'Sry of Co^%f 
 
 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 
 
 Chap. ._ Copyright No 
 
 Shelf.„_„ 
 
 • 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
THE ATHENytUM PRESS SERIES 
 
 G. L. KITTREDGE and C. T. WINCHESTER 
 GENERAL EDITORS 
 
tTbe 
 Htben^um press Series. 
 
 This series is intended to furnish a 
 library of the best English Uterature 
 from Chaucer to the present time in a 
 form adapted to the needs of both the 
 student and the general reader. The 
 works selected are carefully edited, with 
 biographical and critical introductions, 
 full explanatory notes, and other neces- 
 sary apparatus. 
 
W. S. LANDOR. 
 
Htbena:um press Series 
 
 SELECTIONS 
 
 FROM THE WRITINGS OF 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 
 
 Edited with Introduction and Notes 
 
 W. B. SHUBRICK CLYMER 
 
 BOSTON, U.S.A. 
 GINN & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS 
 
 1898 
 

 9833 
 
 Copyright, 1898, by 
 W. B. SHUBRICK CLYMER 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 / 
 
 
 U/, 1 i £ Sl-> . >- -, l-, 
 
 cririwxn 
 
 '5,0^o-&<r 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The first edition of John Forster's Life of Landor was 
 published by Chapman and Hall, in two volumes, in 1869; 
 in 1876, abridged, it formed the first volume of Forster's 
 eight-volume edition of The Works a7id Life of Walter Sav- 
 age Laiidor ; in 1895 the second edition was reprinted. In 
 this biography is stored almost all the information of any 
 consequence relating to Landor; and Forster's is the stand- 
 ard text of the collected writings. The ample material in 
 the biography is not especially well put together, nor is the 
 appraisal always closely accurate. To a special student of 
 the subject, however, the book is invaluable. Mr. Sidney 
 Colvin's Landor {English Men of Letters) gives as full an 
 account as any one but a special student cares for. In his 
 volume of Selections {Golden Treasury Series) he attains, by 
 rare skill in choice and arrangement, and by means of a really 
 luminous preface and notes, that high point of critical merit 
 which entitles him to the commendation bestowed by Landor 
 on one who praises an author " becomingly." Mr. Charles 
 G. Crump's comparatively recent varioriun edition of the 
 writings, with instructive critical notes, is based on Forster. 
 In 1897 appeared Letters and Other Unpublished Writings 
 of Walter Savage Landor, edited by Mr. Stephen Wheeler. 
 The new material is not particularly important ; but the edi- 
 tor's work is done with such good taste and judgment that 
 the book cannot fail to interest an admirer of Landor. It 
 has a well-made bibliography. The Scott Library contains, 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 in convenient form, a good assortment of Imaginary Conver- 
 sations, the Fentameron, and Pericles and Aspasia. The fullest 
 American reprint of the prose is that published by Roberts 
 Brothers. 
 
 Mr. Swinburne's article on Landor in the Encyclopedia 
 Britannica, so strangely stimulating a blend of dithyramb 
 and discernmejit as no other mortal could ever have pro- 
 du^edTTsTo'lDe read with mental reservations and qualifica- 
 tions. His Song for the Centenary of Walter Savage Landor 
 is an encomium, in detail, of pretty much everything Landor 
 wrote. In sharp contrast to Mr. Swinburne's apotheosis is 
 Mr. Leslie Stephen's searching, and in some degree destruc- 
 tive, analysis {Hours in a Library^. Irritating though the 
 sarcastically depreciatory manner of the essay may be to 
 youthful enthusiasm, yet the estimate is in the main so 
 sound that mature and dispassionate reflection overlooks 
 the lack of sympathy. It is by odds the cleverest thing in 
 print on Landor. The article in the Dictionary of National 
 Biography, also by Mr. Leslie Stephen, states the facts con- 
 cisely, and concludes with an admirably just summing up of 
 Landor as man and writer. 
 
 Among occasional contributions to the subject are Mrs. 
 Browning's (then Miss Barrett) essay in Home's New Spirit 
 of the Age (1844); Miss Kate Field's three articles in the 
 Atlantic Monthly (1866) ; Mrs. Linton's article in Eraser's 
 Magazine (July, 1870); Lord Houghton's Monograph (1873); 
 Mr. Horace E. Scudder's characterisation {Men and Letters) -^ 
 Professor Dowden's essay {Studies in Literature) ; Professor 
 G. E. Woodberry's {Studies in Letters and Life) ; Mr. Aubrey 
 de Vere's {Essays, chiefly on Poetry) ; M. Gabriel Sarra- 
 zin's {Poetes modernes de V Angleterre) ; and two articles by 
 J. R. Lowell {Massachusetts Quarterly, 1848; Century Maga- 
 zine, 1888). Mr. E. W. Evans's academic Study of Landor 
 is systematic and thorough. Landor is treated at some 
 
PREFACE. Vll 
 
 length in Mrs. Oliphant's Victorian Age of English Litera- 
 ture and in Mr. Stedman's Victorian Poets ; and a few pages 
 are given to him in Professor Saintsbury's book on the 
 English literature of this century. 
 
 This small volume of selections, differing in plan both 
 from Mr. Hillard's and from Mr. Colvin's, contains some 
 of the dramatic and some of the discursive Conversations, a 
 considerable part of the last Day of the Pentameron, a small 
 number of letters from Pericles and Aspasia, and a few of 
 the best short poems. It has been difficult to find among 
 the dramatic Conversations good ones not already included 
 by Mr. Colvin ; among the non-dramatic it has been easy, 
 for he usually makes but short extracts from them. Only 
 one of these last is here given entire ; from others are made 
 excerpts long enough to serve as samples of the trend and 
 manner of the discussion. The letters taken from Pe?'icles 
 and Aspasia, as well as the poems which follow them, though 
 totally inadequate to give an idea of the full value of the 
 classes of work they represent, are, at all events, character- 
 istic. The order in which the selections are placed is 
 determined by considerations of congruity and contrast, not 
 chronology. 
 
 The slight biographical outline follows Mr. Colvin, my 
 indebtedness to whom at every turn in the preparation of 
 this book is obvious. The omission to mention in it Lan- 
 dor's idiosyncrasies of spelling is because the) are matter 
 rather of curiosity than of serious literary interest. They 
 are discussed in full, along with various linguistic matters, 
 in Conversations between Johnson and Home Tooke and 
 between Landor and Archdeacon Hare. 
 
 The notes, furnishing little of the information supplied 
 by dictionaries of biography and mythology, not minutely 
 analysing, touching only incidentally on technical details of 
 style, chiefly strive, by cursory suggestion of matters more 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 or less pertinent, to invite the reader to meet in a friendly 
 spirit this somewhat uncompromising writer, whose acquaint- 
 ance is so well worth making. 
 
 I take pleasure in thanking several friends for valuable 
 aid, and the editor of Scribner's Magazine for his courtesy 
 in consenting to the repetition, in the Introduction, of a few 
 paragraphs from a previous article of my own. 
 
 W. B. S. C. 
 
 May, 1898. 
 
CONTENTS. . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction xiii 
 
 Dates ........... xxxix 
 
 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 I. Achilles and Helena 3 
 
 II. iESOP AND RhODOPE 9 
 
 III. Tiberius and Vipsania 19 
 
 IV. Metellus and Marius 23 
 
 V. Marcellus and Hannibal . . . . .28 
 
 VI. Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn .... 33 
 
 VII. Roger Ascham and Lady Jane Grey ... 41 
 
 VIII. Princess Mary and Princess Elizabeth . . 44 
 
 IX. Essex and Spenser 54 
 
 X. Leofric and Godiva 59 
 
 XI. The Lady Lisle and Elizabeth Gaunt . . 65 
 
 XII. The Empress Catharine AND Princess Dashkof . 69 
 
 XIII. John of Gaunt and Joanna of Kent ... 77 
 
 XIV. Tancredi and Constantia 82 
 
 XV. The Maid of Orleans and Agnes Sorel . . 87 
 
 XVI. BOSSUET AND THE DuCHESS DE FONTANGES . . 96 
 
 XVII. Dante and Beatrice 104 
 
 XVIII. Beniowski and Aphanasia . . . . . 113 
 
 XIX. Leonora di Este and Father Panigarola . .118 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XX. Admiral Blake and Humphrey Blake . . 120 
 
 XXI. Rhadamistus and Zenobia .... 124 
 
 XXII. Epicurus, Leontion, and Ternissa . . . 129 
 
 XXni. Walton, Cotton, and Oldways . . . 13B 
 
 XXIV. William Penn and Lord Peterborough . -155 
 
 XXV. Epictetus and Seneca 167 
 
 XXVI. LUCULLUS AND C^SAR I72 
 
 XXVII. The Apologue of Critobulus .... i8o 
 
 THE PENTAMERON. 
 
 XXVIII. Fifth Day's Interview 183 
 
 PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 
 
 XXIX. Selected Letters 200 
 
 POEMS. 
 Hellenics. 
 
 XXX. The Hamadryad 215 
 
 XXXI. AcoN and Rhodope ; or, Inconstancy . . 224 
 
 XXXII. The Death of Artemidora 228 
 
 Miscellaneous. 
 
 XXXIII. The Wrestling Match (from Gebir) . . . 229 
 
 XXXIV. To Ianthe 
 
 1. "It often comes into my head" . . 232 
 
 2. "Ianthe! you are call'd". . . 232 
 
 3. "Your pleasures spring" . . • 233 
 
 4. "Well I remember" ..... 233 
 XXXV. Rose Aylmer 233 
 
 XXXVI. A FiESOLAN Idyl 234 
 
 XXXVII. Upon a Sweet-Briar 236 
 
XXXVIII. The Maid's Lament 
 
 CONTENTS. XI 
 
 PAGE 
 237 
 
 XXXIX. To Robert Browning 238 
 
 XL. To THE Sister of Elia . . . , . 238 
 
 XLI. On Dirce 239 
 
 XLII. " I will not love ! " 239 
 
 239 
 240 
 240 
 
 Old Age and Death. 
 
 .XLIII. "How many voices" 
 
 XLIV. "The place where soon" ... 
 
 XLV. To Age 
 
 XLVI. On his Seventy-fifth Birthday ... 241 
 
 XLVII. On his Eightieth Birthday .... 241 
 
 XLVIII. "Death stands above me" . . . . 241 
 
 Notes 243 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor was born at Warwick, on Jan- 
 uary 30, 1775. His father, Dr. Landor, a practising physi- 
 cian at Warwick, reputed to have been a ''poHshed, sociable, 
 agreeable, somewhat choleric gentleman, more accomplished 
 and better educated, as his profession required, than most 
 of those with whom he associated, but otherwise dining, 
 coursing, telling his story and drinking his bottle without 
 particular distinction among the rest," had married two 
 heiresses. Of the seven children by the second wife, Eliza- 
 beth Savage, a member of a Warwickshire family, Walter was 
 the eldest. By entail he became heir, at birth, to two 
 estates belonging to his mother's family — Ipsley Court and 
 Tachbrook in Warwickshire ; to a share in the reversionary 
 interest in a third — Hughenden Manor in Buckingham- 
 shire;^ and to the family property of his father in Stafford- 
 shire. "No one, it should seem," says his latest biographer, 
 "ever entered life under happier conditions. To the gifts 
 of breeding and of fortune there were added at his birth the 
 gifts of genius and of strength. But there had been evil 
 god-mothers beside the cradle as well as good, and in the 
 composition of this powerful nature pride, anger, and pre- 
 
 1 Subsequently the country seat of another man of literary fame, 
 Benjamin Disraeli, who in 1848 purchased the place, and on the refusal 
 by his executors of the offer of a public funeral and Westminster 
 Abbey was, in accordance with his express directions, buried there 
 beside Lady Beaconsfield in 1881. 
 
XIV INTR on UC TION. 
 
 cipitancy had been too largely mixed, to the prejudice of a 
 noble intellect and tender heart, and to the disturbance of 
 all his relations with his fellow-men." 
 
 Landor went, at ten, to Rugby, and, during the six years 
 he stayed there, was equally reckless in riding and in defi- 
 ance of authority ; regardless of bounds ; proficient in his 
 studies — " all except arithmetic " ; deep in Latin and Eng- 
 lish literature, and skilful in turning verses in Latin and 
 English ; fond of reading at night, and of wandering by day 
 beside streams. Illustrative of his readiness in Latin — of 
 which he once said, in extreme old age, *' I am sometimes 
 at a loss for an English word, never for a Latin " — is a story 
 told by Charles Reade's father, who was at Rugby at the 
 same time. Dr. James, the master, found him eating an 
 apple in school, and told him to bring it to his desk. As 
 Landor was turning to go back to his seat, the doctor said, 
 " Now, if you want that again, you had better make me a 
 short line on the occasion " ; whereupon, after thinking a 
 moment, Landor replied : 
 
 Esuriens doctor dulcia poma rapit. 
 
 "What do you mean by esuriens doctor 2'' said the master. 
 " The gormandizing doctor." " Take it, sir," said the 
 doctor, delighted with his pupil. Another story is that 
 once, when there were seven boys at Rugby named Hill, 
 he got a half-holiday for the school by writing a copy of 
 verses in which he compared Rugby to Rome because it 
 was built on seven hills. " I don't ask you who wrote this," 
 said the doctor, " for there is only one of you with the brains 
 to do it." But Landor and the master were not always on 
 amicable terms, and one day they differed over a Latin quan- 
 tity. Landor is said to have been right about the quantity, 
 but he conducted himself in so insubordinate a way that his 
 removal was requested. 
 
INTRODUCTION. XV 
 
 After two years with a tutor, he went, in 1793, to Trinity 
 College, Oxford. Southey was then at Balliol. Though they 
 did not know each other, they both made themselves con- 
 spicuous by avowing their republican sentiments in such 
 practices as appearing in public with their hair unpowdered, 
 and Landor by still more extreme insults to orthodox Eng- 
 lish opinion. "His Jacobinism," says Southey, "would have 
 made me seek his acquaintance, but for his madness." An 
 absurd freak led to his rustication. He quarreled with his 
 father, whose politics were the reverse of his own, and, find- 
 ing it impossible to live at home, established himself, in 1794, 
 in lodgings in London. Here he published, in 1795, a small 
 volume of poems, of which one was an ode To Washington. 
 
 Next he went to South Wales, where, he says, he lived 
 "chiefly among woods," and appears to have been in the 
 best spirits, though " not exchanging twelve sentences with 
 men." With women, however, he may be supposed to have 
 exchanged more, for he wrote poetry about two — lone, whose 
 prose name was Jones, and lanthe, which means Jane. The 
 latter was an Irish lady, Sophia Jane Swift, who afterwards 
 became Countess de Molande, and always remained Landor's 
 friend.^ Gebir^ in English and in Latin, suggested by a so- 
 
 1 Mr. Colvin gives the following summary of the subsequent life of 
 lanthe : 
 
 " To this lady Landor's somewhat roving affections during his life 
 at Bath (about 1 800-1 806) were principally devoted, and he held her 
 in great honour and affection ever after. Her first husband, a collateral 
 descendant of the Dean of St. Patrick's, died in 18 12, and she soon 
 afterwards married M. de Molande, a French Emigre of high family. 
 After the Restoration, Madame de Molande, who had children by both 
 marriages, went to live with her second husband in Paris. Being left 
 once more a widow, she spent two years (1829-31) with her children 
 in Florence, and passed the remainder of her life between England 
 and France, dying in Paris [Versailles] in 18 51." 
 
 In Mr. Wheeler's recently published book are further details about 
 her and her daughters, as well as about lone. 
 
XVI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 called Arabian story of Clara Reeve's, was the poetic fruit 
 of Landor's out-of-door life in Wales. Ignored by the many, 
 it has been admired by a few for a century. Southey found 
 in it "miraculous beauties." The first edition of the English 
 version appeared in 1798, the year of the Lyrical Ballads 
 and of Lamb's Rosamii7id Gray. The date marks not 
 inaccurately a point in the ideal divisional line between 
 eighteenth-century and nineteenth-century English literature. 
 The blank verse of Gebir is one sign of the growing reaction 
 from the correct couplets of the preceding age. The ques- 
 tion which has been suggested whether The Ancient Mariner^ 
 Tintern Abbey, or Gebir was " really the weightiest portent 
 of the new day " seems, however, too remotely eccentric for 
 special consideration here. 
 
 After contributing political articles to the Courier for a 
 while, Landor made a visit to Paris, where he conceived a 
 hatred of all things French. " As to the cause of liberty," he 
 writes in 1802, "this cursed nation has ruined it forever." 
 He includes the language in his dislike, though he was fond 
 of a number of French writers. Ronsard, he says, " would 
 have been a great poet if he had not been a Frenchman." 
 
 In 1805, on the death of his father, he succeeded, at thirty, 
 to the family estates. He was in need of money, for, what 
 with wandering from place to place, everywhere buying such 
 expensive things as horses and pictures, and living generally 
 on a scale which the limited sale of his unpopular writings 
 could far from maintain, he had for some time been spend- 
 ing more than his allowance. 
 
 His life at Bath during the next few years was as near to 
 dissipation as Landor's ever came. Though careless in 
 dress and awkward in dancing, he was, as was natural, a 
 favourite in society. He continued to buy horses and pic- 
 tures, and to keep up an establishment beyond even his ample 
 means. Personally of abstemious habits, he was yet sociable 
 
INTRODUCTION. xvu 
 
 and impressionable. As the owner of large landed proper- 
 ties, he was a conspicuous figure in so small a place. Of his 
 doings at Bath several stories are told on which it is need- 
 less to dwell. His friends were anxious that he should 
 marry ; and in his letters and his verses there are indica- 
 tions of dissatisfaction with the sort of life he had adopted, 
 of a craving for something more congenial to his refined 
 tastes than he found in the rather empty days and nights 
 of a rich but aimless young man of fashion. 
 
 "This conventional existence" — to quote from Lord 
 Houghton — "was interrupted by a resolve to join the 
 British army in Spain in 1808." He actually equipped and 
 commanded a thousand volunteers in the uprising against 
 Napoleon's attempt to convert Spain and Portugal into 
 dependencies of France. For this service, which lasted 
 some three months, the honorary rank of colonel in the 
 Spanish army was conferred on him — a title which he 
 afterward relinquished. His experience in Spain gave the 
 impulse for Count /ulia/r, his principal drama in verse, of 
 which De Quincey, by a strange vagary, ranked the charac- 
 ter of the hero with Milton's Satan and with the Prometheus 
 of ^schylus. 
 
 Not less characteristic than his espousal of the Spanish 
 cause was his scheme of restoring the border priory of 
 Llanthony, in Wales, and there establishing himself as the 
 benefactor and reformer of the neighbourhood. He sold 
 one of his estates to buy the property, instituted gigantic 
 operations to make it accessible and habitable, went to live 
 there with his wife (a young beauty whom he fell in love 
 with at first sight at a ball at Bath and married out-of-hand 
 in the course of a few months), got into trouble with every 
 one he had dealings with, and finally was forced to turn 
 about and leave England, after having wasted seventy 
 thousand pounds in the fruitless enterprise. 
 
XVlll INTR on UC TION. 
 
 " It is small reproach to any woman," says Lord Houghton, 
 " that she did not possess a suiBcient union of charm, tact, 
 and intelligence to suit Landor as a wife. He demanded 
 beauty in woman just as imperatively as honesty in man, 
 yet was hardly submissive to its influence." Mrs. Landor, 
 on the other hand, had, as another critic puts it, " none of the 
 gifts of the domestic artist ; she was not of those fine spirits 
 who study to create, out of the circumstances and characters 
 with which they have to deal, the best attainable ideal of 
 a home ; but a commonplace provincial beauty enough, 
 although lively and agreeable in her way." She and the 
 lion were ill mated. He married her for her wonderful 
 golden hair, and because she was penniless and without 
 accomplishments. Her reasons for marrying him were 
 probably no better. At any rate, he was not the man to 
 bear being twitted by her with their difference in age of 
 sixteen years. Accordingly, one night, unable to stay with 
 her any longer, he walked across the island of Jersey, where 
 they were living, and embarked for France.^ 
 
 1 It was a year after Landor's luckless marriage that the first hus- 
 band of lanthe died. Mrs. Lynn Linton, whose article {Fraser''s Maga- 
 zine, luly, 1870) on Landor's latter years is of peculiar interest, 
 represents him as sighing that he had not waited that year before 
 marrying. What, one wonders, would have been his fate if he had 
 waited t He certainly would not have married as he did. But would 
 he have married lanthe .? It is not unhkely that he would, for, Mrs. 
 Linton goes on to say, " of all his four great loves, lanthe was the one 
 to which his memory turned most constantly and most fondly. After 
 he had told me the whole story, she, then an old woman, came to Bath 
 with her grandchildren ; and we used to go regularly every day to pay 
 her a visit. She was sweet and gentle, evidently very proud of her old 
 lover's affection, very fond of him, and somewhat afraid. And his 
 behaviour to her was perfect. He was at his best when with her. 
 Tender, respectful, playful, with his old-world courtesy which sat so 
 well on him, it was easy to understand why she had loved him so 
 passionately in the fresh far-away past, and why she loved him still in 
 
INTR OD UC TION. XIX 
 
 The incidents of the next few years may be mentioned very 
 briefly. Landor went to Tours, where, a few months later, 
 his wife rejoined him. Here began, in 1814, his acquaint- 
 ance with Francis Hare,^ who became and remained his 
 fast friend. From Tours Mr. and Mrs. Landor went to 
 Como, where their first boy was born. Here, as always, 
 he kept up a constant correspondence with Southey, and 
 sent him many valuable books which, once read, had served 
 their purpose. He was continually buying and giving away 
 good books and, in his later years, bad pictures. He had a 
 visit from Southey, who was much entertained by his droll 
 stories, and by his echoing laughter as he told them in the 
 cool church of Sant' Abondio. Driven from Como by a 
 quarrel, he went to Pisa. Characteristically, though Shelley 
 was there at the same time, Landor avoided meeting him. 
 
 In 182 1 he removed to Florence, where he lived for five 
 years in the Palazzo Medici, and for three in the Villa 
 Castiglione, a short distance out of Florence, devoting him- 
 self mainly during the whole period to the writing of the 
 Imaginary Conversations. The first two volumes, containing 
 thirty-six Conversations, were published first in 1824, by 
 Taylor and Hessey, who were just about that time giving 
 up the publication of the London Magazine, in which the 
 Opium Eater and the Essays of Elia had appeared two or 
 
 the worn and withered present. All children were specially dear to 
 Landor ; bat of all, her grandchildren were the dearest." 
 
 1 Elder brother of the authors of Guesses at Truth. His son, Mr. 
 A. J. C. Hare, author of Walks in Ro77ie, etc., gives, in The Story of 
 My Life, a number of personal reminiscences of Landor. In a letter 
 written a few months before Landor's death, after speaking of his 
 broken health, Mr. Hare tells how he used still to like to "say over the 
 old names, — ' Francis, Augustus, Julius, i miei tre imperatori. I have 
 never known any family I loved so much as yours. I loved Francis 
 most, then Julius, then Augustus. But I loved them all. Francis 
 was the best friend I ever had.'" 
 
XX INTR OD UC TION. 
 
 three years before. The number of Conversations written 
 and published between 182 1 and 1829 is about eighty; the 
 whole number produced before Landor's death, not quite 
 one hundred and fifty. 
 
 During the Plorentine period Landor led, despite certain 
 annoying difficulties incident to the publishing of his books, 
 a pretty tranquil and satisfactory life. He was doing, in 
 agreeable surroundings, the work he most enjoyed; his 
 increasing reputation as a literary figure attracted to him 
 many of the men best worth knowing; he had several dear 
 friends ; his wife appears to have been less vexatious than 
 usual ; and in his children he took unbounded delight. 
 
 At Fiesole, where he next lived for some years in a villa 
 bought with money advanced by a friend, he continued to 
 romp with his children, to tend his flowers, to make com- 
 panions of his numerous pets, to write poetry, to revise, 
 enlarge, and add to his Conversations. Several of his poems, 
 especially A Fiesolan Idyl, suggest the beauty of the place 
 and the charm of his life there. In 1832, while on a short 
 visit to England, he saw Crabb Robinson, Flaxman, Lamb, 
 Coleridge, Julius Hare, Southey, and Wordsworth. It was 
 at Fiesole, whither he returned in 1833, that he composed 
 the Citation and Exa7nination of William Shakespeare, Peri- 
 cles and Aspasia, and, in part, the Pentame7'on, which relate 
 respectively, as their names show, to the three great periods 
 of Elizabethan England, classic Greece, and Italy on the 
 verge of the Renaissance. The last two, of which the 
 subjects were especially congenial to him, and the best of 
 the Conversations establish his title to high rank as a writer 
 of prose. 
 
 Before the appearance of the Pentameron, Landor and his 
 wife had again separated, this time definitively, by mutual 
 consent. For two years he drifted from place to place in 
 Italy and England. At length, in 1837, he took up his 
 
INTRODUCTION. XXI 
 
 abode at Bath, there to live for twenty years, writing dili- 
 gently, frequently going up to London to meet the fashion- 
 able literary people whom Lady Blessington and Count 
 D'Orsay entertained at Gore House, taking daily walks with 
 his bright-eyed, yellow-tailed Pomeranian dog,^ gradually 
 towards the latter years losing his mental strength, until 
 finally, in 1858, he was forced to escape by flight the con- 
 sequences of a suit for libel in which his tempestuous quix- 
 otism had involved him. The story of the squabble at Bath 
 is somewhat piteous, though also, as told by Forster, unin- 
 tentionally amusing. Landor, eighty-four years old, running 
 away from the entanglements of an imprudent intimacy with 
 a young girl, was discovered by Dickens at Forster's house 
 in London, where he had taken refuge for the night while 
 Forster was giving a dinner party. Dickens, who had left 
 the table to go to cheer the old man, came back laughing, 
 and saying that he " found him very jovial, and that his whole 
 conversation was upon the characters of Catullus, Tibullus, 
 and other Latin poets." ^ 
 
 It was at Bath that Andrea of Hungary^ Giovanna of 
 Naples^ and Fra Rupert were written, a trilogy which, by 
 reason of the author's inability to conceive of the necessity 
 
 1 No notice of Landor should omit mention of his dogs, Parigi, 
 Pomero, and Giallo, his constant companions, with whom he never 
 quarreled. Pomero's death is commemorated in a letter to Miss Boyle 
 published by Mr. Lowell in the Centtiry (February, 1888). In Mr. 
 Colvin's Landor (p. 212) are some pretty lines to Giallo, Pomero's 
 successor. 
 
 2 It may be well to mention, in connection with the whole scandal, 
 Mrs. Linton's indignant denial of the truth of the version commonly 
 received. " Of one thing," she says, " I am sure, that his affection for 
 ' Erminie ' was not the feeling his enemies have made it out to be. In 
 his madness he wrote some bad things enough about the matter ; but 
 he never wilfully said a word that could shock the most sensitive girl ; 
 and I am as certain as of my own existence that he never showed any 
 feeling whatsoever of the kind I mean." 
 
XXU INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of plot to a play, it is exceedingly difficult to understand. 
 The character of Giovanna is in accordance with his own 
 pleasure, not with Sismondi's history. There are scenes in 
 which she lives, but they are not so knit together as to 
 present a clear idea of the character as a whole. Another 
 play, the Siege of Anco/ia, soon followed. Interesting and 
 scholarly criticisms on Theocritus, Catullus, and Petrarch 
 belong to the same period. And a few years afterward 
 came the Hellenics^ for the genuinely Greek tone of which 
 some critics vouch. They are undoubtedly the crowning 
 literary performance of Landor's later life. 
 
 Still he kept on wTiting to the end. As late as 1863 he 
 published a volume, and even after that he wTote dialogues 
 in prose and in verse. There is little to tell of the closing 
 years. Penniless and mentally enfeebled, he received great 
 kindness from Browning, and lived for a time at Siena with 
 W. W. Story. Afterward he went again to live in Florence, 
 whither, in 1864, Mr. Swinburne, aged twenty-seven, 
 
 " — came as one whose thoughts half Hnger, 
 Half run before, 
 The youngest to the oldest smger 
 That England bore." 
 
 It was not very long after this visit that, on Sept. 17, 1864, 
 the " unsubduable old Roman " was at last subdued. 
 
 During three-quarters of a life of almost ninety years, 
 extending from before the Battle of Lexington to within a 
 few months of Lee's surrender, Landor might have said 
 with Walt Whitman, " I understand the large hearts of 
 heroes," for his companions were mainly the illustrious men 
 and women of the past. From the point of view of literary 
 production, his life falls into three periods, thus marked off 
 by Mr. Colvin : 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxiii 
 
 1795-1821, Foeius, Gclnr, Count Julian, Idyllia Heroica. 
 182 1 -1 83 7, Imaginary Conversations, Examination of 
 
 Shakespeare, Pericles and Aspasia, Fentarn- 
 
 e?'on. 
 1837-1863, miscellaneous prose and verse. In this 
 
 period the Hellenics are foremost in 
 
 importance and beauty. 
 Since it is as a writer of prose that he is chiefly memorable, 
 the general remarks which follow will deal for the most part 
 with the work produced during the sixteen years immediately 
 preceding the accession of Queen Victoria. 
 
 Forster, whose profusion of enthusiasm somewhat weakens 
 his indispensable work in behalf of Landor, thus describes 
 the literary character of the plan of the Conversations : "All 
 the leading shapes of the past, the most familiar and the 
 most august, were to be called up again. Modes of think- 
 ing the most various, and events the most distant, were 
 proposed for his theme. Beside the fires of the present, 
 the ashes of the past were to be rekindled and to shoot 
 again into warmth and brightness. The scene was to be 
 shifting as life, but continuous as time. Down it were to 
 pass successions of statesmen, lawyers, and churchmen ; 
 wits and men of letters ; party men, soldiers, and kings ; the 
 most tender, delicate, and noble women ; figures fresh from 
 the schools of Athens and the courts of Rome ; philoso- 
 phers philosophising, and politicians discussing questions 
 of state ; poets talking of poetry, men of the world of 
 matters worldly, and English, Italians, and French of their 
 respective literatures and manners. . . . The requisites 
 for it were such as no other existing writer possessed in 
 the same degree as he did. Nothing had been indifferent 
 to him that affected humanity. Poetry and history had 
 delivered up to him their treasures, and the secrets of 
 antiquity were his." 
 
xxiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The usual classification of the Conversations as dramatic 
 and non-dramatic is convenient. Of the first class a list 
 may easily be made of a score or more of scenes which in a 
 restricted and qualified sense are really dramatic. The 
 speakers, that is to say, are felt behind the words, and the 
 effect of each speech is felt in calling forth the reply. In 
 some of these scenes, moreover, there is, if not dramatic 
 development, at least dramatic movement : action, though 
 not mentioned, is sometimes implied. Instances will occur 
 to every reader. The beautiful Conversation between Wal- 
 ton, Cotton, and Oldways, a gem not so well known as it 
 deserves to be, contains a good deal of such implied 
 incident, as well as a little implied landscape. In such 
 scenes Landor shows at their best what Mr. Gosse hap- 
 pily terms his "dramatic aptitudes." In others, although, 
 as was once said of Sir Henry Irving, he does not get quite 
 out of himself, he yet gets pretty completely into the 
 character. Irving's " Louis XI." and his " Hamlet " may 
 serve roughly to illustrate the distinction : the one is the 
 French king as you feel he must have been ; the other is 
 the English actor impersonating the Danish prince. So 
 Leofric and Godiva live as individually as you or I ; whereas 
 Epictetus and Epicurus are little else than Landor's mouth- 
 pieces — interesting mouthpieces, and to some degree 
 dramatically conceived, but not, like the Lord of Coventry 
 and his Lady, inevitable creations. Still other Conversa- 
 tions do not move at all. Some of these contain engaging 
 matter ; ^ but some are dull and heavy discussions which 
 
 1 Sometimes — in the opinion of at least two judicious and fair- 
 minded men of the present day, one eminent in law, the other in letters — 
 valuable matter. Writing in the FortnighUy in 1890, Sir Frederick 
 Pollock casually mentions the Conversations between Southey and 
 Landor as being " the best commentary on Milton's poetical workman- 
 ship yet produced." And Professor Dowden, who, being a staunch 
 
INTR on UC TION. XXV 
 
 there is no more occasion to read than there is to read 
 Soj'dello — a task that an intelhgent man may indefinitely 
 defer without thereby disquaHfying himself to speak aright 
 meanwhile of the author of Men and Women. 
 
 Any one may likewise be excused from reading the Exami- 
 nation of Shakespeare^ for it is rather tedious, and lacks satiric 
 verisimilitude. It contains, to be sure, several good bits; 
 but, on the whole, Landor's remarks on Plato's wit apply to 
 this and other attempts of his own to be funny : " What 
 painful twisting of unelastic stuff ! " he makes Lucian, who 
 was frankly and naturally amusing, say; and again: "He 
 sadly mistook the qualities of his mind in attempting the 
 facetious ; or rather he fancied he possessed one quality 
 more than belonged to him." The style, moreover, is, for 
 the most part, laboriously imitative. 
 
 Pericles and Aspasia, on the other hand, throbs with 
 beauty which it is the custom to call Greek. Whether the 
 clear, simple, straightforward, dignified, graceful treatment 
 of Athenian life is Attic, perhaps admits of discussion. In 
 the- face of Goethe's opinion that Samson Agonistes was the 
 only modern work which had " caught fire from the breath 
 of the antique spirit," it maybe prudent to think twice before 
 accepting the hasty judgment of every stripling reviewer as 
 to the Greek or Homeric character of much recent work. 
 Pains have been taken to show that Kingsley's Androineda^ 
 and that Mr. Swinburne's Atalanfa, and particularly his 
 Erechthens^ are Greek. All three are delightful ; the last, 
 
 Wordsworthian, is free from prepossessions in Landor's favour, refers 
 to his criticism of Wordsworth in tlie dialogue of Southey and Porson 
 as if he thought it worth considering. 
 
 1 Lamb, who died the year of its publication, made a careless remark 
 to the effect that nobody else but Shakespeare could have written it; 
 Tennyson, going to the other extreme, is reported by a friend to have 
 despised it. 
 
XXVI INTR OD UC TION. 
 
 especially, is no less than a splendidly successful imitation. 
 But whether it, or any such attempt to embody in English 
 the Greek spirit, can rightly be called more than an imita- 
 tion, may be questioned. It is true that the author of some 
 of the most pertinent criticism of Homer written in the 
 past forty years calls Clough Homeric, and that one of the 
 authors of the translation of Homer accepted by the present 
 generation of Englishmen calls Dumas Homeric, and that 
 each makes out a fairly good case. But it is unlikely that 
 Homer would have suggested Dumas to Arnold or Clough 
 to Mr. Lang. The contention is not that there are no points 
 of resemblance, but that the bandying about of such epi- 
 thets by tiros tends to blur real distinctions, and so to 
 perplex criticism. It does not necessarily enhance the value 
 of a work to call it Greek, nor help us to understand its 
 value. If a Homeric Clough and a Homeric Dumas are 
 difficult to accept together, it is still more difficult to recon- 
 cile either with Lowell's judicious remark that "between us 
 and the Greeks lies the grave of their murdered paganism, 
 making our minds and theirs irreconcilable." 
 
 As to the excellence of style of Pericles and Aspasia, 
 there is less room for two opinions. " Though not alien to 
 the treatment of modern life," writes Lord Houghton, a 
 critic of Landor at once sympathetic and discreet, " it [his 
 style] is undoubtedly more at home in the old world ; and 
 in such ' Conversations ' as those of LucuUus and Csesar, 
 Epictetus and Seneca, Epicurus and the Grecian Maidens, 
 Marcus Tullius and Quinctus Cicero, and in the ' Epistles ' 
 of Pericles and Aspasia, there is a sense of fitness of lan- 
 guage that suggests the desire to see them restored, as it 
 were, to the original tongues." And he goes on to say that 
 they would be the best possible things from which to select 
 passages for translation into Latin and Greek, so at one 
 are the thought and the expression of it. This praise of 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxvil 
 
 Lord Houghton's comes perilously near to suggesting the 
 presence of that sophomoric hybrid known to teachers as 
 "translation English" — native or naturalised words so 
 combined as to give to the style a foreign cast. In Landor 
 may doubtless be found instances of that sort of solecism ; 
 but one would not be apt to look for such crudity in Ferides 
 and Aspasia, the appropriate phrasing of which shows easy 
 mastery of idiom. In none of his writings, indeed, is the 
 style more essentially and naturally English, more harmoni- 
 ously dignified, freer from the faults commonly imputed to 
 it, richer in positive merits. 
 
 In Ferides and Aspasia there are dull passages, which 
 any one is at liberty to skip; and there are anachronisms, 
 inaccuracy in detail, and such like handles for pedants, which 
 none else need grasp. The story, which is slight, is in the 
 temper of the time ; it is founded, in the main, on incidents 
 recorded of the classic lovers, and to these are added others 
 which are in keeping. The passion is pagan and free from 
 self-consciousness, deep in tranquillity of expression, abso- 
 lute in devotion, restrained, as in Shakespeare's Sonnets, 
 by a sense of beauty. The vitality of the book is to some 
 degree shown by a comparison of it with Becker's Cha?'ides 
 and Gallns, with Hamerling's Aspasia, and with numerous 
 other clever and learned archaeological exercises that might 
 be named, which are all, by contrast, dead restorations of 
 the past. The spirit of its period quickens none of these 
 as intrinsic beauty — Hellenic and Landorian fused — 
 quickens a great part of Ferides and Aspasia. It may be 
 added, as a crown of grace, that here, for once, despite 
 irrelevance and digression, Landor constructs well. 
 
 In the Fentamero7i it is likewise a fact that tedious 
 passages occur — from which escape is as simple as in the 
 other case. Perhaps it offers fewer temptations to skip than 
 Ferides and Aspasia. The most obvious handle for pedants 
 
xxvill INTR on UCTION. 
 
 is the perverse estimate of Dante. The delight the book 
 affords arises from the great charm of the relation between 
 the two friends, from the exquisite picture set in an exquisite 
 frame, from the episodical characters introduced now and 
 then with a skill unusual in Landor, from occasional passages 
 unsurpassed even by himself, from the quality of the Eng- 
 lish throughout. Whether or not the temper be Tuscan, 
 the language assuredly is a web of gold, closely woven, 
 strong, flexible, brilliant, visible in every detail of texture, 
 in every detail disclosing new beauties the more carefully it 
 is examined. Landor too frequently shares with Emerson a 
 "formidable tendency to the lapidary style"; in parts of 
 the Pentamei'on^ however, he comes nearer than almost any- 
 where else to that " warm glow, blithe movement, and soft 
 pliancy of life " which Arnold finds in the Attic style. 
 
 To read Landor's poetry after reading much of his prose 
 is to perceive that he was right in regarding it as the less 
 serious and complete expression of himself. " Poetry was 
 always," he writes, "my amusement, prose my study and 
 business." Though he could produce verse easily, his 
 thoughts do not " voluntary move harmonious numbers," ^ 
 nor does " harmonious madness " flow from his lips, nor 
 does he pour " the unpremeditated lay." His poetry is, for 
 the most part, rather the work of a master of speech, as has 
 been said, than of song. The long narrative and dramatic 
 poems contain, it is true, fine flights. Parts of Gebir, in 
 particular, bear a close external likeness to Milton. De 
 Quincey speaks in flamboyant phrase of certain passages in 
 Count Julian " to which, for their solemn grandeur, one 
 raises one's hat as at night in walking under the Coliseum," 
 and of others "which, for their luxury of loveliness, should 
 
 1 Milton's phrase is almost identical with Carlyle's definition of 
 poetry as " musical Thought,^'' and of the poet as one " who thinks in 
 that manner." See The Hei'o as Poet. 
 
iNTRODUCTlOIsr. xxix 
 
 be inscribed on the phylacteries of brides, or upon the 
 frescoes of Ionia, illustrated by the gorgeous allegories of 
 Rubens." But neither are these long poems so well sus- 
 tained as some of the long Conversations, nor is their 
 verbal pattern so deftly woven. Effort is so obvious 
 as to fatigue. In short occasional poems, on the other 
 hand, not requiring such continuous attention, success is 
 frequent, for in them the perfect turn of phrase often 
 perfectly fits the thought. Some of the Hellenics^ again, 
 have an idyllic quality which leads one critic to say that 
 they " would hardly have been written otherwise at Alexan- 
 dria in the days of Theocritus " — ^ a quality concisely 
 described in Mr. Swinburne's much-quoted lines : 
 
 " And through the trumpet of a child of Rome 
 Rang the pure music of the flutes of Greece." 
 
 Their charm is, indeed, unique in English.^ Yet even in 
 the best of them one feels, recalling the exquisite allegories 
 of the Pentaineron^ that the delicate strain of sentiment 
 running through and idealising them might have been as 
 adequately expressed in prose — in Laiidor's prose. Landor 
 in verse seldom, to put it in one word, transports ; ^ so that 
 it is not obvious what Mr. Swinburne means in ranking 
 him as a poet between Byron and Shelley. In prose he not 
 infrequently does transport, as truly as they do in verse. 
 
 1 Professor Dowden, in an interesting page, ingeniously discriminates 
 between the Hellenics and Andre Chenier's Poesies Ajttiqiies, likening 
 the English poems to " designs upon Greek urns," the French to "paint- 
 ings upon Pompeian walls, but nobler." 
 
 2 Non satis est pulchra esse poemata ; dulcia sunto, 
 Et, quocumque volent, animum auditoris agunto. 
 
 Ars Poetic a. 
 Horace's idea has been felicitously rendered : 
 
 Form, grace will not suffice ; the poet's art 
 Must stir the passions, and subdue the heart. 
 
XXX INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Nor is the reason of this particular difference between his 
 poetry and that of his romantic contemporaries to be found 
 in the fact that he was, as it is always said of him, and truly 
 said, classic. He was Greek in a sense in which, for 
 instance, Keats,^ who is sometimes called so, was not. His 
 method is to present the object undraped ; Keats, whose 
 love of beauty, though essentially different, was not more 
 disinterested than his, presents the object clad in the 
 drapery of modern association and personal feeling. The 
 effect of the one method is totally unlike that of the other, 
 as Keats's Hyperion and Landor's Hellenics sufficiently show. 
 The greater popularity of Keats's method is explained by 
 Landor in the line, " Most have an eye for colour, few for 
 form." The classic form of the Helle?7Jcs is, however, no 
 reason why they should not throb and glow with vitality 
 to as high a degree as Hyperion : surely nothing is more 
 classic and nothing more alive with emotion than Greek 
 sculpture and Greek drama. Yet that vitality one does not 
 find in the Hellenics. One finds in them classic workman- 
 ship, and the beauty resulting from the exercise of that 
 workmanship on subjects of captivating grace and lasting 
 charm — beauty of a high order, but not deeply moving. 
 The secret of the failure of Landor's poetry to reach the 
 pitch of his best prose is simply that verse was to him a 
 less natural mode of utterance than prose. Technically, 
 the verse and the prose are much alike and, at their best, 
 equally flawless. The superiority of the prose lies in Lan- 
 dor's closer affinity to the rhythm of prose than to that of 
 verse. When he had a deep feeling to put into words, he 
 habitually used prose ; for a beautiful fancy he often used 
 verse of consummate charm. The lines to Mary Lamb, 
 
 1 Landor writes to Forster : " Keats was no more pagan than Words- 
 worth hh-nself. Between you and me, the style of Keats is extremely 
 far removed from the very boundaries of Greece." 
 
INTR on UC TION. xxxi 
 
 written on the day he heard of her brother's death, and 
 sent in a letter to Crabb Robinson, are perhaps alone in his 
 poetry — not even excepting Rose Aylmer, " the most 
 enchanting of his minor poems " — as the spontaneous 
 expression of a deep feeling which could not conceivably 
 have been so well expressed in prose ; and but little of 
 his poetry approaches those verses in the special power to 
 move that so distinguishes poets, both classic and romantic, 
 whose instinctive utterance is not, as Landor's is, in "the 
 other harmony of prose." 
 
 " A classic writing in a romantic age," ^ Landor has had 
 scant appreciation. Only a few of his contemporaries cared 
 much for his work, and now that he has been dead above a 
 third of a century, he is read by but a small portion of even 
 literary folk. That is natural enough, for he is rather bulky, 
 and by no means always interesting. The dialogue is a form 
 not attractive to the cursory reader. Moreover, the subjects 
 which most interested Landor do not, as a rule, allure any 
 but historical or classical scholars. Nor is his style 
 so inviting and ingratiating as Lamb's, for instance, or 
 De Quincey's, or Ruskin's, or Newman's. He is a little 
 difficult of approach, for he does not meet the reader half- 
 way. He professed sincerely not to care for popularity ; it 
 is wholly likely that he will never have it. That is as it 
 should be. He ought not to be popular, for he was out of 
 sympathy with the time he lived in, and is as much aloof as 
 ever from the present or from any future time that can be 
 foreseen. He came charged with no " message " to the 
 
 1 For suggestive discussion of the classical and romantic spirits, see 
 the last essay in Walter Pater's Appreciations ; also the preface to 
 Colvin's Selections from Landor. Landor's Epistle To the Author of 
 '■^ Fes tics'''' {Last Frtiit, 1853) contains his own mature reflections on the 
 subject, together with remarks on some of his predecessors and 
 contemporaries. 
 
xxxu INTRODUCTION. 
 
 world ; his thoughts do not form a philosophy of life ; he 
 does not directly encourage or console ; he neither prompts 
 to action nor lightens the burden of the weary. 
 
 Carried along by the scientific drift of the day, certain 
 critics of Landor have sought to define his relation to his 
 predecessors and to his successors. They trace his literary 
 pedigree and issue, with all the affinities and hereditary 
 influences implied by that investigation. The result is 
 neither very clear nor very fruitful. When the patent facts 
 have been stated that he owed much to the Greek and Latin 
 classics and to Milton, less to Cowper ^ and one or two 
 others, that analogies exist between his prose and Ben Jon- 
 son's,^ that the effect of his style on a few of his contem- 
 poraries may be fancied in some of their collateral literary 
 descendants, there remains little further to say on that 
 score. In reality, the complexity of nineteenth-century 
 literature is so great that any recent writer of original power 
 is far more difficult to account for than a writer of the age, 
 for instance, of Elizabeth. The playwrights from Marlowe 
 to Webster exemplify the theory of literary evolution with a 
 
 1 That he thought highly of Cowper is shown by sundry bits of 
 criticism uttered by characters in different Conversations. For instance, 
 in one Cowper is " more diversified in his poetry and more classical 
 than any since" ; and again, " in some passages, he stands quite 
 unrivalled by any recent poet of this century," and " nothing of his is 
 out of place or out of season"; and elsewhere, "Cowper is worthy 
 of his succession to Goldsmith ; more animated, more energetic, more 
 divei'sified. Sometimes he is playful, oftener serious ; and you go with 
 him in either path with equal satisfaction." There are more good 
 remarks to like effect, all presumably giving Landor's own opinion of 
 the poet by whom he said that he was first moved to care for poetry, 
 and whom he called " the only modern poet who is so little of a 
 mannerist as I am." 
 
 2 He writes, in 1850, to Forster : "Ben Jonson I have studied, 
 principally for the purity of his English. Had it not been for him and 
 Shakespeare, our language would have fallen into ruin." 
 
INTRODUCTION. XXXlll 
 
 definiteness not found in the poets from, let us say, Words- 
 worth to Tennyson. The half-century of English romantic 
 drama is developed from adolescence, through maturity, to 
 decay. The century of English romantic poetry shows no 
 such organic unity and completeness ; an era rather of 
 individuality than of solidarity, it has been constantly 
 increasing in diversity. Professional critics busily arrange 
 and classify, only to prepare the way for the facile rearrange- 
 ments and reclassifications of new experts. Such work is 
 tempting and charming, it may be, and occasionally valua- 
 ble. Yet, when all is done, the words with which that 
 accomplished dilettante, the late J. A. Symonds, closes his 
 comparison of Victorian with Elizabethan poetry are still 
 worth pondering. "This intimate and pungent personality," 
 he writes from amid the snows of Davos, " settling the 
 poet's attitude toward things, moulding his moral sympathies, 
 flavouring his philosophy of life and conduct, colouring his 
 style, separating him from fellow-workers, is the leading 
 characteristic of Victorian literature — that which distin- 
 guishes it most markedly from the Elizabethan." If that 
 be mea,surably true of a literature essentially romantic in its 
 main current (a literature of which the vitality consists in 
 the romantic spirit that differently inspired Wordsworth, 
 Coleridge, Scott, Byron, Keats, Shelley, Browning, Tenny- 
 son), do not the words apply with double force to so strongly 
 marked a personality as Landor's, who was not of his time, 
 but, to an extreme degree, a man apart, an exception, an 
 individual ? Even allowing him to have been, as Mr. Aubrey 
 de Vere calls him, " the earliest of our modern poets specially 
 characterised by their devotion to ideal beauty and to clas- 
 sical associations," he was, at most, a forerunner without a 
 following. Tonic as may be the effect of his writings on an 
 admiring student who does not blindly adore, their direct 
 impress on the literature of the century is almost as 
 
XXXI V INTR on UC TION. 
 
 indiscernible as the effect of the seiches in the Lake of 
 Geneva on the level of the water in the Gulf of Lyons. 
 
 Yet the artistic value of his best work is of a high order. 
 Professor Saintsbury, echoing Forster, is right in saying 
 that "if we tried to do without Landor, we should lose 
 something with which no one else could supply us " ; so is 
 Mr. Crump in saying that at death he left " a gap in 
 literature not yet filled up " ; and most especially right is 
 Emerson in calling him " one of the foremost of that small 
 band who make good in the nineteenth century the claims 
 of pure literature." Precisely what meaning attaches to 
 the term "pure literature" does not especially matter. In 
 a vague sort of way Emerson may have been thinking of 
 him as one of those writers whose appeal to the aesthetic 
 sense is so immediate and strong as to leave no place for 
 regret that that is the only appeal they make. Such is, at 
 least, a perfectly legitimate feeling about Landor 's best 
 work. His genius for style and his devotion to literature 
 on the aesthetic side give him a position from which all 
 possible talk about high purpose or practical aim, or the 
 like, cannot budge him. Those are side issues of literary 
 criticism. The literature that lasts may or may not have 
 been originally inspired by love of humanity or by other lofty 
 motive. That which has its spring in love of beauty stands 
 at least a fair chance of lasting while man's thirst for art 
 shall remain unquenched. 
 
 Landor is impelled by just such love of beauty of form 
 as few people — even educated people — are likely to sympa- 
 thise with, for his instinct is highly special. Lacking ability 
 to bring large masses into subordination to a controlling 
 purpose, he yet has exceptional skill in expressing his love 
 of beauty of form in detail. Herein resides much of the 
 strong, if circumscribed, originality on which he so plumed 
 himself as to reject ideas or phrases that he suspected him- 
 
INTR OD UC TION. xxx V 
 
 self of having got from other writers, to use only imagery of 
 his own invention, to shun quotation. Shakespeare, indiffer- 
 ent to the source of his material, unblushingly appropriated 
 whatever happened to come to hand. "Yet," as Landor 
 says of him, " he was more original than the originals. He 
 breathed upon dead bodies and brought them into life." 
 His may be regarded as the most broadly human type of 
 originality. Landor's, on the other hand, is near of kin, in 
 its aristocratic fastidiousness, to his constitutional repugnance 
 to the world at large. With an austerity free from the 
 relentless asceticism of Flaubert's style, a sensitiveness less 
 sinuously feminine than that of Newman's, a classic ampli- 
 tude distinct from the antique scope of Leopardi's, the style 
 of Landor is so exclusively his own, uncopied and inimita- 
 ble, that it not only scarcely resembles, but seldom even 
 momentarily recalls any other. 
 
 Though essences so volatile as the personality and the 
 voice of any style worth analysing elude analysis, yet various 
 remarks of Landor's indicate his aim and define some of 
 the salient features of his own style. " I hate," he says, 
 " false words, and seek with care, difficulty, and moroseness 
 those that fit the thing." His sense of the etymological 
 force and the literary value of words, and his skilful use of 
 a wide and varied vocabulary are foundation stones of 
 his style, which shows as high a regard as Swift's for 
 " proper words in proper places." Such discrimination in 
 the employment of them is a natural result of the intellectual 
 faculty which determines also the logical construction, giving 
 to his sentences, even when stripped of usual connect- 
 ives, the stable equilibrium and close coherence of Greek 
 architecture, which stands without mortar, through sheer 
 structural propriety in accordance with natural law. For 
 not Flaubert himself gave more solicitous heed to order and 
 proportion, to due distribution of emphasis, to contour of 
 
XXX VI INTR on UC TION. 
 
 sentence. Many of Lander's sentences are, it is true, too 
 closely modelled on inflected Latin grammatical forms for 
 perfect flexibility in uninflected English ; the passion for 
 excision of the superfluous and for compactness leads often 
 to omission of the requisite, and so to discontinuity, abrupt- 
 ness, and even obscurity. But Landor, unlike some writers 
 called obscure, is pretty sure to know his own meaning, how- 
 ever little he may sometimes consider a reader's need of 
 help. In such cases, then, the fundamental logic of con- 
 struction may usually be relied on to guide an attentive 
 reader through the dark places to a point of sympathy 
 where he can see the beauties. As unerring verbal fitness 
 and unswaying structural firmness are masculine attributes, 
 masculine, too, are those higher beauties appropriate to 
 them. No characteristic of Landor's style is more marked 
 than the abounding wealth of picture words and of fresh 
 concrete imagery — a tissue of simile and of expressed or 
 implied metaphor which forms an integral part of its sub- 
 stance. Sometimes over-elaborated, this figurative language 
 never degenerates into meretricious or merely exterior adorn- 
 ment, but springs naturally from the subject, and gives to the 
 stately pages which might otherwise seem formal and inert 
 the glow of imaginative life ; it has interpretative value, 
 too, and tends to lucidity. Rhythmic modulation of parts, 
 clause answering to clause, is the crowning merit, the final 
 charm, contenting the ear as the structural adaptation satis- 
 fies the mind, and justifying Landor's maxim that "what- 
 ever is rightly said, sounds rightly." Those are, very briefly 
 stated, the main heads under which the mechanism of the 
 style may best be studied. The total effect ^ — so far, at least, 
 as a few inexact adjectives can delineate the impalpable — 
 is of a regulated and succinct style, uniform without manner- 
 ism, at once sturdy and rich, euphonious and finely tempered, 
 indefeasibly original both in its merits and in its faults — a 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxxvil 
 
 Style which, even when its kinship to Greek or to Latin is 
 closest, remains always intrinsically English. 
 
 It is to be understood that a passage embodying such 
 qualities as those just mentioned, turning up anywhere 
 throughout Landor's writings, is liable at any point to be 
 broken by a dull passage, for his instinct for form and for 
 beauty by no means invariably sustains him to the end of a 
 long flight. Though visible logical structure is seldom 
 lacking, true correlation of parts often is. The musical 
 sentence, " A bell warbles the more mellifluously in 
 the air when the sound of the stroke is over, and when 
 another swims out from underneath it, and pants upon the 
 element that gave it birth," may easily win admiration and 
 nestle in the memory. Yet nothing is more frequent in 
 Landor than that just such a lovely image should be imme- 
 diately succeeded — as, in fact, this one is — by a compara- 
 tively tame explanation or application of the figurative 
 language. The aim of this volume is to show the most 
 characteristic traits of a richly gifted writer whose complete 
 works few readers care to confront. For, though essentially 
 original in substance and varied and charming in detail, 
 the work as a whole is, if not technically, at least in power 
 to hold the attention, uneven. Organic unity throughout a 
 long composition was usually beyond Landor's reach ; rare 
 quality in short passages, or even in passages of several 
 pages, he attains constantly. Those numerous beautiful 
 pages, detached and collected, though incompletely repre- 
 senting his unceasing literary activity, yet suffice perma- 
 nently to mark his solitary place among the imaginative 
 writers of this century as one of eminent distinction. 
 
 Guy de Maupassant draws a picture, tremulous with 
 artistic conviction and personal quality, of the limitation 
 set by a writer's nature on his work. Life, he says, no 
 
xxxvill INTRODUCTION. 
 
 words can depict ; a man can make in words but a partial 
 image of life as he sees it, for each one of us is the dupe of 
 a self-generated illusion. The literary critic's sole business 
 is, then, to point out what illusion of life possesses the 
 writer criticised, and with what success he brings the reader 
 under its spell. Applied in a more general sense than the 
 literary, this theory contains an element of psychologic truth 
 which is strikingly exemplified in the case of Landor, who 
 from boyhood to the end of his life rebelled against life's 
 conditions, and never even tried to learn the lesson of 
 submission to restraint. Strong, noble, ardent, sincere, 
 generous, and high as were his ideals of life and art, he 
 saw life, at any rate, through the smoked glass of his own 
 impetuous temperament. That he " strove with none " is 
 palpably untrue ; though it is literally a fact that he 
 thought " none was worth [his] strife," he was, in another 
 sense than Browning, " ever a fighter." His disposition 
 was intractable, his imagination masterful, his originality 
 scornful. Impatience of control ended in isolating the 
 idealist of liberty from his fellows ; disdain of the common- 
 place was carried so far as to repel sympathy. Thus did 
 the imp of haughtily autocratic self-reliance sport with this 
 independent genius proudly trusting in his own power, 
 whose work remains the lonely monument to a unique mix- 
 ture of elements in the man. Destitute of the insinuat- 
 ingly persuasive strain which was lacking in his temper, 
 but with superb loftiness of bearing, and severe beauty of 
 the type that he most highly prized. Lander's writing finds, 
 alike by its strength and by its weakness, an analogue in his 
 character. Together with much that, though characteristic, 
 is not vital, he fashioned, in conformity to laws imposed 
 only by his own nature and by the nature of his material, 
 certain works of art almost precisely matching his illusion 
 of life. 
 
DATES. 
 
 1775. Landor born at Warwick, January 30. 
 1785. Rugby. 
 
 1793. Trinity College, Oxford. 
 
 1794. Rusticated. 
 
 1795. Poems. 
 1 798. Gebir. 
 
 1800. Poems from the Arabic and Persian. 
 
 1806. Simonidea. (The only copy is in the Forster Collection 
 
 at the South Kensington Museum.) 
 1808. Purchases Llanthony Abbey ; joins army in Spain, 
 
 1811. Marries Julia Thuillier. 
 
 181 2. Count Juliaji. 
 
 181 5. Idyllia nova qiiinqiie Herotim atqiie Heroidiini. 
 1820. Idyllia Heroica decern. 
 
 1824. Imaginary Conversations of Literary Men and States- 
 7neji, vols. i. and ii. 
 
 1828. Imaginary Conversations, etc., vol. iii. 
 
 1829. Villa Gherardesca ; Imaginary Conversations, etc., vols. 
 
 iv. and v. 
 1834. Citation and Examination of William Shakespeare, etc. 
 
 1836. Pericles and A spasia . 
 
 1837. The Pentameron and Pentalogia. 
 
 1839. Andrea of Htingary, and Giovanna of Naples. 
 1 84 1. Fra Rupert. 
 
 1 846. Collected Edition of Works, including Hellenics. 
 
 1847. Poemata et Inscriptio7ies. The Helleiiics, ejilarged and 
 
 completed. 
 1853. 'I7nagi7iary Co7iversatio7is of Greeks a7id Ro77ia7is. The 
 
 Last Fruit off a7i Old Tree. 
 1859. '^^^ Helle7iics. New edition, e7ilarged. 
 
 1863. Heroic Idyls, with additio7ial Poe7ns. 
 
 1864. Dies in Florence, September 17. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM LANDOR, 
 
I claim no place in the world of letters; I am alone; and wUl be 
 alone, as long as I live, and after, 
 
 Landor. 
 
 ... in the life 
 Where thou art not 
 We find none like thee. 
 
 Swinburne. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM LANDOR. 
 
 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 I. 
 ACHILLES AND HELENA. 
 
 Helena. Where am \1 Desert me not, O ye blessed from 
 above ! ye twain who brought me hither ! 
 
 Was it a- dream ? ' 
 
 Stranger ! thou seemest thoughtful ; couldst thou answer 
 me? Why so silent.'* I beseech and implore thee, speak. 
 
 Achilles. Neither thy feet nor the feet of mules have 
 borne thee where thou standest. Whether in the hour of 
 departing sleep, or at what hour of the morning, I know 
 not, O Helena ! but Aphrodite and Thetis, inclining to my 
 prayer, have, as thou art conscious, led thee into these 
 solitudes. To me also have they shown the way, that I 
 might behold the pride of Sparta, the marvel of the earth, 
 and — how my heart swells and agonizes at the thought ! — 
 the cause of innumerable woes to Hellas. 
 
 Helena. Stranger! thou art indeed one whom the god- 
 desses or gods might lead, and glory in; such is thy stature, 
 thy voice, and thy demeanour ; but who, if earthly, art thou ? 
 
 Achilles. Before thee, O Helena ! stands Achilles, son of 
 Peleus. Tremble not, turn not pale, bend not thy knees, O 
 Helena ! 
 
4 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Helena. Spare me, thou goddess-born ! thou cherished 
 and only son of silver-footed Thetis ! Chryseis and Briseis 
 ought to soften and content thy heart. Lead not me also 
 into captivity. Woes too surely have I brought down on 
 Hellas ; but woes have been mine alike, and will for ever 
 be. 
 
 Achilles. Daughter of Zeus ! what word hast thou spoken ! 
 Chryseis, child of the aged priest who performs in this land 
 due sacrifices to Apollo, fell to the lot of another; an inso- 
 lent and unworthy man, who hath already brought more sor- 
 rows upon our people than thou hast ; so that dogs and 
 vultures prey on the brave who sank without a wound. 
 Briseis is indeed mine; the lovely and dutiful Briseis. He, 
 unjust and contumelious, proud at once and base, would 
 tear her from me. But, gods above ! in what region has the 
 wolf with impunity dared to seize upon the kid which the 
 lion hath taken ? 
 
 Talk not of being led into servitude. Could mortal be 
 guilty of such impiety ? Hath it never thundered on these 
 mountain-heads? Doth Zeus, the wide-seeing, see all the 
 earth but Ida? doth he watch over all but his own? Capa- 
 neus and Typhoeus less offended him, than w^ould the 
 wretch whose grasp should violate the golden hair of 
 Helena. And dost thou still tremble? irresolute and dis- 
 trustful ! 
 
 Helena. I must tremble ; and more and more. 
 
 Achilles. Take my hand : be confident ; be comforted. 
 
 Hele7ia. May I take it? may I hold it? I am com- 
 forted. 
 
 Achilles. The scene around us, calm and silent as the 
 sky itself, tranquillizes thee; and so it ought. Turnest 
 thou to survey it? perhaps it is unknown to thee. 
 
 Helena. Truly; for since my arrival I have never gone 
 beyond the walls of the city. 
 
ACHILLES AND IL ELENA. 5. 
 
 Achilles. Look then around thee freely, perplexed no 
 longer. Pleasant is this level eminence, surrounded by 
 broom and myrtle, and crisp-leaved beech and broad 
 dark pine above. Pleasant the short slender grass, bent 
 by insects as they alight on it or climb along it, and shin- 
 ing up into our eyes, interrupted by tall sisterhoods of 
 gray lavender, and by dark-eyed cistus, and by lightsome 
 citisus, and by little troops of serpolet running in disorder 
 here and there. 
 
 Helena. Wonderful ! how didst thou ever learn to name 
 so many plants.^ 
 
 Achilles. Chiron taught me them, when I walked at 
 his side while he was culling herbs for the benefit of his 
 brethren. All these he taught me, and at least twenty 
 more ; for wondrous was his wisdom, boundless his knowl- 
 edge, and I was proud to learn. 
 
 Ah, look again ! look at those little yellow poppies; they 
 appear to be just come out to catch all that the sun will 
 throw into their cups : they appear in their joyance and 
 incipient dance to call upon the lyre to sing among 
 them. 
 
 Helena. Childish ! for one with such a spear against 
 his shoulder; terrific even its shadow: it seems to make 
 a chasm across the plain. 
 
 Achilles. To talk or to think like a child is not always a 
 proof of folly : it may sometimes push aside heavy griefs 
 where the strength of wisdom fails. What art thou pon- 
 dering, Helena? 
 
 Helena. Recollecting the names of the plants. Several 
 of them I do believe I had heard before, but had quite 
 forgotten ; my memory will be better now. 
 
 Achilles. Better now? in the midst of war and tumult? 
 
 Helena. I am sure it will be, for didst thou not say 
 that Chiron tausfht them ? 
 
6 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Achilles. He sang to me over the lyre the lives of 
 Narcissus and Hyacynthus, brought back by the beau- 
 tiful Hours, of silent unwearied feet, regular as the stars in 
 their courses. Many of the trees and bright-eyed flowers 
 once lived and moved, and spoke as we are speaking. 
 They may yet have memories, although they have cares no 
 longer. 
 
 Helena. Ah ! then they have no memories ; and they see 
 their own beauty only. 
 
 Achilles. Helena ! thou turnest pale, and droopest. 
 
 Helena. The odour of the blossoms, or of the gums, or 
 the height of the place, or something else, makes me dizzy. 
 Can it be the wind in my ears? 
 
 Achilles. There is none. 
 
 Helena. I could wish there were a little. 
 
 Achilles. Be seated, O Helena! 
 
 Helena. The feeble are obedient ; the weary may rest 
 even in the presence of the powerful. 
 
 Achilles. On this very ground where we are now repos- 
 ing, they who conducted us hither told me, the fatal prize 
 of beauty was awarded. One of them smiled ; the other, 
 whom in duty I love the most, looked anxious, and let fall 
 some tears. 
 
 Helena. Yet she was not one of the vanquished. 
 
 Achilles. Goddesses contended for it ; Helena was afar. 
 
 Helena. Fatal was the decision of the arbiter ! 
 
 But could not the venerable Peleus, nor Pyrrhus the in- 
 fant so beautiful and so helpless, detain thee, O Achilles, 
 from this sad, sad war? 
 
 Achilles. No reverence or kindness for the race of Atreus 
 brought me against Troy : I detest and abhor both brothers ; 
 but another man is more hateful to me still. Forbear we 
 to name him. The valiant, holding the hearth as sacred 
 as the temple, is never a violator of hospitality. He carries 
 
ACHILLES AND HELENA. 7 
 
 not away the gold he finds in the house ; he folds not up 
 the purple linen worked for solemnities, about to convey it 
 from the cedar chest to the dark ship, together with the 
 wife confided to his protection in her husband's absence, 
 and sitting close and expectant by the altar of the gods. 
 
 It was no merit in Menelaiis to love thee ; it was a 
 crime in another — I will not say to love, for even Priam or 
 Nestor might love thee — but to avow it, and act on the 
 avowal. 
 
 Helena. Menelaiis, it is true, was fond of me, when Paris 
 was sent by Aphrodite to our house. It would have been 
 very wrong to break my vow to Menelaiis ; but Aphrodite 
 urged me by day and by night, telling me that to make her 
 break hers to Paris would be quite inexpiable. She told 
 Paris the same thing at the same hour ; and as often. He 
 repeated it to me every morning: his dreams tallied with 
 mine exactly. At last — 
 
 Achilles. The last is not yet come. Helena, by the 
 Immortals ! if ever I meet him in battle I transfix him with 
 this spear. 
 
 Helena. Pray do not. Aphrodite would be angry and 
 never forgive thee. 
 
 Achilles. I am not sure of that ; she soon pardons. 
 Variable as Iris, one day she favours and the next day 
 she forsakes. 
 
 Helena. She may then forsake me. 
 
 Achilles. Other deities, O Helena, watch over and protect 
 thee. Thy two brave brothers are with those deities now, 
 and never are absent from their higher festivals. 
 
 Helena. They could protect me were they living, and they 
 would. Oh that thou couldst but have seen them ! 
 
 Achilles. Companions of my father on the borders of the 
 Phasis, they became his guests before they went all three 
 to hunt the boar in the brakes of Kalydon. Thence too the 
 
8 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 beauty of a woman brought many sorrows into brave men's 
 breasts, and caused many tears to hang long and heavily on 
 the eyelashes of matrons. 
 
 Helena. Horrible creatures ! — boars I mean. 
 
 Didst thou indeed see my brothers at that season? Yes, 
 certainly. 
 
 Achilles. I saw them not, desirous though I always was 
 of seeing them, that I might have learned from them, and 
 might have practised with them, whatever is laudable and 
 manly. But my father, fearing my impetuosity, as he said, 
 and my inexperience, sent me away. Soothsayers had 
 foretold some mischief to me from an arrow : and among 
 the brakes many arrows might fly wide, glancing from 
 trees. 
 
 Helena. I wish thou hadst seen them, were it only once. 
 Three such youths together the blessed sun will never shine 
 upon again. 
 
 O my sweet brothers! how they tended me! how they 
 loved me! how often they wished me to mount their 
 horses and to hurl their javelins ! They could only teach 
 me to swim with them; and when I had well learned it 
 I was more afraid than at first. It gratified me to be 
 praised for anything but swimming. 
 
 Happy, happy hours ! soon over ! Does happiness always 
 go away before beauty? It must go then: surely it might 
 stay that little while. Alas ! dear Kastor! and dearer Poly- 
 deukes ! often shall I think of you as ye were (and oh ! as I 
 was) on the banks of the Eurotas. 
 
 Brave, noble creatures ! they were as tall, as terrible, and 
 almost as beautiful, as thou art. Be not wroth ! Blush no 
 more for me ! 
 
 Achilles. Helena ! Helena 1 wife of Menelaiis 1 my 
 mother is reported to have left about me only one place 
 vulnerable: I have at last found where it is. Farewell ! 
 
yESOP AND RIIODOP^. 9 
 
 Hele7ia. Oh leave me not ! Earnestly I entreat and 
 implore thee, leave me not alone ! These solitudes are 
 terrible : there must be wild beasts among them ; there 
 certainly are Fauns and Satyrs. And there is Cybele, who 
 carries towers and temples on her head ; who hates and 
 abhors Aphrodite, who persecutes those she favours, and 
 whose priests are so cruel as to be cruel even to themselves. 
 
 Achilles. According to their promise, the goddesses who 
 brought thee hither in a cloud will in a cloud reconduct 
 thee, safely and unseen, into the city. 
 
 Again, O daughter of Leda and of Zeus, farewell ! 
 
 II. 
 
 iESOP AND RHODOP]^. 
 
 Rhodope. You perplex me exceedingly ; but I would not 
 disquiet you at present with more questions. Let me pause 
 and consider a little, if you please. I begin to suspect that, 
 as gods formerly did, you have been turning men into beasts, 
 and beasts into men. But, ^^sop, you should never say the 
 thing that is untrue. 
 
 y^sop. We say and do and look no other all our lives. 
 
 Rhodope. Do we never know better 1 
 
 ^^sop. Yes ; when we cease to please, and to wish it ; 
 when death is settling the features, and the cerements are 
 ready to render them unchangeable. 
 
 Rhodope. Alas ! alas ! 
 
 Alsop. Breathe, Rhodope ! breathe again those painless 
 sighs : they belong to thy vernal season. May thy summer 
 of life be calm, thy autumn calmer, and thy winter never 
 come ! 
 
 Rhodope. I must die then earlier. 
 
 j^sop. Laodameia died ; Helen died ; Leda, the beloved 
 of Jupiter, went before. It is better to repose in the earth 
 
10 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 betimes than to sit up late ; better, than to cling pertina- 
 ciously to what we feel crumbling under us, and to protract 
 an inevitable fall. We may enjoy the present while we are 
 insensible of infirmity and decay : but the present, like a 
 note of music, is nothing but as it appertains to what is 
 past and what is to come. There are no fields of amaranth 
 on this side of the grave ; there are no voices, O Rhodope, 
 that are not soon mute, however tuneful; there is no name, 
 with whatever emphasis of passionate love repeated, of 
 which the echo is not faint at last. 
 
 Rhodope. O Ji^sop ! let me rest my head on yours : it 
 throbs and pains me. 
 
 yEsop. What are these ideas to thee ? 
 
 Rhodope. Sad, sorrowful. 
 
 Aisop. Harrows that break the soil, preparing it for 
 wisdom. Many flowers must perish ere a grain of corn be 
 ripened. And now remove thy head : the cheek is cool 
 enough after its little shower of tears. 
 
 Rhodope. How impatient you are of the least pressure ! 
 
 ^sop. There is nothing so difficult to support imper- 
 turbably as the head of a lovely girl, except her grief. Again 
 upon mine, forgetful one ! Raise it, remove it, 1 say! Why 
 wert thou reluctant ? why wert thou disobedient ? Nay, 
 look not so. It is I (and thou shalt know it) who should 
 look reproachfully. 
 
 Rhodope. Reproachfully ? did I ? I was only wishing 
 you would love me better, that I might come and see you 
 often. 
 
 ^sop. Come often and see me, if thou wilt ; but expect 
 no love from me. 
 
 Rhodope. Yet how gently and gracefully you have spoken 
 and acted, all the time we have been together. You have 
 rendered the most abstruse things intelligible, without once 
 grasping my hand, or putting your fingers among my curls. 
 
yESOP AND RHODOPk. 11 
 
 ^sop. I should have feared to encounter the displeasure 
 of two persons if I had. 
 
 Rhodope. And well you might. They would scourge you, 
 and scold me. 
 
 ^sop. That is not the worst. 
 
 Rhodope. The stocks too, perhaps. 
 
 ^sop. All these are small matters to the slave. 
 
 Rhodope. If they befell you, I would tear my hair and 
 my cheeks, and put my knees under your ancles. Of whom 
 should you have been afraid ? 
 
 y£sop. Of Rhodope and of y^sop. Modesty in man, O 
 Rhodope, is perhaps the rarest and most difficult of virtues : 
 but intolerable pain is the pursuer of its infringement. Then 
 follow days without content, nights without sleep, through- 
 out a stormy season ; a season of impetuous deluge which 
 no fertility succeeds. 
 
 Rhodope. My mother often told me to learn modesty, 
 when I was at play among the boys. 
 
 y^sop. Modesty in girls is not an acquirement, but a 
 gift of nature ; and it costs as much trouble and pain in the 
 possessor to eradicate, as the fullest and firmest lock of hair 
 would do. 
 
 Rhodope. Never shall I be induced to believe that men 
 at all value it in themselves, or much in us ; although from 
 idleness or from rancour they would take it away from us 
 whenever they can. 
 
 y£sop. And very few of you are pertinacious : if you run 
 after them, as you often do, it is not to get it back. 
 
 Rhodope. I would never run after any one, not even you; 
 I would only ask you, again and again, to love me. 
 
 y^sop. Expect no love from me. I will impart to thee 
 all my wisdom, such as it is : but girls like our folly best. 
 Thou shalt never get a particle of mine from me. 
 
 Rhodope. Is love foolish .? 
 
12 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 yEsop. At thy age and at mine. I do not love thee: if 
 I did, I would the more forbid thee ever to love me. 
 
 Rhodope. Strange man ! 
 
 yEsop. Strange, indeed ! When a traveller is about to 
 wander on a desert, it is strange to lead him away from it; 
 strange to point out to him the verdant path he should 
 pursue, where the tamarisk and lentisk and acacia wave 
 overhead, where the reseda is cool and tender to the foot 
 that presses it, and where a thousand colours sparkle in the 
 sunshine, on fountains incessantly gushing forth. 
 
 Rhodope. Xanthus has all these; and I could be amid 
 them in a moment. 
 
 u^sop. Why art not thou ? 
 
 Rhodope. I know not exactly. Another day perhaps. 
 I am afraid of snakes this morning. Beside, I think it may 
 be sultry out of doors. Does not the wind blow from 
 Libya ? 
 
 y^sop. It blows as it did yesterday when I came over, 
 fresh across the ^gean, and from Thrace. Thou mayest 
 venture into the morning air. 
 
 Rhodope. No hours are so adapted to study as those of 
 the morning. But will you teach me,'* I shall so love you 
 if you will. 
 
 y^sop. If thou wilt not love me, I will teach thee. 
 
 Rhodope. Unreasonable man ! 
 
 yEsop. Art thou aware what those mischievous little 
 hands are doing? 
 
 Rhodope. They are tearing off the golden hem from the 
 bottom of my robe ; but it is stiff and difficult to detach. 
 
 yEsop. Why tear it off } 
 
 Rhodope. To buy your freedom. Do you spring up, and 
 turn away, and cover your face from me ? 
 
 y-Esop. My freedom ! Go, Rhodope ! Rhodope ! This, 
 of all thino:s, I shall never owe to thee. 
 
yESOP AND RHODOPR. 13 
 
 Rhodope. Proud man ! and you tell me to go, do you ? 
 do you ? Answer me at least ! Must I ? and so soon ? 
 
 y£,sop. Child ! begone ! 
 
 Rhodope, O ^sop ! you are already more my master 
 than Xanthus is. I will run and tell him so ; and I will 
 implore of him, upon my knees, never to impose on you a 
 command so hard to obey. 
 
 u'Esop. Recollect a little. I can be patient with this 
 hand in mine. 
 
 Rhodope. I am not certain that yours is any help to 
 recollection. 
 
 yEsop. Shall I remove it? 
 
 Rhodope. O ! now I think I can recall the whole story. 
 .What did you say.? did you ask any question.? 
 
 j^sop. None, excepting what thou hast answered. 
 
 Rhodope. Never shall I forget the morning when my 
 father, sitting in the coolest part of the house, exchanged 
 his last measure of grain for a chlamys of scarlet cloth 
 fringed with silver. He watched the merchant out of the 
 door, and then looked wistfully into the corn-chest. I, who 
 thought there was something worth seeing, looked in also, 
 and, finding it empty, expressed my disappointment, not 
 thinking however about the corn. A faint and transient 
 smile came over his countenance at the sight of mine. He 
 unfolded the chlamys, stretched it out with both hands 
 before me, and then cast it over my shoulders. I looked 
 down on the gUttering fringe and screamed with joy. He 
 then went out ; and I know not what flowers he gathered, 
 but he gathered many ; and some he placed in my bosom, 
 and some in my hair. But I told him with captious pride, 
 first that I could arrange them better, and again that I 
 would have only the white. However, when he had selected 
 
14 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 all the white, and I had placed a few of them according to 
 my fancy, I told him (rising in my slipper) he might crown 
 me with the remainder. The splendour of my apparel gave 
 me a sensation of authority. Soon as the flowers had taken 
 their station on my head, I expressed a dignified satisfaction 
 at the taste displayed by my father, just as if I could have 
 seen how they appeared! But he knew that there was at 
 least as much pleasure as pride in it, and perhaps we divided 
 the latter (alas ! not both) pretty equally. He now took me 
 into the market place, where a concourse of people was 
 waiting for the purchase of slaves. Merchants came and 
 looked at me; some commending, others disparaging; but 
 all agreeing that I was slender and delicate, that I could not 
 live long, and that I should give much trouble. Many would 
 have bought the chlamys, but there was something less sale- 
 able in the child and flowers. 
 
 j^sop. Had thy features been coarse and thy voice rustic, 
 they would all have patted thy cheeks and found no fault 
 in thee. 
 
 Rhodope. As it was, every one had bought exactly such 
 another in time past, and been a loser by it. At these 
 speeches I perceived the flowers tremble slightly on my 
 bosom, from my father's agitation. Although he scoffed at 
 them, knowing my healthiness, he was troubled internally, 
 and said many short prayers, not very unlike imprecations, 
 turning his head aside. Proud was I, prouder than ever, 
 when at last several talents were offered for me, and by the 
 very man who in the beginning had undervalued me the 
 most, and prophesied the worst of me. My father scowled 
 at him, and refused the money. I thought he was playing 
 a game, and began to wonder what it could be, since I never 
 had seen it played before. Then I fancied it might be 
 some celebration because plenty had returned to the city, 
 insomuch that my father had bartered the last of the corn 
 
JSSOF AND RHODOPR. 15 
 
 he hoarded. I grew more and more delighted at the sport. 
 But soon there advanced an elderly man, who said gravely, 
 ''Thou hast stolen this child: her vesture alone is worth 
 above a hundred drachmas. Carry her home again to her 
 parents, and do it directly, or Nemesis and the Eumenides 
 will overtake thee." Knowing the estimation in which my 
 father had always been holden by his fellow-citizens, I 
 laughed again, and pinched his ear. He, although naturally 
 choleric, burst forth into no resentment at these reproaches, 
 but said calmly, " I think 1 know thee by name, O guest ! 
 Surely thou art Xanthus the Samian. Deliver this child 
 from famine." 
 
 Again I laughed aloud and heartily ; and, thinking it was 
 now my part of the game, I held out both my arms and pro- 
 truded my whole body towards the stranger. He would not 
 receive me from my father's neck, but he asked me with 
 benignity and solicitude if I was hungry ; at which I laughed 
 again, and more than ever: for it was early in the morning, 
 soon after the first meal, and my father had nourished me 
 most carefully and plentifully in all the days of the famine. 
 But Xanthus, waiting for no answer, took out of a sack, 
 which one of his slaves carried at his side, a cake of wheaten 
 bread and a piece of honey-comb, and gave them to me. I 
 held the honey-comb to my father's mouth, thinking it the 
 most of a dainty. He dashed it to the ground; but, seizing 
 the bread, he began to devour it ferociously. This also I 
 thought was in play; and I clapped my hands at his distor- 
 tions. But Xanthus looked on him like one afraid, and 
 smote the cake from him, crying aloud, "Name the price." 
 My father now placed me in his arms, naming a price much 
 below what the other had offered, saying, " The gods are 
 ever with thee, O Xanthus ! therefore to thee do I consign 
 my child." But while Xanthus was counting out the silver, 
 my father seized the cake again, w^hich the slave had taken 
 
16 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 up and was about to replace in the wallet. His hunger was 
 exasperated by the taste and the delay. Suddenly there arose 
 much tumult. Turning round in the old woman's bosom 
 who had received me from Xanthus, I saw my beloved father 
 struggling on the ground, livid and speechless. The more 
 violent my cries, the more rapidly they hurried me away ; 
 and many were soon between us. Little was I suspicious 
 that he had suffered the pangs of famine long before : alas ! 
 and he had suffered them for me. Do I weep while I am 
 telling you they ended.? I could not have closed his eyes; 
 I was too young: but I might have received his last breath, 
 the only comfort of an orphan's bosom. Do you now think 
 him blamable, O ^sop ? 
 
 yEsop. It was sublime humanity : it was forbearance and 
 self-denial which even the immortal gods have never shown 
 us. He could endure to perish by those torments which 
 alone are both acute and slow ; he could number the steps 
 of death and miss not one; but he could never see thy tears, 
 nor let thee see his. O weakness above all fortitude ! 
 Glory to the man who rather bears a grief corroding his 
 breast, than permits it to jDrowl beyond, and to prey on the 
 tender and compassionate ! Women commiserate the brave, 
 and men the beautiful. The dominion of Pity has usually 
 this extent, no wider. Thy father was exposed to the obloquy 
 not only of the malicious, but also of the ignorant and 
 thoughtless, who condemn in the unfortunate what they ap- 
 plaud in the prosperous. There is no shame in poverty or 
 in slavery, if we neither make ourselves poor by our improvi- 
 dence nor slaves by our venality. The lowest and highest 
 of the human race are sold: most of the intermediate are 
 also slaves, but slaves who bring no money in the market. 
 
 Rhodope. Surely the great and powerful are never to be 
 purchased, are they? 
 
 Aisop. It may be a defect in my vision, but I cannot see 
 
JESOF AND RHODOPk. 17 
 
 greatness on the earth. What they tell me is great and 
 aspiring, to me seems little and crawling. Let me meet thy 
 question with another. What monarch gives his daughter 
 for nothing? Either he receives stone walls and unwilling 
 cities in return, or he barters her for a parcel of spears and 
 horses and horsemen, waving away from his declining and 
 helpless age young joyous life, and trampling down the fresh- 
 est and the sweetest memories. Midas in the height of 
 prosperity would have given his daughter to Lycaon, rather 
 than to the gentlest, the most virtuous, the most intelligent 
 of his subjects. Thy father threw wealth aside, and, placing 
 thee under the protection of Virtue, rose up from the house 
 of Famine to partake in the festivals of the gods. 
 
 Release my neck, O Rhodope ! for I have other questions 
 to ask of thee about him. 
 
 Rhodope. To hear thee converse on him in such a manner, 
 I can do even that. 
 
 yEsop. Before the day of separation was he never sorrow- 
 ful ? Did he never by tears or silence reveal the secret of 
 his soul ? 
 
 Rhodope. I was too infantine to perceive or imagine his 
 intention. The night before I became the slave of Xanthus, 
 he sat on the edge of my bed. I pretended to be asleep : 
 he moved away silently and softly. I saw him collect in the 
 hollow of his hand the crumbs I had wasted on the floor, 
 and then eat them, and then look if any were remaining. 
 I thought he did so out of fondness for me, remembering 
 that, even before the famine, he had often swept up off the 
 table the bread I had broken, and had made me put it be- 
 tween his lips. I would not dissemble very long, but said, — 
 
 " Come, now you have wakened me, you must sing me 
 asleep again, as you did when I was little." 
 
 He smiled faintly at this, and, after some delay, when he 
 had walked up and down the chamber, thus began : — - 
 
18 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 " I will sing to thee one song more, my wakeful Rhodope! 
 my chirping bird ! over whom is no mother's wing ! That 
 it may lull thee asleep, I will celebrate no longer, as in the 
 days of wine and plenteousness, the glory of Mars, guiding 
 in their invisibly rapid onset the dappled steeds of Rhaesus. 
 What hast thou to do, my little one, with arrows tired of 
 clustering in the quiver? How much quieter is thy pallet 
 than the tents which whitened the plain of Simois? What 
 knowest thou about the river Eurotas ? What knowest thou 
 about its ancient palace, once trodden by assembled gods, 
 and then polluted by the Phrygian ? What knowest thou of 
 perfidious men or of sanguinary deeds? 
 
 " Pardon me, O goddess who presidest in Cythera ! I am 
 not irreverent to thee, but ever grateful. May she upon 
 whose brow I lay my hand praise and bless thee for ever- 
 more ! 
 
 " Ah yes ! continue to hold up above the coverlet those 
 fresh and rosy palms clasped together: her benefits have 
 descended on thy beauteous head, my child! The Fates 
 also have sung, beyond thy hearing, of pleasanter scenes 
 than snow-fed Hebrus ; of more than dim grottoes and sky- 
 bright waters. Even now a low murmur swells upward to 
 my ear: and not from the spindle comes the sound, but 
 from those who sing slowly over it, bending all three their 
 tremulous heads together. I wish thou could'st hear it; 
 for seldom are their voices so sweet. Thy pillow intercepts 
 the song perhaps : lie down again, lie down, my Rhodope ! 
 I will repeat what they are saying: — 
 
 " ' Happier shalt thou be, nor less glorious, than even she, 
 the truly beloved, for whose return to the distaff and the 
 lyre the portals of T^narus flew open. In the woody dells 
 of Ismarus, and when she bathed among the swans of Stry- 
 mon, the nymphs called her Eurydice. Thou shalt behold 
 that fairest and that fondest one hereafter. But first thou 
 
TIBERIUS AND VIPSANIA. 19 
 
 must go unto the land of the lotos, where famine never 
 cometh, and where alone the works of man are immortal.' 
 
 " O my child ! the undeceiving Fates have uttered this. 
 Other powers have visited me, and have strengthened my 
 heart with dreams and visions. We shall meet again, my 
 Rhodope ! in shady groves and verdant meadows, and we 
 shall sit by the side of those who loved us." 
 
 He was rising : I threw my arms about his neck, and, be- 
 fore I would let him go, I made him promise to place me, 
 not by the side, but between them ; for I thought of her who 
 had left us. At that time there were but two, O ^4j^sop ! 
 
 You ponder : you are about to reprove my assurance in 
 having thus repeated my own praises. I would have omitted 
 some of the words, only that it might have disturbed the 
 measure and cadences, and have put me out. They are the 
 very words my dearest father sang; and they are the last. 
 Yet, shame upon me ! the nurse (the same who stood listen- 
 ing near, who attended me into this country) could remember 
 them more perfectly: it is from her I have learned them 
 since ; she often sings them, even by herself. 
 
 III. 
 
 TIBERIUS AND VIPSANIA. 
 
 Tiberius. Vipsania, my Vipsania, whither art thou walk- 
 ing? 
 
 Vipsania. Whom do I see ? — my Tiberius ? 
 
 Tiberius. Ah ! no, no, no ! but thou seest the father of 
 thy little Drusus. Press him to thy heart the more closely 
 for this meeting, and give him — 
 
 Vipsa7iia. Tiberius ! the altars, the gods, the destinies, 
 are between us — I will take it from this hand ; thus, thus 
 shall he receive it. 
 
20 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Tiberius. Raise up thy face, my beloved ! I must not 
 shed tears. Augustus ! Livia ! ye shall not extort them 
 from me. Vipsania ! I may kiss thy head — for 1 have 
 saved it. Thou sayest nothing. I have wronged thee; ay.? 
 
 Vipsajiia. Ambition does not see the earth she treads 
 on; the rock and the herbage are of one substance to her. 
 Let me excuse you to my heart, O Tiberius. It has many 
 wants ; this is the first and greatest. 
 
 Tibe7'iiis. My ambition, I swear by the immortal gods, 
 placed not the bar of severance between us. A stronger 
 hand, the hand that composes Rome and sways the world — 
 
 Vipsania. — Overawed Tiberius, I know it ; Augustus 
 willed and commanded it. 
 
 Tiberius. And overawed Tiberius ! Power bent, Death 
 terrified, a Nero ! What is our race, that any should look 
 down on us and spurn us? Augustus, my benefactor, I 
 have wronged thee! Livia, my mother, this one cruel 
 deed was thine ! To reign, forsooth, is a lovely thing. 
 
 womanly appetite! Who would have been before me, 
 though the palace of Caesar cracked and split with emperors, 
 while I, sitting in idleness on a cliff of Rhodes, eyed the 
 sun as he swang his golden censer athwart the heavens, or 
 his image as it overstrode the sea? I have it before me; 
 and, though it seems falling on me, I can smile at it, ■ — ^ just 
 as I did from my little favourite skiff, painted round with 
 the marriage of Thetis, when the sailors drew their long 
 shaggy hair across their eyes, many a stadium away from it, 
 to mitigate its effulgence. 
 
 These too were happy days : days of happiness like these 
 
 1 could recall and look back upon with unaching brow. 
 
 O land of Greece ! Tiberius blesses thee, bidding thee 
 rejoice and flourish. 
 
 Why cannot one hour, Vipsania, beauteous and light as 
 we have led, return? 
 
TIBERIUS AND VIPSANIA. 21 
 
 Vipsania, Tiberius ! is it to me that you were speaking? 
 I would not interrupt you; but I thought I heard my name 
 as you walked away and looked up toward the East. So 
 silent ! 
 
 Tiberius. Who dared to call thee? Thou wert mine 
 before the gods — do they deny it? Was it my fault — 
 
 Vipsania. Since we are separated, and for ever, O 
 Tiberius, let us think no more on the cause of it. Let 
 neither of us believe that the other was to blame : so shall 
 separation be less painful. 
 
 Tiberius. O mother! and did I not tell thee what she 
 was? — patient in injury, proud in innocence, serene in 
 grief ! 
 
 Vipsajiia. Did you say that too ? But I think it was so : 
 I had felt little. One vast wave has washed away the im- 
 pression of smaller from my memory. Could Livia, could 
 your mother, could she who was so kind to me — 
 
 Tiberius. The wife of Caesar did it. But hear me now ! 
 hear me : be calm as I am. No weaknesses are such as 
 those of a mother who loves her only son immoderately; 
 and none are so easily worked upon from without. Who 
 knows what impulses she received ? She is very, very 
 kind ; but she regards me only, and that which at her bid- 
 ding is to encompass and adorn me. All the weak look 
 after Power, protectress of weakness. Thou art a woman, 
 O Vipsania! is there nothing in thee to excuse my mother? 
 So good she ever was to me ! so loving. 
 
 Vipsania. I quite forgive her: be tranquil, O Tiberius! 
 
 Tiberius. Never can I know peace — never can I pardon 
 — any one. Threaten me with thy exile, thy separation, 
 thy seclusion ! Remind me that another climate might 
 endanger thy health ! — There death met me and turned me 
 round. Threaten me to take our son from us, — our one 
 boy, our helpless little one, — him whom we made cry 
 
22 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 because we kissed him both together! Rememberest thou? 
 Or dost thou not hear? turning thus away from me ! 
 
 Vipsania. I hear ; I hear. Oh cease, my sweet Tiberius ! 
 Stamp not upon that stone : my heart lies under it. 
 
 Tibei'his. Ay, there again death, and more than death, 
 stood before me. Oh she maddened me, my mother did, 
 she maddened me — she threw me to where I am at one 
 breath. The gods cannot replace me where I was, nor 
 atone to me, nor console me, nor restore my senses. To 
 whom can I fly? to whom can I open my heart? to whom 
 speak plainly? There was upon the earth a man I could 
 converse with and fear nothing ; there was a woman too I 
 could love, and fear nothing. What a soldier, what a 
 Roman, was thy father, O my young bride ! How could 
 those who never saw him have discoursed so rightly upon 
 virtue ! 
 
 Vipsania. These words cool my breast like pressing his 
 urn against it. He was brave: shall Tiberius want courage ? 
 
 Tiberius. My enemies scorn me. I am a garland dropped 
 from a triumphal car, and taken up and looked on for the 
 place I occupied ; and tossed away and laughed at. Sena- 
 tors! laugh, laugh ! Your merits may be yet rewarded — be 
 of good cheer! Counsel me, in your wisdom, what services 
 I can render you, conscript fathers ! 
 
 Vipsania. This seems mockery : Tiberius did not smile 
 so, once. 
 
 Tiberius. They had not then congratulated me. 
 
 Vipsania. On what? 
 
 Tiberius. And it was not because she was beautiful, as 
 they thought her, and virtuous, as I know she is; but 
 because the flowers on the altar were to be tied together by 
 my heart-string. On this they congratulated me. Their 
 day will come. Their sons and daughters are what I would 
 wish them to be : worthy to succeed them. 
 
METELLUS AND MARIUS. 23 
 
 Vipsania. Where is that quietude, that resignation, that 
 sanctity, that heart of true tenderness? 
 
 Tiberius. Where is my love ? — my love ? 
 
 Vipsania. Cry not thus aloud, Tiberius ! there is an echo 
 in the place. Soldiers and slaves may burst in upon us. 
 
 Tiberius. And see my tears? There is no echo, Vip- 
 sania; why alarm and shake me so? We are too high here 
 for the echoes: the city is below us. Methinks it trembles 
 and totters : would it did ! from the marble quays of the 
 Tiber to this rock. There is a strange buzz and murmur in 
 my brain ; but I should listen so intensely, I should hear 
 the rattle of its roofs, and shout with joy. 
 
 Vipsania. Calm, O my life ! calm this horrible transport. 
 
 Tiberius. Spake I so loud? Did I indeed then send my 
 voice after a lost sound, to bring it back; and thou fancied- 
 est it an echo? Wilt not thou laugh with me, as thou wert 
 wont to do, at such an error? What was I saying to thee, 
 my tender love, when I commanded — I know not whom — 
 to stand back, on pain of death? Why starest thou on me 
 in such agony? Have I hurt thy fingers, child? I loose 
 them ; now let me look ! Thou turnest thine eyes away 
 from me. Oh! oh! I hear my crime ! Immortal gods! I 
 cursed then audibly, and before the sun, my mother! 
 
 IV. 
 
 METELLUS AND MARIUS. 
 
 Metellus. Well met, Caius Marius! My orders are to 
 find instantly a centurion who shall mount the walls ; one 
 capable of observation, acute in remark, prompt, calm, 
 active, intrepid. The Numantians are sacrificing to the 
 gods in secrecy; they have sounded the horn once only, — 
 and hoarsely, and low, and mournfully. 
 
24 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Mariiis. Was that ladder I see yonder among the caper- 
 bushes and purple lilies, under where the fig-tree grows out 
 of the rampart, left for me ? 
 
 Metelhis. Even so, wert thou willing. Wouldst thou 
 mount it ? 
 
 Marius. Rejoicingly. If none are below or near, may I 
 explore the state of things by entering the city? 
 
 Metelhis. Use thy discretion in that. 
 
 What seest thou.? Wouldst thou leap down? Lift the 
 ladder. 
 
 Mariiis. Are there spikes in it where it sticks in the turf ? 
 I should slip else. 
 
 Metellus. How! bravest of our centurions, art even thou 
 afraid? Seest thou any one by? 
 
 Marius. Ay ; some hundreds close beneath me. 
 
 Metellus. Retire, then. Hasten back; I will protect thy 
 descent. 
 
 Marius. May I speak, O Metellus, without an offence 
 to discipline? 
 
 Metellus. Say. 
 
 Marius. Listen! Dost thou not hear? 
 
 Metellus. Shame on thee! alight, alight! my shield shall 
 cover thee. 
 
 Marius. There is a murmur like the hum of bees in the 
 beanfield of Cereate ; * for the sun is hot, and the ground is 
 thirsty. When will it have drunk up for me the blood that 
 has run, and is yet oozing on it, from those fresh bodies! 
 
 Metellus. How! We have not fought for many days; 
 what bodies, then, are fresh ones? 
 
 Marius. Close beneath the wall are those of infants and 
 
 of girls ; in the middle of the road are youths, emaciated ; 
 
 some either unwounded or wounded months ago ; some on 
 
 their spears, others on their swords : no few have received 
 
 * The farm of Marius, near Arpinum. 
 
METELLUS AND AIARIUS. 25 
 
 in mutual death the last interchange of friendship ; their 
 daggers unite them, hilt to hilt, bosom to bosom. 
 
 Metellus. Mark rather the living, — what are they about? 
 
 Marius. About the sacrifice, which portends them, I 
 conjecture, but little good, — it burns sullenly and slowly. 
 The victim will lie upon the pyre till morning, and still be 
 unconsumed, unless they bring more fuel. 
 
 i' will leap down and walk on cautiously, and return with 
 tidings, if death should spare me. 
 
 Never was any race of mortals so unmilitary as these 
 Numantians : no watch, no stations, no palisades across the 
 streets. 
 
 Metellus. Did they want, then, all the wood for the 
 altar ? 
 
 Marius. It appears so, — I will return anon. 
 
 Metellus. The gods speed thee, my brave, honest 
 Marius 1 
 
 Marius {returned). The ladder should have been better 
 spiked for that slippery ground. I am down again safe, 
 however. Here a man may walk securely, and without 
 picking his steps. 
 
 Metellus. Tell me, Caius, what thou sawest. 
 
 Marius. The streets of Numantia. 
 
 Metellus. Doubtless; but what else? 
 
 Marius. The temples and markets and places of exer- 
 cise and fountains. 
 
 Metellus. Art thou crazed, centurion ? what more? Speak 
 plainly, at once, and briefly. 
 
 Marius,. I beheld, then, all Numantia. 
 
 Metellus. Has terror maddened thee? hast thou descried 
 nothing of the inhabitants but those carcasses under the 
 ramparts ? 
 
 Marius. Those, O Metellus, lie scattered, although not 
 indeed far asunder. The greater part of the soldiers and 
 
26 ■ IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 citizens — of the fathers, husbands, widows, wives, espoused 
 — were assembled together. 
 
 Metellus. About the altar? 
 
 Marius. Upon it. 
 
 Metellus. So busy and earnest in devotion ! but how all 
 upon it? 
 
 Marius. It blazed under them, and over them, and 
 round about them. 
 
 Metellus. Immortal gods ! Art thou sane, Caius Marius ? 
 Thy visage is scorched : thy speech may wander after such 
 an enterprise ; thy shield burns my hand. 
 
 Marius. I thought it had cooled again. Why, truly, it 
 seems hot : I now feel it. 
 
 Metellus. Wipe off those embers. 
 
 Marius. 'T were better : there will be none opposite to 
 shake them upon, for some time. 
 
 The funereal horn, that sounded with such feebleness, 
 sounded not so from the faint heart of him who blew it. 
 Him I saw ; him only of the living. Should I say it ? there 
 was another : there was one child whom its parent could 
 not kill, could not part from. She had hidden it in her 
 robe, I suspect; and, when the fire had reached it, either 
 it shrieked or she did. For suddenly a cry pierced through 
 the crackling pinewood, and something of round in figure 
 fell from brand to brand, until it reached the pavement, at 
 the feet of him who had blown the horn. I rushed toward 
 him, for I wanted to hear the whole story, and felt the 
 pressure of time. Condemn not my weakness, O Cascilius ! 
 I wished an enemy to live an hour longer ; for my orders 
 were to explore and bring intelligence. When I gazed on 
 him, in height almost gigantic, I wondered not that the 
 blast of his trumpet was so weak : rather did I wonder that 
 Famine, whose hand had indented every limb and feature, 
 had left him any voice articulate. I rushed toward him, 
 
ME TELL us AND MARIUS. 21 
 
 however, ere my eyes had measured either his form or 
 strength. He held the child against me, and staggered 
 under it. 
 
 " Behold," he exclaimed, " the glorious ornament of a 
 Roman triumph ! " 
 
 I stood horror-stricken ; when suddenly drops, as of rain, 
 pattered down from the pyre. I looked ; and many were 
 the precious stones, many were the amulets and rings and 
 bracelets, and other barbaric ornaments, unknown to me in 
 form or purpose, that tinkled on the hardened and black 
 branches, from mothers and wives and betrothed maids ; 
 and some, too, I can imagine, from robuster arms, - — things 
 of joyance, won in battle. The crowd of incumbent bodies 
 was so dense and heavy, that neither the fire nor the smoke 
 could penetrate upward from among them ; and they sank, 
 whole and at once, into the smouldering cavern eaten out 
 below. He at whose neck hung the trumpet felt this, and 
 started. 
 
 "There is yet room," he cried, "and there is strength 
 enough yet, both in the element and in me." 
 
 He extended his withered arms, he thrust forward the 
 gaunt links of his throat, and upon gnarled knees, that 
 smote each other audibly, tottered into the civic fire. It — ■ 
 like some hungry and strangest beast on the innermost 
 wild of Africa, pierced, broken, prostrate, motionless, gazed 
 at by its hunter in the impatience of glory, in the delight of 
 awe — panted once more, and seized him. 
 
 I have seen within this hour, O Metellus, what Rome in 
 the cycle of her triumphs will never see, what the Sun in 
 his eternal course can never show her, what the Earth has 
 borne but now, and must never rear again for her, what 
 Victory herself has envied her — a Numantian. 
 
 Metellus. We shall feast to-morrow. Hope, Caius Marius, 
 to become a tribune : trust in fortune. 
 
28 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Marius. Auguries are surer : surest of all is perseverance. 
 
 Metellus. I hope the wine has not grown vapid in my 
 tent : I have kept it waiting, and must now report to Scipio 
 the intelligence of our discovery. Come after me, Caius. 
 
 Marius {alone). The tribune is the discoverer ! the 
 centurion is the scout! Caius Marius must enter more 
 Numantias. Light-hearted Cascilius, thou mayest perhaps 
 hereafter, and not with humbled but with exulting pride, 
 take orders from this hand. If Scipio's words are fate, and 
 to me they sound so, the portals of the Capitol may shake 
 before my chariot, as my horses plunge back at the applauses 
 of the people, and Jove in his high domicile may welcome 
 the citizen of Arpinum. 
 
 V. 
 
 MARCELLUS AND HANNIBAL. 
 
 Hannibal. Could a Numidian horseman ride no faster.? 
 Marcellus ! ho ! Marcellus ! He moves not — he is dead. 
 Did he not stir his fingers ? Stand wide, soldiers — wide, 
 forty paces — give him air — bring water — halt! Gather 
 those broad leaves, and all the rest, growing under the 
 brushwood — unbrace his armour. Loose the helmet first 
 — his breast rises. I fancied his eyes were fixed on me — 
 they have rolled back again. Who presumed to touch my 
 shoulder? This horse? It was surely the horse of Mar- 
 cellus! Let no man mount him. Hal ha! the Romans 
 too sink into luxury : here is gold about the charger. 
 
 Gaulish Chieftain. Execrable thief ! The golden chain 
 of our king under a beast's grinders! The vengeance of 
 the gods hath overtaken the impure — 
 
 Hannibal. We will talk about vengeance when we have 
 entered Rome, and about purity among the priests, if they 
 will hear us. Sound for the surgeon. That arrow may be 
 
MARCELLUS AND HANNIBAL. 29 
 
 extracted from the side, deep as it is. — The conqueror of 
 Syracuse lies before me. — Send a vessel off to Carthage. 
 Say Hannibal is at the gates of Rome. — Marcellus, who* 
 stood alone between us, fallen. Brave man ! I would 
 rejoice and cannot. — How awfully serene a countenance ! 
 Such as we hear are in the islands of the Blessed. And 
 how glorious a form and stature! Such too was theirs! 
 They also once lay thus upon the earth wet with their blood 
 — few other enter there. And what plain armour ! 
 
 Gaulish Chieftain. My party slew him — indeed I think 
 I slew him myself. I claim the chain : it belongs to my 
 king: the glory of Gaul requires it. Never will she endure 
 to see another take it : rather would, she lose her last man. 
 We swear ! we swear! 
 
 Hannibal. My friend, the glory of Marcellus did not 
 require him to wear it. When he suspended the arms of 
 your brave king in the temple, he thought such a trinket 
 unworthy of himself and of Jupiter. The shield he battered 
 down, the breast-plate he pierced with his sword, — these 
 he showed to the people and to the gods; hardly his wife 
 and little children saw this, ere his horse wore it. 
 
 Gaulish Chieftain. Hear me, O Hannibal ! 
 
 Hannibal. What ! when Marcellus lies before me? when 
 his life may perhaps be recalled 1 when I may lead him in 
 triumph to Carthage? when Italy, Sicily, Greece, Asia, 
 wait to obey me? Content thee! I will give thee mine 
 own bridle, worth ten such. 
 
 Gaulish Chieftain. For myself ? 
 
 Hannibal. For thyself. 
 
 Gaulish Chieftain. And these rubies and emeralds, and 
 that scarlet — 
 
 Hannibal, Yes, yes. 
 
 Gaulish Chieftain. O glorious Hannibal ! unconquerable 
 hero! O my happy country! to have such an ally and 
 
30 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 defender. I swear eternal gratitude — yes, gratitude, love, 
 devotion, beyond eternity. 
 
 Hannibal. In all treaties we fix the time : I could hardly 
 ask a longer. Go back to thy station. — I would see what 
 the surgeon is about, and hear what he thinks. The life of 
 Marcellus ! the triumph of Hannibal ! what else has the 
 world in it? Only Rome and Carthage: these follow. 
 
 Surgeon. Hardly an hour of life is left. 
 
 Marcellus. I must die then ! The gods be praised ! The 
 commander of a Roman army is no captive. 
 
 Hannibal (to the Surgeon). Could not he bear a sea- 
 voyage.'' Extract the arrow. 
 
 Surgeoit. He expires that moment. 
 
 Marcellus. It pains me : extract it. 
 
 Hannibal. Marcellus, I see no expression of pain on 
 your countenance, and never will I consent to hasten the 
 death of an enemy in my power. Since your recovery is 
 hopeless, you say truly you are no captive. 
 
 {To the Surgeon) Is there nothing, man, that can assuage 
 the mortal pain .? for, suppress the signs of it as he may, he 
 must feel it. Is there nothing to alleviate and allay it? 
 
 Marcellus. Hannibal, give me thy hand — thou hast 
 found it and brought it me, compassion. 
 
 {To the Surgeon.) Go, friend; others want thy aid; 
 several fell around me. 
 
 Hannibal. Recommend to your country, O Marcellus, 
 while time permits it, reconciliation and peace with me, 
 informing the Senate of my superiority in force, and the 
 impossibility of resistance. The tablet is ready : let me 
 take off this ring — try to write, to sign it at least. Oh, 
 what satisfaction I feel at seeing you able to rest upon the 
 elbow, and even to smile! 
 
 Marcellus. Within an hour or less, with how severe a brow 
 would Minos say to me, " Marcellus, is this thy writing? " 
 
MARCELLUS AND HANNIBAL. 31 
 
 Rome loses one man: she hath lost many such, and she 
 still hath many left. 
 
 Hcmnibal. Afraid as you are of falsehood, say you this ? 
 I confess in shame the ferocity of my countrymen. Un- 
 fortunately, too, the nearer posts are occupied by Gauls, 
 infinitely more cruel. The Numidians are so in revenge ; 
 the Gauls both in revenge and in sport. My presence is 
 required at a distance, and I apprehend the barbarity of 
 one or other, learning, as they must do, your refusal to 
 execute my wishes for the common good, and feeling that 
 by this refusal you deprive them of their country, after so 
 long an absence. 
 
 Marcdius. Hannibal, thou art not dying. 
 
 Hannibal. What then ? What mean you ? 
 
 Mai'cellus. That thou mayest, and very justly, have many 
 things yet to apprehend : I can have none. The barbarity 
 of thy soldiers is nothing to me : mine would not dare be 
 cruel. Hannibal is forced to be absent; and his authority 
 goes away with his horse. On this turf lies defaced the 
 semblance of a general ; but Marcellus is yet the regulator 
 of his army. Dost thou abdicate a power conferred on 
 thee by thy nation? Or wouldst thou acknowledge it to 
 have become, by thy own sole fault, less plenary than thy 
 adversary's ? 
 
 I have spoken too much : let me rest ; this mantle 
 oppresses me. 
 
 Hannibal. I placed my mantle on your head when the 
 helmet was first removed, and while you were lying in the 
 sun. Let me fold it under, and then replace the ring. 
 
 Marcellus. Take it, Hannibal. It was given me by a 
 poor woman who flew to me at Syracuse, and who covered 
 it with her hair, torn off in desperation that she had no 
 other gift to offer. Little thought I that her gift and her 
 words should be mine. How suddenly may the most power- 
 
32 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 ful be in the situation of the most helpless ! Let that ring 
 and the mantle under my head be the exchange of guests at 
 parting. The time may come, Hannibal, when thou (and 
 the gods alone know whether as conqueror or conquered) 
 mayest sit under the roof of my children, and in either case 
 it shall serve thee. In thy adverse fortune, they will re- 
 member on whose pillow their father breathed his last ; in 
 thy prosperous (Heaven grant it may shine upon thee in 
 some other country !) it will rejoice thee to protect them. 
 We feel ourselves the most exempt from affliction when we 
 relieve it, although we are then the most conscious that it 
 may befall us. 
 
 There is one thing here which is not at the disposal of 
 either. 
 
 Ha7iiiibaL What .'* 
 
 Marcellus. This body. 
 
 Hannibal. Whither would you be lifted.? Men are 
 ready. 
 
 Maf'cellus. I meant not so. My strength is failing. I 
 seem to hear rather what is within than what is without. 
 My sight and my other senses are in confusion. I would 
 have said — This body, when a few bubbles of air shall 
 have left it, is no more worthy of thy notice than of mine ; 
 but thy glory will not let thee refuse it to the piety of my 
 family. 
 
 Hannibal. You would ask something else. I perceive 
 an inquietude not visible till now. 
 
 Marcellus. Duty and Death make us think of home 
 sometimes. 
 
 Hannibal. Thitherward the thoughts of the conqueror 
 and of the conquered fly together. 
 
 Marcellus. Hast thou any prisoners from my escort ? 
 
 Haimibal. A few dying lie about — and let them lie — 
 they are Tuscans. The remainder I saw at a distance, 
 
HENRY VIII. AND ANNE BOLEYN. Vo 
 
 flying, and but one brave man among them — he appeared 
 a Roman — a youth who turned back, though wounded. 
 They surrounded and dragged him away, spurring his horse 
 with their swords. These Etrurians measure their courage 
 carefully, and tack it well together before they put it on, 
 but throw it off again with lordly ease. 
 
 Marcellus, why think about them ? or does aught else dis- 
 quiet your thoughts? 
 
 Marcellus. I have suppressed it long enough. My son 
 — my beloved son ! 
 
 Hannibal. Where is he.^ Can it be? Was he with 
 you? 
 
 Marcellus. He would have shared my fate — and has 
 not. Gods of my country ! beneficent throughout life to 
 me, in death surpassingly beneficent, I render you, for the 
 last time, thanks. 
 
 VI. 
 
 HENRY VIII. AND ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 Henry. Dost thou know me, Nanny, in this yeoman's 
 dress ? 'S blood ! does it require so long and vacant a 
 stare to recollect a husband after a week or two ? No 
 tragedy-tricks with me ! a scream, a sob, or thy kerchief a 
 trifle the wetter, were enough. Why, verily the little fool 
 faints in earnest. These whey faces, like their kinsfolk the 
 ghosts, give us no warning. {Sprinkling water over her.) 
 Hast had water enough upon thee ? Take that, then : art 
 thyself again ? 
 
 Anne. Father of mercies ! do I meet again my husband, 
 as was my last prayer on earth ? Do I behold my beloved 
 lord — in peace — and pardoned, my partner in eternal 
 bliss ? It was his voice. I cannot see him : why cannot I ? 
 Oh why do these pangs interrupt the transports of the blessed? 
 
34 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Henry. Thou open est thy arms : faith ! I came for 
 that. Nanny, thou art a sweet slut. Thou groanest, wench : 
 art in labour ? Faith ! among the mistakes of the night, I 
 am ready to think almost that thou hast been drinking, and 
 that I have not. 
 
 Aline. God preserve your Highness : grant me your for- 
 giveness for one slight offence. My eyes were heavy ; I fell 
 asleep while I was reading. 1 did not know of your presence 
 at first ; and, when I did, I could not speak. I strove for 
 utterance : I wanted no respect for my liege and husband. 
 
 Henry. My pretty warm nestling, thou wilt then lie ! 
 Thou wert reading, and aloud too, with thy saintly cup of 
 water by thee, and — what ! thou art still girlishly fond of 
 those dried cherries ! 
 
 Anne. I had no other fruit to offer your Highness the 
 first time I saw you, and you were then pleased to invent for 
 me some reason why they should be acceptable. I did not 
 dry these : may I present them, such as they are .'' We shall 
 have fresh next month. 
 
 Henry. Thou art always driving away from the discourse. 
 One moment it suits thee to know me, another not. 
 
 Aime. Remember, it is hardly three months since I mis- 
 carried : I am weak, and liable to swoons. 
 
 Henry. Thou hast, however, thy bridal cheeks, with lustre 
 upon them when there is none elsewhere, and obstinate lips 
 resisting all impression ; but, now thou talkest about mis- 
 carrying, who is the father of the boy .^ 
 
 Anne. The Father is yours and mine ; he who hath taken 
 him to his own home, before (like me) he could struggle or 
 cry for it. 
 
 Henry. Pagan, or worse, to talk so ! He did not come 
 into the world alive : there was no baptism. 
 
 Anne. I thought only of our loss : my senses are con- 
 founded. I did not give him my milk, and yet I loved him 
 
HENRY VIII. AND ANNE BOLEYN. 35 
 
 tenderly ; for I often fancied, had he lived, how contented 
 and joyful he would have made you and England. 
 
 Henry. No subterfuges and escapes. I warrant, thou 
 canst not say whether at my entrance thou wert waking or 
 wandering. 
 
 Anne. Faintness and drowsiness came upon me suddenly. 
 
 Henry. Well, since thou really and truly sleepedst, what 
 didst dream of .'' 
 
 An?ie. I begin to doubt whether I did indeed sleep. 
 
 Henry. Ha! false one — never two sentences of truth 
 together ! But come, what didst think^ about, asleep or 
 awake ? 
 
 Anne. I thought that God had pardoned me my offences, 
 and had received me unto him. 
 
 Henry. And nothing more 
 
 Anne. That my prayers had been heard and my wishes 
 were accomplishing : the angels alone can enjoy more 
 beatitude than this. 
 
 Henry. Vexatious little devil ! she says nothing now 
 about me, merely from perverseness. Hast thou never 
 thought about me, nor about thy falsehood and adultery .^ 
 
 A7ine. If I had committed any kind of falsehood, in 
 regard to you or not, I should never have rested until I had 
 thrown myself at your feet and obtained your pardon ; but, 
 if ever I had been guilty of that other crime, I know not 
 whether I should have dared to implore it, even of God's 
 mercy. 
 
 Henry. Thou hast heretofore cast some soft glances upon 
 Smeaton ; hast thou not ? 
 
 A7ine. He taught me to play on the virginals, as you 
 know, when I was little, and thereby to please your Highness. 
 
 Henry. And Brereton and Norris, what have they taught 
 thee? 
 
 An7ie. They are your servants, and trusty ones. 
 
36 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Henry. Has not Weston told thee plainly that he loved 
 thee? 
 
 Amie. Yes ; and — 
 
 Henry. What didst thou ? 
 
 Anne. I defied him. 
 
 Henry. Is that all ? 
 
 Anne. I could have done no more if he had told me that 
 he hated me. Then, indeed, I should have incurred more 
 justly the reproaches of your Highness : I should have smiled. 
 
 Henry. We have proofs abundant : the fellows shall one 
 and all confront thee. — Ay, clap thy hands and kiss thy 
 sleeve, harlot ! 
 
 Anne. OTi, that so great a favour is vouchsafed me ! My 
 honour is secure ; my husband will be happy again ; he will 
 see my innocence. 
 
 Henry. Give me now an account of the moneys thou 
 hast received from me within these nine months. I want 
 them not back : they are letters of gold in record of thy 
 guilt. Thou hast had no fewer than fifteen thousand pounds 
 in that period, without even thy asking ; what hast done with 
 it, wanton ? 
 
 Anne. I have regularly placed it out to interest. 
 
 Henry. Where ? I demand of thee. 
 
 Anne. Among the needy and ailing. My Lord Arch- 
 bishop has the account of it, sealed by him weekly. I also 
 had a copy myself: those who took away my papers may 
 easily find it ; for there are few others, and they lie open. 
 
 Henry. Think on my munificence to thee ; recollect who 
 made thee. Dost sigh for what thou hast lost ? 
 
 Amie. I do, indeed. 
 
 Henry. I never thought thee ambitious ; but thy vices 
 creep out one by one. 
 
 Anne. I do not regret that I have been a queen and am 
 no longer one ; nor that my innocence is called in question 
 
HENRY VIII. AND ANNE BOLEYN 37 
 
 by those who never knew me : but I lament that the good 
 people who loved me so cordially, hate and curse me ; that 
 those who pointed me out to their daughters for imitation, 
 check them when they speak about me ; and that he whom 
 next to God I have served with most devotion is my accuser. 
 
 Hcmy. Wast thou conning over something in that dingy 
 book for thy defence ? Come, tell me, what wast thou reading? 
 
 Anne. This ancient chronicle. I was looking for some 
 one in my own condition, and must have missed the page. 
 Surely in so many hundred years there shall have been other 
 young maidens, first too happy for exaltation, and after too 
 exalted for happiness, — not, perchance, doomed to die upon 
 a scaffold, by those they ever honoured and served faithfully: 
 that, indeed, I did not look for nor think of; but my heart 
 was bounding for any one I could love and pity. She would 
 be unto me as a sister dead and gone ; but hearing me, 
 seeing me, consoling me, and being consoled. O my 
 husband ! it is so heavenly a thing — 
 
 Henry. To whine and whimper, no doubt, is vastly 
 heavenly. 
 
 Anne. I said not so ; but those, if there be any such, who 
 never weep, have nothing in them of heavenly or of earthly. 
 The plants, the trees, the very rocks and unsunned clouds, 
 show us at least the semblances of weeping ; and there is 
 not an aspect of the globe we live on, nor of the waters and 
 skies around it, without a reference and a similitude to our 
 joys or sorrows. 
 
 Hemy. I do not remember that notion anywhere. Take 
 care no enemy rake out of it something of materialism. 
 Guard well thy empty hot brain : it may hatch more evil. 
 As for those odd words, T myself would fain see no great 
 harm in them, knowing that grief and frenzy strike out many 
 things which would else lie still, and neither spirt nor sparkle. 
 I also know that thou hast never read any thing but Bible 
 
38 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 and history, — the two worst books in the world for young 
 people, and the most certain to lead astray both prince and 
 subject. For which reason I have interdicted and entirely 
 put down the one, and will (by the blessing of the Virgin 
 and of holy Paul) commit the other to a rigid censor. If it 
 behooves us kings to enact what our people shall eat and 
 drink, — of which the most unruly and rebellious spirit can 
 entertain no doubt, — greatly more doth it behoove us to 
 examine what they read and think. The body is moved 
 according to the mind and will : we must take care that the 
 movement be a right one, on pain of God's anger in this life 
 and the next. 
 
 Anne. O my dear husband ! it must be a naughty thing, 
 indeed, that makes him angry beyond remission. Did you 
 ever try how pleasant it is to forgive any one ? There is 
 nothing else wherein we can resemble God perfectly and 
 easily. 
 
 Henry. Resemble God perfectly and easily ! Do vile 
 creatures talk thus of the Creator ? 
 
 Anne. No, Henry, when his creatures talk thus of him, 
 they are no longer vile creatures ! When they know that he 
 is good, they love him ; and, when they love him, they are 
 good themselves. O Henry ! my husband and King ! the 
 judgments of our Heavenly Father are righteous : on this, 
 surely, we must think alike. 
 
 Henry. And what, then ? Speak out : again I command 
 thee, speak plainly ! thy tongue was not so torpid but this 
 moment. Art ready ? Must I wait ? 
 
 Anne. If any doubt remains upon your royal mind of your 
 equity in this business ; should it haply seem possible to 
 you that passion or prejudice, in yourself or another, may 
 have warped so strong an understanding, — do but supplicate 
 the Almighty to strengthen and enlighten it, and he will 
 hear you. 
 
HENRY VIII. AND ANNE BOLEYN. 39 
 
 Henry. What ! thou wouldst fain change thy quarters, ay? 
 
 Anne. My spirit is detached and ready, and I shall change 
 them shortly, whatever your Highness may determine. Ah ! 
 my native Bickling is a pleasant place. May I go back 
 to it ? Does that kind smile say. Yes ? Do the hounds ever 
 run that way now ? The fruit-trees must be all in full blos- 
 som, and the gorse on the hill above quite dazzling. How 
 good it was in you to plant your park at Greenwich after my 
 childish notion, tree for tree, the very same as at Bickling ! 
 Has the hard winter killed them, or the winds loosened the 
 stakes about them ? 
 
 Henry. Silly child ! as if thou shouldst see them any more. 
 
 Anne. Alas, what strange things happen ! But they and 
 I are nearly of the same age ; young alike, and without hold 
 upon any thing. 
 
 Henry. Yet thou appearest hale and resolute, and (they 
 tell me) smirkest and smilest to everybody. 
 
 Anjie. The withered leaf catches the sun sometimes, little 
 as it can profit by it ; and I have heard stories of the breeze 
 in other climates that sets in when daylight is about to close, 
 and how constant it is, and how refreshing. My heart, 
 indeed, is now sustained strangely : it became the more 
 sensibly so from that time forward, when power and grandeur 
 and all things terrestrial were sunk from sight. Every act 
 of kindness in those about me gives me satisfaction and 
 pleasure, such as 1 did not feel formerly. I was worse before 
 God chastened me ; yet I was never an ingrate. What pains 
 have I taken to find out the village-girls who placed their 
 posies in my chamber ere I arose in the morning ! How 
 gladly would I have recompensed the forester who lit up a 
 brake on my birthnight, which else had warmed him half 
 the winter! But these are times past: I was not Queen of 
 England. 
 
 Henry. Nor adulterous, nor heretical. 
 
40 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Amie. God be praised ! 
 
 Henry. Learned saint ! thou knowest nothing of the 
 lighter, but perhaps canst inform me about the graver, of 
 them. 
 
 Aline. Which may it be, my Hege ? 
 
 Henry. Which may it be ? Pestilence 1 I marvel that the 
 walls of this tower do not crack around thee at such impiety. 
 
 Anne. I would be instructed by the wisest of theologians : 
 such is your Highness. 
 
 Henjy. Are the sins of the body, foul as they are, com- 
 parable to those of the soul ? 
 
 Anne. When they are united, they must be worse. 
 
 Henry. Go on, go on: thou pushest thy own breast 
 against the sword. God hath deprived thee of thy reason for 
 thy punishment. I must hear more : proceed, I charge thee. 
 
 Anne. An aptitude to believe one thing rather than 
 another, from ignorance or weakness, or from the more per- 
 suasive manner of the teacher, or from his purity of life, or 
 from the strong impression of a particular text at a particular 
 time, and various things beside, may influence and decide 
 our opinion ; and the hand of the Almighty, let us hope, will 
 fall gently on human fallibility, 
 
 Henry. Opinion in matters of faith ! rare wisdom ! rare 
 religion ! Troth, Anne ! thou hast well sobered me. I came 
 rather warmly and lovingly ; but these light ringlets, by the 
 holy rood, shall not shade this shoulder much longer. Nay, 
 do not start ; I tap it for the last time, my sweetest. If the 
 Church permitted it, thou shouldst set forth on thy long 
 journey with the eucharist between thy teeth, however loath. 
 
 Amie. Love your Elizabeth, my honoured lord, and God 
 bless you ! She will soon forget to call me. Do not chide 
 her : think how young shq is. 
 
 Could I, could I kiss her, but once again ! it would com- 
 fort my heart, — or break it. 
 
ROGER ASCHAM AND LADY JANE GREY. 41 
 
 VII. 
 ROGER ASCHAM AND LADY JANE GREY. 
 
 Aschmji. Thou art going, my dear young lady, into a 
 most awful state ; thou art passing into matrimony and 
 great wealth. God hath willed it : submit in thankfulness. 
 
 Thy affections are rightly placed and well distributed. 
 Love is a secondary passion in those who love most ; a 
 primary in those who love least. He who is inspired by 
 it in a high, degree is inspired by honour in a higher: it 
 never reaches its plenitude of growth and perfection but 
 in the most exalted minds. Alas ! alas ! 
 
 Jane. What aileth my virtuous Ascham t What is amiss? 
 Why do I tremble ? 
 
 Ascham. I remember a sort of prophecy, made three 
 years ago : it is a prophecy of my condition and of my 
 feelings on it. Recollectest thou who wrote, sitting upon 
 the sea-beach the evening after an excursion to the Isle 
 of Wight, these verses ? — 
 
 " Invisibly bright water ! so like air, 
 On looking down I feared thou couldst not bear 
 My little bark, of all light barks most light, 
 And look'd again, and drew me from the sight, 
 And, hanging back, breath'd each fresh gale aghast, 
 And held the bench, not to go on so fast." 
 
 Jane. I was very childish when I composed them ; and, 
 if I had thought any more about the matter, I should have 
 hoped you had been too generous to keep them in your 
 memory as witnesses against me. 
 
 Ascha77i. Nay, they are not much amiss for so young a 
 girl; and, there being so few of them, I did not reprove 
 thee. Half an hour, I thought, might have been spent more 
 unprofitably ; and I now shall believe it firmly, if thou wilt 
 
42 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 but be led by them to meditate a little on the similarity of 
 situation in which thou then wert to what thou art now in. 
 
 Jane. I'will do it, and whatever else you command; for 
 I am weak by nature and very timorous, unless where a 
 strong sense of duty holdeth and supporteth me. There 
 God acteth, and not his creature. 
 
 Those were with me at sea who would have been atten- 
 tive to me if I had seemed to be afraid, even though 
 worshipful men and women were in the company; so that 
 something more powerful threw my fear overboard. Yet I 
 never will go again upon the water. 
 
 Aschani. Exercise that beauteous couple, that mind and 
 body, much and variously : but at home, at home, Jane ! 
 indoors, and about things indoors; for God is there too. 
 We have rocks and quicksands on the banks of our Thames, 
 O lady ! such as ocean never heard of ; and many (who 
 knows how soon } ) may be engulfed in the current under 
 their garden-walls. 
 
 Jane. Thoroughly do I now understand you. Yes, 
 indeed, I have read evil things of courts ; but I think 
 nobody can go out bad who entereth good, if timely and 
 true warning shall have been given. 
 
 Ascham. I see perils on perils which thou dost not see, 
 albeit thou art wiser than thy poor old master. And it is 
 not because Love hath blinded thee, for that surpasseth his 
 supposed omnipotence ; but it is because thy tender heart, 
 having always leaned affectionately upon good, hath felt 
 and known nothing of evil. 
 
 I once persuaded thee to reflect much : let me now per- 
 suade thee to avoid the habitude of reflection, to lay aside 
 books, and to gaze carefully and steadfastly on what is 
 under and before thee. 
 
 Jane. I have well bethought me of my duties. Oh how 
 extensive they are ! what a goodly and fair inheritance ! 
 
ROGER ASCHAM AND LADY JANE GREY. 43 
 
 But, tell me, would you command me never more to read 
 Cicero and Epictetus and Plutarch and Polybius ? The 
 others I do resign ; they are good for the arbour and for 
 the gravel-walk : yet leave unto me, I beseech you, my 
 friend and father, — ^ leave unto me for my fireside and for 
 my pillow, — truth, eloquence, courage, constancy. 
 
 Ascham. Read them on thy marriage-bed, on thy child- 
 bed, on thy death-bed. Thou spotless, undrooping lily, they 
 have fenced thee right well. These are the men for men : 
 these are to fashion the bright and blessed creatures whom 
 God one day shall smile upon in thy chaste bosom. Mind 
 thou thy husband. 
 
 Jane. I sincerely love the youth who hath espoused me ; 
 I love him with the fondest, the most solicitous affection ; 
 I pray to the Almighty for his goodness and happiness, and 
 do forget at times — unworthy supplicant ! — the prayers I 
 should have offered for myself. Never fear that I will dis- 
 parage my kind religious teacher, by disobedience to my 
 husband in the most trying duties. 
 
 Ascham. Gentle is he, gentle and virtuous : but time will 
 harden him ; time must harden even thee, sweet Jane ! Do 
 thou, complacently and indirectly, lead him from ambition. 
 
 Jane. He is contented with me and with home. 
 
 Ascham. Ah Jane ! Jane ! men of high estate grow tired 
 of contentedness. 
 
 Jane. He told me he never liked books unless I read 
 them to him: I will read them to him every evening; I 
 will open new worlds to him, richer than those discovered 
 by the Spaniard; I will conduct him to treasures — Oh 
 what treasures ! — on which he may sleep in innocence 
 and peace. 
 
 Ascham. Rather do thou walk him, ride with him, play 
 with him, be his fairy, his page, his everything that love and 
 poetry have invented : but watch him well ; sport with his 
 
44 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 fancies ; turn them about like the ringlets round his cheek ; 
 and, if ever he meditate on power, go toss up thy baby to 
 his brow, and bring back his thoughts into his heart by the 
 music of thy discourse. 
 
 Teach him to live unto God and unto thee ; and he will 
 discover that women, like the plants in woods, derive their 
 softness and tenderness from the shade. 
 
 VIII. 
 PRINCESS MARY AND PRINCESS ELIZABETH. 
 
 Mary. My dear, dear sister ! it is long, very long, since 
 we met. 
 
 Elizabeth. Methinks it was about the time they chopped 
 off our Uncle Seymour's head for him. Not that he was 
 0U7' uncle, though : he was only Edward's. 
 
 Mary. The Lord Protector, if not your uncle, was always 
 doatingly fond of you ; and he often declared to me, even 
 within your hearing, he thought you very beautiful. 
 
 Elizabeth. He said as much of you, if that is all ; and 
 he told me why : " not to vex jne,^^ — as if, instead of vexing 
 me, it would not charm me. I beseech your Highness is 
 there any thing remarkable or singular in thinking me — 
 what he thought me ? 
 
 Mary. No, indeed ; for so you are. But why call me 
 Highness., drawing back and losing half your stature in the 
 circumference of the courtesy. 
 
 Elizabeth. Because you are now, at this blessed hour, 
 my lawful Queen. 
 
 Ma7y. Hush, prithee, hush ! The Parliament has voted 
 otherwise. 
 
 Elizabeth. They would choose you. 
 
 Mary. What would they do with me .? 
 
PRINCESS MARY A AW PRINCESS ELIZABETH. 45 
 
 Elizabeth. Trump you. 
 
 Mary. I am still at a loss. 
 
 Elizabeth. Bamboozle you. 
 
 Mary. Really, my dear sister, you have been so courted 
 by the gallants, that you condescend to adopt their lan- 
 guage in place of graver. 
 
 Elizabeth. Cheat you, then : will that do 1 
 
 Mary. Comprehensibly. 
 
 Elizabeth. I always speak as the thing spoken of 
 requires. To the point. Would our father have minded 
 the caitiffs ? 
 
 Mary. Naming our father, I should have said, our 
 father now i7i bliss ; for surely he must be, having been a 
 rock of defence against the torrent of irreligion. 
 
 Elizabeth. Well ; in bliss or out, there, here, or any- 
 where, would he, royal soul ! have minded Parliament 1 No 
 such fool he. There were laws before there were parlia- 
 ments ; and there were kings before there were laws. Were 
 I in your Majesty's place (God forbid the thought should 
 ever enter my poor weak head even in a dream !)I would 
 try the mettle of my subjects : I would mount my horse, 
 and head them. 
 
 Mary. Elizabeth, you were always a better horsewoman 
 than I am : I should be ashamed to get a fall among the 
 soldiers. 
 
 Elizabeth. Pish ! pish ! it would be among knights and 
 nobles — the worst come to the worst. Lord o' mercy ! do 
 you think they never saw such a thing before .'' 
 
 Mary. I must hear of no resistance to the powers that 
 be. Beside, I am but a weak woman. 
 
 Elizabeth. I do not see why women should be weak, 
 unless they like. 
 
 Mary. Not only the Commons, but likewise the peers, 
 have sworn allegiance. 
 
46 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Elizabeth. Did you ever in your lifetime, in any chroni- 
 cle or commentary, read of any parliament that was not as 
 ready to be foresworn as to swear ? 
 
 Mary. Alas ! 
 
 Elizabeth, If ever you did, the book is a rare one, kept 
 in an out-of-the-way library, in a cedar chest all to itself, 
 with golden locks and amber seals thereto. 
 
 Mary. I would not willingly think so ill of men. 
 
 Elizabeth. For my part, I can't abide 'em. All that can 
 be said is, some are not so bad as others. You smile, and 
 deem the speech a silly and superfluous one. We may live. 
 Sister Mary, to see and acknowledge that it is not quite so 
 sure and flat a verity as it now appears to us. I never 
 come near a primrose but I suspect an adder under it ; and, 
 the sunnier the day, the more misgivings. 
 
 ■Mary. But we are now, by the settlement of the mon- 
 archy, farther out of harm's way than ever. 
 
 Elizabeth. If the wench has children to-morrow, as she 
 may have, they will inherit. 
 
 Mary. No doubt they would, 
 
 Elizabeth. No doubt ? I will doubt : and others shall 
 doubt, too. The heirs of my body — yours first — God 
 prosper them ! Parliament may be constrained to retrace 
 its steps. One half sees no harm in taking bribes ; the 
 other, no guilt in taking fright. Corruption is odious and 
 costly; but, when people have yielded to compulsion, con- 
 science is fain to acquiesce. Men say they were forced, 
 and what is done under force is invalid. 
 
 Mary. There is nothing like compulsion. 
 
 Elizabeth. Then let there be. Let the few yield to the 
 many, and all to the throne. Now is your time to stir. 
 The furnace is mere smut, and no bellows to blow the 
 embers. Parliament is without a leader. Three or four 
 turnspits are crouching to leap upon the wheel; but, while 
 
FR/iVCESS MARY AND PRINCESS ELIZABETH. 47 
 
 they are snarling and snapping one at another, what 
 becomes of the roast ? Take them by the scuff, and out 
 with 'em. The people will applaud you. They want bread 
 within doors, and honesty without. They have seen enough 
 of partisans and parliaments. 
 
 Mary. We cannot do without one. 
 
 Elizabeth. Convoke it, then ; but call it with sound of 
 trumpet. Such a body is unlikely to find a head. There is 
 little encouragement for an honest knight or gentleman to 
 take the station. The Commons slink away with lowered 
 shoulders, and bear hateful compunction against the very 
 names and memory of those braver men who, in dangerous 
 times and before stern, authoritative, warlike sovereigns, 
 supported their pretensions. Kings, who peradventure 
 would have strangled such ringleaders, well remember and 
 well respect them ; their fellows would disown their bene- 
 factors and maintainers.' Kings abominate their example; 
 clowns would efface the images on their sepulchres. What 
 forbearance on our part can such knaves expect, or what 
 succor from the people ? 
 
 Mary. What is done is done. 
 
 Elizabeth. Oftentimes it is easier to undo than to do. I 
 should rather be glad than mortified at what has been done 
 yonder. In addition to those churls and chapmen in the 
 lower House, there are also among the peers no few who 
 voted most audaciously. 
 
 Mary. The majority of them was of opinion that the 
 Lady Jane should be invested with royal state and 
 dignity. 
 
 Elizabeth. The majority ! so much the better, — so much 
 the better, say I. I would find certain folk who should 
 make sharp inquest into their title-deeds, and spell the 
 indentures syllable by syllable. Certain lands were granted 
 for certain services, which services have been neglected. I 
 
48 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 would not in such wise neglect the lands in question, but 
 annex them to my royal domains. 
 
 Mary. Sister ! sister ! you forget that the Lady Jane 
 Grey (as was) is now queen of the realm. 
 
 Elizabeth. Forget it, indeed ! The vile woman ! I am 
 minded to call her as such vile women are called out of 
 doors. 
 
 Mary. Pray, abstain ; not only forasmuch as it would 
 be unseemly in those sweet, slender, delicate lips of yours, 
 but also by reason that she is adorned with every grace and 
 virtue, bating (which, indeed, outvalues them all) the true 
 religion. Sister, I hope and believe I in this my speech have 
 given you no offence ; for your own eyes, I know, are 
 opened. Indeed, who that is not wilfully blind can err in 
 so straight a road, even if so gentle and so sure a guidance 
 were wanting ? The mind, sister, the mind itself, must be 
 crooked which deviates a hair's-breadth. Ay, that intelli- 
 gent nod would alone suffice to set my bosom quite at rest 
 thereupon. Should it not ? 
 
 Elizabeth. It were imprudent in me to declare my real 
 opinion at this juncture : we must step warily when we walk 
 among cocatrices. I am barely a saint, — indeed, far from 
 it ; and I am much too young to be a martyr. But that 
 odious monster, who pretends an affection for reformation, 
 and a reverence for learning, is counting the jewels in the 
 crown, while you fancy she is repeating her prayers or con- 
 ning her Greek. 
 
 Sister Mary, as God is in heaven, I hold nothing so detest- 
 able in a woman as hypocrisy, — add thereunto, as you 
 fairly may, avarice, man-hunting, lasciviousness. The least 
 atom of the least among these vices is heavy enough to 
 weigh down the soul to the bottomless pit. 
 
 Mary. Unless divine grace — 
 
 Elizabeth. Don't talk to me. Don't spread the filth fine. 
 
PRINCESS MARY AND PRINCESS ELIZABETH. 49 
 
 Now could not that empty fool, Dudley, have found some 
 other young person of equal rank with Mistress Jane, and 
 of higher beauty ? Not that any other such, pretty as the 
 boy is, would listen to his idle discourse. 
 
 And, pray, who are these Dudleys ? The first of them 
 was made a man of by our grandfather. And what was the 
 man, after all ? Nothing better than a huge smelting-pot, 
 with a commodious screw at the colder end of the ladle. 
 
 I have no patience with the bold harlotry. 
 
 Mary. I see you have not, sister ! 
 
 Elizabeth. No, nor have the people. They are on tip-toe 
 for rising in all parts of the kingdom. 
 
 Mary. What can they do ? God help them ! 
 
 Elizabeth. Sister Mary ! good Sister Mary ! did you say, 
 God help them ? I am trembling into a heap. It is well 
 you have uttered such words to safe and kindred ears. If 
 they should ever come whispered at the Privy Council, it 
 might end badly. 
 
 I believe my visit hath been of as long continuance as 
 may seem befitting. I must be gone. 
 
 Mary. Before your departure, let me correct a few of 
 your opinions in regard to our gentle kinswoman and most 
 gracious Queen. She hath nobly enlarged my poor alimony. 
 Look here ! to begin. 
 
 Elizabeth. What ! all golden pieces ? I have not ten 
 groats in the world. 
 
 Mary. Be sure she will grant unto you plenteously. 
 She hath condescended to advise me of her intent. Mean- 
 while, I do entreat you will take home with you the purse 
 you are stroking down, thinking about other things. 
 
 Elizabeth. Not I, not I, if it comes from such a creature. 
 
 Mary. You accept it from me. 
 
 Elizabeth. Then, indeed, unreservedly. Passing through 
 your hands^ the soil has been wiped away. However, as I 
 
50 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 live, I will carefully wash every piece in it with soap and 
 water. Do you believe they can lose any thing of their 
 weight thereby? 
 
 Mary. Nothing material. 
 
 Elizabeth. I may reflect and cogitate upon it. I would 
 not fain offer anybody light money. 
 
 Truth ! I fear the purse, although of chamois and double 
 stitched, is insufficient to sustain the weight of the gold, 
 which must be shaken violently on the road as I return. 
 Dear Sister Mary, as you probably are not about to wear that 
 head-tire, could you, commodiously to yourself, lend me it 
 awhile, just to deposit a certain part of the moneys therein ? 
 for the velvet is stout, and the Venetian netting close and 
 stiff : I can hardly bend the threads. I shall have more lei- 
 sure to admire its workmanship at home. 
 
 Mary. Elizabeth, 1 see you are grown forgiving. In the 
 commencement of our discourse, 1 suggested a slight altera- 
 tion of manner in speaking of our father. Do you pray for 
 the repose of his soul morning and night ? 
 
 Elizabeth. The doubt is injurious. 
 
 Mary. Pardon me ! I feel it. But the voices of children, 
 O Elizabeth, come to the ear of God above all other voices. 
 The best want intercession. Pray for him, Elizabeth ; pray 
 for him. 
 
 Elizabeth. Why not ? He did indeed — but he was in a 
 passion — order my mother up the three black stairs, and 
 he left her pretty head on the landing ; but I bear him no 
 malice for it. 
 
 Mary. Malice ! The baneful word hath shot up from 
 hell in many places, but never between child and parent. 
 In the space of that one span, on that single sod from Para- 
 dise, the serpent never trailed. Husband and wife were 
 severed by him, then again clashed together ; brother slew 
 brother: but parent and child stand where their Creator 
 
PRINCESS MARY AND PRINCESS ELIZABETH. 51 
 
 first placed them, and drink at the only source of pure, 
 untroubled love. 
 
 EHzabeth. Beside, you know, being King, he had clearly 
 a right to do it, plea or no plea. 
 
 Mary. We will converse no longer on so dolorous a 
 subject. 
 
 Elizabeth. I will converse on it as long as such is my 
 pleasure. 
 
 Mary. Being my visitor, you command here. 
 
 Elizabeth. I command nowhere. I am blown about like 
 a leaf : I am yielding as a feather in a cushion, only one 
 among a million. But I tell you, honestly and plainly, I do 
 not approve of it, anyhow ! It may have grown into a 
 trick and habit with him : no matter for that ; in my view of 
 the business, it is not what a husband ought to do with a 
 wife. And, if she did — but she did not ; and I say it. 
 
 Mary. It seems, indeed, severe. 
 
 Elizabeth. Yea, afore God, methinks it smacks a trifle of 
 the tart. 
 
 Mary. Our father was God's vicegerent. Probably it is 
 for the good of her soul, poor lady ! Better suffer here than 
 hereafter. We ought to kiss the rod, and be thankful. 
 
 Elizabeth. Kiss the rod, forsooth ! I have been con- 
 strained erewhile even unto that ; and no such a child nei- 
 ther. But I would rather have kissed it fresh and fair, with 
 all its buds and knots upon it, than after it had bestowed on 
 me, in such a roundabout way, such a deal of its embroidery 
 and lace-work. I thank my father for all that. I hope his 
 soul lies easier than my skin did. 
 
 Mary. The wish is kind ; but prayers would much help 
 it. Our father, of blessed memory, now (let us hope) among 
 the saints, was somewhat sore in his visitations ; but they 
 tended heavenward. 
 
 Elizabeth. Yea, when he cursed and cuffed and kicked us. 
 
52 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Mary. He did kick, poor man ! 
 
 Elizabeth. Kick ! Fifty folks, young and old, have seen 
 the marks his kicking left behind. 
 
 Mary. We should conceal all such his infirmities. They 
 arose from an irritation in the foot, whereof he died. 
 
 Elizabeth. I only know I could hardly dance or ride for 
 them ; chiefly caught, as I was, fleeing from his wrath. He 
 seldom vouchsafed to visit me : when he did, he pinched 
 my ear so bitterly I was fain to squeal. And then he said I 
 should turn out like my mother : calling me by such a name, 
 moreover, as is heard but about the kennel ; and even there 
 it is never given to the young. 
 
 Maty. There was choler in him at certain times and 
 seasons. Those who have much will, have their choler 
 excited when opposite breath blows against it. 
 
 Elizabeth. Let them have will ; let them have choler too, 
 in God's name : but it is none the better, as gout is, for 
 flying to hand or foot. 
 
 Mary. I have seen — now do, pray, forgive me — - 
 
 Elizabeth. Well, what have you seen ? 
 
 Mary. My sweet little sister lift up the most delicate of 
 all delicate white hands, and with their tiny narrow pink 
 nails tear off ruffs and caps, and take sundry unerring aims 
 at eyes and noses. 
 
 Elizabeth. Was that any impediment or hindrance to 
 riding and dancing ? I would always make people do their 
 duty, and always will. Remember (for your memory seems 
 accurate enough) that, whenever I scratched anybody's face, 
 I permitted my hand to be kissed by the offender within a 
 day or two. 
 
 Mary. Undeniable. 
 
 Elizabeth. I may, peradventure, have been hasty in my 
 childhood : but all great hearts are warm ; all good ones are 
 relenting. If, in combing my hair, the hussy lugged it, I 
 
FJ^INCESS MARY AND PRINCESS ELIZABETH. 53 
 
 obeyed God's command and referred to the lex talioiiis. I 
 have not too much of it ; and every soul on earth sees its 
 beauty. A single one would be a public loss. Uncle Sey- 
 mour — but what boots it ? There are others who can see 
 perhaps as far as Uncle Seymour. 
 
 Mary. I do remember his saying that he watched its 
 growth as he would a melon's. And how fondly did those 
 little, sharp, gray eyes of his look and wink when you 
 blushed and chided his flattery ! 
 
 Elizabeth. Never let any man dare to flatter me : I am 
 above it. Only the weak and ugly want the refreshment of 
 that perfumed fan. I take but my own ; and touch it who 
 dares ! 
 
 Really, it is pleasant to see in what a pear-form fashion 
 both purse and caul are hanging. Faith ! they are heavy : 
 I could hardly lift them from the back of the chair. 
 
 Mary. Let me call an attendant to carry them for you. 
 
 Elizabeth. Are you mad? They are unsealed, and 
 ill-tied : any one could slip his hand in. 
 
 And so that — the word was well nigh out of my mouth — 
 gave you all this gold ? 
 
 Mary. For shame ! Oh, for shame ! 
 
 Elizabeth. I feel shame only for her. It turns my cheeks 
 red, — together with some anger upon it. But I cannot keep 
 my eyes off that book — if book it may be — on which the 
 purse was lying. 
 
 Mary. Somewhat irreverently, God forgive me ! But it 
 was sent at the same time by the same fair creature, with 
 many kind words. It had always been kept in our father's 
 bedroom closet, and was removed from Edward's by those 
 unhappy men who superintended his education. 
 
 Elizabeth. She must have thought all those stones are 
 garnets : to me they look like rubies, one and all. Yet, 
 over so large a cover, they cannot all be rubies. 
 
54 IMA GIN A R V *CVNVERSA TIONS: 
 
 Mary. I believe they are ; excepting the glory in the 
 centre, which is composed of chrysolites. Our father was 
 an excellent judge in jewelry, as in every thing else; and he 
 spared no expenditure in objects of devotion. 
 
 Elizabeth. What creature could fail in devotion with an 
 object such as that before the eyes ? Let me kiss it, — 
 partly for my Saviour's and partly for my father's sake. 
 
 Mary. How it comforts me, O Elizabeth, to see you thus 
 press it to your bosom ! Its spirit, I am confident, has 
 entered there. Disregard the pebbles : take it home ; cher- 
 ish it evermore. May there be virtue, as some think there 
 is, even in the stones about it. God bless you, strengthen 
 you, lead you aright, and finally bring you to everlasting 
 glory ! 
 
 Elizabeth (^going). The Popish puss 
 
 IX. 
 
 ESSEX AND SPENSER. 
 
 Spenser. Interrogate me, my lord, that I may answer each 
 question distinctly, my mind being in sad confusion at what 
 I have seen and undergone. 
 
 Essex. Give me thy account and opinion of these very 
 affairs as thou leftest them ; for I would rather know one 
 part well than all imperfectly ; and the violences of which I 
 have heard within the day surpass belief. 
 
 Why weepest thou, my gentle Spenser ? Have the rebels 
 sacked thy house? 
 
 Spenser. They have plundered and utterly destroyed it. 
 
 Essex. I grieve for thee, and will see thee righted. 
 
 Spenser. In this they have little harmed me. 
 
 Essex. How ! I have heard it reported that thy grounds 
 are fertile, and thy mansion large and pleasant. 
 
ESSEX AND 'SPENSER. 55 
 
 Spenser. If river and lake and meadow-ground and 
 mountain could render any place the abode of pleasantness, 
 pleasant was mine, indeed ! 
 
 On the lovely banks of Mulla I found deep contentment. 
 Under the dark alders did I muse and meditate. Innocent 
 hopes were my gravest cares, and my playfullest fancy was 
 with kindly wishes. Ah ! surely of all cruelties the worst 
 is to extinguish our kindness. Mine is gone : I love the 
 people and the land no longer. My lord, ask me not about 
 them : I may speak injuriously. 
 
 Essex. Think rather, then, of thy happier hours and 
 busier occupations ; these likewise may instruct me. 
 
 Spenser. The first seeds I sowed in the garden, ere the 
 old castle was made habitable for my lovely bride, were 
 acorns from Penshurst. I planted a little oak before my 
 mansion at the birth of each child. My sons, I said to 
 myself, shall often play in the shade of them when I am 
 gone ; and every year shall they take the measure of their 
 growth, as fondly as I take theirs. 
 
 Essex. Well, well; but let not this thought make thee 
 weep so bitterly. 
 
 Spenser. Poison may ooze from beautiful plants ; deadly 
 grief from dearest reminiscences. 
 
 I 7niist grieve, I must weep : it seems the law of God, 
 and the only one that men are not disposed to contravene. 
 In the performance of this alone do they effectually aid one 
 another. 
 
 Essex. Spenser ! I wish I had at hand any arguments or 
 persuasions, of force sufficient to remove thy sorrow ; but, 
 really, I am not in the habit of seeing men grieve at any 
 thing except the loss of favour at court, or of a hawk, or of a 
 buck-hound. And were I to swear out my condolences to a 
 man of thy discernment, in the same round roll-call phrases 
 we employ with one another upon these occasions, I should 
 
56 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 be guilty, not of insincerity, but of insolence. True grief 
 hath ever something sacred in it ; and, when it visiteth a 
 wise man and a brave one, is most holy. 
 
 Nay, kiss not my hand: he whom God smiteth hath God 
 with him. In his presence what am I ? 
 
 Spenser. Never so great, my lord, as at this hour, when 
 you see aright who is greater. May he guide your counsels, 
 and preserve your life and glory ! 
 
 Essex. Where are thy friends t Are they with thee ? 
 
 Spefiser. Ah, where, indeed ! Generous, true-hearted 
 Philip ! where art thou, whose presence was unto me 
 peace and safety; whose smile was contentment, and whose 
 praise renown ? My lord ! I cannot but think of him among 
 still heavier losses : he was my earliest friend, and would 
 have taught me wisdom. 
 
 Essex. Pastoral poetry, my dear Spenser, doth not 
 require tears and lamentations. Dry thine eyes ; rebuild 
 thine house : the Queen and Council, I venture to promise 
 thee, will make ample amends for every evil thou hast sus- 
 tained. What ! does that enforce thee to wail yet louder 1 
 
 Spenser. Pardon me, bear with me, most noble heart ! 
 I have lost what no Council, no Queen, no Essex, can 
 restore. 
 
 Essex. We will see that. There are other swords, and 
 other arms to wield them, beside a Leicester's and a 
 Raleigh's. Others can crush their enemies, and serve their 
 friends. 
 
 Spenser. O my sweet child ! And of many so powerful, 
 many so wise and so beneficent, was there none to save thee ? 
 None ! none ! 
 
 Essex. I now perceive that thou lamentest what almost 
 every father is destined to lament. Happiness must be 
 bought, although the payment may be delayed. Consider ; 
 the same calamity might have befallen thee here in London. 
 
ESSEX AND SPENSER. 57 
 
 Neither the houses of ambassadors, nor the palaces of kings, 
 nor the altars of God himself, are asylums against death. 
 How do I know but under this very roof there may sleep 
 some latent calamity, that in an instant shall cover with 
 gloom every inmate of the house, and every far dependent ? 
 
 Spenser. God avert it. 
 
 Essex. Every day, every hour of the year, do hundreds 
 mourn what thou mournest. 
 
 Spenser. Oh, no, no, no ! Calamities there are around us ; 
 calamities there are all over the earth ; calamities there are 
 in all seasons : but none in any season, none in any place, 
 like mine. 
 
 Essex. So say all fathers, so say all husbands. Look at 
 any old mansion-house, and let the sun shine as gloriously 
 as it may on the golden vanes, or the arms recently quar- 
 tered over the gateway or the embayed window, and on the 
 happy pair that haply is toying at it : nevertheless, thou 
 mayest say that of a certainty the same fabric hath seen 
 much sorrow within its chambers, and heard many wailings ; 
 and each time this was the heaviest stroke of all. Funerals 
 have passed along through the stout-hearted knights upon 
 the wainscot, and amid the laughing nymphs upon the arras. 
 Old servants have shaken their heads as if somebody had 
 deceived them, when they found that beaut}^ and nobility 
 could perish. 
 
 Edmund ! the things that are too true pass by us as if they 
 were not true at all ; and when they have singled us out, then 
 only do they strike us. Thou and I must go too. Perhaps 
 the next year may blow us away with its fallen leaves.* 
 
 Spenser. For you, my lord, many years (I trust) are wait- 
 ing : I never shall see those fallen leaves. No leaf, no bud, 
 will spring upon the earth before I sink into her breast 
 for ever. 
 
 * It happened so. 
 
58 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Essex. Thou, who art wiser than most men, shouldst 
 bear with patience, equanimity, and courage what is com- 
 mon to all. 
 
 Spenser. Enough, enough, enough ! have all men seen 
 their infant burned to ashes before their eyes? 
 
 Essex. Gracious God ! Merciful Father ! what is this ? 
 
 Spenser. Burned alive ! burned to ashes ! burned to 
 ashes ! The flames dart their serpent tongues through the 
 nursery-window. I cannot quit thee, my Elizabeth ! I 
 cannot lay down our Edmund ! Oh, these fiames ! They 
 persecute, they enthrall me ; they curl round my temples ; 
 they hiss upon my brain ; they taunt me with their fierce, 
 foul voices ; they carp at me, they wither me, they consume 
 me, throwing: back to me a little of life to roll and suffer in, 
 with their fangs upon me. Ask me, my lord, the things you 
 wish to know from me : I may answer them ; I am now 
 composed again. Command me, my gracious lord ! I would 
 yet serve you : soon I shall be unable. You have stooped 
 to raise me up ; you have borne with me ; you have pitied 
 me, even like one not powerful. You have brought comfort, 
 and will leave it with me ; for gratitude is comfort. 
 
 Oh ! my memory stands all a tip-toe on one burning 
 point : when it drops from it, then it perishes. Spare me : 
 ask me nothing; let me weep before you in peace, ^ — the 
 kindest act of greatness. 
 
 Essex. I should rather have dared to mount into the 
 midst of the conflagration than I now dare entreat thee not 
 to weep. The tears that overflow thy heart, my Spenser, 
 will staunch and heal it in their sacred stream ; but not 
 without hope in God. 
 
 Spenser. My hope in God is that I may soon see again 
 what he has taken from me. Amid the myriads of angels, 
 there is not one so beautiful ; and even he (if there be any) 
 who is appointed my guardian could never love me so. 
 
LEOFRIC AND GODIVA. 59 
 
 Ah ! these are idle thoughts, vain wanderings, distempered 
 dreams. If there ever were guardian angels, he who so 
 wanted one — my helpless boy — would not have left these 
 arms upon my knees. 
 
 Essex. God help and sustain thee, too gentle Spenser ! 
 I never will desert thee. But what am I ? Great they have 
 called me ! Alas, how powerless then and infantile is great- 
 ness in the presence of calamity ! 
 
 Come, give me thy hand : let us walk up and down the 
 gallery. Bravely done ! I will envy no more a Sydney or a 
 Raleigh. 
 
 LEOFRIC AND GODIVA. 
 
 Godiva. There is a dearth in the land, my sweet Leofric ! 
 Remember how many weeks of drought we have had, even 
 in the deep pastures of Leicestershire ; and how many Sun- 
 days we have heard the same prayers for rain, and suppli- 
 cations that it would please the Lord in his mercy to turn 
 aside his anger from the poor, pining cattle. You, my dear 
 husband, have imprisoned more than one malefactor for 
 leaving his dead ox in the public way ; and other hinds 
 have fled before you out of the traces, in which they, and 
 their sons and their daughters, and haply their old fathers 
 and mothers, were dragging the abandoned wain homeward. 
 Although we were accompanied by many brave spearmen 
 and skilful archers, it was perilous to pass the creatures 
 which the farm-yard dogs, driven from the hearth by the 
 poverty of their masters, were tearing and devouring; while 
 others, bitten and lamed, filled the air either with long and 
 deep howls or sharp and quick barkings, as they struggled 
 with hunger and feebleness, or were exasperated by heat and 
 pain. Nor could the thyme from the heath, nor the bruised 
 branches of the fir-tree, extinguish or abate the foul odour. 
 
60 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Leofric. And now, Godiva, my darling, thou art afraid 
 we should be eaten up before we enter the gates of Coven- 
 try ; or perchance that in the gardens there are no roses to 
 greet thee, no sweet herbs for thy mat and piljow. 
 
 Godiva. Leofric, I have no such fears. This is the 
 month of roses : I find them everywhere since my blessed 
 marriage. They, and all other sweet herbs, I know not 
 why, seem to greet me wherever I look at them, as though 
 they knew and expected me. Surely they cannot feel that 
 I am fond of them. 
 
 Leofric. O light, laughing simpleton! But what wouldst 
 thou ? I came not hither to pray ; and yet if praying 
 would satisfy thee, or remove the drought, I would ride up 
 straightway to St. Michael's and pray until morning. 
 
 Godiva. I would do the same, O Leofric ! but God hath 
 turned away his ear from holier lips than mine. Would my 
 own dear husband hear me, if I implored him for what is 
 easier to accomplish, — what he can do like God ? 
 
 Leofric. How ! what is it ? 
 
 Godiva. I would not, in the first hurry of your wrath, 
 appeal to you, my loving Lord, in behalf of these unhappy 
 men who have offended you. 
 
 Leofric. Unhappy ! is that all ? 
 
 Godiva. Unhappy they must surely be, to have offended 
 you so grievously. What a soft air breathes over us ! how 
 quiet and serene and still an evening! how calm are the 
 heavens and the earth ! — Shall none enjoy them; not even 
 we, my Leofric? The sun is ready to set : let it never set, 
 O Leofric, on your anger. These are not my words : they 
 are better than mine. Should they lose their virtue from 
 my unworthiness in uttering them ? 
 
 Leofric. Godiva, wouldst thou plead to me for rebels? 
 
 Godiva. They have, then, drawn the sword against you ? 
 Indeed, I knew it not. 
 
LEOFRIC AND GODIVA. 61 
 
 Leofrlc. They have omitted to send me my dues, estab- 
 lished by my ancestors, well knowing of our nuptials, and 
 of the charges and festivities they require, and that in a 
 season of such scarcity my own lands are insufficient. 
 
 Godiva. If they were starving, as they said they were — 
 
 Leofric. Must I starve too ? Is it not enough to lose my 
 vassals ? 
 
 Godiva. Enough ? O God ! too much ! too much ! May 
 you never lose them ! Give them life, peace, comfort, con- 
 tentment. There are those among them who kissed me in 
 my infancy, and who blessed me at the baptismal font. 
 Leofric, Leofric ! the first old man I meet I shall think is 
 one of those ; and I shall think on the blessing he gave, 
 and (ah me !) on the blessing I bring back to him. My heart 
 will bleed, will burst ; and he will weep at it ! he will weep, 
 poor soul, for the wife of a cruel lord who denounces ven- 
 geance: on him, who carries death into his family ! 
 
 Leofric. We must hold solemn festivals. 
 
 Godiva. We must, indeed. 
 
 Leofric. Well, then ? 
 
 Godiva. Is the clamourousness that succeeds the death of 
 God's dumb creatures, are crowded halls, are slaughtered 
 cattle, festivals.? — are maddening songs, and giddy dances, 
 and hireling praises from parti-coloured coats .? Can the 
 voice of a minstrel tell us better things of ourselves than 
 our own internal one might tell us ; or can his breath make 
 our breath softer in sleep ? O my beloved ! let every thing 
 be a joyance to us : it will, if we will. Sad is the day, and 
 worse must follow, when we hear the blackbird in the gar- 
 den, and do not throb with joy. But, Leofric, the high 
 festival is strown by the servant of God upon the heart of 
 man. It is gladness, it is thanksgiving ; it is the orphan, 
 the starveling, pressed to the bosom, and bidden as its first 
 commandment to remember its benefactor. We will hold 
 
62 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 this festival ; the guests are ready : we may keep it up for 
 weeks, and months, and years together, and always be the 
 happier and the richer for it. The beverage of this feast, 
 
 Leofric, is sweeter than bee or flower or vine can 
 give us : it flows from heaven ; and in heaven will it 
 abundantly be poured out again to him who pours it out 
 here unsparingly. 
 
 Leofric. Thou art wild. 
 
 Godiva. I have, indeed, lost myself. Some Power, some 
 good kind Power, melts me (body and soul and voice) into 
 tenderness and love. O my husband, we must obey it. 
 Look upon me ! look upon me ! lift your sweet eyes from 
 the ground ! I will not cease to supplicate ; I dare not. 
 
 Leofric. We may think upon it. 
 
 Godiva. Never say that ! What ! think upon goodness 
 when you can be good ? Let not the infants cry for suste- 
 nance ! The mother of our blessed Lord will hear* them ; 
 us never, never afterward. 
 
 Leofric. Here comes the Bishop : we are but one mile 
 from the walls. Why dismountest thou.'' no bishop can 
 expect it. Godiva ! my honour and rank among men are 
 humbled by this. Earl Godwin will hear of it. Up ! up ! 
 The Bishop hath seen it : he urgeth his horse onward. Dost 
 thou not hear him now upon the solid turf behind thee ? 
 
 Godiva. Never, no, never will I rise, O Leofric, until 
 you remit this most impious tax, — this tax on hard labour, 
 on hard life. 
 
 Leofric. Turn round : look how the fat nag canters, as 
 to the tune of a sinner's psalm, slow and hard-breathing. 
 What reason or right can the people have to complain, 
 while their bishop's steed is so sleek and well caparisoned ? 
 Inclination to change, desire to abolish old usages. — Up ! 
 up ! for shame ! They shall smart for it, idlers ! Sir Bishop, 
 
 1 must blush for my young bride. 
 
LEOFRIC AND GODIVA. 63 
 
 Godiva. My husband, my husband ! will you pardon the 
 city ? 
 
 Leofric. Sir Bishop ! I could not think you would have 
 seen her in this plight Will I pardon ? Yea, Godiva, by 
 the holy rood, will I pardon the city, when thou ridest naked 
 at noontide through the streets ! 
 
 Godiva. O my dear, cruel Leofric, where is the heart 
 you gave me ? It was not so : can mine have hardened it ? 
 
 Bishop. Earl, thou abashest thy spouse ; she turneth 
 pale, and weepeth. Lady Godiva, peace be with thee. 
 
 Godiva. Thanks, holy man ! peace will be with me when 
 peace is with your city. Did you hear my Lord's cruel 
 word ? 
 
 Bishop. I did, lady. 
 
 Godiva. Will you remember it, and pray against it ? 
 
 Bishop. Wilt thou forget it, daughter 1 
 
 Godiva. I am not offended. 
 
 Bishop. Angel of peace and purity ! 
 
 Godiva. But treasure it up in your heart : deem it an 
 incense, good only when it is consumed and spent, ascend- 
 ing with prayer and sacrifice. And, now, what was it ? 
 
 Bishop. Christ save us ! that he will pardon the city 
 when thou ridest naked through the streets at noon. 
 
 Godiva. Did he not swear an oath ? 
 
 Bishop. He sware by the holy rood. 
 
 Godiva. My Redeemer, thou hast heard it ! save the city ! 
 
 Leofric. We are now upon the beginning of the pave- 
 ment : these are the suburbs. Let us think of feasting: we 
 may pray afterward ; to-morrow we shall rest. 
 
 Godiva. No judgments, then, to-morrow, Leofric? 
 
 Leofric. None : we will carouse. 
 
 Godiva. The saints of heaven have given me strength 
 and confidence ; my prayers are heard ; the heart of my 
 beloved is now softened. 
 
64 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Leofric (aside). Ay, ay — they shall smart, though. 
 
 Godiva. Say, dearest Leofric, is there indeed no other 
 hope, no other mediation ? 
 
 Leofric. I have sworn. Beside, thou hast made me redden 
 and turn my face away from thee, and all the knaves have 
 seen it : this adds to the city's crime. 
 
 Godiva. I have blushed too, Leofric, and was not rash 
 nor obdurate. 
 
 Leofric. But thou, my sweetest, art given to blushing : 
 there is no conquering it in thee. I wish thou hadst not 
 alighted so hastily and roughly : it hath shaken down a 
 sheaf of thy hair. Take heed thou sit not upon it, lest it 
 anguish thee. Well done ! it mingleth now sweetly with the 
 cloth of gold upon the saddle, running here and there, as if 
 it had life and faculties and business, and were working 
 thereupon some newer and cunninger device. O my beau- 
 teous Eve ! there is a Paradise about thee ! the world is 
 refreshed as thou movest and breathest on it. I cannot see 
 or think of evil where thou art. I could throw my arms 
 even here about thee. No signs for me ! no shaking of 
 sunbeams ! no reproof or frown or wonderment. — I will say 
 it — now, then, for worse — I could close with my kisses 
 thy half-open lips, ay, and those lovely and loving eyes, before 
 the people. 
 
 Godiva. To-morrow you shall kiss me, and they shall 
 bless you for it. I shall be very pale, for to-night I must 
 fast and pray. 
 
 Leofric. I do not hear thee ; the voices of the folk are 
 so loud under this archway. 
 
 Godiva {to herself). God help them ! good kind souls ! 
 I hope they will not crowd about me so to-morrow. O 
 Leofric ! could my name be forgotten, and yours alone 
 remembered ! But perhaps my innocence may save me 
 from reproach ; and how many as innocent are in fear and 
 
THE LADY LISLE AND ELIZABETH GAUNT 65 
 
 famine ! No eye will open on me but fresh from tears. 
 What a young mother far so large a family ! Shall my 
 youth harm me ! Under God's hand it gives me courage. 
 Ah, when will the morning come ! ah, when will the noon 
 be over ! 
 
 The story of Godiva, at one of whose festivals or fairs I was present 
 in my boyhood, has always much interested me ; and I wrote a poem on 
 it, sitting, I remember, by the square pool at Rugby. When I showed it 
 to the friend in whom I had most confidence, he began to scoff at the 
 subject; and, on his reaching the last line, his laughter was loud and 
 immoderate. This Conversation has brought both laughter and stanza 
 back to me, and the earnestness with which I entreated and implored 
 my friend not to tell the lads ; so heart-strickenly and desperately was I 
 ashamed. The verses are these, if any one else should wish another 
 laugh at me : — 
 
 In every hour, in every mood, 
 
 O lady, it is sweet and good 
 To bathe the soul in prayer ; 
 
 And, at the close of such a day, 
 
 When we have ceased to bless and pray. 
 To dream on thy long hair. 
 
 May the peppermint be still growing on the bank in that place ! 
 
 W. S. L. 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE LADY LISLE AND ELIZABETH GAUNT. 
 
 Lady Lisle. Madam, I am confident you will pardon me ; 
 for affliction teaches forgiveness. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaimt. From the cell of the condemned we 
 are going, unless my hopes mislead me, where alone we can 
 receive it. 
 
 Tell me, I beseech you, lady ! in what matter or manner 
 do you think you can have offended a poor sinner such as I 
 am. Surely we come into this dismal place for our offences ; 
 and it is not here that any can be given or taken. 
 
66 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Lady Lisle. Just now, when I entered the prison, I saw 
 your countenance serene and cheerful ; you looked upon 
 me for a time with an unaltered eye : you turned away from 
 me, as I fancied, only to utter some expressions of devotion ; 
 and again you looked upon me, and tears rolled down your 
 face. Alas that I should, by any circumstance, any action 
 or recollection, make another unhappy! Alas that I should 
 deepen the gloom in the very shadow of death ! 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. Be comforted : you have not done it. 
 Grief softens and melts and Hows away with tears. 
 
 I wept because another was greatly more wretched than 
 myself. I wept at that black attire, — at that attire of mod- 
 esty and of widowhood. 
 
 Lady Lisle. It covers a wounded, almost a broken, 
 heart, — an unworthy offering to our blessed Redeemer. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. In his name let us now rejoice ! Let 
 us offer our prayers and our thanks at once together ! We 
 may yield up our souls, perhaps, at the same hour. 
 
 L.ady Lisle. Is mine so pure ? Have I bemoaned, as I 
 should have done, the faults I have committed ? Have my 
 sighs arisen for the unmerited mercies of my God ; and not 
 rather for him, the beloved of my heart, the adviser and sus- 
 tainer I have lost? 
 
 Open, O gates of Death ! 
 
 Smile on me, approve my last action in this world, O vir- 
 tuous husband ! O saint and martyr ! my brave, compas- 
 sionate, and loving Lisle. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. And cannot you too smile, sweet lady ? 
 Are not you with him even now .'* Doth body, doth clay, 
 doth air, separate and estrange free spirits ? Bethink you 
 of his gladness, of his glory ; and begin to partake them. 
 
 Oh ! how could an Englishman, how could twelve, con- 
 demn to death — condemn to so great an evil as they thought 
 it and may find it — this innocent and helpless widow? 
 
THE LADY LISLE AND ELLZABETH GAUNT. 67 
 
 Lady Lisle. Blame not that jury! — blame not the jury 
 which brought against me the verdict of guilty. 1 was so : 
 I received in my house a wanderer who had fought under 
 the rash and giddy Monmouth. He was hungry and 
 thirsty, and 1 took him in. My Saviour had commanded, 
 my King had forbidden, it. 
 
 Yet the twelve would not have delivered me over to 
 death, unless the judge had threatened them with an accusa- 
 tion of treason in default of it. Terror made them unani- 
 mous : they redeemed their properties and lives at the 
 stated price. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. I hope, at least, the unfortunate man 
 whom you received in the hour of danger may avoid his 
 penalty. 
 
 Lady Lisle. Let us hope it. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. I, too, am imprisoned for the same 
 offence ; and I have little expectation that he who was con- 
 cealed by me hath any chance of happiness, although he 
 hath escaped. Could I find the means of conveying to him 
 a small pittance, I should leave the world the more com- 
 fortably. 
 
 Lady Lisle. Trust in God ; not in one thing or another, 
 but in all. Resign the care of this wanderer to his 
 guidance. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. He abandoned that guidance. 
 
 Lady Lisle. Unfortunate ! how can money then avail 
 him ? 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. It might save him from distress and 
 from despair, from the taunts of the hard-hearted and from 
 the inclemency of the godly. 
 
 Lady Lisle. In godliness, O my friend ! there cannot be 
 inclemency. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. You are thinking of perfection, my 
 dear lady ; and I marvel not at it, for what else hath ever 
 
68 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 occupied your thoughts ! But godliness, in almost the best 
 of us, often is austere, often uncompliant and rigid, — 
 proner to reprove than to pardon, to drag back or thrust 
 aside than to invite and help onward. 
 
 Poor man ! I never knew him before ; I cannot tell how 
 he shall endure his self-reproach, or whether it will bring 
 him to calmer thoughts hereafter. 
 
 Lady Lisle. I am not a busy idler in curiosity ; nor, if 
 I were, is there time enough left me for indulging in it ; yet 
 gladly would I learn the history of events, at the first appear- 
 ance so resembling those in mine. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. The person's name I never may dis- 
 close ; which would be the worst thing I could betray of 
 the trust he placed in me. He took refuge in my humble 
 dwelling, imploring me in the name of Christ to harbour him 
 for a season. Food and raiment were afforded him unspar- 
 ingly ; yet his fears made him shiver through them. What- 
 ever I could urge of prayer and exhortation was not 
 wanting ; still, although he prayed, he was disquieted. 
 Soon came to my ears the declaration of the King, that his 
 Majesty would rather pardon a rebel than the concealer of a 
 rebel. The hope was a faint one ; but it was a hope, 
 and I gave it him. His thanksgivings were now more 
 ardent, his prayers more humble, and oftener repeated. 
 They did not strengthen his heart : it was unpurified and 
 unprepared for them. Poor creature ! he consented with it 
 to betray me ; and I am condemned to be burned alive. 
 Can we believe, can we encourage the hope, that in his 
 weary way through life he will find those only w^ho will con- 
 ceal from him the knowledge of this execution ? Heavily, 
 too heavily, must it weigh on so irresolute and infirm a 
 breast. 
 
 Let it not move you to weeping. 
 
 Lady Lisle. It does not ; oh ! it does not. 
 
EMPRESS CA THARINE AND PRINCESS DASHKOF. 69 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. What, then ? 
 
 Lady Lisle. Your saintly tenderness, your heavenly 
 tranquillity. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. No, no : abstain ! abstain ! It was I 
 who grieved ; it was I who doubted. Let us now be firmer : 
 we have both the same rock to rest upon. See ! I shed no 
 tears, 
 
 I saved his life, an unprofitable and (I fear) a joyless 
 one ; he, by God's grace, has thrown open to me, and at an 
 earlier hour than ever I ventured to expect it, the avenue to 
 eternal bliss. 
 
 Lady Lisle. O my good angel ! that bestrewest with 
 fresh flowers a path already smooth and pleasant to me, may 
 those timorous men who have betrayed, and those misguided 
 ones who have persecuted, us, be conscious on their death- 
 beds that we have entered it ! and they too will at last find 
 rest. 
 
 XTI. 
 THE EMPRESS CATHARINE AND PRINCESS DASHKOF. 
 
 Catharine. Into his heart ! into his heart ! If he escapes, 
 we perish. 
 
 Do you think, Dashkof, they can hear me through the 
 double door ? Yes ; hark ! they heard me : they have done it. 
 
 What bubbling and gurgling ! he groaned but once. 
 
 Listen ! his blood is busier now than it ever was before. 
 I should not have thought it could have splashed so loud 
 upon the floor, although our bed, indeed, is rather of the 
 highest. 
 
 Put your ear against the lock. 
 
 Dashkof. I hear nothing. 
 
 Catharine. My ears are quicker than yours, and know 
 these notes better. Let me come, — Hear nothing ! You 
 
70 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 did not wait long enough, nor with coolness and patience. 
 There ! ■ — there again ! The drops are now like lead : every 
 half-minute they penetrate the eider-down and the mattress. 
 — How now! which of these fools has brought his dog 
 with him } What tramping and lapping ! the creature will 
 carry the marks all about the palace with his feet and 
 muzzle. 
 
 Dashkof. Oh, heavens ! 
 
 Catharine. Are you afraid ? 
 
 Dashkof. There is a horror that surpasses fear, and will 
 have none of it. I knew not this before. 
 
 Catharine. You turn pale and tremble. You should 
 have supported me, in case I had required it. 
 
 Dashkof. I thought only of the tyrant. Neither in life 
 nor in death could any one of these miscreants make me 
 tremble. But the husband slain by his wife ! — I saw not 
 into my heart ; I looked not into it, and it chastises me. 
 
 Catharine. Dashkof, are you, then, really unwell ? 
 
 Dashkof. What will Russia, what will Europe, say t 
 
 Catharine. Russia has no more voice than a whale. She 
 may toss about in her turbulence ; but my artillery (for now, 
 indeed, I can safely call it mine) shall stun and quiet her. 
 
 Dashkof. God grant — 
 
 Ccptha7'ine. I cannot but laugh at thee, my pretty Dash- 
 kof ! God grant, forsooth ! He has granted all we wanted 
 from him at present, — the safe removal of this odious 
 Peter. 
 
 Dashkof. Yet Peter loved you ; and even the worst hus- 
 band must leave, surely, the recollection of some sweet 
 moments. The sternest must have trembled, both with 
 apprehension and with hope, at the first alteration in the 
 health of his consort ; at the first promise of true union, 
 imperfect without progeny. .Then, there are thanks ren- 
 dered together to heaven, and satisfactions communicated, 
 
EMPRESS CA THARINE AND PRINCESS DASHKOE. 71 
 
 and infant words interpreted ; and when the one has failed 
 to pacify the sharp cries of babyhood, pettish and impatient 
 as sovereignty itself, the success of the other in calming it, 
 and the unenvied triumph of this exquisite ambition, and 
 the calm gazes that it wins upon it. 
 
 Catharine. Are these, my sweet friend, your lessons from 
 the Stoic school ? Are not they, rather, the pale-faced 
 reflections of some kind epithalamiast from Livonia or Bessa- 
 rabia ? Come, come away. I am to know nothing at 
 present of the deplorable occurrence. Did not you wish 
 his death ? 
 
 Dashkof. It is not his death that shocks me. 
 
 Catharine. I understand you : beside, you said as much 
 before. 
 
 Dashkof. I fear for your renown. 
 
 Catharine. And for your own good name, — ay, Dashkof ? 
 
 Dashkof. He was not, nor did I ever wish him to be, my 
 friend. 
 
 Catharine. You hated him. 
 
 Dashkof. Even hatred may be plucked up too roughly. 
 
 Cathaf'ine. Europe shall be informed of my reasons, if 
 she should ever find out that I countenanced the conspiracy. 
 She shall be persuaded that her repose made the step neces- 
 sary ; that my own life was in danger ; that I fell upon my 
 knees to soften the conspirators ; that, only when I had 
 fainted, the horrible deed was done. She knows already 
 that Peter was always ordering new exercises and uniforms ; 
 and my ministers can evince at the first audience my 
 womanly love of peace. 
 
 Dashkof. Europe may be more easily subjugated than 
 duped. 
 
 Catharine. She shall be both, God willing. 
 
 Dashkof. The majesty of thrones will seem endangered 
 by this open violence. 
 
72 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Catharine. The majesty of thrones is never in jeopardy 
 by those who sit upon them. A sovereign may cover one 
 with blood more safely than a subject can pluck a feather 
 out of the cushion. It is only when the people does the 
 violence that we hear an ill report of it. Kings poison and 
 stab one another in pure legitimacy. Do your republican 
 ideas revolt from such a doctrine .'' 
 
 Dashkof. I do not question this right of theirs, and 
 never will oppose their exercise of it. But if you prove to 
 the people how easy a matter it is to extinguish an emperor, 
 and how pleasantly and prosperously we may live after it, is 
 it not probable that they also will now and then try the 
 experiment ; particularly, if any one in Russia should here- 
 after hear of glory and honour, and how immortal are these 
 by the consent of mankind, in all countries and ages, in 
 him who releases the world, or any part of it, from a lawless 
 and ungovernable despot? The chances of escape are 
 many, and the greater if he should have no accomplices. Of 
 his renown there is no doubt at all : that is placed above 
 chance and beyond time, by the sword he hath exercised so 
 righteously. 
 
 Catharine. True ; but we must reason like democrats no 
 longer. Republicanism is the best thing we can have, when 
 we cannot have power ; but no one ever held the two 
 together. I am now autocrat. 
 
 Dashkof. Truly, then, may I congratulate you. The 
 dignity is the highest a mortal can attain. 
 
 Cathari7ie. I know and feel it. 
 
 Dashkof. I wish you always may. 
 
 Cathai'ine. I doubt not the stability of power : I can 
 make constant both fortune and love. My Dashkof smiles 
 at this conceit : she has here the same advantage, and does 
 not envy her friend even the autocracy. 
 
 Dashkof Indeed I do, and most heartily. 
 
EMPRESS CATHARINE AND PRINCESS DASHKOF. 73 
 
 Cathari7ie. How ? 
 
 Dashkof. I know very well what those intended who 
 first composed the word ; but they blundered egregiously. 
 In spite of them, it signifies power over oneself, — of all 
 power the most enviable, and the least consistent with power 
 over others. 
 
 I hope and trust there is no danger to you from any member 
 of the council-board inflaming the guards or other soldiery. 
 
 Catharine. The members of the council-board did not sit 
 at it, but upon it ; and their tactics were performed cross- 
 legged. What partisans are to be dreaded of that com- 
 mander-in-chief whose chief command is over pantaloons 
 and facings, whose utmost glory is perched on loops and 
 feathers, and who fancies that battles are to be won rather 
 by pointing the hat than the cannon ? 
 
 Dashkof. Peter was not insensible to glory; few men 
 are : but wiser heads than his have been perplexed in the 
 road to it, and many have lost it by their ardour to attain it. 
 I have always said that, unless we devote ourselves to the 
 public good, we may perhaps be celebrated ; but it is 
 beyond the power of fortune, or even of genius, to exalt us 
 above the dust. 
 
 Catharine. Dashkof, you are a sensible, sweet creature ; 
 but rather too romantic ow principle., and rather too visionary 
 on glory. I shall always both esteem and love you ; but no 
 other woman in Europe will be great enough to endure you, 
 and you will really put the men hors de co7nbat. Thinking 
 is an enemy to beauty, and no friend to tenderness. Men 
 can ill brook it one in another ; in women it renders them 
 what they would fain call "scornful" (vain assumption of 
 high prerogative !) and what you would find bestial and 
 outrageous. As for my reputation, which I know is dear to 
 you, I can purchase all the best writers in Europe with a 
 snuffbox each, and all the remainder with its contents. 
 
74 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Not a gentleman of the Academy but is enchanted by a 
 toothpick, if I deign to send it him. A briUiant makes me 
 Semiramis ; a watch-chain, Venus ; a ring, Juno. Voltaire is 
 my friend. 
 
 Dashkof. He was Frederick's. 
 
 Cathai'me. I shall be the Fucelle of Russia. No ! I had 
 forgotten : he has treated her scandalously. 
 
 Dashkof. Does your Majesty value the flatteries of a 
 writer who ridicules the most virtuous and glorious of his 
 nation ; who crouched before that monster of infamy, 
 Louis XV. ; and that worse monster, the king his prede- 
 cessor ? He reviled, with every indignity and indecency, 
 the woman who rescued France ; and who alone, of all that 
 ever led the armies of that kingdom, made its conquerors 
 — the English — tremble. Its monarchs and marshals 
 cried and ran like capons, flapping their fine crests from 
 wall to wall, and cackling at one breath defiance and sur- 
 render. The village girl drew them back into battle, and 
 placed the heavens themselves against the enemies of 
 Charles. She seemed supernatural : the English recruits 
 deserted ; they would not fight against God. 
 
 Catka?^me. Fools and bigots ! 
 
 Dashkof. The whole world contained none other, except- 
 ing those who fed upon them. The Maid of Orleans was 
 pious and sincere : her life asserted it : her death confirmed 
 it. Glory to her, Catharine, if you love glory. Detestation 
 to him who has profaned the memory of this most holy 
 martyr, — the guide and avenger of her king, the redeemer 
 and saviour of her country. 
 
 Catharine. Be it so ; but Voltaire buoys me up above 
 some impertinent, troublesome qualms. 
 
 Dashkof If Deism had been prevalent in Europe, he 
 would have been the champion of Christianity ; and, if the 
 French had been Protestants, he would have shed tears 
 
EMPRESS CA THARINE AND PRINCESS DASHK'OE. 75 
 
 upon the papal slipper. He buoys up no one ; for he gives 
 no one hope. He may amuse : dulness itself must be 
 amused, indeed, by the versatility and brilliancy of his wit. 
 
 Catharine. While I was meditating on the great action 
 T have now so happily accomplished, I sometimes thought 
 his wit feeble. This idea, no doubt, originated from the 
 littleness of every thing in comparison with my undertaking. 
 
 Dashkof. Alas ! we lose much when we lose the capacity 
 of being delighted by men of genius, and gain little when 
 we are forced to run to them for incredulity. 
 
 Catharine. I shall make some use of my philosopher at 
 Ferney. I detest him as much as you do ; but where will 
 you find me another who writes so pointedly ? You really, 
 then, fancy that people care for truth? Innocent Dashkof ! 
 Believe me, there is nothing so delightful in life as to find a 
 liar in a person of repute. Have you never heard good 
 folks rejoicing at it.'' Or, rather, can you mention to me 
 any one who has not been in raptures when he could com- 
 municate such glad tidings ? The goutiest man would go 
 on foot without a crutch to tell his friend of it at midnight ; 
 and would cross the Neva for the purpose, when he doubted 
 whether the ice would bear him. Men, in general, are so 
 weak in truth, that they are obliged to put their bravery 
 under it to prop it. Why do they pride themselves, think 
 you, on their courage, when the bravest of them is by many 
 degrees less courageous than a mastiif-bitch in the straw? 
 It is only that they may be rogues without hearing it, and 
 make their fortunes without rendering an account of them. 
 
 Now we chat again as we used to do. Your spirits and 
 your enthusiasm have returned. Courage, my sweet Dash- 
 kof ; do not begin to sigh again. We never can want 
 husbands while we are young and lively. Alas ! I cannot 
 always be so. Heigho ! But serfs and preferment will do : 
 none shall refuse me at ninety, — Paphos or Tobolsk. 
 
76 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Have not you a song for me ? 
 
 Dashkof. German or Russian? 
 
 Catharine. Neither, neither. Some frightful word might 
 drop — might remind me — no, nothing shall remind me. 
 French, rather : French songs are the liveliest in the world. 
 
 Is the rouge off my face .'' 
 
 Dashkof. It is rather in streaks and mottles ; excepting 
 just under the eyes, where it sits as it should do. 
 
 Catharine. I am heated and thirsty : I cannot imagine 
 how. I think we have not yet taken our coffee. Was it so 
 strong ? What am I dreaming of t I could eat only a slice 
 of melon at breakfast ; my duty urged me then, and dinner 
 is yet to come. Remember, I am to faint at the midst of it 
 when the intelligence comes in, or rather when, in despite 
 of every effort to conceal it from me, the awful truth has 
 flashed upon my mind. Remember, too, you are to catch 
 me, and to cry for help, and to tear those fine flaxen hairs 
 which we laid up together on the toilet ; and we are both 
 to be as inconsolable as we can be for the life of us. Not 
 now, child, not now. Come, sing. I know not how to fill 
 up the interval. Two long hours yet ! — how stupid and tire- 
 some ! I wish all things of the sort could be done and be 
 over in a day. They are mightily disagreeable when by 
 nature one is not cruel. People little know my character. 
 I have the tenderest heart upon earth. I am courageous, 
 but I am full of weaknesses. I possess in perfection the 
 higher part of men, and — to a friend I may say it — the 
 most amiable part of women. Ho, ho ! at last you smile : 
 now, your thoughts upon that. 
 
 Dashkof. I have heard fifty men swear it. 
 
 Catharine. They lied, the knaves ! I hardly knew them 
 by sight. We were talking of the sad necessity. — Ivan 
 must follow next : he is heir to the throne. I have a wild, 
 impetuous, pleasant \\\XX^ protege, who shall attempt to rescue 
 
JOHN OF GAUNT AND JOANNA OF KENT. 77 
 
 him. I will have him persuaded and incited to it, and 
 assured of pardon on the scaifold. He can never know the 
 trick we play him ; unless his head, like a bottle of Bor- 
 deaux, ripens its contents in the sawdust. Orders are given 
 that Ivan be dispatched at the first disturbance in the pre- 
 cincts of the castle ; in short, at the fire of the sentry. But 
 not now, — another time : two such scenes together, and 
 without some interlude, would perplex people. 
 
 I thought we spoke of singing : do not make me wait, my 
 dearest creature ! Now cannot you sing as usual, without 
 smoothing your dove's-throat with your handkerchief, and 
 taking off your necklace ? Give it me, then ; give it me. 
 I will hold it for you : I must play with something. 
 
 Sing, sing ; I am quite impatient. 
 
 XIII. 
 JOHN OF GAUNT AND JOANNA OF KENT. 
 
 Joanna. How is this, my cousin, that you are besieged 
 in your own house, by the citizens of London ? I thought 
 you were their idol. 
 
 Gaunt. If their idol, madam, I am one which they may 
 tread on as they list when down ; but which, by my soul 
 and knighthood ! the ten best battle-axes among them shall 
 find it hard work to unshrine. 
 
 Pardon me : I have no right perhaps to take or touch 
 this hand ; yet, my sister, bricks and stones and arrows are 
 not presents fit for you. Let me conduct you some paces 
 hence. 
 
 Joanna. I will speak to those below in the street. Quit 
 my hand : they shall obey me. 
 
 Gaunt. If you intend to order my death, madam, your 
 guards who have entered my court, and whose spurs and 
 halberts I hear upon the staircase, may overpower my 
 
78 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 domestics ; and, seeing no such escape as becomes my dig- 
 nity, I submit to you. Behold my sword at your feet ! 
 Some formalities, I trust, will be used in the proceedings 
 against me. Entitle me, in my attainder, not John of Gaunt, 
 not Duke of Lancaster, not King of Castile ; nor commem- 
 orate my father, the most glorious of princes, the vanquisher 
 and pardoner of the most powerful ; nor style me, what 
 those who loved or who flattered me did when I was hap- 
 pier, cousin to the Fair Maid of Kent. Joanna, those days 
 are over ! But no enemy, no law, no eternity can take away 
 from me, or move further off, my affinity in blood to the 
 conqueror in the field of Crecy, of Poitiers, and Najora. 
 Edward was my brother when he was but your cousin : and 
 the edge of my shield has clinked on his in many a battle. 
 Yes, we were ever near, — if not in worth, in danger. 
 
 Joa7ina. Attainder ! God avert it ! Duke of Lancaster, 
 what dark thought — alas! that the Regency should have 
 known it ! I came hither, sir, for no such purpose as to 
 ensnare or incriminate or alarm you. 
 
 These weeds might surely have protected me from the 
 fresh tears you have drawn forth. 
 
 Gaunt. Sister, be comforted ! this visor, too, has felt 
 them. 
 
 Joanna. O my Edward ! my own so lately ! Thy mem- 
 ory—thy beloved image — which never hath abandoned 
 me, makes me bold : I dare not say "generous ;" for in say- 
 ing it I should cease to be so, — and who could be called 
 generous by the side of thee ? I will rescue from perdition 
 the enemy of my son. 
 
 Cousin, you loved your brother. Love, then, what was 
 dearer to him than his life : protect what he, valiant as you 
 have seen him, cannot ! The father, who foiled so many, 
 hath left no enemies ; the innocent child, who can injure no 
 one, finds them. 
 
JOHN OF GAUNT AND JOANNA OF KENT. 79 
 
 Why have you unlaced and laid aside your visor ? Do 
 not expose your body to those missiles. Hold your shield 
 before yourself, and step aside. I need it not. I am 
 resolved — 
 
 Gaunt. On what, my cousin ? Speak, and by the Lord ! 
 it shall be done. This breast is your shield ; this arm is 
 mine. 
 
 Joa?ina. Heavens ! who could have hurled those masses 
 of stone from below ? they stunned me. Did they descend 
 all of them together ; or did they split into fragments on 
 hitting the pavement ? 
 
 Gaunt. Truly, I was not looking that way : they came, I 
 must believe, while you were speaking. 
 
 Joanna. Aside, aside ! further back ! disregard me I 
 Look ! that last arrow sticks half its head deep in the wain- 
 scot. It shook so violently I did not see the feather at first. 
 
 No, no, Lancaster ! I will not permit it. Take your 
 shield up again ; and keep it all before you. Now step 
 aside : I am resolved to prove whether the people will hear 
 me. 
 
 Gaimt. Then, madam, by your leave — 
 
 Joanna. Hold! forbear! Come hither! hither, — not 
 forward. 
 
 Gaunt. Villains ! take back to your kitchen those spits 
 and skewers that you forsooth would fain call swords and 
 arrows ; and keep your bricks and stones for your graves ! 
 
 Joaima. Imprudent man ! who can save you ? I shall 
 be frightened : I must speak at once. 
 
 O good kind people ! ye who so greatly loved me, when I 
 am sure I had done nothing to deserve it, have I (imhappy 
 me !) no merit with you now, when I would assuage your 
 anger, protect your fair fame, and send you home contented 
 with yourselves and me ? Who is he, worthy citizens, whom 
 ye would drag to slaughter ? 
 
80 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 True, indeed, he did revile some one. Neither I nor you 
 can say whom, — some feaster and rioter, it seems, who had 
 little right (he thought) to carry sword or bow, and who, to 
 show it, hath slunk away. And then another raised his 
 anger : he was indignant that, under his roof, a woman 
 should be exposed to stoning. Which of you would not be 
 as choleric in a like affront ? In the house of which amons: 
 you, should I not be protected as resolutely 1 
 
 No, no : I never can believe those angry cries. Let none 
 ever tell me again he is the enemy of my son, of his king, 
 your darling child, Richard. Are your fears more lively 
 than a poor weak female's? than a mother's? yours, whom 
 he hath so often led to victory, and praised to his father, 
 naming each, — he, John of Gaunt, the defender of the 
 helpless, the comforter of the desolate, the rallying signal of 
 the desperately brave ! 
 
 Retire, Duke of Lancaster ! This is no time — 
 
 Gaunt. Madam, I obey ; but not through terror of that 
 puddle at the house-door, which my handful of dust would 
 dry up. Deign to command me ! 
 Joanna. In the name of my son, then, retire ! 
 
 Gaunt. Angelic goodness ! I must fairly win it. 
 Joanna. I think I know his voice that crieth out, " Who 
 will answer for him ? " An honest and loyal man's, one who 
 would counsel and save me in any difficulty and danger. 
 With what pleasure and satisfaction, with what perfect joy 
 and confidence, do I answer our right-trusty and well- 
 judging friend ! 
 
 " Let Lancaster bring his sureties," say you, " and we 
 separate." A moment yet before we separate ; if I might 
 delay you so long, to receive your sanction of those sureties : 
 for, in such grave matters, it would ill become us to be over- 
 hasty. I could bring fifty, I could bring a hundred, not 
 from among soldiers, not from among courtiers; but selected 
 
JOHN OF GAUNT AND JOANNA OF KENT. 81 
 
 from yourselves, were it equitable and fair to show such 
 partialities, or decorous in the parent and guardian of a 
 king to offer any other than herself. 
 
 Raised by the hand of the Almighty from amidst you, 
 but still one of you, if the mother of a family is a part of 
 it, here I stand surety for John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancas- 
 ter, for his loyalty and allegiance. 
 
 Gaunt {i-iinniug to'ward Joatina). Are the rioters, then, 
 bursting into the chamber through the windows ? 
 
 Joanna. The windows and doors of this solid edifice 
 rattled and shook at the people's acclamation. My word is 
 given for you : this was theirs in return. Lancaster ! what 
 a voice have the people when they speak out ! It shakes 
 me with astonishment, almost with consternation, while it 
 establishes the throne : what must it be when it is lifted up 
 in vengeance ! 
 
 Gaunt. Wind; vapour — 
 
 Joanna. Which none can wield nor hold. Need I say 
 this to my cousin of Lancaster t 
 
 Gaunt. Rather say, madam, that there is always one 
 star above which can tranquillize and control them. 
 
 Joantia. Go, cousin ! another time more sincerity ! 
 
 Gaunt. You have this day saved my life from the people ; 
 for I now see my danger better, when it is no longer close 
 before me. My Christ ! if ever I forget — 
 
 Joanna. Swear not : every man in England hath sworn 
 what you would swear. But if you abandon my Richard, 
 my brave and beautiful child, may — Oh! I could never 
 curse, nor wish an evil ; but, if you desert him in the 
 hour of need, you will think of those who have not deserted 
 you, and your own great heart will lie heavy on you, 
 Lancaster ! 
 
 Am I graver than I ought to be, that you look dejected t 
 Come, then, gentle cousin, lead me to my horse, and accom- 
 
82 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 pany me home. Richard will embrace us tenderly. Every 
 one is dear to every other upon rising out fresh from peril ; 
 affectionately then will he look, sweet boy, upon his mother 
 and his uncle ! Never mind how many questions he may 
 ask you, nor how strange ones. His only displeasure, if he 
 has any, will be that he stood not against the rioters or 
 among them. 
 
 Gaunt. Older than he have been as fond of mischief, 
 and as fickle in the choice of a party. 
 
 I shall tell him that, coming to blows, the assailant is 
 often in the right ; that the assailed is always. 
 
 XIV. 
 TANCREDI AND CONSTANTIA. 
 
 CoJistantia. Is this in mockery, sir? Do you place me 
 under a canopy, and upon what (no doubt) you presume to 
 call a throne, for derision ? 
 
 Ta7icredi. Madonna, if it never were a throne before, 
 henceforward let none approach it but with reverence. The 
 greatest, the most virtuous, of queens and empresses (it 
 were indecorous in such an inferior as I am to praise in 
 your presence aught else in you that raises men's admira- 
 tion) leaves a throne for homage wherever she has rested. 
 
 Constantia. Count Tancredi ! your past conduct ill accords 
 with your present speech. Your courtesy, great as it is, 
 would have been much greater, if you yourself had taken me 
 captive, and had not turned your horse and rode back, on 
 purpose that villanous hands might seize me. 
 
 Tancredi. Knightly hands (I speak it with all submis- 
 sion) are not villanous. I could not in my heart command 
 you to surrender ; and I would not deprive a brave man, a 
 man distinguished for deference and loyalty, of the pleasure 
 
TA NCR EDI AND CONSTANTIA. 83 
 
 he was about to enjoy in encountering your two barons. I 
 am confident he never was discourteous. 
 
 Constantia. He was ; he took my horse's bridle by the 
 bit, turned his back on me, and would not let me go. 
 
 Tancredi. War sometimes is guilty of such enormities, 
 and even worse. 
 
 Constantia. I would rather have surrendered myself to 
 the most courageous knight in Italy. 
 
 Tanc7'edi. Which may that be? 
 
 Constantia. By universal consent, Tancredi, Count of 
 Lecce. 
 
 Tancredi. To possess the highest courage is but small 
 glory ; to be without it is a great disgrace. 
 
 Constantia. Loyalty, not only to ladies, but to princes, is 
 the true and solid foundation of it. Count of Lecce ! am I 
 not the daughter of your king .? 
 
 Tancredi. I recognise in the Lady Constantia the 
 daughter of our late sovereign lord, King William, of glo- 
 rious memory. 
 
 Constantia. Recognise, then, your Queen. 
 
 Tancredi. Our laws, and the supporters of these laws, 
 forbid it. 
 
 Constantia. Is that memory a glorious one, as you call 
 it, which a single year is sufficient to erase ? And did not 
 my father nominate me his heir ? 
 
 Tancredi. A kingdom is not among the chattels of a 
 king. A people is paled within laws, and not within parks 
 and chases : the powerfullest have no privilege to sport in 
 that enclosure. The barons of the realm and the knights 
 and the people assembled in Palermo, and there by accla- 
 mation called and appointed me to govern the State. Cer- 
 tainly, the Lady Constantia is nearer to the throne in blood, 
 and much worthier : I said so then. The unanimous reply 
 was, that Sicily should be independent of all other lands, 
 
84 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 and that neither German kings nor Roman emperors should 
 control her. 
 
 Constantia. You must be aware, sir, that an armed 
 resistance to the Emperor is presumptuous and traitorous. 
 
 Tana-edi. He has carried fire and sword into my coun- 
 try, and has excited the Genoese and Pisans — men speaking 
 the same language as ourselves — to debark on our coasts, 
 to demolish our villages, and to consume our harvests. 
 
 Constantia. Being a sovereign, he possesses the un- 
 doubted right. 
 
 Tancredi. Being a Sicilian, I have no less a right to 
 resist him. 
 
 Constantia. Right? Do rights appertain to vassals? 
 
 Tancredi. Even to them; and this one particularly. Were 
 I still a vassal, I should remember that I am a king by 
 election, by birth a Sicilian, and by descent a Norman. 
 
 Constantia. All these fine titles give no right whatever to 
 the throne, from which an insuperable bar precludes you. 
 
 Tancredi. What bar can there be which my sword and my 
 people's love are unable to bear down ? 
 
 Cofistantia. Excuse my answer. 
 
 Tancredi. Deign me one, I entreat you, Madonna ; 
 although the voice of my country may be more persuasive 
 with me even than yours. 
 
 Constantia. Count Lecce, you are worthy of all honour, 
 excepting that alone which can spring only from lawful 
 descent. 
 
 Tancredi. My father was the first-born of the Norman 
 conqueror. King of Sicily; my mother, in her own right, 
 Countess of Lecce. I have no reason to blush at my birth ; 
 nor did ever the noble breast which gave me nourishment 
 heave with a sense of ignominy as she pressed me to it. 
 She thought the blessing of the poor equivalent to the 
 blessing of the priest. 
 
TANCREDI AND CONSTANT/A. 85 
 
 Constantia. I would not refer to her ungently ; but she 
 by her alliance set at nought our Holy Father. 
 
 Taiicredi. In all her paths, in all her words and actions, 
 she obeyed him. 
 
 Constantia. Our Holy Father ? 
 
 Tancredi. Our holiest, our only holy one, — " our Father 
 which art in heaven." She wants no apology : precedent 
 is nothing ; but remember our ancestors — I say ours ; for 
 I glory in the thought that they are the same, and so near. 
 Among the early dukes of Normandy, vanquishers of 
 France, and (what is greater) conquerors of England, fewer 
 were born within the pale of wedlock than without. Never- 
 theless, the ladies of our nation were always as faithful to 
 love and duty as if hoods and surplices and psalms had 
 gone before them, and the Church had been the vestibule to 
 the bedchamber. 
 
 Constantia. My cousin the Countess was irreproachable, and 
 her virtues have rendered you as popular as your exploits. 
 
 Who is this pretty boy, who holds down his head so, with 
 the salver in his hand ? 
 
 Tancredi. He is my son. 
 
 Constantia. Why, then, does he kneel before me "i 
 
 Tancredi. To teach his father his duty. 
 
 Constantia. You acknowledge the rights of my husband ? 
 
 Tancredi. To a fairer possession than fair Sicily. 
 
 Constantia. I must no longer hear this language. 
 
 Tancredi. I utter it from the depths of a heart as pure as 
 the coldest. 
 
 Constantia (to the boy). Yes, my sweet child, I accept the 
 refreshments you have been holding so patiently and present 
 so gracefully. But you should have risen from your knees : 
 such a posture is undue to a captive. 
 
 Boy. Papa ! what did the lady say ? Do you ever make 
 ladies captives ? 
 
86 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 {To Constantia.) Run away ! I will hold his hands for 
 him. 
 
 Consta7itia. I intend to run away ; but you are quite as 
 dangerous as your father. Count, you must name my 
 ransom. 
 
 Tancredi. Madonna, I received it when you presented 
 your royal hand to my respectful homage. The barons who 
 accompanied you are mounted at the door, in order to 
 reconduct you ; and the most noble and the most venerable 
 of mine will be proud of the same permission. 
 
 Constantia. I also am a Sicilian, Tancredi ! I also am 
 sensible to the glories of the Norman race. Never shall 
 my husband, if I have any influence over him, be the enemy 
 of so courteous a knight. I could almost say. Prosper ! 
 prosper ! for the defence, the happiness, the example, of our 
 Sicily. 
 
 Tancredi. We may be deprived of territory and power, 
 but never of knighthood. The brave alone can merit it ; 
 the brave alone can confer it ; the recreant alone can lose 
 it. So long as there is Norman blood in my veins, I am a 
 knight ; and our blood and our knighthood are given us to 
 defend the sex. — Insensate ! I had almost said the 
 weaker ! and with your eyes before me ! 
 
 Constantia. He cannot be a rebel, nor a false, bad man. 
 
 Tancredi. Lady, the sword which I humbly lay at your 
 feet was, a few years ago, a black misshapen mass of metal : 
 the gold that surrounds it, the jewel that surmounts it, the 
 victories it hath gained, constitute now its least value ; it 
 owes the greatest to its position. 
 
THE MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 87 
 
 XV. 
 
 THE MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 
 
 Agnes. If a boy could ever be found so beautiful and so 
 bashful, I should have taken you for a boy about fifteen 
 years old. Really and without flattery, I think you very 
 lovely. 
 
 Jeanne. I hope I shall be greatly more so. 
 
 Agnes. Nay, nay : do not expect to improve, except a 
 little in manner. Manner is the fruit, blushes are the blos- 
 som : these must fall off before the fruit sets. 
 
 Jeanne. By God's help, I may be soon more comely in 
 the eyes of men. 
 
 Agnes. Ha, ha ! even in piety there is a spice of vanity. 
 The woman can only cease to be the woman when angels 
 have disrobed her in Paradise. 
 
 Jeanne. I shall be far from loveliness, even in my own 
 eyes, until I execute the will of God in the deliverance of 
 his people. 
 
 Agnes. Never hope it. 
 
 Jeanne. The deliverance that is never hoped, seldom 
 comes. We conquer by hope and trust. 
 
 Agnes. Be content to have humbled the proud islanders. 
 Oh, how I rejoice that a mere child has done so ! 
 
 Jeanne. A child of my age, or younger, chastised the 
 Philistines, and smote down the giant their leader. 
 
 Agnes. But Talbot is a giant of another mould : his will 
 is immovable ; his power is irresistible ; his word of com- 
 mand is, Conquer. 
 
 Jeanjie. It shall be heard no longer. The tempest of 
 battle drowns it in English blood. 
 
 Agnes. Poor simpleton ! The English will recover from 
 the stupor of their fright, believing thee no longer to be a 
 
88 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 sorceress. Did ever sword or spear intimidate them? 
 Hast thou never heard of Crecy ? Hast thou never heard 
 of Agincourt ? Hast thou never heard of Poitiers, where 
 the chivalry of France was utterly vanquished by sick and 
 starving men, one against five ? The French are the eagle's 
 plume ; the English are his talon. 
 
 Jeanne. The talon and the plume shall change places. 
 
 Agnes. Too confident ! 
 
 Jeanne. O lady ! is any one too confident in God t 
 
 Agnes. We may mistake his guidance. Already, not 
 only the whole host of the English, but many of our wisest 
 and most authoritative Churchmen, believe you on their 
 consciences to act under the instigation of Satan. 
 
 Jeanne. What country or what creature has the Evil One 
 ever saved ? With what has he tempted me ? — with 
 reproaches, with scorn, with weary days, with slumberless 
 nights, with doubts, distrusts, and dangers, with absence 
 from all who cherish me, with immodest, soldierly language, 
 and perhaps an untimely and a cruel death. 
 
 Agnes. But you are not afraid. 
 
 Jeanne. Healthy and strong, yet always too timorous, a 
 few seasons ago I fled away from the lo wings of a young 
 steer, if he ran opposite ; I awaited not the butting of a 
 full-grown kid ; the barking of a house-dog at our neigh- 
 bour's gate turned me pale as ashes ; and (shame upon me !) 
 I scarcely dared kiss the child, when he called on me with 
 burning tongue in the pestilence of a fever. 
 
 Agnes. No wonder ! A creature in a fever ! what a 
 frightful thing ! 
 
 Jeanne. It would be, were it not so piteous. 
 
 Agnes. And did you kiss it? Did you really kiss the lips? 
 
 Jeajme. I fancied mine would refresh them a little. 
 
 Agnes. And did they? I should have thought mine 
 could do but trifling good in such cases. 
 
THE MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 89 
 
 Jeanne. Alas ! when I believed 1 had quite cooled them, 
 it was death had done it. 
 
 Agnes. i\h ! this is courage. 
 
 Jeanne. The courage of the weaker sex, inherent in us 
 all, but as deficient in me as in any until an infant taught 
 me my duty by its cries. Yet never have I quailed in the 
 front of the fight, where I directed our ranks against the 
 bravest. God pardon me, if I err ! but I believe his Spirit 
 flamed within my breast, strengthened my arm, and led me 
 on to victory. 
 
 Ag?ies. Say not so, or they will burn thee alive, poor 
 child ! 
 
 Why fallest thou before me ? I have some power,'indeed ; 
 but in this extremity I could little help thee : the priest 
 never releases the victim. 
 
 What ! how ! thy countenance is radiant with a heavenly 
 joy : thy humility is like an angel's at the feet of God ; I 
 am unworthy to behold it. 
 
 Rise, Jeanne, rise ! 
 
 Jeanne. Martyrdom too ! The reward were too great for 
 such an easy and glad obedience. France will become just 
 and righteous ; France will praise the Lord for her 
 deliverance. 
 
 Agnes. Sweet enthusiast ! I am confident, I am certain, 
 of thy innocence. 
 
 Jeanne. O Lady Agnes ! 
 
 Agnes. Why fixest thou thy eyes on me so piteously ? 
 Why sobbest thou, — thou, to whom the representation of 
 an imminent death to be apprehended for thee left 
 untroubled, joyous, exulting ? Speak ; tell me. 
 
 Jeanne. I must. This also is commanded me. You 
 believe me innocent? 
 
 Agnes. In truth, I do ; why, then, look abashed ? Alas ! 
 alas ! could I mistake the reason ? I spoke of innocence ! 
 
90 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Leave me, leave me. Return another time. Follow thy 
 vocation. 
 
 Jeanne. Agnes Sorel ! be thou more than innocent, if 
 innocence is denied thee. In the name of the Almighty, I 
 call on thee to earn his mercy. 
 
 Agnes. I implore it incessantly, by day, by night. 
 
 Jeanne. Serve him as thou mayest best serve him ; and 
 thy tears, I promise thee, shall soon be less bitter than 
 those which are dropping on this jewelled hand, and on the 
 rude one which has dared to press it. 
 
 Agnes. What can I, — what can I do ? 
 
 Jeanne. Lead the King back to his kingdom. 
 
 Agnes. The King is in France. 
 
 Jeanne. No, no, no ! 
 
 Agfies. Upon my word of honour. 
 
 Jeanne. And at such a time, O Heaven ! in idleness and 
 sloth ? 
 
 Agnes. Indeed, no. He is busy (this is the hour) in 
 feeding and instructing two young hawks. Could you but 
 see the little miscreants, how they dare to bite and claw and 
 tug at him ! He never hurts or scolds them for it ; he is so 
 good-natured : he even lets them draw blood ; he is so very 
 brave ! 
 
 Running away from France ! Who could have raised 
 such a report ? Indeed, he is here. He never thought of 
 leaving the country ; and his affairs are becoming more and 
 more prosperous ever since the battle. Can you not take my 
 asseverations? Must I say it? he is now in this very house. 
 
 Jeanne. Then, not in France. In France, all love their 
 country. Others of our kings, old men tell us, have been 
 captives ; but less ignominiously. Their enemies have 
 respected their misfortunes and their honour. 
 
 Ag7ies. The English have always been merciful and 
 generous. 
 
THE MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 91 
 
 Jeanne. And will you be less generous, less merciful ? 
 
 Agfies. I ? 
 
 Jean7ie. You ; the beloved of Charles. 
 
 Agnes. This is too confident. No, no, do not draw 
 back ; it is not too confident : it is only too reproachful. 
 But your actions have given you authority. I have, never- 
 theless, a right to demand of you what creature on earth I 
 have ever treated ignominiously or unkindly. 
 
 Jeaniie. Your beloved ; your King. 
 
 Agnes. Never. I owe to him all I have, all I am. 
 
 Jeaime. Too true ! But let him in return owe to you, O 
 Lady Agnes, eternal happiness, eternal glory. Condescend 
 to labour with the humble handmaiden of the Lord, in fixing 
 his throne and delivering his people. 
 
 Ag7ies. I cannot fight ; I abominate war. 
 
 Jeanne. Not more than I do ; but men love it. 
 
 Agnes. Too much. 
 
 Jeanne. Often too much, for often unjustly. But when 
 God's right hand is visible in the vanguard, we who are 
 called must follow. 
 
 Agnes. I dare not ; indeed, I dare not. 
 
 Jeanne. You dare not } — you who dare withhold the 
 King from his duty ! 
 
 Agnes. We must never talk of their duties to our 
 princes. 
 
 Jeanne. Then, we omit to do much of our own. It is 
 now mine ; but, above all, it is yours. 
 
 Agnes. There are learned and religious men who might 
 more properly. 
 
 Jeanne. Are these learned and religious men in the 
 court .? Pray tell me : since, if they are, seeing how poorly 
 they have sped, I may peradventure, however unwillingly, 
 however blamably, abate a little of my reverence for learn- 
 ing, and look for pure religion in lower places. 
 
92 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Agnes. They are modest ; and they usually ask of me in 
 what manner they may best please their master. 
 
 Jeanne. They believe, then, that your affection is propor- 
 tional to the power you possess over him. I have heard 
 complaints that it is usually quite the contrary. But can 
 such great men be loved ? And do you love him ? Why 
 do you sigh so ? 
 
 Agnes. Life is but sighs; and, when they cease, 'tis 
 over. 
 
 Jeanne. Now deign to answer me : do you truly love 
 him ? 
 
 Agnes. From my soul, and above it. 
 
 Jeanne. Then, save him ! 
 
 Lady, I am grieved at your sorrow, although it will here- 
 after be a source of joy unto you. The purest water runs 
 from the hardest rock. Neither worth nor wisdom come 
 without an effort ; and patience and piety and salutary 
 knowledge spring up and ripen from under the harrow of 
 affliction. Before there is wine or there is oil, the grape 
 must be trodden and the olive must be pressed. 
 
 I see you are framing in your heart the resolution. 
 
 Agnes. My heart can admit nothing but his image. 
 
 Jeanne. It must fall thence at last. 
 
 Agnes. Alas ! alas ! Time loosens man's affections. I 
 may become unworthy. In the sweetest flower there is 
 much that is not fragrance, and which transpires when the 
 freshness has passed away. 
 
 Alas, if he should ever cease to love me ! 
 
 Jeanne. Alas, if God should ! 
 
 Agnes. Then, indeed, he might afflict me with so grievous 
 a calamity. 
 
 Jeanne. And none worse after ? 
 
 Agnes. What can there be ? 
 
 O Heaven ! mercy! mercy! 
 
THE MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 93 
 
 Jeanne. Resolve to earn it : one hour suffices. 
 
 Agnes. I am lost. Leave me, leave me. 
 
 Jeanne. Do we leave the lost ? Are they beyond our 
 care .? Remember who died for them, and them only. 
 
 Agnes. You subdue me. Spare me : I would only collect 
 my thoughts. 
 
 Jeanne. Cast them away. Fresh herbage springs from 
 under the withered. Be strong ; and, if you love, be gener- 
 ous. Is it more glorious to make a captive than to redeem 
 one ? 
 
 Agnes. Is he in danger,? Oh ! — you see all things — 
 is he \ is he .? is he 'i 
 
 Jeanne. From none but you. 
 
 Agnes. God, it is evident, has given to thee alone the 
 power of rescuing both him and France. He has bestowed 
 on thee the mightiness of virtue. 
 
 Jeanne. Believe, and prove thy belief, that he has left no 
 little of it still in thee. 
 
 Agnes. When we have lost our chastity, we have lost all, 
 in his sight and in man's. But man is unforgiving ; God is 
 merciful. 
 
 Jeanne. I am so ignorant, I know only a part of my 
 duties : yet those which my Maker has taught me I am ear- 
 nest to perform. He teaches me that divine love has less 
 influence over the heart than human ; He teaches me that it 
 ought to have more ; finally, He commands me to announce 
 to thee, not His anger, but His will. 
 
 Ag7ies. Declare it ; Oh ! declare it. I do believe His 
 holy word is deposited in thy bosom. 
 
 Jeanne. Encourage the King to lead his vassals to the 
 field. 
 
 Agnes. When the season is milder. 
 
 Jeamie. And bid him leave you for ever. 
 
 Agnes. Leave me ! one whole campaign ! one entire 
 
94 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 summer ! Oh, anguish ! it sounded in my ears as if you 
 said, "for ever." 
 
 Jeanne, I say it again. 
 
 Agnes. Thy power is superhuman ; mine is not. 
 
 Jeanne. It ought to be, in setting God at defiance. The 
 mightiest of the angels rued it. 
 
 Agnes. We did not make our hearts. 
 
 Jeanne. But we can mend them. 
 
 Agnes. Oh ! mine (God knows it) bleeds. 
 
 Jeanne. Say rather it expels from it the last stagnant 
 drop of its rebellious sin. Salutary pangs may be pain- 
 fuller than mortal ones. 
 
 Agnes. Bid him leave me ! wish it ! permit it ! think it 
 near ! believe it ever can be ! Go, go. — I am lost 
 eternally. 
 
 Jeanne. And Charles too. 
 
 Agnes. Hush ! hush ! What has he done that other 
 men have not done also t 
 
 Jeanne. He has left undone what others do. Other men 
 fight for their country. 
 
 I always thought it was pleasant to the young and beauti- 
 ful to see those they love victorious and applauded. Twice 
 in my lifetime I have been present at wakes, where prizes 
 were contended for, — what prizes I quite forget ; certainly 
 not kingdoms. The winner was made happy ; but there 
 was one made happier. Village maids love truly : ay, they 
 love glory too ; and not their own. The tenderest heart 
 loves best the courageous one : the gentle voice says, " Why 
 wert thou so hazardous ? " The deeper-toned replies, " For 
 thee, for thee." 
 
 Agnes. But if the saints of heaven are offended, as I 
 fear they may be, it would be presumptuous in the King to 
 expose his person in battle until we have supplicated and 
 appeased them. 
 
THE MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 95 
 
 Jeanne. One hour of self-denial, one hour of stern exertion 
 against the assaults of passion, outvalues a life of prayer. 
 
 Agnes. Prayer, if many others will pray with us, can do 
 all things. I will venture to raise up that arm which has 
 only one place for its repose ; I will steal away from that 
 undivided pillow, fragrant with fresh and unextinguishable 
 love. 
 
 Jeanne. Sad earthly thoughts ! 
 
 Agfies. You make them sad ; you cannot make them 
 earthly. There is a divinity in a love descending from on 
 high, in theirs who can see into the heart and mould it to 
 their will. 
 
 Jea?me. Has man that power ? 
 
 Agnes. Happy, happy girl ! to ask it, and unfeignedly. 
 
 Jeanne. Be happy too. 
 
 Agnes. How ? how ? 
 
 Jeanne. By passing resolutely through unhappiness. It 
 must be done. 
 
 Agnes. I will throw myself on the pavement, and pray 
 until no star is in the heavens. Oh, I will so pray, so weep ! 
 
 Jeanne. Unless you save the tears of others, in vain you 
 shed your own. 
 
 Agnes. Again I ask you. What can I do ? 
 
 Jeanne. When God has told you what you ought to do, 
 he has already told you what you can, 
 
 Agnes. I will think about it seriously. 
 
 Jean?ie. Serious thoughts are folded up, chested, and 
 unlooked-at : lighter, like dust, settle all about the cham- 
 ber. The promise to think seriously dismisses and closes 
 the door on the thought. Adieu ! God pity and pardon 
 you. Through you the wrath of Heaven will fall upon the 
 kingdom. 
 
 Agnes. Denouncer of just vengeance, recall the sen- 
 tence ! I tremble before that countenance severely radiant : 
 
96 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 I sink amid that calm, more appalling than the tempest. 
 Look not into my heart with those gentle eyes ! Oh, how 
 they penetrate ! They ought to see no sin : sadly must it 
 pain them. 
 
 Jeanne. Think not of me ; pursue thy destination ; save 
 France. 
 
 Agnes {after a long pause). Glorious privilege ! divine 
 appointment ! Is it thus, O my Redeemer, my crimes are 
 visited ? 
 
 Come with me, blessed Jeanne ! come instantly with me 
 to the King : come to him whom thy virtue and valour have 
 rescued. 
 
 Jeanne. Not now ; nor ever with thee. Again I shall 
 behold him, — a conqueror at Orleans, a king at Rheims. 
 Regenerate Agnes ! be this thy glory, if there be any that is 
 not God's. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 BOSSUET AND THE DUCHESS DE FONTANGES.* 
 
 Bossuet. Mademoiselle, it is the King's desire that I 
 compliment you on the elevation you have attained. 
 
 Fontanges. O monseigneur, I know very well what you 
 mean. His Majesty is kind and polite to everybody. The 
 last thing he said to me was, " Angelique ! do not forget to 
 compliment Monseigneur the Bishop on the dignity I have 
 conferred upon him, of almoner to the Dauphiness. I 
 desired the appointment for him only that he might be of 
 rank sufficient to confess you, now you are Duchess. Let 
 him be your confessor, my little girl. He has fine manners." 
 
 Bossuet. I dare not presume to ask you, mademoiselle, 
 what was your gracious reply to the condescension of our 
 royal master. 
 
 * The Abbe de Choisy says that she was *' belle cotnme tin ange, mats 
 sotte comnie un panier.^'' 
 
BOSSUET AND THE DUCHESS DE FONTANGES. 97 
 
 Foiitcmges. Oh, yes ! you may. I told him I was almost 
 sure 1 should be ashamed of confessing such naughty things 
 to a person of high rank, who writes like an angel. 
 
 Bossuet. The observation was inspired, mademoiselle, by 
 your goodness and modesty. 
 
 Fontanges. You are so agreeable a man, monseigneur, I 
 will confess to you, directly, if you like. 
 
 Bossuet. Have you brought yourself to a proper frame 
 of mind, young lady? 
 
 Fontanges. What is that .? 
 
 Bossuet. Do you hate sin } 
 
 Fontanges. Very much. 
 
 Bossuet. Are you resolved to leave it off ? 
 
 Fontanges. I have left it off entirely since the King 
 began to love me. I have never said a spiteful word of 
 anybody since. 
 
 Bossuet. In your opinion, mademoiselle, are there no 
 other sins than malice ? 
 
 Fo7itanges. I never stole any thing ; I never committed 
 adultery ; I never coveted my neighbour's wife ; I never 
 killed any person, though several have told me they should 
 die for me. 
 
 Bossuet. Vain, idle talk ! Did you listen to it ? 
 
 Fo/ita/iges. Indeed I did, with both ears ; it seemed so 
 funny. 
 
 Bossuet. You have something to answer for, then. 
 
 Fontanges. No, indeed, I have not, monseigneur. I have 
 asked many times after them, and found they were all alive ; 
 which mortified me. 
 
 Bossuet. So, then ! you would really have them die for you ? 
 
 Fontanges. Oh, no, no ! but I wanted to see whether 
 they were in earnest, or told me fibs ; for, if they told me 
 fibs, I would never trust them again. I do not care about 
 them ; for the King told me I was only to mind kim. 
 
98 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Bossuet. Lowest and highest, we all owe to his Majesty 
 our duty and submission. 
 
 Fontanges, I am sure he has mine : so you need not 
 blame me or question me on that. At first, indeed, when 
 he entered the folding-doors, I was in such a flurry I could 
 hear my heart beat across the chamber ; by degrees I cared 
 little about the matter ; and at last, when I grew used to it, 
 I liked it rather than not. Now, if this is not confession, 
 what is ? 
 
 Bossuet. We must abstract the soul from every low 
 mundane thought. Do you hate the world, mademoiselle ? 
 
 Bbntanges. A good deal of it : all Picardy, for example, 
 and all Sologne ; nothing is uglier, — and, oh my life ! what 
 frightful men and women ! 
 
 Bossuet. I would say, in plain language, do you hate the 
 flesh and the Devil .? 
 
 Fontanges. Who does not hate the Devil ? If you will hold 
 my hand the while, I will tell him so. — I hate you, beast ! 
 There now. As for flesh, I never could bear a fat man. 
 Such people can neither dance nor hunt, nor do anything 
 that I know of. 
 
 Bossuet. Mademoiselle Marie-Ange'Hque de Scoraille de 
 Rousille, Duchess de Fontanges ! do you hate titles and 
 dignities and yourself ? 
 
 Fontanges. Myself ! does any one hate me ? Why should 
 I be the first ? Hatred is the worst thing in the world : it 
 makes one so very ugly. 
 
 Bossuet. To love God, we must hate ourselves. We 
 must detest our bodies, if we would save our souls. 
 
 Fontanges. That is hard : how can I do it ? I see noth- 
 ing so detestable in mine. Do you ? To love is easier. I 
 love God whenever I think of him, he has been so very 
 good to me ; but I cannot hate myself, if I would. As God 
 hath not hated me, why should 1 1 Beside, it was he who 
 
BOSSUET AND THE DUCHESS DE FONTANGES. 99 
 
 made the King to love me ; for I heard you say in a sermon 
 that the hearts of kings are in his rule and governance. As 
 for titles and dignities, I do not care much about them while 
 His Majesty loves me, and calls me his Angelique. They 
 make people more civil about us ; and therefore it must be 
 a simpleton who hates or disregards them, and a hypocrite 
 who pretends it. I am glad to be a duchess. Manon and 
 Lisette have never tied my garter so as to hurt me since, nor 
 has the mischievous old La Grange said anything cross or 
 bold : on the contrary, she told me what a fine colour and 
 what a plumpness it gave me. Would not you rather be a 
 duchess than a waiting-maid or a nun, if the King gave you 
 your choice ? 
 
 Bossuet. Pardon me, mademoiselle, I am confounded at 
 the levity of your question. 
 
 Fontanges. I am in earnest, as you see. 
 
 Bossuet. Flattery will come before you in other and 
 more dangerous forms : you will be commended for excel- 
 lences which do not belong to you ; and this you will find 
 as injurious to your repose as to your virtue. An ingenu- 
 ous mind feels in unmerited praise the bitterest reproof. If 
 you reject it, you are unhappy ; if you accept it, you are 
 undone. The compliments of a king are of themselves 
 sufficient to pervert your intellect, 
 
 Fontanges. There you are mistaken twice over. It is 
 not my person that pleases him so greatly : it is my spirit, 
 my wit, my talents, my genius, and that very thing which 
 you have mentioned — what was it? my intellect. He never 
 complimented me the least upon my beauty. Others have 
 said that I am the most beautiful young creature under 
 heaven ; a blossom of Paradise, a nymph, an angel ; worth (let 
 me whisper it in your ear — do I lean too hard ?) a thousand 
 Montespans. But his Majesty never said more on the occa- 
 sion than that I was imparagonable ! (what is that.'') and 
 
100 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 that he adored me ; holding my hand and sitting quite still, 
 when he might have romped with me and kissed me. 
 
 Bossuet. I would aspire to the glory of converting you. 
 
 Fontanges. You may do anything with me but convert 
 me : you must not do that; I am a Catholic born. M. de 
 Turenne and Mademoiselle de Duras were heretics : you 
 did right there. The King told the chancellor that he pre- 
 pared them, that the business was arranged for you, and 
 that you had nothing to do but to get ready the arguments 
 and responses, which you did gallantly, — did not you ? 
 And yet Mademoiselle de Duras was very awkward for a 
 long while afterward in crossing herself, and was once 
 remarked to beat her breast in the litany with the points of 
 two fingers at a time, when every one is taught to use only 
 the second, whether it has a ring upon it or not. I am 
 sorry she did so ; for people might think her insincere in 
 her conversion, and pretend that she kept a finger for each 
 religion. 
 
 Bossuet. It would be as uncharitable to doubt the con- 
 viction of Mademoiselle de Duras as that of M. le Marechal. 
 
 Fojitanges. I have heard some fine verses, I can assure 
 you, monseigneur, in which you are called the conqueror of 
 Turenne. I should like to have been his conqueror myself, 
 he was so great a man. I understand that you have lately 
 done a much more difBcult thing. 
 
 Bossuet. To what do you refer, mademoiselle ? 
 
 Fontanges. That you have overcome quietism. Now, in 
 the name of wonder, how could you manage that } 
 
 Bossuet. By the grace of God. 
 
 Fontanges. Yes, indeed ; but never until now did God give 
 any preacher so much of his grace as to subdue this pest. 
 Bossuet. It has appeared among us but lately. 
 
 Fojitanges. Oh, dear me ! I have always been subject to 
 it dreadfully, from a child. 
 
BOSSUET AND THE DUCHESS DE FONTANGES. 101 
 
 Bos suet. Really ! I never heard so. 
 
 Fo7itanges. I checked myself as well as I could, although 
 they constantly told me I looked well in it. 
 
 Bossiiet. In what, mademoiselle ? 
 
 Fontanges. In quietism; that is, when I fell asleep at ser- 
 mon-time. I am ashamed that such a learned and pious 
 man as M. de Fe'nelon should incline to it, as they say he 
 does. 
 
 Bossuet. Mademoiselle, you quite mistake the matter. 
 
 Fontanges. Is not then M. de Fe'nelon thought a very 
 pious and learned person 1 
 
 Bossuet. And justly. 
 
 Fontanges. I have read a great way in a romance he has 
 begun, about a knight-errant in search of a father. The 
 King says there are many such about his court ; but I never 
 saw them nor heard of them before. The Marchioness de 
 la Motte, his relative, brought it to me, written out in a 
 charming hand, as much as the copy-book would hold ; and 
 I got through, I know not how far. If he had gone on 
 with the nymphs in the grotto, I never should have been 
 tired of him ; but he quite forgot his own story, and left 
 them at once ; in a hurry (I suppose) to set out upon his 
 mission to Saintonge in the pays d^Aimis, where the King 
 has promised him a famous heretic-hunt. He is, I do assure 
 you, a wonderful creature : he understands so much Latin 
 and Greek, and knows all the tricks of the sorceresses. 
 Yet you keep him under. 
 
 Bossuet. Mademoiselle, if you really have anything to 
 confess, and if you desire that I should have the honour of 
 absolving you, it would be better to proceed in it, than to 
 oppress me with unmerited eulogies on my humble labours. 
 
 Fontanges. You must first direct me, monseigneur : I 
 have nothing particular. The King assures me there is no 
 harm whatever in his love toward me. 
 
102 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Bossiiet. That depends on your thoughts at the moment. 
 If you abstract the mind from the body, and turn your heart 
 toward heaven — 
 
 Fotitanges. O mon seigneur, I always did so — every time 
 but once — you quite make me blush. Let us converse 
 about something else, or I shall grow too serious, just as 
 you made me the other day at the funeral sermon. And 
 now let me tell you, my Lord, you compose such pretty 
 funeral sermons, I hope I shall have the pleasure of hear- 
 ing you preach mine. 
 
 Bossuet. Rather let us hope, mademoiselle, that the 
 hour is yet far distant when so melancholy a service will be 
 performed for you. May he who is unborn be the sad 
 announcer of your departure hence!* May he indicate to 
 those around him many virtues not perhaps yet full-blown 
 in you, and point triumphantly to many faults and foibles 
 checked by you in their early growth, and lying dead on the 
 open road you shall have left behind you ! To me the pain- 
 ful duty will, I trust, be spared : I am advanced in age ; 
 you are a child. 
 
 Fontanges. Oh, no ! I am seventeen. 
 
 Bossuet. I should have supposed you younger by two 
 years at least. But do you collect nothing from your own 
 reflection, which raises so many in my breast ? You think 
 it possible that I, aged as I am, may preach a sermon on 
 your funeral. Alas, it is so ! such things have been. There 
 is, however, no funeral so sad to follow as the funeral of our 
 own youth, which we have been pampering with fond desires, 
 ambitious hopes, and all the bright berries that hang in poi- 
 sonous clusters over the path of life. 
 
 Fontanges. I never minded them : I like peaches better ; 
 and one a day is quite enough for me. 
 
 * Bossuet was in his fifty-fourth year ; Mademoiselle de Fontanges 
 died in child-bed the year following: he survived her twenty-three. 
 
BOSSUET AND THE DUCHESS DE FONTANGES. 103 
 
 Bossuet. We say that our days are few ; and, saying it, 
 we say too much. Marie-Angelique, we have but one : the 
 past are not ours, and who can promise us the future ? 
 This in which we live is ours only while we live in it ; the 
 next moment may strike it off from us ; the next sentence I 
 would utter may be broken and fall between us. The 
 beauty that has made a thousand hearts to beat at one 
 instant, at the succeeding has been without pulse and colour, 
 without admirer, friend, companion, follower. She by whose 
 eyes the march of victory shall have been directed, whose 
 name shall have animated armies at the extremities of the 
 earth, drops into one of its crevices and mingles with its 
 dust. Duchess de Fontanges ! think on this ! Lady ! so 
 live as to think on it undisturbed ! 
 
 Fontanges. O God ! I am quite alarmed. Do not talk 
 thus gravely. It is in vain that you speak to me in so 
 sweet a voice. I am frightened even at the rattle of the 
 beads about my neck : take them off, and let us talk on 
 other things. What was it that dropped on the floor as you 
 were speaking ? It seemed to shake the room, though it 
 sounded like a pin or button. 
 
 Bossuet. Never mind it : leave it there; I pray you, I 
 implore you, madame ! 
 
 Fontanges. Why do you rise ? Why do you run ? Why 
 not let me ? I am nimbler. So, your ring fell from your 
 hand, my Lord Bishop ! How quick you are ! Could not 
 you have trusted me to pick it up ? 
 
 Bossuet. Madame is too condescending : had this hap- 
 pened, I should have been overwhelmed with confusion. 
 My hand is shrivelled : the ring has ceased to fit it. A 
 mere accident may draw us into perdition ; a mere accident 
 may bestow on us the means of grace. A pebble has 
 moved you more than my words. 
 
 Fontanges. It pleases me vastly : I admire rubies. I will 
 
104 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 ask the King for one exactly like it. This is the time he 
 usually comes from the chase. I am sorry you cannot be 
 present to hear how prettily I shall ask him : but that is 
 impossible, you know ; for I shall do it just when I am cer- 
 tain he would give me any thing. He said so himself : he 
 said but yesterday, — 
 
 " Such a sweet creature is worth a world ; " 
 
 and no actor on the stage was more like a king than his 
 Majesty was when he spoke it, if he had but kept his wig 
 and robe on. And yet you know he is rather stiff and 
 wrinkled for so great a monarch ; and his eyes, I am afraid, 
 are beginning to fail him, he looks so close at things. 
 
 Bossiiet. Mademoiselle, such is the duty of a prince who 
 desires to conciliate our regard and love. 
 
 Fontanges. Well, I think so too, though I did not like it 
 in him at first. I am sure he will order the ring for me, 
 and I will confess to you with it upon my finger. But first 
 I must be cautious and particular to know of him how 
 much it is his royal will that I should say. 
 
 XVII. 
 DANTE AND BEATRICE. 
 
 Dante. When you saw me profoundly pierced with love, 
 and reddening and trembling, did it become you, did it 
 become you, you whom I have always called the most gentle 
 Bice, to join in the heartless laughter of those girls around 
 you ? Answer me. Reply unhesitatingly. Requires it so 
 long a space for dissimulation and duplicity ? Pardon ! 
 pardon ! pardon ! My senses have left me : my heart 
 being gone, they follow. 
 
 Beatrice. Childish man ! pursuing the impossible. 
 
DANTE AND BEATRICE. 105 
 
 Dante. And was it this you laughed at ? We cannot 
 touch the hem of God's garment; yet we fall at his feet, 
 and weep. 
 
 Beatrice. But weep not, gentle Dante ! fall not before 
 the weakest of his creatures, willing to comfort, unable to 
 relieve, you. Consider a little. Is laughter at all times the 
 signal or the precursor of derision ? I smiled, let me avow 
 it, from the pride I felt in your preference of me ; and, if I 
 laughed, it was to conceal my sentiments. Did you never 
 cover sweet fruit with worthless leaves ? Come, do not 
 drop again so soon so faint a smile. I will not have you 
 grave, nor very serious. I pity you \ I must not love you : 
 if I might, I would. 
 
 Dante. Yet how much love is due to me, O Bice, who 
 have loved you, as you well remember, even from your tenth 
 year ! But it is reported, and your words confirm it, that 
 you are going to be married. 
 
 Beatrice. If so, and if I could have laughed at that, and 
 if my laughter would have estranged you from me, would 
 you blame me ? 
 
 Dante. Tell me the truth. 
 
 Beatrice. The report is general. 
 
 Dante. The truth ! the truth! Tell me. Bice. 
 
 Beatrice. Marriages, it is said, are made in heaven. 
 
 Dante. Is heaven, then, under the paternal roof ? 
 
 Beatrice. It has been to me, hitherto. 
 
 Dante. And now you seek it elsewhere. 
 
 Beatrice. I seek it not. The wiser choose for the 
 weaker. Nay, do not sigh so. What would you have, my 
 grave, pensive Dante "? What can I do ? 
 
 Dante. Love me. 
 
 Beatrice. I always did. 
 
 Dante. Love me ? Oh, bliss of heaven ! 
 
 Beatrice. No, no, no ! Forbear ! Men's kisses are always 
 
106 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 mischievous and hurtful ; everybody says it. If you truly 
 loved me, you would never think of doing so. 
 
 Dante. Nor even this .'' 
 
 Beatrice. You forget that you are no longer a boy ; and 
 that it is not thought proper at your time of life to continue 
 the arm at all about the waist. Beside, I think you would 
 better not put your head against my bosom ; it beats too 
 much to be pleasant to you. Why do you wish it ? Why 
 fancy it can do you any good ? It grows no cooler : it seems 
 to grow even hotter. Oh, how it burns ! Go, go ; it hurts 
 me too : it struggles, it aches, it throbs. Thank you, my 
 gentle friend, for removing your brow away : your hair is 
 very thick and long ; and it began to heat me more than 
 you can imagine. While it was there, I could not see your 
 face so well, nor talk with you quietly. 
 
 Dante. Oh ! when shall we talk so quietly in future ? 
 
 Beatrice. When I am married. I shall often come to 
 visit my father. He has always been solitary since my 
 mother's death, which happened in my infancy, long before 
 you knew me. 
 
 Dante. How can he endure the solitude of his house 
 when you have left it ? 
 
 Beati'ice. The very question I asked him. 
 
 Dante. You did not then wish to — to — go away ? 
 
 Beatrice. Ah, no ! It is sad to be an outcast at fifteen. 
 
 Dante. An outcast ? 
 
 Beatrice. Forced to leave a home. 
 
 Dante. For another ? 
 
 Beatrice. Childhood can never have a second. 
 
 Dante. But childhood is now over. 
 
 Beatrice. I wonder who was so malicious as to tell my 
 father that ? He wanted me to be married a whole year 
 ago. 
 
 Dante. And, Bice, you hesitated ? 
 
DANTE AND BEATRICE. 107 
 
 Beatrice. No ; I only wept. He is a dear, good father. 
 I never disobeyed him but in those wicked tears ; and they 
 ran the faster the more he reprehended them. 
 
 Dante. Say, who is the happy youth ? 
 
 Beatrice. I know not who ought to be happy, if you are not. 
 
 Dante. I ? 
 
 Beatrice. Surely, you deserve all happiness. 
 
 Dante. Happiness ! any happiness is denied me. Ah, 
 hours of childhood ! bright hours ! what fragrant blossoms 
 ye unfold ! what bitter fruits to ripen ! 
 
 Beatrice. Now cannot you continue to sit under that old 
 fig-tree at the corner of the garden ? It is always delightful 
 to me to think of it. 
 
 Dante. Again you smile : I wish I could smile too. 
 
 Beatrice. You were usually more grave than I, although 
 very often, two years ago, you told me I was the graver. 
 Perhaps I was then, indeed ; and perhaps I ought to be 
 now : but, really, I must smile at the recollection, and make 
 you smile with me. 
 
 Dante. Recollection of what, in particular .? 
 
 Beatrice. Of your ignorance that a fig-tree is the brittlest 
 of trees, especially when it is in leaf ; and, moreover, of 
 your tumble, when your head was just above the wall, and 
 your hand (with the verses in it) on the very coping-stone. 
 Nobody suspected that I went every day to the bottom of 
 our garden, to hear you repeat your poetry on the other 
 side ; nobody but yourself : you soon found me out. But 
 on that occasion I thought you might have been hurt ; and 
 I clambered up our high peach-tree in the grass-plot nearest 
 the place ; and thence I saw Messer Dante, with his white 
 sleeve reddened by the fig-juice, and the seeds sticking to 
 it pertinaciously, and Messer blushing, and trying to conceal 
 his calamity, and still holding the verses. They were all 
 about me. 
 
108 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Dante. Never shall any verse of mine be uttered from 
 my lips, or from the lips of others, without the memorial of 
 Bice. 
 
 Beatrice. Sweet Dante ! in the purity of your soul shall 
 Bice live ; as (we are told by the goat-herds and foresters) 
 poor creatures have been found preserved in the serene and 
 lofty regions of the Alps, many years after the breath of life 
 had left them. Already you rival Guido Cavalcanti and 
 Cino da Pistoja : you must attempt — nor perhaps shall it 
 be vainly — to surpass them in celebrity. 
 
 Dante. If ever I am above them, — and I must be, — I 
 know already what angel's hand will have helped me up the 
 ladder. Beatrice, I vow to heaven, shall stand higher than 
 Selvaggia, high and glorious and immortal as that name 
 will be. You have given me joy and sorrow ; for the worst 
 of these (I will not say the least) I will confer on you all the 
 generations of our Italy, all the ages of our world. But, 
 first (alas, from me you must not have it !) may happiness, 
 long happiness, attend you ! 
 
 Beatrice. Ah ! those words rend your bosom ! Why 
 should they ? 
 
 Dante. I could go away contented, or almost contented, 
 were I sure of it. Hope is nearly as strong as despair, and 
 greatly more pertinacious and enduring. You have made 
 me see clearly that you never can be mine in this world ; 
 but at the same time, O Beatrice, you have made me see 
 quite as clearly that you may and must be mine in another. 
 I am older than you : precedency is given to age, and not 
 to worthiness, in our way to heaven. I will watch over you; 
 I will pray for you when I am nearer to God, and purified 
 froui the stains of earth and mortality. He will permit me 
 to behold you lovely as when I left you. Angels in vain 
 should call me onward. 
 
 Beatrice. Hush, sweetest Dante ! hush ! 
 
DANTE AND BEATRICE. 109 
 
 Dante. It is there, where I shall have caught the first 
 glimpse of you again, that I wish all my portion of Para- 
 dise to be assigned me ; and there, if far below you, yet 
 within the sight of you, to establish my perdurable abode. 
 
 Beatrice. Is this piety ? Is this wisdom ? O Dante ! 
 And may not I be called away first ? 
 
 Dante. Alas ! alas ! how many small feet have swept off 
 the early dew of life, leaving the path black behind them ! 
 But to think that you should go before me ! It almost 
 sends me forward on my way, to receive and welcome you. 
 If indeed, O Beatrice ! such should be God's immutable 
 will, sometimes look down on me when the song to him is 
 suspended. Oh ! look often on me with prayer and pity ; 
 for there all prayers are accepted, and all pity is devoid of 
 pain. Why are you silent ? 
 
 Beatrice. It is very sinful not to love all creatures in the 
 world. But is it true, O Dante ! that we always love those 
 the most who make us the most unhappy ? 
 
 Dante. The remark, I fear, is just. 
 
 Beatrice. Then, unless the Virgin be pleased to change 
 my inclinations, I shall begin at last to love my betrothed ; 
 for already the very idea of him renders me sad, wearisome, 
 and comfortless. Yesterday, he sent me a bunch of violets. 
 When I took them up, delighted as I felt at that sweetest of 
 odours, which you and I once inhaled together — 
 
 Dante. And only once. 
 
 Beatrice. You know why. Be quiet now, and hear me. 
 I dropped the posy ; for around it, hidden by various kinds 
 of foliage, was twined the bridal necklace of pearls. O 
 Dante ! how worthless are the finest of them (and there are 
 many fine ones) in comparison with those little pebbles, 
 some of which (for perhaps I may not have gathered up all) 
 may be still lying under the peach-tree, and some (do I 
 blush to say it ?) under the fig ! Tell me not who threw 
 
110 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 these, nor for what. But you know you were always 
 thoughtful, and sometimes reading, sometimes writing, and 
 sometimes forgetting me, while I waited to see the crimson 
 cap, and the two bay-leaves I fastened in it, rise above the 
 garden-wall. How silently you are listening, if you do 
 listen ! 
 
 Dante. Oh, could my thoughts incessantly and eternally 
 dwell among these recollections, undisturbed by any other 
 voice, — undisturbed by any other presence ! Soon must 
 they abide with me alone, and be repeated by none but me, 
 ■ — ^ repeated in the accents of anguish and despair ! Why 
 could you not have held in the sad home of your heart that 
 necklace and those violets ? 
 
 Beatrice. My Dante ! we must all obey : I, my father ; 
 you, your God. He will never abandon you. 
 
 Dante. I have ever sung, and will for ever sing, the 
 most glorious of his works : and yet, O Bice ! he abandons 
 me, he casts me off ; and he uses your hand for this 
 infliction. 
 
 Beatrice. Men travel far and wide, and see many on 
 whom to fix or transfer their affections ; but we maidens 
 have neither the power nor the will. Casting our eyes on 
 the ground, we walk along the straight and narrow road pre- 
 scribed for us ; and, doing thus, we avoid in great measure 
 the thorns and entanglements of life. We know we are per- 
 forming our duty ; and the fruit of this knowledge is con- 
 tentment. Season after season, day after day, you have 
 made me serious, pensive, meditative, and almost wise. 
 Being so little a girl, I was proud that you, so much taller, 
 should lean on my shoulder to overlook my work. And 
 greatly more proud was I when in time you taught me sev- 
 eral Latin words, and then whole sentences, both in prose 
 and verse ; pasting a strip of paper over, or obscuring with 
 impenetrable ink, those passages in the poets which were 
 
DANTE AND BEATRICE. Ill 
 
 beyond my comprehension, and might perplex me. But 
 proudest of all was I when you began to reason with me. 
 What will now be my pride, if you are convinced by the 
 first arguments 1 ever have opposed to you ; or if you only 
 take them up and try if they are applicable. Certainly do I 
 know (indeed, indeed I do) that even the patience to con- 
 sider them will make you happier. Will it not, then, make 
 me so ? I entertain no other wish. Is not this true love ? 
 
 Dante. Ah, yes ! the truest, the purest, the least perish- 
 able ; but not the sweetest. Here are the rue and the 
 hyssop ; but where the rose ? 
 
 Beati'ice. Wicked must be whatever torments you ; and 
 will you let love do it ? Love is the gentlest and kindest 
 breath of God. Are you willing that the Tempter should 
 intercept it, and respire it polluted into your ear ? Do not 
 make me hesitate to pray to the Virgin for you, nor trem- 
 ble lest she look down on you with a reproachful pity. To 
 her alone, O Dante ! dare I confide all my thoughts. 
 Lessen not my confidence in my only refuge. 
 
 Dante. God annihilate a power so criminal ! Oh, could 
 my love flow into your breast with hers ! It should flow 
 with equal purity. 
 
 Beatrice. You have stored my little mind with many 
 thoughts ; dear because they are yours, and because they 
 are virtuous. May I not, O my Dante ! bring some of them 
 back again to your bosom ; as the Contadina lets down the 
 string from the cottage-beam in winter, and culls a few 
 bunches of the soundest for the master of the vineyard? 
 You have not given me glory that the world should shudder 
 at its eclipse. To prove that I am worthy of the smallest 
 part of it, I must obey God ; and, under God, my father. 
 Surely, the voice of Heaven comes to us audibly from a 
 parent's lips. You will be great, and, what is above all 
 greatness, good. 
 
112 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Dante. Rightly and wisely, my sweet Beatrice, have you 
 spoken in this estimate. Greatness is to goodness what 
 gravel is to porphyry : the one is a movable accumulation, 
 swept along the surface of the earth ; the other stands fixed 
 and solid and alone, above the violence of war and of the 
 tempest, above all that is residuous of a wasted world. 
 Little men build up great ones ; but the snow colossus soon 
 melts. The good stand under the eye of God ; and therefore 
 stand. 
 
 Beatrice, Now you are calm and reasonable, listen to 
 Bice. You must marry. 
 Dante. Marry .? 
 
 Beatrice. Unless you do, how can we meet again, unre- 
 servedly ? Worse, worse than ever ! I cannot bear to see 
 those large, heavy tears following one another, heavy and 
 slow as nuns at the funeral of a sister. Come, I will kiss 
 off one, if you will promise me faithfully to shed no more. 
 Be tranquil, be tranquil ; only hear reason. There are 
 many who know you ; and all who know you must love you. 
 Don't you hear me ? Why turn aside ? and why go further 
 off ? I will have that hand. It twists about as if it hated 
 its confinement. Perverse and peevish creature ! you have 
 no more reason to be sorry than I have ; and you have 
 many to the contrary which I have not. Being a man, you 
 are at liberty to admire a variety, and to make a choice. Is 
 that no comfort to you .? 
 Da?ite. 
 
 Bid this bosom cease to grieve ? 
 
 Bid these eyes fresh objects see'.-' 
 Where 's the comfort to believe 
 
 None might once have rivall'd me ? 
 What ! my freedom to receive ! 
 
 Broken hearts, are they the free .'' 
 For another can I live 
 
 When I may not live for thee ? 
 
BENIOWSKI AND APHANASIA. 113 
 
 Beatrice. I will never be fond of you again, if you are so 
 violent. We have been together too long, and we may be 
 noticed. 
 
 Dante. Is this our last meeting ? If it is — and that it 
 is, my heart has told me — you will not, surely you will not 
 refuse — 
 
 Beati'ice. Dante ! Dante ! they make the heart sad 
 after : do not wish it. But prayers — oh, how much better 
 are they ! how much quieter and lighter they render it ! 
 They carry it up to heaven with them ; and those we love 
 are left behind no longer. 
 
 XVIII. 
 BENIOWSKI AND APHANASIA. 
 
 Aphanasia. You are leaving us ! you are leaving us ! O 
 Maurice ! in these vast wildernesses are you, then, the 
 only thing cruel ? 
 
 Beniowski. Aphanasia ! who, in the name of Heaven, 
 could have told you this ? 
 
 Aphanasia. Your sighs when we met at lesson. 
 
 Beniowski. And may not an exile sigh ? Does the mer- 
 ciless Catharine, the murderer of her husband, — does even 
 she forbid it ? Loss of rank, of estate, of liberty, of 
 country ! — 
 
 Aphanasia. You had lost them, and still were happy. 
 Did not you tell me that our studies were your consolation, 
 and that Aphanasia was your heart's content ? 
 
 Beniowski. Innocence and youth should ever be unsus- 
 picious. 
 
 Aphanasia. I am, then, wicked in your eyes ! Hear me ! 
 hear me ! It was no suspicion in me. Fly, Maurice ! fly, 
 my beloved Maurice ! my father knows your intention, — 
 fly, fly ! 
 
114 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Beniowski. Impossible ! how know it ? how suspect it ? 
 Speak, my sweet girl ! be calm. 
 
 Aphanasia. Only do not go while there is nothing 
 under heaven but the snows and sea. Where will you find 
 food ? Who will chafe your hands ? Who will warn you 
 not to sleep lest you should die ? And whose voice, can 
 you tell me, will help your smiles to waken you t Maurice, 
 dear Maurice, only stay until the summer : my father will 
 then have ceased to suspect you, and I may learn from you 
 how to bear it. March, April, May — three months are 
 little — you have been here three months — one fagot's 
 blaze ! Do promise me. I will throw myself on the floor, 
 and ask my good, kind father to let you leave us. 
 
 Be7iiozvski. Aphanasia ! are you wild ? My dearest girl, 
 abandon the idea ! you ruin me ; you cause my imprison- 
 ment, my deprivation of you, my death. Listen to me : I 
 swear to do nothing without you. 
 
 Aphanasia. Oh, yes ! you go without me. 
 
 Beniowski. PainfuUest of my thoughts ! No ; here let 
 me live, — here, lost, degraded, useless ; and Aphanasia be 
 the witness of nothing but my ignominy. O God ! was I 
 born for this : is mine a light to set in this horizon ? 
 
 Aphanasia. I do not understand you : did you pray ? 
 May the saints of heaven direct you ! but not to leave me ! 
 
 Beniowski. O Aphanasia ! I thought you were too rea- 
 sonable and too courageous to shed tears : you did not weep 
 before ; why do you now ? 
 
 Apha7iasia. Ah ! why did you read to me, once, of those 
 two lovers who were buried in the same grave ? 
 
 Beniowski. What two.'' there have been several. 
 
 Aphanasia. Dearest, dearest Maurice ! are lovers, then, 
 often so happy to the last ? God will be as good to us as 
 to any ; for surely we trust in him as much. Come, come 
 along : let us run to the sea the whole way. There is fond- 
 
BENIOWSKI AND APHANASIA. 115 
 
 ness in your sweet, compassionate face ; and yet, I pray 
 you, do not look, — oh do not look, at me ! I am so 
 ashamed. Take me, take me with you : let us away this 
 instant ! Loose me from your arms, dear Maurice : let me 
 go ; I will return again directly. Forgive me ! but forgive 
 me ! Do not think me vile ! You do not : I know you 
 do not, now you kiss me. 
 
 Beniowski. Never will I consent to loose you, light of 
 my deliverance ! Let this unite us eternally, my sweet 
 espoused Aphanasia ! 
 
 Aphaiiasia. Espoused ! O blessed day ! O light from 
 heaven ! I could no longer be silent ; I could not speak 
 otherwise. The seas are very wide, they tell me, and cov- 
 ered with rocks of ice and mountains of snow for many 
 versts, upon which there is not an aspen or birch or alder to 
 catch at, if the wind should blow hard. There is no rye, 
 nor berries, nor little birds tamed by the frost, nor beasts 
 asleep ; and many days, and many long, stormy nights 
 must be endured upon the waves without food. Could you 
 bear this quite alone ? 
 
 Beniowski. Could you bear it, Aphanasia } 
 
 Aphanasia. Alone, I could not. 
 
 Beniowski. Could you with me ? Think again : we both 
 must suffer. 
 
 Aphanasia. How can we, Maurice ? Shall not we die 
 together ? Why do you clasp me so hard '^. 
 
 Beniowski. Could you endure to see, hour after hour, 
 the deaths and the agonies of the brave ? — how many 
 deaths ! what dreadful agonies ! The fury of thirst, the 
 desperation of hunger ? To hear their bodies plunged 
 nightly into the unhallowed deep ; but first, Aphanasia, to 
 hear them curse me as the author of their sufferings, the 
 deluder of an innocent and inexperienced girl, dragging her 
 with me to a watery grave, famished and ghastly, so lovely 
 
116 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 and so joyous but the other day ? O my Aphanasia ! there 
 are things which you have never heard, never should have 
 heard, and must hear. You have read about the works of 
 God in the creation ? 
 
 Aphanasia. My father could teach me thus far : it is in 
 the Bible. 
 
 Beniowski. You have read, " In his image created he 
 man." 
 
 Aphanasia. I thought it strange, until I saw you, Maurice ! 
 
 Beniowski. Strange, then, will you think it that man 
 himself breaks this image in his brother. 
 
 Aphanasia. Cain did, and was accursed for it. 
 
 Beniowski. We do, and are honoured ; dishonoured, if we 
 do not. This is yet distant from the scope of my discourse. 
 You have heard the wolves and bears howl about our sheds ? 
 
 Aphanasia. Oh, yes ! and 1 have been told that they 
 come upon the ice into the sea. But I am not afraid of 
 them : I will give you a signal when they are near us. 
 
 Beniowski. Hunger is sometimes so intolerable, it com- 
 pels them to kill and devour one another. 
 
 Aphanasia. They are violent and hurtful creatures ; but 
 that shocks me. 
 
 Beniowski. What, if men did it ? 
 
 Aphanasia. Merciful Redeemer ! You do not mean, 
 devour each other ? 
 
 Bejiiowski. Hunger has driven men to this extremity. 
 You doubt my words : astonishment turns you pale, — paler 
 than ever. 
 
 Apha?iasia. I do believe you. — Was I then so pale .? I 
 know they kill one another when they are not famished ; 
 can I wonder that they eat one another when they are ? 
 The cruelty would be less, even without the compulsion ; 
 but the killing did not seem so strange to me, because I had 
 heard of it before. 
 
BENIOWSKI AND APHANASIA. 117 
 
 Beniowski. Think ! our mariners may draw lots for the 
 victim, or may seize the weakest. 
 
 Apha7iasia. I am the weakest ; what can you say now ? 
 
 foolish girl to have spoken it ! You have hurt, you have 
 hurt your forehead ! Do not stride away from me thus 
 wildly ! Do not throw back on me those reproaching, those 
 terrifying glances ! Have the sailors no better hopes of 
 living, strong as they are, and accustomed to the hardships 
 and dangers of the ocean ? 
 
 BenioivsJd, Hopes there are always. 
 
 Aphanasia. Why, then, do you try to frighten me with 
 what is not and may not ever be? Why look as if it pained 
 you to be kind to me ? Do you retract the promise yet 
 warm upon your lips .? Would you render the sea itself 
 more horrible than it is .'' Am I ignorant that it has whirl- 
 pools and monsters in its bosom ; and storms and tempests 
 that will never let it rest ; and revengeful and remorseless 
 men, that mix each other's blood in its salt waters, when 
 cities and solitudes are not vast enough to receive it .'' The 
 sea is indeed a very frightful thing : I will look away from 
 it. I protest to you I never will be sad or frightened at it, 
 if you will but let me go with you. If you will not, O 
 Maurice, I shall die with fear ; I shall never see you again, 
 though you return, — and you will so wish to see me ! For 
 you will grow kinder when you are away. 
 
 Beniowski. O Aphanasia ! little know you me or yourself. 
 
 Aphanasia. While you are with me, I know how dearly 
 
 1 love you ; when you are absent, I cannot think it half, so 
 many sighs and sorrows interrupt me ! And you will love 
 me very much when you are gone ! Even this might pain 
 you : do not let it ! No ! you have promised ; 't was I who 
 had forgotten it, not you. 
 
 How your heart beats ! These are your tears upon my 
 hair and shoulders. 
 
118 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Beniowski. May they be the last we shall mingle . 
 
 Aphanasia. Let me run, then, and embrace my father : 
 if he does not bless me, you ought not. 
 
 Beniowski. Aphanasia, I will not refuse you even what 
 would disunite us. Let me, too, stay and perish ! 
 
 Aphanasia. Ah, my most tender, most confiding father ! 
 must you then weep for me, or must you hate me ? 
 
 Be7iiowski. We shall meet again ; and soon, perhaps. I 
 promise it. The seas will spare us. He who inspires the 
 heart of Aphanasia will preserve her days. 
 
 XIX. 
 LEONORA DI ESTE AND FATHER PANIGAROLA. 
 
 Leonoi'a. You have, then, seen him, father ? Have you 
 been able — you who console so many, you who console 
 even me — to comfort poor Torquato ? 
 
 Panigarola. Madonna, the ears of the unhappy man are 
 quickened by his solitude and his sorrow. He seemed 
 aware, or suspicious at least, that somebody was listening 
 at his prison-door ; and the cell is so narrow, that every 
 sound in it is audible to those who stand outside. 
 
 Leo7i07'a. He might have whispered. 
 
 Panigarola. It would have been most imprudent. 
 
 Leonoi'a. Said he nothing ? not a word .? — to prove — . to 
 prove that he had not lost his memory ? His memory — of 
 what .? of reading his verses to me, and of my listening to 
 them. Lucrezia listened to them as attentivel}^ as I did, 
 until she observed his waiting for my applause first. When 
 she applauded, he bowed so gracefully ; when I applauded, 
 he only held down his head. I was not angry at the differ- 
 ence. But tell me, good father ! tell me, pray, whether he 
 gave no sign of sorrow at hearing how soon I am to leave 
 
LEONORA DI ESTE AND FATHER PANIGAROLA. 119 
 
 the world. Did you forget to mention it ; or did you fear 
 to pain him ? 
 
 Fanigarola. I mentioned it plainly, fully. 
 
 Leonora. And was he, was gentle Torquato, very 
 sorry ? 
 
 Panigarola. Be less anxious. He bore it like a Chris- 
 tian. He said deliberately, —but he trembled and sighed, 
 as Christians should sigh and tremble, — that, although he 
 grieved at your illness, yet that to write, either in verse or 
 prose, on such a visitation of Providence, was repugnant to 
 his nature. 
 
 Leonora. LLe said so ? could he say it ? But I thought 
 you told me he feared a listener. Perhaps, too, he feared 
 to awaken in me the sentiments he once excited. However 
 it may be, already I feel the chilliness of the grave : his 
 words breathe it over me. I would have entreated him to 
 forget me ; but to be forgotten before I had entreated it ! 
 — O father, father! 
 
 Faniga7'ola. Human vanity still is lingering on the pre- 
 cincts of the tomb. Is it criminal, is it censurable in him, 
 to anticipate your wishes ? 
 
 Leonora. Knowing the certainty and the nearness of my 
 departure, he might at least have told me through you that 
 he lamented to lose me. 
 
 Paniga7'ola. Is there no voice within your heart that 
 clearly tells you so } 
 
 Leojiora. That voice is too indistinct, too troubled with 
 the throbbings round about it. We women want sometimes 
 to hear what we know ; we die unless we hear what we 
 doubt. 
 
 Paniga7'ola. Madonna, this is too passionate for the 
 hour. But the tears you are shedding are a proof of your 
 compunction. May the Virgin and the saints around her 
 throne accept and ratify it ! 
 
120 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Leonora. Father ! what were you saying ? What were 
 you asking me ? Whether no voice whispered to me, 
 assured me ? I know not. I am weary of thinking. He 
 must love me. It is not in the nature of such men ever to 
 cease from loving. Was genius ever ungrateful ? Mere 
 talents are dry leaves, tossed up and down by gusts of pas- 
 sion, and scattered and swept away ; but Genius lies on the 
 bosom of Memory, and Gratitude at her feet. 
 
 Panigarola. Be composed, be calm, be resigned to the 
 will of Heaven ; be ready for that journey's end, where the 
 happier who have gone before, and the enduring who soon 
 must follow, will meet. 
 
 Leonora. I am prepared to depart : for I have struggled 
 (God knows) to surmount what is insurmountable ; and the 
 wings of Hope will sustain and raise me, seeing my descent 
 toward earth too swift, too unresisted, and too prone. Pray, 
 father, for my deliverance ; pray also for poor Torquato's : 
 do not separate us in your prayers. Oh, could he leave his 
 prison as surely and as speedily as I shall mine, it would not 
 be more thankfully ! Oh that bars of iron were as fragile 
 as bars of clay ! Oh that princes were as merciful as 
 death ! But tell him, tell Torquato, — go again ; entreat, 
 persuade, command him, — to forget me. 
 
 Panigarola. Alas ! even the command, even the com- 
 mand from you and from above, might not avail perhaps. 
 You smile. Madonna ! 
 
 Leonora. I die happy. 
 
 XX. 
 
 ADMIRAL BLAKE AND HUMPHREY BLAKE. 
 
 Blake. Humphrey ! it hath pleased God, upon this day, 
 to vouchsafe unto the English arms a signal victory. 
 Brother ! it grieves my heart that neither of us can rejoice 
 
ADMIRAL BLAKE AND HUMPHREY BLAKE. 121 
 
 in it as we should do. Evening is closing on the waters : 
 our crews are returning thanks and offering up prayers to 
 the Almighty. Alas ! Alas ! that we, who ought to be the 
 most grateful for his protection, and for the spirit he hath 
 breathed into our people, should be the only men in this 
 vast armament whom he hath sorely chastened ! — that we of 
 all others should be ashamed to approach the throne of 
 grace among our countrymen and comrades ! There are 
 those who accuse you, and they are brave and honest men 
 — there are those, O Humphrey ! Humphrey ! — was the 
 sound ever heard in our father's house ? — who accuse you, 
 brother ! brother ! — how can I ever find utterance for the 
 word ? — yea, of cowardice. 
 
 Stand off ! I want no help: let me be. 
 
 H^miphrey. To-day, for the first time in my life, I was in 
 the midst of many ships of superior force firing upon mine, 
 at once and incessantly. 
 
 Blake. The very position where most intrepidity was 
 required. Were none with you ? — were none in the same 
 danger ? Shame, shame ! You owed many an example, 
 and 3^ou defrauded them of it. They could not gain pro- 
 motion, the poor seamen ! they could not hope for glory in 
 the wide world : example they might have hoped for. You 
 would not have robbed them of their prize-money — 
 
 Hicmphrey. Brother ! was ever act of dishonesty imputed 
 to a Blake ? 
 
 Blake. — Until now. You have robbed them even of the 
 chance they had of winning it; you have robbed them of 
 the pride, the just and chastened pride, awaiting them at 
 home ; you have robbed their children of their richest 
 inheritance, a father's good repute. 
 
 HwnpJu-ey. Despite of calumniators, there are worthy 
 men ready to speak in my favour, at least in extenuation — 
 
 Blake. I will hear them, as becomes me, although I my- 
 
122 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 self am cognizant of your default ; for during the conflict 
 how anxiously, as often as I could, did I look toward your 
 frigate ! Especial care could not be fairly taken that aid at 
 the trying moment should be at hand : other vessels were no 
 less exposed than yours ; and it was my duty to avoid all 
 partiality in giving my support. 
 
 Humphrey, Grievous as my short-coming may be, surely 
 I am not precluded from what benefit the testimony of my 
 friends may afford me. 
 
 Blake. Friends ! — ah, thou hast many, Humphrey ! and 
 many hast thou well deserved. In youth, in boyhood, in 
 childhood, thy honied temper brought ever warm friends 
 about thee. Easiness of disposition conciliates bad and 
 good alike ; it draws affections to it, and relaxes enmities : 
 but that same easiness renders us, too often, negligent of 
 our graver duties. God knows, I may without the same 
 excuse (if it is any) be impeached of negligence in many of 
 mine ; but never where the honour or safety of my country 
 was concerned. Wherefore the Almighty's hand, in this 
 last battle, as in others no less prosperous, hath conducted 
 and sustained me. 
 
 Humphrey ! did thy heart wax faint within thee through 
 want of confidence in our sole Deliverer ? 
 
 Humphrey. Truly I have no such plea. 
 
 Blake. It were none ; it were an aggravation. 
 
 Humphrey. I confess I am quite unable to offer any 
 adequate defence for my backwardness, my misconduct. 
 Oh ! could the hour return, the battle rage again ! How 
 many things are worse than death ! — how few things better ! 
 I am twelve years younger than you are, brother, and want 
 your experience. 
 
 Blake. Is that your only want? Deplorable is it to 
 know, as now I know, that you will never have it, and that 
 you will have a country which you can never serve. 
 
ADMIRAL BLAKE AND HUMPHREY BLAKE. 123 
 
 Humphrey, Deplorable it is, indeed. God help me ! 
 
 Blake. Worse evil soon may follow, — worse to me, 
 remembering thy childhood. Merciful Father ! after all the 
 blood that hath been shed this day, must I devote a brother's? 
 
 Humphrey. O Robert ! — always compassionate, always 
 kind and generous ! — do not inflict on yourself so lasting a 
 calamity, so unavailing a regret. 
 
 Listen! — not to me — but listen. I hear under your 
 bow the sound of oars. I hear them drawn into boats : 
 verily do I believe that several of the captains are come to 
 intercede for me, as they said they would do. 
 
 Blake. Intercession is vain. Honourable men shall 
 judge you. A man to be honourable must be strictly just, 
 at the least. Will brave men spare you ? It lies with 
 them. Whatever be their sentence, my duty is (God give 
 me strength !) to execute it. 
 
 Gentlemen ! who sent for you? \_Officers come aboard. 
 
 Senior Officer. General ! we, the captains of your fleet, 
 come before you upon the most painful of duties. 
 
 Blake (to himself). I said so : his doom is sealed. (To 
 Senior Officer.) Speak, sir ! speak out, I say. A man who 
 hath fought so bravely as you have fought to-day ought never 
 to hesitate and falter. 
 
 Senior Officer. General ! we grieve to say that Captain 
 Humphrey Blake, commanding a frigate in the service of 
 the Commonwealth, is accused of remissness in his duty. 
 
 Blake. I know it. Where is the accuser ? What ! no 
 answer from any of you ? Then I am he. Captain Hum- 
 phrey Blake is here impleaded of neglecting to perform his 
 uttermost in the seizure or destruction of the enemy's gal- 
 leons. Is the crime — write it, write it down ! — no need to 
 speak it here — capital ? Negligence ? no worse ? But 
 worse can there be ? 
 
 Senior Officer. We would humbly represent — 
 
124 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Blake. Representations, if made at all, must be made 
 elsewhere. He goes forthwith to England. Return each 
 of you to his vessel. Delinquency, grave delinquency, 
 there hath been, of what nature and to what extent you 
 must decide. Take him away. {Alone^ Just God ! am I 
 the guilty man, that I should drink to the very dregs such 
 a cup of bitterness ? 
 
 Forgive, forgive, O Lord ! the sinful cry of thy servant ! 
 Thy will be done ! Thou hast shown thy power this day, O 
 Lord ! now show, and make me worthy of, thy mercy ! 
 
 Various and arduous as were Blake's duties, such on all occasions 
 were his circumspection and discretion, that no fault could be detected 
 or invented in him. His .victories were won against all calculation but 
 his own. Recollecting, however late, his services ; recollecting that in 
 private life, in political, in military, his purity was ever the same, — 
 England will place Robert Blake the foremost and the highest of her 
 defenders. He was the archetype of her Nelsons, Collingwoods, and 
 Pellews. Of all the men that ever bore a sword, none was worthier of 
 that awful trust. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 RHADAMISTUS AND ZENOBIA. 
 
 Zenobia. My beloved ! my beloved ! I can endure the 
 motion of the horse no longer; his weariness makes his 
 pace so tiresome to me. Surely we have ridden far, very 
 far, from home ; and how shall we ever pass the wide and 
 rocky stream, among the whirlpools of the rapid and the deep 
 Araxes? From the first sight of it, O my husband, you 
 have been silent ; you have looked at me at one time 
 intensely, at another wildly : have you mistaken the road, 
 or the ford, or the ferry ? 
 
 Rhadamistus. Tired, tired, did you say ? — ay, thou 
 must be. Here thou shalt rest : this before us is the place 
 for it. Alight ; drop into my arms : art thou within them ? 
 
RH4DAMISTUS AND ZENOBIA. 125 
 
 Ze7iobia. Always in fear for me, my tender, thoughtful 
 Rhadamistus ! 
 
 Rhada7nistus. Rhadamistus, then, once more embraces 
 his Zenobia ! 
 
 Zenobia. And presses her to his bosom as with the first 
 embrace. 
 
 Rhadamistus. What is the first to the last ? 
 
 Zenobia. Nay, this is not the last. 
 
 Rhadamistus. Not quite (oh, agony !), not quite ; once 
 more. 
 
 Zenobia. So, with a kiss : which you forget to take. 
 
 Rhada7nistus {aside). And shall this shake my purpose ? 
 It may my limbs, my heart, my brain ; but what my soul so 
 deeply determined it shall strengthen, as winds do trees in 
 forests. 
 
 Zenobia. Come, come ! cheer up. How good you are to 
 be persuaded by me : back again at one word ! Hark ! 
 where are those drums and bugles ? On which side are 
 these echoes ? 
 
 Rhadamistus. Alight, dear, dear Zenobia ! and does 
 Rhadamistus, then, press thee to his bosom .? Can it be ? 
 
 Zenobia. Can it cease to be ? you would have said, my 
 Rhadamistus ! Hark ! again those trumpets .^ On which 
 bank of the water are they ? Now they seem to come from 
 the mountains, and now along the river. Men's voices too ! 
 threats and yells ! You, my Rhadamistus, could escape. 
 
 Rhadamistus. Wherefore .'' with whom ? and whither in 
 all Asia ? 
 
 Zenobia. Fly ! there are armed men climbing up the cliifs. 
 
 Rhadamistus. It was only the sound of the waves in the 
 hollows of them, and the masses of pebbles that rolled 
 down from under you as you knelt to listen. 
 
 Zenobia. Turn round ; look behind ! is it dust yonder, or 
 smoke ? And is it the sun, or what is it, shining so crim- 
 
126 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 son ? — not shining any longer now, but deep, and dull 
 purple, embodying into gloom. 
 
 Rhadamistus. It is the sun, about to set at mid-day : we 
 shall soon see no more of him. 
 
 Zenobia. Indeed ! what an ill omen ! But how can you 
 tell that ? Do yoa think it ? I do not. Alas ! alas ! the 
 dust and the sounds are nearer. 
 
 Rhadamistus. Prepare, then, my Zenobia ! 
 
 Zenobia. I was always prepared for it. 
 
 Rhadamistus. What reason, O unconfiding girl, from the 
 day of our union, have I ever given you to accuse or to sus- 
 pect me? 
 
 Ze?iobia. None, none : your love, even in these sad 
 moments, raises me above the reach of fortune. How can 
 it pain me so ? Do I repine ? Worse may it pain me ; but 
 let that love never pass away ! 
 
 Rhadamistus. Was it, then, the loss of power and king- 
 dom for which Zenobia was prepared ? 
 
 Zejiobia. The kingdom was lost when Rhadamistus lost 
 the affection of his subjects. Why did they not love you .? 
 How could they not "^ Tell me so strange a thing. 
 
 Rhadamistus. Fables, fables ! about the death of Mithri- 
 dates and his children ; declamations, out-cries, as if it were 
 as easy to bring men to life again as — I know not what — 
 to call after them. 
 
 Zenobia. But about the children ? 
 
 Rhadamistus. In all governments there are secrets. 
 
 Zenobia. Between us .'* 
 
 Rhadamistus. No longer : time presses ; not a moment 
 is left us, not a refuge, not a hope ! 
 
 Zenobia. Then, why draw the sword t 
 
 Rhadamistus. Wanted I courage ? Did I not fight as 
 becomes a king ? 
 
 Zenobia. True, most true. 
 
RHADAMISTUS AND ZENOBIA. 127 
 
 Rhadamistus. Is my resolution lost to me ? Did I but 
 dream I had it ? 
 
 Zenobia. Nobody is very near yet ; nor can they cross 
 the dell where we did. Those are fled who could have 
 shown the pathway. Think not of defending me. Listen ! 
 look ! what thousands are coming ! The protecting blade 
 above my head can only provoke the enemy. And do you 
 still keep it there t You grasp my arm too hard. Can you 
 look unkindly.? Can it be.? Oh! think again and spare 
 me, Rhadamistus ! From the vengeance of man, from the 
 judgments of heaven, the unborn may preserve my hus- 
 band. 
 
 Rhadamistus. We must die ! They advance ; they see 
 us ; they rush forward ! 
 
 Zeiiobia. Me, me would you strike? Rather let me leap 
 from the precipice. 
 
 Rhadamistus. Hold ! Whither would thy desperation ? 
 Art thou again within my grasp ? 
 
 Ze?iobia. O my beloved ! never let me call you cruel. 
 Let me love you in the last hour of seeing you as in the 
 first. I must, I must ; and be it my thought in death that 
 you love me so ! I would have cast away my life to save 
 you from remorse : it may do that and more, preserved by 
 you. Listen ! listen ! among those who pursue us there 
 are many fathers ; childless by his own hand, none. Do 
 not kill our baby ■ — the best of our hopes when we had 
 many — the baby not yet ours ! Who shall then plead for 
 you, my unhappy husband ? 
 
 Rhadajnistus. My honour ; and before me, sole arbiter 
 and sole audience of our cause. Bethink thee, Zenobia, of 
 the indignities, - — not bearing on my fortunes, but imminent 
 over thy beauty ! What said I ? — did I bid thee think of 
 them .? Rather die than imagine, or than question me, 
 what they are ! Let me endure two deaths before my own, 
 
128 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 crueller than wounds or than age or than servitude could 
 inflict on me, rather than make me name them. 
 
 Zenobia. Strike ! Lose not a moment so precious ! 
 Why hesitate now, my generous, brave defender ? 
 
 Rhadamistus. Zenobia, dost thou bid it ? 
 
 Zenobia. Courage is no longer a crime in you. Hear 
 the shouts, the threats, the imprecations ! Hear them, my 
 beloved ! let me., no more. 
 
 Rhadaviistiis. Embrace me not, Zenobia ! Loose me, 
 loose me ! 
 
 Zenobia. I cannot : thrust me away ! Divorce — but 
 with death — the disobedient wife, no longer your Zenobia. 
 {He strikes^ Oh! oh! one innocent head — in how few 
 days — should have reposed — no, not upon this blood. 
 Swim across! Is there a descent — an easy one, a safe 
 one, anywhere ? 1 might have found it for you ! Ill-spent 
 time ! heedless woman ! 
 
 Rhadamistus. An arrow hath pierced me : more are 
 showering round us. Go, my life's flower ! the blighted 
 branch drops after. Away ! forth into the stream ! strength 
 is yet left me for it. {He throws her into the river.) She 
 sinks not ! Oh, last calamity ! She sinks ! she sinks ! 
 Now both are well, and fearless ! One look more ! grant 
 one more look ! On what .'' where was it .? which whirl ? 
 which ripple ? they are gone too. How calm is the haven 
 of the most troubled life ! I enter it ! Rebels ! traitors ! 
 slaves ! subjects ! why gape ye .? why halt ye .? On, on, 
 dastards ! Oh that ye dared to follow ! {He plunges, armed, 
 into the A raxes.) 
 
EPICURUS, LEONTION, AND TERNISSA. 129 
 
 XXII. 
 EPICURUS, LEONTION, AND TERNISSA. 
 
 Epicurus. The place commands, in my opinion, a most 
 perfect view. 
 
 Leo7ition. Of what, pray ? 
 
 Epicurus. . Of itself ; seeming to indicate that we, Leon- 
 tion, who philosophize, should do the same. 
 
 Leontion. Go on, go on ! say what you please : I will not 
 hate any thing yet. Why have you torn up by the root all 
 these little mountain ash-trees .'' This is the season of their 
 beauty : come, Ternissa, let us make ourselves necklaces and 
 armlets, such as may captivate old Sylvanus and Pan ; you 
 shall have your choice. But why have you torn them up ? 
 
 Epic2irus. On the contrary, they were brought hither this 
 morning. Sosimenes is spending large sums of money on 
 an olive-ground, and has uprooted some hundreds of them, 
 of all ages and sizes. I shall cover the rougher part of the 
 hill with them, setting the clematis and vine and honey- 
 suckle against them, to unite them. 
 
 Ternissa. Oh what a pleasant thing it is to walk in the 
 green light of the vine-leaves, and to breathe the sweet 
 odour of their invisible flowers ! 
 
 Epicurus. The scent of them is so delicate that it requires 
 a sigh to inhale it ; and this, being accompanied and fol- 
 lowed by enjoyment, renders the fragrance so exquisite. 
 Ternissa, it is this, my sweet friend, that made you remem- 
 ber the green light of the foliage, and think of the invisible 
 flowers as you would of some blessing from heaven. 
 
 Ter?iissa. I see feathers flying at certain distances just 
 above the middle of the promontory : what can they mean ? 
 
 Epicurus. Cannot you imagine them to be feathers from 
 the wings of Zethes and Calais, who came hither out of 
 
130 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Thrace to behold the favourite haunts of their mother Oreith- 
 yia ? From the precipice that hangs over the sea a few 
 paces from the pinasters she is reported to have been carried 
 off by Boreas ; and these remains of the primeval forest 
 have always been held sacred on that belief. 
 
 Leontioii. The story is an idle one. 
 
 Ternissa. O no, Leontion ! the story is very true. 
 
 Leontion. Indeed ? 
 
 Ternissa. I have heard not only odes, but sacred and 
 most ancient hymns, upon it ; and the voice of Boreas is 
 often audible here, and the screams of Oreithyia. 
 
 Leontion, The feathers then really may belong to Calais 
 and Zethes. 
 
 Ternissa. I don't believe it ; the winds would have car- 
 ried them away. 
 
 Leontion. The gods, to manifest their power as they often 
 do by miracles, could as easily fix a feather eternally on the 
 most tempestuous promontory, as the mark of their feet 
 upon the flint. 
 
 Ter7iissa. They could indeed ; but we know the one to 
 a certainty, and have no such authority for the other. I 
 have seen these pinasters from the extremity of the Piraeus, 
 and have heard mention of the altar raised to Boreas : 
 where is it ? 
 
 Epicurus. As it stands in the centre of the platform, we 
 cannot see it from hence ; there is the only piece of level 
 ground in the place. 
 
 Leontion. Ternissa intends the altar to prove the truth 
 of the story. 
 
 Epicurics. Ternissa is slow to admit that even the young 
 can deceive, much less the old ; the gay, much less the 
 serious. 
 
 Leontion. It is as wise to moderate our belief as our 
 desires. 
 
EPICURUS, LEONTION, AND TERNISSA. 131 
 
 Epicurus. Some minds require mucli belief, some thrive 
 on little. Rather an exuberance of it is feminine and 
 beautiful. It acts differently on different hearts ; it 
 troubles some, it consoles others : in the generous it is the 
 nurse of tenderness and kindness, of heroism and self- 
 devotion ; in the ungenerous it fosters pride, impatience of 
 contradiction and appeal, and, like some waters, what it 
 finds a dry stick or hollow straw, it leaves a stone. 
 
 Ternissa. We want it chiefly to make the way of death 
 an easy one, 
 
 Epicurus. There is no easy path leading out of life, and 
 few are the easy ones that lie within it. I would adorn and 
 smoothen the declivity, and make my residence as commo- 
 dious as its situation and dimensions may allow ; but prin- 
 cipally I would cast underfoot the empty fear of death. 
 
 Ternissa. Oh! how can you.? 
 
 Epicurus. By many arguments already laid down : then 
 by thinking that some perhaps, in almost every age, have 
 been timid and delicate as Ternissa ; and yet have slept 
 soundly, have felt no parent's or friend's tear upon their 
 faces, no throb against their breasts : in short, have been 
 in the calmest of all possible conditions, while those around 
 were in the most deplorable and desperate. 
 
 Ternissa. It would pain me to die, if it were only at the 
 idea that any one I love would grieve too much for me. 
 
 Epicurus. Let the loss of our friends be our only grief, 
 and the apprehension of displeasing them our only fear. 
 
 Leo7ition. No apostrophes ! no interjections ! Your 
 argument was unsound ; your means futile. 
 
 Epicurus. Tell me, then, whether the horse of a rider on 
 the road should not be spurred forward if he started at a 
 shadow. 
 
 Leontion. Yes. 
 
 Epicurus, I thought so : it would however be better to 
 
132 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 guide him quietly up to it, and to show him that it was one. 
 Death is less than a shadow : it represents nothing, even 
 imperfectly. 
 
 Leontion. Then at the best what is it ? why care about 
 it, think about it, or remind us that it must befall us } 
 Would you take the same trouble, when you see my hair 
 entwined with ivy, to make me remember that, although the 
 leaves are green and pliable, the stem is fragile and rough, 
 and that before I go to bed I shall have many knots and 
 entanglements to extricate ? Let me have them ; but let 
 me not hear of them until the time is come. 
 
 Epicurus. I would never think of death as an embarrass- 
 ment, but as a blessing. 
 
 Ternissa. How ! a blessing ? 
 
 Epicurus. What, if it makes our enemies cease to hate 
 us 1 what, if it makes our friends love us the more .? 
 
 Leontion. Us? According to your doctrine, we shall not 
 exist at all. 
 
 Epicurus. I spoke of that which is consolatory while we 
 are here, and of that which in plain reason ought to render 
 us contented to stay no longer. You, Leontion, would 
 make others better ; and better they certainly will be, when 
 their hostilities languish in an empty field, and their rancour 
 is tired with treading upon dust. The generous affections 
 stir about us at the dreary hour of death, as the blossoms 
 of the Median apple swell and diffuse their fragrance in the 
 cold. 
 
 Ternissa. I cannot bear to think of passing the Styx, 
 lest Charon should touch me ; he is so old and wilful, so 
 cross and ugly. 
 
 Epicurus. Ternissa ! Ternissa ! I would accompany you 
 thither, and stand between. Would you not too, Leontion ? 
 
 Leontion. I don't know. 
 
 Terftissa. Oh ! that we could go together ! 
 
EPICURUS, LEONTION, AND TERNISSA. 133 
 
 Leoiition, Indeed ! 
 
 Ternissa. All three, I mean — I said — or was going to 
 say it. How ill-natured you are, Leontion, to misinterpret 
 me ; I could almost cry. 
 
 Leoiition. Do not, do not, Ternissa ! Should that tear 
 drop from your eyelash you would look less beautiful. 
 
 Epicurus. Whenever I see a tear on a beautiful young 
 face, twenty of mine run to meet it. If it is well to con- 
 quer a world, it is better to conquer two. 
 
 Ternissa. That is what Alexander of Macedon wept 
 because he could not accomplish. 
 
 Epicurus. Ternissa ! we three can accomplish it ; or any 
 one of us. 
 
 lernissa. How ? pray ! 
 
 Epicurus. We can conquer this world and the next ; for 
 you will have another, and nothing should be refused you. 
 
 Ter?tissa. The next by piety : but this, in what manner ? 
 
 Epicurus. By indifference to all who are indifferent to 
 us ; by taking joyfully the benefit that comes spontaneously ; 
 by wishing no more intensely for what is a hair's breadth 
 beyond our reach than for a draught of water from the 
 Ganges ; and by fearing nothing in another life. 
 
 Ternissa. This, O Epicurus ! is the grand impossibility. 
 
 Epicurus. Do you believe the gods to be as benevolent 
 and good as you are ? or do you not ? 
 
 Ternissa. Much kinder, much better in every way. 
 
 Epicurus. Would you kill or hurt the sparrow that you 
 keep in your little dressing-room with a string around the 
 leg, because he hath flown where you did not wish him to 
 fly? 
 
 Ternissa. No ! it would be cruel ; the string about the 
 leg of so little and weak a creature is enough. 
 
 Epicurus. You think so ; I think so ; God thinks so. 
 This I may say confidently : for whenever there is a senti- 
 
134 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 ment in which strict justice and pure benevolence unite, it 
 must be His. 
 
 Epicurus. Leontion and Ternissa, those eyes of yours 
 brighten at inquiry, as if they carried a light within them 
 for a guidance. 
 
 Leontion. No flattery ! 
 
 Ternissa. No flattery ! Come, teach us ! 
 
 Epicurus. Will you hear me through in silence '^. 
 
 Leo?itio7t. We promise. 
 
 Epicurus. Sweet girls ! the calm pleasures, such as I 
 hope you will ever find in your walks among these gardens, 
 will improve your beauty, animate your discourse, and cor- 
 rect the little that may hereafter rise up for correction in 
 your dispositions. The smiling ideas left in our bosoms 
 from our infancy, that many plants are the favourites of the 
 gods, and that others were even the objects of their love, — 
 having once been invested with the human form, beautiful 
 and lively and happy as yourselves, — give them an interest 
 beyond the vision ; yes, and a station — let me say it — on 
 the vestibule of our affections. Resign your ingenuous hearts 
 to simple pleasures ; and there is none in man, where men 
 are Attic, that will not follow and outstrip their movements. 
 
 Ternissa. O Epicurus ! 
 
 Epicurus. What said Ternissa ? 
 
 Leontion. Some of those anemones, I do think, must be 
 still in blossom. Ternissa's golden cup is at home ; but 
 she has brought with her a little vase for the philter — and 
 has filled it to the brim. — Do not hide your head behind 
 my shoulder, Ternissa ; no, nor in my lap. 
 
 Epicurus. Yes, there let it lie, — the lovelier for that ten- 
 dril of sunny brown hair upon it. How it falls and rises ! 
 Which is the hair ? which the shadow .-* 
 
EPICURUS, LEONTION, AND TERNISSA. 135 
 
 Leontion. Let the hair rest. 
 
 Epicurus. I mast not, perhaps, clasp the shadow ! 
 
 Leontion. You philosophers are fond of such unsubstan- 
 tial things. Oh, you have taken my volume ! This is 
 deceit. 
 
 You live so little in public, and entertain such a contempt 
 for opinion, as to be both indifferent and ignorant what it is 
 that people blame you for. 
 
 Epicurus. I know what it is I should blame myself for, 
 if I attended to them. Prove them to be wiser and more 
 disinterested in their wisdom than I am, and I will then go 
 down to them and listen to them. When I have well con- 
 sidered a thing, I deliver it, — regardless of what those 
 think who neither take the time nor possess the faculty of 
 considering any thing well, and who have always lived far 
 remote from the scope of our speculations. 
 
 Leontion. In the volume you snatched away from me so 
 slily, I have defended a position of yours which many 
 philosophers turn into ridicule ; namely, that politeness is 
 among the virtues. I wish you yourself had spoken more 
 at large upon the subject. 
 
 Epicurus. It is one upon which a lady is likely to dis- 
 play more ingenuity and discernment. If philosophers have 
 ridiculed my sentiment, the reason is, it is among those 
 virtues which in general they find most difficult to assume 
 or counterfeit. 
 
 Leontion. Surely life runs on the smoother for this equa- 
 bility and poUsh ; and the gratification it affords is more 
 extensive than is afforded even by the highest virtue. Cour- 
 age, on nearly all occasions, infficts as much of evil as it 
 imparts of good. It may be exerted in defence of our 
 country, in defence of those who love us, in defence of the 
 harmless and helpless; but those against whom it is thus 
 exerted may possess an equal share of it. If they succeed. 
 
136 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 then manifestly the ill it produces is greater than the benefit ; 
 if they succumb, it is nearly as great. For many of their 
 adversaries are first killed and maimed, and many of their own 
 kindred are left to lament the consequences of the aggression. 
 
 Epicurus. You have spoken first of courage, as that 
 virtue which attracts your sex principally. 
 
 Ternissa. Not me ; I am always afraid of it. I love 
 those best who can tell me the most things I never knew 
 before, and who have patience with me, and look kindly 
 while they teach me, and almost as if they were waiting for 
 fresh questions. Now let me hear directly what you were 
 about to say to Leontion. 
 
 Epicurus. I was proceeding to remark that temperance 
 comes next ; and temperance has then its highest merit 
 when it is the support of civility and politeness. So that I 
 thiak I am right and equitable in attributing to politeness a 
 distinguished rank, not among the ornaments of life, but 
 among the virtues. And you, Leontion and Ternissa, will 
 have leaned the more propensely toward this opinion, if 
 you considered, as I am sure you did, that the peace and 
 concord of families, friends, and cities are preserved by it ; 
 in other terms, the harmony of the world. 
 
 Ternissa. Leontion spoke of courage, you of temper- 
 ance ; the next great virtue, in the division made by the 
 philosophers, is justice. 
 
 Epicurus. Temperance includes it; for temperance is 
 imperfect if it is only an abstinence from too much food, too 
 much wine, too much conviviality or other luxury. It indi- 
 cates every kind of forbearance. Justice is forbearance 
 from what belongs to another. Giving to this one rightly 
 what that one would hold wrongfully is justice in magistra- 
 ture, not in the abstract, and is only a part of its office. 
 The perfectly temperate man is also the perfectly just man ; 
 but the perfectly just man (as philosophers now define him) 
 
EPICURUS, LEONTION, AND TERNISSA. 137 
 
 may not be the perfectly temperate one. I include the less 
 in the greater. 
 
 Leontion. We hear of judges, and upright ones, too, 
 being immoderate eaters and drinkers. 
 
 Epicurus. The Lacedemonians are temperate in food 
 and courageous in battle ; but men like these, if they existed 
 in sufBcient numbers, would devastate the universe. We 
 alone, we Athenians, with less military skill perhaps, and 
 certainly less rigid abstinence from voluptuousness and 
 luxury, have set before it the only grand example of social 
 government and of polished life. From us the seed is scat- 
 tered ; from us flow the streams that irrigate it ; and ours 
 are the hands, O Leontion, that collect it, cleanse it, deposit 
 it, and convey and distribute it sound and weighty through 
 every race and age. Exhausted as we are by war, we can 
 do nothing better than lie down and doze while the weather 
 is fine overhead, and dream (if we can) that w^e are affluent 
 and free. 
 
 O sweet sea-air ! how bland art thou and refreshing ! 
 breathe upon Leontion ! breathe upon Ternissa ! bring 
 them health and spirits and serenity, many springs and 
 many summers, and when the vine-leaves have reddened 
 and rustle under their feet ! 
 
 These, my beloved girls, are the children of Eternity : 
 they played around Theseus and the beauteous Amazon ; 
 they gave to Pallas the bloom of Venus, and to Venus the 
 animation of Pallas. Is it not better to enjoy by the hour 
 their soft, salubrious influence, than to catch by fits the 
 rancid breath of demagogues ; than to swell and move under 
 it without or against our will ; than to acquire the semblance 
 of eloquence by the bitterness of passion, the tone of philos- 
 ophy by disappointment, or the credit of prudence by dis- 
 trust ? Can fortune, can industry, can desert itself, bestow 
 on us any thing we have not here .'* 
 
138 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Leontion. And when shall those three meet ? The gods 
 have never united them, knowing that men would put them 
 asunder at their first appearance. 
 
 Epicurus. I am glad to leave the city as often as possi- 
 ble, full as it is of high and glorious reminiscences, and am 
 inclined much rather to indulge in quieter scenes, whither 
 the Graces and Friendship lead me. I would not contend 
 even with men able to contend with me. You, Leontion, I 
 see, think differently, and have composed at last your long- 
 meditated w^ork against the philosophy of Theophrastus. 
 
 Leontion. Why not ? he has been praised above his 
 merits. 
 
 Epicurus. My Leontion ! you have inadvertently given 
 me the reason and origin of all controversial writings. They 
 flow not from a love of truth or a regard for science, but 
 from envy and ill-will. Setting aside the evil of malignity — 
 always hurtful to ourselves, not always to others — there is 
 weakness in the argument you have adduced. When a 
 writer is praised above his merits in his own times, he is 
 certain of being estimated below them in the times succeed- 
 ing. Paradox is dear to most people : it bears the appear- 
 ance of originality, but is usually the talent of the superficial, 
 the perverse, and the obstinate. 
 
 XXIII. 
 WALTON, COTTON, AND OLDWAYS. 
 
 Walton. God be with thee and preserve thee, old Ash- 
 bourne ! Thou art verily the pleasantest place upon His 
 earth ; I mean from May-day till Michaelmas. Son Cotton, 
 let us tarry a little here upon the bridge. Did you ever see 
 greener meadows than these on either hand? And what 
 says that fine lofty spire upon the left, a trowling-line's cast 
 
WALTOA', COTTON, AND OLD WAYS. 139 
 
 from us ? It says methinks, " Blessed be the Lord for this 
 bounty : come hither and repeat it beside me." How my 
 jade winces ! I wish the strawberry-spotted trout, and ash- 
 coloured grayling under us, had the bree that plagues thee 
 so, my merry wench ! Look, my son, at the great venerable 
 house opposite. You know these parts as well as I do, or 
 better ; are you acquainted with the worthy who lives over 
 there ? 
 
 Cotton. I cannot say I am. 
 
 Walton. You shall be then. He has resided here forty- 
 five years, and knew intimately our good Doctor Donne, and 
 (I hear) hath some of his verses, written when he was a 
 stripling or little better, the which we come after. 
 
 Cotton. That, I imagine, must be he ! — the man in black, 
 walking above the house. 
 
 Walton. Truly said on both counts. Willy Oldways, 
 sure enough ; and he doth walk above his house-top. The 
 gardens here, you observe, overhang the streets. 
 
 Cotton. Ashbourne, to my mind, is the prettiest town in 
 England. 
 
 Walton. And there is nowhere between Trent and Tweed 
 a sweeter stream for the trout, I do assure you, than the one 
 our horses are bestriding. Those, in my opinion, were very 
 wise men who consecrated certain streams to the Muses : I 
 know not whether I can say so much of those who added the 
 mountains. Whenever I am beside a river or rivulet on a 
 sunny day, and think a little while, and let images warm into 
 life about me, and joyous sounds increase and multiply in 
 their innocence, the sun looks brighter and feels warmer, 
 and I am readier to live, and less unready to die. 
 
 Son Cotton ! these light idle brooks, 
 Peeping into so many nooks, 
 Yet have not for their idlest wave 
 The leisure you may think they have : 
 
140 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 No, not the little ones that run 
 
 And hide behind the first big stone, 
 
 When they have squirted in the eye 
 
 Of their next neighbour passing by; 
 
 Nor yonder curly sideling fellow 
 
 Of tones than Pan's own flute more mellow, 
 
 Who learns his tune and tries it over 
 
 As girl who fain would please her lover. 
 
 Something has each of them to say ; 
 
 He says it and then runs away, 
 
 And says it in another place, 
 
 Continuing the unthrifty chase. 
 
 We have as many tales to tell, 
 
 And look as gay and run as well, 
 
 But leave another to pursue 
 
 What we had promised we would do ; 
 
 Till in the order God has fated, 
 
 One after one precipitated. 
 
 Whether we would on, or would not on, 
 
 Just like these idle waves, son Cotton ! 
 
 And now I have taken you by surprise, I will have 
 (finished or unfinished) the verses you snatched out of my 
 hand, and promised me another time, when you awoke this 
 morning. 
 
 Cotton. If you must have them, here they are. 
 
 Walton (7'eads). 
 
 Rocks under Okeover park-paling 
 Better than Ashbourne suit the grayling. 
 Reckless of people springs the trout, 
 Tossing his vacant head about. 
 And his distinction-stars, as one 
 Not to be touched but looked upon, 
 And smirks askance, as who should say 
 " I 'd lay now (if I e'er did \2iy) 
 The brightest fly that shines above, 
 You know not what I'm thinking of ; 
 Whatjj/^w are, I can plainly tell 
 And so, my gentles, fare ye well ! " 
 
WALTON, COTTON, AND OLBIVAYS. 141 
 
 Heigh ! heigh ! what have we here ? — a double hook with 
 a bait upon each side. Faith ! son Cotton, if my friend 
 Old ways had seen these, — not the verses I have been read- 
 ing, but these others I have run over in silence, — he would 
 have reproved me, in his mild amicable way, for my friend- 
 ship with one who, at two-and-twenty, could either know so 
 much or invent so much about a girl. He remarked to me, 
 the last time we met, that our climate was more backward 
 and our youth more forward than anciently ; and, taking out 
 a newspaper from under the cushion of his arm-chair, showed 
 me a paragraph, with a cross in red ink, and seven or eight 
 marks of admiration, — some on one side, some on the 
 other, — in which there was mention made of a female 
 servant, who, hardly seventeen years old, charged her 
 master's son, who was barely two older — 
 
 Cotton. Nonsense ! nonsense ! impossible ! 
 
 Waltoji. Why, he himself seemed to express a doubt ; 
 for beneath was written, "Qu., if perjured — which God 
 forbid ! May all turn out to His glory ! " 
 
 Cotton. But really I do not recollect that paper of mine, 
 if mine it be, which appears to have stuck against the 
 Okeover paling lines. 
 
 Walton. Look ! they are both on the same scrap. Truly, 
 son, there are girls here and there who might have said as 
 much as thou, their proctor, hast indicted for them : they 
 have such froward tongues in their heads, some of them. 
 A breath keeps them in motion, like a Jew's harp, God 
 knows how long. If you do not or will not recollect the 
 verses on this endorsement, I will read them again, and 
 aloud. 
 
 Cotto7i. Pray do not balk your fancy. 
 
 Walton {reads). 
 
 Where 's my apron ? I will gather 
 Daffodils and kingcups, rather 
 
142 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Than have fifty silly souls, 
 False as cats and dull as owls, 
 Looking up into my eyes 
 And half-blinding me with sighs. 
 
 Cats^ forsooth ! Oivls^ and cry you mercy ! Have they 
 no better words than those for civil people ? Did any young 
 woman really use the expressions, bating the metre, or can 
 you have contrived them out of pure likelihood ? 
 
 Cotton. I will not gratify your curiosity at present. 
 
 Walton. Anon, then. 
 
 Here I stretch myself along, 
 Tell a tale or sing a song, 
 By my cousin Sue or Bet — 
 And, for dinner here I get 
 Strawberries, curds, or what I please, 
 With my bread upon my knees ; 
 And, W'hen I have had enough, 
 Shake, and off to blind-man'' s-buff. 
 
 Spoken in the character of a maiden, it seems, who little 
 knows, in her innocence, that blind-maii^ s-buff is a perilous 
 game. 
 
 You are looking, I perceive, from off the streamlet toward 
 the church. In its chancel lie the first and last of the 
 Cockaynes. Whole races of men have been exterminated 
 by war and pestilence; families and names have slipped 
 down and lost themselves by slow and imperceptible decay : 
 but I doubt whether any breed of fish, with heron and otter 
 and angler in pursuit of it, hath been extinguished since the 
 Heptarchy. They might humble our pride a whit, methinks, 
 though they hold their tongues. The people here entertain 
 a strange prejudice against the nine-eyes. 
 
 Cotton. What, in the name of wonder, is that ? 
 
 Walton. At your years, do not you know ? It is a tiny 
 kind of lamprey, a finger long ; it sticketh to the stones by 
 
WALTON, COTTON, AND OLD WAYS. 143 
 
 its sucker, and, if you are not warier and more knowing than 
 folks in general from the South, you might take it for a 
 weed : it wriggles its whole body to and fro so regularly, and 
 is of that dark colour which subaqueous weeds are often of, 
 as though they were wet through ; which they are not any 
 more than land-weeds, if one may believe young Doctor 
 Plott, who told me so in confidence. 
 
 Hold my mare, son Cotton. I will try whether my whip 
 can reach the window, when I have mounted the bank. 
 
 Cotton. Curious ! the middle of a street to be lower than 
 the side by several feet. People would not believe it in 
 London or Hull. 
 
 Walton. Ho ! lass ! tell the good parson, your master, 
 or his wife if she be nearer at hand, that two friends would 
 dine with him : Charles Cotton, kinsman of Mistress Cotton 
 of the Peak, and his humble servant, Izaak Walton. 
 
 Girl. If you are come, gentles, to dine with my master, 
 I will make another kidney-pudding first, while I am about 
 it, and then tell him ; not but we have enough and to spare, 
 yet master and mistress love to see plenty, and to welcome 
 with no such peacods as words. 
 
 Walton. Go, thou hearty jade ; trip it, and tell him. 
 
 Cotton. I will answer for it, thy friend is a good soul : I 
 perceive it in the heartiness and alacrity of the wench. 
 She glories in his hospitality, and it renders her labour a 
 delight 
 
 Walton. He wants nothing, yet he keeps the grammar- 
 school, and is ready to receive, as private tutor, any young 
 gentleman in preparation for Oxford or Cambridge ; but 
 only one. They live like princes, converse like friends, and 
 part like lovers. 
 
 Cotton. Here he comes : I never saw such a profusion 
 of snow-white hair. 
 
 Walto?i. Let us go up and meet him. 
 
144 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Oldways. Welcome, my friends ! will you walk back into 
 the house, or sit awhile in the shade here ? 
 
 Walton. We will sit down in the grass, on each side of 
 your arm-chair, good master William. Why, how is this ? 
 here are tulips and other flowers by the thousand growing 
 out of the turf. You are all of a piece, my sunny saint : 
 you are always concealing the best things about you, except 
 your counsel, your raisin-wine, and your money. 
 
 Oldways. The garden was once divided by borders. A 
 young gentleman, my private pupil, was fond of leaping : his 
 heels ruined my choicest flowers, ten or twenty at a time. 
 I remonstrated : he patted me on the shoulder, and said, 
 " My dear Mr. Oldways, in these borders if you miss a flower 
 you are uneasy ; now, if the whole garden were in turf, you 
 would be delighted to discover one. Turf it then, and leave 
 the flowers to grow or not to grow, as may happen." I 
 mentioned it to my wife : " Suppose we do," said she. It 
 was done ; and the boy's remark, I have found by experience, 
 is true. 
 
 IValton. You have some very nice flies about the trees 
 here, friend Oldways. Charles, do prythee lay thy hand 
 upon that green one. He has it ! he has it ! bravely done, 
 upon my life ! I never saw any thing achieved so admirably ^ — 
 not a wing nor an antenna the worse for it. Put him into 
 this box. Thou art caught, but shalt catch others : lie 
 softly. 
 
 Cotton. The transport of Dad Walton will carry him off 
 (I would lay a wager) from the object of his ride. 
 
 Oldways. What was that, sir? 
 
 Cotton. Old Donne, I suspect, is nothing to such a fly. 
 
 Walton. All things in their season. 
 
 Cotton. Come, I carried the rods in my hand all the way. 
 
 Oldways. I never could have believed. Master Izaak, that 
 you would have trusted your tackle out of your own hand. 
 
WALTON, COTTON, AND OLD WAYS. 145 
 
 Walton. Without cogent reason, no, indeed: but — let 
 me whisper. 
 
 I told youngster it was because I carried a hunting-whip, 
 and could not hold that and rod too. But why did I carry 
 it, bethink you } 
 
 Ohiways. 1 cannot guess. 
 
 Walton. I must come behind your chair and whisper 
 softlier. I have that in my pocket which might make the 
 dogs inquisitive and troublesome, — a rare paste, of my own 
 invention. When son Cotton sees me draw up gill after gill, 
 and he can do nothing, he will respect me, — not that I 
 have to complain of him as yet, — and he shall know the 
 whole at supper, after the first day's sport. 
 
 Cotton. Have you asked ? 
 
 Walton. Anon : have patience. 
 
 Cotton. Will no reminding do .^ Not a rod or line, or 
 fly of any colour, false or true, shall you have. Dad Izaak, 
 before you have made to our kind host here your intended 
 application. 
 
 Oldways. No ceremony with me, I desire. Speak, and 
 have. 
 
 Walton. Oldways, I think you were curate to Master 
 Donne ? 
 
 Oldways. When I was first in holy orders, and he was 
 ready for another world. 
 
 Walto7i. I have heard it reported that you have some of 
 his earlier poetry. 
 
 Oldways. I have (I believe) a trifle or two ; but, if he 
 were living, he would, not wish them to see the light. 
 
 Walton. Why not? — he had nothing to fear: his fame 
 was established ; and he was a discreet and holy man. 
 
 Oldways. He was almost in his boyhood when he wrote 
 it, being but in his twenty-third year, and subject to fits of 
 love. 
 
146 M AGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 CottoJi. This passion, then, cannot have had for its 
 object the daughter of Sir George More, whom he saw not 
 until afterward. 
 
 Oldzvays. No, nor was that worthy lady called Margaret, 
 as was this ; who scattered so many pearls in his path, he 
 was wont to say, that he trod uneasily on them, and could 
 never skip them. 
 
 Waltoji. Let us look at them in his poetry. 
 
 Oldways. I know not whether he would consent thereto, 
 were he living, the lines running so totally on the amorous. 
 
 Walton. Faith and troth ! we mortals are odd fishes. 
 We care not how many see us in choler, when we rave and 
 bluster and make as much noise and bustle as we can ; but 
 if the kindest and most generous affection comes across us, 
 we suppress every sign of it, and hide ourselves in nooks 
 and coverts. Out with the drawer, my dear Oldways : we 
 have seen Donne's sting ; in justice to him, let us now have 
 a sample of his honey. 
 
 Oldways. Strange that you never asked me before. 
 
 Walton. I am fain to write his life, now one can sit by 
 Dove-side and hold the paper upon one's knee, without fear 
 that some unlucky catchpole of a rheumatism tip one upon 
 the shoulder. I have many things to say in Donne's favour : 
 let me add to them, by your assistance, that he not only 
 loved well and truly, as was proved in his marriage, — 
 though like a good angler he changed his fly, and did not at 
 all seasons cast his rod over the same water, — but that his 
 heart opened early to the genial affections ; that his satire 
 was only the overflowing of his wit; that he made it admin- 
 ister to his duties ; that he ordered it to officiate as he would 
 his curate, and perform half the service of the church for 
 him. 
 
 Cotton. Pray, who was the object of his affections ? 
 
 Oldways. The damsel was Mistress Margaret Hayes. 
 
WALTON, COTTON, AND OLD WAYS. 147 
 
 Cotton. I am curious to know, if you will indulge my 
 curiosity, what figure of a woman she might be. 
 
 Oldways. She was of lofty stature, red-haired (which some 
 folks dislike), but with comely white eyebrows, a very slender 
 transparent nose, and elegantly thin lips, covering with due 
 astringency a treasure of pearls beyond price, which, as her 
 lover would have it, she never ostentatiously displayed. 
 Her chin was somewhat long, with what I should have 
 simply called a sweet dimple in it, quite proportionate : but 
 Donne said it was more than dimple ; that it was peculiar ; 
 that her angelic face could not have existed without it, nor 
 it without her angelic face, — that is, unless by a new dis- 
 pensation. He was much taken thereby, and mused upon 
 it deeply : calling it in moments of joyousness the cradle of 
 all sweet fancies, and, in hours of suffering from her sedate- 
 ness, the vale of death. 
 
 Walton. So ingenious are men when the spring torrent 
 of passion shakes up and carries away their thoughts, 
 covering (as it were) the green meadow of still homely life 
 with pebbles and shingle, — some colourless and obtuse, 
 some sharp and sparkling. 
 
 Cotton. I hope he was happy in her at last. 
 
 Oldways. Ha ! ha ! here we have 'em. Strong lines ! 
 Happy, no ; he was not happy. He was forced to renounce 
 her, by what he then called his evil destiny ; and wishing, 
 if not to forget her, yet to assuage his grief under the im- 
 pediments to their union, he made a voyage to Spain and 
 the Azores with the Earl of Essex. When this passion first 
 blazed out he was in his twentieth year ; for the physicians 
 do tell us that where the genius is ardent the passions are 
 precocious. The lady had profited by many more seasons 
 than he had, and carried with her manifestly the fruits of 
 circumspection. No benefice falling unto him, nor indeed 
 there being fit preparation, she submitted to the will of 
 
148 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Providence. Howbeit, he could not bring his mind to 
 reason until ten years after, when he married the daughter 
 of the worshipful Sir George More. 
 
 Cotton. I do not know whether the arduous step of 
 matrimony, on which many a poor fellow has broken his 
 shin, is a step geometrically calculated for bringing us to 
 reason ; but I have seen passion run up it in a minute, and 
 down it in half a one. 
 
 Oldways. Young gentleman ! my patron the doctor was 
 none of the light-hearted and oblivious. 
 
 Cotton. Truly I should think it a hard matter to forget 
 such a beauty as his muse and his chaplain have described ; 
 at least if one had ever stood upon the brink of matrimony 
 with her. It is allowable, I hope, to be curious concerning 
 the termination of so singular an attachment. 
 
 Oldways. She would listen to none other. 
 
 Cotton. Surely she must have had good ears to have 
 heard one. 
 
 Oldways. No pretender had the hardihood to come for- 
 ward too obtrusively. Donne had the misfortune, as he 
 then thought it, to outlive her, after a courtship of about five 
 years, which enabled him to contemplate her ripening 
 beauties at leisure, and to bend over the opening flowers of 
 her virtues and accomplishments. Alas ! they were lost to 
 the world (unless by example) in her forty-seventh spring. 
 
 Cotton. He might then leisurely bend over them, and 
 quite as easily shake the seed out as smell them. Did she 
 refuse him, then ? 
 
 Oldways. He dared not ask her. 
 
 Cotton. Why, verily, I should have boggled at that said 
 vale (I think) myself. 
 
 Oldways. Izaak ! our young friend Master Cotton is not 
 sedate enough yet, I suspect, for a right view and percep- 
 tion of poetry. I doubt whether these affecting verses on 
 
WALTON, COTTON, AND OLD WAYS. 149 
 
 her loss will move him greatly ; somewhat, yes : there is in 
 the beginning so much simplicity, in the middle so much 
 reflection, in the close so much grandeur and sublimity, no 
 scholar can peruse them without strong emotion. Take, 
 and read them. 
 
 Cotton. Come, come ; do not keep them to yourself, dad ! 
 I have the heart of a man, and will bear the recitation as 
 valiantly as may be. 
 
 Walto7i. I will read aloud the best stanza only. What 
 strong language ! 
 
 " Her one hair would hold a dragon, 
 Her one eye would burn an earth : 
 Fall, my tears ! fill each your flagon ! 
 Millions fall ! A dearth ! a dearth ! " 
 
 Cotto7i. The doctor must have been desperate about the 
 fair Margaret. 
 
 Waltofi. His verses are fine, indeed : one feels for him, 
 poor man ! 
 
 Cotton. And wishes him nearer to Stourbridge, or some 
 other glass-furnace. He must have been at great charges. 
 
 Oldways. Lord help the youth ! Tell him, Izaak, that 
 is poetical, and means nothing. 
 
 Walton. He has an inkling of it, I misgive me. 
 
 Cotton. How could he write so smoothly in his affliction, 
 when he exhibited nothing of the same knack afterward ? 
 
 Walton. I don't know ; unless it may be that men's 
 verses, like their knees, stiffen by age. 
 
 Oldways. I do like vastly your glib verses ; but you 
 cannot be at once easy and majestical. 
 
 WaltoJi. It is only our noble rivers that enjoy this privi- 
 lege. The greatest conqueror in the world never had so 
 many triumphal arches erected to him as our middlesized 
 brooks have. 
 
^150 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Oldways. Now, Master Izaak, by your leave, I do think 
 you are wrong in calling them triumphal. The ancients 
 would have it that arches over waters were signs of sub- 
 jection. 
 
 Walton. The ancients may have what they will, except- 
 ing your good company for the evening, which (please God !) 
 we shall keep to ourselves. They were mighty people for 
 subjection and subjugation. 
 
 Oldways. Virgil says, " Pontem indignatus Araxes." 
 
 Walton. Araxes was testy enough under it, I dare to 
 aver. But what have you to say about the matter, son 
 Cotton ? 
 
 Cotton. I dare not decide either against my father or 
 mine host. 
 
 Oldways. So, we are yet no friends. 
 
 Cotton. Under favour, then, I would say that we but 
 acknowledge the power of rivers and runlets in bridging 
 them ; for without so doing we could not pass. We are 
 obliged to offer them a crown or diadem as the price of 
 their acquiescence. 
 
 Oldways. Rather do I think that we are feudatory to 
 them much in the same manner as the dukes of Normandy 
 were to the kings of France ; pulling them out of their beds, 
 or making them lie narrowly and uneasily therein. 
 
 Walton. Is that between thy fingers. Will, another piece 
 of honest old Donne's poetry ? 
 
 Oldways. Yes ; these and one other are the only pieces 
 I have kept: for we often throw away or neglect, in the 
 lifetime of our friends, those things which in some following 
 age are searched after through all the libraries in the world. 
 What I am about to read he composed in the meridian heat 
 of youth and genius. 
 
 " She was so beautiful, had God but died 
 For her, and none beside, 
 
WALTON, COTTON, AND OLD WAYS. 151 
 
 Reeling with holy joy from east to west 
 
 Earth would have sunk down blest ; 
 And, burning with bright zeal, the buoyant Sun 
 
 Cried through his w^orlds, ' Well done I ' " 
 
 He must have had an eye on the Psalmist ; for I would 
 not asseverate that he was inspired, Master Walton, in the 
 theological sense of the word ; but I do verily believe I 
 discover here a thread of the mantle. 
 
 Cottoji. And with enough of the nap on it to keep him 
 hot as a muffin when one slips the butter in. 
 
 Oldways. True. Nobody would dare to speak thus but 
 from authority. The Greeks and Romans, he remarked, 
 had neat baskets, but scanty simples ; and did not press 
 them down so closely as they might have done, and were 
 fonder of nosegays than of sweet-pots. He told me the rose 
 of Paphos was of one species, the rose of Sharon of another. 
 Whereat he burst forth to the purpose, — 
 
 " Rather give me the lasting rose of Sharon : 
 But dip it in the oil that oil'd thy beard, O Aaron ! " 
 
 Nevertheless, I could perceive that he was of so equal a 
 mind that he liked them equally in their due season. These 
 majestical verses — 
 
 Cotton. I am anxious to hear the last of 'em. 
 
 Oldways. No wonder : and I will joyfully gratify so 
 laudable a wish. He wrote this among the earliest : — 
 
 " Juno was proud, Minerva stern, 
 Venus would rather toy than learn : 
 What fault is there in Margaret Hayes ? 
 Her high disdain and pointed stays." 
 
 I do not know whether, it being near our dinner-time, I 
 ought to enter so deeply as I could into a criticism on it, 
 which the doctor himself, in a single evening, taught me 
 how to do. Charley is rather of the youngest ; but I will be 
 
152 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 circumspect. That Juno was proud may be learned from 
 Virgil. The following passages in him and other Latin 
 poets — 
 
 Cotto7i. We will examine them all after dinner, my dear 
 sir. 
 
 Oldways. The nights are not mighty long; but we shall 
 
 find time, I trust. 
 
 " Minerva stern." 
 
 Excuse me a moment : my Homer is in the study, and my 
 memory is less exact than it was formerly. 
 
 Cotton. Oh, my good Mr. Oldways ! do not let us lose 
 a single moment of your precious company. Doctor Donne 
 could require no support from these heathens, when he had 
 the dean and chapter on his side. 
 
 Oldways. A few parallel passages. — One would wish to 
 write as other people have written. 
 
 Cotton. We must sleep at Uttoxeter. 
 
 Oldways. I hope not. 
 
 Walton. We must, indeed ; and, if we once get into 
 your learning, we shall be carried down the stream without 
 the power even of wishing to mount it. 
 
 Oldways. Well, I will draw in, then. 
 
 *' Venus would rather toy than learn." 
 
 Now, Master Izaak, does that evince a knowledge of the 
 world, a knowledge of men and manners, or not ? In our 
 days we have nothing like it : exquisite wisdom ! Reason 
 and meditate as you ride along, and inform our young friend 
 here how the beautiful trust in their beauty, and how little 
 they learn from experience, and how they trifle and toy. 
 Certainly the Venus here is Venus Urania ; the Doctor 
 would dissertate upon none other ; yet even she, being a 
 Venus — the sex is the sex — ay, Izaak! 
 
 *' Her high disdain and pointed stays." 
 
WALTON, COTTON, AND OLD WAYS. 153 
 
 Volumes and volumes are under these words. Briefly, he 
 could find no other faults in his beloved than the defences 
 of her virgin chastity against his marital and portly 
 ardour. What can be more delicately or more learnedly 
 expressed ! 
 
 Walton. This is the poetry to reason upon from morning 
 to night. 
 
 Cotton. By my conscience is it ! He wrongs it greatly 
 who ventures to talk a word about it, unless after long 
 reflection, or after the instruction of the profound author. 
 
 Old-ways. Izaak, thou hast a son worthy of thee, or 
 about to become so — the son here of thy adoption — 
 how grave and thoughtful ! 
 
 Walton. These verses are testimonials of a fine fancy in 
 Donne ; and I like the man the better who admits Love 
 into his study late and early : for which two reasons I seized 
 the lines at first with some avidity. On second thoughts, 
 however, I doubt whether I shall insert them in my biogra- 
 phy, or indeed hint at the origin of them. In the whole story 
 of his marriage with the daughter of Sir George More there 
 is something so sacredly romantic, so full of that which bursts 
 from the tenderest heart and from the purest, that I would 
 admit no other light or landscape to the portraiture. For if 
 there is aught, precedent or subsequent, that offends our 
 view of an admirable character, or intercepts or lessens it, 
 we may surely cast it down and suppress it, and neither be 
 called injudicious nor disingenuous. I think it no more 
 requisite to note every fit of anger or of love, than to chroni- 
 cle the returns of a hiccup, or the times a man rubs between 
 his fingers a sprig of sweet brier to extract its smell. Let 
 the character be taken in the complex ; and let the more 
 obvious and best peculiarities be marked plainly and dis- 
 tinctly, or (if those predominate) the worst. These latter I 
 leave to others, of whom the school is full, who like anatomy 
 
154 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 the better because the subject of their incisions w^as hanged. 
 When I would sit upon a bank in my angling, I look for the 
 even turf, and do not trust myself so willingly to a rotten 
 stump or a sharp one. I am not among those who, speak- 
 ing ill of the virtuous, say, " Truth obliges me to confess — 
 the interests of learning and of society demand from me 
 — " and such things ; when this truth of theirs is the elder 
 sister of malevolence, and teaches her half her tricks ; 
 and when the interests of learning and of society may be 
 found in the printer's ledger, under the author's name, by 
 the side of shillings and pennies. 
 
 Oldways. Friend Izaak, you are indeed exempt from all 
 suspicion of malignity ; and I never heard you intimate 
 that you carry in your pocket the letters-patent of society for 
 the management of her interests in this world below. Verily 
 do I believe that both society and learning will pardon you, 
 though you never talk oi pursuing, or exposing, or laying bare, 
 or cutting up; or employ any other term in their behalf 
 drawn from the woods and forests, the chase and butchery. 
 Donne fell into unhappiness by aiming at espousals with a 
 person of higher condition than himself. 
 
 Walton. His affections happened to alight upon one 
 who was ; and in most cases I would recommend it rather 
 than the contrary, for the advantage of the children in their 
 manners and in their professions. 
 
 Light and worthless men, I have always observed, choose 
 the society of those who are either much above or much 
 below them ; and, like dust and loose feathers, are rarely to 
 be found in their places. Donne was none such : he loved 
 his equals, and would find them where he could ; when he 
 could not find them, he could sit alone. This seems an easy 
 matter ; and yet, masters, there are more people who could 
 run along a rope from yonder spire to this grass-plot, than 
 can do it. 
 
WILLIAM PENN AND LORD PETERBOROUGH. 155 
 
 Oldways. Come, gentles : the girl raps at the garden- 
 gate. I hear the ladle against the lock : dinner waits 
 for us. 
 
 XXIV. 
 WILLIAM PENN AND LORD PETERBOROUGH. 
 
 Pemi. Friend Mordaunt, thou hast been silent the whole 
 course of our ride hither ; and I should not even now inter- 
 rupt thy cogitations, if the wood before us were not equally 
 uncivil. 
 
 Peterborough. Cannot we push straight through it ? 
 
 Penn. Verily the thing may be done, after a time : but 
 at present we have no direct business with the Pacific 
 Ocean ; and I doubt whether the woodland terminates till 
 those waters bid it. 
 
 Peterborough. And, in this manner, for the sake of liberty 
 you run into a prison. I would not live in a country that 
 does not open to me in all directions, and that I could not 
 go through when I wish. 
 
 Penn. Where is such a country on earth ? 
 
 Peterborough. England or France. 
 
 Pefin. Property lays those restrictions there which here 
 are laid by Nature. Now it is right and proper to bow 
 before each of them ; but Nature is the more worthy of 
 obedience, as being the elder, the more beauteous, the more 
 powerful, and the more kindly. Thou couldst no sooner 
 ride through thy neighbour's park, unless he permitted it, 
 than through this forest ; and even a raspberry-bush in some 
 ten feet border at Southampton would be an impediment 
 for a time to thy free-will. 
 
 Peterborough. I should like rather more elbow-room than 
 this, having gone so far for it. 
 
 Penn. Here we are stopped befo7'e we are tired ; and in 
 
156 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 thy rather more elbow-room we should be stopped when we 
 are, — a mighty advantage truly ! We run, thou sayest, into 
 a prison, for the sake of liberty. Alas, my friend ! such 
 hath ever been the shortsightedness of mortals. The liberty 
 they have pursued is indeed the very worst of thraldom. But 
 neither am I disposed to preach nor thou to hear a preacher. 
 
 Here at least we are liberated from the habitudes and 
 injunctions of semi-barbarous society. We may cultivate, 
 we may manipulate, we may manufacture, what we choose. 
 Industry and thought, and the produce of both, are unre- 
 stricted. We may open our hearts to God without offence 
 to man : our brothers, we may call our brothers, and with- 
 out a mockery. If we are studious of wisdom, we may 
 procure it at the maker's, and at prime cost ; if we are 
 ambitious of learning, we may gather it fresh and sound, 
 slowly indeed, but surely and richly, and without holding 
 out our beavers for it, in a beaten and dusty road, to some 
 half-dozen old chatterers and dotards, who, by their quarrel- 
 someness and pertinacity, testify that they have little of a 
 good quality to impart ! 
 
 Peterborough. All this is very well ; but we cannot en- 
 lighten men if we shock their prejudices too violently. 
 
 Penn. The shock comes first, the light follows. 
 
 Peterborough. Most people will run away from both. 
 Children are afraid of being left in the dark ; men are 
 afraid of not being left in it. 
 
 Penn. Well, then, let them stay where they are. We 
 will go forward, and hope to find the road of life easier and 
 better. In which hope, if we are disappointed, we will at 
 least contribute our share of materials for mending it, and 
 of labour in laying them where they are most wanted. 
 
 Prythee now, setting aside thy prepossessions, what 
 thinkest thou, in regard to appearance and aspect, of our 
 Pennsylvania ? 
 
WILLIAM PENN AND LORD PETERBOROUGH. 157 
 
 Peterborough. Even in this country, like every one I 
 have visited, there are some places where I fancy I could fix 
 myself for life. True, such a fancy lasts but for a moment : 
 the wonder is that it should ever have arisen in me. 
 
 Penn. God mend thee, madcap ! Wilt thou come and 
 live with us 1 
 
 Peterborough. I confess I should be reluctant to ex- 
 change my native country for any other. 
 
 Pefin. Are there many parts of England thou hast never 
 seen ? 
 
 PeterboTVugh. Several : I was never in Yorkshire or Lan- 
 cashire, never in Monmouthshire or Nottinghamshire, never 
 in Lincolnshire or Rutland. 
 
 Peim. Hast thou at no time felt a strong desire to visit 
 them ? 
 
 Peterboroitgh. Not I, indeed. 
 
 Pen7t. Yet thy earnestness to come over into America 
 was great : so that America had attractions for thee, in its 
 least memorable parts, powerfuUer than England in those 
 that are the most. York and Lancaster have stirring sounds 
 about them, particularly for minds easily set in motion at 
 the fluttering of banners. Is the whole island of Britain 
 thy native country, or only a section of it ? If all Britain is, 
 all Ireland must be too ; for both are under the same crown, 
 though not under the same laws. Perhaps not a river nor a 
 channel, but a religion, makes the difference : then I, among 
 millions more of English, am not thy countryman. Consider 
 a little, what portion or parcel of soil is our native land. 
 
 Peterborough. Just as much of it as our friends stand 
 upon. 
 
 Penn. I would say more : I would say, just as much as 
 supports our vanity in our shire. 
 
158 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Peterborough. I confess, the sort of patriotism which 
 attaches most men to their country is neither a wiser 
 nor a better feeling than the feeUng of recluses and cats. 
 Scourges and starvation do not cure them of their stupid 
 love for localities. Mine is different : I like to see the 
 desperate rides I have taken in the forest, and the places 
 where nobody dared follow me. I like to feel and to make 
 felt my superiority, not over tradespeople and farmers in 
 their dull debates, but over lords and archbishops, over 
 chancellors and kings. I would no more live where they 
 are not, than have a mansion-house without a stable, or a 
 paddock without a leaping-bar. 
 
 Penn. Superiority in wealth is communicated to many 
 and partaken by thousands, and therefore men pardon it ; 
 while superiority of rank is invidious, and the right to it is 
 questioned in most instances. I would not for the world 
 raise so many evil passions every time I walk in the street. 
 
 Peterborough. It would amuse me. I care not how much 
 people hate me, nor how many, provided their hatred feed 
 upon itself without a blow at me, or privation or hindrance. 
 Great dogs fondle little dogs ; but little dogs hate them 
 mortally, and lift up their ears and tails and spinal hairs to 
 make themselves as high. Some people are unhappy unless 
 they can display their superiority ; others are satisfied with 
 a consciousness of it. The latter are incontestably the 
 better ; the former are infinitely the more numerous, and, 
 I will venture to say, the more useful : their vanity, call it 
 nothing else, sets in motion all the activity of less men, and 
 nearly all of greater. 
 
 Penn. Prove this activity to be beneficial, prove it only 
 to be neutral, and we meet almost near enough for discus- 
 sion. Not quite ; for vanity, which is called idle, is never 
 inoperative : when it cannot by its position ramble far afield, 
 it chokes the plant that nurtures it. Consciousness of 
 
WILLIAM PENN AND LORD PETERBOROUGH. 159 
 
 superiority, kept at home and quiet, is the nurse of innocent 
 meditations and of sound content. 
 
 Canst not thou feel and exhibit the same superiority at 
 any distance ? 
 
 Peterborough. I cannot make them feel it nor see it. 
 What is it to be any thing, unless we enjoy the faculty of 
 impressing our image at full length on the breast of others, 
 and strongly too and deeply and (when we wish it) painfully ; 
 but mostly on those who, because their rank in court-calen- 
 dars is the same or higher, imagine they are like me, equal 
 to me, over me ? I thank God that there are kings and 
 princes : remove them, and you may leave me alone with 
 swine and sheep. 
 
 Fenn. I would not draw thee aside from bad company 
 into worse : if indeed that may reasonably be called so, 
 which allows thee greater room and more leisure for reflec- 
 tion, and which imparts to thee purer innocence and en- 
 gages thee in usefuller occupations. That such is the case 
 is evident. The poets, to whom thou often appealest for 
 sound philosophy and right feeling, never lead shepherds 
 into courts, but often lead the great among shepherds. If 
 it were allowable for me to disdain or despise even the 
 wickedest and vilest of God's creatures, in which condition 
 a king peradventure as easily as any other may be, I think 
 I could, without much perplexity or inquiry, find something 
 in the multitude of his blessings quite as reasonable and 
 proper to thank him for. With all thy contemptuousness, 
 thou placest thy fortune and the means of thy advancement 
 in the hands of such persons ; and they may ruin thee. 
 
 Peterborough. You place your money in the hands of 
 bankers ; and they may ruin you. The difference is, your 
 ruiner may gain a good deal by it, and may run off ; mine 
 has no such temptation, and should not run far. All titulars 
 else must be produced by others, — a knight by a knight, a 
 
160 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 peer by a king, — while a gentleman is self-existent. Our 
 country exhibits in every part of it what none in the world 
 beside can do,- — men at once of elegant manners, ripe 
 and sound learning, unostentatious honour, unprofessional 
 courage, confiding hospitality, courteous independence. If 
 a Frenchman saw, as he might do any week in the winter, a 
 hundred or two of our fox-hunters in velvet caps and scarlet 
 coats, he would imagine he saw only a company of the rich 
 and idle. 
 
 Fenn. He would think rightly. Such gentlemen ought, 
 willing or loath, to serve an apprenticeship of seven years 
 to a rat-catcher. 
 
 Peterborough. It would be no unwise thing to teach, if not 
 gentlemen, at least the poor, in w-hat manner to catch and 
 exterminate every kind of noxious animal. In our island it 
 is not enough to have exterminated the wolves : we are 
 liable to the censure of idleness and ill husbandry while an 
 otter, a weasel, a rat, or a snake is upon it. Zoologists may 
 affirm that these and other vermin were created for some 
 peculiar use. Voracious and venomous animals may be 
 highly respectable in their own society ; and whenever it is 
 proved that their service to the community is greater than 
 the disadvantage, I will propose in parliament to import 
 them again duty-free. 
 
 Fen?t. Rats come among us with almost every vessel ; 
 and nothing is easier than to entice them to a particular 
 spot, either for the purpose of conversation or destruction, 
 as may seem fittest. 
 
 Peterborough. Release me from the traps, and permit me 
 to follow the hounds again ; but previously to remark that 
 probably a third of these fox-hunters is composed of well- 
 educated men. Joining in the amusements of others is, in 
 our social state, the next thing to sympathy in their dis- 
 tresses ; and even the slenderest bond that holds society 
 
WILLIAM PENN AND LORD PETERBOROUGH. 161 
 
 together should rather be strengthened than snapped. I 
 feel no horror at seeing the young clergyman in the field, by 
 the side of his patron the squire and his parishioner the 
 yeoman. Interests, falsely calculated, would keep men and 
 classes separate, if amusements and recreations did not in- 
 sensibly bring them close. If conviviality (which by your 
 leave I call a virtue) is promoted by fox-hunting, I will 
 drink to its success, whatever word in the formulary may 
 follow or go before it. Nations have fallen by wanting, not 
 unanimity in the hour of danger, so much as union in the 
 hours preceding it. Our national feelings are healthy and 
 strong by the closeness of their intertexture. What touches 
 one rank is felt by another : it sounds on the rim of the 
 glass, the hall rings with it, and it is well (you will say) if 
 the drum and the trumpet do not catch it. Feelings are 
 more easily communicated among us than manners. Every 
 one disdains to imitate another : a grace is a peculiarity. 
 Yet in a ride no longer than what we have been taking, how 
 many objects excite our interest ! By how many old man- 
 sion-houses should we have passed, within which there are 
 lodged those virtues that constitute the power, stability, and 
 dignity of a people ! We never see a flight of rooks or 
 wood-pigeons without the certainty that in a few minutes 
 they will alight on some grove where a brave man has been 
 at his walk, or a wise man at his meditations. North 
 America may one day be very rich and powerful ; she can- 
 not be otherwise : but she never will gratify the imagination 
 as Europe does. Her history will interest her inhabitants ; 
 but there never will be another page in it so interesting as 
 that which you yourself have left open for unadorned and 
 simple narrative. The poet, the painter, the statuary, will 
 awaken no enthusiasm in it ; not a ballad can be written on 
 a bale of goods : and not only no artist, but no gentleman, is 
 it likely that America will produce in many generations. 
 
162 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Penn. She does not feel the need of them : she can do 
 without 'em. 
 
 Peterborough. Those who have corn may not care for 
 roses ; and those who have dog-roses may not care for 
 double ones. I have a buttonhole that wants a posy. 
 
 Pen?i. I do not conceal from thee my opinion of thy 
 abilities, which probably is not a more favourable one than 
 thy own ; since, however, the vices that accompany them 
 rather than the virtues, thy ambition rather than thy hon- 
 esty, thy violence rather than thy prudence, may push thee 
 forward to the first station, it is my duty as a friend to fore- 
 warn thee that such promotion will render thee, and prob- 
 ably thy countrymen, less happy. 
 
 Peterborough. I will not permit any thing to produce that 
 effect on me : the moment it begins the operation, I resign 
 it. Happiness would overflow my heart, to see reduced to 
 the condition of my lackeys the proudest of our priesthood 
 and our peerage. I should only have to regret that, my 
 condition being equal to theirs, I could not so much enjoy 
 their humiliation, as if my family and my connections were 
 inferior. When I discover men of high birth condescending 
 to perform the petty tricks of party for the sake of obtaining 
 a favour at court, I wish it were possible, by the usages of 
 our country and the feelings of Englishmen, to elevate to 
 the rank of prime minister some wrangling barrister, some 
 impudent buffon, some lampooner from the cockpit, some 
 zany from the theatre, that their backs might serve for his 
 footstool. 
 
 Penn. Was there ever in a Christian land a wish more 
 irrational or more impious ! 
 
 Pete7'boroiigh. The very kind of wish that we oftenest 
 see accomplished. 
 
 Pen7i. Never wilt thou see this. 
 
 Peterborough. Be not over certain. 
 
WILLIAM PENN AND LORD PETERBOROUGH. 163 
 
 jPenn. Charles, whose pleasures were low and vulgar, 
 whose parliaments were corrupt and traitorous, chose min- 
 isters of some authority. The mob itself, that is amused 
 by dancing dogs, is loath to be ridden by them. The hand 
 that writeth songs on our street walls ought never to sub- 
 scribe to the signature of our kings. 
 
 Peterborough. I speak of Parliament. 
 
 Penn. Thou speakest then worse still. A king wears its 
 livery and eats its bread. Without a parliament he is but as 
 the slough of a snake, hanging in a hedge : it retains the form 
 and colours, but it wants the force of the creature ; it waves 
 idly in the wind, and is fit only to frighten wrens and mice. 
 
 Thy opinions are aristocratical : yet never did I behold a 
 man who despised the body and members of the aristocracy 
 more haughtily and scornfully than thou dost. 
 
 Peterborough. Few have had better opportunities of 
 knowing its composition. 
 
 Penn. Those who are older must have had better. 
 
 Peterborough. Say rather, may have had more : yet I 
 have omitted few, unless the lady's choice lay below the 
 chaplain ; for I was always select in my rivals. How many 
 do you imagine of our nobility are not bastards, or sons or 
 grandsons of bastards ? If you believe there are a few, I will 
 send the titheman into the enclosure, and he shall levy his 
 proportion in spite of you. 
 
 Aristocracy is not contemptible as a system of govern- 
 ment ; in fact, it is the only one a true gentleman can 
 acquiesce in. Give me any thing rather than the caldron, 
 eternally bubbling and hissing, in which the scum of the 
 sugar-baker has nought at the bottom of it but the poison of 
 the lawyer's tongue and the bones of the poor reptiles he 
 hath starved. 
 
 Enough for aristocracy ; now for aristocrats. Let me 
 hold my hat before my face and look demurely while I say, 
 
164 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 and apply the saying to myself, that, to him whose survey 
 is from any great elevation, all men below are of an equal 
 size. Aristocrats and democrats, kings and scullions, pre- 
 sent one form, one stature, one colour, and one gait. I see 
 but two classes of men, — those whose names are immortal, 
 and those whose names are perishable. Of the immortal 
 there is but one body ; all in it are so high as to seem on 
 an equality, inasmuch as immortality admits of no degree : 
 of the perishable there are several sets and classes, — kings 
 and chamberlains, trumpeters and heralds, take up half their 
 time in cutting them out and sticking them on blank paper. 
 If I by fighting or writing could throw myself forward and 
 gain futurity, I should think myself as much superior to our 
 sovereign lord the king, as our sovereign lord the king is to 
 any bell-wether in his park at Windsor. 
 
 Fenn. Strange that men should toil for earthly glory, 
 when the only difference between the lowest and highest is 
 comprised in two letters : the one in a thousand, and the 
 one of a thousand, — an atom in the midst of atoms, take 
 
 which thou wilt ! 
 
 * # # # 
 
 Peterborough. There are two reasons, however, why I 
 never could become a member of your society : first, I never 
 should be quiet or good enough ; secondly, supposing me 
 to have acquired all the tranquillity and virtue requisite, my 
 propensity toward the theatre and its fair actresses would 
 seduce me. 
 
 Pe?in. Thy language is light and inconsequent. Thou 
 couldst not indeed be quiet and good enough for any 
 rational and sedate society, and oughtest not even to dis- 
 course with any confidence on virtue, unless thou hadst 
 first subdued such an idle fantasy as that of mockery, and 
 such vile affections as those for paint and fiddles, and wind- 
 instruments and female ones. 
 
WILLIAM PENN AND LORD PETERBOROUGH. 165 
 
 Peterborough. They who are to live in the world must 
 see what the world is composed of, — • its better and its 
 worse. 
 
 Pe?in. No doubt, he who is to live in a street must see 
 the cleaner parts of the pavement and the dirtier ; but must 
 he put his foot into them equally, or, according to thy 
 system, step over the plain flagstone to splash into the filth ? 
 
 Peterbo?'ough. Philosophers tell us our passions and fol- 
 lies should be displayed to us together with their evil con- 
 sequences, that we may regulate and control them. 
 
 Penn. In my opinion, who am no philosopher, we should 
 grow as little familiar even with their faces as may be. We 
 ought to have nothing to do with such as are exhibited on 
 the tragic stage ; if they really exist, they are placed by 
 Providence out of our range : they cannot hurt us unless we 
 run after them on purpose. Then do we want strange 
 characters of less dimensions, such as can come under our 
 doorway and affect us at home ? We meet them everywhere ; 
 nay, we cannot help it. 
 
 Peterborough. Elevated sentiment is found in tragedy ; 
 elegant reproof in comedy. 
 
 Penn. Comedy is the aliment of childish malice ; tragedy 
 of malice full-grown. Comedy has made many fools, and 
 tragedy many criminals. Show me one man who hath been 
 the wiser or the better for either, and I will show you 
 twenty who have been made rogues and coxcombs by aping 
 the only models of fashion they can find admittance to, and 
 as many more who have grown indifferent and hard-hearted, 
 and whatever else is reprehensible in higher life. 
 
 Who, being thoughtless, ignorant, self-sufficient, would 
 not be moody, vindictive, unforgiving, if great monarchs 
 set the example before him ? and who fears those chastise- 
 ments at the end, which it would be a thousand times more 
 difficult for him to run into than to avoid.? There is only 
 
166 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 one thing in either kind of scenic representation which is 
 sure enough never to hit him — the moral. 
 
 If, however, thou visitest the theatre for reflection, thou 
 art the first that ever went there for it, although not the first 
 that found it there. Reflection, from whatever quarry ex- 
 tracted, is the foundation of solid pleasures, which founda- 
 tion, we think, cannot be laid too early in the season. 
 
 Peterborough. Solid pleasures, like other solid things, 
 grow heavy and tiresome : I would rather have three or 
 four lighter, of half the value, readily taken up, and as 
 readily laid down again. 
 
 Penn. The time will come, young man, when thou wilt 
 reason better, and wilt detest that wit, the rivet of sad con- 
 sistency. Thou hast spoken, as thou fanciest, a smart and 
 lively thing ; and, because thou hast spoken it, thou wilt 
 tie thy body and soul to it. 
 
 Peterborough. Possibly the time may come, but it lies 
 beyond my calculation, when the frame of my mind may be 
 better adapted to those cubic joys you were proposing for me ; 
 but I have observed that all who in their youthful days are 
 the well-strapped, even-paced porters of them have been the 
 first broken down by calamity or infirmity. 
 
 Penn. The greater sign of infirmity, the greater of calam- 
 ity, is there apparent, where the intertexture of pleasures 
 and duties seems intractable. 
 
 Peterborough. If the theatre were as hostile and rancourous 
 against the church as the church in some countries is against 
 the theatre, we should call it very immoral ; not because it 
 had less justice on its side, but because it had more viru- 
 lence. Splendour and processions and declamation and 
 rodomontade are high delights to the multitude. Accom- 
 panied by lofty and generous sentiments, they do good ; 
 accompanied by merriment and amusement, they do more 
 good still : for lofty and generous sentiments are so ill-fitted 
 
EPICTETUS AND SENECA. 167 
 
 to the heads and hearts of most men, that they fall off in 
 getting through the crowd in the lobby ; but the amusement 
 and merriment go to bed with man and wife, and some- 
 thing of them is left for the children the next morning at 
 breakfast. I have no greater objection to parade and state- 
 liness in that theatre where the actors have been educated 
 at the university, than in that where one can more easily be 
 admitted behind the scenes : what I want is a little good- 
 nature and good-manners, and th^t God should be thought 
 as tolerant as my lord chamberlain. 
 
 The worst objection I myself could ever find against the 
 theatre is, that I lose in it my original idea of such men as 
 Caesar and Coriolanus, and, where the loss affects me more 
 deeply, of Juliet and Desdemona. Alexander was a fool to 
 wish for a second world to conquer : but no man is a fool 
 who wishes for the enjoyment of two ; the real and ideal : 
 nor is it any thing short of a misfortune, I had almost said 
 of a calamity, to confound them. This is done by the stage: 
 it is likewise done by engravings in books, which have a 
 great effect in weakening the imagination, and are service- 
 able only to those who have none, and who read negligently 
 and idly. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 EPICTETUS AND SENECA. 
 
 Seneca. Epictetus, I desired your master, Epaphroditus, 
 to send you hither, having been much pleased with his 
 report of your conduct, and much surprised at the ingenuity 
 of your writings. 
 
 Epictetus. Then I am afraid, my friend — 
 Seneca. My frie7id I are these the expressions — Well, 
 let it pass. Philosophers must bear bravely. The people 
 expect it. 
 
168 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Epictetus. Are philosophers, then, only philosophers for 
 the people ; and, instead of instructing them, must they 
 play tricks before them ? Give me rather the gravity of 
 dancing dogs. Their motions are for the rabble ; their 
 reverential eyes and pendant paws are under the pressure 
 of awe at a master ; but they are dogs, and not below their 
 destinies. 
 
 Seneca. Epictetus ! I will give you three talents to let me 
 take that sentiment for my own. 
 
 Epictetus. 1 would give thee twenty, if I had them, to 
 make it thine. 
 
 Seneca, You mean, by lending to it the graces of my 
 language ? 
 
 Epictetus. I mean, by lending it to thy conduct. And 
 now let me console and comfort thee, under the calamity I 
 brought on thee by calling thee 77iy friend. If thou art not 
 my friend, why send for me ? Enemy I can have none : 
 being a slave, Fortune has now done with me. 
 
 Seneca. Continue, then, your former observations. What 
 were you saying ? 
 
 Epictetus. That which thou interruptedst. 
 
 Seneca. What was it? 
 
 Epictetus. I should have remarked that, if thou foundest 
 ingenuity in my writings, thou must have discovered in them 
 some deviation from the plain, homely truths of Zeno and 
 Cleanthes. 
 
 Seneca. We all swerve a little from them. 
 
 Epictetus. In practice too ? 
 
 Seneca. Yes, even in practice, I am afraid. 
 
 Epictetus. Often ? 
 
 Seneca. Too often. 
 
 Epictetus. Strange! I have been attentive, and yet have 
 remarked but one difference among you great personages at 
 Rome. 
 
EPICTETUS AND SENECA. 169 
 
 Seneca. What difference fell under your observation ? 
 
 Epidetus. Crates and Zeno and Cleanthes taught us that 
 our desires were to be subdued by philosophy alone. In 
 this city, their acute and inventive scholars take us aside, 
 and show us that there is not only one way, but two. 
 
 Seneca. Two ways? 
 
 Epictetus. They whisper in our ear, " These two ways 
 are philosophy and enjoyment : the wiser man will take the 
 readier, or, not finding it, the alternative." Thou reddenest. 
 
 Sefteca. Monstrous degeneracy. 
 
 Epictetus. What magnificent rings ! I did not notice 
 them until thou liftedst up thy hands to heaven, in detesta- 
 tion of such effeminacy and impudence. 
 
 Seneca. The rings are not amiss ; my rank rivets them 
 upon my fingers : I am forced to wear them. Our emperor 
 gave me one, Epaphroditus another, Tigellinus the third. 
 I cannot lay them aside a single day, for fear of offending 
 the gods, and those whom they love the most worthily. 
 
 Epictetus. Although they make thee stretch out thy fingers, 
 like the arms and legs of one of us slaves upon a cross. 
 
 Seneca. Oh horrible ! Find some other resemblance. . 
 
 Epictetus. The extremities of a fig-leaf. 
 
 Seneca. Ignoble ! 
 
 Epictetus., The claws of a toad, trodden on or stoned. 
 
 Seneca. You have great need, Epictetus, of an instructor 
 in eloquence and rhetoric : you want topics and tropes and 
 figures. 
 
 Epictetus. I have no room for them. They make such 
 a buzz in the house, a man's own wife cannot understand 
 what he says to her. 
 
 Seneca. Let us reason a little upon style. I would set you 
 right, and remove from before you the prejudices of a 
 somewhat rustic education. We may adorn the simplicity 
 of the wisest. 
 
170 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Epictetus. Thou canst not adorn simplicity. What is 
 naked or defective is susceptible of decoration ; what is 
 decorated is simplicity no longer. Thou mayst give another 
 thing in exchange for it ; but if thou wert master of it, thou 
 wouldst preserve it inviolate. It is no wonder that we 
 mortals, little able as we are to see truth, should be less 
 able to express it. 
 
 Se7ieca. You have formed at present no idea of style. 
 
 Epictetus. I never think about it. First, I consider 
 whether what I am about to say is true ; then whether I 
 can say it with brevity, in such a manner as that others 
 shall see it as clearly as I do in the light of truth ; for, if they 
 survey it as an ingenuity, my desire is ungratified, my duty 
 unfulfilled. I go not with those who dance round the image 
 of Truth, less out of honour to her than to display their 
 agility and address. 
 
 Seneca. We must attract the attention of readers by 
 novelty and force and grandeur of expression. 
 
 Epictetus. We must. Nothing is so grand as truth, noth- 
 ing so forcible, nothing so novel. 
 
 Seneca. Sonorous sentences are wanted to awaken the 
 lethargy of indolence. 
 
 Epictetus. Awaken it to what ? Here lies the question ; 
 and a weighty one it is. If thou awakenest men when they 
 can see nothing and do no work, it is better to let them 
 rest : but will not they, thinkest thou, look up at a rainbow, 
 unless they are called to it by a clap of thunder ? 
 
 Se7ieca. Your early youth, Epictetus, has been, I will not 
 say neglected, but cultivated with rude instruments and un- 
 skilful hands. 
 
 Epictetus. I thank God for it. Those rude instruments 
 have left the turf lying yet toward the sun ; and those 
 unskilful hands have plucked out the docks. 
 
 Seneca. We hope and believe that we have attained a 
 
EPICTETUS AND SENECA. 171 
 
 vein of eloquence, brighter and more varied than has been 
 hitherto laid open to the world. 
 
 Epidetics. Than any in the Greek? 
 
 Seneca. We trust so. 
 
 Epictetus. Than your Cicero's? 
 
 Seneca. If the declaration may be made without an 
 offence to modesty. Surely, you cannot estimate or value 
 the eloquence of that noble pleader ? 
 
 Epictetus. Imperfectly, not being born in Italy ; and the 
 noble pleader is a much less man with me than the noble 
 philosopher. I regret that, having farms and villas, he 
 would not keep his distance from the pumping up of foul 
 words against thieves, cutthroats, and other rogues ; and 
 that he lied, sweated, and thumped his head and thighs, in 
 behalf of those who were no better. 
 
 Seneca. Senators must have clients, and must protect 
 them. 
 
 Epictetus. Innocent or guilty ? 
 
 Seneca. Doubtless. 
 
 Epictetus. If it becomes a philosopher to regret at all, 
 and if I regret what is and might not be, I may regret more 
 what both is and must be. However, it is an amiable thing, 
 and no small merit in the wealthy, even to trifle and play at 
 their leisure hours with philosophy. It cannot be expected 
 that such a personage should espouse her, or should recom- 
 mend her as an inseparable mate to his heir. 
 
 Seneca. I would. 
 
 Epictetus. Yes, Seneca, but thou hast no son to make 
 the match for ; and thy recommendation, I suspect, would 
 be given him before he could consummate the marriage. 
 Every man wishes his sons to be philosophers while they 
 are young ; but takes especial care, as they grow older, to 
 teach them its insufficiency and unfitness for their inter- 
 course with mankind. The paternal voice says, "You must 
 
172 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 not be particular ; you are about to have a profession to live 
 by : follow those who have thriven the best in it." Now, 
 among these, whatever be the profession, canst thou point 
 out to me one single philosopher ? 
 
 Seneca. Not just now. Nor, upon reflection, do I think 
 it feasible. 
 
 Epictetus. Thou indeed mayest live much to thy ease 
 and satisfaction with philosophy, having (they say) two 
 thousand talents. 
 
 Seneca. And a trifle to spare — pressed upon me by that 
 god-like youth, my pupil Nero. 
 
 Epictetus. Seneca ! where God hath placed a mine he 
 hath placed the materials of an earthquake. 
 
 Seneca. A true philosopher is beyond the reach of For- 
 tune. 
 
 Epictetus. The false one thinks himself so. Fortune 
 cares little about philosophers ; but she remembers where 
 she hath set a rich man, and she laughs to see the Destinies 
 at his door. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 LUCULLUS AND C^SAR. 
 
 LucuUus. You are surveying the little lake beside us. It 
 contains no fish, birds never alight on it, the water is ex- 
 tremely pure and cold ; the walk round is pleasant, not only 
 because there is always a gentle breeze from it, but because 
 the turf is fine, and the surface of the mountain on this 
 summit is perfectly on a level to a great extent in length, — 
 not a trifling advantage to me, who walk often and am weak. 
 I have no alley, no garden, no inclosure ; the park is in the 
 vale below, where a brook supplies the ponds, and where 
 my servants are lodged \ for here I have only twelve in 
 attendance. 
 
LUCULLUS AND C^SAR. 173 
 
 Ccesar. What is that so white, toward the Adriatic ? 
 
 Liiaillus. The Adriatic itself. Turn round and you may 
 descry the Tuscan Sea. Our situation is reported to be 
 among the highest of tlie Apennines. — Marcipor has made 
 the sign to me that dinner is ready. Pass this way. 
 
 CcBsar. What a hbrary is here ! Ah, Marcus TuUius ! I 
 salute thy image. Why frownest thou upon me, — collecting 
 the consular robe, and uplifting the right arm, as when 
 Rome stood firm again, and Catiline fled before thee ? 
 
 LuciiUus. Just so ; such was the action the statuary 
 chose, as adding a new endearment to the memory of my 
 absent friend. 
 
 Ccesar. Sylla, who honoured you above all men, is not 
 here. 
 
 Lucullus. I have his Commentaries : he inscribed them, 
 as you know, to me. Something even of our benefactors 
 may be forgotten, and gratitude be unreproved. 
 
 Ccesar. The impression on that couch, and the two fresh 
 honeysuckles in the leaves of those two books, would show, 
 even to a stranger, that this room is peculiarly the mas- 
 ter's. Are they sacred? 
 
 Lucullus. To me and Caesar. 
 
 CcEsar. I would have asked permission — 
 
 Lucullus. Caius Julius, you have nothing to ask of 
 Polybius and Thucydides ; nor of Xenophon, the next to 
 them on the table. 
 
 Ccesar. Thucydides ! the most generous, the most un- 
 prejudiced, the most sagacious, of historians. Now, Lucul- 
 lus, you whose judgment in style is more accurate than any 
 other Roman's, do tell me whether a commander, desirous 
 of writing his Commenta^-ies, could take to himself a more 
 perfect model than Thucydides ? 
 
 Lucullus. Nothing is more perfect, nor ever will be : the 
 scholar of Pericles, the master of Demosthenes, the equal of 
 
174 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 the one in military science, and of the other not the inferior 
 in civil and forensic ; the calm dispassionate judge of the 
 general by whom he was defeated, his defender, his en- 
 comiast. To talk of such men is conducive not only to 
 virtue but to health. 
 
 Ccesar. We have no writer who could keep up long 
 together his severity and strength. I would follow him ; 
 but I shall be contented with my genius, if (Thucydides in 
 sight) I come many paces behind, and attain by study and 
 attention the graceful and secure mediocrity of Xenophon. 
 
 Lucullus. This other is my dining-room. You expect 
 the dishes. 
 
 Ccesar. I misunderstood, — I fancied — 
 
 Lucullus. Repose yourself, and touch with the ebony 
 wand, beside you, the sphynx on either of those obelisks, 
 right or left. 
 
 Ccesar. Let me look at them first. 
 
 Lucullus. The contrivance was intended for one person, 
 or two at most, desirous of privacy and quiet. The blocks 
 of jasper in my pair, and of porphyry in yours, easily yield 
 in their grooves, each forming one partition. There are 
 four, containing four platforms. The lower holds four 
 dishes, such as sucking forest-boars, venison, hares, tunnies, 
 sturgeons, which you will find within ; the upper three, 
 eight each, but diminutive. The confectionery is brought 
 separately, for the steam would spoil it, if any should escape. 
 The melons are in the snow, thirty feet under us : they came 
 early this morning from a place in the vicinity of Luni, so that 
 I hope they may be crisp, independently of their coolness. 
 
 CcEsar. I wonder not at any thing of refined elegance in 
 Lucullus ; but really here Antiochia and Alexandria seem to 
 have cooked for us, and magicians to be our attendants. 
 
LUCULLUS AND C^SAR. 175 
 
 LucuUus. The absence of slaves from our repast is the 
 luxury, for Marcipor alone enters, and he only when I press 
 a spring with my foot or wand. When you desire his appear- 
 ance, touch that chalcedony just before you. 
 
 CcBsar. I eat quick and rather plentifully ; yet the 
 valetudinarian (excuse my rusticity, for I rejoice at seeing 
 it) appears to equal the traveller in appetite, and to be con- 
 tented with one dish. 
 
 Liicullus. It is milk : such, with strawberries, which ripen 
 on the Apennines many months in continuance, and some 
 other berries of sharp and grateful flavour, has been my only 
 diet since my first residence here. The state of my health 
 requires it; and the habitude of nearly three months renders 
 this food not only more commodious to my studies and more 
 conducive to my sleep, but also more agreeable to my palate 
 than any other. 
 
 CcBsar. Returning to Rome or Baiae, you must domesti- 
 cate and tame them. The cherries you introduced from 
 Pontus are now growing in Cisalpine and Transalpine Gaul ; 
 and the largest and best in the world, perhaps, are upon the 
 more sterile side of Lake Larius, 
 
 Liicullus. There are some fruits, and some virtues, which 
 require a harsh soil and bleak exposure for their perfec- 
 tion. 
 
 Ccesar. In such a profusion of viands, and so savoury, I 
 perceive no odour. 
 
 LucuUus. A flue conducts heat through the compart- 
 ments of the obelisks ; and, if you look up, you may observe 
 that those gilt roses, between the astragals in the cornice, 
 are prominent from it half a span. Here is an aperture in 
 the w^all, between which and the outer is a perpetual current 
 of air. We are now in the dog-days ; and I have never felt 
 in the whole summer more heat than at Rome in many days 
 of March. 
 
176 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Ccesar. Usually you are attended by troups of domestics 
 and of dinner-friends, not to mention the learned and scien- 
 tific, nor your own family, your attachment to which, from 
 youth upward, is one of the higher graces in your character. 
 Your brother was seldom absent from you. 
 
 Luculhis. Marcus was coming ; but the vehement heats 
 along the Arno, in which valley he has a property he never 
 saw before, inflamed his blood, and he now is resting for a 
 few days at Faesulse, a little town destroyed by Sylla within 
 our memory, who left it only air and water, the best in 
 Tuscany. The health of Marcus, like mine, has been de- 
 clining for several months : we are running our last race 
 against each other, and never was I, in youth along the 
 Tiber, so anxious of first reaching the goal. I would not 
 outlive him : I should reflect too painfully on earlier days, 
 and look forward too despondently on the future. As for 
 friends, lampreys and turbots beget them, and they spawn 
 not amid the solitude of the Apennines. To dine in com- 
 pany with more than two is a Gaulish and a German thing. 
 I can hardly bring myself to believe that I have eaten in 
 concert with twenty ; so barbarous and herdlike a practice 
 does it now appear to me — such an incentive to drink 
 much and talk loosely; not to add, such a necessity to 
 speak loud, which is clownish and odious in the extreme. 
 On this mountain-summit I hear no noises, no voices, not 
 even of salutation ; we have no flies about us, and scarcely 
 an insect or reptile. 
 
 Ccesar. Your amiable son is probably with his uncle : is 
 he well } 
 
 Liicullus. Perfectly. He was indeed with my brother in 
 his intended visit to me ; but Marcus, unable to accompany 
 him hither, or superintend his studies in the present state of 
 his health, sent him directly to his Uncle Cato at Tusculum 
 ■ — a man fitter than either of us to direct his education, and 
 
LUCULLUS AND CAESAR. 177 
 
 preferable to any, excepting yourself and Marcus Tullius, in 
 eloquence and urbanity. 
 
 Casar. Cato is so great, that whoever is greater must be 
 the happiest and first of men. 
 
 LiicuUus. That any such be still existing, O Julius, ought 
 to excite no groan from the breast of a Roman citizen. But 
 perhaps I wrong you; perhaps your mind was forced re- 
 luctantly back again, on your past animosities and contests 
 in the Senate. 
 
 Ccesar. I revere him, but cannot love him. 
 
 LucuUiis, Then, Caius Julius, you groaned with reason, 
 and I would pity rather than reprove you. 
 
 On the ceiling at which you are looking, there is no 
 gilding, and little painting — a mere trellis of vines bearing 
 grapes, and the heads, shoulders, and arms, rising from the 
 cornice only, of boys and girls climbing up to steal them, 
 and scrambling for them : nothing over-head ; no giants 
 tumbling down, no Jupiter thundering, no Mars and Venus 
 caught at Mid-day, no river-gods pouring out their urns 
 upon us ; for, as I think nothing so insipid as a flat ceiling, 
 I think nothing so absurd as a storied one. Before I was 
 aware, and without my participation, the painter had adorned 
 that of my bed-chamber M'ith a golden shower, bursting from 
 varied and irradiated clouds. On my expostulation, his 
 excuse was that he knew the Danae of Scopas, in a recum- 
 bent posture, was to occupy the centre of the room. The 
 walls, behind the tapestry and pictures, are quite rough. In 
 forty-three days the whole fabric was put together and 
 habitable. 
 
 The wine has probably lost its freshness : will you try 
 some other 1 
 
 CcBsar. Its temperature is exact ; its flavour exquisite. 
 Latterly I have never sat long after dinner, and am curious 
 to pass through the other apartments, if you will trust me. 
 
178 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 Lucullus. I attend you. 
 
 Ccesar. Lucullus, who is here ? What figure is that on 
 the poop of the vessel ? Can it be — 
 
 Lucullus, The subject was dictated by myself ; you gave it. 
 
 CcBsar. Oh how beautifully is the water painted ! How 
 vividly the sun strikes against the snows on Taurus ! The 
 gray temples and pier-head of Tarsus catch it differently, and 
 the monumental mound on the left is half in shade. In the 
 countenance of those pirates I did not observe such diversity, 
 nor that any boy pulled his father back : I did not indeed 
 mark them or notice them at all. 
 
 Lucullus. The painter in this fresco, the last work 
 finished, had dissatisfied me in one particular. " That 
 beautiful young face," said I, "appears not to threaten 
 death." 
 
 "Lucius," he replied, "if one muscle were moved, it were 
 not Caesar's : beside, he said it jokingly, though resolved." 
 
 " I am contented with your apology, Antipho ; but what 
 are you doing now ? for you never lay down or suspend your 
 pencil, let who will talk and argue. The lines of that smaller 
 face in the distance are the same." 
 
 "Not the same," replied he, "nor very different: it 
 smiles, as surely the goddess must have done at the 'first 
 heroic act of her descendant." 
 
 CcBsar. In her exultation and impatience to press for- 
 ward, she seems to forget that she is standing at the extremity 
 of the shell, which rises up behind out of the water ; and 
 she takes no notice of the terror on the countenance of this 
 Cupid who would detain her, nor of this who is flying off 
 and looking back. The reflection of the shell has given a 
 warmer hue below the knee ; a long streak of yellow light in 
 the horizon is on the level of her bosom, some of her hair is 
 almost lost in it ; above her head on every side is the pure 
 azure of the heavens. 
 
LUCULLUS AND CMSAR. 179 
 
 Oh ! and you would not have led me up to this ? You, 
 among whose primary studies is the most perfect satisfaction 
 of your guests ! 
 
 Liiculhis. In the next apartment are seven or eight other 
 pictures from our history. 
 
 There are no more : what do you look for ? 
 
 Ccesar. I find not among the rest any descriptive of your 
 own exploits. Ah, Lucullus ! there is no surer way of 
 making them remembered. 
 
 This, I presume by the harps in the two corners, is the 
 music-room. 
 
 Lucullus. No, indeed ; nor can I be said to have one 
 here: for I love best the music of a single instrument, and 
 listen to it willingly at all times, but most willingly while I 
 am reading. At such seasons, a voice or even a whisper 
 disturbs me ; but music refreshes my brain when I have 
 read long, and strengthens it from the beginning. I find 
 also that if I write anything in poetry (a youthful propensity 
 still remaining), it gives rapidity and variety and brightness 
 to my ideas. On ceasing, I command a fresh measure and 
 instrument, or another voice ; which is to the mind like a 
 change of posture, or of air to the body. My health is 
 benefited by the gentle play thus opened to the most 
 delicate of the fibres. 
 
 Ccesar. Let me augur that a disorder so tractable may 
 be soon removed. What is it thought to be ? 
 
 Lucullus. There are they who would surmise and signify, 
 and my physician did not long attempt to persuade me of 
 the contrary, that the ancient realms of ^aetes have supplied 
 me with some other plants than the cherry, and such as I 
 should be sorry to see domesticated here in Italy. 
 
 Ccesar. The gods forbid ! Anticipate better things ! The 
 reason of Lucullus is stronger than the medicaments of 
 Mithridates ; but why not use them too ? Let nothing be 
 
ISO IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 neglected. You may reasonably hope for many years of 
 life : your mother still enjoys it. 
 
 Liicullus. To stand upon one's guard against Death 
 exasperates her malice and protracts our sufferings? 
 
 Casar. Rightly and gravely said : but your country at 
 this time cannot do well without you. 
 
 Lucullus. The bowl of milk, which to-day is presented to 
 me, will shortly be presented to my Manes. 
 
 Casar. Do you suspect the hand ? 
 
 Lucullus. I will not suspect a Roman : let us converse 
 no more about it. 
 
 Ccesar. It is the only subject on which I am resolved 
 never to think, as relates to myself. Life may concern us, 
 death not ; for in death we neither can act nor reason, we 
 neither can persuade nor command ; and our statues are 
 worth more than we are, let them be but wax. 
 
 XXVII. 
 THE APOLOGUE OF CRITOBULUS. 
 
 "I WAS wandering," says Critobulus, "in the midst of a 
 forest, and came suddenly to a small round fountain or pool, 
 with several white flowers (I remember) and broad leaves 
 in the centre of it, but clear of them at the sides, and of a 
 water the most pellucid. Suddenly a very beautiful figure 
 came from behind me, and stood between me and the 
 fountain. I was amazed. I could not distinguish the sex, 
 the form being youthful and the face toward the water, on 
 which it was gazing and bending over its reflection, like 
 another Hylas or Narcissus. It then stooped and adorned 
 itself with a few of the simplest flowers, and seemed the 
 fonder and tenderer of those which had borne the impres- 
 sion of its graceful feet ; and, having done so, it turned 
 round and looked upon me with an air of indifference and 
 
THE APOLOGUE OF CRITOBULUS. 181 
 
 unconcern. The longer I fixed my eyes on her — for I now 
 discovered it was a female — the more ardent I became and 
 the more embarrassed. She perceived it, and smiled. 
 Her eyes were large and serene ; not very thoughtful as if 
 perplexed, not very playful as if easily to be won ; and her 
 countenance was tinged with so delightful a colour, that it 
 appeared an effluence from an irradiated cloud passing over 
 it in the heavens. She gave me the idea, from her graceful 
 attitude, that, although adapted to the perfection of activity, 
 she felt rather an inclination for repose. I would have 
 taken her hand : 'You shall presently,' said she ; and never 
 fell on mortal a diviner glance than on me. I told her so. 
 She replied, ' You speak well.' I then fancied she was 
 simple and weak, and fond of flattery, and began to flatter 
 her. She turned her face away from me, and answered 
 nothing. I declared my excessive love : she went some 
 paces off. I swore it was impossible for one who had ever 
 seen her to live without her : she went several paces farther. 
 ' By the immortal gods ! ' I cried, ' you shall not leave me! ' 
 She turned round and looked benignly ; but shook her head. 
 ' You are another's then ! Say it ! say it ! utter the word 
 once from your lips — and let me die! ' She smiled, more 
 melancholy than before, and replied, ' O Critobulus ! I am 
 indeed another's : I am a god's.' The air of the interior 
 heavens seemed to pierce me as she spoke ; and I trembled 
 as impassioned men may tremble once. After a pause, ' I 
 might have thought it ! ' cried I : ' why then come before me 
 and torment me ? ' She began to play and trifle with me, 
 as became her age (I fancied) rather than her engagement, 
 and she placed my hand upon the flowers in her lap without 
 a blush. The whole fountain would not at that moment 
 have assuaged my thirst. The sound of the breezes and of 
 the birds around us, even the sound of her own voice, were 
 all confounded in my ear, as colours are in the fulness and 
 
182 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 intensity of light. She said many pleasing things to me, to 
 the earlier and greater part of which I was insensible ; but 
 in the midst of those which I could hear and was listening 
 to attentively, she began to pluck out the gray hairs from 
 my head, and to tell me that the others too were of a hue 
 not very agreeable. My heart sank within me. Presently 
 there was hardly a limb or feature without its imperfection. 
 ' Oh ! ' cried I in despair, ' you have been used to the gods ; 
 you must think so : but among men I do not believe I am 
 considered as ill-made or unseemly.' She paid little atten- 
 tion to my words or my vexation ; and when she had gone 
 on with my defects for some time longer, in the same calm 
 tone and with the same sweet countenance, she began to 
 declare that she had much affection for me, and was desirous 
 of inspiring it in return. I was about to answer her with 
 rapture, when on a sudden, in her girlish humour, she stuck 
 a thorn, wherewith she had been playing, into that part of 
 the body which supports us when we sit. I know not 
 whether it went deeper than she intended, but, catching at 
 it, I leaped up in shame and anger, and at the same moment 
 felt something upon my shoulder. It was an armlet inscribed 
 with letters of bossy adamant, ' Jove to his daughter Truth.' 
 " She stood again before me at a distance, and said grace- 
 fully, ' Critobulus ! I am too young and simple for you ; 
 but you will love me still, and not be made unhappy by it 
 in the end. Farewell.'" 
 
XXVIII. 
 THE PENTAMERON. 
 
 FIFTH day's interview. 
 
 It being now the last morning that Petrarca could remain 
 with his friend, he resolved to pass early into his bed- 
 chamber. Boccaccio had risen, and was standing at the open 
 window, with his arms against it. Renovated health 
 sparkled in the eyes of the one ; surprise and delight and 
 thankfulness to heaven, filled the other's with sudden tears. 
 He clasped Giovanni, kissed his flaccid and sallow cheek, 
 and falling on his knees, adored the Giver of life, the source 
 of health to body and soul. Giovanni was not unmoved : 
 he bent one knee as he leaned on the shoulder of Francesco, 
 looking down into his face, repeating his words, and adding, 
 
 " Blessed be thou, O Lord ! who sendest me health again ! 
 and blessings on thy messenger who brought it." 
 
 He had slept soundly ; for ere he closed his eyes he had 
 unburdened his mind of its freight, not only by employing 
 the prayers appointed by Holy Church, but likewise by 
 ejaculating ; as sundry of the fathers did of old. He 
 acknowledged his contrition for many transgressions, and 
 chiefly for uncharitable thoughts of Fra Biagio : on which 
 occasion he turned fairly round on his couch, and leaning 
 his brow against the wall, and his body being in a becom- 
 ingly curved position, and proper for the purpose, he thus 
 ejaculated : 
 
 "Thou knowest, O most Holy Virgin! that never have I 
 spoken to handmaiden at this villetta, or within my mansion 
 at Certaldo, wantonly or indiscreetly, but have always been, 
 
184 THE PENTAMERON. 
 
 inasmuch as may be, the guardian of innocence ; deeming it 
 better, when irregular thoughts assailed me, to ventilate 
 them abroad than to poison the house with them. And if, 
 sinner that I am, I have thought uncharitably of others, and 
 more especially of Fra Biagio, pardon me, out of thy exceed- 
 ing great mercies ! And let it not be imputed to me, if I 
 have kept, and may keep hereafter, an eye over him, in 
 wariness and watchfulness ; not otherwise. For thou know- 
 est, O Madonna ! that many who have a perfect and 
 unwavering faith in thee, yet do cover up their cheese from 
 the nibblings of vermin." 
 
 Whereupon, he turned round again, threw himself on his 
 back at full length, and feeling the sheets cool, smooth, and 
 refreshing, folded his arms, and slept instantaneously. The 
 consequence of his wholesome slumber was a calm alacrity: 
 and the idea that his visitor would be happy at seeing him 
 on his feet again, made him attempt to get up: at which he 
 succeeded, to his own wonder. And it was increased by the 
 manifestation of his strength in opening the casement, stiff 
 from being closed, and swelled by the continuance of the 
 rains. The morning was warm and sunny: and it is known 
 that on this occasion he composed the verses below: 
 
 My old familiar cottage green ! 
 
 I see once more thy pleasant sheen ; 
 
 The gossamer suspended over 
 
 Smart celandine by lusty clover ; 
 
 And the last blossom of the plum 
 
 Inviting her first leaves to come ; 
 
 Which hang a little back, but show 
 
 'T is not their nature to say no. 
 
 I scarcely am in voice to sing 
 
 How graceful are the steps of spring ; 
 
 And ah ! it makes me sigh to look 
 
 How leaps along my merry brook, 
 
 The very same today as when 
 
 He chirrupt first to maids and men. 
 
THE PENTAMERON. 185 
 
 Petrarca. I can rejoice at the freshness of your feelings : 
 but the sight of the green turf reminds me rather of its 
 ultimate use and destination. 
 
 For many serves the parish pall, 
 The turf in common serves for all. 
 
 Boccaccio. Very true ; and, such being the case, let us 
 carefully fold it up, and lay it by until we call for it. 
 
 Francesco, you made me quite light-headed yesterday. 
 I am rather too old to dance either with Spring, as I have 
 been saying, or with Vanity: and yet I accepted her at your 
 hand as a partner. In future, no more of comparisons for 
 me ! You not only can do me no good, but you can leave me 
 no pleasure : for here I shall remain the few days I have to 
 live, and shall see nobody who will be disposed to remind 
 me of your praises. Beside, you yourself will get hated for 
 them. We neither can deserve praise nor receive it with 
 impunity. 
 
 Petrarca. Have you never remarked that it is into quiet 
 water that children throw pebbles to disturb it? and that it 
 is into deep caverns that the idle drop sticks and dirt ? 
 We must expect such treatment. 
 
 Boccaccio. Your admonition shall have its wholesome 
 influence over me, when the fever your praises have excited 
 has grown moderate. 
 
 Petrarca. Turn again, I entreat you, to the serious ; and 
 do not imagine that because by nature you are inclined to 
 playfulness, you must therefore write ludicrous things better. 
 Many of your stories would make the gravest men laugh, 
 and yet there is little wit in them. 
 
 Boccaccio. I think so myself ; though authors, little dis- 
 posed as they are to doubt their possession of any quality 
 
186 THE PENTAMERON. 
 
 they would bring into play, are least of all suspicious on the 
 side of wit. You have convinced me. I am glad to have 
 been tender, and to have written tenderly : for I am certain 
 it is this alone that has made you love me with such affec- 
 tion. 
 
 Petrarca. Not this alone, Giovanni ! but this principally. 
 I have always found you kind and compassionate, liberal and 
 sincere, and when Fortune does not stand very close to such 
 a man, she leaves only the more room for Friendship. 
 
 Boccaccio. Let her stand off then, now and for ever ! To 
 my heart, to my heart, Francesco ! preserver of my health, 
 my peace of mind, and (since you tell me I may claim it) 
 my glory. 
 
 Petrarca. Recovering your strength you must pursue 
 your studies to complete it. What can you have been doing 
 with your books ? I have searched in vain this morning 
 for the treasury. Where are they kept ? Formerly they 
 were always open. I found only a short manuscript, which 
 I suspect is poetry, but I ventured not on looking into it, 
 until I had brought it with me and laid it before you. 
 
 Boccaccio. Well guessed ! They are verses written by a 
 gentleman who resided long in this country, and who much 
 regretted the necessity of leaving it. He took great delight 
 in composing both Latin and Italian, but never kept a copy 
 of them latterly, so that these are the only ones I could 
 obtain from him. Read : for your voice will improve them. 
 
 TO MY CHILD CARLINO. 
 
 Carliiio ! what art thou about, my boy ? 
 Often I ask that question, though in vain, 
 For we are far apart : ah ! therefore 't is 
 I often ask it ; not in such a tone 
 As wiser fathers do, who know too well. 
 Were we not children, you and I together ? 
 Stole we not glances from each other's eyes ? 
 
THE PENTAMERON. 187 
 
 Swore we not secrecy in such misdeeds ? 
 
 Well could we trust each other. Tell me then 
 
 What thou art doing. Carving out thy name, 
 
 Or haply mine, upon my favourite seat. 
 
 With the new knife I sent thee over sea } 
 
 Or hast thou broken it, and hid the hilt 
 
 Among the myrtles, starr'd with flowers, behind t 
 
 Or under that high throne whence fifty lilies 
 
 (With sworded tuberoses dense around) 
 
 Lift up their heads at once, not without fear 
 
 That they were looking at thee all the while. 
 
 Does Cincirillo follow thee about, 
 Inverting one swart foot suspensively. 
 And wagging his dread jaw at every chirp 
 Of bird above him on the olive-branch .'' 
 Frighten him then away ! 't was he who slew 
 Our pigeons, our white pigeons peacock-tailed, 
 That fear'd not you and me — alas, nor him ! 
 I flattened his striped sides along my knee. 
 And reasoned with him on his bloody mind, 
 Till he looked blandly, and half-closed his eyes 
 To ponder on my lecture in the shade. 
 I doubt his memory much, his heart a little. 
 And in some minor matters (may I say it .'') 
 Could wish him rather sager. But from thee 
 God hold back wisdom yet for many years ! 
 Whether in early season or in late 
 It always comes high-priced. For thy pure breast 
 I have no lesson ; it for me has many. 
 Come throw it open then ! What sports, what cares 
 (Since there are none too young for these) engage 
 Thy busy thoughts .? Are you again at work, 
 Walter and you, with those sly labourers, 
 Geppo, Giovanni, Cecco, and Poeta, 
 To build more solidly your broken dam 
 Among the poplars, whence the nightingale 
 Inquisitively watch'd you all day long ? 
 I was not of your council in the scheme. 
 Or might have saved you silver without end, 
 And sighs too without number. Art thou gone 
 
188 THE PENTAMERON. 
 
 Below the mulberry, where that cold pool 
 
 Urged to devise a warmer, and more fit 
 
 For mighty swimmers, swimming three abreast? 
 
 Or art thou panting in this summer noon 
 
 Upon the lowest step before the hall, 
 
 Drawing a slice of watermelon, long 
 
 As Cupid's bow, athwart thy wetted lips 
 
 (Like one who plays Pan's pipe), and letting drop 
 
 The sable seeds from all their separate cells, 
 
 And leaving bays profound and rocks abrupt, ■ 
 
 Redder than coral round Calypso's cave ? 
 
 Fetrarca. There have been those anciently who would 
 have been pleased with such poetry, and perhaps there may 
 be again. I am not sorry to see the Muses by the side of 
 childhood, and forming a part of the family. But now tell 
 me about the books. 
 
 Boccaccio. Resolving to lay aside the more valuable of 
 those I had collected or transcribed, and to place them 
 under the guardianship of richer men, I locked them up 
 together in the higher story of my tower at Certaldo. You 
 remember the old tower ? 
 
 Fetraj'ca. Well do I remember the hearty laugh we had 
 together (which stopped us upon the staircase) at the calcu- 
 lation we made, how much longer you and I, if we continued 
 to thrive as we had thriven latterly, should be able to pass 
 within its narrow circle. Although I like this little villa 
 much better, I would gladly see the place again, and enjoy 
 with you, as we did before, the vast expanse of woodlands 
 and mountains and maremma; frowning fortresses inex-. 
 pugnable ; and others more prodigious for their ruins ; then 
 below them, lordly abbeys, overcanopied with stately trees 
 and girded with rich luxuriance ; and towns that seem 
 approaching them to do them honour, and villages nestling 
 close at their sides for sustenance and protection. 
 
 Boccaccio. My disorder, if it should keep its promise of 
 
THE PENTAMERON. 189 
 
 leaving me at last, will have been preparing me for the 
 accomplishment of such a project. Should I get thinner 
 and thinner at this rate, I shall soon be able to mount not 
 only a turret or a belfry, but a tube of macarone, while a 
 Neapolitan is suspending it for deglutition. 
 
 What I am now about to mention, will show you how little 
 you can rely on me ! I have preserved the books, as you 
 desired, but quite contrary to my resolution : and, no less 
 contrary to it, by your desire I shall now preserve the 
 Decmneron. In vain had I determined not only to mend in 
 future, but to correct the past ; in vain had I prayed most 
 fervently for grace to accomplish it, with a final aspiration to 
 Fiammetta that she would unite with your beloved Laura, 
 and that, gentle and beatified spirits as they are, they would 
 breathe together their purer prayers on mine. See whatfollows. 
 
 Fetrarca. Sigh not at it. Before we can see all that 
 follows from their intercession, we must join them again. 
 But let me hear anything in which they are concerned. 
 
 Boccaccio. I prayed ; and my breast, after some few 
 tears, grew calmer. Yet sleep did not ensue until the 
 break of morning, when the dropping of soft rain on the 
 leaves of the fig-tree at the window, and the chirping of a 
 little bird, to tell another there was shelter under them, 
 brought me repose and slumber. Scarcely had I closed my 
 eyes, if indeed time can be reckoned any more in sleep than 
 in heaven, when my Fiammetta seemed to have led me into 
 the meadow. You will see it below you : turn away that 
 branch : gently ! gently ! do not break it ; for the little bird 
 sat there. 
 
 Petrarca. I think, Giovanni, I can divine the place. 
 Although this fig-tree, growing out of the wall between the 
 cellar and us, is fantastic enough in its branches, yet that 
 other which I see yonder, bent down and forced to crawl 
 along the grass by the prepotency of the young shapely 
 
190 THE PENTAMERON. 
 
 walnut-tree, is much more so. It forms a seat, about a 
 cubit above the ground, level and long enough for several. 
 
 Boccaccio. Ha ! you fancy it must be a favourite spot with 
 me, because of the two strong forked stakes wherewith it is 
 propped and supported ! 
 
 Fetrarca. Poets know the haunts of poets at first sight ; 
 and he who loved Laura — O Laura ! did I say he who 
 loved thee? — hath whisperings where those feet would 
 wander which have been restless after Fiammetta. 
 
 Boccaccio. It is true, my imagination has often conducted 
 her thither ; but here in this chamber she appeared to me 
 more visibly in a dream. 
 
 "Thy prayers have been heard, O Giovanni," said she. 
 
 I sprang to embrace her. 
 
 "Do not spill the water! Ah! you have spilt a part 
 of it." 
 
 I then observed in her hand a crystal vase. A few drops 
 were sparkling on the sides and running down the rim ; a 
 few were trickling from the base and from the hand that 
 held it. 
 
 "I must go down to the brook," said she, "and fill it 
 again as it was filled before." 
 
 What a moment of agony was this to me ! Could I be 
 certain how long might be her absence ? She went : I was 
 following : she made a sign for me to turn back : I dis- 
 obeyed her only an instant : yet my sense of disobedience, 
 increasing my feebleness and confusion, made me lose sight 
 of her. In the next moment she was again at my side, with 
 the cup quite full. I stood motionless : I feared my breath 
 might shake the water over. I looked her in the face for 
 her commands — and to see it — to see it so calm, so 
 beneficent, so beautiful. I was forgetting what I had prayed 
 for, when she lowered her head, tasted of the cup, and gave 
 it me. I drank ; and suddenly sprang forth before me, 
 
THE PENTAMERON. 191 
 
 many groves and palaces and gardens, and their statues and 
 their avenues, and their labyrinths of alaternus and bay, and 
 alcoves of citron, and watchful loopholes in the retirements 
 of impenetrable pomegranate. Farther off, just below where 
 the fountain slipt away from its marble hall and guardian 
 gods, arose, from their beds of moss and drosera and 
 darkest grass, the sisterhood of oleanders, fond of tantalis- 
 ing with their bosomed flowers and their moist and pouting 
 blossoms the little shy rivulet, and of covering its face with 
 all the colours of the dawn. My dream expanded and moved 
 forward. I trod again the dust of Posilipo, soft as the 
 feathers in the wings of Sleep. I emerged on Baia ; I 
 crossed her innumerable arches ; I loitered in the breezy 
 sunshine of her mole ; I trusted the faithful seclusion of her 
 caverns, the keepers of so many secrets ; and I reposed on 
 the buoyancy of her tepid sea. Then Naples, and her 
 theatres and her churches, and grottoes and dells and forts 
 and promontories, rushed forward in confusion, now among 
 soft whispers, now among sweetest sounds, and subsided, 
 and sank, and disappeared. Yet a memory seemed to come 
 fresh from every one : each had time enough for its tale, for 
 its pleasure, for its reflection, for its pang. As I mounted 
 with silent steps the narrow staircase of the old palace, how 
 distinctly did I feel against the palm of my hand the cold- 
 ness of that smooth stone-work, and the greater of the 
 cramps of iron in it. 
 
 " Ah me ! is this forgetting ? " cried I anxiously to 
 Fiammetta. 
 
 " We must recall these scenes before us," she replied : 
 ''such is the punishment of them. Let us hope and believe 
 that the apparition, and the compunction which must follow 
 it, will be accepted as the full penalty, and that both will 
 pass away almost together." 
 
 I feared to lose anything attendant on her presence : I 
 
192 THE PENTAMERON. 
 
 feared to approach her forehead with my Ups : I feared to 
 touch the Hly on its long wavy leaf in her hair, which filled 
 my whole heart with fragrance. Venerating, adoring, I 
 bowed my head at last to kiss her snow-white robe, and 
 trembled at my presumption. And yet the effulgence of her 
 countenance vivified while it chastened me. I loved her — 
 1 must not say more than ever — better than ever ; it was 
 Fiammetta who had inhabited the skies. As my hand 
 opened toward her, 
 
 " Beware ! " said she, faintly smiling ; " beware, Giovanni ! 
 Take only the crystal ; take it, and drink again." 
 
 " Must all be then forgotten ? " said I sorrowfully, 
 
 " Remember your prayer and mine, Giovanni. Shall both 
 have been granted — O how much worse than in vain ! " 
 
 I drank instantly ; I drank largely. How cool my bosom 
 grew ; how could it grow so cool before her ! But it was 
 not to remain in its quiescency ; its trials were not yet over. 
 I will not, Francesco ! no, I may not commemorate the 
 incidents she related to me, nor which of us said, " I blush 
 for having loved first ;^'' nor which of us replied, "Say 
 leasts say least, and blush again." 
 
 The charm of the words (for I felt not the encumbrance 
 of the body nor the acuteness of the spirit) seemed to 
 possess me wholly. Although the water gave me strength 
 and comfort, and somewhat of celestial pleasure, many tears 
 fell around the border of the vase as she held it up before 
 me, exhorting me to take courage, and inviting me with 
 more than exhortation to accomplish my deliverance. She 
 came nearer, more tenderly, more earnestly ; she held the 
 dewy globe with both hands, leaning forward, and sighed and 
 shook her head, drooping at my pusillanimity. It was only 
 when a ringlet had touched the rim, and perhaps the water 
 (for a sunbeam on the surface could never have given it 
 such a golden hue), that I took courage, clasped it, and 
 
THE FEN TAME RON. 193 
 
 exhausted it. Sweet as was the water, sweet as was the 
 serenity it gave me — alas ! that also which it moved away 
 from me was sweet ! 
 
 " This time you can trust me alone," said she, and parted 
 my hair, and kissed my brow. Again she went toward the 
 brook : again my agitation, my weakness, my doubt, came 
 over me : nor could I see her while she raised the water, 
 nor knew I whence she drew it. When she returned, she 
 was close to me at once : she smiled : her smile pierced me 
 to the bones : it seemed an angel's. She sprinkled the pure 
 water on me ; she looked most fondly : she took my hand ; 
 she suffered me to press hers to my bosom : but, whether 
 by design I can not tell, she let fall a few drops of the chilly 
 element between. 
 
 " And now, O my beloved ! " said she, " we have con- 
 signed to the bosom of God our earthly joys and sorrows. 
 The joys can not return, let not the sorrows. These alone 
 would trouble my repose among the blessed." 
 
 " Trouble thy repose ! Fiammetta ! Give me the chalice ! " 
 cried I — " not a drop will I leave in it, not a drop." 
 
 " Take it ! " said that soft voice. " O now most dear 
 Giovanni ! I know thou hast strength enough ; and there is 
 but little — at the bottom lies our first kiss." 
 
 '' Mine ! didst thou say, beloved one .^ and is that left 
 thee still .? " 
 
 '^ Mine,'' said she, pensively; and as she abased her head, 
 the broad leaf of the lily hid her brow and her eyes ; the 
 light of heaven shone through the flower. 
 
 " O Fiammetta ! Fiammetta ! " cried I in agony, " God 
 is the God of mercy, God is the God of love — can I, can I 
 ever ? " I struck the chalice against my head, unmindful 
 that I held it ; the water covered my face and my feet. 
 I started up, not yet awake, and I heard the name of 
 Fiammetta in the curtains. 
 
194 THE PENTAMERON. 
 
 Petrarca. Love, O Giovanni, and life itself, are but 
 
 dreams at best. 
 
 Boccaccio. What is that book in your hand ? 
 
 Petrarca. My breviary. 
 
 Boccaccio. Well, give me mine too — there, on the little 
 table in the corner, under the glass of primroses. We can 
 do nothing better. 
 
 Petrarca. What prayer were you looking for t let me 
 find it. 
 
 Boccaccio. I don't know how it is : I am scarcely at 
 present in a frame of mind for it. We are of one faith : 
 the prayers of the one will do for the other : and I am 
 sure, if you omitted my name, you would say them all over 
 afresh. I wish you could recollect in any book as dreamy 
 a thing to entertain me as I have been just repeating. We 
 have had enough of Dante : I believe few of his beauties 
 have escaped us : and small faults, which we readily pass 
 by, are fitter for small folks, as grubs are the proper bait 
 for gudgeons. 
 
 Petrarca. I have had as many dreams as most men. 
 We are all made up of them, as the webs of the spider are 
 particles of her own vitality. But how infinitely less do we 
 profit by them ! I will relate to you, before we separate, one 
 among the multitude of mine, as coming the nearest to the 
 poetry of yours, and as having been not totally useless to 
 me. Often have I reflected on it ; sometimes with pensive- 
 ness, with sadness never. 
 
 Boccaccio. Then, Francesco, if you had with you as 
 copious a choice of dreams as clustered on the elm-trees 
 where the Sibyl led ^Eneas, this, in preference to the whole 
 swarm of them, is the queen dream for me. 
 
 Petrarca. When I was younger I was fond of wandering 
 
THE PENTAMEROM. 195 
 
 in solitary places, and never was afraid of slumbering in 
 woods and grottoes. Among the chief pleasures of my life, 
 and among the commonest of my occupations, was the 
 bringing before me such heroes and heroines of antiquity, 
 such poets and sages, such of the prosperous and the 
 unfortunate, as most interested me by their courage, their 
 wisdom, their eloquence, or their adventures. Engaging 
 them in the conversation best suited to their characters, I 
 knew perfectly their manners, their steps, their voices : and 
 often did I moisten with my tears the models I had been 
 forming of the less happy. 
 
 Boccaccio. Great is the privilege of entering into the 
 studies of the intellectual ; great is that of conversing with 
 the guides of nations, the movers of the mass, the regulators 
 of the unruly will, stiff, in its impurity and rust, against the 
 finger of the Almighty Power that formed it : but give me, 
 Francesco, give me rather the creature to sympathise with ; 
 apportion me the sufferings to assuage. Ah, gentle soul! 
 thou wilt never send them over to another ; they have better 
 hopes from thee. 
 
 Petrarca. We both alike feel the sorrows of those around 
 us. He who suppresses or allays them in another, breaks 
 many thorns off his own ; and future years will never harden 
 fresh ones. 
 
 My occupation was not always in making the politician 
 talk politics, the orator toss his torch among the populace, 
 the philosopher run down from philosophy to cover the 
 retreat or the advances of his sect ; but sometimes in devising 
 how such characters must act and discourse, on subjects far 
 remote from the beaten track of their career. In like 
 manner the philologist, and again the dialectician, were not 
 indulged in the review and parade of their trained bands, 
 but, at times, brought forward to show in what manner and 
 in what degree external habits had influenced the conforma- 
 
196 THE PENTAMERON. 
 
 tion of the internal man. It was far from unprofitable to set 
 passing events before past actors, and to record the decisions 
 of those whose interests and passions are unconcerned in 
 them. 
 
 Boccaccio. This is surely no easy matter. The thoughts 
 are in fact your own, however you distribute them. 
 
 Petrarca. Allegory, which you named with sonnets and 
 canzonets, had few attractions for me, believing it to be the 
 delight in general of idle, frivolous, inexcursive minds, in 
 whose mansions there is neither hall nor portal to receive 
 the loftier of the Passions. A stranger to the Affections, 
 she holds a low station among the handmaidens of Poetry, 
 being fit for little but an apparition in a mask. I had 
 reflected for some time on this subject, when, wearied with 
 the length of my walk over the mountains, and finding a 
 soft old molehill, covered with grey grass, by the wayside, I 
 laid my head upon it, and slept. I can not tell how long it 
 was before a species of dream or vision came over me. 
 
 Two beautiful youths appeared beside me ; each was 
 winged; but the wings were hanging down, and seemed ill 
 adapted to flight. One of them, whose voice was the softest 
 I ever heard, looking at me frequently, said to the other, 
 
 " He is under my guardianship for the present : do not 
 awaken him with that feather," 
 
 Methought, hearing the whisper, I saw something like the 
 feather on an arrow ; and then the arrow itself ; the whole 
 of it, even to the point ; although he carried it in such a 
 manner that it was difScult at first to discover more than a 
 palm's length of it : the rest of the shaft, and the whole of 
 the barb, was behind his ankles. 
 
 "This feather never awakens anyone," replied he, rather 
 petulantly; "but it brings more of confident security, and 
 
THE PENTAMERON. 197 
 
 more of cherished dreams, than you without me are capable 
 of imparting." 
 
 "Be it so!" answered the gentler — "none is less 
 inclined to quarrel or dispute than I am. Many whom you 
 have wounded grievously, call upon me for succour. But so 
 little am I disposed to thwart you, it is seldom I venture to 
 do more for them than to whisper a few words of comfort in 
 passing. How many reproaches on these occasions have 
 been cast upon me for indifference and infidelity ! Nearly 
 as many, and nearly in the same terms, as upon you ! " 
 
 "Odd enough that we, O Sleep ! should be thought so 
 alike ! " said Love, contemptuously. " Yonder is he who 
 bears a nearer resemblance to you : the dullest have ob- 
 served it." I fancied I turned my eyes to where he was 
 pointing, and saw at a distance the figure he designated. 
 Meanwhile the contention went on uninterruptedly. Sleep 
 was slow in asserting his power or his benefits. Love 
 recapitulated them ; but only that he might assert his own 
 above them. Suddenly he called on me to decide, and to 
 choose my patron. Under the influence, first of the one, 
 then of the other, I sprang from repose to rapture, I 
 alighted from rapture on repose — and knew not which was 
 sweetest. Love was very angry with me, and declared he 
 would cross me throughout the whole of my existence. 
 Whatever I might on other occasions have thought of his 
 veracity, I now felt too surely the conviction that he would 
 keep his word. At last, before the close of the altercation, 
 the third Genius had advanced, and stood near us. I can 
 not tell how I knew him, but I knew him to be the Genius 
 of Death. Breathless as I was at beholding him, I soon 
 became familiar with his features. First they seemed only 
 calm ; presently they grew contemplative ; and lastly 
 beautiful : those of the Graces themselves are less regular, 
 less harmonious, less composed. Love glanced at him 
 
198 THE PENTAMERON. 
 
 unsteadily, with a countenance in which there was some- 
 what of anxiety, somewhat of disdain; and cried, "Go 
 away ! go away ! nothing that thou touchest Uves." 
 
 " Say rather, child ! " replied the advancing form, and 
 advancing grew loftier and statelier, " Say rather that 
 nothing of beautiful or of glorious lives its own true life 
 until my wing hath passed over it." 
 
 Love pouted, and rumpled and bent down with his fore- 
 finger the stiff short feathers on his arrow-head ; but replied 
 not. Although he frowned worse than ever, and at me, I 
 dreaded him less and less, and scarcely looked toward him. 
 The milder and calmer Genius, the third, in proportion as 
 I took courage to contemplate him, regarded me with more 
 and more complacency. He held neither flower nor arrow, 
 as the others did ; but, throwing back the clusters of dark 
 curls that overshadowed his countenance, he presented to 
 me his hand, openly and benignly. I shrank on looking at 
 him so near, and yet I sighed to love him. He smiled, not 
 without an expression of pity, at perceiving my diffidence, 
 my timidity : for I remembered how soft was the hand of 
 Sleep, how warm and entrancing was Love's. By degrees, 
 I became ashamed of my ingratitude ; and turning my face 
 away, I held out my arms, and felt my neck within his. 
 Composure strewed and allayed all the throbbings of my 
 bosom ; the coolness of freshest morning breathed around ; 
 the heavens seemed to open above me ; while the beautiful 
 cheek of my deliverer rested on my head. I would now 
 have looked for those others ; but knowing my intention by 
 my gesture, he said, consolatorily, 
 
 " Sleep is on his way to the Earth, where many are calling 
 him ; but it is not to these he hastens ; for every call only 
 makes him fly farther off. Sedately and gravely as he 
 looks, he is nearly as capricious and volatile as the more 
 arrogant and ferocious one." 
 
THE PENTAMERON. 199 
 
 " And Love ! " said I, " whither is he departed ? If not 
 too late, I would propitiate and appease him." 
 
 " He who can not follow me, he who can not overtake 
 and pass me," said the Genius, "is unworthy of the name, 
 the most glorious in earth or heaven. Look up ! Love is 
 yonder, and ready to receive thee." 
 
 I looked : the earth was under me : I saw only the clear 
 blue sky, and something brighter above it. 
 
XXIX. 
 PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 
 
 PERICLES TO ASPASIA. 
 
 There are things, Aspasia, beyond the art of Phidias. He 
 may represent Love leaning upon his bow and listening to 
 Philosophy ; but not for hours together : he may represent 
 Love, while he is giving her a kiss for her lesson, tying her 
 arms behind her ; loosing them again must be upon another 
 marble. 
 
 PERICLES TO ASPASIA. 
 
 Do you love me ? do you love me ? Stay, reason upon it, 
 sweet Aspasia ! doubt, hesitate, question, drop it, take it up 
 again, provide, raise obstacles, reply indirectly. Oracles are 
 sacred, and there is a pride in being a diviner. 
 
 ASPASIA TO PERICLES. 
 
 I will do none of those things you tell me to do ; but I 
 will say something you forgot to say, about the insufficiency 
 of Phidias. 
 
 He may represent a hero with unbent brows, a sage with 
 the lyre of Poetry in his hand, Ambition with her face half- 
 averted from the City, but he cannot represent, in the same 
 sculpture, at the same distance. Aphrodite higher than 
 Pallas. He would be derided if he did ; and a great man 
 can never do that for which a little man may deride him. 
 
PERICLES AND ASTASIA. 201 
 
 I shall love you even more than I do, if you will love 
 yourself more than me. Did ever lover talk so ? Pray tell 
 me, for I have forgotten all they ever talked about. But, 
 Pericles ! Pericles ! be careful to lose nothing of your glory, 
 or you lose all that can be lost of me ; my pride, my happi- 
 ness, my content ; everything but my poor weak love. Keep 
 glory, then, for my sake ! 
 
 PERICLES TO ASPASIA. 
 
 Send me a note whenever you are idle and thinking of 
 me, dear Aspasia ! Send it always by some old slave, 
 ill-dressed. The people will think it a petition, or some- 
 thing as good, and they will be sure to observe the pleasure 
 it throws into my countenance. Two winds at once will 
 blow into my sails, each helping me onward. 
 
 If I am tired, your letter will refresh me ; if occupied, it 
 will give me activity. Beside, what a deal of time we lose in 
 business ! 
 
 ASPASIA TO PERICLES. 
 
 Would to heaven, O Pericles ! you had no business at all, 
 but the conversation of your friends. You must always be 
 the greatest man in the city, whoever may be the most 
 popular. I wish we could spend the whole day together ; 
 must it never be ? Are you not already in possession of all 
 you ever contended for .? 
 
 It is time, methinks, that you should leave off speaking in 
 public, for you begin to be negligent and incorrect. I am to 
 write you a note whenever I am idle and thinking of you ! 
 
 Pericles! Pericles! how far is it from idleness to think of 
 you! We come to rest before we come to idleness. 
 
202 PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 
 
 PERICLES TO ASPASIA. 
 
 In our republic it is no easy thing to obtain an act of 
 divorce from power. It usually is delivered to us by the 
 messenger of Death, or presented in due form by our judges 
 where the oyster keeps open house. 
 
 Now, oysters are quite out of season in the summer of 
 life ; and life, just about this time, I do assure you, is often 
 worth keeping. I thought so even before I knew you, when 
 I thought but little about the matter. It is a casket not 
 precious in itself, but valuable in proportion to what Fortune, 
 or Industry, or Virtue, has placed within it. 
 
 CLEONE TO ASPASIA. 
 
 We have kept your birthday, Aspasia ! On these occa- 
 sions I am reluctant to write anything. Politeness, I think, 
 and humanity, should always check the precipitancy of 
 congratulation. Nobody is felicitated on losing. Even the 
 loss of a bracelet or tiara is deemed no subject for merriment 
 and alertness in our friends and followers. Surely then the 
 marked and registered loss of an irreparable year, the loss 
 of a limb of life, ought to excite far other sensations. So 
 long is it, O Aspasia ! since we have read any poetry 
 together, I am quite uncertain whether you know the Ode to 
 Asteroessa. 
 
 Asteroessa ! many bring 
 
 The vows of verse and blooms of spring 
 
 To crown thy natal day. 
 Lo, my vow too amid the rest ! 
 Ne'er mayst thou sigh from that white breast, 
 
 " O take them all away I " 
 
 For there are cares and there are wrongs, 
 And withering eyes and venom'd tongues ; 
 They now are far behind ; 
 
PERICLES AND ASP ASIA. 203 
 
 But come they must : and every year 
 Some flowers decay, some thorns appear, 
 Whereof these gifts remind. 
 
 Cease, raven, cease ! nor scare the dove 
 With croak around and swoop above ; 
 
 Be peace, be joy, within ! 
 Of all that hail this happy tide 
 My verse alone be cast aside ! 
 
 Lyre, cymbal, dance, begin ! 
 
 Although there must be some myriads of odes written on 
 the same occasion, yet, among the number on which I can 
 lay my hand, none conveys my own sentiment so completely. 
 
 Sweetest Aspasia, live on ! live on ! but rather, live back 
 the past ! 
 
 ASPASIA TO CLEONE. 
 
 In ancient nations there are grand repositories of wisdom, 
 although it may happen that little of it is doled out to the 
 exigencies of the people. There is more in the fables of 
 vEsop than in the schools of our Athenian philosophers ; 
 there is more in the laws and usages of Persia, than in 
 the greater part of those communities which are loud in 
 denouncing them for barbarism. And yet there are some that 
 shock me. We are told by Herodotus, who tells us what- 
 ever we know with certainty a step beyond our thresholds, 
 that a boy in Persia is kept in the apartments of the women, 
 and prohibited from seeing his father, until the fifth year. 
 The reason is, he informs us, that if he dies before this age, 
 his loss may give the parent no uneasiness. And such a 
 custom he thinks commendable. Herodotus has no child, 
 Cleone ! If he had, far other would be his feelings and his 
 judgment. Before that age how man}^ seeds are sown, 
 which future years, and distant ones, mature successively ! 
 How much fondness, how much generosity, what hosts of 
 
204 PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 
 
 Other virtues, courage, constancy, patriotism, spring into the 
 father's heart from the cradle of his child ! And does never 
 the fear come over him, that what is most precious to him 
 upon earth is left in careless or perfidious, in unsafe or 
 unworthy hands ? Does it never occur to him that he loses 
 a son in every one of these five years ? What is there so 
 affecting to the brave and virtuous man as that which 
 perpetually wants his help and cannot call for it ! What is 
 so different as the speaking and the mute ! And hardly less 
 so are inarticulate sounds, and sounds which he receives 
 half-formed, and which he delights to modulate, and which 
 he lays with infinite care and patience, not only on the 
 tender attentive ear, but on the half-open lips, and on the 
 eyes, and on the cheeks ; as if they all were listeners. In 
 every child there are many children ; but coming forth year 
 after year, each somewhat like and somewhat varying. When 
 they are grown much older, the leaves (as it were) lose their 
 pellucid green, the branches their graceful pliancy. 
 
 Is there any man so rich in happiness that he can afford 
 to throw aside these first five years ? is there any man who 
 can hope for another five so exuberant in unsating joy ? 
 
 my sweet infant ! I would teach thee to kneel before 
 the gods, were it only to thank 'em for being Athenian and 
 not Persian. 
 
 PERICLES TO ASPASIA. 
 
 1 am pleased with your little note, and hope you may live 
 to write a commentary on the same author. You speak 
 with your usual judgment, in commending our historian for 
 his discretion in metaphors. Not indeed that his language 
 is without them, but they are rare, impressive, and distinct. 
 History wants them occasionally ; in oratory they are nearly 
 as requisite as in poetry ; they come opportunely wherever 
 
PERICLES AND AS PAST A. 205 
 
 the object is persuasion or intimidation, and no less where 
 delight stands foremost. In writing a letter I would neither 
 seek nor reject one ; but I think, if more than one came 
 forward, I might decline its services. If, however, it had 
 come in unawares, I would take no trouble to send it away. 
 But we should accustom ourselves to think always with 
 propriety, in little things as in great, and neither be too 
 solicitous of our dress in the house, nor negligent because 
 we are at home. I think it as improper and indecorous to 
 write a stupid or a silly note to you, as one in a bad hand or 
 on coarse paper. Familiarity ought to have another and 
 worse name, when it relaxes in its attentiveness to please. 
 
 We began with metaphors, I will end with one. — Do not 
 look back over the letter to see whether I have not already 
 used my privilege of nomination, whether my one is not 
 there. Take, then, a simile instead. It is a pity that they 
 are often lamps which light nothing, and show only the 
 nakedness of the walls they are nailed against. 
 
 ASPASIA TO PERICLES. 
 
 When the war is over, as surely it must be in another 
 year, let us sail among the islands of the ^4^gean, and be 
 young as ever. O that it were permitted us to pass together 
 the remainder of our lives in privacy and retirement ! This 
 is never to be hoped for in Athens. 
 
 I inherit from my mother a small yet beautiful house in 
 Tenos : I remember it well. Water, clear and cold, ran 
 before the vestibule ; a sycamore shaded the whole building. 
 I think Tenos must be nearer to Athens than to Miletus. 
 Could we not go now for a few days ? How temperate was 
 the air, how serene the sky, how beautiful the country ! the 
 people how quiet, how gentle, how kind-hearted ! 
 
 Is there any station so happy as an uncontested place in 
 a small community, where manners are simple, where wants 
 
206 PERICLES AND AS PA SI A. 
 
 are few, where respect is the tribute of probity, and love is 
 the guerdon of beneficence ! O Pericles ! let us go ; we can 
 return at any time. 
 
 ANAXAGORAS TO ASPASIA. 
 
 Be cautious, O Aspasia ! of discoursing on philosophy. 
 Is it not in philosophy as in love ? the more we have of it, 
 and the less we talk about it, the better. Never touch upon 
 religion with anybody. The irreligious are incurable and 
 insensible ; the religious are morbid and irritable : the 
 former would scorn, the latter would strangle you. It 
 appears to me to be not only a dangerous, but, what is 
 worse, an indelicate thing, to place ourselves where we are 
 likely to see fevers and frenzies, writhings and distortions, 
 debilities and deformities. Religion at Athens is like a 
 fountain near Dodona, which extinguishes a lighted torch, 
 and which gives a flame of its own to an unlighted one held 
 down to it. Keep yours in your chamber ; and let the 
 people run about with theirs ; but remember, it is rather apt 
 to catch the skirts. Believe me, I am happy : I am not 
 deprived of my friends. Imagination is little less strong in 
 our later years than in our earlier. True, it alights on fewer 
 objects, but it rests longer on them, and sees them better. 
 Pericles first, and then you, and then Meton, occupy my 
 thoughts. I am with you still ; I study with you, just as 
 before, although nobody talks aloud in the school-room. 
 
 This is the pleasantest part of life. Oblivion throws her 
 light coverlet over our infancy; and, soon after we are out 
 of the cradle we forget how soundly we had been slumber- 
 ing, and how delightful were our dreams. Toil and pleasure 
 contend for us almost the instant we rise from it ; and 
 weariness follows whichever has carried us away. We stop 
 awhile, look around us, wonder to find we have completed 
 the circle of existence, fold our arms, and fall asleep again. 
 
PERICLES AND ASP AST A. 207 
 
 ASPASIA TO CLEONE. 
 
 A pestilence has broken out in the city, so virulent in its 
 character, so rapid in its progress, so intractable to medicine, 
 that Pericles, in despite of my remonstrances and prayers, 
 insisted on my departure. He told me that, if I delayed it 
 a single day, his influence might be insufficient to obtain me 
 a reception in any town, or any hamlet, throughout the 
 whole of Greece. He has promised to write to me daily, 
 but he declared he could not assure me that his letters would 
 come regularly, although he purposes to send them secretly 
 by the shepherds, fumigated and dipped in oil before they 
 depart from Athens. He has several farms in Thessaly 
 under Mount Ossa, near Sicurion. Here I am, a few 
 stadions from the walls. Never did I breathe so pure an 
 air, so refreshing in the midst of summer. And the lips of 
 my little Pericles are ruddier and softer and sweeter than 
 before. Nothing is wanting, but that he were less like me 
 and more like his father. He would have all my thoughts 
 to himself, were Pericles not absent. 
 
 ASPASIA TO PERICLES. 
 
 Now the fever is raging, and we are separated, my comfort 
 and delight is in our little Pericles. The letters you send 
 me come less frequently, but I know you write whenever 
 your duties will allow you, and whenever men are found 
 courageous enough to take charge of them. Although you 
 preserved with little care the speeches you delivered for- 
 merly, yet you promised me a copy of the latter, and as 
 many of the earlier as you could collect among your friends. 
 Let me have them as soon as possible. Whatever bears the 
 traces of your hand is precious to me : how greatly more 
 precious what is imprest with your genius, what you have 
 meditated and spoken ! I shall see your calm thoughtful 
 
208 PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 
 
 face while I am reading, and will be cautious not to read 
 aloud lest I lose the illusion of your voice. 
 
 PERICLES TO ASPASIA. 
 
 Aspasia ! do you know what you have asked of me ? 
 Would you accept it, if you thought it might make you love 
 me less ? Must your affections be thus loosened from me, 
 that the separation, which the pestilence may render an 
 eternal one, may be somewhat mitigated ? I send you the 
 papers. The value will be small to you, and indeed would 
 be small to others, were it possible that they could fall into 
 any hands but yours. Remember the situation in which my 
 birth and breeding and bent of mind have placed me ; 
 remember the powerful rivals I have had to contend with, 
 their celebrity, their popularity, their genius, and their 
 perseverance. You know how often I have regretted the 
 necessity of obtaining the banishment of Cimon, a man 
 more similar to myself than any other. I doubt whether he 
 had quite the same management of his thoughts and words, 
 but he was adorned with every grace, every virtue, and 
 invested by Nature with every high function of the soul. 
 We happened to be placed by our fellow-citizens at the 
 head of two adverse factions. Son of the greatest man in 
 our annals, he was courted and promoted by the aristocracy ; 
 I, of a family no less distinguished, was opposed to him by 
 the body of the people. You must have observed, Aspasia, 
 that although one of the populace may in turbulent times be 
 the possessor of great power, it rarely has happened that he 
 retained it long, or without many sanguinary struggles. 
 Moroseness is the evening of turbulence. Every man after 
 a while begins to think himself as capable of governing as 
 one (whoever he may be) taken from his own rank. Amid 
 all the claims and pretensions of the ignorant and discon- 
 
PERICLES AND ASP ASIA. 209 
 
 tented, the eyes of a few begin to be turned complacently 
 toward the more courteous demeanour of some well-born 
 citizen, who presently has an opportunity of conciliating 
 many more, by affability, liberality, eloquence, commisera- 
 tion, diffidence, and disinterestedness. Part of these must 
 be real, part may not be. Shortly afterward he gains nearly 
 all the rest of the citizens by deserting his order for theirs : 
 his own party will not be left behind, but adheres to him 
 bravely, to prove they are not ashamed of their choice, and 
 to avoid the imputation of inconsistency. 
 
 Aspasia ! I have done with these cares, with these reflec- 
 tions. Little of life is remaining, but my happiness will be 
 coetaneous with it, and my renown will survive it ; for there 
 is no example of any who has governed a state so long, 
 without a single act of revenge or malice, of cruelty or 
 severity. In the thirty-seven years of my administration I 
 have caused no citizen to put on mourning. On this rock, 
 O Aspasia ! stand my Propylaea and my Parthenon. 
 
 ASPASIA TO PERICLES. 
 
 Gratitude to the immortal gods overpowers every other 
 impulse of my breast. You are safe. 
 
 Pericles ! O my Pericles ! come into this purer air ! live 
 life over again in the smiles of your child, in the devotion of 
 your Aspasia ! Why did you fear for me the plague within 
 the city, the Spartans round it? why did you exact the vow 
 at parting, that nothing but your command should recall me 
 again to Athens ? Why did I ever make it .^ Cruel ! to 
 refuse me the full enjoyment of your recovered health ! 
 crueller to keep me in ignorance of its decline ! The 
 happiest of pillows is not that which Love first presses ; it is 
 that which Death has frowned on and passed over. 
 
210 PERICLES AND ASTASIA. 
 
 ASPASIA TO CLEONE. 
 
 Where on earth is there so much society as in a beloved 
 child ? He accompanies me in my walks, gazes into my 
 eyes for what I am gathering from books, tells me more and 
 better things than they do, and asks me often what neither I 
 nor they can answer. When he is absent I am filled with 
 reflections ; when he is present I have room for none beside 
 what I receive from him. The charms of his childhood 
 bring me back to the delights of mine, and I fancy I hear my 
 own words in a sweeter voice. Will he (O how I tremble at 
 the mute oracle of futurity ! ), will he ever be as happy as I 
 have been } Alas ! and must he ever be as subject to fears 
 and apprehensions ? No ; thanks to the gods ! never, never. 
 He carries his father's heart within his breast : I see him 
 already an orator and a leader. I try to teach him daily 
 some of his father's looks and gestures, and I never smile 
 but at his docility and gravity. How his father will love 
 him ! the little thunderer ! the winner of cities ! the van- 
 quisher of Cleones ! 
 
 ASPASIA TO PERICLES. 
 
 Never tell me, O my Pericles ! that you are suddenly 
 changed in appearance. May every change of your figure 
 and countenance be gradual, so that I shall not perceive it; 
 but if you really are altered to such a degree as you describe, 
 I must transfer my affection — from the first Pericles to the 
 second. Are you jealous ! if you are, it is I who am to be 
 pitied, whose heart is destined to fly from the one to the 
 other incessantly. In the end it will rest, it shall, it must, 
 on the nearest. I would write a longer letter; but it is a sad 
 and wearisome thing to aim at playfulness where the hand is 
 palsied by affliction. Be well ; and all is well : be happy ; 
 
PERICLES AND ASP ASIA. 211 
 
 and Athens rises up again, alert, and blooming, and vigourous, 
 from between war and pestilence. Love me : for love cures 
 all but love. How can we fear to die, how can we die, 
 while we cling or are clung to the beloved ? 
 
 PERICLES TO ASPASIA. 
 
 The pestilence has taken from me both my sons. You, 
 who were ever so kind and affectionate to them, will receive 
 a tardy recompense, in hearing that the least gentle and the 
 least grateful did acknowledge it. 
 
 I mourn for Paralos, because he loved me ; for Xanthip- 
 pos, because he loved me not. 
 
 Preserve with all your maternal care our little Pericles. I 
 cannot be fonder of him than I have always been ; I can 
 only fear more for him. 
 
 Is he not with my Aspasia ! What fears then are so 
 irrational as mine ? But oh ! I am living in a widowed 
 house, a house of desolation ; I am living in a city of tombs 
 and torches ; and the last I saw before me were for my 
 children, 
 
 PERICLES TO ASPASIA. 
 
 It is right and orderly, that he who has partaken so largely 
 in the prosperity of the Athenians, should close the pro- 
 cession of their calamities. The fever that has depopulated 
 our city, returned upon me last night, and Hippocrates and 
 Acron tell me that my end is near. 
 
 When we agreed, O Aspasia ! in the beginning of our 
 loves, to communicate our thoughts by writing, even while 
 we were both in Athens, and when we had many reasons for 
 it, we little foresaw the more powerful one that has rendered 
 it necessary of late. We never can meet again : the laws 
 forbid it, and love itself enforces them. Let wisdom be 
 
212 PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 
 
 heard by you as imperturbably, and affection as authorita- 
 tively, as ever ; and remember that the sorrow of Pericles 
 can arise but from the bosom of Aspasia. There is only 
 one word of tenderness we could say, which we have not 
 said oftentimes before ; and there is no consolation in it. 
 The happy never say, and never hear said, farewell. 
 
 Reviewing the course of my life, it appears to me at one 
 moment as if we met but yesterday ; at another as if cen- 
 turies had passed within it ; for within it have existed the 
 greater part of those who, since the origin of the world, have 
 been the luminaries of the human race. Damon called me 
 from my music to look at Aristides on his way to exile ; and 
 my father pressed the wrist by which he was leading me 
 along, and whispered in my ear : 
 
 "Walk quickly by; glance cautiously; it is there Miltiades 
 is in prison." 
 
 In my boyhood Pindar took me up in his arms, when he 
 brought to our house the dirge he had composed for the 
 funeral of my grandfather ; in my adolescence I offered the 
 rites of hospitality to Empedocles; not long afterward I 
 embraced the neck of ^f^schylus, about to abandon his 
 country. With Sophocles I have argued on eloquence ; with 
 Euripides on polity and ethics ; I have discoursed, as 
 became an inquirer, with Protagoras and Democritus, with 
 Anaxagoras and Meton. From Herodotus I have listened 
 to the most instructive history, conveyed in a language the 
 most copious and the most harmonious ; a man worthy to 
 carry away the collected suffrages of universal Greece ; a 
 man worthy to throw open the temples of Egypt, and to 
 celebrate the exploits of Cyrus. And from Thucydides, who 
 alone can succeed to him, how recently did my Aspasia hear 
 with me the energetic praises of his just supremacy ! 
 
 As if the festival of life were incomplete, and wanted one 
 great ornament to crown it, Phidias placed before us, in 
 
PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 213 
 
 ivory and gold, the tutelary Deity of this land, and the Zeus 
 of Homer and Olympus. 
 
 To have lived with such men, to have enjoyed their 
 familiarity and esteem, overpays all labours and anxieties. 
 I were unworthy of the friendships I have commemorated, 
 were I forgetful of the latest. Sacred it ought to be, formed 
 as it was under the portico of Death, my friendship with the 
 most sagacious, the most scientific, the most beneficent of 
 philosophers, Acron and Hippocrates. If mortal could war 
 against Pestilence and Destiny, they had been victorious. 
 I leave them in the field : unfortunate he who finds them 
 among the fallen ! 
 
 And now, at the close of my day, when every light is dim 
 and every guest departed, let me own that these wane before 
 me, remembering, as I do in the pride and fulness of my 
 heart, that Athens confided her glory, and Aspasia her 
 happiness, to me. 
 
 Have I been a faithful guardian ? do I resign them to the 
 custody of the gods undiminished and unimpaired ? Welcome 
 then, welcome, my last hour ! After enjoying for so great 
 a number of years, in my public and my private life, what I 
 believe has never been the lot of any other, I now extend 
 my hand to the urn, and take without reluctance or hesitation 
 what is the lot of all. 
 
HELLENICS. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 THE HAMADRYAD. 
 
 Rhaicos was born amid the hills wherefrom 
 Gnidos the light of Caria is discern 'd, 
 And small are the white-crested that play near, 
 And smaller onward are the purple waves. 
 Thence festal choirs were visible, all crown'd 
 With rose and myrtle if they were inborn; 
 If from Pandion sprang they, on the coast 
 Where stern Athene rais'd her citadel, 
 Then olive was entwined with violets 
 Cluster'd in bosses, regular and large; 
 For various men wore various coronals. 
 But one was their devotion; 'twas to her 
 Whose laws all follow, her whose smile withdraws 
 The sword from Ares, thunderbolt from Zeus, 
 And whom in his chill caves the mutable 
 Of mind, Poseidon, the sea-king, reveres, 
 And whom his brother, stubborn Dis, hath pray'd 
 To turn in pity the averted cheek 
 Of her he bore away, with promises. 
 Nay, with loud oath before dread Styx itself. 
 To give her daily more and sweeter flowers 
 Than he made drop from her on Enna's dell. 
 Rhaicos was looking from his father's door 
 At the long trains that hastened to the town 
 
216 HELLENICS. 
 
 From all the valleys, like bright rivulets 
 Gurgling with gladness, wave outrunning wave, 
 And thought it hard he might not also go 
 And offer up one prayer, and press one hand. 
 He knew not whose. The father call'd him in 
 And said, " Son Rhaicos! those are idle games; 
 Long enough I have Hved to find them so." 
 And ere he ended, sighed; as old men do 
 Always, to think how idle such games are. 
 " I have not yet," thought Rhaicos in his heart. 
 And wanted proof. 
 
 " Suppose thou go and help 
 Echion at the hill, to bark yon oak 
 And lop its branches off, before we delve 
 About the trunk and ply the root with axe : 
 This we may do in winter." 
 
 Rhaicos went; 
 For thence he could see farther, and see more 
 Of those who hurried to the city-gate. 
 Echion he found there, with naked arm 
 Swart-hair'd, strong-sinew'd, and his eyes intent 
 Upon the place where first the axe should fall: 
 He held it upright. " There are bees about. 
 Or wasps, or hornets," said the cautious eld, 
 "Look sharp, O son of Thallinos ! " The youth 
 Inclined his ear, afar, and warily. 
 And cavern'd in his hand. He heard a buzz 
 At first, and then the sound grew soft and clear. 
 And then divided into what seem'd tune. 
 And there were words upon it, plaintive words. 
 He turn'd, and said, "Echion! do not strike 
 That tree: it must be hollow ; for some god 
 Speaks from within. Come thyself near." Again 
 Both turn'd toward it: and behold! there sat 
 
THE HAMADRYAD. 217 
 
 Upon the moss below, with her two palms 
 
 Pressing it, on each side, a maid in form. 
 
 Downcast were her long eyelashes, and pale 
 
 Her cheek, but never mountain-ash display'd 
 
 Berries of colour like her lip so pure. 
 
 Nor were the anemones about her hair 
 
 Soft, smooth, and wavering like the face beneath. 
 
 "What dost thou here?" Echion, half-afraid, 
 Half-angry cried. She lifted up her eyes. 
 But nothing spake she. Rhaicos drew one step 
 Backward, for fear came likewise over him. 
 But not such fear : he panted, gasp'd, drew in 
 His breath, and would have turn'd it into words, 
 But could not into one. 
 
 " O send away 
 That sad old man ! " said she. The old man went 
 Without a warning from his master's son. 
 Glad to escape, for sorely he now fear'd. 
 
 And the axe shone behind him in their eyes. 
 
 Hamad. And wouldst thou too shed the most 
 innocent 
 
 Of blood t No vow demands it; no god wills 
 
 The oak to bleed. 
 
 Rhaicos. Who art thou.? whence.? why here.? 
 
 And whither wouldst thou go.? Among the robed 
 
 In white or saffron, or the hue that most 
 
 Resembles dawn or the clear sky, is none 
 
 Array'd as thou art. What so beautiful 
 
 As that gray robe which clings about thee close. 
 
 Like moss to stones adhering, leaves to trees. 
 
 Yet lets thy bosom rise and fall in turn, 
 
 As, touch'd by zephyrs, fall and rise the boughs 
 
 Of graceful platan by the river-side ? 
 
 Ha77iad. Lovest thou well thy father's house .? 
 
218 HELLENICS. 
 
 Rhaicos. Indeed 
 
 I love it, well I love it, yet would leave 
 For thine, where'er it be, my father's house, 
 With all the marks upon the door, that show 
 My growth at every birthday since the third, 
 And all the charms, o'erpowering evil eyes, 
 My mother nail'd for me against my bed, 
 And the Cydonian bow (which thou shalt see) 
 Won in my race last spring from Eutychos. 
 
 Hamad. Bethink thee what it is to leave a home 
 Thou never yet hast left, one night, one day. 
 
 Rhaicos. No, 't is not hard to leave it: 't is not hard 
 To leave, O maiden, that paternal home 
 If there be one on earth whom we may love 
 First, last, for ever; one who says that she 
 Will love for ever too. To say which word, 
 Only to say it, surely is enough. 
 It shows such kindness — if 't were possible 
 We at the moment think she would indeed. 
 
 Hamad. Who taught thee all this folly at thy age ? 
 
 Rhaicos. I have seen lovers and have learnt to love. 
 
 Hai7iad. But wilt thou spare the tree? 
 
 Rhaicos. My father wants 
 
 The bark; the tree may hold its place awhile. 
 
 Ha??tad. Awhile ? thy father numbers then my days ? 
 
 Rhaicos. Are there no others where the moss beneath 
 Is quite as tufty ? Who would send thee forth 
 Or ask thee why thou tarriest ? Is thy flock 
 Anyvvfhere near ? 
 
 Haj7iad. I have no flock: I kill 
 
 Nothing that breathes, that stirs, that feels the air. 
 The sun, the dew. Why should the beautiful 
 (And thou art beautiful) disturb the source 
 Whence springs all beauty ? Hast thou never heard 
 
THE HAMADRYAD. 219 
 
 Of Hamadryads? 
 
 Rhaicos. Heard of them I have : 
 
 Tell me some tale about them. May I sit 
 Beside thy feet ? Art thou not tired ? The herbs 
 Are very soft; I will not come too nigh; 
 Do but sit there, nor tremble so, nor doubt. 
 Stay, stay an instant: let me first explore 
 If any acorn of last year be left 
 Within it; thy thin robe too ill protects 
 Thy dainty limbs against the harm one small 
 Acorn may do. Here 's none. Another day 
 Trust me; till then let me sit opposite. 
 
 Ha7nad. I seat me; be thou seated, and content. 
 Rhaicos. O sight for gods! ye men below! adore 
 The Aphrodite. Is she there below .? 
 Or sits she here before me .? as she sate 
 Before the shepherd on those heights that shade 
 The Hellespont, and brought his kindred woe. 
 
 Ha77iad. Reverence the higher Powers; nor deem 
 amiss 
 
 Of her who pleads to thee, and would repay 
 
 Ask not how much — but very much. Rise not: 
 No, Rhaicos, no! Without the nuptial vow 
 Love is unholy. Swear to me that none 
 Of mortal maids shall ever taste thy kiss, 
 Then take thou mine; then take it, not before. 
 
 Rhaicos. Hearken, all gods above! O Aphrodite ! 
 O Here! Let my vow be ratified! 
 But wilt thou come into my father's house ? 
 
 Ha77iad. Nay: and of mine I cannot give thee part. 
 Rhaicos. Where is it? 
 HaTnad. In this oak. 
 
 Rhaicos. Ay ; now begins 
 
 The tale of Hamadryad: tell it through. 
 
220 HELLENICS. 
 
 Hamad. Pray of thy father never to cut down 
 My tree ; and promise him, as well thou mayst, 
 That every year he shall receive from me 
 More honey than will buy him nine fat sheep, 
 More wax than he will burn to all the gods. 
 Why fallest thou upon thy face ? Some thorn 
 May scratch it, rash young man! Rise up; for shame! 
 
 Rhaicos. For shame I cannot rise. O pity me! 
 I dare not sue for love — but do not hate! 
 Let me once more behold thee — not once more. 
 But many days: let me love on — unloved! 
 I aimed too high : on my own head the bolt 
 Falls back, and pierces to the very brain. 
 
 Hamad. Go — rather go, than make me say I love. 
 
 Rhaicos. If happiness is immortality, 
 (And whence enjoy it else the gods above ?) 
 I am immortal too: my vow is heard — 
 Hark! on the left — Nay, turn not from me now, 
 I claim my kiss. 
 
 Hajnad. Do men take first, then .claim ? 
 
 Do thus the seasons run their course with them ? 
 
 Her lips were seal'd; her head sank on his breast. 
 ' T is said that laughs were heard within the wood: 
 But who should hear them? and whose laughs.? and why.? 
 
 Savoury was the smell and long past noon, 
 Thallinos! in thy house; for marjoram, 
 Basil and mint, and thyme and rosemary. 
 Were sprinkled on the kid's well roasted length, 
 Awaiting Rhaicos. Flome he came at last, 
 Not hungry, but pretending hunger keen. 
 With head and eyes just o'er the maple plate. 
 " Thou seest but badly, coming from the sun, , 
 Boy Rhaicos ! " said the father. "That oak's bark 
 
THE HAMADRYAD. 221 
 
 Must have been tough, with httle sap between ; 
 It ought to run; but it and I are old." 
 Rhaicos, although each morsel of the bread 
 Increased by chewing, and the meat grew cold 
 And tasteless to his palate, took a draught 
 Of gold-bright wine, which, thirsty as he was, 
 He thought not of, until his father fill'd 
 The cup, averring water was amiss, 
 But wine had been at all times pour'd on kid. 
 It was religion. 
 
 He thus fortified 
 Said, not quite boldly, and not quite abash'd, 
 " Father, that oak is Zeus's own; that oak 
 Year after year will bring thee wealth from wax 
 And honey. There is one who fears the gods 
 And the gods love — that one " 
 
 (He blush'd, nor said 
 What one) 
 
 " Has promised this, and may do more. 
 Thou hast not many moons to wait until 
 The bees have done their best; if then there come 
 Nor wax nor honey, let the tree be hewn." 
 
 "Zeus hath bestow'd on thee a prudent mind," 
 Said the glad sire : " but look thou often there, 
 And gather all the honey thou canst find 
 In every crevice, over and above 
 What has been promised; would they reckon that.''" 
 
 Rhaicos went daily; but the nymph as oft, 
 Invisible. To play at love, she knew. 
 Stopping its breathings when it breathes most soft, 
 Is sweeter than to play on any pipe. 
 She play'd on his: she fed upon his sighs; 
 They pleased her when they gently waved her hair, 
 Cooling the pulses of her purple veins, 
 
222 HELLENICS. 
 
 And when her absence brought them out, they pleased. 
 
 Even among the fondest of them all, 
 
 What mortal or immortal maid is more 
 
 Content with giving happiness than pain ? 
 
 One day he was returning from the wood 
 
 Despondently. She pitied him, and said 
 
 "Come back! " and twined her fingers in the hem 
 
 Above his shoulder. Then she led his steps 
 
 To a cool rill that ran o'er level sand 
 
 Through lentisk and through oleander, there 
 
 Bathed she his feet, lifting them on her lap 
 
 When bathed, and drying them in both her hands. 
 
 He dared complain; for those who most are loved 
 
 Most dare it ; but not harsh was his complaint. 
 
 "O thou inconstant!" said he, "if stern law 
 
 Bind thee, or will, stronger than sternest law, 
 
 O, let me know henceforward when to hope 
 
 The fruit of love that grows for me but here." 
 
 He spake; and pluck'd it from its pliant stem. 
 
 " Impatient Rhaicos ! Why thus intercept 
 
 The answer I would give ? There is a bee 
 
 Whom I have fed, a bee who knows my thoughts 
 
 And executes my wishes: I will send 
 
 That messenger. If ever thou art false. 
 
 Drawn by another, own it not, but drive 
 
 My bee away: then shall I know my fate. 
 
 And — for thou must be wretched — weep at thine. 
 
 But often as my heart persuades to lay 
 
 Its cares on thine and throb itself to rest, 
 
 Expect her with thee, whether it be morn 
 
 Or eve, at any time when woods are safe." 
 
 Day after day the Hours beheld them blest. 
 And season after season : years had past. 
 Blest were they still. He who asserts that Love 
 
THE HAMADRYAD. 223 
 
 Ever is sated of sweet things, the same 
 Sweet things he fretted for in earlier days, 
 Never, by Zeus! loved he a Hamadryad. 
 
 The nights had now grown longer, and perhaps 
 The Hamadryads find them lone and dull 
 Among their woods ; one did, alas ! She called 
 Her faithful bee : 't was when all bees should sleep, 
 And all did sleep but hers. She was sent forth 
 To bring that light which never wintry blast 
 Blows out, nor rain nor snow extinguishes. 
 The light that shines from loving eyes upon 
 Eyes that love back, till they can see no more. 
 Rhaicos was sitting at his father's hearth : 
 Between them stood the table, not o'erspread 
 With fruits which autumn now profusely bore. 
 Nor anise cakes, nor odorous wine; but there 
 The draft-board was expanded; at which game 
 Triumphant sat old Thallinos; the son 
 Was puzzled, vex'd, discomfited, distraught. 
 A buzz was at his ear: up went his hand 
 And it was heard no longer. The poor bee 
 Return'd (but not until the morn shone bright) 
 And found the Hamadryad with her head 
 Upon her aching wrist, and show'd one wing 
 Half-broken off, the other's meshes marr'd. 
 And there were bruises which no eye could see 
 Saving a Hamadryad's. 
 
 At this sight 
 Down fell the languid brow, both hands fell down. 
 A shriek was carried to the ancient hall 
 Of Thallinos : he heard it not : his son 
 Heard it, and ran forthwith into the wood. 
 No bark was on the tree, no leaf was green. 
 The trunk was riven through. From that day forth 
 
224 HELLENICS. 
 
 Nor word nor whisper sooth'd his ear, nor sound 
 Even of insect wing ; but loud laments 
 The woodmen and the shepherds one long year 
 Heard day and night; for Rhaicos would not quit 
 The solitary place, but moan'd and died. 
 
 Hence milk and honey wonder not, O guest, 
 To find set duly on the hollow stone. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 ACON AND RHODOPE; OR, INCONSTANCY. 
 
 {A Sequel) 
 
 The Year's twelve daughters had in turn gone by, 
 Of measured pace though varying mien all twelve. 
 Some froward, some sedater, some adorn'd 
 For festival, some reckless of attire. 
 The snow had left the mountain-top ; fresh flowers 
 Had withered in the meadow ; fig and prune 
 Hung wrinkling ; the last apple glow'd amid 
 Its freckled leaves; and weary oxen blink'd 
 Between the trodden corn and twisted vine. 
 Under whose bunches stood the empty crate. 
 To creak ere long beneath them carried home. 
 This was the season when twelve months before, 
 O gentle Hamadryad, true to love ! 
 Thy mansion, thy dim mansion in the wood 
 Was blasted and laid desolate : but none 
 Dared violate its precincts, none dared pluck 
 The moss beneath it, which alone remain'd 
 Of what was thine. 
 
 Old Thallinos sat mute 
 In solitary sadness. The strange tale 
 (Not until Rhaicos died, but then the whole) 
 
A CON AND RHODOFk. 225 
 
 Echion had related, whom no force 
 Could ever make look back upon the oaks. 
 The father said, " Echion ! thou must weigh, 
 Carefully, and with steady hand, enough 
 (Although no longer comes the store as once ! ) 
 Of wax to burn all day and night upon 
 That hollow stone where milk and honey lie : 
 So may the gods, so may the dead, be pleas'd ! " 
 Thallinos bore it thither in the morn, 
 And lighted it and left it. 
 
 First of those 
 Who visited upon this solemn day 
 The Hamadryad's oak, were Rhodope 
 And Aeon ; of one age, one hope, one trust. 
 Graceful was she as was the nymph whose fate 
 She sorrowed for : he slender, pale, and first 
 Lapp'd by the flame of love : his father's lands 
 Were fertile, herds lowed over them afar. 
 Now stood the two aside the hollow stone 
 And look'd with stedfast eyes toward the oak 
 Shivered and black and bare. 
 
 " May never we 
 Love as they loved ! " said Aeon. She at this 
 Smiled, for he said not what he meant to say. 
 And thought not of its bliss, but of its end. 
 He caught the flying smile, and blush'd, and vow'd 
 Nor time nor other power, whereto the might 
 Of love hath yielded and may yield again. 
 Should alter his. 
 
 The father of the youth 
 Wanted not beauty for him, wanted not 
 Song, that could lift earth's weight from off his heart, 
 Discretion, that could guide him thro' the world, 
 Innocence, that could clear his way to heaven ; 
 
226 HELLENICS. 
 
 Silver and gold and land, not green before 
 The ancestral gate, but purple under skies 
 Bending far off, he wanted for his heir. 
 
 Fathers have given life, but virgin heart 
 They never gave ; and dare they then control 
 Or check it harshly ? dare they break a bond 
 Girt round it by the holiest Power on high ? 
 
 Aeon was grieved, he said, grieved bitterly. 
 But Aeon had complied — 't was dutiful ! 
 
 Crush thy own heart, Man ! Man ! but fear to wound 
 The gentler, that relies on thee alone, 
 By thee created, weak or strong by thee ; 
 Touch it not but for worship ; watch before 
 Its sanctuary ; nor leave it till are closed 
 The temple doors and the last lamp is spent. 
 
 Rhodope, in her soul's waste solitude. 
 Sate mournful by the dull-resounding sea, 
 Often not hearing it, and many tears 
 Had the cold breezes hardened on her cheek. 
 
 Meanwhile he sauntered in the wood of oaks. 
 Nor shunn'd to look upon the hollow stone 
 That held the milk and honey, nor to lay 
 His plighted hand where recently 't was laid 
 Opposite hers, when finger playfully 
 Advanced and push'd back finger, on each side. 
 He did not think of this, as she would do 
 If she were there alone. The day was hot ; 
 The moss invited him ; it cool'd his cheek. 
 It cool'd his hands ; he thrust them into it 
 And sank to slumber. Never was there dream 
 Divine as his. He saw the Hamadryad. 
 She took him by the arm and led him on 
 Along a valley, where profusely grew 
 
A CON AND RHODOPB. 227 
 
 The smaller lilies with their pendant bells, 
 
 And, hiding under mint, chill drosera. 
 
 The violet, shy of butting cyclamen. 
 
 The feathery fern, and, browser of moist banks. 
 
 Her offspring round her, the soft strawberry ; 
 
 The quivering spray of ruddy tamarisk, 
 
 The oleander's light-hair'd progeny 
 
 Breathing bright freshness in each other's face. 
 
 And graceful rose, bending her brow, with cup 
 
 Of fragrance and of beauty, boon for gods. 
 
 The fragrance fill'd his breast with such delight 
 
 His senses were bewildered, and he thought 
 
 He saw again the face he most had loved. 
 
 He stopp'd : the Hamadryad at his side 
 
 Now stood between ; then drew him farther off : 
 
 He went, compliant as before : but soon 
 
 Verdure had ceased : although the ground was smooth. 
 
 Nothing was there delightful. At this change 
 
 He would have spoken, but his guide repress'd 
 
 All questioning, and said, 
 
 " Weak youth ! what brought 
 Thy footstep to this wood, my native haunt. 
 My life-long residence ? this bank, where first 
 I sate with him — the faithful (now I know 
 Too late !) the faithful Rhaicos. Haste thee home ; 
 Be happy, if thou canst ; but come no more 
 Where those whom death alone could sever, died." 
 
 He started up : the moss whereon he slept 
 Was dried and withered : deadlier paleness spread 
 Over his cheek ; he sickened : and the sire 
 Had land enough : it held his only son. 
 
228 HELLENICS. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA. 
 
 " Artemidora ! Gods invisible, 
 
 While thou art lying faint along the couch, 
 
 Have tied the sandal to thy veined feet. 
 
 And stand beside thee, ready to convey 
 
 Thy weary steps where other rivers flow. 
 
 Refreshing shades will waft thy weariness 
 
 Away, and voices like thine own come nigh, 
 
 Soliciting, nor vainly, thy embrace." 
 
 Artemidora sigh'd, and would have press'd 
 
 The hand now pressing hers, but was too weak. 
 
 Fate's shears were over her dark hair unseen 
 
 While thus Elpenor spake : he look'd into 
 
 Eyes that had given light and life erewhile 
 
 To those above them, those now dim with tears 
 
 And watchfulness. Again he spake of joy 
 
 Eternal. At that word, that sad word, /(^y^, 
 
 Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once more, 
 
 Her head fell back : one sob, one loud deep sob 
 
 Swell'd through the darken'd chamber ; 't was not hers 
 
 With her that old boat incorruptible. 
 
 Unwearied, undiverted in its course. 
 
 Had plash'd the water up the farther strand. 
 
THE WRESTLING MATCH. 119 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 THE WRESTLING MATCH. 
 
 [From Gebir^ 
 
 " 'T WAS evening, though not sunset, and the tide 
 Level with these green meadows, seem'd yet higher 
 'T was pleasant, and I loosen'd from my neck 
 The pipe you gave me, and began to play. 
 
 that I ne'er had learnt the tuneful art ! 
 It always brings us enemies or love. 
 Well, I was playing, when above the waves 
 Some swimmer's head methought I saw ascend ; 
 I, sitting still, survey'd it with my pipe 
 Awkwardly held before my lips half-closed. 
 Gebir ! it was a Nymph ! a Nymph divine ! 
 
 1 cannot wait describing how she came, 
 How I was sitting, how she first assumed 
 The Sailor ; of what happen'd there remains 
 Enough to say, and too much to forget. 
 The sweet deceiver stepp'd upon this bank 
 Before I was aware ; for with surprise 
 Moments fly rapid as with love itself. 
 Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen'd reed, 
 
 I heard a rustling, and where that arose 
 My glance first lighted on her nimble feet. 
 Her feet resembled those long shells explored 
 By him who to befriend his steed's dim sight 
 Would blow the pungent powder in the eye. 
 Her eyes too ! O immortal gods ! her eyes 
 Resembled — what could they resemble? what 
 Ever resemble those ? Even her attire 
 Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art : 
 
230 GEBIR. 
 
 Her mantle show'd the yellow samphire-pod, 
 Her girdle the dove-colour'd wave serene. 
 * Shepherd,' said she, ' and will you wrestle now. 
 And with the sailor's hardier race engage ? ' 
 I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived 
 How to keep up contention : could I fail 
 By pressing not too strongly, yet to press ? 
 ' Whether a shepherd, as indeed you seem, 
 Or whether of the hardier race you boast, 
 I am not daunted ; no ; I will engage.' 
 ' But first,' said she, 'what wager will you lay ? ' 
 ' A sheep,' I answered : ' add whate'er you will.' 
 'I cannot,' she replied, 'make that return: 
 Our hided vessels in their pitchy round 
 Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep. 
 But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue 
 Within, and they that lustre have imbibed 
 In the sun's palace-porch, where when unyoked 
 His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave : 
 Shake one and it awakens, then apply 
 Its polish'd lips to your attentive ear, 
 And it remembers its august abodes. 
 And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. 
 And I have others given me by the nymphs, 
 Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have ; 
 But we, by Neptune ! for no pipe contend; 
 This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next.' 
 Now came she forward eager to engage, 
 But first her dress, her bosom then survey'd, 
 And heaved it, doubting if she could deceive. 
 Her bosom seem'd, inclosed in haze like heaven. 
 To baffle touch, and rose forth undefined : 
 Above her knee she drew the robe succinct. 
 Above her breast, and just below her arms. 
 
THE WRESTLING MATCH. 231 
 
 ' This will preserve my breath when tightly bound, 
 
 If struggle and equal strength should so constrain.' 
 
 Thus, pulling hard to fasten it, she spake, 
 
 And, rushing at me, closed : I thrill'd throughout 
 
 And seem'd to lessen and shrink up with cold. 
 
 Again with violent impulse gush'd my blood, 
 
 And hearing nought external, thus absorb'd, 
 
 I heard it, rushing through each turbid vein, 
 
 Shake my unsteady swimming sight in air. 
 
 Yet with unyielding though uncertain arms 
 
 I clung around her neck ; the vest beneath 
 
 Rustled against our slippery limbs entwined : 
 
 Often mine springing with eluded force 
 
 Started aside and trembled till replaced: 
 
 And when I most succeeded, as I thought. 
 
 My bosom and my throat felt so compress'd 
 
 That life was almost quivering on my lips. 
 
 Yet nothing was there painful : these are signs 
 
 Of secret arts and not of human might ; 
 
 What arts I cannot tell ; I only know 
 
 My eyes grew dizzy and my strength decay'd ; 
 
 I was indeed o'ercome — with what regret. 
 
 And more, with what confusion, when I reach'd 
 
 The fold, and yielding up the sheep, she cried, 
 
 'This pays a shepherd to a conquering maid.' 
 
 She smiled, and more of pleasure than disdain 
 
 Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip. 
 
 And eyes that languish'd, lengthening, just like love. 
 
 She went away ; I on the wicker gate 
 
 Leant, and could follow with my eyes alone. 
 
 The sheep she carried easy as a cloak; 
 
 But when I heard its bleating, as I did. 
 
 And saw, she hastening on, its hinder feet 
 
 Struggle, and from her snowy shoulder slip. 
 
232 TO lANTHE. 
 
 One shoulder its poor efforts had unveil'd, 
 
 Then all my passions mingling fell in tears ; 
 
 Restless then ran I to the highest ground 
 
 To watch her ; she was gone ; gone down the tide ; 
 
 And the long moonbeam on the hard wet sand 
 
 Lay like a jasper column half uprear'd." 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 TO lANTHE. 
 
 1. 
 
 It often comes into my head 
 
 That we may dream when we are dead, 
 
 But I am far from sure we do. 
 O that it were so ! then my rest 
 Would be indeed among the blest ; 
 
 I should for ever dream of you. 
 
 lanthe ! you are call'd to cross the sea ! 
 
 A path forbidden me ! 
 Remember, while the sun his blessing sheds 
 
 Upon the mountain-heads. 
 How often we have watch'd him laying down 
 
 His brow, and dropp'd our own 
 Against each other's, and how faint and short 
 
 And sliding the support ! 
 What will succeed it now ? Mine is unblest, 
 
 lanthe ! nor will rest 
 But on the very thought that swells with pain. 
 
 O bid me hope again ! 
 O give me back what Earth, what (without you) 
 
 Not Heaven itself can do, 
 
ROSE AYLMER. 233 
 
 One of the golden days that we have past ; 
 
 And let it be my last ! 
 Or else the gift would be, however sweet, 
 
 Fragile and incomplete. 
 
 Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass, 
 Cut down and up again as blithe as ever ; 
 
 From you, lanthe, little troubles pass 
 Like little ripples in a sunny river. 
 
 Well I remember how you smiled 
 
 To see me write your name upon 
 The soft sea-sand, — " O ! what a child ! 
 
 You think you 're writing upon stone ! ' 
 I have since written what no tide 
 
 Shall ever wash away, what men 
 Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide 
 
 And find lanthe's name again. 
 
 XXXV. 
 ROSE AYLMER. 
 
 Ah what avails the sceptred race, 
 
 Ah what the form divine ! 
 What every virtue, every grace ! 
 
 Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 
 Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 
 
 May weep, but never see, 
 A night of memories and of sighs 
 
 I consecrate to thee. 
 
234 A FIESOLAN IDYL. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 A FIESOLAN IDYL. 
 
 Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound 
 
 Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires, 
 
 And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, 
 
 Soft airs that want the lute to play with 'em. 
 
 And softer sighs that know not what they want, 
 
 Aside a wall, beneath an orange-tree, 
 
 Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones 
 
 Of sights in Fiesole right up above, 
 
 While I was gazing a few paces off 
 
 At what they seem'd to show me with their nods. 
 
 Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots, 
 
 A gentle maid came down the garden-steps 
 
 And gathered the pure treasure in her lap. 
 
 I heard the branches rustle, and stepp'd forth 
 
 To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, 
 
 Such I believed it must be. How could I 
 
 Let beast o'erpower them ? when hath wind or rain 
 
 Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me. 
 
 And I (however they might bluster round) 
 
 Walk'd off ? 'T were most ungrateful : for sweet scents 
 
 Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts, 
 
 And nurse and pillow the dull memory 
 
 That would let drop without them her best stores. 
 
 They bring me tales of youth and tones of love, 
 
 And 't is and ever was my wish and way 
 
 To let all flowers live freely, and all die 
 
 (Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart) 
 
 Among their kindred in their native place. 
 
 I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head 
 
 Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank 
 
A FIESOLAN IDYL. 235 
 
 And not reproach'd me ; the ever-sacred cup 
 Of the pure hly hath between my hands 
 Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold. 
 I saw the light that made the glossy leaves 
 More glossy ; the fair arm, the fairer cheek 
 Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit ; 
 I saw the foot that, although half-erect 
 From its gray slipper, could not lift her up 
 To what she wanted : I held down a branch 
 And gather'd her some blossoms ; since their hour 
 Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies 
 Of harder wing were working their way thro' 
 And scattering them in fragments under foot. 
 So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved, 
 Others, ere broken off, fell into shells, 
 Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, 
 And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun : 
 Yet every one her gown received from me 
 Was fairer than the first. I thought not so, 
 But so she praised them to reward my care. 
 I said, " You find the largest." 
 
 " This indeed," 
 Cried she, "is large and sweet." She held one forth, 
 Whether for me to look at or to take 
 She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it 
 Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubt. 
 I dared not touch it ; for it seemed a part 
 Of her own self ; fresh, full, the most mature 
 Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch 
 To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back 
 The boon she tender'd, and then, finding not 
 The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, 
 Dropp'd it, as loth to drop it, on the rest. 
 
236 UPON A SWEET-BRIAR. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 UPON A SWEET-BRIAR. 
 
 My briar that smelledst sweet 
 When gentle spring's first heat 
 
 Ran through thy quiet veins, — 
 Thou that wouldst injure none, 
 But wouldst be left alone. 
 Alone thou leavest me, and nought of thine remains. 
 
 What ! hath no poet's lyre 
 O'er thee, sweet-breathing briar. 
 
 Hung fondly, ill or well ? 
 And yet methinks with thee 
 A poet's sympathy. 
 Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, might dwell. 
 
 Hard usage both must bear. 
 Few hands your youth will rear, 
 
 Few bosoms cherish you ; 
 Your tender prime must bleed 
 Ere you are sweet, but freed 
 From life, you then are prized ; thus prized are poets too. 
 
 And art thou yet alive ? 
 And shall the happy hive 
 
 Send out her youth to cull 
 Thy sweets of leaf and flower. 
 And spend the sunny hour 
 With thee, and thy faint heart with murmuring music lull ? 
 
 Tell me what tender care, 
 Tell me what pious prayer, 
 Bade thee arise and live. 
 
THE MAID'S LAMENT. 237 
 
 The fondest-favoured bee 
 Shall whisper nought to thee 
 More loving than the song my grateful muse shall give. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 THE MAID'S LAMENT. 
 
 I LOVED him not; and yet now he is gone 
 
 I feel I am alone. 
 I check'd him while he spoke; yet could he speak, 
 
 Alas! I would not check. 
 For reasons not to love him once I sought, 
 
 And wearied all my thought 
 To vex myself and him: I now would give 
 
 My love, could he but live 
 Who lately lived for me, and when he found 
 
 'T was vain, in holy ground 
 He hid his face amid the shades of death. 
 
 I waste for him my breath 
 Who wasted his for me: but mine returns, 
 
 And this lorn bosom burns 
 With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep. 
 
 And waking me to weep 
 Tears that had melted his soft heart : for years 
 
 Wept he as bitter tears. 
 Merciful God I such was his latest prayer. 
 
 These 7nay she never share. 
 Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold, 
 
 Than daisies in the mould, 
 . Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, 
 
 His name and life's brief date. 
 Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, 
 
 And oh ! pray too for me. 
 
238 rO ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 TO ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 There is delight in singing, though none hear 
 
 Beside the singer ; and there is delight 
 
 In praising, though the praiser sit alone 
 
 And see the prais'd far off him, far above. 
 
 Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world's. 
 
 Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for thee. 
 
 Browning ! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, 
 
 No man hath walk'd along our roads with step 
 
 So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue 
 
 So varied in discourse. But warmer climes 
 
 Give brighter plumage, stronger wing : the breeze 
 
 Of Alpine highths thou playest with, borne on 
 
 Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where 
 
 The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. 
 
 XL. 
 
 TO THE SISTER OF ELIA. 
 
 Comfort thee, O thou mourner, yet awhile ! 
 
 Again shall Ella's smile 
 Refresh thy heart, where heart can ache no more : 
 
 What is it we deplore 1 
 
 He leaves behind him, freed from griefs and years, 
 
 Far worthier things than tears. 
 The love of friends without a single foe : 
 
 Unequalled lot below ! 
 
 His gentle soul, his genius, these are thine ; 
 
 For these dost thou repine ? 
 He may have left the lowly walks of men ; 
 
 Left them he has ; what then ? 
 
ON DIRCE. 239 
 
 Are not his footsteps followed by the eyes 
 
 Of all the good and wise ? 
 Though the warm day is over, yet they seek 
 
 Upon the lofty peak 
 
 Of his pure mind the roseate light that glows 
 
 O'er death's perennial snows. 
 Behold him ! from the region of the blest 
 
 He speaks : he bids thee rest. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 ON DIRCE. 
 
 Stand close around, ye Stygian set. 
 
 With Dirce in one boat convey'd, 
 
 Or Charon, seeing, may forget 
 
 That he is old, and she a shade. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 / will not love ! 
 
 These sounds have often 
 
 Burst from a troubled breast ; 
 Rarely from one no sighs could soften, 
 
 Rarely from one at rest. 
 
 OLD AGE AND DEATH. 
 XLIII. 
 How many voices gaily sing, 
 " O happy morn, O happy spring 
 Of life ! " Meanwhile there comes o'er me 
 A softer voice from Memory, 
 And says, " If loves and hopes have flown 
 With years, think too what griefs are gone ! " 
 
240 OLD AGE AND DEATH. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 The place where soon I think to lie, 
 In its old creviced nook hard-by 
 
 Rears many a weed : 
 If parties bring you there, will you 
 Drop slily in a grain or two 
 
 Of wall-flower seed ? 
 
 I shall not see it, and (too sure !) 
 I shall not ever hear that your 
 
 Light step was there ; 
 But the rich odour some fine day 
 Will, what I cannot do, repay 
 
 That little care. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 TO AGE. 
 
 Welcome, old friend ! These many years 
 Have we lived door by door : 
 
 The Fates have laid aside their shears 
 Perhaps for some few more. 
 
 I was indocile at an age 
 
 When better boys were taught, 
 
 But thou at length hast made me sage, 
 If I am sage in aught. 
 
 Little I know from other men. 
 
 Too little they from me, 
 But thou hast pointed well the pen 
 
 That writes these lines to thee. 
 
OLD AGE AND DEATH. 241 
 
 Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope, 
 
 One vile, the other vain ; 
 One's scourge, the other's telescope, 
 
 I shall not see again : 
 
 Rather what lies before my feet 
 
 My notice shall engage. 
 He who hath braved Youth's dizzy heat 
 
 Dreads not the frost of Age. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife, 
 Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art ; 
 
 I warmed both hands before the fire of life. 
 It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 
 
 XLVII. 
 ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 To my ninth decade I have totter'd on, 
 
 And no soft arm bends now my steps to steady ; 
 
 She, who once led me where she would, is gone, 
 So when he calls me. Death shall find me ready. 
 
 XLVIIL 
 
 Death stands above me, whispering low 
 
 I know not what into my ear : 
 Of his strange language all I know 
 
 Is, there is not a word of fear. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 [Date following title shows year of first publication.] 
 
 3 I. Achilles and Helena (1S53). Helen's meeting with Achilles, 
 in answer to his prayer to Aphrodite and Thetis, is an incident in a 
 lost epic anciently attributed to Homer, based on early traditions of 
 the Trojan war. Though this colloquy is not Homeric, nor are the 
 speakers especially lifelike, yet various traits — the distinctness of the 
 scene, the references to familiar incidents in the Iliad, the implication 
 of the effect produced by the hero and the beauty on each other, the 
 refined reticence, the sureness of touch — render the dialogue an ade- 
 quate specimen of Landor's characteristically measured treatment of 
 short heroic themes from the Greek mythology. 
 
 Landor was fond of these subjects, and handled them as only he 
 could. There are several dialogues like this, some in verse, others — 
 of which this is one — originally in prose and afterward versified. As 
 the prose versions are the better, this scene may here suffice to repre- 
 sent the class to which it belongs — a class which even Landor's treat- 
 ment can make interesting only to those who can find the certain, if not 
 quite spontaneous, pleasure w^hich lies hidden in all work where techni- 
 cal merit reaches excellence. The point, which is worth dwelling on 
 for a moment at the outset as marking a radical difference between two 
 ways of estimating Landor's work, may be illustrated by reference 
 to a remark of one of his best critics, who believes that in the scene 
 between Peleus and Thetis, which is a worthy companion of this 
 between Achilles and Helen, he " unites with the full charm of Hellenic 
 mythology the full vividness of human passion." That is attempted : 
 to say that the attempt is successful is to claim for the scene dramatic 
 power of the first order, and so to set the doubter rummaging his recol- 
 lection for scenes which have actually moved him. That parts of 
 Landor's work are suffused with human feeling, few of his readers 
 deny ; but fewer still would admit the mythological dialogues to be 
 more than a cool reflection of the antique fire which kindled Landor's 
 
244 NOTES. 
 
 own emotion. His mythical Greeks, we must concede, do not rival the 
 true creatures of the art of Greece ; at most they are like pale marbles 
 wrought by a foremost student of Greek modes. Grudging though 
 such praise as this may sound, it ranks them above modern rivals. 
 
 The dainty passage about " trees and bright-eyed flowers " (p. 6) is in 
 tune with Landor's line : 
 
 Flowers may enjoy their own pure dreams of bliss. 
 
 9 II. -^sop and Rhodope (1846). Of Rhodope, the " rose-faced," 
 a fellow-slave, according to Herodotus, with /Esop, to whom she 
 became attached, nothing is known beyond a few legendary details, 
 some of which are here used. The two Conversations between them 
 are so nearly equal in ease and grace that, rather than exclude either, 
 I prefer, even at the risk of mutilation, to give part of each. There is 
 great flexibility in the treatment of both characters, with an abundance 
 of beautifully modulated passages. 
 
 ^sop's reflections, near the beginning (pp. 9-10), on the desirability 
 of early death — " It is better to repose in the earth betimes," with the 
 several lines preceding and following — may be compared with the some- 
 what similar reflections contained in a quatrain of Landor's : 
 
 Is it not better at an early hour 
 
 In its calm cell to rest the weary head. 
 While birds are singing and while blooms the bower, 
 
 Than sit the fire out and go starved to bed .? 
 
 Here the prose passage is more imaginative than the verse, more original, 
 developed with greater ease and freedom, more essentially poetic, more 
 harmonious to the ear, and quite free from any such feebly frigid con- 
 ventional touch as ends the third line of the quatrain. 
 
 The incident related by Rhodope in the latter part is of Landor's 
 invention. The song of the Fates (p. 18) alludes to the story that she 
 became queen of Egypt, which is thus quaintly told by Burton : "■Rho- 
 dope was the fairest Lady, in her days, in all Egypt ; she went to wash 
 her, and by chance (her maids meanwhile looking but carelessly to her 
 clothes) an Eagle stole away one of her shoes, and laid it in Psam- 
 metichiis the King of Egypfs lap at Memphis: he wondered at the 
 excellency of the shoe, and pretty foot, but more aquilae factum, at the 
 manner of the bringing of it : and caused, forthwith, proclamation to 
 be made, that she that owned that shoe should come presently to his 
 Court ; the Virgin came and was forthwith married to the King." 
 Anatomy of Melaiicholy, Part. III. Sect. II. Mem. V. Subs. V. 
 
NOTES. 245 
 
 19 III. Tiberius and Vipsania (1828). Suetonius is authority for 
 this interview, of which Landor says : " Vipsania, the daughter of 
 Agrippa, was divorced from Tiberius by Augustus and Livia, in order 
 that he might marry Julia, and hold the empire by inheritance. He 
 retained such an affection for her, and showed it so intensely when he 
 once met her afterward, that every precaution was taken lest they should 
 meet again." 
 
 Mr. Swinburne, in his article on Landor in the Encyclopcsdia Britan- 
 nica, remarks that " his utmost command of passion and pathos may 
 be tested by its transcendent success in the distilled and concentrated 
 tragedy of Tiberius and Vipsania, where for once he shows a quality 
 more proper to romantic than classical imagination, — the subtle and 
 sublime and terrible power to enter the dark vestibule of distraction, to 
 throw the whole force of his fancy, the whole fire of his spirit, into the 
 * shadowing passion ' (as Shakespeare calls it) of gradually imminent 
 insanity." This exalted estimate is only Mr. Swinburne's inimitable 
 way of saying definitely what others had vaguely felt before him — 
 Julius Hare, for instance, declaring the dialogue to be the "greatest 
 English poem since the death of Milton." Landor himself thought it 
 superlatively good, and tells in his letters how he tried again and again 
 before he got it right, shedding copious tears in the attempt. Feeling 
 so real is respectable. Yet few of the present critical generation can 
 share it, or can allow that the tragic pang fully vitalises Landor's 
 Romans. Mr. Swinburne's maladroit allusion to one of the tremen- 
 dous moments in OtJicllo does Landor an ill turn, by suggesting a- 
 comparison which his Tiberiiis and Vipsania cannot bear. Cooler 
 consideration, while noting Landor's limitation, as thus unwittingly 
 implied in his eulogist's unmeasured words, yet need not hesitateto 
 recognise in the scene artistic qualities so high and rare, so distinctive 
 of its author, as to entitle it to a place in the first rank of its class. 
 Precisely what that class is, it seems worth while to try to indicate. A 
 random remark of Mr. A. J. C. Hare's may help to a true discrimination 
 between the type of beauty which does exist in some of Landor's most 
 highly wrought scenes and that which does not. He casually mentions 
 Landor's habit of sitting long silent in " impassioned contemplation " — 
 a phrase which recalls Landor's own saying that he " walked alone on 
 the far eastern uplands, meditating and remembering." Here, it would 
 appear, is a suggestion of the mood in which such a scene as this may 
 have been composed, and which it may induce in an imaginative reader. 
 The dominant note, in short, is contemplative and meditative, rather 
 than actively and tragically passionate. On page 195 of this volume 
 
246 NOTES. 
 
 Petrarch and Boccaccio, speaking for Landor, support the view here 
 advanced. 
 
 23 IV. Metellus and Marius (1829). Strikingly characteristic, and 
 therefore worth attentive examination. The first speech of Metellus 
 accurately describes Marius as in the course of the action he is shown 
 to be. The reply of Marius, exhibiting his promptness, also implies 
 the adjacent outlook ; his next is full of youthful eagerness and intre- 
 pidity. The third speech of Metellus, in two parts, shows, without men- 
 tioning it, what Marius has done while he was speaking. Then follow 
 the suggestion of Metellus that the centurion is afraid, the indifference 
 of Marius to that insinuation in surroundings which might well justify 
 fear, and presently the recognition by the tribune of his junior's fearless- 
 ness. The reader may, on these hints, pursue for himself the examina- 
 tion of the method and mark the result. He will find strict attention 
 throughout to minute detail both of incident and of language, which is 
 so shown and so arranged as to produce a precise picture of all that 
 Marius sees, as well as of the effect on Metellus of his account of his 
 experiences. It is as vivid as Rebecca's account of the storming of 
 Front de Boeuf's castle, differing from that in the extreme verbal com- 
 pression and in the exclusion of all irrelevance. The " civic fire " (p. 27), 
 which is rightly accounted a powerful stroke of imagination on Landor's 
 part, though greatly heightening the effect, it is yet possible to regard 
 as bordering on that province of the grotesque which Mr. Rider Haggard 
 rules. The concluding monologue of Marius, referring to a story of 
 Plutarch's to the effect that Scipio, having noticed an act of valor per- 
 formed by Marius, had singled him out as his own possible successor, 
 makes a resounding climax to a peculiarly coherent and telling 
 dialogue. 
 
 Plutarch and Appian furnish the facts relating to Marius and to the 
 reduction by famine of Numantia; and Landor supplies the imaginative 
 treatment W'hereby the speakers and the scene, obviously very distinct 
 to himself, become so to the attentive reader who is willing to make a 
 slight effort. The whole thing seems as typically Landorian as almost 
 any other equal number of consecutive pages. 
 
 28 V. Marcellus and Hannibal (1828). Appian and Plutarch give 
 the facts on which this scene is based ; Landor, characteristically, pro- 
 longs the life of Marcellus till Hannibal reaches him, and thus renders 
 possible a dialogue embodying the dauntless pride of the Roman and 
 the generosity of his victorious foe. Nothing better illustrates Landor's 
 method of adapting history to his purpose ; and few of his scenes more 
 fully justify the procedure than this one, which is, to an unusual degree, 
 
NOTES. 247 
 
 animated by the spirit of traditional Roman haughtiness and martial 
 dignity. These traits are perfectly matched by the style, which is direct, 
 elevated, controlled, statuesque, not quite mobile. 
 
 33 VI. Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn (1824). Of the various 
 laudatory comments made on this vigorous scene by Lander's admiring 
 friends, the one best worth recording is Julius Hare's just remark that 
 a " fine peculiarity " consists in the simplicity of the language, which 
 tells the whole story almost without imagery. Yet Coleridge asserted, 
 in 1834, that Landor had "never learned to write simple and lucid 
 English." 
 
 Especially in the case of scenes from English history, it would be out 
 of place in these notes to discuss Landor's conception of characters 
 over which historians contend. His own comments, however, may still 
 be read with interest by such as care to put themselves for the moment 
 at his point of view, which he is never averse to stating with clearness. 
 Among his utterances on the subject of Henry are these bits of sar- 
 casm : " Henry was not unlearned, nor indifferent to the costly exter- 
 nals of a gentleman ; but in manners and language he was hardly on a 
 level with our hostlers of the present day." " His reign is one con- 
 tinued proof, flaring and wearisome as a Lapland summer day, that 
 even the English form of government, under a sensual king with money 
 at his disposal, may serve only to legitimize injustice." "The govern- 
 ment was whatever the king ordered ; and he a ferocious and terrific 
 thing, swinging on high between two windy superstitions, and caught 
 and propelled alternately by fanaticism and lust." " It does not ap- 
 pear that the Defender of the Faith brought his wife to the scaffold 
 for the good of her soul, nor that she was pregnant at the time, which 
 would have added much to the merit of the action, as there is the 
 probability that the child would have been heretical." Whether his- 
 torically sound or not, the feeling which animates those sentences is 
 unquestionably embodied with keen zest in this fictitious interview^ 
 between the father and the unfortunate mother of Elizabeth. 
 
 41 VIJ. Roger Ascham and Lady Jane Grey (1824). The touch 
 of pedantry in the master, his ominous foreboding, his solicitude for his 
 pupil, her winning innocence and trustfulness, all expressed in musically 
 cadenced sentences, give to this slight scene a dainty tenderness of 
 pathetic suggestion. 
 
 A glance at the subjoined passage from the Scholemaster will show 
 between Ascham's style and Landor's a wide dissimilarity not incom- 
 patible with charm which the two pictures have in common : " Before 
 
248 NOTES. 
 
 I went into Germanie, I came to Brodegate in Le[i]cefterfhire, to take 
 my leaue of that noble Ladie lajie Grey, to whom I was exceding moch 
 beholdinge. Hir parentes, the Duke and Duches, with all the houf- 
 hold, Gentlemen and Gentlewomen, were hmitinge in the Parke : I 
 founde her, in her Chamber, readinge Fhcsdon Platonis in Greeke, and 
 that with as moch delite, as fom ientlemen wold read a merie tale 
 in Bocafe. After falutation, and dewtie done, with fom other taulke, 
 I aflced hir, whie f he wold leefe foch pafhime in the Parke ? fmiling f he 
 anfwered me : I wiffe, all their fporte in the Parke is but a fhadoe to 
 that pleafure, that 1 find in Plato : Alas good folke, they neuer felt, 
 what trewe pleafure ment. And howe came you Madame, quoth I, to 
 this deepe knowledge of pleafure, and what did chieflie allure you vnto 
 it : feinge, not many women, but verie fewe men haue atteined there- 
 unto. I will tell you, quoth fhe, and tell you a troth, which perchance 
 ye will meruell at. One of the greateft benefites, that euer God gaue 
 me, is, that he fent me fo fharpe and feuere Parentes, and fo ientle a 
 fcholemafter. For when I am in prefence either of father or mother, 
 whether I fpeake, kepe filence, fit, ftand, or go, eate, drinke, be merie, 
 or fad, be fowyng, plaiyng, dauncing, or doing anei thing els, I muft do 
 it, as it were, in soch weight, mefure, and number, euen fo perfitelie, as 
 God made the world, or elfe I am fo f harplie taunted, fo cruellie threat- 
 ened, yea prefentlie fome tymes, with pinches, nippes, and bobbes, and 
 other waies, which I will not name, for the honor I beare them, fo 
 without meafure mifordered, that I thinke my felfe in hell, till tyme 
 cum, that I muft go to AI. Elmer, who teacheth me fo ientlie, fo pleaf- 
 antlie, with soch faire allurementes to learning, that I thinke all the 
 tyme nothing, whiles I am with him. And when I am called from him, 
 I fall on weeping, becaufe, what foeuer I do els, but learning, is ful of 
 grief, tjouble, feare, and whole mifliking vnto me: And thus my 
 booke, hath bene fo moch my pleafure, and bringeth dayly to me more 
 pleafure and more, that in refpect of it, all other pleafures, in very deede, 
 be but trifles and troubles vnto me. I remember this talke gladly, both 
 bicaufe it is fo worthy of memorie, and bicaufe alfo, it was the laft talke 
 that euer I had, and the laft tyme, that euer I faw that noble and 
 worthie Ladie." 
 
 Mr. Leslie Stephen remarks that Landor's antipathy to Plato leads 
 him to deprive Jane of her favourite author, allowing her only Cicero 
 and Epictetus and Plutarch and Polybius. 
 
 44 VIII. Princess Mary and Princess Elizabeth (1846). This is 
 the most natural and most entertaining of the three Conversations in 
 which Elizabeth takes part. 
 
NOTES. 249 
 
 In the group of scenes laid in the time of Elizabeth, the one between 
 Mary Stuart and Bothwell has merit. Its blemish is that Landor's 
 Queen of Scots, meant to be winsomely feminine, unluckily comports 
 herself at moments with the pert self-consciousness of an underbred 
 little girl flustered by the attentions of her first beau. Some of Lan- 
 dor's women are among his most satisfactory personages. Such are 
 Jane Grey, Anne Boleyn, Alice Lisle and Elizabeth Gaunt, Godiva, 
 Catharine, Leonora, Aspasia, Giovanna,i each one of whom in her own 
 way justifies these words of his in a letter to Southey: " I delight in 
 the minute variations and almost imperceptible shades of the female 
 character, and confess that my reveries, from my most early youth, 
 were almost entirely on what this one or that one would have said or 
 done in this or that situation. Their countenances, their movements, 
 their forms, the colours of their dresses, were before my eyes." His 
 comments on Virgil's treatment of the character of Dido are in keeping 
 with the feeling here expressed. But he does not always give to his, 
 reveries on the female character, in its " minute variations and almost 
 imperceptible shades," a body that breathes and moves like a true 
 woman. Those who are animated by some set purpose in a crisis are 
 far more apt to call forth his best powers than those who merely behave 
 like the ladies of one's acquaintance. When he attempts the casual 
 in his treatment of the feminine nature, he sometimes lapses into the 
 commonplace or the trivial. His mind was of a cast so essentially 
 heroic that a sense of something out of keeping is liable to mar the 
 effect of his pictures of the usual or incidental — especially in the cpn- 
 duct of women. At the precise point where Jane Austen falls only 
 just short of supremacy Landor dwindles almost to insignificance. 
 He is cited by Mr. Locker-Lampson as saying prettily of Addison that 
 there was "coyness in his style, the archness and shyness of a graceful 
 and beautiful girl " — the very qualities in which his own style is defi- 
 cient. The gracious figure of Assunta, in the Pe7ita?ne7-o7i, tends to 
 belie the somewhat comprehensive generalisation made above ; but she 
 is quite exceptional, if not unique. 
 
 54 IX. Essex and Spenser (1834). Drummond of Hawthornden 
 says Ben Jonson told him, " That the Irish having rob'd Spenser's 
 goods, and burnt his house and a litle child new born, he and his wyfe 
 escaped ; and after, he died for lake of bread in King Street, and re- 
 
 1 " How few hands since Shakespeare," exclaims Professor Dowden with enthusiastic 
 exaggeration, "could have drawn so difficult and delicate a portrait as that of Gio- 
 vanna ! " Aspasia and Giovanna are on a larger scale than Landor's other female figures, 
 and both have moments of life. 
 
250 NOTES. 
 
 fused 20 pieces sent to him by my Lord of Essex, and said, He was 
 sorrie he had no time to spend them" — some of which statements 
 probably far exceed the facts. 
 
 The early part of the dialogue, here omitted, deals with the disturb- 
 ances in Ireland, and leads naturally to Spenser's account of his own 
 calamity. The bearing of both speakers under increasing emotion is so 
 admirably indicated as to come near stirring real emotion in the reader. 
 
 59 X. Leofric and Godiva (1829). So enchanting a scene, so fra- 
 grant and wooing, so musically pleading, so human, needs no comment. 
 The only flaw — if that can be called a flaw which is almost an inherent 
 attribute of work in this form — is the occasional perhaps slightly too 
 obvious intrusion into the dialogue of implied stage directions for the 
 reader's information. 
 
 Leofric's picture of Godiva mounting her horse (p. 64) brings to mind 
 Landor's line : 
 
 Calm hair meandering in pellucid gold. 
 
 " May the peppermint," etc., recalls Newman wistfully remembering, 
 after he had joined the Church of Rome, the snap-dragon which used 
 to grow opposite his freshman's rooms at Trinity College. 
 
 " Among the moderns," writes Landor in his essay on Theocritus, 
 " no poet, it appears to us, has written an Idyl so perfect, so pure and 
 simple in expression, yet so rich in thought and imagery, as the Godiva 
 of Alfred Tennyson," which Emerson calls " a noble poem that will 
 tell the legend a thousand years." Landor's treatment of the subject 
 preceded Tennyson's in publication by thirteen years. 
 
 65 XL The Lady Lisle and Elizabeth Gaunt (1829). Lady Alice 
 (more properly Mrs) Lisle, wndow of one of the Regicides, was be- 
 headed at Winchester, and Elizabeth Gaunt was burned at Tyburn, for 
 harboring persons concerned in the Duke of Monmouth's insurrection. 
 Macaulay calls the execution of Elizabeth Gaunt "the foulest judicial 
 murder which had disgraced even those times." Burnet's History of the 
 Reign of James II. gave Landor the incidents and the characters, but 
 this meeting in prison is of his own imagining. The scene, vividly pic- 
 turing the interaction of contrasted personalities in the shrinking widow 
 and the courageous matron, is one of the most natural and lifelike that 
 he has written ; it abounds in deUcate touches, and is throughout sus- 
 tained at a high level. 
 
 A daughter of Alice Lisle was wife of Dr. Leonard Hoar, third 
 President of Harvard College, and afterward of Mr. Hezekiah Usher, 
 a merchant of Boston. See Sewall's Diary, I. 104 (Nov. 13, 1685). 
 
NOTES. 251 
 
 69 XII. The Empress Catharine and Princess Dashkof (1829). Of 
 this scene Landor says : " It is unnecessary to inform the generaUty of 
 readers that Catharine was not present at the murder of her husband; 
 nor is it easy to beheve that Clytemnestra was at the murder of hers. 
 Our business is character." Catharine's is presented with satiric force, 
 and an instinctive sense of temperament. The only recorded perform- 
 ance of a scene of Landor 's on any stage is the recitation of Peleus and 
 Thetis by Epicurus and Ternissa, toward the close of their stroll with 
 Leontion in the garden of Epicurus near Athens. Sardou might be 
 fancied adapting for Sarah Eernhardt the material here furnished by 
 Landor, and she making a melodramatic hit in the part of the fiercely 
 arbitrary and emotional empress. The scene is full of suggestion and 
 implication of incident, and abrupt transitions expressive of over- 
 strained nervous tension seeking relief, with complete mastery of lan- 
 guage. It leads nowhere in particular ; but that is usually the case with 
 Landor's sculpturesquely isolated moments. Its companion piece, 
 Peter the Great and Alexis, equally inspired by hatred of tyrants, is less 
 subtle than this concentrated essence of feminine malignity. 
 
 77 XIII. John of Gaunt and Joanna of Kent (1829). Landor's 
 note is : " Joanna, called the Fair Maid of Kent, was cousin of the 
 Black Prince, whom she married. John of Gaunt was suspected of 
 aiming at the crown in the beginning of Richard's minority, w^hich, 
 increasing the hatred of the people against him for favouring the sect 
 of Wickliffe, excited them to demolish his house and to demand his 
 impeachment." In the light of those facts thus clearly stated, this 
 rather unusually intricate Conversation becomes less difficult to follo^. 
 It is coupled by Mr. Colvin with that of Ta7icredi and Constantia, pub- 
 lished seventeen years later, as typical of mediaeval chivalry. Both are 
 among the most highly finished, though perhaps not most natural, of 
 Landor's short episodical scenes. 
 
 82 XIV. Tancredi and Constantia (1846). The following succinct 
 statement of facts is taken from E. A. Freeman's article on Sicily in the 
 Eficyclopcedia Britannica. " The brightest days of Sicily ended with 
 William the Good. His marriage with Joanna, daughter of Henry 
 of Anjou and England, was childless, and William tried to procure 
 the succession of his aunt Constance and her husband. King Henry 
 the Sixth of Germany, son of the Emperor Frederick the First. But 
 the prospect of German rule was unpopular, and on William's death the 
 crown passed to Tancred, an illegitimate grandson of King Roger, who 
 figures in English histories in the story of Richard's crusade." The 
 capture and release of Constance by Tancred, after Henry had become 
 
252 NOTES. 
 
 emperor, form an episode such as Landor delights to treat, and treats 
 with freedom and spirit. 
 
 Forster prints this curious extract from a letter written to himself 
 years afterward : " While writing the Tancredi dialogue I had the 
 greatest difficulty to prevent my prose running away with me. Sundry 
 verses I could not keep down, nor could I afterwards break them into 
 prose. Here is a specimen, not in the Conversation as it stands at 
 present, which was written while I fancied I was writing prose : 
 
 Can certain words pronounced by certain men 
 
 Perform an incantation which shall hold 
 
 Two hearts together to the end of time ? 
 
 If these were wanting, yet instead of these, 
 
 There was my father's word, and there was God's." 
 
 Here is a shorter specimen, from the Peleus and Thetis dialogue, 
 which seems to have escaped his notice : 
 
 Doth not my hand enclasp that slender foot, 
 At which the waves of Ocean cease to be 
 Tumultuous . . . ? 
 
 87 XV. The Maid of Orleans and Agnes Sorel (1846). The meet- 
 ing is not historic. Though the treatment is slightly stiff, and the 
 change produced in Agnes by Jeanne's appeal lacks plausibility, yet the 
 " Demoiselle de Seurelle, Dame de Beaute," the inscription on whose 
 tomb in the quiet chapel at Loches describes her as " une douce et 
 simple colombe plus blanche que les cygnes, plus vermeille que la 
 flamme," is, on the whole, well contrasted with "Joan the Maid," 
 through whose words runs a strain of visionary exaltation. In this 
 Convei'sation occur — what is rare in Landor's prose — several iambic 
 lines, of which the prettiest is : 
 
 Life is but sighs ; and, when they cease, 't is over. 
 
 See previous note. 
 
 96 XVI. Bossuet and the Duchess de Fontanges (1828). This 
 scene has variously affected different people. Forster, for instance, 
 grows solemnly enthusiastic over " Bossuet, sent by the king to compli- 
 ment one of his child-mistresses on her elevation to the rank of duchess, 
 listening with a half mournful, half smiling gravity to the giddy, vain, 
 wild, gentle, childish, joyous girl, until at last the very danger of the 
 good-hearted simple little creature moves him to tell the truth to her, 
 and as the courtier drops from him the God rises and speaks " ; and he 
 adds, in all seriousness, that there is "hardly a finer thing than this in 
 
NOTES. 253 
 
 the whole of the conversations." Others, more light-minded, single it 
 out as Landor's signal success in what Emerson would have called his 
 " gamesome mood." Still other readers, though pleased by the divert- 
 ing irony of the dialogue and the distinctness of the speakers, yet fancy 
 they detect a slight lapse in taste, with some lack of lightness in the 
 touch ; so they pronounce Landorian density of style ill suited to a vein 
 of pleasantry. Equally ironical, but less diverting, is the dialogue of 
 Louis XIV. and his confessor. 
 
 104 XVII. Dante and Beatrice (1846). Miss Kate Field writes in 
 the Atlantic Monthly, May, 1866 : "Landorhas conceived the existence 
 of a truly ardent affection between Dante and Beatrice, and it was my 
 good fortune to hear him read this beautiful imaginary conversation. 
 To witness the aged poet throwing the pathos of his voice into the 
 pathos of his intellect, his eyes flooded with tears, was a scene of 
 uncommon interest. ' Ah ! ' said he, while closing the book, ' I never 
 wrote anything half as good as that, and I never can read it that the 
 tears do not come.' " It is recorded that Tennyson used likewise to be 
 affected to tears at his own reading of passages from his works which 
 left his hearers unmoved. This scene between Dante and Beatrice, 
 fervid and tender as it is, scarcely has power to stir in a reader emotion 
 such as Miss Field describes in its author. It has a pretty sequel in 
 the interview between Dante and Gemma Donati soon after the birth 
 of their seventh child, a girl whom the mother names Beatrice. 
 
 113 XVIII. Beniowski and Aphanasia (182S). See Mr. Crump's 
 note for facts concerning Beniowski, a Hungarian who, taken prisoner 
 by the Russians and banished to Siberia, fell in love, though already 
 married, with the daughter of the Governor of Kamscatka, his pupil 
 Aphanasia. This genuine little love duo, in a major key, is as distinctive 
 and individual as the utterly dissimilar one, in a minor key, between 
 Dante and Beatrice. 
 
 118 XIX. Leonora di Este and Father Panigarola (1853). Mr. 
 Crump furnishes the following translation from Serassi's Vita di Tor- 
 qjiato Tasso : "In those days the famous Father Panigarola came to 
 Ferrara, where he had preached the Lent before with much applause ; 
 he was high in favour with the Duke and the Princesses ; and to him 
 Tasso wrote asking that he would be good enough to visit him. Then 
 Tasso begged that Panigarola would kiss Leonora's hand for him, if 
 she were better, and tell her that he grieved much for her illness, which 
 he had not lamented in verse by reason that to do so was repugnant to 
 his nature ; but that if he could serve her in any other way he was very 
 ready, especially if she desired to hear any glad songs. I do not know 
 
254 NOTES. 
 
 if Panigarola was in time to do this kindness." The companion piece 
 to this exquisite scene, a Conversation between Tasso and his sister 
 Cornelia, represents him across the border-line between feigned and real 
 insanity, and her humouring him. It is less simple and less successful 
 than the one here given, which is plaintive and haunting, truly 
 feminine. 
 
 120 XX. Admiral Blake and Humphrey Blake (1853). Landor's 
 substitution of Humphrey for Benjamin, another of Admiral Blake's 
 brothers, is immaterial, since the story on which the Conversation is 
 founded is not true. See Mr. Crump's note, and Professor Laughton's 
 article on Blake in the Dictionary of Natio7ial Biography. 
 
 The conflicting emotions of the hero in a trying situation are particu- 
 larly well shown. A really dramatic moment is dramatically treated. 
 
 In the Conversation between Penn and Peterborough, first published 
 twenty-four years before this one, is a fine tribute to Blake. 
 
 124 XXI. Rhadamistus and Zenobia (1837). Abrupt and agitated, 
 full of action, not always fortunate in choice of words, occasionally 
 stiff in turn of jDhrase, this, though not one of the best of Landor's 
 short scenes, is sufficiently rapid and vivid to have a place near them. 
 
 Zenobia, who lived in the first century, was, as a matter of fact, res- 
 cued by some shepherds. 
 
 129 XXII. Epicurus, Leontion, and Ternissa (1829). The parts 
 selected, forming a small fraction of the whole, are pervaded by an 
 atmosphere of leisurely dalliance in which Epicurus, who is Landor 
 thinly veiled, turns easily from one topic to another with his fair pupils. 
 Ternissa, an almost imaginary character, does much to add grace and 
 lightness to the dialogue, which becomes at times pretty drowsy, when 
 Theophrastus, for instance, is under discussion. It is easy to see why 
 Landor was fond of this discursive Conversation, in which thoughts on 
 various subjects deeply interesting to him are strung on a thread of 
 pleasing talk in a pretty place ; and which is a sort of idealised con- 
 firmation of Browning's remark, made some thirty years later, that, 
 " whatever he may profess, the thing he really loves is a pretty girl to 
 talk nonsense with." The dialogue is a good one to open at random, 
 for, with little coherence and no dramatic development, it abounds in 
 choice bits of reflection and dainty play of fancy. 
 
 This Conversation first appeared when Landor was fifty-four. A 
 dialogue between Menander and Epicurus, written when he was past 
 eighty, contains tender reminiscences of Ternissa. It is worthy of 
 remark that much of his late work, like Tennyson's, has all the fresh- 
 ness of his best period. 
 
NOTES. 255 
 
 138 XXIII. Walton, Cotton, and Oldways (1829). Forster is not 
 far wrong in describing this Conversation as an idyl "fresh as a page of 
 Isaak's own writing ; a natural country landscape overrun with charm- 
 ing thoughts ; and with a sweet soberness in its cheerfulness and sun- 
 shine." It is also an elaborate and skilful experiment in style. Wal- 
 ton's manner is not copied ; rather his temper and tone are assimilated, 
 and reproduced with Landor's impress. Oddly enough, though we may 
 miss, on comparison, what Lowell calls " that charm of inadvertency 
 with which Walton knew how to make his most careful sentences way- 
 lay the ear," we shall detect no discord between this choicely good 
 strain of fancy and its illustrious predecessor of the seventeenth cen- 
 tury. Technically different as is Landor's style from Walton's, the 
 honest angler's refreshing innocency is by no means all lost in the 
 transposition to another key. 
 
 Is it fantastic to please oneself with the notion that in writing the 
 lines beginning, "She was so beautiful" (p. 150), which are strongly 
 reminiscent of Donne, Landor may have had in mind the youthful 
 heroine of Donne's Anatomy, whose 
 
 " Pure and eloquent blood 
 Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought 
 That one might almost say, her body thought " ? 
 
 Oldways, representing Landor's tutor, Mr. Langley, is a quaintly 
 charming sketch of kindliness and pedantry. The fiction of Margaret 
 Hayes gives a pretext for the motive of the Conversation. Further 
 introduction to a scene the full enjoyment of which may be had for the 
 reading appears needless. 
 
 It is a pleasure to find elsewhere in Landor tributes which show the 
 sincerity of his regard for Walton. Home Tooke is made to speak of 
 the "perpetually pleasant light . . . reflected from every thought and 
 sentence"; and Johnson to say, " Fortunate is he who in no hour of 
 relaxation or of idleness takes up to annex or pamper it, a worse book 
 than Walton." 
 
 155 XXIV. William Penn and Lord Peterborough (1829). This 
 extremely long and superbly written dialogue is one of the most highly 
 esteemed of Landor's rambling discussions. " Peterborough's freakish 
 delight," says Mr. Crump, "in turning the conversation on to subjects 
 likely to provoke Penn into enthusiastic indignation is as natural as 
 Penn's piety." The aristocrat at odds with aristocracy, and in sympathy 
 with the element of common sense in the Quaker religion, is obviously 
 Landor himself speaking behind the mask of Peterborough. " Profligate, 
 
256 NOTES. 
 
 unprincipled, flighty as he was," says J. R. Green, " Peterborough had a 
 genius for war." Macaulay's Essay on Mahon's War of the Succession 
 contains a spirited sketch of him. His visit to Pennsylvania, though 
 mentioned in Spence's Anecdotes, is not fully authenticated. Whether 
 the Quaker character is truly drawn by Landor, let none but a Phila- 
 delphian presume to say. 
 
 167 XXV. Epictetus and Seneca (1828). Sufficiently characterised 
 by Forster as " very striking for its contrasts as well in the character as 
 in the philosophy of the high-bred man of learning and the low-born 
 slave, and enforcing admirable rules of simplicity and naturalness in 
 writing " ; and picked out by Lord Houghton for its aptness of lan- 
 guage. Between Epicurus and Epictetus, it will be remembered, Landor 
 aspired to walk through life. 
 
 172 XXVI. Lucullus and Caesar (1829). Plutarch describes the 
 sumptuous villa of Lucullus and his mode of life in it. This is one of 
 the Conversations mentioned by Lord Houghton as showing how much 
 at home Landor was with the Romans ; it is the most entertaining of 
 the Roman undramatic scenes. 
 
 180 XXVIL The Apologue of Critobulus {1826). Among the 
 Roman philosophical discussions, that between Cicero and his brother 
 holds the foremost place. The fitness of style and the urbanity have 
 been remarked on by critics. It contains several eloquent passages, 
 but it is long and not very lively. The allegory here given, which was 
 added in the second edition of the dialogue, ranks scarcely below those 
 in the Pentameron. Similar in kind and quality is the dream of Euthy- 
 medes, an allegory of Love, Hope, and Fear, in the dialogue of Scipio, 
 Polybius, and Panaetius. 
 
 183 XXVIII. ThePentameron (T837). From 1829 to 1835 Landor, 
 happy with his family, his friends, his pets, and his flowers, lived near 
 Fiesole at the Villa Gherardesca, " master of the very place,'" he writes, 
 " to which the greatest genius of Italy, or the Continent, conducted 
 those ladies who told such pleasant tales in the warm weather." Some- 
 thing of the spirit of the place and of its associations for Landor is con- 
 veyed in his poems relating to this period, and in some of Boccaccio's 
 descriptive interludes introducing the days of the Decameron. Here is 
 a specimen bit from Payne's English version of the opening of Day the 
 Seventh : " Never yet had the nightingales and the other birds seemed 
 to them to sing so blithely as they did that morning, what while, accom- 
 panied by their carols, they repaired to the Ladies' Valley, w^here they 
 were received by many more, which seemed to them to make merry for 
 their coming. There, going round about the place and reviewing it all 
 
NOTES. 257 
 
 anew, it appeared to them so much fairer than on the foregoing day as 
 the season of the day was more sorted to its goodliness. Then, after 
 they had broken their fast with good wine and confections, not to be 
 behindhand with the birds in the matter of song, they fell a-singing 
 and the valley with them, still echoing those same songs which they did 
 sing, whereto all the birds, as if they would not be outdone, added new 
 and dulcet notes." 
 
 Given Landor's preference of Boccaccio to all other modern writers 
 except Shakespeare and Milton, what wonder that in such a spot he 
 conceived the idea of the Pentameron, or Ijiterviews of Alessei- Giovanni 
 Boccaccio and Messer Francesco Petrarca, when said Messer Giovanni 
 lay infirm at his Villetta hard by Certaldo ; after which they saw not 
 each other on our Side of Paradise — as the title affectionately runs ! The 
 Fifth Day's Interview — from which excerpts are here made — contains 
 a notable poem to his son, written in England after he had left his 
 family and his beloved Italy ; it concludes with the allegorical dreams 
 of Boccaccio and Petrarch, on which has been lavished encomium which 
 it is difficult to call over-enthusiastic. Any one who cares at all for 
 Landor will prize these closing strains of his most charming composi- 
 tion ; one who does not feel their serene imaginative loveliness may in 
 vain turn his pages in search of anything more delightful. 
 
 A competent critic lays stress on the superiority of these dreams to 
 De Quincey's Ladies of Sorrow and Daiighter of Lebanoji. One ques- 
 tion naturally suggested by that comparison — a question which may 
 arise concerning much of the most highly finished work of any but the 
 few supreme spirits — is whether in either case the undisputed excel- 
 lence of workmanship diverts attention from the equally undisputed 
 beauty of thought ; whether conscious admiration of the process pre- 
 dominates over spontaneous delight in the result ; whether, in a word, 
 the artificer supersedes the artist. As between Landor's most delicate 
 prose with its cadences as perfect as Handel's, and Ue Quincey's with 
 its harmonies as mysterious as Chopin's, any one's preference will be 
 a matter largely of individual temperament until experimental psy- 
 chology shall determine by what common unit to measure emotional 
 effects so different in kind as these tw^o masters produce. 
 
 200 XXIX. Pericles and Aspasia (1836). A few letters can only 
 partially indicate some of the qualities which together cause this to be 
 generally regarded as its author's masterpiece. To be caught in its 
 "strong toil of grace," one should read at random a good many pages 
 at a sitting. A reader with the knack of skipping luckily may easily 
 find hidden in the letters the heart of Pericles and of Aspasia. As a 
 
258 NOTES. 
 
 whole, the book, though not equal in sustained human interest to the 
 Pentameron, is the richest in thought of Landor's works, and his noblest 
 in point of English. 
 
 Mrs. Browning enthusiastically calls Pericles and Aspasia and the 
 Peiitajneron " books for the world and for all time, whenever the world 
 and time shall come to their senses about them ; complete in beauty 
 of sentiment and subtlety of criticism." Home's New Spirit of the Age. 
 
 215 XXX-XXXII. Hellenics {1846-47). At Lady Blessington's 
 instance, Landor translated into English some of his Idyllia Heroica ; 
 these translations, together with certain of his English poems on kin- 
 dred subjects, he entitled Hellenics. There can be no more fitting 
 introduction to them than the following lines from Lowell's Rhoeciis, a 
 version of the story — a story dating from the fifth century B.C. — on 
 which the Hamadryad is founded : 
 
 " Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, 
 As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still 
 As the immortal freshness of that grace 
 Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze.'' 
 
 The Hamadryad (p. 215) and its sequel. Aeon and Phodope (p. 224), 
 were not translated from the Latin, but were written originally in 
 English. 
 
 For technical criticism on the " fine filed phrase " of the Death oj 
 Arte??iidora (p. 22S), which is like an outline of Flaxman's, see Colvin's 
 Landor, pp. 193-4. The poem was first published in Pericles and 
 Aspasia, in the form here given; afterward, with several changes and 
 the omission of the last three lines, in Hellenics. In the Hellenics 
 version the change of "Fate's shears were" (1. 11) to "Iris stood" is 
 clearly a gain, and the lopping off of the last three lines is not com- 
 monly reckoned a loss. On the second point, however, a word may be 
 said. Though the abbreviated form, it is true, more strictly encloses 
 the picture within its frame, yet the discarded lines, appropriately car- 
 rying on the main idea rather than introducing a new one, give a ray of 
 light in the prevailing gloom ; as verse, too, they are among the best 
 of the twenty-tw^o, and close the poem naturally with a well modulated 
 cadence more agreeable than the abrupt and rather harsh phrase, 
 " 't was not hers." 
 
 229 XXXIII. The Wrestling Match (1798). From the first book 
 of Gebir ; reprinted in the second edition of Hellenics. To Gebir, a 
 Spanish prince, his shepherd brother Tamar confides his love for a 
 sea-nymph. For the passages in Wordsworth and Byron similar to 
 
NO TES. 259 
 
 Landor's description of the shell, see Colvin's Landor, pp. 168-9. 
 Those melodious lines were first composed in not less melodious Latin : 
 
 At mihi caeruleae sinuosa foramina conchae 
 Obvolvunt, lucemque intus de sole biberunt, 
 Nam crevere locis ubi porticus ipsa palati 
 Et qua purpurea medius stat currus in unda. 
 Tu quate, somnus abit : tu laevia tange labella 
 Auribus attentis, veteres reminiscitur aedes, 
 Oceanusque suus quo murmure murmurat ilia. 
 
 Aubrey de Vere, writing of a visit he made in 1854 to Tennyson, at 
 Farringford, says : " Alfred and I had many a breezy walk along the 
 Downs and as far as the Needles, sometimes with a distant view of the 
 coast flushed by sunset, sometimes with a nearer one of the moon- 
 beams 'marbling' the wet sea-sands, as the wave recoiled, which last 
 always reminded me of Landor's lines : 
 
 ' And the long moonbeam on the hard wet sand[s] 
 Lay like a jasper column half uprear'd.' " 
 
 Alfred Lord Tennyson, A Memoir by His Son, I. 378. 
 
 232 XXXIV. To lanthe. A score of pretty little pieces referring 
 to lanthe, written and published at various times, have been grouped 
 by Mr. Colvin. 
 
 233 XXXV. Rose Aylmer (1806). If anything Landor wrote may 
 be said to approach popularity, it is this. A few verbal improvements 
 were made after the first publication; the present text dates from 1831. 
 See Colvin's Landor, pp. 43-4. 
 
 Lord Aylmer's daughter, a friend of Landor's at Swansea, lent him 
 Clara Reeve's Progress of Romance, in which he found the kernel of 
 Gebir. Born in 1779, she died of cholera in India in 1800. Mr. Stephen 
 Wheeler, whose Letters and Other Unpublished Writings of Walter 
 Savage Landor tells more about her than is elsewhere accessible, thinks 
 the following lines of Landor's may also refer to her : 
 
 My pictures blacken in their frames 
 
 As night comes on ; 
 And youthful maids and wrinkled dames 
 
 Are now all one. 
 
 Death of the day ! a sterner Death 
 
 Did worse before ; 
 The fairest form, the sweetest breath. 
 
 Away he bore. 
 
260 NOTES. 
 
 234 XXXVI. AFiesolanldyl (1831). Lander's passionate fondness 
 for flowers, to which his writings abundantly testify, is nowhere more 
 pleasingly phrased than in this attractive little poem. Some one speaks 
 of his regarding women as a more delicate sort of flowers. Perhaps 
 this piece ,of a letter to Crabb Robinson, with its unconsciously pro- 
 phetic allusion to the present culture of polychrome orchids, lends 
 colour to that dainty fancy : " I like white flowers better than any 
 others ; they resemble fair women. Lily, tuberose, orange, and the 
 truly English syringa are my heart's delight. I do not mean to say 
 that they supplant the rose and violet in my affections, for these are our 
 first loves, before we grew too fond of considering and too fond of dis- 
 playing our acquaintance with others of sounding titles." H. C. Rob- 
 inson's Diary, IL 518, Ed. 1869. 
 
 Curiously interesting similarities and differences in detail may be 
 discovered on comparison of this with Tennyson's idyl, The Gardener's 
 Daughter, published eleven years later. The two well show, respec- 
 tively, the restraint of the classic manner and the efflorescence of the 
 romantic, with its emotional reaction, in describing nature and persons, 
 Tennyson's highly wrought miniature of Rose, "full and rich," as he 
 said it must be, is, if more individual, less distinct than Landor's intaglio 
 of the nameless " gentle maid." 
 
 236-7 XXXVII, XXXVIII. YxoxnW^^ Examination of Shakespeare. 
 
 238 XXXIX. To Robert Browning (1846). A letter to Eorster con- 
 tains this concise and apt remark on Browning: "You were right as to 
 Browning. He has done some admirable things. I only wish he would 
 atticise a little. Few of the Athenians had such a quarry on their prop- 
 erty, but they constructed better roads for the conveyance of the mate- 
 rial." In another letter to Forster, in 1845, Landor calls him " a great 
 poet, a very great poet indeed, as the world will have to agree with us 
 in thinking. . . . God grant he may live to be much greater than he is, 
 high as he stands above most of the living : latis htcmeris et toto vertice.''^ 
 
 238 XL. To the Sister of Ella (1846). . "The death of Charles 
 Lamb has grieved me very bitterly. Never did I see a human being 
 with whom I was more inclined to sympathize. There is something 
 in the recollection that you took me wdth you to see him which affects 
 me greatly more than writing or speaking of him could do with any 
 other. When I first heard of the loss that all his friends, and many 
 that never wei'e his friends, sustained in him, no thought took possession 
 of my mind except the anguish of his sister. That very night before I 
 closed my eyes I composed this." Extract from a letter to H. C. Robin- 
 son, enclosing the poem . 
 
NOTES. 261 
 
 Contrast with Landor's verses Wordsworth's " monumental portrait " 
 — as Professor Dowden calls it — of Lamb, ending with the lines 
 referring to his sister's loneliness : 
 
 " The sacred tie 
 Is broken ; yet why grieve ? for Time but holds 
 His moiety in trust, till Joy shall lead 
 To the blest world where parting is unknown." 
 
 Closely in keeping with Landor's feeling, though more religious, is 
 Cardinal Newman's on the sudden death, in 1828, of his own sister. 
 His poem on the occasion closes with the stanza : 
 
 " Joy of sad hearts, and light of downcast eyes ! 
 Dearest, thou art enshrined 
 In all thy fragrance in our memories ; 
 For we must ever find 
 
 Bare thought of thee 
 Freshen this weary life, while weary life shall be." 
 
 239 XLI, XLII. From Pericles and Aspasia. 
 
 239-41 XLIII-XLVIII. Neither Mrs. Barbauld's "Life! I know 
 not what thou art," Browning's Prospice or his Epilogue to Asolando, 
 Tennyson's Cj'ossing the Bar., nor Stevenson's Requiem expresses a 
 more natural feeling with regard to meeting death than Landor's 
 unstudied verses. 
 
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