his haunts, and have an explanation with himon that subject with which her bosom was now incessantly haunted. She had traversed the grounds inall directions, and began to despair of succeedingin the object of her search, when at length shearrived at a Grotto, far out of the ordinary route,TALES, POEMS, ETC. 275and, entering it, perceived Don Henry stretchedupon the moss in a deep slumber. His face waswet with tears, and even in his sleep he heavedprofound sighs. Maria instantly conjectured thathis malady was Love. " Perhaps too," thoughtshe, " I may be the object of it. Perhaps thestudious manner in which he avoids me, and whichI have attributed to aversion, is only the result ofhis timidity. But alas!" she continued, sighing," it is too probable that I have a rival; and, if so,Maria de Padilla shall not long be unavenged. "As she spake these words, the Count moved in hissleep; and, in turning, discovered some opentablets, upon which his left arm had rested , whichMaria hastily seized, and hurrying out ofthe Grotto,read in them the following lines:-"Cease, cease, my heart! to nurse a hopeless love;The end of all thy perseverance liesWithin the orbs of two bright sparkling eyes;But cold as they are bright. Nor can'st thou moveOne spark of passion in that colder breast,Or wake one hope that shall, ' midst thy unrest,Sing like a sweet bird to my weary Soul,I dare not even whisper in her ear,Whom I adore, the griefs that o'er me roll,O'erwhelming all my peace; yet still the tearThat wets my lids, how sweet it is to weepSuch precious dew! Then will I silence keep,And strive to hide my love even from my heart,But still flow on my tears, with ye I cannot part."276 ORIGINALThe jealous suspicions which she had entertainedwere now confirmed, and her whole frame shookwith the violence of her emotions. So severe arespect as was here expressed, could not have reference to her. " It is the Queen! ' tis Blanche!"she said; and as the hated idea entered her mind,it wrung it almost to madness. That Bourbon 66serpent crosses my path at every step! Throughher the people hate me! Her beauty, the dull,tame beauty of France, attracts the Courtiers fromme. With difficulty have I won the wittol Kingfrom her; and now, where my very heart is treasured up, she has coiled herself around it's tenderest fibres." Having carefully copied out theverses, she then erased them, and, in a feignedhand, wrote the following in their place: -" ORACLE.It is permitted to thee to sigh, and to love, and to hope;To act, and to break the seal of silence.Be in no fear either of a sceptre, or of rivals.My heart, one worthy of thee, is interested in thy woes:Behold, then, the reward of perseveranceAfter this she returned to the Grotto, andmeeting no one there, replaced the tablets whereshe had found them .In the mean time, Don Henry on awakeningTALES, POEMS, etc. 277had missed his treasure, and was much disconcertedin consequence. He made a careful search, but,of course, his search was unavailing. He enquiredof the gardeners if they had seen any person enter,but they all replied in the negative. He then retired with great dismay to his chamber, and wasnot seen again till the evening; when he oncemore proceeded to his favourite haunt, and wasagreeably surprised to find his tablets in the placein which he had lost them. He opened, and,scarcely believing his eyes, read the Oracle whichMaria de Padilla had written in them. At first hewas transported with joy, for he hoped that whathe read had been written by the Queen; butas he reflected more calmly, the improbability ofsuch an idea impressed itself so strongly upon him,that he dismissed it altogether from his mind. Itwas evident, however, that the precious secret ofhis heart was in the possession of another, whomight make some pernicious use of it; and as helaid his head upon his pillow that night, his bosomwas distracted with a variety of painful emotions.The next day the Queen Mother held a Court,and Don Henry as he was proceeding to it alongthe Palace corridors, met Queen Blanche comingout of her apartments, and leaning upon the Armof an Esquire. He immediately offered her his278 ORIGINALown, which she accepted with the utmost frankness, and the Page submissively gave way. Asthey entered in the Royal presence, Henry couldnot prevent the joy of his heart from manifestingitself in his face, ' and having seated Blanche beside the Queen Mother, he took his station behindher chair. The whole Court rose on the entranceof Queen Blanche, excepting the King, who manifested some displeasure at the rising of Mariade Padilla, who was seated next him. The latterdid not fail to observe the delight which Henryevinced, as he entered with his lovely escort, andwhispered to the King, as she glanced towardsBlanche and Henry, " These two persons appearto be on a remarkably good understanding witheach other, my Liege. The Count of Trastamareappears to hold a very high place in her Majesty'sesteem."66 Very possibly," answered the King; " butthe partizans of her immaculate virtue would institute a process against us for daring to hold a doubtof it's most perfect purity."" I should be rather difficult to convince, nevertheless," replied Maria. " The French ladiesare, as every one knows, not only liberal, buteven prodigal, when they would secure a suitor.But you do not exhibit any symptoms of jealousy."TALES, POEMS, ETC. 279" I should exhibit enough of them," interruptedDon Pedro, " if Henry were enamoured of you;but my heart takes so little interest either in theactions, or the feelings, of Blanche de Bourbon,that it is out of her power to disturb my peace ofmind for a moment."While the King and his mistress were thus conversing, the whole Court was astonished at theassurance and self-possession of Maria de Padilla,who appeared to consider herself as the most distinguished female present, and took not theslightest notice of Queen Blanche, after having atfirst risen upon her entrance. The two Queenswere, however, engaged with each other, andseemed not to regard either the neglect of DonPedro, or the assumption of his paramour. TheCount of Trastamare, in the mean time, washardly able to restrain an open explosion of hisanger and indignation; and the practised eye ofMaria, who continued narrowly to observe him,easily detected the real state of his feelings. TheKing, at length weary of the restraint and formality to which he found himself obliged to submit,arose, and taking no other notice of Blanche, beyond coldly saluting her as he past, left the Court,followed by his immediate retainers. Maria,partly out of regard for a decorous appearance,280 ORIGINALand partly from the pleasure which she experiencedin being in the presence of Don Henry, remainedfor a few moments, in the seat which she had occupied, and then also followed the King.Don Henry still stood behind the chair ofBlanche, and as her brutal husband passed her inthe manner in which we have described , he gaveutterance to a deep drawn sigh." You are in love, my Lord, " said the Queen,turning round to him, and smiling." I am so, indeed, Madam," replied Henry;" myrespect for your Majesty will not allow meto disavow it, but my affection is mingled withanger."66 " You are then," added Blanche, more unhappy than I had supposed; for you are also jealous. "1" Alas! no, Madam; I am so far from jealousy, that my anger is excited, because others donot pay to the object of my love the attentions andrespect which are due to matchless beauty, andunequalled virtue.”As he uttered these last words, he seized herhand, and kissed it fervently. She withdrew itsilently, but her heart too well understood hismeaning, and she sighed deeply, as she comparedthe handsome and accomplished Prince who kneltTALES, POEMS, ETC. 281before her, with the man with whose destiny herown was indissolubly united ." Your Majesty also sighs," said Henry." Few persons are exempt from some sorrow,"returned the Queen; and she sighed still moredeeply." True, Madam," said the Count; " and yourMajesty finds cause enough in the cruel and injurious treatment of the King. "Nay," said Blanche, " his Majesty, unkindas he appears, has doubtless ample reasons for hisconduct. Some strange fault of mine must beapparent to him, which my ignorance has not yetdiscovered to myself."""Say not so, sweet lady," replied Henry; "hecan see nothing in you but goodness. Where isthe wonder that a Monster should be the enemy ofbeauty?""" How can you call him an enemy of beauty,asked the Queen, " when you look upon Maria dePadilla? but I entreat you, Sir, let us closethis conversation which has already proceeded toofar."Thus saying, the Queen rose, and left thePresence Chamber; when the whole Court followedher example: and Blanche proceeded , accompanied by a young French lady, named Adelaide de282 ORIGINALMontauban, who was much in her confidence, totake her accustomed walk in the Royal gardens.To Adelaide she had already confessed that shefelt a more than ordinary interest for the Count ofTrastamare, and that she considered him thenoblest and most accomplished Cavalier at theCastilian Court; and she now related to her theconversation which had recently passed betweenthem, and her consequent uneasiness." The Count, Madam," returned Adelaide, " isdoubtless enamoured of your Majesty. His conduct towards you has long convinced me of it; andif you have not observed it, I am persuaded thatMaria de Padilla has not been so blind. Herwatchful eye is ever upon him, or upon yourMajesty, and the expression sometimes of envy,and sometimes of malignity, in her countenance,shews that she takes a more than ordinary interestin the affair. "" I have felt her basilisk glance upon me," saidthe Queen, " more frequently than I desired. Buthark! what noise is that?"The interesting nature of their conversation hadled them much beyond their usual walk, and asthey approached the Grotto, which has been alreadymentioned, they heard voices in earnest conversation.TALES, POEMS, ETC. 283""Nay," said a voice, which they immediatelyrecognised to be that of the Grand Master of St.James' , the brother of Don Henry, " whereforedeny a fact so apparent to all? What else meanthis abstracted carriage, these solitary rambles,these sighs, and even tears? this refraining fromall pursuits consistent with your age, and character, and rank?"Can" And are not," said Don Henry, " the loadof ills with which Castile is distracted, and theinjurious treatment with which our house is overwhelmed, sufficient to account for all this?I mix in the follies and frivolities of the Court ofValladolid, while my heart is bleeding with thewounds of my country, and with it's own?"" Alas! my brother," replied the Grand Master, " the injuries of Castile, and of our house,are of a much more ancient date than this changein your behaviour. When you first became awareof them, they worked very different effects uponyou, from those which I now behold. Then youwere the lion roused from his lair; now you arethe sloth shrinking to it's hiding- place . You arein love, Henry, and Queen Blanche is the objectof your misguided passion."" You have probed me to the heart," exclaimed284 ORIGINALDon Henry, " and extracted from it the secretwhich I thought hidden in it's deepest recesses."The Queen now listened with the most intenseand painful interest, but the voices grew faint andindistinct, and were soon lost in the distance."Unhappy that I am! " she cried, " hatedwhere I expected to be beloved; and belovedwhere love is crime, and the parent not of delight, but of danger, and misery, and guilt. Oh!that we were once more in our own sweet France,Adelaide! where hearts are happy as the skies aregenial. Where no torrid clime like this minglespestilence with it's grandeur, and poison with it'sbeauty; where the Suns scorch not while theywarm; and where hearts are the nurseries of feelings, fervent and passionate as those that existhere, but unmixed with cruelty, and unstainedwith sorrow, or with crime."By this time all the persons of whom this narrative treats had nearly come to an eclaircissem*ntwith each other; excepting that Maria de Padillahad not yet had an opportunity of fully explainingto the Count of Trastamare the sentiments whichshe entertained towards him. That opportunitywas, however, very soon afterwards afforded her,on the occasion of the Marriage of his brotherTALES, POEMS, ETC. 285Don Tello, the Lord of Aguila, with the beautifulDonna Joanna de Lara, heiress to the Signiory ofBiscay.As all the nobility in Valladolid were to be presentat the solemnization of this Marriage, and the entertainment which followed, Don Pedro, much ashe hated all his brothers, was constrained, out ofpolicy, and in order to preserve an appearance ofcordiality and reconciliation, to shew himself atthe nuptial feast; although he, as usual, stipulated for the presence of Maria de Padilla also.Don Henry was, of course, of the party; but hecontinued to wear that look of abstraction and melancholy, for which he had lately become remarkable; but his brother, the Grand Master, had toldhim that his every look and action were minutelywatched by Maria, and had, therefore, conjuredhim not to keep his eyes so constantly fixed uponthe Queen. Thus cautioned, he withdrew themfrom the object of his affection, and fixed themupon the ground. After the Banquet, the partydivided into numerous groups; and, of the moredistinguished personages present, Don Pedro attached himself to the Queen Mother; Blancheconversed with the young Bride; the Bridegroomand Don Alphonso d'Albuquerque were engagedin close conversation with each other; and Don286 ORIGINALHenry found himself obliged to submit to the advances of Maria de Padilla."Count of Trastamare," said she, smiling, "itbelongs neither to your rank, or to your age toappear thus abstracted and pensive in so distinguished an assembly; and if your perseveranceproposes to itself no other end, it appears to meto be but to little purpose. Is it of the earth onwhich we tread that you are enamoured? It seemsthat you cannot prevail upon yourself to lookupon any thing else, and because that is mute,I suppose you have vowed to be so also ."Maria was the object of Don Henry's unmixedhatred and contempt, and but for the words perseverance and end, which she had used in thecourse of her address to him, and which he instantly recognised as having been contained in theverses which he had lost, he would not have deignedher an answer. His curiosity, however, as well ashis fears, was roused, and he replied, -" If I amamorous of the Earth, fair Lady, then have I asmany rivals as there are kingdoms and provinces,and all the heroes who exist dispute her favourswith me: what wonder, therefore, is it that I amsad?"" Then," returned Maria, " you should addressyour vows to objects where you would meet withTALES, POEMS, ETC. 28766 66no competition, and where they would be favourably received. Have you any difficulty inexplaining the Oracle, or must I interpret for you?”Madam," answered the Count, we havediscontinued the customs of antiquity, and I knownot that you would be a just interpreter of thedecrees of heaven."" It is only of the decrees of Love that Iwould speak," replied Maria; " and if I were tointerpret them to you now, perhaps it would notbe for the first time. Behold," she added, givinghim the verses which she had copied from histablets, " and tell me whether a heart which canthus express itself stands in need of consolation?"The terrible words which Dante read upon thegates of Hell could scarcely have excited astronger agitation, than that which Henry felt atbeholding his Sonnet in the hands of this artfuland malignant woman. Fear, scorn, and indignation took by turns possession of his bosom. His ownsituation and that of his brothers was sufficientlyinsecure at the Court of a cruel and treacheroustyrant, under the domination of such a woman;and to this was now added the peril to which hehad exposed the Queen, by placing her in thepower of her bitterest enemy.288 ORIGINAL!Maria perceived his agitation and exclaimed , -" You fear me, and you have reason so to do;because I can make a very different use of yoursecret from that which I would wish. Although Iam not indebted to you for my knowledge of thatsecret, yet will I put you in possession of my own;leaving the opposition of scruples to common minds.What can you hope from the sentiments whichyou entertain for Blanche of Bourbon? Thinkyou, that after discovering my own passion , I willsuffer you to indulge yours with impunity? Speakthen, Don Henry, is mylove returned? or, are wehenceforth mortal enemies? for, after the pangswhich this avowal costs me, I will accept of onlylove or enmity!"That it had cost her much was evident, fromher tone and manner; for, while she spake, eventhe unabashed front of Maria de Padilla was suffused with a crimson hue. Her voice faltered;her head drooped; and the moisture in her eyesfor once attested the sincerity of her expressions.The Count was also sufficiently agitated . Withall her beauty, and all her talents, he could notsurmount the indignation and contempt in whichhe held her: and even that beauty, and those talents, suffered, in his mind, in comparison withTALES, POEMS, ETC. 289those of the Queen. The idea, too, that he hadexposed the latter to the malignity of her rival,overwhelmed him with terror." I confess, Madam, " at length he answered ," that I am the author of those love verses towhich you replied by an Oracle: but what doesthat fact prove further, than that I have an inclination for Poetry? If I were in love with the Queen,should I be insane enough to discover it so rashly?The sentiments towards me which you have withso much delicacy avowed, bind me your gratefulslave for ever. You are beautiful enough to drivea man of my age mad with ecstasy. But I mustpreserve, for I have reason enough so to do , therespect which I owe the King, and" You would lose it with all your heart," saidMaria, interrupting him, " if the Queen askedyou. I love you, to my misfortune. Take carethat you do not love her to her misfortune, andyour own. None speak as I have spoken, untiltheir resolves are fully made. Remember that itis dangerous to make me suffer; and that I amnot of the humour to let my blushes be seen anddespised, with impunity."Thus saying, she walked away without waiting for his answer, and entered into conversation with Madame d'Albuquerque. The rest ofO290 ORIGINALthe evening passed off gloomily and heavily. TheKing sat mute and motionless; the Queen, aftervainly endeavouring to rally her spirits, sank at lastinto that listless melancholy which the presence ofDon Pedro always inspired; and the Count relapsed into his usual abstractedness and silence,from which he was only roused by the breakingup of the party.That night a thousand agitating feelings of love,jealousy, anger, and mortified pride, haunted thebosom of Maria de Padilla. She had stoopedto solicit the affection of Don Henry, and her suithad been rejected. Sometimes she meditated hisdeath, and she knew that she could procure iteasily. She had but to hint such a wish to herRoyal lover, who then slumbered by her side, andthe Count of Trastamare would be speedily numbered with those who were. Then again, all herlove for him rushed upon her heart, and the ideawhich she had conceived but a moment before, wasrejected with horror. Then the hated image ofBlanche of Bourbon would occupy her mind: thatdouble rival, with charms and graces at least equalto her own; and with virtues which won for herthe benedictions and esteem of all. " That serpent must be crushed," said she; " and who daredo it, if not I? Yet, yet," she added, as some-TALES, POEMS, ETC. 29166 thing of woman's softness mingled with her hateand jealousy, even she might be spared, couldbut Henry be weaned from her. I must see andspeak to him on that subject once again; and,should he still continue obstinate, let the boltfall!"Thoughts like these so occupied her mind duringthe whole of the night, as to chase away all slumber from her eyelids; and soon after daybreakshe rose to seek the Grotto in which she had beforediscovered Don Henry; resolved, should she againfind him there, to obtain an explicit declaration.Leaving the King still slumbering, she descendedto the gardens; yet though the Sun had not longrisen, and the night dews were still thick upon theground; when she arrived at the Grotto she foundthat some persons were there before her, andheard voices in earnest conversation. As she approached near enough to be able to see who theywere, she was astounded to behold Queen Blanche,and Don Henry on his knees, before her; and tohear the Count exclaim, as he seized her hand andkissed it rapturously, " Fly, dearest Madam! flyfrom a cruel tyrant, who hates you; and a malignant rival, who is plotting your destruction!"At that moment the demons of jealousy andhatred took full possession of the soul of Maria de0 2292 ORIGINALPadilla; and, as she gasped for breath, she wasobliged to lean against a tree, to support herselffrom falling. As soon, however, as she recoveredher bodily strength, she did not hesitate for an instant as to the course which she should pursue, butswiftly and silently retracing her steps to thechamber of the slumbering King, she there shriekedout, " Awake, Don Pedro! King of Castile,awake! Treason and dishonour are in thy Palace!Awake! awake! "The King started from his sleep, and seizing adagger which always hung beside him, staredwildly in the direction whence the voice proceeded;" Ha! my sweet Maria! " said he, as a smilesucceeded the scowl upon his brow, when heperceived by whom his slumber had been disturbed," is it thou? 'twas but a hideous dream then.Methought I lay, powerless and helpless , upon theearth, whilst the accursed Henry stood above mewith a naked sword, which Blanche of Bourbondirected to my heart. I had no power to stir, butfelt his fatal steel drinking my life blood, whenthy sweet voice awoke me. It was a silly dream,Love! but" Your dream was true, my Liege," repliedMaria, interrupting him; " arise, and I will shewyou it's interpretation."TALES, POEMS, ETC. 293

Hastily throwing a loose robe round him, and

seizing his sword, the King accompanied Mariainto the gardens; and two soldiers of the Royalguard, whom he hastily summoned, followed them.They were not long in reaching the Grotto, nearwhich, listening with lowering brows, and beatinghearts, to the conversation within, we must for amoment leave the Monarch and his paramour.Don Henry had, on the previous evening, lefthis Brother's nuptial feast, full of sorrowful forebodings. He had discovered that the most precioussecret of his heart, was in the possession of one,who of all others had equally the inclination andthe power to make a dangerous use of it. Hefelt the slippery and dangerous ground on whichhe stood, at the Court of a cruel and treacherousPrince like Pedro; and that his personal safetycould only be secured by instant flight. Still hecould not leave the Queen exposed to so manydangers; since he well knew her life was unsafe inthe keeping of her husband and of Maria; especially exasperated as the latter would feel at hisrejection, and his departure. As these thoughtscrossed his mind, Adelaide de Montalban passedhim in the great corridor of the Palace, and he atonce unfolded to her the enmity of Maria, and thedanger of her mistress.294 ORIGINAL66 Alas,” said Adelaide, “ the good Queen andI have long, long been convinced that her heartis full of hatred and treachery towards her. Butwhither can she fly? how can she save herself?"" Beg the Queen,” said he, “ to grant me buthalf an hour's conversation to-morrow, at thesilver Grotto, at sunrise; for it is too hazardousto speak to her for a moment when this she-devil,or her spies, are watching every movement. Thehour and place I have named will secure us frominterruption, and I may then be able to proposesome mode of rescuing her Majesty from the perilswhich surround her. Promise me that you willpropose this to her."“ I promise you faithfully, my Lord," saidAdelaide.""Then, fare thee well, pretty maiden,” addedHenry; " for this conference has already lastedlong enough for our safety."The next morning saw the Count de Trastamareat the rendezvous at the hour appointed; and hehad not long to wait the arrival of Queen Blanche.66 Count," said the Queen, " before we communicate further with each other, let me exact a promise from you, that, not now, nor ever, shall Ihear from you any declaration of such a passionas that which you rashly hinted at in our last con-TALES, POEMS, ETC. 295versation; and the indulgence of which, the lawsof God and man alike prohibit."" I own my fault, Madam!" said Don Henry," and entreat your pardon for the inconsideration and rashness of my conduct. My heart wasfull, and the conduct of Don Pedro towards yourMajesty stirred it to overflowing. But I readilypromise all that you can demand: you shall perceive nothing in my conduct towards you, but themost respectful deference, and the warmest solicitude for your welfare. My purpose in solicitingthis interview, is to warn you that your life is indanger, and to point out to you the propriety ofseeking safety by immediate flight."" I know too well," she replied, " how precarious is my situation among the hollow hearts,and blood-stained hands, which crowd this Court;but what new cause of alarm have you discovered?"68 Alas, Madam! your bitterest foe has not onlymade me a tender of her affections, which I rejected with scorn; but she has also discovered thefatal passion which already occupied my heart, andhas, in no equivocal terms, informed me, that yourMajesty's life is in her hands, and threatened toexercise the power which she possesses."" Alas! alas!" said the Queen, " guiltless as296 ORIGINALI know myself, how am I environed with dangersthrough the crimes, and the indiscretions of others!How am I to save myself! Long since would Ihave taken shelter at my Father's Court, but thatI had no means of escaping thither."66" Then listen to me, Madam," said the Count.My brother, Don Tello, will this day departwith his suite to take possession of the Signiory ofBiscay. Your Majesty may take your accustomedride in the forest at the hour at which he passesthrough it, and then join his escort; where I canensure you a hearty welcome. The King concerns himself so little about your movements, thatbefore your flight can be discovered, you will bebeyond the reach of pursuit. Arrived in the territories of my brother, the power of Don Pedromay be defied, and measures easily concerted forsending your Majesty to the Court of France."" Dangers and difficulties attend your plan,Count," said the Queen, " but despair has seldomany alternative but a choice of evils; and I confess that I cannot discover any better mode ofeffecting my escape from the evils which surroundme, than by the path which you have pointed out."Then," said Don Henry, falling on his knees,and pressing her hand to his lips , " do not hesitateto pursue that path which will lead you to peace and66TALES, POEMS, ETC. 297safety. Fly, dearest Madam! fly from a crueltyrant, who hates you; and a malignant rival, whois plotting your destruction!"As he uttered this, a slight rustling was heardamongst the foliage which concealed the entranceto the Grotto. It was Maria de Padilla, whostarted when she heard the words with which theCount concluded, and had nearly discovered herself as she retreated . All, however, was in aninstant perfectly tranquil; for with noiseless tread,and a heart which, although nearly bursting withthe violence of it's emotions, she scarcely permitted to beat, lest even it's throbbing should become audible, she had stolen away to apprise theKing of her discovery." Our untimely meeting, Count," said theQueen, " has startled even the feathered racefrom their nests among the bushes. As to theplan which you have devised for me, I will ventureto pursue it, come what, come may; it may perhaps lead, as you promise me, to safety, but topeace, never! That is a word which hereafter maysound in the ear of Blanche of Bourbon, but towhich her heart must ever be a stranger."A deadlier paleness spread over the wan featuresof the Queen, as she uttered these words, andtears, not profuse and flowing, -0 3298 ORIGINAL" The heart's gentlest waters,Lightening the fount they flow'd from;"but in large heavy drops, slowly gathered beneathher eyelids, and fell upon her bosom.66 Say not so, gentlest Madam, " returned DonHenry; " all residences are not as dismal as theCastle of Valladolid; all hearts are not as coldand barbarous as Don Pedro's. The vows whichyou have plighted to him, he has himself renderednull and void, and in the compass of the world,surely another will be found who will know how toestimate 99" No more, Count; no more of this," said theQueen, interrupting him. " It has pleased Heaven to link me to Don Pedro by irrevocable ties.For yourself, rest assured that you possess myesteem, my gratitude, and even my affection, ————”" Say'st thou so, Traitress!" shouted DonPedro, who had arrived only in time to hear thelatter part of her answer to Henry. " Adultress!miscreant! serpent of France! here receive thereward of thy perfidy and shame! "Thus saying, he passed his sword thrice throughthe body of the unhappy Queen, who fell at hisfeet bathed in blood. Don Henry, although unarmed, would have rushed upon him, but was instantly made a prisoner by the guard. With theTALES, POEMs, etc. 299cold, Gorgon-like gaze of Maria de Padilla fixedupon him, his blood ran chilly in his veins at thishateful sight; his lips quivered, and for a momenthe could have fancied himself undergoing the metamorphosis which the glance of Medusa is said tohave effected in those on whom it was fixed." Sire!" said Maria, in an under tone to theKing, as she raised his hand wet with the bloodof his Queen to her lips, " behold the traitor!what shall be his doom?".66 To the scaffold with him! to the block instantly!"" Not so, my Liege, not so; the Bastard's fatewould but excite too much sympathy in Valladolid, where he has contrived to gain the people'shearts; and his brother Don Tello would not sufferhis death to pass unrevenged. Strip him of histitles, degrade him, banish him; and thus prolonghis pangs for years, instead of the brief intervalbetween the uplifting ofthe axe and it's descent."" Thou counsellest wisely, my sweet Maria,"said the King; and then turning towards his prisoner, added, —" thank my mercy that I will notstain myself with thy bastard blood, traitor! butupon pain of death, instantly begone! nor letCastile be further polluted by thy presence. Depart not, however, as Count of Trastamare, but300 ORIGINALsimply, Henry de Guzman, the fruit and evidenceof thy mother's infamy!"""Tyrant and murderer!" retorted the indignantHenry, " I will fly from Castile, and even to theend of the earth to escape from the domination ofsuch a monster as thou art."The King grinned fiercely, and raised his weapon,but his arm was restrained by Maria; and his fears,and not his clemency, having at length triumphedover his thirst for blood, Don Henry walked uninjured, out of the custody of the guards.Month succeeded month, and year rolled afteryear, and the blood of Blanche of Bourbon seemedto call for vengeance in vain. That vengeancewas at length, however, fully and signally accomplished by a series of events, which are too familiarto the readers of French and Spanish history torequire to be enumerated. Maria de Padilla,though loaded with the favours of Don Pedro,could not give him her heart, and the remembranceof her flagrant crimes and her unrequited affection,combined to bring her to an early grave; whilstDon Pedro, after a reign of unexampled crueltyand oppression, was chased from his throne byhis indignant subjects, and died by the hands ofhis deeply-wronged brother, Don Henry, Countof Trastamare, who subsequently wore his crown.TALES, POEMS, ETC. 301SHAKSPEARE'SSUPERNATURAL CHARACTERS.He was the Soul of genius ,And all our praises of him are like watersDrawn from a spring, that still rise full, and leaveThe part remaining greatest.JONSON.It is one of the most striking peculiarities inthe genius of Shakspeare, that, although he iseminently the Poet of Nature, and exhibits herwith singular felicity in her ordinary and every dayattire, yet that, when he gets " beyond this visible, diurnal sphere," he surpasses all other writers,in the extraordinary power and invention which hedisplays in the delineation of Supernatural beings.It has been justly remarked, that, in his mostimaginary characters he cannot be so properly saidto go beyond Nature, as to carry Nature along withhim, into regions which were before unknown to302 ORIGINALher. There is such an extraordinary proprietyand consistency in his supernatural beings, andevery thing which they say and do, is in such strictaccordance with the character with which he hasinvested them, that we at once become, as it were,denizens of the imaginary world, which the potentart of the Poet has conjured around us; the marvellous merges into the probable; and astonishment and surprise are changed into intense interestand powerful sympathy. Shakspeare is the onlyPoet who effects this; at least, to the same extent. The magic of other writers pleases andsurprises us; but in that of Shakspeare we arethoroughly wrapt up. We are as much under theinfluence of the wand of Prospero, as are Arieland Caliban; the presence of the Weird Sisterson the blasted heath, arrests our attention asstrongly as it did that of Macbeth and Banquo;and the predictions of the prophetic Spirits on theeve of the battle of Bosworth, ring as fearfullyand as solemnly in our ears, as they did in those ofthe conscious usurper. The great secret of all thisis, the wonderful art with which the character ofthese visitants from another world is sustained,and in which they are not surpassed by any of ourAuthor's representations of mere humanity. Arielis as perfect and harmonious a picture as Miranda,TALES, POEMS, ETC. 303or Ferdinand; and, above all, the Witches in" Macbeth" are creations on which the Poet haslavished all his skill, and exhausted all his invention.The Supernatural machinery of which he makesthe most frequent use, is founded upon the popularbelief in Ghosts. This is a superstition which hasexisted in all ages and countries, and amongst allclasses and conditions of men. There are manywho affect to despise it, but it is scarcely too muchto say that there never existed an individual whowas not, at some period or other, under the influence of the feelings which such a belief excites.The Saint, the savage, and the sage," theman of letters and the uninformed peasant; thechild of Science, who can explain the structure ofthe universe; and even the Sceptic, -Hobbes, forinstance, among many others, -who refuses to givecredence to any written revelation of the will ofthe Creator; have all confessed that""There are more things in Heaven and earth,Than are dream'd of in our philosophy.”Hence this belief has become an engine of mostpotent influence in the hands of the Poet; sinceby it he could work upon the feelings of all man-304 ORIGINALkind. The great Authors of antiquity, and thoseof Spain and Italy, and above all , those of thenorth of Europe, the countries of cloud and mist,the" Lands of brown heath and shaggy wood,Lands of the mountain and the flood,"where the phenomena of Nature are such powerful auxiliaries to a lively imagination, and a credulous understanding, all these have delighted inbreaking down the barrier between the corporealand the spiritual world, and in shaking our dispositions,66"With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls. "The most distinguished writers of our own agehave not neglected to avail themselves of this popular Superstition, if such it must be called . Coleridge's " Ancient Mariner;" Lord Byron'sManfred," and " Siege of Corinth;" and thatmasterpiece of the mighty Wizard of the North,the " Bride ofLammermoor," are proofs, amongstinnumerable others, of the ability which our contemporaries have evinced, when they have venturedto lift up the veil which shrouds the secrets of thespiritual world .TALES, POEMS, ETC. 305It is, therefore, not surprising that Shakspeareshould have enrolled these shadowy beings amonghis Dramatis persona; or, that in his managementof them he should have displayed consummategenius. The introduction to the entrance of theGhost in Hamlet," shows infinite taste andjudgment. Just as our feelings are powerfullyexcited by the narration of it's appearance on theforegoing evening, the speaker is interrupted by ""66majesty of buried Denmark" once more standing before him:-" The bell then beating One,-But soft, break off! -look where it comes again!"then the solemn adjurations to it to speak; the awful silence which it maintains; the impotent attempts to strike it; and the exclamation of Horatio, when it glides away,—" We do it wrong, being so majestical,To offer it the shew of violence,"present to us that shadowy and indistinct, but atthe same time, appalling and fearfully interestingpicture, which constitutes one of the highest effortsof the sublime. The interview with Hamlet is amasterpiece. The language of this awful visitant306 ORIGINAL.is admirably characteristic. It is not of this world.It savours of the last long resting-place of mortality; " of worms, and graves, and epitaphs." Itevinces little of human feeling and frailty. Vengeance is the only passion which has survived thewreck of the body; and it is this passion whichhas burst the cerements of the grave, and sentit's occupant to revisit the " glimpses of themoon." It's discourse is of murder, incest, suffering, and revenge; and gives us awful glimpsesof that prison-house, the details of which are notpermitted to " ears of flesh and blood. " Whetherpresent or absent, we are continually reminded ofthis perturbed Spirit. When on the stage," itharrows us with fear and wonder;" and when absent, we see it in it's influence on the persons ofthe Drama, especially Hamlet. The sensations ofhorror and revenge which at first possess the mindof this Prince; then his tardiness and irresolution, which are chided by the re-appearance of theSpectre; and his fears, notwithstanding all theevidence to the contrary, that it may be an evilSpirit, which, -" Out of his weakness and his melancholy,Abuses him to damn him,”.form one of the most affecting and interestingTALES, POEMS, ETC. 307pictures in the whole range of Shakspeare'sdramas.The Spirits of the murdered victims of theusurper Richard, are also admirably introduced;but they do not occupy so prominent a station inthe Drama as the Ghost in " Hamlet." The apparition of Julius Cæsar in the tent of Brutus, isa brief but awful visitation, and the mind of thespectator is finely prepared for it by the unnaturaldrowsiness which possesses all the attendants.The Ghost of Banquo exists only in the disordered mind of Macbeth; and we think that theeffect would be prodigiously increased if the managers would listen to the opinions of the bestcritics, and forbear to present it before our visualorgans. But what shall we say of the WeirdSisters, and of their unutterable occupation?"How now, ye secret, black, and midnight hags,What is't ye do? "" A deed without a name! "This is the true sublime; it is composed of theessential elements of sublimity; and the mosthighly-wrought description of their employmentwould produce an effect infinitely inferior to the308 ORIGINALsimple brevity of this reply. The mind wandersinto the pathless field of horrible imaginings. Fromthe moment that Macbeth encounters them on theblasted heath, he is impelled along his inevitablepath by their spells. His mind is troubled with" thick-coming fancies; " his " face is a bookwhere men may read strange matters;”—“ Thingsbad begun, make strong themselves by ill: " untilat length, he is" in bloodStept in so far, that, should he wade no more,Returning were as tedious as go o'er! "and his unearthly tempters complete their horridtask, and gain their prey.The Fairies in " A Midsummer Night's Dream"are of a nature as essentially and distinctly differentas celestial from infernal; or light from darkness.Even " that shrewd and knavish Sprite " Puck, isbut mischievous only, not wicked; and Oberon,and Titania, and all their elfish troop are untainted with any fiendish attributes, and almostwithout any touches of mortality. The " delicateAriel" is another still- varying creation of the samegifted pencil; made still more effective by it'sTALES, POEMS, ETC. 309contrast with the monster Caliban; " that thing ofdarkness,” —“ as disproportioned in his manners,as in his shape:".―"Whose mother was a Witch; and one so strongThat could control the Moon, make ebbs and flows;And deal in her command, without her power."But to do ample justice to all the Supernaturalcharacters of Shakspeare, would demand aVolume,not an Essay; and however frequently we mayhave perused the magic page which “ gives theseairy nothings a local habitation and a name," it isstill untiring, and still new. And though the allpotent art which gave it life, and breath, and being,is extinct; though the charm be broken, and thepower lost; yet still , -" Our mighty Bard's victorious laysFill the loud voice of universal praise;And baffled Spite, with hopeless anguish dumb,Yields to Renown the centuries to come! "310 ORIGINALA NIGHT AT THE MERMAID.AN OLD ENGLISH TALE." "Tis a dismal shower, good mine Host, and thenight is black as Erebus; my steed, too, is as illconditioned as I am, without some slight respiteto his labour, to travel as far as Whitehall, whither my affairs call me. So that were your Hostelryas full of guests as London town is of sign boards,you must e'en find room to afford me shelter foran hour or two.'" In troth, Master," replied the Host, " ye havechosen a naughty night to travel in. But i'faith!my private chambers are all occupied by constantguests; and my public room is filled by a set ofgallants, who choose this night in every week tomake merry at the sign of the Mermaid."""Tis wondrous hard, mine Host," returned theStranger, " that a benighted traveller, and a loyalsubject of her Majesty, should, in the centre ofthis ancient and hospitable City of London, andfrom so fair a Host as thou art, beg in vain for thatTALES, POEMS, ETC. 311favour which would be freely granted to him by awanderer of the desert. May I crave of thee atleast this courtesy, to commend me to those gallants, and say that a Kentish gentleman, whomnightfall and the tempest have driven here forshelter, begs to know if he may warm himself atthe same fire with them, without detriment totheir merriment?"ecThe Host stared the pertinacious Stranger in theface, while he slowly unbarred the Inn-gate: for,during this conversation, the traveller had questioned on the outside, while the Host answeredhim through a small grating. " They are not suchchurlish curs as to deny thee that,” said the latter,although they have Players, and Poets, andne'er-do-wells of all sorts amongst them. Theydrink too, plenty of Sack and Rhenish; and thesilver comes at last, although sometimes it is overlong in it's travels. No, no, they would not drivea night- foundered Stranger from the gates; andyou, Sir, it is likely, will be wanting a flask ofgood wine to keep this raw night air from yourstomach. "" It is the very thing, mine host," said theStranger, as the man of flagons and puncheonswas helping him from his steed, in the Inn-yard," which I was about to crave of thee. But firstt312 ORIGINALbear my message to thy guests; and I will awaittheir answer in the hall."The Host, or, as we shall in future call him,Master Stephen Drawwell, disappeared at thisbidding; but soon returned with a message fromhis guests, to say that the Stranger was heartilywelcome to their society. He then ushered himacross a long corridor, and up a flight of steps intoa spacious and lofty apartment where the gallants,of whom he had spoken, were assembled . A longtable extended the whole length of the room, whilean enormous wood fire blazed at each extremity.The floor was strewed with rushes; a piece ofstate and luxury with which Master Drawwell ornamented his common room on this night of the weekonly; and wax tapers were placed on various partsof the table; which was also plentifully furnishedwith flasks and cups, bearing generous liquors ofevery quality.The Stranger was kindly welcomed by the wholeparty, and was conducted to a seat at the righthand of the person who appeared to officiate astheir President, or Chairman. A slight glance atthe persons by whom he was surrounded, convincedhim that he was in the company of no common men.They were, for the most part, plainly habited; andmany of them were now considerably under theTALES, POEMS, ETC. 313influence of the purple deity, to whom they hadbeen sacrificing. But amidst the wild jollity andobstreperous mirth in which they indulged, he detected many brilliant sallies of wit; the most caustictouches of satire; and a profound acquaintancewith the deepest mysteries of the human heart.After listening for some time with vacuity, andalmost disgust, to a stale punster, he found himsuddenly transformed into a man of brilliant genius;a dull person near him, whom his potations, andtoo great an indulgence in that fragrant weed whichhad recently, been imported from Virginia, seemedto have reduced to a state of listlessness, at theinspiring call of some kindred spirit, discoveredhimself to be an accomplished scholar, and an observant and philosophical traveller; whilst a third ,after singing astave of a dull and senseless Madrigal,became engaged in a discussion , which drew forthfrom him a display of knowledge and eloquence,at which Demosthenes himself would have sat downin despair.Such was the gifted but eccentric circle to whichour Traveller found himself introduced. The President, to whose peculiar care he was assigned, was athickset, and rather clumsily built person, with around burly face; a high forehead; and eyes, whoseuncommon expression of keenness and intelligenceP314 ORIGINALwas not impaired by the circ*mstance of one beingconsiderably larger than the other. He seemed tobe peculiarly well fitted for the jovial station whichhe occupied; for, as the flasks passed round the table, he pulled from them as long, and as hearty adraught, as any of the company; and, apparently,with less effect of ebriety than most of them. Hisconversational powers seemed of the highest order;and the sly satire, the fine humour, and the polished wit, which escaped apparently unconsciouslyfrom his lips, kept the table in a roar during thewhole of the evening.This vivacious Chairman soon found out that theStranger had been in the army; "Yehave, doubtless, then," he said, " fought against the Don, Sir,in the Netherlands? "" I have, Sir," replied the Stranger; " in theNetherlands, and in America."" I had a scratch with him myself," said theChairman; " when Lord Essex went over to Flanders, I was in good old Sir Thomas Stanton'sRegiment.'""" Indeed!" said the other, somewhat incredulously; " and may I ask your name?"" You may, and learn it too, " replied the dignitary of the Mermaid: " 'tis Jonson. ""Jonson!" said the Stranger, who nowfelt con-TALES, POEMs, etc. 315vinced that he was either gravely imposed upon bythe Chairman, or that the wags of the Hostelrywere laughing at him in their sleeves; " 'tisstrange, but I was well acquainted with everyofficer in that Regiment, and do not recollect thatthere was one of that name. "66" Officer!" shouted the other, and followed hisshout with an obstreperous laugh; No, no;Fortune placed me in the ranks. 'Twas a boy'sfreak; I thought that I should prefer handling amusket to a trowel, so I left the front of Lincoln'sinn- gateway for the palisadoes of Bruges."Alight broke in upon the Stranger's mind, whichinstantly brightened over his face; " Can it be? "he said; " I have heard of this story before; canyou be the Poet, the Dramatist, Ben Jonson?"Aye, " exclaimed a dozen voices from all partsof the room, " who but Ben? rare Ben! jovialBen! honest Ben! immortal Ben!" and themirth and conviviality were redoubled; while theStranger, who felt like one who has unconsciouslyintruded into the presence of superior beings, wasby turns awed and delighted by the persons amongwhom he found himself.About the middle of the table was seated aperson of a singularly saturnine and melancholyexpression of countenance. His features, whichP2316 ORIGINALwere somewhat of an Italian cast, indicated a fineintelligence, and a polished taste; but still therewas something about them which repelled the advances ofthe most cordially disposed. He appearedconsiderably older than most of his companions;but led by a similarity of tastes and occupations,to mingle in their society. They seemed to regardhim with extraordinary deference and respect, andto listen with attention and even reverence to allthat he uttered; although every sentence which fellfrom his lips was imbued with the bitterest andmost virulent personal satire . The praises andcompliments which were heaped upon Jonson, inconsequence of the Stranger's surprise, seemedgreatly to discompose this personage. He listenedto them in silence, and, after they had subsided,pursed his lips into a sardonic grin, while he addressed the Chairman in these words;-Pray tell me, Ben, where does the mystery lurk?What others call a Play, you call a Work!”The sting in this line consisted in the fact ofJonson having lately published a volume of Plays,entitled " The Works of Benjamin Jonson; " whichterm was then considered ridiculously arrogant andpompous, although it has since been commonlyTALES, POEMS, ETC. 317applied in the same sense. Some of the companywere amused, but more were grieved, at this sally,as tending to damp their hilarity; but no one seemedmore disconcerted than the person who was theobject of it. At length, however, a lame man, atthe lower end of the room, exclaimed, while agood-humoured smile mantled over his features," The Author's friend, thus for the Author says,Ben's Plays are works, while others' Works are plays."”米The momentary damp which had hung upon thespirits of the company, was dispelled by this sally;and one long loud peal of laughter and applausecleared away the gloom which had darkened roundthem." Thanks! Uncle Willy!" said Jonson; " thanks,my sweet Swan of Avon! A mad wag, myfriend, "he continued, addressing the Stranger; " he commenced his career with deer-stealing, and he hasever since continued the pilfering trade, by stealingaway the hearts of all who know him."

• As both these jeux d'esprit are anonymous, I have considered myself privileged to appropriate them as I thought

proper.318 ORIGINAL" Is it Shakspeare? ". enquired the Stranger, ina tremulous tone." "Tis none but he," returned Jonson; 66 akind youth, and a clever. He lacks the ancient tongues though; and he doth take mostirreverent liberties with the wise rules of theStagyrite: yet he knows in some sort to tickle thepopular ear; and crowds will go to see his representation of a Shipwreck, although it be upon thecoast of Bohemia, who do not comprehend a singleone of the classical allusions in my Poetaster."66 Nay, nay, Ben," said a keen-eyed, goodlooking stripling by his side; " thy Poetaster hathit's praise, but match it not with the immortalworks of my Godfather."" I cry you mercy, young Master Davenant! "said Jonson; " I knew not that thy quick ears wereso close to my hasty tongue. But William, friend,have a care in future, when thou speakest of MasterShakspeare, that thou take not the name of Godin vain."Jonson had now turned the laugh against hisdefender, who was supposed by many to be connected with Davenantmuch more closely than by thesponsorial tie. " But ne'er mind, Master Shakspeare," said Jonson, " the lad is a proper person;TALES, POEMS, ETC. 819and hath more wit in his pate than was ever inherited from an Oxford tapster. But tell me, myheart of Warwickshire, when am I to carry thylittle Judith to the baptismal font?"" Right speedily, Ben," answered Shakspeare;" and then we shall see what rare present thouwilt bestow upon her. "" It shall be something," returned Jonson," which it is fitting for a Poet and a Scholar togive; one who hath the tongues, and is skilled inthe lore of ancient Greece and Rome. "" Give her some latten spoons," added Shakspeare; " and then, Ben, thou can'sttranslate them."" A murrain upon thy word-torturing wit,Willy,” replied Jonson; " thou perverter of language, and destroyer of the simplicity of syllables!But a truce to these wit-combats, as Master Fullercalleth them, and let us have a Catch. Here isMaster Stephen Dowland just entering the room;and, by my faith! Master Matthew Locke withhim. A Song, Master Locke! a Song, and thatright speedily! "1Locke, however, had no sooner joined theparty than he engaged in close conversation withShakspeare, without paying any attention to thecall of the Chairman. They were conversing upona subject deeply interesting not only to themselves,320 ORIGINALbut to all posterity, for it was on the time andmanner of bringing out at the Globe Theatre, aTragedy, which the latter had written, and partsof which the former had set to Music, under thetitle of " Macbeth."" He heeds me not, Master Dowland," saidJonson; " he and that Warwickshire carle areplotting some mischief, for their heads have neverbeen under the same roof for the last six months,without coming into close contact. "(Left unfinished.)TALES, POEMS, ETC. 321THE TREKSCHUIT.IT was in the Autumn of the year 1824, on myreturn to England from a tour along the Rhine,that I found myself for the second time in the cityof Ghent; and it was not without a feeling of veryconsiderable interest and pleasure, that I revisitedFlanders. I had seen most of the finest towns ofGermany and France; but in picturesque andantique beauty, they were none of them to becompared with Antwerp; Brussels, the old part ofthe town; Malines; Bruges; and, above all, Ghent.The magnificent and venerable Cathedrals; thestately streets lined with Palaces, once the residences of the nobility of Flanders and Burgundy;although now, alas! let out into tenements, andthe ground floors occupied by petty tradesmen;the Museums so richly adorned with the works ofnative Artists; and the sad and melancholy solitudeof those once thickly populated thoroughfares,which nevertheless, retained , I thought, a solemnbeauty about them; made a deep impression onP 3322 ORIGINALmy mind. I will, however, deal candidly with myReaders; and confess to them, that ideas of agrosser, and less intellectual, character, mingledwith my reveries, as I approached Ghent. I hadbeen riding all day; it was long after sunset; andI thought of the Hotel des Pays Bas, and of thegood cheer with which M. Doublet, the worthyHost, used to spread his table at the patriarchalSupper hour of nine. Although the viands werealways excellent, and the wines of the most tempting quality, M. Doublet's hours at first puzzledme not a little. Dinner at one, and Supper atnine, were such plebeian meals, that I should haveblushed to the very throat, had certain of my acquaintances detected me in the commission of suchenormities. However, I recollected that if I choseto christen the first repast, Luncheon, and thesecond, Dinner, I should be sufficiently near to thehours set apart for such affairs in London; where,as is well known, it is the height of fashion to gowithout Dinner, and take a hot Supper.I arrived in Ghent just in time to allow my physical organs to participate in the meal, with whichI had been for some time past regaling my fancy.I sat down amidst a party of ten or twelve, andwas received with that courtesy and cordiality,which, whatever John Bull may think of his ownTALES, POEms, etc. 323hospitality, a stranger never meets with in suchperfection, as on the Continental side of the Channel." Monsieur is going to make some stay in thistown?" said the person, who had been most assiduous in loading my plate with the best of everything." No," I replied; " I have already seen allthat is most interesting in Ghent, and purposestarting for Ostend in the morning, by the Trekschuit. "" C'est bien heureux, " answered the Abbé, forsuch he was; " that is very lucky, as we are allbent on the same expedition. There are eleven ofus; we have hired the little Trekschuit-La Villede Bruges, ―for ourselves; and there is just accommodation for another passenger. If Monsieur willjoin us, I think I shall do no more than speak thesense of all, when I say that we shall be proud ofhis company."The Abbé's proposition was instantly and unanimously carried; and as I was travelling alone, Idid not hesitate to accede to it." Monsieur however," said a young gentlemanwith dark hair, and a pale face, who sat oppositeto me, " should be made acquainted with theterms by which our party is bound together. If324 ORIGINALhe has ever sailed, or rather been towed, in theTrekschuit before,"-I nodded an assent, " hecannot have forgotten that, however pleasant hefound the journey at first, the noiseless monotonousprogress of the boat, and the flat and unvariedcharacter of the scenery, oppressed him with insufferable weariness and ennui, long before hearrived at his destination ."" Of a surety," I replied, " I have not forgotten it; for my last journey from Ostend toBrussels, will long be remembered; though, atfirst, the Trekschuit pleased me well enough.Having been tossed about all the day before in aSteam boat, on the German Ocean, without beingquite sure that I should not make up my final bedthere; and the three things in the world, which, ifI have any choice, I like least, being sea- sickness,explosion, and drowning, -I cannot decide whichis the worst, —the Trekschuit appeared to me a veryquiet and secure conveyance. But the day woreon, and there being still nothing to be seen, butthe same straight banks of the Canal; the sameplantations of cabbages and onions on each side ofit; and the same dull taciturn crew, whose wits, ifthey had any, seemed spell-bound by the genius ofthe place; I even wished myself again beatingbackwards and forwards off the Foreland . IfTALES, POEMS, ETC. 325then, ye have any device for mitigating the tediumof to-morrow's journey, there is no one will cooperate with you, more willingly than I shall."" Then it is even this expedient," said my palefaced companion, " which has been proposed byour reverend friend the Abbé, that each shouldnarrate a tale for the entertainment of the company. This, with a plentiful supply of Rhenishand cigars; and such a dinner, to divide the morning from the evening, as even M. Doublet wouldnot blush to lay before us, will perhaps make theTrekschuit to- morrow, a residence at least asagreeable as the Hotel d'Angleterre at Boulogne."As the allusion to the Debtors' prison, which isthus designated, at Boulogne, on account of thenumber of our countrymen who do it the honourto take up their residence there, was intended toraise a laugh at my expense, in which it was successful, I readily promised also to assist in theplan of amusem*nt proposed, and then appliedmyself with becoming alacrity to the completionof my meal.An early hour the next morning saw us on thedeck of La Ville de Bruges. As the Reader is toaccompany us in our progress down the Canals,and as " all our tediousness" is ' specially reservedfor him, I think that it will be only seemly and326 ORIGINALdecorous if I introduce him to our party. Firstthen there is Myself; -"fidelicet, myself," as SirHugh Evans would say, a beardless, brieflessBarrister; -" One foredoom'd his Father's soul to cross,And pen a Stanza when he should engross. "I was ambitious to surmount my wig with a wreathof laurel; to introduce the nine Muses to thetwelve Judges; to invest Apollo with a silk gown;and harness Pegasus to the Chief Justice's carriage. But I unfortunately found, that the twooccupations did not harmonise, and I made allkinds of ridiculous blunders. I sent an Attorneya Volume of Poems with the Author's compliments;and despatched the case and opinion, which shouldhave filled their place, to the Editor of the " NewMonthly," requesting an early and favourableReview; the consequence of which was, that theAttorney sent me no more Briefs, and the nextNew Monthly contained some mighty pleasantverses, to all but the subject of them, -entitled 66 $Verse-atility of Talent at the Bar. " I had resolved to spend my long vacation on the Continentthis year, for the purpose of viewing foreignCourts of Law, and getting some insight into theTALES, POEMS, ETC. 327jurisprudence of other countries; and after attentively studying the works of Rubens and Vandyke,seeing how Judges and Barristers looked at theTheatres, and Spiel-houses; and pondering deeplyon those abstruse legal questions which were suggested by the scenery on the banks of the Rhine;having accomplished all these desiderata, I wasnow on my return to Westminster-hall, with awonderful acquisition of juridical knowledge in mycranium .Next to me sat the Abbé; a jovial, rubicond,good-humoured, Priest, who was travelling on theaffairs of the Church to Ostend; and as he wasportly and well fed, and the weather intensely hot,the good father was in " a continual dissolutionand thaw" throughout the journey. As I gazed inhis face, and saw the whole huge mass of flesh,of which his person was composed, resolving itselfinto water, I began, good Protestant as I am, tohave some faith in the doctrine of transubstantiation .He was a lively and merry, but withal, discreetlyconducted personage; evidently a man of learningand considerable talent; and one of the membersof our little society with whom we would have leastwillingly parted .The pale-faced youth, whom I have alreadymentioned, was a young Artist from Antwerp, on328 ORIGINALhis way to London. He was tall and handsome;but a close and unwearied enthusiasm in his application to his art, had evidently impaired his health.I soon entered into conversation with him, andfound that he had travelled in Greece and Italy;had once visited Paris, solely with a view of goingthrough the Louvre; and was nowjourneying toLondon, for the purpose of studying from thethe Elgin Marbles. His great townsman Rubenswas the god of his idolatry; whenever his meritsformed the subject of conversation, his eye wouldkindle with unusual light, and his whole frameseemed animated by some extraordinary impulse.It is true, that he was apt to be a little intolerantof those who ventured to differ with him on thissubject; but this is a fault with which I fear thatwe are most of us chargeable, when our favouritetopic is undergoing discussion .Opposite to me sat an Officer in the Prussianservice, who had distinguished himself in the lastcampaign in Flanders; and was now conductinghis Lady, the only female in our party, over thescenes of his former exploits. He had taken herto view the fields of Waterloo and Ligny, and theramparts of Antwerp; and he was now about toinspect the fortifications of Ostend. He hadproved himself a good Soldier, and was withal a'TALES, POEMS, ETC. 329man of strong sense, but not uninfected with strongprejudices. He hated the French; believed thatPrussia was the greatest, grandest, and mostglorious kingdom in the world; and maintainedthat the battle of Waterloo was won by Blücher.He did not seem very fond of Catholics, and atfirst eyed the Abbé somewhat askance; but thegood humour and lively manners of the Priestspeedily triumphed over the reserve of the German, and before we had proceeded far on ourjourney, they were seated side by side, and werepartaking very cordially of the contents of thesame snuff-box.The preceding Fragment, which thus is abruptly terminatedin the MS. , was originally intended to have had a second title,and to have been called , either “ The Decameron of the Canals,”or, "Tales told in Flanders;" and to have introduced about adozen different narratives: several of which are contained inthe present Volume, and the remainder are included in Mr.Neele's last work, the " Romance of History."-Editor.330 ORIGINALHYMNS FOR CHILDREN.I.OH thou! who sitt'st enthroned on high,Ancient of Days! Eternal King!May Childhood and mortalityHope thou wilt listen whilst they sing!We raise our Songs, but, Oh! to Thee,What praise can mortal tongue impart;Till thou hast tuned to harmony,That jarring instrument, the Heart?Then, Infant warblings in thine ear,As sweet as Angel notes shall roll;For thou wilt bend from Heaven to hearThe still, soft music of the Soul.Oh! teach us some celestial Song,Some note of high and holy joy;And that shall dwell upon the tongue,And that shall all our Souls employ.Then, Time shall hear, while Time is ours,The Song of praise we pour to Thee;And Heaven shall lend us nobler powersTo sound it through Eternity!TALES, POEMS, ETC. 331II.Oh Thou! who mak'st the Sun to rise,Beam on my Soul, illume mine eyes,And guide me through this world of care:The wandering atom thou canʼst see,The falling Sparrow's mark'd by thee,Then, turning Mercy's ear to me,Listen! Listen!Listen to an Infant's prayer!Oh Thou! whose blood was spilt to saveMan's nature from a second grave;To share in whose redeeming care,Want's lowliest child is not too mean,Guilt's darkest victim too unclean,Oh! thou wilt deign from Heaven to lean,And listen, listen ,Listen to an Infant's prayer.Oh Thou! who wilt from Monarchs part,To dwell within the contrite heart,And build thyself a Temple there;O'er all my dull affections move,Fill all my Soul with Heav'nly love,And, kindly stooping from above,Listen! Listen!Listen to an Infant's prayer!332 ORIGINALIII.God of Mercy! throned on high,Listen from Thy lofty seat:Hear, Oh! hear our feeble cry,Guide, Oh! guide our wandering feet.Young and erring Travellers, weAll our dangers do not know;Scarcely fear the stormy sea,Hardly feel the tempest blow.While our bosoms yet are young,Kindle in them Love divine;Ere the tide of sin grow strong,Take us, keep us,make us, Thine!When perplex'd in danger's snare,Thou alone our guide canʼst be:When oppress'd with deepest care,Whom have we to trust but Thee?Lord! instruct us then, and pourHope and Love on every Soul;Hope, till Time shall be no more,Love, while endless ages roll.TALES, POEMS, ETC. 333IV.Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth.-Ecclesiastes, Chapter 12, v. 1.Remember Him, for He is great,And winds and waves obey his will:The surges, awed by Him, abate,And tempests at his voice are still .Remember Him, for He is wise,To mark our actions every day;To know what thoughts within us rise ,And notice every word we say,Remember Him, for He is good,He sent his Son to die for Sin;And the rich ocean of his blood,Can cleanse and purify within.Remember Him, for He is kind,And will not frown the poor away;He heals the rich, restores the blind,And listens when the humblest pray.Remember Him, before the daysOf evil come, and joy is dim;While Time is yours, repeat his praise,While Life remains, remember Him!334 ORIGINALEPITAPHS.I.A Saint, a Wife, a Mother slumbers here,To Heaven, to Husband, and to Children dear;But Heaven, to which her chiefest thoughts were prone,Too early claim'd, and made her all it's own.Three infant pledges of pure love she left,Unconscious they of how much good bereft;Their tears may well be spared, they need not fall ,There's one whose heart hoards grief enough for all;Who, but for them, as he bends o'er this stone,Would long to make her peaceful grave his own.II.Good night! Good night, sweet Spirit! thou hast castThy bonds of clay away from thee at last;Broken the earthly fetters , which aloneHeld thee at distance from thy Maker's Throne;But Oh! those fetters to th' immortal mind,Were links of love to those thou'st left behind.For thee we mourn not; as th' Apostle prestHis dungeon pillow, till the Angel- guestDrew nigh, and when the light that round him shone,Beam'd on the prisoner, his bonds were gone:TALES, POEMS, ETC. 335So wert thou subject to disease and pain;Till Death, the brightest of th' angelic train,Pour'd Heaven's own radiance, by divine decree,Around thy suffering Soul, and it was free!SONNET.On reading the Remains of the late HENRY KIRKE WHITE.Yes, all is o'er! the pangs which Nature felt,Have thus subsided into dread repose;The feelings Genius only gives , and knows,Nor soothe, nor sadden now; nor fire, nor melt;How sadly and how soon Death's weltering waveClosed o'er his honour'd head. Too lovely Rose,Why in such open brilliancy discloseThose buds condemn'd such cruel blight to brave?Was Genius' , Virtue's, Learning's power too smallTo snatch their votary from the silent grave?Ah me! we toil through life, until the callOf Death arrests us, impotent to save;The great, the good, the wise around us fall,While Vice and Folly live, proud arbiters of all.336 ORIGINALFRIENDSHIP.From the French." FRIENDSHIP! to thee I raise my voice,Love cannot equal thee;Thou art the object of my choice,Oh! come and comfort me!Thou, like the roseate break of day,Shinest, but dost not burn;Peace dwells with thee, and ' neath thy sway,True happiness we learn. "'Twas thus, when fifteen Springs their braidsHad woven, Laura spake;The gentle error of fair maids,When their first vows they make.Unto her Idol then she raisedATemple, rich and rare;And, night and day, bright cressets blazed,And odours rich burn'd there.Only his features to expressA Statue was required;Had the Arts reach'd such perfectness ,T'achieve the work desired.A master-piece of Art to choose,To Phidias quick she went;All grandeur's forms, and beauty's hues,Must in that form be blent.TALES, POEMS, ETC. 337The Artist Friendship's statue shew'd:How unlike what she sought!Simple, severe, of antique mode,With no soft graces fraught." This is not he! " she cried, " IYour false and peevish art;spurnWould you from a true model learn ,Behold him in my heart!66 There, stretch'd upon a bed of down,Slumbers a lovely child;Behold the master whom I own,And serve!" she said, and smiled:" Ah!" said the Artist, " Beauty mustThat tyrant's vassal prove;You come to me for Friendship's bust,And bid me copy Love!"LOVE AND BEAUTY.A Fragment.OH Love! triumphant Love! thy throne is builtWhere tempests cannot shake it, or rude forceTear up it's strong foundations. In the heartThy dwelling is, and there thy potent spell338 ORIGINALTurns it's dark chambers into Palaces.Thy power is boundless; and o'er all creationWorks it's miracles. So Pygmalion onceWoke the cold statue on it's pedestal,To life and rapture. So the rugged soul,Hard as the rifted rock, becomes the slave,The feeblest slave of Love; and, like the pearlIn Cleopatra's goblet, seems to meltOn Beauty's lips . So, when Apelles gazedUpon Campaspe's eyes, her peerless image,Instead of glowing on his canvass, brightIn all it's beauty, stole into his heart,And mock'd his feeble pencil.

Love in the soul, not bold and confident,But, like Aurora, trembles into being;And with faint flickering, and uncertain beams,Gives notice to th' awakening world within us,Ofthe full blazing orb that soon shall rise,And kindle all it's passions. Then beginSorrow and joy: unutterable joy,And rapturous sorrow. Then the world is nothing;Pleasure is nothing; suffering is nothing;Ambition, riches, praise, power, all are nothing;Love rules and reigns despotic and alone.Then, Oh! the shape of magic loveliness ,He conjures up before us. In her formTALES, POEMS , ETC. 339Is perfect symmetry. Her swan- like gait,As she glides by us,Seems not of earth.like a lovely dream ,From her bright eye the soulLooks out; and, like the topmost gem o' the heap,Shews the Mine's wealth within. Upon her face,As on a lovely landscape, shade and sunlightPlay as strong feeling sways: now her eye flashesA beam of rapture; now, lets drop a tear;And now, upon her brow-as when the RainbowRears it's fair arch in Heaven,-Peace sits, and gildsThe sweet drops as they fall. The soul of mindDwells in her voice, and her soft, spiritual tonesSink in the heart, soothing it's cares away;As Halcyons brood upon the troubled wave,And charm it into calmness. When she weeps,Her tears are like the waters upon whichLove's mother rose to Heaven. E'en her sighs,Although they speak the troubles of her soul,Breathe of it's sweetness; as the wind that shakesThe Cedar's boughs, becomes impregnatedWith it's celestial odours .

૨ 2340 ORIGINALA THOUGHT.THE shadow we pursue still flees us,Fast pacing as we faster pace:That which we flee from will not ease us,By pausing in the fearful race.Thus, Pleasure, vainly we implore theeTo stay thy flight, and longer bloom;And thus, Oh Death! we flee before thee,But only flee into the tomb!EPIGRAM.To a Great Beauty.Believe me, my corpulent Fair,I love your fat cheeks and full face;Oh my heart! your eyes kindle love there,And I sink in your melting embrace.The poor buzzing fly does the same,While yet inexperienced and callow:First, burns his bright wings in the flame,And then, -tumbles into the tallow!MISCELLANEOUSPROSE AND POETRY.ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN VARIOUS PERIODICALPUBLICATIONS , AND NEVER BEFORECOLLECTED.Miss Vortex. A charming Nosegay! All exotics, I declare!Jessy. No, Madam, neglected wild-flowers; I took themfrom their bed of weeds, bestowed care on their culture, andby transplanting them to a more genial soil, they have flourished with luxuriant strength and beauty.Miss Vortex. A pretty amusem*nt!Jessy. And it seemed, Madam, to convey this lesson: notto despise the lowly mind, but rather, with fostering hand, todraw it from it's chill obscurity, that, like these humble flowers,it might grow rich in wörth and native energy."MORTON'S " CURE FOR THE HEART-ACHE."THE VALLEY OF SERVOZ.A SAVOYARD TALE.Servoz! sweet Servoz! there is not a ValeOn Earth's green bosom nursed, so beautifulAs thou! How lovely yon cerulean skyGlittering with blue and gold, and all the charmsIt canopies. The purple vines which feedOn thy rich veins; the flowers whose fragrant breathSatiate the sense with sweetness; the tall grovesWith their eternal whisperings in thine ear,Of blessedness and joy; thy guardian fenceOf hills which o'er thee rise, Alp over Alp,As though each peer'd above his fellow, anxiousTo snatch a glance at thee; and sweeter still ,Thy Vale's deep quiet, which no sound disturbs,Save the sweet brawling of the silver Arve;The wild bee's hum; the grasshopper's shrill note;And distant tinklings mingled with the layWhich the swarth peasant o'er the furrow chaunts,Echoed by village maids. But most I loveThy Churchyard's grassy precincts: in such spots,While the foot rambles, the soul treasures upTruth's holiest lessons; and as the green-swardSprings freshest over graves, so there the heartBrings forth it's kindliest feelings, and distilsDews precious as the drops which fall from heaven.HENRY NEELE.It was in the Summer of the year 1820 that, atthe close of a fine July day, I found myself, for344 MISCELLANEOUSthe first time, in the village of Servoz. This is abeautiful, quiet group of cottages, deposited, if Imay use the term, in the bosom of the Valley fromwhich it takes it's name, in one of the most romantic and secluded parts of Savoy. It is impossible for language to do justice to the delightfuland varied scenery which surrounds it. That peculiar characteristic of Alpine views, the union ofwildness with fertility, is here exhibited in a surprising degree. The Valley seems absolutely sa→turated with the sweetness and the fecundity ofNature. Flowers of the most brilliant hues andenchanting fragrance, and fruits of the most delicious flavour, abound in every part; in the middleis seen the river Arve, in some places leaping andfoaming over the rocks by which it's course is impeded, and in others quietly watering the Valley.All around rise gigantic hills, the bases of whichare clothed with vines; whilst midway extendenormous forests, and on their summits is amantle of everlasting snow. At the time at whichI was entering the Village, the whole scene wassurmounted by a clear, blue sky, of whose glorioustints those who have never travelled out of England cannot have the faintest conception; and thesetting Sun had thrown it's own radiant hues uponMont Blanc; whose summit, even while I gazedupon it, became suddenly changed from a brilliantPROSE AND POETRY. 345white to a gorgeous red, and " Sun- set, " as LordByron expresses it, " into rose-hues saw it wrought."This gradually faded away, exhibiting, as the Sundeclined, the most exquisite variety of colour,until the brilliant white, which can be compared tonothing so well as to molten silver, resumed it'soriginal dominion.There is much truth in the maxim of Rousseau,that " On s'exerce a voir comme a sentir, ouplutôt une vue exquise n'est qu'un sentiment delicat et fin." Certainly, the same scenes excitevery different emotions in different minds; andeven in the same mind at different moments. Bethis as it may, at the time of which I am writing, Ifelt as fully persuaded as ever Sterne did, that Ihad a Soul; and, like him , could have defied allthe materialists in the world to persuade me to thecontrary. On arriving at such a place, the firstobjects of my research are the Village Inn, andthe Church-yard; for from those places I gatherthe history of the spot, and get an insight into theminds and manners of the inhabitants. I seethem in the house of mirth, and in the house ofmourning; I mix with them in the pleasures, andin the business of life; and I learn how they support the intrusions of death, and what are theirhopes beyond the regions of mortality. On thisQ 3346 MISCELLANEOUSoccasion, not finding much to interest me at theInn, I merely took some slight refreshment, and,disencumbering myself from the staff and walletwith which I had performed my journey, proceeded to take a ramble among the tombs. Theywere many and interesting. Here rested the Patriarch of the Village, gathered full of years andhonours to his fathers. There, a modest stonetold a simple but melancholy tale of an unfortunateTraveller engulphed in a glacier, as he was travelling these lonely, but dangerous, regions withouta guide. Here the Soldier rested from the battle,and the Chamois-hunter from the chase. The gayceased to smile, and the unhappy forgot to weep;Death garnered up his harvest here, and methoughtthat there was among it food that might be wholesome and invigorating for the mind.Amongst those memorials of the dead, there wasone bywhich I found my steps irresistibly arrested:this was a heap of turf, surrounded by beds offlowers. It was undistinguished by any stone;but a wooden cross, of the rudest workmanship,was raised upon it, on which hung a chaplet oflilies. The cross was evidently some years old,but the lilies were fresh gathered, and blooming;and some young girls were watering the flowerbeds which surrounded the grave. From them, andPROSE AND POETRY. 347from others ofthe neighbours, I gathered the history of this tomb. It was a simple tale: but Ihave seen tears raining plenteously at it's recital,from some of the brightest eyes which ever borrowed from southern suns their lustre, and theirwarmth; and big drops roll down the faded cheeksof age like juices forced from fruits which seemedwithering upon their stalks .If the rustic annalists of the Valley of Servozmay be credited, there never moved upon theearth a being more exquisitely beautiful thanAnnette de la Cluse. Her form was tall, andmoulded to the finest symmetry; her eyes black andsparkling; and her hair of the same colour, andalmost of the same brightness. Some of the ruralconnoisseurs of the Village considered her face toopale: as it has been described to me, it must havebeen beautifully fair; but the sun of that climate,which usually marks the daughters of the Valleyfor his own, had so slightly tinged her cheeks withthe rose, that it was only in moments of extraordinary animation and feeling that it was perceptible; and during the last year of her life itentirely vanished. Her disposition was pensive,but far from gloomy; and during the little Villagefestivals, with which the Romish Calendars abound,a more gay and hearty laugh was seldom heard348 MISCELLANEOUSthan Annette's.seclusion; and although Literature had not atthat time unfolded it's treasures to the Valley, yether mind appeared to be informed by the beautyand sublimity of the scenes which surrounded her,and sheStill, she loved solitude and" Found tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in every thing."To these qualities were added, a sweetness andkindness of heart which endeared her to everyone, and which continues to keep her memorypiously cherished to the present moment.With such attractions it is not to be wonderedat, that by the time that Annette had attained herseventeenth year her admirers should be numerous. Her course of studies not having includedthe science of coquetry, it was not long before sheavowed that her affections were fixed upon Victorde St. Foix; and those worthy neighbours, whothere, as in more polished districts, kindly tookupon themselves the office of deciding upon thefitness of the match, were unanimous in theirapproval of her choice. Victor was Annette'ssenior by only a few months, and his taste andhabits were, in most particulars , congenial with-PROSE AND POETRY. 349her own. It is true that he possessed the moremasculine habits of enterprise and intrepedity:none could track the Chamois to his haunt amongthe Alps with a keener eye, and a surer foot; andin leaping from rock to rock, he was rivalled onlyby the mountain rivulet. The Traveller who enquired for a hardy and intelligent guide was alwaysrecommended to Victor; and when circ*mstancesof danger or difficulty occasioned the Villagers torally together, he was invariably among the foremost, and frequently filled the post of chieftain.Still his heart found room for the softer emotions,and when at evening he stole to Annette's side totell her some melancholy tale of the Traveller overwhelmed by the avalanche, or lost among the torrents; or, when he warbled, in unison with her,some of those sweet Savoyard melodies which areoften heard among the Vallies, the tears wouldrush into his eyes, and the hardy mountaineerseemed metaphosed into a " soft carpet Knight."One Song which they used to sing most frequentlytogether, and which the Villagers have distinguishedby their names, I transcribe as it was recited tome by the Host of my Inn. The words of the original, when accompanied by the simple and beautiful melody to which they are sung, are irresistiblytouching and affecting. The following version350 MISCELLANEOUSsinks infinitely below it's prototype, but I haveendeavoured to preserve the sentiment:-" For thee, Love! for thee, Love!I'll brave Fate's sternest storm;She cannot daunt, or chill the heartsWhich Love keeps bold and warm:And when her clouds are blackest, noughtBut thy sweet self I'll see;Nor hear amidst the tempest aught,But thee, Love! only thee!For thee, Love! for thee, Love!My fond heart would resignThe brightest cup that Pleasure fills,And Fortune's wealthiest mine;For Pleasure's smiles are vanity,And Fortune's fade or flee;There's purity and constancyIn thee, Love! only thee!For thee, Love! for thee, Love!Life's lowly vale I'll tread,And aid thy steps the journey through,Nor quit thee till I'm dead:And even then, round her I love,My shade shall hovering be;And warble notes from Heaven above,To thee, Love! only thee!"In this manner they passed the morning of theirPROSE AND POETRY. 351lives, until the day arrived which had been fixedupon for their union. In such a place as Servoz.this was an incident of considerable interest andimportance; and almost the whole population ofthe Village, young and old, contributed to swellthe retinue, which proceeded with decorous hilaritytowards the simple, but venerable, Church of St.Pierre. A troop of young girls advanced first,strewing flowers in the path of the joyous procession; these were succeeded by some youthful peasants of the other sex, who filled the air with rustic, but by no means tasteless, Music; the Bridefollowed, " blushing like the morning," supportedon her right by her aged Mother, and on her leftby the Bridegroom; their relatives and intimatefriends came next, and a numerous party of peasantry brought up the rear.This was on one of those bright Summer mornings, the splendours of which the inhabitants ofmore northern climates never behold, even inimagination. It was the hushed and breathlesshour of noon, and all nature seemed reposingfrom the meridian heat, except the bridal party,who were protected from it by the shadow cast bya gigantic Alp across their path. Suddenly astrange sound was heard above them, like thenoise of an avalanche, and a quantity of stones352 MISCELLANEOUSand rock descended upon their heads, without,however, producing any serious consequences.They were, nevertheless, induced to quicken theirsteps, but before they had proceeded ten pacesfurther, a tremendous explosion like an awfulthunder-clap was heard. The enormous Alp underwhich they were walking was seen rocking to andfro, like an aspen tree shaken by the wind; andbefore the whole of the party could escape beyondit's reach, it had precipitated itself into the Valley,and choked up a little lake which lay immediatelyunder it's brow; while huge blocks of granite werehurled about in all directions, and the dust produced by rocks thus dashed violently against eachother, concealed for awhile the extent of the calamity. Annette had instinctively caught her Mother's hand, and hurried her beyond the reach ofdanger; but when the party had arrived at a placeof safety, and the tremendous convulsion of naturehad subsided, the wailings of distress at seeingtheir habitatinos crushed, and their fields and vineyards laid desolate, were many; though more werethe exclamations of joy at beholding that theirchildren and friends had escaped unhurt.On asudden a heart-rending shriek was heard, followedby a fearful cry of " Where is Victor?" FromAnnette those sounds proceeded, who, as the"PROSE AND POETRY. 353cloud of dust disappeared, had cast a hasty glancearound, and perceived, among the groups whowere felicitating each other on their escape, all butVictor! Instantly the whole party was in motion;the cloak, the hat, and some of the bridal ornaments of Victor were found, while some mangledreliques of his corpse told too soon, and too certainly, bis miserable fate.Annette, who followed as fast as her failinglimbs would allow her, heard their exclamations ofdespair, and sank senseless upon the earth. Everyeffort that kindness and pity could suggest wasused to recover her, but for months they couldscarcely be said to restore her suspended animation; for the state of listless inanity in which sheremained was much more nearly allied to deaththan life . At length, however, she regained theuse of her corporeal powers; but, alas! her mindhad wandered from it's dwelling. She would often,after remaining inactive for hours together, hurrysuddenly to the Church, and there, standing beforethe altar, repeat that part of the Matrimonial service which is uttered bythe Bride; then she wouldwait for a few moments silently, as if expectingto hear another voice, and at length, looking roundon the empty Church, utter a dreadful groan, andhurry away. At other times she would wanderthrough the Church-yard, count over the tombs354 MISCELLANEOUSone by one, and read all the inscriptions, as if shewas seeking one which she could not find; whileit was observed that she was always more cheerfulafter having been employed in this manner. “ Heis not dead! I shall see him soon!" she wouldsay; but as her path homewards led by the ruinsof the fallen mountain, the dreadful recollectionseemed to rush upon her brain, and she was oftencarried away from the spot as senseless as at first.The only occupation which seemed to impart anytranquillity to her mind was singing, or playingupon her lute, those little melodies which she andVictor used to chaunt together. The Song whichI have translated was her especial favourite; andwhile singing the last verse she would look upwards, and, after she had finished it, remain silentfor some time, as if she expected that the promisewhich it contains would be literally fulfilled, andthat she should hear her lover's voice responsiveto her own. In her wanderings she was continually penetrating into paths which were unknownto the Villagers generally, and some of these arenow among the most beautiful spots pointed outto the curious traveller. At length she found alittle Valley, composed of only one green field,and one gurgling rill which stole through it, andsurrounded by picturesque rocks, which wereclothed with a profusion of beautiful trees; larches,.PROSE AND POETRY. 355firs, pines, and others of every imaginable formand hue. She sat down by the margin of thelittle stream , and sang her favourite ballad. Thefirst two verses she warbled, or rather recited, ina low mournful tone, but when she came to thelast, she raised her voice to the highest compass;and her tones, which were always beautiful, weredescribed by those who followed her unseen, at ashort distance, to be, on this occasion, of seraphicsweetness. As she elevated her voice, all theechoes with which that romantic spot abounds,were awakened; and every rock warbled, as itwere, a response to her Song. Nowthe soundrolled over her head deep and sonorous; now itbecame softened and mellowed among the hills;now it returned as loudly and distinctly as at first;and at length died away in a faint and distantwhisper. Annette clasped her hands in rapture;her eyes were raised to Heaven; tears, but tearsof joy, stole down her cheek; her beautiful face,which sorrow, and sickness, and insanity, hadrobbed of many of it's charms, seemed now morebeautiful than ever, and her whole form appearedanimated by something which was more thanearthly. " "Tis he!-'tis Victor speaks! -' Thou warblest notes from Heaven above,To me, Love! only me!'356 MISCELLANEOUSMy Love! my life! where art thou?-I havesought thee long; my brain is strangely troubled,but now we will part no more.—I see thee beckonme!-Victor! my love!-I come!-I come!"The echoes answered " Come! -come!" Annettelifted her hands once more to Heaven; then sankupon the earth, and her Spirit fled for ever!Since that time the spot on which she died hasgone by the name of " Annette's Vale." TheVillagers, think it haunted, and never enter it but.with uncovered head and naked feet; but morefrom reverence than fear, for who would fear thegentle Spirit of Annette de la Cluse? The Chamois which escapes into this place is in a sanctuary;and the flowers which grow there are neverplucked but to strew upon Annette's grave; inevery murmur of the wind, in every rustling ofthe leaves, are heard the voices of her and herlover; and, above all, the echoes among thoserocks are listened to with awe, as the Songs or theconversations of Victor and Annette!" NEW EUROPEAN MAGAZINE," 1822.THE POET'S DREAM.Oh! then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.-SHAKSPEARE.It was in the forenoon of a sultry autumnal day,in the year 1638, that a person apparently aboutfive and thirty years of age, handsomely, thoughnot gorgeously clad in the costume of the country,and mounted upon a mule, was seen traversing thewild and romantic road which leads from Siennato Rome. A slight glance at the Traveller wouldenable the intelligent observer to discover in him" more than marks the crowd of vulgar men. "His forehead was high and pale; and his hair, of alight flaxen colour, flowed in rich ringlets over hisshoulders. Although his complexion was considerably tinged by the southern suns which he hadencountered in the course of his travels, it wasevidently originally very fair, if not pale; and, together with the oval face and bright blue eyes, de-358 MISCELLANEOUSnoted a native of a more northern region than thatwhich he was traversing. His countenance wassingularly beautiful, and it's mild and beneficentexpression was shaded, but not impaired, by thepensive air which, apparently, deep study, orperhaps early misfortune had cast over it. Hisheight was rather above the middle stature; andhis form displayed that perfection of symmetrywhich we usually look for in vain in nature, butmark with admiration in the works of Phidias andof Raffaelle. He was followed by a servant,also mounted upon a mule, and both were takingthe high road to the " eternal City, " from whichthey were distant about two days' journey.The day was sultry, and as the road then woundamong some of the most precipitous and difficultpasses of the Appenines, the Travellers appearedto experience considerable fatigue. It was withno slight degree of pleasure, therefore, that theydescried, at a small distance onwards, a thickforest of pines, which promised a shelter from thenoontide heat, as well as an opportunity of exploring the contents of their wallet, for the purpose of procuring refreshment. Having arrivedthere, they dismounted; and their morning's meal,consisting of bread, fruit, cheese, and wine, wassoon spread before them; and nearly as soon dis-PROSE AND POETRY, 359appeared before such appetites, as a long fastand a fatiguing journey never fail to create. Thesuperior Traveller then having desired his servantto lead the mules to a little distance, preparedto take a short slumber previous to resuming hisjourney.He had not long resigned himself to sleep before his ever restless brain began to teem with certain vague and shadowy forms, which at lengthsettled into a vision of consummate beauty. Hefancied that he beheld a beautiful female figurebending over and gazing at him, while her features were expressive of the utmost astonishmentand delight. Once she appeared to speak, and thewonder with which he beheld the exquisite loveliness of her form and features, was lost in thatexcited by the ravishing melody of her voice. Heextended his hand towards her, and endeavouredto grasp her own; she gently eluded him, smiled,and dropping a small scroll of paper, vanishedfrom his sight, while our traveller, with the effortwhich he made to reach it, suddenly awoke.He started on his feet, scarcely believing thatwhat he had seen could have been a dream, sọstrong and vivid was the impression which it hadmade upon his senses; but his wonder was woundup to the highest pitch at perceiving a scroll, ex-860 MISCELLANEOUSactly resembling that which he had seen in hisdream, lying at his feet. He snatched it up eagerly, and read the following lines: -" Occhi stelli mortáliMinistri di miei maliChe'n sogno anco mostraté,Che'l mio morir bramate.Se chiusi m'uccidete,Aperti che farete!"which, in our own less mellifluous language, wouldread nearly thus:-" Eyes! ye mortal stars which shedFatal influence on my head,Bidding me in omens know,That to you my death I owe,If when closed ye've power to slay,Hide me from your opening ray! "Doubting the evidence of his senses, he read thescroll over again and again, before he thought ofcalling his servant, and endeavouring to gatherfrom him such particulars as might assist in unravelling the mystery. The account which he received from his domestic only involved him in newperplexities. From him he learned that, duringhis slumber, a carriage, containing two elegantlydressed females, had stopped close to the placewhere his master was sleeping; that the youngestPROSE AND POETRY. 361of the two, whose description, as related by theservant, corresponded in the most minute particulars with the figure which he had seen in hisdream, alighted; and after gazing for some timeupon the handsome sleeper, addressed certain interrogatories to the domestic, which, from his ignorance of the language in which they were conveyed, he was unable either to comprehend, oranswer; that she then hastily wrote some linesupon a scroll, which she threw at his master's feet;and, seeing the latter move, re-entered the carriage, which immediately drove off with the utmostrapidity." You would know her again, Horatio?" enquired the wondering Traveller.Aye, Sir," returned the other, " even were herbeautiful face veiled; let her but utter three words,and I shall remember her voice. Not even whenI saw the Lady Alice Egerton play in the Masqueat Ludlow Castle, and heard her call upon Echoin her Song, till I wondered how so sweet an invitation could be resisted, did I feel my soul stealing out at my ears so delightfully; for even she,craving your honour's pardon, was but a chirrupping wren to this Italian nightingale."" Saddle the mules instantly," interrupted hismaster, "let us lose no time in overtaking her."R}362 MISCELLANEOUS" Oh Sir! that were a fruitless chase, for thecarriage has had a long start before us, besidesbeing drawn by four of the fleetest horses inItaly."" Nevertheless, speed will do no harm, Horatio;and unless we travel at a quicker pace than thatat which we have been proceeding this morning, Ishall scarcely reach Rome in time for the CardinalBarberini's Concert to-morrow evening."They accordingly resumed their journey, theci-devant sleeper much marvelling at the extraordinary incident of the day, and puzzling his brains,for he was deeply learned in metaphysics, to account for the phenomenon by which that which washidden from his visual organs, was revealed to his" mind's eye" during the hour of slumber. Hewas, however, unable to arrive at any more satisfactory conclusion than that contained in two linesof his favourite author, which he uttered aloud,turning round to his valet, -" There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio,Than are dreamt of in our Philosophy."They now travelled with the utmost expedition,but, as our Readers will have guessed from the information of Horatio, without overtaking the fairPROSE AND POETRY. 363and mysterious fugitive. Nothing occurred duringthe remainder of their journey beyond the usualroutine of eating, drinking, sleeping, and travelling;and sometimes the necessity, however unpleasant,of dispensing with the three former items, untilthey arrived at Rome. Here our Traveller's firstcare was to find out the residence of his friendHolstenius, keeper of the Vatican library, andwith whom he had become acquainted at Oxford,where the Italian had resided for three years.The meeting of the friends was cordial and affectionate. " But we have no time to lose," saidHolstenius, "the Cardinal's Concert has alreadycommenced, and he is in the utmost anxiety to seeyou: you will find there a distinguished party, whoare drawn together principally in the expectationof meeting you. "" I fear," said the Englishman, half smiling,and at the same time lowering his brow, as to thepresent day is done by literary men, when theyfeel, or affect to feel, offended at being made whatthey call " a shew" of; " I fear that the attractionwill cease when the cause of it is seen and known.But who are these, friend Holstenius, to whom Iam to be exhibited this evening?""Amongst others, to the Marquis Villa, who hasjust arrived from Naples," said the other.R 2364 MISCELLANEOUS" What! Manso?" exclaimed the Englishman,his features brightening as he spoke, " the friendof the illustrious Tasso?"" The same," resumed Holstenius; " also thePoets, Selvaggi and Salsilli; the famous Grotius,the Swedish Ambassador to the Court of France,who is here on a visit to his Eminence, and whomI believe you met at Paris; the Duke de Pagliano;and the Count di Vivaldi. Adriana of Mantua,Sister to the Poet Basil, and her daughter LeonoraBaroni, who are reported to be the finest singersin the world, have also arrived at Rome expresslyto be present at this entertainment."The momentary gloom which had gathered onthe Englishman's features, was immediately dispersed; he expressed the utmost delight at theprospect of mingling with the lofty spirits whowere assembled under the Cardinal Barberini'sroof; and, after having suitably attired himself,the friends were not long in finding their way tothe Cardinal's Palace.Here they found the illustrious owner, althoughnephew to the ruling Pontiff, and possessing, underhim , the whole delegated sovereignty of Rome,anxiously looking amongst the crowd at the doorfor his transalpine guest. When he recognisedHolstenius and his friend, he darted out, andPROSE AND POETRY. 365grasping the latter by the hand, heartily bade himwelcome. He then led him up a magnificentstaircase lined with attendants in the most gorgeousliveries, and blazing with innumerable lamps, untilhe arrived at a splendid Saloon, in which the distinguished company were assembled. Here, aftera momentary pause, he elevated his voice and announced in an exulting tone to the anxious auditory, the presence of " il Signor Milton."" Onor à l'altissimo Poeta!" exclaimed a hundred voices. Fair hands strewed flowers upon hishead, and noble palms were extended emulous ofhis grasp. The learned and the famous, the rich,and the young, and the beautiful, all crowded withexpressions of admiration and delight around theillustrious Englishman. The Poet Salsilli, was thefirst who gained possession of Milton's hand, andfixing upon him a steadfast look, he recited in aloud voice the following lines:-" Cede Meles; cedat depressa Mincius urna,Sebetus Tassum desinat usque loqui.At Thamesis victor cunctis ferat altior undas;Nam per te, Milto, par tribus unus erit."" Meles and Mincius! now more humbly glide,Tasso's Sebetus! now resign thy pride;366 MISCELLANEOUSSupreme of rivers, Thames, henceforth shall be,His Milton makes him equal to the three."At this unexpected sally, the place rang withapplauses, which had scarcely subsided beforea voice from the other end of the room, which wasrecognised to be that of the Poet Selvaggi, exclaimed:-" Græcia Mæonidem, jactet sibi Roma Maronem;Anglia Miltonum jactat utrique parem.”" Greece! vaunt your Homer's, Rome! your Maro's fame,England in Milton boasts an equal name. "The thunders of applause were redoubled, andMilton began to feel himself under some embarrassment, as to the mode of returning such extraordinary and unexpected compliments, when hewas relieved by his entertainer, begging him to seathimself by him, and entering into close conversation with him."I am told, Mr. Milton," said the Cardinal, " thatyou are a proficient in the divine art of Music. "" I can claim but a slender acquaintance withthe Science," answered the Poet; " but I haveever been peculiarly susceptible of it's power, andPROSE AND POETRY. 367have found my feelings swayed by it in an extraordinary manner, upon more than one occasion.To my Father, who was deeply accomplished inthe science, and to my friend and countryman,Henry Lawes, whose fame, I believe, is not unknown even in this classic land of song, I am indebted for what little knowledge I may possess."" Nay, nay, Mr. Milton, your knowledge issomewhat greater than you will allow. The celebrated Leonora Baroni, who has just left theroom, but will soon re-enter it, had, shortly beforeyour arrival, delighted the company, by the exquisite manner in which she sang a divine melodycomposed by herself, to suit some still divinerwords of yours, which fully prove that you havethe soul and the feelings of the most inspired musician." He then recited with energy and propriety, although with a strong foreign accent, thefollowing lines:-" Blest pair of Syrens, pledges of Heaven's joy!Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse!Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power employ,Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce;And to our high-raised phantasy presentThat undisturbed Song of pure consent,Aye sung before the sapphire- colour'd ThroneTo him that sits thereon,368 MISCELLANEOUSWith saintly shout and solemn jubilee;Where the bright Seraphim in burning row,Their loud uplifted angel- trumpets blow;And the cherubic host, in thousand quires,Touch their immortal harps of golden wires;With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,Hymns devout, and holy psalms,Singing everlastingly!"The conversation between the Cardinal and hisillustrious guest was here interrupted by the entrance of Adriana, of Mantua, and her daughter,Leonora Baroni. Milton's heart throbbed, and hedrew his breath thickly, as he fancied that he recognised in the figure of the latter, the fair one whohad brightened his dreams among the Appenines.The first glimpse of her face confirmed him in thisidea, and he was about to rush to the harp atwhich she had seated herself, and the strings ofwhich she was trying, when a moment's reflectionconvinced him of the impropriety of such a proceeding. The resemblance might be accidental,or it might be produced merely by his own heatedimagination. At length she struck the strings,and played a low sweet prelude with such exquisitedelicacy, and yet such masterly execution, thatthe whole company were entranced in wonder, andnone more so than the Poet. She then raised hervoice, whose divine tones thrilled to his very soul.PROSE AND POETRY. 369The air was her own composition, and of matchlessbeauty; but what was his astonishment at recognising in the Poetry to which it was adapted, thevery words which were inscribed upon the scroll. Herose from his seat, and approached the beautifulsongstress. Like his own Adam, he " hung overher enamoured." He forgot his hopes, his ambition, his travels, the place in which he was; heforgot even the extraordinary way in which he firstbecame acquainted with her. The recollection ofall was lost in the intense delight with which helistened to the flood of melody which she waspouring forth. At length she came to the concluding verses of the Madrigal: -

-

" Se chiusi m'uccidete,Aperti che farete! "and as she warbled the last line, turned her head,and beheld the bright blue eyes of the Poet, asthough his whole soul was concentrated in thosetwo orbs, gazing upon her. A slight tremorshook her frame; a deadly paleness overspreadher face; and she sank senseless upon the ground.This incident created general confusion. Thewhole company crowded round the harp, andbeheld the beautiful Leonora, pale and senseless,R 3370 MISCELLANEOUSin the arms of the Poet, while her Mother waschafing her temples in an agony of distress. Atlength Milton and Adriana succeeded in conveying her out of the room into the open air. It wasa bright and beautiful night. The moon was ridinghigh, shedding a mild pale light upon the watersof the Tiber, the venerable monuments of theEternal City which frowned upon it's banks, andthe lofty summits of the Appenines towering inthe distance. The night-wind crept from leaf toleaf, and gently agitated the waters of the river;while from a neighbouring grove the notes of thenightingale were borne upon the breeze. The genial influence of the air, and the fragrance of athousand odorous flowers, which bloomed aroundher, soon revived Leonora. The first objectswhich she beheld, on opening her eyes, were those" stelli mortali," which had been the cause of thisconfusion. A smile played upon her lip, althougha deep blush overspread her cheeks, as she saidto Milton, " I believe, Sir, we have met before,and I hope you will pardon the inconsiderate follyof an enthusiastic girl."" Talk not of pardon!" interrupted the Poet," divine Leonora! talk of joy, of rapture! Theheavenly form which I fancied an insubstantialPROSE AND POETRY. 371vision is corporeal, is vital, and I hold it in myarms! "We believe the lady blushed, and gently disengaged herself, according to the received dicta ofdecorum on such occasions. The Poet, however,still retained enough favour in her eyes, and inthose of her Mother, to be allowed to accompanythem home, and to obtain permission to call uponthem on the following morning." And may I," said Adriana, as the Poet wastaking his leave, " may I beg to know, Signor, towhom we are so greatly indebted?"66 My name," he answered, " is Milton."Milton!" exclaimed both ladies, as with afeeling of solemn awe, they retreated for a fewpaces, and then, with a deeper feeling of enthusiastic admiration, advanced, and each took hold ofone of his hands. A crimson blush suffused theface of the beautiful Leonora at recognising, inthe handsome sleeper, the mighty Bard, by whosewritings she had been spell- bound for many anhour of intense and delighted interest. He hadnot yet given to the world his master-work, andthus rendered the high encomiums of Selvaggi andSalsilli no hyperbole; but that scarcely less gloriousemanation of his genius, Comus, as well as L'Allegro, Il Penseroso, Lycidas, and some of his372 MISCELLANEOUSimmortal Sonnets, had already appeared, and wereread, and justly appreciated both in England andItaly. The permission which he had obtained toappear the next day at their residence, was nowtransformed into something between an injunctionand a petition. He then took a reluctant leavefor the purpose of rejoining the assembly at theCardinal's, and apologising for the absence of thesyrens, which was readily excused on the score ofthe illness of the younger one.The remainder of the evening passed withoutthe occurrence of any incident, the record ofwhich would be likely to interest our Readers. ThePoet, whose fine person and fascinating mannershad more than confirmed the feelings of admirationwhich his divine writings had created, retired, thetheme of universal eulogy. He retired, but not torést; the image of Leonora haunted his wakingthoughts, and formed the subject of his dreams:again he fancied himself among the Appenines;again the fairy figure approached and dropped thescroll; again he stretched forth his hand, but moresuccessfully than before; he reached hers; whensuddenly the scene changed, and he found himselfin the Saloon of the Barberini Palace, with thebeautiful songstress, pale and senseless, in hisarms.PROSE AND POETRY. 373He arose feverish and unrefreshed; and whilethe divine tones of Leonora's voice seemed tobe still ringing in his ears, he seized his pen, andcomposed the following elegant Latin verses:-" AD LEONORAM ROME CANENTEM.Altera Torquatum cepit Leonora poetam,Cujus ab insano cessit amore furens.Ah miser! ille tuo quantò felicior ævoPerditus et propter te, Leonora foret!Et te Pieriâ sensisset voce canentemAurea maternæ fila movere lyræ;Quamvis Dircæo torsisset lumina PentheoSævior, aut totus desipuisset iners;Tu tamen errantes cæca vertigine sensusVoce eadem poteras composuisse tuâ;Et poteras, ægro spirans sub corde, quietemFlexamino cantu restituisse sibi."Which have been thus translated by Dr. Symmons:-" TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME.Another Leonora's charms inspiredThe love that Tasso's phrensied senses fired;More blest had been his fate were this his age,And you th' inspirer of his amorous rage.Oh! had he heard the wonders of your song,As leads your voice it's liquid maze along;374 MISCELLANEOUSOr, seen you in your Mother's right commandThe Lyre, while rapture wakes beneath your hand;By Pentheus' wildness though his brain were tost,Or his worn sense in sullen slumber lost,His soul had check'd her wanderings at the strain;The soothing charm had lull'd his stormy brain;Or, breathing with creative power had drivenDeath from his heart, and open'd it to Heaven."These lines were despatched by the Poet earlyin the morning to Leonora, and he himself wasnot long in following. His second interview withthe fair syren was deeply interesting to both. Thecharms and talents of Leonora made an impressionon the heart of the Bard, which he found himselfunable to control; and in the feelings with whichthe former now regarded Milton, there was less ofadmiration for the Poet, than of affection for thehandsome and accomplished Englishman who satbeside her. Our Readers, therefore, will not besurprised to hear that this visit lasted long, andwas quickly succeeded by another and another.The ladies shortly afterwards leaving Rome forMantua, Milton escorted them to the latter place,and fixed his temporary abode there, where hisattentions to Leonora became still more marked.The keen apprehension of Adriana soon detectedthe state of their hearts, but the feelings whichPROSE AND POETRY. 375the discovery awakened in her own, were by nomeans of an unmingled character. The accomplishments, both mental and personal, of herDaughter's suitor had gained the admiration andesteem of the Mother; but his transalpine birth,and heretical creed, presented obstacles to theunion, which, although to her they did not appearinsuperable, would, she feared, be deemed so byother members of the family, and especially byher Son; who was an officer in the service of theRepublic of Venice, a bigoted adherent to theChurch of Rome; of fierce and ungovernablepassions; and accustomed to rule with despoticauthority in all the concerns of the family. When,therefore, Milton formally announced himself toAdriana, as a suitor for her Daughter's hand, shedid not affect to disguise her own approbation ofthe proposal , but informed him that it would benecessary that Leonora's relations, and especiallyher Brother, should be consulted . Milton, whowas not ignorant of the temper and character ofthe soldier, felt much chagrined at this intelligence,but proposed to take a journey to Venice immediately, for the purpose of advocating his suit inperson. The entreaties of Adriana, who anticipated dangerous, if not fatal consequences, fromso abrupt a proceeding, induced him to relinquish376 MISCELLANEOUShis design. She undertook to break the matter toher son by degrees; but, as she had no doubt thatthe first intelligence would bring him, foaming withfury, to Mantua, she advised Milton to withdrawhimself for a short time from that city. This advice the Poet determined to adopt; especially ashe had lately received several pressing invitationsfrom the Marquis Villa to visit him at Naples.His parting interview with Leonora was of themost tender description; vows of eternal fidelitywere made on both sides; and sighs, and tears, andprotestations, were lavished with even more thanamatory prodigality.At Naples the Poèt was received with openarms by Manso. This fine old man, who had beenthe friend and patron of Marino and of Tasso,bestowed on the still more illustrious Bard whonow visited him, the most flattering marks of distinction. He acted as his cicerone during his stayin Naples; conducting him through the Viceroy'sPalace, and all the other public buildings whichusually attract the notice of strangers; and alsointroduced him to the circle of his friends, comprising the most illustrious and distinguished menin Naples. The manners and conversation ofMilton were such as to make him a welcome guestwherever he went; and to Manso in particular thePROSE AND POETRY. 377Poet's society became every day more fascinating.That he was a heretic appeared to him to be hisonly fault, and this he considered as more a misfortune than a crime. Manso's Epigram on thissubject is well known:-" Ut mens, forma, decor, facies, mos, si pietas sic,Non Anglus verum herclè Angelus ipse fores."And though the pun in this distich seems to defytranslation, yet, as Dr. Symmons has attempted it,we give his version for want of a better:-" With mind, form, manners, face, did faith agree,No Angle but an Angel would'st thou be."All the attractions of the society and scenery ofNaples did not, however, make Milton forgetfulof Leonora. He wrote to her often, and fervently; and it was from this place that he addressedto her those beautiful Italian Sonnets, which wefind amongst his Poems. To these he received themost tender replies; accompanied, however, withthe unwelcome intelligence that her brother haddeclared himself hostile to their union, and haduttered threats of personal violence to Milton if hepersisted in his suit. The Poet, in answer, renewed his protestations of unaltered love, and declared his determination never to resign her but378 MISCELLANEOUSwith his life. He told her that her brother's threatscould not daunt him; and that his heart, althougheasily subdued by love, was bold enough to encounter any danger; which sentiments we findbeautifully expressed in the following Sonnet: -" Giovane piano e simplicette amante,Poi che fuggir me stesso in dubbio sonoMadonna a voi del mio cuor l'humil donoFarò divoto; io certo a prove tanteL'hebbi fedile, intrepido, costante,De pensieri leggïadro, accorto e buono;Quando rugge il gran mondo, e scocca il tuono,S'arma di se e d'intero diamante.Tanto del forse, e d'invidia sicuro,Di timori, e speranze, al popol use,Quanto d'ingegno, e d'altor valo vago,E di cetra sonora e delle muse.Sol troverete in tal parte men duro,Ove Amor mise l'insanabil ago."" Lady! to you, a youth unknown to art,Who fondly from himself in thought would fly,Devotes the faith, truth, spirit, constancy,And firm , yet feeling temper of his heart;Proved strong by trials for life's arduous part.When shakes the world, and thunders roll on high,All adamant, it dares the storm defy,Erect, unconscious of the guilty start;Not more above fear, envy, low desire,And all the tyrants of the vulgar breast,Than prone to hail the heaven-resounding Lyre,High worth, and genius of the Muse possest:PROSE AND POETRY. 379Unshaken, and entire, and only foundNot proofa*gainst the shaft, when Love directs the wound."Milton continued to reside at Naples for abouta month, during which time no event occurredworth recording; except that one night as hewas returning to his own lodgings from the Palace ofthe Marquis, he received a wound in theback from a stiletto. He hastily drew his sword,and faced his adversary, whom he found to be atall thin figure in a mask. The contest was short,and would have proved fatal to Milton, for the assassin was his superior, both in strength and skill,had not a party of the Police come up just as hewas on the point of being overpowered. The villain made one desperate, but unsuccessful, aim atMilton's breast, and then fled with incredible speed.His pursuers were unable to overtake him, but hismask having dropped off during the contest, it washoped that he might yet be identified and secured.A strict search was set on foot the following day,but no trace of him could be discovered. Milton'swound was slight, and soon healed; and the onlyconsequence of this encounter was a determinationon his part, whenever he ventured into the streetsof Naples at so late an hour, to go less ostentatiously ornamented; for he had worn, suspended380 MISCELLANEOUSround his neck, by a gold chain, a portrait ofManso set in diamonds, which had been presentedto him by that nobleman, and which, he had nodoubt, had tempted the cupidity of the robber.Our Poet had passed a whole fortnight withoutreceiving any letters from Leonora, although hehad, during that period, written repeatedly andanxiously to her; when, dreading the worst from herbrother's violence, he determined to proceed immediately to Mantua. He took a sorrowful leaveof his friends in Naples, especially of Manso,with whom he left as a parting gift those fineLatin verses, in which he has immortalised hisnoble friend.On his arrival at Mantua, he hastened to theresidence of Adriana. He enquired if Leonorawas within, and heard with rapture that she was inthe little apartment, which was called her Musicroom. He resisted the anxious importunities ofthe domestic, who admitted him, to suffer him toannounce him, determining to enjoy the surprisewhich his arrival would occasion. He softly ascended the staircase, and arrived at the door ofher apartment. As he approached , he heard sighsand weeping. The door was half open, and ashe leaned gently forward, he was surprised atseeing a tall thin male figure seated by the side ofPROSE AND POETRY. 381Leonora. His surprise was changed into horror,when, on looking in his face, he recognised the features of the assassin who had assaulted him in thestreet of Naples. He grasped his sword, and wasabout to spring upon him, fearing that he wouldcommit some violence upon Leonora, when hesaw the latter take the assassin's hand, and kiss itfervently. Horror rooted his feet to the ground:he drew his mantle closely over his face, so as tocover every part of it except his eyes, while helistened in breathless anxiety to the followingdialogue:-66 Why," said Leonora, " why will you talk thuscruelly? If you love me no longer, at least pityme!""Pity you! pity one so utterly lost! EvenHeaven itself, all merciful as it is , withholds it'spity from the damned. ""Alas!" she sobbed, " I have committed nocrime. ""No crime!" he exclaimed; call you it no crimeto love a wretch like this? an Englishman! a heretic! one who has even visited the infamous Galileo in his dungeon."" And, yet, Antonio," she said, "he is brave,and wise, and kind, and generous; can it be acrime to love such an one, dear Brother?"382 MISCELLANEOUSMilton started! Antonio turned round; thePoet, placed in a dark recess, with his face andform muffled in his cloak, would have escaped hisobservation, but his eyes flashing with the fires offury and horror, arrested the attention of the bravo.""Tis he! 'tis he! " exclaimed the latter: " Iknow that fiend-like glare; hell and heresy are init. Unhand me, Sister, or, by Heaven, the stiletto, when it enters his breast, shall be reekingwarm from your own."He sprung like an emancipated tiger from thegrasp of his Sister, and rushed towards Milton," Oh! spare him! save him!" exclaimed Leonora.She rushed between them as the stiletto was raisedin the act to strike , and her bosom formed at oncea shield for that of Milton, and a sheath for the fatal weapon.She sunk upon the ground, bathed in blood;and even the monster who was the author of thistragedy was moved. "Support her," he said toMilton, " help me to hold her up.""It is in vain! all is in vain!" shrieked the Poet;as he clasped her hand, and gazed earnestly in herface. She fixed her eyes upon his until they closed.One gentle pressure of his hand; one slight quivering of her lips; and then the temple of the immortal Spirit was an uninhabited ruin.PROSE AND POETRY. 383Antonio fled howling from the chamber of death;and Milton sunk upon the bosom of the murderedbeauty. We have but little to add. The feelings ofthe unhappy Adriana may be better conceived thanexpressed. She survived her daughter but twelvemonths, and ended her days in a Convent. Milton, when the first paroxysm of grief had subsided,resolved to travel into Italy and Greece, in orderto divert his melancholy. The troubles, however,which just then broke out in England, made himabandon this design and return to his native country; " For I esteemed it," said he, " dishonourablefor me to be lingering abroad, even for the improvement of my mind, when my fellow citizenswere contending for their liberty at home."The death of Leonora made a deep impressionon the minds of all classes; and the superstitiousused to dwell with awe upon the extraordinary fulfilment of the prophecy contained in the verseswhich she had inscribed upon the scroll. Those"stelli mortali❞ had literally proved the cause ofall her ills, and ultimately of her death; and theeyes of Milton were for a long time compared tothe heel of Achilles; as the only part neglected,and the part which was destined to prove fatal." HOMMAGE AUX DAMES," 1825.384 MISCELLANEOUSTOTTERIDGE PRIORY.A REVERIE IN HERTFORDSHIRE.WERE you ever, my dear Reader, at the villageof Totteridge? If not, put your horse to yourgig this moment; drive past the pleasant villagesof Holloway, Finchley, and Whetstone; and,turning sharp round to the left, you will find agreen lane, so quiet, so rural, so solitary, and sucha declivity, that you will stand as fair a chance asany man in the world of breaking your neck, orgetting your throat cut, before you get to the endof it. Supposing neither of those interesting incidents were to occur, you will find at the end, along straggling Village, scarcely containing a dozenhouses, but extending perhaps over a couple ofmiles of ground. There are several houses hereof rare antiquity; but the spirit of modern innovation and improvement has found it's way amongthem, and a parcel of trim dapper brick and stonefronts, in the modern style of building, have madePROSE AND POETRY. 385their appearance, and stare the ancient denizensof the place out of countenance. The most interesting of the old houses is the Priory; said by theinhabitants to be of an age which I dare not mention to my incredulous Readers. However, it iscertainly of no modern date, but a gothic ecclesiastical structure, built in the style which wasmost prevalent in this Island in the reign of Elizabeth. The cowled Monks, the bare-foot Friars,the chaunted Mass, the solemn Vespers, alas!alas! all these have disappeared; and, instead ofthem, melancholy change! you meet with nothingbut happy countenances, pleasant conversation,cheerfulness, and hospitality.But, this is rambling from the main objectof my Paper. My indulgent Readers, however,know my way, and will pardon it. I had not beenlong under this roof, before I learned that thehouse had formerly been occupied by the celebrated Lord Chesterfield, the prince of diplomatists and dancing-masters. This information I acquired from my worthy Host, with whom I was sitting, tête-à- tête, after dinner. Strangely enough,it's effect, aided, I suppose, by the wine which Ihad drunk, was to set my body at rest, and mymind at work. My corporeal eyelids closed overthe organs of vision suddenly, as if they had aS386 MISCELLANEOUSweight of lead upon them, but instantly “ mymind's eyes" opened, and I found myself still occupying the same chair, at the same table, in thesame room; but my Host was gone; and insteadof him, I found standing near me an aristocraticallooking gentleman, of fifty years of age, perhaps, or," by'r lady, some threescore." I instantly knewthis person to be no other than my Lord Chesterfield . He was dressed most fastidiously, in thefashion of the period to which he belonged.wore a long flowing peruque, most elaboratelypowdered; a blue coat, with a velvet collar, andenormous buttons; a waistcoat which, in our degenerate age, would be assigned only to personsof the dimensions of Daniel Lambert; and afrilled shirt, with lace ruffles; round his left legwas tied the riband of the Garter, while he held aco*cked hat in his right hand, and a gold-headedcane under his left arm .HeThis courteous, but antiquated figure salutedme civilly, but coldly; and I returned his attentions in the same manner. He, however, continued bowing so long, -bowing, as our friendRichard Martin, M.P. would say, like a Masterin Chancery, that I plainly perceived his intention was to bow me out.--" Pardon me, my Lord," said I; " but this ismy domicile for to-night. "PROSE AND POETRY. 387Exceedingly happy to see you, Sir, " he replied; " but you must be aware that this mansionis not your property."" Nor yours, either, my Lord, I apprehend,now, whatever it may have been a century ago.I take the liberty of presuming that it at presentappertains to my friend, Mr. Dashville."And pray, Sir, who is Mr. Dashville?" saidthe Spirit, peevishly.66 Will you taste his wine?" said I, handing hima glass, " and then you may give something of aguess at him.""With all my heart," returned his Lordship." It is a hundred years since I tasted wine, andtherefore it is no wonder that I feel rather thirsty.-Excellent! excellent!" he added, after emptying his glass. " I have no doubt that Mr. Dashville is a most worthy gentleman; and, if youplease, we'll drink his health."Wenow got very sociable, and I could not helpinforming his Lordship of my late interview withBen Jonson; but it had not the effect which Ianticipated."Ben Jonson," he said, 66 was a clever man,but he was a bear; and besides that, he frequentedtaverns, and kept low company."66 My Lord!" exclaimed I, in a tone of surs 2388 MISCELLANEOUSprise, "the company which he kept was composedof Shakspeare, Spenser, Fletcher, Donne, -"""No matter for their names," interrupted he;"they were vulgar fellows, not fit for a man offashion to think or talk of. We keep aloof fromall such."""Really, my Lord,” said I, " I am surprisedthat a fine gentleman like yourself, should haveever condescended to put your foot into so unfashionable a place as the grave. "" True, true; ' tis an unfortunate necessity.There is good company there, though, could onebut keep it select. But, pardon me, Sir, you aremost hideously clothed. "Thus saying, he turned me round, adjusted myhair so as to look as much like a peruque as possible; flung some of his own powder upon it; andthen proceeded to pull my linen and waistcoatabout, even to the operation of tearing." Hold! hold! my dear Lord!" I exclaimed,in a tone of supplication. " I shall never be ableto shew my face in Hyde Park, or Bond-street, ifyou go on in this manner. We dress in a verydifferent style now, from what you and your contemporaries did."A smile of serene contempt passed over thefeatures of the defunct Peer, as I made this ob-PROSE AND POETRY. 389servation, and I could plainly perceive that all hisdead blood was roused. He, nevertheless, managed to master his emotion as well as a dead mancould be expected to do it, and proceeded." I dare say that is very true," said he; " forI have seen most awful changes in the fashions, asexemplified by the various occupants of this house,who have usually been persons of bon- ton. In thefirst family which succeeded me, the pink offashion was the heir. He was of the real Mr.Jessamy breed. He had passed a twelvemonth inParis, where he acquired a becoming contemptfor his own country and it's manners; and learnedjust nothing at all of the country which he visited,but a few phrases of the language, with which heso managed to lard his conversation, as to render itunintelligible to a native of either nation. Hewas always seized with a violent spasmodic affection if he passed a filthy fellow of a ploughman ora haymaker; and once kept his bed for fiveweeks with a violent cold, brought on by the circ*mstance of a person in a wetgreat coat having satdown in the same room with him. He was a gentleman of very tender and sympathetic habits; although he once discharged his whole household,because he found a bottle , containing a favouritecosmetic, broken, and could not discover the indi2390 MISCELLANEOUSvidual author of the accident. He at length diedof immoderate grief for the loss of a favouritemonkey, to whom he bore a great resemblance,and with whom he was on terms of extraordinaryintimacy. The two animals were so much alike,that, were it not that the one wore a tail, and theother a sword, it would have been difficult to discover the difference.By the time that the next tenant took possession, the fashion had materially altered. Logicand disputation were the order of the day, and allour fine gentlemen were infidels. The Bible wasconsidered as the most facetious book in the world,and the most immoderate laughter that I everheard, was that roared out overthe story of Balaamand his ass. The occupant of the Priory, althoughhe did not believe in the existence of his own soul,yet, like Hobbes, he paid the compliment to thoseof others, by believing that they revisited the earthafter death, and he was consequently most dismally afraid of apparitions. He died one nightof excessive terror, caused by a friend whoshewed his kindness and his wit, by arraying himself in a white sheet, plastering his face, and proceeding with a lighted taper in his hand, into hisbedchamber." The house was now shut up for some time, andPROSE AND POETRY. 391reported to be haunted; nay, the ghost of our freethinking friend is said still to walk in it's most ancient chambers. At length it was bought cheap bya dashing young fellow, who drove his own four- inhand, at a time when that accomplishment wasconsidered the very acmé of aristocratical education. The Coronet was not worthily surmounted ,except by a coachman's cap; the gold stick, theField-marshal's baton, and the Steward of theRoyal household's wand of office, were consideredas worthless baubles, in comparison with a Jehu'swhip; and the seat nearest the Throne was a station neither so enviable, nor so honourable, as thetop of a coach- box. The gentleman, however,who tenanted the Priory, soon finished his career;for, on turning one evening short round with hisfour greys down Totteridge-lane, he was thrownfrom his high estate;' and picked up lifeless ,and weltering in his blood,' like Darius of old.""A most melancholy termination, my Lord, "said I, " of such an ambitious and well- spentlife. But pray who succeeded the Charioteer? Isuppose some character of a similar stamp?""" No, no," replied the loquacious ghost; "theCharioteer had nearly outlived the fashion of whichhe was the breathing mirror, and when the youngHonourable Tom Hardfist took possession of these392 MISCELLANEOUSpremises, boxing was the order of the day. Noperson without a swelled lip, and a pair of blackeyes, could presume to take his seat in the Houseof Peers; nay, the blue riband itself was considered an inferior distinction to the black eye. Eventhe Ladies shared in the general mania; and as weall know that in that sex there is not so beautifula feature as black eyes, so that those who had themisfortune to be born with blue or hazel, had nowa short and easy means of remedying the defect,and becoming at once handsome, and in the fashion.Totteridge Priory was now converted into a boxing arena. All the most eminent pugilists of theday exhibited their science there to the great delight of the proprietor; until one day, Mr. Hardfist received such a severe blow upon his chest,that he was obliged to take to his bed, and, afterlingering two or three weeks, died in great agony. "" A most extraordinarily varied succession oftenants, my Lord, " said I; " and although I amno great admirer of your system of fashion andmanners, still I cannot hesitate in giving it thepreference over all that you have enumerated asfollowing after it. But pray, who filled the vacantseat of Mr. Hardfist?"66 Nay 66 , nay," said the noble ghost, we shallbe getting too near the present times, my friend;PROSE AND POETRY. 393and I do not like to talk scandal even in my grave;so, good evening to you. "66 Nay, nay," said I, starting up, and knockingdown two or three glasses, " I cannot part withyou so easily."-This effort broke my reverie;and, on opening my eyes, I perceived no one nearme, but my Host." What is the matter?" said he:have enjoyed your nap?”" I hope you" My nap!" I exclaimed, " I do not understand you; where's Lord Chesterfield?"" Lord Chesterfield!" was the ejacul*tion in reply;" I have seen no such person. "By degrees I recovered my recollection; and,as an atonement for breaking the glasses, I wasobliged to narrate my dream at the tea-table.Such as it is , I told it; and such as it is, I give itfor the perusal of my fashionable Readers." NEWS OF LITERATURE," 1826.s 3394 MISCELLANEOUSTHESHAKSPEAREAN ELYSIUM.A FEW evenings ago, after I had spent severalhours in the perusal of Shakspeare, and while mymind was occupied in reflecting upon that amazinggenius which had " exhausted worlds, and thenimagined new," one of those reveries to which Ihave lately been subject, stole over my senses. Ifancied myself seated in a crazy boat, upon asluggish stream, over which a sturdy fellow of awaterman was rowing me. " Whither are youcarrying me, my friend?" said I."To the other world! " he replied, in a gruffvoice, which caused a thrill throughout my wholeframe."To the other world!" exclaimed I; " pray onwhat part of it do you intend to land me?"" I have orders," said he, " to take you to theShakspearean Elysium. "PROSE AND POETRY. 395This was a place of which I had never heardbefore; and I therefore begged him to explainhimself more fully.66 Why, Master," said he, you must knowthat this Shakspeare created a world of his own;and filled it, moreover, with such a vast varietyof characters, that, when their appointed timescame, Pluto declined admitting them into hisdominions; saying, that he had no room for them,unless he turned out his own subjects: this placewas, therefore, created purposely for their reception, in which, as in the other, there is both anElysium and a Tartarus. All the characters invented by the Poet are sent to Elysium; exceptingthe very few that he has ill drawn, which, together with his bad puns, his bombast, and hisindelicacies, are despatched to Tartarus; and also,excepting his historical personages, who, beingnatives of the real substantial world above, are, ofcourse, under the dominion of Pluto."66;Indeed," said I, " this is a rare place to visitbut although you, saving your presence, are marvellously ill-favoured, you do not exactly answerthe descriptions which I have read of that grimferryman, Charon."No," said he, sulkily; " I am not exactly he,although my occupation is similar: I am the Boat-396 MISCELLANEOUSswain mentioned in the " Tempest," and fill thisoffice at the instigation of an old brute of a Neapolitan lord, named Gonzalo; who prophesied thatI should be hanged in the other world, and hasdone all he could to make me wish myself so inthis."By the time that my Ferryman had told me thusmuch, our boat had reached the shore. The firstthing that I did upon landing was to look out forthat " gentleman with three heads," as Mrs. Malaprop calls him, Cerberus. Instead of him, however, I found a good- looking mastiff with only onehead upon his shoulders, who turned out to be noother than our friend Crab, in the " Two Gentlemen of Verona." I soon afterwards learned thatBottom, the Weaver, whose fondness for volunteering his services on all occasions, my Readersmust be aware of, was very anxious to fill thissituation; as he said that he could boast of having,at least, two heads; namely, the one with which hewas born, and the ass's head, which Master Puckhad fixed upon him. The qualifications of Crabwere, however, considered superior, and Bottomwas dismissed to Elysium.Seated upon the Throne ofthese infernal regions,instead of Pluto and Proserpine, I found Tragedyand Comedy. The former saluted me with a veryPROSE AND POETRY. 397condescending bend of the head; and the latter,with a bewitching smile, pointed out to me thegate of Elysium. I entered, and after recovering from the rapture which the delicious atmosphere, and the enchanting scenery excited, Ilooked around in search of some human object ofcuriosity. I found the place very thickly populated, and the inhabitants split into various smallgroups and parties. The first of these which Iencountered, consisted of six or seven persons whowere seated round a table in an arbour, and wereeating and drinking, and making very merry. Isoon found out that they were of that class of characters, nownolonger in existence, so admirably portrayed by the great Poet, called Clowns, or Fools.Touchstone, " one that had been a Courtier," wasin the chair; and around him were ranged Launcelot Gobbo; the bitter and sarcastic, yet, withal,kind-hearted Fool in " King Lear;" the merrysinging Clown in " Twelfth Night," who madesuch irreverent sport of the cross garters of Malvolio; Pompey Bum, in one particular, the greatestof them all; the Shepherd's Son, and Costard;besides several others of inferior eminence. I alsofound this Company pestered by a troublesomefellow, whose object it evidently was to get ad-398 MISCELLANEOUSmitted among them, but who took much pains topersuade them that he despised them immensely,and considered himself infinitely their superior.This person, whom they at length permitted tojoin them, I discovered to be Apemantus. TheGrave-digger in " Hamlet” I learned had long beendesirous of making one amongst them; and at last,having made them a present of a goblet made outof the skull of Yorick, the King of Denmark'sJester, a noted man of their fraternity in his time,he was voted in with acclamation . I soon foundthat Touchstone was the orator and oracle of thecircle; and he had just finished his dissertation uponthe seven causes, and was reading them a Lecture upon things in general, at the time that I approached the party.After leaving this facetious group, I joined aparty of Supernatural beings. Amongst them Ifound that mischievous fellow Puck, pretending tomake violent love to one of the Weird Sisters.The grim lady appeared to be much flattered byhis attentions, and was cooking him a delicatedish of Bat's liver, baked; which she proposed thathe should wash down with a cup of Baboon's blood.The waggish Elf, however, was continually pestering her, by pinching her hips, pulling her beard,PROSE AND POETRY. 399and riding away on her broom- stick. Calibanwas sprawling on the lap of his mother Sycorax,who kissed his lips, patted his cheeks, and fondledthe foul monster like a baby. Tall ladies are saidto be fond of little gentlemen, and accordingly Ifound that Hecate had been guilty of the abductionof Master Peasblossom, the favourite of QueenTitania, and head-scratcher to Nicholas Bottom.This small Adonis seemed by no means proud of thelady's attachment, and was, for a long time, vainlyplotting his escape; until a humble-bee flying pastthem, he sprang upon it's back, and rode awaymerrily to Fairy-land.I next met two ill-looking, yet evidently blustering fellows, moving along at a quick, stealthypace, and casting many an alarmed look behindthem; and about a hundred yards in the rear, I encountered a brace of sturdy-looking old Gentlemen, one of whom carried a leek, and the othera cudgel in his hand. These were indicationssufficient to inform me that the first-mentionedpair were those valorous military gentlemen, Ensign Pistol, and Captain Parolles; and that theirfollowers were the wholesome disciplinarians,Lafeu and Fluellen.Soon afterwards I found two persons in close400 MISCELLANEOUSconsultation, whose scowling brows, darkenedcountenances, and heaving bosoms, denoted muchmental affliction . They were weighing clouds,and measuring ants' legs; casting up cyphers, fathoming the profundity of a puddle, and takingthe dimensions of a freckle on a lady's cheek,which they viewed through a powerful magnifyingglass. The result always appeared to astonish anddistress them exceedingly. I knewthe first by hisblack visage and martial air, to be Othello; andguessed that the other was his fellow-dupe andbrother- sufferer, Leontes.Lear, Hamlet, Jaques, and Timon seemedto be very close associates. Timon was giving avehement description of his sufferings, mental andbodily, when he was interrupted by Lear, whoasked him how many daughters he had? and thequerist shook his head incredulously, when he wasanswered that he had not any. Master Slenderpassed by them, scratching his head violently; uponwhich Jaques, with tears in his eyes, begged himto desist, saying that the small animals he wasannoying, being " native burghers" of his land,had as much right to inhabit there, as he hadto occupy the ground upon which he stood. Slender thought he was laughing at him, and said thatPROSE AND POETRY. 401he would have him up before his cousin, RobertShallow, Esquire, a Justice of the Peace, uponwhich Hamlet told him that he (6was a very, very-peaco*ck! " and bid him go to a Nunnery.I continued walking on, and soon afterwardsfound myself on the banks of a stream which wasof a very different colour from any that I had everseen before. I at first imagined that this must beLethe, or a branch thereof, and I afterwards learnedthat the latter had originally been the case; butthat such was the antipathy between things Shakspearean and Lethean, that as soon as the first ofour Author's characters entered these Elysian fields,the river shrunk from it's channel, and at lengthleft it completely dry. Every one was much puzzled what to do with the deserted bed of the river,until, at the suggestion of Falstaff, it was filledwith sack and sugar. I was, therefore, not muchsurprised to find that worthy knight and his associates seated on it's banks, with wooden bowls intheirhands, where they were joined by several strangers, of whom Sir Toby Belch was the chief, andhe soon became a favourite with his brother knight.Shallow came up to them, and very gravely remonstrated on the dissoluteness of their lives; butfinding that they would not leave their potations,he joined them, saying that as he was in the Com-402 MISCELLANEOUSmission, he might probably be useful in preventinga breach of the peace. On this hint Dogberryand Verges joined the party; alleging, that as theywere the Prince's officers, they could execute hisworship's warrant if necessary . Sir Hugh Evanssat himself next to Falstaff, saying, that it wasunbecoming Christian men to follow such depravedcourses, but that if they would just give him onecup of Sack, he would drink to the amendmentof their lives.The next change that " came o'er the spirit ofmy dream" placed me among a group of Ladies.There I found Rosalind and Beatrice chattingvery familiarly; only I thought that the gentle,though mirthful, spirit of the former seemed occasionlly to shrink at the bitterness of her companion.Imogene and Viola were walking, arm in arm, verylovingly; as were also Juliet and Desdemona. Mrs.Ford, Mrs. Page, Mrs. Fenton, late Anne Page,and numerous other gossips, were seated round atea-table, and inhaling and distributing scandalfrom a beverage, with which they had not the happiness to be acquainted in the world above. Mrs.Quickly was attending uponthemverybusily, thoughshe contrived to bear as large a share in the conversation as the ladies themselves. Such a clatterPROSE AND POETRY. 403and a din, I thought, I had never heard raisedbefore, even by female voices; when suddenlyawaking, I found that the noise proceeded frommy own sweet-voiced better-half, who told me thatmy fire had burnt out, my candle was glimmeringin it's socket, and that, unless I speedily rousedmyself, I must go supperless to bed." NEWS OF LITERATURE," 1826.1404 MISCELLANEOUSTHEDINNER OF THE MONTHS.ONCE upon a time, the Months determined todine together. They were a long while decidingwho should have the honour of being the Host uponso solemn an occasion; but the lot at length fellupon December, for although this old gentleman'smanners were found to be rather cold upon firstacquaintance, yet it was well known that whenonce you got under his roof, there was not a merrier, or more hospitable, person in existence. Themessenger too, Christmas Day, whom he sentround with his cards of invitation, won the heartsof all; although he played several mad pranks, andreceived many a box in return. February beggedto be excused coming to the Dinner, as she wasin very bad spirits on account of the loss of heryoungest child, the twenty-ninth, who had latelyleft her, and was not expected to return for fourPROSE AND POETRY. 405years. Her objection, however, was over-ruled;and being seated at table between the smilingMay, and that merry old fellow October, she appeared to enjoy the evening's entertainment asmuch as any of the Company.The Dinner was a superb one; all the companyhaving contributed to furnish out the table. January thought for the thirtieth time what he shouldgive, and then determined to send a calf's head.February not being a very productive Month, wasalso a littled puzzled, but at length resolved tocontribute an enormous cake, which she managedto manufacture in fine style, with the assistance ofher servant Valentine, who was an excellent fellowat that sort of ware, but especially at Bride- cake.March and April agreed to furnish all the fish;May to decorate the dishes with flowers; June tosupply plenty of excellent cyder; July and August to provide the dessert; September a magnificent course of all sorts of game, exceptingpheasants; which exception was supplied by October, as well as a couple of hampers of finehome- brewed ale; and November engaged thatthere should be an abundance of ice. The rest ofthe eatables, and all the wine, were provided bythe worthy host himself.Just before sitting down to table, a slight406 MISCELLANEOUSsquabble arose about precedency; some of theCompany insisting that the first in rank was January, and some that it was March. The host, however decided in favour of January, whom he placedin the seat of honour, at his right hand. November, a prim, blue-nosed old maid, sat at his left;and June, a pleasant, good- tempered fellow,although occasionally rather too warm, sat opposite him at the end of the Table.The Dinner was admirably served. Christmasday was the principal waiter; but the host hadbeen obliged to borrow the attendance of some ofhis guests' servants, and accordingly Twelfth-night,Shrove-Tuesday, and Michaelmas-day, officiated invarious departments: though Shrove-Tuesday wasspeedily turned out, for making rather too freewith a prim, demure servant-maid, called GoodFriday, while she was toasting some hot-cross bunsfor the tea-table.Ashort, squab, little fellow, called St. Thomas'sday, stood behind December's chair, and officiatedas toast-master; and much merriment was excitedby the contrast between the diminutive appearanceof this man, and the longest day, who stood behind June, at the other end of the table. MasterThomas, however, was a very useful fellow; andbesides performing the high official duty, which wePROSE AND POETRY. 407have mentioned, he drew the curtains, stirred thefire, lighted and snuffed the candles, and, like allother little men, seemed to think himself of moreimportance than any body else.The pretty blushing May was the general toastof the company; and many compliments werepassed upon the elegant manner in which she haddecorated the dishes. Old January tried to bevery sweet upon her, but she received him coldly;as he was known not to be a loyal subject, and tohave once stolen a Crown and Sceptre, and hiddenthem in a grave; and May, who was loyal to theback-bone, had much trouble in finding out, andrestoring them. January at length ceased to persecute her with his attentions, and transferredthem to November, who was of the same politicsas himself, although she had not been quite sosuccessful in supporting them. Poor May hadscarcely got rid of her venerable lover, before thatsentimental swain April, began to tell her that hewas absolutely dying for her. This youth was onemoment all sunshine, and smiles, and rapture; andthe next he dissolved in tears, clouds gatheredupon his brow, and he looked a fitter suitor forNovember than for May; who having at last hintedas much to him, he left her in a huff, and enteredinto close conversation with September, who al-408 MISCELLANEOUSthough much his senior, resembled him in manyparticulars.July, who was of a desperately hot temper, wasevery now and then a good deal irritated by March,a dry old fellow, as cool as a cucumber, who wascontinually passing his jokes upon him. At onetime July went so far as to threaten him with aprosecution for something he had said; but March,knowing what he was about, always managed tokeep on the windy side of the Law, and to throwdust in the eyes of his accusers. July, however,contrived to have his revenge; for, being calledupon for a Song, he gave " The dashing WhiteSerjeant" in great style, and laid a peculiar emphasis upon the words " March! March! away!"at the same time motioning to his antagonist toleave the room.April having announced that it was raining hard,January was much perplexed as to how he shouldget home, as he had not brought his carriage. Atone time, when he was looking very anxiously outof the window to discover if there were any starsvisible, October, at the suggestion of May, askedhim if he thought of borrowing Charles's wain tocarry him, as he had done so great a kindness toit's proprietor? This put the old fellow into sucha passion, that he hastily seized his head-gear, aPROSE AND POETRY. 409red cap, sallied out through the rain, and wouldmost likely have broken his neck in the dark, hadnot February sent her footman, Candlemas-day,after him with a lanthorn, by whom he was guidedin safety to his lodgings in Fog- alley.On the retirement of the Ladies, -February,May, August, and November, -the Host proposedtheir healths, which were drank with the usualhonours; when April, being a soft- spoken youth,and ambitious of distinction as an orator, beganto return thanks for them in a very flowery speech;but was soon coughed down by December andMarch; and March, by the bye, at length got intosuch high favour with his old enemy July, that thelatter was heard to give him an Invitation, saying,that if ever he came to his side of the Zodiac, heshould be most happy to see him. October toldthe Host that, with his leave, he would drink nomore wine, but that he should be glad of somegood home-brewed, and a pipe. To this Decemberacceded, and said he should be happy to join him,and he thought his friend March would do theMarch having nodded assent, they set to,and a pretty puffing and blowing they made amongthem. April, however, continued to drink Madeira; while June, July, and September, stuck,with exemplary constancy, to the Burgundy.same.T410 MISCELLANEOUSAfter repeated summonses to the drawing-room,they joined the Ladies at the tea-table. November drew herself up, and affected to be quiteoverpowered by the smell of smoke, which March,October, and December had brought in with them;although it was well known that the old lady herselfcould blow a cloud as well as any of them. October seated himself by May, and said he hopedthat his pipe would not have the same effect uponher, as upon her Aunt; and after having verygracefully assured him, that she was not at allannoyed by it, he told her, that he would makeher exercise her own sweet pipe before the evening was much older; which, instead of annoying,would delight every body. August, a grave statelymatron of extraordinary beauty, although perhapsun peu passé, officiated as tea-maker. GoodFriday, who by this time had recovered the frightinto which Shrove-Tuesday had thrown her, handedabout the toasted buns, and Swithin, a servant ofJuly, was employed to keep the tea- pot suppliedwith water, which he too often did to overflowing.Tea being over, the old folks went to cards;and the young ones, including October, who managed to hide his years very successfully, to thePiano-forte. May was the Prima Donna, anddelighted every one, especially poor April, whoPROSE AND POETRY. 411was alternately all smiles and tears, during thewhole of her performance. October gave them ahunting Song, which caused even the card- tablesto be deserted; and August sang a sweet melancholy Canzonet which was rapturously encored.April both sang and played most unmercifully; butthe company had an ugly trick of yawning overhis comic songs, and were ready to expire withlaughter at his pathetics.At length, Candlemas- day having returned fromseeing old January home, his mistress Februarytook leave of the company. April, who was a littlethe worse for the wine he had drunk, insistedon escorting November; although she had severalservants in waiting, and her road was in an oppo.site direction to his own. May went away in herown carriage, and undertook to set Juned own,who lived very near her. The road was hilly andsteep, but her coachman, Ascension-day, got thehorses very well to the top; and July and Augustboth walked home, each preceded by a dog- day,with a lighted torch. September and October,who were next door neighbours, went away in thesame hackney-coach; and March departed as hecame, on the back of a rough Shetland poney." NEWS OF LITERATURE," 1826.T2412 MISCELLANEOUSEVERY DAY AT BREAKFAST.THE Seven Days of the Week, hearing that theMonths had dined together, were not a little vexedand puzzled at the circ*mstance, being anxious todo something of the same sort, and yet feeling thatthey were by no means in a condition to managethe affair so splendidly as their rivals. Every oneknows that a Month is a person whose importanceis, at least, eight and twenty times superior to thatof a Day, and, therefore, for the latter to attemptto emulate the former, would have been only apractical illustration of the fable of the Ox and theFrog. Still, as the Days very significantly asked," What would the Months be without them?"was, therefore, unanimously resolved, that theyshould have some meal or other together, to shewtheir spirit; and, as a Dinner was out of the question, it was at length determined that they shouldhave a Breakfast instead, and that Monday, theItPROSE AND POETRY. 413first lay day- not lady, —of the week, should havethe honour of being their entertainer.Before entering upon a detail of what passed atBreakfast, I may as well introduce my dramatispersona to my Readers. Monday, the Host, hadthe reputation, among many persons, of being aluna-tic, an idea to which his name gave somesort of countenance. He was, however, as far asI could learn, a jovial, good- tempered fellow,whom every body liked, although a little wild andeccentric. He was too fond of encouraging thelower orders to lie in bed in the morning, and tospend the rest of the day in idleness and drunkenness; and was consequently much reverenced bythat class of people, who went so far as to canonizehim under the title of Saint Monday. He was,at the same time, not without his enemies; for,frequently having occasion to escort some youngurchins to School at the expiration of the vacations, they fixed upon him the nickname of BlackMonday.Tuesday bore a great resemblance to her nextdoor neighbour; but she was, on the whole, a muchsteadier person. She was, nevertheless, a great frequenter of festivals; and at Easter, Whitsuntide,and Shrovetide, there was no one better knownthan she especially as she was also particularly cele-414 MISCELLANEOUSbrated for her skill in the manufacture of pancakes.Wednesday was an Irish Catholic Priest; veryzealous and very scrupulous, but withal a merry,good humoured person. He was particularlyanxious about the observation of fast days. Fasting,he said, being a peremptory injunction of theChurch; though he would add, in an under tone, itshould never be done on an empty stomach.Thursday had no distinguishing features of character; he was a " fellow of no mark or likelihood: " one of those harmless, innocent, insipidpersons who are met with at every table, whetherit be at Breakfast, Dinner, or Supper. Sometimes, when he was drunk, he would take it intohis head to boast of his descent from the Saxondivinity, Thor, a piece of Pagan exultation, whichexcited great horror in all companies.Friday was a prim old Lady, of the same religious persuasion with Wednesday.She was,however, most celebrated for being a very unluckyperson; as she never sat down to table withoutcrossing her knife and fork, spilling the salt, orbeing the occasion of some other inauspiciousomen.Saturday was a Jewish Rabbi of great learning,zeal, and, in his own way, Piety. He, however,PROSE AND POETRY. 415carried his liberality so far as to have no objectionto take a Breakfast or Dinner with a Christian:provided that the said Breakfast or Dinner wasgratis, and was a good one.Sunday was a Clergyman of the Church of England; and most particularly orthodox, especiallyin his preference of Port wine to that frenchified,papistical, beverage, Claret. He hated the RomanCatholics, principally on account of their advocacyof fasting. The Romish Church has very reasonably complained that it's tenets are not understoodby Protestants, and, had the worthy divine been alittle more in the secret, I suspect that he wouldnot have found their fasts quite such self-denyingordinances as he imagined. He moreover heartilydespised the Jews for their Creed generally, butparticularly because they disliked roasted pig, eventhough it should be a tithe- pig. He was, nevertheless, a person of great learning, talent, and benevolence; and took much pains to instruct and edifythe lower classes. Since the days of Cromwell,however, he had become a little puritanical. Hewould sometimes take offence at being designatedby his right name, and insist upon being called theSabbath a title , the possession of which, Saturdaywould always dispute with him, and, in the opinion416 MISCELLANEOUSof many, both Jews and Christians, the latter hadmost reason on his side.They were in no want of attendants, for theyhad all the four-and- twenty hours at their beck andcall. They contented themselves, however, with theservices offour, namely, Morning, Noon, Evening,and Midnight. The first was a rosy-faced boy,very handy and clever, who waited at table. Noonwas the cook; and she laboured hard in her vocation, as her burning cheeks and greasy foreheaddemonstrated. Evening, a pretty black-eyedbrunette, received the dishes at the door; andMidnight, a strong, broad- backed negro, officiatedat the side-board in the character of butler.Before sitting down to breakfast, Sunday wascalled upon to say grace, which he did ratherlengthily. During the time which he thus occupied, the Catholics told their beads; the Jew puthis tongue into his left cheek; Monday yawned;Tuesday's mouth watered; and Thursday staredat the reverend orator with eyes and mouth wideopen, and features, which indicated at the sametime wonder and impatience, expressing , as wellas dumb looks could, the same sentiments asChristopher Sly when at the Theatre, " "Tis amost excellent piece of work! -would ' twere done!"PROSE AND POETRY. 417The Dejeûné was, of course, à la fourchette.So distinguished a company could not be expectedto sit down to a dreary co*ckney Breakfast, composed of a cup of sugared slop, and a bit of grilledbread, smeared over with butter. The fish, according to the French fashion, was not the first,but the third course; an arrangement which Wednesday highly approved of, because, he said, itgave him an opportunity of satisfying both his appetite and his conscience; as he could breakfastupon flesh and fowl first, and fast upon the fish afterwards; whereas, a fast once commenced, no Christian ought to break it until the appointed period .Friday, who, at the request of the host, occupied the head of the table, did nothing but commitblunders, both in her feeding and her carving.She ate the bread of her neighbour on her righthand, drank the wine of him on her left, andloaded the Jew's plate with huge slices of ham, thequality of which the latter contrived not to find outuntil after he had swallowed them..The Divine, having somewhat blunted his appetite, began to think about the Protestant faith,and commenced a furious attack upon the Priest,for the worship of images. The latter having atlast convinced him that the Papists entertained nosuch tenet, Master Sunday shifted his ground, andT3418 MISCELLANEOUSsaid that if they were not guilty of that species ofidolatry, no one could deny that they worshippedthe golden calf: a jest at which he himself laughedheartily. Wednesday answered it by taking apinch of snuff, and saying, that he had heard asmuch imputed to the Clergy of the ReformedChurch; that it was at least certain that they worshipped the fatted calf of good flesh and blood;and that they not merely coveted, but got possessionof their neighbour's goods, as they cared moreabout the tenth calf than the tenth Commandment.This dispute threatening to grow rather warm, thehost, to put an end to it , called upon Wednesdayfor a Toast: not a very common thing, perhaps,to do at Breakfast; but this, you will remember,gentle Reader, was rather an uncommon Breakfastparty. Wednesday, like a good Catholic , immediately gave " the memory of the Saints;" uponwhichMonday rose up and said, that, as he was theonly Saint present, he begged leave to returnthanks for the honour just conferred. Fridaylooked very grave, and seemed shocked at theimpiety ofthe host; but Wednesday only laughed,and said they would dispense with Monday'sspeech, if he would favour them with a Song.This proposal being unanimously supported, Monday, after the usual apologetic preliminaries, suchPROSE AND POETRY. 419as " bad cold, -can't remember, —well, —ahem!"-began as follows:-" Talk of days that are gone! why they're all left behind,From Monday and Tuesday to Sunday;Talk of losing a day! why I never could findAman clever enough to lose one day.Once a Pleiad was lost, ' twas an awkward affair,But ' twas felt less in Earth than in Heaven;If all seven were lost, man would feel little care,To whom seven happy days are still given.Come, fill me a bumper of Claret or Port:One is brightest, the other is strongest;May the days of our happiness never be short,And the day we love best be the longest! "By this time, Thursday was particularly drunk,and, feeling that he had had a sufficient portionof wine, began to want punch, a wish whichWednesday observed was natural enough in Judy(Jeudi), as the French called him. Coffee beinghanded about, he contented himself with that beverage, and the eau- de- vie which accompanied it.Being very anxious to exhibit his vocal powers, heat last managed to get the ear of the Company,and bawled, or rather hiccuped out, the followingStanzas:-420 MISCELLANEOUS" Come, fill up the Tankard, the wisest man drank hard,And said, that, when sunken in care,The best cure, he should think, would be found in good drink,For where can cures lurk, if not there?-Trowl, trowl, the bonny brown bowl!Let the dotard and fool from it flee;Ye Sages, wear ivy; and, fond fellows, wive ye;But the bonny brown bowl for me!Let old Time beware, for if he should dareTo intrude ' mongst companions so blithe,We'll lather his chin with the juice of the bin,And shave off his beard with his scythe."This, however, was all of his Song that poorThursday could remember; and soon afterwardshe fell back in his chair, and was carried out ofthe room on the shoulders of the black butler.The Ladies, Tuesday and Friday, now lookedat their watches; and although they knew perfectlywell what the time was before they looked, theyaffected to be vastly surprised when they discoveredthat it was near two o'clock. They, therefore, tooktheir leave; Friday looked very significantly atWednesday, as much as to request him to escorther home, a mode of asking which he did notchoose to understand; but he gave her his blessing.Sunday now began to express very liberal sen-PROSE AND POETRY. 421timents as the wine warmed within him. He saidthat we were indebted to the Catholics for MagnaCharta, and the foundation of those magnificent seatsof Learning and Piety which we now possessed; andhe talked to Saturday about " God's ancient people, the Jews. " Monday, who was nothing of adivine, was, nevertheless, happy to see so muchharmony among his guests, and assented to everything that was said, whether by Papist, Protestant, or Israelite. Sunday, however, at lengthbethought himself of his cloth, and of the time,and having mumbled a thanksgiving grace, whichwas neither so long, nor so well articulated, as thatbefore Breakfast, the party broke up, and eachman took his departure, not remarkably well qualified for the duties of the day." NEWS OF LITERATURE," 1826.422 MISCELLANEOUSA YOUNG FAMILY.

You must know, most dear and courteous Reader,that I am a Bachelor: not an old one, Heavenforbid but one of whom the Ladies say, " Whata pity it is that Mr. Wiggins does not marry! "The fact is, I am sole lord of my hours, and ofmy limbs. If I stay out late, I need neither lie,nor look sulky, when I get home. I need notsay, My dear Peggy, I really was the first tocome away;" nor run the fearful alternative ofeither losing good company, or enduring a curtain- lecture. Besides all this, I am not surroundedby a sweet young family: but of that “ anon, anon,Sir."66Having thus introduced myself to your notice,allow me to perform the same kind office for oneof my friends. George Cheviot and I wereschool-fellows. He was neither very wise, norvery rich; but he was merry, and good- tempered:PROSE AND POETRY. 423qualities which I could then better appreciate thanthe others, and which I am still heretical enoughto think the most valuable of the quartette. Hewas, moreover, " a tall fellow of his hands," andas brave as a lion; and I, I don't blush to own it,was a weak, puny chitling, and, as it is called inschool- phraseology, wanted somebody to take mypart. George, accordingly, fought my battles,while I wrote his exercises; and thus we becamesworn associates. We played, and romped, andrioted together; and, like the Vicar of Wakefield'sparties, what we wanted in wit we made up inlaughter; which, after all, I still consider the betterthing of the two.After leaving School, we both settled in thegreat city, until George, who had a touch of thesentimental in his character, fell in love with, andmarried, a journey-woman Milliner; the consequence of which was that all his friends cuthim, and none of his family would go within a mileof his residence. For my own part, I make it arule to cut all my friends as soon as they get married: I do not like the transformation of a merry,frank, sociable companion, into an important family man. Neither do I like their invariablepractice of laying every fault upon the shoulders oftheir bachelor acquaintances; for I have known424 MISCELLANEOUSmore than one man, who, when rated by his amiable help-mate for his late hours, has excused himself by saying, " My dear, Mr. Wiggins wouldnot let me come away. " Notwithstanding thetenacity with which I usually adhere to this rule,I determined to make an exception in favour ofpoor George. His grandfather had been a butcher, and his father a master carpenter, and therefore it is not surprising that his mother should beshocked at his demeaning himself so vastly. I,however, who have always been of opinion that, ina free country like ours, a man has a right to makea fool of himself, if he chooses, looked at the affairwith different eyes, and we continued as warmand friendly as ever. Although I did not call athis house, we met at our usual places of resort;and I found less difference in George than in mostof my married acquaintances. He was, nevertheless, constantly expatiating on the joys of a marriedlife, and especially of seeing a young family growingup about you; of " teaching the young idea how toshoot;" and of watching the archness, the vivacity,and the simplicity, of the pretty prattlers. Oneday when he was particularly eloquent on thesetopics, and I was as acquiescent and insincereas a man ought to be on such occasions, he extorted from me a promise to dine with him, that IPROSE AND POETRY. 425might have the satisfaction of seeing him surroundedwith his young family.The appointed day arrived, and I was usheredinto the presence of my friend, and his lady. Shewas dressed very finely, had a mincing air of gentility, and I should have thought her rather pretty,if no one had said any thing about her. In onecorner of the room stood a cradle, and close by it-no matter what; socks, and caps, and ribands,were thrown about the room in " most admireddisorder;" the chimney smoked; several panes ofthe window were broken; and three or four squalid ,dirty-faced children were sprawling on the ground ,and roaring very lustily. That is a sweet littlefellow, Madam," said I; -Heaven forgive me forthe lie! —pointing to a blear- eyed, bloated - cheekedcupid in her arms."6"6It's a girl, Sir," said she, bursting into a horselaugh; " yes! " she added, patting the bloatedcheek aforesaid, " and it is a girl, though hethought it was a boy, my pretty!"This was the commencement of my bacalareanblunders, and the Lady for some time regardedme with a contempt, which, had I mistaken herown sex , could hardly have been surpassed.To recover myself from my confusion I took apinch of snuff; my friend and his wife begged to426 MISCELLANEOUSparticipate in the contents of my box, which theyhad no sooner done, than every obstreperousurchin in the room roared out to be allowed to dothe same. This petition was followed by a halfangry altercation between husband and wife, theformer saying, " Oh let them, pretty dears!" andthe latter, " Indeed they shall not." The causeof indulgence, however, triumphed; and everydirty pug- nose in the room, was speedily madedirtier, at the expense of my black rappee. Theconsequences may easily be guessed: a round ofsneezing, snivelling, coughing, crying, and scolding,commenced, until the adventure was closed by ageneral wiping of eyes, and blowing of noses,throughout the apartment. For myself, I did nothing but commit blunders all the while I was inthe house. Now my foot was on the nose of one,and now my elbow was in the eye of another; andI could not stir an inch without being in dangerof dislocating a boy's neck, or fracturing a girl'scranium. I am afraid that I shall be thought a sadbarbarian, for not being rapturously fond of children but give me a cat, say I; I can play withthat as long as I please, and kick it out of the roomwhen I'm tired of it.The announcement that Dinner was ready relieved me, at least for a time, from my many mise-PROSE AND POETRY. 427ries. While descending the stairs, George whispered in my ear, asking me, if I did not thinkhim the happiest fellow in the world, to which Ireplied, " My dear boy, I quite envy you." Wesat down to table, and after many apologies fromthe Lady, who hoped that I should find somethingto my liking, but who feared that her fare wouldbe found but homely, as her time was so muchoccupied by her young family, the dishes wereuncovered. Whatever the dinner might be in fact,I found that it was intended to be considered avery good, and even a handsome one. The Lady,who, before her marriage, had lived at the westend of the town, where she made shifts, -in moresenses than one, -petticoats, and mantuas, in agarret, wished to pass for a person of some tasteand fashion. Accordingly, the table, instead ofthe ordinary viands which the Englishman delighteth to masticate, exhibited a profusion ofwould-be French and Italian dishes. Of these Imerely counterfeited to eat, excepting one or two;among which was a fricassee, for so my hostessstyled a blue-looking leg of a fowl, floating in asea of dirty lard and salt butter, and a plate ofmacaroni, so called , which tasted exceedingly likemelted tallow. The best thing which I could get428 MISCELLANEOUShold of, was a bottle of their Champagne, whichwas really very tolerable Perry. Our dinner didnot, however, pass over without the usual accompaniment of much uproariousness from the roomabove, which the sweet young family continued tooccupy, and Betty was every five minutes despatched from the dining-room to still " the dreadful pother o'er our heads. "Lord Byron says,-66 a fine family's a fine thing,Provided they don't come in after dinner,"and I agree with him; especially in the proviso.At my friend George's, however, the young familywas introduced with the dessert. The eldest, awide-mouthed, round-shouldered girl, took possession of the better half of my chair; where sheamused herself the greater part of the evening bypicking cherries out of my plate, and spitting thestones into it: The sweet innocent whose sex Ihad aspersed, filled , and well filled , the arms ofMamma; and two greedy, greasy boys stood oneon each side of my worthy host. These contrivedto entertain themselves in a variety of ways: putting their fingers into the preserves; drinking outof their father's wine glass; eating till their sto-PROSE AND POETRY. 429machs were crammed to satiety, and bellowing outbravely for more. As a variety, we were occasionally treated with crying, scolding, and threatsof a whipping, which operation I at one time positively expected to see performed in my presence.At length the Lady and the " family " retired , andamidst boasting of his happiness on George's part,and felicitations on mine, we continued to ply thebottle. Rather to my surprise, I found that thePort-wine was admirable, but poor George, as Iafterwards learned , had sent for two or three bottlesfrom a neighbouring Tavern, for which he had paidan admirable price. After emptying the decanterson the table, I found that I had had enough, andproposed joining the interesting domestic group upstairs. In consequence, however, of my friendbeing very pressing, and of my being " nothingloath," I consented that another bottle should bebroached. The order to that effect being speedilycommunicated to Betty, she met it with the astounding reply, " There is no more, Sir. " Although I told my friend that I was glad of it, andthat I had drank quite sufficient, his chagrinwas manifest. He assured me that although hiswine-cellar was exhausted, he had plenty of spiritsand cigars, of which he proposed that we should430 MISCELLANEOUSimmediately avail ourselves. To this, however,I positively objected, especially as I knew thatthe ci-devant journey- woman Milliner, consideredsmoking ungenteel.I have but little more to tell you; we adjournedto the tea-table, where nothing passed worth recording. The family was again introduced, forthe purpose of kissing all round, previous to theirretirement to bed. " Kiss the gentleman, Amy,”said the Lady; " and Betty, wipe her face first:how can you take her to the gentleman in sucha state?" Betty having performed this very requisite operation, I underwent the required penance from one and all, with the heroism of amartyr. Shortly afterwards I took leave of myworthy host and hostess, and experienced a heartfelt delight when I heard the door close behindme. I am not in the habit, like Sterne, of fallingdown on my knees in the streets, or clasping myhands with delight, in a crowded highway. StillI could not help feeling, that few as were my positive causes of rejoicing, I was not devoid ofsome negative ones; and, above all, I felicitatedmyself, that I was not the happiest fellow in theworld; that I had not married a journey-womanMilliner; and that I was not blessed with a sweetPROSE AND POETRY. 431young family as my recent experience of thelatter comfort had induced me to think that KingHerod was really not quite so cruel as I hadhitherto considered him." NEWS OF LITERATURE," 1826.432 MISCELLANEOUSTHE COMET.man;A FEW years ago at the little fishing town, orrather village, of G. , on the coast of Cornwall,resided a gentleman, who, from his appearance,might be estimated to be nearly sixty yearsof age; though I have since learned that he wasnot more than forty. Whatever his age might be,he was more than suspected to be the old gentlethat is to say, no other than the Devil himself. Now I, who happened to be obliged, forthe arrangement of some family affairs, to residea month or two at G. , had the misfortune to differfrom my worthy neighbours as to the identity ofthe occupant of the old Manor- house, with theenemy of mankind. In the first place, his dressbore no sort of resemblance to that of Beelzebub,The last person who had the good fortune to get aglimpse of the real Devil was the late ProfessorPorson, and he has taken the pains to describe hisPROSE AND POETRY. 433apparel very minutely, so that I am enabled tospeak with some degree of confidence upon thispart of the subject. The Professor's descriptionruns thus:-" And pray how was the Devil drest?Oh! he was in his Sunday's best:His coat was black, and his breeches were blue,With a hole behind that his tail went through.And over the hill , and over the dale,And he rambled over the plain;And backwards and forwards he switch'd his long tail,As a gentleman switches his cane."The " complement externe" of the old gentleman at G. was quite the reverse of all these. Inthe first place, he had no Sunday's best: the Sabbath and the working day saw him in precisely thesame habiliments, a circ*mstance which confirmedthe towns-people in their opinion; whereas I haveno less an authority than that of Porson for deducing an opposite conclusion from the same premises; because the Devil is scrupulously particularabout his Sunday's apparel. Then again he wasnever seen in a coat, but always wore a loosemorning gown. This, however, was a circ*mstancewhich, in the opinion of all, told decidedly againstU434 MISCELLANEOUShim; for why should he always wear that gown,unless it was for the purpose of hiding his tailbeneath it's ample folds? The goodwives of thetown were especially pertinacious upon this point,and used to eye the lower part of the old gentleman's garment very suspiciously as he took hismorning's walk upon the beach. As to his rambling over hill and dale, in the manner mentionedby the learned Professor, that was quite out ofthe question; for he was a great sufferer by thegout, and wore bandages as large as a blanketround his leg. Whenever this fact was mentioned ,the gossips used to smile, shake their heads, andlook particularly wise: observing, that it wasclearly a stratagem which he resorted to for thepurpose of concealing his cloven foot.Another circ*mstance ought not to be omitted:he never went to the Parish Church, the onlyplace of worship within twenty miles; and afterhe left G. an ivory Crucifix was found in his house,over which there was no doubt, in the opinion ofthe neighbours, that he used to say the Lord'sPrayer backwards, and repeat a variety of diabolicalincantations. I ventured humbly to suggest thathis absence from Church, and the discovery ofthe Crucifix, were proofs, not that he was theDevil, but a Catholic; upon which I was inter-PROSE AND POETRY. 435rupted with a sneer, and an exclamation of-"Where is the mighty difference? "He gave great offence at the house of a Fisherman who lived near him, and strongly confirmedthe prejudices existing against him, by tearingdown a horse-shoe which was nailed at the dooras a protection against witchcraft, and calling theinhabitants fools and idiots for their pains. Seeing,however, the consternation which he had created,he laughed heartily, and threw them a guinea tomake amends. The good folks were determinednot to derive any pecuniary advantages from theDevil's gold, but gave it to their last- born, aninfant in arms, as a plaything. The child wasdelighted with the glittering bauble; but havingone day got it down it's throat, there it stuck,and instant suffocation ensued. The weeping andwailing ofthe family on this occasion were mingledwith execrations on the author of the calamity, forsuch they did not hesitate to term the old gentleman, who had evidently thrown to them this infernalcoin for the purpose of depriving them of theirchief earthly comfort. They were not long in proceeding to the nearest Magistrate, and begginghim to issue his warrant to apprehend the Strangerfor murder. To this, however, his worship demurred; and the good folks then changed theirU 2436 MISCELLANEOUSbattery, and begged to ask, as the guinea was, ofcourse, a counterfeit, whether they could not hangthe Devil for coining? To this his worship replied,that though coining is an offence amounting tohigh-treason, yet the Devil, not being a naturalborn subject of his Majesty, owed him no allegiance, and therefore could not be guilty of thecrime in question. The poor people departed,thinking it all very odd, and that the Devil andthe ' Squire must be in collusion; in which opinionthey were confirmed by a tallow-chandler, who wasthe chief tradesman of the town, as well as a violent Radical, and who advised them to petition theHouse of Commons without delay.I will explain to my readers the secret of thetallow-chandler's enmity. The old gentleman hadof a sudden ceased to buy candles; and had illuminated his house, inside and out, in a strange andmysterious manner, by some means, which, fromthe brimstone-like smell occasionally perceived,were plainly of infernal origin. For several weekspreviously, he had been employing labourers froma distant town, for he did not engage the honestman, whose pick- axe was the only one ever usedby the good people of G. , —in digging trenches, andlaying down pipes, round his house. The townsfolk gazed on in wonder and terror, but at a carefulPROSE AND POETRY. 437distance; and, although they had a longing desireto understand the meaning of all this, cautiouslyavoided any intercourse with the only persons whocould give them the least information, the labourerswho performed the work. At length, one night,without any obvious cause, the lamp before theold gentleman's door, that in his hall, and anotherîn his sitting-room, were seen to spring into lightas if by magic. They were also observed to goout in the same way; and thereupon a smell, whichcould not be of this world, proceeded from them.One day, too, a dreadful explosion took place atthe house, and a part of the garden wall was throwndown; all which were plain proofs that it could beno one but the Devil who inhabited there. Thegood folks of G. had never heard of Gas, or it'sproperties, and I was thought to be no better thanI should be, for endeavouring to explain all thesephenomena by natural causes.There was one more fact which proved, if proofwere wanting, the accusation of the towns-people.He was a great correspondent, and put more letters into the Post-office than all the rest of theinhabitants of G. together. These were generallydirected to Berlin, a town which, after much enquiry, was ascertained to lie in a remote part ofDevonshire, and to be inhabited by a horridly dis-438 MISCELLANEOUSsolute and profane set of people.What wasstranger still, no part of the superscription couldever be read but the word Berlin: the rest wassuch a piece of cramp penmanship, that the mostexpert scholar in G. could not decipher it. ThePostmaster, without having ever heard of TonyLumpkin, or his aphorisms, knew that. " the in- .side of a letter is the cream of the correspondence,"and ventured one day to open an epistle which themysterious one had just dropped into his box. Thecontents, however, did not much edify him. Nota letter was there which resembled any one in theEnglish alphabet; it was, therefore, some devilishand cabalistic writing, invented for purposes ofevil. My opinion being asked , I positively refusedto look at the inside; but having perused the superscription, I said that it was addressed to someone in Berlin, which was a city in Germany; andthat, although I did not understand German, Ihad no doubt that the direction was written in theGerman character. Being asked whether evenI, with all my scholarship, could read it? I candidlyconfessed that I could not; upon which I wasasked, with a sneer, whether I expected to persuade them that the Germans were such a nationof fools as to write in a hand which nobody couldread? The good folks were also firmly persuadedPROSE AND POETRY. 439that, whatever I might say, I was in my conscienceof the same opinion with them, and my refusal tolook at the inside of the letter was set down asa plain proof that I was afraid of receiving somemysterious injury if I did.Myown opinions were so much opposed to thoseof my neighbours, that I felt rather a desire to beacquainted with the Stranger, whose manners appeared to be open and good-humoured, althoughtesty and eccentric . My naturally shy dispositionprevented me, however, from accomplishing mywish; and, besides this, I found that my ownaffairs were enough to occupy me during the shorttime that I remained at G. I learned that theperson who had created so much consternation hadarrived at that town about four months before, andthat the house had been previously engaged forhim. Who, or what he was, or why he camethither, no one who tried could ascertain. Whether I could have attained this wonderful heightin knowledge, I do not know; for, having something else to do, I never made the attempt. Atlength the old gentleman and his two servants, anelderly female, and a stout active man who talkeda gibberish, so they called it at G., which no onecould understand, were one day seen very busilyemployed in packing up. A queer-looking, broad-440 MISCELLANEOUSbottomed vessel, from which a boat was lowered,appeared off the town. The three Strangers salliedout with their boxes, and after depositing a packetat the Post-office, addressed to the former proprietorof the house, which was supposed to contain thekeys, and was ordered to be kept until the arrivalof the person to whom it was addressed, they gotinto the boat, rowed to the ship, and were neverseen, or heard of, more.During the short time afterwards that I continued at G. I was subject to repeated lectures formy obstinate infidelity as to the old gentleman'sdiabolisms; and whatever argument I advanced insupport ofmy own opinion, it was sure to be metby the unanswerable question , " If he was not theDevil, who the Devil was he?"Many years rolled over my head, and the memory of the mysterious inhabitant of G. had entirely vanished from it, when circ*mstances, whichit is unnecessary to detail, obliged me to pay avisit to the north of Germany. At the close of afine autumnal day in 1824, I found myself enteringthe splendid city of Berlin. Both my good steedand I were so much fatigued that a speedy restingwas very desirable for us; but it was long beforeI could choose an Hotel out of the immense numbers which presented themselves to myview. SomePROSE AND POETRY. 441were far too magnificent for my humble means,and the mere sight of their splendour appeared tomelt away the guilders in my pocket. Some, onthe other hand, were such as no 66 man of wit andfashion about town " would think of putting hishead into. At length I thought that I had discovered one which looked like the happy medium ,and the whimsicality of it's sign determined me toput up there. The sign was Der Teufel; andsince my departure from G. I had acquired a sufficient mastery of the German language to knowwhat those two words signified in English. I entered, and, after taking all due precautions forthe accommodation and sustenance of the respectable quadruped who had borne me upon his backfor nearly half the day, I began to think of satisfyingthat appetite which disappointment, anxiety, andfatigue, had not been able entirely to destroy, Myworthy Host, who did not seem to bear any resemblance to his sign, unless I could have theingratitude to ascribe his magical celerity andmarvellous good fare to the auspices of his patronSaint, quickly covered my table with a profusionof tempting viands; while a flask of sparklingHochheim towered proudly, like a presiding deity,above the whole. My good humour, however,was a little clouded when I saw plates, knives, andU3442 MISCELLANEOUSforks, laid for two instead of one.this?" said I to the Landlord." What means" Mein Herr," answered he, submissively, " agentleman who has just arrived will have the honourof dining with you."" But I mean to dine alone," I replied angrily;not that I doubted the sufficiency of the meal,but I did not choose to be intruded upon by strangers." Pardon me, mein Herr," said the Landlordwith unabashed impudence, " I have told Herrvon Schwartzmann that Dinner is ready. I amsure you will like his company. He is a gentlemanofgood fortune and family, and is moreover- "" I care not who he is," exclaimed I; " but inorder to cut thy prating short, and to get my dinner, if I must needs submit, let him come in atonce, even if he be the Devil himself!"I had scarcely uttered these words when I startedas if I had really seen the person whom I mentioned, for the room-door opened, and in walkedthe old gentleman who had caused so much wonder and terror at G. The superstitions of the people of that town, the sign of the Inn where I nowwas, the old fellow's name, Schwartzmann, whichbeing interpreted in English, meaneth black man,my own petulant exclamation, and the sudden ap-PROSE AND POETRY. 443parition of this unaccountable person , were circ*mstances that crowded my brain at once, andfor an instant I almost fancied myself in thepresence of the foul fiend. " You seem surprised ,"at length said Herr von Schwartzmann, " at ourunexpected meeting; and, indeed, you cannot bemore so than I am. I believe it was in Englandthat we met before."" Even so, mein Herr," I answered, encouraged by the earthly tone of his voice, and fancyingthat the good-humoured smile which mantled overhis face must be of this world, and at any ratecould be of no worse origin; 66 even so, mienHerr; and I have often regretted that, placed aswe were among a horde of barbarous peasantry,an opportunity never occurred for our better acquaintance."" It is at length arrived, " he said, filling twoglasses of Hochheim; " let us drink to our betterand our long acquaintance."I pledged the old gentleman's toast with greatalacrity, and it was not until the passage of thewine down my throat had sealed me to it irrevocably, that I reflected upon the sentiment to whichI had drank with so much cordiality; and wasagain shaken with doubts as to the nature of the444 MISCELLANEOUSperson with whom I had avowed my wish to belong and intimately acquainted.I looked upon his feet, " but that's a fable,"and then I looked upon the viands on which hẹwas feeding lustily, whilst I, although he had thecourtesy to load my plate with the best of everything, was wasting the golden moments in idlealarms and superstitious absurdity. The more reasonable man was roused within me, and I fell tothe work of mastication with a zeal and fervourthat would have done honour to Dr. Kitchenerhimself."Well, my friend," said my companion, afterwe had pretty well satisfied the cravings of ourstomachs, our Landlord has this day treated usnobly, and methinks we have not been backwardin doing honour to his excellent cheer. He is anhonest fellow, who well deserves to prosper, andwe will therefore, if you please, drink Success toDer Teufel! "I had raised my glass to my lips when I foundthat the old gentleman meant to propose a toast,but I set it down again right hastily, as soon as Iheard the very equivocal sentiment to which hewanted meto pledge myself. The fiend, I thought,is weaving his web around me, and wishes me toPROSE AND POETRY. 445drink to my own perdition. A cold sweat cameover me; a film covered my eyes; and I thoughtthat I perceived the old man looking askew at me,while his lip was curled with a malignant smile."You are not well," he said, taking my hand.I shrank from his grasp at first, but to my surpriseit was as cool and healthy as the touch of humanitycould possibly be. " Let us retire to our worthyHost's garden; the heat of this room overpowersyou; and we can finish our wine coolly and pleasantly in the arbour.”He did not wait for my consent, but led meout; and our bottle and glasses were very quicklyarranged upon a table in a leafy arbour, where wewere sheltered from the sun, and enjoyed the refreshing fragrance of the evening breeze as it gentlystirred the leaves about us.66 They were odd people, " said my friend," those inhabitants of G.; they stared at me,and shrank from me, as if I had been the Devilhimself. "66 " And in truth, mein Herr," I replied, theytook you to be no less a personage than he whomyou have just named.”The old gentleman laughed long and heartily atmyinformation. " I thought as much," he said, " itis an honour which has been ascribed to me from446 MISCELLANEOUSthe hour of my birth, and in more countries than.one."" Indeed," said I, " you speak as if there weresomething in your history to which a Strangermight listen with interest. May I crave the favour of you to be a little more communicative?""With all my heart!" he replied: “ but in truthyou will not find much to interest you in my story.A little mirth and a good deal of sorrow make upthe history of most men's lives, and mine is notan exception to the general rule. I was bornsome threescore years ago, and was the son andheir of the Baron von Schwartzmann, whose Castleis a few miles to the southward of this city; and Iam now, by your leave, mein Herr, the Baronhimself." I made him a lower bow than I hadever yet greeted him with. "My Mother hadbrought into the world, about two years previously,adaughter of such extraordinary beauty, that it wasconfidently expected that the next child would besimilarly endowed; but I was no sooner presentedto my Father than he was so startled at my surprising ugliness, that he retreated several paces, andinvoluntarily exclaimed, The Devil! ' This wasa Christian name which stuck to me ever afterwards, and which, as you can bear witness, followed me even into a foreign country.PROSE AND POETRY. 447""My Godfather and Godmother, however,treated me much more courteously than my ownnatural parent, and bestowed upon me, at thebaptismal font, the high- sounding appellationof Leopold. Nothing worth describing occurredduring the years of my infancy. I cried, andlaughed, and pouted, and sucked , and was kissedand scolded, and treated, and whipped, as often,and with the same alternations, as children in general; only I grew uglier, and justified the paternalbenediction more and more every day. In duetime I was sent to a grammar- school. As I hadat home been accustomed to independence andthe exercise of my self-will, I soon became themost troublesome fellow there; and yet, I maynow say it without the imputation of vanity, I contrived, by some means or other, to gain the heartsof all, whether tutors or pupils. For solving atheme, or robbing an orchard; writing nonsenseverses, or frightening a whole neighbourhood;translating Homer into German verse, or beatinga Watchman until his flesh was one general bruise,who could compete with Leopold von Schwartzmann? One day I was publicly reprimanded andpunished for some monstrous outrage, and thenext rewarded with all the honours of the Schoolfor my proficiency in the Classics. In short, it was448 MISCELLANEOUSgenerally agreed that there was not such anotherclever, pleasant, good-tempered, good-for- nothingfellow inthe School. Certainly,' the wise peoplewould say, the Devil is in him!'·"" And now," added the old man, smiling, butsmiling, I thought, somewhat solemnly and sadly," I must let you into the secret of one of myweaknesses. I have ever had the most implicitbelief in the science of Astrology. You stare atme incredulously, and I can excuse your incredulity. You, born in England perhaps some fortyyears ago, can have but few superstitions in common with one whose birth-place is Germany, andwhose natal Star first shone upon him above threescore years before the time at which he is speaking.Observe that Comet," said he, pointing towardsthe west; " it is a very brilliant one, and this isthe last night that it will be visible."" It is the beautiful Comet, " I said, " whichhas shone upon us for the last six months, andwhich first appeared , I think, in the belt of Orion."" True, true," replied the Baron; " it is theComet which, according to the calculations of Astronomers, visits the eyes of the inhabitants of thisworld once in twenty years, and I can confirm theaccuracy of their calculations as far as relates tothree of it's visits. You will smile, and think thatPROSE AND POETRY. 449the eccentricity of my conduct and character issufficiently accounted for, when I tell you thatthat Comet is my natal planet. On the very dayand instant that it became visible, sixty years andsix months ago, did I first open my eyes in myFather's castle. There is, however, a traditionconnected with this Comet, which has sometimesmade me uneasy. It runs thus: -' The Comet that's born in the belt of Orion,Whose Cradle it gilds, gilds the place they shall die on.'However, this is it's third return that I have seen,and being now as hale and hearty as ever I was,the tradition, if it means any thing to interest me,means that I shall live on to the good old age offourscore. But to return to my history. I was afervent believer in Astrology; and thought that ifI could meet with a person, either male or female,who was born under the same Star, to that personI might safely attach myself, and our destiniesmust be indissolubly bound together. I had, however, never met with such a person, and as yet Ihad never seen my natal Star, for on the day onwhich I entered the University of Halle I wantedthree days of attaining my twentieth year. Thosethree days seemed the longest and most tediousthat I had ever passed; but at length the fateful450 MISCELLANEOUSmorning dawned, on the evening of which, a fewminutes before the hour of eight, the hour of mybirth, I hastened to a secluded place at a shortdistance from the town, and planting myself there,gazed earnestly and intently upon the belt of Orion.I had not gazed long before a peculiar light seemedto issue from it, and at length I saw a beautifulComet, with a long and glittering train, rising inall its celestial pomp and majesty. How shall Idescribe my feelings at that moment? I felt as itwere new-born: new ideas, new hopes, new joys,seemed to rush upon me, and I gave vent to myemotions in an exclamation of delight. This exclamation I was astonished to hear repeated asaudibly and fervently as it was made, and turning round, I beheld a female within a few paces ofme to my right." She was tall, and exquisitely formed: herdress denoted extreme poverty; and her eye, whichfor a moment had been lighted up with enthusiasm ,was downcast, and abashed with a sense of conscious inferiority, when it met mine. Still I thoughtthat I had never beheld a face so perfectly beautiful. Her general complexion was exquisitely fair,without approaching to paleness, with a slight tingeof the rose on each cheek, which I could not helpthinking that care and tenderness might be able toPROSE AND POETRY. 451deepen to a much ruddier hue. Her eyes wereblack and sparkling, but the long dark lashes whichfell over them seemed, I thought, acquainted withtears. Her hair was of the same colour with hereyes, and almost of the same brightness . I gazedfirst upon her and then upon the newly-risen Comet, and my bosom seemed bursting with emotionswhich I could not express, or even understand.·" Sweet girl! ' I said, approaching her, andtaking her hand, what can have induced you towander abroad at this late hour?'" The Comet!' said she, the Comet!' pointing to it with enthusiasm." It is indeed a beautiful Star,' I replied, andas I gazed I felt as if I were the apostle of truthfor so saying, but here,' I added, pressing mylip to her white forehead, is one still more beautiful, but alas! more fragile, and which oughttherefore not to be exposed to danger.'66 6"Aye,' she said, but it is the Star which Ihave been waiting to gaze upon for many a longyear; it is the Star that rules my destiny, my natalStar! Twenty years ago, and at this hour, was Ibrought into the world.66 Scarcely could I believe my ears. I thoughtthat the sounds which I had heard could not comefrom the beautiful lips which I saw moving, but452 MISCELLANEOUSthat some lying fiend had whispered them in myears; I made her repeat them over and over again.I thought of the desire which had so long hauntedme, and which now seemed gratified; I thought,too, of the beautiful lines of Schiller:-' It is a gentle and affectionate thought,That in immeasurable heights above us,At our first birth this wreath of love was woven,With sparkling stars for flowers!'In short, I thought and felt so much that I fell atthe fair girl's feet; told her the strange coincidenceof our destinies; revealed to her my name andrank; and made her an offer of my hand and heartwithout any further ceremony." Alas Sir!' she said, permitting, but notreturning the caress which I gave her, ' I couldindeed fancy that Fate has intended us to be indissolubly united, but I am poor, friendless, wretched;my Mother is old and bed- ridden; and my Father,I fear, follows desperate courses to procure eventhe slender means on which we subsist.'" But I have wealth, sweet girl!' exclaimed I ,' sufficient to remove all these evils; and here isan earnest of it,' endeavouring to force my purseinto her hands.66 6 6Nay, nay,' she said, thrusting it back, keepPROSE AND POETRY. 453your gold, lest slander should blacken the fair famewhich is Adeline's only dowry!'" Sweet Adeline! beautiful Adeline!' said I,' do not let us part thus. Can you doubt my sincerity? Would you vainly endeavour to interpose abarrier against the decrees of fate? Believe thatI love you, and say that you love me in return.'66"' It is the will of Fate,' she said, sinking inmy arms: Why should I belie what it has written in my heart? Leopold, I love thee.'" Thus did we, who but half an hour previouslywere ignorant of each other's existence, plight ourmutual vows; but each recognised a being longsought and looked for, and each yielded to theoverruling influence of the Planet which was thecommon governor of our destiny. I was anxiousto celebrate our nuptials immediately, but Adelineput a decided negative upon it." What,' she said, were you born under yonStar, and know not the dark`saying which is attached to it?-The love that is born at the Comet's birth,Treat it not like a thing of earth;Breathe it to none but the loved- one's ear,Lest Fate should remove what Hope deems so near;Seal it not till the hour and the dayWhen that Star from the Heavens shall pass away.'454 MISCELLANEOUS·" I instantly recollected the saying, and acquiesced in the wisdom of not acting adversely towhat I believed to be the will of destiny. It willthen be six long months, sweet Adeline!' said I,' ere our happiness can be sealed; but I mustsee thee daily, I cannot else exist.'

6

" Call upon me at yonder white Cottage, ' she 6answered, at about this hour. My Father is thenout; indeed he has been out for some weeks now,but he is never at home at that hour; and my Mother will have retired to rest. Farewell, Leopoldvon Schwartzmann.'"Farewell, dearest Adeline! tell me no moreof thy name. I seek not, I wish not, to know it;tell it not to me until the hour when thou art aboutto exchange it for Schwartzmann.'" Our parting was marked, as the partings oflovers usually are, with sighs, and tears, and embraces, protestations of eternal fidelity, and promises of speedily seeing each other again." The love thus suddenly lighted up within ourbosoms, I did not suffer to die away, or to be extinguished . Every evening at the hour of nine, Iwas at the fair one's Cottage door, and ever foundher ready to receive me; nay, at length I used tofind the latchet left unfastened for me, and I stoleup stairs to her chamber unquestioned. I soonPROSE AND POETRY. 455discovered that her mind and manners were, atleast, equal to her beauty; but the utmost penuryand privation were but too visible around her. Itwas in vain that I offered her the assistance of mypurse, and urged her to accept by anticipation thatwhich must very shortly be hers by right. Thehigh-minded girl positively refused to avail herselfof this offer, and then I could not help at all hazards, endeavouring to persuade her to consent toour immediate union, as that seemed to me to bethe only means of rescuing her from the distressingstate of poverty in which I found her.66 66Say no more, Leopold,' she said, one night,when I had been urging this upon her more strenuously than ever, say no more, lest I should beweak enough to consent, and so draw down uponour heads the bolts of destiny. And, Leopold, Ifind thy presence dangerous to me; let me, therefore, I pray thee, see thee no more until thehour which is to make us one. I dread thy entreating eyes, thy persuading tongue: one shortmonth of separation, and then a whole life ofconstant union. Say that it shall be so, for mysake.'" It shall be so, it shall, for thy sake!' I said.For, bitter as was the trial to which she put me,456 MISCELLANEOUSthe tone and manner in which she implored my acquiescence were irresistible ." Then farewell!' she said, ' come not near meuntil that day. Should you attempt to see meearlier, I have a fearful foreboding that somethingevil will befall us.'" This was the most sorrowful parting which Ihad yet experienced; but I bore it as manfully asI could. Three, four, five days, did I performmy promise, and never ventured near the residenceof Adeline. I shut myself up in my own chamber, where I saw no one but the domestic whobrought my meals. I could not support this lifeany longer, and at last I determined to pay a visitto Adeline." Whither would you go, mein Herr?' saidthe Centinel at the City gate, through which I hadto pass." I have business of importance about a milefrom the City,' I answered; ' pray do not detainme.'" Nay, mein Herr, ' replied the Centinel, ' Ihave no authority to detain you; but if you willtake the advice of a friend, you will not leave thecity to-night. Know you not that the noted banditBrandt is suspected to be in the neighbourhoodPROSE AND POETRY. 457this evening; that the Council have set a priceupon his head; and that the City bands are nowengaged in pursuit of him?'6" Be it so,' I said; a man who is skulkingabout to avoid the City bands is not, methinks, anenemy whom I need greatly fear encountering.'" The Centinel shook his head, but allowed meto pass without further question . Love lent wingsto my feet, and already was Adeline's white Cottage in sight, when a violent blow on the back ofmy head with the butt-end of a pistol, stretchedme on the ground, and a man, whose knee wasimmediately on my chest, pointed the muzzle atmy head."" "Deliver your money,' he said, or you havenot a moment to live .'"66 · Ruffian,' I said, ' let me go; I am a Student at Halle, son of the Baron von Schwartzmann.Thou durst not for thy head attempt my life .'66 That we shall soon see,' said the villaincoolly; and my days had then certainly been numbered, had not three men, springing from a neighbouring thicket, suddenly seized the robber, disarmed him, and then proceeded very quietly tobind his hands behind him." Have we caught you at last, mein HerrX458 MISCELLANEOUSBrandt?' said one of my deliverers.been a long time looking out for you.meet to part only once, and for ever.'We haveNow we" The Robber eyed them sullenly, but did notdeign a reply, as they marched him between themtowards the town. We soon entered the gate,through which I had already passed, and wereconducted before the Commander of the garrison,who, as Brandt had been placed by proclamationunder military law, was the Judge appointed todecide upon his case.66 My evidence was given in a very few words,and, corroborated as it was by that of the policemen, was, I perceived, fatal to Brandt. I couldnot help, however, entreating for mercy to thewretched criminal.66 6 ·Nay, Sir,' said the officer, your entreatyis vain. Even without this last atrocious case tofix his doom, we needed only evidence to identifyhim as Brandt, to have cost him all his lives, werethey numerous as the hairs upon his head. Awaywith him, and hang him instantly upon the ramparts.'·" I thank thee, Colonel,' said the Bandit, formy death. It is better to die than to witness suchsights as have torn my heart daily. It was only toPROSE AND POETRY. 459save a wretched wife and daughter from starvation,that I resorted to this trade. But, fare thee well!Brandt knows how to die.'" The unhappy man was instantly removed;and finding that there was no further occasion formy attendance, I rushed into the streets in a statethat bordered upon frenzy. The idea that I had,however innocently, been the occasion of the deathof a man, shook every fibre in my frame; andwhile I was suffering under the influence ofthese feelings, the sullen roll of the death-drumsannounced that Brandt had ceased to live." I went home and hurried to bed, but not torest. The violence of the blow which I had received from the Bandit, as well as the mental agonywhich I had undergone, threw me into a dangerousfever. For ten days I was in a state of delirium,raving incoherently, and unconscious of everything around me. At length I arrived at the crisisof my disorder, which proved favourable. Thefever left my brain, and the glassy glaze of myeye was exchanged for it's usual look of intelligenceand meaning. I turned round my head in mybed, and looked towards the window of my chamber. It was evening; the arch of heaven was ofone deep azure, and the Comet was shining in allx 2460 MISCELLANEOUSit's brightness. It's situation in the Heavens, whichwas materially different from that which it occupied when I was last conscious of seeing it, recalled and fixed my wandering recollections of allthat was connected with it. I rang the bell violently, and was speedily attended by my valet,who had watched over me during my illness . Iinterrupted the expressions of delight which thesight of my convalescent state drew from him, byeagerly enquiring what was the day of the month,and the hour." It is the eighth of August, Sir; and theCathedral clock has just chimed seven .'" Heavens! ' I exclaimed, starting from mybed, ' had this cursed fever detained me one hourlonger, the destined moment would have passedaway. Assist me to dress, good Ferdinand, I mustaway instantly.'"6 6 Sir,' said the man, alarmed, ' the Doctorwould chide.'" Care not for his chiding,' said I; I willsecure thee; but an affair of life and death is notmore urgent than that on which I am about to go.'' The good Curate, von Wilden, is below,'said Ferdinand, and told me that he must see you;66"but I dared not disturb you. He was just goingPROSE AND POETRY. 461away when you rang the bell, and is now waitingto know the result.'" I immediately remembered that I had appointed the Curate to meet me at that hour, forthe purpose of proceeding to Adeline's Cottageand tying the nuptial knot between us. I had toldhim the nature of the duty which I wished him toperform, without, however, disclosing so much asto break through the caution contained in the traditionary verses. I lost no time in joining him inthe hall, and proceeded to leave the house, accompanied by him, with as much celerity as possible, lest the intervention of my medical attendant,or some other person, should throw difficulty in theway." We soon reached the open fields . It was abeautiful star-light evening. The Comet was nearlyupon the verge of the horizon, and I was fearfulof it's disappearing before the ceremony of mynuptials could be accomplished. We thereforeproceeded rapidly on our walk. An involuntaryshudder came over me as I passed by the scene ofmy encounter with the Bandit; but just then thewhite Cottage peeped out from among the woodswhich had concealed it, and my heart felt re- assuredby the near prospect of unbounded happiness.462 MISCELLANEOUSWe approached the door: it was on the latch,which I gently raised, and then proceeded, asusual, up the stairs, followed by the Curate. Ithought I heard a low moaning sound as we approached the chamber- door; but it was ajar, andwe entered. An old woman, who seemed scarcelyable to crawl about, was at the bed-side with aphial in her hand; and stretched upon the couch,with a face on which the finger of death seemedvisibly impressed, lay the wasted form of Adeline.' Just Heaven!' I exclaimed, what new miseryis there in store for me?'·" The sound of my voice roused Adeline fromher death-like stupor. She raised her eyes, butclosed them again suddenly on seeing me, exclaiming, "Tis he, 'tis he! -the fiend!-save me, saveme!' The bitterness of death seemed to invademy heart when I heard this unaccountable exclamation. I gasped for breath, and cold drops ofa*gony rolled from my temples. I ventured to approach the bed. I took her burning hand withinmy own, and pressed it to my heart. She againfixed her eyes upon me solemnly, and said, Knowyou whom you embrace? Miserable man, has notthe universal rumour reached thine ear?'""" Dearest Adeline,' I said, for the last tenPROSE AND POETRY. 463days I have been stretched upon the bed of delirium and insensibility. Rumour, however trumpet-tongued to other ears, has been dumb to mine.'"C' You call me Adeline,' she said, ' is that all?'" The hour,' I answered, ' is at length arrived,I thought it would be a less melancholy one, whenthou wert to tell me that other name, ere thou exchanged'st it for ever.'66 ' Know then,' said she, rising up in the bedwith an unusual effort, in which all her remainingstrength seemed to be concentrated, that my nameis Adeline Brandt!'"" For an instant she fixed her dark eyes uponmy face, which grew cold and pallid as her own;then the film of death came over them, and herhead sank back upon her pillow, from which it never rose again."Weak, and sickly, and stricken, as it were, witha thunderbolt, I know not how I preserved my recollection and reason at that moment. I remember, however, looking from the chamber window,and seeing the Comet shining brightly, althoughjust on the verge of the horizon; I turned to thedead face of Adeline, and thought of those illomened lines, -The Comet that's born in the belt of Orion,Whose cradle it gilds, gilds the place they shall die on.'464 MISCELLANEOUS {ble;I looked again, and the Comet was just departingfrom the heavens; it's fiery train was no longer visiand in an instant after the nucleus disappeared." Ihave but little to add in explanation. I learnedthat, on the evening of our meeting, the unfortunate Brandt, who had carried on his exploits at adistance, knowing that a price was set upon hishead, had fled to the house where his wife anddaughter lived, and between whom and him nosuspicion of any connexion existed, resolving, ifhe escaped his present danger, to give up his perilous courses; but that he found those two femalesin such a state of wretchedness and starvation,that he rushed out, and committed the act for whichhe forfeited his life. Had I but asked Adelineher name, this fatal event would not have happened; for I should most assuredly have removedher to another dwelling, and provided in someway for her Father's safety; or, had not the traditionary verses restrained us from mentioning ourattachment to any one until the hour of our nuptials,I should have revealed it to the Bandit, and sotaken away from him every inducement for following his lawless occupation. Ill news is not long inspreading. Adeline heard of her Father's death,and that I was the occasion of it, a few hours afterit took place. The same cause which sent her toPROSE AND POETRY. 465her death-bed roused her Mother from the couchof lethargy and inaction on which she had lain forso many years; and I found that she was thewretched old woman whom I had seen attendingthe last moments of her daughter." The remainder of my history has little in it tointerest you. I left the University, and retired tomy Father's castle, where I shut myself up, andlived a very recluse life , until his death, whichhappened a few years afterwards, obliged me toexert myself in the arrangement of my family affairs. The lapse of years gradually alleviated,although it could not eradicate, my sorrow; butwhen I found myself approaching my fortieth year,and knew that the Comet would very soon makeit's re-appearance, I could not bear the idea oflooking again upon the fatal Planet which hadcaused me so much uneasiness. I therefore resolved to travel in some country where it wouldnot be visible; and having received a pressing invitation from a friend in England to visit his nativeland, accompanied by an intimation that his house,at G. was entirely at my service, I did not hesitateto accept his offer. You know something of myadventures there, especially of the consternationwhich I occasioned by laying down Gas-pipesround my friend's house, in consequence of aX 3466 MISCELLANEOUSletter which I had received from him, requestingme to take the trouble to superintend the workmen. Twenty more years have now rolled overmy head; the Comet has re-appeared, and I cangaze on it with comparative indifference; and asit is just about taking it's leave of us, supposewe walk out and enjoy the brightness of it's departing glory. "I acceded to the old Gentleman's proposal, andlent him the assistance of my arm during our walk." Yonder fence," said he, " surrounds my friendBerger's garden, in which there is an eminencefrom which we shall get a better view. The gateis a long way round, but I think you, and even I,shall find but little difficulty in leaping this fence;I will indemnify you for the trespass: " and hehad scarcely spoken before he was on the otherside of it. I followed him, and we proceeded ata brisk pace towards a beautiful shrubbery, on anelevated spot in the centre of the garden. M.von Schwartzmann led the way, but he had scarcelyreached the summit before I heard an explosion,and saw him fall upon the ground. I hastened tohis assistance, and found him weltering in hisblood. I raised him, and supported him in myarms, but he shook his head, saying, " No, no,my friend, it is all in vain! the influence of thatPROSE AND POETRY. 467malignant Star has prevailed over me. I forgotthat my friend Berger had lately planted springguns in his grounds. But it is Destiny, and notthey, which has destroyed me. Farewell! -farewell!"In these words his last breath was spent; hiseyes, while they remained open, were fixed uponthe Comet, and the instant they closed, the illboding planet sunk beneath the horizon." FORGET ME NOT. " 1827.468 MISCELLANEOUSTHE MAGICIAN'S VISITER.It was at the close of a fine autumnal day, andthe shades of evening were beginning to gatherover the city of Florence, when a low quick rapwas heard at the door of Cornelius Agrippa, andshortly afterwards a Stranger was introduced intothe apartment in which the Philosopher was sittingat his studies.The Stranger, although finely formed, and ofcourteous demeanour, had a certain indefinableair of mystery about him, which excited awe, if,indeed, it had not a repellent effect. His years itwas difficult to guess, for the marks of youth andage were blended in his features in a most extraordinary manner. There was not a furrow in hischeek, nor a wrinkle on his brow, and his largeblack eye beamed with all the brilliancy and vivacity of youth; but his stately figure was bent, apparently beneath the weight of years; his hair,PROSE AND POETRY. 469although thick and clustering, was grey; andthough his voice was feeble and tremulous, yet it'stones were of the most ravishing and soul- searchingmelody. His costume was that of a Florentinegentleman; but he held a staff like that of a Palmer in his hand, and a silken sash, inscribed withoriental characters, was bound around his waist.His face was deadly pale, but every feature of itwas singularly beautiful, and it's expression wasthat of profound wisdom, mingled with poignantsorrow." Pardon me, learned Sir," said he, addressingthe Philosopher, " but your fame has travelled intoall lands, and has reached all ears; and I couldnot leave the fair City of Florence without seekingan interview with one who is it's greatest boastand ornament.""Youare right welcome, Sir, " returned Agrippa;" but I fear that your trouble and curiosity will bebut ill repaid. I am simply one, who, instead ofdevoting my days, as do the wise, to the acquirement of wealth and honour, have passed longyears in painful and unprofitable study; in endeavouring to unravel the secrets of Nature, andinitiating myself in the mysteries of the OccultSciences. "" Talkest thou of long years! " echoed the470 MISCELLANEOUSStranger, and a melancholy smile played over hisfeatures: " thou, who hast scarcely seen fourscoresince thou left'st thy cradle, and for whom thequiet grave is now waiting, eager to clasp thee inher sheltering arms! I was among the tombsto-day, the still and solemn tombs: I saw themsmiling in the last beams of the setting sun. WhenI was a boy, I used to wish to be like that sun;his career was so long, so bright, so glorious! Butto-night I thought it is better to slumber amongthose tombs than to be like him.' To-night hesank behind the hills, apparently to repose, but tomorrow he must renew his course, and run thesame dull and unvaried, but toilsome and unquiet,There is no grave for him! and the nightand morning dews are the tears that he sheds overhis tyrannous destiny."race.Agrippa was a deep observer and admirer ofexternal nature and of all her phenomena, and hadoften gazed upon the scene which the Strangerdescribed, but the feelings and ideas which itawakened in the mind of the latter were so different from any thing which he had himself experienced, that he could not help, for a season, gazingupon him in speechless wonder. His guest, however, speedily resumed the discourse." But I trouble you, I trouble you; then toPROSE AND POETRY. 471my purpose in making you this visit. I have heardstrange tales of a wondrous Mirror, which yourpotent art has enabled you to construct, in whichwhosoever looks may see the distant, or the dead,on whom he is desirous again to fix his gaze. Myeyes see nothing in this outward visible worldwhich can be pleasing to their sight: the grave hasclosed over all I loved; and Time has carried down.it's stream every thing that once contributed to myenjoyment. The world is a vale of tears: butamongst all the tears which water that sad valley,not one is shed for me! the fountain in my ownheart, too, is dried up. I would once again lookupon the face which I loved; I would see thateye more bright, and that step more stately, thanthe antelope's; that brow, the broad smooth pageon which God had inscribed his fairest characters.I would gaze on all I loved, and all I lost. Sucha gaze would be dearer to my heart than all thatthe world has to offer me; except the grave! except the grave! except the grave!"The passionate pleading of the Stranger had suchan effect upon Agrippa, who was not used to exhibit his miracle of art to the eyes of all who desiredto look in it, although he was often tempted byexorbitant presents and high honours to do so,472 MISCELLANEOUSthat he readily consented to grant the request ofhis extraordinary visiter." ""Whom would'st thou see? " he enquired .My child! my own sweet Miriam! " answeredthe Stranger.Cornelius immediately caused every ray of thelight of Heaven to be excluded from the chamber,placed the Stranger on his right hand, and commenced chaunting, in a low soft tone, and in astrange language, some lyrical verses, to which theStranger thought he heard occasionally a response;but it was a sound so faint and indistinct that hehardly knew whether it existed any where but inhis own fancy. As Cornelius continued his chaunt,the room gradually became illuminated, but whencethe light proceeded it was impossible to discover.At length the Stranger plainly perceived a largeMirror, which covered the whole of the extremeend of the apartment, and over the surface ofwhich a dense haze, or cloud, seemed to be rapidlypassing." Died she in wedlock's holy bands?" enquiredCornelius." She was a virgin, spotless as the snow. "" How many years have passed away since theclosed over her? " gravePROSE AND POETRY. 473A cloud gathered on the Stranger's brow, andhe answered somewhat impatiently,many66""Many,! more than I have now time to number. "Nay," said Agrippa, " but I must know; forevery ten years that have elapsed since her deathonce must I wave this wand; and when I havewaved it for the last time you will see her figure inyon Mirror. "66 "Wave on, then, " said the Stranger, and groanedbitterly, wave on; and take heed that thou benot weary."66Cornelius Agrippa gazed on his strange guestwith something of anger, but he excused his wantof courtesy, on the ground of the probable extentof his calamities . He then waved his magic wandmany times, but, to his consternation, it seemed tohave lost it's virtue. Turning again to the Stranger,he exclaimed , Who, and what art thou , man?Thy presence troubles me. According to all therules of my art, this wand has already describedtwice two hundred years: still has the surface ofthe Mirror experienced no alteration . Say, do'stthou mock me, and did no such person ever existas thou hast described to me? ”"Wave on, wave on! " was the stern and onlyreply which this interrogatory extracted from theStranger.474 MISCELLANEOUSThe curiosity of Agrippa, although he was himself a dealer in wonders, began now to be excited,and a mysterious feeling of awe forbade him todesist from waving his wand, much as he doubtedthe sincerity of his visiter. As his arm grew slack,he heard the deep solemn tones of the Stranger,exclaiming, " Wave on, wave on! " and at length,after his wand, according to the calculations of hisart, had described a period of nearly fifteen hundred years, the cloud cleared away from the surfaceof the Mirror, and the Stranger, with an exclamation of delight, arose, and gazed rapturouslyupon the scene which was there represented.An exquisitely rich and romantic prospect wasbefore him in the distance arose lofty mountainscrowned with cedars; a rapid stream rolled in thecentre, and in the fore-ground were seen camelsgrazing; a rill trickling by, in which some sheepwere quenching their thirst; and a lofty palm-tree,beneath whose shade a young female of exquisitebeauty, and richly habited in the costume of theEast, was sheltering herself from the rays of thenoontide sun." "Tis she! ' tis she! " shouted the Stranger, andhe was rushing towards the Mirror, but was prevented by Cornelius, who said, —" Forbear, rash man, to quit this spot! withPROSE AND POETRY. 475each step that thou advancest towards the Mirror,the image will become fainter, and should'st thouapproach too near, it will entirely vanish."Thus warned, he resumed his station, but hisagitation was so excessive, that he was obliged tolean on the arm of the Philosopher for support;whilst, from time to time, he uttered incoherentexpressions of wonder, delight, and lamentation." "Tis she! ' tis she! even as she looked whileliving! Howbeautiful she is! Miriam, my child!can'st thou not not speak to me? By Heaven,she moves! she smiles! Oh! speak to me a singleword! or only breathe, or sigh! Alas! all's silent:dull and desolate as this cold heart! Again thatsmile! that smile, the remembrance of which a thousand winters have not been able to freeze up in myheart! Old man, it is in vain to hold me! I must,will clasp her! "As he uttered these last words, he rushed franticlytowards the Mirror; the scene represented withinit faded away; the cloud gathered again over it'ssurface, and the Stranger sunk senseless to theearth!When he recovered his consciousness, he foundhimself in the arms of Agrippa, who was chafinghis temples and gazing on him with looks of fearand wonder. He immediately rose on his feet,476 MISCELLANEOUSwith restored strength, and, pressing the hand ofhis host, he said, " Thanks, thanks, for thy courtesy and thy kindness; and for the sweet but painful sight which thou hast presented to my eyes."IAs he spake these words, he put a purse intothe hand of Cornelius, but the latter returned it,saying, " Nay, nay, keep thy gold, friend.know not, indeed , that a Christian man dare takeit; but, be that as it may, I shall esteem myselfsufficiently repaid, if thou wilt tell me who thouart. "" Behold! " said the Stranger, pointing to alarge historical picture which hung on the left handof the room.66 ""I see," said the Philosopher, an exquisitework of art, the production of one of our best andearliest Artists, representing our Saviour carryinghis Cross."" But look again! " said the Stranger, fixinghis keen dark eyes intently on him, and pointingto a figure on the left hand of the picture.Cornelius gazed, and saw with wonder what hehad not observed before, the extraordinary resemblance which this figure bore to the Stranger, ofwhom, indeed it might be said to be a portrait.That," said Cornelius, with an emotion of horror," is intended to represent the unhappy infidel who66PROSE AND POETRY. 477smote the divine Sufferer for not walking faster;and was, therefore, condemned to walk the earthhimself, until the period of that sufferer's secondcoming. 'Tis I! ' tis I! " exclaimed the Stranger;and rushing out of the house, rapidly disappeared .Then did Cornelius Agrippa know that he hadbeen conversing with the Wandering Jew!" FORGET ME NOT," 1828.478 MISCELLANEOUSTHE HOURI.A PERSIAN TALE.In the 414th year of the Hegira, Shah Abbas Selim reigned in the kingdom of Iraum. He was ayoung and an accomplished Prince, who had distinguished himself alike by his valour in the field ,and by his wisdom in the cabinet. Justice wasfairly and equally administered thoughout his dominions; the nation grew wealthy and prosperousunder his sway; and the neighbouring potentates,all of whom either feared his power, or admiredhis character, were ambitious of being numberedamong the friends and allies of Abbas Selim.Amidst all these advantages, a tendency to pensiveness and melancholy, which had very earlymarked his disposition, began to assume an absolute dominion over him. He avoided the pleasures of the chase, the banquet, and the Harem;and would shut himself up for days and weeks inPROSE AND POETRY. 479his Library, the most valuable and extensive collection of Oriental literature then extant, where hepassed his time principally in the study of the OccultSciences, and in the perusal of the works of theMagicians and the Astrologers. One of the mostremarkable features of his character was the indifference with which he regarded the beautiful females,Circassians, Georgians, and Franks, who throngedhis Court, and who tasked their talents and charmsto the utmost to find favour in the eyes of the Shah.Exclamations of fondness for some unknown objectwould, nevertheless, often burst from his lips inthe midst of his profoundest reveries; and, duringhis slumbers, he was frequently heard to murmurexpressions of the most passionate love. Such ofhis subjects whose offices placed them near hisperson, were deeply afflicted at the symptoms whichthey observed, and feared that they indicated anaberration of reason; but when called upon to giveany directions, or take any step for the management of the affairs of the nation, he still exhibitedhis wonted sagacity and wisdom, and excited thepraise and wonder of all.He had been lately observed to hold long andfrequent consultations with the Magicians. Thekingdom had been scoured from east to west insearch of the most skilful and learned men of this480 MISCELLANEOUSclass but whatever might be the questions whichAbbas Selim propounded, it seemed that none ofthem could give satisfactory answers. His melancholy deepened, and his fine manly form was dailywasting under the influence of some unknown malady. The only occupations which seemed at allto soothe him, were singing and playing on his Dulcimer. The tunes were described, by those whosometimes contrived to catch a few notes of them,to be singularly wild and original, and such asthey had never heard before; and a Courtier,more daring than the rest, once ventured so nearthe royal privacy as to be able to distinguish thewords of a Song, which were to the followingeffect: -" Sweet Spirit! ne'er did I beholdThy ivory neck, thy locks of gold;Or gaze into thy full dark eye;Or on thy snowy bosom lie;Or take in mine thy small white hand;Or bask beneath thy smilings bland;Or walk, enraptured, by the sideOf thee, my own immortal Bride!I see thee not; yet oft' I hearThy soft voice whispering in mine ear;And, when the evening breeze I seek,I feel thy kiss upon my cheek;PROSE AND POETRY. 481And when the moon-beams softly fallOn hill, and tower, and flower- crown'd wall,Methinks the patriarch's dream I see,The steps that lead to Heaven and Thee!I've heard thee wake, with touch refined,The viewless harp-strings of the wind;When on my ears their soft tones fell,Sweet as the voice of Israfel. *I've seen thee, midst the lightning's sheen,Lift up for me Heaven's cloudy screen,And give one glimpse, one transient glare,Of the full blaze of glory there.Oft' ' midst my wanderings wild and wide,I know that thou art by my side;For flowers breathe sweeter 'neath thy tread,And suns burn brighter o'er thy head;And though thy steps so noiseless steal;Though thou did'st ne'er thy form reveal,My throbbing heart, and pulses high,Tell me, sweet Spirit! thou art nigh.Oh! for the hour, the happy hour,When Azrael's + wings shall to thy bowerBear my enfranchised Soul away,Unfetter'd with these chains of clay!For what is he, whom men so fear,Azrael, the solemn and severe!

• The Angel of Music. The Angel of Death.

Y482 MISCELLANEOUSWhat, but the white-robed Priest is he,Who weds my happy Soul to thee?Then shall we rest in bowers that bloomWith more than Araby's perfume;And gaze on scenes so fair and bright,Thought never soar'd so proud a height;And list to many a sweeter noteThan swells th' enamour'd Bulbul's throat;And one melodious Ziraleet™Through Heaven's eternal year repeat! "One evening, when the Shah was thus occupied,his Prime Minister and favourite, Prince Ismael,introduced into his apartment a venerable man,whose white hair, long flowing beard, and wanand melancholy, but highly intellectual features,failed not to arrest the attention, and commandthe respect, of all who beheld him. His garmentswere plain and simple, even to coarseness; buthe was profusely decorated with jewels, apparentlyof considerable value; and bore a long white wandin his hand." I have at length, Oh King! " said the Minister, " met with the famous Achmet Hassan,who professes, that if it be in the power of any

• A Song ofrejoicing.

PROSE AND POETRY. 483mortal to procure the gratification of your Highness's wishes, that power resides in him."" Let him enter," said the Shah. The Ministermade an obeisance, introduced the Sage, and retired." Old man," said Abbas Shah, " thou knowestwherefore I have sought thee, and what I havedesired of thee?"" Prince," said Achmet, " thou would'st seethe Houri, the Queen of thy Bower of Paradise;her who, in preference to all the other dark- eyeddaughters of Heaven, will greet thee there, andshall be thy chosen companion in those blissfulregions."" Thou sayest it! " said the Shah. " Can thyboasted Art procure me a sight, be it even transitory as the lightning's flash, of that heavenlybeing?"" King of Iraun! " said the Sage, " the heavenly Houris are of two different natures. Theyare, for the most part, of a peculiar creation formedto inhabit those bowers; but a few are sinless andbeautiful virgins; natives of this lower world;who, after death, are endowed with tenfold charms,which surpass even those of the native daughtersof Paradise. If thy immortal Bride be of theformer nature, she is beyond the reach of my Art;Y 2484 MISCELLANEOUSbut if she be of the latter, and have not yet quittedour world, I can call her Spirit before thee, andthine eyes may be gratified by gazing upon her,although it will be only for a moment, transitory,as thou hast said, as the lightning's flash! ""Try, then, thy potent Art," said the Prince." Thou hast wound up my Spirit to a pitch of intense desire. Let me gaze upon her, if it be butfor an instant. "" Prince! " said the Sage, fixing his dark brighteye upon the Shah, " hope not to possess her uponEarth. Any attempt at discovering her abode, ormaking her thine own, will be disastrous to youboth. Promise me that thou will not think of anysuch enterprise."66 I promise thee any thing, -every thing! Buthaste thee, good Achmet, haste thee; for my heartis full, even to overflowing. "The Sage with his wand then described a circleround the Prince, within which he placed severalboxes of frankincense, and other precious spices;and afterwards kindled them. A light thin cloudof the most odorous fragrance began to diffuseitself over the apartment; Achmet bowed his headto the ground repeatedly during this ceremony,and waved his wand, uttering many sounds in aa nguage with which the Shah was unacquainted .PROSE AND POETRY. 485At length, as the cloud began to grow more dense,the old man drew himself up to his utmost height,leaned his right hand on his wand, which he restedon the floor, and, in a low, solemn tone, uttered anIncantation, which seemed to be a metrical composition, but was in the same unknown language. Itlasted several minutes; and while he was pronouncing it, the cloud, which was spread over the wholeapartment, seemed gradually gathering together,and forming a condensed body. An unnatural,but brilliant light then pervaded the chamber, andthe cloud was seen resolving itself into the resemblance of a human shape, until at length thePrince saw, or fancied that he saw, a beautifulfemale figure standing before him. His own surprise was not greater than that of the old man,who gazed upon the phantom he had raised, andtrembled as he gazed. It appeared to be a youngfemale, about fifteen years of age. She was tall,and her form exhibited the most wonderful symmetry. Her eyes were large, bright, and black;her complexion was as though it had borrowed thecombined hues of the ruby and the pearl, beingof an exquisite white and red. Her lips and herteeth each exhibited one of these colours in perfection; and her long, dark hair was crowned withflowers, and flowed in glossy ringlets down to her486 MISCELLANEOUSwaist. She was dressed in a long flowing robe ofdazzling whiteness; she neither moved nor spoke:only once the Prince thought that she smiled uponhim, and then the figure instantly vanished; thepreternatural light left the apartment, and the mildmoon-beams again streamed through the openlattices.Before the exclamation of joy which was formedin the Prince's bosom could reach his lips, it waschanged into a yell of disappointment." Oldman! " he said, " thou triflest with me! thou hastpresented this vision to my eyes only that thoumight'st withdraw it immediately. Call back thatlovely form, or, by Mahomet! thou shalt exchangethy head for the privilege which thou hast chosento exercise of tormenting Abbas Selim."" Is it thus, Oh King! " said Achmet, " thatthou rewardest the efforts made by thy faithful subjects to fulfil thy wishes? I have tasked my Art toit's utmost extent: to call back that vision, or topresent it again to thine eyes, is beyond my skill."" But she lives! she breathes! she is an inhabitant of this world!" said the Prince." Even so," returned the other."Then I'll search all Iraun; I'll despatch emissaries over all the world, that wherever she be,she may be brought hither to fill up the vacuumPROSE AND POETRY. 487in my heart, and to share the throne of AbbasSelim! "" The instant," said Achmet, " that your Highness's eyes meet hers, her fate is sealed; she willnot long remain an inhabitant of Earth. It iswritten in the Book of Fate that she shall not bethe bride of mortal man.'""" Death, traitor! " said the Monarch; am Inot the Shah? who shall gainsay my will? whatshall oppose it? ""The will of Heaven! " replied the Sage,calmly. " The irrevocable decrees of Destiny."" Away! avaunt! thou drivelling idiot! " saidSelim, " let me not see thee more! "The Shah's maladies, both mental and bodily,increased alarmingly after this event. The lovelyphantom haunted him sleeping and waking. Helost all appetite and strength; and appeared to befast sinking into the grave. At length he bethoughthimself, that if he could, from memory, sketchthe features which he had beheld, he might possiblythence derive some consolation. He possessed sometalent for drawing; his remembrance of the formand features was most vivid and distinct; and,guiding his pencil with his heart rather than hishand, he succeeded in producing a most extraordinary likeness. He then summoned into his pre-488 MISCELLANEOUSsence a skilful and accomplished limner, in whosehands he deposited the sketch, and, describing tohim the colour of the hair, eyes, and complexion ,of the original, desired him to paint a portrait.The Artist gazed upon the sketch, and listenedto the description with profound attention, andevident surprise. " Surely," said he, " I haveseen her whose features are here delineated. Indeed they are features which are not easily mistaken, for she is beautiful as one of the damselsof Paradise."" Sayest thou so?" said the Monarch, startingfrom his seat, while he tore from his turban somejewels of inestimable value, which he thrust intothe Painter's hand. " Knowest thou where tofind her?”" She lives in the southern suburbs," answeredthe limner. " Her name is Selima, and her Father is a poor but learned man, who is constantlyburied in his studies, and is unconscious of thevalue of the gem which is hidden under his humble roof."" Haste thee, good Ali, haste thee! bring herhither! Let no difficulties or dangers impedethee, and there is not a favour in the power of theMonarch of Iraun to grant which thou shalt ask invain."PROSE AND POETRY. 489Ali flew rather than ran to the abode of hisfair friend, in whose welfare he had always takena lively interest. He knocked at the door, whichwas opened by the lovely Selima herself." Sweet Selima," he said, " I have strangenews for thee.”66 Speak it then," she answered smilingly;" be it bad or good, the sooner I hear it thebetter."" I have a message for thee from the Shah."" The Shah!" she said, and her eyes sparkledwith a mysterious expression of intelligence andwonder; but she did not, extraordinary as wasthe information, appear to entertain the slightestdoubt of it's veracity. " "Tis wondrous strange!"" "Tis true," said the limner. " He placed inmy hands a sketch for a female portrait, in whichI instantly recognised your features. "" It is but a few days ago," said she, " that Ihad an extraordinary dream. Methought I wasin an apartment of surprising extent and magnificence. A cloud of fragrant odours filled theroom; the cloud became gradually condensed, andthen assumed the form of a young man of mostmajestic form and handsome features. AlthoughI had never seen the Shah, I soon knew, by hispale, proud brow, so sad and yet so beautiful;Y 3490 MISCELLANEOUShis bright, sparkling blue eye; his tall, statelyform; and his regal gait; that this could be noneother than Abbas Selim. He smiled sweetly uponme; he took my hand in his; but as his lips approached mine I woke, and saw only the coldmoon-beams gilding my chamber.""Sweet Selima! why have I never heard ofthis before?"" I told it all to my Father," said she; " buthe frowned upon me, and bade me think of it nomore; and to tell my dream to no one. But thystrange message has made me violate his command.I have thought of nothing but Abbas Selim since.How happy ought the nation to be whom he governs; and, above all, how happy the maidenwhom he loves!""" Then art thou, my Selima, supremely happy,"said the Painter; " for of thee is he enamouredto desperation. Thou must accompany me immediately to the Palace."In the mean time the Shah paced his apartmentin an agony of impatience. " Curse on this lingering limner!" he exclaimed; " has he combinedwith the Magian to drive me to distraction? Mayevery vile peasant press to his heart the beingwhom he adores, and am I, the lord of this vastempire, to sigh in vain, and to be continually tor-•PROSE AND POETRY. 491mented with faint and momentary glimpses of theheaven from which I am debarred?"He had scarcely uttered these words, when theprivate entrance to his apartment, to which he hadgiven the Painter a passport, opened, and hismessenger entered, leading his fair companion bythe hand. No sooner did the Monarch's eyes encounter those of Selima, than he instantly knewthat he was in the real, substantial presence of herwhose phantom he had beheld. His wonder anddelight knew no bounds, nor will the power oflanguage suffice to describe them. He pressedto his heart the object for which he had so longpanted. Health and strength appeared to be suddenly restored to him; new life seemed rushingthrough his veins; and his buoyant step andelastic tread seemed to belong to a world lessgross and material than that in which he dwelt.When the first paroxysm of his raptures was over,he summoned the chief Imaum into his presence,and gave him orders to follow him into the Mosqueattached to the Palace, for the purpose of immediately celebrating his nuptials with Selima.The Priest gazed intently on the Bride, and hisfeatures became strangely agitated . " The willof Abbas Selim ," he said, " is the law of hisfaithful subjects; but if I have read the Koraun492 MISCELLANEOUSaright, and if my studies have not been idly pursued, the finger of Death is on yon fair maiden,and her nuptials with the Shah will but acceleratethe approach of Azrael."" Dotard!" said the Prince; and he gazedupon Selima, whose features glowed with all the.hues of beauty and health: " tell not to me thyidle dreams, but perform thine office, and be silent."The chidden Priest obeyed the last injunctionof his Sovereign, and, with head depressed andfolded arms, followed him and his Bride to theMosque; which was hastily prepared for the celebration of these unexpected nuptials. Heavilyand falteringly he pronounced the rites, whichwere just on the point of being concluded, whena man rushed into the Mosque, and, with franticand threatening gestures, placed himself betweenthe Bride and Bridegroom. It was Achmet Hassan.Forbear, forbear!" he cried, " or Allah'scurse light on you!"" It is the traitorous Magian, " said the Shah." Villain! would'st thou beard thy Sovereign evenat his nuptial hour?"As he spoke, he unsheathed his scymitar, andrushed towards Achmet. " Save him; sparehim!" shrieked the Bride; " it is my Father!"PROSE AND POETRY. 493and rushing between them, the Shah's weaponpierced her to the heart, and she sank lifeless tothe earth.All were struck mute and motionless withhorror at this fatal event. When they had somewhat recovered from their stupor, every eye wasfixed upon the Shah. Still, and cold, and silentas a statue, he occupied the same place as at themoment of this fearful catastrophe. His eyesglared fixedly and unmeaningly; and his lips andcheeks were of an ashly paleness. He returnedno answer to the enquiries which were made ofhim, and the import of which it was evident thathe did not comprehend. In fact, it was clear thatreason had fled from the once highly endowedmind of Abbas Selim; and that the reign of oneof the greatest and most highly-accomplishedPrinces who had ever filled the throne of Persiawas terminated .In a state of listlessness and inanity he continuedfor above a twelvemonth. A few apartments ofthe Palace were all that remained to him of hisonce mighty empire, and the sceptre passed intothe hands of his Brother His most faithful andconstant attendant was the unhappy AchmetHassan, whom he had rendered childless; and onwhose bosom he breathed his latest sigh. As the494 MISCELLANEOUShour of death approached, his intellects seemedto return; but his malady had so entirely exhaustedhis strength, that he could not utter a syllable.Once, from the motion of his lips, it was supposedthat he was endeavouring to pronounce the nameof Selima; then a faint smile illumined his features, while he pointed to the casem*nt, and thedeep blue sky which was seen through it, and hisenfranchised Spirit fled to the bowers of Paradise." FORGET ME NOT." 1829.PROSE AND POETRY. 495STANZAS.I WANDER'D by her side in Life's sweet Spring;When all the world seem'd beautiful and young;When Hope was truth, and she a peerless thing,Round whom my heart's best, fondest wishes clung:Her cheek was fann'd , not smitten, by Time's wing;Her heart Love had drawn sweets from, but ne'erstung;And, as in Youth's, and Beauty's, light she moved,All bless'd her! -she was lovely and beloved!I stood by her again, when her cheek bloom'dBrightlier than aye, but wore an ominous hue;And her eye's light was dimm'd not, but assumedA fiercer, ghastlier, but intenser blue:And her wan cheek proclaim'd that she was doom'd,And her worn frame her Soul seem'd burstingthrough;And friends and lovers were around her sighing,And Life's last sands were ebbing, —she was dying!I stood by her once more; and, bending down,Seal'd on her lips a pledge, which they return'd not;And press'd her to my bosom, but her ownWith Life's warm fires, to mine responsive, burn'dnot;496 MISCELLANEOUSAnd clasp'd her hand, but, as in days by gone,Her heart's thoughts from it's eloquent pulse I learn'dnot;Light from her eye, hue from her cheek, had fled,And her warm heart was frozen; -she was dead!" MONTHLY MAGAZINE. ”LINESWritten after visiting a Scene in Switzerland.THOU glorious scene! my wondering eyeHath gazed on thee at last,And by the proud realityFound Fancy's dreams surpass'd."Twas like the vision which of oldTo the Saint seer was given,When the sky open'd, and behold!AThrone was set in Heaven. *

• After this I looked, and behold a door was opened in

Heaven, and the first voice which I heard, was as it were ofa trumpet talking with me; which said, " come up hither,and I will shew thee things which must be hereafter:" andimmediately I was in the Spirit; and behold, a Throne was setin Heaven, and One sat on the Throne: and He that sat wasto look upon like a jasper, and a sardine stone. And beforethe Throne there was a sea of glass like unto crystal.REVELATIONS, Chap. iv. v. 1 , 2, 3, and 6.PROSE AND POETRY. 497For there the everlasting AlpsTo the deep azure soar'd;And the Sun on their snowy scalpsA flood of glory pour'd .A present Deity, that SunAbove them seem'd to blaze;Too strong and bright to gaze upon,Too glorious not to gaze.Below, the bright lake far and wideSpread like a crystal sea,Whose deep, calm waters seem'd to glide,Eternity, to thee!Long, long, thou glorious scene! shalt thouWithin my memory dwell;More vivid and heart-gladd'ning now,Than when I mark'd thee well.More vivid and heart-gladd'ning too,Thanthe wild dreams I nursedOf thee and thine, ere on my view,Thy world of wonders burst.For Fancy's picture was a gleam,Weak, faint, and shadowy;And brief, and passing as a dream,The gaze I bent on thee.498 MISCELLANEOUSBut now, thou art a thing enshrinedWithin my inmost heart;A part and portion of my mind,Which cannot thence depart.Deep woes may whelm, long years may roll ,Their course o'er me in vain;But fix'd for ever in my SoulThine image shall remain." MONTHLY MAGAZINE. "THE CRUSADERS' SONG." Remember the Holy Sepulchre."FORGET the land which gave ye birth;Forget the womb that bore ye;Forget each much-loved spot of earth;Forget each dream of glory;Forget the friends that by your side,Stood firm as rocks unbroken;Forget the late affianced Bride,And every dear love-token;Forget the hope that in each breast,Glow'd like a smould'ring ember;But still the Holy Sepulchre,Remember! Oh remember!PROSE AND POETRY. 499Remember all the vows ye've swornAt holy Becket's Altar;Remember all the ills ye've borne,And scorn'd to shrink or falter;Remember every laurell'd field,Which saw the Crescent waving;Remember when compell'd to yield,Uncounted numbers braving:Remember these, remember tooThe cause ye strive for, ever;The Cross! the Holy Sepulchre!Forget,-forget them never!By Him who in that SepulchreWas laid in Death's cold keeping;By Her who bore, who rear'd him, HerWho by that Cross sat weeping;By those, whose blood so oft has criedRevenge for souls unshriven!By those, whose sacred precepts guideThe path to yonder Heaven!From youth to age, from morn to eve,From Spring- tide to December;The Holy Sepulchre of Christ,Remember! Oh remember!" MONTHLY MAGAZINE. "500 MISCELLANEOUSA SERENADE.WAKE Lady! wake! the midnight MoonSails through the cloudless skies of June;The Stars gaze sweetly on the stream ,Which in the brightness of their beam,One sheet of glory lies;The glow-worm lends it's little light,And all that's beautiful and brightIs shining on our world to-night,Save thy bright eyes.Wake Lady! wake! the nightingaleTells to the Moon her love-lorn tale;Now doth the brook that's hush'd by day,As through the vale she winds her way,In murmurs sweet rejoice;The leaves, by the soft night-wind stirr❜d,Are whispering many a gentle word,And all Earth's sweetest sounds are heard,Save thy sweet voice.Wake Lady! wake! thy lover waits,Thy steed stands saddled at the gates;Here is a garment rich and rare ,To wrap thee from the cold night-air;Th' appointed hour is flown.PROSE AND POETRY. 501Danger and doubt have vanish'd quite,Our way before lies clear and right,And all is ready for the flight,Save thou alone!Wake Lady! wake! I have a wreathThy broad fair brow should rise beneath;I have a ring that must not shineOn any finger, Love! but thine;I've kept my plighted vow;Beneath thy casem*nt here I stand,To lead thee by thine own white hand,Far from this dull and captive strand,But where art thou?Wake Lady! wake! She wakes! she wakes!Through the green mead her course she takes;And now her lover's arms enfoldA prize more precious far than gold,Blushing like morning's ray;Now mount thy palfrey, Maiden kind!Nor pause to cast one look behind,But swifter than the viewless wind,Away! away!" MONTHLY MAGAZINE. "502 MISCELLANEOUSSIMILITUDES.WHAT Can Love be liken'd to?To the glittering, fleeting dew;To Heaven's bright, but fading bow;To the white, but melting snow;To fleeting sounds, and viewless air;To all that's sweet, and false, and fair.Whereto can we liken Hope?To the arch of Heaven's wide cope,Where birds sing sweetly, but are flying;Where days shine brightly, but are dying;So near, that we behold it ever;So far that we shall reach it never.What can Beauty's semblance boast?The rose resembles her the most,For that's the sweetest among flowers ,The brightest gem in Flora's bowers;And all it's sweetness soon is past,And all it's brightness fades at last.And what are Dreams, that light night's gloom?Doves that, like Noah's, go and come,To teach the Soul this orb of clayShall not it's prison be for aye;That Time's dark waves shall soon subside,And brighter worlds spread far and wide.PROSE AND POETRY. 503And what's like Popular Renown,When the destroyer it doth crown?The honey which the wild bee's powerWrings from the bosom of the flower;The harmless drones no honey bring,They win the sweets who wear the sting.And what is like Ambition's flight?The eagle on his airy height;On whose broad wings the sunbeam plays,Though from the world they hide his rays,Drinking the dew before it falls,For which the parch'd Earth vainly calls." MONTHLY MAGAZINE."THE RETURN OF THE GOLDEN AGE.Imitated from the French of the PRESIDENT HENAUT.WHEREFORE regret those happy days,When Love was Lord the wide world o'er?Our hearts from Time's dull tomb can raiseThose days, and all their bliss restore:Let us love, let us love, and again beholdThe happy times of the Age of Gold.504 MISCELLANEOUSThe flowers still flourish in our fields,As beautiful as then they were:The rose the same sweet odour yields;The birds the same bright plumage bear:Let us love, let us love, and again beholdThe happy times of the Age of Gold.Still in the Spring the nightingaleSings in the flower-enamell'd meads;And still the brooks, Love's same sweet tale ,Whisper amidst the answering reeds.Let us love, let us love, and again beholdThe happy times of the Age of Gold.Still Zephyr breathes, and still doth heFor Flora feel unchanging love;And still doth the enamour'd beeAmongst the fair young lilies rove:Let us love, let us love, and again beholdThe happy times of the Age of Gold." MONTHLY MAGAZINE."QUESTIONS ANSWERED.OH! what is Pleasure, in whose chase,Life's one brief day is made a race,Of levity and lightness?PROSE AND POETRY. 505A Star, to gaze on whose bright crown,We wait until the Sun goes down,And find, when it has o'er us shone,No warmth in all it's brightness .And what is Friendship? but that flower,Which spreads it's leaves at daylight's hour,And closes them at eve;Opening it's petals to the light,Sweet breathing, while the Sun shines bright,But closed to those who ' midst the nightOf doubt and darkness grieve?And what is Fame? The smile that slays ,The cup in which sweet poison plays,At best, the flowery wreathThat's twined around the victim's head,When, ' midst sweet flowers around it spread,And harps' and timbrels' sound, ' tis ledMelodiously to death.And what are Hopes? Gay butterflies,That on the breath of Fancy rise,Where'er the sun-beam lures them;For ever, ever on the wing,Mocking our faint steps following,And if at last caught, perishingIn the grasp that secures them.Ꮓ506 MISCELLANEOUSAnd our Affections, what are they?Oh! blossoms smiling on the spray,All beauty, and all sweetness ,But which the canker may lay bare,Or rude hands from the branches tear,Or blighting winds leave withering there,Sad types of mortal fleetness.And what is Life itself? A sail,With sometimes an auspicious gale,With some bright beams surrounded;But oftener amidst tempests cast,The lowering sky, the howling blast,And ' whelm'd beneath the wave at last,Where never plummet sounded." MONTHLY MAGAZINE."TIME'S CHANGES.THERE was a Child, a helpless Child,Full of vain fears and fancies wild,That often wept, and sometimes smiled,Upon it's Mother's breast;Feebly it's meanings stammer'd out,And totter'd tremblingly about,And knew no wider world withoutIt's little home of rest.PROSE AND POETRY. 507There was a Boy, a light-heart Boy,One whom no troubles could annoy,Save some lost sport, or shatter'd toy,Forgotten in an hour;No dark remembrance troubled him,No future fear his path could dim,Butjoy before his eyes would swim,And hope rise like a tower.There was a Youth, an ardent Youth,Full of high promise, courage, truth ,He felt no scathe, he knew no ruth,Save Love's sweet wounds alone;He thought but of two soft blue eyes,He sought no gain but Beauty's prize,And sweeter held Love's saddest sighs ,Than Music's softest tone.There was a Man, a wary Màn,Whose bosom nursed full many a planFor making life's contracted spanA path of gain and gold;And how to sow, and how to reap,And how to swell his shining heap,And howthe wealth acquired, to keepSecure within it's fold.z 2508 MISCELLANEOUSThere was an old, old , grey-hair'd one,On whom had fourscore winters doneTheir work appointed, and had spunHis thread of life so fine,That scarce it's thin line could be seen,And with the slightest touch, I ween,"Twould be as it had never been,And leave behind no sign.And who were they, those five, whom FateSeem'd as strange contrasts to create,That each might in his different stateThe others' pathways shun?I tell thee that, that Infant vain,That Boy, that Youth, that Man of gain,That Grey-beard, who did roads attainSo various, They were One!" MONTHLY MAGAZINE."SUCH THINGS WERE.I cannot but remember such things were,And were most precious to me!SHAKSPEARE.SUCH things were! such things were!False but precious, brief but fair;PROSE AND POETRY. 509The eagle with the bat may wed;The hare may like the tortoise tread;The finny tribe may cleave the air;Ere I forget that such things were.Can I forget my native glen,Far from the sordid haunts of men?The willow-tree before the door;The flower-crown'd porch, the humble floor;Pomp came not nigh, but peace dwelt there;Can I forget that such things were?Can I forget that fair wan face,Smiling with such a mournful grace?That hand, whose thrilling touch met mine;Those eyes that did too brightly shine;And that low grave, so sad, yet fair;Can I forget that such things were?I would not change these tears, these sighs,For all Earth's proudest luxuries;I would not with my sorrows part,For a more light, but colder heart;Nor barter for pomp's costliest fare,The memory that such things were." MONTHLY MAGAZINE. "510 MISCELLANEOUSTHE HEART.In Imitation of Francis Quarles.I STOOD in the sweet Spring- time by the sideOf a fair river, rolling wild and free;Winter's cold chain had melted from it's tide,And on it revell'd in it's joyous pride,'As though no ice-touch e'er could bid it bide;How like, my fond, vain Heart! how like to thee!I roam'd it's banks once more, ' midst Summer's blaze,Onward it rush'd to th' unfathom'd sea;Nor stay'd to listen to the sweet bird's lays,Nor, calm and clear, imaged the Sun's bright rays,But rush'd along it's channel's devious ways;Howlike, my headstrong Heart! how like to thee!I stood by that fair stream's green banks again,When Autumn winds were moaning sullenly;The dead, sere leaves did it's bright waters stain,And heavy pouring floods of falling rain,Swell'd it's full breast, and drench'd the neighbouringplain;How like, my sad, swoll'n Heart! how like to thee!I stood again when Winter reign'd severe ,By that stream's banks which cheerless seem'd to me;PROSE AND POETRY. 511It's once swift waves were frozen cold, and clear,And seem'd as they an enemy's strength could bear,Yet fail'd beneath the foot that ventured there;How like, my cold, false Heart! how like to thee!And shall the Seasons only when they shewTheir darkest hues, my Heart! thy mirror be?Oh! learn Spring's mildness, Summer's strength, andgrowMature as Autumn, pure as Winter's snow,So shall they, when their features brightest glow,Be most like thee, my Heart! be most like thee!" MONTHLY MAGAZINE."MADONNA.Written on seeing a Painting by CARLO DOLCI, in aPrivate Collection at Antwerp.MADONNA! Sweet Madonna! I could gazeFor ever on that heavenly face of thine;Albeit I do not worship as I praise,Or bend my knee devoutly at thy shrine:For surely there was something of divine,Within the wondrous pencil that portray'dThe tender softness of those deep blue eyne,That brow's wan beauty, those bright ringlets' braid,And the sweet Mother's smile upon those soft lips laid .512 MISCELLANEOUSSure they who worship thee will be forgiven,Nor bear the penalty of that fond crime;For in that face is less of Earth than Heaven:Beauty was ever worshipp'd, from the timeThat fabled Venus from the Ocean's slimeArose; then well may adoration moveMan's breast, for one of beauty more sublime, -Rome's Goddess, Queen of smiles, far, far above, —Whose offspring was indeed a God, a God of Love!Madonna! thine own rosy hour is near,The hour of calm, of softness , and of prayer:And ' tis not well that I be lingering here,Lest my too yielding heart that error share,Which to thy shrine doth countless votaries bear;And Music too is weaving her soft spell ,And heavenly fragrance floats upon the air,And feelings sad, but sweet, my bosom swell,And tears are in my eyes, Madonna! Fare thee well!" PARTHENON."SONG.Come, pledge the cup to me, Sweetheart!Oh! pledge the cup to me!And I will shew thee, ere we part,How Wine resembles thee.PROSE AND POETRY. 513And first, it's semblance to begin,I tell thee frank and free,There's nought on earth can make me sing,Save Wine, Sweetheart! and thee!Then pledge the cup to me, Sweetheart!Oh! pledge the cup to me!And I will shew thee ere we part,How Wine resembles thee.This bottle's ruby as thy cheek,And sparkling as thine eye;And, like thy fond heart, should it break,Then all my comforts fly:And when it's blissful tide I sip,That tide of Love and Wit,Methinks it is thine own sweet lip,Which mine's so loath to quit.Then pledge the cup to me, Sweetheart!Oh! pledge the cup to me!And I will shew thee, ere we part,How Wine resembles thee.A sadder semblance is behind!Ah! Sweetheart! thou wilt die!And so the bottle's tide, we find,Ebbs low, which flow'd so high.Then, as I'll do when I lose thee, —My grief and care to smother,z 3514 MISCELLANEOUSI'll bless it's memory, and fleeFor comfort to another!Then pledge the cup to me, Sweetheart!Oh! pledge the cup to me!And let's drink deeply, ere we part,Since Wine resembles thee." NEW EUROPEAN MAGAZINE." 1823.·STANZAS.SUNS will set, and moons will wane,Yet they rise and wax again;Trees, that Winter's storms subdue,Their leafy livery renew;Ebb and flow is Ocean's lot;But Man lies down and rises not:Heaven and Earth shall pass away,Ere shall wake his slumbering clay! -Vessels but to havens steer;Paths denote a resting near;Rivers flow into the main;Ice-falls rest upon the plain;The final end of all is known;Man to darkness goes alone:Cloud, and doubt, and mystery,Hide his future destiny.- PROSE AND POETRY. 515Nile, whose waves their boundaries burst,Slakes the torrid desert's thirst;Dew, descending on the hills,Life in Nature's veins instils;Showers, that on the parch'd meads fall,Their faded loveliness recall;Man alone sheds tears of pain,Weeps, but ever weeps in vain!" FORGET ME NOT." 1826.THOUGHTS.I SAW a Glow-worm on a grave,But it's cold light could not scareBaser worms, who came to craveAshare in the banquet there.And I thought of Fame, can it lighten the gloom ,Or warm the chilliness of the tomb?I gazed on Saturn's beautiful ring,I gazed and I marvell'd much;Shining a lovely but separate thing,Round the orb that it did not touch.And I thought of Hope, that shines bright and high,Never close, but ever nigh.516 MISCELLANEOUSI saw the dew-drops gemming the flowers,Beautiful pearls by Aurora strung;But they vanish'd away in a few short hours,As o'er them the Sun his full radiance flung;And I thought of Youth's generous feelings , how soonThey're parch'd and dried up in Manhood's noon.I saw a tree by a fair river's side,Put forth many a strong and vigorous shoot,But it breathed nought but pestilence far and wide,And it poison'd the stream, that bathed it's root.And I thought of Ingratitude piercing the breast,That has nursed it to strength, and has rock'd it to rest .I saw the leaves gliding down the brook,Swift the brook ran, and bright the sun burn'd;The sere and the verdant, the same course they took,And sped gaily and fast, but they never return'd.And I thought how the years of a Man pass away,Threescore and ten, and then, where are they?" FORGET ME NOT. " 1827.THE COMET.O'ER the blue Heavens, majestic and alone,He treads, as treads a Monarch towards his throne;Darkness her leaden sceptre lifts in vain,Crush'd and consumed beneath his fiery wain;PROSE AND POETRY. 517And Night's swarth cheeks, pain'd by his gazing eye,Blush like Aurora's, as he passes by.See how the countless hosts of Heaven turn pale!The blood-red cheek of Mars begins to fail;Bright Berenice's shining locks grow dim;Orion changes as he looks on him;And the stern Gorgon on his brightness restsHer stony eyes, and lowers her snaky crests!In breathless wonder hush'd, the starry choirListen, in silence, to his one bold lyre;Save when it's lingering echoes they prolong,And tell to distant worlds the wondrous song!And what that song whose numbers fill the earsWith admiration of surrounding spheres?" Honour and adoration, power and praise,To Him who tracks the Comet's pathless ways;Who to the Stars has their bright courses given,And to the Sun appoints his place in Heaven;And rears for Man a mansion more sublime,Not built with hands, not doom'd to stoop to Time;Whose strong foundations, unimpair'd shall stay,When Suns, and Stars, and Worlds, and all things passaway!"" FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING ." 1826.518 MISCELLANEOUSSTANZAS.SING me a Lay! —not of knightly feats,Of honour's laurels , or pleasure's sweets;Not of the brightness in Beauty's eye,Not of the splendours of royalty;But of sorrow, and suffering, and death, let it tell;Of the owlet's shriek, and the passing bell;Of joys that have been, and have ceased to be;That is the lay, the lay for me!'Twine me a Wreath, -but not of the vine,Of primrose, or myrtle, or eglantine;Let not the fragrant rose breathe there,Or the slender lily her white bosom bare;But ' twine it of poppies, so dark and red,And cypress, the garland that honours the dead;And ivy, and nightshade, and rosemary,That is the wreath, the wreath for me!Bring me a Robe, —not such as is wornOn the festal eve, or the bridal morn;Yet such as the great and the mighty must wear;Such as wraps the limbs of the brave and the fair;Such as Sorrow puts on, and she ceases to weep;Such as Pain wraps round him, and sinks to sleep:The winding-sheet my garment shall be,That is the robe, the robe for me!PROSE AND POETRY. 519Oh! for a rest! -not on Beauty's breast,Not on the pillow by young Hope press'd;Not ' neath the canopy Pomp has spread;Not in the tent where shrouds Valour his head;Where Grief gnaws not the heart, though the worm mayfeed there;Where the sod weighs it down, but not sorrow, or care;The grave! the grave! the home of the free;That is the rest, the rest for me!" FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING . " 1827.WHAT IS LIFE?TELL me what is Life, I pray?"Tis a changing April day,Now dull as March, now blithe as May:A little gloom, a little light,Nought certain but th' approach of night;At morn and evening, dew appears,And Life begins and ends with tears .Yet what is Life, I pray thee tell?"Tis a varied sounding bell ,Now a triumph, now a knell:520 MISCELLANEOUSAt first it rings of hope and pleasure,Then, sorrow mingles in the measure,And then a stern and solemn toll,The Requiem of a parted Soul.Yet once again say what is Life?'Tis a Tale with wonder rife,Full of sorrow, full of strife:A Tale that first enchants the ear,Then fills the Soul with grief and fear;At last with woe bows down our heads,And sends us weeping to our beds.Still what is Life? That insect vain,Lured from the Heaven it might attain,To wed the glow-worm on the plain:Wealth, pleasure, power at distance seen ,Shine brilliant as the glow-worm's sheen,Life weds these seeming glorious forms,And finds them blind and grovelling worms.Still what is Life, again declare?Oh! ' tis an arch of promise fair,Built like the rainbow's, in the air:With many a charm that's quickly past,Many a bright hue, but none that last;All vanishing, away, away,Ere we can say, how fair are they!PROSE AND POETRY. 521Yet what is Life? A taper's light,That feebly glimmers through the night,And soon is quench'd in darkness quite:Each wind that spreads it's flame but hastes it ,Each touch that trims it's splendour, wastes it;And brighter as it's lustre plays ,Sooner it's fragile frame decays." FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING . " 1827.TIME.I SAW a Child whose youthful cheekGlow'd with health's golden bloom ,And light did from his young eyes break,And his sweet face illume:66 The Song he sang was Dance! prepareTo tread a measure light! "And his hand held a mirror, whereThe Sun was imaged bright:On wings as swift as Love's he flew,Blushing like morning's prime;And flowers across his path he threw,And that Child's name was Time.I saw a Man, whose ample browWas furrow'd deep with care;And now despair, and rapture now,By turns were pictured there:522 MISCELLANEOUSThe Song he sang was " Heap and hoard,And scale Ambition's height,"And his hand grasp'd a keen-edged swordOf majesty and might.Around him throng'd a numerous train,Wealth, Fame, and Power sublime:While his breast swell'd with fancies vain,And his name too was Time.I saw an aged, shrivell❜d form ,With hollow eyes and blind;He crouch'd beneath the pelting storm ,And shook with every wind.His Song was " Life's fair tree is fell'd ,It yields before the blast; "And his lean hand an hour-glass held,Whose sands were ebbing fast.Across his path dark phantoms roved,Of Age, and Want, and Crime,His wings seem'd clipt, yet swift he moved,And still his name was Time.Oh! how Time changes! and Man too ,Doth with the Wizard change;Borrow his every form and hue,And in his footsteps range:And now his mirror, now his sword,And now his hourglass seize:Thou fool! why is thy mind still storedWith trifles such as these?PROSE AND POETRY. 523Spurn this world for a better home,Where his wings cannot soar;Where chance and change shall never come,And Time shall be no more!" FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING . " 1828 .LOVE AND SORROW.MOURN not, sweet maid, and do not tryTo rob me of my Sorrow;It is the only friend whom IHave left, ' midst my captivity,To bid my heart good morrow.I would not chase him from my heart,For he is Love's own brother:And each has learn'd his fellow's partSo aptly, that ' tis no mean artTo know one from the other.Thus Love will fold his arms, and moan,And sigh, and weep like Sorrow;And Sorrow has caught Love's soft tone,And mix'd his arrows with his own,And learn'd his smile to borrow.524 MISCELLANEOUSOnly one mark of difference theyPreserve, which leaves them never;Young Love has wings, and flies away,While Sorrow, once received , will stay,The Soul's sad guest for ever." FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING . " 1829.THE NATAL STAR.A Scene from a Manuscript Drama.SAVONA on a Couch.Savona.RINALDO attending him.Dear Rinaldo!To thee these seem strange fancies, but I tell thee,There's not a pulse beats in the human frame,That is not govern'd by the Stars above us;The blood that fills our veins, in all it's ebbAnd flow is sway'd by them, as certainlyAs are the restless tides of the salt seaBy the resplendent Moon; and at thy birth,Thy Mother's eye gazed not more steadfastlyOn thee, than did the Star that rules thy fate,Showering upon thy head an influence ,Malignant or benign.Rinaldo. Nay, nay, Savona,These are but dreams: the reveries of greybeards,And curious schoolmen.PROSE AND POETRY. 525Savona. Pr'ythee, my Rinaldo,Unclose the casem*nt, that my eyes may once,If only once, again read in that volume,Whose treasured wisdom is far, far beyondAll that the painful industry of manHeaps on his loaded shelves .[ RINALDO opens the casem*nt.There, there they shine!Oh! ye bright partners of my midnight watches!Ye glorious torches, by whose heavenly lightWe read the volume of futurity!Ye golden sanctuaries of knowledge, safeAnd inaccessible, ' midst all the change,The ebb and flow of mortal accident!When the vast deluge spread it's mighty wingsOver the earth, ye track'd a path of lightOn the abyss , o'er which the hallow'd arkFloated in safety; when proud Babel fell,And accents strange to human ears were droptFrom human lips , ye spake one language still,And told the same bright tale; when Omar gaveThe Alexandrian wonder to the flames,Ye spread your ample volume o'er his headIn broad derision; bidding him advanceHis torches , and add fuel to his pile,To shrivel up your shining leaves , and meltThe glittering clasps of gold that guarded them!526 MISCELLANEOUSRinaldo. Savona, check this ardour; your weak frameWill sink beneath it.Savona.'Tis written yonder.Nay, my friend, ' tis vain.When the hand of manCan tear the shining planets from their spheresThen may he work my cure.Rinaldo. I behold noughtBut a bright starry night; betokeningAught but disease and death.Savona. See'st thou yon clusterOf stars , that glitter right above that clumpOf stately pines?Rinaldo. I mark it steadfastly.Savona. And mark'st thou in the midst one Star, thatseemsThe centre of the group?Rinaldo. Yes; ' tis a StarOf a peculiar brightness , soft and mildIt's light, yet beautiful as Hesper's, whenThe rest fade from him; yet the neighbouring orbs ,Larger, and all of gloomier disks, appearT'o'erwhelm it's beams; while, station'd as it is ,In the most stormy point of Heaven, e'en nowOn this bright night, light mists and vapours battle,As ' twere around it's head; and one black cloudComes sailing towards it from the north, and soonWill blot it from my sight.PROSE AND POETRY. 527Savona. There! there, Rinaldo!Hast thou not in those few unconscious words,Summ'd up Savona's life? Was I not bornWith shining hopes, wealth, friends , and,-soThe world said,-talents? Did not envious FateCross my bright path? malignant foes , false friends ,Untoward accident, and blighted love,Rain misery on my head? and am I not,Now, in the noontide of my life, Rinaldo,Stretch'd, with a broken heart, and faltering limbs,Upon a bed of grief, while, rapidly,Death, like a monster, lured from far, comes onTo grapple with his prey?Rinaldo. Alas! alas!Sorrow, indeed, has mingled in your cupOf Life, but sure your ills were not so strangelyPiled higher than the common lot of man,To weigh you down thus soon.Savona. True, my Rinaldo;True, not so strange; so very strange. Crush'd hopes,Blighted affections , benefits forgot,A broken heart and an untimely grave,These form no wondrous tale: ' tis trite and common,The lot of many, most of all , of thoseWho learn to crowd into a few brief yearsAges of feeling; as the o'er charg'd pulseThrobs high, and throbs no more!Rinaldo. Dear friend, I hoped528 MISCELLANEOUSYour heart had master'd it's unquiet inmates.I've met you at the revel, and the dance,And seen your brow wear that gay look, which charm'dAll hearts in former times.Savona. Even so, Rinaldo;But often, often is the visage masquedIn smiles and revelry, when the heart's woundsRankle the sorest; and, when we go forthInto the cold and smiling world, and seemThe gayest of the gay, we do but bearOur sorrows with us, as the stricken deerBounds on, through field and thicket, with the arrowThat wounds it, in it's side.Rinaldo. Dear friend, cheer up!Your malady is slight; friends , and new scenes ,And hopes revived, and trustier, truer joys,Will soon work wonders. Think'st not so, Savona?Savona. Look at the Star! look at the Star, Rinaldo!Rinaldo. Oh Heaven! it does, indeed, wane, andgrow pale!And that black cloud is near approaching it!But this is idle, and but feeds the fanciesThat prey upon your health. I'll close the casem*nt.Savona. Oh! no, no, no! for Heaven's sweet sake,forbear!That Star gazed on my birth, and on that StarMy dying eyes shall gaze.Rinaldo. But not to-night,PROSE AND POETRY. 529I hope, Savona. Lend me thy hand. Ha!'Tis strangely hot and feverish; but kind care,And skill will work it's cure.That black and ominous cloud.And yet I like notNow it comes nearer:It touches the Orb's disk. Thank Heaven! his handIs cooler now. It has o'erwhelm'd the StarIn it's black mantle! Why am I thus moved?I have no faith in these things, yet I dare notSpeak, or look at him. Ha; the cloud has pass'dThe bright bland orb emerges! Dear Savona!Laugh at your idle fears: your Star has now'Scaped all it's ills.[Turns towards him .Oh God! so has his Spirit!Cold, cold indeed his hand! Oh! but to feelOnce more that feverish glow I started from.Savona! dear Savona! -dead, dead, dead!" HOMMAGE AUX DAMES." 1825.L'AMORE DOMINATORE.WHO is the Monarch so mighty and bright,Who comes triumphing on in his chariot of light?The sceptre he bears is more rich to behold,Than Samarcand's pearls, or Potósi's gold;His coronal glitters with many a gem,As though Beauty's bright eyes form'd his diadem,2 A530 MISCELLANEOUSAnd his waving wings round his light form play,Like the rainbow's hues on a Summer's day."Tis Love! young Love, th' immortal boy,The child of Beauty, the parent of Joy;Even Gods bow down to the Lord of hearts;Jove's thunder is feebler than Cupid's darts;And the sword of Mars, and the sceptre of Dis,Have in turns been conquer'd and sway'd by his:Then lift high each voice, and set wide each gate,To welcome young Love to his throne of state.That Throne is thy heart, Oh Mistress mine!Dress it in smiles from thine own bright eyne;The thousands that welcome young Love to his goal;Are the wishes and passionate hopes of my Soul;The wings that he flies on, Oh! this sweet kiss,Dearest! is one, and the other is this;And those soft lips are the rosy gateThat leads young Love to his throne of state." HOMMAGE AUX DAMES. " 1825 .GOODRICH CASTLE.THOU Sylvan Wye, since last my feetWander'd along thy margin sweet,PROSE AND POETRY. 531I've gazed on many a far-famed stream;Have seen the Loire's bright waters gleam;Seen Arveron from his wild source gush;The dull Scheldt creep, the swift Rhone rush;And Arve, the proud Alps' froward child,Run murmuring through it's regions wild: -But none to my delighted eye,Seem'd lovelier than my own sweet Wye:Through meads of living verdure driven,"Twixt hills that seem Earth's links to Heaven;With sweetest odours breathing round,With every woodland glory crown'd,And skies of such Cerulean hue,A veil of such transparent blue,That God's own eye seems gazing through.And thou, proud Goodrich! changed and worn,By Time, and war, and tempest torn;Still stand'st thou by that lovely stream, —Though past thy glory like a dream, —Stand'st like a monitor, to say,How Nature lives ' midst Art's decay;Or, like a Spectre, haunting yetThe spot where all it's joys were set.Time-hallow'd pile! no more, no more,Thou hear'st the hostile cannon roar;532 MISCELLANEOUSNo more bold knights thy drawbridge pace,To Battle, tournament, or chase;No more the valiant man thy towers;No more the lovely grace thy bowers;Nor bright eyes smile o'er the guitar;Nor the trump stirs bold hearts to war.The falling meteor o'er thee shoots,The dull owl in thy chambers hoots;Now doth the creeping ivy twine,Where once bloom'd rose and eglantine;And there, where once in rich arrayMet lords, and knights, and ladies gay,The bat is clinging to the walls,And the fox nestles in thy halls.“ LITERARY SOUVENIR. " 1827 .THE CAPTIVES' SONG.Paraphrased from the 137th Psalm.We sat us down by Babel's streams,And dreamt soul- sadd'ning Memory's dreams;And dark thoughts o'er our spirits creptOf Sion, and we wept, we wept!Our Harps upon the willows hung,Silent, and tuneless, and unstrung;PROSE AND POETRY. 533For they who wrought our pains and wrongs,Ask'd us for Sion's pleasant Songs.How shall we sing Jehovah's praiseTo those who Bäal's altars raise?How warble Judah's free-born hymns,With Babel's fetters on our limbs?How chaunt thy lays, dear Father- land!To strangers on a foreign strand?Ah no! we'll bear grief's keenest sting,But dare not Sion's Anthems sing.Place us where Sharon's roses blow,Place us where Siloe's waters flow;Place us on Lebanon, that wavesIt's Cedars o'er our Father's graves;Place us upon that holy mount,Where stands the Temple, gleams the fount;Then love and joy shall loose our tonguesTo warble Sion's pleasant Songs.If I should e'er, Earth's brightest gem!Forget thee, Oh Jerusalem!May my right hand forget it's skillTo wake the slumbering Lyre at will:If from my heart, e'en when most gay,Thine image e'er should fade away,2 A 2534 MISCELLANEOUSMay my tongue rest within my head,Mute as the voices of the dead.Remember, Oh! remember, Lord!In that day Edom's sons abhorr'd;When once again o'er Salem's towers,The Sun of joy his radiance pours,Forget not them, whose hateful cryRose loud and fiend-like to the sky:" Be that unhallow'd City crush'd!Raze, raze it even to the dust! "Daughter of Babylon! the hourIs coming, that shall bow thy power;The Persian sword shall make thee groan,The Mede shall fill Belshazzar's throne;Blest shall he be who bids thee sipThe cup thou held'st to Salem's lip;And mocks thee, weeping o'er the stonesRed with thy children's mangled bones.." AMULET." 1827 .STANZAS.Like the young Spring-buds sweet and bright,And like the lark, and like the light,PROSE AND POETRY. 535And like the wind, and like the wave,E'en such is Hope: -buds find a grave,The lark gives place unto the owl,The light must yield to darkness foul,The winds are fickle, waves betray,And Hope is falser far than they.And like the dew upon the thorn,And like the blushful break of morn,And like a vessel harbour'd well,And like a song, and like a spell,E'en such is man:-the dew exhales,The Morning's past, the vessel sails,The song is sweet, but swiftly flies ,The spell is broken, -Man he dies!And like the azure skies of June,And like the Sun, and like the Moon,And like a bowl, and like a smile,And like a taper's burning pile,E'en such is Life:-the changed sky rains,The Sun goes down, the pale Moon wanes,The bowl is drain'd, that smile's the last,The taper's spent, and Life is past!" AMULET." 1828.536 MISCELLANEOUSMOUNT CARMEL.A Dramatic Sketch from Scripture History.PERSONS REPRESENTED.The HIGH PRIEST OF BÄAL.ELIJAH, the Prophet.REUBEN, an Israelite.MIRIAM, his Sister.Attendants on Elijah, Priests, Crowd, &c.SCENE, Mount Carmel. TIME, near Sunset.Reub. Nay, Sister, do not doubt,Our God will manifest his power, and shameYon bold idolaters .Mir.I hope, yet fear;For they are many, they are mighty, andReub. See, see, the High Priest doth approach theProphet.High P. Where is thy God? What eye hath evergazedUpon his face? What ear hath heard his voice?If there be such an one, he loves to dwellIn darkness and obscurity; he fearsTo meet the gaze of those who worship him,And, in his proud invisibility,Laughs at their lowly orisons. Not suchIs he whom we adore. Behold him there![Pointing to the Sun.Bäal! the great, the bright, the wonderful!PROSE AND POETRY. 537See how he traverses the boundless Heaven,The azure palace of his sovereignty;Answering our prayers with treasures of rich light,Bidding the world on which we dwell, bring forthHerbs, fruits, and flowers , to gladden and supportHis worshippers. From morn to eve, his eye,With an untiring love, is fixed on us;And when our feeble senses seek repose,Then doth he kindly veil his burning beams,And bid his silver regent bathe our lidsIn a pure flood of milder, gentler light;While sweet dreams glad our spirits, or deep sleepRocks them to rest unbroken.Mir. Look, my Brother!Reuben, it is indeed a glorious orb!How like a God he walks the fields of Heaven;Brother, I fear that he whom we adoreIs not so great as he.Reub. Peace, doubting girl;Fond, impious man!The holy Prophet speaks.Elijah.My God is every where! is seen and heardIn all created things! I see his powerAnd majesty in that resplendent orb,The work of his own hand, which ye adoreIn ignorance and sin; on which I gazeWith wonder and with humble thankfulness .I see his wrath and terror in the blind,538 MISCELLANEOUSCold unbelief, which he permits to sealYour senses and your hearts; and I shall soonBehold his goodness, and his love to those,Who keep their Faith unspotted and unchanged,When, at my prayer, his fire from Heaven shall kindleThe offering which I place upon his shrine.But wherefore linger ye? Did ye not sayThat ye and I should each unto our GodsRaise altars, and bring offerings; and whose GodAnswer'd by fire from Heaven, should be acknowledgedThe Lord above all Lords, and God indeed?Have ye not call'd upon your God since noon,And has he answer'd? Is not his bright orbFast sinking in the west, and will he notSoon beam his last farewell? "Tis now my turnTo try the power and goodness of the GodWhom I adore.High P. Not yet, for Bäal is angryAt our imperfect rites, and he requiresTo be again invoked.Crowd.To be again invoked.Bäal requires[Here the Priests of Bäal range themselves in acircle, and chaunt the following Incantation;dancing round the Altar at the end of eachstanza, and cutting themselves with knives andlancets as they chaunt the last.PROSE AND POETRY. 539From thy bright throne, bow thine ear,Bäal! Bäal! hear us, hear!Thou who mak'st the rosy day,Thou who lend'st the lunar ray,Thou, at whom the stars grow pale,Thou, who gildest mount and vale,From thy bright throne, bow thine ear,Baal! Baal! hear us, hear!Thou, to whom the highest HeavenFor thy throne of power is given;Thou, who mak'st the mighty seaThe mirror of thy brightness be;Thou, who bidd'st th' else barren EarthGive wealth, and food , and beauty birth;From thy bright throne, bow thine ear,Baal! Baal! hear us, hear!Now thine Altar we array;Now the sacrifice we slay;Now his bleeding limbs recline,Offerings on thy hallow'd shrine;Now with lancet and with knife,We ope our own warm tides of life.From thy bright throne, bow thine ear,Bäal! Bäal! hear us, hear![During this Invocation, the Sun gradually sinksbelow the horizon.540 MISCELLANEOUSHigh P. Woe! woe! woe!Leave us not, Bäal! leave us not unanswer'd; -Unanswer'd and in darkness!Crowd. Woe! woe! woe!Leave us not, Baal!Elijah. Aye! howl on, howl on!And call upon your God. Will he not answer?Sleeps he, or is he weary, or departedOn some far journey, that he hears you not?Are ye not here, four hundred priests of Bäal,And yet your many voices cannot pierceHis dull, cold ear? How, therefore , can I hope,Jehovah's one poor Prophet, that with theseMy few attendants, I can make him bowHis ear to my complaints . Yet I'll essay it.[ To his attendants.Now what I bid, perform: and answer yeThe questions I propound.Let twelve stones the numbers tellOf the Tribes of Israel;Build with them an Altar straightTo our God, the good, the great;Quickly answer every one;Is it done?Atten. "Tis done! 'tis done!Elijah. Dig a trench the Altar round;On the Altar be there foundPiles of wood; the bullock slay;And on the wood his carcase lay,PROSE AND POETRY. 541In bleeding fragments, one by one;- Is it done?Atten. "Tis done! ' tis done!Elijah. Fill four barrels from the rill ,That streams down Carmel's holy hill;Pour the water, once, twice, thrice,On the wood and sacrifice ,Till the trenches over- run;Is it done?Atten. 'Tis done! ' tis done!Elijah. Then now, most righteous God! what waitwe for?In humbleness , and reverence have we setOur offerings on thine Altar. Oh! send downThy fire from Heaven to kindle, and accept them;So shall thine inward fire shine in the heartsOf Israel gone astray, lost in the nightOf dark Idolatry, and they shall knowThat Thou art Lord of Lords! the God of Heaven![ The whole scene becomes suddenly illuminated, anda flame descending on the Altar, consumes theSacrifice, and dries up the water in the trenches.Mir. Wonderful! wonderful! Jehovah! thouArt God indeed! thou art the Lord of Lords!Crowd. Sing, sing Jehovah's praise, for he is God!He is the Lord of Lords, who reigns in Heaven!2 B542 MISCELLANEOUSReub. See, see , Heaven opens! and the sacred fireConsumes the offering! it is as thoughGod stretch'd his own right arm down to the earthTo the service of his worshippers.acceptElijah. The trenches are dried up; the fire returnsInto it's native Heaven. That last red streakJust glimmers faintly in the west, and now"Tis gone, 'tis past! and hark! that fearful peal![ Thunder is heard.It is Jehovah speaks! answer him. Say" Thou, thou, art Lord of Lords! the God of Heaven!"Mir. Wonderful, wonderful! Jehovah thouArt God indeed!Crowd. Sing, sing Jehovah's praise, for he is God!He is the Lord of Lords, who reigns in Heaven!High P. Away! away! The Evil. One prevails!The foe of Baal![ Elijah and the Crowd kneel before the Altar, andthe Priests of Baal rush out tumultuously, asthe scene closes." BIJOU." 1828.PROSE AND POETRY. 543A ROYAL REQUIEM.SHED the fast-falling tear o'er the tomb of the brave,Mourn, mourn for the offspring of Kings!The sword of the valiant is sheath'd in the grave,The son of the mighty lies low as the slave,And the warm heart of honour is cold as the wave,And still as the ice-fetter'd springs.1Earth's splendours and pomps, like the bright skies ofJune,Too often are dimm'd by a cloud;Like the mild seeming halo, at Night's brilliant noon,That, diadem-like, gems the orb of the Moon,They oft' but betoken the storm that will soonThat orb and it's brilliancy shroud.Then pour the Lament o'er the tomb of the brave,Let us mourn for the offspring of Kings;For sheath'd is the sword that was bared for the right,Death-cold is the heart that beat warmly and light,And the Spirit has fled to a mansion more bright,And shaken Earth's stains from it's wings." MORNING CHRONICLE." 1827.THE END.MVSEVBRITANNICVMLONDON:MARCHANT, PRINTER, INGRAM-COURT.

RECORD OF TREATMENT, EXTRACTION ETC.Shelfmark: 1164: 12S&P Ref No.Microfilm No.Dateco.102727/5ParticularspH Before or Existing PHAfter4.7 7.3DeacidificationMarch2001 Adhesivesethyl mag ethoxy carbWheatstarch pastegelatine glueLined /Laminatedlined with Kozu -SHI 23gSmlaminated with heat setmanilla Chemicals / SolventsCoverTreatmentOther Remarks

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