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diff --git a/14129-h/14129-h.htm b/14129-h/14129-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a4b15e9 --- /dev/null +++ b/14129-h/14129-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,26229 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Works of Charles Lamb in Four Volumes, Volume 4, by Charles Lamb, et al</title> +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[*/ + + <!-- + + li {list-style-type: none} + + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + + p {font-size: 1.0em; text-align: justify; + margin-top: 0.75em; margin-bottom: 0.75em;} + + blockquote {font-size: 0.9em;} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center;} + h2.title {margin-top: 1em;} + h2 {margin-top: 4em;} + + hr.full {width: 100%; margin-bottom: 4em; + margin-top: 3em} + hr {width: 50%;} + hr.short {width: 20%;} + + table, td, th {border:1px black solid; } + td {padding: 0px 2px;} + + .rt {text-align: right; margin-right: 0; + margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0;} + + .footnote {font-size: 0.9em; margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: 1em;} + .footnote p {text-align: justify;} + + .figcenter {text-align: center; border: 0} + .figcenter img {border: 0} + .figcenter p {text-align: center; border: 0;} + + .figright {text-align: center; float: right; clear: both;} + .figleft {text-align: center; float: left; clear: both;} + .figright img, + .figleft img {margin: 10px; width: 200px; border: 0;} + .figright p, + .figleft p {text-align: center; width: 200px; border: 0; + padding: 0; margin: 0;} + + .figrt {text-align: center; margin: 5px; float: right;} + .figrt img {width: 50px; border: 0;} + .figrt p {text-align: center; width: 100px;} + + .poem {margin-left:5%; margin-right:5%; + margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem p {margin: 0;} + .poem p.i2 {margin-left: 2em;} + .poem p.i4 {margin-left: 4em;} + .poem p.i6 {margin-left: 6em;} + .poem p.i8 {margin-left: 8em;} + .poem p.i10 {margin-left: 10em;} + .poem p.i12 {margin-left: 12em;} + .poem p.i14 {margin-left: 14em;} + .poem p.i16 {margin-left: 16em;} + + .play {text-align: left; margin-bottom: 1em;} + .play .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .play p {margin: 0;} + .play p.i2 {margin-left: 2em;} + .play p.i4 {margin-left: 4em;} + .play p.i6 {margin-left: 6em;} + .play p.i8 {margin-left: 8em;} + .play p.i10 {margin-left: 10em;} + .play p.i12 {margin-left: 12em;} + .play p.i14 {margin-left: 14em;} + .play p.i16 {margin-left: 16em;} + + .ctr {text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1em;} + + .side {float:right; + font-size: 75%; + width: 25%; + padding-left:10px; + border-left: dashed thin; + margin-left: 10px; + text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; + font-weight: bold; + font-style: italic; + clear: right;} + + span.pagenum + {position: absolute; left: 1%; right: 91%; font-size: 8pt;} + + a:link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:hover {color:red} + pre.pg {font-size: 8pt;} + + sup {font-size:0.6em;} + + pre {font-size: 10pt;} + + --> + +/*]]>*/ +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14129 ***</div> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Works of Charles Lamb in Four Volumes, +Volume 4, by Charles Lamb, et al</h1> + <hr class="full" /> + <h4> + THE + </h4> + <h1> + WORKS + </h1> + <h5> + OF + </h5> + <h1> + CHARLES LAMB. + </h1> + <h4> + IN FOUR VOLUMES. + <br /> + VOL. IV. + </h4> + <br /> + <br /> + <h5> + A NEW EDITION. + </h5> + <br /> + <br /> + <br /> + <h4> + BOSTON + </h4> + <h6> + Crosby, Nichols, Lee and Company. + <br /> + 117 Washington Street.</h6> + + <h4>1860</h4> + <br /> + <br /> + <br /> + <br /> + <h6> + Riverside, Cambridge:<br /> + Stereotyped and Printed by<br /> + H. O. Houghton. + </h6> + <br /> + <br /> + <hr /> + + <br /> + <br /> + <h2> + CONTENTS. + </h2> + <h4> + <a href="#rgray">ROSAMUND GRAY, ESSAYS, ETC.</a> + </h4> + <ul> + <li> + <a href="#rgray1">ROSAMUND GRAY</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#essay">ESSAYS:—</a> + <ul> + <li> + <a href="#chosp">RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#tshak">ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE, CONSIDERED + WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR FITNESS FOR + STAGE-REPRESENTATION</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#dwrit">CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS, + CONTEMPORARY WITH SHAKSPEARE</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#fullr">SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER, THE + CHURCH HISTORIAN</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#hogar">ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH; + WITH SOME REMARKS ON A PASSAGE IN THE WRITINGS OF THE LATE + MR. BARRY</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#wither">ON THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE + WITHER</a> + </li> + </ul> + </li> + </ul> + <ul class="noindent"> + <li> + <a href="#ltrs">LETTERS UNDER ASSUMED SIGNATURES, PUBLISHED IN + "THE REFLECTOR":—</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul> + <li> + <a href="#lond">THE LONDONER</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#bury">ON BURIAL SOCIETIES; AND THE CHARACTER OF AN + UNDERTAKER</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#deform">ON THE DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH + PERSONAL DEFORMITY; WITH A HINT TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE FRAMING + OF ADVERTISEMENTS FOR APPREHENDING OFFENDERS</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#hang">ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM BEING + HANGED</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#tail">ON THE MELANCHOLY OF TAILORS</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#palat">HOSPITA ON THE IMMODERATE INDULGENCE OF THE + PLEASURES OF THE PALATE</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#edax">EDAX ON APPETITE</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul> + <li> + <a href="#frag">CURIOUS FRAGMENTS, EXTRACTED FROM A COMMONPLACE + BOOK WHICH BELONGED TO ROBERT BURTON, THE FAMOUS AUTHOR OF THE + ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#farce">MR. H——, A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS</a> + </li> + </ul> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a href="#poems">POEMS.</a> + </h3> + <h5> + [<i>Those marked with an asterisk are by the Author's + Sister.</i>] + </h5> + <ul> + <li> + <a href="#hestr">HESTER</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#lloyd">TO CHARLES LLOYD, AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#frend">THE THREE FRIENDS</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#drown">TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#faces">THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#helen">*HELEN</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#vision">A VISION OF REPENTANCE</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#dial">*DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#orian">QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#ballad">A BALLAD, NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND + POOR, IN THE WAYS OF A RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR + WORKHOUSE</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#hypo">HYPOCHONDRIACUS</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#tobac">A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#child"><i>TO T. L. H., A CHILD</i></a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#german">BALLAD, FROM THE GERMAN</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#adull">*DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#salom">*SALOME</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#vinci">*LINES SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES, + BY LIONARDO DA VINCI</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#titian">*LINES ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO + MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT OF A LADY BY TITIAN</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#virgin">*LINES ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO + DA VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#same">*ON THE SAME</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul> + <li> + <a href="#sonnet">SONNETS:—</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul> + <li> + <a href="#s1">I. TO MISS KELLY</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#s2">II. ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON + GARDEN.</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#s3">III.</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#s4">IV.</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#s5">V.</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#s6">VI. THE FAMILY NAME</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#s7">VII.</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#s8">VIII.</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#s9">IX. TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE + SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#s10">X.</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#s11">XI.</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul class="noindent"> + <li> + <a href="#blank">BLANK VERSE:—</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul> + <li> + <a href="#hood">CHILDHOOD</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#grand">THE GRANDAME</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#sabba">THE SABBATH BELLS</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#fancy">FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#midni">COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul class="noindent"> + <li> + <a href="#woodv">JOHN WOODVIL; A TRAGEDY</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#witch">THE WITCH, A DRAMATIC SKETCH OP THE + SEVENTEENTH CENTURY</a> + </li> + </ul> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a href="#album">ALBUM VERSES, WITH A FEW OTHERS.</a> + </h3> + <ul class="noindent"> + <li> + <a href="#sgt">IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT + W——</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#dora">TO DORA W——, ON BEING ASKED BY HER + FATHER TO WRITE IN HER ALBUM</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#lady">IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#edith">IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S——</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#rotha">IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q——</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#orkney">IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#barton">IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#towers">IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#miss">IN THE ALBUM OF MISS——</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#ownal">IN MY OWN ALBUM</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul> + <li> + <a href="#misc">MISCELLANEOUS:—</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul> + <li> + <a href="#angel">ANGEL HELP</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#infant">ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#christ">THE CHRISTENING</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#catec">THE YOUNG CATECHIST</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#birth">TO A YOUNG FRIEND ON HER TWENTY-FIRST + BIRTHDAY</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#going">SHE IS GOING</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul class="noindent"> + <li> + <a href="#sonns">SONNETS:—</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul> + <li> + <a href="#harm">HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#camb">WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#blind">TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN THE "BLIND + BOY"</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#work">WORK</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#leisr">LEISURE</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#esq">TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#gypsy">THE GYPSY'S MALISON</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul class="noindent"> + <li> + <a href="#commend">COMMENDATORY VERSES, ETC.:—</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul> + <li> + <a href="#knowl">TO J. S. KNOWLES, ESQ., ON HIS TRAGEDY OF + VIRGINlUS</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#cornw">TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS PUBLISHED UNDER THE + NAME OF BARRY CORNWALL</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#every">TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY BOOK"</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#rogers">TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ., ON HIS ILLUSTRATIONS OF + THE POEMS OF MR. ROGERS</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#marry">TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#hand">"O LIFT WITH REVERENT HAND"</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#self">THE SELF-ENCHANTED</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#monk">TO LOUISA M——, WHOM I USED TO CALL + "MONKEY"</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul class="noindent"> + <li> + <a href="#bourn">TRANSLATIONS FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT + BOURNE:—</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul> + <li> + <a href="#sing">THE BALLAD-SINGERS</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#parish">TO DAVID COOK, OF THE PARISH OF ST. + MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER, WATCHMAN</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#statu">ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT + SLEEPING</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#dog">EPITAPH ON A DOG</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#bell">THE RIVAL BELLS</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#newtn">NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#house">THE HOUSEKEEPER</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#art">ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#orate">THE FEMALE ORATORS</a> + </li> + </ul> + <ul class="noindent"> + <li> + <a href="#pindar">PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD-MILL</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#gone">GOING OR GONE</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#free">FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS</a> + </li> + <li> + <a href="#wife">THE WIFE'S TRIAL; OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. A + DRAMATIC POEM</a> + </li> + </ul> + <hr class="full" /> + <h1> + <a name="rgray" id="rgray">ROSAMUND GRAY, ESSAYS,</a> + </h1> + <h3> + ETC. + </h3> + <hr class="full" /> + <h4> + TO + </h4> + <h2 class="title"> + MARTIN CHARLES BURNEY, ESQ. + </h2> + <hr class="short" /> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Forgive me, BURNEY, if to thee these late + </p> + <p> + And hasty products of a critic pen, + </p> + <p> + Thyself no common judge of books and men, + </p> + <p> + In feeling of thy worth I dedicate. + </p> + <p> + My <i>verse</i> was offered to an older friend; + </p> + <p> + The humbler <i>prose</i> has fallen to thy share: + </p> + <p> + Nor could I miss the occasion to declare, + </p> + <p> + What spoken in thy presence must offend— + </p> + <p> + That, set aside some few caprices wild, + </p> + <p> + Those humorous clouds that flit o'er brightest days, + </p> + <p> + In all my threadings of this worldly maze, + </p> + <p> + (And I have watched thee almost from a child), + </p> + <p> + Free from self-seeking, envy, low design, + </p> + <p> + I have not found a whiter soul than thine. + </p> + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="rgray1" id="rgray1">ROSAMUND GRAY.</a> + </h2> + <hr class="short" /> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <p> + It was noontide. The sun was very hot. An old gentlewoman sat + spinning in a little arbor at the door of her cottage. She was + blind; and her granddaughter was reading the Bible to her. The + old lady had just left her work, to attend to the story of Ruth. + </p> + <p> + "Orpah kissed her mother-in-law; but Ruth clave unto her." It was + a passage she could not let pass without a <i>comment</i>. The + moral she drew from it was not very <i>new</i>, to be sure. The + girl had heard it a hundred times before—and a hundred + times more she could have heard it, without suspecting it to be + tedious. Rosamund loved her grandmother. + </p> + <p> + The old lady loved Rosamund too; and she had reason for so doing. + Rosamund was to her at once a child and a servant. She had only + <i>her</i> left in the world. They two lived together. + </p> + <p> + They had once known better days. The story of Rosamund's parents, + their failure, their folly, and distresses, may be told another + time. Our tale hath grief enough in it. + </p> + <p> + It was now about a year and a half since old Margaret Gray had + sold off all her effects, to pay the debts of Rosamund's + father—just after the mother had died of a broken heart; + for her husband had fled his country to hide his shame in a + foreign land. At that period the old lady retired to a small + cottage in the village of Widford in Hertfordshire. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund, in her thirteenth year, was left destitute, without + fortune or friends: she went with her grandmother. In all this + time she had served her faithfully and lovingly. + </p> + <p> + Old Margaret Gray, when she first came into these parts, had + eyes, and could see. The neighbors said, they had been dimmed by + weeping: be that as it may, she was latterly grown quite blind. + "God is very good to us, child; I can <i>feel</i> you yet." This + she would sometimes say; and we need not wonder to hear, that + Rosamund clave unto her grandmother. + </p> + <p> + Margaret retained a spirit unbroken by calamity. There was a + principle <i>within</i>, which it seemed as if no outward + circumstances could reach. It was a <i>religious</i> principle, + and she had taught it to Rosamund; for the girl had mostly + resided with her grandmother from her earliest years. Indeed she + had taught her all that she knew herself; and the old lady's + knowledge did not extend a vast way. + </p> + <p> + Margaret had drawn her maxims from observation; and a pretty long + experience in life had contributed to make her, at times, a + little <i>positive:</i> but Rosamund never argued with her + grandmother. + </p> + <p> + Their library consisted chiefly in a large family Bible, with + notes and expositions by various learned expositors, from Bishop + Jewell downwards. + </p> + <p> + This might never be suffered to lie about like other books, but + was kept constantly wrapt up in a handsome case of green velvet, + with gold tassels—the only relic of departed grandeur they + had brought with them to the cottage—everything else of + value had been sold off for the purpose above mentioned. + </p> + <p> + This Bible Rosamund, when a child, had never dared to open + without permission; and even yet, from habit, continued the + custom. Margaret had parted with none of her <i>authority</i>; + indeed it was never exerted with much harshness; and happy was + Rosamund, though a girl grown, when she could obtain leave to + read her Bible. It was a treasure too valuable for an + indiscriminate use; and Margaret still pointed out to her + grand-daughter <i>where to read.</i> + </p> + <p> + Besides this, they had the "Complete Angler, or Contemplative + Man's Recreation," with cuts—"Pilgrim's Progress," the + first part—a Cookery Book, with a few dry sprigs of + rosemary and lavender stuck here and there between the leaves, (I + suppose to point to some of the old lady's most favorite + receipts,) and there was "Wither's Emblems," an old book, and + quaint. The old-fashioned pictures in this last book were among + the first exciters of the infant Rosamund's curiosity. Her + contemplation had fed upon them in rather older years. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund had not read many books besides these; or if any, they + had been only occasional companions: these were to Rosamund as + old friends, that she had long known. I know not whether the + peculiar cast of her mind might not be traced, in part, to a + tincture she had received, early in life, from Walton and Wither, + from John Bunyan and her Bible. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund's mind was pensive and reflective, rather than what + passes usually for <i>clever</i> or <i>acute</i>. From a child + she was remarkably shy and thoughtful—this was taken for + stupidity and want of feeling; and the child has been sometimes + whipt for being a <i>stubborn thing</i>, when her little heart + was almost bursting with affection. + </p> + <p> + Even now her grandmother would often reprove her, when she found + her too grave or melancholy; give her sprightly lectures about + good-humor and rational mirth; and not unfrequently fall a-crying + herself, to the great discredit of her lecture. Those tears + endeared her the more to Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + Margaret would say, "Child, I love you to cry, when I think you + are only remembering your poor dear father and mother;—I + would have you think about them sometimes—it would be + strange if you did not; but I fear, Rosamund—I fear, girl, + you sometimes think too deeply about your own situation and poor + prospects in life. When you do so, you do wrong—remember + the naughty rich man in the parable. He never had any good + thoughts about God, and his religion: and that might have been + your case." + </p> + <p> + Rosamund, at these times, could not reply to her; she was not in + the habit of <i>arguing</i> with her grandmother; so she was + quite silent on these occasions—or else the girl knew well + enough herself, that she had only been sad to think of the + desolate condition of her best friend, to see her, in her old + age, so infirm and blind. But she had never been used to make + excuses, when the old lady said she was doing wrong. + </p> + <p> + The neighbors were all very kind to them. The veriest rustics + never passed them without a bow, or a pulling off of the + hat—some show of courtesy, awkward indeed, but + affectionate—with a "Good-morrow, madam," or "young madam," + as it might happen. + </p> + <p> + Rude and savage natures, who seem born with a propensity to + express contempt for anything that looks like prosperity, yet + felt respect for its declining lustre. + </p> + <p> + The farmers, and better sort of people, (as they are called,) all + promised to provide for Rosamund when her grandmother should die. + Margaret trusted in God and believed them. + </p> + <p> + She used to say, "I have lived many years in the world, and have + never known people, <i>good people</i>, to be left without some + friend; a relation, a benefactor, a <i>something</i>. God knows + our wants—that it is not good for man or woman to be alone; + and he always sends us a helpmate, a leaning place, a + <i>somewhat</i>." Upon this sure ground of experience, did + Margaret build her trust in Providence. + </p> + <hr class="short" /> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <p> + Rosamund had just made an end of her story, (as I was about to + relate,) and was listening to the application of the moral, + (which said application she was old enough to have made herself, + but her grandmother still continued to treat her, in many + respects, as a child, and Rosamund was in no haste to lay claim + to the title of womanhood,) when a young gentleman made his + appearance and interrupted them. + </p> + <p> + It was young Allan Clare, who had brought a present of peaches, + and some roses for Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + He laid his little basket down on a seat of the arbor; and in a + respectful tone of voice, as though he were addressing a parent, + inquired of Margaret "how she did." + </p> + <p> + The old lady seemed pleased with his attentions—answered + his inquiries by saying, that "her cough was less troublesome + a-nights, but she had not yet got rid of it, and probably she + never might; but she did not like to tease young people with an + account of her infirmities." + </p> + <p> + A few kind words passed on either side, when young Clare, + glancing a tender look at the girl, who had all this time been + silent, took leave of them with saying, "I shall bring + <i>Elinor</i> to see you in the evening." + </p> + <p> + When he was gone, the old lady began to prattle. + </p> + <p> + "That is a sweet-dispositioned youth, and I <i>do</i> love him + dearly, I must say it—there is such a modesty in all he + says or does—he should not come here so often, to be sure, + but I don't know how to help it; there is so much goodness in + him, I can't find it in my heart to forbid him. But, Rosamund, + girl, I must tell you beforehand; when you grow older, Mr. Clare + must be no companion for <i>you</i>: while you were both so young + it was all very well—but the time is coming, when folks + will think harm of it, if a rich young gentleman, like Mr. Clare, + comes so often to our poor cottage.—Dost hear, girl? Why + don't you answer? Come, I did not mean to say anything to hurt + you—speak to me, Rosamund—nay, I must not have you be + sullen—I don't love people that are sullen." + </p> + <p> + And in this manner was this poor soul running on, unheard and + unheeded, when it occurred to her, that possibly the girl might + not be <i>within hearing</i>. + </p> + <p> + And true it was, that Rosamund had slunk away at the first + mention of Mr. Clare's good qualities: and when she returned, + which was not till a few minutes after Margaret had made an end + of her fine harangue, it is certain her cheeks <i>did</i> look + very <i>rosy</i>. That might have been from the heat of the day + or from exercise, for she had been walking in the garden. + </p> + <p> + Margaret, we know, was blind; and, in this case, it was lucky for + Rosamund that she was so, or she might have made some not + unlikely surmises. + </p> + <p> + I must not have my reader infer from this, that I at all think it + likely, a young maid of fourteen would fall in love without + asking her grandmother's leave—the thing itself is not to + be conceived. + </p> + <p> + To obviate all suspicions, I am disposed to communicate a little + anecdote of Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + A month or two back her grandmother had been giving her the + strictest prohibitions, in her walks, not to go near a certain + spot, which was dangerous from the circumstance of a huge + overgrown oak-tree spreading its prodigious arms across a deep + chalk-pit, which they partly concealed. + </p> + <p> + To this fatal place Rosamund came one day—female curiosity, + we know, is older than the flood—let us not think hardly of + the girl, if she partook of the sexual failing. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund ventured further and further—climbed along one of + the branches—approached the forbidden chasm—her foot + slipped—she was not killed—but it was by a mercy she + escaped—other branches intercepted her fall—and with + a palpitating heart she made her way back to the cottage. + </p> + <p> + It happened that evening, that her grandmother was in one of her + best humors, caressed Rosamund, talked of old times, and what a + blessing it was they two found a shelter in their little cottage, + and in conclusion told Rosamund, "she was a good girl, and God + would one day reward her for her kindness to her old blind + grandmother." + </p> + <p> + This was more than Rosamund could bear. Her morning's + disobedience came fresh into her mind; she felt she did not + deserve all this from Margaret, and at last burst into a fit of + crying, and made confession of her fault. The old gentlewoman + kissed and forgave her. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund never went near that naughty chasm again. + </p> + <p> + Margaret would never have heard of this, if Rosamund had not told + of it herself. But this young maid had a delicate moral sense, + which would not suffer her to take advantage of her grandmother, + to deceive her, or conceal anything from her, though Margaret was + old, and blind, and easy to be imposed upon. + </p> + <p> + Another virtuous <i>trait</i> I recollect of Rosamund, and now I + am in the vein will tell it. + </p> + <p> + Some, I know, will think these things trifles—and they are + so—but if these <i>minutiæ</i> make my reader better + acquainted with Rosamund, I am content to abide the imputation. + </p> + <p> + These promises of character, hints, and early indications of a + <i>sweet nature</i>, are to me more dear, and choice in the + selection, than any of those pretty wild flowers, which this + young maid, this virtuous Rosamund, has ever gathered in a fine + May morning, to make a posy to place in the bosom of her old + blind friend. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund had a very just notion of drawing, and would often + employ her talent in making sketches of the surrounding scenery. + </p> + <p> + On a landscape, a larger piece than she had ever yet attempted, + she had now been working for three or four months. She had taken + great pains with it, given much time to it, and it was nearly + finished. For <i>whose</i> particular inspection it was designed, + I will not venture to conjecture. We know it could not have been + for her grandmother's. + </p> + <p> + One day she went out on a short errand, and left her landscape on + the table. When she returned, she found it <i>gone</i>. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund from the first suspected some mischief, but held her + tongue. At length she made the fatal discovery. Margaret, in her + absence, had laid violent hands on it; not knowing what it was, + but taking it for some waste-paper, had torn it in half, and with + one half of this elaborate composition had twisted herself + up—a thread-paper! + </p> + <p> + Rosamund spread out her hands at sight of the disaster, gave her + grandmother a roguish smile, but said not a word. She knew the + poor soul would only fret, if she told her of it,—and when + once Margaret was set a fretting for other people's misfortunes, + the fit held her pretty long. + </p> + <p> + So Rosamund that very afternoon began another piece of the same + size and subject; and Margaret, to her dying day, never dreamed + of the mischief she had unconsciously done. + </p> + <hr class="short" /> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + Rosamund Gray was the most beautiful young creature that eyes + ever beheld. Her face had the sweetest expression in it—a + gentleness—a modesty—a timidity—a certain + charm—a grace without a name. + </p> + <p> + There was a sort of melancholy mingled in her smile. It was not + the thoughtless levity of a girl—it was not the restrained + simper of premature womanhood—it was something which the + poet Young might have remembered, when he composed that perfect + line, + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair." + </p> + </div> + <p> + She was a mild-eyed maid, and everybody loved her. Young Allan + Clare, when but a boy, sighed for her. + </p> + <p> + Her yellow hair fell in bright and curling clusters, like + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p class="i2"> + "Those hanging locks + </p> + <p> + Of young Apollo." + </p> + </div> + <p> + Her voice was trembling and musical. A graceful diffidence + pleaded for her whenever she spake—and, if she said but + little, that little found its way to the heart. + </p> + <p> + Young, and artless, and innocent, meaning no harm, and thinking + none; affectionate as a smiling infant—playful, yet + inobtrusive, as a weaned lamb—everybody loved her. Young + Allan Clare, when but a boy, sighed for her. + </p> + <p> + The moon is shining in so brightly at my window, where I write, + that I feel it a crime not to suspend my employment awhile to + gaze at her. + </p> + <p> + See how she glideth, in maiden honor, through the clouds, who + divide on either side to do her homage. + </p> + <p> + Beautiful vision!—as I contemplate thee, an internal + harmony is communicated to my mind, a moral brightness, a tacit + analogy of mental purity; a calm like <i>that</i> we ascribe in + fancy to the favored inhabitants of thy fairy regions, "argent + fields." + </p> + <p> + I marvel not, O moon, that heathen people, in the "olden times," + did worship thy deity—Cynthia, Diana, Hecate. Christian + Europe invokes thee not by these names now—her idolatry is + of a blacker stain: Belial is her God—she worships Mammon. + </p> + <p> + False things are told concerning thee, fair planet—for I + will ne'er believe that thou canst take a perverse pleasure in + distorting the brains of us, poor mortals. Lunatics! moonstruck! + Calumny invented, and folly took up, these names. I would hope + better things from thy mild aspect and benign influences. + </p> + <p> + Lady of Heaven, thou lendest thy pure lamp to light the way to + the virgin mourner, when she goes to seek the tomb where her + warrior lover lies. + </p> + <p> + Friend of the distressed, thou speakest only <i>peace</i> to the + lonely sufferer, who walks forth in the placid evening, beneath + thy gentle light, to chide at fortune, or to complain of changed + friends, or unhappy loves. + </p> + <p> + Do I dream, or doth not even now a heavenly calm descend from + thee into my bosom, as I meditate on the chaste loves of Rosamund + and her Clare! + </p> + <hr class="short" /> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <p> + Allan Clare was just two years older than Rosamund. He was a boy + of fourteen, when he first became acquainted with her—it + was soon after she had come to reside with her grandmother at + Widford. + </p> + <p> + He met her by chance one day, carrying a pitcher in her hand, + which she had been filling from a neighboring well—the + pitcher was heavy, and she seemed to be bending with its weight. + </p> + <p> + Allan insisted on carrying it for her—for he thought it a + sin that a delicate young maid, like her, should be so employed, + and he stand idle by. + </p> + <p> + Allan had a propensity to do little kind offices for + everybody—but at the sight of Rosamund Gray, his first fire + was kindled—his young mind seemed to have found an object, + and his enthusiasm was from that time forth awakened. His visits, + from that day, were pretty frequent at the cottage. + </p> + <p> + He was never happier than when he could get Rosamund to walk out + with him. He would make her admire the scenes he + admired—fancy the wild flowers he fancied—watch the + clouds he was watching—and not unfrequently repeat to her + poetry which he loved, and make her love it. + </p> + <p> + On their return, the old lady, who considered them yet as but + children, would bid Rosamund fetch Mr. Clare a glass of her + currant-wine, a bowl of new milk, or some cheap dainty which was + more welcome to Allan than the costliest delicacies of a prince's + court. + </p> + <p> + The boy and girl, for they were no more at that age, grew fond of + each other—more fond than either of them suspected. + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p class="i2"> + "They would sit, and sigh, + </p> + <p> + And look upon each other, and conceive + </p> + <p> + Not what they ail'd; yet something they did ail, + </p> + <p> + And yet were well—and yet they were not well; + </p> + <p> + And what was their disease, they could not tell." + </p> + </div> + <p> + And thus, + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "In this first garden of their simpleness + </p> + <p> + They spent their childhood." + </p> + </div> + <p> + A circumstance had lately happened, which in some sort altered + the nature of their attachment. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund was one day reading the tale of "Julia de + Roubignè"—a book which young Clare had lent her. + </p> + <p> + Allan was standing by, looking over her, with one hand thrown + round her neck, and a finger of the other pointing to a passage + in Julia's third letter. + </p> + <p> + "Maria! in my hours of visionary indulgence, I have sometimes + painted to myself a <i>husband</i>—no matter + whom—comforting me amidst the distresses which fortune had + laid upon us. I have smiled upon him through my tears; tears, not + of anguish, but of tenderness!—our children were playing + around us, unconscious of misfortune; we had taught them to be + humble, and to be happy; our little shed was reserved to us, and + their smiles to cheer it.—I have imagined the luxury of + such a scene, and affliction became a part of my dream of + happiness." + </p> + <p> + The girl blushed as she read, and trembled—she had a sort + of confused sensation, that Allan was noticing her—yet she + durst not lift her eyes from the book, but continued reading, + scarce knowing what she read. + </p> + <p> + Allan guessed the cause of her confusion, Allan trembled + too—his color came and went—his feelings became + impetuous—and flinging both arms round her neck, he kissed + his young favorite. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund was vexed and pleased, soothed and frightened, all in a + moment—a fit of tears came to her relief. + </p> + <p> + Allan had indulged before in these little freedoms, and Rosamund + had thought no harm of them; but from this time the girl grew + timid and reserved—distant in her manner, and careful of + her behavior in Allan's presence—not seeking his society as + before, but rather shunning it—delighting more to feed upon + his idea in absence. + </p> + <p> + Allan too, from this day, seemed changed: his manner became, + though not less tender, yet more respectful and + diffident—his bosom felt a throb it had till now not known, + in the society of Rosamund—and, if he was less familiar + with her than in former times, that charm of delicacy had + superadded a grace to Rosamund, which, while he feared, he loved. + </p> + <p> + There is a <i>mysterious character</i>, heightened, indeed, by + fancy and passion, but not without foundation in reality and + observation, which true lovers have ever imputed to the object of + their affections. This character Rosamund had now acquired with + Allan—something <i>angelic, perfect, exceeding nature.</i> + </p> + <p> + Young Clare dwelt very near to the cottage. He had lost his + parents, who were rather wealthy, early in life; and was left to + the care of a sister some ten years older than himself. + </p> + <p> + Elinor Clare was an excellent young lady—discreet, + intelligent, and affectionate. Allan revered her as a parent, + while he loved her as his own familiar friend. He told all the + little secrets of his heart to her—but there was + <i>one</i>, which he had hitherto unaccountably concealed from + her—namely, the extent of his regard for Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + Elinor knew of his visits to the cottage, and was no stranger to + the persons of Margaret and her granddaughter. She had several + times met them, when she had been walking with her + brother—a civility usually passed on either side—but + Elinor avoided troubling her brother with any unseasonable + questions. + </p> + <p> + Allan's heart often beat, and he has been going to tell his + sister <i>all</i>—but something like shame (false or true, + I shall not stay to inquire) had hitherto kept him + back;—still the secret, unrevealed, hung upon his + conscience like a crime—for his temper had a sweet and + noble frankness in it, which bespake him yet a virgin from the + world. + </p> + <p> + There was a fine openness in his countenance—the character + of it somewhat resembled Rosamund's—except that more fire + and enthusiasm were discernible in Allan's; his eyes were of a + darker blue than Rosamund's—his hair was of a chestnut + color—his cheeks ruddy, and tinged with brown. There was a + cordial sweetness in Allan's smile, the like to which I never saw + in any other face. + </p> + <p> + Elinor had hitherto connived at her brother's attachment to + Rosamund. Elinor, I believe, was something of a physiognomist, + and thought she could trace in the countenance and manner of + Rosamund, qualities which no brother of hers need be ashamed to + love. + </p> + <p> + The time was now come when Elinor was desirous of knowing her + brother's favorite more intimately— an opportunity offered + of breaking the matter to Allan. + </p> + <p> + The morning of the day in which he carried his present of fruit + and flowers to Rosamund, his sister had observed him more than + usually busy in the garden, culling fruit with a nicety of choice + not common to him. + </p> + <p> + She came up to him, unobserved, and, taking him by the arm, + inquired, with a questioning smile— "What are you doing, + Allan? and who are those peaches designed for?" + </p> + <p> + "For Rosamund Gray"—he replied—and his heart seemed + relieved of a burden which had long oppressed it. + </p> + <p> + "I have a mind to become acquainted with your handsome + friend—will you introduce me, Allan? I think I should like + to go and see her this afternoon." + </p> + <p> + "Do go, do go, Elinor—you don't know what a good creature + she is; and old blind Margaret, you will like <i>her</i> very + much." + </p> + <p> + His sister promised to accompany him after dinner; and they + parted. Allan gathered no more peaches, but hastily cropping a + few roses to fling into his basket, went away with it + half-filled, being impatient to announce to Rosamund the coming + of her promised visitor. + </p> + <hr class="short" /> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <p> + When Allan returned home, he found an invitation had been left + for him, in his absence, to spend that evening with a young + friend, who had just quitted a public school in London, and was + come to pass one night in his father's house at Widford, previous + to his departure the next morning for Edinburgh University. + </p> + <p> + It was Allan's bosom friend—they had not met for some + months—and it was probable a much longer time must + intervene before they should meet again. + </p> + <p> + Yet Allan could not help looking a little blank when he first + heard of the invitation. This was to have been an important + evening. But Elinor soon relieved her brother by expressing her + readiness to go alone to the cottage. + </p> + <p> + "I will not lose the pleasure I promised myself, whatever you may + determine upon, Allan; I will go by myself rather than be + disappointed." + </p> + <p> + "Will you, will you, Elinor?" + </p> + <p> + Elinor promised to go—and I believe, Allan, on a second + thought, was not very sorry to be spared the awkwardness of + introducing two persons to each other, both so dear to him, but + either of whom might happen not much to fancy the other. + </p> + <p> + At times, indeed, he was confident that Elinor <i>must</i> love + Rosamund, and Rosamund <i>must</i> love Elinor; but there were + also times in which he felt misgivings—it was an event he + could scarce hope for very joy! + </p> + <p> + Allan's <i>real presence</i> that evening was more at the cottage + than at the house, where his <i>bodily semblance</i> was + visiting—his friend could not help complaining of a certain + absence of mind, a <i>coldness</i> he called it. + </p> + <p> + It might have been expected, and in the course of things + predicted, that Allan would have asked his friend some questions + of what had happened since their last meeting, what his feelings + were on leaving school, the probable time when they should meet + again, and a, hundred natural questions which friendship is most + lavish of at such times; but nothing of all this ever occurred to + Allan—they did not even settle the method of their future + correspondence. + </p> + <p> + The consequence was, as might have been expected, Allan's friend + thought him much altered, and, after his departure, sat down to + compose a doleful sonnet about a "faithless friend."—I do + not find that he ever finished it—indignation, or a dearth + of rhymes, causing him to break off in the middle. + </p> + <hr class="short" /> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <p> + In my catalogue of the little library at the cottage, I forgot to + mention a book of Common Prayer. My reader's fancy might easily + have supplied the omission—old ladies of Margaret's stamp + (God bless them!) may as well be without their spectacles, or + their elbow-chair, as their prayer-book—I love them for it. + </p> + <p> + Margaret's was a handsome octavo, printed by Baskerville, the + binding red, and fortified with silver at the edges. Out of this + book it was their custom every afternoon to read the proper + psalms appointed for the day. + </p> + <p> + The way they managed was this: they took verse by + verse—Rosamund <i>read</i> her little portion, and Margaret + repeated hers in turn, from memory—for Margaret could say + all the Psalter by heart, and a good part of the Bible besides. + She would not unfrequently put the girl right when she stumbled + or skipped. This Margaret imputed to giddiness—a quality + which Rosamund was by no means remarkable for—but old + ladies, like Margaret, are not in all instances alike + discriminative. + </p> + <p> + They had been employed in this manner just before Miss Clare + arrived at the cottage. The psalm they had been reading was the + hundred and fourth—Margaret was naturally led by it into a + discussion of the works of creation. + </p> + <p> + There had been <i>thunder</i> in the course of the day— an + occasion of instruction which the old lady never let + pass—she began— + </p> + <p> + "Thunder has a very awful sound—some say God Almighty is + angry whenever it thunders—that it is the voice of God + speaking to us; for my part, I am not afraid of it"—— + </p> + <p> + And in this manner the old lady was going on to particularize, as + usual, its beneficial effects, in clearing the air, destroying of + vermin, &c., when the entrance of Miss Clare put an end to + her discourse. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund received her with respectful tenderness— and, + taking her grandmother by the hand, said, with great + sweetness,—"Miss Clare is come to see you, grandmother." + </p> + <p> + "I beg pardon, lady—I cannot <i>see</i> you—but you + are heartily welcome. Is your brother with you, Miss + Clare?—I don't hear him." + </p> + <p> + "He could not come, madam, but he sends his love by me." + </p> + <p> + "You have an excellent brother, Miss Clare—but pray do us + the honor to take some refreshment—Rosamund"—— + </p> + <p> + And the old lady was going to give directions for a bottle of her + currant wine—when Elinor, smiling, said "she was come to + take a cup of tea with her, and expected to find no ceremony." + </p> + <p> + "After tea, I promise myself a walk with you, Rosamund, if your + grandmother can spare you." Rosamund looked at her grandmother. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, for that matter, I should be sorry to debar the girl from + any pleasure—I am sure it's lonesome enough for her to be + with <i>me</i> always—and if Miss Clare will take you out, + child, I shall do very well by myself till you return—it + will not be the first time, you know, that I have been left here + alone—some of the neighbors will be dropping in bye and + bye—or, if <i>not</i>, I shall take no harm." + </p> + <p> + Rosamund had all the simple manners of a child; she kissed her + grandmother, and looked happy. + </p> + <p> + All tea-time the old lady's discourse was little more than a + panegyric on young Clare's good qualities. Elinor looked at her + young friend, and smiled. Rosamund was beginning to look + grave—but there was a cordial sunshine in the face of + Elinor, before which any clouds of reserve that had been + gathering on Rosamund's soon brake away. + </p> + <p> + "Does your grandmother ever go out, Rosamund?" + </p> + <p> + Margaret prevented the girl's reply, by saying—"My dear + young lady, I am an old woman, and very infirm—Rosamund + takes me a few paces beyond the door sometimes—but I walk + very badly—I love best to sit in our little arbor when the + sun shines—I can yet feel it warm and cheerful—and, + if I lose the beauties of the season, I shall be very happy if + you and Rosamund can take delight in this fine summer evening." + </p> + <p> + "I shall want to rob you of Rosamund's company now and then, if + we like one another. I had hoped to have seen <i>you</i>, madam, + at our house. I don't know whether we could not make room for you + to come and live with us—what say you to it? Allan would be + proud to tend you, I am sure; and Rosamund and I should be nice + company." + </p> + <p> + Margaret was all unused to such kindnesses, and + wept—Margaret had a great spirit—yet she was not + above accepting an obligation from a worthy person—there + was a delicacy in Miss Clare's manner—she could have no + interest but pure goodness, to induce her to make the + offer—at length the old lady spake from a full heart. + </p> + <p> + "Miss Clare, this little cottage received us in our + distress—it gave us shelter when we had <i>no + home</i>—we have praised God in it—and, while life + remains, I think I shall never part from it—Rosamund does + everything for me"— + </p> + <p> + "And will do, grandmother, as long as I live;"—and then + Rosamund fell a-crying. + </p> + <p> + "You are a good girl, Rosamund; and if you do but find friends + when I am dead and gone, I shall want no better accommodation + while I live—but God bless you, lady, a thousand times, for + your kind offer." + </p> + <p> + Elinor was moved to tears, and, affecting a sprightliness, bade + Rosamund prepare for her walk. The girl put on her white silk + bonnet; and Elinor thought she never beheld so lovely a creature. + </p> + <p> + They took leave of Margaret, and walked out together; they + rambled over all Rosamund's favorite haunts—through many a + sunny field—by secret glade or wood-walk, where the girl + had wandered so often with her beloved Clare. + </p> + <p> + Who now so happy as Rosamund? She had oft-times heard Allan speak + with great tenderness of his sister—she was now rambling, + arm in arm, with that very sister, the "vaunted sister" of her + friend, her beloved Clare. + </p> + <p> + Not a tree, not a bush, scarce a wild flower in their path, but + revived in Rosamund some tender recollection, a conversation + perhaps, or some chaste endearment. Life, and a new scene of + things, were now opening before her—she was got into a + fairy land of uncertain existence. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund was too happy to talk much—but Elinor was + delighted with her when she <i>did</i> talk:—the girl's + remarks were suggested most of them by the passing + scene—and they betrayed, all of them, the liveliness of + present impulse;—her conversation did not consist in a + comparison of vapid feeling, an interchange of sentiment + lip-deep—it had all the freshness of young sensation in it. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes they talked of Allan. + </p> + <p> + "Allan is very good," said Rosamund, "very good <i>indeed</i> to + my grandmother—he will sit with her, and hear her stories, + and read to her, and try to divert her a hundred ways. I wonder + sometimes he is not tired. She talks him to death!" + </p> + <p> + "Then you confess, Rosamund, that the old lady <i>does</i> tire + <i>you</i> sometimes?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh no, I did not mean <i>that</i>—it's very + different—I am used to all her ways, and I can humor her, + and please her, and I ought to do it, for she is the only friend + I ever had in the world." + </p> + <p> + The new friends did not conclude their walk till it was late, and + Rosamund began to be apprehensive about the old lady, who had + been all this time alone. + </p> + <p> + On their return to the cottage, they found that Margaret had been + somewhat impatient—old ladies, <i>good old ladies</i>, will + be so at times—age is timorous and suspicious of danger, + where no danger is. + </p> + <p> + Besides, it was Margaret's bedtime, for she kept very good + hours—indeed, in the distribution of her meals, and sundry + other particulars, she resembled the livers in the antique world, + more than might well beseem a creature of this. + </p> + <p> + So the new friends parted for that night. Elinor having made + Margaret promise to give Rosamund leave to come and see her the + next day. + </p> + <hr class="short" /> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> + <p> + Miss Clare, we may be sure, made her brother very happy, when she + told him of the engagement she had made for the morrow, and how + delighted she had been with his handsome friend. + </p> + <p> + Allan, I believe, got little sleep that night. I know not, + whether joy be not a more troublesome bedfellow than + grief—hope keeps a body very wakeful, I know. + </p> + <p> + Elinor Clare was the best good creature—the least selfish + human being I ever knew—always at work for other people's + good, planning other people's happiness—continually + forgetful to consult for her own personal gratifications, except + indirectly, in the welfare of another; while her parents lived, + the most attentive of daughters—since they died, the + kindest of sisters—I never knew but <i>one</i> like her. It + happens that I have some of this young lady's <i>letters</i> in + my possession—I shall present my reader with one of them. + It was written a short time after the death of her mother, and + addressed to a cousin, a dear friend of Elinor's, who was then on + the point of being married to Mr. Beaumont, of Staffordshire, and + had invited Elinor to assist at her nuptials. I will transcribe + it with minute fidelity. + </p> + <h3> + ELINOR CLARE TO MARIA LESLIE. + </h3> + <div class="rt"> + Widford, July the —, 17—. + </div> + <p> + Health, Innocence, and Beauty, shall be thy bride-maids, my sweet + cousin. I have no heart to undertake the office. Alas! what have + I to do in the house of feasting? + </p> + <p> + Maria! I fear lest my griefs should prove obtrusive. Yet bear + with me a little—I have recovered already a share of my + former spirits. + </p> + <p> + I fear more for Allan than myself. The loss of two such parents, + within so short an interval, bears very heavy on him. The boy + <i>hangs</i> about me from morning till night. He is perpetually + forcing a smile into his poor pale cheeks—you know the + sweetness of his smile, Maria. + </p> + <p> + To-day, after dinner, when he took his glass of wine in his hand, + he burst into tears, and would not, or could not then, tell me + the reason—afterwards he told me—"he had been used to + drink Mamma's health after dinner, and <i>that</i> came into his + head and made him cry." I feel the claims the boy has upon + me—I perceive that I am living to <i>some end</i>—and + the thought supports me. + </p> + <p> + Already I have attained to a state of complacent + feelings—my mother's lessons were not thrown away upon her + Elinor. + </p> + <p> + In the visions of last night her spirit seemed to stand at my + bedside—a light, as of noonday, shone upon the + room—she opened my curtains—she smiled upon me with + the same placid smile as in her lifetime. I felt no fear. + "Elinor," she said, "for my sake take care of young + Allan,"—and I awoke with calm feelings. + </p> + <p> + Maria! shall not the meeting of blessed spirits, think you, he + something like this?—I think, I could even now behold my + mother without dread—I would ask pardon of her for all my + past omissions of duty, for all the little asperities in my + temper, which have so often grieved her gentle spirit when + living. Maria! I think she would not turn away from me. + </p> + <p> + Oftentimes a feeling, more vivid than memory, brings her before + me—I see her sit in her old elbow-chair—her arms + folded upon her lap—a tear upon her cheek, that seems to + upbraid her unkind daughter for some inattention—I wipe it + away and kiss her honored lips. + </p> + <p> + Maria! when I have been fancying all this, Allan will come in, + with his poor eyes red with weeping, and taking me by the hand, + destroy the vision in a moment. + </p> + <p> + I am prating to you, my sweet cousin, but it is the prattle of + the heart, which Maria loves. Besides, whom have I to talk to of + these things but you?—you have been my counsellor in times + past, my companion, and sweet familiar friend. Bear with me a + little—I mourn the "cherishers of my infancy." + </p> + <p> + I sometimes count it a blessing that my father did not prove the + <i>survivor</i>. You know something of his story. You know there + was a foul tale current—it was the busy malice of that bad + man, S——, which helped to spread it abroad—you + will recollect the active good-nature of our friends + W—— and T——; what pains they took to + undeceive people—with the better sort their kind labors + prevailed; but there was still a party who shut their ears. You + know the issue of it. My father's great spirit bore up against it + for some time—my father never was a <i>bad</i> + man—but that spirit was broken at the last—and the + greatly-injured man was forced to leave his old paternal dwelling + in Staffordshire—for the neighbors had begun to point at + him. Maria! I have <i>seen</i> them <i>point</i> at him, and have + been ready to drop. + </p> + <p> + In this part of the country, where the slander had not reached, + he sought a retreat—and he found a still more grateful + asylum in the daily solicitudes of the best of wives. + </p> + <p> + "An enemy hath done this," I have heard him say—and at such + times my mother would speak to him so soothingly of forgiveness, + and long-suffering, and the bearing of injuries with patience; + would heal all his wounds with so gentle a touch;—I have + seen the old man weep like a child. + </p> + <p> + The gloom that beset his mind, at times betrayed him into + skepticism—he has doubted if there be a Providence! I have + heard him say, "God has built a brave world, but methinks he has + left his creatures to bustle in it <i>how they may</i>." + </p> + <p> + At such times he could not endure to hear my mother talk in a + religious strain. He would say, "Woman, have done—you + confound, you perplex me, when you talk of these matters, and for + one day at least unfit me for the business of life." + </p> + <p> + I have seen her look at him—O GOD, Maria! such a + <i>look</i>! it plainly spake that she was willing to have shared + her precious hope with the partner of her earthly cares—but + she found a repulse— + </p> + <p> + Deprived of such a wife, think you, the old man could long have + endured his existence? or what consolation would his wretched + daughter have had to offer him, but silent and imbecile tears? + </p> + <p> + My sweet cousin, you will think me tedious—and I am + so—but it does me good to talk these matters over. And do + not you be alarmed for me—my sorrows are subsiding into a + deep and sweet resignation. I shall soon be sufficiently + composed, I know it, to participate in my friend's happiness. + </p> + <p> + Let me call her, while yet I may, my own Maria Leslie! Methinks, + I shall not like you by any other name. Beaumont! Maria Beaumont! + it hath a strange sound with it—I shall never be reconciled + to this name—but do not you fear—Maria Leslie shall + plead with me for Maria Beaumont. + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p class="i6"> + And now, my sweet Friend, + </p> + <p class="i8"> + God love you, and your + </p> + <p class="i10"> + ELINOR CLARE. + </p> + </div> + <p> + I find in my collection several letters, written soon after the + date of the preceding, and addressed all of them to Maria + Beaumont.—I am tempted to make some short extracts from + these—my tale will suffer interruption by them—but I + was willing to preserve whatever memorials I could of Elinor + Clare. + </p> + <h3> + FROM ELINOR CLARE TO MARIA BEAUMONT. + </h3> + <h5> + (AN EXTRACT.) + </h5> + <p> + "——I have been strolling out for half an hour in the + fields; and my mind has been occupied by thoughts which Maria has + a right to participate. I have been bringing my <i>mother</i> to + my recollection. My heart ached with the remembrance of + infirmities, that made her closing years of life so sore a trial + to her. + </p> + <p> + "I was concerned to think that our family differences have been + one source of disquiet to her. I am sensible that <i>this + last</i> we are apt to exaggerate after a person's + death—and surely, in the main, there was considerable + harmony among the members of our little family—still I was + concerned to think that we ever gave her gentle spirit disquiet. + </p> + <p> + "I thought on years back—on all my parents' + friends—the H——s, the F——s, on + D—— S——, and on many a merry evening, in + the fireside circle, in that comfortable back parlor—it is + never used now.— + </p> + <p> + "O ye <i>Matravises</i>[1] of the age, ye know not what ye lose + in despising these petty topics of endeared remembrance, + associated circumstances of past times;—ye know not the + throbbings of the heart, tender yet affectionately familiar, + which accompany the dear and honored names of <i>father</i> or of + <i>mother</i>. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: This name will be explained presently. + </div> + <p> + "Maria! I thought on all these things; my heart ached at the + review of them—it yet aches, while I write this—but I + am never so satisfied with my train of thoughts, as when they run + upon these subjects—the tears they draw from us, meliorate + and soften the heart, and keep fresh within us that memory of + dear friends dead, which alone can fit us for a readmission to + their society hereafter." + </p> + <h3> + FROM ANOTHER LETTER. + </h3> + <p> + "——I had a bad dream this morning—that Allan + was dead—and who, of all persons in the world do you think, + put on mourning for him? Why—<i>Matravis</i>. This alone + might cure me of superstitious thoughts, if I were inclined to + them; for why should Matravis <i>mourn</i> for us, or our + family?—Still it was pleasant to awake, and find it but a + dream.—Methinks something like an awaking from an ill dream + shall the Resurrection from the Dead be.—Materially + different from our accustomed scenes, and ways of life, the + <i>World to come</i> may possibly not be—still it is + represented to us under the notion of a <i>Rest</i>, a + <i>Sabbath</i>, a state of bliss." + </p> + <h3> + FROM ANOTHER LETTER. + </h3> + <p> + "——Methinks, you and I should have been born under + the same roof, sucked the same milk, conned the same horn-book, + thumbed the same Testament, together:—for we have been more + than sisters, Maria! + </p> + <p> + "Something will still be whispering to me, that I shall one day + be inmate of the same dwelling with my cousin, partaker with her + in all the delights which spring from mutual good offices, kind + words, attentions in sickness and in health,—conversation, + sometimes innocently trivial, and at others profitably + serious;—books read and commented on, together; meals ate, + and walks taken, together,—and conferences, how we may best + do good to this poor person or that, and wean our spirits from + the world's <i>cares</i>, without divesting ourselves of its + <i>charities</i>. What a picture I have drawn, Maria! and none of + all these things may ever come to pass." + </p> + <h3> + FROM ANOTHER LETTER. + </h3> + <p> + "——Continue to write to me, my sweet cousin. Many + good thoughts, resolutions, and proper views of things, pass + through the mind in the course of the day, but are lost for want + of committing them to paper. Seize them, Maria, as they pass, + these Birds of Paradise, that show themselves and are + gone,—and make a grateful present of the precious fugitives + to your friend. + </p> + <p> + "To use a homely illustration, just rising in my + fancy,—shall the good housewife take such pains in pickling + and preserving her worthless fruits, her walnuts, her apricots, + and quinces—and is there not much <i>spiritual + housewifery</i> in treasuring up our mind's best fruits—our + heart's meditations in its most favored moments? + </p> + <p> + "This sad simile is much in the fashion of the old Moralizers, + such as I conceive honest Baxter to have been, such as Quarles + and Wither were with their curious, serio-comic, quaint emblems. + But they sometimes reach the heart, when a more elegant simile + rests in the fancy. + </p> + <p> + "Not low and mean, like these, but beautifully familiarized to + our conceptions, and condescending to human thoughts and notions, + are all the discourses of our LORD—conveyed in parable, or + similitude, what easy access do they win to the heart, through + the medium of the delighted imagination! speaking of heavenly + things in fable, or in simile, drawn from earth, from objects + <i>common</i>, <i>accustomed</i>. + </p> + <p> + "Life's business, with such delicious little interruptions as our + correspondence affords, how pleasant it is!—why can we not + paint on the dull paper our whole feelings, exquisite as they + rise up?" + </p> + <h3> + FROM ANOTHER LETTER. + </h3> + <p> + "——I had meant to have left off at this place; but + looking back, I am sorry to find too gloomy a cast tincturing my + last page—a representation of life false and unthankful. + Life is <i>not</i> all vanity and disappointment—it hath + much of evil in it, no doubt; but to those who do not misuse it, + it affords comfort, <i>temporary</i> comfort, much—much + that endears us to it, and dignifies it—many true and good + feelings, I trust, of which we need not be ashamed—hours of + tranquillity and hope. But the morning was dull and overcast, and + my spirits were under a cloud. I feel my error. + </p> + <p> + "Is it no blessing that we two love one another so + dearly—that Allan is left me—that you are settled in + life—that worldly affairs go smooth with us + both—above all that our lot hath fallen to us in a + Christian country? Maria! these things are not little. I will + consider life as a long feast, and not forget to say grace." + </p> + <h3> + FROM ANOTHER LETTER. + </h3> + <p> + "——Allan has written to me—you know, he is on a + visit at his old tutor's in Gloucestershire—he is to return + home on Thursday—Allan is a dear boy—he concludes his + letter, which is very affectionate throughout, in this + manner— + </p> + <p> + "'Elinor, I charge you to learn the following stanza by + heart— + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "'The monarch may forget his crown, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + That on his head an hour hath been; + </p> + <p> + The bridegroom may forget his bride + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Was made his wedded wife yestreen; + </p> + </div> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "'The mother may forget her child, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + That smiles so sweetly on her knee: + </p> + <p> + But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And all that thou hast done for me." + </p> + </div> + <p> + "'The lines are in Burns—you know, we read him for the + first time together at Margate—and I have been used to + refer them to you, and to call you, in my mind, + <i>Glencairn</i>,—for you were always very good to me. I + had a thousand failings, but you would love me in spite of them + all. I am going to drink your health.'" + </p> + <p> + I shall detain my reader no longer from the narrative. + </p> + <hr class="short" /> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> + <p> + They had but four rooms in the cottage. Margaret slept in the + biggest room up-stairs, and her grand-daughter in a kind of + closet adjoining, where she could be within hearing, if her + grandmother should call her in the night. + </p> + <p> + The girl was often disturbed in that manner—two or three + times in a night she has been forced to leave her bed, to fetch + her grandmother's cordials, or do some little service for + her—but she knew that Margaret's ailings were <i>real</i> + and pressing, and Rosamund never complained—never + suspected, that her grandmother's requisitions had anything + unreasonable in them. + </p> + <p> + The night she parted with Miss Clare, she had helped Margaret to + bed, as usual—and, after saying her prayers, as the custom + was, kneeling by the old lady's bedside, kissed her grandmother, + and wished her a good-night—Margaret blessed her, and + charged her to go to bed directly. It was her customary + injunction, and Rosamund had never dreamed of disobeying. + </p> + <p> + So she retired to her little room. The night was warm and + clear—the moon very bright—her window commanded a + view of <i>scenes</i> she had been tracing in the daytime with + Miss Clare. + </p> + <p> + All the events of the day past, the occurrences of their walk + arose in her mind. She fancied she should like to retrace those + scenes—but it was now nine o'clock, a late hour in the + village. + </p> + <p> + Still she fancied it would be very charming—and then her + grandmother's injunction came powerfully to her + recollection—she sighed, and turned from the window-and + walked up and down her little room. + </p> + <p> + Ever, when she looked at the window, the wish returned. It was + not so <i>very late</i>. The neighbors were yet about, passing + under the window to their homes—she thought, and thought + again, till her sensations became vivid, even to + painfulness—her bosom was aching to give them vent. + </p> + <p> + The village-clock struck ten!—the neighbors ceased to pass + under the window. Rosamund, stealing downstairs, fastened the + latch behind her, and left the cottage. + </p> + <p> + One, that knew her, met her, and observed her with some surprise. + Another recollects having wished her a good-night. Rosamund never + returned to the cottage. + </p> + <p> + An old man, that lay sick in a small house adjoining to + Margaret's, testified the next morning, that he had plainly heard + the old creature calling for her granddaughter. All the night + long she made her moan, and ceased not to call upon the name of + Rosamund. But no Rosamund was there—the voice died away, + but not till near daybreak. + </p> + <p> + When the neighbors came to search in the morning, Margaret was + missing! She had <i>straggled</i> out of bed, and made her way + into Rosamund's room—worn out with fatigue and fright, when + she found the girl not there, she had laid herself down to + die—and, it is thought, she died <i>praying</i>—for + she was discovered in a kneeling posture, her arms and face + extended on the pillow, where Rosamund had slept the night + before—a smile was on her face in death. + </p> + <hr class="short" /> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> + <p> + Fain would I draw a veil over the transactions of that + night—but I cannot—grief, and burning shame, forbid + me to be silent—black deeds are about to be made public, + which reflect a stain upon our common nature. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund, enthusiastic and improvident, wandered unprotected to a + distance from her guardian doors—through lonely glens, and + wood-walks, where she had rambled many a <i>day</i> in + safety—till she arrived at a shady copse, out of the + hearing of any human habitation. + </p> + <p> + <i>Matravis</i> met her.—-"Flown with insolence and wine," + returning home late at night, he passed that way! + </p> + <p> + Matravis was a very ugly man. Sallow-complexioned! and if hearts + can wear that color, his heart was sallow-complexioned also. + </p> + <p> + A young man with <i>gray</i> deliberation! cold and systematic in + all his plans; and all his plans were evil. His very lust was + systematic. + </p> + <p> + He would brood over his bad purposes for such a dreary length of + time that, it might have been expected, some solitary check of + conscience must have intervened to save him from commission. But + that <i>Light from Heaven</i> was extinct in his dark bosom. + </p> + <p> + Nothing that is great, nothing that is amiable, existed for this + unhappy man. He feared, he envied, he suspected; but he never + loved. The sublime and beautiful in nature, the excellent and + becoming in morals, were things placed beyond the capacity of his + sensations. He loved not poetry—nor ever took a lonely walk + to meditate—never beheld virtue, which he did not try to + disbelieve, or female beauty and innocence, which he did not lust + to contaminate. + </p> + <p> + A sneer was perpetually upon his face, and malice <i>grinning</i> + at his heart. He would say the most ill-natured things, with the + least remorse, of any man I ever knew. This gained him the + reputation of a wit—other <i>traits</i> got him the + reputation of a villain. + </p> + <p> + And this man formerly paid his court to Elinor Clare!—with + what success I leave my readers to determine. It was not in + Elinor's nature to despise any living thing—but in the + estimation of this man, to be rejected was to be + <i>despised</i>—and Matravis <i>never forgave</i>. + </p> + <p> + He had long turned his eyes upon Rosamund Gray. To steal from the + bosom of her friends the jewel they prized so much, the little + ewe lamb they held so dear, was a scheme of delicate revenge, and + Matravis had a twofold motive for accomplishing this young maid's + ruin. + </p> + <p> + Often had he met her in her favorite solitudes, but found her + ever cold and inaccessible. Of late the girl had avoided straying + far from her own home, in the fear of meeting him—but she + had never told her fears to Allan. + </p> + <p> + Matravis had, till now, been content to be a villain within the + limits of the law—but, on the present occasion, hot fumes + of wine, cooperating with his deep desire of revenge, and the + insolence of an unhoped-for meeting, overcame his customary + prudence, and Matravis rose, at once, to an audacity of glorious + mischief. + </p> + <p> + Late at night he met her, a lonely, unprotected virgin—no + friend at hand—no place near of refuge. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund Gray, my soul is exceeding sorrowful for thee—I + loathe to tell the hateful circumstances of thy wrongs. Night and + silence were the only witnesses of this young maid's + disgrace—Matravis fled. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund, polluted and disgraced, wandered, an abandoned thing, + about the fields and meadows till daybreak. Not caring to return + to the cottage, she sat herself down before the gate of Miss + Clare's house—in a stupor of grief. + </p> + <p> + Elinor was just rising, and had opened the windows of her + chamber, when she perceived her desolate young friend. She ran to + embrace her—she brought her into the house—she took + her to her bosom—she kissed her—she spake to her; but + Rosamund could not speak. + </p> + <p> + Tidings came from the cottage. Margaret's death was an event + which could not be kept concealed from Rosamund. When the sweet + maid heard of it, she languished, and fell sick—she never + held up her head after that time. + </p> + <p> + If Rosamund had been a <i>sister</i>, she could not have been + kindlier treated than by her two friends. + </p> + <p> + Allan had prospects in life—might, in time, have married + into any of the first families in Hertfordshire—but + Rosamund Gray, humbled though she was, and put to shame, had yet + a charm for <i>him</i>—and he would have been content to + share his fortunes with her yet, if Rosamund would have lived to + be his companion. + </p> + <p> + But this was not to be—and the girl soon after died. She + expired in the arms of Elinor—quiet, gentle, as she + lived—thankful that she died not among strangers—and + expressing, by signs rather than words, a gratitude for the most + trifling services, the common offices of humanity. She died + uncomplaining; and this young maid, this untaught Rosamund, might + have given a lesson to the grave philosopher in death. + </p> + <hr class="short" /> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> + <p> + I was but a boy when these events took place. All the village + remember the story, and tell of Rosamund Gray, and old blind + Margaret. + </p> + <p> + I parted from Allan Clare on that disastrous night, and set out + for Edinburgh the next morning, before the facts were commonly + known—I heard not of them—and it was four months + before I received a letter from Allan. + </p> + <p> + "His heart," he told me, "was gone from him—for his sister + had died of a frenzy fever!"—not a word of Rosamund in the + letter—I was left to collect her story from sources which + may one day be explained. + </p> + <p> + I soon after quitted Scotland, on the death of my father, and + returned to my native village. Allan had left the place, and I + could gain no information, whether he were dead or living. + </p> + <p> + I passed the <i>cottage</i>. I did not dare to look that way, or + to inquire <i>who</i> lived there. A little dog, that had been + Rosamund's, was yelping in my path. I laughed aloud like one mad, + whose mind had suddenly gone from him—I stared vacantly + around me, like one alienated from common perceptions. + </p> + <p> + But I was young at that time, and the impression became gradually + weakened as I mingled in the business of life. It is now <i>ten + years</i> since these events took place, and I sometimes think of + them as unreal. Allan Clare was a dear friend to me—but + there are times when Allan and his sister, Margaret and her + grand-daughter, appear like personages of a dream—an idle + dream. + </p> + <hr class="short" /> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. + </h2> + <p> + Strange things have happened unto me—I seem scarce + awake—but I will recollect my thoughts, and try to give an + account of what has befallen me in the few last weeks. + </p> + <p> + Since my father's death our family have resided in London. I am + in practice as a surgeon there. My mother died two years after we + left Widford. + </p> + <p> + A month or two ago, I had been busying myself in drawing up the + above narrative, intending to make it public. The employment had + forced my mind to dwell upon <i>facts</i>, which had begun to + fade from it—the memory of old times became vivid, and more + vivid—I felt a strong desire to revisit the scenes of my + native village—of the young loves of Rosamund and her + Clare. + </p> + <p> + A kind of dread had hitherto kept me back; but I was restless + now, till I had accomplished my wish. I set out one morning to + walk—I reached Widford about eleven in the + forenoon—after a slight breakfast at my inn—where I + was mortified to perceive the old landlord did not know me + again—(old Thomas Billet—he has often made angle-rods + for me when a child)—I rambled over all my accustomed + haunts. + </p> + <p> + Our old house was vacant, and to be sold. I entered, unmolested, + into the room that had been my bedchamber. I kneeled down on the + spot where my little bed had stood—I felt like a + child—I prayed like one—it seemed as though old times + were to return again—I looked round involuntarily, + expecting to see some face I knew—but all was naked and + mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of painted window, through + which I loved to look at the sun when I awoke in a fine summer's + morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of common + glass. + </p> + <p> + I visited, by turns, every chamber—they were all desolate + and unfurnished, one excepted, in which the owner had left a + harpsichord, probably to be sold—I touched the keys—I + played some old Scottish tunes, which had delighted me when a + child. Past associations revived with the music—blended + with a sense of <i>unreality</i>, which at last became too + powerful—I rushed out of the room to give vent to my + feelings. + </p> + <p> + I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an old wood, that stands + at the back of the house—we called it the + <i>Wilderness</i>. A well-known <i>form</i> was missing, that + used to meet me in this place—it was thine—Ben + Moxam—the kindest, gentlest, politest of human beings, yet + was he nothing higher than a gardener in the family. Honest + creature! thou didst never pass me in my childish rambles, + without a soft speech, and a smile. I remember thy good-natured + face. But there is one thing, for which I can never forgive thee, + Ben Moxam—that thou didst join with an old maiden aunt of + mine in a cruel plot, to lop away the hanging branches of the old + fir-trees—I remember them sweeping to the ground. + </p> + <p> + I have often left my childish sports to ramble in this + place—its glooms and its solitude had a mysterious charm + for my young mind, nurturing within me that love of quietness and + lonely thinking, which has accompanied me to maturer years. + </p> + <p> + In this <i>Wilderness</i> I found myself, after a ten years' + absence. Its stately fir-trees were yet standing, with all their + luxuriant company of underwood—the squirrel was there, and + the melancholy cooings of the wood-pigeon—all was as I had + left it—my heart softened at the sight—it seemed as + though my character had been suffering a <i>change</i> since I + forsook these shades. + </p> + <p> + My parents were both dead—I had no counsellor left, no + experience of age to direct me, no sweet voice of reproof. The + Lord had taken away my <i>friends</i>, and I knew not where he + had laid them. I paced round the wilderness, seeking a comforter. + I prayed that I might be restored to that <i>state of + innocence</i>, in which I had wandered in those shades. + </p> + <p> + Methought my request was heard, for it seemed as though the + stains of manhood were passing from me, and I were relapsing into + the purity and simplicity of childhood. I was content to have + been moulded into a perfect child. I stood still, as in a trance. + I dreamed that I was enjoying a personal intercourse with my + heavenly Father—and, extravagantly, put off the shoes from + my feet—for the place where I stood I thought, was holy + ground. + </p> + <p> + This state of mind could not last long, and I returned with + languid feelings to my inn. I ordered my dinner—green peas + and a sweetbread—it had been a favorite dish with me in my + childhood—I was allowed to have it on my birthdays. I was + impatient to see it come upon table—but, when it came, I + could scarce eat a mouthful—my tears choked me. I called + for wine—I drank a pint and a half of red wine—and + not till then had I dared to visit the church-yard, where my + parents were interred. + </p> + <p> + The <i>cottage</i> lay in my way—Margaret had chosen it for + that very reason, to be near the church—for the old lady + was regular in her attendance on public worship—I passed + on—and in a moment found myself among the tombs. + </p> + <p> + I had been present at my father's burial, and knew the spot + again—my mother's funeral I was prevented by illness from + attending—a plain stone was placed over the grave, with + their initials carved upon it—for they both occupied one + grave. + </p> + <p> + I prostrated myself before the spot—I kissed the earth that + covered them—I contemplated, with gloomy delight, the time + when I should mingle my dust with theirs—and kneeled, with + my arms incumbent on the gravestone, in a kind of mental + prayer—for I could not speak. + </p> + <p> + Having performed these duties, I arose with quieter feelings, and + felt leisure to attend to indifferent objects.—Still I + continued in the church-yard, reading the various inscriptions, + and moralizing on them with that kind of levity, which will not + unfrequently spring up in the mind, in the midst of deep + melancholy. + </p> + <p> + I read of nothing but careful parents, loving husbands, and + dutiful children. I said jestingly, where be all the <i>bad</i> + people buried? Bad parents, bad husbands, bad children—what + cemeteries are appointed for these?—do they not sleep in + consecrated ground? or is it but a pious fiction, a generous + oversight, in the survivors, which thus tricks out men's epitaphs + when dead, who, in their lifetime, discharged the offices of + life, perhaps, but lamely? Their failings, with their reproaches, + now sleep with them in the grave. <i>Man wars not with the + dead.</i> It is a <i>trait</i> of human nature, for which I love + it. + </p> + <p> + I had not observed, till now, a little group assembled at the + other end of the church-yard; it was a company of children, who + were gathered round a young man, dressed in black, sitting on a + gravestone. + </p> + <p> + He seemed to be asking them questions—probably, about their + learning—and one little dirty ragged-headed fellow was + clambering up his knees to kiss him. The children had been eating + black cherries—for some of the stones were scattered about, + and their mouths were smeared with them. + </p> + <p> + As I drew near them, I thought I discerned in the stranger a mild + benignity of countenance, which I had somewhere seen + before—I gazed at him more attentively. + </p> + <p> + It was Allan Clare! sitting on the grave of his sister. + </p> + <p> + I threw my arms about his neck. I exclaimed "Allan"—he + turned his eyes upon me—he knew me—we both wept + aloud—it seemed as though the interval since we parted had + been as nothing—I cried out, "Come, and tell me about these + things." + </p> + <p> + I drew him away from his little friends—he parted with a + show of reluctance from the church-yard—Margaret and her + grand-daughter lay buried there, as well as his sister—I + took him to my inn—secured a room, where we might be + private—ordered fresh wine—scarce knowing what I did, + I danced for joy. + </p> + <p> + Allan was quite overcome, and taking me by the hand, he said, + "This repays me for all." + </p> + <p> + It was a proud day for me—I had found the friend I thought + dead—earth seemed to me no longer valuable, than as it + contained <i>him</i>; and existence a blessing no longer than + while I should live to be his comforter. + </p> + <p> + I began, at leisure, to survey him with more attention. Time and + grief had left few traces of that fine <i>enthusiasm</i>, which + once burned in his countenance—his eyes had lost their + original fire, but they retained an uncommon sweetness, and + whenever they were turned upon me, their smile pierced to my + heart. + </p> + <p> + "Allan, I fear you have been a sufferer?" He replied not, and I + could not press him further. I could not call the dead to life + again. + </p> + <p> + So we drank and told old stories—and repeated old + poetry—and sang old songs—as if nothing had happened. + We sate till very late. I forgot that I had purposed returning to + town that evening—to Allan all places were alike—I + grew noisy, he grew cheerful—Allan's old manners, old + enthusiasm, were returning upon him—we laughed, we wept, we + mingled our tears, and talked extravagantly. + </p> + <p> + Allan was my chamber-fellow that night—and lay awake + planning schemes of living together under the same roof, entering + upon similar pursuits,—and praising GOD, that we had met. + </p> + <p> + I was obliged to return to town the next morning, and Allan + proposed to accompany me. "Since the death of his sister," he + told me, "he had been a wanderer." + </p> + <p> + In the course of our walk he unbosomed himself without + reserve—told me many particulars of his way of life for the + last nine or ten years, which I do not feel myself at liberty to + divulge. + </p> + <p> + Once, on my attempting to cheer him, when I perceived him over + thoughtful, he replied to me in these words: + </p> + <p> + "Do not regard me as unhappy when you catch me in these moods. I + am never more happy than at times when, by the cast of my + countenance, men judge me most miserable. + </p> + <p> + "My friend, the events which have left this sadness behind them + are of no recent date. The melancholy which comes over me with + the recollection of them is not hurtful, but only tends to soften + and tranquillize my mind, to detach me from the restlessness of + human pursuits. + </p> + <p> + "The stronger I feel this detachment, the more I find myself + drawn heavenward to the contemplation of spiritual objects. + </p> + <p> + "I love to keep old friendships alive and warm within me, because + I expect a renewal of them in the <i>World of Spirits</i>. + </p> + <p> + "I am a wandering and unconnected thing on the earth. I have made + no new friendships, that can compensate me for the loss of the + old—and the more I know mankind, the more does it become + necessary for me to supply their loss by little images, + recollections, and circumstances of past pleasures. + </p> + <p> + "I am sensible that I am surrounded by a multitude of very worthy + people, plain-hearted souls, sincere and kind. But they have + hitherto eluded my pursuit, and will continue to bless the little + circle of their families and friends, while I must remain a + stranger to them. + </p> + <p> + "Kept at a distance by mankind, I have not ceased to love + them—and could I find the cruel persecutor, the malignant + instrument of GOD'S judgments on me and mine, I think I would + forgive, and try to love him too. + </p> + <p> + "I have been a quiet sufferer. From the beginning of my + calamities it was given to me, not to see the hand of man in + them. I perceived a mighty arm, which none but myself could see, + extended over me. I gave my heart to the Purifier, and my will to + the Sovereign Will of the Universe. The irresistible wheels of + destiny passed on in their everlasting rotation,—and I + suffered myself to be carried along with them without + complaining." + </p> + <hr class="short" /> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. + </h2> + <p> + Allan told me that for some years past, feeling himself + disengaged from every personal tie, but not alienated from human + sympathies, it had been his taste, his <i>humor</i> he called it, + to spend a great portion of his time in <i>hospitals</i> and + <i>lazar-houses</i>. + </p> + <p> + He had found a <i>wayward pleasure</i>, he refused to name it a + virtue, in tending a description of people, who had long ceased + to expect kindness or friendliness from mankind, but were content + to accept the reluctant services, which the oftentimes unfeeling + instruments and servants of these well-meant institutions deal + out to the poor sick people under their care. + </p> + <p> + It is not medicine, it is not broths and coarse meats, served up + at a stated hour with all the hard formalities of a + prison—it is not the scanty dole of a bed to die + on—which dying man requires from his species. + </p> + <p> + Looks, attentions, consolations,—in a word, + <i>sympathies</i>, are what a man most needs in this awful close + of mortal sufferings. A kind look, a smile, a drop of cold water + to the parched lip—for these things a man shall bless you + in death. + </p> + <p> + And these better things than cordials did Allan love to + administer—to stay by a bedside the whole day, when + something disgusting in a patient's distemper has kept the very + nurses at a distance—to sit by, while the poor wretch got a + little sleep—and be there to smile upon him when he + awoke—to slip a guinea, now and then, into the hands of a + nurse or attendant—these things have been to Allan as + <i>privileges</i>, for which he was content to live; choice + marks, and circumstances, of his Maker's goodness to him. + </p> + <p> + And I do not know whether occupations of this kind be not a + spring of purer and nobler delight (certainly instances of a more + disinterested virtue) than arises from what are called + Friendships of Sentiment. + </p> + <p> + Between two persons of liberal education, like opinions, and + common feelings, oftentimes subsists a Variety of Sentiment, + which disposes each to look upon the other as the only being in + the universe worthy of friendship, or capable of understanding + it,—themselves they consider as the solitary receptacles of + all that is delicate in feeling, or stable in attachment: when + the odds are, that under every green hill, and in every crowded + street, people of equal worth are to be found, who do more good + in their generation, and make less noise in the doing of it. + </p> + <p> + It was in consequence of these benevolent propensities, I have + been describing, that Allan oftentimes discovered considerable + inclinations in favor of my way of life, which I have before + mentioned as being that of a surgeon. He would frequently attend + me on my visits to patients; and I began to think that he had + serious intentions of making my profession his study. + </p> + <p> + He was present with me at a scene—a, <i>death-bed + scene</i>—I shudder when I do but think of it. + </p> + <hr class="short" /> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. + </h2> + <p> + I was sent for the other morning to the assistance of a + gentleman, who had been wounded in a duel,—and his wounds + by unskilful treatment had been brought to a dangerous crisis. + </p> + <p> + The uncommonness of the name, which was <i>Matravis</i>, + suggested to me, that this might possibly be no other than + Allan's old enemy. Under this apprehension, I did what I could to + dissuade Allan from accompanying me—but he seemed bent upon + going, and even pleased himself with the notion, that it might + lie within his ability to do the unhappy man some service. So he + went with me. + </p> + <p> + When we came to the house, which was in Soho-square, we + discovered that it was indeed the man—the identical + Matravis, who had done all that mischief in times past—but + not in a condition to excite any other sensation than pity in a + heart more hard than Allan's. + </p> + <p> + Intense pain had brought on a delirium—we perceived this on + first entering the room—for the wretched man was raving to + himself—talking idly in mad unconnected + sentences—that yet seemed, at times, to have reference to + <i>past facts</i>. + </p> + <p> + One while he told us his dream. "He had lost his way on a great + heath, to which there seemed no end—it was cold, cold, + cold,—and dark, very dark—an old woman in + leading-strings, <i>blind</i>, was groping about for a + guide"—and then he frightened me,—for he seemed + disposed to be <i>jocular</i>, and sang a song about "an old + woman clothed in gray," and said "he did not believe in a devil." + </p> + <p> + Presently he bid us "not tell Allan Clare."—Allan was + hanging over him at that very moment, sobbing.—I could not + resist the impulse, but cried out, "<i>This</i> is Allan + Clare—Allan Clare is come to see you, my dear + Sir."—The wretched man did not hear me, I believe, for he + turned his head away, and began talking of <i>charnel-houses</i>, + and <i>dead men</i>, and "whether they knew anything that passed + in their coffins." + </p> + <p> + Matravis died that night. + </p> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="essay" id="essay">ESSAYS.</a> + </h2> + <hr class="short" /> + <h3> + <a name="chosp" id="chosp">RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S + HOSPITAL.</a> + </h3> + <hr class="short" /> + <p> + To comfort the desponding parent with the thought that, without + diminishing the stock which is imperiously demanded to furnish + the more pressing and homely wants of our nature, he has disposed + of one or more perhaps out of a numerous offspring, under the + shelter of a care scarce less tender than the paternal, where not + only their bodily cravings shall be supplied, but that mental + <i>pabulum</i> is also dispensed, which HE hath declared to be no + less necessary to our sustenance, who said, that, "not by bread + alone man can live": for this Christ's Hospital unfolds her + bounty. Here neither, on the one hand, are the youth lifted up + above their family, which we must suppose liberal, though + reduced; nor on the other hand, are they liable to be depressed + below its level by the mean habits and sentiments which a common + charity-school generates. It is, in a word, an Institution to + keep those who have yet held up their heads in the world, from + sinking; to keep alive the spirit of a decent household, when + poverty was in danger of crushing it; to assist those who are the + most willing, but not always the most able, to assist themselves; + to separate a child from his family for a season, in order to + render him back hereafter, with feelings and habits more + congenial to it, than he could even have attained by remaining at + home in the bosom of it. It is a preserving and renovating + principle, an antidote for the <i>res angusta domi</i>, when it + presses, as it always does, most heavily upon the most ingenuous + natures. + </p> + <p> + This is Christ's Hospital; and whether its character would be + improved by confining its advantages to the very lowest of the + people, let those judge who have witnessed the looks, the + gestures, the behavior, the manner of their play with one + another, their deportment towards strangers, the whole aspect and + physiognomy of that vast assemblage of boys on the London + foundation, who freshen and make alive again with their sports + the else mouldering cloisters of the old Grey Friars—which + strangers who have never witnessed, if they pass through Newgate + Street, or by Smithfield, would do well to go a little out of + their way to see. + </p> + <p> + For the Christ's Hospital boy feels that he is no charity-boy; he + feels it in the antiquity and regality of the foundation to which + he belongs; in the usage which he meets with at school, and the + treatment he is accustomed to out of its bounds; in the respect + and even kindness, which his well-known garb never fails to + procure him in the streets of the metropolis; he feels it in his + education, in that measure of classical attainments, which every + individual at that school, though not destined to a learned + profession, has it in his power to procure, attainments which it + would be worse than folly to put it in the reach of the laboring + classes to acquire: he feels it in the numberless comforts, and + even magnificences, which surround him; in his old and awful + cloisters, with their traditions; in his spacious school-rooms, + and in the well-ordered, airy, and lofty rooms where he sleeps; + in his stately dining-hall, hung round with pictures, by Verrio, + Lely, and others, one of them surpassing in size and grandeur + almost any other in the kingdom;[1] above all, in the very extent + and magnitude of the body to which he belongs, and the consequent + spirit, the intelligence, and public conscience, which is the + result of so many various yet wonderfully combining members. + Compared with this last-named advantage, what is the stock of + information (I do not here speak of book-learning, but of that + knowledge which boy receives from boy), the mass of collected + opinions, the intelligence in common, among the few and narrow + members of an ordinary boarding-school? + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: By Verrio, representing James the Second on his throne, + surrounded by his courtiers,(all curious portraits,) receiving + the mathematical pupils at their annual presentation: a custom + still kept up on New-year's-day at Court. + </div> + <p> + The Christ's Hospital or Blue-coat boy, has a distinctive + character of his own, as far removed from the abject qualities of + a common charity-boy as it is from the disgusting forwardness of + a lad brought up at some other of the public schools. There is + <i>pride</i> in it, accumulated from the circumstances which I + have described, as differencing him from the former; and there is + <i>a restraining modesty</i> from a sense of obligation and + dependence, which must ever keep his deportment from assimilating + to that of the latter. His very garb, as it is antique and + venerable, feeds his self-respect; as it is a badge of + dependence, it restrains the natural petulance of that age from + breaking out into overt acts of insolence. This produces silence + and a reserve before strangers, yet not that cowardly shyness + which boys mewed up at home will feel; he will speak up when + spoken to, but the stranger must begin the conversation with him. + Within his bounds he is all fire and play; but in the streets he + steals along with all the self-concentration of a young monk. He + is never known to mix with other boys; they are a sort of laity + to him. All this proceeds, I have no doubt, from the continual + consciousness which he carries about him, of the difference of + his dress from that of the rest of the world; with a modest + jealousy over himself, lest, by overhastily mixing with common + and secular playfellows, he should commit the dignity of his + cloth. Nor let any one laugh at this; for, considering the + propensity of the multitude, and especially of the small + multitude, to ridicule anything unusual in dress—above all, + where such peculiarity may be construed by malice into a mark of + disparagement—this reserve will appear to be nothing more + than a wise instinct in the Blue-coat boy. That it is neither + pride nor rusticity, at least that it has none of the offensive + qualities of either, a stranger may soon satisfy himself, by + putting a question to any of these boys: he may be sure of an + answer couched in terms of plain civility, neither loquacious nor + embarrassed. Let him put the same question to a parish-boy, or to + one of the trencher-caps in the —— cloisters, and the + impudent reply of the one shall not fail to exasperate any more + than the certain servility, and mercenary eye to reward, which he + will meet with in the other, can fail to depress and sadden him. + </p> + <p> + The Christ's Hospital boy is a religions character. His school is + eminently a religious foundation; it has its peculiar prayers, + its services at set times, its graces, hymns, and anthems, + following each other in an almost monastic closeness of + succession. This religious character in him is not always + untinged with superstition. That is not wonderful, when we + consider the thousand tales and traditions which must circulate, + with undisturbed credulity, amongst so many boys, that have so + few checks to their belief from any intercourse with the world at + large; upon whom their equals in age must work so much, their + elders so little. With this leaning towards an over-belief in + matters of religion, which will soon correct itself when he comes + out into society, may be classed a turn for romance above most + other boys. This is to be traced in the same manner to their + excess of society with each other, and defect of mingling with + the world. Hence the peculiar avidity with which such books as + the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments," and others of a still + wilder cast, are, or at least were in my time, sought for by the + boys. I remember when some half-dozen of them set off from + school, without map, card, or compass, on a serious expedition to + find out <i>Philip Quarll's Island</i>. + </p> + <p> + The Christ's Hospital boy's sense of right and wrong is + peculiarly tender and apprehensive. It is even apt to run out + into ceremonial observances, and to impose a yoke upon itself + beyond the strict obligations of the moral law. Those who were + contemporaries with me at that school thirty years ago, will + remember with what more than Judaic rigor the eating of the fat + of certain boiled meats[1] was interdicted. A boy would have + blushed as at the exposure of some heinous immorality, to have + been detected eating that forbidden portion of his allowance of + animal food, the whole of which, while he was in health, was + little more than sufficient to allay his hunger. The same, or + even greater, refinement was shown in the rejection of certain + kinds of sweet-cake. What gave rise to these supererogatory + penances, these self-denying ordinances, I could never learn;[2] + they certainly argue no defect of the conscientious principle. A + little excess in that article is not undesirable in youth, to + make allowance for the inevitable waste which comes in maturer + years. But in the less ambiguous line of duty, in those + directions of the moral feelings which cannot be mistaken or + depreciated, I will relate what took place in the year 1785, when + Mr. Perry, the steward, died. I must be pardoned for taking my + instances from my own times. Indeed, the vividness of my + recollections, while I am upon this subject, almost bring back + those times; they are present to me still. But I believe that in + the years which have elapsed since the period which I speak of, + the character of the Christ's Hospital boy is very little + changed. Their situation in point of many comforts is improved; + but that which I ventured before to term the <i>public + conscience</i> of the school, the pervading moral sense, of which + every mind partakes and to which so many individual minds + contribute, remains, I believe, pretty much the same as when I + left it. I have seen, within this twelvemonth almost, the change + which has been produced upon a boy of eight or nine years of age, + upon being admitted into that school; how, from a pert young + coxcomb, who thought that all knowledge was comprehended within + his shallow brains, because a smattering of two or three + languages and one or two sciences were stuffed into him by + injudicious treatment at home, by a mixture with the wholesome + society of so many school-fellows, in less time than I have + spoken of, he has sunk to his own level, and is contented to be + carried on in the quiet orbit of modest self-knowledge in which + the common mass of that unpresumptuous assemblage of boys seem to + move: from being a little unfeeling mortal, he has got to feel + and reflect. Nor would it be a difficult matter to show how, at a + school like this, where the boy is neither entirely separated + from home, nor yet exclusively under its influence, the best + feelings, the filial for instance, are brought to a maturity + which they could not have attained under a completely domestic + education; how the relation of a parent is rendered less tender + by unremitted association, and the very awfulness of age is best + apprehended by some sojourning amidst the comparative levity of + youth; how absence, not drawn out by too great extension into + alienation or forgetfulness, puts an edge upon the relish of + occasional intercourse, and the boy is made the better + <i>child</i> by that which keeps the force of that relation from + being felt as perpetually pressing on him; how the substituted + paternity, into the care of which he is adopted, while in + everything substantial it makes up for the natural, in the + necessary omission of individual fondnesses and partialities, + directs the mind only the more strongly to appreciate that + natural and first tie, in which such weaknesses are the bond of + strength, and the appetite which craves after them betrays no + perverse palate. But these speculations rather belong to the + question of the comparative advantages of a public over a private + education in general. I must get back to my favorite school; and + to that which took place when our old and good steward died. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: Under the denomination of <i>gage</i>. + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + 2: I am told that the late steward [Mr. Hathaway], who evinced on + many occasions a most praiseworthy anxiety to promote the comfort + of the boys, had occasion for all his address and perseverance to + eradicate the first of these unfortunate prejudices, in which he + at length happily succeeded, and thereby restored to one half of + the animal nutrition of the school those honors which painful + superstition and blind zeal had so long conspired to withhold + from it. + </div> + <p> + And I will say that when I think of the frequent instances which + I have met with in children, of a hard-heartedness, a + callousness, and insensibility to the loss of relations, even of + those who have begot and nourished them, I cannot but consider it + as a proof of something in the peculiar conformation of that + school, favorable to the expansion of the best feelings of our + nature, that at the period which I am noticing, out of five + hundred boys there was not a dry eye to be found among them, nor + a heart that did not beat with genuine emotion. Every impulse to + play, until the funeral day was past, seemed suspended throughout + the school; and the boys, lately so mirthful and sprightly, were + seen pacing their cloisters alone, or in sad groups standing + about, few of them without some token, such as their slender + means could provide, a black riband or something, to denote + respect and a sense of their loss. The time itself was a time of + anarchy, a time in which all authority (out of school hours) was + abandoned. The ordinary restraints were for those days + superseded; and the gates, which at other times kept us in, were + left without watchers. Yet, with the exception of one or two + graceless boys at most, who took advantage of that suspension of + authorities to <i>skulk out</i>, as it was called, the whole body + of that great school kept rigorously within their bounds, by a + voluntary self-imprisonment; and they who broke bounds, though + they escaped punishment from any master, fell into a general + disrepute among us, and, for that which at any other time would + have been applauded and admired as a mark of spirit, were + consigned to infamy and reprobation; so much <i>natural + government</i> have gratitude and the principles of reverence and + love, and so much did a respect to their dead friend prevail with + these Christ's Hospital boys, above any fear which his presence + among them when living could ever produce. And if the impressions + which were made on my mind so long ago are to be trusted, very + richly did their steward deserve this tribute. It is a pleasure + to me even now to call to mind his portly form, the regal awe + which he always contrived to inspire, in spite of a tenderness + and even weakness of nature that would have enfeebled the reins + of discipline in any other master; a yearning of tenderness + towards those under his protection, which could make five hundred + boys at once feel towards him each as to their individual father. + He had faults, with which we had nothing to do; but, with all his + faults, indeed, Mr. Perry was a most extraordinary creature. + Contemporary with him and still living, though he has long since + resigned his occupation, will it be impertinent to mention the + name of our excellent upper grammar-master, the Rev. James Boyer? + He was a disciplinarian, indeed, of a different stamp from him + whom I have just described; but, now the terrors of the rod, and + of a temper a little too hasty to leave the more nervous of us + quite at our ease to do justice to his merits in those days, are + long since over, ungrateful were we if we should refuse our + testimony to that unwearied assiduity with which he attended to + the particular improvement of each of us. Had we been the + offspring of the first gentry in the land, he could not have been + instigated by the strongest views of recompense and reward to + have made himself a greater slave to the most laborious of all + occupations than he did for us sons of charity, from whom, or + from our parents, he could expect nothing. He has had his reward + in the satisfaction of having discharged his duty, in the + pleasurable consciousness of having advanced the respectability + of that institution to which, both man and boy, he was attached; + in the honors to which so many of his pupils have successfully + aspired at both our Universities; and in the staff with which the + Governors of the Hospital, at the close of his hard labors, with + the highest expressions of the obligations the school lay under + to him, unanimously voted to present him. + </p> + <p> + I have often considered it among the felicities of the + constitution of this school, that the offices of steward and + school-master are kept distinct; the strict business of education + alone devolving upon the latter, while the former has the charge + of all things out of school, the control of the provisions, the + regulation of meals, of dress, of play, and the ordinary + intercourse of the boys. By this division of management, a + superior respectability must attach to the teacher, while his + office is unmixed with any of these lower concerns. A still + greater advantage over the construction of common + boarding-schools is to be found in the settled salaries of the + masters, rendering them totally free of obligation to any + individual pupil, or his parents. This never fails to have its + effect at schools where each boy can reckon up to a hair what + profit the master derives from him, where he views him every day + in the light of a caterer, a provider for the family, who is to + get so much by him in each of his meals. Boys will see and + consider these things; and how much must the sacred character of + preceptor suffer in their minds by these degrading associations! + The very bill which the pupil carries home with him at Christmas, + eked out, perhaps, with elaborate though necessary minuteness, + instructs him that his teachers have other ends than the mere + love to learning, in the lessons which they give him; and though + they put into his hands the fine sayings of Seneca or Epictetus, + yet they themselves are none of those disinterested pedagogues to + teach philosophy <i>gratis</i>. The master, too, is sensible that + he is seen in this light; and how much this must lessen that + affectionate regard to the learners which alone can sweeten the + bitter labor of instruction, and convert the whole business into + unwelcome and uninteresting task-work, many preceptors that I + have conversed with on the subject are ready, with a sad heart, + to acknowledge. From this inconvenience the settled salaries of + the masters of this school in great measure exempt them; while + the happy custom of choosing masters (indeed every officer of the + establishment) from those who have received their education + there, gives them an interest in advancing the character of the + school, and binds them to observe a tenderness and a respect to + the children, in which a stranger, feeling that independence + which I have spoken of, might well be expected to fail. + </p> + <p> + In affectionate recollections of the place where he was bred up, + in hearty recognitions of old school-fellows met with again after + the lapse of years, or in foreign countries, the Christ's + Hospital boy yields to none; I might almost say, he goes beyond + most other boys. The very compass and magnitude of the school, + its thousand bearings, the space it takes up in the imagination + beyond the ordinary schools, impresses a remembrance, accompanied + with an elevation of mind, that attends him through life. It is + too big, too affecting an object, to pass away quickly from his + mind. The Christ's Hospital boy's friends at school are commonly + his intimates through life. For me, I do not know whether a + constitutional imbecility does not incline me too obstinately to + cling to the remembrances of childhood; in an inverted ratio to + the usual sentiments of mankind, nothing that I have been engaged + in since seems of any value or importance compared to the colors + which imagination gave to everything then. I belong to no <i>body + corporate</i> such as I then made a part of.—And here, + before I close, taking leave of the general reader, and + addressing myself solely to my old school-fellows, that were + contemporaries with me from the year 1782 to 1789, let me have + leave to remember some of those circumstances of our school, + which they will not be unwilling to have brought back to their + minds. + </p> + <p> + And first, let us remember, as first in importance in our + childish eyes, the young men (as they almost were) who, under the + denomination of <i>Grecians</i>, were waiting the expiration of + the period when they should be sent, at the charges of the + Hospital, to one or other of our universities, but more + frequently to Cambridge. These youths, from their superior + acquirements, their superior age and stature, and the fewness of + their numbers (for seldom above two or three at a time were + inaugurated into that high order), drew the eyes of all, and + especially of the younger boys, into a reverent observance and + admiration. How tall they used to seem to us! how stately would + they pace along the cloisters! while the play of the lesser boys + was absolutely suspended, or its boisterousness at least allayed, + at their presence! Not that they ever beat or struck the + boys—that would have been to have demeaned + themselves—the dignity of their persons alone insured them + all respect. The task of blows, of corporal chastisement, they + left to the common monitors, or heads of wards, who, it must be + confessed, in our time had rather too much license allowed them + to oppress and misuse their inferiors; and the interference of + the Grecian, who may be considered as the spiritual power, was + not unfrequently called for, to mitigate by its mediation the + heavy unrelenting arm of this temporal power, or monitor. In + fine, the Grecians were the solemn Muftis of the school. Eras + were computed from their time;—it used to be said, such or + such a thing was done when S—— or T—— was + Grecian. + </p> + <p> + As I ventured to call the Grecians, the Muftis of the school, the + King's boys,[1] as their character then was, may well pass for + the Janissaries. They were the terror of all the other boys; bred + up under that hardy sailor, as well as excellent mathematician + and conavigator with Captain Cook, William Wales. All his systems + were adapted to fit them for the rough element which they were + destined to encounter. Frequent and severe punishments which were + expected to be borne with more than Spartan fortitude, came to be + considered less as inflictions of disgrace than as trials of + obstinate endurance. To make his boys hardy, and to give them + early sailor-habits, seemed to be his only aim; to this + everything was subordinate. Moral obliquities, indeed, were sure + of receiving their full recompense, for no occasion of laying on + the lash was ever let slip; but the effects expected to be + produced from it were something very different from contrition or + mortification. There was in William Wales a perpetual fund of + humor, a constant glee about him, which, heightened by an + inveterate provincialism of north-country dialect, absolutely + took away the sting from his severities. His punishments were a + game at patience, in which the master was not always worst + contented when he found himself at times overcome by his pupil. + What success this discipline had, or how the effects of it + operated upon the after-lives of these King's boys, I cannot say: + but I am sure that, for the time, they were absolute nuisances to + the rest of the school. Hardy, brutal, and often wicked, they + were the most graceless lump in the whole mass; older and bigger + than the other boys, (for, by the system of their education they + were kept longer at school by two or three years than any of the + rest, except the Grecians,) they were a constant terror to the + younger part of the school; and some who may read this, I doubt + not, will remember the consternation into which the juvenile fry + of us were thrown, when the cry was raised in the cloisters, that + <i>the First Order was coming</i>—for so they termed the + first form or class of those boys. Still these sea-boys answered + some good purposes, in the school. They were the military class + among the boys, foremost in athletic exercises, who extended the + fame of the prowess of the school far and near; and the + apprentices in the vicinage, and sometimes the butchers' boys in + the neighboring market, had sad occasion to attest their valor. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: The mathematical pupils, bred up to the sea, on the foundation + of Charles the Second. + </div> + <p> + The time would fail me if I were to attempt to enumerate all + those circumstances, some pleasant, some attended with some pain, + which, seen through the mist of distance, come sweetly softened + to the memory. But I must crave leave to remember our + transcending superiority in those invigorating sports, leap-frog, + and basting the bear; our delightful excursions in the summer + holidays to the New River, near Newington, where, like otters, we + would live the long day in the water, never caring for dressing + ourselves, when we had once stripped; our savory meals + afterwards, when we came home almost famished with staying out + all day without our dinners; our visits at other times to the + Tower, where, by ancient privilege, we had free access to all the + curiosities; our solemn procession through the City at Easter, + with the Lord Mayor's largess of buns, wine, and a shilling, with + the festive questions and civic pleasantries of the dispensing + Aldermen, which were more to us than all the rest of the banquet; + our stately suppings in public, where the well-lighted hall and + the confluence of well-dressed company who came to see us, made + the whole look more like a concert or assembly, than a scene of a + plain bread and cheese collation; the annual orations upon St. + Matthew's day, in which the senior scholar, before he had done, + seldom failed to reckon up, among those who had done honor to our + school by being educated in it, the names of those accomplished + critics and Greek scholars, Joshua Barnes and Jeremiah Markland + (I marvel they left out Camden while they were about it). Let me + have leave to remember our hymns and anthems, and well-toned + organ; the doleful tune of the burial anthem chanted in the + solemn cloisters, upon the seldom-occurring funeral of some + school-fellow; the festivities at Christmas, when the richest of + us would club our stock to have a gaudy day, sitting round the + fire, replenished to the height with logs, and the penniless, and + he that could contribute nothing, partook in all the mirth, and + in some of the substantialities of the feasting; the carol sung + by night at that time of the year, which, when a young boy, I + have so often lain awake to hear from seven (the hour of going to + bed) till ten, when it was sung by the older boys and monitors, + and have listened to it, in their rude chanting, till I have been + transported in fancy to the fields of Bethlehem, and the song + which was sung at that season, by angels' voices to the + shepherds. + </p> + <p> + Nor would I willingly forget any of those things which + administered to our vanity. The hem-stitched bands and town-made + shirts, which some of the most fashionable among us wore; the + town-girdles, with buckles of silver, or shining stone; the + badges of the sea-boys; the cots, or superior shoestrings, of the + monitors; the medals of the markers; (those who were appointed to + hear the Bible read in the wards on Sunday morning and evening,) + which bore on their obverse in silver, as certain parts of our + garments carried, in meaner metal, the countenance of our + Founder, that godly and royal child, King Edward the Sixth, the + flower of the Tudor name—the young flower that was untimely + cropt, as it began to fill our land with its early + odors—the boy-patron of boys—the serious and holy + child who walked with Cranmer and Bidley—fit associate, in + those tender years, for the bishops, and future martyrs of our + Church, to receive, or, (as occasion sometimes proved,) to give + instruction. + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "But, ah! what means the silent tear? + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Why, e'en 'mid joy, my bosom heave? + </p> + <p> + Ye long-lost scenes, enchantments dear! + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Lo! now I linger o'er your grave. + </p> + </div> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "—Fly, then, ye hours of rosy hue, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And bear away the bloom of years! + </p> + <p> + And quick succeed, ye sickly crew + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Of doubts and sorrows, pains and fears! + </p> + </div> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "Still will I ponder Fate's unaltered plan, + </p> + <p> + Nor, tracing back the child, forget that I am man."[1] + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: Lines meditated in the cloisters of Christ's Hospital, in the + "Poetics," of Mr. George Dyer. + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="tshak" id="tshak">ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE.</a> + </h3> + <h4> + CONSIDERED WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR FITNESS FOR + STAGE-REPRESENTATION. + </h4> + <hr class="short" /> + <p> + Taking a turn the other day in the Abbey, I was struck with the + affected attitude of a figure, which I do not remember to have + seen before, and which upon examination proved to be a + whole-length of the celebrated Mr. Garrick. Though I would not go + so far with some good Catholics abroad as to shut players + altogether out of consecrated ground, yet I own I was not a + little scandalized at the introduction of theatrical airs and + gestures into a place set apart to remind us of the saddest + realities. Going nearer, I found inscribed under this harlequin + figure the following lines:— + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "To paint fair Nature, by divine command + </p> + <p> + Her magic pencil in his glowing hand, + </p> + <p> + A Shakspeare rose; then, to expand his fame + </p> + <p> + Wide o'er this breathing world, a Garrick came. + </p> + <p> + Though sunk in death the forms the Poet drew, + </p> + <p> + The Actor's genius bade them breathe anew; + </p> + <p> + Though, like the bard himself, in night they lay, + </p> + <p> + Immortal Garrick called them back to day: + </p> + <p> + And till Eternity with power sublime + </p> + <p> + Shall mark the mortal hour of hoary Time, + </p> + <p> + Shakspeare and Garrick like twin-stars shall shine, + </p> + <p> + And earth irradiate with a beam divine." + </p> + </div> + <p> + It would be an insult to my readers' understandings to attempt + anything like a criticism on this farrago of false thoughts and + nonsense. But the reflection it led me into was a kind of wonder, + how, from the days of the actor here celebrated to our own, it + should have been the fashion to compliment every performer in his + turn, that has had the luck to please the Town in any of the + great characters of Shakspeare, with the notion of possessing a + <i>mind congenial with the poet's</i>; how people should come + thus unaccountably to confound the power of originating poetical + images and conceptions with the faculty of being able to read or + recite the same when put into words;[1]or what connection that + absolute mastery over the heart and soul of man, which a great + dramatic poet possesses, has with those low tricks upon the eye + and ear, which a player, by observing a few general effects, + which some common passion, as grief, anger, &c., usually has + upon the gestures and exterior, can so easily compass. To know + the internal workings and movements of a great mind, of an + Othello or a Hamlet for instance, the <i>when</i> and the + <i>why</i> and the <i>how far</i> they should be moved; to what + pitch a passion is becoming; to give the reins and to pull in the + curb exactly at the moment when the drawing in or the slackening + is most graceful; seems to demand a reach of intellect of a + vastly different extent from that which is employed upon the bare + imitation of the signs of these passions in the countenance or + gesture, which signs are usually observed to be most lively and + emphatic in the weaker sort of minds, and which signs can after + all but indicate some passion, as I said before, anger, or grief, + generally; but of the motives and grounds of the passion, wherein + it differs from the same passion in low and vulgar natures, of + these the actor can give no more idea by his face or gesture than + the eye (without a metaphor) can speak, or the muscles utter + intelligible sounds. But such is the instantaneous nature of the + impressions which we take in at the eye and ear at a playhouse, + compared with the slow apprehension oftentimes of the + understanding in reading, that we are apt not only to sink the + playwriter in the consideration which we pay to the actor, but + even to identify in our minds, in a perverse manner, the actor + with the character which he represents. It is difficult for a + frequent play-goer to disembarrass the idea of Hamlet from the + person and voice of Mr. K. We speak of Lady Macbeth, while we are + in reality thinking of Mrs. S. Nor is this confusion incidental + alone to unlettered persons, who, not possessing the advantage of + reading, are necessarily dependent upon the stage-player for all + the pleasure which they can receive from the drama, and to whom + the very idea of <i>what an author is</i> cannot be made + comprehensible without some pain and perplexity of mind: the + error is one from which persons otherwise not meanly lettered, + find it almost impossible to extricate themselves. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: It is observable that we fall into this confusion only in + dramatic recitations. We never dream that the gentleman who reads + Lucretius in public with great applause, is therefore a great + poet and philosopher; nor do we find that Tom Davis, the + bookseller, who is recorded to have recited the Paradise Lost + better than any man in England in his day (though I cannot help + thinking there must be some mistake in this tradition), was + therefore, by his intimate friends, set upon a level with Milton. + </div> + <p> + Never let me be so ungrateful as to forget the very high degree + of satisfaction which I received some years back from seeing for + the first time a tragedy of Shakespeare performed, in which those + two great performers sustained the principal parts. It seemed to + embody and realize conceptions which had hitherto assumed no + distinct shape. But dearly do we pay all our life after for this + juvenile pleasure, this sense of distinctness. When the novelty + is past, we find to our cost that instead of realizing an idea, + we have only materialized and brought down a fine vision to the + standard of flesh and blood. We have let go a dream, in quest of + an unattainable substance. + </p> + <p> + How cruelly this operates upon the mind, to have its free + conceptions thus cramped and pressed down to the measure of a + strait-lacing actuality, may be judged from that delightful + sensation of freshness, with which we turn to those plays of + Shakspeare which have escaped being performed, and to those + passages in the acting plays of the same writer which have + happily been left out in the performance. How far the very custom + of hearing anything <i>spouted</i>, withers and blows upon a fine + passage, may be seen in those speeches from Henry the Fifth, + &c., which are current in the mouths of school-boys, from + their being to be found in <i>Enfield's Speaker</i>, and such + kind of books! I confess myself utterly unable to appreciate that + celebrated soliloquy in Hamlet, beginning "To be or not to be," + or to tell whether it be good, bad or indifferent, it has been so + handled and pawed about by declamatory boys and men, and torn so + inhumanly from its living place and principle of continuity in + the play, till it is become to me a perfect dead member. + </p> + <p> + It may seem a paradox, but I cannot help being of opinion that + the plays of Shakspeare are less calculated for performance on a + stage, than those of almost any other dramatist whatever. Their + distinguishing excellence is a reason that they should be so. + There is so much in them, which comes not under the province of + acting, with which eye, and tone, and gesture, have nothing to + do. + </p> + <p> + The glory of the scenic art is to personate passion, and the + turns of passion; and the more coarse and palpable the passion + is, the more hold upon the eyes and ears of the spectators the + performer obviously possesses. For this reason, scolding scenes, + scenes where two persons talk themselves into a fit of fury, and + then in a surprising manner talk themselves out of it again, have + always been the most popular upon our stage. And the reason is + plain, because the spectators are here most palpably appealed to, + they are the proper judges in this war of words, they are the + legitimate ring that should be formed round such "intellectual + prize-fighters." Talking is the direct object of the imitation + here. But in all the best dramas, and in Shakspeare above all, + how obvious it is, that the form of <i>speaking</i>, whether it + be in soliloquy or dialogue, is only a medium, and often a highly + artificial one, for putting the reader or spectator into + possession of that knowledge of the inner structure and workings + of mind in a character, which he could otherwise never have + arrived at <i>in that form of composition</i> by any gift short + of intuition. We do here as we do with novels written in the + <i>epistolary form</i>. How many improprieties, perfect solecisms + in letter-writing, do we put up with in Clarissa and other books, + for the sake of the delight which that form upon the whole gives + us! But the practice of stage-representation reduces everything + to a controversy of elocution. Every character, from the + boisterous blasphemings of Bajazet to the shrinking timidity of + womanhood, must play the orator. The love dialogues of Romeo and + Juliet, those silver-sweet sounds of lovers' tongues by night! + the more intimate and sacred sweetness of nuptial colloquy + between an Othello or a Posthumus with their married wives, all + those delicacies which are so delightful in the reading, as when + we read of those youthful dalliances in Paradise— + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p class="i10"> + "As beseem'd + </p> + <p> + Fair couple link'd in happy nuptial league, + </p> + <p> + Alone;" + </p> + </div> + <p> + by the inherent fault of stage-representation, how are these + things sullied and turned from their very nature by being exposed + to a large assembly; when such speeches as Imogen addresses to + her lord, come drawling out of the mouth of a hired actress, + whose courtship, though nominally addressed to the personated + Posthumus, is manifestly aimed at the spectators, who are to + judge of her endearments and her returns of love! + </p> + <p> + The character of Hamlet is perhaps that by which, since the days + of Betterton, a succession of popular performers have had the + greatest ambition to distinguish themselves. The length of the + part may be one of their reasons. But for the character itself, + we find it in a play, and therefore we judge it a fit subject of + dramatic representation. The play itself abounds in maxims and + reflections beyond any other, and therefore we consider it as a + proper vehicle for conveying moral instruction. But Hamlet + himself—what does he suffer meanwhile by being dragged + forth as the public schoolmaster, to give lectures to the crowd! + Why, nine parts in ten of what Hamlet does, are transactions + between himself and his moral sense; they are the effusions of + his solitary musings, which he retires to holes and corners and + the most sequestered parts of the palace to pour forth; or + rather, they are the silent meditations with which his bosom is + bursting, reduced to <i>words</i> for the sake of the reader, who + must else remain ignorant of what is passing there. These + profound sorrows, these light-and-noise-abhorring ruminations, + which the tongue scarce dares utter to deaf walls and chambers, + how can they be represented by a gesticulating actor, who comes + and mouths them out before an audience, making four hundred + people his confidants at once! I say not that it is the fault of + the actor so to do; he must pronounce them <i>ore rotundo</i>; he + must accompany them with his eye; he must insinuate them into his + auditory by some trick of eye, tone or gesture, or he fails. + <i>He must be thinking all the while of his appearance, because + he knows that all the while the spectators are judging of it</i>. + And this is the way to represent the shy, negligent, retiring + Hamlet! + </p> + <p> + It is true that there is no other mode of conveying a vast + quantity of thought and feeling to a great portion of the + audience, who otherwise would never earn it for themselves by + reading, and the intellectual acquisition gained this way may, + for aught I know, be inestimable; but I am not arguing that + Hamlet should not be acted, but how much Hamlet is made another + thing by being acted. I have heard much of the wonders which + Garrick performed in this part; but as I never saw him, I must + have leave to doubt whether the representation of such a + character came within the province of his art. Those who tell me + of him, speak of his eye, of the magic of his eye, and of his + commanding voice: physical properties, vastly desirable in an + actor, and without which he can never insinuate meaning into an + auditory,—but what have they to do with Hamlet; what have + they to do with intellect? In fact, the things aimed at in + theatrical representation, are to arrest the spectator's eye upon + the form and the gesture, and so to gain a more favorable hearing + to what is spoken: it is not what the character is, but how he + looks; not what he says, but how he speaks it. I see no reason to + think that if the play of Hamlet were written over again by some + such writer as Banks or Lillo, retaining the process of the + story, but totally omitting all the poetry of it, all the divine + features of Shakspeare, his stupendous intellect; and only taking + care to give us enough of passionate dialogue, which Banks or + Lillo were never at a loss to furnish; I see not how the effect + could be much different upon an audience, nor how the actor has + it in his power to represent Shakspeare to us differently from + his representation of Banks or Lillo. Hamlet would still be a + youthful accomplished prince, and must be gracefully personated; + he might be puzzled in his mind, wavering in his conduct, + seemingly cruel to Ophelia; he might see a ghost, and start at + it, and address it kindly when he found it to be his father; all + this in the poorest and most homely language of the servilest + creeper after nature that ever consulted the palate of an + audience; without troubling Shakspeare for the matter: and I see + not but there would be room for all the power which an actor has, + to display itself. All the passions and changes of passion might + remain: for those are much less difficult to write or act than is + thought; it is a trick easy to be attained, it is but rising or + falling a note or two in the voice, a whisper with a significant + foreboding look to announce its approach, and so contagious the + counterfeit appearance of any emotion is, that let the words be + what they will, the look and tone shall carry it off, and make it + pass for deep skill in the passions. + </p> + <p> + It is common for people to talk of Shakspeare's plays being <i>so + natural</i>; that everybody can understand him. They are natural + indeed, they are grounded deep in nature, so deep that the depth + of them lies out of the reach of most of us. You shall hear the + same persons say that George Barnwell is very natural, and + Othello is very natural, that they are both very deep; and to + them they are the same kind of thing. At the one they sit and + shed tears, because a good sort of young man is tempted by a + naughty woman to commit a <i>trifling peccadillo</i>, the murder + of an uncle or so[1] that is all, and so comes to an untimely + end, which is <i>so moving</i>; and at the other, because a + blackamoor in a fit of jealousy kills his innocent white wife; + and the odds are that ninety-nine out of a hundred would + willingly behold the same catastrophe happen to both the heroes, + and have thought the rope more due to Othello than to Barnwell. + For of the texture of Othello's mind, the inward construction + marvellously laid open with all its strengths and weaknesses, its + heroic confidences and its human misgivings, its agonies of hate + springing from the depths of love, they see no more than the + spectators at a cheaper rate, who pay their pennies apiece to + look through the man's telescope in Leicester-fields, see into + the inward plot and topography of the moon. Some dim thing or + other they see; they see an actor personating a passion, of + grief, or anger, for instance, and they recognize it as a copy of + the usual external effects of such passions; or at least as being + true to <i>that symbol of the emotion which passes current at the + theatre for it</i>, for it is often no more than that: but of the + grounds of the passion, its correspondence to a great or heroic + nature, which is the only worthy object of tragedy,—that + common auditors know anything of this, or can have any such + notions dinned into them by the mere strength of an actor's + lungs,—that apprehensions foreign to them should be thus + infused into them by storm, I can neither believe, nor understand + how it can be possible. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: If this note could hope to meet the eye of any of the + Managers, I would entreat and beg of them, in the name of both + the Galleries, that this insult upon the morality of the common + people of London should cease to be eternally repeated in the + holiday weeks. Why are the 'Prentices of this famous and + well-governed city, instead of an amusement, to be treated over + and over again with a nauseous sermon of George Barnwell? Why + <i>at the end of their vistas</i> are we to place the + <i>gallows</i>? Were I an uncle, I should not much like a nephew + of mine to have such an example placed before his eyes. It is + really making uncle-murder too trivial to exhibit it as done upon + such slight motives;—it is attributing too much to such + characters as Millwood:—it is putting things into the heads + of good young men, which they would never otherwise have dreamed + of. Uncles that think anything of their lives, should fairly + petition the Chamberlain against it. + </div> + <p> + We talk of Shakspeare's admirable observations of life, when we + should feel, that not from a petty inquisition into those cheap + and every-day characters which surrounded him, as they surround + us, but from his own mind, which was, to borrow a phrase of Ben + Jonson's, the very "sphere of humanity," he fetched those images + of virtue and of knowledge, of which every one of us recognizing + a part, think we comprehend in our natures the whole; and + oftentimes mistake the powers which he positively creates in us, + for nothing more than indigenous faculties of our own minds, + which only waited the application of corresponding virtues in him + to return a full and clear echo of the same. + </p> + <p> + To return to Hamlet.—Among the distinguishing features of + that wonderful character, one of the most interesting (yet + painful) is that soreness of mind which makes him treat the + intrusions of Polonius with harshness, and that asperity which he + puts on in his interviews with Ophelia. These tokens of an + unhinged mind (if they be not mixed in the latter case with a + profound artifice of love, to alienate Ophelia by affected + discourtesies, so to prepare her mind for the breaking off of + that loving intercourse, which can no longer find a place amidst + business so serious as that which he has to do) are parts of his + character, which to reconcile with our admiration of Hamlet, the + most patient consideration of his situation is no more than + necessary; they are what we <i>forgive afterwards</i>, and + explain by the whole of his character, but <i>at the time</i> + they are harsh and unpleasant. Yet such is the actor's necessity + of giving strong blows to the audience, that I have never seen a + player in this character, who did not exaggerate and strain to + the utmost these ambiguous features,—these temporary + deformities in the character. They make him express a vulgar + scorn at Polonius which utterly degrades his gentility, and which + no explanation can render palatable; they make him show contempt, + and curl up the nose at Ophelia's father,—contempt in its + very grossest and most hateful form; but they get applause by it: + it is natural, people say; that is, the words are scornful, and + the actor expresses scorn, and that they can judge of: but why so + much scorn, and of that sort, they never think of asking. + </p> + <p> + So to Ophelia.—All the Hamlets that I have ever seen, rant + and rave at her as if she had committed some great crime, and the + audience are highly pleased, because the words of the part are + satirical, and they are enforced by the strongest expression of + satirical indignation of which the face and voice are capable. + But then, whether Hamlet is likely to have put on such brutal + appearances to a lady whom he loved so dearly, is never thought + on. The truth is, that in all such deep affections as had + subsisted between Hamlet and Ophelia, there is a stock of + <i>supererogatory love</i>, (if I may venture to use the + expression,) which in any great grief of heart, especially where + that which preys upon the mind cannot be communicated, confers a + kind of indulgence upon the grieved party to express itself, even + to its heart's dearest object, in the language of a temporary + alienation; but it is not alienation, it is a distraction purely, + and so it always makes itself to be felt by that object: it is + not anger, but grief assuming the appearance of anger,—love + awkwardly counterfeiting hate, as sweet countenances when they + try to frown: but such sternness and fierce disgust as Hamlet is + made to show, is no counterfeit, but the real face of absolute + aversion,—of irreconcilable alienation. It may be said he + puts on the madman; but then he should only so far put on this + counterfeit lunacy as his own real distraction will give him + leave; that is, incompletely, imperfectly; not in that confirmed, + practised way, like a master of his art, or as Dame Quickly would + say, "like one of those harlotry players." + </p> + <p> + I mean no disrespect to any actor, but the sort of pleasure which + Shakspeare's plays give in the acting seems to me not at all to + differ from that which the audience receive from those of other + writers; and, <i>they being in themselves essentially so + different from all others</i>, I must conclude that there is + something in the nature of acting which levels all distinctions. + And, in fact, who does not speak indifferently of the Gamester + and of Macbeth as fine stage-performances, and praise the Mrs. + Beverley in the same way as the Lady Macbeth of Mrs. S.? + Belvidera, and Calista, and Isabella, and Euphrasia, are they + less liked than Imogen, or than Juliet, or than Desdemona? Are + they not spoken of and remembered in the same way? Is not the + female performer as great (as they call it) in one as in the + other? Did not Garrick shine, and was he not ambitious of + shining, in every drawling tragedy that his wretched day + produced,—the productions of the Hills, and the Murphys, + and the Browns,—and shall he have that honor to dwell in + our minds forever as an inseparable concomitant with Shakspeare? + A kindred mind! O who can read that affecting sonnet of + Shakspeare which alludes to his profession as a player:— + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "Oh for my sake do you with Fortune chide, + </p> + <p> + The guilty goddess of my harmless deeds, + </p> + <p> + That did not better for my life provide + </p> + <p> + Than public means which public custom breeds— + </p> + <p> + Thence comes it that my name receives a brand; + </p> + <p> + And almost thence my nature is subdued + </p> + <p> + To what it works in, like the dyer's hand."— + </p> + </div> + <p> + Or that other confession:— + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there, + </p> + <p> + And made myself a motley to thy view, + </p> + <p> + Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear—" + </p> + </div> + <p> + Who can read these instances of jealous self-watchfulness in our + sweet Shakspeare, and dream of any congeniality between him and + one that, by every tradition of him, appears to have been as mere + a player as ever existed; to have had his mind tainted with the + lowest players' vices,—envy and jealousy, and miserable + cravings after applause; one who in the exercise of his + profession was jealous even of the women-performers that stood in + his way; a manager full of managerial tricks and stratagems and + finesse; that any resemblance should be dreamed of between him + and Shakspeare,—Shakspeare, who, in the plenitude and + consciousness of his own powers, could with that noble modesty, + which we can neither imitate nor appreciate, express himself thus + of his own sense of his own defects:— + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, + </p> + <p> + Featured like him, like him with friends possest; + </p> + <p> + Desiring <i>this man's art, and that man's scope</i>." + </p> + </div> + <p> + I am almost disposed to deny to Garrick the merit of being an + admirer of Shakspeare? A true lover of his excellences he + certainly was not; for would any true lover of them have admitted + into his matchless scenes such ribald trash as Tate and Cibber, + and the rest of them, that + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "With their darkness durst affront his light," + </p> + </div> + <p> + have foisted into the acting plays of Shakspeare? I believe it + impossible that he could have had a proper reverence for + Shakspeare, and have condescended to go through that interpolated + scene in Richard the Third, in which Richard tries to break his + wife's heart by telling her he loves another woman, and says, "if + she survives this she is immortal." Yet I doubt not he delivered + this vulgar stuff with as much anxiety of emphasis as any of the + genuine parts: and for acting, it is as well calculated as any. + But we have seen the part of Richard lately produce great fame to + an actor by his manner of playing it; and it lets us into the + secret of acting, and of popular judgments of Shakspeare derived + from acting. Not one of the spectators who have witnessed Mr. + C.'s exertions in that part, but has come away with a proper + conviction that Richard is a very wicked man, and kills little + children in their beds, with something like the pleasure which + the giants and ogres in children's books are represented to have + taken in that practice; moreover, that he is very close and + shrewd, and devilish cunning, for you could see that by his eye. + </p> + <p> + But is, in fact, this the impression we have in reading the + Richard of Shakspeare? Do we feel anything like disgust, as we do + at that butcherlike representation of him that passes for him on + the stage? A horror at his crimes blends with the effect which we + feel, but how is it qualified, how is it carried off, by the rich + intellect which he displays, his resources, his wit, his buoyant + spirits, his vast knowledge and insight into characters, the + poetry of his part,—not an atom of all which is made + perceivable in Mr. C.'s way of acting it. Nothing but his crimes, + his actions, is visible; they are prominent and staring; the + murderer stands out, but where is the lofty genius, the man of + vast capacity,—the profound, the witty, accomplished + Richard? + </p> + <p> + The truth is, the characters of Shakspeare are so much the + objects of meditation rather than of interest or curiosity as to + their actions, that while we are reading any of his great + criminal characters,—Macbeth, Richard, even Iago,—we + think not so much of the crimes which they commit, as of the + ambition, the aspiring spirit, the intellectual activity, which + prompts them to overleap these moral fences. Barnwell is a + wretched murderer; there is a certain fitness between his neck + and the rope; he is the legitimate heir to the gallows; nobody + who thinks at all can think of any alleviating circumstances in + his case to make him a fit object of mercy. Or to take an + instance from the higher tragedy, what else but a mere assassin + is Glenalvon? Do we think of anything but of the crime which he + commits, and the rack which he deserves? That is all which we + really think about him. Whereas in corresponding characters in + Shakspeare, so little do the actions comparatively affect us, + that while the impulses, the inner mind in all its perverted + greatness, solely seems real and is exclusively attended to, the + crime is comparatively nothing. But when we see these things + represented, the acts which they do are comparatively everything, + their impulses nothing. The state of sublime emotion into which + we are elevated by those images of night and horror which Macbeth + is made to utter, that solemn prelude with which he entertains + the time till the bell shall strike which is to call him to + murder Duncan,—when we no longer read it in a book, when we + have given up that vantage ground of abstraction which reading + possesses over seeing, and come to see a man in his bodily shape + before our eyes actually preparing to commit a murder, if the + acting be true and impressive, as I have witnessed it in Mr. K.'s + performance of that part, the painful anxiety about the act, the + natural longing to prevent it while it yet seems unperpetrated, + the too close pressing semblance of reality, give a pain and an + uneasiness which totally destroy all the delight which the words + in the book convey, where the deed doing never presses upon us + with the painful sense of presence; it rather seems to belong to + history,—to something past and inevitable, if it has + anything to do with time at all. The sublime images, the poetry + alone, is that which is present to our minds in the reading. + </p> + <p> + So to see Lear acted,—to see an old man tottering about the + stage with a walking-stick, turned out of doors by his daughters + in a rainy night, has nothing in it but what is painful and + disgusting. We want to take him into shelter and relieve him. + That is all the feeling which the acting of Lear ever produced in + me. But the Lear of Shakspeare cannot be acted. The contemptible + machinery by which they mimic the storm which he goes out in, is + not more inadequate to represent the horrors of the real + elements, than any actor can be to represent Lear; they might + more easily propose to personate the Satan of Milton upon a + stage, or one of Michael Angelo's terrible figures. The greatness + of Lear is not in corporal dimension, but in intellectual: the + explosions of his passion are terrible as a volcano; they are + storms turning up and disclosing to the bottom that sea, his + mind, with all its vast riches. It is his mind which is laid + bare. This case of flesh and blood seems too insignificant to be + thought on; even as he himself neglects it. On the stage we see + nothing but corporal infirmities and weakness, the impotence of + rage; while we read it, we see not Lear, but we are + Lear,—we are in his mind, we are sustained by a grandeur + which baffles the malice of daughters and storms; in the + aberrations of his reason, we discover a mighty irregular power + of reasoning, immethodized from the ordinary purposes of life, + but exerting its powers, as the wind blows where it listeth, at + will upon the corruptions and abuses of mankind. What have looks, + or tones, to do with that sublime identification of his age with + that of the <i>heavens themselves</i>, when, in his reproaches to + them for conniving at the injustice of his children, he reminds + them that "they themselves are old?" What gesture shall we + appropriate to this? What has the voice or the eye to do with + such things? But the play is beyond all art, as the tamperings + with it show; it is too hard and stony; it must have love-scenes, + and a happy ending. It is not enough that Cordelia is a daughter, + she must shine as a lover too. Tate has put his hook in the + nostrils of this Leviathan, for Garrick and his followers, the + showmen of the scene, to draw the mighty beast about more easily. + A happy ending!—as if the living martyrdom that Lear had + gone through,—the flaying of his feelings alive, did not + make a fair dismissal from the stage of life the only decorous + thing for him. If he is to live and be happy after, if he could + sustain this world's burden after, why all this pudder and + preparation,—why torment us with all this unnecessary + sympathy? As if the childish pleasure of getting his gilt robes + and sceptre again could tempt him to act over again his misused + station,—as if, at his years and with his experience, + anything was left but to die. + </p> + <p> + Lear is essentially impossible to be represented on a stage. But + how many dramatic personages are there in Shakspeare, which + though more tractable and feasible (if I may so speak) than Lear, + yet from some circumstance, some adjunct to their character, are + improper to be shown to our bodily eye! Othello, for instance. + Nothing can be more soothing, more flattering to the nobler parts + of our natures, than to read of a young Venetian lady of the + highest extraction, through the force of love and from a sense of + merit in him whom she loved, laying aside every consideration of + kindred, and country, and color, and wedding with a <i>coal-black + Moor</i>—(for such he is represented, in the imperfect + state of knowledge respecting foreign countries in those days, + compared with our own, or in compliance with popular notions, + though the Moors are now well enough known to be by many shades + less unworthy of a white woman's fancy)—it is the perfect + triumph of virtue over accidents, of the imagination over the + senses. She sees Othello's color in his mind. But upon the stage, + when the imagination is no longer the ruling faculty, but we are + left to our poor unassisted senses, I appeal to every one that + has seen Othello played, whether he did not, on the contrary, + sink Othello's mind in his color; whether he did not find + something extremely revolting in the courtship and wedded + caresses of Othello and Desdemona; and whether the actual sight + of the thing did not overweigh all that beautiful compromise + which we make in reading;—and the reason it should do so is + obvious, because there is just so much reality presented to our + senses as to give a perception of disagreement, with not enough + of belief in the internal motives,—all that which is + unseen,—to overpower and reconcile the first and obvious + prejudices.[1] What we see upon a stage is body and bodily + action; what we are conscious of in reading is almost exclusively + the mind, and its movements; and this I think may sufficiently + account for the very different sort of delight with which the + same play so often affects us in the reading and the seeing. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: The error of supposing that because Othello's color does not + offend us in the reading, it should also not offend us in the + seeing, is just such a fallacy as supposing that an Adam and Eve + in a picture shall affect us just as they do in the poem. But in + the poem we for a while have Paradisiacal senses given us, which + vanish when we see a man and his wife without clothes in the + picture. The painters themselves feel this, as is apparent by the + awkward shifts they have recourse to, to make them look not quite + naked; by a sort of prophetic anachronism, antedating the + invention of fig-leaves. So in the reading of the play, we see + with Desdemona's eyes: in the seeing of it, we are forced to look + with our own. + </div> + <p> + It requires little reflection to perceive, that if those + characters in Shakspeare which are within the precincts of + nature, have yet something in them which appeals too exclusively + to the imagination, to admit of their being made objects to the + senses without suffering a change and a diminution,—that + still stronger the objection must lie against representing + another line of characters, which Shakspeare has introduced to + give a wildness and a supernatural elevation to his scenes, as if + to remove them still farther from that assimilation to common + life in which their excellence is vulgarly supposed to consist. + When we read the incantations of those terrible beings the + Witches in Macbeth, though some of the ingredients of their + hellish composition savor of the grotesque, yet is the effect + upon us other than the most serious and appalling that can be + imagined? Do we not feel spellbound as Macbeth was? Can any mirth + accompany a sense of their presence? We might as well laugh under + a consciousness of the principle of Evil himself being truly and + really present with us. But attempt to bring these things on to a + stage, and you turn them instantly into so many old women, that + men and children are to laugh at. Contrary to the old saying, + that "seeing is believing," the sight actually destroys the + faith; and the mirth in which we indulge at their expense, when + we see these creatures upon a stage, seems to be a sort of + indemnification which we make to ourselves for the terror which + they put us in when reading made them an object of + belief,—when we surrendered up our reason to the poet, as + children to their nurses and their elders; and we laugh at our + fears, as children, who thought they saw something in the dark, + triumph when the bringing in of a candle discovers the vanity of + their fears. For this exposure of supernatural agents upon a + stage is truly bringing in a candle to expose their own + delusiveness. It is the solitary taper and the book that + generates a faith in these terrors: a ghost by chandelier light, + and in good company, deceives no spectators,—a ghost that + can be measured by the eye, and his human dimensions made out at + leisure. The sight of a well-lighted house, and a well-dressed + audience, shall arm the most nervous child against any + apprehensions: as Tom Brown says of the impenetrable skin of + Achilles with his impenetrable armor over it, "Bully Dawson would + have fought the devil with such advantages." + </p> + <p> + Much has been said, and deservedly, in reprobation of the vile + mixture which Dryden has thrown into the Tempest: doubtless, + without some such vicious alloy, the impure ears of that age + would never have sat out to hear so much innocence of love as is + contained in the sweet courtship of Ferdinand and Miranda. But is + the tempest of Shakspeare at all a subject for + stage-representation? It is one thing to read of an enchanter, + and to believe the wondrous tale while we are reading it; but to + have a conjurer brought before us in his conjuring gown, with his + spirits about him, which none but himself and some hundred of + favored spectators before the curtain are supposed to see, + involves such a quantity of the <i>hateful incredible</i>, that + all our reverence for the author cannot hinder us from perceiving + such gross attempts upon the senses to be in the highest degree + childish and inefficient. Spirits and fairies cannot be + represented, they cannot even be painted,—they can only be + believed. But the elaborate and anxious provision of scenery, + which the luxury of the age demands, in these cases works a quite + contrary effect to what is intended. That which in comedy, or + plays of familiar life, adds so much to the life of the + imitation, in plays which appeal to the higher faculties + positively destroys the illusion which it is introduced to aid. A + parlor or a drawing-room,—a library opening into a + garden—a garden with an alcove in it,—a street, or + the piazza of Covent Garden, does well enough in a scene; we are + content to give as much credit to it as it demands; or rather, we + think little about it,—it is little more than reading at + the top of a page, "Scene, a garden;" we do not imagine ourselves + there, but we readily admit the imitation of familiar objects. + But to think by the help of painted trees and caverns, which we + know to be painted, to transport our minds to Prospero, and his + island and his lonely cell;[1] or by the aid of a fiddle + dexterously thrown in, in an interval of speaking, to make us + believe that we hear those supernatural noises of which the isle + was full: the Orrery Lecturer at the Haymarket might as well + hope, by his musical glasses cleverly stationed out of sight + behind his apparatus, to make us believe that we do indeed hear + the crystal spheres ring out that chime, which if it were to + enwrap our fancy long, Milton thinks, + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "Time would run back and fetch the age of gold, + </p> + <p> + And speckled Vanity + </p> + <p> + Would sicken soon and die, + </p> + <p> + And leprous Sin would melt from earthly mould; + </p> + <p> + Yea, Hell itself would pass away, + </p> + <p> + And leave its dolorous mansions to the peering day." + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: It will be said these things are done in pictures. But + pictures and scenes are very different things. Painting is a + world of itself; but in scene-painting there is the attempt to + deceive; and there is the discordancy never to be got over, + between painted scenes and real people. + </div> + <p> + The garden of Eden, with our first parents in it, is not more + impossible to be shown on a stage, than the Enchanted isle, with + its no less interesting and innocent first settlers. + </p> + <p> + The subject of Scenery is closely connected with that of the + Dresses, which are so anxiously attended to on our stage. I + remember the last time I saw Macbeth played, the discrepancy I + felt at the changes of garment which he varied, the shiftings and + reshiftings, like a Romish priest at mass. The luxury of + stage-improvements, and the importunity of the public eye, + require this. The coronation robe of the Scottish monarch was + fairly a counterpart to that which our King wears when he goes to + the Parliament house, just so full and cumbersome, and set out + with ermine and pearls. And if things must be represented, I see + not what to find fault with in this. But in reading, what robe + are we conscious of? Some dim images of royalty—a crown and + sceptre may float before our eyes, but who shall describe the + fashion of it? Do we see in our mind's eye what Webb or any other + robe-maker could pattern? This is the inevitable consequence of + imitating everything, to make all things natural. Whereas the + reading of a tragedy is a fine abstraction. It presents to the + fancy just so much of external appearances as to make us feel + that we are among flesh and blood, while by far the greater and + better part of our imagination is employed upon the thoughts and + internal machinery of the character. But in acting, scenery, + dress, the most contemptible things, call upon us to judge of + their naturalness. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it would be no bad similitude, to liken the pleasure + which we take in seeing one of these fine plays acted, compared + with that quiet delight which we find in the reading of it, to + the different feelings with which a reviewer, and a man that is + not a reviewer, reads a fine poem. The accursed critical + habit—the being called upon to judge and pronounce, must + make it quite a different thing to the former. In seeing these + plays acted, we are affected just as judges. When Hamlet compares + the two pictures of Gertrude's first and second husband, who + wants to see the pictures? But in the acting, a miniature must be + lugged out; which we know not to be the picture, but only to show + how finely a miniature may be represented. This showing of + everything levels all things: it makes tricks, bows, and + curtseys, of importance. Mrs. S. never got more fame by anything + than by the manner in which she dismisses the guests in the + banquet-scene in Macbeth: it is as much remembered as any of her + thrilling tones or impressive looks. But does such a trifle as + this enter into the imaginations of the readers of that wild and + wonderful scene? Does not the mind dismiss the feasters as + rapidly as it can? Does it care about the gracefulness of the + doing it? But by acting, and judging of acting, all these + non-essentials are raised into an importance, injurious to the + main interest of the play. + </p> + <p> + I have confined my observations to the tragic parts of + Shakspeare. It would be no very difficult task to extend the + inquiry to his comedies; and to show why Falstaff, Shallow, Sir + Hugh Evans, and the rest, are equally incompatible with + stage-representation. The length to which this Essay has run will + make it, I am afraid, sufficiently distasteful to the Amateurs of + the Theatre, without going any deeper into the subject at + present. + </p> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="dwrit" id="dwrit">CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS,</a> + </h3> + <h4> + CONTEMPORARY WITH SHAKSPEAKE. + </h4> + <hr class="short" /> + <p> + When I selected for publication, in 1808, "Specimens of English + Dramatic Poets" who lived about the time of Shakspeare, the kind + of extracts which I was anxious to give were not so much passages + of wit and humor, though the old plays are rich in such, as + scenes of passion, sometimes of the deepest quality, interesting + situations, serious descriptions, that which is more nearly + allied to poetry than to wit, and to tragic rather than to comic + poetry. The plays which I made choice of were, with few + exceptions, such as treat of human life and manners, rather than + masques and Arcadian pastorals, with their train of abstractions, + unimpassioned deities, passionate mortals—Claius, and + Medorus, and Amintas, and Amaryllis. My leading design was to + illustrate what may be called the moral sense of our ancestors. + To show in what manner they felt when they placed themselves by + the power of imagination in trying circumstances, in the + conflicts of duty and passion, or the strife of contending + duties; what sort of loves and enmities theirs were; how their + griefs were tempered, and their full-swoln joys abated: how much + of Shakspeare shines in the great men his contemporaries, and how + far in his divine mind and manners he surpassed them and all + mankind. I was also desirous to bring together some of the most + admired scenes of Fletcher and Massinger, in the estimation of + the world the only dramatic poets of that age entitled to be + considered after Shakspeare, and, by exhibiting them in the same + volume with the more impressive scenes of old Marlowe, Heywood, + Tourneur, Webster, Ford, and others, to show what we had + slighted, while beyond all proportion we had been crying up one + or two favorite names. From the desultory criticisms which + accompanied that publication, I have selected a few which I + thought would best stand by themselves, as requiring least + immediate reference to the play or passage by which they were + suggested. + </p> + <h4> + CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. + </h4> + <p> + <i>Lust's Dominion, or the Lascivious Queen</i>.—This + tragedy is in King Cambyses' vein; rape, and murder, and + superlatives; "huffing braggart puft lines," such as the + play-writers anterior to Shakspeare are full of, and Pistol but + coldly imitates. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tamburlaine the Great, or the Scythian Shepherd</i>.—The + lunes of Tamburlaine are perfect midsummer madness. + Nebuchadnezzar's are mere modest pretensions compared with the + thundering vaunts of this Scythian Shepherd. He comes in drawn by + conquered kings, and reproaches these <i>pampered jades of + Asia</i> that they can <i>draw but twenty miles a day</i>. Till I + saw this passage with my own eyes, I never believed that it was + anything more than a pleasant burlesque of mine Ancient's. But I + can assure my readers that it is soberly set down in a play, + which their ancestors took to be serious. + </p> + <p> + <i>Edward the Second</i>.—In a very different style from + mighty Tamburlaine is the Tragedy of Edward the Second. The + reluctant pangs of abdicating royalty in Edward furnished hints, + which Shakspeare scarcely improved in his Richard the Second; and + the death-scene of Marlowe's king moves pity and terror beyond + any scene ancient or modern with which I am acquainted. + </p> + <p> + <i>The Rich Jew of Malta</i>.—Marlowe's Jew does not + approach so near to Shakspeare's, as his Edward the Second does + to Richard the Second. Barabas is a mere monster brought in with + a large painted nose to please the rabble. He kills in sport, + poisons whole nunneries, invents infernal machines. He is just + such an exhibition as a century or two earlier might have been + played before the Londoners "by the royal command," when a + general pillage and massacre of the Hebrews had been previously + resolved on in the cabinet. It is curious to see a superstition + wearing out. The idea of a Jew, which our pious ancestors + contemplated with so much horror, has nothing in it now + revolting. We have tamed the claws of the beast, and pared its + nails, and now we take it to our arms, fondle it, write plays to + flatter it; it is visited by princes, affects a taste, patronizes + the arts, and is the only liberal and gentlemanlike thing in + Christendom. + </p> + <p> + <i>Doctor Faustus</i>.—The growing horrors of Faustus's + last scene are awfully marked by the hours and half hours as they + expire, and bring him nearer and nearer to the exactment of his + dire compact. It is indeed an agony and a fearful colluctation. + Marlowe is said to have been tainted with atheistical positions, + to have denied God and the Trinity. To such a genius the history + of Faustus must have been delectable food: to wander in fields + where curiosity is forbidden to go, to approach the dark gulf, + near enough to look in, to be busied in speculations which are + the rottenest part of the core of the fruit that fell from the + tree of knowledge.[1] Barabas the Jew, and Faustus the conjurer, + are offsprings of a mind which at least delighted to dally with + interdicted subjects. They both talk a language which a believer + would have been tender of putting into the mouth of a character + though but in fiction. But the holiest minds have sometimes not + thought it reprehensible to counterfeit impiety in the person of + another, to bring Vice upon the stage speaking her own dialect; + and, themselves being armed with an unction of self-confident + impunity, have not scrupled to handle and touch that familiarly + which would be death to others. Milton, in the person of Satan, + has started speculations hardier than any which the feeble armory + of the atheist ever furnished; and the precise, strait-laced + Richardson has strengthened Vice, from the mouth of Lovelace, + with entangling sophistries and abstruse pleas against her + adversary Virtue, which Sedley, Villiers, and Rochester wanted + depth of libertinism enough to have invented. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: Error, entering into the world with Sin among us poor + Adamites, may be said to spring from the tree of knowledge + itself, and from the rotten kernels of that fatal + apple.—<i>Howell's Letters</i>. + </div> + <h4> + THOMAS DECKER. + </h4> + <p> + <i>Old Fortunatus</i>.—The humor of a frantic lover in the + scene where Orleans to his friend Galloway defends the passion + with which himself, being a prisoner in the English king's court, + is enamored to frenzy of the king's daughter Agripyna, is done to + the life. Orleans is as passionate an inamorato as any which + Shakspeare ever drew. He is just such another adept in Love's + reasons. The sober people of the world are with him, + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p class="i6"> + "A swarm of fools + </p> + <p> + Crowding together to be counted wise." + </p> + </div> + <p> + He talks "pure Biron and Romeo;" he is almost as poetical as + they, quite as philosophical, only a little madder. After all, + Love's sectaries are a reason unto themselves. We have gone + retrograde to the noble heresy, since the days when Sidney + proselyted our nation to this mixed health and disease: the + kindliest symptom, yet the most alarming crisis, in the ticklish + state of youth; the nourisher and the destroyer of hopeful wits; + the mother of twin births, wisdom and folly, valor and weakness; + the servitude above freedom; the gentle mind's religion; the + liberal superstition. + </p> + <p> + <i>The Honest Whore</i>.—There is in the second part of + this play, where Bellafront, a reclaimed harlot, recounts some of + the miseries of her profession, a simple picture of honor and + shame, contrasted without violence, and expressed without + immodesty; which is worth all the <i>strong lines</i> against the + harlot's profession, with which both parts of this play are + offensively crowded. A satirist is always to be suspected, who, + to make vice odious, dwells upon all its acts and minutest + circumstances with a sort of relish and retrospective fondness. + But so near are the boundaries of panegyric and invective, that a + worn-out sinner is sometimes found to make the best declaimer + against sin. The same high-seasoned descriptions, which in his + unregenerate state served but to inflame his appetites, in his + new province of a moralist will serve him, a little turned, to + expose the enormity of those appetites in other men. When + Cervantes, with such proficiency of fondness dwells upon the + Don's library, who sees not that he has been a great reader of + books of knight-errantry—perhaps was at some time of his + life in danger of falling into those very extravagances which he + ridiculed so happily in his hero! + </p> + <h4> + JOHN MARSTON. + </h4> + <p> + <i>Antonio and Mellida</i>.—The situation of Andrugio and + Lucio, in the first part of this tragedy,—where Andrugio, + Duke of Genoa, banished his country, with the loss of a son + supposed drowned, is cast upon the territory of his mortal enemy + the Duke of Venice, with no attendants but Lucio, an old + nobleman, and a page—resembles that of Lear and Kent, in + that king's distresses. Andrugio, like Lear, manifests a + king-like impatience, a turbulent greatness, an affected + resignation. The enemies which he enters lists to combat, + "Despair and mighty Grief and sharp Impatience," and the forces + which he brings to vanquish them, "cornets of horse," &c., + are in the boldest style of allegory. They are such a "race of + mourners" as the "infection of sorrows loud" in the intellect + might beget on some "pregnant cloud" in the imagination. The + prologue to the second part, for its passionate earnestness, and + for the tragic note of preparation which it sounds, might have + preceded one of those old tales of Thebes or Pelops' line, which + Milton has so highly commended, as free from the common error of + the poets in his day, of "intermixing comic stuff with tragic + sadness and gravity, brought in without discretion corruptly to + gratify the people." It is as solemn a preparative as the + "warning voice which he who saw the Apocalypse heard cry." + </p> + <p> + <i>What You Will</i>.—<i>O I shall ne'er forget how he went + cloath'd</i>. Act 1. Scene 1.—To judge of the liberality of + these notions of dress, we must advert to the days of Gresham, + and the consternation which a phenomenon habited like the + merchant here described would have excited among the flat round + caps, and cloth stockings upon 'Change, when those "original + arguments or tokens of a citizen's vocation were in fashion, not + more for thrift and usefulness than for distinction and grace." + The blank uniformity to which all professional distinctions in + apparel have been long hastening is one instance of the decay of + symbols among us, which, whether it has contributed or not to + make us a more intellectual, has certainly made us a less + imaginative people. Shakespeare knew the force of signs: a + "malignant and turbaned Turk." This "meal-cap miller," says the + author of God's Revenge against Murder, to express his + indignation at an atrocious outrage committed by the miller + Pierot upon the person of the fair Marieta. + </p> + <h4> + AUTHOR UNKNOWN. + </h4> + <p> + <i>The Merry Devil of Edmonton</i>.—The scene in this + delightful comedy, in which Jerningham, "with the true feeling of + a zealous friend," touches the griefs of Mounchensey, seems + written to make the reader happy. Few of our dramatists or + novelists have attended enough to this. They torture and wound us + abundantly. They are economists only in delight. Nothing can be + finer, more gentlemanlike, and nobler, than the conversation and + compliments of these young men. How delicious is Raymond + Mounchensey's forgetting, in his fears, that Jerningham has a + "Saint in Essex;" and how sweetly his friend reminds him! I wish + it could be ascertained, which there is some grounds for + believing, that Michael Drayton was the author of this piece. It + would add a worthy appendage to the renown of that Panegyrist of + my native Earth; who has gone over her soil, in his Polyolbion, + with the fidelity of a herald, and the painful love of a son; who + has not left a rivulet, so narrow that it may be stepped over, + without honorable mention; and has animated hills and streams + with life and passion beyond the dreams of old mythology. + </p> + <h4> + THOMAS HEYWOOD. + </h4> + <p> + <i>A Woman Killed with Kindness</i>.—Heywood is a sort of + <i>prose</i> Shakspeare. His scenes are to the full as natural + and affecting. But we miss <i>the poet</i>, that which in + Shakspeare always appears out and above the surface of <i>the + nature</i>. Heywood's characters, in this play, for instance, his + country gentlemen, &c., are exactly what we see, but of the + best kind of what we see in life. Shakspeare makes us believe, + while we are among his lovely creations, that they are nothing + but what we are familiar with, as in dreams new things seem old; + but we awake, and sigh for the difference. + </p> + <p> + <i>The English Traveller</i>.—Heywood's preface to this + play is interesting, as it shows the heroic indifference about + the opinion of posterity, which some of these great writers seem + to have felt. There is a magnanimity in authorship, as in + everything else. His ambition seems to have been confined to the + pleasure of hearing the players speak his lines while he lived. + It does not appear that he ever contemplated the possibility of + being read by after-ages. What a slender pittance of fame was + motive sufficient to the production of such plays as the English + Traveller, the Challenge for Beauty, and the Woman Killed with + Kindness! Posterity is bound to take care that a writer loses + nothing by such a noble modesty. + </p> + <h4> + THOMAS MIDDLETON AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. + </h4> + <p> + <i>A Fair Quarrel</i>.—The insipid levelling morality to + which the modern stage is tied down, would not admit of such + admirable passions as these scenes are filled with. A puritanical + obtuseness of sentiment, a stupid infantile goodness, is creeping + among us, instead of the vigorous passions, and virtues clad in + flesh and blood, with which the old dramatists present us. Those + noble and liberal casuists could discern in the differences, the + quarrels, the animosities of men, a beauty and truth of moral + feeling, no less than in the everlastingly inculcated duties of + forgiveness and atonement. With us, all is hypocritical meekness. + A reconciliation-scene, be the occasion never so absurd, never + fails of applause. Our audiences come to the theatre to be + complimented on their goodness. They compare notes with the + amiable characters in the play, and find a wonderful sympathy of + disposition between them. We have a common stock of dramatic + morality, out of which a writer may be supplied without the + trouble of copying it from originals within his own breast. To + know the boundaries of honor, to be judiciously valiant, to have + a temperance which shall beget a smoothness in the angry + swellings of youth, to esteem life as nothing when the sacred + reputation of a parent is to be defended, yet to shake and + tremble under a pious cowardice when that ark of an honest + confidence is found to be frail and tottering, to feel the true + blows of a real disgrace blunting that sword which the imaginary + strokes of a supposed false imputation had put so keen an edge + upon but lately; to do, or to imagine this done, in a feigned + story, asks something more of a moral sense, somewhat a greater + delicacy of perception in questions of right and wrong, than goes + to the writing of two or three hackneyed sentences about the laws + of honor as opposed to the laws of the land, or a commonplace + against duelling. Yet such things would stand a writer now-a-days + in far better stead than Captain Agar and his conscientious + honor; and he would be considered as a far better teacher of + morality than old Rowley or Middleton, if they were living. + </p> + <h4> + WILLIAM ROWLEY. + </h4> + <p> + <i>A New Wonder; a Woman never Vext</i>.—The old + play-writers are distinguished by an honest boldness of + exhibition,—they show everything without being ashamed. If + a reverse in fortune is to be exhibited, they fairly bring us to + the prison-grate and the alms-basket. A poor man on our stage is + always a gentleman; he may be known by a peculiar neatness of + apparel, and by wearing black. Our delicacy, in fact, forbids the + dramatizing of distress at all. It is never shown in its + essential properties; it appears but as the adjunct of some + virtue, as something which is to be relieved, from the + approbation of which relief the spectators are to derive a + certain soothing of self-referred satisfaction. We turn away from + the real essences of things to hunt after their relative shadows, + moral duties; whereas, if the truth of things were fairly + represented, the relative duties might be safely trusted to + themselves, and moral philosophy lose the name of a science. + </p> + <h4> + THOMAS MIDDLETON. + </h4> + <p> + <i>The Witch</i>.—Though some resemblance may be traced + between the charms in Macbeth and the incantations in this play, + which is supposed to have preceded it, this coincidence will not + detract much from the originality of Shakspeare. His witches are + distinguished from the witches of Middleton by essential + differences. These are creatures to whom man or woman, plotting + some dire mischief, might resort for occasional consultation. + Those originate deeds of blood, and begin bad impulses to men. + From the moment that their eyes first meet with Macbeth's, he is + spellbound. That meeting sways his destiny. He can never break + the fascination. These witches can hurt the body; those have + power over the soul. Hecate in Middleton has a son, a low + buffoon: the hags of Shakspeare have neither child of their own, + nor seem to be descended from any parent. They are foul + anomalies, of whom we know not whence they are sprung, nor + whether they have beginning or ending. As they are without human + passions, so they seem to be without human relations. They come + with thunder and lightning, and vanish to airy music. This is all + we know of them. Except Hecate, they have no <i>names</i>; which + heightens their mysteriousness. The names, and some of the + properties which the other author has given to his hags, excite + smiles. The Weïrd Sisters are serious things. Their presence + cannot coexist with mirth. But in a lesser degree, the witches of + Middleton are fine creations. Their power, too, is, in some + measure, over the mind. They raise jars, jealousies, strifes, + "like a thick scurf" over life. + </p> + <h4> + WILLIAM ROWLEY,—THOMAS DECKER,—JOHN FORD, ETC. + </h4> + <p> + <i>The Witch of Edmonton</i>.—Mother Sawyer, in this wild + play, differs from the hags of both Middleton and Shakspeare. She + is the plain, traditional old woman witch of our ancestors; poor, + deformed, and ignorant; the terror of villages, herself amenable + to a justice. That should he a hardy sheriff, with the power of + the county at his heels, that would lay hands on the Weïrd + Sisters. They are of another jurisdiction. But upon the common + and received opinion, the author (or authors) have engrafted + strong fancy. There is something frightfully earnest in her + invocations to the Familiar. + </p> + <h4> + CYRIL TOURNEUR. + </h4> + <p> + <i>The Revenger's Tragedy</i>.—The reality and life of the + dialogue, in which Vindici and Hippolito first tempt their + mother, and then threaten her with death for consenting to the + dishonor of their sister, passes any scenical illusion I ever + felt. I never read it but my ears tingle, and I feel a hot blush + overspread my cheeks, as if I were presently about to proclaim + such malefactions of myself, as the brothers here rebuke in their + unnatural parent, in words more keen and dagger-like than those + which Hamlet speaks to his mother. Such power has the passion of + shame truly personated, not only to strike guilty creatures unto + the soul, but to "appall" even those that are "free." + </p> + <h4> + JOHN WEBSTER. + </h4> + <p> + <i>The Duchess of Malfy</i>.—All the several parts of the + dreadful apparatus with which the death of the Duchess is ushered + in, the waxen images which counterfeit death, the wild masque of + madmen, the tomb-maker, the bellman, the living person's dirge, + the mortification by degrees,—are not more remote from the + conceptions of ordinary vengeance, than the strange character of + suffering which they seem to bring upon their victim is out of + the imagination of ordinary poets. As they are not like + inflictions of this life, so her language seems not of this + world. She has lived among horrors till she is become "native and + endowed unto that element." She speaks the dialect of despair; + her tongue has a smatch of Tartarus and the souls in bale. To + move a horror skilfully, to touch a soul to the quick, to lay + upon fear as much as it can bear, to wean and weary a life till + it is ready to drop, and then step in with mortal instruments to + take its last forfeit: this only a Webster can do. Inferior + geniuses may "upon horror's head horrors accumulate," but they + cannot do this. They mistake quantity for quality; they "terrify + babes with painted devils;" but they know not how a soul is to be + moved. Their terrors want dignity, their affrightments are + without decorum. + </p> + <p> + <i>The White Devil</i>, <i>or Vittoria Corombona</i>.—This + White Devil of Italy sets off a bad cause so speciously, and + pleads with such an innocence-resembling boldness, that we seem + to see that matchless beauty of her face which inspires such gay + confidence into her, and are ready to expect, when she has done + her pleadings, that her very judges, her accusers, the grave + ambassadors who sit as spectators, and all the court, will rise + and make proffer to defend her, in spite of the utmost conviction + of her guilt; as the Shepherds in Don Quixote make proffer to + follow the beautiful Shepherdess Marcela, "without making any + profit of her manifest resolution made there in their hearing." + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "So sweet and lovely does she make the shame, + </p> + <p> + Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, + </p> + <p> + Does spot the beauty of her budding name!" + </p> + </div> + <p> + I never saw anything like the funeral dirge in this play for the + death of Marcello, except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of + his drowned father in the Tempest. As that is of the water, + watery; so this is of the earth, earthy. Both have that + intenseness of feeling, which seems to resolve itself into the + element which it contemplates. + </p> + <p> + In a note on the Spanish Tragedy in the Specimens, I have said + that there is nothing in the undoubted plays of Jonson which + would authorize us to suppose that he could have supplied the + additions to Hieronymo. I suspected the agency of some more + potent spirit. I thought that Webster might have furnished them. + They seemed full of that wild, solemn, preternatural cast of + grief which bewilders us in the Duchess of Malfy. On second + consideration, I think this a hasty criticism. They are more like + the overflowing griefs and talking distraction of Titus + Andronicus. The sorrows of the Duchess set inward; if she talks, + it is little more than soliloquy imitating conversation in a kind + of bravery. + </p> + <h4> + JOHN FORD. + </h4> + <p> + <i>The Broken Heart</i>.—I do not know where to find, in + any play, a catastrophe so grand, so solemn, and so surprising, + as in this. This is indeed, according to Milton, to describe high + passions and high actions. The fortitude of the Spartan boy, who + let a beast gnaw out his bowels till he died, without expressing + a groan, is a faint bodily image of this dilaceration of the + spirit, and exenteration of the inmost mind, which Calantha, with + a holy violence against her nature, keeps closely covered, till + the last duties of a wife and a queen are fulfilled. Stories of + martyrdom are but of chains and the stake; a little bodily + suffering. These torments + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "On the purest spirits prey, + </p> + <p> + As on entrails, joints, and limbs, + </p> + <p> + With answerable pains, but more intense." + </p> + </div> + <p> + What a noble thing is the soul, in its strengths and in its + weaknesses! Who would be less weak than Calantha? Who can be so + strong? The expression of this transcendent scene almost bears us + in imagination to Calvary and the Cross; and we seem to perceive + some analogy between the scenical suffering which we are here + contemplating and the real agonies of that final completion to + which we dare no more than hint a reference. Ford was of the + first order of poets. He sought for sublimity, not by parcels, in + metaphors or visible images, but directly where she has her full + residence, in the heart of man; in the actions and sufferings of + the greatest minds. There is a grandeur of the soul, above + mountains, seas, and the elements. Even in the poor perverted + reason of Giovanni and Annabella, in the play[1] which stands at + the head of the modern collection of the works of this author, we + discern traces of that fiery particle, which, in the irregular + starting from out the road of beaten action, discovers something + of a right line even in obliquity, and shows hints of an + improvable greatness in the lowest descents and degradations of + our nature. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1 "'Tis Pity she's a Whore." + </div> + <h4> + FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE. + </h4> + <p> + <i>Alaham, Mustapha</i>.—The two tragedies of Lord Brooke, + printed among his poems, might with more propriety have been + termed political treatises than plays. Their author has strangely + contrived to make passion, character, and interest, of the + highest order, subservient to the expression of state dogmas and + mysteries. He is in nine parts Machiavel and Tacitus, for one + part Sophocles or Seneca. In this writer's estimate of the powers + of the mind, the understanding must have held a most tyrannical + preeminence. Whether we look into his plays or his most + passionate love-poems, we shall find all frozen and made rigid + with intellect. The finest movements of the human heart, the + utmost grandeur of which the soul is capable, are essentially + comprised in the actions and speeches of Cælica and Camena. + Shakspeare, who seems to have had a peculiar delight in + contemplating womanly perfection, whom for his many sweet images + of female excellence all women are in an especial manner bound to + love, has not raised the ideal of the female character higher + than Lord Brooke, in these two women, has done. But it requires a + study equivalent to the learning of a new language to understand + their meaning when they speak. It is indeed hard to hit: + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "Much like thy riddle, Samson, in one day + </p> + <p> + Or seven though one should musing sit." + </p> + </div> + <p> + It is as if a being of pure intellect should take upon him to + express the emotions of our sensitive natures. There would be all + knowledge, but sympathetic expressions would be wanting. + </p> + <h4> + BEN JONSON. + </h4> + <p> + <i>The Case is Altered</i>.—The passion for wealth has worn + out much of its grossness in tract of time. Our ancestors + certainly conceived of money as able to confer a distinct + gratification in itself, not considered simply as a symbol of + wealth. The old poets, when they introduce a miser, make him + address his gold as his mistress; as something to be seen, felt, + and hugged; as capable of satisfying two of the senses at least. + The substitution of a thin, unsatisfying medium in the place of + the good old tangible metal, has made avarice quite a Platonic + affection in comparison with the seeing, touching, and handling + pleasures of the old Chrysophilites. A bank-note can no more + satisfy the touch of a true sensualist in this passion, than + Creusa could return her husband's embrace in the shades. See the + Cave of Mammon in Spenser; Barabas's contemplation of his wealth, + in the Rich Jew of Malta; Luke's raptures in the City Madam; the + idolatry and absolute gold-worship of the miser Jaques in this + early comic production of Ben Jonson's. Above all, hear Guzman, + in that excellent old translation of the Spanish Rogue, expatiate + on the "ruddy cheeks of your golden ruddocks, your Spanish + pistolets, your plump and full-faced Portuguese, and your + clear-skinned pieces-of-eight of Castile," which he and his + fellows the beggars kept secret to themselves, and did privately + enjoy in a plentiful manner. "For to have them to pay them away + is not to enjoy them; to enjoy them is to have them lying by us; + having no other need of them than to use them for the clearing of + the eyesight, and the comforting of our senses. These we did + carry about with us, sewing them in some patches of our doublets + near unto the heart, and as close to the skin as we could + handsomely quilt them in, holding them to be restorative." + </p> + <p> + <i>Poetaster</i>.—This Roman play seems written to confute + those enemies of Ben in his own days and ours, who have said that + he made a pedantical use of his learning. He has here revived the + whole Court of Augustus, by a learned spell. We are admitted to + the society of the illustrious dead. Virgil, Horace, Ovid, + Tibullus, converse in our own tongue more finely and poetically + than they were used to express themselves in their native Latin. + Nothing can be imagined more elegant, refined, and court-like, + than the scenes between this Louis the Fourteenth of antiquity + and his literati. The whole essence and secret of that kind of + intercourse is contained therein. The economical liberality by + which greatness, seeming to waive some part of its prerogative, + takes care to lose none of the essentials; the prudential + liberties of an inferior, which flatter by commanded boldness and + soothe with complimentary sincerity;—these, and a thousand + beautiful passages from his New Inn, his Cynthia's Revels, and + from those numerous court-masques and entertainments, which he + was in the daily habit of furnishing, might be adduced to show + the poetical fancy and elegance of mind of the supposed rugged + old bard. + </p> + <p> + <i>Alchemist</i>.—The judgment is perfectly overwhelmed by + the torrent of images, words, and book-knowledge, with which + Epicure Mammon (Act ii., Scene 2) confounds and stuns his + incredulous hearer. They come pouring out like the successive + falls of Nilus. They "doubly redouble strokes upon the foe." + Description outstrides proof. We are made to believe effects + before we have testimony for their causes. If there is no one + image which attains the height of the sublime, yet the confluence + and assemblage of them all produces a result equal to the + grandest poetry. The huge Xerxean army countervails against + single Achilles. Epicure Mammon is the most determined offspring + of its author. It has the whole "matter and copy of the + father—eye, nose, lip, the trick of his frown." It is just + such a swaggerer as contemporaries have described old Ben to be. + Meercraft, Bobadil, the Host of the New Inn, have all his image + and superscription. But Mammon is arrogant pretension + personified. Sir Samson Legend, in Love for Love, is such another + lying, overbearing character, but he does not come up to Epicure + Mammon. What a "towering bravery" there is in his sensuality! he + affects no pleasure under a Sultan. It is as if "Egypt with + Assyria strove in luxury." + </p> + <h4> + GEORGE CHAPMAN. + </h4> + <p> + <i>Bussy D'Ambois</i>, <i>Byron's Conspiracy</i>, <i>Byron's + Tragedy</i>, &c. &c.—Webster has happily + characterized the "full and heightened style" of Chapman, who, of + all the English play-writers, perhaps approaches nearest to + Shakspeare in the descriptive and didactic, in passages which are + less purely dramatic. He could not go out of himself, as + Shakspeare could shift at pleasure, to inform and animate other + existences, but in himself he had an eye to perceive and a soul + to embrace all forms and modes of being. He would have made a + great epic poet, if indeed he has not abundantly shown himself to + be one; for his Homer is not so properly a translation as the + stories of Achilles and Ulysses rewritten. The earnestness and + passion which he has put into every part of these poems would be + incredible to a reader of mere modern translations. His almost + Greek zeal for the glory of his heroes can only be paralleled by + that fierce spirit of Hebrew bigotry, with which Milton, as if + personating one of the zealots of the old law, clothed himself + when he sat down to paint the acts of Samson against the + uncircumcised. The great obstacle to Chapman's translations being + read, is their unconquerable quaintness. He pours out in the same + breath the most just and natural, and the most violent and crude + expressions. He seems to grasp at whatever words come first to + hand while the enthusiasm is upon him, as if all other must be + inadequate to the divine meaning. But passion (the all in all in + poetry) is everywhere present, raising the low, dignifying the + mean, and putting sense into the absurd. He makes his readers + glow, weep, tremble, take any affection which he pleases, be + moved by words, or in spite of them, be disgusted, and overcome + their disgust. + </p> + <h4> + FRANCIS BEAUMONT.—JOHN FLETCHER. + </h4> + <p> + <i>Maid's Tragedy</i>.—One characteristic of the excellent + old poets is, their being able to bestow grace upon subjects + which naturally do not seem susceptible of any. I will mention + two instances. Zelmane in the Arcadia of Sidney, and Helena in + the All's Well that Ends Well of Shakspeare. What can be more + unpromising, at first sight, than the idea of a young man + disguising himself in woman's attire, and passing himself off for + a woman among women; and that for a long space of time? Yet Sir + Philip has preserved so matchless a decorum, that neither does + Pyrocles' manhood suffer any stain for the effeminacy of Zelmane, + nor is the respect due to the princesses at all diminished when + the deception comes to be known. In the sweetly-constituted mind + of Sir Philip Sidney, it seems as if no ugly thought or + unhandsome meditation could find a harbor. He turned all that he + touched into images of honor and virtue. Helena in Shakspeare is + a young woman seeking a man in marriage. The ordinary rules of + courtship are reversed, the habitual feelings are crossed. Yet + with such exquisite address this dangerous subject is handled, + that Helena's forwardness loses her no honor; delicacy dispenses + with its laws in her favor, and nature, in her single case, seems + content to suffer a sweet violation. Aspatia, in the Maid's + Tragedy, is a character equally difficult with Helena, of being + managed with grace. She too is a slighted woman, refused by the + man who had once engaged to marry her. Yet it is artfully + contrived, that while we pity we respect her, and she descends + without degradation. Such wonders true poetry and passion can do, + to confer dignity upon subjects which do not seem capable of it. + But Aspatia must not be compared at all points with Helena; she + does not so absolutely predominate over her situation but she + suffers some diminution, some abatement of the full lustre of the + female character, which Helena never does. Her character has many + degrees of sweetness, some of delicacy; but it has weakness, + which, if we do not despise, we are sorry for. After all, + Beaumont and Fletcher were but an inferior sort of Shakspeares + and Sidneys. + </p> + <p> + <i>Philaster</i>.—The character of Bellario must have been + extremely popular in its day. For many years after the date of + Philaster's first exhibition on the stage, scarce a play can be + found without one of these women-pages in it, following in the + train of some pre-engaged lover, calling on the gods to bless her + happy rival (his mistress), whom no doubt she secretly curses in + her heart, giving rise to many pretty <i>equivoques</i> by the + way on the confusion of sex, and either made happy at last by + some surprising turn of fate, or dismissed with the joint pity of + the lovers and the audience. Donne has a copy of verses to his + mistress, dissuading her from a resolution, which she seems to + have taken up from some of these scenical representations, of + following him abroad as a page. It is so earnest, so weighty, so + rich in poetry, in sense, in wit, and pathos, that it deserves to + be read as a solemn close in future to all such sickly fancies as + he there deprecates. + </p> + <h4> + JOHN FLETCHER. + </h4> + <p> + <i>Thierry and Theodoret</i>.—The scene where Ordella + offers her life a sacrifice, that the king of France may not be + childless, I have always considered as the finest in all + Fletcher, and Ordella to be the most perfect notion of the female + heroic character, next to Calantha in the Broken Heart. She is a + piece of sainted nature. Yet, noble as the whole passage is, it + must be confessed that the manner of it, compared with + Shakspeare's finest scenes, is faint and languid. Its motion is + circular, not progressive. Each line revolves on itself in a sort + of separate orbit. They do not join into one another like a + running-hand. Fletcher's ideas moved slow; his versification, + though sweet, is tedious, it stops at every turn; he lays line + upon line, making up one after the other, adding image to image + so deliberately, that we see their junctures. Shakspeare mingles + everything, runs line into line, embarrasses sentences and + metaphors; before one idea has burst its shell, another is + hatched and clamorous for disclosure. Another striking difference + between Fletcher and Shakspeare is the fondness of the former for + unnatural and violent situations. He seems to have thought that + nothing great could be produced in an ordinary way. The chief + incidents in some of his most admired tragedies show this.[1] + Shakspeare had nothing of this contortion in his mind, none of + that craving after violent situations, and flights of strained + and improbable virtue, which I think always betrays an imperfect + moral sensibility. The wit of Fletcher is excellent,[2] like his + serious scenes, but there is something strained and far-fetched + in both. He is too mistrustful of Nature, he always goes a little + on one side of her.—Shakspeare chose her without a reserve: + and had riches, power, understanding, and length of days, with + her for a dowry. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: Wife for a Month, Cupid's Revenge, Double Marriage, &c. + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + 2: Wit without Money, and his comedies generally. + </div> + <p> + <i>Faithful Shepherdess</i>.—If all the parts of this + delightful pastoral had been in unison with its many innocent + scenes and sweet lyric intermixtures, it had been a poem fit to + vie with Comus or the Arcadia, to have been put into the hands of + boys and virgins, to have made matter for young dreams, like the + loves of Hermia and Lysander. But a spot is on the face of this + Diana. Nothing short of infatuation could have driven Fletcher + upon mixing with this "blessedness" such an ugly deformity as + Chloe, the wanton shepherdess! If Chloe was meant to set off + Clorin by contrast, Fletcher should have known that such weeds by + juxtaposition do not set off, but kill sweet flowers. + </p> + <h4> + PHILIP MASSINGER.—THOMAS DECKER. + </h4> + <p> + <i>The Virgin Martyr</i>.—This play has some beauties of so + very high an order, that with all my respect for Massinger, I do + not think he had poetical enthusiasm capable of rising up to + them. His associate Decker who wrote Old Fortunatus, had poetry + enough for anything. The very impurities which obtrude themselves + among the sweet pieties of this play, like Satan among the Sons + of Heaven, have a strength of contrast, a raciness, and a glow, + in them, which are beyond Massinger. They are to the religion of + the rest what Caliban is to Miranda. + </p> + <h4> + PHILIP MASSINGER.—THOMAS MIDDLETON.—WILLIAM ROWLEY. + </h4> + <p> + <i>Old Law</i>.—There is an exquisiteness of moral + sensibility, making one's eyes to gush out tears of delight, and + a poetical strangeness in the circumstances of this sweet + tragicomedy, which are unlike anything in the dramas which + Massinger wrote alone. The pathos is of a subtler edge. Middleton + and Rowley, who assisted in it, had both of them finer geniuses + than their associate. + </p> + <h4> + JAMES SHIRLEY + </h4> + <p> + Claims a place amongst the worthies of this period, not so much + for any transcendent talent in himself, as that he was the last + of a great race, all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and + had a set of moral feelings and notions in common. A new + language, and quite a new turn of tragic and comic interest, came + in with the Restoration. + </p> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="fullr" id="fullr">SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF + FULLER,</a> + </h3> + <h4> + THE CHURCH HISTORIAN. + </h4> + <hr class="short" /> + <p> + The writings of Fuller are usually designated by the title of + quaint, and with sufficient reason; for such was his natural bias + to conceits, that I doubt not upon most occasions it would have + been going out of his way to have expressed himself out of them. + But his wit is not always a <i>lumen siccum</i>, a dry faculty of + surprising; on the contrary, his conceits are oftentimes deeply + steeped in human feeling and passion. Above all, his way of + telling a story, for its eager liveliness, and the perpetual + running commentary of the narrator happily blended with the + narration, is perhaps unequalled. + </p> + <p> + As his works are now scarcely perused but by antiquaries, I + thought it might not be unacceptable to my readers to present + them with some specimens of his manner, in single thoughts and + phrases; and in some few passages of greater length, chiefly of a + narrative description. I shall arrange them as I casually find + them in my book of extracts, without being solicitous to specify + the particular work from which they are taken. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pyramids</i>.—"The Pyramids themselves, doting with age, + have forgotten the names of their founders." + </p> + <p> + <i>Virtue in a Short Person</i>.—"His soul had but a short + diocese to visit, and therefore might the better attend the + effectual informing thereof." + </p> + <p> + <i>Intellect in a very Tall One</i>.—"Ofttimes such who are + built four stories high, are observed to have little in their + cockloft." + </p> + <p> + <i>Naturals</i>.—"Their heads sometimes so little, that + there is no room for wit; sometimes so long, that there is no wit + for so much room." + </p> + <p> + <i>Negroes</i>.—"The image of God cut in ebony." + </p> + <p> + <i>School-Divinity</i>.—"At the first it will be as welcome + to thee as a prison, and their very solutions will seem knots + unto thee." + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Perkins the Divine</i>.—"He had a capacious head, + with angles winding and roomy enough to lodge all controversial + intricacies." + </p> + <p> + <i>The same</i>.—"He would pronounce the word <i>Damn</i> + with such an emphasis as left a doleful echo in his auditors' + ears a good while after." + </p> + <p> + <i>Judges in Capital Cases</i>.—"O let him take heed how he + strikes that hath a dead hand." + </p> + <p> + <i>Memory</i>.—"Philosophers place it in the rear of the + head, and it seems the mine of memory lies there, because there + men naturally dig for it, scratching it when they are at a loss." + </p> + <p> + <i>Fancy</i>.—"It is the most boundless and restless + faculty of the soul; for while the Understanding and the Will are + kept, as it were, <i>in libera custodia</i> to their objects of + <i>verum et bonum</i>, the Fancy is free from all engagements: it + digs without spade, sails without ship, flies without wings, + builds without charges, fights without bloodshed; in a moment + striding from the centre to the circumference of the world; by a + kind of omnipotency creating and annihilating things in an + instant; and things divorced in Nature are married in Fancy as in + a lawless place." + </p> + <p> + <i>Infants</i>.—"Some, admiring what motives to mirth + infants meet with in their silent and solitary smiles, have + resolved, how truly I know not, that then they converse with + angels; as indeed such cannot among mortals find any fitter + companions." + </p> + <p> + <i>Music</i>.—"Such is the sociableness of music, it + conforms itself to all companies both in mirth and mourning; + complying to improve that passion with which it finds the + auditors most affected. In a word, it is an invention which might + have beseemed a son of Seth to have been the father thereof: + though better it was that Cain's great-grandchild should have the + credit first to find it, than the world the unhappiness longer to + have wanted it." + </p> + <p> + <i>St. Monica</i>.—"Drawing near her death, she sent most + pious thoughts as harbingers to heaven, and her soul saw a + glimpse of happiness through the chinks of her sickness-broken + body."[1] + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + <div class="poem"> + 1: + <p> + "The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, + </p> + <p> + Lets in new lights through chinks which time has made." + </p> + <p class="i16"> + WALLER. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <p> + <i>Mortality</i>.—"To smell to a turf of fresh earth is + wholesome for the body, no less are thoughts of mortality cordial + to the soul." + </p> + <p> + <i>Virgin</i>.—"No lordling husband shall at the same time + command her presence and distance; to be always near in constant + attendance, and always to stand aloof in awful observance." + </p> + <p> + <i>Elder Brother</i>.—"Is one who made haste to come into + the world to bring his parents the first news of male posterity, + and is well rewarded for his tidings." + </p> + <p> + <i>Bishop Fletcher</i>.—"His pride was rather on him than + in him, as only gait and gesture deep, not sinking to his heart, + though causelessly condemned for a proud man, as who was a + <i>good hypocrite</i>, and far more humble than he appeared." + </p> + <p> + <i>Masters of Colleges</i>.—"A little allay of dulness in a + Master of a College makes him fitter to manage secular affairs." + </p> + <p> + <i>The Good Yeoman</i>.—"Is a gentleman in ore, whom the + next age may see refined." + </p> + <p> + <i>Good Parent</i>.—"For his love, therein like a + well-drawn picture, he eyes all his children alike." + </p> + <p> + <i>Deformity in Children</i>.—"This partiality is tyranny, + when parents despise those that are deformed; <i>enough to break + those whom God had bowed before</i>." + </p> + <p> + <i>Good Master</i>.—"In correcting his servant he becomes + not a slave to his own passion. Not cruelly making new + <i>indentures</i> of the flesh of his apprentice. He is tender of + his servant in sickness and age. If crippled in his service, his + house is his hospital. Yet how many throw away those dry bones, + out of the which themselves have sucked the marrow!" + </p> + <p> + <i>Good Widow</i>.—"If she can speak but little good of him + [her dead husband] she speaks but little of him. So handsomely + folding up her discourse, that his virtues are shown outwards, + and his vices wrapt up in silence; as counting it barbarism to + throw dirt on his memory, who hath mould cast on his body." + </p> + <p> + <i>Horses</i>.—"These are men's wings, wherewith they make + such speed. A generous creature a horse is, sensible in some sort + of honor; and made most handsome by that which deforms men + most—pride." + </p> + <p> + <i>Martyrdom</i>.—"Heart of oak hath sometimes warped a + little in the scorching heat of persecution. Their want of true + courage herein cannot be excused. Yet many censure them for + surrendering up their forts after a long siege, who would have + yielded up their own at the first summons.—Oh! there is + more required to make one valiant, than to call Cranmer or Jewel + coward; as if the fire in Smithfield had been no hotter than what + is painted in the Book of Martyrs." + </p> + <p> + <i>Text of St. Paul</i>.—"St. Paul saith, Let not the sun + go down on your wrath, to carry news to the antipodes in another + world of thy revengeful nature. Yet let us take the Apostle's + meaning rather than his words, with all possible speed to depose + our passion; not understanding him so literally, that we may take + leave to be angry till sunset: then might our wrath lengthen with + the days; and men in Greenland, where the day lasts above a + quarter of a year, have plentiful scope for revenge."[1] + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: This whimsical prevention of a consequence which no one would + have thought of deducing,—setting up an absurdum on purpose + to hunt it down,—placing guards as it were at the very + outposts of possibility,—gravely giving out laws to + insanity and prescribing moral fences to distempered intellects, + could never have entered into a head less entertainingly + constructed than that of Fuller or Sir Thomas Browne, the very + air of whose style the conclusion of this passage most aptly + imitates. + </div> + <p> + <i>Bishop Brownrig</i>.—"He carried learning enough <i>in + numerato</i> about him in his pockets for any discourse, and had + much more at home in his chests for any serious dispute." + </p> + <p> + <i>Modest Want</i>.—"Those that with diligence fight + against poverty, though neither conquer till death makes it a + drawn battle, expect not but prevent their craving of thee: for + God forbid the heavens should never rain, till the earth first + opens her mouth; seeing <i>some grounds will sooner burn than + chap</i>." + </p> + <p> + <i>Death-bed Temptations</i>.—"The devil is most busy on + the last day of his term; and a tenant to be ousted cares not + what mischief he doth." + </p> + <p> + <i>Conversation</i>.—"Seeing we are civilized Englishmen, + let us not be naked savages in our talk." + </p> + <p> + <i>Wounded Soldier</i>.—"Halting is the stateliest march of + a soldier; and 'tis a brave sight to see the flesh of an ancient + as torn as his colors." + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat Tyler</i>.—"A <i>misogrammatist</i>; if a good Greek + word may be given to so barbarous a rebel." + </p> + <p> + <i>Heralds</i>.—"Heralds new mould men's names—taking + from them, adding to them, melting out all the liquid letters, + torturing mutes to make them speak, and making vowels + dumb,—to bring it to a fallacious <i>homonomy</i> at the + last, that their names may be the same with those noble houses + they pretend to." + </p> + <p> + <i>Antiquarian Diligence</i>.—"It is most worthy + observation, with what diligence he [Camden] inquired after + ancient places, making hue and cry after many a city which was + run away, and by certain marks and tokens pursuing to find it; as + by the situation on the Roman highways, by just distance from + other ancient cities, by some affinity of name, by tradition of + the inhabitants, by Roman coins digged up, and by some appearance + of ruins. A broken urn is a whole evidence; or an old gate still + surviving, out of which the city is run out. Besides, commonly + some new spruce town not far off is grown out of the ashes + thereof, which yet hath so much natural affection as dutifully to + own those reverend ruins for her mother." + </p> + <p> + <i>Henry de Essex</i>.—"He is too well known in our English + Chronicles, being Baron of Raleigh, in Essex, and Hereditary + Standard Bearer of England. It happened in the reign of this king + [Henry II.] there was a fierce battle fought in Flintshire, at + Coleshall, between the English and Welsh, wherein this Henry de + Essex <i>animum et signum simul abjecit</i>, betwixt traitor and + coward, cast away both his courage and banner together, + occasioning a great overthrow of English. But he that had the + baseness to do, had the boldness to deny the doing of so foul a + fact; until he was challenged in combat by Robert de Momford, a + knight, eye-witness thereof, and by him overcome in a duel. + Whereupon his large inheritance was confiscated to the king, and + he himself, <i>partly thrust, partly going into a convent, hid + his head in a cowl, under which, betwixt shame and sanctity, he + blushed out the remainder of his + life</i>."[1]—<i>Worthies</i>, article <i>Bedfordshire</i>. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: The fine imagination of Fuller has done what might have been + pronounced impossible. It has given an interest, and a holy + character to coward infamy. Nothing can be more beautiful than + the concluding account of the last days, and expiatory + retirement, of poor Henry de Essex. The address with which the + whole of this little story is told is most consummate; the charm + of it seems to consist in a perpetual balance of antithesis not + too violently opposed, and the consequent activity of mind in + which the reader is kept:—"Betwixt traitor and + coward"—"baseness to do, boldness to deny"—"partly + thrust, partly going, into a convent"—"betwixt shame and + sanctity." The reader by this artifice is taken into a kind of + partnership with the writer,—his judgment is exercised in + settling the preponderance,—he feels as if he were + consulted as to the issue. But the modern historian flings at + once the dead weight of his own judgment into the scale, and + settles the matter. + </div> + <p> + <i>Sir Edward Harwood, Knt.</i>—"I have read of a bird, + which hath a face like, and yet will prey upon, a man: who coming + to the water to drink, and finding there by reflection, that he + had killed one like himself, pineth away by degrees, and never + afterwards enjoyeth itself.[1] Such is in some sort the condition + of Sir Edward. This accident, that he had killed one in a private + quarrel, put a period to his carnal mirth, and was a covering to + his eyes all the days of his life. No possible provocations could + afterwards tempt him to a duel; and no wonder that one's + conscience loathed that whereof he had surfeited. He refused all + challenges with more honor than others accepted them; it being + well known that he would set his foot as far in the face of his + enemy as any man alive."—<i>Worthies</i>, article + <i>Lincolnshire</i>. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: I do not know where Fuller read of this bird; but a more awful + and affecting story, and moralizing of a story, in Natural + History, or rather in that Fabulous Natural History where poets + and mythologists found the Phoenix and the Unicorn and "other + strange fowl," is nowhere extant. It is a fable which Sir Thomas + Browne, if he had heard of it, would have exploded among his + Vulgar Errors; but the delight which he would have taken in the + discussing of its probabilities, would have shown that the + <i>truth of the fact</i>, though the avowed object of his search + was not so much the motive which put him upon the investigation, + as those hidden affinities and poetical analogies,—those + <i>essential verities</i> in the application of strange fable, + which made him linger with such reluctant delay among the last + fading lights of popular tradition; and not seldom to conjure up + a superstition, that had been long extinct, from its dusty grave, + to inter it himself with greater ceremonies and solemnities of + burial. + </div> + <p> + <i>Decayed Gentry</i>.—"It happened in the reign of King + James, when Henry Earl of Huntingdon was Lieutenant of + Leicestershire, that a laborer's son in that country was pressed + into the wars; as I take it, to go over with Count Mansfield. The + old man at Leicester requested his son might be discharged, as + being the only staff of his age, who by his industry maintained + him and his mother. The Earl demanded his name, which the man for + a long time was loath to tell (as suspecting it a fault for so + poor a man to confess the truth); at last he told his name was + Hastings. 'Cousin Hastings,' said the Earl, 'we cannot all be top + branches of the tree, though we all spring from the same root; + your son, my kinsman, shall not be pressed.' So good was the + meeting of modesty in a poor, with courtesy in an honorable + person, and gentry I believe in both. And I have reason to + believe, that some who justly own the surnames and blood of + Bohuns, Mortimers, and Plantagenets (though ignorant of their own + extractions), are hid in the heap of common people, where they + find that under a thatched cottage which some of their ancestors + could not enjoy in a leaded castle—contentment, with quiet + and security."—<i>Worthies</i>, article <i>Of Shire-Reeves + or Shiriffes</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tenderness of Conscience in a Tradesman</i>.—"Thomas + Curson, born in Allhallows, Lombard Street, armorer, dwelt + without Bishopsgate. It happened that a stage-player borrowed a + rusty musket, which had lain long leger in his shop: now though + his part were comical, he therewith acted an unexpected tragedy, + killing one of the standers-by, the gun casually going off on the + stage, which he suspected not to be charged. O the difference of + divers men in the tenderness of their consciences! some are + scarce touched with a wound, whilst others are wounded with a + touch therein. This poor armorer was highly afflicted therewith, + though done against his will, yea, without his knowledge, in his + absence, by another, out of mere chance. Hereupon he resolved to + give all his estate to pious uses: no sooner had he gotten a + round sum, but presently he posted with it in his apron to the + Court of Aldermen, and was in pain till by their direction he had + settled it for the relief of poor in his own and other parishes, + and disposed of some hundreds of pounds accordingly, as I am + credibly informed by the then churchwardens of the said parish. + Thus, as he conceived himself casually (though at a great + distance) to have occasioned the death of one, he was the + immediate and direct cause of giving a comfortable living to + many." + </p> + <p> + <i>Burning of Wickliffe's Body by Order of the Council of + Constance</i>.—"Hitherto [A.D. 1428] the corpse of John + Wickliffe had quietly slept in his grave about forty-one years + after his death, till his body was reduced to bones, and his + bones almost to dust. For though the earth in the chancel of + Lutterworth, in Leicestershire, where he was interred, hath not + so quick a digestion with the earth of Aceldama, to consume flesh + in twenty-four hours, yet such the appetite thereof, and all + other English graves, to leave small reversions of a body after + so many years. But now such the spleen of the Council of + Constance, as they not only cursed his memory as dying an + obstinate heretic, but ordered that his bones (with this + charitable caution,—if it may be discerned from the bodies + of other faithful people) be taken out of the ground, and thrown + far off from any Christian burial. In obedience hereunto, Richard + Fleming, Bishop of Lincoln, Diocesan of Lutterworth, sent his + officers (vultures with a quick sight, scent, at a dead carcass) + to ungrave him. Accordingly to Lutterworth they come, Sumner, + Commissary, Official, Chancellor, Proctors, Doctors, and their + servants, (so that the remnant of the body would not hold out a + bone amongst so many hands,) take what was left out of the grave, + and burnt them to ashes, and cast them into Swift, a neighboring + brook, running hard by. <i>Thus this brook has conveyed his ashes + into Avon, Avon into Severn, Severn into the narrow seas, they + into the main ocean; and thus the ashes of Wickliffe are the + emblem of his doctrine, which now is dispersed all the world + over.</i>"[1]—Church History. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: The concluding period of this most lively narrative I will not + call a conceit: it is one of the grandest conceptions I ever met + with. One feels the ashes of Wickliffe gliding away out of the + reach of the Sumners, Commissaries, Officials, Proctors, Doctors, + and all the puddering rout of executioners of the impotent rage + of the baffled Council: from Swift into Avon, from Avon into + Severn, from Severn into the narrow seas, from the narrow seas + into the main ocean, where they become the emblem of his + doctrine, "dispersed all the world over." Hamlet's tracing the + body of Cæsar to the clay that stops a beer-barrel is a no less + curious pursuit of "ruined mortality;" but it is in an inverse + ratio to this: it degrades and saddens us, for one part of our + nature at least; but this expands the whole of our nature, and + gives to the body a sort of ubiquity,—a diffusion as far as + the actions of its partner can have reach or influence. + <p> + I have seen this passage smiled at, and set down as a quaint + conceit of old Fuller. But what is not a conceit to those who + read it in a temper different from that in which the writer + composed it? The most pathetic parts of poetry to cold tempers + seem and are nonsense, as divinity was to the Greeks + foolishness. When Richard II., meditating on his own utter + annihilation as to royalty, cries out, + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "O that I were a mockery king of snow, + </p> + <p> + To melt before the sun of Bolingbroke," + </p> + </div> + <p> + if we had been going on pace for pace with the passion before, + this sudden conversion of a strong-felt metaphor into something + to be actually realized in nature, like that of Jeremiah, "Oh! + that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears," + is strictly and strikingly natural; but come unprepared upon + it, and it is a conceit: and so is a "head" turned into + "waters." + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h4> + ON THE + </h4> + <h3> + <a name="hogar" id="hogar">GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH;</a> + </h3> + <h4> + WITH SOME REMARKS ON A PASSAGE IN THE WRITINGS OF THE LATE MR. + BARRY. + </h4> + <hr class="short" /> + <p> + One of the earliest and noblest enjoyments I had when a boy, was + in the contemplation of those capital prints by Hogarth, the + <i>Harlot's</i> and <i>Rake's Progresses</i>, which, along with + some others, hung upon the walls of a great hall in an + old-fashioned house in ——shire, and seemed the + solitary tenants (with myself) of that antiquated and + life-deserted apartment. + </p> + <p> + Recollection of the manner in which those prints used to affect + me has often made me wonder, when I have heard Hogarth described + as a mere comic painter, as one of those whose chief ambition was + to <i>raise a laugh</i>. To deny that there are throughout the + prints which I have mentioned circumstances introduced of a + laughable tendency, would be to run counter to the common notions + of mankind; but to suppose that in their <i>ruling character</i> + they appeal chiefly to the risible faculty, and not first and + foremost to the very heart of man, its best and most serious + feelings, would be to mistake no less grossly their aim and + purpose. A set of severer Satires (for they are not so much + Comedies, which they have been likened to, as they are strong and + masculine Satires) less mingled with anything of mere fun, were + never written upon paper, or graven upon copper. They resemble + Juvenal, or the satiric touches in Timon of Athens. + </p> + <p> + I was pleased with the reply of a gentleman, who being asked + which book he esteemed most in his library, + answered,—"Shakspeare:" being asked which he esteemed next + best, replied, "Hogarth." His graphic representations are indeed + books: they have the teeming, fruitful, suggestive meaning of + <i>words</i>. Other pictures we look at,—his prints we + read. + </p> + <p> + In pursuance of this parallel, I have sometimes entertained + myself with comparing the <i>Timon of Athens</i> of Shakespeare + (which I have just mentioned) and Hogarth's <i>Rake's + Progress</i> together. The story, the moral, in both is nearly + the same. The wild course of riot and extravagance, ending in the + one with driving the Prodigal from the society of men into the + solitude of the deserts, and in the other with conducting the + Rake through his several stages of dissipation into the still + more complete desolations of the mad-house, in the play and in + the picture, are described with almost equal force and nature. + The levee of the Rake, which forms the subject of the second + plate in the series, is almost a transcript of Timon's levee in + the opening scene of that play. We find a dedicating poet, and + other similar characters, in both. + </p> + <p> + The concluding scene in the <i>Rake's Progress</i> is perhaps + superior to the last scenes of <i>Timon</i>. If we seek for + something of kindred excellence in poetry, it must be in the + scenes of Lear's beginning madness, where the King and the Fool + and the Tom-o'-Bedlam conspire to produce such a medley of mirth + checked by misery, and misery rebuked by mirth; where the society + of those "strange bedfellows" which misfortunes have brought Lear + acquainted with, so finely sets forth the destitute state of the + monarch; while the lunatic bans of the one, and the disjointed + sayings and wild but pregnant allusions of the other, so + wonderfully sympathize with that confusion, which they seem to + assist in the production of, in the senses of that "child-changed + father." + </p> + <p> + In the scene in Bedlam, which terminates the <i>Rake's + Progress</i>, we find the same assortment of the ludicrous with + the terrible. Here is desperate madness, the overturning of + originally strong thinking faculties, at which we shudder, as we + contemplate the duration and pressure of affliction which it must + have asked to destroy such a building;—and here is the + gradual hurtless lapse into idiocy, of faculties, which at their + best of times never having been strong, we look upon the + consummation of their decay with no more of pity than is + consistent with a smile. The mad tailor, the poor driveller that + has gone out of his wits (and truly he appears to have had no + great journey to go to get past their confines) for the love of + <i>Charming Betty Careless</i>,—. these half-laughable, + scarce-pitiable objects, take off from the horror which the + principal figure would of itself raise, at the same time that + they assist the feeling of the scene by contributing to the + general notion of its subject:— + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "Madness, thou chaos of the brain, + </p> + <p> + What art, that pleasure giv'st and pain? + </p> + <p> + Tyranny of Fancy's reign! + </p> + <p> + Mechanic Fancy, that can build + </p> + <p> + Vast labyrinths and mazes wild, + </p> + <p> + With rule disjointed, shapeless measure, + </p> + <p> + Fill'd with horror, fill'd with pleasure! + </p> + <p> + Shapes of horror, that would even + </p> + <p> + Cast doubts of mercy upon heaven; + </p> + <p> + Shapes of pleasure, that but seen, + </p> + <p> + Would split the shaking sides of Spleen."[1] + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: Lines inscribed under the plate + </div> + <p> + Is it carrying the spirit of comparison to excess to remark, that + in the poor kneeling weeping female who accompanies her seducer + in his sad decay, there is something analogous to Kent, or Caius, + as he delights rather to be called, in <i>Lear</i>,—the + noblest pattern of virtue which even Shakspeare has + conceived,—who follows his royal master in banishment, that + had pronounced <i>his</i> banishment, and forgetful at once of + his wrongs and dignities, taking on himself the disguise of a + menial, retains his fidelity to the figure, his loyalty to the + carcass, the shadow, the shell, and empty husk of Lear? + </p> + <p> + In the perusal of a book, or of a picture, much of the impression + which we receive depends upon the habit of mind which we bring + with us to such perusal. The same circumstance may make one + person laugh, which shall render another very serious; or in the + same person the first impression may be corrected by + after-thought. The misemployed incongruous characters at the + <i>Harlot's Funeral</i>, on a superficial inspection, provoke to + laughter; but when we have sacrificed the first emotion to + levity, a very different frame of mind succeeds, or the painter + has lost half his purpose. I never look at that wonderful + assemblage of depraved beings, who, without a grain of reverence + or pity in their perverted minds, are performing the sacred + exteriors of duty to the relics of their departed partner in + folly, but I am as much moved to sympathy from the very want of + it in them, as I should be by the finest representation of a + virtuous death-bed surrounded by real mourners, pious children, + weeping friends,—perhaps more by the very contrast. What + reflections does it not awake, of the dreadful heartless state in + which the creature (a female too) must have lived, who in death + wants the accompaniment of one genuine tear. That wretch who is + removing the lid of the coffin to gaze upon the corpse with a + face which indicates a perfect negation of all goodness or + womanhood—the hypocrite parson and his demure + partner—all the fiendish group—to a thoughtful mind + present a moral emblem more affecting than if the poor friendless + carcass had been depicted as thrown out to the woods, where + wolves had assisted at its obsequies, itself furnishing forth its + own funeral banquet. + </p> + <p> + It is easy to laugh at such incongruities as are met together in + this picture,—incongruous objects being of the very essence + of laughter,—but surely the laugh is far different in its + kind from that thoughtless species to which we are moved by mere + farce and grotesque. We laugh when Ferdinand Count Fathom, at the + first sight of the white cliffs of Britain, feels his heart yearn + with filial fondness towards the land of his progenitors, which + he is coming to fleece and plunder,—we smile at the + exquisite irony of the passage,—but if we are not led on by + such passages to some more salutary feeling than laughter, we are + very negligent perusers of them in book or picture. + </p> + <p> + It is the fashion with those who cry up the great Historical + School in this country, at the head of which Sir Joshua Reynolds + is placed, to exclude Hogarth from that school, as an artist of + an inferior and vulgar class. Those persons seem to me to + confound the painting of subjects in common or vulgar life with + the being a vulgar artist. The quantity of thought which Hogarth + crowds into every picture would alone <i>unvulgarize</i> every + subject which he might choose. Let us take the lowest of his + subjects, the print called <i>Gin Lane</i>. Here is plenty of + poverty, and low stuff to disgust upon a superficial view; and + accordingly a cold spectator feels himself immediately disgusted + and repelled. I have seen many turn away from it, not being able + to bear it. The same persons would perhaps have looked with great + complacency upon Poussin's celebrated picture of the <i>Plague at + Athens</i>[1] Disease and Death and bewildering Terror, in + <i>Athenian garments</i>, are endurable, and come, as the + delicate critics express it, within the "limits of pleasurable + sensation." But the scenes of their own St. Giles's, delineated + by their own countryman, are too shocking to think of. Yet if we + could abstract our minds from the fascinating colors of the + picture, and forget the coarse execution (in some respects) of + the print, intended as it was to be a cheap plate, accessible to + the poorer sort of people, for whose instruction it was done, I + think we could have no hesitation in conferring the palm of + superior genius upon Hogarth, comparing this work of his with + Poussin's picture. There is more of imagination in it—that + power which draws all things to one,—which makes things + animate and inanimate, beings with their attributes, subjects, + and their accessories, take one color and serve to one effect. + Everything in the print, to use a vulgar expression, + <i>tells</i>. Every part is full of "strange images of death." It + is perfectly amazing and astounding to look at. Not only the two + prominent figures, the woman and the half-dead man, which are as + terrible as anything which Michael Angelo ever drew, but + everything else in the print, contributes to bewilder and + stupefy,—the very houses, as I heard a friend of mine + express it, tumbling all about in various directions, seem + drunk—seem absolutely reeling from the effect of that + diabolical spirit of frenzy which goes forth over the whole + composition. To show the poetical and almost prophetical + conception in the artist, one little circumstance may serve. Not + content with the dying and dead figures, which he has strewed in + profusion over the proper scene of the action, he shows you what + (of a kindred nature) is passing beyond it. Close by the shell, + in which, by direction of the parish beadle, a man is depositing + his wife, is an old wall, which, partaking of the universal decay + around it, is tumbling to pieces. Through a gap in this wall are + seen three figures, which appear to make a part in some funeral + procession which is passing by on the other side of the wall, out + of the sphere of the composition. This extending of the interest + beyond the bounds of the subject could only have been conceived + by a great genius. Shakspeare, in his description of the painting + of the Trojan War, in his <i>Tarquin and Lucrece</i>, has + introduced a similar device, where the painter made a part stand + for the whole:— + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "For much imaginary work was there, + </p> + <p> + Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind, + </p> + <p> + That for Achilles' image stood his spear, + </p> + <p> + Grip'd in an armed hand; himself behind + </p> + <p> + Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind: + </p> + <p> + A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, + </p> + <p> + Stood for the whole to be imagined." + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: At the late Mr. Hope's, in Cavendish Square + </div> + <p> + This he well calls <i>imaginary work</i>, where the spectator + must meet the artist in his conceptions half way; and it is + peculiar to the confidence of high genius alone to trust so much + to spectators or readers. Lesser artists show everything distinct + and full, as they require an object to be made out to themselves + before they can comprehend it. + </p> + <p> + When I think of the power displayed in this (I will not hesitate + to say) sublime print, it seems to me the extreme narrowness of + system alone, and of that rage for classification, by which, in + matters of taste at least, we are perpetually perplexing, instead + of arranging, our ideas, that would make us concede to the work + of Poussin above mentioned, and deny to this of Hogarth, the name + of a grand serious composition. + </p> + <p> + We are forever deceiving ourselves with names and theories. We + call one man a great historical painter, because he has taken for + his subjects kings or great men, or transactions over which time + has thrown a grandeur. We term another the painter of common + life, and set him down in our minds for an artist of an inferior + class, without reflecting whether the quantity of thought shown + by the latter may not much more than level the distinction which + their mere choice of subjects may seem to place between them; or + whether, in fact, from that very common life a great artist may + not extract as deep an interest as another man from that which we + are pleased to call history. + </p> + <p> + I entertain the highest respect for the talents and virtues of + Reynolds, but I do not like that his reputation should overshadow + and stifle the merits of such a man as Hogarth, nor that to mere + names and classifications we should be content to sacrifice one + of the greatest ornaments of England. + </p> + <p> + I would ask the most enthusiastic admirer of Reynolds, whether in + the countenances of his <i>Staring</i> and <i>Grinning + Despair</i>, which he has given us for the faces of Ugolino and + dying Beaufort, there be anything comparable to the expression + which Hogarth has put into the face of his broken-down rake in + the last plate but one of the <i>Rake's Progress</i>,[1] where a + letter from the manager is brought to him to say that his play + "will not do?" Here all is easy, natural, undistorted, but withal + what a mass of woe is here accumulated!—the long history of + a misspent life is compressed into the countenance as plainly as + the series of plates before had told it; here is no attempt at + Gorgonian looks, which are to freeze the beholder—no + grinning at the antique bedposts—no face-making, or + consciousness of the presence of spectators in or out of the + picture, but grief kept to a man's self, a face retiring from + notice with the shame which great anguish sometimes brings with + it,—a final leave taken of hope,—the coming on of + vacancy and stupefaction,—a beginning alienation of mind + looking like tranquillity. Here is matter for the mind of the + beholder to feed on for the hour together,—matter to feed + and fertilize the mind. It is too real to admit one thought about + the power of the artist who did it. When we compare the + expression in subjects which so fairly admit of comparison, and + find the superiority so clearly to remain with Hogarth, shall the + mere contemptible difference of the scene of it being laid, in + the one case, in our Fleet or King's Bench Prison, and, in the + other, in the State Prison of Pisa, or the bedroom of a + cardinal,—or that the subject of the one has never been + authenticated, and the other is matter of history,—so weigh + down the real points, of the comparison, as to induce us to rank + the artist who has chosen the one scene or subject (though + confessedly inferior in that which constitutes the soul of his + art) in a class from which we exclude the better genius (who has + happened to make choice of the other) with something like + disgrace?[2] + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: The first perhaps in all Hogarth for serious expression. That + which comes next to it, I think, is the jaded morning countenance + of the debauchee in the second plate of the <i>Marriage + Alamode</i>, which lectures on the vanity of pleasure as audibly + as anything in Ecclesiastes. + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + 2: Sir Joshua Reynolds, somewhere in his Lectures, speaks of the + <i>presumption</i> of Hogarth in attempting the grand style in + painting, by which he means his choice of certain Scripture + subjects. Hogarth's excursions into Holy Land were not very + numerous, but what he has left us in this kind have at least this + merit, that they have expression of <i>some sort or other</i> in + them,—the <i>Child Moses before Pharaoh's Daughter</i>, for + instance: which is more than can be said of Sir Joshua Reynolds's + <i>Repose in Egypt</i>, painted for Macklin's Bible, where for a + Madonna he has substituted a sleepy, insensible, unmotherly girl, + one so little worthy to have been selected as the Mother of the + Saviour, that she seems to have neither heart nor feeling to + entitle her to become a mother at all. But indeed the race of + Virgin Mary painters seems to have been cut up, root and branch, + at the Reformation. Our artists are too good Protestants to give + life to that admirable commixture of maternal tenderness with + reverential awe and wonder approaching to worship, with which the + Virgin Mothers of L. da Vinci and Raphael (themselves by their + divine countenances inviting men to worship) contemplate the + union of the two natures in the person of their Heaven-born + Infant. + </div> + <p> + <i>The Boys under Demoniacal Possession</i> of Raphael and + Domenichino, by what law of classification are we bound to assign + them to belong to the great style in painting, and to degrade + into an inferior class the Rake of Hogarth when he is the Madman + in the Bedlam scene? I am sure he is far more impressive than + either. It is a face which no one that has seen can easily + forget. There is the stretch of human suffering to the utmost + endurance, severe bodily pain brought on by strong mental agony, + the frightful, obstinate laugh of madness,—yet all so + unforced and natural, that those who never were witness to + madness in real life, think they see nothing but what is familiar + to them in this face. Here are no tricks of distortion, nothing + but the natural face of agony. This is high tragic painting, and + we might as well deny to Shakspeare the honors of a great + tragedian, because he has interwoven scenes of mirth with the + serious business of his plays, as refuse to Hogarth the same + praise for the two concluding scenes of the <i>Rake's + Progress</i>, because of the Comic Lunatics[1] which he has + thrown into the one, or the Alchymist that he has introduced in + the other, who is paddling in the coals of his furnace, keeping + alive the flames of vain hope within the very walls of the prison + to which the vanity has conducted him, which have taught the + darker lesson of extinguished hope to the desponding figure who + is the principal person of the scene. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "There are of madmen, as there are of tame, + </p> + <p> + All humor'd not alike. We have here some + </p> + <p> + So apish and fantastic, play with a feather; + </p> + <p> + And though 'twould grieve a soul to see God's image + </p> + <p> + So blemish'd and defac'd, yet do they act + </p> + <p> + Such antick and such pretty lunacies, + </p> + <p> + That, spite of sorrow, they will make you smile. + </p> + <p> + Others again we have, like angry lions, + </p> + <p> + Fierce as wild bulls, untameable as flies." + </p> + <p class="i10"> + <i>Honest Whore</i>. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <p> + It is the force of these kindly admixtures which assimilates the + scenes of Hogarth and of Shakspeare to the drama of real life, + where no such thing as pure tragedy is to be found; but merriment + and infelicity, ponderous crime and feather-light vanity, like + twiformed births, disagreeing complexions of one intertexture, + perpetually unite to show forth motley spectacles to the world. + Then it is that the poet or painter shows his art, when in the + selection of these comic adjuncts he chooses such circumstances + as shall relieve, contrast with, or fall into, without forming a + violent opposition to his principal object. Who sees not that the + Grave-digger in <i>Hamlet</i>, the Fool in <i>Lear</i>, have a + kind of correspondency to, and fall in with, the subjects which + they seem to interrupt: while the comic stuff in <i>Venice + Preserved</i>, and the doggerel nonsense of the Cook and his + poisoning associates in the <i>Rollo</i> of Beaumont and + Fletcher, are pure, irrelevant, impertinent discords,—as + bad as the quarrelling dog and cat under the table of the <i>Lord + and the Disciples at Emmaus</i> of Titian? + </p> + <p> + Not to tire the reader with perpetual reference to prints which + he may not be fortunate enough to possess, it may be sufficient + to remark, that the same tragic cast of expression and incident, + blended in some instances with a greater alloy of comedy, + characterizes his other great work, the <i>Marriage Alamode</i>, + as well as those less elaborate exertions of his genius, the + prints called <i>Industry</i> and <i>Idleness</i>, <i>the + Distrest Poet</i>, &c., forming, with the <i>Harlot's</i> and + <i>Rake's Progresses</i>, the most considerable, if not the + largest class of his productions,—enough surely to rescue + Hogarth from the imputation of being a mere buffoon, or one whose + general aim was only to <i>shake the sides</i>. + </p> + <p> + There remains a very numerous class of his performances, the + object of which must be confessed to be principally comic. But in + all of them will be found something to distinguish them from the + droll productions of Bunbury and others. They have this + difference, that we do not merely laugh at, we are led into long + trains of reflection by them. In this respect they resemble the + characters of Chaucer's <i>Pilgrims</i>, which have strokes of + humor in them enough to designate them for the most part as + comic, but our strongest feeling still is wonder at the + comprehensiveness of genius which could crowd, as poet and + painter have done, into one small canvas so many diverse yet + cooperating materials. + </p> + <p> + The faces of Hogarth have not a mere momentary interest, as in + caricatures, or those grotesque physiognomies which we sometimes + catch a glance of in the street, and, struck with their + whimsicality, wish for a pencil and the power to sketch them + down; and forget them again as rapidly,—but they are + permanent abiding ideas. Not the sports of nature, but her + necessary eternal classes. We feel that we cannot part with any + of them, lest a link should be broken. + </p> + <p> + It is worthy of observation, that he has seldom drawn a mean or + insignificant countenance.[1] Hogarth's mind was eminently + reflective; and, as it has been well observed of Shakspeare, that + he has transfused his own poetical character into the persons of + his drama (they are all more or less <i>poets</i>) Hogarth has + impressed a <i>thinking character</i> upon the persons of his + canvas. This remark must not be taken universally. The exquisite + idiotism of the little gentleman in the bag and sword beating his + drum in the print of the <i>Enraged Musician</i>, would of itself + rise up against so sweeping an assertion. But I think it will be + found to be true of the generality of his countenances. The + knife-grinder and Jew flute-player in the plate just mentioned, + may serve as instances instead of a thousand. They have intense + thinking faces, though the purpose to which they are subservient + by no means required it; but indeed it seems as if it was painful + to Hogarth to contemplate mere vacancy or insignificance. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: If there are any of that description, they are in his + <i>Strolling Players</i>, a print which has been cried up by Lord + Orford as the richest of his productions, and it may be, for what + I know, in the mere lumber, the properties, and dead furniture of + the scene, but in living character and expression it is (for + Hogarth) lamentably poor and wanting; it is perhaps the only one + of his performances at which we have a right to feel disgusted. + </div> + <p> + This reflection of the artist's own intellect from the faces of + his characters, is one reason why the works of Hogarth, so much + more than those of any other artist, are objects of meditation. + Our intellectual natures love the mirror which gives them back + their own likenesses. The mental eye will not bend long with + delight upon vacancy. + </p> + <p> + Another line of eternal separation between Hogarth and the common + painters of droll or burlesque subjects, with whom he is often + confounded, is the sense of beauty, which in the most unpromising + subjects seems never wholly to have deserted him. "Hogarth + himself," says Mr. Coleridge,[1] from whom I have borrowed this + observation, speaking of a scene which took place at Ratzeburg, + "never drew a more ludicrous distortion, both of attitude and + physiognomy, than this effect occasioned: nor was there wanting + beside it one of those beautiful female faces which the same + Hogarth, <i>in whom the satirist never extinguished that love of + beauty which belonged to him as a poet</i>, so often and so + gladly introduces as the central figure in a crowd of humorous + deformities, which figure (such is the power of true genius) + neither acts nor is meant to act as a contrast; but diffuses + through all and over each of the group a spirit of reconciliation + and human kindness; and even when the attention is no longer + consciously directed to the cause of this feeling, still blends + its tenderness with our laughter: and <i>thus prevents the + instructive merriment at the whims of nature, or the foibles or + humors of our fellow-men, from degenerating into the heart-poison + of contempt or hatred</i>." To the beautiful females in Hogarth, + which Mr. C. has pointed out, might be added, the frequent + introduction of children (which Hogarth seems to have taken a + particular delight in) into his pieces. They have a singular + effect in giving tranquillity and a portion of their own + innocence to the subject. The baby riding in its mother's lap in + the <i>March to Finchley</i>, (its careless innocent face placed + directly behind the intriguing time-furrowed countenance of the + treason-plotting French priest,) perfectly sobers the whole of + that tumultuous scene. The boy mourner winding up his top with so + much unpretending insensibility in the plate of the <i>Harlot's + Funeral</i>, (the only thing in that assembly that is not a + hypocrite,) quiets and soothes the mind that has been disturbed at + the sight of so much depraved man and woman kind. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: <i>The Friend</i>, No. XVI. + </div> + <p> + I had written thus far, when I met with a passage in the writings + of the late Mr. Barry, which, as it falls in with the <i>vulgar + notion</i> respecting Hogarth, which this Essay has been employed + in combating, I shall take the liberty to transcribe, with such + remarks as may suggest themselves to me in the transcription; + referring the reader for a full answer to that which has gone + before. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + "Notwithstanding Hogarth's merit does undoubtedly entitle him + to an honorable place among the artists, and that his little + compositions, considered as so many dramatic representations, + abounding with humor, character, and extensive observations on + the various incidents of low, faulty, and vicious life, are + very ingeniously brought together, and frequently tell their + own story with more facility than is often found in many of the + elevated and more noble inventions of Raphael and other great + men; yet it must be honestly confessed, that in what is called + knowledge of the figure, foreigners have justly observed, that + Hogarth is often so raw and unformed, as hardly to deserve the + name of an artist. But this capital defect is not often + perceivable, as examples of the naked and of elevated nature + but rarely occur in his subjects, which are for the most part + filled with characters that in their nature tend to deformity; + besides his figures are small, and the jonctures, and other + difficulties of drawing that might occur in their limbs, are + artfully concealed with their clothes, rags, &c. But what + would atone for all his defects, even if they were twice told, + is his admirable fund of invention, ever inexhaustible in its + resources; and his satire, which is always sharp and pertinent, + and often highly moral, was (except in a few instances, where + he weakly and meanly suffered his integrity to give way to his + envy) seldom or never employed in a dishonest or unmanly way. + Hogarth has been often imitated in his satirical vein, + sometimes in his humorous: but very few have attempted to rival + him in his moral walk. The line of art pursued by my very + ingenious predecessor and brother Academician, Mr. Penny, is + quite distinct from that of Hogarth, and is of a much more + delicate and superior relish; he attempts the heart, and + reaches it, whilst Hogarth's general aim is only to shake the + sides; in other respects no comparison can be thought of, as + Mr. Penny has all that knowledge of the figure and academical + skill which the other wanted. As to Mr. Bunbury, who had so + happily succeeded in the vein of humor and caricatura, he has + for some time past altogether relinquished it, for the more + amiable pursuit of beautiful nature: this, indeed, is not to be + wondered at, when we recollect that he has, in Mrs. Bunbury, so + admirable an exemplar of the most finished grace and beauty + continually at his elbow. But (to say all that occurs to me on + this subject) perhaps it may be reasonably doubted, whether the + being much conversant with Hogarth's method of exposing + meanness, deformity, and vice, in many of his works, is not + rather a dangerous, or, at least, a worthless pursuit; which, + if it does not find a false relish and a love of and search + after satire and buffoonery in the spectator, is at least not + unlikely to give him one. Life is short; and the little leisure + of it is much better laid out upon that species of art which is + employed about the amiable and the admirable, as it is more + likely to be attended with better and nobler consequences to + ourselves. These two pursuits in art may be compared with two + sets of people with whom we might associate; if we give + ourselves up to the Footes, the Kenricks, &c. we shall be + continually busied and paddling in whatever is ridiculous, + faulty, and vicious in life; whereas there are those to be + found with whom we should be in the constant pursuit and study + of all that gives a value and a dignity to human nature." + [Account of a Series of Pictures in the Great Boom of the + Society of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce, at the Adelphi, by + James Barry, R.A., Professor of Painting to the Royal Academy, + reprinted in the last quarto edition of his works. + </p> + <p> + "——It must be honestly confessed, that in what is + called knowledge of the figure, foreigners have justly + observed," &c. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + It is a secret well known to the professors of the art and + mystery of criticism, to insist upon what they do not find in a + man's works, and to pass over in silence what they do. That + Hogarth did not draw the naked figure so well as Michael Angelo + might be allowed, especially as "examples of the naked," as Mr. + Barry acknowledges, "rarely (he might almost have said never) + occur in his subjects;" and that his figures under their + draperies do not discover all the fine graces of an Antinoüs or + an Apollo, may be conceded likewise; perhaps it was more suitable + to his purpose to represent the average forms of mankind in the + mediocrity (as Mr. Burke expresses it) of the age in which he + lived: but that his figures in general, and in his best subjects, + are so glaringly incorrect as is here insinuated, I dare trust my + own eye so far as positively to deny the fact. And there is one + part of the figure in which Hogarth is allowed to have excelled, + which these foreigners seem to have overlooked, or perhaps + calculating from its proportion to the whole (a seventh or an + eighth, I forget which,) deemed it of trifling importance; I mean + the human face; a small part, reckoning by geographical inches, + in the map of man's body, but here it is that the painter of + expression must condense the wonders of his skill, even at the + expense of neglecting the "jonctures and other difficulties of + drawing in the limbs," which it must be a cold eye that, in the + interest so strongly demanded by Hogarth's countenances, has + leisure to survey and censure. + </p> + <p> + "The line of art pursued by my very ingenious predecessor and + brother Academician, Mr. Penny." + </p> + <p> + The first impression caused in me by reading this passage was an + eager desire to know who this Mr. Penny was. This great surpasser + of Hogarth in the "delicacy of his relish," and the "line which + he pursued," where is he, what are his works, what has he to + show? In vain I tried to recollect, till by happily putting the + question to a friend who is more conversant in the works of the + illustrious obscure than myself, I learnt that he was the painter + of a <i>Death of Wolfe</i> which missed the prize the year that + the celebrated picture of West on the same subject obtained it; + that he also made a picture of the <i>Marquis of Granby relieving + a Sick Soldier</i>; moreover, that he was the inventor of two + pictures of <i>Suspended and Restored Animation</i>, which I now + remember to have seen in the Exhibition some years since, and the + prints from which are still extant in good men's houses. This, + then, I suppose, is the line of subjects in which Mr. Penny was + so much superior to Hogarth. I confess I am not of that opinion. + The relieving of poverty by the purse, and the restoring a young + man to his parents by using the methods prescribed by the Humane + Society, are doubtless very amiable subjects, pretty things to + teach the first rudiments of humanity; they amount to about as + much instruction as the stories of good boys that give away their + custards to poor beggar-boys in children's books. But, good God! + is this <i>milk for babes</i> to be set up in opposition to + Hogarth's moral scenes, his <i>strong meat for men</i>? As well + might we prefer the fulsome verses upon their own goodness to + which the gentlemen of the Literary Fund annually sit still with + such shameless patience to listen, to the satires of Juvenal and + Persius; because the former are full of tender images of Worth + relieved by Charity, and Charity stretching out her hand to + rescue sinking Genius, and the theme of the latter is men's + crimes and follies with their black consequences—forgetful + meanwhile of those strains of moral pathos, those sublime + heart-touches, which these poets (in <i>them</i> chiefly showing + themselves poets) are perpetually darting across the otherwise + appalling gloom of their subject—consolatory remembrancers, + when their pictures of guilty mankind have made us even to + despair for our species, that there is such a thing as virtue and + moral dignity in the world, that her unquenchable spark is not + utterly out—refreshing admonitions, to which we turn for + shelter from the too great heat and asperity of the general + satire. + </p> + <p> + And is there nothing analogous to this in Hogarth? nothing which + "attempts and reaches the heart?"—no aim beyond that of + "shaking the sides?"—If the kneeling ministering female in + the last scene of the <i>Rake's Progress</i>, the Bedlam scene, + of which I have spoken before, and have dared almost to parallel + it with the most absolute idea of Virtue which Shakspeare has + left us, be not enough to disprove the assertion; if the sad + endings of the Harlot and the Rake, the passionate heart-bleeding + entreaties for forgiveness which the adulterous wife is pouring + forth to her assassinated and dying lord in the last scene but + one of the <i>Marriage Alamode</i>,—if these be not things + to touch the heart, and dispose the mind to a meditative + tenderness: is there nothing sweetly conciliatory in the mild + patient face and gesture with which the wife seems to allay and + ventilate the feverish irritated feelings of her poor + poverty-distracted mate (the true copy of the <i>genus + irritabile</i>), in the print of the <i>Distrest Poet</i>? or if + an image of maternal love be required, where shall we find a + sublimer view of it than in that aged woman in <i>Industry and + Idleness</i> (plate V.) who is clinging with the fondness of hope + not quite extinguished to her brutal vice-hardened child, whom + she is accompanying to the ship which is to bear him away from + his native soil, of which he has been adjudged unworthy: in whose + shocking face every trace of the human countenance seems + obliterated, and a brute beast's to be left instead, shocking and + repulsive to all but her who watched over it in its cradle before + it was so sadly altered, and feels it must belong to her while a + pulse by the vindictive laws of his country shall be suffered to + continue to beat in it. Compared with such things, what is Mr. + Penny's "knowledge of the figure and academical skill which + Hogarth wanted?" + </p> + <p> + With respect to what follows concerning another gentleman, with + the congratulations to him on his escape out of the regions of + "humor and caricatura," in which it appears he was in danger of + travelling side by side with Hogarth, I can only congratulate my + country, that Mrs. Hogarth knew <i>her</i> province better than, + by disturbing her husband at his palette, to divert him from that + universality of subject, which has stamped him perhaps, next to + Shakspeare, the most inventive genius which this island has + produced, into the "amiable pursuit of beautiful nature," + <i>i.e.</i>, copying ad infinitum the individual charms and + graces of Mrs. H. "Hogarth's method of exposing meanness, + deformity, and vice, paddling in whatever is ridiculous, faulty, + and vicious." + </p> + <p> + A person unacquainted with the works thus stigmatized would be + apt to imagine that in Hogarth there was nothing else to be found + but subjects of the coarsest and most repulsive nature. That his + imagination was naturally unsweet, and that he delighted in + raking into every species of moral filth. That he preyed upon + sore places only, and took a pleasure in exposing the unsound and + rotten parts of human nature:—whereas, with the exception + of some of the plates of the <i>Harlot's Progress</i>, which are + harder in their character than any of the rest of his productions + (the <i>Stages of Cruelty</i> I omit as mere worthless + caricatures, foreign to his general habits, the offspring of his + fancy in some wayward humor), there is scarce one of his pieces + where vice is most strongly satirized, in which some figure is + not introduced upon which the moral eye may rest satisfied; a + face that indicates goodness, or perhaps mere good-humoredness + and carelessness of mind (negation of evil) only, yet enough to + give a relaxation to the frowning brow of satire, and keep the + general air from tainting. Take the mild, supplicating posture of + patient Poverty in the poor woman that is persuading the + pawnbroker to accept her clothes in pledge, in the plate of + <i>Gin Lane</i>, for an instance. A little does it, a little of + the <i>good</i> nature overpowers a world of <i>bad</i>. One + cordial honest laugh of a Tom Jones absolutely clears the + atmosphere that was reeking with the black putrefying breathings + of a hypocrite Blifil. One homely expostulating shrug from Strap + warms the whole air which the suggestions of a gentlemanly + ingratitude from his friend Random had begun to freeze. One "Lord + bless us!" of Parson Adams upon the wickedness of the times, + exorcises and purges off the mass of iniquity which the + world-knowledge of even a Fielding could cull out and rake + together. But of the severer class of Hogarth's performances, + enough, I trust, has been said to show that they do not merely + shock and repulse; that there is in them the "scorn of vice" and + the "pity" too; something to touch the heart, and keep alive the + sense of moral beauty; the "lacrymæ rerum," and the sorrowing by + which the heart is made better. If they be bad things, then is + satire and tragedy a bad thing; let us proclaim at once an age of + gold, and sink the existence of vice and misery in our + speculations: let us + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "——wink, and shut our apprehensions up + </p> + <p> + From common sense of what men were and are:" + </p> + </div> + <p> + let us <i>make believe</i> with the children, that everybody is + good and happy; and, with Dr. Swift, write panegyrics upon the + world. + </p> + <p> + But that larger half of Hogarth's works, which were painted more + for entertainment than instruction (though such was the + suggestiveness of his mind that there is always something to be + learnt from them), his humorous scenes,—are they such as + merely to disgust and set us against our species? + </p> + <p> + The confident assertions of such a man as I consider the late Mr. + Barry to have been, have that weight of authority in them which + staggers at first hearing, even a long preconceived opinion. When + I read his pathetic admonition concerning the shortness of life, + and how much better the little leisure of it were laid out upon + "that species of art which is employed about the amiable and the + admirable;" and Hogarth's "method," proscribed as a "dangerous or + worthless pursuit," I began to think there was something in it; + that I might have been indulging all my life a passion for the + works of this artist, to the utter prejudice of my taste and + moral sense; but my first convictions gradually returned, a world + of good-natured English faces came up one by one to my + recollection, and a glance at the matchless <i>Election + Entertainment</i>, which I have the happiness to have hanging up + in my parlor, subverted Mr. Barry's whole theory in an instant. + </p> + <p> + In that inimitable print (which in my judgment as far exceeds the + more known and celebrated <i>March to Finchley</i>, as the best + comedy exceeds the best farce that ever was written), let a + person look till he be saturated, and when he has done wondering + at the inventiveness of genius which could bring so many + characters (more than thirty distinct classes of face) into a + room and set them down at table together, or otherwise dispose + them about, in so natural a manner, engage them in so many easy + sets and occupations, yet all partaking of the spirit of the + occasion which brought them together, so that we feel that + nothing but an election time could have assembled them; having no + central figure or principal group, (for the hero of the piece, + the Candidate, is properly set aside in the levelling + indistinction of the day, one must look for him to find him,) + nothing to detain the eye from passing from part to part, where + every part is alike instinct with life,—for here are no + furniture-faces, no figures brought in to fill up the scene like + stage choruses, but all dramatis personæ; when he shall have done + wondering at all these faces so strongly charactered, yet + finished with the accuracy of the finest miniature; when he shall + have done admiring the numberless appendages of the scene, those + gratuitous doles which rich genius flings into the heap when it + has already done enough, the over-measure which it delights in + giving, as if it felt its stores were exhaustless; the dumb + rhetoric of the scenery,—for tables, and chairs, and + joint-stools in Hogarth are living and significant things; the + witticisms that are expressed by words (all artists but Hogarth + have failed when they have endeavored to combine two mediums of + expression, and have introduced words into their pictures), and + the unwritten numberless little allusive pleasantries that are + scattered about; the work that is going on in the scene, and + beyond it, as is made visible to the "eye of mind," by the mob + which chokes up the doorway, and the sword that has forced an + entrance before its master; when he shall have sufficiently + admired this wealth of genius, let him fairly say what is the + <i>result</i> left on his mind. Is it an impression of the + vileness and worthlessness of his species? or is it not the + general feeling which remains, after the individual faces have + ceased to act sensibly on his mind, a <i>kindly one in favor of + his species?</i> was not the general air of the scene wholesome? + did it do the heart hurt to be among it? Something of a riotous + spirit to be sure is there, some worldly-mindedness in some of + the faces, a Doddingtonian smoothness which does not promise any + superfluous degree of sincerity in the fine gentleman who has + been the occasion of calling so much good company together; but + is not the general cast of expression in the faces of the good + sort? do they not seem cut out of the <i>good old rock</i>, + substantial English honesty? would one fear treachery among + characters of their expression? or shall we call their honest + mirth and seldom-returning relaxation by the hard names of vice + and profligacy? That poor country fellow, that is grasping his + staff (which, from that difficulty of feeling themselves at home + which poor men experience at a feast, he has never parted with + since he came into the room), and is enjoying with a relish that + seems to fit all the capacities of his soul the slender joke, + which that facetious wag his neighbor is practising upon the + gouty gentleman, whose eyes the effort to suppress pain has made + as round as rings—does it shock the "dignity of human + nature" to look at that man, and to sympathize with him in the + seldom-heard joke which has unbent his careworn, hard-working + visage, and drawn iron smiles from it? or with that full-hearted + cobbler, who is honoring with the grasp of an honest fist the + unused palm of that annoyed patrician, whom the license of the + time has seated next him? + </p> + <p> + I can see nothing "dangerous" in the contemplation of such scenes + as this, or the <i>Enraged Musician</i>, or the <i>Southwark + Fair</i>, or twenty other pleasant prints which come crowding in + upon my recollection, in which the restless activities, the + diversified bents and humors, the blameless peculiarities of men, + as they deserve to be called, rather than their "vices and + follies," are held up in a laughable point of view. All laughter + is not of a dangerous or soul-hardening tendency. There is the + petrifying sneer of a demon which excludes and kills Love, and + there is the cordial laughter of a man which implies and + cherishes it. What heart was ever made the worse by joining in a + hearty laugh at the simplicities of Sir Hugh Evans or Parson + Adams, where a sense of the ridiculous mutually kindles and is + kindled by a perception of the amiable? That tumultuous harmony + of singers that are roaring out the words, "The world shall bow + to the Assyrian throne," from the opera of <i>Judith</i>, in the + third plate of the series called the <i>Four Groups of Heads</i>; + which the quick eye of Hogarth must have struck off in the very + infancy of the rage for sacred oratorios in this country, while + "Music yet was young;" when we have done smiling at the deafening + distortions, which these tearers of devotion to rags and tatters, + these takers of heaven by storm, in their boisterous mimicry of + the occupation of angels, are making,—what unkindly + impression is left behind, or what more of harsh or contemptuous + feeling, than when we quietly leave Uncle Toby and Mr. Shandy + riding their hobby-horses about the room? The conceited, + long-backed Sign-painter, that with all the self-applause of a + Raphael or Correggio, (the twist of body which his conceit has + thrown him into has something of the Correggiesque in it,) is + contemplating the picture of a bottle, which he is drawing from + an actual bottle that hangs beside him, in the print of <i>Beer + Street</i>,—while we smile at the enormity of the + self-delusion, can we help loving the good-humor and + self-complacency of the fellow? would we willingly wake him from + his dream? + </p> + <p> + I say not that all the ridiculous subjects of Hogarth have, + necessarily, something in them to make us like them; some are + indifferent to us, some in their natures repulsive, and only made + interesting by the wonderful skill and truth to nature in the + painter; but I contend that there is in most of them that + sprinkling of the better nature, which, like holy water, chases + away and disperses the contagion of the bad. They have this in + them, besides, that they bring us acquainted with the every-day + human face,—they give us skill to detect those gradations + of sense and virtue (which escape the careless or fastidious + observer) in the countenances of the world about us; and prevent + that disgust at common life, that <i>tædium quotidianarum + formarum</i>, which an unrestricted passion for ideal forms and + beauties is in danger of producing. In this, as in many other + things, they are analogous to the best novels of Smollett or + Fielding. + </p> + <hr /> + <h4> + <a name="wither" id="wither">ON THE</a> + </h4> + <h3> + POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE WITHER + </h3> + <hr class="short" /> + <p> + The poems of G. Wither are distinguished by a hearty homeliness + of manner, and a plain moral speaking. He seems to have passed + his life in one continued act of an innocent self-pleasing. That + which he calls his <i>Motto</i> is a continued self-eulogy of two + thousand lines, yet we read it to the end without any feeling of + distaste, almost without a consciousness that we have been + listening all the while to a man praising himself. There are none + of the cold particles in it, the hardness and self-ends, which + render vanity and egotism hateful. He seems to be praising + another person, under the mask of self: or rather, we feel that + it was indifferent to him where he found the virtue which he + celebrates; whether another's bosom or his own were its chosen + receptacle. His poems are full, and this in particular is one + downright confession, of a generous self-seeking. But by self he + sometimes means a great deal,—his friends, his principles, + his country, the human race. + </p> + <p> + Whoever expects to find in the satirical pieces of this writer + any of those peculiarities which pleased him in the satires of + Dryden or Pope, will be grievously disappointed. Here are no + high-finished characters, no nice traits of individual nature, + few or no personalities. The game run down is coarse general + vice, or folly as it appears in classes. A liar, a drunkard, a + coxcomb, is <i>stript and whipt;</i> no Shaftesbury, no Villiers, + or Wharton, is curiously anatomized, and read upon. But to a + well-natured mind there is a charm of moral sensibility running + through them, which amply compensates the want of those luxuries. + Wither seems everywhere bursting with a love of goodness, and a + hatred of all low and base actions. At this day it is hard to + discover what parts of the poem here particularly alluded to, + <i>Abuses Stript and Whipt</i>, could have occasioned the + imprisonment of the author. Was Vice in High Places more + suspicious than now? had she more power; or more leisure to + listen after ill reports? That a man should be convicted of a + libel when he named no names but Hate, and Envy, and Lust, and + Avarice, is like one of the indictments in the Pilgrim's + Progress, where Faithful is arraigned for having "railed on our + noble Prince Beelzebub, and spoken contemptibly of his honorable + friends, the Lord Old Man, the Lord Carnal Delight, and the Lord + Luxurious." What unlucky jealousy could have tempted the great + men of those days to appropriate such innocent abstractions to + themselves? + </p> + <p> + Wither seems to have contemplated to a degree of idolatry his own + possible virtue. He is forever anticipating persecution and + martyrdom; fingering, as it were, the flames, to try how he can + bear them. Perhaps his premature defiance sometimes made him + obnoxious to censures which he would otherwise have slipped by. + </p> + <p> + The homely versification of these Satires is not likely to + attract in the present day. It is certainly not such as we should + expect from a poet "soaring in the high region of his fancies, + with his garland and his singing robes about him;"[1] nor is it + such as he has shown in his <i>Philarete</i>, and in some parts + of his <i>Shepherds Hunting</i>. He seems to have adopted this + dress with voluntary humility, as fittest for a moral teacher, as + our divines choose sober gray or black; but in their humility + consists their sweetness. The deepest tone of moral feeling in + them (though all throughout is weighty, earnest, and passionate) + is in those pathetic injunctions against shedding of blood in + quarrels, in the chapter entitled <i>Revenge</i>. The story of + his own forbearance, which follows, is highly interesting. While + the Christian sings his own victory over Anger, the Man of + Courage cannot help peeping out to let you know, that it was some + higher principle than <i>fear</i> which counselled this + forbearance. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: Milton. + </div> + <p> + Whether encaged, or roaming at liberty, Wither never seems to + have abated a jot of that free spirit which sets its mark upon + his writings, as much as a predominant feature of independence + impresses every page of our late glorious Burns; but the elder + poet wraps his proof-armor closer about him, the other wears his + too much outwards; he is thinking too much of annoying the foe to + be quite easy within; the spiritual defences of Wither are a + perpetual source of inward sunshine, the magnanimity of the + modern is not without its alloy of soreness, and a sense of + injustice, which seems perpetually to gall and irritate. Wither + was better skilled in the "sweet uses of adversity;" he knew how + to extract the "precious jewel" from the head of the "toad," + without drawing any of the "ugly venom" along with it. The + prison-notes of Wither are finer than the wood-notes of most of + his poetical brethren. The description in the Fourth Eclogue of + his <i>Shepherds Hunting</i> (which was composed during his + imprisonment in the Marshalsea) of the power of the Muse to + extract pleasure from common objects, has been oftener quoted, + and is more known, than any part of his writings. Indeed, the + whole Eclogue is in a strain so much above not only what himself, + but almost what any other poet has written, that he himself could + not help noticing it; he remarks that his spirits had been raised + higher than they were wont, "through the love of poesy." The + praises of Poetry have been often sung in ancient and in modern + times; strange powers have been ascribed to it of influence over + animate and inanimate auditors; its force over fascinated crowds + has been acknowledged; but, before Wither, no one ever celebrated + its power <i>at home</i>, the wealth and the strength which this + divine gift confers upon its possessor. Fame, and that too after + death, was all which hitherto the poets had promised themselves + from their art. It seems to have been left to Wither to discover + that poetry was a present possession, as well as a rich + reversion, and that the Muse had promise of both lives,—of + this, and of that which was to come. + </p> + <p> + The <i>Mistress of Philarete</i> is in substance a panegyric + protracted through several thousand lines in the mouth of a + single speaker, but diversified, so as to produce an almost + dramatic effect, by the artful introduction of some ladies, who + are rather auditors than interlocutors in the scene; and of a + boy, whose singing furnishes pretence for an occasional change of + metre: though the seven-syllable line, in which the main part of + it is written, is that in which Wither has shown himself so great + a master, that I do not know that I am always thankful to him for + the exchange. + </p> + <p> + Wither has chosen to bestow upon the lady whom he commends the + name of Arete, or Virtue; and, assuming to himself the character + of Philarete, or Lover of Virtue, there is a sort of propriety in + that heaped measure of perfections which he attributes to this + partly real, partly allegorical personage. Drayton before him had + shadowed his mistress under the name of Idea, or Perfect Pattern, + and some of the old Italian love-strains are couched in such + religious terms as to make it doubtful whether it be a mistress, + or Divine Grace, which the poet is addressing. + </p> + <p> + In this poem (full of beauties) there are two passages of + preeminent merit. The first is where the lover, after a flight of + rapturous commendation, expresses his wonder why all men that are + about his mistress, even to her very servants, do not view her + with the same eyes that he does. + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p class="i2"> + "Sometime I do admire + </p> + <p> + All men burn not with desire: + </p> + <p> + Nay, I muse her servants are not + </p> + <p> + Pleading love; but 0! they dare not. + </p> + <p> + And I therefore wonder, why + </p> + <p> + They do not grow sick and die. + </p> + <p> + Sure they would do so, but that, + </p> + <p> + By the ordinance of fate, + </p> + <p> + There is some concealed thing, + </p> + <p> + So each gazer limiting, + </p> + <p> + He can see no more of merit, + </p> + <p> + Than beseems his worth and spirit. + </p> + <p> + For in her a grace there shines, + </p> + <p> + That o'er-daring thoughts confines, + </p> + <p> + Making worthless men despair + </p> + <p> + To be loved of one so fair. + </p> + <p> + Yea, the destinies agree, + </p> + <p> + Some <i>good judgments</i> blind should be, + </p> + <p> + And not gain the power of knowing + </p> + <p> + Those rare beauties in her growing. + </p> + <p> + Reason doth as much imply: + </p> + <p> + For, if every judging eye, + </p> + <p> + Which beholdeth her, should there + </p> + <p> + Find what excellences are, + </p> + <p> + All, o'ercome by those perfections, + </p> + <p> + Would be captive to affections. + </p> + <p> + So, in happiness unblest, + </p> + <p> + She for lovers should not rest." + </p> + </div> + <p> + The other is, where he has been comparing her beauties to gold, + and stars, and the most excellent things in nature; and, fearing + to be accused of hyperbole, the common charge against poets, + vindicates himself by boldly taking upon him, that these + comparisons are no hyperboles; but that the best things in nature + do, in a lover's eye, fall short of those excellences which he + adores in her. + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "What pearls, what rubies can + </p> + <p> + Seem so lovely fair to man, + </p> + <p> + As her lips whom he doth love, + </p> + <p> + When in sweet discourse they move, + </p> + <p> + Or her lovelier teeth, the while + </p> + <p> + She doth bless him with a smile? + </p> + <p> + Stars indeed fair creatures be; + </p> + <p> + Yet amongst us where is he + </p> + <p> + Joys not more the whilst he lies + </p> + <p> + Sunning in his mistress' eyes, + </p> + <p> + Than in all the glimmering light + </p> + <p> + Of a starry winter's night? + </p> + <p> + Note the beauty of an eye— + </p> + <p> + And if aught you praise it by + </p> + <p> + Leave such passion in your mind, + </p> + <p> + Let my reason's eye be blind. + </p> + <p> + Mark if ever red or white + </p> + <p> + Any where gave such delight, + </p> + <p> + As when they have taken place + </p> + <p> + In a worthy woman's face. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "I must praise her as I may, + </p> + <p> + Which I do mine own rude way, + </p> + <p> + Sometimes setting forth her glories + </p> + <p> + By unheard of allegories "—&c. + </p> + </div> + <p> + To the measure in which these lines are written the wits of Queen + Anne's days contemptuously gave the name of Namby-Pamby, in + ridicule of Ambrose Philips, who has used it in some instances, + as in the lines on Cuzzoni, to my feeling at least, very + deliciously; but Wither, whose darling measure it seems to have + been, may show, that in skilful hands it is capable of expressing + the subtilest movements of passion. So true it is, which Drayton + seems to have felt, that it is the poet who modifies the metre, + not the metre the poet; in his own words, that + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p class="i2"> + "It's possible to climb; + </p> + <p> + To kindle, or to stake; + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Altho' in Skelton's rhime."[1] + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + <p> + 1: A long line is a line we are long repeating. In the + <i>Shepherds Hunting</i> take the following— + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "If thy verse doth bravely tower, + </p> + <p> + <i>As she makes wing, she gets power;</i> + </p> + <p> + Yet the higher she doth soar, + </p> + <p> + She's affronted still the more, + </p> + <p> + 'Till she to the high'st hath past, + </p> + <p> + Then she rests with fame at last." + </p> + </div> + <p> + What longer measure can go beyond the majesty of this! what + Alexandrine is half so long in pronouncing or expresses + <i>labor slowly but strongly surmounting difficulty</i> with + the life with which it is done in the second of these lines? or + what metre could go beyond these from <i>Philarete</i>— + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "Her true beauty leaves behind + </p> + <p> + Apprehensions in my mind + </p> + <p> + Of more sweetness, than all art + </p> + <p> + Or inventions can impart. + </p> + <p> + <i>Thoughts too deep to be expressed,</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>And too strong to be suppressed.</i>" + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="ltrs" id="ltrs">LETTERS,</a> + </h2> + <h4> + UNDER ASSUMED SIGNATURES, PUBLISHED IN "THE REFLECTOR." + </h4> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="lond" id="lond">THE LONDONER.</a> + </h3> + <hr class="short" /> + <h5> + TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR." + </h5> + <p> + Mr. Reflector,—I was born under the shadow of St. Dunstan's + steeple, just where the conflux of the eastern and western + inhabitants of this twofold city meet and justle in friendly + opposition at Temple-bar. The same day which gave me to the + world, saw London happy in the celebration of her great annual + feast. This I cannot help looking upon as a lively omen of the + future great good-will which I was destined to bear toward the + city, resembling in kind that solicitude which every Chief + Magistrate is supposed to feel for whatever concerns her + interests and well-being. Indeed I consider myself in some sort a + speculative Lord Mayor of London: for though circumstances + unhappily preclude me from the hope of ever arriving at the + dignity of a gold chain and Spital Sermon, yet thus much will I + say of myself in truth, that Whittington with his cat (just + emblem of vigilance and a furred gown) never went beyond me in + affection which I bear to the citizens. + </p> + <p> + I was born, as you have heard, in a crowd. This has begot in me + an entire affection for that way of life, amounting to an almost + insurmountable aversion from solitude and rural scenes. This + aversion was never interrupted or suspended, except for a few + years in the younger part of my life, during a period in which I + had set my affections upon a charming young woman. Every man, + while the passion is upon him, is for a time at least addicted to + groves and meadows and purling streams. During this short period + of my existence, I contracted just familiarity enough with rural + objects to understand tolerably well ever after the <i>poets</i>, + when they declaim in such passionate terms in favor of a + country-life. + </p> + <p> + For my own part, now the fit is past, I have no hesitation in + declaring, that a mob of happy faces crowding up at the pit-door + of Drury Lane Theatre, just at the hour of six, gives me ten + thousand sincerer pleasures, than I could ever receive from all + the flocks of silly sheep that ever whitened the plains of + Arcadia or Epsom Downs. + </p> + <p> + This passion for crowds is nowhere feasted so full as in London. + The man must have a rare <i>recipe</i> for melancholy who can be + dull in Fleet Street. I am naturally inclined to hypochondria, + but in London it vanishes, like all other ills. Often, when I + have felt a weariness or distaste at home, have I rushed out into + her crowded Strand, and fed my humor, till tears have wetted my + cheek for unutterable sympathies with the multitudinous moving + picture, which she never fails to present at all hours, like the + scenes of a shifting pantomime. + </p> + <p> + The very deformities of London, which give distaste to others, + from habit do not displease me. The endless succession of shops + where <i>Fancy miscalled Folly</i> is supplied with perpetual + gauds and toys, excite in me no puritanical aversion. I gladly + behold every appetite supplied with its proper food. The obliging + customer, and the obliged tradesman—things which live by + bowing, and things which exist but for homage—do not affect + me with disgust; from habit I perceive nothing but urbanity, + where other men, more refined, discover meanness: I love the very + smoke of London, because it has been the medium most familiar to + my vision. I see grand principles of honor at work in the dirty + ring which encompasses two combatants with fists, and principles + of no less eternal justice in the detection of a pickpocket. The + salutary astonishment with which an execution is surveyed, + convinces me more forcibly than a hundred volumes of abstract + polity, that the universal instinct of man in all ages has leaned + to order and good government. + </p> + <p> + Thus an art of extracting morality from the commonest incidents + of a town life is attained by the same well-natured alchemy with + which the Foresters of Arden, in a beautiful country, + </p> + <div class="poem"> + "Found tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in + stones, and good in everything." + </div> + <p> + Where has spleen her food but in London! Humor, Interest, + Curiosity, suck at her measureless breasts without a possibility + of being satiated. Nursed amid her noise, her crowds, her beloved + smoke, what have I been doing all my life, if I have not lent out + my heart with usury to such scenes! + </p> + <p> + I am, Sir, your faithful servant, + </p> + <p> + A LONDONER. + </p> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="bury" id="bury">ON BURIAL SOCIETIES;</a> + </h3> + <h4> + AND + </h4> + <h4> + THE CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER. + </h4> + <hr class="short" /> + <h5> + TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR." + </h5> + <p> + Mr. Reflector,—I was amused the other day with having the + following notice thrust into my hand by a man who gives out bills + at the corner of Fleet Market. Whether he saw any prognostics + about me, that made him judge such notice seasonable, I cannot + say; I might perhaps carry in a countenance (naturally not very + florid) traces of a fever which had not long left me. Those + fellows have a good instinctive way of guessing at the sort of + people that are likeliest to pay attention to their papers. + </p> + <h4> + "BURIAL SOCIETY. + </h4> + <p> + "A favorable opportunity now offers to any person, of either sex, + who would wish to be buried in a genteel manner, by paying one + shilling entrance, and twopence per week for the benefit of the + stock. Members to be free in six months. The money to be paid at + Mr. Middleton's, at the sign of the <i>First</i> and the + <i>Last</i>, Stonecutter's Street, Fleet Market. The deceased to + be furnished as follows:—A strong elm coffin, covered with + superfine black, and furnished with two rows, all round, close + drove, best japanned nails, and adorned with ornamental drops, a + handsome plate of inscription, Angel above, and Flower beneath, + and four pair of handsome handles, with wrought gripes; the + coffin to be well pitched, lined, and ruffled with fine crape; a + handsome crape shroud, cap, and pillow. For use, a handsome + velvet pall, three gentlemen's cloaks, three crape hat-bands, + three hoods and scarfs, and six pair of gloves; two porters + equipped to attend the funeral, a man to attend the same with + band and gloves; also, the burial-fees paid, if not exceeding one + guinea." + </p> + <p> + "Man," says Sir Thomas Browne, "is a noble animal, splendid in + ashes, and pompous in the grave." Whoever drew up this little + advertisement certainly understood this appetite in the species, + and has made abundant provision for it. It really almost induces + a <i>tædium vitæ</i> upon one to read it. Methinks I could be + willing to die, in death to be so attended. The two rows all + round close-drove best black japanned nails,—how feelingly + do they invite, and almost irresistibly persuade us to come and + be fastened down! what aching head can resist the temptation to + repose, which the crape shroud, the cap, and the pillow present; + what sting is there in death, which the handles with wrought + gripes are not calculated to pluck away? what victory in the + grave which the drops and the velvet pall do not render at least + extremely disputable? but, above all, the pretty emblematic + plate, with the Angel above and the Flower beneath, takes me + mightily. + </p> + <p> + The notice goes on to inform us, that though the society has been + established but a very few years, upwards of eleven hundred + persons have put down their names. It is really an affecting + consideration to think of so many poor people, of the industrious + and hard-working class (for none but such would be possessed of + such a generous forethought) clubbing their two-pences to save + the reproach of a parish funeral. Many a poor fellow, I dare + swear, has that Angel and Flower kept from the <i>Angel</i> and + <i>Punchbowl</i>, while, to provide himself a bier, he has + curtailed himself of <i>beer</i>. Many a savory morsel has the + living body been deprived of, that the lifeless one might be + served up in a richer state to the worms. And sure, if the body + could understand the actions of the soul, and entertain generous + notions of things, it would thank its provident partner, that she + had been more solicitous to defend it from dishonors at its + dissolution, than careful to pamper it with good things in the + time of its union. If Cæsar were chiefly anxious at his death how + he might die most decently, every Burial Society may be + considered as a club of Cæsars. + </p> + <p> + Nothing tends to keep up, in the imaginations of the poorer sort + of people, a generous horror of the work-house more than the + manner in which pauper funerals are conducted in this metropolis. + The coffin nothing but a few naked planks coarsely put + together,—the want of a pall (that decent and well-imagined + veil, which, hiding the coffin that hides the body, keeps that + which would shock us at two removes from us), the colored coats + of the men that are hired, at cheap rates, to carry the + body,—altogether give the notion of the deceased having + been some person of an ill life and conversation, some one who + may not claim the entire rites of Christian burial,—one by + whom some parts of the sacred ceremony would be desecrated if + they should be bestowed upon him. I meet these meagre processions + sometimes in the street. They are sure to make me out of humor + and melancholy all the day after. They have a harsh and ominous + aspect. + </p> + <p> + If there is anything in the prospectus issued from Mr. + Middleton's, Stonecutter's Street, which pleases me less than the + rest, it is to find that the six pair of gloves are to be + returned, that they are only lent, or, as the bill expresses it, + for use on the occasion. The hood, scarfs, and hat-bands, may + properly enough be given up after the solemnity; the cloaks no + gentlemen would think of keeping; but a pair of gloves, once + fitted on, ought not in courtesy to be redemanded. The wearer + should certainly have the fee-simple of them. The cost would be + but trifling, and they would be a proper memorial of the day. + This part of the Proposal wants reconsidering. It is not + conceived in the same liberal way of thinking as the rest. I am + also a little doubtful whether the limit, within which the + burial-fee is made payable, should not be extended to thirty + shillings. + </p> + <p> + Some provision too ought undoubtedly to be made in favor of those + well-intentioned persons and well-wishers to the fund, who, + having all along paid their subscriptions regularly, are so + unfortunate as to die before the six months, which would entitle + them to their freedom, are quite completed. One can hardly + imagine a more distressing case than that of a poor fellow + lingering on in a consumption till the period of his freedom is + almost in sight, and then finding himself going with a velocity + which makes it doubtful whether he shall be entitled to his + funeral honors: his quota to which he nevertheless squeezes out, + to the diminution of the comforts which sickness demands. I + think, in such cases, some of the contribution money ought to + revert. With some such modifications, which might easily be + introduced, I see nothing in these Proposals of Mr. Middleton + which is not strictly fair and genteel; and heartily recommend + them to all persons of moderate incomes, in either sex, who are + willing that this perishable part of them should quit the scene + of its mortal activities with as handsome circumstances as + possible. + </p> + <p> + Before I quit the subject, I must guard my readers against a + scandal, which they may be apt to take at the place whence these + Proposals purport to be issued. From the sign of the <i>First</i> + and the <i>Last</i>, they may conclude that Mr. Middleton is some + publican, who, in assembling a club of this description at his + house, may have a sinister end of his own, altogether foreign to + the solemn purpose for which the club is pretended to be + instituted. I must set them right by informing them that the + issuer of these Proposals is no publican, though he hangs out a + sign, but an honest superintendent of funerals, who, by the + device of a Cradle and a Coffin, connecting both ends of human + existence together, has most ingeniously contrived to insinuate, + that the framers of these <i>first</i> and <i>last</i> + receptacles of mankind divide this our life betwixt them, and + that all that passes from the midwife to the undertaker may, in + strict propriety, <i>go for nothing</i>: an awful and instructive + lesson to human vanity. + </p> + <p> + Looking over some papers lately that fell into my hands by + chance, and appear to have been written about the beginning of + the last century, I stumbled, among the rest, upon the following + short Essay, which the writer calls, "<i>The Character of an + Undertaker</i>." It is written with some stiffness and + peculiarities of style, but some parts of it, I think, not + unaptly characterize the profession to which Mr. Middleton has + the honor to belong. The writer doubtless had in his mind the + entertaining character of <i>Sable</i>, in Steele's excellent + comedy of <i>The Funeral</i>. + </p> + <h4> + CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER. + </h4> + <p> + "He is master of the ceremonies at burials and mourning + assemblies, grand marshal at funeral processions, the only true + yeoman of the body, over which he exercises a dictatorial + authority from the moment that the breath has taken leave to that + of its final commitment to the earth. His ministry begins where + the physician's, the lawyer's, and the divine's end. Or if some + part of the functions of the latter run parallel with his, it is + only <i>in ordine ad spiritualia</i>. His temporalities remain + unquestioned. He is arbitrator of all questions of honor which + may concern the defunct; and upon slight inspection will + pronounce how long he may remain in this upper world with credit + to himself, and when it will be prudent for his reputation that + he should retire. His determination in these points is peremptory + and without appeal. Yet, with a modesty peculiar to his + profession, he meddles not out of his own sphere. With the good + or bad actions of the deceased in his lifetime he has nothing to + do. He leaves the friends of the dead man to form their own + conjectures as to the place to which the departed spirit is gone. + His care is only about the exuviæ. He concerns not himself even + about the body, as it is a structure of parts internal, and a + wonderful microcosm. He leaves such curious speculations to the + anatomy professor. Or, if anything, he is averse to such wanton + inquiries, as delighting rather that the parts which he has care + of should be returned to their kindred dust in as handsome and + unmutilated condition as possible; that the grave should have its + full and unimpaired tribute,—a complete and just carcass. + Nor is he only careful to provide for the body's entireness, but + for its accommodation and ornament. He orders the fashion of its + clothes, and designs the symmetry of its dwelling. Its vanity has + an innocent survival in him. He is bedmaker to the dead. The + pillows which he lays never rumple. The day of interment is the + theatre in which he displays the mysteries of his art. It is hard + to describe what he is, or rather to tell what he is not, on that + day: for, being neither kinsman, servant, nor friend, he is all + in turns; a transcendant, running through all those relations. + His office is to supply the place of self-agency in the family, + who are presumed incapable of it through grief. He is eyes, and + ears, and hands, to the whole household. A draught of wine cannot + go round to the mourners, but he must minister it. A chair may + hardly be restored to its place by a less solemn hand than his. + He takes upon himself all functions, and is a sort of ephemeral + major-domo! He distributes his attentions among the company + assembled according to the degree of affliction, which he + calculates from the degree of kin to the deceased; and marshals + them accordingly in the procession. He himself is of a sad and + tristful countenance; yet such as (if well examined) is not + without some show of patience and resignation at bottom; + prefiguring, as it were, to the friends of the deceased, what + their grief shall be when the hand of Time shall have softened + and taken down the bitterness of their first anguish; so + handsomely can he fore-shape and anticipate the work of Time. + Lastly, with his wand, as with another divining rod, he + calculates the depth of earth at which the bones of the dead man + may rest, which he ordinarily contrives may be at such a distance + from the surface of this earth, as may frustrate the profane + attempts of such as would violate his repose, yet sufficiently on + this side the centre to give his friends hopes of an easy and + practicable resurrection. And here we leave him, casting in dust + to dust, which is the last friendly office that he + <i>undertakes</i> to do." + </p> + <p> + Begging your pardon for detaining you so long among "graves, and + worms, and epitaphs," I am, Sir, + </p> + <p> + Your humble servant, + </p> + <p> + MORITURUS. + </p> + <hr /> + <h5> + ON THE + </h5> + <h3> + <a name="deform" id="deform">DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH + PERSONAL DEFORMITY.</a> + </h3> + <h4> + WITH A HINT TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE FRAMING OF ADVERTISEMENTS FOR + APPREHENDING OFFENDERS. + </h4> + <hr class="short" /> + <h5> + TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR." + </h5> + <p> + MR. REFLECTOR,—There is no science in their pretensions to + which mankind are more apt to commit grievous mistakes, than in + the supposed very obvious one of physiognomy. I quarrel not with + the principles of this science, as they are laid down by learned + professors; much less am I disposed, with some people, to deny + its existence altogether as any inlet of knowledge that can be + depended upon. I believe that there is, or may be, an art to + "read the mind's construction in the face." But, then, in every + species of <i>reading</i>, so much depends upon the eyes of the + reader; if they are blear, or apt to dazzle, or inattentive, or + strained with too much attention, the optic power will infallibly + bring home false reports of what it reads. How often do we say, + upon a cursory glance at a stranger, "What a fine open + countenance he has!" who, upon second inspection, proves to have + the exact features of a knave? Nay, in much more intimate + acquaintances, how a delusion of this kind shall continue for + months, years, and then break up all at once. + </p> + <p> + Ask the married man, who has been so but for a short space of + time, if those blue eyes where, during so many years of anxious + courtship, truth, sweetness, serenity, seemed to be written in + characters which could not be misunderstood—ask him if the + characters which they now convey be exactly the same?—if + for truth he does not <i>read</i> a dull virtue (the mimic of + constancy) which changes not, only because it wants the judgment + to make a preference?—if for sweetness he does not + <i>read</i> a stupid habit of looking pleased at + everything?—if for serenity he does not <i>read</i> animal + tranquillity, the dead pool of the heart, which no breeze of + passion can stir into health? Alas! what is this book of the + countenance good for, which when we have read so long, and + thought that we understood its contents, there comes a countless + list of heart-breaking errata at the end! + </p> + <p> + But these are the pitiable mistakes to which love alone is + subject. I have inadvertently wandered from my purpose, which was + to expose quite an opposite blunder, into which we are no less + apt to fall, through hate. How ugly a person looks upon whose + reputation some awkward aspersion hangs, and how suddenly his + countenance clears up with his character! I remember being + persuaded of a man whom I had conceived an ill opinion of, that + he had a very bad set of teeth; which, since I have had better + opportunities of being acquainted with his face and facts, I find + to have been the very reverse of the truth. <i>That crooked old + woman</i>, I once said, speaking of an ancient gentlewoman, whose + actions did not square altogether with my notions of the rule of + right. The unanimous surprise of the company before whom I + uttered these words soon convinced me that I had confounded + mental with bodily obliquity, and that there was nothing tortuous + about the old lady but her deeds. + </p> + <p> + This humor of mankind to deny personal comeliness to those with + whose moral attributes they are dissatisfied, is very strongly + shown in those advertisements which stare us in the face from the + walls of every street, and, with the tempting bait which they + hang forth, stimulate at once cupidity and an abstract love of + justice in the breast of every passing peruser: I mean, the + advertisements offering rewards for the apprehension of absconded + culprits, strayed apprentices, bankrupts who have conveyed away + their effects, debtors that have run away from their bail. I + observe, that in exact proportion to the indignity with which the + prosecutor, who is commonly the framer of the advertisement, + conceives he has been treated, the personal pretensions of the + fugitive are denied, and his defects exaggerated. + </p> + <p> + A fellow whose misdeeds have been directed against the public in + general, and in whose delinquency no individual shall feel + himself particularly interested, generally meets with fair usage. + A coiner or a smuggler shall get off tolerably well. His beauty, + if he has any, is not much underrated, his deformities are not + much magnified. A runaway apprentice, who excites perhaps the + next least degree of spleen in his prosecutor, generally escapes + with a pair of bandy legs; if he has taken anything with him in + his flight, a hitch in his gait is generally superadded. A + bankrupt, who has been guilty of withdrawing his effects, if his + case be not very atrocious, commonly meets with mild usage. But a + debtor, who has left his bail in jeopardy, is sure to be + described in characters of unmingled deformity. Here the personal + feelings of the bail, which may be allowed to be somewhat + poignant, are admitted to interfere; and, as wrath and revenge + commonly strike in the dark, the colors are laid on with a + grossness which I am convinced must often defeat its own purpose. + The fish that casts an inky cloud about him that his enemies may + not find him, cannot more obscure himself by that device than the + blackening representations of these angry advertisers must + inevitably serve to cloak and screen the persons of those who + have injured them from detection. I have before me at this moment + one of these bills, which runs thus:— + </p> + <h4> + "FIFTY POUNDS REWARD. + </h4> + <p> + "Run away from his bail, John Tomkins, formerly resident in + Princes Street, Soho, but lately of Clerkenwell. Whoever shall + apprehend, or cause to be apprehended and lodged in one of his + Majesty's jails, the said John Tomkins, shall receive the above + reward. He is a thick-set, sturdy man, about five foot six inches + high, halts in his left leg, with a stoop in his gait, with + coarse red hair, nose short and cocked up, with little gray eyes, + (one of them bears the effect of a blow which he has lately + received,) with a pot-belly; speaks with a thick and disagreeable + voice; goes shabbily drest; had on when he went away a greasy + shag great-coat with rusty yellow buttons." + </p> + <p> + Now, although it is not out of the compass of possibility that + John Tomkins aforesaid may comprehend in his agreeable person all + the above-mentioned aggregate of charms, yet, from my observation + of the manner in which these advertisements are usually drawn up, + though I have not the pleasure of knowing the gentleman, yet + would I lay a wager, that an advertisement to the following + effect would have a much better chance of apprehending and laying + by the heels this John Tomkins than the above description, + although penned by one who, from the good services which he + appears to have done for him, has not improbably been blessed + with some years of previous intercourse with the said John. + Taking, then, the above advertisement to be true, or nearly so, + down to the words "left leg" inclusive, (though I have some doubt + if the blemish there implied amount to a positive lameness, or be + perceivable by any but the nearest friends of John,) I would + proceed thus:— + </p> + <p> + —"Leans a little forward in his walk; his hair thick and + inclining to auburn; his nose of the middle size, a little turned + up at the end; lively hazel eyes (the contusion, as its effects + are probably gone off by this time, I judge better omitted); + inclines to be corpulent; his voice thick, but pleasing, + especially when he sings; had on a decent shag great-coat with + yellow buttons." + </p> + <p> + Now I would stake a considerable wager (though by no means a + positive man) that some such mitigated description would lead the + beagles of the law into a much surer track for finding this + ungracious varlet, than to set them upon a false scent after + fictitious ugliness and fictitious shabbiness; though, to do + those gentlemen justice, I have no doubt their experience has + taught them in all such cases to abate a great deal of the + deformity which they are instructed to expect, and has discovered + to them that the Devil's agents upon this earth, like their + master, are far less ugly in reality than they are painted. + </p> + <p> + I am afraid, Mr. Reflector, that I shall be thought to have gone + wide of my subject, which was to detect the practical errors of + physiognomy, properly so called; whereas I have introduced + physical defects, such as lameness, the effects of accidents upon + a man's person, his wearing apparel, &c., as circumstances on + which the eye of dislike, looking askance, may report erroneous + conclusions to the understanding. But if we are liable, through a + kind or an unkind passion, to mistake so grossly concerning + things so exterior and palpable, how much more are we likely to + err respecting those nicer and less perceptible hints of + character in a face whose detection constitutes the triumph of + the physiognomist! + </p> + <p> + To revert to those bestowers of unmerited deformity, the framers + of advertisements for the apprehension of delinquents, a sincere + desire of promoting the end of public justice induces me to + address a word to them on the best means of attaining those ends. + I will endeavor to lay down a few practical, or rather negative, + rules for their use, for my ambition extends no further than to + arm them with cautions against the self-defeating of their own + purposes:— + </p> + <p> + 1. Imprimis, then, Mr. Advertiser! If the culprit whom you are + willing to recover be one to whom in times past you have shown + kindness, and been disposed to think kindly of him yourself, but + he has deceived your trust, and has run away, and left you with a + load of debt to answer for him,—sit down calmly and + endeavor to behold him through the spectacles of memory rather + than of present conceit. Image to yourself, before you pen a + tittle of his description, the same plausible, good-looking man + who took you in, and try to put away from your mind every + intrusion of that deceitful spectre which perpetually obtrudes + itself in the room of your former friend's known visage. It will + do you more credit to have been deceived by such a one; and + depend upon it, the traitor will convey to the eyes of the world + in general much more of that first idea which you formed (perhaps + in part erroneous) of his physiognomy, than of that frightful + substitute which you have suffered to creep in upon your mind and + usurp upon it; a creature which has no archetype except in your + own brain. + </p> + <p> + 2. If you be a master that have to advertise a runaway + apprentice, though the young dog's faults are known only to you, + and no doubt his conduct has been aggravating enough, do not + presently set him down as having crooked ankles. He may have a + good pair of legs, and run away notwithstanding. Indeed, the + latter does rather seem to imply the former. + </p> + <p> + 3. If the unhappy person against whom your laudable vengeance is + directed be a thief, think that a thief may have a good nose, + good eyes, good ears. It is indispensable to his profession that + he be possessed of sagacity, foresight, vigilance; it is more + than probable, then, that he is endued with the bodily types or + instruments of these qualities to some tolerable degree of + perfectness. + </p> + <p> + 4. If petty larceny be his offence, I exhort you, do not confound + meanness of crime with diminutiveness of stature. These things + have no connection. I have known a tall man stoop to the basest + action, a short man aspire to the height of crime, a fair man be + guilty of the foulest actions, &c. + </p> + <p> + 5. Perhaps the offender has been guilty of some atrocious and + aggravated murder. Here is the most difficult case of all. It is + above all requisite that such a daring violator of the peace and + safety of society should meet with his reward, a violent and + ignominious death. But how shall we get at him? Who is there + among us that has known him before he committed the offence, that + shall take upon him to say he can sit down coolly and pen a + dispassionate description of a murderer? The tales of our + nursery,—the reading of our youth,—the ill-looking + man that was hired by the Uncle to despatch the Children in the + Wood,—the grim ruffians who smothered the babes in the + Tower,—the black and beetle-browed assassin of Mrs. + Ratcliffe,—the shag-haired villain of Mr. Monk + Lewis,—the Tarquin tread, and mill-stone dropping eyes, of + Murder in Shakspeare,—the exaggerations of picture and of + poetry,—what we have read and what we have dreamed + of,—rise up and crowd in upon us such eye-scaring portraits + of the man of blood, that our pen is absolutely forestalled; we + commence poets when we should play the part of strictest + historians, and the very blackness of horror which the deed calls + up, serves as a cloud to screen the doer. The fiction is + blameless, it is accordant with those wise prejudices with which + nature has guarded our innocence, as with impassable barriers, + against the commission of such appalling crimes; but, meantime, + the criminal escapes; or if,—owing to that wise abatement + in their expectation of deformity, which, as I hinted at before, + the officers of pursuit never fail to make, and no doubt in cases + of this sort they make a more than ordinary allowance,—if, + owing to this or any accident, the offender is caught and brought + to his trial, who that has been led out of curiosity to witness + such a scene has not with astonishment reflected on the + difference between a real committer of a murder, and the idea of + one which he has been collecting and heightening all his life out + of books, dreams, &c.? The fellow, perhaps, is a sleek, + smug-looking man, with light hair and eyebrows,—the latter + by no means jutting out or like a crag,—and with none of + those marks which our fancy had pre-bestowed upon him. + </p> + <p> + I find I am getting unawares too serious; the best way on such + occasions is to leave off, which I shall do by generally + recommending to all prosecuting advertisers not to confound + crimes with ugliness; or rather, to distinguish between that + physiognomical deformity, which I am willing to grant always + accompanies crime, and mere <i>physical ugliness</i>,—which + signifies nothing, is the opponent of nothing, and may exist in a + good or bad person indifferently. + </p> + <p> + CRITO. + </p> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="hang" id="hang">ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM + BEING HANGED.</a> + </h3> + <hr class="short" /> + <h5> + TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR." + </h5> + <p> + Sir,—I am one of those unhappy persons whose misfortunes, + it seems, do not entitle them to the benefit of pure pity. All + that is bestowed upon me of that kindest alleviator of human + miseries comes dashed with a double portion of contempt. My + griefs have nothing in them that is felt as sacred by the + bystanders. Yet is my affliction, in truth, of the deepest + grain—the heaviest task that was ever given to mortal + patience to sustain. Time, that wears out all other sorrows, can + never modify or soften mine. Here they must continue to gnaw as + long at that fatal mark—— + </p> + <p> + Why was I ever born? Why was innocence in my person suffered to + be branded with a stain which was appointed only for the blackest + guilt? What had I done, or my parents, that a disgrace of mine + should involve a whole posterity in infamy? I am almost tempted + to believe, that, in some preëxistent state, crimes to which this + sublunary life of mine hath been as much a stranger as the babe + that is newly born into it, have drawn down upon me this + vengeance, so disproportionate to my actions on this globe. + </p> + <p> + My brain sickens, and my bosom labors to be delivered of the + weight that presses upon it, yet my conscious pen shrinks from + the avowal. But out it must—— + </p> + <p> + O, Mr. Reflector! guess at the wretch's misery who now writes + this to you, when, with tears and burning blushes, he is obliged + to confess that he has been—HANGED—— + </p> + <p> + Methinks I hear an involuntary exclamation burst from you, as + your imagination presents to you fearful images of your + correspondent unknown—<i>hanged!</i> + </p> + <p> + Fear not, Mr. Editor. No disembodied spirit has the honor of + addressing you. I am flesh and blood, an unfortunate system of + bones, muscles, sinews, arteries, like yourself. + </p> + <p> + <i>Then, I presume, you mean to be pleasant.—That + expression of yours, Mr. Correspondent, must be taken somehow in + a metaphorical sense——</i> + </p> + <p> + In the plainest sense, without trope or figure—Yes, Mr. + Editor! this neck of mine has felt the fatal noose,—these + hands have tremblingly held up the corroborative + prayer-book,—these lips have sucked the moisture of the + last consolatory orange,—this tongue has chanted the + doleful cantata which no performer was ever called upon to + repeat,—this face has had the veiling nightcap drawn over + it—— + </p> + <p> + But for no crime of mine.—Far be it from me to arraign the + justice of my country, which, though tardy, did at length + recognize my innocence. It is not for me to reflect upon judge or + jury, now that eleven years have elapsed since the erroneous + sentence was pronounced. Men will always be fallible, and perhaps + circumstances did appear at the time a little + strong—— + </p> + <p> + Suffice it to say, that after hanging four minutes (as the + spectators were pleased to compute it,—a man that is being + strangled, I know from experience, has altogether a different + measure of time from his friends who are breathing leisurely + about him,—I suppose the minutes lengthen as time + approaches eternity, in the same manner as the miles get longer + as you travel northward),—after hanging four minutes, + according to the best calculation of the bystanders, a reprieve + came, and I was CUT DOWN— + </p> + <p> + Really I am ashamed of deforming your pages with these technical + phrases—if I knew how to express my meaning shorter— + </p> + <p> + But to proceed.—My first care after I had been brought to + myself by the usual methods (those methods that are so + interesting to the operator and his assistants, who are pretty + numerous on such occasions,—but which no patient was ever + desirous of undergoing a second time for the benefit of science), + my first care was to provide myself with an enormous stock or + cravat to hide the place—you understand me; my next care + was to procure a residence as distant as possible from that part + of the country where I had suffered. For that reason I chose the + metropolis, as the place where wounded honor (I had been told) + could lurk with the least danger of exciting inquiry, and + stigmatized innocence had the best chance of hiding her disgrace + in a crowd. I sought out a new circle of acquaintance, and my + circumstances happily enabling me to pursue my fancy in that + respect, I endeavored, by mingling in all the pleasures which the + town affords, to efface the memory of what I had undergone. + </p> + <p> + But, alas! such is the portentous and all-pervading chain of + connection which links together the head and members of this + great community, my scheme of lying perdu was defeated almost at + the outset. A countryman of mine, whom a foolish lawsuit had + brought to town, by chance met me, and the secret was soon + blazoned about. + </p> + <p> + In a short time I found myself deserted by most of those who had + been my intimate friends. Not that any guilt was supposed to + attach to my character. My officious countryman, to do him + justice, had been candid enough to explain my perfect innocence. + </p> + <p> + But, somehow or other, there is a want of strong virtue in + mankind. We have plenty of the softer instincts, but the heroic + character is gone. How else can I account for it, that of all my + numerous acquaintance, among whom I had the honor of ranking + sundry persons of education, talents, and worth, scarcely here + and there one or two could be found who had the courage to + associate with a man that had been hanged. + </p> + <p> + Those few who did not desert me altogether were persons of strong + but coarse minds; and from the absence of all delicacy in them I + suffered almost as much as from the superabundance of a false + species of it in the others. Those who stuck by me were the + jokers, who thought themselves entitled by the fidelity which + they had shown towards me to use me with what familiarity they + pleased. Many and unfeeling are the jests that I have suffered + from these rude (because faithful) Achateses. As they passed me + in the streets, one would nod significantly to his companion and + say, pointing to me, Smoke his cravat, and ask me if I had got a + wen, that I was so solicitous to cover my neck. Another would + inquire, What news from * * * Assizes? (which you may guess, Mr. + Editor, was the scene of my shame,) and whether the sessions was + like to prove a maiden one? A third would offer to insure me from + drowning. A fourth would tease me with inquiries how I felt when + I was swinging, whether I had not something like a blue flame + dancing before my eyes? A fifth took a fancy never to call me + anything but <i>Lazarus</i>. And an eminent bookseller and + publisher,—who, in his zeal to present the public with new + facts, had he lived in those days, I am confident, would not have + scrupled waiting upon the person himself last mentioned, at the + most critical period of his existence, to solicit a <i>few facts + relative to resuscitation</i>,—had the modesty to offer + me—guineas per sheet, if I would write, in his magazine, a + physiological account of my feelings upon coming to myself. + </p> + <p> + But these were evils which a moderate fortitude might have + enabled me to struggle with. Alas! Mr. Editor, the + women,—whose good graces I had always most assiduously + cultivated, from whose softer minds I had hoped a more delicate + and generous sympathy than I found in the men,—the women + began to shun me—this was the unkindest blow of all. + </p> + <p> + But is it to be wondered at? How couldst thou imagine, + wretchedest of beings, that that tender creature Seraphina would + fling her pretty arms about that neck which previous + circumstances had rendered infamous? That she would put up with + the refuse of the rope, the leavings of the cord? Or that any + analogy could subsist between the knot which binds true lovers, + and the knot which ties malefactors? + </p> + <p> + I can forgive that pert baggage Flirtilla, who, when I + complimented her one day on the execution which her eyes had + done, replied, that, to be sure, Mr. * * * was a judge of those + things. But from thy more exalted mind, Celestina, I expected a + more unprejudiced decision. The person whose true name I conceal + under this appellation, of all the women that I was ever + acquainted with had the most manly turn of mind, which she had + improved by reading and the best conversation. Her understanding + was not more masculine than her manners and whole disposition + were delicately and truly feminine. She was the daughter of an + officer who had fallen in the service of his country, leaving his + widow, and Celestina, an only child, with a fortune sufficient to + set them above want, but not to enable them to live in splendor. + I had the mother's permission to pay my addresses to the young + lady, and Celestina seemed to approve of my suit. + </p> + <p> + Often and often have I poured out my overcharged soul in the + presence of Celestina, complaining of the hard and unfeeling + prejudices of the world; and the sweet maid has again and again + declared, that no irrational prejudice should hinder her from + esteeming every man according to his intrinsic worth. Often has + she repeated the consolatory assurance, that she could never + consider as essentially ignominious an <i>accident</i>, which was + indeed to be deprecated, but which might have happened to the + most innocent of mankind. Then would she set forth some + illustrious example, which her reading easily furnished, of a + Phocion or a Socrates unjustly condemned; of a Raleigh or a Sir + Thomas More, to whom late posterity had done justice; and by + soothing my fancy with some such agreeable parallel, she would + make me almost to triumph in my disgrace, and convert my shame + into glory. + </p> + <p> + In such entertaining and instructive conversations the time + passed on, till I importunately urged the mistress of my + affections to name the day for our union. To this she obligingly + consented, and I thought myself the happiest of mankind. But how + was I surprised one morning on the receipt of the following + billet from my charmer:— + </p> + <p> + SIR,—You must not impute it to levity, or to a worse + failing, ingratitude, if, with anguish of heart, I feel myself + compelled by irresistible arguments to recall a vow which I fear + I made with too little consideration. I never can be yours. The + reasons of my decision, which is final, are in my own breast, and + you must everlastingly remain a stranger to them. Assure yourself + that I can never cease to esteem you as I ought. + </p> + <h4> + CELESTINA. + </h4> + <p> + At the sight of this paper, I ran in frantic haste to Celestina's + lodgings, where I learned, to my infinite mortification, that the + mother and daughter were set off on a journey to a distant part + of the country, to visit a relation, and were not expected to + return in less than four months. + </p> + <p> + Stunned by this blow, which left me without the courage to + solicit an explanation by letter, even if I had known where they + were, (for the particular address was industriously concealed + from me,) I waited with impatience the termination of the period, + in the vain hope that I might be permitted to have a chance of + softening the harsh decision by a personal interview with + Celestina after her return. But before three months were at an + end, I learned from the newspapers that my beloved + had——given her hand to another. + </p> + <p> + Heart-broken as I was, I was totally at a loss to account for the + strange step which she had taken; and it was not till some years + after that I learned the true reason from a female relation of + hers, to whom it seems Celestina had confessed in confidence, + that it was no demerit of mine that had caused her to break off + the match so abruptly, nor any preference which she might feel + for any other person, for she preferred me (she was pleased to + say) to all mankind; but when she came to lay the matter closer + to her heart, she found that she never should be able to bear the + sight—(I give you her very words as they were detailed to + me by her relation)—the sight of a man in a nightcap who + had appeared on a public platform—it would lead to such a + disagreeable association of ideas! And to this punctilio I was + sacrificed. + </p> + <p> + To pass over an infinite series of minor mortifications, to which + this last and heaviest might well render me callous, behold me + here, Mr. Editor! in the thirty-seventh year of my existence, + (the twelfth, reckoning from my reanimation,) cut off from all + respectable connections: rejected by the fairer half of the + community,—who in my case alone seem to have laid aside the + characteristic pity of their sex; punished because I was once + punished unjustly: suffering for no other reason than because I + once had the misfortune to suffer without any cause at all. In no + other country, I think, but this, could a man have been subject + to such a life-long persecution, when once his innocence had been + clearly established. + </p> + <p> + Had I crawled forth a rescued victim from the rack in the + horrible dungeons of the Inquisition,—had I heaved myself + up from a half bastinado in China, or been torn from the + just-entering, ghastly impaling stake in Barbary,—had I + dropt alive from the knout in Russia, or come off with a gashed + neck from the half-mortal, scarce-in-time-retracted cimeter of an + executioneering slave in Turkey,—I might have borne about + the remnant of this frame (the mangled trophy of reprieved + innocence) with credit to myself in any of those barbarous + countries. No scorn, at least, would have mingled with the pity + (small as it might be) with which what was left of me would have + been surveyed. + </p> + <p> + The singularity of my case has often led me to inquire into the + reasons of the general levity with which the subject of hanging + is treated as a topic in this country. I say, as a topic: for let + the very persons who speak so lightly of the thing at a distance + be brought to view the real scene,—let the platform be bona + fide exhibited, and the trembling culprit brought + forth,—the case is changed; but as a topic of conversation, + I appeal to the vulgar jokes which pass current in every street. + But why mention them, when the politest authors have agreed in + making use of this subject as a source of the ridiculous? Swift, + and Pope, and Prior, are fond of recurring to it. Gay has built + an entire drama upon this single foundation. The whole interest + of the <i>Beggar's Opera</i> may be said to hang upon it. To such + writers as Fielding and Smollett it is a perfect + <i>bonne-bouche</i>.—Hear the facetious Tom Brown, in his + <i>Comical View of London and Westminster</i>, describe the + <i>Order of the Show at one of the Tyburn Executions</i> in his + time:—"Mr. Ordinary visits his melancholy flock in Newgate + by eight. Doleful procession up Holborn Hill about eleven. Men + handsome and proper that were never thought so before, which is + some comfort however. Arrive at the fatal place by twelve. Burnt + brandy, women, and sabbath-breaking, repented of. Some few + penitential drops fall under the gallows. Sheriffs' men, parson, + pickpockets, criminals, all very busy. The last concluding + peremptory psalm struck up. Show over by one."—In this + sportive strain does this misguided wit think proper to play with + a subject so serious, which yet he would hardly have done if he + had not known that there existed a predisposition in the habits + of his unaccountable countrymen to consider the subject as a + jest. But what shall we say to Shakspeare, who, (not to mention + the solution which the <i>Gravedigger</i> in <i>Hamlet</i> gives + of his fellow-workman's problem,) in that scene in <i>Measure for + Measure</i>, where the <i>Clown</i> calls upon <i>Master + Barnardine</i> to get up and be hanged, which he declines on the + score of being sleepy, has actually gone out of his way to + gratify this amiable propensity in his countrymen; for it is + plain, from the use that was to be made of his head, and from + <i>Abhorson's</i> asking, "Is the axe upon the block, sirrah?" + that beheading, and not hanging, was the punishment to which + <i>Barnardine</i> was destined. But Shakspeare knew that the axe + and block were pregnant with no ludicrous images, and therefore + falsified the historic truth of his own drama (if I may so + speak), rather than he would leave out such excellent matter for + a jest as the suspending of a fellow-creature in mid-air has been + ever esteemed to be by Englishmen. + </p> + <p> + One reason why the ludicrous never fails to intrude itself into + our contemplations upon this mode of death, I suppose to be, the + absurd posture into which a man is thrown who is condemned to + dance, as the vulgar delight to express it, upon nothing. To see + him whisking and wavering in the air, + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "As the wind you know will wave a man;"[1] + </p> + </div> + <p> + to behold the vacant carcass, from which the life is newly + dislodged, shifting between earth and heaven, the sport of every + gust; like a weathercock, serving to show from which point the + wind blows; like a maukin, fit only to scare away birds; like a + nest left to swing upon a bough when the bird is flown: these are + uses to which we cannot without a mixture of spleen and contempt + behold the human carcass reduced. We string up dogs, foxes, bats, + moles, weasels. Man surely deserves a steadier death. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: Hieronimo in the Spanish Tragedy. + </div> + <p> + Another reason why the ludicrous associates more forcibly with + this than with any other mode of punishment, I cannot help + thinking to be, the senseless costume with which old prescription + has thought fit to clothe the exit of malefactors in this + country. Let a man do what he will to abstract from his + imagination all idea of the whimsical, something of it will come + across him when he contemplates the figure of a fellow-creature + in the daytime (in however distressing a situation) in a + nightcap. Whether it be that this nocturnal addition has + something discordant with daylight, or that it is the dress which + we are seen in at those times when we are "seen," as the Angel in + Milton expresses it, "least wise,"—this, I am afraid, will + always be the case; unless, indeed, as in my instance, some + strong personal feeling overpower the ludicrous altogether. To + me, when I reflect upon the train of misfortunes which have + pursued men through life, owing to that accursed drapery, the cap + presents as purely frightful an object as the sleeveless yellow + coat and devil-painted mitre of the San Benitos.—An + ancestor of mine, who suffered for his loyalty in the time of the + civil wars, was so sensible of the truth of what I am here + advancing, that on the morning of execution, no entreaties could + prevail upon him to submit to the odious dishabille, as he called + it, but he insisted upon wearing, and actually suffered in, the + identical, flowing periwig which he is painted in, in the gallery + belonging to my uncle's seat in ——shire. + </p> + <p> + Suffer me, Mr. Editor, before I quit the subject, to say a word + or two respecting the minister of justice in this country; in + plain words, I mean the hangman. It has always appeared to me + that, in the mode of inflicting capital punishments with us, + there is too much of the ministry of the human hand. The + guillotine, as performing its functions more of itself and + sparing human agency, though a cruel and disgusting exhibition, + in my mind has many ways the advantage over <i>our way</i>. In + beheading, indeed, as it was formerly practised in England, and + in whipping to death, as is sometimes practised now, the hand of + man is no doubt sufficiently busy; but there is something less + repugnant in these downright blows than in the officious + barber-like ministerings of <i>the other</i>. To have a fellow + with his hangman's hands fumbling about your collar, adjusting + the thing as your valet would regulate your cravat, valuing + himself on his menial dexterity——- + </p> + <p> + I never shall forget meeting my rascal,—I mean the fellow + who officiated for me,—in London last winter. I think I see + him now,—in a waistcoat that had been mine,—smirking + along as if he knew me——- + </p> + <p> + In some parts of Germany, that fellow's office is by law declared + infamous, and his posterity incapable of being ennobled. They + have hereditary hangmen, or had at least, in the same manner as + they had hereditary other great officers of state; and the + hangmen's families of two adjoining parishes intermarried with + each other, to keep the breed entire. I wish something of the + same kind were established in England. + </p> + <p> + But it is time to quit a subject which teems with disagreeable + images—— + </p> + <p> + Permit me to subscribe myself, Mr. Editor, + </p> + <p> + Your unfortunate friend, + </p> + <p> + PENSILIS. + </p> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="tail" id="tail">ON THE MELANCHOLY OF TAILORS.</a> + </h3> + <hr class="short" /> + <div class="poem"> + <p class="i4"> + "Sedet, asternumque sedebit, + </p> + <p> + Infelix Theseus." VIRGIL. + </p> + </div> + <p> + That there is a professional melancholy, if I may so express + myself, incident to the occupation of a tailor, is a fact which I + think very few will venture to dispute. I may safely appeal to my + readers, whether they ever knew one of that faculty that was not + of a temperament, to say the least, far removed from mercurial or + jovial. + </p> + <p> + Observe the suspicious gravity of their gait. The peacock is not + more tender, from a consciousness of his peculiar infirmity, than + a gentleman of this profession is of being known by the same + infallible testimonies of his occupation. "Walk, that I may know + thee." + </p> + <p> + Do you ever see him go whistling along the footpath like a + carman, or brush through a crowd like a baker, or go smiling to + himself like a lover? Is he forward to thrust into mobs, or to + make one at the ballad-singer's audiences? Does he not rather + slink by assemblies and meetings of the people, as one that + wisely declines popular observation? + </p> + <p> + How extremely rare is a noisy tailor! a mirthful and obstreperous + tailor! + </p> + <p> + "At my nativity," says Sir Thomas Browne, "my ascendant was the + earthly sign of Scorpius; I was born in the planetary hour of + Saturn, and I think I have a piece of that leaden planet in me." + One would think that he were anatomizing a tailor! save that to + the latter's occupation, methinks, a woollen planet would seem + more consonant, and that he should be born when the sun was in + Aries.—He goes on; "I am no way facetious, nor disposed for + the mirth and galliardise of company." How true a type of the + whole trade! Eminently economical of his words, you shall seldom + hear a jest come from one of them. He sometimes furnishes subject + for a repartee, but rarely (I think) contributes one <i>ore + proprio</i>. + </p> + <p> + Drink itself does not seem to elevate him, or at least to call + out of him any of the external indications of vanity. I cannot + say that it never causes his pride to swell, but it never breaks + out. I am even fearful that it may swell and rankle to an + alarming degree inwardly. For pride is near of kin to + melancholy!—a hurtful obstruction from the ordinary outlets + of vanity being shut. It is this stoppage which engenders proud + humors. Therefore a tailor may be proud. I think he is never + vain. The display of his gaudy patterns, in that book of his + which emulates the rainbow, never raises any inflations of that + emotion in him, corresponding to what the wig-maker (for + instance) evinces, when he expatiates on a curl or a bit of hair. + He spreads them forth with a sullen incapacity for pleasure, a + real or affected indifference to grandeur. Cloth of gold neither + seems to elate, nor cloth of frieze to depress + him—according to the beautiful motto which formed the + modest imprese of the shield worn by Charles Brandon at his + marriage with the king's sister. Nay, I doubt whether he would + discover any vainglorious complacence in his colors, though + "Iris" herself "dipt the woof." + </p> + <p> + In further corroboration of this argument—who ever saw the + wedding of a tailor announced in the newspapers, or the birth of + his eldest son? + </p> + <p> + When was a tailor known to give a dance, or to be himself a good + dancer, or to perform exquisitely on the tight-rope, or to shine + in any such light and airy pastimes? to sing, or play on the + violin? + </p> + <p> + Do they much care for public rejoicings, lightings up, ringing of + bells, firing of cannons, &c.? + </p> + <p> + Valiant I know they can be; but I appeal to those who were + witnesses to the exploits of Eliot's famous troop, whether in + their fiercest charges they betrayed anything of that thoughtless + oblivion of death with which a Frenchman jigs into battle, or + whether they did not show more of the melancholy valor of the + Spaniard, upon whom they charged; that deliberate courage which + contemplation and sedentary habits breathe? + </p> + <p> + Are they often great newsmongers?—I have known some few + among them arrive at the dignity of speculative politicians; but + that light and cheerful every-day interest in the affairs and + goings-on of the world, which makes the barber[1] such delightful + company, I think is rarely observable in them. + </p> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: Having incidentally mentioned the barber in a comparison of + professional temperaments, I hope no other trade will take + offence, or look upon it as an incivility done to them if I say, + that in courtesy, humanity, and all the conversational and social + graces which "gladden life," I esteem no profession comparable to + his. Indeed, so great is the goodwill which I bear to this useful + and agreeable body of men, that, residing in one of the Inns of + Court (where the best specimens of them are to be found, except + perhaps at the universities), there are seven of them to whom I + am personally known, and who never pass me without the compliment + of the hat on either side. My truly polite and urbane friend Mr. + A——m, of Flower-de-luce Court, in Fleet Street, will + forgive my mention of him in particular. I can truly say that I + never spent a quarter of an hour under his hands without deriving + some profit from the agreeable discussions which are always going + on there. + </div> + <p> + This characteristic pensiveness in them being so notorious, I + wonder none of those writers, who have expressly treated of + melancholy, should have mentioned it. Burton, whose book is an + excellent abstract of all the authors in that kind who preceded + him, and who treats of every species of this malady, from the + <i>hypochondriacal</i> or <i>windy</i> to the <i>heroical</i> or + <i>love-melancholy</i>, has strangely omitted it. Shakspeare + himself has overlooked it. "I have neither the scholar's + melancholy (saith Jaques), which is emulation; nor the + courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is politic; + nor the lover's, which is all these:" and then, when you might + expect him to have brought in, "nor the tailor's, which is," so + and so, he comes to an end of his enumeration, and falls to a + defining of his own melancholy. + </p> + <p> + Milton likewise has omitted it, where he had so fair an + opportunity of bringing it in, in his <i>Penseroso</i>. + </p> + <p> + But the partial omissions of historians proving nothing against + the existence of any well-attested fact, I shall proceed and + endeavor to ascertain the causes why this pensive turn should be + so predominant in people of this profession above all others. + </p> + <p> + And first, may it not be, that the custom of wearing apparel + being derived to us from the fall, and one of the most mortifying + products of that unhappy event, a certain <i>seriousness</i> (to + say no more of it) may in the order of things have been intended + to be impressed upon the minds of that race of men to whom in all + ages the care of contriving the human apparel has been intrusted, + to keep up the memory of the first institution of clothes, and + serve as a standing remonstrance against those vanities which the + absurd conversion of a memorial of our shame into an ornament of + our persons was destined to produce? Correspondent in some sort + to this, it may be remarked, that the tailor sitting over a cave + or hollow place, in the caballistic language of his order is said + to have <i>certain melancholy</i> regions always open under his + feet.—But waiving further inquiry into final causes, where + the best of us can only wander in the dark, let us try to + discover the efficient causes of this melancholy. + </p> + <p> + I think, then, that they may be reduced to two, omitting some + subordinate ones, viz.: + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + The sedentary habits of the tailor.— + </p> + <p> + Something peculiar in his diet.— + </p> + </div> + <p> + First, his <i>sedentary habits</i>.—In Dr. Norris's famous + narrative of the frenzy of Mr. John Dennis, the patient, being + questioned as to the occasion of the swelling in his legs, + replies that it came "by criticism;" to which the learned doctor + seeming to demur, as to a distemper which he had never read of, + Dennis (who appears not to have been mad upon all subjects) + rejoins, with some warmth, that it was no distemper, but a noble + art; that he had sat fourteen hours a day at it; and that the + other was a pretty doctor not to know that there was a + communication between the brain and the legs. + </p> + <p> + When we consider that this sitting for fourteen hours + continuously, which the critic probably practised only while he + was writing his "remarks," is no more than what the tailor, in + the ordinary pursuance of his art, submits to daily (Sundays + excepted) throughout the year, shall we wonder to find the brain + affected, and in a manner overclouded, from that indissoluble + sympathy between the noble and less noble parts of the body which + Dennis hints at? The unnatural and painful manner of his sitting + must also greatly aggravate the evil, insomuch that I have + sometimes ventured to liken tailors at their boards to so many + envious Junos, <i>sitting cross-legged to hinder the birth of + their own felicity</i>. The legs transversed thus [Illustration: + X lying on its side] crosswise, or decussated, was among the + ancients the posture of malediction. The Turks, who practise it + at this day, are noted to be a melancholy people. + </p> + <p> + Secondly, his <i>diet</i>.—To which purpose I find a most + remarkable passage in Burton, in his chapter entitled "Bad diet a + cause of melancholy." "Amongst herbs to be eaten (he says) I find + gourds, cucumbers, melons, disallowed; but especially CABBAGE. It + causeth troublesome dreams, and sends up black vapors to the + brain. Galen, <i>Loc. Affect</i>, lib. iii. cap. 6, of all herbs + condemns CABBAGE. And Isaack, lib. ii. cap. 1, <i>animæ + gravitatem facit</i>, it brings heaviness to the soul." I could + not omit so flattering a testimony from an author who, having no + theory of his own to serve, has so unconsciously contributed to + the confirmation of mine. It is well known that this last-named + vegetable has, from the earliest periods which we can discover, + constituted almost the sole food of this extraordinary race of + people. + </p> + <p> + BURTON, <i>Junior</i>. + </p> + <hr /> + <h3> + HOSPITA + </h3> + <h4> + <a name="palat" id="palat">ON THE IMMODERATE INDULGENCE OF THE + PLEASURES OF THE PALATE.</a> + </h4> + <hr class="short" /> + <h5> + TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR." + </h5> + <p> + MR. REFLECTOR,—My husband and I are fond of company, and + being in easy circumstances, we are seldom without a party to + dinner two or three days in a week. The utmost cordiality has + hitherto prevailed at our meetings; but there is a young + gentleman, a near relation of my husband's, that has lately come + among us, whose preposterous behavior bids fair, if not timely + checked, to disturb our tranquillity. He is too great a favorite + with my husband in other respects, for me to remonstrate with him + in any other than this distant way. A letter printed in your + publication may catch his eye; for he is a great reader, and + makes a point of seeing all the new things that come out. Indeed, + he is by no means deficient in understanding. My husband says + that he has a good deal of wit; but for my part I cannot say I am + any judge of that, having seldom observed him open his mouth + except for purposes very foreign to conversation. In short, sir, + this young gentleman's failing is, an immoderate indulgence of + his palate. The first time he dined with us, he thought it + necessary to extenuate the length of time he kept the dinner on + the table, by declaring that he had taken a very long walk in the + morning, and came in fasting; but as that excuse could not serve + above once or twice at most, he has latterly dropped the mask + altogether, and chosen to appear in his own proper colors, + without reserve or apology. + </p> + <p> + You cannot imagine how unpleasant his conduct has become. His way + of staring at the dishes as they are brought in, has absolutely + something immodest in it: it is like the stare of an impudent man + of fashion at a fine woman, when she first comes into a room. I + am positively in pain for the dishes, and cannot help thinking + they have consciousness, and will be put out of countenance, he + treats them so like what they are not. + </p> + <p> + Then again he makes no scruple of keeping a joint of meat on the + table, after the cheese and fruit are brought in, till he has + what he calls <i>done with it</i>. Now how awkward this looks, + where there are ladies, you may judge, Mr. Reflector,—how + it disturbs the order and comfort of a meal. And yet I always + make a point of helping him first, contrary to all good + manners,—before any of my female friends are helped, that + he may avoid this very error. I wish he would eat before he comes + out. + </p> + <p> + What makes his proceedings more particularly offensive at our + house is, that my husband, though out of common politeness he is + obliged to set dishes of animal food before his visitors, yet + himself and his whole family (myself included) feed entirely on + vegetables. We have a theory, that animal food is neither + wholesome nor natural to man; and even vegetables we refuse to + eat until they have undergone the operation of fire, in + consideration of those numberless little living creatures which + the glass helps us to detect in every fibre of the plant or root + before it be dressed. On the same theory we boil our water, which + is our only drink, before we suffer it to come to table. Our + children are perfect little Pythagoreans: it would do you good to + see them in their nursery, stuffing their dried fruits, figs, + raisins, and <i>milk</i>, which is the only approach to animal + food which is allowed. They have no notion how the substance of a + creature that ever had life can become food for another creature. + A beefsteak is an absurdity to them; a mutton-chop, a solecism in + terms; a cutlet, a word absolutely without any meaning; a butcher + is nonsense, except so far as it is taken for a man who delights + in blood, or a hero. In this happy state of innocence we have + kept their minds, not allowing them to go into the kitchen, or to + hear of any preparations for the dressing of animal food, or even + to know that such things are practised. But as a state of + ignorance is incompatible with a certain age, and as my eldest + girl, who is ten years old next Midsummer, must shortly be + introduced into the world and sit at table with us, where she + will see some things which will shock all her received notions, I + have been endeavoring by little and little to break her mind, and + prepare it for the disagreeable impressions which must be forced + upon it. The first hint I gave her upon the subject, I could see + her recoil from it with the same horror with which we listen to a + tale of Anthropophagism; but she has gradually grown more + reconciled to it, in some measure, from my telling her that it + was the custom of the world,—to which, however senseless, + we must submit, so far as we could do it with innocence, not to + give offence; and she has shown so much strength of mind on other + occasions, which I have no doubt is owing to the calmness and + serenity superinduced by her diet, that I am in good hopes when + the proper season for her <i>début</i> arrives, she may be + brought to endure the sight of a roasted chicken, or a dish of + sweet-breads for the first time without fainting. Such being the + nature of our little household, you may guess what inroads into + the economy of it,—what resolutions and turnings of things + upside down, the example of such a feeder as Mr.——- + is calculated to produce. + </p> + <p> + I wonder, at a time like the present, when the scarcity of every + kind of food is so painfully acknowledged, that <i>shame</i> has + no effect upon him. Can he have read Mr. Malthus's Thoughts on + the Ratio of Food to Population? Can he think it reasonable that + one man should consume the sustenance of many? + </p> + <p> + The young gentleman has an agreeable air and person, such as are + not unlikely to recommend him on the score of matrimony. But his + fortune is not over-large; and what prudent young woman would + think of embarking hers with a man who would bring three or four + mouths (or what is equivalent to them) into a family? She might + as reasonably choose a widower in the same circumstances, with + three or four children. + </p> + <p> + I cannot think who he takes after. His father and mother, by all + accounts, were very moderate eaters; only I have heard that the + latter swallowed her victuals very fast, and the former had a + tedious custom of sitting long at his meals. Perhaps he takes + after both. + </p> + <p> + I wish you would turn this in your thoughts, Mr. Reflector, and + give us your ideas on the subject of excessive eating, and, + particularly, of animal food. + </p> + <p> + HOSPITA. + </p> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="edax" id="edax">EDAX ON APPETITE.</a> + </h3> + <hr class="short" /> + <h5> + TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR." + </h5> + <p> + MR. REFLECTOR,—I am going to lay before you a case of the + most iniquitous persecution that ever poor devil suffered. + </p> + <p> + You must know, then, that I have been visited with a calamity + ever since my birth. How shall I mention it without offending + delicacy? Yet out it must. My sufferings, then, have all arisen + from a most inordinate appetite—— + </p> + <p> + Not for wealth, not for vast possessions,—then might I have + hoped to find a cure in some of those precepts of philosophers or + poets,—those verba et voces which Horace speaks of:— + </p> + <div class="poem"> + "quibus hunc lenire dolorem Possis, et magnam morbi deponere + partem;" + </div> + <p> + not for glory, not for fame, not for applause,—for against + this disease, too, he tells us there are certain piacula, or, as + Pope has chosen to render it, + </p> + <div class="poem"> + "Rhymes, which fresh and fresh applied, Will cure the arrant'st + puppy of his pride;" + </div> + <p> + nor yet for pleasure, properly so called: the strict and virtuous + lessons which I received in early life from the best of + parents,—a pious clergyman of the Church of England, now no + more,—I trust have rendered me sufficiently secure on that + side:—— + </p> + <p> + No, Sir, for none of these things; but an appetite, in its + coarsest and least metaphorical sense,—an appetite for + <i>food</i>. + </p> + <p> + The exorbitances of my arrowroot and pappish days I cannot go + back far enough to remember; only I have been told that my + mother's constitution not admitting of my being nursed at home, + the woman who had the care of me for that purpose used to make + most extravagant demands for my pretended excesses in that kind; + which my parents, rather than believe anything unpleasant of me, + chose to impute to the known covetousness and mercenary + disposition of that sort of people. This blindness continued on + their part after I was sent for home, up to the period when it + was thought proper, on account of my advanced age, that I should + mix with other boys more unreservedly than I had hitherto done. I + was accordingly sent to boarding-school. + </p> + <p> + Here the melancholy truth became too apparent to be disguised. + The prying republic of which a great school consists soon found + me out: there was no shifting the blame any longer upon other + people's shoulders,—no good-natured maid to take upon + herself the enormities of which I stood accused in the article of + bread and butter, besides the crying sin of stolen ends of + puddings, and cold pies strangely missing. The truth was but too + manifest in my looks,—in the evident signs of inanition + which I exhibited after the fullest meals, in spite of the double + allowance which my master was privately instructed by my kind + parents to give me. The sense of the ridiculous, which is but too + much alive in grown persons, is tenfold more active and alert in + boys. Once detected, I was the constant butt of their + arrows,—the mark against which every puny leveller directed + his little shaft of scorn. The very Graduses and Thesauruses were + raked for phrases to pelt me with by the tiny pedants. Ventri + natus—Ventri deditus,—Vesana gula,—Escarum + gurges,—Dapibus indulgens,—Non dans fræna + gulæ,-Sectans lautæ fercula mensæ, resounded wheresoever I + passed. I led a weary life, suffering the penalties of guilt for + that which was no crime, but only following the blameless + dictates of nature. The remembrance of those childish reproaches + haunts me yet oftentimes in my dreams. My school-days come again, + and the horror I used to feel, when in some silent corner, + retired from the notice of my unfeeling playfellows, I have sat + to mumble the solitary slice of gingerbread allotted me by the + bounty of considerate friends, and have ached at heart because I + could not spare a portion of it, as I saw other boys do, to some + favorite boy; for if I know my own heart, I was never + selfish,—never possessed a luxury which I did not hasten to + communicate to others; but my food, alas! was none; it was an + indispensable necessary; I could as soon have spared the blood in + my veins, as have parted that with my companions. + </p> + <p> + Well, no one stage of suffering lasts forever: we should grow + reconciled to it at length, I suppose, if it did. The miseries of + my school-days had their end; I was once more restored to the + paternal dwelling. The affectionate solicitude of my parents was + directed to the good-natured purpose of concealing, even from + myself, the infirmity which haunted me. I was continually told + that I was growing, and the appetite I displayed was humanely + represented as being nothing more than a symptom and an effect of + that. I used even to be complimented upon it. But this temporary + fiction could not endure above a year or two. I ceased to grow, + but, alas! I did not cease my demands for alimentary sustenance. + </p> + <p> + Those times are long since past, and with them have ceased to + exist the fond concealment—the indulgent + blindness—the delicate overlooking—the compassionate + fiction. I and my infirmity are left exposed and bare to the + broad, unwinking eye of the world, which nothing can elude. My + meals are scanned, my mouthfuls weighed in a balance; that which + appetite demands is set down to the account of gluttony—a + sin which my whole soul abhors—nay, which Nature herself + has put it out of my power to commit. I am constitutionally + disenabled from that vice; for how can he be guilty of excess who + never can get enough? Let them cease, then, to watch my plate; + and leave off their ungracious comparisons of it to the seven + baskets of fragments, and the supernaturally replenished cup of + old Baucis: and be thankful that their more phlegmatic stomachs, + not their virtue, have saved them from the like reproaches. I do + not see that any of them desist from eating till the holy rage of + hunger, as some one calls it, is supplied. Alas! I am doomed to + stop short of that continence. + </p> + <p> + What am I to do? I am by disposition inclined to conviviality and + the social meal. I am no gourmand: I require no dainties: I + should despise the board of Heliogabalus, except for its long + sitting. Those vivacious, long-continued meals of the latter + Romans, indeed, I justly envy; but the kind of fare which the + Curii and Dentati put up with, I could be content with. Dentatus + I have been called, among other unsavory jests. Doublemeal is + another name which my acquaintance have palmed upon me, for an + innocent piece of policy which I put in practice for some time + without being found out; which was—going the round of my + friends, beginning with the most primitive feeders among them, + who take their dinner about one o'clock, and so successively + dropping in upon the next and the next, till by the time I got + among my more fashionable intimates, whose hour was six or seven, + I have nearly made up the body of a just and complete meal (as I + reckon it), without taking more than one dinner (as they account + of dinners) at one person's house. Since I have been found out, I + endeavor to make up by a damper, as I call it, at home, before I + go out. But, alas! with me, increase of appetite truly grows by + what it feeds on. What is peculiarly offensive to me at those + dinner-parties is, the senseless custom of cheese, and the + dessert afterwards. I have a rational antipathy to the former; + and for fruit, and those other vain vegetable substitutes for + meat (meat, the only legitimate aliment for human creatures since + the Flood, as I take it to be deduced from that permission, or + ordinance rather, given to Noah and his descendants), I hold them + in perfect contempt. Hay for horses. I remember a pretty + apologue, which Mandeville tells, very much to this purpose, in + his Fable of the Bees:—He brings in a Lion arguing with a + Merchant, who had ventured to expostulate with this king of + beasts upon his violent methods of feeding. The Lion thus + retorts:—"Savage I am, but no creature can be called cruel + but what either by malice or insensibility extinguishes his + natural pity. The Lion was born without compassion: we follow the + instinct of our nature; the gods have appointed us to live upon + the waste and spoil of other animals, and as long as we can meet + with dead ones, we never hunt after the living; 'tis only man, + mischievous man, that can make death a sport. Nature taught your + stomach to crave nothing but vegetables.—(Under favor of + the Lion, if he meant to assert this universally of mankind, it + is not true. However, what he says presently is very + sensible.)—Your violent fondness to change, and greater + eagerness after novelties, have prompted you to the destruction + of animals without justice or necessity. The Lion has a ferment + within him, that consumes the toughest skin and hardest bones, as + well as the flesh of all animals without exception. Your + squeamish stomach, in which the digestive heat is weak and + inconsiderable, won't so much as admit of the most tender parts + of them, unless above half the concoction has been performed by + artificial fire beforehand; and yet what animal have you spared, + to satisfy the caprices of a languid appetite? Languid, I say; + for what is man's hunger if compared with the Lion's? Yours, when + it is at the worst, makes you faint; mine makes me mad: oft have + I tried with roots and herbs to allay the violence of it, but in + vain: nothing but large quantities of flesh can any ways appease + it."—Allowing for the Lion not having a prophetic instinct + to take in every lusus naturæ that, was possible of the human + appetite, he was, generally speaking, in the right; and the + Merchant was so impressed with his argument that, we are told, he + replied not, but fainted away. O, Mr. Reflector, that I were not + obliged to add, that the creature who thus argues was but a type + of me! Miserable man! <i>I am that Lion!</i> "Oft have I tried + with roots and herbs to allay that violence, but in vain; nothing + but——." + </p> + <p> + Those tales which are renewed as often as the editors of papers + want to fill up a space in their unfeeling columns, of great + eaters,—people that devour whole geese and legs of mutton + <i>for wagers</i>,—are sometimes attempted to be drawn to a + parallel with my case. This wilful confounding of motives and + circumstances, which make all the difference of moral or immoral + in actions, just suits the sort of talent which some of my + acquaintance pride themselves upon. <i>Wagers</i>!—I thank + Heaven, I was never mercenary, nor could consent to prostitute a + gift (though but a left-handed one) of nature, to the enlarging + of my worldly substance; prudent as the necessities, which that + fatal gift have involved me in, might have made such a + prostitution to appear in the eyes of an indelicate world. + </p> + <p> + Rather let me say, that to the satisfaction of that talent which + was given me, I have been content to sacrifice no common + expectations; for such I had from an old lady, a near relation of + our family, in whose good graces I had the fortune to stand, till + one fatal evening——. You have seen, Mr. Reflector, if + you have ever passed your time much in country towns, the kind of + suppers which elderly ladies in those places have lying <i>in + petto</i> in an adjoining parlor, next to that where they are + entertaining their periodically invited coevals with cards and + muffins. The cloth is usually spread some half-hour before the + final rubber is decided, whence they adjourn to sup upon what may + emphatically be called <i>nothing</i> ;—a sliver of ham, + purposely contrived to be transparent to show the china-dish + through it, neighboring a slip of invisible brawn, which abuts + upon something they call a tartlet, as that is bravely supported + by an atom of marmalade, flanked in its turn by a grain of potted + beef, with a power of such dishlings, <i>minims of + hospitality</i>, spread in defiance of human nature, or rather + with an utter ignorance of what it demands. Being engaged at one + of these card-parties, I was obliged to go a little before + <i>supper-time</i> (as they facetiously called the point of time + in which they are taking these shadowy refections), and the old + lady, with a sort of fear shining through the smile of courteous + hospitality that beamed in her countenance, begged me to step + into the next room and take something before I went out in the + cold,—a proposal which lay not in my nature to deny. + Indignant at the airy prospect I saw before me, I set to, and in + a trice dispatched the whole meal intended for eleven + persons,—fish, flesh, fowl, pastry,—to the sprigs of + garnishing parsley, and the last fearful custard that quaked upon + the board. I need not describe the consternation, when in due + time the dowagers adjourned from their cards. Where was the + supper?—and the servants' answer, Mr. —— had + eat it all.—That freak, however, jested me out of a good + three hundred pounds a year, which I afterwards was informed for + a certainty the old lady meant to leave me. I mention it not in + illustration of the unhappy faculty which I am possessed of; for + any unlucky wag of a school-boy, with a tolerable appetite, could + have done as much without feeling any hurt after it,—only + that you may judge whether I am a man likely to set my talent to + sale, or to require the pitiful stimulus of a wager. + </p> + <p> + I have read in Pliny, or in some author of that stamp, of a + reptile in Africa, whose venom is of that hot, destructive + quality, that wheresoever it fastens its tooth, the whole + substance of the animal that has been bitten in a few seconds is + reduced to dust, crumbles away, and absolutely disappears: it is + called, from this quality, the Annihilator. Why am I forced to + seek, in all the most prodigious and portentous facts of Natural + History, for creatures typical of myself? <i>I am that snake, + that Annihilator:</i> "wherever I fasten, in a few + seconds——." + </p> + <p> + O happy sick men, that are groaning under the want of that very + thing, the excess of which is my torment! O fortunate, too + fortunate, if you knew your happiness, invalids! What would I not + give to exchange this fierce concoctive and digestive + heat,—this rabid fury which vexes me, which tears and + torments me,—for your quiet, mortified, hermit-like, + subdued, and sanctified stomachs, your cool, chastened + inclinations and coy desires for food! + </p> + <p> + To what unhappy figuration of the parts intestine I owe this + unnatural craving, I must leave to the anatomists and the + physicians to determine: they, like the rest of the world, have + doubtless their eye upon me; and as I have been cut up alive by + the sarcasms of my friends, so I shudder when I contemplate the + probability that this animal frame, when its restless appetites + shall have ceased their importunity, may be cut up also (horrible + suggestion!) to determine in what system of solids or fluids this + original sin of my constitution lay lurking. What work will they + make with their acids and alkalines, their serums and coagulums, + effervescences, viscous matter, bile, chyle, and acrimonious + juices, to explain that cause which Nature, who willed the effect + to punish me for my sins, may no less have determined to keep in + the dark from them, to punish them for their presumption! + </p> + <p> + You may ask, Mr. Reflector, to what purpose is my appeal to you; + what can you do for me? Alas! I know too well that my case is out + of the reach of advice,—out of the reach of consolation. + But it is some relief to the wounded heart to impart its tale of + misery; and some of my acquaintance, who may read my case in your + pages under a borrowed name, may be induced to give it a more + humane consideration than I could ever yet obtain from them under + my own. Make them, if possible, to <i>reflect</i>, that an + original peculiarity of constitution is no crime; that not that + which goes into the mouth desecrates a man, but that which comes + out of it,—such as sarcasm, bitter jests, mocks and taunts, + and ill-natured observations; and let them consider, if there be + such things (which we have all heard of) as Pious Treachery, + Innocent Adultery, &c., whether there may not be also such a + thing as Innocent Gluttony. + </p> + <p> + I shall only subscribe myself, + </p> + <p> + Your afflicted servant, + </p> + <p> + EDAX. + </p> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="frag" id="frag">CURIOUS FRAGMENTS,</a> + </h2> + <h4> + EXTRACTED FROM A COMMONPLACE-BOOK, + </h4> + <h5> + WHICH BELONGED TO ROBERT BURTON, THE FAMOUS AUTHOR OF THE ANATOMY + OF MELANCHOLY. + </h5> + <hr class="short" /> + <h3> + EXTRACT I. + </h3> + <p> + I, Democritus Junior, have put my finishing pen to a tractate + <i>De Melancholia</i>, this day, December 5, 1620. First, I + blesse the Trinity, which hath given me health to prosecute my + worthlesse studies thus far, and make supplication, with a + <i>Laus Deo</i>, if in any case these my poor labours may be + found instrumental to weede out black melancholy, carking cares, + harte-grief, from the mind of man. <i>Sed hoc magis volo quam + expecto.</i> + </p> + <p> + I turn now to my book, <i>i nunc liber, goe forth, my brave + Anatomy, child of my brain-sweat</i>, and yee, <i>candidi + lectores</i>, lo! here I give him up to you, even do with him + what you please, my masters. Some, I suppose, will applaud, + commend, cry him up (these are my friends), hee is a <i>flos + rarus</i>, forsooth, a nonesuch, a Phoenix (concerning whom see + <i>Plinius</i> and <i>Mandeuille</i>, though <i>Fienus de + Monstris</i> doubteth at large of such a bird, whom + <i>Montaltus</i> confuting argueth to have been a man <i>malæ + scrupulositatis</i>, of a weak and cowardlie faith: + <i>Christopherus a Vega</i> is with him in this). Others again + will blame, hiss, reprehende in many things, cry down altogether + my collections, for crude, inept, putid, <i>post coenam scripta, + Coryate could write better upon a full meal</i>, verbose, + inerudite, and not sufficiently abounding in authorities, + <i>dogmata</i>, sentences of learneder writers which have been + before me, when as that first-named sort clean otherwise judge of + my labours to bee nothing else but a <i>messe of opinions</i>, a + vortex attracting indiscriminate, gold, pearls, hay, straw, wood, + excrement, an exchange, tavern, marte, for foreigners to + congregate, Danes, Swedes, Hollanders, Lombards, so many strange + faces, dresses, salutations, languages, all which <i>Wolfius</i> + behelde with great content upon the Venetian Rialto, as he + describes diffusedly in his book the World's Epitome, which + <i>Sannazar</i> so bepraiseth, <i>e contra</i> our Polydore can + see nothing in it; they call me singular, a pedant, fantastic, + words of reproach in this age, which is all too neoterick and + light for my humour. + </p> + <p> + One cometh to me sighing, complaining. He expected universal + remedies in my Anatomy; so many cures as there are + distemperatures among men. I have not put his affection in my + cases. Hear you his case. My fine Sir is a lover, an + <i>inamorata</i>, a Pyramus, a Romeo; he walks seven years + disconsolate, moping, because he cannot enjoy his miss, + <i>insanus amor</i> is his melancholy, the man is mad; + <i>delirat</i>, he dotes; all this while his Glycera is rude, + spiteful, not to be entreated, churlish, spits at him, yet + exceeding fair, gentle eyes (which is a beauty), hair lustrous + and <i>smiling</i>, the trope is none of mine, <i>Æneas + Sylvius</i> hath <i>crines ridentes</i>—in conclusion she + is wedded to his rival, a boore, a <i>Corydon</i>, a rustic, + <i>omnino ignarus, he can scarce construe Corderius</i>, yet + haughty, fantastic, <i>opiniâtre</i>. The lover travels, goes + into foreign parts, peregrinates, <i>amoris ergo</i>, sees + manners, customs, not English, converses with pilgrims, lying + travellers, monks, hermits, those cattle, pedlars, travelling + gentry, <i>Egyptians</i>, natural wonders, unicorns (though + <i>Aldobrandus</i> will have them to be figments), satyrs, + semi-viri, apes, monkeys, baboons, curiosities artificial, + <i>pyramides</i>, Virgilius his tombe, relicks, bones, which are + nothing but ivory as <i>Melancthon</i> judges, though + <i>Cornutus</i> leaneth to think them bones of dogs, cats, (why + not men?) which subtill priests vouch to have been saints, + martyrs, <i>heu Pietas!</i> By that time he has ended his course, + <i>fugit hora</i>, seven other years are expired, gone by, time + is he should return, he taketh ship for Britaine, much desired of + his friends, <i>favebant venti, Neptune is curteis</i>, after + some weekes at sea he landeth, rides post to town, greets his + family, kinsmen, <i>compotores, those jokers his friends that + were wont to tipple with him at alehouses</i>; these wonder now + to see the change, <i>quantum mutatus, the man is quite another + thing</i>, he is disenthralled, manumitted, he wonders what so + bewitched him, he can now both see, hear, smell, handle, converse + with his mistress, single by reason of the death of his rival, a + widow having children, grown willing, prompt, amorous, showing no + such great dislike to second nuptials, he might have her for + asking, no such thing, his mind is changed, he loathes his former + meat, had liever eat ratsbane, aconite, his humour is to die a + bachelour; marke the conclusion. In this humour of celibate seven + other years are consumed in idleness, sloth, world's pleasures, + which fatigate, satiate, induce wearinesse, vapours, <i>tædium + vitæ:</i> When upon a day, behold a wonder, <i>redit Amor</i>, + the man is as sick as ever, he is commenced lover upon the old + stock, walks with his hand thrust in his bosom for negligence, + moping he leans his head, face yellow, beard flowing and + incomposite, eyes sunken, <i>anhelus, breath wheezy and + asthmatical, by reason of over-much sighing:</i> society he + abhors, solitude is but a hell, what shall he doe? all this while + his mistresse is forward, coming, <i>amantissima, ready to jump + at once into his mouth</i>, her he hateth, feels disgust when she + is but mentioned, thinks her ugly, old, a painted Jesabeel, + Alecto, Megara, and Tisiphone all at once, a Corinthian Lais, a + strumpet, only not handsome; that which he affecteth so much, + that which drives him mad, distracted, phrenetic, beside himself, + is no beauty which lives, nothing <i>in rerum naturâ</i> (so he + might entertain a hope of a cure), but something <i>which is + not</i>, can never be, a certain <i>fantastic opinion</i> or + <i>notional image</i> of his mistresse, <i>that which she + was</i>, and that which hee thought her to be, in former times, + how beautiful! torments him, frets him, follows him, makes him + that he wishes to die. + </p> + <p> + This Caprichio, <i>Sir Humourous</i>, hee cometh to me to be + cured. I counsel marriage with his mistresse, according to + Hippocrates his method, together with milk-diet, herbs, aloes, + and wild parsley, good in such cases, though Avicenna preferreth + some sorts of wild fowl, teals, widgeons, beccaficos, which men + in Sussex eat. He flies out in a passion, ho! ho; and falls to + calling me names, dizzard, ass, lunatic, moper, Bedlamite, + Pseudo-Democritus. I smile in his face, bidding him be patient, + tranquil, to no purpose, he still rages: I think this man must + fetch his remedies from Utopia, Fairy Land, Islands in the Moone, + &c. + </p> + <h3> + EXTRACT II. + </h3> + <p> + * * * * * Much disputacyons of fierce wits amongst themselves, in + logomachies, subtile controversies, many dry blows given on + either side, contentions of learned men, or such as would be so + thought, as <i>Bodinus de Periodis</i> saith of such an one, + <i>arrident amici ridet mundus</i>, in English, this man his + cronies they cocker him up, they flatter him, he would fayne + appear somebody, meanwhile the world thinks him no better than a + dizzard, a ninny, a sophist. * * + </p> + <p> + * * * Philosophy running mad, madness philosophizing, much + idle-learned inquiries, what truth is? and no issue, fruit, of + all these noises, only huge books are written, and who is the + wiser? * * * * * Men sitting in the Doctor's chair, we marvel how + they got there being <i>homines intellectûs pulverulenti</i> as + <i>Trincauellius</i> notes; they care not so they may raise a + dust to smother the eyes of their oppugners; <i>homines + parvulissimi</i>, as <i>Lemnius</i>, whom <i>Alcuin</i> herein + taxeth of a crude Latinism; dwarfs, minims, the least little men, + these spend their time, and it is odds but they lose their time + and wits too into the bargain, chasing of nimble and retiring + Truth: Her they prosecute, her still they worship, <i>libant</i>, + they make libations, spilling the wine as those old Romans in + their sacrificials, <i>Cerealia, May games:</i> Truth is the game + all these hunt after, to the extreme perturbacyon and drying up + of the moistures <i>humidum radicale exsiccant</i>, as + <i>Galen</i>, in his counsel to one of these wear-wits, + brain-moppers, spunges saith. * * * and for all this <i>nunquam + metam attingunt</i>, and how should they? they bowle awry, + shooting beside the marke; whereas it should appear, that + <i>Truth absolute</i> on this planet of ours is scarcely to be + found, but in her stede <i>Queene Opinion</i> predominates, + governs, whose shifting and ever mutable <i>Lampas</i>, me + seemeth, is man's destinie to follow, she præcurseth, she guideth + him, before his uncapable eyes she frisketh her tender lights, + which entertayne the child-man, untill what time his sight be + strong to endure the vision of <i>Very Truth</i>, which is in the + heavens, the vision beatifical, as <i>Anianus</i> expounds in his + argument against certain mad wits which helde God to be + corporeous; these were dizzards, fools, <i>gothamites</i>. * * * + * but and if <i>Very Truth</i> be extant indeede on earth, as + some hold she it is which actuates men's deeds, purposes, ye may + in vaine look for her in the learned universities, halls, + colleges. Truth is no Doctoresse, she takes no degrees at Paris + or Oxford, amongst great clerks, disputants, subtile Aristotles, + men <i>nodosi ingenii, able to take Lully by the chin</i>, but + oftentimes to such an one as myself, an <i>Idiota</i> or common + person, <i>no great things</i>, melancholizing in woods where + waters are, quiet places by rivers, fountains, whereas the silly + man expecting no such matter, thinketh only how best to delectate + and refresh his mynde continually with <i>Natura</i> her + pleasaunt scenes, woods, water-falls, or Art her statelie + gardens, parks, terraces, <i>Belvideres</i>, on a sudden the + goddesse herself <i>Truth</i> has appeared, with a shyning + lyghte, and a sparklyng countenance, so as yee may not be able + lightly to resist her. * * * * * + </p> + <h3> + EXTRACT III. + </h3> + <p> + This morning, May 2, 1662, having first broken my fast upon eggs + and cooling salades, mallows, water-cresses, those herbes, + according to <i>Villanovus</i> his prescription, who disallows + the use of meat in a morning as gross, fat, hebetant, + <i>feral</i>, altogether fitter for wild beasts than men, <i>e + contra</i> commendeth this herb-diete for gentle, humane, active, + conducing to contemplation in most men, I betook myselfe to the + nearest fields. (Being in London I commonly dwell in the + <i>suburbes</i>, as airiest, quietest, <i>loci musis + propriores</i>, free from noises of caroches, waggons, mechanick + and base workes, workshoppes, also sights, pageants, spectacles + of outlandish birds, fishes, crocodiles, <i>Indians</i>, + mermaids; adde quarrels, fightings, wranglings of the common + sort, <i>plebs</i>, the rabble, duelloes with fists, proper to + this island, at which the stiletto'd and secrete <i>Italian</i> + laughs.) Withdrawing myselfe from these buzzing and illiterate + vanities, with a <i>bezo las manos</i> to the city, I begin to + inhale, draw in, snuff up, as horses <i>dilatis naribus</i> snort + the fresh aires, with exceeding great delight, when suddenly + there crosses me a procession, sad, heavy, dolourous, tristfull, + melancholick, able to change mirth into dolour, and overcast a + clearer atmosphere than possibly the neighbourhoods of so great a + citty can afford. An old man, a poore man deceased, is borne on + men's shoulders to a poore buriall, without solemnities of + hearse, mourners, plumes, <i>mutæ personæ, those personate actors + that will weep if yee shew them a piece of silver;</i> none of + those customed civilities of children, kinsfolk, + <i>dependants</i>, following the coffin; he died a poore man, his + friends <i>accessores opum</i>, <i>those cronies of his that + stuck by him so long as he had a penny</i>, now leave him, + forsake him, shun him, desert him; they think it much to follow + his putrid and stinking carcase to the grave; his children, if he + had any, for commonly the case stands thus, this poore man his + son dies before him, he survives, poore, indigent, base, + dejected, miserable, &c., or if he have any which survive + him, <i>sua negotia agunt</i>, they mind their own business, + forsooth, cannot, will not, find time, leisure, <i>inclination, + extremum munus perficere</i>, to follow to the pit their old + indulgent father, which loved them, stroked them, caressed them, + cockering them up, <i>quantum potuit</i>, as farre as his means + extended, while they were babes, chits, <i>minims</i>, hee may + rot in his grave, lie stinking in the sun <i>for them</i>, have + no buriall at all, they care not. <i>O nefas!</i> Chiefly I noted + the coffin to have been <i>without a pall</i>, nothing but a few + planks, of cheapest wood that could be had, <i>naked</i>, having + none of the ordinary <i>symptomata</i> of a funerall, those + <i>locularii</i> which bare the body having on diversely coloured + coats, <i>and none black:</i> (one of these reported the deceased + to have been an almsman seven yeares, a pauper, harboured and fed + in the workhouse of St. Giles-in-the-Fields, to whose proper + burying-ground he was now going for interment.) All which when I + behelde, hardly I refrained from weeping, and incontinently I + fell to musing: "If this man had been rich, a <i>Croesus</i>, a + <i>Crassus</i>, <i>or as rich as Whittington</i>, what pompe, + charge, lavish cost, expenditure, of rich buriall, + <i>ceremoniall-obsequies</i>, <i>obsequious ceremonies</i>, had + been thought too good for such an one; what store of panegyricks, + elogies, funeral orations, &c., some beggarly poetaster, + worthy to be beaten for his ill rimes, crying him up, hee was + rich, generous, bountiful, polite, learned, a <i>Mæcenas</i>, + while as in very deede he was nothing lesse: what weeping, + sighing, sorrowing, honing, complaining, kinsmen, friends, + relatives, fourtieth cousins, poor relatives, lamenting for the + deceased; hypocriticall heirs, sobbing, striking their breasts + (they care not if he had died a year ago); so many clients, + dependants, flatterers, <i>parasites, cunning Gnathoes</i>, + tramping on foot after the hearse, all their care is, who shall + stand fairest with the successour; he mean time (like enough) + spurns them from him, spits at them, treads them under his foot, + will have nought to do with any such cattle. I think him in the + right: <i>Hoec sunt majora gravitate Heracliti. These follies are + enough to give crying Heraclitus a fit of the spleene.</i>" + </p> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="farce" id="farce">MR. H——.</a> + </h2> + <h3> + A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS. + </h3> + <h4> + AS IT WAS PERFORMED AT DRURY LANE THEATRE, + <br /> + DECEMBER, 1806. + </h4> + <hr /> + <p> + "Mr. H——, thou wert DAMNED. Bright shone the morning + on the play-bills that announced thy appearance, and the streets + were filled with the buzz of persons asking one another if they + would go to see Mr. H——, and answering that they + would certainly; but before night the gaiety, not of the author, + but of his friends and the town, was eclipsed, for thou wert + DAMNED! Hadst thou been anonymous, thou haply mightst have lived. + Bet thou didst come to an untimely end for thy tricks, and for + want of a better name to pass them off—" <i>Theatrical + Examiner</i>. + </p> + <hr /> + <h4> + CHARACTERS. + </h4> + <pre> +Mr. H—— <i>Mr. Elliston</i>. +BELVIL <i>Mr. Bartley</i>. +LANDLORD PRY <i>Mr. Wewitzer</i>. +MELESINDA <i>Miss Mellon</i>. +MAID TO MELESINDA <i>Mrs. Harlowe</i>. +Gentlemen, Ladies, Waiters, Servants, &c. +</pre> + <h5> + <i>Scene</i>—BATH. + </h5> + <hr /> + <h4> + PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. ELLISTON. + </h4> + <hr class="short" /> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + If we have sinn'd in paring down a name, + </p> + <p> + All civil, well-bred authors do the same. + </p> + <p> + Survey the columns of our daily writers— + </p> + <p> + You'll find that some Initials are great fighters. + </p> + <p> + How fierce the shock, how fatal is the jar, + </p> + <p> + When Ensign W. meets Lieutenant R. + </p> + <p> + With two stout seconds, just of their own gizzard, + </p> + <p> + Cross Captain X. and rough old General Izzard! + </p> + <p> + Letter to Letter spreads the dire alarms, + </p> + <p> + Till half the Alphabet is up in arms. + </p> + <p> + Nor with less lustre have Initials shone, + </p> + <p> + To grace the gentler annals of Crim. Con. + </p> + <p> + Where the dispensers of the public lash + </p> + <p> + Soft penance give; a letter and a dash— + </p> + <p> + Where Vice reduced in size shrinks to a failing, + </p> + <p> + And loses half her grossness by curtailing. + </p> + <p> + Faux pas are told in such a modest way,— + </p> + <p> + "The affair of Colonel B—— with Mrs. + A——" + </p> + <p> + You must forgive them—for what is there, say, + </p> + <p> + Which such a pliant Vowel must not grant + </p> + <p> + To such a very pressing Consonant? + </p> + <p> + Or who poetic justice dares dispute, + </p> + <p> + When, mildly melting at a lover's suit, + </p> + <p> + The wife's a Liquid, her good man a Mute? + </p> + <p> + Even in the homelier scenes of honest life, + </p> + <p> + The coarse-spun intercourse of man and wife, + </p> + <p> + Initials I am told have taken place + </p> + <p> + Of Deary, Spouse, and that old-fashion'd race; + </p> + <p> + And Cabbage, ask'd by brother Snip to tea, + </p> + <p> + Replies, "I'll come—but it don't rest with me— + </p> + <p> + I always leaves them things to Mrs. C." + </p> + <p> + O should this mincing fashion ever spread + </p> + <p> + From names of living heroes to the dead, + </p> + <p> + How would Ambition sigh, and hang the head, + </p> + <p> + As each loved syllable should melt away— + </p> + <p> + Her Alexander turn'd into great A—— + </p> + <p> + A single C. her Cæsar to express— + </p> + <p> + Her Scipio shrunk into a Roman S—— + </p> + <p> + And, nick'd and dock'd to these new modes of speech, + </p> + <p> + Great Hannibal himself a Mr. H——. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h2> + MR. H——. + </h2> + <h4> + A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS. + </h4> + <hr class="short" /> + <h3> + ACT I. + </h3> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>A Public Room in an Inn. Landlord, Waiters, + Gentlemen, &c.</i> + </h5> + <h5> + <i>Enter</i> MR. H. + </h5> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Landlord, has the man brought home my boots? + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord</i>. Yes, Sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> You have paid him? + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord</i>. There is the receipt, Sir, only not quite filled + up, no name, only blank—"Blank, Dr. to Zekiel Spanish for + one pair of best hessians." Now, Sir, he wishes to know what name + he shall put in, who he shall say "Dr." + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Why, Mr. H. to be sure. + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord</i>. So I told him, Sir; but Zekiel has some qualms + about it. He says he thinks that Mr. H. only would not stand good + in law. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Rot his impertinence! Bid him put in + Nebuchadnezzar, and not trouble me with his scruples. + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord</i>. I shall, Sir. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit</i>. + </div> + <h5> + <i>Enter a Waiter.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>Waiter</i>. Sir, Squire Level's man is below, with a hare and + a brace of pheasants for Mr. H. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Give the man half-a-crown, and bid him return my + best respects to his master. Presents, it seems, will find me + out, with any name or no name. + </p> + <h5> + <i>Enter 2d Waiter.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>2d Waiter.</i> Sir, the man that makes up the Directory is at + the door. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Give him a shilling; that is what these fellows + come for. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Waiter.</i> He has sent up to know by what name your Honor + will please to be inserted. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Zounds, fellow, I give him a shilling for leaving + out my name, not for putting it in. This is one of the plaguy + comforts of going anonymous. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit 2d Waiter.</i> + </div> + <h5> + <i>Enter 3d Waiter.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>3d Waiter.</i> Two letters for Mr. H. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit.</i> + </div> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> From ladies (<i>opens them</i>). This from + Melesinda, to remind me of the morning-call I promised; the + pretty creature positively languishes to be made Mrs. H. I + believe I must indulge her (<i>affectedly</i>). This from her + cousin, to bespeak me to some party, I suppose (<i>opening + it</i>),—Oh, "this evening"—"Tea and + cards"—(<i>surveying himself with complacency</i>). Dear + H., thou art certainly a pretty fellow. I wonder what makes thee + such a favorite among the ladies: I wish it may not be owing to + the concealment of thy unfortunate——pshaw! + </p> + <h5> + <i>Enter 4th Waiter.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>4th Waiter.</i> Sir, one Mr. Printagain is inquiring for you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Oh, I remember, the poet; he is publishing by + subscription. Give him a guinea, and tell him he may put me down. + </p> + <p> + <i>4th Waiter</i>. What name shall I tell him, Sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Zounds, he is a poet; let him fancy a name. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit 4th Waiter.</i> + </div> + <h5> + <i>Enter 5th Waiter.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>5th Waiter</i>. Sir, Bartlemy the lame beggar, that you sent a + private donation to last Monday, has by some accident discovered + his benefactor, and is at the door waiting to return thanks. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Oh, poor fellow, who could put it into his head? + Now I shall be teased by all his tribe, when once this is known. + Well, tell him I am glad I could be of any service to him, and + send him away. + </p> + <p> + <i>5th Waiter</i>. I would have done so, Sir; but the object of + his call now, he says, is only to know who he is obliged to. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Why, me. + </p> + <p> + <i>5th Waiter</i>. Yes, Sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Me, me, me; who else, to be sure? + </p> + <p> + <i>5th Waiter</i>. Yes, Sir; but he is anxious to know the name + of his benefactor. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Here is a pampered rogue of a beggar, that cannot + be obliged to a gentleman in the way of his profession, but he + must know the name, birth, parentage, and education of his + benefactor! I warrant you, next he will require a certificate of + one's good behavior, and a magistrate's license in one's pocket, + lawfully empowering so and so to—give an alms. Anything + more? + </p> + <p> + <i>5th Waiter</i>. Yes, Sir; here has been Mr. Patriot, with the + county petition to sign; and Mr. Failtime, that owes so much + money, has sent to remind you of your promise to bail him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Neither of which I can do, while I have no name. + Here is more of the plaguy comforts of going anonymous, that one + can neither serve one's friend nor one's country. Damn it, a man + had better be without a nose, than without a name. I will not + live long in this mutilated, dismembered state; I will to + Melesinda this instant, and try to forget these vexations. + Melesinda! there is music in the name; but then, hang it! there + is none in mine to answer to it. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [Exit. + </div> + <h5> + (<i>While Mr. H. has been speaking, two Gentlemen have been + observing him curiously</i>.) + </h5> + <p> + 1<i>st Gent.</i> Who the devil is this extraordinary personage? + </p> + <p> + 2<i>d Gent.</i> Who? Why, 'tis Mr. H. + </p> + <p> + 1<i>st Gent.</i> Has he no more name? + </p> + <p> + 2<i>d Gent.</i> None that has yet transpired. No more! why, that + single letter has been enough to inflame the imaginations of all + the ladies in Bath. He has been here but a fortnight, and is + already received into all the first families. + </p> + <p> + 1<i>st Gent.</i> Wonderful! yet, nobody know who he is, or where + he comes from! + </p> + <p> + 2<i>d Gent.</i> He is vastly rich, gives away money as if he had + infinity; dresses well, as you see; and for address, the mothers + are all dying for fear the daughters should get him; and for the + daughters, he may command them as absolutely as——. + Melesinda, the rich heiress, 'tis thought, will carry him. + </p> + <p> + 1<i>st Gent.</i> And is it possible that a mere anonymous— + </p> + <p> + 2<i>d Gent.</i> Phoo! that is the charm.—Who is he? and + what is he? and what is his name?——The man with the + great nose on his face never excited more of the gaping passion + of wonderment in the dames of Strasburg, than this new-comer, + with the single letter to his name, has lighted up among the + wives and maids of Bath; his simply having lodgings here, draws + more visitors to the house than an election. Come with me to the + Parade, and I will show you more of him. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exeunt</i>. + </div> + <h5> + SCENE <i>in the Street. Mr. H. walking, BELVIL meeting him.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> My old Jamaica school-fellow, that I have not seen + for so many years? it must—it can be no other than Jack + <i>(going up to him).</i> My dear Ho—— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H. (Stopping his mouth).</i> Ho——! the devil. + Hush. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Why, sure it is—— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> It is, it is your old friend Jack, that shall be + nameless. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> My dear Ho—— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H. (Stopping him).</i> Don't name it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Name what? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> My curst unfortunate name. I have reasons to + conceal it for a time. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> I understand you—Creditors, Jack? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> No, I assure you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Snapp'd up a ward, peradventure, and the whole + Chancery at your heels? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> I don't use to travel with such cumbersome luggage. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> You ha'n't taken a purse? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> To relieve you at once from all disgraceful + conjecture, you must know, 'tis nothing but the sound of my name. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil</i> Ridiculous! 'tis true yours is none of the most + romantic; but what can that signify in a man? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> You must understand that I am in some credit with + the ladies. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> With the ladies! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> And truly I think not without some pretensions. My + fortune— + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Sufficiently splendid, if I may judge from your + appearance. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> My figure— + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Airy, gay, and imposing. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> My parts— + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Bright. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> My conversation— + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Equally remote from flippancy and taciturnity. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> But then my name—damn my name! + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Childish! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Not so. Oh, Belvil, you are blessed with one which + sighing virgins may repeat without a blush, and for it change the + paternal. But what virgin of any delicacy (and I require some in + a wife) would endure to be called Mrs.——? + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Ha, ha, ha! most absurd. Did not Clementina + Falconbridge, the romantic Clementina Falconbridge, fancy Tommy + Potts? and Rosabella Sweetlips sacrifice her mellifluous + appellative to Jack Deady? Matilda her cousin married a Gubbins, + and her sister Amelia a Clutterbuck. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Potts is tolerable, Deady is sufferable, Gubbins is + bearable, and Clutterbuck is endurable, but Ho—— + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Hush, Jack, don't betray yourself. But you are + really ashamed of the family-name? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Ay, and of my father that begot me, and my father's + father, and all their forefathers that have borne it since the + Conquest. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil</i>. But how do you know the women are so squeamish? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. I have tried them. I tell you there is neither + maiden of sixteen nor widow of sixty but would turn up their + noses at it. I have been refused by nineteen virgins, twenty-nine + relicts, and two old maids. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil</i>. That was hard indeed, Jack. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. Parsons have stuck at publishing the banns, because + they averred it was a heathenish name; parents have lingered + their consent, because they suspected it was a fictitious name; + and rivals have declined my challenges, because they pretended it + was an ungentlemanly name. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil</i>. Ha, ha, ha! but what course do you mean to pursue? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. To engage the affections of some generous girl, who + will be content to take me as Mr. H. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil</i>. Mr. H.? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. Yes, that is the name I go by here; you know one + likes to be as near the truth as possible. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil</i>. Certainly. But what then? to get her to + consent— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. To accompany me to the altar without a + name—in short, to suspend her curiosity (that is all) till + the moment the priest shall pronounce the irrevocable charm, + which makes two names one. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil</i>. And that name—and then she must be pleased, + ha, Jack? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. Exactly such a girl it has been my fortune to meet + with; hark'e (<i>whispers</i>)—(<i>musing</i>). Yet, hang + it! 'tis cruel to betray her confidence. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil</i>. But the family-name, Jack? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. As you say, the family-name must be perpetuated. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Though it be but a homely one. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> True; but come, I will show you the house where + dwells this credulous melting fair. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Ha, ha! my old friend dwindled down to one letter. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exeunt.</i> + </div> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>An Apartment in</i> MELESINDA'S <i>House.</i> + MELESINDA <i>sola, as if musing.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>Melesinda.</i> H, H, H. Sure it must be something precious by + its being concealed. It can't be Homer, that is a Heathen's name; + nor Horatio, that is no surname: what if it be Hamlet? the Lord + Hamlet—pretty, and I his poor distracted Ophelia! No,'tis + none of these; 'tis Harcourt or Hargrave, or some such sounding + name, or Howard, high-born Howard, that would do; maybe it is + Harley, methinks my H. resembles Harley, the feeling Harley. But + I hear him! and from his own lips I will once forever be + resolved. + </p> + <h5> + <i>Enter Mr. H.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> My dear Melesinda. + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda.</i> My dear H. that is all you give me power to + swear allegiance to,—to be enamored of inarticulate sounds, + and call with sighs upon an empty letter. But I will know. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> My dear Melesinda, press me no more for the + disclosure of that, which in the face of day so soon must be + revealed. Call it whim, humor, caprice, in me. Suppose, I have + sworn an oath, never, till the ceremony of our marriage is over, + to disclose my true name. + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda.</i> Oh! H, H, H. I cherish here a fire of restless + curiosity which consumes me. 'Tis appetite, passion, call it + whim, caprice, in me. Suppose I have sworn, I must and will know + it this very night. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. Ungenerous Melesinda! I implore you to give me this + one proof of your confidence. The holy vow once past, your H. + shall not have a secret to withhold. + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda</i>. My H. has overcome: his Melesinda shall pine + away and die, before she dare express a saucy inclination; but + what shall I call you till we are married? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. Call me? call me anything, call me Love, Love! ay + Love: Love will do very well. + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda</i>. How many syllables is it, Love? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. How many? ud, that is coming to the question with a + vengeance! One, two, three, four,—what does it signify how + many syllables? + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda</i>. How many syllables, Love? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. My Melesinda's mind, I had hoped, was superior to + this childish curiosity. + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda</i>. How many letters are there in it? + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit</i> MR. H. <i>followed by</i> MELESINDA <i>repeating the + question</i>. + </div> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>A Room in the Inn. Two Waiters disputing</i>. + </h5> + <p> + <i>1st Waiter</i>. Sir Harbottle Hammond, you may depend upon it. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Waiter</i>. Sir Harry Hardcastle, I tell you. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Waiter</i>. The Hammonds of Huntingdonshire. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Waiter</i>. The Hardcastles of Hertfordshire. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Waiter</i>. The Hammonds. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Waiter</i>. Don't tell me: does not Hardcastle begin, with + an H? + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Waiter</i>. So does Hammond for that matter. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Waiter</i>. Faith, so it does if you go to spell it, I did + not think of that. I begin to be of your opinion: he is certainly + a Hammond. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Waiter</i>. Here comes Susan Chambermaid: maybe she can + tell. + </p> + <h5> + <i>Enter</i> SUSAN. + </h5> + <p> + <i>Both</i>. Well, Susan, have you heard anything who the strange + gentleman is? + </p> + <p> + <i>Susan</i>. Haven't you heard? it's all come out! Mrs. + Guesswell, the parson's widow, has been here about it. I + overheard her talking in confidence to Mrs. Setter and Mrs. + Pointer, and she says they were holding a sort of a + <i>cummitty</i> about it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Both</i>. What? What? + </p> + <p> + <i>Susan</i>. There can't be a doubt of it, she says, what from + his <i>figger</i> and the appearance he cuts, and his + <i>sumpshous</i> way of living, and above all from the remarkable + circumstance that his surname should begin with an H., that he + must be— + </p> + <p> + <i>Both</i>. Well, well— + </p> + <p> + <i>Susan</i>. Neither more nor less than the Prince. + </p> + <p> + <i>Both</i>. Prince! + </p> + <p> + <i>Susan</i>. The Prince of Hessey-Cassel in disguise. + </p> + <p> + <i>Both</i>. Very likely, very likely. + </p> + <p> + <i>Susan</i>. Oh, there can't be a doubt on it. Mrs. Guesswell + says she knows it. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Waiter</i>. Now if we could be sure that the Prince of + Hessy what-do-you-call-him was in England on his travels. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Waiter</i>. Get a newspaper. Look in the newspapers. + </p> + <p> + <i>Susan</i>. Fiddle of the newspapers; who else can it be? + </p> + <p> + <i>Both</i>. That is very true (<i>gravely</i>). + </p> + <h5> + <i>Enter</i> LANDLORD. + </h5> + <p> + <i>Landlord</i>. Here, Susan, James, Philip, where are you all? + The London coach is come in, and there is Mr. Fillaside, the fat + passenger, has been bawling for somebody to help him off with his + boots. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>The Chambermaid and Waiters slip out</i>. + </div> + <p> + (<i>Solus</i>.) The house is turned upside down since the strange + gentleman came into it. Nothing but guessing and speculating, and + speculating and guessing; waiters and chambermaids getting into + corners and speculating; hostlers and stable-boys speculating in + the yard; I believe the very horses in the stable are speculating + too, for there they stand in a musing posture, nothing for them + to eat, and not seeming to care whether they have anything or no; + and after all what does it signify? I hate such + curious—odso, I must take this box up into his + bedroom—he charged me to see to it myself;—I hate + such inquisitive—I wonder what is in it—it feels + heavy; (<i>reads</i>) "Leases, title-deeds, wills." Here now a + man might satisfy his curiosity at once. Deeds must have names to + them, so must leases and wills. But I wouldn't—no I + wouldn't—it is a pretty box too—prettily + dovetailed—I admire the fashion of it much. But I'd cut my + fingers off, before I'd do such a dirty—what have I to + do—curse the keys, how they rattle!—rattle in one's + pockets—the keys and the half-pence (<i>takes out a bunch + and plays with them</i>). I wonder if any of these would fit; one + might just try them, but I wouldn't lift up the lid if they did. + Oh no, what should I be the richer for knowing? (<i>All this time + he tries the keys one by one.</i>) What's his name to me? a + thousand names begin with an H. I hate people that are always + prying, poking and prying into things,—thrusting their + finger into one place—a mighty little hole this—and + their keys into another. Oh Lord! little rusty fits it! but what + is that to me? I wouldn't go to—no, no—but it is odd + little rusty should just happen—(<i>While he is turning up + the lid of the box,</i> Mr. H. <i>enters behind him + unperceived.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> What are you about, you dog? + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord.</i> Oh Lord, Sir I pardon; no thief, as I hope to be + saved. Little Pry was always honest. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> What else could move you to open that box? + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord.</i> Sir, don't kill me, and I will confess the whole + truth. This box happened to be lying—that is, I happened to + be carrying this box, and I happened to have my keys out, and + so—little rusty happened to fit— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> So little rusty happened to fit!—and would + not a rope fit that rogue's neck? I see the papers have not been + moved: all is safe, but it was as well to frighten him a little + (<i>aside</i>). Come, Landlord, as I think you honest, and + suspect you only intended to gratify a little foolish + curiosity— + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord</i>. That was all, Sir, upon my veracity. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> For this time I will pass it over. Your name is + Pry, I think? + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord</i>. Yes, Sir, Jeremiah Pry, at your service. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> An apt name: you have a prying temper—I mean + some little curiosity—a sort of inquisitiveness about you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord</i>. A natural thirst after knowledge you may call + it, Sir. When a boy, I was never easy but when I was thrusting up + the lids of some of my schoolfellows' boxes,—not to steal + anything, upon my honor, Sir,—only to see what was in them; + have had pens stuck in my eyes for peeping through keyholes after + knowledge; could never see a cold pie with the legs dangling out + at top, but my fingers were for lifting up the crust,—just + to try if it were pigeon or partridge,—for no other reason + in the world. Surely I think my passion for nuts was owing to the + pleasure of cracking the shell to get at something concealed, + more than to any delight I took in eating the kernel. In short, + Sir, this appetite has grown with my growth. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> You will certainly be hanged some day for peeping + into some bureau or other just to see what is in it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord.</i> That is my fear, Sir. The thumps and kicks I + have had for peering into parcels, and turning of letters inside + out,—just for curiosity. The blankets I have been made to + dance in for searching parish registers for old ladies' + ages,—just for curiosity! Once I was dragged through a + horsepond, only for peeping into a closet that had glass-doors to + it, while my Lady Bluegarters was undressing,—just for + curiosity! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> A very harmless piece of curiosity, truly; and now, + Mr. Pry, first have the goodness to leave that box with me, and + then do me the favor to carry your curiosity so far, as to + inquire if my servants are within. + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord.</i> I shall, Sir. Here, David, Jonathan,—I + think I hear them coming,—shall make bold to leave you, + Sir. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit.</i> + </div> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Another tolerable specimen of the comforts of going + anonymous! + </p> + <h5> + <i>Enter Two Footmen.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>1st Footman.</i> You speak first. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Footman.</i> You had better speak. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Footman.</i> You promised to begin. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> They have something to say to me. The rascals want + their wages raised, I suppose; there is always a favor to be + asked when they come smiling. Well, poor rogues, service is but a + hard bargain at the best. I think I must not be close with them. + Well, David—well, Jonathan. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Footman.</i> We have served your honor faithfully— + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Footman.</i> Hope your honor won't take offence— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> The old story, I suppose—wages? + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Footman.</i> That's not it, your honor. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Footman.</i> You speak. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Footman.</i> But if your honor would just be pleased + to— + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Footman.</i> Only be pleased to— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Be quick with what you have to say, for I am in + haste. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Footman.</i> Just to— + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Footman.</i> Let us know who it is— + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Footman.</i> Who it is we have the honor to serve. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Why me, me, me; you serve me. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Footman.</i> Yes, Sir; but we do not know who you are. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Childish curiosity! do not you serve a rich master, + a gay master, an indulgent master? + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Footman.</i> Ah, Sir! the figure you make is to us, your + poor servants, the principal mortification. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Footman.</i> When we get over a pot at the publichouse, or + in a gentleman's kitchen, or elsewhere, as poor servants must + have their pleasures—when the question goes round, who is + your master? and who do you serve? and one says, I serve Lord + So-and-so, and another, I am Squire Such-a-one's footman— + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Footman</i>. We have nothing to say for it, but that we + serve Mr. H. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Footman</i>. Or Squire H. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. Really you are a couple of pretty modest, + reasonable personages! but I hope you will take it as no offence, + gentlemen, if, upon a dispassionate review of all that you have + said, I think fit not to tell you any more of my name, than I + have chosen for especial purposes to communicate to the rest of + the world. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Footman</i>. Why, then, Sir, you may suit yourself. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Footman</i>. We tell you plainly, we cannot stay. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Footman</i>. We don't choose to serve Mr. H. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Footman</i>. Nor any Mr. or Squire in the alphabet— + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Footman</i>. That lives in Chris-cross Row. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. Go, for a couple of ungrateful, inquisitive, + senseless rascals! Go; hang, starve, or drown!—Rogues, to + speak thus irreverently of the alphabet—I shall live to see + you glad to serve old Q—to curl the wig of great + S—adjust the dot of little i—stand behind the chair + of X, Y, Z—wear the livery of Etcætera—and ride + behind the sulky of And-by-itself-and! + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit in a rage</i>. + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + ACT II. + </h3> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>A handsome Apartment well lighted, Tea, Cards, + &c.—A large party of Ladies and Gentlemen; among them + MELESINDA.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>1st Lady</i>. I wonder when the charming man will be here. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Lady</i>. He is a delightful creature. Such a polish— + </p> + <p> + <i>3d Lady</i>. Such an air in all that he does or says— + </p> + <p> + <i>4th Lady</i>. Yet gifted with a strong understanding— + </p> + <p> + <i>5th Lady</i>. But has your ladyship the remotest idea of what + his true name is? + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Lady</i>. They say, his very servants do not know it. His + French valet, that has lived with him these two years— + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Lady</i>. There, Madam, I must beg leave to set you right; + my coachman— + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Lady</i>. I have it from the very best authority; my + footma—- + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Lady</i>. Then, Madam, you have set your servants on— + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Lady</i>. No, Madam, I would scorn any such little mean + ways of coming at a secret. For my part, I don't think any secret + of that consequence. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Lady</i>. That's just like me; I make a rule of troubling + my head with nobody's business but my own. + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda</i>. But then, she takes care to make everybody's + business her own, and so to justify herself that way— + (<i>Aside</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Lady</i>. My dear Melesinda, you look thoughtful. + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda</i>. Nothing. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Lady</i>. Give it a name. + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda</i>. Perhaps it is nameless. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Lady</i>. As the object—Come, never blush, nor deny + it, child. Bless me, what great ugly thing is that, that dangles + at your bosom? + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda</i>. This? It is a cross: how do you like it? + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Lady</i>. A cross! Well, to me it looks for all the world + like a great staring H. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + <i>(Here a general laugh.)</i> + </div> + <p> + <i>Melesinda</i>. Malicious creatures! Believe me it is a cross, + and nothing but a cross. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Lady</i>. A cross, I believe, you would willingly hang at. + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda</i>. Intolerable spite! + </p> + <div class="rt"> + <i>(MR. H. is announced.)</i> + </div> + <h5> + <i>Enter MR. H.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>1st Lady</i>. O, Mr. H., we are so glad— + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Lady</i>. We have been so dull— + </p> + <p> + <i>3rd Lady</i>. So perfectly lifeless—You owe it to us to + be more than commonly entertaining. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. Ladies, this is so obliging— + </p> + <p> + <i>4th Lady</i>. O, Mr. H., those ranunculas you said were dying, + pretty things, they have got up— + </p> + <p> + <i>5th Lady</i>. I have worked that sprig you commended—I + want you to come— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. Ladies— + </p> + <p> + <i>6th Lady</i>. I have sent for that piece of music from London. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. The Mozart <i>(seeing + MELESINDA)</i>—Melesinda! + </p> + <p> + <i>Several Ladies at once</i>. Nay, positively, Melesinda, you + shan't engross him all to yourself. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>While the ladies are pressing about MR. H., the gentlemen + show signs of displeasure</i>. + </div> + <p> + <i>1st Gent</i>. We shan't be able to edge in a word, now this + coxcomb is come. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Gent</i>. Damn him, I will affront him. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Gent</i>. Sir, with your leave, I have a word to say to + one of these ladies. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Gent</i>. If we could be heard— + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>The Ladies pay no attention but to MR. H</i>. + </div> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. You see, gentlemen, how the matter stands. <i>(Hums + an air.)</i> I am not my own master: positively I exist and + breathe but to be agreeable to these—Did you speak? + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Gent</i>. And affects absence of mind—Puppy! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. Who spoke of absence of mind; did you, Madam? How + do you do, Lady Wearwell—how do? I did not see your + ladyship before—what was I about to + say—O—absence of mind. I am the most unhappy dog in + that way, sometimes spurt out the strangest things—the most + mal-à-propos—without meaning to give the least offence, + upon my honor—sheer absence of mind—things I would + have given the world not to have said. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Gent</i>. Do you hear the coxcomb? + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Lady</i>. Great wits, they say— + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Lady</i>. Your fine geniuses are most given— + </p> + <p> + <i>3d Lady</i>. Men of bright parts are commonly too + vivacious— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. But you shall hear. I was to dine the other day at + a great Nabob's that must be nameless, who, between ourselves, is + strongly suspected of—being very rich, that's all. John, my + valet, who knows my foible, cautioned me, while he was dressing + me, as he usually does where he thinks there's a danger of my + committing a <i>lapsus</i>, to take care in my conversation how I + made any allusion direct or indirect to presents—you + understand me? I set out double charged with my fellow's + consideration and my own; and, to do myself justice, behaved with + tolerable circumspection for the first half-hour or + so,—till at last a gentleman in company, who was indulging + a free vein of raillery at the expense of the ladies, stumbled + upon that expression of the poet, which calls them "fair + defects." + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Lady</i>. It is Pope, I believe, who says it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. No, Madam; Milton. Where was I? Oh, "fair defects." + This gave occasion to a critic in company, to deliver his opinion + on the phrase—that led to an enumeration of all the various + words which might have been used instead of "defect," as want, + absence, poverty, deficiency, lack. This moment I, who had not + been attending to the progress of the argument (as the denouement + will show) starting suddenly up out of one of my reveries, by + some unfortunate connection of ideas, which the last fatal word + had excited, the devil put it into my head to turn round to the + Nabob, who was sitting next me, and in a very marked manner (as + it seemed to the company) to put the question to him, Pray, sir, + what may be the exact value of a lack of rupees? You may guess + the confusion which followed. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Lady</i>. What a distressing circumstance! + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Lady</i>. To a delicate mind—— + </p> + <p> + <i>3d Lady</i>. How embarrassing—— + </p> + <p> + <i>4th Lady</i>. I declare, I quite pity you. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Gent</i>. Puppy! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. A Baronet at the table, seeing my dilemma, jogged + my elbow; and a good-natured Duchess, who does everything with a + grace peculiar to herself, trod on my toes at that instant: this + brought me to myself, and—covered with blushes, and pitied + by all the ladies—I withdrew. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Lady</i>. How charmingly he tells a story. + </p> + <p> + <i>2nd Lady</i>. But how distressing! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr.H</i>. Lord Squandercounsel, who is my particular friend, + was pleased to rally me in his inimitable way upon it next day. I + shall never forget a sensible thing he said on the + occasion—speaking of absence of mind, my foible—says + he, my dear Hogs— + </p> + <p> + <i>Several Ladies</i>. Hogs—what—ha— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr.H</i>. My dear Hogsflesh—my name—(<i>here a + universal scream</i>)—O my cursed unfortunate tongue! H. I + mean—where was I? + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Lady</i>. Filthy—abominable! + </p> + <p> + <i>2nd Lady</i>. Unutterable! + </p> + <p> + <i>3rd Lady</i>. Hogs—foh! + </p> + <p> + <i>4th Lady</i>. Disgusting! + </p> + <p> + <i>5th Lady</i>. Vile! + </p> + <p> + <i>6th Lady</i>. Shocking! + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Lady</i>. Odious! + </p> + <p> + <i>2nd Lady</i>. Hogs—pah! + </p> + <p> + <i>3rd Lady</i>. A smelling-bottle—look to Miss Melesinda. + Poor thing! it is no wonder. You had better keep off from her, + Mr. Hogsflesh, and not be pressing about her in her + circumstances. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Gent</i>. Good time of day to you, Mr.Hogsflesh. + </p> + <p> + <i>2nd Gent</i>. The compliments of the season to you, Mr. + Hogsflesh. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr.H</i>. This is too much—flesh and blood cannot endure + it. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Gent</i>. What flesh?—hog's-flesh? + </p> + <p> + <i>2nd Gent</i>. How he sets up his bristles! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. Bristles! + </p> + <p> + 1<i>st Gent</i>. He looks as fierce as a hog in armor. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. A hog!—Madam!—(<i>here he severally + accosts the Ladies, who by turns repel him</i>.) + </p> + <p> + 1<i>st Lady</i>. Extremely obliged to you for your attentions; + but don't want a partner. + </p> + <p> + 2<i>d Lady</i>. Greatly flattered by your preference: but believe + I shall remain single. + </p> + <p> + 3<i>d Lady</i>. Shall always acknowledge your politeness; but + have no thoughts of altering my condition. + </p> + <p> + 4<i>th Lady</i>. Always be happy to respect you as a friend; but + you must not look for anything further. + </p> + <p> + 5<i>th Lady</i>. No doubt of your ability to make any woman + happy; but have no thoughts of changing my name. + </p> + <p> + 6<i>th Lady</i>. Must tell you, Sir, that if, by your + insinuations, you think to prevail with me, you have got the + wrong sow by the ear. Does he think any lady would go to pig with + him? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old Lady</i>. Must beg you to be less particular in your + addresses to me. Does he take me for a Jew, to long after + forbidden meats? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H</i>. I shall go mad!—to be refused by old Mother + Damnable—she that's so old, nobody knows whether she was + ever manned or no, but passes for a maid by courtesy; her + juvenile exploits being beyond the farthest stretch of + tradition!—Old Mother Damnable! + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exeunt all, either pitying or seeming to avoid him.</i> + </div> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>The Street</i>. + </h5> + <h5> + BELVIL <i>and another Gentleman</i>. + </h5> + <p> + <i>Belvil</i>. Poor Jack, I am really sorry for him. The account + which you give me of his mortifying change of reception at the + assembly, would be highly diverting if it gave me less pain to + hear it. With all his amusing absurdities, and amongst them not + the least, a predominant desire to be thought well of by the fair + sex, he has an abundant share of good-nature, and is a man of + honor. Notwithstanding all that has happened, Melesinda may do + worse than take him yet. But did the women resent it so deeply as + you say? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gent.</i> O intolerably—they fled him as fearfully when + 'twas once blown, as a man would be avoided, who was suddenly + discovered to have marks of the plague, and as fast; when before + they had been ready to devour the foolishest thing he could say. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil</i> Ha! ha! so frail is the tenure by which these + women's favorites commonly hold their envied preëminence. Well, I + must go find him out and comfort him. I suppose, I shall find him + at the inn. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gent.</i> Either there or at Melesinda's—Adieu! + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exeunt.</i> + </div> + <h5> + SCENE.—Mr. H——'s <i>Apartment.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>Mr. H. (solus.)</i> Was ever anything so mortifying? to be + refused by old Mother Damnable!—with such parts and + address,—and the little squeamish devils, to dislike me for + a name, a sound.—Oh my cursed name! that it was something I + could be revenged on! if it were alive, that I might tread upon + it, or crush it, or pummel it, or kick it, or spit it + out—for it sticks in my throat, and will choke me. + </p> + <p> + My plaguy ancestors! if they had left me but a Van, or a Mac, or + an Irish O', it had been something to qualify it.—Mynheer + Van Hogsflesh,—or Sawney Mac Hogsflesh,—or Sir Phelim + O'Hogsflesh,—but downright blunt———. If + it had been any other name in the world, I could have borne it. + If it had been the name of a beast, as Bull, Fox, Kid, Lamb, + Wolf, Lion; or of a bird, as Sparrow, Hawk, Buzzard, Daw, Finch, + Nightingale; or of a fish, as Sprat, Herring, Salmon; or the name + of a thing, as Ginger, Hay, Wood; or of a color, as Black, Gray, + White, Green; or of a sound, as Bray; or the name of a month, as + March, May; or of a place, as Barnet, Baldock, Hitchen; or the + name of a coin, as Farthing, Penny, Twopenny; or of a profession, + as Butcher, Baker, Carpenter, Piper, Fisher, Fletcher, Fowler, + Glover; or a Jew's name, as Solomons, Isaacs, Jacobs; or a + personal name, as Foot, Leg, Crookshanks, Heaviside, Sidebottom, + Longbottom, Ramsbottom, Winterbottom; or a long name, as + Blanchenhagen, or Blanchenhausen; or a short name, as Crib, + Crisp, Crips, Tag, Trot, Tub, Phips, Padge, Papps, or Prig, or + Wig, or Pip, or Trip; Trip had been something, but Ho—-. + (<i>Walks about in great agitation—recovering his calmness + a little, sits down.</i>) + </p> + <p> + Farewell the most distant thoughts of marriage; the + finger-circling ring, the purity figuring glove, the envy-pining + bridemaids, the wishing parson, and the simpering clerk. Farewell + the ambiguous blush-raising joke, the titter-provoking pun, the + morning-stirring drum.—No son of mine shall exist, to bear + my ill-fated name. No nurse come chuckling, to tell me it is a + boy. No midwife, leering at me from under the lids of + professional gravity. I dreamed of caudle.—(<i>Sings in a + melancholy tone.</i>) Lullaby, + Lullaby,—hush-a-by-baby—how like its papa it + is!—(<i>Makes motions as if he was nursing.</i>) And then, + when grown up, "Is this your son, Sir?" "Yes, Sir, a poor copy of + me, a sad young dog,—just what his father was at his + age,—I have four more at home." Oh! oh! oh! + </p> + <h5> + <i>Enter</i> LANDLORD. + </h5> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Landlord, I must pack up tonight; you will see all + my things got ready. + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord.</i> Hope your Honor does not intend to quit the Blue + Boar,—sorry anything has happened. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> He has heard it all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord.</i> Your Honor has had some mortification to be + sure, as a man may say; you have brought your pigs to a fine + market. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Pigs! + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord.</i> What then? take old Pry's advice, and never mind + it. Don't scorch your crackling for 'em, Sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Scorch my crackling! a queer phrase; but I suppose + he don't mean to affront me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord.</i> What is done can't be undone; you can't make a + silken purse out of a sow's ear. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> As you say, Landlord, thinking of a thing does but + augment it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord.</i> Does but <i>hogment</i> it, indeed, Sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H. Hogment</i> it! damn it, I said augment it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord.</i> Lord, Sir, 'tis not everybody has such gift of + fine phrases as your Honor, that can lard his discourse— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Lard! + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord.</i> Suppose they do smoke you— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Smoke me! + </p> + <p> + <i>Landlord.</i> One of my phrases; never mind my words, Sir, my + meaning is good. We all mean the same thing, only you express + yourself one way, and I another, that's all. The meaning's the + same; it is all pork. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> That's another of your phrases, I presume. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Bell rings, and the Landlord called for.</i> + </div> + <p> + <i>Landlord.</i> Anon, anon. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Oh, I wish I were anonymous. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exeunt several ways.</i> + </div> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>Melesinda's Apartment.</i> + </h5> + <h5> + MELESINDA <i>and Maid.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>Maid.</i> Lord, Madam! before I'd take on as you do about a + foolish—what signifies a name? Hogs—Hogs—what + is it—is just as good as any other, for what I see. + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda.</i> Ignorant creature! yet she is perhaps blest in + the absence of those ideas, which, while they add a zest to the + few pleasures which fall to the lot of superior natures to enjoy, + doubly edge the—— + </p> + <p> + <i>Maid.</i> Superior natures! a fig! If he's hog by name, he's + not hog by nature, that don't follow—his name don't make + him anything, does it? He don't grunt the more for it, nor + squeak, that ever I hear; he likes his victuals out of a plate, + as other Christians do; you never see him go to the + trough——- + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda.</i> Unfeeling wretch! yet possibly her + intentions—— + </p> + <p> + <i>Maid.</i> For instance, Madam, my name is Finch—Betty + Finch. I don't whistle the more for that, nor long after + canary-seed while I can get good wholesome mutton—no, nor + you can't catch me by throwing salt on my tail. If you come to + that, hadn't I a young man used to come after me, they said + courted me—his name was Lion, Francis Lion, a tailor; but + though he was fond enough of me, for all that he never offered to + eat me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda.</i> How fortunate that the discovery has been made + before it was too late! Had I listened to his deceits, and, as + the perfidious man had almost persuaded me, precipitated myself + into an inextricable engagement before——- + </p> + <p> + <i>Maid.</i> No great harm if you had. You'd only have bought a + pig in a poke—and what then? Oh, here he comes + creeping——- + </p> + <h5> + <i>Enter</i> MR. H. <i>abject.</i> + </h5> + <p> + Go to her, Mr. Hogs—Hogs—Hogsbristles, what's your + name? Don't be afraid, man—don't give it up—she's not + crying—only <i>summat</i> has made her eyes red—she + has got a sty in her eye, I believe—— <i>(going.)</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda.</i> You are not going, Betty? + </p> + <p> + <i>Maid.</i> O, Madam, never mind me—I shall be back in the + twinkling of a pig's whisker, as they say. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit.</i> + </div> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Melesinda, you behold before you a wretch who would + have betrayed your confidence—but it was love that prompted + him; who would have trick'd you, by an unworthy concealment, into + a participation of that disgrace which a superficial world has + agreed to attach to a name—but with it you would have + shared a fortune not contemptible, and a heart—but 'tis + over now. That name he is content to bear alone—to go where + the persecuted syllables shall be no more heard, or excite no + meaning—some spot where his native tongue has never + penetrated, nor any of his countrymen have landed, to plant their + unfeeling satire, their brutal wit, and national ill + manners—where no Englishmen—<i>(Here</i> MELESINDA, + <i>who has been pouting during this speech, fetches a deep + sigh.)</i> Some yet undiscovered Otaheite, where witless, + unapprehensive savages shall innocently pronounce the ill-fated + sounds, and think them not inharmonious. + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda.</i> Oh! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Who knows but among the female natives might be + found—— + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda.</i> Sir! (<i>raising her head.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> One who would be more kind than—some + Oberea—Queen Oberea. + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda.</i> Oh! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Or what if I were to seek for proofs of reciprocal + esteem among unprejudiced African maids, in Monomotopa? + </p> + <h5> + <i>Enter Servant.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>Servant.</i> Mr. Belvil. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit.</i> + </div> + <h5> + <i>Enter</i> BELVIL. + </h5> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Monomotopa (<i>musing.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Heyday, Jack! what means this mortified face? + nothing has happened, I hope, between this lady and you? I beg + pardon, Madam, but understanding my friend was with you, I took + the liberty of seeking him here. Some little difference possibly + which a third person can adjust—not a word. Will you, + Madam, as this gentleman's friend, suffer me to be the + arbitrator—strange—hark'ee, Jack, nothing has come + out, has there? you understand me. Oh, I guess how it + is—somebody has got at your secret; you haven't blabbed it + yourself, have you? ha! ha! ha! I could find in my + heart—Jack, what would you give me if I should relieve you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> No power of man can relieve me (<i>sighs</i>); but + it must lie at the root, gnawing at the root—here it will + lie. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> No power of man? not a common man, I grant you: + for instance, a subject—it's out of the power of any + subject. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Gnawing at the root—there it will lie. + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Such a thing has been known as a name to be + changed; but not by a subject—(<i>shows a Gazette</i>). + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Gnawing at the root—(<i>suddenly snatches the + paper out of</i> BELVIL'S <i>hand</i>)—ha! pish! nonsense! + give it me—what! (<i>reads</i>) promotions, + bankrupts—a great many bankrupts this week—there it + will lie. (<i>Lays it down, takes it up again, and reads.</i>) + "The King has been graciously pleased"—gnawing at the + root—"graciously pleased to grant unto John + Hogsflesh,"—the devil—"Hogsflesh, Esq., of Sty Hall, + in the county of Hants, his royal license and authority"—O + Lord! O Lord!—"that he and his issue"—me and my + issue—"may take and use the surname and arms of + Bacon"—Bacon, the surname and arms of Bacon—"in + pursuance of an injunction contained in the last will and + testament of Nicholas Bacon, Esq., his late uncle, as well as out + of grateful respect to his memory:"—grateful respect! poor + old soul——-here's more—"and that such arms may + be first duly exemplified "—they shall, I will take care of + that—"according to the laws of arms, and recorded in the + Herald's Office." + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Come, Madam, give me leave to put my own + interpretation upon your silence, and to plead for my friend, + that now that only obstacle which seemed to stand in the way of + your union is removed, you will suffer me to complete the + happiness which my news seems to have brought him, by introducing + him with a new claim to your favor, by the name of Mr. Bacon. + (<i>Takes their hands and joins them, which</i> MELESINDA + <i>seems to give consent to with a smile.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Generous Melesinda! my dear friend—"he and + his issue," me and my issue!—O Lord!— + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> I wish you joy, Jack, with all my heart. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Bacon, Bacon, Bacon—how odd it sounds! I + could never be tired of hearing it. There was Lord Chancellor + Bacon. Methinks I have some of the Verulam blood in me + already.—Methinks I could look through Nature—there + was Friar Bacon, a conjurer,—I feel as if I could conjure + too—— + </p> + <h5> + <i>Enter a Servant.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>Servant.</i> Two young ladies and an old lady are at the door, + inquiring if you see company, Madam. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> "Surname and arms"— + </p> + <p> + <i>Melesinda.</i> Show them up.—My dear Mr. Bacon, moderate + your joy. + </p> + <h5> + <i>Enter three Ladies, being part of those who were at the + Assembly.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>1st Lady.</i> My dear Melesinda, how do you do? + </p> + <p> + <i>2nd Lady.</i> How do you do? We have been so concerned for + you——- + </p> + <p> + <i>Old Lady.</i> We have been so concerned—(<i>seeing + him</i>)—Mr. Hogsflesh——- + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> There's no such person—nor there never + was—nor 'tis not fit there should be—"surname and + arms"— + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> It is true what my friend would express; we have + been all in a mistake, ladies. Very true, the name of this + gentleman was what you call it, but it is so no longer. The + succession to the long-contested Bacon estate is at length + decided, and with it my friend succeeds to the name of his + deceased relative. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> "His Majesty has been graciously pleased"— + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Lady.</i> I am sure we all join in hearty + congratulation—<i>(sighs).</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>2nd Lady.</i> And wish you joy with all our hearts— + <i>(heigh ho!)</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Old Lady.</i> And hope you will enjoy the name and estate many + years—<i>(cries).</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Belvil.</i> Ha! ha! ha! mortify them a little, Jack. + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Lady.</i> Hope you intend to stay— + </p> + <p> + <i>2nd Lady.</i> With us some time— + </p> + <p> + <i>Old Lady.</i> In these parts— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Ladies, for your congratulations I thank you; for + the favors you have lavished on me, and in particular for this + lady's <i>(turning to the old Lady)</i> good opinion, I rest your + debtor. As to any future favors—<i>(accosts them severally + in the order in which he was refused by them at the + assembly)</i>—Madam, shall always acknowledge your + politeness; but at present, you see, I am engaged with a partner. + Always be happy to respect you as a friend, but you must not look + for anything further. Must beg of you to be less particular in + your addresses to me. Ladies all, with this piece of advice, of + Bath and you + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + Your ever grateful servant takes his leave. + </p> + <p> + Lay your plans surer when you plot to grieve; + </p> + <p> + See, while you kindly mean to mortify + </p> + <p> + Another, the wild arrow do not fly, + </p> + <p> + And gall yourself. For once you've been mistaken; + </p> + <p> + Your shafts have miss'd their aim—Hogsflesh has + </p> + <p> + saved his Bacon. + </p> + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="poems" id="poems">POEMS.</a> + </h2> + <h3> + DEDICATION[1] + </h3> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: Prefixed to the Author's works published in 1818. + </div> + <hr class="short" /> + <h4> + TO S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ. + </h4> + <p> + My Dear Coleridge, + </p> + <p> + You will smile to see the slender labors of your friend + designated by the title of <i>Works;</i> but such was the wish of + the gentlemen who have kindly undertaken the trouble of + collecting them, and from their judgment could be no appeal. + </p> + <p> + It would be a kind of disloyalty to offer to any one but yourself + a volume containing the <i>early pieces,</i> which were first + published among your poems, and were fairly derivatives from you + and them. My friend Lloyd and myself came into our first battle + (authorship is a sort of warfare) under cover of the greater + Ajax. How this association, which shall always be a dear and + proud recollection to me, came to be broken,—who snapped + the threefold cord,—whether yourself (but I know that was + not the case) grew ashamed of your former companions,—or + whether (which is by much the more probable) some ungracious + bookseller was author of the separation,—I cannot + tell;—but wanting the support of your friendly elm, (I + speak for myself,) my vine has, since that time, put forth few or + no fruits; the sap (if ever it had any) has become, in a manner, + dried up and extinct; and you will find your old associate, in + his second volume, dwindled into prose and <i>criticism.</i> + </p> + <p> + Am I right in assuming this as the cause? or is it that, as years + come upon us, (except with some more healthy-happy spirits,) Life + itself loses much of its Poetry for us? we transcribe but what we + read in the great volume of Nature; and, as the characters grow + dim, we turn off, and look another way. You yourself write no + Christabels, nor Ancient Mariners, now. + </p> + <p> + Some of the Sonnets, which shall be carelessly turned over by the + general reader, may happily awaken in you remembrances, which I + should be sorry should be ever totally extinct—the memory + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "Of summer days and of delightful years—" + </p> + </div> + <p> + even so far back as to those old suppers at our old ...... + Inn,—when life was fresh, and topics exhaustless,—and + you first kindled in me, if not the power, yet the love of + poetry, and beauty, and kindliness.— + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "What words have I heard + </p> + <p> + Spoke at the Mermaid!" + </p> + </div> + <p> + The world has given you many a shrewd nip and gird since that + time, but either my eyes are grown dimmer, or my old friend is + the <i>same</i> who stood before me three-and-twenty years + ago—his hair a little confessing the hand of Time, but + still shrouding the same capacious brain,—his heart not + altered, scarcely where it "alteration finds." + </p> + <p> + One piece, Coleridge, I have ventured to publish in its original + form, though I have heard you complain of a certain + over-imitation of the antique in the style. If I could see any + way of getting rid of the objection, without rewriting it + entirely, I would make some sacrifices. But when I wrote John + Woodvil, I never proposed to myself any distinct deviation from + common English. I had been newly initiated in the writings of our + elder dramatists: Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger, were then + a <i>first love</i>; and from what I was so freshly conversant + in, what wonder if my language imperceptibly took a tinge? The + very time which I had chosen for my story, that which immediately + followed the Restoration, seemed to require, in an English play, + that the English should be of rather an older cast than that of + the precise year in which it happened to be written. I wish it + had not some faults, which I can less vindicate than the + language. + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + I remain, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + My dear Coleridge, + </p> + <p class="i8"> + Yours, + </p> + <p class="i4"> + With unabated esteem, + </p> + <p class="i10"> + C. LAMB. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h2> + POEMS + </h2> + <hr class="short" /> + <h3> + <a name="hestr" id="hestr">HESTER.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + When maidens such as Hester die, + </p> + <p> + Their place ye may not well supply, + </p> + <p> + Though ye among a thousand try, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + With vain endeavor. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + A month or more hath she been dead, + </p> + <p> + Yet cannot I by force be led + </p> + <p> + To think upon the wormy bed, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And her together. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + A springy motion in her gait, + </p> + <p> + A rising step, did indicate + </p> + <p> + Of pride and joy no common rate, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + That flush'd her spirit. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + I know not by what name beside + </p> + <p> + I shall it call:—if 'twas not pride, + </p> + <p> + It was a joy to that allied, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + She did inherit. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Her parents held the Quaker rule, + </p> + <p> + Which doth the human feeling cool, + </p> + <p> + But she was train'd in Nature's school, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Nature had blest her. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + A waking eye, a prying mind, + </p> + <p> + A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, + </p> + <p> + A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Ye could not Hester. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + My sprightly neighbor! gone before + </p> + <p> + To that unknown and silent shore, + </p> + <p> + Shall we not meet, as heretofore, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Some summer morning, + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + When from thy cheerful eyes a ray + </p> + <p> + Hath struck a bliss upon the day, + </p> + <p> + A bliss that would not go away, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + A sweet fore-warning? + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="lloyd" id="lloyd">TO CHARLES LLOYD.</a> + </h3> + <h5> + AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. + </h5> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Alone, obscure, without a friend, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + A cheerless, solitary thing, + </p> + <p> + Why seeks, my Lloyd, the stranger out? + </p> + <p class="i2"> + What offering can the stranger bring + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Of social scenes, home-bred delights, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + That him in aught compensate may + </p> + <p> + For Stowey's pleasant winter nights, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + For loves and friendships far away? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + In brief oblivion to forego + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Friends, such as thine, so justly dear, + </p> + <p> + And be awhile with me content + </p> + <p class="i2"> + To stay, a kindly loiterer, here: + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + For this a gleam of random joy + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek; + </p> + <p> + And, with an o'ercharged bursting heart, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + I feel the thanks I cannot speak. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Oh! sweet are all the Muses' lays, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And sweet the charm of matin bird; + </p> + <p> + 'Twas long since these estrangèd ears + </p> + <p class="i2"> + The sweeter voice of friend had heard. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds + </p> + <p class="i2"> + In memory's ear in after-time + </p> + <p> + Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + For, when the transient charm is fled, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And when the little week is o'er, + </p> + <p> + To cheerless, friendless, solitude + </p> + <p class="i2"> + When I return, as heretofore; + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Long, long, within my aching heart + </p> + <p class="i2"> + The grateful sense shall cherish'd be; + </p> + <p> + I'll think less meanly of myself, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + That Lloyd will sometimes think on me. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="frend" id="frend">THE THREE FRIENDS.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Three young maids in friendship met; + </p> + <p> + Mary, Martha, Margaret. + </p> + <p> + Margaret was tall and fair, + </p> + <p> + Martha shorter by a hair; + </p> + <p> + If the first excell'd in feature, + </p> + <p> + Th' other's grace and ease were greater; + </p> + <p> + Mary, though to rival loth, + </p> + <p> + In their best gifts equall'd both. + </p> + <p> + They a due proportion kept; + </p> + <p> + Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept; + </p> + <p> + Margaret joy'd when any good + </p> + <p> + She of Martha understood; + </p> + <p> + And in sympathy for either + </p> + <p> + Mary was outdone by neither. + </p> + <p> + Thus far, for a happy space, + </p> + <p> + All three ran an equal race, + </p> + <p> + A most constant friendship proving, + </p> + <p> + Equally beloved and loving; + </p> + <p> + All their wishes, joys, the same; + </p> + <p> + Sisters only not in name. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + Fortune upon each one smiled, + </p> + <p> + As upon a fav'rite child; + </p> + <p> + Well to do and well to see + </p> + <p> + Were the parents of all three; + </p> + <p> + Till on Martha's father crosses + </p> + <p> + Brought a flood of worldly losses, + </p> + <p> + And his fortunes rich and great + </p> + <p> + Changed at once to low estate: + </p> + <p> + Under which o'erwhelming blow + </p> + <p> + Martha's mother was laid low; + </p> + <p> + She a hapless orphan left, + </p> + <p> + Of maternal care bereft, + </p> + <p> + Trouble following trouble fast, + </p> + <p> + Lay in a sick-bed at last. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + In the depth of her affliction + </p> + <p> + Martha now receiv'd conviction, + </p> + <p> + That a true and faithful friend + </p> + <p> + Can the surest comfort lend. + </p> + <p> + Night and day, with friendship tried, + </p> + <p> + Ever constant by her side + </p> + <p> + Was her gentle Mary found, + </p> + <p> + With a love that knew no bound; + </p> + <p> + And the solace she imparted + </p> + <p> + Saved her dying broken-hearted. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + In this scene of earthly things + </p> + <p> + Not one good unmixèd springs. + </p> + <p> + That which had to Martha proved + </p> + <p> + A sweet consolation, moved + </p> + <p> + Different feelings of regret + </p> + <p> + In the mind of Margaret. + </p> + <p> + She, whose love was not less dear, + </p> + <p> + Nor affection less sincere + </p> + <p> + To her friend, was, by occasion + </p> + <p> + Of more distant habitation, + </p> + <p> + Fewer visits forced to pay her; + </p> + <p> + When no other cause did stay her; + </p> + <p> + And her Mary living nearer, + </p> + <p> + Margaret began to fear her, + </p> + <p> + Lest her visits day by day + </p> + <p> + Martha's heart should steal away. + </p> + <p> + That whole heart she ill could spare her, + </p> + <p> + Where till now she'd been a sharer. + </p> + <p> + From this cause with grief she pined, + </p> + <p> + Till at length her health declined. + </p> + <p> + All her cheerful spirits flew, + </p> + <p> + Fast as Martha's gather'd new; + </p> + <p> + And her sickness waxèd sore, + </p> + <p> + Just when Martha felt no more. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Mary, who had quick suspicion + </p> + <p> + Of her alter'd friend's condition, + </p> + <p> + Seeing Martha's convalescence + </p> + <p> + Less demanded now her presence, + </p> + <p> + With a goodness, built on reason, + </p> + <p> + Changed her measures with the season; + </p> + <p> + Turn'd her steps from Martha's door, + </p> + <p> + Went where she was wanted more; + </p> + <p> + All her care and thoughts were set + </p> + <p> + Now to tend on Margaret. + </p> + <p> + Mary living 'twixt the two, + </p> + <p> + From her home could oft'ner go, + </p> + <p> + Either of her friends to see, + </p> + <p> + Than they could together be. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + Truth explain'd is to suspicion + </p> + <p> + Evermore the best physician. + </p> + <p> + Soon her visits had the effect; + </p> + <p> + All that Margaret did suspect, + </p> + <p> + From her fancy vanish'd clean; + </p> + <p> + She was soon what she had been, + </p> + <p> + And the color she did lack + </p> + <p> + To her faded cheek came back. + </p> + <p> + Wounds which love had made her feel, + </p> + <p> + Love alone had power to heal. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + Martha, who the frequent visit + </p> + <p> + Now had lost, and sore did miss it, + </p> + <p> + With impatience waxèd cross, + </p> + <p> + Counted Margaret's gain her loss: + </p> + <p> + All that Mary did confer + </p> + <p> + On her friend, thought due to her. + </p> + <p> + In her girlish bosom rise + </p> + <p> + Little foolish jealousies, + </p> + <p> + Which into such rancor wrought, + </p> + <p> + She one day for Margaret sought; + </p> + <p> + Finding her by chance alone, + </p> + <p> + She began, with reasons shown, + </p> + <p> + To insinuate a fear + </p> + <p> + Whether Mary was sincere; + </p> + <p> + Wish'd that Margaret would take heed + </p> + <p> + Whence her actions did proceed. + </p> + <p> + For herself, she'd long been minded + </p> + <p> + Not with outsides to be blinded; + </p> + <p> + All that pity and compassion, + </p> + <p> + She believed was affectation; + </p> + <p> + In her heart she doubted whether + </p> + <p> + Mary cared a pin for either. + </p> + <p> + She could keep whole weeks at distance, + </p> + <p> + And not know of their existence, + </p> + <p> + While all things remain'd the same; + </p> + <p> + But, when some misfortune came, + </p> + <p> + Then she made a great parade + </p> + <p> + Of her sympathy and aid,— + </p> + <p> + Not that she did really grieve, + </p> + <p> + It was only <i>make-believe</i>, + </p> + <p> + And she cared for nothing, so + </p> + <p> + She might her fine feelings show, + </p> + <p> + And get credit, on her part, + </p> + <p> + For a soft and tender heart. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + With such speeches, smoothly made, + </p> + <p> + She found methods to persuade + </p> + <p> + Margaret (who being sore + </p> + <p> + From the doubts she'd felt before, + </p> + <p> + Was preparèd for mistrust) + </p> + <p> + To believe her reasons just; + </p> + <p> + Quite destroy'd that comfort glad, + </p> + <p> + Which in Mary late she had; + </p> + <p> + Made her, in experience' spite, + </p> + <p> + Think her friend a hypocrite, + </p> + <p> + And resolve, with cruel scoff, + </p> + <p> + To renounce and cast her off. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + See how good turns are rewarded! + </p> + <p> + She of both is now discarded, + </p> + <p> + Who to both had been so late + </p> + <p> + Their support in low estate, + </p> + <p> + All their comfort, and their stay— + </p> + <p> + Now of both is cast away. + </p> + <p> + But the league her presence cherish'd, + </p> + <p> + Losing its best prop, soon perish'd; + </p> + <p> + She, that was a link to either, + </p> + <p> + To keep them and it together, + </p> + <p> + Being gone, the two (no wonder) + </p> + <p> + That were left, soon fell asunder;— + </p> + <p> + Some civilities were kept, + </p> + <p> + But the heart of friendship slept; + </p> + <p> + Love with hollow forms was fed, + </p> + <p> + But the life of love lay dead:— + </p> + <p> + A cold intercourse they held, + </p> + <p> + After Mary was expell'd. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + Two long years did intervene + </p> + <p> + Since they'd either of them seen, + </p> + <p> + Or, by letter, any word + </p> + <p> + Of their old companion heard,— + </p> + <p> + When, upon a day once walking, + </p> + <p> + Of indifferent matters talking, + </p> + <p> + They a female figure met; + </p> + <p> + Martha said to Margaret, + </p> + <p> + "That young maid in face does carry + </p> + <p> + A resemblance strong of Mary." + </p> + <p> + Margaret, at nearer sight, + </p> + <p> + Own'd her observation right; + </p> + <p> + But they did not far proceed + </p> + <p> + Ere they knew 'twas she indeed. + </p> + <p> + She—but, ah I how changed they view her + </p> + <p> + From that person which they knew her! + </p> + <p> + Her fine face disease had scarr'd, + </p> + <p> + And its matchless beauty marr'd:— + </p> + <p> + But enough was left to trace + </p> + <p> + Mary's sweetness—Mary's grace. + </p> + <p> + When her eye did first behold them, + </p> + <p> + How they blush'd!—but, when she told them, + </p> + <p> + How on a sick-bed she lay + </p> + <p> + Months, while they had kept away, + </p> + <p> + And had no inquiries made + </p> + <p> + If she were alive or dead;— + </p> + <p> + How, for want of a true friend, + </p> + <p> + She was brought near to her end, + </p> + <p> + And was like so to have died, + </p> + <p> + With no friend at her bedside;— + </p> + <p> + How the constant irritation, + </p> + <p> + Caused by fruitless expectation + </p> + <p> + Of their coming, had extended + </p> + <p> + The illness, when she might have mended,— + </p> + <p> + Then, O then, how did reflection + </p> + <p> + Come on them with recollection! + </p> + <p> + All that she had done for them, + </p> + <p> + How it did their fault condemn! + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + But sweet Mary, still the same, + </p> + <p> + Kindly eased them of their shame; + </p> + <p> + Spoke to them with accents bland, + </p> + <p> + Took them friendly by the hand; + </p> + <p> + Bound them both with promise fast. + </p> + <p> + Not to speak of troubles past; + </p> + <p> + Made them on the spot declare + </p> + <p> + A new league of friendship there; + </p> + <p> + Which, without a word of strife, + </p> + <p> + Lasted thenceforth long as life. + </p> + <p> + Martha now and Margaret + </p> + <p> + Strove who most should pay the debt + </p> + <p> + Which they owed her, nor did vary + </p> + <p> + Ever after from their Mary. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="drown" id="drown">TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS + DROWNED.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Smiling river, smiling river, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + On thy bosom sunbeams play; + </p> + <p> + Though they're fleeting, and retreating, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Thou hast more deceit than they. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + In thy channel, in thy channel, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Choked with ooze and grav'lly stones, + </p> + <p> + Deep immersed, and unhearsed, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Lies young Edward's corse: his bones + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Ever whitening, ever whitening, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + As thy waves against them dash; + </p> + <p> + What thy torrent, in the current, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Swallow'd, now it helps to wash. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + As if senseless, as if senseless + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Things had feeling in this case; + </p> + <p> + What so blindly, and unkindly, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + It destroy'd, it now does grace. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="faces" id="faces">THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + I have had playmates, I have had companions, + </p> + <p> + In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days, + </p> + <p> + All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + I have been laughing, I have been carousing, + </p> + <p> + Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies, + </p> + <p> + All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + I loved a love once, fairest among women; + </p> + <p> + Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her— + </p> + <p> + All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; + </p> + <p> + Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; + </p> + <p> + Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Ghostlike I paced round the haunts of my childhood. + </p> + <p> + Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, + </p> + <p> + Seeking to find the old familiar faces. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, + </p> + <p> + Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? + </p> + <p> + So might we talk of the old familiar faces,— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + How some they have died, and some they have left me, + </p> + <p> + And some are taken from me; all are departed; + </p> + <p> + All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="helen" id="helen">HELEN.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + High-born Helen, round your dwelling + </p> + <p class="i2"> + These twenty years I've paced in vain: + </p> + <p> + Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Hath been to glory in his pain. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + High-born Helen, proudly telling + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Stories of thy cold disdain; + </p> + <p> + I starve, I die, now you comply, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And I no longer can complain. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + These twenty years I've lived on tears, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Dwelling forever on a frown; + </p> + <p> + On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread; + </p> + <p class="i2"> + I perish now you kind are grown. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Can I, who loved my beloved + </p> + <p class="i2"> + But for the scorn "was in her eye," + </p> + <p> + Can I be moved for my beloved, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + When she "returns me sigh for sigh?" + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + In stately pride, by my bedside, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + High-born Helen's portrait's hung; + </p> + <p> + Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Are nightly to the portrait sung. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + To that I weep, nor ever sleep, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Complaining all night long to her— + </p> + <p> + <i>Helen, grown old, no longer cold,</i> + </p> + <p class="i2"> + <i>Said,</i> "You to all men I prefer." + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="vision" id="vision">A VISION OF REPENTANCE.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + I saw a famous fountain, in my dream, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Where shady pathways to a valley led; + </p> + <p> + A weeping willow lay upon that stream, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And all around the fountain brink were spread + </p> + <p> + Wide-branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Forming a doubtful twilight—desolate and sad. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + The place was such, that whoso enter'd in, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Disrobèd was of every earthly thought, + </p> + <p> + And straight became as one that knew not sin, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Or to the world's first innocence was brought; + </p> + <p> + Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + A most strange calm stole o'er my soothèd sprite; + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Long time I stood, and longer had I staid, + </p> + <p> + When lo! I saw, saw by the sweet moonlight, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Which came in silence o'er that silent shade, + </p> + <p> + Where, near the fountain, SOMETHING like DESPAIR + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Made, of that weeping-willow, garlands for her hair. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + And eke with painful fingers she inwove + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn— + </p> + <p> + "The willow garland, <i>that</i> was for her love, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And <i>these</i> her bleeding temples would adorn." + </p> + <p> + With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + To whom when I addrest myself to speak, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said; + </p> + <p> + The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And gath'ring up her loose attire, she fled + </p> + <p> + To the dark covert of that woody shade, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And in her goings seem'd a timid gentle maid. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Revolving in my mind what this should mean, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And why that lovely lady plainèd so; + </p> + <p> + Perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And doubting if 'twere best to stay or go, + </p> + <p> + I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + When from the shades came slow a small and plaintive sound. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + "Psyche am I, who love to dwell + </p> + <p> + In these brown shades, this woody dell, + </p> + <p> + Where never busy mortal came, + </p> + <p> + Till now, to pry upon my shame. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + "At thy feet what dost thou see + </p> + <p> + The waters of repentance be, + </p> + <p> + Which, night and day, I must augment + </p> + <p> + With tears, like a true penitent, + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + "If haply so my day of grace + </p> + <p> + Be not yet past; and this lone place, + </p> + <p> + O'ershadowy, dark, excludeth hence + </p> + <p> + All thoughts but grief and penitence." + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>"Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid!</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>And wherefore in this barren shade</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed?</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Can thing so fair repentance need?"</i> + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + "O! I have done a deed of shame, + </p> + <p> + And tainted is my virgin fame, + </p> + <p> + And stain'd the beauteous maiden white + </p> + <p> + In which my bridal robes were dight." + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>"And who the promised spouse? declare:</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>And what those bridal garments were."</i> + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + "Severe and saintly righteousness + </p> + <p> + Composed the clear white bridal dress; + </p> + <p> + JESUS, the Son of Heaven's high King, + </p> + <p> + Bought with his blood the marriage ring. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + "A wretched sinful creature, I + </p> + <p> + Deem'd lightly of that sacred tie, + </p> + <p> + Gave to a treacherous WORLD my heart, + </p> + <p> + And play'd the foolish wanton's part. + </p> + <p> + Soon to these murky shades I came, + </p> + <p> + To hide from the sun's light my shame. + </p> + <p> + And still I haunt this woody dell, + </p> + <p> + And bathe me in that healing well, + </p> + <p> + Whose waters clear have influence + </p> + <p> + From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse; + </p> + <p> + And, night and day, I them augment, + </p> + <p> + With tears, like a true penitent, + </p> + <p> + Until, due expiation made, + </p> + <p> + And fit atonement fully paid, + </p> + <p> + The Lord and Bridegroom me present, + </p> + <p> + Where in sweet strains of high consent, + </p> + <p> + God's throne before, the Seraphim + </p> + <p> + Shall chant the ecstatic marriage hymn." + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + "Now Christ restore thee soon"—I said, + </p> + <p> + And thenceforth all my dream was fled. + </p> + </div> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="dial" id="dial">DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + CHILD + </p> + <p> + O Lady, lay your costly robes aside. + </p> + <p> + No longer may you glory in your pride. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + MOTHER + </p> + <p> + Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear + </p> + <p> + Sad songs were made so long ago, my dear? + </p> + <p> + This day I am to be a bride, you know, + </p> + <p> + Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + CHILD + </p> + <p> + O mother, lay your costly robes aside, + </p> + <p> + For you may never be another's bride. + </p> + <p> + That line I learn'd not in the old sad song. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + MOTHER + </p> + <p> + I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue, + </p> + <p> + Play with the bridemaids; and be glad, my boy, + </p> + <p> + For thou shalt be a second father's joy. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + CHILD. + </p> + <p> + One father fondled me upon his knee. + </p> + <p> + One father is enough, alone, for me. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="orian" id="orian">QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + On a bank with roses shaded, + </p> + <p> + Whose sweet scent the violets aided, + </p> + <p> + Violets whose breath alone + </p> + <p> + Yields but feeble smell or none, + </p> + <p> + (Sweeter bed Jove ne'er reposed on + </p> + <p> + When his eyes Olympus closed on,) + </p> + <p> + While o'erhead six slaves did hold + </p> + <p> + Canopy of cloth o' gold, + </p> + <p> + And two more did music keep, + </p> + <p> + Which might Juno lull to sleep, + </p> + <p> + Oriana, who was queen + </p> + <p> + To the mighty Tamerlane, + </p> + <p> + That was lord of all the land + </p> + <p> + Between Thrace and Samarchand, + </p> + <p> + While the noontide fervor beam'd, + </p> + <p> + Mused himself to sleep, and <i>dream'd</i>. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Thus far, in magnific strain, + </p> + <p> + A young poet soothed his vein, + </p> + <p> + But he had nor prose nor numbers, + </p> + <p> + To express a princess' slumbers.— + </p> + <p> + Youthful Richard had strange fancies, + </p> + <p> + Was deep versed in old romances, + </p> + <p> + And could talk whole hours upon + </p> + <p> + The Great Cham and Prester John,— + </p> + <p> + Tell the field in which the Sophi + </p> + <p> + From the Tartar won a trophy— + </p> + <p> + What he read with such delight of, + </p> + <p> + Thought he could as eas'ly write of— + </p> + <p> + But his over-young invention + </p> + <p> + Kept not pace with brave intention. + </p> + <p> + Twenty suns did rise and set, + </p> + <p> + And he could no further get; + </p> + <p> + But, unable to proceed, + </p> + <p> + Made a virtue out of need, + </p> + <p> + And, his labors wiselier deem'd of, + </p> + <p> + Did omit <i>what the queen dream'd of</i>. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="ballad" id="ballad">A BALLAD.</a> + </h3> + <h4> + NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF A RICH + NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE. + </h4> + <p> + <i>To the Tune of the "Old and Young Courtier."</i> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold; + </p> + <p> + In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold: + </p> + <p> + There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire, + </p> + <p> + Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine, + </p> + <p> + They have store of good venison, with old canary wine, + </p> + <p> + With singing and music to heighten the cheer; + </p> + <p> + Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + In a costly palace Youth is still carest + </p> + <p> + By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord's jest; + </p> + <p> + In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails: + </p> + <p> + Does Age begin to prattle?—no man heark'neth to his + tales. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + In a costly palace if the child with a pin + </p> + <p> + Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is + called in; + </p> + <p> + In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish + </p> + <p> + For want of proper cordials, which their old age might + cherish. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust; + </p> + <p> + In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust, + </p> + <p> + Thinks upon the former days, when he was well to do, + </p> + <p> + Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + In a costly palace Youth his temples hides + </p> + <p> + With a new-devised peruke that reaches to his sides; + </p> + <p> + In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare, + </p> + <p> + With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride, + </p> + <p> + To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side, + </p> + <p> + That none to do them injury may have pretence; + </p> + <p> + Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="hypo" id="hypo">HYPOCHONDRIACUS.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + By myself walking, + </p> + <p> + To myself talking, + </p> + <p> + When as I ruminate + </p> + <p> + On my untoward fate, + </p> + <p> + Scarcely seem I + </p> + <p> + Alone sufficiently, + </p> + <p> + Black thoughts continually + </p> + <p> + Crowding my privacy; + </p> + <p> + They come unbidden, + </p> + <p> + Like foes at a wedding, + </p> + <p> + Thrusting their faces + </p> + <p> + In better guests' places, + </p> + <p> + Peevish and malecontent, + </p> + <p> + Clownish, impertinent, + </p> + <p> + Dashing the merriment: + </p> + <p> + So in like fashions + </p> + <p> + Dim cogitations + </p> + <p> + Follow and haunt me, + </p> + <p> + Striving to daunt me, + </p> + <p> + In my heart festering, + </p> + <p> + In my ears whispering, + </p> + <p> + "Thy friends are treacherous, + </p> + <p> + Thy foes are dangerous, + </p> + <p> + Thy dreams ominous." + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + Fierce Anthropophagi, + </p> + <p> + Spectra, Diaboli, + </p> + <p> + What scared St. Anthony, + </p> + <p> + Hobgoblins, Lemures, + </p> + <p> + Dreams of Antipodes, + </p> + <p> + Night-riding Incubi, + </p> + <p> + Troubling the fantasy, + </p> + <p> + All dire illusions + </p> + <p> + Causing confusions; + </p> + <p> + Figments heretical, + </p> + <p> + Scruples fantastical, + </p> + <p> + Doubts diabolical; + </p> + <p> + Abaddon vexeth me, + </p> + <p> + Mahu perplexeth me, + </p> + <p> + Lucifer teareth me—— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus + Inimici.</i> + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="tobac" id="tobac">A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + May the Babylonish curse + </p> + <p> + Straight confound my stammering verse, + </p> + <p> + If I can a passage see + </p> + <p> + In this word-perplexity, + </p> + <p> + Or a fit expression find, + </p> + <p> + Or a language to my mind, + </p> + <p> + (Still the phrase is wide or scant) + </p> + <p> + To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT! + </p> + <p> + Or in any terms relate + </p> + <p> + Half my love, or half my hate: + </p> + <p> + For I hate, yet love, thee so, + </p> + <p> + That, whichever thing I show, + </p> + <p> + The plain truth will seem to be + </p> + <p> + A constrain'd hyperbole, + </p> + <p> + And the passion to proceed + </p> + <p> + More from a mistress than a weed. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + Sooty retainer to the vine, + </p> + <p> + Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; + </p> + <p> + Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon + </p> + <p> + Thy begrimed complexion, + </p> + <p> + And, for thy pernicious sake, + </p> + <p> + More and greater oaths to break + </p> + <p> + Than reclaimèd lovers take + </p> + <p> + 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay + </p> + <p> + Much too in the female way, + </p> + <p> + While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath + </p> + <p> + Faster than kisses or than death. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, + </p> + <p> + That our worst foes cannot find us, + </p> + <p> + And ill-fortune, that would thwart us. + </p> + <p> + Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; + </p> + <p> + While each man, through thy height'ning steam, + </p> + <p> + Does like a smoking Etna seem, + </p> + <p> + And all about us does express + </p> + <p> + (Fancy and wit in richest dress) + </p> + <p> + A Sicilian fruitfulness. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + Thou through such a mist dost show us, + </p> + <p> + That our best friends do not know us, + </p> + <p> + And, for those allowèd features, + </p> + <p> + Due to reasonable creatures, + </p> + <p> + Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, + </p> + <p> + Monsters that, who see us, fear us; + </p> + <p> + Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, + </p> + <p> + Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + Bacchus we know, and we allow + </p> + <p> + His tipsy rites. But what art thou, + </p> + <p> + That but by reflex canst show + </p> + <p> + What his deity can do, + </p> + <p> + As the false Egyptian spell + </p> + <p> + Aped the true Hebrew miracle + </p> + <p> + Some few vapors thou may'st raise, + </p> + <p> + The weak brain may serve to amaze, + </p> + <p> + But to the reins and nobler heart + </p> + <p> + Canst nor life nor heat impart. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + Brother of Bacchus, later born, + </p> + <p> + The old world was sure forlorn + </p> + <p> + Wanting thee, that aidest more + </p> + <p> + The god's victories than before + </p> + <p> + All his panthers, and the brawls + </p> + <p> + Of his piping Bacchanals. + </p> + <p> + These, as stale, we disallow, + </p> + <p> + Or judge of <i>thee</i> meant; only thou + </p> + <p> + His true Indian conquest art; + </p> + <p> + And, for ivy round his dart, + </p> + <p> + The reformèd god now weaves + </p> + <p> + A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + Scent to match thy rich perfume + </p> + <p> + Chemic art did ne'er presume + </p> + <p> + Through her quaint alembic strain, + </p> + <p> + None so sov'reign to the brain. + </p> + <p> + Nature, that did in thee excel, + </p> + <p> + Framed again no second smell. + </p> + <p> + Roses, violets, but toys + </p> + <p> + For the smaller sort of boys, + </p> + <p> + Or for greener damsels meant; + </p> + <p> + Thou art the only manly scent. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + Stinking'st of the stinking kind, + </p> + <p> + Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, + </p> + <p> + Africa, that brags her foison, + </p> + <p> + Breeds no such prodigious poison, + </p> + <p> + Henbane, nightshade, both together, + </p> + <p> + Hemlock, aconite—— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i10"> + Nay, rather, + </p> + <p> + Plant divine, of rarest virtue; + </p> + <p> + Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. + </p> + <p> + 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee: + </p> + <p> + None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee; + </p> + <p> + Irony all, and feign'd abuse, + </p> + <p> + Such as perplex'd lovers use, + </p> + <p> + At a need, when, in despair + </p> + <p> + To paint forth their fairest fair, + </p> + <p> + Or in part but to express + </p> + <p> + That exceeding comeliness + </p> + <p> + Which their fancies doth so strike, + </p> + <p> + They borrow language of dislike; + </p> + <p> + And, instead of Dearest Miss, + </p> + <p> + Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, + </p> + <p> + And those forms of old admiring, + </p> + <p> + Call her Cockatrice and Siren, + </p> + <p> + Basilisk, and all that's evil, + </p> + <p> + Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, + </p> + <p> + Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, + </p> + <p> + Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; + </p> + <p> + Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,— + </p> + <p> + Not that she is truly so, + </p> + <p> + But no other way they know + </p> + <p> + A contentment to express, + </p> + <p> + Borders so upon excess, + </p> + <p> + That they do not rightly wot + </p> + <p> + Whether it be pain or not. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + Or, as men, constrain'd to part + </p> + <p> + With what's nearest to their heart, + </p> + <p> + While their sorrow's at the height, + </p> + <p> + Lose discrimination quite, + </p> + <p> + And their hasty wrath let fall, + </p> + <p> + To appease their frantic gall, + </p> + <p> + On the darling thing whatever, + </p> + <p> + Whence they feel it death to sever, + </p> + <p> + Though it be, as they, perforce, + </p> + <p> + Guiltless of the sad divorce. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + For I must (nor let it grieve thee, + </p> + <p> + Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. + </p> + <p> + For thy sake, TOBACCO, I + </p> + <p> + Would do anything but die, + </p> + <p> + And but seek to extend my days + </p> + <p> + Long enough to sing thy praise. + </p> + <p> + But, as she, who once hath been + </p> + <p> + A king's consort, is a queen + </p> + <p> + Ever after, nor will bate + </p> + <p> + Any tittle of her state, + </p> + <p> + Though a widow, or divorced, + </p> + <p> + So I, from thy converse forced, + </p> + <p> + The old name and style retain, + </p> + <p> + A right Katherine of Spain; + </p> + <p> + And a seat, too,'mongst the joys + </p> + <p> + Of the blest Tobacco Boys; + </p> + <p> + Where, though I, by sour physician, + </p> + <p> + Am debarr'd the full fruition + </p> + <p> + Of thy favors, I may catch + </p> + <p> + Some collateral sweets, and snatch + </p> + <p> + Sidelong odors, that give life + </p> + <p> + Like glances from a neighbor's wife; + </p> + <p> + And still live in the by-places + </p> + <p> + And the suburbs of thy graces; + </p> + <p> + And in thy borders take delight, + </p> + <p> + An unconquer'd Canaanite. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="child" id="child">TO T. L. H.</a> + </h3> + <h4> + A CHILD. + </h4> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Model of thy parent dear, + </p> + <p> + Serious infant worth a fear: + </p> + <p> + In thy unfaltering visage well + </p> + <p> + Picturing forth the son of TELL, + </p> + <p> + When on his forehead, firm and good, + </p> + <p> + Motionless mark, the apple stood; + </p> + <p> + Guileless traitor, rebel mild, + </p> + <p> + Convict unconscious, culprit child! + </p> + <p> + Gates that close with iron roar + </p> + <p> + Have been to thee thy nursery door; + </p> + <p> + Chains that chink in cheerless cells + </p> + <p> + Have been thy rattles and thy bells; + </p> + <p> + Walls contrived for giant sin + </p> + <p> + Have hemm'd thy faultless weakness in; + </p> + <p> + Near thy sinless bed black Guilt + </p> + <p> + Her discordant house hath built, + </p> + <p> + And fill'd it with her monstrous brood— + </p> + <p> + Sights, by thee not understood— + </p> + <p> + Sights of fear, and of distress, + </p> + <p> + That pass a harmless infant's guess + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + But the clouds, that overcast + </p> + <p> + Thy young morning, may not last; + </p> + <p> + Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour + </p> + <p> + That yields thee up to Nature's power: + </p> + <p> + Nature, that so late doth greet thee, + </p> + <p> + Shall in o'erflowing measure meet thee. + </p> + <p> + She shall recompense with cost + </p> + <p> + For every lesson thou hast lost. + </p> + <p> + Then wandering up thy sire's loved hill,[1] + </p> + <p> + Thou shalt take thy airy fill + </p> + <p> + Of health and pastime. <i>Birds shall sing</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>For thy delight each May morning.</i> + </p> + <p> + 'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play, + </p> + <p> + Hardly less a lamb than they. + </p> + <p> + Then thy prison's lengthen'd bound + </p> + <p> + Shall be the horizon skirting round: + </p> + <p> + And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers, + </p> + <p> + To make amends for wintry hours, + </p> + <p> + The breeze, the sunshine, and the place, + </p> + <p> + Shall from thy tender brow efface + </p> + <p> + Each vestige of untimely care, + </p> + <p> + That sour restraint had graven there; + </p> + <p> + And on thy every look impress + </p> + <p> + A more excelling childishness. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + So shall be thy days beguiled, + </p> + <p> + THORNTON HUNT, my favorite child. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: Hampstead. + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + BALLAD. + </h3> + <h4> + <a name="german" id="german">FROM THE GERMAN.</a> + </h4> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And ever the forest maketh a moan: + </p> + <p> + Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart acting, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Thus by herself she singeth alone, + </p> + <p class="i4"> + Weeping right plenteously. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + "The world is empty, the heart is dead surely, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + In this world plainly all seemeth amiss: + </p> + <p> + To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + I have had earnest of all earth's bliss, + </p> + <p class="i4"> + Living right lovingly." + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="adull" id="adull">DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + David and his three captains bold + </p> + <p> + Kept ambush once within a hold. + </p> + <p> + It was in Adullam's cave, + </p> + <p> + Nigh which no water they could have, + </p> + <p> + Nor spring, nor running brook was near + </p> + <p> + To quench the thirst that parch'd them there. + </p> + <p> + Then David, king of Israël, + </p> + <p> + Straight bethought him of a well, + </p> + <p> + Which stood beside the city gate, + </p> + <p> + At Bethlem; where, before his state + </p> + <p> + Of kingly dignity, he had + </p> + <p> + Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad; + </p> + <p> + But now his fierce Philistine foe + </p> + <p> + Encamp'd before it he does know. + </p> + <p> + Yet ne'er the less, with heat opprest, + </p> + <p> + Those three bold captains he addrest; + </p> + <p> + And wish'd that one to him would bring + </p> + <p> + Some water from his native spring. + </p> + <p> + His valiant captains instantly + </p> + <p> + To execute his will did fly. + </p> + <p> + The mighty Three the ranks broke through + </p> + <p> + Of armed foes, and water drew + </p> + <p> + For David, their beloved king, + </p> + <p> + At his own sweet native spring. + </p> + <p> + Back through their arm'd foes they haste, + </p> + <p> + With the hard-earn'd treasure graced. + </p> + <p> + But when the good king David found + </p> + <p> + What they had done, he on the ground + </p> + <p> + The water pour'd ... "Because," said he, + </p> + <p> + "That it was at the jeopardy + </p> + <p> + Of your three lives this thing ye did, + </p> + <p> + That I should drink it, God forbid." + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="salom" id="salom">SALOME.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Once on a charger there was laid, + </p> + <p> + And brought before a royal maid, + </p> + <p> + As price of attitude and grace, + </p> + <p> + A guiltless head, a holy face. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + It was on Herod's natal day, + </p> + <p> + Who o'er Judea's land held sway. + </p> + <p> + He married his own brother's wife, + </p> + <p> + Wicked Herodias. She the life + </p> + <p> + Of John the Baptist long had sought, + </p> + <p> + Because he openly had taught + </p> + <p> + That she a life unlawful led, + </p> + <p> + Having her husband's brother wed. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + This was he, that saintly John, + </p> + <p> + Who in the wilderness alone + </p> + <p> + Abiding, did for clothing wear + </p> + <p> + A garment made of camel's hair; + </p> + <p> + Honey and locusts were his food, + </p> + <p> + And he was most severely good. + </p> + <p> + He preachèd penitence and tears, + </p> + <p> + And waking first the sinner's fears, + </p> + <p> + Prepared a path, made smooth a way, + </p> + <p> + For his diviner Master's day. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + Herod kept in princely state + </p> + <p> + His birthday. On his throne he sate, + </p> + <p> + After the feast, beholding her + </p> + <p> + Who danced with grace peculiar; + </p> + <p> + Fair Salome, who did excel + </p> + <p> + All in that land for dancing well. + </p> + <p> + The feastful monarch's heart was fired, + </p> + <p> + And whatsoe'er thing she desired, + </p> + <p> + Though half his kingdom it should be, + </p> + <p> + He in his pleasure swore that he + </p> + <p> + Would give the graceful Salome. + </p> + <p> + The damsel was Herodias' daughter: + </p> + <p> + She to the queen hastes, and besought her + </p> + <p> + To teach her what great gift to name. + </p> + <p> + Instructed by Herodias, came + </p> + <p> + The damsel back: to Herod said, + </p> + <p> + "Give me John the Baptist's head; + </p> + <p> + And in a charger let it be + </p> + <p> + Hither straightway brought to me." + </p> + <p> + Herod her suit would fain deny, + </p> + <p> + But for his oath's sake must comply. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i2"> + When painters would by art express + </p> + <p> + Beauty in unloveliness, + </p> + <p> + Thee, Herodias' daughter, thee, + </p> + <p> + They fittest subject take to be. + </p> + <p> + They give thy form and features grace; + </p> + <p> + But ever in thy beauteous face + </p> + <p> + They show a steadfast cruel gaze, + </p> + <p> + An eye unpitying; and amaze + </p> + <p> + In all beholders deep they mark, + </p> + <p> + That thou betrayest not one spark + </p> + <p> + Of feeling for the ruthless deed, + </p> + <p> + That did thy praiseful dance succeed. + </p> + <p> + For on the head they make you look, + </p> + <p> + As if a sullen joy you took, + </p> + <p> + A cruel triumph, wicked pride, + </p> + <p> + That for your sport a saint had died. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="vinci" id="vinci">LINES</a> + </h3> + <h4> + SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES BY LIONARDO DA VINCI. + </h4> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + The lady Blanch, regardless of all her lover's fears, + </p> + <p> + To the Urs'line convent hastens, and long the Abbess hears, + </p> + <p> + "O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life ye lead." + </p> + <p> + Blanch look'd on a rose-bud and little seem'd to heed. + </p> + <p> + She look'd on the rose-bud, she look'd round, and thought + </p> + <p> + On all her heart had whisper'd, and all the Nun had taught. + </p> + <p> + "I am worshipp'd by lovers, and brightly shines my fame, + </p> + <p> + All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's name. + </p> + <p> + Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree, + </p> + <p> + My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me. + </p> + <p> + But when the sculptured marble is rais'd o'er my head, + </p> + <p> + And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the noble dead, + </p> + <p> + This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear, + </p> + <p> + It nothing will avail me that I were worshipp'd here." + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + LINES + </h3> + <h4> + <a name="titian" id="titian">ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO + MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT OF A LADY BY TITIAN.</a> + </h4> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place + </p> + <p> + Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace? + </p> + <p> + Come, fair and pretty, tell to me, + </p> + <p> + Who, in thy lifetime, thou might'st be. + </p> + <p> + Thou pretty art and fair, + </p> + <p> + But with the lady Blanch thou never must compare. + </p> + <p> + No need for Blanch her history to tell; + </p> + <p> + Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well. + </p> + <p> + But when I look on thee, I only know + </p> + <p> + There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="virgin" id="virgin">LINES</a> + </h3> + <h4> + ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO DA VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN + OF THE ROCKS. + </h4> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + While young John runs to greet + </p> + <p> + The greater Infant's feet, + </p> + <p> + The Mother standing by, with trembling passion + </p> + <p> + Of devout admiration, + </p> + <p> + Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration; + </p> + <p> + Nor knows as yet the full event + </p> + <p> + Of those so low beginnings, + </p> + <p> + From whence we date our winnings, + </p> + <p> + But wonders at the intent + </p> + <p> + Of those new rites, and what that strange child-worship meant. + </p> + <p> + But at her side + </p> + <p> + An angel doth abide, + </p> + <p> + With such a perfect joy + </p> + <p> + As no dim doubts alloy, + </p> + <p> + An intuition, + </p> + <p> + A glory, an amenity, + </p> + <p> + Passing the dark condition + </p> + <p> + Of blind humanity, + </p> + <p> + As if he surely knew + </p> + <p> + All the blest wonder should ensue, + </p> + <p> + Or he had lately left the upper sphere, + </p> + <p> + And had read all the sovran schemes and divine riddles there. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="same" id="same">ON THE SAME.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Maternal lady with the virgin grace, + </p> + <p> + Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure, + </p> + <p> + And thou a virgin pure. + </p> + <p> + Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face + </p> + <p> + Men look upon, they wish to be + </p> + <p> + A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee. + </p> + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="sonnet" id="sonnet">SONNETS.</a> + </h2> + <hr class="short" /> + <p> + I. + </p> + <p> + <a name="s1" id="s1">TO MISS KELLY.</a> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + You are not, Kelly, of the common strain, + </p> + <p> + That stoop their pride and female honor down + </p> + <p> + To please that many-headed beast <i>the town</i>, + </p> + <p> + And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain; + </p> + <p> + By fortune thrown amid the actors' train, + </p> + <p> + You keep your native dignity of thought; + </p> + <p> + The plaudits that attend you come unsought, + </p> + <p> + As tributes due unto your natural vein. + </p> + <p> + Your tears have passion in them, and a grace + </p> + <p> + Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow; + </p> + <p> + Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace, + </p> + <p> + That vanish and return we know not how— + </p> + <p> + And please the better from a pensive face, + </p> + <p> + A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow. + </p> + </div> + <p> + II. + </p> + <p> + <a name="s2" id="s2">ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON + GARDEN.</a> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Queen-bird that sittest on thy shining-nest, + </p> + <p> + And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest, + </p> + <p> + And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest + </p> + <p> + Lest the white mother wandering feet molest: + </p> + <p> + Shrined are your offspring in a crystal cradle, + </p> + <p> + Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst + </p> + <p> + Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first + </p> + <p> + Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like able + </p> + <p> + To tread the land or waters with security. + </p> + <p> + Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin, + </p> + <p> + In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in + </p> + <p> + Confessing weakness, error, and impurity. + </p> + <p> + Did heavenly creatures own succession's line, + </p> + <p> + The births of heaven like to yours would shine. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <a name="s3" id="s3">III.</a> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Was it some sweet device of Faëry + </p> + <p> + That mock'd my steps with many a lonely glade, + </p> + <p> + And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid? + </p> + <p> + Have these things been? or what rare witchery, + </p> + <p> + Impregning with delights the charmèd air, + </p> + <p> + Enlighted up the semblance of a smile + </p> + <p> + In those fine eyes? methought they spake the while + </p> + <p> + Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair + </p> + <p> + To drop the murdering knife, and let go by + </p> + <p> + His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade + </p> + <p> + Still court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid? + </p> + <p> + Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh? + </p> + <p> + While I forlorn do wander reckless where, + </p> + <p> + And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <a name="s4" id="s4">IV.</a> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclined + </p> + <p> + Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high + </p> + <p> + Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie, + </p> + <p> + Nor of the busier scenes we left behind + </p> + <p> + Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid! + </p> + <p> + Beloved! I were well content to play + </p> + <p> + With thy free tresses all a summer's day, + </p> + <p> + Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade. + </p> + <p> + Or we might sit and tell some tender tale + </p> + <p> + Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn, + </p> + <p> + A tale of true love, or of friend forgot; + </p> + <p> + And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail + </p> + <p> + In gentle sort, on those who practise not + </p> + <p> + Or love or pity, though of woman born. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <a name="s5" id="s5">V.</a> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + When last I roved these winding wood-walks green, + </p> + <p> + Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet, + </p> + <p> + Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene, + </p> + <p> + Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat. + </p> + <p> + No more I hear her footsteps in the shade: + </p> + <p> + Her image only in these pleasant ways + </p> + <p> + Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days + </p> + <p> + I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid. + </p> + <p> + I pass'd the little cottage which she loved, + </p> + <p> + The cottage which did once my all contain; + </p> + <p> + It spake of days which ne'er must come again, + </p> + <p> + Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. + </p> + <p> + "Now fair befall thee, gentle maid!" said I, + </p> + <p> + And from the cottage turn'd me with a sigh. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <a name="s6" id="s6">VI.</a> + </p> + <p> + THE FAMILY NAME. + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + What reason first imposed thee, gentle name, + </p> + <p> + Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire, + </p> + <p> + Without reproach? we trace our stream no higher; + </p> + <p> + And I, a childless man, may end the same. + </p> + <p> + Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains, + </p> + <p> + In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks, + </p> + <p> + Received thee first amid the merry mocks + </p> + <p> + And arch allusions of his fellow swains. + </p> + <p> + Perchance from Salem's holier fields return'd, + </p> + <p> + With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd + </p> + <p> + Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord + </p> + <p> + Took HIS meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd, + </p> + <p> + Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came, + </p> + <p> + No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <a name="s7" id="s7">VII.</a> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + If from my lips some angry accents fell, + </p> + <p> + Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind, + </p> + <p> + 'Twas but the error of a sickly mind + </p> + <p> + And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well, + </p> + <p> + And waters clear, of Reason; and for me + </p> + <p> + Let this my verse the poor atonement be— + </p> + <p> + My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined + </p> + <p> + Too highly, and with a partial eye to see + </p> + <p> + No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show + </p> + <p> + Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend + </p> + <p> + An ear to the desponding lovesick lay, + </p> + <p> + Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay + </p> + <p> + But ill the mighty debt of love I owe, + </p> + <p> + Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <a name="s8" id="s8">VIII.</a> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + A timid grace sits trembling in her eye, + </p> + <p> + As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight, + </p> + <p> + Yet shedding a delicious lunar light, + </p> + <p> + That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy + </p> + <p> + The care-crazed mind, like some still melody: + </p> + <p> + Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess + </p> + <p> + Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness, + </p> + <p> + And innocent loves, and maiden purity: + </p> + <p> + A look whereof might heal the cruel smart + </p> + <p> + Of changèd friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind; + </p> + <p> + Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart + </p> + <p> + Of him who hates his brethren of mankind. + </p> + <p> + Turn'd are those lights from me, who fondly yet + </p> + <p> + Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <a name="s9" id="s9">IX.</a> + </p> + <p> + TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE. + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + John, you were figuring in the gay career + </p> + <p> + Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy, + </p> + <p> + When I was yet a little peevish boy— + </p> + <p> + Though time has made the difference disappear + </p> + <p> + Betwixt our ages, which <i>then</i> seem'd so great— + </p> + <p> + And still by rightful custom you retain + </p> + <p> + Much of the old authoritative strain, + </p> + <p> + And keep the elder brother up in state. + </p> + <p> + O! you do well in this. 'Tis man's worst deed + </p> + <p> + To let the "things that have been" run to waste, + </p> + <p> + And in the unmeaning present sink the past: + </p> + <p> + In whose dim glass even now I faintly read + </p> + <p> + Old buried forms, and faces long ago, + </p> + <p> + Which you, and I, and one more, only know. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <a name="s10" id="s10">X.</a> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + O! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind, + </p> + <p> + That, rushing on its way with careless sweep, + </p> + <p> + Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep + </p> + <p> + Like to a child. For now to my raised mind + </p> + <p> + On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Fantasy, + </p> + <p> + And her rude visions give severe delight. + </p> + <p> + O wingèd bark! how swift along the night + </p> + <p> + Pass'd thy proud keel! nor shall I let go by + </p> + <p> + Lightly of that drear hour the memory, + </p> + <p> + When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood, + </p> + <p> + Unbonneted, and gazed upon the flood, + </p> + <p> + Even till it seem'd a pleasant thing to die,— + </p> + <p> + To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave, + </p> + <p> + Or take my portion with the winds that rave. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <a name="s11" id="s11">XI.</a> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + We were two pretty babes, the youngest she, + </p> + <p> + The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween, + </p> + <p> + And INNOCENCE her name. The time has been, + </p> + <p> + We two did love each other's company: + </p> + <p> + Time was, we two had wept to have been apart. + </p> + <p> + But when by show of seeming good beguiled, + </p> + <p> + I left the garb and manners of a child, + </p> + <p> + And my first love for man's society, + </p> + <p> + Defiling with the world my virgin heart— + </p> + <p> + My loved companion dropp'd a tear, and fled, + </p> + <p> + And hid in deepest shades her awful head. + </p> + <p> + Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art— + </p> + <p> + In what delicious Eden to be found— + </p> + <p> + That I may seek thee the wide world around? + </p> + </div> + <h2> + <a name="blank" id="blank">BLANK VERSE</a> + </h2> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="hood" id="hood">CHILDHOOD.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse + </p> + <p> + Upon the days gone by; to act in thought + </p> + <p> + Past seasons o'er, and be again a child; + </p> + <p> + To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope, + </p> + <p> + Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay flowers, + </p> + <p> + Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand + </p> + <p> + (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled,) + </p> + <p> + Would throw away, and straight take up again, + </p> + <p> + Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn + </p> + <p> + Bound with so playful and so light a foot, + </p> + <p> + That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="grand" id="grand">THE GRANDAME.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + On the green hill-top, + </p> + <p> + Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof, + </p> + <p> + And not distinguish'd from its neighbor-barn, + </p> + <p> + Save by a slender-tapering length of spire, + </p> + <p> + The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells + </p> + <p> + The name and date to the chance passenger. + </p> + <p> + For lowly born was she, and long had eat, + </p> + <p> + Well-earn'd, the bread of service:—hers was else + </p> + <p> + A mountain spirit, one that entertain'd + </p> + <p> + Scorn of base action, deed dishonorable, + </p> + <p> + Or aught unseemly. I remember well + </p> + <p> + Her reverend image; I remember, too, + </p> + <p> + With what a zeal she served her master's house; + </p> + <p> + And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age + </p> + <p> + Delighted to recount the oft-told tale + </p> + <p> + Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was, + </p> + <p> + And wondrous skill'd in genealogies, + </p> + <p> + And could in apt and voluble terms discourse + </p> + <p> + Of births, of titles, and alliances; + </p> + <p> + Of marriages, and intermarriages; + </p> + <p> + Relationship remote, or near of kin; + </p> + <p> + Of friends offended, family disgraced— + </p> + <p> + Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying + </p> + <p> + Parental strict injunction, and regardless + </p> + <p> + Of unmix'd blood, and ancestry remote, + </p> + <p> + Stooping to wed with one of low degree. + </p> + <p> + But these are not thy praises; and I wrong + </p> + <p> + Thy honor'd memory, recording chiefly + </p> + <p> + Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell, + </p> + <p> + How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love, + </p> + <p> + She served her <i>heavenly Master</i>. I have seen + </p> + <p> + That reverend form bent down with age and pain, + </p> + <p> + And rankling malady. Yet not for this + </p> + <p> + Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew + </p> + <p> + Her trust in Him, her faith, an humble hope— + </p> + <p> + So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross— + </p> + <p> + For she had studied patience in the school + </p> + <p> + Of Christ; much comfort she had thence derived, + </p> + <p> + And was a follower of the NAZARENE. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="sabba" id="sabba">THE SABBATH BELLS.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, + </p> + <p> + Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice + </p> + <p> + Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims + </p> + <p> + Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when + </p> + <p> + Their piercing tones fall <i>sudden</i> on the ear + </p> + <p> + Of the contemplant, solitary man, + </p> + <p> + Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure + </p> + <p> + Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft, + </p> + <p> + And oft again, hard matter, which eludes + </p> + <p> + And baffles his pursuit—thought-sick and tired + </p> + <p> + Of controversy, where no end appears, + </p> + <p> + No clue to his research, the lonely man + </p> + <p> + Half wishes for society again. + </p> + <p> + Him, thus engaged, the Sabbath bells salute + </p> + <p> + <i>Sudden!</i> his heart awakes, his ears drink in + </p> + <p> + The cheering music; his relenting soul + </p> + <p> + Yearns after all the joys of social life, + </p> + <p> + And softens with the love of human kind. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="fancy" id="fancy">FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever, + </p> + <p> + A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk + </p> + <p> + In the bright visions of empyreal light, + </p> + <p> + By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads, + </p> + <p> + Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow; + </p> + <p> + By crystal streams, and by the living waters, + </p> + <p> + Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree + </p> + <p> + Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath + </p> + <p> + Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found + </p> + <p> + From pain and want, and all the ills that wait + </p> + <p> + On mortal life, from sin and death forever. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="midni" id="midni">COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + From broken visions of perturbèd rest + </p> + <p> + I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again. + </p> + <p> + How total a privation of all sounds, + </p> + <p> + Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast, + </p> + <p> + Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven. + </p> + <p> + 'Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry + </p> + <p> + Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise + </p> + <p> + Of revel reeling home from midnight cups. + </p> + <p> + Those are the meanings of the dying man, + </p> + <p> + Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans, + </p> + <p> + And interrupted only by a cough + </p> + <p> + Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs. + </p> + <p> + So in the bitterness of death he lies, + </p> + <p> + And waits in anguish for the morning's light. + </p> + <p> + What can that do for him, or what restore? + </p> + <p> + Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices. + </p> + <p> + And little images of pleasures past, + </p> + <p> + Of health, and active life—health not yet slain, + </p> + <p> + Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold + </p> + <p> + For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed + </p> + <p> + He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light, + </p> + <p> + And finds no comfort in the sun, but says + </p> + <p> + "When night comes I shall get a little rest." + </p> + <p> + Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end. + </p> + <p> + 'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond; + </p> + <p> + Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope, + </p> + <p> + And Fancy, most licentious on such themes + </p> + <p> + Where decent reverence well had kept her mute, + </p> + <p> + Hath o'erstock'd hell with devils, and brought down + </p> + <p> + By her enormous fablings and mad lies, + </p> + <p> + Discredit on the gospel's serious truths + </p> + <p> + And salutary fears. The man of parts, + </p> + <p> + Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch + </p> + <p> + Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates + </p> + <p> + A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he, + </p> + <p> + Their heads encompassed with crowns, their heels + </p> + <p> + With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars + </p> + <p> + Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far removed + </p> + <p> + From damnèd spirits, and the torturing cries + </p> + <p> + Of men, his breth'ren, fashion'd of the earth, + </p> + <p> + As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread, + </p> + <p> + Belike his kindred or companions once— + </p> + <p> + Through everlasting ages now divorced, + </p> + <p> + In chains and savage torments to repent + </p> + <p> + Short years of folly on earth. Their groans unheard + </p> + <p> + In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care, + </p> + <p> + For those thus sentenced—pity might disturb + </p> + <p> + The delicate sense and most divine repose + </p> + <p> + Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God, + </p> + <p> + The measure of his judgments is not fix'd + </p> + <p> + By man's erroneous standard. He discerns + </p> + <p> + No such inordinate difference and vast + </p> + <p> + Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom + </p> + <p> + Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him, + </p> + <p> + No man on earth is holy call'd: they best + </p> + <p> + Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet + </p> + <p> + Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield + </p> + <p> + To him of his own works the praise, his due. + </p> + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="woodv" id="woodv">JOHN WOODVIL;</a> + </h2> + <h3> + A TRAGEDY. + </h3> + <hr /> + <h4> + CHARACTERS. + </h4> + <pre> +SIR WALTER WOODVIL. + JOHN, } + SIMON, }<i>his sons</i>. + + LOVELL, } + GRAY, }<i>Pretended friends of John</i>. + +SANDFORD. <i>Sir Walter's old steward</i>. +MARGARET. <i>Orphan Ward of</i> Sir Walter. +FOUR GENTLEMEN. <i>John's riotous companions</i>. +SERVANTS. +</pre> + <h5> + SCENE—<i>for the most part at Sir Walter's mansion in</i> + DEVONSHIRE; <i>at other times in the Forest of</i> SHERWOOD. + </h5> + <h5> + TIME—<i>soon after the</i> RESTORATION. + </h5> + <hr /> + <h3> + ACT THE FIRST. + </h3> + <h5> + SCENE—<i>A Servants' Apartment in Woodvill Hall. Servants + drinking—</i> + </h5> + <h5> + TIME, <i>the Morning</i>. + </h5> + <h5> + <i>A Song, by</i> DANIEL. + </h5> + <p> + "When the King enjoys his own again." + </p> + <p> + <i>Peter</i>. A delicate song. Where didst learn it, fellow? + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. Even there, where thou learnest thy oaths and thy + politics—at our master's table.—Where else should a + serving-man pick up his poor accomplishments? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mar</i>. Well spoken, Daniel. O rare Daniel! his oaths and his + politics! excellent! + </p> + <p> + <i>Fran</i>. And where didst pick up thy knavery, Daniel? + </p> + <p> + <i>Peter</i>. That came to him by inheritance. His family have + supplied the shire of Devon, time out of mind, with good thieves + and bad serving-men. All of his race have come into the world + without their conscience. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mar</i>. Good thieves, and bad serving-men! Better and better. + I marvel what Daniel hath got to say in reply. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. I marvel more when thou wilt say anything to the + purpose, thou shallow serving-man, whose swiftest conceit carries + thee no higher than to apprehend with difficulty the stale jests + of us thy compeers. When was't ever known to club thy own + particular jest among us? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mar</i>. Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of + me! + </p> + <p> + <i>Fran</i>. See—if he hath not brought tears into the poor + fellow's eyes with the saltness of his rebuke. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. No offence, brother Martin—I meant none. 'Tis + true, Heaven gives gifts, and withholds them. It has been pleased + to bestow upon me a nimble invention to the manufacture of a + jest; and upon thee, Martin, an indifferent bad capacity to + understand my meaning. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mar</i>. Is that all? I am content. Here's my hand. + </p> + <p> + <i>Fran</i>. Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, but + never could endure bawdry. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. <i>Quot homines tot sententiæ.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mar</i>. And what is that? + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. 'Tis Greek, and argues difference of opinion. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mar</i>. I hope there is none between us. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. Here's to thee, brother Martin. (<i>Drinks</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mar</i>. And to thee, Daniel. (<i>Drinks</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Fran</i>. And to thee, Peter. (<i>Drinks</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Peter</i>. Thank you, Francis. And here's to thee. + (<i>Drinks</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mar</i>. I shall be fuddled anon. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. And drunkenness I hold to be a very despicable vice. + </p> + <p> + <i>All</i>. O! a shocking vice. (<i>They drink round</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Peter</i>. In as much as it taketh away the understanding. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. And makes the eyes red. + </p> + <p> + <i>Peter</i>. And the tongue to stammer. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. And to blab out secrets. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>During this conversation they continue drinking</i>. + </div> + <p> + <i>Peter</i>. Some men do not know an enemy from a friend when + they are drunk. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. Certainly sobriety is the health of the soul. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mar</i>. Now I know I am going to be drunk. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. How canst tell, dry-bones? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mar</i>. Because I begin to be melancholy. That's always a + sign. + </p> + <p> + <i>Fran</i>. Take care of Martin, he'll topple off his seat else. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [MARTIN <i>drops asleep</i>. + </div> + <p> + <i>Peter</i>. Times are greatly altered, since young master took + upon himself the government of this household. + </p> + <p> + <i>All</i>. Greatly altered. + </p> + <p> + <i>Fran</i>. I think everything be altered for the better since + His Majesty's blessed restoration. + </p> + <p> + <i>Peter</i>. In Sir Walter's days there was no encouragement + given to good housekeeping. + </p> + <p> + <i>All</i>. None. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. For instance, no possibility of getting drunk before + two in the afternoon. + </p> + <p> + <i>Peter</i>. Every man his allowance of ale at + breakfast—his quart! + </p> + <p> + <i>All</i>. A quart!! + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>In derision.</i> + </div> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. Nothing left to our own sweet discretions. + </p> + <p> + <i>Peter</i>. Whereby it may appear, we were treated more like + beasts than what we were—discreet and reasonable + serving-men. + </p> + <p> + <i>All</i>. Like beasts. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mar</i>. (<i>Opening his eyes</i>.) Like beasts. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. To sleep, wagtail! + </p> + <p> + <i>Fran</i>. I marvel all this while where the old gentleman has + found means to secrete himself. It seems no man has heard of him + since the day of the King's return. Can any tell why our young + master, being favored by the court, should not have interest to + procure his father's pardon? + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. Marry, I think 'tis the obstinacy of the old knight, + that will not be beholden to the court for his safety. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mar</i>. Now that is wilful. + </p> + <p> + <i>Fran</i>. But can any tell me the place of his concealment? + </p> + <p> + <i>Peter</i>. That cannot I; but I have my conjectures. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that shall + apprehend him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Fran</i>. Well, I have my suspicions. + </p> + <p> + <i>Peter</i>. And so have I. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mar</i>. And I can keep a secret. + </p> + <p> + <i>Fran</i>. (<i>to PETER</i>.) Warwickshire, you mean. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside.</i> + </div> + <p> + <i>Peter</i>. Perhaps not. + </p> + <p> + <i>Fran</i>. Nearer, perhaps. + </p> + <p> + <i>Peter</i>. I say nothing. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. I hope there is none in this company would be mean + enough to betray him. + </p> + <p> + <i>All</i>. O Lord, surely not. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>They drink to</i> SIR WALTER'S <i>safety</i>. + </div> + <p> + <i>Fran</i>. I have often wondered how our master came to be + excepted by name in the late Act of Oblivion. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. Shall I tell the reason? + </p> + <p> + <i>All</i>. Ay, do. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dan</i>. 'Tis thought he is no great friend to the present + happy establishment. + </p> + <p> + <i>All</i>. O! monstrous! + </p> + <p> + <i>Peter</i>. Fellow-servants, a thought strikes me.—Do we, + or do we not, come under the penalties of the treason-act, by + reason of our being privy to this man's concealment? + </p> + <p> + <i>All</i>. Truly a sad consideration. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>To them enters</i> SANDFORD <i>suddenly</i>. + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. You well-fed and unprofitable grooms, + </p> + <p> + Maintain'd for state, not use; + </p> + <p> + You lazy feasters at another's cost, + </p> + <p> + That eat like maggots into an estate, + </p> + <p> + And do as little work. + </p> + <p> + Being indeed but foul excrescences, + </p> + <p> + And no just parts in a well-order'd family; + </p> + <p> + You base and rascal imitators, + </p> + <p> + Who act up to the height your master's vices, + </p> + <p> + But cannot read his virtues in your bond: + </p> + <p> + Which of you, as I enter'd, spake of betraying? + </p> + <p> + Was it you, or you, or thin-face, was it you? + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Mar</i>. Whom does he call thin-face? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. No prating, loon, but tell me who he was, + </p> + <p> + That I may brain the villain with my staff, + </p> + <p> + That seeks Sir Walter's life! + </p> + <p> + You miserable men, + </p> + <p> + With minds more slavish than your slave's estate, + </p> + <p> + Have you that noble bounty so forgot, + </p> + <p> + Which took you from the looms, and from the ploughs, + </p> + <p> + Which better had ye follow'd, fed ye, clothed ye, + </p> + <p> + And entertain'd ye in a worthy service, + </p> + <p> + Where your best wages was the world's repute, + </p> + <p> + That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live. + </p> + <p> + Have you forgot, too, + </p> + <p> + How often in old times + </p> + <p> + Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober ears, + </p> + <p> + Carousing full cups to Sir Walter's health?— + </p> + <p> + Whom now ye would betray, but that he lies + </p> + <p> + Out of the reach of your poor treacheries. + </p> + <p> + This learn from me, + </p> + <p> + Our master's secret sleeps with trustier tongues, + </p> + <p> + Than will unlock themselves to carls like you. + </p> + <p> + Go, get you gone, you knaves. Who stirs? this staff + </p> + <p> + Shall teach you better manners else. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>All</i>. Well, we are going. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. And quickly too, ye had better, for I see + </p> + <p> + Young Mistress Margaret coming this way. + </p> + </div> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exeunt all but</i> SANDFORD + </div> + <h5> + <i>Enter</i> MARGARET, <i>as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman, + who, seeing</i> SANDFORD, <i>retires muttering a curse</i>. + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. Good-morrow to my fair mistress. 'Twas a chance + </p> + <p> + I saw you, lady, so intent was I + </p> + <p> + On chiding hence these graceless serving-men, + </p> + <p> + Who cannot break their fast at morning meals + </p> + <p> + Without debauch and mistimed riotings. + </p> + <p> + This house hath been a scene of nothing else + </p> + <p> + But atheist riot and profane excess, + </p> + <p> + Since my old master quitted all his rights here. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. Each day I endure fresh insult from the scorn + </p> + <p> + Of Woodvil's friends, the uncivil jests + </p> + <p> + And free discourses of the dissolute men + </p> + <p> + That haunt this mansion, making me their mirth. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. Does my young master know of these affronts? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been told. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps he might have seen them if he would. + </p> + <p> + I have known him more quick-sighted. Let that pass. + </p> + <p> + All things seem changed, I think. I had a friend, + </p> + <p> + (I can't but weep to think him alter'd too,) + </p> + <p> + These things are best forgotten; but I knew + </p> + <p> + A man, a young man, young, and full of honor, + </p> + <p> + That would have pick'd a quarrel for a straw, + </p> + <p> + And fought it out to the extremity, + </p> + <p> + E'en with the dearest friend he had alive, + </p> + <p> + On but a bare surmise, a possibility, + </p> + <p> + That Margaret had suffer'd an affront. + </p> + <p> + Some are too tame, that were too splenetic once. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. 'Twere best he should be <i>told</i> of these + affronts. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. I am the daughter of his father's friend, + </p> + <p> + Sir Walter's orphan ward. + </p> + <p> + I am not his servant-maid, that I should wait + </p> + <p> + The opportunity of a gracious hearing. + </p> + <p> + Enquire the times and seasons when to put + </p> + <p> + My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet, + </p> + <p> + And sue to him for slow redress, who was + </p> + <p> + Himself a suitor late to Margaret. + </p> + <p> + I am somewhat proud: and Woodvil taught me pride. + </p> + <p> + I was his favorite once, his playfellow in infancy, + </p> + <p> + And joyful mistress of his youth. + </p> + <p> + None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret. + </p> + <p> + His conscience, his religion, Margaret was, + </p> + <p> + His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that heart, + </p> + <p> + And all dear things summ'd up in her alone. + </p> + <p> + As Margaret smil'd or frown'd John liv'd or died; + </p> + <p> + His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships, all + </p> + <p> + Being fashion'd to her liking. + </p> + <p> + His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem, + </p> + <p> + His flatteries and caresses, while he loved. + </p> + <p> + The world esteem'd her happy, who had won + </p> + <p> + His heart, who won all hearts; + </p> + <p> + And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. He doth affect the courtier's life too much, + </p> + <p> + Whose art is to forget, + </p> + <p> + And that has wrought this seeming change in him, + </p> + <p> + That was by nature noble. + </p> + <p> + 'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our house, + </p> + <p> + Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy + </p> + <p> + With images of state, preferment, place, + </p> + <p> + Tainting his generous spirits with ambition. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. I know not how it is; + </p> + <p> + A cold protector is John grown to me. + </p> + <p> + The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil + </p> + <p> + Can never stoop so low to supplicate + </p> + <p> + A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs, + </p> + <p> + Which he was bound first to prevent; + </p> + <p> + But which his own neglects have sanctioned rather, + </p> + <p> + Both sancion'd and provok'd: a mark'd neglect, + </p> + <p> + And strangeness fastening bitter on his love, + </p> + <p> + His love, which long has been upon the wane. + </p> + <p> + For me, I am determined what to do: + </p> + <p> + To leave this house this night, and lukewarm John, + </p> + <p> + And trust for food to the earth and Providence. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. O lady, have a care + </p> + <p> + Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves. + </p> + <p> + You know not half the dangers that attend + </p> + <p> + Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts now, + </p> + <p> + Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger, + </p> + <p> + To your abused fancy, as 'tis likely, + </p> + <p> + Portray without its terrors, painting <i>lies</i> + </p> + <p> + And representments of fallacious liberty;— + </p> + <p> + You know not what it is to leave the roof that shelters you. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. I have thought on every possible event, + </p> + <p> + The dangers and discouragements you speak of, + </p> + <p> + Even till my woman's heart hath ceased to fear them, + </p> + <p> + And cowardice grows enamor'd of rare accidents; + </p> + <p> + Nor am I so unfurnish'd, as you think, + </p> + <p> + Of practicable schemes. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. Now God forbid; think twice of this, dear lady. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. I pray you spare me, Mr. Sandford. + </p> + <p> + And once for all believe, nothing can shake my purpose. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. But what course have you thought on? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. To seek Sir Walter in the forest of Sherwood. + </p> + <p> + I have letters from young Simon, + </p> + <p> + Acquainting me with all the circumstances + </p> + <p> + Of their concealment, place, and manner of life, + </p> + <p> + And the merry hours they spend in the green haunts + </p> + <p> + Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta'en a house + </p> + <p> + In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners, + </p> + <p> + Wearing the dress of Frenchmen.— + </p> + <p> + All which I have perused with so attent + </p> + <p> + And child-like longings, that to my doting ears + </p> + <p> + Two sounds now seem like one, + </p> + <p> + One meaning in two words, Sherwood and Liberty. + </p> + <p> + And, gentle Mr. Sandford, + </p> + <p> + 'Tis you that must provide now + </p> + <p> + The means of my departure, which for safety + </p> + <p> + Must be in boy's apparel. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. Since you will have it so + </p> + <p> + (My careful age trembles at all may happen), + </p> + <p> + I will engage to furnish you. + </p> + <p> + I have the keys of the wardrobe, and can fit you + </p> + <p> + With garments to your size. + </p> + <p> + I know a suit + </p> + <p> + Of lively Lincoln green, that shall much grace you + </p> + <p> + In the wear, being glossy fresh, and worn but seldom. + </p> + <p> + Young Stephen Woodvil wore them while he lived. + </p> + <p> + I have the keys of all this house and passages, + </p> + <p> + And ere daybreak will rise and let you forth. + </p> + <p> + What things soe'er you have need of I can furnish you; + </p> + <p> + And will provide a horse and trusty guide, + </p> + <p> + To bear you on your way to Nottingham. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. That once this day and night were fairly past! + </p> + <p> + For then I'll bid this house and love farewell; + </p> + <p> + Farewell, sweet Devon; farewell, lukewarm John; + </p> + <p> + For with the morning's light will Margaret be gone. + </p> + <p> + Thanks, courteous Mr. Sandford.— + </p> + </div> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exeunt divers ways.</i> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + ACT THE SECOND. + </h3> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>An Apartment in Woodvil Hall.</i> + </h5> + <h5> + JOHN WOODVIL—<i>alone</i>. (<i>Reading parts of a + letter</i>). + </h5> + <p> + "When Love grows cold, and indifference has usurped upon old + Esteem, it is no marvel if the world begin to account <i>that</i> + dependence, which hitherto has been esteemed honorable shelter. + The course I have taken, (in leaving this house, not easily + wrought thereunto,) seemed to me best for the once-for-all + releasing of yourself (who in times past have deserved well of + me) from the now daily, and not-to-be-endured tribute of forced + love, and ill-dissembled reluctance of affection. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + "MARGARET." + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + Gone! gone! my girl? so hasty, Margaret! + </p> + <p> + And never a kiss at parting? shallow loves, + </p> + <p> + And likings of a ten days' growth, use courtesies, + </p> + <p> + And show red eyes at parting. Who bids "Farewell!" + </p> + <p> + In the same tone he cries "God speed you, sir?" + </p> + <p> + Or tells of joyful victories at sea, + </p> + <p> + Where he hath ventures; does not rather muffle + </p> + <p> + His organs to emit a leaden sound, + </p> + <p> + To suit the melancholy dull "farewell," + </p> + <p> + Which they in Heaven not use?— + </p> + <p> + So peevish, Margaret? + </p> + <p> + But 'tis the common error of your sex + </p> + <p> + When our idolatry slackens, or grows less, + </p> + <p> + (As who of woman born can keep his faculty + </p> + <p> + Of Admiration, being a decaying faculty, + </p> + <p> + Forever strain'd to the pitch? or can at pleasure + </p> + <p> + Make it renewable, as some appetites are, + </p> + <p> + As, namely, Hunger, Thirst!—) this being the case, + </p> + <p> + They tax us with neglect, and love grown cold, + </p> + <p> + Coin plainings of the perfidy of men, + </p> + <p> + Which into maxims pass, and apothegms + </p> + <p> + To be retail'd in ballads.— + </p> + <p class="i10"> + I know them all. + </p> + <p> + They are jealous when our larger hearts receive + </p> + <p> + More guests than one. (Love in a woman's heart + </p> + <p> + Being all in one.) For me, I am sure I have room here + </p> + <p> + For more disturbers of my sleep than one. + </p> + <p> + Love shall have part, but love shall not have all. + </p> + <p> + Ambition, Pleasure, Vanity, all by turns, + </p> + <p> + Shall lie in my bed, and keep me fresh and waking; + </p> + <p> + Yet Love not be excluded. Foolish wench, + </p> + <p> + I could have loved her twenty years to come, + </p> + <p> + And still have kept my liking. But since 'tis so, + </p> + <p> + Why, fare thee well, old playfellow! I'll try + </p> + <p> + To squeeze a tear for old acquaintance' sake. + </p> + <p> + I shall not grudge so much—— + </p> + </div> + <h5> + <i>To him enters</i> LOVEL. + </h5> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Bless us, Woodvil! what is the matter? I protest, + man, I thought you had been weeping. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wood</i>. Nothing is the matter; only the wench has forced + some water into my eyes, which will quickly disband. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. I cannot conceive you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wood</i>. Margaret is flown. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Upon what pretence? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wood</i>. Neglect on my part: which it seems she has had the + wit to discover, maugre all my pains to conceal it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Then, you confess the charge? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wood</i>. To say the truth, my love for her has of late + stopped short on this side idolatry. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. As all good Christians' should, I think. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wood</i>. I am sure, I could have loved her still within the + limits of warrantable love. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. A kind of brotherly affection, I take it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wood</i>. We should have made excellent man and wife in time. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. A good old couple, when the snows fell, to crowd + about a sea-coal fire, and talk over old matters. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wood</i>. While each should feel, what neither cared to + acknowledge, that stories oft-repeated may, at last, come to lose + some of their grace by the repetition. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Which both of you may yet live long enough to + discover. For, take my word for it, Margaret is a bird that will + come back to you without a lure. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wood</i>. Never, never, Lovel. Spite of my levity, with tears + I confess it, she was a lady of most confirmed honor, of an + unmatchable spirit, and determinate in all virtuous resolutions; + not hasty to anticipate an affront, nor slow to feel, where just + provocation was given. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. What made you neglect her, then? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wood</i>. Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, a malady + incident to young men; physicians call it caprice. Nothing else. + He that slighted her knew her value: and 'tis odds, but, for thy + sake, Margaret, John will yet go to his grave a bachelor. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing.</i> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Here comes one, that will quickly dissipate these + humors. + </p> + <h5> + <i>Enter one drunk.</i> + </h5> + <p> + <i>Drunken Man</i>. Good-morrow to you, gentlemen. Mr. Lovel, I + am your humble servant. Honest Jack Woodvil, I will get drunk + with you to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wood</i>. And why to-morrow, honest Mr. Freeman? + </p> + <p> + <i>Drunken Man</i>. I scent a traitor in that question. A beastly + question. Is it not his Majesty's birthday? the day of all days + in the year, on which King Charles the Second was graciously + pleased to be born. (<i>Sings.</i>) "Great pity 'tis such days as + those should come but once a year." + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Drunk in a morning! foh! how he stinks! + </p> + <p> + <i>Drunken Man</i>. And why not drunk in a morning? canst tell, + bully? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wood</i>. Because, being the sweet and tender infancy of the + day, methinks, it should ill endure such early blightings. + </p> + <p> + <i>Drunken Man</i>. I grant you, 'tis in some sort the youth and + tender nonage of the day. Youth is bashful, and I give it a cup + to encourage it. (<i>Sings.</i>) "Ale that will make Grimalkin + prate."—At noon I drink for thirst, at night for + fellowship, but, above all, I love to usher in the bashful + morning under the auspices of a freshening stoop of liquor. + (<i>Sings.</i>) "Ale in a Saxon rumkin then, makes valor burgeon + in tall men."—But, I crave pardon. I fear I keep that + gentleman from serious thoughts. There be those that wait for me + in the cellar. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wood</i>. Who are they? + </p> + <p> + <i>Drunken Man</i>. Gentlemen, my good friends, Cleveland, + Delaval, and Truby. I know by this time they are all clamorous + for me. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit singing.</i> + </div> + <p> + <i>Wood.</i> This keeping of open house acquaints a man with + strange companions. + </p> + <h5> + <i>Enter, at another door, Three calling for</i> HARRY FREEMAN. + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <p> + Harry Freeman, Harry Freeman. + </p> + <p> + He is not here. Let us go look for him. + </p> + <p> + Where is Freeman? + </p> + <p> + Where is Harry? + </p> + </div> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exeunt the Three, calling for</i> FREEMAN. + </div> + <p> + <i>Wood.</i> Did you ever see such gentry? (<i>laughing.</i>) + These are they that fatten on ale and tobacco in a morning, drink + burnt brandy at noon to promote digestion, and piously conclude + with quart bumpers after supper to prove their loyalty. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Come, shall we adjourn to the Tennis Court? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wood</i>. No, you shall go with me into the gallery, where I + will show you the <i>Vandyke</i> I have purchased. "The late King + taking leave of his children." + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. I will but adjust my dress, and attend you. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit</i> LOVEL. + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John Wood</i>. (<i>alone.</i>) Now universal England getteth + drunk + </p> + <p> + For joy, that Charles, her monarch, is restored: + </p> + <p> + And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask, + </p> + <p> + The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck, + </p> + <p> + And weareth now a suit of morris bells, + </p> + <p> + With which she jingling goes through all her towns and + villages. + </p> + <p> + The baffled factions in their houses skulk; + </p> + <p> + The commonwealthsman, and state machinist. + </p> + <p> + The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man, + </p> + <p> + Who heareth of these visionaries now? + </p> + <p> + They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing, + </p> + <p> + Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits, + </p> + <p> + Who live by observation, note these changes + </p> + <p> + Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends. + </p> + <p> + Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver, + </p> + <p> + But as my own advancement hangs on one of them? + </p> + <p> + I to myself am chief.——I know, + </p> + <p> + Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit + </p> + <p> + With the gauds and show of state, the point of place, + </p> + <p> + And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods + </p> + <p> + Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit + </p> + <p> + In place of worship at the royal masques, + </p> + <p> + Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings, + </p> + <p> + For none of these, + </p> + <p> + Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one, + </p> + <p> + Do I affect the favors of the court. + </p> + <p> + I would be great, for greatness hath great <i>power</i>, + </p> + <p> + And that's the fruit I reach at.— + </p> + <p> + Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit, + </p> + <p> + With these prophetic swellings in my breast, + </p> + <p> + That prick and goad me on, and never cease, + </p> + <p> + To the fortunes something tells me I was born to? + </p> + <p> + Who, with such monitors within to stir him, + </p> + <p> + Would sit him down, with lazy arms across, + </p> + <p> + A unit, a thing without a name in the state, + </p> + <p> + A something to be govern'd, not to govern, + </p> + <p> + A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman? + </p> + </div> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit.</i> + </div> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>Sherwood Forest.</i> + </h5> + <h5> + SIR WALTER WOODVIL. SIMON WOODVIL. (<i>Disguised as + Frenchmen.</i>) + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born, + </p> + <p> + My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me? + </p> + <p> + Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart: + </p> + <p> + I know it by thy alter'd cheer of late. + </p> + <p> + Thinkest thy brother plays thy father false? + </p> + <p> + It is a mad and thriftless prodigal, + </p> + <p> + Grown proud upon the favors of the court; + </p> + <p> + Court manners, and court fashions, he affects, + </p> + <p> + And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth, + </p> + <p> + Harbors a company of riotous men, + </p> + <p> + All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself, + </p> + <p> + Most skilful to devour a patrimony; + </p> + <p> + And these have eat into my old estates, + </p> + <p> + And these have drain'd thy father's cellars dry; + </p> + <p> + But these so common faults of youth not named, + </p> + <p> + (Things which themselves outgrow, left to themselves,) + </p> + <p> + I know no quality that stains his honor. + </p> + <p> + My life upon his faith and noble mind, + </p> + <p> + Son John could never play thy father false. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. I never thought but nobly of my brother, + </p> + <p> + Touching his honor and fidelity. + </p> + <p> + Still I could wish him charier of his person, + </p> + <p> + And of his time more frugal, than to spend + </p> + <p> + In riotous living, graceless society, + </p> + <p> + And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ'd + </p> + <p> + (With those persuasive graces nature lent him) + </p> + <p> + In fervent pleadings for a father's life. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. I would not owe my life to a jealous court, + </p> + <p> + Whose shallow policy I know it is, + </p> + <p> + On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy, + </p> + <p> + (Not voluntary, but extorted by the times, + </p> + <p> + In the first tremblings of new-fixed power, + </p> + <p> + And recollection smarting from old wounds,) + </p> + <p> + On these to build a spurious popularity. + </p> + <p> + Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean, + </p> + <p> + They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon. + </p> + <p> + For this cause have I oft forbid my son, + </p> + <p> + By letters, overtures, open solicitings, + </p> + <p> + Or closet tamperings, by gold or fee, + </p> + <p> + To beg or bargain with the court for my life. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. And John has ta'en you, father, at your word, + </p> + <p> + True to the letter of his paternal charge. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. Well, my good cause, and my good conscience, boy, + </p> + <p> + Shall be for sons to me, if John prove false. + </p> + <p> + Men die but once, and the opportunity + </p> + <p> + Of a noble death is not an every-day fortune: + </p> + <p> + It is a gift which noble spirits pray for. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. I would not wrong my brother by surmise; + </p> + <p> + I know him generous, full of gentle qualities, + </p> + <p> + Incapable of base compliances, + </p> + <p> + No prodigal in his nature, but affecting + </p> + <p> + This show of bravery for ambitious ends. + </p> + <p> + He drinks, for 'tis the humor of the court, + </p> + <p> + And drink may one day wrest the secret from him, + </p> + <p> + And pluck you from your hiding-place in the sequel. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. Fair death shall be my doom, and foul life his. + </p> + <p> + Till when, we'll live as free in this green forest, + </p> + <p> + As yonder deer, who roam unfearing treason: + </p> + <p> + Who seem the aborigines of this place, + </p> + <p> + Or Sherwood theirs by tenure. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. 'Tis said, that Robert Earl of Huntingdon, + </p> + <p> + Men call'd him Robin Hood, an outlaw bold, + </p> + <p> + With a merry crew of hunters here did haunt, + </p> + <p> + Not sparing the king's venison. May one believe + </p> + <p> + The antique tale? + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. There is much likelihood, + </p> + <p> + Such bandits did in England erst abound, + </p> + <p> + When polity was young. I have read of the pranks + </p> + <p> + Of that mad archer, and of the tax he levied + </p> + <p> + On travellers, whatever their degree, + </p> + <p> + Baron, or knight, whoever pass'd these woods, + </p> + <p> + Layman, or priest, not sparing the bishop's mitre + </p> + <p> + For spiritual regards; nay, once 'tis said, + </p> + <p> + He robb'd the king himself. + </p> + </div><i>Simon</i>. A perilous man (<i>smiling</i>). + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. How quietly we live here, + </p> + <p> + Unread in the world's business, + </p> + <p> + And take no note of all its slippery changes. + </p> + <p> + 'Twere best we make a world among ourselves, + </p> + <p> + A little world, + </p> + <p> + Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater; + </p> + <p> + We two being all the inhabitants of ours, + </p> + <p> + And kings and subjects both in one. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits, + </p> + <p> + Which make the business of that greater world, + </p> + <p> + Must have no place in ours: + </p> + <p> + As, namely, riches, honors, birth, place, courtesy, + </p> + <p> + Good fame and bad, rumors and popular noises, + </p> + <p> + Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national, + </p> + <p> + Humors particular, + </p> + <p> + Soul-killing lies, and truths that work small good, + </p> + <p> + Feuds, factions, enmities, relationships, + </p> + <p> + Loves, hatreds, sympathies, antipathies, + </p> + <p> + And all the intricate stuff quarrels are made of. + </p> + </div> + <h5> + MARGARET <i>enters in boy's apparel</i>. + </h5> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. What pretty boy have we here? + </p> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. <i>Bon jour, messieurs</i>. Ye have handsome English + faces, + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + I should have ta'en ye else for other two, + </p> + <p> + I came to seek in the forest. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. Who are they? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curl'd monsieurs, + </p> + <p> + That men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy, + </p> + <p> + More than the manner of their countrymen. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. We have here a wonder. + </p> + <p> + The face is Margaret's face. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. The face is Margaret's, but the dress the same + </p> + <p> + My Stephen sometime wore. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>To</i> Margaret. + </div> + <p> + Suppose us them; whom do men say we are? + </p> + <p> + Or know you what you seek? + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. A worthy pair of exiles, + </p> + <p> + Two whom the politics of state revenge, + </p> + <p> + In final issue of long civil broils, + </p> + <p> + Have houseless driven from your native France, + </p> + <p> + To wander idle in these English woods, + </p> + <p> + Where now ye live; most part + </p> + <p> + Thinking on home and all the joys of France, + </p> + <p> + Where grows the purple vine. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. These woods, young stranger, + </p> + <p> + And grassy pastures, which the slim deer loves, + </p> + <p> + Are they less beauteous than the land of France, + </p> + <p> + Where grows the purple vine? + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. I cannot tell. + </p> + <p> + To an indifferent eye both show alike. + </p> + <p> + 'Tis not the scene, + </p> + <p> + But all familiar objects in the scene, + </p> + <p> + Which now ye miss, that constitute a difference. + </p> + <p> + Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now; + </p> + <p> + Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have nothing; + </p> + <p> + Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign to you, + </p> + <p> + I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily; + </p> + <p> + And there is reason, exiles, ye should love + </p> + <p> + Our English earth less than your land of France, + </p> + <p> + Where grows the purple vine; where all delights grow + </p> + <p> + Old custom has made pleasant. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>.You, that are read + </p> + <p> + So deeply in our story, what are you? + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. A bare adventurer; in brief a woman, + </p> + <p> + That put strange garments on, and came thus far + </p> + <p> + To seek an ancient friend: + </p> + <p> + And having spent her stock of idle words, + </p> + <p> + And feeling some tears coming, + </p> + <p> + Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil's knees, + </p> + <p> + And beg a boon for Margaret; his poor ward. + </p> + </div> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Kneeling</i>. + </div> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. Not at my feet, Margaret; not at my feet. + </p> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. Yes, till her suit is answered. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. Name it. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. A little boon, and yet so great a grace, + </p> + <p> + She fears to ask it. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>.Some riddle, Margaret? + </p> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. No riddle, but a plain request. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. Name it. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. Free liberty of Sherwood, + </p> + <p> + And leave to take her lot with you in the forest. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. A scant petition, Margaret; but take it, + </p> + <p> + Seal'd with an old man's tears.— + </p> + <p> + Rise, daughter of Sir Rowland. + </p> + </div> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Addressing them both</i>. + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p class="i12"> + O you most worthy, + </p> + <p> + You constant followers of a man proscribed, + </p> + <p> + Following poor misery in the throat of danger; + </p> + <p> + Fast servitors to crazed and penniless poverty, + </p> + <p> + Serving poor poverty without hope of gain; + </p> + <p> + Kind children of a sire unfortunate; + </p> + <p> + Green clinging tendrils round a trunk decay'd, + </p> + <p> + Which needs must bring on you timeless decay; + </p> + <p> + Fair living forms to a dead carcass joined;— + </p> + <p> + What shall I say? + </p> + <p> + Better the dead were gather'd to the dead, + </p> + <p> + Than death and life in disproportion meet.— + </p> + <p> + Go, seek your fortunes, children.— + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. Why, whither should we go? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. <i>You</i> to the court, where now your brother + John + </p> + <p> + Commits a rape on Fortune. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. Luck to John! + </p> + <p> + A light-heel'd strumpet when the sport is done. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. <i>You</i> to the sweet society of your equals, + </p> + <p> + Where the world's fashion smiles on youth and beauty. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. Where young men's flatteries cozen young maids' + beauty. + </p> + <p> + There pride oft gets the vantage hand of duty, + </p> + <p> + There sweet humility withers. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. Mistress Margaret, + </p> + <p> + How fared my brother John, when you left Devon? + </p> + </div><i>Marg</i>. John was well, sir. + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. 'Tis now nine months almost, + </p> + <p> + Since I saw home. What new friends has John made? + </p> + <p> + Or keeps he his first love?—I did suspect + </p> + <p> + Some foul disloyalty. Now do I know, + </p> + <p> + John has proved false to her, for Margaret weeps. + </p> + <p> + It is a scurvy brother. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. Fie upon it. + </p> + <p> + All men are false, I think. The date of love + </p> + <p> + Is out, expired; its stories all grown stale, + </p> + <p> + O'erpast, forgotten, like an antique tale + </p> + <p> + Of Hero and Leander. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. I have known some men that are too + general-contemplative for the narrow passion. I am in some sort a + <i>general</i> lover. + </p> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. In the name of the boy God, who plays at hoodman + blind with the Muses, and cares not whom he catches: what is it + <i>you</i> love? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. Simply, all things that live, + </p> + <p> + From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form, + </p> + <p> + And God-resembling likeness. The poor fly, + </p> + <p> + That makes short holiday in the sunbeam, + </p> + <p> + And dies by some child's hand. The feeble bird + </p> + <p> + With little wings, yet greatly venturous + </p> + <p> + In the upper sky. The fish in th' other element, + </p> + <p> + That knows no touch of eloquence. What else? + </p> + <p> + Yon tall and elegant stag, + </p> + <p> + Who paints a dancing shadow of his horns + </p> + <p> + In the water, where he drinks. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. I myself love all these things, yet so as with a + difference:—for example, some animals better than others, + some men rather than other men; the nightingale before the + cuckoo, the swift and graceful palfrey before the slow and + asinine mule. Your humor goes to confound all qualities. What + sports do you use in the forest?— + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. Not many; some few, as thus:— + </p> + <p> + To see the sun to bed, and to arise, + </p> + <p> + Like some hot amorist with glowing eyes, + </p> + <p> + Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him, + </p> + <p> + With all his fires and travelling glories round him. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest, + </p> + <p> + Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast, + </p> + <p> + And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep + </p> + <p> + Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness, + </p> + <p> + Nought doing, saying little, thinking less, + </p> + <p> + To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air, + </p> + <p> + Go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare, + </p> + <p> + When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn, + </p> + <p> + Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn; + </p> + <p> + And how the woods berries and worms provide + </p> + <p> + Without their pains, when earth has nought beside + </p> + <p> + To answer their small wants. + </p> + <p> + To view the graceful deer come tripping by, + </p> + <p> + Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why, + </p> + <p> + Like bashful younkers in society. + </p> + <p> + To mark the structure of a plant or tree, + </p> + <p> + And all fair things of earth, how fair they be. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. (<i>smiling</i>.) And, afterwards, them paint in + simile. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. Mistress Margaret will have need of some + refreshment. Please you, we have some poor viands within. + </p> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. Indeed I stand in need of them. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Sir W</i>. Under the shade of a thick-spreading tree, + </p> + <p> + Upon the grass, no better carpeting, + </p> + <p> + We'll eat our noontide meal; and, dinner done, + </p> + <p> + One of us shall repair to Nottingham, + </p> + <p> + To seek some safe night-lodging in the town, + </p> + <p> + Where you may sleep, while here with us you dwell, + </p> + <p> + By day, in the forest, expecting better times, + </p> + <p> + And gentler habitations, noble Margaret. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. <i>Allons</i>, young Frenchman—— + </p> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. <i>Allons</i>, Sir Englishman. The time has been + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + I've studied love-lays in the English tongue, + </p> + <p> + And been enamor'd of rare poesy: + </p> + <p> + Which now I must unlearn. Henceforth, + </p> + <p> + Sweet mother-tongue, old English speech, adieu; + </p> + <p> + For Margaret has got new name and language new. + </p> + </div> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exeunt</i>. + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + THE THIRD. + </h3> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>An Apartment of State in Woodvil Hall</i>. + </h5> + <h5> + <i>Cavaliers drinking</i>. + </h5> + <h5> + JOHN WOODVIL, LOVEL, GRAY, <i>and four more</i>. + </h5> + <p> + <i>John</i>. More mirth, I beseech you, gentlemen—Mr. Gray, + you are not merry.— + </p> + <p> + <i>Gray</i>. More wine, say I, and mirth shall ensue in course. + What! we have not yet above three half-pints a man to answer for. + Brevity is the soul of drinking, as of wit. Despatch, I say. More + wine. (<i>Fills</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>1st Gent</i>. I entreat you, let there be some order, some + method, in our drinkings. I love to lose my reason with my eyes + open, to commit the deed of drunkenness with forethought and + deliberation. I love to feel the fumes of the liquor gathering + here, like clouds. + </p> + <p> + <i>2nd Gent</i>. And I am for plunging into madness at once. Damn + order, and method, and steps, and degrees, that he speaks of. Let + confusion have her legitimate work. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. I marvel why the poets, who, of all men, methinks, + should possess the hottest livers, and most empyreal fancies, + should affect to see such virtues in cold water. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gray</i>. Virtue in cold water! ha! ha! ha! + </p> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Because your poet-born hath an internal wine, richer + than lippara or canaries, yet uncrushed from any grapes of earth, + unpressed in mortal wine-presses. + </p> + <p> + 3<i>rd Gent</i>. What may be the name of this wine? + </p> + <p> + <i>John</i>. It hath as many names as qualities. It is + denominated indifferently, wit, conceit, invention, inspiration, + but its most royal and comprehensive name is <i>fancy</i>. + </p> + <p> + 3<i>rd Gent</i>. And where keeps he this sovereign liquor? + </p> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Its cellars are in the brain, whence your true poet + deriveth intoxication at will; while his animal spirits, catching + a pride from the quality and neighborhood of their noble + relative, the brain, refuse to be sustained by wines and + fermentations of earth. + </p> + <p> + 3<i>rd Gent</i>. But is your poet-born always tipsy with this + liquor? + </p> + <p> + <i>John</i>. He hath his stoopings and reposes; but his proper + element is the sky, and in the suburbs of the empyrean. + </p> + <p> + 3<i>rd Gent</i>. Is your wine-intellectual so exquisite? + henceforth, I, a man of plain conceit, will, in all humility, + content my mind with canaries. + </p> + <p> + 4<i>th Gent</i>. I am for a song or a catch. When will the + catches come on, the sweet wicked catches? + </p> + <p> + <i>John</i>. They cannot be introduced with propriety before + midnight. Every man must commit his twenty bumpers first. We are + not yet well roused. Frank Lovel, the glass stands with you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Gentlemen, the Duke. (<i>Fills</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>All</i>. The Duke. (<i>They drink</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Gray</i>. Can any tell, why his Grace, being a Papist— + </p> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Pshaw! we will have no questions of state now. Is + not this his Majesty's birthday? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gray</i>. What follows? + </p> + <p> + <i>John</i>. That every man should sing, and be joyful, and ask + no questions. + </p> + <p> + 2<i>nd Gent</i>. Damn politics, they spoil drinking. + </p> + <p> + 3<i>rd Gent</i>. For certain, 'tis a blessed monarchy. + </p> + <p> + 2<i>nd Gent</i>. The cursed fanatic days we have seen! The times + have been when swearing was out of fashion. + </p> + <p> + 3<i>rd Gent</i>. And drinking. + </p> + <p> + 1<i>st Gent</i>. And wenching. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gray</i>. The cursed yeas and forsooths, which we have heard + uttered, when a man could not rap out an innocent oath, but + straight the air was thought to be infected. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. 'Twas a pleasant trick of the saint, which that + trim puritan <i>Swear-not-at-all Smooth-speech</i> used, when his + spouse chid him with an oath for committing with his + servant-maid, to cause his house to be fumigated with burnt + brandy, and ends of scripture, to disperse the devil's breath, as + he termed it. + </p> + <p> + <i>All</i>. Ha! ha! ha! + </p> + <p> + <i>Gray</i>. But 'twas pleasanter, when the other saint + <i>Resist-the-devil-and-he-will-flee-from-thee Pureman</i> was + overtaken in the act, to plead an illusio visûs, and maintain his + sanctity upon a supposed power in the adversary to counterfeit + the shapes of things. + </p> + <p> + <i>All</i>. Ha! ha! ha! + </p> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Another round, and then let every man devise what + trick he can in his fancy, for the better manifesting our loyalty + this day. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gray</i>. Shall we hang a puritan? + </p> + <p> + <i>John</i>. No, that has been done already in Coleman Street. + </p> + <p> + 2<i>nd Gent</i>. Or fire a conventicle? + </p> + <p> + <i>John</i>. That is stale too. + </p> + <p> + 3<i>rd Gent</i>. Or burn the Assembly's catechism? + </p> + <p> + 4<i>th Gent</i>. Or drink the king's health, every man standing + upon his head naked? + </p> + <p> + <i>John (to Lovel)</i>. We have here some pleasant madness. + </p> + <p> + 3<i>rd Gent</i>. Who shall pledge me in a pint bumper, while we + drink to the king upon our knees? + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Why on our knees, Cavalier? + </p> + <p> + <i>John</i> (<i>smiling</i>). For more devotion, to be sure. + (<i>To a servant</i>.) Sirrah, fetch the gilt goblets. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>The goblets are brought. They drink the King's health, + kneeling. A shout of general approbation following the first + appearance of the goblets.</i> + </div> + <p> + <i>John</i>. We have here the unchecked virtues of the grape. How + the vapors curl upwards! It were a life of gods to dwell in such + an element: to see, and hear, and talk brave things. Now fie upon + these casual potations. That a man's most exalted reason should + depend upon the ignoble fermenting of a fruit, which sparrows + pluck at as well as we. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gray</i> (<i>aside to Lovel</i>). Observe how he is ravished. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Vanity and gay thoughts of wine do meet in him and + engender madness. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>While the rest are engaged in a wild kind of talk</i>, JOHN + <i>advances to the front of the stage, and soliloquizes</i>. + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. My spirits turn to fire, they mount so fast. + </p> + <p> + My joys are turbulent, my hopes show like fruition. + </p> + <p> + These high and gusty relishes of life, sure, + </p> + <p> + Have no allayings of mortality in them. + </p> + <p> + I am too hot now, and o'ercapable, + </p> + <p> + For the tedious processes, and creeping wisdom, + </p> + <p> + Of human acts, and enterprises of a man. + </p> + <p> + I want some seasonings of adversity, + </p> + <p> + Some strokes of the old mortifier Calamity, + </p> + <p> + To take these swellings down, divines call vanity. + </p> + </div> + <p> + 1<i>st Gent</i>. Mr. Woodvil, Mr. Woodvil. + </p> + <p> + 2<i>nd Gent</i>. Where is Woodvil? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gray</i>. Let him alone. I have seen him in these lunes + before. His abstractions must not taint the good mirth. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i> (<i>continuing to soliloquize</i>). O for some + friend, now, + </p> + <p> + To conceal nothing from, to have no secrets. + </p> + <p> + How fine and noble a thing is confidence, + </p> + <p> + How reasonable, too, and almost godlike! + </p> + <p> + Fast cement of fast friends, band of society, + </p> + <p> + Old natural go-between in the world's business, + </p> + <p> + Where civil life and order, wanting this cement, + </p> + <p> + Would presently rush back + </p> + <p> + Into the pristine state of singularity, + </p> + <p> + And each man stand alone. + </p> + </div> + <h5> + (<i>A servant enters</i>.) + </h5> + <p> + <i>Servant</i>. Gentlemen, the fireworks are ready. + </p> + <p> + 1<i>st Gent</i>. What be they? + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. The work of London artists, which our host has + provided in honor of this day. + </p> + <p> + 2<i>nd Gent</i>. 'Sdeath, who would part with his wine for a + rocket? + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Why truly, gentlemen, as our kind host has been at + the pains to provide this spectacle, we can do no less than be + present at it. It will not take up much time. Every man may + return fresh and thirsting to his liquor. + </p> + <p> + <i>3rd Gent</i>. There's reason in what he says. + </p> + <p> + <i>2d Gent</i>. Charge on then, bottle in hand. There's husbandry + in that. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>They go out, singing. Only</i> LOVEL <i>remains, who + observes</i> WOODVIL. + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i> (<i>still talking to himself</i>). + </p> + <p> + This Lovel here's of a tough honesty, + </p> + <p> + Would put the rack to the proof. He is not of that sort + </p> + <p> + Which haunt my house, snorting the liquors, + </p> + <p> + And when their wisdoms are afloat with wine, + </p> + <p> + Spend vows as fast as vapors, which go off + </p> + <p> + Even with the fumes, their fathers. He is one, + </p> + <p> + Whose sober morning actions + </p> + <p> + Shame not his o'ernight's promises; + </p> + <p> + Talks little, flatters less, and makes no promises; + </p> + <p> + Why this is he, whom the dark-wisdom'd fate + </p> + <p> + Might trust her counsels of predestination with, + </p> + <p> + And the world be no loser. + </p> + <p> + Why should I fear this man? + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Seeing</i> LOVEL. + </div> + <p> + Where is the company gone? + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. To see the fireworks, where you will be expected to + follow. But I perceive you are better engaged. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. I have been meditating this half hour, + </p> + <p> + On all the properties of a brave friendship, + </p> + <p> + The mysteries that are in it, the noble uses, + </p> + <p> + Its limits withal, and its nice boundaries. + </p> + <p> + <i>Exempli gratiâ</i>, how far a man + </p> + <p> + May lawfully forswear himself for his friend; + </p> + <p> + What quantity of lies, some of them brave ones, + </p> + <p> + He may lawfully incur in a friend's behalf! + </p> + <p> + What oaths, blood-crimes, hereditary quarrels, + </p> + <p> + Night brawls, fierce words, and duels in the morning, + </p> + <p> + He need not stick at, to maintain his friend's honor, or his + cause. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. I think many men would die for their friends. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Death! why,'tis nothing. We go to it for sport, + </p> + <p> + To gain a name or purse, or please a sullen humor, + </p> + <p> + When one has worn his fortune's livery threadbare, + </p> + <p> + Or his spleen'd mistress frowns. Husbands will venture on it, + </p> + <p> + To cure the hot fits and cold shakings of jealousy. + </p> + <p> + A friend, sir, must do more. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Can he do more than die? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. To serve a friend this he may do. Pray, mark me. + </p> + <p> + Having a law within (great spirits feel one) + </p> + <p> + He cannot, ought not, to be bound by any + </p> + <p> + Positive laws or ord'nances extern, + </p> + <p> + But may reject all these: by the law of friendship + </p> + <p> + He may do so much, be they, indifferently, + </p> + <p> + Penn'd statutes, or the land's unwritten usages, + </p> + <p> + As public fame, civil compliances, + </p> + <p> + Misnamed honor, trust in matter of secrets, + </p> + <p> + All vows and promises, the feeble mind's religion, + </p> + <p> + (Binding our morning knowledge to approve + </p> + <p> + What last night's ignorance spake;) + </p> + <p> + The ties of blood withal, and prejudice of kin. + </p> + <p> + Sir, these weak terrors + </p> + <p> + Must never shake me. I know what belongs + </p> + <p> + To a worthy friendship. Come, you shall have my confidence. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. I hope you think me worthy. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. You will smile to hear now— + </p> + <p> + Sir Walter never has been out of the island. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. You amaze me. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. That same report of his escape to France + </p> + <p> + Was a fine tale, forged by myself— + </p> + <p> + Ha! ha! + </p> + <p> + I knew it would stagger him. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Pray, give me leave. + </p> + <p> + Where has he dwelt, how lived, how lain conceal'd? + </p> + <p> + Sure I may ask so much. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. From place to place, dwelling in no place long, + </p> + <p> + My brother Simon still hath borne him company, + </p> + <p> + ('Tis a brave youth, I envy him all his virtues). + </p> + <p> + Disguised in foreign garb, they pass for Frenchmen, + </p> + <p> + Two Protestant exiles from the Limousin + </p> + <p> + Newly arrived. Their dwelling's now at Nottingham, + </p> + <p> + Where no soul knows them. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Can you assign any reason why a gentleman of Sir + Walter's known prudence should expose his person so lightly? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. I believe, a certain fondness, + </p> + <p> + A childlike cleaving to the land that gave him birth, + </p> + <p> + Chains him like fate. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. I have known some exiles thus + </p> + <p> + To linger out the term of the law's indulgence, + </p> + <p> + To the hazard of being known. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. You may suppose sometimes + </p> + <p> + They use the neighb'ring Sherwood for their sport, + </p> + <p> + Their exercise and freer recreation.— + </p> + <p> + I see you smile. Pray now, be careful. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. I am no babbler, sir; you need not fear me. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. But some men have been known to talk in their + sleep, + </p> + <p> + And tell fine tales that way. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. I have heard so much. But, to say truth, I mostly + sleep alone. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Or drink, sir? do you never drink too freely? + </p> + <p> + Some men will drink, and tell you all their secrets. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Why do you question me, who know my habits? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. I think you are no sot + </p> + <p> + No tavern-troubler, worshipper of the grape; + </p> + <p> + But all men drink sometimes, + </p> + <p> + And veriest saints at festivals relax, + </p> + <p> + The marriage of a friend, or a wife's birthday. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. How much, sir, may a man with safety drink? + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Smiling</i>. + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Sir, three half-pints a day is reasonable; + </p> + <p> + I care not if you never exceed that quantity. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. I shall observe it; + </p> + <p> + On holidays two quarts. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Or, stay; you keep no wench? + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Ha! + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. No painted mistress for your private hours? + </p> + <p> + You keep no whore, sir? + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. What does he mean? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Who for a close embrace, a toy of sin, + </p> + <p> + And amorous praising of your worship's breath, + </p> + <p> + In rosy junction of four melting lips, + </p> + <p> + Can kiss out secrets from you? + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. How strange this passionate behavior shows in you + </p> + <p> + Sure, you think me some weak one. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Pray pardon me some fears. + </p> + <p> + You have now the pledge of a dear father's life. + </p> + <p> + I am a son—would fain be thought a loving one; + </p> + <p> + You may allow me some fears: do not despise me, + </p> + <p> + If, in a posture foreign to my spirit, + </p> + <p> + And by our well-knit friendship, I conjure you, + </p> + <p> + Touch not Sir Walter's life. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Kneels.</i> + </div> + <p> + You see these tears. My father's an old man. + </p> + <p> + Pray let him live. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. I must be bold to tell you, these new freedoms + </p> + <p> + Show most unhandsome in you. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i> (<i>rising</i>). Ha! do you say so? + </p> + <p> + Sure, you are not grown proud upon my secret! + </p> + <p> + Ah! now I see it plain. He would be babbling. + </p> + <p> + No doubt a garrulous and hard-faced traitor— + </p> + <p> + But I'll not give you leave. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Draws.</i> + </div> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. What does this madman mean? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Come, sir; here is no subterfuge; + </p> + <p> + You must kill me, or I kill you. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i> (<i>drawing</i>). Then self-defence plead my + excuse. + </p> + <p> + Have at you, sir. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>They fight.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Stay, sir. + </p> + <p> + I hope you have made your will. + </p> + <p> + If not,'tis no great matter. + </p> + <p> + A broken cavalier has seldom much + </p> + <p> + He can bequeath; an old worn peruke, + </p> + <p> + A snuffbox with a picture of Prince Rupert, + </p> + <p> + A rusty sword he'll swear was used at Naseby, + </p> + <p> + Though it ne'er came within ten miles of the place; + </p> + <p> + And if he's very rich, + </p> + <p> + A cheap edition of the <i>Icon Basilike</i>, + </p> + <p> + Is mostly all the wealth he dies possest of. + </p> + <p> + You say few prayers, I fancy;— + </p> + </div> + <p> + So to it again. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>They fight again.</i> LOVEL <i>is disarmed.</i> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. You had best now take my life. I guess you mean it. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i> (<i>musing</i>). No:—Men will say I fear'd + him, if I kill'd him. + </p> + <p> + Live still, and be a traitor in thy wish, + </p> + <p> + But never act thy thought, being a coward. + </p> + <p> + That vengeance, which thy soul shall nightly thirst for, + </p> + <p> + And this disgrace I've done you cry aloud for, + </p> + <p> + Still have the will without the power to execute. + </p> + <p> + So now I leave you, + </p> + <p> + Feeling a sweet security. No doubt + </p> + <p> + My secret shall remain a virgin for you! + </p> + </div> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Goes out, smiling in scorn</i>. + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i> (<i>rising</i>). For once you are mistaken in your + man. + </p> + <p> + The deed you wot of shall forthwith be done, + </p> + <p> + A bird let loose, a secret out of hand, + </p> + <p> + Returns not back. Why, then 'tis baby policy + </p> + <p> + To menace him who hath it in his keeping. + </p> + <p> + I will go look for Gray; + </p> + <p> + Then, northward ho! such tricks as we shall play + </p> + <p> + Have not been seen, I think, in merry Sherwood, + </p> + <p> + Since the days of Robin Hood, that archer good. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + ACT THE FOURTH. + </h3> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>An Apartment in Woodvil Hall</i>. + </h5> + <h5> + JOHN WOODVIL. (<i>Alone</i>.) + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <p> + A weight of wine lies heavy on my head, + </p> + <p> + The unconcocted follies of last night. + </p> + <p> + Now all those jovial fancies, and bright hopes, + </p> + <p> + Children of wine, go off like dreams. + </p> + <p> + This sick vertigo here + </p> + <p> + Preacheth of temperance, no sermon better. + </p> + <p> + These black thoughts, and dull melancholy, + </p> + <p> + That stick like burrs to the brain, will they ne'er leave me? + </p> + <p> + Some men are full of choler, when they are drunk; + </p> + <p> + Some brawl of matter foreign to themselves; + </p> + <p> + And some, the most resolved fools of all, + </p> + <p> + Have told their dearest secrets in their cups. + </p> + </div> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>The Forest</i>. + </h5> + <h5> + SIR WALTER. SIMON. LOVEL. GRAY. + </h5> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Sir, we are sorry we cannot return your French + salutation. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gray</i>. Nor otherwise consider this garb you trust to than + as a poor disguise. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Nor use much ceremony with a traitor. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gray</i>. Therefore, without much induction of superfluous + words, I attach you, Sir Walter Woodvil, of High Treason, in the + King's name. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. And of taking part in the great Rebellion against + our late lawful Sovereign, Charles the First. + </p> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. John has betrayed us, father. + </p> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Come, sir, you had best surrender fairly. We know + you, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. Hang ye, villains, ye are two better known than + trusted. I have seen those faces before. Are ye not two beggarly + retainers, trencher-parasites, to John? I think ye rank above his + footmen. A sort of bed and board worms—locusts that infest + our house; a leprosy that long has hung upon its walls and + princely apartments, reaching to fill all the corners of my + brother's once noble heart. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gray</i>. We are his friends. + </p> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. Fie, sir, do not weep. How these rogues will + triumph! Shall I whip off their heads, father? + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Draws</i>. + </div> + <p> + <i>Lovel</i>. Come, sir, though this show handsome in you, being + his son, yet the law must have its course. + </p> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. And if I tell ye the law shall not have its course, + cannot ye be content? Courage, father; shall such things as these + apprehend a man? Which of ye will venture upon me?—Will + you, Mr. Constable self-elect? or you, sir, with a pimple on your + nose, got at Oxford by hard drinking, your only badge of loyalty? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gray</i>. 'Tis a brave youth—I cannot strike at him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Simon</i>. Father, why do you cover your face with your hands? + Why do you fetch your breath so hard? See, villains, his heart is + burst! O villains, he cannot speak. One of you run for some + water; quickly, ye knaves; will ye have your throats cut? + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>They both slink off</i>. + </div> + <p> + How is it with you, Sir Walter? Look up, sir, the villains are + gone. He hears me not, and this deep disgrace of treachery in his + son hath touched him even to the death. O most distuned and + distempered world, where sons talk their aged fathers into their + graves! Garrulous and diseased world, and still empty, rotten and + hollow <i>talking</i> world, where good men decay, states turn + round in an endless mutability, and still for the worse; nothing + is at a stay, nothing abides but vanity, chaotic + vanity.—Brother, adieu! + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + There lies the parent stock which gave us life, + </p> + <p> + Which I will see consign'd with tears to earth. + </p> + <p> + Leave thou the solemn funeral rites to me, + </p> + <p> + Grief and a true remorse abide with thee. + </p> + </div> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Bears in the body</i>. + </div> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>Another Part of the Forest</i>. + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. (<i>alone</i>.) It was an error merely, and no + crime, + </p> + <p> + An unsuspecting openness in youth, + </p> + <p> + That from his lips the fatal secret drew, + </p> + <p> + Which should have slept like one of nature's mysteries, + </p> + <p> + Unveil'd by any man. + </p> + <p> + Well, he is dead! + </p> + <p> + And what should Margaret do in the forest? + </p> + <p> + O ill-starr'd John! + </p> + <p> + O Woodvil, man enfeoff'd to despair! + </p> + <p> + Take thy farewell of peace. + </p> + <p> + O never look again to see good days, + </p> + <p> + Or close thy lids in comfortable nights, + </p> + <p> + Or ever think a happy thought again, + </p> + <p> + If what I have heard be true.— + </p> + <p> + Forsaken of the world must Woodvil live, + </p> + <p> + If he did tell these men. + </p> + <p> + No tongue must speak to him, no tongue of man + </p> + <p> + Salute him, when he wakes up in a morning; + </p> + <p> + Or bid "good-night" to John. Who seeks to live + </p> + <p> + In amity with thee, must for thy sake + </p> + <p> + Abide the world's reproach. What then? + </p> + <p> + Shall Margaret join the clamors of the world + </p> + <p> + Against her friend? O undiscerning world, + </p> + <p> + That cannot from misfortune separate guilt, + </p> + <p> + No, not in thought! O never, never, John. + </p> + <p> + Prepared to share the fortunes of her friend + </p> + <p> + <i>For better or for worse</i>, thy Margaret comes, + </p> + <p> + To pour into thy wounds a healing love, + </p> + <p> + And wake the memory of an ancient friendship. + </p> + <p> + And pardon me, thou spirit of Sir Walter, + </p> + <p> + Who, in compassion to the wretched living, + </p> + <p> + Have but few tears to waste upon the dead. + </p> + </div> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>Woodvil Hall.</i> + </h5> + <h5> + SANDFORD. MARGARET. (<i>As from a Journey</i>.) + </h5> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. The violence of the sudden mischance hath so wrought + in him, who by nature is allied to nothing <i>less</i> than a + self-debasing humor of dejection, that I have never seen anything + more changed and spirit-broken. He hath, with a peremptory + resolution, dismissed the partners of his riots and late hours, + denied his house and person to their most earnest solicitings, + and will be seen by none. He keeps ever alone, and his grief + (which is solitary) does not so much seem to possess and govern + in him, as it is by Him, with a wilfulness of most manifest + affection, entertained and cherished. + </p> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. How bears he up against the common rumor? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. With a strange indifference, which, whosoever dives + not into the niceness of his sorrow might mistake for obdurate + and insensate. Yet are the wings of his pride forever clipt; and + yet a virtuous predominance of filial grief is so ever uppermost, + that you may discover his thoughts less troubled with + conjecturing what living opinions will say, and judge of his + deeds, than absorbed and buried with the dead, whom his + indiscretion made so. + </p> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. I knew a greatness ever to be resident in him, to + which the admiring eyes of men should look up even in the + declining and bankrupt state of his pride. Fain would I see him, + fain talk with him; but that a sense of respect, which is + violated, when without deliberation we press into the society of + the unhappy, checks and holds me back. How, think you, he would + bear my presence? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. As of an assured friend, whom in the forgetfulness + of his fortunes he past by. See him you must; but not to-night. + The newness of the sight shall move the bitterest compunction and + the truest remorse; but afterwards, trust me, dear lady, the + happiest effects of a returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to + him, to you, and all of us. + </p> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. I think he would not deny me. He hath ere this + received farewell letters from his brother, who hath taken a + resolution to estrange himself, for a time, from country, + friends, and kindred, and to seek occupation for his sad thoughts + in travelling in foreign places, where sights remote and extern + to himself may draw from him kindly and not painful ruminations. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. I was present at the receipt of the letter. The + contents seemed to affect him, for a moment, with a more lively + passion of grief than he has at any time outwardly shown. He wept + with many tears (which I had not before noted in him), and + appeared to be touched with the sense as of some unkindness; but + the cause of their sad separation and divorce quickly recurring, + he presently returned to his former inwardness of suffering. + </p> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. The reproach of his brother's presence at this hour + would have been a weight more than could be sustained by his + already oppressed and sinking spirit. Meditating upon these + intricate and widespread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon + me, as of sleep. How goes the night?— + </p> + <p> + <i>Sand</i>. An hour past sunset. You shall first refresh your + limbs (tired with travel) with meats and some cordial wine, and + then betake your no less wearied mind to repose. + </p> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. A good rest to us all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sand.</i> Thanks, lady. + </p> + <hr /> + <h3> + ACT THE FIFTH. + </h3> + <h5> + JOHN WOODVIL. (<i>dressing</i>). + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. How beautiful (<i>handling his mourning</i>) + </p> + <p> + And comely do these mourning garments show! + </p> + <p> + Sure Grief hath set his sacred impress here, + </p> + <p> + To claim the world's respect! they note so feelingly + </p> + <p> + By outward types the serious man within.— + </p> + <p> + Alas! what part or portion can I claim + </p> + <p> + In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow, + </p> + <p> + Which other mourners use? as namely, + </p> + <p> + This black attire, abstraction from society, + </p> + <p> + Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom smiles, + </p> + <p> + A cleaving sadness native to the brow, + </p> + <p> + All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends, + </p> + <p> + (That steal away the sense of loss almost,) + </p> + <p> + Men's pity and good offices + </p> + <p> + Which enemies themselves do for us then, + </p> + <p> + Putting their hostile disposition off, + </p> + <p> + As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks. + </p> + </div> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Pauses, and observes the pictures</i>. + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + These pictures must be taken down: + </p> + <p> + The portraitures of our most ancient family + </p> + <p> + For nigh three hundred years! How have I listen'd, + </p> + <p> + To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride, + </p> + <p> + Holding me in his arms, a prating boy, + </p> + <p> + And pointing to the pictures where they hung, + </p> + <p> + Repeat by course their worthy histories, + </p> + <p> + (As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name, + </p> + <p> + And Anne the handsome, Stephen, and famous John: + </p> + <p> + Telling me, I must be his famous John.) + </p> + <p> + But that was in old times. + </p> + <p> + Now, no more + </p> + <p> + Must I grow proud upon our house's pride. + </p> + <p> + I rather, I, by most unheard-of crimes, + </p> + <p> + Have backward tainted all their noble blood, + </p> + <p> + Razed out the memory of an ancient family, + </p> + <p> + And quite reversed the honors of our house. + </p> + <p> + Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes? + </p> + <p> + The secret history of his own times, + </p> + <p> + And fashions of the world when he was young: + </p> + <p> + How England slept out three-and-twenty years, + </p> + <p> + While Carr and Villiers ruled the baby king: + </p> + <p> + The costly fancies of the pedant's reign, + </p> + <p> + Balls, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory, + </p> + <p> + And Beauties of the court of James the First. + </p> + </div> + <h5> + MARGARET <i>enters</i>. + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace? + </p> + <p> + O, lady, I have suffer'd loss, + </p> + <p> + And diminution of my honor's brightness. + </p> + <p> + You bring some images of old times, Margaret, + </p> + <p> + That should be now forgotten. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. Old times should never be forgotten, John. + </p> + <p> + I came to talk about them with my friend. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>John</i>. I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. If John rejected Margaret in his pride, + </p> + <p> + (As who does not, being splenetic, refuse + </p> + <p> + Sometimes old playfellows,) the spleen being gone, + </p> + <p> + The offence no longer lives. + </p> + <p> + O Woodvil, those were happy days, + </p> + <p> + When we two first began to love. When first, + </p> + <p> + Under pretence of visiting my father, + </p> + <p> + (Being then a stripling night upon my age,) + </p> + <p> + You came a-wooing to his daughter, John. + </p> + <p> + Do you remember, + </p> + <p> + With what a coy reserve and seldom speech, + </p> + <p> + (Young maidens must be chary of their speech,) + </p> + <p> + I kept the honors of my maiden pride? + </p> + <p> + I was your favorite then. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. O Margaret, Margaret! + </p> + <p> + These your submissions to my low estate, + </p> + <p> + And cleavings to the fates of sunken Woodvil, + </p> + <p> + Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness. + </p> + <p> + Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd sex, + </p> + <p> + Whom miseries of mine could never alienate, + </p> + <p> + Nor change of fortune shake; whom injuries, + </p> + <p> + And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved + </p> + <p> + Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn, + </p> + <p> + Then when you left in virtuous pride this house, + </p> + <p> + Could not so separate, but now in this + </p> + <p> + My day of shame, when all the world forsake me, + </p> + <p> + You only visit me, love, and forgive me. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. Dost yet remember the green arbor. John, + </p> + <p> + In the south gardens of my father's house, + </p> + <p> + Where we have seen the summer sun go down, + </p> + <p> + Exchanging true love's vows without restraint? + </p> + <p> + And that old wood, you call'd your wilderness, + </p> + <p> + And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it, + </p> + <p> + There dwell + </p> + </div> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + "Like hermit poor + </p> + <p> + In pensive place obscure." + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + And tell your Ave Maries by the curls + </p> + <p> + (Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair; + </p> + <p> + And make confession seven times a day + </p> + <p> + Of every thought that stray'd from love and Margaret; + </p> + <p> + And I your saint the penance should appoint— + </p> + <p> + Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid + </p> + <p> + Aside, like an old fashion. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John.</i> O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts; + </p> + <p> + My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds, + </p> + <p> + I have no part in any good man's love, + </p> + <p> + In all earth's pleasures portion have I none, + </p> + <p> + I fade and wither in my own esteem, + </p> + <p> + This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am. + </p> + <p> + I was not always thus. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Weeps</i>. + </div> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. Thou noble nature, + </p> + <p> + Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures, + </p> + <p> + Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality, + </p> + <p> + My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honor'd John! + </p> + <p> + Upon her knees (regard her poor request) + </p> + <p> + Your favorite, once beloved Margaret, kneels. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>John</i>. What would'st thou, lady, ever honor'd Margaret? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. That John would think more nobly of himself, + </p> + <p> + More worthily of high Heaven; + </p> + <p> + And not for one misfortune, child of chance, + </p> + <p> + No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish + </p> + <p> + The less offence, with image of the greater, + </p> + <p> + Thereby to work the soul's humility, + </p> + <p> + (Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,) + </p> + <p> + O not for one offence mistrust Heaven's mercy, + </p> + <p> + Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come— + </p> + <p> + John yet has many happy days to live; + </p> + <p> + To live and make atonement. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Excellent lady, + </p> + <p> + Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes, + </p> + <p> + Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends, + </p> + <p> + Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret? + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. (<i>rising</i>). Go whither, John? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Go in with me + </p> + <p> + And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds? + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. That I will, John. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exeunt</i>. + </div> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>An inner Apartment</i>. + </h5> + <h5> + JOHN <i>is discovered kneeling</i>.—MARGARET <i>standing + over him</i>. + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i> (<i>rises</i>). I cannot bear + </p> + <p> + To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty, + </p> + <p> + ('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,) + </p> + <p> + In tending such a broken wretch as I am. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so. + </p> + <p> + O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy, + </p> + <p> + And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold + </p> + <p> + Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient, + </p> + <p> + (You know you gave me leave to call you so,) + </p> + <p> + And I must chide these pestilent humors from you. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. They are gone.— + </p> + <p> + Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak! + </p> + <p> + I can smile too, and I almost begin + </p> + <p> + To understand what kind of creature Hope is. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Yet tell me, if I overact my mirth, + </p> + <p> + (Being but a novice, I may fall into that error.) + </p> + <p> + That were a sad indecency, you know. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. Nay, never fear. + </p> + <p> + I will be mistress of your humors, + </p> + <p> + And you shall frown or smile by the book. + </p> + <p> + And herein I shall be most peremptory, + </p> + <p> + Cry, "This shows well, but that inclines to levity; + </p> + <p> + This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it, + </p> + <p> + But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite." + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>John</i>. How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself! + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. To give you in your stead a better self! + </p> + <p> + Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld + </p> + <p> + You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery, + </p> + <p> + Sir Rowland my father's gift, + </p> + <p> + And all my maidens gave my heart for lost. + </p> + <p> + I was a young thing then, being newly come + </p> + <p> + Home from my convent education, where + </p> + <p> + Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France: + </p> + <p> + Returning home true protestant, you call'd me + </p> + <p> + Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful + </p> + <p> + Did John salute his love, being newly seen! + </p> + <p> + Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty, + </p> + <p> + And praised it in a youth. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Now Margaret weeps herself. + </p> + <h5> + (<i>A noise of bells heard</i>.) + </h5> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. Hark the bells, John. + </p> + <p> + <i>John</i>. Those are the church-bells of St. Mary Ottery. + </p> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. I know it. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. St. Mary Ottery, my native village + </p> + <p> + In the sweet shire of Devon. + </p> + <p> + Those are the bells. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Marg.</i> Wilt go to church, John? + </p> + <p> + <i>John.</i> I have been there already. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Marg.</i> How canst say thou hast been there already? + </p> + <p> + The bells are only now ringing for morning service, + </p> + <p> + And hast thou been at church already? + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John.</i> I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep, + </p> + <p> + And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is) + </p> + <p> + From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise; + </p> + <p> + And the first object I discern'd + </p> + <p> + Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Marg.</i> Well, John. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John.</i> Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath day. + </p> + <p> + Immediately a wish arose in my mind, + </p> + <p> + To go to church and pray with Christian people. + </p> + <p> + And then I check'd myself, and said to myself, + </p> + <p> + "Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past, + </p> + <p> + (Not having been at church in all that time,) + </p> + <p> + And is it fit, that now for the first time + </p> + <p> + Thou shouldst offend the eyes of Christian people + </p> + <p> + With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer? + </p> + <p> + Thou wouldst but discompose their pious thoughts, + </p> + <p> + And do thyself no good: for how couldst thou pray, + </p> + <p> + With unwash'd hands, and lips unused to the offices?" + </p> + <p> + And then I at my own presumption smiled; + </p> + <p> + And then I wept that I should smile at all, + </p> + <p> + Having such cause of grief! I wept outright: + </p> + <p> + Tears like a river flooded all my face, + </p> + <p> + And I began to pray, and found I could pray; + </p> + <p> + And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church. + </p> + <p> + "Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it." + </p> + <p> + So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection, + </p> + <p> + Or was about to act unlawful business + </p> + <p> + At that dead time of dawn, + </p> + <p> + I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open. + </p> + <p> + (Whether by negligence I knew not, + </p> + <p> + Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed, + </p> + <p> + For all things felt like mystery.) + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Marg</i>. Yes. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>John</i>. So entering in, not without fear, + </p> + <p> + I passed into the family pew, + </p> + <p> + And covering up my eyes for shame, + </p> + <p> + And deep perception of unworthiness, + </p> + <p> + Upon the little hassock knelt me down, + </p> + <p> + Where I so oft had kneel'd, + </p> + <p> + A docile infant by Sir Walter's side; + </p> + <p> + And, thinking so, I wept a second flood + </p> + <p> + More poignant than the first; + </p> + <p> + But afterwards was greatly comforted. + </p> + <p> + It seem'd the guilt of blood was passing from me + </p> + <p> + Even in the act and agony of tears, + </p> + <p> + And all my sins forgiven. + </p> + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="witch" id="witch">THE WITCH;</a> + </h2> + <h3> + A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. + </h3> + <hr /> + <h4> + CHARACTERS. + </h4> + <h5> + OLD SERVANT <i>in the Family of</i> SIR FRANCIS FAIRFORD. + STRANGER. + </h5> + <hr class="short" /> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Servant</i>. One summer night Sir Francis, as it chanced, + </p> + <p> + Was pacing to and fro in the avenue + </p> + <p> + That westward fronts our house, + </p> + <p> + Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted + </p> + <p> + Three hundred years ago, + </p> + <p> + By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name. + </p> + <p> + Being o'ertasked in thought, he heeded not + </p> + <p> + The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate, + </p> + <p> + And begg'd an alms. + </p> + <p> + Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate + </p> + <p> + With angry chiding; but I can never think + </p> + <p> + (Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it) + </p> + <p> + That he could use a woman, an old woman, + </p> + <p> + With such discourtesy; but he refused her— + </p> + <p> + And better had he met a lion in his path + </p> + <p> + Than that old woman that night; + </p> + <p> + For she was one who practised the black arts, + </p> + <p> + And serv'd the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft. + </p> + <p> + She look'd at him as one that meant to blast him, + </p> + <p> + And with a frightful noise, + </p> + <p> + ('Twas partly like a woman's voice, + </p> + <p> + And partly like the hissing of a snake,) + </p> + <p> + She nothing said but this + </p> + <p> + (Sir Francis told the words):— + </p> + </div> + <div class="poem"> + <p class="i4"> + A mischief, mischief, mischief, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And a nine-times killing curse, + </p> + <p> + By day and by night, to the caitiff wight, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door, + </p> + <p class="i4"> + And shuts up the womb of his purse. + </p> + </div> + <p> + And still she cried— + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p class="i4"> + A mischief, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And a ninefold withering curse: + </p> + <p> + For that shall come to thee that will undo thee, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Both all that thou fearest and worse. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + So saying, she departed, + </p> + <p> + Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath + </p> + <p> + Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling; + </p> + <p> + So he described it. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Stranger</i>. A terrible curse! What follow'd? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Servant</i>. Nothing immediate, but some two months after, + </p> + <p> + Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick, + </p> + <p> + And none could tell what ail'd him; for he lay, + </p> + <p> + And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off, + </p> + <p> + And he, that was full-flesh'd, became as thin + </p> + <p> + As a two-months' babe that has been starved in the nursing. + </p> + <p> + And sure I think + </p> + <p> + He bore his death-wound like a little child; + </p> + <p> + With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy + </p> + <p> + He strove to clothe his agony in smiles, + </p> + <p> + Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks, + </p> + <p> + Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there; + </p> + <p> + And, when they ask'd him his complaint, he laid + </p> + <p> + His hand upon his heart to show the place, + </p> + <p> + Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said, + </p> + <p> + And prick'd him with a pin.— + </p> + <p> + And thereupon Sir Francis call'd to mind + </p> + <p> + The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway + </p> + <p> + And begg'd an alms. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Stranger</i>. But did the witch confess? + </p> + <p> + <i>Servant</i>. All this and more at her death. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Stranger</i>. I do not love to credit tales of magic. + </p> + <p> + Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung, + </p> + <p> + And this brave world + </p> + <p> + (The mystery of God) unbeautified, + </p> + <p> + Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted. + </p> + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="album" id="album">ALBUM VERSES,</a> + </h2> + <h3> + WITH A FEW OTHERS. + </h3> + <hr /> + <h3> + DEDICATION. + </h3> + <hr /> + <h4> + TO THE PUBLISHER. + </h4> + <p> + DEAR MOXON, + </p> + <p> + I do not know to whom a Dedication of these Trifles is more + properly due than to yourself. You suggested the printing of + them. You were desirous of exhibiting a specimen of the + <i>manner</i> in which Publications, intrusted to your future + care, would appear. With more propriety, perhaps, the + "Christmas," or some other of your own simple, unpretending + Compositions, might have served this purpose. But I + forget—you have bid a long adieu to the Muses. I had on my + hands sundry Copies of Verses written for <i>Albums</i>— + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Those books kept by modern young Ladies for show + </p> + <p> + Of which their plain Grandmothers nothing did know— + </p> + </div> + <p> + or otherwise floating about in Periodicals; which you have chosen + in this manner to embody. I feel little interest in their + publication. They are simply—<i>Advertisement Verses</i>. + </p> + <p> + It is not for me, nor you, to allude in public to the kindness of + our honored Friend, under whose auspices you are become a + Publisher. May that fine-minded Veteran in Verse enjoy life long + enough to see his patronage justified? I venture to predict that + your habits of industry, and your cheerful spirit, will carry you + through the world. + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p class="i10"> + I am, Dear Moxon, + </p> + <p class="i12"> + Your Friend and sincere Well-Wisher, + </p> + <p class="i14"> + CHARLES LAMB. + </p> + <p> + ENFIELD, <i>1st June</i>, 1839. + </p> + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + ALBUM VERSES + </h2> + <h3> + WITH A FEW OTHERS. + </h3> + <hr class="short" /> + <h3> + <a name="sgt" id="sgt">IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT + W——.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Had I a power, Lady, to my will, + </p> + <p> + You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill + </p> + <p> + Your leaves with Autographs—resplendent names + </p> + <p> + Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames, + </p> + <p> + Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these should stand + </p> + <p> + The hands of famous Lawyers—a grave band— + </p> + <p> + Who in their Courts of Law or Equity + </p> + <p> + Have best upheld Freedom and Property. + </p> + <p> + These should moot cases in your book, and vie + </p> + <p> + To show their reading and their Sergeantry. + </p> + <p> + But I have none of these; nor can I send + </p> + <p> + The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd + </p> + <p> + In her authentic hand; nor in soft hours + </p> + <p> + Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers. + </p> + <p> + The lack of curious Signatures I moan, + </p> + <p> + And want the courage to subscribe my own. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="dora" id="dora">TO DORA W——.</a> + </h3> + <h3> + ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN HER ALBUM. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + An Album is a Banquet: from the store, + </p> + <p> + In his intelligential Orchard growing, + </p> + <p> + Your Sire might heap your board to overflowing: + </p> + <p> + One shaking of the Tree—'twould ask no more + </p> + <p> + To set a Salad forth, more rich than that + </p> + <p> + Which Evelyn[1] in his princely cookery fancied: + </p> + <p> + Or that more rare, by Eve's neat hands enhanced, + </p> + <p> + Where, a pleased guest, the Angelic Virtue sat. + </p> + <p> + But like the all-grasping Founder of the Feast, + </p> + <p> + Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tax, + </p> + <p> + From his less wealthy neighbors he exacts; + </p> + <p> + Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's beast. + </p> + <p> + Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am, + </p> + <p> + A zealous, meek, <i>contributory</i> LAMB. + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, by J. E. 1706. + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="lady" id="lady">IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + An Album is a Garden, not for show + </p> + <p> + Planted, but use; where wholesome herbs should grow. + </p> + <p> + A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where + </p> + <p> + No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare. + </p> + <p> + A Chapel, where mere ornamental things + </p> + <p> + Are pure as crowns of saints, or angels' wings. + </p> + <p> + A List of living friends; a holier Room + </p> + <p> + For names of some since mouldering in the tomb, + </p> + <p> + Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive; + </p> + <p> + And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak and live. + </p> + <p> + Such, and so tender, should an Album be; + </p> + <p> + And, Lady, such I wish this book to thee. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="edith" id="edith">IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH + S——.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + In Christian world MARY the garland wears! + </p> + <p> + REBECCA sweetens on a Hebrew's ear; + </p> + <p> + Quakers for pure PRISCILLA are more clear; + </p> + <p> + And the light Gaul by amorous NINON swears. + </p> + <p> + Among the lesser lights how LUCY shines! + </p> + <p> + What air of fragrance ROSAMOND throws round! + </p> + <p> + How like a hymn doth sweet CECILIA sound! + </p> + <p> + Of MARTHAS, and of ABIGAILS, few lines + </p> + <p> + Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff + </p> + <p> + Should homely JOAN be fashion'd. But can + </p> + <p> + You BARBARA resist, or MARIAN? + </p> + <p> + And is not CLARE for love excuse enough? + </p> + <p> + Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess, + </p> + <p> + These all, than Saxon EDITH, please me less. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="rotha" id="rotha">IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA + Q——.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + A passing glance was all I caught of thee, + </p> + <p> + In my own Enfield haunts at random roving. + </p> + <p> + Old friends of ours were with thee, faces loving; + </p> + <p> + Time short: and salutations cursory, + </p> + <p> + Though deep, and hearty. The familiar Name + </p> + <p> + Of you, yet unfamiliar, raised in me + </p> + <p> + Thoughts—what the daughter of that Man should be, + </p> + <p> + Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts did frame + </p> + <p> + A growing Maiden, who, from day to day + </p> + <p> + Advancing still in stature, and in grace, + </p> + <p> + Would all her lonely Father's griefs efface, + </p> + <p> + And his paternal cares with usury pay. + </p> + <p> + I still retain the phantom, as I can; + </p> + <p> + And call the gentle image—Quillinan. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="orkney" id="orkney">IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE + ORKNEY.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + CANADIA! boast no more the toils + </p> + <p> + Of hunters for the furry spoils; + </p> + <p> + Your whitest ermines are but foils + </p> + <p class="i2"> + To brighter Catherine Orkney. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + That such a flower should ever burst + </p> + <p> + From climes with rigorous winter curst!— + </p> + <p> + We bless you, that so kindly nurst + </p> + <p class="i2"> + This flower, this Catherine Orkney. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + We envy not your proud display + </p> + <p> + Of lake—wood—vast Niagara; + </p> + <p> + Your greatest pride we've borne away. + </p> + <p class="i2"> + How spared you Catherine Orkney? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell, + </p> + <p> + To your reproach no more we tell: + </p> + <p> + Canadia, you repaid us well + </p> + <p class="i2"> + With rearing Catherine Orkney. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + O Britain, guard with tenderest care + </p> + <p> + The charge allotted to your share: + </p> + <p> + You've scarce a native maid so fair, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + So good, as Catherine Orkney. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="barton" id="barton">IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Little Book, surnamed of <i>white</i>, + </p> + <p> + Clean as yet, and fair to sight, + </p> + <p> + Keep thy attribution right. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Never disproportion'd scrawl; + </p> + <p> + Ugly blot, that's worse than all; + </p> + <p> + On thy maiden clearness fall! + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + In each letter, here design'd, + </p> + <p> + Let the reader emblem'd find + </p> + <p> + Neatness of the owner's mind. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Gilded margins count a sin, + </p> + <p> + Let thy leaves attraction win + </p> + <p> + By the golden rules within; + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Sayings fetch'd from sages old; + </p> + <p> + Laws which Holy Writ unfold, + </p> + <p> + Worthy to be graved in gold: + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Lighter fancies not excluding: + </p> + <p> + Blameless wit, with nothing rude in, + </p> + <p> + Sometimes mildly interluding + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Amid strains of graver measure: + </p> + <p> + Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure + </p> + <p> + In sweet Muses' groves of leisure. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Riddles dark, perplexing sense; + </p> + <p> + Darker meanings of offence; + </p> + <p> + What but <i>shades</i>—be banish'd hence. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Whitest thoughts in whitest dress, + </p> + <p> + Candid meanings, best express + </p> + <p> + Mind of quiet Quakeress. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="towers" id="towers">IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE + TOWERS.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Lady Unknown, who crav'st from me Unknown + </p> + <p> + The trifle of a verse these leaves to grace, + </p> + <p> + How shall I find fit matter? with what face + </p> + <p> + Address a face that ne'er to me was shown? + </p> + <p> + Thy looks, tones, gesture, manners, and what not, + </p> + <p> + Conjecturing, I wander in the dark. + </p> + <p> + I know thee only Sister to Charles Clarke! + </p> + <p> + But at that name my cold muse waxes hot, + </p> + <p> + And swears that thou art such a one as he, + </p> + <p> + Warm, laughter-loving, with a touch of madness, + </p> + <p> + Wild, glee-provoking, pouring oil of gladness + </p> + <p> + From frank heart without guile. And, if thou be + </p> + <p> + The pure reverse of this, and I mistake— + </p> + <p> + Demure one, I will like thee for his sake. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="miss" id="miss">IN THE ALBUM OF MISS ——.</a> + </h3> + <p> + I. + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Such goodness in your face doth shine, + </p> + <p> + With modest look without design, + </p> + <p> + That I despair, poor pen of mine + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Can e'er express it. + </p> + <p> + To give it words I feebly try; + </p> + <p> + My spirits fail me to supply + </p> + <p> + Befitting language for't, and I + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Can only bless it! + </p> + </div> + <p> + II. + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + But stop, rash verse! and don't abuse + </p> + <p> + A bashful Maiden's ear with news + </p> + <p> + Of her own virtues. She'll refuse + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Praise sung so loudly. + </p> + <p> + Of that same goodness you admire, + </p> + <p> + The best part is, she don't aspire + </p> + <p> + To praise—nor of herself desire + </p> + <p class="i2"> + To think too proudly. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="ownal" id="ownal">IN MY OWN ALBUM.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white, + </p> + <p> + A young probationer of light, + </p> + <p> + Thou wert, my soul, an album bright, + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + A spotless leaf; but thought, and care, + </p> + <p> + And friend and foe, in foul or fair, + </p> + <p> + Have "written strange defeatures" there; + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + And Time with heaviest hand of all, + </p> + <p> + Like that fierce writing on the wall, + </p> + <p> + Hath stamp'd sad dates—he can't recall; + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + And error gilding worst designs— + </p> + <p> + Like speckled snake that strays and shines— + </p> + <p> + Betrays his path by crooked lines; + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + And vice hath left his ugly blot; + </p> + <p> + And good resolves, a moment hot, + </p> + <p> + Fairly began—but finish'd not; + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + And fruitless, late remorse doth trace— + </p> + <p> + Like Hebrew lore a backward pace— + </p> + <p> + Her irrecoverable race. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Disjointed numbers; sense unknit + </p> + <p> + Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit; + </p> + <p> + Compose the mingled mass of it. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + My scalded eyes no longer brook + </p> + <p> + Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look— + </p> + <p> + Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="misc" id="misc">MISCELLANEOUS.</a> + </h2> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="angel" id="angel">ANGEL HELP[1]</a> + </h3> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles Aders, + Esq., in which is represented the legend of a poor female Saint; + who, having spun past midnight, to maintain a bedrid mother, has + fallen asleep from fatigue, and Angels are finishing her work. In + another part of the chamber, an angel is tending a lily, the + emblem of purity. + </div> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + This rare tablet doth include + </p> + <p> + Poverty with sanctitude. + </p> + <p> + Past midnight this poor maid hath spun, + </p> + <p> + And yet the work is not half done, + </p> + <p> + Which must supply from earnings scant + </p> + <p> + A feeble bedrid parent's want. + </p> + <p> + Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask, + </p> + <p> + And Holy hands take up the task; + </p> + <p> + Unseen the rock and spindle ply, + </p> + <p> + And do her earthly drudgery. + </p> + <p> + Sleep, saintly poor one! sleep, sleep on; + </p> + <p> + And, waking, find thy labors done. + </p> + <p> + Perchance she knows it by her dreams; + </p> + <p> + Her eye hath caught the golden gleams, + </p> + <p> + Angelic presence testifying, + </p> + <p> + That round her everywhere are flying; + </p> + <p> + Ostents from which she may presume, + </p> + <p> + That much of heaven is in the room. + </p> + <p> + Skirting her own bright hair they run, + </p> + <p> + And to the sunny add more sun: + </p> + <p> + Now on that aged face they fix, + </p> + <p> + Streaming from the Crucifix; + </p> + <p> + The flesh-clogg'd spirit disabusing, + </p> + <p> + Death-disarming sleeps infusing, + </p> + <p> + Prelibations, foretastes high, + </p> + <p> + And equal thoughts to live or die. + </p> + <p> + Gardener bright from Eden's bower, + </p> + <p> + Tend with care that lily flower; + </p> + <p> + To its leaves and root infuse + </p> + <p> + Heaven's sunshine, Heaven's dews. + </p> + <p> + 'Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge, + </p> + <p> + Of a crowning privilege. + </p> + <p> + Careful as that lily flower, + </p> + <p> + This maid must keep her precious dower; + </p> + <p> + Live a sainted maid, or die + </p> + <p> + Martyr to virginity. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="infant" id="infant">ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS + BORN.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + I saw where in the shroud did lurk + </p> + <p> + A curious frame of Nature's work. + </p> + <p> + A flow'ret crushed in the bud, + </p> + <p> + A nameless piece of Babyhood, + </p> + <p> + Was in her cradle-coffin lying; + </p> + <p> + Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: + </p> + <p> + So soon to exhange the imprisoning womb + </p> + <p> + For darker closets of the tomb! + </p> + <p> + She did but ope an eye, and put + </p> + <p> + A clear beam forth, then straight up shut + </p> + <p> + For the long dark: ne'er more to see + </p> + <p> + Through glasses of mortality. + </p> + <p> + Riddle of destiny, who can show + </p> + <p> + What thy short visit meant, or know + </p> + <p> + What thy errand here below? + </p> + <p> + Shall we say, that Nature blind + </p> + <p> + Check'd her hand, and changed her mind, + </p> + <p> + Just when she had exactly wrought + </p> + <p> + A finish'd pattern without fault? + </p> + <p> + Could she flag, or could she tire, + </p> + <p> + Or lack'd she the Promethean fire + </p> + <p> + (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) + </p> + <p> + That should thy little limbs have quicken'd? + </p> + <p> + Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure + </p> + <p> + Life of health and days mature: + </p> + <p> + Woman's self in miniature! + </p> + <p> + Limbs so fair, they might supply + </p> + <p> + (Themselves now but cold imagery) + </p> + <p> + The sculptor to make Beauty by. + </p> + <p> + Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry, + </p> + <p> + That babe or mother, one must die; + </p> + <p> + So in mercy left the stock, + </p> + <p> + And cut the branch; to save the shock + </p> + <p> + Of young years widow'd; and the pain, + </p> + <p> + When Single State comes back again + </p> + <p> + To the lone man who, 'reft of wife, + </p> + <p> + Thenceforward drags a maimed life? + </p> + <p> + The economy of Heaven is dark; + </p> + <p> + And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark, + </p> + <p> + Why Human Buds, like this, should fall, + </p> + <p> + More brief than fly ephemeral, + </p> + <p> + That has his day; while shrivell'd crones + </p> + <p> + Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; + </p> + <p> + And crabbed use the conscience sears + </p> + <p> + In sinners of an hundred years. + </p> + <p> + Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, + </p> + <p> + Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss. + </p> + <p> + Rites, which custom does impose, + </p> + <p> + Silver bells and baby clothes; + </p> + <p> + Coral redder than those lips, + </p> + <p> + Which pale death did late eclipse; + </p> + <p> + Music framed for infants' glee, + </p> + <p> + Whistle never tuned for thee; + </p> + <p> + Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, + </p> + <p> + Loving hearts were they which gave them. + </p> + <p> + Let not one be missing; nurse, + </p> + <p> + See them laid upon the hearse + </p> + <p> + Of infant slain by doom perverse. + </p> + <p> + Why should kings and nobles have + </p> + <p> + Pictured trophies to their grave; + </p> + <p> + And we, churls, to thee deny + </p> + <p> + Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, + </p> + <p> + A more harmless vanity? + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="christ" id="christ">THE CHRISTENING.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Array'd—a half-angelic sight— + </p> + <p> + In vests of pure Baptismal white, + </p> + <p> + The mother to the Font doth bring + </p> + <p> + The little helpless nameless thing, + </p> + <p> + With hushes soft and mild caressing, + </p> + <p> + At once to get—a name and blessing. + </p> + <p> + Close by the babe the Priest doth stand, + </p> + <p> + The Cleansing Water at his hand, + </p> + <p> + Which must assoil the soul within + </p> + <p> + From every stain of Adam's sin. + </p> + <p> + The Infant eyes the mystic scenes, + </p> + <p> + Nor knows what all this wonder means; + </p> + <p> + And now he smiles, as if to say + </p> + <p> + "I am a Christian made this day;" + </p> + <p> + Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold, + </p> + <p> + Shrinking from the water cold, + </p> + <p> + Whose virtues, rightly understood, + </p> + <p> + Are, as Bethesda's waters, good. + </p> + <p> + Strange words—The World, The Flesh, The Devil— + </p> + <p> + Poor Babe, what can it know of evil? + </p> + <p> + But we must silently adore + </p> + <p> + Mysterious truths, and not explore. + </p> + <p> + Enough for him, in after-times, + </p> + <p> + When he shall read these artless rhymes, + </p> + <p> + If, looking back upon this day + </p> + <p> + With quiet conscience, he can say— + </p> + <p> + "I have in part redeem'd the pledge + </p> + <p> + Of my Baptismal privilege; + </p> + <p> + And more and more will strive to flee + </p> + <p> + All which my Sponsors kind did then renounce for me." + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="catec" id="catec">THE YOUNG CATECHIST[1]</a> + </h3> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: A picture by Henry Meyer, Esq. + </div> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + While this tawny Ethiop prayeth, + </p> + <p> + Painter, who is she that stayeth + </p> + <p> + By, with skin of whitest lustre, + </p> + <p> + Sunny locks, a shining cluster, + </p> + <p> + Saint-like seeming to direct him + </p> + <p> + To the Power that must protect him? + </p> + <p> + Is she of the Heaven-born Three, + </p> + <p> + Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity; + </p> + <p> + Or some Cherub?— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + They you mention + </p> + <p> + Far transcend my weak invention. + </p> + <p> + 'Tis a simple Christian child, + </p> + <p> + Missionary young and mild, + </p> + <p> + From her stock of Scriptural knowledge, + </p> + <p> + Bible-taught without a college, + </p> + <p> + Which by reading she could gather + </p> + <p> + Teaches him to say OUR FATHER + </p> + <p> + To the common Parent, who + </p> + <p> + Color not respects, nor hue. + </p> + <p> + White and black in Him have part, + </p> + <p> + Who looks not to the skin, but heart. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="birth" id="birth">TO A YOUNG FRIEND,</a> + </h3> + <h3> + ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray + </p> + <p> + A blessing on thy years, young Isola; + </p> + <p> + Young, but no more a child. How swift have flown + </p> + <p> + To me thy girlish times, a woman grown + </p> + <p> + Beneath my heedless eyes! in vain I rack + </p> + <p> + My fancy to believe the almanac, + </p> + <p> + That speaks thee Twenty-One. Thou shouldst have still + </p> + <p> + Remain'd a child, and at thy sovereign will + </p> + <p> + Gambol'd about our house, as in times past. + </p> + <p> + Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast, + </p> + <p> + Hastening to leave thy friends!—for which intent, + </p> + <p> + Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment: + </p> + <p> + After some thirty years, spent in such bliss + </p> + <p> + As this earth can afford, where still we miss + </p> + <p> + Something of joy entire, may'st thou grow old + </p> + <p> + As we whom thou hast left! That wish was cold. + </p> + <p> + O far more aged and wrinkled, till folks say, + </p> + <p> + Looking upon thee reverend in decay, + </p> + <p> + "This Dame, for length of days, and virtues rare, + </p> + <p> + With her respected Grandsire may compare." + </p> + <p> + Grandchild of that respected Isola, + </p> + <p> + Thou shouldst have had about thee on this day + </p> + <p> + Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate + </p> + <p> + Their Pride grown up to woman's grave estate. + </p> + <p> + But they have died, and left thee, to advance + </p> + <p> + Thy fortunes how thou may'st, and owe to chance + </p> + <p> + The friends which nature grudged. And thou wilt find, + </p> + <p> + Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind + </p> + <p> + To thee and thy deservings. That last strain + </p> + <p> + Had too much sorrow in it. Fill again + </p> + <p> + Another cheerful goblet, while I say + </p> + <p> + "Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola." + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="going" id="going">SHE IS GOING.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + For their elder Sister's hair + </p> + <p> + Martha does a wreath prepare + </p> + <p> + Of bridal rose, ornate and gay; + </p> + <p> + To-morrow is the wedding-day. + </p> + <p class="i8"> + She is going. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Mary, youngest of the three, + </p> + <p> + Laughing idler, full of glee, + </p> + <p> + Arm in arm does fondly chain her, + </p> + <p> + Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her— + </p> + <p class="i10"> + But she's going. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Vex not, maidens, nor regret + </p> + <p> + Thus to part with Margaret. + </p> + <p> + Charms like yours can never stay + </p> + <p> + Long within doors; and one day + </p> + <p class="i10"> + You'll be going. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="sonns" id="sonns">SONNETS.</a> + </h2> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="harm" id="harm">HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + By Enfield lanes, and Winchmore's verdant hill, + </p> + <p> + Two lovely damsels cheer my lonely walk: + </p> + <p> + The fair Maria, as a vestal, still; + </p> + <p> + And Emma brown, exuberant in talk. + </p> + <p> + With soft and Lady speech the first applies + </p> + <p> + The mild correctives that to grace belong + </p> + <p> + To her redundant friend, who her defies + </p> + <p> + With jest, and mad discourse, and bursts of song. + </p> + <p> + O differing Pair, yet sweetly thus agreeing, + </p> + <p> + What music from your happy discord rises, + </p> + <p> + While your companion hearing each, and seeing, + </p> + <p> + Nor this nor that, but both together, prizes; + </p> + <p> + This lesson teaching, which our souls may strike, + </p> + <p> + That harmonies may be in things unlike! + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="camb" id="camb">WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + I was not train'd in Academic bowers, + </p> + <p> + And to those learned streams I nothing owe + </p> + <p> + Which copious from those twin fair founts do flow; + </p> + <p> + Mine have been anything but studious hours. + </p> + <p> + Yet can I fancy, wandering 'mid thy towers, + </p> + <p> + Myself a nursling, Granta, of thy lap; + </p> + <p> + My brow seems tightening with the Doctor's cap, + </p> + <p> + And I walk <i>gowned</i>; feel unusual powers. + </p> + <p> + Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech, + </p> + <p> + Old Ramus' ghost is busy at my brain; + </p> + <p> + And my skull teems with notions infinite. + </p> + <p> + Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach + </p> + <p> + Truths, which transcend the searching Schoolmen's vein, + </p> + <p> + And half had stagger'd that stout Stagirite. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="blind" id="blind">TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN + <br /> + "THE BLIND BOY."</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Rare artist! who with half thy tools, or none, + </p> + <p> + Canst execute with ease thy curious art, + </p> + <p> + And press thy powerful'st meanings on the heart, + </p> + <p> + Unaided by the eye, expression's throne! + </p> + <p> + While each blind sense, intelligential grown + </p> + <p> + Beyond its sphere, performs the effect of sight: + </p> + <p> + Those orbs alone, wanting their proper might,. + </p> + <p> + All motionless and silent seem to moan + </p> + <p> + The unseemly negligence of nature's hand, + </p> + <p> + That left them so forlorn. What praise is thine, + </p> + <p> + O mistress of the passions; artist fine! + </p> + <p> + Who dost our souls against our sense command, + </p> + <p> + Plucking the horror from a sightless face, + </p> + <p> + Lending to blank deformity a grace. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="work" id="work">WORK.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Who first invented work, and bound the free + </p> + <p> + And holiday-rejoicing spirit down + </p> + <p> + To the ever-haunting importunity + </p> + <p> + Of business in the green fields, and the town— + </p> + <p> + To plough, loom, anvil, spade—and oh! most sad + </p> + <p> + To that dry drudgery at the—desk's dead wood? + </p> + <p> + Who but the Being unblest, alien from good, + </p> + <p> + Sabbathless Satan! he who his unglad + </p> + <p> + Task ever plies 'mid rotatory burnings, + </p> + <p> + That round and round incalculably reel— + </p> + <p> + For wrath divine hath made him like a wheel— + </p> + <p> + In that red realm from which are no returnings: + </p> + <p> + Where toiling, and turmoiling, ever and aye + </p> + <p> + He, and his thoughts, keep pensive working-day. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="leisr" id="leisr">LEISURE.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + They talk of time, and of time's galling yoke, + </p> + <p> + That like a mill-stone on man's mind doth press, + </p> + <p> + Which only works and business can redress: + </p> + <p> + Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke, + </p> + <p> + Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke. + </p> + <p> + But might I, fed with silent meditation, + </p> + <p> + Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation— + </p> + <p> + <i>Improbus Labor</i>, which my spirits hath broke— + </p> + <p> + I'd drink of time's rich cup, and never surfeit: + </p> + <p> + Fling in more days than went to make the gem + </p> + <p> + That crown'd the white top of Methusalem: + </p> + <p> + Yea on my weak neck take, and never forfeit, + </p> + <p> + Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky, + </p> + <p> + The heaven-sweet burden of eternity. + </p> + </div> + <hr class="short" /> + <h4> + DEUS NOBIS HÆC OTIA FECIT. + </h4> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="esq" id="esq">TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Rogers, of all the men that I have known + </p> + <p> + But slightly, who have died, your Brother's loss + </p> + <p> + Touch'd me most sensibly. There came across + </p> + <p> + My mind an image of the cordial tone + </p> + <p> + Of your fraternal meetings, where a guest + </p> + <p> + I more than once have sat; and grieve to think, + </p> + <p> + That of that threefold cord one precious link + </p> + <p> + By Death's rude hand is sever'd from the rest. + </p> + <p> + Of our old gentry he appear'd a stem— + </p> + <p> + A Magistrate who, while the evil-doer + </p> + <p> + He kept in terror, could respect the Poor, + </p> + <p> + And not for every trifle harass them, + </p> + <p> + As some, divine and laic, too oft do. + </p> + <p> + This man's a private loss, and public too. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="gypsy" id="gypsy">THE GYPSY'S MALISON.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + "Suck, baby, suck! mother's love grows by giving; + </p> + <p> + Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting; + </p> + <p> + Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living + </p> + <p> + Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + "Kiss, baby, kiss! mother's lips shine by kisses; + </p> + <p> + Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings; + </p> + <p> + Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses + </p> + <p> + Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + "Hang, baby, hang! mother's love loves such forces, + </p> + <p> + Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging; + </p> + <p> + Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses + </p> + <p> + Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging." + </p> + <p> + So sang a wither'd Beldam energetical, + </p> + <p> + And bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="commend" id="commend">COMMENDATORY VERSES, ETC.</a> + </h2> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="knowl" id="knowl">TO J. S. KNOWLES, ESQ. + <br /> + ON HIS TRAGEDY OF VIRGINIUS.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then + </p> + <p> + Esteemed you a perfect specimen + </p> + <p> + Of those fine spirits warm-soul'd Ireland sends, + </p> + <p> + To teach us colder English how a friend's + </p> + <p> + Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and plain, + </p> + <p> + Strong-sensed, rough-witted, above fear or gain; + </p> + <p> + But nothing further had the gift to espy. + </p> + <p> + Sudden you reappear. With wonder I + </p> + <p> + Hear my old friend (turn'd Shakspeare) read a scene + </p> + <p> + Only to <i>his</i> inferior in the clean + </p> + <p> + Passes of pathos: with such fence-like art— + </p> + <p> + Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart. + </p> + <p> + Almost without the aid language affords, + </p> + <p> + Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, <i>words</i>, + </p> + <p> + (Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway + </p> + <p> + Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play + </p> + <p> + We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws + </p> + <p> + Our tears on credit: and we find the cause + </p> + <p> + Some two hours after, spelling o'er again + </p> + <p> + Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain. + </p> + <p> + Proceed, old friend; and, as the year returns, + </p> + <p> + Still snatch some new old story from the urns + </p> + <p> + Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before + </p> + <p> + Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="cornw" id="cornw">TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS,</a> + </h3> + <h3> + PUBLISHED UNDER THE NAME OF BARRY CORNWALL. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Let hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask + </p> + <p> + Under the vizor of a borrow'd name; + </p> + <p> + Let things eschew the light deserving blame: + </p> + <p> + No cause hast thou to blush for thy sweet task. + </p> + <p> + "Marcian Colonna" is a dainty book; + </p> + <p> + And thy "Sicilian Tale" may boldly pass; + </p> + <p> + Thy "Dream" 'bove all, in which, as in a glass, + </p> + <p> + On the great world's antique glories we may look. + </p> + <p> + No longer then, as "lowly substitute, + </p> + <p> + Factor, or PROCTER, for another's gains," + </p> + <p> + Suffer the admiring world to be deceived; + </p> + <p> + Lest thou thyself, by self of fame bereaved, + </p> + <p> + Lament too late the lost prize of thy pains, + </p> + <p> + And heavenly tunes piped through an alien flute. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="every" id="every">TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY + BOOK."</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + I like you, and your book, ingenuous Hone! + </p> + <p class="i2"> + In whose capacious all-embracing leaves + </p> + <p> + The very marrow of tradition's shown; + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And all that history—much that fiction—weaves. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + By every sort of taste your work is graced. + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Vast stores of modern anecdote we find, + </p> + <p> + With good old story quaintly interlaced— + </p> + <p class="i2"> + The theme as various as the reader's mind. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Rome's lie-fraught legends you so truly paint— + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Yet kindly,—that the half-turn'd Catholic + </p> + <p> + Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + And cannot curse the candid heretic. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your page; + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Our fathers' mummeries we well-pleased behold, + </p> + <p> + And, proudly conscious of a purer age, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Forgive some fopperies in the times of old. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Verse-honoring Phoebus, Father of bright <i>Days</i>, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Must needs bestow on you both good and many, + </p> + <p> + Who, building trophies of his Children's praise, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Dan Phoebus loves your book—trust me, friend + Hone— + </p> + <p class="i2"> + The title only errs, he bids me say: + </p> + <p> + For while such art, wit, reading, there are shown, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + He swears,'tis not a work of <i>every day</i>. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="rogers" id="rogers">TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ. + <br /> + ON HIS ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE POEMS OF MR. ROGERS.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Consummate Artist, whose undying name + </p> + <p> + With classic Rogers shall go down to fame, + </p> + <p> + Be this thy crowning work! In my young days + </p> + <p> + How often have I, with a child's fond gaze, + </p> + <p> + Pored on the pictur'd wonders[1] thou hadst done: + </p> + <p> + Clarissa mournful, and prim Grandison! + </p> + <p> + All Fielding's, Smollett's heroes, rose to view; + </p> + <p> + I saw, and I believed the phantoms true. + </p> + <p> + But, above all, that most romantic tale[2] + </p> + <p> + Did o'er my raw credulity prevail, + </p> + <p> + Where Glums and Gawries wear mysterious things, + </p> + <p> + That serve at once for jackets and for wings. + </p> + <p> + Age, that enfeebles other men's designs, + </p> + <p> + But heightens thine, and thy free draught refines. + </p> + <p> + In several ways distinct you make us feel— + </p> + <p> + <i>Graceful</i> as Raphael, as Watteau <i>genteel</i>. + </p> + <p> + Your lights and shades, as Titianesque, we praise; + </p> + <p> + And warmly wish you Titian's length of days. + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: Illustrations of the British Novelists. + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + 2: Peter Wilkins. + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="marry" id="marry">TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + What makes a happy wedlock? What has fate + </p> + <p> + Not given to thee in thy well-chosen mate? + </p> + <p> + Good sense—good humor;—these are trivial things, + </p> + <p> + Dear M——, that each trite encomiast sings. + </p> + <p> + But she hath these, and more. A mind exempt + </p> + <p> + From every low-bred passion, where contempt, + </p> + <p> + Nor envy, nor detraction, ever found + </p> + <p> + A harbor yet; an understanding sound; + </p> + <p> + Just views of right and wrong; perception full + </p> + <p> + Of the deform'd, and of the beautiful, + </p> + <p> + In life and manners; wit above her sex, + </p> + <p> + Which, as a gem, her sprightly converse decks; + </p> + <p> + Exuberant fancies, prodigal of mirth, + </p> + <p> + To gladden woodland walk, or winter hearth; + </p> + <p> + A noble nature, conqueror in the strife + </p> + <p> + Of conflict with a hard discouraging life, + </p> + <p> + Strengthening the veins of virtue, past the power + </p> + <p> + Of those whose days have been one silken hour, + </p> + <p> + Spoil'd fortune's pamper'd offspring; a keen sense + </p> + <p> + Alike of benefit, and of offence, + </p> + <p> + With reconcilement quick, that instant springs + </p> + <p> + From the charged heart with nimble angel wings; + </p> + <p> + While grateful feelings, like a signet sign'd + </p> + <p> + By a strong hand, seemed burn'd into her mind. + </p> + <p> + If these, dear friend, a dowry can confer + </p> + <p> + Richer than land, thou hast them all in her; + </p> + <p> + And beauty, which some hold the chiefest boon, + </p> + <p> + Is in thy bargain for a make-weight thrown. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <p> + [In a leaf of a quarto edition of the "Lives of the Saints, + written in Spanish by the learned and reverend father, Alfonso + Villegas, Divine, of the Order of St. Dominick, set forth in + English by John Heigham, Anno 1630," bought at a Catholic + book-shop in Duke Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, I found, + carefully inserted, a painted flower, seemingly coeval with the + book itself; and did not, for some time, discover that it opened + in the middle, and was the cover to a very humble draught of a + St. Anne, with the Virgin and Child; doubtless the performance of + some poor but pious Catholic, whose meditations it assisted.] + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + <a name="hand" id="hand">O lift with reverent hand that + tarnish'd flower,</a> + </p> + <p> + That shrines beneath her modest canopy + </p> + <p> + Memorials dear to Romish piety; + </p> + <p> + Dim specks, rude shapes, of Saints! in fervent hour + </p> + <p> + The work perchance of some meek devotee, + </p> + <p> + Who, poor in worldly treasures to set forth + </p> + <p> + The sanctities she worshipp'd to their worth, + </p> + <p> + In this imperfect tracery might see + </p> + <p> + Hints, that all Heaven did to her sense reveal. + </p> + <p> + Cheap gifts best fit poor givers. We are told + </p> + <p> + Of the lone mite, the cup of water cold, + </p> + <p> + That in their way approved the offerer's zeal. + </p> + <p> + True love shows costliest, where the means are scant; + </p> + <p> + And, in their reckoning, they <i>abound</i>, who <i>want</i>. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="self" id="self">THE SELF-ENCHANTED.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + I had a sense in dreams of a beauty rare, + </p> + <p> + Whom Fate had spell-bound, and rooted there, + </p> + <p> + Stooping, like some enchanted theme, + </p> + <p> + Over the marge of that crystal stream, + </p> + <p> + Where the blooming Greek, to Echo blind, + </p> + <p> + With Self-love fond, had to waters pined, + </p> + <p> + Ages had waked, and ages slept, + </p> + <p> + And that bending posture still she kept: + </p> + <p> + For her eyes she may not turn away, + </p> + <p> + 'Till a fairer object shall pass that way— + </p> + <p> + 'Till an image more beauteous this world can show, + </p> + <p> + Than her own which she sees in the mirror below. + </p> + <p> + Pore on, fair Creature! forever pore, + </p> + <p> + Nor dream to be disenchanted more: + </p> + <p> + For vain is expectance, and wish in vain, + </p> + <p> + 'Till a new Narcissus can come again. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + <a name="monk" id="monk">TO LOUISA M——, + <br /> + WHOM I USED TO CALL "MONKEY."</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Louisa, serious grown and mild, + </p> + <p> + I knew you once a romping child, + </p> + <p> + Obstreperous much and very wild. + </p> + <p> + Then you would clamber up my knees, + </p> + <p> + And strive with every art to tease, + </p> + <p> + When every art of yours could please. + </p> + <p> + Those things would scarce be proper now, + </p> + <p> + But they are gone, I know not how, + </p> + <p> + And woman's written on your brow. + </p> + <p> + Time draws his finger o'er the scene; + </p> + <p> + But I cannot forget between + </p> + <p> + The Thing to me you once have been; + </p> + <p> + Each sportive sally, wild escape,— + </p> + <p> + The scoff, the banter, and the jape,— + </p> + <p> + And antics of my gamesome Ape. + </p> + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="bourn" id="bourn">TRANSLATIONS.</a> + </h2> + <h2> + FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE. + </h2> + <hr /> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <h3> + <a name="sing" id="sing">THE BALLAD SINGERS.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column[1] draw, + </p> + <p> + Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw; + </p> + <p> + Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace, + </p> + <p> + And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race: + </p> + <p> + With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red, + </p> + <p> + But long with dust and dirt discolored + </p> + <p> + Belies its hue; in mud behind, before, + </p> + <p> + From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er. + </p> + <p> + One a small infant at the breast does bear; + </p> + <p> + And one in her right hand her tuneful ware, + </p> + <p> + Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken, + </p> + <p> + When youths and maids flock round. His stall forsaken, + </p> + <p> + Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern-capt, + </p> + <p> + Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt + </p> + <p> + To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons + </p> + <p> + Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns, + </p> + <p> + Cherish'd the gift of <i>Song</i>, which sorrow quells; + </p> + <p> + And, working single in their low-rooft cells, + </p> + <p> + Oft cheat the tedium of a winter's night + </p> + <p> + With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight.— + </p> + <p> + Who now hath caught the alarm? the Servant Maid, + </p> + <p> + Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid + </p> + <p> + To miss a note, with elbows red comes out. + </p> + <p> + Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout + </p> + <p> + Thrusts in his unwash'd visage. <i>He</i> stands by, + </p> + <p> + Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply + </p> + <p> + With stooping shoulders. What cares he? he sees + </p> + <p> + The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees, + </p> + <p> + But pricks his ears up with the hopes of song. + </p> + <p> + So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong + </p> + <p> + Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings, + </p> + <p> + The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings, + </p> + <p> + And stone-vext Sysiphus forgets his load. + </p> + <p> + Hither and thither from the sevenfold road + </p> + <p> + Some cart or wagon crosses, which divides + </p> + <p> + The close-wedged audience; but, as when the tides + </p> + <p> + To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past, + </p> + <p> + They reunite, so these unite as fast. + </p> + <p> + The older Songstress hitherto hath spent + </p> + <p> + Her elocution in the argument + </p> + <p> + Of their great Song in <i>prose</i>; to wit, the woes + </p> + <p> + Which Maiden true to faithless Sailor owes— + </p> + <p> + Ah! "<i>Wandering He!</i>"—which now in loftier + <i>verse</i> + </p> + <p> + Pathetic they alternately rehearse. + </p> + <p> + All gaping wait the event. This Critic opes + </p> + <p> + His right ear to the strain. The other hopes + </p> + <p> + To catch it better with his left. Long trade + </p> + <p> + It were to tell, how the deluded maid + </p> + <p> + A victim fell. And now right greedily + </p> + <p> + All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy, + </p> + <p> + That are so tragical; which She, and She, + </p> + <p> + Deals out, and <i>sings the while</i>; nor can there be + </p> + <p> + A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back + </p> + <p> + His contribution from the gentle rack + </p> + <p> + Of Music's pleasing torture. Irus' self, + </p> + <p> + The staff-propt Beggar, his thin gotten pelf + </p> + <p> + Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest, + </p> + <p> + And boldly claims his ballad with the best. + </p> + <p> + An old Dame only lingers. To her purse + </p> + <p> + The penny sticks. At length, with harmless curse, + </p> + <p> + "Give me," she cries. "I'll paste it on my wall, + </p> + <p> + While the wall lasts, to show what ills befall + </p> + <p> + Fond hearts, seduced from Innocency's way; + </p> + <p> + How Maidens fall, and Mariners betray." + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: Seven Dials + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <h3> + <a name="parish" id="parish">TO DAVID COOK, + <br /> + OF THE PARISH OF ST. MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER, WATCHMAN.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + For much good-natured verse received from thee, + </p> + <p> + A loving verse take in return from me. + </p> + <p> + "Good-morrow to my masters," is your cry; + </p> + <p> + And to our David "twice as good," say I. + </p> + <p> + Not Peter's monitor, shrill Chanticleer, + </p> + <p> + Crows the approach of dawn in notes more clear, + </p> + <p> + Or tells the hours more faithfully. While night + </p> + <p> + Fills half the world with shadows of affright, + </p> + <p> + You with your lantern, partner of your round, + </p> + <p> + Traverse the paths of Margaret's hallow'd bound. + </p> + <p> + The tales of ghosts which old wives' ears drink up, + </p> + <p> + The drunkard reeling home from tavern cup, + </p> + <p> + Nor prowling robber, your firm soul appall; + </p> + <p> + Arm'd with thy faithful staff, thou slight'st them all. + </p> + <p> + But if the market gard'ner chance to pass, + </p> + <p> + Bringing to town his fruit, or early grass, + </p> + <p> + The gentle salesman you with candor greet, + </p> + <p> + And with reit'rated "good-mornings" meet. + </p> + <p> + Announcing your approach by formal bell, + </p> + <p> + Of nightly weather you the changes tell; + </p> + <p> + Whether the Moon shines, or her head doth steep + </p> + <p> + In rain-portending clouds. When mortals sleep + </p> + <p> + In downy rest, you brave the snows and sleet + </p> + <p> + Of winter; and in alley, or in street, + </p> + <p> + Relieve your midnight progress with a verse. + </p> + <p> + What though fastidious Phoebus frown averse + </p> + <p> + On your didactic strain—indulgent Night + </p> + <p> + With caution hath seal'd up both ears of Spite, + </p> + <p> + And critics sleep while you in staves do sound + </p> + <p> + The praise of long-dead Saints, whose Days abound + </p> + <p> + In wintry months; but Crispin chief proclaim: + </p> + <p> + Who stirs not at that Prince of Cobblers' name? + </p> + <p> + Profuse in loyalty some couplets shine, + </p> + <p> + And wish long days to all the Brunswick line! + </p> + <p> + To youths and virgins they chaste lessons read; + </p> + <p> + Teach wives and husbands how their lives to lead; + </p> + <p> + Maids to be cleanly, footmen free from vice: + </p> + <p> + How death at last all ranks doth equalize; + </p> + <p> + And, in conclusion, pray good years befall, + </p> + <p> + With store of wealth, your "worthy masters all." + </p> + <p> + For this and other tokens of good will + </p> + <p> + On boxing-day may store of shillings fill + </p> + <p> + Your Christmas purse; no householder give less, + </p> + <p> + When at each door your blameless suit you press: + </p> + <p> + And what you wish to us (it is but reason) + </p> + <p> + Receive in turn—the compliments o' th' season! + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <h3> + <a name="statu" id="statu">ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT + SLEEPING.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Beautiful Infant, who dost keep + </p> + <p> + Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep, + </p> + <p> + May the repose unbroken be, + </p> + <p> + Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee, + </p> + <p> + While thou enjoy'st along with it + </p> + <p> + That which no art, or craft, could ever hit, + </p> + <p> + Or counterfeit to mortal sense, + </p> + <p> + The heaven-infusèd sleep of Innocence! + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <h3> + <a name="dog" id="dog">EPITAPH ON A DOG.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie, + </p> + <p> + That wont to tend my old blind master's steps, + </p> + <p> + His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted, + </p> + <p> + Had he occasion for that staff, with which + </p> + <p> + He now goes picking out his path in fear + </p> + <p> + Over the highways and crossings, but would plant, + </p> + <p> + Safe in the conduct of my friendly string, + </p> + <p> + A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd + </p> + <p> + His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide + </p> + <p> + Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd: + </p> + <p> + To whom with loud and passionate laments + </p> + <p> + From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd. + </p> + <p> + Nor wail'd to all in vain: some here and there, + </p> + <p> + The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave. + </p> + <p> + I meantime at his feet obsequious slept; + </p> + <p> + Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear + </p> + <p> + Prick'd up at his least motion, to receive + </p> + <p> + At his kind hand my customary crumbs, + </p> + <p> + And common portion in his feast of scraps; + </p> + <p> + Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent + </p> + <p> + With our long day and tedious beggary. + </p> + <p> + These were my manners, this my way of life, + </p> + <p> + Till age and slow disease me overtook, + </p> + <p> + And sever'd from my sightless master's side. + </p> + <p> + But lest the grace of so good deeds should die, + </p> + <p> + Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost, + </p> + <p> + This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd, + </p> + <p> + Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand, + </p> + <p> + And with short verse inscribed it, to attest, + </p> + <p> + In long and lasting union to attest, + </p> + <p> + The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <h3> + <a name="bell" id="bell">THE RIVAL BELLS.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + A tuneful challenge rings from either side + </p> + <p> + Of Thames' fair banks. Thy twice six Bells, St. Bride, + </p> + <p> + Peal swift and shrill; to which more slow reply + </p> + <p> + The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy. + </p> + <p> + Such harmony from the contention flows, + </p> + <p> + That the divided ear no preference knows: + </p> + <p> + Betwixt them both disparting Music's State, + </p> + <p> + While one exceeds in number, one in weight. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + VI. + </h3> + <h3> + <a name="newtn" id="newtn">NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Great Newton's self, to whom the world's in debt, + </p> + <p> + Owed to School-Mistress sage his Alphabet; + </p> + <p> + But quickly wiser than his Teacher grown, + </p> + <p> + Discover'd properties to her unknown; + </p> + <p> + Of A <i>plus</i> B, or <i>minus</i>, learn'd the use, + </p> + <p> + Known Quantities from unknown to educe; + </p> + <p> + And made—no doubt to that old dame's surprise— + </p> + <p> + The Christ-Cross-Row his ladder to the skies. + </p> + <p> + Yet, whatsoe'er Geometricians say, + </p> + <p> + Her lessons were his true PRINCIPIA! + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + VII. + </h3> + <h3> + <a name="house" id="house">THE HOUSEKEEPER.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose, + </p> + <p> + Carries his house with him, where'er he goes; + </p> + <p> + Peeps out—and if there comes a shower of rain, + </p> + <p> + Retreats to his small domicile amain. + </p> + <p> + Touch but a tip of him, a horn—'tis well— + </p> + <p> + He curls up in his sanctuary shell. + </p> + <p> + He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay + </p> + <p> + Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. + </p> + <p> + Himself he boards and lodges; both invites, + </p> + <p> + And feasts, himself; sleeps with himself o' nights. + </p> + <p> + He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure + </p> + <p> + Chattels; himself is his own furniture, + </p> + <p> + And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam— + </p> + <p> + Knock when you will—he's sure to be at home. + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + VIII. + </h3> + <h3> + <a name="art" id="art">ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST.[1]</a> + </h3> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: Benjamin Ferrers—Died A. D. 1732. + </div> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + And hath thy blameless life become + </p> + <p> + A prey to the devouring tomb? + </p> + <p> + A more mute silence hast thou known, + </p> + <p> + A deafness deeper than thine own, + </p> + <p> + While Time was? and no friendly Muse, + </p> + <p> + That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues, + </p> + <p> + Repair with quickening verse the breach. + </p> + <p> + And write thee into light and speech? + </p> + <p> + The Power, that made the Tongue, restrain'd + </p> + <p> + Thy lips from lies, and speeches feign'd; + </p> + <p> + Who made the Hearing, without wrong + </p> + <p> + Did rescue thine from Siren's song. + </p> + <p> + He let thee <i>see</i> the ways of men, + </p> + <p> + Which thou with pencil, not with pen, + </p> + <p> + Careful Beholder, down didst note, + </p> + <p> + And all their motley actions quote, + </p> + <p> + Thyself unstain'd the while. From look + </p> + <p> + Or gesture reading, more than <i>book</i>, + </p> + <p> + In letter'd pride thou took'st no part, + </p> + <p> + Contented with the Silent Art, + </p> + <p> + Thyself as silent. Might I be + </p> + <p> + As speechless, deaf, and good, as He! + </p> + </div> + <hr /> + <h3> + IX. + </h3> + <h3> + <a name="orate" id="orate">THE FEMALE ORATORS.</a> + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Nigh London's famous Bridge, a Gate more famed + </p> + <p> + Stands, or once stood, from old Belinus named, + </p> + <p> + So judged Antiquity; and therein wrongs + </p> + <p> + A name, allusive strictly to <i>two Tongues</i>[1] + </p> + <p> + Her School hard by the Goddess Rhetoric opes, + </p> + <p> + And <i>gratis</i> deals to Oyster-wives her Tropes. + </p> + <p> + With Nereid green, green Nereid disputes, + </p> + <p> + Replies, rejoins, confutes, and still confutes. + </p> + <p> + One her coarse sense by metaphors expounds, + </p> + <p> + And one in literalities abounds; + </p> + <p> + In mood and figure these keep up the din: + </p> + <p> + Words multiply, and every word tells in. + </p> + <p> + Her hundred throats here bawling Slander strains; + </p> + <p> + And unclothed Venus to her tongue gives reins + </p> + <p> + In terms, which Demosthenic force outgo, + </p> + <p> + And baldest jests of foul-mouth'd Cicero. + </p> + <p> + Right in the midst great Atè keeps her stand, + </p> + <p> + And from her sovereign station taints the land. + </p> + <p> + Hence Pulpits rail; grave Senates learn to jar; + </p> + <p> + Quacks scold; and Billingsgate infects the Bar. + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + 1: <i>Bilinguis</i> in the Latin. + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="pindar" id="pindar">PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD-MILL.</a> + </h2> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Inspire my spirit, Spirit of De Foe, + </p> + <p> + That sang the Pillory, + </p> + <p> + In loftier strains to show + </p> + <p> + A more sublime Machine + </p> + <p> + Than that, where thou wert seen, + </p> + <p> + With neck outstretcht and shoulders ill awry, + </p> + <p> + Courting coarse plaudits from vile crowds below— + </p> + <p> + A most unseemly show! + </p> + </div> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + In such a place + </p> + <p> + Who could expose thy face, + </p> + <p> + Historiographer of deathless Crusoe! + </p> + <p> + That paint'st the strife + </p> + <p> + And all the naked ills of savage life, + </p> + <p> + Far above Rousseau? + </p> + <p> + Rather myself had stood + </p> + <p> + In that ignoble wood, + </p> + <p> + Bare to the mob, on holiday or high-day. + </p> + <p> + If nought else could atone + </p> + <p> + For waggish libel, + </p> + <p> + I swear on bible, + </p> + <p> + I would have spared him for thy sake alone, + </p> + <p> + Man Friday! + </p> + </div> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Our ancestors' were sour days, + </p> + <p> + Great Master of Romance! + </p> + <p> + A milder doom had fallen to thy chance + </p> + <p> + In our days: + </p> + <p> + Thy sole assignment + </p> + <p> + Some solitary confinement, + </p> + <p> + (Not worth thy care a carrot,) + </p> + <p> + Where in world-hidden cell + </p> + <p> + Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well, + </p> + <p> + Only without the parrot; + </p> + <p> + By sure experience taught to know, + </p> + <p> + Whether the qualms thou mak'st him feel were truly such or no. + </p> + </div> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + But stay! methinks in statelier measure— + </p> + <p> + A more companionable pleasure— + </p> + <p> + I see thy steps the mighty Tread-Mill trace, + </p> + <p> + (The subject of my song, + </p> + <p> + Delay'd however long,) + </p> + <p> + And some of thine own race, + </p> + <p> + To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee along. + </p> + <p> + There with thee go, + </p> + <p> + Link'd in like sentence, + </p> + <p> + With regulated pace and footing slow, + </p> + <p> + Each old acquaintance, + </p> + <p> + Rogue—harlot—thief—that live to future ages; + </p> + <p> + Through many a labor'd tome, + </p> + <p> + Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages. + </p> + <p> + Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home! + </p> + <p> + Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack, + </p> + <p> + From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack. + </p> + <p> + Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags; + </p> + <p> + Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags, + </p> + <p> + There points to Amy, treading equal chimes, + </p> + <p> + The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes. + </p> + </div> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Incompetent my song to raise, + </p> + <p> + To its just height thy praise, + </p> + <p> + Great Mill! + </p> + <p> + That by thy motion proper + </p> + <p> + (No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill), + </p> + <p> + Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will, + </p> + <p> + Turn'st out men's consciences, + </p> + <p> + That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet + </p> + <p> + As flour from purest wheat, + </p> + <p> + Into thy hopper. + </p> + <p> + All reformation short of thee but nonsense is, + </p> + <p> + Or human, or divine. + </p> + </div> + <h3> + VI. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Compared with thee, + </p> + <p> + What are the labors of that Jumping Sect, + </p> + <p> + Which feeble laws connive at rather than respect? + </p> + <p> + Thou dost not bump, + </p> + <p> + Or jump, + </p> + <p> + But <i>walk</i> men into virtue; betwixt crime + </p> + <p> + And slow repentance giving breathing time, + </p> + <p> + And leisure to be good; + </p> + <p> + Instructing with discretion demi-reps + </p> + <p> + How to direct their steps. + </p> + </div> + <h3> + VII. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Thou best Philosopher made out of wood! + </p> + <p> + Not that which framed the tub, + </p> + <p> + Where sat the Cynic cub, + </p> + <p> + With nothing in his bosom sympathetic; + </p> + <p> + But from those groves derived, I deem, + </p> + <p> + Where Plato nursed his dream + </p> + <p> + Of immortality; + </p> + <p> + Seeing that clearly + </p> + <p> + Thy system all is merely + </p> + <p> + Peripatetic. + </p> + <p> + Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give + </p> + <p> + Of how to live + </p> + <p> + With temperance, sobriety, morality, + </p> + <p> + (A new art,) + </p> + <p> + That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds, + </p> + <p> + Each Tyro now proceeds + </p> + <p> + A "Walking Stewart!" + </p> + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="gone" id="gone">GOING OR GONE.</a> + </h2> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Fine merry franions, + </p> + <p> + Wanton companions, + </p> + <p> + My days are ev'n banyans + </p> + <p class="i2"> + With thinking upon ye! + </p> + <p> + How Death, that last stinger, + </p> + <p> + Finis-writer, end-bringer, + </p> + <p> + Has laid his chill finger, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Or is laying on ye. + </p> + </div> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + There's rich Kitty Wheatley, + </p> + <p> + With footing it featly + </p> + <p> + That took me completely, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + She sleeps in the Kirk House; + </p> + <p> + And poor Polly Perkin, + </p> + <p> + Whose Dad was still firking + </p> + <p> + The jolly ale firkin, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + She's gone to the Work-house; + </p> + </div> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Fine Gard'ner, Ben Carter + </p> + <p> + (In ten counties no smarter) + </p> + <p> + Has ta'en his departure + </p> + <p class="i2"> + For Proserpine's orchards: + </p> + <p> + And Lily, postilion, + </p> + <p> + With cheeks of vermilion, + </p> + <p> + Is one of a million + </p> + <p class="i2"> + That fill up the church-yards; + </p> + </div> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + And, lusty as Dido, + </p> + <p> + Fat Clemitson's widow + </p> + <p> + Flits now a small shadow + </p> + <p class="i2"> + By Stygian hid ford; + </p> + <p> + And good Master Clapton + </p> + <p> + Has thirty years napt on, + </p> + <p> + The ground he last hapt on, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Entomb'd by fair Widford; + </p> + </div> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + And gallant Tom Dockwra, + </p> + <p> + Of Nature's finest crockery, + </p> + <p> + Now but thin air and mockery, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Lurks by Avernus, + </p> + <p> + Whose honest grasp of hand + </p> + <p> + Still, while his life did stand, + </p> + <p> + At friend's or foe's command, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Almost did burn us. + </p> + </div> + <h3> + VI. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Roger de Coverley + </p> + <p> + Not more good man than he; + </p> + <p> + Yet has he equally + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Push'd for Cocytus, + </p> + <p> + With drivelling Worral, + </p> + <p> + And wicked old Dorrell, + </p> + <p> + 'Gainst whom I've a quarrel, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Whose end might affright us!— + </p> + </div> + <h3> + VII. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Kindly hearts have I known; + </p> + <p> + Kindly hearts, they are flown; + </p> + <p> + Here and there if but one + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Linger yet uneffaced, + </p> + <p> + Imbecile tottering elves, + </p> + <p> + Soon to be wreck'd on shelves, + </p> + <p> + These scarce are half themselves, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + With age and care crazed. + </p> + </div> + <h3> + VIII. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + But this day Fanny Hutton + </p> + <p> + Her last dress has put on; + </p> + <p> + Her fine lessons forgotten, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + She died, as the dunce died; + </p> + <p> + And prim Betsey Chambers, + </p> + <p> + Decay'd in her members, + </p> + <p> + No longer remembers + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Things, as she once did; + </p> + </div> + <h3> + IX. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + And prudent Miss Wither + </p> + <p> + Not in jest now doth <i>wither</i>, + </p> + <p> + And soon must go—whither + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Nor I well, nor you know; + </p> + <p> + And flaunting Miss Waller, + </p> + <p> + <i>That</i> soon must befall her, + </p> + <p> + Whence none can recall her, + </p> + <p class="i2"> + Though proud once as Juno! + </p> + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="free" id="free">FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT + COMPOSERS.</a> + </h2> + <div class="poem"> + <p> + Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart, + </p> + <p> + Just as the whim bites; for my part, + </p> + <p> + I do not care a farthing candle + </p> + <p> + For either of them, or for Handel.— + </p> + <p> + Cannot a man live free and easy, + </p> + <p> + Without admiring Pergolesi? + </p> + <p> + Or through the world with comfort go, + </p> + <p> + That never heard of Doctor Blow? + </p> + <p> + So help me heaven, I hardly have; + </p> + <p> + And yet I eat, and drink, and shave, + </p> + <p> + Like other people, if you watch it, + </p> + <p> + And know no more of stave or crotchet, + </p> + <p> + Than did the primitive Peruvians; + </p> + <p> + Or those old ante-queer-diluvians + </p> + <p> + That lived in the unwash'd world with Jubal, + </p> + <p> + Before that dirty blacksmith Tubal + </p> + <p> + By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at, + </p> + <p> + Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut. + </p> + <p> + I care no more for Cimarosa, + </p> + <p> + Than he did for Salvator Rosa, + </p> + <p> + Being no painter; and bad luck + </p> + <p> + Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck! + </p> + <p> + Old Tycho Brahe, and modern Herschel, + </p> + <p> + Had something in them; but who's Purcel? + </p> + <p> + The devil, with his foot so cloven, + </p> + <p> + For aught I care, may take Beethoven; + </p> + <p> + And, if the bargain does not suit, + </p> + <p> + I'll throw him Weber in to boot. + </p> + <p> + There's not the splitting of a splinter + </p> + <p> + To choose twixt him last named, and Winter. + </p> + <p> + Of Doctor Pepusch old queen Dido + </p> + <p> + Knew just as much, God knows, as I do. + </p> + <p> + I would not go four miles to visit + </p> + <p> + Sebastian Bach; (or Batch, which is it?) + </p> + <p> + No more I would for Bononcini. + </p> + <p> + As for Novello, or Rossini, + </p> + <p> + I shall not say a word to grieve 'em, + </p> + <p> + Because they're living; so I leave 'em. + </p> + </div> + <hr class="full" /> + <h2> + <a name="wife" id="wife">THE WIFE'S TRIAL;</a> + </h2> + <h5> + OR, + </h5> + <h3> + THE INTRUDING WIDOW. + </h3> + <h3> + A Dramatic poem. + </h3> + <h5> + FOUNDED ON MR. CRABBE'S TALE OF "THE CONFIDANT." + </h5> + <hr /> + <h4> + CHARACTERS. + </h4> + <div class="play"> + <p> + MR. SELBY, <i>A Wiltshire Gentleman.</i> + </p> + <p> + KATHERINE, <i>Wife to Selby</i>. + </p> + <p> + LUCY, <i>Sister to Selby</i>. + </p> + <p> + MRS. FRAMPTON, <i>A Widow</i>. + </p> + </div> + <p> + SERVANTS. + </p> + <h5> + SCENE—<i>At Mr. Selby's House, or in the grounds + adjacent</i>. + </h5> + <hr /> + <h5> + SCENE—<i>A Library</i>. + </h5> + <p> + MR. SELBY. KATHERINE. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. Do not too far mistake me, gentlest wife; + </p> + <p> + I meant to chide your virtues, not yourself, + </p> + <p> + And those too with allowance. I have not + </p> + <p> + Been blest by thy fair side with five white years + </p> + <p> + Of smooth and even wedlock, now to touch + </p> + <p> + With any strain of harshness on a string + </p> + <p> + Hath yielded me such music. 'Twas the quality + </p> + <p> + Of a too grateful nature in my Katherine, + </p> + <p> + That to the lame performance of some vows, + </p> + <p> + And common courtesies of man to wife, + </p> + <p> + Attributing too much, hath sometimes seem'd + </p> + <p> + To esteem as favors, what in that blest union + </p> + <p> + Are but reciprocal and trivial dues, + </p> + <p> + As fairly yours as mine: 'twas this I thought + </p> + <p> + Gently to reprehend. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> In friendship's barter + </p> + <p> + The riches we exchange should hold some level, + </p> + <p> + And corresponding worth. Jewels for toys + </p> + <p> + Demand some thanks thrown in. You look me, sir, + </p> + <p> + To that blest haven of my peace, your bosom, + </p> + <p> + An orphan founder'd in the world's black storm. + </p> + <p> + Poor, you have made me rich; from lonely maiden, + </p> + <p> + Your cherish'd and your full-accompanied wife. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> But to divert the subject: Kate too fond, + </p> + <p> + I would not wrest your meanings; else that word + </p> + <p> + Accompanied, and full-accompanied too, + </p> + <p> + Might raise a doubt in some men, that their wives + </p> + <p> + Haply did think their company too long; + </p> + <p> + And over-company, we know by proof, + </p> + <p> + Is worse than no attendance. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> I must guess, + </p> + <p> + You speak this of the Widow— + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> 'Twas a bolt + </p> + <p> + At random shot; but if it hit, believe me, + </p> + <p> + I am most sorry to have wounded you + </p> + <p> + Through a friend's side. I know not how we have swerved + </p> + <p> + From our first talk. I was to caution you + </p> + <p> + Against this fault of a too grateful nature: + </p> + <p> + Which, for some girlish obligations past, + </p> + <p> + In that relenting season of the heart, + </p> + <p> + When slightest favors pass for benefits + </p> + <p> + Of endless binding, would entail upon you + </p> + <p> + An iron slavery of obsequious duty + </p> + <p> + To the proud will of an imperious woman. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Kath</i>. The favors are not slight to her I owe. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. Slight or not slight, the tribute she exacts + </p> + <p> + Cancels all dues— + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>A voice within</i>. + </div> + <p class="i8"> + even now I hear her call you + </p> + <p> + In such a tone, as lordliest mistresses + </p> + <p> + Expect a slave's attendance. Prithee, Kate. + </p> + <p> + Let her expect a brace of minutes or so. + </p> + <p> + Say you are busy. Use her by degrees + </p> + <p> + To some less hard exactions. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Kath</i>. I conjure you, + </p> + <p> + Detain me not. I will return— + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i> Sweet wife, + </p> + <p> + Use thy own pleasure— + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit</i> KATHERINE. + </div> + <p class="i10"> + but it troubles me. + </p> + <p> + A visit of three days, as was pretended, + </p> + <p> + Spun to ten tedious weeks, and no hint given + </p> + <p> + When she will go! I would this buxom Widow + </p> + <p> + Were a thought handsomer! I'd fairly try + </p> + <p> + My Katherine's constancy; make desperate love + </p> + <p> + In seeming earnest; and raise up such broils, + </p> + <p> + That she, not I, should be the first to warn + </p> + <p> + The insidious guest depart. + </p> + </div> + <h5> + <i>Reënter</i> KATHERINE. + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <p> + So soon return'd! + </p> + <p> + What was our Widow's will? + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Kath</i>.A trifle, sir. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. Some toilet service—to adjust her head, + </p> + <p> + Or help to stick a pin in the right place— + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Kath</i>. Indeed 'twas none of these. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> Or new vamp up + </p> + <p> + The tarnish'd cloak she came in. I have seen her + </p> + <p> + Demand such service from thee, as her maid, + </p> + <p> + Twice told to do it, would blush angry-red, + </p> + <p> + And pack her few clothes up. Poor fool! fond slave! + </p> + <p> + And yet my dearest Kate!—This day at least + </p> + <p> + (It is our wedding-day) we spend in freedom, + </p> + <p> + And will forget our Widow. Philip, our coach— + </p> + <p> + Why weeps my wife? You know, I promised you + </p> + <p> + An airing o'er the pleasant Hampshire downs + </p> + <p> + To the blest cottage on the green hill-side, + </p> + <p> + Where first I told my love. I wonder much, + </p> + <p> + If the crimson parlor hath exchanged its hue + </p> + <p> + For colors not so welcome. Faded though it be, + </p> + <p> + It will not show less lovely than the tinge + </p> + <p> + Of this faint red, contending with the pale, + </p> + <p> + Where once the full-flush'd health gave to this cheek + </p> + <p> + An apt resemblance to the fruit's warm side, + </p> + <p> + That bears my Katherine's name.— + </p> + <p class="i14"> + Our carriage, Philip. + </p> + </div> + <h5> + <i>Enter a Servant.</i> + </h5> + <p> + Now, Robin, what make you here? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Servant.</i> May it please you, + </p> + <p> + The coachman has driven out with Mrs. Frampton. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> He had no orders— + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Servant.</i> None, sir, that I know of, + </p> + <p> + But from the lady, who expects some letter + </p> + <p> + At the next Post Town. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> Go, Robin. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit Servant.</i> + </div> + <p class="i16"> + How is this? + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> I came to tell you so, but fear'd your anger— + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> It was ill done though of this Mistress Frampton, + </p> + <p> + This forward Widow. But a ride's poor loss + </p> + <p> + Imports not much. In to your chamber, love, + </p> + <p> + Where you with music may beguile the hour, + </p> + <p> + While I am tossing over dusty tomes, + </p> + <p> + Till our most reasonable friend returns. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Kath</i>. I am all obedience. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit</i> KATHERINE. + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i> Too obedient, Kate, + </p> + <p> + And to too many masters. I can hardly + </p> + <p> + On such a day as this refrain to speak + </p> + <p> + My sense of this injurious friend, this pest, + </p> + <p> + This household evil, this close-clinging fiend, + </p> + <p> + In rough terms to my wife. 'Death, my own servants + </p> + <p> + Controll'd above me! orders countermanded! + </p> + <p> + What next? + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Servant enters and announces the Sister.</i> + </div> + </div> + <h5> + <i>Enter</i> LUCY. + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <p> + Sister! I know you are come to welcome + </p> + <p> + This day's return. 'Twas well done. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Lucy</i>. You seem ruffled. + </p> + <p> + In years gone by this day was used to be + </p> + <p> + The smoothest of the year. Your honey turn'd + </p> + <p> + So soon to gall? + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. Gall'd am I, and with cause, + </p> + <p> + And rid to death, yet cannot get a riddance, + </p> + <p> + Nay, scarce a ride, by this proud Widow's leave. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lucy</i>. Something you wrote me of a Mistress Frampton. + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. She came at first a meek admitted guest, + </p> + <p> + Pretending a short stay; her whole deportment + </p> + <p> + Seem'd as of one obliged. A slender trunk, + </p> + <p> + The wardrobe of her scant and ancient clothing, + </p> + <p> + Bespoke no more. But in few days her dress, + </p> + <p> + Her looks, were proudly changed. And now she flaunts it + </p> + <p> + In jewels stolen or borrow'd from my wife; + </p> + <p> + Who owes her some strange service, of what nature + </p> + <p> + I must be kept in ignorance. Katherine's meek + </p> + <p> + And gentle spirit cowers beneath her eye, + </p> + <p> + As spell-bound by some witch. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Lucy</i>. Some mystery hangs on it. + </p> + <p> + How bears she in her carriage towards yourself? + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. As one who fears, and yet not greatly cares + </p> + <p> + For my displeasure. Sometimes I have thought, + </p> + <p> + A secret glance would tell me she could love, + </p> + <p> + If I but gave encouragement. Before me + </p> + <p> + She keeps some moderation; but is never + </p> + <p> + Closeted with my wife, but in the end + </p> + <p> + I find my Katherine in briny tears. + </p> + <p> + From the small chamber, where she first was lodged, + </p> + <p> + The gradual fiend by spacious wriggling arts + </p> + <p> + Has now ensconced herself in the best part + </p> + <p> + Of this large mansion; calls the left wing her own; + </p> + <p> + Commands my servants, equipage.—I hear + </p> + <p> + Her hated tread. What makes she back so soon? + </p> + <h5> + <i>Enter</i> MRS. FRAMPTON. + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> O, I am jolter'd, bruised, and shook to death, + </p> + <p> + With your vile Wiltshire roads. The villain Philip + </p> + <p> + Chose, on my conscience, the perversest tracks, + </p> + <p> + And stoniest hard lanes in all the county, + </p> + <p> + Till I was fain get out, and so walk back, + </p> + <p> + My errand unperform'd at Andover. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lucy</i>. And I shall love the knave forever after. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside</i>. + </div> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> A friend with you! + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. My eldest sister, Lucy, + </p> + <p> + Come to congratulate this returning morn.— + </p> + <p> + Sister, my wife's friend, Mistress Frampton. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Pray, + </p> + <p> + Be seated; for your brother's sake, you are welcome. + </p> + <p> + I had thought this day to have spent in homely fashion + </p> + <p> + With the good couple, to whose hospitality + </p> + <p> + I stand so far indebted. But your coming + </p> + <p> + Makes it a feast. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Lucy.</i> She does the honors naturally— + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside.</i> + </div> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> As if she were the mistress of the house.— + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside.</i> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> I love to be at home with loving friends. + </p> + <p> + To stand on ceremony with obligations, + </p> + <p> + Is to restrain the obliger. That old coach, though, + </p> + <p> + Of yours jumbles one strangely. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> I shall order + </p> + <p> + An equipage soon, more easy to you, madam— + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Lucy.</i> To drive her and her pride to Lucifer, + </p> + <p> + I hope he means. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> I must go trim myself; this humbled garb + </p> + <p> + Would shame a wedding-feast. I have your leave + </p> + <p> + For a short absence?—and your Katherine— + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> You'll find her in her closet— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Fare you well, then. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit.</i> + </div> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> How like you her assurance? + </p> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Lucy.</i> Even so well, + </p> + <p> + That if this Widow were my guest, not yours, + </p> + <p> + She should have coach enough, and scope to ride. + </p> + <p> + My merry groom should in a trice convey her + </p> + <p> + To Sarum Plain, and set her down at Stonehenge, + </p> + <p> + To pick her path through those antiques at leisure; + </p> + <p> + She should take sample of our Wiltshire flints. + </p> + <p> + O, be not lightly jealous! nor surmise, + </p> + <p> + That to a wanton bold-faced thing like this + </p> + <p> + Your modest shrinking Katherine could impart + </p> + <p> + Secrets of any worth, especially + </p> + <p> + Secrets that touch'd your peace. If there be aught, + </p> + <p> + My life upon't,'tis but some girlish story + </p> + <p> + Of a First Love; which even the boldest wife + </p> + <p> + Might modestly deny to a husband's ear, + </p> + <p> + Much more your timid and too sensitive Katherine. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. I think it is no more; and will dismiss + </p> + <p> + My further fears, if ever I have had such. + </p> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <p> + <i>Lucy</i>. Shall we go walk? I'd see your gardens, brother; + </p> + <p> + And how the new trees thrive, I recommended. + </p> + <p> + Your Katherine is engaged now— + </p> + </div> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. I'll attend you. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exeunt</i>. + </div> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>Servants' Hall</i>. + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Housekeeper, Philip, <i>and others, laughing</i>. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Housekeeper</i>. Our Lady's guest, since her short ride, + seems ruffled, + </p> + <p> + And somewhat in disorder. Philip, Philip, + </p> + <p> + I do suspect some roguery. Your mad tricks + </p> + <p> + Will some day cost you a good place, I warrant. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Philip</i>. Good Mistress Jane, our serious housekeeper, + </p> + <p> + And sage Duenna to the maids and scullions, + </p> + <p> + We must have leave to laugh; our brains are younger, + </p> + <p> + And undisturb'd with care of keys and pantries. + </p> + <p> + We are wild things. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Butler</i>. Good Philip, tell us all. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>All</i>. Ay, as you live, tell, tell— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Philip</i>. Mad fellows, you shall have it. + </p> + <p> + The Widow's bell rang lustily and loud— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Butler</i>. I think that no one can mistake her ringing. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Waiting-maid</i>. Our Lady's ring is soft sweet music to + it, + </p> + <p> + More of entreaty hath it than command. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Philip</i>. I lose my story, if you interrupt me thus. + </p> + <p> + The bell, I say, rang fiercely; and a voice + </p> + <p> + More shrill than bell, call'd out for "Coachman Philip!" + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + I straight obey'd, as 'tis my name and office, + </p> + <p> + "Drive me," quoth she, "to the next market-town, + </p> + <p> + Where I have hope of letters." I made haste: + </p> + <p> + Put to the horses, saw her safely coach'd, + </p> + <p> + And drove her— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Waiting-maid</i>. By the straight high-road to Andover, + </p> + <p> + I guess— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Philip</i>. Pray, warrant things within your knowledge, + </p> + <p> + Good Mistress Abigail; look to your dressings, + </p> + <p> + And leave the skill in horses to the coachman. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Butler</i>. He'll have his humor; best not interrupt + him. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Philip</i>. 'Tis market-day, thought I; and the poor + beasts, + </p> + <p> + Meeting such droves of cattle and of people, + </p> + <p> + May take a fright; so down the lane I trundled, + </p> + <p> + Where Goodman Dobson's crazy mare was founder'd, + </p> + <p> + And where the flints were biggest, and ruts widest, + </p> + <p> + By ups and downs, and such bone-cracking motions + </p> + <p> + We flounder'd on a furlong, till my madam, + </p> + <p> + In policy, to save the few joints left her, + </p> + <p> + Betook her to her feet, and there we parted. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>All</i>. Ha! ha! ha! + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Butler</i>. Hang her, 'tis pity such as she should ride. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Waiting-maid</i>. I think she is a witch; I have tired + myself out + </p> + <p> + With sticking pins in her pillow; still she scapes + them— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Butler</i>. And I with helping her to mum for claret, + </p> + <p> + But never yet could cheat her dainty palate. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Housekeeper</i>. Well, well, she is the guest of our + good Mistress, + </p> + <p> + And so should be respected. Though, I think, + </p> + <p> + Our master cares not for her company, + </p> + <p> + He would ill brook we should express so much + </p> + <p> + By rude discourtesies, and short attendance, + </p> + <p> + Being but servants. (<i>A Bell rings furiously.</i>) + </p> + <p class="i8"> + 'Tis her bell speaks now; + </p> + <p> + Good, good, bestir yourselves: who knows who's wanted? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Butler</i>. But 'twas a merry trick of Philip coachman. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exeunt</i>. + </div> + <hr /> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>Mrs. Selby's Chamber</i>. + </h5> + <div class="play"></div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Mrs. Franpton, Katherine, <i>working</i>. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> I am thinking, child, how contrary our fates + </p> + <p> + Have traced our lots through life.—Another needle, + </p> + <p> + This works untowardly.—An heiress born + </p> + <p> + To splendid prospects, at our common school + </p> + <p> + I was as one above you all, not of you; + </p> + <p> + Had my distinct prerogatives; my freedoms, + </p> + <p> + Denied to you. Pray, listen— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath</i>. I must hear, + </p> + <p> + What you are pleased to speak—how my heart sinks here! + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside</i>. + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F</i>. My chamber to myself, my separate maid, + </p> + <p> + My coach, and so forth.—Not that needle, simple one, + </p> + <p> + With the great staring eye fit for a Cyclops! + </p> + <p> + Mine own are not so blinded with their griefs, + </p> + <p> + But I could make a shift to thread a smaller. + </p> + <p> + A cable or a camel might go through this, + </p> + <p> + And never strain for the passage. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath</i>. I will fit you—— + </p> + <p> + Intolerable tyranny! + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside</i>. + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F</i>. Quick, quick; + </p> + <p> + You were not once so slack.—As I was saying, + </p> + <p> + Not a young thing among ye, but observed me + </p> + <p> + Above the mistress. Who but I was sought to + </p> + <p> + In all your dangers, all your little difficulties, + </p> + <p> + Your girlish scrapes? I was the scape-goat still, + </p> + <p> + To fetch you off; kept all your secrets, some, + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, since then— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath</i>. No more of that, for mercy, + </p> + <p> + If you'd not have me, sinking at your feet, + </p> + <p> + Cleave the cold earth for comfort. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Kneels</i>. + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> This to me? + </p> + <p> + This posture to your friend had better suited + </p> + <p> + The orphan Katherine in her humble school-days + </p> + <p> + To the <i>then</i> rich heiress, than the wife of Selby, + </p> + <p> + Of wealthy Mr. Selby, + </p> + <p> + To the poor widow Frampton, sunk as she is. + </p> + <p> + Come, come, + </p> + <p> + 'Twas something, or 'twas nothing, that I said; + </p> + <p> + I did not mean to fright you, sweetest bedfellow! + </p> + <p> + You once were so, but Selby now engrosses you. + </p> + <p> + I'll make him give you up a night or so; + </p> + <p> + In faith I will: that we may lie, and talk + </p> + <p> + Old tricks of school-days over. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> Hear me, madam— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Not by that name. Your friend— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> My truest friend, + </p> + <p> + And savior of my honor! + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> This sounds better; + </p> + <p> + You still shall find me such. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> That you have graced + </p> + <p> + Our poor house with your presence hitherto, + </p> + <p> + Has been my greatest comfort, the sole solace + </p> + <p> + Of my forlorn and hardly guess'd estate. + </p> + <p> + You have been pleased + </p> + <p> + To accept some trivial hospitalities, + </p> + <p> + In part of payment of a long arrear + </p> + <p> + I owe to you, no less than for my life. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> You speak my services too large. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> Nay, less; + </p> + <p> + For what an abject thing were life to me + </p> + <p> + Without your silence on my dreadful secret! + </p> + <p> + And I would wish the league we have renew'd + </p> + <p> + Might be perpetual— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Have a care, fine madam! + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> That one house still might hold us. But my + husband + </p> + <p> + Has shown himself of late— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> How, Mistress Selby? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> Not, not impatient. You misconstrue him. + </p> + <p> + He honors, and he loves, nay, he must love + </p> + <p> + The friend of his wife's youth. But there are moods, + </p> + <p> + In which— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> I understand you;—in which husbands, + </p> + <p> + And wives that love, may wish to be alone, + </p> + <p> + To nurse the tender fits of new-born dalliance, + </p> + <p> + After a five years' wedlock. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> Was that well, + </p> + <p> + Or charitably put? do these pale cheeks + </p> + <p> + Proclaim a wanton blood? This wasting form + </p> + <p> + Seem a fit theatre for Levity + </p> + <p> + To play his love-tricks on; and act such follies, + </p> + <p> + As even in Affection's first bland Moon + </p> + <p> + Have less of grace than pardon in best wedlocks? + </p> + <p> + I was about to say, that there are times, + </p> + <p> + When the most frank and sociable man + </p> + <p> + May surfeit on most loved society, + </p> + <p> + Preferring loneness rather— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> To my company— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> Ay, yours, or mine, or any one's. Nay, take + </p> + <p> + Not this unto yourself. Even in the newness + </p> + <p> + Of our first married loves 'twas sometimes so. + </p> + <p> + For solitude, I have heard my Selby say, + </p> + <p> + Is to the mind as rest to the corporal functions; + </p> + <p> + And he would call it oft, the <i>day's soft sleep.</i> + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> What is your drift? and whereto tends this + speech, + </p> + <p> + Rhetorically labor'd? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> That you would + </p> + <p> + Abstain but from our house a month, a week; + </p> + <p> + I make request but for a single day. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> A month, a week, a day! A single hour + </p> + <p> + Is every week, and month, and the long year, + </p> + <p> + And all the years to come! My footing here, + </p> + <p> + Slipt once, recovers never. From the state + </p> + <p> + Of gilded roofs, attendance, luxuries, + </p> + <p> + Parks, gardens, sauntering walks, or wholesome rides, + </p> + <p> + To the bare cottage on the withering moor, + </p> + <p> + Where I myself am servant to myself, + </p> + <p> + Or only waited on by blackest thoughts— + </p> + <p> + I sink, if this be so. No; here I sit. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath</i>. Then I am lost forever! + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Sinks at her feet—curtain drops.</i> + </div> + </div> + <h5> + SCENE—<i>An Apartment contiguous to the last.</i> + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Selby, <i>as if listening</i>. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. The sounds have died away. What am I changed + to? + </p> + <p> + What do I here, list'ning like to an abject, + </p> + <p> + Or heartless wittol, that must hear no good, + </p> + <p> + If he hear aught? "This shall to the ear of your husband." + </p> + <p> + It was the Widow's word. I guess'd some mystery, + </p> + <p> + And the solution with a vengeance comes. + </p> + <p> + What can my wife have left untold to me, + </p> + <p> + That must be told by proxy? I begin + </p> + <p> + To call in doubt the course of her life past + </p> + <p> + Under my very eyes. She hath not been good, + </p> + <p> + Not virtuous, not discreet; she hath not outrun + </p> + <p> + My wishes still with prompt and meek observance. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps she is not fair, sweet-voiced; her eyes + </p> + <p> + Not like the dove's; all this as well may be, + </p> + <p> + As that she should entreasure up a secret + </p> + <p> + In the peculiar closet of her breast, + </p> + <p> + And grudge it to my ear. It is my right + </p> + <p> + To claim the halves in any truth she owns, + </p> + <p> + As much as in the babe I have by her; + </p> + <p> + Upon whose face henceforth I fear to look, + </p> + <p> + Lest I should fancy in its innocent brow + </p> + <p> + Some strange shame written. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <h5> + <i>Enter</i> LUCY. + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="i6"> + Sister, an anxious word with you. + </p> + <p> + From out the chamber, where my wife but now + </p> + <p> + Held talk with her encroaching friend, I heard + </p> + <p> + (Not of set purpose heark'ning, but by chance) + </p> + <p> + A voice of chiding, answer'd by a tone + </p> + <p> + Of replication, such as the meek dove + </p> + <p> + Makes, when the kite has clutch'd her. The high Widow + </p> + <p> + Was loud and stormy. I distinctly heard + </p> + <p> + One threat pronounced—"Your husband shall know all." + </p> + <p> + I am no listener, sister; and I hold + </p> + <p> + A secret, got by such unmanly shift, + </p> + <p> + The pitiful'st of thefts; but what mine ear, + </p> + <p> + I not intending it, receives perforce, + </p> + <p> + I count my lawful prize. Some subtle meaning + </p> + <p> + Lurks in this fiend's behavior; which, by force, + </p> + <p> + Or fraud I must make mine. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Lucy</i>. The gentlest means + </p> + <p> + Are still the wisest. What, if you should press + </p> + <p> + Your wife to a disclosure? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. I have tried + </p> + <p> + All gentler means; thrown out low hints, which, though + </p> + <p> + Merely suggestions still, have never fail'd + </p> + <p> + To blanch her cheek with fears. Roughlier to insist, + </p> + <p> + Would be to kill, where I but meant to heal. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Lucy</i>. Your own description gave that Widow out + </p> + <p> + As one not much precise, nor over-coy, + </p> + <p> + And nice to listen to a suit of love. + </p> + <p> + What if you feign'd a courtship, putting on, + </p> + <p> + (To work the secret from her easy faith,) + </p> + <p> + For honest ends, a most dishonest seeming? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. I see your drift, and partly meet your + counsel. + </p> + <p> + But must it not in me appear prodigious, + </p> + <p> + To say the least, unnatural, and suspicious, + </p> + <p> + To move hot love, where I have shown cool scorn, + </p> + <p> + And undissembled looks of blank aversion? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Lucy</i>. Vain woman is the dupe of her own charms, + </p> + <p> + And easily credits the resistless power, + </p> + <p> + That in besieging beauty lies, to cast down + </p> + <p> + The slight-built fortress of a casual hate. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. I am resolved— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Lucy</i>. Success attend your wooing! + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. And I'll about it roundly, my wise sister. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exeunt</i>. + </div> + </div> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>The Library</i>. + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + Mr. Selby. Mrs. Frampton. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. A fortunate encounter, Mistress Frampton. + </p> + <p> + My purpose was, if you could spare so much + </p> + <p> + From your sweet leisure, a few words in private. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> What mean his alter'd tones? These looks to + me, + </p> + <p> + Whose glances yet he has repell'd with coolness? + </p> + <p> + Is the wind changed? I'll veer about with it, + </p> + <p> + And meet him in all fashions. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside</i>. + </div> + <p class="i12"> + All my leisure, + </p> + <p> + Feebly bestow'd upon my kind friends here, + </p> + <p> + Would not express a tithe of the obligements + </p> + <p> + I every hour incur. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. No more of that. + </p> + <p> + I know not why, my wife hath lost of late + </p> + <p> + Much of her cheerful spirits. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> It was my topic + </p> + <p> + To-day; and every day, and all day long, + </p> + <p> + I still am chiding with her. "Child," I said, + </p> + <p> + And said it pretty roundly—it may be + </p> + <p> + I was too peremptory—we elder school-fellows, + </p> + <p> + Presuming on the advantage of a year + </p> + <p> + Or two, which, in that tender time, seem'd much, + </p> + <p> + In after years, much like to elder sisters, + </p> + <p> + Are prone to keep the authoritative style, + </p> + <p> + When time has made the difference most ridiculous— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. The observation's shrewd. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> "Child," I was saying, + </p> + <p> + "If some wives had obtain'd a lot like yours," + </p> + <p> + And then perhaps I sigh'd, "they would not sit + </p> + <p> + In corners moping, like to sullen moppets, + </p> + <p> + That want their will, but dry their eyes, and look + </p> + <p> + Their cheerful husbands in the face," perhaps + </p> + <p> + I said, their Selbys, "with proportion'd looks + </p> + <p> + Of honest joy." + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. You do suspect no jealousy? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> What is his import? Whereto tends his Speech? + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside</i>. + </div> + <p> + Of whom, or what, should she be jealous, sir? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. I do not know, but women have their fancies; + </p> + <p> + And underneath a cold indifference, + </p> + <p> + Or show of some distaste, husbands have mask'd + </p> + <p> + A growing fondness for a female friend, + </p> + <p> + Which the wife's eye was sharp enough to see, + </p> + <p> + Before the friend had wit to find it out. + </p> + <p> + You do not quit us soon? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> 'Tis as I find; + </p> + <p> + Your Katherine profits by my lessons, sir.— + </p> + <p> + Means this man honest? Is there no deceit? + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. She cannot choose.—Well, well, I have + been thinking, + </p> + <p> + And if the matter were to do again— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> What matter, sir? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> This idle bond of wedlock; + </p> + <p> + These sour-sweet briars, fetters of harsh silk; + </p> + <p> + I might have made, I do not say a better, + </p> + <p> + But a more fit choice in a wife. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> The parch'd ground, + </p> + <p> + In hottest Julys, drinks not in the showers + </p> + <p> + More greedily than I his words! + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside</i>. + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. My humor + </p> + <p> + Is to be frank and jovial; and that man + </p> + <p> + Affects me best, who most reflects me in + </p> + <p> + My most free temper. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Were you free to choose, + </p> + <p> + As jestingly I'll put the supposition, + </p> + <p> + Without a thought reflecting on your Katherine, + </p> + <p> + What sort of Woman would you make your choice? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. I like your humor and will meet your jest. + </p> + <p> + She should be one about my Katherine's age; + </p> + <p> + But not so old, by some ten years, in gravity, + </p> + <p> + One that would meet my mirth, sometimes outrun it: + </p> + <p> + No muling, pining moppet, as you said, + </p> + <p> + Nor moping maid that I must still be teaching + </p> + <p> + The freedoms of a wife all her life after: + </p> + <p> + But one that, having worn the chain before, + </p> + <p> + (And worn it lightly, as report gave out,) + </p> + <p> + Enfranchised from it by her poor fool's death, + </p> + <p> + Took it not so to heart that I need dread + </p> + <p> + To die myself, for fear a second time + </p> + <p> + To wet a widow's eye. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Some widows, sir, + </p> + <p> + Hearing you talk so wildly, would be apt + </p> + <p> + To put strange misconstruction on your words, + </p> + <p> + As aiming at a Turkish liberty, + </p> + <p> + Where the free husband hath his several mates, + </p> + <p> + His Penseroso, his Allegro wife, + </p> + <p> + To suit his sober or his frolic fit. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. How judge you of that latitude? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> As one, + </p> + <p> + In European customs bred, must judge. Had I + </p> + <p> + Been born a native of the liberal East, + </p> + <p> + I might have thought as they do. Yet I knew + </p> + <p> + A married man that took a second wife, + </p> + <p> + And (the man's circumstances duly weigh'd, + </p> + <p> + With all their bearings) the considerate world + </p> + <p> + Nor much approved, nor much condemn'd the deed. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. You move my wonder strangely. Pray, proceed. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> An eye of wanton liking he had placed + </p> + <p> + Upon a Widow, who liked him again, + </p> + <p> + But stood on terms of honorable love, + </p> + <p> + And scrupled wronging his most virtuous wife— + </p> + <p> + When to their ears a lucky rumor ran, + </p> + <p> + That this demure and saintly-seeming wife + </p> + <p> + Had a first husband living; with the which + </p> + <p> + Being question'd, she but faintly could deny. + </p> + <p> + "A priest indeed there was; some words had pass'd, + </p> + <p> + But scarce amounting to a marriage rite. + </p> + <p> + Her friend was absent; she supposed him dead; + </p> + <p> + And, seven years parted, both were free to choose." + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. What did the indignant husband? Did he not + </p> + <p> + With violent handlings stigmatize the cheek + </p> + <p> + Of the deceiving wife, who had entail'd + </p> + <p> + Shame on their innocent babe? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> He neither tore + </p> + <p> + His wife's locks nor his own; but wisely weighing + </p> + <p> + His own offence with hers in equal poise, + </p> + <p> + And woman's weakness 'gainst the strength of man, + </p> + <p> + Came to a calm and witty compromise. + </p> + <p> + He coolly took his gay-faced widow home, + </p> + <p> + Made her his second wife; and still the first + </p> + <p> + Lost few or none of her prerogatives. + </p> + <p> + The servants call'd her mistress still; she kept + </p> + <p> + The keys, and had the total ordering + </p> + <p> + Of the house affairs; and, some slight toys excepted, + </p> + <p> + Was all a moderate wife would wish to be. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. A tale full of dramatic incident!— + </p> + <p> + And if a man should put it in a play, + </p> + <p> + How should he name the parties? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> The man's name + </p> + <p> + Through time I have forgot—the widow's too;— + </p> + <p> + But his first wife's first name, her maiden one, + </p> + <p> + Was—not unlike to <i>that</i> your Katherine bore, + </p> + <p> + Before she took the honor'd style of Selby. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. A dangerous meaning in your riddle lurks. + </p> + <p> + One knot is yet unsolved; that told, this strange + </p> + <p> + And most mysterious drama ends. The name + </p> + <p> + Of that first husband— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <h5> + <i>Enter</i> LUCY. + </h5> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Sir, your pardon— + </p> + <p> + The allegory fits your private ear. + </p> + <p> + Some half hour hence, in the garden's secret walk, + </p> + <p> + We shall have leisure. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit</i>. + </div> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. Sister, whence come you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Lucy</i>. From your poor Katherine's chamber, where she + droops + </p> + <p> + In sad presageful thoughts, and sighs, and weeps, + </p> + <p> + And seems to pray by turns. At times she looks + </p> + <p> + As she would pour her secret in my bosom— + </p> + <p> + Then starts, as I have seen her, at the mention + </p> + <p> + Of some immodest act. At her request, + </p> + <p> + I left her on her knees. + </p> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. The fittest posture; + </p> + <p> + For great has been her fault to Heaven and me. + </p> + <p> + She married me with a first husband living, + </p> + <p> + Or not known not to be so, which, in the judgment + </p> + <p> + Of any but indifferent honesty, + </p> + <p> + Must be esteem'd the same. The shallow Widow, + </p> + <p> + Caught by my art, under a riddling veil + </p> + <p> + Too thin to hide her meaning, hath confess'd all. + </p> + <p> + Your coming in broke off the conference, + </p> + <p> + When she was ripe to tell the fatal <i>name</i> + </p> + <p> + That seals my wedded doom. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Lucy</i>. Was she so forward + </p> + <p> + To pour her hateful meanings in your ear + </p> + <p> + At the first hint? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. Her newly flatter'd hopes + </p> + <p> + Array'd themselves at first in forms of doubt; + </p> + <p> + And with a female caution she stood off + </p> + <p> + Awhile, to read the meaning of my suit, + </p> + <p> + Which with such honest seeming I enforced, + </p> + <p> + That her cold scruples soon gave way; and now + </p> + <p> + She rests prepared, as mistress, or as wife, + </p> + <p> + To seize the place of her betrayèd friend— + </p> + <p> + My much offending, but more suffering, Katherine. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Lucy</i>. Into what labyrinth of fearful shapes + </p> + <p> + My simple project has conducted you— + </p> + <p> + Were but my wit as skilful to invent + </p> + <p> + A clue to lead you forth!—I call to mind + </p> + <p> + A letter, which your wife received from the Cape, + </p> + <p> + Soon after you were married, with some circumstances + </p> + <p> + Of mystery too. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. I well remember it. + </p> + <p> + That letter did confirm the truth (she said) + </p> + <p> + Of a friend's death, which she had long fear'd true, + </p> + <p> + But knew not for a fact. A youth of promise + </p> + <p> + She gave him out—a hot adventurous spirit— + </p> + <p> + That had set sail in quest of golden dreams, + </p> + <p> + And cities in the heart of Central Afric; + </p> + <p> + But named no names, nor did I care to press + </p> + <p> + My question further, in the passionate grief + </p> + <p> + She show'd at the receipt. Might this be he? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Lucy</i>. Tears were not all. When that first shower was + past, + </p> + <p> + With clasp'd hands she raised her eyes to Heav'n, + </p> + <p> + As if in thankfulness for some escape, + </p> + <p> + Or strange deliverance, in the news implied, + </p> + <p> + Which sweeten'd that sad news. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. Something of that + </p> + <p> + I noted also— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Lucy</i>. In her closet once, + </p> + <p> + Seeking some other trifle, I espied + </p> + <p> + A ring, in mournful characters deciphering + </p> + <p> + The death of "Robert Halford, aged two + </p> + <p> + And twenty." Brother, I am not given + </p> + <p> + To the confident use of wagers, which I hold + </p> + <p> + Unseemly in a woman's argument; + </p> + <p> + But I am strangely tempted now to risk + </p> + <p> + A thousand pounds out of my patrimony, + </p> + <p> + (And let my future husband look to it, + </p> + <p> + If it be lost,) that this immodest Widow + </p> + <p> + Shall name the name that tallies with that ring. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. That wager lost, I should be rich indeed— + </p> + <p> + Rich in my rescued Kate—rich in my honor, + </p> + <p> + Which now was bankrupt. Sister, I accept + </p> + <p> + Your merry wager, with an aching heart + </p> + <p> + For very fear of winning. 'Tis the hour + </p> + <p> + That I should meet my Widow in the walk, + </p> + <p> + The south side of the garden. On some pretence + </p> + <p> + Lure forth my Wife that way, that she may witness + </p> + <p> + Our seeming courtship. Keep us still in sight, + </p> + <p> + Yourselves unseen; and by some sign I'll give, + </p> + <p> + (A finger held up, or a kerchief waved,) + </p> + <p> + You'll know your wager won—then break upon us, + </p> + <p> + As if by chance. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Lucy</i>. I apprehend your meaning— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. And may you prove a true Cassandra here, + </p> + <p> + Though my poor acres smart for't, wagering sister. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exeunt</i>. + </div> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>Mrs. Selby's chamber.</i> + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + MRS. FRAMPTON. KATHERINE. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Did I express myself in terms so strong? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> As nothing could have more affrighted me. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Think it a hurt friend's jest, in retribution + </p> + <p> + Of a suspected cooling hospitality. + </p> + <p> + And, for my staying here, or going hence, + </p> + <p> + (Now I remember something of our argument,) + </p> + <p> + Selby and I can settle that between us. + </p> + <p> + You look amazed. What if your husband, child, + </p> + <p> + Himself has courted me to stay? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> You move + </p> + <p> + My wonder and my pleasure equally. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Yes, courted me to stay, waived all + objections, + </p> + <p> + Made it a favor to yourselves; not me, + </p> + <p> + His troublesome guest, as you surmised. Child, child, + </p> + <p> + When I recall his flattering welcome, I + </p> + <p> + Begin to think the burden of my presence + </p> + <p> + Was— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath</i>. What, for Heaven— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> A little, little spice + </p> + <p> + Of jealousy—that's all—an honest pretext, + </p> + <p> + No wife need blush for. Say that you should see, + </p> + <p> + (As oftentimes we widows take such freedoms, + </p> + <p> + Yet still on this side virtue,) in a jest + </p> + <p> + Your husband pat me on the cheek, or steal + </p> + <p> + A kiss, while you were by,—not else, for virtue's sake. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> I could endure all this, thinking my husband + </p> + <p> + Meant it in sport— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> But if in downright earnest + </p> + <p> + (Putting myself out of the question here) + </p> + <p> + Your Selby, as I partly do suspect, + </p> + <p> + Own'd a divided heart— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> My own would break— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Why, what a blind and witless fool it is, + </p> + <p> + That will not see its gains, its infinite gains— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> Gain in a loss. + </p> + <p class="i12"> + Or mirth in utter desolation! + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> He doating on a face—suppose it mine, + </p> + <p> + Or any other's tolerably fair— + </p> + <p> + What need you care about a senseless secret? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> Perplex'd and fearful woman! I in part + </p> + <p> + Fathom your dangerous meaning. You have broke + </p> + <p> + The worse than iron band, fretting the soul, + </p> + <p> + By which you held me captive. Whether my husband + </p> + <p> + <i>Is</i> what you gave him out, or your fool'd fancy + </p> + <p> + But dreams he is so, either way I am free. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> It talks it bravely, blazons out its shame; + </p> + <p> + A very heroine while on its knees; + </p> + <p> + Rowe's Penitent, an absolute Calista? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> Not to thy wretched self these tears are + falling; + </p> + <p> + But to my husband, and offended Heaven, + </p> + <p> + Some drops are due—and then I sleep in peace, + </p> + <p> + Relieved from frightful dreams, my dreams though sad + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> I have gone too far. Who knows but in this + mood + </p> + <p> + She may forestall my story, win on Selby + </p> + <p> + By a frank confession?—and the time draws on + </p> + <p> + For our appointed meeting. The game's desperate, + </p> + <p> + For which I play. A moment's difference + </p> + <p> + May make it hers or mine. I fly to meet him. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Exit.</i> + </div> + </div> + </div> + <hr /> + <h5> + SCENE.—<i>A garden.</i> + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + MR. SELBY. MRS. FRAMPTON. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> I am not so ill a guesser, Mrs. Frampton, + </p> + <p> + Not to conjecture, that some passages + </p> + <p> + In your unfinish'd story, rightly interpreted, + </p> + <p> + Glanced at my bosom's peace; + </p> + <p class="i12"> + You knew my wife? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Even from her earliest school-days—What + of that? + </p> + <p> + Or how is she concern'd in my fine riddles, + </p> + <p> + Framed for the hour's amusement! + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby</i>. By my <i>hopes</i> + </p> + <p> + Of my new interest conceived in you, + </p> + <p> + And by the honest passion of my heart, + </p> + <p> + Which not obliquely I to you did hint; + </p> + <p> + Come from the clouds of misty allegory, + </p> + <p> + And in plain language let me hear the worst. + </p> + <p> + Stand I disgraced, or no? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Then, by <i>my</i> hopes + </p> + <p> + Of my new interest conceived in you, + </p> + <p> + And by the kindling passion in <i>my</i> breast, + </p> + <p> + Which through my riddles you had almost read, + </p> + <p> + Adjured so strongly, I will tell you all. + </p> + <p> + In her school years, then bordering on fifteen, + </p> + <p> + Or haply not much past, she loved a youth— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> My most ingenuous Widow— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Met him oft + </p> + <p> + By stealth, where I still of the party was— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> Prime confidant to all the school, I warrant, + </p> + <p> + And general go-between— + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> One morn he came + </p> + <p> + In breathless haste. "The ship was under sail, + </p> + <p> + Or in few hours would be, that must convey + </p> + <p> + Him and his destinies to barbarous shores, + </p> + <p> + Where, should he perish by inglorious hands, + </p> + <p> + It would be consolation in his death + </p> + <p> + To have call'd his Katherine <i>his</i>." + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> Thus far the story + </p> + <p> + Tallies with what I hoped. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Wavering between + </p> + <p> + The doubt of doing wrong, and losing him; + </p> + <p> + And my dissuasions not o'er hotly urged, + </p> + <p> + Whom he had flatter'd with the bridemaid's part;— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> I owe my subtle Widow, then, for this. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Briefly, we went to church. The ceremony + </p> + <p> + Scarcely was huddled over, and the ring + </p> + <p> + Yet cold upon her finger, when they parted— + </p> + <p> + He to his ship; and we to school got back, + </p> + <p> + Scarce miss'd, before the dinner-bell could ring. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> And from that hour— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Nor sight, nor news of him, + </p> + <p> + For aught that I could hear, she e'er obtain'd. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> Like to a man that hovers in suspense + </p> + <p> + Over a letter just received, on which + </p> + <p> + The black seal hath impress'd its ominous token, + </p> + <p> + Whether to open it or no, so I + </p> + <p> + Suspended stand, whether to press my fate + </p> + <p> + Further, or check ill curiosity, + </p> + <p> + That tempts me to more loss.—The name, the name + </p> + <p> + Of this fine youth? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> What boots it, if 'twere told? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> Now, by our loves, + </p> + <p> + And by my hopes of happier wedlocks, some day + </p> + <p> + To be accomplish'd, give me his name! + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> 'Tis no such serious matter. It + was—Huntingdon. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> How have three little syllables pluck'd from me + </p> + <p> + A world of countless hopes!— + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside.</i> + </div> + <p class="i16"> + Evasive Widow. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> How, sir!—I like not this. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> No, no, I meant + </p> + <p> + Nothing but good to thee. That other woman, + </p> + <p> + How shall I call her but evasive, false, + </p> + <p> + And treacherous?—by the trust I place in thee, + </p> + <p> + Tell me, and tell me truly, was the name + </p> + <p> + As you pronounced it? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Huntingdon—the name, + </p> + <p> + Which his paternal grandfather assumed, + </p> + <p> + Together with the estates of a remote + </p> + <p> + Kinsman: but our high-spirited youth— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> Yes— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Disdaining + </p> + <p> + For sordid pelf to truck the family honors, + </p> + <p> + At risk of the lost estates, resumed the old style, + </p> + <p> + And answer'd only to the name of— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> What— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Of Halford— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> A Huntingdon to Halford changed so soon! + </p> + <p> + Why, then I see, a witch hath her good spells, + </p> + <p> + As well as bad, and can by a backward charm + </p> + <p> + Unruffle the foul storm she has just been raising. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside. He makes the signal.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + My frank, fair-spoken Widow! let this kiss, + </p> + <p> + Which yet aspires no higher, speak my thanks, + </p> + <p> + Till I can think on greater. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <h5> + <i>Enter</i> LUCY <i>and</i> KATHERINE. + </h5> + <div class="play"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Interrupted! + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> My sister here! and see, where with her comes + </p> + <p> + My serpent gliding in an angel's form, + </p> + <p> + To taint the new-born Eden of our joys. + </p> + <p> + Why should we fear them? We'll not stir a foot, + </p> + <p> + Nor coy it for their pleasures. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>He courts the Widow.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Lucy (to Katherine).</i> This your free, + </p> + <p> + And sweet ingenuous confession, binds me + </p> + <p> + Forever to you; and it shall go hard, + </p> + <p> + But it shall fetch you back your husband's heart, + </p> + <p> + That now seems blindly straying; or, at worst, + </p> + <p> + In me you have still a sister.—Some wives, brother, + </p> + <p> + Would think it strange to catch their husbands thus + </p> + <p> + Alone with a trim widow; but your Katherine + </p> + <p> + Is arm'd, I think, with patience. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> I am fortified + </p> + <p> + With knowledge of self-faults to endure worse wrongs, + </p> + <p> + If they be wrongs, than he can lay upon me; + </p> + <p> + Even to look on, and see him sue in earnest, + </p> + <p> + As now I think he does it but in seeming, + </p> + <p> + To that ill woman. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> Good words, gentle Kate, + </p> + <p> + And not a thought irreverent of our Widow. + </p> + <p> + Why, 'twere unmannerly at any time, + </p> + <p> + But most uncourteous on our wedding-day, + </p> + <p> + When we should show most hospitable.—Some wine! + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Wine is brought.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + I am for sports. And now I do remember, + </p> + <p> + The old Egyptians at their banquets placed + </p> + <p> + A charnel sight of dead men's skulls before them, + </p> + <p> + With images of cold mortality, + </p> + <p> + To temper their fierce joys when they grew rampant. + </p> + <p> + I like the custom well: and ere we crown + </p> + <p> + With freer mirth the day, I shall propose, + </p> + <p> + In calmest recollection of our spirits, + </p> + <p> + We drink the solemn "Memory of the Dead,"— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Or the supposed dead— + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside to him.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> Pledge me, good, wife— + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>She fills.</i> + </div> + <p> + Nay, higher yet, till the brimm'd cup swell o'er, + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> I catch the awful import of your words; + </p> + <p> + And, though I could accuse you of unkindness, + </p> + <p> + Yet as your lawful and obedient wife, + </p> + <p> + While that name lasts (as I perceive it fading, + </p> + <p> + Nor I much longer may have leave to use it) + </p> + <p> + I calmly take the office you impose; + </p> + <p> + And on my knees, imploring their forgiveness, + </p> + <p> + Whom I in heaven or earth may have offended, + </p> + <p> + Exempt from starting tears, and woman's weakness, + </p> + <p> + I pledge you, sir—the Memory of the Dead! + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>She drinks kneeling.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> 'Tis gently and discreetly said, and like + </p> + <p> + My former loving Kate. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Does he relent? + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside.</i> + </div> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> That ceremony past, we give the day + </p> + <p> + To unabated sport. And, in requital + </p> + <p> + Of certain stories and quaint allegories, + </p> + <p> + Which my rare Widow hath been telling to me + </p> + <p> + To raise my morning mirth, if she will lend + </p> + <p> + Her patient hearing, I will here recite + </p> + <p> + A Parable; and, the more to suit her taste, + </p> + <p> + The scene is laid in the East. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> I long to hear it. + </p> + <p> + Some tale, to fit his wife. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> Now, comes my TRIAL. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Lucy.</i> The hour of your deliverance is at hand, + </p> + <p> + If I presage right. Bear up, gentlest sister. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> "The Sultan Haroun"—Stay—O now I + have it— + </p> + <p> + "The Caliph Haroun in his orchards had + </p> + <p> + A fruit-tree, bearing such delicious fruits, + </p> + <p> + That he reserved them for his proper gust; + </p> + <p> + And through the Palace it was Death proclaim'd + </p> + <p> + To any one that should purloin the same." + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> A heavy penance for so light a fault— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> Pray you, be silent, else you put me out. + </p> + <p> + "A crafty page, that for advantage watch'd, + </p> + <p> + Detected in the act a brother page, + </p> + <p> + Of his own years, that was his bosom friend; + </p> + <p> + And thenceforth he became that other's lord, + </p> + <p> + And like a tyrant he demean'd himself, + </p> + <p> + Laid forced exactions on his fellow's purse; + </p> + <p> + And when that poor means fail'd, held o'er his head + </p> + <p> + Threats of impending death in hideous forms; + </p> + <p> + Till the small culprit on his nightly couch + </p> + <p> + Dream'd of strange pains, and felt his body writhe + </p> + <p> + In tortuous pangs around the impaling stake." + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> I like not this beginning— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> Pray you, attend. + </p> + <p> + "The Secret, like a night-hag, rid his sleeps, + </p> + <p> + And took the youthful pleasures from his days, + </p> + <p> + And chased the youthful smoothness from his brow, + </p> + <p> + That from a rose-cheek'd boy he waned and waned + </p> + <p> + To a pale skeleton of what he was; + </p> + <p> + And would have died, but for one lucky chance." + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> Oh! + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Your wife—she faints—some + cordial—smell to this. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> Stand off. My sister best will do that office. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> Are all his tempting speeches come to this? + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> What ail'd my wife? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> A warning faintness, sir, + </p> + <p> + Seized on my spirits, when you came to where + </p> + <p> + You said "a lucky chance." I am better now: + </p> + <p> + Please you go on. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> The sequel shall be brief. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Kath.</i> But, brief, or long, I feel my fate hangs on it. + </p> + <div class="rt"> + [<i>Aside.</i> + </div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> "One morn the Caliph, in a covert hid, + </p> + <p> + Close by an arbor where the two boys talk'd, + </p> + <p> + (As oft, we read, that Eastern sovereigns + </p> + <p> + Would play the eavesdropper, to learn the truth. + </p> + <p> + Imperfectly received from mouths of slaves,) + </p> + <p> + O'erheard their dialogue; and heard enough + </p> + <p> + To judge aright the cause, and know his cue. + </p> + <p> + The following day a Cadi was despatch'd + </p> + <p> + To summon both before the judgment-seat; + </p> + <p> + The lickerish culprit, almost dead with fear, + </p> + <p> + And the informing friend, who readily, + </p> + <p> + Fired with fair promises of large reward, + </p> + <p> + And Caliph's love, the hateful truth disclosed." + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> What did the Caliph to the offending boy, + </p> + <p> + That had so grossly err'd? + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> His sceptred hand + </p> + <p> + He forth in token of forgiveness stretch'd, + </p> + <p> + And clapp'd his cheeks, and courted him with gifts, + </p> + <p> + And he became once more his favorite page. + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Mrs. F.</i> But for that other— + </p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p> + <i>Selby.</i> He dismissed him straight, + </p> + <p> + From dreams of grandeur, and of Caliph's love, + </p> + <p> + To the bare cottage on the withering moor. + </p> + <p> + Where friends, turn'd fiends, and hollow confidants, + </p> + <p> + And widows, hide, who in a husband's ear + </p> + <p> + Pour baneful truths, but tell not all the truth; + </p> + <p> + And told him not that Robin Halford died + </p> + <p> + Some moons before <i>his</i> marriage-bells were rung. + </p> + <p> + Too near dishonor hast thou trod, dear wife, + </p> + <p> + And on a dangerous cast our fates were set; + </p> + <p> + But Heav'n, that will'd our wedlock to be blest, + </p> + <p> + Hath interposed to save it gracious too. + </p> + <p> + Your penance is—to dress your cheek in smiles, + </p> + <p> + And to be once again my merry Kate.— + </p> + <p> + Sister, your hand. + </p> + <p> + Your wager won makes me a happy man, + </p> + <p> + Though poorer, Heav'n knows, by a thousand pounds. + </p> + <p> + The sky clears up after a dubious day. + </p> + <p> + Widow, your hand. I read a penitence + </p> + <p> + In this dejected brow; and in this shame + </p> + <p> + Your fault is buried. You shall in with us, + </p> + <p> + And, if it please you, taste our nuptial fare: + </p> + <p> + For, till this moment, I can joyful say, + </p> + <p> + Was never truly Selby's Wedding Day. + </p> + </div> + </div> + <p> + + </p> +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14129 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |